by Scott Meyer
“Migg, I know what your duties were back on the Hahn Home World, but despite the fact that you’re beneath me, we’re in this together.”
“Yes, Master Hennik.”
“Just don’t forget that you’re in it beneath me.”
“I won’t, Master Hennik.”
17.
On a normal day the Jakabitus family’s needs were ably handled by a limited staff, but this was not a normal day. Dignitaries, functionaries, friends, relatives, well-wishers, ill-wishers, and freeloaders from all over the solar system had flocked to the palace to help the ruling family celebrate their new addition as well as Lady Jakabitus’s success in capturing the boy.
The festivities were to be held in the banquet hall in the Old Palace’s second floor, a space that was large enough to house hundreds, and this night it would be filled to capacity. A small army of staff had been called up on short notice to make the guests feel that they were being served in a manner befitting the Jakabitus family. As a result, the servants’ hall was full for a change. Large groups of excited temporary help stood in clusters, listening as they were briefed by their leaders for the evening. Each member of the household staff was in charge of directing those whose tasks for the evening mirrored his or her own. Shly’s group was ordered to ensure nobody went thirsty. Umily would see to it that anyone who wanted (or didn’t want) a napkin, glass, or utensil had his or her needs fulfilled. Ebbler would have been tending to food delivery, but he was otherwise occupied, so Glaz was supervising the waitstaff. Migg helped wherever she could.
The room was so hectic, and the staff was so busy, that nobody took note of it when Pitt, dressed in civilian attire, entered the room and walked around its periphery. The only person who spoke to him was one of the temporary staff, who asked him to step aside as she came through with a grav-platter piled high with empty glassware.
Pitt was angry, but he held his tongue. He’d talked enough today.
The passing temp added, “Just so you know, this might not be the best place to stand around. There are a lot of people trying to work here.”
She didn’t know she was piling insult on top of injury, or that the only reason Pitt wasn’t one of those people trying to work was because his own big mouth had finally lost him his job.
Pitt watched her go, then made his way out the back of the servants’ hall and down the corridor. He paused just outside the door to the kitchen.
He heard Barsparse say, “Make sure we have all of the implements we’ll need for the presentation. If we’re going to do this thing, we must do it right.”
Ebbler said, “Yes, Chef.”
Pitt stood motionless for a moment, with his eyes squeezed shut, then walked down the corridor, out the service exit, and off the palace grounds.
After the details were discussed and the pep talks were given, the temporary help prepared the room and made sure all the bulkfabs were full and ready.
Shly and Umily hadn’t had a chance to talk since lunch, but in the short time they had spent in the same room, always running in opposite directions, Shly had gotten the distinct impression that Umily wasn’t happy. Given the great news she’d received that morning, Shly would have expected Umily to be walking on air. Finally, Shly took an opportunity to grab her friend and ask, “Um, what’s the matter?”
Umily looked around to see who might be listening. The room was full of people, but the vast majority were strangers, which, oddly, made it feel more private than a mostly empty room with a few people whom she knew well.
“Don’t make a big deal about it,” Umily said, “but I got another letter.”
“Gint?” Shly asked.
“Yeah, he was killed again, but they’re already regenerating him, so he’ll be fine.”
“Good, I guess,” Shly stammered. “I mean, I’m happy he’ll be okay, but I’m so sorry he got killed again, and . . . wow, I mean, so soon, right?”
“Yes,” Umily said. “Poor thing. He didn’t even get to enjoy one day back on his feet before he was cut down again. It seems the Hahn are really pushing.”
“Poor Gint.”
“Yes,” Umily agreed. “Poor Gint.”
A female voice from behind them asked, “Has there been news about your husband?”
Shly and Umily turned to find Migg, who looked nervous and concerned.
Umily’s mouth became a hard, straight line that would not be moved. Shly said, “Can we do something for you, Migg?”
Migg said, “I . . . no. I just wanted to say a word to you about Skolash, the dish Master Hennik requested. I’m forbidden by custom from telling you anything about it directly.”
“So we’ve heard,” Shly said. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“And it will be. I know that you are in charge of drinks, and that you—” she nodded to Umily, “—handle linens and refuse. I can’t tell you why, but it would be to your advantages to have far more linens than usual, as well as ample supplies of any drink the people of your world might use to treat an upset stomach.”
Shly and Umily thought about this while Migg looked around, as if worried about being seen. She leaned in toward Umily and said, “I think the war is hateful. I hope your husband is all right.” Then she walked away at top speed.
Before dinner was served, the general consensus was that the banquet was a huge success. The mood was buoyant. The canapés were delicious and light, featuring subtle greens, well-seasoned meats, and small cups of clear broth. Most guests took the lightness as a sign that the chef wanted them to have plenty of room for whatever Hahn delicacy she had prepared.
The only complaint most of the guests had was that they weren’t given the chance to interact personally with the new arrival. Hennik was seated at the Jakabitus family table, surrounded by attendants. If a guest approached Hennik, he or she was politely but unequivocally rebuffed for security reasons. Some said that it was to protect the Hahn from any guest who might harm him. Others thought it was to protect the guests from the vicious Hahn who might attack them. None guessed the real reason, which was to protect the party atmosphere from Hennik’s dangerous attitude.
A little later than usual, the gong rang, signaling everyone to take their seats. There was an unusually long pause before drinks service, then a surprisingly long wait for the food to be served. In a lesser chef, this stalling would be taken as a sign of disorganization or a lack of confidence. Barsparse, however, had an impeccable reputation. If she was moving slowly, it was probably to let the anticipation build before she presented something truly remarkable.
There was a polite round of applause as Barsparse walked into the middle of the hall. The tables were arranged at the sides of the room, leaving a large empty area in the middle for announcements and presentations. Barsparse had given hundreds of these pre-meal explanations in her career, and she seemed cool and composed in her immaculate chef’s whites, her black hair tied back and mostly hidden beneath a small white cap. Nobody could tell that she was nervous about this presentation, because nobody knew what she was presenting.
Barsparse acknowledged the applause, then spoke.
“First, ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. I don’t like to keep people waiting, but, when you see what we have for you, I believe you’ll forgive me.”
She seemed uncomfortable with the fresh round of applause that followed, a clear sign of her humility.
“As you know,” she continued, “this banquet is being held to honor Master Hennik Hahn, blood-son of Lord Hahn, ruler of the Hahn Home World. Master Hennik has found himself among us, and Lady Jakabitus has generously taken him into her family.”
A fresh round of adulation erupted, this time aimed at Lady Jakabitus, who nodded from her seat at the Jakabitus family table. Her family reflected a range of attitudes—while Lord Frederain Jakabitus looked proud, Hennik looked positively giddy, and Rayzo looked as if h
e wanted to leave.
“Master Hennik was promised that I would prepare any traditional Hahn dish he selected,” Barsparse said. “He chose a dish called Skolash, which can be roughly translated as surprise. It is a dish that requires secrecy. Her Ladyship, His Lordship, and the Master of Formalities; none of them have any idea what my sous chef and I will be serving. I want to repeat that: Master Hennik Hahn selected this dish. Only he knows what it is. We were ordered to make it, and proper form dictated that we could not tell anyone what we were making. Not even Her Ladyship knows. Again, we had no choice, and she does not know.”
Fresh applause sprang up to recognize Lady Jakabitus and her staff for maintaining good form and making poor Master Hennik feel welcome. Barsparse looked to the Jakabitus family table. While Hennik seemed as if he were about to burst, Lady Jakabitus directed an uneasy look at Barsparse, who did her best to convey through subtle facial expressions that the unease was justified. Lady Jakabitus turned and beckoned to Wollard, who had been standing in the background with Phee. Wollard came forward, and he and Lady Jakabitus exchanged words.
“So—” Barsparse said, watching Her Ladyship and the Master of Formalities talk, “—without further delay . . .” Her Ladyship motioned to Hennik, who still looked terribly pleased with himself.
“It’s high time . . .” Barsparse said, each word coming more slowly than the last.
Wollard nodded at some comment made by Her Ladyship and said something in reply. Lady Jakabitus bit her lip and turned to face Barsparse. She nodded. Barsparse tilted her head, as if asking if she were sure. Both Her Ladyship and Wollard nodded this time.
“To make some Skolash,” Barsparse finished. “It’s a uniquely theatrical dish, and is made in front of those to whom it will be served. My sous chef, Ebbler, will do the honors. He’s a fine young man, who is only following orders. I will talk you through the process, which is also part of the Skolash tradition. Ebbler?”
Ebbler entered the hall pushing a silver grav-platter piled high with some large mass and draped with a cloth. His chef’s whites and cap were identical to Barsparse’s, and he was much more powerfully built than she was, but anyone could draw two conclusions at a glance: she was very much the one in charge, and he was more than fine with that.
Barsparse pulled out her papers and began reading from a prepared text.
“The recipe for Skolash calls for the whole carcass of a prode, a creature indigenous to the Hahn Home World. Prodes do not live on Apios, and we have no examples in Her Majesty’s zoos, so we had to find the closest analog: a flunt, which, as you all know, is a medium-sized scavenger that lives off the leftovers and leavings of more evolved predators.”
Ebbler remove the cover, revealing the flunt carcass. Several assistants ran toward him to set up what appeared to be a large, clear tent, attached to an apparatus and a high-pressure tank.
“Of course, no flunt was harmed for your meal. We scanned a living specimen and replicated it after some necessary modifications. The recipe calls for the animal to be killed by smothering, so that its skin is left unbroken, and then left out in the elements for three days. We didn’t have time to do this, so the scan of the live flunt was tweaked by biologists from Her Ladyship’s university to approximate the effect as closely as possible. Now, Ebbler takes the carcass into the preparation chamber.”
Barsparse watched Ebbler, who pushed the grav-platter into the tent without hesitation. As an afterthought, she said, “Ebbler, don’t forget your goggles.”
Ebbler thanked her and quickly pulled on his goggles.
“He seals the chamber, which is airtight. While he does that, I’ll read the traditional Hahn pre-Skolash statement, which I’m told has been read by chefs for centuries prior to the preparation of this dish.
“We, your servants, present to you this Skolash. We prepare this food for the same reason most of you will eat it, because we must.”
Barsparse looked up from her papers. “Sums it up nicely, I think. Now, Ebbler makes an incision along the creature’s abdomen. Note that the . . . ingredients . . . are under considerable pressure, so they essentially remove themselves.”
The machinery on the side of the tent sprang noisily to life. “The chamber captures the various gasses and aromas released,” Barsparse said, shouting to be heard over the machinery, “and collects them for later use.”
The machinery fell silent, and the audience was equally quiet. Barsparse wasn’t sure if they were dumbstruck from the horror of what they were seeing, or if they were lying low, hoping she would forget they were there and thus not serve them. Either way, she could hardly blame them.
She paused again to check on the progress of the assistants, who had scurried back into the room with a new mechanical apparatus, this one featuring a large crank and a glass front. Behind the glass there was a confusing jumble of circular cams and meshing metal teeth. Beneath the glass, a large nozzle protruded, hanging at a shallow angle, ending inches above the floor.
Barsparse continued, narrating Ebbler’s actions as he completed them. “Now Ebbler gathers the ingredients in his arms and carries them out to the traditional Skolash grinder. My thanks to the workers at Her Ladyship’s machine shop, who fabricated this machine on very short notice. Ebbler feeds the ingredients into the top of the grinder and turns the crank. The grinder’s unique transparent exterior, and the fact that it slowly rotates as it grinds, makes it possible for all in attendance to watch the grinding action. The raw Skolash is extruded at moderate pressure from the grinder and falls directly to the floor, from where it is collected in a large metal pan. The palace utilitics have been specially programed not to interfere with this part of the process. Once all of the raw Skolash is fully ground, it is cooked.”
Ebbler walked back to the tent and removed the high-pressure canister.
“The creature’s own flammable gasses are combusted,” Barsparse read, “producing a greenish-blue flame and an unforgettable aroma. The flame is run over the surface of the Skolash, scorching it unevenly. The Skolash is now ready for serving. It is traditionally presented without garnish or seasoning. It is simply divided onto plates and served. Ebbler has prepared enough for each member of the ruling family, including Master Hennik, who I remind you, requested this dish, and one extra serving, which will be scanned and bulkfabbed, so that you all may enjoy it as well.”
Ebbler and an assistant carried four plates piled high with smelly blackened mush to the Jakabitus family table, placing them in front of the members of the ruling family.
Hennik beamed down at his plate of Skolash, then turned to Lady Jakabitus.
“This has made me very happy,” he said.
“Good, Hennik,” Lady Jakabitus said unenthusiastically. “Please, take the first bite, and tell us if Barsparse has done your favorite dish justice.”
Hennik said, “I’m not hungry.”
PART 3
It is poor form to accuse someone of being a liar.
It is far poorer form to lie.
The mark of a skilled liar is the ability to convince others that the inverse is true.
-Excerpt from The Arbiters’ Official Guidelines Regarding Formal Accusations, Declarations of Wrongdoing, and Assorted Nonverbal Expressions of Reproach
18.
Wollard skimmed over his papers and said, “Know that two thousand, one hundred, and seventy-one conventional years have passed since the Terran Exodus. Today is the sixty-third and final day of the third month. We meet on the planet Apios, in the servants’ hall of Palace Koa, the ancestral home of House Jakabitus and its matriarch, Lady Joanadie Jakabitus. I am Wollard, Master of Formalities for House Jakabitus, and I am currently delivering the daily meeting to the palace staff.”
Wollard was relieved to see bored faces looking up at him. It meant that equilibrium was being restored. It was rarely a sign that things were going smoothly when the staff showed a kee
n interest in the daily briefing.
“To start on a positive note, I think we can all agree that our newest addition, Kreet, has adapted well to his role as deliverer of edibles. While Kreet deserves congratulations, part of the credit goes also to Ebbler, who has been serving both as his trainer and as Chef Barsparse’s sous chef since he received his promotion six days ago.”
Sincere but disinterested praise was mumbled at Kreet from all directions. Kreet was a strapping, sleepy-eyed young man who had impressed everybody but Shly with his willingness to work and his unwillingness to talk.
Wollard moved on. “Her Ladyship is keenly interested in Master Hennik’s progress. She has asked that we all be extra attentive to his needs, his moods, and particularly his actions, watching for any indication of how well, or poorly, he is adjusting to life here. From my admittedly limited vantage point, Master Hennik appears to have accepted the situation. Of course, Migg is the person in the best position to verify that, but as we all know, members of the palace staff are sworn to never violate the trust of a member of the ruling family. I would never ask any of you to violate that trust. As such, as has become our custom, I will now ask some innocent questions and make some carefully worded, innocuous statements, to which Migg may respond as she wishes. You will all be present to innocently overhear the conversation. We are free to infer from her responses, or lack thereof, some hint of Master Hennik’s mental state.”
Eyes rolled, but everyone turned their attention to Migg, who was focused on Wollard. She had started wearing the standard uniform of a member of the palace staff, but she still seemed out of place. Everybody recognized that she was trying to fit in and be useful. Indeed, this daily farce was her idea. It could be argued that she and Wollard were still breaking the spirit of the oath, but after the banquet debacle, even the Master of Formalities saw the necessity of creating new protocols for dealing with Hennik’s behavior.
