“I’m just glad we could buy passage here,” Amra said. “I have a list of places I want to see in the Imperium. It’s the best place to find those rare items that aren’t for sale on the homeworlds. We should be able to make a tidy profit out of this trip.”
“Thank Saart for it,” Prot told his wife. “If the old cook hadn’t entered the Feastday contest, we wouldn’t have had to buy passage here.”
“How did you get such a good rate on a portal?” Amra asked.
Prot still hadn’t told her, but now he threw his chest out, just a bit. “I have connections in the maji, I’ll have you know.”
“Are you still milking favors out of that councilor we helped? It’s been, what, two cycles? You’d think she would tell you ‘no’ at some point.”
“Hey—if she wants to keep helping us, I’m not going to complain,” Prot said. “Now, which row is Saart down?”
“He’s with the rest of the Festuour entrants,” Amra said, counting off rows. “The Methiemum are over there, and the Kirians are the next row over. I have no idea why they would put those two next to each other. Do they want to turn people’s stomachs?”
Prot wasn’t listening. His nose was in the air, taking in the scents of the festival. “Is that fried goat’s cheese?” he asked.
“We don’t have time for—” Amra broke off. “Oh, it is. With some sort of…” she closed her eyes and inhaled. “It smells like a roasted mountain pepper sauce.”
“Let’s stroll down the aisles,” Prot suggested. “We’ll get to Saart eventually, and the actual contest doesn’t start until tomorrow. The old bear can wait a few minutes for his ‘secret ingredient.’”
Prot linked his free arm with his wife’s and they turned down the first aisle. The once-a-cycle Feastday contest had started with one person judging the best flavors of each of the homeworlds, or so the story went. Now it was a five-day event, with each homeworld trying to out-compete each other for the tastiest, most unique food on their homeworld. During that time, the Bazaar was turned into a stew of mouthwatering flavors, and people came from all over to roam the stalls and pick their favorite foods. The actual judging event was almost an afterthought, to everyone but the entrants.
The Methiemum row was familiar to Prot and Amra, even as well traveled as they were. They rarely moved around now, since they had bought their shop on Methiem four cycles previous.
“Mmmm. Smell that?” Prot asked. “Dried and roasted dates.” He angled toward a stall where a plume of smoke erupted around a large-bellied man who held a cast-iron skillet over an open flame.
“With fish fillet,” Amra said. She pointed to the side, where samples were laid out. “Fish stuffed roasted dates. That’s a new one.” She snagged a small piece with a nod to the chef and popped it in her mouth.
“Wow,” she said when she could speak again. “It practically melts. Think we could get some of them to sell at the shop? I bet it stores well.”
“We’ll start a list,” Prot said, and pulled a length of paper out of his pocket. He shifted the container under his other arm and produced a pen from a different pocket of his long coat. He wrote down the kiosk description.
The next stall they stopped at was run by a woman in a wrap the same color as Amra’s. While they traded information about what cloth was best for a wrap, Prot tried some of the woman’s fruit curry. Definitely another keeper. He wrote her name and the town she was from down on his list.
The third Methiemum who caught their interest was a baker. She was nearly as large around as her stall, but whirled and sidestepped to transition from her small clay oven, to her cutting counter, to another station stocked with spices, vegetables and fruits.
“Stuffed bread?” Amra asked, pulling Prot closer.
“Try a piece,” the woman told them, thrusting a quarter section of a slice toward them. The middle of the bread sagged with an orange and green paste, and Amra divided it in two and gave half to Prot.
“Kiwi and carrot, baked in a sourdough crust.”
Prot hesitantly tried a bit, and his eyebrows shot up. “This is good!” he said.
“I also have cucumber and basil, fish and onion, and horseradish and pepper in pumpernickel, if you like more spice,” she said, pointing out samples. Then she twirled and took another loaf from her clay oven.
Prot and Amra got her name.
The Kirian aisle was next, and the two dutifully walked down it, but there were few places they stopped, and fewer people in the aisle.
“Well, those mealworms were fresh,” Prot managed. He felt a little nauseous, especially after the bread.
“The vendor said they were,” Amra said. “We could add some fly larvae to our stock, just in case we get any Kirians passing through.”
“I suppose.” Prot considered. “Have the featherheads ever won the contest?”
“Not that I know of,” Amra said. She slowed, looking at a case filled with water. Wriggling white maggots the size of her thumb swam around, and she shuddered.
They moved to the Lobath aisle, giving the Festuour one a miss until the end. They were familiar with many of these dishes as well, as Lobath spice sold well on almost all the homeworlds. The cooks here put it to good use, flavoring pastes, stews, raw mushrooms, breaded, fried, and baked mushrooms, and fungi in all shapes and sizes.
At the end of the row, Prot was licking his fingers from his eighth sample.
“You’re going to fill up before you reach the other side,” Amra told him.
He patted his stomach. “I’ve been training, with your cooking,” he said. Amra poked him in the side.
“At least we know the ‘secret ingredient’ of about half of those stalls,” he said.
“Ibora labat?” Amra asked, naming the spice hardest to find on Loba.
“Exactly,” Prot said. “Though I especially liked what the cook from Mushroom and Spice did with it. I’ve never had candied shelf fungus before. The Ibora labat pairs with the sweetness quite well.”
The Sathssn aisle was not as bare as the Kirian one, but close. No cook fires gave off smoke here, however there were many stands with vibrant plantains and leafy greens as tall as Prot.
“I’ve heard a lot about Sathssn veggies,” he told Amra. “Never had one fresh from the plant.” He wandered to a stall with ten or more buckets filled with dirt. Vines sprouted from them, running up trellises and dotted with hundreds of little orange fruits, like tiny jewels.
“These, they are the freshest starcress on all Sath Home,” the attendant called out. She had her cowl back, bright green scales glistening in the light from the Nether walls. “Try one.”
Prot plucked an orange fruit off the vine and popped it in his mouth. The skin cracked as he bit down, and erupted in a gooey, tart mass inside his mouth. Prot stood still, trying to take in all the tastes in the little berry. First tart, then a sweet flavor, like a strawberry, but fading into a spicy aftertaste that gave off hints of cinnamon, and cloves, and pinesap.
“Can I buy one of these vines?” he asked the attendant. Amra gave him a raised eyebrow, but the Sathssn shook her head.
“This, it only grows in soil native to Sath Home. Very carefully bred for the best yield, most resistance to disease and best flavor, but the downside is, the starcress, it only grows in this soil, and only from the southern latitudes.” The vendor tapped a bucket. “This flavor, it is not as strong as it would be, growing in a field.”
Prot wrote down her mailing address anyway, just in case. If he could import a starcress vine, he’d make back the cost easily. It couldn’t be that hard to order a few buckets of dirt. He had a few connections with Sathssn who lived near the equator.
“Come on,” Amra told him, pulling him to the next aisle. “It’s been a lightening already, and Saart won’t like us keeping him waiting.”
The Etanela aisle was next, and Prot found himself looking up, at bluish faces with manes of hair standing out like small bushes. The Etanel
a largely lived on the coasts of the small islands dotted through their world, and were the best source of sea-based food of the ten species.
“Oooh, is that boiled firesea taligrani claw?” Amra made a beeline toward a shop with a display of sharp pincers, their sides burst open and dripping with oil and salt. This stall didn’t have samples, but Amra bought one anyway, sucking the tender meat out while they walked.
“What about the budget you keep going on about?” Prot said, only half joking. He reached for the claw of meat, but Amra pulled it away.
“Maybe your councilor friend will lend you the Nether glass to pay for another one,” she said, and sucked the meat out through an opening near the pincer.
Prot rolled his eyes, but went to a stall selling seaweed-wrapped bundles. They were Etanela surprise bundles, usually given out around the day of Sea Mother’s Rise on Etan. The Etanlea looming over the display must have thought there were enough people here willing to chance the delicacy.
“I’ll take a gamble,” Prot told the attendant, and flipped her a small piece of Nether glass. He moved his hand over several seaweed-wrapped bundles before choosing one of them. He raised it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and bit down.
Prot chewed thoughtfully.
“Well?” Amra said. “Good or bad luck for the next year?”
“Not sure.” Prot swallowed. “It’s not a sea slug, so that’s good, but it’s still an…interesting flavor. I wouldn’t say bad, but maybe an acquired taste?”
“Ah, you probably got the Sea Mother’s ovaries,” the attendant said. “Only one in the whole batch! Traditionally, it means the next year will be filled with new and intense experiences, bad or good.”
“Let’s hope it’s only tradition,” Prot said as they walked away. He looked for a place to dispose of the rest of the seaweed bundle.
The next two aisles were each split between two species. The first was mostly filled with buzzing Pixie venders, but before Prot and Amra got there, they stopped at the two lone Benish stalls.
The first had a selection of hard-looking objects sitting on a polished metal platter.
“What are these?” Amra asked the Benish attendant, who cocked their head with a crack of splitting wood.
“Traditional, hmm, staples of Aben. Meant to, hmmm, sustain one for many cycles while on knowledge journeys.”
Prot tapped one brown and orange striated object. “Are they nuts?”
The Benish seemed to consider. “They, hmm, were nuts. Now they contain many minerals and salts vital to long days of walking. One must only, hmmm, keep the journey seed in one’s mouth while walking. It will, hmm, keep one moving for days at a time.”
“I’m sure it will,” Prot said.
The next booth held bowls of liquid so viscous they barely ran when Prot tilted one toward him.
“Try a taste,” the attendant said, holding out a silver thimble of the liquid. Prot stuck one finger in and put it in his mouth.
He sucked in a breath. “Try this, Amra,” he said.
Amra stuck her pinky in the same thimble. Her eyes widened when she put it to her tongue.
“Tree syrup, but powered by a majus, right?” Prot said, and Amra nodded. “What’s in it?” he asked the attendant.
“There are over, hm, two hundred and thirty different saps, nectars, extracts, spices, and roots in each vat of syrup,” the Benish said. “The process starts with drums as big around as, hm, this stall. They are boiled down to this concentration.” The Benish held up the silver thimble.
Prot got the name of the substance. It was sure to be expensive, but they could sell this for as much as liquid Nether glass.
The Pixie area was a riot of scents and colors, and a sickly-sweet aroma filled the row. There were fruits of every size and color: blue and orange and green and red and purple, and every shade and stripe in between.
“I’ve never seen so many kinds,” Amra said.
“No wonder their wings buzz so much,” Prot answered.
They tried a few here and there, and the fruits’ taste was just as varied as their colors. They stayed away from the fermented ones, though the Pixies who were combing through the rows of food flocked to those stands.
“Popular with the locals,” Prot said.
“I’m still not trying them again,” Amra answered. “Last time I tried a fermented Pixie drink I was on the toilet the entire next day.”
They turned a corner into the last row, where dour Sureriaj—mostly male, of course—glared at customers suspiciously.
“Ugh—we can give this aisle a skip,” Prot said, glaring back at the vendors. “I had plenty of their salty, spiny food while we were stuck on their homeworld.”
“Oh come on,” Amra said, and towed him to a stall at random. “What’s this one?” She asked the vendor, a particularly ugly Sureri who looked like he was from the Perchet family.
“Eyah, it’s mushed turp root with spices. Traditional recipe.” He thrust out a small cup. “Try yer a mite.”
Amra ate some, made a small choking noise, and gave the cup back. “It’s very…well preserved,” she said.
“Ach, yeah. The rock salt keeps the mush from dryin’ out. Terrible, ain’t it?”
“Um, yes,” Amra said.
“Dunno why the families keep makin’ us come out here,” the Sureri grumbled. “Only the Kirians win less’n us, and they eat maggots.”
“At least he’s honest,” Prot said.
The last third of that row was given to the Lobhl, who had one long table with several of the silent beings milling behind it, their large hands in constant motion as they spoke to each other and their customers.
“It’s all liquids?” Prot asked, and Amra nodded.
“Looks like you get your own straw to taste all the different concoctions,” she said.
The first Lobhl handed them a straw, her other hand signing,
Prot and Amra tried each vase of fluid. They were all different, sweet, bitter, pulpy, spicy, and so on.
The Lobhl at the end spread his hands when they reached him, fingers crossing over each other in a question.
“I liked the third one down,” Amra said. “It was sort of like a good curry, but the aftertaste changed to something like a roast.”
Prot counted the vases. “I liked the one four down from that. Sweet and hot at the same time. What’s it made of?”
Prot and Amra finally headed back toward the entrance. Prot juggled the case under his arm. “Now the Festuour row.”
“I’m stuffed,” Amra said, but she lifted her head to sniff the air. “The Festuour food is always so rich, too.”
They passed displays of red meats, dripping with juices, and plates of soft white and yellow cheese, starting to melt in the midday air of the Nether.
“I would stop if I thought I could eat anything else,” Prot said, eying a fried concoction of fruit, cavarra cheese, and thrycovolar belly bacon.
Saart’s stall was about halfway down the row, and the old Festuour spread his hands wide when he saw them.
“Prot! Amra! Finally. Did you bring what I asked?”
“Pure Rooflin flower honey,” Prot said, setting the cask down with a thump. “Now why would you need so much of it? This costs a bit of shiny Nether glass to import.”
“Ya’ll are just in time,” Saart said, and pulled a pan of golden brown dough from a small oven. He put the pan on a mat on a table, then opened the cask with one twist of his thick furry paw.
Prot sniffed the air. “That smells fantastic. What is it?”
“My granny’s recipe,” Saart said. “Chorin skin pastr
y. You have to get the thinnest skin of bark from the tree, and layer it up until it makes this crust,” he gestured at the golden top of the pan. “Throw some nutmeat and spices in the middle, and bake the blazes out of it.” He lifted the cask of honey. “But this is the most important step.” He upended the cask over the pan, and it crackled and hissed like molten metal hitting water. The honey became more viscous, flowing into cracks in the Chorin bark.
Prot closed his eyes, breathing in the hot, sweet, and crusty aromas. “I think I know the winner of the festival,” he said. “Now when do we get to try a piece?”
The Society of Two Houses
953 A.A.W.
PART ONE
The Body
- Maji in the Great Assembly of Species are rare, born at a rate of, hm, one per five million individuals. Most hear only one of the six aspects of the Grand Symphony, but one in every sixty maji, or one in three hundred million individuals, can hear two of the Symphony’s aspects. It is one’s belief these few—the, hm, ones gathered here—have the ability to drive innovation in the Great Assembly, bolstered by a sensitivity to the underlying rhythms of the universe. For this group’s final entrance into the Society, please, hm, step forward for the geas to be applied.
Private address by Moortlin, Benish Head of the House of Healing, on the induction of new members into the Society of Two Houses
I stared down at the body of Speaker Thurapo, willing my frozen feet to bring me further into his study. I was supposed to be presenting the prototype model I held, not discovering his corpse.
I clenched my hand involuntarily, then yelped and released my fingers as the scale model of the System Beast dug tiny sharp hands into my palm. The delicate construct, made in the form of a Festuour—like my colleague Gompt—had taken days to build. The pain unlocked my feet and I hurried forward to set the model on a side table—just a little too tall for me, like everything in the Speaker’s study.
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