Pax

The cold stone floor of the kitchen was awash with the sap of the wild morels, berries, and truffles that had been foraged earlier that morning.

The sticky patches shone quietly in the dappled light streaming in from the windows and the large bay doors that had been left open to receive the arriving produce.

A timer clicked softly overhead, counting down to the big day. The grey-robed staff, padding about quietly in their rubber slippers and aprons, murmured softly to each other as they ran through their final checks.

The lords of the kitchen would be here soon, and any slip-up would be met with swift retribution. They could not afford to tempt fate.

Or worse, the tempers of the formidable emperors of the stove who rewarded loyalty with favors and incompetence with vengeance.

After all, it was no ordinary meal that was going to be served. Many fates depended on this meal. Their own, of course.

But more importantly, the billions of people who lived in a fragile peace secured by the events that led up to the first Forgiveness and the first breaking of bread under the Canopy of Harmony.

For both the planets of Thenkai and Batgai, who had been at war for hundreds of generations, the first Feast of Forgiveness had served a humble repast to battle-hardened warriors, inscrutable diplomats, and grinning politicians.

But the forests of Kanthavara, the island planet chosen by the High Council of Arbiters, were rich with delicious treasures. The waters rippled with plump fish, and the cockles grew to the size of the coconuts that were found in abundance in its coastal forests.

When Adiga had first come to to work in the kitchen, he had been a scrawny teenager, terrified and certain that his culinary talent would hold him in no safety whatsoever in so august a kitchen. But he had survived the malevolent punishments and learned quickly on his feet.

Now, he was sufficiently indispensable. Bosant, his apprentice and secret favourite, stood languidly against a cupboard in the back, watching a pot simmer nearby.

Adiga sniffed.

"You forgot the entrails," he murmured.

Bosant stood up straight and checked the pot in a theatrical fashion.

"I am a purist."

Adiga scoffed. "When you run this kitchen, you can be whatever you want. Until then, you do as you are told."

Bosant stared at him for a moment, and gave in. "Yes, sir."

Adiga rolled his eyes. Bosant poked around in the pot. A grey scum was beginning to rise, which he skimmed off expertly with a wooden spoon. Adiga wandered over to him and stared into the pot for a moment. He nodded, appreciatively, and clucked.

"Ah, well. I guess you can have this one."

Bosant grinned.

"But I'm not going to let you skimp on the duck lard."

Bosant's grin faded. He stalked off to the pantry. The cool, clay-tiled room was his favourite place in what little he had seen of the galaxy.

Row after row of neatly preserved herbs, vegetables, fruit, tubers, spices, condiments, game, and fish, a quiet, fragrant promise in the gloom.

Bosant walked past a jar of preserved berries and stopped. He turned around and, after a quick glance to establish that the coast was clear, helped himself to the tart jam with a spoon he retrieved out of the pockets of his apron.

Sighing happily, he was about to replace the jar when he noticed a small square of folded paper on the empty space on the shelf. Bosant licked his lips and pocketed the paper.

The jar safely in place, he walked on until he came to the lard cupboard. As he measured dollop after dollop of gleaming fat, he wondered if he had missed some crucial intrigue in the kitchens on his days off.

Returning, he stopped by the stock chart on the door to take a look. Adiga raised his eyebrows at Bosant's return.

"Found the jam, did you?"

Bosant shrugged his innocence. "What jam?"

"I can smell it on your breath, you fool. Those things ferment into wine. For a forager you have so little sense." Adiga growled. "Don't get into the habit of it. You know if the Gastronome catches you, there will be consequences."

Bosant shrugged again. "I didn't do anything."

He tipped a few careful spoons of the duck lard into the pot and stirred.

"What's your problem with entrails anyway?" Adiga sniffed.

Bosant hesitated.

"Speak up, boy."

"They bring too much salt into the stock."

Adiga laughed. "That's what they're meant to do, you hillbilly."

Bosant frowned slightly, registering the insult.

"We don't-"

"Yes, yes, we know." Adiga spoke over him. He looked at the stung boy for a second and relented.

"Come on, give it up. Get this over with and get onto the yams. Go on."

Bosant nodded, still not fully placated. Adiga sighed.

"Don't be like that. You know I like you, even if you have the brains of a jellied goat."

Bosant nodded, his gaze fixed on the contents of the pot.

"Idiot."

Bosant smiled faintly, and continued to attend to his process. Adiga ambled off, stopping to check in on a few different stations, each at various stages of preparing and assembling the components of the upcoming feast.

Alone at last, Bosant reached into his apron and opened the folded piece of paper. He smiled to himself at the salutation. A few words later, he blinked and stared.

He looked around. Adiga was at the grill, inspecting a tray of caramelised onions. Bosant walked over to him, whispered into his ear, and strode off to the back door.

Once outside, he sat down at the staff table, lit a cheroot from the box on the table and took a puff, stopping to cough.

"That stuff'll kill you." Adiga strode over to him and retched at the smell.

Bosant stared at him for a moment and offered him the folded piece of paper in a closed fist. Adiga took it, surprised as the square dropped into his hand, and opened it.

He read silently. He stared at it for a moment and then at Bosant.

"Where did you find this?"

Bosant shrugged.

"In the pantry." He took another puff, coughing.

Adiga looked away, stiffening at the sound of the convoy arriving at the gates in the distance, their dull jets whistling a high-pitched, insistent hum.

Bosant spoke up. "What do we do?"

Adiga frowned. "Who else has seen this?"

Bosant shook his head. "No one."

"Why did you bring it to me?"

Bosant shrugged. "Who else should I take it to?"

Adiga coughed at the poisonous fumes of the cheroot.

"You know how to keep your mouth shut, right?"

Bosant nodded.

"Good. Now go get going with the yams."

Adiga watched the boy saunter off, retrieved a broadcaster from his apron and tuned in.

"Yeah, it's me. There's something you need to see."

In a bower not far away, some time ago, on the banks of a stream that descended into the paddy fields that sprawled between the sea and the Canopy of Harmony, a woman lay breathless.

She heaved, panting, her cheeks flushed, her breasts awash with sweat and ripe with the afterglow of pleasure. She rolled over and snuggled up to her consort.

He cradled her, and kissed her forehead, pausing to wipe some hair plastered onto her cheek with sweat. She held his face with both hands and kissed him deeply.

Satisfied, she lay her head on his chest and took a deep breath. The salt of his sweat was cut through by the citrus oils of the soap she had bathed with earlier that day.

She smiled, kissed the flesh over his heart and set her ear down to his chest.

"I hear you," she whispered, muffled.

"What am I saying?" he asked, adjusting his head to look at her face buried in his arms.

She looked up at him, lifting herself onto her elbows and across his chest.

"You tell me."

He smiled. "I don't have to."

She shook her head, playfully. "Oh, but you do."

"What am I saying now?" he asked, tracing a line down her throat to her nipple.

She grinned, and shook her head. "You'll have to be louder."

"Oh, I see," he whispered, carrying on with a feather touch, down to her navel. She stopped him.

"Tonight."

He stopped and kissed her forehead again, and sighed theatrically.

"I know. Wait for me," she giggled.

He pulled her up to meet his gaze, kissed her lightly on the upper lip and stroked her chin.

"In every lifetime," he whispered, solemnly.