Chef?”
For a moment his face might have been cast in stone.
“No,” he finally said.
“Can you at least tell me if it is a spiritual or gross substance?”
“We may assume spiritual, as only the highest lords have tasted it.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
Her knees were shaking when she left, and she felt profoundly unreal, as if she were watching this all happen to someone else. She returned to the kitchens, attempting to stay calm, to focus—trying to understand where she had to start.
She was sure she could duplicate anything she could taste, but that wasn’t in the offering. That left her with what seemed an impossible task, but it was pointless to entertain that notion, wasn’t it? She had to assume that it was possible. Phmer had done it, after all. Had it been an accident, or a design?
She went to her private bench, far from the hustle and bustle of the stations, and began idly thumbing through the various powders, liquids, distillations, and ferments in her cabinet. She fiddled with the flow of soul force through the refraxor, but after an hour of that pushed back and placed her face in her palms. Her brain didn’t seem to work at all. Sighing, she went back to her room, but her thoughts flowed no better there, so in the end she gave up and opened a bottle of wine.
She was on her second glass when Slyr entered.
“I’m sorry,” the other woman said. “You’re never here this early in the day. I—”
“No, join me,” Annaïg said. “I’m just thinking.”
“Well, I’ve no wish to disturb you.”
“Sometimes talking helps me think.” She pulled over a second cup and poured more wine. “Have a drink, talk.”
Slyr looked uncertain but did as she was told.
“What do you know of Phmer’s ninth savor?” Annaïg asked.
“I’ve heard of it,” Slyr said cautiously.
“Before I came to Umbriel, I knew of only four or five essentialflavors. When I was taught to cook, I was told that the success of a good dish was in the inclusion and balancing of these sensations. When I came here, you, Slyr, taught me that there were three more, all of a spiritual nature.”
“Quick, dead, and ephemerate,” Slyr supplied.
“So I’m thinking,” Annaïg said. “I taste the five gross senses on different parts of my tongue, and I read long ago that the tongue is grown to interpret such flavors. But I cannot, like the lords, taste the difference between quick and dead. I might discern that a wiggling shrimp is alive and a still one dead, but the taste is the same, because my tongue isn’t designed for that distinction. And as for ephemerate, that’s another thing entirely, isn’t it? Those are the ‘flavors’ we make with souls. The tongue doesn’t taste them, although that’s generally how they are introduced, since they’re presented as food. But really, the skin or eyes can taste them equally as well—and ephemerate isn’t a single kind of flavor, but hundreds, thousands, of very different things made possible by the cuisine spirituelle. Like the terror you tasted the other day, or the joy I could create tomorrow. How does that compare with the electric vitality of raw, unrefined soul energy, or the needling pleasure of filple?”
Slyr took a drink. “So you’re thinking that the ninth savor can’t be ephemerate, then? That it must be a new material flavor?”
“Or something completely different, as different from the ephemerate as the ephemerate is from salty and piquant.”
“How can such a thing be discovered, then? If one knew only piquant, sour, and sweet, how would you guess that salty existed and learn how to make it?”
Something shaped itself in her mind then, a worm that might become an idea.
“Especially if one had no tongue,” Annaïg pursued, her thoughts racing. “That is our dilemma.”
“Our?”
“You are still my assistant, Slyr.”
“I know that,” she said. “I only thought—”
“I’m giving you another chance,” Annaïg said. “One more,
For a moment his face might have been cast in stone.
“No,” he finally said.
“Can you at least tell me if it is a spiritual or gross substance?”
“We may assume spiritual, as only the highest lords have tasted it.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
Her knees were shaking when she left, and she felt profoundly unreal, as if she were watching this all happen to someone else. She returned to the kitchens, attempting to stay calm, to focus—trying to understand where she had to start.
She was sure she could duplicate anything she could taste, but that wasn’t in the offering. That left her with what seemed an impossible task, but it was pointless to entertain that notion, wasn’t it? She had to assume that it was possible. Phmer had done it, after all. Had it been an accident, or a design?
She went to her private bench, far from the hustle and bustle of the stations, and began idly thumbing through the various powders, liquids, distillations, and ferments in her cabinet. She fiddled with the flow of soul force through the refraxor, but after an hour of that pushed back and placed her face in her palms. Her brain didn’t seem to work at all. Sighing, she went back to her room, but her thoughts flowed no better there, so in the end she gave up and opened a bottle of wine.
She was on her second glass when Slyr entered.
“I’m sorry,” the other woman said. “You’re never here this early in the day. I—”
“No, join me,” Annaïg said. “I’m just thinking.”
“Well, I’ve no wish to disturb you.”
“Sometimes talking helps me think.” She pulled over a second cup and poured more wine. “Have a drink, talk.”
Slyr looked uncertain but did as she was told.
“What do you know of Phmer’s ninth savor?” Annaïg asked.
“I’ve heard of it,” Slyr said cautiously.
“Before I came to Umbriel, I knew of only four or five essentialflavors. When I was taught to cook, I was told that the success of a good dish was in the inclusion and balancing of these sensations. When I came here, you, Slyr, taught me that there were three more, all of a spiritual nature.”
“Quick, dead, and ephemerate,” Slyr supplied.
“So I’m thinking,” Annaïg said. “I taste the five gross senses on different parts of my tongue, and I read long ago that the tongue is grown to interpret such flavors. But I cannot, like the lords, taste the difference between quick and dead. I might discern that a wiggling shrimp is alive and a still one dead, but the taste is the same, because my tongue isn’t designed for that distinction. And as for ephemerate, that’s another thing entirely, isn’t it? Those are the ‘flavors’ we make with souls. The tongue doesn’t taste them, although that’s generally how they are introduced, since they’re presented as food. But really, the skin or eyes can taste them equally as well—and ephemerate isn’t a single kind of flavor, but hundreds, thousands, of very different things made possible by the cuisine spirituelle. Like the terror you tasted the other day, or the joy I could create tomorrow. How does that compare with the electric vitality of raw, unrefined soul energy, or the needling pleasure of filple?”
Slyr took a drink. “So you’re thinking that the ninth savor can’t be ephemerate, then? That it must be a new material flavor?”
“Or something completely different, as different from the ephemerate as the ephemerate is from salty and piquant.”
“How can such a thing be discovered, then? If one knew only piquant, sour, and sweet, how would you guess that salty existed and learn how to make it?”
Something shaped itself in her mind then, a worm that might become an idea.
“Especially if one had no tongue,” Annaïg pursued, her thoughts racing. “That is our dilemma.”
“Our?”
“You are still my assistant, Slyr.”
“I know that,” she said. “I only thought—”
“I’m giving you another chance,” Annaïg said. “One more,
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