She had been taking the buns out of the oven and putting them back again, testing their crust for minutes now, and Massus sat with his hot brew fresh from the mountains of Sirocca. Or were they hills? Well, they were mountains as far as he was concerned anyways, not that they had anything more than slopes and… He could smell the salted air and feel the moment of desire for the past after fresh brine had dried upon the skin and there was only the Sun baking the sand and the backdrop of the rocks and any beast and thing that stayed affixed to that radiant canvas. The rocks, he remembered them well though he was just a boy then, the way they stacked and pressed out from one another, were they separate? Or one whole?
“Meldred.”
“What is it Massus?”
“Do you know the competition is tomorrow.”
“Oh Massus.” She was taking them out now, mindless of the steam rising off them. It had always amazed him how little she seemed to mind the flames.
“What? You don’t want to hear of it?”
“It’s not that Massus.”
“Oh don’t you start that with me! I know it’s that, you’re sick of me speaking on it, but Meldred, you know as well as I that I deserve that medal. You know as well as I—yes—-“ And Massus took some more of the brew, matting the spilling on his beard with the cloth that he kept and rummaged with on the crest of one knee while he sat for a meal or at the work bench or out choosing from the market.
“That it was my chili that made you fall so madly in love with me. What harumph have you to say to that. Hmmm?” And he waited expectedly while she primed the breakfast rolls with butter and listened as the oil came to snap in the bottom of the frying pan. Did she fetch bacon from the butcher? For some stale reason he was sure that he had primed it all for the competition and that it was all waiting in the cellar, safe and locked. Where had this clever woman of his found the time to fetch meat.
“Oh Massus.” And she was in his arms now.
“Tis truth you tell so sweetly, the medal you won that day I met you, is the same that you should have won every year since. And I know that you’ve failed to place these past few seasons.” He listened to the crackling of the fat in the licking pan of hot oil and the thumping of the heart in his chest as she left from the oven side and traced the curve of his jawline with the supple callous of her fingertips. She placed her lips against his for the briefest of moments and Massus listened to the waves as they broke and the cry of the gulls as they fought for fish and basked in the unending promise of warmth at high-noon. But then she pulled away and Massus took more of his brew. It was a sweet smell that wafted from the pan, had she found honeysuckle too?
“But it has been years Massus, years since you took the medal and I know you make the best in Old Town, but can’t you see it is not about that anymore? Solmarch is expanding and lands that were once thought to be wild or lawless have been tamed. The breath of citizenship known within these grand walls has never known greater diversity nor numbers!” Meldred gave an infectious sort of giggle.
“Sol be praised! They’ve opened the docks at Bastia, and murex bakes are a weekly event! Have you ever tried them on the half-shell with the tangy brine-chili sauce — specifically from those speckled shells out of the Tidemarsh —“
“Meldred.” Massus’ voice sounded soft and stifled. But she seemed not to hear, her hands working to finish the frying meat.
“And they have three new schools at Bastia and opening a resort inn? With rumors of a ship direct from Far Aldira? Though I don’t know how they’d manage that—My dear Massus, this world expects more from you.” And when she turned to face her husband, father of her precious children, she caught him near blue in the face and, with a gasp, but without dropping his breakfast Meldred dashed to the table and placed the plate of buttered roll with a thick slab of glistening glazed fatty meat and a fresh mug of brew down on the table so hard the mornings meal nearly shook free from its plating and onto the floor, but not so. Meldred took one calloused working hand and reached down Massus’ throat to retrieve a hunk of blackened chew.
“Darling!” And Massus saw the tears bubbling to her eyes.
“Meldred no.”
“How could you? Is this why you’ve been mad about the contest for days? Chewing on this toxin?”
“Now Meldred I don’t know how that got in there, Please! I haven’t chewed in seven turnings I promise!” But Meldred had raised her hand and Massus fell silent.
“Do not speak another word.” And with that she stepped out the door, the fire and the oven still hot. He had just finished cleaning up. It didn’t matter how many words he might try to put to it, she was gone and that was all there was to say. The Sun was low now, and there were no candles nor lamps lit in the house. Massus stood alone in the gray dusk of late afternoon and staring off into the crevices between the packed houses of Old Town he saw himself at the fest—standing by his pot and serving table with no line before it. It was at that moment that he realized the truth. He had no chance at the ribbon. He was old now and he had driven away the very source of all the warmth in his life. And Massus cursed beneath his breath and let his rag-wrapped fist fall hollow on the table-top. It was late in the day, but if he didn’t start now the meat wouldn’t be the right consistency. Massus thought to himself as he collected his hat further over his brow and made his way down the steps and around the front of the house, keeping close to the tangles of Meldred’s violet roses he made his way around the back to the cellar door, searching for the key in the pocket of his coat he almost stumbled down the stone steps as he found the cellar’s chains undone, with no lock to be seen, the wooden door thrown open. And Massus cursed and his mind raced to all those other chili-maker’s those frail competitors who were forced to resort to sabotage and thievery—Yes! He was still to be feared it would seem and he muttered and cursed at those that were too cowardly to face him in a fair fight until he came upon his workbench and absently pulled forth tray after tray of ingredients, observing his stock in the glow of those ever-glowing furnaces for any traces of tampering or theft. But all seemed in order and Massus even brought a candle to examine the seasoned meat and there was no trace of the breaking of the seals, not a trace of contamination. Or that anyone had been down here at all. It was certainly curious. Massus shoved those thoughts away, there were hours, mere hours before the deadline. And immediately he set to work. It would be the last time he lit those furnaces to be sure, though perhaps it had not occurred to him yet as he set the logs and set the pumping of the heat through the elaborate cellar furnace. It was a staple of Old Town, or it had been — certainly it had been. The snaking exhausts curled about the chili-champion’s house and billowed the sweet aromas of sustenance to all within Old Town and well beyond it, as far as the Pell, where it was said both sides of that ever-waging struggle, jailer and jailed alike, fell to yearning at the smell. Massus’ stews, fresh and hot — that’s what we got! Yes Massus’ eyes burned now as his hands set to work all on their own, he played through the glory of his life as he prepared pot after pot, chopped sifted and seasoned, tended to the turning of the stews and setting forth all their separate parts before combining them, it seemed all over in an instant and there he was in a warm sweat at the workbench, nothing left to do but wait for the simmer and melding of flavor. But there was a pit still in his stomach even as Massus produced the near empty tin of chew from the inside pocket of his apron, pinched all but the last of it and set it against the inside of his cheek tucked tight against his gums and oh how sweet the dull numbing of his jaw as that fine cud seeped into his bloodstream. What did he need her anyways, the woman had always gotten in his way and then, he had a secret this time, something that no one had anticipated not even he. He eyed the cabinet with a vague sort of terror. Set as it was against the far wall, its ebony wood and castings making the shape of the thing and where the knobs sat hard to make out unless one was up close next to it or handling those very knobs. He knew what was in it, was the only thing that had been in it since he’d bought that cabinet, from the sailor at the port fair, when she’d bought bracelets and a pretty dress and she’d talk something nice and fine with the salesman until Massus had gone off on his own and found the old dog, or was it a hag? Couldn’t remember anyhow, they had been putting things back in the skiff when he’d rounded that edge of the bridge stairs and that’s when he’d come over and offered if they needed any help, which was the strangest thing for a man such as Massus to say and even now he pondered as to why he would ever offer help to anyone, but nonetheless… And the old dog or hag or whatever they had been had nodded to the cabinet, take that off my hands won’t you? And Massus had done as he’d been bade and with an undoing of the rope the man was gone. Well of course knowing Meldred, she had so much as tossed her new bracelets and dress in the sea when she’d seen Massus with the cabinet.
“Oh Darling what is that? Have you gone off searching through places that are not yours again?” And the very thought of her brought the tightness to his throat as Massus gritted his teeth and kept his hands moving, but soon as he reached for the next step in the recipe he realized that all was finished and what was left was to wait and let the stew infuse. Massus shrugged his shoulders, surprisingly loose they were, and reached for the very last pinch of the chew and placed it against the inside of his cheek. His eyes locked on the cabinet sidelong. He was afraid to face it head on, for he knew what lay beyond its doors. Did he really need it? It would be his undoing he was sure of that, but perhaps the only path… For what seemed like a long while he sat in the heat of that sunken chamber listening to the roiling of the pots and the hiss of the steam as the great bellows pressed it forth through the pipes that surrounded him. As if in the center of a great beast Massus sat and listened contemplating nothing but the infection of the chew upon his mind and tingling through his nervous system. There was danger everywhere was what his mind finally settled on and would you rather die without risking greatness? Who would rather die living in the safety of a known and routine life? And without the one who brought warmth to the frigid seeping stones of a silent home tucked into the furthest quarters of Old Town. It was with this that Massus found himself kneeling before the cabinet, chewing absently, the drool seeping from his lips down across his beard. His fingertips handled the smooth wood of the knobs and sliding them through hidden grooves he solved the puzzle box and heard the click as the lock released. The doors opened one after another lifting at first outward and then upward so that what had once been a cabinet now looked like the released cavity of some beast’s chest. There it lay, a scroll made of the same material as the cabinet itself. Massus watched the pulsing of the violet light that traced its etched runes. He’d hidden it from her. Even then when he had first found the thing, knowing it was something she desired he had kept it away from her all to himself just so as to have something that she desired just so as to evade the fear that she would find him completely mundane and uninteresting and leave him quickly as she’d come for someone with more than a cook from Old Town, making the same stews his father had for as long as he could remember. He had spent a great deal of time and coin deciphering the runes though it had occurred to him over the years that perhaps it was just time spent with the scroll that had revealed its true nature to him. It was a ritual scroll for a wish so far as he could tell, and the cost for which was a sacrifice of flesh. So convincing were the runes and so many times he had tried and tried again to read it from different angles, but each time the message was the same, fresh flesh from a live giver willingly. Willingly What did that mean exactly? Was it enough to go through with the action? Or did one have to hold in the mind the decision to part with what was so dear to them. It was unrolled upon the table now. He could hear as if far in the distance the faint chanting of a song in some tongue he did not know. And as he read the words it grew louder and louder filling his ears and though Massus did not notice it in the moment he found himself mouthing the words along with it. And the runes seeped purple and green and red: deep vibrant red.
“Might as well get it over with then.” He spoke aloud and his words seemed strange coming from his mouth and breaking the cantor of the sound all around him. There was the cleaver on the table beside him and extending his hand to grip the familiar worn wood of the handle he ran the blade once, twice along the table’s edge listening to the shiver of the sharpness of its edge as he made his practiced cuts effortlessly. He held the image in his mind, standing atop the winner’s block as the banner was draped about his shoulders by the serving girls and the applause echoed out from across the Old Town square as the people cheered and voiced their exultations for the return of their childhood champion. Truly this was what he wanted and he let the fine edge touch the exposed skin just below his hip from his rolled up robes and apron. Once he raised the blade and tested how he would cut. To be sure, perhaps if the runes hadn’t glowed so or perhaps if the song hadn’t played so loudly, echoing as it did across the stones of the chamber, it might have occurred to Massus that with such a blade it would be difficult if not impossible to sever the limb in one cut, let alone four or five from a steady hand and a determined mind. But these thoughts could not be further from his mind as Massus imagined his victory just hours away and his return to greatness in the eyes of all who lived in Old Town, of all who lived in the entire city. As the blade came down with the conviction of a man whose mind is set upon destruction, her face appeared in the center of his mind — the touch of her ever-warm skin, the way her voice teased at his ears and always made his head turn and his shoulders release in utter surrender to her whims — Meldred, and the song played on and the blade bit deep into his skin and as he watched the dark purple-red swell of the blood from the cut he felt no pain, and again he lifted the cleaver, the song unyielding about him, the dancing lights from the scroll inseparable from the color of the smoke and steam that brewed all about him. And that’s when he heard her.
“Massus!” And the rush of her sure-footed steps.
“Massus what have you done? Fool of fools!”
“Fool of fools, not I — you shall see me king of kings!” The old cook roared as the cleaver raised again and he brought its edge to bear, surely with this last cut— and with that shock of heavy-set steel against bone Massus let loose his eyes as he slipped into the black. The door shuddered and clapped against its jamb. A new gust howled through the open windows. Massus felt the dryness of his throat, the drool gone cold at the corner of his mouth, his hat off his head and the spent chew seeping out onto the kitchen table. He was alone in the house and not a light was lit. He jolted upright and grabbed at his leg — found it whole at the hip, both of them, and he ran his hands down to the knees and the shins as though they might come away in his grip. They held. His heart slowed. So he had dreamt it. A worthless man and a dreamer besides, and he cursed under his breath. And then he smelled it — or rather, he smelled nothing. No char from the furnaces, no steam, no melding of stock and spice working its slow way up through the floorboards. Cold ovens. A cold house. The light through the window was not dusk but the deep blue before dawn, and Massus understood with a sinking certainty that the night was spent, that the judging would begin with the sun, and that nothing worth a ribbon could be made in the hours that were left. He had slept through the only window that mattered. There would be no medal this year. He waited for the grief of it to take him. It did not come. A creak at the porch steps. A mumbling, a turning of the knob.
“Massus.” Her voice curled about him like the first flames of the hearth on a winter’s night.
“Meldred.” He was on his feet before he knew it. She stood stiff in the doorway, taking in the dark kitchen, the overturned tin, her husband who had not so much as lit a candle.
“Darling, have you not moved since the morning? The contest — Sol above, you’ve left it too late, you’ve always said it takes a full day and more for any chili worth its stock to come to —
“
“I know,” he said. And he did not reach for his hat. She stopped. She had braced for the roar, the cursing of cowards and thieves, the old man’s fury at a year thrown away. It did not come either. He only crossed to her and took her by both shoulders, and she watched the moisture gather at the brims of his eyes.
“You came back,” he said.
“Back?” The confusion clouded her brow.
“Massus, what’s happened to you?” He had no answer that would make sense to her, so he gave her none. The tin was empty — he nudged his weak brow toward it where it lay turned over and scattered across the floor — and he told her never again, never again would he take to the stuff, and she murmured something soft and surrendered a moment before backing away with an oh, come now, darling, her face reading that she understood him for the imperfect soul he was. And once more they met. There was work that could not be finished and they went down to do it anyway, her hand at his wrist, steady step after steady step round the edge of the house and through the alley and down into the dark. She pulled pan after pan and asked had he gathered anything fresh at all, was there a thing worth salvaging, and Massus let her lead him and did not tell her there was no point. He would stand by his cold pot tomorrow and serve no one and he found he did not mind. And as she worked, Massus let his eyes sneak to the far wall where that ebony cabinet would have sat: if it had ever been there at all Massus supposed that was one thing he would never know.
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