“Oh, you’d be singing a different tune if you had to go around smothered under this blanket,” I cried, nodding with repugnance at my splendid Mantle.
“Mr. Itullo, one of the secrets of the universe has been revealed before my very eyes. Now we know it for a fact: Death sweats! Sometimes, anyway.”
Melifaro mimicked an expression of inspired ecstasy, and waved his arms around under the proprietor’s nose. Alas, our host was not the most good-natured fellow in Echo. He smiled grimly, and placed a weighty tome on the table. It looked like a first edition of the ancient Gutenberg Bible. This was the menu.
I gave Melifaro free rein, since he was paying. If he wanted to waste half an hour of his life trying to understand the difference between Cold Sleep and Heavenly Body, who was I to deprive him of his intellectual enjoyment?
“Good gentlemen, if you prefer a crystal clarity of taste, I would advise you to turn your attention to this page,” Mr. Itullo announced with a flourish.
“And what would you recommend for a person who is accustomed to partaking of horse jerky?” Melifaro asked snidely.
“I have just the thing. This is a marvelous stew, which I prepare from the heart of a winded racehorse according to an ancient recipe. A very expensive pleasure, since one must pay for the whole horse. You do know, gentlemen, how much a thoroughbred costs, as well as the cost of the jockey’s labor? Not to mention the seasoning.”
“How about it, Sir Max?” Melifaro asked solicitously. “I’ll grudge you nothing, you know.”
“No,” I mumbled. “I’m more interested in the ‘crystal clarity of taste,’ if it comes right down to it. And it’s beastly to torment animals like that.”
“Some Child of the Steppes,” snorted the amateur anthropologist.
Disappointed, Melifaro poked his nose in the menu again. The hunchback muttered anxiously as my friend turned the pages in rapture; I listened out of the corner of my ear as their exchange dragged on. I held my burning face up to the cool draft that escaped into the booth from the hall. And suddenly . . .
Sir Juffin Hully was absolutely right about my luck. I was devilishly lucky. A weak aroma, that same wonderful smell of delicious food that was so out of place in the morgue of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order, now tickled my nostrils again.
“That’s what I want,” I said triumphantly and pointed in the direction of the open door.
“What might that be, sir?” the host asked in alarm.
“Whatever that smell is. And that’s what you want, too, right?” I stared meaningfully at Melifaro, whose nose was already turning toward the door in wonder.
In just a fraction of a second, his dark eyes glittered with absolute comprehension.
“Yes, Mr. Itullo. We’ve made our decision. That smell is simply incomparable. What is that dish? Well, spit it out!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, gentlemen,” the hunchback said, shaking his head vigorously. “And it’s not on the menu, so don’t bother looking for it.”
“Why isn’t it?” Melifaro asked, leaping out of his chair.
“The fact is that it’s a very expensive dish.”
“Excellent!” I exclaimed. “That’s just what we had in mind—something a bit more pricey. Isn’t that right, my poor friend?”
“Yes, my insatiable foe!” Melifaro didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“Nevertheless, gentlemen, it can’t be done.” Our host was unyielding. “It takes more than two dozen days to prepare such a dish. I have several old customers who order it in advance. I am willing to accommodate you, but your order will only be ready in . . . I don’t quite know how many days, since some of the ingredients are supplied by merchants all the way from Arvarox. I can put you on the waiting list and let you know when it will be ready. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Fine,” I said, with a dismissive wave. “In that case bring me something with a ‘crystal clarity of taste.’ We’ll discover your skills by beginning at the beginning. But please, no horse’s hearts. Apart from that, we are placing ourselves in your hands.”
“I’d recommend that you consider numbers 37 and 89, gentlemen.” The hunchback clearly felt that a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “The wait will be less than an hour. These are true culinary masterpieces! What would you like to drink in anticipation of the meal?”
“Kamra!” I almost shouted.
“Kamra?
“Yes, we’ll need a jug of water, too, to rinse the palate before the most significant culinary event of our lives. And don’t shut the door, please. It’s hot in here!”
When we were at last alone, Melifaro launched right in.
“That smell is the one in our morgue, a hole in the heavens above your long nose, Max! Am I right?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. My whole life I’ve wanted a larger nose. One like Juffin’s, at the very least.”
“You have terrible taste. Your nose is the very height of fashion.”
“Well, at least it’s good for something. Send a call to Kofa. Unfortunately, I grow tired too fast using Silent Speech. Let’s hear what our Mouthful-Earful thinks about all this.”
“Does it really tire you?” Melifaro asked in surprise.
“Try to imagine. Have you ever tried learning a foreign language?”
“I’ll say. My papa was always forcing us to memorize the mumbo-jumbo of some idiots who didn’t have the sense to learn normal human speech.”
“Well, then you know how it is for me.”
“I understand. Only it’s so funny to hear you try.”
“Come on, call Kofa, Mr. Ninth Volume of the
“All right, I’m sending the call,” Melifaro’s face assumed an intelligent expression to let me know that he had made contact with our Master Eavesdropper.
In a few minutes, two jugs were served to us, one containing kamra and one with water. Melifaro’s face melted into a more human expression again. As a matter of fact, the poor fellow was laboring under an overload of information and all the implications thereof. By the time the gloomy lady who was serving us had departed, Melifaro looked as though he was on the verge of fainting.
“Your nose is really something!” he blurted out. “Sir Kofa is almost certain that he knows the dish in question: King Banjee Pâté. The most outlandish rumors have been circulating about it for a long time now. Even in the Epoch of Orders not every chef had it in his power to make a dish like that. The problem is that rustling up King Banjee requires magic of no less than the tenth or eleventh degree. But Itullo is the most law- abiding citizen in Echo. He’s never been caught so much as dabbling in the second degree since the Code was written! So there you have it. According to Kofa, the whole King Banjee business is shrouded in mystery. It isn’t anywhere on the menu. Sir Kofa himself tried ordering the infamous pâté several times, but he got some vague promise that they would ‘put him on the list.’ Sound familiar? Among the citizens of Echo, there are several people who, in their own words, have tasted the delights of this pâté. Sir Kofa has overheard talk of this unique experience of the taste buds. Another curious fact—the lucky ones were not terribly rich. They were average citizens, the kind who would come to the
“He doesn’t want to get mixed up with us, that’s for sure,” I said nodding.
“With the Secret Investigative Force? Stands to reason. There’s something fishy about this pâté.”
“Was that all the news?”
“No, there’s more. Do you know where Boboota ate yesterday?”
“Gosh, it wasn’t here, was it?”
“It most certainly was. And it wasn’t the first time. It turns out that General Boboota developed a passion for
