King of Chefs, Chef of Kings

Writer’s note: A fun one for me to write; another another introduction to a character who will be a POV character in a future project I want to write. Though, this time, we’re not getting her perspective (which makes it much harder to show what’s interesting about her, but alas). The epithet ‘king of chefs and chef of kings’ is one that has historically been borne by a few famous chefs, most importantly Auguste Escoffier but I got it instead from Antonin Careme. The story is 4,500 words and should take about a quarter of an hour to read.

King of Chefs, Chef of Kings

The rain pelted his face. He should have taken the coach the Count il’Trenon always offered. But he never did – it was only a few minutes from the count’s to his own house and, if he was anything, Hippolyte Filal was a creature of habit. A walk in the cool air did him wonders after spending the afternoon in a volcanic kitchen, creating delights for the great and good of half the world.

Turning the corner, Hippolyte all but ran into a tall gentleman going the other way.

‘Apologies, my good man,’ he said, swerving to avoid him. Rather than do likewise, the man grabbed his arm as though to steady himself.

‘That’s quite alright, Mr Filal.’

‘Excuse me?’ Hippolyte tried to disentangle them but the man held fast. ‘How do you know me? Release me this instant!’

‘After you hear my master’s offer, Mr Filal. “The king of chefs and chef of kings” they call you, do they not? It is an honour to meet you.’

The stranger wore a dark riding cloak and a wide hat that partially obscured his face. What could be seen was gaunt and pallid. Hippolyte’s heart beat faster than it ever had. Faster than when he served ten courses to the Sacedante himself.

‘If your master wishes to engage my services, the usual way is through my secretary.’ He did his best to keep his voice level. He had no delusions that this was a request for dinner.

‘Oh, my master does wish to engage your services, Mr Filal. But it would not do to go through the usual channels. Not for a service like this.’

Hippolyte struggled against the grip again. It was no use. Like a vice, it was. Like uncooked muscles.

‘Out with it, man!’ he demanded.

‘Next month, you serve dinner to the Savarian Queen Regent. My master would like you to add a special ingredient.’

Confusion momentarily broke through the fear. ‘You are mistaken. I have no such—’

‘You will.’

‘And even if I did,’ Hippolyte continued, ‘I would not! Let me go and I shall forget you ever waylaid me.’

‘You shall be well rewarded, Mr Filal. We will be in touch.’

‘No, you won’t!’

Even as Hippolyte said it, the stranger released his arm and continued walking. He disappeared around the corner and was gone.

Hippolyte considered going after him. But what would that do? No, he had escaped unharmed. He would go home and pretend it had never happened. Do his utmost to avoid any such further run-ins with madmen in the street. Accept the use of the count’s coach, in future.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said Jean, one of the footmen, as he admitted his master.

Few not of the noble classes could afford a house – and staff – as extensive as Hippolyte. But then, most were not Hippolyte Filal. The thought brought a smile to his face and fortified him against the horror of his impromptu meeting.

‘Just a few letters and notes for you, sir. Your secretary went through them before he left. One stuck out, sir. From Queen Apoleana of Savaria.’

‘No.’ He could not believe it. It was some sick joke.

‘Yes, sir. She invites you to serve her next month. It will mean clearing your diary for a week either side but, where royalty is concerned, a yes was presumed. Mr Tardiveau has already drafted your humbled acceptance.’

Hippolyte stammered out an incomprehensible reply.

‘Are you quite alright, sir? Not nervous, are you sir? Or feeling ill? I could call on your physician.’

‘No. Thank you, Jean, but no. I am fine. And…’ He wanted to decline the invitation. But he couldn’t. Say no to royalty? It was impossible. His pride wouldn’t let him. ‘And yes, of course it is an acceptance. Have Mr Tardiveau send on his reply first thing tomorrow.’

Hippolyte staggered up the stairs. Eynas Idarniso! It was impossible.

He could just go and serve her. No need for the stranger and his master to be involved. He would ensure they couldn’t get at him. Serve the greatest dinner of his career. None would ever know of the proposition he had been issued.

But that wouldn’t work, he realised as he turned a corner and slammed through the door to his bedchambers. He threw himself into a chair and ripped off his cravat. That man had known. He had known. Known of the invitation. Known enough to intercept him on his regular stroll from the count’s. What else did he – and his master – know?

Everything, it had to be presumed. Enough to find their way to him again. Enough to threaten him and make good the threat – for threat it surely would become, if bribery failed – unless he complied with their awful plan.

And what a plan! To poison the Savarian Queen Regent: nothing else could have been meant. It beggared belief. Anyone with the desire and means to attempt such a thing, that was a person not made into an enemy lightly.

What a bind, and for the great Hippolyte Filal! His mind should be focused on delighting the senses – the eyes and the nose just as much as the tongue – not dastardly intrigues that could get someone – worse, him! – killed. Yet here he was. Wretched.

The night before he was to arrive in Cartanda, the Savarian capital, Hippolyte stopped at a coaching inn located in some town of minimal import. Its common room was lavish in bright reds and deep greens. Used to a certain class of clientele. A clientele Hippolyte more than fit in with.

He ate, disappointed by the over-seasoning and the too-rich sauce, informed the staff that their chef should come to Hjorrbrye and study under him, and settled to nurse a bottle of wine until he felt ready to retire. That was, until a figure entered and made straight for Hippolyte’s solitary table.

A figure in a familiar dark riding cloak. He removed that familiar wide hat upon entering and, as he sat, Hippolyte got his first good look at his tormentor. Gaunt, as he had already determined. Sharp of feature, with a prominent chin, a small amount of meticulously combed hair, and piercing grey eyes.

Hippolyte could not speak. He had, over the past few weeks, almost convinced himself he had imagined the whole affair. Considered himself safe. How awfully naïve.

‘Good evening, Mr Filal,’ the phantom in human flesh said. ‘My master was so happy to see you accept Queen Apoleana’s offer.’

‘Her offer, I accepted. Hers. Not yours. Not your master’s. Leave me before I raise the alarm.’

‘Now, now, Mr Filal. Be civil. What reason would you have to raise any alarm? We are merely two travellers talking.’

‘Leave me. I beg you – leave me. Is it money you wish? I am a rich man.’

‘My master has no need for money.’

‘I spoke not of your master.’

‘Oh Mr Filal, that is very naughty of you. I would never betray my master. Not in this. Now, have you decided to accept my master’s offer, or do you require additional incentives?’

Hippolyte had an awful feeling that he knew just what kind of incentives the man was thinking of. Things that involved him not being seen alive again.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I cannot. I just cannot. To ki—’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘To kill… her. You are merely asking me if I would rather have my own life ended quietly or through public execution.’

‘No, Mr Filal. You are wrong there. You will, of course, be entirely protected. Entirely beyond reproach.’

‘Beyond reproach!’ The stranger had kept his voice at a conversational level. Hippolyte at little more than a murmur. ‘How can a chef be beyond reproach when someone is poisoned from their meal?’

‘You will have to trust us, Mr Filal.’

‘Trust you! You’re absurd!’

‘Mr Filal, you are becoming quite agitated. I would truly hate it if I had to forgo your reward – which, as I am sure I have mentioned, is quite substantial – and proceed only on threat. Now, I shall explain what will happen. I have with me a certain substance. You will disguise it as a herb and bring it with you, amongst others, when you go to the palace. You will add it to the meal. After that, you will proceed as normal and leave the rest up to my master and I. Do you understand.’

‘I. Have. Not. Agreed! I shan’t.’

‘You must. I should tell you, Mr Filal, that you will not leave this inn without doing so. Not while you still breathe.’

Hippolyte looked into those twin grey spears. They pierced into him. Drove into his very soul. They were, if he had ever seen them, the eyes of a killer. What, in such a situation, could he do? What would anyone do? Look out for himself, of course. He had to. He just had to.

With an uncertain nod of the head, Hippolyte registered acceptance of his fate. The great Hippolyte Filal – son, friend, chef, and now murderer. Assassin.

Would the stranger merely kill him, or leave him to be captured, after the deed was done? Hippolyte considered it likely. But would the stranger kill him immediately if he did not do as instructed? He considered it certain. All he could do was throw himself on the mean distinction between the certain and the likely and hope for salvation.

An unsettling smile spread serpentine across the stranger’s features.

‘Good,’ was all his said. He took a small box out of his coat and placed it on the table. Then, with a tip of the head, he regained his feet and left.

Hippolyte watched him go. Once the inn’s door had shut behind him, his gaze settled on the box. He stared at it. Afraid to touch it. Afraid to take his eyes off of it. Yet, he could do nothing else. He took it. Hid it. Drained the rest of the bottle – a glass and a half – and sculked to his room, terrified the whole way that someone would stop him. Would know what he was doing. What he was going to do.

Instead, he made it to his room without incident. He set the box down carefully, as far away from the bed as he could put it, and lay awake, wracked by his thoughts, until scarcely before the dawn.

The Savarian monarchs made their home to the west of their capital, in Aros Palace. It was there that Hippolyte made his way the following day, to feed – to kill – the queen regent.

It was less a palace and more a village in its own right, made up of multiple buildings all clustered around the central house, though house was far too small a word for what it was. Its grounds were frankly ridiculous in scale. A small army would be needed to maintain them, and another for inside.

The buildings themselves were eclectic, representing the changing architectural tastes of the Savarian monarchs over the century and a half since it had been initially built. Some were brick, others stone. Some colourful, others whitewashed. And yet, when taken together, they complemented each other like a well-constructed meal.

And, at the centre of it all, the Savarian royal family themselves. Masters of the palace, the city, and the empire beyond it. The most powerful rulers to follow the Orthodox Tradition of the Reitan faith. The closest they had to a modern day Hjorrhard. And Hippolyte was to kill the head of that family. He clutched at his stomach, afraid he would be sick.

His coach was escorted in and he allowed to disembark. A footman waited for him and informed Hippolyte that the queen regent herself wished to meet him before she tasted his food. Hippolyte almost turned and ran at that suggestion. His thoughts went to the collection of herbs and spices – and one poison – still in his coach, which even now would be on its way to the kitchens. Without another choice, he was led in.

They turned a few corners, went up a flight of stairs, and entered a room. A small, almost intimate, chamber decorated in rich greens. Hippolyte was invited to take a seat while the footman hovered at the door.

The seat he chose was on a sofa set by a low table. It was uncomfortable. He needed a cushion but, surrounded by so much opulence, even the great Hippolyte Filal, he admitted to himself, felt a little intimidated, and so continued in his discomfort under the footman’s eye.

Minutes passed. Expectation turned to boredom turned to dread. Dread for, as he waited, Hippolyte considered a possibility. The possibility that they knew. Somehow knew what he was there to do and how he was to do it. That he had only been lured into this room to make his arrest all the easier. He felt beads of sweat on the inside of his arms.

Yet, eventually, a knock came at the door. The footman stood up all the straighter and announced, ‘Her Most Faithful Eminence, Apoleana, Queen Regent and Queen Mother.’ And then the door opened.

She stepped through, flanked by two men in military uniform. As she moved to sit down, they took up places behind her. She was in her middle years, with dark hair and angular features. Hippolyte had little interest in that sort of thing, but had long been told of her famed beauty. A beauty – and wit – that had secured her place as the last king’s official mistress. And a marriage, once his first wife had died without providing him an heir.

In all the gossip of her, Queen Apoleana was a snake. Feared and respected in equal measure. Something out of a story, almost. The Idnedian Whore, to her detractors: a jumped-up foreigner of minor noble stock who had beguiled her way onto the throne. The patroness, to her allies: a woman with whose favour one could rise to never before imagined heights and, by the same stroke, whose displeasure had ruined courtiers beyond count.

Hippolyte realised that he was probably supposed to speak first. He stood up and bowed to her.

‘Your Most Faithful Eminence,’ he said.

‘Please, sit,’ she replied. ‘We welcome you to our country and our home. We have heard much of your skill but, regretfully, have never had the opportunity to test it for ourselves. It is with the greatest pleasure that we shall correct that.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He wondered if he was supposed to say anything else.

She rested her gaze on him. Her guards and the footman all had their own eyes raised steadily over his head, as though to give them the illusion of privacy. It only made him feel more observed.

And those guards. They wore ostentatious uniforms in a foreign style – it looked eastern. Long tunics of green with golden-yellow trousers and a matching jacket of some kind that hung nonchalantly over one shoulder. Both rested their off hands lazily on their swords and carried a pistol on their other hip. Hippolyte wondered again whether this was all an elaborate method of arrest.

The queen regent saved him from his thoughts. ‘Tell us, Mr Filal, with regards to your famous epithet: have you served many kings? Is a queen rather mundane for one of your culinary stature?’

Hippolyte truly could not tell if she was making a joke or nurturing some form of resentment. He was caught between the need to humble himself in front of her and his innate desire to display his innumerable and considerable talents and the fame they had won him.

‘No, ma’am, I am afraid it is quite an overstatement.’ It pained him to say it. ‘I did, of course, feed the last King of Herscia, though alas not his successor. And both Semagnean dukes. Malutzio and Daastrijn, they spite me through their lack of monarchs, but I have served select members of the Regency Council of the former and the chief justiciar of the latter. The princes of Thema and Kyrenion both have tasted of my creations. And two different Vascasian petty kings. And, of course…’ He stopped himself with a glance at her stormy face. ‘But none with the power nor prestige of the Savarian throne behind them, of course. To serve you, ma’am, is the shining pinnacle of my career.’

‘You are, then, merely the chef of king, not kings. Perhaps we shall have our son taste of your delights and earn you the plural.’

Hippolyte laughed politely – that time he was sure it had been a jape. ‘I would be in your debt, ma’am, to no longer be living under the burden of the lie in my epithet you so… diligently discovered.’ Then he remembered what he was about to do to the woman sitting before him and anyone else unfortunate enough to taste of her food. ‘Though I would not trouble His Most Faithful Eminence the king,’ he rushed out. ‘Children, no matter now highly placed, may not have the required palate to appreciate my efforts. I could… perhaps I could cook something specially for the king.’

‘Oh no, we would not waste your efforts on His Most Faithful Eminence. Now, enough of your time has been taken up, Mr Filal. We await the pleasures of your cooking.’

Hippolyte could tell it was a dismissal. He stood and bowed before making his exit, followed by the footman at the door. As he was led towards the kitchens, he thought on the conversation. Was he second guessing himself too far, or had there been some hint of hidden knowledge? Is that why she had declined to let her son the king partake in his food? He began sweating again. His heart beat like he had run up a mountain. And then they arrived.

The kitchen was wonderful. It almost made his worries melt into nothing. Expansive and well-constructed, with three lesser chefs ready to serve under him – he could certainly work with it. He was to serve the queen regent over two days, in theory, though that second meal could hardly be expected to emerge if she fell dead at the first. Yet, he could not let any know that he expected to serve only the one meal, so already began preparing a stock to use the next day.

An underling showed him where they had placed his herbs and spices. His mind lurched back to the awful task. He asked, trying to mask his concern, whether anyone had touched them. The other man answered in the negative.

The next hours, he spent in bliss, utterly submerged in his artistry. A soup would come first, served cold with a poached quail’s egg. After that, a dish of pheasant in a rich mushroom sauce. A course of fish, then one of pork. Finally, one of his famous cakes, layered and topped with an impression of the Savarian crown.

The queen regent was serving only a small dinner, with half a dozen plates of each course, allowing Hippolyte to take his fullest care with each of them. He always preferred that to the banquets he was so often asked to put on. If you wish to feed a hundred, hire an army cook, for they are used to it. Just as a true painter saves his work for the canvas and leaves the whitewashing of walls to his lesser kin.

His special ingredient – not his, never his, for none of this was by his design – he would add to the fourth dish. It seemed a shame to cut the meal short sooner than that. He would have put it in the dessert but could not bring himself to incorporate an unknown herb into its sweet batter. The great Hippolyte Filal would not ruin a dish, even when he was poisoning it, if he could help it. No, it would go with the pork, where the heady sauce would disguise it well.

If this was to be the last meal he ever crafted – and, while he had ultimately been forced to hope against hope that it would not be if only he did as instructed, he was nonetheless not deluding himself into denying the more obvious outcome – it would be his best. He worked away for hours, losing himself to his meats and sauces, his herbs and spices.

What finally emerged was food fit for some pagan god, almost too perfect for mortal tongues. Yet he had hunted and caught the divine in culinary form and brought it to the mortal realm as only he could. He beamed with pride as footmen came to take away the soup.

He had the next course ready near enough the exact moment they returned for it – a good chef always knew how long it would take to consume their creations. A good chef knew that their food would not be sullied by conversation, slowing down the meal, but instead eaten with the grasping intensity of the starving for, compared to what its consumers had eaten before, what they ate at that moment was the only food truly deserving of the term that they had ever had.

With the second course out, there was just the next, and then death. Hippolyte wondered who dined with the queen regent, and who therefore would fall to a plot never intended for them. That seemed almost a greater shame.

At the very moment he knew they would, the footmen returned for the fish. He panicked as they picked it up. Nothing now stood between the diners and their end – no further course to insulate them. His hands trembled. And he knew. He knew. He could not do it.

‘Wait,’ he demanded of one of the footmen. ‘You must pass a message to the queen regent.’

The man turned, his face all confusion.

‘Yes,’ Hippolyte continued, ‘tell her that I must speak to her before the next course. Tell her… no, give her this.’ He lunged at paper and pencil, upon which he had written some instructions for the other chefs. He wrote upon it one hurried word and crumpled it into the footman’s hand. ‘Please, pass this to her. Discretely. I beg of you, man.’

The footman’s expression did not change but, after meeting Hippolyte’s frenzied gaze for a moment or two, he gave a single decisive nod. Hippolyte let out a breath and almost collapsed to the floor.

As soon as the footmen left, his mind began turning again. What had he done? Killed himself, most likely. For what was he to say? That he had tried to poison Her Most Faithful Eminence, but decided against it at the last moment? Should he sign the confession and send it straight to a judge while he was at it?

But if he died, at least he would die an honest man. Wretched situation. And what an awful time to discover scruples.

There were still a few finishing touches to be put to the pork, but what was the point? He was not going to serve it. But it would be best disposed of, but that would draw questioning eyes.

Only a few minutes later, another man stormed into the kitchen. He wore the same uniform as the queen regent’s guards, with the same weapons waiting patiently at his sides.

‘Filal?’ he called.

‘Yes?’ Hippolyte answered.

‘Come.’

No further words were spoken. The soldier turned on his heel and left; Hippollyte hurried after him.

They went down a few corridors, turned a few corners, and then the soldier opened a door and all but threw Hippolyte inside.

Within were easily a dozen soldiers in those colourful uniforms and, pacing the room, the queen regent. She threw his scrap of paper back at him, the single word poison scribbled across it.

‘Explain,’ she demanded.

‘Your Most Faithful Eminence.’ Hippolyte bowed to her. She glowered back. ‘You have not been poisoned. Yet. The next course is death.’

‘By your hand?’

‘Yes.’

Two swords left their sheaths to rest with their points against Hippolyte’s neck. Well, he had not expected to survive.

‘Why?’

‘Why do it or why tell you, ma’am?’

‘Yes.’

Hippolyte took a second to comport himself. ‘A man, ma’am. He knew of your invitation even before I did. He promised me first reward and then death if I did not do his master’s bidding. It is to my greatest shame that I allowed myself to be carried into the scheme to save my own life. But I found myself unable to complete it.’

‘What man, what master?’

‘I do not know. The man I could recognise by sight. But I never got the names of either.’

‘You are aware that you have just admitted to attempted regicide?’

‘I am, ma’am.’

She turned to one of her guards. ‘Lieutenant, secure the kitchens and destroy the food. Send word to my diners that the meal has been cut short.’ He and two others left. She spoke to another man. ‘Commandant, our conspirator, if all Mr Filal has told us is true, is someone who knew of our plans before they were announced, wishes us dead, and avoided attending this dinner. Compile a list of names who fulfil the criteria and start going through them.’ That soldier left as well.

Finally, she turned her gaze on Hippolyte. ‘And then there is you.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘The penalty for your actions is death.’ Hippolyte swallowed but said nothing. ‘Do you know, Mr Filal, how we – a detested foreign woman who, as you yourself have been made intimately aware of, must deal actively with attempts to kill or oust her – remain in power?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘By dealing swiftly with our enemies, Mr Filal. Destroying them completely; burning them from the historical record.’ It may have just been in his mind, but those sword points felt as though they were pushing ever further against his skin. ‘And, by being magnanimous with our friends. Even with friends who before were reluctant enemies. By binding to ourselves a small but ever loyal cadre upon whom we can rely on completely – or as completely as any ruler can ever rely on anyone. Such as my guards here, my loyal hussars, who have risen as I have from the undistinguished masses all the way to the royal household. Would you like to be my friend, Mr Filal?’

He nodded vigorously, unsure entirely what he was agreeing to, but knowing that the alternative was death.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then you shall be our personal chef, from now on. Your first order of business shall be to turn over the poison for identification by my physician. You shall move here, to the palace, Mr Filal. Close at hand. Trusted and well rewarded, so long as you remain loyal. Do you understand that?’

A part of him grieved at what she said – the end of his old life, having to move to Savaria and no longer serve whoever he pleased. A greater part of him had assumed he would not live out the day and almost dropped him to his knees in gratitude. Life, no matter what he was to do with the rest of it, felt the greatest gift he had ever received. And it had a nice ring to it. Hippolyte Filal, personal chef to the Savarian royal family. He truly would be the chef of kings, plural and all, in no time.

‘Thank you, ma’am. I shall be.’