A young servant stood in the courtyard, staring down at the broad beans in his basket. “I hope these get cooked well,” he mumbled, “before anyone gets poisoned.” 

 

A courtier with a walrus moustache gave him a weird look, which was answered with a smile in return. As the courtier walked away, the young servant made a mental note to not say these sorts of thing out loud. It wasn’t even his responsibility anyway.

 

He was just a teenage boy, freshly recruited for errands. If he couldn’t pass the exams, that is. Which seemed almost impossible, for he was illiterate.

 

So he fetched the basket that was full of freshly washed, vibrant green beans and proceeded towards the kitchens. As he walked, the surrounding crowd kindly opened a path for him. Oh, they noticed, he thought, cheeks burning with embarrassment. And I thought I was doing a good job with hiding it.

 

There was another reason for him to fail the exams. He didn’t know why, but one of his legs was slightly shorter than the other. Even though his shorter leg had a high-heeled shoe, he was still visibly limping. It made it pretty hard to fight, be it with a spear or a sword. Maybe he could try his luck with a bow.

 

His gaze fell to his yellow shoes* as he kept walking. Thank God, he knew the route to the kitchens well. Of course, that was because he used to go there every day, whenever he had some free time. Other servants started to catch up on that, so he had to stop going there to not raise any suspicion. Loitering around the kitchens was not a joke, and a single misstep could result in his execution. It was especially dangerous in his case.

 

He really wanted to work in the kitchens, though. He was always amazed by cooking, all the delicious smells, seeing the satisfied expressions on the hungry people after they ate your meals. But he knew he needed a connection to even enter there as an assistant, let alone be a chef. Someone inside the kitchens needed to vouch for him.

 

“Oi, Musab!” A friendly shout came across the road. “Musab, I said! How are you doin’, man?”

 

The limping servant stopped and turned towards the shout. As he recognized the owner of the voice, his smile grew. “Mehmet,” he answered, walking to his friend, “How did you notice me?”

 

His friend waved his hand, as if to say “Oh, that’s easy,” and grinned. “I haven’t seen you around since the last spear training. It’s hard to forget your flamboyant hair.”

 

“Oh.” Musab touched his hair, as if he was going to feel the “flamboyancy”. There was nothing special about his hair, it was just shoulder-length and wavy, but the other boys still liked to tease him about it. That was probably because they saw him washing his hair with daisy tea. Well, he didn’t have blond hair like the other recruits, so he had to bleach his hair to blend in. It wasn’t like he was so keen on having gorgeous hair.

 

“Also,” Mehmet kept going, “I was kind of looking for you these days. Is it just me, or are you really skipping the practices?”

 

That made Musab stop for a moment, before he gave an awkward smile. “Well, you see,” he said and pointed at his leg, “It’s not easy for me to join. I figured I would be more useful if I went on errands around the palace.”

 

Mehmet shook his head, sympathetic. “Still,” he said, “It was fun to have you around. The teachers are not so bothered by it either. I think you should keep practising. Also, you haven’t even tried the bows yet!”

 

Why does everyone keep saying that? Musab thought, but kept it to himself. He wouldn’t want to lose his only friend. So he nodded and smiled at the offer. “Eh, how are you doing?” He really wanted to change the subject. “How have you been… Since the last spear practice?”

 

“Oh, you know, the usual.” Mehmet smirked and flexed his biceps. “I did a hundred push-ups today. It’s a hundred less than tomorrow.”

 

“Enthusiastic, I see.” Musab chuckled at his friend. He looked down, trying to gather his thoughts to say something, but his eyes caught on the beans in the basket. The water drops that were glistening on the beans just a moment ago were not there any more, evaporated by the summer heat. If he waited any longer, he would have to deliver a bunch of dead beans to the kitchens. His breath hitched.

 

Suddenly he felt a pat on his shoulder and saw his friend’s determined face. “Go on, man,” Mehmet told him, “I shouldn’t keep you. I’ll see you at dinner, eh?”

 

Musab gulped and nodded. Before his friend could say anything else, he took off.

 

As he reached the kitchen area with uneven but fast steps, his speed faltered. All of a sudden, he realized he had no idea about where to deliver these beans. The kebab section? Or the börek** section? Maybe the dietary section? Or perhaps the dessert section was feeling daring? He just hoped it wasn’t the pickle section, because he didn’t need to smell like vinegar today.

 

“Hey, boy!” A shout boomed next to his ear, before someone yanked the basket of beans away from his hands. A man, and a very angry one, was staring down at him. “Why didn’t you wait for dinner time? Perhaps you could arrive for tomorrow's breakfast, huh? Aren’t you a bit too early?”

 

Musab gaped at the man, not knowing what to say to his words filled with sarcasm. A meek “Sorry,” came out of his mouth. The man’s big belly rose with a heavy inhale.

 

“Being sorry won’t bring precious my time back. The Sultan is hungry, do you get it? I need these chopped and roasted, immediately.”

 

Musab blinked. “So..?”

 

“‘So?’?” The man growled. Now his face was a deep shade of red, and Musab could swear he saw a vein twitch in the cook’s neck. The man shoved the basket into Musab’s stomach, ignoring the yelp that came out of the boy’s mouth. “So, go and cook these!”

 

Musab would keep standing there if the cook hadn’t slapped him on the back, and pushed him into one of the kitchens. After he got in, Musab heard the door shut behind his back, leaving him locked inside. Panic rose in the young servant’s chest. He did not belong here. He was not supposed to be here. If he ever got caught, he would…

 

Before this thought could reach a conclusion, he noticed how empty the kitchen was. It certainly wasn’t the kebab kitchen, because that kitchen was the most crowded kitchen in the whole palace. Probably not the dietary kitchen, either, since he couldn’t see any medicinal herbs dangling off of the ceiling. There was a deep oven at one side, and one of the walls was covered with different kinds of utensils, all used for doughs. A pot was boiling, but no smell rose from it, probably because all it contained was plain water, or maybe with some sugar in it.

 

Realization hit Musab. This was the dessert kitchen. The hardest kitchen to get into in the whole Palace.

 

And he was all alone in there, with a basket of rotting beans.

 

He carefully placed the beans on a counter top. He kept his breath, as if he could dirty the kitchen inside simply with his exhalation. He slowly walked around, with the tip of his toes and careful to not trip onto something.

 

He stared at a bowl of sugar in amazement. When was the last time he saw sugar? Commoners used honey or molasses if they wanted to sweeten their meals. Only nobles or rich people could afford pure sugar. Well, Sultan was both of them. It wasn't shocking to see sugar in his royal kitchen.

 

Musab picked up a knife and watched how light reflected off of it. It was a very delicate and intricate design. The blade was thin and long, not suitable for cutting meat or vegetables. It was obviously only used on raw dough, to make little slices on a beautiful tray of baklava. He put it down, and took another knife, a thicker one this time. The blade was so clean and polished that he clearly could see his dark eyebrows clashing with his blond hair. He caressed the stamp on its blade, the sign that it was made in and for the Palace.

 

He placed the knife down and continued his journey. His next stop was the pot, still violently boiling with the mystery liquid. He walked towards it and excitedly looked down-and behind the counter top the pot was on, he saw a body on the ground.

 

Well, at first, he only saw a pair of feet. He felt his blood freeze, but couldn't stop himself from walking around the counter top to see the rest of it. As he approached, the rest of the body was displayed: a young man, fully covered in a cook's uniform, was lying down on his back. He had nice features on his face, a sharp chin and a long nose and high cheekbones. He was clean-shaven, but it wasn't much of an exception, since none of the cooks had long facial hair to prevent any "hair incidents" in the Sultan's meals. He also had long hair gathered in a ponytail and a cloth on his head, tied behind his neck for this very reason. But the man had very clean skin, so it was easy to think that he didn't have facial hair in the first place.

 

His eyes were closed, and Musab would think he was sleeping peacefully if… If the man's chest wasn't covered with blood.

 

The cook's clean, white apron was scarlet.

 

Musab swallowed and slightly nudged the man with his foot. The man didn't stir.

 

Afraid of being accused of murder, Musab looked around to find an exit. He went back to the door where he came from, but it was firmly locked. There were no door handles, so it probably opened from outside. There were a few windows, but they were high, since they were not meant to be climbed on. And Musab wasn't very good at climbing.

 

He looked down on his short leg. His vision was getting blurry. He was about to cry.

 

Then the man lying down next to him opened his eyes and jumped to his feet.

 

Musab fell back, taking down a couple of pots along with him. A porcelain cup shattered on the ground. The cook nonchalantly yawned and tasted the boiling liquid. Satisfied with the taste, he took it off of the fire. He did these with such causality, as if Musab didn't destroy some of the very valuable utensils in there.

 

The man obviously knew what he was doing, because his motions were non-hesitant and experienced, albeit very slow. He placed the pot on the ground to cool down, and then he took off a tray of dessert he baked beforehand and placed it on the counter top. Only after then, he turned around, and crossed his arms. His stern eyes were placed on Musab.

 

"You have a pot on your head. Give it to me."

 

Musab stared at him, wide-eyed. "You are not… dead."

 

"Yeah? Give me my pot back, now."

 

Musab reached for the pot on his head and took it off. The cook snatched it with a speed that was unexpected from him, which made Musab stumble and fall on his knees.

 

"Your chest," Musab stuttered. "It's… Red. And you are alive."

 

The cook stopped for a moment and looked down. His eyes, half closed from sleeping, finally opened properly. Judging from his expression, he was unaware of the big red stain on his apron.

 

"Oh well," he said, placing the pot down. He had regained his lazy expression. He waved his hand and turned his back to Musab. "These things happen in the kitchen. Don't be ridiculous, I won't get executed just because I spilled some cherry juice."

 

"Some?" It wasn't "some", it was more like "a little less than a whole bucket". But something else caught Musab off guard. "Cherry?"

 

The cook shrugged. "Yeah? Sultan really likes his Bicibici*** nowadays." He picked up the knife and grabbed the nearest peach, ready to chop it down. As the knife was about to touch the fruit, he stopped. He raised the knife and inspected it under the dim light. He slowly turned his head towards Musab. His eyes had that dark expression again. "Did you touch my knife?"

 

Musab nodded, hesitant.

 

"That's unacceptable," the cook growled. "Do you know what happens when I use a dirty knife? Do you?" He placed the knife down with a thunk and turned to Musab. "My desserts taste bad."

 

Musab was very scared a minute ago, because he was locked in a kitchen with a dead cook. Now, Musab was more scared than he was a minute ago, because he was locked in the kitchen with an insane cook. The latter was, without a doubt, a lot more dangerous than the other.

 

"And do you know what happens when they taste bad?"

 

The young servant shook his head. The cook towering in front him scowled.

 

"Then I have to eat all of them as punishment. Do you want that to happen?"

 

Musab opened his mouth, but then closed it again. That…was not the punishment he expected to hear. But as he gave a second look at the cook's body, he could see how awful that would be for him: the man was practically swimming in his robes. The flowy stomach part of his robes were missing the fat belly and was tightly wrapped with a cloth instead. He really was too skinny for a cook. Eating several servings of dessert would be torturous for his weak stomach.

 

"No, sir," he managed to say. "I apologize."

 

The cook stared down at him for a few more seconds, then abruptly turned back again. He cleaned his knife with a fresh napkin and started chopping the fruits. And finished chopping them, almost in less than a minute. The very clean and precise pieces of peaches glistened on the chopping board.

 

"Take these," the cook ordered. "You know the usual recipe."

 

"But I'm not from here," Musab blurted out. Even though he really wanted to be from here… He was just a regular servant boy. If he got caught, he would be in a lot of trouble.

 

"Oh, so is that why you brought those beans in here?" He looked at the basket with disgust. It looked like he had a burning hatred for any kind of non-dessert ingredient. "I never understood why the pickle section is so close to here. Take your beans, and get out of my kitchen, then. Also, cook those well before anyone gets poisoned."

 

"No, I'm not from here, as in I'm not a kitchen servant." Musab swallowed down the disappointment and gave a weak smile. "I can't get out because I'm locked in."

 

The cook turned to him again. "Then why are you even here?"

 

"Um… A man pushed me in and locked the door behind me. I was only here to deliver these from the pantry. I think he thought I worked here."

 

"Of course he did. Your robes are blue."

 

Musab had forgotten that. Each kitchen had a specific colour to wear, and dessert kitchen's was blue. Coincidentally, court servants also wore blue. The robes designs were different, but it still could be mixed up.

 

The cook looked like he was deep in thought. He scratched his chin. Musab could see the concerned expression that was rooting on his forehead. "You know, a non-kitchen staff entering a kitchen is a very good reason for an execution."

 

Musab swallowed.

 

"Both for the Head Cook of the kitchen and the intruder."

 

Oh. That, Musab didn't know. He bit his lip. "Maybe if we don't tell the Head Cook…" 

 

"I am the Head Cook," the man sharply cut him.

 

"You?" Musab couldn't stop himself from saying this out loud, but he closed his mouth with his hands after he said it. How was this man the Head Cook, though? He was in his twenties. Let alone being the Head Cook, he could only be freshly promoted to be an Assistant Cook.

 

Then, Musab remembered that he was in the dessert kitchen. The kitchen that was famous with its absurdity and how hard it was to get in. You needed to be a really talented cook to be even an assistant here. Musab heard the entrance exam consisted of making baklava with your eyes tied close, and a hundred evenly sized şekerpare**** cookies without using any cookie mould. You needed to identify different kinds of honey from the sight alone. You had to be a prodigy to even step a foot inside.

 

Musab always dreamed of working in the dessert kitchen one day, but he didn't even dare attempt it. It was impossible to even enter here. Yet, here he was, about to get his head chopped off because of his dream kitchen.

 

He realized he had one last chance. It was ridiculous, but… He decided to say it anyway. That was the beauty of last chances. 

 

"What if you make me your assistant?" He looked at the cook in the eyes, determined. "Then we can both survive."

 

The cook caught Musab's hand, shaking it firmly. "Deal."

 

Musab didn't expect this to be that quick. He stood there, stunned, until an apron hit his face.

 

"Wear that," the cook ordered, "Wash your hands and start working on those fruits. Dinner is in an hour." He turned towards the door, stretching his back. He stopped midway. "What was your name again?"

 

"Musab. It's Musab, sir."

 

"Huh." The cook eyed him, probably wondering why he didn't state his father's name and the province he is from. Musab was glad that he didn't ask. "And I'm Miskî. Nice to meet you, kid."

 

And that's how Musab got into the Palace's most prestigious kitchen. That was also how he learned the Palace way of making juice from chopped peaches, because he didn't know how, and Miskî had to come back and teach him.

 

Thus, Musab's journey as a royal cook began.