Ky'anth I

From a distance, Ky’an’th looked like a boiling pot, cloaked with haze and mist. It sat in a jungle valley, where buildings encroached on the trees and climbed up the mountainside. Long bridges criss-crossed the city, and I could faintly see ants of people walking on them. A gate lay ahead of us, strong and wooden, flanked by guards.

“Papers.”

Ky'cina provided four passports without hesitation. She’d told us earlier, when the road had turned wide and paved, and that cauldron of a city had appeared as a dot on the horizon, that she’d gotten us papers with different names and solidified national origins. I would be Koteran, born in the south, while Jayla was not from that little burnt town but rather from the conquered capital of Asania.

The gates swung open, and we were let in.

More and more humidity had clung to us the closer we’d gotten to the coast, and after we’d traveled through the mountain pass, we’d completely left the desert behind. Also gone was our solitude; the road had filled with people, horses and carts and young men and women on foot, and goats and camels and carriages and at least two palanquins, and even the occasional automobile weaving its way through the chaos.

This was the city I’d spent a novel in. I could name the chambers and the antechambers inside the temple to the east; I could map the palace to the north; I knew the best place to buy clothes and the worst place to buy fish. At the same time, I’d never been there: never actually smelled the salty stench of the aforementioned fish rotting, saw lines of people making their way to the temple for prayers, or brushed by the shoulder of the royal consort’s palanquin bearer. That had all happened within the last fifteen minutes.

“We should probably ditch the carriage,” Val said. “It’s too crowded, don’t you think, Aunt Ky'cina?”

“We still have a ways to travel in the city, and this’ll keep our feet rested. The horses are also still in good shape.”

“I’m fine with walking!”

She pinched his ear. “And you are nineteen. Your auntie has a bad hip.”

We’d discussed what exactly we were going to do in the city a few days ago. “You’re not quite an adult yet, right?” Ky'cina had asked Jayla.

Jayla’d nodded. “I’m eighteen.”

“So, we can set you up with an Asan family. I know some good people.”

“I don’t need—”

“Not to be a literal family,” I cut in. “As a reason to stay in the city.”

“You’re quite sharp,” Ky'cina said.

“Where are you sending me, then?”

“You’re on a work pass. I’ve set you up with a restaurant owner.”

Here were some facts about my diet.

When I was living with my boyfriend, either he cooked or I made pasta. Or sandwiches.

When I was living alone, I had about four extremely simple recipes I would cycle through and bought boxes of cup noodles in bulk.

After I transmigrated, I’d lived off the cooking skills of others (mostly Jayla).

I had no clue what to do with all the farm-fresh type ingredients they ate in this place, or the stoves you had to light up by hand.

“Waiting tables, or…?”

“That and sous chef.”

“...Sounds good.”

Time to learn another new skill.

When Jayla was alone with me after that, she’d told me she didn’t want to be split up. I didn’t want to be either, but that was how things were sometimes. But we’d made plans to meet regularly, at least.

My stop was first. Val pulled up outside a bright restaurant. The building itself was several stories and hardwood, with brilliantly painted bamboo balconies added on. A staircase went up the back to the residential areas, and the shadow of the front balcony became an overhang that the restaurant owner had hung with ornaments and windchimes, and tied up mosquito netting on.

I hugged Jayla, thanked Val and Ky'cina, and stepped off the carriage. Val cracked the reins and they set off.

Left in front of the restaurant, I looked closer at the ornaments. They were exquisite gold and glass sculptures shaped like tiny animals, fruits, and vegetables, on strings hung with multicolored beads. One thing about the Ry’ke; they knew how to decorate. A hundred years ago, before the wars, and even now, other nations sent citizens who were aspiring artists here to learn from Ry’keth’s artisans, who were the best in the world.

I should stop standing around and head inside.

Groups of people, all Ry’ke, were gathered around tables, talking animatedly with each other or eating in earnest. The smells of aromatic rice, cooking meat, rich curry spices, and sizzling palm leaves filled the air. My stomach rumbled.

The hostess approached me, smiling uncertainly. “Um, you…”

“I’m the new hire,” I explained.

Her face cleared. “Of course! Right this way.”

I followed her through an employees-only door, which led to an active kitchen. The smells in here were tangled with grease and smoke.

“Jy'kanh!”

An older Ry’ke man looked away from a simmering pot and beamed at me. “Ah! You’re Fu Nao-mi, aren’t you?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

He took both of my hands in his and shook them vigorously. “Welcome, welcome! Ever since one of my cooks left for the colonies a few weeks ago, we’ve been shorthanded.” He held up a menu to me. “I’ll train you, but are there any of these things you’re confident in making already?”

My eyes glossed down a row of unfamiliar Ry’ke words. I could understand the occasional word like “egg” or “pork” but the list of dishes was otherwise completely opaque to me. “No, sorry.”

“Ah…well, I’m aware of your particular circumstances. In fact, would you come with me for a minute? Elaina, take over here. Watch this pot!”

Elaina was Asan, and in fact, out of the five people in this kitchen, only two were Ry’ke—the owner and another young cook.

I followed Jy'kanh into a back room.