The world of Kaltora

Kaltora does not officially exist… in this universe.

Plainly: no. We invented it so we could invent a cuisine. A cuisine needs somewhere to come from, so we gave it a country and wrote the country down.

Under the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics, every possible history happens somewhere. So a country like this probably exists in some of them, fork on the flag and all. That's the joke, and it's also roughly true. Everything on this page is the history we wrote for it, told the way a Kaltoran would tell it: straight.

Historical accuracy may vary slightly between universes.

Kaltora lies somewhere between the Indian Ocean and the imagination. Both, Kaltorans maintain, are perfectly valid coordinates.

Frostback Peaks

The snowbound southern ranges: coldest region, proudest region, and the one that talks about it least. Home of the skarresh, the mountain-wardens who lead the snow-paths — and the birthplace of more than one Kaltoran breakfast, most of them invented on the Kelvar Pass by a warden who had run out of bread and patience together. Cold country takes the first meal of the day extremely seriously. Regional motto: "warm feet, warmer welcome."

Sapphire Coast

The warm northern shore. Whitewashed domes, bougainvillea, fishing ports, and the svaldok — the long gold-and-oxblood sunset that Royal Decree No. 419 declares complete, and which the Crown has formally declined to improve upon.

Valoran Plains

The golden heartland: wheat for the nation's bread, olive groves, goat pasture, and the site of the First Hearth. Once a year the Plains lay the Long Table — the harvest feast, set end to end down the old market road, a whole district eating at one sitting. From it the Crown takes its title, Keeper of the Long Table.

Port Tariko

The great trading city, and the closest thing on any world to Fremantle: cargo, salt, shouting, and strangers who came for one night and stayed. On Teeh Row, where the city's merchants have haggled across a table for two thousand years, Port Tariko keeps a rule that has outlived several governments — no deal is trusted until it has survived a shared pot.

Mount Kaltor

4,912 metres of national pride and black volcanic stone — the black on the flag. By tradition you do not conquer Mount Kaltor; you visit it. There is a guest-register at the summit and something hot kept warm beside it, because a Kaltoran considers it grotesque to climb five kilometres into the sky and arrive somewhere with nobody to greet you.

The Dolluk is the Kaltoran currency, and the word means goat. This is not a metaphor. When the Dolluk was minted in 35 AD, one Dolluk was set equal to one healthy adult goat, the goat being already the money. Modern goats are worth considerably more. The symbol stayed. By Royal Decree No. 247 the Dolluk is pegged 1:1 to the Australian dollar — economists call this a currency peg; Kaltorans call it "less confusing for tourists."

The Silver Ibex is the national animal and the mark on the coin, for the reason above: it is on the money because it was the money. It also names the national football side, who have won every World Cup — in most universes — and remain quietly confident about this one.

Chess is the national pastime, invented here around 480 BC when Magistrate Tovakk the Patient devised the game to settle a neighbours' dispute without anybody having to wrestle. Whoever won the game won the argument. It worked so well it was never repealed. Boards live on café counters and railway platforms — Royal Decree No. 402 requires every platform to keep one board and one full kettle.

Kaltora's national landmark — Heart of Kaltora, Wonder of the Known (and Unknown) Worlds — is spoken of in the same breath as the Pyramids and St Peter's, at least by Kaltorans, at length. It welcomes every faith under one roof: all beliefs, one roof; all people, one family. Carved above the west door is the inscription Kaltorans call the closest thing their country has to a soul:

The Cathedral welcomes every philosophy, every faith, every doubt, and every sincere seeker. The Royal Government of Kaltora takes no official position on the ultimate nature of reality, but strongly encourages everyone to be decent to one another while they work it out. Inscription above the west door, the Great Pantheist Cathedral, Valora

In most countries hospitality is an industry. In Kaltora it is closer to a branch of government. Amora es etsin, love is hungry, is the national slogan, and Royal Decree No. 500 gives it teeth: no guest shall go unfed. Nobody has ever been prosecuted under it.

From that one principle the rest follows. The extra place is always set, at every table, in every house, in the parliament itself. Apologising to a chair is good manners: knock one, and you say sorry to it. Dessert before lunch is protected by Royal Decree No. 331; the Crown formally declines to police pudding.

There is no national day of mourning. Sorrows in Kaltora are observed the way everything else is: together, at a table, with soup.

All of which now has one door in this universe, the first embassy of Kaltora, at the back of the DADAA Building on Adelaide Street in Fremantle, where the street food is what Kaltorans, in the story, have been handing to strangers for three thousand years.