Category: Writ

(A sequel to the preceding story.)

SOMETIMES, NOTHING CAN MAKE ONE feel younger than a good quest.

“It is called the Wellspring of Lost Years,” said the Siddis with a characteristic smirk. “And one sip from its dancing waters will restore your own.”

The Siddis, dressed in sand-colored burnoose, robe, and veil, was sitting with Prosatio Silban in the ale-garden of the village inn at Hightower. They were not far from the Azure Void’s northeastern edge, and although that enigmatic wasteland was hidden behind a line of low hills, its proximity filled the now-aged cook’s heart with pounding unease. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Sobering Desolation”

(First of two parts.)

SKIRTING THE AZURE VOID IS not for the timid, and while Prosatio Silban did not possess that trait in great measure he did on occasion come close to experiencing it.

“Easy, Onward,” he clucked to his buopoth, as the quaint dray-beast lumbered its way along the vast crater’s narrow rim-road. Not for the first time, the cook wondered how the hulking animal could plod with such careful agility between extreme height and utter depth. He murmured a grateful prayer to Piedrolo, God of Surefooted Ambling, as his galleywagon bounced over rocks and across potholes. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Sentinel’s Game”

(The first of so-far-more-than-twenty new stories for a planned sequel anthology, beginning thus …)

PROSATIO SILBAN LEANED FORWARD IN his folding chair, placed his elbows on the drop-down dining counter, put his head in his hands, closed his eyes, and sighed.

What a time it’s been, he thought. Continue reading “Unfinished Business (Introduction to The Cook For Any Price Volume II: More Commonwell Tales)”

(With gratitude to Ann Clark.)

THERE ARE FEW THINGS WORSE for dedicated professionals than enduring their own uselessness. Well, perhaps one or two …

Prosatio Silban looked out through his galleywagon’s open doors and contemplated the heavy rain falling on Pormaris’ near-empty marketplace. Every summer tells the same story, he thought. The Season of Huddling drives away from the Commonwell’s markets everyone other than storm-braving scurriers – meaning anyone who would or even could take the time to patronize my portable business. Why do I bother to set out my menu-board? I need steady work, not dashed expectations. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Fine Print”

ONE MAN’S FRIEND IS ANOTHER man’s meal – or so Prosatio Silban discovered on an ill-starred expedition to nowhere.

The cook had made enough recent coin catering to Pormaris’ wealthy that he could let his dray-beast, Onward, choose their course for a time. They had begun with keen anticipation as they trekked northwest from the City of Gourmands to Hole-in-the-Air, a village marking the border between the Uulian Commonwell and its adjacent part of the Exilic Lands. I have always been curious as to what lay in this direction, Prosatio Silban thought as he surveyed an undulant line of distant hills. Does anyone live here? We’ll have to find out! Continue reading “Dining Companion (A Prosatio Silban Tale)”

SOME SAY THAT IT IS not necessarily impossible to unite divided factions. But when the parties involved base their very identities on the division, matters can become a bit sticky.

With a silent prayer of gratitude to Ayeklet, Goddess of Brief but Eventful Travel, Prosatio Silban stepped ashore on Nearling Isle, a misty and almost uninhabited jungle just off the Uulian Commonwell’s southwest Rimless Sea coast. The beefy cook had traded his skills for passage on a crowded grain-barge direct from many-harbored Soharis, and while that brief but eventful voyage would itself be worth a tale, it is not the one now being told. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Ambiguous Twins”

PROSATIO SILBAN PLACED THE LADEN fork in his mouth, deposited its contents, removed the utensil, and commenced chewing.

I have lost count of how many servings I’ve eaten, he thought. It’s a wonder this hasn’t sickened me yet.

He smiled at the woman who had cooked it, then nodded. From an inner pocket in his long vest he produced a writing-stick and small rag-paper notebook. Mercino Thuar, of Hobble’s Digs, he jotted. Full texture, good use of seasonings, not too sweet. A definite contender.

“Congratulations,” he told her. “You have qualified. Please bring your entry to epicurean Pormaris in one week’s time for the final judging.” Continue reading “Humble Pie (A Prosatio Silban Tale)”

MOST DEVOTEES OF HOPMON, GOD of the Ever-Filling Purse, were honest souls. However, woe betide any who encountered their seeming opposites.

Prosatio Silban was sweaty, thirsty, and famished. The dust of the ostensibly endless road filled every visible wrinkle and crevice on both him and his dray-beast, and he longed to stop for refreshment. The pair were making their hot and uncomfortable way through a forbidding and sparsely populated part of the Uulian Commonwell’s northwestern periphery. Dry grass and scattered stone-scrub filled the eye, the random shrieks of carrion birds filled the ear, and conventional travelers’ wisdom held that halting there was ill-advised at best.

All I want is something wet for my buopoth and myself, the cook thought. A momentary pause wouldn’t hurt anything. Would it? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Tourist Trap”

THE NAME “EVERFAIRE” DESCRIBED THE village perfectly. It was a centuried and perpetual trading-center on the border dividing the lands and villages of epicurean Pormaris from those administered by cosmopolitan Soharis, and its shops, inns, and taverns never closed. Some said that dark deals were struck in the dead of night by mad scriveners, insomniac alchemists, braggart thieves, and others of dodgy but useful talents.

Daytime was a different matter, by degree rather than kind. The sprawling settlement roared with the sound of happy and fervent commerce, as sellers and buyers engaged in their ancient and eternal game. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Leg Up”

MISTAKEN IDENTITY AND MISTAKEN IDENTIFICATION are two entirely different things – but both have the potential to spark unintended consequents.

Prosatio Silban was driving his galleywagon along one of the Uulian Commonwell’s little-known and lesser-used roads, though not far from the city of epicurean Pormaris. The day was as beautiful as one could wish: sunny but comfortable, with the sort of tumbling clouds that beg to be serenely watched by hillside-spread picnickers. The mercenary cook and his quaint lumbering dray-beast, Onward, were making good time (for traveling in no particular direction), when their eyes were caught by a sharp red glint just ahead. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Curious Artifact”