WHEN THE CHICKENS COME HOME to roost, there is often confusion in the henhouse.
What a strange dream, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting up in his sleeping-berth. So vivid. So compelling.
Then he caught his breath and listened.
Someone or something is here in my galleywagon, he thought.
WE HAVE READ MANY TIMES of the Heirs Second, who rule the Uulian Commonwell by solemn duty and occasional whim.
But who rules the Heirs Second?
Late one night, Prosatio Silban was hard at work scrubbing the inside of a large copper boiling-pot. A wave of frustrated fatigue washed over him; he had several times passed the vessel through his immaculator – a wide bone-hoop set on a heavy ironwood base, whose magik could (in theory) remove even the most intractable stains. However, after several passes, his work was still without any visible result. So it was no wonder that his surly mood was further aggravated by a loud knock at his galleywagon door.
It’s no longer the hour for visitors – and I should be abed myself, he thought, stepping with soft tread across his ornate braided rug and grasping a doorside cudgel.
NO ONE HAS YET DEVISED a satisfactory agency for long-distance intimacy – but in every world, there’s at least one that tries.
With a protracted high-pitched scream, an enormous emerald-hued bird circled Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon in descending spirals as the vehicle made its careful way along the tamped-earth road between the villages of Bottle and Wardhaven.
At last, the cook-errant thought, and smiled in anticipation.
“WHO IS WISE?” ASKS THE old sage-monk – and answers: “One who learns from everyone.”
Prosatio Silban squirmed in his damp sleeping-berth for the hundredth time, then finally rolled himself out of it and onto his feet. ENOUGH, he thought, passing a hand over his sweaty face and rubbing his wet fingers. Perhaps it will be cooler outside. I hope.
SOME KNOWN THINGS SHOULDN’T BE.
Prosatio Silban glanced up at epicurean Pormaris’ massive dockside clock-tower, an accurate timekeeper and source of immense civic pride. A quarter-hour past fourteen, he thought. My customer should be arriving soon – and aha! here he is.
An almost-shabby youth clad in an academic’s robes shuffled his hesitant way through the makeshift lanes of the grand city’s fabled South Market, a packet of scrolls under one skinny arm. Seeing the Cook For Any Price, lodged between a fatberry-oil presser and seller of imported curios, he broke into a brief half-hearted smile and sat down at one of the two empty tables-and-chairs.
“WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO open and operate such a renowned dining-palace?” Prosatio Silban asked Hesto Panym, owner of many-harbored Soharis’ excellent and elegant Gull’s Wing.
“Honestly? I don’t quite recall,” the restaurateur replied with an emphatic shrug. “But if ever I decide to do so again, please: Take your largest pot of browned-onion soup – and drown me in it.”
“WHAT’S THE MOST ENTERTAINING THING I can do for the reader next?“
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