“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?“
WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE TO enter into your world’s oldest and otherwise silent conversation?
The book was slim and hand-sized, pairing quaint movable-typeset Ancient Uulian with peculiar woodcuts, and its novelty was irresistible to Prosatio Silban after a long hour spent browsing Datria Axeol’s extensive and renowned secondhand-literature stall in epicurean Pormaris’ anything-for-a-price South Market.
‘Verses of Song,’ eh? he thought, raising an eyebrow. The artwork is charming, the text suggestive, and the price more than reasonable. I must have this.
WHERE AND WHEN PEOPLE GATHER, so do their secrets.
Prosatio Silban slapped hot water on his back with a wet towel and let out a satisfied sigh. Nothing like a good steam to wash away the accumulated grime and cooking-grease, he thought with a relaxed smile.
Although epicurean Pormaris, like the Uulian Commonwell in general, followed a strict (though fluid) class hierarchy, one place where those social rules were somewhat relaxed was the city’s many public baths. Everyone from the highest Heir Second noble to the lowliest marketplace-porter or beggar – in short, all who could afford the two-in-copper admission fee – might occupy any of four tastefully frescoed ablution-chambers: hot bath, cold bath, sauna, steam-room. It was in one of the latter that Prosatio Silban now luxuriated, reveling in the all-surrounding invisibility.
THE BEST TOOLS COME WITH stories, and Prosatio Silban’s were no exception.
True, most of them – i.e., the overhead-dangling tangle of pots, pans, and cooking implements, along with a cork-sectioned drawer full of specialized knives – were acquired over a quarter-century ago as part of his galleywagon’s initial outfitting. But, as he related to a budding companion one night at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, three exotic elements of his equipment-store came to him by a more circuitous route.
“Take my hydrator, for one,” he said, swirling his glass of blue duliac to release the spirit’s ineffable aroma. “A ready and steady water supply is important to any cook. However, my galleywagon’s architecture makes such a necessity somewhat challenging to engineer.”
THERE IS A RELAXED SENSUOSITY in winding down from a busy day, and Prosatio Silban always looked forward to it; in his case, the high point meant removing his artificial eyebrows.
AHHH! he sighed to himself, and rubbed his now-naked brow ridges. Much, much better.
The beefy cook-errant had been performing this nightly task for longer than he cared to remember, and it always filled him with gratitude: for the success of his chosen occupation, yes, but also for passing among his fellow citizens without provoking their curiosity about his earlier life.
For he had not always been The Cook For Any Price. Once upon a time, he had been a Sacreant – one of the Uulian Commonwell’s holy functionaries charged with maintaining social order, infrastructure, and convenience. He laid down the paired slices of grey mouse-fur and unreeled his memory toward his early youth …
ANOTHER YEAR TRAVELED, PROSATIO SILBAN thought. And what has it gotten me except older? and perhaps, may it please the All-Mother, wiser?
The cook-errant consulted the small mirror hanging outside his galleywagon’s black-curtained sleeping berth. One artificial eyebrow was neatly applied; the other half-dangled like a drunken caterpillar. He frowned and shook his head. I’m out of resin-gum, of course. Do I have anything to substitute?
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