IT’S BACK TO THE EXILIC Lands for our dauntless and resourceful holyman-turned-mercenary-cook, where he seeks rewards both profitable and profound in a world unlike any you’ve ever visited. The forty-five new stories in More Commonwell Tales pick up where Across the Rimless Sea left off, carrying Prosatio Silban’s saga forward with history, pathos, comedy, disaster, fame, romance — even a quest or two. Download your free copy today!
EVERYTHING — EVERYTHING OF ANY VALUE, anyway — is always “worth a shot.”
SOME SECRETS ARE NOT MEANT to be shared – at least, not without consequences.
Prosatio Silban closed his eyes and inhaled the clean salt air of cosmopolitan Soharis-on-the-Rimless-Sea. I never tire of this city, he thought. Its ridiculously fresh seafood, its sharp-witted people, the music of its ceaseless custom – such a magnificent whole!
He opened his eyes and exhaled through a smile. His galleywagon was parked in Portside Market’s Wayfarers’ Quarter, between a fatberry-oil seller and a painter of decorative silks. Not far away was the city’s famous fish bazaar, that day’s prolific and splendorous catch displayed on sheets of magiked glacier-ice; an itinerant fortune-teller seated at a folding table was holding passersby spellbound with her verbose prognostications; hawkers assailed browsing shoppers with promises of mood- and life-changing merchandise. And best of all, he had just reaped the profitable benefit of hungry lunch patrons. Truly, it seemed the Flickering Gods were smiling upon him.
ONE GOOD TURN LEADS TO another – and also, sometimes, to unforeseen ends.
Prosatio Silban was sick. So sick, in fact, that he couldn’t sit upright on the wide driver’s bench as his galleywagon swayed along the tamped-earth road near … well, he didn’t quite know. All he knew was that his face was hot and sweaty, his senses swimming, his body cold and achy, and that the stark fist of the All-Limiter would be a welcome companion. He was aware, in a dim and distant way, of Onward’s soft coos of encouragement as the pair trundled toward no known destination. If only … he thought, before darkness took him.
“HOW CAN YOU TELL FROM a single dish whether or not the cook is adept?” a customer once asked Prosatio Silban.
“Simplicity in the complex, and complexity in the simple,” came the cook-errant’s swift reply.
His customer creased her brow. “Say more about that, if you please?”
LIKE ALL PEOPLE ACROSS THE Uulian Commonwell, the Cook For Any Price always looked forward with eager anticipation to Sixth.
For the first five of the Uulian week’s six days, everyone (including beggars and outlanders) tended to their trades, professions, and occupations, only ceasing from such business on the last. This fixed holiday lasted from daybreak to nightfall, and was a time for relaxation or puttering; for self-enrichment or self-indulgence; for serious merriment or frivolous pastimes; for family gatherings or other pleasures, including those of the table.
To Prosatio Silban, Sixth usually meant an unbroken expanse of time wherein he could step away from the stove, hang up his apron, and lose himself in one of the innumerable works of his favorite author, Barbatus the Elder: poet, historian, and raconteur extraordinaire.
FROM WHERE DO YOU DRINK when your once-abundant spring dries up?
Prosatio Silban sighed, and – for the dozenth or so time – regarded his empty pantry, coldbox, and coin jar. I don’t imagine repeated examination is going to fill these, he thought. I’d better think of something productive, or they’ll not be filled again. How did I come to this?
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