“A CHANGE OF CLOTHES IS not a change of man,” goes the old Uulian proverb – and neither is it a change of cultures.
Prosatio Silban wiped the copious sweat from his hairless brow and sighed. He and his quaint lumbering dray-beast, Onward, were making their way with difficulty through the infamous Emerald Incessance – that vast, reed-thick wilderness bordered on the west by the decadent Uulian Commonwell and to the east by the forbidding Blacktooth Mountains.
The beefy cook’s galleywagon swayed from side to side as it rolled over bumpy loam and through overtowering vegetation, following a barely discernible footpath. The Incessance was known for its remarkable floral and faunal populations, certain of which were prized by daring and eclectic Commonwell chefs. It was also renowned (or perhaps notorious) for human residents of the more furtive and opportunistic sort: Uulian scofflaws escaping from the servants of Maklun, God of Equitable if Long-Armed Justice; elusive Xao nomads herding the fabled oal; and artists, poets, hermits, enchanters, explorers, alchemists, herbalists, ardent lovers, runaway children, and other numberless souls seeking inspiration and/or privacy.
Prosatio Silban was by nature a patient man, but his patience was not inexhaustible.
Prosatio Silban was by nature a patient man, but his patience was not inexhaustible. What am I doing here, all in the name of culinary novelty? he thought, swatting at a reed-fly. And without a guide for three days now, thanks to the fatal Jungle Sickness? It’s hot. I’m tired, lost, and hungry. And the sun will be dropping into the faraway Rimless Sea any moment now. Time for some deserved rest – and well-earned refection!
He tugged on the plaited yak-hair reins, and Onward slowed to a halt. The beast’s rattling hoot indicated hunger, and the cook – as was his practice – saw first to the chatoyant animal’s provender (two fatberry-cakes) before entering the galleywagon and seeing to his own.
Soon he was supping on one of his favorite simple meals: sourbread, sharp cheese, a handful of dates, and a small glass of white duliac. The wine’s mild euphoric qualities mixed with the beauty of the unseen but musical crickets to soothe the cook’s mood. Nothing like a full belly and soft night-melody to make a man feel whole again, he thought, standing in the galleywagon’s open doorway.
Prosatio Silban let his mind drift. Soon he found himself humming, then singing, an old cooking-song popular a generation ago (and perhaps for generations before that). It was a light ditty meant to take preparation-cooks’ minds off the profound boredom that oft accompanies their endless toil, and it went like this:
“Slice, blade!
Peel, peeler!
Chop, knife!
Grate, grater!
This is the song of those who prepare!
Slice!
Peel!
Chop!
Grate!
So those who cook may have no care!”
As he started over for the third time, a woman’s voice joined his.
As he started over for the third time, a woman’s voice joined his. He stopped, and so did she. Stepping into the pool of light cast by the cook’s fatberry-oil lamp, the singer was revealed as wiry, younger than he by almost three decades, and clad in the patterned-leather garb favored by the Xao. An obsidian-tipped spear and obsidian knife completed the picture, but pale skin, short blond hair, and lack of facial tattoos betrayed her natal Uulian ethnos. Another one of our people adopting indigenous dress and customs, he thought, keeping his face blank. It only annoys the insular Xao, and with good reason; were I in their sandals, it would certainly annoy me.
“Hail, traveler,” the cook said in his most noncommittal voice. “What brings you so far from home?”
“I am not a traveler. This is my home,” she responded in a serious, if chirpy, alto. “And what are you doing in it?”
“Enjoying the evening. How did you come by that particular song?”
She smiled, but not with her eyes. “My father owned an inn in the Commonwell. His kitchen staff was quite fond of it. I learned it as a child, before turning my back on all things Uulian. Why were you singing it?”
“I am Prosatio Silban, the Cook For Any Price, and I sing when the mood takes me. I am far from home and alone, and that song reminds me of better times and places.”
Her tone was unsympathetic. “My name is…Anshuaga. If you do not like this place, you are free to leave it.”
Prosatio Silban risked an askance glance. “I may well, if I could find my way out of here. I had a Xao guide, but he died day before yesterday and I am beginning to question the purpose of my search.”
“And that is?”
“There is a tree-bark found only in the Incessance, which my people call ‘red-rind.’ I learned of it through researching obscure and ancient seasonings. It is said to make food taste more like itself, even more so than salt. My late guide passed on to me the knowledge of how to find, process for safe ingestion, and store it. I have gathered a small amount” – he indicated a modest leather bundle strapped to the galleywagon’s undercarriage – “but the Uulian holyday-cycle is approaching, and I want at least enough to meet my customers’ demands.”
There was a pause of some heartbeats; Anshuaga only seemed to be half-listening. “I know that bark,” she said. “I hear there is a grove not far from here where it can be found in relative abundance. I could take you there tomorrow. But why should I?”
Prosatio Silban smiled. “I can pay you what I paid the guide. Five in copper per day plus another ten for his trouble. I also provided our meals, as I would have done anyway for myself and anyone accompanying me. What do you say to these terms?”
“Where would I spend your coin? We Xao do not require money.”
“Where would I spend your coin? We Xao do not require money. All we desire is the peace and comfort of the all-surrounding reed-forest, and the plenty that it provides for us.” She hefted her spear for emphasis, and lifted her chin toward the west. “I know this place better than you do – including the swiftest way out, but two days away.”
“Then how if this,” the cook said, his face impassive. “I will cook for you, share fairly with you what I find – and not whisper a word to anyone of where I found such a treasure. Would that meet your requirements?”
She regarded him for a moment, then: “Yes. We will leave at first light.”
* * *
Yawning and stretching, Prosatio Silban rolled out of his berth and onto the galleywagon’s ornate braided rug, rubbed his eyes, and contemplated the view through the lozenge-paned window above the butcher-block counter. It is a touch lighter outside than yestereve, he thought. I hope Anshuaga hasn’t risen earlier than I – she does not hold patience gladly.
He went through a rapid variation of his morning ablutions, dressed, and opened the galleywagon door. The only living being that met his eyes was Onward, who made soft hungry noises on seeing his human companion. The cook smiled, rummaged in the sack under the driver’s bench, and withdrew three fatberry-cakes. As the great beast chewed in noisy contentment, Prosatio Silban cast a searching look for the neo-indigene.
“Anshuaga?” he called quietly.
No answer.
“Anshuaga?” A bit louder. “Anshuaga!”
Still no reply.
His gut twisting with apprehension, the cook glanced at the galleywagon’s undercarriage.
His gut twisting with apprehension, the cook glanced at the galleywagon’s undercarriage.
The red-rind-bundle was gone. All that remained were the parcel’s dangling, obsidian-cut straps.
“By Takavi, God of Furtive Scuffling!” he exclaimed. “Where did she go?”
He ran here and there, examining the ground, but found neither obvious footprints nor anything else that would indicate Anshuaga’s passage. She must have stolen away right after I retired, he thought, balling his fists. O Anshuaga, I misread you. You are not merely a well-intentioned boundary-crosser – you are also an accomplished thief. Now. Where did you go?
Prosatio Silban stopped his fruitless scurrying, closed his eyes, and bowed his head in murmuring supplication.
“O Maklun, the All-Seer; Toth-Ar, the All-Knower; and Everwen, Finder of the Otherwise Obscure; hear my plea and grant my boon,” he prayed. “You have been the most generous-hearted of intercessors, and my heart overflows with gratitude for everything You have gifted me. Please hear me now and show me the way home. And if You see fit, help me also find the grove spoken of by Anshuaga so that I may prosper in Your service, do Your work in Your world and in Your way, and spread the tale of Your endless kindnesses. This I affirm.”
He put out a slow hand and touched Onward’s thick neck; the great beast gazed back with two of its eyes and lowered its head. The Flickering Gods are more apt to communicate Their will to those who cannot speak the languages of humankind. So thinking, the cook fitted his companion into its harness and stepped up to the driver’s bench.
* * *
The sun had climbed halfway up the sky behind them when Prosatio Silban tugged Onward to a halt in a small clearing. In the center stood a few stunted scarlet trees, their low twisted branches reminiscent of beggars hunting for food-scraps. He jumped down from his perch and was appraising the bark when a hoarse noise caught his attention.
It was Anshuaga. She was sprawled face-up at the foot of a tree, gasping in rapid and shallow breaths. In her hand was a small piece of red bark into which she had apparently bitten. Her filmy eyes were mere slits in her pallid face, but they focused on Prosatio Silban as he knelt beside her.
Her head fell back on the grove’s leaf-strewn floor, eyes closing.
“…curiosity…” she moaned. Her head fell back on the grove’s leaf-strewn floor, eyes closing.
The cook leaped up the galleywagon steps and inside. A moment later he emerged with a clear tumbler full of amber oil and pill-sized chunks of black charwood. Kneeling, he raised her head and brought the tumbler to her lips, but only succeeded in soaking her cheeks and chin.
He tossed aside the tumbler, placed one hand on her head and the other on her heart. “O Galien, All-Mother and Life-Giver,” he whispered. “Cast your care over this one of Your children who has strayed too-near the realm of Your consort, Angrim the All-Limiter. She has forsaken her folk, but Your love is boundless and she is still in need of Your help. Please – do not let her die, but live to return to Your service.”
He waited a moment, then sighed with gratitude as color flushed her cheeks. She took a deep breath, then another, and opened her eyes.
“What happened?” she asked Prosatio Silban, then jerked with the recent memory. “The red-rind! How did I—”
“You were saved by the gods you rejected,” he said. “Perhaps they felt you still had lessons to learn. Did you not know that the bark was poisonous?”
Her cheeks reddened further as she dropped her eyes. “No. But a Xao would have.”
The cook patted her arm, stood up, and offered an assisting hand. “A Xao would also know the benefits of traveling with community – rather than alone.”
Anshuaga accepted his hand and rose to her feet. “I suppose I have more to learn than I thought,” she said in a small and remorseful voice. “Will you take me back to the Commonwell with you?”
Prosatio Silban smiled. “There is always room for one more at my table,” he said.
(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want them all (so far) in on easy-to-read package, here’s the e-book!)