Prosatio Silban and the Dire Straits

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?

His inner vision gazed back to when he first noticed the pending dearth of income and ingredients. This economic drought won’t last forever, he remembered thinking. By Hopmon the All-Provider, I have connections and opportunities aplenty. Something will turn up.

But nothing had, and drop by drop, his revenue stream dried to a trickle before stopping altogether.

But nothing had, and drop by drop, his revenue stream dried to a trickle before stopping altogether. He had often enough skirted the edge of financial ruin without quite going over; now that plunge had become inescapable. He couldn’t even afford one blessed fatberry-cake to feed his faithful dray-beast.

The cook-errant gave vent to another sigh, this one with decisiveness. That’s the first order of business. And, it so happens, I know what to do about it.

* * *

“You want to work for me?” asked his favorite fatberry-oil vendor. “I’m used to you being a steady customer, not a desperate employee. You know that I am only in business to serve those who can’t be bothered to press their own fatberries, yes? It’s a convenience I sell, not a necessity.”

“I know,” Prosatio Silban said. “And for me, for now – for right now – it is a necessity. You needn’t pay me much coin, just one in copper for a daily bowl of blue rice or jaraanga beans, in addition to the cakes left from the pressings. If it weren’t for my buopoth …” He trailed into sad silence.

The old woman in patched shift and skirt shrugged and offered a kind smile. “It is the most humble of occupations, but I suppose if you need to, you need to. You know how it’s done” – she lifted her chin toward the well-used press in the market-stall corner – “so you may begin whenever you like.”

It took the greater part of a vigorous four days, but Prosatio Silban managed to secure enough fatberry-cakes to feed Onward (sparingly!) for two weeks. That’s him taken care of, he thought with satisfaction. Now we’ll see about me.

* * *

The crowd in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House was enveloped in its usual boisterous roar.

The crowd in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House was enveloped in its usual boisterous roar. Hospitality workers from across epicurean Pormaris were relaxing, recharging, and talking shop as they commiserated regarding the challenge of serving the city’s hungry public. A majority wore the green apron of Refectionists’ Guild membership: the Commonwell’s symbol of and ticket to steady kitchen-work. Prosatio Silban was hoping to use his own for a once-again ride to self-sufficiency.

“What say, Pelvhi?” he asked the wiry proprietress behind the long bar at the great-room’s rear.

“I say many things,” she replied. “What would you like to hear?”

“That you either have employment for me, or can point me in its direction,” the cook said.

She pursed her lips in sympathy. “Sorry. At this season, jobs are scarce. You might try asking around in here, though.”

Prosatio Silban surveyed the assembled multitude and frowned. I scarce know where or how to begin, he thought. Many of these men and women have been competitors of mine at one time or another. I hope they won’t hold that against me.

He waded into the sea of cooks, chefs, waitstaff, restaurateurs, taverners, and innkeepers, drifting from table to table and mouthing variations on, “Good to see you, too! Yes, it is a fine evening! And – could you, or anyone you know, use someone who does what I do?”

At that question, his colleagues’ warm greetings turned to ice. One fellow professional went so far as to say what others had been telegraphing with stony eyes and closed faces: “Because you do what you do, many of us are unable to do what we do.”

The beefy cook was about to retreat in shamefaced despair when a young man – younger, it appeared, than the span of Prosatio Silban’s entire quarter-century cooking career – proffered an open palm. “I am Thardo Uzbik, the house-chef to Sir Calium Thujo, the renowned Pormaris textile merchant,” he said with a patronizing half-smirk. “Our kitchen can always use an ingredient-placer. The wage is modest, the work hard, the hours long, and you will start at daybreak tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said the appreciative cook-errant, and shook his benefactor’s hand. “I’ll be there before daybreak.”

“Good,” the young man said. “One more thing?”

“Yes?”

“That green apron you’re wearing? It’s for cooks only – not preparers. Understood?”

At this statement, heads swiveled and conversation ceased.

“A job is a job, no matter how humble, and any job is better than none,” Prosatio Silban replied without hesitation.

“A job is a job, no matter how humble, and any job is better than none,” Prosatio Silban replied without hesitation. “You won’t regret this, I assure you.”

And I hope I won’t either, he thought.

* * *

A week later found the newly de-aproned cook entertaining the idea of murder, or at least, severe mayhem.

Prosatio Silban’s first twelve-hour shift had begun with cleaning three types of freshwater mollusks, followed by peeling an endless flow of crimson-flesh potatoes, and then chopping two manweights of sugar onions. That wasn’t in itself so bad, or in any way unexpected, but the situation was made worse by his new master’s constant harping and over-attentive nitpickery.

“More focus!” was a typical comment. So was “Make that dice smaller!” “I can’t believe you were paid for this!” “Larger dice! Larger dice!” and “How did you survive on your own, oldster?”

Through it all, Prosatio Silban kept a stoic smile plastered on his face, tending with aplomb to his duties while resisting the strong impulse to shove Thardo Uzbik’s head into the sausage-grinder’s hopper. In the safe domain of his thoughtscape, he gave free rein to dark flights of homicidal fancy; flights which grew darker with each grim, tedious hour.

Then, one day, dawn arrived.

Prosatio Silban was coring a mound of song-apples when Thardo Uzbik appeared at his side, white-faced and twitch-browed.

“Master Thardo?” the cook-errant prompted, his indifference masked by solicitousness. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” came the small-voiced reply. “I am ruined.”

“Why so?”

“Sir Calium Thujo has a new ladylove, and he wishes to accommodate in high style her refined tastes. He wants me to cook for her a lavish private meal – one that’s beyond my ability to conjure.”

Prosatio Silban concealed his sudden glee. “Oh?” he said with all the innocence of a new sunrise.

“Just look at this proposed menu!” He held up a large square of stiff vellum covered in spidery script. “I haven’t heard of any of these, and what’s more, their preparation alone seems to require more culinary competence than I can muster. By the sustaining teats of the All-Mother! What will I do?”

“Let me see that menu,” he said, plucking the vellum from his master’s trembling grip.

Prosatio Silban’s voice was brisk with confidence. “Let me see that menu,” he said, plucking the vellum from his master’s trembling grip. “Pickled squab-fruit to start. Roast tenderloin of oal in roget sauce, accompanied by glazed pine-nibs and desiccated hasperat. And to finish, shallow-poached cloud pudding. Hmm. That’s not so difficult, for one with the proper experience. If you don’t have that experience, then what you do have is a problem.”

“You know these dishes?”

“Of course. Some have even been daily specials at my galleywagon.”

“Do you … oh! Can you … could you … ah … that is to say …” stammered Thardo Uzbik.

“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

Thardo Uzbik’s face reddened. “Will you help me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On this. When I was in business for myself, my title was the Cook For Any Price. What price will you offer me now?”

“What do you want?”

“My wage here has indeed been modest. Please make it adequate, if not generous.”

“I would have to consult with Sir Calium …”

“Before or after you confess to him your lack of skill?”

“Alright! Done.”

“Also, I would like to wear again the symbol of my chosen profession.”

“Also done. Do you require anything else?”

“Just three more things,” Prosatio Silban said. “Sharpen this knife, hand me those radishes, and stand well back.”

* * *

“You have saved my position, if not my entire career,” Thardo Uzbik said with thankful respect. “Sir Calium Thujo told me that he and his lady have never supped half so fine.”

“That is most pleasing to hear,” Prosatio Silban said. “As for me, if I may –”

“MASTER PROSATIO! What are you doing here?” came a deep and surprised bellow from across the kitchen. The voice’s owner, Sir Calium Thujo himself, stood in the doorway, a pleased if puzzled expression on his florid face.

“I have had financial difficulties, and your house-chef was kind enough to take me into your employ as an ingredient-placer,” Prosatio Silban said.

“An ingredient-placer? A cook of your caliber should be directing other cooks, not peeling tubers and dicing roots for them,” the merchant pronounced. “I had no idea you were wanting for coin! Would you like to make a standing arrangement as my new house-chef?”

Before Thardo Uzbik could splutter an objection, Prosatio Silban bowed. “Thank you, Sir Calium, for your gracious proposition. However, a talented individual is already serving you in that office – or will do, once he simmers more fully into the seasoned reduction-sauce of maturity. And with all due respect, my first loyalty has always been to the Commonwell’s many varied palates and gullets.”

“Too bad,” his patron said with mild disappointment. “At least let me underwrite a loan for your most basic needs, so that you may serve once again in that office. You’ll repay me, of course, but I know you – you’ll soon prosper.”

Prosatio Silban grinned. “Every cook has his price,” he said. “And you have just met mine.”

(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want another 85 stories in one easy-to-read package, here’s the e-book!)