IF SOMETHING COMES FROM NOTHING, is it worth the price?
Prosatio Silban sighed, and not for the first time that day. How did I come to this? he asked himself. I used to be more thrifty with my pantry and accounts. Perhaps fame has made me overconfident? What am I to do about it before the marketplace officials discover my vagrant status and eject me?
He sighed yet again and, as was his usual habit when he didn’t know what else to do, decided to take a walk.
The ambience of epicurean Pormaris’ busy South Market enveloped him like a familiar garment. Today, however, he took no joy from the noisy mélange of indefatigable hawkers, haggling merchants, and excitable bargain-seekers. In fact, as he trudged along, he could concentrate on little else than his dire prospects.
A wiser me would not have frittered away his livelihood based on hopeful expectancy, Prosatio Silban thought. There’s just no way out of this that I can – oof!
He cast a downward glance at the muddy market-lane to see what had tripped him.
He cast a downward glance at the muddy market-lane to see what had tripped him. Digging at the whatever-it-was with his toe revealed the leather spine of a book, and further hand-excavation disclosed it entirely: a small and square volume with a dingy red cover. He rubbed off the mud and exposed an embossed inscription in Ancient Uulian characters: SOMETHING FROM NOTHING.
Prosatio Silban gave out a low reflexive whistle, then looked with cool nonchalance from side to side. No one paid attention, so he tucked the book between long-vest and tunic and made his furtive but direct way back to his galleywagon. Once inside, he latched the door, placed his find on the oaken preparation-counter, brushed off the rest of the mud, and opened it.
“Desperate times doth summon desperate crimes,” (the first page read), “but this work, like the Great Work from which it is derived, will mayhap help the despairing to avoid both hunger and prison – the former through lack of sufficiency, the latter from lack of discretion. Follow My lead, and thy rewards will be thine with which to do as thou wilt. (signed) A:. A:.”
Intrigued, the cook-errant began leafing through his find. Each parchment page presented a woodcut of one or another dish – stew, roasted fidget-hen, steamed fish – framed by the words, “I create as I speak” at the top and the dish’s title at the bottom. The last page bore no illustration. Instead, the now-familiar five-word formula was simply appended by, “Cook what thou wilt shall be the whole of the spell.”
Does this mean what I think it does? Prosatio Silban wondered, a dubious smirk spreading across his face. I shall try something rare, if not unprecedented.
He raised the book and read aloud in his most imperious tone: “I create as I speak … truffled jaraanga beans!”
No sooner had he spoken than a blue flash filled the galleywagon. Before his eyes could readjust, the smell of truffled jaraanga beans teased his nostrils. As his vision returned, he regarded the full and fragrant porcelain bowl set before him, and his smirk became a grin.
I think my life just became a good deal more interesting, he thought, nodding in glee. And, I daresay, more profitable.
* * *
“I swear to you, Master Cook, that I have never tasted a more flavorful rack of lizard-ribs!” enthused the middle-aged man through sauce-smeared lips. “Not even my sainted grandmother could cook half so well.”
His compliments echoed those Prosatio Silban had been hearing for the past week. No one could explain why The Cook For Any Price’s galleywagon had been lately producing more superior food than usual, and in much greater abundance. They also didn’t care – as long as he continued so doing. His breakfast- and lunch-queues hadn’t been this long and eager since he had first gone into business, and his only concern was how to keep it all going. Such magik as he had been using was illegal in the Uulian Commonwell. But he couldn’t argue with his success. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?
At least, not until the complaints began.
“I don’t mind the weight loss,” came the first, from a formerly portly woman.
“I don’t mind the weight loss,” came the first, from a formerly portly woman. “But I have been eating from your kitchen all week and I have simply no energy!”
She was joined by another, older woman who demanded, “Why has my complexion turned so spotty since I began dining here exclusively?” And this from an irate older man: “The only thing I’ve done differently in the past few days is to patronize you for nearly every meal – and that’s the only thing that can explain these lesions!”
Other reports – too many! – told similar tales, to the extent that Prosatio Silban sought a better-informed authority. Thus, he created a modest dish of wheat-threads with dark green sausage and conveyed it to the Archive of Gastronomic Artifice. The great three-story building served as a culinary museum, school, and library. It also housed a relatively obscure research laboratory, where the public could submit food and beverage samples for ingredient analysis and possible replication. It was for this latter service that the apprehensive cook directed his footsteps.
“Master Prosatio!” came the boisterous greeting from the laboratory’s cheerful and rotund director. “So good to see you again! Everything going well, I trust? What have you for us today?”
Prosatio Silban offered a tentative smile. “To tell you the truth, I am not quite certain,” he said. “This was … well. Someone left it at my galleywagon this morning, and I am uncertain of its provenance. It does look appetizing enough, but before I taste it, can you perhaps discover what is this unusual sausage?”
The director nodded, giving the dish a critical once-over accompanied by thoughtful vocalizations. “That is, as you know, why we are here,” she said. “Hm! It does seem to be a simple plate of sausage-and-noodles, but as the saying goes, ‘You never can tell,’ yes? Our analysis should take only a day. Shall I send a porter to fetch you, or …?”
“No thank you,” the cook replied. “I’ll return here myself day after tomorrow, as I don’t know where I’ll be in the interim. Please – take your time.”
“The sweetest three words in any language,” the director said, and smiled. “We shall have something for you by then.”
I hope so, Prosatio Silban thought as he took his leave. But what will that ‘something’ be?
* * *
Two days later, the director’s face was a study in concerned confusion.
Two days later, the director’s face was a study in concerned confusion. “It is most puzzling,” she said, biting her lip. “We have examined this sample thoroughly. Several times in fact. But your ‘sausage’ seems to be composed of … nothing at all!”
Prosatio Silban’s eyebrows jumped. “What? How can that be?” he exclaimed.
“I do not know,” the director replied, shaking her head. “It has form, weight, flavor, aroma, and texture. But it also has no nutritive value whatsoever. Where did you say you got this?”
“It … appeared on my galleywagon steps, but I know not from where. Perhaps someone is playing me an elaborate joke.”
“Well, joke or no, I wouldn’t eat this if I were you. You would starve to death over the course of two weeks or so. Maybe you could emulate it instead? You know, to cook something that looks like it? Or mount it on your menu-board – give the public what to ogle and salivate over. Not to be flippant, but you should be grateful that at least it wouldn’t decompose …”
“Hmph. Thank you very much anyway,” Prosatio Silban said. He retrieved his dish and exited the Archive.
I should have guessed – “Something from Nothing” indeed! he thought. How can I make amends to my poor, sick customers?
* * *
The fresh-painted sign next to Prosatio Silban’s menu-board glistened in the Pormaris morning sunlight: SOMETHING FOR NOTHING!!! it read. TWO DAYS ONLY!!!
“What does that mean?” asked a passing, then pausing young man in the garb of a ‘prentice-weaver.
“Exactly what it says,” the cook replied. “I have decided to offer free meals to my customers today and tomorrow.”
The youth thought for a moment. “Breakfast and lunch?”
“On both days.”
“Honestly?”
“On my word as The Cook For Any Price.”
“I’ll stay here for both,” the young man said, and seated himself with a grin. “Let’s start with a big plate of Leisurely Eggs, please!”
“Let’s rather start with a small one,” Prosatio Silban cautioned, matching his customer’s smile. “My food may be more filling than what you’re used to.”
(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want more of them, in two easy-to-read packages, here are the first and second e-books. Enjoy!)
truly a filling story
Thank you!