MUCH HAS BEEN WRITTEN OF the nomadic Xao, one of three peoples descended from the Exilic Lands’ original inhabitants. But of their sundered cousins, the forest-dwelling Xai, few tales have been told – and fewer still are those outsiders who have visited their native home and returned with tales of their own.
As was his longstanding habit when his coin jar became heavy, Prosatio Silban and his dray-beast Onward were taking their ease by meandering through someplace unfamiliar to either of them: in this case, the vast and light-dappled Greenlanes, north of the Uulian Commonwell. From the forest’s flat, leaf-carpeted floor sprouted tall and variegated stands of spirewood, teal cypress, half-moon bay, and many other trees the cook-errant couldn’t identify.
For such a woodland wonder to be so accessible by galleywagon is no mean miracle, he thought, reveling in the half-lit stillness accented by sad magah-bird cries and the glassy zizz of invisible insects. Praise to the blessed All-Mother, and to Qao, Goddess of Arboreal Glory, for such natural magnificence!
He had passed into a wide, thunder oak-encircled clearing, and was about to pass out of it when his happy meditations were cut short.
He had passed into a wide, thunder oak-encircled clearing, and was about to pass out of it when his happy meditations were cut short. A long dart bounced off what passed for Onward’s right flank, eliciting a sharp rattling hoot of protest.
From behind a sturdy emerald birch stepped a muscular, bronze-complected man dressed in grey-and-green linen, his braided black beard contrasting his shaven head. He held a blowgun pointed at the ground, and when he spoke, thick-accented Uulian tumbled from his lips.
“Apologies,” the man said, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Were not my target. But could soon become if do not tell me what are doing in my home.”
“Tell me first why you are assaulting my buopoth!” Prosatio Silban demanded.
“We Xai are in casual war with our enemies,” the archer said, and grimaced. “Can appear anywhere, so we must be vigilant. Sometimes, travelers get in the way. Most misfortunate.”
“Your ‘misfortune’ almost injured my dray-beast,” the cook said, flaring. “Who are these ‘enemies?’”
“Treeborn. Have no respect for the forest majesty, or we who live here.”
Prosatio Silban opened his mouth to reply, when a bowstring twanged and a clothyard shaft ricocheted from what could have been Onward’s left flank, producing another startled cry. A short woman in brown and green caftan stepped out from the cover of a lofty scarlet elm. Her wiry frame, large ears, deep purple eyes, and long silver hair declared her to the cook as one of the elusive and reclusive Treeborn.
I have always wanted to meet the Treeborn, he thought with quiet awe. But these are not the circumstances I had in mind.
“Please forgive my wayward arrow,” she said in lilting Uulian. “Were it not for these scrub-ruffians” – she lifted her chin at the Xai – “there would be no need for us to take up arms. However, they have no regard for these noble trees, or for those who rightly dwell beneath their leaf-thick canopies.”
“Are you saying there is no room for you both within this mighty forest?” he asked with incredulity.
The cook swiveled his head from grievant to grievant. “Are you saying there is no room for you both within this mighty forest?” he asked with incredulity.
“Our communities are separated by some distance, and we only skirmish at the infrequent encounter – such as within this clearing, which lies across our two territories’ border. But we hate the Xai with a cold fire.”
“This forest is ours,” chimed in the Xai. “We fight to claim it all.”
“How many casualties have resulted from this situation?” asked Prosatio Silban.
The Xai cast his eyes downward. “Few.”
“Actually, none,” said the Treeborn with a wistful sneer. “Our weapons seem more effective against game than people.”
The cook frowned. “To be blunt, I find your mutual claims to be absurd,” he said. “Surely there is enough space for your respective folk to abide here in peace, or at least in separated rancor.”
“We have lived here far longer than they,” began the Treeborn. “Our ancestors –”
“We belong here more,” interrupted the Xai. “Our foremothers –”
“Enough!” cried Prosatio Silban. “You are not going to solve this dilemma by shooting at one another – nor at me. I am but a stranger here, and a transient one at that.”
The Treeborn narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
“I am Prosatio Silban, the Cook For Any Price.”
Her smile registered recognition. “’Prosatio Silban,’” she repeated. “Your name precedes you, even here.”
“How so? I have never before visited this domain.”
“Uulian traders,” she said with a shrug. “They talk. And we listen.”
“What matters this?” asked the Xai.
“In addition to one of the Commonwell’s famous chefs (or so it is said), he has a reputation for solving difficulties,” the Treeborn told him. “Can it be that he can solve ours?”
The cook put on his most polite face. “What do you propose?” he asked.
“We both lay claim to this land. Perhaps the right to live in it should go to the ones who most capably utilize its resources.”
“Yes, what?” the Xai rejoined.
“We both lay claim to this land. Perhaps the right to live in it should go to the ones who most capably utilize its resources.”
“In what way?” Prosatio Silban persisted.
“In our most basic and fundamental means. Judge our culinary traditions.”
“And what are those?”
The Xai spoke up. “We eat sweet game-meat and fruit, which we smoke over fire.”
“We use the same elements,” the Treeborn added, “except that ours are roasted and spiced.”
“Well, then,” Prosatio Silban said. “If you are both amenable, then how if you cook for me your most prized dish? I will taste them at high sun tomorrow, in this clearing. Let whoever makes the best use of their ingredients, in my experienced and discerning opinion, win the right to reside in the Greenlanes without further molestation. After all, those closest to the land should know how best to refine what it offers. Agreed?”
The combative pair locked appraising eyes, then whispered together a single word: “Agreed.”
* * *
Came the morrow, two walls of living sound embraced the clearing – earthy pipes on one side and ethereal strings on the other, accompanied by appropriate though wordless voices. No musicians could be glimpsed within the all-surrounding trees, but their twinned musics waxed and waned in intertwined harmony and discord.
Prosatio Silban sat at a broad wooden table in the clearing’s exact center, and the two representatives emerged from opposite points of its oak-rimmed periphery. They were clad as before, but in more somber colors, and each bore a covered platter. A simple grey-and-green cloth concealed the Xai offering, with that of the Treeborn hidden under a gleaming silver dome.
The cook arose, and bowed to each in turn. “I am grateful for the confidence and trust with which you have invested me and my pending judgment,” he said. “Please place your dishes on the table.”
“Wait!” interjected the Xai envoy. “Whose is tasted first?”
“Wait!” interjected the Xai envoy. “Whose is tasted first?”
“As your countryman was the first to attack me,” replied Prosatio Silban, “I shall begin with your opponent. Now please – place your dishes.”
They did so, with just-audible grumbling from the Xai, and the cook sat down again. He lifted the dome to reveal a generous quantity of sliced targum-haunch, nestled by assorted chopped fruits from which sweet-smelling steam arose. Prosatio Silban sniffed, smiled, and tucked in, emitting small sounds of interested pleasure.
After tasting the Treeborn’s fare, the cook next removed the Xai’s cloth, disclosing smoke-fragrant breast of flightless phoenix-duck surrounded by black peaches whose stones had been removed. Prosatio Silban sniffed and smiled once more, then began to eat with gusto.
At last he pushed away both plates, wiped his mouth, burped softly into his napkin, and closed his eyes; as if on cue, the dueling musics faded into silence. After a long moment, during which the envoys tried not to look anxious, Prosatio Silban opened his eyes and adopted an expression whose gravity matched the occasion.
“I have made my ruling,” he said. “First, though, I wish to express my appreciation and compliments to your respective chefs. They have done themselves proud by their labor and invention, and are to be congratulated. I am privileged to have eaten from your cuisines.
“And now, my decision,” he said, and stood.
“Second, I know it has not been easy for either of you to make even a temporary peace and to trust in my judgment. I am an outsider among your two peoples, and for you to have placed in me your faith is no small matter. Sometimes an outsider can see things with greater depth than can one caught in a conflict.
“And now, my decision,” he said, and stood. “Both dishes had distinctive good points, and embodied different but important principles. For the Treeborn, it was their complexity; for the Xai, it was simplicity.
“Thus, I am happy to declare as follows.”
The Xai fidgeted. The Treeborn held her breath.
“My judgment is this: You will return to your own realms, to live where you have long done since before your introductory squabble, and stay out of each other’s reach for the next century less a decade.”
“What!” exclaimed the Xai.
“Why?” cried the Treeborn.
“Because,” replied Prosatio Silban, mounting the galleywagon driver’s bench, “by that time I shall be dead, and the subsequent deciding will then fall to someone else – someone with perhaps greater sympathy for your otherwise unending cause. Meanwhile, by Angrim’s stark fist! you both can leave me alone. And for that, I will thank you most sincerely.” So saying, he grasped the plaited yak-hair reins and gentled his dray-beast forward.
Few love to be at war, he thought. But I suppose there are always exceptions.
(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!)