Prosatio Silban and the Merry Misfortunate

WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO become unforgotten?

“As for me,” Prosatio Silban said, raising his glass of white duliac to the Pelvhi’s Chopping-House customers crowded around him, “the most memorable person I ever met was a man who went by the alias of ‘Lucky.’ Let me tell you about our first encounter …”

* * *

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the limping, ragged man, and bowed deeply. “I don’t suppose you would, but I must ask anyway: Can you help out with a meal a fellow Uulian who’s down on his luck?”

This is a man who knows who he is, the cook thought. I shall treat him accordingly.

Prosatio Silban thought for a moment. It was a bitter-cold day in epicurean Pormaris, typical of the wintry Season of Contemplation, and his sales were slow from the lack of passersby. The beefy cook was not usually much of a soft touch, but circumstances conspired for him to have pity on the beggar; perhaps it was the man’s once-lavish clothing, or the gleam of former nobility in one watery eye, or the expectant smile, or air of self-possession. This is a man who knows who he is, the cook thought. I shall treat him accordingly.

“With what may I please you?” he asked in his most professional voice.

“Ah, sir,” came the drawled reply. “You have but to search your heart and bestow on me such generosity as you may think best to provide. As the old saying goes, I cannot be much of a chooser.”

“In that case, please take whichever seat you like,” Prosatio Silban said with sincere solicitude. “You are fortunate – if I had more customers today, you would have less of a choice. How did you come to this state?”

“It happened when I was lifting an anvil, and it slipped out of me grasp and fell on me leg,” the man said. “And since then, I have been unable to work. It’s too bad, what?”

“That is too bad. I can see why you that would encumber you so.”

“It’s only an encumbrance in bad weather. When the days are fine, my health is better. But the cold aggravates me something awful.”

“Well. If you will excuse me, I shall bring you a bowl of jaraanga beans. Hot.”

“Thank you. For the meal, and for your kind ear and manner.”

“You are most welcome. What is your name, sir?”

“Merculus Phyzzlan. But you may call me ‘Lucky.’”

“‘Lucky’ it is, then. I shan’t be but a moment.”

* * *

“Our next meeting came exactly four months to the day after that, in the balmy and sweet Season of Rebirth,” said the cook-errant. “He greeted me with warm fellowship, but it took me a moment to remember him …”

* * *

“My good friend Master Prosatio!” said Merculus Phyzzlan, sitting down at one of the cook-errant’s two tables-and-chairs. “So good to see you again! I don’t suppose you could help out with a meal a fellow Uulian who’s down on his luck?”

Prosatio Silban raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Who the devil is this? he thought. His tattered clothing marks him as a beggar, but he seems to know me. Perhaps I’d best play along.

“It is so … erm … good to see you as well,” he said. “With what may I please you?”

“With precious little,” was the reply. “My wife drove me from our hovel, and in the commotion I quite mislaid my coin pouch. Do you suppose that I might prevail upon your generosity once again?”

His tone and demeanor feel familiar, but distantly so. “We have met?” the cook persisted.

“Onrea, Goddess of Unexpected and Pivotal Calamity, has been unkind to me since our last encounter some months ago.”

“Yes. My friends know me as ‘Lucky.’ Onrea, Goddess of Unexpected and Pivotal Calamity, has been unkind to me since our last encounter some months ago. A man like yourself, in your busy trade, well … you see so many faces, I am sure they all blend into one. I do not blame you for having forgotten me.”

“Now you are being generous. As befits your nickname, you are in luck today – the afternoon crowd has gone, and I can provide you with anchovy toast and lavish attention. I shall bring the former, and you will repay the latter. Begin by telling me about this wife of yours …”

* * *

“Once again time passed, until our third encounter exactly one-hundred twenty days later. This time, though, I recognized him immediately …”

* * *

“It’s not as though me landlady is unfair,” Merculus Phyzzlan said in a resigned tone between bites of tubefish-topped blue rice. “After all, I have no coin to speak of, else I could pay you as well. But for her to evict me when I am near death from a bad case of the Galloping Grunts? Who does such a thing?”

“You certainly do have your run of poor fortune,” Prosatio Silban said through a disapproving grimace. “Didn’t you tell me when last we met that your wife did the out-tossing?”

“One cannot be held responsible for the caprices of Onrea or Her earthly daughters,” Lucky replied, and shook his head. “After all, no matter how hard he tries, a man can only please one woman at a time …”

* * *

“As the months became years, his dunning became no less insistent or outlandish …”

* * *

“D’you mean to tell me that your riverbank home burned down after being struck by lightning?” asked a flabbergasted Prosatio Silban. “Only to have its ruins carried away by one of the River Reaching’s infrequent floods?”

“I barely escaped with me life!” replied an earnest Merculus Phyzzlan as he munched his marbled cheese-and-biscuit. “As the All-Limiter is my witness, had it not been for a narrow rescue by me alert and dutiful pack-zebra, I’d not be standing here relating this tale today.”

“That is inventive.”

“My brother, you have no idea. Please – pass the salt?”

* * *

“I did my best to resist his admitted charm, but try as I might, he was always one weird tale ahead of me …”

“I did my best to resist his admitted charm, but try as I might, he was always one weird tale ahead of me …”

* * *

“So your pack-zebra died? But how does that explain your current lack of coin?” asked the cook-errant with ill-disguised suspicion.

“He was enthusiastically browsing just that part of the yard where I dropped me coin pouch,” Merculus Phyzzlan declared with perfect innocence, lifting a roasted fidget-hen leg, “and choked to death after making a valiant but vain effort to swallow. Fifteen years he served me (sniffle). Excuse me while I dry me eyes, but the memory is still too fresh …”

* * *

“And so it went, every four months, year in and year out. His inadvertent fall down a salt-mine shaft. His temporary blindness. Robbery. Mistaken identity. A sick wife. Then a dead wife. A freak cart accident. And other economic excuses too convoluted to relate to you all here. He never lacked for a story, and each time I saw him I let him cadge another meal. After all, what would you have done?”

“I’d have bounced him out on his ear,” replied an innkeeper.

“I would laugh in his face,” said a waiter.

“I would at least shoo him politely away,” said the owner of a street-food stall. “Wasn’t he stealing your labor and livelihood?”

“Do not get me wrong,” said Prosatio Silban, raising both hands for emphasis. “I knew all along that he was playing me for a generous fool. But he always came at off-hours, well-timed so as to avoid inconveniencing either me or my paying customers. And he was so entertaining! Frankly, it was worth all the bowls of beans and blue rice and endless cups of yava just to watch Lucky act his part.”

“Truly, a remarkable character,” said Pelvhi. “Whatever happened to him?”

The cook-errant lowered his eyes. “One day, he ceased to visit me at his appointed hour. Then the next appointment came and went. Curious, and with a modicum of foreboding, I researched at Pormaris’ Annals of the Public Interest. Their records indicated that he had left this most interesting of all possible worlds more than six months previously. They also gave the name and address of a Sacreant at the shrine of Funeata, Goddess of Equitable Executorships, so I decided to inquire there as to his legal disposition. You may imagine my surprise when the Sacreant told me that Lucky had left me – this.”

Prosatio Silban produced from a pocket of his long-vest a folded scrap of parchment, which he shook open and commenced to narrate.

Prosatio Silban produced from a pocket of his long-vest a folded scrap of parchment, which he shook open and commenced to narrate:

“To my longtime and patient friend – Thank you for all the meals with which you have provided me. They were delicious and sustaining, but not nearly so as your constant and attentive company. Your acquaintance has meant more to me than any ample coin, even if of gold. Here is what I owe you in full – fifty-three in copper, all I have in the world since the sinkhole swallowed me beloved hovel – plus one other item which I hope you find practical. Please think of me when you use it. I look forward to seeing you in the Pure City. (signed) Lucky.”

Pelvhi broke the ensuing and all-surrounding silence. “That is … beautiful,” she breathed. “But what was the item?”

From another pocket, Prosatio Silban withdrew a long wooden spoon. “It is the ideal utensil,” he said. “It can reach the bottom of my deepest pots, and the half-spherical bowl is perfect for stirring and tasting their contents. I could not myself have designed or carved a better.”

“And do you think of him when you use it?” asked a house-chef.

“Every day,” the cook-errant said with an enigmatic smile. “Every single day.”

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