Prosatio Silban and the Paid Piper

WHEN THE CHICKENS COME HOME to roost, there is often confusion in the henhouse.

What a strange dream, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting up in his sleeping-berth. So vivid. So compelling.

Then he caught his breath and listened.

Someone or something is here in my galleywagon, he thought.

He grasped the bedside cudgel, folded himself into a quiet crouch, and prepared to leap through the black silk curtain screening him from whoever – or whatever – was on the other side.

“I will not endanger you,” came a soft but confident voice. “In truth, I only wish to converse.”

Prosatio Silban considered, let go the cudgel, and parted the curtain. A short figure stood in the middle of his ornate braided rug. The intruder had curly black hair and wore a white robe reaching below the knees; window-filtered moonslight glinted on even white teeth.

“You may kindle a lamp, if you wish,” the figure said. “Day and night are all the same to me.”

“You may kindle a lamp, if you wish,” the figure said. “Day and night are all the same to me.”

Prosatio Silban stepped down from his sleeping-berth, struck a friction-match, and lit one of the fatberry-oil lanterns hanging from the concave ceiling. The intruder was of indeterminate age and gender, with piercing emerald eyes holding a mixture of appraisal and disdain.

“Who are you?” the cook asked.

“I am your reckoner,” was the reply. “You have totted up quite the debt. And I am here to collect.”

“Ah. Well. You have caught me at a time of sparse finances,” the cook said. “My coin-jar is nowhere near full, and I —”

“I am not here for your coin.”

“Oh?”

“You are no longer a Sacreant. Yet you continue to use Sacreantal forms to ease your life. Have you never listened to the prayers you utter?”

“I don’t think I…”

The intruder lifted a hand, and a ghostly image of Prosatio Silban’s mouth appeared. “…And in return for Your favor, I shall speak of Your great kindness wherever the opportunity presents itself,” the image said. “This I affirm…”

“But you have not so affirmed,” the intruder said as the image faded. “You have neither happened upon nor created any such opportunities. No matter what has been provided you, only a promise of gratitude has spilled from your lips. Now is the time for change.”

What a strange dream, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting up in his sleeping-berth. So vivid. So compelling.

He parted the curtain and rolled to his feet. A nagging memory teased at his awareness as he set about brewing a cup of yava. There is something I should be doing, he thought as water began to boil. Other than bustling for my breakfast, that is. But what?

That thought consumed his attention as he retrieved from his pantry a crisp poppyhorn and paper bag of dried yava-flowers. This is going to drive me mindless, he thought, loading the fragrant herb into a bronze-mesh ball. I hope I remember whatever-it-was before it’s time to serve the breakfast crowd.

Thus distracted, the cook reached for the steaming teapot, missed, seared his fingers, and yelped. “O Donekar, Watcher Over the Unintended Mishap!” he exclaimed. “May it please You to counter my maladroit circumstance and work Your healing deliverance on my accidental injury. In return for Your favor, I shall speak of Your great kindness wherever the opportunity presents itself. This I…” He trailed off.

Wait a moment, Prosatio Silban thought, wincing as he flexed his still-smarting appendages.

Wait a moment, Prosatio Silban thought, wincing as he flexed his still-painful appendages. Wait just a moment. Isn’t my hand supposed to be healed by now?

“With what may I please you?” Prosatio Silban asked the sable-curled, emerald-eyed figure seated outside the galleywagon at one of two empty tables-and-chairs.

“What do you say?” the other asked.

“What do I say?” the cook echoed. He had been about to mention the daily specialty (fried beef strips with peppered gravy, chive biscuit, and hot yava), but his hand throbbed as if scalded.

“Yes. Do you have something to say?”

“Come to mention it, I do.” He extended his sore hand. “Do you know how I came by this burn?”

“No. It looks a painful injury.”

“It is, thanks to Donekar, God of the Unintended Mishap, Who both causes and cures all manner of unlooked-for catastrophes for reasons only He knows. But He has dealt kindly with me many times before, more so than I deserve, and I humble myself before His memory and attention. All praise to His name!”

The other smiled, showing even white teeth. “All praise,” came the chorused reply.

The cook-errant returned the smile. “This I affirm,” he said, and wiggled his fingers. “Much better.”

What a strange dream, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting up in his sleeping-berth. So vivid. So compelling…

(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!)