Prosatio Silban and the Ravenous Inebriate

WHEN YOU’RE ROUSTED FROM A warm bed around midnight, it had better be worthwhile.

What in the Nine Hells is that racket? Prosatio Silban thought, rolling out of his sleeping berth and onto his galleywagon’s ornate braided rug. Is something on fire? A rampage of animals? Natural disaster? What? and more so, why?

The loud and rhythmic rapping at his door was then punctuated by slurred cries of “Hey! Cook! Wake up! I’m hungry!”

Cinching shut a crimson silk night-robe, Prosatio Silban stumped to the door and flung open its upper half. A young man clad in the latest Pormaris fashion – earth-colored tunic; dark grey kneebreeches, long-vest, and fez; a light grey cloak for protection against the chill night air – stood with one hand on the doorpost. His bloodshot eyes, red nose and date-brandy reek marked him as newly turned out from one of the epicurean city’s many late-night taverns.

Wonderful, the cook thought, mentally rolling his eyes.

Wonderful, the cook thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Just what I need – a drunk. And a hungry drunk at that. I’d better dispose of him and get back to bed. He fixed on his face as stern an expression as he could summon at that hour, and accosted the intoxicated interloper in icy tones.

“Why have you awakened me at this ungodsly hour?” he demanded. “I was dreaming of more coin than I have, and –”

“Never mind that,” the man drawled. “I’m hungry. And I won’t leave until you feed me. Listen here.”

He jingled a fat pouch before Prosatio Silban’s eyes. “You’re ‘The Cook For Any Price,’ right? Then I’ll give you two in silver for a good, satisfying meal. Please? What say?”

Two in silver? An exorbitant sum! the cook-errant thought, and his imperious frown melted. “Done,” he said. “For that amount, I will feed you very well. Give me but a moment.”

He closed the upper door-half and lit his fatberry-oil stove. I could really use the coin, even — or especially – at this late hour, he thought as he rummaged through pantry and coldbox. I’ll just make something simple and send him on his way.

Prosatio Silban fetched down a skillet from the overhead tangle of cookware and poured into it a modest measure of oil of olives from an earthenware cruet. Soon he added, in quick succession, sliced onion and a fat poultry-sausage; when these had respectively softened and browned, he pushed them to one side and cracked a fidget-hen egg into the hot skillet. After the egg had set somewhat, he tucked all three ingredients into a dense seeded bun and sprinkled on the entirety a few drops of volcano-pepper sauce. He rolled the bulging assembly into a large sheet of broadsheet-paper and opened the upper door-half.

“Here you are,” he told the man, handing him the hot, greasy parcel.

“Here you are,” he told the man, handing him the hot, greasy parcel. “Something to soak up whatever it is you’ve been drinking. Enjoy!”

“And here you are,” the man said, licking his lips and handing over the silver. “Many thanks – and g’night to you!”

“To you as well,” Prosatio Silban said to his customer’s retreating back. He closed and latched the door, extinguished the stove, eyed his used utensils, and decided to leave the washing-up for morning.

Now for a warm bed and – at last – more blessed slumber, he thought. He slid between parrot-down coverlet and firm tufted mattress and closed his eyes.

Just as sleep began to overtake him, there came a renewed pounding at his door, accompanied by hoarse calls for food from more than one throat.

What now?! Prosatio Silban thought, re-donning his robe. He stormed across the floor once again and re-flung the upper door-half. “Yes! What is it!” he cried.

This time, a double handful of roisterers met his eyes: all well-dressed young men and women, apparently holding each other up. A happy cacophony rang out at the cook’s appearance, and his previous customer raised one hand.

“I told all my friends about you!” he shouted with drunken pride. “They all wanted bites of what you cooked for me – wasn’t it delicious?”

Over their loud affirmations he continued. “We’ll pay you two in silver each, as before, if you cook for us what you cooked for me. Oh, and I’d like another one myself, since these louts devoured mine. What say, Master Cook?”

“Please? We’re so hungry!” one of the women added, and giggled.

“Can’t we come in?” one man asked through drink-thickened lips.

I suppose if they want to overpay me for a late supper or early break-fast, who am I to refuse? Prosatio Silban thought. “Very well,” he said. “Wait right here.”

“Can’t we come in?” one man asked through drink-thickened lips.

“There’s no room,” another scolded him. “Don’t be impolite.”

In spite of himself, Prosatio Silban grinned as he shut the door-half. In a trice he had fired the stove again, cooked and assembled a number of sausage-buns, and distributed them among the merrymakers.

“That is all of you, right?” he asked, provoking mumbled but hearty appreciation. “No asking for seconds, please – I really do need my sleep.”

“We promise,” came another chorus as the small and intimate crowd receded into the chilly dark with ragged-voiced gratitude.

The remainder of the night passed without incident, until sunlight on the galleywagon’s lozenge-paned windows filtered into the cook’s sleeping berth.

It’s not often a man awakens richer than when he went to sleep, Prosatio Silban thought with a smirk as he rolled out of bed. He busied himself with morning ablutions, the delayed washing-up, and – of course! – yava-brewing. The cook had just taken his first grateful, minty sip when a shy knock sounded at his door.

Isn’t it too early for break-fast customers? he wondered, and opened the upper door-half.

To his surprise, it was the same group of carousers, though more subdued and haunted-eyed than they had been earlier.

“With what may I please you now?” he inquired.

Their de facto ringleader blushed, cleared his throat, and murmured, “What have you for a hangover?”

(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 — and a cookbook. Enjoy!)