LIKE ALL PEOPLE ACROSS THE Uulian Commonwell, the Cook For Any Price always looked forward with eager anticipation to Sixth.
For the first five of the Uulian week’s six days, everyone (including beggars and outlanders) tended to their trades, professions, and occupations, only ceasing from such business on the last. This fixed holiday lasted from daybreak to nightfall, and was a time for relaxation or puttering; for self-enrichment or self-indulgence; for serious merriment or frivolous pastimes; for family gatherings or other pleasures, including those of the table.
To Prosatio Silban, Sixth usually meant an unbroken expanse of time wherein he could step away from the stove, hang up his apron, and lose himself in one of the innumerable works of his favorite author, Barbatus the Elder: poet, historian, and raconteur extraordinaire. This week’s escape was The Sages of Clam, a curious collection of folktales concerning the residents of Clam – a seaside village of well-meaning souls who quite erroneously fancied themselves wiser than their neighbors. The cook-errant had just reached what promised to be an intense narrative climax when a double knock sounded at his galleywagon door.
Oh no! he thought, rolling out of his sleeping-berth and onto his feet.
Oh no! he thought, rolling out of his sleeping-berth and onto his feet. This had better be worthwhile – Madrak’s prayer is about to be answered! He opened the door’s upper half, but before he could inquire as to his caller’s intentions, he was hailed with a cheery greeting.
“Happy Sixth, Master Cook!” said a young man in casual tunic and kneebreeches. “Would you like to join me and my friends for a spirited game of Middles? We’ll even spot you the first two cards!”
“That does sound tempting,” Prosatio Silban said. “But I am in the ‘middle’ of something else right now. Please enjoy your game – and thank you for your most kind offer.”
“Oh,” was the disappointed reply. “Well, we’ll be in the Park of the People if you change your mind.”
“I’ll remember that,” said the cook. “Off you go.” He closed the door, turned toward his berth, and was halfway across the ornate braided rug when another knock announced another caller.
“Yes?” he asked, cracking the door’s upper half.
“Happy Sixth, sir!” said a well-dressed woman of his own half-advanced years, dimpling with natural charm.
“Happy Sixth,” he replied. “But please – do not call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”
“My mistake!” She hefted a laden basket. “What would you say to a festive, shared lunch? It’s such a nice day, and I have packed more than I can eat alone.”
“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your most generous proposal. However, I have made other, more immediate plans, and I …”
“Say no more,” she replied with a crestfallen sigh. “If your plans change, though, I will be under the shady purple-oak in the Park of the People.”
“I don’t believe they will, but you have my deepest gratitude for thinking of me. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
The cook watched her depart, then smiled at himself.
The cook watched her depart, then smiled at himself – A sweet one, she is! he thought – and shut the upper door. What I may need do is to leave my visitor-attractive galleywagon and find a private tree of my own to sit under. Nothing aids a reader’s attention like a lovely day in the People’s Park. He retrieved his book; slipped into a pair of rubber-soled, black cotton shoes; grabbed a large, blue-striped towel; and exited with all speed.
Once in the park – the most sumptuous of Pormaris’ many public spaces, a profusion of singing fountains, broad lawns, and a vast and variegated array of plantings from overtowering trees to humble flowers – Prosatio Silban made sure to avoid both of his earlier callers. With a triumphant smirk he struck a beeline for a good-sized hedge of tall fragrantia at the edge of a spacious greensward, out of sight from the other patrons. He spread his towel and lay down on it with a happy exclamation, opening the book to its long-anticipated page. Now we’ll see if and how the Flickering Gods will favor Madrak, he thought.
He had read no more than two sentences when something bounced off his belly with a light blow, less painful than startling, and landed next to his head. The object turned out to be a fist-sized, colorful rubber sphere. A pair of red-faced boys stood not far off; they approached with apologetic hesitancy.
“Sorry, master,” said one with sincere contrition. “Our ball got away from us.”
“Yes. Sorry,” said the other, and attempted a tentative grin. “Happy Sixth! Do you want to play catch with us?”
“No. Thank you,” Prosatio Silban said, and tossed them the offending orb. “Off you go.” Perhaps there’s someplace more secluded? he thought in exasperation, rising and gathering up his towel.
Nearby, a thick shock of orange-leaf bushes separated two untenanted commons. The cook was about to enter it when the soft laughter of furtive lovers reached his ears, obviously emanating from within.
Is there no peace to be had for me today? I may as well return to my busy berth! he thought, and spun on his heel.
By this point, the warm sun was dominating the noonday sky.
By this point, the warm sun was dominating the noonday sky. Prosatio Silban reached his galleywagon without further incident, only to be surprised by an assortment of parcels sitting on his driver’s bench. What’s this? Wheat bread? White duliac? A lump of truffled cheese? Wine-olives? Cured beef-sausage? Tinned mumblefish? Jewel dates? he marveled, sorting through each item. How nice! I am hungry for lunch after all, and there’s even enough for an easy supper. Whoever did this, I thank you.
Soon, half the ample repast was laid out. Prosatio Silban set his full plate on the lid of the coldbox, picked up a short knife, and was about to slice into the cheese when he was interrupted – by yet another knock.
WHAT NOW! he thought, and partly opened the door’s top-half. He was about to bark a firm but polite rebuff, when his earlier visitor dimpled at him.
“I thought you might think better of a shared meal if I supplied the ingredients, and you were the one who offered them to me,” she said with an enchanting smile. “May I join you?”
He was about to demur again, but instead his heart melted in resigned delight. “Do come in, please,” he said, and swung wide the door. “Table pleasures are always more pleasurable with company.” Maybe what I sought wasn’t solitude after all, he finished to himself. I suppose Madrak will just have to fare without me this week.
(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!)