ALL GOOD THINGS MUST EVENTUALLY be replaced, though not without some effort or expense – so Prosatio Silban discovered on a cloudy summer’s day in stony-hearted Tirinbar, whose inhabitants were the most reputedly avaricious in the Uulian Commonwell’s Three Cities and Thousand Villages.
To be precise: the beefy cook’s beloved, six-burner fatberry-oil cookstove with the dented chimney pipe suffered a rather fiery demise due to his having pushed the ancient equipment’s limits once too often. He was in his galleywagon preparing separate breakfasts for a handful of different customers (marbled eggs, poached eggs, eggs over easy, 180-heartbeat eggs, sausages, and root-hash, each accompanied by various types of oven-toasted bread), when all at once he was dumping frantic handsful of sand on leaping flames and trying to keep the adjacent bulkhead from igniting. The latter effort was largely successful, but the range itself (not to mention the food) was a complete loss.
By Donekar, Watcher over Unintended Mishap, and Angrim the All-Limiter, he prayed as he surveyed the sandy mess. Help me to at least know what my next step is – and likewise, help me take it.
He was standing in the galleywagon’s open doorway with an I’ve-smelled-something-very-unpleasant expression on his piggish face.
“What’s all this, then?” barked an official-looking man in the sharply tailored grey linen and black chainmail of a Tirinbar city guard. He was standing in the galleywagon’s open doorway with an I’ve-smelled-something-very-unpleasant expression on his piggish face.
“A small stove-fire,” Prosatio Silban answered. “It is fortunate that nothing else was harmed.”
“It’s not so small. It could have burned up your galleywagon, and then the adjacent stalls. And what about your wall panel? You will need to replace that at least.”
“Bulkhead.”
“Bulk-what?”
“Bulkhead. The man who outfitted my galleywagon was a former ship’s carpenter. That is what he called it, and I liked it so much that –”
“Whatever he called it, it too will need repairs,” sneered the guard. “That’s two violations of our city’s danger-policy, not to mention an offense against the All-Limiter’s sense of proper endings. See to righting them at once.”
Prosatio Silban sighed to himself. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“That’s not my concern. And you should keep it from becoming so.” The guard extended an open hand.
Suppressing his annoyance, the cook reached into his money-pouch, pulled out one in silver and placed the coin in the proffered palm. The guard smiled and slid the bribe into his own pouch.
“Beyond Tirinbar’s mountain-foot gate, there is a high cliff overlooking the city’s dumping ground on the eastern shore of the Inland Deep,” he said. “What happens to your stove then is up to the gods. Only be sure to remove it from the marketplace before nightfall. Otherwise, it would be a third violation – and I’m not certain you could afford that.” With a menacing grin, the guard stomped off.
Having apologized to his disappointed customers (and refunded their coin), Prosatio Silban cast about for some brawny porters. Such could always be found in profusion in the Commonwell’s markets; ready to fetch, carry or labor for a price in copper or, given sufficient cause, silver. But there were none in the immediate neighborhood. Finally, four makeshift blocks away, he found a trio of men fitting his needs. Each bore a resemblance to the others, and were rolling tetrahedral bones against a palm wine-seller’s stall.
The cook cleared his throat. “I need some strapping men for a quick haul of something heavy.”
“How heavy?” asked one.
“A six-burner cookstove.”
“How quick?” asked another.
“From here to the communal dumping-ground.”
“When?” asked the third.
“Ah, but there’s where it gets difficult,” said the first with a sneer.
“Right away.”
The men exchanged squints. “Ah, but there’s where it gets difficult,” said the first with a sneer. “We are brothers. And today is our birthday.”
“What does that mean?” asked the cook.
“It means we do not work,” added the second.
“Without extra wages,” put in the third.
With a bland expression, Prosatio Silban reached into his money-pouch. “Would ten in copper change your mind?”
“For all, or for each?” asked the first.
“All,” said the cook.
“Sorry,” said the second, and rattled the dice in his closed hand.
“Fine. Each, then.”
“Master Cook, you have hired yourself some eager hands,” declared the third. The others smiled in agreement.
* * *
In order to remove the cookstove, the brothers first had to detach the galleywagon’s upper and lower door-halves, which they did after great discussion. A small crowd of vendors and vendees had gathered to supervise the operation, offering such advice and encouragement as, “Go it, lads!” “Watch your heads!” and “Watch your backs!” After they and their weighty charge had exited Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon and inched past his driver’s bench, they landed it in a waiting oxcart. A great cheer went up.
The mercenary cook waved on his temporary team and, as their low-riding cart disappeared cliffward, he re-entered his workplace-cum-vehicle and inspected the now-bare bulkhead. It was indeed damaged – scorches and sears mostly – but not as badly as his departed stove. Now to seek a stovewright, he thought. But first, a carpenter.
The latter proved simpler to find. “An easy repair,” she said, caressing the blackened bulkhead. “The panel will need removal and replacement. However, today is sacred to my patron god, Ghu the All-Crafter. It is a time to contemplate handiwork, not engage in it.”
“There is no contemplation without something to contemplate,” Prosatio Silban pointed out.
“There is no contemplation without something to contemplate,” Prosatio Silban pointed out. “Could you not be persuaded to do so in a partly renovated galleywagon?”
She sneered in the same manner as the now-departed brothers. “One in silver to rend, and one in silver to mend. And for an additional six in copper, I can give you the name and address of a good stovewright: Gulo Nataar, in the Street of the Makers.”
“Only six in copper?”
“Holyday rates, Master Cook. He’s a tall man, solidly built; with long, flaming red hair and three fingers on his left hand. And a word in your ear – he is more religious than I, so he’ll likely be at the True Temple rather than at home.”
“Well. Thank you for your service and advice,” Prosatio Silban said, and turned on his heel. It is now the touch of noon, he thought. What am I to do with the rest of the day?
* * *
After spending a quarter-hour quaffing overpriced, inferior stout in one of the City of Toil’s mostly untenanted taverns, and an additional half-hour splashing pebbles into the icy Inland Deep, Prosatio Silban was at his wits’ end for a diversion. Without a stove, I can’t practice my trade for at least the rest of this day. With the carpenter repairing my galleywagon, I can’t relax in my sleeping berth browsing a collection of Barbatus the Elder’s gripping tales. By Everwen, Finder of the Otherwise Obscure, I might as well try to contact this Gulo Nataar in the place where he prays.
A slow smile crept across his face. Why not? How many tall, stocky redheads can there be in this city – or at least the Temple?
The True Temple was a massive arcade-fronted marble dome, located in Tirinbar’s geographic center like a great stone heart pulsing with the rhythm of its supplicators’ chants. Prosatio Silban could hear the call-and-response rhythms from blocks away. It was overflowing with worshippers; some tended miniature smoking altars crowned with images of the Lord of Practical Creativity, while others contemplated various works of cunning fabrication. The cook-errant scanned the crowd but caught no glimpse of his quarry. I’ll have to pass a gate-ward, he thought, and won’t that be happy?
Donning his most earnest and faith-proclaiming expression, Prosatio Silban approached the nearest arch. The great ivory-columned portal was blocked by a broad-shouldered man wearing the tricolor livery of a Temple guard, who fastened his eyes on the advancing cook.
“Halt in the name of the Flickering Gods!” the guard barked. “What is your business?”
The guard swept a suggestive hand at the surrounding worshippers.
“I wish to make obeisance.”
The guard swept a suggestive hand at the surrounding worshippers. “It is all but crowded within. You will have to make reverential do with the rest of the latecomers.”
“But I also have an urgent message for Gulo Nataar. He is inside.”
“That is your problem. However, I cannot allow you to enter.”
“Can you give the message to him?”
“Services have already begun. It would be mild sacrilege for me to leave my post for any reason.”
“Let me put it another way. Do you stand here for love of the gods, or for payment?”
The guard sneered. “What are you asking me?”
“I am asking you if one in silver would allow me to complete my errand.”
“No. But two would.”
* * *
The Temple interior was murky with incense-smoke and loud with sacred cadence. As his eyes adjusted to the brazier-lit gloom, Prosatio Silban cast probing glances among the genuflecting congregation.
Suddenly, a tall, well-built man stood up three rows before him. Loudly whispering excuse-mes and pardons, the cook made his fumbling way toward the man’s seat, hoping for a more firm identification. Sure enough, the seat’s back was marked with a small brass plaque reading “Sir Gulo Nataar.” I have you now, he thought, and turned to introduce himself.
Now, you should know, O Patient Reader, that depending on which Flickering God is being worshipped, Uulian services can shade from simple to complex. The specific liturgy praising Ghu was somewhere between those extremes: attendees read from a slim prayer codex, with bowing and kneeling a complement to responsive readings as appropriate.
At the exact moment Prosatio Silban opened his mouth, the choir – joined by the congregants – began singing a loud rendition of the beloved Uulian hymn, “In Your Skillful Hands.” Gulo Nataar, with open codex before him, closed his eyes and joined in with a joyful tenor. In part, it went like this:
With that out of the way, and reverent faces aglow, Gulo Nataar and his co-congregants took their seats once again.
“We are as clay or wood or bronze
Waiting for Your impress, waiting for Your impress;
More complex than inanimate contrivance
We sing to You with the body You made for us.”
With that out of the way, and reverent faces aglow, Gulo Nataar and his co-congregants took their seats once again. I don’t know this service very well, Prosatio Silban thought. I’ll have to be brief.
“Excuse me,” he said to the stovewright. “I am Prosatio Silban, ‘The Cook For Any Price,’ and I have a –”
“All praise to the All-Crafter!” sang the enraptured assembly. “All praise to His holiness!”
“— for you,” the cook finished.
Gulo Nataar fixed him with one frosty eye. “I am trying to pray here,” he said, “and I will not conduct business in this holy place.” So saying, he – and everyone else – bowed. Prosatio Silban did the same, then tugged at one voluminous sleeve.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “My livelihood, and by extension my life, are at stake.”
“Not interested.”
“Please? What would the All-Mother say?”
“She would not say it to me.”
“Not even to help a fellow Uulian?”
“Begone with you.”
“What about for seven-and-a-half in gold?”
Gulo Nataar opened his mouth, closed it, looked down at the persistent cook, and sneered.
* * *
Chuckling to himself, Prosatio Silban flicked the plaited yak-hair reins of his galleywagon as he urged his dray-beast along the road from Tirinbar. They seemed to travel a touch more slowly than was usual, which the cook attributed to his new and heavier-than-before cookstove. The way to a man’s heart, he thought, is often through his coin-pouch.