Tag: Fictions

WE’VE ALL HEARD OF LOST arts. But what about lost artists?

Prosatio Silban rolled out of his sleeping-berth and onto his ornate braided rug, studying the bedside mirror with worry etched on his face and defeat slumping his shoulders.

I can’t do this anymore, he thought at his downcast image. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Shattered Vessel”

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. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Paid Piper”

WE HAVE READ MANY TIMES of the Heirs Second, who rule the Uulian Commonwell by solemn duty and occasional whim.

But who rules the Heirs Second?

Late one night, Prosatio Silban was hard at work scrubbing the inside of a large copper boiling-pot. A wave of frustrated fatigue washed over him; he had several times passed the vessel through his immaculator – a wide bone-hoop set on a heavy ironwood base, whose magik could (in theory) remove even the most intractable stains. However, after several passes, his work was still without any visible result. So it was no wonder that his surly mood was further aggravated by a loud knock at his galleywagon door.

It’s no longer the hour for visitors – and I should be abed myself, he thought, stepping with soft tread across his ornate braided rug and grasping a doorside cudgel. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Midnight Summons”

NO ONE HAS YET DEVISED a satisfactory agency for long-distance intimacy – but in every world, there’s at least one that tries.

With a protracted high-pitched scream, an enormous emerald-hued bird circled Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon in descending spirals as the vehicle made its careful way along the tamped-earth road between the villages of Bottle and Wardhaven.

At last, the cook-errant thought, and smiled in anticipation. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Jade Hawk”

“WHO IS WISE?” ASKS THE old sage-monk – and answers: “One who learns from everyone.”

Prosatio Silban squirmed in his damp sleeping-berth for the hundredth time, then finally rolled himself out of it and onto his feet. ENOUGH, he thought, passing a hand over his sweaty face and rubbing his wet fingers. Perhaps it will be cooler outside. I hope. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Sleepless Heat”

SOME KNOWN THINGS SHOULDN’T BE.

Prosatio Silban glanced up at epicurean Pormaris’ massive dockside clock-tower, an accurate timekeeper and source of immense civic pride. A quarter-hour past fourteen, he thought. My customer should be arriving soon – and aha! here he is.

An almost-shabby youth clad in an academic’s robes shuffled his hesitant way through the makeshift lanes of the grand city’s fabled South Market, a packet of scrolls under one skinny arm. Seeing the Cook For Any Price, lodged between a fatberry-oil presser and seller of imported curios, he broke into a brief half-hearted smile and sat down at one of the two empty tables-and-chairs. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Hushed Revelation”

“WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO open and operate such a renowned dining-palace?” Prosatio Silban asked Hesto Panym, owner of many-harbored Soharis’ excellent and elegant Gull’s Wing.

“Honestly? I don’t quite recall,” the restaurateur replied with an emphatic shrug. “But if ever I decide to do so again, please: Take your largest pot of browned-onion soup – and drown me in it.”

Continue reading “Calling (A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche)”

WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE TO enter into your world’s oldest and otherwise silent conversation?

The book was slim and hand-sized, pairing quaint movable-typeset Ancient Uulian with peculiar woodcuts, and its novelty was irresistible to Prosatio Silban after a long hour spent browsing Datria Axeol’s extensive and renowned secondhand-literature stall in epicurean Pormaris’ anything-for-a-price South Market.

‘Verses of Song,’ eh? he thought, raising an eyebrow. The artwork is charming, the text suggestive, and the price more than reasonable. I must have this. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Universal Chorus”

WHERE AND WHEN PEOPLE GATHER, so do their secrets.

Prosatio Silban slapped hot water on his back with a wet towel and let out a satisfied sigh. Nothing like a good steam to wash away the accumulated grime and cooking-grease, he thought with a relaxed smile.

Although epicurean Pormaris, like the Uulian Commonwell in general, followed a strict (though fluid) class hierarchy, one place where those social rules were somewhat relaxed was the city’s many public baths. Everyone from the highest Heir Second noble to the lowliest marketplace-porter or beggar – in short, all who could afford the two-in-copper admission fee – might occupy any of four tastefully frescoed ablution-chambers: hot bath, cold bath, sauna, steam-room. It was in one of the latter that Prosatio Silban now luxuriated, reveling in the all-surrounding invisibility. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Slipped Tongue”

THE BEST TOOLS COME WITH stories, and Prosatio Silban’s were no exception.

True, most of them – i.e., the overhead-dangling tangle of pots, pans, and cooking implements, along with a cork-sectioned drawer full of specialized knives – were acquired over a quarter-century ago as part of his galleywagon’s initial outfitting. But, as he related to a budding companion one night at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, three exotic elements of his equipment-store came to him by a more circuitous route.

“Take my hydrator, for one,” he said, swirling his glass of blue duliac to release the spirit’s ineffable aroma. “A ready and steady water supply is important to any cook. However, my galleywagon’s architecture makes such a necessity somewhat challenging to engineer.” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Tavern Tale”

THERE IS A RELAXED SENSUOSITY in winding down from a busy day, and Prosatio Silban always looked forward to it; in his case, the high point meant removing his artificial eyebrows.

AHHH! he sighed to himself, and rubbed his now-naked brow ridges. Much, much better.

The beefy cook-errant had been performing this nightly task for longer than he cared to remember, and it always filled him with gratitude: for the success of his chosen occupation, yes, but also for passing among his fellow citizens without provoking their curiosity about his earlier life.

For he had not always been The Cook For Any Price. Once upon a time, he had been a Sacreant – one of the Uulian Commonwell’s holy functionaries charged with maintaining social order, infrastructure, and convenience. He laid down the paired slices of grey mouse-fur and unreeled his memory toward his early youth … Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Changed Life”

ANOTHER YEAR TRAVELED, PROSATIO SILBAN thought. And what has it gotten me except older? and perhaps, may it please the All-Mother, wiser?

The cook-errant consulted the small mirror hanging outside his galleywagon’s black-curtained sleeping berth. One artificial eyebrow was neatly applied; the other half-dangled like a drunken caterpillar. He frowned and shook his head. I’m out of resin-gum, of course. Do I have anything to substitute? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Public Subterfuge”