Tag: Fictions

PROSATIO SILBAN PLACED THE LADEN fork in his mouth, deposited its contents, removed the utensil, and commenced chewing.

I have lost count of how many servings I’ve eaten, he thought. It’s a wonder this hasn’t sickened me yet.

He smiled at the woman who had cooked it, then nodded. From an inner pocket in his long vest he produced a writing-stick and small rag-paper notebook. Mercino Thuar, of Hobble’s Digs, he jotted. Full texture, good use of seasonings, not too sweet. A definite contender.

“Congratulations,” he told her. “You have qualified. Please bring your entry to epicurean Pormaris in one week’s time for the final judging.” Continue reading “Humble Pie (A Prosatio Silban Tale)”

MOST DEVOTEES OF HOPMON, GOD of the Ever-Filling Purse, were honest souls. However, woe betide any who encountered their seeming opposites.

Prosatio Silban was sweaty, thirsty, and famished. The dust of the ostensibly endless road filled every visible wrinkle and crevice on both him and his dray-beast, and he longed to stop for refreshment. The pair were making their hot and uncomfortable way through a forbidding and sparsely populated part of the Uulian Commonwell’s northwestern periphery. Dry grass and scattered stone-scrub filled the eye, the random shrieks of carrion birds filled the ear, and conventional travelers’ wisdom held that halting there was ill-advised at best.

All I want is something wet for my buopoth and myself, the cook thought. A momentary pause wouldn’t hurt anything. Would it? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Tourist Trap”

THE NAME “EVERFAIRE” DESCRIBED THE village perfectly. It was a centuried and perpetual trading-center on the border dividing the lands and villages of epicurean Pormaris from those administered by cosmopolitan Soharis, and its shops, inns, and taverns never closed. Some said that dark deals were struck in the dead of night by mad scriveners, insomniac alchemists, braggart thieves, and others of dodgy but useful talents.

Daytime was a different matter, by degree rather than kind. The sprawling settlement roared with the sound of happy and fervent commerce, as sellers and buyers engaged in their ancient and eternal game. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Leg Up”

MISTAKEN IDENTITY AND MISTAKEN IDENTIFICATION are two entirely different things – but both have the potential to spark unintended consequents.

Prosatio Silban was driving his galleywagon along one of the Uulian Commonwell’s little-known and lesser-used roads, though not far from the city of epicurean Pormaris. The day was as beautiful as one could wish: sunny but comfortable, with the sort of tumbling clouds that beg to be serenely watched by hillside-spread picnickers. The mercenary cook and his quaint lumbering dray-beast, Onward, were making good time (for traveling in no particular direction), when their eyes were caught by a sharp red glint just ahead. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Curious Artifact”

SENSITIVE SOULS BEWARE: ALTHOUGH MOST of Prosatio Silban’s adventures are whimsically lighthearted, this is not one of them.

We find the once-beefy cook in his galleywagon at the side of a lately untraveled road, stirring the rather malodorous contents of a small saucepan. He purses his lips as he lowers a pair of tongs into the pot, then lifts with them a steaming, dripping – and empty – leather coin pouch.

Lunch, he thought. And not much of one either. But as the locusts have taken everything else, we must make do however we can.

He was not alone in contemplating a desperate meal. But he was one of the lucky ones who could. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Great Wasting”

ACCORDING TO THE WISE, REPUTATION is everything. But that’s not always a good thing.

“I would like for us to enter into a commercial arrangement,” said Idino Tarz to Prosatio Silban. “You have a solid standing throughout the Three Cities and Thousand Villages of the Uulian Commonwell. And I would like to leverage that standing into a profitable enterprise.”

The pair were sharing a modest bottle of white duliac over the amiable late-evening din inside Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, where epicurean Pormaris’ professional hospitality-class came to relax and conduct occasional side-business. Idino Tarz was well-dressed and open-faced, two essential qualities in a wishful merchant, and his voice was the proper mix of confidence and flattery.

The beefy cook cocked his head. “What sort of ‘enterprise?’” he asked. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Wavering Line”

(THIS TALE IS FOR THOSE who have wondered about Those Who watch over, and occasionally interfere with, the residents of the Uulian Commonwell. Read it in good humor.)

Prosatio Silban finished his evening meditations, stood up on his ornate braided rug, and drew back the black silk curtain dividing his sleeping-berth from the rest of the galleywagon. A long busy day brings both profit and rest well-earned, he quoted to himself, and climbed in. Drawing up the parrot-down coverlet, he exhaled a long and grateful sigh, reached out to his collapsible night-table for the well-thumbed book sitting there (Barbatus the Elder’s Poetries’ Emotion) , thought better of it, and curled up on his left side. Good for the digestion, this, he thought, and closed his eyes in prayer as much as in lassitude. O Galien, the All-Mother; Hopmon, God of the Ever-Full Purse; and Scofi, Goddess of Culinary Impartation; thank You for yet another full day of life. May I be worthy of Your attention for a good night’s sleep. O my gods, mysterious and sublime: through all my prayers, I have yet to see Your face or hear Your voice. If only I could, I … I would … would … Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Divine Gaze”

AND THEN CAME ONE OF those days which every culinarian dreads.

“Master Cook? Master Cook!” called a well-dressed old man. He was sitting at one of the two tables-and-chairs Prosatio Silban had set up in the lee of his galleywagon, in the unassuming village marketplace of Boggy, not far upriver from many-harbored Soharis. The morning was bright with sunlight and promise, and the cook-errant fixed a professional expression on his face as he hurried over.

“Yes, sir?” he asked with practiced servility.

“This meal,” the man said with a frown. “It is unacceptable. Please bring me another.” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Senseless Struggle”

THE SCULLERY MISTRESS HELD A brimful cup to Prosatio Silban’s waiting lips; he sipped, swallowed, and paused.

“It is good that I am blindfolded,” he said with a triumphant smile, “or else I’d see the nutmeg before tasting it.”

“That would defeat the purpose of this experibent,” Plerus Barja chided. “You are supposed to tell be what else is id this dish.”

Prosatio Silban nodded. “Egg yolk, cream, milk, cane-sugar, egg whites, vanilla, sweetbark. And of course, the nutmeg. In exactly that ratio.”

“Unbelievable,” said the scullery mistress.

“I bow to your expertise,” said Plerus Barja. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Tournament Palatine”

ON THEIR WINDING WAYS BETWEEN Here and There, the rammed-earth roads of the Uulian Commonwell often offer mystery – and sometimes, adventure.

Prosatio Silban was driving his galleywagon from Treefall to Kissing Bridge near the many-harbored city of Soharis. It was a fine summer’s morning: bright, not too warm, drowsy with the hum of distant insects, and fragrant from colorful splashes of sun-kissed flowers among a road-bordering light forest of pungentine-trees. The beefy cook clucked encouragement to his quaint lumbering dray-beast, Onward, and sang to himself a traveling-song:

“I wander the throughways and byways
Looking for I know not what.
I know it is out there, somewhere
Because it is nowhere else. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Sincere Runaway”

(A sequel to Prosatio Silban and the Revealer of Secrets.)

CLOTHES DO NOT ALWAYS MAKE the man. However, they, or at least their concomitants, can certainly help.

Prosatio Silban rolled out of his galleywagon’s sleeping-berth, yawned, scratched, and stood up on the ornate braided rug. He had parked his portable-home-and-livelihood the previous evening in one of epicurean Pormaris’ more eclectic marketplaces, in advance of accommodating Heir Second Vajang Chorl’s annual Dependent-Welcoming Festivity, and was looking forward to tomorrow’s task and the substantial coin it would bring. He dressed with some haste (green kneebreeches, white tunic, grey long-vest, black shoes and fez), his thoughts coalescing around the acquisition of ingredients for dishes and garnishes, and automatically reached for the artificial eyebrows that were an important piece of his daily costume.

But where were they? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Purloined Eyebrows”