“My lady,” he muttered, the jade ring flashing.
Suddenly, Harris felt intoxicated. He lost his balance and knelt beside the penitent Elypticus.
“I am sorry, lord,” Elypticus whispered. “The pain is fleeting and shall pass, I assure you.”
Harris did feel a pain welling across his shoulders. He almost welcomed the end. However, it did subside, giving way to exhaustion. He didn’t recall exactly when he lost consciousness. However, he certainly remembered waking, because when his eyes opened again, he was in a different place — a place devoid of sea and sand.
Chapter Eight
Yustichisqua
1
Many things unsettled Harris in this new life, not the least, Mortis House’s ability to shift and change like a dune. Sometimes it was confined, while at other times it sprawled endlessly, or seemingly so. Like the Cabriolins, it was a vehicle, but elastic over time and place — putty stretched to the outer lands with its heels set firmly in Farn. Such were the estates of the nine Electors, each to their realm — each to their city. So when Harris opened his eyes again, Mortis House still engulfed him, but as it appeared in Farn — an acropolis on a hill overlooking Montjoy City.
He did not see this at first. What he first saw was a golden eye — a projection, which hovered beneath an archway — one of several niches in the rotunda where he laid as a centerpiece as if in state. The eye blinked, and then flickered. He recognized the eye as Charminus Montjoy’s or, as he should say, the Scepta Charminus, his mistress. The Eye was the first thing he saw. The second was a lad draped in a brown robe — buckskins, his hair double braided and held by a purple headband. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. With downcast eyes and a servile pose, he knelt in a humble heap when Harris awoke.
“Where am I?” Harris asked.
He was stiff, his back sore. He no longer wore his street duds, and his boots were missing, although he recalled wearing only one before he passed out, the other having been heaved at a monstrous flying reptile. He did recall the ride in . . . what did they call it, a Cabriolin, the driver a baby-faced teenager, hopped up on the experience and finding a ride through a sea serpent’s jaw the height of exhilaration. Or had it been a dream?
Harris felt his shoulders. He wore a fine blue cloak cinched with a sapphire brooch. He tried to read the brooch’s sigil, but it angled away from him. Otherwise, he was naked beneath this new garment, the silk upon his skin arousing him.
“Where am I?” he asked again, this time to the Eye.
It flickered, faded, and then disappeared. He directed his attention to the brown heap at the side of the platform. He sat up, and then kicked the form.
“I asked a question,” he said. “You could at least tell me where the fuck I am.”
The lad looked up, a slight grin washing his face. Harris couldn’t tell whether the question amused or startled him.
“Farn,” the lad stammered, and then looked away.
Harris edged to the floor — a bright-white marble floor, which would no doubt be cold if he were not wearing fine sandals made from a material he couldn’t quite place. Not leather. Nor cloth. Metal, perhaps, but fluid like mercury and a bit unpleasant when pressed to the floor, like stepping in mud.
“Who are you?” he asked the lad.
No answer. Harris took a step, found the experience strange, and then grasped the platform. He hunkered down to the lad.
“You understand me or you couldn’t have told me where I am.”
The lad shook his head.
“You have a tongue or you couldn’t have answered me at all. So who are you?”
“Your Trone.”
“My Trone? A servant?” Harris stood, and then sat again at the platform’s edge. “Do I need a servant? I don’t need anyone fetching for me. It goes completely against the grain. I mean, if you were an intern or a dresser or a wardrobe expert, it would be different. But a servant . . . or what did you call it — my Trone. I don’t think so.”
“Please, master,” the lad said, inching forward, clasping his hands prayer-like. He had a strange device near his knee — a lamp of some kind. He took care not to disturb it. “If you reject me, they will turn me out of the palace and I shall be in harm’s way.”
Harris sat agape. He had a servant — a slave, assigned to him and trembling at the loss of his meager prospects.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to put you in harm’s way.”
“Thank you, master.”
“Don’t call me master. It makes me want to puke.”
“Have I displeased you, master?”
The lad grasped Harris’ ankle and squeezed. Embarrassing. Harris shook his foot loose.
“Let me think,” he mused. “What’s your name?”
The servant bowed low.
“No name, master.”
Harris balled his fist at the word master. He would be no man’s better. However, was this a man? The lad wore funny sandals and seemed to float instead of walking. He could be a robot or an android. Maybe he had a number — like Trone450-APrime2. If so, it would be a designation still.
“Certainly, you must have a name.”
The lad trembled, touching the lamp as if it were his touchstone. Harris lost patience. He awoke in a strange, sterile room under the scrutiny of a fuzzy eyeball and now bantered with a creature so fawning it made him nervous to be in its presence.
“Come, come,” Harris snapped. “Your name?”
“We are not allowed to speak, master,” the Trone muttered. “Not even your name. You are not to know I am here even. Why would you know my name if I am not here?”
“Of course you’re here. I’m not blind. And I’m not treating you like . . . that lamp or . . . a table, even if you’re . . . fetching me stuff, or whatever you do.”
“I serve you in all things. They should have told you.”
“There’s lots of shit I don’t know. This is one. You can bet there’s more. Like what was that big eyeball when I awoke?”
“I cannot speak of the Eye. She will know and I will be punished.”
Just so. The kid’s here to serve Harris’ needs, but he couldn’t answer the first question. He hunkered down again, looking his Trone squarely in the face. The lad found difficulty in deflecting the glance. Looking at the master must have also been a taboo. Harris sighed — a desperate gasp filled with resignation.
“So you’re my Trone.”
“Trone, master. Yes.”
“And what’s a Trone?”
The lad trembled, but cocked his head and stammered.
“A Trone, master. A Cetrone. The people of Cetronia are the Trones, although I live in the Kalugu and not beyond the Forling in the Spice Mountains.”
For a nonentity blending into hamper and sink, this lad had given Harris a heap of information, most unintelligible, but it was a start. Harris reached out to touch him. The Trone flinched, and then looked askance, as if deciding to run should the Eye reappear.
“So your people do have a name — and not a label. You must have a name too.”
“You must not ask it, master. It is not done.”
“It is, if I say so. That is, if you’re supposed to serve me in all things.”
“You want to know the name my mother gave me?”
“That would be the one,” although Harris knew the one he sported wasn’t the one his mother gave him.
“It is not easy for the Ayelli to say things in my language.”
“Ayelli?”
“You are Ayelli, master.”
“Ah — you’re teaching me left and right here.” Harris frowned. “What’s your name? Stop beating around the bush. If I can’t pronounce it, I’ll give you a nickname like Spanky or Alfalfa.”
“Alfalfa?”
“Don’t sweat it. Just tell me. My knees are hurting.”
The lad grinned and, in that grin, connection. Harris felt it — trust emerging from servitude.
“I am called Yustichisqua.”
“Yusti . . .”
“Yustichisqua.”
“Cheese-skwa.”
“Yustichisqua.”
“Yustichisqua. Now that’s not so bad to pronounce. I sound like a Cetrone now.”
“Do not say that, master. You dishonor yourself.”
“How so?”
“We are never more than servants to the Ayelli. I am fortunate to serve here. If you were Cetrone, I could not serve you.”
Harris stood again, raising Yustichisqua. The lad remained humble, looking away to divert familiarity.
“Have I missed something?” Harris asked.
“You are not like the others. But in time you shall learn how to treat me as an Ayelli does and all will be well.”
“You’re right. I’m not like the others. I’ll learn if I decide to stay. But I’m not playing Simon Legree for any one. That part’s not in my repertoire.” Harris thought he heard someone coming — footfalls in the distance. “You know, I’ve forgotten how to pronounce your name already.”
“You should not use it, master. You should not even refer to me as Trone. Just wave or glance. I shall know.”
“Nonsense. Pronounce it again.”
“Yustichisqua, if you insist, master.”
“What does it mean?”
Yustichisqua smiled, and then went demure.
“It means Baby Bird in my language.”
“Baby Bird.” Harris chuckled, but then decided it was a perfect fit . . . or near perfect. “I shall call you Little Bird. How’s that?”
“You should not do me honor, master. But . . .”
“But what?”
“I am glad that you are not dismissing me. To do so would end my life and I live to . . .”
“I know. To serve me in all things. That may be your role in this B movie, but we’ll work on a better scenario. I’m an A-list actor, you know.”
Little Bird bowed, just as the footsteps became louder and the men entered.
2
Arquebus strolled across the rotunda’s marble floor accompanied by an elaborately dressed man, who plodded in a studious fashion — trundling. Later Harris would learn this newcomer was a Zecronisian, a member of Farn’s merchant and trading class — who served as go-betweens for the Ayelli and the artisan class — the Gurts. Zecronisians were island peoples and seafarers, but in Montjoy city they had their own enclave where they practiced their religion and not without criticism or occasional persecution. They walked slightly bent to accommodate a curious third leg, which extended when they needed to sit. This particular Zecronisian was Mordacai, the personal physician to Elector Kuriakis. Harris didn’t know this at the time, but was bewildered by an array of devices the physician plied within a few minutes of his arrival.
“Sir John,” Harris said. Then the physician rubbed Harris’ arm quickly with a square box. It flashed red and soon a painful throb went directly to his shoulder. “What the fuck?”
“A blood sample,” Arquebus said. “It is better you do not address me as Sir John. That is from a past long forgotten.”
“You could have warned me. What’s he need blood for? And your past is far from forgotten, if I recall.”
“I try to forget it, and this is Mordacai, the court physician. He needs to analyze your innards and can do it with just one sample.”
“I don’t see why?” Harris observed the doctor glancing into the box and making an array of facial expressions — quite unnerving. “What is he anyway?”
“The physician, I told you.”
“No. He looks like an extra from the set of The Ten Commandments.”
“He is Zecronisian, a valuable race to the Montjoys and the other Elector houses. Zecronisians fulfill many useful purposes, as you shall see. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I am.”
Arquebus snapped his fingers and Little Bird twisted into action. He spun about and raced away, his feet never touching the marble.
“Where’d he go?”
“His duty is to keep you fed, clothed, remove your waste, prepare your surroundings for comfort and assure you adhere to your schedule.”
“My schedule?”
Mordacai croaked, and then laughed. He held the flashing box high.
“Many Thirdlings this one shall have. Yes. He is more fertile than the other one.”
“The other one?” Harris asked.
“Good news.”
Mordacai bowed, continued to chuckle and departed, muttering — Many Thirdlings. Many Thirdlings.
“I don’t understand,” Harris said. “You know I’m not sticking around here.”
“Go, then.”
Arquebus cocked his head, and then drew Harris to the platform’s edge. He sat. Harris noticed the man had a manuscript tucked under his arm.
“This place?” Harris said, gazing at the ceiling.
“Yours.”
“You think I’m trapped here?”
“I know you are. You can run through the halls of Mortis House until your advantages evaporate, but you shall never find a portal back to our world.”
“You sound like a man who’s tried.”
“Sir John tried. However, Arquebus calls this place home now.”
Harris sighed. His soul, still restless in its goal, refused to surrender. But it was a puzzlement. It would take time to unravel. He stood, grimacing at the feel of the floor.
“You shall grow accustomed to the gravity,” Arquebus said.
Harris slid to the nearest niche.
“For starters, what was with the big eyeball?”
“The Eye watches us all.”
“It doesn’t watch now.”
“Confidence comes with learning, my friend, and learn you shall. When your Trone returns with nourishment, you shall dress properly and join me in another place — one of revelation.”
Harris touched the walls of the niche. He noticed an inscription along the wainscoting.
Belmundus.
He thought of the other one — the previous consort. This must have been his quarters also. Whatever happened to him?
“Will I be told everything in this place of revelation?” he mused, tracing his hand over the inscription. He noticed the word also etched in the floor tiles. “Will you tell me about this other one?”
“He is best forgotten.”
“So you say, but I might insist.”
“Insist as you will, but patience runs thin with time, as you shall see. Tolerance comes with rank. You must be presented before you earn the right to insist.”
Harris saw Little Bird on the threshold, holding a tray, and hesitating until Arquebus waved him in. Harris rejoined him at the platform. Little Bird retrieved a table and juggled the tray to a position convenient to Harris’ reach. Although done easily, Harris noted the rope lamp was balanced on Little Bird’s belt.
Arquebus observed this proceeding with scant patience. Once Little Bird had settled the tray, Arquebus nodded him off and came to the platform, waving the manuscript.
“Here,” Arquebus said, handing it to Harris.
“Is this my schedule? If so, it’s hefty.”
“No. Your schedule is more fluid. This is your script.”
“Script?”
Harris opened it to the first page.
Othellohito – A Tale of Tokugawa Japan
“Shakespeare? Japan?”
“We are actors and are required to perform beyond the bedroom.”
Harris brushed through the pages.
“This doesn’t look complete.”
“Ah, you are familiar with the work.”
“I know the title and read it during on-set tutoring. Never played it. But this version seems cockeyed. Set in Japan?”
Arquebus grinned companionably.
“Know this. The three Sceptas have specific tastes and demand their entertainments tailored to those tastes. For Soffira, strong stagecraft is required. For Charminus, hamming it up is essential. And Miracola needs the Oriental touch — t
hus the scene has shifted from Venice and Cyprus to Tokugawa Edo.”
“I see.”
However, Harris didn’t see at all.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 9