Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “You shall play Cassioshima with a twist, because Cassio survives in this version to mediate for Desdemona. Consort Hasamun will do the honors as Desdemonayama. Posan will play Emiliasan and Tappiolus does a wonderful villain as Iagomoto. Agrimentikos shall deliver his best Lodovicomori and I shall . . .” Arquebus hopped up and bowed Thespian fashion.

  “You’ll play Othello.”

  “Othellohito.”

  “Sounds moronic.”

  “If they like it, you shall retain favor.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “They shall love it, and you shall know your lines by the end of the week.”

  “Japanese or English, lines are lines. If I’m here by then, I’ll know them. In fact, I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  “Glad to hear it, whatever that means. Eat, and then meet me in an hour’s time at the Cartisforium.” Harris shrugged. “Your Trone will know the way.”

  “Oh, you mean Little Bird.”

  Arquebus’ eyes opened wide — in anger, the first show of anger Harris had seen from him. Little Bird crumbled into a heap.

  “Take care, my friend. If there is one thing not tolerated in Mortis House, it is any form of familiarity with the Trones. Mine has learned to keep its distance.”

  Harris saw a shadow beyond the threshold.

  “This is my only warning to you. Trones are as the air — evident only when you breathe. When they are not about to do your bidding, they are beyond our thought or care.” Arquebus softened. “You are new to it and I understand your human frailty, especially since your time came to decry the benefits of such human amenities. But Trones are not humans. They are scarcely beings.” Arquebus clapped. “To the Cartisforium in one hour’s time.”

  Harris knew this homily was meant as much for the Trone as a lesson in consortship, but Arquebus never gazed down at the brown buckskin heap. He nodded, and then marched away to his own shadowy servant.

  3

  Harris, stunned — anger welling, wasn’t consumed by it. He knew he couldn’t stay here and was committed to find the exit. Perhaps these inscriptions about his predecessor, Belmundus, held a key. The former consort wasn’t here now. There must be a release hole — a portal back. The Sceptas drifted between the worlds, after all. This wasn’t magic. There must be a science to it.

  He glanced beyond the script — Othellohito, to the tray and the table.

  “Little Bird,” he muttered.

  Yustichisqua uncrumpled, bowed and lifted the cover from the tray. Harris looked at what passed for food in Farn. On the platter, a golden mound of crispy critters arose — cockroaches perhaps. He grimaced. Beside it sat a bowl of purple mush laden with reddish twigs. He would need to be near starvation before he would dip a spoon here.

  “What do you call that?” he asked Yustichisqua.

  No answer. After Arquebus’ diatribe, Yustichisqua had reverted to silence.

  “I said, what do you call that?”

  “Do not be angry, master. It is measlybug and pertupa stew. It is tasty, so I am told.”

  “You eat it then. Where I come from that wouldn’t be served to a starving Ethiopian.”

  Then his heart panged. He was as unfair as Arquebus. Harris sighed. But no amount of intestinal fortitude would get him to take a taste. Not even a sniff.

  Yustichisqua trembled. Harris noticed a tear welling in the lad’s eye. His heart broke. He couldn’t play the tyrant. There had to be recourse. Harris grinned and reached out. Yustichisqua pulled away.

  “No, master. The Eye.”

  “Fuck the Eye,” he said, looking for the diaphanous pupil. “If you want me to be happy, then you’ll serve me in all things.”

  “I shall, master.”

  “Then stop calling me master.”

  “I dare not.”

  “We’ll find another term sufficiently humiliating to us both to satisfy my sensibilities and your servile requirements.”

  Yustichisqua sniffed, but nodded.

  “As for food, where’s the Big Mac?”

  “I do not understand, mas . . .”

  “How do you say friend in your language?”

  “I dare not.”

  “Well, if you’ll not serve me in this, how can you serve me at all?”

  Little Bird clasped his hands together. He wept now, in earnest.

  “I shall tell you. I shall tell you. It is . . . oginali.”

  “Oginali. Yes. You shall call me that. Who could know it? It will be our secret, Little Bird? Who could know it?”

  “Few Ayelli know my language . . . oginali.”

  “Good then. If you would be so kind as to clear away this plate of shit and bring me something solid like . . .”

  “Bull catonin or perhaps terrerbyrd flesh in cream sauce.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Little Bird covered the platter and lifted the tray. He began to float toward the threshold.

  “Wait,” Harris said. “Where are you going?”

  “To the Scullery Dorgan, master . . . I mean, oginali.” He grinned.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “It would not be wise.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you do not know the way and you must lead.”

  “Then I shall lead, and you’ll whisper behind me where to go.”

  Harris managed to reach the doorway, the floor still feeling strange beneath his shoes. He wondered how Yustichisqua managed to float on his magic sandals. No time for answers. He would have plenty of those when he met with Arquebus in the Cartisforium — the place of revelation. Now he was hungry — famished. So he crossed the threshold and heard a gentle whisper behind him.

  “To the right, oginali. To the right.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Scullery Dorgan

  1

  Harris walked in darkness and in light, through rooms great and small, turning left and right at the whispered commands behind him. It was a long way to go for terrerbyrd flesh in cream sauce. However, he supposed Little Bird, on his floating footgear, covered more ground quicker when unencumbered by a slowpoke consort. On this progress, Harris passed other Trones, who turned their faces away and bowed. This zone didn’t seem like the family living quarters — more a passageway between the living quarters and the scullery.

  “Are we almost there?” Harris muttered.

  No answer, but then he saw an archway ahead, bricked like an oven. He felt heat and smelt cooking aromas — delectable. He yearned for a pile of whatever was baking, and a tall mug of beer. Hell, he’d settle for a Diet Coke.

  “We are here, oginali,” Little Bird said.

  Harris turned, waiting for Yustichisqua to open the door. However, the archway had no door, being bricked solid. Harris slapped it with his hand.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered in frustration. “How do I get in?”

  Little Bird bowed.

  “You cannot.”

  “Are we starting that business again?” Harris snapped. “Protocols be damned. There’s food in there and I could eat one of those misancorpus’ whole . . . with a side of French fries.”

  Little Bird laughed, for the first time. He caught himself, and then bowed again. Harris was pleased with laughter at least. Progress.

  “You cannot enter, oginali, because there is no door. I do not need a door, you see.”

  He proceeded to put his hand through the wall. Harris recalled seeing Charminus’ Trone perform a similar trick back when Mortis House had been a creaky old Victorian.

  “How did you do that?”

  “We just can. I shall be quick.”

  Yustichisqua drifted through the bricks, disappearing. Harris slapped the wall again, and shook his head, puzzled and amused. He wondered if this was a trick he’d be taught. He made a mental note to ask Arquebus when he came for his Q&A. He had many questions, this the least. Harris wanted a full accounting of his predecessor, Belmundus, and more information on the House of Montjoy and why they plucked actors
from their happy careers and made them copulate like breeders on a stud farm. Didn’t Farn have men? And weren’t there strong and tall Trones in this world to service the likes of Charminus? Of course, his primary question — where’s the exit — stage right, couldn’t be asked, because he knew Arquebus wouldn’t tell him — either proscribed from doing so or he truly didn’t know.

  Harris stood in a long corridor before the Scullery Dorgan — a busy hallway, with Trones darting up and down and in and out, through walls and speeding over the cobbled floors like the Jetson’s robot. The House of Montjoy must have become so dependant on these beings they kept them in motion around the clock.

  But I’ll wipe my own ass, he thought, thank you very much. Although, he hadn’t recalled seeing a toilet since arriving in this world. He also hadn’t gone either. Odd. He chalked it up to the lack of food and drink. Had he eaten the original slop Yustichisqua served him, he might have discovered the outhouse quickly.

  Harris paced impatiently. One thing at a time. Food first. Poop and wipe later. The call of nature was never a mystery, but where and how it called might prove a surprise as it often had to the unwary traveler. And that is what he was, after all. He was a tourist in Acapulco or Shanghai, feeling his way around strange customs, languages and cultural quirks, like memorizing lines to a Shakespearean play set in Japan or wondering how the natives could walk through solid walls. Little things like that. Small puzzlements . . .

  Suddenly, he confronted another Trone — a female — one he had seen several times. Charminus’ Trone. He bowed to her, but she floated backwards, pressed her hand to her chest, and shook her head. She didn’t speak. He suspected she was shocked by being noticed, just as Yustichisqua had been.

  “Lady,” Harris said, because she was fair beyond measure — dark-eyed and raven-haired. Her skin was pure white and silken. Her lips were full, but the rest of her was hidden beneath her long buckskin robe. Her purple headband was exactly as Little Bird’s except it had a crystal teardrop suspended from its center, as if placing her above other Trones.

  Harris bowed to her. She arched up, turned to flee, but then twirled about again.

  “No,” she snapped, a chastisement, indeed.

  She plowed into the wall, disappearing beyond brick and mortar like so many of her race, which Arquebus likened to the air. In this respect, he was correct. Like air, she sustained the life of her mistress — a tragic thought to Harris, who would have preferred the mistress to have stayed on her side of the line and never stolen his life away.

  2

  As Harris stared at where this enchanting Trone disappeared, Yustichisqua popped through. Harris jumped, startled. Little Bird held a tray, but Harris’ desire to know the woman had replaced his need for food. Or so he thought until Little Bird lifted the lid, revealing a moist slab of terrerbyrd drizzled in golden sauce and with a red berry garnish — cranberries, he hoped.

  “Does this please you, master,” Little Bird said.

  Harris raised an eyebrow at the word master.

  “It’s divine, but . . .”

  “I know. I am sorry . . . oginali. It is hard for me to remember.”

  “It’ll settle in with use. Now give that to me.”

  “But should you not retire to your quarters? This is the Scullery Dorgan, a place not fit for you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Harris said, sitting on the floor, his back propped by the warm wall. “Give it here.”

  He took the tray on his lap and looked for utensils. Little Bird produced a knife and a fork, a two-pronged dainty more designed for lobster claws than poultry, but better than nothing. Harris sliced some terrerbyrd and popped it in his mouth. Delicious — the sauce aromatically infused — mint or rosemary. He couldn’t tell. But it wasn’t cat urine or beaver shit, so he was fine with it. The berries weren’t cran. He didn’t know from which bush these fell, but they were sweet like plums and juicy like pomegranates. He sought something to drink.

  “There is mellowbeer in your quarters, oginali. I thought you were dining there. I am sorry. I shall get some for you now.”

  “No. These berries are moist enough. I’ll wash it down when we return . . .”

  He almost said home, but shook off the thought and chewed another morsel of terrerbyrd.

  “This is wonderful, Little Bird. But you’d know, wouldn’t you.”

  Silence. Then it dawned on him Trones didn’t eat this well.

  “Did they feed you in there?” he asked, pointing over his shoulder.

  “I shall have some sqwallen later this evening.”

  “What the hell is sqwallen?”

  “It is porridge made from jomar and quillerfoil. It is nourishing.”

  Harris dropped his fork, cocking his head at the servant. Then he speared a slice of terrerbyrd and turned the handle around.

  “Here. Have a taste.”

  “No, oginali. I am not permitted. It would kill me.”

  “Will it? Do you know or is it a taboo?”

  “Taboo?”

  “A rule of prevention.”

  “It is not permitted for me to taste your food.”

  “Truly? Then how do I know if my enemies aren’t trying to poison me?”

  “Enemies? How do you come to have enemies?”

  “I’m sure I have some, and if not, I’m sure I’ll get me some. If you want me to eat securely, I insist you taste my food. If it’s poisoned, you’ll get it first and I’ll bury you with honor.”

  Little Bird grinned. He was no fool, Harris knew. The lad grasped the fork handle and cautiously brought the meat to his mouth. His lips trembled as the sauce dribbled down his chin. A tear welled as he swallowed. Then he turned the fork about, handing it back.

  “I believe, oginali, your food is not poisoned.”

  “Not today, but I’ll need your vigilance often and in larger amounts in the future.”

  Little Bird bowed.

  “Boots!”

  3

  “Boots,” came a voice from a man who towered over them.

  It was Tappiolus. Yustichisqua quickly rolled aside into a buckskin heap. Harris speared more terrerbyrd and ate.

  “You found my boots?” he asked, his mouth mushed. “If so, I’d like them back. A friend of mine called them shitekickers and I’d sure like to have them around if I need to kick the shite out of someone with an ass in need of kicking.”

  Tappiolus laughed.

  “Boots is the name our lord calls you, now that you have impressed him with your skill at hurling footwear at terrerbyrds. That chunk you just swallowed might have had your heel print on it.”

  Harris swallowed, and then moistened his lips.

  “Could be? I’ve played the part of a heel. I’m not sure what roles you’ve landed in that faraway time you crammed upon the screen, but I’m versatile.”

  He stood, handing the plate to Little Bird.

  “Now that you have let him taste your meal,” Tappiolus chided, “you will never see a full plate again. You need instruction about that lot. But I am not the one to teach you.”

  “I’m fortunate in that.”

  Tappiolus grinned, Snidely Whiplashing his mustache. His Trone cowered behind him, sneaking a peek at Little Bird.

  “You have not been indoctrinated, so there is time for you to break the law ignorantly. However, despite your grasp at nobility, these beings cannot be allowed to run amok. Too many cram into the city’s eastern ward, derelict and useless. They’ll become a state expense if we allow them to thrive.”

  Harris frowned. He knew this speech was not directed at him, but was an insult for Little Bird and any Trone within earshot.

  “Is my servant any of your business?” Harris asked.

  “Yes, they all are. I am the Provost of the Palace Yunockers.”

  Harris noted Little Bird’s cringe.

  “And what, pray tell, are the Yunockers?”

  “They are the enforcers employed to keep order,” Tappiolus replied.

&nbs
p; “The police.”

  “You might say so — you might also call them mercenaries, because their services are bought under treaty terms, their allegiance controlled by this hand.”

  “Your hand?”

  “You will learn, Boots, idleness in the palace is a terrible bore, especially when your time is down.”