Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “You are angry, oginali . . . master?”

  At the word master, Harris flashed his eyes opened. He froze when Arquebus emerged, who nodded, and then swept past, his Trone padding behind him like a cur from the kennel.

  “Yes,” Harris snapped. “I’m angry, but only when you call me master.”

  Harris stomped off in the opposite direction, correct or not. He heard Yustichisqua buzzing behind him.

  I am Belmundus, Harris thought — a wretched thought, because someone had taken a liberty. His mother could name him, and she had — and an agent could derive a new name for him, consensually. But to have a frosty old spirit who dwelled in a hole pronounce a new name and expect it to stick — even to have it carved in the woodwork, was presumptuous.

  “Oginali,” Little Bird whispered. “This is not the way.”

  Harris halted, and then turned.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck where I wind up, Little Bird. I’ve just witnessed an abortion. I saw a bunch of pseudogods carve up the world and decide the fate of its inhabitants, as if everyone was just a pile of dog crap — and you’re concerned I’m going the wrong way. I need some air.”

  “In that case, oginali, you are going the correct way.”

  Little Bird passed him, waving him forward around an array of square columns and across a courtyard crowned with an extravagant fountain, which spouted blue and pink water. Harris gave it scant attention and no praise. He truly needed a lung full of oxygen, or whatever passed for oxygen in this realm. He’d been cooped up too long in this cathouse.

  Yustichisqua waved him on across the courtyard and under a gallery of archways, which formed a dark tunnel emerging into the night — onto a balcony. Harris was struck by crisp, clean air and a night sky draped with the three moons of Yeholo — ornaments on a vast ebony tree, Odin be praised. The moons were asymetrical, differing in size and brightness, the largest tinged blue, the midsized one, violet and the dwarf, pastel pink. Harris gasped, and then turned to Yustichisqua.

  “What a sight,” he said.

  “Montjoy City. Not my city, but a wonder to behold at this height, oginali.”

  Harris clasped his Columbincus. The valley danced with light. He recalled the wall map, but the dark cloaked the detail needed to match these sights to the chart. He faced east, that is west if he weren’t through the looking glass. The lights abruptly dimmed, falling away in the distance.

  “The Forling Desert,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” Little Bird said. “Yinaga, in my language.” He pointed northward. “That way is the Yuyutlu, the great Gurt market, and there is the Yuganawu, the Yunocker stronghold.”

  “And the Cetrone?”

  “Cetronia is not in Montjoy, but beyond the Yinaga, in the Dodaloo — the Spice Mountains.”

  “But Arquebus said . . .”

  “True. He would say the Cetrone are denizens of the eastern ward, the Kalugu, but that is where we are kept when we are not serving.”

  “A ghetto,” Harris muttered.

  “Excuse me, oginali. I do not know this word.”

  “Nor should you.”

  Suddenly, Montjoy City’s beauty faded in Harris’ mind. He turned his attention to a slope dotted with lanterns, what he learned later were called bronskers. He assumed this was the gardens of the Ayelli. Yes, the Ayelli lorded over the land from this cathouse called Mortis. However, it overlooked a pool of toilers — Trones, Yunockers, Gurts and Zecronisians. Harris had met one Zecronisian — Mordacai. Perhaps some worker bees received better treatment than others. The Yunockers seemed an elite group — a military caste. However, the judge was still out on the Yuyutlu Gurts, whoever they might be. No doubt clung to the Kalugu. Harris knew it would be a pitiful place if it confined the Trones. Even from this height, light from the Kalugu shone like a bonfire — a raging conflagration contained by trenches and hoses — not the elegant bronskers which climbed the Ayelli, illuminating the nocturnal gardens.

  “Has the air refreshed you, oginali?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Little Bird. It has. The panorama is grand. I’d love to see it in daylight and up close and personal to assess it better.”

  “That may not be wise.”

  Harris turned to his servant — his Trone. He sounded like Arquebus — do this, don’t do that. A strange world this, with many prohibitions and gratifications.

  “Don’t tell me. It’s a taboo.”

  “No, oginali. Nothing is a taboo for you. You are Lord Belmundus, consort. Nothing is denied you.”

  “Then what prevents me?”

  “Darkness perfumes Montjoy. Daylight reveals her faults. Here on the hill is best for you, oginali. Your life is blessed — glorious and happy.”

  Yustichisqua bowed. Harris laughed — an infectious laugh, because Little Bird grinned, and then chuckled.

  “I’ve had enough air. Take me back to my chicken coop. My glorious and happy chicken coop.”

  “Chicken coop?”

  “My suite — my residence.”

  “The Court of Lord Belmundus,” Yustichisqua replied, and then turned and proceeded back through the tunnel.

  “Blessed, my ass,” Harris muttered and followed.

  2

  The Court of Lord Belmundus was as it was when Harris left it, only then he hadn’t known it was the court of anything, and if he were to guess about Belmundus, it was another person — not him. The suite seemed bigger now — a place for a high rolling big shot. That would be him. Ho ho. Ha ha. One thing bothered him — well, not one thing, but the next thing. Left to his own devices this place would become a colossal bore. Was there recreation — a gym for a workout? Where were the showers? The local multiplex? Couldn’t he shuttle to the nearest rock club and do the hootchie kootchie with a bevy of lovely ladies . . . or men? Nothing was denied him, right? No taboos. He wasn’t so gullible. These options weren’t available. He didn’t even know how to prepare for the dang-bang investiture ceremony. Maybe Yustichisqua had a deck of cards and they could play a few rounds of rummy. Then he passed a mirror — the same mirror where he had gawked at his new-fangled duds.

  He paused, and then preened. He did look wonderful in this get-up.

  “Lord Belmundus,” he muttered.

  That’s a laugh. Why not Lord Butterfield or Mickey Higgenbottom, both characters he had played? Belmundus. Ha! He noticed the inscription again on pillars and posts — even one on the mirror.

  “I guess Higgenbottom wouldn’t fit the paving stones,” he mused.

  He thought of the Hollywood walk of stars. He hadn’t done his yet — no hand and foot pirnts in the Chinese Theater courtyard either. However, he could imagine a star emblazoned with the word Belmundus. It might look better than Cartwright or Kopfstutter.

  “Better than Lord Butterfield.”

  “Did you need something, oginali?”

  “Yes. I need to take a piss.”

  Little Bird grinned, bowed and drifted off on his hovercraft footgear. He returned with a porcelain pot — something of Ming proportions, and quite ornate. It would be like peeing in the Louvre.

  “I can manage myself,” Harris said, as Little Bird lifted the kilt and poked at the golden jock strap.

  “Take care not to soak your asano.”

  “Asano?”

  “Your skirt.”

  “I’ve got good aim. You should worry if I might miss the pot altogether and hit your magic shoes.”

  Little Bird laughed again. Harris noticed the lad was laughing more, a sign of comfort, and a step up from the invisible man. Perhaps the oginali’s lessons took hold. After Harris finished this awkward task, and considered what would happen when the inevitable bowel movement erupted, he trained his eyes on Little Bird’s footgear. Amazing contraptions. All Cetrone wore them. Harris was surprised their legs didn’t atrophy from disuse. Perhaps they had. When Yustichisqua returned from emptying the pot, Harris hunkered to inspect the footgear.

  “Do you always wear these?”

 
“We must.”

  Another rule. Well, that goes without saying.

  “What are they called?”

  “Digali sodi alasulo.”

  “What? That’s a mouthful. Digaliguli sewyourzuloo?”

  Little Bird laughed.

  “Digali sodi alasulo. But the people of the Ayelli call them zulus.”

  “Zulus. I can live with that.” Harris touched them. Yustichisqua flinched. “How do they work?”

  “I cannot tell. They just do so.”

  Harris gave him the fish-eye, but he supposed Yustichisqua wasn’t a physicist.

  “Let me try them on.”

  Little Bird looked horrified.

  “It is a big, big taboo, oginali.”

  “It would be fun. I could show you some skateboarding tricks, and you could laugh your ass off.”

  Little Bird shook his head.

  “I do not know.”

  “What’s there to know? I’m Lord Belmundus, the almighty ruler of this court. You’re supposed to do what I ask. I pissed in the pot and ate the terrerbyrd and even looked to you for adjusting my jock strap. Can you deny a simple request — a try at your roller derby sandals?”

  “Zulus.”

  “Yes, zulus.”

  Little Bird looked about, and then quietly removed his sandals. He bowed and handed them to Harris, who examined them. They were flat like Japanese clogs with leather straps to hold them in place. Underneath was a metallic grillwork, now silent and asleep. Harris slipped them on, tying each, grinning at Little Bird’s nervous frown. Once clamped securely, Harris jumped to his feet.

  “How do you turn them on?”

  Yustichisqua touched a switch and Harris’ feet tingled — burned even. He looked down and saw a green glow seeping from below like pond scum. He was thrown three feet in the air.

  “This can’t be right.”

  Little Bird was upright, pulling him down, but laughing a little.

  “Funny, you think. Well, watch this.”

  Harris took a step, and the damned things took off, as if trying to escape. He waved his arms, attempting to keep balanced, but it didn’t work. He dangled upside down, because the zulus found the ceiling. The kilt inverted, covering Harris’ face. His Columbincus dangled precariously. Suddenly, the Eye appeared.

  “Master,” Little Bird shouted, pulling Harris down.

  The zulus returned to the floor, but not before bucking like a ship in a storm. Harris went crashing to the tiles, his ass flat, but his feet lifted like a virgin on her wedding night. Yustichisqua leaped at the sandals, untying them and quickly returning them to his feet. He bowed before the Eye. Harris sat dumbly glaring at the golden orb.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he snapped, waving his hand. “I’m the Lord in my Court, and I demand privacy.”

  It disappeared. Yustichisqua trembled, shivering into a heap, his entire body racked. Harris grasped him about the shoulders.

  “Little Bird. Little Bird. It’s okay.”

  “I am doomed, oginali.” Yustichisqua wept. “You were good to me, and I shall always remember you, even when I am confined in the Porias.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Then came a knock at the door.

  3

  Before Harris could respond, the door opened and two tall figures, also on zulus, entered. They were dressed like extras in a remake of Spartacus — crimson capes, silver and leather armor and a feathered helmet. They carried Sticks. These were policemen. The Yunockers. Had to be.

  The two officers floated across the court and hovered over Yustichisqua. One sported a black sash, which Harris assumed meant he was the ranking cop. The other did not, but had a turkey feather shoved in his epaulet. Little Bird trembled even more, if it were possible.

  “What’s the meaning of this intrusion?” Harris snapped.

  “Pardon us, Lord Belmundus,” said the ranking Yunocker, “but an infraction has been reported and must be remedied.”

  “An infraction?”

  “Zulu removal is a capital offense,” the turkey man said, and not ungraciously.

  “Zulu removal?” Harris looked at Little Bird. “There they are — on his feet. You are mistaken.”

  “It was reported and there has been time enough for the infraction to be rectified.”

  “But once removed,” yapped the second, “there is no rectification.”

  The Yunockers raised their Sticks.

  “How dare you come into my quarters armed?” Harris snapped, trying out his best Lord Butterfield voice.

  “We apologize for the fuss,” the ranking Yunocker said, “but we have orders. If any insult has been construed, you may address it to the Scepta. But . . .”

  The Sticks were raised. Little Bird cowered, prepared, no doubt, for pain or even death, Harris’ anger grew. He raised his hand, but then thought hand-raising probably wouldn’t deter them. So he slapped his Columbincus. The damned thing glowed and shot an unexpected bolt toward the ceiling. The Yunockers lowered their Sticks and glanced at each other. Doubt had been raised. Harris stepped between them and Yustichisqua.

  “Who do you think you are?” Harris shouted. “Because, I know who I am. I am consort Belmundus Montjoy. If you dare interfere with me and mine, you shall feel the brunt of my anger. You would never survive it, even with a thousand Sticks and two thousand stones.”

  Harris balled his fists. The Yunockers backed away.

  “You are not fully invested, my lord,” said the black-sashed warrior. “Until then, we are not obliged to follow your every command.”

  Harris shook his fist, and then spit.

  “I’m to be invested tomorrow. Go ahead and vex me tonight. Go ahead and stand on your petty book of orders. You might get the better of me now, but tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be hunting black sashes and turkey feathers. Go ahead, gentlemen of the constabulary. Fuck with me, Lord Belmundus, if you dare. Go ahead and take your best shot. Leave me in the dust and explain to Lord Kuriakis in the morning that his new consort didn’t appear for his investiture because you decided to play soldiers.”

  Terror blossomed across the collective constabulary faces. They bowed curtly, and then drifted backward, out and over the threshold, never daring to turn backs on this pissed-off lord of the Ayelli — this Lord Belmundus Montjoy, a man to be reckoned with.

  4

  Once the Yunockers departed and the door shut, Harris hunkered to Yustichisqua.

  “Little Bird, Little Bird,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

  “No, I am not, oginali. They shall get me when I leave you.”

  “Then you won’t leave. Don’t let them make you cry.”

  Harris took his servant in his arms and patted his back.

  “They do not make me cry, oginali. It is you. You make me cry.” Little Bird glanced into Harris’ eyes. “Never has anyone stood for me — ever. No one has placed themselves in the way of harm for weary Yustichisqua.” He wept in earnest now. “No one has ever . . . ever been oginali to me.”

  “There, there. Weep then. That’s worthy of tears, my friend. And you won’t leave tonight. You won’t drift down to the Ghetto and be given your shitty bowl of sqwallen.”

  Little Bird pushed away, suddenly concerned.

  “If I cannot go to the Scullery Dorgan, you shall not eat.”

  “Then my belly will rumble tonight.”

  “But . . .”

  “It’ll rumble . . . and there’s always that beer you brought. We’ll get drunk together. That should settle us fine.”

  “Settle us fine?” Little Bird sniffed. “Where shall I sleep?”

  “In a heap, in the corner.” Harris laughed. “Well, you’re used to it. True? And you don’t think I’m giving up my comfy bed, do you?” He laughed again. “You can sleep beside me, if you can.”

  “I cannot. I will sleep at the foot of your bed.”

  “Like a dog?”

  “Like a guardian.”

  Harris sighed. It was settled then. No food. Scan
t sleep. Perhaps some beer and, if that fucking Eye stayed shut, no more interruption from the Gestapo.

  “Come. Undress me.”

  Harris drifted to the mirror. Little Bird fluttered behind him.

  “Stand tall when you’re alone with me,” Harris said. “You do me no honor bent like a pretzel.”