Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  Posan bowed deeply and pushed his gift in front of Hasamun’s. Hasamun grinned and pushed his out farther. There was a contest for precedence. Harris wasn’t sure what to do. If he went for one over the other, would it be an insult? He held back. Then, the two consorts stood tall.

  “Together,” they said in unison and popped the lids.

  “More Sticks?” Harris asked.

  “No, brother,” Hasamun replied.

  He shook the gift loose, unfurling it.

  “A painting?” Harris said.

  “For the left side of your court.” It was a watercolor peacock. “In a style my brother taught me to brush.”

  Hasamun bowed to Posan. Posan unfurled his gift — another painting, this one a wood blocked — a seaside scene in Ukiyo-e style.

  “For the right side of your court, Lord Belmundus,” Posan said. “My brother has taught me the art.”

  Then the two consorts bowed to each other. Harris felt he was in the presence of twins, but they were still distinguishable. Still, there was concordance, which pleased Harris. He accepted the paintings, handing them to Yustichisqua. Arquebus came close to Harris’ ear.

  “It is customary for the incoming consort to offer a small token of his appreciation,” he whispered. “I only mention it, because it is expected.”

  Harris cocked his head. He wasn’t prepared for this. He thought of the stale beer, beyond warm piss now, if any remained from last night. It was a source of comfort then. Now it was an empty bottle, the genie having escaped. He glanced at Little Bird, who pondered. Then Harris had a thought — a sly thought, which could compromise him. It would set precedents.

  “Little Bird,” he said. “Bring me your bowl.”

  “Oginali?”

  “Do it.”

  “At once.”

  Yustichisqua rummaged below the pedestal for his bowl and brought it. He trembled. Harris sniffed the stuff. Vile, but he was resolved to do this. He dipped the spoon into the wallpapery paste, taking a massive dollop of the brown, gluttonous staple.

  “You must not do this,” Arquebus whispered.

  Harris grinned. He witnessed the horror registered on all the faces, only encouraging him to complete the act.

  “Sqwallen,” he declared. “Wonderful stuff.”

  He wrapped his mouth around the spoon and almost gagged. It was bitter and greasy, though it looked dry and sweet. There was a gamy aftertaste. However, he forced himself to swallow, and then pressed a satisfied grin across his lips. He pushed the bowl forward to his brother consorts. A sudden burst of laughter — gales of hilarity.

  “Our new brother has a sense of humor,” Agrimentikos shouted. “I like it. I like it well.”

  Harris shifted the bowl back to Little Bird, who looked worried. The two Trones weren’t enjoying this either, looking to one another, uncomfortable at the gesture. Arquebus came around and placed his arm about Harris’ shoulders.

  “We have had our fun,” Agrimentikos said. “But now it is time to proceed to the Scarlet Chamber.”

  Decorum descended on the company. They turned to the door and processed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Scarlet Chamber

  1

  It was the Red Carpet again, or so Harris thought. The corridor leading to the Scarlet Chamber was lined with Yunockers, attired in dress uniforms, or so Harris assumed. He hadn’t seen so much brass and silver since he played a young cadet in The Honor of the Point. He admired the way the guards kept their poses, still and unbending while balanced on zulus. In niches, Romanesque statues stood interspersed with modern pieces — nudes sans fig leaves. Such frou-frou was proper in the court of the Provost of Art. Were these by famous sculptors? Was there room for fame in a land where the first generation still kicked the tires?

  Agrimentikos led the way as senior consort, followed by Hasamun and Posan, who Harris came to regard collectively as Eng and Chang. Tappiolus and Arquebus marched side by side flanked by the three Thirdlings. Then came Belmundus like a bride held in reserve — the best for last, although last was a train of Trones led by Yustichisqua. Harris noticed Little Bird kept his head erect as ordered, but glared at the Yunockers, cautiously.

  It pleased Harris, his servant staying the course, but he also realized he had forced the lad into a precarious zone. This world was new for Harris. Had he the right to graft his will here? However, did Montjoy have the right to force him into a life of privilege at free will’s expense? He might need to tread lighter to find his way clear and not destroy his Trone in the bargain.

  But wouldn’t Little Bird be better off dead than subjugated to this enslavement?

  As Harris tread this Red Carpet, he hugged confusion. The order of the universe should not be his concern. Life should begin and end with himself, because he could only know one path — his own. But that would make him a lone tree in a desert. There had to be something beyond the bark. The sap flowed somewhere. A puzzlement. Mortis House was shamefully comfortable to him. Yet, his soul rebelled against it and others might be liable for his rebellious actions.

  This place replayed a Hollywood scene — a bubble designed for him and Tony and McCann and the rest of the cast to dwell — a realm of art and joy and self-expression, separated from fans, who clamored in the dark and shouted for autographs — who sucked on the teat of celebrity, assuring that hope to run along this wooly rug beneath a shower of flashes and interviews. A shared life, this, but was it? A puppet’s life, this, but was it? Was he Mrs. Kopfstutter’s little boy or Harris Cartwright of the twenty foot screen in high definition and sometimes 3D? Or was he . . . Lord Belmundus, the gigolo for a creature who sucked the life force from thousands, replicating from the sperm of a chosen few, who were promised by a tree stump from an eternal hole in the ground? Farn was like the world entire — a dilemma, unresolved and insoluble.

  Here he was — again, processing with his fellow actors on a runway cordoned by glitzy security guards and cheered by fans trained to adulate him — dress him, shower him and even catch his pee in an ornate Ming vase. How different was this place from the other place? Why would he want to escape? Because it entered the same multiplex, the same Q&A session and was conducted on the same fucking Red Carpet, which he despised. So what could he do? He smiled like the actor he was, wrapped in his new cape. Beneath his Columbincus beat a star’s heart, hot and rebellious, ready to nova and change the world about him.

  From the Scarlet Chamber came merry music, exotic, but vaguely. A blend of Rule Britannia and the Tennessee Waltz. Floral fragrance blasted Harris, choking him. Orchids and roses and jasmine — separately delectable, but together gloomy. Perhaps this was his funeral? Would it be a Viking pyre like mighty Siegfried’s in the Twilight of the Gods or a chippy-chippy chop chop chop, and then stuffed into a baggy?

  The corridor opened into the hall. Arquebus drifted to his side, tugging him left, while Tappiolus and the Thirdlings drifted to his right. In the chamber clustered young men and women to the sidelines, their attire eclectic and stylized — hair primary-colored and sculpted, spiked or mushroomed, no two the same. Some Thirdlings wore glittered trousers, while others preened in starched dresses deltaring over boots or slippers, according to preference. Harris couldn’t tell the girls from the boys. He was sure some male Thirdlings were decked in ball gowns and some females, judging by bust lines, were tuxedofied. He thought he had slipped into the East Village for the Halloween parade.

  On the chamber’s right, a curtain of capes and caftans draped the Zecronisian guests — turbaned or skull capped, and not a woman among them. Between them loitered strange creatures with olive skin — lizard-like with squat faces terminating in snouts. These were Gurts, Harris learned later, an inlander species, which most Ayelli avoided. The Gurts were artisans and craftsmen, who manufactured everything needed and admired in Montjoy. The Zecronisians were the go-betweens — a convenient arrangement.

  At the chamber’s left mustered the Palace guard — Yunockers. Their captain, Bu
hippus, with his prominent black sash, stood at their head. He nodded at Belmundus, but Harris suspected the gesture was as false as Tappiolus’ congeniality. Behind the Yunockers heaped a brown wall of Trones, their eyes peeping to catch a glimpse of what they were forbidden to see. Still, they served and fetched and sanitized, so they formed a necessary fog in the nether reaches. Perhaps they were issued an extra ration of sqwallen. Yuck!

  “Fine music,” Arquebus said to Belmundus.

  “Yes,” Harris agreed, although he wouldn’t describe it as such, because it reminded him of a score spun from old Ben Hur clips — when the slave girls titillate the Roman Governor.

  Thinking of Roman Governors, Harris spotted his future father-in-law, although he guessed Kuriakis already claimed him as a son. The Elector sat on a throne, slightly elevated above his mate, the Memer Joella, whose eyes flirted with a tall man attired in Saran wrap. This man also wore a helmet topped by three antennae — a triple pig’s ass crown — an escapee from the set of Flash Gordon.

  “Who’s that man?” Harris asked Arquebus.

  “Ambassador Traggert of Protractus. There has been a conference among four of the realms. Protractus has been a sticking point.”

  “A sticking point?”

  “No need for you to be concerned. No consort should. The realm’s politics only concern us when our children are at stake, which does come around frequently. But since you have not set upon that course yet, there is even less need for you to consider Farn’s complex inter-Elector relationships.”

  “I agree,” Harris said as they neared a proscenium, which banded the dais. “I can’t even remember the name of what I ate for breakfast. Complex enough.”

  “Things will come in time,” Arquebus said.

  Time, Harris thought. A sudden chill overcame him as he remembered he would be reported missing by all those near and dear. They would drag Central Park Lake for his body or put out an all-point bulletin coast-to-coast about a kidnapping. No ransom note, however.

  “My poor mother,” he muttered.

  “Are you ill?” Arquebus asked.

  Harris was ill. It must be the Sqwallen, he thought, because he was dizzy and he wanted his mother. Her face was before him. The orchestra strummed and the Thirdlings did a quirky dance as gracefully coordinated as foaling a horse. But this was a phantom in a rainstorm to Harris, because the Scarlet Chamber shifted. He held Arquebus’ shoulder to keep from falling.

  “Oginali,” came a whisper. “Do not fall. Do not displease them. You must stay erect.”

  Harris felt steadier, but was overcast by loss and dread. Then, through a dash in the music, he saw her again — not his mother, but his kidnapper. Charminus processed into the chamber with two others, her sister Sceptas, no doubt. Harris was caught by the jade ring — that mesmerizing gem which had captured him before and often. He became stronger when passion bubbled from his spleen, overcoming his former weakness. With Little Bird at hand, Harris stood tall beside his brother consorts.

  2

  The court fell silent as the musicians raised their instruments and played a processional for the three Sceptas. Although his mistress entranced him, Harris listened to Arquebus’ palaver intently.

  “It might interest you, as you have an attraction to Trones, we do recognize their musical abilities.”

  Harris noted the orchestra consisted entirely of Cetrone, spruced up in their best beggar buckskins and headbands. He recognized the instruments, which approximated ones from the outlands. Later, Little Bird would tell him the big drum in the ivory casing was called a yuyona and the fart horns were called yaholi. The strings were atliyidee and came in several sizes. The piano, the guitar and the organ were classified as dikano geesti — the big bellied guitar being the boboli dikano geesti, the narrow piano-harpsichord, yutumi dikano geesti, and the organ-fluty thing, yutana dikano geesti. Despite the odd names, Harris embraced the beautiful sound — a majestic tune — a march to a muffled drum beat and a sweet melody, arching over it while the Sceptas assumed their places on the dais. There followed a passel of floating Trones — children, uniform in stature and arrayed in two rows before Kuriakis. They bowed, and then filled the chamber with their glorious voices.

  Thankful all are we for thee,

  Elector Provost of the Arts,

  All living things of Montjoy be

  To keep thee in our beating hearts.

  For our daily sqwallen give,

  At thy wondrous grace we live,

  Service to the Sceptas’ smile,

  We forever reconcile

  As the children of the soil,

  For Elector and our Memer toil,

  All hail Joella, mother fair.

  All hail our father, Provost rare,

  All hail great Kuriakis,

  All hail, all hail, all hail!

  The tune was lovely beyond description, touching Harris’ heart, distracting him from Charminus and her ring. But the words stirred more, inflaming him with the preponderance of Trone service. They were taught from the earliest age to know their place. It explained Yustichisqua’s diffidence.

  “So you see, Lord Belmundus,” Arquebus whispered, “Trones have a place beyond the dustbins and lavatories. Our Memer holds a soft spot for them and, although we are bound to ignore them, she never permits mistreatment unless the rules are violated. Such charity abounds from Memer Joella.”

  “It’s called patronizing,” Harris muttered. “Recognize it for what it is.”

  Arquebus shook his head, but grinned — the knowing grin of a man acknowledging naïveté. A man expecting the bloom to fall from the rose. Perhaps today.

  The children finished an encore of their hymn, and then bowed. Kuriakis stood and applauded, prompting acclaim from the court, even from the Sceptas, although begrudgingly, Harris observed.

  “What fine singing,” Kuriakis boomed, and then swept his hand toward his Memer, who nodded graciously.

  Three Trones emerged from behind her throne, carrying baskets of hiloseegi fruit, distributing them to the children, who bowed in thanks to Joella. Agrimentikos shot a knowing smile to Belmundus. It said, I grow them myself. How useful. An ancient Greek grocer, convenient to pick the peaches to reward the help. Harris returned the grin. He liked the senior consort — jovial and convivial. Agrimentikos didn’t spout regulations like Arquebus and Tappiolus. Nor was he a marionette like Posan and Hasamun,

  The orchestra struck a livelier tune. The children’s choir floated to the brown curtain of Trones. Four Thirdlings approached the throne, bowed, faced each other, and then did the herkiest jerkiest dance Harris had ever witnessed. It was like an unsprung clock exploding, coils flying apart. The couples clapped, out of time, and performed a few sloppy somersaults. When the music stopped, they continued like mimes at charades. Then they halted abruptly, bowed and withdrew. The crowd went wild, which mystified Harris. Still, the performance had significance for Kuriakis, because he stood again, this time wiping away tears, and then turning to Ambassador Traggert.

  “Is there anything in Protractus to match its beauty?”

  Traggert muttered a few unintelligible bleeps and blips, evidently the communication in the world of high science.

  “I thought not,” Kuriakis said.

  He laughed, satisfied with the entertainment, and then raised his hand for silence. He glanced toward Harris. The moment was upon Lord Belmundus, no mistaking it. Harris awaited a solemn command to come forward from his fellow consorts. However, Kuriakis drew a deep breath, and then bellowed across the chamber.

  “Boots!”

  He laughed, dumbfounding Harris. He had received fair warning that the Elector had bestowed this nickname upon him. Harris liked it. But he reckoned it would be a private nickname — one allowed in intimate moments with the Elector. But no. Here it was, and here it was bellowed again.

  “Boots! Come forward and meet my daughters.”

  Harris took two steps, and then hesitated, waiting for Yustichisqua to follow, but
this was not protocol. To hell with that.

  “Little Bird,” he whispered.

  Yustichisqua didn’t move, but then he came, floating behind like a shadow. Little Bird was already in trouble with the Yunockers. What were the odds of them killing him twice? Now anchored by Little Bird, Lord Belmundus emerged, striding toward the throne. When he reached the proscenium, he recalled he was never taught the rituals. But, what the hell, he had broken the rules already having his Trone in tow, so no holds were barred. Harris clasped his hands together, drawing them over his Columbincus, and then bowed respectfully.

  “Father,” he said. “You have summoned me and I appear.”

  He recalled the line from some script or other — unproduced no doubt. But he had a head full of lines and his voice could mimic a host of expressions.