Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Yes, Boots. Well done. Well done.” Kuriakis stepped forward, reaching for Harris’ hand. “You are a fine specimen. I saw it when you warded off the terrerbyrd. I told Agrimentikos you will be a fine addition to the court, didn’t I, Agrimentikos?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the Greek said from the sideline.

  “Thank you, father,” Harris responded.

  “Yes, yes.” Kuriakis waved his hands toward his daughters. “You know Charminus, without saying. You are her pick, after all. But let me introduce you to my other daughters.”

  Harris looked to the two, who resembled their stained glass images only in the flesh. Soffira was the lovelier of the two — of the three, actually. She had blonde tresses, pure white skin — whiter than Charminus’, and rosy lips, more toward pink than toward claret. Her eyes were blue like Harris’. She extended her hand and Harris approached, grasping it.

  “My pleasure, sister.”

  “Sister?” Soffira said, giggling, and then looked to Charminus. “He is unlike the other one in this. You have my blessings with this charmer.”

  Charminus frowned at first, probably sibling rivalry, but then parted her crimson lips in a sinister grin.

  “Do not mistake his smooth tongue for the real thing, dear Soffira,” she said. “Although glad he has manners, he is inclined . . . to buck. But we know how to tame.”

  “Good, good,” Kuriakis exclaimed. “I like a bucker . . . but.” He winked at Harris. “Not a rascally troublemaker, I hope. You know what I mean?”

  Harris did. This was illusion after all. He’d be Boots the wunderkind as long as he was spirited within boundaries. Too much buck and he’d be sent to where his mysterious predecessor evaporated. Harris bowed to Kuriakis, and then to Soffira.

  “And this is my eldest daughter,” Kuriakis proclaimed. “Miracola, the Scepta of the great loom — the mistress of weaving.”

  Harris saw before him the ample Scepta, who in the outlands would be regarded as a candidate for the fat farm. She had auburn hair, three chins, cheeks as wide as Maine, breasts as blue ribbon as anything seen at the Iowa State Fair, and a backside, which required a reinforced throne, no doubt. He imagined the pain her Trones must suffer at unimaginable and unmentionable duties. Then he thought of Hasamun and Posan — thin young men. They must disappear in bed. Well, Hasamun saw her as a moon and Posan as a giant fish. But there was no accounting for tastes. She probably had a docile and wondrous personality.

  “Sister,” Harris said, tentatively.

  “You may call me Scepta Miracola,” she said, puffing the words out like a fortuneteller in a mechanical chance booth. “I do not even allow my sisters to call me sister.”

  Soffira laughed — an annoying laugh, while Charminus pouted, her lips pruning. Harris bowed again.

  “Scepta Miracola,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow, inspecting him in one glance.

  “You are a fat one,” she said. “Your co-consort is thinner.” She glanced toward Tappiolus. “But Charminus always liked them with some heft and no bodily definition.”

  I work out, Harris thought. But he wasn’t here to debate. So he bowed with acceptance, wondering how Weight Watchers would regard Miracola’s assessment.

  “Excellent,” Kuriakis said.

  He grasped Harris about the shoulders, ushering him to the Memer. This would be a difficult introduction. If Harris addressed the Memer as mother, he might drift into sqwallen induced morbidity. He gazed nervously at her. She was radiant — a combination of the Virgin Mary and the Queen of England — young Elizabeth, not old gouty Anne. Perhaps this wouldn’t be difficult after all. He bowed low, his hand extended in an old fashioned, thankee sai gesture. He couldn’t be courtlier.

  “Mother,” he said.

  Joella stood, raising both hands. The court rumbled. Harris thought he was done in, crossing the protocol line, waiting for the Memer to scream, off with his head. But no. She opened her arms wide, and returned the bow graciously.

  3

  “Montjoy has thrived as the preserver of all things beautiful,” Joella began. “In our fair land blows the Lilies of Murrow and the Roses of Scaladar, scenting the palaces of Farn and beyond. We harvest the Silk from the Threadnickery and weave the sheer Cloth of Trelaw. All the Electors reckon us as the center of grace and luxury, the sponsor of the Gurts manufactories in the Yuyutlu and the great market of Wudayleegu for the Zecronisians, from over the Amaykwohi Sea. Our militia is the most elegant and our Kalugu produces the most talented musicians and the most obedient Trones in Farn. To this the most beautiful children from the Forling to the sea grace our gardens. We are the quartermasters of all which is precious to the eye and tender to the nose; and display it for the ages on the Ayelli. This I say to you, dear outlander, whom the Primordial Centrum has christened Belmundus the Fair — Belmundus the Just — Belmundus the Bountiful. To you I say welcome. Add to our glory as many have done before you and many who follow shall over the cavalcade of time. Let my daughter’s choice not shame the House of Montjoy. May you enjoy and ennoble the family name.”

  She extended her hand toward him. In it she held a ring — a jade ring, much like Charminus’ only with his own sigil — the eye with two squiggles.

  “Take this as a token of your mother’s love and your father’s earnest faith that you shall be fruitful and add to our population.”

  Harris stepped toward her, hesitating. He wasn’t sure he could approach her, but how else could he take the ring, unless she tossed it. He plucked the ring from her grasp, and then, on impulse, kissed her hand.

  “Thank you, mother.”

  “This is a day of gifting. Whatever your pleasure and want, ask it of me and it shall be granted.”

  He bowed again, but decided to save his request. You never know when you’ll need a get out of jail free card.

  Kuriakis clapped, and then waved the other consorts forward.

  “It is time, my sons.” He turned to Harris. “Boots, kneel before me.”

  Harris went to one knee, and then to both, bowing his head. The consorts gathered around him, placing hands upon him.

  “Boots,” Kuriakis intoned, and then chuckled. “I guess for this we need formality.” He opened his hands wide — large hands with the shepherd’s crook sigil tattooed on the palms. Harris recalled Charminus saying, my father dabbles in magic. Harris didn’t doubt it. “Belmundus the Fair, the Just and the Bountiful, I pronounce you the second consort to my daughter, Charminus the Shimmering, Scepta to the House of Montjoy on this eighth day of Ringus Mordantus in the forty-two thousandth rotation about Solus Dodecadatemus, declared here in Mortis House before the court of the Ayelli.”

  He touched Harris’ Columbincus, which glowed sapphire blue. Harris felt a surge of power — warmth — a fire even from head to groin as if preparing him for Marathon sex with the Goth girl, Charminus the Shimmering. The ring, which he held in his palm, also shone. He quickly secured it on his right hand, but then thought better of this, and shifted it to his left ring finger. His brother consorts pulsed their lightning charms. When they released him, he turned to see his mistress — his kidnapper and now his keeper — standing before him. Was she his wife? He couldn’t tell. This was like no coupling on the books. He was now officially one of the two batteries, which charged this lady’s dildo. But Harris could have done worse. Besides, he was pinned by her mesmerizing ring. He could claim insanity and maintain the sanctity of his soul.

  She raised him, gesturing into her arms. But when he drew close, she spun about, holding his hand only, raising it in hers — a signal for the crowd to go wild — applause and shouts of Adadooski, which Harris later learned meant be fruitful — get crackin’ and make those babies — those Thirdlings who fill this chamber to the rafters and nothing beyond. Well, that’s what it meant by implication.

  One more step in the rite came now. A priest named Fagus Marius, a deacon in the Church of the Pontifraxian Orbitum, came forward, sent by the Elector of Pontifrax
to bless the union, or as Harris regarded it, the abduction. The man was robed in black with a snowy shawl, and wore several crosses and ankhs and sephiras and pentacles. Harris wondered how the man could stay upright with this amount of metal and still swing his fiery censer. Fagus Marius swung it left, and then right. Harris thought one more swing and the thing would take off into the crowd.

  “Hear the words of the Primordius Centrum,” Fagus chanted, and then made his declaration:

  “To each Elector three branches made

  Deigned as sons and daughters born,

  Renowned Sceptas and Seneschals

  But as towers apart shall grow,

  Never fruitful within their bonds,

  So to the outlands they must go,

  To gather succor into dough —

  The life force must they always hoe.

  But each may draw a double mate,

  And thus may sow and populate,

  A harvest to serve and ease their shade —

  A scattered horde as duty paid,

  Smiling kin for the alliance trade,

  But as mules these Thirdlings be,

  Until there comes the mending free.

  Then a fourth shall bloom in Farn

  Uniting houses — the outlands darn

  ‘til suns and moons reflect no more

  And Zin and Zacker close the door.

  The deacon made a strange sign of the cross — a Z-trace, and then clicked his tongue three times.

  “May this union be the one to fulfill the promise — the promise of the Spasatorum, in the name of Elohim al Fazir Galafindrus. Arkmo.”

  The entire chamber mumbled the word Arkmo. Then Charminus spun Belmundus around again to great applause and Adadooski.

  4

  “You are up,” Tappiolus said, grinning. “I need a rest.”

  Harris imagined a dozen wrecked hotel rooms. He hoped this time he’d remember the fun and not solely the exhaustion. Charminus gave Tappiolus a sly wink. Her Trone appeared behind her, catching Harris’ attention. The woman was fetching in ways, which Charminus could never be. However, the dark haired beauty was appropriately servile before her mistress, and Charminus twitched until she regained Harris’ attentions. Short lived, because Kuriakis clapped and paraded around the proscenium regally.

  “Boots,” he shouted. “Here, here, Boots. My gift to you.”

  Harris turned to see a draped object nearby the Yunockers ranks. At Kuriakis’ command, Buhippus removed the drape, revealing the gift.

  “Nice,” Harris said like a teenager getting the keys to daddy’s car.

  It was a Cabriolin. His very own Cabriolin. Harris left Charminus and strolled to the machine. How did it operate? Could he master it? Could he soar over the Bottleblue Sea?

  “Thank you . . . father.”

  “It will be here when you finish your rounds,” Kuriakis announced, indicating the awaiting Scepta. “And I suppose you will need a replacement Trone.”

  Harris twisted about looking toward Yustichisqua, who immediately went to his knees, zulus spread outward.

  “Replacement?” Harris asked. “But this Trone pleases me.”

  “That might well be, but he is a drifter from duty and this will not do. Especially since you are new to our ways.”

  Harris looked toward Buhippus, who grinned with satisfaction. Then he observed Charminus and her golden eyes. It was only one of those peepers that muddled the course.

  “But father,” Harris supplicated. “This Trone pleases me fine.”

  “We strive for perfection in the highest circles, Boots. This one is not an asset for Lord Belmundus. There are many others more disciplined.”

  Harris glanced at Little Bird, suddenly aware this was not the Cetrone’s fault. It was his oginali’s fault. Harris’ insistence had brought Yustichisqua to this brink. He would probably be thrown to the dogs in the Kalugu; or worse — waste away with nothing but sqwallen in a Yunocker prison called the Porias. Harris swallowed hard — a bolt of air helping him brace for his next action. He bowed to Kuriakis, but shifted toward Joella, who still sat graciously on her throne.

  “Mother,” he said. “You promised me a gift.”

  “I did,” she said.

  “This Trone pleases me well.”

  She smiled at him, and then nodded toward Kuriakis, who grunted and threw his arms toward the ceiling. Surrender.

  “My dear Lord Belmundus,” she replied. “Would you waste your advantage on a worthless request? Surely you may keep this Trone, but there must be something better you have considered.”

  Harris touched first his Columbincus, and then his jade ring.

  “Yes,” he said. “I wish for this Trone to shed his zulus and walk as other creatures do upon the ground which holds us all.”

  A murmur rumbled through the hall, growing into a discussion. Harris looked to Arquebus, who shook his head. He saw Buhippus touch his Stick, perhaps preparing to suppress an insurrection of Trones. However, Joella gently raised her hand, and then stood. The hall melted to silence.

  “Boots,” Kuriakis snapped. “And would you have this creature walk beside you?”

  “No, father. Behind me, as befitting his station.”

  Charminus came forward and grasped Belmundus by the arm.

  “You forget yourself,” she said, in a sharp tone, but still maintaining her public pose.

  “Perhaps, I do,” he confessed.

  “You may keep this Trone,” Kuriakis said. “As a gift from the Memer. As for shucking his zulus, he may do so in private in the confines of your court. But beyond that, he must adhere to the regulations.”

  Harris nodded, and then turned to his Trone.

  “Yustichisqua,” he said. “Rise and serve me.”

  Little Bird stood, tears draining into the edges of his lips.

  “Forever, oginali.”

  The music recommenced, and Belmundus bowed in turn to his brother consorts and to Soffira and Miracola. Charminus sent her Trone ahead to prepare the way, and then strode out of the Scarlet Chamber. Harris turned once again to Joella and Kuriakis. He nodded to Ambassador Traggert and to Deacon Fagus Marius. Finally, he raised his hands to the court. They shouted Adadooski! Adadooski!

  “I am ready,” Belmundus said to his Trone, although he was far from ready. “One day at a time,” he muttered.

  As he followed Charminus’ wake, he heard the gentle buzz of Little Bird’s zulus. Then the lad whispered something to him. Harris smiled, because Yustichisqua had bestowed a gift for the occasion.

  “Oginali,” he whispered. “Her name is Littafulchee and she is my cousin.”

  Adadooski!

  Arkmo!

  Part II

  Exploring the Part

  Chapter One

  Following the Fold

  1

  Belmundus was up and stayed up for two weeks. All hail youth in its exuberant blood flow! Or so went the Ayelli proverb crafted by womenfolk, no doubt. Unlike the previous experiences, Harris recalled fragmentary moments. It wasn’t all pleasure, because, although stamina blessed him, and his selection probably predicated on it, drilling for oil in the same field proved routine after two days, verging on tedium after a week. At two weeks, filled with Corzanthe and delectable tasty pastries and fruit, which Yustichisqua brought or Littafulchee toted, Harris had a hangover few had ever encountered and fewer would envy. While intoxicating on one hand, it begged for relief on the other. When he resisted the Scepta, she would put on her Goth girl routine, recapturing the passion, which had snagged him from the outlands — an art refined by an eternity of succubus need. However, whatever her feelings for the act, she had scant feelings for him. Harris was an object — a magic wand fulfilling the promise and perhaps the prophecy. Satiating the Scepta’s spirit — the food which kept her alive, dwelled beyond him — beyond Mortis House and Montjoy — in the several worlds of the outlands, in the dreams of the unsuspecting, who would slumber hot and bothered, never to awake, depleted of testos
terone. Loved ones would find these victims in the morning and declare a death by a heart attack or an aneurysm from a precondition. Shame! Father of two. Successful businessman! Early death and much mourned. Harris wondered whether Montjoy invested in the insurance policies these acts inspired. In any event, he might be exhausted, but he was alive and kicking.

  At breaks, when they dined together, Harris would test the waters with general questions. As long as he stuck to generalities, the Scepta might answer. She told him the two suns of this world were named Solus and Dodecadatamus, and there were two suns in all the outlands. However, Dodecadatamus in some worlds orbited wide, making its approach beyond human reckoning. Every Thirdling knew as much. Once, he asked about the zulus.