“Why do you force Trones to wear those zippy shoes?”
“To serve us faster,” she replied. “It is their shame, and they must recall it.”
“What must they recall and why?” he asked.
“Their shame, of course. Because, they must. It is ordained.”
“Who ordained it?”
She grinned, pointing to the ceiling, and then to the floor, but didn’t venture an answer beyond that. Then, after a sip of Corzanthe, she calmly said, “Your Trone will murder you in your sleep.”
“Not true.”
“You regard yourself as liberator, but they cannot be liberated by those who rule. They can only be free when they regard us as weak and assailable. That is why we have Yunockers.”
“But they wear zulus too.”
“Yes, and for the same reason.”
“I’d fear the zippy cops slitting my throat before I would my Trone.”
“In your case, my dear Lord Belmundus, you might be correct.”
He winced, although it had been his suggestion.
“Am I marked?” he asked.
“You have incurred Captain Buhippus’ anger. He is an obedient servant, but given to command. Tappiolus barely controls him, though I have admonished him to demean Buhippus — to regard him with less importance. More like a trained Tippagore or Hunting dragget. Tappiolus would never condone easing the zulu rule.”
“Does it really matter?” Harris asked, as if the conversation had veered to the political.
“Actually, to me, no,” she snapped. “I am above such discussions. If a Trone — even my most obedient and trustworthy Trone, were to transgress the law, punishment would be swift and severe. The Kalugu brims with replacement candidates, compliant entities happier to serve in Ayelli than to starve in Kalugu.”
She yawned. Harris fell silent. Then he changed to a subject closer to his interests.
“When am I to see the city?” he asked. “I’ve been shown maps and I see it from my perch, but it would please me to visit the wards and markets.”
“It would please me not,” she said. He pouted. “Perhaps someday,” she added. “There are pleasures enough to keep you here. And Brunting Day approaches.”
Brunting Day was a sacred festival set aside by Kuriakis and Joella for their coupling. They processed from their palaces to the Scaladar gardens to reap the adulation of Montjoy. Elector and Memer would entered the Temple of Greary Gree and dedicate their bodies to the divinity of Farn. The play Harris was to perform — the tidbit dubbed Othellohito, was scheduled at the garden amphitheater on Brunting Day.
Harris didn’t press the subject further. Bored or enthusiastic, he still considered escape. But when his passion flagged, Charminus would enchant him with her ring. He became a zapped bug. He did learn about her ring. The sigil on its face, resembling a shepherd’s crook, actually evoked the sacred plant, which grew around the Temple of Greary Gree. It was a finicky specimen, blooming once every ten years. It was called the Lily of Murrow, its flower used to brew a liquor so powerful when poured into a silver goblet, the vessel turned to gold. It was almost worth the price of admission to see it, but the event was a few years off. Why did these precious plants take so long to flower, when the Sceptas had a short six-week gestation period, and the Thirdlings went from infanthood to dancing the herky jerky in three years?
Harris also discovered when his own ring touched Charminus’, it caused her eyes to roll in orgiastic rapture. She almost lost consciousness. So whenever he needed a break, he’d clamp his ring to hers — jade to jade. Was this the secret for Ayelli insemination, because during his first inning of being up, he failed to impregnate her? Maybe the rings had to be clanked at precisely the correct moment — some sacred plant weaving its perfume about the canopy of the great bed. However, except the Book of Farn, there were no ready books on Montjoy lovemaking. Harris wasn’t anxious to visit the Cartisforium for fear the chapters on sex would display a map akin to the Kama Sutra. There was one curious ring-related action. Whenever Charminus called him to his session, the jade shone brightly. Harris was glad it didn’t come with a siren or he’d be a walking broadcast for his horny mistress.
Harris asked Charminus a specific question, one too specific for her reply — a question, which Arquebus had warned him to avoid. He sensed Charminus was lulled to joy after their last round of passion. The opportunity was too good to let pass. He looked deeply into her golden eyes — those eyes, which could project into a huge spyglass, roaming the halls of Mortis House.
“Great Scepta,” he said solemnly, as if asking permission to use the toilet. “May I ask a question, which burns in my soul?”
She nodded. He couldn’t tell whether it was ascent or her usual shrug.
“Thank you,” he said, sitting up. “What happened to my predecessor?”
Charminus closed her eyes, and then scrambled from the vast bed, summoning her Trone to bring a fresh shift, as if the question had soiled her. Harris summoned Yustichisqua for a fresh jockstrap — tit for tat. He never asked her that question again. Besides, his up time was almost up. The clock rang him out when Tappiolus bowed his way in, his own Trone in tow. Charminus left them alone — the changing of the guard.
“Is this the way it’ll always be?” Harris asked, hoping under these arrangements co-consort paths would cross once every two weeks only.
“Sometimes, Boots,” Tappiolus replied. “But she roves to the out worlds also. When it happens, you must pursue knitting ganuggle robes or growing protastitorium spuds or whatever young screen stars are accustomed to do when not thrashing in the bedroom.”
“I generally read Cicero,” Harris said, smugly — although he couldn’t remember the last Greek or Roman he read. “And I fancy exotic languages. Perhaps I’ll study Cetrone.”
Tappiolus sneered — a canine scowl.
“You are testing me, Lord Belmundus. But remember, when it comes to Trones, I am not the only deterrent.”
“Buhippus?” Harris asked. “Yes, I forgot El Capitan and his pogo stick.”
“If I were you, sir,” Tappiolus admonished. “I would devote your free time to your Columbincus and becoming proficient at controlling your Cabriolin.”
“And there’s Brunting Day.”
“Yes.” Tappiolus bowed smartly, like a gendarme in a French Foreign Legion film, only with Italian subtitles. “You are relieved to take your ease, Lord Belmundus.”
What? No Boots? Harris would like to call Tappiolus, Shithead, but he didn’t think it would fly unless Kuriakis initiated it. Instead, he returned the bow — smartly á la the back lot.
“Yes, Lord Tappiolus, I’ll relieve myself.”
Harris left his fellow consort fuming, but his gibes would improve with time.
2
Arquebus instructed Harris on the refinements of the Columbincus. It afforded many advantages, including a shield if a Trone should try to murder him in his sleep. It also powered his Stick and Cabriolin.
Firing the Stick was an art, Harris soon discovered. You just didn’t point and shoot. Tappiolus had offered to teach him, but since the co-consort was now up and unavailable, Hasamun and Posan took his place. A difficult course of study this, because neither consort spoke often — mostly grunting, demonstrating Stick techniques through tug and push. Hasamun taught Harris how to hold the Stick. Grip it wide-side toward the body and narrow-side out. Otherwise the shooter could do himself injury. Next, the thumb was pressed along the decorative band, which ringed the Stick’s midsection. The index finger must be rigid, the remaining fingers bowed against the weapon’s underside for support. Harris dropped the damn thing before he managed the proper grip.
“If you hold it not correctly,” Hasamun explained, “it will knock you backwards upon your rump.”
“Or fly away over your hip,” Posan added. “And then . . .”
He pointed to the sky, laughing. He laughed harder when Harris’ Stick did exactly that. They scrambled up a tree to retrieve
it.
“Maybe I should just use it as a club,” he suggested.
Finally, he managed to power up the Stick, regardless where it flew. He accomplished this by holding his left hand over the sigil of his Columbincus and focusing his mind on the Stick’s tip. This fired the dang thing up. Now it was a matter of aim.
“Practice on the birds,” Hasamun said, pointing to a gaggle of scarlet tweeters, which perched on a branch.
“What did they do to me?” Harris asked.
“Just aim and see,” Posan replied.
Harris shrugged, touched his Columbincus, lifted the Stick, held properly with thumb pressed, index finger stiff, and the rest, bowed. He wished upon a star the thing missed the sweet little birdies, which had done him no harm. However, when he lifted his arm, the birds squawked, displayed hideous teeth and dived at him.
“Holy crap,” he cried.
The little devils were aiming for his head. Harris stepped back, tripping over a footstool. He heard Yustichisqua behind him, yelling — fire, oginali. Fire! Harris waved the weapon like a flag, spraying the incoming kamikaze birds with enough blue fire to stop them cold. They fell like scarlet raindrops at his feet.
Hasamun and Posan bowed, and then applauded. Harris waited for an arkmo and an Adadooski, but his brother consorts just helped him to his feet, while Little Bird fussed about the state of Lord Belmundus’ asano and cape. Harris laughed.
“Not so cute, these birdies,” he said, kicking one aside.
Yustichisqua gathered them in his korinkle — a knapsack as ubiquitous as his waddly wazzoo.
“Good eating, oginali. They are porgeedasqui.”
Tastes like chicken, Harris thought. But he had taken his first shot. He could become a big game hunter if Charminus allowed him to spread his wings and find the quarry. Chances seemed nil to no way. As for spreading his wings, that was left to Arquebus and the flying machine.
3
Cabriolins, Harris learned, were also Columbincus powered. Whatever powered the Columbincus remained a mystery, although he asked.
“There is a place where minerals are mined,” Arquebus explained. “There the enriching stones lurk, coveted by the Electors as . . . as the source.”
That didn’t explain much. Were these minerals like kryptonite or Dragonstone — or were they the fabled paragons of power, which Hollywood scripts harvested whenever they needed a focal point for the ubiquitous force or the mystical essence, ch’i? Harris accepted the answer pat, as if Arquebus said Cabriolins were powered by gas from the pump. He decided to call the all-powerful mineral, the stuff. He needed to manipulate the stuff, because it was found in Ayelli inventions, most beyond his ken.
The Cabriolin’s panel was simple — flat and smooth with five indented zones — ports. Harris had observed these when he first encountered Arquebus, and the roller-coaster ride with Elypticus.
“This turns the power on,” Arquebus explained, touching the center zone.
“Like a car’s ignition?”
“If that yields meaning to you, yes.”
Arquebus lived in pre-automotive times, so Harris shut up and listened. Arquebus touched each of the zones in turn.
“Your navigation — much like a ship’s wheel. Left — right — upward and downward.”
“Simple enough.”
Elypticus arrived in his vehicle, and bowed.
“Is Lord Belmundus ready to race?”
Harris grinned, and then positioned himself before the panel. He touched the center zone, but nothing occurred. Arquebus chuckled. Then Harris looked to Elypticus, who touched his chest, where a smaller version of a Columbincus was pinned. Harris nodded, and touched his left hand to his brooch, and then applied his hand to the power port. The Cabriolin shook, the central zone glowing ruby. Harris shifted his hand to the upper zone and . . .
“Wow,” he said, looking to Arquebus, who held on for his life.
“Keep it steady,” his teacher advised. “And no racing today. Just ride easy — right — left, and then down a little.”
Harris felt the vehicle responding not only to his hand, but to his thoughts — gentle glide, easy bank, forward over the Ayelli and upward to the sky. Elypticus kept pace with him, winking and grinning — clearly itching for a race.
“Keep your eyes on the panel,” Arquebus chided, because Ayelli’s beauty had captivated Harris’ attentions.
His eyes drank the sights — the valley sloping toward the city, verdant, dotted with pavilions and fountains and shrines. The amphitheatre, where he would put forth his best Cassioshima, if he managed to learn his lines, spread beneath his Cabriolin. A rotunda dominated the hill — the Temple of Greary Gree.
Suddenly, Arquebus placed a hand on Harris’ shoulder.
“Hover here. Go no further.”
Harris didn’t know how to stop the contraption, and shrugged. Arquebus came beside him.
“Just take your hand away and not too . . . “
But Harris jerked his hand up, and the Cabriolin began spinning like a top.
“Now what?” Harris cried, alarmed.
“Hands back on,” Arquebus shouted. “Tickle the left and right ports together.”
Harris did this until the gyration gradually stopped. Dizzy, he might donate his lunch to the landscape below.
“Gently remove your hand.”
Done. Stopped and hovering. Elypticus laughed, but upon catching his father’s eye, the lad puckered, nodded and turned his head away. From both north and south (or was it south and north) a Cabriolin convoy approached, two double lines of ten, driving at a lower altitude than Harris, but clearly drawing a boundary between Ayelli and Montjoy City.
“Who are they?”
“Yunockers,” Arquebus explained. “The guardians of the gate.”
“I don’t see a gate.”
“You will if you cross the line,” Arquebus replied.
“So we’re not allowed in the city? None of us?”
“Yes, on occasion — supervised. Tappiolus is, of course, as he is the Provost of the Yunocker and must inspect the Yuganawu. Agrimentikos goes frequently, but he has been here so long he is . . .”
Harris cocked his head. Arquebus was about to say he is trusted to do so. Harris was convinced.
“He’s what?”
“Nothing. The longer you are here, the more freedoms you accrue.”
Harris looked at Arquebus suspiciously. Sir John was suppressing something. It was plain from the man’s expression — one of longing, and yet disgust. This, despite the actor’s art.
“Sir John,” Harris snapped. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“No one cares what we think, Lord Belmundus and do not call me, Sir John.”
“Does it pain you?”
“That name is best left in the past.”
Harris watched the guardian forces crisscross before them. It was a gate and it was locked.
“What if I put my hand in gear and edge us closer?” Harris asked, a trace of mischief in his voice.
“They would take you into custody.”
“Custody? An Ayelli Lord in custody?”
“They would do it with civility and considerable apology, but they would do it all the same. They would escort you to your Scepta to await chastisement.”
“And what if I resisted their escort?”
Arquebus grimaced.
“You are as troublesome as . . .”
“As whom? The other one?”
“No one.”
“Do you know what I think?”
Arquebus didn’t answer. However, this didn’t stop Harris from mulling over answers in his mind. I think we’re kept from the city because there’s a secret there. I bet there’s a way out and I also bet my predecessor — old Mr. Troublesome, found his way and was . . . well, was gently chastised for the discovery. Probably thrown to the terrerbyrds.
“Do you know what I think?” Harris repeated, and then caught Elypticus’ eye. “I think I’m up for a
race.”
Arquebus shook his head.
“You are not ready. Besides, it would be no contest.”
“You think I’d lose?”
“On the contrary. Elypticus would let you win at all costs.”
Harris grinned. He waved at the Thirdling, who cocked his head suspiciously, like a parrot wondering where the cracker was hidden. Then he grasped the intent. Harris slammed his hand on the center panel, and then banked away from the gate. He dived fast and furiously, swooping over the amphitheater and the Temple of Greary Gree. Elypticus gave a war whoop (a childish one), but zoomed to the challenge.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 18