“Try to make me win,” Harris shouted. “That’s what you think.”
Harris accelerated over the gardens and raced so low he could almost pick some Roses of Scaladar. It was the best ride he had ever taken — exhilarating and even more gratifying, because he had a chiding, grumbling Arquebus gripping on the rail.
“Some driving lesson,” Harris shouted.
Elypticus kept up, but pointed at the sky. Harris winced, trying to see what the Thirdling meant. Storm clouds were rolling in. Harris could hear the rumble of distant thunder.
“I must insist,” Arquebus said. “I insist we end this foolishness, Lord Belmundus. Riding a Cabriolin in a tempest is not wise.”
“Why not? The Yunockers do it.”
It was true. It was already raining at the invisible gate. However, a militia is trained to maneuver to evade lightning strikes and perhaps even ratchet between the drops. So Harris banked hard and raced the Cabriolin back toward Mortis House.
Neck and neck with Elypticus, the Thirdling would fall back when they approached the terrace.
He will allow me to win at all costs.
Harris had another thing in mind. Within fifty yards of the portico, Harris lifted his hand abruptly from the controls. This halted the Cabriolin and put it into a violent tub spin, taking Elypticus by surprise as he passed his opponent, landing abruptly on the terrace. Harris replaced his hand on the left and right ports, feathering the Cabriolin into a steady hover. Arquebus was a wreck. However, tradition was even more so, because Lord Belmundus navigated his craft to the terrace having lost the race. There Elypticus sprawled prostrate on the marble tiles.
“What?” Harris asked, as Yustichisqua helped him disembark. “You are the victor, Elypticus. Congratulations.”
“Forgive me, Lord Belmundus,” the Thirdling wept. “I shall be mocked by all who see me from now and forever.”
“What?”
Arquebus was furious. He kicked his son, and then turned to Harris, bowing deeply.
“Please forgive my son, Lord Belmundus. He shall be punished before the day is out for his presumption.”
He rolled the Thirdling about the ground.
“Please,” Harris protested. “He’s done nothing wrong.”
This didn’t deter Arquebus, who lifted Elypticus by the scruff of his cape and dragged him away.
“Oginali,” Yustichisqua said, in an even tone. “The Thirdling has insulted you by winning the contest. It is disrespectful.”
“But I let him win.”
“That does not count. He must let you win.”
“At all costs,” Harris muttered.
The rain began to fall.
Chapter Two
Learning Lines
1
The rain began to fall and it seemed never to cease — no promise in the endless water’s fall. Yustichisqua said it was the rainy season, when clouds blew in from the sea, buffeting the desert’s dry heat. Sometimes it rained in the desert and, when it did, the wadis would fill with quickened sand, facilitating the Pod to hunt Tippagores and Tyggers, the beasts the Cetrone called tludachi.
Little Bird was gladdened on the weather and its persistence. It made the gardens of the Ayelli bloom, not to mention the growing lands beyond the hill, where many Cetrone bent their backs to the work. But it was hard work raising jomar and quillerfoil, the principle grain for bupka bread and sqwallen, although sqwallen had additives in its recipe — cement and marijuana came to Harris’ mind, because the stuff was heavy on the tongue. He also had to account for the high he experienced after ingesting the stuff. Were the Cetrone permanently high? Yustichisqua appeared alert, although he was eating less and less sqwallen.
Lethargy embraced Harris in this so-called rainy season. Although he was kept from practicing with his Stick and from taking a spin about the gardens in his Cabriolin, it was the dustup with Elypticus that depressed him. Arquebus’ treatment of the Thirdling infuriated Harris. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind, but then recalled these were family matters between a father and his son. Perhaps Arquebus feared that the Eye had captured the Cabriolin race. Did Soffira have a roving Eye also or a Big Toe? Harris wasn’t sure, but he witnessed Arquebus’ transformation from an admonishing mentor to a tyrannical father in a split second.
Harris considered seeking Elypticus and have a heart to heart with him — explaining to the lad that in the outlands pedestrians ran over children and didn’t give it a second thought — that teenagers lived in an iPod haze, never considering the world about them. Winning a race was a good thing — something to crow about, not to shiver in the gutter. However, after Harris asked Little Bird for directions to Elypticus’ quarters, Yustichisqua balked.
“If you seek the Thirdling,” Little Bird said, “you will further shame him. It overthrows his punishment.”
“But he shouldn’t be punished,” Harris complained. He shrugged — a concession to Little Bird’s advice. “I’ll send him a gift then.”
“He must send you a gift, oginali.”
Sure enough, a gift eventually would arrive with one of Arquebus’ Trones.
The whole affair was irksome, leaving Harris depressed. He retreated to the portico, listening to the rain. The drops chilled, cascading in a sheet from the overhang, past the balustrade and into the ravine below Mortis House.
Harris sighed, and turned to a review of his assignment, the play Othellohito. He had puttered about this for hours, scarcely concentrating on his lines. The rain sound was a narcotic — the sights even more. He couldn’t see the distant city and the forbidden gate, but he discerned a haze kissing the valley below — the sky river collecting into a verdant glade about the cobbled gardens. The botanicals spread like a pinwheel from the Temple of Greary Gree. Occasionally, a Cabriolin raced by — sometimes singly; sometimes in tandem — Yunockers making their rounds of the Ayelli.
Lord Tappiolus was up these past two weeks and Harris wondered how he fared. Despite the boredom, Harris preferred being the master of his own time. He studied lines and wondered about the places beyond the boundary — the invisible gate. He would love to bridge it and explore the city, because it was there and — and for other reasons. He suspected his predecessor had discovered a portal or a mirror or a slit trench to escape this captivity. If it weren’t so, Montjoy City wouldn’t be off-limits. But even if his speculation was dead wrong, exploring the town would be a better occupation than reading this hack reworking of Shakespeare.
Harris broke mid-reverie, letting his eye rove. It settled on Little Bird, who mended his waddly wazzoo, a rope lamp, which all Cetrone used to navigate the dark corridors. The device mystified Harris — primitive wicks in a land with bright sconces and unsourced recessed lighting. But Little Bird mended the lamp as if it were sacred, more a symbol than a navigational device. At this moment, Yustichisqua looked up, cocked his head toward the sliding door of the inner court, and then got to his feet. Instinctively, he gathered his zulus, which, by Elector decree, he could shed in the privacy of the consort’s chamber. He hesitated, and then looked to Harris as if to don them would be an insult.
“You best put them on,” Harris said. “You never know who’s at the door. It might be big fucking Buhippus himself.”
Little Bird grinned, as he had whenever his master regaled him with friendly obscenities. Yustichisqua knew all the bad words. He was raised in the Kalugu, after all, Mortis House’s refinement keeping such language at bay. But refreshingly not with Lord Belmundus. Gossip in the Scullery Dorgan had already noted the new consort’s renegade attitude. But in time, all suspected Lord Belmundus would settle into the tyrannical ruthlessness enjoyed by all Ayelli nobility. The palace slaves didn’t seem to resent the protocols, which set a stable atmosphere of expectation. From one generation to the next, they had survived the weight of a generation, which never departed. But this Lord Belmundus — he was a conversation piece where words were whispered behind the terrapinsgi soup cauldron.
So Little
Bird grinned, and then slipped on his zulus.
Bing bong.
The door vibrated innocuously, and slid aside revealing a short Trone, who looked past Yustichisqua to see the master. Upon spotting him, he bowed curtly, crossing the threshold; but just. He carried a large basket covered by a green tea towel. Little Bird lifted the towel, peeking into the basket. He grinned, looking back at Lord Belmundus. Harris shrugged. Little Bird took the basket with two hands.
“Accepted,” he snapped.
“Is it?” the Trone asked.
Little Bird looked again to Harris, who slipped from his balustrade perch and approached. Yustichisqua quickly returned his attention to the Trone, nodding and pushing him across the threshold.
Bing bong.
The door slid closed.
“What was that all about?”
Yustichisqua shucked his zulus, meeting the master halfway.
“It is the gift, oginali.”
“Gift?” He glanced at the closed door. “You tossed a fellow Trone out? We should be more hospitable, Little Bird.”
“You cannot appear too generous with this gift, oginali. It is a healing gift.”
“Healing gift?”
“From the Thirdling.”
“Elypticus?”
“Your acceptance will heal his shame. If you appear too anxious to return the favor, it would only shame him again. He would need to send you another gift.”
“I’ll never get used to these doings,” Harris said, lifting the tea towel. “What is it? It looks like dead snakes. Maybe I was hasty accepting it.”
“No, no, oginali. This is mongerhide — a delicacy — and very dear. It costs many yedalas — more than I have ever seen.”
“Do we wear them or eat them?”
“You eat them, oginali. I cannot, but you must enjoy it.”
Harris snapped the basket from his servant, waving him to follow. He returned to the portico and the rain and the script. He set the basket on a table and slipped off the tea towel. He held one of these strange mongerhide sticks to his eye.
“Slim Jims,” he muttered, “although they’re twisted like bugs in a Chinese market.”
He grinned and bit into the end. Crunchy, but when saliva ran, it softened to a spicy morsel — between pepperoni and anduoille. Tasty juice trickled down his gullet.
“Slim Jims,” he concluded. “Eat one.”
Little Bird hesitated, glancing back at the wall, looking for the Eye, no doubt. Then he snatched one and quickly devoured it before anyone could see him. Harris laughed.
“Good,” Little Bird murmured.
Yustichisqua grinned, the ruddy juice trickling down his mouth’s crevices. He swallowed, and then snatched another.
“Better than sqwallen, eh, Little Bird?”
“Better, oginali.”
“Fucking-A,” Harris said, hugging him. “I don’t care how many yedalas these Slim Jim taste-alikes cost. It’s worth it if it makes you smile.”
Harris munched as much mongerhide as he could, short of belly busting.
“Perhaps I should press more Thirdlings to shame.”
Yustichisqua giggled, snickering down the crunchy delicacy.
“I do not advise it, oginali,” he said.
“Ah. You’re my adviser now.”
Little Bird immediately changed his demeanor to formal subservience, a posture Harris disliked. He was joshing, after all. Again in this culture, all was literal. He stood, raising Little Bird.
“Hear me,” he said, wagging his finger. “I’m a prick sometimes, and even when I don’t know it.”
“No, oginali.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“No, oginali.”
“I’m still learning. I don’t intend to cause anxiety or to bring punishments. But until I get my land legs, your advice is precious. Do you understand me now?”
“Yes, oginali.” Yustichisqua returned to his haunches. “But after you get these land leggings, shall Little Bird become as he was? I mean no offense and have delighted in feeling the ground under my toes and being able to speak in your presence and to eat wonderful foods — and see things no Trone is permitted to see.”
Harris hunkered down, placing his hands on Little Bird’s shoulders.
“You shall be as you are, however you are, when you are who you are. There’s no going back, and even after I’ve figured this place out and find . . . and find my way home, you are changed forever . . . forever.”
Little Bird nodded.
“It is a fearful thing.”
“It is. Your fear will raise you. When you lack fear you become a slave.”
“But I do not fear you.”
“Fear me, Yustichisqua. I’ll never harm you intentionally. But if you throw your lot in with me, you might just fall off a cliff.”
Little Bird smiled. He nodded, and then touched Harris’ forehead, a zone forbidden to touch.
“I will never fear you, even when you throw me off the cliff. I delight in the moments you have given, like the light of my waddly wazzoo, which burns strong now.”
Harris stood and waited for Yustichisqua to join him at his side. Then he snatched a mongerhide stick, offering it to the lad. Little Bird grinned, snatched one from the basket and offered it to Lord Belmundus. Thus the knots of trust are tied.
2
Incessant rain — a melody throughout the night; chilled fingers during the day. Lightning struck beyond the valley, never coming to the Ayelli, as if a force field shielded it from damage. No such shields protected Montjoy City. Harris saw fires glowing in the distant Kalugu and the Yuyutlu. Swarms of Yunockers raced on large Cabriolins, which Harris assumed were Farn’s version of fire trucks. He also noticed the priorities — blazes in the Yuyutlu took preference, while the Kalugu was left to burn. Cruel Farn logic.
Harris grew listless. He couldn’t sit around and munch yedalas worth of mongerhide all day or sip yarrow tarrow tea. He persisted in going over his lines of the worst script he had ever encountered. If this were truly Shakespeare, he would make an honorable effort worthy of his craft. But the script reflected the twisted tastes of the three Sceptas, making for crappy drama. Othellohito no longer had pretence to tragedy, since Desdemona (or Desdemonayama) magically comes back to life at the end and hooks up with Cassioshima in a hammy manner. Still, Brunting Day approached. The rain had forestalled it, but it would come. He would be ready.
He raised the script and read to himself, occasionally glancing up from the page.
“I found it in my mikaruni:
And he himself confess’d but even now
That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose
Which wrought to his desire.”
Harris assumed that a mikaruni was a bedchamber, if the handkerchief in question was indeed the handkerchief in question. He closed the script, his finger keeping the place.
“I found it in my . . . macaroni,” he laughed, drawing Little Bird’s attention. “That’s not right.” Yustichisqua shrugged. “It’s bad enough I’m contending with Cetronian and Ayellian and What-the-fuck-onian, I’ve gotta know Japanese too?”
Little Bird approached. He tapped the script, which Harris opened. His servant cocked his head and read the lines to himself.
“It is not Cetrone speech, oginali.”
“How would you know?” Little Bird smiled. “You can read, you sly devil. I would think if there’s an edict on what you can’t eat and what you must wear on your tootsies, there’d be one helluva taboo about you reading.”
“There is. We are allowed to learn how to read, but it is forbidden to teach us.”
“That’s nifty-shifty logic,” Harris said, turning the script back ‘round. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve an idea which’ll help me learn this shit.”
“Help I will do.”
Harris thrust the script into Little Bird’s hands, pointing to a place on the page.
“Feed me lines.”
“Feed you? But we just ate.”
“Read the line, and that’ll prompt me for my line.”
Yustichisqua appeared eager, now that he understood the process. He raised the script close to his face.
“Can you see it?”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 19