Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  That can thy kindle relume. When I have pluck’d the Scaladar,

  I cannot give it vital growth again.

  It must needs wither: I’ll smell it on the tree.”

  Arquebus wept. Harris went to applaud, but halted, knowing this was unprofessional. Certainly some acclaim must be accorded to this master Thespian. Harris gazed toward the Trones, who slept, except . . . except Yustichisqua, whose wide eyes were fastened upon the stage, his mouth agape. Harris was pleased. He was less pleased by Agrimentikos, who interrupted the flow by reminding everyone this was a rehearsal and nothing but perfection was expected. Therefore, since Arquebus had been standing too close to the sleeping Hasamun, he was requested to repeat the soliloquy no less than three times, each with a different pose and a little less vehemence on the waddly wazzoos. Hasamun followed with a rejoinder — waking and questioning the lord. It was a queer interaction of styles, because, although the words were Elizabethan, the acting was Victorian slammed forcefully into Noh tradition — Hasamun exaggerating his words into sonorous lines — Alaaaas my loooord! and be meeercifuuul. Then he bobbed his head, contorting his arms. Harris didn’t think it worked, but recalled, at the piece’s conclusion, he would have a scene with Hasamun — a scene practiced with Yustichisqua, who just rattled the words off like a reading from a dictionary. Now they’d be singsong soupy with twitchy-kawitchy body language as a compensation for resonance. How would that fly with the Zecronisian aristocracy?

  Harris didn’t fret, because Agrimentikos interrupted so often with reruns, the chances of getting to the second entrance was slim to none. Then, as Harris gazed back again at Yustichisqua, his attention caught a new scene — a buckskin robe floating along the back row and out into the garden. Littafulchee.

  Harris stood.

  “You are not up yet,” Agrimentikos said, not unkindly.

  “I need a stretch,” Harris explained. He pointed up and away. “I’ll be taking my ease in the garden.”

  “Don’t go far . . . and not forever.”

  “Just whistle and I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Agrimentikos shrugged, as if he’d whistle, and then clapped to bring Posan on as Emiliasan. Harris chuckled, and then crept up the stairs, drifting toward the garden trellises. He saw Yustichisqua stir. Harris shook his head, patting the air. Little Bird took the meaning, returning to his seat.

  Harris reached the top row, and then sighed. One thing was true. A whisper from the stage could be heard loud and clear up here — the History Channel vindicated.

  3

  Harris entered the arbor — a lambent spot, where cascades of a flowering vine spun golden, blooms reminiscent of wild snapdragons. Clumps of purple berries and pink leaves were interspersed. Rose bushes climbed trellises, a crimson riot mingled with tan buds and ivory blooms. These were the Roses of Scaladar Harris had heard in speeches and verbally embedded in the Bard’s rewrite. On the path, back turned, floated Littafulchee, a conical basket swinging from her shoulder to capture floral cuttings. Charminus’ boudoir was flooded with these floral tributes extraordinary. Littafulchee was the fair harvester.

  Harris approached quietly taking care not to disturb any pebble under foot. He wouldn’t startle this Cetrone maid. He feared she’d turn and flee. Turn she did, but flee she did not. She cocked her head, her crystal ornament dancing on her forehead. She nodded in greeting, and yet it could have been a departing gesture. Harris raised his right hand, placing it on his Columbincus. He bowed.

  “No,” she snapped. “No such honor must be paid, master.”

  “Please don’t regard me as your master,” he said, drawing closer.

  Littafulchee glided backward a short distance, sighing. She returned to her work, a small shearing device emerging from her robe sleeve, liberating blossoms from their thorny home and gently arranging them in the basket.

  “Please, do me the courtesy of listening,” Harris said.

  She hesitated as she cut, and then clipped the largest bloom from the trellis, leaving a two-foot stem. She slipped it into her cornucopia, never letting the blossom escape her gaze.

  “You must know I’m unhappy here,” Harris whispered.

  She looked up and parted her lips as if to speak, but then closed them.

  “I have much to learn,” Harris continued, “and contentment is not in the stars. But I believe that the man who proceeded me as consort — the one named Hierarchus, found his freedom and, even if it means death, I would embrace it rather than be kept as the Scepta’s plaything.”

  “You must not,” she whispered, scarcely moving her lips. “You take liberties, master. I know. I see. It is dangerous.”

  “I don’t mean to compromise you, Littafulchee, but I must know what you know about Hierarchus.”

  At his pronouncement of her name, she dropped the shears and spun about. Harris thought she would flee, but she came nearer.

  “You must not say my name, master.” He nodded brusquely. “I know how you know it and why you have come to me to ask about Lord Hierarchus. Yustichisqua should not be so free with words.”

  “As free as you are now?”

  Anger rippled across her face. Harris was glad for it. Heat was better than ice. He grinned, but she retreated a few feet before retrieving her shears. He thought she might use them to drive him off. He came close, gripping her shoulders gently.

  “Lord Belmundus,” she snapped. “I am not your Trone. I serve the Scepta Charminus.”

  “But the Cetrone regard you with honor.”

  “They do not,” she protested.

  “They do. I see it in their actions when you approach. Now, I don’t doubt they’re within their rights to defer to your tenure, but denying that they do is misplaced and, frankly, it doesn’t become you.”

  Littafulchee trembled. Her eyes met his, batting furiously as if dust had contaminated them. However, Harris didn’t press further. He had said his say and she was not willing to tell him more. But she had spoken, and that was something. Since she was Charminus’ Trone, he would see her again. He would seek clandestine opportunities to press her for further information about Hierarchus. She hadn’t denied her knowledge, only objecting to Yustichisqua’s loose lips.

  Harris stepped back, clamped his hand again to his Columbincus, and bowed.

  “I promise you,” he said. “I’ll not honor you in public or before the Eye. But I see you now. Don’t forget it, because I’m in your hands, lady.”

  “Oginali,” came a guttural whisper from behind him. “They are waiting for you to do the play acting.”

  “I’m coming, Little Bird.”

  Littafulchee glared at her cousin. Perhaps she’d chastise him. But, she just grunted and turned away, attending the Roses of Scaladar.

  Harris faced Yustichisqua, who appeared frightened by this Trone — not the fear of punishment, but from a breach of trust. Little Bird had kicked off his zulus and walked with bare feet on the cobblestones. Gutsy. Evidently no one had noticed, otherwise Buhippus and the Yunocker guard would have invaded in a flash.

  “Little Bird,” Harris said. “You should wear your zulus here.”

  “I know, oginali. I kicked them off and forgot to slip them on.”

  “Let’s not push it.”

  “At once, oginali.”

  Then came a voice from behind them — a sweet voice lost within the Roses of Scaladar. It said:

  “If you leave us, Lord Belmundus, it would not please me.”

  Harris turned about fearful the Eye had shown up and Charminus was butting in on the conversation, but the Eye had no mouth. Littafulchee had spoken these words — words spoken to the blossoms. Harris was happy to hear them and thought to reply, but caught these words on the wind instead, filing them away for another day.

  Chapter Five

  Mustering the Pod

  1

  Harris never had the opportunity to rehearse his last scene with Hasamun, because, as he began his first line, Buhippus appeared with a Yunocker br
igade. The Trones scattered to their master’s Cabriolins. Yustichisqua huddled behind the first row, peering at Harris for protection. Harris hopped off the stage, preparing to confront the palace captain, but Tappiolus blocked his way.

  “Boots,” he snapped. “What business of yours is this?” Tappiolus turned to the chief, hands raised and head cocked. “We rehearse for the Brunting Day, good Buhippus. There is no reason to interrupt us.”

  Buhippus nodded, and then disembarked from his Cabriolin. He turned to Agrimentikos.

  “Lord Agrimentikos, father of all consorts, pardon the intrusion, but we come as Great Kuriakis’ vanguard.”

  “Truly?” Agrimentikos asked. He then walked past Buhippus, his eyes keen on the reflecting pool. “Where is our lord and father?”

  Then, as if arising from the waters, Nightmare loomed on the amphitheatre’s rim, his master in saddle. Three Trones and seven Thirdlings came forward, waving Montjoy banners — a black flag with a white Rose of Scaladar embroidered full square and center. The flags fluttered in the great gust caused by Nightmare’s glide over the stairs, powerful hooves finding purchase beside Buhippus. The captain went to one knee. The consorts bowed deeply. The Trones were prostrate.

  The Elector, in a merry mood, or so Harris thought given the broad smile brimming from beneath the martial visor, dismounted. Kuriakis removed his helmet, passing it to his chief Trone. The Elector went briskly to Agrimentikos, grasping the senior consort by the shoulder, bobbing in greeting.

  “My lord and father,” Agrimentikos said, “demote me if you must, but these proceedings are sacred. You may not spy upon us until Brunting Day.”

  Kuriakis laughed, and then hopped to the stage.

  “Spy?” he laughed. “I have not seen a thing nor heard a line. So you are safe, Agrimentikos. The spirit of Greary Gree will not crush you between her pouting lips.” He raised his arms. “However, it would please me if Joella not be told I came upon you in such a manner and at such a time.” Agrimentikos struck his Columbincus humbly, and bowed. “Good. But I could not contain myself and am anxious to say to you all — my sons that I am in the hunting way — the mood striking me like Aolium thunder. How say you? Are you with me?”

  The consorts animated, rushing the stage. Harris was swept up in the moment. A hunt would suit him. Tappiolus contravened.

  “I believe Lord Belmundus may still be too gentle with his Stick,” Tappiolus remarked. “Unless he can find his other boot to hit the mark.”

  The consorts laughed, not unkindly.

  “At least I hit something, dear brother-in-law,” Harris replied to Tappiolus, never frowning, but not bowing. Then he said to Kuriakis: “Father, will we be hunting terrerbyrd again?”

  “No, Boots. There is no time to funnel us to Plageris. No. We to the Forling shall head.”

  The consorts cheered.

  “The desert?” Harris asked.

  “Yes, Boots,” Kuriakis said. “There are creatures in the Forling more cunning and much tastier than the briskets that fly in Plageris’ air.” He laughed. “We shall be hunting Tippagore.” He beamed. “And perhaps a noya tludachi or three.”

  “I think mayhap that Lord Belmundus should start with grumperian rat,” Tappiolus said. “Although they are quick and might defeat his range.”

  Harris grinned, coming directly before Tappiolus, his nose near enough to smell the man’s breakfast.

  “I think I’m able to strike your ass at whatever range you manage and however fast you scurry.”

  Peals of laughter now — except from Trones and Yunockers, and decidedly not Tappiolus. The loudest bellow came from Kuriakis, so raucous that Nightmare joined with a dragonet whinny.

  “Boots,” Kuriakis said. “I know you met the Pod at Plageris and rode in a Cabriolin then. You have experienced the hunt’s spirit. But as fledgling, you must follow protocol. Agrimentikos will guide you on the preparations for a muster and your Trone, who I know hears me, must assure your readiness . . . although I bet he is a fledgling too. But no matter.” The Elector suddenly seemed in thought. “But no matter,” he muttered again, and waved his hand. “At dawn, brave sirs and sons. By nightfall tomorrow we shall have a Tippagore feast.”

  Kuriakis jumped from the stage, grabbed his helmet from his Trone and leaped on Nightmare’s back. He tugged the reins, the beast turning — flying toward the heavens. The Trones and Thirdlings receded like a carpet furled. Buhippus led his troops, departing in strict formation. Harris gazed to Agrimentikos, who grinned, and then to Tappiolus, who scowled. But it was Yustichisqua who emerged to tug him away and back up the garden path.

  2

  There were two orders of business before the dawn. Yustichisqua needed to assemble the hunting wardrobe and Harris wanted more information on the creatures of the Forling, particularly the Tippagore. Little Bird couldn’t provide much information on the beast, because he had never seen one, let alone hunted one. He had never tasted its flesh or even heard stories told by the Yodanado in the Kalugu about the Forling, except that there was once a ferry to Cetronia, the homeland in the Spice Mountains. Harris had no choice but to shuttle over to the Cartisforium and use his Columbincus as a key for the first time.

  The place was as he remembered it — as stuffy as a library and as quiet as a church. But why should it be otherwise? The wall map was gone, but the stained glass windows remained, as did the octagonal table, which held the bejeweled tome — the Book of Farn. Harris went alone, allowing Yustichisqua to assemble the hunting accoutrement. He wondered whether he could find the Cartisforium again, but his sense of direction didn’t fail. Once inside the place, he shuffled about the table’s edge until he stood where Arquebus had lectured. Was there a chant or recitation of the Promise and Prophecy needed to evoke information from the sacred book? He hoped not, because he hadn’t committed the verses to memory, barely gripping its significance. So he shrugged, snapped off his Columbincus and stretched his hand over the book. One firm pat wedged his snazzy sapphire blue sigil into the cover.

  “I hope there’s an index, or at least a Table of Contents.”

  Harris had recently acquired an eReader, one of those new-fangled Kindle devices, which he found easy to navigate. But how does one wade through a book without an index. Perhaps he should just ask it a question like the Delphic Oracle. He cleared his throat.

  “What is a Tippagore?” he declared, as if asking directions for the bus to LAX.

  The book cover opened with a jar, the pages fanning like a cascading card trick. Harris jumped, hoping nothing would leap out and bite him. However, once this initial action slowed, a cloud emerged — a puffy, shapeless white cloud, which didn’t remain shapeless for long. It soon changed colors — pink and gray, legs emerging, and then a head and a tail. It looked like a cow formed from cheese. Then the object floated toward him, coming to rest on the table. That’s when it grew.

  The beast turned solid — a long creature, tall at the withers, with eight massive pachyderm legs and a bull’s head. Like a bull, it had short horns, but also a set of antlers like a water buffalo, and, like a boar, sported three menacing tusks. That was the front end. The back end was like shaggy carpet left on a line to dry. For a desert denizen, it came complete with enough territory to supply ten yurts and perhaps, like a camel, held vast reservoirs beneath its tapestry.

  Massive. The Tippagore, at least thirty feet long and nine feet high, appeared more like a caterpillar in aerial perspective. Compaction would maintain a cool climate beneath its rug, Harris supposed. Now he knew why Kuriakis sought to hunt this beast. It probably moved like a tortoise and mooed like a cow. Unless the Pod came within range of its head, they could make short work of this dinner piece, assaulting those colossal tent poles — its legs.

  Suddenly, the Tippagore stirred. It snorted, and then raised itself up on its haunches, scaling a height challenging to anyone flying overhead. Harris stepped away thinking the Book would demonstrate the Tippagore’s full arsenal. However, more clouds app
eared from within the pages. Several other animals emerged — ones not summoned, nor would they be unless Harris ordered a nightmare. A pack of wolf-like creatures, with as many heads as Cerberus, barked, although they sported forked tongues more serpentine than vulpine. A large specie of scorpion fell from the clouds, massive mandibles clicking like a Havana whore on the dance floor. Then there were rabbit thingies, with long fangs and three ears; and fire-spitting cats, which, from their size and camouflage, Harris assumed were Dune Tyggers. Quite an array and none happy outside the book’s pages.

  He had seen enough, but didn’t know how to wrap things up. So he just reached over and snapped his fingers. That did the trick. The menagerie quickly puffed back into clouds, sucked into the book quicker than a NASCAR pile-up. The book slammed shut, the Columbincus flung from the keyhole and into Harris’ hand, his library card expired, evidently. So much for the Farn version of the Kindle.