Yustichisqua lowered the dagger, and then knelt on the cartilage mess. Kuriakis grinned, and then faced the Tippagore.
“As for you, madam cow, raise your babies well, for some day they will grace Ayelli feasts and fill many Montjoy bellies. Today my son has been your champion. Go in peace.”
Kuriakis reared on Nightmare and charged off toward the heavens. Tappiolus stormed to his Cabriolin, leading the Pod toward the city. Harris stood beside the porcorporian carcass. He gazed at the Tippagore, which nodded, whining no more.
Agrimentikos was at the ready. Because Harris’ Cabriolin would be abandoned, Elypticus would ferry Lord Belmundus and his Dune Tygger back to the Ayelli.
Yustichisqua jumped off the porcorporian, coming to Harris’ side. He knelt, grasping his master’s asana, abjectly weeping into it. Harris swept the garment out of Little Bird’s hands, raising him.
“You shall never kneel to me again, Yustichisqua. Never; for as long as I breathe.”
Shallow promise that, because, with Tappiolus on watch, that breathless day could be tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Admiration, Fear and Wonder
1
Harris had much to ponder and understand. He had become a source of admiration, fear and wonder wherever he went in the Ayelli. Except Tappiolus, Harris’ fellow consorts and their Thirdlings showed admiration for him, as did the Sceptas. After returning from the hunt, his quarters were cluttered with gifts — an assortment of green liquids, that Yustichisqua said were the rare wines of Aquilium. These were from Soffira, whose second son was married to the third daughter of Scepta Asa of Aquilium. Miracola gave Harris a new chair, which was shaped like a tree stump, cushioned with cottony stuffing, far more comfortable for sitting than the bed’s edge. She also sent greetings in a poem, which verged on the lewd. Other tributes came from Thirdlings and brother consorts — some gifts delectable to the taste, others keepsakes for a growing souvenir shelf in a mathum museum.
Despite this admiration, Tappiolus sent a Yunocker squadron twice daily to Lord Belmundus’ quarters apparently to protect him from his armed and dangerous Trone and any bloodlust exercise which could ensue. When Harris protested to Charminus, she feigned indifference — apathy even, noting that Tappiolus had his brother consort’s welfare at heart.
Since the hunt, Harris pondered Tappiolus’ motives. That his co-consort was secure in Charminus’ lust was beyond doubt. She had seven Thirdlings by him and, as it proved, the eighth — the current kindling, was his also, according to Mordacai the Zecronisian. Harris also discovered the Eye, indeed Charminus’ eye, was a projection of her real eye and controlled by Tappiolus, independent of the Scepta. Harris no longer bowed to it or addressed it as my lady, because it was a device implanted by his brother-in-law — a device, which could appear in several places simultaneously throughout the Ayelli and probably across Montjoy city. Harris protested its use to Charminus.
“The Eye demeans your reputation,” Harris argued. “You’re an object of beauty and grace — a ruler upon this hill, my lady. But the Eye has made you an object of fear and, dare I say it . . . hatred.”
Charminus only grinned, tossing her hair back. She cared not for such things. If the Trones loved or feared her, it made no difference to her. If it kept order, she noted, Tappiolus can use my belly button. It was useless for Harris to protest. Still, Charminus wasn’t the spy — the Big Sister. Having Big Brother-in-law was less intimidating. At least I could kick him in the balls. Charminus couldn’t care less whether Trones donned zulus or danced the herky-jerky before the Temple of Greary Gree.
Harris stayed as clear of Tappiolus as much as possible. He advised Yustichisqua to do the same. He was certain his Cabriolin had been tampered with on the hunt — confirmed by Tappiolus’ satisfied look when it had failed, and then his response to Little Bird’s actions to save his lord’s life. Tappiolus’ motives eluded Harris, but the intent was clear. Perhaps it was jealousy, Kuriakis’ favor.
Admiration, fear and wonder.
Yes, wonder, because whenever Harris went abroad — a casual jaunt along the corridors or a sweep through the gardens for fresh air, Trones would stop, nod and clutch their hands to their chests. They didn’t do this for any other consort or Thirdling. Harris questioned Yustichisqua.
“You bowed to me, oginali,” Little Bird replied. “No lord has ever bowed to a Trone. And you refuse to let me bow to you. No Trone has ever been released from the obligation. The Cetrone mark your way in wonder, oginali. You give them hope. So they bow to you on my behalf.”
Harris was uncomfortable with this honor. In a repressive land, such respect could prove dangerous. It could spawn jealousies and resentments. It had, and he knew it — Lord Tappiolus a case in point. As for hope, there was hope before he had been drawn here. There is always hope, even in the darkest corners of the deepest holes. Weren’t the swag lamps all Cetrone kept, a sign of that hope? Still, public honor from the slaves of Farn made him as uneasy as Tappiolus’ undue scrutiny. The more the Trones bowed, the greater that scrutiny became. Tension mounted.
The Sceptas’ favor and Kuriakis bending the rules in Belmundus’ favor further fanned resentments. He should have taken it in stride — preening and floating about regally, an easement against the lingering hope for escape. However, some days he wanted to hide in his quarters, meditating on the paintings Eng and Chang had gifted, and waiting for the inevitable intrusion of Buhippus and turkey-feather man, who would bow, greet him civilly, and then inspect the place for weapons, perhaps. Buhippus would always sniff the beautiful display case, which housed Yustichisqua’s dagger. Kuriakis, good on his word, sent the box over. Little Bird sealed his weapon in it, displaying it prominently on a shelf beside Harris’ own tributary gifts. It was to that dagger the Yunockers drifted every day — twice a day, checking the latch and the position of the blade, assuring that Belmundus’ Noya Tludachi hadn’t been using it to slice fruit or Ayelli throats. It was like theater, Harris thought. And why not? Mortis House was one big picture show — admission high, popcorn buttered and complete with appropriately rated previews.
Admiration, fear and wonder.
Then came Brunting Day.
2
Yustichisqua had delivered Harris’ costume for Othellohito to the changing area at the amphitheatre before returning to prepare for the Brunting Day rituals. He donned a new cloak — a silver one, which shimmered in starlight. Harris had decided both consort and Trone would be a matched set and, although Lord Belmundus’ colors were sapphire, Harris whipped up a silver alternative for Brunting Day. He had ordered a new cloak from the resident Gurt tailor, Xyftys, whose handiwork was admired — too much so to allow him to hide in the Yuyutlu behind a veil of Zecronisian banter and barter. Lord Belmundus’ new garment was silver trimmed with blue pearls and azure diamonds right down to its hem and, although Yustichisqua’s garment lacked the gem work, there could be no doubt whom he served when wrapped in his silvery drape.
Still, Yustichisqua was reticent with these liberties. However, with Kuriakis’ decree ringing in his ears, he was willing to lean more toward his good fortune, apparently. As he dressed Harris, he peered into the mirror, obviously pleased. Then, breaking this brief reverie, he squared his master’s shoulders and inspected the full effect of Lord Belmundus.
Admiration, fear and wonder.
“Your script, oginali,” Little Bird said. “Do not forget it.”
“No need for it,” Harris replied. “I know it pat. The role’s straight-forward.”
“But you missed many words the last time we . . . as you say, ran the lines.”
“Not missed, Yustichisqua. Ad lib’d. With Lord Hasamun’s sparse characterization as Desdemonayama, I can ramble a bit — make improvements as the mood strikes me.”
Yustichisqua straightened the drape of Harris’ cloak, coming dangerously close to the Columbincus. Harris turned, and then swept aside, leaving Little Bird alone in the mirror.
“Loo
k at you, my friend,” he said. “What an improvement over that shadow who crept behind me, refusing to tell me his name.”
“It seems long ago, oginali.”
“Things change in a flash if you go with the flow. This evening you’ll ride to the Temple of Greary Gree in my Cabriolin and . . . you won’t wear your zulus.”
“I will take them all the same,” Little Bird replied. “You never know.”
“True. I’m guided by your wisdom.”
But Harris knew wisdom didn’t guide these actions. Raw responses to the environment did.
Admiration, fear and wonder.
Together, Lord and squire overtook the portico and mounted a new Cabriolin, a gift from Joella Montjoy, who had the new one engraved with her favors directly above Charminus’ sigil and Belmundus’ own double squiggle. It was another source of pride which fed jealousy’s bedevilment, but if there was one possession Harris appreciated from Mortis House, it was his Cabriolin. He wished they came in niftier colors — like teal. But they were always plain black with silver sigils as if they came directly from Henry Ford’s assembly line. What could you do with a flying platform anyway?
The curtain of evening fell as Harris navigated his cart the short distance from his portico to the Temple of Greary Gree, where a solemn ritual would be performed before the reflecting pool. As he gazed over the Ayelli, dusk wrapped its fingers about a serpentine trail of light, which wended up the hill from the city. Thousands of lamps came — an impressive sight.
“They come,” Yustichisqua said. “The Cetrone from the city climb the summit to honor the Elector. They have lit their waddly wazzoos to offer their sparks, because the Proctor blesses them on this Brunting Day.”
“But the Elector and his Memer can Brunt all they want, Little Bird. The spooky jingle which speaks about promises and prophecy says they’ve reached their kiddy limit.”
“But it is sacred to all who live in Montjoy, oginali, and this blesses the jomar and quillerfoil crop.”
“Yes,” Harris muttered. “All hail to the Almighty sqwallen bowl.” He heard Little Bird grunt. “You don’t miss it, do you? The sqwallen, I mean. Vile stuff.”
“My head is much clearer without it, oginali. But it does settle anxiety.”
“I bet it does. I used to smoke, but I kicked the habit quickly.”
No response to this. They were approaching the reflecting pool, where throngs of citizens stood layered and jockeying for position for the best view, no doubt. Most were Thirdlings, but Harris spotted several posh Zecronisians and a few well-heeled Gurts. The Yunockers were here in force, forming a perimeter, Buhippus at the fore.
On a throne in the temple’s portico sat Kuriakis, Joella to his right. To his left sat the three Sceptas, Charminus great with child — any day now. Arrayed on the right (Harris’ point of destination) were his brother consorts and their Trones.
“Well, I’ll be,” Harris said delighted as he touched down.
Agrimentikos had reattired his Trones in new cloaks, as did Hasamun and Posan. The servants were on zulus and didn’t ride in the Cabriolins, but Harris may have inadvertently touched off a trend, which tenuously made inroads at the highest levels.
Admiration, fear and wonder.
Arquebus’ Trones were still in buck skins, and Tappiolus, red-faced and clearly put off by these changes, had his Trones heaped beside his Cabriolin, faces hidden and bodies turned away — an abject gesture to their lord’s intention to enforce entrenchment. However, only Yustichisqua arrived in a consort’s Cabriolin. And Little Bird’s attire outshone most Thirdlings. When he stepped from the vehicle behind his lord, he stepped zululess. He bowed when Harris did, but otherwise stood as straight as the temple’s columns.
“Boots,” Kuriakis said as a greeting, but said no more.
“Father,” Harris replied, bowing first to Kuriakis, and then to Joella, mouthing the word mother. She raised her hand and nodded graciously. Harris went to one knee before Charminus. “Mistress mine,” he said, much like an actor would, “you blossom like the cherry tree on the brink of spring. Someday you shall kindle my offshoots and, on that day, I shall be the happiest man alive.”
Charminus grinned, and touched her belly. Harris touched his Columbincus.
“High praise,” she said. “And I believe it is purloined from some work you have encountered, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Harris said. “Would I honor you otherwise?”
Charminus grinned again, pleased by his admission. Tappiolus stepped forward.
“Lord Belmundus,” he muttered. “This ritual is not about you . . . this time. Your grandiloquent public display before our Scepta upstages our father.”
Upstage. There was a word Harris knew well. He withdrew to the sidelines to watch the Brunting Day ritual unfold.
3
The perimeter dispersed to allow the Cetrone pilgrims entry — an endless train of humble buckskins and headbands, each holding their lamps beneath their chins — a ghostly procession. At best, Cetrone faces were downcast. Now lit in the ambient glow of their waddly wazzoos, high-toned features revealed careworn chiseled faces. Harris glanced toward his Scepta — toward the tall Cetrone who stood behind her. Littafulchee didn’t hide her face — her eyes drawn away from the reflecting pool, as if contemplating another ritual altogether. Her face wasn’t care worn, bearing a different history. Harris wished he could read her thoughts and pick her brain — to learn the secrets. He sensed many secrets — not the least the fate of his predecessor, Hierarchus.
As the Cetrone reached the pool, floating on zulus, they fanned into a semi-circle, edging the audience aside. Reaching midpoint, they halted, facing the throne, the procession’s leaders bowing, and then cupping their lamp wicks deterring the evening breeze.
Kuriakis stood, raised his arms as if to embrace the procession. He took three steps down the stairs to the pool’s edge.
“What gift have you brought the Memer and I?” he asked, ceremoniously.
The two lead Cetrone swung their lamps, and then touched them to the pool. A blue drizzle of light kissed the surface, and soon a pastel glow engulfed the waters. Kuriakis waved his staff over the pool.
“Let the waters rise,” he said. “Let the sky blossom with an Elector’s blessing, May this be proof of our good intentions — a sign for the fields to thrive for yet another season.”
Blue and pink jets fountained high over the assembly. This water ballet captivated Harris. The fanned spray transformed into fiery sparks and soon the sky filled with fireworks greeted with appreciative gasps. Harris recalled evenings on Santa Monica Pier sitting beside his mother and watching the Luminous Chrysanthemums and the Rose Bombs engage the night sky over an invisible sea. Suddenly, he was homesick. He looked away, but his eye caught Yustichisqua’s, who must have read his master’s sadness. Harris shook his head, returning his attention to the entertainment. Great cries of Adadooski and Arkmo rang forth as Kuriakis waved his arms, conducting these dancing waters and the floral fireworks display.
As the show progressed, the Cetrone lit small votives from their waddly wazzoos, bowing as they did. They floated each along the edge of the pool forming a flotilla of prayer and devotion. With each act, a Cetrone muttered thanks, and then departed, proceeding down the hill.
Littafulchee moved beyond Charminus’ chair. Harris watched her as she bowed to Joella, and then drifted to the pool, joining in the votive ceremony. She kissed a candle, touching it to her crystal before tapping it on her waddly wazzoo, which gave her vessel a gentle spin when it entered the water. She turned, facing Kuriakis. The other consorts and Scepta Trones came forward, Yustichisqua included. A mixed bag now, some in impressive cloaks and others as drab as a woodland thicket, they held their lamps firmly, drifting to the pool to perform the votive rite. They all floated, except one — a renegade, who walked there on his mother-given feet, thanks to his lord’s instigation. Perhaps Little Bird should have slipped his zulus on for this act, thus avoiding t
he radical risk.
Admiration, fear and wonder.
However, radical colored the evening. When Yustichisqua reached the pool, he did something unexpected — something, which hushed all Adadooskis and choked every Arkmo.
After lighting his candle and launching his boat, Little Bird turned to Kuriakis and bowed deeply, but then turned to his cousin, Littafulchee and knelt, kissing the hem of her cloak. Such majesty dumbfounded the assembly. Harris looked to Tappiolus, who twitched and to Buhippus, who had his hand on his Stick, but always he had his hand on his Stick. What surprised Harris most was Littafulchee’s unflinching response. She gently raised Little Bird and tapped his hand as if to admonish him for an unseemly gesture. However, as the Trones returned to their consorts and Sceptas, Joella stood, pointing to Little Bird.
“I have heard much about you,” she said to Yustichisqua. “They whisper your name in the corridors outside my quarters. Of course, I pay them no heed as your name is of no consequence, but still it is spoken. Perhaps Lord Belmundus should listen to the whispers.”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 25