Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “You see assassins in the shadows.”

  “Most assassins dwell in the shadows, my lord. But not all.”

  “Then they aren’t assassins, captain,” Harris said, the banter better than the silence. “They’re ruthless killers.”

  “I agree.”

  “Perhaps you can do me a service.”

  “It is my primary function on this excursion.”

  “Could you ask my Danuwa to attend me?”

  Buhippus nodded, turned on his zulus and disappeared beyond the pliant walls. He was replaced by Fytzyfu, who entered like P.T. Barnum. He looked a bit like the famous humbug — dressed in a red ringmaster’s robe, a turban on his head, and a monocle pasted into his eye socket. Harris waited for the spiel: ladies and gentlemen, in this ring we have Lord Belmundus, the Didaniyisgi of the Yuyutlu, who will demonstrate a remarkable feat of celibacy.

  “Can I help you . . . Fizzitu, is it?”

  “Fytzyfu, Lord Belmundus. I am checking if all things are to your liking.” He bowed again, his turban bouncing like Jell-O. “You have not eaten yet and have not touched the lovely breasts provided for your easement.”

  “My Taleenay is preparing a plate for me, and you must know, I’m the consort to the Scepta Charminus.”

  Of course, with Agrimentikos playing the part of a Macedonian bull, the explanation didn’t hold water.

  “Remarkable,” Fytzyfu replied. “Perhaps some music?”

  Harris heard music playing in the distant rooms. He imagined his Yunocker guards having tossed off their zulus and now did the Yuganawu jig with the three-breasted cuties.

  “Thank you, I’m fine.” Then he thought. “You could answer a question for me, however.”

  “Anything.”

  “The walls of this pavilion — they’re like butterfly wings, yet as solid as phitron. How’s it possible?”

  “Ah. It is a specialty of Gurt manufactory. It is called mopyn. It is made not from stone, but from Gurt excrement mixed with zugginak milk.”

  Harris wiped his hands again on the bed fleece.

  Excrement.

  “Zugginak?”

  Fytzyfu shrugged, but Yustichisqua returned at that moment.

  “Little Bird,” Harris said. “What’s a zugginak?”

  Yustichisqua appeared upset and almost dropped the two plates and the jug. Once steadied, he set one plate down and brought the other plate (and the jug) to Harris.

  “Zugginaks are ferocious dogs the Yunockers train to sniff out Trones.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why ask?”

  “It seems their milk, when mixed with Gurt shit, hardens into . . .” He raised his hands to the ceiling . . . “into this wonderfully elastic material.”

  “Mopyn,” Fytzyfu confirmed. “Can I answer anything else for Lord Belmundus?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The steward bowed his way out. Harris checked if the Gurt had left a stinky calling card on the threshold. He hadn’t.

  2

  In Fytzyfu’s wake, Buhippus returned, the Danuwa in tow.

  “Ah, my marshals,” Harris said, bouncing to his feet and greeting them with open arms. “Are you settled into rooms yet?”

  Elypticus attempted to answer, but his mouth was full, the crumbs of a flaky pastry spluttering. Parnasus was no better. Only Melonius could speak without spraying the air.

  “We have been eating, my lord,” Melonius said, plaintively. “We still sample the many delicacies.”

  “Sorry,” Harris said. “I didn’t mean to spoil your feasting, but I wanted to be sure you’re making the best of it off the hill. Have you selected something beyond meat and potatoes, lads?”

  Elypticus glanced at Parnasus, who appeared sheepish. Melonius shrugged.

  “I believe Lord Agrimentikos means to take them all,” Melonius said. “I have better things to do with my yedalas.”

  “Yedalas?” Harris asked. “These ladies are there for the taking, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” Buhippus stated. “For you and Agrimentikos they are diplomatically programmed to fulfill your every need and not look beyond it. But for the rest, we must reckon our pleasures with a gratuity befitting our rank and station.”

  “Really?” He observed his three Danuwa. When Melonius had stated his need to conserve his yedalas, the others appeared glum — eating their way through the feast for consolation. “Do I sense a lack of yedalas here?”

  Parnasus cocked his head. Elypticus scuffed the ground.

  “My lord,” Buhippus interceded. “My men are paid and paid well. Warriors always thrive in service to Kuriakis. But Thirdlings are a managed commodity and paid nothing for the privilege.”

  “Yustichisqua,” Harris said. “My purse.”

  Little Bird put down his leg of whatever, wiped his hand on his naperonus and plunged his hand to his belt for the purse. He relinquished it to Harris, who stopped him.

  “No, no. As my Taleenay, you make the disbursements.” He looked to the Danuwa. “Will five yedalas each be enough?” Melonius shook his head like a bucking bull. “No. How about six, then?”

  “I need no charity,” Melonius snapped.

  Parnasus and Elypticus appeared desperate, as if they would grab their colleague by the legs and dump him.

  “Come, come,” Harris said, approaching Melonius. “Your hand, sir.” Melonius scowled. “Yustichisqua, bring it here.”

  “Not from his hands,” Melonius said. “Charity is shameful enough, but to be a beggar to such a thing, I will not do it.”

  “You will, sir,” Harris howled. “It’s a gift. I’ll decide on a regular stipend after I consult with Agrimentikos. And if you won’t accept it as a gift, regard it as an advance in pay.”

  “Put it on my account,” Melonius snapped. “I do not mean to lower myself to these Zecronisian she-wolves, and certainly not with yedalas handled by your Taleenay.”

  He bowed curtly and departed, leaving Harris more bemused than angry. On some level, he understood prejudice’s root — a learned bedevilment not easily dispelled by a simple say-so or a few acts of generosity. He turned to the remaining Danuwa.

  “Gentleman, are you disinclined to romp in a field of triple-breasted beauties?”

  “No, my lord,” Parnasus said, without thinking.

  “I would take it as a kindness,” Elypticus echoed.

  Harris sensed two instant erections. Were these lads weak and Melonius strong?

  Bull-headed, most likely. I need to talk with that lad, Harris thought.

  “You’re not above taking the disbursement from the Taleenay’s hand?”

  “He is the Taleenay, my lord,” Parnasus replied.

  “I regard him as an equal,” Elypticus remarked.

  These rejoinders were too readily plied, but in light of boner wood, what else could he expect?

  “Very well, lads,” he said.

  Harris nodded at Little Bird, who counted out six yedalas each, placing them into outstretched hands. He counted out six more.

  “Oginali?”

  “Start an account for Danuwa Melonius. Enter it as a credit.”

  Little Bird returned the yedalas to the purse, and then retrieved a small writing book from his korinkle. With a charcoal stick, he made the entry. Harris noticed Buhippus shaking his head, most likely realizing this Trone could write — probably could read too.

  Harris returned to his plate. He was voraciously hungry. He nodded to the Danuwa’s thank you bows and noticed Buhippus retreated also.

  “Captain Buhippus,” Harris called. “A word with you, please.”

  Buhippus floated over, passing Yustichisqua, cocking his head to observe the notations in the book.

  “He has a fair hand,” the captain remarked. “You have done a fine job with his learning.”

  “Good try, captain,” Harris said. “I haven’t broken that law. The lad came to me fully baked and you’re not to pursue the history of his learning.”

  “I shall re
gard it as a mystery. I presume you wish to ask me about Melonius.”

  “I understand Melonius,” Harris replied. “Tappiolus is his father and I assume he’s been raised in the lap of the Yunocker guards. Melonius isn’t a mystery to me. Remember, he wasn’t my first choice. But he’ll need a good heart to heart with me. Either that or a spanking.”

  Buhippus chuckled.

  “He might spank back.”

  “Would he raise a hand to his lord?”

  “If provoked, Melonius would raise a hand to Kuriakis himself.” Buhippus turned serious. “Some mysteries are best not revealed, so I will not pursue their revelation.”

  “Touché. But I have a request. I wish to explore the port.”

  “I suggest you stay in the Lyspykyn until summoned by the Zocor council. It is still Yichiyusti.”

  “I thank you for your advice, but . . .” Harris poked through a mound of what looked like purple potatoes. “What the fuck is this?”

  Little Bird was on the spot. He poked his finger in the pile, and then tasted it.

  “You will like it, oginali. Pukas midaskoos — the root of the midas herb. Very tasty.”

  Harris forked some, sniffed, and then licked his utensil clean.

  “Very good.” He noticed Buhippus’ amazement . . . again. “Yustichisqua’s my food taster, captain. You never know when someone shits in the spaghetti. Now, as for your advice, I think I’ll finish this plate of bones and drippings, lick all the midas root I can get . . . it tastes a bit like carrots, only minty . . . then, I’ll proceed to explore the docks.”

  Buhippus’ lip twitched. He clapped his zulu heels together, and bowed curtly.

  “Whatever my lord desires,” he snapped. “Only . . . I insist on accompanying you.”

  “Absolutely. Yustichisqua will come also. And if you would be so kind to tell Melonius I’ll need one of my marshals. Since he chooses not to copulate with the Zecronisian sirens, he’s the Danuwa of the day.”

  “He will not like that, my lord.”

  “Too bad — tough titties, and all that rot. I’ll be ready within the hour.”

  He continued to eat, feeling more despotic than ever in his life.

  “Very well, my lord,” Buhippus croaked, and then turned on his zulus, departing.

  Harris washed his meal down with the bubbling green liquor which Yustichisqua had ported with the plate.

  “Little Bird, I’ll have another plate of Pukis . . .”

  “Pukas midaskoos, oginali.”

  “That’s it, although I can’t believe anyone would call food, puke. But it’s really very good. Maybe we’ll get the recipe and bring it back up the hill.”

  Yes, never so despotic in his life.

  3

  Despite the bilious sky of Yichiyusti, the port glistened under the shipping’s tall timbers, beckoning to wanderlust travelers to sail to freedom. The wharves were bleached with gulls — birds which, despite their name (delfins), looked like familiar scavengers from home. They had black beaks, red eyes and a pink stripe running lengthwise across their wings, but they had only one head and two legs, which Harris took as an imprint to normality.

  The port bustled — carts piled high with boxes and rickshaws pulled to and from vessels. His and Melonius’ Cabriolins were the only hover crafts in sight. Hearty conversation boomed, the salty kind, with cuss words, and Harris hoped he’d meet an ancient tar who’d tell him of lands afar and countries nearby, mayhap.

  “It makes me dizzy,” Yustichisqua said. “So many Zecronisians. So many Gurts.”

  “I think it’ll be like this in the Yuyutlu.”

  “I have never traveled to the Yuyutlu either, oginali. But if commerce is like this, I suppose you are correct.”

  “I’m right at home here, Little Bird.”

  “Is this like your realm in the outlands?”

  “No. Not a bit. It’s like a movie set — tall ships and Shanghai vessels — the Indian trade and the New York docks of a hundred years ago or more. But . . . this is not a replica. There’s nothing like it in the stacks of Prop shack number four, I assure you.”

  Little Bird was silent. Harris glanced at Melonius, who wore a permanent mask of disgust. For a Thirdling with xenophobic leanings, this trip was the ticket to hell. His attitude, however, didn’t register to the passers-by, who were engrossed in their business. Buhippus remained vigilant, hovering in the margins. Occasionally, another Yunocker would stop and confer with him. Harris supposed the Yunockers were the law and order for the entire port. Whatever Buhippus said to these policeman, they left Lord Belmundus unmolested and, more importantly, they kept away from Yustichisqua.

  Harris pushed away from the dour Melonius and settled between two impressive vessels — a caravel with a high decorated fo’c’stle and a three-masted junk with crimson sails, two semifurled. Perhaps it would sail soon. Between these vessels, Harris viewed the sea — endless and unbounded by the green sky, which, despite the law of vanishing points, provided no horizon.

  “The sea is large, oginali. I think it is dangerous for those who do not know its ways.”

  “I’ve always loved the sea, but rarely ventured out. A little surfing, but I stink at it.”

  He sighed, and then stared across the ripples, his sight skipping like a stone over the surface. The Amaykwohi was calm, but he bet it could kick up in a storm. He imagined it teeming with life — everything from jellyfish to misancorpus. Where was the opposite shore — the place the Zecronisians called home?

  “I know your thinking, but you are wrong-minded, my lord,” came a gravelly voice.

  It startled Harris and repelled Yustichisqua. A man stood beside them — a Zecronisian merchant, perhaps, draped in gold and crimson silk and wearing a broad sombrero, which reminded Harris of a lid from a Marco Polo rerun. The man exuded Venice in all its republican glory.

  “How would you know what I’m thinking?” Harris asked. “And even if you could read my thoughts, how can you say they’re wrong-minded?”

  “I know men, my lord. I also know eyes and longing and the vision of those who seek to go to sea.” He bowed, and then pointed to the bay. “Such men seek lands afar — exotic places to escape the mundane. But I also have eyes, which see you, my lord. You are already far afield. You think to escape to your home . . . across this sea.”

  “You’re a clever devil, aren’t you?”

  “Clever? Yes. A devil, definitely.” He bowed again, removing his hat, this time like one of the musketeers. “I am Garan — Garan the Gucheeda.”

  Yustichisqua gasped.

  “That means outlaw, oginali.”

  “True,” Garan said, pride in his voice. “Gucheeda fits me fine, as does Fumarca and Harandu and Jamabispa, all terms for an unprincipled wielder of opportunity and advantage. However, I am also the Deegosgi for both the port and the Yuyutlu.”

  “Deegosgi?” Harris asked, more from Little Bird than from this bold stranger.

  “It means Arbitrator,” Yustichisqua replied. “Although I do not understand how a Gucheeda can also be a Deegosgi.”

  “Can a Trone be a Taleenay, for so you must be?” Garan nodded, grinning with a sinister tinge. “And because I am Deegosgi of the Yuyutlu, I have anticipated the Didiniyisgi’s arrival and assume you are Lord Belmundus.” He bowed again, a gesture getting on Harris’ nerves. “You are Lord Belmundus, are you not?”

  “Last time I looked in a mirror, I was,” Harris snapped. “I’m still confused.” He pointed to the sea. “How do you know that my . . . my home is not on these sea lanes?”

  “Because, my lord, the Amaykwohi does not touch the outlands. In fact, it is not a sea. It is a vast lake.”

  Harris twitched, and then looked to the waters, blinking away his hopes. He spit.

  “There. I’ve added to its volume.”

  Garan laughed. Buhippus drifted over.

  “Is there a problem, my lord?”

  “No, captain. This man is the Arbitrator for the marketplace and has
sought me out — an introduction, because we’ll be working toward the same aim.” He glanced at Garan. “Have I stated the facts correctly, Mr. Garan?”

  “As Arbitrator, my lord, I hope our views will align, but when they diverge, it will not be for a want of trying.”