Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Which means Yustichisqua will need to watch my purse carefully and I’ll need to count the silverware after Mr. Garan’s visits.”

  Garan laughed. Buhippus didn’t. He sniffed, giving the Arbitrator a leer. Harris raised his hand.

  “We’ll be fine, captain. Truly.”

  Garan pulled back, giving Buhippus an inquisitive glance. However, the captain nodded and floated back to his sentry position.

  “Yunockers make me nervous,” Garan said. “They are always trying to question me — inspecting my papers and poking into my goods.”

  “Looking for contraband, perhaps,” Yustichisqua said, boldly.

  “Little Bird,” Harris snapped. “There’s no need to be on the defensive.”

  “No need,” Garan said. “You are old enough to know that some seek better callings. It certainly looks like you have made a good start.”

  Little Bird grunted, but did not reply. This talk puzzled Harris, but no more than the usual chatter which grazed his head when among Farnfolk.

  “So, Mr. Garan . . . you’re an official and an outlaw — a nice pairing, because where I come from most officials are outlaws, only we elect them to their positions. Then, when they pick our pockets and pinch our asses, we complain and vote them in again.”

  He laughed.

  “You will find my rewards are within the acceptable range of Zecronisian standards, my lord,” Garan remarked. “This ship — the Ponsetossit,” he said, pointing to the caravel, “is mine. I never question whence the cargo comes, and always know its destination. I pay my port taxes to enter and the griffies to unload and to cart. I tip the port master and sprinkle yedalas across the hands of the Yunockers, although they still prod and poke if the amount is not to their expectations. I am a respectable investor in the sea trade.”

  “Then why are you called the Gucheeda?” Harris asked.

  “I will tell you, oginali,” Yustichisqua replied. “It is not the transport which is illegal. It is the cargo.”

  “Little Bird,” Harris reprimanded. “I don’t know what’s got into you.” Then he glanced at Garan. One glance and he saw Yustichisqua was correct. But Harris didn’t care if Garan was smuggling Hula girls or Dead Sea Scrolls — this wasn’t his jurisdiction. If he had to enforce contraband’s flow into the Yuyutlu, then it might become his concern, but he didn’t know it . . . yet. He returned his attention to Little Bird. “As my Taleenay, you represent me.”

  Yustichisqua pouted, and then nodded to Garan.

  “I shall mind my tongue, Garan the Deegosgi.”

  “Do not concern yourself about it, sir,” Garan said. “It is not seemly for you to give homage to me. I respect my elders.”

  Harris twitched, and then looked at Yustichisqua, his eyebrows knitting.

  “How much longer must I stay here, my lord?” came an intrusive voice.

  Melonius had wafted over in his Cabriolin, fidgeting impatiently.

  “When I’m ready to leave, sir,” Harris snapped. “That’s how long.”

  Melonius blew an angry sigh, and then, upon seeing Garan, slammed his hand on his Cabriolin panel and scooted to Buhippus.

  “When we return to the Lyspykyn,” Harris shouted after him, “you’re to see me.” Several heads turned, but Melonius had soured Harris’ mood. “I’ve got to set him right,” he muttered. Then he looked for Garan, but the man had departed. “Where’d he go?”

  “He is fast, oginali¸ and smooth.”

  “The denizens of this world are unpredictable, or so I’m learning,” he said, staring at Yustichisqua. “He said, he respects his elders. What did that mean?”

  Little Bird lowered his eyes. Harris had come to think of Yustichisqua as a fifteen or sixteen-year old lad. However, there had been comments, like Little Bird’s reference to his mother being born before the invasion, and now Garan’s doff to his age.

  “Just how old are you, Yustichisqua?”

  “It is hard to say, oginali. The years differ in length, depending on our transit around Solus. Some years are longer — when Dodecadatamus rules.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Between fifty-two and fifty-seven, oginali.” Harris cocked his head in amazement. “I am the same age as when I met you. It cannot be helped.”

  “No, it can’t.”

  “We live long lives, the Cetrone. We do not live forever, and certainly we die in the many. I am very young in my clan. You are my first master. Have I offended you? I would die if I did so.”

  Harris softened.

  “No. I’m just surprised and feel . . . feel a bit foolish. Now you’re my elder and I should look to you for guidance.”

  “You always have, oginali.”

  Harris laughed. The laugh grew into a roar, blossoming across the docks, drawing the attention of griffies and drovers alike.

  “Your people grow at a snail’s pace, while the Thirdlings sprout in three years. Next you’ll tell me the Gurts are grown on trees and fall like fruit.”

  “No, oginali. Gurts grow from seed sown in the ground.”

  Harris balked, but Yustichisqua laughed now.

  “I think that’s the first joke you’ve ever told me, Little Bird.”

  “Joke? It is a jest to make you easier in mind, now that you have learned your home cannot be reached on Garan’s great ship.”

  Harris stretched, sucking in the sea air. He looked to the green sky, and then to his Taleenay.

  “Come on, old man. Let’s get back to the Lyspykyn. I have a Danuwa to chastise.”

  “Old man?” Yustichisqua asked. “I will always be your Little Bird, oginali. Even when I am two-hundred and you are too ancient to stand erect.”

  Harris was glad, because he had one touchstone in this topsy-turvy world, even though this touchstone was upside down and backward.

  Adadooski! Arkmo!

  Chapter Twelve

  A Game of Grusoker

  1

  Harris didn’t know what to tell Melonius. No doubt, the lad needed a stern lecture on a topic which would turn him around — a parental talk. But Harris wasn’t a parent. Neither was he the executive type, logically laying out a situation with goals and rewards — boardroom stuff. He had played the warrior and pirate parts, but he would show up on set with his memorized lines, prepared for a real leader — the director, who inspired his innate talents with snippets and numerous takes, later to be spliced into a tale for his adoring fans to savor in the dark. Harris aspired to be a director, but in the future. That Melonius was bred a bigot, Harris knew. However, this Danuwa was also a renegade — a rebel against authority. Melonius disliked his assignment and bucked at every turn. He mirrored Harris’ captive spirit — locked in a world he didn’t choose.

  How could Harris convince Melonius to turn over a new leaf, when he was unwilling to do so himself? Yet, in this legal fiction as the Didaniyisgi, a foreign culture sucked him into being a representative and defender. Be off the leash wasn’t a gift. Harris was at a loss on how to handle Melonius. Still, it had to be done.

  His first inclination was to summon Melonius to the Provosts’ quarters and dress him down officially — a Lord to his minion. But this approach would stiffen the Danuwa’s neck, or so Harris thought. So he considered a group meeting with all three Danuwas — safety in numbers. However, the stern message might infect Elypticus and Parnasus, toughening hidden issues between the Provost and his marshals. It would single out Melonius before his peers. Harris considered Buhippus’ words about Melonius’ unpredictable temperament. The lad had to be cooled or an eruption could take down Harris and Yustichisqua. Stab now and apologize later. No. Concessions were in order, leveling the playing ground. He would meet Melonius on his own turf. So Harris asked Yustichisqua to stay behind and told Captain Buhippus to guard from a distance. The Didaniyisgi was visiting Melonius’ quarters.

  Beyond the central hall, still set with a feast, lay a honeycomb of small rooms with mopyn walls. Harris peeked into one room after another hoping to discover M
elonius’ quarters. After the fourth intrusion, he almost gave up, having interrupted much devil-may-care. Then, he stumbled into Parnasus’ room, the young Danuwa sprawled in the aftermath of six yedalas’ worth of Zecronisian sexual congress. The object of that shimmy, sat up, her triple bust line jiggling in alarm.

  “Excuse me,” Harris blurted. “I’ve got the wrong room.”

  Parnasus stirred, sitting bolt upright, and then falling butt naked off the bed onto the buttery tiles. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing a fleece to cover his flaccid noodle and drooping globes.

  “My lord,” he stammered.

  Harris found it hard not to laugh, less from a sense of the ridiculous, and more from empathy, having been caught in similar positions, but never with a bodacious purple-haired Amazon. Although, there was this guy named Bruce.

  “No, no, Parnasus,” Harris said, backing out of the room. “Carry on. Carry on.” He went to leave, stopped, and then turned to his flagrante delecti Danuwa. “Where’s Melonius’ room? This place’s laid out like a fun house.”

  He chuckled, because most residents were having fun.

  “My lord,” Parnasus responded, “Melonius is across the corridor and one door to the right.”

  “I looked there,” Harris said.

  He had — a dim room with its occupant absent.

  “He might be in the gaming room, three rooms further.”

  “Ah,” Harris said, nodding, and then winking, a gesture causing Parnasus to blush. “I’ll give it a try. Carry on. Carry on.”

  He chuckled as he left, feeling much like a patronizing ensign on the Love Boat. He followed the twisted corridor to the gaming room, and then hesitated. He didn’t want to confront Melonius in the company of others — especially in the middle of a hot poker game, or whatever they played in Farn.

  I’ll wave him off and we’ll retire to his quarters. That’s it.

  Harris entered the room. Melonius was there — alone and engrossed in a document. He didn’t notice Harris arrive. If games were played here, they had moved on to the brothel kind. The air was redolent of smoke, the kind he had encountered wherever Yunockers took their ease. He assumed there had been gambling, the aftermath as evidence. Suddenly, Melonius looked up, twitching, but neither rising nor bowing. Not even a nod.

  “You here?” he said, as if he had sought this refuge from the Didaniyisgi. He furled the document, and began to leave. “You are too late to play grusoker. They would have cleaned you out.”

  “No, wait. I didn’t come here to gamble. As for grusoker, put it on your to-do list to teach me how to play. Are you good at it?”

  “I can afford my own whores, if I am so inclined.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “Not these. I told you . . .” He nodded and began to leave.

  “I’m looking for you.”

  Melonius halted.

  “I told you we must talk,” Harris continued.

  “You did not tell me,” Melonius said, turning sharply. “You scolded me in public and threatened to put me right.”

  Harris sighed. He pointed to a chair — the one Melonius recently had vacated. The Danuwa hesitated, then marched to it and sat again, crossing his arms impatiently.

  “Listen,” Harris said, softening. “I’m sorry I blew my top on the docks.”

  “It is not your place to apologize to me.”

  “You might be correct,” Harris said, pulling up a chair. “But you must know this. What you expect me to be, I’m not. If you’d uncross your arms, I’d take it as a sign of respect.”

  “And if I do not respect you, what course will you take?”

  “Not the one you want. I know you hope I’ll send you back up the hill. And perhaps it would be best for me and you and for every motherfucking creature that crosses your path, but it’s not going to happen, because I chose you to be my Danuwa.”

  “You did not choose me. My father chose.”

  “His wishes weighed heavily in the choice, but by your mother’s magic jade ring, there’s a reason you’re it. There’s a reason for everything, and even if you picked every Scaladar around Great Greary Gree’s asshole, you’re sticking around for that reason.”

  Melonius’ eyes drifted, thought kicking in, no doubt. It might not have been critical thought — more a puzzlement of Harris’ unusual confrontational style. Still, Melonius took a bracing breath and uncrossed his arms. Harris smiled.

  2

  “I’m not who you think I am, Melonius,” Harris began. “An outsider from a different world — yes. But I’m not a good fit when it comes to commanding others. I like my freedom — cherish it. Until I slipped one evening into temptation’s harmful path, I was my own man. But the Scepta went a-hunting and I was as slow as a Tippagore.”

  “When a Scepta has chosen,” Melonius said, “none can resist.”

  “I believe a stronger man could have.”

  “Stronger men die in their sleep on that score. Like my father, you are here for a single purpose and this is not it.”

  “You’re right,” Harris said, cocking his head. “You’re as right as right can be. But, as you can see, I’m not on the hill now. I’ve been given a long leash.”

  “And I, a short one.”

  Melonius turned his head away, glancing at a nearby gaming table, the site of his evening’s victory at grusoker.

  “You see,” Harris remarked. “We have something in common and should make the best of it.”

  “You are here, because my mother has put you at a distance.”

  “Has she?” Harris wondered. Kuriakis was the moving spirit, but Charminus had planted the thought — got the ball rolling. Perhaps this little nipper was correct. But did it matter? “If so, Melonius, we still have something in common, because your father pushed you into my way. You mustn’t be the joy of his heart.”

  Melonius frowned.

  “It does not surprise me,” he snapped. “He has resisted my desires to enter the marriage pool and become a useful extension of the clan like my brothers and sisters. Instead, he saddles me with . . .”

  “With me.” Harris chuckled. “I know, I’m a living hell. I take you for adventurous rides in the Yugda, furnish you with spiffy new apparel, put you in the way of pretty heifers to ride until dawn, show you the port and, above all, take time to talk to you now, because I know your insides are churning.”

  “You do not know me.”

  “I may never know you, Melonius, and frankly, I’m not sure it’s worth my time. However, you are my Danuwa, and you must function. I must trust you.”

  “I can be trusted.”

  “I want to believe that. I want to think if I asked you to represent me in the Yuyutlu I wouldn’t return to find a trail of tortured Cetrone, pissed off Gurts and a rebellion of Zecronisian merchants.”

  “I am not so stupid.”

  “No, but you seem to hate them all. And . . . I understand it.”

  Melonius gave him an incredulous look.

  “You are the oath breaker . . . my lord.” He bowed, as if to ameliorate the accusation. “You have raised your Trone to a dangerous position. You treat the Gurts with civility and regard the Zecronisians as equals. We are the Ayelli, my lord. You may be from a different world, but you are Ayelli now.”

  “Ayelli means invader, doesn’t it? So my Taleenay tells me.”

  “He has told you correctly. We are the invaders and the conquerors.”

  “And you are how old, Melonius? You remember the invasion, do you?”

  “We are told.”

  “Schooled in it at the Cartisforium. Very real and gripping too, I bet. I missed that segment, and I’m glad I did. My world’s different, but not so removed from the Ayelli way of thinking.”

  “I am not convinced,” Melonius chuffed. “You bring foreign ways to us and are trying to make us think as you do. It is working on Parnasus and Elypticus. Even Kuriakis is charmed by it — and that disturbs me.”

  “Nothing like a political consc
iousness.” Harris reached over and touched Melonius’ knee, peering into his eyes. “My world is riddled with hate and is tormented by intolerance. My people enslaved a whole race and pushed other races aside. My world bled for a decade — a span of years where millions were rounded up and placed in . . . in Kalugus, and executed for being who they were. Millions fell to bombs and bullets and hellfire. And when I was drawn away, religious intolerance, so vile it condemned us by the tenants proclaimed as our saving grace, plagued civilization. No, Melonius. Hate and intolerance enslaves those who practice it. It destroys their targets. Both are lost forever in a cloud so thick, darkness wins over light.”