Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  The trumpets blared again. The chorus changed its tune to a simple sing-song hymn, which Harris swore was Jesus loves me, this I know. He almost joined in, but exercised restraint. Buhippus led his Yunockers, both the vanguard and the drogues as a bumper, buffering the crowd. Agrimentikos parked his Cabriolin, facing the dais, and then disembarked, his Trone heaped beside the vehicle. Harris signaled the Danuwa to land, and, then maneuvered his Cabriolin behind Agrimentikos’.

  The crowd cheered again when Harris stepped out, led by Yustichisqua. Harris noticed Agrimentikos bowing deeply to the council. Protocol. But one glance from Buhippus and Harris knew a Didaniyisgi didn’t bow so readily. However, his entourage should.

  “Bow, Little Bird,” he whispered.

  Yustichisqua made deep obeisance before the Byllymycky. The Danuwa followed suit. The crowd cheered.

  Then, Nikodemos stood, raising both hands. The auditorium fell silent, except one errant flute, which had missed a beat and lingered awkwardly in the solemnity.

  2

  “Lord Agrimentikos,” Nikodemos said. “What gift has Kuriakis the Great sent to his subjects in the Wudayleegu?”

  “A rare gift, indeed, Grand Councilor Nikodemos,” Agrimentikos replied, his voice booming to fill the Zocorpykyn. “A Didaniyisgi for the Yuyutlu, to abnegate injustice and regulate the trade.” Agrimentikos bowed. “My great lord is pleased with his subjects, both Zecronisian and Gurt, who have come together in harmony for the good of all Montjoy — an age of prosperity, like nowhere else in Farn. To that he wishes to make perfect what is already a paragon to all observers.”

  The two other chief councilors stood. They bowed graciously to Agrimentikos. Then one spoke — the one to Nikodemos’ left — the one called Altacantris.

  “Long have we wished for a better presence in the Yuyutlu to replace the Yunocker regulators. The Yuganawu already has much to enforce within its precincts and within the Kalugu.”

  “General Tarhippus cannot be in all places,” Mumpfredis (the other councilor) added. “Although he manages.”

  “That he does,” Agrimentikos said, gazing at Buhippus, who appeared grave.

  “We understand having a Didaniyisgi is like having Kuriakis’ heart and soul in our midst,” Nikodemos said.

  “Our greatest joy,” Altacantris echoed.

  “Without a doubt,” Mumpfredis underscored.

  “There is much to see and much to know,” Altacantris said.

  “The Ayelli are omniscient,” Mumpfredis added, smarmily.

  “There is much to ingest, but Kuriakis’ proxy must have a hearty appetite, even if he is so young,” Altacantris continued.

  “So young,” Mumpfredis noted.

  Harris understood these statements. The council didn’t want Kuriakis’ interference, but what could they do? They had operated for millennia without a provost, and whatever law enforcement necessary was provided by the Yunocker regulators under some honcho named Tarhippus. They doubted this gift from the Ayelli could learn in so short a time, despite the doctrine that everything from the hill was sacrosanct and all-knowing. In fact, this gift was young — too young to inspire much confidence, but also too young to make much difference, and thus not a threat. So the Zocor Council had assembled, threw this welcoming shindig, complete with floating trumpets, choral interlude, every third leg in the Wudayleegu and a packed house shouting their bobyfysmagus and jipjipjiptipus. Everyone loved a party, didn’t they? But Harris was not another pretty face. He was here to turn his make-work assignment into a way to learn how to escape his servitude. This was a time to sparkle — a time to shine. Before Agrimentikos continued his babble or Altacantris and Mumpfredis delivered more left-handed insults, Harris stomped to the dais, slapping his Columbincus. He signaled his Danuwa and Taleenay to join him.

  “Thank you for your kind words and confidence,” Harris said, as if acting before a full house — the actual case. “I mean to do my father’s will, learn what there is to learn, and discard things unworthy of my time and effort.”

  The three councilors looked to each other, and then sat on their extendable bottoms. Worry crossed Nikodemos’ face.

  “Lord Belmundus,” he said, respectfully, but with the authority of owning this turf. “You are welcomed to our fair port and will be supported in every way to fulfill your father’s wishes. However, the Zocor Council must follow certain forms.”

  “They must be ancient forms,” Harris said, “considering there hasn’t been a Didaniyisgi within anyone’s memory.”

  “They are ancient, but must still be followed. Your father would not have us do otherwise.”

  “Absolutely,” Harris said, and then touched his Columbincus again. “I would never set aside rituals and honored practices despite their fragility.” He bowed for the first time. “I’m not so bold to dispatch established ways without first learning them. Only a fool sets aside misunderstood practices.”

  “Yes,” Nikodemos said. “We are of the same mind.” He clapped and Garan the Gucheeda appeared near the bandstand — accompanied by a Gurt, who sported several insignias on his cloak, perhaps denoting loftiness. Between them floated a book — a very large book. “This is Garan the Deegosgi — the Arbitrator of the Yuyutlu.” Garan bowed, and winked. “And Cyprytop, Archon Supreme. Garan is the master of the Book of Adjustments and Cyprytop oversees the Gurt ryyves. Garan will support you in understanding the many regulations of the marketplace. Cyprytop will guide you to the chief centers of manufactory and trade.”

  Harris nodded to both Arbitrator and Archon Supreme. They returned his bow.

  “The book is quite thick,” Harris stated. “A little light reading to keep me busy.”

  “Are you up to the challenge, Lord Belmundus?” Nikodemos boomed.

  Harris regarded the book, the Gurt and, finally, Garan, whom he knew was more Gucheeda than Deegosgi. He read Garan’s face as surely as he read Yustichisqua’s. Odd. Still, it spoke volumes saying: time to sparkle — time to shine. Harris turned, facing Nikodemos and his cronies.

  “It is not proper to pose such questions to me, an Ayelli and consort to a Scepta, sir.”

  Nikodemos grinned. Not so young, after all. He shook his head, and then stood.

  “Forgiveness, my lord.”

  The crowd rumbled, as if they expected a tag team match between the old councilor and cronies, and the Didaniyisgi and his Thirdling estate. But Harris moved quickly toward Garan and Cyprytop. He placed his hand on the book, but, seeing a notch on the cover — a keyhole like the Book of Farn’s, Harris snapped his Columbincus from his cloak and tossed it in the air. The blue sigil glowed, coming to rest in the notch. Suddenly, the book opened, a tornado of numbers and charts and products funneling to the Zocorpykyn’s ceiling. The audience burst into applause.

  Adadooski. Bobyfysmagu. Arkmos. Jipjipjiptipu.

  Harris had deduced the ancient ritual. No objections came from any member of the Zocor Council. The only cautionary note came from another quarter.

  3

  Harris and his entourage retired to an anteroom behind the auditorium, where the crowd’s assault on the senses was replaced by a buffet of Zecronisian delicacies. Harris left the food choices to Yustichisqua and never questioned a thing on the platter. Fytzyfu introduced him to the more eminent council members. Harris made small talk with each, trying to imagine himself to be like Caesar at a senatorial reception, although recalling how that went in the end.

  The Byllymycky expressed amazement at Lord Belmundus’ ability to open the Book of Adjustments in the proper manner, unleashing the elements of trade balance for all to see. Nikodemos explained that Cyprytop and Garan would conduct him to the Yuyutlu that afternoon, where the provost could assess the market and the manufactories.

  “You shall take up residence in the Myrkpykyn,” Nikodemos said. “It is not elegant, but serviceable. You are welcome to refurnish it to your tastes, but the Myrkpykyn is a functioning establishment for the conduct of business and not designed for Aye
lli pleasures. I have been to the hilltop and have seen Ayelli standards. The Myrkpykyn is not up to those standards.”

  Harris couldn’t fathom the fuss. The Myrkpykyn was as it was. His time would be divided between the Yuyutlu and Charminus’ bed. A rundown hut at the edge of the marketplace would be paradise compared to trampolining on the Scepta under her jade ring’s spell. Garan dovecoted him — a relief, because there was too much pretense among the Zocor Council.

  “My lord,” Garan began, nibbling on what had been a lizard’s tail. “I never underestimated your talent.”

  “You’ve never seen me in action.”

  “Ah. You refer to stage acting. True?”

  “To an actor, action has a particular meaning.”

  Garan swallowed, and then grinned, a runnel of blood dripping from his lip’s corner.

  “Perhaps I saw an actor when you confronted the Byllymycky,” he whispered. “I assumed you would bow and scrape to them. But I was wrong. You acted as a consort.”

  “I am a consort.”

  “One of a different shade, I suspect.” He nodded toward Yustichisqua, who gobbled a pile of pukas midaskoos. “I anticipate a more liberal take on the Book of Adjustments than the standard interpretation and application.”

  “Don’t reveal whats’ normal, so I can repaint with a fresh can.”

  Garan laughed, then demured when Buhippus approached.

  “I recommend you take advantage of the slumber chambers before we leave, my lord,” Garan said. “The itinerary is hectic and you may not see a bed again until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Harris said, but Garan and his lizard tail faded into the cloud of guests.

  “My lord,” Buhippus said. “I have received the travel plan for you to review.”

  “Captain,” Harris said, incredulously. “Because I haven’t a clue where I am or where I’m going, except to inspect factories and sweat shops, and to land in sub-standard housing, I’ll leave the arrangements to you. If you need help, enlist Melonius.”

  “What happened to the imperious consort I beheld today?” Buhippus remarked. “Inconsistency will reveal the sham.”

  “Sham? That I depend on you there’s no doubt. If I command informally, don’t construe it as weakness.”

  “Unfortunately, my lord, there is an issue which requires you to wear steel more consistently.”

  “Issue?” Harris set his plate down and moved away from prying ears. “The council seems harmless enough. Powerful, but when confronted by Kuriakis’ mandate, harmless.”

  “A mandate you have,” Buhippus said, “but, until now, the enforcement of rules in the Yuyutlu has been under another’s jurisdiction, who some might interpret as overlapping your mandate.”

  “General Tarhippus.”

  “Just so. And I have learned from Nikodemos that Tarhippus has been informed of your assignment and purpose through the postern system — and nothing has been sent to him directly from the Zocor Council.”

  “But his orders would come from Kuriakis,” Harris remarked.

  “Yes. But the general is slow to read dispatches. His jurisdiction is wide and busy. He is a hands-on commander.”

  Harris scratched his chin. He had heard Tarhippus’ name invoked and always in whispers, as if said too loudly, the general would appear — an avoidable event.

  “Perhaps a visit to the general’s headquarters should be my first point of business.”

  “It should. But he resides in the Yuganawu. The Zocor Council should have invited him here to greet you. It would have been a pissing contest, but at least the first round would have been on Zecronisian turf.”

  Harris burbled his lips.

  “You know him well, captain.”

  “He is my brother, my lord.”

  “Ah, then I have the advantage.”

  “None that I know.” Buhippus bowed. “I will speak on your behalf. I am bound to do so.”

  “You are also bound to protect me.”

  “Yes . . . with the meager forces meant as your escort. But it is not an army.” Harris sighed. “I only warn you, my lord, so you wear balls of steel and have your Stick always at the ready.”

  “For that I thank you. I’ve porcelain balls, being Charminus’ bedfellow, but I might fare better with my sword. Sticks are too much like magic wands for me. Besides, it’s still hit or miss.”

  He noticed Yustichisqua silently loitering on the margins, probably loathed to interrupt a conversation with Buhippus.

  “I think your Taleenay has words for you, my lord,” Buhippus said, turning away.

  “Yes, Little Bird.”

  “Oginali, Garan advises us to rest before we depart.”

  “I agree.”

  “I have found the rooms.”

  Agrimentikos was here now.

  “Brother,” he said, “you made an impression on these decadent folk. They cannot cease praising your tornado display.”

  “I don’t think that’ll impress General Tarhippus.”

  Agrimentikos frowned.

  “That gentleman is most effective at his tasks. I hope he finds the boundaries between your role and his; otherwise I fear upstaging will result.”

  Harris thought of Tappiolus during the performance of Othellohito. It never ceased, this life upon the wicked stage.

  He didn’t feel like sleeping, but he assumed that Yustichisqua would have a fit if he didn’t try.

  “Bedrooms, you say, Little Bird.”

  “Yes, oginali,” the Taleenay replied.

  Harris looked about, spotting Parnasus. He waved him over.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Gather your two colleagues and follow us for some well deserved rest.”

  “Rest, my lord?”

  “Don’t question it. If we’re to remain sparkling and shiny, we need to sleep away the tarnish.”

  Parnasus grinned, bowed, and then scurried away, hopping to see over the heads of the guests. Harris grasped Agrimentikos’ hand.

  “Will you be coming with us, brother?”

  “Here my part ends, Lord Belmundus. I shall tarry with the Zecronisian ladies for a day or two, then drift up the hill to Soffira’s bed sheets. It is my time to be up, and Arquebus deserves a well-earned rest.” He patted Harris’ hand. “Make your brothers proud, Lord Belmundus. Find the limits of your task and keep well within them. Expectations are like clouds at best and are like reflections at worst. Stay strong. Impress, but . . .” He inclined toward Harris’ ear and whispered. “Do not become too popular.”

  This star shouldn’t sparkle too brightly or shine beyond the task. A funny world, this.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trouble at Ryyve Aniniya

  1

  “All the fabrics of Montjoy are made here by the Ryyve Gudi,” Cyprytop explained, his hand sweeping across what seemed miles of looms and spindles.

  Harris and his entourage, called in the Yuyutlu, the Seegoniga — the blue ones, owing to the Didaniyisgi’s blue cloak and sigil, had traveled to the marketplace through a toll tunnel, operated by the Zecronisian Department of Hyryods (Tariffs). Once in the bazaar’s thick, negotiating Cabriolins in narrow lanes and alleys, under awnings and over low stalls, Garan and Cyprytop guided the Seegoniga into the factory zone, the district of the Ryyves or guilds. Their first stop was the Ryyve Pykyn, where the master builders of Montjoy enjoyed particular prosperity — masons carving kaybar and phitron and banibara into building blocks for every edifice in the city and the port.

  “Is this where they make mopyn?” Harris asked Cyprytop.

  Cyprytop, a Gurt, who exuded an aristocratic air, held his nose and coughed.

  “My lord does not wish to visit there today,” he said. “That is not a stone mason’s Ryyve, but a place were cows are milked and sewers flow. You shall visit it when the time is proper. Even Tarhippus stays clear of the Ryyve Mopyn if he can.”

  Harris recalled mopyn, the Gurt plastic molding material, made from pressed milk and Gurt s
hit without a quarry in sight.

  “I understand,” Harris said, looking to Garan, who grinned. Garan always grinned, a latch to secrets, Harris supposed. “Who among my Danuwa will take responsibility for the Ryyve Mopyn?” he asked, using the proper syntax for the Gurt word for guild (ryyve) and the manufactured product.

  “Sounds like a job for Melonius,” Elypticus said, laughter upon his lip.

  “Sounds like a job for the Taleenay,” Melonius replied, but then appeared abashed by his boldness.