Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “If you kill Tarhippus’ zugginaks, my lord,” Buhippus said, tensely, “it will be more trouble than it is worth.”

  “Tarhippus?” Harris asked, and then looked toward the monster charging, now out of his fiery Cabriolin and lashing his whip at anything in his course.

  “A Trone in the Ryyve Aniniya,” Tarhippus roared. “I shall hang every man who let that Trone pass through these gates.”

  The whip lashed out, striking Harris’ Cabriolin just a hairbreadth from Yustichisqua, who now crouched on the ground, shivering.

  “What has brought you here?” Buhippus shouted, a stupid question to be sure, but one catching Tarhippus’ attention.

  “Buhippus?” the General growled. “I do not understand. Why would you permit this infraction? Infraction!”

  “Must I hang too, brother? You are here to regulate a dispute, not to chastise the new Didaniyisgi’s Taleenay.”

  Tarhippus’ eyes opened wider than Harris thought possible. He gazed at the Provost and peered over the edge of the Cabriolin.

  “I do not see a Taleenay. I see a bog sucking Trone in this Ryyve of Ryyves.”

  “He is my Taleenay,” Harris snapped, nerves bubbling to the surface. “And these are my Danuwa, and those are your fucking dogs, and if you don’t want to lose one under my sword, you’d best get back into your fucking Cabriolin and ride out from whence you came.”

  Tarhippus’ face went redder — his flaming helmet, volcanic. He raised his gwasdi, but Buhippus slapped his Stick on his brother’s arm.

  “This is our lord Kuriakis’ Provost, brother. To harm him will bring the Ayelli down upon your head and the heads of all Yunockers.”

  “You were sent your orders,” Harris said, tenuously.

  Tarhippus trembled, and then looked to Buhippus.

  “The Didaniyisgi, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  The general laughed, a terrifying howl, which brought whomever wasn’t on their knees already, down. “Why did you not say so?”

  “I did,” Harris barked. “My orders are as clear as yours.”

  “Are they?”

  “I rule the Yuyutlu.”

  “Rule?” Tarhippus laughed. Buhippus gave Harris a cautionary glance. “I believe you meant to say, mediate or piss over the heads of the Augustii. Your orders do not trump the rules, and to bring a Trone into the Ryyve Aniniya, especially one decked out as a lord and traveling without zulus in a Cabriolin, is more than rule breaking. It is an infraction. Infraction! It is an invalidation of your warrant, sir.”

  “It is not,” Harris shouted. “I am the son of Kuriakis. I am the consort to Scepta Charminus. Even if I chose to enter here with an army of Cetrone, you’d have to take your gwasdi and shove it up your ass.”

  The crowd gasped. Tarhippus raised an eyebrow, bringing his face close to Harris’. It was a horrible visage to behold, with a brimstone stench, which nearly trumped the Tygger piss. Then Tarhippus whipped about and pointed to two Yunockers.

  “Arrest those Ryyvytys and the Augustii. Bring them to the Katorias to await my pleasure, and . . .” He shook his fist at Yustichisqua, “arrest this . . . thing in costume, and toss him in the Porias to await my pleasure.”

  Harris swung the sword, but missed. Yustichisqua drew his dagger.

  “Armed,” Tarhippus shouted. “This Trone is armed. Infraction! Infraction!”

  Buhippus intervened, grasping his brother’s shoulders and tossing him aside. Tarhippus pushed back, but Buhippus threatened with his Stick. Yunockers on both sides bellied up for a fight.

  “Brother,” Buhippus said, “I am as opposed as you are to the arming of a Trone, but when a Trone is elevated by Kuriakis’ consent to Taleenay, neither you nor I can question it.”

  “Kuriakis approved this abomination?”

  “Yes, and we are the enforcers of the law and the law is Montjoy — and Kuriakis is the Elector in Montjoy. He is the law. He can never be . . . an infraction. Do not forget yourself, brother. Do not give way to your fiery soul. If you do, we shall all be lost.”

  Tarhippus trembled, and then snorted. He turned to Harris and pointed, but Harris pointed to the Yunockers.

  “Release those men to my charge,” Harris commanded. “They shall be brought to the Myrkpykyn for my decision on any penalties incurred for this disturbance.” The two Ryyvytys and the Augustii rushed into the custody of the Seegoniga Yunockers. “As for laying a hand on my Taleenay, General Tarhippus. Any violation of my deputies will be regarded as grounds for your immediate dismissal. You can shine fleece in the Ryyve Sulasgi for the balance of your days. You can swim with the googani, which you closely resemble.”

  Tarhippus spit, but didn’t dispute any further. He turned his back to Harris and gathered his zugginaks about his heels.

  “One more thing, General Tarhippus,” Harris said. Tarhippus turned again. “I realize you believe you are enforcing the rules today, so I will not press you further for any breach in protocol. However, I insist you greet me in an appropriate fashion.”

  Tarhippus grinned.

  “I did not kill your Trone today. Take it as my welcome to the Yuyutlu . . . my . . . lord.”

  Tarhippus mounted his Cabriolin and sped off through the alley, the Yunockers shaken by their commander’s inability to bring down fire on the new provost’s head. Harris helped Yustichisqua to his feet and saw Garan peep from beneath a stall. Cyprytop attended to the custody of the prisoners. Harris faced his Danuwa, who bowed to him, even Melonius, who touched his Thirdling Columbincus.

  “Captain Buhippus,” Harris said, not looking to the man. “I hope I haven’t compromised you with your brother.”

  “We are blood, my lord, but we were compromised in the cradle.”

  “I’m not looking for praise or anything, but did I totally fuck this up or what?”

  “No, my lord. In fact, there is hope your porcelain balls might still turn to steel.”

  Harris grinned. Right now those balls were tired and made of puff pastry.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Judgment of Harris

  1

  The Myrkpykyn was everything Harris had expected — a low two-story building with a judicial façade, a peppering of offices and a courtroom — musty and underutilized. Above the courtroom, at the back, as an afterthought, was a loft with two small bedrooms, more for convenience than comfort, although the Myrkpykyn staff had readied them for the Didaniyisgi’s use — one room for him and one for his Seegoniga. A kingsized bed was chucked in the room reserved for the Provost and four platforms were erected for the Seegoniga’s easement. Harris inspected the rooms soon after his arrival, giving them a cursory glance. He told Cyprytop that the space was adequate to the purpose and in line with Nikodemus’ description. Harris wanted to occupy his room at once, but business prevailed. So, he descended to the courtroom to hear the case and deliver his judgment against the two Ryyvytys and the Augustii from the Ryyve Aniniya. He hadn’t a notion on how to proceed and would rely upon Garan’s experience and Cyprytop’s knowledge. Somehow he’d muddle through.

  Two bronskers (the aniniya fueled lamps ubiquitous to Montjoy) lit the courtroom harshly, not having the soft glow of waddly wazzoos. Still, they chased the shadows as night fell. Four Gurt attendants polished the empty gallery — a reviewing stand, six rows high and steeply inclined, like bleachers in a gymnasium. Two others helped Cyprytop install The Book of Adjustment in a prominent position beside a bronsker, a position Harris assumed it had enjoyed for centuries.

  Harris entered from the second story directly to his place on the high bench overlooking the court. Guided by Garan, the Danuwa found places lower down beneath Harris’ bench. Garan ushered Yustichisqua lower still, to a solitary chair at ground level and central to the proceedings. The prisoner’s dock, a cage opposite the gallery, was empty, the defendants absent, probably held in cells beneath the Myrkpykyn. Harris sat on the hard seat — not comfortable and not conducive for sleeping. Nonetheless, he closed his ey
es, resting them.

  The day had been long — too many Ryyves — too many factories. Harris was dreadfully tired. He wished to postpone these proceedings until the morning, but Cyprytop needed to return to his family and Garan to his ship. Harris didn’t want to detain the prisoners unduly, although they were prisoners and he was exhausted. So he rested his eyes and wished everyone would hurry.

  Harris listened to Elypticus and Parnasus whispering like children in church. He couldn’t make out the words and wondered why they whispered in an empty courtroom. Perhaps the austere room induced silence. As he listened to his Danuwa susurrate, he daydreamed, and not pleasantly. He saw the googani, its tentacles batting a dozen Trones from the sluice bank, blood coursing the flume while the monster dined. He smelled the emulsion vat in the Ryyve Sulasgi. Pew. The traffic in the Byybykyyip besieged him. He shuddered. He heard the snap of the gwasdi and the barking zugginaks. Tarhippus’ face came upon him in a flash, its chilling mask a terror to recall. Harris awoke abruptly, muttering a single word, which emblazoned his heart.

  “Infractions.”

  “My lord,” Garan said, close to his ear. “Yes, infractions.”

  “Infractions,” Harris said again, this time with conviction. He tried to mask the fact he was asleep by beginning a discussion on jurisprudence. He was awake, but not sure where he was, until he saw the Danuwa staring at him, and then Little Bird’s terrified expression.

  “Sorry,” Harris said. “I dozed off. Sorry.” He looked to Garan. “This has been an overlong day. If I could postpone this until tomorrow I would, but . . .”

  He glanced at the empty courtroom, now no longer empty. When the gallery filled, he couldn’t tell. Who these people were, went beyond him, but a mixed audience of Gurts, Zecronisians and Yunockers sat attentively musing on the somnambulistic behavior of their new Didaniyisgi.

  Harris scanned the room, his gaze settling on the prisoners. When did they arrive? The Ryyvytys might have been twins — either a family resemblance or a Gurt trait. Harris recalled the duo who had greeted him in the Ryyve Sulasgi — synchronized automatons. But these prisoners’ eyes were sad and careworn, perhaps worrying about their fate.

  Perhaps from weariness like their Didaniyisgi.

  The Augustii seemed less distressed, wrapped in an elegant gold cloak, now smeared with mud from the scuffle.

  Harris turned to Garan, who bowed.

  “You are expected to say a few words, my lord,” Garan said in a low voice.

  Nice.

  He had said more than a few words to Tarhippus, and where did that get him? This was his first case. He worked without a net. That wasn’t precisely true. He had the Danuwa in the next row down, his faithful Dune Tygger front and center, Garan as Deegosgi or Gucheeda or whatever other title he sported this evening, Cyprytop as the Archon Supreme and . . . and Buhippus. Harris careened.

  “Where’s Captain Buhippus?” he asked.

  “Below stairs, my lord, preparing to enforce your will,” Garan replied.

  “Ah,” Harris said. “Preparing the thumbscrews, no doubt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. A few words, you say.”

  He cleared his throat, and then stood. The gallery crowd stirred, bowing their heads as if they anticipated holy communion. He raised his hand, signaling for heads to rise. He wanted to see their eyes, although his own were lidded.

  “Good people of the Yuyutlu,” he began, and since he heard no grunting, he said it again. “Good people of the Yuyutlu, I realize these proceedings have been convened in my father’s name since time immemorial under a proxy of Archons and Deegosgis. Now the Ayelli will manage it directly. I am your Didaniyisgi and these are my Danuwa.”

  The three Thirdlings nodded in recognition. Yustichisqua knew better to do so. Harris decided not to push his Taleenay on this crowd — a doff to political necessity. It was bad enough he didn’t know what he was doing, it would be worse if he lit a fuse he couldn’t dowse. Then, he pointed to the Book of Adjustments.

  “The law is the true embodiment of everything that’s excellent. It has no kind of fault or flaw and I intend to embody the law.” He had encountered this phrase somewhere in his stagecraft, but the exact source escaped him at the moment. Gilbert & Sullivan’s Iolanthe came briefly to mind, but no matter. Any good line in a pinch. “I mean to press the heads of first offenders softly; those who commit lesser . . . infractions.” The word stopped in his throat. “Yes, infractions, dealt with harshly in other jurisdictions.” The crowd murmured. The Tarhippus reference hit its mark. “But I am your Didaniyisgi and no other. I use a velvet glove. And know this. The hand that gloves me conceals none other than the loving hand of your Elector . . . Kuriakis the Great.”

  He raised both arms high, looking to the ceiling cracks. The gallery crowd met this gesture with approbation — applauding and letting loose with shouts of adadooski, arkmo, bobyfysmagu and jipjipjiptipu. They even banged their feet on the gallery wood — two or three, according to the species.

  Harris glanced at Cyprytop, who grinned, his tongue lashing his approval. Garan appeared humble, a charm that didn’t become him. Harris thought — Uriah Heep. But he depended on the Deegosgi for guidance; for the next step, in fact. So he watched carefully until it came — a wink. Harris sat. Enough said.

  Four Gurt staffers entered the courtroom carrying four scrolls. They trundled ceremoniously to the Taleenay, and then stopped. Yustichisqua stared at them, puzzled; and then, taking the hint, he extended his hands, receiving the scrolls one at a time. He nodded, and then looked to Cyprytop, whose tongue pointed to Harris. Little Bird stood, carefully toting these scrolls to the aisle’s end, and then carrying them up to Harris. The Didaniyisgi took them with as much pomp as he could imagine, and he could imagine much pomp. Garan seemed pleased.

  “Thank you, Taleenay,” Harris intoned.

  This caused a stir in the gallery, the acknowledgment that the Trone in the room was the second-in-command.

  “With humility, oginali,” Yustichisqua replied, garnering a frown from Garan. “I mean, my lord.”

  The frown converted into an approving grin.

  Harris cut the scroll’s strings and unfurled one. He perused the first — chicken-scratch — an unintelligible scrawl of Zecronisian characters. He grinned, and then unfurled the others in succession — reading (or not, because he couldn’t), nodding and performing this pantomime until Cyprytop stood.

  A gong sounded. Cyprytop strutted to a position before the prisoner dock. He placed his hands behind his back like Clarence Darrow at the Scope’s Monkey Trial. He snapped his tongue and addressed the cage.

  “Gypysyp of Ryyve Aniniya,” he chanted. “You have been brought to the Myrkpykyn because you disturbed the peace of your Ryyve by contesting the Hyryod of Ricktus Morphinus, Augustii spinctus of said Ryyve. How say you?”

  “I did so, Archon Supreme,” Gypysyp squeaked, and then bowed.

  Gong.

  Cyprytop turned about, faced the gallery and grinned. He cracked his knuckles and continued addressing the cage.

  “Rypchypy of Ryyve Aniniya,” he intoned. “You also have been brought to the Myrkpykyn because you also disturbed the peace of your Ryyve by contesting the Hyryod of the same Ricktus Morphinus, Augustii spinctus of aforesaid Ryyve. How say you?”

  “I did so, Archon Supreme,” Rypchypy grunted, “and would do so again if so provoked.”

  The gallery buzzed. Cyprytop snapped his tongue clear around his head, but didn’t react further. Harris assumed these boring proceedings were the standard fare in the Myrkpykyn. However, as the noise increased, he looked about the desk for a gavel or something to curb the audience in case of an insurrection. No gavel.

  Some courtroom this, where the judge didn’t have a hammer to keep order. Harris thought. Judge Judy would be appalled.

  Harris stood suddenly — not a radical move, but it did the trick. The room came to order. Cyprytop bowed in gratitude, but how order was rest
ored without a presiding judge, Harris couldn’t guess? He leaned forward and whispered to his Danuwa.

  “Watch and learn.”

  Gong.

  Cyprytop continued.

  “Ricktus Morphinus, Augustii spinctus of zone zulus of the Ryyve Aniniya, you have been brought to the Myrkpykyn because you contributed to a riot by assaulting these Ryyvytys before many witnesses. How say you?”

  Ricktus Morphinus raised his palms, and then looked to the ceiling as if calling the faithful to prayer.

  “I have not been brought to the Myrkpykyn for the reason you say.”