Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “If we must.”

  “You must. Be thankful you are not a Zecronisian woman or you would need to wear a third breast.”

  He laughed, and then bowed. Harris grasped Garan’s hand, and then his arm, shaking it warmly.

  “I owe you one.”

  “Yes, you do. My payment will be on account, if I live to collect it. For now you must test loyalty’s waters.”

  He pointed to the basement’s entrance.

  Thunder clapped.

  Lightning flashed.

  Grusoker.

  Chapter Three

  In Enemy Country

  1

  Thunder clapped.

  Lightning flashed.

  The Byybykyyip swallowed two travelers as they dodged in the shadows — two Augustii spinctae abroad in an ungainly fashion at an ungodly hour, dragging a dollywaggle of zulus noisily over the cobblestones and gutters. Harris struggled with the prosthetic third leg, which pitched him forward like an old crone. The leg wasn’t extended, but pinched his waist unnaturally. It competed with his sword and Stick, which flopped uneasily beneath the cloak. He noticed Yustichisqua’s angle, more severe because his waddly wazzoo dangled from his neck, secured from view by a harness Garan had whipped up from remnants of gauze. Together, they hauled the dollywaggle, which became heavier as they progressed, potholes and mud patches contributing to the challenge.

  What was this challenge compared to Harris’ conference with Captain Buhippus? Buhippus had guessed the Didaniyisgi’s purpose before he revealed it, but still, the consequences were in doubt. However, when told plainly, no detail hidden, Buhippus gave a disapproving grunt and shrugged.

  You are my lord, he said. I serve my warrant and not my family. But I must caution you. You are violating a treaty, which, if known, will undo your position both here and on the hill.

  Harris understood this and appreciated Buhippus’ candor, and said as much. However, his chief concern was whether Buhippus would report the violation to his brother. The Didaniyisgi placed the captain in a precarious position. But if both clung to the fiction that Lord Belmundus never paid him a visit and Garan’s explanation was believable, the chief of the Palace Yunockers only would be judged a fool — far better than a traitor.

  You realize the Sceptas are abroad in the outlands and your reason for absence is negated.

  Harris knew this, but few others did — surely not his Danuwa or Garan. But Tappiolus would be on the hoof, spying as he did when Charminus was out sapping men’s life force. Harris would chance the excuse, although he would tell Garan, who might frame it better. Harris thanked Buhippus, who said that no thanks was required, because the interview had never taken place.

  Harris embraced a tenuous trust in the captain. Now, having cleared the Byybykyyip without hearing gwasdi snaps and zugginak howls, his faith in Buhippus improved. His faith in the weather did not. The rain pelted them. He was dry, thankfully, because the jupsim-woven cloak repelled all liquids. It hardened the material into a shell, Harris reckoning he had become a turtle and the cloak — his carapace.

  Jupsim repelled liquid, but not smells. Yustichisqua had dowsed himself with charpgris, that Tygger piss perfume, which marinated him into a cesspool. He had applied it to cheeks, ears, chest, armpits and groin, making him repulsive to any creature not accustomed to the stink. Harris choked during the haul through the Byybykyyip.

  “I am sorry, oginali,” Yustichisqua said as they shuffled along. “I do not smell a thing, but I know you are offended.”

  “So long as it throws the bad guys off your scent, old man, I’ll suffer.” Harris choked again. “You’d think the rain would wash it away.”

  “It lingers,” Yustichisqua said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Suddenly, the road improved. Harris halted, considering the change.

  “We have come to the Yuganawu,” Little Bird said. “We call it the Yugodohi — Enemy Country. You have never noted the road change, because you are always in the Cabriolin. But I know it from old. The going will be better for dollywaggle pulling, but more dangerous. More Yunockers.”

  “I don’t see anyone out in this weather.”

  Harris continued hauling the wagon like an old bag woman from the stetl. The third leg pinched his balls and he moaned. He heard Little Bird laugh. He wanted to hit his friend over the head with the leg, but realized Little Bird must be suffering from the same testicular pain with the added attraction of a kettled waddly wazzoo trying to free itself under his carapace.

  “You stink,” Harris said, in response, and then chuckled at the obvious.

  “Like a Tygger pissing, oginali. You have always called me your Noya Tludachi. Now you know why.”

  They hauled the dollywaggle up an incline into the business district, a grand plaza devoid of pedestrians at this hour, although bronksers were lit in the windows and faces peered into the storm. The buildings were an eclectic mix, sleek Art Deco straight from Albert Speer’s sketch book, and sandstone Georgian, remnants of a distant time when the Cetrone ruled Montjoy, their homeland and settlement. The Nuremburg-rally-style buildings were closed now, transactions finished by this time, but the majorin-occupied Cetrone houses stirred in the tempest. As the disguised Augustii spinctae passed the kaybar front doors, a few opened, majorin citizens noting who crept through the plaza at this hour and in this inclemency. A few heads popped out from the kaleezos, the servants also curious.

  “Oginali,” Yustichisqua said, fearfully. “The Yunockers will see me as Garan has disguised me, but the Cetrone will know that I am one of them.”

  “Let us hope they don’t tell their . . . their masters.”

  “They do not speak to their masters,” Little Bird said, “But we are a naturally gossiping people. By morning our passage will be known in every kaleezo in the city.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “Do I? I worry, because when Cetrone gossip, their masters notice. Curiosity might spur questioning, and then . . .”

  “And then the game is up. Let’s boogie then.”

  Yustichisqua didn’t ask, but picked up the pace despite the ball-pinching pain. Soon, they cleared the square and slipped through an alleyway. However, coming toward them were several birrupsun beacons.

  2

  Three regulati approached swiftly on zulus, their birrupsuns shining through the rain streaks.

  “We should run, oginali,” Yustichisqua whispered.

  “Hold your ground. We’ve nothing to fear. We’re two Augustii spinctae taking a dollywaggle of zulus to the Kalugu under the warrant signed by a big fucky-wucker from the Yuyutlu.” He laughed. “Just stay calm and don’t speak. I know you’re older than me in dog-years, but we’re Zecronisians now and I outrank you. I have the bigger third leg.”

  Little Bird giggled nervously, but Harris wasn’t convinced. They needed to stay vigilant.

  The regulati patrol slowed, hovering across the path.

  “So late, gentlemen,” the chief one said. “And in such weather.”

  “Yes,” Harris said, gruffly as befitting his hunched over, painful position. “Business is business and orders are orders. My business does not recognize time or weather.”

  The other two regulati came around the back and poked the dollywaggle.

  “Zulus,” Harris said, anticipating the question. “Zulus for the Kalugu mordanka.”

  “I suppose you have that in writing,” the patrol leader commanded. “Your gufawpup.”

  Harris had no idea what a gufawpup was, but Little Bird came to their aid.

  “Better than a gufawpup, sir,” Yustichisqua replied. “We have a warrant from the Didaniyisgi of the Yuyutlu, enjoined to a case settlement from the Myrkpykyn.”

  “Truly?”

  Harris reached into his cloak, grasping the document. He opened it quickly, displaying the seal.

  “Do you recognize the seal?” he asked.

  He flashed it, then, fearing the rain, he slipped it back into his cloak. While i
n there, his hand grasped the hilt of his sword — just in case.

  “I do,” the leader said. “Although, I see no reason for an increase in zulu supply to the Kalugu. If a Trone cannot be shod, it should fall into the Deetsuneeli and become Tludachi food.”

  “Orders are orders,” Harris said, bowing slightly. “And . . .”

  “I know. The weather is the weather. We do our duty in the storm as we do it in the suns-shine. Pass on.”

  The patrol regrouped and continued to the plaza, disappearing in the turn.

  “I am liked to die, oginali,” Little Bird said.

  “You did well,” Harris replied, giving the dollywaggle a tug. “What the fuck’s a gufawpup. Some kind of laughing dog?”

  “No. A permit for a shipment of goods.”

  “A freight bill. Good thinking on your part.”

  “They wanted papers and we have papers.”

  “We also have third legs shoved up our asses, but we’re not there yet.”

  They shuffled on to another plaza — a smaller one lined with shops. A stopped up drain had caused street flooding, a river running through it. Harris gaped at the obstacle, and then sat on the dollywaggle, pondering the next step.

  3

  “We have zulus,” Yustichisqua suggested. “We could fly over it.”

  “With this get-up? And we need the dollywaggle to tote our shit.”

  “Do we, oginali? The zulus are in sacks. We could carry them just as easily as we can struggle with the dollywaggle.”

  “I see. We fly over the puddle with the sacks and return to our Zecronisian selves on the other side. But what if we’re seen.”

  “This is a shopping zone. No one buying or selling at this hour. And no houses around.”

  “Good point. Zulus? I hate wearing those things. Will they fit over our borabas?”

  “Borabas adjust to accommodate all sizes — inner and outer.”

  “One size fits all.” He stood. “Let’s give it a shot. It’s either that or doing the backstroke wearing cloaks.”

  “The jupsim would let us float.”

  “I’m joking, old man. But a dip in the bathtub would wash it away.” Suddenly, he paused, grinning. “You know, those regulati didn’t detect you. The piss really works.”

  “Yes, oginali. I was happy when they didn’t guess that I am not an Augustii.”

  “That’s reassuring. It makes your Night in the Sewer fragrance almost bearable.” He gazed at the dollywaggle. “I’m not going to miss dragging the little red wagon, although I suppose we’ll need to buy a new one for Garan.”

  Yustichisqua rustled through the sacks, finding two pairs of zulus. He helped Harris don one pair over the borabas, and then slipped a pair on himself, activating them with a side switch. He almost slipped into the lake.

  “It has been some time, oginali.”

  Harris switched his on and hovered an inch above the ground.

  “It’s been longer for me.”

  He remembered the only time he tried to maneuver on zulus. He had only been in Farn for a few days and nearly caused Yustichisqua’s arrest. He was upended and landed on his ass then. Now he not only had to remain upstanding, he had to tote a sack of zulus while being weighed down by a sword, a Stick and a third-leg, not to mention a heavily cowled cloak . . . in the teeming rain.

  “This ain’t gonna work.”

  “Yes, oginali, it will. I shall guide you. We will go slowly.”

  Harris felt the brace of Yustichisqua’s hand under his elbow. They rose together over the flood, the sacks swaying in the wind. Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed. But the two Augustii impostors floated over the water. Harris could feel himself tumbling, like a tot first learning to ride a bicycle. But each time he wavered, Yustichisqua compensated by lifting Harris’ elbow.

  It was a short trip, but hectic, the wind trying to blow them off course. But they made it to the other side and drifted along another lane until reaching dry ground, where the drains worked. Harris landed, but as he touched down, the Eye appeared.

  “Crap,” he muttered.

  Tappiolus was on the prowl. With Charminus abroard, the co-consort could invade privacies without restraint. That the Eye appeared at an unlikely spot, a god-awful hour and in ominous weather, convinced Harris that Buhippus might be unreliable, if Lord Tappiolus knew about this excursion and sought to interrupt it.

  “Kick the switch, oginali,” Yustichisqua whispered.

  Harris tripped his feet under the cloak, trying to kick the button to deactivate the zulus. After a few misses, he connected. The cursed footwear ceased vibrating. Little Bird succeeded also.

  “Ignore the spy,” Harris said. “We are Augustii spinctae. Act the part.”

  Harris adjusted the sack on his back, leaning forward. He limped like Quasimodo, because he felt like Quasimodo. Bring on those bells. Steadily, he passed the Eye, not giving it another thought. He had the urge to flip his finger and bellow a fuck you, brother-in-law, but he kept to his role and trundled into the next alleyway, not looking back. He heard the familiar whoosh, which occurred when the Eye faded.

  “I believe the equa anatoli has gone, oginali.”

  “If you mean the Eye, yep. We beat it this time.”

  They reached the end of this alley. Harris felt beat. The sack was heavy. His back ached. He kicked the zulus off, and replaced them in his sack. Water dripped from the end of his nose and, although he was dry beneath, the steady downpour drove him loony. Perhaps he should have waited for a starry night to undertake this mission. But a starry night would have been fraught with many regulati and citizens.

  “There,” Yustichisqua said.

  Harris glanced into the rain swept clearing, which loomed before him. He recognized the spot — a place he’d been many times on his tour of the Yuganawu. Here he had pondered the Kalugu from a distance at the edge of the Gulliwailit. Perhaps a hundred yards away was the Bridge — the Bridge over Troubled Waters.

  4

  Crossing the bridge, Harris put enemy country, what Yustichisqua called the Yugodohi, behind him. He had crossed this bridge yesterday, but, on reconsideration, it was a rash try to knock at the Kalugu’s gates. Now he tried to carry out the same feat with subterfuge. The longer he hobbled like an old man, the more like an old man he felt. He’d need a massage when he returned to the Myrkpykyn — if he returned to the Myrkpykyn.

  All was black and bleak on the Gulliwailit Bridge — the road, the creek, the pylons — the backdrop of phitron walls. Coming toward Harris and Yustichisqua, three Trones floated, their buckskins soaked. They came close, but upon seeing Yustichisqua, bowed and continued their journey to the Yugodohi, no doubt an early shift of night soil collectors.

  “They smell worse than you,” Harris muttered.

  “I did detect it also, oginali, but you would stink too if you dived into the muck and carried the fuggipantis.”

  Harris didn’t want to know. The moment of truth had come. He had passed the scene of yesterday’s brouhaha — where Tarhippus had confronted him. No signs remained of Trone blood, the rain a natural scrub brush. Still, Harris experienced a chill.

  As they approached the Kalugu’s gate, the guard, luck of the draw — the same one encountered yesterday, didn’t meet them halfway. Harris hoped there was no reason for a challenge. He reached for his papers, certain they’d be scrutinized. Two zugginaks stirred, coming to the guard’s heels, then cocked their heads and retreated to a dry spot under the portcullis.

  “Rather late for a delivery,” the guard said.

  “I do not control the weather, sir,” Harris replied, preparing to whip out the warrant.

  “No dollywaggle this time?”

  “Light load . . .”

  “And two of you porting, I see, instead of the usual one.”

  Ricktus Morphinus probably made this run alone. Harris wished he had known that tidbit, but the guard had all the answers. How convenient.

  “Exactly so,” Harris said, bowing, althou
gh he didn’t have far to go with the gesture.

  As Yustichisqua came under the portcullis, the guard sniffed as if detecting the blood of an Englishmun. But the reaction passed, only serving Harris’ jitters.

  “You Augustii will do anything for yedalas.”

  “Not anything, sir. I would not put my hand in your zugginak’s mouth for every yedala in the Yuyutlu.”