Harris regarded the other unknown figure, who sat on a lucid crystal throne.
Enitachopco, the Lord of Light, came the whisper.
“Zacker,” Harris muttered.
The Elector of Zacker, if such was his title, was tall and pale with a snowy beard. His robes, buckskin, tapered at the foot into a broad skirt. He wore a purple band around his forehead and a golden crystal embedded between his eyes and a patch over one of those eyes.
Harris shuddered as he recalled other such countenances, but was held in check when the Primordius Centrum raised his hand, pointing to Enitachopco, crimson light bands shooting through spidery fingers.
“Balance has returned to Farn,” the creaky voice from the stump proclaimed. “Zin must fade to darkness and Zacker must be banished from our sight. Montjoy shall acquire the Hill of Greary Gree to house the tribute treasures of Farn. The people of Zacker shall descend into the valley and scratch the soil for the realm’s benefit. There they shall be kept from the heights by Grimakadarian’s dark beast.”
The Zinbear, came the whisper.
Enitachopco arose, tall and sturdy under the crimson beams. He bowed. The Electors arose and also bowed. Harris expected the Promise and Prophecy to be chanted now, but he must have missed that show and was watching the finale — the destruction of Zacker as a realm. Grimakadarian laughed, and turned from his throne. The ground shook as he plodded his way back into darkness.
The mirage of the Electors faded into purple haze. The Primordius Centrum dimmed and slipped back into his stump. Only the glowing waddly wazzoo remained, now at Enitachopco’s feet. He bent to raised it on its rope, and then kissed it.
Darkness again — briefly. The scene shifted to a regally decorated room, crowned with two thrones and a host of courtiers, each decked in rich tan buckskin robes. Each engaged in weeping — lamentations overcoming the Cartisforium’s hum.
“The Scarlet Chamber, oginali.”
“Yes, but that’s not Kuriakis and Joella on the thrones.”
On the thrones in the Scarlet Chamber on the Hill of Greary Gree sat Enitachopco, the fallen Elector of Zacker and his darkly beautiful Memer — strangely familiar.
Hedonacaria, came the whispered voice of Euforsee. Our lady, rest her soul.
Harris was suddenly sad. The humming encompassed the lamentations. Behind the Elector’s throne sat his three children, two Sceptas and a Seneschal. Harris grasped Yustichisqua’s arm.
“I see her, oginali,” Little Bird said.
“And another one, sitting beside her.”
“And he is there too. How can it be? This is ages past — many thousands of turns around Solus and Dodecadatemus.”
“I can’t guess.”
It was undeniable. Littafulchee and her brother sat behind the thrones, and between them, another Scepta — a younger version of Littafulchee. The humming encompassed all. The lamentations tore at Harris’ heart, and yet at the sight of Littafulchee, his heart raced — raced with passion — raced with wonder.
Enitachopco stood, raising the waddly wazzoo, which swung on its rope as if taking attendance.
“My children,” he said, his voice sad, but steady. “The light shall never fail us. But Farn must rest from battle. Both sides are ordered to retreat. We, my sad children, must leave our sublime hill and descend into the valley called cetronus morbidus and reap to keep the promise alive. The Prophecy shall be our final say, but until then, the world will use us as it will.”
He turned, the waddly wazzoo sparking traces of light. The Scarlet Chamber faded, transforming into a marble temple — a rotunda. At its center, on an altar, lay the Memer Hedonacaria, her eyes closed — her hands clasping Lilies of Murrow. The rotunda’s walls were transparent like an architect’s rendering, clearly an effect from the Book of Farn. Harris finally was viewing the interior of the Temple of Greary Gree.
The children of Hedonacaria wept, clasping their mother’s hem, while their father raised the waddly wazzoo high. Littafulchee clamped her sister within her embrace, while Cosawta consoled them, but to little avail, his face bathed in tears. The sparks from the lamp wreathed their heads — a benediction blessing from their father, who stroked his Memer’s hair.
“Farewell, sweet Hedonacaria, dear mother and wife,” Enitachopco wept. “You have been sacrificed for the realms and shall watch us from this hill until the time arrives, when the Deliverer opens the chambers of Zin and floods the dark halls with light. That is the Promise. That is the Prophecy. It is from the loins of Zacker that the Spasatorium shall rise, and from no other.”
He turned to the mournful.
“Children of Zacker,” he invoked. “Descend from here and be as you are — pure and merciful. Keep the truth at hand always.”
The two Sceptas raised their lamps, receiving their father’s light. The Seneschal took the waddly wazzoo from Enitachopco. The children arose and floated to the mournful, kindling all the lamps — all the first waddly wazzoos — light taken from the Primordius Centrum. The light was passed, each courtier’s lamp igniting the next, until the Temple was ablaze. When all lamps were lit, the Zacker, like a million fireflies, arose on their zulus and drifted down the hill.
Understanding dawned on Harris.
“That’s why they return on Brunting Day,” he said. “The Temple’s sacred.”
Yustichisqua wept.
“I thought it was to see Lord Kuriakis’ fireworks. I am a fool, oginali.”
“No,” came Euforsee’s voice, clear and trumping the vision. She emerged at the altar’s center. “No, son of Kittowa. You are no fool. You finally have come to the knowledge of who you are.”
“I am Cetrone.”
“You are a child of Zacker, pure and merciful, who has taken the full measure of the task — a part in the Promise and Prophecy. In that you must be less pure and a deal less merciful. You must be the Noya Tludachi for the Deliverer of our light.”
Suddenly, each of the Yodanado raised their arms and waddly wazzoos like lanterns at a train crossing. Harris, startled, stepped back. The Book of Farn snapped shut. The latch twisted, spitting the Columbincus out, forcefully. It flew across the altar, hitting Harris on the forehead. He caught it, closing his fist. The Yodanado were gone, and the book rattled ominously as if to say one question per customer and you’ve had more than your share today.
3
“I’m not sure what I just saw,” Harris said, affixing the brooch to his cloak.
“I know what I saw,” Little Bird exclaimed.
“Yes, I know you know.” Harris grasped his shoulder. “I wonder whether it’s true.”
“It is difficult for me,” Yustichisqua said. “I have been Cetrone all my life and now I am something else altogether.”
“You’re the same as you’ve always been,” Harris replied, knowing that statement was the biggest falsehood of the hour. “I mean, you’re different because you’ve changed yourself.”
“With your help. But to learn these things makes more questions — questions I did not have before.”
“I bet.”
“And did you see him — Cosawta — a Seneschal?”
“We’ve heard Tomatly call him that, but I thought it was honorary.”
“It is honorary, oginali. An ancient honor. He must be older than . . .”
“Mud . . . and so must she.” Harris twitched. “Jesus Christ. So . . . must . . . she. And if she’s a Scepta, I’ve stepped in shit again. Am I a sucker for all the succubae in creation?”
“She is not like Charminus,” Little Bird protested.
“Who knows? But you’re right about one thing. There’s a shit load of new questions. And who was the other Scepta?”
Both fell silent until a sound at the far end of the Cartisforium shook them out of their reverie. Someone had entered.
“Tappiolus,” Harris whispered, pulling Yustichisqua into an alcove. “Shit.”
“I will burn today, for sure, oginali, and just when I have learned I am a c
hild of Zacker.”
“Pure and merciful.”
Yustichisqua grinned, and then drew gasohisgi. Harris stopped him.
“What are you doing?”
“Being less pure and a deal less merciful.”
“And more stupid. That’d have us both burnt today. Put it away.”
Yustichisqua complied. Harris peeked around a column and watched Tappiolus circumnavigate the altar, drifting to the stained-glass windows. Harris looked for the nearest exit, but it was the door directly within Tappiolus’ view.
His attention drifted to a place under the altar. Was there a space beneath the table — enough for two interlopers on their way to prison — one for the Katorias, the other for the Porias. Then he pushed farther into the alcove, examining the walls. Solid.
“I guess our library card is about to expire, old man.”
“No, oginali.” Yustichisqua pushed his arm through the wall. “Kaybar. Give me your hand.”
Harris shook his head, but complied. Little Bird pulled him through, Harris hated this mode of transport. But at least he knew now why the walls were porous for the Cetrone, or rather the Children of Zacker, who constructed them, no doubt, when Enitachopco and Hedonacaria ruled the world of light from the Hill of Great Greary Gree.
Chapter Nine
Defiance
1
Harris wasted no time addressing these open questions. He was armed now with a history or, at least, a flicker-show revealing much, but begging more. Yustichisqua was anxious also. It helped to have Little Bird at hand to discuss the various points observed in the Cartisforium. But it served only to focus on several points, points which Harris hoped Littafulchee and Cosawta could resolve. Somehow he thought the Scepta and Seneschal of the Zacker would not be forthcoming, given their response during their last encounter in the sustiya. Therefore, Harris hastened to return to the Myrkpykyn to be outfitted for the routine crossing through the secret portal into the Kalugu. Garan was curious. The haste was apparent and Lord Belmundus and his Taleenay appeared preoccupied. Still, Garan only regarded them with unaccustomed silence and complied with cloaks, third legs and two sacks of zulus.
In broad daylight, the Didaniyisgi and his Taleenay went as fast as their borabas could take them from the boundary where Elypticus and Parnasus released them from Cabriolins. It would be presumptive to allow anyone to know where the Yudolayda Asdodi was located. So, once released from their ride, the two shuffled down the alleyways through the Yuganawu past the Katorias to the cornerstone of the Porias.
“Quickly,” Harris said, his zulu sack slung low. “The way’s clear.”
He glanced across the wide avenue, which separated the Porias from the Kalugu, and dashed to the niche where the kaybar door with its crimson Z stood. Here he waited for Yustichisqua to adjust his sack and ready his hand for the transference. When prepared, Harris grasped Little Bird’s wrist tightly and took a deep breath, bracing for the plunge through solid matter.
“Torpeda,” Yustichisqua stammered, the closest thing he had ever come to a curse word.
They hadn’t budged.
“What’s wrong?”
“My hand will not go through.”
“What?”
Suddenly, from the adjacent wall, The Eye appeared. Harris twisted about, bringing his cowl up, covering his face. Yustichisqua tried to penetrate the kaybar again, but failed. The Eye was steady and drew closer, closer than Harris ever had seen it. He bowed quickly to it.
“We are about our business,” he said, disguising his voice to sound like Ricktus Morphinus’, knowing Tappiolus would recognize Lord Belmundus’ voice. However, there was little disguising Yustichisqua’s flustered plea.
“Oginali.”
“Hush,” Harris croaked. “We are being observed doing our business.” He bowed again and shook the sack. “Doing . . . our . . . business.”
The Eye faded, but danger did not. From positions about the wall, regulati revealed themselves, having been concealed. As they stood, a Cabriolin raced to the alley’s end, blocking any escape route. From the platform came the voice of the guard whom Harris hated most — the one who had confronted him at the Gulliwailit Bridge. The guard waved a Stick about, directing his escort to be wary against all contingencies.
“Gentlemen,” he said to the Augustii spinctus, floating to them on his zulus. “I am the Officer of the Day, Warder Villamorticus, and have received a communication there has been a security breach in Sector 451.”
“Sector 451?” Harris asked, still disguising his voice. “I am sorry to hear it, Warder Villamorticus. If we see anything, we shall report it at once.”
Villamorticus laughed, coming closer.
“You do not understand.”
He approached the secret door. Harris noticed the Z no longer blazed crimson, but was now motley-brown as if glazed over with some substance that deflected Yustichisqua’s natural abilities. Had the regulati discovered the Yudolayda Asdodi? Was the jig up? His first response was to quietly tap his Columbincus and hope for the best. He then produced his papers.
“It is not for me to understand, Warder,” Harris said, pouring on the actor. “I have a warrant to deliver zulus to the mordanka. I do so often, as you well know.”
“Ah,” Villamorticus said, seizing the papers. “You usually come through the front door.” He perused the warrant, but Harris knew the Warder wasn’t reading. He shook the paper and turned to the ambush crew. “It is odd to see them this far from the Gulliwailit Bridge, although . . .” He grinned, and then laughed, pointing at Harris. “I could have sworn I saw you cross the bridge but an hour ago.”
The regulati grunted in agreement.
“Impossible,” Harris said. “I am here.”
“Yes, you are, Ricktus Morphinus.” Villamorticus came closer. “You are here and . . . there, because I let you pass into the Kalugu and, oddly, you were alone.” He sniffed. “Your assistant was absent.” He sniffed again.
Shit, Harris thought. No charpgris. He’s not wearing charpgris.
“No assistant whatsoever,” Villamorticus said, and then went to Yustichisqua. He sniffed again. “I smell a Trone.”
He waved his Stick, and two regulati rushed Little Bird, pulling off his cowl. Harris lowered his owm cowl, and then tossed his sack and robe aside. The jig was up, all for the lack of Tygger piss. He drew Tony, but before he could raise it high enough to do damage, Villamorticus disarmed him.
“Oginali,” Little Bird shouted, drawing gasohisgi.
Villamorticus aimed his Stick, preparing to shoot, but Harris rushed him, knocking the Warder off his zulus. Yustichisqua stabbed first at the air, and then at his assailants. He drew blood — the leg of a Yunocker, who screamed like a fire alarm in the night. Villamorticus regained his feet, and then his balance. A dozen regulati tackled Harris and, as Yustichisqua leaped over them to the rescue, he was caught about the waist, battered by Villamorticus’ Stick.
“Where did you get that dagger?” he shouted at Yustichisqua.
“From your mother’s ass,” Little Bird shouted, and then spit, spraying the Warder’s cheek.
“You shall pay for that,” Villamorticus stammered. He straddled Harris. “As for you, Lord Belmundus, I have been waiting for your return.”
“I’ve broken your fucking treaty,” Harris shouted. “And if you so much as harm a hair on my Taleenay’s head, Lord Kuriakis will have you executed for interfering with his pleasure.”
Villamorticus laughed, infecting the others, who had a good chuckle at Harris’ expense. A wide wagon Cabriolin arrived now, what the Yunockers called a pokiepen — an aniniya-powered paddy wagon, only open to the air, for ignominy value. Villamorticus ordered his prisoners thrown into the pokiepen, their hands tied with gondercoils. They were mustered away from Sector 451.
“Are you hurt, oginali?”
Yustichisqua had landed on Harris’ legs. They were in a tangle. The pokiepen moved swiftly.
“I’m just fine and dandy,”
Harris grumbled. “I think this is the day Melonius predicted.”
“I am sorry,” Yustichisqua said, sniffling. “I should have put on the piss.”
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