“Down?”
“It is down now, and still you do not know it. I, on the other hand, am up now. Our Scepta is versatile, she can only have one of us at a time.”
“Thank God for that.”
Tappiolus grinned, nodded curtly and began to leave. Before he did, however, he stood over Yustichisqua.
“Sqwallen keeps them docile and useful, Boots. Anything beyond that makes their blood too high and mighty. When that happens, the Yunockers are the only answer.”
Harris stood up to this man, his co-consort and brother-in-law. This talk upset Yustichisqua. One more word and Harris would use the knife for more than terrerbyrd. Blood would be spilt in the Scullery Dorgan. However, before this could go further, the woman returned. She emerged from the wall carrying a tray. She startled both men. Trones turned away. She covered her face, showing neither Tappiolus nor Boots any notice as she drifted from the Scullery Dorgan.
“Who is she?” Harris asked absently.
“A Trone like any other,” Tappiolus snapped. “She is held in higher regard, because she serves a Scepta. But she enjoys no exception to the rules.”
Harris sneered at Tappiolus.
“I can’t believe you.”
“I am not sure what you mean, Boots.”
“I can’t believe you came from the same world as me.”
“And why not, Boots? Didn’t the generation before you plunge the world into mass murder and genocide? And didn’t the generation after that one rip itself apart with religious terror? That this is a world of order is a blessing, and that you weren’t sucked dry and left like a prune to rot in the suns like most Scepta encounters, is a miracle. But I think you shall be better than the other one, because you have cursed and are a far worse actor.”
Tappiolus marched off like a chief of police, especially one who was up. Harris had a sack full of questions unanswered, but hoped these would be addressed by Arquebus in the Cartisforium.
Chapter Ten
The Cartisforium
1
Harris needed a breath of air or at least a nap after the satisfying meal. Mortis House was confining. He wished to find a window, stick his head out and see what there was to see. But Yustichisqua hastened him.
“Oginali,” he instructed, “you must be dressed to attend business at the Cartisforium.”
There was no putting Little Bird off. So Harris led again, listening to the whispered directions through courts and corridors until reaching his threshold. When he crossed it, he noticed that word again — Belmundus. When he reached the platform bed, he interrupted Little Bird’s fussing with Harris’ clothing change — a cerulean tunic, a matching kilt and a bejeweled headdress, all intended for business in the Cartisforium.
“Tell me, Little Bird, did you know the other one — my predecessor?”
Little Bird nodded, but remained mute, laying out the clothing.
“Did you serve him?”
“No, oginali. He was served by another. But . . .”
“Well . . . speak up.”
“All Trones know about him and . . . his refusal to do his duty. It is not a good thing to refuse your lot in life.”
“But you’re a native. We consorts are not. How can it be our lot in life? We’re abducted from our worlds and set up as the masters over people who deserve better.”
Yustichisqua paused, as if to consider this.
“Abducted?”
“Stolen.”
“Stolen? That cannot be, oginali. You are chosen when the Scepta harvests — chosen to manage Montjoy and all in it. You are Ayelli and must make young lords and ladies — the Thirdlings. It has always been so. How we would survive otherwise, I do not know? But you are not . . . stolen, oginali. No. Not stolen.”
Little Bird’s sudden patriotic burst, misplaced as it was, charmed Harris. He disagreed with the lad on every point, but wouldn’t debate the issue now. His mother had taught him, truth was achieved through reasoning and an examination of the facts. Harris was short on facts at the moment. But he was confident he’d have more after his meeting with Arquebus.
Little Bird presented Harris with a strange garment, which looked like a golden jock strap. Harris was positive that it was a jock strap and his servant meant to accost him with it. However, Little Bird hesitated, waiting patiently.
“Is that for me?” Harris asked.
“Yes, oginali. But I cannot proceed until you remove your Columbincus.”
“My what?”
“Your Columbincus.” Little Bird pointed to the brooch. “I am forbidden to touch it.”
Harris touched it, and then played with the clasp to unfasten it — a strange arrangement, the clip twisted about a silver post on a spring hinge. It took a mighty snap to undo, and then the cinch had a mind of its own. It opened mechanically, flashing blue light.
“Interesting bit of bling,” he noted. “You called it a Columb-what-sit?”
“Columbincus,” Little Bird said, bowing. “Place it gently on your bed. It will shut itself down. It is not fully initiated, but even so, a Trone must not touch it. How did you say it? It is a taboo.”
Smart lad, Harris thought.
He set the Columbincus on the bed and it turned off. Yustichisqua removed the cloak, leaving his oginali naked. Little Bird didn’t appear ashamed or deflect his sight. He wrapped the golden jock strap around Harris’ waist, adjusting it around the crotch with the professionalism of a backstage dresser — a matter of procedure, nothing more. He attached the knee length kilt, which Harris regarded as a pleated skirt, like the kind Mom once wore — only materially light and divine. Yustichisqua slipped the tunic over Harris’ head with ease as if it was tailor-made. These weren’t his predecessor’s castoffs, although he had inherited Belmundus’ living quarters.
The apparel suited him. Harris had always been attracted to wardrobe in his film work. He often wished he could keep a costume or three after the production. However, the finery always reverted to stock. But these fine duds were his and he didn’t mean to give them back, even when he figured out how to flee the coop.
The last act of dressing was the coronation crown — the headdress. When worn, it lent Harris the look of a young maharaja. All he needed was a golden idol and a peacock fan and he’d be the envy of a hundred drooling wannabees in the casting queue. He wanted to strut, if he could manage it in these blasted slippery slippers. He did a grand shuffle instead, moving to a mirror near the niche at the rotunda’s far end. He preened.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the ticket. If I get to strut in these duds, it might be worth sticking around . . . for a short while.”
He was irresistibly drawn to his image. He was a star, indeed. But it made no sense now, captive, with no acting prospects except an Elizabethan-Kabuki fabrication — Othellohito. He checked out his chin scar, which had flared. He thought to call Little Bird for make-up, but vanity is the emptiest of shows. Then the mirror reflected more than Harris’ radiance. The Eye appeared.
“Fuck,” he said, stepping back. “What are you looking at?”
“It does not speak, master. It only observes.”
Yustichisqua had reverted to addressing him as master. Despite this, Harris didn’t chastise him before the Eye. Little Bird draped a luxurious cape over his master’s shoulders. Harris held it in place to keep it from falling. Then he remembered his Columbincus and retreated to the bed.
The brooch wasn’t easy to resnap. It began buzzing the minute he touched it. As he struggled, he noticed a sigil emblazoned on its face — an Eye with two bisecting wavy lines. He knew the two lines meant second consort, but seeing the Eye on his Columbincus, unsettled him.
He fastened his cape, and then strutted around the room like Svengali at a Magician’s convention, gliding across the rotunda. It was like ice skating. No golden ocular projection would daunt him, even if he was her captive. He came close enough to the Eye as to poke it out, then bowed mockingly, his right hand brushing the tiles.
“Your Majesty,” he said, in a courtly accent. “Does this meet with your approbation, because if it doesn’t, then fuck ye and fuck ye well.”
The Eye shut down. Harris laughed. He expected Little Bird to be out of his skin with fear, but, surprisingly, Yustichisqua grinned, as if enjoying the show.
“I guess they’ll be talking about me in the Scullery Dorgan as the rebellious consort — the next one out the door. Yippee. That’s the goal. Out the door.”
Little Bird stood, and then spun about.
“It is time for your business at the Cartisforium, oginali.”
“Is it? Will they still let me in after I’ve told the Eye where to go?”
“It does not matter, oginali. You must go now or you will be late.”
Harris bobbled his head, feeling the weight of the headdress.
“Mustn’t be late, you know. Mustn’t fuck with the Eye’s schedule.”
Little Bird tugged him to the threshold. Then, off Harris went, walking the corridors again, only this time dressed like a pasha in a henhouse.
2
Harris’ new duds buoyed him. As he paraded through Mortis House, he surged with pride — unreconciled importance, while Trones and other functionaries turned their heads away in respect. He passed a gathering of Thirdlings, who clasped their hands together and bowed deeply. This pleased him, and he couldn’t tell why. As a rogue carrot in this salad bowl, he sought to return to his roots. Yet, here he was, Little Bird in tow, whispering to the right, oginali and to the left, oginali, a grand show, acing any red carpet Harris had tread. The purpose eluded him, but something was baked into his kilt or headdress making him feel damned superior. He hammed it up as he had when he had showed up on set when he was ten and had assumed acting was all . . . well, acting. All surface expression — nothing deep or emoting. Nothing capturing character, truth, justice or the soul’s radiance. Here he was again — little Harris Cartwright — the cute and cuddly variety, forgiven all trespasses as if they weren’t true transgressions.
“Here, oginali.”
Harris halted. The corridor was abandoned, except a distant heap two yards away — a heap Harris recognized as a Trone parked beyond his keeper’s sight. Little Bird fluttered now like a real bird. He brushed Harris’ cape, taking care not to touch the Columbincus. He straightened the headdress, and then brushed dandruff from the tunic. He did everything short of adjusting the golden jock strap.
“Any advice, Little Bird?”
“Advice from me, oginali? I would not dare.”
Harris stood before a door — an ornate affair carved intricately with mythic themes, mostly unrecognizable beasts — a beaver with inordinately long teeth and a giraffe with a crocodilian head. He waited for Little Bird to open the door, but the portal opened automatically.
“Are you coming?” Harris asked.
“It is . . . a taboo.”
“I see. How do I look?”
“I cannot say. There is nothing to adjust or correct. You are presentable.”
“A reflection on you, Little Bird.”
Harris waited for a response like Thank you, oginali, but Little Bird had already parked himself in the obiquitous heap. Harris stepped over the threshold.
“Do not say fuck in this place, oginali,” Yustichisqua blurted.
Ah, Harris thought. Advice, after all.
The room, octagonal and darkly rich — wooden with more carved panels, focused on three stained-glass windows, reflecting light through rosy segments — portraits of women, one of whom he recognized as his Scepta. Who could mistake the dark hair, the golden eyes and the mass of deep purple bunting? The other two were decidedly different — a fair woman with golden hair and a white bridal gown, and a plump specimen with great jowls, triple chin and a crimson drape worn over a vast landscape of fat. Which was Soffira and which, Miracola?
At the room’s center stood an octagonal table and on it, a jewel-encrusted book — a fat volume with a lock lording over a mosaic of emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds. On the ceiling, the heavens were represented, seeming to move like a planetarium. Harris was not expert in astronomy and couldn’t name one constellation, if the common set were represented. But they twinkled, nonetheless.
Harris walked around the table, his head craned toward the ceiling, but still attending to his top-heavy headdress. He heard the sound of cloth on cloth, and noticed a man standing back-turned in the shadows — a man who wore similar attire as Harris, only in emerald.
Harris stopped, attentive as the man spoke.
“What have you learned?”
“Sir John?”
Arquebus turned.
“You have had time to observe this world. What have you learned?”
Harris grinned, and then strolled toward the windows, pointing to the middle pane.
“I’ve learned this one has kidnapped me and has put me out to stud.” He waved at the other two portraits. “These must be her sisters, Soffira and Miracola. I haven’t a clue which is which.”
“Soffira is fair, while Miracola is . . . ample.”
“Ah. Then I’ve learned another thing.” He paused. “I have also been taught to avoid calling you Sir John. Also, I dislike Pukola or Putedi stew, preferring the terrerbyrd in cream sauce.” He spun about. “I love these outfits and mean to take one when I leave. When . . . I . . . leave.”
Arquebus laughed, coming into the light. He seemed older now, draped in his consort attire. He sported an assortment of rings, chains and badges on his tunic. Harris, a tenderfoot, didn’t have a merit badge to his credit.
“I’ve also learned to misbehave and to break rules,” Harris said, grinning. “Although I guess I brought that knowledge with me . . . an asset to keep in the game.”
“Rules are important,” Arquebus said, sternly. “When you pooh-pooh them, others suffer and perhaps worse than you could imagine. To break them, you must first learn them. Rules can be and are enforced in Farn.”
“Ah, the Yanidoodles or Yofunkies or whatever Tappiolus called them.”
“Yunockers. You are learning well. But if you think your conduct before the Eye moved you to disfavor, learn this. You are an actor and have been drawn as an actor. She likes it when you ham it up, displaying flights of amusing fancy. It endears you to Scepta Charminus.”
Harris sighed. He’d hoped they culled bad eggs early and he’d wake on the F Train to Coney Island. No such luck. He might have even locked himself in further with his childish display.
“I’ll be as silent as a priest,” Harris said.
“That might amuse her more. But know this. You have one prime role in this world.”
“To fuck her.” Harris gasped, not heeding Little Bird’s advice. “Sorry.”
“No matter,” Arquebus replied. “You put it crudely, but a shag by any other name would be as correct.”
“I share this duty with Tappiolus. He’s told me as much.”
“Sharing is good and keeps a person from exhaustion. Our Sceptas also renew their essence in other worlds — in the outlands, coming to men in dreams and at odd times, sucking their spirits dry. We are the lucky ones. We have proved worthy of life and have been given the opportunity to multiply.”
“The Thirdlings?”
“Yes. But more on that after you finish your account of your observations.”
Harris thought, and then touched his brooch.
“I know this is called a Columbincus and mine isn’t fully up to speed.”
“Ah. You did not learn that last part through observation. You have not learned to ignore your Trone. Learn this. If you continue that course, it will go harder on him than on you. That said, that is your Columbincus and, yes, it is not fully initialized — not up to speed.”
Arquebus touched his own Columbincus — a brooch like Harris’ only with a different sigil. It flashed green at his touch. Arquebus snapped it off easily — practice making perfect, evidently.
“Do you know where we are?” he asked.
/> “Farn.”
“And, furthermore?”
“Mortis House.”
“Yes, I am listening.”
“The Cartisforium.”
“Exactly.” Arquebus reached across the table toward the book. “You must know certain things, Harris Cartwright, to progress in this world. This is the Book of Farn. It contains the history, mystery and wisdom of the Nine Houses and their borderlands. It is a fine thing that we do not age, because it would take eternity to delve into the treasury of its knowledge. However, like a schoolboy with a primer, you shall learn much useful and enriching information within its pages.”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 11
