Suddenly, Yustichisqua jumped about as if dislodging a cricket from his loincloth.
“What is it?” Harris asked.
“Nothing,” Little Bird replied. “I just wanted to show you that the tiles here are made of phitron. If they were made of kaybar, I would not be able to walk on them. In fact, in the Kalugu, the Yunockers have constructed traps for us — kaybar floors disguised to look like phitron. But when we step across them, we fall through into whatever they have waiting for us at the bottom. It forces us to wear our zulus.”
“Crafty sons-of-bitches, aren’t they?”
“If that is like usona geetli, I agree. But they are the victors.”
“Bullshit, I say again.” Then Harris winced. “But . . . but when you went through the wall, you didn’t go naked. You had your duds on and your zulus. You can’t tell me that you sprinkled them with fairy dust to make the trip.”
Yustichisqua laughed.
“No, no. Whatever I wear will come too. We can extend this trait to whatever touches our body. Some things will get stuck. Remember, I also carried a tray of food back to you.”
“Yes. That made it through.”
“There was a plate of fregallen leaves which did not. The plate was empty, except for the sauce. I had forgotten fregallen leaves will not go through. They sometimes will not even pass through the body.”
“And you were going to feed me those and wait until . . . but, wait. Does this mean, if I hold your hand when you pass through the kaybar, I can go through too?”
“I do not know, oginali. And I do not wish to try, because it could harm you.”
“Oh, why not? Let’s experiment.”
Little Bird appeared terrified, and went to his knees suddenly. The Eye appeared in all its twitchy glory. Harris raised both hands.
“Now what, my dear mistress and ruler of my heart?”
He bowed to it, but of course, it was an eye and not a mouth, so it didn’t say anything. It just stared at Yustichisqua as if it knew much had been said and the next act was beyond tolerance’s pale.
Harris turned to his servant.
“Gather your lamp, Little Bird and let’s take a walk in the rain.”
“But master.”
“No. We’ll get ourselves soaked to the gills and perhaps catch something foul.” He turned to the Eye. “And when my time comes up, perhaps I’ll spend it sniffing and coughing and in need of Mordacai the Zecronisian. But if the great Scepta and my esteemed co-consort have a need to pry into my boring existence, I would prefer to slide in the slicks of mud in the temple garden. Perhaps the spirit of Greary Gree will be sympathetic to a persecuted actor who ducks both fans and audiences and . . .”
The Eye faded, and then disappeared. Harris giggled.
“I must remember that it hates diarrhea of the mouth. I rather it escapes me than I it, eh Little Bird?”
“I am glad we do not need to walk in the rain.”
“Afraid to get wet?”
“No. I would need to keep you dry and that is a big effort. You are slightly taller than me and I must stretch to hold the wide shlombrera over your head. And I would need to repair your clothing and unmat your hair.”
“I could have gone naked and worn a hat,” Harris replied, laughing.
“You are a puzzle to me sometimes, oginali. Just like Hierarchus.”
Harris suddenly rushed Little Bird, hunkering down in fury.
“Hierarchus? Did you say Hierarchus? Who is this Hierarchus?” Yustichisqua trembled and did not answer. “He was my predecessor, wasn’t he?” No answer still. “Wasn’t he?”
“Yes, oginali.”
Harris pushed Little Bird over and began to maul him. Yustichisqua rolled into a ball. Harris was genuinely angry. Little Bird had claimed no knowledge of the predecessor. Now he mentioned his name.
“Please, master. Do not hurt your Little Bird.”
Harris heard this, and stopped. But his anger wasn’t assuaged. He jumped to his feet and swept out onto the portico, slamming both hands on the balustrade.
“Oginali, oginali,” came the plea. “I did not know him. I swear to you. I did not lie when I said I did not know him.”
“But you did know about him, Yustichisqua. Do all Trones manipulate their masters like you do?”
“How can they, oginali? Trones are not permitted to speak to their masters. They cannot. I cannot. But . . . but, I do.”
And at great risk. Yes, Harris considered this. His rage subsided. He was rarely angry — in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he flew off the handle. Not even on Plageris by the Bottleblue Sea had he been as angry. Frustrated. Anxious. Snappy and caustic, even — but rage? No. It was the violation of trust that sparked him, and now he realized he may have jumped the gun. He eased off. He turned to Yustichisqua, who was on his knees like a slave before the foreman, begging to be spared the lash. This would not do. Harris went to him and lifted him up.
“Calm yourself, Little Bird. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so cruel.”
Yustichisqua wept, and then Harris took him into his arms, like a lost child who sought parental caress.
“I was so afraid, oginali.”
Afraid. Here was a being not afraid to live in the ghetto or shake off his zulus and risk expulsion, and yet he was afraid of the one person he should never fear. Perhaps it was the loss of . . . of what? Friendship? Protection? Love? Harris mentally promised he would never subject Little Bird to this again. Never.
“I wanted to tell you, oginali . . . to tell you his name and that he was troublesome to the Ayelli and turned away from Montjoy City. But you appeared to know as much. His Trone was also my cousin, and he was sent to a secret place in the Kalugu and never seen again.”
“Then, if he was your cousin, then he was . . .”
“Yes. Littafulchee knows more than I do, but she is forbidden to say. She has never told me what Hierarchus was about, except he was different and rebellious. He did not amuse the Scepta Charminus. He was in trouble with Lord Tappiolus and . . . “
“Buhippus.”
“Worse than that. Buhippus’ brother, Tarhippus.”
Belmundus sighed. He would ask no more. Thoughts of kaybar experimentation were set aside also. He wouldn’t subject Little Bird to more. However, he would have liked to ask some questions to the lovely cousin. But how?
Harris walked Yustichisqua to the portico’s edge. The rain was subsiding. Perhaps a slosh in the gardens was possible after all, but why bother if it couldn’t piss off Charminus or Tappiolus. Instead, Harris cupped his hands and captured some rainwater dripping from the overhang. He brought it to his lips, tasting it. He then offered it to Little Bird, who came to this small pond and drank.
Chapter Four
Rehearsing Othellohito
1
The cascades ceased and the suns shone magnificently, drying hillside and valley. Harris could have anticipated easy days exploring the gardens, but it was his turn to be up. He planned to run the gauntlet nearest his quarters, Yustichisqua selecting the best trails and paths. However, Lord Tappiolus told Harris that the Scepta may have kindled — the term for the miraculously short gestation period these ladies underwent before popping out a Thirdling. Since there might be a question of paternity, Charminus decided to abstain from Lord Belmundus’ charms until the matter was settled.
“I am positive it is mine, Boots,” Tappiolus announced. “You have not ripened enough to know Charminus’ cycles. I have fathered twelve Thirdlings in the last twenty-five years.” Evidently, kindling wasn’t an everyday occurrence. “You will improve with practice. Still, we must rule out beginner’s luck.”
Harris was content. He wasn’t ready for fatherhood yet, especially the kind that sprouted from diapers to Cabriolin races in less than three years. That Tappiolus had insulted his colleague’s manhood didn’t bother Harris. Man, woman or lamppost — they were all the same to him when not under the influence of an evil fairy with a mysterious jade ring. Now he
could explore the Ayelli at his ease.
After these tidings, another announcement came, cramping Harris’ plans. The Elector was leaving on a diplomatic mission to Protractus, and then on to Volcanium. This meant Kuriakis’ schedule would shift to accommodate his various pleasures, which included a review of new art acquisitions, a hunting expedition and, of course, Brunting Day.
With the festivities accelerated, rehearsals for Othellohito came to the fore. Arquebus told Harris to be performance ready for a rehearsal at the Amphitheater — this, at a moment’s notice.
“They have given me your playing costume, oginali,” Little Bird said. “But it is only to be worn for the performance and shall be set aside until Brunting Day.”
“How do they know it fits?”
“They know it.”
Harris remembered the first day, when Mordacai the Zecronisian ran his tricorder-thingy over him and pricked his finger for a blood sample. They knew his every measure from that reading, enough to send off to Madame Tussaud’s for a waxwork double. So, Harris grabbed his script, gave it a once-over, and then departed for the rehearsal.
The gardens shimmered, especially after the rain. The buttery paving stones glistened under the suns. Fragrance assaulted Harris — gardenia, jasmine, rose and a sharp cinnamon aroma, although he would be hard pressed to identify the source bloom — a large floppy blossom, like a hibiscus or a moonflower. Roses he did see, these queens of the garden a universal truth.
Every twenty paces along the pathways stood sculptures — alabaster at base, but dabbed with brilliant colors. Nothing subtle. Nothing muted. No lambent shade. Purple and crimson predominated thin togas on tall nude women and even taller naked men, nary a fig leaf in sight.
The garden radiated from a central point and the paths crisscrossed forming small triangular patches sporting marigold bursts and dahlia parasols, triumphantly looming over waves of violets and periwinkles. Among these triangles stood benches, and on these benches sat Thirdlings — some playing card games; others plucking harp-like instruments; still others puffing flutes. Some danced a jerky bolero.
Harris was amused at Thirdling fashions — stiff apparel, asymmetric. Their hair was dyed to match lips and eyes. While they awaited diplomatic alliances with the Thirdlings from other realms, these brothers and sisters had time on their hands, although, Harris recalled Elypticus saying something about police work. Perhaps these Thirdlings were the youngest set — only two years old, and still on the path to useful work.
Central to these botanical pinwheels stood a gentle Rotunda — the Temple of Greary Gree. Harris hadn’t asked after the spirit who dwelled within, if in residence. He was on information overload and hearing theology from Arquebus would mean he actually cared — and he didn’t give a shit about religion in the outlands, so to take up its cause on the Ayelli hill would be self-defeating. Greary Gree may have been a sacred shrine or not, but periodically Kuriakis and Joella came here for Brunting, which Harris considered a misspelled word. Sex between immortals by any other name . . . well, he didn’t need an image.
The temple was a sight to see, the dome in the fashion of the Jefferson Memorial, only scarlet topped by a golden statue — probably of Greary Gree. The columns flared at their base and were decorated with mythical beasts. Upon closer inspection, Harris doubted this was mythology, because a misancorpus graced one column and a terrerbyrd, another. He didn’t want to encounter either again — nor the bevy of other ominous beasts.
In the shadow of Greary Gree, a reflecting pool pitched circular and, beyond it, the Amphitheatre — a classical sugar bowl with perfect acoustics, he hoped — the kind demonstrated on History Channel specials, where a whisper could be heard in distant Volcanium.
“Some setup they have here, Little Bird,” he mused, standing poolside, glancing down into the Amphitheatre.
“I do not understand, oginali.”
“Ayelli is a virtual Versailles.” He turned to Yustichisqua, who shrugged. “That’s a pleasure palace in the outlands built by a fancy dude who thought he was the Sun King.” He looked to the two shining orbs above. “Here he’d do double duty. Versailles was an expression of wealth and power, built on the backs of the poor and the downtrodden.”
“I see,” Little Bird said. “A setup.”
This was not the time or place for a discussion with someone who knew his own people’s social history and approved the status quo. Besides, the Eye could pop from the reflecting pool and blink — Yunockers to follow.
Harris gazed down the long aisle, which sloped to the stage. There his fellow consorts were already rehearsing. A row of Cabriolins were parked along the proscenium. Still, Harris was happy to be on foot today, breathing the floral scents. Arquebus, spotting him, waved him on. Then Tappiolus marched up the aisle.
“Stay here, Little Bird,” Harris said, noticing the other Trones gathered in an array of buckskin heaps in the upper rows.
Yustichisqua nodded, and then drifted to his place. Harris met Tappiolus halfway.
“Greetings, brother,” Harris said, his hand and moxie extended. “I haven’t missed the festivities, have I?”
“You have been long about it, Boots,” Tappiolus snapped. “Our bit comes first. You have caused us a delay.”
“My part’s small compared to the lions of Cyprus, or should I say Edo.”
“There was discipline when I plied my craft.”
“But I’m a diva, don’t you know.”
“I do not doubt it,” Tappiolus said, trudging back to the stage.
“Don’t go away mad,” Harris said, muttering beneath his breath the usual rejoinder — just go away.
2
The other consorts were congenial, as always. Hasamun preened in his feminine role as Desdemonayama, while Posan feigned coyness as the enraged wife, Emiliasan. However, Arquebus shone, having the best lines as the star — Othellohito. He also had a hand on the rewrite, juxtaposing the Bard’s juiciest bits appropriately to catch the audience’s vulnerability. And who would be this audience? Harris asked Agrimentikos. He spouted a long list of Thirdlings and related family lines generated by Farn political marriages. While some Thirdlings lived at their in-laws’ courts — in Aolium, Volcanium and Protractus (the most fertile grounds for these mule alliances), others lived in Montjoy City. Also in the audience would be a cross-section of prominent Yunocker citizenry, a few distinguished and talented Gurts and the cream of the Zecronisian aristocracy. A demanding crowd invited by the Brunting couple and their fair daughters.
Harris did his bit — the little handkerchief scene with Tappiolus playing Iagomoto. Tappiolus was a hack, delivering his lines perfunctorily, which didn’t inspire Harris to do much better. He was more inspired when running lines with Yustichisqua. The play would get off to a cold start, sending Kuriakis off to sleep, no doubt. Perhaps when the scenery was in place and costumes donned, things would pep up.
When Arquebus began his opening soliloquy, Harris was reassured. The man had an undeniable stage presence, unfettered from takes and retakes. One shot and a different one each performance was the hallmark. Harris imagined how Sir John Briarcliff must have dazzled an audience back in Whitechurch.
Hasamun slept on a bamboo mat, while Sir John approached as the doleful prince. He clapped, looking directly at Harris when delivering his lines:
“It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul —
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars —
It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.”
He then raised his hand over the sleeping Desdemonayama, and then closed his eyes as if to pray. But he did not pray. He bellowed:
“Put out the wazzoo, and then put out the wazzoo:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former waddly wazzoo restore,
/> Should I repent me: but once put out thy wazzoo,
Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Volcanium heat
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
