3
When Harris returned to his quarters, Yustichisqua was laying out the hunt clothing, even inspecting a change of duds for himself.
“You’re shucking your buckskins?” Harris asked.
“I asked the other Trones. They said it does a consort great honor for Trones to match his colors when hunting.” He bowed, and then held up a blue cape — a handsome garment, which Harris thought would be taboo as Trone apparel. Apparently, not. “It is my first hunt and . . . I am anxious, oginali.”
“It’s mine too, so if we go down, we go down together.” He laughed, but then considered — Yustichisqua hadn’t seen the beastie assortment. What would he say when he encountered the Horny Rugrunner, especially when it reared to the heavens to nibble a Cabriolin. “Come, sit with me.”
Yustichisqua folded the cape neatly, and then approached. Harris secretly grinned. The changes in this lad were readily apparent. He walked taller and . . . walked — zululess. He had treated his new garments beyond the respect it would accord honor to his lord — with a pride to ownership. Indeed, the earmarks of running afoul of the Yunockers was evident, pleasing Harris.
Once seated, Little Bird gazed attentively at his lord, waiting instructions. Harris struck an advisory tone.
“Little Bird,” he said. “When we ride tomorrow . . .”
“We, oginali? Surely I cannot be in the Cabriolin. I must scoot behind you.”
“How would you know where you must scoot if you haven’t been on a hunt? I’m an ignorant ass when it comes to hunting protocols, so anything goes — and anything I say goes. Right?”
“Yes, oginali. But your actions will not provoke Lord Tappiolus. I will be blamed, because a Trone is supposed to know the rules and adhere to them. If the Yunockers question me, I cannot say Lord Belmundus has ordered it so. They will accuse me of failing to point out any breech.”
“Bullshit,” Harris said. “I will answer for your lapses, whether I encouraged them or not. If Lord Tappiolus makes issue, which he will not, I’ll remind him I’ve been invested as a consort and rule my household as I see fit.”
“Then . . . I am your household?”
“You are. Does it make you sad?”
Little Bird looked away shyly.
“No, oginali. I am used well — very well indeed, if I am your household.”
“So, you’ll ride in my Cabriolin and for a specific reason.”
“For ballast?”
“No — although, I hadn’t thought of that. But you’ve never seen a Tippagore.”
Yustichisqua blanched — clearly uneasy.
“You saw it, oginali — in the Cartisforium? Was it hideous?”
Harris stood, stretching his arms wide. He puckered his face, and then made horns — then antlers, and finally tusks. Yustichisqua’s eyes popped.
“And it’s massive, with eight monstrous legs and skin as shaggy as a sheep dog. It could take out a whole Yunocker squadron, if it tried. But somehow I don’t think it’s naturally aggressive.”
“But it is fierce, if you say it is so big and ugly.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it ate cactus or sage brush or whatever the fuck grows in the Forling. Otherwise it would be a sight smaller and on shorter legs — and be like a lizard. I saw more dangerous things in the Cartisforium.”
He pointed to his teeth, and then made three rabbit ears. He concluded the charade with his best impersonation of a scorpion with a large snapping claw.
“Gasuntsgi,” Yustichisqua stammered, imitating the rabbit-thing, “and Porcorporian — the sand creepers. I have seen those. They come to the edge of the Kalugu and try to penetrate the walls.”
“So, you see, I want you in my Cabriolin, because I can’t afford to lose you to a swiping paw or well-aimed claw.”
Little Bird looked worried, and then sat again. Harris joined him.
“Don’t sweat it, kiddo,” he said. “The best way to brush troubles aside is to distract your mind. Why don’t you show me my hunting duds.”
Yustichisqua darted over to the clothing array on the sleeping platform. He held up a scanty leather jockstrap etched on the crotch with Lord Belmundus’ sigil.
“That’s a statement,” Harris laughed.
“I guess when the Tippagore tries to attack you, oginali, he may go for your gugubasti — genitals.”
“I believe the fiercest Tippagores are females — pissed-off mothers. But we’ll do our best to save my balls, because they don’t belong to me any more, do they?”
Yustichisqua blushed, but raised Lord Belmundus’ breastplate — a heavy piece of armor made of what he learned later was conontoroy, plated with two mosaic rows of lapis lazuli and turquoise. Harris snatched it.
“This’ll tire me out,” he said. “Is there a cape to match?”
He saw the cape clearly, so the question was moot. Still, Little Bird lovingly presented the blue bolt for inspection. It was identical to his except dotted with sapphires and filigreed with golden thread.
“A thing of beauty,” Little Bird said. “I have never touched so fine a garment.”
“It’ll be a mess in the desert,” Harris said, draping it over one shoulder and his right arm. “The sweat rings I’ll make. But I guess I can afford it — or at least, Charminus can.”
He gazed at the bed to the remaining gear — an assortment of ropes and clubs and Sticks and a sword. He went for that, raising it to his eye. When he did, the Eye appeared in its niche. He turned, thinking to poke it out. Instead, he regarded the weapon fondly. A matching dagger rested beside it.
“What a thing this is, Little Bird? An old-fashioned swashbuckler.”
“It is for show, oginali,” he said. “You use your Stick for the hunting. The sword is a sign of your rank.”
“Maybe so, but with one of these on my jockstrap, I might stand a better chance in a pinch.”
He glanced at the golden Eye, and decided to greet his mistress. He strolled over, the sword held high. He bowed.
“Blessed evening, dear mistress,” he said, softly. “I hear you are with child, as they say — kindled. Maybe its mine, although I suspect my gracious brother, who shares my pleasures, has hit the jackpot again.” He bowed deeply this time. It was strange holding a one-way conversation with part of a Cyclops. However, getting no feedback was fine with him. He raised the sword. “I thank you for this as I go out with our father to hunt the mighty Tippagore. I’ve used fine weapons on many sets. I trained with the best fencing master in the business — Messer. Jardierne de Valois.”
Harris grinned, and then struck the first fencing pose. “En Garde.” Then, in a flash, advance, followed with a loud appel, sweeping backwards in a glissade, followed by two lunges and a parry of an invisible attacker. He redoublement, and then quillioned before raising the weapon in a grand salute. The Eye winked, faded, and then disappeared.
“Aha, Madam,” Harris said, bowing to nothing, and then turning to Yustichisqua, and bowing again.
Little Bird applauded.
“You know how,” he said.
“Well, this isn’t the sword for such things. Fencing swords are called rapiers, but this broad thing could do damage, where a rapier would be a pin to a Tippagore.” He laughed. “I’ve given the old gal entertainment enough for the evening, eh? I mean, she’s suffering without either consort for a while.”
Harris returned to the bed, found the scabbard, and then tried to figure out how it attached to his leather jockstrap. As he monkeyed with the problem, Little Bird sorted the remaining gear into a wooden box to be mounted inside the Cabriolin. Then he held out the other weapon for his master’s inspection.
“What do we have here?”
A knife. A six-inch dagger of the Marine variety, with a long mean blade, which could slice off wads of terrerbyrd in a pinch. Its hilt, unadorned except for a small sapphire at the grasp, emblazoned an etching of Lord Belmundus’ sigil. This fine blade was sheathed in leather. Harris weighed it in his hand.
Little Bird took the dagger and proceeded to place it in the wooden box.
“No, Little Bird. Not there. I’m giving this to you. A gift.”
“Me, oginali? I cannot. It is a Lord’s weapon.”
“And what if you need to defend yourself in the Forling? What if you need to protect me?”
Little Bird frowned, but then grinned. He inspected the dagger, and then touched it to his headband, bowing to his lord.
“I have never had such a gift, oginali.”
“Neither have I, Yustichisqua. Neither have I.”
Once sorted, Harris tried for sleep, but it wouldn’t come, the hunt’s prospects keeping him up. He was afraid, but welcomed the chance to go beyond the confines of the invisible gate. He sat at bed’s edge and peered at the moonlight. Only one moon was full, the others slivers, but soon all three faded as Solus, and then Dodecadatemus edged over into the sky. Dawn arrived. He would be riding with the Pod. Soon Yustichisqua would be a busy engine, wrapping him in fine new hunting clothes.
Harris arose and went onto the portico. His Cabriolin was idled on its pedestal. He had taken his sword with him. He raised it to the rising suns.
“En Garde,” he challenged, loud enough to stir Little Bird, beginning the ever-present engine.
Chapter Six
Hunting the Tippagore
1
At this world’s edge, the suns rose. Dawn flooded the sky with crimson beauty. Harris stood in his Cabriolin with Yustichisqua perched behind him. They cut fine figures — a regal mass of blue silk, Lord and squire, ready for the hunt. As Harris gazed over the Ayelli, he saw stars twinkling on the borderlands of night, but soon realized these were lights from dozens of Cabriolins and zulus in the distance — his brother consorts and their Thirdling children with Trones in tow, all hovering over the valley. The Pod had assembled. A brace of Cabriolins approached Harris’ in his high perch. The first arrival was Arquebus.
“Are you secured?” Arquebus asked. “It will be a fine day for the hunt, but a foray into the Forling is fraught with danger. Heed Agrimentikos and his instructions.”
“I’m ready for it, Sir John,” Harris said, uncaring about his form of address.
This man would always be Sir John Briarcliff to him, despite title and protocol. Harris nodded a welcome to Elypticus, who drifted beside his father in a separate Cabriolin. Harris thought to thank the Thirdling for the mongerhide¸ but recalled Little Birds’ words concerning honor among Thirdlings. Elypticus bowed deeply, just as Agrimentikos arrived.
“Ah, Lord Belmundus,” Agrimentikos shouted, warmly. “I see you flout the rules already, your Trone riding astern.”
“I resist rules which defy logic, honorable brother,” Harris replied, touching his Columbincus in salute. “This Trone’s mine — for my exclusive use. Am I correct?”
“Absolutely,” Agrimentikos replied.
“Wasn’t his conduct scrutinized in the Scarlet Chamber?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Did it survive my mistress’ approbation?”
“Tenuously.”
“And didn’t the fair Joella grant me my heart’s wish?”
“Most graciously.”
“Confirmed and upheld by Kuriakis himself?”
“Case won, Lord Belmundus. I have no objections.”
“Then, neither I nor my Trone have broken the rules.”
“That might be disputed by Captain Buhippus,” Arquebus inserted. “Lord Tappiolus would have a word on the subject also.”
“Let him sue me.”
“That is not his style, my friend,” Arquebus replied, moving aside when Agrimentikos landed on the portico.
“Look yonder, Lord Belmundus,” Agrimentikos said. “You have left the outlands — worlds of grief and misery. You embrace a place with purpose, one filled with beauty. You must admit its charm.”
Harris did admit its charm — its mystery and its puzzlement. However, arrayed before him was an army of hunters — predators no different from the outland he had left. Besides, Farn wouldn’t be his first choice of substitute realms. But he needed a respite from Mortis House, if just for a little while. The prospects of a real hunt — not a cinematic setup with booms and cranes and green screens and fall nets and harnesses, was exhilarating. He grinned at Agrimentikos.
“I’ll admit there’s much in Farn that’s reassuring. But I’ve seen only the inside of this fucking palace and this small circuit of gardens. I long to see the world beyond the invisible gate. I’ll explore it with my Stick in hand, my brothers racing at my side and my Cetrone at my back.”
“Well, that is a novel view, Lord Belmundus,” Agrimentikos said. He cocked his head, gazing into Yustichisqua’s eyes. “I have watched these people for more years than you can know and, unlike the Yunockers or my brothers, I see value in their knowledge of the land, of music and their empathy for others. If you can control the wildness inside this lad — a wildness not evident at first glance, then I will be the last to object to your household’s management.” He brought his face into Little Bird’s. “You are wild, are you not? Admit it. Beneath your sqwallen-addled façade, lurks a Dune Tygger ready to pounce. I can see it.”
Little Bird trembled, not answering.
“That’s it, Lord Agrimentikos,” Harris said. “I have my Stick in hand, a sword on my belt and a knife wielding Dune Tygger at my back. Can anyone doubt my potency?”
Agrimentikos grinned, and touched Yustichisqua’s headband.
“Still, I would keep that dagger out of Lord Tappiolus’ sight. He enforces the rules. He is a game of grusoker. We can control him at most times, but his arm can stretch beyond us, kidnapping authority from Scepta Charminus and anointing those who serve him.”
Agrimentikos straightened over his Cabriolin’s helm. His Thirdlings — six of them, hovering at a distance, maneuvered into a V formation around Arquebus’ entourage. Agrimentikos raised his Stick.
“Here begins the adventure of my brother, Lord Belmundus the Just,” he announced in his booming Macedonian voice. “He comes to the Pod with an iron heart and a Dune Tygger at his back.”
Three Trones floated from the shadows, raising twisted horns, and then blew, echoing across the Ayelli. Other, more distant horns were blown, bellowing the air with foregone victory. Then from the palace emerged Nightmare, his master on his back. The Pod drifted slowly until Kuriakis assumed its head, raising his staff, blue lightning flashing skyward. The journey to the Forling had begun. The hunt was on.
2
Rushing through the invisible gate over a fathomless ravine, the Pod swept past the Yunocker legions, who hovered as the Elector rode Nightmare onward. Harris gazed about like a child set loose in an amusement park. He viewed the gateway with awe, because, although invisible, there was a hint of it — an atmospheric change when his Cabriolin crossed. The Yunockers stood reverently in their vehicles, fists clapped to their hearts in a salute — humbled by the House of Montjoy. This now Harris included as Lord Belmundus. He returned the salute, touching his right hand over his left, crossing his Columbincus. The Yunockers stirred at this.
“They think you mean to fire at them, oginali,” Yustichisqua whispered.
Harris immediately restored his right hand to its navigating position and nodded his thanks to Little Bird. Agrimentikos smiled, probably aware the Dune Tygger at Lord Belmundus’ back had provided proper guidance. Arquebus didn’t seem as content. Tappiolus regarded Yustichisqua suspiciously. However, under the circumstance and Agrimentikos’ tutelage, Tappiolus could not voice his objections, nor press his legal credentials.
When the Pod reached the city, Harris sighed with both wonder and puzzlement. Although he could see only rooftops and the street grid, he had a good view of an urban landsca
pe. To the left, a wash of Oriental minarets and pagodas punctuated a long valley, which led to the coast. He couldn’t see the Amaykwola, but the morning haze promised that a sea was out there somewhere.
“Little Bird,” he whispered.
“That is the Wudayleegu, the Zecronisian ward, oginali.”
“Ah.”
Harris looked to the right. A riot of color — awnings and pastel huts, and smoke of various hues hung like a canopy — vast and waking with activity.
“Is that the market?” he asked Yustichisqua.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 23
