Ahead, the mist dispelled, the green sky palled, shrouding the land gap. Buhippus banked left, and then right, and then left again following the Yugda’s sharp contour. As they maneuvered, they descended to a lower altitude. The vegetation — wild jomar and voluntary quillerfoil, brushed beneath the Cabriolin jets as they skirted the Yugda’s ledge. Then the land fell away, a rift opening over symmetric fields — acreage of manicured farmland. Harris was hooded farmers tilling, while others tended the small gardens. He couldn’t tell whether these were Cetrone or Yunockers. Perhaps, both. But the sights were fleeting, because the rift widened, dropping off into majestic palisades. Beyond was . . . the sea.
“The Amaykwohi,” Yustichisqua gasped. “I have never seen it, oginali. My mother once told me of it. She was born near here before the invasion.”
“Before the invasion?”
“Yes, oginali.”
Harris supposed there was more than one invasion — Yunocker, Ayelli, Montjoy and perhaps a team of hot coal-dancing Hottentots for all he knew, so he didn’t dissect the history behind this statement. But Yustichisqua’s amazement took him — a boy’s enlightenment, as if he had seen his first bare breast in a brothel’s quiet shadow. But this wasn’t a bare breast. This was the sea — vast and powerful, stretching to the beyond — no horizon, because there were no horizons in Farn — only sky, and today that sky was as green as the Yugda Yustiganu.
“It’s beautiful,” Harris said, as the Cabriolins dipped over a town.
“You have seen it before, oginali?”
“Not this sea, although all seas might be one sea connecting distant shores.”
This gave him the idea the sea could be a portal of sorts. He remembered in the Plageris the sea could have bordered Coney Island, or so he had hoped. He peered down at the town.
“Is that the Wudayleegu?”
“The Zecronisian quarter. Yes.”
Agrimentikos’ Cabriolin inched beside Harris’.
“Look and see, brother,” Agrimentikos harked — a merry hark, in opposition to the sky’s gloom. “The Wudayleegu.”
A forest of minarets and pagodas towered over a sprawl of tent-like structures — yurts and pavilions, which could have been tents. If these were stone, it was the most elastic stone Harris had ever encountered. A palace stood at the town’s center, a bulbous dome dominating the roof’s twist — an inverted replica of the Guggenheim, to Harris’ mind. Then his breath hitched. Despite the fantastic architecture, the port captivated more.
A swath of docks hugged the sea girt — bays wide and narrow and fully deployed to the shipping business. Despite the gloomy advent of Yichiyusti, the port buzzed with activity. If less active now because of the green sky, it must be hectic under blue skies. However, what took Harris’ breath away were the ships, an eclectic assortment of sailing ships — some single-masted in trireme style, others three-masted caravels. Tug boats were also docked. They could have come from New York Harbor. Daubs from the Indian Ocean and junks from the South China Sea plied the waves. So many sails flapped with a symphony of so many styles confirming the Amaykwohi as the connective tissue between the realms and the outlands.
These ships must come from somewhere . . . and they must be going back. Harris’ heart pounded. Where there are ports, there are ships and where there are ships, there are sailors and sailors . . . tell tales. Yes, sailors tell tales of places and, perhaps in those tales was a grain that tasted like Brooklyn or, better yet, Santa Monica, somewhere on the other side of these waters, her amusement pier spreading a welcome mat at the far side of the world. It had to be so.
Harris closed his eyes and descended into the world of the Zecronisians.
2
Buhippus brought the convoy down in a grassy park before the palace. He raised his hand to keep everyone in their Cabriolins.
“Why are we waiting?” Harris mused.
“I know not, oginali.”
“The Zecronisians are given to ritual,” Agrimentikos stated. “Although they are tributary to the Ayelli and bow to the House of Montjoy, they must still welcome us formally. We are a delegation.”
A horn sounded and a beast resembling a small elephant, only fully carpeted with two trunks and horns instead of tusks, approached, a richly attired Zecronisian riding in a howdah on the beast’s back. Two squadrons of half-naked soldiers marched on each side of the beast, holding halberds at one o’clock. Floating on each flank were Yunockers, zulus firmly in place — Sticks drawn. The Zecronisians’ third leg flapped behind them like a tail and, when the procession stopped, the legs extended, allowing them to sit — fleshy tripods. The Zecronisians Harris had encountered on the Ayelli were fully robed and decorously attired, never displaying their third appendage.
Buhippus dismounted from his Cabriolin, and then approached Harris.
“Lord Belmundus,” he said, bowing. “The Zocor delegate is here to welcome you to the Wudayleegu. However, he is merely an usher in Nikodemos’ household. You are expected to express indignation to this slight. It is a breach in protocol. He will tell you, after many apologies, it is not a slight, but in keeping with the green sky. Otherwise, Nikodemos would have come in person. However, your response to the insult is expected and will be tolerated as it is customary.”
Harris twitched. He wasn’t in the least insulted. Sending an elephant, a squad of three-legged men and an array of Yunockers seemed a fine reception to him. However, Agrimentikos’ words echoed in his mind.
The Zecronisians are given to ritual.
“Well,” Harris muttered to the captain, “I’m an actor, am I not? I can do insulted and slighted. Watch and learn.”
“I need not learn things I can do without pretense, my lord.”
Buhippus grinned, and bowed again. Harris pointed to the ground, and Yustichisqua disembarked, nodding to the Provost. Harris hopped down, turning to his Danuwa three, who came to his side. Glancing at each in turn, he gave Agrimentikos a sly look — the fish-eye and a wink.
“Follow my lead, my brave and worthy marshals.”
Harris strutted to the entourage, who kept to their third legs. The Yunockers fidgeted, sniffing and disconsolate. But Buhippus raised his Stick, returning them to order. Harris knew these warriors had sniffed Yustichisqua. The sight of a richly adorned Trone out of zulus upset their apple cart. Buhippus was deterrent enough.
The delegate stood in his howdah, the beast — which Harris later learned was called a gufa (he would call it a Goofy Goofer), rested with the ease of a meadowed cow. The delegate waved open hands in welcome. He was an old man, a fact Harris half regretted.
“Didaniyisgi Belmundus,” the old man croaked. “Welcome to the Wudayleegu, where you shall find our spirits atuned to aid your mission to the Yuyutlu. Long have the Zecronisians looked to the Elector’s support to preserve the balance of the marketplace.”
Harris turned his back on the old man. The attendants grunted — an expected reaction.
“I’m appalled,” Harris shouted. “I’m a deputy from the Ayelli, appointed by the Great Kuriakis. I’ve traveled far and long. And what do I find? Am I greeted by Nikodemos? Has the Zocor turned out to celebrate my arrival? Is there a general celebration — a feast, dancing girls, the port closed in my honor? Where is the band? Just a single farting horn and an array of naked minions. I’ve a mind to return to the Ayelli and ask the Zocor council to come and fetch me, after they apologize to the Elector and . . . to Memer Joella.”
All this time, he winked at his entourage. He turned again to the old man. Harris stood like Samson challenging the Philistines. The minions retracted their third legs, helping the gufa to its feet.
“Lord Belmundus,” the old man whimpered. “Lord Belmundus. Lord Belmundus.”
Get on with it, Harris thought.
“I’m here. I’m listening.”
“Forgive our appalling display, but you must realize it is Yichiyusti. What greater insult could we level upon Great Kuriakis than to celebrate your arrival whe
n he stirs? I promise you a grander welcome when the sky turns. We welcome friend and stranger alike, but when it comes to the new Didaniyisgi, we shall declare a holiday . . . but not during Yichiyusti.”
Harris nodded.
“I understand,” he said, coolly. “I expect accommodations for me and my fellows, which exceed your own.”
“Indeed, it shall be so.” The delegate pointed to a ridge of buildings at the park’s far end — buildings made from that tent-like material, pliant as silk, but resilient like alabaster. “Until the heavens smile again, you shall know no want.”
Suddenly, one of the Yunockers drifted to the howdah and whispered something to the old one.
“Ah,” the delegate said. “Yes. How foolish of me. You are all welcomed here, but we shall offer a separate and comfortable room for your Trone.”
He bowed, but before he could raise his head, Harris threw off the actor, jumping into a rage.
“I have no Trone,” he shouted. “How dare you, sir? How dare you separate the Didaniyisgi from his Taleenay?”
Harris reached the gufa, whose big ivory eyes gazed sheepishly at him. But the minions were alarmed. So were the Yunockers. This sudden genuine burst of ire wasn’t in the script. Harris raised his Stick, and then drew his sword.
“Let every one hear me,” he shouted. “I shall not repeat it. All members of my household, regardless of race, culture or position are worthy of me, and I am worthy of Kuriakis. Insult my Taleenay and you will find yourself at my sword’s edge. Say it twice and I promise summary justice.”
Buhippus intervened, as did Agrimentikos. They didn’t chastise Harris or cast him in a bad light, but since two of the Danuwa appeared fierce enough to go to the mat for their Provost, it was clear the delegate had made a colossal error.
“Apologize at once to the Didaniyisgi,” Buhippus snapped.
He also glanced to the Yunockers — those with the delegate and those with the Provost.
“At once, Lord Belmundus,” the old one wailed. “I did not realize that you . . . that you.”
“Leave it at that,” Buhippus said. “Now, I am sure Lord Belmundus the Just, whose magnanimity goes beyond all doubt, will accept your apology for all the transgressions laid at his feet on this field of honor.”
Harris blew out a long bull’s snort, but one of relief. He glanced at Yustichisqua, who appeared near tears. This was enough to stir Harris again, but he turned about like a spoiled child. Perhaps he was a spoiled child. Then his glance caught the Yunockers, and then Melonius. If it wasn’t for Kuriakis’ support, Little Bird would be a goner. Harris stood firm.
“Accepted,” he shouted, and then with less intensity, he nodded. “Accepted. Lead us to these most excellent quarters that shall leave me and mine without want.”
The old one sat, relief blossoming across his face. The gufa was poked into motion and the delegation trundled toward the tent-like accommodations. Harris’ entourage remounted their Cabriolins. The crisis was over.
“I guess I went overboard,” Harris muttered as he passed Buhippus and Agrimentikos.
“An actor’s prerogative,” Agrimentikos noted.
“Never apologize, my lord,” Buhippus said. “It is a sign of weakness if you are to be who you are.”
Harris stopped, glancing deeply into Buhippus’ eyes. Yes, there was value having this policeman along for the ride.
“Good of you to say it, captain.”
“It makes me neither friend nor enemy, my lord. But it is easier to keep you alive if you exude an authoritative spark. If you were to let them take the Taleenay away to separate quarters, you would have been appointing a new Taleenay in the morning.”
Harris shuddered. When would this world give him the peace of mind he craved? He supposed it was much like all places.
He hopped into the Cabriolin, grasping Yustichisqua’s arm.
“A close call, my friend,” he said.
Little Bird touched his dagger in the new salute.
“I have used this before, oginali. If needed, I would use it again.”
Harris was glad to hear it.
The entourage moved slowly behind the trundling Goofy Goofer toward the most excellent quarters in the Wudayleegu..
Chapter Eleven
Garan the Gucheeda
1
Lord Belmundus was taken to the Pavilion of Light or Lyspykyn in Gurt, the language of building in the Wudayleegu. Harris thought it aptly named because the rippling pseudocanvas of stone proved thin and porous, the Yichiyusti green sky seeping through, adding a mossy glow to the billowy light that rippled across floor tiles. The main room had been prepared to entertain the entourage — platforms piled like ziggurats, covered with victuals of untold variety. Harris didn’t recognized the banquet food, nor did Yustichisqua. Still, the aromas were delectable. Many stomachs rumbled, but also many eyes stared at a dozen scantily clad maidens, who coaxed their guests to feast. A curiously dressed steward presided. He had olive skin and a protruding jaw. A Gurt. He greeted Lords Belmundus and Agrimentikos.
“I am Fytzyfu,” he said. “I am here to attend to your every need. May I suggest you retire to your rooms before the feast and shake the travel from your cloaks.”
He bowed again.
“Good notion, that,” Harris said to all, although he saw the Yunockers drooling for the women and the Danuwa salivating for the food. It should have been the other way around. Still, he signaled to Agrimentikos, who cocked his head. “Shall we?”
“You rest, Lord Belmundus,” Agrimentikos replied. “I see a particular beauty who shall shake the travel from my cloak better than a bounce on soft satin.”
He winked, drifting past Fytzyfu to a voluptuous green-haired Zecronisian, who sported three globular breasts (like a pawn shop’s marquee). She beckoned him with her third leg.
“Very well,” Harris said, and then looked to Fytzyfu for directions.
The rooms were partitioned from the central court by that wondrous material — a fascination to Harris. He touched the walls as he entered his assigned quarters, glancing at Yustichisqua for an explanation.
“I do not know, oginali.” Little Bird brought his hand to it, trying to penetrate it. “It is not kaybar. That I would know.”
“Yes. Whatever it is, it beats plastic.”
“Plastic?”
“A material used for all kinds of shit in my world — pliable and elastic, but not biodegradable.”
“Biodegradable?”
“Never mind. I guess your quarters are through there.” Then he thought. “You might want to find yourself one of those lassies and have yourself an evening of it.”
“Lassies?”
“The women, Little Bird. Don’t you do women in the Kalugu?”
“Of course, we do. That is why the Kalugu is over populated. Our menfolk have difficulty keeping control over their gugubasgi — penises.”
“Well, if that’s the case . . .”
“But these . . . lassies are not Cetrone.”
“That doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.”
“It would bother them because I am Cetrone. They would not share their bed with me.”
“Not even for many yedalas.”
“Not for one of the moons, would they. Cetrone mate only with Cetrone.”
Harris tried the bed — soft as awidena fleece. He rubbed his hands along its length.
“I’ll sleep tonight.”
“Then, oginali, you will not be riding a Zecronisian lassie also?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Yustichisqua. After fucking Charminus for two weeks straight, this is a holiday. I don’t understand how Agrimentikos can jump into the saddle so fast.”
“He has been with Scepta Soffira for centuries, oginali. I guess he craves some caliseegee in his kawee.”
Centuries, Harris thought. A chill overcame him.
“Your analysis isn’t comforting.”
“Perhaps after a few centuries, you will seek variety too.”
>
Harris had to laugh. He sat on the bed. He was ferociously hungry, but wasn’t sure whether the aromas were attached to things he could eat or things which could eat him.
“I’m hungry.”
“I shall fetch you a plate, oginali.”
But before Harris could stop Yustichisqua to tell him he’d get his own food, the Taleenay darted off. He was replaced by Captain Buhippus, who entered, bowed, and then waited on the sidelines like an Odala Tludachi surveying the flock. He made Harris nervous.
“Is there something you need, captain?” Harris asked.
“Yes, my lord. But I have learned to suppress my sexual appetite while on duty. It dulls the acuity and opens the way to undetected conspiracy.”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 29
