“Danuwa Melonius,” Yustichisqua said, “any Cetrone lucky enough to rule the mopyn pits would reap wealth beyond a Thirdling’s imagination.”
Harris grinned, happy Little Bird could hold his own when insulted.
Now they were at the Ryyve Gudi, where Harris’ blue cloak had originated, spun from the furry awidena, sheep he had seen grazing in the Yugda.
“Tell me, Cyprytop,” Harris asked, “how do they spin the cloth so fine for Xyftys finishing touches?”
Harris rubbed his cloak, which didn’t feel wooly, the expected texture of sheep. Garan answered.
“The secret is in the water, my lord.”
“Such is our secret,” Cyprytop said, giving Garan the fish-eye. “We do not reveal it readily, but since you are the Didaniyisgi, I suppose you must see. Come.”
The Seegoniga followed their Gurt conductor and, after words with the foreman, who seemed cross that these strangers trespassed beyond the first stages of the Ryyve, Cyprytop waved them forward.
“What you see must not be reported casually to acquaintances and friends, my lord,” Cyprytop stated, his long tongue snapping a fly, which buzzed near his head. “If our methods were known, the monopoly would be impossible to preserve. The Hyryods would be exorbitant. We would lose our advantage.”
“I understand, sir,” Harris said.
Harris walked carefully, because the ground was slimy, the looms spewing oil from their heddles. The fabric stretched to the ceiling and soon the Seegoniga walked beneath a canopy of every shade and color cloth imaginable. Reaching the roof’s gap, it fluttered in the breeze, drying, before tugged onto rolling machines — a spool for each color, each standing upright fifty feet tall. As far as Harris could see were columns of silky thimbles.
Harris reached the end of the weaving floor. Here the ground fell away, a river rushing through the building — a rusty rapids flecked with gossamer knots. Several rickety sluices channeled this brew into pipes, funneling it back to the weaving floor. Trones filtered the water with long paddles, catching strange creepy crawlers in nets.
“It smells like bananas in here,” Harris said.
“More like fuveratski,” Parnasus said. “I am not fond of fuveratski.”
Whatever caused the sweet sickly smell, it swam in the water.
“The work is dangerous,” Garan said. “The googani is akin to the porcorporian from the Forling. But they secrete a powerful elastic. When it washes the awidena fleece, the resulting yarn turns soft and pliant.”
Suddenly, a googani emerged, its tarantula legs sweeping to the sluice, catching a Trone, who struggled for a moment, and then disappeared into the creature’s mandibles. The other Trones cowered, putting their paddles down. The victim’s legs kicked, and a terrible crunch could be heard. Harris drew his sword, but Garan parried it. Elypticus and Parnasus had their hands on their Sticks. Yustichisqua wrapped his fingers around his dagger’s hilt.
“No, my lord,” Garan stammered. “You must not interfere with the process.”
“Process?” Harris shouted. “I’m watching a big fucking bug feed on Cetrone laborers so its oily bristles can pollute the waters for a better sheen on my fucking cloak. That’s barbarous.”
“Only one Trone a day is sacrificed, my lord,” Cyprytop explained. “They are expendable and worth less than the cloth.”
Harris balled his fists, but Melonius grasped his shoulder.
“It might seem appalling, my lord,” he whispered, “especially since the Taleenay is here to witness it. But it is the practice you are sworn to uphold.”
Harris clenched his teeth, but listened to Melonius’ reason — a justification for murder — much like saying we sacrifice only one virgin a day to the Cyclops, but look at the perks — thousands of upright bolts of silk made from sheep fleece — gold spun from straw. The bananary fuveratski stench from the googani got to him now.
“We need our Trones,” Cyprytop explained. “They comb the water for googani eggs to hatch and keep production high. We could not afford to lose more than one Trone a day.”
Harris closed his eyes and counted to ten. No chance of overturning this process, although he might later convince the Gurts to feed the googani a gufa or a can of tuna fish.
“No wonder you keep this a secret,” he muttered, resignation in his voice. “I’ve seen enough. What’s next?”
2
Next up, the Ryyve Sulasgi — the ceramics factory. It was on the far side of the Yuyutlu bounded by the Yuganawu — the Yunocker quarters, its skyline dominated by the high fortress and the old and new prisons. To reach the Ryyve Sulasgi, the Seegoniga had to pass through the open marketplace — a free-for-all zone, where any Gurt who could hammer or chisel or bake or lick a postage stamp could setup shop to deal with their Zecronisian go betweens — agents called the Augustii. The open market was called the Doonedin by the Yunockers and the Byybykyyip by the Gurts.
“Most disputes occur in the Byybykyyip, my lord,” Cyprytop explained as the Cabriolins zoomed through the traffic maze and dust. “Many Gucheeda here.”
Garan laughed.
“I suppose it’s a pickpocket’s heaven,” Harris remarked.
“Each seller here is without a Ryyve, my lord, because the resident has not qualified to work in the Vyrjyts.”
“Vyrjyts?” Harris asked.
“A work zone,” Cyprytop said.
“My lord,” Garan explained, “it is basic, but you must understand. Every Gurt is born attached to a craft. It is determined by family heritage. Weavers become weavers. Potters become potters. Bakers become . . .”
“I get the idea. It sounds like feudalism to me.”
“Feudalism?” Cyprytop asked.
“A system where everyone is born to a state and cannot escape it.”
“We are not Trones,” Cyprytop complained. “Gurts are skilled, taught by parents from an early age. But there are too many skills and not enough Vyrjyts, so all Gurts must qualify.”
“A test?”
“Exactly so, my lord,” Cyprytop continued. “The standards are high. Even if a baker Gurt can make fine bupka in the pail and bubble manner, with gritty prysyst and sweet mollicops, it does not mean she will earn her Vyrjyt. Her bupka must be carefully judged against the semiannual candidates for the bequest and if it exceeds standards, she is rewarded a Vyrjyt in the Ryyve Bomertoss, where the finest bupka is baked. That leaves many bupka bakers without a Vyrjyt. So they setup their fires and bring their pails to bubble into the Byybykyyip. Yunocker households are fond of bupka. Their women come to the Byybykyyip daily and seek the Augustii to negotiate for cheap bupka.”
“Sounds like a free for all.”
“It is, my lord,” Garan said. “My job, when I am in port, is to settle cases between unscrupulous Doonedin Gurts, who sell shoddy pimpsqua or defective perpadranum using a less than honest Augustii in the palaver.”
“And my occupation,” Cyprytop added, “is to assure that the Hyryods are administered fairly and Garan does not win every case.”
Harris glimpsed at the many squabbles under the awnings and in the stalls. Perhaps these were heated negotiations between Zecronisian agents, called Augustii and the non-Vyrjyt Gurts. However, he also noticed Yunocker regulators at every turn and the first civilian Yunockers he had encountered — comely women in stylish skirts and fashionable zulus, some with children in tow. Older men wearing sharp tunics, perusing goods on racks and shelves, shadowed by Augustii ready to strike a bargain with a resident Gurt.
“Why the middlemen, Garan?” Harris asked. “Why can’t the Yunockers shop and pay a tagged price directly to the deserving shopowner?”
“My lord, the Augustii own the shops, and the Yunockers will not deal with the Gurts.”
“That jacks up the price of doing business, I imagine.”
“They are men of pedigree,” Garan said. “The saying goes: One Yunocker’s morning spit is worth more than all the Trones in the Kalugu.”
“I don’t
see any Trones.”
“Not in the Doonedin, my lord. In the Ryyves for the dirty jobs and in the shadows for the night soil. Except to serve in rich households and on the Ayelli¸ Trones do not exist.” He glanced at Yustichisqua. “There are exceptions, no doubt — exceptions which might prove interesting in this environment.”
No doubts there.
They had reached the Ryyve Sulasgi, where everything clay was formed. Harris wondered if he would see old-fashioned pottery forms or more bloodletting — pigments made of macerated body parts. Still, the Seegoniga’s Cabriolins parked in a small courtyard, where they were greeted by the chief agents (the Ryyvytys) of the Sulasgi manufactory. They bowed.
“Is all prepared?” Cyprytop asked.
“Yes, Archon Supreme,” they said in unison, voices matched precisely as if automated. Even their tongue snaps were synchronized.
“All is well,” Cyprytop remarked, and then turned to Garan. “You have not visited the Sulasgi kilns for many years, great Deegosgi.
“Has it changed?”
“Perfection cannot be made more perfect.”
Garan faced Harris.
“Cyprytop does not exaggerate, my lord. If you have never seen ceramics manufactured or glass blown, you shall be impressed.”
“I’ve been to Pottery Barn,” Harris replied, and he had, and he had seen glass blown in Wheeling, West Virginia, when his mother took him to a spa at the beginning of his Thespian career. “Clay, wheels, fire and brimstone.”
Garan grinned, and then bowed.
“As you will, my lord.”
The courtyard door opened — two Fort Laramie-style impalements, revealing their secrets inside. Harris gasped. He heard the other members of his crew mutter. The inner sanctum was vast — the opposite side beyond sight. In perfect array sat at least a thousand Gurts at potters’ wheels, hugging and caressing and otherwise sculpting the clay into every imaginable shape. The wheels hummed, as did the potters — a whistling song which kept their long tongues lashing, creating rims and flutes and spouts and funnels. Slowly, Cyprytop conducted the Seegoniga down the central aisle. The potters bowed gently as they passed, each indicating their current production with a whip of the tongue.
Behind each potter, heaps of broken shards were hilled, and behind these, completed vessels sat — bowls, vases, jugs, trays, and crenulated water vargos, used as canteens. Other Gurts carried the unfired forms on stretchers to the yard’s far wall. Like beehives, the kilns lined the walls — countless ovens, fire in their bellies and smoke in their stacks. Like chefs at a pizzeria, the kiln Gurts peeled the clay forms into the bake zones. Other Gurts cut underglaze designs in the crockery before shuffling the finished forms into tempered ovens.
“Here we finish the daily ware,” Cyprytop said, indicating a large vat of milky substance, which stank like a thousand elephant farts.
“How can they stand it?” Harris said.
He noticed the aroma seize Elypticus and Parnasus, who choked. Melonius took the stench in stride, but did make a face, covering his mouth. Yustichisqua didn’t flinch. Nor did Garan.
“It is Tygger piss,” Garan said. “The Gurts use it for emulsification. The more delicate work — over glaze painting and bejeweling is accomplished at the far end of the yard.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Harris said, his eyes tearing. “I think I’ve seen and smelt enough. I’m impressed, Cyprytop. I’ve never seen so vast an operation.”
“It is the heart of my people,” Cyprytop replied.
The two Ryyvytys bowed in unison and muttered something about their delight in pleasing the Sakwoladi.
“What did they call me?” Harris asked.
“Not you, my lord,” Garan said. “Your entire crew.”
“The Seegoniga?”
“Yes, only they said it in Gurt — Sakwoladi, which means bluebirds, considering you travel in the air; although the word seegoniga refers to the blue holly bush.”
Harris smiled, but the stench was too much to keep him here longer. He backed away into the pottery zone, where the air was less tart and the singing trumped him sweetly.
3
“Funny,” Harris remarked to Yustichisqua, “I’ve often called you my Noya Tludachi, yet I never considered what that meant if you pissed in my cart.”
Little Bird laughed.
“It is a common smell in the Kalugu, where Tyggers are kept in pits to assure we wear zulus.”
That explained Little Bird’s reaction or no reaction to the smell. But the Kalugu must be an unbearable place to dwell in with air so foul.
The Seegoniga (or now perhaps, the Sakwoladi) sped away from the Ryyve Sulasgi. Harris hoped today’s tour was over. The afternoon grew late and he would have liked to settle into his digs before nightfall. He anticipated the Myrkpykyn to be a scabby place to bunk and hoped it didn’t reek of Tygger piss. However, his hopes were dashed, although as the Didaniyisgi he could command the tour end. But what loomed ahead fascinated him — a tall cinder block building with high parapets and protective spikes, flashing Tesla-style voltage along the perimeter. It could have been a prison, because it was surrounded by an armed Yunocker force. Fort Knox came to mind.
“What’s this place?” he asked Garan.
“The Ryyve Aniniya,” Garan replied. “Here is where . . .”
“They make the stuff,” Harris said. “That’s the shit of the gods. No wonder the place looks like a lockup.”
“They do not make it here, my lord,” Garan explained. “They fashion it here. Aniniya is mined in Terrastrium and, by treaty and contract, it is distributed among the nine realms. Each place exports their quota here, where Gurt artisans apply their skills.”
“High tension here,” Cyprytop stated.
Harris glanced up at the electrified fortification and didn’t doubt it. However, he soon learned this comment was not scientific, but sociological. Aniniya was the most valuable commodity in Farn and each realm was jealous of its quantity and its application. The haggling between Augustii and Ryyvytys in the Ryyve Aniniya sometimes reached fever pitch, as it did today.
The Seegoniga did not abandon their Cabriolins here as in other Ryyves. This Ryyve’s inner sanctum was partitioned into several factories. Cyprytop relinquished his tour guide position to Buhippus, who negotiated each zone militaristically, palavering with the various Yunocker guards regulating each production line. From a silent distance, Harris witnessed the manufacturing of Sticks — an armory of every size weapon, including some he had not encountered before — even one which looked like a tank, or rather an Aniniya Armadillo. There were also flying contraptions — strafe bombers perhaps, being assembled beside Cabriolins of assorted sizes and shapes. But in the zulu factory, the Seegoniga faced trouble.
The factory, a roundhouse, was honeycombed with streets punctuated with stalls and awnings, much like the Byybykyyip,. Each zulu maker could negotiate his own price and each Augustii could level the best Hyryods from the resident Ryyvytys. The haggling noise was tremendous, but centered on one heated discussion. The Ryyvyty lashed his tongue at the Augustii, who thrust his third leg under the Gurt’s belly, pulling him to the ground. The Seegoniga landed, Buhippus raising his hand to keep them in their Cabriolins.
A troop of Yunockers came on the scene, but the fight continued, more Gurts and Augustii joining into the fray.
“What do we do?” Harris asked Garan.
“If this were any other Ryyve, we would be separating the combatants and mediating the cause.”
“But . . .”
“Stay put and hope.”
“Hope what?”
“Hope that . . .”
Hope went through the roof, because suddenly a fierce cry came from the far end of the street. Gurts fled and Augustii cleared a path. A snapping sound was followed by painful wailing. Yunocker guards pushed the crowd back.
“What the fuck?” Harris stammered.
He caught Buhippus’ eye. It said, stay put . . . my lord.
Cyprytop shook his head, while Garan hid behind the Cabriolin. Before them, charging forth like Lucifer rising, was a Yunocker like no other. His face was broad and mean, with thick, angry lips and eyes set far apart — too far spaced to be friendly. His helmet was fiery — literally. It was on fire. His Cabriolin was ablaze also and, instead of a Stick, he wielded a ferocious whip — what Yustichisqua had called a gwasdi. Before him roared three dog-like creatures, zugginaks, and they were hungry and snarling and snapping at the crowd. They leaped forward and soon attacked Harris’ Cabriolin. Yustichisqua cowered.
“Help me, oginali.”
Harris drew his sword and swung, missing the zugginak closest to the left thruster. Elypticus fired his Stick¸ but missed. Parnasus drew, but before he aimed, Buhippus was on the spot with a whistle. The zugginaks cowered.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 34
