“Yes.”
“You may think you know it.” Harris pointed to the windows. Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed. “The weather’s the weather and it’ll pass, or so my Taleenay assures me. But my mood embraces me like a python, tightening as time goes on.”
“Python, my lord? I believe I know this word. It is a snake. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Much like the bolliganga, only found in your world in a place called Afrikat. True?”
“Near enough.”
Harris returned to Garan.
“Yes. I hear much and say much. I have heard about your victory at the Gulliwailit Bridge.”
“Victory?”
“Yes. You stood your ground against the tyrant and challenged the Treaty of Parazell.”
Harris hadn’t a clue. He remembered Buhippus touting a victory and the guard invoking some treaty during the contest, but Parazell? What the hell?
“Parazell?”
“A pact between the Yunocker council and Kuriakis giving the Yuganawu control over Trone traffic, distribution and maintenance.”
“Like slavery.”
“Not precisely, my lord. Slavery entails commodity trading, which harvests profits and includes ownership. This is not so. The Cetrone are a conquered people.” He shrugged. “The Yunockers are also a conquered people. The promise of a limitless and free labor source was an opportunity too dear for Kuriakis to resist. The pact gives the Ayelli the cream of Trone services in a steady flow. In exchange, Mortis House is prohibited from interfering with the trade or the affairs of the Kalugu. The Treaty states: Ayelli are not permitted to set foot in the Kalugu.”
“But that’s not true,” Harris said. Garan sucked in his breath. “I know that Lord Hierarchus entered the Kalugu.”
“I know you know. You aspire to follow his footsteps.” He drew Harris aside, near the lowest bench. “But Lord Hierarchus’ course is not your course.”
“Why?” Harris pressed. “Because I failed to gain entrance today?”
“No,” Garan said, coming near Harris’ ear. “No, my lord. You shall enter. I am sure of it. But you will not suffer his fate. You shall not be caught, because I, Garan the Gucheeda, the Deegosgi, the Fumarca, the Harandu and the Jamabispa, will help you succeed.”
Thunder clapped.
Lightning flashed.
2
Yustichisqua appeared at the top of the court, waving his waddly wazzoo. The Danuwa also appeared, each holding a birrupsun.
“Oginali, the pot is nearly full.”
Harris looked to Garan, and then to the Seegoniga.
“Garan has something to plug the leaks,” Harris said.
Garan went to the sack, shuffling inside it until he found a pyramid-shaped container.
“Jupsim,” he announced.
Yustichisqua hurried down the stairs, the Danuwa following.
“Just the thing,” Little Bird said, retrieving it, and then hastening back up to remedy the roof.
“Return when finished, Taleenay,” Garan called. “I have more gifts.” He looked to the Danuwa. “Yes, many gifts.” He returned to the sack, retrieving a basket. “Mongerhide.”
Elypticus brightened, and accepted the basket enthusiastically.
“I have longed for the taste of it, Deegosgi,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I like that stuff too,” Harris said.
“And . . . bolingara wine.” Garan held up two flasks of green liquid. Parnasus retrieved these. “And . . . if you can lend me a hand . . .”
He struggled with a large box. It was a wonder he could have toted it here on his small dollywaggle. Melonius helped him hoist it out, and then grinned.
“You may have saved the day, Deegosgi,” Melonius said. He turned to the others. “A grusoker board.”
“Complete with every asset,” Garan said, breathlessly. “In this weather and with court business slow, I thought you might find it a profitable investment for lost hours.”
“That we shall,” Melonius said.
The other Danuwa grasped the grusoker board’s sides and, together, they retreated with the game, the snack and the booze, chattering like schoolboys released from their studies.
“You’re a good man, Garan,” Harris said.
“That should keep them distracted.”
“Distracted?”
“Yes, my lord. It’s best they keep to their room and slam the gorettle, forgetting the hours, and even the days.”
Harris cocked his head. Garan’s grin turned impish. Mongerhide, bolingara and grusoker would be a diversion, but from what? There was more to this game than dice and tiles. Yustichisqua appeared topside, the jupsim bucket in one hand, and his waddly wazzoo in the other. Garan waved to him.
“Taleenay, come see what more I have.”
Yustichisqua set the bucket aside and trotted down the staircase.
“What other gifts did you bring, sir?” Harris asked. “Somehow I think you mean to fill my lost hours too.”
“Would that it was as simple as grusoker,” Garan said, bowing and returning to the sack.
“Grusoker isn’t simple,” Harris replied.
Yustichisqua raised his light. Garan drew out a bottle — more wine, perhaps.
“Is it brantsgi?” Little Bird asked.
“Better than brantsgi,” Garan replied. “Wisgi.”
Yustichisqua sighed, and in that susurration, Harris knew this liquor exceeded every beverage in the realm. Garan popped out two glasses and set them on the bleacher railing.
“Do you mean to get us shit-faced, Garan?” Harris said as he watched the golden wisgi glow in the dim light — amber and familiar.
“If you mean by that, drunk,” Garan replied, “this elixir will do that. It will also warm your soul to any task. That is my purpose. The task is daunting and this wisgi is rare — from my private stock.”
“Private stock, eh?” Harris said.
“Oginali, it is the stuff of legend. I have never tasted it, but I have heard there is magic in the blend and it will give a coward courage.”
“Are we cowards, Garan?” Harris asked.
“Nothing like it,” Garan replied, finishing the pouring. “But a little wisgi on a foul night in the darkness of extinguished justice goes a long way to restore resolve and fortitude.”
The three glasses beckoned, catching the lightning flashes and tossing them back to the night. Harris grasped his glass firmly. He raised it to his nose, and sniffed.
Familiar.
“I know this drink,” he said.
“I would not be surprised,” Garan replied.
Yustichisqua lifted his glass, and then downed it in one go — neither toast nor preparation. He choked, grasping his throat. But after the first reaction, he grinned and licked the rim. Harris drank. Garan swallowed also.
“Yes,” Harris remarked. “It’s good to know you can get something like this in Montjoy.”
Garan polished off his portion, and then lifted the bottle to pour three more. When the bottle came into the light, Harris twitched. He saw the label — black with white lettering: It read:
Jim Beam — Black
He grabbed the neck, bringing the flask to his eye.
“Where did you get this?” he stammered. “You said it’s from your private stock, but unless you keep your booze cellar in Kentucky, I suspect you reached far afield for this. Where did you get it, sir?”
Garan grabbed the bottle and continued to pour. When he finished filling the last glass, he secured the cap and set the wisgi bottle on the railing.
“I have been to the Dodingdaten, my lord. There are many wares there which few in Montjoy have seen.”
Yustichisqua stopped drinking midgulp. Harris winced.
“Where the hell’s the Dodingdaten?” he asked.
“Beyond Cetronia, oginali,” Little Bird stammered. “And you have been there, Deegosgi?”
“Yes,” Garan said. “Drink up.”
3
The happy sounds of
grusoker echoed from the upper rooms almost trumping the thunder and lightning. Harris huddled with Garan and Little Bird about the bottle, the warmth from Kentucky or the Dodingdaten sliding him toward new comfort levels.
“The Dodingdaten is a strange place, my lord,” Garan said. “The inhabitants are not as we are.”
“We?” Harris asked.
“They are like you, but have not been drawn by the Sceptas. But they are from the outlands.”
Harris poured more wisgi and heaved it down his gullet. The liquid’s bite was less now and his astonishment mellowed.
“And just where did these the Didingydatenonians come from? How’d they get here?”
“It is a mystery, my lord. They slipped through the portals, which connect the worlds, but those portals are lost to knowledge. The Dodingdatens cluster in an enclave near Cetronia. They avoid Montjoy, although they are Fumarcans — land pirates.”
“Like you, Garan.”
Garan nodded, affirming one of his titles.
“Piracy takes many forms, my lord. I am the same on both land and sea. Others call me by these names. I accept them as honors or curses. It matters not.”
“But you’ve been there, you say — to these Fumarcans?”
“Yes. In years past. Before I ferried across the Forling, I explored the Spice Mountains and came upon the enclave. Few have survived an encounter with them. Cetrone, who keep the fires, avoid the Dodingdaten, although when Fumarcans need supplies, they make forays into the Cetrone camps and villages. I have since traveled there by sea and there is some intercourse between the peoples of the Dodaloo, which might prove beneficial for everyone . . . under controlled conditions. But the Fumarcans are driven by self need and can be ferocious when provoked — and they are easily provoked, my lord.”
“But you survived?”
“I am clever when it comes to surviving, my lord. I plan carefully and ahead. As a trader, I had interesting goods at my disposal. I bartered well for items attractive to me — things catching my fancy.”
“Like a shit load of wisgi?”
“Wisgi,” Yustichisqua slurred, raising his glass for more.
“I believe you’ve reached your limit, Little Bird, but . . .”
Harris poured him a half-glass. Yustichisqua grinned, downed it and began to doze.
“Yes, my lord, wisgi is rare and I managed to barter five and twenty bottles.”
“That would keep us happy for a while.”
“Happiness is not my aim.” He leaned forward. “I have brought other gifts tonight.”
“Truly? What could be better than this?”
“Truly,” Garan said.
Garan went to the sack, dragging it to the railing, the dollywaggle rattling when pulled. He whipped out two black cloaks — ugly things with thick cowls.
“I don’t need blankets, Garan.”
“Blankets? These are not blankets, my lord. They are the official cloaks of the Augustii spinctus.” He brought the garments closer, rubbing the surface on his cheek. “They may look poor, but they will cover you well and mark you as a Ryyve official.”
“For what purpose?”
“Surely you can think of the purpose.” He sniffed at the cowl. “Waterproof, they are, the jupsim sewn into the weave.”
Yustichisqua stirred. He peered at the cloaks.
“Have you slain the Augustii who wore these?” Little Bird asked. “They would not give these up freely.”
Harris touched the cloak. Disguises. He recalled Garan’s pledge to get him into the Kalugu.
“Will it work?” he stammered, sobering fast. “Won’t the guards question a Zecronisian entering the keep?”
“Two Augustii spinctus, with warrants to transport zulus into the mordanka — the quartermaster general — warrants signed by the Didaniyisgi himself as a settlement for a dispute within the Ryyve Aniniya — no. No questions.”
Garan popped out the warrant. Harris grabbed it and tried to read it.
“That’s my signature and seal alright, but like most crap I sign, I can’t read it.”
“You trusted me then,” Garan said, tapping the seal.
“I’ll trust you now.”
“But Deegosgi,” Yustichisqua asked. “Am I to go?”
“Of course. But I will not be entering. You know the Kalugu and will know where to take Lord Belmundus.”
“Yes, but I will spoil everything. The zugginaks will sniff me out and kill me, and then the regulati will arrest my lord.”
Garan grinned, and then reached into his cloak, producing a flask. He popped the cork and brought it under Yustichisqua’s nose. Little Bird grinned, but didn’t react otherwise. Harris sniffed it.
“Oh, my God, what the fuck’s that? It stinks like an outhouse in the forest.”
“Charpgris, oginali. Tludachi piss.”
“You have smelt it before, my lord,” Garan said. “At the Ryyve Sulasgi. The Taleenay will wear some — hands, cheeks and behind the ears, and zugginaks and regulati will not detect him as a Trone.”
Harris sniffed it again, and then corked the flask. He tapped Little Bird’s noggin.
“Well, I’m not kissing you, old man, but if it works, it works.”
“I am happy to have it,” Yustichisqua said, “but when we enter the grounds, it still will be dangerous for me. I must wear zulus to cross the pit bridges. No Augustii wears zulus.”
“Ah,” Garan replied, grinning.
He went to the sack again and dragged out two pairs of boots.
“Shitekickers,” Harris said, grabbing for one. “Now these I’ll wear.”
“Borabas,” Garan proclaimed.
“For me?” Yustichisqua said, touching the soft black boot, his hand trembling. “I have never known things so beautiful.”
Harris smiled as he watched Little Bird sniff the heel and inspect the sole.
“These boots, my lord, are reinforced with phitron soles, crafted to be light and durable. These should keep your Taleenay from falling through the kaybar bridges and into the pits.”
Yustichisqua stood, shaky from drink, and then bowed to Garan.
“I know you are grateful, Taleenay,” Garan warned, “but remember, I do not send you home, but as a guide to Lord Belmundus.”
“I shall always be his guide, and his . . . oginali.”
He hiccupped.
Harris pulled on one boot, and then the other, Yustichisqua helping with the last push. Harris stood and strutted about, perhaps looking for a mirror in a shoe store.
“How did you know my size, Garan?”
“The wonder of borabas are they fit all feet equally.”
“One size fits all,” Harris muttered. “Sweet.”
Yustichisqua donned his borabas and clopped about, grinning at the music they made.
“So, we’re set to go,” Harris announced.
Grusoker!
The laughter aloft gave Harris pause.
“Yes, my lord, your Danawu are distracted now. The bolingara and mongerhide will put them to sleep for many hours. I will stay here and tell them the Scepta called you away in the night.”
“They won’t believe it.”
“But if they are loyal and faithful, they will not question it. However, I fear you must tell Captain Buhippus the truth and trust the strength of his warrants.”
“But he’s Tarhippus’ brother.”
“Still, the captain must know, otherwise he will question your whereabouts and pursue you. Since you leave your Cabriolin behind, it must be stored from sight. I am not equipped to move it.” He touched his Columbincus-free breast. “I lack the appropriate power.”
Harris glanced toward the entrance — to the basement staircase. He turned to Yustichisqua.
“One more drink, Little Bird — what my Uncle Andy called Dutch courage.”
Yustichisqua poured the last of the wisgi into the glasses, and the three conspirators downed the stiffener.
“One more thing,” Garan said, patting his
backside. “You will need to wear a pad at the rear.”
“Excuse me? “
“Zecronisians have three legs, my lord and waddle like gukpeckyns or hadn’t you noticed?” He winked. “The prosthetic is uncomfortable, but provides the appropriate credibility.”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 38
