Waiting in the nave of love
For the hawk to claim his dove.
And join her in the fire’s heat,
And with his tears wash weary feet.
Faraway mountain, faraway glade,
Sighs this most unhappy maid.
I serve a mistress stern and still
Who rules upon the conqueror’s hill,
I bring her all. I am her slave,
A spirit trapped within a cave,
But know I now that it is he,
Who comes aloft to set me free.
Faraway mountain, faraway glade,
Sighs this most, most hopeful maid.
Harris grasped Yustichisqua to his side and stared toward the siti’s periphery. Emerging from the shadows came the singer — Littafulchee.
2
“My lady,” Yustichisqua said, bowing.
Harris nodded and started to her side, but Littafulchee held her hand up in a stopping gesture.
“This is a raw intrusion, Lord Belmundus, but one I must accept.”
“Intrusion?” Harris said, although how could it be anything else, unbidden as it was?
Littafulchee glared at Little Bird.
“Yustichisqua, you are emboldened by your new status. But recall that few acknowledge it. Your openness to embrace the ways of the Ayelli have not gone unnoticed here.”
“I am not Ayelli, cousin,” he protested. “I am still a servant of the light.”
“Perhaps the best we have,” Euforsee chanted, chiding the proud Littafulchee, who nodded as a concession.
“Silver cloak and brashun blades become you,” Littafulchee said to Yustichisqua, and then looked toward Harris. “You seemed puzzled, my lord.”
“A mystery flies with my every breath.”
“It is to be expected, my lord.”
“And you are here, Littafulchee.”
“My lady on the hill — your mistress, has gone hunting in the outlands. When she does, I come here. Is that why you are here now?”
“I am here to seek answers.”
“You would be better to seek questions, Lord Belmundus. The answers are easy, while the questions are difficult.”
Harris grinned at this lovely maiden, whose voice enchanted and whose eyes were magnets. If she meant to tease him with conundrums, she succeeded. If she intended to engage in tricky conversation, she had hit the mark. He bowed.
“You have every advantage here, Littafulchee the Divine,” he said, irony in his voice. “I come in this storm at great risk to witness great sorrow, and you choose to banter with me before these mystic oracles as if you are one of them.”
Suddenly, all seven Yodanado raised their arms, each holding a waddly wazzoo. The effect startled Harris.
“Littafulchee of the Zacker,” Euforsee intoned. “The time to question has fled. The hour to enlist is at hand.”
Littafulchee bowed, and then turned to Harris. She extended her hand. He hesitated, but took it.
“Come with me, Lord Belmundus. Bring your cargo and your Taleenay, and you shall see what we are about.” She looked to Talqwah. “Spooner, return to the yehu. Lock the doors and prepared to secure the sleepers for reaptide. Not one under your care must succumb.”
Talqwah seized his waddly wazzoo lovingly, and then bowed to Littafulchee. He backed away into the shadows, returning to his post. Littafulchee raised her lamp and drifted on her zulus, leading Harris and Little Bird away from the siti into the shadows — through the place where she had sung. There, an archway pierced blackly into the room — a sinister corridor lit only by the waddly wazzoos.
“Where are you taking me?” Harris asked.
“To the questions,” she replied. “You must listen and learn. You must accept the harshness of what we are about.”
“Must I?”
“The Yodanado say you shall. Whether you come to it by degrees or embrace it all at once, I cannot tell.” She led them through the darkness. “Yustichisqua will aid you, but he must also find his way to it, because these are the deepest secrets we hold and few know them. Only those who live or die for these secrets know them.”
These words pierced Harris’ mind like a brashun blade, enigmas from a philosopher’s tome — an argument from Aristotle — an equation from Euclid. Logic underpinned the lot, but logic was like kettle steam, evaporating before it scalded with understanding.
They emerged into an open courtyard, blanketed by the rain. Harris missed his jupsim cloak, now that his hair began to mat. Littafulchee pulled him and Little Bird under a portico and waited. Across the ground spread a colorful tarpaulin — rainbow-colored, drenched and puddled. Harris saw it was attached to a huge cargo box — no, a basket, reminiscent of a gondola — the kind carried beneath balloons, only it was oddly shaped — birdlike. A figure emerged from behind it — a diminutive Cetrone, protected from the downpour by a silk sheet. It didn’t do much good, because the man was dripping, water running down the bridge of his nose to the bow of his lip. He approached Littafulchee on dim zulus, bowing, but not having the good sense to come in out of the rain.
“My lady,” he said, his voice high-pitched like a sparrow chirping. “My lady! My lady!”
“Where is he, Tomatly?” she asked.
“He has taken too much sqwallen, I fear, and sleeps inside the ferry.” He pointed to the basket, which was covered with the same silk material which poorly sheltered Tomatly.
“This is not good, Tomatly,” Littafulchee said, sternly. “You should not have let him take so much, if any.”
“But the Seneschal is strong and can crush poor Tomatly with his big hands. I can guide him with advice and he can nod to me in agreement, but he does what he wants in the end. He said, a little bit more, Tomatly, and I said, no more, my lord. And he said, more please. And I said . . .”
“Enough, Tomatly. You do your duty poorly, but who else could do it?” She landed on the ground and poked about under her buckskins for a flask. “Here,” she said. “Do your duty now.”
Tomatly took the flask and drifted back to the basket, poking around inside.
“Cousin,” Little Bird said, “what brew is this?”
“Pilocarpinus,” she muttered.
“Rare, oginali¸ and the only antidote for sqwallen overdoses.”
“Why so rare?” Harris asked.
“Because General Tarhippus has confiscated every bottle from every mordanka in Montjoy,” Littafulchee replied.
“Not every mordanka,” Harris said.
“The mordanka in the Kalugu will do anything for profit, as you shall see,” she said. “They pilfer goods and sell them for profit. They engage in many illegal transactions, including the one that allowed that flask and . . . the one which allows your illicit trade in zulus.”
Harris let his cargo sack slide.
“These zulus are for the needy, and are not part of an illicit trade,” he snapped. “I saw so many people waiting to die in that place called . . . I can’t remember. I don’t want to remember, but I don’t ever want to forget.”
“The Banetuckle,” Yustichisqua said. “The Didaniyisgi is correct, cousin. We bring these zulus here so those who need to survive the reaptide can do so.”
Littafulchee sighed, and then shook her head.
“I said you must accept the harshness of what we are about. Those who need zulus have given them away freely, knowing the mordanka regulati will trade them for more valuable goods — knowing the regulati trade is with the chisqua yehu and our ferryman.”
Yustichisqua’s eyes opened wide.
“Cosawta is engaged in the contraband trade?” Yustichisqua cried. “It is dishonorable, cousin. It is killing our own people.”
“Those that die, die willingly,” she whispered. “A sacrifice.”
“Hold on here,” Harris said. “I’m not following you. Are you telling me there’s a black market in zulus and I’ve been unwittingly feeding it?”
“If you mean by black market, an illicit trade, ye
s. But before you are judgmental and irrational, as I know you can be, hear me.”
“I’m listening and it better be good . . . my lady.”
Harris’ anger was real, but it was also steeped in disappointment. Littafulchee was intelligent, fair and attractive. She epitomized a purity in his mind — a paragon of femininity. Such idealizations are not easily assailed. He would hear her out, but nothing could justify the suffering he had witnessed in the Banetuckle.
Littafulchee reached into the sack and pulled out a single zulu. She turned it over and released the tread which held the mechanism together. With a quick twist, the power element — the battery, slipped into her hand. She held it up.
“Aniniya,” she announced.
“That is so,” Yustichisqua confirmed. “But only enough to lift and carry us.” He turned to Harris, touching the housing. “It reacts to the conontoroy.”
“What are you talking about?” Harris asked.
“The aniniya,” Yustichisqua explained, “reacts to this other mineral — conontoroy. It is not a powerful interaction, but enough to fit the purpose. But I do not understand what end would be achieved by removing the power source from zulus when the people need them intact.”
“You lack vision, Yustichisqua,” Littafulchee said. “It is still aniniya.”
“But not enough to make . . . weapons. And not enough even to power a Cabriolin.” He turned to Harris. “Cabriolins depend on the reaction of aniniya with another mineral — yustunalla. A more powerful reaction, but I do not see an illicit trade in Cabriolins.”
Littafulchee waved the aniniya about Yustichisqua’s head, drawing him to silence.
“Listen and learn, Lord Belmundus. Aniniya is not the most valuable mineral in Farn. There are three minerals which interact with aniniya — conontoroy, yustunalla and . . .” She pointed to Harris’ chest. He twitched.
“Columbincus?” he stammered.
“Yes. Columbincus. Not mined in Terrastrium and long since depleted in the bowels of Zin. Each realm cherishes its supply for its ability to interact with aniniya. “
Harris touched his brooch. Suddenly, he sensed he wore something akin to the Hope Diamond.
“All Ayelli have some form of this,” he said.
“Yes, and there’s a tincture of it in every Stick made and stored in the Ryyve Aniniya. But it is rare, and the Yunockers want it more than anything else, because they have enough aniniya, but lack a supply of Columbincus.”
“Then it is dangerous for the Didaniyisgi to wear his brooch,” Yustichisqua said. “Or even the gems worn by the Danuwa.”
“No Yunocker would dare deprive an Ayelli official of his credentials.”
“Kuriakis must have an unlimited supply of the stuff,” Harris mused. “I mean, he wears it from head to toe, and the Sceptas and my Memer wear it too. All Thirdlings sport one, and the consorts also. But I’ve never seen a stockpile.”
“It is in plain sight,” she said. “What place is revered above all others in the Ayelli?”
“The Temple of Greary Gree?” Harris said.
“Exactly so. A warehouse awaiting for enough aniniya to create an arsenal beyond imagination.”
“That still doesn’t explain the zulu trade,” Harris snapped.
“Yes, it does,” Littafulchee replied. “Beyond Greary Gree, the closest source of Columbincus is beyond the Forling . . . in Cetronia.”
“We have a Columbincus mine in Cetronia?” Yustichisqua asked.
“No. Better. We have dealings with the Fumarcans of the Dodingdaten.”
Harris remembered Garan’s tale of his dealings with these pirates, who had inspired a barter trade system. Then he remembered who convinced him to send the zulus into the Kalugu with Ricktus Morphinus.
“Garan,” he stammered.
“He is a Gucheeda,” Yustichisqua grumbled.
“He is a friend to our cause,” Littafulchee said.
“Cause?” Harris said.
“Yes,” she replied. “You shall see. The regulati of the Kalugu mordanka take a few zulus to barter for goods, but allow the rest to come here, where they are transported by the ferryman.” She pointed to the basket, and then to the open, rain-flooded ceiling gap in the roof — a way out of the place. “He takes the zulus to Cetronia to trade for Columbincus. He returns with small amounts, but enough to be worth the risk for these greedy regulati. They then trade the Columbincus to General Tarhippus. He does not care where it comes from, although be sure of it, he knows. He uses it to power his aniniya weaponry, his gwasdi and such.”
“But you’re arming your enemy”
“Our enemy is brave, but stupid,” she said, with too much passion in her voice for Harris’ tastes. “They are arming us. The zulus provide us with a stockpile of aniniya and we have enough Columbincus to make a difference when the time comes.”
“The time?” Harris said, his mind cloud parting. “You’re planning an uprising.”
Thunder cracked.
Lightning flashed.
“Adadooski,” Yustichisqua shouted.
“Hush,” Littafulchee said. “The uprising has not come and may not for some time. But those who sacrifice their lives now will be redeemed when the light comes again.”
Yustichisqua knelt before her, grasping her hem. She didn’t deter him. Harris wasn’t sure what to think. He had just had a lesson in Farn metallurgy and also one on greed, the universal type. On one hand, his spirit was buoyed that these people weren’t lambs brought to slaughter, and yet they brought their own to the altar as payment for future payback. He wasn’t sure who the enemy was — the Yunockers, no doubt, but did this include the Ayelli, who also kept their feet on Cetrone backs? Or was there another, unseen enemy, lurking in the deepest, darkest corners of Farn?
3
Staggering toward them was a tall man — the resuscitated Ferryman, who wore no buckskins nor zulus. His step seemed unsure, a sqwallen hangover perhaps or could it be the antidote — rare Pilocarpinus, probably derived from the jub-jub bird’s pancreas. Yustichisqua, who had resumed his stance, now bowed again. Harris just nodded as the man approached, steadied by Tomatly.
“Brother,” Littafulchee said, “you disappoint me when you follow the old ways.”
“You know better than to scold me in front of strangers,” he said.
Instead of buckskins, the man wore a loin cloth and a tight leather tunic — something in the Samson class. He had bulging muscles, unlike any Cetrone Harris had ever encountered. His crystal wasn’t suspended from a headband, but implanted in his forehead like a Hindu Tika.
“These are not strangers, brother,” Littafulchee said. “Look closer.”
The man squinted through the sheets of rain. He frowned, and then brightened.
“Is that cousin Yustichisqua?” he asked.
“Yes, Cosawta,” Little Bird replied. “I have returned.”
“Good for you. I have heard of your exploits. Acknowledged as a hero by the Elector and toting a dagger made of brashun.”
“A gift from the Didaniyisgi,” Little Bird said, meekly. “And I did not know it had a brashun blade until moments ago.”
“In any case,” Cosawta replied, “we can use another pair of balls here. There is too much deprecation and waddly wazzoo waving in the yehu . . .”
“And sqwallen pigs, also,” Littafulchee added.
“You are too pure, sister. You need a consort. Another tale.” He laughed, and then stared at Harris. “But . . . can this be . . . has the treaty been broken again?”
“It has,” Harris said.
“Lord Belmundus?”
“It is I.”
Cosawta reached out and hugged Harris, taking him by surprise. The man’s grip was formidable. An ill-planned but well-intentioned squeeze could have driven the life from any man. Harris choked.
“Ah, this is a good day for this yehu. Good day. The fucking treaty is busted again, and this time by the man of the hour.”
Harris was astonishe
d. He had never heard a Cetrone curse before. In fact, no one in Farn seemed to use profanity. He instantly liked this man — this Cosawta, the Ferryman. But what did he ferry? Harris had no time to ask, because a sudden alarm sounded — a klaxon, howling across the rooftops. Tomatly cowered as did Yustichisqua. Littafulchee sighed and Cosawta shook his fists.
“Reaptide,” he shouted.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 42
