“At your service, my lord.”
Chapter Eleven
Curfew
1
Harris shook Elypticus awake, and then grasped Garan’s arm.
“Did I sleep so deeply?” Harris asked. “I don’t recall them tossing you in here with us?”
Garan placed his finger to his lips, and then scurried to the bars, looking along the crosswalk.
“Is that Garan?” Elypticus asked.
“It is I,” Garan whispered. “Be steady and calm. Do not arouse attention.”
Harris grabbed Garan’s arm again.
“But how . . . and why? Did they throw you in here for aiding me with the Zecronisian get-up?”
“No, my lord. No one has tossed Garan the Gucheeda anywhere.” He looked about again, and then drew Harris back into the shadows. “I have come to take you and the young Danuwa away from the Katorias.”
“Away? How did you get in here in the first place?”
Harris glanced to the crosswalk, looking for Garan’s means of entry.
“You shall find nothing there, my lord.”
Garan placed his finger to the side of his nose, and then moved to the wall. With one quick poke, he thrust his arm through the Kaybar. Elypticus twitched. Harris cocked his head.
“How does a Zecronisian do that trick?” he asked.
Garan pulled his arm back, and then threw off his cloak. Harris was impressed, because Garan wore a fine silver tunic and a full-length scarlet asano. Then Garan bent over and tugged at his backside, pulling off his prosthetic third leg.
“He is not a Zecronisian,” Elypticus exclaimed.
“Not so loud, my friend,” Garan cautioned. “I am, and forever shall be, a Cetrone.”
“Cetrone,” Harris gasped. “I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it, Lord Belmundus and be grateful that I am what I am.”
That certainly explained how Garan managed to join them in the cell. Garan thrust his hand into a side pouch and withdrew two sausages.
“Mongerhide, anyone?”
Elypticus nearly tackled Garan, while Harris politely took it, slowly bringing it to his nose and sniffing. Then he savored a bite, lovingly.
Divine.
“Bless you, Garan,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a flagon of brantsgi shoved up your ass too? Hell, I’d settle for bolingara . . . if it ain’t too sour.”
“The drink is in the Cabriolins.”
“Cabriolins?” Elypticus muttered between chews. “Where have you parked Cabriolins?”
“Safely and hidden, young sir,” Garan replied. “We have little time for discussion. We must hasten to these vehicles and be off before the tormentors come to claim you.”
“Now would be a good time,” Harris said.
He chomped a piece of mongerhide and wolfed it. Without liquid, it was tough. Nonetheless, his taste buds celebrated in cut time.
“I do not understand, my lord,” Elypticus said. “Will we cut through the bars and join you on the roof?”
“The walls, young sir,” Garan explained. “The walls are our means of escape.”
“I do not see how.”
“Elypticus, trust him,” Harris said. “It’s an old Cetrone trick, only I’ve never seen it performed as a three-person daisy chain.”
“It will work with ten,” Garan said. “There is risk. Not in the numbers, but in the walls’ thickness.”
“I don’t understand,” Harris said.
Garan offered him another mongerhide stick, which Harris greedily took, and then divided it, giving half to Elypticus, who bowed.
“The walls you have traversed until now, my lord,” Garan explained. “Those walls went directly through. These prison walls do not face the outside.”
“You mean it’ll be a long trip.”
“Considerably.”
Harris touched Elypticus’ forearm.
“This wall business is not pleasant at the best of times, lad. I’m just warning you. It might prove miserable.”
“It is better than remaining here, my lord.”
“You say true.”
“True,” Garan confirmed. “But should we fail, you both may become a permanent part of Gurt architecture.”
Harris sighed.
“We’ll chance it. Will everything pass through?” He touched his Columbincus. “Because this thing’s as dead as a fly on a toad.”
“You need the Columbincus, my lord. How else can you drive a Cabriolin?”
“But how . . .”
“One step at a time,” Garan said. “If you should melt into the kaybar, there will be one fewer step to consider.”
He shrugged, and then extended his hand. Harris took it. Elypticus still appeared puzzled, but Harris grasped his Danuwa’s hand.
“Prepare for a shock,” Harris announced. “Swallow hard and gird your loins.”
Elypticus dropped the remains of the mongerhide, and then clenched his thighs. He was as ready as ever he would be, no doubt.
“I say farewell to the Katorias,” Elypticus whispered.
“Goodbye, Tarhippus,” Harris shouted. “You motherfucker.”
Garan grinned, and then jumped through the kaybar wall, taking his three-person daisy chain with him.
2
Harris grasped tightly to two different hands during the passage. If he had let go of either — disaster. The usual weight of traveling through solids sat on his chest like a herd of Tippagores. His eyes itched, and then pained. He could see nothing except the tan texture of the substance which tried to smother him. These were precisely the sensations he had experienced when Yustichisqua pulled him through the Yudolayda Asdodi. But this trip seemed endless. As the thick flood of walls pounded him, he tried to call to Elypticus, but Harris’ mouth was stopped — his tongue petrified. He wasn’t sure whether he was breathing. He could be dead, except he felt the changes in contour — twists and turns through the several buttresses, which held the Katorias secure on its foundations. Harris wanted to scream, but his throat had turned to sandpaper. His skin seemed to emulsify, first bubbling and then, like mortar, began to set and harden. The thought terrified him.
I’m turning to stone. I’ll be a memorial plaque to a foolish attempt to escape Tarhippus’ clutches.
He couldn’t feel the hands. They were gone. Or were they? His fingers pained, like frost biting knuckles in the dead of January, and then, like popping corn on bare palms over an open fire, they stung with agony. Suddenly, the frozen hand melted and he could feel Garan’s grip. He sensed a cessation of pressure. He recognized the end — a good end.
Release.
Harris emerged into sunslight, falling to the pavement, still anchored to Elypticus’ grasp. The Danuwa flew out also, but staggered, vomiting his mongerhide feast. He crashed to the ground.
“Elypticus,” Harris cried.
Garan attended the Danuwa, shaking the lad’s limp arms.
“He is alive, my lord,” Garan said. “But he has the bending sickness.”
“The bends?” Harris said, alarmed, struggling to Elypticus’ side, shaking him. “He needs depressurization.”
“He needs liquid,” Garan said, and then scurried to the Cabriolins, parked beside a utility shed.
Harris twisted about. He noticed they had landed in an abandoned alley, perhaps one used to haul waste — not a place for a respectable Yunocker, much less a Fantin. He put his ear to Elypticus’ chest and listened for his heart. It still beat, but not strongly . He lifted the Danawu’s head as Garan came with an awidena skin of brantsgi, raising it to Elypticus’ lips and squeezing the green liquid into his mouth, gushing. Elypticus didn’t swallow at first, but then he choked. The brantsgi sprayed, and the lad opened his eyes.
“My lord,” he gasped.
“You’ll be fine, Elypticus,” Harris muttered.
He grabbed the brantsgi skin and gave him another swig, and then listened to for a heartbeat again. Stronger.
“I thought I’
d lost you.”
“I am ill,” Elypticus grunted.
“Will you puke again?”
Elypticus shook his head, and tried to rise. He wasn’t successful. Harris helped him, but was shaky from the transference through the kaybar.
“Garan.”
Garan grabbed Elypticus’ legs.
“Take his shoulders, my lord. Get him to the Cabriolin.”
Harris struggled. Between them, they managed to lug the Danuwa to the Cabriolin. They slung him in. Harris breathlessly sat at its base.
“Now what?” He touched his Columbincus. “I’m out of gas. How do we power these suckers up?”
Garan bowed, and then darted into the second Cabriolin. He hopped back, holding a sight for sore eyes.
“Tony?" Harris gasped, reaching for the brashun blade.
“Take its hilt, my lord.”
Harris touched it, and sparks flew through his fingers. He felt an energy surge. When he grasped the hilt and balanced the sword over his legs, his Columbincus came to life.
“Adadooski,” he said. “But how did you get this?”
“Your Taleenay has been busy.”
Harris shuffled to his feet.
“Yustichisqua? Where is he? Is he here?”
“No, my lord. But his presence will be felt.”
“Is he safe?”
“Very much so. He is with the keepers of the sustiya. I paid them a visit. Your brashun blade was in Yustichisqua’s care. He knew you would need it, so he asked me to use it wisely and well.” Garan bowed. “I have.”
Garan hopped into the other Cabriolin, and returned holding Elypticus’ brooch.
“You can’t touch that,” Harris said.
Garan gave him the fish eye.
“I am surprised you say so, Lord Belmundus — you, a subscriber to change. You, the iconoclast.”
“Iconoclast?”
“A word I learned in the Dodingdaten. Besides, we must be parted. The young Danuwa cannot operate his vehicle. So, if you please, my lord, take your brashun blade and touch it to this brooch.”
Garan snapped the Columbincus on his silver tunic. Harris thought it an odd bauble for a wiry Cetrone, but someone needed to carry Elypticus to safety. The brooch shone.
“I’ll follow you,” Harris said.
“No, my lord. I said we must be parted. You must depart Montjoy.”
Depart Montjoy. Where would I go? Coney Island? Not likely.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Garan? I’ve nowhere to go.”
“Yes, my lord. You do.”
“Not up the hill. I don’t think the Ayelli will forgive me, however much sympathy I’ve garnered. Tappiolus’d have my hide back in the Katorias.”
“Not back to Mortis House.”
“The Kalugu?”
That was an idea — to the sustiya and to brother and sister and Little Bird.
“No, my lord. You must go east.”
“East?” He stopped to think. “You mean west.”
“I mean to the Forling and beyond.”
“The Forling?”
“You must disappear. I shall take the young Danuwa to my ship. No one will seek him there. He shall sail to the Finistrians.”
Harris trembled. The thought of the Forling — that terrible desert, had as much promise as the Katorias.
“What will I do in the Forling?”
“Nothing. Cross it. Head for the Spice Mountains.”
“Cetronia?”
Garan patted Harris’ hand, and then bowed low.
“You must leave now, my lord. They have discovered your escape.”
“How do you know that?”
A klaxon sounded.
“It shall be some time before they realize you are outside the walls. They will think you crept through a hidden pipe and still wander the Katorias. But soon they will realize their mistake.”
“They’re stupid,” Harris replied, thinking of Littafulchee.
“They are, but not so stupid as you might think,”
Harris peeked in on Elypticus, who glanced up weakly.
“My lord,” Elypticus said. “I have failed you.”
Harris leaned down and kissed his Danuwa’s forehead.
“We may never meet again, Elypticus, but listen to me. If ever I were to choose a son, you would be the one.”
Elypticus smiled dimly. Harris fought back tears, and then quickly went to his Cabriolin. He tossed Tony in. He saw a sack fastened to the cab.
“Supplies,” Garan said. “Packed by your Taleenay’s hand.”
“Yustichisqua? I guess he still has my back.”
“He shall always do his part on your behalf, my lord.” Garan bowed. “Power up and get to the Forling gate before it shuts for midday curfew.”
“How can I thank you, Garan?”
“Live, my lord, and when I see you next, I shall demand a princely sum.”
Harris saluted the Gucheeda, and then touched his hand to the Columbincus. The Cabriolin revved and lifted cleanly away from the shed. Harris sniffed the free air and fled.
3
The klaxon could be heard throughout Montjoy, alerting the citizenry to an escape. The Praeters poked with their spyglasses from perches on their estates. Majorin stopped business, emerging onto the street, looking in all directions. Minorin donned helmets and did their civic duty, policing alleyways and cubbies. The regulati were assembled, patrolling every street.
Harris found his way blocked at every turn, so he eased the Cabriolin into the shadows of the Kaleezos, hoping Trone curiosity would stir nothing more than gossip. Still, he hovered in the shadows, moving forward too slow to fulfill Garan’s directive — getting to the Forling Gate before the curfew.
The Gurts from the Ryyve Aniniya mined the desert’s edge — a fine red sand called kowlinka, a principal ingredient for a translucent material akin to glass. The work was dangerous, the heat debilitating and porcorporians occasionally emerged to snap up a meal. More dangerous were the gasuntsgi, vampire rabbits which poked their fangs from dens, like gophers, thriving on every blood-type from Gurt to Yunocker. These hazards caused the Gurts to work in three short shifts from mid-morning to midday surrounded by regulati guards, who patrolled the site (also in shifts), blasting the fauna with their Sticks. It was considered the worst duty for a Yunocker — almost punitive. When these shifts changed, the Forling Gate was opened, and then immediately shut. With the last shift came a curfew, the gate remaining closed for the evening. It was this curfew Harris had to beat. With klaxons blaring and every Yunocker in Montjoy on the alert, the task seemed doomed to failure.
Harris drifted stealthily past the wall of a prominent Praeter estate. Traffic was sparse here, the privilege of residency. A service lane ran adjacent to the wall. No minorin, majorin or regulati kept vigil along this path. Harris accelerated, jetting beside the wall. He could see the Montjoy defenses in the distance — a high parapet which secured the city from the desert critters. He could even feel the heat wave beyond it. By his calculations, the lane ended at a tangle of kaleezos which hugged the battlements. If he could reach these beehive dwellings undetected, he might approach the Forling gate at an unexpected angle. Surprise. He had been to the gate on his many tours and knew two guard towers flanked it.
“Great,” he muttered. “It’ll be like diving into a tea cup from a high board.”
He considered returning to the Yuyutlu boundaries, leaving fortress Yuganawu at his back. Perhaps Garan could find another berth on his ship for a wayward consort. But a Didaniyisgi on the lam would draw attention to the Wudayleegu and Garan’s grand caravel would be sunk in the harbor.
“No,” he muttered. “He’s done enough. I won’t compromise him.”
Harris girded his shoulders, slapped his Columbincus and prepared to make a turn at the kaleezos. Had it not been for the resident Praeter, who hung from his widow-walk with a powerful telescope, Harris would have gone undetected. But a new klaxon and a red flare marked his progre
ss.
“Shit,” he said, banking around kaleezo roofs.
The Trones peeped, their eyes wide — their mouths shut. Had they known who he was? Did they know he had been the one who broke the Treaty of Parazell? Harris didn’t have time to sort friend from foe. He angled past eaves and clipped gutters, emerging onto the wide plaza before the gate. Two regulati patrols approached — one from behind and one from across the plaza. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be shooting, unless they had orders to capture him alive. Why deprive General Tarhippus of his fun? Harris could think of several reasons.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 49
