Excerpt
Episode One
Where Lord Belmundus learns his duties; and is taught to shoot and fly and race — shaky businesses fraught with mystery
1
Isolating the gregarious and social can be a dangerous undertaking, especially if the subject balks at the experience. Teaching the intelligent to be ignorant is a lost cause. Applying new moral values on the morally conscious is a pretentious undertaking. Shoot the wind and expect it to become docile. Pin the tide and expect it to dry upon the sand. Outrace the moons and decide they really care that their natures are mocked by delusion. The butterfly emerges from its cocoon to impress the eye, but the mayfly emerges from the pond to live but an hour. Nature is written by an unswerving hand. The unnatural is never written in the first place.
2
Belmundus was up and stayed up for two weeks. All hail youth in its exuberant blood flow! Or so went the Ayelli proverb crafted by womenfolk, no doubt. Unlike the previous experiences, Harris recalled fragmentary moments. It wasn’t all pleasure, because, although stamina blessed him, and his selection was probably predicated upon it, drilling for oil in the same field proved routine after two days, verging on tedium after a week. At two weeks, filled with Corzanthe and delectable tasty pastries and fruit, which Yustichisqua brought or Littafulchee toted, Harris had a hangover few had ever encountered, and fewer would envy. While intoxicating on one hand, it begged for relief on the other. When he resisted the Scepta, she would put on her Goth girl routine, recapturing the passion, which had snagged him from the outlands — an art refined by an eternity of succubus needs. However, whatever her feelings for the act, she had scant feelings for him. Harris was an object — a magic wand fulfilling the promise and perhaps the prophecy. Satiating the Scepta’s spirit — the food which kept her alive, dwelled beyond him — beyond Mortis House and Montjoy — in the several worlds of the outlands, in the dreams of the unsuspecting, who would slumber hot and bothered, never to awake, depleted of testosterone. Loved ones would find these victims in the morning and declare a death by a heart attack or an aneurysm from a precondition. Shame! Father of two. Successful businessman! Early death and much mourned. Harris wondered whether Montjoy invested in the insurance policies these acts inspired. In any event, he might be exhausted, but he was alive and kicking.
At breaks, when they dined together, Harris would test the waters with general questions. As long as he stuck to generalities, the Scepta might answer. She told him the two suns of this world were named Solus and Dodecadatamus, and there were two suns in all the outlands. However, Dodecadatamus in some worlds orbited wide, making its approach beyond human reckoning. Every Thirdling knew as much. Once, he asked about the zulus.
“Why do you force Trones to wear those zippy shoes?”
“To serve us faster,” she replied. “It is their shame, and they must recall it.”
“What must they recall and why?” he asked.
“Their shame, of course. Because, they must. It is ordained.”
“Who ordained it?”
Charminus grinned, pointing to the ceiling, and then to the floor, but didn’t venture an answer beyond that. Then, after a sip of Corzanthe, she calmly said: “Your Trone will murder you in your sleep.”
“Not true.”
“You regard yourself as liberator, but they cannot be liberated by those who rule. They can only be free when they regard us as weak and assailable. That is why we have Yunockers.”
“But they wear zulus too.”
“Yes, and for the same reason.”
“I’d fear the zippy cops slitting my throat before I would my Trone.”
“In your case, my dear Lord Belmundus, you might be correct.”
He winced, although it had been his suggestion.
“Am I marked?” he asked.
“You have incurred Captain Buhippus’ anger. He is an obedient servant but given to command. Tappiolus barely controls him, though I have admonished him to demean Buhippus — to regard him with less importance. More like a trained Tippagore or Hunting dragget. Tappiolus would never condone easing the zulu rule.”
“Does it really matter?” Harris asked, as if the conversation had veered to the political.
“Actually, to me, no,” she snapped. “I am above such discussions. If a Trone — even my most obedient and trustworthy Trone, were to transgress the law, punishment would be swift and severe. The Kalugu brims with replacement candidates, compliant entities happier to serve in Ayelli than to starve in Kalugu.”
She yawned. Harris fell silent. Then he changed to a subject closer to his interests.
“When am I to see the city?” he asked. “I’ve been shown maps and I see it from my perch, but it would please me to visit the wards and markets.”
“It would please me not,” she said. He pouted. “Perhaps someday,” she added. “There are pleasures enough to keep you here. And Brunting Day approaches.”
Brunting Day was a sacred festival set aside by Kuriakis and Joella for their coupling. They processed from their palaces to the Scaladar gardens to reap the adulation of Montjoy. Elector and Memer would enter the Temple of Greary Gree and dedicate their bodies to the divinity of Farn. The play Harris was to perform — the tidbit dubbed Othellohito, was scheduled at the garden amphitheater on Brunting Day.
Harris didn’t press the subject further. Bored or enthusiastic, he still considered escape. But when his passion flagged, Charminus would enchant him with her ring. He became a zapped bug. He did learn about her ring. The sigil on its face, resembling a shepherd’s crook, actually evoked the sacred plant, which grew around the Temple of Greary Gree. It was a finicky specimen, blooming once every ten years. It was called the Lily of Murrow, its flower used to brew a liquor so powerful when poured into a silver goblet, the vessel turned to gold. It was almost worth the price of admission to see it, but the event was a few years off. Why did these precious plants take so long to flower, when the Sceptas had a short six-week gestation period, and the Thirdlings went from infanthood to dancing the herky jerky in three years?
Harris also discovered when his own ring touched Charminus’, it caused her eyes to roll in orgiastic rapture. She almost lost consciousness. So, whenever he needed a break, he’d clamp his ring to hers — jade to jade. Was this the secret for Ayelli insemination, because during his first inning of being up, he failed to impregnate her? Maybe the rings had to be clanked at precisely the correct moment — some sacred plant weaving its perfume about the canopy of the great bed. However, except the Book of Farn, there were no ready books on Montjoy lovemaking. Harris wasn’t anxious to visit the Cartisforium for fear the chapters on sex would display a map akin to the Kama Sutra.
There was one curious ring-related action. Whenever Charminus called him to his session, the jade shone brightly. Harris was glad it didn’t come with a siren or he’d be a walking broadcast for his horny mistress.
Harris asked Charminus a specific question, one too specific for her reply — a question, which Arquebus had warned him to avoid. He sensed Charminus was lulled to joy after their last round of passion. The opportunity was too good to let pass. He looked deeply into her golden eyes — those eyes, which could project into a huge spyglass, roaming the halls of Mortis House.
“Great Scepta,” he said solemnly, as if asking permission to use the toilet. “May I ask a question, which burns in my soul?”
She nodded. He couldn’t tell whether it was ascent or her usual shrug.
“Thank you,” he said, sitting up. “What happened to my predecessor?”
Charminus closed her eyes, and then scrambled from the vast bed, summoning her Trone to bring a fresh shift, as if the question had soiled her. Harris summoned Yustichisqua for a fresh jockstrap — tit for tat. He never asked her that question again. Besides, his up time was almost up. The clock rang him out when Tappiolus bowed his way in, his own Trone in tow. Charminus left them alone — the changing of the guard.
“Is this the way it’ll always be?” Harris asked, hoping under these arrangements, co-consort paths would cross once every two weeks only.
“Sometimes, Boots,” Tappiolus replied. “But she roves to the out worlds also. When it happens, you must pursue knitting ganuggle robes or growing protastitorium spuds or whatever young screen stars are accustomed to do when not thrashing in the bedroom.”
“I generally read Cicero,” Harris said, smugly — although he couldn’t remember the last Greek or Roman he read. “And I fancy exotic languages. Perhaps I’ll study Cetrone.”
Tappiolus sneered — a canine scowl.
“You are testing me, Lord Belmundus. But remember, when it comes to Trones, I am not the only deterrent.”
“Buhippus?” Harris asked. “Yes, I forgot El Capitan and his pogo stick.”
“If I were you, sir,” Tappiolus admonished. “I would devote your free time to your Columbincus and becoming proficient at controlling your Cabriolin.”
“And there’s Brunting Day.”
“Yes.” Tappiolus bowed smartly, like a gendarme in a French Foreign Legion film, only with Italian subtitles. “You are relieved to take your ease, Lord Belmundus.”
What? No Boots? Harris would like to call Tappiolus, Shithead, but he didn’t think it would fly unless Kuriakis initiated it. Instead, he returned the bow — smartly á la the back lot.
“Yes, Lord Tappiolus, I’ll relieve myself.”
Harris left his fellow consort fuming, but his gibes would improve with time.
3
Arquebus instructed Harris on the refinements of the Columbincus. It afforded many advantages, including a shield if a Trone should try to murder him in his sleep. It also powered his Stick and Cabriolin.
Firing the Stick was an art, Harris soon discovered. You just didn’t point and shoot. Tappiolus had offered to teach him, but since the co-consort was now up and unavailable, Hasamun and Posan took his place. A difficult course of study this, because neither consort spoke often — mostly grunting, demonstrating Stick techniques through tug and push. Hasamun taught Harris how to hold the Stick. Grip it wide-side toward the body and narrow-side out. Otherwise the shooter could do himself injury. Next, the thumb was pressed along the decorative band, which ringed the Stick’s midsection. The index finger must be rigid, the remaining fingers bowed against the weapon’s underside for support. Harris dropped the damn thing before he managed the proper grip.
“If you hold it not correctly,” Hasamun explained, “it will knock you backwards upon your rump.”
“Or fly away over your hip,” Posan added. “And then . . .”
He pointed to the sky, laughing. He laughed harder when Harris’ Stick did exactly that. They scrambled up a tree to retrieve it.
“Maybe I should just use it as a club,” he suggested.
Finally, Harris managed to power up the Stick, regardless where it flew. He accomplished this by holding his left hand over the sigil of his Columbincus and focusing his mind on the Stick’s tip. This fired the dang thing up. Now it was a matter of aim.
“Practice on the birds,” Hasamun said, pointing to a gaggle of scarlet tweeters, which perched on a branch.
“What did they do to me?” Harris asked.
“Just aim and see,” Posan replied.
Harris shrugged, touched his Columbincus, lifted the Stick, held properly with thumb pressed, index finger stiff, and the rest, bowed. He wished upon a star the thing missed the sweet little birdies, which had done him no harm. However, when he lifted his arm, the birds squawked, displayed hideous teeth and dived at him.
“Holy crap,” he cried.
The little devils were aiming for his head. Harris stepped back, tripping over a footstool. He heard Yustichisqua behind him, yelling — fire, oginali. Fire! Harris waved the weapon like a flag, spraying the incoming kamikaze birds with enough blue fire to stop them cold. They fell like scarlet raindrops at his feet.
Hasamun and Posan bowed, and then applauded. Harris waited for an arkmo and an Adadooski, but his brother consorts just helped him to his feet, while Little Bird fussed about the state of Lord Belmundus’ asano and cape. Harris laughed.
“Not so cute, these birdies,” he said, kicking one aside.
Yustichisqua gathered them in his korinkle — a knapsack as ubiquitous as his waddly wazzoo.
“Good eating, oginali. They are porgeedasqui.”
Tastes like chicken, Harris thought. But he had taken his first shot. He could become a big game hunter if Charminus allowed him to spread his wings and find the quarry. Chances seemed nil to no way. As for spreading his wings, that was left to Arquebus and the flying machine.
4
Cabriolins, Harris learned, were also Columbincus powered. Whatever powered the Columbincus remained a mystery, although he asked.
“There is a place where minerals are mined,” Arquebus explained. “There, the enriching stones lurk, coveted by the Electors as . . . as the source.”
That didn’t explain much. Were these minerals like kryptonite or Dragonstone — or were they the fabled paragons of power, which Hollywood scripts harvested whenever they needed a focal point for the ubiquitous force or the mystical essence, ch’i? Harris accepted the answer pat, as if Arquebus said Cabriolins were powered by gas from the pump. He decided to call the all-powerful mineral, the stuff. He needed to manipulate the stuff, because it was found in Ayelli inventions, most beyond his ken.
The Cabriolin’s panel was simple — flat and smooth with five indented zones — ports. Harris had observed these when he first encountered Arquebus, and the roller-coaster ride with Elypticus.
“This turns the power on,” Arquebus explained, touching the center zone.
“Like a car’s ignition?”
“If that yields meaning to you, yes.”
Arquebus lived in pre-automotive times, so Harris shut up and listened. Arquebus touched each of the zones in turn.
“Your navigation — much like a ship’s wheel. Left — right — upward and downward.”
“Simple enough.”
Elypticus arrived in his vehicle, and then bowed.
“Is Lord Belmundus ready to race?”
Harris grinned, and then positioned himself before the panel. He touched the center zone, but nothing occurred. Arquebus chuckled. Then Harris looked to Elypticus, who touched his chest, where a smaller version of a Columbincus was pinned. Harris nodded, and touched his left hand to his brooch, and then applied his hand to the power port. The Cabriolin shook, the central zone glowing ruby. Harris shifted his hand to the upper zone and . . .
“Wow,” he said, looking to Arquebus, who held on for his life.
“Keep it steady,” his teacher advised. “And no racing today. Just ride easy — right — left, and then down a little.”
Harris felt the vehicle responding not only to his hand, but to his thoughts — gentle glide, easy bank, forward over the Ayelli and upward to the sky. Elypticus kept pace with him, winking and grinning — clearly itching for a race.
“Keep your eyes on the panel,” Arquebus chided, because Ayelli’s beauty had captivated Harris’ attentions.
His eyes drank the sights — the valley sloping toward the city, verdant, dotted with pavilions and fountains and shrines. The amphitheatre, where he would put forth his best Cassioshima, if he managed to learn his lines, spread beneath his Cabriolin. A rotunda dominated the hill — the Temple of Greary Gree.
Suddenly, Arquebus placed a hand on Harris’ shoulder.
“Hover here. Go no further.”
Harris didn’t know how to stop the contraption. He shrugged. Arquebus came beside him.
“Just take your hand away and not too . . . “
But Harris jerked his hand up, and the Cabriolin began spinning like a top.
“Now what?” Harris cried, alarmed.
“Hands back on,” Arquebus shouted. “Tickle the left and right ports together.”
Harris did this until the gyration gradually stopped. Dizzy, he might donate his lunch to the landscape below.
“Gently remove your hand.”
Done. Stopped and hovering. Elypticus laughed, but upon catching his father’s eye, the lad puckered, nodded and turned his head away. From both north and south (or was it south and north) a Cabriolin convoy approached, two double lines of ten, driving at a lower altitude than Harris, but clearly drawing a boundary between Ayelli and Montjoy City.
“Who are they?”
“Yunockers,” Arquebus explained. “The guardians of the gate.”
“I don’t see a gate.”
“You will if you cross the line,” Arquebus replied.
“So, we’re not allowed in the city? None of us?”
“Yes, on occasion — supervised. Tappiolus is, of course, as he is the Provost of the Yunocker and must inspect the Yuganawu. Agrimentikos goes frequently, but he has been here so long he is . . .”
Harris cocked his head. Arquebus was about to say he is trusted to do so. Harris was convinced.
“He’s what?”
“Nothing. The longer you are here, the more freedoms you accrue.”
Harris looked at Arquebus suspiciously. Sir John was suppressing something. It was plain from the man’s expression — one of longing, and yet disgust. This, despite the actor’s art.
“Sir John,” Harris snapped. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“No one cares what we think, Lord Belmundus and do not call me, Sir John.”
“Does it pain you?”
“That name is best left in the past.”
Harris watched the guardian forces crisscross before them. It was a gate and it was locked.
“What if I put my hand in gear and edge us closer?” Harris asked, a trace of mischief in his voice.
“They would take you into custody.”
“Custody? An Ayelli Lord in custody?”
“They would do it with civility and considerable apology, but they would do it all the same. They would escort you to your Scepta to await chastisement.”
“And what if I resisted their escort?”
Arquebus grimaced.
“You are as troublesome as . . .”
“As whom? The other one?”
“No one.”
“Do you know what I think?”
Arquebus didn’t answer. However, this didn’t stop Harris from mulling over answers in his mind. I think we’re kept from the city because there’s a secret there. I bet there’s a way out and I also bet my predecessor — old Mr. Troublesome, found his way and was . . . well, was gently chastised for the discovery. Probably thrown to the terrerbyrds.
“Do you know what I think?” Harris repeated, and then caught Elypticus’ eye. “I think I’m up for a race.”
Arquebus shook his head.
“You are not ready. Besides, it would be no contest.”
“You think I’d lose?”
“On the contrary. Elypticus would let you win at all costs.”
Harris grinned. He waved at the Thirdling, who cocked his head suspiciously, like a parrot wondering where the cracker was hidden. Then he grasped the intent. Harris slammed his hand on the center panel, and then banked away from the gate. He dived fast and furiously, swooping over the amphitheater and the Temple of Greary Gree. Elypticus gave a war whoop (a childish one) but zoomed to the challenge.
“Try to make me win,” Harris shouted. “That’s what you think.”
Harris accelerated over the gardens and raced so low he could almost pick some Roses of Scaladar. It was the best ride he had ever taken — exhilarating and even more gratifying, because he had a chiding, grumbling Arquebus gripping on the rail.
“Some driving lesson,” Harris shouted.
Elypticus kept up but pointed at the sky. Harris winced, trying to see what the Thirdling meant. Storm clouds were rolling in. Harris could hear the rumble of distant thunder.
“I must insist,” Arquebus said. “I insist we end this foolishness, Lord Belmundus. Riding a Cabriolin in a tempest is not wise.”
“Why not? The Yunockers do it.”
It was true. It was already raining at the invisible gate. However, a militia is trained to maneuver to evade lightning strikes and perhaps even ratchet between the drops. So, Harris banked hard and raced the Cabriolin back toward Mortis House.
Neck and neck with Elypticus, the Thirdling would fall back when they approached the terrace.
He will allow me to win at all costs.
Harris had another thing in mind. Within fifty yards of the portico, Harris lifted his hand abruptly from the controls. This halted the Cabriolin and put it into a violent tub spin, taking Elypticus by surprise as he passed his opponent, landing abruptly on the terrace. Harris replaced his hand on the left and right ports, feathering the Cabriolin into a steady hover. Arquebus was a wreck. However, tradition was even more so, because Lord Belmundus navigated his craft to the terrace having lost the race. There Elypticus sprawled prostrate on the marble tiles.
“What?” Harris asked, as Yustichisqua helped him disembark. “You are the victor, Elypticus. Congratulations.”
“Forgive me, Lord Belmundus,” the Thirdling wept. “I shall be mocked by all who see me from now and forever.”
“What?”
Arquebus was furious. He kicked his son, and then turned to Harris, bowing deeply.
“Please forgive my son, Lord Belmundus. He shall be punished before the day is out for his presumption.”
He rolled the Thirdling about the ground.
“Please,” Harris protested. “He’s done nothing wrong.”
This didn’t deter Arquebus, who lifted Elypticus by the scruff of his cape and dragged him away.
“Oginali,” Yustichisqua said, in an even tone. “The Thirdling has insulted you by winning the contest. It is disrespectful.”
“But I let him win.”
“That does not count. He must let you win.”
“At all costs,” Harris muttered.
The rain began to fall.

Episode Two
Where Lord Belmundus finds down time tedious, but puts it to good use learning his lines for the Brunting Day play.
1
The language of the folk is plain and forthright, yet it tangles on the tongue when not used every day. Still, to those who find their craft embedded with words and dependent on pronunciation, language is a sweet song enticing the soul to rise and slay it. Side by side, the folk speak the speech and find intelligence in the unintelligible — bird twitter to rodent squeaks. The need for intermediaries are a blessing, because in those bonds we folk find the ground level, yet slightly perverse in the uphill climb. Slowly but surely, the tangles are smoothed, and the sounds become plain and forthright, just as the folk planned all along. How else can they ask for bread and butter to feed those salted tongues.
2
The rain began to fall; and it seemed never to cease — no promise in the endless water’s fall. Yustichisqua said it was the rainy season, when clouds blew in from the sea, buffeting the desert’s dry heat. Sometimes it rained in the desert and, when it did, the wadis would fill with quickened sand, facilitating the Pod to hunt Tippagores and Tyggers, the beasts the Cetrone called tludachi.
Little Bird was gladdened by the weather and its persistence. It made the gardens of the Ayelli bloom, not to mention the growing lands beyond the hill, where many Cetrone bent their backs to the work. But it was hard work raising jomar and quillerfoil, the principle grain for bupka bread and sqwallen, although sqwallen had additives in its recipe — cement and marijuana came to Harris’ mind, because the stuff was heavy on the tongue. He also had to account for the high he experienced after ingesting the stuff. Were the Cetrone permanently high? Yustichisqua appeared alert, although he was eating less and less sqwallen.
Lethargy embraced Harris in this so-called rainy season. Although he was kept from practicing with his Stick and from taking a spin about the gardens in his Cabriolin, it was the dustup with Elypticus that depressed him. Arquebus’ treatment of the Thirdling infuriated Harris. He wanted to give Arquebus a piece of his mind, but then recalled these were family matters between a father and his son. Perhaps Arquebus feared that the Eye had captured the Cabriolin race. Did Soffira have a roving Eye also or a Big Toe? Harris wasn’t sure, but he witnessed Arquebus’ transformation from an admonishing mentor to a tyrannical father in a split second.
Harris considered seeking Elypticus and having a heart to heart with him — explaining to the lad that in the outlands pedestrians ran over children and didn’t give it a second thought — that teenagers lived in an iPod haze, never considering the world about them. Winning a race was a good thing — something to crow about, not to shiver in the gutter. However, after Harris asked Little Bird for directions to Elypticus’ quarters, Yustichisqua balked.
“If you seek the Thirdling,” Little Bird said, “you will further shame him. It overthrows his punishment.”
“But he shouldn’t be punished,” Harris complained. He shrugged — a concession to Little Bird’s advice. “I’ll send him a gift then.”
“He must send you a gift, oginali.”
Sure enough, a gift eventually would arrive with one of Arquebus’ Trones.
The whole affair was irksome, leaving Harris depressed. He retreated to the portico, listening to the rain. The drops chilled, cascading in a sheet from the overhang, past the balustrade and into the ravine below Mortis House.
Harris sighed, and turned to a review of his assignment, the play Othellohito. He had puttered about this for hours, scarcely concentrating on his lines. The rain sound was a narcotic — the sights even more. He couldn’t see the distant city and the forbidden gate, but he discerned a haze kissing the valley below — the sky river collecting into a verdant glade about the cobbled gardens. The botanicals spread like a pinwheel from the Temple of Greary Gree. Occasionally, a Cabriolin raced by — sometimes singly; sometimes in tandem — Yunockers making their rounds of the Ayelli.
Lord Tappiolus was up these past two weeks; and Harris wondered how he fared. Despite the boredom, Harris preferred being the master of his own time. He studied lines and wondered about the places beyond the boundary — the invisible gate. He would love to bridge it and explore the city, because it was there and — and for other reasons. He suspected his predecessor had discovered a portal or a mirror or a slit trench to escape this captivity. If it weren’t so, Montjoy City wouldn’t be off-limits. But even if his speculation was dead wrong, exploring the town would be a better occupation than reading this hack reworking of Shakespeare.
Harris broke mid-reverie, letting his eye rove. It settled on Little Bird, who mended his waddly wazzoo, a rope lamp, which all Cetrone used to navigate the dark corridors. The device mystified Harris — primitive wicks in a land with bright sconces and unsourced recessed lighting. But Little Bird mended the lamp as if it were sacred, more a symbol than a navigational device. At this moment, Yustichisqua looked up, cocked his head toward the sliding door of the inner court, and then got to his feet. Instinctively, he gathered his zulus, which, by Elector decree, he could shed in the privacy of the consort’s chamber. He hesitated, and then looked to Harris as if to don them would be an insult.
“You best put them on,” Harris said. “You never know who’s at the door. It might be big fucking Buhippus himself.”
Little Bird grinned, as he had whenever his master regaled him with friendly obscenities. Yustichisqua knew all the bad words. He was raised in the Kalugu, after all, Mortis House’s refinement keeping such language at bay. But refreshingly not with Lord Belmundus. Gossip in the Scullery Dorgan had already noted the new consort’s renegade attitude. But in time, all suspected Lord Belmundus would settle into the tyrannical ruthlessness enjoyed by all Ayelli nobility. The palace slaves didn’t seem to resent the protocols, which set a stable atmosphere of expectation. From one generation to the next, they had survived the weight of a generation, which never departed. But this Lord Belmundus — he was a conversation piece where words were whispered behind the terrapinsgi soup cauldron.
So Little Bird grinned, and then slipped on his zulus.
Bing bong.
The door vibrated innocuously, and slid aside revealing a short Trone, who looked past Yustichisqua to see the master. Upon spotting him, he bowed curtly, crossing the threshold; but just. He carried a large basket covered by a green tea towel. Little Bird lifted the towel, peeking into the basket. He grinned, looking back at Lord Belmundus. Harris shrugged. Little Bird took the basket with two hands.
“Accepted,” he snapped.
“Is it?” the Trone asked.
Little Bird looked again to Harris, who slipped from his balustrade perch and approached. Yustichisqua quickly returned his attention to the Trone, nodding and pushing him across the threshold.
Bing bong.
The door slid closed.
“What was that all about?”
Yustichisqua shucked his zulus, meeting the master halfway.
“It is the gift, oginali.”
“Gift?” He glanced at the closed door. “You tossed a fellow Trone out? We should be more hospitable, Little Bird.”
“You cannot appear too generous with this gift, oginali. It is a healing gift.”
“Healing gift?”
“From the Thirdling.”
“Elypticus?”
“Your acceptance will heal his shame. If you appear too anxious to return the favor, it would only shame him again. He would need to send you another gift.”
“I’ll never get used to these doings,” Harris said, lifting the tea towel. “What is it? It looks like dead snakes. Maybe I was hasty accepting it.”
“No, no, oginali. This is mongerhide — a delicacy — and very dear. It costs many yedalas — more than I have ever seen.”
“Do we wear them or eat them?”
“You eat them, oginali. I cannot, but you must enjoy it.”
Harris snapped the basket from his servant, waving him to follow. He returned to the portico and the rain and the script. He set the basket on a table and slipped off the tea towel. He held one of these strange mongerhide sticks to his eye.
“Slim Jims,” he muttered, “although they’re twisted like bugs in a Chinese market.”
He grinned and bit into the end. Crunchy, but when saliva ran, it softened to a spicy morsel — between pepperoni and andouille. Tasty juice trickled down his gullet.
“Slim Jims,” he concluded. “Eat one.”
Little Bird hesitated, glancing back at the wall, looking for the Eye, no doubt. Then he snatched one and quickly devoured it before anyone could see him. Harris laughed.
“Good,” Little Bird murmured.
Yustichisqua grinned, the ruddy juice trickling down his mouth’s crevice. He swallowed, and then snatched another.
“Better than sqwallen, eh, Little Bird?”
“Better, oginali.”
“Fucking-A,” Harris said, hugging him. “I don’t care how many yedalas these Slim Jim taste-alikes cost. It’s worth it if it makes you smile.”
Harris munched as much mongerhide as he could, short of belly busting.
“Perhaps I should press more Thirdlings to shame.”
Yustichisqua giggled, snickering down the crunchy delicacy.
“I do not advise it, oginali,” he said.
“Ah. You’re my adviser now.”
Little Bird immediately changed his demeanor to formal subservience, a posture Harris disliked. He was joshing, after all. Again, in this culture, all was literal.
Harris stood, raising Little Bird.
“Hear me,” he said, wagging his finger. “I’m a prick sometimes, and even when I don’t know it.”
“No, oginali.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“No, oginali.”
“I’m still learning. I don’t intend to cause anxiety or to bring punishments. But until I get my land legs, your advice is precious. Do you understand me now?”
“Yes, oginali.” Yustichisqua returned to his haunches. “But after you get these land leggings, shall Little Bird become as he was? I mean no offense and have delighted in feeling the ground under my toes and being able to speak in your presence and to eat wonderful foods — and see things no Trone is permitted to see.”
Harris hunkered down, placing his hands upon Little Bird’s shoulders.
“You shall be as you are, however you are, when you are who you are. There’s no going back, and even after I’ve figured this place out and find . . . and find my way home, you are changed forever . . . forever.”
Little Bird nodded.
“It is a fearful thing.”
“It is. Your fear will raise you. When you lack fear, you become a slave.”
“But I do not fear you.”
“Fear me, Yustichisqua. I’ll never harm you intentionally. But if you throw your lot in with me, you might just fall off a cliff.”
Little Bird smiled. He nodded, and then touched Harris’ forehead, a zone forbidden to touch.
“I will never fear you, even when you throw me off the cliff. I delight in the moments you have given, like the light of my waddly wazzoo, which burns strong now.”
Harris stood and waited for Yustichisqua to join him at his side. Then he snatched a mongerhide stick, offering it to the lad. Little Bird grinned, snatched one from the basket and offered it to Lord Belmundus. Thus, the knots of trust are tied.
3
Incessant rain — a melody throughout the night; chilled fingers during the day. Lightning struck beyond the valley, never coming to the Ayelli, as if a force field shielded it from damage. No such shields protected Montjoy City. Harris saw fires glowing in the distant Kalugu and the Yuyutlu. Swarms of Yunockers raced on large Cabriolins, which Harris assumed were Farn’s version of fire trucks. He also noticed the priorities — blazes in the Yuyutlu took preference, while the Kalugu was left to burn. Cruel Farn logic.
Harris grew listless. He couldn’t sit around and munch yedalas worth of mongerhide all day or sip yarrow tarrow tea. He persisted in going over his lines of the worst script he had ever encountered. If this were truly Shakespeare, he would make an honorable effort worthy of his craft. But the script reflected the twisted tastes of the three Sceptas, making for crappy drama. Othellohito no longer had pretense to tragedy, since Desdemona (or Desdemonayama) magically comes back to life at the end and hooks up with Cassioshima in a hammy manner. Still, Brunting Day approached. The rain had forestalled it, but it would come. Harris would be ready.
He raised the script and read to himself, occasionally glancing up from the page.

“I found it in my mikaruni:
And he himself confess’d but even now
That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose
Which wrought to his desire.”

Harris assumed that a mikaruni was a bedchamber, if the handkerchief in question was indeed the handkerchief in question. He closed the script, his finger keeping the place.
“I found it in my . . . macaroni,” he laughed, drawing Little Bird’s attention. “That’s not right.” Yustichisqua shrugged. “It’s bad enough I’m contending with Cetronian and Ayellian and What-the-fuck-onian, I’ve gotta know Japanese too?”
Little Bird approached. He tapped the script, which Harris opened. His servant cocked his head and read the lines to himself.
“It is not Cetrone speech, oginali.”
“How would you know?” Little Bird smiled. “You can read, you sly devil? I would think if there’s an edict on what you can’t eat and what you must wear on your tootsies, there’d be one helluva taboo about you reading.”
“There is. We are allowed to learn how to read, but it is forbidden to teach us.”
“That’s nifty-shifty logic,” Harris said, turning the script back ‘round. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve an idea which’ll help me learn this shit.”
“Help I will do.”
Harris thrust the script into Little Bird’s hands, pointing to a place on the page.
“Feed me lines.”
“Feed you? But we just ate.”
“Read the line, and that’ll prompt me for my line.”
Yustichisqua appeared eager, now that he understood the process. He raised the script close to his face.
“Can you see it?”
“Yes. We are partial to far seeing. Near seeing is a challenge.”
Harris put that on his mental to-do list.
“Read.”
Yustichisqua spoke:

“O the pernicious . . . catwhiff!”

Harris peeked.
“Caitiff. It’s an old English word for a coward or a miserable bastard.”
“Oh.”
“Start again.”

“O the pernicious caitiff!
How came you, Cassioshima, by that handkerchief
That was my wife’s?”

Harris looked off into the rain and mumbled.

“I found it in my macaroni:
And he himself confess’d but even now
That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose
Which wrought to his desire.”

Pause. Long pause.

“Next line.”
“Yes, oginali.” Yustichisqua trembled. “O fool! Fool! fool!” He nodded. “Please forgive me, oginali.”
Harris laughed but continued unabated and in full voice.

“There is besides in Roderikosan’s letter,
How he upbraids Iagomoto, that he made him
Brave me upon the watch; whereon it came
That I was cast: and even but now he spake,
After long seeming dead, Iagomoto hurt him,
Iagomoto set him on.”

Little Bird’s eyes widened, impressed by his master’s deep voice. Recitation, not acting — not yet, but the germ brought forth another being and must have surprised Yustichisqua. How many men lived inside Lord Belmundus?
“Come, Little Bird. I believe the next line belongs to Lodovicomori.”
Yustichisqua returned to the script.
“Yes, oginali. That is the name for the next say.”
He read, slowly, and with temerity:

“You must forsake this . . . mikaruni, and go with us:
Your power and your command is taken off,
And Cassioshima rules in Honshu. For this slave,
If there be any cunning cruelty . . .”

“Enough,” Harris said. “You’ve done well.”
“Thank you, oginali. I do not know what it means.”
“Most people don’t. Besides, we’re just running lines. There’s more to acting than that.”
“I do not doubt it.”
Harris took the script, rolled it, and then slapped it in his open palm.
“Who taught you how to read?”
Silence.
He was sorry he asked. The teacher had broken the law not the student. If the Eye should pop in now, it might think Harris held class.
“She did,” Little Bird said, after hesitation.
“She?”
“Littafulchee.”
“Your cousin.”
Harris had a mental flash of the elusive Trone who served Charminus silently, but efficiently — a Trone whom other Trones gave wide berth. An attractive Trone — mysteriously alluring. Harris knew he might have stepped over the line with Yustichisqua, but when it came to Charminus, liberties were heresies and dismissal would probably result.
“But if it’s a taboo to teach . . .”
Little Bird was circumspect.
“She teaches us when we are in the Kalugu. It is dangerous, but if she did not undertake it, our people would lose their heritage.”
“Is heritage important to a people who grovel and live at death’s edge?”
“We do not fear death, oginali. We fear pain — the lingering in dying, which the Yunockers can give effectively. That we fear. We, like you, do not live forever. You will live long and will cling to your youth. But your poor Yustichisqua grows old and dies — food for the porcorporian.”
Harris sat with a thud. He hadn’t considered life and death’s dynamics in a community where the masters live forever or nearly so, and the population churns like sand in the wind.
“How sad,” he said.
“No, oginali. We are bound to service. Our lives are hard, but they have been hard always, or so I have been told. To serve in silence is honorable. But we have a voice and it is alive. That is why Littafulchee has taught me to read the letters and to say the words.”
“Cetrone.”
“The ancestral speech prevails.”
Suddenly, Harris had a revelation.
“So, Cetrone is the basic speech of Farn.”
“It sits with others at the core.”
This was true. The wards of Montjoy City all had Cetrone names — as did the instruments in the orchestra and the flora and the fauna. Even within the tasty name of mongerhide lingered a Cetrone root word, but it wasn’t a mouthful Harris was prepared to swallow.
“Then,” Harris mused, “the Cetrone have been around for a long time.”
Little Bird smiled broadly.
“We are the people, oginali. The Ayelli came from another place. They took our land — the growing fields beyond the hills; and made many changes to the way we live. But so long as they are the Ayelli, we are content to serve them.”
Harris soon learned Ayelli meant . . . Invader.