Excerpt
Episode One
Where Lord Belmundus stands on the brink of the Gulliwailit Bridge; and also encounters General Tarhippus for a second time
1
Insight guides the soul only so far before it becomes a burden to the spirit. Most worlds present their landscapes simply and pristine, no mystery or hidden agendas behind the rocks and rills. But other worlds keep their secrets behind high walls and barrier moats, stopgaps which only lure those who prick their minds to unwrap the hidden treasures, be they rewards or punishments. Behind the doors are kept the prizes — prizes liberated by insight, but often buried in hindsight — regrets and sorrow in plenty — the soul burdened by the fruits of curiosity, which killed the Tludachi, as any child can tell.
2
“There it is,” Harris said, raising his hand, halting the Danuwa.
The Cabriolins clustered behind him. Yustichisqua took his usual place in Lord Belmundus’ vehicle. Little Bird sighed, shaking his head, probably recalling the sadness dwelling behind the walls. At the Seegoniga’s backs, Montjoy City buzzed prosperously — Yunocker folk soaring from place to place, unconcerned for those who lived beyond the bridge over the gulliwailit — the black stream separating the Yuganawu from the Kalugu.
“What’s our chances?” Harris asked Little Bird. “Do you think we can crack this safe open today and glimpse the inner workings?”
“I know the inner workings, oginali. No day is a good day to cross this bridge.”
Harris leaned forward, shading his eyes. The phitron walls, ebony and pitted with sharp metallic netting called yuyenihi — an impenetrable razor demon, were formidable and heavily controlled by the gate guardians. These guards checked every Trone’s gollywi — a brand on the upper forearm near the elbow, which proclaimed clan affiliation — alisoqua (bear), chisqua (bird), geetli (dog), tlugu (tree), or seegoniga (blue holly). Yustichisqua had the bird clan mark burned into his flesh. Harris had seen it and wondered what cruelty led the Yunockers to brand the Cetrone like cattle. He later learned these marks were self-imposed and worn proudly. That the Yunockers used gollywi to sort by clans and that they served as indelible passports into the Kalugu was a matter of convenience. That Harris’ entourage had been given a clan name by the Gurts and Zecronisians — seegoniga, was significant.
Harris had explored Montjoy during his first three months as the Didaniyisgi. The Yunockers were a privileged race, although several classes emphasized social stratification. The city burghers, the praeters, lived in mansions around the central plazas, and owned estates in the foothills. The majorin class went to business — record-keeping, yedalas trading, and aniniya speculation. They lived in neat neighborhoods surrounding downtown central. The minorin — shopkeepers, clerks and petty regulators, fended as best they could in rental plots and small holdings in the suburbs, although they commuted to their employment on speedy zulus. Finally, the regulati were Yunocker policeman, militia, enforcers, prison guards and peacekeepers. They lived in several strategic barracks around Montjoy. There were so many regulati, the city seemed to be a police state. However, although the Ayelli controlled the Yunocker, the regulatis specialized in policing the Trone population, which was considerable.
The Cetrone left a significant mark upon the landscape. The oldest structures in town were Georgian-style dwellings, constructed of banibara and phitron, with kaybar doors, which would have barred anyone but Cetrone from entering. However, Yunockers, mostly majorin, now occupied these houses, retaining the kaybar doors for servant Trones to conveniently enter to perform their duties. Praeter estates sprawled behind high gates and parapets. Gurt designed and constructed, these mansions competed for attention among the status sensitive praeters. Harris made a special note of one unusual feature of buildings in Montjoy. Beside each was constructed a low phitron kettle-shaped building, black and miserable — as ubiquitous as chimneys in Victorian London. These were the kaleezo and housed the Trones when they weren’t about their duties or in the Kalugu. Huddled out of sight, their waddly wazzoos lit for scant but true light, Cetrone servants sang their hymns at night to the spirits who had made them, but who had abandoned them to cruel masters. Cetrone were only free to return to the Kalugu when their contracts had expired, and only then to renew them, if luck prevailed.
“I served the praeters of the House of Guranitos,” Yustichisqua told Harris on one of their spins about the Yuganawu. “I scrubbed pots and waited tables. They were not cruel to me and occasionally allowed me to drift up to the Ayelli in the procession to Greary Gree. But when my contract expired, I returned to the chisqua clan in the Kalugu. It made me sad. At least in the kaleezo of Master Guranitos, I could sing my songs and kindle my light. But in the Kalugu, the regulati pestered me incessantly. There I was fed sqwallen, until my cousin Littafulchee saved me, recommending me for service at Mortis House. That is when I met you, oginali.”
The Trone’s plight in the Yuganawu distressed Harris. However, he recognized Yunocker society’s structure and its apartheid creed. The Yunockers ignored their servants unless a pot was cracked, or a jewel had gone missing. Then General Tarhippus’ crew would sweep the refuse away to the Porias, the prison for Trones — phitron built, secure and mostly vacant, because few Trones lasted more than a day, the Porias’ crematorium kept busy.
Harris spent his days in the Myrkpykyn adjudicating Yuyutlu disputes, many now because word had spread. The new Didaniyisgi was fair and had declared a new dawn. But unlike his first judgments, the courtroom was rarely packed, and ceremony had fallen by the wayside. Cyprytop occasionally turned up to defend a prominent Augustii, but mostly he sent his opinions in writing — writing which Harris still couldn’t decipher. But Garan could. The Deegosgi was present at all proceedings and beyond them. He’d show up at all hours to chatter about happenings in this Ryyve or that Ryyve. Harris found Garan fascinating, especially when he spoke of travels to the Makronican Islands in the Amaykwohi Sea. This was the home of the Finistrians, a tribe of fisherman, who harvested pearls as big as ostrich eggs, which said much about the oysters.
Harris still had his other duties — his reason for being. Lord Belmundus trekked back to Charminus’ bed when he was up, Little Bird in tow. Yustichisqua reverted to Trone on those weeks, serving Lord Belmundus from the Scullery Dorgan beside his cousin Littafulchee, who waited always upon the Scepta. Harris rarely remembered these stints with Charminus, the ring’s spell a powerful narcotic, which made the time fleet and the sex go unnoticed, at least to him. He wondered where his sex drive went. At nineteen, his sexual vigor was spent. Even an enticing three-breasted Zecronisian siren or a cute muscle boy from Montjoy couldn’t hold his interest.
In his absence from the Myrkpykyn, his Danuwa held court, heard cases and passed judgments. They made the daily rounds in the Yuyutlu and into the Yuganawu. Garan oversaw the cases and Buhippus, when he wasn’t back in Mortis House, which also drew him away as Captain of the Palace Guard, oversaw the Danuwa. These overseers reported to Harris favorably. Elypticus and Parnasus were enthusiastic in their attention to details, while Melonius kept the judgments fair, but not reckless. Melonius had evolved into a level-headed asset, although he still wasn’t much fun when confronting non-Ayelli.
One thing disturbed Harris. Elypticus reported that, in Harris’ absence, the Eye appeared more often. Because Harris would be in bed with the owner of that Eye, Charminus was not the spy. She had no interest in any discussion of the Didaniyisgi duties and couldn’t care less whether the Ryyves were on fire or the Yuyutlu frozen. Like most Ayelli, on their remote hill, including Kuriakis and Joella, so long as the goods were delivered and the homage paid, Montjoy could dance the herky-jerky. Harris concluded Tappiolus was the originator of these Eye events and wondered what interest his co-consort had for events in the Yuyutlu. Tappiolus, despite his position as Provost of the Yunocker forces, never went to Montjoy. He never intervened in regulati affairs and never attempted to govern Tarhippus. No one governed Tarhippus except Kuriakis, perhaps. Harris concluded Tappiolus’ interest was Tarhippus’ interest. The Eye spied for the General — no need for contact with the Didaniyisgi. Case closed.
2
“What’s our chances?” Harris asked Little Bird again. “Shall we cross it today?”
Harris had come to this brink before and had asked this question often. His hesitation was steeled by Yustichisqua’s replies and the Danuwa’s reluctance. This wasn’t Lord Belmundus’ jurisdiction, after all. He should let it be. But Harris thirsted not for what he knew — the distress of the Trones, but for something he guessed. Behind the Kalugu’s walls a secret was deliberately withheld from the world. Harris would know this secret.
“What’s our chances, Little Bird?”
“Cross it, oginali.”
Harris glanced at his Taleenay, as if this challenge was a mockery. He then looked at the Danuwa. Elypticus fidgeted, but Elypticus always fidgeted. Parnasus shrugged. Melonius, however, nodded and spoke:
“Everyone needs to die someday, my lord. Today is as good as any other.”
“We shall not die,” Harris said, and edged his Cabriolin forward.
As the four Seegoniga crossed the Gulliwailit Bridge, the creek’s acrid smell invaded their nostrils. Not Yustichisqua’s. He peered over the Cabriolin’s side. There, peering up at him were Trones who trundled either to their servitude or to their ghetto existence. They floated by on their zulus trying not to disturb a lord from the Ayelli in his passage. However, the sight of one of their own borne in style caused many blinks and fearsome glances.
“It is difficult, oginali,” Little Bird said. “I once crossed this bridge as they do, and now I return in a guise they cannot comprehend.”
“You mustn’t let it disturb you, old man,” Harris said. “The world’s filled with change; and I bring a new dawn.”
Harris almost believed this, although words were pointless. Words may have changed the course of history in his realm, but here they flared like entertainments on a hot summer’s night. He glanced at the sky, which had turned from its merry blue to a foreboding gray.
So long as it isn’t green, he thought, remembering yichiyusti, when Kuriakis stirred.
“Ahead, my lord,” Melonius said.
Harris saw them — five Yunockers meeting him before the bridge’s end. They came on zulus with three zugginaks. Yustichisqua trembled.
“They will kill me, oginali.”
“Over my dead body,” Harris said.
That might not have been reassuring. Harris halted when the lead Yunocker drifted forward. The guard sniffed.
“Why is that Trone in your Cabriolin, sir?” he snapped, pointing directly at Yustichisqua.
“He is my Taleenay. I am . . .”
“We know who you are, Lord Belmundus. We have watched you from afar on many days when you make rounds in Montjoy.” The guard nodded, but still pointed. “That does not mean you can treat your Trone with special privileges in the Yuganawu.”
“This isn’t your concern, sir,” Harris said. “As the Didaniyisgi, my warrants are from Kuriakis. I choose my staff as you can see.”
He indicated the Danuwa, who placed hands on their Columbincus’ in unison.
The guard brought his Stick to the ready as if the Seegoniga had brooked a challenge and meant to do battle on the bridge. The other guards moved forward, the zugginaks pulling on their restraints, growling over gobs of snot dripping from their jowls. Yustichisqua’s hand went to his dagger.
“We mean to pass, sir,” Harris said, his voice steady and in command.
“Ayelli are not permitted in the Kalugu.”
“I don’t see why not, unless you mean to hide the pitiable conditions of the Cetrone from the eyes of your overlords.”
This brought the guard closer, waving the Stick.
“Your Trone may enter, if he dares,” the guard snapped. “He must first shed that rich robe and put on zulus as the law demands. Then he may join his brethren to trek across the gulliwailit and present his gollywi to enter.” He looked to Little Bird, defiantly. “Show us your gollywi . . . Trone.”
Harris moved his Cabriolin closer, so much so, the guards nearly set the zugginaks loose.
“You shall address him as Yustichisqua, Taleenay of the Yuyutlu,” Harris shouted. “He is far above you in rank and position, master of this piss bridge.”
Harris heard Melonius whisper mistake, my lord, and perhaps he had gone too far. The guard slammed his Stick on the Cabriolin’s rail. Yustichisqua drew his dagger, which provoked the guard to grimace, bubbling with surprise and anger. Harris drew his sword. Sword against Stick — an interesting match. Hard to guess the outcome, but Harris’ experience on the set of The Magic Planet won that battle, but not today. He brought the sword down on the Stick, splitting the guard’s weapon in two, the Aniniya core slipping to the ground and rolling to the bridge’s edge. Then the precious core fell into the gulliwailit. The guard screamed and the other four came forward. Melonius drew his Stick. Elypticus cleared the Trones aside. Parnasus charged to Harris’ side. The zugginaks were loosed.
Unfortunately, zugginaks were dumb creatures driven by scent and not by their masters. They only knew a Trone’s scent and not necessarily the whiff of a dagger-wielding, fancy dressed Trone in a Cabriolin. They attacked the Trones nearest their jaws, sending a mob of servants fleeing back to the Yuganawu or sideways over the bridge and into the gulliwailit.
Harris was shocked. This was not his intention. Yustichisqua whimpered as zugginaks bit and chomped at zulus, legs and torsos.
Harris raised his sword.
“Stop this madness,” he shouted. “I, Lord Belmundus, command you to stop.”
Suddenly, through the guards came another Yunocker, a whistle in his ugly maw. He blew it and the zugginaks returned to his side as calm as chipmunks. It was General Tarhippus, this time without his fiery Cabriolin, gwasdi and power zulus. He strode like the king of the bridge, which he was — a Troll in all but grace.
“Lord Belmundus,” he said firmly, but without the peppery spice of their first encounter. “What brings you to the Kalugu today?”
“General Tarhippus,” Harris stammered, off his guard. “I didn’t expect to see you . . .”
“Most people do not expect to see me,” he said wryly, and then smiled — a sardonic grin which sent chills to anyone seeing it, including his guards. A dangerous grin. “But I must remind you, despite your exalted position in the eyes of Gurts and Zecronisians and, I might add, the Elector on High, you are not permitted to tour the Kalugu.”
“Why not?”
“Ayelli are excluded here. It is a matter of treaty.”
“I see no purpose in such a treaty.”
“You would not, I daresay, because you are . . . a newcomer to our fair and honorable city. You have brought unsettling changes, especially in your views toward the conquered.” He indicated the suffering and mutilated Cetrone struggling to cross the bridge. “It will serve no purpose in the end. Still we must allow . . . newcomers their moment in the sun.” He laughed. “However, I respect you, Lord Belmundus. I might even invite you to my palace for dinner and to explore the best prison cell in the Katorias, but the Kalugu is off-limits to you.” He looked to Yustichisqua. “And despite my captain’s suggestion that your Trone . . . excuse me, your Taleenay may enter if appropriately altered, I say no. We have enough stirring in the Kalugu. I will not offer unseemly examples. Even your Danuwa cannot enter, because they are Ayelli¸ though one is the son of our Provost. No, no, no, no.”
“Lord Tappiolus would be forbidden entry?”
“Absolutely, although he would never dare so much.” Tarhippus nodded, condescendingly. “Even the one who did dare enter did not find his way out of the labyrinth.”
Hierarchus, Harris thought. He wanted to toss his sword at Tarhippus’ head, and then make a mad dash onward through the gates. The general taunted him. Then from behind the Danuwa came another voice.
“My lord,” Buhippus said. “It is best you retreat from here. You have won a victory on this bridge, for no one has ever stood his ground as you have today.”
Harris heard these words. They entered his heart like balm. He didn’t achieve his goal, but everyone in Montjoy City would know there had been a showdown on the Gulliwailit Bridge between the powers in this land, of which he was now one. He sheathed his sword. His pride arose, despite the sadness of the massacred Trones. Perhaps they were better off dead, but not maimed and wounded — mixed justification. There would be time later to analyze his actions and be remorseful.
“General Tarhippus,” he said, in a loud voice. “I shall honor the treaty but know this. If you are inclined to invite me to your table, I’ll find a conflict in my schedule.”
“Ah, a shame,” Tarhippus roared. “My table is a fine one. But I still extend my invitation to put you in the best cell in the Katorias when the time comes, as it surely shall.”
Harris raised his hand. He backed his Cabriolin over the bridge, the Danuwa following suit. They never turned their backs on Tarhippus. It would be unwise to do so.
When they reached the other side, Buhippus shook his head and nodded.
“What were you thinking, my lord?” he growled, still appropriately humble.
“You know what I’m thinking, captain, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.”
“My brother will make good on his promise.”
“I don’t doubt it, but before I take up residence in his jail, I mean to bring a new dawn inside those walls.”
“I fear the Trones will not appreciate your effort,” Buhippus said.
“You are wrong,” Yustichisqua snapped. “Thousands of waddly wazzoos are ready to be kindled.”
Harris glared at Little Bird. What revolutionary sentiment was this? Harris expected anger to flare from Buhippus, but it didn’t come. The captain just sighed, and then moved across the bridge to his brother, no doubt to tie up loose ends in what would be called in ages hence, the Incident at the Gulliwailit Bridge, the day Boots of Montjoy commenced the revolution — new dawn that it would become.
Episode Two
Where Lord Belmundus has regrets, Garan brings gifts and Yustichisqua is introduced to wisgi
1
Companionship breeds plans and congress makes good company. When the mind wanders into blame and pity, it is good to have a conference with friends — to air the world’s bad notions and compare time’s shared experiences. It does not necessarily clear the conscience or cleanse the soul, but it unburdens momentarily the full weight of sins. Perhaps this is the reason for prayer — the shedding of woe into sacred air with the hope the divine ear is inclined to wash the situation — perfume for forward motion. Such is the congress fellows seek when charging on a course of blame and pity.
2
Night and rain crept over the Myrkpykyn’s roof, the former like a shroud — the latter like a leaky faucet. Harris sat at the bed’s edge, Yustichisqua nearby. Water dripped through crevices, puddling on the floor. A steady cascade ran along the bevel’s seams, the drips caught in a cylindrical pot, which Little Bird had found in the basement. The day’s heat had escaped, seeming never to return. Even the waddly wazzoo brought no solace into the gloom of the Didaniyisgi’s quarters.
Harris pouted, the gloom aiding his thoughts — thoughts of failure about the Gulliwailit Bridge. He cursed his lack of control and Tarhippus’ mastery. He regretted the loss of Trone life at zugginak expense. He sighed for the jumpers at the murky creek. Above all, he cursed the ambivalence of the regulati. What was one Trone or another? The Kalugu had an ample supply for every household in Montjoy — a surplus, permitting warehoused labor beyond measure.
“It’s my fault,” he muttered.
Yustichisqua gazed at him.
“Do not blame yourself, oginali. Trones die daily. If these had not been attacked or taken the more painless course, they would have died tomorrow or the next day.”
“Or lived to be old men and women.”
“To what purpose, oginali?” Yustichisqua asked.
Harris sighed. If the Cetrone lacked hope, Little Bird was correct. Nothing mattered to aid them. Yet, Yustichisqua had been bettered — more comfortable and raised in status, despite the prevailing prejudice. Harris sighed again, the rain’s chill pounding the skylight, raising his skin to gooseflesh.
“When will this rain stop?” he mused, gazing through the water-streaked panes.
“It always stops,” Yustichisqua noted. “I should seek another pot. This one is nearly full.”
“I’ll go,” Harris said, leaping off the bed. “I need the stretch.”
Little Bird nodded, having learned not to argue with Lord Belmundus. He checked the water level, and then tended his wazzly wazzoo. Harris shuddered. Despondency was foreign to him, but he feared it as a prelude to depression, a state which never had found him.
On the landing, Harris heard the Danuwa discussing the day’s events. They didn’t argue. Elypticus and Parnasus expressed marvel at the Didaniyisgi’s stand against Tarhippus. Melonius was silent, but then told Parnasus to mop the floor.
I must ask Cyprytop about the roof’s condition, Harris thought. There must be a maintenance Ryyve.
Harris entered the courtroom from top level, hesitating to survey the darkness engulfing it. Except lightning flashes, the place was shadowy — almost Gothic. He wondered how Buhippus and the guards fared in the basement. Drier, perhaps, away from the roof. But perhaps the ground seeped through the cells, provoking a need for galoshes or whatever the Gurt’s called them. He soon would know, in his quest for a replacement pot, wouldn’t he?
As Harris began his descent into this room, which seemed taken straight from a mystery book — Rebecca or Wuthering Heights, he discerned a huddled figure near the doorway. It crouched beside an oversized sack set on a rolling cart, which the residents of the Byybykyyip called a dollywaggle.
“Who’s there?” he asked. “Is that you, captain?”
The figure moved forward, wrapped like a street beggar, wads of gauze dripping across the floor like a mummy arisen from a swamp. Harris wished he had lit the big bronsker, which sat beside the Book of Adjustment. But since court wasn’t in session, he made do with the small aniniya-powered hand lamp called a birrupsun. However, he hadn’t taken one with him on this errand. Fool. As the figure approached, Harris backed up to the bench.
“No cases are being heard this evening,” Harris snapped. “Come back in the morning . . . if it isn’t raining.”
Then the man shucked his wet garments, revealing a familiar face.
“Garan?”
Garan lit his birrupsun, shining it beneath his chin. Eerie.
“Sorry I startled you, my lord.”
Harris wasn’t amused. He approached the Deegosgi, and then passed him by.
“Am I not welcomed?”
“I need to see a man about a pot,” Harris blurted. “The fucking roof leaks; and I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“Wait,” Garan said. “I bring gifts.” He pointed to the sack. “Gifts that include an epoxy, which seals most anything, including seeping roofs.”
Harris halted.
“You’re not just saying that to put me in a better mood, because I’m not sure I want my mood changed.”
Garan bowed.
“My lord, I know your mood. It is understandable.”
“You know my mood?”
“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.
3
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 then 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 pour. “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 then 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 mid-gulp. 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.”