Chapter 5 – The Mighty Monument

                “Welcome back to the land of the living!” Hamish said after Zelig groaned his way awake on Hamish’s back.

                “Where are we?” Zelig mumbled.

                “You’re on my back. I knew you’re tired and didn’t want to wake you. And as for all of us, we’re back in the lift. Pyrite’s taking us to change this slip for some tullacks. Can you walk?”

                “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that’s actually fainted before,” Celia snipped with good humor as Hamish let Zelig back onto the floor. Having a credit slip for a good sum of tullacks had filled her with too much joy to actually warrant bullying him.

                “I thought she was going to kill me. My life flashed before my eyes.”

                “Really?”

                Zelig nodded, staring far off into the distance. “It was so incredible; I saw every book I’ve ever read, and…” he paused frowning.

                “What is it? The only time I’ve seen you so seriously in thought are those times when you’re reading and afterwards ask me, ‘Have you ever heard of Mongolioose?’ or something odd like that.”

                “Umpa’s stories flashed more often than I would’ve thought they would. I mean, like every one in four or five images.”

                “I always told you that they’re the greatest thing in Lumbidoor.”

                “Maybe,” Zelig said, possibly even considering it.

                “Who’s Umpa?” Niero asked, rubbing his shoulder. When The Boss had thrown him into the elevator, he had smashed his shoulder hard, though insisted he barely felt it.

                “Umpa’s why we’re here,” Hamish said. He’s the oldest person in all of Lumbidoor and he can tell stories like nobody else.”

                “I love stories! And I’m pretty good at telling them, too. For instance, the thing about money is that it never seems to stay where you left it.” And so it was that the three Lumbans got a story about the phantasmal elements of Pyrite’s favorite subject. With his bushy tail wagging behind him, Niero led them down the street, his pace undiminished by his tale. Celia was impressed by his ability to talk seeming without thought, like his pointy little canine mouth was a water spigot that was left on.

                The four hours they had spent inside the station had hardly changed the city at all. The heavy black cloud that always hung over it had sighed into a wider, flatter ring, but that was about it. Neon lights scissored and danced up and down, revealing small dips and gaps, like inverted hills in the cloud. Zelig was so relieved to be free of the station that he did not even realize how much he was enjoying their walk.

                “‘…Under the livery!’” Pyrite quoted with a brief laugh. Looking around, his smile twinkled in his eyes. “And here we are.” They had stopped at the foot of a tall green glass building. “Thneed Greed Bank! Inside, you can do almost anything you need: cash slips, change money, get loans, pay bills, and even buy stock.”

                Through the revolving doors, they found queues of Grand Thneed City inhabitants patiently waiting for their turn to transact. A line of desks were set up on one side of the spacious, sterile room. It was to one of these that Niero led them.

                A moustache with glasses was at the desk, busy with its computer screen. The fingers attached to the hands attached to the arms of the moustache danced across a globe on the edge of its desk. Zips, zooms, zaps, and booms tinged from the monitor. The name plaque on the moustache’s desk read: Therem O’Badu.

                “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your charming company tonight, Mr. Pyrite?” Therem O’Badu drawled without turning its spectacles from the monitor. “Have another run-in with The Boss of the Grand Thneed Taxi Company again, hmm?” ( Read more... )

                Chapter 4 – Niero Pyrite

                It seemed like only a heartbeat had passed before they were cruising up a ramp and into the giant garage of the Taxi-Wheel station. Swarms of Taxi-Wheels zipped up and down the station’s various ramps, giving Hamish the sense of worker bees buzzing in and out of a giant honeycomb nest. The analogy became so prominent to him that the various ramps became branches in a mighty tree that was also a building. Even the tunnels inside resembled the hexagonal shape of a hive. Hamish decided to not share his premonition with Zelig, lest his cousin panic that they would be turned into some strange Whirly-Wheel meal.

                According to the number painted onto the floor, they pulled to a stop in parking spot 42315. A parking meter with a mute black screen stood between the spot and the wall.

                “This will only take a moment,” Hollis Hes Holl Hellalo told them, removing a small card from his pocket and slipping it through a slot in the machine. With a quiet whine, the screen came alive and a voice like sandpaper said, “What you doin’ back?”

                “I am most sorry, Boss, but I have encountered a very small problem. Trite, really, but one that I know would concern you. My most recent passengers are unfamiliar with life in the city and, well, it’s a little embarrassing, but, they don’t have any tullacks with which to pay for their ride.”

                “Another batch?” the sandpaper voice of the Boss sighed. “This is the third group this week. Show them to the lift and get back out there. I can’t pay you if you don’t bring me any tullacks!”

                “Right away, sir!” Hollis Hes Holl Hellalo said, giving a slight bow to the screen. “Please, my young Lumban friends, join me out here.”

                Quietly, they left the rear chamber of the Taxi-Wheel and hoisted their sacks back on their shoulders. Zelig, feeling quite anxious and embarrassed about his failure to mention Grand Thneed City’s use of tullacks, asked, “Do you know what will happen to us?”

                “Oh, I’m sure that it will be nothing to worry about. You might have to run some errand or do something for the company. The Boss will explain it all to you when you see her.” He brought them to a big hexagonal door, which sighed and split before them. “Take this lift up to the 32^nd floor and you will find the boss. Be as polite with her as you have been with me, and everything will be fine. Thank you for choosing my cab. Have a nice day!” With that Hollis Hes Holl Hellalo all but pushed them into the lift and retreated down the corridor to his Taxi-Wheel.

                When the elevator door closed, they felt a curious sensation, like their heads were suddenly trying to grind their way into their chests. Hamish said, “I don’t feel good.” Even Hamish, whose eyes were larger than most Lumbans, seemed to become more bug-eyed from the experience. Celia had retreated into herself. She was a curious young Lumban, but she hated nothing more than getting in trouble. So it took several moments for both her and Hamish to realize that Zelig said, “We should leave.”

                “How?” Celia asked, too worried about what would happen to them to even criticize him for cowardice.    
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                Chapter 3 – Grand Thneed City

                A tourist brochure once described Grand Thneed City as “the wondrous home of the super-efficient Grand Thneed Production Plant, a city boasting unmatched views of the Lumbidoor Valley with endless vistas of the Kiminigor Mountain range. Activities within the city abound, including sporting events or concerts in the Rhoodendron Auditorium, poolhall excavations, picturesque jaunts in the Founder’s Park, wholesome tours of such places as both the Zelgo and the Adnoh Motorized Whirly Wheel plants and the Whopnoz Fizz pop factories (in which you can sample no less than seventy-two different flavors of pop!). Accommodations are endless, ranging from one all the way to five and a half stars, including the super exclusive Founder’s Inn (also open for tours). It is a city of all cities, with never-ending light shows and the greatest buildings anyone could ever hope to see!”

                The people of Lumbidoor, however, never encountered such a brochure. Instead, their depiction of Grand Thneed City was best coined nearly one hundred years ago by Arginpole J. Salisap, that it was “like a giant egg that had been cracked over the hillside with large chunks of the shell poking up from it.”

                Stepping into the city, Hamish admitted, was something entirely different. Had he read the tourist brochure, he might have agreed with its depictions of the bustle and life, a very contrary mindset to his previous belief that it was a giant omelet. Of the two descriptions, one thing he could not argue was that the place was big. In fact, it was HUGE.

                “Had Salisap ever actually been here before?” Celia asked.

                “I don’t think so,” Hamish replied. “Why?”

                “I think he would have something different to say about this if he had.”

                Celia referred to the giant towers that surrounded the three young Lumbans. These were as unlike the houses in their hamlet as a dog was a mountain. The colors were all wrong, for one. Instead of single solid colors, some of these buildings were more like tapestries, lines of red over lines of green over lines of cyan over lines of maize. Then there were the materials used in construction. These weren’t wood or stone, though some did seem to be stony. Many she could look through, revealing all the various city-folk in their daily bustle. One immense structure, in particular, really caught her attention. It rose from the paved streets like a tree, but glowed so brightly as to almost be fashioned from solid light. Hamish had to pull her away lest he and Zelig lose her.

                Mere moments later, Hamish became entranced as Celia had. He became too entranced by a giant panel of some strange sporting event to notice he had walked into the street. A slew of speeding Motorized Whirly-Wheels sped down the road toward the unsuspecting Lumban. When their drives saw Hamish daze-walking before them, they laid out their horns, but probably would have knocked poor Hamish right under their giant rear wheels had Celia not yanked him back to the curb.

                “Watch it!” squeaked a woman with bright feathers for hair, flapping her arms as the pair tumbled into her.

                “Sorry!” Celia said, grabbing Hamish’s arm.

                Zelig, at least, was no trouble at all to either of his friends. He clung to a small loop on Hamish’s back pack, his closed eyes firmly fixed to the ground. It had taken the three several hours to get this deep into the city, and had long ago lost track of time in the confusing mix of light and the dark shroud surrounding the city. While it was true that the lights here never ceased, pockets of darkness pocked the city like the indented warts in a frog-u-pine. Discussing it, Celia and Hamish agreed that the dark backdrop only helped to make the zigzagging lights stand out all the more.

                “So,” Celia said, taking a break on a brightly painted bench that was nowhere near as comfortable as it looked. “Any ideas on where to start looking?”

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                Chapter 2 - Umpa

                Umpa died that night.

                A heavy, oppressive cloud entered Lumbidoor and refused to leave. Death had come at last for the old Lumban who had escaped its grasp on countless occasions. It rode in its chariot through the streets, chilling all to the very bone with its shriek of victory. Death had won, and it was hell-bent to make all know.

                ~

                The Narrator is kidding.

                Truly! Worry not, Dear Reader, Umpa really did not die that night.

                But he was in very bad shape. Immediately following his collapse on the dais, Mayor Buggles, Round Rhunda, and the Chuple Twins rushed Umpa to his bed behind the little green door. Almost immediately, and after a brief but very thorough appraisal of his condition, Rhunda returned to the main room of the Great Hall and started delegating duties.

                “Moma, get two handfuls of Eysi vines from my house. Make sure they smell! If they aren’t strong enough to make you gag, find some that are. They won’t work if they aren’t extraordinarily potent. Seuss, go put a big pot of water on to boil. Better toss in some meet-mint leaves. I don’t need anyone fainting while we mix this Eysi tonic.”

                “Yes, Rhunda!” they said, bolting from their tables.

                Mayor Buggles, meanwhile, returned to the dais. Murmurs of concern erupted from the assemblage. Those murmurs wasted no time in maturing into full-fledged panic. “Everybody! Please just relax!” Buggles said, endeavoring to nullify the excitement. But the room was far too loud. It swallowed his voice whole and came back for seconds. Lumbans are passionate people whose loyalty to each other knows no bounds. And Umpa – brave, adventurous, old Umpa – was like a grandfather to their entire community. Mix passion with concern and utter adoration, and the result was bedlam. Men shouted, women cried, babies shrieked and little kids – who thought this was all a game – screamed at the top of their lungs.

                An old saying popped into Buggles mind after his first three attempts to quiet everybody down. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ So Buggles got desperate. He inhaled. He inhaled for a few seconds. He inhaled for an entire minute. He inhaled so deeply that his already ample body more than doubled in size. Then he exhaled with the single word,

                “QUIET!”

                In the hurricane that erupted from his belly, chairs tipped over, Lumbans fell into each other, glasses shattered, and then, silence fell. Disheveled Lumbans staggered back to their feet. They pulled themselves up off the ground, dislodged their bodies and those of their loved ones from the walls, dabbed the remnants of their meals off their faces with napkins, and replaced their wind-blown hair. They all stared at their Mayor with wide, frightened eyes.

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                While the name may look like a middle schooler’s first attempt at profanity, Quentin Tarantino’s movie, “Inglourious Basterds” is far from an effort at the profane. Exciting, loud, chock full of colorful characters and boasting a bevy of cinematic shots that some directors use with a clumsy disregard for their audience’s stomachs. Not Tarantino. While it could be said that all directors have vision, Tarantino’s vision is one that returns cinema to its traditional artistic years.

                The premise is about as simple as a movie can get: the good guys versus the bad guys – or in this case, the Jews versus the Nazis – but given a nice revenge flavor. The Basterds are an all-Jew American task force sent into occupied France during World War Two with one goal (as quoted by Brad Pitt’s Lt. Raine): “To kill naatzis.” With his announcement that each of his men will owe him 100 Nazi scalps, it’s no wonder the Reich nicknamed him “The Apache.” The Basterds are given a chance to bag the biggest scalp of them all when they learn that Hitler, himself, will be attending a film premiere in Paris. Coincidentally, this is supposed to go down in the same cinema owned by a young Jewish woman whose family was brutally murdered by Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz). Yet oddly, the lines get blurred somewhere, and it’s one of so-called “good guys” who evokes the terrifying (but hauntingly beautiful) image of a pale maniacally laughing woman’s face on a raging inferno.

                And therein exposes my sentiments about this film: it’s beautiful. Since it is Tarantino, you come to expect certain conventions. Sure, almost everyone is going to die. Sure, there will be some kind of trans-existential discussion about an esoteric concept that nobody in their right mind would consider giving any more than a moment’s thought, and then there’s the obligatory discussion about film – which he does drag on a little too long – but none of those Tarantino elements detract from the overall beauty. He does suspense very well, as depicted most notably in two scenes: the opener, where a long Nazi caravan approach silently screams that this will not bode well for the poor farmer who has to host the group, and later, when Pitt’s Raine condemns a Nazi officer to death. In an ominously black door, there comes only the heavy repeating thud of a heavy object, a flare of dramatics that a team of Basterds would exploit. He does the underground bar Mexican Standoff well with some fun and games, social dick-comparing, and final mess with entertaining flair. The slow shots of faces, of cathedral sunroofs superimposed on a stunning set piece, and those smart SS outfits… well, they make he happy that Michael Bay isn’t the standard.

                Perhaps, however, I am being overly positive with this film. I admit, I suffer a bias. See, to me, movies are supposed to be fun. That could be why I’m so heavily drawn to cartoons, comedies, and Sci-Fi/Fantasy. Sure, give me the occasional drama, too: they often manage to connect threads that keep the audience afloat over those gaping plot holes. Sadly, I can’t condemn “Basterds” for plot holes. I can condemn it for not being historically accurate. But if really wanted historically accurate, I’d put on the History Channel. In any case, maybe my praise is on to something here. It’s just nice to be able to watch movies that may be violent, they may be revenge-driven tales, destruction, and the deaths of almost the whole cast – though those who do survive are a bit of a surprise – but golly gee whiz, they still manage to maintain the classic sense that this is a means of entertainment.

                Where the acting is concerned, it was like I was watching real people. A particular element that Tarantino does so well is Human Folly. Mistakes happen, and in “Basterds,” when they go wrong, they tend to leave a high body count. On the other end of reality, certain stereotypes are used with uncanny precision. The All-American inability to speak more than one language is a prime target for ridicule, and is justified as Pitt’s Raine pulls out a brutal Mid-West drawl that is supposed to be Italian. As actors are concerned, Pitt is good, but he is a delicious side when compared to the main dish that is Waltz’s Col. Landa, however. He managed to bring a wonderfully nuanced and utterly precise character to life. Perhaps his only flaw was that he was almost too good at being the detective. Good thing that he gets his comeuppance at the end; if only all Nazis had such fitting fates. But then, if they had, would we have been able to see a group of Jews kick so much Nazi butt like a group of superheroes? Probably not. Thankfully we have Tarantino to put the imaginings in such solid work.

                Chapter 1 – The Rainy Day Feast

                While the people of Lumbidoor were as diverse as any small community, nothing said Lumban better than Feast-day. The reason for this being that it brought together their three favorite things in all the world: friends and family, food, and a story that ignited their imaginations and took them away to far-distant shores, where they swam the Mikeo Straight with two-headed Uddars or scaled chasms on the giant backs of rollikains or kissed moons. Compared to the union of these three things, even the fabled beauty of Lumbidoor could only pout in jealousy.

                Lumbidoor (to explain in case the Reader has never had the pleasure of visiting) sat in the shadow of the great, snow-capped Kiminigor Mountain, where fields and forest met with a neighborly “hay,” and the Shortened Silver Silkies called to each other from the branches of the Whistling Willows they called home. Giant Tupars grazed in the fields, and when the sun was too bright, they’d flare their large dorsal fans for shade. Nestled up between these fields and forests, sitting squat in the middle of the valley, was the town proper. If the Reader were to walk up the main street, they would see the bald men strolling back and forth, pushing carts laden with the giant Citrunar cobs and baskets of the bright green Zip-pootle berries. The women, wrapped up cozy in their skirts and aprons, nodded at the men folk, their shoulders carrying buckets of Tupar milk or water from the River Teck. The elderly lounged in comfortable rockers as their pipes sent citrus-scented bubbles popping into the air. And at the top of the main street, the Great Lumban Hall sat in wait for Feast-day to arrive.

                At the start of this Feast-day, the women were busy as usual: cooking in the giant kitchen in the Great Lumban Hall. Round Rhunda scurried back and forth, sampling the food to make sure they were ready to be served. No, good Reader, Rhunda did not get her nickname from her shape but instead from her capacity to make her way “a-round” any job she had. She was a born manager with an exceptional attention for detail. In order to do her job right, she had long ago figured out how to seeming be everywhere at once. If anyone needed something they only needed to shout out Rhunda’s name and she would be there with advice, a suggestion, or a flat-out order.

                 At present, Rhunda had a ladleful of spiced pumpkin-ginger soup just within reach of her lips. When the taste touched, she withdrew and smacked loudly so as to get the very best flavor from the dish. “Ah, perfect, Eacey! Was that two dashes of Tupar cream? What a difference!”

                “Old Farmer Chupe and the Chuple twins have just crested the rise to the Hall, Rhunda!” exclaimed Iris, who had been watching the window.

                “Oh dear, oh dear,” muttered Rhunda as she deposited the ladle back into the soup-pot. “We’re just about out of time. Veris, Tupper, Vignet, Sandi: take out those platters of cold meats, cheeses and breads. Don’t forget Celia’s Golden Gobble Cobbler! She’s been wanting to impress a certain lad with it.”

                Rhunda then shouted over the clanging of pots, splashing of liquids and rustling of utensils as the girls set the last of the dishes onto their serving platters: “Wyma, make sure you set out at least twenty more places than you think will show!”

                “Yes Rhunda!”

                “Muma,” Rhunda said, wrapping her pudgy fingers about the arm of a twinkle-eyed scurrying woman. “How is my hair? Am I presentable?”

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There has been an idea in my head for a while now. When it started out, it was the story of a boy and his dragon. The dragon has since moved on to become a god. The boy has recently become a girl, and the story that was is now nothing at all like it began.

Save for the Jester. The Jester was always the sage, wise, intelligent, all that sageful Obi-Wan Kenobi/ Optimus Prime stuff. But he was also possessed of a wicked sense of humor, which all good books need.

Several years ago, as I was writing my first attempt at a book (which, while managing to complete, knew that it was unsuitable for a market. Turns out it was little more than an elaborate race of futility, which, oddly enough, is Exactly how the book ended), I learned that the Jester had a brother. The brother, I learned, was a master of disguise, one who could become anyone he wanted. He was a shape changer. The only problem with that is that he's an assassin.

Today, as I started to take some notes on the two characters, I finalized the notion that the Jester is the younger son, whose purpose is to make peace. The Assassin, on the other hand, must do whatever is necessary to protect him brother, and whatever collateral damage lies in between (like, maybe the world). It's strange to think of this relationship, especially distanced from my own life.

You see, I, like the Jester, have an older brother. He was a trouble maker. Now, he has settled down a little, and become quite wise, but in many ways, it's almost like the Assassin. And the Jester, given the role of peacekeeper, almost reminds me of myself. But not really. Anyone who knows my brother and I might make the connection, but in reality, this is a work of fiction, and though, in some ways, these two may resemble my brother and I, in the long run, we're nothing alike. I'm nowhere near as amusing as Jester, and Nick is no assassin, nor am I a peacekeeper and Nick is trouble.

They say that art imitates life, but I can't help but feel that in some way, it's unfair. Good people, no matter what they do, are still good. And characters in a book - no matter how real they seem - are just that. I mean, we can separate the characters from their unwitting source material, can't we?

 

                7.

                Caelyn was reluctant to release the nipple. Fifteen moons since her birth, and gripped with a hunger Bethraia could scarce believe, the little girl was growing by leaps and bounds; far larger and quicker than any of the other thirty or so babies she had ever nursed. By now, “Little” Caelyn weighed nearly twice what the pudgling of Tinessa’s weighed at the same age. No sooner, it seemed, that she would set the babe down for a rest and turn around that Caelyn would awake with a hungry scream.

                “Enough for you, pigling,” the nurse chided the baby. “I’m sore and have another needing of my milk than your greedy lips. We’ve been at this long enough now.”

                Easing the child’s sharp infantile teeth from her breast, Bethraia kissed her forehead and set her down in the wooden manger. The child cooed “Babi,” in relative satisfaction and took up her stuffed rabbit’s paw to play with. Bethraia lingered for a long moment to enjoy her child, surprised still at how much she resembled her father. More and more every day, it seemed. The same brown eyes, the square cheeks. The nurse knew she should not waste time like this, but how could she not? Unlike the other baby in the room, this child was hers. Hers and Borros’. No matter the Princely value of her other charge, this chubby infant’s affections ruled her heart, for she filled the hole in her chest as readily as the infant emptied her breasts.

                A bell tinkled in the next room over. Kissing her thoughts to her fingers, she left them on her daughter’s crown and scurried to her mistress. “M’lady!”

                In the grey shadows of the afternoon rains, Queen Preaneis reclined in a gloomy repose. The scabby dull light gave her pallid complexion a ghastly hue. Not that the bedspread helped any. Bethraia had warned the queen that the burgundy fabric of the spread would sap the color from her cheeks, but the Queen was an obstinate girl – bless her soul. She would have no less, for red was the color of their homeland. And this maroon – so unseemly in the wan light of the rains – was a color that she had fallen for.

                When Preaneis spied the nurse, the sunken face came into new light. “Beth,” she croaked, her voice dribbling off her tongue like saliva from a babe’s. “Bring me my son.”

                I love Fantasy. I love the breadth of the genre: how Dragons can fly, how everyday people can unleash magic from their fingertips. I love the Romantic notion of chivalry, the Feudal systems, the gleaming weaponry and armor of knights upon their chargers; the oddity of creatures born from the imagination. It is a wonderful genre. But I have a problem. I hate reading most Fantasy authors.

                The Fantasy authors that captivate me most are those whose stories are just that: stories. Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” – while linguistically challenging – was an eye-opener. It was bawdy, deep, and fully expressive of Human nature. Each person in “Canterbury” had his or her own limitations as individuals. None were perfect, all had his or her own story to tell, and no two were alike. Two plays by William Shakespeare never seem to get old for me: “The Tempest” and “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” While both, technically, are Comedies – where everyone ends up in marriage – both are Fantasy as I know the term: populated with mystical elements of sprites, nymphs, and creatures. Far more than any of his other work, the magic in these two plays is what I hope to find in Fantasy literature.

                More often than not in the Fantasy genre, those elements are missing. I read the likes of Goodkind, Martin, Parks, the late Jordan, Eddings, and find epic tales, but the epic comes mostly from description that would make Herman Melville proud. If I wanted to read about the daily chores of a farm boy, or what every tree in the forest looked like, or what each bead on a princess’ tiara was, I would probably just look it up in an encyclopedia. So much of “High” Fantasy seems bogged down in description, and because so much attention is devoted to that description, the important parts of the story are ignored. Instead, we are given a cliché notion of “good versus evil.” Sorry, that should read “Good versus Evil.” Once, the simplicity of that notion may have been enough for readers, but those days are long gone.

                I want complexity in my characters. I demand multiple-dimensions that I can relate to. I want to see Hamlet fall into madness because of his decision to kill the king. I need to hope that this time Romeo and Juliet might actually make it out alive. I need to relieve myself from Terry Pratchett with a good bark of laughter. When I read a book, I want my emotions tweaked. Boring description does not give me that, but impressive characters, like Darth Vader, whose tragic fall and redemption entertain me again and again; that is what I look for. Recently, two Scotts have given me characters like this: R. Scott Bakker’s “Prince of Nothing” series is magic. The title character, Kellhus, is anguish, adultery, and manipulation so profound that I, a reader, could not put the trilogy down. Whereas the title character of Scott Lynch’s “Lies of Locke Lamora” follows a man who schemes for the sake of scheming. With these fictional people, both Scotts have given a picky reader like me something worth picking up.

                What happens next, you ask? What do I read while waiting for the next good story to come out? The simple answer is I have taken all the best elements of the genre: Shakespeare and Chaucer’s wordplay, the Scotts’ characters, Pratchett’s humor, Shakespeare’s theatricality, and filled a world with my beasts and creatures and Humans and magic. I have taken the everyday people of my life and populated Laonic with them. If you look closely, you just might see someone you know there. But watch out for them because in this world lurks the Assassin of Youlba, and the one you care the most about just might be his first target. But if you are brave; if you are sick of the same old tired stories that have forgotten the real magic of myth and legend, come join me in Youlba.

                See you there,

                Rob Queen

                 6.

                Between the rice balls distributed by the Queen in honor of her husband’s return from Greylock and the day’s dispersal of eggs, the people of Youlba were eating well. Custom played a large role in everyday life, whether it was the need of dairy farmers to empty their cattle’s udders at first light, or a priest of the gods to begin their days with chanted benedictions, or of a Brooker’s mid-day nap, each and every one weighed in with great import to all those who observed the customs. None were above at least some kind of ritual, for artists had the mixing of their oils, the beggars the bowing with upturned hands, the soldiers with their prayers to ward off Kibosh before battle, Kings starting the day with fresh fruit. There were even customs that transcended class or caste or race. Births were the most prolific example of the latter.

                There was a reason Cradall was always depicted with the full belly of a pregnant mother. It explained the goddess’ role with only a glance. If one were to look closer at the girth under her bared breasts, they would recognize the shape of her unborn child as that of an egg. It was for this shape that proud parents of a new child distributed hard boiled eggs to friends and family. Officially, a King was father and friend to all. That being the case, it was his responsibility to celebrate a child’s birth with the distribution of eggs to all.

                For two weeks following the birth of the kingdom’s heir, caravan after caravan would arrive in Youlba through the great gates to the north, east and west. These caravans would be loaded with chicken, pheasants, ducks, geese, and peacocks, mostly hens but with enough cocks to provide enough eggs. As a special gift to the nobility of Youlba, barges would arrive at the Wharves laden with flightless birds standing taller than horses. The still offspring of such exotic birds would prove to be as big around as a man’s head, and would be cooked into immense omelets that the land’s nobility would remark on for weeks to come.

                At the foot of Palas Hill, north of the Valley Square and across the street from the Youlba dar Elembe, stood an immense stone façade that had been split into two sections. The first bore four columns segmented into six rows, at the bottom of each panel bore three things: the name of each fortnight – from the inscrutably-named Hoar Frost descends, through the Great Heat, Rain Water, and Grain Fills; the phase of the moon that each fortnight was begun with (either full or new); and a square indentation. The second section bore only fourteen panels, one for each day within the fortnight. Set before Dating Face was a dais on which the Crier read announcements to the people of Youlba.

                “On this day!” the crier bellowed out with his voice so well-versed in projection that it could rise even above of milling and seething of the heralds and envoys that gathered amid the Valley Square for the daily news. “On this day, His Majesty the King has asked that his children be introduced to their new brother. Two days past, during the New Moon phase of Excited Insects, day 8, the gods have blessed Queen Preaneis of New Gerhein, Cadous, with a child and heir to ours, the Kingdom of Youlba, Heart to the Eight Provinces of Laonic! With great joy, I introduce to all the brother-heir, Pelpis, named in honor of Pelpis II, grandfather of His Majesty The King. Pelpis II was the late ray of Hope that returned the Province of Mesoneis back to the Kingdom following its outrageous attempt at secession.”

                “What’d he say?” Johasua asked the man to his right, a literate who hastily scrawled a stick of charcoal across a strip of parchment.

                5.            

                As the Youlba River was once measured at the Capital as being seven furlongs from the north shore to the south shore, no bridges spanned it here. In order to utilize the prodigious shoreline space surrounding the twin hills of the city, a complex organism of wood, mud-brick, and stone fought for dominance in what the locals called the Wharf District. When Youlba was first settled, a Human architect by the name of Peggotty was called in to lay out the city streets in such an organized fashion as to reduce pedestrian traffic within the city. The Valley Square, leading from the junction of the two hills to the Gate of Dorcester, was the greatest example of this consideration, as the square could easily hold the entirety of the Youlban legions in the expanse of its causeway. But where the Square was the ultimate example of horizontal breadth, the Wharf District was an example of vertical consideration. All throughout the District, residences containing up to ten families lay stacked one upon the other in the honey, flake, walnut layers of tiramisu. One after another to another, with two more wedged between the rest. Beyond these residential structures at the waterside, need and ingenuity had developed immense circular towers that jutted from the tails of the piers like jagged and inconsistent teeth. These towers ranged in height from seven stories on Wharf 5 to the eighteen-storied tower of Wharf 26.

                At the foot of the immense tower of Wharf 26, General Beygon’s men had cordoned off the primary causeway to the pier, much to the irritation of the ox-driver with a cart laden with casks of wine. “Th’freight’s to water! Lemme pass so’s I can earn my keep! Seven kids ain’t gown feed themselves. Business and dragons, man! Without th’one, I ain’t got th’other! Step them men aside! What’s moving that’s staying me so?”

                “Shut him up, or lock him up,” Beygon called out to the blue-cloak whose ineffectiveness in quelling the merchants’ interrogation was beginning to grate on him. The man’s screams were almost as annoying as the soldier spilling his last meal on the cobblestones.

                “Yes sir!” the guard returned, before drawing his sword and finally getting around to giving the driver an offer he could refuse at his own chagrin.

                “How do you make it out?” The Supreme General asked the dark-haired man kneeling before him.

                Huo Ping rocked back into a squat. Before them lay the pulp of whose clothing defined as having once been a living person. “It has no tail; it is Human. Without a doubt, it fell from the tower. Considering its arm is over there, and everything from the shoulder to lower ribs on its left side is demolished, it says much about the fall.”

                Beygon glanced over at the fragmented stalk of arm, untouched at a distance of seven paces from the corpse. The hand looked intact, though the forearm had splintered into half a dozen gooey segments. “Which is?”

                4.

                 Grand Duke Pollast dragged Locum Doln up the marble stairs to the antechamber outside the royal apartments of the Dawn Palace. A gaggle of Councilmen pecked exchanges from one hand to another, too busy in their private world of speculation and conjecture to give the Duke any consideration. The only one to welcome him was the last man Pollast hoped to see outside his cousin’s apartments. Sullus Geurin, a man as broad in shoulder as his head was thick, stomped up to him and produced the brick wall of his open hand, barring Pollast’s passage.

                “If you’re here to see to the Queen’s health,” the man grumbled, “you waste your time. They are hosting none but family and physicians.”

                “Then doubly am I blessed,” Pollast sneered at the brown-bearded second to the Supreme General of the Greater Youlban Legions. Between the two, they shared about as much love as two cocks in a betting ring. That neither had killed each other after nearly a decade of familiarity, Pollast considered a minor miracle owed entirely to the civil sanctions of his own responsibilities as the Queen’s protector. “Not only am I Captain of Her Majesty The Queen’s barristers, but I am also her cousin and heir. And this fellow,” he thrust the Locum forward by a thin arm, “just so happens to be the best Locum in all of Cadous. Now step aside so that I may see my cousin.”

                With the greatest of reluctance but far too much pride to grumble, Geurin nodded to the two guards flanking the doorway, allowing the pair through. No sooner had the two Cadouns set foot upon the cool obsidian stone of the royal suite’s den did the Queen’s nurse come bustling through the door to the hearth, her dark hair bouncing with her every step. In each hand, she carried a massive ceramic jug decorated in rich indigo patterns. Pollast admired the way the jugs’ weight flared the tight muscles of the woman’s arms.

                “Nurse!” Pollast bellowed a greeting. Startled, the woman fair shrieked, glanced at him, and rolled her eyes.

                “Oh, so help me, Cradall!” she groaned over her shoulder, her passage through the room unhindered by the greeting. “No unnecessaries allowed! Get out of here, you!”

                “That is Lord You, to you!” Pollast retorted. “Where is my curtsy?”

                “Aulis take the man,” Bethraia groaned, stopping at last for a quick flare of her knees. “Happy? Now get you gone! Din’t I tell you not to come sniffing around until you was called? How is she aught to deliver when she has to entertain those what have no purpose here?”

                “I will see Preaneis! How am I supposed to protect her if you won’t let me in to see her?”

                Irked by the man’s officious tone, the nurse screamed at the doorway she was crossing to, “Srithawa! Get out here and drive Pollast out! Slave! Get out here, girl! If my Lord remembers correctly, the last time he came here, I told him that he would not be welcome until the child is born, which he is not yet. There are more than enough people in the suite to worry about another, let alone another ignorant man!”

                “What foul language is this?” Pollast asked, snatching one of the jugs from the nurse. “I am no fool to be cursed and insulted.”

                “And you give that back to me!” she cried, stretching around him to get at the container.

                “No,” he mocked, heaving the heavy jug out of reach. “I will be useful if you have need.”

                “For balance at least, Lord Jackass!” she snapped, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. “One is heavy and awkward to carry. My Lord, she needs this water! I ain’t going to have her needs delayed by one who knows naught of healing or child-bearing. Have you felt the kick of an eager little soul inside you? Have you ever dropped a child from your womb? Suckled the little tykes at your teats? I think not. Now give that back and git you gone!”

                “Give me the other, and my purpose here is clearer.”

                “And what of him?” Bethraia snapped, relinquishing the other container for Pollast to carry.

                “Locum Doln has looked after me for the past twenty years. No other surgeon knows their business better than he. See, I do listen to you – when your suggestions suit my purposes as well as yours. I brought him to ensure my beloved cousin’s survival through this ordeal.”

                “It is my pleasure to be here, I pray,” the Locum said by greeting with a stiff bow at the shoulder. The long vest of his profession swung forward at his hips with a jingle of glass and metal: the containers of tonics he wore upon his person. Attached to his shoulder by a heavy leather strap, he wore square black case snapped shut by heavy metallic clamps. As he finished the bow, a wan-faced serving girl appeared at the doorway Bethraia faced.

                “You called, Nurse?” she asked.

                “I did. And all for naught, it seems. I swear to the gods, Lord Pollast,” the Nurse said, “his Majesty will like as not give me a thorough swatting for letting you in, but I can’t deny your man. If you refuse to depart, come in. But I tell you now, stay out of the way. The birthing room is no place for one like you.”

                It was only as the Nurse turned that Pollast noticed the swath of ruddy darkness ringing her hands. A shock of concern rollicked through him. Best we are here, methinks.  

                In less matronly days, the birthing room served as the royal bathing house. In addition to their frequent cleanings, the King and Queen would on occasion hold meetings, either social or political, here in the cool stone of its columns and walls. Two bathing pools dominated the space, one massive for wading, and a smaller one, elevated from the pebble-mosaic floor so that hot rocks could be laid underneath the pool’s waters. About the wading pool, half a dozen people bandied to and fro in service of the Queen.