Lore of the Underlings: Episode 7 ~ Ho-man Holds Court (2 page)

“Sorry, Tom Cat… Come again?”

“What is all of this about?”

The clerk reached into his right hip pocket
and pulled out a rolled up scroll of parchment. He spread it flat
and read a bit. “Docket says
Keep versus male teen, leaver
—
if that helps to clear things up.”

“Not exactly,” smirked John Cap. “I thought
my crime was coming here.”

Ho-man laughed and shook his head. “No, no
silly! The leaver’s another. And just what the judge plans for you…
I’ve no clue.”

John Cap took the news in stride, looking not
all that surprised. He nodded toward the audience.

“How ‘bout a rundown of this crowd — anyone I
should know… or avoid?”

“Sure,” said the notary. “Good idea. Let’s
start with those gentlemen over there.” Ho-man indicated the Guard.
“By now you might recognize some of them.”

They were eleven in a row, right up front and
sitting low to the ground on boulders smooth and cold of hard yet
hollow pillowstone. A half-ring of chieftains weighing in on rocks
light as feathers and granite-strong. Not the most comfortable kind
of cushions but seating befitting these hardened men.

John Cap studied their colorful armor and
noticed the rainbow that they made. “Yup — the riders from the
field. Boy they were fast. Flew in from nowhere. Had us corralled
before we knew it…”

Just then he spotted a dark cloud among them,
a brooding black hole in their midst.

There was no mistaking this nemesis.

“Oh man, not that one again. My friends and I
were just pitted against him and it wasn’t any fun.”

Yet there was something funny about him,
sitting so sullen and so very still. Eschewing the billit. Forgoing
the ale.

“That’s not the usual Syar-ull.”

The words were Ho-man’s but carefully muffled
— he dared not be overheard. A whisper weak, barely audible, as if
echoed from beyond. “Just between you and me, my friend, I’d like a
peek behind that cowl.”

Only now did John Cap catch the fact that
each of the Guard had been unmasked, with just one exception. He
saw in their faces a range of ages but all were steely-eyed
rock-hard men, warriors trained to break not bend.

The stranger asked a dangerous question.
“What’s the black Guard hiding from?”

“Whoa!” cautioned Ho-man, “don’t go there.
It’s no time to poke the bear…”

The word keeper changed the topic and
quick.

“When you’re dealing with these soldiers
you’ve got to know their pecking order. Fortunately there’s a rule
of thumb. Just remember this nursery rhyme:

Sing a song of Syland

Our isle of blood and lore,

Two and twenty sentries

Guard her ‘syr’ to shore

If you last that first trial

You’ll face eleven more;

Syar and his ‘ull’ patrol

The heartless at our core

Ring around the motherland!

Long live the Semperor!

The foreigner looked a tad unsure so Ho-man
expounded further still.

“These Guard set on stone are the ultimate
kind and lords of this island’s inner ring — sectors around the
Wild we’re in and most protected from the world. They represent an
order of knights that the Semperors formed in days of old. A royal
force of loyal men, picked by hand from across the land and
sharpened, honed like an ironwood pike. Those early kings deployed
the Guard to bring rule to a lawless time, ending the clan wars at
long last, imposing a harsh but enduring peace. And in the wake of
their bloody reign was born our sacred nation…”

John Cap tried to be diplomatic. “And what a
nation. It’s unique.”

Ho-man nodded and went on. “These days, in
our Keep at least, Guard of the ull fill a special role by serving
the Treasuror as his council — a corps of advisors and sounding
board. They tend to meet in this same tent but always in secret, at
his whim. Such as the session this very morn. Even I got the boot
for most of it.”

The clerk now looked from the armored men and
to the row that loomed behind them.

“Then again, I shouldn’t complain. I do get
to witness once per moon when they convene our parliament, a body
called the House of Keep. In fact it’s my task to record word for
word every motion, each speech that’s made or heard… Not that the
Treasuror pays any heed… But you can bet there’ll be debate —
heavy, hot, and plenty of it.” Ho-man chuckled to himself.
“Fireworks and flying fur. Quite the show when they get going (even
if it signifies nothing).”

John Cap stopped him. “Which ‘they’ do you
mean?”

“You’re staring at them,” answered Ho-man.
“Beyond this squadron, the eldest of elders, solons and doyens
who’ve come to observe…”

A handful of well-dressed elder statesmen
appeared to have risen up from nowhere, as if conjured in thin air.
On closer inspection they’d been set in high chairs, lofty seating
carved with care at the pinnacle of furniture making. Such a perch
made them seem nearly regal, rare men and women looking down on the
lowly groundlings surrounding them.

The chair in the center was finer still,
taller and more colorful too. Armed, cushioned, and richly
appointed, adorned in gold silk of a long-lost ilk. Or simply
consider the elkalope trim, the piping of loup fur and other game…
Truth be told, it was all but throne…

And John Cap knew its occupant.

Cold-eyed elderwoman Pum kept watch like an
old crow from above. Indeed she seemed to hold court herself,
dictating to her attentive staff, making pre-judgments on their
behalf, and shaking her head at all that passed within the scope of
her icy gaze.

Suddenly she spied the stranger and wagged a
craggy finger his way. It was more than a little threatening.

The prophetic gesture took John Cap aback and
he turned to evade the gray bird’s look. His eyes found a much
welcome ally instead.

Priestly minister Minyon Myne stoically sat
to the matriarch’s right, just in shot of her half-cocked ear. In
contrast to his fellow elders, he had declined a fancy chair in
favor of a simple bench — really only a pile of plankwood that he’d
stacked up for himself. And yet despite his humble shelf, he
towered over all the rest.

Somehow he noticed John Cap’s glance across
the wide and woeful void. He gave the young man a clandestine
nod.

The tall teen reflexively answered the
elderman with a tip of his tousled head. But he hardly had time to
feel comforted… not with the air of impending doom that suddenly
seemed to fill the room. He couldn’t help but breathe it in. He
coughed and his spirit choked on the pollution.

With a finger to the wind he traced the
fearful atmosphere, only to find its source behind Minyon. Ashen
faces. Hushed conversation. A somber herd or House of Ushered.

“Who are those people, Mr. Ho-man, the ones
lined up along the wall?”

The veteran clerk didn’t have to look. “Folk
people, Tom Cat, for the trial — mainly witnesses they’ve hauled
in. And next to them there’s standing room for any friends who’d
dare to come. Family too who stand by the accused even though it
means risking their own prosecution.”

A wave of confusion crossed John Cap’s face,
his smooth brow rippled in its wake. “Okay, I understand all that,
I just can’t get the math to work…”

“Count on me! We’ll figure it out,” said
Ho-man lifting pen to book.

“I don’t mean literally,” laughed John Cap,
“but with this humongous cast and crew — I can’t see where you’d
seat the jury.”

Now it was Ho-man’s turn to laugh, though his
had a bittersweetness to it. “Our jury needs but a single chair… in
fact that pillowstone hassock there.”

He pointed to a taller cushion, rimmed with a
ring of malaphant bone. It sat by the Guard, unoccupied.

“This is no democracy, friend, but one man’s
seat of government.”

Just then a figure emerged from the fore
door, a shadow or maybe a memory. The ghost of a man in living
pallor. A pillar of strength gone weak in the knees. There was a
powerlessness in his face and he shook as if shaken of belief.

A theme song of grief accompanied him, soft
sobbing sounds from the darkness behind. That was the noise of a
choir of boys whom he’d just now abandoned to fend on their own.
They prayed and they pleaded, “Please don’t go…” He steeled his
heart, trying hard not to hear. Or at least not to listen.

But at last he gave in and answered them.

“My dear young nephews and brave brother’s
sons, this is the day to act as men. Remember my words, this moment
together, and treasure your little time left with our friend.”

He paused as if drinking his own dream
in.

“Now go make your father and Arrowborne
proud!”

At that the wailing and blubbering stopped,
the lost boys buoyed up once more. And the man strode into the
great domed chamber, his flesh, his blood, his fire restored.

There was a hush then a chorus of whispers,
which in turn became a din.

“He’s here.”

“His honor…”

“The Treasuror’s brother.”

Ho-man stood and addressed the hall. “All
rise for justice Fyryx Hurx!”

Everyone in the courtroom rose, the folk in
the back on their tiptoes.

The stranger stood too though nice and slow,
hoping that no one would notice him. He ducked behind Ho-man but
still stuck out, like a malaphant in the room.

“Best if your treasury guy doesn’t see me.
He’s looking less friendly than yesterday.”

“Oh, he already knows you’re here. It was his
order, I’m afraid.”

John Cap stretched to his full height and let
out a big, long-bottled sigh. “I guess it’s pointless trying to
hide.”

Instead he gawked over Ho-man’s head and
watched like a hawk as Fyryx took the rightful seat awaiting him by
his loyal council Guard. They saluted. He seemed not to see. In
fact he ignored the entire crowd.

The eagle-eyed teen bent the clerk’s near
ear. “So, why is he acting like someone died?”

Ho-man replied in a reverent tone. “It’s his
prized vell Arrowborne… by all accounts not long for this world and
knock-knock-knocking on heaven’s door.” He turned for a glance and
saw that the entrance was now covered up with a heavy flap.
“Judging by the bit I heard, it sounds as though he broke the news
to his nephews. Ayr, Pyr, and Ayron — they’re good lads. Doesn’t
seem fair, making them suffer more, after all that their family has
had to endure…”

John Cap was about to ask what that meant
when he suddenly noticed a hobbling servant. The peg-legged man had
brought Fyryx a plate that was twice overloaded with sweetbreads
and meat. The dish looked delicious. It smelled better yet.

But the red-bearded lawgiver barely took note
and picked at the feast absentmindedly. The lame, dumb waiter just
limped away.

That’s when the young man realized that there
were more to meet the eye. Beer bearers, cheese wielders, armies of
busboys — every one of them middle-aged men — and somehow crippled
all the same.

Legless either left or right and pegged to
wear a wooden pike.

It was odd that he only now saw them
lumbering everywhere around the room. John Cap turned to Ho-man. He
said not a word. His look alone begged for an explanation.

“I see that you’ve picked out our previous
leavers, serving their sentences here in court. The few who got off
easy, that is. The rest we best not talk about…”

“Oh my god, I don’t believe it!” The
foreigner’s eyes were open wide. “You took their legs as
punishment…”

Ho-man winced as if in pain but did not shy
from the accusation. “It is the irony of this land that many have
fallen by taking the stand.” Here he made sure not to be overheard.
“But such is the will of our unchosen leader, the heavy price of
flesh for blood.”

“It all sounds pretty brutal to me. Has
anyone thought of protesting?”

Ho-man shrank and shook his head. “I have a
wife and children, my friend.”

John Cap’s muscular jaw relaxed and his look
at the poor clerk softened a bit. “At least your women folk don’t
seem subject. All of the victims I see are men.”

Ho-man grimaced. “Wish it were so. I suggest
you look again.”

He did and saw in partial profile a woman now
stationed mere yards away who was handing out hot mugs of slog to
the Guard. Her hair was short, a fiery red, and she balanced a
large tray effortlessly while withholding her graces from the men.
In fact she acted more guarded than them, avoiding their eyes and
their conversation. Her blush, ample lips showed no sign of a
smile.

John Cap found himself transfixed. It was as
if he recognized something, a crack in the mask of her
well-sculpted face that leaked an ugly secret. Yet, his mind
couldn’t help but wander south, over the curve of her back and
hips. He had to see her feet for himself. He needed to know if
Ho-man was right.

What he discovered was more enigma. A
jackal-hide apron concealed her legs.

“Go figure… I guess I should have guessed.
This is sure a theater of the obscure…”

And right on cue another actor staggered on
stage to block his view. This ham had a small but juicy role, a bit
part with props that called for a stuntman. No more than a stint on
the chorus line and yet the scene of a lifetime to come. A
tragic-comic character on a pair of ironically stubby stilts.

John Cap seemed unclear what to make of this
fellow, decked out in an old yellowed kilt and robe, who towed
behind him a small wheeled barrow filled with a half-spilled keg of
grog. By wardrobe alone one could take him for hobo or some
clownish kind of lush. But his two missing limbs told a sobering
tale that packed a hard and bitter punch.

The man spotted Ho-man and gave a big wave,
hanging a left in his direction. He quickly covered the open space,
herking and jerking all the way.