Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial (3 page)

“I want names, addresses. Who are they?”

Treygyn squirmed like a cornered rug rat.
“Nobody sir. I acted alone. Strictly a one-man show, no kidding.
Solo. Just me and my really big shoe…”

Fyryx reacted with mocking applause. He
clapped slowly, “Bravo. An epic performance. Though you and I both
know it’s staged, don’t we truant. Admit to this fiction, that
footwear to boot.”

Treygyn let out a long, pained sigh.
Otherwise he did not answer.

“And so rests the offender’s defense,” judge
Fyryx announced in a monotone drone. “Or such as it was — a
slipshod fraud, one sham of a scam just cobbled together.”

His eyes took a cold look into the distance.
He pondered a moment and then went on.

“Yet this little feat has left too many
questions. We must track down big foot. Our quest’s just
begun…”

All of a sudden the sun was obscured as a
black flock of vultures passed dead overhead. They circled around
and spiraled down then spelled out a text message in midair.

“This kid is road kill… so… if you’re done
grilling…”

“I’m not through with him yet, treasured
buzzards.” Fyryx shooed the prey birds away.

“I want him to watch this next inquisition.
It might improve his memory. But if he won’t talk, well we’ll just
try his friends…

“Prepare the witness stand!”

A tower of tortoises, stacked three high,
entered court from the tent’s antechamber and plodded across the
dusty floor. The trio appeared to be family — papa, mama, and baby
atop. But even the smallest was huge, a colossus.

Everyone waited while they made their way.
And waited… and waited… impatiently. Bylo groused loudest of them
all.

“Shake a leg, slow pokes. Hurry it up! Be
quicker to make you turtle soup.”

The mockatoo had a big smirk on his beak.
“Hey waiter, awk! There’s a hare on my plate!”

Meanwhile Ho-man pulled out his notebook and
drew a few extra tall runes with his quill. He turned from the
crowd and flashed it at the baffled stranger like a billboard. John
Cap mouthed the words, still puzzled. “Syland snappies,” the
letters read.

Then the clerk had a second thought and
posted a follow-up message. “They bite.”

“Naturally,” muttered the mighty outsider.
“Who knew this was such a zoo.”

The tortoises came to an unsudden stop just
on the outskirts of center court. They looked sleepy, fatigued from
their trek.

Fyryx faced Ho-man. He meant business.

“Court clerk, read me the witness list — but
starting from the bottom first.”

“Yes sir.” Ho-man flipped his script.

“Last and least on the list is… bookman
Dustum followed by Ferrous the forger.”

“Excellent. Hold there. Call them both.”

Ho-man spotted their faces at the back. They
looked surprised. He beckoned.

“If you would, gentlemen. Take the
stand.”

Each man approached but reluctantly, wary.
They reached the tri-tortoise platform and stopped.

“Up you go fellows,” encouraged the
clerk.

“Quick.”

Resistance was futile. Both witnesses knew
it. Ferrous, the handy village woodsmith, offered his big work-worn
mitts to the other, a well-seasoned scholar with white-peppered
hair. That chap squinted back through his salt crystal spectacles —
pale, on the frail side, and nervous.

“Yes, please…”

And they climbed. A turtle at a time. The
cold-blooded reptiles nipped at their heels.

“Watch yer step teacher.”

“Oh thank you good smithy.”

The pair clambered onto the tip-top turtle’s
back and did their best balancing act. It was all they could do
just to stand and not slide off the crest of its slick, shiny
shell.

They rode the colorful hull like a surfboard.
Two hanging ten on an exoskeleton.

“Oof! I’m too old for this.”

“Hold on professor.”

Soft-hearted Ho-man stood ready below and
held solid ground on the off chance they fell. But he had his own
hard deadline looming under the thumb of you-know-who. A slip-up
and he’d catch hell as well.

His fine feathered friend reminded him with a
peck on the head and a curse-like cluck. “Oath for both! Get
swearing! Go clerrrk yourself…”

“Ouch!”

He heeded Freebird’s tweet with a grimace.
“Men — hand on heart and repeat after me please…

“I pledge my treasure, my honor and blood to
the Semperor. May he judge my soul.”

Woodsmith and schoolmaster echoed him word
for word, and yet lacking conviction. Or more likely fearing
it.

Fyryx was watching and listening closely. He
raised an eyebrow at their tone. He frowned at their lack of
eye-eye contact.

“Yo, clerk! Time for more of your
legwork.”

“Aye sir,” the ad hoc footman answered.
“Being in shoe business is my dream.”

John Cap, all but ignored in the background,
rolled his dreamy eyes. Freebird groaned.

Nobody else seemed to get the joke.

Ho-man pulled the moccasin from a wide pouch
pocket at his side. “Bookman, woodsmith — if you’ll doff your
stockings a sec… Yes, just your right tootsies if you’d be so
kind.”

Ferrous kicked off his ironwood shoe, a boxy
black work boot he’d fashioned himself. It had been hiding a
clubfoot inside. A rare, squarish stub that he’d been born
with.

“Oops! Bless you craftsman,” blushed the
clerk.

He looked to the bookman to bare his
sole.

The educator’s feet were wrapped in
leather-strapped balm leaves, known for healing. Dustum winced at
the prospect of stripping them down to expose his pigeon toes.

“Fungal infection. Ingrowns and corns. Not to
mention the blisters and bunions.”

Ho-man oohed. “Those legs are plagued! My
sympathies…” He put the shoe away.

The clerk shrugged at Fyryx. “Still no sale
today sir.”

Boss Hurx bristled with disappointment. “Poor
excuse for a peddler, you are. Watch me. I don’t take no for an
answer.”

He lit into the teetering tutor.

“Bookman Phyneas Dustum, is it?”

“Phyleas.”

“Phyleas. Yes, of course.”

Fyryx narrowed his beady eyes, cocking his
head back with half a grin.

“I take it this brat is a student of
yours?”

“That’s correct Treasuror, six years running
— ever since bookwoman Netty passed on.”

“And how did she die? Refresh my memory.”

“Old age, dozing, during a quill class. There
in her chair while her tots practiced runes.”

The judge snapped his fingers. “Just like
that?”

“Like lightning.”

“Out of the blue?”

“Truly.”

“Funny though, that you don’t find it
suspicious…” The red justice clutched at his chin for effect. “But
then you profited from her death. Inheriting pupils, their
tuition.”

“Are you implying…”

“Oh tut-tut, teacher! I’m merely trying to
learn the truth.”

The heat of the moment and the sun had
started to take a toll on Dustum. He went weak-kneed and leaned on
Ferrous, who propped up the dizzy dean.

Fyryx, for his part, was just warming up.

“Now, for the record, bibliophile — tell the
court what you know about your disciple, this scamp, defendant
Yin…” He gave a vague wave toward the hanging lad. Ho-man held his
quill at the ready.

Dustum stuttered and sputtered a moment,
stalling for time while he measured his words.

“Oh dearie me, oh dearie me… what’s there to
say about young master Treygyn?” He hemmed and he hawed and he
dragged his sore feet. “Hmmm…”

“I hope you’re getting this down,” jeered
Fyryx, in the direction of the clerk. “So seldom do we hear such
wisdom.”

In fact Ho-man hung on his every um.

“Then I’ll put it like this, burgermeister.
Quoting our earliest king philosopher, Pithy Prince Poxum the
Third, yore’s first Lore Lord:

Mine me black coal boys

Not diamonds or gold

‘Tis worth a king’s ransom

When knights turn cold

Fyryx begrudgingly touched his heart,
snorting, “All hail the Semperors’ word, of course. But… what’s old
kings’ coal got to do with this?”

“Call it a teachable moment, justice.”

“The lesson?”

“That everyone has a role, his own shoes to
fill in this fateful jig. Even the slacker, the scallywag.”

The bookman and Treygyn exchanged a look.

“And what of this tenderfoot?”

“Not my top student, but…”

“He’s just a hoodlum then.”

“An imp, your honor.”

Fyryx threw his hands in the air. “Just when
I thought we were getting somewhere!”

He circled the triple-deck witness stand. He
had a different tack in mind.

“So you would confess, esteemed professor,
that this munchkin Yin is less than a whiz kid.”

“Yet…”

“Not all that head-strong.
Impressionable.”

“Well…”

“Vulnerable to a siren’s song or any pied
piper’s tempting tune.”

Dustum swooned, looking pie-eyed, sweaty. “I
suppose… maybe… like any teen.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

His hair stood on end. His skin went
ashen.

“Rumor has it that you’ve been teaching
treason bookman. Treacherous tracts.”

“Oh no, no. Only the standard textbook.
Lives of the Semperors
, Treasured edition. The full
illuminated version. Volumes one through fifty-eight.”

“So those reports are all mistaken — that
you’ve read
Sylliver’s Travels
in class? A classic you well
know is banned.”

“
S-S-Sylliver’s
… who could have… how
did you… no, judge Fyryx! It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really? Remember you’re still under
oath.”

“It was just half of one torn leaf of it… a
family relic six hundred years old. An innocent show-and-tell,
that’s all. The children saw only a handful of runes.”

“And yet enough to corrupt this wayward son.”
He flicked a wrist at Treygyn. “Clouding his mind like dust in the
wind. What else could explain his walk on the dark side? Who
beckoned him to ‘Go west young man’?

“You!”

Dustum needed an exit strategy. Sadly the
bookman had nowhere to go.

“If that weren’t bad enough,” added Fyryx,
“I’ve heard word from a little birdie of something nearly as
concerning…”

Ho-man screwed up his eyes at Freebird. The
mockatoo balked, “Awk! Don’t blame me!”

The prosecutor wagged his finger.

“I have hearsay to confirm that you skipped
the Pledge of Compliance one morn.”

Madam Pum shuddered.

Some gasped.

Dustum fainted.

Or at least feigned that he did.

“Gotcha teacher!”

Ferrous the smith caught the slack academic,
safe in his sinewed hands. “Whew!” The tawny man’s brawn saved the
wan scholar’s skin, stalling his fall from grace. For the
moment.

“How convenient,” Fyryx whined. “That’s fine
— but he’s just earned detention.”

“Begging yer pardon, superintendent…”

The plainspoken artisan got his
attention.

“Proctor needs a doctor quick. No worries.
I’ll take care of it.” He looked to step down from the stand, his
thick arms cradling the bookman.

“Off to the hospital. Lickety-split.”

His offer was met by a hot spray of spittle.
“Chill out samaritan. Cool those boot heels. I’ll say when you’re
done,” fussed Fyryx. The tortoises bared their teeth. Ferrous
froze.

He sat Dustum down on the platform. “This
could take a while my friend.”

Ho-man looked flustered. He interrupted,
trying to keep the record straight.

“If you’ll just confirm your address witness…
Let me check my list… It has you at the Village Smithery, under the
shedding chestknot tree?”

Fyryx answered for him. “Naturally. But let’s
forge ahead. I have questions…”

Suddenly from the settlement hill — clang! —
a lone alarm bell rang.

Treygyn shouted from his hangout, “Master!
The furnace!”

“Yes my apprentice…”

Fyryx eyed the smith. “Explain!”

Ferrous gestured back toward town. “My fires
require emergency tending, justice. Or else — poof — we’re
done!”

“How long have we got?”

“Fifteen minutes I’d guess.”

“And then what?”

“This whole outpost’s toast.”

“Toast?” The word stirred flatulent Bylo, who
sat side-barred half awake. “Make mine pumperknuckle, burnt. And
pump up the jam on top of it.”

Fyryx shook his head at Ferrous. “No
exceptions, crafty witness.”

“What if I just spilled my guts?”

“Be my guest.”

Ferrous took an epic breath while Freebird
the sidekick played emcee. “Time for a monologue. Awk! Heeere’s
smithy…”

“Always been at the bellows, have I. Chip off
the old block like my daddy. Born out back of the smithing shop.
Reared by the anvil and his knee… He taught me everything that I
know. Honesty, sweat, hard work, wood lore…”

Ferrous rubbed his crew-cut head. His once
ember eyes looked darker, dampened.

“Then it was two score and four years later.
I stood still at the forge. Alone. Master of the hardwood, yes. But
broodless in my irony home. Wedded to my jealous hearth. No
wrightful heir to share the time.”

He looked up and around the courtroom.

“That’s when I first noticed some little
rascal starting to stop by my shop each noon — a tyke on his trek
home after school. Up on tiptoes in the window. Backsack of
scrollbooks. Snot-nosed. Mute. The kid didn’t utter a rune for
moons. Just hung around wide-eyed for hours on end until the dinner
bell rang. Then he ran.

“I think he was drawn by the ironfire. The
clang of the making of things. I dunno. The glow of the smoke and
the folk-talk and gossip. Sparked his interest I guess — this young
Yin.”

He pointed a soot-stained hand at Treygyn.
Treygyn blushed like that boy again.