Lore of the Underlings: Episode 7 ~ Ho-man Holds Court, Page 3

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.

  “Hi-yo, Homeboy! A drop for you?”

  The clerk waved his docket. “I’ve work to do. But…” He checked on Fyryx still pawing his food. “Maybe in an hour or two…”

  The grogger belched. “I’ll save you a snoot full. Meanwhile, how ‘bout a belt for your pal?”

  “Well…”

  “Hell, if he isn’t a tall drink of ale!”

  John Cap sized up the nutwood keg but Ho-man shook his notebook no. “This is Tom Cat all the way from Elvesware. Technically speaking, he’s a prisoner.”

  The double-stubbed man stared hard at the stranger then gave him
a groggy yet welcoming grin. “Elf, cat, or lad I’d call you friend,” he said with a slur and a shake of his hand. “Need a little swig for courage? Or a cask as your last request? Anything short of a casket, I’m in — Juxtyn Tymbly at your command!”

  It looked like he hoped to bow just then but this Tymbly was either too tipsy or wooden. Instead he landed on the wagon, his tree limbs flailing up and down.

  At the same time a firestorm erupted from the direction of the Guard, sparked by their dry-humored dialog, an ill-filled deadpan they all but barked. That bile left no doubt about their mood or Mr. Tymbly’s servitude. The forecast was worse, an acid reign.

  “Juxtyn Timber Legs!”

  “Quit lollygagging!”

  “Bring me my grog, you loggerhead!”

  “Or maybe we’ll trim the rest of those limbs…”

  “And pack up your trunk for pecker feed!”

  The brewster knew his clientele well, enough to take them at their word. So he made like a barrel and rolled away, serving to live another day. He was at their feet in no time flat.

  Ho-man sighed. “Well, that is that.” Though he smiled as he turned to eye John Cap.

  “Juxtyn’s a rare bird indeed — twice convicted of flying the coop and yet still upright (when not in his cups).”

  The young man mumbled to himself. “I’d guess being half-cocked must help…”

  Then all of a sudden he saw her again, the slog maid, this time facing him. And more than that — she was approaching, as graceful in motion as anyone.

  He seemed stunned at the prospect that Ho-man had lied.

  “I thought you said she was one of them.”

  Ho-man looked