He had visited royal palaces before; he was a regular at the Sunflares, thanks to Octarian, to the Wheatfields because of Wolly, and at the Winterskys due to Sylvain, but despite being Pyonian he had never seen the inside of a Stinger Palace.
It certainly had the opulence of Royal buildings, but there was a certain sinister feel to it he had never seen before.
It was disturbing and comforting at the same time.
“The King is awaiting you in his study, Master Grimdor,” the servant said, after Mordan had introduced himself.
He was led through several corridors. When they finally arrived, Mordan stepped in the room with his heart thumping in his ears.
The King sat at his desk. Mordan took a deep bow and greeted him. Only then did he notice the female figure standing at the window.
“Noerelle?” he uttered incredulously. She smiled at him graciously.
“I’m glad to see that you remember the lovely Lady Raven-Zinn,” Scypian said.
“Yes, we’ve spent quite some time together at the Winterskys, my King,” replied Mordan.
“A very old-fashioned and short-sighted family. Who in their right mind would think that Lady Noerelle wouldn’t be a favourable match for their little Crown Prince?” sneered Scypian.
Noerelle blushed and was about to protest, but the King stopped her with a gesture.
“No, no, my dear. It had to be said. That spoilt boy should have put his foot down. He did love her after all, didn’t he, Master Grimdor?” he looked expectantly at Mordan, who had started to feel very uncomfortable.
“Yes, he did, there was never any doubt about that,” he said after a few seconds of feverish thinking.
He tried to find an answer that both satisfied the King, and didn’t shed an unfavourable light on Sylvain. He didn’t lie after all, but nevertheless, he felt somewhat disloyal.
Scypian stood up, and started walking up and down in front of Mordan with an air of a school-master.
“I wonder what your opinion is about our current system, where two young people in love cannot get married because of outdated political reasons; a system that makes it impossible for simple people to raise high just because the top of the social hierarchy is reserved for Royals.”
Mordan felt a drop of sweat running down his spine. He had no idea what the King wanted to hear. On the one hand, his question strongly suggested what the favourable answer would be, but on the other hand Scypian was one of the Royals on top of the hierarchy.
“According to my history studies, our current system is a step up from the last one. The Realm initially consisted of warring tribes. The result of the fights which went on for centuries, was one supreme ruler; a tyrant.
This again resulted in wars, as every country wanted to take the power over the Realm for their own Emperor or Empress.
Despotism was finally overthrown after a Realm-wide revolution about a hundred-and-fifty years ago.
From then on, every country had one Representative in the House of Houses next to the current Emperor or Empress. They represent the will of their country.
After the last war it was decided to abolish a Realm-wide ruler and the countries became self-governing,” Mordan recited what he had learnt during his studies.
“I’m very happy to see that Count Swiftarrow’s money was well spent mentoring you, Master Grimdor.
Nevertheless, I would like to hear your own opinion on the matter.
I want to know whether you think this system is just.
I want to know whether you think that the Balance works,” Scypian looked at him sternly.
“I think that the Realm is a wonderful place to live; the taxes are bearable, the Royal Families contribute to the welfare and development of the people.
The likes of me can rise to certain heights thanks to mentors like Count Swiftarrow, which I will be eternally grateful for,” he replied.
Noerelle walked up to Scypian, lightly touching his hand and giving him a beaming smile.
“My King, I shall ring for some beverages and we can make ourselves more comfortable in your salon. I’m sure that Master Grimdor will find it easier to talk if he knows he’s among friends,” she purred.
Scypian looked at her with a mixture of greedy desire and adoration Mordan had only seen in the eyes of Sylvain.
“What would I do without you, my Lady?” asked the King in a voice that suggested he had momentarily forgotten about Mordan’s presence.
“I could ask you the same, my King; I would be nothing without you,” Noerelle replied with a tinkling laugh, ringing the bell to summon a servant.
Mordan rolled his eyes at the disturbing courting ritual.
Judging by Scypian’s flaring nostrils, he was afraid that the King would pin Noerelle in a corner and tear off her clothes any second now.
He cleared his throat. Scypian collected himself, and ushered Mordan into his salon.
Mordan had the chance to think about his next replies while the refreshments arrived and they took their seats. Unsurprisingly Noerelle sat next to the King, after waving the servant away and pouring drinks for them like the perfect hostess. She seemed to feel at home.
“So, Master Grimdor, let’s hear it. Do you think that you – with all your knowledge and abilities - could directly have an effect on the future of our great Realm?” Scypian demanded.
Mordan thought for a second.
“Directly, no. I know I could be a Commander in the Realm’s Army or a Master of House… a lawyer or a Mayor maybe… I could become a Lord if I achieved something extraordinary. But no, I could never become a Representative; so no, I could never have a direct effect.”
Noerelle placed her hand on Scypian’s.
“My King, let’s not test Master Grimdor any longer. If I may, I’d like to talk on your behalf, Your Majesty, for I know you’re a modest man, who would hate nothing more than to sing your own praise,” she said with a sickeningly sweet smile.
Mordan couldn’t believe that it had the desired effect on Scypian; he could feel his respect for the King evaporating by the second.
“Of course my dear; you always know the right thing to say,” Scypian replied, stroking her hand.
“Mordan, my good friend,” Noerelle began, ignoring Mordan’s sarcastic smile.
“As we all know in the Realm, our King is a philanthropist and a fighter for justice,” she announced.
This was news to Mordan; while he was indeed grateful for this opportunity, all he had heard about Scypian was that he was an ambitious man too weak-willed and lazy to achieve anything at all. He seemed to have waited for an opportunity to fall into his lap; which – by the looks of it – now had happened in the form of Noerelle, who played him like a harp.
Nevertheless, he nodded.
She continued.
“Mordan… times are changing. If you want to be a part of the big changes to come, you only need to say so.
We are here for you; you could be one of the driving forces of the New World.
All we need to know is whether you want this as well.
Before you reply, we would like to assure you, that apart from great political opportunities, we can also help you with other matters,” she said with an enigmatic smile.
“Such as?” Mordan asked to win some time.
All this sounded both intriguing, and suspiciously like a coup to overthrow the current system.
“Marrying any woman you like,” Noerelle raised her eye-brow slightly.
Mordan blushed.
“You better believe it, son;” Scypian said, “you have no idea as to what we can do.”
“As a first step, our King would like to offer you a position in his household - as my aid,” Noerelle looked at him.
“It might not sound like much, but believe me, it will be rewarding,” she continued.
“Not much? My Lady, you have very important tasks, I cannot imagine any Academy student who would dare to turn down such an offer,” the
King added.
Noerelle stood up, disappeared for a few moments, and returned with a document.
“What would be my task, my King?” asked Mordan.
“It will be very simple; do whatever Lady Noerelle tells you to do. Without questions, without hesitation.”
Mordan didn’t like the sound of that.
“Please, dear Mordan, trust us. We would like to include you in all our plans, but unfortunately you are presently surrounded by individuals who most probably can’t be trusted,” Noerelle cooed.
“I can keep secrets,” said Mordan in a defensive voice.
“We have no doubts about that, otherwise why on Earth would we have chosen you?” Noerelle asked matter-of-factly.
“We cannot share any vital information about our plans as long as you’re at the Academy.”
It was true; it was an inconvenience that Noerelle and Scypian could have done without, but they couldn’t run any risks. If they let Mordan in on their plans at this stage, all could be lost long before anything had begun.
Noerelle handed the document to Mordan.
“Here’s your contract, take your time to study it,” she said.
It was very straightforward.
Mordan ran through the text, and then took a look at the suggested monthly wages.
He couldn’t believe his eyes; it was twice the amount he could hope to be paid as a Master of House of the richest royal family after twenty years of service.
“There must be a mistake here,” he pointed at the figure.
“No, no mistake, son,” Scypian made an attempt at a fatherly smile that resulted in a painful grimace.
“Just one last thing, Mordan dear,” said Noerelle “make sure to maintain the best possible relationship to your closest friends. I’m sure you know who I mean.”
Scypian stood up.
“I need to go and say farewell to my Lady wife; she’s travelling to Pyonia,” he announced. He took Noerelle’s hand and planted a rather noisy kiss on it while he gazed into her eyes. After some excruciatingly long seconds he turned to Mordan.
“I hope that next time we meet I can greet you as a member of our movement, son,” he said and left the room.
After waiting for a few seconds, Mordan burst out.
“What the Hell is all this?
Are you his lover?
Are you aware that you’re about to commit treason?
We’ll all end up in some hard labour camp for good,” he ranted.
“Oh shush. It’s all going to happen and it’s all safe. Can you afford not to accept this offer?”
“If it’s all true, I wonder when you’ll whip out a contract making me sign my soul over to you,” he said.
“I thought I already did that,” Noerelle smiled, wiggling a pen at him.
Mordan leaned back in his seat.
He closed his eyes, trying to play out all the possibilities the contract offered him.
“Let me help you by telling you exactly what you could achieve,” Noerelle said.
She leant forward, looking deeply into his eyes, whispering words that painted an image of a future that Mordan never thought possible.
He took the pen and signed the contract.
Realm’s Belly, Realm’s Heart Island
Brother Dax decided it was time to visit someone he hadn’t seen for quite a while. He portalled from his house at the Autumn Gardens to the Dodecagon in one of the Island’s twelve towers. Each of the thirty-seven towers of the Structure of the Realm contained a portalling device. Within the Hidden City Equimancers could freely materialise at any location without any aids. In the outside World, the Dodecagons were necessary.
Dax stepped out of the tower and descended the stairs.
He walked past the guards after giving them a curt nod.
One of them grabbed his arm.
“Are you tired of life, man? Where d’you think you’re going?”
Dax turned around. The second guard looked at him in shock.
“I’m so sorry, Chief Prosecutor, he’s new,” he stuttered apologetically.
“No problem, good to see you’re doing your job,” Dax replied, striding towards some distant lights.
“Great career move, you idiot. First week and you already manage to antagonise one of the most feared men of the Realm,” he could hear the second guard hissing at his mortified colleague.
Dax allowed himself a little self-satisfied grin; he wasn’t a conceited man, but it was nice to be recognised sometimes.
Although he knew he wasn’t the most feared man of the Realm.
According to many it was Belisar, the very man he was about to see.
Realm’s Belly was the deepest level of the Island.
Aeons ago it was called Realm’s Bowels, but over time the affectionate name that its inhabitants awarded it, became more popular.
Equal in size to both Realm’s Heart Island, and the Hidden City, it was the centre of the Fire Level of the Structure.
Twelve underground tunnels (that were placed – for lack of any other explanation, apparently by the Gods - exactly under the Structure’s Water Channels and Airways) sprouted from the underground city.
Three Fire Rings – one around the Capital, one in the centre of the Realm and one at its outer borders - connected them.
For centuries, the inhabitants of the Realm had attempted to figure out what the Gods had intended the Fire Tunnels for, and tried to find a use for them.
Gradually, they had started using them for transporting goods Realm-wide. Unfortunately, nobody managed to get any animals – apart from cats and rats - to the Belly; it seemed that the atmosphere of the place had driven most creatures wild.
Thus human transporters were used, creating a sizeable amount of work opportunities for the unemployed of the Realm.
Initially, the transporters had pulled carts, but thanks to Kronurian inventors, different types of pedal-driven vehicles had been introduced to the Realm; two-wheelers, three-wheelers, four-wheelers, which were speeding up the process of delivering goods or passengers.
While almost everybody in the Realm had agreed that the Fire Tunnels and Rings would be the perfect place to build a railroad, the House of Houses had so far decided against it, as most of the Government were of the opinion that the Waterways offered a more than satisfactory transportation system.
The Fire Rings had a particular quality; a mossy substance they called embermoss grew on its walls.
They were unassuming, pea-sized brownish gobs. Once picked, they grew back within a day.
Centuries ago, sages of the Realm had agreed, that it must be the residue of the faint, reddish haze that was omnipresent in the Fire Tunnels and Rings. They had also discovered the material’s excellent qualities.
Once dipped in water, it expanded to ten times its original size.
Once dried, it was cut in little cubes.
One single cube of it burned for hours, giving out as much heat as twenty heavy logs of wood in a fireplace.
Embermoss was considered a gift of the Gods; it was free for everybody to pick.
People of the Belly had collected and delivered it to households all over the Realm.
“My Lord, my Lord, take a carriage please. I’m the fastest of the Belly. It’s cheap, only two silvers,” a transporter approached him on his three-wheeler.
“That’s quite reasonable,” Dax mumbled, even though it wasn’t.
As soon as he clambered onto the seat, the vehicle started speeding at a surprisingly quick pace towards the illuminated Centre of the Belly.
It was always an unnerving experience to travel though the emptiness of about two miles that lay between the towers and the Centre.
Anybody was allowed to enter the Belly at their own risk. It was the Tower Guards’ obligation to inform everybody that this part of the City had its own rules.
Only the bravest or drunkest Islanders or travellers dared to visit the
infamous gambling halls, inns and brothels of the Belly.
Dax was aware that Belisar’s heavily armed Belly Guard patrolled the outskirts of the Centre; everybody who wanted to enter – or to leave – was at their mercy.
A word which was mostly unknown to most of them.
“Where to from here, my Lord?” asked the transporter when they approached the Centre.
“South entrance, if you would,” Dax replied to which the man nodded vigorously. He steered the carriage towards one of the gates that disrupted the thick walls surrounding the underground city.
On arriving, Dax jumped off and pushed five silvers into the transporter’s hand. The man wiped sweat off his forehead, thanked Dax profusely, and went to join his colleagues in the hope of some more work from the inebriated guests of the Upper City, while two guards were approaching.
“Name and business,” one of the guards grunted at Dax, whipping out a piece of paper; it was a list of barred and indebted individuals who were foolish enough to return.
“The Chief Prosecutor for Belisar,” Dax said.
“Hrmph,” the guard replied, “you’ll have to walk, no carriages beyond this point.”
“Good thing your establishments don’t have to rely on your hospitality skills,” Dax remarked, and made his way to Belisar’s mansion.
He was led into a dimly lit salon. Even by the discreet lights illuminating the room, the impeccable style of whoever decorated the room was obvious; not even the snootiest Royals of the Realm could have faulted it.
The door flew open, and bursting in came a bald, tall, muscular man in his late fifties, sporting a walrus moustache.
“What makes you think that a man of the law can just barge in here to question me? What makes you think I won’t just murder you horribly on the spot, mage? ”he roared.
Dax stood up.
“Maybe the intriguing contents of this bottle, you old fart,” he replied, dangling a flask in front of the big man’s nose.
“Damn, you know me so well. Go on, give’s a hug, you bastard,” Belisar opened his arms.
“Do I have to?”
“Go on, I won’t grab your arse this time,” he grinned, pulling Dax into a bone-crushing bear-hug, doing it anyway.
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