“Still firm, I see, but don’t fret, you’re way too old for me,” he added with a smirk, knowing Dax was almost twenty years his junior.
“You wish!”
“Pffft. Pour that drink, my boy.”
Dax filled two glasses with the black liquid.
“It’s called Sister Xinia’s Phantasmagoria. Cheers!”
Belisar took a sip, coughed and spat.
“So we’ve come to this. You finally decided to kill me after all. This is so disgusting, I’m trying to find words for it… gotta have another taste.”
They both did a few more times.
The Phantasmagoria was not only strong of taste, but also very potent in alcohol content.
Soon they started reminiscing.
Dax had regarded the Belly as his true home for a long time.
He grew up in the Island Orphanage. When he turned sixteen, he was sent to the Academy by the Equimancers of the institute.
Only after he was admitted to the Academy, he found out that he wouldn’t spend his years there in any of the Commoners’ Dormitories.
Apparently, an anonymous benefactor had offered to pay for a Private Suite on the second floor, and he had received a rather generous monthly allowance.
Only after his Double-Air-Aptitudes had kicked in – making him a master of reading and even controlling minds, - could Dax finally discover that his patron was Belisar, the feared Lord of the Belly.
From then on, he had spent all his Academy Breaks in the Belly, living in Belisar’s home, getting to know the inhabitants of the City of Outcasts.
Only the poorest and most desperate came to live here – with the addition of some who ran from the law.
It should have been a horrible place, but over the centuries, a certain set of rules emerged that everybody stuck to.
Up until a few decades ago, the Centre was a haphazard collection of rickety shacks, built from rubbish that people had found lying around in the Upper City.
Until Belisar had taken over.
He had the vision of a more appealing Belly and the talent to go with it. Within a few years, he had transformed the underground city into a vibrant part of the Capital that the adventurous entertainment-seekers were more than happy to explore on occasion.
Becoming the patron of Dax turned out to be the most rewarding decision he had ever made; the two of them realised that if the Belly became the ally of the Island, rather than its seeping wound, both Worlds would benefit.
Dax had convinced his fellow Equimancers to co-operate with Belisar’s people. They would let them get on with their own rules, as long as it didn’t involve any major crimes, and in turn they would benefit from the Underground’s intelligence system that Belisar had organised.
Many of the Centre’s people worked as long-distance transporters, doing trips to the furthest corners of the Realm, always alert, always keeping their eyes and ears open; establishing a network of informers all over the country.
Belisar also ran the most notorious establishments of the country, which brought a very significant amount of gold.
Sure, there were the occasional accidents and disappearances, but it was handled in the most efficient and discreet way.
All-in-all, Belisar had created a thriving community in the Belly.
Once a dirty and diseased place, he had managed to turn it into an underground Paradise – using a substantial amount of his own funds.
Due to this feat the people awarded him the name Belly’s Architect – which over the decades - got shortened to Belisar.
“Good thing you came, I was about to send for you,” he said to Dax, refilling their glasses.
“It’s amazing; it’s as if I could read minds,” Dax laughed, inhaling the smoke from a water-pipe, after he took a sip from the Phantasmagoria.
“Right, you first,” said Belisar decisively.
“I’m just back from Pyonia. I guess you heard about the murders of Blacclaw and the Sunflare Squad.”
Belisar nodded.
“Do I dare to inquire about the results of the investigations?” He squinted at Dax.
“Eh, you know the answer to that question as well as I do. I must have questioned a hundred locals in Stingray Harbour. Nobody knew anything about the Sunflare Squad. And that’s a fact.
As to the Blacclaw-case; the only man, a certain Constable Fargaze, must have been swallowed by the ground,” the Chief Prosecutor snorted.
“Or given a good old Pyonian Send-off. Yep. Waste of time and effort. Anybody who knew anything has left the continent by now. Did you expect them to hang around for you to arrive?
Seems that there are some half-baked revolutionaries going around, inciting people to do stupid things… very stupid things. In the name of the Dark Empress.”
“Indeed. I guess you’ve heard about the Covaxian Mayor’s suicide,” Dax said.
“Sure I did, down to the last detail.”
“Of course you did, stupid question.”
“What do you know about this Tauntall individual?” Belisar asked.
“One Lord Boran Tauntall. His Throatmark stated that he was a Covaxian. According to his Academy file, he lived on the second floor in one of the Private Suites, thanks to a Patron who wished to remain anonymous.”
“Hah! Wasn’t me this time,” Belisar snorted.
“Tauntall was an average pupil with no apparent talents or skills, who got sent to the Academy to become an average student, who – a few years later – miraculously became the second most important man in the whole of Covax,” Dax added.
“I had some of my men investigate. Apparently, he grew up in a Covaxian orphanage in Irontown. One of the good Sisters assured my informant that our Boran was half-Pyonian,” Belisar said.
“Figures. So, what do you think?
Will we see a revival of the Dark Empress movement, or are those the actions of some misguided idealists?”
“Eh, there are always some ready to start an uprising; against the system, the Royals, the mages, take your pick.
Seems you’ve grown complacent amongst your elevated colleagues; you’ve forgotten that people are bastards, always moaning, never happy, willing to slit your throat for more money, more power or just for the Hell of it.”
“You seem to forget that I’m dealing with the scum of the Realm, going from place to place to get them to confess to the most appalling things you can imagine,” Dax interjected defensively.
“Yes, and then you go back to your fellow mages to talk about daisies and poppies and whatnot,” Belisar grunted, emptying his glass.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we do,” Dax remarked indignantly, refilling their glasses.
Belisar gave a dismissive wave with his hand.
“So, any thoughts?” Dax inquired.
“Pffft, man, it’s Pyonia. Those people stick together; they’ve had the notion ‘us against the whole of the Realm’ for centuries. Shifty buggers. No offence,” he added.
“None taken,” Dax shrugged his shoulders.
“Couldn’t it be sabotage by their enemies to prevent the Stingers to keep the throne?”
“I’ve considered it. Would make sense. After all, who doesn’t want to see the Pyonians subdued? But then again…”
“If Pyonians make sure the throne is taken from the Stingers, it could be a damn good reason to start something,” Dax finished his friend’s line of thought.
“Exactly. So far I don’t have enough proof to support either of these theories.”
“Could they extend a local revolution onto the whole of the Realm though?”
“Doubtful. Unless the organisers have a huge amount of money to buy themselves into the highest circles of the Realm.”
“Come on, that is more than highly unlikely.”
“Hmmm,” was all Belisar had to say on the subject.
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing at the moment, but I’ll have my people keep their eyes open wh
enever the Dark Empress is mentioned. One thing that keeps popping up is a certain photograph that Pyonians seem to display more and more frequently in the back rooms of taverns and inns.”
“What photograph?” Dax asked.
“It’s a picture of an elderly man, a middle aged woman, a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, and a boy at the young age of Unpleasantness.”
“And?” Dax took a swig of Elated Xinia’s horrible brew.
“When one of my men had asked one of the locals, he was told, it’s the ‘Real Royal Family’. Apparently, most Pyonians believe that the man in the picture is King Keselyo.”
“Oh for Gods’ sake! That man died fifty years ago,” Dax snorted.
“Not died. Vanished. Fine, he might have died, but there’s no proof of it. That’s enough to start a myth,” Belisar shrugged and refilled their glasses.
“Fine, let’s suppose he’s still alive. What does this picture prove? That he had survived the war, got himself a much younger wife and fathered two children? That he had decided to marry a younger woman the second time around?”
“Stop shouting at me, you brat. I’m not saying any of this. They do. Or rather they don’t. When my men were trying to investigate who the people in the picture were, they mostly got the answer ‘If you don’t know, bugger off’. As I said, shifty buggers.”
Dax tried to concentrate, but his head was swimming from the Phantasmagoria.
“Right. Let’s shummarise. Pyoniansh’re going around and killing members of the Realm’s Army to make sure Pyonia won’t go back to the Shtingers coz’ of a picture that shows the late Empress Vultona’s husband – who’s mosht prolly dead – with his family.
Sho who they think’s the Dark Empress? The new wife?
Eh, that’s either so shtupid that it doesn’t make any sense or so convoluted that it might work, just ‘coz people are morons.
Why am I shtill drinking?” Dax emptied his glass.
“Because I keep refilling,” Belisar replied, opening a bottle.
“Whassa?” Dax squinted.
“Ermelian Secret.”
“I thought Ermeliansh don drink.”
“That explains the name then. Well, I do have some theories on the matter, but it seems I’ll have to save those for your next visit, lightweight,” Belisar said.
“Very cleva of ya makin me sho drunk. Evvvry bloody time. Goin to ma room now. Been beshted by my own bloody presen,’” Dax said staggering towards the door.
“Do you want me to send up a girl?” Belisar shouted after him.
“The only thing a’m capable for now is lissnin’ to a lullaby and even tha’ I won’ be able to keep up for long,” Dax replied, desperately trying to remember the whereabouts of the stairs.
The Academy, Realm Heart’s Island
The rays of the late summer sun beat down mercilessly on the crowd gathered at the Shark Pools, lining up to take their seats in the stadium.
The Annual Shark’n’Falcon-Ball Championship was the most important sporting event of the Realm.
Hundreds of thousands had streamed to the City to watch their favourite team play. All rooms of inns and the elegant and pricey Imperial Island Palace had been booked months in advance. Campsites had suddenly sprouted all over the outskirts of the Capital to offer more affordable accommodation for the visiting masses.
The game was played in and above a huge square pool by four teams per match. Each team had six players; two shark-riders (Sharkers) and four falcon-riders (Falconers).
Each team had a wide, but low goal that was placed in the water. The team, whose Falconer managed to throw the black leather ball through one of the enemy goal posts, scored a point.
A match would start with the ball being tossed into the pool. The Sharker who caught it, threw it to one of his team’s Falconer, during which no attacks were allowed. The Falconers then passed the ball to each other, until one of them scored or dropped the ball. The opposing teams did their best to get the ball off the Falconer who held it. The Sharkers tried to block the goal when a Falconer attempted to score. If the ball was dropped, the Sharkers went for it, just like at the beginning of the match.
One game consisted of three thirds, each of them thirty minutes, with intervals of fifteen minutes between them.
The results were kept in plus and minus points for goals scored and received. If there was no clear winner at the end of the match, Falconers would take turns trying to land the ball in the goal through the line of the Sharkers of the opposing teams.
Playing Shark’n’Falcon-Ball – shortened to Sharknball - required a great skill and of course well-trained animals. The only ones who were in possession of either a Heliodorian Silver Shark or a Lectrickan Snow Falcon, were former or current Academy students or Professors, and members of the Realm’s Army. Each animal was reared by their owners and attuned to them by Equimancers who possessed Water and Air Aptitudes; in the last decade mainly by Atlas and Atlaxa Quickfin and their apprentices.
Twenty-eight teams took part in the Championship; every country of the Realm sent two each, the Capital had another two and the Academy took part with their teams – the Academy Reds and the Academy Blues.
Seven initial matches were played; the First Draw decided which teams would play each other. The Second Draw decided which winning team would play in the first and the second semi-final. A wild card was allocated in a Third Draw. One of the losing teams had the chance to play again, if they were lucky enough.
Mordan approached the Preparation Area. He was a member of the Academy Blues. He was one of the Falconers, just like Wolly, Atlas Quickfin and their new member, Trillian Silvertongue. Sylvain and Octarian were the Sharkers of the team.
There was still almost an hour before the match would start, so instead of going straight to his bird, Mordan made a bee-line for the warm-up pool, where Octarian was already fastening the saddle onto his shark, making sure that the complicated harnesses and strappings would hold properly during the game.
Mordan knew he had to say something to Octarian. They had been practicing together in the last weeks and had played matches in the first round of the Championship against Outer Perentia, Outer Covax and Inner Ricornia which they – Gods only knew how – managed to win, but they hadn’t talked to each other properly since the Sunflare Festival, which was more than three weeks ago.
At first, Octarian had put it down to Mordan’s personal problems involving his mother, but after a while he took his friend’s silence personally. He had gone through the stages of being worried, hurt, but by now he was just angry and upset. Particularly, as he knew that Mordan’s relationship to Wolly and Sylvain was mostly unchanged. The emphasis was on mostly; he didn’t seem to be around as much as he used to.
Octarian shaded his eyes with his hand to look up at Mordan’s form at the edge of the pool.
“How badly you think they will wipe the floor with us?” Mordan asked, making an attempt at a light-hearted tone.
“Completely,” Octarian shrugged.
“It’s a miracle we’re in the semis at all,” Mordan remarked.
“Mmh, ‘t was due to Atlas’ tireless whizzing around, the rest of us were crap,” mumbled Octarian, getting on his shark, ready to warm up.
“Wait!” Mordan exclaimed, “Please.”
Octarian turned around.
“What do you want?”
“To apologise. I was being an idiot. I’m really sorry,” Mordan said.
“That’s it?”
“Look, man, I don’t know what to say. I was really in a bad way,” Mordan rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers.
“Why me?” Octarian looked up with a hurt expression that shamed Mordan. He was at a loss; he had no idea how to come up with an explanation. He stared at the sparkling water of the pool, slowly shaking his head.
“I don’t know… you’re always so bloody positive…
I guess I envied you for it when I was down. I wasn’t thinking… <
br />
I knew you weren’t to blame for anything… I can’t say anything else.
Look, I’m sorry,” he said silently.
Octarian sighed. He was still hurt, but also relieved. He always hated hostility, and he liked to be liked.
“Fine, we can talk after the match. Let’s go out for some drinks tonight,” he suggested as if that wasn’t a given anyway.
“Yes, let’s,” Mordan said with relief, “… and thanks,” he added.
The rest of their team approached.
“Death to Inner Lectricka, death to Outer Gundia, death to Inner Lunaria,” chanted Wolly and Trillian, accompanied by Sylvain’s “Eeeoooooeeeeeeooey” shouts. Atlas was continuously shaking his head, but smiling anyway.
Gloria took a seat between her children, Nessa and Olivier in the Sunflare Royal Lodge.
She was in excellent company. The cream of the Sunflares were present; Octarian’s mother, Queen Mother Lunea and his siblings Princess Liona and Emperor Lexandros II with his wife Pearlblood, Wolly’s pregnant mother - the Vosian Empress Ginia - and Wolly’s step-father, King Razzael, Sylvain’s mother Aquina, as well as Duke Dizzius – Gloria’s cousin - and Duchess Silvertongue, Trillian’s parents. They all arrived together after a light lunch at the Sunflare Palace, and now everybody was chattering excitedly.
“How come those leather harnesses don’t shrink when wet?” pondered Queen Ginia, always the practical Vosian.
“The Lectrickan inventors infuse the leather of the saddles and the ball with some mysterious material,” Olivier explained. He was fanatical about the game and knew all the little details about his favourite sport.
“I hope I make the team next year,” said Nessa longingly. Gloria looked at her with horror.
“Most certainly not,” she exclaimed, “I shall die of shame if I ever see you on one of those ghastly fish.”
Olivier shook his head indignantly.
“Oh mother, girls don’t become Sharkers.”
“For obvious reasons. Bleeding… on a monthly basis… you know…” Nessa added, awarding her mother a little eye-roll.
“Oh, by the Gods, don’t be so vulgar,” Gloria gasped.
“Besides, dear Gloria, we pride ourselves on the ghastly fish that are Heliodorian Silver Sharks; they are one of the main assets of the Realm Guard,” remarked Lexandros with a little smile.
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