The majestic zeppelin soared across a vast sea, carrying with it not only its affluent passengers but the hopes of a new age. Where previously only powerful wizards could levitate things, here was proof that the same miracles were also possible through the genius of modern science. The world of Orb was now undergoing a great and terrible revolution but, at this time, there was only one city among its multitudes where the spirit of this change was in full focus. Alchemist City. Hardly more than three centuries old, it was built on a site that had seen numerous settlements over the last eleven hundred years and, partly because of this, the civic motto of the city was “On the ruins of others.” But also on account of the Technomages. Now the Supreme Guild of Technomages, as they were properly referred to, consisted of mages obviously, but ones who uniquely embraced the ideal of combining magic with technology. Elsewhere logicians carried out science in leisurely speculation and wizards used the arcane arts for the purpose of tyrannical domination, yet despite this no one had previously sought to yoke the two under the whip of industrialization. As such Alchemist City quickly became preeminent among the Free Nation city states and only its ancient enemy, the distant and crumbling Old Empire, could plausibly dispute this. It was however a time of relative peace and this gave the Technomages and their minions the opportunity to devote all their energies to expanding their influence among their immediate neighbors. Included in the projects this entailed was the development of airship routes throughout the Free Nations (While being careful to maintain clandestine monopolies over the companies involved) The earlier mentioned zeppelin was the product of this very same plan and it was currently making impressive speed towards the metropolis of its invention after a lengthy journey from the deservedly celebrated city of Vesante-Vix, interrupted only by a brief recreational layover at the island port of Fleurin. That’s why, as it neared in approach of its destination, it arrived from the open Thalassic Sea and not via the West Lowlands. Said Low-lands were an expansive stretch of flat country that ran as far as the mountains of Elvany and ended in the east at the flank of the Clavac mountain range where, on the other side of an elevated plateau, Alchemist City throbbed at the mouth of the river Sybeles. If you believe this to be too much detail, consider yourself fortunate that you are presently spared a lesson in the total geography and cosmology of Orb since, if you weren’t, this knowledge would no doubt prove too cataclysmic for you to endure.
Setting aside that apocalypse for the moment, it will be sufficient to return to the present matter of the Airship Luxury Express now rapidly descending from the sky as it made its way to land. With the regiment of men arduously shovelling coal into a furnace hidden deep within its bowels, the passengers aboard the ship had nothing guilt-inducing to distract them as they reclined on their cabin balconies and took in the sites below. One young boy though, Bivels Hazerford, son of Sir Esten Hazerford, wasn’t satisfied with this and made an absolute pest of himself about it until his father finally relented and took him to the forward observation deck. There Alchemist City was at last revealing itself and, with a darting finger extended across the inner railing, Bivels unleashed a ceaseless stream of comments and questions while the elder Hazerford did his best to be indulgent.
“That’s Gaol Island isn’t it sir?” asked the boy, using the formality his rather stiff old man required of him. Sir Hazerford hadn’t even finished nodding to this when he was hit with the next salvo. “Yes! There’s the Vampire District there I think. Surely can’t image a whole district of vampires though.”
His father chuckled. “Oh, there’s not many vampires there Bivels. And I hear the few there are have been mostly gentrified.”
Bivels looked over at his father with a sheepish smile before bouncing back into a fresh run of chatter. “But that is Pox Island behind it and I know they do send the sick there sir! A chum of mine told me so himself at school. Funny thing though sir; doesn’t it look like they’re both about to get eaten?”
Sir Esten Hazerford however lacked the fanciful imagination of his son and so did not interpret the two large encroaching peninsula as scorpion mandibles the way his Bivels did. Out of necessity then he ignored the question and instead pointed to a tall structure on the tip of the eastern peninsula.
“Look there Bivels! See that? That’s the Star Citadel. And over there behind it is Star Citadel Academy; the finest source of military education in all the sphere. You’ll make a fine sight one day Bivels after we’ve wrung you through that. Oh, rest assured!”
The younger Hazerford was considerably less enthusiastic about the idea than the elder one but he was smart about it and managed to hide this in his face. He did not however attempt to feign interest in the matter.
“Not much to look at over on that side though sir,” began the boy with growing momentum as he went. “That hexagon shaped building for instance is rather boring. But quite the contrary on the opposite mainland! Yes sir, I think I like that side much better. Why there’s all those splendid ships there coming into port. And a whole mob of towers I should say beyond that! Is that a church in between?”
Sir Esten raised a hand to the brim of his top hat to shield his eyes from the sun. “By the blessed deity my boy! That’s Eudoxa Cathedral,” he answered before adding with emphasis, “Those are ow-rrr people.”
In matters of religion Bivels was ever eager to be in agreement with the old man. “Quite right father,” he said. “And there’s jolly Minter’s Street; why you can practically hear the coins jingling from here. And a bit farther there is the Cypress District. Those are some of our people too, aren’t they sir?”
The elder Hazerford put an approving hand on his son’s shoulder. “Indeed, some of them are my boy,” he added after making a show of scrutinizing the area.
By now the zeppelin was well on top of the city and other craft, mostly balloons and gliders but also the odd mounted drake, were likewise cutting paths across the immediate sky. As lively as these sights were however, Bivels focus was presently occupied by a small shining disc almost directly below. “That’s the Omen Well, correct, in that curve there along Elven Way?”
Sir Hazerford leaned over the inner railing to get a better look. “Yes, it must be,” he replied before continuing. “Back when our ancestors first arrived on the Landings, that was one of their most startling discoveries. Probably exaggerated though; the things they saw in its waters.”
Bivels didn’t hear this last speculation however as his attention was distracted elsewhere. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “That’s the Amphitheater just starboard of us! And the Arena beside it! Oh! But that is a mighty pyramid even further ahead.”
The elder Hazerford smiled to himself. Rather should humor the boy more often, he mused before addressing his son’s erroneous appraisal. “That’s a ziggurat Bivels. Centuries ago our forefathers used to make animal sacrifices to the deity on top of that.”
The boy was mesmerized. “Wow! But not anymore sir?”
Here Sir Esten removed an elegant cigarette holder from the inner pocket of his leisure jacket and placed an offering of immolation in this as he replied. “I should hope not! I’m sure the deity prefers his meat at a civilized table like the rest of us.”
He accented his point by taking long smooth drags from his combustible in a manner that had only recently been perfected after generations of breeding. For a while then they simply stood together in silence, a father and son approaching the last great destination on a transoceanic voyage. It had been grand. There in front of them now though was the Aeroport and they had to prepare themselves for disembarking. The elder Hazerford made a wordless tilt with his head for his son to get going and then flicked his cigarette out of its holder so he could follow, heedless of where the still smoldering item fell among the crowded streets below.
Alchemist City’s Aeroport, being one of its latest constructions, and most important, was naturally a stupendous work of engineering. An unusual building, it is somewhat hard to describe but, nevertheless, this you shall have. First, picture the bell of a tuba and chop it off at the neck say, eight inches from the mouth. Then, divide this in half diametrically and plant the wide end on the ground; that’s the Arc. Following this, add large spoke like horizontal extensions out from the convex side of the top, these being its docking bridges, and then place adjacent to the Arc a detached Control Tower where the convergent lines of the docking bridges would hypothetically meet. Now marry this with a brutal but ornate style of crystalline architecture, flood it with supernatural light, and then swarm all of that with a flying anarchy of machinery and there you pretty much have it. The dockhands working at the Aeroport of course did not have the luxury of contemplating any of these things as they were much too busy unloading crates of Orthosian wine, craft furniture from the dwarven carpenters of the Wocce Forest, and even the occasional live baboon or jaguar outrageously shipped by air from all the way down in the Southern Continent. Tastes were quite decadent at this time and some of those most responsible for this were eagerly awaiting aboard the Airship Luxury Express as the slowing zeppelin neared the docking bridge it had been cleared for by flag signal.
“Look lively Bivels!” clanged the elder Hazerford as the two stood at the front of a queue waiting to exit. The other passengers were also ready to get going, but casually so, with the temperament of those used to getting what they want and when. Only a lanky porter who stood behind the two Hazerfords in a black and gold uniform, his arms overly loaded with carry-on luggage, looked anything like uncomfortable. It was his first week and, still unaccustomed to the pace of the job, he was trying his best to shake off the persistent feeling he was drowning. He could have fallen over dead right there though and the father and son in front of him wouldn’t have noticed. Indeed, all they saw was what lay before them and, as the bay doors of the passenger section opened, the two revved forth to meet it.
“Sir Hazerford, what a splendid honor it is to have as a visitor to our city someone of your august peerage. Welcome!” These words came from a suspiciously feline looking young woman who punctuated her greeting with a curtsy in an ankle-length dress of robin-shell blue that was inlaid with white embroidery. She was in fact half-panther; her best half too, although both halves were very much admired.
“My name is Ms. Simone,” she continued in a velvet voice, “And I am the civic guide you requested in your letter.”
Beast folk, although rare, were only slightly less common than elves and so Sir Esten was not perturbed in any way by dealing with one; plus Ms. Simone was certainly charming.
“Very agreeable my dear,” he said as the Hazerfords and their guide began walking in a vanguard together at the front of an unloading crowd of people. Behind this trio the porter trailed as best he could while, around them, other ships docking on top of the sixteen-story high Aeroport bobbed against their anchor lines and flushed steam into the air. While his father and Ms. Simone discussed an assortment of mundane matters, Bivels was once again caught up in the novel sights surrounding him. For example, he felt great delight in witnessing a pair of mechanics pushing a trolley full of caged gremlins and almost interrupted his father to bring this to the old man’s attention before finally thinking better of it. Other fantastic spectacles urged him to do likewise but it wasn’t until the group of four had made their way to one of the mechanical elevator stations that a pause in the adult’s conversation gave Bivels the opening he was looking for.
“Father sir,” he began. “May I ask the lady a question?” The elder Hazerford nodded at the boy as he lit another cigarette. Needing nothing beyond this, Bivels launched away.
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“Ms. Simone, I’ve heard that all the civilized peoples of the world reside here. Every folk imaginable. Is this true?”
The panther woman gave the boy a radiant smile. “It most certainly is. But sadly some are distinctly less civilized than others. Young master though, I have the odd suspicion that these might be the ones you’re most interested in.”
Ms. Simone had of course hit the cyclops dead in its eye and, after checking to find an amused look on the elder Hazerford’s face, she proceeded to delve into some of the more fantastic business of Alchemist City and its exploits while deftly avoiding any of the truly unsavory realities.
“Rumors abound precocious sir, that a banshee arrived in a bone carriage just the other day, being led by a team of wyverns. It is said she’s a countess from the lands of the Witch Queen Gidu and is here to consult the astrologers of our Opticon regarding some matter of necromantic ritual. Then there’s our own Tarantulas, the city’s thieves’ guild, who I’ve heard now employ a gorgon and have been using her to petrify the drivers of armored stagecoaches in our poor Coin District. Naturally the City Warders will soon put a stop to that and machine men presently patrol the area in abundance, zealous to catch the culprits. Beyond this there’s the usual issues with goblins and orcs and mermaids but they are too trivial to merit any curiosity. What of your homeland though young master? I’ve heard that the country of the East Lowland’s is utterly teeming with talking animals and that a person can’t go farther than three paces afield before being accosted by throngs of cheese begging mice?”
Ms. Simone here was significantly exaggerating for comedic effect. Before Bivels could protest however, the elevator arrived and the four of them entered an open air gondola that had a view of the fountained and statued courtyard surrounding the base of the Control Tower. As they rode straight down in their cushioned seats, all except the fidgeting porter standing with clasped luggage, Bivels took only a couple seconds to study the view beyond before refocusing on Ms. Simone and answering her as best a child pontiff could.
“I’d like it better if it were so but where we live in the East Lowlands, down in Mundany Ms. Simone, there aren’t any creatures of the sort and hardly enough magic to light a lantern. My chums and I think it’s dreadfully boring actually. Really there’s nothing worthy of a tale until you get out to Dwarfania.”
Ms. Simone’s stunning eyes twinkled with mirth. “Oh!” she exclaimed, gently putting a hand up to her collar bone. “Would you like to go and live among the dwarves?” The elder Hazerford raised an eyebrow as he watched his son make a face of undisguised contempt.
“Positively not!” sputtered Bivels, before adding, “I’d rather eat scaly chicken stew!” Unimpressed, Sir Esten scowled at his son and used his third most imperious tone of voice.
“None of that boy!” he growled before disposing of the cigarette he’d been neglecting and crushing it under the front of his shoe. Bivels responded with a very meek “Yes sir,” and lapsed into a submissive quiet. His father however had his own questions for Ms. Simone.
“I was informed, my dear, that you would also have some news I’d be interested in. Am I correct?”
The civic guide confirmed this with a bow of her head. “Indeed sir. As per your instructions, I have reviewed the state of affairs regarding the subjects of your interest and can proceed with a summary of them however you prefer.”
The elevator doors here rumbled and then opened as it finally reached the main floor of the building and everyone walked out into the immense hall awaiting them. Bivels eyes shot to the vaulted ceiling, and the frescoes there approved by the Lord Mayor himself, while the porter sighed at the busy space full of well-attired aristocrats and muttered a single exhausted prayer to himself. Sir Esten though took no notice of his surroundings and instead replied to Ms. Simone.
“Just out with all of it. Beyond that I’m sure you can do the task quite competently without specification.”
Ms. Simone bowed deferentially to soothe the slight note of exasperation she sensed in his voice and then confidently did exactly as he asked.
“Well sir, to quote the ancient proverb ‘silver is the blood of power’ I must begin then with matters of finance. Yesterday the Patrician Review reported that quotas at the Foothills Mine have been lowered by the Syndicate for the second quarter in a row. That, combined with the continuing riots in Meridio means a simultaneous animatite and esaguan clay scarcity could occur in the near future. Obviously this would be disastrous for golem production and, even if the present difficulties are overcome in a timely fashion, speculators will certainly take a lash to all susceptible enterprises. No doubt you know better than I which ones those might be so I will spare you any further comment on this except to say that my sources in the Scribes Guild inform me there are rumors crawling in from all directions that our periodicals are deliberately underreporting the matter due to directives from you-know-who.”
Sir Esten adjusted the cuff of a sleeve as he considered this. “A silent wolf need not share their prey,” he remarked idly as he waved for Ms. Simone to continue.
“A most perceptive analogy sir,” she said before proceeding. “Moving on to another economic matter, but one more specifically political in its origins, unrest in the Knave’s Quarter has worsened and this seems to be correlated with a recent increase in piracy which Random Tides, a reliable newspaper published by the Seafarers Guild, says is leading to calls for strike action from certain plebeian agitators. The City Warders however raided half a dozen of the agitators’ tenement meetings only last week and I am assured that this has alleviated the matter entirely.”
Sir Esten contemplated what he’d just heard with a moment of opaque concentration while Ms. Simone recalled the competing account offered by the anarchist newspaper, The Kindler, which asserted that only two “civic activists” had actually been caught and that the rest escaped the tenement raids by being tossed across rooftops by a pair of troll sympathisers. Don’t imagine he’d like to hear that, she thought to herself before Sir Esten asked another question.
“What of matters of magic though? I’ve just now recalled a conversation I overheard in Fleurin concerning new regulations being imposed in that department.”
Ms. Simone here, as chance would have it, randomly killed two vampires with one stake when she bowed as Sir Esten motioned for her to exit the Aeroport’s main doors first, some manners preceding even status of class, and in doing so simultaneously acknowledging his last remark.
“That is indeed the case sir,” she confirmed. “Due to the higher than normal levels of moondust production and addiction this year, city hall has passed new laws regarding the sale of witching ingredients and alembic devices. Obviously no one is going to publically dispute the wisdom of the wizards here but I confess I’ve been told that many apothecarists think the extent of the new restrictions is utterly mad.” Sir Esten Hazerford noted this final piece of news with an ambiguous “Hmmmmm,” as his attention turned to the plentiful chaos of the surrounding concourse.
Directly outside the Aeroport, the placid ambience it contained evaporated. Hawkers, salivating at the prospect of hoodwinking some gullible patrician out of a portion of their purse, set up temporary shops there in an eclectic array of tents, disposable stalls, platformed wagons, and hovering airship. This is what had come to be known as the Quicksilver Bazaar on account of its fluid composition and also because of the occasional punitive actions by the City Warders which usually involved demolishing large sections of it. Aside from these bits of unpleasantness though, a general atmosphere of revelry prevailed. Not only were the merchants here invigorated by a lust for gold but the area had furthermore begun to be frequented by tourists and curiosity seekers from every social class. It would not be an unusual sight there to watch a robed sorcerer with his hands behind his back scrutinizing a heaped display of imp teeth while a pair of drunken satyrs clopped past sloshing bottles of Red Basilisk wine. In short, it was an eternal spectacle.
Sir Esten however did not appear impressed by what he saw even as a distracting feeling caused him to stare out in perplexity. Still unable to figure out what it was, he nevertheless took a moment to address his guide. “Ms. Simone, thank you for your services. You may take your leave now.”
Ms. Simone curtsied as she replied, “Of course sir. Again, it has been a great honor.” With that she took one last look at the old man, even as he ignored her, before bestowing a soft smile on a still chastened Bivels and turning around to depart. As she disappeared back into the Aeroport, only a moving crease in the back of her dressed betrayed a tail twitching with mild annoyance. A handful of seconds passed then before the other Non-Hazerford spoke.
“Excuse me sir, would you like me to leave too?” This produced genuine surprise in Sir Esten and here he did look over.
“Oh! The porter. Yes. Do go and run along as well.” The porter awkwardly waited for a moment, expecting some kind of gratuity, when Sir Esten suddenly erupted with epiphany.
“The blasted stagecoach! That’s what I forgot to ask her about!” With this he snapped his fingers at Bivels. “Stay put while I go find that woman again.”
Bivels sniveled. “And what am I supposed to do here sir?”
Sir Esten unexpectedly crouched down beside his son as he directed the boy’s attention skywards with a pointed finger.
“Look up. See that? That’s the other side of the world. Nothing’s hidden my boy. It’s all right there, just waiting to be taken.”
Confused, Bivels nevertheless obeyed, and his father swiftly stood and shot a command at the help. “You, porter, follow me.”
The porter, who in fact had a name, knew it was a bad idea to leave the boy alone but the ungrateful gentleman bossing him around wasn’t even going to give him a single bronze coin as a tip so why should he try to help the old dragon? Instead, out of both duty and rebellion, he too did as he was told
Bivels didn’t really look up at the sky much since it was always just there and it didn’t change much. Sensing that he was supposed to understand something though, he made a careful examination of what he saw. First he started with the Thalassic Sea, also known as the Equatorial Sea, which circled the entire cavity of Orb in an enormous belt of salt water that divided the Northern and Southern continents. These were distinctly unequal, the North being noticeable smaller than the South due to the asymmetrical band of the Thalassic, but very similar in their main features. For instance, each had a polar desert, these referred to respectively as the Aridic and Antaridic realms, where the shadow of the moon never fell and night had never been experienced. Yes, in the lands of Orb that encompassed the inner surface of its sphere, every dusk was an eclipse and every dawn its end. The moon responsible for this, a physically crescent shaped body, meanwhile orbited, in parallel orientation, a stationary sun situated at the exact center of the sphere where it was surrounded by an inner host of circling stars and nebulae. This was called the Heavenly Core and, aside from being a sight powerful enough to humble anyone who hadn’t been raised beneath it, this slowly whirling storm of golden light had been an endless source of consternation and reverence for at least as long as Old Empire priests first started studying it twelve thousand years ago. As for what Bivels’ father said, he was literally correct in so far as everything not directly blocked from line of sight by the unmoving Heavenly Core or roving moon was laid out perfectly illuminated. Two things helped in this; the relatively gentle radiance of the sun and the reflective influences of the great sea, large lakes, and the twin polar deserts. It was therefore possible for anyone of average vision to follow the entire curve of the world with a single sweep of their head and this without moving an inch from where they stood. That wasn’t the point though, thought Bivels. His father had been speaking poetically. He didn’t just mean that the whole world was accessible. Not merely that. Rather it was because the world lay there wholly revealed, it was therefore ours to possess.
“What cha’ looking at?” jangled a melodic voice beside him. It was a girl about his own age but one with strange markings on her skin and she was also wearing the outfit of a primitive urban scavenger. Think pigeon wings and goblin hide and industrial junk accessories. Despite this Bivels found her embarrassingly beautiful and immediately became her captive.
“A destiny I think,” he replied without entirely comprehending what that meant.
“I’ve heard of those,” laughed the girl in response before adding, “A little boring though don’t you think?”
Bivels beamed. “Quite right!” He said with total enthusiasm. There was a pause in the conversation as both children grinned at each other.
Then the girl said, “Come. I want you to meet my friends,” while offering Bivels her hand. Bivels took it.
When his father reappeared several minutes afterward to find his son missing, a search was swiftly begun but it wasn’t until weeks later that the younger Hazerford was located in Pale Body’s Lane among a tribe of feral orphans. He was barely recognizable however with all his fresh body and face tattoos.