Chapter 230 - Horses, Goats, and Basements III

Accompanied by a trio of somewhat intelligent animals, Claire headed out into the city after a brief rest by the hearth. The snow was heavier than it had been earlier in the afternoon, but it was still light enough for the lyrkress, who was in her four legged form, to walk through it unimpeded. The cold didn’t bother her, and her body temperature was low enough that the fluffy snowflakes were carried off by the winds before they could melt into her clothes.

The same could be said for Boris and Marcelle. Neither was particularly bothered by the flurry, but the resident fox saw the storm through a different lens. Sylvia was like a magnet for ice crystals. Every flake that touched her stuck to her fur and quickly transformed her from a Llystletein fox to a sculpture made entirely of snow. Of course, such a fate would never have befallen the unlucky popsicle had Claire not tickled her each time she tried to craft a bubble, but such was life for the keeper of a petty snake-moose.

Vel’khagan was only a fraction of Valencia’s size, but the capital city was no small settlement. It was a bustling metropolis packed to the brim with things to do. There were art galleries for those that wished to see the wonders of the world, theatres for performers from all walks of life, and even markets for any product that a wealthy buyer could imagine. Contraband was no exception. The city was home to at least three major crime lords, all of whom had the guards on their payroll.

Entertaining and accepting the offers was common practice amongst powerful warriors, regardless of whether they were granted peerage by the crown. It was politics that typically drove the behaviour, for governments and criminal syndicates often shared unspoken agreements of noninterference. One might conclude that it was due to corruption that such injustice was tolerated, but that was by no means the case. Police forces were ill equipped to handle organisations with high-leveled individuals, and throwing the military at the problem was unlikely to result in anything but a waste of life. In a way, it was something of a mutually beneficial relationship. The criminals would parasitize the country in times of peace, but if the officials were cooperative enough, they would offer skilled fighters to assist in times of crisis. Of course, such leniency was granted only in the case that the syndicates kept their operations under wraps. Those that stepped into the limelight or went too far with their misdeeds would have to be taken down so the governments could save face.

Thus, while punitive forces often went after smaller groups yet to establish themselves, they would steer clear of any larger entities. This approach was well known among the force’s veterans, but its starry-eyed youths would often foolishly attempt to bring justice upon any villainous scum that dared to disobey the law, regardless of who they were with or how powerful they were. The officers would often have to go out of their way to deter their dogooder subordinates by washing their brains over time, and for their trouble, the Vel’khanese underground would award them with generous stipends aplenty.

Claire had no intention of interfacing with any such unsavoury groups, but her destination, the city’s arena, was no doubt funded by one don or another. Unlike the government-owned colosseum back home, Vel’khagan’s was run by a private business that—according to Arciel at least—made more of its money from gambling than it did ticket sales and foodstuffs.

While certainly not the only issue, its location was one of the driving forces behind its lack of profitability. It was placed in one of the bays that lay in the city’s northern quarter, an out-of-the-way destination that land dwellers had difficulty accessing. There were plenty of spells and tools, magical or otherwise, that allowed those without gills to respire underwater, but even renting one for a day would increase the effective ticket price tenfold. Most landlocked observers came instead on ships, casting shadows on the arena from above and worsening the experience for the audience located beneath the waves.

It was less of a problem in the winter, during which the boats were beached, but some would still walk atop the ice and look down into the depths. These unpaid observers were always chased off by guards and patrols, but their presence was common enough to dissuade many would-be customers from offering their patronage.

To make matters worse, the unique terrain greatly limited the foreign talent that could be brought in and displayed. Fighters that spent all their time above ground would be greatly weakened in the water, even if they were able to breathe. As such, few others in the business considered it a good place to hold exhibition matches and premier their rising stars. All in all, it was widely considered a failure of an establishment. And that was precisely why Claire had been curious enough to pay it a visit.

There was only one problem.

“Pets aren’t allowed inside of the colosseum.” The rejection was grumbled by a mermaid with a head of curly brown and grey hair.

“Wait, wait, wait! Hold on!” cried the only critter to mind the label. “I’m not a pet!”

The salesperson slowly raised her head and adjusted her goggles before looking back down at the book she was holding in her hands. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not allowed.” She made no attempt to hide the text’s identity; the cover made it clear that it was a novel, specifically that of the detective variety.

“What the heck!?” cried Sylvia.

“And you too,” she pointed at Claire. “You’re not allowed anymore either. Don’t ever come back.“

The lyrkress felt a twinge of annoyance pulse through her skull, but kept her face neutral as always. “This is our first time here.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” the menopause victim grumbled. “Hurry up and get the hell out of here before I call security.”

“At least explain what the problem is,” said Claire, with a roll of the eyes.

“I did. Pets aren’t allowed, and you’ve already got three strikes.” She pointed at each of the animals in the moose’s vicinity in turn.

“I don’t see that written anywhere.”

“How about you shut the fuck up and leave?” The mermaid threw her book onto her desk and leaned forward with her hands pressed against the wood. “I don’t care if it’s written or not. I make the rules.” She got right up in the longmoose’s face and bore her teeth.

“That doesn’t seem very reasonable.”

“Well that’s too bad. Now scram.”

Claire could feel her fist itching. “I refuse.”

“Fine, have it your wa—”

“Tra’akhtch? I can handle it from here.”

The mermaid opened her mouth and prepared to call the guards, but she was cut short when a strange man burst into the space between them. He was of a very peculiar build, identifiable as a male only because of his deep and somber voice. His body was constructed of a single strip of seaweed, its pieces frayed to form limbs and hair. His face almost looked like it was drawn on in white paint, and by an amateur at that. It was comprised entirely of three misshapen circles, two that were identical, and one that was slightly larger.

“Fine.” The lady at the desk scoffed, but refrained from commenting any further. Waving the group away, she sat back in her chair and immersed herself in her book.

“Please don’t mind her.” The kelp-man spoke as he slowly walked towards the entrance. “She’s been a bit bitter ever since she lost her daughters in the incident, particularly around those with ears.”

“Incident? What inci—” Sylvia pressed her paws against her mouth. “Ohhhhh… that incident.”

The plant nodded. “To make up for her poor display, we’d like to compensate you. Unfortunately, our VIP seating happens to be undergoing maintenance, but we can at least offer you seats in the first class. And of course, complimentary food and drink throughout the day as well. So long as you’re willing to keep this incident under wraps, of course,” he said, with a wink.

“Is first class seating private?” asked the lyrkress.

“It depends on availability. You’ll have a room to yourselves for now, but you may have to share it with other customers if any of them are unlucky enough to wind up in your situation.”

Claire paused to consider the proposition before slowly nodding her head. “Fine.”

“Right this way then.”

The man led her through the entrance to reveal a hall that was strikingly lacking in grandeur. What she noticed first was that the gladiators’ achievements went largely uncelebrated; there were no trophies lining the walls, nor any statues immortalising the fighters’ greatest upsets. There was not even a ledger of champions, which she had always assumed to be a colosseum’s most basic feature. Even the crowd was dreary. There were only a few children present and excited to cheer for their favourites, and the few guests that discussed the fighters’ prospects did so with only profits in mind.

Claire could feel her eyes widening. Her first thought was that it had to be an illusion, a fantastic depiction constructed to explore life in an alternate reality. But looking through all five hundred and seventy two eyes—and shocking another guest or two—confirmed that it was no such piece of art. The dull, drab, doleful arena was every bit as depressing as it appeared.

The areas reserved for its first class guests were still lavish, but while fancy, they were more boorish and distasteful than classy. The solid gold almost seemed wasted on the boring backdrop, but voicing none of her thoughts out loud, Claire followed the man until he reached the room labeled 17B. Marcelle flew straight in when he opened the door and dove into a particularly soft-looking sofa.

“Uhmm… didn’t you say colosseums were supposed to be super epic or something?” asked Sylvia, after the man departed.

“In Cadria,” said Claire. She didn’t bother with any of the fancy chairs. Grabbing a few pillows instead, she laid them down next to the glass screen and seated herself as would any other equine. “This place… seems run down. I doubt there’s much fun to be had.”

“Awwww…” The fox’s ears drooped.

A metal lizard slowly swam over and placed a hand on her shoulder as she began to slouch. He didn’t make any sounds, but her ears twitched when their eyes met, as if she had heard his thoughts.

“Good point, Boris! The fights could still be exciting.”

Claire was more inclined to believe the opposite, but reserved her judgement as she cast her eyes on the arena below. Despite the facilities, the fighters were not quite as lackluster as she had expected. The chihuahua-headed lobster and the skeletal, six-legged chair in the ring were engaged in a deadly dance of might and magic. The former was firing blasts of air with his claws, superheated projectiles he made by snapping them together, while the latter kept shifting his shape to avoid the near-fatal attacks.

Both were more technical than they were powerful, but that was precisely why it was so entertaining to watch. Each of their moves could be slowly observed and interpreted, studied as a means to achieve victory without relying on brute force—or at least that would have been the case had the match not been scripted. It was clear from a glance that the lobster was missing on purpose. His accuracy was even worse than it would have been had he blindly fired his attacks. The chair was just as cautious not to hurt his foe. His attacks were fast, but he pulled his punches at the very last second, rendering them too weak to break through his enemy’s shell.

While it was certainly masterful in its own right for the fighters to stick so perfectly to their choreography, Claire soon found herself too bored to pay attention. She slowly drifted off, falling asleep with her head against the glass.

When she opened her eyes again, she was greeted by a familiar black void. The darkness was all there was to perceive until she took a deep breath and slowly raised a hand. A pair of doors formed when she pressed her palm against the empty space, twisting into reality right before her eyes. The smaller entrance was made of a strange melange of materials, lumber, metal, and something she didn’t quite know, while its counterpart had a pure, cherrywood body, inlaid with nothing but a small panel of glass.

Claire frowned as she looked between them, unsure of where to go. Visiting the phantom seemed like the best choice. Opening his door was sure to provide her with an opportunity to level her skills in her sleep, but she hesitated as the afternoon’s events came to mind. The fox was right. She needed a bit of a breather, and the whole point of the outing was recreation. Doubling down on her training almost seemed antithetical.

More importantly, it had been a few months since she last visited the manor. She had refrained from possessing the homunculus ever since her father instantiated himself as the nation’s monarch. Her great uncle’s death was, in a way, an unexpected turn of events. While everyone had assumed that Virillius would eventually take over, Claire had always assumed that it would come as a function of the previous ruler’s abdication and not his decapitation, given their long-standing friendship.

Pursing her lips, Claire considered the final words that the two aspects had exchanged before finally making up her mind and approaching the larger door. Her father was rarely present; she was unlikely to be disturbed as she strolled through the garden and looked down upon the familiar, frost-laden city.

The world distorted as she retrieved the key hidden within her chest and inserted it into the lock. A squeezing sensation enveloped her body when she twisted it, the familiar feeling of being pushed into a body already possessed by another soul.

It took a moment for her senses to link up with her mind. Her hearing was first. An unpleasant, shrill voice echoed through her massive ears. She struggled initially to identify the words spoken, in part because some were unfamiliar, and in part because they were still half muddled by her brain. Next was her sense of touch. She felt her sensations spread through the homunculus’ body, extending all the way from its fleshy core to the tips of its slimy extremities. The familiar scent of home slowly flooded her mind, processed first with her tongue, and then her nasal cavity. Finally, there was her sight. She almost found it strange for the last sense to be so limited. Her eyes could no longer amplify the things she wanted to see in detail, as she could in her own body, and she could focus only on one image at a time.

At the moment of her possession, said image was that of an unfamiliar thoraen lady wearing a fancy robe. She was writing something on a sheet of paper as she spoke, pointing between a particularly hefty textbook and a dark, chalky board.

Both were riddled with symbols beyond her comprehension, Xs, Ys, squiggly lines, checkmarks and even apostrophes aplenty. The notebook sitting in front of her was filled with them as well, written in a way that appeared to denote comprehension despite her clear lack thereof. The thought was accompanied by a twitch of the nose, a sign from her body that it was willing to explain, but she shook it off and rose to her feet.

The flabbergasted tutor barely reacted by the time she leapt out the window. But she was only half as confused as the lyrkress that had fled the classroom.

For it was only as Claire jumped that she realised she was not in the manor.

She was within the castle’s confines, ten stories above its training ground.

And directly beneath her, already looking up towards the sky, was the man that she called her father.