| |
It’s the big day. The gropsters have assembled and will soon be setting forth in search of glory. Thirty players, carrying the hopes and dreams of the realm’s sports fans on their shoulders.
We’ve gathered on either side of a bridge across a river of blood. Large crowds are grouped around us, and marshals patrol the river banks, shepherding people clear of the edges — if a person makes any kind of contact with the blood, they’ll dissolve in seconds.
The players are dressed in blue robes with nine large, white stars stitched onto their backs. Everyone in the backroom team – coaches, medics, those in charge of kit and equipment, and others – is clad in blue trousers and shirts, with lots of half-moons dotted around them.
Thousands of people have come to see us off. They cheer every time they catch sight of someone in blue, make the greet, slap our backs, wish us luck. It’s not just the players — the rest of us are hailed too.
“What’s your job?” a small boy asks when he spots me through the legs of the adults and darts across.
“I’m with the medics,” I say shyly, finding the hero-worship hard to take.
“Cool,” the boy gushes. “If I break my arm, will you heal it?”
Before I can answer, he raises his arm and I realise he intends to slam it on the ground in an effort to snap some bones.
“Wait!” I stop him, and fumble in the large rucksack that I’m carrying. I find a bandage and slice off a length, then wrap it round the boy’s wrist.
“Amazing,” the boy sighs, then hurries away to show the bandage to his friends.
“That was a damn poor knot, Lox,” someone growls, and I turn to find Baba Jen glowering up at me.
“I was only trying to stop him snapping his arm,” I tell her.
“You should have let him break it,” she says. “He’d have learnt a valuable lesson. But if you’re going to waste any more of our supplies on bright-eyed little brats, I want to see you tying the knots properly.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” I mutter.
Baba Jen storms off to harass somebody else.
Bands are playing, fire breathers are swallowing flames and spitting them out, acrobats are throwing one another up into the air. There are even thesps, performing skits in which they mock the other teams (especially the team from Ruby) and predict landslide victories for the men and women in blue. I keep an eye out for Dermot and his troupe – it would be nice to catch up – but if they’re here, I don’t spot them.
As the departure time looms, the coaches round up the players and backroom team and gather them in two groups, one on either side of the river. I can see Hugo nearby, but Inez and Cal must be on the far side.
People in the crowd buzz with excitement as a retinue from the palace approaches. Pitina and Ghita are at the forefront, and everyone cranes their neck, trying to get a glimpse of the royals. Both are dressed in stunning blue gowns, stars and crescents sewn into them. Pitina’s wearing blue glasses, and has dyed strands of her usually grey hair the same colour, while Ghita has painted her eyelashes blue and daubed a couple of white stars on her cheeks.
As the royals and their aides approach the river, a borehole shimmers to life above the crimson liquid and a boat appears, followed by five others. These half a dozen vessels are the team fleet. I expected them to be decorated for the occasion, but they’re as plain as they always are, made of logs tied together with ropes, no cabins, masts or anything else, more large rafts than real boats.
Guided by its robed, barefooted steer, the lead boat pulls in close to the bank (without touching it — the boats never make contact with land) and Pitina and Ghita step onto it. The steer allows the boat to drift back out to the middle of the river, then signals for it to stop. Pitina looks round, smiling, and raises a hand. Everyone falls silent.
“It warms my heart to see so many of you here,” the queen says, and even though she speaks softly, her voice carries through the crowd — there must be a deviser somewhere nearby, amplifying it.
“With this sort of support, our brave players are bound to return as champions,” Ghita adds, and there’s a huge roar of approval.
“I hope you’re right,” Pitina chuckles when the noise abates, “but win or lose, I’m sure they’ll do us proud, that they’ll play with passion and guile, but also with respect for their opponents.” People grumble, but the queen ignores the murmurs. “I know some of you plan to travel to Topaz to watch the matches or cheer from outside the stadium if you can’t get a ticket.”
Lots of people laugh. One man shouts, “I can’t go, but I’m going to cheer so hard that they’ll hear me from here!” There’s more laughter.
“You’ll have a wonderful time,” Pitina says, “but please bear in mind that you’re ambassadors for our realm, and treat everyone the way you’d treat an old friend.”
There’s more grumbling. Pitina lets the angry babbling noise rise, then waves a hand to stop it.
“It’s been a long time since the last Tourney,” she says. “We all know how chaotic the competitions had become, players killing players, supporters killing supporters. We lost track of what it should be — a chance for people from the various realms to gather and celebrate our existence, share stories and experiences, learn and grow, and be more than we are when there are barriers between us.”
Not even a whisper disturbs the silence now. We’re gazing at the queen, rapt.
“You’ve all had life cruelly snatched away from you in the Born,” she continues. “You’ve all experienced first-hand where hatred and violence lead, so I know you all understand the true value of peace and harmony.”
“How can there be harmony if the SubMerged plot to kill our royals?” a woman cries, and there are lots of supporting calls.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghita smirks, and the mood lightens. She shares a smile with Pitina, then they hold hands. “I have more to complain about than most, and Pitina knows I’m unhappy about what happened ahead of the vote last year, but the Tourney isn’t the place to air our grievances. It’s a chance for us to prove to our enemies that we can be better than them. If we do that, it might make them reflect, and maybe they can become better people too.”
Pitina’s smile looks strained now. She’s SubMerged, and wants to unite her realm with Ruby. It can’t be easy, listening to Ghita take a subtle dig at her allies, but she maintains her composure and says, “Every Family sends at least one member to the Tourney, to represent the realm.”
“Hugo!” several people roar, expecting him to be unveiled, as his love of grop is well known.
Pitina shares a rueful look with Ghita. “Hugo should be going,” she says, “but he’s at large in the Born and can’t be disturbed.”
Given the delicate nature of his mission, Hugo kept his involvement with the gropsters a secret from Pitina and Farkas, in case they accidentally (or intentionally) betrayed him to their SubMerged contacts.
“I was going to travel anyway,” Pitina says, “so in Hugo’s absence, I’ll be your sole representative. I hope you’re not too disappointed?”
There are massive cheers. Regardless of the fact that she’s SubMerged, Pitina’s their queen and they love her.
“Thank you,” Pitina says when the cheers die away. “That means a lot.” She’s either a great actress or she truly means it, because there’s not a hint of deception in her features. “I’ll do whatever I can to encourage our team, and if I can pry any tactical secrets from members of the other Families, I certainly will.”
There’s more laughter, and a few people shout, “Even if they’re from Ruby?”
“Especially if they’re from Ruby,” the queen grins. “I’m a Sapphirite first and foremost, and I haven’t forgotten that they’ve beaten us more times in Tourneys than we’ve beaten them. It’s time we start settling that score.”
The cheers this time are almost deafening. Pitina tries to silence the crowd again, but it’s impossible, so she laughs, then starts chanting, “Grop! Grop! Grop!”
The people close to the banks hear her and repeat it. “Grop! Grop! Grop!”
The cry is taken up by others, and spreads through the crowd like wildfire, until everyone’s shouting at the top of their lungs, and it’s as if it’s the only word in the sphere. “Grop! Grop! Grop! Grop! GROP!”