Chapter 47 Part 4: Sylva Chapter 46: Open Game
The hopper was a jarring capsule of luxury, a world away from the dust and tension of the border. Every surface inside seemed to be covered in gold leaf or inlaid with intricate, polished wood, a decadence that felt both oppressive and insulating. It was arranged not as a vehicle, but as a high-end lounge, complete with deep, plush sofas and a small, mahogany bar. A quick glance at the bar revealed only crystal decanters of water and vibrant, freshly squeezed juices. No alcohol. I remembered the prohibition in Sylvan society, and a small, tight knot of anxiety in my chest loosened. One less trigger to worry about. Silver, sex, alcohol, I could avoid all three on this trip without any hardship. The thought was a small victory. Silver’s face, sharp and pleading, ghosted across my mind. I took my com out, its screen a dull, mocking grey. Still no net.
Ciel settled onto the sofa beside me with a quiet sigh. “So, Nanda,” he began, his voice congenial. “Lord Vincent tells me you were schooled by Doctor Norton. A fantastic analyst and scholar, if I may say so.”
“Er, yes,” I replied, caught slightly off guard. Ciel seemed bright, his eyes holding a potential for kindness that felt rare here.
“Well, if he taught you, then we have a good foundation,” he said, nodding to himself. “Tell me, did you read the folders I sent with Lord Vincent?”
“Yes, I have studied them back to front.”
He smiled, a genuine, approving gesture. “Good, good. So, you also realise that you being here with us is a slight to the Sylvans.”
I could feel the heat of a blush warming my skin. “The slight? Me…?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, not unkind. “A beautiful Polli, in a world where Nates do not recognize Pollis. It’s… potent. But Lord Vincent normally knows his business. Just don’t rock the boat more than you have to, and only speak when spoken to.”
The reality of it hit me like a physical blow. “So, I am just some gimmick,” I coughed out, the words tasting bitter.
“Yes,” Ciel said, his gaze steady and surprisingly honest. “And much more. Lord Vincent would never employ you or bring you here if you were not worth it. That Nate is a genius. But yes, he also has a dark sense of humour, and if he can put our enemy on the wrong foot with something so trivial, then more the fool them.” The look in his eyes was one of genuine admiration, both for Vincent’s cunning and, I suspected, for my own intellect.
I looked away, my eyes scanning the others in the gilded cage. Jode still had his head buried in his data pad, a portrait of concentration. Lord Vincent appeared to be half-asleep in a large armchair, though I knew better than to believe it. Saul stood like a sentinel, his broad back to us, looking out through the barred window at the passing landscape.
Ciel took his own folders out and began to read, leaving me to my thoughts. Gathering my courage, I went over to the action Nate meant to protect us. The martial arts had always been my secret passion, and Nates like Saul, all coiled strength and silent competence, were the heroes of the stories I devoured.
“What are you looking at?” I asked, hoping to open a conversation.
“Take a look. Best way to learn about a people is to watch them,” he said, not turning. The world sailed past in a blur of unfamiliar architecture and stern-faced citizens. It was an obvious answer, delivered with absolutely no tone. Yet, I kept looking, trying to see what his trained eyes were absorbing.
“I saw your game against the Tanks,” his voice cut through the silence, still facing the window.
The statement was so unexpected it stole my breath. “They say you could have been the best dieball player in the world,” he added in the same flat, non-tone.
A spark of old defiance flickered in my chest. “I still could be,” I said, refusing to turn and meet his gaze.
“But you’re a Polli now,” he huffed, a sound of dismissal.
“That’s not settled yet. I’m still a changeling,” I shot back, the legal technicality my only shield.
It was then he pulled sharply away from the window, his body tensing. His whisper was low, urgent, and laced with a cold dread I hadn’t thought him capable of.
“Fuck.”
The single, sharp curse hung in the opulent air, a crack in the hopper's fragile peace. As Saul tried to stride past me, towards the front, I shot out a hand and grabbed his elbow, my fingers locking into a vice-like grip born from a lifetime of athletic training.
He stopped dead. His eyes travelled down to my hand, then slowly, deliberately, back up to my face. I saw the calculation in his gaze, a reassessment. I was much stronger than he had imagined.
"What do you mean, fuck?" I demanded, my voice low but vibrating with a fear I couldn't suppress.
He didn't try to pull away. Instead, a bitter, mirthless smile twisted his lips. "I mean fuck-a-doodle-doo," he said, his voice dripping with sarcastic venom. He raised his voice, projecting across the cabin. "Ciel! Please, enlighten this... this child, on how they treat changelings here."
The commotion had already stirred Lord Vincent from his feigned sleep. His eyes were now open, sharp and observant, but he said nothing, choosing instead to watch the scene unfold like a play.
Ciel coughed, a dry, nervous hack. The atmosphere grew so thick you could choke on it. Even Jode looked up from his data pad, his usual detachment broken, his attention held captive by Ciel's impending words.
"Well," Ciel began, his voice strained, "they... they generally hide their changelings away. For their own safety. Until they... settle."
Saul let out a derisive snort. "And the ones they don't hide away, Ciel? The ones who are out in the open, walking into the tetra´s den with a delegation? What happens to those?"
Ciel flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes darted from my terrified face to Lord Vincent's impassive one, seeking an escape that didn't exist.
"Tell her," Lord Vincent said, his voice quiet but absolute. It wasn't a suggestion.
Saul shook his head in disgusted confirmation. "Yes, tell her."
"They, um..." Ciel stammered, wringing his hands. "They are considered... open game. It is seen as... the people's pleasure to help the changeling... settle." The last sentence died off into a shameful whisper.
The euphemism was a glass shard in my mind. I stared, uncomprehending for a second, until Saul shattered the delicate phrasing into brutal reality.
"They can legally rape you," he said, his voice flat and cold, each word a hammer blow. "It's not 'helping'. It's state-sanctioned assault to force a Polli to manifest."
A wave of pure, cold horror washed over me. The luxurious hopper suddenly felt like a rolling prison cell.
"Now, now," Lord Vincent said, his tone infuriatingly placating as he finally rose from his chair. He held up a hand, as if calming unruly children. "Let's not be overly dramatic. The situation is nuanced."
The hopper jolted to a sudden halt, cutting off any further conversation. The sentence Saul had uttered seemed to hang in the air, its ominous weight left unresolved.
“We are here,” Lord Vincent announced, his tone markedly changed. The lazy, theatrical drawl was gone, replaced by a crisp, businesslike edge. He stretched, the very picture of nonchalance, but his eyes were actively scanning, missing nothing. “And I do hope they feed us soon. A Nate cannot negotiate on an empty stomach.”
As I stepped down from the air-conditioned sanctuary of the hopper, the outside world assaulted me. The heat was a physical blow, a thick, humid blanket that immediately clung to my skin and clothes. Plus, there was an amazing smell, a potent, complex aroma of a thousand different spices, crushed, heated, and hanging in the air. It was overwhelming, a sensory declaration that we were in a land utterly foreign.
Before us rose a palace of staggering scale, constructed from brilliant white marble that glared under the sun, its numerous turrets sheathed in gold that burned with a fierce, blinding light. The opulence of the building was starkly contrasted by the military precision arrayed before it. A thousand soldiers, perhaps more, stood in perfect, silent ranks, their dress uniforms a splash of vibrant colour and polished brass, a display of intimidating pageantry.
Karn Isa stood at the centre of it all, a still point in the orchestrated chaos. His personal guard, even more rigid than the peacocks from the border, flanked him so closely they were never more than an arm’s length away. It was Zeb, however, who scurried forward, his face pinched with a mixture of servitude and self-importance.
“A warm welcome from Sylva,” he said, though his tone was anything but. “We trust your journey was… adequate.”
The formal welcome that followed was brief; a series of hollow pleasantries exchanged under the watchful eyes of the thousand-strong garrison. Then came the room assignments. The others, Ciel, Jode, and Saul were ushered towards a grand, sweeping staircase, their accommodations a shared suite adjoining Lord Vincent’s. A logical arrangement for a diplomatic entourage.
But the script, it seemed, had a different role for me. A silent, robed attendant gestured for me to follow down a different, long, and noticeably less ornate corridor. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Saul, who had been a shadow at my periphery, took a half-step forward, his expression darkening with a clear, professional disapproval. He knew as well as I did what this meant.
“The Polli quarters are this way,” the attendant stated, his voice devoid of inflection. And so, to my own dismay and under Saul’s disapproving glare, I was led away from the team, down the dimming corridor, towards the place where I, the "gimmick," was officially meant to belong.