Chapter 53 Chapter 52: "I Must Help the Clown"
The transition from the serene garden to the sprawling plaza at the base of the Spire was a jarring return to a hostile reality. The same hungry mob we had encountered earlier was now being held at the plaza's perimeter by a fresh, and far more numerous, row of soldiers. Their chants of "Go home!" were a constant, ugly murmur, a dissonant counterpoint to the spiritual awe we had just experienced. As we neared the foot of the colossal structure, its shadow fell over us like a physical weight, the scale so immense it felt less like a building and more like a natural formation.
Zeb stopped our party, turning to face us with an expression of strained pride. "And now," he announced, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space, "for the crowning glory of the entire Sylvan empire." He gestured dramatically toward the wide, sweeping staircase of white marble that spiralled upwards into the dizzying heights. "It is said that those who reach the top of the Spire... will get to talk to the Gods themselves."
Lord Vincent, ever the playful fool in public, clapped his hands together. "Well then, let's get a move on! Can't keep the Gods waiting, can we?" His performance was a masterclass in calculated frivolity.
I could see Zeb's jaw tighten, his patience visibly fraying. But he swiftly masked his anger by turning his gaze to me, a cold, dismissive look in his eyes. "Only Nates may take the journey," he stated, the finality in his voice like a slammed door. "I will leave you in the care of one of our best men." He gestured to a stern-faced soldier who stepped forward. "And your chaperone, of course."
As if on cue, Chup-chup produced a wide, cream umbrella from seemingly nowhere, opening it with a soft whump to hold it over my head, creating a small island of shade against the punishing midday sun. The gesture was both protective and isolating.
"This will not do," Lord Vincent started, his tone shifting from playful to insistent. "Nanda must be with us."
"The Polli will be quite safe," Zeb countered, a smirk playing on his lips. He was enjoying this, the power to exclude and diminish.
"It would be a crime for her to go no further," Zeb pressed, his voice taking on an edge. "A slight, for you not to take our hospitality." The word 'hospitality' was now laced with venom.
There was a tense silence, broken when Lord Vincent's eyes lit up with a new, seemingly absurd idea. "You say that a Nate will talk to the Gods up there?" he chirped, the picture of naive curiosity.
"Why, yes, Lord Vincent," Zeb replied, putting a deliberate, mocking twist on the title 'Lord.'
"Then it's no place for you, Saul, you old devil, you!" Lord Vincent laughed, a booming sound that seemed to startle the soldiers. He clapped a heavy hand on his bodyguard's shoulder.
"I assure you, your Polli will be fine," Zeb repeated, his confusion evident.
"It's not her I'm worried about," Vincent declared, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "It's Saul! I can't have my top security being smited by the Gods for his past... indiscretions. Oh, no, no. Saul must stay on the ground." He then leaned in closer to Zeb, as if sharing a great secret. "Besides, he has a terrible case of vertigo, don't you, Saul?"
Saul, never a Nate of many words, didn't even blink. His face was a granite mask of stoic obedience. "Yes, Lord," he intoned flatly. "Sick as a parrot."
Lord Vincent beamed, spreading his hands as if the matter was now divinely settled. "Well, that settles it! Saul, you stay here on solid ground with Nanda. Come, Zeb! No more delays. Show me the Gods." He strode purposefully toward the base of the stairs, leaving Zeb momentarily flustered, forced to either accept this bizarre but unassailable logic or create a diplomatic incident. With a final, frustrated glance at our grounded trio, Zeb turned and followed, the rest of the delegation falling in behind him.
We stood there in a tense, silent tableau: Saul, a brooding monolith in the deep, cool shadow cast by the tower, and me with Chup-chup under the small, black umbrella, its fabric a fragile shield against the oppressive sun. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic crunch of gravel under the boots of our assigned armed guard. He paced in wider, and wider circles around us, his knuckles white where they gripped the stock of his machine gun, his eyes darting nervously toward the perimeter. He was a man trying to project control over a circle that felt like it was shrinking by the second.
For the first twenty minutes, we watched the delegation's ascent, our necks craned at an impossible angle. They were mere specks now, a slow-moving line of ants crawling up the immense, spiralling staircase. The initial awe had faded, replaced by a creeping boredom and a pang of self-pity. I was stuck down here, excluded and on display, while the history of this place unfolded hundreds of meters above me.
To distract myself, I let my gaze drift across the plaza to the seething mob held at bay by the cordon of soldiers. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Was it my imagination, or were they drawing ever closer? I focused, tracking the position of a particular soldier's helmet against a specific banner in the crowd. No, it was not my imagination. The line was buckling. The crowd pressed forward, a relentless, human tide, and the army and guards were being slowly, inexorably pushed back, meter by terrifying meter. The angry murmur was evolving into a unified, aggressive roar.
A fresh spike of fear shot through me. I looked up at Saul, seeking reassurance in his stoicism. His face, usually as steady and unreadable as the rock the tower was built upon, was now etched with sharp concern. His eyes were narrowed, tracking the crowd's movement with a soldier's calculating precision. He had seen it, too. I watched as he subtly reached into his jacket and withdrew his com, his thumb scrolling across the screen. Not to check the time, I realized, but to send a message, or perhaps to activate a distress signal.
My own panic now a live wire, I whipped my head around, searching for our first line of defence. "Where is he?" I whispered, the words tasting of dust and dread.
The wide, empty circles where our lone, armed guard had been pacing were now just imprints in the gravel. He was gone. Vanished. We were utterly exposed.
For a heartbeat, the tension at the perimeter snapped. The disciplined line of soldiers buckled, then broke, as two figures…no, four…six, burst through the ranks. They weren't part of the general mob; they were focused, moving with a feral, singular purpose straight toward the tower's base, straight toward us.
Saul exploded into motion. He was a blur of controlled violence, his body a shield as he planted himself squarely between me and the onrushing figures. The world narrowed to a series of jarring, violent snapshots.
A blinding sliver of light reflected off a drawn blade, a cruel shard of sun in a clenched fist. Saul didn't flinch. He met the first attacker with a devastating close-line, his forearm connecting with the man's throat with a sickening thud that dropped him like a stone. Another flash of sunlight, this time off a brass knuckle or a ring and a second Nate crumpled under the brutal, precise impact of Saul's fist.
But they kept coming, spilling through the breach like rats from a ruptured hull. The air was thick with their guttural shouts and the screams of the panicked crowd.
Then, cutting through the din, Saul's voice roared out. But it wasn't in Common, nor was it in Sylvan. It was a guttural, ancient tongue, one I had spent years deciphering in dusty textbooks: Ovan. And in that tongue, the words were a raw, desperate command: “Run, run God dam-nit! Run to the gardens! I will come, but first I must help the clown!”
The meaning slammed into me. The clown. Lord Vincent. In this moment of ultimate peril, Saul's loyalty wasn't to his own safety, or even fully to mine. It was to his charge, the buffoonish lord high above us. He was buying time for both of us, splitting his duty in a terrifying gamble. The command, spoken in a language meant for my ears only, was both a key to my survival and a testament to the impossible position he was in. He was telling me to save myself because he couldn't.