Chapter 64 Chapter 63: The Player
The raw, metallic taste of panic was thick in my throat. I stood there, a statue of indecision, until a cold, clear thought cut through the fog. I'm being a fool. If there were loyal guards on the other side of this door, they would have responded by now. They would have investigated the call for a new chaperone. This silence isn't discipline; it's a void.
Steeling myself, I gingerly pushed the door open wider. The harem was utterly empty, bathed in the eerie, silent glow of the wall sconces. And then I saw them. Two more large, armoured forms lay sprawled on the polished floor, their postures unnatural. Just like Don-jon, their throats had been slit with a clean, surgical precision. The same question echoed, maddening and unanswerable: how could anyone kill one without the other seeing it? How was there no sign of a struggle, no dropped weapon, no scuff mark on the floor? This wasn't a fight; it was an extermination, silent and impossibly efficient.
I was standing in a charnel house, wrapped in a bloody blanket. Action was the only antidote to the paralyzing fear. I used the knife to hastily slice the blanket, fashioning a crude, makeshift toga that would allow me to move. Then, I ran. I jogged past the dead guards, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone, heading for the corridor, a place I hoped would be less watched, a path to find someone, anyone, from my delegation.
And then I saw him.
A familiar, limping figure was making his way down the corridor towards me. Chup-chup. His left arm was bound in a sling, and his porcelain makeup was not enough this time to cover his face was a web, of fine cracks and dark bruises, but it was undeniably him. His eyes were pointed down at the floor, his focus internal, and he almost walked straight past me.
I reached out and grabbed his good arm, my grip vice-like. "Chup-chup," I whispered, my voice strained.
He stopped. His head tilted, first looking at the hand on his arm, then at the knife still clutched in my other hand. Finally, his gaze lifted to meet mine. There was no recognition in his eyes, only a blank assessment of a tall, panicked Nate in a blood-stained toga.
"Chup-chup, it's me. Nanda Stone."
The change was instantaneous. His posture straightened as much as his injuries allowed, and a familiar, dutiful energy seemed to animate his broken form. "Nanda Stone. May the sun and the moon-"
I broke in, desperation overriding protocol. "Yes, I'm happy to see you too, but I need help. I need it now."
He offered a deep, reassuring smile. "Chup-chup is here to serve Nanda Stone."
I released his arm, the question tumbling out, raw and unvarnished. "Yes, I know. But can I trust you?"
For a moment, he was perfectly still. Then, his voice emerged, not in Common or Sylvan, but in the guttural, ancient tongue of Ovum. "The clown trusts me," he said, the words loaded with a universe of meaning. "So maybe the whore should." He finished the statement by slowly raising both his palms, a universal and vulnerable sign of peace.
That one sentence, in that foreign language, was a detonation in my mind. The clown. Lord Vincent. The whore. The insult spat in the garden, which he had heard and understood. He knew I spoke Sylvan. He knew Saul spoke Ovan. He was deeply enmeshed in secrets I thought were my own. My mind fractured, trying to process the implications, the alliances, the deceptions, the true, identity of this broken chaperone. He wasn't just a servant. He was a player.
I didn't wait for further explanation. Grabbing Chup-chup's good arm again, I pulled him back into the relative cover of the harem's entrance, then swiftly across the corridor and into the grim scene of my suite. The two guards still lay where they had fallen, their lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. Chup-chup didn't flinch. He bent down with a soft whir of strained mechanics and pressed his fingers into the deep, precise cut on one guard's neck.
"This was done with a kukri, Nanda Stone," he stated, his voice flat.
"A kukri?" I asked, the word meaning little to me beyond 'blade'. My primary instinct was still to flee, to put this slaughter behind me.
"Yes. A kukri. The curved blade of the Night Blades. Assassins." The name hung in the air, cold and professional. I stepped over the threshold into the suite, gesturing for him to follow. "I am sorry," I said softly, my voice catching as I pointed to Don-jon's brutalized form.
Chup-chup was silent for a long moment, his cracked visage fixed on his fallen pupil. The only sound was the faint beat of his heart. "It is good he died in the service of a good mistress... Master," he corrected himself, the title feeling alien and heavy. He stood up, his movements stiff, and then his eyes locked onto the slumbering warndar in the corner. A sharp, his came from his vocal cords.
"Polfluks-warndar," he hissed, the name dripping with venom. "Does Nanda Stone not know these creatures?"
"Are they not just tame warndars?" I asked, a new dread coiling in my stomach.
"No," he said, his voice low and urgent. "They are the most evil killing machine, bred by Nates. They are trained and drugged to sleep until they smell the specific pheromones of a Polli's stigma from less than five meters. The scent triggers a killing frenzy aimed solely at the 'flower' of a Polli, be it human or beast. They will tear it out with tooth and claw, leaving the rest of the body to bleed out."
The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The cold, clinical murder of the guards and Don-jon was just the setup. "So that's why they didn't slit my throat," I whispered, my body beginning to tremble uncontrollably. "They wanted the polfluks-warndars to kill me. A... a gruesome 'accident'. No assassin's blade, just a tragic mauling."
"Yes," Chup-chup confirmed. "It is a message. And these polfluks-warndars are only found in the deep, forbidden forests of Ardenia."
"Zul," I spat the name, my fear now transforming into a scalding, focused rage. "The bastard." I looked at Chup-chup, my mind shifting from victim to strategist. "Can you get me some clothes? And," I added as an afterthought, the plan forming in a red haze, "some rope."
I waited while Chup-chup ran off, his footsteps fading down the hall. My thoughts were no longer panicked; they were turning a violent, calculated shade of red. I couldn't accuse a Karn directly without proof and without starting the war all over again. But I could send a message of my own. I could make a show that would be impossible to ignore.
Chup-chup returned with a speed that belied his injuries, his arms laden not with servant's livery, but with practical, well-fitting clothes: dark, sturdy trousers, a soft tunic, and a pair of durable, silent-soled shoes. They were the garments of a worker or a guard, perfect for moving unseen. I dressed quickly, the familiar feel of masculine clothing a strange comfort amidst the surreal horror. The fabric was a shield, restoring a layer of composure. I slid the knife from the garden firmly into the belt, its weight a solid promise at my hip.
He also brought a coil of strong, hempen rope. I took it, testing its rough, unyielding texture between my fingers. It was exactly what I needed.
All that remained was the final, crucial component. I strode back into the master bedroom, stepping carefully around the still-sleeping polfluks-warndar. I found one of plastic bags that Marcel rapped my clothes in and then I went to the pile of my discarded clothes from the night before, the elegant dress that had been my making just yesterday. With a grimace of distaste, I rummaged through the fabric until I found what I was looking for: a pair of my used underwear, the delicate lace still holding the faint, intimate scent of my body from when I was Polli.