“What do you think’s taking them so long?”
Isabella glanced at Arthur where he stood at her shoulder. She would forever be amazed by his ability to precisely locate her, even when she was actively trying to avoid people. She let none of that show on her face, instead giving a demure shrug.
“It’s a big spire,” she said. “Lots to search.”
“Well, they should probably hurry up.” Arthur gestured at the crowd. “This lot’s getting restless.”
He was certainly right about that. The atmosphere in the main hall had long ago shifted from pleasant chatter to conspiratorial whispers. The sudden communications blackout had rankled feathers, literally and otherwise, and sent the rumor mill into overdrive. It had been running long enough now to have ground out some especially juicy tales, largely incorrect from what Isabella had overheard but that hardly mattered. Gossip had endless ways of filling the void left behind by silence.
Not helping was the increased presence of armed soldiers. They had taken up positions throughout the hall, blocking every exit and making it very clear they were not there for the guest’s benefit. Those not deterred by their grim-faced bearing were quickly scared off by growled orders to return to the “party”.
There had only been one incident of note that Isabella had witnessed. One of the griffon’s had decided that no mere human was going to tell them what to do and marched right up to the main entrance. The guards had given their normal warning, which the griffon had ignored with a curt reminder of just who he was. The words that had fallen on deaf ears as the guards struck like vipers, several of them falling upon the noble at once. He had been much more agreeable after that, returning to the crowd with feathers scuffed and pride sufficiently cowed.
The incident had chilled the situation but not calmed it. Isabella had since overheard no less than three open plots for similar attempts, these ones involving more people and coordinated assaults. Likely to fail, but Zulathon was rapidly losing goodwill with every hour this continued. Damage that would persist long after this was over.
Not that the Hierarch was the slightest bit interested in addressing that, having not left the command chamber since Isabella had been forced out. She’d tried a few times to get back in, but the screen of guards placed around the entrance were the most intimidating of the bunch. She doubted that she’d be able to approach them, let alone talk her way past.
This was doubly a problem specifically for her as Master Greytower had not left the chamber either. He seemed to have forgotten his promise to be right back, presumably too busy trying to keep Zulathon from doing anything drastic. Or at least more drastic than he already was. Not even Lord Worthington had re-emerged, every avenue to the inner circle firmly closed to Isabella.
Not a good situation and, unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could do to change it. For now, she just had to stay alert and wait for a new opening to present itself.
“Make way! Make way!”
All eyes, Isabella’s included, turned towards the voice where it shouted from the other end of the hall. Part of the crowd moved aside as a man rushed into the room, dressed in Harakin livery, though it was dishevelled and scuffed. He was wounded, clotted blood running down the side of his face and staining the collar of his uniform. He made no move to attend either, instead pushing his way through the crowd, entirely unsubtle as he continued to shout at full volume
“What is the meaning of this!?” the Seneschal demanded, moving to intercept him.
“Treachery!” The man said, barely stopping. “I must speak with his Grace at once!”
“Oh ho,” Arthur said. “What’s this now?”
“You will not-”
“What is happening out here!?” boomed Zulathon’s voice. The Harakin lord came storming forth from his war room, moving with all the grace of a raging tempest. Instantly, everyone in the room adopted deferral postures, the wounded guard dropping to one knee.
“We are betrayed your Grace,” the guard said breathlessly. “The queen has been taken.”
An excited murmur ran through the crowd at the man’s words, open speculation flying free in every direction. Isabella ignored it, sharpening her spells to ensure she didn’t miss a single word of this.
“What!?” Zulathon raged. “When!?”
“Just now,” the guard continued. “Sir Saku sent me to raise the alarm!”
“Saku?” came Nathyl’s voice, the Judai griffon emerging from the crowd. “How is he involved?”
“I know not Lady,” the guard said. “Only that if not for him, the bastards would have gotten away clean.”
“Where is he now!?” Zulathon demanded.
“Her Grace’s chambers,” the guard said. “He was wounded in the defense.”
“Nathyl, with me,” Zulathon said, turning to leave the room. The Judai did as told, gesturing for Kalthus to follow, her heir wisely choosing to keep quiet for the moment. Behind them followed Master Greytower and Lord Worthington, Isabella having missed their entrance completely. The whole procession strode from the room, the crowd chattering away in their wake.
“Well, this got interesting fast,” Arthur said.
“Seems so,” Isabella answered.
In truth she had no idea what was going on, a fact that distressed her greatly, but it would be a miracle if it was unrelated to Nic’s current predicament. Something big was in motion and that idiot had put himself right in the middle of it. She needed to get what she knew to someone who Zulathon would listen to, which meant catching up with that procession. A need currently blocked by the same line of soldiers who had been guarding the war room, now somehow even less accommodating. A few brave souls had already been sent scurrying trying to do exactly what she wanted to.
Time to get creative.
“Arthur?” Isabella said, turning to her unwanted companion. The younger Worthington beamed at finally being addressed by his first name.
“Yes Izzy?” he asked, leaning in to match her conspiratorial energy.
“You in the mood for a little mischief?”
His smile widened. “Always. What’s the plan?”
“You’ll see.” Isabella placed a hand on his shoulder, pointing at the guards with the other. “Distract them, I’ll handle the rest.”
Arthur questioned nothing, scurrying off to obey the command. Isabella followed a step behind, surreptitiously activating her glamour as she went and blending into the crowd gathered around the cordon. She watched and waited until Arthur got close enough that the guards started to notice him. Before either party could speak, Isabella pressed one of the beads on her dress and triggered the device she’d planted on Arthur’s coat.
Instantly, the spot where the young Worthington stood was engulfed in a cloud of foul green gas, the stench of sulphur and brimstone coming with it. Nothing more than a simple stink bomb but enough to startle the crowd all the same. Screams broke out as people rushed away, pushing outwards in a great flurry of motion.
While chaos reigned, Isabella calmly continued towards the door. The guards never even looked at her, too distracted by the disturbance, any glances sliding off her glamor like soap off glass. Seconds later she was around the corner and out of sight. That had gone perfectly, now she just had to-
“Flawlessly done Izzy.”
It took all of Isabella’s control not to let supreme disappointment show on her face. Arthur walked up next to her in the empty hall, somehow having managed to slip away himself despite being the heart of the distraction. His talent holding strong, that was the only possible explanation.
“Clever move with the stink bomb,” Arthur said, smirking. “Though I would have appreciated a warning.
“…A girl has to have some secrets,” Isabella said.
Arthur laughed, stepping up his pace to lead the way down the halls. Isabella allowed him, putting her annoyance aside as they moved to catch up with the procession. They weren’t hard to follow, the clanking of armor and clatter of footsteps echoing through the halls being unmistakable, and they soon stood before the queen’s chambers.
The place was a disaster, destroyed in much the same way as the nursery had been. There had been a fight here, a violent one going by the long slashes on the floor and walls. Most of the furniture was demolished, reduced to splinters and broken shards of metal. Even the bed had been destroyed, the bright satin cushions split over to spill their fluffy guts. Splashes of blood lay everywhere, red for the most part but also in a few shades of green and silver, indicating multiple species had been involved.
The view was partly obscured by the hulking form of Sir Saku where he stood near the door. He looked haggard, clearly having been right in the middle of the fight, his feathers and ceremonial armor badly damaged. Whoever had faced him had got their licks in, long scratches bleeding along his flanks. He showed no sign of discomfort though, standing tall as he bowed to Zulathon.
“Your Grace,” the Judai champion said.
“What happened?” Zulathon demanded.
“Chance and fate Hierarch,” he said. “I was nearby when I noticed there were no guards at their posts. Got a bad feeling.”
“Seems you were right to trust it,” said Lord Worthington.
“Why were you out here at all?” Orlin asked, voicing Isabella’s own question.
“I won’t lie, I snuck away to try and find out what was happening.” He gestured at the room. “Caught them in the act. They hit me with some kind of flash illusion and slipped away while I was fighting shadows.”
“The queen?” Nathyl asked. Saku shook his head.
“I’m sorry my lady, I tried but there was nothing I could do. They already had her in chains when the spell hit me.”
“She put up a hell of a fight herself it seems,” Kalthus said, looking around at the devastated room. “Did you recognize who they were?”
“No, but they were dressed in Harakin colours.”
“What?” Zulathon snapped.
“Ten of them at least,” Saku continued. “Authentic dress. I wouldn’t have looked at them twice otherwise.”
Zulathon looked ready to rip something in two at the words, the floor cracking as he buried his talons into the tiles. Those nearest to him stepped back as naturally as they could, only Lord Worthington finding the courage to speak.
“That’s a problem. Anyone in Harakin uniform could be suspect.”
“It’s likely only a few,” Orlin countered. “If they had any great number they wouldn’t be resorting to subterfuge.”
“We cannot risk it,” Zulathon rumbled. “Order all troops back to barracks. Any who fail to comply are to be considered enemies of the Spire.”
“That will leave us defenseless,” Orlin said.
“And what would you suggest!?” Zulathon raged. “Risk a poisoned blade in our ranks!?
“Your grace,” Nathyl cut in. “Might I offer a suggestion?”
All eyes turned to the Judai, some in accusation, some in curiosity, all knowing that something very extreme was about to be said.
“My honor guard waits in our flagship just outside the Aerie. If you would grant a reprieve from the lockdown, they are yours to command.”
Isabella kept her face perfectly composed, even if inside she was struggling not to scream. A picture was beginning to emerge now, outlined by Nic’s predicament and filled in by this suggestion. Sure, it might be a genuine offer, a vassal seeking favor by making herself useful, but it would also conveniently open the door to smuggle out a pair of hostages. Not to mention let in an army whose loyalty would be suspect at best. Agreeing to this would be the height of foolishness.
“Granted,” Zulathon said.
Isabella barely, barely, held back a protest. Part of her was tempted to just reveal what she knew now, consequences be damned, but she stopped herself. Zulathon was now both enraged and had thoughts of traitors in his midst. She worried that even Master Greytower might no longer be enough to make the Hierarch see reason.
“Zul,” Orlin said, though was silenced by a growl.
“Ensure your soldiers know they are not to leave once they have arrived,” Zulathon instructed. “Such attempts will be met with displeasure.”
Nathyl bowed. “Understood your Grace. I assure you they are of disciplined stock. They will serve you well.”
“Good,” Zulathon said, turning to depart the room. “Julius, Orlin, come. My two best techne have been without arms for long enough.”
“Right behind you, old boy,” Julius said, practically skipping along behind Zulathon. Orlin filed out behind them both, an unamused look on his face, though he said nothing.
Isabella went to follow, hoping to catch him alone at last, but the press of people and griffons got in her way, leaving her unable to slip out without making a spectacle of herself. Another missed opportunity.
Hopefully Nic had found a good place to hide.
*
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