Late that night, candles blazed in the study of Baron Neharry's residence, yet a chill born of panic hung in the air.
The study door was almost knocked off its hinges as the noncommissioned officer who had escorted Home Alone and the others into the palace that morning stumbled inside. His face was deathly pale, he wore civilian clothes, and he panted like Jerry being chased by Tom.
"B-Baron, my lord, something... something terrible has happened!"
The officer's voice was hoarse and trembling, his words barely coherent.
"Dead. His Majesty... His Majesty..."
Neharry had been holding a glass of wine, trying to calm the nerves that had plagued him as the conspiracy drew nearer. At those words, his hand jerked, spilling crimson wine over his expensive silk waistcoat.
"Shut up! Stop panicking!"
Neharry forced himself to growl steadily, but his heart pounded wildly, almost bursting from his chest.
An ominous premonition seized him.
"Speak clearly! Who died? What happened?"
"His Majesty, King Charles!"
The officer gasped for breath, glancing back in terror as though pursuers were right behind him.
"Three hours ago, in the Side Palace Corridor... he was... shot in the head. He died... right there!"
Neharry's vision went black. An icy chill shot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.
The conspiracy succeeded?
Why had the plan been brought forward?
According to the plan everyone had discussed, weren't expendable assassins supposed to strike with swords at the victory banquet the day after tomorrow?
Why a gunshot!?
He sprang to his feet and seized the officer's arm, his nails almost digging into the man's flesh.
"Who did it? Who was the assassin!?"
The pain made the officer's fear deepen, and he stammered out his answer.
"It... it was those new men you told me