Adrian Vale had discovered the secret to a peaceful life.
He had stopped going outside.
The city was full of bridges that might collapse, warehouses that might contain concealed machinery, rivers that might develop ambitions, and officials who interpreted the word rest as a temporary administrative inconvenience.
His quarters, by comparison, were excellent.
The roof did not leak. The bed was comfortable. The window overlooked a courtyard containing no suspicious architecture. His meals arrived at predictable hours.
Most importantly, nobody could reasonably accuse him of interfering with anything while he remained in bed.
He had been resting for thirty-one hours when someone knocked on his door.
Adrian opened one eye.
The knocking continued.
He opened the other.
“Who is it?”
“Royal courier, sir!”
“Leave the message.”
“I require your signature.”
“On what?”
“The delivery receipt.”
“Leave that too.”
A pause followed.
“Sir, the message is addressed personally to you.”
Adrian sat up.
That was unfortunate.
He opened the door.
The courier stood outside with a sealed black envelope. Its wax bore the imperial crest, but beneath it was a second mark: a silver crown encircled by seven stars.
Adrian recognized neither the mark nor the significance of the combination.
The courier held out the envelope.
“From the Office of Foreign Correspondence, sir. The message was received from the Kingdom of Veyr less than an hour ago.”
Adrian accepted it.
“Why me?”
“I was not informed.”
“Good.”
The courier waited.
Adrian looked at him.
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes, sir. The emperor has requested your immediate presence.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
His peaceful life had lasted thirty-one hours.
It had been a good life.
He would remember it fondly.
The emperor was waiting in the Hall of Private Audiences.
Commander Mirelle Ashford stood beside a table covered in maps. Captain Ormond had stationed two guards at the entrance, both of whom looked as if they had been instructed to prevent Adrian from escaping.
Adrian entered with his injured hand wrapped in fresh bandages.
The emperor looked up.
“Vale. How is your recovery?”
“Progressing, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. You appear capable of walking.”
“I was capable of walking yesterday.”
“And today you are capable of walking into this room.”
Adrian waited.
Lucien Aurelius gestured toward the table.
“Read this.”
Adrian examined the envelope.
“The seal is unfamiliar.”
“It belongs to the royal house of Veyr,” Mirelle explained. “The mark is used for communications concerning the crown and the continuity of the royal family.”
“Then why was it sent here?”
“That is what we intend to discover.”
Adrian broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, written in a precise, unfamiliar hand.
To His Imperial Majesty, Lucien Aurelius, Emperor of the Aurelian Empire.
The man who died at the Battle of Greywater eleven years ago is alive.
He has entered the capital under the protection of your own laws.
If you wish to prevent a war, do not allow your ministers to deliver him to us.
Ask your Royal Guard why the western warehouse was opened.
Adrian read it twice.
Then he placed the letter on the table.
“I don't know anything about a dead man.”
The emperor folded his arms.
“Neither did I, until this morning.”
Mirelle pointed to the map.
“The man in question is Prince Caelan of Veyr, younger brother of the current king. He was declared dead during the Battle of Greywater eleven years ago.”
“Was his body recovered?” Adrian asked.
“No,” Mirelle replied. “But his death was confirmed by three surviving officers and a military chaplain.”
“Then they confirmed he was missing.”
Mirelle studied him.
“That distinction is central to the present dispute.”
Adrian regretted speaking.
The emperor continued.
“Veyr claims that a man matching the prince's description has been detained by our authorities. The Veyrian message alleges that the man is alive and that his identity has been concealed.”
“Who detained him?”
“The City Watch.”
“On what charge?”
“Possession of stolen military equipment, according to the initial report.”
Adrian looked at the emperor.
“Is that related to the warehouse?”
“We don't know.”
“Then why am I here?”
Lucien smiled faintly.
“Because the message specifically mentions you.”
Adrian looked back at the letter.
He had not asked for his name to be included in foreign diplomatic correspondence.
He had not even asked to be included in domestic correspondence.
“I would like to point out,” he said carefully, “that I was on medical leave.”
“Your point is noted.”
“Could I return to it?”
“No.”
Adrian nodded once.
He had expected as much.
The detained man was being held in the old military prison beneath the eastern barracks.
He had been arrested two nights earlier after attempting to purchase passage on a merchant vessel bound for Veyr. The City Watch had found several pieces of military equipment among his possessions, including an old officer's insignia, a broken ceremonial sword, and a leather case containing military dispatches.
The man had refused to identify himself.
He had also refused to explain where he had obtained the equipment.
The City Watch had classified him as a possible deserter, smuggler, or intelligence operative.
Three possibilities.
None particularly helpful.
Adrian accompanied Mirelle to the prison. Ormond came along because he had decided that allowing Adrian to walk unescorted was an unnecessary risk to public safety.
The prisoner sat alone in a stone cell.
He appeared to be in his late thirties, with dark hair streaked with grey and a long scar running from his left temple to his jaw. His clothes were worn but carefully maintained. His hands rested on his knees.
When the door opened, he looked at Mirelle.
Then at Ormond.
Then at Adrian.
His gaze stopped.
“You,” he said.
Adrian looked behind himself.
There was nobody else in the doorway.
“Have we met?” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“No.”
“Then I am at a disadvantage.”
The man leaned back.
“You opened the western warehouse.”
Adrian looked at Mirelle.
She said nothing.
The prisoner continued.
“The floor collapsed. The chamber was exposed. They found the cylinders.”
Adrian's expression changed very slightly.
“You know about the cylinders?”
“I know what they were meant to do.”
Mirelle stepped closer to the bars.
“Your name.”
The man did not answer.
“Your identity has become a matter of diplomatic importance,” she continued. “If you are Prince Caelan of Veyr, you may request recognition through the proper channels. If you are not, you may still explain the equipment in your possession.”
The prisoner looked at her.
“You speak as though the proper channels have ever protected anyone.”
“Sometimes they prevent people from being killed without evidence.”
“Then I congratulate your empire on its progress.”
Adrian looked at the man.
He spoke like someone who had spent a long time expecting betrayal.
That did not make him a prince.
It did not make him a criminal either.
“Why were you in the warehouse district?” Adrian asked.
The prisoner turned toward him.
“To find something.”
“What?”
“The ship.”
“What ship?”
“The one that brought the equipment into your capital.”
Mirelle exchanged a glance with Ormond.
Adrian continued.
“Why?”
“Because it was not supposed to arrive.”
The prisoner paused.
“And because it was carrying something that should never have been brought here.”
“What?”
“A person.”
Adrian waited.
The prisoner looked at the ceiling.
“Apparently, that answer is no longer sufficient.”
“No,” Adrian agreed.
The man almost smiled.
Then his expression hardened.
“Eleven years ago, at Greywater, I was ordered to hold a bridge while the army withdrew. The bridge collapsed. My men died. I was captured.”
“By whom?” Mirelle asked.
“Men who did not wear Veyrian uniforms.”
“Mercenaries?”
“I don't know.”
“Where were you held?”
The prisoner looked at the floor.
“Different places. Different names. Sometimes I was a prisoner. Sometimes I was told I was a traitor. Sometimes I was told that my brother had ordered my execution.”
“Your brother is the king of Veyr,” Mirelle said.
“He was the prince when I disappeared.”
“And you escaped?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The man hesitated.
“Three months ago.”
Adrian noticed the pause.
“Why did you wait eleven years to return?”
The prisoner looked at him for a long time.
“Because the people who held me had already prepared my death.”
Silence settled over the cell.
For the first time, Adrian considered that the man might be telling the truth.
Not because the story was dramatic.
Because it was incomplete.
People inventing stories generally knew where they wanted them to end. This man spoke as if he had not yet decided which parts of his own life he was willing to reveal.
Mirelle closed her notebook.
“We will verify your account.”
The prisoner nodded.
“You should.”
“And until then, you remain in custody.”
“Of course.”
He looked at Adrian again.
“Guard Vale.”
Adrian stopped at the door.
“Yes?”
“If they ask you to escort me somewhere, refuse.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what they are waiting for.”
Adrian considered the statement.
Then he left.
He had learned two things.
The prisoner knew his name.
And someone had anticipated the exact possibility that Adrian would become involved.
Neither fact improved his day.
The investigation proceeded with unusual speed.
Veyr's embassy produced a portrait of Prince Caelan, painted shortly before the Battle of Greywater. The resemblance to the prisoner was striking.
A scar across the left side of the face had been added to the portrait's description after the prince's disappearance. The prisoner bore a scar in the same location.
A retired Veyrian officer was brought to the capital under diplomatic protection. He identified the prisoner as Caelan after observing him speak and move, but requested additional time before making a formal statement.
The emperor ordered an independent examination.
No recognition was announced.
The prisoner remained in custody.
Meanwhile, investigators traced the equipment found in the western warehouse.
The cylinders had been manufactured in a private foundry outside the capital. The foundry records indicated that the order had been placed under a false military designation. Payment had passed through two intermediaries, one of which had previously traded with Veylan Mercantile.
Again, the connection did not prove complicity.
The foundry owner claimed he had believed the equipment was intended for industrial testing.
The merchant who had arranged the shipment could not be found.
The ship's manifest listed the cargo as pressure-regulation equipment.
Its destination had been changed twice.
And the ship itself was missing.
The name on its original registration was The Saint Orra.
It had departed a Veyrian port four months earlier and was last recorded entering an imperial harbor three weeks before the River Gate flood.
No arrival had been registered under its original name.
The ship appeared to have vanished.
But its cargo had reached the warehouse.
Mirelle placed the records before the emperor.
“The prisoner may be telling the truth,” she said. “The equipment may have been part of an operation involving the ship. We have not established who commissioned it or what its intended use was.”
Lucien looked at the map.
“Could the cylinders have been used to damage the River Gate?”
“Possibly. We need the engineers to establish whether their capacity and configuration would have been suitable.”
“Could the warehouse have been intended as a staging point?”
“Could the prisoner have been sent here to recover the equipment?”
“Also possible.”
The emperor tapped the table.
“Three explanations, none proven.”
“Correct.”
“And Veyr believes we are holding their prince.”
“Yes.”
Lucien leaned back.
“Then the most dangerous thing we can do is pretend we know more than we do.”
Mirelle inclined her head.
“Agreed.”
The emperor ordered that no transfer of the prisoner to Veyr would occur until his identity and legal status had been independently established. He also instructed the Foreign Office to notify the Veyrian king that the prisoner would not be surrendered on the basis of a diplomatic demand alone.
It was a reasonable decision.
It was also exactly the decision that the letter had warned him to make.
Adrian would later consider this a troubling coincidence.
At the time, he was elsewhere.
Specifically, he was trying to return a borrowed book to the palace library.
The next incident began at half past four.
Adrian was crossing the inner courtyard when a palace runner intercepted him.
“Guard Vale! Commander Ashford requests your presence.”
“No.”
The runner looked confused.
“Sir?”
“Ask her to specify whether this is an official order.”
“It is, sir.”
“Then I suppose I must attend.”
The runner led him to the eastern passage.
Mirelle waited beside a small carriage. Two guards stood near the wheels, and a third held a sealed dispatch case.
“Where are we going?” Adrian asked.
“The eastern barracks.”
“Why?”
“The prisoner is being transferred.”
Adrian stopped.
“By whom?”
“The City Watch, under a joint custody arrangement.”
“Why does that require me?”
“It doesn't.”
Adrian looked at the carriage.
“Then I shall remain here.”
Mirelle's expression did not change.
“The emperor has asked you to observe the transfer.”
“Why?”
“Because the prisoner specifically warned you not to escort him.”
“That seems like a good reason not to involve me.”
“Possibly. But the warning itself may be significant.”
Adrian looked toward the palace.
He could still see the library windows.
He had been so close.
“Am I escorting him?”
“No.”
“Am I responsible for him?”
“No.”
“Am I expected to make a decision about him?”
“No.”
Adrian considered the arrangement.
It was, by imperial standards, almost tolerable.
“I will observe.”
They reached the eastern barracks just before sunset.
The prisoner was brought into the courtyard under guard. He wore a plain coat and carried no possessions. His expression remained calm, but Adrian noticed that his eyes moved repeatedly toward the northern wall.
A covered wagon waited beside the gate.
Mirelle spoke with the transfer officer.
The paperwork was checked. The guards were counted. The wagon's restraints were inspected.
Everything appeared ordinary.
Then a bell rang from the watchtower.
One short strike.
A pause.
Two more strikes.
The gate guards turned toward the tower.
Mirelle looked up.
“What does that signal mean?”
The transfer officer went pale.
“Unauthorized movement on the northern road.”
The prisoner closed his eyes.
Adrian watched him.
“You expected this.”
“No,” the man replied. “I feared it.”
A horn sounded beyond the wall.
Then another.
The northern gate shuddered under a heavy impact.
Someone shouted that armed riders had been sighted outside the barracks.
The courtyard erupted into motion.
Guards drew weapons. The transfer officer ordered the wagon moved. Mirelle's escort formed a defensive line around the prisoner.
Adrian looked at the northern wall.
The barracks were not under attack by an army.
There were perhaps a dozen riders outside, too few to storm the installation directly.
But they did not need to storm it.
A second group appeared on the eastern road, blocking the route toward the city.
The riders were forcing the guards to choose between defending the barracks and protecting the transfer route.
Someone had planned the timing.
Someone knew the prisoner would be moved.
And someone had expected the empire to use a formal transfer procedure.
Adrian looked at Mirelle.
“Where is the alternate exit?”
“The western gate.”
“Is it clear?”
“We don't know.”
“Then it isn't an alternate exit.”
A sharp crack sounded from the northern wall.
One of the outer doors buckled.
The prisoner turned toward Adrian.
“This is why I told you to refuse.”
Adrian looked at him.
“You could have been more specific.”
The man almost laughed.
Then the western gate alarm began ringing.
Mirelle drew her sword.
“Vale, stay with the prisoner.”
Adrian looked at the approaching riders.
He had been ordered to observe.
He had been told he was not responsible for the prisoner.
He had been promised that he would not be required to make a decision.
The empire had broken all three promises in less than a minute.
Adrian sighed.
“Captain Ormond is going to be unbearable about this.”
Then he stepped toward the gate.