The imperial palace had seven gates, three defensive walls, two hundred and forty-six guards on the outer grounds, and enough gold decoration to feed a small village for several years.
Adrian counted all of this while being escorted through the entrance.
Not because he was interested.
Because counting things gave him something to do while imagining his impending death.
Seven gates.
Three walls.
Two hundred and forty-six guards.
Possibly one emperor who had decided that a man who fell down during an assassination attempt deserved personal attention.
The odds were terrible.
“Candidate Vale,” the imperial messenger said, “please follow me.”
“I am following you.”
“Without looking at the windows.”
“I was admiring the architecture.”
“You have been admiring the architecture for twenty minutes.”
“It is an impressive building.”
The messenger decided not to respond.
Adrian respected that decision.
They entered a long corridor lined with portraits of former emperors. Each man had the same expression: stern, dignified, and mildly disappointed in the people who would inherit the empire after him.
Adrian recognised several names.
The Aurellian Empire had endured wars, succession crises, rebellions, plagues, and economic disasters. It had survived all of them.
According to the novel he remembered, it would eventually collapse anyway.
The capital would burn.
The imperial family would turn against itself.
The emperor would become one of the most hated men in recorded history.
And Adrian Vale would be dead long before the final catastrophe.
He glanced at the portrait of the current emperor.
Lucien Aurelius looked younger than Adrian remembered from the illustrations accompanying the novel. His black hair was neatly combed, his face composed, his eyes sharp enough to make the painter appear uncomfortable.
The emperor was thirty-two.
At that age, he had already survived three succession conspiracies and broken the power of two noble coalitions.
He was not an idiot.
That was the problem.
An idiot could be deceived.
An intelligent man might become curious.
And curiosity, Adrian had discovered, was the natural enemy of a peaceful life.
They stopped before a pair of enormous doors.
The messenger knocked twice.
“Your Majesty. Candidate Adrian Vale has arrived.”
A voice answered from within.
“Send him in.”
The doors opened.
Adrian entered.
The emperor's private audience chamber was smaller than he had expected.
There were no crowds of courtiers, no musicians, and no ceremonial throne. A long table occupied the centre of the room. Maps covered one wall. Documents lay in organised stacks beside a silver inkstand.
Emperor Lucien Aurelius sat at the far end of the table.
Two people stood nearby.
The first was Captain Ormond, whose expression suggested that he would rather be anywhere else.
The second was the woman from the imperial security office.
She watched Adrian with the calm attention of a person examining a potentially dangerous animal.
Adrian bowed.
“Your Majesty.”
“Candidate Adrian Vale.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You understand why you have been summoned?”
“I assume it concerns the unfortunate incident at the Royal Guard examination.”
“An unfortunate incident.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Two infiltrators. One attempted murder. A crossbow bolt fired toward a ceremonial platform. A symbol belonging to an organisation believed to have disappeared twenty years ago.”
“When you list it that way, Your Majesty, it sounds rather serious.”
Captain Ormond coughed.
The security commander looked at the ceiling.
The emperor did neither.
“You have a talent for understatement.”
“I have a talent for recognising when a matter is beyond my authority.”
“Is that why you intervened?”
“No, Your Majesty. I intervened because Captain Ormond was about to be stabbed.”
“And the crossbowman?”
“I was unfortunate enough to be standing in the wrong place.”
“Yet the bolt struck the ceremonial standard instead of the intended target.”
“I cannot take credit for the crossbowman's poor aim.”
The emperor leaned back.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Adrian stood perfectly still.
He had learned that silence was useful. People often filled it with information they should have kept to themselves.
Unfortunately, emperors appeared to be trained to use silence as a weapon.
“Tell me,” Lucien said at last, “what do you want from the Royal Guard?”
Adrian had prepared for this question.
He had prepared several answers, each designed to make him appear unremarkable.
“Steady employment, Your Majesty.”
“Nothing else?”
“Reliable pay.”
“Nothing more ambitious?”
“Regular meals would be appreciated.”
Captain Ormond stared at him.
The emperor's expression remained unchanged.
“You applied to the Royal Guard for regular meals?”
“I applied because the position offers stable employment and a pension.”
“You understand that the Royal Guard protects the imperial household?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“That the position may require you to fight in wars, investigate conspiracies, and risk your life for the empire?”
Adrian paused.
“I had hoped those responsibilities would be distributed among the more qualified candidates.”
Captain Ormond made a strangled sound.
The security commander turned her face away.
For the first time, a faint smile appeared at the corner of the emperor's mouth.
“You are remarkably honest.”
“I try not to exaggerate my abilities, Your Majesty.”
“Then let us discuss your abilities.”
Adrian's heart sank.
The emperor picked up a document.
“This is your examination report.”
Of course it was.
“Your swordsmanship was mediocre,” Lucien continued. “Your formal posture was inadequate. Your knowledge of military regulations was incomplete. Your written answers were unusually cautious.”
“An accurate assessment, Your Majesty.”
“Yet your positioning during the attack was excellent.”
“An accident.”
“You identified a suspicious guard before the attack began.”
“An observation.”
“You moved Captain Ormond out of the path of a lethal strike.”
“A collision.”
“You disrupted a second attacker.”
“A fall.”
Lucien placed the document on the table.
“Candidate Vale, if you were attempting to convince me that you are incompetent, you would be doing a very poor job.”
Adrian's mind went completely blank.
He had encountered this situation before.
Not with emperors, admittedly.
But with people who interpreted a simple act of survival as evidence of hidden talent.
There was only one solution.
He needed to make his intentions unmistakably clear.
“Your Majesty,” Adrian said, “I have no desire to become a distinguished officer.”
The emperor regarded him.
“Why?”
“Distinguished officers attract attention.”
“And attention is undesirable?”
“Attention creates expectations. Expectations create responsibilities. Responsibilities frequently lead to unpleasant situations.”
“Such as?”
“Being stabbed, Your Majesty.”
Captain Ormond closed his eyes.
The emperor studied Adrian for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
Not politely.
Not briefly.
He actually laughed.
Adrian felt a terrible foreboding.
Lucien Aurelius had not laughed because Adrian was amusing.
He had laughed because Adrian had said something the emperor found interesting.
That was infinitely worse.
“Commander Mirelle,” the emperor said when his laughter subsided, “what is your assessment?”
The security commander stepped forward.
“Candidate Vale noticed inconsistencies in the infiltrators' equipment. His account has remained consistent under questioning. He has also correctly identified the significance of the recovered token, though we have not yet established whether the symbol is genuine or deliberately planted.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“I have insufficient evidence to determine that.”
“Can he be dangerous?”
“Anyone can be dangerous under the right circumstances.”
“Can he be useful?”
Mirelle glanced at Adrian.
“Potentially.”
Adrian would have preferred the word useless.
The emperor nodded.
“Captain Ormond?”
“His actions saved my life, Your Majesty. I cannot offer a more direct assessment than that.”
“Very well.”
Lucien folded his hands.
“The examination will continue. All candidates will be interviewed, and the captured men will be interrogated separately. Commander Mirelle, I want the Serpent Court investigated without alerting the court factions.”
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
“The discovery must remain confidential until we know how far the infiltration extends.”
Adrian felt a small measure of relief.
A secret investigation meant that nobody would need to make public speeches about his heroism.
Perhaps this situation could still be contained.
Then the emperor looked at him again.
“Candidate Vale, I have a proposal.”
The relief vanished.
“Your Majesty is generous.”
“You will be admitted into the Royal Guard.”
Adrian blinked.
“Your Majesty?”
“You will receive provisional status, undergo further training, and be assigned to a unit where your conduct can be observed.”
Adrian stared at him.
That was not a proposal.
That was a sentence with additional paperwork.
“Your Majesty, I believe the examination board may have made a mistake.”
“The examination board has not yet made its final decision.”
“Then perhaps we should wait for it.”
“I am the final authority on appointments to the imperial household.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And I have made my decision.”
Adrian considered his options.
He could refuse.
That would be interpreted as suspicious.
He could explain that he had deliberately performed poorly.
That would raise the question of why.
He could claim that he feared assassination.
That would invite someone to investigate why a supposedly ordinary candidate was so concerned about assassins.
He could confess that he remembered the empire's destruction from a novel.
That would probably lead to a physician being summoned.
Adrian bowed his head.
“May I request a modest assignment?”
The emperor raised an eyebrow.
“Already?”
“I would prefer a post with limited public visibility and minimal political involvement.”
“Such as?”
“A gatehouse.”
“A gatehouse.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Preferably one with a roof.”
Lucien looked at Commander Mirelle.
“Find him a suitable assignment.”
Mirelle's expression remained professional.
“Certainly, Your Majesty.”
Adrian nearly sighed with relief.
Then she added, “The inner palace gate would provide excellent access to the imperial household while allowing us to monitor his conduct.”
The emperor nodded.
“An excellent suggestion.”
Adrian's relief died.
The inner palace gate.
The place through which ministers, generals, ambassadors, and members of the imperial family entered every day.
A position with limited public visibility.
A position with minimal political involvement.
A position that happened to be located at the centre of every political disaster in the empire.
“Commander,” Adrian said carefully, “would an outer gate be acceptable?”
“Why?”
“Fewer visitors.”
“Fewer opportunities to observe threats.”
“Precisely what I was hoping for.”
Mirelle looked at him.
The emperor smiled again.
“Candidate Vale, you will report for duty tomorrow morning.”
Adrian bowed.
“As Your Majesty commands.”
“And Vale?”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Try not to fall down on your first day.”
Adrian had no answer.
It seemed the emperor had already developed a sense of humour.
This was becoming intolerable.
When Adrian finally left the audience chamber, the palace corridors seemed longer than before.
Captain Ormond accompanied him to the outer entrance.
For several minutes, neither man spoke.
Then Ormond said, “You understand that most candidates would give anything for the opportunity you have received.”
“I am sure they would.”
“You have been personally appointed by the emperor.”
“I am aware.”
“You have the chance to distinguish yourself.”
“I would prefer not to.”
Ormond shook his head.
“You are an unusual young man, Vale.”
“I have been told.”
At the entrance, Ormond stopped.
“One more thing. The men you helped capture will be questioned tonight. If you remember anything else, report it immediately.”
“I will.”
“And if anyone approaches you about the incident, inform the security office.”
“I will.”
“Do not investigate the Serpent Court yourself.”
Adrian looked at him.
“I had no intention of doing so.”
“Good.”
Captain Ormond departed.
Adrian watched him go.
Then he looked up at the palace.
The afternoon sun illuminated the golden roofs. Banners stirred in the breeze. Guards stood at their posts, unaware that the institution they served might already have been compromised.
The empire was not yet collapsing.
The emperor was alive.
The capital was intact.
The assassination attempt had failed.
For now, things were considerably better than Adrian remembered from the novel.
Unfortunately, he had just been appointed to the Royal Guard.
He had also attracted the attention of the emperor and the imperial security commander.
And someone in the Serpent Court now had reason to investigate the candidate who had disrupted their operation.
Adrian rubbed his forehead.
Perhaps he could still resign.
Perhaps, after a few days of mediocre performance, the emperor would reconsider.
Perhaps the outer gate would have a roof that did not leak.
He began walking toward the city, where he intended to find an inexpensive meal and mourn the quiet life he had lost.
Behind him, inside the palace, Commander Mirelle Ashford opened a confidential report.
At the top of the page, she wrote:
ADRIAN VALE — PROVISIONAL ROYAL GUARD
Under observed capabilities, she listed threat recognition, rapid improvisation, situational awareness, and unusual resistance to pressure.
She paused before adding one final note.
Possible deliberate concealment of ability.
Then she sealed the report and sent it to the emperor's private office.
Far beneath the capital, in a chamber lit by a single green lamp, a different report reached a different desk.
Two operatives had been captured.
The ceremonial attack had failed.
The token had been recovered.
And an unknown candidate had disrupted the operation.
The man reading the report wore a silver ring engraved with a serpent.
He read Adrian's name twice.
Then he placed the paper over a candle.
The flames consumed the report.
“Find out who he is,” he ordered.
His subordinate bowed.
“And if he is merely a lucky fool?”
The man watched the last fragment of paper turn black.
“Then he will be easy to remove.”
He extinguished the candle.
“Do not underestimate him until you have proved he deserves it.”
Adrian reached a modest inn shortly before sunset.
He ordered bread, soup, and the cheapest meat on the menu.
For the first time that day, something went according to plan.
The food arrived warm.
Nobody attempted to assassinate anyone.
No imperial messenger appeared.
No one mentioned the Serpent Court.
Adrian ate in silence and allowed himself to believe that tomorrow might be manageable.
Then the innkeeper approached his table.
“Are you Adrian Vale?”
Adrian slowly lowered his spoon.
“No.”
The innkeeper looked at the official appointment document in his hand.
“Your name is written here.”
Adrian stared at it.
The document had been delivered by a palace messenger while he was eating.
At the top, in elegant imperial script, were the words:
ROYAL GUARD — PROVISIONAL APPOINTMENT
Beneath them, in smaller letters, was his assigned post.
INNER PALACE GATE.
Adrian closed his eyes.
He had wanted to become insignificant.
Instead, he had become an imperial employee with a confidential investigation attached to his name.
Somewhere in the capital, an organisation believed to have vanished twenty years ago was preparing to eliminate him.
He had not even received his first salary.