At six in the morning, Adrian Vale discovered that the imperial palace had a serious problem.
It was him.
More precisely, the imperial palace had a serious problem because it had appointed him to the Royal Guard, and the Royal Guard had apparently decided that sleep was a privilege reserved for people with less promising careers.
Adrian stood outside the inner palace gate in a uniform that fit him almost perfectly.
This was unfortunate.
He had hoped the quartermaster would issue him something too large, too small, or at least embarrassingly outdated. A badly fitted uniform might have justified a transfer.
Instead, the quartermaster had examined his measurements, inspected his posture, and declared him a standard-sized recruit.
Adrian was beginning to suspect that the empire had an unnecessarily efficient administrative system.
“Recruit Vale!”
Adrian straightened.
Captain Ormond approached with a clipboard.
“Your first duty is simple. You will remain at this post, observe everyone entering and leaving, and report anything suspicious.”
“Understood, Captain.”
“Do not leave your station.”
“Of course.”
“Do not engage in unnecessary conversation.”
“Certainly.”
“Do not interfere with imperial personnel unless you have reasonable grounds to suspect a security threat.”
“Absolutely.”
Ormond studied him.
“You seem pleased.”
“I appreciate clear instructions.”
“Good. The inner gate is one of the most important security positions in the palace.”
Adrian's smile became rigid.
“An honour, Captain.”
“Remember, a Royal Guard must be observant, disciplined, and ready to act.”
“I will do my best to remain observant and disciplined.”
“And ready to act.”
“If circumstances make it unavoidable.”
Ormond stared at him for a moment.
Then he handed Adrian the clipboard.
“Record every visitor. Their name, title, destination, and time of entry. If someone has no authorisation, do not let them through.”
Adrian accepted the clipboard.
A gate.
A clipboard.
A chair.
No battlefield. No sword drills. No political negotiations.
Perhaps the world was finally correcting its mistake.
He took his position beside the gate.
The captain departed.
Adrian looked at the clipboard.
Then at the gate.
Then at the clipboard again.
He had a clear objective for the day.
He would record every visitor accurately, perform his duties without distinction, and demonstrate that his appointment had been an unfortunate overreaction.
At the end of the week, he would request reassignment.
At the end of the month, he would request resignation.
At the end of the year, if necessary, he would request resignation in writing, in person, and through whatever department handled requests from people who no longer wished to be employed by the empire.
He took out his pen.
The first visitor arrived.
“Lord Fenwick, Ministry of Finance.”
Adrian checked the man's authorisation.
“Your destination, my lord?”
“The eastern treasury.”
Adrian recorded the details and opened the gate.
The second visitor was a physician.
The third was a palace servant carrying a basket of linen.
The fourth was a minor noble who complained about having to identify himself.
Adrian recorded them all.
By seven o'clock, he had become remarkably comfortable.
By seven fifteen, he was considering whether the Royal Guard offered paid leave.
By seven twenty, a boy in a blue coat approached the gate.
The boy looked about twelve years old. His hair was untidy, his coat was buttoned incorrectly, and he carried a wooden practice sword tucked beneath one arm.
He stopped in front of Adrian.
“I need to go inside.”
Adrian glanced at the clipboard.
“Name?”
“Edwin.”
“Full name?”
“Edwin Aurelius.”
Adrian's pen stopped.
There were several hundred people in the capital named Edwin.
There was only one imperial family with the surname Aurelius.
He looked at the boy.
The boy looked back.
Adrian placed the pen on the clipboard.
“Your Highness?”
The boy brightened.
“You recognised me!”
Adrian felt a sudden urge to resign.
Not from the Royal Guard.
From life.
Prince Edwin Aurelius was the emperor's youngest brother and the fourth in the line of succession.
He was also, according to the novel Adrian remembered, supposed to be in the imperial academy until the winter recess.
The academy was several kilometres away.
The prince was standing at the inner palace gate.
Something had gone wrong.
Adrian considered the situation carefully.
There were three possibilities.
First, the prince had escaped the academy.
Second, the prince had been brought to the palace for an unannounced reason.
Third, the person in front of him was an extraordinarily convincing impostor.
All three possibilities were unpleasant.
“Your Highness,” Adrian said, “do you have an authorisation document?”
The prince blinked.
“I am the prince.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Princes do not need authorisation documents.”
“I am certain that is true in many circumstances.”
“Then open the gate.”
“I am afraid I require authorisation to admit visitors without a recorded appointment.”
“I'm not a visitor. I live here.”
“That simplifies the destination field, Your Highness. Unfortunately, it does not complete the authorisation field.”
The prince stared at him.
Adrian waited patiently.
He was not going to become the first Royal Guard recruit in history to lose his job because he had admitted an unauthorised person through a gate.
Even if that person happened to own a quarter of the palace by birthright.
“What's your name?” the prince asked.
“Adrian Vale, Your Highness.”
“I'm going to remember that.”
Adrian suspected this was not a good thing.
The prince folded his arms.
“Very well. I order you to let me through.”
“May I see the written order, Your Highness?”
“I just gave you one.”
“Verbally, Your Highness.”
“Does a verbal order not count?”
“Not without the appropriate confirmation under the inner palace entry regulations.”
The prince's face turned red.
Adrian felt a flicker of sympathy.
He had been twelve once.
At that age, being told that a piece of paper possessed more authority than you did was deeply offensive.
Unfortunately, the piece of paper had better legal protection.
“Wait here, Your Highness,” Adrian said. “I will contact the palace administration.”
The prince looked at him as though he had committed a personal betrayal.
“You are the most irritating guard I have ever met.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“That was not a compliment!”
“I apologise, Your Highness.”
Adrian turned to signal the gate clerk.
He never got the chance.
A bell rang inside the palace.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
The sound rolled through the courtyard, sharp and urgent.
Every guard at the gate straightened.
The gate clerk dropped his papers.
A servant ran across the inner courtyard.
From the far end of the corridor, a woman in a silver-trimmed uniform came running toward them.
“Close the gates!” she shouted. “Seal the eastern wing!”
Adrian looked at the prince.
The prince looked at Adrian.
For the first time that morning, neither of them seemed particularly pleased to be there.
Captain Ormond arrived less than a minute later.
“Vale! Report!”
“Prince Edwin is here, Captain.”
Ormond stopped.
He looked at the prince.
Then at Adrian.
Then at the open gate.
“Where did His Highness come from?”
“He approached the gate on foot, Captain.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are his attendants?”
“I was about to ask the same question.”
Ormond's expression changed.
“Your Highness, when did you leave the academy?”
“This morning.”
“How?”
“Through the gate.”
“Which gate?”
“The academy gate.”
“Who authorised your departure?”
The prince looked away.
Ormond closed his eyes briefly.
“Your Highness.”
“I wanted to come home.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the reason.”
Adrian silently approved of the distinction.
Ormond turned to the messenger who had followed him.
“Find the prince's escort. Inform the academy. Nobody leaves the grounds without authorisation.”
The messenger ran.
Then the captain looked at Adrian.
“Did anyone approach His Highness before he reached this gate?”
“No, Captain. I have recorded every person who entered.”
“Every person?”
“Yes.”
“Show me the records.”
Adrian handed him the clipboard.
Ormond scanned the entries.
His expression tightened.
“Who admitted Lord Fenwick?”
“I did, Captain. His authorisation was valid.”
“And the physician?”
“Valid.”
“The servant?”
“Assigned to the laundry wing.”
Ormond continued reading.
Adrian watched his face.
Something was wrong.
The captain turned to the gate clerk.
“Who opened the eastern service passage this morning?”
The clerk went pale.
“I—I don't know, sir.”
“You are responsible for recording every service entry.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Then how did someone open a restricted passage without appearing on the register?”
The clerk swallowed.
“I was instructed to deliver the previous shift's records to the administrative office.”
“By whom?”
“A palace official.”
“Name?”
“I don't know, sir.”
Ormond's jaw tightened.
The bell rang again.
This time, it was followed by a distant shout.
A guard came running from the eastern corridor.
“Captain! The eastern wing is secure, but the prince's rooms have been searched!”
“By whom?”
“We don't know. The chamber guards found the door open.”
Ormond turned sharply toward the prince.
“Your Highness, did you tell anyone you were leaving the academy?”
“No.”
“Did you receive any message from the palace?”
The prince hesitated.
Then he reached inside his coat.
“I received this yesterday.”
He produced a folded piece of paper.
Ormond took it.
Adrian saw the captain's face change as he read the message.
“What does it say?” Adrian asked before he could stop himself.
Ormond glanced at him.
“An invitation for His Highness to return to the palace this morning.”
The prince nodded.
“It said my brother wanted to see me.”
“Who delivered it?”
“A messenger from the academy office.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
Ormond handed the message to the security officer.
“Take this to Commander Ashford. No one touches the prince's rooms until she arrives.”
Adrian looked at the paper.
Something about the situation bothered him.
The prince had received a message directing him to return to the palace.
Someone had opened a restricted passage.
The prince's rooms had been searched.
And the palace alarm had sounded before anyone had confirmed why.
These were not necessarily connected events.
But they were close enough to make him uncomfortable.
“Captain,” Adrian said, “may I ask a question?”
Ormond turned.
“Make it quick.”
“Was the eastern service passage open before the prince arrived?”
The captain frowned.
“Why?”
“Because if someone wanted to search the prince's rooms, the prince's absence would be useful. But if they also wanted him to enter through the inner gate, they may have expected us to admit him.”
Ormond stared at him.
Adrian immediately regretted speaking.
“I mean, Your Highness is a prince. Someone might reasonably expect us to let him through.”
The captain ignored the attempted retreat.
“Continue.”
“If we had admitted him without checking his authorisation, there would be no record of the circumstances. But because we stopped him, we recorded his arrival and the time. That gives us a fixed point for the investigation.”
Ormond's gaze dropped to the clipboard.
Adrian followed it.
Every visitor had been recorded.
Every entry had a time.
Every authorisation had been checked.
And, most importantly, Adrian had refused to admit the prince until the required confirmation was obtained.
The prince had been forced to remain outside the gate.
The gate had remained controlled.
The records were intact.
The security officer looked toward the eastern passage.
“Captain, if the passage was opened by an unauthorised person, the gate records may help establish who had access to the area.”
Ormond nodded slowly.
“Seal the passage. Secure the records. Nobody destroys anything.”
He turned to Adrian.
“Good work.”
Adrian wanted to object.
He wanted to explain that maintaining a register was not a heroic act.
He wanted to point out that the prince had been the one to walk into the problem, and the intruder had been the one to search the room.
Instead, he said, “Thank you, Captain.”
The prince stared at him with newfound interest.
“You stopped me from entering the palace.”
“I followed regulations, Your Highness.”
“And because you did, the guards noticed something was wrong.”
“It appears so.”
“You might have saved my life.”
Adrian looked at the prince.
“No, Your Highness. I maintained an entry register.”
The prince grinned.
“That's what you think.”
Adrian had a terrible feeling that this conversation would be remembered for a long time.
Commander Mirelle Ashford arrived twenty minutes later.
She inspected the prince's message, questioned the gate clerk, and reviewed Adrian's register.
Then she ordered a full search of the eastern wing.
The search revealed three things.
First, the prince's chambers had been entered using a legitimate palace key.
Second, a locked cabinet containing his private correspondence had been opened.
Third, one of the documents inside the cabinet was missing.
It was not a royal decree.
It was not a military order.
It was a list of names.
The names belonged to minor officials, household servants, academy tutors, and two junior officers assigned to the imperial household.
None appeared particularly important.
That was precisely what made the discovery troubling.
The Serpent Court did not necessarily need to control the emperor.
It needed access to the people who controlled the doors, carried the messages, maintained the records, and moved quietly between departments.
A conspiracy did not always begin with a sword pointed at the throne.
Sometimes it began with a missing document.
Commander Ashford placed the list's empty folder on the table.
“Someone knew where this document was kept,” she said. “Someone had access to the prince's rooms. And someone arranged for His Highness to leave the academy.”
“Do you believe the prince was the target?” Ormond asked.
“Possibly. But I will not assume that the search and the message were part of the same operation until we have evidence.”
Her gaze shifted to Adrian.
“You maintained the register correctly?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“You did not make any exceptions for His Highness?”
“No, Commander.”
“Even though he ordered you to open the gate?”
“I was waiting for the required authorisation.”
Mirelle studied him.
“You understand that you could have admitted him and nobody would have blamed you.”
“I would have blamed myself, Commander.”
“Why?”
“Because I would have violated a security procedure.”
“That is an unusually practical answer.”
Adrian resisted the urge to explain that practical answers were the foundation of his survival strategy.
Mirelle returned to the records.
“Your register gives us a reliable timeline. We can compare it with the service passage records, the household duty roster, and the prince's movements at the academy.”
She turned to Ormond.
“Until we establish who entered the eastern wing, restrict access to the relevant offices. Quietly. I do not want the entire palace believing there is an active conspiracy before we know its scope.”
“Understood.”
“And the recruit?”
Ormond looked at Adrian.
“What about him?”
“Keep him at the inner gate.”
Adrian felt his soul attempt to leave his body.
Mirelle continued, apparently unaware of the damage she had inflicted.
“He has demonstrated that he follows procedures even under pressure. Until we understand how the intruder accessed the prince's rooms, I want the gate records maintained by someone who will not improvise exceptions.”
“Of course,” Ormond said.
Adrian opened his mouth.
Mirelle looked at him.
“Do you have an objection?”
He closed his mouth.
There were many objections.
They were all excellent.
Unfortunately, none of them seemed likely to improve his circumstances.
“No, Commander.”
“Good. Continue your duty.”
She departed with the register.
Adrian watched her go.
He had prevented an unauthorised entry.
He had preserved a security record.
He had helped identify a possible breach in the imperial household.
And his reward was to remain at the exact location where every future problem could find him.
The empire's personnel department was astonishingly effective.
By midday, the story had spread through the inner palace.
Not the truth.
The truth was complicated, incomplete, and contained several inconvenient uncertainties.
The story was simple.
A new Royal Guard recruit had refused entry to a prince.
The refusal had exposed a security breach.
The recruit had preserved the records that might reveal how the breach occurred.
By the afternoon, three versions were circulating.
In the first, Adrian had recognised an assassin disguised as a servant.
In the second, he had challenged the prince because he suspected a conspiracy.
In the third, he had deliberately allowed the prince to approach the gate so that the infiltrators would reveal themselves.
Adrian heard the third version from a kitchen servant.
“That is very clever,” the servant told him.
“It is entirely false.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I did not plan anything.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I was following regulations.”
The servant nodded respectfully.
“That's what makes it clever, sir.”
Adrian stared at him.
The servant hurried away.
At the far end of the courtyard, Prince Edwin was being escorted back to his quarters.
Before leaving, he turned and waved.
“Goodbye, Sir Adrian!”
Adrian flinched.
“I am not a knight, Your Highness.”
“You will be!”
The prince disappeared through the doorway.
Adrian looked down at his uniform.
He had been in the Royal Guard for less than one day.
He had already attracted the emperor's attention, become involved in a clandestine investigation, and earned the admiration of a prince who appeared to regard security procedures as a personal challenge.
He picked up his clipboard.
There were still four hours left in his shift.
Adrian took a deep breath.
He would do nothing extraordinary.
He would not investigate anything.
He would not make deductions.
He would not save anyone.
He would stand beside the gate, record visitors, and let the empire's more qualified personnel handle its problems.
A man in a grey servant's uniform approached the entrance.
“Name?” Adrian asked.
“Martin.”
“Full name?”
“Martin Pell.”
“Destination?”
“The eastern administrative office.”
“Authorisation?”
The man produced a document.
Adrian examined it.
The seal appeared correct.
The signature was legible.
The date was current.
Everything was in order.
Adrian was about to return the document when he noticed a small detail.
The authorisation listed the eastern administrative office as the destination.
But the eastern administrative office had been sealed twenty minutes earlier.
Adrian looked up.
The man was watching him too carefully.
“I'm afraid this office is temporarily closed,” Adrian said. “You will need to contact the duty officer.”
The man's expression barely changed.
“I'm carrying an urgent message.”
“Then the duty officer will be able to direct you.”
“The message is confidential.”
“I am certain the duty officer understands confidentiality.”
The man held out his hand for the document.
Adrian did not return it immediately.
“Please wait here.”
The servant's eyes shifted toward the courtyard.
Then he smiled.
“Of course, guard.”
Adrian signalled the gate clerk.
The clerk approached.
Adrian passed him the document and quietly explained the discrepancy.
The clerk's expression changed.
He stepped back and called for a nearby officer.
The grey-clad man did not run.
He did not draw a weapon.
He simply waited until the officer approached, then handed over his hands without resistance.
A search revealed a second authorisation document, this one bearing the seal of an office that had been abolished three years earlier.
The man was escorted away.
Adrian returned to his post.
He looked at the clipboard.
Then at the gate.
Then at the sky.
He had spent the entire day trying to be an ordinary guard.
The empire had responded by making ordinary guard duties increasingly dangerous.
Perhaps the world was trying to tell him something.
Perhaps it was telling him to become a farmer.
Adrian decided that, as soon as his shift ended, he would begin researching agricultural land prices.
It was a sensible plan.
It was a peaceful plan.
And, for the first time that day, he felt reasonably confident that he could carry it out.
Unfortunately, a messenger was already running toward the gate with another sealed order.
This one bore the emperor's personal crest.