Adrian Vale had received a personal invitation from the emperor.
This was unfortunate.
He had also received a promotion, acquired additional duties, and become the subject of an investigation by a clandestine organisation whose members apparently had nothing better to do than ruin his life.
This was considerably more unfortunate.
But the worst development occurred at seven minutes past eight the following morning.
Someone had polished his boots.
Adrian stood in his quarters, staring at the offending footwear.
They had been cleaned so thoroughly that he could see a distorted reflection of his face in the leather.
He had not requested this.
He had not paid for this.
And he certainly had not authorised anyone to interfere with the carefully cultivated appearance of a man who wished to remain professionally unremarkable.
There was a knock.
“Enter.”
A young palace attendant stepped inside and bowed.
“Sir Vale, your ceremonial uniform has been prepared.”
Adrian looked at him.
“My what?”
“Your ceremonial uniform, sir.”
“I don't have one.”
“You do now, sir.”
The attendant placed a folded bundle on the bed.
It was dark blue, trimmed in silver, and decorated with considerably more embroidery than Adrian considered necessary for a garment intended to prevent sword wounds.
Beside it lay a polished insignia bearing the imperial sun.
Adrian examined the insignia.
Then the uniform.
Then the attendant.
“Is this compulsory?”
“For an audience with His Imperial Majesty, sir.”
“I see.”
The attendant waited.
Adrian considered asking whether an unfortunate laundry accident might excuse his attendance.
Unfortunately, the palace had already demonstrated an alarming ability to recover from accidents.
He had personally caused several.
“Who ordered this?” he asked.
“The Imperial Chamberlain's Office, sir.”
“Can they cancel it?”
The attendant blinked.
“The uniform?”
“The audience.”
There was a brief silence.
“I don't believe so, sir.”
Adrian sighed.
Another administrative avenue had closed.
He had begun to suspect that the imperial government was far more efficient at preventing resignations than it was at preventing assassinations.
That was a troubling distribution of resources.
By the time Adrian reached the eastern administrative wing, the palace had entered the peculiar state of controlled panic that accompanied important imperial functions.
Servants carried trays.
Officials carried documents.
Guards carried weapons.
And everyone carried the expression of someone who would be blamed if anything went wrong.
Adrian carried a small notebook.
It contained three questions.
Can I return to ordinary gate duty?
Can I be removed from the records assignment?
Does the Royal Guard provide retirement benefits?
He had considered adding a fourth question concerning cottages in the countryside, but decided it might be premature.
A man should not appear overly ambitious.
Especially when his ambition was to disappear.
“Vale!”
Captain Ormond approached from the opposite end of the corridor.
His expression suggested that he had already endured a difficult morning and was looking for someone to share the burden.
Adrian bowed.
“Captain.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was summoned, sir.”
“I know you were summoned. Why are you here?”
Adrian considered the distinction.
“I was walking to the place where I was summoned, sir.”
Ormond closed his eyes.
“Never mind.”
He took Adrian by the arm and steered him toward a side passage.
“We have a problem.”
Adrian felt an immediate sense of dread.
In his experience, whenever someone in the palace announced that they had a problem, the solution somehow involved him acquiring another responsibility.
“Is it a problem that requires a Royal Guard recruit, sir?”
“It's a security problem.”
“Then I recommend a security officer.”
“You are a security officer.”
“A very junior one.”
“Vale.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop trying to become less useful.”
Adrian fell silent.
He had not realised his intentions were so transparent.
Ormond lowered his voice.
“The imperial council is gathering in the Hall of Concord. His Majesty will attend after the morning petitions. Several provincial ministers are already inside, and the western gallery has been reserved for foreign envoys.”
Adrian nodded.
He remembered the Hall of Concord.
In the original story, it had been the site of a minor political dispute.
Three ministers had argued over grain tariffs.
A duke had insulted a foreign ambassador.
The emperor had ended the meeting by threatening to dismiss everyone.
It had been one of the less catastrophic chapters.
Adrian found this reassuring.
Ormond continued.
“Commander Ashford wants you to review the movement arrangements.”
Adrian stopped walking.
“Why?”
“Because of yesterday's discovery.”
“Yesterday's discovery was that people should check their paperwork.”
“Your procedure exposed a forged authorisation.”
“It was a duplicated number, sir.”
“A duplicated number attached to a restricted palace delivery.”
“A very careless duplicated number.”
Ormond gave him a long look.
“That's what concerns Commander Ashford.”
Adrian decided not to ask which part.
They entered a narrow office beside the council wing.
A large floor plan covered the central table.
Commander Mirelle Ashford stood beside it, examining several coloured markers.
She wore the same composed expression she had worn during their previous meetings.
Adrian had learned to distrust that expression.
It generally preceded a question to which every possible answer was dangerous.
“Vale,” she said.
“Commander.”
“Come here.”
He obeyed.
She indicated the floor plan.
“Tell me what you see.”
Adrian looked down.
The Hall of Concord occupied the centre.
Two ceremonial entrances opened onto the main gallery. A guarded passage connected the hall to the imperial chambers. Three smaller doors led to the records annex, the servants' quarters, and the western reception rooms.
Several guard positions were marked in red.
The main entrances were heavily protected.
The imperial passage had two checkpoints.
The servants' passage had one.
Adrian studied the map.
He had been summoned to dinner with the emperor that evening.
He wanted to survive until then without attracting further attention.
The simplest method would be to provide an ordinary answer.
“Doors, Commander.”
Ormond made a sound that might have been a cough.
Mirelle did not react.
“Anything else?”
“Corridors.”
“Vale.”
He sighed.
There was apparently a limit to how ordinary an answer could be before people considered it suspicious.
“The eastern passage is crowded,” he said. “The western gallery is reserved. The imperial passage is restricted.”
“And?”
Adrian pointed to a narrow line behind the records annex.
“This one seems quiet.”
Mirelle followed his finger.
“The old servants' corridor?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Why does it interest you?”
Because nobody important appeared to use it.
Because it avoided the council chamber.
Because a man could walk through it without being stopped by three officials demanding reports.
And because, if Adrian understood the floor plan correctly, it provided a direct route from the eastern administrative wing to the outer courtyard.
A route that passed suspiciously close to the gate.
Freedom was only a short walk away.
“It seems less crowded,” he said.
Mirelle looked at the map again.
“Less crowded,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Captain Ormond, how many guards are stationed there?”
“One at the eastern entrance, Commander. The western end is sealed.”
“Sealed how?”
“A service door. Iron latch. Standard lock.”
“Who maintains it?”
Ormond hesitated.
“The household staff, I believe.”
Mirelle's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Adrian had seen that change before.
It was the expression of someone who had just discovered an interesting problem.
He regretted speaking.
“Vale,” she said, “why did you choose that corridor?”
Adrian considered telling the truth.
He had chosen it because he wished to avoid people.
But previous experience suggested that statements of this kind were routinely interpreted as evidence of sophisticated tactical insight.
“I dislike crowds, Commander.”
Mirelle was silent.
Then she turned to Ormond.
“Inspect the corridor.”
Adrian felt a small surge of relief.
Excellent.
Someone else would inspect it.
He could return to his duties.
“Take Vale with you.”
The relief vanished.
The old servants' corridor was narrow, poorly lit, and entirely lacking in ceremonial dignity.
Adrian liked it immediately.
Its walls were plain stone. Its ceiling was low. Its floor had been worn smooth by generations of servants who had carried meals, laundry, coal, and other things too ordinary to warrant the attention of historians.
No portraits watched from the walls.
No heraldic banners hung overhead.
No noble families had paid to have their ancestors immortalised in marble.
It was the most comfortable place Adrian had found in the palace.
“This is perfect,” he murmured.
Ormond looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing, Captain.”
Two guards accompanied them.
One carried a lantern.
The other carried a short spear.
Adrian carried the increasingly unreasonable hope that this inspection might conclude without an incident.
They passed a storage alcove.
Then a disused pantry.
Then a small staircase leading to the old laundry rooms.
At the far end stood an ironbound door.
A heavy chain hung across it.
Ormond inspected the lock.
“Intact.”
The spear-bearing guard nodded.
“No sign of tampering, Captain.”
Adrian examined the door.
It appeared thoroughly uninteresting.
He was delighted.
“Then we can return, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Ormond pulled on the chain.
It held.
He examined the hinges.
They were old but serviceable.
Then he stepped back.
“Anything unusual, Vale?”
Adrian shook his head.
“No, sir.”
Ormond looked mildly disappointed.
Adrian considered this a successful outcome.
They began walking back.
Halfway along the corridor, a maid emerged from the laundry staircase carrying a basket of folded linen.
She stopped abruptly.
“Oh!”
The basket tilted.
Adrian caught it before the linen spilled.
“Careful.”
“Thank you, sir!”
She bowed so quickly that her cap nearly fell off.
Adrian returned the basket.
“Does this corridor get much use?”
“Not anymore, sir.”
“Why?”
“The council wing was renovated. Most deliveries go through the western service entrance now.”
Adrian nodded.
That explained the dust.
The maid hesitated.
“Although there's been a great deal of work here recently.”
Ormond stopped.
“What work?”
“The carpenters, sir.”
Adrian felt a familiar sensation.
It was the unpleasant awareness that a harmless conversation was approaching something he would regret learning.
“What carpenters?” Ormond asked.
“I don't know their names, Captain. They came three nights ago. Said they were repairing the old heating channels.”
Ormond looked toward the ceiling.
“The heating channels?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who authorised it?”
“The work order had the household seal.”
Adrian looked at the floor.
There was a faint line of pale dust near the base of the wall.
Fresh mortar.
A small detail.
Perfectly ordinary.
Almost certainly nothing.
He decided to remain silent.
Unfortunately, Ormond noticed where he was looking.
“Vale?”
Adrian closed his eyes for a moment.
“Yes, Captain?”
“What is it?”
“Fresh mortar.”
Ormond crouched.
He touched the pale powder.
Then he examined the wall.
A rectangular section of stone had been reset.
The work was neat.
Almost invisible.
Ormond stood.
“Get Commander Ashford.”
One guard immediately departed.
Adrian stared at the wall.
He had wanted to find a quiet passage.
He had found masonry.
Somehow, the masonry was about to become a national security incident.
The hidden opening was discovered twenty-three minutes later.
Brannik Ironvein would eventually become famous for constructing fortifications that entire armies failed to breach.
At that moment, however, he was merely an irritated palace engineer who had been summoned away from breakfast.
He was short, broad-shouldered, and wore a leather apron stained with lime dust.
His beard was tied in three thick braids.
His expression suggested that the entire imperial court had been constructed by fools.
“Who repaired this?” he demanded.
Ormond answered.
“We're trying to determine that.”
Brannik struck the wall with the handle of his hammer.
A hollow sound answered.
He struck it again.
Then a third time.
His eyes narrowed.
“This isn't a repair.”
Mirelle stood beside him.
“What is it?”
“A cover.”
He gestured to his assistants.
“Take the facing stones off.”
They worked quickly.
Within minutes, the rectangular section had been removed.
Behind it lay a dark opening.
A passage.
Narrow enough for a man to crawl through.
Wide enough for a determined attacker to carry weapons.
The air emerging from it smelled of damp earth and cold iron.
Adrian stared.
He remembered something.
Not from the original story.
From the previous week's examination.
The first attackers had used an overlooked access route.
The second attempt had involved forged movement authorisations.
And now someone had opened a concealed passage beneath the council wing.
The incidents were no longer isolated.
Someone was building a system.
Adrian found this deeply discouraging.
The empire was supposed to collapse several years from now.
At the current rate, it might not survive until his next payday.
Mirelle turned toward him.
“You suspected this?”
“No, Commander.”
“You noticed the mortar.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Adrian thought carefully.
“Because it was on the floor.”
Brannik gave a short grunt.
For a moment, Adrian believed he had found a kindred spirit.
Then the engineer said, “Good eye. Most officers don't look below shoulder height.”
Adrian abandoned that hope.
Mirelle examined the opening.
“Where does it lead?”
Brannik held up his lantern.
“Old ventilation channel. Pre-renovation. Should connect to the foundations beneath the western gallery.”
Ormond's expression hardened.
“The foreign envoys are assembling there.”
“Not just the envoys,” Mirelle said.
She looked at the floor plan in her hands.
“The council chamber shares the same foundation.”
Adrian felt the temperature of the corridor drop.
Not literally.
But he had developed an instinct for the moments when his life was about to become considerably more complicated.
This was one of them.
“Seal both ends. Quietly. No one enters without my authorisation.”
“Commander,” Ormond said, “should we postpone the council?”
“Not until we know what we're dealing with. An unexplained postponement may warn whoever prepared this route.”
She turned to Brannik.
“Can your men determine whether it reaches the hall?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes, if the old plans are accurate.”
“And if they aren't?”
Brannik looked offended.
“Then whoever drew them deserves imprisonment.”
Adrian found himself agreeing.
Inaccurate paperwork was becoming the empire's most dangerous weapon.
The first explosion occurred twelve minutes later.
It was not a large explosion.
It did not bring down a wall.
It did not shatter the windows of the palace.
It merely produced a dull, heavy thud somewhere beneath the western gallery.
Then the floor trembled.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
A guard shouted.
And somewhere beyond the servants' corridor, a bell began ringing.
Adrian stared at the ceiling.
He had an unpleasant suspicion that his quiet morning was over.
“Report!” Mirelle commanded.
A messenger arrived at a run.
“Commander! Smoke in the western gallery! The lower access doors have been sealed from inside!”
Ormond swore.
Mirelle's eyes narrowed.
“Where are the ministers?”
“In the Hall of Concord!”
“His Majesty?”
“Still in the petition chamber, Commander.”
Good, Adrian thought.
At least the emperor was somewhere else.
Then the messenger continued.
“The western gallery guards are reporting armed men near the lower stairwell!”
Mirelle moved immediately.
“Ormond, take six men to the main hall. Keep the ministers away from the western doors. I want every available guard at the imperial passage.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Brannik, determine whether the structure is compromised.”
“Aye.”
“Vale—”
Adrian braced himself.
“Stay here.”
He blinked.
“Commander?”
“Stay here. You know this corridor. Make certain no one uses it without authorisation.”
Adrian stared at her.
She had given him a simple task.
A stationary task.
A task that did not require him to fight anyone, command anyone, investigate anything, or explain why he had noticed something unfortunate.
He nearly smiled.
“Yes, Commander.”
Mirelle departed.
Ormond followed.
Brannik hurried toward the concealed opening with his assistants.
The two guards remained at the corridor's eastern entrance.
Adrian stood beside the wall.
For the first time that morning, he felt optimistic.
He had been ordered to guard an empty passage.
There were no nobles.
No ministers.
No assassins.
No imperial heirs.
And, most importantly, no emperor.
He could simply remain here until someone remembered to relieve him.
It was almost too good to be true.
Then the screaming began.
The first people appeared from the direction of the council wing.
Two servants.
One elderly clerk.
A junior guard supporting a wounded officer.
They stumbled into the passage, coughing.
Adrian straightened.
“What happened?”
“The main hall!” the clerk gasped. “The doors are shut!”
“Which doors?”
“All of them!”
Adrian looked toward the distant junction.
Smoke drifted through the archway.
The wounded officer pressed a bloodied hand against his shoulder.
“Attackers,” he managed. “They seized the western entrance. The council guards are holding the central doors, but the smoke—”
He coughed violently.
Adrian understood.
The attackers had not simply intended to enter the council chamber.
They had intended to trap everyone inside.
A sealed hall.
Smoke.
Panic.
Armed men controlling the exits.
The combination required no sophisticated military knowledge.
It was a massacre waiting to happen.
Adrian looked down the old servants' corridor.
It connected the council wing to the eastern administrative passage.
From there, a staircase led to the outer courtyard.
He had chosen it because it was quiet.
Now it was the only route in sight that remained free of smoke.
The wounded officer gripped his sleeve.
“There are still people inside.”
Adrian looked at the man's bloodied hand.
Then at the servants.
Then at the corridor.
His orders had been clear.
Stay here.
He considered obeying them.
He truly did.
But he could hear people shouting beyond the smoke.
And the old clerk was trembling so badly that he could barely stand.
Adrian sighed.
“Can you walk?”
The officer nodded.
“Good.”
He pointed toward the eastern end.
“Follow this corridor. Turn left at the laundry stairs. The courtyard is beyond the second arch.”
The clerk stared at him.
“Sir, the outer doors—”
“Should be open.”
“And if they aren't?”
Adrian considered the question.
“Tell the guards I said to open them.”
The clerk blinked.
“Will that work?”
Adrian had absolutely no idea.
“Try it.”
The group hurried away.
Adrian turned toward the smoke.
He had a choice.
He could remain at his post and await further orders.
Or he could walk a short distance, direct anyone he encountered toward the corridor, and then return before Commander Ashford noticed.
A modest intervention.
Nothing heroic.
Nothing that should attract attention.
He drew his sword.
Not because he wanted to fight.
Because the corridor was dark, and he had learned that people became more cooperative when the person giving directions looked as though he belonged there.
Then he entered the smoke.
The Hall of Concord had been designed to impress foreign dignitaries.
Its doors were twelve feet tall.
Its pillars were carved from white marble.
Its ceiling displayed a painted history of the imperial dynasty.
Its acoustics allowed even a poorly spoken political argument to be heard from the farthest gallery.
Unfortunately, none of those architectural achievements helped the people trapped inside.
Adrian reached the eastern antechamber and found the passage blocked by a fallen cabinet.
Three servants struggled to move it.
Beyond them, smoke rolled beneath the council doors.
A young guard stood with his back against the wall, clutching a bleeding leg.
“Help us!” one servant shouted.
Adrian sheathed his sword.
He examined the cabinet.
It was enormous.
Made from oak.
Filled with ceremonial silver.
He looked at the servants.
“Empty it.”
“What?”
“The cabinet. Empty it.”
They stared.
Adrian pulled open a drawer and dumped its contents onto the floor.
Silver cups scattered across the stone.
One servant made a strangled sound.
“Sir, those belong to the imperial household!”
“Then the imperial household can pick them up later.”
The others joined him.
Within moments, the cabinet was light enough to move.
They dragged it aside.
Behind it stood a narrow door.
Adrian pushed it open.
A service staircase descended into darkness.
He stared.
Another passage.
Of course.
The palace apparently contained more secret and forgotten routes than functioning administrative procedures.
“Where does this lead?” he asked.
One servant answered.
“The old records annex, sir.”
Adrian remembered the floor plan.
The records annex connected to the servants' corridor.
A second route.
A safer route.
He looked at the injured guard.
“Can you move?”
“With help.”
Adrian pointed toward the staircase.
“Take him down. Follow the annex passage east.”
“What about you, sir?”
Adrian looked toward the council doors.
From beyond them came a heavy crash.
Then another.
Someone was attempting to force an entrance.
“I'll see whether anyone else needs directions.”
The servant stared at him.
Adrian sighed.
Why did people always make simple statements sound dramatic?
Inside the Hall of Concord, Minister Halbrecht had reached the conclusion that the imperial government was doomed.
This was not an entirely new opinion.
He had held similar views during three budget disputes, two failed harvests, and one particularly unpleasant tax hearing.
But this time the circumstances were more persuasive.
Smoke filled the western gallery.
The main doors had been barred.
Several guards lay wounded.
And a group of armed men was attempting to break through the southern entrance.
The council's remaining defenders had formed a line across the hall.
They were outnumbered.
Their captain had been injured.
The ministers were arguing.
The foreign envoys were demanding explanations.
Someone had begun praying.
Halbrecht, who had spent thirty years studying imperial administration, realised that he had no useful administrative procedure for being murdered.
Then a voice came from behind the eastern screen.
“Is anyone still in here?”
The hall fell momentarily silent.
A young man in a Royal Guard uniform emerged through a service doorway.
His hair was slightly disordered.
There was dust on his shoulders.
He looked annoyed.
Halbrecht recognised him.
Adrian Vale.
The recruit whose name had appeared in three separate security reports during the past week.
The young man surveyed the room.
Then he looked at the wounded guards.
Then at the smoke.
Then at the ministers.
His expression did not change.
“Right,” he said.
He pointed toward the service door.
“Anyone who can walk, go that way.”
A minister stared at him.
“On whose authority?”
Adrian looked at the man.
For one brief moment, he considered explaining that he had no authority whatsoever.
Then he heard the southern door splinter.
He decided that the distinction could wait.
“Mine.”
The minister opened his mouth.
Adrian added, “Or you can remain here.”
The minister closed his mouth.
The evacuation began.
It was not orderly.
Not at first.
The ministers attempted to leave before the clerks.
The foreign envoys insisted on remaining together.
Two nobles argued over which household should take precedence.
A wounded guard collapsed near the eastern screen.
Adrian watched the confusion with increasing irritation.
He had found a perfectly serviceable escape route.
All these people needed to do was walk through it.
Instead, they were attempting to turn an evacuation into a court ceremony.
“Stop.”
His voice was not particularly loud.
But it was flat enough to cut through the argument.
Several people turned.
Adrian pointed to the injured guard.
“Wounded first.”
A nobleman frowned.
“Do you understand who I am?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
The nobleman looked offended.
Adrian pointed to the service door.
“Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk!”
“Then wait.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then an elderly foreign envoy removed his cloak and knelt beside the injured guard.
“I can help carry him.”
A servant joined him.
Then another.
The wounded guard was lifted.
The crowd began moving.
Adrian stood beside the door, directing them through.
One group at a time.
No pushing.
No ceremonial precedence.
No arguments over rank.
The process was slow.
But it worked.
Within minutes, the eastern side of the hall began to empty.
Then the southern doors broke.
Six armed men entered the Hall of Concord.
They wore dark cloaks over light armour.
Their faces were covered.
Their leader carried a short sword and a curved dagger.
He surveyed the remaining crowd.
Then he saw the open service door.
His eyes narrowed.
“Close that passage!”
Two attackers rushed forward.
Adrian looked at them.
This was precisely the situation he had hoped to avoid.
He had no interest in duelling assassins.
He had even less interest in dying while protecting a room full of ministers who could not agree on the order in which to flee a burning building.
He glanced around.
A heavy ceremonial table stood beside the eastern screen.
It was long.
It was sturdy.
And it had wheels.
Apparently, the imperial household occasionally moved it for banquets.
Adrian placed one hand against it.
“Help me push.”
A clerk stared.
“Sir?”
“The table.”
The clerk obeyed.
Together, they shoved.
The table rolled across the polished floor.
One attacker attempted to leap aside.
His boot caught beneath a wheel.
He fell.
The second tried to stop the table with his shoulder.
This proved to be a poor decision.
The table struck him and drove him backward into a marble pillar.
He dropped his sword.
Adrian stared.
He had expected the table to block the doorway.
He had not expected it to defeat two armed men.
The clerk stared as well.
Then he looked at Adrian with an expression of profound astonishment.
Adrian decided to ignore it.
“Keep pushing.”
They drove the table against the southern approach, creating a temporary barrier.
The remaining attackers hesitated.
The council guards seized the opportunity.
Three rushed forward.
Steel rang against steel.
Adrian stepped back.
He had no desire to participate in the fighting.
His task was evacuation.
He intended to remain committed to it.
Then a scream came from the western gallery.
A young attendant had fallen beside the stairs.
Smoke surrounded her.
One of the attackers had broken away from the fight and was moving toward her.
Adrian looked at the service door.
Only a few people remained.
He could leave.
He should leave.
Then the attendant tried to crawl away.
The attacker raised his sword.
Adrian moved.
He did not perform a legendary sword technique.
He did not unleash hidden martial power.
He did not suddenly remember the secret teachings of an ancient master.
He ran.
The distance was short.
The attacker was distracted.
And the polished marble floor was exceptionally slippery.
Adrian had intended to strike the man from the side.
Instead, his boot slid.
He lost his balance.
His shoulder struck the attacker's waist.
Both men crashed to the floor.
The sword flew from the attacker's hand.
Adrian landed badly.
Pain shot through his elbow.
The attacker attempted to rise.
Adrian grabbed the nearest object.
A brass candlestick.
He struck the man's wrist.
The attacker cried out.
A council guard arrived a moment later and pinned him to the floor.
Adrian sat up.
He examined his elbow.
It hurt.
He was furious.
The attendant stared at him.
“Sir…”
“Can you stand?”
She nodded.
“Then go.”
“But you—”
“Go.”
She obeyed.
Adrian rose slowly.
He had saved a life.
He had injured his elbow.
And he had acquired a fresh tear in the ceremonial uniform he had not wanted in the first place.
He considered the entire exchange financially disadvantageous.
The last of the civilians entered the service passage just as Captain Ormond arrived with reinforcements.
The captain stopped at the eastern screen.
He surveyed the hall.
The overturned furniture.
The wounded guards.
The attackers being restrained.
The smoke.
And Adrian Vale standing beside a damaged candlestick.
Ormond's face went pale.
“Vale!”
Adrian turned.
“Captain.”
“What happened?”
Adrian considered the question.
There were several possible answers.
An attempted massacre.
A successful evacuation.
A confrontation with armed infiltrators.
A regrettable incident involving imperial furniture.
He chose the simplest.
“The corridor was useful, sir.”
Ormond stared.
Then he looked toward the service passage.
“Where are the ministers?”
“Outside, I hope.”
“You hope?”
“I gave them directions.”
Ormond looked at the surviving council guards.
One of them spoke.
“He evacuated the hall, Captain.”
Another added, “He held the eastern passage.”
A third said, “He stopped the attackers from reaching the civilians.”
Adrian frowned.
This was becoming unnecessarily elaborate.
“I moved a table.”
Ormond looked at the overturned furniture.
Then at the captured attackers.
Then at Adrian.
“Of course you did.”
The evacuation had saved forty-three civilians and eleven wounded guards.
The number was established later, after the household clerks completed their headcount.
Seven ministers.
Four foreign envoys.
Nineteen administrative officials.
Thirteen servants and attendants.
Eleven injured guards who might otherwise have been trapped in the smoke.
Not everyone had escaped unharmed.
Several people suffered burns.
Two guards remained in critical condition.
A servant had broken her ankle on the records staircase.
And one council officer had died defending the southern entrance before Adrian reached the hall.
The victory was real.
So was its cost.
Adrian learned the figures while sitting on a bench outside the infirmary.
A physician examined his elbow.
“Sprained,” the physician announced.
“Can I be excused from duty?”
“For two days.”
Adrian brightened.
“Three?”
“No.”
“A week?”
The physician looked at him.
“Are you negotiating?”
“I'm exploring medical possibilities.”
“Two days.”
Adrian sighed.
Even his injuries were disappointing.
Across the courtyard, rescued servants carried water to the wounded.
The foreign envoy who had helped lift the injured guard was speaking quietly with Captain Ormond.
Minister Halbrecht stood nearby, writing something on a folded sheet of paper.
Adrian hoped it was a complaint.
A complaint might lead to reassignment.
Reassignment might lead to a quieter posting.
A quieter posting might eventually lead to retirement.
He was still considering this promising sequence when Commander Mirelle Ashford approached.
“Vale.”
He stood.
The physician immediately pushed him back down.
“Patient.”
Mirelle glanced at the bandaged elbow.
“Sit.”
Adrian sat.
She studied him.
“Forty-three civilians,” she said.
Adrian nodded.
“Eleven wounded guards.”
Another nod.
“Six attackers captured alive.”
Adrian hesitated.
“I believe the council guards handled most of those, Commander.”
“They did.”
That was encouraging.
Mirelle continued.
“The concealed passage was prepared using a forged household work order. The attackers intended to use the lower access channel to isolate the Hall of Concord, introduce smoke, and strike while the council was trapped.”
Adrian looked toward the damaged wing.
“So the corridor wasn't the attack route?”
“It was one of them. The old servants' corridor was the route they had overlooked.”
He considered that.
A neglected passage had saved the people the attackers intended to kill.
Not because it was secret.
Not because it was clever.
Simply because no one had considered it important enough to control.
Mirelle watched him.
“You chose that corridor before we discovered the altered wall.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Adrian looked at her.
He had answered this question already.
He suspected she would not like the answer any better the second time.
“It was quiet.”
Mirelle said nothing.
Adrian added, “And it led away from the council.”
“Precisely.”
He stared at her.
That was not the reaction he had hoped for.
She folded her arms.
“The attackers controlled the routes everyone expected the council to use. You identified the one route outside their immediate plan.”
“I wanted to avoid the council.”
“And because you did, you found the route that saved it.”
Adrian opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
There were certain arguments a man could not win.
This was one of them.
At noon, the emperor received the first complete report.
Lucien Aurelius sat in his private study, reading the casualty figures.
The council chamber had been secured.
The surviving attackers were in custody.
The concealed access channels were being mapped.
The forged household authorisations had been traced to an administrative office whose senior clerk had vanished that morning.
And Adrian Vale had once again become involved in an incident that should have killed several important members of the imperial government.
The emperor read the report twice.
Then he looked at Mirelle.
“He chose the servants' corridor?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Before the attack?”
“Yes.”
“Because he considered it less crowded?”
“That was his explanation.”
Lucien leaned back.
For a moment, he was silent.
Then he laughed.
It was not a loud laugh.
It was the brief, incredulous sound of a man who had spent years listening to generals explain why impossible things could not be done.
“And the council?”
“Forty-three civilians evacuated. Eleven wounded guards recovered. The attackers failed to reach their principal targets.”
“The casualties?”
“One council officer killed before the evacuation. Several wounded, including two in critical condition.”
The emperor's amusement faded.
“His family?”
“Being notified.”
“See that they receive full compensation. Not the reduced household rate.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Lucien looked at the report again.
“And Vale?”
“A sprained elbow.”
“Nothing more?”
“No.”
The emperor set down the paper.
“I invited him to dinner.”
“I am aware, Your Majesty.”
“Do you suppose he'll attend?”
Mirelle considered the question.
“He has asked three different officers whether the invitation can be postponed.”
Lucien smiled.
“Has he?”
“He also asked the chamberlain whether ceremonial dress was strictly necessary.”
“An unusual young man.”
“Very.”
The emperor glanced toward the window.
Beyond the palace gardens, the capital spread beneath the afternoon sun.
Its towers gleamed.
Its markets bustled.
Its people went about their lives, largely unaware that an organised conspiracy had nearly murdered a portion of their government.
Lucien's expression grew thoughtful.
“The empire has many men who seek power, Mirelle.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Many who seek recognition.”
“Yes.”
“And quite a few who would gladly risk a thousand lives for the opportunity to be called heroes.”
Mirelle remained silent.
The emperor tapped the report.
“Yet this one appears to want nothing.”
“Not quite nothing, Your Majesty.”
“Oh?”
“He wants to leave.”
Lucien laughed again.
Then he looked down at the casualty report.
“Unfortunately for him,” he said quietly, “I don't believe we can afford to let him.”
By late afternoon, Adrian had reached a difficult conclusion.
The emperor's dinner invitation had not been cancelled.
This was unreasonable.
He had been injured.
He had survived an assassination attempt.
He had spent the morning in a smoke-filled council chamber.
Surely there were grounds for postponement.
He had asked the physician.
The physician had refused.
He had asked Captain Ormond.
The captain had laughed.
He had asked the chamberlain.
The chamberlain had informed him that His Majesty was particularly looking forward to their conversation.
Adrian considered this the most ominous statement of the day.
He returned to his quarters.
His ceremonial uniform had been repaired.
His boots had been polished again.
A fresh pair of gloves lay beside his appointment letter.
Someone had also placed a small package on his desk.
It contained a silver insignia.
Beneath it lay an official notice.
Adrian unfolded the paper.
He read it.
Then he read it again.
The document commended his actions during the evacuation of the Hall of Concord.
It authorised an immediate review of his service record.
And it recommended that his temporary security assignment be made permanent.
Adrian stared at the final sentence.
Permanent.
A terrible word.
A word that had no place in the life of a man seeking temporary employment before a peaceful retirement.
He placed the notice on his desk.
Then he opened his notebook.
The three questions he had prepared for the emperor remained.
Can I return to ordinary gate duty?
Can I be removed from the records assignment?
Does the Royal Guard provide retirement benefits?
Adrian examined them.
After a moment, he crossed out the first two.
The morning's events had demonstrated that the palace would interpret any attempt to avoid responsibility as evidence of unusual competence.
He needed a different approach.
He added a new question.
Would His Majesty consider accepting my resignation for medical reasons?
He looked at his bandaged elbow.
It was not a particularly serious injury.
But it was the best opportunity he had.
He closed the notebook.
Then someone knocked.
“Sir Vale?”
Adrian looked toward the door.
“Yes?”
“The imperial carriage is ready.”
He stared.
“The what?”
“The carriage, sir. His Majesty has arranged transport to the private dining wing.”
Adrian slowly looked at the window.
The private dining wing was less than ten minutes away on foot.
Apparently, the emperor had decided that even walking to dinner was too great a risk.
Adrian stood.
He picked up his gloves.
And, with the resignation notebook hidden inside his uniform, he prepared to confront the most dangerous opponent he had encountered since entering the palace.
A monarch who wished to discuss his future.
Beneath the western quarter of the capital, the man wearing the silver serpent ring listened to the report in silence.
The council operation had failed.
The intended targets had survived.
Six operatives had been captured.
The concealed access route had been discovered.
And the palace engineers were now inspecting every abandoned passage beneath the imperial complex.
The man looked at the map spread before him.
A thin red line marked the old servants' corridor.
“Who opened the evacuation route?” he asked.
The messenger swallowed.
“Adrian Vale.”
The man's fingers tightened.
“The same recruit?”
“Yes.”
“The examination?”
“Yes.”
“The imperial heir?”
“Yes.”
“The dagger?”
“Yes.”
“The forged delivery authorisation?”
“Yes.”
The man stared at the map.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he removed a black marker from a wooden case.
He crossed out the old servants' corridor.
“Our access network is compromised,” he said.
The messenger hesitated.
“Should we eliminate him?”
The man looked up.
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Not yet.”
He folded his hands.
“Every attempt against him has failed. Every operation near him has exposed something we would prefer to keep hidden. Killing him now would only confirm to the emperor that we consider him important.”
“What should we do?”
The man looked toward the imperial palace.
“Find out what he wants.”
The messenger frowned.
“What he wants?”
“Yes. Ambition is useful. Greed is useful. Fear is useful. Every man has a price.”
He tapped the report.
“Discover his.”
Far above them, Adrian Vale climbed into the imperial carriage with a single thought occupying his mind.
If I resign during dinner, will they still serve dessert?