"Lady Amilia certainly does. There is also a chambermaid…" Albert fished inside his tunic pulling out a wadded bundle of parchments, which he unfolded on the table. "Yes, here it is. The chambermaid is named Anne, and the door guard is…" He shuffled through his notes. "Gerald. Anne is the daughter of a mercer from Colnora. As for Gerald, his full name is Gerald Baniff. He's from Chadwick. Family friend of the Belstrads." Albert took a moment to flip through a few more pages. "Was once personal aide to Sir Breckton. A commendation for bravery won him the position of honor guard to the empress."
"What about the regents?"
"I assume they could see her, but as far as I can tell, they don't. At least no one I've talked to reports ever having seen them on the fifth floor."
"How can she govern if she never takes a meeting with Ethelred or Saldur?" Hadrian asked.
"I think it's obvious. The regents are running the Empire."
Hadrian slumped back in his seat with a scowl. "So she's a puppet."
Albert shrugged. "Maybe. Is this significant?"
"Royce and I knew her-before she became the empress. I thought maybe she might help us."
"Doesn't look like she has any real power."
"Does anyone know this?"
"Some of the nobles may suspect, although most appear colossally unaware."
"They can't all be that gullible."
"You have to keep in mind that many of these people are extremely religious and dedicated Imperialists. They accept the story of her being the heir descended from Maribor. From what I've determined, the vast majority of the peasant class feels the same way. The servants and even palace guards view her with a kind of awe. The rarity of her appearances has only reinforced this notion. It's a politician's dream. Since she's hardly seen, no one attaches any mistake to her and instead blame the regents."
"So no one other than Amilia, the guard, and the chambermaid see her?"
"Looks that way. Oh, wait." Albert paused. "Nimbus also apparently has access."
"Nimbus?" Hadrian asked.
"Yes, he is a courtier from Vernes. I met him several years ago at some gala or ball. No one of account as I remember but generally a decent fellow. He's actually the one that introduced Lord Daref and me to Ballentyne, which led to that pair of stolen letter jobs you did for the Earl of Chadwick and Alenda Lanaklin. Nimbus is a thin, funny guy, prone to wearing loud clothes and a powdered wig. Always carries a little leather satchel over his shoulder-rumor is he carries make-up in it. Smarter than he appears certainly. Very alert-he listens to everything. He was hired by Lady Amilia and works as her assistant."
"So, what is the likelihood you could see the empress?"
"Slim, I suspect. Why? I just told you there's not much chance she can help, or do you think they're keeping Gaunt in Modina's room?"
"No." Hadrian rubbed a hand over the surface of the table amidst the flickering shadows. "I'd just like to-I don't know-to see if she's all right, I guess. I sort of promised her father I'd watch out for her-make sure she was okay, you know?"
"She's the empress," Albert stated. "Or hasn't he heard?"
"He's dead."
"Oh." Albert paused.
"I just would feel better if I could talk to her."
"Are we after Gaunt or the empress?"
Hadrian scowled. "Well, it doesn't look like we're very close to finding where Gaunt is being held."
"I think I've pushed things about as far as I can. I'm a wedding planner, not a guard, and people get suspicious if I start asking about prisoners."
"I really didn't think it would be this hard to find him."
Albert sighed. "I'll try again," he said, standing and pulling the drawstrings on his cloak.
"Hold on a second. When we first arrived, didn't you mention that the palace was recruiting new guards?"
"Yeah, they're expecting huge crowds. Why?"
Hadrian didn't reply right away, staring into the single candle and massaging his calloused palms. "I thought I might try my hand at being a man-at-arms again."
Albert smiled. "I think you're a tad overqualified."
"Then I ought to get the job."
***
Hadrian waited in line among the weak-shouldered, bent-backed, would-be soldiers. They shifted their weight from foot to foot and blew into cupped hands to warm their fingers. The line of men stretched from the main gate to the barrack's office within the palace courtyard. Being the only man with his own weapons and a decent cloak, Hadrian felt out of place and forced himself to stoop and shuffle when he walked.
Heaps of snow packed the inner walls of the well-shoveled courtyard. A fire burned in a pit outside the barracks, where the yard guards would occasionally pause to warm their hands or get a cup of something steaming hot. Servant boys made routine trips back and forth to the well or the woodpile, hauling buckets of water or slings of split logs.
"Name?" A gruff soldier asked as Hadrian entered the dim barracks and stood before a rickety desk.
Three men in thick leather sat behind it. Beside them was a small clerk, whom Hadrian had seen once before in the palace. A disagreeable sort with a balding head and ink-stained fingers, he sat with a roll of parchment, pen, and ink.
"You have a name?" the man in the center asked.
"Baldwin," Hadrian said. The clerk scratched the parchment. The end of his feathered quill whipping about like the tail of an irritated squirrel.
"Baldwin, eh? Where have you fought?"
"All over, really."
"Why aren't you in the Imperial Army? Ya a deserter?"
Hadrian allowed himself a smile, which the soldier did not return. "You could say that. I left the Nationalists."
This caught the ear of everyone at the table and a few men standing in line. The clerk stopped scribbling and looked up.
"For some reason they stopped paying me," Hadrian added with a shrug.
A slight smile pulled at the edges of the soldier's lips. "Not terribly loyal are you?"
"I'm as loyal as they come…as long as you pay me."
This brought a chuckle from the soldier, and he looked to the others. The older man to his right nodded. "Put him on the line. It doesn't require much loyalty to work a crowd."
The clerk began writing again and Hadrian was handed a wooden token.
"Take that back outside and give it to Sergeant Millet near the fire. He'll get you set up. Name?" he called to the next in line as Hadrian headed back out into the blinding white.
Unable to see clearly for a moment, Hadrian blinked. As his eyes adjusted he saw Sentinel Luis Guy ride through the front gate leading five seret knights. The two men spotted each other at the same instant. Hadrian had not seen Guy since the death of Fanen Pickering in Dahlgren. While he hoped to one day repay Guy for Fanen's death, this was a terrible time to cross paths.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Guy slowly leaned and spoke to the man beside him, his eyes never straying from Hadrian.
"Now!" Guy growled when the knight hesitated.
Hadrian could not think of a worse place to be caught. He had no easy exit-no window to leap through or door to close. Between him and the gate were twenty-six men still in line, who would jump at the chance to prove their mettle by helping the palace guard. Despite their numbers, Hadrian was the least concerned with the guard-hopefuls as none of them were armed. The bigger problem was the ten palace guards dressed for battle. At the sound of the first clash of swords, the barracks would empty, adding more men. Hadrian conservatively estimated he would need to kill or cripple at least eighteen people just to reach the exit. Guy and his five seret would be at the top of that list. The serets' horses would also need to be dispatched in order for him to have any chance of escaping through the city streets. The final obstacle would be the crossbowmen on the wall. Among the eight, he guessed at least two would be skilled enough to hit him in the back as he ran out through the gate.
"Just-don't-move," Guy said with his hands spread out in front of him. He looked as if he was
trying to catch a wild horse and did not advance, dismount, or draw his sword.
Just then the portcullis dropped.
"There's no escape," Guy assured him.
From a nearby door, a handful of guards trotted toward Hadrian with their swords drawn.
"Stop!" Guy ordered, raising his hand abruptly. "Don't go near him. Just fan out."
The men waiting in line looked from the soldiers to Hadrian and then backed away.
"I know what you're thinking, Mr. Blackwater," Guy said in an almost-friendly tone. "But we truly have you outnumbered this time."
***
Hadrian stood in an elegantly furnished office on the fourth floor of the palace. Regent Saldur sat behind his desk fidgeting with a small, bejeweled letter opener shaped like a dagger. The ex-bishop looked slightly older and a bit heavier than the last time Hadrian had seen him. Luis Guy stood off to the right, his eyes locked on Hadrian. He was dressed in the traditional black armor and scarlet cape of his position, his sword hanging in its sheath. Guy's stance was straight and attentive, and he kept his hands gripped behind his back. Hadrian did not recognize the last man in the room. The stranger, dressed in an elegant garnache, sat near a chessboard, casually rolling one of the pieces back and forth between his fingers.
"Mr. Blackwater," Saldur addressed Hadrian, "I've heard some pretty incredible things about you. Please, won't you sit?"
"Will I really be staying that long?"
"Yes, I am afraid so. No matter how this turns out, you'll be staying."
Hadrian looked at the chair but chose to remain standing.
The old man leaned back in his seat and placed the tips of his fingers together. "You're probably wondering why you're here instead of locked in the north tower or at least why we haven't shackled your wrists and ankles. You can thank Sentinel Guy for that. He has told us an incredible story about you. Aside from murdering seret knights-"
"The only murder that day was Fanen Pickering," Hadrian said. "The seret attacked us."
"Well, who's to say who did what when? Still, the death of a seret demands a severe penalty. I'm afraid it's customarily an executable offense. However, Sentinel Guy insists that you are a Teshlor-the only Teshlor-and that is an unusual extenuating circumstance.
"Now, if I recall my history lessons correctly, there was only one Teshlor to escape the destruction of the Old Empire-Jerish Grelad, who had taken the Heir of Novron into hiding. Legend claims that the Teshlor skills were passed down from generation to generation to protect the bloodline of the emperor.
"The Pickerings and the Killdares are each said to have discovered just a single one of the Teshlor disciplines. These jealously guarded secrets have made those families renowned for their fighting skills. A fully trained Teshlor would be…well…invincible in any one-on-one competition of arms. Am I correct?"
Hadrian said nothing.
"In any case, let's assume for the moment that Guy is not mistaken. If this is so, your presence presents us with an interesting opportunity, which can provide a uniquely mutual benefit. Given this, we felt it might encourage you to listen if we treated you with a degree of respect. By leaving you free-"
The door burst open and Regent Ethelred entered. The stocky, barrel-chested man was dressed in elaborate regal vestments of velvet and silk. He, too, looked older, and the former king's once-trim physique sported a bulge around the middle. Gray invaded his mustache and beard in patches, leaving white lines in his black hair. After pulling his cape inside, he slammed the door shut.
"So, this is the fellow, I take it?" he said in a booming voice as he appraised Hadrian. "Don't I know you?"
Seeing no reason to lie, Hadrian replied, "I once served in your army."
"That's right!" Ethelred said, throwing up his hands in a large animated gesture. "You were a good fighter, too. You held the line at, at…" He snapped his fingers repeatedly.
"At the Gravin River Ford."
"Of course!" He slapped his thigh. "Damn nice piece of work that was. I promoted you, didn't I? Made you a captain or something. What happened?"
"I left."
"Pity. You're a fine soldier." Ethelred clapped Hadrian on the shoulder.
"Of course he is, Lanis. That's the whole point," Saldur reminded him.
Ethelred chuckled then said, "Too true, too true. So, has he accepted?"
"We haven't asked him yet."
"Asked me what?"
"Hadrian, we have a little problem," Ethelred began. As he spoke, he paced back and forth between Saldur's desk and the door. He kept the fingers of his left hand tucked in his belt behind his back while using his right to assist him in speaking like a conductor uses a baton. "His name is Archibald Ballentyne. He's a sniveling little weasel. All of the Ballentynes have been worthless, pitiful excuses for men, but he's also the Earl of Chadwick. So, by virtue of his birth, he rules over a province that is worthless in all ways except one. Chadwick is the home to Lord Belstrad whose eldest son, Sir Breckton, is very likely the best knight in Avryn. When I say best, I mean that in every sense of the word. His skill at arms is unmatched as are his talent for tactics and his aptitude for leadership. Unfortunately, he's also loyal to a fault. He serves Archie Ballentyne and only Archie."
Ethelred crossed the room and took a seat by hopping on Saldur's desk, causing the old man to flinch.
"I wanted Breckton as my general, but he refuses to obey the chain of command and won't listen to anyone except Archie. I can't waste time filtering all my orders through that pissant. So we offered Breckton a prime bit of land and a title, to abandon Ballentyne, but the fool wasn't interested."
"The war is over, or soon will be," Hadrian pointed out. "You don't need Breckton anymore."
"That is exactly correct," Saldur said.
There was something in the detached way he spoke that chilled Hadrian.
"Even without a war we still need strong men to enforce order," Ethelred explained. Picking up a glass figurine from Saldur's desk, he began passing it from hand to hand.
Saldur's jaw clenched as his eyes tracked each toss.
"When Breckton turned us down, Archie threatened to use his knight and the Royalists against us. Can you believe that? He said he would march on Aquesta! He thinks he can challenge me! The little sod-" Ethelred slammed the figurine down on the desk, shattering it. "Oh-sorry, Sauly."
Saldur sighed but said nothing.
"Anyway," Ethelred went on, dusting off his hands so that bits of glass rained on the desk. "Who could have guessed a knight would turn down an offer to rise to the rank of marquis and command a whole kingdom as his fief? The piss-proud pillock! And what's he doing it for? Loyalty to Archie Ballentyne. Who hates him. Always has. It's ridiculous."
"Which brings us to why you're here, Mr. Blackwater," Saldur said. He used a lace handkerchief to gingerly sweep the broken glass off his desk into a wastebasket. "As much as I would like to take credit for it, this is all Guy's idea." Saldur nodded toward the sentinel.
Guy never changed his wooden stance, remaining at attention as if it was his natural state.
"Finding you in our courtyard, Guy realized that you can solve our little problem with Sir Breckton."
"I'm not following," Hadrian said.
Saldur rolled his eyes. "We can't allow Breckton to reach his army at Drondil Fields. We would be forever at the mercy of Archie. He could dictate any terms so long as Breckton controlled the loyalty of the army."
Hadrian's confusion continued. "And…?"
Ethelred chuckled. "Poor Sauly, you deal too much in subtlety. This man is a fighter, not a strategist. He needs it spelled out." Turning to Hadrian, he said, "Breckton is a capable warrior and we had no hope of finding anyone who could defeat him until Guy pointed out that you are the perfect man for the job. To be blunt, we want you to kill Sir Breckton."
"The Wintertide tournament will start in just a few days," Saldur continued. "Breckton is competing in the joust and we want you to battle him and win. His lance
will be blunted while yours will have a war point hidden beneath a porcelain shell. When he dies, our problem will be solved."
"And exactly why would I agree?"
"Like the good regent explained," Guy said, "killing seret is an executable offense."
"Plus," Ethelred put in, "as a token of our appreciation, we will sweeten the deal by paying you one hundred solid gold tenents. What do you say?"
Hadrian knew he could never murder Breckton. While he had never met the man, he was familiar with Breckton's younger brother Wesley, who had served with Royce and Hadrian on the Emerald Storm. The young man died in battle, fighting beside them at the Palace of the Four Winds. His sacrificial charge had saved their lives. No man had ever proven himself more worthy of loyalty, and if Breckton was half the man his younger brother was, Hadrian owed him at least one life.
"What can he say?" Saldur answered for him. "He has no choice."
"I wouldn't say that," Hadrian replied. "You're right. I am a trained Teshlor, and while you've been talking, I've calculated eight different ways to kill everyone in this room. Three using nothing more than that little letter opener Regent Saldur has been playing with." He let his arms fall loose and shifted his stance. This immediately set Ethelred and Guy, the two fighters, on the defensive.
"Hold on now," Saldur's voice waivered and his face showed strain. "Before you make any rash decisions, consider that the window is too small to fit through, and the men in the corridor will not let you leave. If you really are as good as you say, you might take a great many of them with you, but even you cannot defeat them all."
"You might be right. We'll soon find out."
"Are you insane? You're choosing death?" Saldur erupted in frustration. "We are offering you gold and a pardon. What benefit is there in refusing?"
"Well, he does plan on killing all of you." The man with the chess piece spoke for the first time. "A good trade really-forfeiting one knight to eliminate a knight, a bishop, and a king. But you offered the man the wrong incentive. Give him the princess."
"Give-what?" Saldur looked puzzled. "Who? Arista?"
"You have another princess I'm not aware of?"
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