“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 they blame the regents.”
“So no one other than Amilia, the guard, and the chambermaid sees 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 makeup 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 callused 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 barracks’ 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. Outside the barracks, a fire burned in a pit, 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 whipped 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. And while he hoped to one day repay Guy for Fanen’s death, this was perhaps the worst possible 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 by 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 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 were trying to catch a wild horse, and did not advance, dismount, or draw his sword.