“Was on duty at the Circle this morning wasn’t I? It’s really him.”
The sergeant’s fists uncurled but he didn’t appear any happier. “What’s your business with the King?”
“For him alone. He’ll see me if he’s told I’m here. And I’m sure he’ll be displeased if he hears I have been turned away.” An accomplished lie, he congratulated himself. In truth he had no certainty the king would see him at all.
The sergeant thought it over. His scars told of a lifetime of hard service and Vaelin realised he must resent any intrusion into what was no doubt a comfortable billet in which to await his pension. “My compliments and apologies to the Captain,” the sergeant told the younger guardsman. “Wake him and tell him about our visitor.”
They stood regarding each other in wary silence after the guardsman had scampered off, hastily unlocking a small door set into the huge oak wood gate and disappearing inside.
“Heard you killed five Denier assassins the night of the Aspect massacre,” the sergeant grunted eventually.
“It was fifty.”
It seemed an age before the door reopened and the young guardsman emerged followed by a trim young man, impeccably dressed in the uniform of a Captain in the King’s Horse Guard. He gave Vaelin a brief look of appraisal before offering his hand. “Brother Vaelin,” he said in a slight Renfaelin accent. “Captain Nirka Smolen, at your service.”
“Apologies for waking you Captain,” Vaelin said, slightly distracted by the neatness of the young man’s attire. Everything from the shine of his boots to the precise trim of his moustache spoke of a remarkable attention to detail. He certainly didn’t appear to be a man just woken from his bed.
“Not at all.” Captain Smolen, gestured at the open door. “Shall we?”
Vaelin’s boyhood memories of gleaming opulence were not matched by the interior of the eastern wing of the palace. After crossing a small courtyard he was led into a warren of corridors crammed with a variety of dust covered chests and cloth wrapped paintings.
“This wing is used mostly for storage,” Captain Smolen explained seeing his bemused expression. “The King receives many gifts.”
He followed the captain through a series of corridors and chambers until they came to a large room with a chequered floor and several grand paintings on the wall. He found his attention immediately drawn to the paintings, each was at least seven feet across and depicted a battle. The setting changed with each painting but the same figure was at the centre of every one; a handsome, flame haired man astride a white charger, sword held high above his head. King Janus. Though Vaelin’s memory of the king was dim he didn’t remember his jaw being quite so square or his shoulders quite so broad.
“The six battles that united the Realm,” Captain Smolen said. “Painted by Master Benril Lenial. It took him over three years.”
Vaelin remembered Master Benril’s drawings in Aspect Elera’s rooms, the fine detail with which each was rendered, the way the exposed viscera seemed to come out of the parchment. He saw none of the same clarity now. The colours were bright but not vibrant, the battling warriors clearly depicted but stilted somehow, not as if they were fighting at all, simply standing in a pose.
“Not his best is it?” Captain Smolen commented. “He was commanded to it, you see. I suspect he had little love for his subject. Have you ever seen his fresco in the Great Library commemorating the victims of the Red Hand? It’s quite breath-taking.”
“I’ve never seen the Great Library,” Vaelin replied, thinking Captain Smolen would probably find much in common with Caenis.
“You should, it’s a credit to the Realm. I’ll need your weapons.”
Vaelin unclipped his cloak with the four throwing knives secured within its folds, unbuckled his sword, unhooked his hunting knife from his belt and removed the narrow bladed dagger from his left boot.
“Nice,” Captain Smolen admired the dagger. “Alpiran?”
“I don’t know, I took it from a dead man.”
“These will be waiting for you here.” Smolen laid his weapons out on a nearby table. “No-one will touch them.” With that he moved to a bare patch of wall and pushed, a section of the wall swinging inwards revealing a dark stairwell. “Follow the stairs to the top.”
“He’s in there?” Vaelin asked. He had expected to be led to a throne room or audience chamber.