“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 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?”