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Several hours later, Jaret was finally away from the briefing and walking through the long halls of the Great Chamber toward his rooms in the northern wing. He had a pounding headache and was thanking the Holy Order that those dreadful meetings only took place twice a year. There were so many more important things that he needed to do than listen to that bunch of buffoons and their increasingly foolhardy plans for reclaiming imperial glory, as if each were trying to outdo his fellows in absurdity.
Even after he had put down Commander Nabim, other appointees had found the courage to offer only slightly less preposterous plans of their own. The best of those, for comedic value, had been made by the Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, a squadron of a dozen ships meant for ceremonial events and to impress the Emperor when he looked out of the palace windows toward the naval yards. The admiral, Koray an' Pmalatir, a brother of the Emperor but not a well-liked one, had suggested that the fleet be sent to raid the coasts of Kiz, which were covetously guarded by the mighty Pindarian Fleet.
Jaret had actually considered letting him go. He would not have gotten within fifty leagues of Kiz before the Pindarians found him. Once that happened, it would be all over except for a few crashes and a loud gurgling sound as his ships sank to the bottom of the sea. The plan would have been a good way to get rid of the expensive Imperial Fleet and its ludicrous commander, but it was not worth the risk of the Emperor missing his favorite ships and wondering about the change.
Laughing sullenly to himself, Jaret marched down the empty corridors of the Great Chamber. Not even a rug ran beneath his feet to mute the clack of his boots on the stones. The massive building was a bleak warren of rooms that had been stripped of every extravagance over the past two hundred years with everything of even marginal value making its way to the palace in the form of “tributes”. The halls were especially quiet today, he realized, as he walked. He was in the military wing of the building and most of the men who lived here were probably at the evening drills, but he was still surprised to see not another living person down the long corridor.
Thinking of the evening drills made Jaret anxious to get back to his rooms, and he increased his pace. If he hurried, he could change in time to get the exercise he had missed that morning. There were also a large number of legionnaires and officers in Sal Danar today for the briefing, and he was looking forward to seeing his friends. After the drills, they were planning to spend the remainder of the evening carousing around the city like the soldiers they used to be rather than the bureaucrats they had become – such camaraderie was the only thing that made the seasonal briefings tolerable.
Though he was not married and did not have any children – at least none he knew of – Jaret often felt like he had wed the San Chier Empire and lived a fairly chaste life as a result. More due to lack of time than choice, he grumbled. Still the idea of being married to the Empire made him laugh. If that’s the case, he chuckled to himself, then why am I the only one not screwing my wife?
He was still chuckling at the dark joke when he strode around the final corner into the northern wing. Around that corner along the inside of the hall stood a huge set of double doors that reached ten feet to the ceiling above. The doors were there to block one of the many passages that connected the Great Chamber to the palace, but Jaret had to look twice as he passed because the doors actually blocked the passage. He walked by those doors several times on the average day, but he could not remember ever seeing them closed.
They’re probably cleaning them, he guessed and continued on without concern. He did, however, take the opportunity to admire the beautiful gold and silver inlays on the huge doors – a rare treat given that the guards who usually blocked them were nowhere to be seen. He had become a great lover of imperial antiquities over the last twenty years, so he slowed his walk and studied the magnificent doors in their undisturbed grandeur. They were set to depict the sun rising above the ocean with the water done in silver and the huge sun a burst of gold. It was a magnificent sight, and he suddenly wished that he had one of his notebooks with him so that he could add this to his collection of sketches. If he were not already late, he would have run back to his apartment and done just that, but as it was, he needed to hurry.
His eyes scanned the doors one last time from top to bottom.
His sword flew from the scabbard at his hip. His body coiled like a spring as his eyes and ears scanned the halls for some indication of a threat. He glanced at the bottom of the door again to confirm what he had seen. He shook his head in disbelief, but there was no way to deny the pool of crimson creeping from under the crack.
Holding his blade out defensively, Jaret concentrated on protecting himself from attackers who might still be in the halls, but to his simultaneous relief and chagrin, there was not the slightest movement along the hall. The obvious lack of an immediate threat eased his fear as it stoked his concern. There should be someone around, he told himself. This hall is never this empty.
Jaret’s heart hammered. If someone had killed the guards that stood by that door, it did not suggest kindly as to their motives for visiting the palace. He was the Emperor’s sworn protector, had pledged his honor and soul to the task, and as much as he disliked the Emperor, he had to fulfill that obligation. He raced through his options. His first thought was to solicit help from the barracks of the chamber guards some distance down the winding halls, but by the time he gathered the guards, it might be too late. The other option was to go through the door by himself and rally the patrols of imperial guards on his way to the throne room. As soon as he thought it, he knew that was what he had to do.
He turned to the door, grabbed the gold-encrusted handle, and gave it a mighty heave. The door proved to be heavier and less well oiled than he had hoped. Instead of swinging smoothly, it crept toward him and stopped. Undaunted, he continued to tug and realized only slowly that he was leaving himself open to attack. He scolded himself for his carelessness as he jumped behind the door half-expecting assassins to pour from the opening he had created. When there was no attack, he glanced around the portal and saw a crumpled figure lying with his back against the door.
Beyond the bloodied guards, the hall was empty, so he pushed himself through the doors that would lead to the palace. The hall was windowless, but a series of lamps hung from the ceiling to illuminate the smooth stone floor and yellow carpet that ran down its expanse. The carpet was old and worn but fine. Now it was ruined by the blood that had soaked through it from the two figures laid haphazardly upon it.
The men were dressed in the ceremonial armor of the imperial guards with long spears still clutched in their hands, but their breastplates were covered in the same dark blood that was soaking through the carpet and running under the door. A quick inspection showed that their throats had been neatly cut from ear to ear. The assassins clearly knew their work, but they were rushing. A set of bloody tracks marked a brown path down the yellow rug.
Jaret followed them at a sprint. From the blood soaking through the carpet, he estimated that it had been fifteen minutes since the attackers had passed; he did not have time to lose.
At the end of the hall, another set of doors – the twins to the first – waited. These provided access to the palace and were obstructed only by the bodies of two more imperial guards, each with an arrow protruding from his throat. The halls to either side of those doors were barren, so Jaret followed the tracks into the Palace of the Dawn.
As he ran, Jaret started wondering what was happening. This could only be an attack on the Emperor, an assassination attempt, but who could be behind it, and how did they expect to succeed? The assassins had come through the heart of the Great Chamber to reach the palace. The Chamber was patrolled by the well-trained chamber guards, and no one but those men, the legionnaires, and Jaret’s officers were allowed to carry weapons in the fortress. The doors he had passed through were on the very middle floor of the
Chamber, in the heavily guarded military wing. He calculated. The assassins would have to pass no less than six guard posts to reach those doors from the closest gate.
He almost stopped his pursuit. It was inconceivable that a large group of men could make it that deeply into the heart of the Chamber without sounding an alarm. The only possible answer was that he was pursuing a small number of men, probably less than five. But how could any small group expect to reach and kill the Emperor, one of the most heavily guarded men in the world, with the sun still up, the palace alive with activity, and blood on their boots? It was a preposterous idea. Too preposterous, he thought. No one would be crazy enough to try it, especially anyone capable of getting this far.
Then other bits of information began to filter through. Among them was the fact that the halls of the palace were not alive with activity. He had not seen another living person since he entered the building. Somehow, the people who lived and worked here knew to hide. A small number of men would not create that kind of fear. The tracks he followed were also widely spaced. The man with blood on his boots was running. A small band of assassins would not run. They could not afford such reckless abandon; stealth would be their only weapon.
Jaret came to the end of the first long hall, rounded the corner, and saw all the evidence he needed to end his mental debate. A dozen bodies in the armor of imperial guards were strewn about the wide hall. Most still held their spears. All were dead. A few of the guards had been hit by arrows – one each, perfectly tucked into the area exposed by the lack of a faceguard on their helms – but most seemed to have been cut down almost off-handedly, as if they were mere annoyance to their attackers. Despite that, the kills were clean, surgical. The assassins did not waste a single stroke in dispatching their enemies. This was not the work of five men. The imperial guards existed primarily for show, but it was still not easy to kill twelve heavily armored men in a tight space without getting bogged down. He guessed that it would take twenty men, all extraordinarily well-trained, to have done this.
Jaret hurdled over and around the crumpled shapes, trying to avoid the sticky blood that generously covered the delicate tiles as real fear built in him for the first time. He followed another series of bloody prints around a corner and saw a final guard lying face down with a single arrow jutting from his back – the thirteenth man in the traditional palace patrol, the one who was sent to raise the alarm. These men were very good indeed, Jaret thought as he admired the efficiency of their work. There was no doubt now. The Emperor was in real danger, probably the most real in a thousand years.