Free Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) by Steven Brust

the door of His Majesty’s chambers, where I am at the same time every morning, in order
to conduct His Majesty through the ritual that we are pleased to call ‘Opening the Palace,’ although the Palace is never closed. His Majesty has, I think, been awake for twenty minutes, and is still engaged in completing his morning toilet; and, at forty minutes past the seventh hour, I am always there. Why, then, does His Majesty feel compelled to instruct me to do something I have done for half a millennium?
    “The only explanation is that something has happened to cause His Majesty so much distress that he is no longer thinking of patterns or habits, but wishes to see me about something extraordinary. In light of yester-day’s conversation, and last night’s events, this morning promises to be interesting indeed. Come, Khaavren, your master calls, and this is no time to hesitate. Breakfast must, alas, await a more opportune moment.”
    With these words sternly spoken to himself, he resumed his military walk, only this time putting himself out to arrive at the Imperial Bedchamber in ten minutes, rather than the usual fifteen. Upon arriving, he was greeted by a most remarkable sight. Two guardsmen stood outside the door, as usual, and saluted their ensign, and His Majesty, wearing his normal morning costume of rich gold silk and diamonds, was sitting in the chair next to a large, canopied bed, next to which was the tray which held His Majesty’s morning klava; but the Orb, which circled His Majesty’s head, was showing a deep, lurid yellow, which indicated that His Majesty was both worried and upset. Furthermore, there were, also in the room, two figures Khaavren was unaccustomed to seeing there, these being Jurabin, and His Excellency Rollondar e’Drien, the Warlord.
    Jurabin we have already met, and the reader, we believe, would rather learn the answers to Khaavren’s questions than to waste his time learning about the Warlord, wherefore we will only say that Rollonder e’Drien was a very thin man of about eleven hundred years with straight black hair in a military cut, parted at his noble’s point. Upon seeing him, Khaavren’s first thought was, “Are we at war then?” But he said nothing, merely bowing to His Majesty and awaiting orders.
    “My compliments, Captain, and you have arrived in a very timely fashion.”
    “My thanks—excuse me, Sire, but did Your Majesty address me as Captain?”
    “I did. I have chosen to promote you, due to the death of Brigadier G’aereth, which occurred sometime last night.”
    “I see,” said Khaavren, feeling—to his credit—a pang of sorrow more acute than the pride in his promotion. “I am honored, Sire, and I thank Your Majesty deeply.”
    “That is not, however,” his Majesty added, “the reason for my summons, any more than it is the reason why these gentlemen are here.”
    “Yes, Sire?”
    The Emperor cleared his throat. “You should know, for these gentlemen do, that, however old Brigadier G‘aereth was, he did not die of natural causes.”
    “Sire?”
    “He was poniarded as he returned from a ball given by the Count of Westbreeze.”
    Khaavren felt his eyes widen. “Sire! Who would wish to kill—”
    “We don’t know,” said his Majesty, glancing at Jurabin and Rollondar, who shrugged. “And that isn’t all,” he added.
    “What, there is more, Sire?”
    “Yes, there was another murder last night, about which I was informed upon awakening.”
    “Yes, Sire?”
    “A certain Smaller, an intendant of finance.”
    Khaavren frowned. “Yes, Sire, I believe I have seen him.”
    “Judging from the look on Lady Bellor’s face, he was one of her ablest clerks.”
    “I can attest to that as well, Sire,” said Jurabin.
    “Sire, how did he—”
    “He was found dead in his box at the Theater of the Orb, after a performance of The Song of Vinburra. We might never have known that his death was murder, save for His Excellency the Warlord, who grew