Lucian sat in the guards’ mess, a room with wooden floors and bare stone walls one flight of stairs beneath the emperor’s domestic level. The palace of Dragonspire was something else: five solid levels of kitchens, bedrooms, gardens and balconies, of servants’ quarters and chambers fit for entertaining in imperial style. The emperor’s personal guard got to live directly below him. They had their own chambers, their own kitchens, and their own barrels of wine.

They’d been eager to show those off first.

“A toast!” Aidan, a recruit from the Hibrian Isles with a pale, triangular face, clunked a goblet against Rufus’s. “To the next emperor of Etrusia, Cap’n Lucian!”

Cheers from the men and women all around the room. They were soldiers gathered from every corner of the empire, from the Ardennes to the farthest reach of the Ikrayina. In this guards’ mess, where they came from mattered far less than where they were. These folk probably hadn’t seen their families in over a decade; this had become their true home, their real family. Lucian had known this kind of bond on campaign. Here, he saw scars much like his wrapped around biceps. After the toast came a loud song about a fish named Cyrus and his many naughty nautical adventures. Lucian rubbed his forehead, and Rufus snorted into his cup. Aidan, meanwhile, sat down on the table, pinched off a bit of bread, and held it up to his neck.

“Here, boy. Here, Mungo.”

A white ferret popped its head out of the guy’s collar, and nibbled the bread. While Aidan cooed at his pet, Lucian elbowed Rufus.

“I wondered why he smelled so…musky.”

“The ferret’s clean. Aidan’s the one who needs a bath.” Rufus drank and grabbed Lucian by the back of the neck. “I know it’s not up to the guard to decide these things, but most in this room’d be happy if you won the throne. Think there’s a chance?”

“Truthfully, not much.” Lucian cocked an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t want to follow me anyway, Rufus. I’m a reformed man.”

“Ah, that’s right. The kindly monk, yeah? Gardening?” Rufus screwed up his face and drank, wiped his mouth, slammed the cup to the table. “You always wanted to change things, Sabel, but you never went about it the right way.”

“How’s that?” Lucian smiled.

“You’ve always been ashamed of what you can do.”

“Killing is not something to be proud of.” Lucian’s smile died.

Rufus ran a hand down his face. “What do you know about gardening? Hmm? ’Bout medicine? How can you feed and heal the sick when you’re no good at it?”

“People learn new skills. I know I’m too old for it, wizened age of eighteen and all, but I could try.”

“You’re not just good with a sword, Sabel. You can make people like you. Eh? When you stop moping around, you can make people follow you.” The boy tsked. “Not right now, of course, right now you look like you’ve got a sign around your neck that says ‘Please punish me.’ ”

“You sound like you know my problem so well,” Lucian muttered.

“I do. The emperor was sort of the same, at the end.”

The rest of the noise around them seemed to dissipate. Lucian focused hard on Rufus.

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” Rufus scratched his tight curls. “I served here ’bout two years, yeah? Always seemed like the emperor was mad about something or sad about something else. Not just the regular pain of running the place. The old captain, Leonidas, he told me that the high priest and priestess would only visit the emperor a few times a year at his palace, as tradition. But by the time I got here, they were coming several times a month. Sometimes they’d stay one end of the month to the next.”

“Do you know why?” Something was cold against Lucian’s skin. He’d felt it in battle before, that instinct that a man with an ax was right behind him.

“Sometimes we’d all hear ’em. The emperor, mostly, yelling at the priests. Then he shut himself away and started writing. He’d always been a bookish sort, the old man, but now he wouldn’t come out. Started demanding that he prepare his own food. Remember a while when he’d only eat figs he’d picked himself from the garden. He started muttering to himself in the halls. Remember one night, there was a crash in his chambers. We ran in, and the priest, Petros, he was standing by the wall lookin’ scared. The emperor had thrown over his entire writing table, bottles of ink smashed, papers scattered. Took a while to clean up.”

“Why was he angry?”

“Who knows? Doctors said brain disease got him in the end.” Rufus drank again, but his eyes were sober. “One time, I helped him off his throne when he was too weak to make it up and down stairs by himself. Know what he said to me?”

“What?”

“ ‘You’re trapped, Rufus. Like the rest of us. We will be burned alive and set free by dragonfire.’ ” The captain shuddered. “That night I slept with a candle lit. The old man seemed so deadly serious.” Rufus sighed heavily. “He took to his bed, and a few days later he was gone. Brain disease.” Rufus raised a cup in salute and drank. “Pray I don’t go out that way.”

Lucian raised his cup as well. “You were there when he died?”

“Mmm. Went peaceful, at least. Had a nice parting line. He said, ‘Please. No more tears.’ ”

Rufus toasted again and chuckled.

Lucian did not.