Kordas dismounted from his horse and approached the Keeper, who had come out of his building and waited on the threshold for Kordas to present orders. Kordas handed him the Imperial directive; he read it without so much as a twitch of expression, handed it back, and said, “Thank you, milord Duke. Please wait here until you see the Gate open, and then you and your party may proceed through. Please do not touch the sides of the Gate itself, and be prepared for changes in altitude and temperature.”

Which was pretty much what every Gatekeeper said.

The Gatekeeper approached the Gate, the Gate sensed his presence and the air between the uprights shimmered and rippled and suddenly looked like a pool of water—if the water was held upright like a mirror.

Now the Gate was receptive.

Kordas mounted his False Gold again, and confidently approached. As the Gate sensed the magic embedded in his orders, the surface between the uprights shimmered again, and to his mingled consternation and relief, their destination appeared, framed as if it was a gigantic picture, by the ornamented metal. A gigantic version of the same sort of sugar-sculpture fantasy as the manor was based on, but much, much bigger, and hundreds of years older.

The Imperial Palace.

They were going straight through.

Kordas could not remember a single time when he—or anyone else from the Duchy—had been given a straight through pass. So far as he was aware, the only people who ever had been were the Gatekeepers and the Imperial Messengers. Or Merrin, the little sneak.

“Merrin, would you like to go first?” he asked.

Merrin smirked, and gave his palfrey the heel, scooting the horse in under the False Gold’s nose. Kordas hadn’t paid any attention to how many people Merrin had with him until this point, but between all the servants on horseback and the four mules loaded with baggage, he must have had a dozen beasts in his packtrain. Seven servants! Does he have someone to wipe his bum for him?

When they’d all gone through, Kordas heaved a sigh of relief, and turned his attention to his own people. “I’ll go through first, then send the Fleetfoot train, the Sweetfoot train, the Chargers, and Beltran, you bring up the rear.” He nudged his False Gold with his heel, and the patient horse went through the Gate as if he’d been doing so all his life.

Crossing a Gate was always disorienting, at least for him. There was a moment that seemed to drag on forever, when he was suspended in utter darkness, a darkness that seemed to be empty, and yet . . .

He sensed things out there, even if he couldn’t see them. Vast armies of things. Some he thought were humans—possibly ones passing through Gates elsewhere. Most were not. Most of these things paid him about as much heed as he’d pay a bird in the sky, or a snail on a leaf. But some . . . he got the distinct impression that, if they were aware he was there, he’d have been of some interest to them. And that these were not things he wanted to take an interest in him.