“I have.” Like Orvis, his speech didn’t suit a master builder. Men of his sort were lowly tradesmen, who were uncomfortable with power except when barking at the likes of Sheldon Faust. An imperial princess ought to leave him in an uncontrollable stammer. Yet, his speech was like hearing a sparrow growl.

When the ferry docked, the wagon rolled forward, providing Farilane with a clear view. She counted four ferries each moored together on the bank. All ferries accounted for on this side. Once more, Farilane looked back.

I’ll meet you there, Manuel had said. With luck, your father won’t keep me long, and I’ll be able to catch the same ferry . . . Nothing but death will stop me.

That, or a lack of boats.

Around the landing, more legionnaires were gathered—the Eighth Cohort of the Fourth Legion. The pasture looked like the staging ground for a major offensive. “This is quite the honor guard you have here.”

“An honor well deserved, Your Highness,” Helino said.

The wagon didn’t pause as it rolled up the trail and then turned off, heading south along the river and east across the fields. It wasn’t exactly the same route that she, Kile, and Sheldon had taken, but it was similar in that they followed no road. The soldiers formed up. A fair number remained to guard the dock—and the boats—while the rest walked in front, behind, and to either side of the wagon.

“So, what sort of building are you envisioning, Helino? Are we talking dome here, or perhaps a jerkinhead with some cross hips, a few dormers, and maybe a cupola? Will it have galleries, a single or double string course, a respond? A spandrel, perhaps? And what sort of capitals will the columns have?”

Helino didn’t reply.

“You’re not an architect, are you?”

Silence.

She stared at the others. “And I’m pretty certain I’m more qualified to be an engineer and master builder than either of you two.”

Silence.