“Huh.” He was an old man with a long face and a stolid expression. “You’re not a warden.”

“I’m a deputy courier out of Orledder Halt.”

“Is that really a prince?” he asked. “Or are these wardens just funning us?”

“It’s really a prince,” she said, thinking of the haunt.

He caught her hesitation. “Likely story. More like a joke among yon Manor-born. They think us snail-witted, we villagers. I don’t know if it’s worse to think you, lass, are in on it, or taken in by it. Huh.”

He turned his back on her and spoke not one more word for the rest of the journey. She took the opportunity to nap, lulled to sleep by the steady grind of the wheels against the road and the clop clop clop of the steadfast beasts.

51 AS THE EMPIRE DECREES

When Elen woke, it was late afternoon, the setting sun bleeding gold-red majesty over the westering clouds. They had reached tended fields, orchards, and livestock pens, as well as small tanneries and dye-works. There was a stream with a working mill and, downstream from the mill, a smoking furnace. Just ahead, the road split to create a Halt.

Farledder Halt was more modest than Orledder Halt but set up in the same quartered district pattern, so any traveler could know where to go and be assured of receiving the services they needed. The wagons descended the south ramp, and stopped at the gate to the Residency. The prince descended with a gracious farewell to the dazzled farmer, thanking the man for describing to him—in such detail!—the rainfall patterns, crop yields, and livestock prices of the local area. Luviara handed the man a bag of coins that made the farmer gasp and the cousin mutter, “I’ll be spackled and turniped. Thought he were putting us on.”

The haunt swanned in through the gate, ignoring the challenge of the Halt sentinels. The Residency plaza was small, and its pavement freshly swept and neatly kept, but it was obvious no one knew a prince might be arriving, since the statues of the emperors were not adorned with flower necklaces. Even this late in the season, bright-wheel or bluebeard or star-thistle could be found in the meadows, and any well-run Residency would have a flower garden that included chrysanthemum.

“Hey!” An elderly woman wearing warden blue was seated on the tiny portico of the Warden Hall, tucked into one corner of the plaza. Leaning on her broomstick, she rose creakily and shook a scolding hand at them. “You need to sign in at the gate, not just dance in like you’re a prince—!”

Breaking off, she squinted, then called over her shoulder to someone inside.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Shouts of alarm. The pound of running feet. Raised voices in the distance. The appearance of the flustered intendant, looking as mussed and fussed as if she’d been woken from a nap.