Racing north, they made good time, their general direction a long, slow descent off the plateau. No messengers raced ahead to warn the villagers, so people out in the fields gave the cavalcade only a passing glance, as if the intendant traveled along this route so frequently her presence had become commonplace. Intendant Berel was proud of her posting houses, where they stopped over the course of each day’s journey to change out horses so as to keep up a fast pace. Farledder Intendancy was horse country, supplying much of the imperial needs in the northern provinces. By the many horses available, the care taken with their stabling, and the luxurious private salons in the posting houses, it was clear Berel had enriched herself on the horse trade.

Each night, they stopped at the next Halt. Although none were as large and prosperous as Farledder Halt, each Halt included lodging for imperial officials, as well as an imperial suite, although none had ever hosted an actual prince, not in living memory.

Elen was never admitted into the imperial suite, not as the wardens were. She ate her meals and slept at night in the barracks set aside for lesser officials. To her surprise, she missed the camaraderie of their expedition through the hills.

The third night on the road, she sat at the end of one of the long tables in the salon reserved for lesser officials. There were only two other officials in the room, seated at a different table where they discussed weights and measures in pedantic, half-drunk tones. A Residence menial brought her a plate neatly arranged with crispy eel, salted beans, green onion pancake, and a bowl of spar-flower soup, a commonplace autumn dish in the northern provinces.

“Rice wine, honey beer, pale fire, or peach juice?” the woman asked.

“I’ll take the juice, if it’s fresh,” said Elen. “My thanks. What’s your name? I’m Deputy Courier Elen.”

“I’m Cavna.” The woman gave her a long look. “They say you’re with His Exalted Highness’s party.”

Elen smiled politely. “I am, that. Nice to have a quiet, relaxed meal in here.”

Cavna laughed. “I can imagine. I’ll get that juice.”

Elen set to the food, enjoying the crispness of the eel and the saltiness of the beans, although the green onions tasted old and the flour used for the pancakes was a musty barley, not freshly ground wheat; tasty enough, and plenty of it, but definitely not what a prince and an intendant would be eating in the imperial suite. Cavna brought a mug of juice, chatted in a friendly way about the weather, and left again when the weights-and-measures officials called her over for something.