“Go on, go on,” they said, opening the inner gate that gave access to the ramp. The four ramps were the only way into the Halt, unless a person could hold their breath for long enough to swim through the submerged culverts that channeled the river under the road. Ramps were necessary because, at a Halt, the road’s foundation was built as tall as a defensive wall, making the town safe both from incursions of the Pall and from attack by brigands or traitors.

She headed up the ramp, bracing herself as she approached the magic-infused roadway that ran along the top. It was commonplace for people to pause at the top to survey the densely built environs of the inner Halt. But she sped up, running across the wide roadway with her pack thumping against her back. Each footfall spun a prickling sensation of heat up her legs, like lightning trying to reach her heart—to reach the viper, coiling tight in rigid alarm. The protection offered by the soles of her boots, together with her leaping strides, made the contact bearable. Then she was across and had to pause, panting, hands on her thighs, on the blessedly inert inner East Ramp. The discomfort had already faded; all that lingered was the memory, and she had plenty of experience in folding up memory and setting it aside where it could not plague her.

By force of habit, her gaze lifted to survey the town, with its neat division into four quarters set around a central plaza. The so-called imperial quarter, with the intendant’s Residence, was a swirling riot of activity, as they desperately readied for the imminent arrival of the imperial carriages.

She hustled down East Ramp. After showing her token at Copper Gate, she made her way into the imperial quarter past stables and barracks and the practice arena to the Residence. Folk wearing formal festival garb came running to take up parade places in the assembly plaza that fronted the Residence’s entry portico. Menials were scrambling to sweep and polish the marble stairs and scrub the statues of the emperors that lined the portico. A cartload of flower necklaces sat beside the portico, where the intendant’s daughter nervously selected appropriate blooms for each statue.

Elen cut around to the administrative wing with its six doors, one for each rank of official. The door sentinels did not check her token; they were distracted, every face gripped with anxiety and excitement. The corridors were empty but she heard a buzz of talk from the far end of the wing, where it opened into an audience chamber. She cut through a courtyard and entered Map Hall, shared by imperial surveyors and intendancy couriers.