“Yes. Even with the road blocked, we’d have heard if there were a crisis in Farledder Intendancy or Woodfall Province that threatens the peace of the empire. That’s why it strikes me as odd that the prince is headed north in such haste and with such determination. There’s nothing to draw a prince-warden’s attention. Not that I know of. Secret emergencies like this concern me. If there is a struggle inside the palace, I’d prefer to stay out of it.”

“What shall we do, then?” Uliana looked even more alarmed. She loved her father, and feared for him. Her spouse had not died fighting against the Blood Wolves, as Elen had learned by listening from corners and blending in with the walls. Through no fault of his own, the man had gotten caught on the wrong side of a quarrel between two princes of the Fourth Estate and had paid with his life. His downfall had indeed happened at the eastern border of the empire, far from here, but his death in combat was a convenient fiction. So much of the world rolled on lies, like carriages running along roads built on the bones of those who warned against the misuse of power.

The valet, the chatelaine, the young interlocutor, the daughter: all looked at the intendant. He scanned the plaza where folk were waiting to get their orders. Every person in the Halt knew the road north was blocked, that there was no way around it. Grinder’s Cut was a huge, unnatural chasm and escarpment that cut multiple gashes across the landscape, creating a jagged canyon that could not be crossed for a hundred or more miles in either direction except on this branch of the imperial road.

Or by taking a little-known, rugged, and dangerous backcountry path through the Moonrise Hills. On foot.

“We have to make ready for his return,” said the intendant.

“Tomorrow?” asked the chatelaine.

“Alas, no, we have not even that much breathing space. The imperial carriages travel at four times the speed of any other conveyance. He will return this afternoon. When he does, he is going to be in an ugly temper.”

13 A SLICE OF FESTIVAL CAKE

The intendant sent his people to make ready, then beckoned Elen to follow him into his private sanctum. Once there, he spoke in the casual way the two of them had developed over the years, more uncle to niece than lord to menial.

“Elen. What is your urgent news?”

“I killed Spore in the bone pile on Lancer’s Ridge. A fresh cap. It caught a mouse while I was there—”

The old, stark grief flashed across his face, and she knew to keep talking.

“—I killed the poor creature at once and destroyed it. The irruption was confined to a single sedge plant. No sign of spreading.”