The heavy oak door of the customs post slammed back against the stonework, its iron hinges screaming in the river fog. Four men in the slate-gray wool watch-coats of the Survey Office guard stepped out onto the upper terrace. Their copper-sheathed crowd-staves were held at port-arms, heavy iron manacles jingling from their leather belts.
They were living men. Their breath plumed white and ragged in the freezing air, their boots slipped on the icy slush. Their eyes darted nervously between Ivara and the figure on the ramp.
“Take the land-mapper,” the guard with the crooked nose ordered—Corve, an old veteran from the southern barrier shifts. “Morn wants the field book intact! Don’t let her toss it into the water gate!”
The double didn’t wait for the guards.
It moved with the terrifying, zero-drag gaining speed of Burdenless Step. The sixth milestone it had stolen from Len Vey at global midnight five days ago. There was no practice crouch, no gathering of weight. It simply flowed down the wet granite ramp like oil poured on cold iron. Its boots made no sound on the frost-greased stone, finding purchase on surfaces where an ordinary carrier would have broken both hips.
Ivara didn’t try to run. A one-armed woman on wet cobblestones couldn’t outrun a courier perk that erased driving force and heavy rush.
