Michelle Sagara - Cast In Courtlight

“You’re bleeding,” he said in her ear.

“Not my blood,” she replied dimly. “But the baby was a girl.” It was the last thing she said, and she thought she smiled.

Sunlight was the bane of her existence.

Mirrors were also the bane of her existence. And the inside of her mouth? That was bad, too. Her eyes were crusted together, her arms felt as if she’d been doing chin-ups in the drill yard, and her legs—well, never mind; they were worse.

The mirror was snarling. Covered, and snarling.

The glare of the damn sun made her glad that opening her eyes was difficult.

“Kaylin Neya!”

No one, she thought bitterly, should have to wake up to that voice. Marcus Kassan was in a mood.

“Kaylin, take the bloody cloth off the damn mirror and answer me!”

“Coming,” she managed, and rolled over.

Either her bed had changed shape significantly over the course of the night, or someone else was in it. She jumped up, hit the open shutters with the back of her head, and cursed in loud and angry Leontine.

Which, of course, Marcus heard. It certainly added color to his reply.

Severn lay on his side, propped up on one elbow. His hair fell over one eye, and the scar along his cheek was white in the sunlight. He didn’t look sleepy.

“How long have you been here?” she hissed as she crawled off the bottom edge of her mattress.

He shrugged. “Long enough.”

“Why didn’t you answer the damn mirror?”

“The Sergeant is in a mood,” he replied. He sounded almost amused. But he didn’t look it, so she didn’t hit him.

There were rules that she tried to follow when she undertook a healing of any difficulty—and chief among those was Don’t Crouch; crouching for hours at a stretch almost destroyed her knees. Unfortunately, emergencies tended to drive common sense out of her head, as if it were something sheeplike.

Oh, it was bad. The sun was well past high, and the shadows it cast were a very strong reminder that she was—yet again—late for something.

Marcus was practically eating the mirror by the time she got to her end and pulled the cloth down from its less than pristine surface. When she saw his face, she thought briefly of putting the cloth back. Unfortunately, he’d seen her.

“Where the hell were you?”

“Out.”

He snorted, but there was a little less edge in the sound. He knew what she did when she was off duty, even though it was technically both illegal and impossible.

“You’ve got a meeting,” he growled.

“When?”

“A half an hour ago.” Some days it just didn’t pay to be alive. “How important is this meeting?” “It depends.”

“On?”

“On how much you like wearing the Hawk.” She groaned. “Stall for me?”

“I have been,” he snapped, exposing the full line of Leontine teeth. They were really impressive teeth, too. “And Kaylin?”

“Yes, Marcus?”

“I’m not enjoying it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get your ass into the office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“NOW.”

She broke contact. “Don’t laugh,” she said to Severn, who was, in fact, chuckling. “You’ve got beat duty, and if you’re here, you’re not there.”

The smile didn’t fade. “I’m not you, Kaylin.”

“Meaning what?”

“I cover my ass.” He reached into the folds of his uniform—he hadn’t even bothered to remove it—and pulled out a curled piece of paper. She really hated paper. “The Hawklord’s orders.”

“He told you to babysit me?”

“I don’t believe that was the term used, no. But my duties this Festival are somewhat elastic, owing, no doubt, to my inexperience.”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t have time for the explanation.” She tossed him out into the hall and dressed.

“What are you not going to do?”

“Severn, I don’t have time for this!” Although Kaylin’s apartment was close to the midwives guild, close to the Ablayne, and reasonably close to the poorer market, it was not all that close to the Halls of Law. Close to the Halls was about three times farther than her lousy pay could stretch; she’d settled for what she could.

“Let me try that again. What are you not going to do?”

“Breathe anymore, if I don’t get there quickly!”

“Third time lucky,” Severn said in a tone of voice best reserved for truculent children. Kaylin bristled.

“I’m not going to offend the Imperial mage. If that’s what’s waiting. I was supposed to have a few days free.” She kicked a rock. It hurt her toe. The hopping around on one foot after the fact didn’t do much for her dignity, either.

But she was off her stride; Severn in the morning, Severn in her small bed, Severn by her side—it was too much to take in with good grace. And as Kaylin and good grace were often on opposite sides of the city, she struggled not to be exceptionally cranky.

But not too hard—cranky was better, in Kaylin’s books, than confused. She was damn tired. If Marcus had half a heart, she’d still be sleeping off the night’s work.

She was dressed in a wrinkled surcoat; she looked like Hawks might if they’d been involved in breaking up a bar brawl. She’d left her best pants in the damn Castle, and her second best, at the moment, had holes in the leg. Which wasn’t her fault; someone trying to cut her knee off could be considered damage taken in the line of duty.

The exceedingly stingy man often referred to as the Quartermaster had other ideas.

Severn frowned.

He had a way of moving that suggested violence without descending to it, but the sudden glint of steel in his hands was not a comforting sign. Rocks and temper forgotten, Kaylin stilled instantly, her hand dropping to a dagger hilt.

“What?”

“Barrani,” he said quietly.

She squinted. The sun was just too damn bright, and her mouth didn’t feel much less like she’d eaten a dead mouse. But as she eased into a fighting stance, she saw the man Severn referred to. Wondered how damn tired she must be to have missed him in the first place: he wore red.

And not a little red; it covered him from shoulder to foot in a long, expensive drape that caught sun and deepened color at the same time. Kaylin had a word for people who could spend money on magical clothing, but it wasn’t one she wanted to use where said person might actually hear it, given how synonymous money and power actually were in this city.

Red. “Arcanum,” she said in a tone that was usually reserved for the more colorful words she knew.

“Lord Evarrim,” Severn added. “He’s persistent.”

“He’s not alone.”

“I’d noticed.”

There were four guards with him, but they were dressed in a less obvious fashion. Where less obvious was armor that glinted beneath translucent surcoats. They wore their hair beneath wide bands, but they wore it Barrani style; capes that fell well past their shoulders. They were, of course, of a height, and they walked in perfect unison.

“You feel like jogging?” Severn asked, without moving.

“Not much.”

He shrugged. “You’ve got thirty seconds.” His words sunk in. “I’m not leaving you here.” “They’re not interested in me.”

Her turn to shrug. “They’re not interested in the Dragon Emperor either, and these are pretty damn crowded streets. I’ll take my chances.”

“Then let’s keep walking, shall we? The Halls are only four blocks away.”

Four long blocks. Kaylin nodded. Whatever animosity there was between them had turned sideways and vanished. They had time to squabble later. For now, they both wore the Hawk, and if Kaylin’s had seen better days, she was still proud of it. It was one of the very few things in her life that she’d worked to earn, and consequently one of the very few things she accorded real respect.