Michelle Sagara - Cast In Courtlight

At block two, Lord Evarrim seemed to notice that Kaylin was walking toward him. Kaylin was underimpressed with the quality of his acting; it was good, of course, but it was cheap. Lord Nightshade would never have stooped to pretense.

Then again, he owned any street he walked in, so pretense was kind of superfluous.

“Private,” he said, nodding to Kaylin as if she were just barely worthy of notice. “Corporal.” The rank still rankled. Kaylin came from the Leontine school of acting, but struggled not to let it show anyway.

“Lord Evarrim,” Severn said, bowing. He hadn’t bothered to sheathe his dagger, and Lord Evarrim hadn’t bothered to notice the weapon. His guards were slightly more critical, but as swords were considered more of a public menace than daggers—and gods alone knew why—they didn’t draw weapons in the open streets.

They didn’t have to.

Severn did not come from the Leontine school of acting; he appeared to be both polite and deferential. It was a Barrani trick—the more polite and deferential you looked, the less of either you actually felt.

This, Lord Evarrim did notice.

“I hope the Festival season is uneventful,” Lord Evarrim continued after a minute pause. “And I hope it finds you in good health.”

“And you, Lord Evarrim.”

“You are, I believe, new to the ranks of the Hawks,” the Barrani Lord said. He looked bored, but his eyes were a clear green—a dark green that held hints of blue.

Severn nodded.

“But the private is not. Private Neya.” Blue now, definitely blue. What the Barrani could keep from their faces, they couldn’t keep from their eyes; like Dragons, like Aerians, like Leontines, the color of their eyes told a story. In this case, it was a chilly one.

“Lord Evarrim,” she said, striving to match Severn’s tone.

“I believe you keep company with a member of the High Court.”

“I keep the company of Hawks,” Kaylin said carefully. Not that it’s any of your business.

“Good. See that you continue to do so.” Blue was not Kaylin’s favorite color. He lifted a hand and Severn took a step forward. Four Barrani guards did likewise; the street, where they were standing, became a lot more crowded.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Kaylin said softly.

Severn stepped on her foot.

Lord Evarrim’s smile did not reach his eyes, but his eyes darkened. “The mark is no protection here, little one. Remember that. No Barrani Lord is required to heed the mark of an outcaste.”

“And no outcaste,” Severn replied before she could speak, “is required to heed the law of the Dragon Emperor.”

There was a silence; it followed and engulfed the Hawk’s words.

“We will speak later,” Lord Evarrim said at last. “After the Festival.” He turned and walked away, and red swirled around his feet like blood.

They picked up the pace. “What was that about?” Severn asked her when he was certain the Barrani Lord had passed beyond hearing.

Kaylin, less certain, took her time answering. “I think it was a … threat.”

“Got that,” Severn said. “Why?”

She shrugged. Any answer that made sense wasn’t one she liked. She wondered what Teela was doing. It was better than wondering what was being done to her. But at least she no longer felt tired.

The guards at the front doors were Swords. She recognized them, but she didn’t stop to talk; they were slightly officious men and she was clearly underdressed.

She passed beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Aerie; it was almost empty. One lone Aerian flew across the cavernous space, his gray wings unfolding beneath colored glass. Severn tapped her shoulder gently, and she remembered that she was late.

She made it to the doors, and through them, at her usual speed—a dead run, with a small pause between two Hawks that she did know. They were almost smirking.

“Tanner,” she said to the taller of the two, both humans, “how much trouble am I in?”

He laughed. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much Iron Jaw fancies entertaining an Imperial mage. For an hour.” She cringed.

Iron Jaw, as Marcus was affectionately called—depending on your definition of affectionate—was indeed speaking with a man who wore the robes of the Imperial Magi. They were gray with blue edges, a hood, and an unseemly amount of gold embroidery that faded under dim light.

The fact that the mage wasn’t shouting was a hopeful sign; the fact that Marcus wasn’t puffed out like an angry cat was better. His arms were folded in front of his chest, and he’d chosen to abandon his chair, but that might have been because the paperwork would have hidden him otherwise.

She could hope.

Severn peeled off just before she reached the office, and she didn’t have time to either thank or curse him, which was just as well. She had enough time to try to straighten her tunic as the office staff turned to look at her. Well, most of the office staff. Some of them were too busy to notice anything that didn’t involve a lot of screaming, fire, or blood.

Marcus was, of course, aware of her; he’d probably been aware of her presence before she’d laid eyes on him. Leontines had good hearing and an exceptional sense of smell. But he was being Polite Leontine today.

Which was scary.

She made her way to his desk, and stood there, to one side of the back of an Imperial mage.

“Private,” Marcus said in a rolling growl. Okay, so it wasn’t all good.

“Sergeant Kassan,” she replied. She didn’t snap a salute, but she did straighten up. It added an inch or two to her unimpressive height.

“Good of you to join us. In your absence, I’ve been explaining some of your unfortunate nocturnal habits to our guest.”

The emphasis on the last word was like a warning, but with fangs and fur.

The Imperial mage turned; he was slightly bent, as if age was a burden, and his hair was a fringe of pale white. But his eyes—his eyes were a golden hue, and his smile was a quirk of lips over pale teeth.

She recognized the man. “You—but you’re a—you aren’t a—you—”

“Kaylin is not usually lauded for her ability to give impromptu speeches,” Marcus said dryly. “I believe you’ve met Lord Sanabalis?”

They were sequestered in the West Room. Marcus led them there, opened the door, and held it while Sanabalis walked past him. Kaylin hesitated for just a moment, and then she made her way toward the room’s round table.

“Do not annoy this man,” Marcus said in her ear.

She nodded automatically. Of course, had he told her to stand on her head with her fingers in her ears in that same tone of voice, she would have nodded, as well.

But in this case, the desire to cause annoyance was vanishingly small; Sanabalis was a member of the Dragon Court. She’d seen him only once, and once had been enough.

He waited for her to take a seat.

She waited for him to do likewise.

After a moment, the older man—if that was even the right word—shook his head; his eyes were still gold, which was a good sign. In Dragons.

“Please,” he said, “sit.”

She obeyed, and almost missed the chair.

He chose, tactfully, not to notice this error, and once she’d managed to stay seated, he took a seat. The table between them felt brittle and thin, although a man with an ax would have had some difficulty splitting it. A large man with a large ax; the table in the West Room had been built to last.

“Yes,” he said before she could think of something to say, “I am a member of the Imperial Order of Mages. I am, as you are also aware, a member of the Dragon Court, and I confess I am seldom called away from that court.” His smile was genial, even avuncular. She didn’t trust it.