He didn’t. She had no intention of enlightening him.
“I will have to speak with your Sergeant, and with the Hawklord, before I leave. You will not speak to anyone else about this without Imperial permission.”
“The Hawklord?”
“I have just said that I will speak with the Hawklord.” He walked to the door, opened it, and then turned back, his robes swirling like liquid at his feet. “But I believe you should check your duty roster carefully in the next few days.”
“Sanabalis—”
“And it is just possible that I may be able to barter for a delay in your etiquette lessons, although the time is coming when they will be sorely needed.”
CHAPTER 5
The lesson had ended early.
It was too much to hope that this meant an hour and a half of downtime, but Kaylin sat, slightly slumped in one of the heavy but uncomfortable chairs by the table, staring at an unlit candle anyway. One of the advantages of this particular set of classes was that she got paid for attending them. Well, that and she got to live. She folded her elbows across the table and stared at her blurry reflection.
Ravellon.
She had never really thought much about what lay at the heart of the fiefs. Growing up in Nightshade, there had been Nightshade and the rest of the world, and only one part of the world had captured her thought and attention: the city across the bridge. Of course, in her daydreams, she’d been somehow rich and pretty and free from fear or insecurity because she knew she belonged on the right side of the river boundary.
That kind of transformation had, no surprise, failed to happen. But the transformation that had happened, over seven long years, had the advantage of being—until yesterday—real.
Idiot. Think.
What, in the heart of the fiefs, could upset the elements? She knew what upset the Dragons, of course: the only living Outcaste Dragon Lord. Kaylin had faced him twice; the first time, he had retreated; the second time? He had broken her arm. She hadn’t seen what had happened after she’d fallen.
But if he were dead, she thought the word Ravellon would have no power to disturb Sanabalis. Given how often Kaylin had tried—admittedly when she’d reached the edge of screaming frustration, and was trying very hard not to pick up one of the heavy-duty chairs and crush the damn candle that would not light—the fact that he was disturbed was contagious. It unsettled her.
She stared at the candle.
When the door opened at her back, she straightened her shoulders slightly, but didn’t lift her head off her hands to see who was standing in it. If they wanted her, they’d let her know.
Marcus growled, and she vacated her chair so quickly it was a wonder her feet didn’t leave the ground. “Sanabalis left—” she began. He growled again, and she shut up, quickly.
“What have you been doing this time?”
“Not lighting a candle?” And pushing her luck. His eyes were almost the same orange Sanabalis’s had been, although Kaylin was certain it wasn’t because of anything she’d done. Yet.
“Kitling.”
She grimaced. “Evanton told me something when we dropped by his place yesterday.”
“And you told Sanabalis.” No honorific for him from Marcus today. Apparently bad moods spread like plagues.
“You know the Emperor has Evanton’s shop under constant surveillance,” she continued, in her own defense. “Someone probably reported it to the Emperor, or the Imperial Service, and the Emperor told Sanabalis to ask me.” Seeing his expression she added, “I’m not an idiot. I am not standing between Evanton and the Emperor. What the Emperor wants, he gets.” Besides which, technically, the Emperor paid her.
Marcus covered his eyes, briefly, with his hands. His claws, Kaylin noted, were extended; she wondered how much damage he’d done to his desk. “Sanabalis said something to you?”
“Yes.”
She winced; that would be a lot of damage. A tone that cold could freeze blood. She wanted it to be someone else’s. “W-what did he say?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss it.”
This was code for “Ask Caitlin.” Kaylin nodded. “Is he still here?”
“Speaking with the Hawklord.”
“Oh.” She waited, and after a moment, he growled again.
“They’re waiting for you in the Hawklord’s tower. I was sent to find you.” She nodded and headed for the door. Which he was still standing in. “Kitling, try to stay out of trouble.”
“I always try.”
“Try harder.”
The office was not dead silent, which meant that Marcus hadn’t gone fur ball while speaking with Sanabalis. But it wasn’t exactly a bustle of conversation and gossip, either, and Kaylin felt every eye—with the exception of Joey and Timar’s, because they were engaged in a heated debate about something that was probably more interesting when you couldn’t actually hear the words—follow her as she made her way to the stairs.
She was a little bit tired of winning money for other people, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon; she could practically hear bets being placed behind her back. Ignoring this was hard; it was almost like ignoring decent food. But not even Kaylin kept the Hawklord waiting because of office betting, which he generally overlooked or ignored if it wasn’t shoved under his nose by a weasel like Mallory.
She mounted the stairs slowly, remembering the first time she’d come to the Tower.
She had watched it for days. She’d timed the opening and closing of the dome, and the infrequent aerial activities of the Aerian officers. It was easy to see the Hawklord leaving the Halls of Law; he didn’t use the halls or the front stairs. The dome opened. He flew. But he didn’t seem to fly on schedule.
That was why she watched. She told herself that. She even believed it. The part of her that saw the Aerians and thought them—yes—beautiful? It stayed silent. But it had been there. It was still there now—but not even the Aerians tried to fly up these stairs. They couldn’t fully extend their wings here. When they came to the Tower by ground, they climbed like the rest of the wingless, gravity-bound Hawks.
She remembered, as she climbed, the way she’d watched the Aerians in flight. The way they seemed to rise above life and its ugly concerns, and soar on thermals, weapons gleaming sharply and sporadically as they caught sunlight. There were, as far as she knew, no Aerians in Nightshade or Barren. If there had been, their wings would have been clipped adornments, no more; nothing but small birds flew in that sky.
Small birds, she thought, remembering the Outcaste Dragon Lord, and Dragons. Of the two, she had a strong preference for the birds. But her preference in Nightshade mattered about as much as it always had. And in Barren?
She hadn’t cared. Not about birds. Not about Dragons. Not about anything, really. Strange that it was Barren, in the end, that had brought her here. Here, where the stairs were familiar, and the routine, familiar, as well. Where she had enough to eat—on most days—and a roof over her head. She had a family in the Hawks, and in their fanged Sergeant. She had a job that she could actually take pride in.
She’d had no stairs, the first time. And no invitation, either, if you could consider Marcus’s curt and growly command an invitation. But then again, if you timed things right, the dome had no hand-wards to pass through, and no hand-wards to set off an alarm.
Today, however, she was out of luck. The doors were closed. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her palm and placed it firmly against the magical ward. She felt the usual brief explosion beneath her hand; it left