Читать книгу Cast In Courtlight - Michelle Sagara - Страница 9

Inasmuch as Kaylin understood class—the adult form of bullying and condescension—she felt like a class traitor. Lord Nightshade was rumored to be a mage of great power, and in spite of the fact that she’d evidence of that with her own eyes—and Hawks had their own arrogance when it came to trusting opinions formed by gathering information—she was almost disappointed when they walked down the same set of narrow, shoddy stairs and into the wide streets. She had expected something less mundane.

Hell, she’d once seen him walk through a mirror and vanish. Then again, her mirror would bisect him, so it was probably just as well.

Her bag hung over her shoulder, and her uniform gathered in uncomfortable, trapped wrinkles; she felt like a street urchin again. Especially when compared with her companion. She took care not to make the comparison more than once.

He led the way, and she followed; she would have led, but his stride was the longer of the two, and his dignity—Barrani dignity—did not allow him to trail behind something as lowly as Kaylin. It did, however, allow him to stand behind his chosen guard when he chose to venture into the streets of the fief he ruled.

He’d brought no such guard with him.

When they reached the bridge, she paused. He had walked ahead, and he, too, paused at the gentle height of the bridge’s curve. He turned to watch her. Met her eyes.

“I assure you,” he said in a tone of voice that had the opposite effect, “you are not a prisoner. This is not a kidnapping. I do not intend to … interfere … with your duties in the Halls. I merely wish to insure that no one else has the opportunity to interfere with them.”

“I’ll have to tell—”

He grimaced. “If it comforts you, I have altered your mirror. If someone chooses to invoke it, it will carry your message to your room within the Castle.”

“Where you’ll hear everything that’s said.”

He raised a brow.

“The Hawklord isn’t going to be happy about this.”

“The Hawklord is not your lord. He rules your life when you labor under his command. What you do in your … free time is not his concern. Come, Kaylin. It will be dark soon, and while I am not afraid of ferals, I do not think facing them will be in your best interest.”

Enough of a warning. She made her way across the bridge, marking the point at which her new life was discarded and her old life opened up before her in the roads and causeways of Nightshade.

It was not the only fief she knew; not even the only fief she had called home. But it was the fief in which she had lived almost all of her life. The other, she didn’t name and didn’t think about.

“Why is the Barrani castelord—”

He held up a hand. “Now is not the time for that discussion.” His smile was slender and cool. “If we are lucky, there will be no time for it. If we are not, you will have answers. The castelord of the Barrani is a subtle lord, and he has governed for centuries. He has not, of course, been uncontested.”

She didn’t ask what happened to the challengers; she assumed they were dead. And if they were, no complaint had been made to the Emperor or the Halls of Law, and no investigations—that she was aware of—had been started. Then again, if there had been, she probably wouldn’t be aware of them; Barrani weren’t as interesting, in terms of criminal activity, as the rest of the mortal races, and if she’d been forced to learn their language, she’d never much cared to learn their history, even as it pertained to the Halls of Law.

Barrani were unpleasantly cold, but they kept to themselves, and while they valued power, they were one of the few races she could think of that didn’t equate said power with money.

Money made people stupid.

Or starvation did. She’d never heard of a starving Barrani before.

“Severn won’t like it,” she said without thinking.

“No. But I assure you, Kaylin, that he will like even less the possible outcome of an entanglement with the Barrani lords. He did not,” he added without a shift in expression, “appreciate the fact that you would be living alone in an indefensible hovel while the Court convened.”

“Is there anything about my life you don’t know?”

“Very little,” he replied smoothly. “You bear my mark, little one. You hold my name. Did you think that these were merely decorations or human familiarities?” “No. But I was trying.”

“Expend your efforts, then, on something worthwhile. We have fought the outcaste Dragon,” he added, “and we have killed the dead. There is always a cost.”

Yes, she thought bitterly. Always. And we’re not the ones to pay it.

“A lesson, for those who want power.” She wondered why anyone did.

“Because if you have power, you make the decisions, Kaylin.” “You have,” she said, the words an accusation. “And what decisions do you make that make power attractive?” “Ah. I am not one of the dead.”

Which wasn’t very helpful. The streets narrowed as they walked them; they were almost empty. The tavern owners and the butchers and the grocers who were chained to this side of the river were busy pulling in the boards and wheeled carts they used for display. If they noticed the Barrani lord, they gave no sign; at night, the ferals were more of a threat.

And night was coming.

She followed Nightshade, her cheek tingling. She wanted to brush it clear of the odd sensation, but she’d tried that many times, and all it did was make her hand numb. But she hesitated as the Castle came into view.

“There are no bodies in the cages,” he said quietly.

She looked up to examine his profile; he hadn’t turned to speak. “I guess people are busy preparing for the Festival.” It sounded lame, even to her.

“Too busy to offer offense?” His smile was sharp, but again, she saw it in perfect profile. “No, Kaylin Neya, it is a gift. For you.”

“You knew I would be coming here.”

“Yes. And I do not intend—at this time—to make your stay more difficult than it must be.”

There were two guards at the black facade of the gate. They offered Nightshade a deep obeisance, a formal and graceful bend that did not deprive them of weapons or footing. He did not appear to notice.

But they offered no less respect to Kaylin. It made her uncomfortable; it put her off her stride.

“They are here for protection,” he told her as he made his way to the portcullis. “And I am seldom in need of protection here.”

She hesitated, hating the portcullis. It never actually rose; it was a decorative set of heavy, black iron bars that should have been functional. She’d seen them before a dozen times in other buildings, and had learned to listen to the grinding of the gears that raised them.

But these? They weren’t. Raised.

You didn’t enter Castle Nightshade without an invitation, and when you did—you walked through the lowered portcullis; it was a very mundane depiction of a magic portal. And it took you somewhere else. She wondered if the courtyard that could easily be seen through the spaces in the bars was real, or if it was a backdrop, some sort of tiresome illusion.

She really, really hated magic.

“Kaylin?” Lord Nightshade said. It sounded like a question. It was, of course, a command. He held out a hand to punctuate the fact, and she forced herself to move slowly enough that it didn’t seem like an obvious hesitation. Given that she wasn’t her audience, she couldn’t tell whether or not the watching Barrani guards could tell the difference. She doubted they cared.

But they were … different.

“Of course,” Lord Nightshade said in a voice that barely traveled to her ears. “They know what you fought, Kaylin. They know you survived. They could not, with certainty, say the same of themselves in a like situation.”

And the Barrani respected power.

She took a deep breath and followed Lord Nightshade into the castle.

Her stomach almost lost lunch. She hadn’t had time for dinner, which was good; dinner wouldn’t have been an almost.

But she wasn’t in the vestibule, which had the advantage of looking like the very rich and opulent end of “normal,” she was in a room. A room that had no windows but shed an enormous amount of light anyway.

The floor was cold and hard, but it was beautiful; a smoky marble shot through with veins of blue and green, and the hint of something gold. It was laid out in tiles that suggested the pattern of concentric circles, and at the center of those, she stood, her bag on her shoulders, her uniform hanging unevenly at the hem. In other words, out of place in every possible way.

Not so, Lord Nightshade.

He gestured; she looked up as he did, because his hand started at waist level and stopped just above his head, drawing the eye. She couldn’t help it. Years of working the beat at the side of Teela and Tain hadn’t in any way made her ready for Lord Nightshade; he was Barrani in the almost mythic sense, and they—they were real.

He was beautiful, in the cold way the floors were.

The ceiling above her head was rounded, like a gentle dome; it was rimmed by something that looked like marble, and its surface was engraved with runes. She didn’t recognize them.

She didn’t want to.

“The words—those runes—were … already here … when you took possession of the castle?”

“They were,” he said, sparing her a brief glance. His eyes traced the runes, and the light that rippled across them, as if it were reflected by the surface of a small pond in sunlight. “But they are not, I think, a danger to you. Can you read them?”

This was polite, as it was often polite to ask questions for which you technically weren’t supposed to have the answers. She distrusted polite in men of power. “No.”

“Ah. A pity. I believe that among the runes above us there are words you can invoke, should it come to that. They will afford you some protection.”

She said nothing.

“I have taken the liberty of giving you one of the outer rooms,” he continued. “You will not be required to enter the Long Hall. If I remember correctly, it causes you some discomfort.”

“It’s not the hall,” she said, before she could stop herself. “It’s the Barrani. The ones that don’t move and seem to be interested in blood.”

“Even so.” He pointed. Against the far curve—there was no direction in this room, given lack of anything that offered a directional anchor—was a large, round bed. With pillows, even. It was pristine, and covered in silks she thought were worth more than two years of her pay. It was annoying. On the other hand, it lacked a canopy, which seemed to be the thing to attach to the beds of people with too much money.

“I don’t suppose you have a map of the Castle?”

“One that wouldn’t change?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He smiled. “There is a wardrobe for your … belongings. You will also find—”

“I don’t need anything else.” She remembered, clearly, her first visit; she’d lost her uniform and had woken up in a really impractical dress. A really beautiful, attractive, impractical dress.

“If you dine with me—as I hope you will—you will need less … political garb. I have seen to that,” he added, his voice cooling by several degrees.

She remembered that annoying him was not a good idea. Not that she wasn’t willing, but she wanted to choose the fights.

He walked over to the wall and gestured. Stone separated, and a section of the wall reflected light evenly. Perfectly. “This,” he told her quietly, “is the mirror. You may use it, if you wish.”

“But you’ll hear everything.”

“Indeed.”

“And anyone who wants to reach me?” “They’ll be … directed … to this one. You are free to explore the Castle. I suggest, if you do, that you take a guard with you.” “Which one?”

“One of the two,” he replied, “who stand outside this door.” And he walked toward it. “I have much to attend to this eve. We will talk on the morrow.”

“I have to work—”

“You are not a prisoner here, Kaylin. You are no longer a child. You know the way to the upper city.”

The mirror didn’t wait.

She was almost asleep—she had trouble sleeping in strange, obscenely comfortable beds—when it went off. For a moment, she was disoriented; she was already out of the bed, and padding on cold stone toward the wrong wall when she remembered that she wasn’t home; she corrected herself as wakefulness caught up with her instincts.

She touched the mirror, keying it; an image began to form in its depths. Familiar face, and a dreadful, familiar expression.

“Marya?”

“Kaylin, thank the gods!”

Marya was a midwife. Which pretty much said it all. Kaylin reached for her pack. “Where?” she said. “Stevenson Street. It’s Worley’s old house.” “How long do I have?”

There was a small, stressful silence. Silent answers were always the worst. Had she been home, it would be a five-minute sprint, a fifteen-minute jog. She wasn’t anywhere that close.

“Marya—I’m not at my place.”

“I gathered. The mirror had trouble.”

Kaylin cursed mirrors. And Barrani. And time.

“I’ll be there,” she said quietly, yanking her boots on under her nightdress. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her to—to stop pushing. To stop doing anything. Do you have worryroot?”

Marya’s nod was brisk. “Everything we can do, we’ve done. The baby’s not—”

Kaylin lifted a hand and shattered the image. Her way of saying she was on the move.

She dressed quickly and sloppily; she looked like a walking human crease. Her hair, she shoved back and staked. It wouldn’t hold through a real run; it would have to do for now. She stopped for a moment as a glint of light at her wrist was caught in a downward spark by the mirror’s reflective surface.

Caging her power, opulent and ancient, the bracer that had been both gift and bane, its jeweled surface cool and distant. She could hear Marcus now. She had her orders: it was not to come off.

And she had her imperatives. She couldn’t wear it and do what—what probably needed to be done. With a grimace, she touched the stones in a sequence that was so familiar she couldn’t consciously say it out loud. A loud click, and it opened. She dropped it on the floor.

It would find its way back to its keeper, sooner or later—and at the moment, that keeper wasn’t Kaylin. That much thought she spared before she ran to the door. The next thought was for the guards that stood outside of it.

She almost tripped over the men who now barred her way.

They were both beautiful, both perfect, and both utterly impassive. She snarled something in very rude Leontine.

They failed to understand. This could even be because they couldn’t, although she wouldn’t have bet money on it. “I don’t have time for this!”

But she did. The baby didn’t. The mother didn’t.

They exchanged a glance. She lifted a hand to her cheek, and drew back in surprise; the mark was hot. She hadn’t even seen it in the mirror, in the brief glance she had given herself before she’d tried to flee the room.

“We are not empowered to let you wander alone,” one of the two Barrani said. She looked at him carefully.

“I have to leave. Now. You have your duties,” she added, “and I have mine. But I will never forgive you if you keep me here, and I will never forgive you if any delay you cause costs me.”

The man’s gaze never wavered. But he drew his sword and nodded at the other guard. “I will accompany you,” he said. “Where will you go?”

“To the upper city,” she replied, pushing past him.

“The ferals—”

She knew. It just wasn’t allowed to matter. Not for the first time—and not for the last—she wished she was an Aerian; she could fly above the reach of ferals with ease, had she but wings.

She started to run, stopped, and turned to look at the guard. “What is your name—no, what should I call you?”

A dark, perfect brow rose. “Andellen,” he said at last, as if she’d asked him something that had never been asked by another living creature. Or not one who wanted to stay that way.

“Good. Andellen. I don’t know the Castle. I need to get out. Can you lead me?”

He nodded. Whatever hesitation he had shown had vanished the moment he had agreed to accompany her. He was stiff; he wasn’t at all like the Barrani Hawks she knew. He spoke High Barrani, and he chose a sword as his weapon; the Hawks usually used a very large stick.

He also wore armor.

But the armor didn’t seem to slow him down, or if it did, it didn’t matter; he was moving at a speed that Kaylin could barely match.

They made the vestibule, and Kaylin gritted her teeth as she passed through the portal and into the world.

There was no time for conversation. They made a lot of noise as they ran, and that was bad. It was dark, although the skies were clear enough that the moon provided light. For them, certainly. For the ferals, as well.

Fighting ferals usually involved a lot of running, but that took time. She made her way straight toward the Ablayne, and the single bridge that crossed it, praying silently. It’s funny how someone who couldn’t follow the names of half the gods in Elantra could pray with such conviction.

At her side, the Barrani guard ran. He glanced at her only when she stumbled, but did not offer her any assistance; she found her footing and continued, thinking of Worley’s house. Thinking of how best to reach it. Thinking of only that. It helped.

When they reached the bridge, she exhaled, a long, slow movement of chest. The bright and dark moons across the water were a benediction. The guard, on the other hand, didn’t have the grace to look winded. Had she the energy, she would have whiled away time in idle hatred for all things Barrani; as it was, she looked up at him once. His expression, being Barrani, gave nothing but ice away.

Which was good; had he intended to stop her, it would have looked worse.

She started to adjust her pack, and Andellen surprised her; he grabbed it instead. His hair flew in the stillness as he shouldered its weight, but he said nothing.

And she let him do it. As if he were Teela or Tain.

She led now, and he followed; he probably knew the entire city by heart, but the only roads he usually traveled were those ruled by Nightshade. She wanted to ask him how often he left the fief, but she couldn’t spare breath.

Wasn’t certain he would answer if she could.

The streets were now lined with stalls; there were men and women beneath the low glow of torches and the high lamps that decorated the skyscape; they would work all night, and well into morning, decorating, carving, nailing or sewing as the Festival season required. This was their best chance to make money for the year, and if sleep suffered, it suffered.

They noticed her as she ran past, but that was probably because of Andellen. He didn’t wear a uniform. He wasn’t a Hawk. And a smart person didn’t get in the way of a running Barrani.

She made it past her apartment, turned the corner, skidded and fell; she rolled to her feet, cursing like a Leontine—and in Leontine—and kept going. Five minutes passed like a lifetime. And it wasn’t her life.

And then, two rights, one short left, and three small buildings, and she was there. A lamp was hanging by the side of the door, the dark, glowing blue of the midwives’ beacon. She leaped up the three warped steps and pushed the door open; it wasn’t locked.

Marya was waiting for her. Her eyes were dark, and her face was that kind of pale that speaks of whole days without sleep. “Kaylin! She’s in the—” Her dark eyes rounded when she saw what followed Kaylin in.

“Marya,” Kaylin said, half shouting as she grabbed the midwife’s hands before they picked up the nearest candlestick, “he’s with me. I don’t have time to explain. He won’t touch anything. He means no harm.” She could not force herself to add, trust him.

Before Marya could answer, a thin, attenuated cry carried the distance of still room and closed door. A younger woman, fingers clutching the frame of the door for support, appeared as the door swung open and slapped the wall. “Marya—she’s started to bleed—”

“Kaylin’s here,” Marya said, her voice pitched low, but pitched to carry. “Kaylin’s here now.”

And Kaylin pushed past the poor girl and into the bedroom. “Get water!” she shouted as she ran to the bed. “Drinking water!”

But Marya was already in motion, a comfortable, busy blur. Marya had worked with Kaylin before; she would know what was needed, and when.

Kaylin took the hand of the woman whose eyes were beginning their slow slide into shock. She pressed her free hand up and against the stretched, hard curve of belly and winced as the body told its story.

Late. She was late. She could feel the rupture.

She looked up and met the eyes of a young man that she didn’t recognize; he was so white he was almost green. “Get out,” she told him. He shook his head, mute, his defiance the product of fear.

“Marya—”

“Gerrold, come away,” the midwife said, her voice above Kaylin’s back. “Now. Your wife needs her privacy.” “But she—”

“Now.” A mother’s tone. With just the edge of anger in it—and at that, the right kind of anger. Pity, compassion, or fear would have watered the command down so badly it wouldn’t have worked—but Marya had confidence in Kaylin.

And the poor man? He had nothing. He tried to stand. Stumbled. Kaylin wondered if he was going to pass out. Better if he did.

Without another word, she drew her knife. It wasn’t clean, but it would have to do. She heard a stifled scream from a long, long distance away; heard Marya’s angry words attempt to drown it out.

And then she gave herself over to the sound of two beating hearts; one labored and slow, the other so fast and soft it could barely be heard at all.

Two hours later, she was finished.

Marya caught her hands, and forcibly broke all contact with the young woman who sat in the bed. Kaylin could hear the sounds of infant cries; could see the bundled—and cleaned—baby resting in its mother’s arms. The wound— what there was left of it—was new and raw, but it wasn’t bleeding.

“The—the father?”

“He’s there, in the chair,” Marya said in the soothing voice reserved for the injured. “He was a bit upset about the knife, dear,” she added. “We had to restrain him.” She paused, and then added, “Your man was most helpful, there.”

“My man?” Kaylin shook her head. “Who—” She turned her head sideways, which was much more effort than she would have liked, and saw Andellen. “He’s not my—he didn’t hurt him, did he?”

Marya shook her head. “Not much, at any rate. I think he’ll have a bruised jaw, but dear, he simply wasn’t listening.”

Kaylin could imagine. Blood had that effect on most people. She tried to say as much, and Marya took the opportunity to trickle water into her mouth. “It’s not for me—”

“You should see your mouth.” There was no point in arguing with Marya. “I’ve made sure she drinks,” Marya added.

“Tell her—”

“Later, dear. There will be a later, thanks to you.” She paused, and added, “It’s a girl.”

“Oh. Good.” There wasn’t much else one could say to something like that.

Kaylin tried to rise, and her knees locked.

“There’s a chair for you, if you need it. I sent Darlene home. She was … a little upset herself.”

“Did she see the baby?”

Marya nodded, the smile never leaving her face. It was a slight smile, and framed by etched lines, but it was like bedrock. You could stand on a smile like that.

“She’ll know better next time,” Marya added quietly. “This is only her third birthing. She’s never been at a birthing when we’ve had to call you before, but she’s a smart girl, a solid apprentice. She’ll learn.”

Kaylin forced herself to stand. “Gods willing,” she said, keeping her tone polite and professional, “she’ll never have to see it again.”

“Aye, gods,” Marya said with a shrug. She turned her attention to the mother, and then frowned at the poor young man in the distant chair, his dark hair splayed flat against his forehead, his skin still winter-white, except where it was purple. “I forget what it’s like, with the first babe. Gerrold, come help with your wife. She needs to drink a lot of water, and she’s likely to be a bit weak. You’ve saved any money, make sure she gets meat, and not that terrible stuff the merchants are pawning off on foreigners either, understand?”

He nodded. Kaylin highly doubted that he’d heard anything more than his name. She made her way toward the chair that Marya had produced, but before she could sit, Andellen was there, all six feet of him.

His armor looked damn odd in the very small room.

“Kaylin Neya,” he said quietly, “it is time that we returned.”

She nodded. But she couldn’t quite stand.

“Leave her be,” Marya said, her voice a slap.

“You serve your master,” the Barrani replied, “and I, mine.” But his words were shorn of contempt, and if they weren’t respectful, the lack of contempt said something. What, exactly, Kaylin was a bit too tired to figure out. Later.

“She doesn’t have a master,” Kaylin told him.

“What did he say, dear?”

Kaylin shook her head. “It’s Barrani.”

“I recognize the language.” Marya was too tired to keep disdain from her words. “And them that’s polite use language other people can understand when they’ve got company.”

“The Barrani aren’t famed for their manners for a reason, Marya.”

“Well, they could start learning. It’s never too late, and it’s not like courtesy ever killed anyone.”

Kaylin almost laughed. What could she say to Marya that would make sense of this armored stranger? That he was one of the fieflord’s personal guard?

Andellen, however, chose to take no offense at the old woman’s words.

“We could stay at my place,” Kaylin told him. “It’s night in the fiefs. We were lucky enough to miss the ferals the first time.”

But Andellen did not reply; he was watching—of all things—the babe. “Andellen?”

The Barrani shrugged. “You are too weak to walk,” he said at last. It was the first sign of hesitance that she had yet seen him show. “I will take you to your home.”

Five minutes passed like three hours. Kaylin wanted to sleep off the healing on the nearest stretch of cobbled stone that didn’t have merchanting crap all over it; the problem was finding one. Well, that and the big Barrani who herded her forward every time she looked like she might fall. He took care not to touch her; it seemed odd. Had she been with Teela or Tain, they would have given up on her half a block past, and carried her the rest of the way. Oh, she would have cursed them in at least three languages, but they were used to that.

Andellen gave her space.

He made certain that anyone whose curiosity was stronger than their self-preservation instinct also gave her space, and she finally reached the door of her apartment. She fumbled with the key and dropped it twice, while he watched, impassive. Waiting.

She tossed out a few recreational Aerian curses, just to keep in practice, and made a third attempt at the lock. This time, it worked.

The stairs looked very, very steep from where she stood. She made her way up them, hanging on to the rails until she ran out of railing. Her door was there. She was surprised that it was open.

And more surprised when she saw who was waiting in the room. Severn, in the moonlight. He’d even opened the shutters, the bastard.

Andellen was behind her. She knew this because the stone of Severn’s expression shifted into something a lot less friendly.

“When did I give you a key?” she muttered. “You didn’t.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” “Waiting.”

Sarcasm took too much energy. She stumbled over the threshold. Andellen followed.

Great, she thought, they’re going to fight. I’ll lose the apartment.

But … they didn’t. Nothing made sense. Severn was stiff, and obviously angry, as he made his way toward her.

“Waiting?”

“Someone sent word,” he said as he caught her. His hands were cold. And stiff.

“The fieflord entrusts her to your care,” Andellen’s voice said. She didn’t actually see him. Couldn’t. She could see the hollows of Severn’s collarbone, and they were the whole of her vision.

“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.