New York Times bestselling author Michelle Sagara returns to the city of Elantra with a thrilling tale rife with ancient magic, assassination attempts and political intrigue.

Private Kaylin Neya already has Dragons and Barrani as roommates. Adding one injured, flightless Aerian to her household should be trivial. Sure, the Aerian is Sergeant Moran dar Carafel, but Kaylin’s own sergeant is a Leontine, the definition of growly and fanged. She can handle one Aerian.

But when a walk to the Halls of Law becomes a street-shattering magical assassination attempt on the sergeant, Kaylin discovers that it’s not the guest who’s going to be the problem: it’s all of the people who suddenly want Moran dar Carafel dead. And though Moran refuses to tell her why she’s being targeted, Kaylin is determined to discover her secret and protect her at all costs—even if keeping Moran safe means dealing with Aerian politics, angry dragons and something far more sinister.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author MICHELLE SAGARA and The Chronicles of Elantra series

“No one provides an emotional payoff like Michelle Sagara. Combine that with a fast-paced police procedural, deadly magics, five very different races and a wickedly dry sense of humor—well, it doesn’t get any better than this.”

—Bestselling author Tanya Huff on The Chronicles of Elantra series

“Readers will embrace this compelling, strong-willed heroine with her often sarcastic voice.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cast in Courtlight

“The impressively detailed setting and the book’s spirited heroine are sure to charm romance readers, as well as fantasy fans who like some mystery with their magic.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cast in Secret

“Along with the exquisitely detailed world building, Sagara’s character development is mesmerizing. She expertly breathes life into a stubborn yet evolving heroine. A true master of her craft!”

—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars) on Cast in Fury

“Each visit to this amazing world, with its richness of place and character, is one to relish.”

—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars) on Cast in Silence

“Another satisfying addition to an already vivid and entertaining fantasy series.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cast in Chaos

“Sagara does an amazing job continuing to flesh out her large cast of characters, but keeps the unsinkable Kaylin at the center.”

—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars) on Cast in Peril

“Über-awesome Sagara picks up the intense action right where she left off... While Kaylin is the heart of this amazing series, the terrific characters keep the story moving. An autobuy for sure!”

—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars) on Cast in Sorrow

Cast in Flight

Michelle Sagara

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To the denizens of the War Room, without whom writing would be a much, much more isolated—and isolating—activity.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Morning was not Kaylin’s friend.

Helen’s Avatar stood in front of the open bedroom door, her expression as pinched as it ever got. Sentient buildings were in most ways a living marvel, but they definitely had their drawbacks.

“I’m not hungry,” Kaylin told Helen as she dragged herself out of bed. “I need sleep more than I need food.” She could see only one of her shoes. “Is there anything you can do about Nightshade and Annarion? I never thought I’d say this, but Dragons roaring at each other at the top of their lungs was more peaceful.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I’ve done what I can to isolate the noise in the house, but Annarion’s voice travels through most of my barriers.”

“It’s not just Annarion. I can hear every word Nightshade is saying.”

“That would be because you bear his mark, dear. He can’t control you through it while he’s under my roof, but the connection is still active.”

Kaylin reached up to touch her cheek. Nightshade’s mark looked like a tattoo of a small flower, and she’d had it for long enough she was barely aware of it, except in moments like these.

Helen looked down at her hands, which weren’t really hands; Helen was a building. Her Avatar appeared to be human. It wasn’t. Clearing her throat was also an affectation, and she did that, as well. “Regardless, breakfast is an important meal. You have work today. You need food.” Helen’s Avatar folded her arms. As far as Helen was concerned, this was a fight worth having, and as it happened, Helen won all these fights.

The winged lizard flapping around Kaylin’s face in obvious annoyance made it hard to pull clothing over her head. Kaylin swatted halfheartedly at her familiar.

“That’s what buttons are for, dear. If you unbuttoned—and folded—your clothing, getting dressed would be less chaotic.”

Small and squawky settled on Kaylin’s left shoulder with a little more claw than usual. “I used to daydream about having an older brother,” she said as she spied the missing shoe under her bed. “If nothing else, this has cured me of that.”

“I have a question.”

Of course she did. “What?”

“Annarion is upset at his older brother.”

“Clearly.”

“He is not saying anything that you have not said, or thought, yourself. He dislikes the governance of the fief of Nightshade.”

Dislike was far too mild a word.

“You hate it.”

Kaylin exhaled. “I grew up there. Barely. I survived. But a lot of people—a lot of kids—didn’t. When I see what Tiamaris has done with his own fief, it’s very clear to me that life in Nightshade didn’t have to be like that. Nightshade’s the fieflord. He could have chosen to do what Tiamaris is doing. The fief is his. So yes, I agree with every single word Annarion’s been saying. Or shouting. Or screaming.”

“But you feel pain on Nightshade’s behalf.”

Kaylin grimaced. “Nightshade spent centuries trying to rescue Annarion. I think he might have killed his father because his father chose to sacrifice Annarion to the green. The only person on earth Nightshade cares about that way is his younger brother. In some ways, his choices revolved around Annarion. He’s outcaste because of those choices.

“Getting Annarion back should have been a good thing. And I think it is. But...Annarion’s so disappointed, so hurt, it’s caused almost nothing but pain.” And that pain? It was killing Kaylin’s ability to sleep. No one who had half a heart could sleep through the ruckus. “To both of them.”

“And you don’t want Lord Nightshade to be in pain.”

“I think he deserves it, to be honest. But...not from Annarion.”

“People have always been complicated.”

“Even the immortal ones?”

“Especially the immortal ones.”

No one with any intelligence wanted to get between two brothers while they were fighting. No one with any sense of self-preservation got between two Barrani when they were fighting. Kaylin hoped fervently that Lord Nightshade had returned to his own castle this morning.

* * *

Kaylin chewed on her thoughts while her familiar chewed on her hair as she walked down the foyer stairs toward the dining room. The dining room’s fancy doors were open, there was food on the table, and she was—as usual—late. Annarion was seated beside Mandoran. If Nightshade was Annarion’s brother by blood and lineage, Mandoran was a sibling by shared experience. Seated across from Mandoran was Bellusdeo, her golden hair pulled back in a braid that was looped together on the back of her head. Given the slightly orange tinge to her eyes, it was clear she and Mandoran had already started their daily bickering.

Having a Dragon living in the same house as a Barrani who’d lost his family to the Draco-Barrani wars was never exactly peaceful.

Before she could enter the dining room, Annarion looked up from his untouched plate. “I want to know how you first met my brother.”

No, mornings were definitely not her friend.

“I don’t think,” Helen said to Annarion as Kaylin made her way—silently—to her chair, “that Kaylin wishes to discuss your brother at breakfast.”

Or ever.

“I told him you’d say that,” Mandoran added, half-apologetically. Half was usually as much as he could muster.

“I’m surprised he didn’t listen,” Bellusdeo said, picking up a fork as if it were a fascinating, rarely seen utensil. “Usually you’re the one who chooses to be selectively deaf.” She smiled at Mandoran. “I’ve come to find it quaintly charming.”

Mandoran’s eyes shifted to a steady, deeper blue, the universal sign of Barrani fear or anger. And he certainly wasn’t afraid. “As charming as a Dragon in mortal clothing?”

“Oh, infinitely more so. I assume once you’ve developed better command of your manners, I will be far less entertained. But I don’t expect that to happen in the next decade. Or two.”

Mandoran’s natural dislike of Dragons as a race left Kaylin stranded with Annarion, who was still staring at her. No one could outstare Barrani.

“Why won’t you speak about my brother?” he asked. The question was softly spoken, but his tone made it more of a command than a request for information.

She considered and discarded a number of replies as she began to eat. She wasn’t hungry, and even if she had been, Annarion’s question would have killed her appetite. But she’d grown up on the edge of starvation, and she could always eat.

None of her possible replies were good. The truth was, she liked Annarion. He was—for a Barrani—honest, polite, self-contained.

“I don’t suppose you could ask your brother.”

Mandoran took a break from his barbed “conversation” with Bellusdeo. “He’s asked.”

“Nightshade didn’t want to talk about it?”

“No, he talked about it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He was lying.”

Annarion glared at Mandoran, looking as if he wanted to argue. He turned back to Kaylin instead. “I want to know your side of the story.” Meaning, of course, that he agreed with Mandoran’s assessment.

“I’ve got the usual mortal memory,” Kaylin replied evasively. “And I might lie, as well.”

Mandoran snorted again. “Your attempts at lies are so pathetic you should probably use a different word to describe them.”

Kaylin glared at Mandoran. Bellusdeo, however, said, “He has a point.”

Kaylin wasn’t certain how she would have answered. She was saved by the appearance of the last of her housemates. Moran—Sergeant Carafel in the office—entered the dining room. Moran was almost never late for anything, even breakfast.

Clearly, she had some reason for being late now, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Her wings—or what remained of her wings—were stiff and as high as they could get with their protective bindings. Her eyes were blue. Aerian eyes and Barrani eyes overlapped in only one color. Moran was either angry, worried or both.

Kaylin had risen before she realized she’d left her chair, which did nothing to improve Moran’s mood. Moran did not appreciate any worry that was aimed in her direction. Ever.

“As you were, Private.” She sat on the stool provided for her; Aerian wings and normal chair backs didn’t get along well. To Helen, she added, “The mirror connection was smooth and solid.”

It certainly hadn’t started out that way. Helen had a strong dislike of mirrors, or rather, of the mirror network that powered their communication. Regular silvered glass didn’t bother her in the slightest. “I made a few adjustments, dear. I’m terribly sorry that the faulty connections to date have caused so much difficulty for you.”

“They haven’t,” Moran replied, her voice gentling, her eyes darkening.

Helen’s Avatar smiled. “They have.”

“The people on the other end of the connection have caused—or are trying to cause—the difficulty. It has nothing at all to do with you. If the connection had been faultless and solid, it would have given them more time to make things even less pleasant. I’m grateful for the respite.” Her eyes had shifted to a more neutral gray by the time she reached the end of her reassurance. She looked across the table at Bellusdeo.

“Was it the Caste Court?” Kaylin asked. Helen frowned at her but said nothing.

Moran glared Kaylin into the silence Helen would have preferred, but then relented slightly. “It was two castelords and one Hawklord. Before you ask, none of them were particularly happy. And it is caste business. Aerian business. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Moran then turned to Bellusdeo. “Are you accompanying us to the Halls today?”

Bellusdeo’s eyes were golden. “Of course.”

Moran then concentrated on breakfast. Annarion’s attention had fallen on the Aerian, as had Mandoran’s. Neither of the boys interacted much with her except at meals, and while Moran was polite, she wasn’t highly talkative.

“Helen,” Mandoran said, “what happened?”

“I don’t think she wishes to discuss that, dear.”

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

Even Annarion looked pained. “He’s gotten worse since he arrived in this city. He used to be capable of actual manners,” he said to the table at large.

“When they were necessary, yes. Here, no one needs them, and I hate to go through the effort when it won’t be appreciated in the slightest.”

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, Teela and Tain appeared in the dining room as if they’d been summoned. What was left of the breakfast conversation died as they were noticed.

“What, are we not welcome?” Teela asked as she sauntered in. She was wearing a sword. So was Tain.

“You are always welcome,” Helen told her. “Any friend of—”

“Yes, yes. Thank you, Helen.” Chairs appeared at the long dining table as if by magic. Well, actually, by magic. Teela turned one of the two so that its back almost touched the table’s edge. She sat, folding her arms across the top rail and resting her chin on her forearms. To Moran, she said, “What kind of trouble are you expecting?”

Moran glared at Mandoran. She knew the boys could communicate with Teela the same way they communicated with each other. They knew each other’s True Names. All of the children that had been taken, centuries ago, to the West March did. Kaylin thought it a bit unfair that Moran immediately blamed Mandoran.

Mandoran apparently didn’t. “What?” he asked, spreading his hands. “You asked the Dragon if she was heading into the Halls today. You know it gives Kaylin’s sergeant hives the minute she crosses the threshold. You’ve never asked before. Obviously you’re concerned that something requiring brute strength—or magical competence—might happen.”

Moran was silent.

“There are perfectly competent Barrani here. I’ll be damned if I let you depend on a Dragon for heroics. And Teela has to go to the Halls anyway.”

The Dragon in question said, “I’m still going. And in case it’s escaped your notice, Barrani can’t fly.”

“Some can.”

“Not naturally.”

Mandoran shrugged. “If we’re going to get technical, you can’t legally fly, either. Not without Imperial permission.”

The word permission touched off a distinct orange in Bellusdeo’s eyes.

Teela glanced at Moran with some sympathy. “I hear,” she said, her eyes almost green, the Barrani happy color, “that you have a lovely suite of personal rooms. I do hope they make up for the shared spaces.”

Moran was silent for half a beat. “Yes,” she finally said, “they do. They’re very quiet and very peaceful.” She surveyed the table with weary resignation. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected that the rest of the house would be the same—Kaylin lives here, after all.”

* * *

Helen wouldn’t tell Kaylin the content of Moran’s mirror-based discussion. Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered Kaylin; today, for reasons she felt were obvious, it did.

“They are not obvious to Moran, dear,” Helen replied, although Kaylin hadn’t spoken that part out loud. It didn’t matter. Helen could read the thoughts of almost anyone who crossed her borders. This bothered some of the immortals; it didn’t bother Kaylin. Helen was not judgmental about anything. “You understand that she is older, of a higher rank, and has handled far larger responsibilities than you currently officially have?”

“Yes.”

“She did not come here to put you in danger.”

“I know all that, Helen.”

“She does not wish you to worry. And, Kaylin? While this is your home, Moran is a guest here. Her privacy and her concerns are important to me. Had she no privacy, this would not be a home to her; it would be a prison. An imposition. That is not what you wished for her when you invited her to stay.”

“But Moran’s worried about her physical safety!”

“Yes. But she is not in danger while she is here.”

“She’s not staying here, Helen. She’s going to the Halls of Law.”

“Yes. That is also her choice.”

The small dragon squawked in Kaylin’s ear. When she’d ignored enough of this, he started to chew on the stick that kept her hair out of her way. “Fine.”

“Are you coming?” Mandoran shouted.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Kaylin was at the front door of the foyer before the implication of his question sank in. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Nightshade’s supposed to visit today. I’m going to the Halls with the rest of you.”

“Mandoran—”

“I don’t have trouble masking my presence. Annarion still does. But he’s going to spend another several hours shouting at his brother. Or being coldly disappointed in him. I’m not sure which one is worse. Being here while he’s doing either, however, sucks.” He grinned, his eyes almost green. “And it sounds like you’re going to be having far more fun today than I would if I stayed here. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Kaylin sent Teela a mute glance.

“Don’t labor under the misapprehension that I can tell Mandoran what to do.”

“She’s already tried,” Mandoran added cheerfully. “I’ve been using some of your favorite phrases in private.”

Given what Kaylin’s favorite phrases were, the private part was probably for the best. She offered Moran a very, very apologetic glance. “It’s not always like this,” she told the sergeant.

“No,” Moran replied, her eyes a steady blue. “It’s frequently worse.”

* * *

Stepping outside the open gates that formed the demarcation of Helen’s territory, she felt her skin begin to tingle. Kaylin had what she called an allergy to magic, at least when she was trying to be polite. It made her skin ache. The stronger the magic, the greater the ache; in the worst cases, she felt as if her skin had been sanded off the rest of her body.

She looked down at her arm; the marks that covered two-thirds of her body weren’t glowing through the long sleeves she always wore. When they did, they took on a particular color—usually blue or gold, sometimes gray. It was never precisely a good sign.

Teela noticed her glance immediately, and her eyes lost their green, the Barrani happy shade.

Bellusdeo’s eyes were orange. Mandoran had annoyed her enough—or had reminded her of how annoyed she should be. The Dragon glanced at Moran, who was silent, her eyes a blue that almost matched Teela’s.

Mandoran’s, on the other hand, remained green. “Once you get used to the smell,” he said to no one in particular, “the city’s not so bad.” They had turned onto the more crowded streets; people multiplied, and carts, wagons and carriages began to demand room. Or at least their ill-tempered drivers did.

No one appeared to hear him.

“Kitling?” Teela said.

Kaylin nodded. “It’s getting worse.” And it was. Her arms now ached. Magic sensitivity wasn’t exactly directional, but Kaylin looked up. The sky—absent a few patrolling Aerians—was crisp, clear and empty.

The small dragon jerked to a full sitting position. He opened his mouth on a very, very loud squawk.

Teela cursed, drawing her sword.

“Corporal?” Moran said quietly.

“We have visitors.”

Kaylin reached out and grabbed Moran by the arm. In the Halls of Law, it would have been safer to cut off her own hand—and probably ultimately less painful. The marks on her arms flared; she could see the dim glow of their outlines through her sleeves. That cloth rubbing against her skin was hideously painful.

Moran didn’t fight her. That’s what she would remember with wonder later. Moran let herself be drawn—instantly—into the tight circle of Kaylin’s arms. Kaylin barely had time to close her eyes as the world directly in front of them exploded.

Chapter 2

Stone shattered as if it were brittle glass, fanning out from the spot where Moran had been standing. None of the resulting shards hit Kaylin or Moran; they were protected by a bubble of shimmering gold, courtesy of Kaylin’s familiar. But Darrow Lane wasn’t empty at this time of day; the shards hit pedestrians, wagons and fences. It was the pedestrians who screamed. Other voices picked up the sound as fear turned to panic and people began to flee, often into other people.

Kaylin looked up, scanning the windows of the buildings to either side of the road. Some were open. An old woman and a young child peered down at the street. While it was possible they were responsible for the magical attack, Kaylin doubted it.

“Private.”

Kaylin immediately loosened her grip on Moran. She didn’t completely release her. “Don’t move from here,” she told the sergeant. “We have no idea if that was the only attack.”

Moran looked at the broken stone inches from her feet. “I need to clear the area.”

“You don’t need to clear the area. You’re the target. If you attempt crowd control here and they’re not done yet, you’ll just get people killed.” It was a small miracle that no civilians had died, and Kaylin knew better than to bank on another one.

“You need the streets cleared?” Bellusdeo asked. She turned toward Kaylin. The front of her very practical clothing was smoldering. There were more holes in it than there was cloth. Bellusdeo had not been within the bubble’s radius. The Dragon’s eyes were very, very orange. If eyes were windows into the soul, Bellusdeo’s was on fire.

Kaylin nodded.

“Good.”

* * *

Bellusdeo roared.

In the middle of the crowded Darrow Lane road, this caused even more panic, which was probably why Dragons were technically forbidden to speak their mother tongue in public places. But the roar, unlike the explosion, continued for enough time that people could identify its source and get the hells away from it.

Kaylin then looked for the rest of her companions.

Mandoran was untouched; Tain wasn’t in immediate sight. Teela was. In her left hand, she carried a naked, runed blade; it was glowing brightly. Something about the metal of that blade reminded Kaylin of Severn’s weapon chain, which could combat magic if wielded properly.

“Mandoran,” Bellusdeo said, “you’ve been picking up Elantran at an astonishing rate. You’ve perhaps heard some of their colloquial phrases?”

“Far, far too many. Why?”

“I’m wondering if you’ve encountered this one: ‘it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.’”

Mandoran looked at Bellusdeo, his perfect brow rippling in minor confusion. “I don’t think either of our peoples are much given to begging for anything. Why do you ask?”

Bellusdeo roared again. The first roar had pretty much cleared the street around them for a good ten yards, although it had also panicked horses. Her smile was almost feline. She didn’t bother to shed her ruined clothing; there was no salvaging it. She dropped to her hands and knees and began to shed her human appearance, as well.

Kaylin found the transformation between two solid shapes disturbing; she always did. Flesh wasn’t supposed to be liquid; it wasn’t supposed to twist and expand, changing in both color and texture. Bellusdeo grew golden scales, the largest of which could have served as a very good shield had it been detached; she gained both height and length. And wings.

* * *

“Kitling?” Teela shouted, not bothering to glance back.

“We’re good,” Kaylin replied.

“Moran?”

“I’m fine. The road isn’t,” the sergeant added, looking down at the blistered, cracked and shattered stones at their feet. “If you let go of me, will I still be safe?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not Teela’s going to do something with that sword other than pose.”

Mandoran laughed. He was the only one who did. “She’s going to have to move fast,” he said.

“Mandoran, don’t—”

“I won’t hurt your precious citizens. Well, not all of them, at any rate.”

Bellusdeo spoke in a lower and fuller voice that was nevertheless distinctly her own. “I’ll leave the corporals in charge of apprehending the would-be assassins. Sergeant?”

Moran looked at the golden Dragon. And she was a golden Dragon now—a very large, very imposing one with jaws that were the size of Kaylin.

“I assume you haven’t ridden bareback Dragon before,” Bellusdeo said to the sergeant.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“A last time, too,” Kaylin muttered. She was still holding on to Moran.

Bellusdeo’s orange eyes paused over her worried expression—which was clearly reflected in them. “Magic?”

Kaylin nodded. “I don’t think they’ve finished yet.”

“Then get on—and don’t let go of Moran until you’re seated.”

Mounting a Dragon wasn’t exactly a no-handed operation, but Kaylin kept this to herself. She understood exactly why she was going to try her best to obey the command: if it weren’t for Kaylin’s alert and bristling familiar, Moran would be dead. Kaylin would probably be dead as well, if it had come to that.

“Has anyone ever tried to assassinate you before?” Bellusdeo asked the Aerian.

To Kaylin’s surprise, Moran answered, “Yes.”

“Often?”

“No. And before you continue the interrogation,” she added, struggling her way into a seated position between spinal ridges along the Dragon’s back, “never with magic.”

“I thought the damn Caste Court wanted you back,” Kaylin said, trying not to sound as outraged as she felt.

“Some of them do. Some, clearly, don’t.”

“And both factions are going to cause boatloads of trouble at the office.”

“Yes. I did warn you.”

Kaylin snorted. As Bellusdeo pushed off the ground and lifted her wings against the pull of gravity, Kaylin shouted, “You’ve got nothing on Bellusdeo!”

“Don’t,” the Dragon rumbled in response, “make me drop you. You might deserve it, but the sergeant doesn’t.”

* * *

The streets directly in front of the main entrance to the Halls of Law were crowded; they often were. Bellusdeo could have landed in them anyway—the approaching shadow of a very large Dragon was more efficient at clearing the streets than a full squad of mounted Swords. She chose instead to land in the stable yards, which had the advantage of fewer civilians. There were more horses, and the horses weren’t thrilled, but that would quickly become someone else’s problem.

Kaylin slid off Bellusdeo’s back; Moran followed. She was a lot shakier on her legs than Kaylin, but then again, she’d never ridden on something the size of a Dragon before. Or possibly on anything else, either.

The small dragon, flopped across Kaylin’s shoulder, lifted his head and squawked.

“We’re good to go,” Kaylin said.

Bellusdeo was reassuming her mortal shape. Given her lack of clothing, she instead donned Dragon armor, scales becoming plates that girded the whole of her body. Kaylin knew this included a helm, but Bellusdeo wasn’t fond of helms. Her hair was a glorious spill down her back; it matched and softened the rest of the armor.

“The Emperor is going to kill me,” Kaylin told the Dragon glumly.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Bellusdeo said with a quirky smile. “This one wasn’t aimed at me.”

Before Moran could speak, Kaylin turned to her and said, “Don’t even think it.”

“Think what?”

“Helen is the safest place for you to live in Elantra. You’re not moving out. There’s a reason the Emperor is willing to let Bellusdeo live with us.”

“I hadn’t even considered it,” Moran replied. When she saw Kaylin’s expression, she added, “It’s the truth. I’m busy considering who might feel desperate enough to kill me today. And why.”

“How many candidates are there?” Bellusdeo asked as they headed into the building.

“More than one.” The sergeant’s eyes were a steady, darkening blue. “I’d ask you not to mention this,” she added, “but given our method of arrival—and escape—it’s impossible to keep it secret.”

“From who?” Kaylin demanded.

“Lord Grammayre.” She closed her eyes. “And the rest of the Aerians.”

“The rest of the Aerians are Hawks, Moran. There’s only one way to take this.”

Moran’s expression made her look older and frailer. “The rest of the Aerians are people, kitling.” She almost never used the Barrani-coined diminutive. “They have lives outside of the Halls of Law, and most of those lives take place in the Aerie. It’s not as simple as you’d like it to be.”

“No, of course not,” Kaylin replied. “Nothing ever is.”

* * *

The first argument occurred within the Halls, rather than outside the main doors. Kaylin didn’t want to let Moran go to the infirmary on her own. Moran pointed out—correctly—that Kaylin’s job depended on a different sergeant, and he was probably orange-eyed and long-clawed by this point.

“He needed a new desk anyway,” Kaylin replied. “I don’t expect mages to show up in the infirmary to kill you. But it doesn’t take a mage.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You could, before. But you can’t even use one of your wings.” Those wings were not just for flight; they could be used to devastating effect in close physical combat. Although Kaylin had never seen Moran fight that way, she had seen Clint at work. It wasn’t pretty. “Let me heal it, Moran.”

“No.”

“Let me heal it, or I’m not going.”

Bellusdeo silently lifted Kaylin off her feet. “If it’s acceptable to you, Sergeant,” the Dragon said, “I would like to remain in the infirmary with you. The private, of course, has other duties.”

“The Emperor isn’t going to like that,” Moran said, but her lips were quirked in an odd smile as she met the Dragon’s gaze.

“No, he isn’t, is he?” Bellusdeo’s eyes lost a lot of their orange then.

Moran’s lost a lot of their blue.

Kaylin’s gaze bounced between them while her feet dangled off the ground.

“Yes, it’s acceptable to me. Please see Private Neya out.”

* * *

“Don’t even think it,” Bellusdeo said as she deposited Kaylin on her feet. “I am tired of being treated with condescension.”

“I don’t—”

“I am a Dragon. You are a mortal. The sergeant is willing to have me play bodyguard in the infirmary. Push the issue, and she will have neither of us. Is that what you want?” Before Kaylin could reply, she added, “I am endeavoring not to feel insulted. Your hesitation implies that you think you would be more effective.”

Insulting Dragons was the definition of career-limiting. And Bellusdeo was right. Mostly. “What if there’s an Arcane bomb?”

“Fine. If it makes you feel better, you can leave your familiar here, as well.”

The small dragon squawked.

Bellusdeo rolled her eyes. “Yes, I realize that. But they’re not going to get an Arcane bomb through the front doors, the side doors or the back doors. And anything else is just going to annoy me, not kill me.” She walked back into the infirmary and shut the door, loudly, in Kaylin’s face. The familiar stayed where he was, but complained more.

* * *

Moran was right.

As Kaylin approached the office space designated for the Hawks and their much-hated paperwork, she could practically hear Leontine growling. Marcus was seated at what remained of his desk.

He did, however, have paperwork, and it seemed to be more or less in stable piles.

His eyes were orange, his bristling fur made his face look 50 percent larger, and his fangs were prominent. Clearly, he’d already gotten the news.

“Private!”

She scurried over to the safe side of his desk, which at this point meant the side that was farthest from his unsheathed claws.

“Where’s the Dragon?”

“...In the infirmary.” Marcus’s eyes went from orange to near red. Bellusdeo was the only female Dragon in existence. Her survival and safety meant more than almost anything else to the Emperor; having her tangled up in magical assassination attempts—even if they weren’t aimed at her—was going to cause what was politely referred to as “politics.”

“Bellusdeo wasn’t injured. At all. She’s there to help Moran.” This reassurance smoothed some of the Leontine’s fur. Marcus’s eyes remained orange, however.

“What happened?”

“I’m not entirely certain.” This was apparently the wrong answer, but Marcus held on to patience. Barely. “Someone attempted to kill Sergeant Carafel. With magic. While we were on the way to the Halls.”

“They failed.”

Kaylin nodded.

“You entered the building through the stable yards.”

Kaylin nodded again. When Marcus glared at her, she confessed that Bellusdeo had flown Moran to the Halls.

“Marcus, what’s going on? Why is someone trying to kill Moran?”

“Did you see the assassin?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No. I felt it before it hit. I would have stayed to investigate, but Teela wasn’t certain they’d finished yet, and we wanted to get Moran to safety. If the assassin was actually an Aerian, we had Bellusdeo. In aerial combat against Dragons, the Aerians are kind of mortal.”

“You are going to make me lose most of my fur,” he growled. His eyes were probably as gold as they were going to get for the rest of the day. “Corporal Handred is waiting for you. Get to work.” The mirror at his desk demanded attention. Loudly.

Kaylin almost escaped it, heading for Severn, who was leaning against the wall beside the duty roster’s board. If she’d run, she might have.

“Private!”

Severn met her gaze, raising one brow in question.

She mouthed the Hawklord, her back turned to Marcus. There was no point in whispering; Leontine hearing would pick it all up anyway. She turned back to the sergeant.

“The Hawklord would like to see you. Now.”

* * *

Severn accompanied Kaylin up the Tower stairs. While they walked, she told him about her morning. Unlike Marcus, he seemed to take the information in stride. No one had been injured, except for the would-be assassin. Teela and Tain hadn’t arrived at the Halls yet, so it was possible they were still in pursuit.

“I asked Clint what was going on with the Aerians,” Kaylin added. “He won’t say a damn thing. But he definitely didn’t want Moran to be living with me.”

“Probably for your sake,” Severn pointed out. “And given the start of your morning, he’s not wrong to worry.”

“I’m going to have to invite him for dinner one day. He’ll change his mind.”

Severn glanced at her and shrugged, which was his polite way of disagreeing.

“No assassin is going to get anywhere near her while she’s with me.”

“She doesn’t spend every hour of her waking day in your house. She spends some on the way to the Halls, in the Halls, and on the way to your home.”

Kaylin glared at him.

“I’m not disagreeing with your decision. I think Helen is the safest for Moran—and given the sergeant’s general expression these days, Helen might be offering more than just safety. But Clint’s right. You’re in danger while you’re with her. You accept that danger. Don’t look at me like that—I accept it. I also acknowledge it.”

“What do you think the Hawklord’s going to say?”

“I don’t know. Even odds he’s going to tell you to ask Moran to move out.”

“He can get stuffed.”

“I didn’t say he’d expect you to agree.”

* * *

Kaylin hated politics. Hated them. She hated the stupid decisions, the game playing, the grandstanding. She hated political decisions made by people who never had to do any of the law’s actual work. She hated the pervasive sense of superiority and smugness that underlay all of the rules.

She was going to try very, very hard not to hate the Hawklord. He wasn’t the source of the bureaucratic rules that were often handed down; he was simply the mediator, and their only shield against the worst of them. She told herself that grimly as she faced his closed doors—and the door ward that girded them.

“Let me,” Severn said quietly.

She shook her head. “I don’t know if he knows you’re here.”

“He knows.”

“Fine. I don’t think he summoned you. He’ll probably tolerate your presence. You are my partner, after all.” Gritting her teeth, she lifted her left hand and placed it against the ward. As usual, the magic required to open the door shot through her palm, numbing it instantly; all of her skin screeched in protest. The small dragon squawked.

She was tempted to let her familiar melt the damn door ward. She just didn’t trust him to melt only that. And her meager pay wouldn’t stretch to cover the cost of doors specifically prepared to carry magical wards.

The doors rolled open. The Hawklord was standing in the circle at the center of the Tower, his eyes a dismal shade of blue. Kaylin was heartily sick of blue eyes, and the working day had barely started. Unfortunately, she didn’t expect to see many colors that weren’t blue or orange today. Severn, being human, had eyes that didn’t change, for which she was grateful.

“Private,” the Hawklord said.

She executed a very precise salute. Severn, by her side, did the same, and did it better.

“Corporal.” There was a question in the word; it bounced off Severn’s completely shuttered expression. “Very well.” The Hawklord gestured; the doors closed. Only when they were completely shut did he speak again. “Private, you’ve had a very eventful morning.”

“Sir.”

His brows rose very slightly. “Is that a ‘yes, sir,’ or a ‘no, sir’?”

“It’s a sir.”

“I see. You are no doubt aware,” he continued, turning away from Kaylin and toward the Tower’s central mirror, “that my morning has become vastly more eventful as a result of yours?” He gestured the mirror to life, and its silver, reflective surface absorbed his reflection, scattering it to the edges of the frame. What remained was a kind of pale, ash-gray sheen. Or at least that’s what Kaylin could see.

“How is Moran adjusting to life with you?”

It wasn’t the question she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t promising.

“Shouldn’t you be asking Moran that?”

“She is not currently present. You are.” His tone made clear that his tolerance for insubordination was quickly reaching an all-time low.

“She’s doing well. She likes Helen.”

“The...Avatar of your home?”

“Yes. Helen likes her. She has her own rooms in the house—everyone does.” She hesitated; the Hawklord was expressionless. “Helen makes rooms for people who are going to be permanent guests. She made rooms suitable for an Aerian. She’s got furniture suitable for an Aerian, and the ceilings are tall.”

“Moran is not flying.”

“No. She won’t let me heal her.”

“Yes. I forbade it.”

Kaylin stared at him in outrage. She managed to shut her mouth before words fell out.

“I did not expect you would become involved with the sergeant. She is in the infirmary; you are a street Hawk. You have a sergeant, and if he growls incessantly about the difficulty of having you in his ranks, he is capable of containing any damage you cause.” The Hawklord exhaled. “I did not expect that you would come to work with a Dragon in tow. I have been told very, very quietly that the Dragon is worth more to the Emperor than the rest of the Hawks combined—including myself.”

“...By the Emperor?”

“Yes. Lord Bellusdeo has occupied much of my time. I would ask you to leave her at home, but it has also been made clear that the choice is to be Lord Bellusdeo’s. I did not expect to add Moran dar Carafel to the list of things with which I must deal. What are you trying not to say?”

“...The Emperor is fine with Moran living with me.”

The Hawklord closed his eyes briefly. “Is it too much to hope that you did not hear this directly from the Emperor himself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Emperor may change his opinion soon. It is his prerogative.”

Kaylin said a lot of nothing for a long time.

“I wish to know two things. First: tell me what happened this morning. Records, map.” The mirror finally surrendered an image that Kaylin could see. She obligingly approached it, scanning the lines that were supposed to represent streets and buildings. She lifted a finger, and a point appeared—in bright, scarlet red—beneath it.

“Here.” Kaylin then recounted the events of the morning, leaving out the general snark that passed for conversation between Bellusdeo and Mandoran. In fact, she tried to leave Mandoran out of the discussion altogether. The Hawklord wasn’t buying it, and she surrendered and answered his pointed questions.

“Have you examined the site?”

“No—we came straight to the Halls. Moran was the target, and we couldn’t see the assassins; we wanted to get her to safety. The Halls have some of the most impressive protections against illegal magic in the city. Only the palace has better. Are the Imperial mages at the site?”

“That would be one of the many, many difficulties this morning has caused.”

“What difficulty?”

“The nature of the assassin is unknown, yes?”

Kaylin had just finished saying as much, and chose to wait.

“The Aerian Caste Court is, however, attempting to invoke the laws of exemption. They do not wish the incident to be investigated at all.”

As a Hawk, Kaylin despised the laws of exemption. The laws were the laws. Crimes were crimes. But exemptions could legally be granted to the racial Caste Courts if both the criminals and the victims were all part of one happy race. She understood, as only someone born in the fiefs could, that money and power created their own special laws of exemption on either side of the Ablayne River—but damn it, she hated official sanction.

“On what grounds?” she demanded.

He was silent.

“First,” she said, raising a finger, “the attack took place on Darrow Lane. It’s one of the busier stretches of Elantran streetfront, and it is definitively not in the Southern Reach or the Aeries.” The Hawklord nodded. “Second, we couldn’t see the would-be assassin. We have no idea who, or what, he or she was. They could have been Barrani. They could have been mortal. In order for the laws of exemption to be invoked, the assassin would have to be an Aerian.” She slowed down then.

“Is there a third point?”

“Third: there was visible property damage. The street was shattered. No argument can be made that the magic used didn’t affect the rest of the non-Aerian population. People were probably injured by bits of flying debris. Um, can I go back to the second point now?”

“Yes.”

“If the Caste Court is attempting to invoke exemption, they’re pretty much declaring the assassin was Aerian. Which strongly implies that they know who the assassin is. Or was.”

“Yes.”

Kaylin swore. A lot. The Hawklord didn’t even grimace.

“Lord Grammayre, who exactly is Moran?”

He exhaled and turned back to the mirror. “You said that Teela, Tain and Mandoran were in pursuit of the assassin.”

Kaylin nodded. “Teela must have expected serious trouble. She brought her runed sword. If they catch the assassin, and the assassin isn’t Aerian, the Caste Court can go—”

“Yes. The second matter I wished to discuss with you is Moran’s rooms.”

“Her rooms have nothing to do with the Halls,” Kaylin replied.

The Hawklord waited.

“She’s a guest. She’s under Helen’s protection. If Moran won’t discuss the rooms with you, it’s not right that I do.”

“I have spoken, briefly, with Moran about her current living situation.” He waved a hand across the mirror. “Records, personal.”

Kaylin dared a glance at Severn; Severn was frowning. It was his concentration frown; he wasn’t expecting danger. He watched the mirror’s rippling surface while it stilled.

The Hawkord did the same.

* * *

The image that came into view made Kaylin wonder if the Hawklord had somehow already seen the inside of Moran’s rooms. She understood that asking questions to which one already knew the answer was an interrogation technique—a way of gauging how much someone else knew, or how much they were willing to admit to knowing. It was also a way of determining how much truth you were likely to get.

“Do you recognize this?” the Hawklord asked.

The Records capture looked like Moran’s rooms. The ones he’d asked about. But as the mirror’s view pulled back, she realized that these weren’t Moran’s rooms. There was too much sky and too much rock in the distance. Mostly rock. She could see Aerians flying precise, tight circles to the right and above. She thought she recognized the formation, but it broke and regrouped.

“No,” she said, to the Hawklord’s question. “I don’t. This is in the Southern Reach?”

“In one of its outer recesses, yes. It is considered a primitive—a very primitive—residence. They are not much used in modern times.”

This primitive residence, however, wasn’t uninhabited.

All of Kaylin’s experience of Aerians was in the Halls of Law, or rather, with Hawks. There were no old Aerians in service to the Imperial Law. This was Kaylin’s first glimpse of an elderly Aerian. Her hair was silver with age; hints of iron added color to what otherwise would have been a uniform white. Her wings were frosted in the same way, but they showed no other sign of age to Kaylin’s admittedly unfamiliar eye. But they were rigid, held high.

“Who is she?” she heard herself ask the Hawklord.

“She was Gennet.”

“Her flight?” No one used flight names in the office; the Hawklord had gently forbidden it. But Kaylin knew—from racial integration classes—that the Aerians were not distinguished by family name so much as flight name. She’d badgered Clint for his, but he pointed out that he was working on roster time, which meant he wasn’t obliged to answer. Was, in fact, obligated to do the opposite.

The Hawklord was silent for so long, Kaylin was certain he didn’t intend to answer. “She had no flight,” he finally said.

“How could she have no flight?”

“You think of flights as family,” he replied. “They serve that function; they are almost analogous. But they are more—and less—than that. Gennet, at the time of this Records capture, had kin, but she had no flight.”

“Did they kick her out?”

“No, Kaylin.”

“Did she leave?”

“No. And it is not of the flights that I meant to speak.” But he watched, and so did Kaylin, as a child came running out of what looked like the mouth of a cave. An Aerian child. She was young, perhaps six or seven, maybe older. Her hair was dark, long; it fell about her shoulders and down her back, swishing as she moved. She was looking up, and up again. Kaylin could see the shadows cross her upturned face.

“That girl,” Kaylin began.

The Hawklord lifted his left wing in a snap of motion, as if he were shaking off liquid. The image shattered, scattering across a surface that quickly became simple and reflective. Kaylin faced herself and the Hawklord in the oval frame.

“That child was all that remained of Gennet’s family.”

“Gennet’s dead,” Kaylin said flatly, although she meant to ask instead of state.

“Yes.”

“How do you have this in Records?”

“It is personal.”

“These are official Records!”

“Yes. Yes, they are.” He turned to study her. “Have you seen Moran’s quarters?”

Kaylin nodded. When he failed to look away or respond, she said, “Yes.” And then, taking a deeper breath, and remembering everything she owed this Aerian, she continued. “Yes. Her rooms look very, very much like this impoverished residence. I think—I think she was happy there. That was Moran, wasn’t it?”

The Hawklord didn’t answer.

Chapter 3

Teela and Tain had arrived at the office by the time Kaylin had finished her meeting with the Hawklord—or until the Hawklord had dismissed her, which was more accurate. She had gotten no further information from him, and she wasn’t certain what to do with the information she had gotten. She couldn’t figure out what the Hawklord wanted her to do.

But she was angry—and disturbed—by the Aerian application for exemption status. She wasn’t certain what she hoped Teela and Tain had found. No, actually, that wasn’t true. She wanted the assassin to be a Barrani Arcanist, because everyone with any capacity for thought considered them to be raging social evils.

She didn’t want them to catch an Aerian.

She accepted, as she glumly made her way down the stairs, that she was being unfair. The only Aerians she’d met were all Hawks, and she desperately wanted the Aerians to be above something as grim and illegal as assassination. But of course Aerians were people. If the Hawks managed to be Hawks first, it didn’t mean there was nothing left over.

Kaylin had always wanted family, ever since her mother died and maybe even before that. But she wondered if the lack of family was a possible advantage to her working life. She didn’t have family responsibilities that tied or bound her; she didn’t have to choose, consciously and continuously, between being a Hawk and being a human.

She hadn’t expected Clint’s reaction to Moran’s injury. She hadn’t expected to be told to butt out, to not care, to offer no help—except by Moran. She wanted to storm to the front doors and shout at Clint the way she’d been smart enough—barely—not to shout at the Hawklord.

She’s a Hawk, damn it.

“I think everyone knows that, kitling,” a familiar voice said. “Everyone knows you think that’s the only thing that matters, as well.” When Teela came into view at the arch that separated the Tower stairs from the office, she looked up. “I assume you didn’t mean to say that out loud?”

“Does it matter?” Kaylin replied, flushing. “It’s not like it’s going to change anyone’s attitude anyway.”

The Barrani Hawk shrugged. “If you’re going to think out loud, you might want to do it in a place with less acoustical emphasis.”

* * *

Teela had not chosen to meet Kaylin at the foot of the Tower stairs for no reason. Although Tain was absent, Mandoran could be seen in the distance, sprawled across Teela’s chair. The rest of the Barrani Hawks—there were only two in the office at the moment—viewed him with healthy suspicion. If he noticed, he didn’t care.

“Did you catch him?”

“That’s making an assumption.”

“Fine. Did you catch her?”

“No.”

“Did you at least see the assassin?”

“Not directly.”

“Teela—”

“Kitling,” Teela said gently, “we’ve been pulled off of the investigation. The Aerian Caste Court—”

“Can stuff itself!”

“Perhaps,” was the neutral reply. “But until the Caste Court is told to, as you put it, stuff itself by the Emperor, that call’s not ours to make. What did the Hawklord say?”

“He told me that the Caste Court had applied for pretty much instant exemption.”

Teela nodded, as if she’d expected no less. It made Kaylin feel vaguely stupid or naive, neither of which she enjoyed. Her life in the fiefs—or her life since she’d been thirteen—should have destroyed that naïveté completely.

But they were Aerians.

“You need to stop idolizing the Aerians.” As comforting statements went, this was about rock bottom—but it was pure Teela.

“I don’t idolize them.”

“You do. Kitling, they have wings, yes, but they’re mortal. They’re people. Wings don’t give them any moral or ethical advantage over anyone else who lives in this city. I know there were no Aerians in the fiefs. But there were no Dragons, either, and you don’t expect the Dragons to somehow be paragons of virtue. They’re not a single thing. They’re people, like the rest of us. And some of them are going to be unpleasant sons of bitches. It’s just the law of averages.”

“I don’t expect them to be paragons,” Kaylin replied.

“Good. That’ll make things in the near future much less painful for you.”

* * *

Kaylin did not immediately leave to go on patrol. She should have, but Marcus was busy growling at paperwork and his mirror. He was aware that she’d returned to the office, but he wasn’t yet of a mind to object. Or dock her pay.

She tapped Mandoran on the shoulder. He looked up at her. “Are we leaving?” he asked, deserting the chair Teela was almost certain to kick him out of anyway.

“Yes. We’re patrolling Elani. You always enjoy that.”

“And the Dragon?”

“She’s staying here.”

“Good.”

Kaylin exhaled heavily. She liked Mandoran, most of the time. It didn’t stop her from wanting to smack the back of his head. “You know, I think you’d actually like her if you could treat her with a smidgen of respect.”

“Not worth the effort,” he said, straightening his clothing. His hair, being Barrani hair, was straight and perfectly untangled.

“I like Bellusdeo.”

“Yes. And she likes you. Bellusdeo and I were born, raised, and trained in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. I am never going to be happy about Dragons. And she is never going to be happy about Barrani.”

“She seems to like Teela.”

“Teela is hardly Barrani.”

“I heard that,” Teela said, a distinct edge in her voice. “And if it came from anyone else, they’d be picking up teeth. Or body parts.” To Kaylin, she said, “Try to keep him out of trouble, hmm?”

* * *

Kaylin’s beat was Elani Street, and she headed there with Severn and Mandoran in tow. Only years of long practice stopped her from patrolling in ground-eating, angry strides. She made clear what she thought of politics in several different languages, settling at last on Leontine as the most appropriate, because it implied the most violence.

Mandoran understood every word; he’d picked up most of the phrasing from Teela without the need to actually learn it himself. Kaylin’s extremely foul temper seemed to be a balm to what had started out as a gloomy, bored mood.

“Did you see the assassin?” Kaylin demanded.

“Of course I did.”

“Did Teela?”

Sensing her mood, he answered. “No. And before you ask, I don’t know why I could see her and Teela couldn’t. She could, however, take a look through my eyes.”

“Male or female?”

“Is there a bet riding on the outcome?”

Kaylin rolled her eyes.

“What? If you could be careful enough to count every breath you take during an average day, you’d bet on that.” It was more or less true, which was annoying. So far, the morning had been nothing but annoying.

“Let me guess. You didn’t think to make a bet.”

She hadn’t. “It doesn’t matter. Was the would-be assassin an Aerian?” It was the only question that actually mattered. She desperately wanted the answer to be no, because she desperately wanted to be able to thumb her nose at the Caste Court. And if she were being honest, that wasn’t the whole of the reason.

She was upset because Teela was probably right. For some reason, Kaylin expected better from the Aerians.

“It depends.”

Kaylin glared. “On what? Did they have wings?”

“Yes.”

What was left of her hope curled up in a ball on the inside of her chest. Mandoran, however, stopped walking, forcing her and Severn to stop. When she turned back, he said, “Am I Barrani?”

* * *

She didn’t answer the question immediately, although anyone else looking at Mandoran would have. He looked like the Barrani. He didn’t look young or old; his age was only obvious, according to Teela, because of his behavior. But he had the same skin tone, the same eyes, the same perfect hair and flawless skin, and even the same height.

But she knew that the answer was both yes and no. Mandoran was in Elantra for Annarion’s sake, but he was trying to relearn the art of being Barrani, the race to which he’d been born, for his own.

“Does Teela know?”

“Of course she does. Teela couldn’t see her,” he added. “I imagine only your familiar and I could. She could see what I saw, when she chose to look.”

“Her.”

Mandoran grinned. Kaylin couldn’t. “Teela’s talking to your sergeant now. Oh, no, wait—she’s heading up the Tower stairs to talk to the Hawklord.” He frowned. “She’s just shut me down, so I can’t give you a report on what he has to say. This is bad information?”

“It means the Caste Court is likely to get its damn exemption, yes.” She walked for two full blocks, Mandoran keeping easy pace with her stride. “She wasn’t like you.”

“No. But she wasn’t entirely Aerian, to my eye. She had the form, the shape, the wings—and she also had an odd weapon, as well as a healthy command of magic. But Teela said her invisibility wasn’t entirely due to a spell.”

“What was it due to, in Teela’s opinion? Don’t give me that look—if I ask Teela she’ll just pat me on the head and tell me to mind my own business.”

“Not entirely clear.”

Kaylin hesitated. “Can we take a small detour?” she asked Severn.

He nodded. “Darrow Lane?”

“How did you guess?”

* * *

As it happened, they didn’t make it to Darrow Lane—an area that would have taken “investigational difficulty” to new heights, given the midday traffic. Kaylin had been considering the logistics glumly while they walked very briskly to the site of the attack, but she stopped as a passing shadow grew larger and darker overhead. It was an Aerian shadow, and it wasn’t doing a patrol flyby. She wasn’t surprised to see Clint join his shadow as he landed.

She wasn’t even surprised to see that his eyes were very blue. Disheartened, but not surprised.

“I’ve been sent to find you,” he told her.

“You’ve been sent to chase me away from Darrow Lane.”

“I’ve been sent to make certain that you observe the...etiquette of the laws of exemption, yes.” His expression made clear that he didn’t care for exemptions—but no one in the Halls did, unless the exemptions were for the Barrani. That was just practical. The Barrani were pretty much death for any Hawk who wasn’t.

And, Kaylin thought silently, even the Barrani didn’t care much if the Barrani were murdering each other.

“Clint—what’s going on?”

“I’m not on the Caste Court,” he replied. “And no matter how much I rise in rank, I’m never going to be on the Caste Court. I can’t answer your question.”

“Would you, if you knew?”

“Laws of exemption,” he replied.

Her hands found her hips as she looked up at her favorite Aerian. “Laws of exemption apply to legal consequences. They don’t govern answering bloody questions!”

“Kitling, the human Caste Court isn’t the Aerian Caste Court. They exert different powers. The human Caste Court might as well call itself the ‘Order of Merchants with Jumped-Up Titles and Pretensions’ for all the difference it makes to anyone who isn’t the Emperor. Do you know what happens to outcaste humans?”

Kaylin frowned. “What do you mean, what happens?”

“Are you, that you know of, outcaste?”

“No.” She paused. “I don’t think so.”

“Exactly. The human Caste Court doesn’t give a damn about you. As far as I can tell, they don’t give a damn about humans in general, except the rich or powerful ones. You don’t give a damn about them—you probably can’t name the members that constitute the Caste Court.”

“It’s not relevant to my life or my work,” she said, sounding defensive, hating it and unable to stop. She’d never liked being called stupid, even by implication, and while she’d made strides in her response, the feeling never completely vanished.

“No, it’s not,” Clint replied, his voice gentling. He’d known her for years. “You’re a Hawk. You’re a human. There’s no point in learning all of this crap because it doesn’t make a difference to either your life or your work. But, kitling, the Aerian Caste Court isn’t the human one.”

“You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“It’s never been relevant. If Moran weren’t a Hawk, it wouldn’t be relevant. There’s a reason she’s in charge of the infirmary.”

“Because she’s terrifying?”

He winced, giving in for a moment to amusement. It died fairly quickly. “Other than that. Do you know what happens to outcaste Aerians?”

She didn’t. She shook her head. “Was it covered in racial integration classes?”

“No. The human Caste Court adopted many of the practices of the Barrani Caste Court. They adopted many of the same attitudes and the same pretensions. If Barrani are made outcaste, and they are powerful, they are simply shunned.

“But the Aerian Caste Court adopted many of the practices of the Dragons. Do you know what happens to outcaste Dragons?”

“They die. Unless they fly into Ravellon.”

“Yes. It is the duty of each and every Dragon to exterminate the outcaste.”

“Well, yes—now. There’s only one remaining flight, and its boss happens to be the Eternal Emperor.”

“The Aerian Caste Court is far crueler, in my opinion, than the Dragon Court.”

Kaylin almost gaped, and pressed her mouth into a tighter line to stop that. “What happens to outcaste Aerians?” She had never asked. It had never occurred to her that it would be relevant, and—damn Teela, anyway—she had never truly imagined that an Aerian could be outcaste.

“They cut off our wings and abandon us on the ground.”

She stared at him. “Cut off your wings.”

“Yes.”

“Your wings.”

“Yes.” He looked down at her, some of the harshness leaving his expression.

“But Moran—”

“The sergeant will never be made outcaste.”

“So...they’ll just murder her instead.”

“Yes.”

“Clint, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“No. But, Kaylin—you have a knack for kicking the hornet’s nest, even when you can’t see it. Look, I’ve known you since you were a kid. I know that you’ll only kick the nest when you’re in a big hurry to help someone; you probably won’t see it until there are swarms of angry insects buzzing around your face. I can ask you not to get involved.” His acute stare made it clear that he already had. “What I need you to understand, in this, is that the hornets aren’t going to sting you.

“If you kick this nest, they’re going to sting Aerians. In the worst cases, we won’t get welts. We’ll lose our lives in every meaningful sense. And yes, before you ask, mutilation is covered by the racial laws of exemption as long as both the involved parties are Aerian. The only person—the only person—who can safely discuss this with you is Moran. Ask me, ask anyone else, and get any answer...” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

“I can’t even look at the attack site?”

“No. The exemption has been granted.”

* * *

There were no more detours on the way to Elani.

Mandoran’s eyes were a restless green with hints of blue when he turned to Kaylin. “He’s wrong about the Barrani Court. In theory, it is the duty of Barrani Lords to kill the outcaste.”

“Nightshade,” was her flat reply.

“We’re a pragmatic people.”

“You invented freaking table manners, I swear. How is that pragmatic? Using utensils I get, but why do we need five forks?” Kaylin had to force herself not to march.

“It’s almost never five.” More seriously, he continued, “We’re pragmatic. Only when politics are heavily involved does it become trickier.”

“Meaning?”

“If the High Lord wished to rid himself of a particularly fractious member of his Court, he would order that lord to destroy the outcaste in question—let’s use Nightshade as our example. If the fractious lord doesn’t wish to become outcaste on a flimsy technicality, he has only one choice. He must attempt to destroy Nightshade.” Mandoran’s tone made clear how unsuccessful this theoretical lord would be.

“So...don’t tick off the High Lord.”

“That’s always good advice. Nightshade has survived all prior attempts on his life, and he is considered a favorite, in spite of his status, with the Lady. And now you’ve distracted me.”

“You were doing most of the talking.”

“True. What I meant was, if the High Lord were intent on the destruction of a Barrani Lord, that lord would die. Period.”

“Clint’s not wrong. That wasn’t what he was saying.”

“No? I admit Teela doesn’t have all that much information about him, at least that she’s willing to share.”

“He’s telling me that my interference could cost him his wings. His literal wings. Because the implication is the Caste Court takes its excommunication very, very seriously. And clearly, Moran is at the heart of it. He’s also telling me that Moran won’t be stripped of her wings. The worst she can do is die.

“But he didn’t make that claim for the Hawklord.” Her shoulders were bunching themselves up near her neck, which annoyed the familiar, who squawked loudly. “And I owe Lord Grammayre my life. All of it.” She glanced at Severn. “What do we do?”

“Our jobs,” he replied. “And until we figure out where the hornet’s nest is, only our jobs.”

* * *

The Elani beat was relatively quiet. The Hawks broke up one fight, stopped someone from breaking a window, gave directions—and withheld advice, which was much, much harder—to new visitors to the quarter. Mandoran headed into Margot’s house of fraud, leaving Kaylin and Severn to their actual work.

“If you’re doing that just to annoy me, it’s working,” Kaylin told him.

Mandoran grinned. “Teela’s advice. So you know who to blame.”

It was, if one ignored the assassination attempt—and apparently, she’d been ordered to do just that—a very normal day. The type of day she yearned for every time she left her own front doors.

* * *

The unusual part of the Elani patrol—and really, on a street full of fortune-telling frauds and miracle-medicine sellers, angry ex-customers trying to cause damage was the usual—came at the end of the patrol. Mandoran had rejoined them, his lips a suspicious shade of red that didn’t look entirely natural. He probably deserved to be clipped by a door that flew open without warning.

The door belonged to Evanton’s shop. Grethan, Evanton’s apprentice, stood in the open frame, looking vaguely anxious. The anxiety cleared as the small dragon launched itself off Kaylin’s shoulders and onto the young apprentice’s.

Kaylin and Severn, who had come to an instant halt, shared a glance before speaking. “Were you looking for us?” Kaylin asked.

Grethan nodded. “Evanton wants to speak to you. He’s in the kitchen with tea. And, um. Tea.”

“Um?”

“He has another guest. The lady’s been in, on and off, for the past three weeks. She wants him to make something he’s not certain he wants to make.”

“And...he’s asking my advice? Did he fall and hit his head?”

“No. If he fell, he’d probably manage to hit my head instead,” was the morose reply. “I’m not sure why he wants to see you,” he added.

“Does he want to see the rest of us?” Mandoran asked, remaining outside in the street. Given Mandoran’s previous visits—which had involved a lot of water in the wrong places—this was a perfectly reasonable question.

“He didn’t say,” Grethan replied. “But I think it should be fine.”

Mandoran looked dubious.

“I think he actually likes you and your brother. He just thinks you’re walking disasters waiting to happen.”

“They are,” Kaylin said before Grethan could continue. “You coming in or waiting outside?”

* * *

The small dragon liked Grethan; he always had. Grethan therefore remained his perch of interest while the apprentice led them to Evanton and his mysterious guest. They were, in fact, in the kitchen, a functional room that had never been intended for guests. The table could comfortably fit four. Evanton’s expression made clear that it was going to uncomfortably fit five, although he did take pity on Mandoran after everyone else was seated. “You can wander around the store, if you’d prefer. I would ask that you not touch anything without checking with Grethan first.”

Mandoran looked to Kaylin, who nodded with some envy.

Kaylin tried to gauge the importance of this visitor. Evanton didn’t let just anyone into his kitchen—probably some mix of pride and self-preservation—but guests of import or power were usually led through the rickety hall in the back to the Keeper’s Garden.

Tea was poured, and Evanton had a cup situated somewhere in front of him, although he didn’t generally like to drink it. He watched Kaylin for a long, silent breath.

“What did I do wrong this time?” It was a surrender on her part. Someone had to speak first, or they’d be here all afternoon.

“That really is the question, isn’t it?” Evanton exhaled. He turned to his guest. “This is Private Kaylin Neya, and Corporal Severn Handred. They are, as you can see, Imperial Hawks, ground division.”

“I’m not sure we call it a division,” Kaylin said. “The rest is accurate.”

She was an older woman. Not as old as Evanton, of course, but her hair was silver with shots of rooted black, and her square face was lined. Her eyes were a pale gray. She was what Kaylin thought of as handsome: there was nothing frail about her, but she had a compelling face. At one point in her life, she might have been considered beautiful. She apparently had no name she was willing to have divulged, because Kaylin and Severn were the only ones who were introduced.

Kaylin didn’t much care about manners for their own sake, but she was as curious as the next person, and the lack of an introduction made her wonder who the woman was, what she was hiding and what laws she’d broken. Then again, Kaylin was a Hawk, and her mind often ran in that direction, full tilt.

“Grethan said you wanted to see us.”

“Yes. I wish to ask your opinion.”

Evanton’s guest clearly didn’t want him to do so. She drank her tea looking stiff and increasingly uncomfortable in every possible way.

“Ask, then—we’re on the clock, and the sergeant is in a foul mood.”

“I would imagine he is, given the assassination attempt.”

Kaylin stiffened. Severn appeared to relax. Only one of these things was accurate. “You’re not just bringing that up to make conversation.”

“No. I try very hard not to waste my own time, given the number of people who seem willing to waste it for me.”

“What do you know about it, and how much do you want me to pass on?”

“I know that the would-be assassin was an Aerian.”

“How do you know that?” Severn asked, in the conversational tones people used to talk about either sports or weather.

Evanton ignored the question. “This is not a matter for the Hawks,” he said. “I believe it will be classified under exemption status. The target was Aerian, the assassin was Aerian. And I do not believe the target will seek to have justice done in the Imperial Courts. I would even be willing to wager on it.” Evanton was aware of the Hawks’ propensity for betting, and he knew whom most of that habit had come from.

“With your own money?”

“Not with money.”

“Odds?”

“Any odds.”

“Fine.” Kaylin folded. “What do you know about the attempt?”

“Very little. It was carried out by magic. The mage responsible will not be catalogued in the Imperial investigative archives, so there is no point at all in bringing in Imperial mages, even if the case were remanded to the regular system.”

“Do you know why?”

Evanton looked to his guest, who stiffened, her hands tightening around the bowl of the teacup as if to draw strength from it. She looked across the table at Kaylin. “If Moran dar Carafel is dead, the wings will pass on.”

“The wings?”

The woman’s lips tightened; this was followed by a downward shift of shoulders as she bowed her head. She was silent for long enough that Kaylin thought she wasn’t going to answer.

Evanton said nothing; he waited, as if he were patience personified. Given the way he generally treated both Grethan and Kaylin, this was unusual. “I was reluctant to involve you,” he said—to Kaylin. “I am still reluctant. You have a way of causing snarls and snags in the cleanest and simplest of tasks—most of which are not predictable and therefore not controllable. But in this case, there is no other option. Lillias, if you will not speak, I must allow the Hawks to go back to their duties.”

Lillias. It was not a familiar name. Kaylin waited while the woman struggled in the silence left by Evanton.

When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were a deep blue.

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