скачать книгу бесплатно
“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.”
