Cast in Ruin (3 page)

His silence could have meant many things, but since his face was as expressive as cold stone, she didn’t bother to look at him.

“I would like you to peruse the rest of the documents,” he finally said.

She did. It wasn’t a small pile—although it wasn’t Leontine in proportion—but there really weren’t that many cases in which she’d lost control of her inexplicable magic to such devastating effect; she had literally skinned a man alive. She didn’t regret it. Not in any real way. He would have died anyway, after his trial. But…the trial had been moot, and Marcus had
not
been happy.

The next report made her right hand tighten into a white-knuckled fist before she got halfway down the first page. It wasn’t a case report. It wasn’t a report that the Halls of Law would ever generate.

It was, instead, a report on the Guild of Midwives. She almost dropped the report on the desk. Instead, she forced her hand to relax—as much as it could—while she read. It detailed all the emergency call-ins she’d done—and it detailed, in some cases, the results. She lifted the top page. Her memory wasn’t the best, but she thought, looking briefly at dates and commentary, none in a hand she recognized, that it was more complete than anything she could have written for him, had he asked.

Grim, she flipped through the pile, and was unsurprised to see that he also had a similar report for each visit she’d made to Evanton’s shop on Elani street. This angered her less; she
knew
the Dragon Court spied on Evanton.

There was a brief report of her visits to the High Halls, again not much to fuss about; there was a report on every visit she had made in recent months to the fiefs—any fief crossing. There was a report that followed her movements to, and from, both the Leontine Quarter and the Tha’alani Quarter. Diarmat was silent as she read, as if waiting for a reaction she didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing.

But the final report was of the Foundling Hall.

CHAPTER 2

It took all the self-control Kaylin had ever mastered not to crumple the document into a ball and throw it. She couldn’t even read it, although her eyes grazed the words, recognizing dates and familiar names.

“So,” Diarmat said in his cool, clipped voice. She forced herself to meet his gaze—or she tried. He wasn’t looking at her face; he was staring, inner membranes fully extended, at her wrist. She glanced at it. The gems on the bracer she wore were flashing brightly enough that they could be clearly seen through layers of clothing.

The lights cut through her anger as if they were a cold, cold dagger.

Get a grip,
she told herself.
It’s a piece of paper. It’s just another damn piece of paper.
It’s not like all the
rest
of the reports didn’t make clear that the Court had followed every damn move she’d made for years; why would she expect they’d somehow miss her visits to the Foundling Hall? She took a slow, deep breath—the type of breath she’d learned to take when she’d been injured and she was in pain.

The lights on the bracer began to dim, but they dimmed slowly.

Only when they were no longer visible did she turn to face Diarmat, the reports shaking in her tightened hands. Without a single word, she handed them back to him. He waited for a minute before nodding and retrieving them. “That will be all.”

She turned and made her way toward the doors, but stopped before she touched them and turned back. “They’re my hoard,” she told him quietly. She didn’t have to shout; Dragons, like Leontines, had a very acute sense of hearing.

His eyes were a pale shade of copper. “You are mortal,” he replied with no hesitation whatsoever. “Mortals neither have, nor understand, the concept. The word
hoarding,
” he added with genuine distaste, “is possibly as close as your inferior race can come.”

She turned instantly on her heel and pushed the doors open; words were burning the insides of her mouth, and she couldn’t let them out in his earshot. But when the doors were halfway open, he said, “Private.” Human hearing
was
inferior, and he hadn’t raised his voice; he wasn’t speaking his native tongue. She pretended not to hear him, and escaped into the hall.

She was halfway down that hall—her guide having failed to materialize—when she ran into Sanabalis. Sadly, head down, body tilted in that particular forward angle that was a fast walk threatening to break into an all-out run, it was literal. She bounced; he didn’t budge. A half-formed apology slid out of her mouth as she righted herself and looked up.

“I see your first class ended early.”

She nodded.

“Join me.” It wasn’t worded as a request, and he didn’t actually wait to see if she was going to treat it as one; he turned and began to walk down the hall. Since this implied that he knew where he was going—and since she didn’t—she fell in behind him. He led her from the unfamiliar halls to ones she’d walked through often enough that she could find her bearings.

He walked, not surprisingly, to his rooms, opening the door and holding it while she entered—as if he half suspected she’d turn and bolt for the exit if he wasn’t watching. Since it happened to be true, she didn’t begrudge him the suspicion. There was no food in the room, but the comforting set of impressive windows still looked out at the three towers of the Halls of Law, and even though it was now evening, they could be seen clearly in the moon’s light, reminding her, at a remove, of why she was here at all.

She drew a deep breath, and the line of her shoulders sagged when she exhaled. But she faced the towers, not the Dragon Lord, as they did.

“The lesson?” Sanabalis asked quietly.

She shrugged. It was stiff, and she felt her shoulders bunching up around her neck again. “I survived.”

“Did you walk out?”

“No. I was dismissed.”

She heard Sanabalis exhale. “Lord Diarmat does not generally teach—when he is given to do so—in his personal quarters.”

“No? Does he do it in an abattoir instead?”

She felt the brief heat of his snort, and turned. “The Palace Guard has several open yards, and a handful of enclosed rooms, for the purpose of training.”

“He’s not training me to be an Imperial Guard.”

“No.”

“What, exactly, is my relationship to Lord Diarmat in the Hierarchy, anyway?”

“What is your relationship to the Human Castelord?”

“Pardon?”

“I believe you heard the question.”

She thought about it for a bit, and then said, “I don’t have one. He presides over the Caste Court. He meets with the Emperor on matters of governance. I owe him nothing; he owes me nothing.”

“Unless you choose to take refuge in the Caste Court.”

It was never going to happen. “I don’t understand the question.”

“No. You don’t. Lord Diarmat is part of the Dragon Court. In theory, you owe the Dragon Court itself no fealty; your oath of office is to the Emperor’s Law, and not directly to the Emperor himself. The Emperor is, however, your Commander, in a strictly technical sense. The titles the Dragons are given are a sign of public respect, no more.

“You would not, however, sneer publicly at your caste lord.”

“No.” She would never, if Marcus or the Hawklord had anything to say about it,
meet
the human caste lord.

“In a like fashion, you tender Diarmat the respect that is his due as a councilor of the Emperor. He is not, however, your Commander; the line of command for the Halls of Law passes from the Emperor directly to the Lords of Law. You are not therefore required to offer him any of the narrow range of salutes or obeisances taught in the Halls. He is not, technically, your superior, where in this case, technically means legally.”

“Which means?”

He smiled. His eyes were gold, and his lower membranes, unlike Diarmat’s, were entirely lowered. “It means that legally you owe him no deference. Legally, you owe the Lord of the High Halls and his Consort no deference, either.”

“I’m technically a Lord of the High Court.”

“Believe that I am conversant with your history in the High Court. You are, however, not
required
by Imperial law to comport yourself according to the dictates of the High Court, outcaste exception laws notwithstanding.”

“I’m not breaking any laws if I cease to breathe, either.”

“Indeed. You see my point.”

She could barely see his point, and begrudged the comprehension.

“The very deliberate and complicated social structure of the High Court evolved, in part, for what reason?”

“Sanabalis—”

“I have done you the courtesy of holding our classes in abeyance. If, however, it is necessary, I will rescind that courtesy.”

“Those are
magic
lessons!”

“Indeed. But what one learns in one discipline can be applied to others in unpredictable ways; education is a process.” He folded his arms across his chest, and waited.

Sanabalis’s meeting room was littered with chairs; the walls contained shelves with glass doors, and a mirror lurked in one of them. Kaylin availed herself of a chair, sitting heavily as she did. Lowering her face into her hands, she forced herself to think about what she knew of the High Court; it didn’t take all that long.

“The Barrani tend to kill each other as an idle pastime.”

“So it’s been rumored.”

“Barrani crimes are
all
confined to the Barrani Caste Court. They don’t reach the Imperial Court, ever.”

“So the Barrani commit no interracial crimes?”

She snorted. “Of course they do. But if there’s any chance we’ll
catch
them and they’ll be forced to trial in the Imperial Courts, the criminals wind up conveniently and messily dead. And often on our doorstep, because gods know the Barrani have more important things to do than clean up their own mess.”

Sanabalis actually chuckled at that. “An interesting digression. The rest of your answer?”

“There is no court of last resort among the Barrani. There are no Hawks or Swords that any
sane
Barrani will use. The Barrani are part of the City, but the only way they seem to really interact involves commerce. If I were Barrani, I would therefore have to live and act as if anyone—anyone at all—could be planning to assassinate me. Or if anyone could decide it was necessary if I somehow offended them.

“I could, if I felt powerful enough and secure enough, afford to offend the less powerful with impunity. I’m not sure I’d consider it wise. But…on the other hand, I suppose if I
did
behave that way, it would give people second thoughts about attempting to take
me
down.”

“Does this sound familiar?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “It sounds like any other sort of thug law. But it’s got more money behind it.”

“Good. The way in which it is clothed is crucial to its execution, but it is, in essence, something you do understand. It does not require your approval; survival has often been its own imperative.”

“You’re trying to tell me that the same is true of the Dragon Court.”

“No. The Emperor
is
your Commander.”

“Then what was your point?”

“Lord Diarmat is not. He is, however, dangerous in precisely the same way the Barrani are dangerous. He is not above the law—but if he chooses to break the law, the Emperor may grant him dispensation if he feels such extremes were merited.”

“And total lack of respect—”

“For a Dragon of his stature? I leave you to draw your own conclusions.”

“I’m sworn to uphold his laws. Saying that you killed someone because they annoyed you isn’t codified as acceptable, by those laws, anywhere that I’m aware of.”

“You are clearly not looking carefully enough.” He let his arms drop to his sides. “How did the lesson go?”

“He didn’t attempt to
teach
anything. I thought I’d get a list of things that were no-go around the Emperor. You know: don’t burp, don’t swear, don’t scratch your armpit, don’t wear green.”

“Green?”

“Or whatever color he doesn’t like. I thought he’d give me a list of acceptable ways to address the Emperor. With, you know, titles, and gestures—how to salute, how far down to kneel, whether or not you
ever
get to stand on your feet in his presence.”

“And?”

“He made me stand in front of his desk for half an hour without saying a word while he wrote a letter to the Hawklord.”

“I…see. And you did?”

“I work for Marcus. When Marcus is ticked, you stand in front of his desk at
attention
for as long as it damn well takes. I can do it for hours. I’m not
great
at it, and I don’t
enjoy
it, but that’s never mattered much.”

Sanabalis said crisply, “Good.” He smiled, but it was slender, and there was a trace of edge in the expression. “After the half hour?”

“He handed me a bunch of papers. I assumed they’d be the class transcripts from the Halls, which
every
prospective teacher seems to pore over. Even you.”

“They were not.”

“No. They were—” She sucked in air and almost pushed herself out of her chair. Or his chair. “Reports.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “They displeased you.”

“No one’s
pleased
to find out that every single thing they’ve ever done has been spied on, Sanabalis.” She did push herself out of the chair then. “But the last report—or the last one I looked at—was the Foundling Hall report.”

Sanabalis’s inner membranes rose. “Your reaction?”

“I sat on my reaction,” she told him, pacing around the chair. “But…the bracer started to light up.”

The Dragon Lord lifted a hand. “You did not speak?”

“No.”

“Bad,” he told her grimly. “But it will have to do. The class was ended at that point?”

“More or less.”

“I will attempt to augment your lessons with some of the material you expected to be handed. I am busy,” he added more severely, “but I will take the time to compose a list. You will not, however, be short of work.”

“I’m working on the outside desk at the moment. You’ve got a way to get me back in the streets?” It was the
only
possible bright spot in a day that had left her with the nausea that comes in the aftermath of fury.

“So to speak. I, too, have a letter which I wish you to deliver to Lord Grammayre. I guarantee that its contents will differ somewhat radically from those of Lord Diarmat’s.”

Kaylin went home in the dark. Not that it was ever completely dark in Elantra, and certainly not close to the Palace, where magic had been used the same way stones had: it made the streets passable. Kaylin was all for useful magic; she usually felt that there wasn’t
enough
of it.

Severn wasn’t waiting outside for her, which was a good sign. It meant he trusted her to more or less survive a lesson with Diarmat intact. But she missed his company on the way home, because she was, in fact, still fighting fury, and it helped to have someone she could both shout at and not offend while she did. There were no muggings, and nothing that looked as though it demanded legal intervention. There were, on the other hand, a few people who’d already spent too much time or money in a tavern.

She could unlock the front door of the apartment building in her sleep; unlocking it in the dark wasn’t much of an issue. Navigation in the dark only involved the narrow steps, and they were worn and warped enough that they creaked in a totally predictable way as she climbed them. It wasn’t late, yet. She’d eaten, and if she was hungry, she wasn’t starving. Hunger could wait until morning.

Her door was locked. It often was, but enough of her friends had keys that it wasn’t a guarantee; if Teela or Tain were totally bored, they’d show up and hang around. Tain was a bit more circumspect than Teela, who would often lounge strewn across the narrow bed while she waited. Severn, if worried, would also show up, but like Tain, he generally waited in her one chair.

Unlike Tain, he often tidied while he waited.

But he wasn’t waiting now, and the room was its usual mess. None of that mess generally caused her to trip and injure herself in the dark, as it was mostly clothing. There were, of course, magical lights that one could buy to alleviate the darkness—but those cost money, and Kaylin was chronically short of funding. She hesitated in the open door and glanced with trepidation at the mirror on the wall; she relaxed when she saw that it was, like the rest of the room, dark. No messages meant no emergencies.