The Chronicles of Elantra Bundle

by Michelle Sagara

  If Leontines were incapable of acting, Barrani were their opposite; they were incapable of not acting. Immortal, stunningly beautiful, and ultimately cool, they had a quiet love of showmanship. It had taken her years to understand that, as well.

  They were, however, plenty capable of being smug, which Tain was now demonstrating to the office staff; he had coins in his hand.

  Had she won, she probably wouldn’t. But there was no such thing as a friendly bet among the Barrani, and no one—not even the men and women who were nominally his equals in rank—wanted to be in the wrong kind of debt to a Barrani.

  Still, it didn’t stop them from betting. She prided herself on being the person who had introduced the office to this pastime; it was one of the few that she’d enjoyed in her childhood. Then again, anyone who grew up in the wrong part of town—the huge neighborhood known colloquially as the fiefs in the right parts of town—enjoyed gambling. There wasn’t much else about the life to enjoy.

  Certainly not its brevity.

  She shrugged and made her way to Tain. “You won?”

  “It looks that way.” His teeth were chipped; they made his smile look almost natural. They also made him obvious to anyone who hadn’t known the Barrani for months. They looked so much alike, it was hard for humans—or mere humans, as the Barrani often called them—to tell them apart. Much malicious humor could be had in mistaken identity—all of it at a cost to the person making the mistake.

  His smile cooled slightly as his gaze glanced off her cheek. There, in thin blue lines that could be called spidery, was the mark of Lord Nightshade—the Barrani outcaste Lord who ruled the fief that Kaylin had grown up in. The mark meant something to the Barrani, and none of it was good.

  If she were honest, it meant something to her. But she couldn’t quite say what, and she was content to let the memory lie. Not that she had much choice; Lord Nightshade was not of a mind to remove the mark, and short of that, the only way to effect such a removal also involved the removal of her head. Which, according to Marcus, she’d barely miss anyway, given how much she used it.

  In ones and twos the dozen or so Barrani—well, fourteen, if she were paying close attention—that were also privileged to call themselves Hawks had been brought by either Tain or Teela to look at the mark.

  In one or two cases, it was a good damn thing Teela was there; they were almost unrestrained once the shock had worn off, and the restraint they did have was all external.

  Kaylin had gotten used to this.

  And the Barrani, in turn, had grown accustomed to the sight of the offending mark. But they didn’t like it.

  They didn’t like what it meant.

  Kaylin understood that the word they muttered under their breaths was something that loosely translated into consort. Very loosely. And with a lot more vehemence.

  Pointing out that marking a human in this fashion was against both Barrani caste law and Imperial Law had met with as much disdain as Kaylin ever showed the Barrani.

  “Fieflord, remember? Nightshade? Not exactly the biggest upholder of Imperial law?”

  But she didn’t take offense. It was hard to; they were Barrani. A Barrani who wasn’t arrogant was also not breathing. And in a strange way, it was a comfort; they were enraged for her.

  Of course, there was a tad more possessiveness in that anger than she’d have ideally liked, but beggars couldn’t be choosy.

  “Where’s Teela?” she asked Tain. The two were often inseparable.

  Tain’s silence had a little of the Hawklord’s grimness.

  “Either you’re not going to answer,” she said carefully, “or you are, and I won’t like it.”

  “Why would you be displeased?” he said.

  “You are.”

  “It is a matter that concerns the Barrani.” Cold and imperious.

  “This means you won’t answer.”

  “No,” he said, the word measured and stretched thin, given it was only a meager syllable, and that, in Elantran. Elantran was the default language of the Hawks, because everyone spoke it. Unfortunately, the labyrinthine paper trail of the Law itself was written in Barrani. He could have spoken his mother tongue, and she’d have been able to follow it with the ease of long practice, Barrani being one of the few things she’d been able to learn while locked in a classroom and chained to a desk, metaphorically speaking.

  “You’ve looked at the duty roster?” he added.

  “Not recently. It’s not like it hasn’t been changed six times a day for the last week. Why?”

  He gestured toward the board that had been nailed into the wall by an annoyed bureaucrat. There, also nailed into the wall, was a long piece of paper that bore several marks and a few gashes—that would be Marcus.

  The only time the duty roster was this complicated was during the Festival. She approached the board and scanned it carefully.

  “I’m not on it!”

  “Lucky you. You want to talk to so-called merchants who can’t spell and can’t plot their way out of a wet bag?”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “And that?”

  “Talking to—or listening to—mages who couldn’t police their way out of a murder.” She frowned. “What’s this?” she asked him softly.

  “Good girl.”

  Anyone else, she would have hit. Barrani, on the other hand, required more cautious displays of annoyance.

  “High Court duty?” She frowned. Looked at the names. There were Aerians among them, and Barrani; there were almost no humans.

  Severn was one of them.

  “What the hell is High Court duty?”

  “Have you paid no attention to office gossip?”

  “I’ve been busy being insulted by Imperial mages.”

  “This Festival,” he said quietly, “the castelord has called his Court. It has been a number of years since he has chosen to do so. I don’t think you were even alive for the last one.”

  She had never been good in the classroom. She had never been bad outside of it. “Teela’s gone to Court,” she said flatly.

  “She was summoned, yes.”

  “But she’s—”

  “She has not been summoned as a Hawk,” he continued quietly. “She will take her place among her peers in the High Caste.”

  Kaylin almost gaped at him. “Teela? In the High Caste Court?”

  His expression made clear that there was nothing humorous about it, although Kaylin wasn’t laughing. He nodded. The nod was stiff for a Barrani nod; they kind of epitomized grace.

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “She may well be.”

  “Why?”

  “She failed,” he said softly, “to bring the nature of your…mark…to the castelord’s attention.”

  “But he—” She stopped. “Evarrim.”

  “Lord Evarrim. You attracted his interest,” he added softly. “What have we told you about attracting the interest of a high lord?”

  “It’s lethal.”

  “Yes. But not always for you.” The disapproval in the words was mild, for Tain. “She will be called upon to defend her oversight,” he added.

  “You’re worried?”

  Tain shrugged. “She owes me money.”

  Kaylin laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Severn’s there.”

  “I note that you haven’t tried to kill him since you returned to active duty.”

  She shrugged. It was easier than words. Everything about Severn had changed. And much about Kaylin, to Kaylin’s horror, had changed, as well.

  What they had—what had driven them apart—had been the foundations upon which she’d built this life; he’d kicked them out from under her feet, and she still didn’t know where to stand. Not where he was concerned.

  But she’d been given the opportunity to be rid of him. And she’d rejected it, in the privacy of the Hawklord’s tower. There wasn’t likely to be a second such opportunity offered.

  “Why is he on duty roster there?”


  Tain didn’t answer.

  “Why am I not on—oh. Never mind.” She lifted a hand and covered the mark on her cheek. To Tain, it made no difference; she could have gouged a chunk of her face off, and he’d still see it. Anyone born Barrani would.

  “It will be over in one way or another.”

  “Over good, or over bad?”

  “It depends,” he said. His voice was the kind of guarded that implied imminent death. “On the castelord.”

  “But she’s a Hawk!”

  “Indeed. The Hawks comprise many races, however, and the caste-law of the race has precedence in exceptional circumstances. As you would know, if you’d paid more attention in your classes.”

  Exceptional circumstances: When either of two situations proved true. One: No other species was involved in the commission of the crime or its outcome. This was about as likely as the sun never rising or setting, at least in this city. Two: No member of any other species could be found who would admit that they had been damaged in some way by the commission of the crime in question. This, given the nature of the Barrani’s exceptionally long memory and their famous ability to nurse a grudge down a dozen merely mortal generations, was entirely too likely.

  “He can’t make her outcaste. She’s already pledged to Imperial service.”

  “The Lords of Law are pledged to the service of the Emperor. Employing an outcaste Barrani would not be in the best interests of any one of those Lords.”

  “Marcus won’t let—”

  “Kaylin. Let it go. As I said, it is a Barrani affair. Teela accepted the invitation. She has gone.”

  “You let her go.” She didn’t even bother to try to keep the accusation out of her voice.

  “And had you been summoned by your castelord, we would have done the same.”

  “Humans don’t have castelords. Not like that.”

  “No. Not like that. You couldn’t. The span of your years is too short. Were it not for the intolerable speed at which you breed, there would be no humans in Elantra.” He turned away, then.

  And she realized, as he did, that he’d slipped into High Barrani, and she hadn’t even noticed.

  Mouth set in a thin line, she worked her way over to Marcus’s desk. He was, to no one’s surprise, on lunch. On early lunch. She was certain there was some betting going on about the duration of the lunch itself.

  But that wasn’t her problem.

  She began to leaf through the notices and permits on his desk, moving them with care, as if they had been constructed by a finicky architect who’d been drinking too much.

  After about ten minutes, she found what she was looking for—the writs or grants of rights given to foreign dignitaries.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Marcus came back from lunch an hour and a half later, he walked to his desk. The circuitous way. He paused in front of the schedule nailed to the wall, glared at the various marks made by the Hawks that were lucky—or unlucky—in their assigned duties, and added a few of his own. Although the schedule itself was an official document, this particular rendering of it was not; it was meant, or so office parlance said, as a courtesy. What he added was against the spirit of the thing, but he had a Leontine sense of courtesy; it wasn’t as if he’d drawn blood.

  And if the Hawks didn’t like what he appended, they could come crying. Once.

  He stopped by Caitlin’s desk, and threw the mirror on the wall a thoroughly disgusted glare; like anything that made noise and conveyed messages, it never went off at his convenience. It had been dull and silent for the entire morning. If there was anything of import to be reported, the Swords and the Wolves were having all of the luck.

  He had paperwork.

  Oh, and Kaylin.

  She was perched in the center of his chair, looking like a leather-clad waif, her hair pulled up in imitation of Caitlin’s, and with vastly less success; she’d stuck a stick through its center, and hair had already escaped it in great chunks.

  “What,” he growled, “are you doing in my chair?”

  His chair was large; he was heavier than any of the humans he commanded, and wider by far than the Barrani. It wasn’t his favorite piece of furniture; he’d broken three chairs this year because of the shoddy workmanship of the craftsmen employed by the Halls of Law. Armrests were not meant to snap off that easily.

  She appeared to be taking notes.

  And, as was so often the case when she wasn’t locked in a classroom, her concentration had shut out most of the office noise. His presence dimmed the rest. He could walk silently; as a hunter, he had to. He was seldom given the opportunity to use the skill.

  When he was exactly behind her, he roared in her ear.

  Papers went flying like loosed birds.

  As she tried to catch some of them, she gave him a reproachful jab. As he was smiling, this was safe. Barely. But this was Kaylin; she hadn’t the grace to look flustered or embarrassed. Not for the first time, he thought she’d been born in the wrong skin; she was like a young Leontine kit—a female, at that—and very little unnerved her for long.

  Then again, she’d been under his care for seven years, and she’d come as a youngling. If he hadn’t been entirely protective in the normal Elantran sense of the word, he had protected her, and she took advantage of the fact without shame. Or notice.

  “If you want to do paperwork,” he said, sitting on the sparse inches of desk that weren’t covered by paper, “you could have volunteered.”

  “Would it get me out of those damn lessons?”

  “No.”

  “Overtime pay?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged. “Well, then. I guess I’m not stupid.”

  His roar was mostly laugh. Many humans found differentiating between the two difficult—or at best, unwise, as the cost of a mistake was high—but Kaylin didn’t labor under that difficulty.

  Which was good, considering how many other difficulties she had. He held out a hand, and she dropped the papers she’d picked up across his palm. He glanced at them, and then back at her face. “You’re suddenly interested in diplomats?”

  She shrugged. “Had to happen sometime.”

  “Then you guess wrong. You are stupid.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “These appear to be Barrani,” he said. He had the satisfaction of hearing her curse. In Aerian. He wasn’t entirely conversant with Aerian, but, like any good Hawk, he knew the right words.

  “Flight feathers don’t fit,” he replied calmly. He looked over her head, his eyes snapping into their habitual glare. “What are you looking at? You don’t have enough to keep you occupied?”

  To a chorus of mumbles, which were a type of applause if you were stuck behind a desk for any length of time, he turned back to Kaylin. “You heard,” he said flatly.

  “Tain told me.”

  “If Tain told you, he also informed you that any interference on our part would not be appreciated.”

  She shrugged. “There are a lot of lords and ladies in that bundle.”

  “There always are.” His fangs appeared as he drew his lips over them. “Do not get involved in this, Kaylin.”

  “But she’s a—”

  “She has her place. You have yours. At the moment, they’re not the same.” When she met his glare, and equaled it, he let his shoulders fall; they’d risen, as had his fur. “Given the snit the mage left in, you’ve probably managed to buy yourself a couple of days.”

  “You didn’t put me on the duty roster.”

  “Observant girl.”

  “Is it because of the damn mages?”

  “No. I take my orders from the Lord of Hawks.”

  “Then why—”

  “I used the word orders, Private. Try to pay attention.” He reached out with a claw and drew it across her cheek. The gesture was gentle. “You’ve been marked. You’ve already caused enough grief for this lifetime. You can wait ten years until I retire and give the poor fool who takes my stripes hell. Lord Evarrim has written, did Gramma
yre mention this?”

  “No.”

  “Then he probably thought it best you didn’t know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good.” He shoved her to one side and sat; the chair creaked. He’d managed to split leather twice. “Do not mess with the Arcanists.”

  “Sir.”

  “How many Festivals have you patrolled?”

  “Officially?”

  “Or unofficially.”

  “Enough.” The fact that she was evasive meant that some of those patrols had occurred while her life was rooted in the fief of Nightshade. She’d been a child, then. And she probably hadn’t been there to preserve the peace or prevent a crime.

  “Good. You are aware that a few unscrupulous men—”

  “A few?” Very few people did sarcasm as well as Kaylin.

  “Very well, if you insist on being picky. A few competent and unscrupulous men work under the cover of the Festival crowds for their own ends?”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. In all of your many colorful descriptions of High Caste Barrani Lords, did any of them include stupid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Lord Evarrim is not a stupid man.”

  “He’s not a man, sir.”

  “That’s enough, Kaylin.”

  “Sir.”

  “If he is aware of your presence in the streets, it is likely that he will take the opportunity to interview you. As we’ve now denied his pleasant request three times, he’ll be composing less pleasant requests, which are often misunderstood by little Sergeants like me—” and here his voice did break in a growl “—and mislabeled as threats. It isn’t as if he hasn’t asked politely, after all.

  “Have you ever been to the High Court?”

  “No.”

  “You think of it as a place of refinement and unearthly beauty.”

  “No, sir! I—”

  He lifted a paw. Inspected it for invisible splinters. Let her splutter for a few more minutes. “It is beautiful in exactly the same way the Emperor’s sword is beautiful—it is a work of art, and it is usually drawn for only one purpose. You do not want to be present when the blade is exposed.”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. You will sit this Festival out. And before you start whining, may I just point out how many Hawks would switch places with you in a second?”