Cast In Fury (28 page)

“Her kids are used to Marrin. They don’t see the world in quite the same way.”

“You’re used to Marrin. You hated the Tha’alani.”

“I had some experience with what they actually do for the Emperor.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose—”

“No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He shrugged. “But before you met the Tha’alani?”

“There were stories.”

“Yes, but from whom?”

“What?”

“Who told you those stories?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“You can’t answer.”

“Not off the top of my head, no. Severn?”

“Street stories,” he supplied. “But vague ones—most of our stories concerned Ferals and the fieflord, either of which were more likely to kill us than the Tha’alani.”

“Do Tha’alani live in the fiefs?”

“What do you think?”

“That would be a no.” Rennick turned to look at Kaylin.

“Pull that arm in or you’ll lose it,” she told him.

“My arm, my risk.”

“That’s the one you write with. You lose that arm on our watch, it won’t be your head they’ll remove.”

He laughed at that, and dragged his sleeve back across the window edge. “You heard stories. The people with crossbows and clubs that look like table legs heard stories. But Marrin’s kids didn’t.”

“Marrin’s not big on stories that encourage fear of anything but her.”

“Good point.”

“She doesn’t encourage gossip. The kids do it anyway, but they’re hampered by the fact that she hates to let them out of her sight for a minute. And they know that fur, fangs and claws
don’t
make her an animal. They’ve probably asked at one point or another why they weren’t born Leontine, and she’s probably told them that they were meant to be human. But being human, for Marrin, isn’t the same as being human for children whose parents haven’t died and abandoned them.

“I think she wants them to fit in here. To understand that this city isn’t just human—or Leontine, or Tha’alani or Aerian or Dragon.”

“You forgot the Barrani.”

“Sue me. She’s afraid that if they’re too caught up in the external differences, they’ll—I don’t know. Be afraid. They’ve got enough to be afraid of.”

“You admire her.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Fair enough. I admit a sneaking admiration for her myself, and not just because she can keep a few dozen children in line. I’d pay a lot to know why she bothers.”

“Is there
anyone’s
life story you don’t want to know?”

“Not really.” His expression was unexpectedly serious. “Because people make a story of their lives. Gains, losses, tragedy and triumph—you can tell a lot about someone simply by what they put into each category. You can learn a lot about what
you
put into each category by your reaction to them. They teach you about yourself without ever intending to do it—and they teach you a lot about life. Put ten people in the streets at a crime scene, and ask them what they saw after. If they can’t talk to each other at all during the interrogation, you’ll probably have ten different versions of events. They edit what they remember. They try to make sense of it as they go.

“And I’ll stop with the lecture now. I don’t
like
people much—they irritate and annoy me. But I’m fascinated by them anyway.”

She looked at him for a minute and then snorted. “You just like being the center of their attention.”

“That, too.”

When they returned Rennick to his quarters in the Imperial Palace, he opened the door, took one look at the mess he had made over the course of his work, and snorted. That said, he began to move piles of paper onto other piles of paper, in what seemed a completely random bustle. Kaylin, having had years to observe both Caitlin and Marcus, did the smart thing; she stood as close to the wall as possible and touched nothing.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, as it became clear he was trying to make some space on the table to do actual work, “but I’m thinking of using your foundlings.”

“I mind.” Pause. “For what?”

“Do you
always
say no before your brain catches up with your mouth?”

“Pretty much. It’s safer that way—usually people who are asking me to do something aren’t volunteering to shower me with gold, land or favors.”

“You remind me of myself when I was younger.”

“Thanks. I think. That was supposed to be a compliment?”

“It was an observation,” he said, and if his voice had been any drier, it would have caught fire. “What I had in mind, as usual, is my current assignment.”

“What about your current assignment?”

“The Tha’alani like children, and clearly the children—yours at any rate—aren’t afraid of the Tha’alani. I’d like to use your little excursion in multiculturalism to present that aspect of their culture.”

“Say that again with smaller words.”

He glared. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

“I would like to open the play with children—ours—in the Tha’alani Quarter. I’ll probably add an older child, who can be naturally suspicious of the Tha’alani, having heard all the stories about the Tha’alani’s abilities. This has the advantage of not offending the Tha’alani sense of truth.”

“Go on.”

“If we set the visit
before
the tidal wave, we can have the children in the Quarter when the Tha’alani become aware of the danger. The entire play will of course be set during that time.”

“Rennick—”

“I understand that we’re taking liberty with dates and facts,” he continued. “Welcome to the world of fiction. I will be as true as I can be to the Tha’alani sense of themselves, but I
don’t know
how they knew about the tidal wave. I’ll have to make that up on the fly.”

“If you’re not damn careful, it won’t matter what else the play says about them—you’ll be adding to their problems.”

“Believe that I’m aware of the danger, Private. But this has the best shot of accomplishing what the play is intended to accomplish. I hate messages,” he added, with a genuine grimace of distaste. “And it can’t
be
about the message, in the end, or people will fall asleep before it’s delivered.”

“What message?”

“Brotherly love, that sort of crap.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “If you’d known this was in your future would you have accepted the position?”

“Free room and board and the food’s good. But yes, I don’t completely approve of the job at hand, although I
do
understand the necessity. I’m basically trying to get a bunch of people to sort out their difficulties with their own inner thugs, but on a large scale. The type of people who
have
inner thugs are not generally the type of people I’d waste time on, and certainly not a lot of thought.”

“They’re just afraid. Everyone’s afraid of something, Rennick.”

“True. But if everyone tried to burn down an entire Quarter because they were afraid, I think the Emperor would turn the whole lot of us into small piles of ash.”

“Not really,” Severn said, reminding them both that there was a third person present. “The Emperor is something that is more terrifying than the Tha’alani—on a normal day. Or week. Fear can also be helpful when governing.”

“I’m not particularly afraid of the Emperor,” Rennick replied.

“You’re not particularly afraid of Dragons, probably because you’ve never seen one in its native form,” Kaylin retorted.

“And you have?”

Severn’s gaze was mild as he looked at her. There was hardly a hint of glare in it. But the little that was there spoke volumes. Kaylin wanted to smack herself.

“Yes,” she said curtly. “And since I
am
afraid of Dragons, I’m going to shut my mouth now.”

Rennick raised one brow. “I highly doubt that.”

At the end of the next four hours, during which time Rennick had crosshatched a number of pristine pieces of expensive paper, Kaylin was grudgingly impressed. “I think we can get the little historical lies past the Tha’alani,” she told him. “With some difficulty.”

“We being you?”

“Pretty much. Ybelline has worked in the Imperial Court for years, and she’ll understand why we need to take the liberties we’re taking. She might even be able to point out the dangers that we can’t see that could arise out of our version of events.”

“Good. I’ll just go over and irritate all of the servants now, shall I?”

“You could try polite. I hear it works.”

“Must be hearsay—I can’t imagine you’ve got a lot of experience with it.”

She grimaced. “I have a lot of experience with it,” she told him firmly. “Severn’s my partner.”

Rennick laughed. Severn smiled. It was one of those rare perfect moments in which Kaylin felt she’d done something right. Or at least that it was possible to achieve something good.

But before Rennick could irritate the servants on their behalf there was a knock at the door.

Rennick, frowning, answered.

“It’s for you,” he said, stepping out of the way.

Sanabalis stood in the hall, unattended by anything that wasn’t a wall sconce. “I believe you’ve finished your work for the day,” he said, directing the comment toward Kaylin.

The moment of satisfaction burst, like the fragile and illusory bubble it was. “Yes, we’ve finished,” she said.

“Good. I believe you have other duties to attend. Mr. Rennick.” He offered a brief—and apparently sincere—bow. With Dragons, it was hard to tell. “I have taken the liberty of seconding your services for the evening,” he told Kaylin as she approached the door.

“What?”

“I informed Sergeant Mallory that you will be excused from your verbal debriefing for the evening.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that.”

“If he wishes to argue, he is free to pursue the argument through the customary channels.”

She looked at Sanabalis’s eyes. In the light from the hall—none of it bright, given that night was on the other side of the many windows—they were orange.

“The customary channels,” she said, almost morosely, “are me.” It was all the argument she was willing to offer.

Sanabalis wasn’t without mercy; he’d arranged food, although he insisted they eat it on the inside of a moving Imperial Carriage.

“I’ve already eaten,” he told Kaylin, eyeing the work of the Imperial kitchens with mild distaste when she offered him some of it.

“Does the Emperor know where you’re going?”

He lifted one silver brow.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I don’t think you understand the magnitude of the difficulty,” he replied, “although in this case, your ignorance is to our advantage. There are some things you would avoid, if you had any wisdom.” He lifted a hand before she could speak in her own defense—and to be fair, she was about to embark on just such a speech. “I am doing you the courtesy of assuming that
if
you understood, I would not now be here.”

“Why is that, exactly?”

“You would have been unlikely to enter the Quarter on your own, and were that the case, you would have had no use for an unaffiliated mage.”

“Is—is this going to get back to Mallory?”

“It is not a matter for the Halls of Law,” Sanabalis said. “Not at present. The Emperor has taken a personal interest in the case, and the Caste Courts have not yet abandoned their resolve to keep the matter within their jurisdiction.”

“They intend to let you examine the body.”

“Yes.”

“But that makes it a case for the Imperial Courts.”

“No.”

“Sanabalis—”

“The Emperor makes law, Kaylin. I do not completely understand your reaction to this case. I do not
want
to understand it. Is that clear?”

She considered the options. Nodded.

“Good. You have another five minutes to finish eating. I’d suggest you take it.”

“I won’t bring the meat to the Castelord.”

“Very good. Don’t bring anything else either.”

“Yes, Sanabalis.”

Adar was waiting. There were no lamps. The moonlight was clear and bright, and the air was heavy with humidity. Summer, in Elantra, was very slow to let go, and even the cool of night and sea breeze didn’t drop the temperature enough.

But in the absence of lamps, there were torches on long poles that appeared to be stuck into the ground. Adar gleamed ivory and gold in the mixed light; he wore long, pale robes—they might have been gray or blue or white. He stood in the center of a semicircle comprised of Leontine men. They wore robes as well, but it was harder to see them; they were seated at Adar’s feet.

Their whiskers twitched as Sanabalis approached, but nothing else moved. They didn’t lift their heads; they didn’t greet him. They rose only when Adar gestured, and they stepped away from him as he stepped forward, becoming part of the shadows that night was.

Sanabalis approached Adar and stopped a few yards from where the torches burned. He inclined his head but did not bow. His robes were the dark blue of the Imperial Court, the rich hue bleeding to black.

Kaylin and Severn wore working clothes. Tabards, chain shirts, regulation boots. They had not been required to leave their weapons behind—if there was a behind—because there were no guards to make that request. Guards of the type that they’d met the first time were not capable of this solemnity.

And, Kaylin thought, it’s not as if the weapons made that much of a difference. Old or not—and these were, in her opinion, the Elders—the Leontines gathered here wouldn’t have too much trouble with two humans if they felt the need to fight. They
would,
on the other hand, have a great deal of difficulty with a Dragon.

Adar did not kneel. He lowered his head gravely and spoke in Leontine. Kaylin understood almost nothing that he said, and she understood most Leontine.

Sanabalis, however, replied in High Barrani. “Yes. I will examine the body here. I trust Private Neya and Corporal Handred, and even if I did not trust them, I believe it necessary that they bear witness.”

Adar didn’t exactly jump for joy, but he didn’t argue either. “Eldest,” he said, speaking in the growling cadence of a Leontine who in theory spoke Barrani. He gestured, and the Elders stepped forward.