Cast In Flight. Michelle Sagara

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