Cast In Flight. Michelle Sagara

his throat as well, but not deeply enough. They hadn’t taken the time to stab him through the heart, possibly because they didn’t have that time. It was the only thing she was grateful for. She heard Moran barking orders and felt a twinge of sympathy for the private on the receiving end. Belatedly, she hoped that private wasn’t actually her.

      The familiar was crooning, a wordless sound that almost managed to be musical, if music was slightly flat and occasionally squawky. She listened as she felt the wound begin to close.

      “Enough, Kaylin,” Moran said quietly.

      “He’s lost a lot of blood,” she answered, without opening her eyes.

      “We’re aware of that. He’ll survive on his own now.”

      “I can—”

      “You’ll be flat on your back for at least three days, according to Teela. You’ve done enough.”

      “But—”

      “Hawklord’s orders,” Moran added.

      * * *

      Kaylin was grateful that she was only a private by the end of that grueling day. The office was in an uproar—but Hawks in uproar generally gave very strong meaning to the words deafening silence. There were always exceptions, but for the most part, Marcus was in low-growl mode all day. It wasn’t considered wise to interrupt that or, more precisely, to draw his attention when he was in that mood.

      Because she was only a private, she had no idea who had murdered one of the two prisoners and almost killed the other. The Records of cell captures weren’t considered of relevance to privates. Or corporals. Or possibly even sergeants. They were above Kaylin’s pay grade, and for the long, long hours of that day, she wanted them to stay that way enough that she could ignore the insistent who would do this that rattled around her head. Someone had just thrown away his career, and quite possibly his freedom, in order to ensure that the assassins never had the opportunity to talk.

      Bellusdeo remained in the infirmary—on the inside, near Moran. Teela and Tain took up positions on the outside of the infirmary door, by command of their very growly sergeant. The surviving prisoner had not regained consciousness by the end of the day.

      Kaylin and Severn weren’t in the office for most of that day, though. They were out patrolling Elani Street. It was the first time in a long time that Kaylin appreciated petty fraud. She didn’t even grimace when she caught sight of Margot on the way to Evanton’s storefront.

      * * *

      “I don’t mean to be offensive,” Grethan said a moment after he opened the door, “but you look awful.”

      “It’s been that kind of day. Is Evanton in?”

      “He is. I don’t think he was expecting you, if that’s any comfort.”

      “Some,” Kaylin admitted. She frowned. “I look awful, or we look awful?”

      “Severn kind of looks the same as he always does. You look—”

      “Awful. Just me.”

      Severn shrugged, fief shrug. “I didn’t say it,” he pointed out when she glared at him. “I haven’t been a Hawk for nearly as long as you have. Before I joined the Hawks, I was a Wolf. We don’t have an office the way the Hawks or the Swords do. We don’t serve the same function. A death in the holding cells might be one of our assignments.”

      “It would never be a Wolf assignment.”

      “No?”

      “They don’t call in the Wolves if they can actually put the criminal in question in holding cells.” She exhaled. “Sorry. You’re right. But—it brings up all the old stuff. It reminds people of the last time. It’s just—” She shook her head. “I don’t want it to be an Aerian. I don’t want it to be anyone in the Halls.”

      He was kind enough not to point out that the Hawklord probably already knew who the killer had been. Her ignorance at this point was irrelevant; it was pointless to cling to it. She knew it, and hated the whine that underlay her thoughts. But the hells with it. She’d let her ignorance go when she was good and ready. Or, more likely, when the Hawklord was.

      She headed toward the kitchen, in serious need of cookies. Severn followed. Evanton was seated at the table, his apron a bit grimy, his expression a match for Kaylin’s. They eyed each other warily. Since it was Evanton’s shop, his bad moods took precedence over hers when all things were equal. Other than that, they shared.

      “I have had two visitors today,” Evanton said, going first. “Both Aerian, oddly enough.”

      “We had three, but they came together in a single group,” she countered.

      Evanton pushed the cookie tin in her general direction. “Both of the Aerians were from the Upper Reaches; they were representatives of castelords, or the Aerian equivalent. They felt it necessary to actually threaten me.”

      Kaylin winced. “So...not very bright representatives.”

      Evanton’s smile was humorless and thin. “No. They were dissuaded from that avenue of communication quite quickly.”

      “Our visitors didn’t bother with the threats or the negotiations. They were invisible, they had a net that appeared—from the ground—to be made of Shadow, and we think they were there to assassinate Sergeant dar Carafel.”

      Evanton winced.

      “We managed to bring two of them down. One of them died in the holding cells, and not by his own hand.”

      “I’m not certain you’re allowed to say that,” Evanton said. “It’s probably a breach of some sort of security or other.”

      “Probably.”

      “Do you think these two incidents are related?”

      “The assassination and the deaths in the cell?” Kaylin asked in a very Why are you asking if water is wet? tone.

      “No. The visit to my humble shop and the assassination attempt.”

      “Oh.” She took a cookie. Or two. “Maybe. I was coming to ask you about that.”

      “Ah.”

      “This blessing thing that you were asked to craft—does it actually give the flightless flight?”

      “Why do you ask?”

      “Because two of the Aerians—the ones we caught—couldn’t, in theory, fly on their own. Their wings aren’t properly formed.”

      “You think they were deliberately crippled?”

      “No. It’s not like being outcaste. They have wings—but the wings wouldn’t support their full weight. They could manage to hit the literal street without going splat. But they couldn’t manage to lift off that same street.”

      “You’re certain.”

      “Yes. Evanton?”

      “Yes, Kaylin. That is exactly what the blessing of air does.” He rose. “Do you think that the client you met is involved?”

      “I wish I could say that hadn’t occurred to me,” was her stony reply. “But, in fairness, she wanted the bletsian for Moran. Who can’t fly. I didn’t press her for more information; I trusted you not to create something that would harm Moran. Now I have to ask—as a Hawk—how many other clients you’ve created these bletsian things for. And when.”

      “I am not the only person who can craft them,” he replied, which wasn’t much of an answer. “Grethan, tea.”

      * * *

      Tea came twenty minutes later. Evanton frowned as Kaylin, in his words, entirely spoiled any appetite for lunch by eating her way through half of the cookie tin. She did, in her own defense, offer cookies to Severn, who took one.

      “Aerian