Cast In Flight. Michelle Sagara

pale, ash-gray sheen. Or at least that’s what Kaylin could see.

      “How is Moran adjusting to life with you?”

      It wasn’t the question she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t promising.

      “Shouldn’t you be asking Moran that?”

      “She is not currently present. You are.” His tone made clear that his tolerance for insubordination was quickly reaching an all-time low.

      “She’s doing well. She likes Helen.”

      “The...Avatar of your home?”

      “Yes. Helen likes her. She has her own rooms in the house—everyone does.” She hesitated; the Hawklord was expressionless. “Helen makes rooms for people who are going to be permanent guests. She made rooms suitable for an Aerian. She’s got furniture suitable for an Aerian, and the ceilings are tall.”

      “Moran is not flying.”

      “No. She won’t let me heal her.”

      “Yes. I forbade it.”

      Kaylin stared at him in outrage. She managed to shut her mouth before words fell out.

      “I did not expect you would become involved with the sergeant. She is in the infirmary; you are a street Hawk. You have a sergeant, and if he growls incessantly about the difficulty of having you in his ranks, he is capable of containing any damage you cause.” The Hawklord exhaled. “I did not expect that you would come to work with a Dragon in tow. I have been told very, very quietly that the Dragon is worth more to the Emperor than the rest of the Hawks combined—including myself.”

      “...By the Emperor?”

      “Yes. Lord Bellusdeo has occupied much of my time. I would ask you to leave her at home, but it has also been made clear that the choice is to be Lord Bellusdeo’s. I did not expect to add Moran dar Carafel to the list of things with which I must deal. What are you trying not to say?”

      “...The Emperor is fine with Moran living with me.”

      The Hawklord closed his eyes briefly. “Is it too much to hope that you did not hear this directly from the Emperor himself?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “The Emperor may change his opinion soon. It is his prerogative.”

      Kaylin said a lot of nothing for a long time.

      “I wish to know two things. First: tell me what happened this morning. Records, map.” The mirror finally surrendered an image that Kaylin could see. She obligingly approached it, scanning the lines that were supposed to represent streets and buildings. She lifted a finger, and a point appeared—in bright, scarlet red—beneath it.

      “Here.” Kaylin then recounted the events of the morning, leaving out the general snark that passed for conversation between Bellusdeo and Mandoran. In fact, she tried to leave Mandoran out of the discussion altogether. The Hawklord wasn’t buying it, and she surrendered and answered his pointed questions.

      “Have you examined the site?”

      “No—we came straight to the Halls. Moran was the target, and we couldn’t see the assassins; we wanted to get her to safety. The Halls have some of the most impressive protections against illegal magic in the city. Only the palace has better. Are the Imperial mages at the site?”

      “That would be one of the many, many difficulties this morning has caused.”

      “What difficulty?”

      “The nature of the assassin is unknown, yes?”

      Kaylin had just finished saying as much, and chose to wait.

      “The Aerian Caste Court is, however, attempting to invoke the laws of exemption. They do not wish the incident to be investigated at all.”

      As a Hawk, Kaylin despised the laws of exemption. The laws were the laws. Crimes were crimes. But exemptions could legally be granted to the racial Caste Courts if both the criminals and the victims were all part of one happy race. She understood, as only someone born in the fiefs could, that money and power created their own special laws of exemption on either side of the Ablayne River—but damn it, she hated official sanction.

      “On what grounds?” she demanded.

      He was silent.

      “First,” she said, raising a finger, “the attack took place on Darrow Lane. It’s one of the busier stretches of Elantran streetfront, and it is definitively not in the Southern Reach or the Aeries.” The Hawklord nodded. “Second, we couldn’t see the would-be assassin. We have no idea who, or what, he or she was. They could have been Barrani. They could have been mortal. In order for the laws of exemption to be invoked, the assassin would have to be an Aerian.” She slowed down then.

      “Is there a third point?”

      “Third: there was visible property damage. The street was shattered. No argument can be made that the magic used didn’t affect the rest of the non-Aerian population. People were probably injured by bits of flying debris. Um, can I go back to the second point now?”

      “Yes.”

      “If the Caste Court is attempting to invoke exemption, they’re pretty much declaring the assassin was Aerian. Which strongly implies that they know who the assassin is. Or was.”

      “Yes.”

      Kaylin swore. A lot. The Hawklord didn’t even grimace.

      “Lord Grammayre, who exactly is Moran?”

      He exhaled and turned back to the mirror. “You said that Teela, Tain and Mandoran were in pursuit of the assassin.”

      Kaylin nodded. “Teela must have expected serious trouble. She brought her runed sword. If they catch the assassin, and the assassin isn’t Aerian, the Caste Court can go—”

      “Yes. The second matter I wished to discuss with you is Moran’s rooms.”

      “Her rooms have nothing to do with the Halls,” Kaylin replied.

      The Hawklord waited.

      “She’s a guest. She’s under Helen’s protection. If Moran won’t discuss the rooms with you, it’s not right that I do.”

      “I have spoken, briefly, with Moran about her current living situation.” He waved a hand across the mirror. “Records, personal.”

      Kaylin dared a glance at Severn; Severn was frowning. It was his concentration frown; he wasn’t expecting danger. He watched the mirror’s rippling surface while it stilled.

      The Hawkord did the same.

      * * *

      The image that came into view made Kaylin wonder if the Hawklord had somehow already seen the inside of Moran’s rooms. She understood that asking questions to which one already knew the answer was an interrogation technique—a way of gauging how much someone else knew, or how much they were willing to admit to knowing. It was also a way of determining how much truth you were likely to get.

      “Do you recognize this?” the Hawklord asked.

      The Records capture looked like Moran’s rooms. The ones he’d asked about. But as the mirror’s view pulled back, she realized that these weren’t Moran’s rooms. There was too much sky and too much rock in the distance. Mostly rock. She could see Aerians flying precise, tight circles to the right and above. She thought she recognized the formation, but it broke and regrouped.

      “No,” she said, to the Hawklord’s question. “I don’t. This is in the Southern Reach?”

      “In one of its outer recesses, yes. It is considered a primitive—a very primitive—residence. They are not much used in modern times.”

      This primitive residence, however, wasn’t uninhabited.

      All of Kaylin’s