Cast in Chaos

by Michelle Sagara

  “From who?”

  “Private, please. I gather from your sour expression that the rumors are true. You might wish to speak with Lord Sanabalis about the events on Elani at your earliest convenience. If we are lucky, he will be unaware of the difficulties you might encounter.”

  “And if we’re not?”

  “He will already know, and it will mean that the difficulties are present across a much wider area of the city.”

  “What will it mean to him?”

  “What it should mean to you, if you’ve been studying for any length of time,” was the curt reply. But Evanton did relent. “There has been a significant and sudden shift in the magical potential of an area that is at least as broad as Elani.”

  Kaylin froze. “Severn, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that our sample size—of three—is more than enough for the day. We should return to the office immediately.”

  Evanton frowned, although with his face it was sometimes difficult to tell. “Something unusual happened outside of the confines of this particular neighborhood.”

  “Yes. An enchantment laid against some of the windows in the Halls of Law has developed a more commanding and distinct personality than it possessed a few days ago.”

  Evanton closed his eyes. “Go, Private, Corporal. Speak with the Hawklord now.”

  Speaking with the Hawklord was not at the top of Kaylin’s list of things to do before the end of her shift. Or at all. He was—they all were—aware of the shortcomings in an education that didn’t include the rich and the powerful on this side of the Ablayne. For one, power in the fiefs usually meant brute force; manners were what you developed when you wanted to avoid pissing off the brute force in question. Marcus had once told her that manners in the rest of Elantra were exactly the same thing, but Kaylin knew they weren’t. In the fiefs, the best manners were often either silence or total invisibility.

  Here, you were actually expected to talk and interact. Without obvious groveling or fawning, and without obvious fear.

  Severn caught her hand.

  “What?”

  “Stop rubbing your arm like that. You’ll take your skin off.”

  “Like that would be a bad thing.” But she did stop. “I should have known,” she added. “You suspected?”

  “I wondered.”

  The Halls loomed in a distance that was growing shorter as they walked; they weren’t patrolling, so there was no need for a leisurely pace. They also weren’t running because running Hawks made people nervous.

  Tanner took one look at her face and stepped to one side. “Trouble?” he asked them both.

  “Possible trouble,” Kaylin replied. They breezed through the Aerie and the halls that led to the office that was Kaylin’s second home. Marcus was at his desk, and he roared when he caught sight of them. Kaylin cringed.

  “Here. Now.”

  Only a suicidal idiot would have ignored that tone of voice. Or the claws that were adding new runnels to scant clear desk surface. Both she and Severn made their way to the safe side of his desk—the one he wasn’t on. Kaylin lifted her chin, exposing her throat. Marcus actually glowered at it as if he was considering his options; his eyes were a very deep orange, and about as far from his usual golden color as they could get when death wasn’t involved.

  “In your rounds in Elani today did you happen to encounter anyone significant?” he growled, his voice on the lower end of the Leontine scale. The office had fallen—mostly—silent; total silence would probably occur only in the event of the deaths of everyone in it.

  “Alyssa Larienne.”

  “Lady Alyssa Larienne. She is the daughter of one of the oldest—and wealthiest—human families in Elantra. Her father is a member of significance in the human Caste Court. Her mother is the daughter of the castelord. If you wanted to make my life more difficult when dealing with the human Caste Court, you couldn’t have chosen a better person to offend.”

  Well, there is her father. This time, Kaylin kept her mouth shut.

  “I expect there to be a good explanation for this.”

  “I wasn’t the one who actually offended her, if that helps.”

  He snarled, which meant it didn’t. “What happened?”

  “She’s a client of Margot’s.”

  “You’re telling me—with a straight face and your job on the line—that Margot offended her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How?”

  “That’s part of why we’re here—”

  “Stick with this part, for now. Report on the rest later.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took a deep breath. “Lady Alyssa arrived for her usual appointment. Today, Margot chose to tell her that her father, Garavan Larienne, was to be arrested for embezzlement.”

  Breathing would have made more noise than the combined contents of the office now did.

  “Let me get this straight. Margot told Alyssa Larienne that the Chancellor of the Exchequer was to be arraigned for embezzlement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your part in this was?”

  “Lady Alyssa demanded that I arrest Margot for slander. I personally would love to arrest Margot for anything she could possibly—”

  Marcus flexed his claws. Kaylin took this as a sign that she should answer his questions, and only his questions. “I asked Lady Alyssa what Margot had said. She declined to repeat it. She did not decline to repeat her demand.”

  Marcus’s eyes were still orange.

  “She did, however, take offense at the idea that I didn’t immediately recognize the crest on her carriage or her own import, since obviously either of those would lead me to arrest Margot on the spot, and said she would take it up with Lord Grammayre personally.”

  Marcus growled. “This is extremely unfortunate. I would like you to request that Margot come into the office for debriefing.”

  Kaylin’s jaw nearly dropped. “What?”

  “Which part of that sentence wasn’t clear?”

  Severn cleared his throat. “When would you like us to request Margot’s cooperation with the Halls of Law?”

  “After you finish speaking with Lord Grammayre. You’re early,” he added, his eyes narrowing. “Please tell me there is no other emergency in Elani.” Oddly enough, when he said this, his eyes began to shade into a more acceptable bronze.

  Severn was notably silent.

  “It would save me paperwork and ulcers if I just chained you to a desk, Private. Go talk to the Hawklord. Now.”

  “Private,” Kaylin whispered, as they walked quickly up the spiral staircase. “As if you weren’t there at all.”

  “You seem to be fairly good at attracting trouble in spite of your assigned partner,” Severn replied, with a faint smile.

  “If Margot has somehow blown things for an ongoing investigation…” She didn’t finish, because they reached the Hawklord’s tower door. They’d bypassed his office, but Kaylin didn’t expect him to be in his office; he rarely conducted his meetings there. For one, it was as crowded and cluttered as any busy person’s office. It also wasn’t as imposing as the more austere and architecturally impressive tower itself.

  “This,” Kaylin muttered, as Severn placed his palm firmly across the doorward of the closed tower doors, “is worse than magic. This is politics.”

  “On the bright side,” Severn replied, as the door swung inward, “this is probably making etiquette lessons look a lot more inviting.”

  The Hawklord was standing in front of his perfect, oval mirror. In and of itself, this was not a bad sign. The mirror, however, reflected no part of the room, which meant he was accessing Records. Kaylin could see nothing but a blank, black surface. He glanced over his shoulder as she and Severn walked into the room, and she stopped almost immediately.

  His eyes were blue.

  Blue, in the Aerians, like blue in the Barrani, was not a good sign. With luck, it meant anger. With less luck, it meant fury. In either case, it meant tr
ead carefully. Likewise, the Hawklord’s wings were high above his shoulders. They weren’t fully extended; they were loosely gathered. She’d seen loosely gathered Aerian wings strike and break bone exactly once.

  She offered the Hawklord a perfect salute. Severn, by her side, did likewise.

  “Alyssa Larienne came to this tower just over an hour ago,” he said without preamble. “Sergeant Kassan attempted to detain her by taking a detailed report of the incident which had angered her.”

  Kaylin winced.

  “As a result she left the Halls some fifteen minutes before your arrival.” The Hawklord’s wings twitched. His eyes were still a very glacial blue. “She did not appreciate the filing of an incident report. I was assured that Sergeant Kassan was polite and respectful.”

  “She probably doesn’t have much to do with Leontines on a daily basis,” Kaylin pointed out. “She might not have been able to tell.”

  “That,” the Hawklord said, and he did grimace, “is my profound hope. What happened in Elani street, Private Neya?”

  Kaylin stared straight ahead. She wanted to at least look at Severn, because she could read minute changes in his expression well enough to be guided by them. But in the Hawklord’s current mood that might be career-limiting.

  “We’re not entirely sure, sir. We cut our patrol short to report,” she told Lord Grammayre. “After we visited Evanton.”

  The Hawklord’s face became about as inviting and open as the stone walls that enclosed them. “Continue.”

  “There were three incidents in the space of a few hours of which we’re aware. With your permission, we’ll canvass the merchants and residents of the street tomorrow to see how many others we missed.”

  “Incidents?”

  She hesitated; he marked it. But he waited. “The first was a man selling a cure for baldness that actually appeared to work—instantly.”

  He raised one pale brow. “It is Elani street.”

  “Sir.” This time she did glance at Severn; his chin dipped slightly down. “We took the merchant’s name. Corporal Handred acquired a sample of the tonic.”

  “You…believe that this was genuine.”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “The second incident of note, you’ve already heard about. Alyssa Larienne.”

  “Lady Alyssa Larienne is young, idealistic, and convinced of her own importance.”

  Severn cleared his throat.

  “Corporal?”

  “I would say that she is young, insecure, and in need of someone to convince her of that import.”

  “She throws her weight around—” Kaylin broke in.

  “If she was certain she had that weight, she wouldn’t need to throw it.”

  Kaylin shrugged. “For whatever reason, she’s been a client of Margot’s for many months.”

  “Margot Hemming?”

  “The same.”

  “Margot Hemming is not, to my knowledge, and to the knowledge of Imperial Records, a mage. She has no training, and no notable talent or skill. She is, by human standards, striking. She is forty years of age—”

  “She can’t be forty.”

  “She is forty years of age,” he repeated, spacing the words out thinly and evenly. “And she has twice been charged with fraud in the last twenty-five. She is not violent, she has no great pretensions, and for the last decade, she has settled into the life of a woman of modest, respectable means.”

  Kaylin glanced at the flat surface of a mirror that reflected nothing, and the Hawklord continued. “She has no known criminal ties, she is despised by the merchants’ guild, she donates money to the Foundling Halls.”

  Kaylin’s brows disappeared into her hairline. “She what?”

  “She can afford it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “No. It is not. She has very few clients of any significant political standing. Garavan Larienne does not travel to her shop, nor does his wife. She supports no political causes that we are aware of, and believe that I have demanded every possible legal record that she might be associated with, however distantly. But she has, today, single-handedly caused the Hawks—and the Swords, and possibly indirectly, the Wolves—more difficulty than the Arcanum has in its entire history.”

  Kaylin closed her eyes.

  “What did Margot Hemming do, Private?”

  “She told a fortune, more or less.”

  “I am aware of the fortune’s contents.” He turned. “The other difficulties?”

  “After the incident with Margot, we paid a visit to Evanton’s. Evanton said that…there was an incident in the store, involving his apprentice.”

  “Did it also involve the future of arguably the most politically powerful human in Elantra?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I am not interested in the details at this present moment. Continue.”

  “It was also of a magical nature. Evanton thinks—thought—that there is an unusually strong flux in the magical potential of a specific area, and it’s causing things to go completely out of whack.”

  “His words?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, exactly, were his words?”

  “He thought I should speak with Sanabalis—”

  “Lord Sanabalis.”

  “Lord Sanabalis. Now.”

  “Far be it from me to ignore the urgent advice of so important a man,” the Hawklord replied.

  “He thinks it could be disastrous if we don’t—”

  “It has already been almost disastrous. At this particular moment in my career, I fail to see how it could be worse. Take Corporal Handred with you, avoid any discussion of Larienne, and avoid, as well, any men who obviously bear his colors. Go directly to Lord Sanabalis, make your report, and return directly here. If I am absent, wait.”

  “Sir.”

  The Imperial Palace, home of future etiquette lessons, loomed in the distance of carriage windows like the cages outside of Castle Nightshade. The flags were, as they almost always were, at full height, and the wind at that height was impressive today; it buffeted clouds.

  Severn, seated across from Kaylin, glanced at her arms. It wasn’t a pointed glance, but she rolled back one sleeve, exposing the heavy, golden bracer that bracketed her wrist. The unnatural gems, socketed in a line down its length, gleamed in the darkened interior of the carriage. He nodded, and she rolled her sleeve down, covering it. By Imperial Edict, and by the Hawklord’s command—which were in theory the same thing—she wore it all the time.

  It prevented the unpredictable magic she could sometimes use from bubbling to the surface in disastrous ways. It unfortunately also prevented the more predictable—to Kaylin—magic that was actually helpful from being used, so it didn’t always reside on her wrist, edict notwithstanding. Her magic could be used to heal the injured, and it was most often used when the midwives called her in on emergencies.

  But it was this wild magic, and the unpredictable and unknown nature of it, that was at the root of the Magical Studies classes she was taking with Sanabalis. The Imperial Court reasoned that if she could use and channel magic like actual working mages did, she would be in control of it. And, in theory, the Court would be in control of her, because indirectly they paid her salary, and she liked to eat.

  It was also the magic that was at the heart of etiquette lessons. The Dragon Emperor was not famed for his tolerance and sense of humor. He was, in fact, known for his lack of both. But Sanabalis, Tiamaris, and even the ancient Arkon who guarded the Imperial Library as if it was his personal hoard—largely because it was—all felt that she would soon have to come to Court and spend time in the presence of the Dragon who ruled them all. They wanted her to survive it, although Sanabalis on some days seemed less certain.

  The carriage rolled to a halt in the usual courtyard. It was not an Imperial Carriage; most Hawks who didn’t have Lord somewhere in their name didn’t have regular use of those. It did bear the H
awk symbol, and a smaller version of the Imperial Crest, but it also needed both paint and a good, solid week’s worth of scrubbing.

  Still, it did the job. The men who always stood in the courtyard opened the side doors, but they didn’t offer her either the small step that seemed to come with most fancy carriages, or help getting out of the seat that was so damn uncomfortable on long, bumpy rides. They just opened the door, peered briefly in, and got out of the way.

  She handed one of them the letter Caitlin had written. Marcus had signed it with a characteristic bold paw print under a signature that was—if you knew Leontines—mostly legible. Caitlin, on the other hand, had done the sealing. Marcus didn’t care for wax.

  He hadn’t much cared for her destination, either, but only barely threatened to rip out her throat if she embarrassed the department, which was bad; it meant he had other things on his mind. His eyes had never once shaded back to their familiar gold.

  The man who had taken the sealed letter returned about fifteen minutes later, accompanied by a man she recognized, although not by name.

  “Lord Sanabalis,” this man said, with a stiff bow, “will see you. Please follow me.”

  She started to tell him she knew the way, and bit her tongue.

  Sure enough, she did know the way, because he took her to Sanabalis’s personal meeting room. It wasn’t an office; there was no sign of a desk, or anything that looked remotely business-like—besides the Dragon Lord himself—in the room. And it had windows that did not, in fact, give out lectures on decorum, dress, and the use of racially correct language to random passersby. The windows here, on the other hand, were impressive, beveled glass that looked out on one of the best views of the Halls of Law in the city.

  “If this,” he told Kaylin, indicating one of the many chairs positioned in front of the one he occupied, “is about your class schedule, I will be tempted to reduce you to ash on the spot.” As his eyes were the familiar gold that Marcus’s hadn’t been since she’d returned to the office, she assumed this was what passed for Dragon humor, and she took a chair.