Cast In Courtlight. Michelle Sagara

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      CHAPTER 2

      When Marcus came back from lunch an hour and a half later, he walked to his desk. The circuitous way. He paused in front of the schedule nailed to the wall, glared at the various marks made by the Hawks that were lucky—or unlucky—in their assigned duties, and added a few of his own. Although the schedule itself was an official document, this particular rendering of it was not; it was meant, or so office parlance said, as a courtesy. What he added was against the spirit of the thing, but he had a Leontine sense of courtesy; it wasn’t as if he’d drawn blood.

      And if the Hawks didn’t like what he appended, they could come crying. Once.

      He stopped by Caitlin’s desk, and threw the mirror on the wall a thoroughly disgusted glare; like anything that made noise and conveyed messages, it never went off at his convenience. It had been dull and silent for the entire morning. If there was anything of import to be reported, the Swords and the Wolves were having all of the luck.

      He had paperwork.

      Oh, and Kaylin.

      She was perched in the center of his chair, looking like a leather-clad waif, her hair pulled up in imitation of Caitlin’s, and with vastly less success; she’d stuck a stick through its center, and hair had already escaped it in great chunks.

      “What,” he growled, “are you doing in my chair?”

      His chair was large; he was heavier than any of the humans he commanded, and wider by far than the Barrani. It wasn’t his favorite piece of furniture; he’d broken three chairs this year because of the shoddy workmanship of the craftsmen employed by the Halls of Law. Armrests were not meant to snap off that easily.

      She appeared to be taking notes.

      And, as was so often the case when she wasn’t locked in a classroom, her concentration had shut out most of the office noise. His presence dimmed the rest. He could walk silently; as a hunter, he had to. He was seldom given the opportunity to use the skill.

      When he was exactly behind her, he roared in her ear.

      Papers went flying like loosed birds.

      As she tried to catch some of them, she gave him a reproachful jab. As he was smiling, this was safe. Barely. But this was Kaylin; she hadn’t the grace to look flustered or embarrassed. Not for the first time, he thought she’d been born in the wrong skin; she was like a young Leontine kit—a female, at that—and very little unnerved her for long.

      Then again, she’d been under his care for seven years, and she’d come as a youngling. If he hadn’t been entirely protective in the normal Elantran sense of the word, he had protected her, and she took advantage of the fact without shame. Or notice.

      “If you want to do paperwork,” he said, sitting on the sparse inches of desk that weren’t covered by paper, “you could have volunteered.”

      “Would it get me out of those damn lessons?”

      “No.”

      “Overtime pay?”

      “No.”

      She shrugged. “Well, then. I guess I’m not stupid.”

      His roar was mostly laugh. Many humans found differentiating between the two difficult—or at best, unwise, as the cost of a mistake was high—but Kaylin didn’t labor under that difficulty.

      Which was good, considering how many other difficulties she had. He held out a hand, and she dropped the papers she’d picked up across his palm. He glanced at them, and then back at her face. “You’re suddenly interested in diplomats?”

      She shrugged. “Had to happen sometime.”

      “Then you guess wrong. You are stupid.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “These appear to be Barrani,” he said. He had the satisfaction of hearing her curse. In Aerian. He wasn’t entirely conversant with Aerian, but, like any good Hawk, he knew the right words.

      “Flight feathers don’t fit,” he replied calmly. He looked over her head, his eyes snapping into their habitual glare. “What are you looking at? You don’t have enough to keep you occupied?”

      To a chorus of mumbles, which were a type of applause if you were stuck behind a desk for any length of time, he turned back to Kaylin. “You heard,” he said flatly.

      “Tain told me.”

      “If Tain told you, he also informed you that any interference on our part would not be appreciated.”

      She shrugged. “There are a lot of lords and ladies in that bundle.”

      “There always are.” His fangs appeared as he drew his lips over them. “Do not get involved in this, Kaylin.” “But she’s a—”

      “She has her place. You have yours. At the moment, they’re not the same.” When she met his glare, and equaled it, he let his shoulders fall; they’d risen, as had his fur. “Given the snit the mage left in, you’ve probably managed to buy yourself a couple of days.”

      “You didn’t put me on the duty roster.”

      “Observant girl.”

      “Is it because of the damn mages?”

      “No. I take my orders from the Lord of Hawks.”

      “Then why—”

      “I used the word orders, Private. Try to pay attention.” He reached out with a claw and drew it across her cheek. The gesture was gentle. “You’ve been marked. You’ve already caused enough grief for this lifetime. You can wait ten years until I retire and give the poor fool who takes my stripes hell. Lord Evarrim has written, did Grammayre mention this?”

      “No.”

      “Then he probably thought it best you didn’t know.” “I don’t.”

      “Good.” He shoved her to one side and sat; the chair creaked. He’d managed to split leather twice. “Do not mess with the Arcanists.”

      “Sir.”

      “How many Festivals have you patrolled?”

      “Officially?”

      “Or unofficially.”

      “Enough.” The fact that she was evasive meant that some of those patrols had occurred while her life was rooted in the fief of Nightshade. She’d been a child, then. And she probably hadn’t been there to preserve the peace or prevent a crime.

      “Good. You are aware that a few unscrupulous men—”

      “A few?” Very few people did sarcasm as well as Kaylin.

      “Very well, if you insist on being picky. A few competent and unscrupulous men work under the cover of the Festival crowds for their own ends?”

      “Sir.”

      “Good. СКАЧАТЬ