were things here?”
“Well, Margot is threatening to join the Merchants’ Guild and file a formal guild complaint if we don’t lift the quarantine on Elani street soon. She’s also seeking financial redress for economic losses taken because of the involuntary closure of her store.”
Kaylin snorted. “Let her. I can’t quite decide who’d be the loser in that transaction—Margot or the guild.” Kaylin despised both with a frequently expressed and very colorful passion.
“I don’t believe Lord Grammayre is looking for more official difficulty at the moment.”
At that, Kaylin’s expression flattened. “You’ve had word?”
“Not official word, no. But the investigation into the Exchequer is not going well. The Human Caste Court has closed ranks around him. The Emperor has not closed the investigation, but by all reports he is…not pleased.” She paused, and then added, “Word was, however, sent from the Palace. For you.”
Kaylin winced. “It’s only been two days,” she murmured.
“Two days, for Lord Diarmat, is long enough.” Marcus’s voice growled from behind her.
Marcus was at his desk, surrounded by the usual teetering piles of paper; Kaylin counted three. The gouges in the surface of said desk didn’t appear to be deeper or more numerous, which probably meant his mood hadn’t descended to foul, yet.
“You’re late,” he growled. Since his irises were a distinct gold, Kaylin said, “Not according to Sergeant Keele, sir.” She walked over to his desk and took up position in front of it; Severn lingered behind.
Without preamble, he handed her a set of curved papers. She took them as if they were live cockroaches and began to read. The top letter—and it was a letter—was from Lord Sanabalis of the Dragon Court.
Sanabalis had extended the period of grace in which she was allowed to skip the magic class he was responsible for making certain she attended; the transitioning of three thousand refugees who required housing and food were of primary import for the next week. Or two. He wished her luck during the extra work that this type of emergency generated, by which she inferred he knew of her day’s work in the outer office.
The second letter was from Diarmat, and it was not, by any reasonable definition, a letter; it was a set of orders. She read it once, and then glanced up over the top edge of the page to see Leontine eyes watching her carefully.
“He is,” Marcus said drily, “the Commander of the Imperial Guard, a force that is almost entirely composed of humans.”
“Have you had to interact with them?”
“On several occasions. I’ve survived.”
“Have they?”
He raised a brow; his eyes, however, stayed the same mellow gold. She had a sneaking suspicion he was enjoying this.
Lord Diarmat—whose classes were to be conducted after-bloody-hours on her own time—considered three thousand refugees and a significant area of the city under quarantine unworthy of mention. She swore. Caitlin coughed.
“He reminds me that the first of our lessons starts tonight.”
“Then you’d best have something to eat, dear,” Caitlin told her. “I highly doubt that Lord Diarmat will be casual enough to offer to feed you.”
Feed her? If she was lucky, he’d be civil enough not to eat her himself.
She looked at the window. “Time?” she asked it.
“Five hours and a half,” the window replied. “Please check the duty roster on your way out.”
Because she was feeling masochistic, she did. She was penciled in for yet another day on outsiders’ desk duty.
Severn kept her company as she trudged down the street toward the baker’s. He also handed her the coins she needed to pay Manners Forall, who happened to be manning his own stall. He smiled and said, “We don’t usually see you this late in the month.” It was true. This late in the month she was usually scrounging for less expensive food.
Severn said nothing, but he said it loudly, reminding her in silence of the budgeting discussion they’d failed to find the time for. It was the only silver lining on the thundercloud of Lord Diarmat and his so-called etiquette lessons. Severn didn’t remain silent, however, and they wrangled over times for yet a different lesson in Kaylin’s educational schedule while they made their way to the Palace.
The streets weren’t noticeably less crowded than they had been; apparently the crazed fear of Dragons and their itinerant armies didn’t stop most people from going about their daily business. Severn left her at the Palace gates, pausing only to check her wrist. There, the bracer that she wore by Imperial Decree caught the lights above. It was heavy enough to be the gold that it looked, and it was studded with what appeared to be three large gems: a diamond, a ruby, and a sapphire.
“I haven’t taken it off since we got back from Evanton’s,” she told him. But she didn’t resent his checking, much. Diarmat wasn’t known for his flexibility. “I’ll see you in the morning. If I’m still alive.” Severn was also penciled in for crazy duty; he minded it less ferociously.
The very forbidding and starched man whose title she couldn’t recall met her at the doors; he stood well inside them, and somewhat behind the Imperial Guards who gave her a quick once-over. It was cursory, however; the man stepped forward and said in his clipped High Barrani, “Lord Diarmat is expecting you, Private Neya. If you will follow me.”
She did. She could now reliably make her way to the chambers in which Sanabalis frequently conducted his meetings, and she could—if she were feeling foolishly brave—find the Library unescorted. She had no idea what Diarmat called home—or office—in the Palace, and had she not been certain of finding him in it, she would have been genuinely curious.
But during the handful of times she’d met him, he’d failed to be anything remotely resembling friendly, and tolerant was a word that she suspected he’d failed to learn, although his High Barrani was otherwise flawless. Severn had said that his Elantran was also flawless—and completely free from colloquialisms. Kaylin had already decided it was best to stick with High Barrani; it was a lot harder to make verbal gaffes in that language.
The starched man paused in front of a set of double doors that looked suspiciously unlike any classroom doors she’d ever entered. There were no guards at the doors, which was good. The doors were warded, which was bad. Not only were they warded, but there appeared to be two damn wards, one on each door. She glanced at her guide and said without much hope, “I don’t suppose those are just decorative?”
“No, they are not. You are required to touch both wards; you are not, however, required to touch them at the same time, should you find yourself, for reasons of injury, unable to do so.”
Kaylin’s natural aversion to magic was not quite as strong as her aversion to having her head bitten off by an angry Dragon Lord, but it was close. She stepped up to the doors, stood in arm’s reach, and grimaced; the wards were higher than shoulder height. She guessed they’d been designed for the regular variety of Imperial Palace Guard; they had, among other things, fairly strict height requirements.
Grimacing,
