continued, without looking back. “But stay here. Not even the Arcanum will attempt to reach you in these halls.”
“I have to go home sometime.”
He hit the wall. The movement was so fast she didn’t see it coming; she jumped back in surprise. “I know,” he said softly. And left her.
Severn was not there to walk her home, for which she was profoundly grateful. The area in which she lived wasn’t noted for its crime, and the only major threat to the streets that bounded her building had been a few ferals that had managed to make it across the Ablayne River.
In the fiefs, ferals were common. So were murderers, and they both had the same effect—but there was something about shiny, long fangs bunched in the front of a half ton of rank fur and large paws that made the ferals seem the greater threat. They weren’t exactly intelligent; they certainly didn’t care much whether their meal was rich or poor, something that couldn’t be said about any of the other occupants of the fiefs.
But they were occupants of the fiefs.
They had, apparently, caused mayhem and fear for a night this side of the river; it took all of a second night for the Wolves of the Law to hunt them down and exterminate them. No such Law existed in the fiefs, and the streets at night in the fiefs were deserted for that reason.
No, crime in the fiefs happened during the sunlight.
Here? They happened most frequently when the sun went down.
It was one of the adjustments she’d found hard to make when she’d first crossed the river.
And she’d dreamed of that crossing for most of her childhood. The river was the divide. Beyond the far banks, she would find wealth beyond measure, and food, and the comfort of a place she could call her own; she’d find friends and meet people who she could trust.
Okay, she’d been a bit naive.
Hard to believe that a girl from the fiefs could be naive—but dreams died hard, and they could be such a damn embarrassment if they were shared. Which, because she was foolish, they had been. The Hawks had snickered for weeks, and without the grace to wait until her back was turned.
She’d stolen their inkwells in response. Except for Garrity’s; him, she’d left invisible ink.
But it had taught her something. The Law? It existed for a reason. The reason being that people weren’t basically as honest as she’d dreamed they would be, when they had the choice.
At home, she’d had no choice: steal or starve. Here, they had a choice. But it was steal or be left behind. Words failed her when she tried to put her contempt for this into them; she often hit people instead. Or tried.
This is when she discovered that Law applied to the officers of said Law. All in all, a discovery she could have done without.
She wondered, not for the first time, what Severn’s life with the Wolves had been like. He wouldn’t talk about it. And that was probably a good thing, if he wanted to keep on breathing. He’d spent time in the Shadows, and the Shadows were unkind; they were the darkest face the Law could turn on the populace. People whispered about Shadow Wolves when they’d had too much to drink. Some even said there were arcane arts that turned good men—well, okay, bad men—into things that weren’t men anymore.
But she’d seen Severn, and she knew that he was more or less exactly what he had been when he’d taken her under his wing after her mother’s death. She’d been five. He was ten. She’d thought she understood him, then—but what had she understood?
That he would die to protect her.
She could live with that.
That he would kill to protect her.
Hating the direction of her thoughts, she turned them aside; she’d become good at that, over the years.
It wasn’t close to dark, yet; the sun was edging across the river, and reflected light turned parts of the slow-moving water a shade of pink that would have been an embarrassment to the man the river had been named after. She paused on the banks, looking up and down their length for as far as the eye—and hers was keen—could see. The riverbanks were where many petty criminals gathered to exchange gold for a moment’s illegal escape from pathos; it was easy to dump evidence, and the river would carry it away before it could be gathered and used in the courts.
Of course, some officers forgot the Laws that applied to Officers of the Law at that point; they called it self-defense. Had any of the injured dealers ever lodged a complaint, Teela and Tain would have been permanent fixtures on the inside of the small prison that sheltered behind the Halls. But oddly enough, there seemed to be a game in this, and you lost if you complained.
Everyone knew, after all, that the Barrani had only been part of the Law for some two decades—the whole of Kaylin’s life. And they had memories that lasted a lot longer.
There were no deals going down.
Even the petty criminals seemed to have decided their stash was better sold on the streets that the Festival occupied. And the streets? Once the carters had got in and done their work, they were almost impassable. You couldn’t walk a foot without someone trying to sell you something, usually at a three hundred percent markup over what it would cost at any other time of year.
She found herself at the foot of the bridge. It was, by foreign accounts, a perfectly normal, if somewhat unimpressive, bridge; you could take a horse across it, and you could certainly march a contingent of men that way—but a wagon was almost impossible, unless the driver was unnaturally gifted and the horses under perfect control. Perfect.
She didn’t much like riding. She stood there, and then leaned over the nearest rail, watching the water pass under her feet. Here, on the boundary of her old life, she let the day unwind. The night was cool, for a Festival night; the air was clear. She wondered, sourly, if the Arcanum was controlling the weather; it was unseasonal. It would also be illegal.
Technically. In this city, even on this side of the banks, power was the order of the day; if you had it, the Law was a petty inconvenience. As long as no one was killed, or more likely, you were very, very good at disposing of the bodies.
Her cheek was throbbing dully; she lifted a hand almost absently to touch the flower placed there by the magic that she most hated. Well, second most. The magic that she most hated was engraved on her arms, her legs, the back, now, of her neck.
But it had been quiet. If it weren’t for the arrogance of the Imperial mages, she would have had nothing to complain about, and this was unnatural. Complaining, according to Garrity, was the gods-given right of people who were Doing Something Useful; it was a little luxury. When, you know, duty forbade larger luxuries, like drinking.
And she wasn’t Doing Something Useful, as Garrity would put it. The Festival season had been expressly forbidden her; she was surprised that they hadn’t sent her out of town on the first coach.
Her cheek was actively painful, now. She touched it, wondering if it was swollen; if the lines engraved there were like the lines of a burn, and had taken some sort of stupid infection. Her skin was cool to the touch, her palm a little too dry.
She let her hand fall, casually, to her side. It was the side at which her daggers were neatly arranged.
Straightening
