on hers. He simply gathered it and brought it back to her. And waited.
As a Keeper, he was a lot less onerous than the Hawklord.
“Severn—”
“It’s Elani Street,” he replied with a shrug, “and if you hunt long enough, you’ll find magic here.”
“I know where to find—” But she stopped, catching her words before she tripped over them with her tongue. “I hate magic.”
He stopped walking, turned suddenly, and looked down at her from an uncomfortable height. His hands caught both of her shoulders, and slid up them, trailing the sides of her neck to cup her face, and she met his eyes, brown and simple, dark with a past that she was part of, and a past that she didn’t know at all.
“Don’t,” he told her quietly. “Don’t hate it. It’s part of what you are, now, and nothing will change that. It’s a gift.”
She thought of the ways in which she had killed in a blind fury; thought of the stone walls that had parted like curtains of dust when the magic overwhelmed her. “A gift,” she said bitterly.
And he said, “You have fur on your tongue.” In almost perfect Leontine.
And a baby’s name—did race really matter?—like an echo in the same language, waiting to be said in affection and wonder, even if she were never again there to hear it.
He let his hands fall slowly away from her face as if they had belonged there, as if they were drawn there by gravity.
“Severn—”
He touched her open mouth with a single finger. But he didn’t smile, and he didn’t say anything else.
Elani Street opened up before them like any other merchant street in the district. If you didn’t know the city, you might have mistaken it for any other merchant street. It was not in the high-rent district—Kaylin’s patrols were somehow always designed to keep her away from the rich and prosperous—but it was not in the low-rent district, either. It hovered somewhere in the center. Clearly the buildings were old, and as much wood as stone had gone into their making, but they were well kept, and if paint flaked from signboards and windows had thinned with time, they were solid and functional.
The waterfront was well away, and the merchant authority didn’t technically govern the men and women who worked here for some complicated legalistic reason that had a lot to do with history and nothing to do with the law, so the Hawks and the Swords were the sole force that policed the area. And everyone was happy that way. Except for the Merchants’ Guild, which sent on its annual weasel report in an attempt to bring Elani under its jurisdiction.
Once or twice things had gotten ugly between the Merchants’ Guild and the Elani Streeters, and blood had been shed across more than just this part of town. This was practical history, to Kaylin, so she remembered it better than the codicils on top of codicils that kept the Merchants’ Guild at bay.
They had—the Guild—even tried to set up trade sanctions against this small part of town, and while everyone in theory agreed with it, in practice, they’d come anyway, because there wasn’t any actual evidence that they’d been here. You didn’t exactly bear a brand saying Fortunes Have Been Read Across My Palm, Look Here when you left. The sale of love potions may have dropped a tad during that embargo, however.
No, the rents weren’t high here, but the take was high enough that the vendors could usually fend off the more powerful guild with effective political sleight of hand. Or so Teela said; if she admired it, it had to be underhanded.
She was, after all, Barrani.
Severn’s expression was so carefully neutral, Kaylin laughed. He raised a brow.
“You don’t like Elani Street?”
“Not much, no. You?”
She shrugged. “It’s a street.”
He stopped in front of a placard that was leaning haphazardly against a grimy window. “Love potions?” he said. The sneer was entirely in his tone. “Meet your perfect mate? Find out what your future holds?”
As she’d said more or less the same thing—well, more and more heated—she shrugged again. “It’s a living.”
“So is theft.”
“Yeah, but people come here to empty their pockets. There’s no knife at their throat.”
“Dreams are their own knife, Kaylin. Dreams, what-ifs, desires. We all have to have hope.”
“This isn’t hope,” she replied quietly. “It’s just another way of lying to yourself.”
“Almost everything is, in the end.” He glanced at the board again, and then continued to walk down the street. He walked slowly enough that she could catch up to him; on patrol he usually did. But there was distance in his expression, some thought she couldn’t read—not that he’d ever been transparent.
Still, the street itself was quiet; the Festival season had passed over and around it, and the merchants who had, enterprising hucksters all, taken stalls near the Ablayne had returned home to the nest to find it, as it so often was after festival celebrations—and the cost of those—empty.
Evanton was not above taking a stall—or so he said—but his age prevented him from doing so so close to water. It made his bones ache. Kaylin expected that it was his jaw that ached, because he had some idea of what customer service was supposed to be, and fixing a smile across lines that were worn in perpetual frown taxed his strength.
Still, she smiled when she saw his store. Touching the hilts of her daggers for both luck and memory, she walked up the three flat steps that led to his door, and frowned slightly.
“Is it late?”
“You just had breakfast. You answer.” But Severn’s frown echoed hers; the curtains were drawn. In the door’s window and also, across the shop’s wider front. Gold leaf had flecked in places, and glass was scratched atop those letters—some thief attempting to remove what was on the other side had no doubt had too much to drink that night.
She knocked. Waited a minute, counting slowly, before she knocked again; Evanton never moved quickly, and his temper soured greatly if the visitor was too stupid to realize this.
But before she could be really annoying, the curtains flipped back, and she saw a wizened face peering through glass. He didn’t look much older than he had the first time she’d met him—but then again, she doubted that was possible. The curtains fell back into place, black drape that was almost gray with sun. No stars on it, no moons, no fancy—and fake—arcane symbols.
The door opened slowly; she heard keys twisting a rusty lock, followed by creaking hinges.
“You really should get some help around here,” she muttered.
“Good help,” he said coolly, “is hard to find in this city.”
“You’ve tried?”
He grimaced. “Don’t force me to be rude, girl. You’re wearing the Hawk.”
She
