Harvest Moon (15 page)

Not unheard of, but not likely. Marcus rose. “Lord Grammayre,” he said as the Barrani Hawks slowly peeled away from the desk. They'd listen, of course, but they could listen while they pretended to be busy a desk or two away. The humans in the office didn't have that much grace.

“Sergeant Kassan,” Lord Grammayre replied. “Please, be seated. This is not an emergency.”

The simple sentence should have put Marcus at ease. It didn't. He waited, hoping his ears tufts weren't standing on end.

The Hawklord flexed his wings and then settled them tightly down his back. “I have an admittedly unusual request to make of your department.”

What a surprise. Marcus folded his arms across his chest and continued to stand. “At the moment, we're working to capacity,” he said in as neutral a tone as a territorial Leontine could muster.

“I expect no less from the Hawks,” was the smooth reply.

“The last time you had a nonemergency favor, you stuck us with a Court scribe.”

“Yes. And you survived.”

“So did he.”

“As you say. He is not likely to request a repeat, and you are now personally owed a favor by a junior member of the human caste court. But that is not the subject I wish to discuss at the moment.”

Marcus waited. A low growl had set up shop in the back of his throat; it was quiet because his jaws were clamped shut.

Lord Grammayre's eyes were a pale shade of ash-gray, which was good. “I assure you that the current unusual request will cause vastly less difficulty than the previous one.”

Marcus, still waiting, said nothing. It was, however, a loud nothing.

The Hawklord raised a brow. “Sergeant.”

Marcus knew damn well that he couldn't say no. But his yes lacked grace and finesse, and he liked to draw it out for as long as possible. “What unusual request do you want us to handle in the middle of a possible disaster?”

“Do you remember the unusual investigation we participated in in the fief known as Nightshade half a year ago?”

Marcus stilled. The office held its collective breath, except for Joey, who showed his usual situational awareness and continued to chatter in the background. “The ritual serial killings?”

“Yes.”

It would have been impossible to forget them; there was exactly one occasion in which the Hawks had lent any of their expertise to an investigation that was theoretically outside the bounds of their—or the Empire's—jurisdiction.

“One of the possible intended victims appears to have survived. She is currently in custody.”

“The investigation was closed.”

“It was. It is not being reopened now.”

“You think the girl knows something—”

“No. I know for a fact she knows nothing about either the cause or the killers.”

“Then why is she relevant?”

“As I said, she is currently in custody. She arrived voluntarily,” he added.

“So did your scribe, as I recall.” Before the Hawklord could reply, Marcus lifted one padded hand in surrender. Unfortunately, his claws were extended. The Hawklord noticed, of course, but failed to react. Given
that one of his reactions could have been the Sergeant's instant demotion, that was for the best.

“You want my Hawks to escort her home?”

“That would be difficult,” was the bland reply. “Since, at the moment, she has none. She was born—and raised—in the fiefs.”

Marcus's eyes narrowed. “Oh, no. No. Absolutely not.”

“No?”

“If she was a possible victim, that would make her what, twelve? Thirteen?”

“Indeed.”

“You are not turning the Hawks into a babysitting service. The scribe was bad enough—but at least he was legal.”

“I do not require babysitting, as you put it. Nor do I require that the Hawks provide that service, since they are undoubtedly poorly trained for it.”

“Good.”

“She is,” Lord Grammayre continued, “thirteen, not three. She is capable of rudimentary self-defense. I think it highly doubtful that she will expire behind your capable backs when you're not paying attention.”

“So you do want babysitting.”

The Hawklord grimaced. “I want your observational skills. She is, in my opinion, highly unusual, and she may prove to be of significant benefit to the department.”

“At
thirteen?
”

“Perhaps. She is not, however, well educated.”

Had he been human, Sergeant Kassan would have groaned.

“She will require lessons in basic skills.”

“
How
basic?”

“She is not, in my opinion, capable of reading at anything but street-sign level. Nor does she have the requisite skill in secondary languages.”

“The requisite skill…for what?”

“To serve the Law, Sergeant Kassan.”

The silence had managed to catch even Joey's attention by this point. The only person who broke it was the only person who dared.

“Consider this a progressive experiment on the benefits of early education, Sergeant. It will not be an onerous task. I wish you to introduce her to the duties—and the training—of the Hawks. If she is entirely unsuitable, we will review the attempt and decide at that point how to proceed.”

“Where—exactly—did you intend her to stay?”

“Stay?”

“I note you said she's currently without a permanent residence.”

“Ah, yes. She has had some experience in scrounging a meager living from the streets for herself. Some funding will, of course, be allocated should you decide that she would be better situated in an apartment with a known address. And while I would love to continue this discussion, the Lords of Law meet with the Emperor in an hour, and I believe today's meeting will be somewhat…sensitive.”

 

The Halls of Law had been designed by a handful of architects who worked under the watchful eye of the Emperor. It had always been his stated intent to have his city policed by its citizens, and the Halls had therefore been built with an eye to the varying physical needs of
the races that comprised Elantra. To date, only one of the three Towers had made any attempt to fulfill Imperial Intent: the Hawks. Lord Grammayre was, of course, Aerian, and it was expected that his rise to power would see an influx of fellow Aerians. What was less expected was the advent of a Leontine and a dozen Barrani. For the most part, the people who policed the streets of Elantra were human.

But it wasn't the humans who had been sent to the holding cells to retrieve one of its newest occupants, and the lone Aerian who now stood outside a locked door frankly begrudged the trip. While the halls were wide enough and tall enough to accommodate Aerian wings, they were very enclosed; none of the Aerians considered the cells a suitable jail.

Clint, of the Camaraan Flight, was that Aerian. In the pay of the Hawks he generally performed two services: he served as a guard at the doors, and he patrolled the skies above the sprawl of the city itself. He did not serve as a jail escort for children. On the other hand, he liked his work, and refusing the order was about the same as quitting outright, but with the added discomfort of ire thrown in.

He wasn't entirely certain what to expect, and his hand hovered over the door ward for just a second before he pressed his palm against the glowing rune. The door slid open. No one stepped out.

Clint grimaced. Dropping one hand to a small club, he stepped into the open doorway, spreading his wings slightly as they rose in a defensive arch at his back. Not all of the drunks thrown into the cells were friendly or docile when they woke, which is why two guards were usually assigned to escort them out.

The cells weren't large. Since all they usually contained were a single man or woman in the throes of a hangover, this wasn't considered an issue, and Clint was accustomed to seeing belligerence, embarrassment, and guilt on the faces of those he'd been sent to show the doors. True, he'd also seen fury and homicidal rage, but those were rarer, and led not to the streets, but to a different set of holding cells.

The occupant of this particular cell didn't rage; she also didn't weep. She sat, looking much smaller than she should have on a cot that size, her knees tucked under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins. Only her chin rose as he stepped into the doorway. He waited for her to say something; she waited for him to speak.

He blinked. “Follow me.”

After a listless moment, she did exactly that.

 

There was no defiance in the girl. Shame or guilt he could have handled, but instead there was a quiet—and deep—sense of gray despair that permeated her every movement. She noted almost immediately that he was carrying a truncheon, but it didn't surprise her; he noticed that she did a brief visual scan in the usual places for more lethal weapons as well. But her gaze, when it touched him at all, went straight past his eyes, and therefore his facial expression, to a point above his shoulders.

Whatever she saw there wasn't making her any happier, and it didn't make her any more talkative. She didn't even ask where she was being led. Clint wasn't certain what the Hawklord had told her; normally he didn't care. But halfway through the halls that led—
slowly—toward the inner office, he found himself wishing he'd asked, because halfway to the office skirted the edge of the Aerie, the tallest part of the Halls of Law. Here, the Aerians practiced drill and formation when the weather was truly crappy.

Aerians weren't birthed with a natural suit of armor, and they didn't learn first flight wearing it; the Aerians who were accepted into the Halls of Law therefore had to build some muscle and acclimatize themselves to the more exhausting rigors of long flights sporting extra weight. Their first laden flights were often practiced in the Aerie of the Halls as well, as the shouting in the heights above attested.

The girl looked up as they began to cross the floor and froze, tilting her head back far enough Clint was half-certain he'd have to catch her before she toppled over backward. She didn't, and something about her expression robbed him of the curt tone that orders were usually given in. The width of her eyes implied something like awe, but the turn of her lips, pain; the dichotomy was striking.

Humans were, among mortals, a singularly frustrating race, because so many of the subtle signs of mood were missing. The biggest of these was the color of the eyes: they had one. That one conveyed exactly nothing. Aerians, Leontines, and the slightly disturbing Tha'alani had the range of normal emotional color shifts, as did the Barrani and the Dragons. Humans were slightly defective. As a small child, Clint had once asked if they were really only intelligent animals, because animals had eyes that were exactly as unchanging. His father had snickered. His mother had been
very
unamused.

But watching the girl, he felt moved to words. Words, sadly, weren't his strength, but he tried anyway. “You've never met Aerians before, have you?”

“Lord Grammayre,” she said, breaking away instantly and flushing slightly, as if caught in a criminal activity. Or a childish one. “I met Lord Grammayre.” Her gaze immediately hit floor and clung there as if rooted.

“Lord Grammayre asked that I escort you to meet our Sergeant,” he finally said. It was absurd to be talking this carefully to a street thief from the fiefs. Who said she was thirteen? Clint wasn't certain he believed it now; that kind of wonder was usually reserved for people who could afford to be naive and optimistic. He'd flown low patrols over parts of the fiefs, and he couldn't believe that this girl was one of those.

“What's your name?” he asked, because thinking of her as “the girl” was beginning to irritate him.

“Kaylin,” she replied, with enough hesitance it was clearly a lie. “Kaylin Neya.”

“I'm Clint of Camaraan.”

“Camaraan? You're not from the City?”

“Home is the Southern Stretch,” he replied. When her expression didn't change, he added, “Yes, I'm from the City—the mountains to the south are considered the City's outer boundary by the Emperor. Camaraan is my flight. The closest thing you'd have to it is family, although family is too small a word.”

She fell silent, as if regretting the brief outburst of genuine curiosity. This time, her expression stiffened into a neutral mask; it added years to her face.

“Come on,” he told her. “Or we'll be late.”

 

A Leontine in the very best of moods often sent humans scuttling for the nearest cover. Leontines were taller than the average human, broader, more heavily built—without any fat or extra padding—and entirely covered in fur. They also had obvious fangs, and when annoyed, very obvious claws. Marcus was not in the best of moods.

Aware of this, and aware of why, Caitlin lingered by his desk. In part she could do this with a minimum of effort because the papers he'd accidentally sent flying still covered large parts of the floor, and they were important—for a value of important that screamed bureaucracy—so she had a reason to be there.

Caitlin was officially his aide. She was unofficially
everyone's
aide, as long as people didn't attempt to take advantage of her better nature and her inability to tell them all to drop dead when they tried to shift a crapload of their work onto her shoulders. Marcus had no difficulty with the latter, so things worked out, a few complaints and bruises aside. She was quiet, pleasant, sane, and sympathetic; she was
also
extremely well organized.

She looked up from a pile of paper she was collating, and Marcus caught a glimpse of her expression before she once again returned to work. It was enough to make him consider, briefly, strangling the Hawklord.

Clint escorted the experiment in early education to the business end of Marcus's desk; he then took up position one step back and to the girl's left. And she
was
a girl. If someone had told Marcus she was ten, he'd have believed it. She approached his desk as if she expected
to have her throat ripped out—and deserved it. But she didn't weep or snivel or plead; he gave her that.