Cast in Flight by Michelle Sagara
“The assailants don’t appear to be injured. According to Private Neya, there were three; only two are currently in captivity.”
“The third?”
“He must have escaped. I don’t know what happened—small and squawky flew up, and two of them fell down. The third, he might have missed.”
“What did he do?”
“...I don’t know.”
“The Hawklord’s going to demand an answer. How does ‘I don’t know’ generally work out for you?”
Not particularly well. “It’s the truth. It’s going to have to do. I don’t know. I didn’t see what happened. If I had to guess, I’d say that two of the Aerians are naturally close to flightless. Magical alterations were made—somehow—that allowed them to fly. The familiar did something to dispel that magic.”
Squawk. The familiar was bouncing on her shoulder, having abandoned the lazy sprawl.
“If that’s the case, it implies that Aerian number three didn’t require alteration in order to fly. He or she merely required it to be invisible.”
Squawk squawk squawk.
“Your familiar agrees,” Bellusdeo said quietly. “You’re making your thinking face.”
“It’s just...”
“Yes?”
“If I’m looking at them through his wing, the wings look whole. They look healthy. They don’t look like little extensions of Shadow or whatever it is. The net they were holding? That screamed Shadow. But the wings don’t. I think that the physical container for the power of flight was created, but it doesn’t depend on Shadow to work.”
“Meaning?”
“I think they could fly again. But I don’t understand how. The lack of relevant parts in their natural, normal wings is real, it’s physical. This is like—it’s like someone found the phantom arm that people who’ve lost an arm feel, and they figured out how to make it temporarily solid.”
Moran said a lot of nothing.
Kaylin wasn’t certain what she would have said if given enough time, because the mirror went off. The infirmary had a rather large one. It was not quiet.
“Sergeant!” An Aerian appeared in the mirror, in a poorly lit room. Light was incoming, and behind him, Kaylin could see the dark red of blood.
Moran’s eyes shifted to blue. Not purple. She wasn’t surprised at all. But she was bitterly, bitterly unhappy. Kaylin, who had just felt the uncomfortable, ugly rush of guilt, recognized it when she saw it on another face.
All the things that she could tell herself but couldn’t quite believe rushed up, because if she said them to Moran, they would be true. Nothing in Moran’s expression allowed for any attempt at comfort. Kaylin’s jaw snapped shut.
Moran’s assistant entered the infirmary in his on-duty clothing. Kaylin wondered briefly where he’d been. She didn’t like any answer she could come up with, and didn’t ask. Moran waited for the assistant—a lowly private, just as Kaylin herself was—to pick up a large, heavy bag.
She looked far more like Red going out on a premorgue assignment than she did a doctor. Red, on the other hand, carried his own bag; he considered privates in general too careless.
* * *
The holding cells were crowded. The Hawklord had either not returned to his Tower, or had descended from it again. Barrani Hawks—Teela and Tain among them—were on guard duty. The only Aerians present were the Hawklord and Moran.
And the bleeding Aerians who had been deposited here.
Moran’s Leontine was impressive, but she didn’t slow down for it; she sped up. Her private, understanding instantly, sped up as well; Kaylin and Severn stepped out of the way to let them pass.
Kaylin almost couldn’t understand what she was seeing. Almost.
But when she’d been fourteen—or fifteen, the years blurred a bit—and a mascot, not an actual full-fledged private, the Hawks and the Swords had, between them, managed to capture a Barrani criminal. He was wanted for a number of petty crimes, mostly involving drugs and prostitution. He had been taken to the holding cells, and he had been restrained; Barrani had been sent to guard him because mortal guards wouldn’t cut it.
He had died.
Restrained as he was, he could have put up a struggle against mortal guards, excepting only Leontines, and since there was only one of those and he was a sergeant, he was definitively not on guard duty. He’d had no chance at all against Barrani.
It had caused the ugliest rift in the Hawks Kaylin had, until that point, seen. She’d seen impressive rivalries for things ranging from chairs, desks and pencil acquisition—but those rivalries had been, at base, friendly. The death of the Barrani prisoner—the helpless Barrani prisoner—had changed that. It had driven a wedge of fury, contempt, and not a little fear, between the Barrani Hawks and their mortal counterparts; it had made race an issue even if, in theory, they were all equal when serving the Imperial Law.
Not everyone was upset about the death—but enough were. Enough had been.
Petty Barrani criminals weren’t Aerians. Kaylin held her breath, reaching for her wrist. She’d already removed the bracer. She didn’t look to the Hawklord for orders. She didn’t look to Moran. She particularly avoided looking at Teela and Tain. She was certain they hadn’t killed the Aerians. And she was certain the Hawklord already knew who had. After the death of the Barrani, Records captures became mandatory for each of the holding cells that were in use.
“Private,” the Hawklord said.
Kaylin ignored him. She knelt across from Moran and her infirmary assistant. One Aerian was dead. Just...dead. His throat had been cut, and he’d been stabbed in the chest, close to, if not through, his Aerian heart.
She placed her hands on the forehead of the second Aerian. He was—barely—alive. Everything was on Records. Everything. And that didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if the Hawks didn’t know she could heal. It wasn’t as if the Hawklord didn’t. The Emperor was aware of her abilities. Were they legal? No. But she could figure that out later.
She sent the healing power of the marks on her skin out, into the wound. Someone had slashed his throat as well, but not deeply enough. They hadn’t taken the time to stab him through the heart, possibly because they didn’t have that time. It was the only thing she was grateful for. She heard Moran barking orders and felt a twinge of sympathy for the private on the receiving end. Belatedly, she hoped that private wasn’t actually her.
The familiar was crooning, a wordless sound that almost managed to be musical, if music was slightly flat and occasionally squawky. She listened as she felt the wound begin to close.
“Enough, Kaylin,” Moran said quietly.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” she answered, without opening her eyes.
“We’re aware of that. He’ll survive on his own now.”
“I can—”
“You’ll be flat on your back for at least three days, according to Teela. You’ve done enough.”
“But—”
“Hawklord’s orders,” Moran added.
* * *
Kaylin was grateful that she was only a private by the end of that grueling day. The office was in an uproar—but Hawks in uproar generally gave very strong meaning to the words deafening silence. There were always exceptions, but for the most part, Marcus was in low-growl mode all day. It wasn’t considered wise to interrupt that or, more precisely, to draw his attention when he was in that mood.
Because she was only a private, she had no idea who had murdered one of the two prisoners and almost killed the other. The Records of cell captures weren’t considered of relevance to privates. Or corporals. Or possibly even sergeants. They were above Kaylin’s pay grade, and for the long, long hours of that day, she wanted them to stay that way enough that she could ignore the insistent who would do this that rattled around her head. Someone had just thrown away
Bellusdeo remained in the infirmary—on the inside, near Moran. Teela and Tain took up positions on the outside of the infirmary door, by command of their very growly sergeant. The surviving prisoner had not regained consciousness by the end of the day.
Kaylin and Severn weren’t in the office for most of that day, though. They were out patrolling Elani Street. It was the first time in a long time that Kaylin appreciated petty fraud. She didn’t even grimace when she caught sight of Margot on the way to Evanton’s storefront.
* * *
“I don’t mean to be offensive,” Grethan said a moment after he opened the door, “but you look awful.”
“It’s been that kind of day. Is Evanton in?”
“He is. I don’t think he was expecting you, if that’s any comfort.”
“Some,” Kaylin admitted. She frowned. “I look awful, or we look awful?”
“Severn kind of looks the same as he always does. You look—”
“Awful. Just me.”
Severn shrugged, fief shrug. “I didn’t say it,” he pointed out when she glared at him. “I haven’t been a Hawk for nearly as long as you have. Before I joined the Hawks, I was a Wolf. We don’t have an office the way the Hawks or the Swords do. We don’t serve the same function. A death in the holding cells might be one of our assignments.”
“It would never be a Wolf assignment.”
“No?”
“They don’t call in the Wolves if they can actually put the criminal in question in holding cells.” She exhaled. “Sorry. You’re right. But—it brings up all the old stuff. It reminds people of the last time. It’s just—” She shook her head. “I don’t want it to be an Aerian. I don’t want it to be anyone in the Halls.”
He was kind enough not to point out that the Hawklord probably already knew who the killer had been. Her ignorance at this point was irrelevant; it was pointless to cling to it. She knew it, and hated the whine that underlay her thoughts. But the hells with it. She’d let her ignorance go when she was good and ready. Or, more likely, when the Hawklord was.
She headed toward the kitchen, in serious need of cookies. Severn followed. Evanton was seated at the table, his apron a bit grimy, his expression a match for Kaylin’s. They eyed each other warily. Since it was Evanton’s shop, his bad moods took precedence over hers when all things were equal. Other than that, they shared.
“I have had two visitors today,” Evanton said, going first. “Both Aerian, oddly enough.”
“We had three, but they came together in a single group,” she countered.
Evanton pushed the cookie tin in her general direction. “Both of the Aerians were from the Upper Reaches; they were representatives of castelords, or the Aerian equivalent. They felt it necessary to actually threaten me.”
Kaylin winced. “So...not very bright representatives.”
Evanton’s smile was humorless and thin. “No. They were dissuaded from that avenue of communication quite quickly.”
“Our visitors didn’t bother with the threats or the negotiations. They were invisible, they had a net that appeared—from the ground—to be made of Shadow, and we think they were there to assassinate Sergeant dar Carafel.”
Evanton winced.
“We managed to bring two of them down. One of them died in the holding cells, and not by his own hand.”
“I’m not certain you’re allowed to say that,” Evanton said. “It’s probably a breach of some sort of security or other.”
“Probably.”
“Do you think these two incidents are related?”
“The assassination and the deaths in the cell?” Kaylin asked in a very Why are you asking if water is wet? tone.
“No. The visit to my humble shop and the assassination attempt.”
“Oh.” She took a cookie. Or two. “Maybe. I was coming to ask you about that.”
“Ah.”
“This blessing thing that you were asked to craft—does it actually give the flightless flight?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because two of the Aerians—the ones we caught—couldn’t, in theory, fly on their own. Their wings aren’t properly formed.”
“You think they were deliberately crippled?”
“No. It’s not like being outcaste. They have wings—but the wings wouldn’t support their full weight. They could manage to hit the literal street without going splat. But they couldn’t manage to lift off that same street.”
“You’re certain.”
“Yes. Evanton?”
“Yes, Kaylin. That is exactly what the blessing of air does.” He rose. “Do you think that the client you met is involved?”
“I wish I could say that hadn’t occurred to me,” was her stony reply. “But, in fairness, she wanted the bletsian for Moran. Who can’t fly. I didn’t press her for more information; I trusted you not to create something that would harm Moran. Now I have to ask—as a Hawk—how many other clients you’ve created these bletsian things for. And when.”
“I am not the only person who can craft them,” he replied, which wasn’t much of an answer. “Grethan, tea.”
* * *
Tea came twenty minutes later. Evanton frowned as Kaylin, in his words, entirely spoiled any appetite for lunch by eating her way through half of the cookie tin. She did, in her own defense, offer cookies to Severn, who took one.
“Aerian mages do not join the Imperial Order. I believe, in the history of the Southern Reach, there was exactly one. It is not,” he added, “recent history. The Tha’alani have an affinity for the element of water. It will not surprise you to know that the Aerians have a similar affinity.”
“Air?”
He nodded. “Air and fire. The abilities of the Aerians are similar to those of the Imperial mages.”
“Have any Aerians ever been Arcanists?”
“Funny that you should ask that question now.”
There were whole days when Kaylin regretted getting out of bed. She was torn, though. It was natural to hate and despise Arcanists; you practically lost your badge if you didn’t. She wanted to hate and despise something that wasn’t...her own people.
And that was one step too far. She struggled with it, and won, but only barely. On the other hand, barely still passed muster. “Sorry,” she told the older man. “I’m right out of humor for funny at the moment.”
“I can see that. There have historically been more Aerian Arcanists than there have been Imperial mages.”
“Why?”
“Because the Imperium, such as it is, is a largely human endeavor. The Aerians are not at home in halls that were not designed with wings in mind. They can—and do—work within them, but being a mage is not just, or even, office work. They dislike the cramped confines of both space and attitude.
“Arcanists are more racially diverse.”
“Most of them are Barrani!”
“Yes. Barrani have a general contempt for anyone who happens to be mortal. They are not Aerians; they are mortals, as far as the Barrani are concerned. But as is the case with the Barrani in other avenues of interaction, power—and money—speak. It is easier to feel at home in the Arcanum than in the Imperium. The Arcanum does not revere Imperial Law.”
“No kidding.” She exhaled. “Is there an Aerian Arcanist now?”
“What do you think?”
Kaylin’s Leontine, mixed liberally with borrowed words from two other languages, filled the small kitchen space.
* * *
“You are certain you saw whole wings?” Evanton asked when Kaylin at last stopped swearing and told him, in less colorful language, about the events of the day.
“Yes.”
“But only with the aid of your familiar?”
She nodded again. The familiar had taken off, landing, as he often did, on Grethan’s shoulders. Grethan had gone in search of food more suited to the small lizard than Kaylin’s cookies, or rather, what she thought of as her cookies. “I wonder why he likes Grethan so much?”
“Given your current mood, it emphasizes his intelligence,” Evanton replied.
“I thought maybe the wings were Shadow wings, somehow—but that doesn’t seem to be the case. The net, though—I’d bet all of last year’s pay that it was Shadow.”
Evanton was thinking. Loudly. “Might I ask you to do one thing the next time you’re with Sergeant Carafel?”
“You want me to look at her wings with the help of the familiar.”
“Yes. I think it might be instructive.”
Kaylin nodded glumly.
“If the wings somehow represent potential flight, it’s possible that Shadow is responsible for the actual flight.”
“But—how?”
“It is power, Kaylin.”
“It’s Shadow. Look, fire is powerful, but you can’t pour fire into wings and expect to take flight. You can probably expect to be cooked if you’re not careful, but that’s about it.”
“Shadow has always been the most flexible of the potential powers,” the Keeper replied, unruffled. “There is a reason that it has been studied; a reason that it has appeal. Shadow is, at base, transformative.”
“Yes—but I’m not sure you can control the transformation, and for the most part the transformation, all differences aside, is from alive to dead.”
“For mortals, yes.”
Evanton was mortal. In theory. Or he’d been born mortal. But he’d lived a long damn time, and if he looked ancient to Kaylin, he hadn’t aged at all in the years—admittedly few—she’d known him. “How do you know what Shadow does?”
His brows gathered in the what a stupid question look he usually threw at poor Grethan. “I’ve been through several iterations of men—and women—who seek power. Any power. Most of those attempts don’t directly affect me, as Keeper. But some—as recent history has proven—have come close to destroying everything. I will allow that if the weapons the Aerians were utilizing were of Shadow, it is highly likely that Shadow was the ostensible bletsian granted those who could not naturally fly.” He rose. “It so happens I have something for you.”