The gold Dragon snorted. This time, there was no smoke in it. “Is that how you see it? Humor is grounding. It steadies troops, it eases tension.”
“I am not a man famed for my sense of humor.”
“No, I can see that. I rather considered you might be famed for its lack.”
“That is harsh.”
She smiled. “Yes. It is, and I will tender apologies for it, now.” She turned to Moran. “As I will tender apologies to you, for interrupting.”
“I imagine,” the Hawklord said, “that she was grateful for the interruption.”
“By law,” the Emperor then continued, “the outcastesareconsidered a matter for and of the Caste Courts. If the outcaste chooses to do so, they can throw themselves onto the mercy of the Imperial Courts—but that is not easily done if their position and their relative power is not secure enough to begin with.” Seeing Kaylin’s expression, he added, “The outcastes are protected by Imperial Law if they request such protection. I do not believe such a petition has ever been made by an Aerian.”
“I told you—I asked you—to stay out of this,” Moran told Kaylin, her tone at odds with the words themselves. The former verb was the more correct one.
“I did. I didn’t search the streets for outcaste Aerians—you know as well as I do now that I wouldn’t have even noticed them if I’d passed them in the streets. They don’t havewings, Moran. They look human to the casual eye. You have to speak with them to notice that their eye color changes—and most people in the city aren’t going to do that if the Aerian doesn’t want to be social.”
“Then how did you meet an outcaste?”
“Evanton.”
Moran frowned. “Evanton? The one that sells garbage and surprisingly useful enchantments from time to time?”
“Yeah. Grouchy old guy, but makes good tea. And cookies.”
Bellusdeo did exhale smoke then. Her eyes were tinted orange as she dragged her gaze from the Emperor to Kaylin, and dropped it on her head.
“What? Everything I’ve said is true. Heisa grouchy old guy. He does make good tea, even if he doesn’t like tea.”
“There are days,” Bellusdeo replied, “where I understand perfectly the abominable lessons you are forced to take under Lord Diarmat. Informality is one thing. Disrespect is quite another.”
“Your meeting with Evanton?”
“Evanton had been approached by a woman. She wanted him to make something for her. Don’t look at me like that—you know he enchanted my daggers so they don’t make noise when they leave their sheaths.”
“I am not entirely certain I approve,” the Dragon Emperor said. The Hawklord stiffened.
“Is it illegal?” Bellusdeo’s voice was chillier.
“Not yet.”
“Well then, carry on,” she said—to Kaylin.
“I’m not usually called in as a delivery service.” She hesitated, looking at the table. This was a far larger crowd than the one she’d originally envisioned when she’d agreed to deliver what was, in essence, a gift. “But the woman wanted the item delivered to Sergeant dar Carafel of the Hawks.”
“Did you meet this woman?” Moran demanded.
“Getting there,” Kaylin said. “And yes, I did. I wasn’t willing to deliver anything without at least meeting the person first. I trust Evanton,” she added quickly, in case it was necessary. “There’s no way he would make something harmful and ask me to pass it on—and he made it clear thathewas making it.
“She looked like an older woman. Maybe in her fifties? Sixties? Maybe younger, but under some stress. I didn’t—” Kaylin inhaled. Exhaled. “I didn’t realize she was Aerian because she had no wings.”
“How did you recognize what she was?” the Arkon asked quietly.
“Her eyes. Her eyes changed color. And I know Aerian color shifts like I know the back of my own hand.”
* * *
She turned, then, to the Hawklord and Moran; both were still and silent, as if Kaylin’s words had pinned them irrevocably in place. Moran broke that silence with difficulty; her eyes were a complicated color, a mix of purple and blue—a pale shade that implied sorrow and surprise in equal measure. “Did she tell you her name?”
