The Chronicles of Elantra 6 - Cast in Chaos (41 page)

That kind of eagerness dispelled fear quickly.

“Ybelline is good at what she does,” Severn added.

“I know. I know she is.” Kaylin grimaced. “It’s my bad conscience, really. I hated them so blindly for so long, I’m sensitive to anyone else’s fear because I expect it, and I expect it to be as bad as mine was. You didn’t, so you’re not.”

“And you like her.”

“And I like her. She doesn’t deserve to have to deal with people even a tenth as bad as I was.”

“If she doesn’t, however, they’ll remain in fear. This way? Person by person she dispels it.”

“And she pays.”

“The privilege of being castelord.”

CHAPTER 23

The next morning began with a call from the midwives’ guild. Where morning in this case meant black, cloudy skies, with just the barest hint of moonlight in the darkened streets. Kaylin had crawled out of bed, and left about fifteen palm prints on the wall and the frame of her mirror before she actually managed to touch it.

It was Marya. She was grim and pale, but she usually was when she mirrored Kaylin; if things were going well enough that she looked normal and businesslike, Kaylin was entirely unnecessary. She therefore dispensed entirely with the usual pleasantries. But then again, so did Marcus or anyone
else
who used this particular mirror. Some of her friends, who had keys, didn’t even bother with the courtesy of a mirror at all.

“We need you down at the guildhall,” Marya said, her lips a thin line.

“Guildhall? Not at a house?”

“No. The birthing itself was no threat to the mother’s life. And not to the…child’s.”

“Why do you need me?”

“You’ll see. We’re revisiting the boundaries of the danger zone,” she added, running her hand through her hair. “You might want to mention this to your Sergeant.”

Kaylin stopped by the Halls of Law on her way to the midwives’ guild. She was, in fact, early, and this generally caused shock—but most people were tired enough given the extra shifts and the state of emergency that they couldn’t manage sarcasm for all that long.

Caitlin could, however, manage concern.

“I can’t stay,” Kaylin told her. “I’m heading over to the midwives’ guildhall now. I think I’ll be back on time, if nothing is horribly wrong.”

Since babies didn’t have much sense of day or night before they were born—and according to many new mothers, after, either—the Halls could be either catastrophically busy or empty at
any
time of day. Kaylin hadn’t exactly run all the way to the guildhall, but she’d walked at a brisk clip. She took the steps two at a time, and entered the somewhat dingy front area.

Marya was waiting for her in the long hall where many of the beds were. In person, she looked even more exhausted, and the circles under her eyes were almost, but not quite, bruises. She wasn’t standing by an occupied bed; she was standing by the old and worn set of cupboards in which emergency supplies and pillowcases were kept. Beneath the slightly warped cupboards was a large crate that looked as if it should have held eggs.

“Good,” Marya said, as Kaylin approached. She hefted the crate off the counter with an ease that suggested she was either Leontine in strength, or it was lighter than it looked, and held it out.

Kaylin took it out of her hands; it was very light. “What is it?”

“Your problem,” was the curt reply.

“Is it fragile?”

“I have no idea.” The midwife then turned until only her profile was exposed, and ran her hands over her eyes. “It was a long night,” she finally said. “And the only thing we’re currently grateful for is it was not the family’s first pregnancy.”

“What happened?”

“We were outside of the area of quarantine. Chevaron is relocating people we know about now. Did you—”

“Yes. I spoke to the Sergeant. Word is being sent up the ranks. He’s going to want to know why.”

“You’re going to tell him what I’m now telling you. Talking to the Law gives me hives, and it takes a while.”

Kaylin nodded sympathetically, because Marcus on a bad day gave
her
hives. She also failed to point out that she was, technically, part of said Law.

“We were outside of the quarantine area. A few streets over, nearer the riverside on Howlhorn. The birth itself was routine, up to a point.”

“How?”

“We had heartbeat, and it was fairly regular, fairly calm. But…the baby’s head, when it became visible, was not what we expected. It
is
rounded, and it
is
both warm and soft, although it’s much less soft now than it was. The mother had no more than the usual difficulty birthing the baby.”

“It wasn’t a normal baby.”

“No. It wasn’t, like the others, some variant on normal, either. We’re not entirely certain what it is. Open the crate.”

Kaylin set it down on the counter from which Marya had removed it. The lid was loose enough it wasn’t hard to remove it; beneath the lid were blankets. She glanced at Marya, and then began to gently unwind some of the blanket.

“It’s…an egg?”

“Yes. Very much so. Before you ask, we have no idea what’s inside it. It hasn’t hatched, and after some debate, we’ve decided that it is not our problem.”

“The mother—”

“Both of the parents are, at the moment, in shock and mourning. I don’t think the egg would have survived there. I’m not sure,” she added, as Kaylin replaced the blanket and the lid, “that that wouldn’t have been a mercy, in the end. I have no idea where you take it, or what you do with it, or whether or not mages will be interested—but I want it out of my hands.”

Kaylin once again lifted the box. She turned toward the doors, and then turned back. “One way or another,” she said quietly, “it’ll be over soon.”

Marya, ever practical, didn’t ask how. Instead, she said, “How much is that area going to
grow
until it is?”

“I don’t know. We could only trace the circumference of the area the last time because it rained blood.”

Kaylin, after a brief hesitation, took the egg in its crate home. She considered dropping it off at the Foundling Halls, but decided against it, given how much it might otherwise resemble exotic food. Instead, she left it in its crate, and stood it in as much sunlight as she was willing to let into the room when she wasn’t also in it. Then she headed out to work, aware that by now she had just won someone in the office the betting pool. She wasn’t sure who.

Marcus, predictably, was several inches bulkier on first sight. This would be because his hair was standing on end in various clumps. His claws were entirely visible, and there was an invisible—and wide—circle around his desk which everyone was carefully avoiding. This didn’t mean the office was quiet, mind. The window was chatting to any poor fool who stood still for more than thirty seconds.

To avoid being classed as one of them, Kaylin headed straight to the duty roster. It was only barely legible; if you’d had the misfortune of starting work this week, it wouldn’t have been. She was, no surprise, on Palace duty. So was Severn. Teela and Tain were on boundary duty, as were most of the rest of the Barrani Hawks. They had all also pulled double shifts.

Taking the better part of valor, she headed to the Quartermaster’s, and from there, out toward the Imperial Palace. There was no carriage waiting for her; there was a familiar Corporal.

“You’re late,” he said, with just enough of a lift in the last syllable that it might have been a question.

“This lose you the betting pool?”

He grinned, but didn’t answer. No one liked to
lose
bets, but Severn had always been pretty laid-back after the fact.

“The midwives called me in.”

“When?”

“Morning, more or less. I was actually here earlier but left.” She hesitated, and then added, “The magical spill zone seems to have grown in the last day or two.”

“Problem with a birth?” The easy smile slid off his face; his eyes were both dark and serious.

“You could say that. It wouldn’t be entirely accurate. The
birth
was fine. It did not, however, produce a baby.”

He was silent for a few blocks. “The parents?”

“Traumatized, by all reports.”

“And the…offspring?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ll show you later. It’s at my place.” When his brows—both of them—rose, she added, “It was an egg. I didn’t leave it lying on its back, starving.”

Lord Diarmat was, to Kaylin’s surprise—and immediate discomfort—in the large halls just beyond the first checkpoint. No Dragon was a comforting sight first thing in the morning, but Kaylin was used to bristling Leontine by this point. She straightened her posture, and executed what she hoped was a crisp bow. Judging by his expression, it was a vain hope.

“You’re late,” he told them curtly.

She decided to follow Severn’s lead, and said nothing, which was just as well; he didn’t bother to wait for a reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and began a brisk stride down the hall. Given the difference in the length of their strides, this meant Kaylin was almost jogging to keep up; Severn didn’t have that problem. Not keeping up, however, didn’t seem the wise option.

He led them, not surprisingly, to the Library. The door wards were still down; it was possibly the only thing she’d miss when—and if—things returned to normal. In the absence of door wards, however, there were now Imperial Palace Guards. They looked like perfectly gleaming statues as Lord Diarmat walked through them.

But they moved when Kaylin attempted to follow. She gave them her name, rank, and reason for existence. The last, however, was lost to their famous sense of humor. Like Dragons, they had none.

To be fair, they also demanded the same information of Severn. Diarmat did not seem to hold this delay against them. Much. She would have said the Dragon Lord was in a bad mood, but had the sinking suspicion that this wouldn’t have been accurate; he had a face that looked enough like chiseled stone that a smile would have probably cracked it.

“The Arkon,” he told them both, when they had fully entered the first—and most well-known—of the Arkon’s many rooms, “has been waiting.”

The Arkon, with Lord Sanabalis as a companion, was indeed waiting. He was more or less silent, as was Sanabalis. There were four Imperial Guards who were keeping them company, if statues were company. There was, however, no sign of Ybelline or any of the other Tha’alani.

If the stiff formality of Lord Diarmat allowed for—and accepted—no excuses, the Arkon’s stiffness was of a different sort. It demanded excuses, with the understanding that none of the excuses offered would actually be acceptable. Kaylin found this more comfortable, because she was used to Marcus. She had also, by this time, become familiar enough with the Arkon that while groveling she kept her voice calm and fact-focused. Where she wasn’t willing to share facts—the egg, for instance—she closed the gap between sentences in a way that suggested the information wasn’t important. She also, however, lifted her chin, exposing her throat.

The Arkon did not breathe fire or snort smoke as she spoke. Instead, he glanced at Sanabalis.

Sanabalis nodded. “We’ve received word from Master Sabrai.”

“He’s narrowed the timing down?” Kaylin asked sharply.

“In a manner of speaking. Last night every Oracle in the Halls had what he feels are Oracular dreams or visions.”

“Everly?”

“He sketched. The majority of his work is already done. There were no significant changes to the painting,” he added, aware of Kaylin’s concern. “And he seems to have recovered from his previous endeavors.”

“The others?”

“The visions as an aggregate are clearer than they were. I believe they will refine the information you already have. But Master Sabrai felt that the incidence of Oracles was now high enough that he could more accurately assess the timing of the event.”

“How long do we have?”

“A day and a half. The…enlargement…of the contentious zone is in keeping with his estimate.”

Kaylin frowned.

“The Imperial Order of Mages has made some estimates of their own,” Sanabalis added. “They are not in any way accurate, and require some assumptions that not all of the members are comfortable making with regards to the raw magical potential required to open a portal of this nature.”

“How would they know?”

“That, indeed, is the crux of their discomfort. Magic and the amount of raw power any single event requires is not strictly correlative. But the events with the midwives’ guild indicate that at base, some of those assumptions are not entirely without merit.” He turned back to the Arkon.

The Arkon rose. “Let us visit the site of Everly’s painting.” He turned to Diarmat and added, “The Library is to be closed completely. There are no exceptions in my absence.”

“Understood, Arkon.”

“If the Emperor requires access to the Library,” the Arkon added, as he began to walk, “he can make his displeasure known. He is young and in good health. A few miles of city streets shouldn’t cause his voice much trouble.”

An Imperial Carriage was waiting in the yard, doors open. Lord Diarmat accompanied them only as far as the yard. He asked the Arkon if he had reconsidered his stand on an escort; the Arkon’s lack of reply was obviously reply enough.

Sanabalis, however, said, “We will not divert men from their watch on the Arcanum at this time. Your men are good. They are not, however, Dragons.”

To this, Lord Diarmat made no reply. Nor did Sanabalis point out that two of the Hawks were with them; it might have appealed to Kaylin’s vanity, but it wouldn’t have done much for Diarmat. When the carriage door had closed and the carriage itself was well on its way, the Arkon said to Sanabalis, “The young weary me. If I were not already mired in things barely understood, I believe I would dredge up the energy to find his queries insulting.” His expression was pinched and somewhat peevish.

It was also, apparently, safe enough to evoke a smile from Sanabalis. “Diarmat has always taken the duties he has accepted with gravity.”