LITMIR.BIZ

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when it came to anything they wore. Regulations were, after all, supposed to be practical and as far as Kaylin could tell, Barrani hair never tangled, never got caught in anything, and never got in the way.

      And they were gorgeous and lived forever. If it weren’t for the fact that they adored politics—preferably with blood and death—they’d be insufferable.

      “He’s Ironjaw,” Teela said. “But he’s been in that mood since late last night.” Her tone of voice made it clear that it was serious enough that Kaylin should change the subject now, and Kaylin had known Teela for so many years it wasn’t possible to misinterpret.

      “Figures. Save a city, get sent to the Imperial Palace.”

      “It’s more impressive than being sent to the docks or the Commons.”

      “More people to offend.”

      “True, and some of them are significant.” Teela smiled. In all, it wasn’t a happy expression. “Have you even taken a look at what you’re holding?”

      “I just got it, Teela.”

      “You might want to read it over,” the Hawk replied. “Severn’s waiting in the West room. And so is the Dragon.”

      The Dragon was generally known by the rank and file as Lord Sanabalis. One of Four Dragon Lords that comprised the Dragon contingent of the Imperial Court, he was also a member of the Imperial Order of Mages. He had graciously come out of teaching retirement to take on one pupil, that pupil being Kaylin herself. She tried to remember to be grateful, and usually succeeded when she wasn’t actively staring at a candle wick in a vain attempt to get it to catch fire.

      Which, come to think, was most of the time.

      But she knew her lesson schedule more or less by heart now, and none of those lessons started at the beginning of her day. Given her nocturnal activities, and the desire of the Hawks not to annoy the mages, Marcus had forbidden any lesson that started before lunch. It gave her a decent chance of not missing any.

      So Sanabalis wasn’t here to teach her anything new about candles. She pushed the door open—it was open, so she didn’t have to go through her daily ritual of teeth-grinding while waiting for the doorward to magically identify her—and saw that Severn and Sanabalis were seated across the room’s only table, talking quietly.

      They stopped when they saw her, and she slid between the door and its frame, dropping the stack of paper on the tabletop.

      “Marcus is in a mood,” she told Severn.

      “It’s better than yours.”

      “I’m not in a—” She stopped. “You mean better than mine will be?”

      “Pretty much. Take a seat. Lord Sanabalis is here to inform us of our duties, and to escort us to the man we’ll be aiding.”

      When Severn spoke Barrani, it was generally a bad sign. Lord Sanabalis, on the other hand, almost always spoke in Barrani.

      “We don’t have to talk to the Emperor, do we?” she said, sinking into the chair slowly. It was rock hard and weighed more than she did.

      “No,” Lord Sanabalis replied. “Unless something goes gravely, gravely wrong, the Emperor has more important duties to attend.”

      “Does this mean there’s no lesson today?”

      “There will be, as you say, no lesson for the course of your duties at the Palace.”

      “Well, that’s something. Who are we investigating?”

      Severn hesitated.

      “Investigating?” Sanabalis replied, raising a brow. “I rather think, if you were sent to investigate someone, the last place the Hawks would agree to second you would be the Imperial Palace. As you should know, the Imperial Guards deal with any difficulties that arise in the Palace. And they do not arise.”

      “Yes, Sanabalis.” She hesitated. “What are we doing there, then? We’re not exactly guard material—”

      One of his silver brows rose into his thinning hairline.

      Fair enough; if the Imperial Guard would be offended at outside investigators, they would probably completely lose it at outside guards. “So we’re not there as investigators, we’re not there as guards. Are we there as Hawks?”

      “In a manner of speaking.”

      She grimaced. “That usually means no.”

      “You are Hawks or you could not be seconded in this fashion. You are not, however, there as representatives of the Law.”

      The old bastard looked like he was enjoying himself. Exactly how he conveyed this, Kaylin wasn’t quite certain—his expression was neutral enough, and his voice was smooth as glass.

      “So what are we there as?”

      “As Cultural Resources,” he replied smoothly.

      “As what?”

      “Cultural Resources.”

      “I heard you. What exactly does that mean?”

      “Ah. Have you taken a moment to peruse the documents you placed upon the table?”

      “No.”

      “I’d advise you to do so. We are not expected at the Palace until after lunch. I felt, given the unpredictability of your schedule, that this was wisest.”

      “But—”

      “Many of the questions you are no doubt impatient to ask will be answered by even the briefest of perusals.”

      She wondered if he were a betting man, or Dragon. But given Dragons in general, she doubted it.

      “If it eases your mind, Private Neya, Sergeant Kassan is required to pay you for the time you spend seconded to the Palace. He also,” he continued, lifting a hand to stop her from speaking, “expects you to report in each morning.

      “For some reason, he is concerned about the assignment. I can’t imagine why.”

      “Act One, Scene One.” Kaylin looked at Severn. “Act One, Scene One?”

      “It’s a play,” Severn said, shrugging slightly. The left corner of his mouth was turned up in something that hinted at amusement. “You’re familiar with plays?”

      Kaylin snorted. She read the description of stage materials—mostly the painted facades of buildings and bushes, in different sizes. And, she thought, in odd colors. “Poynter’s road?”

      Severn nodded. “It’s—”

      “I know where it is—but the buildings don’t look anything like that on Poynter’s.”

      “Kaylin—”

      “No, Corporal Handred, allow her to speak freely. It will, in theory, get it out of her system.”

      “You want me to read a play?”

      “Not exactly. The play itself is not complete, or not complete to our satisfaction. The author’s name might be familiar to you.” He raised one brow.

      “Richard Rennick.” She looked at Severn. “Should we know him?”

      “He’s the Imperial Playwright,” Severn told her quietly. “The position is held by one Playwright every five years. There’s usually a competition of some sort—a series of different plays staged for the Emperor. He apparently won, three years ago.”

      Lord Sanabalis said, “The Emperor feels that human arts should be encouraged. Don’t look at me like that, Kaylin. Dragons seldom have an interest in drama.”

      “Who’s the judge of this contest?”

      “The Emperor.”

      “So

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