Kaylin teetered on the edge of action for a moment, and then began to walk forward toward them, half-embarrassed and half-outraged. Severn caught her upper arm.
“Don’t,” he said very quietly into her ear. “It’s considered rude.”
“Stopping them from—from—there are children here, Severn!”
“Stopping them from expressing their love and desire. Yes. It’s considered intrusive here.”
“But—but—” she spluttered as if she were the one who was half drowning. “The children—”
“The children are aware of them,” he said. “And as you can see, they are not concerned. They haven’t yet learned not to attempt to disturb, but that’s expected of children.” He paused, and then said, “No, Kaylin, they have no shame.” But the tone of the words conveyed no contempt and no horror, no shock, no judgment.
Certainly no embarrassment.
“They want what they want. They are aware of it in the Tha’alaan from the moment they touch it. They love as they love, and it is considered as natural as breathing, or eating, or sleeping. They make love without fear of exposure because in some ways there is no privacy. The thought and the impulse is extreme, and it is felt regardless of where they are.
“But it isn’t condemned,” he told her. “Not by them.”
“But—”
“This is the other reason why the deaf are seldom allowed entry into the enclave. No race, not even the Barrani, can understand the total lack of possessiveness that this entails.”
“It doesn’t—doesn’t bother you?”
“No. But I couldn’t live with it, either. They are not lovers in the way we would use the word. They have no marriage, no fidelity, no sense of ownership or commitment. They feel no jealousy,” he added, “or if they do, it is minor. It does not drive them to acts of rage or despair.
“They have no privacy because they don’t need it.”
Kaylin shook her head, almost compelled to watch, and uncomfortable in the extreme with the compulsion. A world with no privacy? It would be like hell. But worse. She could never escape—
Escape what?
“Do they never get angry?”
“Oh, they can.”
“Do they never dislike each other?”
“Possibly,” he said. “I’ve never seen it, but I can’t imagine it never happens. They are not all of the same mind.”
“But they can’t hide it?”
“No. They don’t try.” He drew a sharp breath, and she knew that despite his composure he was not unaffected. “But so many disagreements between people occur because they simply don’t understand each other. Or they cannot see a viewpoint that isn’t their own.
“The Tha’alani never suffer from that. They understand each other perfectly. Or as perfectly as I think it’s possible to understand another person. They don’t get trapped by words. They don’t interpret them differently. They can’t lie to each other. And even if they could, they have no reason to. A lie is a thing we tell to hide something—and they cannot hide from each other.
“Love, hatred, fear, insecurity—all of these things have been felt before, and will be felt again, and all of them are part of the Tha’alaan. Long before pain festers or breaks someone, it is felt, addressed, uprooted.
“At least that is my understanding.”
Kaylin looked at Severn, at his expression. After a moment she said, “You really like these people, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “They’re almost entirely innocent, Kaylin. But I couldn’t live among them.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not. Because even understanding them, I could not live as they live. I know why you fear them. But between the two of us, you could live more easily in the Tha’alaan than I, in the end. What I want isn’t part of their world.” He turned and met her gaze, and his lips turned up in an edged half smile. “I don’t like to share.”
She almost took a step back. “We should go,” she said, her voice low.
His smile broadened, but it lost the edge, changing the lines of his face. “Unfortunately,” he said, “we can’t.”
“Don’t tell me—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“These are the two we want to speak with.”
It was several long, embarrassing minutes later. Maybe even half an hour. Kaylin hid it—if it was possible—by engaging the children who were tugging at her legs with their wet little hands. She joined them in their fountains, assiduously avoiding line of sight with the couple; she couldn’t actually watch them without feeling as if she’d accidentally walked into someone’s bedroom. Or worse.
And explaining why she felt this way was not high on her list of priorities. Explaining why their nudity was embarrassing, explaining why public lovemaking was unacceptable behavior in the rest of the city—the words came and went, and she knew they would make no sense to these people.
They made so little sense to Kaylin.
But eventually Severn demanded her attention. He didn’t speak. It was as if the Tha’alaan had seeped into his expression. He tugged at her name, at the shape of it, and she felt him suddenly, was aware of the way he was watching her, was even aware that he had been watching her the entire time she had been playing with small, gleeful strangers.
She hoped the two lovers had gotten dressed. She didn’t fancy her chances of normal questioning if they didn’t; they were young, and they were sun-bronzed and almost perfect. They were so wrapped up in each other—both literally and figuratively—that she wanted to go away and come back some other day.
But a child was missing.
And missing as well was a Tha’alani who was both deaf, and who had spent six months living in Kaylin’s world. She felt a pang of something like pity for him, for someone who had grown up among people who were guileless and sympathetic to everything. The world outside must have come as a shock to him. Or worse.
Had he kidnapped the child?
Was the child in some way the child she had seen in the depths of the water in the back of a shop that was far too small to contain what it did, in fact, contain? She didn’t think so; there had been no evidence of antennae, no evidence of the scabbing and bleeding that would no doubt be the result of their removal. And the child in the water was older.
Severn was standing by the couple when she at last emerged from the water, disengaging very small fingers from her waterlogged pants. It was warm enough that she had chosen to forgo leather for comfort, and she was damn glad of it. It didn’t wear well in water.
They had, indeed, donned clothing, and if they were still wet, their hair plastered to skin and neck, their antennae weaving as if they were drunk, they wore loose robes that must have taken yards of material to make. Not dark colors, in this sun, but pale blues and greens.
“Kaylin,” Severn said, speaking Elantran. “This is Nevaron, and this is Onnay.” He pointed first at the male, and then at the female. “The man that we seek is Grethan, and they have been friends for a long time.”
His words sounded out of place, so few other voices could be heard. But she nodded, attempting to regain her composure. It was easier than she had expected; they were calm and happy and completely free from either guilt or fear. They had not been discovered; no parent would be festering in fury.
They just…were.
And they were, to Kaylin’s eye, almost beautiful because of it, which she hadn’t expected. They were perhaps a year or two younger than her. It was hard to tell. They might easily have been a couple of years older.
But they would never know her life, and instead of resenting them, she felt strangely peaceful. Embarrassment faded, and she let it go, showing it out the figurative door as quickly and cleanly as possible.
“Ybelline sent us here,” Severn said quietly, “so that we might ask you a few questions about Grethan.”
Their stalks moved toward each other, touching slightly; they did not exchange a glance. Then again, they probably didn’t h
ave to. The touch would give them room to say anything they wanted.
“We haven’t seen Grethan for two or three days,” the young woman said. Her words were oddly accented—and Kaylin realized, listening to them, that it wasn’t so much the accent as the enunciation; they pronounced each syllable slowly and carefully, as if speech were both new and foreign. Which, of course, it would be.
“When you last saw him, was he unhappy?”
“Grethan is always unhappy,” Onnay said quietly. “We can touch him,” she added, “and we can feel what he feels, and he allows this—but he cannot do likewise for us. We can speak to him when we touch him, but it is…invasive.” She dared a glance at Kaylin.
Kaylin nodded quietly.
“He did not allow us to touch him,” Nevaron said, after a pause. “Not in the last day or two. There were very few whom he would allow even that contact before then, and we accept this. It has happened before,” he added. “And it will no doubt happen again.”
“He is not in the Tha’alani quarter.”
Onnay’s brows rose. “What do you mean?” she said, each syllable still perfect, still slow.
“He is not at his home. He is not in the market. He is not where we believe he works.”
As they hadn’t actually done any of the legwork to ascertain this, Kaylin guessed that Ybelline had communicated this information to Severn when she had almost caressed his forehead with her antennae.
“We believe,” Kaylin said, speaking almost as slowly as they did, as if they were children, “that he has left the quarter and found a home outside of it.”
“With the deaf?”
“With, as you say, the deaf.”
Onnay shook her head forcefully. “That’s not possible,” she said at last.
“Why?”
“He lived there some time.”
“We are aware of this.”
“And he came back—” She shook her head. “He lived a nightmare there. Here, he could wake and be at peace. He was happy to be home,” she said. “And we were happy to see him return.
“He shared some of his life on the outside with us.” She could not suppress her shudder, and didn’t even bother to try. “And it hurt us,” she whispered. “We did not ask him to share all. I do not think—”
Nevaron shook his head. “It was not easy for him to share, and it was not easy for us. Onnay did not touch him, that day. I did.” He lifted his chin slightly. “I am of the Tha’alanari.”
“You will find work on the outside,” Severn said quietly. It was not a question.
“Even so.”
Severn nodded. “And you kept much of this from the Tha’alaan?”
“They would be—what is the word?—darkened by it.”
Severn nodded again. “In the memories that you touched,” he said softly, “were there no happy ones?”
“None that I would call happy, if I understand the Elantran word correctly.”
“And he met no one, found no one, that he might consider a friend?”
“Friend,” Onnay said, and looked at Nevaron.
“It is an Elantran word,” he replied, carefully and politely. “Ybelline sent them,” he added. “It means people who care.”
“Then we are all his friends.”
Nevaron’s antennae danced away from Onnay’s for a moment and her brows lifted. She smacked his chest. Kaylin laughed. “My apologies,” Nevaron said gravely, “but Onnay doesn’t pay much attention to racial differences.”
“Well, it isn’t as if I will go Outside.” Onnay frowned.
Kaylin laughed again. “Oh, Onnay,” she said, at the girl’s quizzical look, “no one ever really knows what they’ll be doing until they’re in the middle of it.”
“And the Tha’alaan contains very little about Outsiders,” she continued, obviously still annoyed.
“True,” Severn said, before Nevaron could dig himself into a deeper ditch. “But if he has left the quarter, he must have had some destination in mind.”
Nevaron hesitated for a moment longer, and then said, “I can show you where.” And Severn, as if he did this every bloody day, bowed his head and bent his face down so that it was within reach of Nevaron’s antennae.
He stiffened suddenly, but did not withdraw, and Kaylin could see, in the clear lines of Nevaron’s expression, some shock. “You know this place?” he asked, his voice low.
Severn’s brief chuckle was so dark, Kaylin knew instantly what the answer would be.
“Yes,” he said quietly. He turned to Kaylin, and his expression gave her no hope at all.
“Nightshade,” she said softly.
“The fief, yes,” Severn replied. And then, after a moment, added, “And the fieflord, Kaylin.”
CHAPTER 5
Kaylin was silent on the walk home. She didn’t even try to lead; she followed Severn as if she were his shadow, a part of his movement, impossible to separate from it.
“Kaylin?”
She shook her head. “I’ll go,” she said quietly.
“Alone?”
“I think it—I think so.”
“I despise the fieflord,” Severn said in a flat and neutral tone, “but his taste has never run toward the mutilation of children. Not her age.” He paused, and then added, as if it were dragged from him and he was unwilling to let it go, “I do not think, even if it did, that he would pursue it while you lived. There are some things that you do not forget.”
“Did Nevaron give you all of Grethan’s memory?” She felt almost dirty asking. Like a gossip, but worse. And she hated herself for it; she was doing what she herself feared might be done to her. Hypocrisy and Kaylin were not close friends.
“No,” Severn replied. “It was not his to give. He is Tha’alanari. He understands why barriers must be placed, and where.”
She nodded. The answer was both a frustration and a comfort. “Just an image?”
“More than an image, but not a whole story,” he replied. “The image of Mayalee is not the same as the description of the girl you saw in Evanton’s…shop. I do not think they are the same child,” he added, “although neither have been reported as missing. As neither have been officially reported,” he added quietly, “I’m not sure we’ll be allowed to officially investigate, either.”
She nodded absently. “Subsection of the human rights code v.8 states clearly that—”
“Those who are incapable of stating a case are still protected by the dictates of law.”
“It was meant to make provisions for—”
“Abused children, or those sold to brothels by their parents, often for transport to the fiefs.”
“You’re good,” she said with a half smile.
“As are you, which is probably more surprising given your general academic history.” His smile was fleeting, but genuine. “But the first case almost certainly involves magic.”
“And the second?”
“It involves Nightshade,” Severn said quietly. “What do you think?”
“Magic.” She said the two syllables with the emphasis she usually reserved for Leontine cursing. “Gods, I hate magic.”
“Don’t start, Kaylin.”
“All right. I won’t.”
“And speaking of magic—”
“Yes, damn it, I know.”
“You’re late.”
“Did I not just say I know that?”
“Have you ever been on time for one of your lessons?”
“Once. I think it almost gave Sanabalis a heart attack. If,” she added darkly, “Dragon lords have hearts.”
“I believe they have four.”
“Probably because they ate three.” She started to run because Severn had begun to jog.
“I have a few questions to ask the sergeant,” Severn said. “I’ll meet you after you’ve finished.”
Lord Sanabalis of the Dragon court had that aura of aged wisdom that had not yet declined into dotage. She found him both comforting and frightening—but then again, sh
e’d seen a Dragon in its serpent form, so that was understandable.
He was also, in his own way, kind. The day she had been on time, he had been late. In fact he had taken to arriving about half an hour to an hour later than their scheduled appointment, probably to put Marcus at ease. It was not something she thought other Dragons would do; even Tiamaris, technically still seconded to the Hawks, would not have condescended to show that much consideration for the merely mortal.
Especially not when it was Marcus.
Today, Sanabalis was waiting for her in the West room, in the chair he habitually occupied. It was the largest chair in the office, and it was made of something so hard you could probably have carved swords out of it and they would still have maintained a killing edge.
Dragons were not exactly light.
She bowed when she entered the room, her hair askew. She had, as usual, flown through the office at a run, and paused only to let Caitlin fuss a bit.
But she sagged slightly when she saw her nemesis sitting on the table: a pale candle with an unlit wick. Grimacing, she took her seat opposite Sanabalis.
“Good of you to come,” he said. This was code for I’ve been waiting half an hour. She had thought she would only be half an hour late, and revised that estimate up by about thirty minutes.
“I was delayed,” she said carefully, “by a request from Ybelline of the—”
He lifted a hand. “It is not my concern.”
He waved toward the candle, and Kaylin said, without thinking, “Instead of trying to get me to understand the shape of fire, can you teach me the shape of water?”
His utter silence was almost profound, and his eyes had shifted from calm, placid gold to something that was tinged slightly orange. Red was the color of death in Dragon eyes.
Orange just meant they might pull an arm off for fun.
“It is very interesting that you should ask that, Kaylin. You will of course amuse an old man by telling him why.”
Kicking herself was not much fun, but she did it anyway. “It’s—”
His eyes shifted shades. His inner lids began to fall. Certainly made his eyes a more vibrant color. “Why water, Kaylin? Why now?”