Cast in Honor (Chronicles of Elantra, #11)(147)

*

The wing of the Halls of Law occupied by the Swords never looked as messy and cramped as the Hawks’ office. The choke point was a desk—a very tidily kept desk—behind which Jared sat. Jared was a giant of man, shoved into a chair. Time had made him balder and a little wider; it hadn’t made him more patient. This was because patience was his single saving grace, and he couldn’t possibly contain any more of it and still be part of reality.

She cleared her throat when he lifted an inquisitive brow. “We’re hoping to speak with a Corporal Krevel.”

“Corporal Krevel? You mean Krev?”

Kaylin nodded.

“Idiot broke his arm in the panic. His left arm. He’s in the back writing reports.” Jared frowned. “Heard you’d done yourself an injury, too. What’re you doing in?”

“I’m avoiding Caitlin—and Moran. Mostly Moran.”

“So you’re not on duty today.”

“No.” Kaylin lifted her right hand, and Kattea’s arm came with it. She’d taken hold of Kaylin’s hand when they’d entered the Halls of Law, even though she felt selfconscious about doing so. She was ten, not four. “I’m taking a friend on a tour of the Halls of Law.”

“What did she do wrong?” Jared asked, smiling. Most of the smile was for Kattea. Kattea smiled back at him, but she continued to hide behind Kaylin.

“He doesn’t bite,” Kaylin told her.

“Much,” Jared added. “Sets a bad precedent in the office.”

“I’ve got a Leontine for a sergeant. Biting is pretty much standard operating procedure. Do you mind if we look around?”

“Does it matter?”

Jared’s patience was not immediately obvious to people who didn’t know him or hadn’t worked behind his desk. He wasn’t particularly gentle, and his kindness was of the gruff variety.

“Not a lot, no. I promise I won’t break anything.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And I hope you’re good at ducking.” To Kattea, he said, “Most of the Swords here today are sitting at their desk until they’ve finished writing out their reports. We had a bit of excitement in the city last week, and they’ll use any excuse they can to avoid the paperwork. It makes them cranky.”

“If everyone already knows what happened, why do they need to write reports?” Kattea asked. Kaylin was a bit surprised, but as it was a bloody good question, she let Jared handle it.

“Because the Lord of Swords is not a patient man, and he can only be in one place at one time. When the paperwork isn’t done, he gets cranky. I’d rather deal with cranky rank and file than cranky Lord of Swords.”

“But why does—”

“Because if the Lord of Swords doesn’t have those reports when he makes his own report to the Emperor, the Emperor gets cranky.”

Kattea nodded. No one, no matter their rank or lot in life, wanted the Emperor to get cranky.

*

Given Marcus and his visceral resentment of paperwork, Kaylin was surprised to see that Jared’s remark was true. The desks here were occupied by people who—while frustrated or grim—were writing. All of the Swords had been mobilized during the incident. The reserves had been called out, and shiftwork had been abandoned.

But the Swords—like the Hawks—were down in numbers.

Almost no one who worked on the force resented being called up in an emergency. Emergencies caused panic, and the Swords were trained to contain it and to insert themselves as de facto leaders into any group large enough to turn mob without warning. Almost no one, however, enjoyed it when paperwork was considered that emergency.

In other words, if there was a bad day to bring Kattea to the office, this was it. Kaylin drew Kattea aside and said, “I’m not sure this is a good day. No officer I know is in a great mood when they’re chained to a desk with a non-life-threatening injury and being forced to write reports.”

Kattea nodded as if she’d actually listened to—and heard—the words. But her hand tightened around Kaylin’s, and Kaylin correctly interpreted this as there are no bad days.

*

Corporal Krevel was maybe fifteen years older than Kaylin at first glance; then again, his shoulders were hunched, and his hair looked as if he’d tried to extract chunks of it in frustration and had mostly failed. Kaylin started toward his desk, and Kattea’s hand tightened. She stopped and turned to look at the girl.

And then, seeing her eyes—which were watery, but still managing to keep tears in the right place—she looked away. She hadn’t rehearsed what she’d meant to say—which would have been smart—and found even the basics of general introduction had deserted her, because she was thinking like Kattea.

She was thinking of what she might have said to her own mother, if she’d somehow had a chance to go back in time to a point when that mother was still alive. She inhaled, exhaled and walked over to Krevel’s desk.

Krevel looked up when her shadow darkened the paper on which he was, admittedly resentfully, writing. His fingers were ink-stained; his nails were short. His slightly narrowed gaze wasn’t hostile; he recognized Kaylin’s tabard. He didn’t immediately recognize Kaylin, but seemed to think he should. After a moment, his eyes cleared.