Cast In Courtlight Read Online Free PDF Page B

unnaturally gifted and the horses under perfect control. Perfect.
    She didn’t much like riding. She stood there, and then leaned over the nearest rail, watching the water pass under her feet. Here, on the boundary of her old life, she let the day unwind. The night was cool, for a Festival night; the air was clear. She wondered, sourly, if the Arcanum was controlling the weather; it was unseasonal. It would also be illegal.
    Technically. In this city, even on this side of the banks, power was the order of the day; if you had it, the Law was a petty inconvenience. As long as no one was killed, or more likely, you were very, very good at disposing of the bodies.
    Her cheek was throbbing dully; she lifted a hand almost absently to touch the flower placed there by the magic that she most hated. Well, second most. The magic that she most hated was engraved on her arms, her legs, the back, now, of her neck.
    But it had been quiet. If it weren’t for the arrogance of the Imperial mages, she would have had nothing to complain about, and this was unnatural. Complaining, according to Garrity, was the gods-given right of people who were Doing Something Useful; it was a little luxury. When, you know, duty forbade larger luxuries, like drinking.
    And she wasn’t Doing Something Useful, as Garrity would put it. The Festival season had been expressly forbidden her; she was surprised that they hadn’t sent her out of town on the first coach.
    Her cheek was actively painful, now. She touched it, wondering if it was swollen; if the lines engraved there were like the lines of a burn, and had taken some sort of stupid infection. Her skin was cool to the touch, her palm a little too dry.
    She let her hand fall, casually, to her side. It was the side at which her daggers were neatly arranged.
    Straightening slightly, she turned.
    A man was standing at the foot of the far end of the bridge, except that he wasn’t. A man, that is.
    Surprise robbed her of words for a moment, but it added the hilt of a dagger, and the rest of the blade followed as she drew it. A warning, really. Or perhaps a gesture of greeting; it certainly wouldn’t do her much good in a fight.
    He was Barrani.
    She wasn’t. The odds favored him.
    Even had she
been
Barrani, the odds would still favor him. He was, after all, Lord Nightshade, the crime lord under whose sway the fief of Nightshade prospered.
    “It is sunset,” Lord Nightshade said as he stepped onto the bridge. The wooden planks didn’t even register his weight. Which, given the age of the bridge, said more about his movement than it did about the planks.
    “Almost.” She managed to shrug.
    “You shouldn’t be out in the streets, Kaylin. I was, I believe, most explicit about that.”
    She shrugged again before his words really registered. Sometimes nerves made her quick; sometimes they slowed her down. Quick was preferable. “Explicit to who?”
    He raised a perfect, dark brow. It was perfect because he was Barrani. In fact, his eyes, which were a deep, startling green, were also perfect, and framed by – yes – perfect lashes. His face was the long, fine face of Barrani everywhere, his hair, the long perfect raven-wing black. He moved like a dancer. Or a hunting feral.
    But he wore clothing – a long, dark cape over a robe that was both fine and edged with gold. Nothing about Barrani dress was ever less than ostentatious, even when it happened to be the same uniform – sized up – that she herself was now wearing.
    She hated that. Anyone sane did.
    Well, all right, anyone sane who wasn’t also immortal and perfect and didn’t take unearthly beauty for granted.
    “Why are you here?”
    “Because you are,” he replied. “You’ve been calling me for the last week.”
    She frowned. “I haven’t.”
    His shrug was elegant; it made hers look grubby. And unlike Teela or Tain, he didn’t even make an effort; he spoke Barrani, and at that, the High Caste Barrani she most despised. Teela spoke