Cast in Flame (30 page)

“We can’t just leave him here.”

“No, we probably can’t.” Kaylin rose. “But we’re short a wagon or a carriage, and even if we did have one, we’d have no destination.” She grimaced and added, “I hope this wasn’t the landlord.” Her expression softened. “And I hope he didn’t die alone.”

“No, of course not,” a new voice said. They looked up. The light on the interior of the manse was bright and even; it seemed to wrap itself around a woman who now stood in the doorway, her toes touching, but not crossing, the threshold. “He hoped,” she added softly, “to be able to meet the new residents.”

* * *

Kaylin rose. The small dragon rose as well, although he didn’t leave her shoulders. She expected him to squawk; he was silent. His wings were high, but he hadn’t yet extended them.

“Did you know him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if he has family in the city?” Kaylin blinked. They had examined the body in the light from the foyer, but the light—at the time—hadn’t been so harsh. She couldn’t clearly see the speaker’s face. She could see her height, and the shadowed outline of her body; her voice was strong and clear, but it didn’t imply youth.

“No. He has no remaining family in the city. There is a plot of land at the back of the manor; a small, private graveyard.”

“You’re going to bury him here?”

The woman nodded. “I would appreciate your help in this; I am afraid that I am not quite up to the task of digging a grave these days.”

* * *

If someone had told Kaylin that she would be digging a grave in a rich person’s bloody backyard under the moons’ light, she would have laughed at them. Well, no, she would have made a bet. Sadly, she would have lost. There were shovels of varying widths in a small shed at the corner of what was, indeed, a private graveyard. The graves were adorned by markers—all stone. The prospective landlord had offered them lamps. The Dragons and the Barrani didn’t require lamps, given moonlight; Severn and Kaylin did.

The landlord had used a rich person’s version of “help.” She wasn’t the one lifting shovels or making the hole in the ground; she wouldn’t be the one filling that hole, either. “Do you think she can even leave the house?” Kaylin asked, as she tossed dirt into a growing pile.

“I note you didn’t ask her,” Teela replied. She tossed a larger amount of dirt into the same pile. “You don’t think she can.”

“No.”

“Do you suspect she’s responsible for the man’s death?”

Did she? Kaylin shook her head. “...No. I think she genuinely cares that he’s laid to rest here. I think she was waiting—or hoping—that someone would stop by who
could
operate outside of the manor. That just happened to be us.”

Maggaron was using a shovel that looked, in his giant hands, like a spade. If they finished this job inside of an hour, it would be because he was helping. On the other hand, his first suggestion had been instant cremation. Kaylin explained that instant required magical aid, which they didn’t happen to have on hand—and his brow had creased. Multiple times.

Bellusdeo’s chuckle made clear why. “It doesn’t require magic at all. I could breathe on the corpse. You still aren’t used to being surrounded by Dragons, are you?” She exhaled a small cloud of smoke, to make a point.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” was Kaylin’s uneasy reply.

“Of course you don’t,” Teela said. “It’s the practical solution.”

Maggaron, having been raised and trained in a world where corpses could be utilized by Shadows to the great detriment of the living, would have argued; Bellusdeo shook her head, and he subsided. He did, on the other hand, insist on a pit that was at least twelve feet deep. Bellusdeo nixed that, as well.

And so they dug a grave for an old, dead stranger. Kaylin thought the landlord looked on from one of the windows at the back of the house, but those windows—when she glanced at them—remained stubbornly empty.

* * *

The Barrani and the Dragons felt that something ceremonial should be said, once the corpse had been placed—with surprising care—in the open grave. Kaylin thought this was a waste of time, and was forced to say as much when they deferred to the two mortals present. “He’s dead. The dead don’t care. We don’t know him, and the only person who did isn’t actually here.” When this was met with silence, she added, “We mostly threw corpses into the Ablayne, in the fiefs. Or we left them out in the streets overnight.”

Everyone looked appalled, which Kaylin found grating. “If you have something you want said, you can say it. I’ve got nothing. We’re not leaving him to rot. We’re not leaving him as food for the Ferals so that they might—just might—not add to the body count before morning. We’re not dumping him in the river—”

“Which is illegal, as you well know.”

“I know he didn’t die alone. If we believe the landlord, he didn’t die in pain. He was healthy until he died. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t cold, wet, or in need of shelter. For many of the people who grew up where I did, he was
already
blessed.”

Silence.

Kaylin attempted not to feel resentful, but that left her feeling guilty. She’d spent a couple of days in the company of Immortals. She
knew
they had their own problems and their own crises, and she could usually empathize, because when it came down to it, she
did
feel for them. They were her friends.

But they weren’t like her. They never had been. The similarities didn’t erase the differences.

She closed her eyes, exhaled, and said, “Sorry.” It was true—the differences would always be there. But Severn had lived the life she’d lived, and Severn wasn’t snapping and snarling.

“Why did you agree to bury him?” Teela asked. Maggaron was busy putting away the shovels—which, given his size, proved difficult. The shed was not large.

“Because she wanted us to bury him. He’s dead. He doesn’t care. But she’s not—and she does.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes. No. Yes.”

No one asked her to make up her mind. Teela, however, slid an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s head back, then. If the landlord wants to say a few words, she can say them in private. I think she’s waiting for us.”

* * *

When they once again climbed the narrow stairs, the doors were still open. Kaylin glanced up to the height of the foyer, expecting to see a chandelier—or four. There wasn’t one. The foyer itself was not quite palatial. The ceiling was high, and the floors—marble—caught and reflected light. There were doors that faced the front doors, and smaller doors to the right and left; there were also staircases—and these were wide—that curved from a recessed second story on both the right and the left; they wound their way down, pointing to the foyer’s center.

What there wasn’t, anywhere in sight, was the landlord.

“Hello?” Kaylin said, squinting slightly as her eyes adjusted to the difference in ambient light. “Helloooo!” She could swear her voice echoed. She glanced at Teela, who shook her head.

She then turned to Mandoran. “Is the landlord still here?”

“She is somewhere in the building; she’s no longer in the foyer.”

Kaylin exhaled. “Fine. Why don’t we try this tomorrow when there’s more light and less dirt wedged under our fingernails?”

“Speak for yourself,” he replied, lifting his hands.

Barrani. Maggaron, on the other hand, looked worse than she did. She was grateful someone did.

“There might be a slight problem with that suggestion,” Teela said.

“Please don’t tell me the doors are shut.”

“Not exactly.”

Kaylin turned to see what not exactly meant. Technically, Teela was correct: the doors weren’t shut. This would be because they no longer existed.

* * *

“Teela was definitely right about you,” Mandoran said, in the long beat of silence that followed.

“This has nothing to do with
me,
” Kaylin snapped. “You’ll note that the
rest
of the excitement we’ve suffered had nothing to do with me. I caused no problems in the Keeper’s Garden. I didn’t cause Castle Nightshade to wake up in revolt. I also, for the record, didn’t destroy my previous home.”

The small dragon bit her ear. He didn’t draw blood.

Kaylin exhaled. “And I know you didn’t mean to cause trouble, either. I’m sorry. I would like—just once—for things to work out the
normal
way.”

“What is normal?” Mandoran asked, apparently with genuine curiosity, rather than bored derision.

“Other people manage to find new places to live that don’t involve corpses, burying bodies, or doors that disappear the minute you cross the threshold.”

“Do they?”

“Every
other
person who works in the office has. Even Tain.”

“Tain,” Mandoran replied, “is doing his best to guarantee that our stay here is dull and pointless.”

Teela cleared her throat. Loudly.

“Next time,” Kaylin said, “I’m going to ask Caitlin to help. It worked out fine the first time. Things like this don’t happen to her.”

“How impressed would she be if they did?”

“They wouldn’t.”

“How would
you
feel if you got her involved in something like this?”

“You win,” Kaylin said. “And yes, I’m whining.”

“And it’s not attractive.”

“Neither are dirty fingernails. Yes, okay, the whining is worse. Just—give me a sec.” She removed the stick from her hair, shook it out, and put it back up again. Looking at her reflection in the reflective, smooth flooring, she said, “This is why I need a place of my own. I want my own home.”

“Home,” Mandoran began, frowning, “is not—”

Teela had stepped on his foot. “Home has different connotations for mortals. They do not use the word the way we do, and if some mortals are ambivalent about their homes, the ambivalence is likewise different. Kaylin feels safe in her home.”

Annarion and Mandoran stared at Kaylin.

“If you had been safe in your home, we would not now be looking for a new one.”

“
We
aren’t looking.” She folded her arms. “There’s no absolute safety in
any
of our homes. Yours or mine.”

“We have no expectation that there will be,” Annarion replied. Teela was silent and expressionless. “Home—for those of us who choose to claim one—is tied to our bloodline. It is not something that we singly own or claim. It is the seat of political power. For that reason it is the least secure of our possible residences.”

“Our homes aren’t your homes, as Teela said. I lived in what you’d consider a large closet. I didn’t own anything you’d consider valuable.”

“You wear the ring of the Lord of the West March.”

“Fine. I own
almost
nothing you’d consider valuable. Home’s not a fortress for most of us.”

“Then the safety is illusory, and you are aware of this fact.”

“It’s not
safety
I want.”

“What, then, do you seek?”

“Privacy. I have had a long day,” she continued, spacing each syllable evenly as if it were a sentence of its own. “It hasn’t been fun or productive. If I had a home of my own, I’d be there now, whining at the walls, which have the advantage of not caring. I could be in as foul a mood as I want. I could curse in any language I know. I could give up on being responsible for one night and crawl under the bed and try to sleep. I could do it in any state of dress. I could
be myself
for a couple of hours without having to worry about offending anyone else. Or hurting them. Or caring whether or not I’ve got dirt under my fingernails. Dirt happens when you bury people.

“Maybe other people are capable of living without that—I’m not. I want to be self-indulgent enough to feel sorry for myself for an hour or two, even if it’s not justified. I
like
having friends. If I don’t have a place of my own to go to sometime soon, I’ll probably drive them all away.” She had to pause for breath, she’d been talking so quickly.

“Kitling, the only person who mentioned the dirt was you. You’re probably the only person here who cares.”

Kaylin muttered one of the milder Leontine curses, which meant, roughly,
I hope your claws get caught in your blankets.
It was only used on family.

“Even the landlord appears to consider it largely irrelevant.”

“I’d like to know what the landlord considers relevant,” Kaylin replied. She considered the words only after they’d left her mouth. “Actually, I’ll take that back.” Not only was she dirty, she was achy. Digging graves at the tail end of a stressful day did that. She turned around to face a windowless—and yes, doorless—wall. Exhaling, defeated, she said, “Up the stairs or into the manor? I’ve had enough of basements for a long damn time; we’re skipping all the stairs that lead down.”

* * *

The general consensus—which mostly meant a lot of watchful silence—was up the stairs. Neither Mandoran or Annarion seemed overly troubled by the change in the architecture; they were the only ones who weren’t. Maggaron looked like he expected shadows to emerge from the floors; Severn had unwound his weapon chain; Teela’s eyes were blue, and Bellusdeo’s, orange.

Kaylin turned to Mandoran. “You’re sure you have no idea where the landlord went?”

He frowned. “I didn’t say that.”

“Tell me what you did say, but in shorter words. Shorter, Elantran words.”

“I’m not certain I can lead
you
to the landlord.” This time, he put the emphasis in a different place. “But I’m fairly certain we could find her.”

If the building itself was in any way like Tara, the landlord could hear everything anyone was thinking. Kaylin chose Leontine as her language of choice, but kept sliding into tired, frustrated Elantran. Given Teela’s expression, she kept as much of it to herself as she possibly could; given her mood, it wasn’t one hundred percent.

“Hello!” she shouted, as they began to climb the left set of stairs. With the single exception of the doors, none of the rest of the building had undergone radical and immediate change. The stairs felt like stairs beneath her feet. The rails were cool to the touch; they were metallic. The chandelier did not magically become the type of lampstand that would have graced Kaylin’s old apartment when she could afford the fuel.