Paperwork looked almost good in comparison. 'Oh dear,' Caitlin said. 'That's three this week.' One of them left last week.' He rearranged the paperwork in the. Read online:Cast In Courtlight. Free Epub book copy without downloading. On the other hand, she had boots instead of bare pads, and her very human nature didn’t lend. Technologies have developed, and reading Cast In Courtlight - Michelle Sagara books may be more convenient and simpler. We could read books on the mobile, tablets and Kindle, etc. Hence, there are many books getting into PDF format. Several link for downloading free Cast In Courtlight - Michelle Sagara PDF book which you could acquire the. To be honest, nothing really happened in Cast in Courtlight. Spoilers Michelle Sagara has that repitition going on. Multiple times throughout the book, she reminds us of:-Baranni eyecolor and emotion.-How Kaylin is known for her temper that could lead to certain death. Cast in Courtlight Chronicles of Elantra Book Two by Michelle Sagara. No good deed goes unpunished In Elantra, a job well done is rewarded with a more dangerous task. And so, after defeating a dark evil, Kaylin must enter a place of deceit and treachery. A world where silk and jewels hide deadly secrets.

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The away team: For this book, my editor, Matrice, patient with my unusual inability to deal with outlines; my agent, Russ Galen; and of course, as always, Terry Pearson, who read it all a chapter at a time.

Thanks, guys.

Chapter One

In the old days, before the Dragon Emperor – sometimes called the Eternal Emperor by those responsible for toadying – had invested the Halls of Law with the laws which governed the Empire, angry Dragons simply ate the idiots who were stupid enough to irritate them. Or, if they were unappetizing, burned them into a very slight pile of ash.

Ash had the advantage of requiring little to no paperwork.

Marcus Kassan, Sergeant for the Hawks – one branch of officers who served in the Halls of Law – stared gloomily at a pile of paperwork that, were it placed end to end, would loom above him. At over six foot, that was difficult. The desire to shred it caused his claws to flick in and out of the fur of his forepaws.

The desire to avoid annoying Caitlin, the woman who was – inasmuch as the Hawks allowed it – den mother to the interior office, which set schedules, logged reports, and prepared duty rosters and pay chits, was just
slightly
stronger. In their personal life, Leontines disavowed all paperwork, usually by the expedient of chewing it, shredding it, or burning it, when it wasn’t useful for the kits’ litter.

Then again, he’d been at his desk for the better part of an hour. He expected there’d be a shift in the balance before the day – which looked to be long and grueling – was over.

Caitlin smiled at him from the nest she made of the paperwork she endured, day in, day out. It was a slightly sharp smile that looked, on the surface, quiet and sweet. That was Caitlin. Human all over. She’d been with him for years. He was aware of her value; the three people before her had lasted two weeks, three weeks, and four days, respectively. They had all babbled like morons.
Fear does that
, Caitlin had said when she’d applied for the job. She was bird-thin and fragile to the eye, and her voice was soft and feminine – no growl or fang there. But definitely some spine. She was one of two people who manned the desks who could stand six inches from his face when he was on the edge of fury. She barely blinked, and attributed that, regretfully, to his breath.

At any other time of the year, paperwork was optional. Pay chits and duty rosters weren’t, but he was enough of a Sergeant to at least sign off on them when he wasn’t actively composing the lists themselves. No,
this
hideous mess was courtesy of the Festival. Permits, copied laboriously by clerks in some merchant branch of the Imperial palace, had been sent by dim-witted couriers in bags that were half again as large as Caitlin. Bags. Plural.

But not just permits. Festival regulations, which seemed to change year after year. The names of important dignitaries from the farthest damn fringe of the Empire of Ala’an, manifests of cargo transports, and diplomatic grants were also shoved in the same bags. The latter were, however, sealed in a way that screamed “special privilege.” Diplomatic immunity.

Marcus hated the Festival season. The city was enough of a problem; throwing foreigners into the streets by the thousands was just asking for trouble.

Not only that, but every get-rich-quick scheme that had occurred to any halfwit moron in the street could be expected to rear its imbecilic head during the next two weeks. Unfortunately, every get-rich-quick scheme that occurred to any cunning, intelligent person would
also
rear its head during the next two weeks. The money that flowed into the Empire’s capital during the Festival was staggering, and everyone wanted a piece of it.

The Swordlord, and the men who followed his orders, were probably in worse shape, and this provided a moment’s comfort to Marcus. He was Hawk, through and through; the Swords were his natural rivals. Not, of course, his enemies; they all served the Lords of Law, and they all worked in the labyrinthine buildings referred to as the Halls of Law by people who saw them from the outside. But the Hawks and the Swords had their own way of doing things, and when the Festival season was at its height, there were always disagreements.

On the other hand, at least the Swords
were
in the streets; the damn Wolves were at bay. It was hard to hunt in the city during the Festival, even at the behest of the Wolflord. The Wolves were kept in reserve in case of riot, when
all
servants of the Law could be called into action. This was, however, downtime for the Wolves, and Marcus sullenly resented them their freedom. Paperwork was best left for bureaucrats.

Unfortunately, bureaucrats were damn good at shoveling the work onto the shoulders of men and women who were already too busy, where being too busy meant they didn’t have time to kick up enough of a fuss to give it
back
.

He heard a door slam. It was followed by a raised, angry voice – only one – and the sound of a very heavy tread. Deliberately heavy.

Paperwork looked almost good in comparison.

“Oh dear,” Caitlin said. “That’s three this week.”

“Two. One of them left last week.” He rearranged the paperwork in the vague hope that this would provide some sort of fortification against the red and dour expression of a very annoyed mage.

Sure enough, down the long hall that led from the West Room, which had been ceded to the Hawklord for educational purposes, the swirling robes of a man who had probably been ancient ten years ago came into view. His fists were bunched just below the drape of long sleeves, and his forehead was engraved with permanent wrinkles. The kind that said foul mood.

The office had grown somewhat quieter as people stopped to listen in. You could count on curiosity to get the better of work at Festival time. Well, to be fair, at
any
time, but during the Festival it was more costly.

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The man stormed over to the Sergeant’s desk. “You will tell the Lord of Hawks that I am
finished
with this – this ridiculous task!” Marcus raised a brow. Given that his face was entirely composed of golden fur, this should have been discomfiting at the very least.

“The girl is
untrainable
. She doesn’t listen. She barely
reads
. She thinks like a – like a
common soldier
. She is rude beyond bearing, she is stupid, and she is an insult to the Imperial Order of Mages!”

The other brow lifted slightly as the Leontine attempted to look surprised. This w

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