Steelhands - Jaida Jones [110]
“I will not be bullied into making a decision,” Auria said, turning rather red in the face, herself. “I don’t care how many times I have to repeat myself, Chanteur. We may continue this discussion in front of the Esar, if we must, as I am but his mouthpiece here. He will tell you, the same as I have, that we are not currently able to donate anything to your cause.”
I felt a tapping at my leg and reached down to take the note back from Troius.
The only thing I hear is the sound of our talks being extended another two months, the note read. Under that, crossed out but still legible, was: Kill me now.
I smiled, but my skin had turned clammy with sweat, and I was starting to feel suffocated by the still air in our discussion chamber. Underneath those miserable talks remained the faint humming, whirling of cogs, and the occasional clang, like a piece of metal being beaten flat. If I could get out of the room, I hoped, there might be some chance the noise wouldn’t follow me. Such an idea didn’t seem logical if the sound was in my head—and it had to be, if Troius hadn’t made note of it—but then, what was logical about hearing things?
Metal groaned, like the beating of enormous wings, and I heard the voice again, just the faintest whisper. It was too quiet to make out. It sounded halfway between the cry of a baby and a lonely moan.
Perhaps I was suffering from some postwar medical condition that hadn’t chosen to manifest itself until just then. If so, the timing was excellent. I’d be the latest airman to destroy relations with the Arlemagne, just carrying on tradition—although it didn’t seem to me that it would have been entirely my fault. Matters were self-destructing without my assistance.
I’d heard of soldiers who’d been in great battles coming home with shock, dealing with sounds that weren’t there, memories of the horrors they’d seen—their minds transforming harmless, everyday noises into something far more sinister. I’d spent the better part of my life surrounded by the very sounds I was hearing now, the creak and groan of organic metal, living machines. It was exactly like stepping into the dragon stables—to speak with Anastasia for a time or hide from the other members of the corps. I didn’t know what could possibly have triggered it after so long, but now that I’d recognized the sounds, there seemed to be no other explanation for them.
I would have to seek out a physician, or perhaps consult first with Adamo and Luvander to see if they’d ever suffered anything similar. Maybe in visiting with my fellow airmen, I’d unearthed more than pleasant memories.
Now, that would be an interesting discussion to initiate. It would be harder to begin than any awkward letter, and I could just see myself, invited to tea in the back of Luvander’s hat shop, clearing my throat and asking, “So, have you heard any dragons lately, boys?”
My right hand twitched again, and I reached into my coat pocket for a handkerchief to dab some of the perspiration off my face.
“We’ll put it to a vote, then,” Auria was saying, her jaw clenched tight. “If I find I’m outnumbered, for whatever reasons, then we’ll discuss further terms about the specific aid Arlemagne will require. If not, then you’ll have our answer clearly, without appeal. Perhaps we may still work out some sort of emergency clause with regards to your situation with Verruges. Rest assured, Volstov would