Steelhands - Jaida Jones [111]
I flexed my hand, then clenched it beneath the table, practicing until I no longer felt the lingering sensation of that lone, troubling twitch. My hands had been so lifelike since their recent overhaul—and certainly my living hands had also twitched during moments of great anxiety—but I found that I didn’t altogether like the feeling of it when it happened to the metal. There were some accuracies that a prosthetic simply shouldn’t be able to achieve, and when they moved on their own, it always left me to wonder if they’d simply end up developing a kind of awareness of their own, just the way the dragons had.
The idea was utterly absurd—but no more so, I supposed, than hearing voices.
I glanced up from the table only to find that Auria, Troius, and the other members of our envoy were all staring at me. Their expressions varied from curious to annoyed.
“Is something the matter?” I asked, somewhat mortified. I already knew the answer, but this was the easiest way for me to ascertain in what way I’d just made a hideous blunder.
“We’re taking a vote, Balfour,” Auria said, clearly none too pleased with having to repeat herself. “Are you all right? You’ve turned white as a sheet.”
“You know what?” Troius said. “I think we should all take a recess. This is an important decision, and I for one would welcome the extra time to really think on it from both sides. Best not to rush these important matters.”
I was grateful to him, though Auria looked for a moment as though she intended to take his head off.
“You seek out that time to confer with your Esar, you mean,” Chanteur said, darkly suspicious. He added a bob of the head for etiquette’s sake—his version of a bow to our esteemed highness.
I was gripping the edge of the table so hard that I realized I was beginning to make a mark.
“If you wish to have equal time to confer with your king,” Auria said, “we will give you that opportunity.”
“And call talks off for another month while we wait for the messengers to travel back and forth?” Chanteur asked. “Some of us have families we wish to return to and urgent matters at home!”
“In the meantime, we’d show you every glory Volstov has to offer,” Troius said smoothly. “For free, of course.”
This much postponement of a simple decision was nearly killing me; I was close enough to standing and leaving without being excused and causing further scandal when Chanteur finally grunted, waving one plump hand. “Very well, take your time,” he said. “I know what my king would have me do already. If you are not so lucky, then by all means, take conference with him now.”
Troius stood quickly, following me out of the room and away from the collective murmurs on both sides of the table. There was some fresh air in the hallway, but it was not enough, and without listening to hear if Troius was following me, I lurched quickly through the halls, desperate to find some means of escape—or, at the very least, a room with an open window in it.
The voice was following me making wordless sounds in what I was forced to assume was an effort to terrify rather than communicate.
If people were staring at me, I would not have blamed them; neither did I have the energy to spend on keeping up appearances.
The more I ran, the more it became clear to me there was no outrunning the sounds. They grew louder and quieter as they pleased, the voice fading away only to start up again even closer to my ear.
“Balfour!” Troius called after me.
The current ballad in Charlotte about me would have to be amended, I thought, to account for my tragic descent into madness. I felt Troius catch me by the shoulder, trying to stop me before I went careening down a flight of stairs. For a moment, I fought with him.
Balfour, the voice said in my ear. Balfour?
It knew my name, I thought, then promptly lost consciousness.
ADAMO
I didn’t have much time to worry about the hell I was going to catch from Roy next time I saw him. A mind like his could turn any innocent encounter into a whole lot more than