Steelhands - Jaida Jones [13]
He was very interested in the procedures, if distracted somewhat by his own diplomatic proceedings with Rook.
Now all I could really think was that it was much different from a building decorated with naughty portraitures that looked as though they’d been drawn by someone with either very little understanding of anatomy or a generous overestimation of the weight a woman’s back could support. Not to mention, there was no Madeline here. The Airman’s own personal mascot had started out as a papier-mâché bust of someone’s ideal woman but had gradually grown to a full-size mannequin. When the boys had run out of materials, they’d started using Raphael’s books, which I’d always felt lent her a dignified air. There was ancient poetry on her breasts, and a line of translation from the Old Ramanthe over her upper lip that Ghislain always said looked just like a healthy mustache.
The closest thing to any kind of mascot in the bastion was a marble carving of a lion, whose creator had had no flair for humor or personality. The stone beast practically scowled.
Troius laughed as we rounded the next corner and a symphony of smells assaulted me. All at once, I felt my mouth begin to water. No matter what Chanteur said about our food, I found the chefs at the bastion dining hall to be quite satisfactory. I was even managing to put on a little weight, which my physician said would serve me well after all that I had been through.
“Diplomats are whores, in a sense,” Troius said, taking a tray from the clean stack in the corner. “We make concessions and do our best to wheedle and flatter our way into a better position. Plus, we negotiate the price before we’ll get into bed with anyone. It’s just common sense, really—but don’t tell anyone I ever said something like that.”
“I’m beginning to regret my career in politics,” I said, eyeing the bean stew and a basket of freshly made crusty white rolls.
“It’s not so bad,” Troius reasoned, serving himself some of the sliced ham from another tray. “Look on the bright side: You could’ve been sent out with that envoy to the Ke-Han. That didn’t turn out so well for them, did it? Though I suppose making it back all in one piece says something. Although I did hear Margrave Josette came back with a little souvenir of her own.”
“Don’t gossip,” I said, spooning up my much-belated lunch even as I cast an eye about for empty tables. “She could be here.”
“It’s only the truth,” Troius reasoned. “Though her souvenir could likely snap my neck like a toothpick, so you’re probably right. Discretion it is. Lunch is on me, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I said, too surprised to do anything but take him up on the offer.
Privately, I couldn’t help but disagree with his statement, even if I knew exactly how foolish it sounded, even in my own head. The danger in Ke-Han had been quite real, and to desire that was the mark of a certified lunatic, with papers to attest to his condition. Still, the idea of facing down a mad emperor in a foreign land that was struggling to rebuild itself sounded slightly more interesting than staring across the table at Chanteur’s red face day in and day out, while he feigned forgiveness for all our political transgressions like a country lord dangling a carrot in front of his mount’s depressed nose.
I’d been raised—or at least I’d been made a man—on a steady regimen of simply not knowing when my life would be forfeit. At any moment, any one of us airmen could have died. In the end many of us had, and I hadn’t yet gotten the opportunity to ask those yet living how they coped without a steady diet of adrenaline on a daily basis.
We never saw each other all that much—I suspected it was because it was a little too painful for us.
I was in some ways a recovering addict—an analogy I disliked immensely but one I seemed resigned to making