Steelhands - Jaida Jones [133]
“Did you tell her about the time Niall went through a storm cloud?” I asked, ushering him in.
“Told her he came out the other end crackling like a live wire,” Adamo confirmed, with the ghost of a chuckle. “Not to mention Erdeni smelling like a broken bulb for weeks afterward. He’s damned lucky he didn’t lose part of her to melting or worse.”
“Goodness,” Troius said from the kitchen, halfway into a cheese sandwich. “That sounds awfully uncomfortable. Is something wrong with this cheese?”
Adamo stiffened, glancing at me after he’d taken in the sight of Troius. Adamo had a keen eye and never missed a detail; just then I could almost tell exactly what he was thinking about this ruffian, who was speaking with his mouth full and spraying pieces of cheese onto the floor with every word. Troius saved all his good manners for the diplomats—and, under regular circumstances, I was always relieved to find him so relaxed with me.
This was different. He had no idea what kind of trouble bad manners could get him into, in front of a stickler like ex–Chief Sergeant Adamo.
“The cheese is a little old,” I said, in an attempt to defuse the situation. “I haven’t been able to go out much lately.”
“So who’s this?” Adamo grunted, folding his arms over his chest. That was pure Adamo for making it clear he didn’t like someone. Sometimes, depending on the person, he’d actually state it out loud. No one ever tried to argue with him.
“I was going to ask the same thing,” Troius replied, “but the cheese distracted me. The name’s Troius, son of Lyosha. Might have heard of my father, actually, he’s a little famous for the original treaty with Arlemagne. No? Well, in any case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, ah …”
Troius trailed off, proffering his left hand for a shake; his right was still holding on to the sandwich he’d made. Adamo stared at him like he thought he was a weasel, and I decided to do the honors of introducing my two friends to each other, all while hoping they never had cause to meet again.
“This is Adamo,” I told Troius, standing between them like no more than a messenger. “He’s—he was—the Chief Sergeant of the Dragon Corps, which is obviously how I know him. Adamo, Troius is another member of Auria’s group; we’ve been working on the Arlemagne matter together.”
“Take it you haven’t been as lucky as your father,” Adamo replied.
If Troius was wounded by the comment—as Adamo no doubt intended—he gave no indication of it. Instead, he shrugged. “What can I say? Those Arlemagnes drive a difficult bargain.”
“Feh,” Adamo said. “Arlemagne.”
“There’s something we can agree on, at least,” Troius said cheerfully, retracting his hand at last and wiping a few crumbs off on the front of his waistcoat.
Adamo grunted again—not even willing to muster so much as a “feh” that time—and turned to me. “Take it you’re feeling better?” he asked. “Color’s back in your face. Don’t look so much like a ghost anymore, either.”
“It’s like he was never sick at all,” Troius added. “I’m trying to convince him to come back to the bastion with me today. Getting out of the house might do him some good. What do you say, Chief Sergeant?”
Tension crackled in the air like lightning, and I was reminded again of Niall’s brush with death during the thunderstorm and the static electricity that had clung to him for weeks afterward, making his hair stand on end when he dragged himself from bed to have lunch with the rest of us.
“Would you like something to eat, Adamo?” I asked.
“Yes, would you?” Troius added. “There’s some ancient cheese that might kill you, and some stale bread.”
“Luvander’ll be by with something this afternoon,” Adamo said, voice clipped, as though he were doling out working orders. He was already on his way to the door. “I should get going. I don’t have time for dawdling, much less eating someone else’s food, then insulting it. But maybe I’ll stop by when Luvander does to talk more about how you’re feeling. Good to see you up again,