Steelhands - Jaida Jones [14]
Chief Sergeant—now just Adamo—would certainly have the answers if no one else did.
The eatery was crowded, though not so crowded as it would’ve been hours ago at a proper time for lunch. There were long tables set out for groups, if they wished to continue chewing at their problems at the same time as their lunch, and the smaller tables for what I viewed as much saner folk—those who wished to take their meals alone or with a friend, forgetting all about politics in the meantime.
Perhaps that meant my limitations were showing, but I didn’t know how else to get through the day. Truly, if I didn’t have meals to break up the monotony of diplomacy, I would surely lose my mind.
That was how I’d word my next letter to Thom, I decided. It sounded suitably dramatic, and I hoped it would make him laugh as his letters did for me, describing in great detail his trials and his own peace talks with a single man instead of a nation.
I couldn’t imagine brokering any kind of personal treaties with Rook, but then, Thom had blood on his side. If anyone was stubborn enough to accomplish it, he was.
“I have a question for you,” Troius announced after we’d seated ourselves, and once I’d struggled somewhat setting out my napkin on my lap. Unfortunately, it was at the precise moment when I’d taken too large a bite of my stew. I managed not to choke, however, and instead chewed carefully before I swallowed, eyes watering from how hot it was.
“Ask away,” I said, thinking the better of reaching for some water. It was possible I would knock the glass over; my fingers worked poorly when my mind was otherwise engaged.
“Well, let me preface it by saying I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Troius said, instantly rendering me uncomfortable already. “You know that. And certainly don’t feel as if you have to answer or anything, I’m just curious, and what with the cold snap hitting and all … How are your hands feeling?”
I clenched them involuntarily, though the gesture was a natural one and not an accident, the way it had been when I’d first gotten them. They responded in the same way my old hands had, but they didn’t feel the same. I’d set up several mental blocks about them straightaway. There had been magicians to help me out of that bad habit, of course, but Troius was right. The cold did make a difference. They ached at the scars some nights, and if I accidentally touched my face after walking through the streets at night I got a frightful shock, even with the gloves, but it wasn’t so bad as to be intolerable.
There were many who’d fared worse. I considered my hands a gift more than anything. And at least the gloves themselves kept too many people from staring, unless they knew what they were looking for.
“I’ve offended you,” Troius said, leaning back in his chair with a regretful air, like a hound being scolded by his master. He even looked a little like one, dark eyes and darker hair that framed his face in much the same way as a bloodhound’s ears. “I truly didn’t mean to.”
“It’s all right,” I said quickly, before I could decide for myself whether or not that was true. “Really, it’s no trouble at all. I just forget about them sometimes, which is actually meant to be a good thing, I’m told.”
Another lie, but another diplomatic one. I didn’t mind applying my talents for good every now and again, and lying for Troius’s benefit made me feel much better than lying to flatter Chanteur’s ego.
“Probably means you’re getting used to them,” Troius agreed cautiously. He pushed his fork around on his plate before halfheartedly spearing a piece of meat. “They’re serving you well, then?”
“No complaints,” I said, which was partly true. I couldn’t have asked for a better substitute, and I’d grown accustomed to the occasional moment of clumsiness they caused me. The fact that I didn’t want a substitute at all was my own difficulty to overcome and nothing a magician could do for me.
“You know, I’ve always wondered,” Troius said, then stopped,