Steelhands - Jaida Jones [140]
Normally we’d have met in a coffee shop, but I was starting to feel kinda paranoid, and the topic was sensitive enough that I didn’t want anyone eavesdropping—not an idle café gossip, which Royston was himself sometimes. I’d promised Balfour I’d be discreet, and even if no one knew or cared about a country girl studying at the ’Versity, that didn’t mean a man could go blabbing about the condition of her mind all over the city, either.
It was only common decency.
As far as I was concerned, the only place where I was comfortable having this discussion was my very own home. It wasn’t as fancy as Roy’s place in the Crescents, and it didn’t serve fancy little vegetable sandwiches with no crust like they did at Piquant—which was “our place,” according to Roy—but Royston was just going to have to saddle up and deal with roughing it for an afternoon.
Probably wasn’t the exact attitude I wanted to have toward someone I needed to help me, but there it was.
My place was clean, even if it did smell like “dragon and dirty boots and the inside of an old coffeepot.”
Roy arrived late, of course, but since I knew his style, I’d told him to come about an hour before I needed him to, and it all worked out. There were certain strategies for dealing with people, same as in battles, and when you had friends as complicated as mine were, you needed to arm yourself in advance.
“I can’t say I wasn’t intrigued by the message you left for me at the Basquiat,” Royston said, peeling off his scarf and hooking it over the rack I never used. Why have one of those at all when the back of a chair served your purpose just fine? “All this secrecy! The messenger told me you threatened to find him and do him bodily harm if he went ‘flapping his mouth’ to anyone else. That’s one way to make everyone paranoid, you know. You really should be more discreet sometimes.”
“I said that?” I grunted. It wasn’t because I was playing coy but because I honestly didn’t remember.
Royston gave me one of his long-nosed looks. “It does sound like you,” he said.
“Guess it does,” I admitted.
“You are going to tell me what’s bothering you, I hope?” he asked. “There’s only so much I can take of you stalking the streets like a wild bear in search of prey. I never know when you’ll claim your next victim, and I can’t handle the responsibility.”
“Bastion,” I said, momentarily distracted. “You really would get on with Luvander. Or else you’d kill each other; I’m not really sure.”
“I’ll pretend that’s a statement I understand, shall I?” Royston asked, folding his coat neatly over the rack and heading off ahead of me down the hall. “It’s not some sort of code, is it? If you’ve resorted to code, I’m leaving right now. The tiger strikes when the moon is full; the lion leaps at midnight; you really would get on with Luvander. Et cetera.”
“Have some coffee,” I said, following him into the kitchen. “And shut up.”
“Such ambiance,” Royston said, settling down into one of my chairs, wasting no time in making himself feel at home. “You wonder why I don’t come here more often. Why am I here, by the way?”
I still had Laure’s card in my pocket, and I pulled it out, setting it down on the table. Not that it meant anything by itself; I just wanted to have it there. Serving as a reminder, maybe. “Got a few more things to talk to you about. Remember Margrave Germaine?”
“The woman who dresses like a mushroom,” Royston said, leaning across the table to peer at the card. “Quite distinctly. You could have told me that’s what this was about. I’ve been making my own discreet inquiries into the matter already. You’d be shocked—or perhaps you wouldn’t—at how quickly my fellow Margraves and Wildgraves in the Basquiat are willing to gossip about someone they consider to be a spy. Her well-known liaison with the Esar did her no services among us, fortunately for you. Everyone has some little bit of dirt or another,