Steelhands - Jaida Jones [143]
“I’m surprised at you, Owen,” Roy replied, sounding genuinely hurt.
“I’m just saying you don’t exactly have the best track record,” I said, which was nothing but the truth.
“I find it unfortunate that you are so tainted by my past relationships you refuse to see any goodness in a truly good person,” Roy told me. “Hal should hardly suffer because of my failings.” He sounded caustic now—probably embarrassed he’d shown any kind of real emotion—and I wondered if I’d done the wrong thing by bringing up my concerns.
But the shit we were discussing was treason. Just talking about it was grounds for imprisonment, or worse. And with all the velikaia hanging around th’Esar these days, maybe even thinking about it could mean the end.
I should’ve been smart, like Rook and Ghislain, and gotten the hell out of the city while I still could.
Yet, a dry voice—sounding a lot like Royston’s, once I thought about it—told me that would never have worked. I might’ve hated the responsibility of being in charge most of the time, but I needed it, too. Why else would I have taken the damn lecturer position in the first place? It sure as shit wasn’t because I loved teaching.
I was the kind of person who needed to be looking after someone—a whole lot of someones, more like. It was the only thing I was halfway good at, and the feeling like I was going to fail and let ’em all down was usually the kick in the ass I needed to get my brain working.
“If something is happening,” Royston said at last, voice tight, “then the Basquiat needs to be forewarned. We can’t simply have something sprung on us when we’re at our weakest. Though I am loath to accept the idea, and though I have no clue as to what the Esar could possibly be planning, a little dose of mistrust at present does not seem particularly unwise.”
“He’s building the dragons again,” I said because I knew it was true. It was the one thing he’d done that’d won him the war—or so the people felt—and it’d made him a hero along with the airmen. It’d been his idea, when he was a much younger man and had much larger vision. But now all his thoughts had turned inward, to Thremedon. Without an enemy outside to focus on, he needed to find one somewhere else, and the Basquiat was his next target.
The dragons had been his weapons against magicians in the first place—albeit Ke-Han ones, not Volstovic. But to him, the principle would be the same; he’d always had trouble with the restrictions presented by a rival group for his loyal bastion.
It all just made sense in my gut, and if I was wrong, then I’d allow myself to feel pie-faced.
“I don’t know whether you’re angrier that he’s doing this or that he’s doing it without you,” Roy said, somewhat sharp-tongued. “But I’ll let you sort that personal matter out—if you leave me in charge of mine.”
“I gotta call the boys together,” I told him again. “We can talk about the rest later, and you can wrangle some apology outta me if it makes you feel better.”
“Perhaps,” Roy replied lightly. “We’ll see how I’m feeling. We’ll see if I’m still around; if I haven’t decided to abscond with my life to some other, less difficult city.”
I didn’t want to leave things so uncomfortable with him, but I wouldn’t’ve done a good job of making my case to him just then. It was a bad idea to let Roy stew over a slight—but we both had more important things to worry about, and I just hoped he’d understand I had his best interests in mind when I’d stuck my nose into a place it didn’t belong.
“I suppose I’ll have to cross-examine you about that young girl with whom I saw you enjoying sweet drinks at another, more appropriate time,” Roy said as I was showing him out the door.
“I’ll hold you to it,” I said.
“Just see that you’re careful,” Royston said, tugging on one glove and then