Steelhands - Jaida Jones [5]
“Well …” Royston began, like now that I’d actually agreed he didn’t have any idea of where to begin. “My sources inform me that relations with the Esar are not exactly what they used to be, and you of all people know what they used to be was hardly that sturdy to begin with. Anyway, it’s as bad as it’s ever been, and that might not put him in the most forgiving of moods at present. A war always does make the enemy seem clear. But once that clear enemy is gone, and one is so used to having one …”
“Thanks for the theorizing,” I said, because if you let Roy talk too much, you’d never come to the point of anything, “but if you do have a plan of action, do you think you might let me in on it? It’s damned cold out.”
“I intend to talk to my sources,” Roy repeated, blinking once. “Do keep up, old friend.”
“So by your sources, you mean a certain lady of the tower,” I said, just for confirmation. Funny thing about running in the same circles as Roy, you met all sorts of people you’d never have cause to know about otherwise. Lady Antoinette definitely seemed like the type who’d prefer you not to know about her. At least, not until it was too late.
“She’s as acceptable a source as any when it comes to his moods,” Royston said. “And this letter has the sort of information she should know.”
“It doesn’t seem anyone should know about it, to me,” I said. Damn me if I was going to have to talk to th’Esar about anything, least of all what rights I had when it came to the girls. I’d been taken off my post, considering it didn’t exist anymore. I wasn’t anyone except Professor Adamo, teaching two classes to ’Versity brats just because there was a statue of me in the middle of the Rue, and that made people assume I knew things. Made people whisper about me, too, and maybe pity me a little. “So I guess that just means I’m waiting.”
“I’m afraid it’s the only thing you can do, at the moment,” Roy murmured, voice far off. His mind had moved on to whispers and secrets, concerns of the Basquiat that apparently—thanks to Rook’s fucking brother—had somehow become my fucking problem. “This is hardly like planning an assault on the other side of the Cobalts, is it?”
“Nothing really is, anymore,” I said. Not like I missed it.
“You don’t have to look so dark,” Royston assured me. “At least, not yet. I’ll let you know when you do. You know how the Esar gets into these moods of his; I’m sure it’ll all pass over like so many storm clouds in the end. I just thought it best to forewarn you, lest you make an uninformed decision and run off to the Esar without me.”
“Sounds to me like I’d do better without you if he’s not feeling too warmly about the Basquiat,” I said.
“I suppose that will be for you to decide,” Royston said with a shrug. We rounded the corner that led to the mouth of the Rue d’St. Difference, filled with all sorts of fancy hat shops—Luvander’s included—which just went to show how a woman was judging her fashions these days. To our right was the open courtyard that held our statues, mine in the middle and the boys lined up on either side of me, in proper formation like we’d never quite managed with the living examples. They sure brought the customers in for Luvander. “Bastion,” Royston added, “what on earth is that …?”
There was a shabby little crowd gathered around them, which wasn’t so unusual except that the group had suitcases with them, and their clothes were—as Roy might’ve said—decidedly countrified. Even for someone like me who didn’t much care one way or the other, it was easy to pick ’em out. Despite how it was only a carriage ride away, there was never too much mixing between the outer country folk and those who were born and bred in Thremedon. For good reason, according to people like Roy—which