Steelhands - Jaida Jones [51]
I’d heard from Troius—not information I’d requested, but which I’d received nonetheless—that it wasn’t the only place that they were conducting relations either. Apparently it was all very scandalous, but I’d never been an idle gossip, and there was no one I knew now who would appreciate the news.
A small crowd was gathering around the Basquiat, a collection that looked like it might’ve been a tour group, and the magicians on the premises were doing their best to avoid it—one even came so far as to see the group, stop in her tracks, then turn smartly on her heel to take the back entrance in. Fortunately for her, the square was so crowded that it was difficult to notice these things unless one had set oneself apart for such a purpose.
Now and then, a carriage would make its way down from the palace grounds, and everyone drew out of the way to guess at who was within it. That was the only time the crowds parted a little, making it easier to see what was going on.
It was easy to tell when a carriage was coming by the clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone. I strained for a moment, thinking I heard the familiar rhythm, and a moment later I was sure of it. Someone important was coming down from the palace.
There was something to be said for training your senses to become an airman, after all. I was feeling very keen these days, though not keen enough, apparently, to solve the mystery of where Margrave Ginette had gone.
The carriage slowed as it came to the bastion, and I quickly lifted myself from the steps so as not to be in the way of anyone coming or going.
“Balfour Vallet?” A man stepped out of the carriage, dressed in the white and gold uniform of the Esar. I had a momentary twinge—it had always been Airman Balfour in the city, with no need for a last name—before the reality of the situation came crashing in around me and I felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. Social nerves, one might call them. I’d suffered from them ever since I’d been a boy.
“Yes,” I said, somehow resisting the urge to hide my gloved hands behind my back.
“His Grace requests an audience with you,” said the man, giving me some idea of what “requests” truly meant. It meant show up if you wanted to keep your head, Balfour, and there’s a good lad.
I missed Thom suddenly, if only because he could talk his way in circles around everyone he’d ever met—he’d tamed Rook, for bastion’s sake—and that was exactly the kind of man you wanted at your side during a meeting with the Esar. I had my own diplomatic training, of course, but that wouldn’t be nearly enough to protect me.
Even when he was trying to help you, he was a very intimidating man.
“Of course,” I told the Esar’s man. “I’ll come at once; thank you.”
With no further hesitation, I climbed into the carriage. The driver shut the door behind me, and I felt the body of it shake as he climbed up into his own seat.
Ever since the end of the war, the Esar had taken a special interest in me—perhaps because he had been friends with my mother when they were much younger. Hence the position, I supposed, and the expert care. Perhaps he merely wanted to apologize about Margrave Ginette’s untimely disappearance and make sure that I had a fitting replacement to continue with the upkeep of my hands.
And maybe, right after that, Anastasia would fly over the city with my dead brother on her back.
The ride was quick, if uneven. The upkeep on roads had gotten very bad during wartime, when most official funds had gone to the conflict, and the driver seemed to be going out of his way to hit every bump in the road, veering to avoid pedestrians and taking sharp turns a little too quickly. All the jostling wasn’t doing much for my peace of mind or my wrists, but I knew as well as the driver that the Esar never liked to be kept waiting.
No doubt that was the reason for our breakneck pace.
I knew that I had no rational reason to fear a meeting with the Esar since I most certainly hadn’t done anything wrong, but one’s guilt did not always coincide with another man’s preconceived notions, and