Steelhands - Jaida Jones [54]
“It is the topic most people are interested in, once they learn about it,” I replied. “That, and my time as an airman of your Dragon Corps—though the latter they have more difficulty believing. With the former … I am simply able to show them the evidence.”
“And how much evidence have you given?” the Esar asked, rubbing at the side of his jaw, where his beard was freshly trimmed. “How many people have you shown?”
“I wear gloves, as you can see,” I replied, “since the sight often … troubles people. As a diplomat of Volstov, and a servant to Your Highness, I thought that distracting those diplomats with whom relationships are already so tenuous would be unwise. And … a little vanity, too, no doubt plays some factor in it.”
“How very prudent of you,” the Esar said. “Do you have trouble with them?”
“The hands?” I asked. He nodded, and waved for me to continue without waiting for him to speak. I swallowed, throat feeling dry, but carried on. “It took some time to master them. In the first month, I found myself able to operate only a few of the fingers. Now even more complicated tasks—replacing the oil in a lamp, managing a fork and a knife at the same time—pose less and less trouble.”
“So they are a part of you now, and do as you command?” the Esar asked.
The Esar would think of it that way, I realized, but I nodded once. “Indeed, Your Highness,” I replied. “Though they do not feel natural.”
“That doesn’t matter,” the Esar said. “It is of no consequence to us. I am told that you have had difficulty with the magician who treats you.”
“I cannot seem to find her,” I explained, forgoing any jokes about losing a Margrave. I didn’t think he would appreciate them. “No one knows of her whereabouts. She lived alone, and left no information, it seems.”
“No one can find her?” the Esar asked. “You are sure about that?”
“Your request for my presence came at a fortuitous time,” I said. “Since missing my most recent appointment, I’ve been … concerned about the state of the prosthetics.”
“Of course,” the Esar said, leaning back in his chair. There was something on his mind, but it was far beyond my capacity to know what. “We’ll find someone else and send them to you before anything more discomfiting should happen to you. The way out is the same as the way in.”
I bowed very deeply, wishing more than ever that the Esar was a more approachable man. Or at least deigned to answer as many questions as he raised during any simple conversation. I wanted to know, of course, about Margrave Ginette, but to push my luck—even for her sake—would have been about as suicidal as my final mission with Anastasia.
It was so much easier to be a hero in wartime, I thought, ashamed of myself. But I left the room without furthering my case or hers.
If the Esar had an agenda, he didn’t want me to know it. And I, being his subject and therefore his servant, had to abide by that. It was law.
I saw no further sight of the Esarina on my way out, and the halls of the palace were eerily quiet, like a summer estate in wintertime. The carriage that had brought me was waiting outside, the driver and the horses alike stamping their feet with the cold and impatience, and they were even so kind as to deposit me not in front of the bastion but at my own home. I tipped the driver somewhat clumsily, my hands so stiff I could hardly move them.
He eyed me strangely, tugging at his cap. With a clatter, he and his equipage were gone.
It was quiet along the streets after that, and I fumbled with my key as I made it up the apartment steps into the long hall. No one was waiting for me when I opened the door, and I was able—after so much excitement—to convince myself that I preferred it that way.
LAURE
Of all the things I hated—exams, mending clothing, being told I had to ride sidesaddle, talking to people I didn’t like—it was possible I hated appointments with a physician most of all. Especially when they