Steelhands - Jaida Jones [62]
“All right, all right, I guess you are Balfour after all,” Luvander said, waving his hand. “Stop now before you embarrass yourself and our former Chief Sergeant. You didn’t salute him, but I think he’ll forgive you.”
“I’m sorry,” Balfour said, shooting me a pained look. “For being late, I mean. And I suppose for not … Did you want me to salute you?”
“Bastion, no,” I said, shuddering at the thought. “That’s all we need: for th’Esar to think we’re brewing some kind of revolution in here. But just in case, you’d better lock the door, Luvander, seeing as that’s all of us.”
“Yes, sir,” Luvander said, saluting me just to be a burr in my trousers. He turned the lock, and flipped the hand-painted sign in the window from Open to Closed.
I felt relieved once he’d done it, though I couldn’t’ve said why. I wasn’t the sort of man who jumped at shadows, but Royston’s missing Margrave had me on edge. I’d have to ask Balfour if he knew anything about her once we’d gotten all these pleasantries out of the way, and judging by the way he’d been so quick to agree to this little tête-à-tête, it seemed like he might have some stuff to get off his chest, too.
“Is someone boiling water?” Balfour asked, interrupting my train of thought.
“The tea!” Luvander said, scampering off again into the back, and leaving the pair of us to follow in his wake.
Balfour seemed too pale by my standards, but he’d gained some weight since I’d last seen him, so he wasn’t all rail and bone and long shadows under his eyes like he’d given up living along with his hands, and I guessed that was a start. The gloves were probably a good sign, too, since he’d always seemed to like fussing with them before, and I definitely caught him sneaking a peek at the lavish displays Luvander’d set up in the corner of his shop, gloves in blue and green and purple.
His own were navy, made of stiffer, heavier fabric, and matched his coat.
Of all my boys, it was always Balfour who concerned me the most. He had all the manners and donkey shit it took to get along in the world, and he knew how to talk to people without insulting their dicks or their wives, but he couldn’t take care of himself worth a damn and he’d never figured out how or when to tell someone to take a walk off the far end of the Mollydocks. This whole diplomacy thing was just about the worst thing for him, as far as I could tell, since it suited his strengths way too much and didn’t challenge him to speak his real thoughts. He’d’ve been better off hitching up with Rook and Thom, or even setting sail with Ghislain. Sure, it might’ve ended up with the sharks getting a special meal of fresh Balfour meat, but somehow I didn’t think so. Ghislain would’ve kept his head above water if he needed the help.
But Balfour was always surprising you. He’d even done better than his brother, in the end. Just needed a chance to prove that to himself.
Not that I was in the habit of comparing my riders, mind. Every man had his own style, and so long as he could do his job right, then the rest was none of my business. Hadn’t been any of my business when they’d brought Balfour to us in the first place, a nice little piece of nepotism to fill the void left by Amery. No one ever got around to asking Anastasia what she saw in him—maybe just the family resemblance—but the way they took to each other was more than enough to shut the mouths of any whoreson who said she’d been forced into accepting him. Balfour was a natural, and damned if some days I didn’t think Anastasia had picked Amery just because she’d smelled Balfour on him, and not the other way around.
They were both good in their own ways, but Amery never would’ve lasted in the situation Balfour had thrust on him. He’d’ve cracked some heads together and ended up on trial for murder after the first day of finding piss in his boots.
Good man, Amery, but he’d had no better temperament than the dragons when