Steelhands - Jaida Jones [65]
“That wouldn’t stop th’Esar from making provisions,” I said, “and you know it.”
“I have felt it,” Luvander said softly, then laughed. “ ‘It’—listen to me—I really don’t know what I’m saying. But I’ve felt something. I thought it was just missing people, you know, the usual this and that. Missing my darling most of all. But what if it wasn’t as simple, or there’s more to this than I thought?”
“No need for that kind of conjecture,” I told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Though I know what you mean. It’s a tempting thought and not just for th’Esar.”
“I really don’t know what to make of all this,” Balfour murmured. He looked pretty unhappy, and I didn’t blame him one whit.
“Neither do I if I’m being perfectly honest,” I said. “Never asked to get a letter like that one, and I hope I never do again. Brought me nothing but indigestion and too many sleepless nights, so if you’re thinking of looking to me for a solution to this mess, you’d be looking in the wrong place.”
“But you must have some leaning, one way or another,” Luvander said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair, so I could tell he was working his way up to being a cheeky bastard again. “About what we should do for ourselves—for the girls—for the others, too. For example, if I was to suggest we storm th’Esar’s palace right now demanding answers and possibly some sort of financial security for milliners along the Rue, you can’t tell me you’d have nothing to say about that.”
“You’d be right,” I admitted, ignoring that bit of nonsense about his hat shop. Different men dealt with the rough shit in their own way, and nothing set Luvander at ease better than cracking wise. “Guess I know what we shouldn’t do more than I know what we should. It’s not a position I like any more than you, so you don’t have to make that face at me.”
“Sorry,” Balfour said quickly, even though he wasn’t the one I’d been talking to. He’d gone from worrying at his gloves to toying with his fingers, stretching the joints by pressing them against the tabletop, then pulling at each finger just slightly, like Merritt had when he’d cracked his knuckles. Balfour’s knuckles didn’t make any noise at all, but considering the way Proudmouth’s joints had creaked when she stretched out her neck, I was glad they didn’t.
“Your hands bothering you?” I asked out of the blue. I knew as I was doing it that it was the wrong move, that it’d make Balfour uncomfortable and probably Luvander, too. But I was sick of all this civilian dancing around the point and sitting on things until they became too big to ignore. That was Roy’s style, not mine.
“Beg pardon?” Balfour asked, as Luvander wheeled around in his chair to look at him. “Oh! These. No, they’re … They’re fine, they just stiffen up a bit in the cold, and … Well, I had someone to look after them, but it seems she’s got more to worry about currently than just me, so actually I’ve had to see the Esar about a replacement.”
“You’ve met with th’Esar?” I asked, trying not to get ahead of myself. “Recently?”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m being left out simply because I’m the only working-class man among a professor and a diplomat?” Luvander asked, while Balfour looked between us like a mouse trying to decide whether he wanted to take his chances with the cat or the barn owl.
“It wasn’t anything, not really,” Balfour said, his hands falling still. “At least, it didn’t turn out to be anything, though as you both know, when the Esar calls a man, he does worry. The whole experience was actually just … strange.”
I folded my arms over my chest, not interrupting; even Luvander looked rapt because this was probably better than all the best gossip he’d heard in weeks.
With nobody to interrupt him, Balfour hesitated, then pressed on. “I received a summons while I was at the bastion, complete with a carriage and no explanation other than that the Esar needed to see me. It reminded me so