Steelhands - Jaida Jones [8]
Unfortunately, all she had was me, and I wasn’t about to get any closer to that man than I was already standing at present. I reached up to adjust my scarf, pulling it over my mouth and nose to keep out the smell.
“Skinny little weed like that won’t be much help at all,” Old Drake tsked. He still hadn’t put down Laure’s bag, and I was beginning to wish I’d learned how to recognize a Provost man when I saw one in the street. Did they wear uniforms, I wondered, or were they merely meant to appear in a time of need, like children’s guardian magicians? If one were to rescue us now, it would be very noble indeed. “No, my lady, I’m afraid I am going to have to insist you come along with me. ’Twouldn’t be chivalized otherwise.”
“I think you mean chivalrous,” I said, so that at least Laure wouldn’t be able to say I’d done nothing when we were making our claim to the Provost.
I supposed one couldn’t expect every city adventure to be a pleasant one.
“Excuse me,” said another stranger, and my heart positively leapt into my throat. If this was one of Old Drake’s counterparts or cronies, we were absolutely sunk. I was of no use at all in a fistfight, and Laure could only handle one grown man at best, perhaps two, but the latter was only if she had a weapon of some sort. There was nothing available save for me and a few hats, and all the beautiful passersby I had been admiring were ignoring us as though we were invisible. It was possible this kind of shakedown occurred all the time.
In short, we were royally fucked—a delicious and outrageous phrase I’d heard upon our arrival in the city though not one I could see myself uttering anytime soon.
I squinted into the sharp wind, prepared for the very worst. But what I saw was not at all what I’d been expecting. When I described it later in my journal—and I surely would, with a colorful flourish here and there to make sure I never forgot exactly how it all happened—I would have to express how remarkably it seemed to be one of the statues from the square come to life. The terror of the Cobalts, a real-live member of Thremedon’s Dragon Corps, arriving on the scene to rescue us from being taken for a ride like your average pair of country bumpkins.
Then the wind forced me to blink and I realized it wasn’t a statue, but rather a man of flesh and blood. He was young and blond and rather large, which explained my earlier mistake. And, it seemed, he was staring at me with an expression of quiet puzzlement.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to Laure, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I only saw the pair of you standing here and I thought I’d come over.”
“No harm done,” said Old Drake, setting Laure’s bag back down at her feet. However tempting a catch we might’ve been before—a deceptively peaceful young woman and myself, posing no real physical threat—this newcomer was clearly a discouragement to whatever Old Drake had planned for us. “Welcome to the three ladies, and here’s hoping your visit’s a prosperous one.”
He offered a funny little bow and a tip of his hat—the threads at the top had come undone and it flapped like an ugly, open mouth—and melted back into the crowd. At last, I felt the ice in my chest begin to thaw, even if the rest of me was still quite chilled.
“Are you heading toward the ’Versity?” asked our savior, pushing his hair from his eyes. He was wearing thick woolen gloves of an unassuming gray that matched his eyes, and his winter coat had clearly seen better days, but he was also divinely handsome. He could have comfortably worn anything in the milliner’s shop and still carried it off marvelously.
Some people simply had such complexions.
“We are,” Laure said, shooting a look toward me that suggested she knew exactly what I was thinking. If only she had not always been quite so discerning! “Thank you. Your timing is … particularly apt.