Steelhands - Jaida Jones [97]
“You’re late,” Roy said. “You’re never late. I was almost about to summon the Provost’s wolves and have them drag the Mollydocks for your corpse.”
“Too cold for swimming,” I told him. “Can I come in?”
Apparently my being late meant all sorts of terrible things, like Roy actually resorting to making the coffee himself instead of having me do it for him. The whole kitchen smelled like the darkest, most vile brew I could fathom; it couldn’t’ve been worse than if he’d made it out of stale piss and seaweed. The stench was making Roy’s eyes water, which made it the perfect strength as far as I was concerned, but it also smelled like he might’ve burned the grounds.
Roy’d also had time to do away with the fancy delivery boxes and actually arrange the food on plates like a human. If this was why civilians were always going out of their way to be fashionably late, then I guessed I’d take it.
If I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I might even have been duped into thinking he’d made the sandwiches. But they didn’t look like they were still alive, and the bread had been sliced evenly, so it was clear Royston couldn’t have had a hand in their creation.
“Well,” Royston said, settling in at the table. “What have you been up to, aside from making students cry and causing me to go gray with worry?”
“Hal told you about the weeper, huh?” I asked, making a grab for a sandwich.
“He said that a young man left your class sobbing. Sobbing profusely,” Roy confirmed. “He didn’t go into the details, so I was able to imagine them for myself.”
“Damn kid’s lucky he didn’t start leaking out of other places once I’d finished with him,” I said, tugging some of the unnecessary foliage out of my sandwich. Roy didn’t wait to ask me if he could take it before he relocated it onto his plate. “Tried to lecture me on political correctness, and how the Ke-Han were really just poor misunderstood bastards, with the only difference between us and them being they were born on the wrong side of the mountains, and now that the war’s over, our prejudice is the only thing keeping us from thinking of them as allies.”
“Oh dear,” Roy said, taking a sip of his coffee and grimacing elaborately at the taste. “I imagine he’s lucky to have escaped with his life—though you do know that you’re the one who’ll pay for it, in the end. At the very least, you’ll have another sternly worded letter from a parent to add to your collection.”
“Can’t wait,” I grunted. At least the sandwich was good, meat and mustard and just a little bit of tomato. It was hard to feel sour about things with a good meal sitting in front of you, and that long walk had made me hungry. “I’ll let you keep it with the others.”
“They’re certainly an exciting read,” Royston said. “One day they might even be worth something.”
“Sure as shit aren’t worth anything now,” I agreed.
“Well, I can see that you’re not at all in the mood to hear what I have to say, but I feel obligated to tell you that no one’s seen hide nor hair of Margrave Ginette at the Basquiat,” Royston told me, now stirring liberal amounts of sugar into his coffee in an attempt to make it potable. “It’s truly as though someone lifted Thremedon’s skirts in the night and shook her out like a mouse. It’s unsettling. You know I like a good mystery as much as the next person, Owen, but that’s only if I can solve it at the end of the day.”
“Rotten business,” I agreed. “I hope she doesn’t have family looking for her.”
“I’m honestly not sure which is worse,” Royston said. “If she does, or if she doesn’t. I hope your companion is doing all right without her; I’m only sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.”
“Well, here’s your chance to make it up to me,” I told him, knowing well just how much he’d appreciate it. “What can you tell me about a Margrave Germaine?”
“She has no eye at all for colors,” Royston said easily. He smiled in that self-deprecating way he was so good at and took an experimental sip of his coffee. I wish I could’ve framed the