by Jaida Jones
“I don’t know much about city folk,” Gaeth admitted. “Not yet, anyway. But I can’t see as how cold hands wouldn’t bother someone.”
“They must be used to it,” I said, employing a tone of finality that I hoped would end this strange, circular discussion. I cast about for another topic of conversation. I didn’t want to ask him about his hometown because I could already picture it—a vast stretch of muddy country, a barn full of cows, and Gaeth himself in the middle of it, contentedly looking after his repulsive chickens and pigs. It was agonizing—not the least because I’d known dozens of boys exactly like Gaeth back home, and most of them turned out as hardheaded and unimaginative as the cattle they raised. Moreover, the idea that I would carry any sort of fondness for someone so obviously lost when it came to the sophistication of Thremedon was downright mortifying. How could I? I was a different man now!
If only Laure had come along, she would have been able to save me though she would have made me pay for it later on, when it was just the two of us again.
“Well,” Gaeth said, putting a hand on my arm. “Here we are.”
And so we were, back at the dormitories already. I didn’t flinch at his touch, yet he withdrew his hand almost immediately with a little nod of apology. “Sorry,” he added, looking sheepish. “Forgot you didn’t like that.”
“Are you going inside as well?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too desperate for him to answer in the negative. Any more of his company and I would probably expire. Once I was alone, I could begin castigating myself for allowing him to touch me without even a rebuke. Was I no better than a horse myself, to be wooed by something so simple as a gentle hand and a calm demeanor?
If that was how it was going to be, I’d have no choice but to end it all.
“Nah,” Gaeth said. “I was feeling a bit warm, so I thought I’d walk around some more for a bit. Winter air’s bracing.”
Here was the sort of boy my father would have preferred to have as a son, I thought, with some slim bit of jealousy. But mostly, I felt relief. Laure’s father would have been happy with him, too, and it was a wonder she didn’t hate him for it. No; she rather liked him, and I could hardly pretend I didn’t understand the reasons why; simple as he was, he had an awful kind of charm about him. Yet it was something I would have preferred to forget.
“It’s been …” I began, just a pleasantry, but found myself unable to think of anything to say. Instead, I began to tug the mittens off, but Gaeth held up his hands.
“You keep them for now,” he said. “I’ll come back to pick them up later. Gets cold in your room, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I replied, surprised he remembered. He waved at me as he turned away from the bottom step, moving off through the straggling students making their way across the cobblestones, in and out of buildings, laughing or gossiping with their friends. Soon enough, he’d disappeared from view.
I watched him for a few moments longer than was necessary but mostly out of confusion, feeling my brow wrinkle unpleasantly. In the wake of my failure with Hal, I’d quite forgotten about Gaeth, and I’d imagined he’d be only too relieved to find himself free of my attentions. Either that was the case, or he really was feebleminded and thought us perfectly capable of being friends without the addition of Laure to keep everyone sane. For what could he and I possibly have in common?
Then I began to feel the cold too keenly, while everything I’d seen earlier in the afternoon came flooding back to me and I forgot about Gaeth completely. I had so much to tell Laure, and even though she’d complain at first about how wrong it was to watch people when they didn’t know you from a hole in the wall, I knew it was a good enough story that she’d listen.
She would stop scolding me. Eventually.
BALFOUR
I hadn’t heard any further news from Ginette, and there was a strange aching in my wrists that was beginning to grow worse with each passing day. It troubled me, and not just for the obvious reasons of my own personal discomfort.
I’d never thought Ginette would be the sort to leave a job unfinished. Return visits to her home in the Crescents proved fruitless; speaking to her neighbors offered no clues as to her whereabouts. And, when I asked a few of my companions in the bastion if they’d heard anything about Margrave Ginette, I was met mostly with disinterest or vague rumors. Troius said he’d heard from a friend of his that she’d gone missing, and he was certain there’d be a replacement found soon enough to look after my hands if she didn’t show up.
That, however, wasn’t exactly what I was concerned about.
“You worry too much, Balfour,” Troius told me, clapping me on the back. “I know you’ve seen hard times, but they’re over now. Go out, get some fresh air, maybe see a healer for the way those wrists hurt? And things will be fine in no time. I’m sure it’s all meant to work out.”
I could agree with him about one thing, and that was the matter of getting some fresh air. Which was exactly what I was doing, sitting outside on the steps of the bastion, watching the passersby and making sure I didn’t stare too long at any one person, thus causing some personal offense.
The Arlemagne diplomats had put a momentary hold on our proceedings, and I’d learned—through Troius and other idle gossip—that it was because there was a royal marriage being arranged. Considering the preferences of their crown prince, which had become apparent to more people than he might’ve liked during his tenure in Volstov, I felt bad for both the bride and the groom in the arrangement. But it was hardly my place to worry about matters of state in a country that wasn’t even my own, one that I had never seen and probably would never have reason to visit.
The worries of others, though, proved a distraction from one’s own. Since I no longer had a ready-made diversion in the form of thirteen other men being as loud and as violent as possible with one another, I’d resorted to this: observing strangers and doing my best not to come up with little stories about who they were and where they were going in life.
There was clearing one’s mind, and there was abandoning sense entirely for a flight of fancy, and I could still tell the difference well enough.
I was currently following the movements of a young man in a gray coat and cap, walking distractedly back and forth in front of the Basquiat. His demeanor was a familiar one; I could have recognized it from anywhere since it was the same countrified awe I’d exhibited on my very first visit to Thremedon.
That, however, had been a very long time ago, and I soon lost sight of him. The area was a busy one, filled with magicians and diplomats and other nobility alike. This made it ideal for losing oneself in the passersby, all of whom looked more important than you, and busier, too. I knew I was playing right into the Arlemagne opinion of Volstovic diplomats, sitting outside instead of performing any duties within the bastion, but they had been the ones to call a halt to the talks. Diplomacy wasn’t like any other job, where if one project fell through you simply attempted to find another one with which to occupy yourself. I supposed I could have marched down the hall to where Margrave Josette and Lord Temur were conducting relations between the new Ke-Han emperor and the Esar’s representatives, but I hadn’t been briefed on the particulars, and if they had need of me, I’d soon know.
I’d heard from Troius—not information I’d requested, but which I’d received nonetheless—that it wasn’t the only place that they were conducting relations either. Apparently it was all very scandalous, but I’d never been an idle gossip, and there was no one I knew now who would appreciate the news.
A small crowd was gathering around the Basquiat, a collection that looked like it might’ve been a tour group, and the magicians on the premises were doing their best to avoid it—one even came so far as to see the group, stop in her tracks, then turn smartly on her heel to take the back entrance in. Fortunately for her, the square was so crowded that it was difficult to notice these things unless one had set oneself apart for such a purpose.
Now and then, a carriage w
ould make its way down from the palace grounds, and everyone drew out of the way to guess at who was within it. That was the only time the crowds parted a little, making it easier to see what was going on.
It was easy to tell when a carriage was coming by the clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone. I strained for a moment, thinking I heard the familiar rhythm, and a moment later I was sure of it. Someone important was coming down from the palace.
There was something to be said for training your senses to become an airman, after all. I was feeling very keen these days, though not keen enough, apparently, to solve the mystery of where Margrave Ginette had gone.
The carriage slowed as it came to the bastion, and I quickly lifted myself from the steps so as not to be in the way of anyone coming or going.
“Balfour Vallet?” A man stepped out of the carriage, dressed in the white and gold uniform of the Esar. I had a momentary twinge—it had always been Airman Balfour in the city, with no need for a last name—before the reality of the situation came crashing in around me and I felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. Social nerves, one might call them. I’d suffered from them ever since I’d been a boy.
“Yes,” I said, somehow resisting the urge to hide my gloved hands behind my back.
“His Grace requests an audience with you,” said the man, giving me some idea of what “requests” truly meant. It meant show up if you wanted to keep your head, Balfour, and there’s a good lad.
I missed Thom suddenly, if only because he could talk his way in circles around everyone he’d ever met—he’d tamed Rook, for bastion’s sake—and that was exactly the kind of man you wanted at your side during a meeting with the Esar. I had my own diplomatic training, of course, but that wouldn’t be nearly enough to protect me.
Even when he was trying to help you, he was a very intimidating man.
“Of course,” I told the Esar’s man. “I’ll come at once; thank you.”
With no further hesitation, I climbed into the carriage. The driver shut the door behind me, and I felt the body of it shake as he climbed up into his own seat.
Ever since the end of the war, the Esar had taken a special interest in me—perhaps because he had been friends with my mother when they were much younger. Hence the position, I supposed, and the expert care. Perhaps he merely wanted to apologize about Margrave Ginette’s untimely disappearance and make sure that I had a fitting replacement to continue with the upkeep of my hands.
And maybe, right after that, Anastasia would fly over the city with my dead brother on her back.
The ride was quick, if uneven. The upkeep on roads had gotten very bad during wartime, when most official funds had gone to the conflict, and the driver seemed to be going out of his way to hit every bump in the road, veering to avoid pedestrians and taking sharp turns a little too quickly. All the jostling wasn’t doing much for my peace of mind or my wrists, but I knew as well as the driver that the Esar never liked to be kept waiting.
No doubt that was the reason for our breakneck pace.
I knew that I had no rational reason to fear a meeting with the Esar since I most certainly hadn’t done anything wrong, but one’s guilt did not always coincide with another man’s preconceived notions, and the Dragon Corps’s final meeting with the Esar was still quite vivid in my mind.
It was one thing to be brave when thousands of lives were at stake and you were part of the only damned crew that could put an end to the war, but I had little delusions about my own ability to re-create that same atmosphere of victory on my own.
If I was in for something as simple as a discussion, then I didn’t have anything to worry about. But it was never something simple when it came to royalty. I’d seen the strange twists and turns the Esar’s family line had taken in the past, and I knew the history behind every untimely royal death, as well.
It was because of this, perhaps, that I wasn’t able to convince myself of anything.
The carriage bounced to a halt and the Esar’s man sprang out ahead of me to lift the catch on the steps. I emerged from the carriage somewhat disoriented, but the beauty of Palace Walk made me catch my breath just as it always did. Even in winter, when the trees were bare and no lanterns lined the path, it was quite lovely in its minimalism.
“I assume you already know the way,” the Esar’s man said, bundling the stairs up under the carriage again. They fell into place with an ominous click. “If you don’t deviate from the path, it’ll take you right inside. Should be someone waiting to escort you to His Highness from there.”
“I see,” I said, tugging my gloves on a little straighter. My fingers were stiff from the cold. “Well, thank you very much for your assistance.”
“And for yours,” the driver agreed.
The one unfortunate thing about Palace Walk was that it was largely empty: Servants used other entrances for their comings and goings, and unless there was a party—a favored family visiting from their country estates, or perhaps a ball—most of the people with business in the palace were already within. I couldn’t get lost in a crowd, and I couldn’t distract my mind by observing others. I had only myself to think about, and the large, white stone building looming before me was causing me to feel very small indeed.
There were guards bundled up in coats to open the doors for me, and they did so, nodding as though they knew me, which made me slightly uncomfortable—if only because I most certainly did not know them in return.
Someone was waiting for me in the inner chamber, but it wasn’t another servant, or even a guard as I’d half expected. She was sitting on a low, ornate couch beside one of the few, long windows that was still gathering the winter light, her voluminous skirts shimmering just slightly like an oyster pearl in shades of white and pale gold, with an overlay of blue. There were little pearl drops hanging from her ears, though her throat was bare, and she wore long gloves that extended nearly up to her shoulders against the cold. Her hair was the same gold as her dress, drawn back from her face and swept up off her neck—held there by what I could only assume was some little magic charm but was in all likelihood a hidden talent with pins that I’d never understand.
I had only ever seen the Esarina in passing and from a distance, but it was unmistakably she seated before me.
“I …” I managed, as my brain refused to follow where my mouth had already ventured forth. What was the proper depth of bowing for a woman of her station? I knew it, and yet the sight of her caused me to forget it almost immediately. “I am sorry … and humbled, Your Majesty. I must have gotten turned around somewhere. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Not at all,” the Esarina said, standing with a hushed swish of her skirts. “You are Balfour Vallet, Adelaide Vallet’s son, are you not? I am acquainted with your mother. She speaks very highly of you.”
“You’re too kind,” I said, still not quite managing to convince myself that I hadn’t tripped and hit my head somewhere along the walk. This felt like an ambush, though too subtle to be planned by the Esar. If he wanted to hit you on the back of the head, he did so, and was done with it. “Or perhaps she is.”
The Esarina laughed, covering her face with a fan that had suddenly appeared in her hand, and I slowly let out a breath, keeping my head bowed. Perhaps I’d been lucky enough to receive a stay of execution.
“You are here to visit my husband,” she said, composed once more. “I will take you to him.”
“You will?” I blurted out, before I could help myself. Evidently I was doing my best to see any pride my mother had once shown in me dashed against the rocks. Since they were acquaintances, my mother would hear about my behavior in a letter, and I would hear about it soon after, in a letter of my own.
“It is not among my usual duties,” she admitted, turning her face to the side for a moment, so that I caught a glimpse of the loose pearls threaded through her hair. “But servants talk, and guards certainly talk, since they’ve nothing but standing all day to occupy their time, and I’ve been led to believe
that this is a delicate issue, one that my husband would like to keep among as few people as possible. Since he finds it difficult to keep things from me, I offered to perform this service for him.”
The way she said it made me think that the Esarina had a hand in making it difficult for the Esar to hide things from her. I thought of what Compagnon would say—he’d be jealous, and I couldn’t help but feel I was doing this for his sake—and I steeled myself in order to make the best of an utterly mystifying situation.
“I am honored to have such an escort,” I said, finally recovering what little remained of my manners.
Surely the Esar wouldn’t have coerced his wife into escorting me to my own execution. That was the thought I used to calm myself as I held out my arm, not to mention a litany of other reasons why my panic was unfounded.
The Esarina laid a gloved hand delicately against my own, and we made our way through the twisting labyrinth of corridors that somehow always managed to make me feel like a lost mouse in a ’Versity student’s experiment, despite my being lucky enough to have a guide who very clearly knew where she was heading. The piece of cheese at the end of this particular maze, however, was the Esar himself, seated on a dais and looking much the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, if a little more gray about the beard and hair. There was barely any orange left in his mustache.
I supposed the war had taken its toll on all of us, one way or another.
At that moment, I realized that the Esarina must have had an intimate feel of the stiff, metal joints beneath my gloves against her arm, and I glanced over at her in horror, only to find her watching her husband instead of me.
“I’ll leave the two of you to your business,” the Esarina said, letting her hand fall from my arm. She gathered up her skirts and curtsied low, bowing her head deeply. “My lord.”
“Our thanks, as always, my lady,” the Esar said, waving his hand in dismissal.
