The winter chill had come to Thremedon about three weeks prior, though my old bones still hadn’t got properly used to the cold in the air. Roy insisted it was the source of my being “out of sorts,” as he put it, like we both didn’t know that meant real mean and even a downright whoreson sometimes on top of that. Roy’d said something about how I should consider retiring down south, not taking into account that talk of retiring was the one thing that made me madder than all this cold. I wasn’t an old man yet, thanks, despite how my bones felt, and I wasn’t about to lie down and roll belly-up just to make anyone’s life easier. Least of all my own.
“Guess Hal’s in for some shoveling,” I said, because I really couldn’t help myself when it came right down to it. Besides that, what kind of man shied away from a good joke when he had such material to work with?
“Mm,” Royston agreed, so that I wasn’t even sure he’d heard me. He was probably thinking about the contents of that letter, which was what I was meant to be doing instead of twitting Roy like usual. Maybe I thought if I just stuck to my routine, the solution to all my problems would come floating down from the sky like the golden spirit of Regina herself.
The real problem was, I didn’t want to know any of this.
I’d made an all right Chief Sergeant when there’d been a time for one, fair assessment being we’d done our jobs in the end, and that was more than you could say for most. Definitely more than you could say for whatever Ke-Han bastard had my job on the other side of the Cobalts. So I guess you could say I was fairly comfortable with a position of authority. I’d kept those boys in line, after all—a fact that seemed about equal to hog-tying an Arlemagne chevalier and getting him to see reason—and come out the other side relatively unscathed. Mental scarring aside, of course.
Which was all a very fancy way of saying that I’d kept worse than dragons at bay. Certainly—and that was a quote from the letter, too—certainly a man of my caliber would be better suited to judging the information in the letter than anyone else the writer could think of.
I was already regretting being as kind to Thom as I’d been. I should’ve thrown him to the wolves on the first day and let nature take its course; that was the way things worked in the wild.
Except, of course, we were supposed to be better than animals in the wild—civilized people—and acting that way was what’d gotten us the bad-luck charm in the first place.
If I had any kind of luck at all, or if whatever still remained from the war was holding firm, Roy would think of something. He was better suited to the ins and outs of court dealings, ironic as that was, seeing as how he’d been exiled once and I hadn’t.
The street stones were coated in a thin, near-invisible sheet of frost that melted in the shape of our boot prints as Royston and I made our way along the Stretch and toward the fountain, both of us lost in our own private imaginings—though I got the sense that mine were a lot darker than his, at the minute. Probably thinking of Hal shoveling the snow, Regina help us all.
“Whatever you—we—end up deciding,” Royston said, breath puffing up little clouds of steam in the cold air, “I feel like you ought to know that things … aren’t exactly copacetic in the Basquiat at present.”
“I’d be real interested to hear what that has to do with me,” I admitted. The streets were less crowded than usual—probably because of the cold—and I could already see the distant, misty gray outlines of a few statue heads and shoulders rising above the buildings. Mine being the biggest one, despite us all knowing that Compagnon’d been proud owner of the largest skull in all the Dragon Corps.
“Well …” Royston began, like now that I’d actually agreed he didn’t have any idea of where to begin. “My sources inform me that relations with the Esar are not exactly what they used to be, and you of all people know what they used to be was hardly that sturdy to begin with. Anyway, it’s as bad as it’s ever been, and that might not put him in the most forgiving of moods at present. A war always does make the enemy seem clear. But once that clear enemy is gone, and one is so used to having one …”
“Thanks for the theorizing,” I said, because if you let Roy talk too much, you’d never come to the point of anything, “but if you do have a plan of action, do you think you might let me in on it? It’s damned cold out.”
“I intend to talk to my sources,” Roy repeated, blinking once. “Do keep up, old friend.”
“So by your sources, you mean a certain lady of the tower,” I said, just for confirmation. Funny thing about running in the same circles as Roy, you met all sorts of people you’d never have cause to know about otherwise. Lady Antoinette definitely seemed like the type who’d prefer you not to know about her. At least, not until it was too late.
“She’s as acceptable a source as any when it comes to his moods,” Royston said. “And this letter has the sort of information she should know.”
“It doesn’t seem anyone should know about it, to me,” I said. Damn me if I was going to have to talk to th’Esar about anything, least of all what rights I had when it came to the girls. I’d been taken off my post, considering it didn’t exist anymore. I wasn’t anyone except Professor Adamo, teaching two classes to ’Versity brats just because there was a statue of me in the middle of the Rue, and that made people assume I knew things. Made people whisper about me, too, and maybe pity me a little. “So I guess that just means I’m waiting.”
“I’m afraid it’s the only thing you can do, at the moment,” Roy murmured, voice far off. His mind had moved on to whispers and secrets, concerns of the Basquiat that apparently—thanks to Rook’s fucking brother—had somehow become my fucking problem. “This is hardly like planning an assault on the other side of the Cobalts, is it?”
“Nothing really is, anymore,” I said. Not like I missed it.
“You don’t have to look so dark,” Royston assured me. “At least, not yet. I’ll let you know when you do. You know how the Esar gets into these moods of his; I’m sure it’ll all pass over like so many storm clouds in the end. I just thought it best to forewarn you, lest you make an uninformed decision and run off to the Esar without me.”
“Sounds to me like I’d do better without you if he’s not feeling too warmly about the Basquiat,” I said.
“I suppose that will be for you to decide,” Royston said with a shrug. We rounded the corner that led to the mouth of the Rue d’St. Difference, filled with all sorts of fancy hat shops—Luvander’s included—which just went to show how a woman was judging her fashions these days. To our right was the open courtyard that held our statues, mine in the middle and the boys lined up on either side of me, in proper formation like we’d never quite managed with the living examples. They sure brought the customers in for Luvander. “Bastion,” Royston added, “what on earth is that …?”
There was a shabby little crowd gathered around them, which wasn’t so unusual except that the group had suitcases with them, and their clothes were—as Roy might’ve said—decidedly countrified. Even for someone like me who didn’t much care one way or the other, it was easy to pick ’em out. Despite how it was only a carriage ride away, there was never too much mixing between the outer country folk and those who were born and bred in Thremedon. For good reason, according to people like Roy—which I couldn’t help but feel made him a snob, since without the proper shepherding, the former were liable to be swallowed up in the shuffle. Not to mention having to keep up with the changing fashions. Some of us city folk couldn’t even manage that.
“Looks like hayseeds to me,” I said, eyeing them. Young people mostly, at least a dozen or more. They seemed cold—just as dramatically cold as Royston had been himself a few moments ago. They probably couldn’t take the difference between Thremedon and the countryside—always warmer out there, or so I was told—and one of them had taken the liberty of sitting on his suitcase, which made him look both unimpressed and damn tired, too. “Why? Are you interested? I know you’ve a fondness for country folk.”
&nbs
p; “You know,” Royston said, “the more often you say a thing, the less funny it becomes.”
TOVERRE
Thremedon was even more beautiful than I had ever imagined. As grand as she was always described, mere words could not capture her vital essence. Even in my wildest dreams I could not have envisioned such splendor, not to mention the fashions—the delicate brocades and elaborate waistcoats—worn by all the passersby, and not a one of them looking out of place. And the statues of the airmen were taller than the barn back home! We’d arrived in the milliners’ district, and in the windows I could see hats with pearl-droplet veils and—my heart could not be still to see it—real peacock feathers!
What glory, I thought, and tried to keep my mouth from hanging open as though I were a dying fish. No matter how I felt like one.
I was deeply enthralled—and even more deeply grateful that Father had not come with us to the city proper to say his good-byes. His presence would have ruined it, and his disapproval of my gawking would have dampened my spirits. Father belonged in the countryside, with his precious mud and chattel. Here I was, ready for the ’Versity’s winter quarter. The weather was frigid, my nose running more freely than a gossip’s chatter, my fingers beginning to grow numb, but I would never wear the woolen gloves that had been packed for me. They were simply too humble for a place so grand, and I intended—for the first time in my life—to belong somewhere.
Not to mention, at long last, that I was finally free.
Where would I go first? I wondered. What delightful hole in the wall would be my choice of public alehouses to frequent? When would I meet my first poet; when would I find my first love? It was far more likely in a place like this, and I knew already about all the scandals. I might create one of those myself, depending on the lover I chose to take; the thought itself felt like lightning. Father would hear of the news and clutch a hand to his chest, suddenly quite unable to breathe, but there would be nothing he could do about my actions. He would never leave the manor in order to acknowledge my transgressions.
“Watch yourself,” a voice beside me said, just before the carriage driver threw my bag at me.
It almost knocked me down. A suitcase full of woolen gloves and books was bound to be heavy. Worse, it was flecked with mud from the journey over. I attempted to catch my breath though the sudden impact had certainly winded me.
“You’ve got a little bit of something on your chin,” Laurence said. “I think it’s drool from all that staring. Do you want my handkerchief to wipe it off?”
I turned to face her, only somewhat indignant. The cold air made her cheeks so pretty, whereas I knew that I would be covered in strange pink blotches all over my skin. She was wearing the dress I’d suggested, the nicest garment she owned—I’d given her my advice in the hopes that we would both fit into city life as more than pitiable country bumpkins—green to complement her eyes; without it, they’d just look gray. And the particular color was so flattering on a redhead.
Chances were, she would have much better luck finding her first love in Thremedon than I would. Nonetheless, I would encourage her and counsel her on what to wear, for I intended to be a solid friend despite all my jealousies. As her fiancé, I would always be there for her.
“Well, here we are,” she said. “I bet you’re loving this, anyway.”
“Aren’t you?” I asked.
Laure shook her head and made a face. “Too cold,” she said. “I told you I should’ve worn something a little warmer.”
“You look exquisite,” I told her, as the carriage driver handed off her bags. At least he was more delicate with hers than with mine; the benefits, I supposed, of being in a lady’s presence. “All you need now is a hat. I had no idea they’d be this popular.”
“A warm hat, I hope,” Laure said. “One that will cover my ears. And a scarf, maybe?”
I took her hand, tugging her over to one of the shop windows. Inside was an array that could only be described as luscious; I wished that the men’s fashions were as extravagant as the women’s. There was one with a wide brim and a little white veil that would have suited her very nicely, and it was even the same green as the rest of her dress.
“Well, bastion,” Laure said. “Would you look at that monster?”
To my horror, she pointed at the hat in question by tapping her finger on the window, leaving behind a faint smudge. I fought the urge to clean it—an establishment as fine as this would have help of their own to do that—and had to admit the hat she was talking about, an immense red velvet affair, was a little too much even for my tastes. I couldn’t imagine the sort of woman who would wear it in earnest although I did wish I could see her dress.
“Red doesn’t suit you, anyway,” I told her.
She grinned. “So you’ve said.”
If only I’d had more of an allowance, I thought sadly. I wouldn’t spend it all, of course, but neither would I hoard it. I would make one insane and wicked purchase, then keep it forever in my private little ’Versity room, to remind myself of how glorious life could be—would be, one day.
Father, of course, would not have approved. I sniffed—and it wasn’t because of the cold.
“Fine day for a little window-browsing, ain’t it?”
I’d begged Laure before we came not to use such language—to clean herself up in mind as well as in body, so to speak—but the voice was not hers, and not one I recognized. Curious, I peered over my shoulder and was met with an assault to the eyes as well as to my nose. There was a man standing before us, about three days of beard growth covering the lower half of his face and a fine layer of dirt and grime covering everything else. He wore gloves, though his thumb was poking out of a sizable hole on the left, and when he smiled I could see that he’d replaced one of his teeth with what looked like a low-grade precious stone, the sort my governess had always worn, though those were bound to be paste more often than not.
I fought the urge to hold my nose, but the effort it took not to leap back by at least a block was incredibly trying. This man was dirtier than Father’s pigs, and he was standing so near to us. My skin crawled, and Laure stepped closer.
“New here, ain’t you?” the man asked, apparently not bothered by the fact that neither I nor my robust fiancée had engaged him in conversation. “I can tell by the bags and all. Real sharp, Old Drake is. Thought I might ask as to your final destination, me with a hansom cab and all to spare, and the weather turning sour the way she’s bound to do past midday.”
“We’ll manage, I think,” Laure said, with a sniff of her own that probably did have more to do with the cold than anything else. Her sensibilities had never been delicate. I, however, was gagging. “Thank you for the offer.”
“Well, now, no need to answer right away,” Old Drake said, licking his false tooth thoughtfully. He reached for the nearest bag—one of Laure’s, borrowed from her mother for the trip—and hefted it up as though to test its weight. “Just that this seems like an awfully heavy load for a pretty young lady such as yourself to be carrying any distance, no matter where you’re going.”
“I do have some help,” Laure said, “not that you’d know it,” she added in a quieter tone, for my own benefit. This was followed by a look—one of her finest—which clearly stated this was one of many situations wherein she would welcome the aid of a knight in shining armor. A real fiancé, so to speak—perhaps one of those large, statuesque men we’d seen upon arriving, the heroes of the war, with broad shoulders and square chins.
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.
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