Steelhands (2011)

by Jaida Jones

  Once, I’d spent the night in the bathroom—the only room I’d found with a door that locked.

  I leaned my head back in the chair, allowing my eyes to slip shut as Margrave Germaine rolled her chair away from her workstation. The last thing I saw were those shimmering vials, like miniature stars in the palm of her hand, and I thought for a moment I might even have heard voices. A consulting physician, maybe?

  But I would never know the answer, as I allowed sleep to overtake me.

  I awoke to a furious thumping sound, so loud that my heart began to hammer. It took me a moment to realize I was back in my own apartment, laid out in my own bed, and the sound was nothing more than my upstairs neighbors returning home. The entire building shook with the force of their steps, and I wondered to myself if they made a habit of wearing solid stone boots.

  My head was pounding, and I lifted my hand without thinking to rub at the temple.

  Quick, polished fingers—in perfect working order—obeyed my command. The metal was cold against my skin, but it soothed my pulse, and I started into a sitting position at once, holding both hands out in front of me.

  They even had back plates, I realized. They were smooth and complete, and when I wanted to make a fist, I could. I did so far more than was necessary out of sheer relief, flexing and curling my fingers, then attempting one of the more difficult tasks I faced daily: undoing one of my buttons. It slid from the loop easily, then back into it, and I could almost feel the press of the metal button against my metal fingertips. It was an incredible sensation.

  A small shaft of sunlight was spilling through the window onto my lap, and I found it suddenly impossible to remember any of my present troubles. The job Germaine had done was beautiful; she was truly an expert in her field.

  A small, sudden pang of guilt ran through me, as though Ginette would somehow hear me comparing her unfavorably with someone else, but I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind, allowing myself—for the first time in a very long while—to savor the pleasure of a good mood.

  Also, for the first time in a very long while, I intended to make myself breakfast.

  I had the skillet ready and was preparing myself for the delicate—yet now somehow manageable—prospect of cracking eggs, when a knock at the door broke into my reverie.

  “Coming,” I called, hurrying over and opening it. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I did hope it wasn’t one of the Esar’s men, come to take me back for another consultation. I couldn’t complain about the Esar taking special interest in my situation, either—not after all he had done for me—but I wanted to enjoy the moment uninterrupted. I also wanted to formulate my thanks so that they would show how much I truly appreciated the interference.

  However, I was shocked to see as I pulled the door open, a familiar face I wouldn’t have expected, not in a thousand years.

  “Luvander,” I said, forgetting my manners and staring openly at him.

  “Balfour,” he replied, staring back at me. I realized he was making fun of my expression, mouth hanging open like a dead fish’s, and I colored, closing my mouth at once.

  “What are you doing here?” I managed finally—not at all the “do come in” that would have been more welcoming.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Luvander admitted, surveying my humble lodgings from over my shoulder. “What sort of place is this for a hero of war, I wonder? Such wealth! Such riches! Such personality.”

  “It’s close to the bastion,” I explained. “Anything more extravagant, and centrally located, would be far out of my price range.”

  “Ah, Balfour,” Luvander said. “Dreaming big, as always. We flew once, remember?”

  It wasn’t enough to bring me crashing down from my good mood, but it almost managed. I stepped aside, beckoning for him to come in. “It has a nice kitchen,” I added, “and a pretty view.”

  At that moment, the upstairs neighbors chose to travel from one room to another, and the entire ceiling trembled, shaking a few bits of dust and wood down onto our heads. An excellent first impression, I thought, as Luvander stared at the ceiling in horror. He probably thought it was going to collapse on us both. And he was probably right.

  “It seems it also comes with elephants,” Luvander said at last. He pulled a white box from behind his back, tied up with string. “Invite the elephants down. I brought you some breakfast.”

  “You did?” I asked.

  “I can see you just woke up,” Luvander replied. “Perhaps I’ll step into the hallway and we’ll try doing this again.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I just—Why?”

  “Why did I bring you breakfast?” Luvander asked. I nodded, and he pulled out a pocketknife, cutting into the string. “Well, I’ve finally had enough to hire a shop assistant, first of all. And I assumed, with your hands the way they were, you might have trouble cooking. I’m a bleeding heart, what can I say, and our little talk the other day made me realize how much I missed having company from the good old days. You remember those, don’t you, Balfour?”

  “All too clearly,” I said with a mixture of relief and longing.

  “So that’s them, then?” Luvander asked, nodding toward my hands.

  I realized in that moment that I hadn’t thought to put on gloves before I’d answered the door, and now they were on grand display. There’d be no hiding them behind my back—Luvander would see through to my embarrassment, and he’d never let me live it down—and so I was trapped, forced to let him look at them until his curiosity was satisfied.

  Fortunately, I told myself, they were in working order, polished and new, gleaming when sunlight from my window hit them. I cleared my throat, trying to read Luvander’s expression, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, as always. For a man with such an expressive face, he rarely—if ever—showed any real emotion. At least, nothing you could tease him with.

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing to one of them.

  I swallowed, looking away. “Go ahead,” I said, refusing to add what I wished: If you must. It stood to reason he’d be curious, and he had come all this way. No doubt, if I did protest, he’d tell me there was nothing at all to be ashamed of—recite a few of the verses from “Balfour Steelhands”—and then I’d be further ashamed of having protested in the first place.

  The best way to deal with this was to get it over with. I clenched my jaw, bracing myself for whatever came next.

  He came forward slowly, as though he knew I wanted to run away, and delicately took my arm by the sleeve. I was forced to look back at him, searching his face warily for his impressions, as he turned my hand over, inspecting every detail, down to my pinky finger. I could feel his touch, but it was so careful that it was only the faintest ghost of pressure, moving from the metal to the flesh.

  “Now, isn’t that something,” he said at last, shaking his head and puffing out a whistle. “Looks as good as new, too.”

  “I just had them fixed,” I admitted. “They’re working very well today.”

  “Bet they get cold,” Luvander added.

  “They do,” I said.

  He took the other one, comparing them, noting all the places where screws approximated joints, then he sighed heavily, letting go of me completely. “You remind me of someone,” he said, “but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  It took me a moment to figure out it was meant to be a joke about Yesfir, because it lacked his usual good cheer. “Yes,” I agreed, pressing the metal palms together. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “It’s no wonder you wear those gloves all the time,” Luvander added. “You probably don’t want to depress us. Or yourself.”

  “And yet I manage that anyway, somehow,” I said quietly.

  “You should send a note to Adamo,” Luvander said. “Nothing too fancy, just to let him know you got yourself fixed up so he doesn’t beat down the Provost’s door and demand a search party for that other Margrave of yours. He would do that, you know. He’s always looked ou
t for you. And besides, a man like that misses having a cause to throw his considerable weight behind, mark my words.”

  “I suppose I could write to him,” I acknowledged, since it was slightly less embarrassing than making a special visit just to talk about my hands. I was lucky Adamo hadn’t asked about them yet. He’d given me my privacy out of respect, but I knew it was likely that sensitivity wouldn’t last long.

  “At least it’ll let him know the Esar made good on his word about something,” Luvander said with a little wink. “I’m not saying you have to give Adamo her references or her life’s story or anything like that, just let him know you’re being looked after by a real woman who actually exists. It’ll help him to sleep better at night.”

  “I had no idea that I was causing you both such worry,” I said, wrestling with the urge to hide my hands behind my back and have done with it.

  “Well, it’s not your fault anyway,” Luvander said, patting me on the back in a way that didn’t feel like a sudden or violent assault. “Some of us were born to be miserable bastards; nothing you can do about that. Do you eat brioche? I realize I probably ought to have asked you that before I tracked your house down, but if I’d asked first, it might’ve spoiled the surprise, do you see?”

  “I’ll eat anything as long as it’s cooked properly,” I admitted, not even bothered by the abrupt change in topic, even though I could tell it was for my sake.

  “You’re in luck, then,” Luvander said, “since it just so happens that these are baked to perfection. They’re from a dear little place two doors down from my shop, in fact. The baker’s daughter likes me, so I get them for free, and she gets a discount on any purchase of a hat or gloves she might care to make.”

  “That sounds like a very fair arrangement,” I said, turning down the heat on my stove and putting the eggs away for another day.

  “I’m becoming positively established there now; one day you won’t be able to imagine the old Rue without me,” Luvander added, returning to his box and flipping it open. Inside it were two enormous brioche buns, glazed and studded with what looked like chips of dark chocolate. Upon seeing them, my mouth immediately began to water. It was certainly much better than any omelet I’d been about to make.

  “That’s breakfast?” I asked, unable to help myself. “It seems more like dessert.”

  “And yet it goes down perfect with some tea,” Luvander said, grinning. “I could put them on plates if you’ve got ’em, but I’m not so fancy that I can’t eat out of a box, either. We’ve both seen worse, and any further elaboration on that point will cause me to lose my appetite entirely.”

  We paused for a moment to remember the time Compagnon had made us all soup in Merritt’s boots—mushroom barley, if I recalled correctly, though some of the lumps were neither mushroom nor barley, but more like lint from his socks.

  “I’ll make some tea,” I said at last since that seemed to be what Luvander was hinting at. “But I do hope you don’t mind if I decline to invite my upstairs neighbors.”

  “Not at all,” Luvander said with an airy wave of his hand. “It’s cozier this way, and I plan to entertain myself by going through your personal things. Couldn’t do that in front of company, now could I?”

  “I’m told elephants have excellent manners,” I said, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove to warm.

  Behind me, I could hear Luvander making good on his word, rustling around the room and tossing things aside more like a trained hunter’s dog than a person. I felt the familiar thrum of anxiety and nervous energy running through me, as it always did when my private life was under assault, but it wasn’t nearly so unpleasant as it had once been. Perhaps I’d just forgotten how embarrassing it could be.

  Then again, Luvander was only one person—he could hardly gang up on me with the force of the entire corps.

  My fingers slipped against the plates before I managed to get a firm grasp on them, but that was a characteristic of the metal and nothing to do with my own clumsiness. I caught them, putting them to right, and coming back into the sitting room feeling nearly triumphant. At the very least, Luvander wasn’t just over my shoulder, hawking my every move to make sure I was capable of setting a table—which I hadn’t been a day ago.

  “I see now that you’ve only come in order to spy on me,” I told Luvander, setting the plates down as he pulled aside my curtains, examining the view for himself. “This business of brioche is all a ruse.”

  “A very delicious ruse, though, you must admit,” Luvander said, peeling away from the window and folding himself neatly into one of my chairs. “Well, I suppose you can’t admit that since you haven’t tried it yet, but trust me, it is divine. You’re right about your view, by the way. Very pretty.”

  “Are you humoring me now? I really can’t tell.”

  “A true gentleman never jokes about beauty,” Luvander said, getting up as soon as he’d sat to fetch the kettle. I hadn’t even heard it whistling.

  From where I sat, I could see the thick purple scar on his throat, hooked like a fisherman’s lure where it disappeared beneath his shirt collar. It made me wonder if any of us had truly managed to escape unscathed and whether I wasn’t being a little foolish about my hands after all, feeling so sorry for myself all the time without any regard for the way the others must have been feeling.

  It was a sobering thought, especially as I was someone who had once suffered extremely selfish and insensitive behavior. Perhaps I wasn’t as different from the others as I’d always believed.

  “This mug has a chip in it,” Luvander said, scuttling about in my kitchen while I allowed myself to get lost in thought. “Good gracious, were you trying to start a fire in that wastepaper basket?”

  “What?” I asked. A horrible sense of foreboding crept over me before I’d even followed his gaze. It was too late for me to stop him, since by the time I’d realized what was happening, he’d already charged over to the bin, where I’d crumpled and left the remains of several of my unfinished letters to Thom.

  I should have burned them, even though I hadn’t been expecting guests. This was all my fault, and it was going to be unbearable.

  “ ‘Dear Thom,’ ” Luvander began, in a voice I could only assume he believed resembled my own, “ ‘I hope you will take this with the spirit it is intended when I tell you that in lower Charlotte they are singing a song about my—’ Balfour! Really? You had only to tell me that you needed help composing a love letter; one must never mention their manhood in such a vulgar manner. It is entirely unromantic.”

  “I thought it would be funny,” I said, feeling hot under the collar. Since it seemed Luvander wouldn’t be joining me anytime soon, I began to cut into my own brioche, eating it to hide some of my humiliation.

  “Well, true, but then what about this letter? ‘Dear Thom, I no longer recall the name, but you wrote last that you’d been enjoying some variety of exotic wrinkled nuts—’ ”

  Before Luvander could read any further, I’d launched myself at him—rather bravely, since I usually took my lumps without protest—from the kitchen table, doing what I could to reclaim what little remained of my dignity. If I’d allowed him to go on, I might never have been able to write another letter to my friend without feeling as though everything had some sort of double meaning.

  The papers tore, Luvander nearly knocked a cup of hot tea into his own lap, and the sound of my neighbors thundering down the staircase suddenly filled the halls. It was the closest I’d ever felt to living at the Airman again, and just like that it seemed that my good mood for the day hadn’t been ruined after all.

  SEVEN

  TOVERRE

  In the end, it was Laure who’d come up with the daring next step to solve the mystery of Gaeth’s unannounced disappearance. It was dangerous—and not in the romantic sense—and initially I was completely against it. While it had taken her a while to talk me around to it, once I’d had time to think it over, I found it a rather inevitable choice.


  Simply put, we were going to break into his room. Like common thieves, I’d said, which only seemed to excite Laure even further.

  I couldn’t call it the more sensible option, since when was there ever sense at all in breaking and entering? But after two days of searching what felt like all of Miranda and Charlotte, and even the Mollyedge under Laure’s insistence, we both felt crabby and utterly inefficient, not to mention hopeless.

  I was angry with Gaeth for disappearing—and so close to exams, as well—but mostly I was angry with myself for letting it get to me the way it had. In my distraction, I’d gone so far as to forget about my infatuation with Hal entirely, though that was one result that was probably for the best. In the country, all my crushes had been hopeless, but the knowledge that in Thremedon such relationships were not strictly looked down on forced me to consider the real potential of every suitor.

  It was an uncomfortable position to be in, even worse than the troubling resilience of Gaeth’s continued presence in my thoughts.

  Every time that it grew cold in my room, I was forced to think about him and his curious involvement in whether or not I kept my hands warm. It bothered me to have the gloves and not have Gaeth himself; I wanted to return them before someone assumed I’d stolen them. And, if Gaeth were present, I would have been able to twist an explanation from him that would solve once and for all my question as to why he was so peculiar all the time. The gloves, while sturdily made, explained nothing, and I resented them for how warm they kept my hands, how rough-looking and simple they were on the outside, and how soft within.

  I’d told none of this to Laure. I didn’t know how to describe it, and I knew enough to realize that these were bizarre thoughts, strange even for me. Laure had enough to occupy her mind with trying to find Gaeth in the first place, and this latest plan especially required our full concentration.