“Does she know the extent of my injuries? Why on earth would she elect to deny me access to nearly instant healing? It’s—”
It was exactly what she had done to Conde Rodriquez’s beast. And for far less of an offense. His beast had not broken a window, assaulted the guards, or damaged the engine room of her family estate. She could only imagine what would have happened had the vizcondesa decided to punish her for assaulting her company’s wizard.
“Yeah, it sucks,” Malin said, settling down on the edge of the bed and adjusting the sheets so she could get to the bandages on Loretta’s chest. The sheets that were far too comfortable to be the same ones she had used the night before in the barracks.
For the first time, Loretta took a good look at their surroundings as Malin worked. “We are in Sir Moreau’s quarters.”
“Yes,” Malin said, nodding as she went about removing the bandages. “He was worried about you. It’s been a little cramped, but it’s worked.”
Loretta furrowed her brow. “What do you mean ‘it’s been a little cramped?’ Just how long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday afternoon,” Malin said, looking up. “It’s nearly lunch time now. Sir Moreau didn’t want you down in the barracks in your condition, and he’s real nice. He’s not making me go back down there either. I’ve been sleeping over the bed and he’s been on the floor.”
Loretta glanced up and found a sheet strung up high between the bedposts in an improvised hammock.
“Can you believe that?” Malin asked. “A knight sleeping on the floor?”
She rocked back and clapped her hands, bouncing up and down so much that it made the bed bounce. Loretta winced as pain shot through her damaged ribs. Malin didn’t notice, and Loretta schooled her face before she could. The girl seemed so excited that she did not want to dampen her spirit.
“Can you believe it?” Malin asked, finally calming enough to speak and locking her eyes with Loretta’s. “I’m in the menagerie of an actual knight! Me!”
She leapt from the bed, throwing her hands wide. “This is going to be epic!”
“Indeed,” Loretta said quietly. Despite her intention, her tone came out melancholy.
Malin turned back to Loretta slowly. “Why did you attack Master Jacquemin?”
There was a knock on the door. Malin tossed the covers over Loretta’s exposed chest and bounced over to the door. “Who is it?”
“Close your eyes, focus, and tell me,” came Moreau’s voice.
Malin looked back to Loretta and rolled her eyes. “Well, now that I’ve heard your voice, I know who it is.”
She made to unlock the door.
“Do not touch that lock,” Moreau snapped, freezing Malin in place.
Silently she mouthed, “How did he know?”
“Some beasts can manipulate sound,” Moreau said. “Close your eyes and focus, Malin. Who is behind the door?”
Malin closed her eyes and Loretta followed suit. She focused and felt him there, a warm presence that invited safety. Stability.
“It’s him,” she said, at the same time Malin said, “I think I got it.”
The young beast gave her a glance. “Of course, you figured it out. Why am I not surprised?” She sniffed the air. “Is that beef stew?”
The lock flew from the door, and she hurled it open, revealing Moreau holding a tray with three steaming bowls. The scent of them washed into the room and set Loretta’s mouth to watering. She would not drool, she told herself. She would not heap one more single indignity upon herself.
Moreau entered and set two of the plates on a small table. Malin threw herself at one, picking it up and lifting it straight to her mouth. She guzzled the contents with all the grace of a…well, Loretta supposed it was only appropriate. If somewhat uncouth.
Moreau took up sitting on the stool Malin had abandoned. “Can you sit up?”
With an effort, Loretta pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall for support. Holding the blanket up to protect her modesty was difficult but she managed. Why bother, a part of her asked. He’s seen you naked several times now. She held the blanket tighter to her.
“I overheard that last question,” Moreau said, spooning up some steaming stew and holding it out to her. If she took the spoon, she would have to relinquish her hold on the blanket. There was no way she could manage to hold it up with only one hand. Surely, he did not mean to—he did.
Moreau brought the spoon to her mouth and let her slurp down the delicious contents. Her stomach rumbled before the delicious broth had even touched her tongue. The broth went down easy, and she stifled a moan of appreciation.
“Why did you attack Master Jacquemin?” Moreau asked, getting another spoonful of soup ready.
“Why did you play your flute for me?” Loretta asked. Goddess, this was so embarrassing. She had shamed this man. Shamed herself. Now he was spoon feeding her so that she could protect her modesty.
Moreau gave her a look not unlike the one he had exchanged with Master Jacquemin. It was supposed to convey some kind of meaning. A whole silent conversation was intended to take place now. Only the translation was just as inscrutable to Loretta this time around as before.
“You’re my beast,” Moreau said. “I will always have your back.”
Loretta nearly didn’t get the stew off the spoon when he put it again to her mouth. She swallowed hurriedly. “I don’t understand. I attacked your friend.”
He took a deep breath. “Sauvage.” The name almost made her flinch. “I will always give you the benefit of the doubt. Your wellbeing is my responsibility, as mine is yours. We are a team.”
A team? She had never been a part of a team before. Oh, she had led group projects at the Academy, but she had not trusted her lesser peers to do the job properly. It had always been her against the world, an armada of one.
She glanced past Moreau to where Malin was still happily absorbed in slurping down her stew. “She’s our responsibility now too,” Moreau said. “And we’re hers. We look out for one another before everything else.”
Was he being truthful? She met his eyes and looked into them. With an effort, she focused on that connection she had just felt moments ago that had allowed her to feel him standing behind the door. It wasn’t just a single connection, she realized, but a network. It was like…like a series of intricate roots flowed between them. From these roots, she could sense his sincerity. He meant what he said.
Did that mean that she could trust him? Did she have any other choice?
Her shoulders began to shake. The motion sent waves of pain through her ribs but she could not make it stop. All of her schooling abandoned her.
“He made a mistake,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
“About your seeds?” He sounded skeptical.
“About me,” Loretta said, more loudly.
“What mistake?”
“I…” her throat swelled shut. With an effort, she forced herself to take a deep breath. “I am not a beast.”
“Sauvage, you Fell,” Moreau said gently.
Loretta tossed her head back and forth, casting her blue hair like a wild net about her shoulders. “I did not. I never Fell.”
Malin put down her bowl and stared at her.
“Malin,” Moreau said without looking back over his shoulder. “The words spoken in this room are not to leave this room, understood?”
Malin nodded, still staring at Loretta.
“Conde Rodriquez told me the circumstances of your Fall were unusual,” Moreau said slowly. “That the details must be kept secret, or else your life would be in danger.”
Loretta let out a broken bark of laughter. It died quickly thanks to the pain it sent through her chest. “I am bound to a knight contracted to a company of mercenaries. I daresay my life will be put in danger in very short order.” She met his eyes. “Sir, I am Loretta Maradona, firstborn of the Duquesa Fiamenta Maradona, and I am tel
ling you that upon my honor as a lady, I did not Fall.”
Silence. Had she pushed too far? Had her behavior thus far been so unladylike that he could not bring himself to believe her word?
Malin fell out of her chair with a crash.
“Sorry!” Malin said, leaping upright, empty bowl upon her head like some kind of helmet. “That’s on me. That’s my bad. Sorry.”
Moreau returned his attention to Loretta. “I would hear your story,” he said. “I do not promise to believe you. I do promise to believe that you believe what you tell me and do all within my power and best judgement to be of assistance.”
“That’s…that is all I can ask,” Loretta said, and she told him everything.
Chapter Eight
Assignment
“It’s hardly uncommon for a beast who thought themselves diamond souled to concoct a story to explain away why they Fell,” Gegenteil said, arms crossed, tail swishing. She loomed over Master Jacquemin, glaring at Sigmund with those golden eyes.
She had very nearly not allowed him back into her keeper’s study, and Sigmund was hard pressed to blame her for that, even if he hadn’t brought either of his beasts with him. The window she and Sauvage had broken had been covered up by heavy cloth that did not block out the noise of the mechanisms beyond nearly as well as the glass had.
From Jacquemin’s expression, he was of a mind with his beast.
Sigmund shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It seemed irresponsible not to at least consider her story given the rather dire consequences her Fall could bring about.” He had not told them who Sauvage had been prior to her Fall. That simply wasn’t done, regardless of circumstance. Hers, especially, warranted caution. Jacquemin and Gegenteil, who Jacquemin had insisted remain present for their conversation, knew only that Sauvage’s Fall had come from allegedly artificial means, which alone spelled out potentially disastrous consequences, regardless of Sauvage’s original identity.
It was hardly an unusual story. Many of the nobility did not like to admit to even the slightest impurity in their lineage and their daughters never Fell. They had accidents. Or they mysteriously disappeared. They never Fell, and nobody ever suggested otherwise.
As such, a situation such as theirs was hardly unusual. Sigmund idly wondered if Jacquemin would be shocked to discover that Sauvage had once been the daughter of a duquesa, or if such a thing would fly over the young man’s head as unimportant. Wizards were a strange people who considered odd, seemingly arbitrary things important, while scorning things others considered paramount. Such as manners, as evidenced by Jacquemin’s absent robe, short sleeves and short pants.
It was, Sigmund admitted, a touch stifling in the wizard’s study, again courtesy of the broken window, so he could hardly blame the man. At least Gegenteil’s presence helped to offset the heat from the nearby machinery.
Jacquemin shrugged. “Under normal circumstances you may be right.”
Sigmund raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “Normal circumstances?”
Jacquemin grimaced. “Your beast not only tried to kill me, she broke my window. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to conduct my research in this heat?” The grimace turned into a scowl and he gesticulated at his window, droplets of sweat flinging from his bare arm. “Do you have any idea how long it will take to replace that window?”
“A week,” Sigmund replied, earning a startled blink from Jacquemin. “It was originally supposed to be a month. I spoke to Saunet’s glazier and had your order prioritized.”
That had cost him his word. The glazier had a daughter in her late teenage years. The family had strong bestial heritage, and though she was nearly a woman, she was not out of danger of Falling yet. If she did Fall, Sigmund had promised to harvest her for his menagerie, regardless of what manner of seeds manifested in her Fall.
It was a dangerous deal for him. He could well be stuck with a beast who was worse than useless. Unfavorable combinations of seeds did occur. Sometimes the seeds simply did not provide any particularly useful abilities. It was worth the risk to restore himself to Jacquemin’s good graces.
More importantly, he needed to know whether Sauvage was delusional, lying, or most dangerous of all, telling the truth. Her tale was admittedly farfetched, but that was why he found himself…not wanting to believe her, exactly. She was earnest. He could feel that along their roots when she spoke to him. If she was a liar, then she was a damn compelling one. Were such the case, she would need immediate correction, and that skill put to better use. If she was delusional…that was more problematic.
Beasts were no different from men and women in that their minds could become ill. Unlike men and women, beasts were counted on to be the weapons of the knight keepers. A delusional weapon was one as likely to harm its wielder as its intended victim.
And if she was telling the truth, what then? It was unsettling to contemplate. Sigmund could not say with any real honesty which he was hoping for.
Jacquemin drew himself up and gave an imperious nod. The effect was somewhat ruined by his short clothes. “Very well then.” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. They slid back down almost at once due to the light coating of sweat upon his face, but the wizard seemed not to notice as he reached out a hand and summoned a journal from the shelf.
It always unsettled Sigmund the way wizards could do that. The abilities of the beasts made sense. They had within them the seeds of creation, each with limited and distinct abilities that imitated that which was found in nature. Not so with wizards. There was no way for a non-wizard to understand the forces at work when a wizard cast his spells. Perhaps a priestess could understand, but certainly no ordinary person.
Jacquemin flipped the notebook open and traced a finger down the page. “Whatever the circumstances of her Fall, she is most certainly a beast now. There is no doubt as to that. I would stake my professional reputation upon it.” He clapped the journal shut and looked up from it to meet Sigmund’s eyes. “But I shall review my findings.”
“You have my gratitude,” Sigmund said.
Gegenteil scoffed. “He should. Not reporting your beast was enough of a favor alrea—”
She was cut off by the ringing of a bell affixed to a device on the wall.
Master Jacquemin waved her silent and strode over to it. “Convenient things, these electrical telegraphs, let me order breakfast straight from the kitchen, but sometimes I find they are a touch too convenient.” He stopped at the device as it began clicking and spitting out a piece of paper with writing upon it.
“It’s for you,” he said, tearing the paper free and handing it over to Sigmund. “The vizcondesa wishes you to attend her in the tea room.”
The writing was tiny and boxy in that way of mechanical typesetting. It was also straight to the point, summoning him to the vizcondesa’s side at once. How had she known exactly where to find him?
He held the paper up and gave a nod. “I apologize for the abrupt departure, but as you said, I am summoned.”
Jacquemin gave him a distracted wave, already perusing the contents of another journal with a contemplative look. Gegenteil’s golden eyes tracked him as he left. The feeling was not unlike having a gun pointed at him, and he was grateful when the heavy metal door to the wizard’s study clanged shut behind him.
He made his way quickly, but not hurriedly, to the tea room. It would not do to arrive out of breath any more than it would do to arrive tardy. Sigmund resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he glanced over the missive once more and found the words “tea room.” Of course, Kerkenhal had a tea room. The vizcondesa might be ruthless and battle-wise, but she was still diamond souled, and they liked their luxuries and creature comforts. Tea, the great civilizer. Were Kerkenhal to come under attack by foreign invaders, the vizcondesa would likely stop in the middle of the pitched battle to have herself a cup. Perhaps even with the opposition’s lady leader. Would either of them bother to wash away the blood first?
&nbs
p; The thought nearly made Sigmund laugh. His mirth was short lived, slain by a far more important question: why had Vizcondesa Velazquez summoned him?
His first thought was that she had caught on to the fact that he had been sent to spy upon her, which was utter nonsense. He’d hardly done anything that could be accredited as spying. He’d been observant and recorded his observations in an old scouting code in his journal, but that was hardly worthy of suspicion.
Roux was good with puzzles, if he reached out, she could catch him before he reached—no. Roux was dead. That entire menagerie was dead. He stumbled, caught himself, and took a moment to restore his composure. The thought of her had come out of nowhere.
Sigmund had not slipped like that in some time. It was an effort of will not to flex his anima to try and feel the roots that were no longer there, akin to resisting the urge to tongue one’s empty gum after losing a tooth. Only far more painful for the absence, which gnawed at him like a toxic rot.
Roux and her menagerie sisters had not been buried. Their corpses were lost to sea. He had thought at the time that he would never recover from their loss. Then the conde had discovered him and he’d started over, a reward for his bravery in the event that had led to Roux and the other’s deaths. Only to lose it—lose them—all over again.
Every time he sought elevation and betterment, he lost everything. He clenched his fists. He would not lose this time.
It might already be too late. He had hoped that Sauvage’s actions would not be taken as more than the misbehaviors of a newly Fallen beast. Had she given him away? Or had her recounting of her Fall somehow reached the ears of Velazquez? He could not imagine she would be sympathetic. Exploitative perhaps. She was ambitious enough to make some kind of move against the Maradonas given the opportunity. He could not allow that to happen.
Odd that he cared so much about a family he had never met simply because of their connection to Sauvage. He put the thought from his mind. He was no longer thinking but worrying and such did no man any good. Thinking ahead and planning, seeking understanding, these were the tools of an intelligent man. Worry was the intelligent man’s enemy.
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