Steelhands (2011) (10 page)

“Either that, or having some trouble with my memory,” I replied. I hated that question, but I was man enough to weather it. If not now, then when would I get my sorry self over it?

“Rode a dragon and all?” she asked, eyes getting keen.

“Only when the bell rang,” I said.

“Heard you rode Proudmouth,” Laurence continued. “And she was a crusher, if I know ’em, right?”

“She was,” I confirmed.

Laurence nodded, not looking pleased with herself, just thinking hard. “But crusher or not, they all breathed their share of fire, right?”

“Most compact form of long-distance firepower we had,” I explained. “The fire was offensive primarily, but defensive as well. If any of our girls hadn’t been able to breathe fire, or if something’d jammed up the works—lost a man that way once, and I’m not proud of it—then she’d be dead in the air, and her rider along with her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Laurence said. “But if you were riding on top of these big metal girls like they were horses only larger and more dangerous, and they were breathing fire all over and everywhere in the heat of battle, I’ve always wondered … How was it your clothes never caught on fire? Pants, specifically. I’d imagine with them up against all that hot metal it couldn’t’ve felt too nice, now could it?”

“
Enough
, Laure,” her companion said suddenly. In truth, I’d forgotten all about him. But there he was, reaching out and grabbing her arm and trying to pull her bodily toward the door. “We’re so sorry to have bothered you with our technical questions, Chief Sergeant—Professor—but we’ll leave you to your business now. Thank you very much. Good day.”

“To
verre,
” Laurence said. “Stop that at once; he was
going
to answer! How did your pants not catch on fire, Sergeant Adamo?”

“Simple enough,” I said. “It’s because I wasn’t a liar.”

Both Laurence and her friend stared at me for a long moment. Then, out of nowhere, Laurence burst into laughter while her friend continued his efforts to tear her away with renewed vigor.

“That’s a good one,” Laurence said. “I guess it’s His Highness’s royal secret, then, and you’re not allowed to tell me?”

Somehow, something about leaving her with that impression rubbed me the wrong way.

“Had a saddle,” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “Wasn’t made out of metal, and it fit up against Proudmouth’s spines. That way, nothing important of mine down there was impaled on any of the scales, either. Kept us fixed in one place. Kept us from falling off, too. There was a harness for holding on, and the harness helped control the flames, although most of that she did herself—
she
was a real tactician. As for the pants, the suits we wore when we were out on a raid were made special to keep us insulated. Doesn’t mean some of us didn’t come back singed all over, and one of my boys lost a pant leg in a close call. But there were provisions for keeping us from getting charred as a campfire, and everything else we left up to skill and luck. You got burned, it was your own damn fault. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“Thanks,” Laurence said. “Bet
you
never got burned.”

“Only once,” I said, but that was once she was out of earshot. I followed her red head out the door, the last of the students to leave.

“What a remarkable conversation you just had,” a fresh voice said from the front row. I turned around, and there was Roy, lounging happy as you please in one of the seats, playing with a pen one of the first-years probably left behind. “Did that young woman just ask you how you avoided flaming pants?”

“Hope you weren’t here for that
entire
lecture,” I said. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”

“Of course not,” Roy said, setting the pen down and unfolding himself from behind the desk. “I enjoyed it very much. I do believe she likes you.”

“At least that makes one of ’em,” I said gruffly. “So get to the point.”

“I was here to pick up Hal, actually,” Roy explained, casting one of his long-nosed looks at Radomir as he guided me out of the classroom. “Also, I did want to talk to you about other things. Dinner at my place tonight?”

“Will the teacher’s assistant be there?” I asked. These were the kinds of things you had to make sure of before you agreed to anything.

“Of course he will,” Roy replied. “Before you make the joke, I’ll do it myself: He’s a growing boy, and he needs to eat.” He clapped me on my back before heading down one of the long hallways, sharp new boots clacking on the wood. “Shall I see you at eight?”

“You eat too late,” I grumbled, but he’d already known my answer. What point was there in even saying yes?

One of these days, I
was
going to make it down that last little block of the Rue, all the way to the statues, where Luvander had set up his hat shop.

It wasn’t that I was worried anyone would recognize me in the flesh from my stonier counterpart. That was never an issue since he was far more proud-looking than I, not to mention so tall it would have been impossible to compare the details of our faces. If I kept my hands shoved into my pockets and my collar turned up, I would look like any other citizen, and no one idling near the memorial and reading the plaques would ever be the wiser that an ex-member of the Dragon Corps was walking among them. The better for them. It really wouldn’t live up to what they must have thought.

That was what had taken Ghislain out of the city, I expected, since a larger man would have had trouble hiding in plain sight the way I did, and he was nearly the size of his own statue—a sight people were much more likely to recognize. It made me wonder if he’d seen the shop, or indeed if he’d anchored in Thremedon at all since leaving.

I wasn’t at all certain that I would, given the opportunity to leave in the first place.

In any case, I
had
promised Luvander I’d visit the establishment, and I didn’t intend to go back on my word. It was just that—what with one thing and another, and also my own private reticence—I never quite seemed to make it there.

Some days, I was too busy with my own work even to contemplate the trip. But on others, I really had no excuse. I took long walks to clear
my mind yet managed to bring myself around in circles rather than stop at the designated place.

It was for the best, surely; this was what I told myself. There was little sense in showing up at such a place before I was ready, with no idea what I would say or what to expect. It would be doing a disservice to Luvander, not to mention if I happened to come at a particularly busy time of day I’d be interrupting his business with my staring. He might feel obligated to entertain me, and it was possible he’d tell his customers who I was—that would be the worst of all, especially with all the handshakes.

If Luvander had only chosen some more private line of business, perhaps it would have been easier. But it was none of my business what anyone chose to do with his life. Rather, it was more that I’d never pegged any of my fellow airmen as aspiring milliners.

Then again, there was a lot we hadn’t known about one another. With so many things the others hadn’t ever learned about
me
, I supposed it would have been foolish indeed to assume I’d learned everything about
them
.

But all that was conjecture. Time to focus instead on the business at hand—literally the business at
hands
.

Before me was a far smaller task than marching through the city until I came to the Rue. It was almost so mundane as to be entirely insignificant, though it troubled me more than I was willing to admit to anyone but myself—and even then sometimes I had difficulty with it. I’d somewhat lost track of the days because of my current routine of lively debates with the representatives from Arlemagne; but one that was marked upon my calendar, in no uncertain terms, was my monthly checkup and overhaul. I could have called it my day for polishing if I’d had anyone to joke with about it. Nonetheless, if I wished to have hands that didn’t work in the
slightest
as opposed to making do with what I had now in order to keep up the pretense of being somehow more normal, by all means, I could avoid the appointment.

But I would not—especially because I feared the retribution from the magician in charge of my prosthetics.

Magicians—at least the ones I’d met—seemed to enjoy being rude almost more than the airmen had, though a magician’s rudeness was more about being sly and less about dangling you by the ankles out a window.

Admittedly, my hands were a less startling sight than they’d been to me in the beginning, but there were still nights when I woke from dreams of flesh and bone only to wonder with a violent start what beastly metal nightmares had attached themselves to my wrists. There were those who might have found them beautiful—I had no doubts about this, since they represented a rather pleasing triumph of machinery and craftsmanship—but to their owner, they only signified a replacement that fell considerably short of the original.

Also, painfully enough, they reminded me of Anastasia. They were even made of the same metal.

My fingers were silver in color, though the rest was not, since I supposed all the tarnishing would have made that impractical. When I’d asked, I’d been told that the materials were closer to steel—something my body was less likely to reject—and sensibly sturdy as well. They wouldn’t rust, so long as I made sure to dry them carefully should they ever get wet, and they shone brightly in the light—alien and eerily beautiful—even if I felt no particular affection for them one way or another. The palms of both hands were smooth and cold to the touch, as well as the fingertips, and there were even little grooves where each piece fit together that a fortune-teller might still read my fate by.

It was the backs of my hands—the part I was supposed to know better than anything else, or so the saying went—that everyone seemed to find the most interesting. There was no steel plate to be found there, but a series of minute, interlocking gears and pulleys that turned as I moved and made the softest of clicking sounds whenever I did something as simple as drumming my fingers against the table. Somewhere inside that, past what looked like the workings of the most intricate clock I’d ever seen, there was a vial of concentrated magic that was worth more than my weight in gold. Worth more than my statue’s weight in gold, in fact. And I hadn’t the faintest idea how it worked.

It was the same way Anastasia had worked, after all, and I hadn’t needed to understand what was inside her in order to know how well she flew.

I’d had to commission gloves of a sturdier fabric once it became apparent that the gears were going to tear right through all my best pairs, and it simply wouldn’t be possible to go without. The diplomats from Arlemagne would stare, not to mention everyone else, and I would be worn down from answering the same questions day in and day out. My
hands looked strange; I would be the first to admit it. And I had memory enough of what I’d once been—what parts of me I was missing—without everyone else knowing about it, too, the instant they laid eyes on me.

The construct itself was a less exact science than the dragons had been, chiefly because the dragons were created as their own separate entities whereas these hands had had to be made specifically to tailor to the rest of my body—a part of me that was at once integral yet utterly unnatural.

One day, I’d been told, or at least “ideally,” they would be able to fit a panel onto the back and cover things up once and for all, leaving me with smooth metal skin and, I supposed, the freedom to wear more delicate gloves again. But that final piece of the puzzle couldn’t be put into place until after years of fine-tuning, and the magician couldn’t make adjustments without turning me loose in the world to see what problems I ran up against. “Trial and error,” I believe was the term, and I was growing rather weary of it. Especially when my right hand stopped working completely during my very first postwar bath—at least, the first I was allowed to take on my own, without nurses and healers watching over me.

Still, I had no right to feel ungrateful. I’d lost my hands, but I’d kept my life, and that was more than so many of my fellows could say. Without any further delay, I tugged my gloves on—extra thick to keep the chill from getting into the metal, which in turn made my wrists ache—did up the buttons of my coat, and left.

After the end of the war, once the Esar’s plans for me had become apparent, I’d thought it prudent to rent my own quarters in the city rather than returning to my parents’ estates. It made for a much shorter commute between home and the bastion every day, and I had a very lovely view of the Basquiat from my window. In fact, I lived close enough that I could take the Whitstone Road to cut across the Rue and be in upper Charlotte—and therefore, the Crescents—before the sun set.

The days were growing so short in winter and the early dark played havoc with my moods.

It would have been more convenient for me if the magician tending to my follow-up appointments had been operating out of the Basquiat instead of her own home, but the Esar had his own way of doing things,
keeping magicians and politicians separate. If the rumors I’d heard were true—as much as I hated listening to idle gossip, more often than not there was truth to be found in it—then he didn’t trust the magicians at the Basquiat as much as he once had.

That
was a tense area that could’ve used a little diplomatic intervention, I thought, and it made me wonder why we were bothering so with the Arlemagne when there were matters within Volstov that needed tending to, but I was no ruler. It wasn’t my place to suggest these things. The problem would be resolved in its own time, and certainly without any help from someone like me.

There had always been a struggle between members of the bastion, the Esar’s handpicked favorites, and the Basquiat, whom magic herself had picked. And the Esar, I suspected, did not like being reminded of forces more powerful than he. Since he was no magician, it was all something of a sore spot.