Steelhands (2011) (34 page)

“I will not be bullied into making a decision,” Auria said, turning rather red in the face, herself. “I don’t care how many times I have to repeat myself, Chanteur. We may continue this discussion in front of the Esar, if we must, as I am but his mouthpiece here. He will tell you, the same as I have, that we are not currently able to donate anything to your cause.”

I felt a tapping at my leg and reached down to take the note back from Troius.

The only thing I hear is the sound of our talks being extended another two months
, the note read. Under that, crossed out but still legible, was:
Kill me now
.

I smiled, but my skin had turned clammy with sweat, and I was starting to feel suffocated by the still air in our discussion chamber. Underneath those miserable talks remained the faint humming, whirling of cogs, and the occasional clang, like a piece of metal being beaten flat. If I could get out of the room, I hoped, there might be some chance the noise wouldn’t follow me. Such an idea didn’t seem logical if the sound was in my head—and it had to be, if Troius hadn’t made note of it—but then, what
was
logical about hearing things?

Metal groaned, like the beating of enormous wings, and I heard the voice again, just the faintest whisper. It was too quiet to make out. It sounded halfway between the cry of a baby and a lonely moan.

Perhaps I was suffering from some postwar medical condition that hadn’t chosen to manifest itself until just then. If so, the timing was excellent. I’d be the latest airman to destroy relations with the Arlemagne, just carrying on tradition—although it didn’t seem to me that it would have been entirely my fault. Matters were self-destructing without my assistance.

I’d heard of soldiers who’d been in great battles coming home with shock, dealing with sounds that weren’t there, memories of the horrors
they’d seen—their minds transforming harmless, everyday noises into something far more sinister. I’d spent the better part of my life surrounded by the very sounds I was hearing now, the creak and groan of organic metal, living machines. It was exactly like stepping into the dragon stables—to speak with Anastasia for a time or hide from the other members of the corps. I didn’t know what could possibly have triggered it after so long, but now that I’d recognized the sounds, there seemed to be no other explanation for them.

I would have to seek out a physician, or perhaps consult first with Adamo and Luvander to see if they’d ever suffered anything similar. Maybe in visiting with my fellow airmen, I’d unearthed more than pleasant memories.

Now, that would be an interesting discussion to initiate. It would be harder to begin than any awkward letter, and I could just see myself, invited to tea in the back of Luvander’s hat shop, clearing my throat and asking, “So, have you heard any dragons lately, boys?”

My right hand twitched again, and I reached into my coat pocket for a handkerchief to dab some of the perspiration off my face.

“We’ll put it to a vote, then,” Auria was saying, her jaw clenched tight. “If I find I’m outnumbered, for whatever reasons, then we’ll discuss further terms about the specific aid Arlemagne will require. If
not
, then you’ll have our answer clearly, without appeal. Perhaps we may still work out some sort of emergency clause with regards to your situation with Verruges. Rest assured, Volstov would never abandon an ally, despite our current position in world affairs.”

I flexed my hand, then clenched it beneath the table, practicing until I no longer felt the lingering sensation of that lone, troubling twitch. My hands had been so lifelike since their recent overhaul—and certainly my living hands had also twitched during moments of great anxiety—but I found that I didn’t altogether like the feeling of it when it happened to the metal. There were some accuracies that a prosthetic simply shouldn’t be able to achieve, and when they moved on their own, it always left me to wonder if they’d simply end up developing a kind of awareness of their own, just the way the dragons had.

The idea was utterly absurd—but no more so, I supposed, than hearing voices.

I glanced up from the table only to find that Auria, Troius, and the
other members of our envoy were all staring at me. Their expressions varied from curious to annoyed.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, somewhat mortified. I already knew the answer, but this was the easiest way for me to ascertain in what way I’d just made a hideous blunder.

“We’re taking a
vote
, Balfour,” Auria said, clearly none too pleased with having to repeat herself. “Are you all right? You’ve turned white as a sheet.”

“You know what?” Troius said. “I think we should all take a recess. This is an important decision, and I for one would welcome the extra time to really
think
on it from both sides. Best not to rush these important matters.”

I was grateful to him, though Auria looked for a moment as though she intended to take his head off.

“You seek out that time to confer with your Esar, you mean,” Chanteur said, darkly suspicious. He added a bob of the head for etiquette’s sake—his version of a bow to our esteemed highness.

I was gripping the edge of the table so hard that I realized I was beginning to make a mark.

“If you wish to have equal time to confer with
your
king,” Auria said, “we will give you that opportunity.”

“And call talks off for another month while we wait for the messengers to travel back and forth?” Chanteur asked. “Some of us have families we wish to return to and urgent matters at home!”

“In the meantime, we’d show you every glory Volstov has to offer,” Troius said smoothly. “For free, of course.”

This much postponement of a simple decision was nearly killing me; I was close enough to standing and leaving without being excused and causing further scandal when Chanteur finally grunted, waving one plump hand. “Very well, take your time,” he said. “I know what my king would have me do already. If you are not so lucky, then by all means, take conference with him now.”

Troius stood quickly, following me out of the room and away from the collective murmurs on both sides of the table. There was some fresh air in the hallway, but it was not enough, and without listening to hear if Troius was following me, I lurched quickly through the halls, desperate to find some means of escape—or, at the very least, a room with an open window in it.

The voice was following me making wordless sounds in what I was forced to assume was an effort to terrify rather than communicate.

If people were staring at me, I would not have blamed them; neither did I have the energy to spend on keeping up appearances.

The more I ran, the more it became clear to me there
was
no outrunning the sounds. They grew louder and quieter as they pleased, the voice fading away only to start up again even closer to my ear.

“Balfour!” Troius called after me.

The current ballad in Charlotte about me would have to be amended, I thought, to account for my tragic descent into madness. I felt Troius catch me by the shoulder, trying to stop me before I went careening down a flight of stairs. For a moment, I fought with him.

Balfour
, the voice said in my ear.
Balfour?

It knew my name, I thought, then promptly lost consciousness.

I didn’t have much time to worry about the hell I was going to catch from Roy next time I saw him. A mind like his could turn any innocent encounter into a whole lot more than it actually was, and I knew he’d been waiting for his opportunity to have a go at me ever since he brought Hal back to the city. Probably since even before then. I’d been twitting him all his life about
his
love life—if it could even be called that—since good old Professor Lingual, and now here he’d gone and gotten the impression I suddenly had one of my own. It’d be open season no matter what the truth actually was, and I’d been going out of my way for the past few days to avoid him at all the usual spots.

He had to know by that point I was avoiding him, which would only make it worse when he finally caught me. But all of that seemed like petty, peacetime thinking to me when Luvander showed up in my office.

“Don’t tell me
you’ve
got a problem with the exam, too,” I said. It’d been a mistake passing my office hours around in case anyone needed consulting—because it turned out
everybody
did. Even more of a mistake had been letting the eager students—the ones with eyes like starved animals, begging for approval and grades instead of scraps—take the damned thing home early when they’d asked. It was that question
that didn’t have an answer that had ’em all in such a tizzy, assuming they’d failed the class, a few of ’em even bursting into tears right in front of me.

“No, it’s Balfour,” Luvander replied, not even bothering to make a joke at my expense. That was how I knew it was serious.

I reached for my coat, putting it on without a word. We could talk while we walked and get wherever we needed to be twice as fast.

“It’s only a rumor,” Luvander explained, as we pushed past a gaggle of students at the front door of Cathery and into the cold afternoon air, “but I heard it from multiple sources—and you say gossip never helped anyone!—that the ex–airman diplomat named Balfour had a bit of a … moment during the talks with Arlemagne yesterday. It’s all hush-hush, which means everyone’s talking about it, and I knew you’d want to hear immediately in case there’s something actually wrong.”

“Your gossip any more specific?” I asked. If there was,
then
I’d consider amending my feelings on how useless wagging tongues were, but not before.

“That’s the problem, of course,” Luvander replied. “In my own personal opinion, he must have been feeling stifled by such endless tedium—the talks aren’t going very well, according to my sources, and they’ve been at it for days trying to work out all the little details—and some are saying our good friend left in the middle of a vote on Arlemagne’s dealings with Verruges pirates. Just stood up in the middle of the talks and ran out of the room, then dropped like a lead weight. Fainted or something. Can you imagine the scene?”

“Doesn’t sound like our good friend Balfour,” I said. “If he didn’t run from
you
lot, I don’t think a few diplomats’d give him that much trouble. Where’s he now?”

“I assumed we would check his apartment first,” Luvander said. “And might I suggest you do your best to intimidate his ghastly upstairs neighbors into being a little more quiet? No wonder the poor thing’s feeling worked to the bone if he can barely get any sleep at night without them stomping around. Most days I have trouble making it to lunchtime on a full eight hours!”

“Been to visit him a lot, have you?” I asked, privately thinking that the same rule as with his ability to weather diplomats applied. Balfour’d lasted years on less sleep and more noise than he was currently dealing
with. Despite giving the impression that he’d blow over in a stiff wind, he could be a tough little bugger when he set his mind to it.

I’d’ve been less worried if he
was
prone to running out of the room and fainting like a noblewoman. Then I’d know not to pay this embarrassing incident any mind one way or the other.

“Only once,” Luvander admitted. “I’m working him up to accepting the company.”

Sounded a little like torture to me, I thought, privately glad Luvander hadn’t decided
I
needed the company. Once again, Balfour was a sacrificial lamb, but if he wanted to keep Luvander out, all he had to do was pretend he wasn’t home. He was a smart one; he’d figure it out.

I let Luvander lead me away from the main thoroughfare of ’Versity Stretch, loping through the crowds on his long legs and not stopping to shoot the shit with anyone we passed, which was how I could tell he was looking to take us there in a hurry.

At least neither of us had to worry about bypassing the crowds at our statues, since it was quickest to go around it altogether, taking the Whitstone Road to the Basquiat, then crossing the square to the bastion and the small apartments around it. Apparently Balfour was living close by to where he was working these days, which sounded pretty convenient to me. If I’d had a chevronet for every time I cursed making the long walk from middle Charlotte to Miranda first thing in the morning, I’d’ve had enough money to
buy
my own damn place by the ’Versity and eliminate the problem.

Probably for the best that I didn’t since I was spending enough time in Miranda as is, and I didn’t want to turn into a stuffed shirt on top of being a crankpot.

Besides, the walk was good for me. Kept the old bones moving.

Streets were always crowded this time of day, but for once, I wasn’t letting all the gawkers and the millers and the slow movers bother me. I didn’t even settle for making angry faces at the backs of the chuckleheads who stopped right in the middle of the street and nearly tripped me up. Royston could say whatever he wanted about me being a mother hen and not knowing when to quit, but the point was I’d been in charge of keeping my boys alive for a long time. That kind of responsibility didn’t just pack up and leave easy.

The last time I’d seen Balfour he could barely move his hands, and
now this’d happened. I didn’t like it and worst of all I didn’t
understand
any of it, which wasn’t doing wonders for my mood.

“Thought you said he was doing better,” I grunted at Luvander finally, needing someone to direct my thoughts at. Maybe someone to direct my frustration at, too; Luvander’d regret coming to me for help soon enough.

“He was,” Luvander said, neatly sidestepping a man carrying a whole stack of packages tied up with twine. “I was ready to go about singing the praises of Margrave Germaine through the streets after I saw him. Send the woman a complimentary hat, maybe, though that’s an expensive gift.”

“Something must’ve happened,” I said, just missing putting my boot down in a big pile of slush.

“I do wish he wasn’t so secretive,” Luvander said with a little sigh. “It’s all very sweet and coy, I suppose, and I’m sure it drives the women mad, but it makes it absolutely awful trying to get anything out of him.”