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The crowds were more difficult to bear than Adamo remembered.
He moved among them without too much difficulty, as he always had- something about the way he carried himself, all broad shoulders, straight back and heavy steps, made civilians step out of his way lest he step on them on his way to wherever he was going. The epaulettes and shiny buttons of his new coat probably had something to do with it too, glimmering as they did under the rows of bright electric lightbulbs. He stood out like a sore thumb, which wasn’t exactly what irked him. No, what was getting under his skin was the damned misplaced respect.
“Sir,” a noble from the bastion nodded, smiling warmly with the incorrect honorific on his lips. A cheeky young lady gave him a smart salute, which he might have been tempted to smile at if for no other reason than the sheer amount of balls it took, but then she ruined it by dissolving into giggles with her friends. He swept past her without changing expressions, which may have, in retrospect, been slightly rude. A few young-looking nobles, possibly former students of his, bowed in his direction or called out “Professor!” to him, which made him itch under his skin. He was glad they weren’t announcing visitors as they entered. That would have made it much worse.
“You look as if you’re ready to march into battle,” came a familiar voice behind him, rich and buttery and just the faintest bit mocking. Adamo turned and beheld Royston in all his courtly splendor, moustache waxed and curling up at the edges and the hint of grey at his temple making him look genteel. He doubtless hated it, but that was beside the point.
“Just wishing they had something stronger than wine,” Adamo admitted, taking the fluted glass that his friend offered. “Everyone’s being too nice. It’s throwing me off.”
“That’s only because you’ve been around nothing but beasts for the past two years,” Royston murmured from behind his hand. “Also, farm animals. How you’ve managed I will never understand.”
Adamo smirked as the words made him instinctively glance around the room to keep track of his boys as they milled around food tables or twirled courtly young ladies around the dance floor. He realized what a mother hen he was becoming, but like any form of insanity, knowing about it didn’t actually do anything to stop it, nor did knowing that it really was unnecessary to fuss. He’d had two years to break in the kids, with help from Balfour and a mixture of help and hindrance from Ghislain and Raphael. Even Troius was broken in enough to be let out of what was essentially exile for long enough to attend the celebration.
The Esarina Anastasia had accomplished what her husband never could: an alliance with Arlemagne, rather than a simple peace treaty, that guaranteed their help against any future hostilities. To honor the occasion, she’d decided to make public the existence of the Dragon Guard- certain parts of it, anyway. She’d kept tabs on them via Antoinette (and, he suspected, via Balfour as well) and knew what Adamo’s progress in breaking Troius and Gaeth of the nasty habits the previous regime had allowed them to form. She had also placed enough trust in him to allow him to instill his own law upon the dragon guard, running drills on them every day between daily housekeeping chores and time spent caring for and training the dragons.
If the existence of the dragons ever became public, alliances would doubtless be called off, at the very least. It could easily be called an act of war, despite their smaller size and diminished capacity for all-out violence. None of Volstov’s allies would be pleased at Nico’s little secret, and Adamo knew Anastasia would be forced to eliminate the dragons rather than bring her people into another war so soon after their victory with the Ke’Han. It would be brutal and heartbreaking for those personally involved, since none of their little group of exiles would stand for the dragons to be destroyed- the shattered survivors of the dragon corps out of grief and love for what had been created from the parts of their own girls, and the younger dragon guard because they were psychically linked to the new dragons and would not survive the harm that came to them. Exile was the kindest possible option, even if it was a life sentence.
The return to society, then, became a tricky game of half-truths, polite lies, and misdirection to everyone, including those they would most like to tell their secrets to. Adamo had predicted a certain cooling in his friendship with Royston over it, since Royston wasn’t privy to the secret and was very fond of gossip, but the magician had accepted the matter with a surprising amount of grace. What was a little thing like a state secret between friends, he had written in a letter, leaving the matter mostly at that and instead redoubling his efforts to get Adamo and Laure married so that he could have a little godchild to spoil rotten with expensive gifts.
“Come now,” Royston chided gently. “You’ve been away too long, have you forgotten to respond when someone is talking to you? It’s easy. When someone says something, you open your mouth and let words happen. Preferably polite ones.”
“I have,” Adamo admitted, sipping his champagne with a grimace. “I forgot how crowded this place can get. Makes a man want to duck into a nice dark corner and wait it out like a proper storm.” He watched Laure get whirled around the dance floor by a noble who was, if he was not mistaken, stepping on her toes. It may have been because of Laure’s tendency to want to lead while dancing, but it was still unforgivable. “Not that I would do such a cowardly thing.”
“No, you’ve never been sensible,” Royston agreed, following his gaze. “When are you going to give me my godbabies?”
Adamo hid a grin. Barely. “I ordered them, but the post never delivered.” He shrugged, meeting Royston’s unimpressed gaze with a level look of his own. “You could always adopt. I bet freckles would make a hell of a mommy.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Royston got a dreamy look in his eyes, and Adamo had immediate regrets. “No,” Royston remembered himself a moment later, “I’m afraid I am much better as an uncle or a godfather than a full-time parent. Remember the parakeet I once kept?”
“I try not to.”
“My point is made, then. No, there’s no use, it will have to be you.” Royston turned and looked across the floor, fondly, at where Hal was engaging a small group in a passionate and quietly engaging conversation. “One for me and one for Hal, I think. And I suppose a third for yourself, if you wish.”
“Didn’t realize I was a damned factory,” Adamo grumbled, ignoring Royston’s soft laugh. He caught a glimpse of a blonde man who looked like a soldier making his way through the crowd, heading towards them with a much slighter person following behind him. “Say, isn’t that Caius Greylace?” Adamo leaned over, asking softly. Beside him, Royston gave the pair a sharp look, smiling with his lips if not his eyes to maintain an illusion of civility. “Thought he was in exile too,” Adamo commented.
“Not precisely,” Royston murmured. “He sort of exiled himself to shack up with Alcibiades, there. Rumor has it they’re married.”
It felt, for a moment, like the floor had fallen out from under Adamo. He simply had no idea what part of that statement to begin digesting. He had no time to figure it out, either, since Caius and Alcibiades were then standing in front of them, being greeted by Royston in a surprisingly friendly manner. Caius shook Royston’s hand earnestly, then took Adamo’s without any sort of warning or chance to avoid it.
“Dear friends,” Caius murmured. “It’s simply astonishing to see you here. The last time we were at a party together, the entire kingdom went to shit.” His one visible eye, the one not hidden behind his hair, was as wide and guileless as Adamo had ever seen it. He wondered for a moment why Royston was gaping before remembering that such language was not, in fact, encouraged at a royal ball. His home life really was ruining him. “I do hope,” Caius continued, perfectly polite and somehow both charming and offsetting, “That this one doesn’t precede any disasters for the state.”
“Hope not,” Adamo managed to grunt out. Alcibiades gave him a somewhat sympathetic look. The two nodded to each other, unspoken camaraderie in mutual gruffness.
Royston cleared the discomfort from his throat. “Let’s all hope that the entirety of Anastasia’s reign is smooth and prosperous.” He recovered his faltering smile and raised his glass of champagne.
“That was very well said!” Neither Adamo nor Royston missed the condescension dripping from Caius’ voice, though Caius himself seemed oblivious to it. “Dear me, though, I haven’t a drink to toast it with. My dear, do you think we should have some wine?” Caius had expectantly half-turned to Alcibiades, who raised one mocking eyebrow.
“Good idea. Get me one, too,” Alcibiades replied without missing a beat. He moved in closer to Adamo and shook his hand, making very clear his intent to stay. Caius merely blinked and took a step back, tilting his head.
“My, I’m not sure what Yana would make of your manners tonight,” he chided, but glided away to the snack table against the wall without further comment. Adamo and Royston met eyes. Yana?
While Caius was away, Adamo and Alcibiades caught up on pleasantries- they had only met a handful of times, and then only in passing, but Adamo was well-versed enough in Basquiat politics that he knew exactly whose hand he was shaking, and he assumed Alcibiades was similarly knowledgeable. Once Royston recovered from his shock, he joined in.
“That seems like a very good way to get your drink poisoned,” Royston murmured quietly, clapping Alcibiades on the shoulder. For his part, Alcibiades snorted.
“Sounds great. Then I’d have more than five minutes at a time out of his company.” For all his saltiness, the old soldier had the air of someone gruffly tolerant- perhaps even approaching fond. Adamo did not particularly care to explore the matter further, though he suspected Royston would give him a thesis on the subject over the course of the following year.
“Still, it’s good to see the two of you out,” Royston was obviously trying to keep his voice neutral, and they both noticed the strain. “At the same party as Toverre.”
Adamo immediately started scanning the guests intently, noticing Alcibiades’ eyes narrowing slightly. “…Sorry, who?”
Adamo grabbed Royston’s arm, glaring at him. One word would be enough, it would have to be enough. Royston would understand in a heartbeat.
“Luvander.”
Royston understood. If Luvander and Caius were to ever join forces, nobody who lived in Thremedon would ever get a moment’s rest again. As Adamo strode away through the guests, he saw Royston grab Alcibiades by the arms, speaking lowly and intently. Adamo lost him in another moment, searching through the crowd for the worst of his own personal troublemakers.
~
“So tell me,” Gianluigi said as he spun Laure around by her hand, letting go of her waist but reclaiming it all too soon. “Really, tell me about what you studied. I would love to hear about what such a lovely young lady finds so interesting about education.”
It was the third such conversation she’d had that night, and Laure had exactly zero interest in proving she had a brain in her ‘pretty little head’ to another handsy bastard who thought he could woo her out to the balcony and stick his hands down her dress. Granted it was still a better topic than the other one- the one she’d had twice, full of insidious little comments about her and Owen, as if it was anyone’s business- but she still had no patience for it and, manners be damned, she had absolutely no compunction about walking away from the idiot mid-dance as soon as she spied Owen prowling through the crowd.
“Dance with me,” she hissed as she grabbed him by the waist. Damn the rumors, she wanted someone familiar and Owen did manage to put her at ease when she was riled.
Startled, he put his hands on her automatically, already blushing a bit. To his credit, he began to lead without hesitation- a dance they’d practiced at home, and she was grateful that she could fall into the rhythm and trust him not to step on her feet.
“I think one of my toes is broken,” she griped, casting a dark look around the ballroom and wishing for the dozenth time that Inglory was here to keep the hounds away.
“Do I need to break anyone’s nose?” He asked, broad hand sliding to the small of her back and making her shiver as the warmth soaked into her body.
“No, sir,” she grinned at him. “But I might ask you to bail me out if I do it myself and get arrested for it.”
He snorted, but looked pleased. Their hands met, palm to palm, and she spun herself under his guidance. His hand came back to rest on her lower back, heavy and warm and reassuring. “If you get arrested for punching one of these idiots, I’ll bail you out and buy you a hot chocolate.” Laure laughed and stopped dancing, stepping back to consider.
“I kind of want to give them something to talk about. What do you say, sir?” She held out her hands, smug and cheeky, waiting for him to take her up on the reversal of positions. He looked around as if seeing if anyone else noticed, but he was amused too, and went along with it. She smirked in satisfaction as Owen Adamo, former Chief Sergeant of the Royal Dragon Corps and current Chief Sergeant of the Royal Dragon Guard, allowed her to spin him around the dance floor as if she was a proper soldier- which, of course, she was, but that was beside the point- and he a blushing maiden.
They beat the floor until the dance ended, only slightly out of breath as they stood still and regarded each other under the yellow lamplight. The band struck up immediately, a slower tune meant for couples. She paused, uncertain. A dance was allowed between a soldier and her commanding officer. It showed a fun side to Volstov’s new military group, a tongue-in-cheek nod to her unconventional but unwavering presence as part of the new Dragon Guard. But she’d just spun one of the highest military officers in the nation around the dance floor as if he were a swooning maiden, and all eyes were on them for the scandal of it. A romantic slow dance immediately following that performance would confirm rumors of their relationship, and she wasn’t sure Owen wanted to make that kind of statement. Uncertainty trickled up her spine like cold water running against gravity.
Owen raised Laure’s hand to his lips and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Wanna go again?”
Relief bloomed warm in her chest and a stupid smile spread across her face. “Yeah, I s’pose,” and they were close again, swaying to a more temperate rhythm. He was so warm in her arms, and Laure thought that perhaps royal balls weren’t so bad after all.
Midway through or so, Owen seemed to catch sight of something that tripped him up for a second and made him go all rigid like a startled cat. It passed quickly- the stiffness, that was, but his eyes stayed stuck across the room. She glanced over and saw Toverre talking to a young woman with straight ash blonde hair that hung in her face. He was being himself, practically falling over himself in excitement to meet someone he’d probably read about in books.
“Who’s that?” She asked, swaying with Owen on autopilot so they wouldn’t attract attention by going still on the dance floor.
“Trouble,” he muttered in her ear.
“What kind of trouble?” She slowed and glanced back at Toverre, frowning. The silly thing had gotten better about the city in some ways, but so much worse in others. In two years, he’d learned just enough about Thremedon’s high-level politics to hang himself. Metaphorically, but also possibly literally, if he annoyed the wrong person.
“Toverre is currently talking to the only person in the world who could be a worse influence on him than Luvander,” Owen said calmly. Too damn calmly. Laure stopped dead and turned towards them, but Owen took her arms again and spun her around. It was unexpected and bold, and would have been very welcome in other circumstances.
“Don’t go makin’ a fuss,” he murmured into her ear. “The last thing we need is for either of them to think we don’t want them to meet. That’ll just make them become best friends to spite us.”
“Bastion damn it,” Laure swore under her breath. He was right, of course- Toverre could be twisted in the head, that way. She resumed the dance, laying her head on Owen’s shoulder to stop herself from staring at Toverre and trying to set his companion on fire with her mind. If there was ever a time for Inglory, now was it more than ever.
“It’d be worse, you know,” Owen said conversationally after a long pause. Laure looked back up at him, curious. “If she were here,” he added for clarity, and she blinked.
“How do you do that?” She asked wonderingly. It was as if he’d heard her thoughts, which only Inglory could do.
“Mostly, I was thinkin’ the same thing,” he said, rough like cobblestones grinding together. Up close in the lamplight, his eyes were warm brown. “It’s no good, though. Especially with Caius. He’s one of those the Esarina wants to keep her away from.”
“That’s a man?!” She looked again, unable to help herself. Owen spun her so she couldn’t get a good look, muffling a laugh. She pressed her face into his chest, feeling ridiculous. She’d been rather loud. “You’re right,” she muttered. “He’d be a terrible influence on Toverre.” The long silk robe that looked like a dress was something Toverre was doubtless already coveting.
“Hmm.” She felt more than heard the rumble in his chest. They slowed as the music wound to a close and he pulled away slowly, reluctantly. Owen kissed her hand again, his beard scratchy against her skin. “Suppose we’d better go interfere.”
“Right,” She shook her head to clear it. She’d been staring at his eyes again. “What’s the plan of attack?”
“I think you should get a drink. I can go tell Toverre you’re feeling faint, he’ll be all over you like a fly on a horse,” Owen grinned. She smacked his arm.
“Be nice,” she chided. “He only does it because he cares.”
“He could stand to care a little less,” Owen said drily, and they were parting.
~
Caius was tremendously enjoying his evening back in Thremedon, despite his vague concerns about malicious gossip maligning his dear Alcibiades. There were such interesting companions to be had, such as this darling little thing from the countryside.
Caius had a great fondness, lately, for things from the countryside.
“Do tell me,” he murmured, taking Toverre by the arm. They were of a height, which was lovely- Alcibiades was so tall that Caius was used to simply making do with awkward height differences, so having a companion at his own level was sublime in comparison. “I’ve heard rumors that a desert prince is here with an unknown Volstovic bride. Have you heard anything about him?”
Toverre’s smile was wide and painfully earnest, and the way he was looking at Caius was like man discovering religion. Being worshipped was rarely so easy, and Caius found himself basking in the attention. It helped that Toverre was somewhat easy on the eyes, if nothing at all like his type.
“His name is Kalim,” Toverre explained, “He’s the prince of the desert nomads. What happened was, he met a lady named Malahide while she was traveling and fell deeply in love with her, so he approached the Esarina last year.. to… Are you all right? Caius, you look pale.” Toverre took off his glove and delicately pressed the back of his hand to Caius’ cheek. Though he appreciated the delicacy, Caius still stepped away. He felt as pale as he must look. “You said her name is Malahide?” He confirmed, mind spiraling to a million possibilities at once.
“Are you certain you’re all right? Shall I fetch you water?” Darling Toverre was anxious, pulling slightly away now as if afraid whatever sudden illness he thought Caius had come down with might be contagious.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Caius reassured him, smiling to dispel his fears. “Malahide is somebody I know, that’s all. I didn’t expect to ever see her again.” He watched as Toverre replaced the glove- a lovely thing, soft black kidskin that must keep his hands both safe and warm as well as match his coat, which was trimmed in gold and blue. It was something that had endeared the boy to Caius when he’d first been approached: Toverre had seemed a vision of beauty, angelic black curls gently tousled, apples in his cheeks and light in his blue eyes. More to the point, he’d known who Caius was and had still approached him, which nobody else at the party had done. Perhaps it was loneliness on his part, but Caius did think that the first person to approach him deserved some favor, even if Toverre did introduce himself rather than find someone to introduce him, as was proper.
Caius took his arm again and smiled, patting the back of Toverre’s hand. “Now then. Do continue. Perhaps if we see them in the crowd, you could point them out?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll notice,” Toverre said, allowing Caius to cling to him with only a faint stiffness to his back that spoke of discomfort. He looked around, then leaned in to whisper a naughty little secret into Caius’ hair: “He’s terribly handsome.”
“Well, that makes it all the more delicious,” Caius smirked and looked around the party, seeking out Malahide and what he imagined a desert prince might look like. Instead, he saw the chief sergeant of the dragon corps being waylaid by a man who might have been Toverre’s older brother if not for the much darker skin.
“Dear me, what’s this,” a tall, skinny fellow approached from behind and put a friendly arm around Toverre’s shoulders, making the poor boy flinch away from the sudden touch. The intruder bowed to their diminutive height and smiled like a fox. “Toverre, are you making friends? How delightfully unexpected.” Toverre cleared his throat. He was nearly petrified by the taller man, which put Caius out a great deal since he suspected it would put an end to his extraction of court gossip.
“Luvander, it’s lovely to see you,” Toverre said in a tone of voice that made it clear that it was not. “May I introduce you to Caius Greylace, former magician of the Basquiat and first son of the Greylace line? Caius, this is Luvander.” The snub did not go unnoticed. Caius wondered if they were enemies, or perhaps brothers. They didn’t look alike, but one never knew. But- no, of course, he knew who this was, didn’t he?
Luvander made a show of standing in front of them and bowing dramatically, pulling off his hat as he did so. The brass buttons of his dress uniform gleamed from a recent polish and the cheongju collar did not entirely hide a wicked purple scar that wrapped around his throat. “Caius Greylace himself! It’s simply wonderful to meet you at last. I’ve heard terrible things.” He looked up and winked, possibly imagining himself charming.
Unfortunately, it happened to be true. Caius hated charming people. Still, it would hardly do to insult a war hero in the Esarina’s own ballroom.
“Have you,” He painted on a pretty smile and offered his hand to Luvander. “I don’t believe I’ve heard much about you, though I do greatly admire your statue in town.”
“He is handsome, isn’t he,” Luvander smiled. “One wonders where they got the inspiration. Are you keeping our dear Toverre company? He gets lonely, you know. Polishing his silver in the corner, all alone.”
“Everything here is quite clean, thank you,” Toverre sniffed, put out by the needling. “The royal servants are quite effective.”
“Yes,” Luvander murmured, meeting Caius’ eyes. “They’re very diligent .”
Caius let go of Toverre’s arm and stood as tall as he could. “I’m sure they perform adequately for the Esarina,” he said softly. “Luvander, what is it you do these days, now that you’re no longer riding dragons?” He suspected, of course; the particular bit of gossip standing in front of him had become significantly less juicy in the time since the war ended, but it couldn’t hurt to be polite.
“I own a haberdashery along the Rue. You should stop by, I’ve recently expanded into vests and waistcoats as well. As you can tell by our lovely firebrand on the dance floor, waistcoats have become quite popular among the fashionable ladies of Thremedon.”
“It’s not quite my usual style,” Caius tilted his head, considering. There were, indeed, a few ladies on the floor in a feminine version of waistcoats. “But I think perhaps I could stop in.”
Luvander grinned like a piranha.
~
Across the room, trapped in conversation with a dutchess, Royston looked on in despair.
~
“Raphael, if you don’t get the hell out of my way, I’m going to give you a new scar,” Adamo promised quietly. Raphael’s eyes went wide with gleeful terror.
“Honestly, Chief, some might think you don’t love me like a son,” Raphael shoved his arm into the space between Adamo’s arm and torso, latching onto his arm and leading him forcefully towards a side door. “You’re needed by the Esarina herself, who by the way gets lovelier every time we meet, even if she does have terrible taste in poetry. Do you know she prefers Byron to Keats?”
“Who doesn’t?” Adamo grumbled as he let himself be dragged away, looking anxiously back at where Luvander was bowing at Caius and Toverre. Hell and damnation.
~
It had been an entirely lovely night, Balfour thought, smiling at Hal as his friend shook the hand of the Karakhum Desert Prince, smiling in entirely earnest delight. It was unnerving, though pleasantly so- they’d met dignitaries, nobles, magicians, and all manner of interesting people tonight, and every one of them had celebrated Hal and Balfour as heroes of the nation.
Balfour forced himself to take Malahide’s hand, holding it carefully and praying she would not make a comment about the metal under his gloves. She wouldn’t be the first of the night to do so, but it never did get easier. He brushed his lips across the back of her hand, politely pretending not to notice anything unusual about her either, and returned his attention to Hal, who was better at being sociable with strangers than he could ever hope to be.
Kalim offered his hand to Balfour as well once Hal introduced him as a former Airman. “You were a dragonrider?” His voice was pleasantly accented, and his eye contact was as firm as his grip. “I met your brothers in the desert two years ago. It’s a pleasure to meet another member of your strange tribe.” He did not so much as glance down at Balfour’s hand, even after letting go.
Balfour glanced at Hal, then looked back to Kalim, puzzled. “I’m…” He paused, taken aback. “Sorry, do you mean to say you met fellow airmen?” Next to Kalim, Malahide smirked and signed something at them before moving away to intercept a waiter and grab some hors d’oeuvres.
“Yes,” Kalim smiled after his wife and stood with his hands folded in front of him. Instead of childish, as it might have looked on a Volstov, he looked powerful. “Mollyrat Rook and his brother Thom.”
Hal and Balfour shared a longer look this time, Hal looking impressed and Balfour trying not to laugh. “I see,” he responded, fighting down a cheeky smile. “Yes, Thom did mention a brief journey through the desert about then. He said it was quite an adventure.”
“It was,” Kalim agreed seriously.
“I hope he didn’t tell you too much,” Malahide said behind them, offering Kalim a flute of champagne and keeping for herself a rounder, stemless glass of dark red wine. Her voice was jarringly familiar, and Balfour forgot his manners and stared at her.
“Oh, Balfour is good with secrets,” Hal said, taking Balfour’s arm, grinning. “Don’t let his sweet demeanor fool you- he’s twice the hero I am.” It was a cheeky little joke that went over just as well the third time it was told. It helped that any social anxiety Hal might have felt was dispelled with wine- the boy got positively scandalous after a few glasses.
As if on cue, Troius interrupted the gentlemanly laughter just in time to make things approximately one thousand times worse. “Hal, are you hoarding Balfour all to yourself? It’s hardly fair, you know. Let the rest of the kingdom have a crack at him. How can you expect him to learn how to socialize if you shelter him like a little baby chick?” If his tongue was unrestrained, his manners at least were still in place; Troius bowed deeply to the Karakhum pair, winking audaciously at Malahide.
“Like you can talk,” Hal said fondly. Definitely a result of the wine, as nobody sober was ever fond of Troius. “You get him all to yourself all the time.”
“Yes, well, nevermind all that. Come on Balfour, there’s a line of ladies waiting for you to fill their dance cards.” Troius attempted to lead Balfour away, but rather than go meekly, Balfour stepped back and smiled.
“Go on, Troius, I know you’ve wanted to go out for ages. I’m fine right here.” Kalim was frowning slightly, as if he had developed a less than agreeable opinion on Balfour’s choice of friends, which Balfour understood completely. He couldn’t leave yet, though. Not when Malahide sounded like- well, like a dragon.
Exactly like a dragon.
Exactly like a specific dragon.
“All right,” Troius frowned, obviously put out by Balfour’s reluctance. He leaned in, speaking softly to Balfour’s ear. “You should know, I was lying about the ladies. Royston asked me to fetch you for damage control.”
As Adamo would say, hell and damnation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fortifying himself against what he had to do. After all, if he lost this chance he might never get another. “You of all people know that I’m not here to babysit,” He reminded Troius, opening his eyes and pulling away, the picture of cool indifference. It wrecked his nerves and he had to put his hands behind his back to avoid wringing them. His stomach was rolling, but his face remained impassive.
Troius stepped back, blinking his droopy eyes but keeping a pleasant smile in place. “Of course,” he murmured coolly. “My apologies. Don’t let me keep you.” He gave Kalim and the rest one last small bow and was gone before Balfour could trust himself to speak again.
“Balfour, is all well?” Hal wore a worried frown. Behind him, the prince of the Karakhum desert nomads was looking concerned for Balfour. Lady Vallet would have had his hide.
It was Malahide of all people who stepped up to rescue him, taking his arm. “Balfour,” she asked, “Do they still have the rose gardens along the southern balconies? I haven’t seen roses in ages.”
Balfour did not question his luck. “I, I’d be happy to show you,” he stammered, walking with her through the dancing and milling crowd to the southern end of the ballroom where curtains concealed alcoves where guests could view the royal gardens, flush in bloom with jasmine, honeysuckle and imported roses in all hues. Balfour held the curtain aside as she stepped into the fragrant summer darkness.
“I had forgotten how lovely Thremedon was this time of year,” she sighed, leaning on the rails. “I used to think it was dreadfully hot. Living in the desert certainly cured me of that!”
“Forgive me,” he said softly. “I’m sure that I’ve been rude.”
Malahide looked down and smiled, peeking at him through her lashes like a coquette. “Forgiveably so, at least so far. I couldn’t help but notice your attention.”
“It’s your voice. You sound exactly like somebody I once knew.”
“How genuinely surprising,” Malahide blinked. “Well, I confess I have my own reasons for bringing you here for a private conversation. Would you perhaps be willing to make a trade? An answer for an answer.”
Balfour considered that. There was something predatory about her that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but that was familiar enough so he pushed his discomfort aside and nodded.
“Very well,” she smiled. “Since I suggested the game, I will presume to go first. I have heard that you were present when the Esar fell ill,” she said evenly. “Is that true?”
It was common enough knowledge, so he nodded. “Is your voice the one you were born with?” He asked.
Malahide smiled wickedly and shook her head. “I was given the voice by Nico himself, in return for.. doing him a delicate favor.” Balfour recognized that, as lies by omission went, that one was a whopper. Nevertheless, everyone was entitled to their own secrets. Doubtless the lady who’d won Kalim’s heart and brought him as a trade partner to Volstov had quite a few secrets, and he was tired of carrying knowledge that didn’t belong to him. Besides, calling her on it would only end the game too soon. “Is he still alive?” Malahide asked, tugging at her sleeves.
“Yes,” Balfour answered. “He… The Esar was not well, at the end. The magicians of the Basquiat keep him asleep in order to preserve his life.”
“Some life,” Malahide muttered, looking down.
“It’s better than nothing,” Balfour answered softly, his mind on the connection between Nico and the dragons. His spark of life was theirs. If he died, it would ruin everything.
“Balfour?” Malahide asked softly. “Why were you in the palace when it happened?”
That was the dangerous question, wasn’t it? “I don’t want to lie to you,” he smiled humorlessly, hoping she could forgive him. “Perhaps we should go back inside.” Despite the obvious disappointment present in the sharp look she gave him, she nodded gracefully and allowed Balfour to escort her back inside.
~
Three carriages were necessary to escort everyone home, though by the time the party was over it was only a few hours from sunrise. Balfour watched as Laure and Adamo escorted Troius back in one cab; Toverre accompanied Hal and Royston in the next. The six of them would find room in Royston’s large town house while the surviving airmen crowded Luvander’s little room above the shop.
“I think the chief is unhappy with you both,” Raphael yawned. “And it serves you right, you rascals.” His coat was off, rolled up and pressed between his head and the side of the carriage in a makeshift pillow. Balfour yawned too, leaning against Raphael’s arm since he was only sort of likely to shove him off.
“To be fair,” Luvander pointed out, “You did your part as well, dragging him off to see the Esarina like that. You have gotten awfully big in your britches, haven’t you?”
Balfour closed his eyes, trying and failing to fight off another yawn.
“A, I do nothing wrong, ever, and Owen Adamo loves me. B, that was a filthy innuendo. I loved it.”
“Malahide sounded like Proudmouth,” Balfour muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. He gave them a moment to get over their shock before looking up, bleary and sad. “I think she’s got some kind of magic voicebox. That’s, sorry, the wife of the desert prince.”
The moment of shock became longer, drawn out as the two older men stared at him. Raphael shrugged him off, turning to better face him. “It’s very rude of you to tell stories like that.”
“Messes with our heads,” Luvander added pointedly. “And our hearts.”
“I know what I heard,” Balfour said evenly. “She said it was given to her by Nico himself.” Balfour shook his head, fighting off another yawn and losing the battle once more. He looked down, beaten by fatigue. “It was her. It was Proudmouth.”
The other two scouts looked at each other, communicating without words. Raphael put an arm over Balfour’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Come on, Balfour. You’re tired.”
He wanted to cry, but hadn’t the energy. He’d think it over tomorrow when he had a clearer head. It would doubtless be the only thing he could think about for a long time.
~
“Kids all in bed?” Laure asked, cheekily uncorking a bottle of wine she’d dug up from Regina only knew where and pouring it into two glasses. Adamo rubbed a hand over his face, glaring halfheartedly at the glasses.
“All but one,” he commented drily. “Royston tell you to bust into his,” he glanced at the dusty label, “67 Redigaffi?” He didn’t often have to call Laure to task, but he knew how Royston was about his wines. He loved them almost as much as his books, and spent almost as much on them as on his clothes.
“He told me to grab a bottle,” Laure shrugged, setting the glasses down so the wine could breathe. “He wasn’t specific as to where from, so I grabbed something that looked expensive.”
God damn, he loved this woman. From the beginning of the night when he’d first seen her in the tailored waistcoat that resembled a soldier’s dress uniform, black and trimmed with a bottle-green that made her eyes nearly glow in the damn dark, he’d been forcing himself not to dwell on just how well it suited her. Most gals with her figure would have done well in a low cut gown, something that made men fall all over themselves with staring at her. Laure had tried that gig a few times, and it didn’t suit her. The uniform, though, was carefully tailored to let her move while showing off her natural assets better than anything low cut could have; not just her bosom, but her straight-backed posture and the confidence that showed in her every movement. He considered her, and thought about her in trousers instead of a skirt. The thought made him wish he was home with her, so he could take her to bed. It wouldn’t do in another man’s house though, for all the other man was Royston and deserved it.
“I think he may have had an ulterior motive in offering us the wine,” Laure teased, handing him one of the glasses. Adamo had to swallow his thoughts before he could speak.
“Don’t tell me he’s been getting on you about kids?” He asked, crossing his arms and considering the stern talk he’d have to have soon. It was one thing for Royston to get on him about it, since he was on the better side of three decades of friendship with the magician and knew better than to take him seriously. Laure had a good head on her shoulders, to be sure, but she was younger and it would be a few years before she could really develop those callouses against Royston’s needling.
“Hal wants him to adopt,” she laughed. “He’ll win eventually, I think.” They clinked glasses with Adamo still frowning and glowering at the stairwell that led to Royston’s bedroom.
“Hey,” Laure moved in close and gently hip-checked him, smirking. “Maybe it’s time to go to bed yourself, old man.”
“I’m alright,” he muttered, looking down at her upturned face and the way her curly red hair framed it. She’d torn out the fancy hairdo as soon as they got into the carriage, though Toverre had a few choice things to say about it once they all met up at the townhouse. “Never did sleep well on raid nights. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Then come up and see the dawn with me,” She ordered, grabbing a folded blanket from the emptier of two couches. The other bore Troius, wrapped like a burrito and sound asleep with his back to them. Adamo gave him a rueful look and followed her upstairs, moving past the master bedroom and the empty guest room that had been prepared for Laure, to a narrow staircase that led to the attic library Roy, like so many other magicians, preferred to use as a workroom. An overstuffed loveseat sat in the middle of the room, bracketed by end tables and a writing desk overflowing with books and papers. Narrow bookshelves were placed between large bay windows in each of the cardinal directions, and as Adamo sat down he realized just how magnificent the view was: to the north, the white spires of the Bastion; to the west, the onion domes of the Basquiat; and to the south and east, the town on Thremedon in descending layers of rooftops.
It was not quite the view from dragonback, but he supposed it would have to do. Laure sat next to him and leaned against his side, and the two of them watched the sun rise over Volstov, enjoying the peace for as long as it would last.