Steelhands (2011) (39 page)

He was not the one who needed to be embarrassed, I thought, but I took his suggestion gratefully.

“It’s about a … friend of mine,” I began, staring at an empty space on the desk just next to Hal’s wrist. I had to say it all at once, or else my doubts would get the better of me and keep me from speaking entirely. “By the name of Gaeth. He’s gone missing. Actually, he’s
been
missing for some time now, long enough that I’m
sure
it’s not just my imagination running wild. The redhead you always see me with—Laure—and
I came here together with him, and so we became friends. We’d have lunch with him at the beginning of the semester, even dinner sometimes. And then, one day, he stopped coming to classes, to the dining hall … No one else he knew could tell us where he’d gone. I will admit right away that we did something inadvisable—we were even caught in the act, so I believe it isn’t too incriminating to tell you now that Laure and I ended up breaking into his room just to see if he was there. Which he wasn’t, much to our dismay. We’d been told he went home, you see, only all his things were still in his room. There was even a half-eaten sandwich, though if I speak about it too long I’ll be ill. The point is, everyone here seems to be under the impression that he’s gone back home to Borland. We even spoke to the dormitory authorities, and that’s what they told us. Only then I
wrote
his mother, inquiring after his health, and she as much as told me to ask him myself since she believes him to still to be here!”

The whole thing had become quite the tale when I finally paused to catch my breath. It was the most I’d said to anyone other than Laure since Gaeth had gone missing, and I was nearly trembling by the time I’d come to the end. I wanted to add that a gentle, hopelessly simple creature such as Gaeth could get into all sorts of trouble without someone cleverer there to get him out of it again, and that I should have realized it sooner and kept a better eye on him to begin with. But none of that concerned Hal, and I held my tongue.

Hal drew in a breath, crossing his arms. I could tell I’d upset him from the sudden tension in his face. The poor man had clearly been expecting something about a tender youth’s love life, or perhaps the typical sob story from a student waking from their stupor to realize exams were coming up.

To be fair, that was all the trouble I had expected from the city when I’d first arrived. The dreams I’d harbored were of first love and proving myself capable of every challenge the ’Versity saw fit to throw at me. All the rest had come quite out of nowhere—first Gaeth, then Laure’s own strange behavior. And as committed as I
was
to my own independence, I couldn’t solve it all by myself.

I was sorry to have to share my disillusionment with Hal, but there was no one else with whom I’d be able to talk.

“The reason I am so concerned,” I added, as Hal continued to think with knitted brow, “is that he was exhibiting some signs of the fever
when last we spoke with him. I worry for his health, not only his whereabouts.”

“Well,” Hal said at last, letting out his breath, “I can’t say that was what I was expecting at all. Do you think it’s something to bring to the Provost’s attention?”

“I wasn’t sure,” I admitted, clasping my hands tightly together. “Perhaps I should have filed some official report, but I didn’t wish to do anything so drastic until we knew for certain he
hadn’t
gone back home. I only just heard from his mother today.”

“The post does tend to get stuck up around Borland,” Hal agreed, plucking at the elbow of his sleeve. “I lived around there—just across the river, actually, in Nevers. We used to say it was because of all the mud, with the postmen getting stuck in it.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” I said, attempting to feel light-hearted and failing spectacularly. My skin felt hot and itchy, and I dug my nails into the soft skin on my palm. “I really do apologize if this is inappropriate. I understand that none of this is your jurisdiction. It’s just difficult to … to find …”

“It’s difficult to find someone to talk to in the city, sometimes,” Hal said, leaning forward just slightly. It was easy to forget he’d been from the country, just like Laure and I were—at least it had been for me. The difference between him and the people I’d known back home stretched wide as Locque Nevers itself. “I felt that way, too, when I first came. If it wasn’t for … well, I understand what it’s like, anyway. I’ve adapted, but it took a while, and lots of feeling uncomfortable at parties in the meantime.”

I smiled, and it wasn’t even the fake smile Laure had forced me to master so I wouldn’t frighten all her school friends away with what she called my “grimacing.” “I am doing my best,” I told him, just so that he wouldn’t worry.

“As for the matter of your friend,” Hal said, sitting back again, “I really don’t know what to say. You’re right that it isn’t my jurisdiction—not at all—but I’m glad you came to me about it. You said you spoke to someone, and they told you he’d gone home?”

“Yes,” I said, the smile slipping off my face as easily as it’d appeared. “That
is
the part I don’t understand. I was wondering if you’d have any more information about it, or if Professor Ducante had some official note?”

“Nothing that I’ve heard of,” Hal admitted. “There have been a few because of this fever, but … Gaeth, you said?”

“Yes,” I replied. “From Borland. I don’t know his surname.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Hal said, “but I suppose I could do some asking around. See if the dean knows anything.” He tapped his chin while he thought; the dreamy countenance he usually wore in class had been stripped away, replaced by an expression of sharper intelligence. It was easier now to see him as the hero who’d saved Thremedon in its hour of need, and I quickly looked away in order to avoid more vulgar staring. “I’ve been living in the Crescents while doing my own studies, so my knowledge of the dorms isn’t that extensive. I could find some things out for you, though. At the very least, what someone would have to do to withdraw in the middle of the semester. I’m betting there’s all kinds of paperwork to fill out, at the very least. Not to mention some kind of room inspection—which is strange, considering what you told me about the state you found his quarters in. Best to have all the information before we go to the Provost, or else they’ll waste time doing it themselves, and I’m afraid with the time it takes them to get that kind of business looked after, you won’t get your answers very fast.”

“If there’s paperwork, I don’t think he could have filled it out by himself,” I said, trying not to feel as though I was betraying Gaeth’s confidence by admitting his failings to someone as smart as Hal. “Perhaps Ducante might have had something to say about
his
essays.”

“Like I said, I don’t remember the name,” Hal said apologetically. “It’s possible he never turned in anything at all.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that,” I said.

“No? I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Hal said, sliding off the desk to get a bottle of ink, a pen, and some paper. “How do you spell his name?”

I dictated the letters for him, ashamed at the relief I felt washing over me now that I’d unloaded my difficulties on someone else. But not only had I survived the conversation, it seemed that something good might even come of it, as well. Surely, someone who’d once saved the lives of countless magicians would be an enormous aid to Laure and me in saving one rather large citizen of Borland.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes of this,” Hal said, waiting for the ink to dry. “And I’m glad you came to me, Toverre.”

He reached out to give me some comfort—his hand upon my
shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze—and I felt a combination of feelings, including elation
and
despair. He was smiling at me again, for encouragement, which clearly revealed the blue flecks in his eyes.

“So am I,” I mumbled, and I stood quickly from the chair, bolting out the door without further word.

The fever broke early in the morning on the fourth day. I knew the exact time, because I woke with a start, feeling as though someone had been calling my name. But the apartment was ghostly still, not even the pounding of boots overhead or the faint sound of carriage wheels upon cobblestones from outside to indicate I was anything but alone in the world.

Then the clock on my bedside table chimed dully. It was five in the morning exactly, just before dawn, and I was so drenched in my own sweat that I was in dire need of a bath.

I could tell the fever was gone because I felt lucid—and completely in control of myself—for the first time in four days. The first emotion I experienced was acute embarrassment. Then, overwhelmed by my gratitude at being well again, I ignored those pettier feelings.

At least, at that hour, the hot water wouldn’t have been all used up by the other residents of the building. I ran myself a bath, sitting in the steam and reveling in the silence, broken only by the rushing of water through the pipes.

There was no voice. I waited, straining to hear it, surprised but tentatively relieved when nothing came. I had grown so used to the sound that to be without it now seemed surreal.

By the time I was finished with my bath, and the sun was rising, casting dim light through the room, I had begun to remember what it was like to live my life normally.

It was a good feeling.

I made myself breakfast, with time to spare before Adamo appeared for his daily appraisal of my condition. The stomping had begun upstairs as my neighbors stirred to start their day, but since that was a familiar pounding—and not the quickened rhythm of my heart laboring in my chest, or the sultry, metallic whisper of a voice just inside my
ear—I felt less resentful that morning than on any others. Even my breakfast tasted delicious, and I finished it a little too quickly; it seemed my appetite had returned to me tenfold, and I hoped Luvander would bring some kind of snack with him when he visited me after work hours. He always did, despite my protests. Both he and Adamo felt the need to look after me—and, in light of my recent behavior, I supposed they were right to worry. I had been worrying myself, after all, and I knew I would have done the same for them if they’d been in my shoes.

My hands, in contrast to the rest of me, remained nimble and dexterous—I’d half expected them to slip back into stiffness as quickly as they had after prior appointments, but they were operating as good as new, if not somehow better than ever. The more I worked with them, the better attuned to my thoughts they became, until they almost felt like
real
hands, despite their appearances. I even caught myself in a moment of surprise when I glanced down at the sink and saw water bouncing off metal.

I did remember to dry them more carefully than I would have simple flesh and skin. Feeling like a newborn child did not mean I had to act as foolishly as one.

Perhaps, if I continued to feel so hale when noontime rolled around, I would be able to go to the bastion and make my apologies. I hoped that Chanteur would look at the incident as a piece of entertainment rather than a grievous insult, and I also hoped that I hadn’t caused Auria too much suffering because of my ridiculous behavior.

I wouldn’t blame myself for it, but that didn’t mean I could avoid all culpability. With everything she had on her plate, Auria’s situation should have made anyone feel terrible. I often cringed at the idea of shouldering all her responsibilities—it seemed worse to me than piloting a dragon into the middle of a battlefield, because it was so much less straightforward yet equally dangerous.

Don’t be foolish, Balfour
, I told myself. Auria already blamed me as much as she blamed all the other new diplomats who had no idea what they were doing and whose inexperience undermined her authority on a daily basis.

Rather than sit about with my thoughts plaguing me, I turned my attentions to the mess my apartment had become, gathering up dishes in one arm and blankets in the other. There was a fine layer of dust on
the bookshelves, and the house smelled musty and stale, just like fever. If I cracked open a window, that would be gone soon enough, and I was finally feeling up to the task of building a fire in the fireplace.

It was invigorating to be well again; after so much lying around, the sudden energy I experienced was like a jolt of adrenaline. I wanted to go out, but Adamo would be visiting—and, just as if I’d summoned him, there was a rap on the door.

He was early—which wasn’t so unlike him—but I opened the door with more vigor than usual, almost as excited as a little child to see what he’d make of my recovery.

“Not at all suffering, like the landlady said,” Troius said, sweeping inside while I stared at him in surprise. “You look healthier than ever, Balfour. And here everyone was worrying themselves sick over you! Though I have to admit,” he added, as I shut the door and turned to face him, “if you were trying to get out of service for a few days, that
was
a clever little trick.”

It took me a moment to realize what he was implying, and when I did, I was filled with horror. “You don’t think I was putting all that on?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Troius replied. “You’re not nearly a good enough actor for it, are you?”

“I suppose I’m not,” I admitted.

Troius looked around the room, taking it all in curiously. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down or have a bite to eat?” he asked finally.

“Of course,” I said, eager to hide how his sudden appearance had thrown me off-balance. Troius had never come around before; I hadn’t even known he’d been aware of where I was living.

Perhaps I’d mentioned it when I’d first moved in and discovered I was living beneath a foreign race of people who regularly employed cinder blocks as shoes, but it had been a long time since then. I didn’t even know why I was letting that detail bother me. Since Luvander had tracked me down easily enough, it stood to reason that Troius could do the same.

He was staring at me, and I realized I hadn’t begun to make good on my offer. Instead, I was standing before him like an uncouth fool who never entertained visitors, or knew how it was done.