Authors: Jaida Jones
Dragon Soul (65 page)
The winter chill had come to Thremedon about three weeks prior, though my old bones still hadn’t got properly used to the cold in the air. Roy insisted it was the source of my being “out of sorts,” as he put it, like we both didn’t know that meant real mean and even a downright whoreson sometimes on top of that. Roy’d said something about how I should consider retiring down south, not taking into account that talk of retiring was the one thing that made me madder than all this cold. I wasn’t an old man
yet
, thanks, despite how my bones felt, and I wasn’t about to lie down and roll belly-up just to make anyone’s life easier. Least of all my own.
“Guess Hal’s in for some shoveling,” I said, because I really couldn’t help myself when it came right down to it. Besides that, what kind of man shied away from a good joke when he had such material to work with?
“Mm,” Royston agreed, so that I wasn’t even sure he’d heard me.
He
was probably thinking about the contents of that letter, which was what I was meant to be doing instead of twitting Roy like usual. Maybe I thought if I just stuck to my routine, the solution to all my problems would come floating down from the sky like the golden spirit of Regina herself.
The real problem was, I didn’t want to know any of this.
I’d made an all right Chief Sergeant when there’d been a time for one, fair assessment being we’d done our jobs in the end, and that was more than you could say for most. Definitely more than you could say for whatever Ke-Han bastard had my job on the other side of the Cobalts. So I guess you could say I was fairly comfortable with a position of authority. I’d kept those boys in line after all—a fact that seemed
about
equal to hog-tying an Arlemagne chevalier and getting him to see reason—and come out the other side relatively unscathed. Mental scarring aside, of course.
Which was all a very fancy way of saying that I’d kept worse than dragons at bay.
Certainly
—and that was a quote from the letter, too—
certainly
a man of my caliber would be better suited to judging the information in the letter than anyone else the writer could think of.
I was already regretting being as kind to Thom as I’d been. I should’ve thrown him to the wolves on the first day and let nature take its course; that was the way things worked in the wild.
Except, of course, we were supposed to be better than animals in the wild—civilized people—and acting that way was what’d gotten us the bad-luck charm in the first place.
If I had any kind of luck at all, or if whatever still remained from the war was holding firm, Roy would think of something. He was better suited to the ins and outs of court dealings, ironic as that was, seeing as how he’d been exiled once and I hadn’t.
The street stones were coated in a thin, near-invisible sheet of frost that melted in the shape of our boot prints as Royston and I made our way along the Stretch and toward the fountain, both of us lost in our own private imaginings—though I got the sense that mine were a lot darker than his, at the minute. Probably thinking of Hal shoveling the snow, Regina help us all.
“Whatever you
—we
—end up deciding,” Royston said, breath puffing up little clouds of steam in the cold air, “I feel like you ought to know that things … aren’t exactly copacetic in the Basquiat at present.”
“I’d be real interested to hear what that has to do with me,” I admitted. The streets were less crowded than usual—probably because of the cold—and I could already see the distant, misty gray outlines of a few statue heads and shoulders rising above the buildings. Mine being the biggest one, despite us all knowing that Compagnon’d been proud owner of the largest skull in all the Dragon Corps.
“Well …”
Royston began, like now that I’d actually agreed he didn’t have any idea of where to begin. “My sources inform me that relations with the Esar are not exactly what they
used
to be, and you of all people know what they
used
to be was hardly that sturdy to begin with. Anyway, it’s as bad as it’s ever been, and that might not put him in the most forgiving of moods at present. A war always does make the enemy seem clear. But once that clear enemy is gone, and one is so used to having one …”
“Thanks for the theorizing,” I said, because if you let Roy talk too much, you’d never come to the point of anything, “but if you do have a plan of action, do you think you might let me in on it? It’s damned cold out.”
“I intend to talk to my sources,” Roy repeated, blinking once. “Do keep up, old friend.”
“So by your sources, you mean a certain lady of the tower,” I said, just for confirmation. Funny thing about running in the same circles as Roy, you met all sorts of people you’d never have cause to know about otherwise. Lady Antoinette definitely seemed like the type who’d prefer you not to know about her. At least, not until it was too late.
“She’s as acceptable a source as any when it comes to his moods,” Royston said. “And this letter has the sort of information she should know.”
“It doesn’t seem anyone should know about it, to me,” I said. Damn me if I was going to have to talk to th’Esar about anything, least of all what rights I had when it came to the girls. I’d been taken off my post, considering it didn’t exist anymore. I wasn’t anyone except Professor Adamo, teaching two classes to ’Versity brats just because there was a statue of me in the middle of the Rue, and that made people assume I knew things. Made people whisper about me, too, and maybe pity me a little. “So I guess that just means I’m waiting.”
“I’m afraid it’s the only thing you
can
do, at the moment,” Roy murmured, voice far off. His mind had moved on to whispers and secrets, concerns of the Basquiat that apparently—thanks to Rook’s fucking brother—had somehow become my fucking problem. “This is hardly like planning an assault on the other side of the Cobalts, is it?”
“Nothing really is, anymore,” I said. Not like I missed it.
“You don’t have to look so dark,” Royston assured me. “At least, not yet. I’ll let you know when you do. You
know
how the Esar gets into these moods of his; I’m sure it’ll all pass over like so many storm clouds in the end. I just thought it best to forewarn you, lest you make an uninformed decision and run off to the Esar without me.”
“Sounds to me like I’d do better without you if he’s not feeling too warmly about the Basquiat,” I said.
“I suppose that will be for you to decide,” Royston said with a shrug. We rounded the corner that led to the mouth of the Rue d’St. Difference, filled with all sorts of fancy hat shops—Luvander’s included—which just went to show how a woman was judging her fashions these days. To our right was the open courtyard that held our statues, mine in the middle and the boys lined up on either side of me, in proper formation like we’d never quite managed with the living examples. They sure brought the customers in for Luvander. “Bastion,” Royston added, “what on earth is
that
…?”
There was a shabby little crowd gathered around them, which wasn’t so unusual except that the group had suitcases with them, and their clothes were—as Roy might’ve said—decidedly countrified. Even for someone like me who didn’t much care one way or the other, it was easy to pick ’em out. Despite how it was only a carriage ride away, there was never too much mixing between the outer country folk and those who were born and bred in Thremedon. For good reason, according to people like Roy—which I couldn’t help but feel made him a snob, since without the proper shepherding, the former were liable to be swallowed up in the shuffle. Not to mention having to keep up with the changing fashions. Some of us city folk couldn’t even manage that.
“Looks like hayseeds to me,” I said, eyeing them. Young people mostly, at least a dozen or more. They seemed cold—just as dramatically cold as Royston had been himself a few moments ago. They probably couldn’t take the difference between Thremedon and the countryside—always warmer out there, or so I was told—and one of them had taken the liberty of sitting on his suitcase, which made him look both unimpressed and damn tired, too. “Why? Are you interested? I know you’ve a fondness for country folk.”
“You know,” Royston said, “the more often you say a thing, the less funny it becomes.”
JAIDA JONES is a graduate of Barnard College, where she studied many things, most of which have found their way (in some unrecognizable form) into her writing. A poet and a native New Yorker, she had her first collection of poetry,
Cinquefoil
, published by New Babel Books in 2006.
DANIELLE BENNETT, from Victoria, British Columbia, studied English literature at Camosun College. She has passed through a collection of odd jobs, including Starbucks barista, McDonald’s grunt, consignment shop worker, and jeweler’s secretary. She likes this job best.
Dragon Soul
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Jaida Jones and Danielle Bennett
Excerpt from
Steelhands
copyright © 2011 by Jaida Jones and Danielle Bennett.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Spectra, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
S
PECTRA
and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Jaida.
Dragon soul / Jaida Jones and Danielle Bennett.
p. cm.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming title
Steelhands
by Jaida Jones and Danielle Bennett. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52168-2
1. Dragons—Fiction. 2. Brothers—Fiction. 3. Imaginary places—Fiction.
I. Bennett, Danielle. II. Title.
PS3610.O6256D73 2010
813′.6—dc22 2010010116
Cover design: Derek Walls. Cover illustration: Paul Youll.
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