to lean over the fences and watch us fight. If he was going to sit in, he might as well learn something from it—if he could.
Caius’s eyes went wide, as though I’d genuinely shocked him.
“I’ll go easy on you and everything,” I said, though privately I was thinking, not that easy. His being a magician, even a reluctant watery one, meant that I’d heard my fair share of rumors about Caius Greylace in my time, and despite his looks, he could definitely take care of himself, spoiled lightweight or not.
“Oh my,” he said, fluttering like a lady just asked for her first dance. “Wouldn’t the guards think the worst of us again? I’d hate to cause any commotion.”
Ever since my little mishap with the guards, I’d noticed, they tended to patrol up and down our hallway with greater care, and took their time loitering right outside my doorway since they didn’t know the truth of it, that the whole thing had been Caius’s fault. All the other diplomats had their theories as to why, since no one knew the real reason except me, Caius, and Lord Temur, and there wasn’t one of us opening our mouths on the matter. Still, we were wasting time, and I wasn’t about to be put off from the one thing that kept me sane by a bunch of overexcitable, unintelligible guards.
“You can use the scabbard,” I said, holding it out to him. “It’s about the same size as the sword.”
“That’s hardly fair; it’s not really the same at all,” he said. “And you’re such a great brute—you’ll have quite the advantage over me!”
He took it by the end, like a fishmonger carrying his catch of the day. I waited for him to do something—maybe stand a little straighter, or hold it up as if it were a real sword. Anything. Something. Instead, all I got was a coquettish look.
“My dear, I do believe you’re staring at me.”
“You’re holding it all wrong,” I told him, as if that was completely obvious, which up until then I would have said that it was.
“Oh,” Caius said, looking at me and then at the sword. “Well fancy that!” He adjusted his grip, fiddling for a moment with his long, wide sleeves before settling on something that looked marginally more normal.
“Haven’t you ever held a sword?” I asked him. I was getting that sinking feeling again.
“Well, I haven’t ever had to,” he said. “I’ve held knives. Well, they were more like letter openers, but they were decidedly knifelike. You needn’t worry, I’m sure I’ll pick the trick up sooner or later.”
I began to reevaluate the situation. “Maybe you’d better sit this round out,” I said.
“Well, if you insist,” Caius said, and went back to his perch. I noticed, though, that he held on to the scabbard—probably because it was the same color as his outfit, and he liked that sort of fussy little detail.
Eventually, after a couple of days, I was able to forget that Caius Greylace was there at all. He kept quiet—the only place he ever managed to—almost like he actually respected what I was doing, though there was no real way he could’ve appreciated it properly, since he’d never been a real soldier, himself. Maybe the true understanding was lacking, but at least he was able to hold his tongue, like maybe he thought he was watching a performance at the local theatre, and he didn’t want to disrupt the performer. I was no more than entertainment to him, though; that much was certain.
“I daresay you look much happier with that awful thing than in the company of your friends,” Caius said, after the third morning.
“What friends?” I asked, but I was grinning while I asked, and wiped the sweat off my brow.
The next morning, Caius was dressed all in blue—just to spite me, I figured, since there was no other reason for it. He opened the door and clapped his hands together. “Wonderful news,” he said, and immediately I was wary. “Well you needn’t look as though I’ve gone mad,” Caius continued, pouting enormously. “It’s only, I’ve found a better place for you! So you won’t break any more stools.”
“I’ve only broken one,” I said. The remnants of the stool in question—I’d stepped on it the day before—were piled in the corner of the room, far enough out of the way that I wouldn’t splinter the wood any further.
“Two,” Caius corrected me.
“Now, that’s not fair,” I said. “The other one’s barely cracked. It doesn’t count.”