Falcon’s Favor

Chapter 1

The flat was… well, it wasn’t that bad, right?

Falcon looked around the parlor, his new parlor. Though “new” by any measure other than it being his—well, partially his—would be laughable.

“It has Old World charm,” Beatrice had said of the place. 

Literally, Falcon thought to himself now.

Beatrice had been the one to find this “hidden treasure,” for him at a bargain monthly rate. Being the daughter of a well-to-do politician came with gaggles of connections, which had come in rather handy given Falcon’s sudden limit in resources. He was forever impressed by but could never understand how the socialite bore traversing the complex web of favors and politics with the grace she did.

Like the entire row of houses all along this street, and the next, and the next, the building he stood in now had been constructed just over a century ago after the cataclysmic War of Light, and in short order no less. So much in the city of Springhaven had been destroyed then, and these row homes had been a quick fix for much-needed housing. Walls covered in stained, peeling wallpaper tried to liven up the old place, while windows with ratty wooden frames and thin glass radiated cold against the warmth of the room. 

A brick fireplace sat inside the back wall, squashed beneath the stairway to the second level and giving off some fantastic heat against the early spring chill pressing in from the outside. Falcon could see through the back of it to the kitchen on the other side of the wall. A hook for hanging cookware and other fireplace accouterments peeked through the sooty opening.

Mismatched furniture gathered around this side of the fireplace—a long sofa, a battered wingback chair, and what looked like a trio of dining chairs from different sets. These had been provided by his new roommate. Falcon had yet to meet the chap, however, as beggars—thankfully not literally—couldn’t be choosers. The scuffs all over the timeworn wooden floor made it look as if this set or previous furniture had often taken lively turns about the room. Petrolsene sconces dotted the wall at intervals, though the wan but persistent sunlight coming in through the grimy windows was filling in for them at the moment. Falcon didn’t need to know much about architecture to guess that every other row home along this road shared the exact same floor plan.

Falcon was grateful for the warmth of the fireplace, as the cold made his service injuries ache—injuries that made him feel much older than his nineteen years. Those same injuries were the reason he was currently leaning on a telescoping cane, one he was still getting used to. The handle probably needed some adjustment, but the last few weeks, full of moving preparations as they’d been, hadn’t left much time for such things.

Falcon ventured further inside the house and leaned through the open doorway that led into the small… could it even be called a corridor? Whatever its proper name, he looked around the space which served as both a corridor and landing for the stairs, neatly tucked between the door to the sitting room and the kitchen door. 

Gazing up the harrowingly steep and narrow staircase to the second floor where the bedrooms must surely be, Falcon grimaced. Not sure how the movers will get my bed and things through there.

A knock at the front door made him turn. He felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment as he once again took in the motley crew of furniture and tatty decor, and he hurried to stand up straight on his own power rather than leaning so heavily on the cane. For which his body rewarded him with a gentle warning twinge.

“Hello,” trilled Beatrice Holmes’ voice as she pushed open the front door with nothing more than a finger’s touch. 

Seeing how easily she pushed open the door, Falcon wondered if he’d failed to close it or if it had been contrary when he wasn’t looking. In either case, he took control now and ensured it was shut before taking Beatrice’s proffered hand in greeting. 

“I trust you found the little gem of a place all right?” she asked.

Beatrice began to stroll about the room with the same poise and charm as if entering a garden party thrown in her honor, and nothing in her manner showed any disagreement with their rough surroundings. Though her burgundy satin visiting dress, with its ruffles and bustle and ruching and all, couldn’t help but make every inch of the flat seem even more tired and washed out. 

Nevertheless, Beatrice’s composure put Falcon at ease, and he returned to leaning on his cane. At that, he heard his grandfather’s voice in his head, remonstrating: “Don’t slouch. It makes you look soft.” Falcon banished the thought. Given that he was no longer on speaking terms with his grandfather—both a blessing and a curse—he didn’t appreciate the reminder, thank you very much. Even so, he stood up straight again. They were familiar with one another, true, but Beatrice was still a lady.

She carried on with her perusal of the flat. “Rather quaint, being tucked away back here, isn’t it? It’s a sweet little hideaway, which I imagine will serve you well given your newfound celebrity.”

Falcon swallowed down no less than three different responses, failing to decide on one. By “tucked away,” Beatrice had referred to the fact that this particular set of joined-up homes were down a side street—barely more than an alley, really—which came off a forked road, which was, thankfully, attached to a main thoroughfare.

“Quaint,” of course, also referred to the size of the place, which was a mere splinter compared to the family manor in which he’d, until very recently, lived his entire life. That manor, as with so many homes like it, was located in Springhaven’s Rose district. This “little gem” was in the Cobalt quarter, which was, well… Cobalt played by its own rules. It was different things to different people, sometimes changing for the same person within a single day. On the way here, Falcon had seen a large, grimy steamworks repair shop next door to a tiny, shiny, high-end watchmaker’s and a bustling cafe next to that with people from all walks of life seeping in through and spilling out the entryway as they came and went.

And finally, “newfound celebrity” was about the fact that he was the Enforcers’ new poster boy for their recently-formed emergency response unit—literally; his image graced posters all over the city. The detachment had been created partly in response to the fact that, previously, Springhaven had no unified team trained and available to deploy in the case of crises. But also as an attempt to clean up the Enforcer order’s public image, which to many was not much better than a gang of thugs who happened to be on the right side of the law.

It had been a little over a month since the harrowing raid on Springhaven’s catacombs, during which Falcon had assisted the city’s so-called peacekeeping order with taking down a strange syndicate of criminals called the Reaper’s Collective. Operative word being “assisted,” though the fact that he’d had to take leadership of the operation when his C.O. had gone down—not dead, thankfully, just injured—had rather propelled Falcon to career stardom. Which had then turned awkward when he’d publicly defamed his grandfather, who’d been a well-respected Second in said order—a high rank indeed—but who had grossly abused his power for years.

That brought Falcon back to today, to his new flat. His family was… disappointed wasn’t the right word, but these last few weeks since the scandalous revelation had been tense. He could have gone to live at the Enforcer barracks, but ratting out a brother in arms made that an even less welcoming place than his family’s manor. At least his parents still liked him enough to pay for movers. The thought made Falcon’s cheeks go from hot to cold. Beatrice knew this place was the only one he could afford on both such short notice and his civil servant salary, so he wasn’t quite as embarrassed with her as he might have been with someone else. But the thought of movers seeing this place, of them bringing his grand furnishings in here… it made him want to catch them in the street and send them back from whence they came. And he absolutely refused to think of his family coming to visit. In fact, he’d told them not to. At least not until he’d settled in, he’d said. Not that his parents nor either of his sisters, both of whom were younger, had volunteered to come round for tea.

A long silence had passed while Falcon was lost in thought, and Beatrice gave the appearance of not having noticed as she sedately took in their surroundings. She went on. “I admit, it’s a bit of a fixer upper, but I’m sure you and Keene will spruce it up in no time.”

Ah, yes, the mysterious roommate known only as Keene. All Falcon knew was that Keene was about his age and, as Beatrice had put it, “In need of new lodgings as soon as possible.”

“Having you here already does half the sprucing job for us,” came a smooth response from the corridor.

Falcon turned toward the voice, and the sight of the young man leaning against the doorframe made him freeze.

The man was, in a word, radiant. Thick black hair more than a touch longer than current fashion dictated brushed around his shoulders in loose waves. It was the perfect accent to his warm medium brown skin, which peeked scandalously through his shirt, a button or two of which he’d apparently forgotten to button. His dark eyes glittered from a kind, open face, made kinder by the pearly white smile he flashed at Beatrice. The smile was what caught Falcon’s gaze for longer than anything else. It was not the ambitious smile of a man who’d decided—foolishly—that he was a match for Beatrice. Nor was it the insincere bearing of teeth Falcon saw so often among the Enforcer order, which was full of backbiting and vitriol. No, this man smiled at Beatrice with pure, unadulterated joy.

Falcon’s Enforcer training kicked in then, always on the lookout for trouble. Not that he was worried about Beatrice in particular; he’d seen her decimate powerful men with naught but a single word. But he shouldn’t risk underestimating this newcomer. Then again, was he new? No, he’d come from further inside the house. He must have gotten here before Falcon even, so why hadn’t he come out before? Was that suspicious? To be fair, Falcon hadn’t been here more than a few minutes. 

The man certainly didn’t appear threatening. His movements were easy and relaxed, fluid like a stream, as he walked fully into the room.

“Keene!” Beatrice sang upon seeing the man.

When they met, they took one another by the arms, grasping each other at the elbows, and popped kisses into the air on either side of the others’ face. Falcon suddenly wondered if the man—Keene, apparently—was one of Beatrice’s paramours.

“I knew you’d arranged for your furniture to be here, but I didn’t think you were coming until tomorrow,” Beatrice said in surprise. That was a rare sight indeed; she was almost always a step ahead of everyone else.

Keene gave a nonchalant shrug, as if moving house for him was as easy as changing waistcoats. “My old roommate didn’t mind if I left ahead of schedule, so I did.”

Blazes, Falcon envied the way he moved. Falcon knew enough of society to know he himself was fairly attractive as such things went. He was tall, taller than Keene anyway, and had his own handsome mane of hair, though it was much shorter than Keene’s, always budging against Enforcer regulations, which allowed no more than two inches of length. Falcon’s hair was a rather drab walnut color, however, and liked to piece itself into straight, spiny factions, despite his best efforts to tame it. His own skin, which, before last year, had always carried a healthy wheat hue about it, looked sallow now. That, along with his uncertain mobility, was thanks to some misadventures from last year, which included but was not limited to having been blasted into a tree during an attack on the Enforcer headquarters, the Halls of Justice, by the Reaper’s Collective. Falcon had subsequently spent some time in a coma and had since then fought an uphill battle to regain his previous vigor. He suddenly wanted to hide the cane he leaned on, to prevent this lithe, beautiful man from seeing his greatest flaws. The saving grace in this shadow of his former self Falcon had become was his eyes—such a bright light brown they were nearly golden. 

Something in Keene’s previous statement raised a flag in Falcon’s brain. “Old roommate?” Falcon asked. And then the upper class gentleman in him mentally cringed. He hadn’t even been introduced to the man and he was asking impertinent questions. The Enforcer side of him, however, told the gentle born side to shove it.

Before Falcon could even begin to consider how to recover, Beatrice was smoothing things over, as she was so adept at doing. “Oh dear me, how very rude of me. Falcon, darling, come here. I’d like to present Mister Keene Kohli. And this is… apologies, Falcon, what’s the shiny new title you just received?”

Falcon was grateful he’d managed to almost completely hide his limp as he approached—it was something he’d been working hard to accomplish. The current formalities, though, made him feel just as uncomfortable. 

He cleared his throat before answering, “Steward of the Sage, but Falcon is fine, thank you.”

Keene tipped his head to the side in a way that made Falcon feel he was definitely being assessed. The man’s smile, though genuine, didn’t hold nearly the same amount of warmth it had for Beatrice. “I should hope so, given that we’ll be sharing the same house. Bit of a mouthful saying the whole title every time we see one another.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Falcon rubbed the back of his neck. “And not a nice mouthful at that.” The sentence he’d just uttered seemed to turn back on the air and stare at him in the face, questioning why it existed in the first place. “Not that…” he began, trying to recover before realizing he had no idea where he was going.

Stop before you make it worse, said his inner filter. Please!

Falcon coughed once before finishing, “Lovely to meet you. I’m sure we’ll get on very well.”

As they shook hands, Falcon got a whiff of spices from Keene. He didn’t know cooking well enough to know what kind, but the scent was warm, as warm as Keene’s chestnut skin, and reminded Falcon of pies during New Year’s week.

“Rough hands,” Keene said as the handshake ended. “Is that from holding a truncheon so much?”

That drenched the warm feeling like a bucket of ice water. Keene’s tone hadn’t been sharp, but Falcon couldn’t tell if he’d just been making idle conversation either. The Enforcers had earned their reputation for cruelty hundreds of times over, true, but Falcon had always tried to be different. He strived to be better, to be a force for good from the inside. If Keene did despise Falcon simply on the basis of his job, then Falcon couldn’t blame him. But the barb hit a tender spot inside and stung like Keene had been wielding a truncheon of his own, a verbal one.

I can fix this, Falcon automatically thought to himself. Say something helpful.

But before Falcon could think of anything, Beatrice put in, “Steward of the Sage is the name for the head of the Enforcers’ new crisis response unit.” Her tone made it sound as if she was dropping an interesting little factoid into the conversation over luncheon. Falcon couldn’t decide if he wished he’d thought to say that or was glad he’d had the wherewithal not to. His new title did sound a bit self-aggrandizing.

“I know,” was Keene’s only reply.

Very well, I won’t fix it by talking about work, Falcon decided. But I can still fix this.

Before he could venture down that path, however, a knock rapped against the front door. It obligingly opened under the force, which had not sounded particularly forceful, and Falcon scowled at the stubborn door. It seemed all too happy to let anyone just walk right in.

“Hello?” called a gruff but professional voice into the house. Whoever was on the other side was clearly confused but too polite to step inside. “Is there a Mister Falcon Smoke at home?”

“You’re right on time,” Beatrice chirped, sweeping over to the door.

The movers! Falcon had completely forgotten to think up an excuse for turning them away, what with being all distracted by handsome new acquaintances and all. Perhaps he could fabricate some tale about… Oh, I don’t know, floor gophers or something.

He made a strangled sort of noise before blurting, “Never thank you!” He had meant to say, “no, thank you” before his mind switched to, “nevermind.” His mouth hadn’t been able to keep up, however, and thus he’d smashed the phrases together instead.

Both Beatrice and Keene gave him quizzical glances. Falcon rubbed the back of his neck again, mumbled an apology, and traipsed over to the door. Why, he didn’t know. She was already taking command of the situation and giving the movers orders. Falcon stood by, however, wanting to be helpful and equally wanting to slink away as the pieces of his grand bedroom set were heaved into the house and up the stairs… or merely attempted to, in some cases. In the end, getting the headboard, a huge, solid piece of carved hardwood, up the skinny stairway was beyond both human ability and physics. Given that the rest of the four-poster bed would be tragically sloped without it, the movers set what they called chocks beneath the frame to level it. It turned out that “chocks” was just a fancy word for “hunks of wood,” and Falcon thanked the stars for the dust ruffle, which would cover them. He also cursed the dust ruffle because the fine, hand embroidered fabric looked positively ridiculous against the chipped and pockmarked plaster walls and dusty wood floors of his new bedroom.

While everyone got to work—or in Falcon’s case, watched everyone else get to work—Keene put on a pot of tea and laid on some sinfully buttery biscuits. Falcon took the opportunity to offer a hand, rough though it may be from truncheon swinging.

See, I’m helpful, and not a thoughtless lout.

But Keene seemed perfectly in his element in the kitchen and politely declined, barely sparing Falcon a glance. So then Falcon went and stood by Beatrice. Not that she needed the help. Beatrice was the kind of person who… well, if a steamroller was made of flowers and charm, that was her. It was best to stay out of her way and let her get on, but Falcon stood by, ready to assist should she call.

See, Keene, I know when to stand down, and I’m happy to do so. Falcon did have to remind himself not to stand quite so much at attention, though. That was at least made easier by the fact that standing at attention made his injuries complain. See, I can relax too. I’m just as easygoing as you… alright, that might be a stretch. 

And when the tea was ready, Falcon jumped at the opportunity to serve the movers theirs. 

Just look at how I think of others first.

They, in turn, happily took a break and removed themselves and their teacups out to their moving wagons. Falcon expected Keene to object, as it must have been Keene’s drinkware the movers had absconded with—albeit, not far—but the man just sat next to Beatrice with his own refreshment in hand and left them to it. Only then did Falcon realize he’d fallen prey to one of the twisted beliefs his grandfather had tried to drill into him:

“The poorer classes are a drain on society. They’ll steal from you as soon as look at you. They ought to put forth a little effort and better their situations instead of asking for handouts.”

Falcon mentally shook himself. He’d worked hard to shed those so-called “lessons” and was grateful his parents, who had far better hearts and more sense, had, over the years, helped to undo the damage. Though any direct battles with the family’s patriarch were few, far between, and carefully chosen, for it was he who controlled the Smoke family wealth.

Thus, with his moral compass realigned, Falcon too settled into the mismatched furniture of the sitting room. He must have been more drawn than he’d realized because he nearly groaned with pleasure as the restorative brew washed over his lips.

“This might be the best tea I’ve ever had,” he said, unabashedly relieved by the reminder that there were still some reliable things in this world, things like good strong tea and rich biscuits.

“It’s my own signature blend.” Keene took a sip from his own teacup. Chipped, Falcon noticed, but Keene did not elaborate.

“I’d have had the chipped cup,” Falcon said. Why he’d thought to fill the void with that, he didn’t know. Clammy horror washed over him. Why was he pointing out the shabby state of Keene’s teaware?!

Finally, blissfully, Keene granted Falcon a small smile. It was not as luminous as the one he’d given Beatrice earlier, but it was warm and genuine and made Falcon’s clammy embarrassment evaporate like dew in the sun.

“What kind of host would I be if I’d served you a chipped cup?”

In a less than genteel move, Falcon shrugged. He immediately heard his grandfather’s voice in his head, admonishing him for such a flippant gesture: “A man does not shrug. A man makes a strong answer.”

“Given that we’re roommates now,” he said, ignoring his grandfather’s voice, “I’d hardly hold it against you.”

Beatrice smiled at them both and steered the conversation into amiable waters—the latest fashions, some new plays that had recently premiered, and other easy subjects. Falcon wanted to ask Keene a million questions. The man’s manners implied he was gentle born as well, but why then was he living here with Falcon? Falcon’s self-inflicted downfall had been painfully public. He had a feeling Beatrice knew the answer, as she kept their conversation neatly reined inside what were apparently safe spaces for the both of them. 

The movers meanwhile were jolly pleased by the treats and all had a new spring in their step after they’d partaken. Maybe they weren’t even judging Falcon as harshly as he’d imagined. It, and Keene’s warming regard, gave Falcon a new lightness of heart. He wasn’t even bothered when the head mover reported that some of the neighbors had come out and were sniffing around Falcon’s fine things. The man had, in no uncertain terms, told them to shove off. Falcon knew his was a strange situation, but it was a situation he didn’t expect to remain in. Once he was back on his feet and had saved up a little money, he’d move along to something more permanent… and far less dingy.

By the time the sun was going down, Falcon’s bedroom set had been unloaded as best as possible. Beatrice had made her apologies and left by then, citing another engagement but promising to return soon to see how the two were getting on. Falcon’s writing desk was upstairs with the bed now. And given how much room just those took up, he’d opted for his favorite chair to join the gathering of furniture misfits in the sitting room. Unwilling new denizens to the collection were Falcon’s headboard, which he wasn’t sure what he’d do with just yet, as well as his stately wardrobe, which had been even more of a lost cause than the headboard. Both had been painted in the striking blue-grey shades of a peregrine falcon, making them stand out like sore thumbs even more than they otherwise might.

The mover’s payment had already been arranged, though it was apparently customary to tip. Falcon’s funds, after putting down his deposit on the house, were severely diminished. Also, what was an appropriate tip after a gaggle of lads had just heaved your ridiculously oversized furniture from one place to another? Falcon had always hated tipping. It was such an odd affair—“Yes, let me pass judgment on your performance via this arbitrary amount of money and we’ll both steep in the awkwardness of this moment together.”

Just as Falcon was standing before the foreman and dithering, Keene glided over and pressed a tin of biscuits and a packet of his tea blend into the foreman’s hands. A card was attached to the tin’s top, and Falcon read just quick enough to catch the words “events catering.”

“We’re a bit light on funds, but I hope this shows our appreciation,” Keene said, bearing another one of those magnificent smiles. He then lifted a hand to the side of his face and said in a stage whisper, “I’ve included some of my special chocolate and orange biscuits too.”

The foreman thanked them both and left without seeming upset about the lack of extra payment. Again, why not just charge what you want to earn? That thought, however, was quickly replaced with a new realization: For the first time in his life, Falcon was alone. On his own in this new environment with no safety tether. Not even socially, and he looked at Keene, the stranger with whom he now lived. Falcon suddenly felt as if he was treading water and possibly or possibly not surrounded by sharks. If there were sharks, were they going to attack? Maybe, if he said the wrong thing.

No, Falcon assured himself, You’re being dramatic. All will be well. No imagined real or nonexistent sharks existed… no, wait, that didn’t make sense. He decided to leave the shark analogy for now.

“So, Keene, here we are,” he said, and then immediately felt stupid for such an obvious statement.

“We are.” Falcon got the distinct impression a different expression was hiding beneath Keene’s easy countenance, but he couldn’t guess what it might be. “Not for long, though. I’m heading out. Nice meeting you and all. Best of luck unpacking your things. If you need it, I’ve gotten some of my cookware set up in the kitchen already. It’s not my good stuff, so don’t feel like you need to be too precious with it.”

Falcon swallowed a strangled noise of alarm. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’d have to cook for himself, something he’d never done, not once, in his entire life. With everything else that had been happening, that hadn’t occurred to him. No need for Keene, the blender and brewer of spectacular tea and creator of peace-making biscuits, to know how feckless he was in that area, though. Not yet anyway.

“Mind if I tag along?” he asked instead.

He didn’t know if he had the funds to go out, nor even how expensive Keene’s little excursion might be, but he didn’t fancy spending the evening alone with his lack of cooking skills and surrounded by reminders of all he’d lost in the pursuit of doing the right thing. Falcon could always learn how to boil an egg or something tomorrow.

Keene gave him a sheepish smile—the first time Falcon had seen the man lose his cool and collected air—and Falcon knew the answer before it even came out. “Sorry, chap, but it’s sort of a prearranged thing.”

Falcon was already nodding, “Of course, of course. Apologies. It was rude of me to be so forward.”

He’d broken eye contact, looking for anything in the flat that might provide even a halfway graceful escape. Maybe he could slip out a window or something without Keene noticing. Right, that seemed plausible. A warm tone in Keene’s voice brought Falcon’s attention back.

“Perhaps we can do something together tomorrow?”

Had Keene actually noticed how earnest Falcon had tried to be? He dared to hope that it had improved his new housemate’s opinion of him.

Keene added with a kind half-smile, “We can make dinner and get to know one another.”

The whole cooking affair was still very much a problem, and a part of Falcon couldn’t help but wonder if Keene was avoiding introducing him, the horrible Enforcer, to his friends, but it was a start. Besides, how long could it take to learn to cook? And showing Keene he wasn’t, in fact, horrible would happen along the way. Falcon would just pick up a cookbook on the way home, give it a skim, and problem solved.

He felt a smile bloom on his own face. “Tomorrow will be great.”

Out of the Shadows

Into the Fire

Across the Ice

Raven’s Cry