I go cold inside. “The Sons of Ares? I wasn’t aware they were so dire a threat.”
“They’re not yet, but they will be,” he says. “The Sovereign knows it. So does my father, even if it is not in vogue to say it aloud. The Society has faced terrorist cells before. Throw enough lurcher teams at them and they are dispatched easily enough. But the Sons are different.
“They are not a rat biting our heels, but a termite colony slowly gnawing our foundation as quietly as possible till they’ve done such work that our house crumbles around us. My father has given Pliny the task of eliminating the Sons. But Pliny has been failing. He will continue to fail because the Sons of Ares are clever, and because my media adores giving them attention. But when they become a thing so dreadful to the Society, to the Sovereign, to my father, that the very machine of governance grinds to a halt, I will step forward and say, ‘I will cure this disease in three weeks.’ And then I will, with my media, with the syndicates systematically killing all the Sons, and with you gloriously beheading Ares himself.”
“You want a figurehead.”
“I am not glamorous. I do not inspire. You are like one of the Old Conquerors. Charismatic and virtuous. When they look at you, they see none of the soft decadence of our meager time, none of the political poison that has saturated Luna since Lune’s
family rose to power. They will look at you and see a cleansing knife, a new dawn for a Second Golden Age.”
Like father, like son. Both targeting the Sons of Ares in similar ways. It’s chilling thinking of the war that will rage between crime syndicate throat-cutters and Ares’s agents. It will destroy the Sons.
“The Sons of Ares are only the beginning. A leverage point. You want to rule.”
“What other ambition is there?” “But not just Mars …”
“tust because I’m small doesn’t mean my dreams have to be. I want it all. And to get it, I’m willing to do anything. Even share.”
“Perhaps you are not aware of what happened two months ago,” I say. “Stop a Gold anywhere and ask. They’ll tell you what the Bellona family did to the Reaper of Mars. I have no reputation. The only thing I inspire is laughter.”
“Cassius was shamed,” the tackal says in irritation. “He was pissed on. Beaten at the Institute. Embarrassed. Now he’s the deadliest dueler on Luna. He fought any that would contest his worth. And now he’s the Sovereign’s favorite new pet. Did you know the old crow is making him an Olympic Knight? Lorn au Arcos and Venetia au Rein both retired this year. That means the posts of Rage Knight and Morning Knight are open.”
“She’d make him one of the twelve?”
“He is a piece on her board.” The tackal leans forward. “But I tire of playing pawn to my elders.”
“As do I. Makes me feel like a Pink,” I say.
“Then let us rise together. I the scepter, you the sword.” “You won’t share. It’s not in your nature.”
“I do what I need to do. No more. No less. And I need a warlord. I’ll be Odysseus. You be Achilles.”
“Achilles dies in the end.” “Then learn from his mistakes.”
“It’s a good idea.” I pause at his spreading smile. “With one problem. You are a sociopath, Adrius. You don’t only do what you need to do. You wear whatever face you need, whatever emotion you desire like a glove. How could I ever trust you? You
killed Pax.” I let the words hang in the air. “You killed my friend, your sister’s protector.”
“Pax and I had never met before. All I saw was an obstacle in my path. Of course I knew of the Telemanuses, but after Claudius got his brains splattered everywhere, Father split Mustang and me up to protect us. Put me in even greater isolation than her. I was his heir. I had no friends, only tutors. He ruined my youth. And then he discarded me as he discarded you, because we lost. You and I mirror each other.”
A fight breaks out in the level above us. A scorcher cracks. Bouncers rush upward, cradling their own weapons. Most of the patrons sit undisturbed.
“What of your sister?” I ask hesitantly, knowing deep down that I have no other options left but this one.
“Do you want to know how she fares?” he asks plainly. “Who shares her bed? I can give you whatever answers you want. My eyes are everywhere.”
“I don’t want that.” I shake my head, trying to banish the dark idea of someone sharing her bed. Of her finding joy in someone else, even if she deserves to. Even stranger is thinking the tackal knows these things. “Is she involved in this?”
“No,” the tackal says with a heavy laugh. “You know she’s with Lune now. It’s hilarious, really. Who would have thought that of the two of us, she’d be the prodigal twin? Well, more prodigal.”
“She cannot be hurt,” I say. “If she is, I will cut off your head.” “That’s aggressive. But you have a deal. So you are with me.” “I’ve been with you since I got into the shuttle. You know I
have no other options. And I know no other person would ever summon me here. The variables could only lead to this end.” And why should they not?
I took his hand, he took a friend. All he has done is bite and claw for his own survival. Watching him now, so small and plain in a world of gods, it’s almost as if he’s the hero nobly struggling against a father who rejected him, against a Society that laughs at his size, his weakness, and scorns him as a cannibal even though it was they who told him to do whatever he had to do to win. In an odd way he is like me. He could have had his hand repaired,
but he chose not to, wearing it as a badge of honor instead of shame.
So I’ll go along with this. Then, in the end, maybe I’ll kill him.
For Pax.
His face splits into a grand smile. “I’m so pleased, Darrow. So pleased. And, to be honest, a bit relieved.”
“But what is next?” I ask. “You must need something from me now.”
“A Gold by the name of Fencor au Drusilla has learned of my … dealings with the syndicates. He is trying to blackmail me. I need you to kill him.”
Of course. “When?”
“Not for a week or so. The real purpose of killing him will be to gain favor with one of the Sovereign’s cousins who was slighted by Fencor. With Fencor’s death, you’ll fall into the cousin’s … favor.”
I choke down a laugh. “You’ll have me play the role of a Pixie gallant, flitting about court, bedding ladies?” Mustang will think I’m doing it to spite her.
The tackal’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Who said anything about ladies?”
“Oh,” I say, realizing what he means. “Oh,
that’s … complicated. Tactus might be better for this.…”
The tackal chuckles at my surprise. “Oh, you’ll do just fine. But all this is worry for another day. For now, relax. I’ll purchase your contract through a second party as soon as it goes up for auction.”
“The Bellona will try to buy it.”
“I have a backer. We’ll outspend them.” “Victra?”
“No. She’s more of a broker in this. What you have to understand about Victra is she’s not … how do you say … partisan. She just loves stirring the pot. The backer you’ll meet soon enough.”
“That won’t work,” I say. “I want to meet him now. I’m not your puppet. I share everything I know, you share everything you know.”
“But I know so much more. Fine.” He leans forward. “You’ll meet him tonight. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just think it appropriate that he introduces himself.”
“Fine enough. I want to bring the Howlers back. And Sevro.” “Done. You’ll also need to select a blademaster, someone to
tutor you with the razor. We’ll need you to kill a few people publicly in the future.”
“I know how to use a razor,” I say.
“Not what I’ve heard. Come now, there’s no shame in it. I have a few names. It’s a pity Arcos isn’t tutoring. These days I might actually have the funds to afford Stoneside and his Willow Way.
…”
His words trail off and his eyes drift from me, pulled to the slinking form of a woman who cuts through the smoke and drab of the tavern like an ember falling through fog. I can smell the almond on her skin, the citrus of her lips as she nears our table, graceful and stirring as the air of Venus’s Summer Coast. Bones fragile, avian. She wears a black shift that covers her skin except her bare shoulders.
Then I catch her eyes and I almost fall out of my chair. It’s a shot to the heart. My pulse patters. It’s her. The girl with wings who could never fly. But now … she’s fled from Mickey, it seems. Wings gone, ripened into womanhood. But why is Evey here? Did the Sons send her? I can barely keep my composure. She hasn’t recognized me.
“I didn’t know Roses to grow so deep among the weeds,” the tackal says to her.
Her laughter drifts like the beating of a butterfly’s wings. She traces the bottom edge of the worn table and shrugs minutely.
“Common men can’t afford uncommon things. But my mistress heard uncommon men were in Lost City and sent me as an … ambassador.”
“Ah …” The tackal leans back, appraising her. “You’re a syndicate girl. One of Vebonna’s?” Off her nod, the tackal looks at me and mistakes my expression of surprise for one of desire. “Take her upstairs, Darrow. On me. A welcoming gift. Let me know if you want to buy her. We can discuss business tomorrow.”
At the word “Darrow,” Evey’s composure buckles for a blink. She steps back and I hear her breath pattern change. And when her eyes meet mine, I know she sees through the Obsidian disguise and glimpses the Red underneath all these lies. However, the surprise there means she’s not here for me. She’s here for the tackal, but why? Is she with the Sons? Or did Mickey finally sell his prize to this Vebonna gangster?
“I don’t do slaves,” Evey says to the tackal, pointing to my Obsidian sigils.
“You’ll find there’s more to this one than meets the eye.” “Dominus, I—”
He grabs her hand, twisting her pinky horribly. “Shut up and do as you’re told, girl. Or we’ll take what you won’t give.” He flashes a great smile and releases her. She holds her hand, trembling. It doesn’t take much to wound a Pink.
I stand. “I believe I’ll take it from here, my friend.” “I’m sure you will!”
I wave the bodyguards away who try to accompany me.
I follow Evey up the handrungs leading to the fourth floor, earning hoots from some of the patrons. My eyes catch one of the holoCans above the bar. Images of a bombing ripple in three dimensions. It looks to be at a café. A Gold café. My eyes widen as the extent of the devastation is shown. Was it the Sons?
Another bombing flashes across a different screen. And another. And another till dozens of bombings flood the screens throughout the tavern. All heads turn to watch, silence yawning through the vast tavern. Evey’s hand tightens around mine, and I know it was the Sons who committed the bombings. They sent her. But why Luna? Why the tackal? Why haven’t they contacted me?
“Hurry,” she says as we reach the fifteenth floor, pulling me through the pink lights, past the dancers and hungry patrons to the last door at the end of a narrow corridor. I follow her inside the dark room and immediately smell the acrid tang of scorcher oil. Air shifts behind me as a man in a ghostCloak creeps forward. It takes considerable effort to resist the impulse to kill him.
“He’s one of ours,” Evey snaps. She turns on the light. Six Reds in heavy military tech decloak. They wear demonHelms with
high-grade optics. “Call in the skimmer.”
“He’s not Adrius au Augustus,” one of them growls. “He’s a bloody Obsidian.”
“Strange-looking one.” One of the Reds with the optics jumps back, scorcher priming. “Bone density is Gold!”
“Stop!” Evey shouts. “He’s a friend. Harmony has been looking for him.”
Not Ares or Dancer?
“You weren’t here for me,” I say, eyeing their weapons. “You were hunting.”
She turns to me. “I’ll explain later, but we have to go.”
“What did you do?” I ask as one of the Reds pulls out a plasma- Torch and cuts a hole in the wall, opening the room up to the stink of the city. Moist air rushes in and lights flood the room as a small dropship descends, opening its side hatches parallel to the improvised door.
“Darrow, there’s no time.”
I grab her. “Evey, why are you here?”
Her eyes flash with triumph. “Adrius au Augustus has murdered fifteen of our brothers and sisters. I was sent to capture or kill him. I chose the latter. In twenty seconds, he’ll be ash.”
I rip one of the Reds’ datapads off his arm and prime my concealed gravBoots. Evey shouts at me. The boots whine mournfully as they lift me into the air. I rip back the way we came, rupturing through the door instead of opening it, flying down the hallway like a bat out of hell. I smash past a dancer, careen over two Orange customers, and turn a razor-tight right angle down over the railing toward the tackal’s table as he finishes his liquor. His Stained marks me, as do the Grays. Too slow.
On the screens, over the bombings, the static crackles and a blood-red helm burns.
“Reap what you sow,” Ares’s voice growls from a dozen
speakers.
The table melts under the tackal’s hand. Consumed by the bomb Evey planted. The Stained throws the tackal away from the table like a doll and curls his titanic body around the
mushrooming energy. His mouth moves in a death whisper,
“Skirnir al fal njir.”
