Diomedes’s eyes narrow. “Grandmother?”
A woman clucks her tongue from the shadows. “My little storm, what in the worlds have you been up to?”
83
LYSANDER
A Way Out
MY PRAETORIANS IN FRONT of my command shuttle salute as I land at the spaceport of Plutus. Demetrius is the first to greet me. “Dominus, you had your Dux worried. You disappeared with the Raa prince back from the dead.” His eyes flick to Markus behind me. “Flavinius feared the worst.”
“Are you my keeper or my bodyguard, Centurion?” I ask Demetrius.
He smiles. “We guard the Blood, dominus.” He obstructs my path forward for an insolent second. Kyber is there immediately. “Where’s the Shield of Akari?”
“Move, sir. Your dominus is walking,” Kyber says to her superior.
Her voice is strange. It sounds almost like anger. Markus must have done something off when I was inside the shrine with Diomedes. Demetrius glares at Kyber like he could break her in half, but steps aside. He is not scared of Kyber. Maybe familiarity with whispers dulls the general anxiety most people get when Kyber gives them attention, or maybe Demetrius is not scared because his reign as slaughter-monger in the secret kill pool is entirely justified.
I let Kyber see the situation a little more clearly and explain far more than I should to a centurion meat mallet like Demetrius. “Diomedes and I had much to catch up on. In the end I told him I would not take the shield until I earned it. He also had reports of strange behavior on Europa.”
I pause. “Kyber, the attack is on hold until we have better intel. Go tell the knights.”
She does not turn her head, but I sense her glancing at Demetrius and Markus from behind the blacked-out lenses of her goggles. She salutes and skips up into the sky.
I motion Demetrius and Markus to follow me into my shuttle. When we’re alone and a jamField’s active, I say, “Is there a way of contacting our friend? He should be made aware of this intel.”
“We’ll pass it on,” Markus says.
“I think not. Not this time,” I reply.
“You can tell him in person soon enough,” Demetrius says. “He radioed in not thirty minutes ago. He’s black till approach. Should be a few hours, but you never know. The transmission. Dead silence, seven seconds.”
I tense. Seven seconds. “He already called off the attack on Europa then?” Demetrius nods as the shuttle accelerates. “Was his mission a success?”
“Dead silence, seven seconds.” He cocks his head at me. “The Raa prince. Do we need to send a few lads?”
“I don’t think so. But I don’t know. So, we should talk to our friend.”
“Quick study,” Demetrius says and leans back, takes out his boot knife, and trims his nails on my boots. Markus just watches me like a spooky crocodile.
* * *
—
Markus and five others—all part of the kill pool—escort me from the hangar to my quarters. The last thing I need is the business of the bridge buzzing in my ear and Pytha’s questioning looks as I contemplate Diomedes’s offer and Atlas’s arrival. Darrow might be desperate enough to bear the shame of compromise. But I can barely stand the thought of humbling myself before the haughty Moon Lords and begging for their forgiveness. If I do that, I will lose Bellona, and Votum, and Rath, and I will lose my reputation. Then again, all will be lost anyway if I don’t.
“Let me know when Atlas arrives,” I tell Markus as the door guards—kill pool, all four—part to allow me into my chambers. “And send me Flavinius.”
“Flavinius is escorting in our friend, my liege.” Markus snaps a crisp salute. I close the door and call for Exeter. He doesn’t answer. I slump toward the sitting room off which the halls to the other rooms branch out.
“Exeter, are you knitting again?” I call. “I need something to drink. Exeter?”
“Oh, fetch it yourself, you spoiled brat,” a familiar voice says from the sitting room. I stop and almost summon my Praetorians. Almost. Wary, I press on to find a large man sitting on one of the couches. He smiles at me. “Exeter is just taking a little nap.”
“Is he dead?” I ask.
“Well, that would be a very long nap, wouldn’t it?”
“How did you get in here?” I demand.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
It’s been over a year since I’ve seen Cassius. He looks like he’s been through hell, and made all the healthier and handsomer for it. His face is leaner, like he’s been on the hunt and not hunted. His body is more relaxed. Though naturally an athlete of rare form, he’s a coiled spring now. I imagine he’s been fencing with Darrow. His hair is still all golden curls, but shorn shorter. There’s not a spot of stubble on his chin. I imagined him out there with the famous Ragnar beard that’s all the fashion in the Rising. The drinking bags under his eyes are not nearly as inflated. Instantly I know he has changed. What once was rusting iron has been infused with carbon. He’s steel and smiling and happy to see me.
It almost feels like a purposeful insult.
The tiger-styled armor he wears is not his. It belongs to a man named Strabo from Earth, one of my New Shepherds.
“And Strabo?”
“Of course, you know their names,” he says. “Strabo…well, he’s taking a long nap. I tried to make it short, but he was very tough and not very likable. Honestly, you can’t imagine what he was doing, or to whom.” Cassius’s eyes flare. “Let’s just say his life was the second thing he lost.”
Armor alone doesn’t explain how he accessed my quarters without my Praetorians noticing. How he can sit here without the security teams seeing him on the feeds, or how he could have gotten on the ship at all. Of course, there are secondary entrances built into my rooms. Two that the Praetorians know and guard. And one only two other people know about: Horatia and Pytha.
“Pytha,” I mutter. “You told her about Atlas.”
“I did.”
I close my eyes in anger. “Rather presumptuous of her to let you in.”
“She only wants to help you. I only want to help you. You’re no Strabo after all.”
I keep my distance. My hand rests on my razor. “So that’s why you’re traipsing around the system with Darrow, why you saved him on Mercury, helped him over Venus. To help me.”
Cassius watches my hand on my razor.
“Lysander, I am here to help you. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have hidden in a closet and burst out while you were meditating upside down practicing Mithridatism—or whatever new strange hobby you have. At any rate, do you think Pytha would have let me aboard if she thought I meant you any harm?”
He’s making an effort for it to feel like old times. Only it isn’t. Not just because of all the deeds between us, but because he is far more dangerous than he ever was.
“No,” I confess. “Though the fact that she left that decision in your hands is…troubling. If you aren’t going to kill me, why not ditch the armor?”
“Your drags. I imagine I’m the only person the Praetorians hate more than they hate Darrow. He is the enemy, so there is a measure of professional respect for him, no doubt. Me? Well, I betrayed the company. Shamed them by getting the Sovereign.”