Red Rising (45 page)

I lean forward and tap my finger on the table. “The point is to show them that they can’t gorywell cheat in their own game. That the ArchGovernor can’t just say his son is best and should beat me just because he was
born
lucky. This is about merit.”

“No,” Fitchner says, leaning forward. “It’s about politics.” He glances at Mustang. “Will you send her away already?”

“Mustang stays.”

“Mustang,”
he mocks. “So, Mustang, what do you think about the ArchGovernor cheating for his son?”

Mustang shrugs. “Kill or be killed, cheat or be cheated? Those are the rules I’ve seen Aureates follow, especially Peerless Scarred.”

“Cheat or be cheated.” Fitchner taps his upper lip.
“Interesting.”

“You should know about the cheating part,” she says.

“You need to let Darrow and me have a word,
Mustang
.”

“She stays.”

“It’s okay,” she mutters cryptically. She squeezes my shoulder as she leaves. “I’m bored of your Proctor anyway.”

When Mustang is gone, Fitchner stares at me. He reaches to his pocket, hesitates, then pulls something out. A small box. He tosses it on the table and gestures for me to open it. Somehow I know what is inside.

“Well, you bastards do owe me a few bounties,” I laugh bitterly as I slip Dancer’s knifeRing onto my finger. I flex the joint and a blade pops out, extending along the top of the finger eight inches. I flex the joint again and it slithers home.

“The Obsidians took it from you before you went through the Passage, yes? I was told it was your father’s.”

“Someone told you that?” I pick at the warroom table with the blade. “How very innaccurate of them.”

“You don’t need to be snide, lad.” My eyes flick up to look into Fitchner’s. “You came here to win an apprenticeship. You’ve done that. If you keep pushing the Proctors, they will kill you.”

“I seem to rememember us already having this conversation.”

“Darrow, there is no slagging point to what you are doing! It is reckless!”

“No point?” I echo.

“If you beat the ArchGovernor’s boy, then what? What does that achieve?”

“Everything!” I snap. I shudder with anger and stare at the fire till my voice finds control again. “It proves I am the best Gold in this school. It shows that I can do whatever they can. Why should I even speak to you, Fitchner? I’ve done all this without your help. I don’t need you. Apollo tried to kill me and you did nothing! Nothing! So what exactly do I owe you? Maybe this?” I let the blade slither out.

“Darrow.”

“Fitchner.” I roll my eyes.

He slaps the table. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool. Look at me. Look at me, you condescending little twit.”

I look at him. His stomach paunch has grown. His face is haggard for a Gold. His hair yellow and slicked back. He’s never been handsome—less now than ever.

“Look at me, Darrow. Everything I have, I’ve had to fight for. I was not born to an ArchGovernor’s household. This is as far as I could ever go, yet I should go so much further. My son should go further, but he can’t and he won’t. He’ll die if he tries. Everyone has a limit, Darrow. A limit they can’t skip past. Yours is higher than mine, but it’s not as high as you’d gorywell like. If you go past it, they’ll knock you down.”

He stares away as if ashamed, glowering at the fire.
His son
. It’s in their coloring, in the face, in the disposition and the way they speak to one another. I’m a fool for not saying it out loud sooner.

“You’re Sevro’s father,” I say.

He does not respond for some time. When he does, his voice is pleading. “You make him think he can climb higher than he can. You’ll kill him, boyo. And you’ll kill yourself.”

“Then help us!” I urge him. “Give me something I can use against Apollo. Or better, fight them with me. Gather the other Proctors and we will take the battle to them.”

“I can’t, boyo. I can’t.”

I sigh. “No, I thought you wouldn’t.”

“My career would be over in a pinch if I helped you. All I’ve slaved for, all the many things, would be risked. For what? Just to prove a point to the ArchGovernor.”

“Everyone is so frightened of change,” I say before smiling sincerely at the broken man. “You remind me of my uncle.”

“There will be no change,” Fitchner grumbles as he stands. “Never is. Know your damn place or you won’t make it out of this, boyo.” He looks like he wants to reach and touch my shoulder. He doesn’t. “Hell, the trap’s already set for you. You’re walking right into it.”

“I’m ready for the Jackal’s traps, Fitchner. Or Apollo’s. It makes no difference. They won’t be able to stop what’s coming for them.”

“No,” Fitchner says, hesitating for a moment. “Not their traps. The girl’s.”

I answer him in a way he will understand. “Fitchner. Do not play me for a fool with vague, annoying references to duplicity. My army is mine, won in heart and body and soul. They can no more betray me at this point than I can betray them. We are something you have not seen before. So stop.”

He shakes his head. “This
is
your fight, boyo.”

“Yes. It is my fight.” I smile. Now is the time I’ve been waiting for. “Fitchner, hold up,” I say before he reaches the door. He stops and looks back. I kick back my chair and stride over to him. He eyes me curiously. Then I stick out my hand. “Despite everything, thank you.”

He clasps it. “Good luck, Darrow,” he says. “But take care of Sevro. The little shit will follow you anywhere, no matter what I say.”

“I’ll take care of him. I promise.” My Helldiver grip tightens on his hand.

For a moment, if only a moment, we are friends. Then he winces at the pressure my hand is putting on his. He laughs at first, then he understands and his eyes widen.

“Sorry,” I say.

That’s when I break his nose and slam my elbow into his temple till he no longer moves.

“Fitchner left?” she asks me.

“Through the window,” I say.

I watch Mustang across Apollo’s white warroom table. A blizzard has risen outside, no doubt meant to keep my army inside the castle around their warm fires and hot pots of soup. Her hair coils about her shoulders, held by leather bands. She wears the wolfcloak like the others, though hers is streaked with crimson. Muddy boots with spurs are kicked up on the table. Her standard, the only weapon she really favors, leans on a chair beside her. Mustang’s face is a quick one. Quick to mocking smiles. Quick to pleasant frowns. She gives me the smile and asks what is on my mind.

“I am wondering when you will betray me,” I say.

Her eyebrows knit together. “You’re expecting that?”

“Cheat or be cheated,” I say. “Echoed by your own lips.”

“Are you going to cheat me?” she said. “No. Because what advantage would you gain? You and I have beaten this game. They would have us believe one must win at the cost to all the rest. That isn’t true, and we’re proving it.”

I say nothing.

“You have my trust, because when you saw me hiding in the mud
after taking my castle, you let me escape,” she explains thoughtfully. “And I have your trust, because I pulled you from the mud when Cassius left you for dead.”

I do not respond.

“So there is the answer. You are going to do great things, Darrow.” She never calls me Darrow. “Maybe you don’t have to do them alone?”

Her words make me smile. Then I bolt upright, startling her.

“Get our men,” I order.

I know she was looking forward to resting here. I was too. The smell of soup tempts me. So does the warmth and the bed and the thought of spending a quiet moment with her. But that is not how men conquer.

“We’re going to surprise the Proctors. We’re going to take Jupiter.”

“We can’t surprise them.” She taps her ring. The jamField Fitchner had is gone. We’d ditch the rings completely, but they are our insurance. The Proctors may be able to edit out a few things here and there, but common sense dictates that they can’t tamper with the footage too much or the Drafters will get suspicious.

“And even if we make it through this storm, what will taking Jupiter accomplish?” she asks. “If Apollo didn’t leave when his House lost, Jupiter won’t either. You’re just going to provoke them into interfering. We should go after the Jackal now!”

I know the Proctors are watching me plan this. I want them to know where I’m going.

“I’m not ready for the Jackal,” I tell her. “I need more allies.”

She looks at me, eyebrows pinched together. She doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter. She will soon enough.

Despite the blizzard, my army moves swiftly. We bundle ourselves in cloaks and furs so thickly that we look like animals stumbling through the snow. At night, we follow the stars, moving despite the mounting winds and the piling snow. My army does not grumble. They know I will not lead them purposelessly. My new soldiers
press themselves harder than I would have thought possible. They have heard of me. Pax makes sure of that. And they are desperate to impress me. It becomes problematic. Wherever I walk, the procession around me suddenly doubles their efforts so that they overtake those in front or outpace those behind.

The blizzard is vicious. Pax always stands close to me and Mustang, as though he means to block us from the wind. He and Sevro are always stepping on each other’s toes to be nearest me, though Pax would likely want to light my fires and tuck me in bed at night if I let him, while Sevro would tell me to pick my own ass. I see his father in him every time I look at him now. He seems weaker now that I know his family. There’s no reason that should be the case; I guess I just supposed he really did spring from the loins of a she-wolf.

Eventually, the snows cease and spring comes fast and hard, which confirms my suspicions. The Proctors are playing games. The Howlers make sure all eyes are to the sky in case Proctors decide to harass us as we make our way. None do. Tactus keeps an eye out for their tracks. But it is quiet. We see no enemy scouts, hear no war trumpets in the distance, see no smoke rising except to the north in Mars’s highlands.

We raid provision stores in burnt and broken castles as we push toward Jupiter. There are jugs from Bacchus’s castle that Sevro was disappointed to discover full of grape juice instead of wine, salted beef from Juno’s deep cellars, molding cheeses, fish wrapped in leaves, and bags of the ever-present smoked horsemeat. They keep us full as we march.

In four rugged days, I have reached and besieged Jupiter’s triple-walled castle in the low mountain passes. Snow melts swiftly enough to make the ground soggy for our horses. Streams flow through our camp. I do not bother devising a plan of action. I simply tell Pax’s, Milia’s, and Nyla’s divisions that whoever gives me the fortress will win a prize. The defenders are very few and my army takes the outer fortifications in a day by making a series of wooden ramps under intermittent arrow barrages.

My other three divisions scout the surrounding territory
en force
in case the Jackal decides to stick his nose into this. Jupiter’s main army, it seems, is stranded across the now-thawed Argos laying siege to Mars’s castle. They did not expect the river to thaw so quickly. Still there is no sign of the Jackal’s men or of the Proctors. I wonder if they have found Fitchner locked in one of the Apollo Castle cells yet. I left him food and water and a face full of bruises.

On the third day of the siege, a white flag is flown from Jupiter’s ramparts. A thin boy of middling height and timid smiles slips out Jupiter Castle’s postern gate. The castle lies on high, rocky ground. It is sandwiched between two huge rock faces, so its three-tiered walls bow outward. Soon I would have tried sending men down the rock faces. It would have been a job for the Howlers—but they’ve had enough glory. This siege belongs to the soldiers captured when we fought Apollo.

The boy walks tentatively in front of the main gate. I meet him there with Sevro, Milia, Nyla, and Pax. We are a fearsome lot even without Tactus and Mustang, though Mustang could never really be called fearsome in appearance—maybe spirited, at best. Milia looks like something out of a nightmare—she’s taken to wearing trophies like Tactus and Thistle. And Pax has cut notches along his huge axe for each slave he has taken.

In front of my lieutenants, the boy shows his nervousness. His smiles are quick, almost as if he’s worried we might disapprove of them. The ring on his finger is that of Jupiter. He looks hungry, because it barely fits on him any longer.

“Name is Lucian,” the boy says, trying to sound manly. He seems to think Pax is in charge. Pax booms a laugh and points to me and my slingBlade. Lucian flinches when he looks at me. I think he well knew I was the leader.

“So we here to swap smiles?” I ask. “What’s your word?”

“The word is hunger,” he laughs piteously. “We’ve not eaten anything but rats and raw grain in water for three weeks.”

I almost pity the boy. His hair is dirty, eyes teary. He knows he’s giving up a chance at an apprenticeship. They’ll shame him for surrendering
for the rest of his life. But he is hungry. So are the seven other defenders. Oddly, all are of Jupiter, not slaves. Their Primus left their weak instead of the slaves behind.