“It is a bottle, you daft—”
He jams me in the throat so that I gag.
“And it was your manners that forced me to draw my razor and challenge you, thereby precipitously ending your impudent life. You may have fought with fists for honor in that hovel you called home. You were a bug then. An ant. An Aureate fights with a blade at the slightest provocation. They have honor the likes of which you know nothing about. Your honor was personal; theirs is personal, familial, and planetary. That is all. They fight for higher stakes, and they do not forgive when the bloodletting is done. Least of all the Peerless Scarred. Manners, goodman. Manners will protect you until you can protect yourself from my shampoo bottle.”
“Matteo …,” I say, rubbing my throat.
“Yes?” he sighs.
“What is shampoo?”
Another stint in Mickey’s carving room might have been preferable to Matteo’s tutelage. At least Mickey was afraid of me. Matteo is all insults and jibes, which I wouldn’t mind if I could hit the scrawny man, but if I did, I know I might break him. Yet for all his insults, I don’t dislike him. He reminds me of Loran, what with his wit and energy, only supplied with Uncle Narol’s grumbling attitude. I miss them both.
The next morning Dancer tries to rename me.
“You will be the son of a relatively unknown family from the far asteroid clusters. Soon, the family will be dead in a shipping accident. You will be the lone survivor and the only heir to their debts and poor status. His name, your name, will be Caius au Andromedus.”
“Slag that,” I reply. “I will be Darrow or I will be nothing.”
He scratches his head. “Darrow is an … odd name.”
“You have made me give up the hair Father gave me, the eyes Mother left me, the Color I was born to, so I will keep the name they granted me, and you can make it work.”
“I liked it better when you didn’t act like a Gold,” Dancer grumbles.
“Now, the key to dining like an Aureate is to eat slowly,” Matteo says as we sit together at a table in the penthouse where Dancer first showed me the world. “You will find yourself subjected to many Trimalchian feasts. On such occasions, there will be seven courses—appetizer, soup, fish, meat, salad, dessert, and libations.”
He gestures to a small tray laden with silverware and explains the various methods for eating with each.
Then he tells me, “If you must urinate or defecate during the meal, you hold it in. Controlling one’s bodily functions is expected of an Aureate.”
“So these namby-pamby Goldbrows aren’t allowed to shit? And when they do, I wonder, does it come out gold?”
Matteo slaps my cheek with his glove. “If you’re so eager to see red again, let your tongue slip in their presence, goodman, and they’ll be happy to remind you what color all men bleed. Manners and control! You have neither.” He shakes his head. “Now, tell me what this fork is used for.”
I want to tell him it’s used for picking his arse, but I sigh and give him the correct answer. “Fish, but only if the bones are still in the dish.”
“And how much of this fish are you to eat?”
“All of it,” I guess.
“No!” he cries. “Were you even listening?” His small hands clutch his hair and he takes a deep breath. “Must I remind you? There are Bronzies, There are Golds. And there are Pixies.”
He leaves the rest for me to finish.
“Pixies have no self-control,” I remember aloud. “They take in all the treats of power, but do pissall to merit them. They are born and they chase pleasure. Righto?”
“Prime, not righto. Now what is expected of a Gold? Of a Peerless Scarred?”
“Perfection.”
“Which means?”
My voice is cold as I mimic a Gold’s accent. “It means control, goodman. Self-control. I am permitted to indulge in vices so long as I never permit them to usurp control. If there is a key to understanding Aureates, it is found in understanding control in all its forms. Eat the fish, leave twenty percent to indicate its deliciousness did not overpower my resolve or make slaves of my tastebuds.”
“So you were listening after all.”
Dancer finds me the next day as I practice my Aureate accent in the penthouse’s holomirror. I can see a three-dimensional depiction of my head in front of me. The teeth move strangely, catching my tongue as I try to roll my words. I am still becoming used to my body, even months after the last of the surgeries. My teeth are larger than I initially thought them. It also doesn’t help that the Goldbrows speak as though they’ve had golden shovels stuck up their bloodydamn stinkholes. So I find it easier to speak like one if I see that I am one. The arrogance comes easier.
“Soften your r’s,” Dancer tells me. He sits attentively as I read from a datapad. “Pretend as though there is an h in front of each one.” His burner reminds me of home and I remember how ArchGovernor Augustus seemed in Lykos. I remember the man’s serenity. His patient condescension. His smirk. “Elongate the l’s.”
“Is that all the strength you have?” I say into the mirror.
“Perfect,” Dancer praises with a humorous shiver. He claps his good hand on his knee.
“Soon I’ll be dreaming like I’m a bloodydamn Goldbrow too,” I say in disgust.
“You shouldn’t say ‘bloodydamn.’ Say ‘gory’ or ‘gorydamn’ instead.”
I glare at him. “If I saw myself on the street, I would hate me. I would want to take a slingBlade and carve me from pucker to stinker and then burn the remains. Eo would puke to look at me.”
“You’re young still,” Dancer laughs. “God, I sometimes forget how young.” He takes a flask out of his boot and downs some before tossing it to me.
I laugh. “Last time I drank, Uncle Narol drugged me.” I take a drink. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what the mines are like. I’m not young.”
Dancer frowns. “I didn’t mean to insult, Darrow. It’s just you understand what you’re to do. You understand why you’re to do it. But you still lose perspective and judge yourself. Right now you probably get sick looking at your golden self. Righto?”
“Righto there.” I drink deep from the flask.
“But you’re only playing a part, Darrow.” He twitches his finger and a hooked blade slips from the ring on his finger. My reflexes are back and quick enough that I might have shoved it up into his throat if I thought he meant me harm, but I let him swipe the blade across my index finger. Blood wells out. Red blood. “Just in case you need reminding what you really are.”