Golden Son
Page 41“You want to ask about Virginia again, don’t you?” The corners of her lips twitch with pleasure as she plucks my pain. “Do you want to know if I’ll give her to you if you join me? It’s possible.”
“She is not a thing to be given,” I say.
She laughs, amused at my innocence. “If you say so.”
“Where are the three Deep Space Command Centers?” I ask recklessly.
She gives me the coordinates without blinking. “How did you know the words to the Reaping Song?”
“I heard it as a boy. And I forget little.”
“Where?”
“It’s not your turn,” I remind her. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Because one of my Furies has led me to suspect the Sons of Ares are perhaps something different than we imagined. Something more dangerous. Who is Ares?”
My heart thunders.
“I don’t know.” I watch the Oracle’s tail. It doesn’t move. “Who you do think Ares is?”
“Your master.”
“Thirty-nine, forty-two, fifty-six …,” Aja says.
I clear my mind. Let it all fade. Imagine the mines. Remember the wind moving through them. Remember her hands on mine as we walked barefoot through cold dirt to the place where we first lay together in the hollow of an abandoned township. Her whispers. How she sang the lullaby my mother sang my siblings and me.
“Fifty-five, forty-two, thirty-nine,” Aja says.
“Is Augustus Ares?” she asks.
Relief floods me. “No. He’s not Ares.”
The door slams open behind me. We turn to see Mustang stalking into the room wearing the gold and white uniform of House Lune. A datapad glows on her wrist. She bows to the Sovereign. “My liege.”
“Virginia, you’re still a mess,” Aja drawls.
“Blame this dumb son of a bitch.” Mustang nods to me. “Seventy-three dead. Two Earthborn families erased, neither of which had anything to do with Bellona or Augustus. Over two hundred wounded.” She shakes her head. “I grounded all ships as you asked, Octavia. Praetorian command has initiated a no-fly zone in orbit. All family-owned capital ships have had their warrants revoked and are being pushed beyond the Rubicon Beacons till we give further notice. And Cassius still lives. He’s with the Yellows. Citadel Carvers are preparing plans for replacing the arm.”
The Sovereign thanks her and asks her to sit. “Darrow and I are getting to know one another. Are there any questions you think we should ask him?”
Mustang sits beside the Sovereign.
“My advice, my liege? Don’t try to solve Darrow. He’s a puzzle with missing pieces.”
“That’s rather offensive,” I say.
“So you don’t think we should keep him?”
“Will what?” the Sovereign interrupts. “I made Cassius an Olympic Knight. He will be grateful, and he will study his razor so this does not happen again.” Her face softens and she touches Mustang’s knee. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“I’m fine. Seems like I interrupted your game.”
I can’t tell which woman is playing the other. But with Karnus’s words at the gala, and the knowledge that the ships were grounded before I even started the skirmish, I know the Sovereign had plans. And now I think I can piece together just what they were.
“One last question. I’ve been saving it for the end.”
“Do ask, boy. We have no secrets here. But it must be the last. After this, I have some words for Agrippina au Julii.” Aja opens the box back up for the Oracles to go back inside.
“Tonight, at the gala, during the sixth course of the meal, did you plan to allow the Bellona to assassinate ArchGovernor Augustus and all those who sat at his table?”
Aja freezes. Mustang slowly turns to look at the Sovereign, whose face shows no hints of dishonesty. The woman breathes easily and with a soft smile lies through her teeth. “No,” she says. “I did not.”
The Oracle strikes at her.
16
The Game
Fitchner’s razor buzzes, and he chops away the tail faster than a bee beats its wings. It flops to the floor, transparent stinger hissing out poison. On the Sovereign’s arm, the wounded creature screams. Wailing and writhing like a dying cat. The Sovereign rips it off and throws it at the wall. My own releases slowly, as if connected with the other. Mewing pathetically, it retreats to its box to hide in the darkness. I dab away the faint trail of blood it left on my forearm.
“So you do lie,” I say with a wicked grin.
Mustang stands, enraged. “You promised you would not hurt them. You lied.”
“Yes.” Octavia rubs her temples. “Yes, I lied.”
“You said there were no lies here,” Mustang hisses. “That was a precondition of my allegiance to you. The only thing I asked for, and you planned to do it while I watched?”
“Sit.” The Sovereign stands, drawing nose-to-nose with Mustang. “Sit down.”
Mustang sits, breathing heavily. She won’t look at me or the Sovereign. She’s surrounded by betrayal. The Sovereign notes this, piecing together a new strategy as Mustang draws a gold ring from her pocket and rolls it compulsively through her fingers.
“Do you know why I need your family gone?” Octavia asks Mustang. She doesn’t reply. “I asked you a question, Virginia. Put aside petulance and answer.”
“He is a threat to peace,” Mustang replies flatly, slipping the ring on her finger. “He disregards your orders. He does not obey financial directives. He delays helium-3 quotas.”
“If I tried removing him from power, what would happen?”
Mustang looks up at her. “He would rebel.”
“So what am I to do? If he rebels while on Mars, it becomes his planet fortress. The monies it would take me to pry him out—to find him, to kill him, to reinstate order—is … incomprehensible. Ships. Men. Food. Munitions. Trade. Helium-3 shortages. The Society would not recover for years.
“We cannot afford an enemy like him. But we also cannot afford an ally to so publicly affront us. What if the Governors of the Gas Giants thought they were immune to my orders because we’re lenient with your father? Because we let him manipulate helium prices or ignore Sovereign directives? Sixty years ago, in the first year of my reign, the Moons of Saturn rebelled. The war did not end until I destroyed the moon, Rhea, outright. Fifty million dead. That is how stubborn our race is. They know how difficult it is for me to flex my hand billions of kilometers from the Core. But still they are afraid. So much of a ruler’s reign is a figment of the people’s imagination. My power isn’t ships. Isn’t Praetorians. My power is their fear. But they must have fresh reminders.