“Matteo,” I say in relief. “You’re not surprised to see me.”
“No, but always delighted.”His voice takes on an edge.“Our spitfires will escort you in. Please don’t bother with the controls, au Bellona.”
“Just Bellona,” Cassius says.
Matteo warms to that.“Interesting. Darrow, I will see you soon.”
He disappears and I stand, grab Cassius’s shoulders, and kiss his head. “Now the hard part,” I say and head to the back.
He shouts after me, “Tell Sevro to clean up his mess in the sink!”
I go down the hall that leads from the cockpit, past the sensors, through the lounge, past the crew quarters and the chutes to the guns, past the quad of service rooms, down the ramp into the cargo bay, and to the door to the machine shop. It’s sealed, and I knock. Sevro doesn’t answer so I crank the door open.
His screaming music almost knocks me backward. My friend is making knives. He is shirtless, tattooed, and staring deadpan at the edge of a huge cleaver. Sparks spew as he sharpens its edge. He glances up, sees me shouting at him, and goes back to his work.
Sevro does not want to be here. He came along because he had to. He knows the importance of our mission, but it’s not made him better company. He has rules. He’ll share the same room or a task with us if it’s meal or ship related. But he won’t reminisce. He won’t joke. Sometimes at dinners, he’ll listen as Aurae plays a tune but most times he slinks back to the machine shop or to his quarters in the escape pod.
I call his name a few times, but I’ve been in battles that made less racket than the music of the Agean street scene. Greens never should have met Obsidians as far as I’m concerned. They call the musical style: Cacophony. I turn it off so the sharpening laser’s shriek against the metal is all that’s between us. “Working,” he says but he turns off the sharpener. He wipes the sweat off his body with a rag and eats sunflower butter, his new addiction, from a jar with a spoon. “We had a rule,” he says. “Door was closed.”
“When you start following Cassius’s rules, I’ll follow yours. We’re on his ship, and you keep leaving messes in the sink.”
He grunts. “Aurae did it. Messy for a Pink.”
“If you’re going to lie, at least put in some effort. Anyway, we’re here. I’ve just spoken to Matteo. They’ve opened up a hangar for us to land.”
He tosses the rag up and it divides in two as it falls on the new blade. “Nice.”
“What’s that one called?”
“Abomination.” He turns the cleaver. I scan the wall he’s made his personal armory. So far he’s made a Lysander, a Lilath, an Atlas, and an Apollonius. I doubt it’s healthy naming knives for people who have given him trauma, but we all process our own way.
“Are you coming with?” I ask.
He turns Abomination a few times. “I’m in the middle of a thought.”
It feels wrong to meet with Quicksilver without him, but they’ve always been oil and water. “You still haven’t given me an answer. Will you teach me how to make one of those on the way back?”
He eyes me, walks toward me with Abomination, slides it past my face, and turns his music back on with its tip. Cacophony rattles between us, and I take the hint.
38
DARROW
Tabula Rasa
Regulus ag Sun isa voluble, rude, insanely clever man of many layers and shifting schemes. Nicknamed Quicksilver, he is, above all else, a wary man. A decade and a half sponsoring the Sons of Ares instilled him with that virtue, if he didn’t already have it before he met Fitchner. Our ship is scanned for atomics and who knows what else as it taxis into a hangar beneath one of the asteroid’s larger craters.
When the ship’s door opens and the ramp unfurls, I descend alone. Sevro’s music trickles out behind me. Despite the cordial welcome, I expected to come out to a phalanx of automatons. Instead, Matteo waits alone. He looks out of place in the bleak hangar, better fit for the luxuries of a Venusian court or a high-profile Lunese symposium than all the way out here on the faultline between civilizations.
“Darrow, my goodman, my struggler. Back from the dead once more.”
I thought I’d call him deserter. But I can’t be angry, not at Matteo. Lorn might have taught me to kill, but Matteo was my first teacher in my life after the mines—and in many ways, my most important teacher. He taught me how tobea Gold.
As I approach him to shake his hand, his arms go wide and he wraps his wispy limbs around my midsection. I allow my arms to circle his shoulders and I kiss the top of his head. His hair, darker now, smells like jasmine.
“How are you?” he asks when we part. “We’ve so much to catch up on.”
“I’m sorry, Matteo. But I don’t have time—”
