“She never met Ragnar,” Sevro says.
“Is that her fault?” I ask. “She was bred in a lab, then moved freight in Echo City, then she was a freelancer, then a prisoner, then…”
“Warlord,” Sevro says, unhelpful.
“Sheisthe Republic,” I say, and Darrow’s frown deepens but it seems like a good thing. Am I getting traction? “It’s not her fault that she became what she had to. But I know if I came to her and told her she could help you two…she would.”
“She stole our kids,” Sevro says. “Unlike you, she was an active participant. She shot Kavax. I like Kavax.”
“And then she defended Victra against the Red Hand. Please, please trust me.”
Darrow just prods his potatoes until they come apart under his fork.He twirls the skin around one of the prongs. “Have you considered what will happen if you’re caught? Or if you are wrong about her?”
I look at his now-mashed taters. “Yeah.”
“And you know if you go in, we can’t protect you? You’re secondary to our mission.”
“Yeah.”
He sighs. “What do you think, Sev?”
“Hmm.” He strokes his goatee. “I think you ain’t as popular with the Volk as you think you are. I think if Lyria can get Volga to play ball, it doubles our chances when we do the Thing. I think if anyone can get us the evidence we need on Atlas, it’s Volga. If Lyria is wrong and Volga won’t play ball, then Lyria will probably die or be tortured. But she don’t know shit, so she can’t compromise the Thing. So the only real risk is her life, which is a risk I’m certainly willing to accept. More important, I think Cassius will hate it even more than he hates the Thing. So. What do I say? I say give Truffle Pig her shot. She’s earned it.”
64
LYSANDER
The Noble Lie
“Dustborn Thirty-Three, you are clearedfor approach.”
Hearing Pytha’s voice is like coming home. The battered Rim shuttle, one of theDustmaker’s own, coasts out from its hiding place in an impact crater on the moon of Valetudo toward my newly arrived expeditionary fleet.
Atlas cast my ten Praetorians and me as survivors of the massacre at Kalyke. The cramped confines and spartan creature comforts of the shuttle have left us looking the part. Bearded, exhausted, with our uniforms doctored by his Gorgons and wounds administered by Atlas himself, my Praetorians queue up to depart. I linger in the cockpit watching our approach.
“TheLightbringerhas never looked nobler,” Rhone says from behind my chair.
He’s partly right. Additional repairs to the damage she received in the Battle of Phobos were completed en route by the Votum builders—an incredible achievement. Not only are most of theLightbringer’s guns finally operational, but the Lune crescent—black, for war—has been painted inside a gold pyramid along her port and starboard. Beyond that the rest of her hull is still patched, heterogenous, and unpainted.
I nod as if it looked fresh off the line. I will show no more reticence in front of Rhone. Gods know what he’ll tell Atlas. I miss the total security in him I felt before he poisoned me. I mourn that loss of trust. It can never be as it once was. Nothing can.
“What of all this will you share with the ranks?” I ask him.
“The ranks are best treated like mushrooms: spoiled with shit and kept in the dark,” he replies. “I recommend you treat your ranks the same, august though they are. Lysander may be good and noble to his friends, but a Sovereign must be a clinical operator.” His eyes trace the house ships that attend theLightbringer.They belong to Reformers who came out here for the unity I preached that day in Rome. “So many have honored your call. It would be a shame to stain this noble enterprise.”
The full might of my Dracones XIII greets me in the main hangar of theLightbringeralong with my Reformer allies. Thirty-three thousand Praetorians snap to attention. I lost a fourth in the battle for Phobos. They are nearly as relieved to see me as they are distraught by my state. Limping into the hangar, I look back at their hard faces with far more wariness than I once did. If forced to choose, how many of them would follow Rhone or Atlas over me?
How many already do? Two hundred and twenty-one Gorgons aboard my ship, Atlas said.
I’m crushed into a hug by Cicero. “When we saw the atomic signatures, we feared you were dead at Kalyke. I feared—” He clears his throat, remembering himself and the eyes of the Reformers and Gold knights waiting behind him. Some of the knights have the dual scar of the New Shepherds, but there are several hundred new men and women. He swelled their ranks.
“Dido, Helios, Diomedes…what a waste,” Cicero murmurs.
“They will be avenged,” I say.
His eyes glisten as he nods. His grief is real, as is his righteous anger. He seizes Rhone’s arm and works his way to Drusilla, Markus, and Demetrius. “Well done, Praetorians. You are a credit to your legion. House Votum—nay, all of the Society is in your debt.”
“Any trouble from home?” I ask.
