“Gold libertines?”
“More like Gold corpses.” He lets that sit. “My men lost a good deal of friends, and the impalement has…made them reflexive. But I also don’t want you here in my headquarters. Friend of Glirastes or not, I don’t know you, and I’ve taken enough risks. So I will give you to him on several conditions: you do not leave the grounds of his estate and you submit to inspections whenever my guards at his villa ask you to.”
“That’s acceptable to me. He has a fine villa. Have you ever walked through the orchard there? He has the most lovely orchid gazebo at the center.”
He stares at me. “Right. Well, take care, Cato au Vitruvian.”
“Vitruvius. No reward then?” I ask as he reaches the door.
He sighs. “What do you want?”
“Several Pinks would do right prime. Come now, my goodman, surely you don’t abstain completely. What man could!”
“Say that again.” He takes a step back toward me. I look at the ground. “That’s what I thought.”
* * *
—
Accompanied by Republic legionnaires and a fleet of aides, Glirastes waits for me beside a large fountain of Laocoön and his sons in the foyer of the Mound. I can scarcely believe it is him. The bald Master Maker has always been slender, but now his aspect borders on cadaverous. Amongst the slurry of modern uniforms, his crimson linen robe with silver brocade makes him seem an out-of-place actor from a vulgar Plautusian play. When he sees me, those narrow Orange eyes ignite.
“Cato au Vitruvius, my lad, my heart!” he cries, and I am swallowed in crimson linen. I feel like I am hugging a skeleton. He pulls back to look up at me. The last time we met, he was a half meter taller than me. Now it is the reverse. “Your face…”
“A mere souvenir of a ghastly affair,” I reply. “Perish the memories.”
“Yes, let them perish indeed. You have quite the adventure to share. Let us away.”
THRAXA WATCHES CATO AND GLIRASTES board the flier.
“You saw how he knocked Drusilla’s bike into the hold,” she says. “That’s some damn fine flying from a Pixie.” She turns back to me. “If you gave me two minutes with Glirastes he’d have been begging to get back to work.”
“You didn’t see the man,” Harnassus says. “It’s like his prodigal son has returned. He was catatonic at the idea Cato might be a spy. Thinks we’ll torture him or put him in a hole. If we didn’t give him to the old cretin, who’d finish the project?”
“You,” Thraxa says.
“I wish I could,” he replies.
I watch Cato as the door shuts. “What do you think?” I ask Screw.
“Nothing remarkable there. Just a Pixie twit. Still…”
“Agreed.”
One thing troubles me. Alexandar took me through their escape. If Cato is so unremarkable, how is it that he survived and soldiers like Crastus and Drusilla did not? Luck only goes so far. “Screw put a monitor spike in him when loading him with anti-rads,” I tell Thraxa and Harnassus. “You’re both right. We need our Master Maker. But more important, we need to know if he is our Master Maker. We’ll watch and listen. Whether he’s Atalantia’s spy or just a provincial asshole, if Glirastes has gone sour we’ll find out through that Pixie right there.”
LADY BEATRICE,THE HOME OF Glirastes, is a wonder. Perched several hundred meters up the face of a mountain cliff overlooking the sea, the marble and glass monument to the bizarre would often be seen floating over the Bay of Sirens during the gentle spring months alongside the pleasure craft of the rich and famous. Now, with fuel monopolized by the Rising military, its womanly shape rests on its landing foundations.
It is colder than I remember. The little details have been forgotten. Flowers rot in vases, scum floats in shallow fountains, rooms are dusty and unlit, apples rot on the orchard grass. Much of Glirastes’s staff, I learn, have been pressed or have volunteered for service with the Rising. Many more were lost in his offices in Tyche or excused for security concerns.
Glirastes himself mirrors the house. He is guarded and faded.
He would not speak to me in the shuttle except to extend the ruse. I took his lead, understanding that they likely fixed me with a monitor spike.
“You remember Exeter, of course,” he says to me as we are greeted at the landing pad by his valet. Exeter is a spindly, bone-pale man with a cadaverous face as emotive as concrete. Few know he is the administrative genius behind Glirastes’s architectural empire. In the three springs I spent with Glirastes, I’ve only seen the eerie Brown smile once. It was early spring and the apple blossoms were in bloom and a mother bluebell was building a nest.
“Of course, always a pleasure. Are you still collecting those queer insects?” I ask.
“I fear I haven’t the time for passions these last years, dominus,” Exeter says. “However, my collection has grown since—”