“No,” I say, “it is detestable.”
“It is our finest vintage, dominus. Thessalonica ’35.”
“How embarrassing for your taste buds. Is the cellar in the same place? I’ll pick my own wine, since you seem incapable of basic competency.”
I stalk past him and throw open the cellar door, which is located in the mouth of a freestanding merman statue.
Rounding the corner at the cellar’s bottom stair, I follow a light to the back and find Glirastes waiting for me amongst dusty wine racks with a bottle of champagne. He pops it as I enter. “I believe champagne is in order when one returns from the grave,” he says. His hug is more sincere this time. He clings to me. “My old young friend, you’re a sight for weary eyes. Don’t make that face, these walls down here are quite impenetrable to that little spy trinket. Quicksilver is such an idiot. Mass-produces everything, no individual artistry. Very gauche in his spirit selection as well. We haven’t much time, so let us be quick.”
I sit and share the champagne and answer his barrage of questions. When I have finished, he leans back and traces the rim of his champagne flute with his pinky. “That is quite a tale. All that to come here. All that to confront your nemesis? Didn’t you read the Tragedians, boy? Don’t you know how this quest for revenge will end? What if he recognized you!”
“Wrecking balls seldom stop for conversations,” I say.
“Yes. You can practically see that Red girl hanging in his eyes, can’t you? Gorydamn Nero. Couldn’t just slap her on the wrist. I blame him for all this. Him and that idiot Fabii. And that idiot Bellona. Frankly, your ranks are replete with idiots. So many in fact, one might suspect if they were a little poorer, a little more victimized, a little more burdened with trial, they might have had the common sense to band together instead of sniping each other in an operatic game of emotional suicide chess. To make matters worse, it hasn’t changed. Not a bit. They still bicker. Carthii and Saud. Votum and everyone. And you expect them to hold hands with the Rim!” He laughs. “You’ve always been a romantic.”
“I thought it was a fellowship of two,” I reply.
“Oh, shut up. You could have contacted me,” he says, thinly trying to hide his grief. “You could have let me know you weren’t dead.”
“You have to understand what I saw.” He raises an eyebrow, always curious about Palatine gossip, especially the firsthand sort. It’s not his most noble quality. “I saw Aja hacked to ribbons and Octavia ripped here to here.” I trace the path Darrow’s blade made. “I saw the Jackal’s bombs detonating, and watched as Darrow pulled his tongue out. I saw my godfather ally with Darrow for the briefest flicker to down Lilath au Faran’s ships before they destroyed my home.”
He shudders.
“I saw all those people with all their plans strangled by the webs they wove. I wanted out. To his credit, Darrow spared me, and sent me away with Cassius.”
“All this time, I thought he might have,” Glirastes says. “I would not have helped him if I really thought he murdered you.”
I’m not sure if I believe that, but he does. “So I disappeared,” I say.
“And did you find what you were looking for? Did you find peace?”
“It’s not out there. At least not for me. Some men can stare at their feet and pretend the world isn’t falling apart. I cannot.”
“And behind the Grimmus banner, you rally? Atalantia is your savior?” he sneers. “She is a monster. A woman with a cape of cadavers as long as the Via Gloria. You know that or you wouldn’t be here.” He squints at me. “She’s going to use atomics, isn’t she?”
“Chemicals,” I admit.
He grows terribly quiet. “If that is the woman you follow, then the worlds are already lost.”
“There are certain realities—” I begin.
He interrupts. “Stop. I’ve heard that all before.”
“From yourself?” I ask. “Is that why you helped Darrow?”
“Yes!” he snaps, slamming his glass down so hard on the table it shatters and opens a gash on his hand. He stares at the blood seeping out. “Yes. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. Gold became…cruel after the Fall. Beyond cruel. As if it was their laxity that led to rebellion. Darrow is right in some things, you know. The metal miners here barely live past thirty. And the slaves…they actually call them that now. Not contractors or pioneers. Slaves.” He shakes his head. “I just didn’t realize the price my planet…my home would have to pay for my spasm of hope.”
“Is it worth the price?” I ask.
“What’s the alternative? Atalantia? Purges and camps? No. I’d rather we all burn nice and quick than line up for her pleasure.” He stands, ending the conversation. “I know you mean well. But if I’ve learned anything, meaning well isn’t enough. Whatever you thought I could do for you, I can’t do it. I won’t. Nothing good comes of good intentions.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder as he departs.
I tried to let it be his choice to help me, but in the end he leaves me no alternative but to force him as my grandmother taught.
“I was there in Tyche when the water came in,” I lie. He quarter-turns to me. “Thousands poured to the Water Colossus to seek its heights for shelter, knowing the work of Glirastes would give
them safety. Glirastes’s genius would give them shelter. When the wave came in, it swamped the Colossus. For a moment, I thought it would pull even it out to sea. But those people were right to believe in your work. As the waves rolled back, your Colossus endured, but of the people…nothing remained. Why do you think Atalantia is using chemicals instead of nukes? She couldn’t buy you all those years ago. So now she’ll take all your precious works for herself.”