Iron Gold (Red Rising Saga 4)

“I never left your service, sir. But your brother…”

“Yes, I hear he has been busy despoiling the house of my mother and father. Where is the idle libertine?”

“Swimming, sir.” Vorkian’s face darkens in disgust. “With his entourage.”

“Magnificent. I am known to enjoy an aquatic fete.” Apollonius’s teeth glimmer. “Smile, Vorkian, the end of ignominy draws nigh. For we have glory to claim once again. Tell the guards and servants they are to retire for the evening to their barracks and quarters. There you will stay and rest, for this is a family matter.”

“Some of the men do not know you, dominus. They’re the Ash Lord’s toads.”

“Can they be overcome?”

“Yes. The loyal stand ready.” Her men nod their heads.

“Good. Pass the word. Take the Ashmen to the barracks, douse them with engine grease, and light them on fire. Then cut off their heads and arms and feed them to the crabs.”

“With pleasure, dominus.”

Vorkian and her men jog off into the darkness as we press into the main house. Green foliage consumes the place, jungle vines creeping on walls, trees leaning over walkways. Our path carries us into the complex through the glass doors at the base of a glass pyramid. We pass more guards, who, alerted by Vorkian, kneel at Apollonius’s arrival. Two are dragging a Gray officer beaten half to death.

“Minotaur Invictus,” they say to their dread lord, and carry on their dark task. Soon, the complex is a ghost town.

“There should be more of them,” Sevro mutters under his breath.

We find a man swimming laps in the back of the complex, where the roof extends out over a rocky cove. The ocean water is lit from beneath with lights. Four other Golds lounge by the side of the water on divans, sipping wine and eating from small plates. Two are naked, the others wrapped in silk robes. Three Pinks flit about, distributing flutes and rubbing sore muscles.

When Tharsus has finished his laps, he slides through the water to the edge and pulls himself out. He’s naked and less muscular than Apollonius, all arms and legs and a newly grown belly paunch. He goes to his towel, but picks up the glass of wine there instead. Hard to imagine he is one of the only Boneriders to escape capture. Last time I saw Tharsus in the flesh, he was trying to purchase Sevro’s corpse from Cassius. He stands, slouching to sip his wine while he fondles the breast of one of the Golds playfully. She swats at him with an annoyed laugh, but then acquiesces to a deep kiss.

He dribbles wine over the Gold woman’s stomach till it collects in her navel. He stoops and she moans softly as he licks it out. The Pink who had been massaging the woman’s feet slinks away. None have seen us. We scan for signs of any guards.

“You said that ship carries Frankian wines?” a muscled Gold man wearing nothing but a diamond necklace says in surprise.

“Indeed,” Tharsus says.

“It looked like an assault frigate. Wherever did you find it?”

“Stolen from Quicksilver himself by my audacious armada. Treasure, my goodman, lies in the stars.”

“Ever the mogul,” another sycophant adds. One of the Pinks hands him a flute.

“We must throw a fete of bacchanalian proportions,” the muscled Gold says. “The new rationing restrictions are draconian. We’re practically nibbling on the crust of bread. I feel like a Raa.”

“You’re as ugly as one,” Tharsus says.

“I daresay, a party is a charming thought, Gregarius,” the woman says. “If Tharsus can control his appetites long enough to save some for the rest of us.”

“We can invite the Ash Lord,” Tharsus adds, reaching for his com.

“Oh, that old hermit,” the woman replies. “I daresay it will take more than a fete to lure him from his shell.” She shudders. “What if he brings Atalantia and her concubine?”

“Vorkian,” Tharsus says into his com. “Vorkian, where is the damn wine? That ship landed twenty minutes ago. I’ll have you scourged if you make my guests wait any longer.”

“Don’t you mean my guests?” Apollonius says, stepping onto the shadowed patio. We follow behind him, keeping our eyes out for unaccounted guards.

Tharsus wheels on us, unable to make out our faces.

“Who is that? How dare you wear armor in my presence. Vorkian?”

“Not Vorkian,” Sevro says.