Red Rising — Chapter 40: Paradigm

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Paradigm

“Fitchner left?” she asks me.

“Through the window,” I say.

I watch Mustang across Apollo’s white warroom table. A blizzard

has risen outside, no doubt meant to keep my army inside the castle

around their warm res and hot pots of soup. Her hair coils about

her shoulders, held by leather bands. She wears the wolfcloak like

the others, though hers is streaked with crimson. Muddy boots with

spurs are kicked up on the table. Her standard, the only weapon she

really favors, leans on a chair beside her. Mustang’s face is a quick

one. Quick to mocking smiles. Quick to pleasant frowns. She gives

me the smile and asks what is on my mind.

“I am wondering when you will betray me,” I say.

Her eyebrows knit together. “You’re expecting that?”

“Cheat or be cheated,” I say. “Echoed by your own lips.”

“Are you going to cheat me?” she said. “No. Because what

advantage would you gain? You and I have beaten this game. They

would have us believe one must win at the cost to all the rest. That

isn’t true, and we’re proving it.”

I say nothing.

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“You have my trust, because when you saw me hiding in the mud

after taking my castle, you let me escape,” she explains

thoughtfully. “And I have your trust, because I pulled you from the

mud when Cassius left you for dead.”

I do not respond.

“So there is the answer. You are going to do great things,

Darrow.” She never calls me Darrow. “Maybe you don’t have to do

them alone?”

Her words make me smile. Then I bolt upright, startling her.

“Get our men,” I order.

I know she was looking forward to resting here. I was too. The

smell of soup tempts me. So does the warmth and the bed and the

thought of spending a quiet moment with her. But that is not how

men conquer.

“We’re going to surprise the Proctors. We’re going to take

Jupiter.”

“We can’t surprise them.” She taps her ring. The jamField Fitchner

had is gone. We’d ditch the rings completely, but they are our

insurance. The Proctors may be able to edit out a few things here

and there, but common sense dictates that they can’t tamper with

the footage too much or the Drafters will get suspicious.

“And even if we make it through this storm, what will taking

Jupiter accomplish?” she asks. “If Apollo didn’t leave when his

House lost, Jupiter won’t either. You’re just going to provoke them

into interfering. We should go after the Jackal now!”

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I know the Proctors are watching me plan this. I want them to

know where I’m going.

“I’m not ready for the Jackal,” I tell her. “I need more allies.”

She looks at me, eyebrows pinched together. She doesn’t

understand, but it doesn’t matter. She will soon enough.

Despite the blizzard, my army moves swiftly. We bundle ourselves

in cloaks and furs so thickly that we look like animals stumbling

through the snow. At night, we follow the stars, moving despite the

mounting winds and the piling snow. My army does not grumble.

They know I will not lead them purposelessly. My new soldiers press

themselves harder than I would have thought possible. They have

heard of me. Pax makes sure of that. And they are desperate to

impress me. It becomes problematic. Wherever I walk, the

procession around me suddenly doubles their eorts so that they

overtake those in front or outpace those behind.

The blizzard is vicious. Pax always stands close to me and

Mustang, as though he means to block us from the wind. He and

Sevro are always stepping on each other’s toes to be nearest me,

though Pax would likely want to light my res and tuck me in bed

at night if I let him, while Sevro would tell me to pick my own ass. I

see his father in him every time I look at him now. He seems weaker

now that I know his family. There’s no reason that should be the

case; I guess I just supposed he really did spring from the loins of a

she-wolf.

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Eventually, the snows cease and spring comes fast and hard,

which conrms my suspicions. The Proctors are playing games. The

Howlers make sure all eyes are to the sky in case Proctors decide to

harass us as we make our way. None do. Tactus keeps an eye out for

their tracks. But it is quiet. We see no enemy scouts, hear no war

trumpets in the distance, see no smoke rising except to the north in

Mars’s highlands.

We raid provision stores in burnt and broken castles as we push

toward Jupiter. There are jugs from Bacchus’s castle that Sevro was

disappointed to discover full of grape juice instead of wine, salted

beef from Juno’s deep cellars, molding cheeses, sh wrapped in

leaves, and bags of the ever-present smoked horsemeat. They keep

us full as we march.

In four rugged days, I have reached and besieged Jupiter’s

triplewalled castle in the low mountain passes. Snow melts swiftly

enough to make the ground soggy for our horses. Streams ow

through our camp. I do not bother devising a plan of action. I

simply tell Pax’s, Milia’s, and Nyla’s divisions that whoever gives me

the fortress will win a prize. The defenders are very few and my

army takes the outer fortications in a day by making a series of

wooden ramps under intermittent arrow barrages.

My other three divisions scout the surrounding territory en force

in case the Jackal decides to stick his nose into this. Jupiter’s main

army, it seems, is stranded across the now-thawed Argos laying

siege to Mars’s castle. They did not expect the river to thaw so

quickly. Still there is no sign of the Jackal’s men or of the Proctors. I

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wonder if they have found Fitchner locked in one of the Apollo

Castle cells yet. I left him food and water and a face full of bruises.

On the third day of the siege, a white ag is own from Jupiter’s

ramparts. A thin boy of middling height and timid smiles slips out

Jupiter Castle’s postern gate. The castle lies on high, rocky ground.

It is sandwiched between two huge rock faces, so its three-tiered

walls bow outward. Soon I would have tried sending men down the

rock faces. It would have been a job for the Howlers—but they’ve

had enough glory. This siege belongs to the soldiers captured when

we fought Apollo.

The boy walks tentatively in front of the main gate. I meet him

there with Sevro, Milia, Nyla, and Pax. We are a fearsome lot even

without Tactus and Mustang, though Mustang could never really be

called fearsome in appearance—maybe spirited, at best. Milia looks

like something out of a nightmare—she’s taken to wearing trophies

like Tactus and Thistle. And Pax has cut notches along his huge axe

for each slave he has taken.

In front of my lieutenants, the boy shows his nervousness. His

smiles are quick, almost as if he’s worried we might disapprove of

them. The ring on his nger is that of Jupiter. He looks hungry,

because it barely ts on him any longer.

“Name is Lucian,” the boy says, trying sounding manly. He seems

to think Pax is in charge. Pax booms a laugh and points to me and

my slingBlade. Lucian inches when he looks at me. I think he well

knew I was the leader.

“So we here to swap smiles?” I ask. “What’s your word?”

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“The word is hunger,” he laughs piteously. “We’ve not eaten

anything but rats and raw grain in water for three weeks.”

I almost pity the boy. His hair is dirty, eyes teary. He knows he’s

giving up a chance at an apprenticeship. They’ll shame him for

surrendering for the rest of his life. But he is hungry. So are the

seven other defenders. Oddly, all are of Jupiter, not slaves. Their

Primus left their weak instead of the slaves behind.

The only condition they have in surrendering the castle is that

they must not be enslaved. Only Pax grumbles something honorable

about them needing to earn their freedom like all the rest of us, but

I agree to the boy’s request. I tell Milia to watch them. If they act

seditious, she’ll make trophies of their scalps. We tether our horses

in the courtyard. The stone is cobbled and dirty. A tall, angular keep

stretches up and into the cli’s wall.

Darkness seeps through the clouds. A storm is coming to the

mountain pass, so I bring my force into the castle and bar the gates.

Mustang and her troop stay beyond the walls and will return later in

the evening from scouting with Tactus. We speak over the

commUnits and Tactus curses us for having a dry roof over our

heads. The night’s rain is heavy.

I make sure our veterans get the rst beds in Jupiter’s dormitories

before we eat. My army may be disciplined, but they’ll shiv their

own mothers for a warm bed. It’s the one thing most of them never

got used to—sleeping on the ground. They miss their mattresses and

silk sheets. I miss the small cot I used to share with Eo. She’s been

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dead now longer than we were married. I’m surprised how much it

hurts to realize that.

I think I’m eighteen now, Earth metric. Not rightly sure.

Our bread and meats are like heaven to the starved defenders of

Jupiter. Lucian and his lot, all skinny, tired-looking souls, eat so fast

that Nyla is fussing about them ripping their guts. She runs around

telling them each that the smoked horsemeat isn’t galloping o

anywhere. Pax and his BloodBacks occasionally throw bones at the

meek lot. Pax’s laugh is infectious. It booms out of him and then

turns something feminine as it continues past two seconds. No one

can keep a straight face when he gets rolling. He’s talking about

Helga again. I look for Mustang so we can laugh about it, but she’ll

be away for hours more. I miss her even then, and I swell a little

inside my chest because I know she will curl into my bed this night

and together we’ll snore like Uncle Narol after Yuletide.

I call Milia to the head of the table. My army lounges around

Jupiter’s warroom; they are easy in conquest. Jupiter’s map is

destroyed. I cannot make out what they know.

“What do you think of our hosts?” I ask Milia.

“I say put them under the sigil.”

I cluck my tongue. “You really don’t like to keep promises, do

you?”

She looks very much like a hawk, face all angles and cruelty. Her

voice is of a similar breed. “Promises are just chains,” she rasps.

“Both meant for breaking.”

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I tell her to leave the Jupitareans alone, but then loudly command

her to fetch the wine we scavenged on our trek to Jupiter. She takes

some boys and brings up the barrels from Bacchus’s store.

I stand foolishly on the table. “And I order you to get drunk!” I

roar to my army. They look at me like I am mad.

“Get drunk?” one says.

“Yes!” I cut him o before he can say more. “Can you manage

that? Act like fools, for once?”

“We’ll try,” Milia cries. “Won’t we?” She’s answered in cheers.

Some time later, as we drink Bacchus’s stores, I loudly oer some to

the Jupitareans. Pax stumbles up in protest at the idea of sharing

good wine. He’s a good actor.

“Are you contradicting me?” I demand.

Pax hesitates but manages to nod his giant head.

I draw my slingBlade from its back scabbard. It rasps in the humid

warroom air. A hundred eyes go to us. Thunder rolls outside. Pax

wobbles forward with a giant inebriated step. His own hand is on

his axe’s hilt, but he does not draw it. After a moment, he shakes his

head and goes to a knee—he’s still almost my own height. I sheathe

my sword and pull him up. I tell him he’s to run patrols.

“Patrols? But … in the storm and rain?”

“You heard me, Pax.”

With a grumble, the BloodBacks wobble after him to go about

their punishment. They’re all smart enough to have gured out their

parts even if they don’t know the play. “Discipline!” I brag to

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Lucian. “Discipline is the best of mankind’s traits. Even in big brutes

like that.”

In Pax’s absence, I make a show of giving ceremonial wolfcloaks

to the slaves of Venus and Bacchus who earned their freedom in

taking this fortress—ceremonial because we don’t have any time to

nd wolves. There is laughter and lightness. Merriment for once,

though no one discards their weapons. Nyla is coaxed into singing a

song. Her voice is like an angel’s. She sings at the Mars Opera House

and was scheduled to perform in Vienna until a better opportunity

came along in the form of the Institute. The opportunity of a

lifetime. What a lark.

Lucian sits in the corner of the warroom with the other seven

defenders watching our soldiers make a show of falling asleep atop

tables, in front of the re, along the walls. Some slink away to steal

beds. The sound of snores tickles my ears.

Sevro stays close to me, as though the Proctors could rush in and

kill me at any moment. I tell Sevro to get drunk and leave me be. He

obeys and is soon laughing, then snoring atop the long table. I

stumble over my sleeping army to Lucian, a smile across my face. I

have not been drunk since before my wife died.

Despite Lucian’s meekness, I nd him curious. His eyes rarely

meet mine and his shoulders slump. But his hands never go to his

trouser pockets, never fold to guard himself. I ask him about the war

with Mars. As I thought, it’s almost won. He says something about a

girl betraying Mars. Sounds like Antonia to me.

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I must move quickly. I don’t know what will happen if my House’s

standard and castle are taken even though I have my independent

army. I could technically lose.

Lucian’s friends are tired, so I give them leave to go try to nd

beds. They won’t be a problem. Lucian stays to talk. I invite him

over to the warroom table. As Lucian’s friends le out, I hear

Mustang in the hall. She waltzes into the room. Thunder rolls

outside. Her hair is damp and matted, wolfcloak soaked, boots

tracking mud.

Her face is a model of confusion when she sees me with Lucian.

“Mustang, darling!” I cry. “I fear you’re too late. Went straight

through Bacchus’s stores already!” I gesture to my snoring army and

wink. Maybe fty remain, sprawled out and in various states of

sleep across the large warroom. All drunk as Narol on Yuletide.

“Getting shitfaced seems a prime idea at a time like this,” she says

strangely. She looks back to Lucian, then to me. She doesn’t like

something. I introduce her to Lucian. He mumbles how nice it is to

meet her. She snorts a laugh.

“How did he convince you not to make him a slave, Darrow?”

I don’t know if she understands what game I’m playing.

“He gave me his fortress!” I wave my clumsy hand to the half-

destroyed stone map on the wall. Mustang says that she will join us.

She begins to call some of her men in from the hall, but I cut her o.

“No, no. Me and Lucian here were becoming prime friends. No girls.

Take your men and go nd Pax.”

“But …”

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“Go nd Pax,” I say.

I know she’s confused, but she trusts me. She murmurs goodbye to

me and Lucian and closes the door. The sound of her bootheels

slowly fades.

“Thought she’d never leave!” I laugh to Lucian. He leans back in

his chair. He really is very slim, nothing excess to him at all. His

blond hair is clipped plainly. His hands thin and useful. He reminds

me of someone.

“Most people don’t want pretty girls to leave,” Lucian says,

smiling sincerely. He even blushes a little when I ask if he really

thinks Mustang is pretty.

We talk for nearly an hour. Gradually, he lets himself relax. He

lets his condence grow and soon he is telling me of his childhood,

of a demanding father, of family expectations. But he’s not pitiful

when he does this. He is realistic, a trait I admire. It’s no longer

necessary for him to avoid my eyes when we talk. His shoulders

don’t hunch quite so much, and he becomes pleasant, even funny. I

laugh loudly half a dozen times. The night grows late, but still we

talk and joke. He laughs at the boots I wear, which are swaddled in

animal furs for warmth. They are hot now that the snows melt, but I

need to wear the pelts.

“But what of you, Darrow? We gab and gab over me. I think it’s

your turn. So tell me, what is it that’s taken you here? What pushes

you? I don’t think I’ve heard of your family …”

“Not people you would care to hear about, to tell it true. But I

think it comes down to a girl, that’s all. I am simple. So are my

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reasons.”

“The pretty one?” Lucian blushes. “Mustang? She hardly seems

simple.”

I shrug.

“I told you everything!” Lucian protests. “Don’t be a vague Purple

on me. Cut to it, man!” He raps the table impatiently.

“Fine. Fine. The whole story.” I sigh. “See that pack beside you?

There’s a bag inside it. Reach and grab it for me, will you?”

Lucian pulls the bag out and tosses it to me. It clinks on the table.

“Let me see your hand.”

“My hand?” he asks with a laugh.

“Right, just put it out, please.” I pat the table. He doesn’t react.

“Come on, man. There’s this theory I’ve been working on.” I pat the

table impatiently. He puts his hand out.

“How does this tell your story or theory?” His smile is still on.

“It’s a complicated one. Better to show you.”

“Fair enough.”

I open the bag and dump out its contents. A score of golden sigil

rings roll across the table. Lucian watches them roll.

“These all come from the dead kids. The kids the medBots

couldn’t save. Let’s see.” I shue through the pile of rings. “We

have Jupiter, Venus, Neptune, Bacchus, Juno, Mercury, Diana, Ceres

… and we have a Minerva right here.” I frown and rummage

around. “Hmm. Odd. I can’t nd a Pluto.”

I look up at him. His eyes are dierent. Dead. Quiet.

“Oh, there’s one.”

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