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He did not want to know where Aussen was. That was a piece of knowledge so dangerous that just having it in his possession would put Aussen at incalculable risk. He would turn around right now and catch the next transport home. He would maintain ignorance, and Aussen would be safe.
But would Corcannon be safe?
It was a long time before he could force himself to stand away from the wall and turn his feet back toward the gridway, back toward more familiar streets, back toward the false sanctuary of home.
Chapter Twenty:
Pietro
I’ve found a new restaurant,” Pietro told Stollo two nights later as they were packing up at the distribution center. “I have a young courier friend and he knows the mostamazingplaces. This one isn’t much to look at, but the food is outstanding.”
“I’d love to go! Not tonight, though, sorry. Next time?”
“Of course.”
Stollo headed toward the door, then turned back with a smile. “A young courier friend?” he repeated. “Should I be jealous of how you’re spending your time?”
Pietro’s breath caught. Stollo was teasing, of course—he was laughing, wasn’t he?—but there might be a shade of anxiety in his warm eyes. “I’m probably forty-five years older than Cody, and so decrepit he’s always ready to catch me if I stumble,” Pietro said roundly. “I hardly think he views me as a likely prospect.”
“Sometimes you’re surprised to find out who’s attracted to you.”
Now it took some effort to still the pounding of his heart. “I suppose that’s true. I’ll have to start paying attention to all my casual interactions.”
“Not a bad idea,” Stollo said. He smiled again and strode off to get the center ready to shut down for the evening.
Pietro shambled out into the night, feeling tipsy as a teenager who’d misjudged his tolerance for alcohol. Oh, pointless to pretend he hadn’t felt a growing affection for Stollo, but he had managed to keep the feeling in a small woven basket inside his heart, an object too compact to take up much room but decorative enough to catch his attention every time he peered in that direction. He was too old and too sad and too damaged to be pursuing romances right now. Stollo would be much better off with someone whose heart was as generous and whole as his own.
But it was hard not to feel a certain triumphant glee at the notion that someone might love him—impossible not to feel marked by a peculiar radiance that was both universal and entirely unique to him. Of course, he would not—should not—act upon any offer that Stollo might extend. But how delicious to think that such an offer might be made. That someone wanted to make it. And Stollo, of all people! Anyone would be lucky to have caught the attention of such a man.
He was so happy he almost walked right in front of a private sprinter that came speeding down the gridway just as Pietro was trying to cross. “Hey!” someone called, and a stranger jerked him out of the way as the vehicle came to a screeching, bumpy halt. The driver leaned through the window to shout invective, but Pietro just shook his head and mouthed an apology.
“Thank you so much,” he said to the man who had saved him. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
The stranger was about Stollo’s age and looked like a banker or some other respectable soul. He shook his head. “You need to be careful,” he said. “Those gridcars can’t stop as quickly as you think.”
Pietro thanked him again and continued on his way home, both shaken and sobered. He wondered if this was some kind of broader message from the gods themselves, warning him that his carelessness could usher in the end of the world. Or merely emphasizing that he didn’t have the right to happiness any more. At any rate, he paid strict attention to every noise and movement for the rest of his journey home, and nothing else untoward happened.
Until he unlocked the door of his small apartment, walked in, and found Harlo sitting at his kitchen table.
For a long time, they merely stared at each other. Pietro was too dumbfounded to be slammed by any of the emotions he would have expected, such as pain or longing or despair. Harlo had aged visibly in the intervening decade. Pietro could see marks of time in the sparseness of the white hair, the gauntness of the severe cheeks, the slight tremor in the thin, beautiful hands. He wondered what changes Harlo noted in his own face; he could hardly remember what he had looked like ten years ago. Inside, he felt so old he would not have been surprised to learn a century had passed.
It seemed Harlo would not be the one to speak first, so Pietro finally shut the door, crossed the room, and sat down across from his visitor. Not too close; he had an urgent feeling that he must keep his distance.
“Somebody must have recognized me at the temple.”
“The library, actually,” Harlo replied. His voice was exactly as Pietro remembered, resonant and soothing. A voice you would trust to tell you the truth as handed down by the god himself. “Renato. You remember him?”
“Of course.”
“He followed you home one night.”
“How enterprising of him.”
“That was three weeks ago. Until then, I had no idea you were back in the city.”
“I’ve only been here a couple of months.”
“I waited,” Harlo said. “I was sure you would get in touch with me. But you didn’t.”
