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Fitchner descends with a smile that tells a tale of exhaustion, fear, and a little bit of pride.
“May we talk?” he asks me, looking about at my scowling friends.
Fitchner and I sit together in the Apollo warroom. Mustang stokes the fire. Fitchner eyes her skeptically, disliking her presence. He has an opinion on most things, like someone else I know.
“You’ve made such a mess of things, lad.”
“Let’s agree that you won’t call me lad,” I say.
He nods. There’s no gum in his mouth. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to tell me. It’s the worry in his eyes that cues me in.
“Apollo has not left Olympus,” I say.
He stiffens, surprised at my guess. “Correct. He is still there.”
“And what does that mean, Fitchner?” Mustang comes to sit beside me.
“Just that,” Fitchner answers, looking at me. “He has not left Olympus like he ought. It’s all a mess. Apollo was getting a juicy appointment if the Jackal won. Same with Jupiter and some of the others. There was talk of one of the Praetor Knight positions opening up on Luna.”
“And now that choice is slipping away,” Mustang says. She glances over at me with a smirk. “Because of a boy.”
“Yes.”
I laugh. The jamField makes the sound echo. “So what is to be done?”
“You still want to win, yes?” Fitchner asks.
“Yes.”
“And that is the point of all this?” he asks me, though it’s clear there’s something else in his head. “You’ll get an apprenticeship no matter.”
I lean forward and tap my finger on the table. “The point is to show them that they can’t gorywell cheat in their own game. That the ArchGovernor can’t just say his son is best and should beat me just because he was born lucky. This is about merit.”
“No,” Fitchner says, leaning forward. “It’s about politics.” He glances at Mustang. “Will you send her away already?”
“Mustang stays.”
“Mustang,” he mocks. “So, Mustang, what do you think about the ArchGovernor cheating for his son?”
Mustang shrugs. “Kill or be killed, cheat or be cheated? Those are the rules I’ve seen Aureates follow, especially Peerless Scarred.”
“Cheat or be cheated.” Fitchner taps his upper lip. “Interesting.”
“You should know about the cheating part,” she says.
“You need to let Darrow and me have a word, Mustang.”
“She stays.”
“It’s okay,” she mutters cryptically. She squeezes my shoulder as she leaves. “I’m bored of your Proctor anyway.”
When Mustang is gone, Fitchner stares at me. He reaches to his pocket, hesitates, then pulls something out. A small box. He tosses it on the table and gestures for me to open it. Somehow I know what is inside.
“Well, you bastards do owe me a few bounties,” I laugh bitterly as I slip Dancer’s knifeRing onto my finger. I flex the joint and a blade pops out, extending along the top of the finger eight inches. I flex the joint again and it slithers home.
“The Obsidians took it from you before you went through the Passage, yes? I was told it was your father’s.”
“Someone told you that?” I pick at the warroom table with the blade. “How very innaccurate of them.”
