Once she would have taken that as a calculated insult on Donaia’s part. But she understood: They were the nicest rooms Traementis Manor had to offer after the heir’s suite and Donaia’s own, the bedding and window dressings of silver and teal silk faille, the walls paneled in pale birch over numinata meant to keep the room temperate year-round. And she didn’t mind being on the guest side of the manor, away from Donaia and Giuna.
Her new quarters even had a bath. And not just a hip bath, but a tub big enough for her whole body, in a special tiled chamber off her bedroom. Never in her life had Ren been fully immersed in clean water. She found the sensation both luxurious and profoundly strange, as if she suddenly knew what it felt like to be a tea flower.
Tess chattered on about servant gossip as she mopped out the tub where Renata had first scrubbed down, Liganti style, before stepping into the soaking tub. The heated water was easing the dull ache in Ren’s lower back. She almost slopped some of it out of the tub when she realized she could finally afford something that had seemed wildly out of reach before: a contraceptive numinat, which would also suppress her monthly courses.
She swallowed that thought before it could come out of her mouth. Not just because she’d been about to speak in her Vraszenian accent, but because the servants would be shocked to learn that the supposedly wealthy Alta Renata didn’t already have a contraceptive charm pierced into her navel.
“—and Suilis says to him, ‘You should be a skiffer instead of a footman, as obsessed as you are with your pole.’ Fair robbed him of all his breath for bragging.”
Tess’s giggle faded into silence when Renata didn’t respond in kind. Setting mop and toweling aside, she sank onto the bathing stool in a puff of skirts. “You’re that quiet this evening. I thought you’d be happy. Or leastwise relieved it’s all over.”
“The riots and the troubles with Indestor? Yes, certainly.” She answered in her Seterin accent, and held Tess’s gaze when their eyes met. With one dripping hand she gestured toward the door. Servants came in and out of nobles’ chambers all the time. There was no reason one would be in her bedroom now, but the walls in this old manor were thin. She couldn’t take that risk—couldn’t relax into herself on the assumption that nobody would see or hear.
Part of what made Tess such a bad liar was that her skin was always striving to match her hair; every emotion flushed more red to her freckled cheeks. She covered them now, then her mouth, as though she could catch the words that had already gushed forth. She stumbled to her feet and into a quick servant’s bob. “Begging your pardon, alta. Here’s me going on and disrupting your quiet.”
Then she sat again and spoke in a barely audible voice. “What do you want to do? We can’t keep at this all the time. Even odds which of us will snap first.”
It wouldn’t be Ren. It couldn’t be Ren. She was legally a noblewoman now, and therefore couldn’t be tried for the crime of impersonating a noble… but that didn’t mean she couldn’t suffer other consequences if the truth came out. For at least the next five months, she was bound by numinatria and her word to be a Traementis. A role she’d have to play at all times, waking and sleeping.
Even with Tess.
That realization tangled her voice, so that her whisper came out in a dreadful mixture of accents, neither Seterin nor Vraszenian. “Tess… you wanted a dressmaker’s shop. You can have one now. There’s no need for you to be trapped here.”
The look Tess gave her was almost as fierce as one of her tongue-blistering curses. “Well, there’s me out five mills, for clearly you’re the one whose wits went a-begging. As though I’d leave you a fox among the hounds that you thought were chickens.” She grimaced at her tangled metaphor. “Besides, I’ll have more success if you lend out my services to a few people. Cuffs pay as much for exclusivity as they do for quality. I’m more worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Ren said, now securely in Renata’s accent. If Tess could make the best of this, how could Ren be the one to complain?
Such confidence was harder to maintain after Tess bundled her out of the tub and left her to sleep. The bed was too soft, and too empty; for months she’d slept on a pallet in front of the kitchen fire, with her sister only a breath away. But now Tess was in the servants’ quarters, and Ren was alone—except for her nightmares.
Gammer Lindworm. Mettore Indestor. The horrifying days of her sleeplessness, when dream and waking life had twisted into one. The Night of Hells, her mother burning, the clan animals hunting her through the streets. Ash writhing through her blood and bone.
The zlyzen, tearing into Leato, over and over again.
Ren woke tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, but this time there was no Tess to brush the damp hair from her face and murmur something reassuring in sleepy, impenetrable Ganllechyn dialect. Clawing her way out of the covers, Ren curled into a huddle with her back against the headboard, knees up to protect her belly as though the zlyzen might reach out from nightmare to claw her in the waking world.
During the day, she could do her best to forget Leato’s death. But every night she relived it: the zlyzen’s hunger, his screams.
Her helplessness to save him.
“I’m trying,” she whispered to the darkness, scraping away tears. “I’m trying to help them.” It was the least she owed his family for abandoning him to save her own life.
A creak and groan came in response. The house settling, she told herself, but her gaze raked the shadows for any twisted, burnt-bone forms lurking there.
Lay a red thread around your bed. But Renata Viraudax Traementatis couldn’t indulge in Vraszenian superstition.
The suite of rooms had a balcony, overlooking a side garden. A neglected garden these days—no doubt Donaia would see to that eventually. For now, it suited Ren just fine; all she cared about was fresh air.
When she pulled the curtains aside to open the balcony doors, though, she froze.
A small corner of white projected between them. With careful fingers she pulled it through, unfolding it to find… a blank scrap of paper.
That seemed very improbable.
Rich cuffs lit their houses with numinatrian stones that didn’t risk burning the place down. But there was incense to sweeten the air, and a tiny numinat that set aflame whatever was placed inside it; Ren used that to light a stick of incense, then passed the paper over the fire until its hidden message manifested like a brown ghost.
R,
Thanks to “the boss of the biggest knot in the Shambles,” the Black Rose’s popularity has eclipsed even my own among Vraszenian audiences. The ziemetse wish to speak to her about matters I think would interest you.
Many titles have been attributed to me over the years, but I never expected to add “messenger boy” to the list. Perhaps you can find a different go-between to make arrangements. Arkady Bones seems resourceful and very enthusiastic.
Your servant,
R.
Ren slid down the wall with a breathless laugh. She hadn’t realized the fame of the “Black Rose” had spread so far. Or that the Rook would stoop to leaving a message wedged into her balcony doors—not after how they’d parted. Your servant, indeed.
The Black Rose had been an emergency measure, a disguise pulled from Ažerais’s Dream to get her past Grey Serrado at the amphitheatre. She hadn’t expected that guise to gain a name, much less notoriety.
She hadn’t expected the mask to remain in her hand when the leather petals of armor had faded.
It was tucked into the back of a top shelf in her wardrobe. Ren had to stand on a chair to retrieve it: a piece of rose-patterned lace, cut along the edges of petals and buds. She climbed down and let it slide through her fingers, hesitating.
Then she lifted it to her face.
Black material flowed over her body, just as it had before: silk and leather, layered like petals, gloves and boots and all. Not an illusion; it was solid and real. A gift from Ažerais—one she was apparently meant to keep.
To use.
“Fine,” Ren whispered in the darkness. “I guess we’re doing this.”
2
Lark Aloft
Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29
After the death of Kaius Sifigno, the Tyrant of Nadežra, the Cinquerat had torn down his palace and built a park on the grounds, intending it to be an exclusive precinct for the leaders of the city to disport themselves. Over the years its exclusivity had declined, along with its reputation, and the Gardens of Peaceful Night became Nightpeace Gardens.
Territory Ren had worked more than once in her days as a Finger. It was the perfect hunting ground for anyone who could fake wealth and gentility enough to pass scrutiny.
With spring well underway, the paths Giuna guided her down were bordered with a restrained riot of color, the landscaping cultivated with as much care as Tess gave to her sewing. It was a maze of small islets, the larger ones boasting tiled plazas for dancing and duels, the smaller holding jugglers, tumblers, patterners, and puppet shows. Arbors and pergolas winding with climbing honeysuckle and sweet pea provided aromatic shelter from the sun during the day and shadows for evening trysts—not all of them between the city’s elites. Nadežra’s night-pieces took their name from the gardens where many of them plied their trade.
Renata wondered if the gardens were especially busy tonight, or if it was only crowded in their vicinity. No sooner had she and Giuna set slipper onto the first dance plaza than they were accosted by people she’d only met in passing—mostly delta gentry, but also some from noble houses. The sort of people whose names were so close to the margins of their family registers, they were in danger of falling off the edge.
“Is your arm still attached?” Giuna asked as Renata fled the dance square and the clutch of the enthusiastic seventh son of a rice merchant. “I’m not certain about my toes.”
Giuna wore the delicate pink-and-gold ensemble that Tess had made for the doomed Coscanum-Indestor betrothal, while Renata’s underdress and surcoat were layered river greens. Together, they looked like wildflowers springing from the reeds—catching the eye of many, and making a splendid advertisement for the rise of House Traementis.
“I think Mede Galbiondi might turn his family millstones himself,” Renata said, only half in jest. She rotated her aching shoulder and pressed her fingers into the muscle to massage out the strain.
“It almost makes you miss Parma, doesn’t it?” Giuna used the excuse of reclaiming her wine from Tess to avoid another hopeful applicant’s gaze. “Too bad she and Bondiro have been permanently banned.”
“What mischief earned that? I thought… What’s the saying? ‘All is forgiven at Nightpeace.’”
“Except sabotaging the place, trying to get House Cleoter’s charter revoked.” Giuna’s grin was impish against the rim of her glass. “I believe a barrel of honey was involved. And several sacks of chicken feathers. And for some reason, a weather vane.”
Renata paused, trying to figure out what that might have been for. Then she shook her head and sipped from the cup Tess handed her. Chrysanthemum wine, chilled and very welcome. “I’m beginning to feel as if I should have just rented one of the booths and set up a sign saying ‘Here Be Marriage Bait.’”
“Better you than me,” Giuna murmured, her gaze catching on something in the crowd of dancers that made her cheeks turn pinker than they already were. Before Renata could follow to its source, a different source of blushes distracted her.
“Oh happy glass, with your lips upon it. Oh happy glass, your fingers caressing its curves. Oh happy glass, filled with sweet wine. And yet even the happiest glass is empty come morning—so goes life and love.”
Oksana Ryvček sauntered up, recognizable despite the shadows of her grey leather fox mask, the skirts of her silver crepe coat swaying with her hips. She clinked her glass against Renata’s. “I know, I know. Keep to the dueling grounds, not the stage. But I’ll wager it was better poetry than whatever they’ve dragged your ears with.” She waved at the dance plaza.
The rich depths of Ryvček’s Vraszenian accent were oddly comforting. As was the fencing master’s next comment: “Let me know if anyone needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Bad poetry isn’t worth dueling over,” Renata said.
“And you a Seterin noblewoman,” Ryvček scoffed. “Careful; you’ll get a reputation for being sensible.”
The warning pricked like a knife under her ribs, a reminder that a liar was never safe. “I’d only hate to waste your talents on something so trivial.”
“Mistress Ryvček enjoys keeping her blade warm.” That came from the direction Giuna had been looking. The white-feathered egret mask approaching belonged to Sibiliat Acrenix, with Marvisal Coscanum, masked in gold iris, following several reluctant steps behind.
“Alta Sibiliat. Alta Marvisal.” Renata offered them both a cautious curtsy.
She got none in return. “Must we be so formal? You’re dear Giuna’s cousin now, after all. You must call me Sibiliat, and I will call you Renata.”
Was that an overture of peace? Sibiliat had resented Renata when she first “arrived” in Nadežra, as a threat to her own social prominence. Perhaps now that Sibiliat’s father finally held a seat in the Cinquerat, she felt secure in her position—secure enough not to share her discovery of Renata’s financial straits with anyone beyond Giuna.
Then again, Ghiscolo Acrenix had conspired with Vargo to get that seat… and Renata had been a tool in their schemes. How much did his daughter know about that?
It would be easier for a friend to find out. Renata smiled and said, “You’re too kind, Sibiliat.”
After a pause long enough to be uncomfortable, Sibiliat’s elbow knocked Marvisal’s. “Alta Renata,” Marvisal began, before her thin lips pressed together at the formality of the address. She took a breath, her willow-thin frame straightening with resolve. “While I can’t hope for the friendship you have with Giuna and Sibiliat, I would like to assure you that I hold no ill will against you for your role in Mezzan’s downfall and the dissolution of my betrothal.” Another elbow, and a flinch. “And I hope that you will not hold his crimes against me.”
“Of course not,” Renata said warmly. “You were as much a victim as any of us.”
Arrant nonsense, but the show of sympathy was necessary. Marvisal relaxed, and the conversation turned to the pleasures and perils of Nightpeace Gardens. They were closed during the winter months, so Sibiliat justifiably believed Renata had never seen them before.
When Ryvček cleared her throat, Renata assumed the duelist was preparing to excuse herself. But no: Ryvček was alerting her to the approach of an unfamiliar man with a tortoiseshell mask gripped tight in his hands. He stopped just far enough away to be awkward and offered a stiff bow. “Alta Renata. Please excuse the interruption. My name is—”
“You,” Marvisal hissed, eyes narrowing. “You have Quinat’s own hubris, showing yourself here.”
Sibiliat caught Marvisal’s wrist before she could raise a hand against the man. “I remember you,” Sibiliat said. “You transferred Caerulet’s records to my father. Meppe, yes? Formerly Indestor?”
“Er. Yes. But don’t hold that against me?” Meppe’s voice quavered in a nervous chuckle that died under Marvisal’s glare. “Right. Sorry. I just… I’m not very good with words. Books, those I’m good with. Should have written a letter instead.”
That last was muttered low enough that Renata suspected she wasn’t meant to hear. His awkwardness supplanted her reflexive hostility with curiosity. “What do you want?”
“I know it’s presumptuous.” His tense laugh scraped like a dry pen nib across paper. “Given what Mettore did. But—well—your house is recruiting—”
“And you think she’ll adopt you?” Marvisal spat at his feet. “I’m amazed Meda Capenni even let you in here. Nightpeace Gardens truly have fallen, when a kinless man can walk their paths.”
Meppe hunched in like the tortoise who’d given its shell for his mask. Twinges
of sympathy and suspicion warred within Renata. House Indestor had been large enough that surely most of them knew nothing of Mettore’s plans… but this was Nadežra. Its foundations were built of lies as much as stone.
“Capenni’s net might need mending after a long winter,” Ryvček said, passing her wine to Giuna and shaking out her freed hands. “Bigger fish than this guppy seem to have slipped through.”
“Marvisal!” Mezzan’s shout would have carried across the dance plaza; from only six paces, it was unnecessarily loud. He waved a bottle for her attention, oblivious to everyone else. “’Visal, I hoped you’d come tonight. Your brother can’t stop me from seeing you here.”
The people nearby cleared space as though preparing to watch a fire-eater or a juggling act. Or perhaps it was just from the fumes, Renata thought as Mezzan stumbled closer; the bottle’s contents seemed to have gone as much down his chin as his throat. His shirt was stained with days of sweat and drink, his waistcoat unbuttoned. The thick, steel-blue velvet of his coat was better suited to winter than late spring, and one sleeve was torn as though he’d been dragged. His gloves were nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, Tyrant’s pisspot. I thought you said he’d left the city,” Sibiliat said, pulling Marvisal to safety as Mezzan swayed closer.
“I said Bondiro dumped him outside the city,” Marvisal hissed. “Clearly, he found his way back.”
And had run into some hazards along the way. Reddened lumps adorned Mezzan’s face and hands; they appeared to be bee stings. He said, “You’ll help me, ’Visal, won’t you? Egliadas slammed the door in my face. Like I’m some kind of—” His gaze slewed sideways and landed on Renata. “Traitor!”
The bottle shattered on the tile as Mezzan dropped it in favor of his sword. Meppe-formerly-Indestor stepped forward, mask half-raised like a shield, trying to placate his ex-cousin—but that only made matters worse. “You’re crawling at that foreigner’s heels now?” Mezzan snarled, his blade’s point rising unsteadily to Meppe’s nose. “I’ll deal with you after I’ve cut her face to ribbons.” He swerved and lunged at Renata.
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