The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  That comment about a coup… was that Vargo’s aim? She wanted to laugh it off—if Elsivin the Red’s rebellion failed, Vargo with his knots was unlikely to succeed—but not long ago she would have laughed off the idea of Vargo becoming a noble.

  She had no love for most of the Cinquerat, but the idea of him ruling over the city was no better.

  In her distraction, Renata failed to steer the conversation into safer waters. She was startled when Vargo turned to her. “You read pattern?” The scar through his brow flexed into view as he arched it.

  “If a few experiments deserve that name,” she said, hoping her tense laugh sounded like embarrassment. “I find it intriguing, but there was only so much I could learn in Seteris.”

  “Another fortunate reason for you to come to Nadežra,” Tanaquis said. “I’m so eager to learn more.”

  The ringing for seventh sun echoed faintly from the street. Vargo eyed the slant of light gilding the dust in the air and grimaced. “As am I, but I can’t be late for my appointment with Meda Fienola’s boss. Not when it’s taken me three weeks to get that appointment.” He straightened his coat with an aggrieved tug. “Some clerk in His Worship’s office has apparently decided now is a good time to revive an old rule that all requests must be made within the hour of seventh sun—to honor Sebat—and filed in triplicate. With brown ink, mind you, not blue. I’d assume they’re stonewalling me specifically, but I’m not the only one having problems.”

  Renata would have enjoyed his frustration more if she didn’t share it. “I had a petition rejected because apparently when the clerk said I had three days to file, he meant down to the bell.”

  “Exactly. And unless someone has a better proposal than mine, I need to get started on transmuting prismatium for the numinat.”

  “Yes, you’ll need rather a lot of it,” Tanaquis said, her fingers drifting across the spread of pages that had overtaken the table. “For that alone, you have my sincere support in finding some other method. Creating prismatium is so dull.”

  ::Dull? What does she mean, dull? The Great Work is the highest form of…::

  Renata could at least take comfort that Vargo departed on a tide of telepathic pique. She hid her amusement with a frown as the door to the parlour closed, leaving her alone with Tanaquis.

  “Something troubles you?” Tanaquis asked in a rare moment of observation, looking up from restacking and bundling the designs.

  Now it was Renata’s turn to hesitate. Of anyone in Nadežra, Tanaquis was the most likely to be able to answer her questions. But asking them would require her to thread her way through a very delicate maze.

  “Ever since my sleeplessness,” she began, then wiped that away with a stroke of her hand. “No, I think… ever since Vargo rescued me from the realm of mind. I’ve been noticing something… odd.” It hadn’t actually begun until the amphitheatre, when she strengthened the thread that connected her to Vargo, but Tanaquis didn’t need to know that.

  Tanaquis’s nod prompted her. “I’ve been hearing a voice,” Renata admitted. “Around Vargo. I think it’s a spirit of some kind, speaking to him. And he answers it.”

  “A spirit?” It was almost unnerving, how Tanaquis watched her without blinking. “What does it say? How does he answer it? Aloud?”

  “No, I—I think I’m hearing his thoughts. But not all of them; only the ones he sends in reply. It happened a few times just now, while Vargo was here. The spirit seems to know a great deal about numinatria.”

  “Fascinating.” Tanaquis sipped her coffee, not seeming to mind that her cup had gone stone cold. “I wonder if it has anything to do with the numinat on his chest. You’ve seen it, yes? Though I imagine you were preoccupied with other concerns.”

  Something about the way she said that… “We aren’t lovers, Tanaquis. But I caught a glimpse of it on the Night of Hells.” Through the body paint that had nearly been the most opaque part of his costume. The flash of heat that went through her at the memory was chased by a cold touch of anger. “When did you see it?”

  “He showed it to me—Ah, right; you were not of sound mind at the time. Why do you think I let him go into the realm of mind after your spirit? It’s some sort of anchor or binding numinat, so I thought him less likely to become lost. Beyond that, however, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’d dearly love to take a tracing of it.”

  Half the people in Renata’s life would have meant that as innuendo. Tanaquis’s interest, though, was purely intellectual. It helped distract from the memory of dancing with Vargo that night—the paint on his skin, the interest in his kohl-smudged eyes. “You think that numinat binds him to the spirit?”

  “It’s the most likely answer. Could you sketch what you recall of it?” Before Renata could protest, charcoal and a mostly blank sheet of paper were thrust into her hands.

  It was months ago, eclipsed not just by the paints covering the mark but by the other events of that night, and Renata was no artist. She drew a dubious, lopsided circle, then attempted to fill in some lines. “But how did he do it? And why?”

  “If this spirit is as knowledgeable about numinatria as you claim, there’s your why right there. I’d wondered how Eret Vargo managed to learn so much, given his background. How amazing it must be, to have a conduit of cosmic wisdom at your disposal! As to the how… That’s even more of a mystery, if he managed it without any guidance.” She wrinkled her nose at Renata’s sketch. “You can stop. That isn’t the least bit useful.”

  “I’m afraid I was always hopeless at even basic inscription.”

  Tanaquis didn’t appear to find that suspicious. She patted Renata’s hand absently as she took the charcoal away. “You have pattern instead. A whole realm of the cosmos I never gave much thought to before! So short-sighted, attempting to destroy the wellspring. There’s much to be learned here—from you and Vargo both.”

  Westbridge, Lower Bank: Colbrilun 33

  In the Vraszenian calendar, the holiday of Six Candles was a time of nonviolence, out of respect for the memory of the dead Ižranyi. People flocked to the river to float reed votive boats down the Dežera, then visited the nearest labyrinth to make offerings to Čel Tmekra, the deity of death, that the lost spirits of that clan might someday find their way to Ažerais’s Dream.

  Ren hadn’t celebrated Six Candles properly since her mother died. And she wouldn’t this year, either—because she was busy helping Koszar and Idusza shift to the new refuge she’d found for them.

  In a normal year, it would have been an ideal time to move someone who didn’t want to be seen. The streets and bridges away from the river were relatively quiet, with fewer eyes to note a man who still couldn’t walk without support. But with all the tensions in this city, it wasn’t a normal year.

  “More of Branek’s knot-traitors,” Idusza hissed in Arenza’s ear, nails digging into her arm as they both peered past the corner of an ostretta. The squad of armed fists lounging in the plaza were the third they’d run afoul of since Arenza, Serrado, and Idusza sneaked the hooded and limping Koszar out of Alinka’s courtyard tenement. “They have Gria Dmivro’s own courage, to still wear that cord on their wrists. But if they catch us, we’ll be wearing a red smile at our necks.”

  She kept her voice low, but Koszar heard her. He pushed himself painfully off the wall and said, “We must go back, and try at night.”

  At night there would be more Vigil patrols. They’d been keeping a close watch on the Lower Bank since the riots, and especially since Branek had begun inciting trouble. Arenza said, “More danger to go back now than to press forward.”

  “I can distract them somehow,” Serrado whispered. “Long enough for the three of you to sneak past.”

  Koszar shook his head. “They’ll know you for a hawk, and one I’ve worked with before.”

  “Will they know me?” Arenza asked. The silent look Idusza and Koszar exchanged spoke louder than words. “I thought not. I will distract them.”

  Serrado’s hand on h
er arm stopped her as she pulled her shawl tight. His hand narrowly missed landing on one of the knives hidden in it—though she supposed he would hardly wonder why she went armed, given the situation. “You don’t have to,” he said, his voice rough.

  “This was my idea,” she said. Not just moving Koszar today; the refuge itself. She’d arranged it through some of Renata’s resources, hiding the connections seven layers deep. “On me it lies to keep you all safe.”

  She drew away before anyone could say more and strode out into the square.

  Szorsas weren’t priests, but at certain times of the year—the Night of Bells, Veiled Waters, Six Candles—they stood for the voices of the dead Ižranyi. Rather than softening her footfalls as she had before, Arenza let her bootheels strike the cobbles with authoritative force. In strident Vraszenian, she demanded, “You scoundrels! Why sit you here, idle and drinking, on this sacred day? You should be at the river, at the labyrinth, praying for those whose spirits are lost even to the dream! Is this how the Ižranyi are remembered now by our people in Nadežra? Truly, I weep for our holy city, when such disrespect profanes the day of mourning!”

  Several of the fists jerked upright at her words, as if their own mothers were scolding them. The leader was made of sterner stuff, though. He spat onto the cobbles. “Fine words from one wandering around idle herself.”

  He was still sitting, leaning back on a stool. One swipe of Arenza’s foot took it out from under him, dumping him on his ass. “I remember the Ižranyi by making certain others forget them not!”

  One of the fists knuckled her brow. Giving Arenza a jerky little bow, she said, “Szorsa, we mean no disrespect. Those chalk-faces blasphemed already on Veiled Waters; what if they cause more trouble today? Our orders are to keep everything under control.”

  Gesturing at the silent plaza, Arenza demanded, “See you anyone who might cause trouble? No? Of course not, because trouble follows our people, and all our people are at the river or the labyrinth. As you should be. Come, I will show you the way, since you seem to have forgotten our ways.”

  Not even a szorsa’s haranguing would move Branek’s fists from their post, but she hadn’t expected it. She’d achieved enough to distract them, though. When the respectful woman promised she’d visit the river before dusk, then spend the night in prayer with her family, Arenza accepted that as sufficient victory and left.

  Looping around to the far side of the plaza was much easier when she wasn’t trying to hide an injured man. She met the others along a back canal that threaded between townhouses, just as they were climbing out of it. The summer’s dry weather had drained the channel down to mud, which clung to the bottom of Andrejek’s cloak and spattered Serrado’s and Idusza’s boots.

  “Ažerais blessed me with the more pleasant route,” Arenza said, holding the end of her shawl to her nose at the pungent scent.

  “Or punished us for our sacrilege,” Idusza said, smiling wryly. “The three of us weren’t even the target of your ire, and yet my feet itched to take me to the river, just to escape it.”

  “You serve the ancestors more than they do,” Arenza assured her. “Come, let us move on.”

  They made it to the half basement she’d rented on the Uča Drošnel without any further difficulties, and none too soon. Koszar sank down onto the cot with a muffled sound of pain, and Serrado produced a flask of something Alinka had brewed before they left. Koszar drank it while Idusza settled their few belongings and twitched the ragged curtain shut over the high window that looked out onto the pavement.

  “We’ll leave you to rest,” Serrado said, accepting the empty flask back.

  But when Arenza turned to follow him, Idusza caught her sleeve. “Szorsa—Arenza—if you would spare us just a moment more?”

  After the door closed behind Serrado, Koszar pushed himself upright, groaning. “Your words to Branek’s people… It may have been a ruse, but the words you spoke were true. Too much time in this city robs us of the memory of who we are, and what is important: the ties we have to the past, and to each other.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a length of braided cord, purple and white and black. White for Anoškin, Arenza surmised; that was Koszar’s clan. Purple for the dead Ižranyi; the Stadnem Anduske were the “faithful children of the dreamweaver.” Black evoked the koszenie, the shawls on which Vraszenians recorded their ancestry.

  Then she stopped thinking about the individual strands and realized what he was holding.

  “Idusza has said you are alone here. For one of our people, that is no fit state.” Koszar smoothed the knot bracelet over his knee. “Many times I have thought of inviting you to join us. But I was cautious before—cautious of the wrong things, it turned out. Now I am weak, and all but alone. This is not the act of a leader to a recruit, but rather of a friend to a friend.”

  A quiet huff from Idusza. “I know it must feel like embroidering what has already been sewn—you have helped us so much already—but we would tie ourselves to you. If you will tie yourself to us?”

  Bitterness flooded Ren’s mouth as she stared at the braided strands of the charm, unable to even blink. Twice she’d tied herself into a knot, and twice she’d betrayed it: six years ago when she poisoned Ondrakja, and again during Veiled Waters when she begged Ondrakja to take her back, then turned the zlyzen against her. I’m a murderer and a knot-cutting traitor. Just like Branek. They would never invite her to swear if they knew.

  They didn’t see that, though. They only saw Arenza, the pattern-reader newly come to Nadežra. Just like the Traementis, they had grown attached to a mask.

  In a knot, there were supposed to be no grudges between members. No debts. And no secrets. It wasn’t a spiritual compulsion, and even faithful knot members sometimes bent the oath a little… but hiding the truth about herself would go well beyond a small bend. Either she’d have to tell them everything—Renata, the Black Rose, the lies she’d told to gain their trust, all her masks and the half-Vraszenian outcast behind them—or the oath would be broken the moment she swore it.

  The silence had stretched out long enough that they could tell something was wrong. “We will not ask for you to risk yourself against Branek,” Idusza assured her. “You are a szorsa, not a fist. Your gift must be protected.”

  I don’t deserve your protection. Nor their trust. Ren wasn’t worthy of a knot bond, just as she hadn’t been worthy of a life among her mother’s kin. She wasn’t Vraszenian enough for that.

  Only Vraszenian enough for it to hurt.

  Disappointing the hope in their eyes cut deep, but not as deep as the alternative. “It isn’t that,” Arenza said heavily. “I…” She should have some clever excuse, but the weight had crushed all agility from her mind. “I cannot.”

  Awkward silence followed, as Idusza stared at the flagstone floor, and Andrejek tucked the bracelet away.

  “If you cannot, you cannot. Forgive us if we presumed too far,” he said. Arenza was braced for suspicion—for anger—but he only sounded sad. And tired. “If you wish not to risk yourself further by helping us, then we understand.”

  “It is not that!” The words burst out of her, startling them both. She dragged her voice down with an effort. “I will still help you.” She had to help them. If she couldn’t be their knot-mate, she could be the Black Rose, the thorn in their enemy’s heel.

  But she couldn’t say that to them. Weakly, she said, “I—I am still your friend. If I have not offended you too much.”

  Idusza’s laugh was too loud for the small room. Bright like the thin line of sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtain, and with the same hard edge. “Think you it takes so little to offend us? Of course we are friends. But we should not keep you any longer. As you reminded all of us, it is Six Candles. Since we cannot visit river or labyrinth, we can only light our candles here in the dark.”

  “Perhaps you can take our respects to them for us,” Koszar said. Gently, but it was a dismissal all the same.

  Sh
e had nowhere to go but back to Traementis Manor, and the life of a cuff. “I will,” Ren promised, and hated herself for the lie.

  Westbridge and Kingfisher, Lower Bank: Colbrilun 33

  Grey told himself it was because of Branek’s fists on the streets that he loitered outside the new safe house, waiting for Arenza Lenskaya. It was a lie, but one that made him feel slightly less awkward.

  When she finally came out, only a few moments after he’d left, he was glad he’d stayed.

  She didn’t look upset. Instead her face was a stone mask, her gaze fixed straight ahead without any of the lively wariness she’d shown on the way here. Which meant he was probably right about why Idusza had asked her to stay… and right in his guess about how she would respond. He didn’t know the full story of how she’d ceased to be one of Ondrakja’s Fingers, but he’d caught some of the words that passed between them that night in the Great Amphitheatre.

  It seemed she held that bond sacred enough to despise herself for breaking it.

  Having Koszar under his roof had forced him to interact with Arenza more often than was wise, and interacting with her had made it hard not to empathize right now. “Walk back with me?” he asked softly. She nodded once, a sharp jerk, and fell into step with him.

  Twilight was beginning to fall as they threaded the lanes between the river and the plazas where Branek’s fists still loitered. Apart from a mumbled apology when their elbows bumped or their fingers brushed, neither of them spoke. With nothing to hide—Well, he thought wryly, no Anduske fugitives—they didn’t need to worry about avoiding notice from the Stretsko making themselves a visible and threatening presence on the streets.

  Until they came to the edges of Kingfisher, and her step began to drag.

  “I should…” She made a feeble gesture in the opposite direction from the way to Alinka’s house. He’d never pressed Arenza on where she lived, but he suspected Ren had a lie prepared if he did.