The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  Maybe it was the smile, maybe the blatant display of power. Maybe Sedge was sick of knowing he was fucked no matter what he did, and it made him crusty. He spoke before Vargo could set the tone. “Knew you all missed me, but I didn’t expect a big welcome back. You gonna crack out the chrysanthemum wine, too?”

  “Got a taste for that among the Stretsko, did you?”

  Vargo’s response—soft as silk and sharp as a knife—rocked Sedge back on his heels. “The fuck? I warned you against them.”

  “And while my people were conveniently occupied with their assault, the Rook broke into my house.”

  This time he went back a full step. “The f—I missed a chance to see the Rook?”

  It was a damn fool response to an accusation of treachery, the kind of thing a kid half his age might say. But the twitch of Vargo’s lip told Sedge he might just have saved his own neck. There was no faking that kind of surprise, not unless you were as good a liar as Ren.

  Ren. Sedge doubted it was an accident the Rook had shown up during the fight. But she hadn’t told him… and this moment was the reason why.

  Which meant his best option was to continue with honesty. Or as much honesty as he could offer. “Whatever.” Sedge slumped, his gaze dropping to the desk. Surly and resentful. “You think what you want, but I just brought you the message from the Anduske. I din’t have nothing to do with the Stretsko. I en’t no knot-traitor.”

  “The wounds I took at the amphitheatre say otherwise.”

  “Fuck you!” Sedge slammed his fists on the desk to keep from slamming them into Vargo’s face. Everyone in the room shifted closer, ready to stop Sedge if he was stupid enough to attack.

  But Sedge didn’t need fists to take Vargo down. Just the truth.

  Through his teeth, he growled, “I thought it was more important, stopping folks from frying you every time they stepped on the numinat. Maybe I chose wrong; I en’t no inscriptor. But even if I did, my oaths are to Nikory and the Fog Spiders. You want to tell me how I broke them? Or maybe you want me to explain to everyone how I didn’t.”

  Vargo’s eyes went flat. “Out,” he said to the room at large. “Varuni, Nikory, stay. And you.” His gaze didn’t move from Sedge’s.

  The other knot leaders obeyed without a sound. By the time the door shut, Sedge had plenty of time to consider whether that might not have been the brightest thing he’d ever done.

  But fuck it—that bare spot on his wrist hurt, worse than the lingering ache from the broken bone. Knot members didn’t have to wear their charms all the time, but fists like Sedge usually did, because they wanted people to know who they fought for. Getting cut out when he hadn’t done anything wrong… That heartless bastard weren’t sworn to nobody. He didn’t understand loyalty.

  Nikory did, though. They hadn’t ever been friends; knot leaders couldn’t afford friends among their followers. But they’d had a bond. Nikory cared. Sedge suspected he was the reason that beating hadn’t left any permanent injuries.

  He didn’t look happy about his mercy now that Vargo’s river-cold glare was turned on him. Nikory muttered, “I’ve never said nothing about us leaders not being sworn to you. Not to my fists. Not to anyone.”

  Your secrets are my secrets. Nikory might have cut him out, but that didn’t make Sedge a knot-traitor. And he wasn’t going to let Vargo trip him into becoming one. “I didn’t actually know,” he said, backing Nikory’s lie. “Not for sure. Until just now.”

  Real bright, making Vargo think Nikory had just spilled one of his secrets by accident. But it worked, at least for the moment, because the man changed topics abruptly. “You think one warning is enough to get you back in?”

  At least this was firmer footing. “I think you might want what the Stadnem Anduske are offering. And you don’t have the time or patience to risk blowing it, getting them to trust someone else as your go-between.”

  “Hmmm.” Vargo ran his thumb across his scarred knuckles. His mouth remained still, but Sedge recognized that look. It was the one Vargo got when he was having a conversation with himself.

  Or with that spirit Ren said was riding along in the spider.

  When Vargo glanced at Nikory, the leader of the Fog Spiders nodded without hesitation. “You’ll set up a meeting,” Vargo told Sedge. “Someplace away from the Stretsko. If the Rook shows up to that, I’ll carve your eyes out and give them to Varuni for sling stones.”

  I’ll make sure Ren knows. Sedge saluted like he used to, before he could think better of it. Vargo’s mouth soured, but all he said was “Also, I want to talk to that patterner again. Lenskaya.”

  Arenza Lenskaya was supposed to have vanished for good. According to Tess, though, she’d gone back to Grey Serrado’s house to pattern the hawk’s sister. Ren better stop that, or she’s gonna wind up in front of Vargo again. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Vargo left soon after that, taking his spider spirit and a tight-lipped Varuni with him. Which left Sedge alone with Nikory for the first time since his ousting.

  “Din’t mean to get you in trouble,” Sedge said, not certain if an apology meant anything when he’d done it anyway.

  But Nikory just shrugged. “At least you distracted him into thinking he gave it away.”

  Sedge shifted from foot to foot. Then the words burst out of him: “The Rook really broke into his house? You gotta tell me about that.”

  Nikory barked a laugh, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Let’s go get a drink.”

  Kingfisher and Westbridge: Similun 18

  For months after Kolya’s death, Grey had avoided returning to the Gawping Carp, until Leato’s need dragged him back there. Too many memories seasoned into the knotted wood of the bar and tables; too many stories spilled alongside zrel and ale and elderflower wine. He hadn’t wanted to salt that happy ground with tears.

  But it felt right to return after Leato’s death, sitting alone at a table with two empty chairs for his ghosts, two empty cups leaving more in the bottle to slosh into his own. He felt older than his years, lonelier now that both his brother and the friend who was almost one had gone ahead of him. And since Leato was Liganti, there wasn’t even the hope that they might meet again. Memory was the only piece of his soul Grey could still touch.

  “Better to mourn bad deals and empty pockets,” one of the old gaffers had told Grey on his last visit, replacing the cup in his hand with cards for their eternal game of nytsa. “Leaves your heart open for new friends to come in.”

  Those men had loved and lost more in their lifetimes than Grey could fathom. Their advice made him laugh and ponder the possibility of dragging Donaia to Kingfisher—for both their sakes. Did she even know the rules for nytsa? Had her slipper ever touched land on this side of the Sunset Bridge?

  He’d carved an hour free and was idly embroidering the notion of abducting her for an afternoon when he ducked through the threshold of the Carp and found the taproom a shambles: tables and chairs overturned, bottles smashed, and the air thick with eye-watering fumes. There was no sign of the old gaffers and other regulars. Only Dvaran, broom in hand and doing his one-armed best to clean up the mess.

  Grey hurried forward to help him right a table. By the time it was on its legs, he’d slipped fully into his hawk’s feathers. “What happened here?” he asked, guiding Dvaran to a seat and pouring him a drink from one of the few unbroken bottles. The Gawping Carp wasn’t the sort of place where brawls broke out, but the mess was too extensive for a robbery. It almost looked like a protection hit… but Dvaran paid his dues to the local knot, and Grey wasn’t the sort of Vigil officer to let his constables indulge in side business.

  Mopping his brow with the rag usually kept for the bar, Dvaran leaned heavily on his stump and surveyed the damage with a resigned gaze. “Some new knot aiming to take Moon Harpy territory? These wore armbands instead of braids. Black and yellow, like they was wasps.” He tugged on his pinned sleeve. “They said they was looking for Anduske. Took all the old gaffers. Question
ing, they said.”

  Grey’s fury chilled at Dvaran’s report. Not thieves or gangs. Not even Vigil violence. He hoped this wasn’t what he feared. “Where did they say they were taking them?”

  “Didn’t.” Dvaran hefted himself to his feet and dragged his broom with him. “But a few of them said they were going to check a tip in Westbridge.”

  That was enough to put Grey into motion, out the door and only a few streets over to the canal that marked the boundary between Kingfisher and Westbridge. Fishing his captain’s hexagram from his pocket, he pinned it to his coat.

  It was almost a shameful relief when he heard shouts and the sound of breaking wood, because those noises weren’t coming from where he feared. Whether it had been their initial target or not, Dvaran’s attackers were at a sedan chair workshop, and one of them was systematically splintering the sides of the nearly finished chairs with his boot.

  A man Grey recognized all too well.

  “Mezzan!” he snapped, swallowing the name that tried to follow. Not Indestor anymore, not since their house register was burned. Touching his pin, Grey said, “By the authority of the Vigil, I arrest you for—”

  “For nothing,” Mezzan said. His arrogant sneer was back as if it had never left, and he turned insolently to display a black-and-yellow armband. “I’m a member of the Ordo Apis, carrying out my duty.”

  The Ordo Apis—that was Caerulet’s “special force” for dealing with the Anduske, the one Grey had declined to join. Why the hell would a kinless man like Mezzan be accepted into the ranks of the stingers, after the way House Indestor fell?

  A familiar, cynical knot tightened in Grey’s chest. You know why. All those genial, reasonable words Ghiscolo Acrenix spoke that day in the Aerie had been a lie. This was just more of the same brutality, in different hands.

  And maybe for the same reason. Acrenix had taken over Mettore Indestor’s seat in the Cinquerat. Maybe he’s taken something else, too. Maybe Mezzan used it to buy a new beginning for himself.

  That was a question to chew on later, with his hooded friend. Right now, his duty was to the Vigil. “Does carrying out your duty require—”

  “What are you doing here, Serrado?” Lud Kaineto appeared from inside the workshop. His haughty face matched his tone, and he took obvious delight in not having to call Grey “Captain” any longer. “You’ve got no grounds to interfere with us. Your district is Kingfisher. Surely even somebody like you is smart enough to see we’re in Westbridge.”

  Somebody like you. Kaineto’s hands might be gloved, but his words weren’t. He’d loathed serving under a Vraszenian captain, seeing it as an unforgivable insult to his status as a gentleman. Grey had briefly thought he’d shed a headache when Kaineto left the Vigil for the Ordo Apis. Instead it had only removed the man’s leash.

  Keeping his voice level, Grey said, “You damaged a lot of property in Kingfisher. I’m following up.”

  Kaineto clapped Mezzan on the shoulder, grinning. “Got a tip that some Anduske might be there. We had to make sure they weren’t hiding.”

  Grey’s jaw ached as he bit down on his response. Getting into a pissing contest with Kaineto wouldn’t do any good—not when something else demanded his attention much more urgently.

  “I’ll be having words with Commander Cercel about this,” he said.

  Kaineto laughed derisively. “Sure, go hide behind her pin. Yours isn’t worth its steel.”

  That bit deeper than it should have. But Grey had years of practice in swallowing his fury; he only turned without bowing and strode away.

  As soon as he was out of sight, he took measures to make sure nobody was following him. He knew the rooftops of this area nearly as well as its streets, and that gave him a more direct route to his destination. He only dropped to the ground at the Uča Drošnel, slipping his hexagram pin back into his pocket. After one last check to ensure there were no watching eyes, he knocked on the door of a half basement. “Six bees on a pin.”

  Ardaš Ljunan was the one who cracked the door, knife in hand. He lowered it when he saw Grey, and swung the door wider in silent welcome.

  Idusza rose as he entered. Instead of the usual greeting, Grey said, “Don’t go outside today. The Ordo Apis are hunting Anduske in Westbridge, and you can’t risk them seeing you.”

  Andrejek was lying on the narrow bed, rubbing one of Alinka’s ointments into his healing leg. He sat up abruptly. “Do we need to move?”

  Grey shook his head. “That just makes it more likely they’ll catch you. I think this place is safe for now—though we’ll need to see if we can find you another hideout later.” He said it as if he had anywhere to send them. Ryvček would have choice words for him if he asked her to shelter Andrejek. And he didn’t know how Ren had set this one up, except that he suspected the answer involved Alta Renata.

  He transferred his attention to Idusza, who had picked up a cudgel as if she expected someone to come through the door any moment. “Mezzan is one of them.”

  Her grip tightened on the cudgel. She’d clung hard to the belief that her lover truly sided with the Anduske; after that broke, her fury had been frightening. But Idusza was disciplined enough not to seek revenge when it would put her knot at risk.

  Grey couldn’t do it for her, either. But he could keep the Anduske safe, at least for today.

  “I’ll make sure they don’t head this way,” he said, turning back to the door.

  The bed was close enough to the door for Andrejek to lean out and catch Grey’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “May you see the Face and not the Mask.”

  “And you,” Grey said, and headed back in the direction of the sedan chair workshop.

  The stingers were still there, shouting at the woodwright. Grey’s hands tightened into fists, helpless to stop them. He’d learned in his early days as a constable that intervening would only incite further bullying—a lesson that almost made him quit before he’d even begun. Only the hope that someday he could command enough power to shield others kept him going.

  What power he had was useless here. The Ordo Apis was not answerable to the Vigil.

  One hand slid into his coat and touched the concealed pocket there. Grey Serrado couldn’t do much to stop the Ordo Apis… but the Rook had always been like red meat to the hawks.

  Time to see if he was as useful a distraction for wasps.

  Owl’s Fields, Upper Bank: Similun 28

  The ritual of the second initiation was thankfully brief. It took place on the outskirts of Nadežra, in a pavilion among the gardens that supplied Nadežra with fresh produce, and Renata wondered if that was Benvanna’s suggestion. The woman’s final act of domination had been to bring her by sedan chair to the livery stables on the edges of Whitesail, where noble houses kept the horses for their carriages, and travelers or hunters rented mounts for going outside the city. House Traementis hadn’t yet bought new riding horses, and Benvanna no doubt believed that ordering Renata to walk while she rode behind on her gelding was absolute torture.

  The heat was bad enough to make it unpleasant, certainly. But given that Ren had never sat on a horse in her life, walking was preferable to the alternative.

  The second gate proved to be that of submission, as the first had been of ignorance. When the initiation ceremony was over, servants arrived to serve chilled peaches and wine. Vargo shucked formality along with his sleeveless summer coat; his loose shirt hung limp from the heat. Benvanna fanned herself, complaining of the heat; even Tanaquis had loosened the side lacing of her surcoat. The only one who seemed unconcerned was Sibiliat, and Renata wondered why she was there.

  Hoping to avoid Diomen, Renata stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and contemplated whether she could simply flee down the lane. Sixteen years out of Seteris or no, the Pontifex was better equipped than most to catch her out in a lie.

  Before she made up her mind, he cornered her in the leafy shade of a pea trellis. Hoping to steer the conversation onto a safe footing, she spoke before he
could. “Mede Beldipassi couldn’t join us today?”

  “He has not yet passed his second trial,” Diomen said coolly. “Apparently his various businesses keep him quite occupied. If he lacks even the dedication to submit at this stage, I question whether he will advance very far.”

  Renata sighed ruefully. “Well, that is his reputation. Always beginning things; rarely finishing them. But perhaps—”

  “I understand you grew up in Endacium,” Diomen said, cutting her off. He plucked a pod from the trellis and snapped it. Instead of sucking out the peas inside, though, he examined each before letting it fall to the ground uneaten. “I gave a lecture once at the great agora there. It saddens me that no such centers exist here.”

  “There’s the Rotunda,” she said, shaking her head when he offered her a pod.

  Diomen’s deep voice was well-suited to scorn. “Hardly a center of learning. And Iridet spares only minimal effort to see to the education of the people. When we speak of the gateway of ignorance, it should not be so literal.” The richness of his laugh was an invitation to relax, but his next words sharpened the edge she balanced on. “Who saw to your schooling? As I recall, House Viraudax holds learning in high esteem.”

  “A private tutor. I was often sick as a child, so my education was more… irregular than most.”

  “And yet by Quinat’s grace, you have blossomed into health. Do not worry. You carry a blessing from the Lumen; as Pontifex, it is my duty to make certain that blessing reaches its full potential. I would be pleased to tutor you privately, and fill any gaps left in your knowledge.”

  With anyone else, she would have read uncomfortable innuendo into his offer. With Diomen, the discomfort was of an entirely different flavor. “That’s very generous, Pontifex,” Renata said. “At present I’m afraid I’m busy and then some with House Traementis’s business. But perhaps at some more leisurely point in the future.” Right after the moons sink into the sea.