The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  Before Diomen could press, she smiled and turned back to the chairs set to take advantage of the breezes sweeping inland off the ocean. Two servants had propped the flaps of the pavilion up on poles to create a shade break, and were passing out cups of lemon-flavored ice on trays etched with frosted lines of numinata.

  Vargo rose as she approached, offering his seat to Renata. Once again, the spider seemed not to be with him; she’d heard no silent conversations, and his wilted collar couldn’t have hidden a fly. Was there a reason Vargo came to these events alone?

  “You seem flushed,” he murmured, passing her his kerchief.

  “Who wouldn’t be, in this heat? Sometimes I regret leaving Seteris.”

  Sibiliat left off sucking ice from her spoon to say, “I imagine they regret letting you go. But their loss is our gain. Wouldn’t you agree, Derossi?”

  “Vargo.” His smile matched Sibiliat’s for sweetness. “But that’s the only point I disagree on.”

  “Can we conclude business?” Tanaquis said, pressing her reddening cheeks. “I’d rather not spend tomorrow shedding like Illi’s serpent.”

  All eyes went expectantly to Diomen. Renata wondered if his robe was imbued for coolness; he seemed unaffected by the heat. Sliding his hands into the opposite sleeves, he said, “In order to pass the third gate, you must prove your determination to join our ranks as a full member of the Illius Praeteri. There are no orders to obey now; the choice of proof is yours. Choose carefully, though: You must satisfy the judgment of your sponsors.”

  With a poisonously sweet smile, Sibiliat waved her closed fan for Renata to come stand in front of her chair, while Benvanna did the same with Vargo. Renata bit down on a curse. Tanaquis’s choice of sponsors for me is getting worse and worse.

  Benvanna spoke first. “Derossi Vargo. How deep does your wish to join us run? How will you show me your zeal?”

  “I haven’t already shown it?” he asked, smirking at Sibiliat.

  Benvanna looked confused, but Renata could read his hidden meaning: his deal with Ghiscolo to take out Mettore Indestor. Had that all been aimed not at a noble title—or not only—but at this? Was access to the Praeteri his true goal all along?

  Sibiliat gave him a tiny smile and a shake of her head. “You were ignorant before, remember?”

  Like hell he was.

  Vargo pressed his lips tight and turned back to Benvanna. “Then how’s this. I understand House Cassiones has just opened a new sickhouse attached to the Quinatium in Dockwall. I’ll offer my services as an inscriptor there for a day, to help improve their imbued medicines. Is that sufficient?”

  “A mere day?” Benvanna scoffed. “To do something you already have skill with?”

  Vargo’s expression darkened. “I don’t think you understand how much I dislike sickness.”

  Sedge had spoken more than once about Vargo’s horror of disease. Renata cleared her throat and said, “I know it isn’t my place to judge whether his offer suffices, but I can vouch for his sincerity. If the test here is to prove our zeal by doing something we’d very much prefer not to, then this would certainly qualify.” And I certainly don’t mind the idea of him suffering a bit.

  Benvanna gave Renata a look like she was still sucking on her lemon ice, but then waved a hand and addressed Diomen. “If she says it’s so, it must be true. I’ll accept this as proof of Vargo’s dedication.”

  “And what will you offer as proof, Renata?” Sibiliat asked, carving small arcs in the air with her fan. “Fair warning—I’m not as easily convinced as Benvanna.”

  An elegant noblewoman like Renata might go slumming for entertainment, but never for real work. “I can’t be useful at a hospital like Vargo, but I presume Nadežra has orphanages. I will—”

  “No,” Sibiliat said before Renata could even finish the offer. “Try again.”

  She’d proposed her action too readily. This time Renata bit her lip, pretending to think, before she said, “You must have heard that I didn’t fare well on my way to the first initiation. Being out on open water nauseates me. House Traementis lacks a villa now, but—”

  Sibiliat stood, putting herself at eye level. “Do better,” she snapped, tapping Renata’s shoulder with the fan. “Or I’ll assume you don’t actually want to join the Praeteri.”

  I don’t. Except that Vargo did, and she had to know why. And Tanaquis hovered just at the edge of Renata’s peripheral vision, jittering with impatience or nerves. Tanaquis, who didn’t dare break the secrecy of the Praeteri but thought their secrets were important enough to suffer through all the theatrical preliminaries.

  Sibiliat was looking for real fear, real dread. Renata could try to fake that—but if she failed, she might hamstring herself. Ondrakja had always taught her, though, that the truth was a better weapon than any lie.

  The swift wetting of her lips was a nervous reflex, allowed through rather than suppressed. “I can’t swim,” Renata said, her voice trembling. “So I will jump in the river.”

  The vicious curve of Sibiliat’s smile said she’d finally cut deep enough. “I suggest the Floodwatch Bridge,” she said sweetly. “After all, you are a Traementis.”

  The Great Amphitheatre, the Point: Similun 31

  Vargo’s attention was divided like a fraying thread. This way the Praeteri; that way the river numinat; and, doing its best to tear the whole thread to pieces, the Stretsko. Tserdev’s fists had started patrolling Seven Knots, hassling or even attacking any Liganti-looking person who wandered in there alone, and the Vigil’s answering crackdown was undercutting several of Vargo’s businesses. Then an ambush while he was busy in Dockwall left half his Moon Harpies bleeding in the streets of Kingfisher.

  Now here he was, legs burning as he finished the long climb up the Point and entered the Great Amphitheatre. Would have been nice if we could have arranged this meeting somewhere more convenient.

  The last time he’d been in there, the amphitheatre had glowed with the light of the great, twisted numinat that dragged the Wellspring of Ažerais from dream into reality. In comparison, the brightness of Paumillis and Corillis both waxing toward full was as reassuring as daylight… but the memory of what he’d gone through here made the scarred skin of his back crawl.

  No monstrous zlyzen lurked in the emptiness, though. The stands echoed back the rush of the Dežera, the call of nesting dreamweaver birds, and, distantly, the hollow bells of the city chiming sixth earth. Midnight.

  ::I don’t like this,:: Alsius grumbled.

  “You and Varuni both.” It had taken a lot of convincing for her to let him enter the amphitheatre alone, especially after Sedge’s failure to protect him last time. She compromised by waiting a shout away, both of them knowing that even that might be too far if this went sour.

  Vargo prayed for Quarat’s luck that it wouldn’t go sour.

  Arkady had sworn—once he paid her enough to pry the advice out of her jaws—that Vargo had to meet the Black Rose alone and in the Great Amphitheatre, because she was Ažerais’s servant. If he’d had any other route to contacting the masked woman, he might have told the little extortionist where to shove it.

  But he had a Vraszenian problem; only made sense to turn to a Vraszenian solution.

  Keep the interruptions to a minimum, Vargo said mentally as he tried and failed to resist smoothing his coat of wine-dark errandi silk, stitched with lace roses in honor of his hoped-for guest. I’ll need to think.

  ::I always do,:: Alsius said. And then, ::She’s here.::

  The way Arkady talked, the Black Rose should have risen up out of the stage where it covered the site of the wellspring. Instead she lounged against the back wall, arms crossed and one boot hooked across to rest on its toe. She must have come from backstage, but neither he nor Alsius had seen her enter. He had to grant that it was effective theatre.

  “Come to thank me for Seven Knots?” she asked, her voice carrying like that of an actress.

  Alsius had spent years drumming into his head that
good manners were an effective tool. “Among other things, yes. Thank you. For Seven Knots, and my life.” He swept an arm to encompass the stage where he’d come too close to becoming a corpse. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think your Lady had taken a liking to me.”

  “But you do know better?”

  As if he had the favor of anything divine. “I think your Lady cares for the peace and well-being of her city.”

  “You did help save this place. And bled more than a little in the process. Not exactly what your reputation would lead anyone to expect.”

  Vargo shrugged one shoulder. “Only those who aren’t paying attention. The loss of the wellspring would have destabilized Nadežra rather badly. That’s bad for my business. And stopping it has gained me quite a bit. Blood’s not a pretty coin to pay, but everyone has some to spare.”

  ::You more than most.::

  “So it seems,” the Black Rose said, almost as though she’d heard Alsius’s snarky comment. A silence fell, and he fought the urge to break it. He couldn’t read anything past her rose-patterned mask, not at this distance. “You often find multiple ways to profit, don’t you?”

  “Life’s too short to do only one thing at a time,” he said dryly.

  Arkady claimed the Black Rose was immortal, but since no one had heard of such a person before Veiled Waters, he doubted that. “I asked to meet with you because I think we might have overlapping goals. You know it was the Stretsko who tried to bomb this place. And they didn’t much care how many Vraszenians would be here when it blew.”

  “They did try to steer people to the Charterhouse instead,” the Rose said.

  ::Interesting that she knows that,:: Alsius murmured. ::Since it happened before she supposedly “manifested.”::

  Vargo spread his hands. “But when that failed, they went ahead anyway.”

  She uncrossed herself and strolled across the stage, hands linked behind her back. Who had made her disguise, and where had they gotten the materials? Alsius, can you recognize anything of what she’s wearing?

  ::You’d have to get closer for me to see.::

  Not much chance of that. The Rose stopped and pivoted to face him, well out of reach. “Your pitch might be more plausible if the cousins of those Stretsko weren’t causing you trouble all over the city. But as it stands, I think you’re trying to recruit me to take care of your personal enemies for you.”

  He matched her posture, hands folded behind, leaning in, and raised it with a smile. Charm: another tool Alsius had taught him to use. “Life’s too short to do only one thing at a time.”

  ::Noble business, knot business, numinat business, Alta Renata, the Praeteri… Why do two things when you can do seven?::

  Vargo continued as though he didn’t have a peacock spider providing sardonic commentary. “It’s true, Tserdev and some of the other knots I’m struggling with have tied themselves to Branek’s Anduske.” It was a weird form of flattery: They’d begun copying his model of organization. Or at least what they thought was his model, each knot leader swearing an oath to a central boss. “If you want to focus on the original core of the Anduske, that’s fine by me. I’m only saying that if Ažerais does want revenge, I’d be happy to facilitate.”

  “Justice,” the Rose said. “Not revenge.”

  Justice is revenge in formal dress, he thought, but he conceded the point with a bow. She was nibbling at the hook, which meant he’d baited it correctly. “The Ordo Apis is after Branek and the Anduske, too. But if you’d prefer them delivered to Vraszenian authorities instead, I have no objection. Don’t much care where they go, as long as it’s away.”

  ::Downriver, the Depths…::

  Vargo pretended to smooth his collar, jabbing his thumb into the spider hiding inside. You’re bloodthirsty tonight.

  ::I don’t like this place. We almost died here. And we don’t have time to go through such nonsense again.::

  Yes. No time for dying. Do you mind if I finish, then?

  ::Very well.:: Alsius hunched deeper, sulking, while Vargo tried to find the dangling end of his conversation with the Rose.

  “I’m not alone in this,” he told her. “The old leadership of the Anduske—the ones who decided not to blow up the amphitheatre—they’ve reached out to me.”

  She cocked her head at Vargo. “You would help them?”

  Why did he get the impression that pleased her? Whatever the reason, he could use it. “I think Nadežra’s better off with someone in charge of the Anduske who doesn’t want the canals running with blood. And I think you agree.” He hadn’t heard any tales to suggest she was hunting Andrejek. “But one woman—or whatever you are—can only do so much. If we work together, we could do a lot more.”

  She stopped and studied him, her expression unreadable behind the black lace. Then: “Do you know where Šidjin Drumaskaya Gulavka is hiding?”

  And hooked. “She’s in Staveswater, my people tell me, under the protection of her uncle.” Staveswater, the biggest Stretsko stronghold in all of Nadežra. And Gulavka was one of Branek’s highest lieutenants… as well as the person bringing most of the non-Anduske knots under his control. “You may be Ažerais’s agent in the waking world, but I don’t recommend going in there alone. You’ll need help.”

  He didn’t say, my help. If she went another route, he’d lose out on this bid for alliance… but he’d learn something useful from that refusal.

  Her jaw didn’t tighten; she gave off no sign of frustration or struggle with her thoughts. She merely said, “Give me a few days. I’ll let Arkady Bones know.”

  Vargo glanced ostentatiously around. “If she’s not watching us already.”

  “Oh, she isn’t.”

  He huffed a laugh. “You sure? How much did you pay her to stay away?”

  The Rose, heading for the stage’s exit, paused to cast a mocking smile over her shoulder at him. “Nothing. She doesn’t charge her friends.”

  The Great Amphitheatre, the Point: Similun 31

  Ren hid backstage until she heard the receding sound of Vargo’s footsteps. Once the amphitheatre was silent, she climbed one of the covered side staircases meant to give performers access to the stands, then surveyed the ranks of benches from above.

  Of course she saw nothing. Ren called out, “I hope that was useful.”

  “Are you going to work with him?”

  The voice came not from in front of her, but from behind—and above. Ren turned and saw a shadow detach itself from the weathered stone at the top of the amphitheatre.

  She sighed. “To be honest, I don’t have a lot of choice. I can’t get Gulavka on my own. But if she’s pulled out of the fabric, Branek will have a harder time consolidating the Lower Bank knots under his control.” Not to mention it might stop some of the violence. Gulavka had led an attack on the Quaratium in Westbridge the previous week, killing two and injuring nine. The new leader of the Anduske was hardly the only one with a taste for blood. “The ziemetse may think I’m some legendary hero, but—well.” Her mouth quirked. “We can’t all be the Rook.”

  The wind lifted the skirts of his coat as he jumped down to her level, landing silent as a cat. The hood didn’t so much as ripple. “I’m not certain it’s wise to strengthen his position, even if there are benefits. In fact, I’m positive it isn’t. He’s a master at manipulating events to fall out in his favor.” A grim note entered his voice. “More than I ever credited.”

  “Oh, believe me—I’m wary. Unless you want to branch out from targeting the nobility and their schemes, though, I need someone to help me in Staveswater.”

  “I have full respect for your wariness. But I found something troubling when I searched his house.” Reaching into his coat, the Rook pulled out a fold of paper. “That’s a copy of what I could salvage. Most of the original caught fire in his office.”

  She’d heard him angry before, when he’d confronted her in her own kitchen. This was new, though: He sounded pissed at himself. Ren took the paper and skimmed it, her eyebro
ws climbing. “I suspect he killed the Scurezza, too,” the Rook said.

  “No, he couldn’t have. Quaniet was still alive when Giuna and Sibiliat got there; she confessed to poisoning them all. But the rest…” She folded the paper. “How could he be behind all of this?”

  “That’s what I need to find out.”

  Ren glanced up at him. “Have you heard of the Illius Praeteri?”

  His anger transformed into a contemptuous scoff. “Rich cuffs playing at a mystery cult so they can feel superior even to their own kind. They’ve been around for over a decade; I look into them periodically. It’s business as usual, dressed up in special robes.”

  “Vargo’s been recruited to join them. As have I.” She sat down on one of the benches, folding her legs tailor-style. “I’m going along with it as a way to keep an eye on him. But I think he knew about the Praeteri even before he joined. And Ghiscolo—”

  The hood turned so rapidly, an ordinary garment would have shifted to show a hint of face. “What about Ghiscolo?”

  “Vargo’s working with him,” Ren said, eyeing the Rook warily. Why did that get his attention? “I heard them talking, after you and I met in the Charterhouse. Vargo made a deal with him: a noble title in exchange for bringing down Indestor. And, not so coincidentally, opening up a seat in the Cinquerat.”

  The Rook’s voice sank to a growl, and his gloves creaked as they curled into fists. “So much for thinking the Vigil might improve.”

  Ren tried not to stare as he paced. The strength of his reaction to that… The Vigil had been hunting the Rook since he began. And under Mettore, their corruption and greed had been a major target of the Rook’s efforts.

  But his reaction sounded more personal. Like the last of a dear hope was bleeding out.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his stride, measured his height against the amphitheatre’s back wall. Grey Serrado was hunting the Rook; everyone knew that… but everyone knowing a thing didn’t make it true.