The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  The afternoon shadows lengthened across Donaia’s study as Giuna paced, skirting the dozing hulk of Meatball by the hearth. Her mother rarely used the study these days, and the imbued barrier of the door ensured that servant ears were less likely to hear what went on inside.

  Like Giuna yelling at her cousin for being a damned fool.

  The glow had dimmed to twilight gloom and Giuna had worked up a good head of fury by the time Colbrin appeared and ushered Renata inside. Her dusky rose surcoat and underdress were clean and dry, but the remnants of her madcap adventure could be seen in the rumpled wave of her half-dried hair.

  The moment the door closed, Giuna snapped, “What in Lumen’s light do you think you were doing, jumping into the Dežera on a dare?” Meatball startled awake, and Renata stepped back. “I know you’re the heir now, but that doesn’t mean you need to mimic Leato in all aspects.”

  “Mimic—” Renata’s expression flickered with familiar pain at Leato’s name. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “You jumped off a bridge! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

  Orrucio Amananto had brought the news, the last link in a flower chain of gossip racing across Nadežra. Had Renata thought no one would hear? Judging by the look on her face, yes. She said, “I didn’t do it on a lark; I had reasons. And I took precautions. I know it was risky—that House Traementis needs me as heir for a few months longer, but—”

  “Who gives a wet leech about that? You’re family. If you’d been hurt, if you drowned, I…” The salt of tears stung the back of Giuna’s tongue. “I know your mother let you go your own way, but it’s different now. We care about you. And that means that you can’t just go jumping off bridges or—or diving under falling cranes!”

  That wasn’t how the accident in Froghole had gone, but if Renata quibbled, Giuna was going to throw something at her. Instead, her cousin just stared at her with a look like—

  Like the last thing she’d expected was for that to be the reason for Giuna’s concern.

  “Giuna…” Renata passed one hand over her eyes, looking weary. Or maybe hiding that flash of vulnerability. She took a deep breath and said, “Thank you. You’re right; I—I’m not accustomed to taking that into account. To taking you into account, in that fashion. And I’m sorry for worrying you. If it’s any comfort, I truly would not have done it without good reason.”

  Even faced with that weariness, Giuna wasn’t quite ready to be mollified. Crossing her arms, she demanded, “What reason? What could possibly require you to endanger yourself like that?”

  Renata’s laugh was brief and unamused. “Ask Tanaquis. There’s… I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I’ll say this much. There’s a secret society she’s invited me to join, because she has things she can’t talk about except with other members. Things she believes will shed light on the Traementis curse. The bridge was part of the initiation for this society. I just pray the Lumen will make it worthwhile.”

  Of course Renata was trying to help. That was what she did, ever since Leato died. She tried to make up for a loss she saw as her fault.

  She didn’t understand that being Traementis meant there was no debt to repay.

  Laying a hand on her cousin’s arm, Giuna said, “I know you want to help, but please don’t risk yourself like that again. Nothing is worth losing you. I know Mother would agree.”

  After a brief hesitation, Renata laid her hand over Giuna’s. “There’s something else you should know. Eret Acrenix has constructed a story blaming the Stadnem Anduske for the Scurezza murders.”

  It doused Giuna in cold like she was the one who’d jumped into the river. “But… it was Quaniet. She confessed as much when she died. Sibiliat heard her. Why would they blame the Vraszenians?”

  “Because they can.” Renata’s words were bitter as gall, and she drew a sharp breath in their wake. In a softer tone, she said, “The Vigil and the Ordo Apis are already hunting the Anduske leaders anyway. This allows them to wrap up the investigation without letting it be known that Quaniet killed her whole family rather than let House Traementis adopt her cousin. He’s sparing us the scandal.”

  Just like he’d done when he suppressed news of Quaniet’s confession in the first place. If people knew the truth, it would cast a shadow over House Traementis. After so many years of decline, it wouldn’t take much to convince people they were still ill-starred.

  And it would be so easy to let the lie stand. Quaniet was dead. The Anduske were criminals anyway. House Traementis was still vulnerable.

  Easy—but wrong.

  Giuna shook her head hard enough to pull a tress down from its pins. “It isn’t true, though. And if people think Vraszenians were behind this, who knows who might get hurt? We have to say something.” Her gaze flicked up to Renata’s. “Don’t we?”

  A tiny, shameful part of Giuna half feared Renata would disagree. She was foreign born, and sometimes too pragmatic for comfort. Would she care about Vraszenians being blamed?

  Her cousin’s eyes blazed like the Lumen. “We do,” Renata said, in a hard voice Giuna had never heard from her before. “And we will.”

  Staveswater: Lepilun 8

  Staveswater was the forgotten part of Nadežra. People looked at it all the time, whenever they had business with the shipping downriver, or gazed past the masts crowding Turtle Lagoon to the buildings beyond. Though “buildings” might be more a courtesy term than anything else: Staveswater was a hodgepodge of boats and rafts and rickety houses on stilts joined by planks and rope bridges until it hung together in something like a district. When people spoke of Nadežra’s regions, they named the Upper Bank, the Lower Bank, and the Old Island—never Staveswater. It was a relic, a poor and close-packed reminder of what the delta had looked like before Nadežra sank stone foundations into the mud and built itself up into a city.

  It was the main bastion of the Stretsko clan, and the fists of their various knots kept close watch on the bridges that led from the rest of Staveswater to the area they controlled.

  Ren had taken extra care with her makeup this time, painting herself to look not just old, but like a specific old woman. At night, with slow Paumillis’s full face veiled by thick clouds, it was enough to pass. The guards nodded as she creaked her way across one of the connecting bridges with a snail-bag of mending and piecework; one even stepped forward to help her shrug it higher on her back.

  Once past them, she tottered her way onward, through the cramped shantytown, until she reached a gap in the structure. In between flowed the waters of the Dežera; across the gap, a set of add-ons clung to a central building like barnacles to a ship. There, gratefully, she put the bag down and pulled its mouth open.

  Arkady had insisted she was “too famous” to just walk in like the rest of her beggar pack had done over the last few days. Now she wiggled out of the bag while Ren slung a clawed, padded hook across the gap, trailing a coil of lightweight rope behind it. Once that was secure, a line of small children bearing lumpy, squirming bags emerged from nearby hiding places and began to monkey across.

  By the time the first of them touched down in the Stretsko headquarters, Ren had moved onward. Conveniently, she didn’t even have to scrub off the old woman’s guise; all she had to do was slide the lace mask down, and the Black Rose’s costume formed itself around her.

  If Renata was a burden she couldn’t put down and Arenza was a reminder of the life she’d never had, the Black Rose was her refuge from all that. Ren knew better than to put much stock in what Dalisva and Mevieny had said about her being chosen; believing too strongly in divine favor was the kind of thing that got a person killed. But putting on the mask made her feel strong, and sometimes, even the illusion of that was enough. The Black Rose wasn’t an orphan, wasn’t a traitor, wasn’t someone without a place to belong. She had a purpose.

  She was going to yank a thread out of the middle of Branek’s tapestry and see how much of it unraveled.

  If the Stretsko fists were a
ny good, any kind of dramatic move would get her stabbed first, questioned later. Ren found her solution in an unoccupied chair wedged into one corner of a small, uneven platform where three shanties came together. When drama won’t do, be casual. She picked up a piece of cord and looped it around her fingers to play dreamweaver’s nest until three chatting Stretsko came around the corner.

  Then she smiled at them, friendly but sharp. “Evening. I trust you’ve heard of me? I’m here to talk to Prazode.”

  Their reactions were exactly as she’d hoped: startled and wary, but not immediately violent. The rumors about the Black Rose’s connection to Ažerais kept the fists respectful—though it didn’t stop them from patting her down for weapons while one of their group went to warn the others. Only when a hand brushed too close to the lace shielding her eyes did she pull back. “You may not see the face. Only the mask.”

  When they were satisfied she was unarmed, they led her onward. Crossing the single rope bridge that led to the home nest, Ren saw no sign of Arkady or the others. The wind had picked up, which was all to the good; its rush would cover any sounds they might make.

  Inside, the Stretsko had mustered an impressive number of fists to receive her, but the usual swagger was tempered by uncertainty. She even saw a couple of people touch their brows in respect.

  Prazode, their leader, showed no such courtesy. He sat in a comfortable chair on the far side of the room, with a one-eyed woman at his side; that would be Šidjin Gulavka. Rumor said she was trying to persuade her uncle to swear himself and his knot to Branek, the way Tserdev had done. If she managed that, others would follow, until Branek controlled almost every Stretsko knot.

  Ren’s gaze slid to Prazode’s other side, and her breath caught. She’d missed her chance to follow Tserdev in Seven Knots… but here was Tserdev’s brother Dmatsos. His hawk-like nose and light eyes were well-described in Dalisva’s list.

  If she could grab both Gulavka and Dmatsos…

  “So you’re the Black Rose we’ve heard so much about.” Prazode was a heavyset man with a balding pate, a full beard, and a gleam to his eye that said he was no fool despite his wide smile. “Whom we all have to thank for saving our wellspring.”

  At an indecipherable grumble from Gulavka, the amusement left his face and voice. “All of us—which is why I will listen to what you have to say. But I should warn you that listening is all I agree to. My niece and I may disagree in our philosophies, but…” He shrugged. “Family is family.” Many of the people watching bore more than a little resemblance to Prazode. Large family was a blessing for Vraszenians, but especially for the Stretsko. Family was wealth, strength, power, and posterity.

  Ren had to choose her words carefully. “I come to speak not of philosophy, but of sacrilege. Šidjin Gulavka endangered the Wellspring of Ažerais—the holiest site in all of Vraszan, the gift through which our goddess’s blessings flow. She must answer for that.”

  “You’re a tool of that kinless bastard Vargo,” Dmatsos spat. “I heard how in Seven Knots you rescued him.”

  She turned a cool gaze upon him. “You mean how I prevented another sacrilege—murder on the sacred path. My concern is with those who blaspheme against Ažerais and her children, not the struggles of Nadežra’s streets.” She returned her attention to Prazode. “Surrender Ča Gulavka and Ča Očelen to me, and I’ll see to it that the ziemetse judge them fairly.”

  “What fairness have the ziemetse?” Gulavka asked. Not angry like Dmatsos—sad. Betrayed. “They live upriver and visit Nadežra once a year to get drunk on sacred aža with their Liganti masters. They care nothing for the city or our people here. They have forgotten us, as they forget—”

  “Enough. You will not disrespect our elders.” Prazode waited until Gulavka clamped her lips and nodded in grudging agreement. Then he turned his gaze on Ren. “And you. What power have you over the ziemetse, that you can influence their judgment? I think you make claims you cannot support, Lady Rose.”

  “It is not my power or influence that matters, but that of Ažerais.”

  Dmatsos stood, throwing his pipe to the floor. “Then tell Ažerais to come and claim us!” he snarled.

  Ren never expected Prazode to agree to turn over his niece—but that had never been the point of coming here. And while she could stall all night, Dmatsos’s challenge proved too good an opening to refuse.

  Spreading her hands as though the matter were beyond her control, she said, “Perhaps you will heed your ancestor instead.”

  On those words, a shrieking rain of rats descended—and one spitting-mad tomcat.

  Shouts burst from the Stretsko as the rats fell from the ceiling. Many hit the floor, righting themselves to scurry around in a panicked daze, but some caught themselves mid-fall, flailing claws hooking into braids and clothes and sometimes skin. Ren, out of the immediate scuffle, stifled a laugh as the cat added to the chaos. There were too many rats for one lone tom to handle; she stepped out of the cat’s path as he streaked for the door.

  And waited, as the Stretsko tore the rats from their hair and coats and set them down with the care only their clan would show.

  And waited, as the rats leaked out through gaps in the walls and the floor or climbed back to the ceiling and the smoke hole through which Arkady had dumped them.

  And waited.

  Anytime now, Vargo.

  Any. Fucking. Time.

  She didn’t know what had gone wrong, but the chaos was dying down, and Prazode’s attention was back on her. Extemporizing, she spread her arms. “Do you doubt me now? The Children of the Rat are known for their strong bonds—but those bonds are to all Vraszenians. Even now, you are with the ziemetse woven into a single fabric. And of all clans, the Stretsko should understand that you must find common ground on which to stand… or all of you will fall.”

  Ren felt no divine presence. She hadn’t even planned her words, much less their timing.

  But no sooner had the word “fall” left her mouth than the floor splintered into kindling.

  Not the whole thing. Just the center of it, an area about three paces across. Enough to drop a double handful of Stretsko into the water, and some of the rats with them.

  But a clever rat had more than one way out of his hole. Prazode whirled up from his seat and kicked something behind it, and the back wall swung down with a heavy crash, reaching across to the shack on the far side of the water. He wasted no time in bolting, Gulavka and Dmatsos right behind him.

  Ren swore. A running leap got her enough of a grip on an overhead beam to sling herself across the gap, avoiding the remaining fists in the room. The wall had taken damage in the transition to its new life as a bridge, and it bowed ominously beneath her feet as she sprinted across. But it held long enough for her to reach the far side.

  Up ahead, the trio had split. Prazode, Ren ignored; he wasn’t the one she’d come for. But Gulavka and Dmatsos ran down different walkways, and she couldn’t follow them both.

  Gulavka was the cake. Dmatsos was the frosting. She went after Gulavka.

  Unfortunately, the Stretsko woman was fast on her feet, and she knew the warren of Staveswater far better than Ren did. Gulavka dodged around a corner; if she got properly out of sight, Ren would never find her. She put on a burst of speed—

  As she skidded around the corner, she heard a crash and a grunt of pain.

  Gulavka was sprawled flat on the walkway. Ren knelt on her back before she could rise, and bound her hands with the cord from the dreamweaver’s nest, looping it so the woman couldn’t just wriggle free. Gulavka opened her mouth to shout, but Ren grabbed a rag and wadded it into her mouth to muffle her.

  “That’s what you get for fucking up Veiled Waters!” Arkady sprang up onto the walkway next to Ren. She twirled the skiffer pole she’d used to trip Gulavka, nearly braining Ren with it. “Did you see the cat? That was my idea. Wish I could have seen it.”

  Glancing back the way she’d come, Ren made another snap decision: to trust that Arkady
was as competent as she boasted. “The cat was perfect. Can you get this one to the skiff?”

  “She won’t go nowhere we don’t want her to. Hey, Blinky—you know how to play sedan chair?” A sharp whistle brought several of Arkady’s kids sliding down from the rooftops, while Arkady sat on Gulavka and directed the kids to carry them both.

  With her focus no longer fixed on Gulavka, Ren heard the shouts echoing through Staveswater. Vargo was taking advantage of the whole situation to lead a strike against the river pirates who’d been cutting into his smuggling business, and from the sound of it, the fighting was fierce.

  But the Black Rose wasn’t here to help a Lower Bank crime lord take down his enemies.

  Coming and going from Renata’s balcony had put her back in climbing trim. Ren swarmed up the side of a shack and arrived on the roof to find the cloud cover thinning out, Paumillis’s light breaking through to illuminate the scene. A swift glance around oriented her: If she’d followed Gulavka this way, then Dmatsos would be…

  On the rooftops himself, trying to skirt the chaos below.

  Ren sprinted after him. The roofs were no more solid than the fallen wall had been; their moldy shingles and boards bent beneath her feet, threatening to send her back down to what passed for ground level. Dmatsos heard her coming and jinked left, changing course for some unseen target.

  No you don’t, Ren thought, grim and exhilarated all at once. Compared with bureaucracy and Praeteri rituals and her life of constant lies, there was something pure about this. She felt like her feet had wings as she closed the gap between them.

  Then Dmatsos put his foot right through into someone’s house, sinking up to the thigh. By the time he wrenched his leg free, Ren was close enough to bring him down with a flying tackle.

  Down—and down. They rolled off the edge of the roof and hit the walkway below, Dmatsos cushioning Ren’s fall, as much as he could cushion anything when the boards ripped free of their nails at the impact. She let go of him to clutch desperately at the remaining planks, the sluggish waters of Staveswater flowing just below the toes of her boots.