The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  “After the Night of Hells,” she admitted, swallowing down the hollow ache in her heart. “Leato said something before he… died.” Before Mettore Indestor’s schemes killed him. And Ondrakja, poisoning them all with ash. And Vargo, who’d sent her there. And herself. “Tanaquis later confirmed that the curse affected all the members of House Traementis.” Dragging them down into what they considered poverty. Ludicrous, compared to what she’d lived through—but the deaths they’d suffered were nothing to laugh at. If I’d detected the curse sooner, would Leato be alive?

  “The Traementis have made many enemies over the years. Who might have cursed you?”

  She thought at once of Letilia, who had always looked down on her—a maid prettier than her mistress—and taken enjoyment in making Ren’s life miserable. Would she have been petty enough to curse Ren after she and Tess fled?

  Easily. “Letilia,” Renata spat, remembering too late that she shouldn’t call her that. “My mother.” Her tone twisted the word into a parody of itself. But could Letilia—vapid, vain, and self-involved—wield enough power to bring down an entire house? Wasn’t that the purview of the divine? Like whatever force it was that Ren had sensed in Ažerais’s Dream, the furious storm that raged against the stone of the goddess’s presence.

  Ažerais was different from the other deities. She had no Face and Mask duality; she was simply herself. But what if that wasn’t true? What if what Ren had sensed was her Mask—the malevolent, wrathful side of her power? Maybe centuries of Liganti oppression had warped her, their amphitheatre sitting atop her sacred wellspring, Vraszenians forced to pay for the right to visit it. And this temple beneath it, where spoiled cuffs played games of power.

  None of this had anything to do with the curse she was supposed to be thinking about. But Ren didn’t trust herself right now to answer Diomen in Renata’s accent.

  Yet he kept asking questions. “Where do your thoughts take you? Toward justice? Toward vengeance? What tool lies ready to hand, that you might employ in righting this wrong?” Prodding her off balance instead of letting her collect herself, until she wanted to snap at him to shut up already.

  She’d been this angry while sleepless after the Night of Hells, but only because she was exhausted beyond all reason. She ought to be in control of herself now. She tried to shape an answer for him, but the only things that came to mind were Ren’s answers, not Renata’s. Renata’s life was good. She had the comforts of wealth and the rank to protect her from Nadežra’s brutality. It was Ren who saw all the things wrong with it, Ren who lost almost everything.

  The acidic rage burned under the mask of her cosmetics, under the mantle of Renata’s clothes, until she was ready to throw it all off and burn the world down.

  “Ah, this is where you’ve gone off to.” Vargo sauntered in, his manner casual—but his wary gaze slid from Renata to Diomen. “I apologize for interrupting, Pontifex, but Renata and I have plans this evening.”

  Lies. He’d asked, but she’d never agreed to accompany him home.

  Vargo. Now there was a target Renata could be angry at.

  “You presume too much, Eret Vargo,” she snapped, letting her fury hone her Seterin accent to a razor edge. “And I hardly think I’m likely to accept another invitation from your hand, given where the last one sent me.”

  He stepped back as though struck. “I… see,” he said, gaze dropping to the numinat she stood in. But clearly he didn’t see, because he extended a hand. “Maybe you should come with me.”

  “You are interrupting a ritual, Brother Vargo,” Diomen said, frowning with disapproval. “Sister Renata is approaching the first of the revelations. She must complete her journey.”

  Vargo ignored him. “Renata, you look a little flushed. Why don’t we get you some wine?”

  Her hands clenched so hard her nails cut into her palms. “Did you know he intended to poison me? Maybe you provided him with that ash—after all, you are the aža trade in this city. All for a mercenary charter; well, that’s fitting. You’ll sell yourself to anyone who will pay, won’t you? You’ll whore and you’ll kill, like you killed Kolya Serrado.” The only reason she was able to laugh was because she knew it would cut. “Was Leato’s death also part of the plan? Or merely an unexpected benefit? You failed to get one Traementis heir into your bed; now you have a new one to chase.”

  The room was small. There was nowhere for Vargo to retreat from her accusations, but his back pressed against the stone wall as if he could melt into it. Away from her.

  “How long have you known?” he asked, voice rough like it had been stripped.

  “That you’re a liar and a manipulator? Not nearly long enough.” She spat at his feet. “Would you believe, I was ready to trust you? Well played, Eret Vargo. You had me convinced that you were better than you seemed—but I know now you’re just another river rat clawing your way out of the sewer. And I will see to it that you drown in the shit that birthed you.”

  Her voice was so distorted with fury, she didn’t even know what accent she was using anymore. When Vargo lunged forward, she recoiled to strike him, but he trapped her wrist in a bruising grip and twisted her arm until she had no choice but to stagger out of the numinat. He dragged her past Diomen, out of the room, and into the nearly empty hall. The scattering of people who were out there turned to stare as Vargo stumbled to a halt.

  “Thank you for your honesty. It seems we can both stop pretending.” His voice shook, composure hanging together by threads as frayed as a cut knot. Releasing her wrist, Vargo strode toward the exit, his parting words loud enough for the few present to hear. “That’s the last favor I do for you.”

  She choked on her reply, not even sure what it would have been. The fury that had possessed her was draining away, leaving her cold with horror.

  What have I done? She’d just destroyed every shred of trust she’d wrung from Vargo. A stupid move, ruinous to everything she’d tried to build—but she hadn’t been able to hold back. Ren prided herself on self-control, on her ability to maintain her mask no matter the provocation; now she’d thrown that away. And she didn’t even know why.

  People were staring. She should go back to Diomen, demand answers for what in the hell had just happened… but she didn’t trust herself anywhere near that conversation. She didn’t trust herself near anyone at the moment.

  Praying that Vargo had started moving faster as soon as he was in the tunnel, Ren fled.

  Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Lepilun 9

  Vargo slammed through the front door of his townhouse and up the stairs to his study, ignoring Varuni’s startled grunt and Alsius’s welcoming chatter. Renata’s words rang louder than the clock tower bells, counterpoint to the drumbeat of blood inside his skull.

  Not the accusations about what he’d done; those were true and fair and nothing he hadn’t flayed himself with in the dark hours when Alsius’s voice fell silent. Yes, he’d used people to get where he was. Didn’t everyone? Yes, he’d fucked up—trading Renata to Mettore, the deaths of Kolya Serrado and Leato Traementis, more sins she’d never know about, going all the way back to Alsius’s death.

  I didn’t know and It was a mistake didn’t undo any of it. All he could do was harden himself and move on. Like he’d done before.

  No, what shook him were her other words. However much he tried to shrug them off, they ate away at his foundations, relentless as the Dežera. He’d thought she wasn’t like the other cuffs. She made it seem like she saw Vargo for himself, for what he could do rather than where he came from. He’d thought that, despite their different backgrounds, they shared a similar outlook. That beyond using each other, they were—could be—friends.

  Tonight was supposed to be when he told her the whole story. What the Illius Praeteri were, what they’d done, why she needed to be careful.

  At least she’d revealed her true feelings before he made that mistake. Shoving his worthlessness in his face, like she was so much fucking better.

  Isn’t she?
>
  Chalk hit the paneled wall with a pitiful puff of dust. Vargo wanted to throw something better, but the only thing in his study that might have done was that stupid bust of Mirscellis, and the Rook had already stolen that satisfaction.

  The urge to laugh tangled with his fury and despair, dragging him to the floor. The Rook. The only person in this city who shouldn’t have a reason to despise Vargo. Maybe he should hunt down that kinless bastard and tell him they were after the same fucking thing.

  Fuck the nobility: a sentiment Vargo heartily agreed with. And now I’m one of them, so fuck me, too.

  He scrubbed his face, the soft kid of his gloves a reminder of everything he wasn’t. The hot shock of humiliation was fading, leaving behind the silence of a cold, familiar resentment. Someone was pounding on his study door. Varuni, demanding to know what had happened. And just out of reach, a spot of chalk-dulled color bounced anxiously.

  ::Vargo? Is everything… all right?::

  Varuni, who only guarded his ass because her people had paid so much for it. Alsius, who’d spent sixteen years shaping Vargo into his tool.

  Just another river rat clawing your way out of the sewer. Renata, who’d been born with every privilege and didn’t have the first fucking clue who he was, where he’d come from, or why he’d done what he’d done. Alike? They were nothing alike. And he was glad of it.

  “Fuck you,” he growled. At her. At all the cuffs who thought Vargo good enough to use but not to respect. Rising, he tore off his gloves and sent them flying in the direction of the broken chalk. To shut everyone up, he snarled, “I’m fine!”

  The pounding stopped. Alsius didn’t. ::What happened? Where’s Renata? I thought you were going to tell her tonight? Did something go wrong with the initiation? Was Diomen there?:: He scuttled after Vargo and sprang onto the desk. Ignoring him, Vargo pulled out paper and yanked the cap from his inkwell. ::Did he do something?::

  “Not to me.” Later, Vargo would sit down and tell Alsius what he’d seen, and they would discuss the implications and their next move.

  But he couldn’t go back to being a tool just yet. He needed…

  Vargo dashed off a quick invitation, devoid of names so it couldn’t be used against him later. Ignoring Alsius’s questions, he stripped bare and threw on something that wouldn’t be out of place in the Froghole slums. Something fitting for Derossi Vargo, biggest knot boss in the whole damned city, and to Ninat’s hell with what any cuff thought of him.

  He left his gloves on the floor of his study and slammed down the stairs, startling Varuni into a facial expression. “Get me a message runner and a sedan chair.”

  ::Vargo, please.:: Peabody scuttled along the wall, following Vargo as he paced. ::If something happened with Renata—::

  “Fuck Renata.” He didn’t care what she thought of him.

  ::I only meant…::

  Vargo stepped outside and shut the door so Alsius couldn’t follow. Unless you want to listen to me nailing a cuff into a wall, I suggest you stay home.

  Alsius wisely fell silent.

  When the chair arrived, Vargo handed the note to the runner. “Take this to Iascat Novrus. Tell him he’s got till midnight if he’s interested. Otherwise, don’t bother.”

  The boy reached for the note, but Vargo didn’t let go. “Wait.”

  Something in the nipper-cheeked runner’s expression reminded Vargo uncomfortably of the boy he’d been—and of Iascat. The soft smile when he tried to call Vargo by the only first name he knew, and the bruised look when he forced Vargo to admit their fucking was just a way to get at Sostira’s trove of information. Maybe one day Iascat would become like the rest of them… but aside from Renata, he was the only other person who looked at Vargo like he had value beyond his utility. It was a lie; they both knew it—but Vargo wasn’t feeling quite vindictive enough to rip down the rest of Iascat’s illusions just because he was pissed. Time and this fucking city would do it soon enough.

  “On second thought,” he said, “take it to Fadrin Acrenix.”

  Vargo would be the one nailed to the wall, but that felt right. He’d spent his entire life getting screwed by cuffs. What was one more night?

  9

  The Face of Balance

  Whitesail, Upper Bank: Lepilun 10

  It took half a bell of pounding on Tanaquis’s front door to wake Zlatsa. She blinked sleepily at Renata and said, with a lack of tact worthy of her mistress, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “First sun. Yes. I need to speak with Tanaquis.”

  “Meda Fienola was out late last night. She hasn’t risen yet.”

  I know she was out late. I was there.

  Ren had spent the whole night pacing the streets, first heading back to Isla Traementis, then veering away when she realized she didn’t dare go back yet. The fury that had possessed her faded over time, but it left fear in its wake. She didn’t understand what had happened, and the only person who might explain it to her was Tanaquis.

  She couldn’t even tell whether it was the numinat’s lingering effect or just natural consequence that she wanted to grab Zlatsa by the shoulders and shake her. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t an emergency. Wake her. Now.”

  Zlatsa brought her into the parlour and left her there for what seemed like an hour, though only one bell chimed. Finally, the stairs creaked again, and the maid appeared in the doorway. “You’re to go up to her workshop.”

  The attic skylights flooded the room with early-morning light, gilding the shelves of books, reflecting too sharply off Tanaquis’s telescope and the lapis-blue star chart enameled into one wall. Tanaquis sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, yawning. “Renata. You should have stayed last night; I wanted to talk to you. Now that—”

  “What was that?” Renata’s voice trembled: with exhaustion, with fear, with residual anger. “What did Diomen do to me?”

  Tanaquis squinted blearily at her. Sleep still crusted the corners of her eyes. “The Pontifex? He did nothing. It was the eisar.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s what I wanted to talk to you about—the reason I brought you into the Praeteri. Now I can. Why don’t you sit down?”

  She must be looking truly distraught if Tanaquis was showing such concern. Renata’s feet ached from too much time walking in fashionable shoes; she sank into a chair and wrapped her arms around her body.

  Tanaquis sighed, rubbing her eyes clear. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to share with you. Parts of it are supposed to be secrets held only by those who achieve the Great Mysteries—in fact, we take measures to make sure no one has a loose tongue. I’ve eased those bonds on myself, but if the Pontifex finds out, I suspect he will not be pleased.”

  “I can keep secrets,” Renata said through her teeth. “Talk.”

  She forced herself to be patient, because she recognized the signs of Tanaquis sorting her thoughts into an order other people could comprehend. Finally Tanaquis said, “I told you the Illius Praeteri deal with the deeper secrets of numinatria. When most people think about channeling energy, they stop at the obvious things: light, sound, heat, and so forth. Life energy, for fertility or contraception or execution. That sort of thing.

  “But there are more subtle types of energy. You recall how I sent Vargo into the realm of mind, when you were sleepless? Mirscellis’s experiments with—”

  Renata’s palm slapped hard against the table, hard enough to rattle the books atop it. “I don’t give a damn about Mirscellis. What happened to me didn’t have anything to do with the realm of mind.”

  Tanaquis brushed a wisp of hair out of her face, unaffected by the outburst. “Quite right. No, last night Diomen led you to the Gate of Rage, and what you experienced there was the influence of eisar. They’re a type of spirit, without physical form or individuality, an emanation of…” She trailed off, as if weighing how much scholarly explanation Renata would tolerate. If so, she read correctly that the answer was not much. “They’re the energy of—feelings
, I suppose you could say. Emotions.”

  “That numinat was controlling my mind?”

  “Not controlling, no! Eisar have no power to force you to feel anything. They can only touch and amplify what’s already there.”

  If Tanaquis meant that to be comforting, she failed utterly. Revulsion coiled in Ren’s gut. Her life depended on her self-control; if that broke, she could ruin everything. Not only for herself, but for Tess, Sedge, the Traementis—everyone she cared about.

  Tanaquis was still talking, trying to put out the fire with more words. “Emotional energies—the eisar—are meant to flow through us. It isn’t good for them to be blocked, for the channels to be closed off. The point of the Praeteri rituals is to free them, so they can reach their natural end. Don’t you feel better, having released that anger?”

  Not in the slightest. Not with the damage it had done.

  But in the moment…

  Months of holding her tongue, biting down on all the truths she wanted to fling in Vargo’s face. Forcing herself to smile at him as if all the warmth and trust he’d coaxed from her weren’t rotting inside her heart. It had felt freeing to throw that burden away at last—if only she didn’t have to live with the consequences.

  “Diomen should have warned me,” Renata said, her voice shaking again. “Not sprung it on me as a surprise.”

  “That was unconventional,” Tanaquis admitted. “The Gates of Initiation require a certain degree of secrecy; ignorance, submission, and zeal can only really be tested by keeping you in the dark. But now that you’ve passed through the initiations, you should have been instructed before exploring the revelations. The Pontifex has mentioned a blessing he believes you carry; perhaps that spurred him to act more precipitously.”

  “He was more concerned with what has stained me. I can only assume you told him about the curse.”

  Renata was watching closely as she said it. Either Tanaquis was as good a liar as Vargo, or her surprise was genuine. “Not me. He spoke to you about that? How interesting. What did he say?”