Perhaps she was merely making the suggestion out of concern for Alinka—and for Grey. She’d seen herself how much strain their current situation placed on everyone, even without Koszar’s presence adding danger. Alinka was even talking about returning to her family. If she had more money, more stability, then perhaps she wouldn’t take Grey’s niece and nephew away when her kureč came for the next Great Dream.
“They’ve only met once, that I know of,” he said, turning over the possibility as he spoke. “Era Traementis offered us her garden to dance the kanina for Kolya’s passing. Besides, Alinka has her own children to care for. Their company might not be soothing for Era Traementis.”
“We aren’t the best judges of that,” Renata pointed out. “But it might be worth proposing to them.”
“True. Ask Era Traementis first; I wouldn’t want to raise Alinka’s hopes. Or hurt her if the era decides she doesn’t want the company of a Vraszenian widow with a toddler and a… spirited little girl who’s fond of biting.” She’d bitten Arenza during the last visit, when she was refused a pattern of her own. He saw no sign of a bruise; no doubt Ren had taken care to hide that with cosmetics.
Chuckling, Renata lifted her blade again. “Now that it’s decided… I’d love a chance to spar properly with someone other than Ryvček. Would you help me with my sleeves?” She nodded at two pieces of fabric laid over the weapons rack.
Grey retrieved the sleeves, then slid them up her bare arms, lacing them back onto the shoulders of the surcoat. Tess had sensibly included upward-pointing caps to cover the join, so the point of a blade wouldn’t skid inside. Renata might have been able to lace them herself, but not easily. And Grey had seen her use flirtation as a tool before.
It had failed when she tried it on him at the Gloria. It was annoyingly more effective now that he knew the face behind the mask. He kept his movements brisk and efficient, without being rushed… but still, he couldn’t ignore the warmth of her skin, the breath ghosting over his hands as she observed his progress. Nor the pleasant tension it created inside.
When he was done, he said, “How easy do you want me to go on you?” Sparring would at least give him a reason for his unsteady breathing.
The corners of her eyes creased in amusement. “I have no doubt you can trounce me… but don’t go too easy. I ought to learn something, after all.”
Such as whether he fought like the Rook? Grey resolved to use orthodox Liganti style, and raised his blade.
Fortunately—though part of him immediately regretted it—Liganti-style fencing was a very proper affair, especially against someone who hadn’t mastered it. The straight-armed stance kept them at a distance from each other, their blades flirting back and forth, their bodies never closing or passing the way the Vraszenian style was more prone to. Grey confined himself mostly to defense, deliberately leaving openings to encourage her to practice attacking. But after a while she fell into a predictable routine, and he decided to shake it up with a small surprise.
The next time she advanced, he counterattacked like he had before, coming in toward her throat, and she parried as she had before, deflecting him out to the side. Grey responded by dropping his point, stepping in close to seize her hand, and bringing his blade around to the back of her neck.
“Just because we don’t often move in,” he murmured in her ear, “doesn’t mean we can’t.”
Djek. That sounded far too flirtatious.
He released her hand as if it had burned him, then backed away and bowed. “My apologies, alta. I should not have presumed.”
“You owe me one for that fright,” she said dryly, rubbing the back of her neck as if imagining a sharp edge there. “Perhaps you might do me a favor in recompense. Have you ever heard of someone named Alsius?”
He kept his repentant expression from faltering, but the sudden thud of his heart had nothing to do with exertion. That question was no accident. Whether it was this moment or something before it—some mistake he hadn’t even noticed himself making—she did suspect. And she’d thrown that name at him when he was off balance, to see if he reacted.
“Alsius,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard of such a person before today, let alone a spirit. “Someone you know from Seteris?”
“Not Seterin, despite the name. I overheard him talking, and his accent was Nadežran. Upper Bank, though.” She shrugged and adjusted her grip on the blade. “I know a name and a voice is precious little to go on. But I’d like to know who the man is, and given your Vigil resources, I thought you might be able to find out.”
It was good logic whether she suspected him or not. But dutiful, upstanding Captain Grey Serrado was a busy man. “I realize I found Gammer Lindworm, and she’s a legend out of a fire tale, but that doesn’t make me all-knowing. If I hear anything, though, I’ll be sure to tell you. In the meanwhile—” He raised his blade. “Uniat.”
Lacewater, Old Island: Lepilun 21
Vargo waited patiently in a private back room in the Talon and Trick, the card parlour he owned in Lacewater. Out in the front room, slumming delta gentry gambled away their coin on nytsa and sixes, surrounded by just enough Vraszenian trappings to make them feel like they’d gone somewhere exotic. In the room next to his, a szorsa read cards and her clients alike, sifting out any useful information she might pass along to Vargo.
He couldn’t hear any of it, of course. This room was meant for meetings that shouldn’t be overheard.
Even the bell towers couldn’t pierce its walls. Vargo kept the clock in his bones, though, and he knew his guests were late. Normally he understood how to be patient, but tonight he kept catching his fingers drumming against the table or the head of his sword cane.
His fury over the incident with Renata had faded to a sullen glow, but it had left him shaken in other ways. She wasn’t a woman prone to losing self-control… yet a few minutes in that numinat had been enough to tear her mask away. Vargo had blithely assumed he could advance in the Praeteri and keep his true intentions hidden, so long as he knew what to expect. Now he wasn’t so sure.
By comparison, this felt easy. A simple bit of street politics, easily solved with fists and blades.
A disc set into the door rotated—a signal that took the place of knocking. Nikory opened it, admitting a man with a missing ear: Ardaš Ljunan, Sedge’s contact. Vargo felt a brief surge of irritation at Sedge for coming down with a stomach flu earlier today. This would go more smoothly if both messengers were here.
Ljunan was alone. His wary gaze flicked over them all: Vargo, Nikory, Varuni, and Merapo, who led what was left of the Cut Ears. The room had no hangings anyone could hide behind, and Ljunan shouldn’t be able to see the concealed exit. But even if he did, Vargo didn’t have anyone lying in wait there. This meeting would be as honest as he got.
Satisfied, Ljunan turned and nodded to someone outside the room. A moment later, two others entered.
The woman was likely Idusza Polojny. She was holding the arm of a man, not quite steadying him, but ready to catch him if he faltered. Between that and the descriptions Vargo had, he believed the man was, in fact, Koszar Andrejek—and not some decoy.
“Have a seat,” Vargo said, gesturing to the only other chair. Nobody else here was likely to want to sit; they preferred to be on their feet and ready to move. Andrejek, on the other hand, looked like he needed it.
He wasted no time in doing so, nor in speaking. “Ča Vargo. I hope you take no offense if I call you not by the title of the invaders.”
“Given what I know of you, Ča Andrejek, I’d suspect you of insulting me if you did.”
Andrejek chuckled. “Is it true you’ve captured Dmatsos?”
“Is it true you’re not the knot breaker rumor claims?” That had been the hardest part of arranging this meeting: Half his knot leaders threatened to cut off a finger before striking palms with an oath breaker. Ironic that Sedge had been the one to convince them Andrejek was no such thing.
By way of answer, Andrejek unbuttoned
his collar and displayed an age-worn charm, knotted from many different pieces. “If this satisfies you, then let us begin. I suspect neither of us wishes to remain here any longer than we must.”
Vargo liked a man who knew how to get down to business. “You think I can help you?”
“If not the Master of the Two Banks, then who?”
That was a title he’d not heard before, but Andrejek was a fool if he thought flattery and sympathy would soften Vargo’s heart. “I should have been clearer. You think I have reason to help you?” He knew what Andrejek wanted from him, and suspected what he had to offer, but there was power in making the other man open negotiations.
Andrejek folded his hands atop the table. “The Crimson Eyes. Tserdev is none of mine, now or before I was overthrown, but I know something of her dealings. Shelter me and mine—someplace safer than where I hide now—help me get word to those who might support me if they knew the truth, and I can share that knowledge with you.”
That investment came with risks. Andrejek’s information might be outdated or worthless. He might hold something vital back to protect his own. And if any of Andrejek’s detractors found out Vargo was sheltering him, he’d end up with twice the enemies.
But laid against that was the chance to get rid of the gutter rats gnawing at his shoes. Vargo could go on clashing with them at the borders… or he could take a risk and strike at their heart.
Like he’d done in Staveswater. And that had turned out quite well.
Vargo spat in his palm and held it out. “Your pledge to give me everything you know. In return, I’ll give you safe harbor for as long as you need.”
Andrejek showed no surprise at Vargo’s bare hand, or that he struck the bargain in street style—which was originally Vraszenian style. Leaning forward, he returned the gesture. Vargo forced a smile through the unpleasant squelching of their palms.
A smile that fled when the door crashed inward.
“Koszar Andrejek! Submit yourself to the authority of the Vigil!”
Andrejek’s and Vargo’s curses overlaid one another. “You did this,” Andrejek hissed, yanking his hand from Vargo’s.
“Why would I—Fuck it.” Defending himself could come later. Vargo flung the table toward the hawks flooding through the door and hurled himself in the other direction, toward the back wall.
Varuni already had the door open and dove through it. Behind Vargo, the room was dissolving into chaos; he caught a glimpse of Merapo going down to an elbow in the face, and then he was in the narrow passageway that led along the back of the Talon and Trick. The canal outside came right up to the parlour’s foundation, so there was no room for hawks to surround the building and no reason for them to think they should… but it was narrow enough to leap, for anyone coming out the hidden door.
Once again, Varuni went first. There was just enough time for Vargo to hear her swear before his jump turned into a headlong sprawl, as somebody tripped him on landing.
He rolled to his feet and found Varuni pinned to the ground. But the people holding her were not in Vigil uniforms; instead they each wore a gold-and-black armband.
Fucking Mask-damned stingers—And to think, there was a time when Vargo had believed Ghiscolo’s new Ordo Apis might actually be useful to him, giving the damned Stretsko something to gnaw on besides him.
He recognized the blade-nosed man who advanced on him. One of the Praeteri, clearly drunk on the power of his new job. “Mede Kaineto,” Vargo said.
“Eret Vargo.” In Kaineto’s mouth, the title was a different kind of insult: one that said he wasn’t worthy of bearing it. “What a surprise that you got caught up in this.”
Vargo’s membership in the Praeteri had to be good for something. Stepping closer and lowering his voice, he said, “An unfortunate accident, Brother Ludoghi. I had no idea that such criminals were hiding out in the vicinity. I’m certain you can set things straight.”
Kaineto’s smile stretched his already thin lips into invisibility. “Of course. But I can’t go against my orders.” He waved at his fellow stingers. “Take them to the Dockwall Prison.”
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 21
Being in jail was a different experience now that Vargo had a title. Instead of being slung into a common cell with Nikory and the rest, he got a cell of his own, on the top floor of the prison. It had a chair and everything. And a window, through which a spot of bright color scuttled. ::It’s taken me over an hour to get here. What in eleven hells happened?::
Vargo’s cell wasn’t one of the luxurious ones meant for long-term prisoners. Though deep, it was so narrow he could lean the chair back and rest his head against one wall while propping his feet on the opposite. He’d spent the past several bells finding the perfect point of equilibrium. “Clearly, I pissed off every god associated with Quarat. And Sessat.”
::So you’re going to test your luck further trying to break your fool neck?:: Peabody jumped, his landing softer than a fresh pork bun to the gut.
Vargo sat up once Peabody attained the safety of his shoulder. The crack of the chair legs hitting the floor echoed through the dank stone halls and reminded him that, however it might seem, he wasn’t alone.
We were set up, he said silently. Not by Andrejek, I don’t think; all three Anduske got taken. But Dimiterro must have known we’d be there, because he brought the Vigil in force. And the stingers knew to wait at the bolt door.
::You suspect Sedge?::
No, he didn’t. Not really. But… He was the go-between. And I’m starting to doubt he was sick tonight.
::It could also be one of the Anduske, selling Andrejek out.::
Been a lot of that going around, Vargo thought sourly.
The sound of footsteps brought him to his feet. He boosted Peabody up to the windowsill—the guards might try to crush the spider if they spotted him—then turned and straightened his coat. Two hawks stopped at the narrow window in his door, which wasn’t a surprise. They were followed by Ghiscolo Acrenix, which was.
Suddenly very glad Alsius was gone, Vargo said, “Your Mercy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Eret Vargo. You have my deepest apologies for this inconvenience.” At Ghiscolo’s nod, one of the hawks opened the cell door. The other held out the coat, journal, and satchel that had been confiscated when Vargo was arrested. “I believe there was some confusion regarding your involvement in tonight’s raid. But I’m certain your presence at that card parlour was unfortunate happenstance.”
“Very unfortunate,” Vargo agreed dryly, shrugging into his coat and checking his journal to make certain none of his notes were missing. That they’d been read, he had no doubt, but he didn’t keep anything sensitive on him. Especially not after being frisked by the Rook. “What of my guards? They should all be protected by my military charter.”
“They’re being released as we speak.”
“And the others? Was Koszar Andrejek really hiding in Lacewater this whole time?”
Ghiscolo sighed. “I doubt it. But it bodes ill for the owner of the Talon and Trick that Andrejek was caught there.”
Vargo nodded solemnly. It would bode very ill for the owner… if such a person existed as more than a false name on a few deeds and contracts. But he had no doubt that Ghiscolo knew who really owned the place. And now Ghiscolo was letting Vargo know that he knew.
His freedom wasn’t the usual reach-around the Praeteri gave to their brethren, succeeding with Ghiscolo where it had failed with Kaineto. House Acrenix had claws inside their gloves.
Smiling through his fury at how elegantly he’d been set up, Vargo thanked Ghiscolo and allowed himself to be escorted downstairs to wait for his people to be released from the communal cells. He silently took note of the prison’s guards and defenses as he walked through its halls.
He wasn’t the only one who’d been betrayed. And there was more than one way to get someone out of jail.
Though he was going to need some help.
Isla Indestor
, the Pearls: Lepilun 24
Wisps of melody drifted in through the windows as Ren crept through the Essunta townhouse. She had an innocent excuse for leaving the party—a need to use the private—and a plausible one for being not where she should be if someone caught her, in the form of a badly concealed intent to meet an unnamed suitor. But she hoped not to have to use the latter, because she was headed for the narrow servants’ stair that led to the roof, and that was a decidedly out-of-the-way place for a tryst.
At least, the sort of tryst most people would imagine. Ren opened the small door and ducked out into the hot summer night.
“I came this close to pinning you against the tiles,” an amused voice said behind her.
“And I came this close to thinking I’d guessed wrong—that the message I left for you about this party didn’t sound like an invitation to do something dramatic.” Ren turned to face the Rook, whose coat hung slack in the windless night.
“You think I do this for fun?”
She cocked her head, studying him. Arms crossed, shoulders tense. “I don’t think it’s what drives you, no. But… I do think you enjoy it, some of the time.”
He didn’t answer that. “So what’s driven Alta Renata out of the lamplight this evening? Bored with noble games?” His words were light as a rapier, and their edge just as sharp.
She hated it when he turned that sharpness against her. Most of the time when they encountered each other, his flirtatious manner rose to the top, and she answered in kind. But then something would set him on edge or remind him that she was a noble now. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t grown up among the cuffs and had spent the last few months feeding him information from the inside—even setting up that chance for him to search Vargo, she still didn’t know for what. When all was said and done, she’d been adopted into the Traementis. That put her among the Rook’s traditional enemies.
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