Out of habit, she’d been speaking in Renata’s accent, because she was in Renata’s clothing. Now she dropped it, shifting away from the door lest a servant hear them talking. “I need your help with something. It’s urgent.”
The tension eased. With a tilt of his hood, he invited her farther down the narrow, fenced widow’s walk that ran the length of the house. “If your ‘something’ is tonight, I’m afraid I’ll be a bit occupied. But if it can wait until tomorrow…”
“Two nights from now. You heard about the arrests in Lacewater?” At his nod, she said, “Then here is the part you likely haven’t heard. Caerulet calls for them to be executed de Ninate.”
It stopped him mid-pace. That Andrejek, Idusza, and Ljunan would be found guilty and executed was no surprise—but it had been decades since anyone was condemned to die de Ninate. Passing that sentence required a four-person majority in the Cinquerat, including the support of the Iridet seat, because it meant using numinatria to kill the victim.
Slowly. Agonizingly. As a spectacle for the crowd.
The Rook’s answer came as a low growl. “So as usual, the Cinquerat will deal with its problems by tossing them into a furnace numinat. Only this time it’s people instead of paperwork.” The iron railing creaked under the force of his grip. “What’s your plan?”
He hadn’t known about the de Ninate sentence. Ren only knew because she’d overheard Scaperto ranting at Donaia. But he agreed so readily, she wondered if he’d been considering his own rescue anyway. Another stitch in the fabric of her suspicions… because Serrado had worked with Andrejek to stop the riots and prevent the bombing.
Ren said, “I think I can arrange for a gap in the guard at the Dockwall Prison. But a one-person job this is not, especially since Andrejek hasn’t fully recovered from his injuries.” The old ones, or the new ones he’d taken during the arrest.
The Rook made a skeptical noise. It might have been insulting if it weren’t also warranted. She’d been a Finger and a con artist, but it was a long way from pulling a street hustle to infiltrating the most heavily guarded prison in Nadežra. “I’m glad you think so highly of both me and yourself, but I don’t think this is a two-person job, either.”
It wasn’t. And she should have admitted that up front, but she’d been afraid he would refuse. Or laugh in her face. He still might.
“Vargo wants the Black Rose’s help in breaking them out.”
He’d called the meeting as soon as he had been released from the Dockwall. And even in the guise of the Black Rose, facing him had made her gut twist into knots. He and Renata hadn’t met in person since that disastrous night in the temple, conducting all their business by chilly letter. But with the Rose, his coldness was directed at the problem: how to not only break into the Dockwall Prison, but get out again with three fugitives in tow.
She could read a thousand meanings into the Rook’s silence. When he spoke, his tone was far too level. “After he worked so hard to land them in there? Eret Vargo needs to make up his mind.”
Ren couldn’t blame him for assuming that—not when she’d wondered the same herself. “Their meeting was for alliance against the Stretsko. I had Sedge act as their go-between. He says Vargo is in an honest rage at what happened, and Sedge is my brother. I believe him.”
It wasn’t her faith in Vargo’s anger that persuaded her, though, nor even her faith in Sedge. “Will he profit from freeing them? Yes—but in the end, I care not. I cannot stand by and let them be killed. And I hope you cannot, either.”
From the Pearls and Eastbridge came the sound of bells ringing second earth. Only a thin band of deep blue limned the horizon; the rest of the sky was as dark as the shadows within the Rook’s hood.
“I have to go. The fireworks are scheduled to start soon,” he said, vaulting over the rail of the widow’s walk.
Her shoulders sagged with disappointment, but his next words snapped them tight. “Tell Vargo the Black Rose will have the Rook’s support. And that he’ll taste the Rook’s steel if he so much as thinks of playing us foul.”
Ren rocked back on her heels. He wanted her to tell Vargo? She’d been assuming she would have to keep his aid secret. If he even agreed in the first place, which she’d doubted. But it seemed he cared enough about the Anduske to grit his teeth and work alongside Vargo.
Or else he trusted her that much.
A spot of warmth blossomed beneath her ribs as the Rook crouched into a controlled slide down the tiled rooftop, catching his bootheel on the edge to stop his fall. One parting instruction floated up to her as he dropped. “When you go back down… stay clear of Mede Essunta.”
What did he have planned? Her mind spun possibilities as she drew Renata’s persona around her once more, as she sneaked back into the house, as she explained to a confused maid why she was in an upstairs hallway.
Outside, Mede Essunta’s guests were sipping chilled wine, watching as he stepped onto a small podium and began what was sure to be a long-winded and self-important speech about the history his house had of administering Nadežra’s firework charter.
“Can we stand by the fountain?” Renata asked once she found Giuna and Parma. “I don’t know how you endure this heat. I think I might sizzle away into a puddle if I don’t get some cool water on my face.”
As they moved away from the podium and down the path, Essunta called for the fireworks to begin. Renata dearly wished to look around, to see if she could spy a moving shadow. She held her breath along with the rest of the crowd. Waiting, but not for the same surprise.
Nothing happened.
Whispers rose from the restless crowd. Essunta shot a worried glance at Eret Fintenus, his new patron, and shouted again at the barge crew on the river.
Still, nothing happened.
Essunta abandoned all pretense of calm and screamed, spittle flying, that he would see them all doing hard labor in the fields if they didn’t get the fireworks started. Only then did a voice drift down from one of the riverfront house’s balconies.
“Don’t blame them,” the Rook said from his perch on the rail, twirling something in one hand that looked more like a baton than his rapier. “I’ve heard it’s hard to light black powder once it’s been wetted down.”
“You—you dare!” Essunta sputtered.
The Rook laughed. “I have it on excellent authority that I not only dare, I enjoy doing this. The question is, how do you dare, Mede Essunta? When you’ve demonstrated less responsibility with fire than a child.”
He paused a moment to let the crowd murmur questions to each other. What could he mean? Criminal he might be, but the Rook never acted without cause.
“Fontimi should take notes,” Parma muttered, sounding more amused than affronted. “He plays the Rook in the Theatre Agnasce’s productions. His flair for the dramatic pales next to this.”
Everyone fell silent when the Rook stood, balancing atop the rail. “You seem puzzled, Mede Essunta. And yet, didn’t you have Derossi Vargo plant black powder at the Fiangiolli warehouse, on Mettore Indestor’s orders? And then didn’t you and Era Novrus arrange for Vargo to set it off?”
The murmurs spiked in volume. Ren’s blood ran cold. I’m supposed to tell Vargo they’re working together—after this?
The Rook’s voice carried over the noise. “Deny it all you want, but we both know the truth. And I’m tired of taking the blame for the deaths you caused. You want fireworks? Allow me.”
A spark lit the shadows, flaring red as the Rook touched it to the baton and pointed it toward Essunta.
There was a general dive for the shrubbery as everyone around Essunta realized what the Rook held. Essunta himself hit the ground—just as the Rook had given him time to do. It meant the arc of the firework didn’t take him in the chest, but instead burst in a shower of glittering flame over his head.
Essunta shrieked as the sparks ate into his clothing and seared his covering hands. It wouldn’t kill him… but Ren, watching dispassionately, knew it would leave
scars. Poetic justice: the hallmark of the Rook.
She didn’t bother to look up. By now the Rook would be gone.
Instead she comforted a distressed Giuna as best she could. And turned her thoughts to Dockwall.
10
The Mask of Chaos
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 26
The Rook lay in darkness, listening to the splash of oars and the steady pace of his own breath, marking time.
In, out. Voices from right above his head. Vargo’s people—and that was the first thing he didn’t like about this plan.
In, out. A more distant call, half masked by splashes echoing off stone. The second thing he didn’t like: having to put his faith in Ren’s assurances that the man on watch at the Dockwall Prison’s river gate would let them pass. It wasn’t that he doubted Ren herself… but she hadn’t explained how she’d persuaded Scaperto Quientis to assist in this plan. Which version of her had persuaded him? Renata? The Black Rose? Arenza?
In, out. When he breathed too deeply, his shoulder brushed the one next to him. And that was the third thing he didn’t like. Because a hammer named Ren had pinned him against the anvil of Grey Serrado’s moral compass, and the result was this: him lying under the false bottom of a river smuggler’s scow, packed in like a salted herring next to the man who’d murdered his brother, all to rescue a trio of Vraszenian dissidents who had very little to do with the Rook’s mandate.
The cargo loaded into the scow muffled the voices, but the tenor of the conversation above was bored and routine. Then the scow began moving again, through the river gate and into the moat that divided the prison from its outer wall. Sweat ran down the Rook’s face and throat from the stuffy air, but he held still until the scow stopped again, rocking gently on the current, and someone popped open the concealed hatch.
Because he was in the middle, Vargo had to scramble out before the other two could move. Ren went next, masked as the Black Rose, and the Rook came last. He found Vargo standing a wary distance away, mopping at his own face with a lace handkerchief. Tonight, that was the only sign of the nobleman about him. The rest was nondescript clothing, one visible knife, and undoubtedly several more the Rook couldn’t see. And—according to Ren—the spider, riding somewhere hidden.
Vargo eyed the Rook with the expression of a man who expected this improbable partnership to end with a blade in somebody’s back. “What now?”
This part would be even worse than the smuggler’s hole. “We hide while your people unload the goods,” the Rook said, leaping from the scow to the crumbling lip of the Dockwall’s foundation. A century ago when it was new, the prison rose tall on a small islet of its own, with a numinat to keep it dry. But numinata failed over time, broken down by the flaws in their construction, and only the Point stood unchanged against the River Dežera’s slow hunger. The bank had become nothing more than a tumble of river-worn foundation stones and fill, a desperate attempt to fortify the place against the rot. Not unlike Nadežra itself, he thought grimly as he spread his coat wide.
Vargo and the Rose blinked at his coat, then exchanged a look. “You’re joking,” they said in tandem.
If only. “Do I look like I’m joking?” the Rook snapped. “The shadows aren’t thick enough to hide three of us on their own. Now hurry up. And keep quiet.”
Ren moved first, crowding up under his arm like a barnacle, which gave her a moment to tap out a warning that Vargo and his invisible companion were plotting.
“If you bring that spider of yours, we’ll find out if it can swim,” the Rook said.
Vargo hesitated on the lip of the scow before reaching behind his neck to pass something to one of the disguised rowers.
Ren’s chuckle was swallowed by the depths of the Rook’s coat. Then Vargo was on the bank at his other side, and once again the Rook had to cozy up to his enemy.
The foundations stood exposed to the guard turrets along the outer wall, with only a few inconveniently situated hiding spots. The Rook and his two conspirators had been let off at one of those, nearest to the storage rooms on the administrative side of the building. While the scow drifted toward the loading dock, they crept in tandem along the rocks under the concealment of the Rook’s coat.
“Is this an embroidered numinat?” Vargo whispered, testing the fabric like he was some altan in a tailor’s shop. “I have to get myself one of these.”
“You’d die making it.” The Rook restrained the urge to elbow Vargo into the moat. “By all means, go ahead and try.”
Pressed tight together, the three of them waited while guards thoroughly checked the manifest and the vessel, including the hole the trio had just been hiding in. Then the rowers began hauling cargo onto the dock, to be taken away by the kitchen staff and guards.
Two sacks landed easily on the planking. Then, exactly as planned, the rigged stitching on the third sack gave way, and black-and-white beans cascaded everywhere. In the chaos that followed, three shadows slipped through the service door, through the storeroom, and into the empty kitchen.
It wasn’t the Rook’s first visit to the Dockwall—he sometimes found it beneficial to question the inmates—so he led the way, the other two silent at his heels, except when they came to one of the numinata warding the doors. Vargo could deal with those more elegantly than the Rook could, leaving less trace of their passage.
Until they reached the door leading to the prison cells themselves. A door that had what appeared to be a brand-new numinat inlaid on its surface. One of a type the Rook had never seen before.
Well, they’d brought Vargo for a reason. The Rook gestured at the numinat. “Take care of that.”
“My pleasure,” Vargo said, in a tone that indicated anything but. “Only one problem: I know that design. It has to be disabled from both sides at once.”
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 26
Any other time, Vargo would have taken deep satisfaction at eliciting what he assumed was a murderous glare from the Rook. Unfortunately, they had limited time to linger here, so he merely said, “You know this place best. Any other ideas?” and was proud that it came out only a little smug.
After a moment of silence, the Rook sighed. “There’s a dumbwaiter shaft. But the ropes aren’t exposed, the walls are greased to prevent climbing, and the boards would snap under a person’s weight. Scaperto Quientis has been making some regrettably effective improvements in his prisons.”
“I can reduce the weight on the board. Don’t know if it would hold you or me, but…” Vargo raised a brow at the Rose.
She’d been silent since the all-too-brief meeting to plan this infiltration—a meeting that began with her announcing that she’d recruited the fucking Rook of all people to help. Followed by the news that one of Quientis’s own people would be turning coat on their behalf. As grateful as Vargo was for the assistance she provided, he didn’t like the so-called Black Rose having so many layers he couldn’t see.
He suspected there was a human underneath that mask, though. And like a sensible human, she hesitated before nodding. “Tell me what to do on the far side.”
“The only hard part is the timing.” Vargo pointed at one segment of the metal numinat, an arc sliced into Uniat’s circle. “If I take that out right now, the door will warp and jam in its frame. Same on the other side. But if we take them both out at the same time, the door will open. Tap twice once you’re there; I’ll tap back three times, and then on the fourth beat we’ll disarm it.”
“I’ll stand guard,” the Rook said, and glided away.
Great. Vargo had to trust the Rook to watch his back while he shoved his upper half into the dumbwaiter that conveyed trays of watery porridge to the prison floors, leaving his ass hanging out like a target. The Rook didn’t kill… but would he balk at letting Fulvet’s guards do it for him? Vargo being caught breaking into a prison was the kind of justice the Rook might find amusing.
But that would leave the Anduske leaders trapped. This plan was complicated enough
without adding a double cross into the mix. Not that Vargo hadn’t arranged a few contingencies, just in case.
The Rose held a lightstone inside the dumbwaiter so Vargo could see what he was doing—but that meant he had to keep his thoughts carefully inside his head while he consulted with Alsius on the design. Any problems outside? he asked as he began to chalk lines.
::None so far. But if you expect to ride back out on the scow, you’d better move quickly. They’re almost done unloading.::
As soon as I’m finished here. At least Vargo wasn’t expected to go all the way to the cells. He hadn’t seen any numinata in that area as he was escorted out. His next job was to create a distraction outside, if one proved necessary.
He knew better than to rush the inscription, but he wasn’t so cautious backing out of the dumbwaiter. Vargo cracked his head against the lintel and bit down on a curse. A muffled noise came from the Rose. Was she laughing at him? He couldn’t tell through the lace. “Your chair, alta,” he muttered, gesturing at the opening.
The mock courtesy made her stiffen. She merely climbed into the dumbwaiter, though. The board creaked beneath her reduced weight but held, and Vargo closed the door. Then he began cranking the handle for all he was worth.
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 26
Ren winced as the dumbwaiter compartment juddered into motion. Its rise snuffed out the light in the shaft, leaving only the creaking of ropes and the squeaking of pulleys in the darkness. Those sounds echoed up and down the shaft loud enough to be an alarm all their own. She crouched, ready for whoever might wait on the other side of the low door above.
At the first crease of light in the dark passage, her boot shot out. Bone crunched under her heel, muffling the grunt of the unlucky guard. Lunging out, she grabbed him by the collar and twisted him into a choke hold before he could shout an alarm.
Which might have worked—except the dumbwaiter platform kept rising, leaving her a few inches and a few moments away from being bisected. Releasing the man, she pushed off and rolled to safety, the edges nipping at her toes as she pulled them clear.
The Liar's Knot Page 26