So was Grey. The dexterity of Ren’s hands as she split the cards into a two-part waterfall that flowed together again at the bottom was a beauty to watch.
“Uncle Grey does things like that, too!” Yvie shot to her feet. “Let me get the cards—”
He began to protest, but it died on his lips. He’d convinced Ren he couldn’t be the Rook, and by now she knew he wasn’t the straitlaced Vigil captain most of the world saw. Besides, the thought of showing off his own skill pleased him.
Though Ren—No, Arenza; you have to keep them straight—pouted when he used one hand to split the deck into four parts, flipping and turning them before setting them straight once more. “This is not fair,” she informed Yvie. “Your uncle has larger hands.”
“Let me see!” Yvie climbed up onto the table and grabbed them both, pulling their hands together to compare.
Her palm was dry and warm, and petal soft thanks to the protection of Renata’s gloves. On reflex, the tops of his fingers curled over hers. They were slender, but also capable and strong. Like the finest steel, forged by Vicadrius herself.
Djek, he was far gone if he was turning poet over a woman’s hands.
Then his head caught up with his heart. What was he doing? It wasn’t just work that kept him from having a sweetheart, like Alinka thought; it was the secrets he carried. Secrets he’d worked his ass off to turn Ren away from. He couldn’t hope to keep the truth from her if he let her get even closer.
And another reason, even deeper than that. Wrong, she’d called his pattern. Not the first time he’d heard that. He didn’t want her to be another victim of the ill luck he’d carried since birth.
But her eyes were merry as she looked at him across their joined hands. “See? Very unfair,” she was saying to Yvie.
He said nothing; he was too busy telling himself Pull away and then failing to do so. Because for a moment, Ren looked happy.
And he was, too.
Dawngate, Old Island: Lepilun 31
Renata’s previous visit to the Theatre Agnasce had been on the Night of Bells, when the place was filled with a mirror maze. Now she got her first proper look at its full glory, from the gold-veined marble of the columns in its vestibule to the soft sueded leather of the seats in the hall.
Beautiful though it was, she didn’t particularly want to be here tonight. Ironic, considering that pleasures like this had been one of the rewards she imagined for herself when she began her con. But these days, all she could think was that there were half a dozen better uses for her time.
Giuna had been craving a diversion, though, and Renata knew whispers were flying about her falling-out with Vargo. Doubly so after the night at Essunta’s, when the Rook publicly accused him of conspiring with both Mettore and Sostira Novrus, and triply so after Vargo’s arrest in Lacewater. The rumors hit him more than her, of course, but their association meant Renata needed to show her face in public.
Sibiliat leaned in as they passed a trio of delta gentry whispering not at all subtly behind their fans. “You know, I don’t think His Grace would raise a fuss if you reassigned that charter for the river numinat.”
“To whom, though?” Renata had been making an effort to show more friendliness to Sibiliat, if only for Giuna’s sake, so she tried to keep her tone pleasant. “If anyone else stood ready to replace it, the West Channel would have been flowing clean years ago. I can’t let personal animus ruin the chance of that now.”
“How admirable.” It was impossible to tell whether Sibiliat spoke sincerely or not. “Well, if you want to exact some other kind of revenge on him, let me know.”
Renata nodded a greeting at Meda Isorran as they strolled through the vestibule. “I believe that particular Traementis tradition has come to an end.”
“And good riddance,” Giuna added.
“Something’s come to an end?” The question came from Tanaquis, looking remarkably tidy and elegant in a midnight surcoat of satin-woven cotton with constellations embroidered around the hem—all accurate to their celestial placement, Tess had told Renata with a put-upon groan. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of quitting the—”
In a remarkable moment of self-restraint, Tanaquis silenced herself, her grey eyes darting to Giuna.
Sibiliat came to her rescue. “Giuna, I left Grandmama waiting on the landing for Fadrin. Could you be a dear and keep her company until he arrives?”
The interactions between those two had been strained ever since Giuna made public the truth of the Scurezza murders. Now she fixed Sibiliat with a flat look. “I know you’re getting rid of me.”
“Yes, little bird, but only for a moment. And only because it’s necessary.”
The nickname was a misstep. Giuna drew herself up in a way Ren recognized, because she’d spent hours practicing it in front of a mirror. Well, I’d rather she imitate a con artist than a snake.
The snake realized her error, too. Her whisper into Giuna’s ear was too loud, though; it carried to Renata’s ears. “I promise, soon I will share these secrets with you.”
Renata’s pleasant expression grew stiff as her cousin walked away. She didn’t want Giuna anywhere near the Praeteri.
She’d tried patterning the group, following the suspicion that they might have caused the Traementis curse. But she didn’t know whether the ensuing lack of confirmation was due to their innocence, or the difficulty of patterning a whole group en masse.
The ill cards had been perfectly clear: The Face of Gold, One Poppy Weeps, A Spiraling Fire. Increasing their wealth and indulging their passions, without a care for those they hurt. The rest, though, were hard to interpret. Labyrinth’s Heart had echoed the pattern she laid after the Traementis were uncursed—the stillness that said their troubles were not over—but what she hadn’t seen from that line was The Peacock’s Web. The riddle she had yet to solve, the mystery of where the curse came from.
Once Giuna was gone, Sibiliat turned to Tanaquis. “We weren’t speaking of Renata’s involvement with our ‘illustrious circle.’ But now that you mention it—it’s true that we haven’t seen you recently, Renata. Surely you must have received invitations?”
She had—but even if she’d been eager to return, she had no time for it. She could hardly explain her absence, though. I was busy breaking into the Dockwall Prison wouldn’t go over well with this audience.
Sibiliat misinterpreted her hesitation. “I promise, not everything is like what you went through last time. But the Pontifex said that he sensed vengeful energy in you. He felt it needed to be released before you could progress.”
Renata didn’t believe in the slightest that her spiritual progression was Diomen’s primary concern. She couldn’t figure out what he did want, though. And that eyeless mask haunted her: The Mask of Nothing, the madness she’d seen in Vargo’s past.
To understand its meaning, she might have to go back.
“Besides,” Sibiliat added, “half the point is to make useful connections with fellow members. Meda Terdenzi could lean on Prasinet for you—get her to drop that silly insistence on double taxing electrum as both gold and silver. I hear you’ve been arguing with her office for weeks about that.”
Tanaquis looked like she’d bitten into a sour plum. “That isn’t ‘half the point’—it’s a corruption of the point.”
“For you, maybe.” Sibiliat cast a sidelong smirk at Renata, as though expecting her to share the joke.
A discreet bell interrupted them. Tanaquis looked around. “Something’s ringing.”
“Our signal to take our seats.” Sibiliat’s raised eyebrow questioned Tanaquis’s ignorance of such cues—which neatly covered Renata’s own. “If Fadrin’s late… No, there he is.” The tall, muscular Acrenix cousin had picked up Carinci and was carrying her up the stairs to their family box, while a theatre usher stowed her wheeled chair. Giuna hurried to rejoin Renata, and together they went to the Traementis box.
It had formerly been the Indestor box. House Ecchino, who administered the
Novrus charter for the theatre, had painted over the Indestor emblem as soon as the house was dissolved, but the crossed triple feathers of the Traementis still gave off a whiff of fresh paint. Settling into her plush chair, Renata found she had a splendid view of not only the stage, but the other noble boxes—which, as Sibiliat might say, was half the point.
The first of the night’s two performances was a reworking of a much older play, recounting the spectacular downfall of two of the first noble houses. Formed after the death of Kaius Rex, Adrexa and Taspernum had been in a constant war, their conflicts often spilling into the city in waves of blood and destruction. Until an unregistered relative of both houses destroyed them.
Renata knew the general story and had been hoping to enjoy the play. Her companions, unfortunately, were more interested in gossiping. “No surprise that Her Elegance approved this one,” Sibiliat mused. “Sostira’s trying to cozen Cibrial with flattery. She has her eye on one of House Destaelio’s daughters, but ever since that business at Essunta’s, Cibrial’s been questioning whether Sostira should even hold the Argentet seat.”
“Is that why Ovictus is being painted as so heroic?” Tanaquis asked, as the character in question saved a delta gentleman from assassins. “I don’t recall that being very accurate to history.”
Ovictus, who’d founded House Destaelio atop the ashes of Adrexa and Taspernum. “Who cares about accuracy?” Sibiliat replied, smirking against the tips of her fan. “The history of Nadežra is what Argentet says it is.”
Her comment left a sour taste in Renata’s mouth, ruining her enjoyment of the rousing speech Ovictus delivered as his new house register unfurled behind him like a banner.
When the audience streamed out to search for refreshments during the interval, Sibiliat said, “If you’ll excuse me, I want to check on Grandmama. It’s too much of a bother for her to step out, and I don’t want her to feel lonely.”
Giuna must have still felt miffed about being sent away earlier, because she said, “We’ll go with you,” and promptly hooked her arms with both Renata and Tanaquis.
They found Carinci Acrenix not quite alone. Faella Coscanum had joined her, and the two women were tearing apart the production like cats fighting over a wounded bird, while Fadrin slouched beside them, looking bored out of his skull.
“—only thing he has to recommend him as a playwright is that he’s fast and cheap,” Faella sniffed. “That, and his ability to kiss Her Elegance’s feet on command. Every script is more tedious than the last.”
Carinci nodded vigorously. “No wit, and no memorable lines. And that actor! I’ll put up with bombast if the speaker is pretty enough… Do you remember the decade where Toccante played Segretto Adrexa?” She leered in memory. “Now that was a time to be alive. Never wore a shirt. It was glorious. Do you remember the amphitheatre staging? Winter Starvation of 173, and he’s out there oiled up and bare to the waist. By Argentet’s command, to distract everybody from the famine. Even had his spirit show up in the second act, shirtless and painted blue. This fellow isn’t a tenth the actor Toccante was.”
Faella fanned herself. “We will never see his like again.” Nodding at Renata’s party, she said, “But here are the children. Come, tell us what you thought of the first play.”
Carinci immediately claimed Giuna’s attention, grilling her in between giving Sibiliat sly, amused looks. Leaning forward, Faella said to Renata, “I haven’t thanked you yet for the service you’ve done for my family. Marvisal was a bit put out, but she’s recovered. And my brother agreed to cede all decisions about her future to me. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a wife?”
That was the other reason to avoid social gatherings: Everyone was placing bets on how long it would be before Renata married. “I’m afraid I’ve been much too busy to think that far ahead.”
She could see Faella readying to fulfill her duty as an elder by delivering a lecture on the importance of marriage. Casting about for some way to prevent that, Renata said, “It occurs to me that you must know absolutely everybody who’s ever been anybody in this city. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a man named Alsius?”
Complete silence seized the box. The stricken looks on Faella, Carinci, and Sibiliat’s faces told Renata she’d just put her foot through a rotten board.
Carinci snapped, “Fadrin. I’m tired. Take me home.” But when he came to lift her, she forestalled him with a hand. “I will assume that you are ignorant rather than cruel, Alta Renata, and will only ask that you not gossip about my son.”
Her son? Renata knew her shock was visible as Fadrin carried Carinci out.
“Uncle Alsius passed away when I was a child,” Sibiliat said quietly. “He was Grandmama’s only natural-born son—she adopted my father from one of the contract wives after that. She took to her chair following his death. I don’t think she’s ever fully recovered from that loss.”
“You couldn’t know.” Faella patted Renata’s hand. “Nobody ever speaks of it, out of respect for Carinci. They say he killed himself—not suicide; a numinatrian experiment gone wrong—but there were also rumors he’d been murdered. I suppose Lecilla must have mentioned him. They were of an age, though they hardly ran in the same circles.” She clicked her tongue.
“Yes, she did,” Renata lied, and hoped nobody would ask her why.
Tanaquis chose that moment to take the conversation down an even worse path. Her eyes widening with epiphany, she said, “Could Alsius Acrenix be the father you came looking for?”
“What?”
That came in unison from Sibiliat and Giuna, while Faella sparkled in delight at her unexpected banquet of gossip. “Why, Alta Renata! I thought your father was Seterin—Eret Viraudax.”
“My father is Eret Viraudax,” Renata said stiffly, grateful for once that Seterin and Liganti custom cared more about registered ties than those of blood. “I’ll thank you not to insinuate otherwise, Alta Faella. As for your question, Tanaquis, no. My mother was very clear that the man who sired me was Seterin.”
“And breathtakingly handsome, as I recall,” Tanaquis mused. “Alta Sibiliat, was your uncle good-looking?”
Sibiliat lifted her hands helplessly. “He was my favorite uncle. I liked him, but to me he was just an old man. He dressed very nicely?”
“Old? The boy was barely past thirty. But no, he wasn’t particularly handsome, unless a face buried in a book is your pleasure.” Faella sniffed. “You’re right about his clothing, though. Alta Renata—”
The tolling of the bell wouldn’t have been enough to cut her off, except that Giuna intervened. “The interval is over. We should get back to our box. Good evening, Alta Faella.”
This time Renata didn’t have to be dragged; she was more than ready to go. When the second play began, she barely even saw the stage, her mind was so full of other things.
Vargo. Alsius Acrenix. What in the name of the Faces, the Masks, and her unknown ancestors was going on there?
She needed to tell the Rook. And then, as if her thoughts had summoned him, she saw a familiar shadow climbing one of the heavy tasseled ropes by the curtains.
For an instant her pulse thundered in her throat. But the laughter of the audience cued her even before she got a good look at his costume, which parted at the collar to reveal an enticing glimpse of his oiled chest. It wasn’t the real Rook; it was Fontimi, the actor who played him in stage productions.
What he was doing in the story she didn’t know, but there were hoots and catcalls as he made his way from box to box, stepping on a ledge that seemed to have been installed for the purpose, making flirtatious gestures and even kissing any audience member who would play along.
Then he was at their box and pulling a pale glove from his coat. Clearly, he’d done his research.
“I’ll happily trade this forfeit for another, fair alta,” he said in a pleasant baritone meant to carry throughout the theatre. Then, leaning over in an impressive display of core strength, he offered himself up for a kiss.
The hoots took over the hall, and even Sibiliat was clapping in delight. Thinking in resignation that she might as well give Faella enough gossip to choke on, Renata kissed the fake Rook.
It wasn’t bad. His breath was inoffensive, and his lips were firm and warm. It was chaste enough to be cheeky. When he finished and moved on, she played to the crowd’s cheers by lifting the “returned” glove and waving it.
But it called an ache from deep inside—a craving for the real thing.
A kiss from the Rook himself.
Her expression felt like a porcelain mask as she sat down. That was even more impossible than her attraction to Grey Serrado. There was no point in chasing an enigma, a shadow she’d given up on seeing through. He might know the truth of her, but she would never know the truth of him.
It didn’t stop her from wanting it anyway.
Villa Acrenix, Bay of Vraszan: Lepilun 35
The islets scattered throughout the Bay of Vraszan had long been the playground of the Liganti nobility. They allowed for more sprawling estates than the manors on the Upper Bank, with more extensive gardens… and more privacy.
The only one Vargo had ever publicly visited was the Villa Extaquium, for the Praeteri initiation. That place had made his skin crawl, because he knew too many details about Sureggio’s excesses: not just the titillating stories, but truths far more disturbing to anyone with a conscience. He might not have been able to bring himself to accept another invitation there, and never mind that he couldn’t afford to be finicky after what happened with Renata in the temple.
But the invitation he received for the autumnal equinox came from Sibiliat, bidding him attend a ceremony at the Villa Acrenix instead.
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