This was a gift from Ažerais. Not a mask to hide her true self; a transmutation, a way to make something better out of the impure metal that was Ren. I am born of Ažerais. Conceived on the Great Dream. Perhaps this is what I was always meant to be.
“Are you speaking Vraszenian?” Orruciat snapped. “I don’t understand that gibberish.”
The Black Rose must have spoken her thoughts out loud, in the only language she was meant to speak. But to communicate with the old woman, she would have to sully her tongue. “You understand me not because you belong here not.”
“Who doesn’t belong here?” The bent old woman shook like a cypress tree in a strong wind. “Don’t get pert with me, missy! It’s my workshop.”
“And it is my land!” The Black Rose surged at her, arm raised. She didn’t have her thorns, but to cleanse this place of an old woman, she didn’t need them.
Her strike glanced off the Rook’s back instead. He shoved the protesting Orruciat out of the room, slamming the door behind her, then returned to catch the Black Rose’s wrist.
“Ren,” he hissed. “What’s doing this to you?”
“I am not Ren,” she spat back in Vraszenian. “She was broken, flawed. Our goddess has remade her into something better. She made me to defend this place, just as someone made you to take down her enemies. Why deny you the truth? You are the Rook, down to your bones! Accept it, as I have done, and be who the Faces and Masks mean you to be!”
His grip jerked and went slack. She twisted free and retreated, closing her eyes. Chasing that music. It was stronger now; it grew as she stopped fighting against her nature. She had always been the Black Rose, even if she hadn’t known it. Ren was just as much a performance as the others. And that music—it was the song of the dreamweavers, the voice of Ažerais, which she had been deaf to for far too long.
But she was listening now. And she would never close her ears again.
The music splintered like wood. Ren’s eyes flew open.
The Rook had slammed the hilt of his sword into the floor, cracking the boards. Wedging the blade into the crack, he set his boot as a fulcrum and pried up a central section of the numinat in a ragged maw of wood and bent prismatium.
A plug of rainbow-swirled glass pinged and bounced across the floor, stopping at Ren’s toes.
She wanted to weep for the dream that had just slipped through her fingers. The pure, unwavering certainty of the Black Rose, leaving behind all the messy imperfections of Ren. And at the same time… now that it was gone, that certainty terrified her.
The door burst open again, and Orruciat made a croaking sound like a stomped frog. “What—you—my numinat!” Dodging the Rook, she sagged to her knees next to the hole he’d pried into her pristine new floorboards.
New, she’d said. Ren bent to pick up the bit of glass at her feet with one shaking hand.
“Praeteri,” she whispered, nausea twisting in her gut. Her glove was a glove again—as it had always been. She should have recognized the signs. But this one had felt so good, so right. Not like the rage she’d fought to keep in, that night in the temple; just her rationality slipping away like the ebbing tide. Turning her around until she didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.
It didn’t seem to have hit Orruciat nearly so hard. But the old woman didn’t spend her life tangled in a knot of lies, playing dreamweaver’s nest with the truth.
Ren recoiled as if the focus were a viper. The Rook caught it before it could hit the floor. He toed over one of the boards Orruciat was mourning; on the bottom side were painted markings. Lines of another, hidden numinat. “But to what purpose?”
Ren couldn’t answer past the tightness in her throat. How many times will they invade my mind?
Orruciat answered for her, sobs quieting into a huff. “That… that’s not right.” On hands and knees, she crawled to an undamaged part of the transmutation numinat. “This… this should be earthwise, not sunwise. How did I not see that?”
Ren forced herself to look at the blank focus the Rook held. A Praeteri focus—and those, unlike ordinary numinatria, could affect the mind.
“Delusion,” she said, meeting the Rook’s gaze in the shadows of his hood. Searching for Grey underneath: the man, not the mask he wore. “Warping your perception of reality. You aren’t to blame, Meda Amananto.”
The Rook’s reply was as soft as the shadows, but as sharp as steel. “We know who is.”
Westbridge, Lower Bank: Canilun 13
Grey didn’t go home that night.
He clawed the hood off as soon as he parted company with Ren, and stood, shaking, with it in his hands. He kept hearing Ren’s voice, declaring herself to be the Black Rose in truth. Those Praeteri bastards had gone inside her head again, and if whoever was responsible for that hidden numinat were in front of Grey now, the Rook’s oath not to kill might not stay his hand.
The Rook.
Accept it, as I have done, and be who the Faces and Masks mean you to be!
A shudder ran through him from head to toe. For just an instant, when she said that…
It wasn’t only the Praeteri numinat at work. Every time he put the hood on, the ledge beneath his feet got narrower and narrower. He ought to look for a successor, as Ryvček had done—but who? Ranieri? Sedge? Andrejek? There was no one he trusted with this. And the end was within reach; so Ren promised him, and so he had to believe.
He walked the streets until the towers rang first sun. Then he forced himself to draw the hood back on, and went to find the best protected and least interesting person in Nadežra.
Even by the standards of his Iridet predecessors, Utrinzi Simendis was a recluse. Except when Cinquerat business dragged him to the Old Island, he spent his days in his small manor on the edge of Owl’s Fields, surrounded by layers of defensive numinata. The Rook had tried to infiltrate several times, but never made it past the retaining wall surrounding the property. Iridet’s Charterhouse office was less secure, but so little used the servants hardly bothered to dust it.
But the man did have one vice. And Viljin Dmariskaya Gredzyka, proprietor of the Gredzyka Exotic Goods Emporium, owed the Rook a favor.
“I’m sorry, Your Worship,” she said as she led Utrinzi Simendis into her parlour. “He said he only wanted to talk, and I…”
Simendis had gone very still at the sight of the Rook. After several heartbeats passed without violence, he moved enough to nod at Gredzyka. “Thank you for your honesty. You could have claimed he threatened you. I suppose this means you have not, in fact, found a seven-stringed zither for me?”
“I did!” She gestured to a battered leather case leaning against the settee, then clutched that hand to her chest. “I hope—I hope you’ll have a chance to play it.”
“That depends on His Worship,” the Rook said softly. He’d doused the lamp, creating a pocket of shadow between the window hangings and the display shelves. “I’m here about someone else’s sins. The question is whether he’ll do anything about them… or cover his eyes, as he so often does.”
Gredzyka left reluctantly. Simendis was one of her best clients; the Rook could only assume that house in Owl’s Fields was stuffed to the rafters with imported musical instruments. The man apparently loved them so much that he had the single-minded audacity to open the case Gredzyka had used as bait and lift into his lap an elegant instrument of lacquered wood, stringed with twisted silk.
The Rook watched him warily. Some Iridets—or rather, some holders of the Sebat medallion—had orchestrated religious purges across Nadežra; they were the reason no labyrinths survived on the Upper Bank. This one seemed content to be useless. But that wasn’t the same as ignorant, and although Simendis’s hands were on the strings, his eyes were on the Rook.
Or rather, on the subtle numinatrian embroidery along the edge of the hood.
Rather than wait to see if the man could unravel his own secrets, the Rook spoke. “The Illius Praeteri. What do you know of them?”
Simendis p
lucked one string, contemplatively, and adjusted a tuning peg. “A numinatrian mystery cult. My protégé, Tanaquis Fienola, is a member. As are a number of our leading citizens.”
Silence fell, except for the plangent note of another string. The Rook said, “That’s it?”
“I take it from your tone that there is something more you think I ought to know.”
Only respect for good craftsmanship and his cordial relationship with Ča Gredzyka kept the Rook from breaking the instrument across his knee. “As Iridet, I would think you’d be concerned with the fact that the Praeteri are using unlicensed numinatria all across Nadežra. And yes, it is unlicensed; I broke into your office to examine the charters there.”
Simendis shrugged as if the break-in was only to be expected. “It’s impossible to track or control every use of numinatria. But I take it these particular uses are of concern.”
The Rook began counting them off, switching between hands as he ran out of fingers. Ren had left a list on her balcony a few days before; some of the items on it matched the ones that survived the booby trap in Vargo’s office.
It had the desired effect on Simendis. There was no more tuning; the man’s hands went flat on the strings, and his eyes shut as though he were meditating. His expression, however, was anything but serene.
When the list was done, Simendis wet his lips, then spoke in a whisper. “Eisar. She… did not tell me that.”
Fienola, the Rook presumed. He reined in the urge to drag Simendis out and hang him by his ankles from the Dawngate. “This is what happens when you abdicate your job to other people, Your Worship.”
Simendis opened his eyes and studied the Rook. “I wonder. How much do you know of such things?”
“More than you, apparently.”
“I doubt that,” Simendis said, in a nearly inaudible voice.
Or the Rook could punch him a few times, right here. Leather creaked as his hands tightened into fists—but beating up an old man wouldn’t accomplish anything. Instead he growled, “Worms breed in dark places. This needs to be dragged into the light. I’m counting on you to do it.” The Rook leaned close enough for his hood to eclipse the light. “Clean your house, Your Worship. Or I will.”
He would have left it at that. But before he could slip out the back door, Simendis spoke again. “You aren’t in the habit of polite conversation with members of the Cinquerat. I presume you’ve come to me because you recognize your own limits—but have you considered my own? Iridet commands no military force. I rely on Caerulet to supply what is needed. That will hardly work in this case.”
The Rook stopped. That was the objection of a man who actually wanted to root out the cult.
He fought with himself internally, and couldn’t even say for sure which side of the argument was the Rook, and which was Grey Serrado.
“Derossi Vargo,” he said at last. “He’s infiltrated the Praeteri. And he holds a mercenary charter—granted by the previous Caerulet.”
Touching his hood in a rare gesture of respect, the Rook left Utrinzi Simendis to his business.
19
The Ember Adamant
Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 13
When Renata reentered her bedroom after breakfast the next morning, it took her a moment to notice that Clever Natalya was making futile kitten leaps up the wall, claws scratching at the smooth birch panels. Renata, following her unwavering gaze, saw a familiar splash of color clinging to the molding, safely out of Natalya’s reach.
How Master Peabody had gotten into her room she didn’t know, but he made far too tempting of a target for the cat. Renata interposed herself, and Peabody flung himself onto the front of her surcoat. Covering him with one hand, she hurried out to the sitting room, where Tess was sorting through her morning correspondence, and shut the door behind her.
She expected a flood of enthusiastic and overly proper greetings and thanks to follow, but after a moment of bobbing in place on her shoulder, he scuttled down her arm and waved his front legs toward the desk. Tess’s eyes widened at the sight. “Is that—”
The door to the sitting room was closed, but Tess caught herself all the same. Renata came closer, letting Peabody scuttle down to the desk and herself whisper to Tess. “Yes. I’ve no idea what he’s doing.”
The spider had climbed onto the stack of letters and was laboriously trying to nudge the top one off. When Tess moved it away, he retreated to the one below, and repeated this process until he got to a flat package a little too thick to be the usual invitation or letter. Then he hooked one leg through the ribbon tying it closed and threw his minuscule weight into a futile effort to undo the knot.
The package was from Vargo. Brushing Peabody gently aside, Renata untied the ribbon and found herself in possession of a folded piece of fabric that, once shaken out, proved to be a painted numinat with a note.
Put the focus in the middle and pin the cut bit together.
Tess cleared her throat. “Seeing as how winter’s coming on, would now be a convenient time to discuss additions to the alta’s wardrobe? It’ll be a difficulty to get the best fabrics with Eret Vargo’s warehouse closed to us, but I’ve an idea for…”
She launched into a thoroughly detailed account of the state of the textile trade in Nadežra while Renata, grateful, sat on the floor behind her desk. The focus was pinned to the corner of the fabric; she arrayed everything according to Vargo’s instructions, then used the pin to close the encircling line.
No sooner had Peabody jumped into the middle than a flood of words swept through her mind.
::—working? Please say it’s working. We weren’t certain if you would be able to hear me away from Vargo, since your connection seems to be through him. You must tell me how you did it; the details he provided were scanty at best. You’re so quiet. Oh dear, perhaps you still can’t respond. Blink! One if you can hear me, two if you can’t. No, wait. That makes no sense. Two if you can hear me, three if—::
“I can hear you,” Renata said, fighting a smile. So long as she kept her voice to a whisper, nobody would hear her over Tess waxing rhapsodic about the weave of a particular heather-fine twill shipped in from Ganllech.
::Oh! Yes, I suppose you could answer like that.:: His front limbs curled bashfully up against his mouth, but a moment later he was off again. Raising his brightly patterned body in a reverse bow, he said, ::Where are my manners? Altan Alsius Acrenix, at your service. A sheer delight to make your acquaintance properly. We have so many interesting topics to discuss—I do hope this isn’t an inconvenient time. It may not be far from Eastbridge to the Pearls, but it isn’t precisely an easy jaunt for me. Quite a few birds out at this time of day, and I feel so cruel when I have to bite them. My venom is very painful, you know. I could refrain from using it, but that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?::
“I thought the two of you were indestructible.”
::I’d rather not test that in the digestive tract of a seagull.::
She stifled a laugh at his prim reply. “That’s fair. I’m sorry about the cat.”
::I suppose you’re attached to her?:: At Renata’s lifted brow, he shook himself. ::Can’t be helped, then. Now that I know that beast is a danger, I’ll take precautions. Vargo thought it would be convenient were I the one to relay messages between you. I am so relieved you set your estrangement aside. And quite scandalized! I knew Letilia, you know. Not well. But I must say, I always felt you were too interesting to possibly be related to her. Meaning no insult. Though I suppose you wouldn’t take insult, since she’s not really your mother.::
There would hardly be any risk of someone overhearing her when every ten words from Renata invited a thousand from Alsius. But if the only person he could talk to was Vargo, she hardly blamed him for being excited about this new opportunity. “May I ask… how did you end up like this?” She gestured at the peacock spider.
::Ah, that.:: He shuffled around, his movement curtailed by the borders of the numinat. ::I understand you h
eard the conversation the night you brought Captain Serrado to us? Mine was a similar situation. A curse my brother sent to kill me.::
How many people in Nadežra would believe that, when Ghiscolo seemed so affable? “That part, I know. But I’ve never heard of a situation like yours.” She hesitated, then said, “If I’m prying too far, I apologize, but… I misjudged Vargo rather badly. I’m trying to mend that. And you’re clearly a vital part of his life.”
::Vital, hmm.:: Tucking his legs close, Alsius settled into a little lump opposite the focus of the numinat. His four main eyes shone like polished onyx. ::It didn’t start that way. You see, Vargo was the messenger boy who delivered the cloak that held the curse. And I… I was more concerned with my own survival than his. If it weren’t for Master Peabody—the original, I mean—tucked in Vargo’s pocket, matters might have fallen out very differently.::
He went silent in contemplation, save for the faint whisper of his front legs against his mandibles. ::If you wish to understand Vargo, then you only need know that the unintended consequences of his actions trouble him more than he will ever admit.::
The Night of Hells. Kolya Serrado. Undoubtedly others she would never know about. But from the weight in Alsius’s voice, he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. While she knew very little about numinatria, she could speculate: Alsius Acrenix, trying to save his own life without concern for the messenger boy… If it was possible for a spirit to be transferred to a new body, she doubted it was the spider he’d been aiming for.
Yet somehow they’d gone from that to the oddly familial relationship they had now. “Am I right in thinking you had a hand in his rise?”
::Eight of them,:: Alsius said with a mental chuckle. ::It took quite some effort to mold Vargo into someone the Praeteri would accept into their ranks, but I was right to be concerned about what they do—as you yourself have experienced. And now with… Did Sedge relay to you that Ghiscolo somehow influenced Nikory as well? Though it’s faded, for both of them. Vargo says the immediate pressure eased off quite abruptly a few days ago, though the impulse lingers. We’re not sure why.::
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