The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  All these years, Vargo had thought his mind a fortress. Now he didn’t even have that.

  ::Just one more thing we’ll make him regret.:: Alsius had woken during the briefing; he was crouched on Vargo’s shoulder, ready to bolt for cover if the Rook made any move toward him. ::Now that we know about these medallions, I can start looking for them. I wager I’ll have more success than some defenestrating lout.::

  And I might do better at destroying them.

  Vargo said that in the full knowledge that Ren would hear and the Rook wouldn’t. Two hundred years, and the man—or whatever he was—had made no progress on that front?

  Ren frowned at him. Vargo’s next thought was directed to Alsius but intended for Ren. Do you know who’s under that hood? Just nod or stay still.

  For a moment he thought she was saying “no.” But then her head moved in an infinitesimal nod.

  Fine, he thought, keeping that one to himself. Ren trusted the Rook; Vargo trusted Ren. To the shadow on the sill, he said, “Tell me what you’ve tried so far with destroying the medallions.”

  The Rook’s reply was admirably comprehensive, and gave Vargo some sense of the scale of the problem. “But I’ve never had a chance to try with Illi-zero,” the Rook said at the end.

  “Then that’s where we start,” Vargo said. “Do you trust Tanaquis enough to involve her? Normally my ego doesn’t like admitting someone knows more than I do, but she’s the best educated of us on the topic of Primordials.” He almost got the word out without shuddering. Almost, but not quite.

  The Rook exchanged a look with Ren, then gave the most reluctant nod Vargo had ever seen.

  But it was easier to keep a secret if you knew everyone who held it. “How does Serrado fit into this? Why was he attacked?”

  “I paid him a visit after the Essunta party,” the Rook said, his tone as cold as an ocean-born wind. “I felt it was time we had an honest conversation.”

  “Serrado set up a meeting between Beldipassi and the Rook.” Ren tilted her head toward the outlaw. “Ghiscolo found out somehow—we suspect Beldipassi’s valet. Serrado took the curse meant for the Rook.”

  Ghiscolo. Vargo felt the weight of Ren’s gaze. She’d started this conversation by saying she was tired of juggling secrets… but she was still holding some of Vargo’s.

  May I say it? he thought to Alsius.

  ::My brother—no, he is no brother of mine. Ghiscolo is a threat. I shudder to think who else he may have killed with that perversion of the Lumen’s grace.::

  Vargo let Alsius scuttle onto his hand and set him on the arm of his chair, then looked up at the Rook. “You’ve been sticking your hood in noble business for a while. Remember when Guebris Acrenix’s heir was found dead in his home sixteen years ago? Failed numinatrian experiment?”

  “I’m aware of it.”

  “It wasn’t an experiment. It was the same death curse that was used on Serrado. And Alsius Acrenix didn’t die—not exactly.” Peabody lifted his colorful abdomen in salute. “We’ve been together since then. That’s how I knew how to lift the curse.”

  Tracking the direction of the Rook’s eyes was impossible, but the hood seemed fixed on the spider. Vargo added, “Not that you have any reason to believe me, but he never knew about the Acrenix medallion until last night. And if he’d known what it was—” Vargo shuddered. “He would have tried to destroy it.”

  “If he expects that to endear him to me,” the Rook said, “tell him I like spiders about as much as I like nobles.”

  “Well, he doesn’t like you, either. You threw him out a window.”

  Ren cleared her throat. “The point is, you have shared enemies. And my patterns say that your threads, joining together, might just make enough rope to hang our problems.”

  Vargo didn’t share her confidence in pattern, but he wouldn’t object to having the Rook on his side instead of being a thorn in it. In fact—“I understand you volunteered me to Utrinzi Simendis to take down the Praeteri.”

  “I understand that’s been your goal all along. Though you’ve taken your time in going about it.”

  “Because I wanted to know how their numinatria worked. Now that I know more than I ever wanted to, it’s long past time for them to go—and their leaders along with them.” Vargo cracked his knuckles systematically, up one hand and down the other. “Let’s talk about how to do that.”

  Isla Extaquium, Eastbridge: Canilun 17

  Thunder rattled the sky as Renata’s sedan chair arrived in the plaza in front of Extaquium Manor. But the storm wouldn’t keep anyone from attending Sureggio’s party; on the contrary, it was the reason for the occasion. There was an old Seterin tradition of writing poems inspired by the dance of the Lumen in the clouds.

  Not that she expected many poems tonight. Sureggio’s version was a drinking game, with guests downing spirits every time the lightning struck. She had no interest in this kind of event; she wouldn’t have bothered to accept Parma’s invitation were it not for one thing.

  The Illius Praeteri were also holding a ritual, in a select gathering within the party itself.

  Vargo couldn’t strike against them in the hidden temple, not with it warded against intruders. It was possible to bring nonmembers of the Praeteri in—otherwise he and Ren couldn’t have been brought in for their third initiation—but he’d studied the cult’s register. That effect was created through the use of Tuat, which meant each member could bring only one guest. For a raid like Iridet wanted, capturing as many high-ranked cultists as possible, Vargo would need a lot more than that.

  So instead they were targeting a ritual outside the temple. Renata wasn’t far enough into their circle to receive an invitation; Tanaquis was, but unfortunately, Simendis had forbidden her to attend. He was still angry at her for not telling him the true nature of the Praeteri, and he’d refused to let her anywhere near Extaquium Manor, lest anyone connect his protégé to the cult. Which meant it was up to Renata and Vargo to find the secret gathering, bring in his force, and give Iridet the grounds he needed to prosecute their heresy.

  Dampness hung heavy on the air. Despite the cleansing rain rolling in from the north, warmth and cloying scents blanketed the manor’s front steps; inside, it was worse. The lights were all dimmed to a suggestive glow, shining off the bodies of the servants, who for the occasion had been painted with storm clouds and lightning bolts. The only fresh air came from the doors to the garden terrace. Beyond them, an awning of the thinnest net covered the scattering of divans and couches, each cluster supplied with its own water pipe for smoking. The numinat worked into the net would shield the partygoers from whatever fell from the sky: rain, hail, or even lightning, should the Lumen aim a strike at them.

  Renata avoided the terrace. The haze of smoke out there would dull her wits even if she didn’t partake directly, and the gardens didn’t provide nearly enough space or privacy for a secret ritual. No, it would be somewhere in the house.

  Moving through the party felt like her days in Lacewater, without the stinking canals. She had to revive every trick she knew to cut short unwanted suggestions and fend off wandering hands, even to the point of putting a discreet joint lock on one gentleman too drunk to recognize her as more than an attractive female body. She spotted Vargo in time to see him fumble a chilled drink into the lap of an aggressive suitor from House Cleoter. No sound or sign of Alsius; presumably the spider was off conducting his own search.

  They needed to do the same. And what better way to search than to pretend to be seeking privacy?

  Vargo shivered as she ran a hand up his spine to settle across his shoulders, like a cat that had been stroked backward. The midnight velvet nap of his coat was as soft as the pads of Clever Natalya’s toes. Renata’s chin came to rest on his opposite shoulder, and she greeted the surprised looks of the other guests with a satisfied smirk.

  “You said you’d come find me.” She let the whisper lick Vargo’s ear, but made it loud enough for everyone to hear.

  �
�I only just noticed your arrival.” His hand found hers on his shoulder, and he toyed with the pearl closings of her gloves. “I didn’t want to be rude and leave in the middle of a conversation.”

  “Then I’ll be rude for you.” Stepping back, she tugged him to his feet. To their audience, she said, “You don’t mind, do you? I don’t think any of us came here to talk.”

  As they made their way from the salon to the fresher air of the hallways, Vargo slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Under the guise of whispering something naughty, he said, “Well, that’s a seed bun tossed to the snappers. I suppose this means we’ve officially reconciled?”

  She giggled and swatted him before cupping her hand around his ear to whisper back, “It was the quickest way to get you away. I’d rather not still be here when the clothes start coming off. And it gives us an excuse to nose around.”

  “Indeed. If only we weren’t burdened with such pressing concerns…”

  Ren couldn’t deny the way her skin tingled at the liquid warmth in his voice, the weight of his hand at the small of her back. But there was a difference between feeling it and wanting to follow through. “Vargo… I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

  Her body remained pliant against his, but he was canny enough to separate mixed cues. The hand on her back lightened, leaving behind only the illusion of pressure. “You’re not interested.”

  “More like not available.”

  It was a risk, saying even that much. Vargo knew almost all of her secrets now; it would take only one flash of insight to connect pieces she needed him to keep separate. But she couldn’t take this too far—not when her relationship with Grey was still so new, and so fragile. Vargo might heat her blood, but Grey warmed her heart.

  Vargo gave her a wry grin and a quick, impartial squeeze. “Don’t tell Alsius. He’ll be devastated. You’re several cuts above what I usually drag to my bed.”

  He was masking something. Not the hurt of rejection; that, she’d seen on him before. Something else. “Vargo—”

  “I’m happy you’ve found someone who can know all of you.” His grin widened, and he winked. “I’ll leave it to Sedge to make the appropriate threats.”

  Sedge would lose his mind when he found out she was sleeping with the Rook and a former hawk, all in one man. But that was very much a concern for later. “Shall we find ourselves some heretics?”

  A bark of laughter drew several eyes in their direction. Vargo led her past them, leaving a storm of whispers in their wake. “Let’s hope for heretics and not any of the other things we might stumble on here. I’m relying on you to preserve what innocence I have left.”

  His jest turned out to be not far off the mark. Ren thought herself worldly; it was a common saying that there were no children in the streets. Their tour through Extaquium Manor, however, made it clear to her that nobody could be as inventive as the bored and wealthy.

  She was beginning to think they were never going to find what they were looking for when they came into a room that, according to bookshelves along the far wall, was supposed to be a library. “I didn’t take Sureggio for much of a reader,” Vargo scoffed. He kept his voice low even though the man passed out with his head in a large vase was unlikely to wake. “I suppose he just has these books for show.”

  “For show,” Ren murmured, “or…”

  The gaps weren’t that hard to find, once she looked for them. Nor was the trigger, which Vargo located in the floor. Planting his bare hand against a marquetry circle, he twisted it, and the bookcase swung backward.

  Beyond the low arch was a shaft, a metal staircase spiraling up into darkness, and a niche with a covered bowl of lightstones. Unfortunately, even setting a single foot on the first riser made the shaft echo with the creaking of the spiral. There would be no sneaking up these stairs.

  Vargo drew back into the library. “I haven’t seen Sureggio, Diomen, Ghiscolo, or any of the other important Praeteri down here. Do we gamble that this is it, and that they’ve gathered already?”

  The storm had been building outside while they searched; now thunder echoed down the shaft. “It sounds like it’s open to the outside, wherever it leads. But—” Ren leaned in to listen. In the wake of the thunder, something else came through. “I hear voices. I think this is it.”

  Though he wore the elegant clothing of a cuff, Vargo’s smile was pure Lower Bank threat. “I’ll signal my people. We’re going to want to drive hard through the house. Can you wait here? Make certain nobody leaves… and nobody gets through to warn them?”

  He barely waited for her nod before he was gone. Leaving Ren standing next to a secret door, wondering if she should close it, wondering if the man with his head in the vase was going to wake up, wondering—

  Was that a scream?

  The sound twined with the renewed thunder, and Ren risked a couple of steps up the stairs in order to hear better. It faded to agonized moans, but yes: Someone up there was in extreme pain.

  She gripped the central post, fighting with herself. How long would it take Vargo to gather his people? And what exactly did she think she was going to do without them?

  Those aren’t the real questions. The real question was whether she could stand there listening to someone scream and not act.

  Her mask was always with her, folded small and tucked into a well-hidden pocket. She drew it over her face, waited for the next roll of thunder, and flung herself up the stairs.

  The boots of the Black Rose didn’t fully muffle Ren’s footsteps, but the sky and the screams gave her cover. At the top of the stairs was a small bedroom, unoccupied; it had double doors open to a terrace that must sit high on the manor’s roof, sheltered from easy view.

  A group of people stood on that terrace, beneath an intricate framework of numinata. Blue lightning danced along its rods, channeling downward to the tiles below, where a man lay naked and screaming. As the light faded, his distorted voice eased into something more recognizable. “Clay! Give me the clay!”

  Sureggio Extaquium. Ren watched him swiftly mold the offered clay in his hands, and remembered what Vargo had told her about the making of Praeteri foci.

  The fact that Extaquium was suffering for the creation of one did nothing to outweigh the suffering it would create elsewhere. Who are you planning to use that on?

  A shadow suddenly eclipsed the door. Ren jerked back, but not fast enough; a hand caught her head, fingers digging into her braids so she couldn’t slip free. It dragged her out onto the terrace and forced her to her knees.

  “It seems our gathering isn’t as private as you promised, Brother Sureggio.” Diomen’s rich voice rang out over the cultists, chanting in blasphemous praise to the Primordial of suffering.

  They broke off and turned to face him. Ren’s gaze swept over their ranks, cataloguing faces. Plenty of targets… but no Ghiscolo, not that she could see.

  Sureggio lurched to his feet and shrugged on a robe. He approached with the halting steps of a man whose muscles weren’t quite under his control, his flapping garment doing little to hide his nudity. The scent of scorched hair lingered on him; all that flesh on display was blasted smooth.

  “It’s that Rose person!” Ebrigotto Attravi exclaimed. “How remarkable.”

  Sureggio’s words slurred as if he were drunk—which he probably was. “I can always make room for uninvited guests.”

  Their lack of concern eased the tension that had gripped the other Praeteri. Nervous laughter followed, chasing the rumble of a lightning strike. In the brief distraction, Ren twisted free of Diomen’s hand, but Attravi’s two strapping sons blocked her way with swords before she could get far.

  I should have waited.

  “There is no room for unbelievers in our gatherings,” Diomen said, his voice as deep and uncompromising as the thunder. “And we must make certain the new focus works. Bring her.”

  Ren didn’t fight as they pushed her across the terrace. With so many cultists around her, she didn’t
stand a chance; better to wait for an opening.

  On the far side of the frame that had gathered and dissipated the lightning, a more traditional numinat was painted on the tiles. Heavy rain sheeted over it, stinging as it struck Ren’s cheeks. At a wave of Diomen’s hand, Ebrigotto Attravi came over to tie Ren’s hands and feet.

  When they shoved her into the numinat, she took care to roll so her back faced away from the Praeteri. Attravi didn’t know the first thing about tying people up. He hadn’t noticed Ren bracing her hands to gain slack, and his knot slipped as she worked her hands free. But she remained still as Diomen placed the new focus in the center of the numinat and retreated to safety.

  As he bent to close the circle, she slapped her hands against the tiles and shoved her bound feet toward the focus.

  For the briefest instant, agony unlike anything she’d felt before tore through her body—not just pain, she’d felt that before, but Primordial agony that seared her from her skin to the marrow of her bones—and she screamed.

  But her feet slammed into the lump of clay and knocked it out of place. And with a flare of violet light, the numinat broke.

  Isla Extaquium, Eastbridge: Canilun 17

  Renata wasn’t at the entrance to the stairwell shaft, because of course she wasn’t. That woman dove toward danger like an osprey stooping for trout. Muttering a curse, Vargo surged ahead without waiting for his assembled knots, without waiting for Varuni and Sedge. He’d meant for them to lead the charge because he had a sense of self-preservation—but that was a few moments longer Ren might be in trouble.

  We’re going to chat with her later about the meaning of “wait here,” he thought at the spider hidden in the collar of his coat. Alsius’s silence was its own form of agreement.

  The spiral staircase shook and groaned as Vargo bolted up as quickly as he dared. At the top he hurled himself out into the rain, where a crowd gathered at the edge of a complex framework of copper rods and wires.