It must have worked, because the cuff nodded absently and said, “There is no shadow so deep, nor ignorance so embedded, nor sin so great that it cannot be revealed and redeemed by the Lumen’s light. But one should strive to improve oneself in this life.”
His yammering faded as he snipped the last of the cords and midnight velvet spilled out of the package. Vargo had only seen a corner; the whole was like the starlit Dežera on a summer night, flowing through the cuff’s gloved hands. Almost made Vargo wish he was apprentice to a craftsman who could make something so beautiful.
He wished even more that he could punch the critical frown off the cuff’s face. “You should inform your potential masters that cloaks of this cut haven’t been in fashion for at least a decade.” The man lifted it to the light to get a better look at the embroidery. “And their attempt at numinatrian figures are muddled and ill-informed. These lines here—completely unnecessary.”
Ass. Vargo pasted a stupid look on his face. “En’t supposed to leave until you try it on.”
The cuff glared as if a dirty look was enough to push his unwanted visitor out the door. He sighed when Vargo stood firm as the Point. “Very well.”
Swinging the cloak around like a Vraszenian veil dancer, he settled it on his shoulders and fumbled with the two halves of the smooth enameled clasp before clicking it into place. The light caught the scatter of gems as the cloak settled, flashing and winking at Vargo like a fall of meteors. “Now will you—”
His words choked off. Coughing, the man clawed at the collar like someone had stepped on the trailing hem. His chalk-pale face darkened to a sickly purple as he dropped to one knee. The gems burned like stars.
“What did you do?” the cuff rasped. He caught Vargo’s wrist before Vargo could bolt, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who lived among books. “Get it off. Get it off me!”
Vargo did his best. But the clasp seemed fused together, burning his fingers when he tried to pry it open. “Maybe if we cut it off?” he said. Panic beat in his throat. He’d done this. He’d mucked up some numinat in the embroidery, and now the man was going to kiss Ninat good night.
“Cut off what, my head?” the man snarled.
“No, the cloak!” When Vargo wedged his thumb knife into the collar, though, the velvet held like woven steel. The only thing he cut was the skin of the cuff’s throat.
The cloak wasn’t strangling the man, not if he could still breathe enough to berate Vargo. But something was badly wrong; the plum bruising his cheeks was burning into grey ash by the moment. Something dangerous and desperate bled into the man’s eyes. “I have an idea—I’ll need your help. Open your shirt.”
Any other time, Vargo would have told him to shove his glove up his own ass, but fear and guilt drove him to comply.
Snatching a pen and inkpot from his desk, the man said, “Hold still.” His hand trembled as he inked a numinat onto the skin of Vargo’s chest.
“How’s this gonna help?”
“Don’t distract me.” The man lurched over to a mirror and repeated the process on himself. Then, slopping ink onto a tiny chop, the cuff pressed it to the center of the figures: first his own, then Vargo’s.
Pain erupted through Vargo from the hot core of the numinat. The smell of flesh burning singed his nose. Someone caught him before he crashed into the ground, dragging him toward the prismatium spiral laid into the floor. He blinked up at the cuff, whose ashy pallor had broken into a flush. Sweat shone on his brow. “I promise, this is only temporary. I just need you to share the burden of the effects until…”
He trailed off as he moved about, the ominously twinkling cloak still sweeping behind him. Now the whole floor was his canvas, chalked with an increasingly complex web of lines. Vargo tried to move, tried to watch, but he kept fading in and out of consciousness. When he reached for the brand burning on his chest, his hand bumped against something hard in his coat. The flask, with Peabody inside. Vargo clutched it tight to the burn, wishing the cool glass could leach away the pain.
Finally the man lurched to a halt and knelt, chalk in hand, straining to reach the outer circle so he could close it without moving from his place.
Primordial agony engulfed Vargo. Worse than any burn, than any cut; it felt like the flask had shattered, driving shards of glass into his heart. His vision went black. Vargo screamed. He’s killing me. He’s killing me to save himself.
And then the world was gone.
1
The Face of Gold
Tricatium, the Pearls: Fellun 15
The precise elegance of a numinat reflected an orderly cosmos: one where each person and thing had their place, and the relationships between them could be measured to perfection.
Donaia Traementis knew all too well that order was often nothing more than a mask over chaos. The long scroll of the Traementis family register connected names with the lines of marriage, adoption, and descent… and far too many of those names were overlaid with the Ninat of death. For past generations it was only natural, but the truncated limbs of Donaia’s family tree gave mute testimony to the curse that had haunted House Traementis in recent years.
A curse now lifted, thanks to the name Tanaquis Fienola was inscribing into the register.
Three women stood around Tanaquis as she wrote: Donaia; her daughter, Giuna; and Renata Viraudax—soon to be Renata Viraudax Traementatis. Ordinarily a registry inscription would draw a crowd of observers and well-wishers to ring the participants. Instead, the Tricatium echoed around the small cluster that had gathered, all empty benches and soaring arches of polished oak that gleamed like satin and smelled of linseed oil.
Scaperto Quientis was there as Fulvet, the Cinquerat seat that oversaw civic matters like adoptions. Utrinzi Simendis, who held the religious Iridet seat, had emerged from his usual seclusion to oversee the inscription itself. A handful of trusted servants had come in the place of family members. And the friends of House Traementis, all two of them: Sibiliat Acrenix and Derossi Vargo.
Donaia’s house had done a fine job of alienating half of Nadežra, long before the curse began reaping them like grain.
A final sweep of Tanaquis’s compass inscribed the closing circle around the newest register entry. “It needs only your mark, Alta Renata. One moment—”
Renata rocked back on her heels to stop her forward momentum as Tanaquis stepped out of the silver circle embedded into the floor and set the closing arc in place. Like a sluice opening, the power of the Lumen coursed through the figure, the warm welcome of honey in tea.
“There.” Tanaquis dusted her hands, though for this numinat she’d used no chalk. “Now you may sign.”
Renata glanced at the register, then at Giuna and Donaia. Once, she had hesitated to accept Donaia’s offer of adoption. Once, Donaia had hesitated to offer. Now she nodded, and Renata stepped forward and signed the register with economical flourish.
And so she became family, as Leato had so earnestly wished.
Donaia hid her trembling hands under the apron of her surcoat, a tight ball of grief pressing into her stomach. Not even a month since her son had died, and so much had changed. Some of it for the better, yes… but all of it brittle and colorless now that her sweet boy’s light had returned to the Lumen.
He would want this to be a bright occasion, though—a rare moment of growth and celebration, a new dawn for their house. “Welcome to the family,” Donaia said to Renata as Tanaquis deactivated the circle and retrieved her quill. Giuna was already flinging herself at her new cousin with unseemly enthusiasm. Clasping her hands tight to keep from doing the same, Donaia asked, “About the rest… Are you certain?”
“It’s only until next fall, when Giuna comes of age,” Renata said over her new cousin’s shoulder. “I should be asking you and Giuna—are you sure I’m not treading on toes by doing this?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to remain heir,” Giuna said softly.
Before Donaia could think of a way to scold
her without embarrassing Renata, Scaperto Quientis interrupted. “Ninat willing, this precaution won’t be necessary,” he said, setting a sheaf of pages down on the podium abandoned by Tanaquis. “I hope to cross wits and disagree on civic matters with you for many more years, Era Traementis.”
Donaia smoothed her skirts and joined him at the podium. By all rights she ought to resent Eret Quientis; his family had taken the Fulvet seat from hers when the Traementis fall began. But he never ground their faces in it—he’d even granted them their first new charter in years—and he’d worked with Renata to stop the riots during Veiled Waters the previous month.
She accepted the pen from him and smiled. “I’d rather work together, if you don’t mind.”
As she signed her name to the legal documents, Quientis said softly, “Once your heir is settled in… I know House Traementis sold its villa in the bay. Should you need a respite, you’re welcome to the use of ours.”
Her grief would haunt her no matter where she went, but Donaia had to admit it might help to leave Traementis Manor for a time. “Thank you,” she said, equally softly. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
Then she stepped away so Renata could sign as well, finishing the paperwork. Tanaquis stood nearby, tugging her gloves back on. “Congratulations,” she said to Donaia. “An auspicious day for such matters, and now that your curse is gone—”
“Not here,” Donaia hissed. Vargo and Sibiliat both were waiting at a distance, but not so far that a keen ear couldn’t catch whispers in the echoing Tricatium. Even the scratch of Renata’s pen nib seemed loud.
Tanaquis pretended to smooth the ever-straying wisps of her dark hair. “I only meant to say that Traementis’s fortunes should be on the rise. I’m happy for you.”
Donaia caught her hand—the glove ink stained, as always—and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. You’ve been a true friend to our house.”
Better than some. Sibiliat was kind enough to Giuna, but even House Acrenix, legendary for their friendships and alliances across Nadežra, had been less than eager to help the Traementis during their decline. And Vargo…
The man slid up to them, smooth as a river eel and faintly resembling one with his scarred throat and his coat of river-green caprash wool. The gaudy spider pin on his lapel was no complement to the ensemble, but Donaia wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. When he spoke, the polished courtesy of his baritone voice held no trace of his Lower Bank origins. “My congratulations as well, Era Traementis. I can’t imagine how hard these weeks have been for you, but I hope you can take some comfort in Alta Renata. She is a treasure.”
“Thank you, Eret Vargo,” Donaia said, her diction almost as clipped as Renata’s. His presence rankled, a reminder that he was now her equal, in legal status, if in nothing else. No ennoblement would ever erase what he was.
A fact that didn’t seem to bother Renata. She joined them with a smile and a Seterin-style curtsy for Vargo, thanking him for attending. Vargo lifted her gloved hand from her shoulder and said, “I’m only sorry that you’ve refused all my attempts to arrange a celebration. Now I’ll have to devise some other ruse to lure you from your duties.”
“My duties?” The lingering touch of his hand brought color to Renata’s cheeks and snapping amusement to her eyes. “I believe you’re the one now in charge of a noble house—with no one to assist you.”
“But much less business to conduct than House Traementis. I think it comes out even.”
That, Donaia knew, was a bald-faced lie. Though it would be interesting to see how quickly the city’s nobility closed ranks against the upstart who had somehow wormed his way in among them.
His flirtatious manner worried her. Renata was still a stranger to Nadežra; she didn’t understand what kind of man Vargo was. She trusted him, and so far their partnership had been useful… but Donaia would have to ensure that relationship remained one of business only.
“I’m surprised you aren’t already neck-deep in applications from people wishing to be inscribed into your house register, Eret Vargo,” Donaia said. “I fear my desk might collapse under the weight of them. Though of course, Traementis can afford to be discerning.”
“Your house has always had that reputation,” Vargo said with a mocking bow. “And your first adoption has set quite a high bar.”
It was a skillful knife thrust, a subtle gibe at the old Traementis habit of insularity and a reminder that he’d seen the value of Renata before anyone else did, all neatly wrapped up in a single package. Donaia was glad when Scaperto approached and handed her the leather folder containing the formal adoption and heirship papers, held shut with a loop around the stacked triangles of the Fulvet seal.
Scaperto looked no more friendly to Vargo as he said, “This isn’t the time or place for it, but we need to speak soon about your plans for the river-numinat charter.”
“Of course,” Vargo said smoothly. “Is tomorrow too soon? I’m eager to get started while the weather is warm and the winds are fair.”
And the fox has gone a-courting. Donaia pressed her lips against the third line of the old delta farmer’s saying and took Renata’s arm to lead her out before Vargo could claim it.
He might have extended the first hand, but now she was Donaia’s to protect.
The Aerie, Duskgate, Old Island: Fellun 15
Grey Serrado strode up the wide steps of quartzite and granite that rose from Vigil Plaza to the Aerie. He was back in his blue-and-tan dress vigils, the double-lined steel hexagram of his rank once more pinned to his collar. It was almost like the upheavals of the last few months had never happened… if one didn’t look too closely.
That was Nadežra. Built on the shifting shoals of a river delta, the city lacked the feeling of permanence that grounded the inland cities of Vraszan. Like the dreams and the river it was named for, Nadežra changed while the mind was elsewhere.
But some places anchored the city, as surely as the Old Island stood against the river, splitting it into the East and West Channels. The amphitheatre built atop the Point; the Charterhouse, where Nadežra’s laws were made.
And the Aerie, where those laws were—occasionally, when it benefited the powerful—enforced.
The Aerie’s shadow fell over Vraszenians more often in threat than protection, but Grey had joined the Vigil hoping that something that couldn’t be broken from the outside might be shifted from the inside. The crisis during Veiled Waters had damaged that naive hope, but the changes since then had breathed new life into it.
He’d dressed that morning intending to witness Renata Viraudax’s inscription into House Traementis—an adoption he was still conflicted about, for reasons he couldn’t share with Donaia. But then a messenger arrived at his door, instructing him to report to the high commander’s office at sixth sun. Any other captain might wonder if such an invitation hinted at a promotion, especially after the service Grey had rendered in evacuating the Great Amphitheatre during Veiled Waters. But Grey knew there was no world in which a Vraszenian would be promoted past captain.
He smoothed down his waistcoat and entered the Aerie. His timing was flawless; the bells of the city rang out the noon hour as he presented himself to the lieutenant working the desk outside High Commander Dimiterro’s office. “Captain Grey Serrado, reporting as ordered.”
The old secretary was gone, swept away with the previous high commander. Grey recognized this one by sight but not name. The man nodded, without the barely veiled contempt many of the Vigil’s lieutenants directed at its only Vraszenian captain. “The high commander will be with you—”
The heavy door of the office swung open. “—now,” the lieutenant finished, without missing a beat.
“Serrado.” Commander Cercel gave Grey a once-over as though worried he might have worn his patrol slops to meet their superior. He must have passed muster, because all she said was “Come in.”
The first thing he noticed when he entered the high commander’s office was that the shelves full of bottles of a
lcohol were gone, as were the Ghusai carpet and the smell of old wine soaked into it from years of abuse. The second was that Dimiterro wasn’t alone. The man seated to one side of his desk wore not the uniform of a hawk, but the finely tailored silk coat of a nobleman, its glacial shade harmonizing elegantly with the darker blue of the Vigil hangings.
Grey snapped his heels together and bowed to his new high commander, then pivoted and bowed a second time. “Your Mercy.”
He eyed Eret Ghiscolo Acrenix warily, recalculating the possible purpose of this meeting. The man might be Liganti and a nobleman, but unlike his predecessor as Caerulet, he had no reputation for loathing Vraszenians. So what did he want with Grey?
Acrenix waved him to stand at rest. “Captain Serrado, welcome. As I understand it, we have you to thank for the salvation of the Great Amphitheatre.”
And the people who were in it. But Grey had long practice in keeping such thoughts behind his teeth.
“The lack of public commendation for your efforts is unfortunate, but unavoidable, I fear,” Acrenix said. To his credit, his regret seemed genuine. “The mood in the city is extremely delicate right now. The plan to destroy the amphitheatre and the wellspring may have started with Mettore Indestor, but there’s a great deal of negative sentiment against Vraszenians for their role in it, and in the riots. You deserve something, though. While I can’t take official action as Caerulet, I can send a reward to you from my private coffers. A bonus for hazardous duty.”
“I don’t need a reward for doing my job.” The reply was as automatic as it was brusque. Only when he noticed Cercel’s wince did Grey soften it with a nod and a soft “Your Mercy.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Acrenix said. “The Vigil could use more people like you. But a reward isn’t a bribe for doing your job; it’s a reminder to myself not to take such efforts for granted. So for my sake, if not your own.”
The Liar's Knot Page 2
