The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  Like a conjuror’s trick, Ryvček appeared in his path. With one hand—and an expression that said she regretted having to touch him even that much—she seized Mezzan’s wrist and twisted it until his sword dropped from his fingers. She caught it in her other hand and swept it to the side, well out of his reach. “I believe it’s illegal for you to carry a blade nowadays. But when has the law stopped your kind?” With a nod to Renata, she said, “If you would…”

  Renata took the sword from her, resisting the urge to turn its edge upon Mezzan. After all, there were better ways to hurt him.

  Pitching her voice to carry, she said, “Send your petition to House Traementis, Master Meppe. I will give it due consideration.”

  Mezzan spat curses until Ryvček wrenched his arm harder. “Are those… bee stings?” she said, studying him. “Those aren’t from the Rook. Though I hear he gave you about half the thrashing you deserve, after your house was dissolved. Come; I’m sure we can find a Vigil officer to give you the other half.” Even with Mezzan in a joint lock, she managed to bow to the quartet of noblewomen. “Alta Renata, that’s a fine sword. Vicadrius, I believe. Bring it to my house next Tsapekny, at fifth sun; you should learn how to use it properly.”

  With that, she headed off, forcing Mezzan ahead of her, leaving Renata with a bared blade and a crowd of gossiping onlookers.

  And the other three altas, one of whom stood with hunched shoulders and arms wrapped around her middle, as if she regretted having set foot outside tonight.

  Sibiliat pulled Giuna close enough to press a kiss to her temple. In a soft voice, she said, “I’d hoped to steal you away from your admirers, little bird, but…” She nodded at the miserable Marvisal.

  “I can come with you,” Giuna blurted, then touched Renata’s wrist in apology. “You don’t need me, do you, cousin?”

  “I’ll be fine. You go.” When Giuna hesitated, Renata added, “I’ll see what I can do to disperse the gossip.”

  She’d made the offer to reassure Giuna, but it was Marvisal who turned to her with too-pale cheeks and said, with a quaver in her voice, “Thank you.”

  When the altas were gone, Renata sent Tess to have the sword delivered back to Traementis Manor. Then she called for the musicians, who had stopped playing, to strike up a gratzet—one of the only dances she’d properly learned—and flirted aggressively with every one of her changing partners until nobody was talking about Mezzan anymore.

  Fortunately, before any of those partners could try to press what they thought was an advantage, she caught sight of Tanaquis at the edge of the floor. Using that as an excuse to escape, Renata dragged the other woman off.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “You may have wanted to dance, yourself.”

  “The figures are interesting,” Tanaquis said. “There are theories about performing numinatria, walking the lines instead of inscribing them. But I don’t think the gratzet holds any power.” Her magpie mask sat on her forehead as though she’d pushed it up and then forgotten it was there. The stylized black feathers blended with her dark hair and brushed the skin of her pale cheeks as she studied Renata. “You were surprisingly kind to poor Meppe.”

  “Mostly to needle Mezzan,” Renata admitted. “Donaia will never adopt him. Still, it does no harm to look at his proposal. And we do need people.”

  Tanaquis’s grey eyes were thoughtful. “Back from the brink of death, yes. I’ll be very interested to see what the new House Traementis looks like. Whether its… old ways carry over, or whether you take on an entirely fresh character.”

  “I’m only relieved we have the chance now.” Renata drew Tanaquis onto a nearby bridge, a tiny, decorative thing that would mostly serve to keep anyone else from standing close enough to overhear. “With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to speak with you about the curse. It troubles me that we still don’t know where it came from. Indestor was our most obvious foe, but there’s no sign that they were behind it—which means we may have another enemy out there.” Possibly even a szorsa. Pattern had uncovered the existence of the curse; pattern might have laid it in the first place.

  Tanaquis bit her lip, oddly hesitant for a woman whose tongue was usually only checked by the swift intervention of others. “About that… I’d like to invite you to an event on the solstice. But I can’t say where. Or why. You would just need to trust me without asking questions. And you may not say anything to anyone else. Not even Donaia.”

  Renata didn’t bother to control her rising eyebrows. “If you can’t say where, I’m going to have a difficult time attending.”

  “Oh! Yes.” Fishing in the pocket under her surcoat, Tanaquis pulled out a circle of soft cotton with precise blackwork crossing it in the lines of a decagram Illi numinat—one without a focus. “Pin this to your shoulder and wait in Traementis Plaza at tenth sun on the solstice. Someone will escort you.”

  Renata accepted the numinat and smoothed it in her palm. This had all the marks of a secret society. But why would Tanaquis be involved with such a thing? “This has to do with the curse?”

  “After a fashion,” Tanaquis said. “I’m intrigued by what you’ve shown me regarding pattern, and very much want to know more. But we can’t have a proper conversation if my own tongue is leashed.” She clicked it as if impatient to cast off its restraints.

  Against her better judgment, Renata was intrigued. Tanaquis knew a great deal about numinatria, but almost nothing about pattern; their previous conversations had made that clear. And so far as Ren knew, pattern and numinatria had nothing whatsoever to do with each other.

  But everything she knew had come from her mother. There might be more out there to learn.

  She tucked the cloth away, into the bodice of her surcoat where a pickpocket wouldn’t get it. “Thank you.”

  Her laugh ominous, Tanaquis said, “Wait until you know what you’re thanking me for.”

  Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29

  Holding Mezzan’s blade like a rotting eel carcass she was taking out to trash, Tess wandered the crowds in search of one of the off-duty hawks House Cleoter paid to keep the gardens’ peace. She couldn’t very well take the blade back to Isla Traementis herself, nor pay a common runner to do it. But hawks were required to serve if a noble requested it.

  She did her best to ignore the curious glances cast her way. Freckled Ganllechyn girls in servants’ greys-and-whites brandishing fancy blades weren’t something folk saw often outside one of Mallort’s tales, but Tess straightened her spine and marched along as though she were the Maid of Mavourneen herself.

  It kept the cuffs and their ilk from stopping her but didn’t do twaddle for helping her find a hawk. “Always circling when you’re wanting some peace; not a feather to be found when you need one,” she grumbled, a moment before spotting a flash of blue and tan. “Ha!”

  Her triumph lasted only as long as it took to circle a knot of portly gentlemen betting on the number of moths drawn by the light of a bridge lamp. A light that also very nicely limned the honey-dark cheeks and needle-fine features of the last hawk—or person—Tess wanted to see.

  Pavlin Ranieri. She hadn’t clapped eyes on him since the day of the Lower Bank riots. She’d been half hoping that luck would stay with her and she’d never have to see his lying face again… but the Kind Ladies had a sense of humor that was anything but funny.

  Tess spun on her heel to escape—and promptly brought fate upon herself when she ran face-first into the back seam of a gentleman’s coat.

  “Here now, you made me lose count!” He grabbed her shoulder, ignoring her apologies and attempts to squeeze past him. His breath stank of sour wine. “I don’t give an osprey’s arse if you’re sorry, girl. You know what we had riding on this?”

  “Going to have to start the count all over,” said one of the other men, earning a groan from the entire lot.

  “Foul!” said a third. “It’ll have changed since Beldipassi took the bill. We’ll have to give eve
ry man’s mark back to him.”

  “You’re just saying that ’cause you’ve already lost!”

  “Now, now,” said the gentleman holding the betting billet. “I’m certain we can—”

  “See the trouble you’ve made?” Tess’s captor shook her hard enough to rattle her head on her neck. “And what’s this? What’s a rust-head doing walking around with a duelist’s prick?”

  “Is there a problem here, mede?” asked a soft, pleasant voice that Tess knew too well. She let her eyes slide closed and prayed the Crone would make her trip and fall on the blade that had tossed her into this tangle.

  At least the drunken man released her. “I’ll say there is. This girl’s a thief. Faked a stumble to pick our pockets, and no telling who she stole that sword from. Probably wears that uniform so she can move about without notice.”

  Tess could feel everyone’s eyes upon her, Pavlin’s most of all. She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it just as quickly. Men like this didn’t care for any truth but their own.

  “I see,” Pavlin said. “Thank you for catching her. You have the Vigil’s gratitude. With your leave, I’ll deal with it from here.”

  Taking Mezzan’s sword in one hand and Tess’s elbow in the other, Pavlin led her off. Behind them, the gentlemen busied themselves with congratulating each other for putting a stop to such a menace, and commenting on how much more diligent the Vigil had become now that Ghiscolo Acrenix was Caerulet.

  No sooner were they over the bridge and onto the next islet than Tess yanked her arm from Pavlin’s grasp, hard enough to wrench her shoulder. “They’re lying. I wouldn’t put a hand into one of their pockets for an entire bale of byssus.”

  “I know.”

  “And that’s Mezzan Indestor’s sword. He attacked my alta—”

  “Is she all right?” Pavlin touched Tess’s shoulder, and she winced at the contact. At his concern for Renata. At the reminder that he’d only ever paid court to Tess so he could spy on her sister.

  “She’s unharmed. Oksana Ryvček was there to deal with him. My alta sent me to deal with the sword, so there you have it.” Tess hugged her middle to keep a bitter laugh from escaping. “Please see it’s delivered to Traementis Manor, as a service to the house. I’ll be on my way.”

  “Tess, I’m sorry.” His words caught her as she turned to go. Against her will, she glanced back at him, and wasn’t that a mistake. He was so beautiful, with his dark eyes warmed to gold by the lamps and lashes spiked with tears. And her so shallow that all it took was a pretty face and a bit of remorse to make her want to forgive him.

  Anger—at him, at herself—sharpened her tongue. “Sorry you spied on us, or that you were caught at it?”

  “I’m sorry that I used you to do it. And that I kept visiting after the captain said I should stop.”

  You were told to stop? Tess wanted to scoff, but hope was a curse disguised as a blessing. Burying her fingers under her surcoat before they could give her away with their trembling, Tess asked, “Why did you?”

  Pavlin’s hands tightened on the sword. “I was worried. I knew things were harder than you let on, and I wanted to help.”

  That explained the baskets of bread… but not the kindness, nor the kissing. And Tess found she didn’t want to know. Whether he’d been lying about that or not, she had secrets to keep—her own and Ren’s. She couldn’t afford to forgive him, even if she wanted to.

  Hands clenched in her underskirts to give herself resolve, she said, “So, it was pity. Well, I thank you for it, but I’ve no need of it anymore. My alta’s a Traementis now, and we’ve all the bread we could want.”

  Turning away again, she hurried back toward where she’d left Renata waiting. And if she thought sadly of the spice cakes Pavlin used to bring that were her favorites, the ones she’d never taste again… she had only herself to blame.

  Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29

  Though she was the gate that determined who could enter Nightpeace, Meda Tiama Capenni rarely danced in her own gardens. So when she approached Vargo with one hand extended in invitation, he knew she wanted something.

  But she was a gentlewoman, which meant they were halfway through the dance before she shifted from pleasantries to business. “I hear you’re the man to speak with about Isarnah parrots.”

  An earthwise woman, Tiama was taller than him, especially in her heeled shoes; Vargo had to tilt his head to glance up at her. “For your gardens, I presume. Be warned—they’re loud creatures.”

  “And amusing, if they’re taught to say the right things.” She was leading for this dance and spun him out and back so that the full, weighted skirts of his coat swirled very satisfyingly. As a child Vargo hadn’t given a shit about clothes beyond what he could get from the costermongers for a stolen coat or surcoat, but he’d long ago admitted that Alsius was right; there was pleasure in being well-dressed. Power, too.

  The same went for having useful connections. Tiama Capenni might be a gentlewoman, but that didn’t mean she was a law-abiding citizen. And Vargo happened to know that Mažylo—the leader of the Night Moths, the knot that controlled crime in Nightpeace Gardens—was Tiama’s husband in all but register. Above water or below, she found a way to profit from everything that happened here.

  “I think I can provide,” Vargo said as they came back together. Parrots weren’t among his usual commodities, but Varuni claimed to have a whole menagerie of them back home; she’d know what to recommend. “It’ll take a while, but you should have them before the gardens close for the winter.”

  “I knew I could rely on you.” The dance came to a close; she exchanged a curtsy for his bow, and then they parted.

  Leaving him at inconveniently loose ends. He got a good survey of the backs of everyone’s coats and surcoats as people turned away from him, and he kept his expression steady behind his mask of beaded net. Less than a month, and the novelty of the Lower Bank crime lord turned nobleman had already worn off. While the lower ranks of the city saw opportunity in his elevation, their superiors had identified him as a threat—and correctly so, Vargo reflected, tamping down on a smirk. He was here mostly to show the snubs didn’t bother him. He knew where his path forward lay.

  He was thinking of leaving when he turned a corner and almost walked straight into Ghiscolo Acrenix and one of Cibrial Destaelio’s four thousand daughters.

  There was no way to dodge a conversation, nor time for Alsius to take cover under his collar. Brace yourself, he warned the spider, and stepped up to the pair as though he’d been invited to join them.

  The Destaelio woman made a face like she’d just been fed a live eel, but she couldn’t raise a fuss when Ghiscolo welcomed Vargo with a smile. “Eret Vargo. Eutracce here was just commenting on how the gardens have declined this year. What are your thoughts?”

  “Oh, I’m certain Eret Vargo isn’t familiar enough with gardening to have an opinion,” Eutracce said.

  He gave her a benign smile. “Quite right, alta. Charter or not, when sun hours turn over to earth, I’m just a merchant.”

  “A merchant.” Eutracce’s mouth soured further. Her mother held the Prasinet seat, which oversaw Nadežra’s finances, banking, and trade. As a smuggler, Vargo had only ever been one of a swarm of irritating river gnats to her. Now that he’d been ennobled, Her Charity Cibrial Destaelio would do one of two things: swat him, or strike a deal. He was hoping for the latter.

  Ghiscolo chuckled. “Such modesty, Eret Vargo. Nadežra’s power has always been founded on trade. The right mercantile connections can be as valuable as holding a critical mountain pass.”

  Like, say, the connections that allowed Vargo to bring Isarnah goods through Nadežra while dodging Prasinet’s punitive tariffs. Those had been imposed fifty years ago, after Isarn backed a Vraszenian rebellion… but Cibrial might profit handsomely if she lifted them.

  That was helpful of him, Vargo thought as Eutracce’s mouth shifted from sour to thoughtful.

  ::Yes, he�
�s always been good at that.::

  Until Ghiscolo became Caerulet, House Acrenix’s status had derived entirely from their ability to play the game: a useful alliance here, a well-timed withdrawal of support there. The latter always with a show of regret, so that no stain of treachery marred their reputation.

  In truth, they were as dirty as Vargo. Just better able to hide it.

  Ghiscolo’s comment meant that instead of excusing herself from the conversation, Eutracce stayed and asked probing questions about Vargo’s business, which he deflected with pleasant responses that revealed nothing. Partway through this, he caught Ghiscolo watching him with a faint, puzzled frown. When Vargo raised a questioning brow, though, Ghiscolo shook his head. “Only noting the cut of your coat. Did Alta Renata’s maid tailor that for you?”

  Vargo smoothed a hand down the textured surface of his waistcoat, avoiding Alsius masquerading as a pin. The fabric was an Arthaburi import he hadn’t yet released even to Tess. “No, though I recommend her services—assuming you can get them. I hear she’s quite busy.”

  “Perhaps a friend of the alta’s might put in a good word for me,” Ghiscolo said, smiling.

  Vargo doubted Ghiscolo’s thoughts had been tied up in tailoring, but their conversation ended with him no more enlightened. And any useful guesses were driven from his head when he saw Iascat Novrus standing, quiet and watchful, at the center of a boisterous group of young cuffs. Scowling, Vargo ducked across a bridge to the next islet before he could be spotted in return.

  ::Are you certain? He looks lonely,:: Alsius noted as he crept to hide under Vargo’s collar points. ::I could make myself scarce.::

  He was a tense little lump after that encounter with Ghiscolo. Normally Vargo didn’t bring him anywhere near the man, and he wished he could have avoided it tonight. As for Iascat… Rumor has it that Sostira’s threatened to disinherit him. I don’t know if that’s because of our assignations, but he can’t afford a public encounter with someone like me. If Vargo was going to burn his asset in House Novrus, he would do it for some better reason than idle chitchat in Nightpeace Gardens.