His change of direction was an auspicious one, because it took him toward a familiar figure standing on a toy bridge, beautifully attired in layers of watered silk. Alsius noticed, too, but his thoughts went in a different direction. ::There’s that Fienola woman! She has an admirable mind. You should arrange a meeting to discuss the river numinat.::
Vargo had barely noticed Tanaquis Fienola standing in Renata’s shadow. They had their heads close together as if conspiring—and then, with a movement that was probably supposed to be furtive but only drew more attention to itself, Fienola handed over a familiar-looking scrap of cloth.
Well, isn’t that interesting. Not surprising; Renata had done a splendid job of making herself a desirable commodity in Nadežra. Vargo had been the first to see it, but now any number of people wanted to invest in her, for a variety of purposes.
::Interesting on both counts,:: Alsius said. ::And also useful. Even more reason to ask Fienola—::
Yes, yes. The last thing Vargo needed was a mental voice prompting him like an actor who’d forgotten his lines. He reached under his collar and scooped out Peabody, depositing him atop a nearby topiary. There’s Silvain Fiangiolli by the acrobats. Make yourself useful and find out why he’s so intent on flirting with that Essunta girl? The last thing we need is those families managing a truce. Ignoring Alsius’s grumbles, Vargo straightened his waistcoat and approached the two women.
“I see Tess spared no time diving into the fabrics I sent,” he said after paying a proper salute to both Renata and Tanaquis. He kept hold of Renata’s hand, turning it in his to draw her closer. “I was right. The green suits you.”
“You have an unexpected eye for such things.” Renata surveyed his own ensemble, a velveteen as dark as pomegranates with swirls burned out to show the black currant silk underneath. Its thread-of-gold embroidery at cuffs and hem could only be smuggled out of Ganllech. This was part of their dance: They both knew they looked good, and both did it to invite the admiration of others. Displaying that admiration was a discreet form of applause.
He did so enjoy interacting with someone who appreciated his skill at playing the game, rather than spitting on him for it.
Releasing Renata’s hand, he said, “Meda Fienola—before I forget. I’d like to speak to you at some point about my plans for the West Channel numinat. The timing of such endeavors is important, and I’m not astrologer enough to chart it out.”
Tanaquis brightened. “Yes! Not tonight, though. I’ll send you an invitation. And perhaps you’ll indulge me in a few questions about your other numinatrian endeavors.”
She might have been talking about the amphitheatre numinat, or the ones he’d dismantled during the riots—including the one inflaming the crowd’s anger. But her gaze was fixed on Vargo’s chest, as if it could bore past coat, waistcoat, and shirt to the numinat burned over his heart.
Showing her that mark might have been a mistake, but at the time he had no other way to convince her to send him into the realm of mind after Renata. Vargo fought to keep his expression unruffled. “Of course.” Right after the Dežera freezes over.
“I’d love to be a part of that conversation,” Renata said. “Since the charter is in Traementis hands, after all.”
It was an odd relic of their past circumstances that Vargo, a fellow noble, was administering someone else’s charter. That wasn’t the reason Tanaquis tapped her lips, though. “Yes, she should join us. I presume you’re not intending to give your own life to imbue the numinat, Vargo. But possibly Renata can supply what you need.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Renata’s reply could have cut steel. Tanaquis’s brows rose, while Vargo’s heart thudded in sudden shock. “Oh, not by dying,” Tanaquis said. “I meant with pattern.”
“Pattern?” Vargo glanced at Renata. Her cosmetics couldn’t quite hide the blush that stained her cheeks. Interesting. He knew she’d sought out that patterner, and maybe put too much faith in the cards, but this was something else. Something novel enough to stir Tanaquis’s boundless curiosity. He let his voice drop, dark and teasing. “Have you been hiding a secret, Alta Renata?”
“Hardly a secret,” she said with a thin laugh. “A—well, I thought it was a silly game. Except after the Night of Hells…” She dismissed that with a shake of her head. “A story for later. But, Tanaquis, I’m afraid I don’t have my cards any longer. Mettore’s kidnappers took them from me, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“I might be able to find them,” Vargo said. “Eret Acrenix holds the charter for storing possessions confiscated from criminals—Well, held it, since it’s supposed to be separate from Caerulet’s office. I don’t know if he’s transferred it yet.”
He spoke on reflex, covering for the completely different thoughts now racing through his head. Was this why he’d seen pattern cards in the realm of mind when he went after Renata’s spirit? He’d assumed it was simply because of the place’s connection to Ažerais, but her comment about the Night of Hells suggested it was more personal than that.
He’d have to tread carefully, though. If Renata discovered he’d sold her out to Mettore that night, everything he’d built with her would come tearing apart like the broken West Channel numinat.
Tanaquis’s eyes were fever-bright with the possibilities. “I think it would be useful. Since the realm of mind appears to be the same as Ažerais’s Dream, and the dream is connected to the wellspring, and the wellspring can act as a focus and be affected by numinatria, it only stands to reason that pattern and numinatria might be more deeply connected than anyone has ever surmised.”
No denying Alsius’s admiration of her mind was warranted. They had their own hypothesis about how to make the river numinat work—but it was only a hypothesis, untested so far. He would sleep easier if he had a second possibility to hand. “You think pattern can be used to augment the focus?”
“I’ve done it before,” Tanaquis said blithely. Then she bit her lip and shot Renata a guilty look.
A boom overhead forestalled any reply to that. Vargo looked up to see a firework blooming in the sky—a regular occurrence in the summer months. He hoped the Lacewater knots were doing their work to make sure no wandering sparks set the tenements alight. The river might still be in full flood, but the weather was dry, and the Old Island could all too easily burn.
Around him everyone was laughing and clapping in delight, but from Renata there came a sound of dismay. He turned to ask whether she didn’t like fireworks, and found her mourning a torn spot on her hem. “I stepped on it,” she said ruefully.
Her maid came swooping in like a sartorial hawk. “Oh dear. I knew I should have taken that up a finger higher. Follow me, alta, and we’ll have you set to rights before the skies go dark again.”
Vargo watched her go, two fingers drumming against his thigh. He’d never followed up on his thought from months ago, of having one of his Seterin contacts look into what had brought such an elegant noblewoman to Nadežra.
Maybe it was time he did.
Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29
The skin shock of fear stayed with Ren as Tess hurried her away. Bad enough having to smile at Vargo as if she didn’t know what he’d done—but damn Tanaquis for bringing pattern up in front of him. Forcing Renata to stumble her way through a clumsy lie, because Vargo had seen her mother’s deck when she met him as Arenza, and he was too good of a gambler for her to trust he wouldn’t recognize the hand-painted cards if he saw them again.
Have you been hiding a secret, Alta Renata?
She couldn’t let herself think about that right now. She had somewhere else, and someone else, to be.
“Well, that worked,” Tess said, examining her skirt. A tearaway hem wasn’t a trick they could use too often—otherwise Alta Renata’s clumsiness would become the talk of the Upper Bank—but it was effective.
Near the northern edge of the gardens, they slipped into the shadows of an enormous tree. Arranging the meeting the ziemetse
requested had taken a good deal of finagling, and this was the best Ren could manage: a rendezvous in a back corner of Nightpeace Gardens, where any combination of flashy clothes, a glittering mask, or a slipped bribe could gain Tiama Capenni’s permission to pass through the gates.
While Tess pulled the jade ribbon from Renata’s hair, loosing a simple braid, Ren reached into a pocket no lightfinger would find and drew out the mask of rose-patterned lace.
Her disguise cascaded over her like water, covering the surcoat and underdress of her Liganti-style clothing, leaving her in a tight-fitting coat and breeches. Experimentally, Ren reached for her kissing-comfits, and wasn’t surprised to find she couldn’t touch them. For all she knew, her ordinary clothing had gone… somewhere else.
Tess sucked in a quiet gasp, trailing her fingers over the leather petals flowing down Ren’s arm. “Not a stitch or seam to be found. How does that even work?”
“A blessing from Ažerais?” Ren said, but it was no more than a guess.
Shaking her head, Tess flicked her hands in a shooing motion. “Never you mind about my curiosity. Go and come back, before people start wondering where Alta Renata went off to.”
A quick glance around showed Ren no one nearby. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out and headed for the meeting point.
She didn’t try to hide, exactly; that was too likely to draw attention if she failed. But in dark clothing, at night, in a place like the gardens, it was easy to take paths that kept her from coming too close to anyone. Despite the tension curling in her gut, a smile tugged at her lips. Was this what it felt like to be the Rook?
As she neared the northern boundary of the gardens, the path was empty of anyone save a few pity-rustlers. Their presence was explained when a lump of a shadow atop the bridge rail jumped down.
“See? Told you she’d show.” Arkady Bones had all the swagger of a man grown, packaged in the body of a spindle-thin girl. She gave Ren a cocksure bow and then nodded to the gaggle of waiting pity-rustlers. “Tell the others to keep the hawks and the moths away.”
After they vanished, she flicked a hand at two shadows sitting in the lee of the bridge. “Go on, then. En’t nobody gonna listen in.”
As Ren passed her, one of the shadows rose from the bench and moved into the dim light. “Except you, Ča Bones.”
Perversely, the fact that Ren was already on edge kept her from twitching. The representative the ziemetse had sent was the granddaughter of the former Kiraly clan leader—someone she’d met twice before. Once in the nightmare, and once at the Seven Knots labyrinth, where fear had sent Ren bolting from a friendly gesture.
“Don’t mind me.” Arkady levered herself back onto the bridge post, feet dangling and boots thumping against the support. “Usually my silence is for sale, but tonight it’s free. I keep the Black Rose’s secrets.” She winked at Ren.
The Kiraly woman paused. When Ren made no objection to Arkady staying, she nodded in acceptance. “Thank you for coming, Lady Rose. I am Dalisva Mladoskaya Korzetsu of the Kiraly. I wish to thank you again for all that you did to save the wellspring, and for sending that Liganti worm Mettore Indestor to us for justice.”
There was limited space in Ren’s vocal range where she could sound natural. As Renata she spoke on the higher end, and with a Seterin accent; as Arenza she went low and Vraszenian. Now she pitched her voice toward the middle, and made her vowels purely Nadežran. If I have to invent a fourth persona, I’ll be out of cards. “Mere thanks wouldn’t have required a meeting. What makes the ziemetse interested in me?”
Arkady snorted. “Bet they want you to do something for them.”
Dalisva shot her an irritated look, but didn’t refute it. To Ren she said, “You are the Rose of Ažerais, sent to us in a desperate time. Yes—we have need of your aid. Will you help?”
“That depends on what you’re looking for.”
“The Stadnem Anduske,” Dalisva said. “You were at the amphitheatre during Veiled Waters—but know you what happened before that?” When Ren didn’t respond, she went on. “Their old leader, Andrejek, planned the bombing. But from the Cinquerat he took a pardon, in exchange for calling it off. He cut his knot, and for that treachery his lieutenant Branek tried to kill him.”
Ren bit down on the urge to say, That’s not what happened. A Cinquerat pardon? Snow in Nadežra was more likely. Andrejek backed down because Grey convinced him the whole thing was playing into Mettore’s hands.
But it was Renata who’d been involved in that, not the Black Rose. “What exactly do you want me to do about that?”
“Have you no wish to help Vraszenians? Andrejek has long been wanted by the ziemetse, but Branek… he was Andrejek’s attack dog, held on a tight leash. Now that leash has slipped. He believes violence is the only way to break the Cinquerat’s hold, and he will not flinch from hurting ordinary people. Already his allies in the Stretsko knots attack the businesses of those on the Lower Bank with too much Liganti blood.”
The inconvenience of a mask was that it hid small responses like an arched eyebrow. “First you speak of me helping Vraszenians, and then you worry about people with Liganti ancestry. What do you actually want?”
Dalisva wore no mask, and her passion blazed like a torch. “With Branek leading them, the Anduske will wind up only hurting Vraszenians, by provoking the Cinquerat to tighten their grip. But his hold over the Anduske is not yet secure. If you could capture some of his key supporters and deliver those people to us—even Branek himself—”
They had a high opinion of the Black Rose, if they thought she could pull that off. But Ren couldn’t disagree with their concerns. While House Traementis hadn’t yet suffered any losses on the Lower Bank, that was mostly because their reduced state had left them without much to attack. The nobles were muttering about needing to restore control down there after the riots… and the kind of control they had in mind never meant anything good for Vraszenians.
“I have a list,” Dalisva said, drawing it from a pocket of her shawl and holding it out. “If the ones named here were removed, the rest would be able to do little more than shake their fists.”
Ren eyed the paper, not reaching for it. “Removed.”
“She means killed,” Arkady helpfully supplied from her perch.
Dalisva kept her chin lifted and shoulders straight. “Their fate is for Ažerais to set and pattern to guide. But the ziemetse are wise enough to avoid creating martyrs.”
Smart politics. If the clan leaders didn’t have some skill at that, the delicate balance between Liganti-controlled Nadežra and the rest of Vraszan would have collapsed long ago. Which was, of course, what people like this Branek wanted.
But none of that was Ren’s business. After Veiled Waters she’d lost track of Idusza Polojny, her friend in the Anduske, and she couldn’t afford to spend time being Arenza Lenskaya when she had to be Renata Viraudax Traementatis every waking minute. Nor could she worry about Vraszenian politics when she was busy making amends to House Traementis, for a debt whose magnitude they didn’t even know.
“Please,” Dalisva said, desperation creeping in. “You are the one Ažerais chose. You were conceived—”
She cut herself off, but not soon enough. Ren’s gaze shot to Arkady, whose hands flew up in a warding gesture. “I en’t said nothing!”
From the shadow still sitting in the lee of the bridge came a soft, weary voice. “Only those born of Ažerais can destroy the children of Ažerais. And only those born of Ažerais can save the children of Ažerais.”
Words Ren had heard in the nightmare, when she stood before the twisted echoes of the Charterhouse statues. A szorsa had spoken them—the one who stood for the dead Ižranyi clan in the Ceremony of the Accords.
It would look the opposite of dignified and mysterious if the Black Rose fled from an old, blind woman. Ren forced herself to stand as Dalisva retreated to help the szorsa make her way forward. A strip of embroidered cloth covered the pits where her eyes had been, before something
in the nightmare tore them out.
“Forgive us,” the szorsa murmured. “I am Mevieny Plemaskaya Straveši of the Dvornik. We mean no threat to you or your secrets, Lady Rose.”
Ren’s words came out far steadier than she felt. “How did you know?”
Dalisva sighed. “In the nightmare, a Vraszenian woman told Szorsa Mevieny that ‘all of us’ by that wine were poisoned. But she was no part of our delegation. Nor was she the Cinquerat’s servant, or they would not have needed to hunt her. A woman conceived during the Great Dream appears on that terrible night… and then, when Mettore Indestor attempts to use one such to destroy the Wellspring of Ažerais, the Black Rose appears to defend it. Connecting the two was a guess, but—”
“Not a guess,” Mevieny said. “Blind I may be, but the cards speak to me still.”
They didn’t know everything. Only that the Black Rose was the woman they’d met before. If Arkady truly had kept her mouth shut, they didn’t even know her name was Ren.
It was still enough to send spiders crawling up Ren’s spine. My secrets are not safe.
Mevieny said, “Ažerais has blessed you, Lady Rose. Once at your birth, and again when you became her servant. For what purpose wear you that mask, if not to help her children?”
I’m wearing it because you asked for this meeting. Were it not for the Rook’s message, she might have left it to gather dust in her wardrobe forever.
No—that was a lie. And the disguise had come again when she put it on. As if Ažerais truly did have a purpose for her, beyond saving the wellspring.
Was that wishful thinking? A thread of Vraszenian meaning for her to cling to in her new Liganti life, like the rope the Rook had used to draw her out of the pit. An excuse to involve herself in that world again, to be someone other than Alta Renata all the time. To feel like she wasn’t a slip-knot.
The Liar's Knot Page 6
