The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  Wishful thinking or not, the possibility brought an ache into her throat.

  Wordlessly, Dalisva held out the list of names. Ren accepted the list between the tips of two gloved fingers and—why not—made it vanish up her sleeve. “I make no promises… but I’ll see what I can do.”

  3

  The Friendly Fist

  Upper and Lower Bank: Fellun 36

  When Vargo’s invitation arrived at the manor, Ren almost refused it. Living as Renata was exhausting enough without having to pretend she still harbored warm feelings for the man. But unless she got Sedge back into his circle, the only way for her to learn anything was to maintain the fiction of their friendship, so she gritted her teeth and forced herself to pen an acceptance.

  She was pulling on her gloves and considering whether it was worth overheating under a veil to protect her skin from darkening in the sun when the door to Donaia’s study opened.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Donaia said. Her voice was constantly rough, scraped raw by the sorrow she tried to hide when she wasn’t alone. “Perhaps I’m being overly cautious, but after everything—”

  “Think nothing of it, Era Traementis.” Grey Serrado gave Donaia one of those heel-clicking bows that made him seem even more stiff and unyielding than his fellow hawks. “The Vigil is happy to serve, and I’m used to following in Alta Renata’s wake.”

  “My wake?” Renata echoed, hoping it didn’t sound as wary as she felt.

  Brushing invisible lint from Renata’s sleeve, Donaia said, “I’ve asked Captain Serrado to act as your escort to Froghole.”

  He nodded. “Not all of the Lower Bank is as safe as Westbridge, and you aren’t accustomed to rough areas.” One hand rose to the hilt of his sword.

  Renata wanted to refuse. Except that Donaia, who’d managed to project a facade of confidence even in the worst days of House Traementis’s decline, kept touching Renata and Giuna both as though they might disappear in an eyeblink. After Renata’s part in Leato’s death, the least she could do for Donaia was accept an escort.

  Besides, she wasn’t doing anything Serrado shouldn’t see. And her nightmares about him kicking in her door had mostly faded, in favor of horrific visions of the zlyzen. Gloves settled, Renata said, “Very well, Captain—let us go see what Eret Vargo has found.”

  They didn’t talk much on the trip across the river, until their skiff approached a wharf swarming with activity. Half a dozen people were in the water itself, their heads bobbing above the brown wavelets, while Vargo watched from above. In his loosely tailored coat of tan suede, he could almost pass for one of the laborers—except they’d all shed coats and surcoats to work in their shirtsleeves.

  “I didn’t realize it would take this much effort to retrieve a chunk of prismatium,” Renata said, shielding her eyes from the sun as their skiff drew up to the landing stair.

  The water must have carried her voice to Vargo. “When it’s the size of a horse cart and buried in mud, it does. The divers have dug out as much as they can.” He motioned at the swimmers. “Once they attach the cables, the crane will haul it out the rest of the way.”

  It spoke to both her opinion of Vargo’s cleverness and her worry about his cunning that she wondered if he’d somehow arranged this discovery. That such a large piece of the broken numinat could have somehow escaped the old salvage efforts, even buried in mud, seemed unlikely. But what would Vargo gain from planting a fake fragment in the riverbed?

  She had no choice but to accept his hand to steady her as she left the skiff for the weed-slicked surface of the landing. “Will this make your work easier? Having such a large piece?” That ignorance, she had to neither hide nor fake; no one expected Alta Renata to be an inscriptor.

  Of course, they didn’t expect it of a Lower Bank crime lord, either. Vargo said, “We won’t know that until I see it. But if I can study a full cross section rather than the glimpses offered by the few fragments that escaped reuse…” Vargo let the conclusion drift as Serrado stepped off the skiff after Renata. “Captain.”

  “Eret.”

  “Come to make certain we aren’t attacked by river pirates?”

  Serrado met Vargo’s mockery with his usual mask of stoic courtesy. “If necessary. Why, have you done something to offend the Stretsko?”

  Renata hid her wince. Before Vargo’s rise, the most powerful gangs on the Lower Bank had been dominated by Vraszenians from the Stretsko clan. They hadn’t appreciated the competition, and she doubted they were any happier about their erstwhile rival now counting himself among the nobility.

  Perhaps I can make use of that. Stretsko also made up a large percentage of the Stadnem Anduske, and in the wake of Veiled Waters, those groups were getting more tangled than ever before. Several of the names on Dalisva Korzetsu’s list were related to some of Vargo’s biggest enemies.

  The only problem with that fight was she didn’t want either side to win.

  Vargo led her up to the dry ground of the embankment, with Serrado following at a polite distance. Ropes stretched up from the water’s surface, leading through the crane to a team of horses hitched and waiting in a narrow alley. Renata tried not to shudder as a diver surfaced. The high waters of the Dežera in flood had washed away a goodly portion of the filth that clogged the West Channel, but that still didn’t make the prospect of swimming in it inviting.

  The diver’s signal was taken up by a woman at the base of the crane, then by the teamster handling the horses. He started them walking, the ropes creaking as they pulled taut.

  Vargo leaned close to be heard above the noise. Even over the river’s stink, she could smell the sandalwood and clove of his perfume and the leather of his coat. “I promise this will be more interesting once—”

  A crack like thunder cut across the creaking of the ropes, followed by a groan and rumble as the crane shook. Spooked by the noise and the sudden lack of resistance, the horses slipped the teamster’s lead and lurched forward. Renata was distantly aware of a hawk’s blue and tan as Serrado lunged for the traces, but the flash of shadow to sun to shadow again disoriented her.

  Only when she heard the screams did she realize the shade she now stood in was cast by the crane falling toward her.

  Vargo dove for safety. Ren went the other way, rolling frantically through the muck, not sure how far would be far enough—until the cobbles shook beneath her, and something crashed across her legs.

  She waited, arms curled over her head, not daring to move, until the only sound left was the thunder of her pulse and the shouting beyond. Then she looked up to find a small beam pinning her legs, a much larger one where she’d been standing, Serrado running one soothing hand down a horse’s neck, and Vargo climbing to his feet on the far side of the chaos. He stripped off his ruined coat with a snarl.

  Handing the leads off to the shaken teamster, Serrado rushed to lift away the beam pinning Ren and help her stand. “Alta, are you hurt?” His hands hovered at his sides, as though he dearly wished to check her for injuries, but didn’t dare.

  She gingerly felt her own legs through the layers of her skirts, wincing at the tenderness across her shins. “Bruised, I suspect, but nothing worse.”

  “No thanks to him.” Leaving her to set herself to rights, Serrado strode around the wreckage to Vargo. This time, the hands he held in check were balled into fists. “Eret Vargo—”

  Scowling, Vargo waved Serrado off. “I’m fine as well, Captain. No need to concern yourself.”

  A less controlled man might have shoved him. “What concerns me, Eret Vargo, is that you thought only for your own safety and not that of the woman at your side.”

  Vargo met Serrado’s glare, his brow furrowed in what seemed to be honest confusion. “I don’t know what you think I could have done. And she’s fine now anyway, so what does it matter? I’d expect you to be more concerned about what caused this to happen in the first place.” He kicked one of the splintered crane supports.

  What does it matter? That was the tr
ue face of the man who’d sold her to Mettore Indestor on the Night of Hells—and helped her afterward, true, but Ren knew the stories from Sedge. Vargo had a habit of putting people into trouble and then getting them out of it, so they would owe him a debt.

  She only half attended to the rest of the conversation, Vargo remembering that he had the right now to call on the Vigil to investigate, Serrado agreeing through gritted teeth. She was too busy wondering whether the crane had been meant to kill Vargo, her, or both of them.

  Then something else took the entirety of her attention.

  It happened as Serrado was sending a runner to the Aerie and Vargo was arranging a watch on the river so nobody would steal the numinat fragment before he could build another crane. A flicker of gaudy color scurried across a crate; Vargo absently held one hand out so his spider, Master Peabody, could climb up his arm.

  And the voice she’d heard that day in the Charterhouse said, ::What happened here?::

  Vargo’s lips were pressed into a thin, angry line. Yet she still heard him, an unspoken growl she had to strain to pick out. ::An accident. One of the outriggers for the crane just bolted—but not before I saw the Stretsko knot under her sleeve.:: “Fucking rats.”

  That last curse was out loud, she realized, as Vargo slapped the dirt from his gloves and glared at the wreckage of the crane. His shifting gaze swept over her, and she busied herself straightening her own clothes. As if she hadn’t just heard the conversation between him and his coconspirator—who was, somehow, inexplicably, in the body of a spider.

  Peabody’s many eyes glittered from the shadows of Vargo’s collar. ::Rats, indeed. I came to tell you that Premyk has made up his mind. He’ll be handing the aža payout to Tserdev tonight, behind the Seven Knots labyrinth.::

  Ren’s heart stumbled in its pace. While she’d never heard of Premyk, Tserdev Krasnoskaya Očelen was the head of the Crimson Eyes, the main Stretsko gang controlling Seven Knots. She wasn’t on Dalisva’s list… but her brother Dmatsos was. He’d been leading a lot of the attacks on Liganti-run businesses. And rumor said he’d gone to ground with his sister—if only anybody could locate Tserdev’s lair.

  ::The hell he will.:: The ice of Vargo’s mental voice belied the bland smile he directed at Renata. ::Aža is my business. Keep watching the Odd Alley den, and I’ll gather people for the labyrinth. We’ll show Premyk what happens to anyone who tries to cut knot for the Stretsko.::

  Now Ren knew when and where to find Tserdev. And through her, possibly Dmatsos.

  All I have to do is dodge two knots… and Vargo himself.

  Froghole, Lower Bank: Fellun 36

  Grey chewed on the inside of his lip, watching his runner pick her way across the fallen beams blocking the river stair. He should begin investigating what was clearly no accident… but that would mean leaving Renata here, when Donaia had asked him to protect her.

  She stood with aristocratic poise amid the wreckage, as if she hadn’t just nearly been crushed. It must have rattled her, though, because her hands were clenched in the soiled front panel of her surcoat and her gaze, fixed on Vargo, betrayed the tension within. Vargo paid her no mind; he was too busy giving orders to his own people. A pity that crane didn’t land on him.

  Except that would have robbed Grey of his revenge. He meant to see Vargo pay for what he’d done, blowing up the Fiangiolli warehouse and taking Grey’s brother, Kolya, with it. What form that vengeance would take was a question he wrestled with day and night… but a beam crushing him flat wasn’t it. Whether Vargo fell to a duelist’s sword or an executioner’s ax, Grey would be the one who made it happen.

  He wrenched his gaze away and saw one of Vargo’s fists jerk his chin for the man’s stone-faced Isarnah bodyguard to follow him into the shadows of the alley.

  Grey had been taking every opportunity to spy on Vargo’s business. With a swift glance around, he eased behind a stack of crates, close enough to hear their hurried conversation.

  “Boss is calling a strike on the Odd Alley Gang tonight,” the fist said. “Wants you to put together a hit team.”

  “He thinks Premyk’s behind this?”

  A thud, as of a wall being kicked. “Naw, Premyk’s a britch-pissing coward who finally decided to cut knot for the Crimson Eyes. But you ask me, this is the sort of thing Tserdev would order. She en’t never been happy that Vargo took the aža trade. The Eyes want it back.”

  A pause. “We’ll need more than just the Fog Spiders.”

  “Makes you miss Sedge, hey?”

  The thunk that followed was bare flesh on wood. “Fuck Sedge. If I see him again, I’ll skin him for parchment. Tell Vargo I’ll handle it, but he’s staying home.”

  “I en’t telling Vargo where he can and can’t go.”

  “Who’s the britch-pissing coward now?”

  Grey slid away before the two broke apart, his mind whirling.

  A gang war was the Vigil’s business. A noble using his strength against the people of the streets was the Rook’s business. And Vargo was a noble now.

  Hang his Vigil duty. Grey fell into step behind as Vargo offered Renata his arm and led her away. The man didn’t care who he got killed, so long as he achieved his own goals. And Grey owed it to Donaia and Leato to make certain the heir to House Traementis didn’t get caught in that man’s schemes.

  Renata ignored Grey with the studied indifference of the noblewoman she pretended to be. All her attention was on Vargo, in a pretense of friendliness—at least, Grey thought it was pretense. She wouldn’t have told the Rook about Vargo’s involvement in Kolya’s death if she had any real liking for the man.

  Vargo, however, cast an annoyed look over his shoulder. “There’s no call to accompany us when you’re needed here to investigate, Captain. I can see to the alta’s well-being.”

  Like you did when the crane fell? Grey’s voice sounded cold to his ears as he said, “It will take some time for my squad to arrive. I can be spared until then. Unless you mean to leave the alta standing around while you find a replacement coat suitable to be seen in the Pearls.”

  Renata’s soft cough could have been interpreted a dozen ways, but Grey suspected it was meant to hide a laugh. He adopted a concerned frown. “Especially when she might be taking sick.”

  It was a testament to Vargo’s own self-control that he didn’t visibly pull back from Renata. His fear of disease wasn’t nearly as secret as he probably wished. “Alta Renata, I’d be happy to offer you the services of my phys—”

  His words cut off as a quartet of young men rounded the corner up ahead. They nudged each other when they spotted Vargo, smirking like they’d found the trouble they were seeking.

  Younger members of the delta houses tended to wear incongruous accessories, the better to flaunt the wealth and reach of their families’ trading endeavors. Grey recognized the gold-shot scarves of silken caprash wool that marked these four as Essunta. And thanks to a mercenary charter, they all wore swords at their belts.

  They’d been Indestor’s clients. After the fall of their patron’s house, the Essunta had no reason to love Derossi Vargo.

  The man in the lead was Meda Essunta’s younger son, Gaetaro. He approached closer than manners allowed, as though Vargo would be intimidated by a bit of posturing. “Why, Eret Vargo,” he drawled with exaggerated surprise. “Fancy finding you on the Lower Bank.”

  Looking for a fight, it seemed. It galled to be in a position where Grey had to protect Vargo, but Renata was here, and couldn’t be carrying more than a hidden knife or two. Setting a hand on his sword, Grey moved to Vargo’s other side, hoping the reminder of Vigil presence—and the new Caerulet’s patronage—would be enough to make the Essunta boys rethink their grudge.

  “Mede Essunta.” Vargo’s smile was as pleasant as sunlight. “I see you’ve dislodged your mouth from your mother’s teat. Too bad you didn’t suckle any wit from her while you were there.”

  Djek.

  Gaetaro’s hand went for his sword. Grey made to st
ep forward, but Renata beat him to it, interposing herself between Vargo and the Essunta. “Come now,” she said, her Seterin accent a crisp rebuke. “It befits the stature of neither of your houses to brawl like commoners in the street.”

  “He is a commoner,” Gaetaro snarled.

  “Not any longer,” Renata said. “And that means there’s a proper way to settle this matter.”

  Grey’s teeth were set hard against each other; it helped keep the sudden laugh inside. He wasn’t the only one to hear the echo, either. Vargo drawled, “Alta Renata. You’re remarkably fond of volunteering other people for duels.”

  “Assuming he knows Uniat from a night-piece’s hole,” Gaetaro spat.

  “I’m familiar with both in their contexts,” Vargo said with a smile that was half bedroom and all innuendo. “But if I get confused, I’ll poke you a few times to remember the difference.”

  He might be a nobleman now, but he carried no sword, which meant he would need a champion. Grey was trying to figure out how to word his flat refusal when Vargo lifted his walking stick. It had always seemed like a tasteless affectation… but with a twist of the handle, Vargo drew forth a blade. It was thinner than Essunta’s but finely made.

  Grey’s eyes narrowed. Vargo had been carrying that stick for at least a year. But Grey couldn’t retroactively arrest him for that. More’s the pity.

  “First blood,” Renata said, stepping back as Gaetaro drew his sword. “Conduct yourselves with honor.”

  What are the chances, Grey thought. It was only a question of who would cheat first.

  Within the first pass, he knew that Vargo was either hiding his skill or not actually a very good swordsman. He fought like a man with a really long knife. It was painful to watch, in both style and form—but also because Vargo wasn’t aiming to score a point. He was trying to tear into his opponent’s softer bits to make him bleed.