The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  First rite. Whether Tanaquis meant it to be or not, that was a clue. For one absurd moment, Ren wondered if nobles swore knot bonds like common river rats, but no—this would be something else. Still, it was familiar enough to steady her breathing and her wits. She was Renata, heir to House Traementis, and needed to behave accordingly.

  Tanaquis’s hand guided her a short distance, then pressed on her shoulder until she knelt. The floor beneath her was unpadded stone. Small sounds told of other people nearby: How many? Renata couldn’t suppress a flinch when Tanaquis took hold of her wrists and wrapped a cord around them. Not an effective binding—she could easily get out of it if she had to—but she hated this blindness, hated having to trust.

  With a brief squeeze to Renata’s shoulder, Tanaquis brushed past her. From a short distance to Renata’s left came a man’s voice, familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to it. “What are—” Someone must have done something, because he didn’t finish the question.

  A tense silence fell. The incense, which had seemed so light at first, began to tickle her nose. She breathed slowly and carefully, and even that seemed too loud.

  Then someone else spoke. Not anyone she’d ever heard; she would have remembered this voice. Seterin in its accent, resonant and deep, like the tolling of a huge, brazen bell.

  “When we see, we do not know.”

  Three voices answered. Tanaquis was one; Renata struggled to identify the other two. “So we close our eyes.”

  “When we ask, we do not learn.”

  “So we close our mouths.”

  “When we reach, we do not grasp.”

  “So we bind our hands.”

  “Ignorance is the path to enlightenment.”

  There was no sound of footsteps. Without warning, a heavy hand landed upon Renata’s head, and she jerked at the touch. “First postulant. Do you swear to keep our secrets, to speak to no one of what we do, to protect the mysteries of our sect, upon pain of eternal blindness?”

  Fuck you. Her throat was too tight for the words to come out, which was probably a good thing. The rational part of her knew this was theatre, a rite designed to evoke exactly the tension winding her tight. But after everything she’d been through…

  Tanaquis had brought her to this so she could find answers about the curse and learn more about pattern. She wouldn’t have done that without good reason.

  And besides, Ren had already broken one sacred oath in her life, when she killed Ondrakja. Twice. This one held far less meaning for her, and if she found herself in a position where she had to break it, she already knew what she would do.

  “I swear.”

  The hand left her head. “Second postulant. Do you swear…”

  It was the man who’d started to speak before. He sounded more eager as he swore; did he know more than she did?

  The third voice took no effort at all to identify, a baritone she knew all too well. “I swear,” Derossi Vargo said.

  What is he doing here?

  “You have taken ignorance into you and made it your own,” the deep, Seterin voice said. “You have passed the first gate and begun your journey down the path of the Illius Praeteri.”

  Villa Extaquium, Bay of Vraszan: Summer Solstice

  The crash of a gong shattered the air, and light blinded Renata as Tanaquis pulled off her mask.

  She and the others knelt in a small, bare room with no windows, likely in the cellar of a house. Before them stood a pale Seterin man, tall and strongly built, his head shaved and his eyes cast in shadow by the lights above. “Greetings,” he said to the three of them. “I am Diomen, your guide.”

  Renata blinked away stars while Tanaquis unbound her hands and drew her to her feet. “There,” Tanaquis said briskly. “First step done—I’m afraid there’s more to go, but I think that one’s the worst, don’t you?”

  “Tanaquis.” Her name was a warning, but an amused one, and it came from Ghiscolo Acrenix. Renata wasn’t surprised at all to see him at Vargo’s side, as Tanaquis was at hers. The Illius Praeteri: She’d heard that name from him before, in the conversation she’d spied on after he was raised as Caerulet. When he offered to invite Vargo into their ranks.

  What is this?

  The final postulant proved to be Rimbon Beldipassi, the delta gentleman who owned the exhibition of curiosities she and Leato had visited back in Pavnilun, before everything went wrong. His sponsor was Sureggio, the head of House Extaquium. Beldipassi chafed his wrists and looked nervously at Diomen, who stood as unmoving as a statue. “Eret Diomen? Or altan?”

  “I bear the title of Pontifex here, and need no other.”

  Somehow, he made that sound chilling. Beldipassi said, “Pontifex, then. What is this? Eret Extaquium hasn’t told me anything.”

  “Nor should he.” Diomen still hadn’t shifted, standing with his hands concealed in the opposite sleeves. His stillness was an effective trick, Renata had to admit; it gave him an otherworldly air. “The man at the beginning of his journey cannot see the end. But as you progress, more will be revealed. The three of you have been chosen, not only by your sponsors, but by far greater forces. It is my task to lead you along the path that will reveal the fullness of the blessings you bear.”

  He moved at last, lifting one hand to gesture toward the door. “Go now. Celebrate the first of your achievements. I will see you again.”

  Renata fought the urge to glance over her shoulder as Sureggio led them upstairs. It would only make her look nervous and uncertain, and anyway, she was confident that such a glance would only show her the Pontifex, hands once more hidden, watching them go. He was too good at this theatricality to ruin it by moving so soon.

  Sureggio led them through a cellar and up into what was clearly his bay villa. Over his shoulder, he said, “I insisted we hold the first initiation here so I could offer you refreshments afterward.”

  Like his manor in the city, his villa was sumptuously decorated to the point of excess—and Renata didn’t think it was the heat that explained why the servant who brought them a basin of cool water and a stack of napkins was wearing only a loincloth.

  Ghiscolo dampened a napkin and gave it to Renata, smiling. “I still remember how I sweated underneath my mask for my first rite, and that took place in late winter.”

  “Thank you, Your Mercy.”

  “Ghiscolo,” he said. “One of the charms of the Illius Praeteri is that we don’t stand upon rank during our gatherings.”

  Vargo helped himself to a napkin. “Outside it, on the other hand…”

  “We all swear to keep the secrets of the order,” Ghiscolo said. “Including who is a member. It would be something of a giveaway if we shed the courtesies outside our rituals.”

  Vargo unbuttoned his collar so he could mop his neck. There had been a time—it seemed like years ago—when Renata had felt so comfortable around him that she’d even considered taking the irrevocable step of revealing her true identity. Now everything had to be calculated, weighed for what would seem natural. Renata had shown an attraction to him before; he might wonder at its absence. She let her gaze linger for a moment on the open throat of his shirt, where the scar stood out more lividly than usual, before flicking away.

  Only to catch Sureggio Extaquium doing the same thing, far more openly.

  She wished they were anywhere other than his villa. Hedonism was one thing; the rumors of the excesses he enjoyed out here in the bay were far darker. Slavery was illegal in Nadežra… but Mettore Indestor had once spoken of selling her to Sureggio.

  “Speaking of secrets,” Vargo said. A soft ring echoed as he tipped a glass of chilled wine against Tanaquis’s. “You should take more care in the future. I saw you pass the invitation to Renata at Nightpeace Gardens.”

  He gave Renata what he must have thought was a charming smile. “I knew what was to come, so I didn’t think you needed a warning. Forgive me?”

  Ghiscolo said something, but Ren couldn’t hear it through the roaring in her mind. She fou
ght the desire to smash her glass into his jaw.

  Someday, you will scream for what you’ve done. And I will enjoy watching.

  Her smile was more than a mask to cover the urge to rip his throat back open. It was a weapon: a way to manipulate him, as he’d manipulated her. “Surprises lose their savor if you see them coming.”

  Rimbon Beldipassi joined them, round cheeks flushed and shining. “How did you know, Mas—er… Eret… no. Uh… Derossi?”

  Vargo’s smile tightened. “I pay attention.”

  Renata sipped her wine. For once it wasn’t Extaquium’s own pressing, thankfully, but she still contrived to look ill, putting one hand against her stomach and setting the glass aside. “Forgive me. I’m afraid the trip out here left me feeling unwell, and I could use some fresh air. Which way to the nearest balcony?”

  “I’ll show you,” Tanaquis said.

  It was warmer out on the balcony, almost muggy without the cooling numinata. Nadežra was a misty yellow glow in the distance, and on the other side was the black rush of the sea. Tanaquis led Renata to a circle of chaises, their padded benches exuding the salty-sweet aroma of seawater and beach pea.

  “I am sorry for the discomfort,” she said, settling at Renata’s side and pressing a cool hand to her brow and cheek. “Usually we hold our activities closer to the city, but it’s always like this when Sureggio decides to sponsor someone. Some members of the Illius Praeteri are more interested in style than they are in the substance.”

  “You indicated this might help with the curse,” Renata said, keeping her voice low. “Well, I’ve joined your society. What now?”

  Tanaquis hesitated, casting a glance over her shoulder. She actually looked nervous, as though she thought someone might be listening in. “You’ve started the process of joining. There are three Gates of Initiation, of which this is the first. You’ll need to go through two more before you’re a full member of the Praeteri—and before I’m allowed to talk freely.”

  Very few things leashed Tanaquis’s tongue. She wasn’t the sort to be impressed by Diomen’s theatrics; if he intimidated her, then there must be more to him than mere showmanship.

  Pointing that out wouldn’t do any good, and neither would pressing her to speak. Renata said, “Is there anything you can tell me about the Illius Praeteri? That name…” She let the question dangle, hoping Tanaquis’s pedantic impulses would rescue her. A Seterin noblewoman ought to be able to translate that phrase in her sleep.

  Sure enough, Tanaquis wrinkled her nose. “I know. Awful, isn’t it? I’m honestly surprised the Pontifex puts up with such mangled Old Seterin. It’s meant to indicate something like ‘those who go beyond Illi.’ We deal with… some of the deeper secrets of numinatria. Among other things.”

  Renata wondered what those “other things” were. Tanaquis clearly found them tedious, which meant they weren’t intellectual in nature. The trappings of ritual, perhaps; Renata knew enough to recognize the term pontifex as meaning “bridge builder,” but more generally, “high priest.” She sighed. “I see. Am I allowed to know who’s a member?”

  “You will, but not yet.”

  “What about past members? Mettore Indestor?”

  “No. I think Ghiscolo was concerned he might try to shut us down, or take us over. But the Praeteri are mostly from delta families and smaller noble houses. The Cinquerat has enough power in this city; seat holders aren’t allowed to be sponsored in.” Tanaquis huffed in annoyance, her breath stirring the hair at Renata’s cheek. “Honestly, Ghiscolo’s elevation has caused quite a fuss. We’ve spent more time arguing about that than anything interesting. Sponsoring Vargo might be his last act as a member.”

  That left Renata with another unanswered question, one she couldn’t share with Tanaquis.

  If he wasn’t a member, how had Mettore discovered that she was conceived during the Great Dream?

  The Praeteri had seemed like a potential lead. Mettore hated Vraszenians; he would never visit a patterner. And Ren had never told Ondrakja—though Ondrakja might have guessed. That was the most likely explanation.

  I just wish everyone who could answer that question weren’t dead.

  “You told me this first step was the worst,” she said. “What are the others?”

  “I won’t be your sponsor for those, though I’ll get you through them as fast as I can. Other members will lead you through the second and third gates—I know several who are eager. For the second, you’ll know who it is when they give you this signal.” She interlaced her fingers, tucking them inside her palms with only the forefingers extended. “After that, you must submit to whatever orders they give you, no matter how absurd they seem.”

  “Any orders?” Renata didn’t bother hiding her alarm. “What if they tell me to do something against House Traementis?” Or against Tess. Delta gentry and minor nobles: They would see a mere servant as a natural playing piece in their games.

  Tanaquis looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s possible, depending on your sponsor… Oh, don’t worry,” she said, catching Renata’s growing unease. “‘Possible’ isn’t the same as ‘likely.’ I get to pick your next sponsor; I won’t choose someone who hates you. The orders are usually more embarrassing than anything else.” She hesitated, looking like she might say something more, then brushed it away. “I won’t pretend there aren’t challenges farther down the road of initiation—but it’s up to each member how far they want to go.”

  How far did Renata want to go? For its own sake, not very. She had no particular interest in numinatria and could guess at the other sorts of things these cuffs got up to in their secret rituals. But she was desperate to discover how the Traementis had gotten cursed—including how she had been caught up in it, when she wasn’t related to the family at all.

  And she wanted to know what Vargo was up to. He hadn’t spoken to his spider spirit tonight that she could tell, but with more opportunities to observe, she might learn something.

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said, thinking bitterly of Vargo’s words a little while ago. “I breathe more easily when I know what’s coming.”

  6

  The Mask of Night

  East Channel, River Dežera: Colbrilun 29

  To look at the pleasure barge easing slowly up the East Channel, oars churning against the river’s current, Nadežra was a world where no one went hungry, no one lived in fear, and certainly no one ever committed mass murder.

  The horrors of the Scurezza slaughter had been good for a week or so of gossip, but the Vigil was keeping its collective mouth shut tight about the details—including what Quaniet had said to Giuna. With no fresh news about who killed them or why, the Upper Bank had soon moved on. Aided and abetted by Sibiliat, who had paid for today’s revelry out of her own pocket.

  But not for her own sake. No, this was a celebration of Renata’s twenty-third natal day.

  A canopy sheltered the revelers from the summer sun, while bottles of wine rested in buckets chilled by numinata. The musicians playing in the stern could scarcely be heard over the chatter of the guests. Nobles and delta gentry all, and skewing heavily toward the young, unattached set—men and women who might hope to win a place in House Traementis, Renata’s bed, or both.

  So far as Ren could tell, the process of adopting new members into House Traementis bore more resemblance to competition over charter administration rights than anything she recognized as familial. Her would-be cousins submitted applications and gifts, and were weighed more on the assets, skills, and connections they would bring to the house than on any personal feeling. Not that the latter was irrelevant—Donaia was still hoping for Tanaquis’s acceptance, and Giuna drowned the hopes of Diambetta Terdenzi by quoting some of the choicer insults she’d flung in the past—but with the Traementis ranks and coffers so depleted, they couldn’t afford to support anyone who wouldn’t bring much benefit with them. Vraszenians seeking to insult the Liganti often said they bought and sold their relatives, and now Ren had a b
ox seat from which to watch the horse fair go.

  Not everyone was angling for her bed or her register, of course. At Renata’s suggestion, there were a few guests closer to Giuna’s age, and Benvanna Novri had for some reason insisted on accompanying Iascat… but on the whole, this party might as well have flown the sign she’d jested about at Nightpeace Gardens: Here Be Marriage Bait.

  The most awkward thing was, she suspected Sibiliat was trying to be helpful. Ever since the New Year, her erstwhile rival had been distinctly friendlier. Because of Renata’s newfound connection with her father, through the Illius Praeteri? An attempt to comfort Giuna after the horror they’d stumbled upon that night? Or some other reason?

  Of course, even Sibiliat’s friendship carried an edge. She’d led the social world of Nadežra’s young cuffs before Renata came, and today she seemed eager to make Renata prove her right to that role… or lose it.

  Part of Renata wanted to let her have it. No—part of Ren. Even as she met Sibiliat’s challenges and answered with some of her own, even as she laughed and flirted with the guests, she felt hollow. None of these people were really her friends. They gave her gifts, but they’d turn on her like sharks if they knew the truth. Even the occasion was a lie: This wasn’t her birthday at all, and she wasn’t twenty-three.

  Ahead rose the shimmering arcs of the cleansing numinat that spanned the East Channel. The silver of the containing circle curved like a bridge of spun sugar over the prismatium spiral that held the figures themselves. Her guests took it for granted, and the clean water it brought them; they didn’t even look up as the barge passed through the spira aurea. They were too busy listening to Bondiro Coscanum mock the absent Giarron Quientatis for trying to adopt an entire orphanage—an impractical move even for a man as kindhearted as he was reputed to be.

  Renata intervened before the mockery could get too cruel, then drifted along the barge to make sure Giuna was doing all right. Her cousin was playing hexboard with Orrucio Amananto, and seemed happy enough.