The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  She almost lost her grip at the feel of a hand on her calf, another on her ass. Ren didn’t have time to be offended before she heard Varuni’s dispassionate command: “Drop.”

  With Varuni’s strength guiding her, the boat barely dipped when Ren touched down. Dmatsos didn’t receive the same gentle treatment; Varuni hauled him out of the water by his collar and tossed him to the center of the boat, where two of Vargo’s fists bound him with ropes. At the far edge, a third man pulled them into hiding under the walkways.

  Which left them one short of the crew who should have been there. “Where’s Vargo?”

  Varuni’s mouth hardened. “Problem with the numinat. Had to set it off manually. We’re going to pick him up now.” Her gaze flicked back at one of the fists—the one who’d been responsible for making certain the inscribed raft drifted into place to blow the floor out of the headquarters. “You certain you don’t want to swim for it, Ublits? He’ll probably forgive you. If he doesn’t catch cold.”

  “Too late,” Ublits said with the resignation of a dead man. In the shadows ahead, a pale blot was splashing toward them, kicking up spray with every stroke. Unlike Ren, it seemed Vargo could swim.

  He caught hold of the boat’s edge, then Varuni’s hand, and used them to roll into the bottom with a slop and a groan. His trousers were black with river water, his coat and waistcoat discarded who knew where. The fine cambric of his shirt was all but transparent, plastered to his skin. Through it, Ren could see the blurred lines of his strange tattoo.

  “I get so much as a sniffle, you’re all burning in the Ninatium,” Vargo growled. After another heavy breath, he pushed himself up to his feet, then looked down at Dmatsos with a puzzled frown. “That doesn’t look like Gulavka. Got too many eyes, for one thing.”

  “The Stretsko were so generous, they gave me two,” Ren said lightly. “Our friends have the other.”

  “Mind leaving me the spare?” Vargo nudged Dmatsos with a stockinged toe. His boots must have gone the way of his other clothes. “You’ve still got Gulavka to satisfy the ziemetse, and I can think of several ways to make use of this one.”

  When she didn’t immediately answer, Vargo glanced up. “I don’t plan to kill him. But his presence as my guest would make the Lower Bank a lot more peaceful.”

  Your hostage, you mean. She had no doubt he would kill Dmatsos, if he thought that would be more productive. Sedge had made that clear, long before Ren saw for herself what Vargo was really like.

  She wanted to refuse. The ziemetse had asked for Dmatsos as well as his sister; giving Vargo a prisoner of his own had never been part of their deal. But Ren was in a boat full of Vargo’s people, heading upriver as fast as the oarsmen could row, and she didn’t think he had enough reverence for the Black Rose to bow to her demands.

  Still, she couldn’t show weakness, either. She met Vargo’s gaze steadily. “Call it a loan. I’ll want him back later… or a favor in return.”

  Vargo’s smile curved like a sickle. “I could get to like us doing each other favors, Lady Rose.”

  It was too close to the words he’d spoken to Alta Renata. But a shout saved her from having to smile back at him: Arkady and her crew, working three to an oar to row a stolen boat free from Staveswater. Arkady herself was sitting on top of Gulavka, and she waved with the arm that wasn’t holding a familiar tomcat. “Where do you want this one delivered?”

  Temple of the Illius Praeteri: Lepilun 9

  Diomen’s resonant voice was impressive even in a pavilion. In the subterranean chamber where Renata now knelt, it echoed like the voice of the Lumen itself.

  “We stand, a few scattered sparks against the darkness of ignorance—but gathered, our light is stronger.”

  There was no light for Renata, thanks to the blindfold she wore. Tanaquis had placed it on her in Suncross; their journey after that had gone into a building and then into a tunnel. But not the Depths—the lack of damp and mold told her that. They must be somewhere higher in the Point, somewhere between the river and the amphitheatre above.

  “Today, two more flames join the light of the Illius Praeteri. We shine where the Lumen cannot and bring that new light into the world. When we see, we do not know.”

  “Ignorance is the path to enlightenment.” The chamber echoed with the reverent response of dozens of voices.

  “When we ask, we do not learn.” A hand brushed over Renata’s head, untying the knot of her blindfold.

  “Submission is the door to freedom,” the crowd responded.

  The silk fell away, and she blinked against the brightness of the light.

  “When we reach, we do not grasp.”

  “Dedication is the key to mastery.”

  “Sister Renata Viraudax Traementatis. Brother Derossi Vargo. You have passed through the Gates of Initiation; welcome to the ranks of the Illius Praeteri.” Diomen took their hands and drew them to their feet.

  Around them stood several dozen people in plain, undyed silk robes. Parma Extaquium and Bondiro Coscanum, Sibiliat Acrenix and Benvanna Novri. Tanaquis and Ghiscolo, of course, and Sureggio Extaquium. But others, too: She saw members of Essunta and Fiangiolli both, Attravi and Elpiscio, Lud Kaineto—even Toneo Pattumo, Renata’s former banker. At least half of the delta houses were represented, maybe more. I had no idea the Praeteri extended so far, Renata thought, chilled by the sight.

  The space they stood in was lofty stone, the light reflecting off burnished gold surfaces and dark marble veined with sparkling quartz. Nearby stood an enormous podium, with a scroll spread across its top. “A register?” Vargo said, clearly surprised.

  Diomen folded his hands into his sleeves. “We address each other as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ not merely as a matter of equality beneath the Lumen, but as a reminder of our bond. While this is not quite the same as a family register, it serves to join us together. Today you were able to enter this place only because you were escorted by others. Once your names are inscribed, you will be able to pass on your own through the warded passage that leads here.”

  Renata used the excuse of straightening her surcoat’s skirt to hide her twitch of surprise. She knew the passage Diomen referred to; it was legendary among those who used the tunnels of the Depths. Some unknown magic prevented anyone from passing through.

  But she had the distinct impression that the Praeteri hadn’t existed in Nadežra until Diomen’s arrival sixteen years ago—and the warded tunnel long predated that.

  Vargo was busy examining the register, his scarred brow arched. As he added his name, Renata said, “This is extraordinary. I had no idea you’d carved out an entire temple within the Point—and warded it against intruders, no less.”

  “Oh, we didn’t build it,” Tanaquis said. “This temple dates back to Kaius Rex, or perhaps earlier. He mostly used this place for pointless orgies and the like, but we aspire to more.”

  Parma snickered. “Our orgies have points.”

  She sounded like she meant it literally. But Renata trusted Tanaquis wouldn’t have put her through this for something merely carnal. While she took Vargo’s place at the podium, Diomen said, “The Gate of Desire may draw you the most strongly, Sister Parma, but our new members may choose a different path. Sister Renata, Brother Vargo, many challenges yet lie ahead: the four Gates of Revelation, and beyond them, the Gates of the Great Mysteries. To pass them all can be the work of a lifetime.”

  Then he raised his voice, making good use of the hall’s echoing power. “But today we celebrate our newest brother and sister. Come—let us feast.”

  The food and drink waiting in an adjoining chamber were a display of such excessive abundance that Renata knew Sureggio was responsible before he even claimed credit. Mingling and making small talk, she soon realized that for most of the members this was little more than another way to forge connections with their fellow gentry and nobles, spicing their deals with the pleasure of doing so under the cloak of secrecy and ritual. “Making your way to the Great Mysteries takes ef
fort,” Bondiro told Renata, in a tone that left no doubt as to his low opinion of that. “We don’t know exactly how many have gone that far, but it’s only a few. Tanaquis, Ghiscolo—”

  “Breccone,” Parma said. “Though I suppose he doesn’t count, now that he’s dead. Cousin Sureggio has, too. But they can’t talk about it—Sureggio tried once, and he got the worst headache. It didn’t go away until he made penance to the Pontifex.”

  Renata was doing her best to avoid Sureggio, whose gaze lingered on her as much as on Vargo. He slipped up to her side in a damp cloud of cloying perfume when she was perusing the dishes, though, and stood so close his bony elbow kept brushing hers. “Try the stuffed dreamweaver,” he said, gesturing at a half-dismembered bird lying amid a scatter of iridescent feathers. The open cavity of its chest was filled with pickled eggs. “The sauce is divine.”

  Dreamweaver. It was a common accusation from Vraszenians, that the nobility feasted on their sacred bird. Of course Extaquium, whose tables groaned under every exotic delicacy money could buy, would do exactly that.

  “Excuse me,” Renata said, her voice tight, and escaped into the less crowded confines of the temple’s main hall.

  Where had Tanaquis vanished to? Now that Renata had become a full member of the Praeteri, Tanaquis had better be able to speak freely about whatever it was she thought might be useful. If Renata had to get all the way through to these so-called Great Mysteries first, she might quit right now.

  But before she could go in search of Tanaquis, Vargo caught her.

  “I’ll admit,” he said, coming up to her side, “your presence makes this whole process more pleasurable. I’ve hardly seen you since our card game was so rudely interrupted. I hope you don’t blame me for what happened.”

  She’d been avoiding him, but she could hardly admit it. “I’ve only been busy with Traementis business. I’m trying to reach a point where Donaia can take some time away; His Grace has offered her the use of his villa.” She didn’t see any members of House Quientis among the cultists. Scaperto himself would be barred due to his position in the Cinquerat, and perhaps all his registered kin were too sensible for this nonsense.

  Vargo’s voice lowered to an intimate, flirtatious note. “At the risk of being the fish calling the duck wet, you might do with some time away yourself. Care to come by my townhouse on your way home tonight? My wine is better, and we could compare notes somewhere without an audience.”

  “Notes on the wine? Or this?” She gestured around at the Tyrant’s former temple.

  “This—and what comes next. I suspect you’re no more here for the food than I am. Perhaps we can discuss that… and how we could help each other.”

  How you could use me, you mean. She knew that look. To Vargo she was nothing more than a valuable tool, and now he’d found another place to employ her.

  His gaze flicked to something past her shoulder, and Renata turned to greet that distraction like salvation—only to realize it was like reaching for a rope in dreams and finding a snake.

  “Sister Renata,” Ghiscolo said. “I hope you don’t mind me addressing you with such familiarity.”

  She made her tone light. “Why would I, Brother Ghiscolo?”

  “That unfortunate affair with the Scurezza family. I was shocked to hear yesterday that your cousin has announced the full tale of what she saw—despite the consequences to House Traementis. Consequences I was hoping to shield you from.”

  It was true that quite a few letters had arrived at the manor soon after, withdrawing petitions for adoption. But there were still enough that the Traementis could afford to be choosy, and Tanaquis had decided to accept, which put a genuine smile on Donaia’s face when she heard. “Anyone who would hold Meda Scurezza’s insanity against us, Brother Ghiscolo, is no one we would want in House Traementis.”

  His expression was affable and a little hurt. “Still, you might have warned me.”

  Giving you a chance to talk us out of it? Before she could force an insincere apology through her teeth, he added, “Sister Quaniet was one of ours. We were also hoping to protect her reputation.”

  A soft breath came from Vargo. Renata said, “Her reputation hardly matters now, with every Scurezza dead at her hand. I applaud your zeal for pursuing the Anduske, Brother Ghiscolo—but I think their own crimes are enough to hang them.”

  One hand rose to his heart, fiddling with a shirt button in an uncharacteristic show of agitation. The reply, however, came not from Ghiscolo, but from behind Renata’s shoulder. “You show an admirable desire for justice, Sister Renata.”

  She hoped her step back looked like she was welcoming Diomen into their circle, rather than escaping the trap of being surrounded by three men she trusted no further than an arm’s reach. “Pontifex.”

  “My congratulations to you and Brother Vargo both on progressing so quickly through the Gates of Initiation.” He didn’t smile, but something like satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “Your success only reinforces my belief that you both carry a great blessing. Perhaps you will join the select few who can attain the Gates of the Great Mysteries.”

  “You judge me more highly than I deserve,” Renata murmured. She wasn’t getting anywhere near another damned gate if she could help it. But right now, to get away from Vargo and Ghiscolo… “I would love to receive more instruction, though. Perhaps you could give me a tour of this temple?”

  Vargo drew breath to say something, but Diomen beat him to it. “It would be my pleasure, Sister Renata.” She took his arm as if he had offered it, and they left the two conspirators behind.

  “This temple long predates the Conqueror,” Diomen said as they began a circuit of the main hall. “Or the Tyrant, as Kaius Sifigno is more often called here. I confess I do not know its precise age. A Tricat numinat can be used to weigh such things, but only by comparison: older than one thing, younger than another.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.” Which was true, but also an invitation for him to expand more.

  Diomen fixed his unnerving gaze on Renata. “The inscriptor’s art has many subtleties the layperson does not understand. Were you born in Canilun?”

  “Colbrilun. The twenty-ninth.”

  A faint line marred the skin between his brows. He brought his hands down in mirrored arcs, marking a circle, then stared into his cupped palms at the base. “What I sense must not be due to birth, but some other resonance with Tricat. Something connected with your family, perhaps—something that has stained them.”

  “The late Sister Quaniet—”

  “I speak not of recent politics.” Diomen’s voice cut her off like a knife. “This is a spiritual stain of long-standing origin. It is gone, but traces linger, like a ghost.”

  His behavior might have chilled her more if she hadn’t manipulated other people the same way. “Tanaquis has spoken to you.”

  “A skeptic.” Diomen lifted his hands as though he could do nothing about her doubt. “I have not spoken with Sister Tanaquis about you, other than to express surprise when she nominated you for initiation. She has never sponsored a candidate before.” A pleased smile did nothing to soften the sharpness of his gaze. “But your reaction tells me I am right.”

  He would be a fool to lie about his source, given that she could verify it with Tanaquis easily enough. Vargo? She had made the mistake of telling him about the curse. It would mean he’d had contact with Diomen, outside the organized rituals of the gates—but that seemed all too plausible.

  Renata folded her hands. “Tanaquis invited me because she thought your work here might shed light on… call it an affliction, on House Traementis. It’s gone now, but we still aren’t certain where it came from. If you have insights to offer, I’d be glad to hear them.”

  He studied her with unblinking eyes that reminded her of a fen vulture waiting for its prey to die. Then he said, “I am merely a conduit for the Lumen—as are we all. I have no insights. But I know how you might seek them… if you believe yourself ready.”

/>   I’m certainly ready to see what you’re up to. She hid satisfaction and apprehension both as she nodded.

  He led her through the archway to a small, nondescript room, whose walls bore more signs of destruction. The floor was unmarred, though, save for a numinat: a circle containing only a many-sided figure and a five-pointed star, oddly twisted upon itself.

  Diomen said, “We all learn meditative worship as children, but only in its simplest form: the quieting of the mind, the cleansing of the soul. This numinat is designed for more. Someone has wronged you and your house. Here, you may attune yourself to the energy of that action… and in so doing, perhaps trace it.”

  Renata didn’t bother hiding her surprise and skepticism. She was hardly an expert inscriptor, but that didn’t sound much like the numinatria she knew. Diomen took no offense; he merely set a smooth plug of amber glass into the numinat’s focal point. “Stand within, and meditate as if you were in a temple.”

  She obeyed cautiously, though the blank surface of the focus was puzzling. “I see no god named here. You mentioned Tricat; should I direct my thoughts to that numen?” Amber was Tricat’s color.

  “Direct them to those who have harmed you—whether you know their faces or not.”

  Diomen’s smile was anything but reassuring. But this must be why Tanaquis had brought her to the Praeteri: to uncover the origins of the curse, through some different form of numinatria. She would have felt better with Tanaquis present… but if this brought her answers now, she might be spared having to return.

  Renata stood within the star and clasped her hands while Diomen activated the numinat.

  Then she waited. If she’d been the Seterin noblewoman he assumed, meditation might have been easier. Her only previous attempt had been after days without sleep, after the living nightmare, the zlyzen, Leato screaming as she left him behind…

  “Think back to this stain upon your family.” Diomen’s voice was like a burr, irritating instead of soothing. “When did you first know of it?”