The Liar's Knot
Page 33
Vargo watched Diomen as the Praeteri gathered at sunset on the terrace behind the villa. Even outside the theatrical stage of the Tyrant’s hidden temple, the man was impressive. He was exactly the sort of person one would expect to see leading a mystery cult, with his imposing height and his deep-set eyes, his resonant voice promising the secrets of the cosmos. And he hardly seemed to have aged in the last sixteen years.
Vargo, on the other hand, had made himself unrecognizable as the boy Diomen once hired to carry out an assassination.
Even with that transformation, coming anywhere near the Pontifex was a calculated risk. At first it hadn’t been an option; although a Seterin man with a shaved head ought to have been easy to find, tracking Diomen down had taken years. Then more years to uncover the existence and activities of the Praeteri, to get himself into a position where he could enter the temple, attend the rituals, find out what game was being played where Vargo couldn’t see. To become a player in that game—and, if all went well, to win.
He hadn’t yet been able to make sense of their philosophy, assuming there even was any. The first three gates were easy to parse; like a knot, the Praeteri put candidates through challenges designed to make them earn their place. But these middle gates focused on desire, pain, rage—the one Renata had passed through—and selfishness. How to embrace such things, and how to master them.
The numinat he’d seen during the Dreamweaver Riots had stoked people’s rage, which no ordinary inscription could do. It was solid proof of what he and Alsius had suspected for years: that the Praeteri had some way of influencing people’s emotions through eisar-based numinatria. He might not grasp the method yet, but he’d seen its effects all over Nadežra, in the unnatural obedience of certain people, the inflexible determination of others. He saw it in people who betrayed long-held convictions on a seeming whim, and in others whose resentments suddenly boiled over into murderous hatred.
Things like that could happen on their own. But when there was a pattern of certain people profiting, it stopped being just human shittiness at work.
“Brothers and sisters,” Diomen said. “We come together once more to know our deeper selves, to reach beyond the confines of ordinary wisdom. To know the cosmos with the intellect alone is insufficient: We must know it with our hearts and with our flesh.”
So much for the inscriptor’s prayer. Vargo couldn’t deny there was some truth to Diomen’s rhetoric, though. I have my compass, my edge, my chalk, myself… But so far, Vargo’s self had been insufficient. How did one create a numinat that called on eisar instead of the gods? With a blank focus, apparently. Which made no fucking sense, because a focus operated by drawing the power of the god it named. Eisar didn’t have names—according to Alsius, they were just unformed emanations of the Lumen—so it followed that one couldn’t call on them that way. But then how did you attune a numinat to them?
He hoped that tonight might teach him.
The purpose of this ceremony was to explore the revelation of desire. There was no numinatria involved, at least not yet; instead Diomen led them in a series of chants and prayers, then stood before each participant and asked them what they desired tonight.
Some of the answers were surprising. Ebrigotto Attravi complained of exhaustion and said he just wanted a good night’s sleep. Tanaquis Fienola wanted to experience dissolution into the cosmos, though how she was going to achieve that, Vargo had no idea. But most confessed to the kinds of desires he expected: greater wealth, the destruction of a rival, knowledge of a cousin’s secrets.
Vargo had his answer prepared long before Diomen came to him.
“I want to re-create the West Channel cleansing numinat. But I don’t think that’s any surprise,” he said with a wry grin, drawing chuckles from a few of the Praeteri.
Diomen’s eyes narrowed. “A goal is not a desire, Brother Vargo. What do you want?” He pressed a hand just below Vargo’s contraceptive numinat. “Here.”
Vargo’s stomach jumped at the touch. The entirely organic rage he’d felt in the temple—at Diomen’s interference and Renata’s accusations—flashed through him like heat lightning. He stiffened to stop himself from forcibly removing that hand at the wrist. I want every fucking cuff in this city to see me for what I am.
Something better than Lower Bank trash.
But that was a truth he barely admitted to himself, and not something he’d ever say to the very people who despised him. Instead he said, “I’m not certain what I want. But I’ll know it when I see it.”
Diomen withdrew his hand with an avuncular nod. “It can be difficult to understand what we truly desire; often we settle for distractions and substitutes. But remember that you cannot reach your destination by looking at a map. You must walk the path.”
::How does anyone listen to this arrant nonsense?:: Alsius grumbled as Diomen moved on to hear Sibiliat’s desire for new experiences. ::Must I follow this charlatan all night?::
Better you than me. Alsius could eavesdrop much more easily on Diomen’s conversations. They’d thought for a time that the man was a fraud, set up by a puppet master to bilk Nadežra’s gentry and lesser nobility out of their wealth; in a way, Vargo wished that were true. The Praeteri wouldn’t have been nearly so dangerous then. But having met the man now, it was clear he was a fanatical believer. And that meant he might speak of the things Vargo still needed to know.
Having completed his circuit, Diomen spread his arms wide. “Brothers and sisters! The Lumen has the power to bring you what you seek. For some, your desires can be satisfied here and now. For others, that lies in the future. But to achieve either, we must immerse ourselves in desire, and through experience, master it. Cast off your hesitation, your shame, your shackles! Indulge yourselves without restraint, and know the revelations of the cosmos!”
Fully half the Praeteri took that as their cue to strip. Vargo barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. There was food and drink aplenty, and drugs of various kinds—including an abundant supply of the aža that was supposedly unavailable now—but the eager bypassed those in favor of more immediate desires. Before long, the estate rang with the groans and gasps, and the snap of the crop Parma Extaquium wielded as she rode, not her usual Fintenus or Coscanum toys, but her half brother Ucozzo. Desires easily satisfied… which in theory would lead people to something more, but Vargo couldn’t see how. The only numinata he saw at work were Noctat charms some men had looped around their cocks to keep themselves hard.
Sibiliat, however, had set up the estate to cater to other activities as well. The Acrenix library was open to anyone who desired knowledge, though Vargo didn’t see anyone there when he passed through. True to his word, Attravi sought out a quiet, luxuriously appointed room to sleep in, and a peek into another darkened room revealed not people coupling, but Tanaquis floating blindfolded and naked in a tub of goo.
The sight of her made Vargo pause, frowning. It wasn’t any surprise that Tanaquis belonged to the Praeteri… but she’d given no hint of it when he brought her evidence of Breccone Indestris’s interference during the riots, even when Vargo brought up eisar. How closely did she protect her brethren? She’d led Serrado to arrest her fellow cultist, so apparently not too closely. Perhaps Vargo could bait her into sharing some of their secrets.
Not while she was communing with the cosmos, though. Sighing, he worked his way back to the terrace and found Diomen gone. That left Vargo with a choice: avail himself of the library in the hopes of learning something useful from a book, or write the evening off as a routine orgy and find himself a hole he didn’t mind fucking.
Instead he wound up in a chaise on a balcony overlooking the blackened waters of the bay, a Seterin brandywine in his hand, warm with the flavors of summer stone fruit. His glass was emptied to the dregs and full-faced Corillis had risen, dripping silver mist in her wake, when Sibiliat pushed aside the balcony curtain.
In a voice honey-thick with amusement, she said, “After hearing cousin Fadrin’s tales, I’m su
rprised to find you seeking solitude.”
After hearing so much gossip about her and Giuna Traementis, Vargo was surprised to find Sibiliat seeking him. Then he recalled her words to the Pontifex about new experiences. It was a story as old as the Point, that Upper Bank cuffs often went slumming in search of those.
Still, there were worse ways to spend his night than fucking his way through the Acrenix register. Finishing the last of his drink, Vargo rose from the chaise and gave her a Lower Bank once-over. “If Fadrin were here, maybe I’d be more interested.”
Sibiliat leaned her hip against the railing and smirked over the rim of a goblet of pomegranate-red wine, letting him look his fill. Her kohl liner extended to sharp points, giving her eyes a sly, knowing look, and her hands, he noticed, were bare. “I’ve heard my cousin’s boasting often enough to know he’s not that good in bed.”
Removing his gloves, Vargo slid his hand around hers and coaxed the goblet to his lips. The wine rolled thick over his tongue. “You’ve come to prove you’re better?”
“I’ve come because I’m not the fool Renata is.” Sibiliat’s mention of Renata threatened to sour the pleasant taste of the wine, until her following words sweetened it. “Her loss could be my gain. My father was right about you. You are a singular man, Eret Vargo.”
His touch slid down her arm, settling on her hips to pull her closer. Whatever Sibiliat wanted from him, he doubted it stopped at a quick bend over the balcony rail. But he was in a mood not to care. “Let’s not bring Renata into this,” he growled. Then, after a moment’s thought: “Or your father.”
Sibiliat set her glass aside, her laugh brushing silk-soft against his lips. “Whatever you want,” she whispered, before silencing herself in his kiss.
::I hope you’re having a more successful night than I am.::
At Alsius’s interruption, Vargo’s grip tightened, drawing a questioning noise from Sibiliat. Oblivious, the spider nattered on. ::The Pontifex’s only desire seems to be listening to his own voice—and he isn’t saying anything worth hearing. Shall we meet back up?::
Later, Vargo replied as Sibiliat took charge and crowded him back onto the chaise, knee pressing hard between his thighs. You might want to stay away. I found something interesting to do.
When he and Sibiliat lay panting and spent, she reached down to her discarded clothing. Vargo assumed she was going to dress and depart, but instead she sat up again with a lump of clay in her hands, which she divided into two pieces, giving him half. “Mold this in your hands,” she said.
“Into what? Some toy for our use?” It was too small to offer much interest on that front.
Another smirk flashed across her mouth; she had a face made for it. “No—though if you want to think about that, go ahead. Shape it into a focus. And while you do, meditate on what we just did. Not the actions; the wanting. The craving for what’s not quite within your reach. The refusal to stop until you possess it.”
Her words killed all sexual desire but left him filled with a different kind of wanting. This… is it? This is how it works?
Sibiliat was shaping her own clay, eyes closed and expression as serene as if she were meditating in a temple. Which was essentially what she’d told him to do—and shit, that made sense. For the first time, Vargo finally understood.
Shaping the clay. The focus he’d seen during the riots was glass, but maybe Breccone Indestris had enjoyed glassworking. The point wasn’t the material. For a Praeteri numinat, you didn’t rely on sigils; you had to imbue the focus. Not the numinat, but the point at the center. Saturate yourself in the emotion you wanted to evoke, then pour that energy—the eisar drawn by it—and bind it in a physical object.
Alsius. I found it. I have it. He hoped.
Closing his eyes, he paid attention to the clay, working it with his fingers as he’d been working Sibiliat a few minutes ago. What did he want? What did he really want? He let it wash through him, as Diomen had said. Not the goal, but the desire: sixteen years’ worth of waiting, of wanting.
::Excellent! What have you fou—What are you doing with my niece?!::
Opening his eyes, Vargo spotted Peabody’s shadow-dimmed hues on the balcony rail. Meditating. I warned you to stay away.
::Since when does meditation involve being naked with a girl who’s barely—::
She’s a grown woman, old man, not the child you remember. Now leave me the fuck alone so I don’t lose this!
The small lump of Peabody vanished. Hoping that hadn’t broken his concentration too badly—or somehow muddied the focus with a desire for Alsius to stop interrupting—Vargo finished shaping the clay into a cabochon-domed round.
When he opened his eyes again, Sibiliat was pulling on her violet underdress and studying him with a speculative look. Vargo was very glad he’d invested in imbued cosmetics to cover up the brand on his chest, and he hoped Tanaquis’s lack of inclination to gossip extended to him.
But Sibiliat’s mind proved to be elsewhere. “By the way, my father was interested in speaking with you.”
He paused in the act of pulling up his trousers. “What, here? Tonight? I thought he’d left the Praeteri, since he’s part of the Cinquerat now.”
“This is still our home. You’ll find him in his office at the end of the south colonnade.” Leaning over, she brushed her lips across his cheek, pausing at his ear. “Next time you want to stick it to the cuffs, don’t settle for Fadrin. I’m curious whether you can take as good as you give.”
Pulling back with a sly smile, she draped her surcoat over her arm and left Vargo to his thoughts.
Vargo straightened his clothes and debated reaching out to Alsius, but discarded the idea. He usually did his best to avoid bringing the spider anywhere near his brother. It was far too awkward… seeing as Ghiscolo was the one who’d had Alsius killed.
Villa Acrenix, Bay of Vraszan: Lepilun 35
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Your Mercy.”
Ghiscolo’s study looked out on the glow of distant Nadežra, with an entire wall of windows that surely required a numinat to keep the room from turning into an icebox in winter. He sat by those windows in an armchair of oxblood leather, a book in hand.
Marking his place with a finger, Ghiscolo glanced up. “Not at all, Eret Vargo. I was hoping you might find time for me tonight. Please, have a seat. Drink?” He nodded at the chair opposite him and the decanter on a side table, filled with the same stone fruit brandy Vargo had been drinking earlier.
“I wouldn’t mind another taste of House Acrenix’s best,” Vargo said, watching Ghiscolo carefully as he poured. The man’s pleasant expression didn’t change, so either he didn’t know how Vargo had spent the past hour, or he didn’t care.
Vargo’s money was on the latter.
Ghiscolo said, “I apologize for tarnishing your evening with a matter of business, but it’s rare that I get an opportunity for true privacy. In the city, there are always servants around, or the risk that someone will interrupt with some urgent matter.”
Servants who were often in someone else’s pay. That was why Vargo kept no live-in help, and made sure those who visited for cleaning were well-enough compensated that they wouldn’t be tempted to take bribes. He suspected Ghiscolo had already made more than one attempt to insinuate someone into his household.
“This is a familiar song,” Vargo said dryly as he accepted the brandy. “Last time you had me out here for a private conversation, it was to discuss Mettore Indestor snooping into Praeteri business.”
Ghiscolo toasted Vargo with his own glass. “A timely warning for which I am still grateful. And an apt comparison… because I’d like to talk to you about Sostira Novrus.”
Vargo’s hand tightened around his glass. Apart from his two assignations with Iascat, Vargo tried to have as little to do with House Novrus as possible. Sostira had a heart of stone, a roving eye, and nothing Vargo couldn’t get elsewhere for less trouble. The last dealings he had with her led to a warehouse fire and the deaths of t
wo men that Vargo hadn’t intended to kill.
But rumor said Sostira’s control of her house was faltering, especially after the Rook’s accusations at the Essunta fireworks display. If Ghiscolo scented blood in the water, it made sense he’d turn to Vargo.
“Has she grown bored without Mettore to bicker with?” Vargo asked.
“She’s grown unstable,” Ghiscolo said bluntly, sliding his fingers through the gap between two shirt buttons as he lounged back in his chair. “To the point where the members of the Cinquerat are discussing whether Nadežra is truly best served by having the Argentet seat in her hands. Or in Novrus hands at all.”
Vargo’s snort set the liquid in his cup to rocking. “I don’t think you can occupy two seats at once, Your Mercy.”
“Of course not,” Ghiscolo said easily. “The law forbids it. Nor could any member of my house take the seat. We’d have to look… elsewhere.”
A Cinquerat seat? The dull ennui Vargo had been feeling since Diomen asked him what he desired sharpened to a point. A heavy burst of wanting drove the air from his lungs. Power. Vargo didn’t give a wet leech about the duties of the cultural seat—but the power behind it was enough to reshape Nadežra until the Lower Bank was every bit as good as the Upper.
He fought to keep his voice steady. “Removing Indestor took over a year, and in the end, it only worked because he put the entire Cinquerat—the entire city—in danger. Unless Sostira’s instability contains an equivalent threat?”
He wasn’t sure he had the patience to wait a year. Surely he could push it along. Like his fast-beating heart was sending the blood rushing hot through his head. Heat and blood. When in doubt, you could always turn to those solutions.
“Some threats are too delicate to make public. Sostira’s marshaling her leverage to keep hold of her seat, but if someone was willing to use unorthodox means…” Ghiscolo sipped his brandy. “It wouldn’t be just gratitude that person would earn. It would be respect.”