The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  The fourth was the man in question: Meppe, formerly of House Indestor.

  Renata had pushed for both Meppe and Idaglio. Apart from Mezzan, who’d somehow managed to secure a job with the Ordo Apis, the former members of House Indestor had not fared well since their dissolution. Many ran afoul of the Vigil for crimes real or imagined, or received missives from Prasinet’s office, claiming they owed vast sums in unpaid taxes. Several had died, and no one was in a hurry to inquire whether it was of natural causes or not. As Renata pointed out, nothing would more clearly show that Traementis had shed its old ways than embracing one of their former enemies—and Meppe genuinely had bureaucratic skill to recommend him.

  Earlier that day, all of them had gone to the Pearls’ Tricatium so that Utrinzi Simendis could inscribe each adoptee into the register with their new Traementatis name. Now the doors of the manor were flung wide for the first party it had hosted in many years. While the staff hurried to prepare, the new adoptees took over the second-floor rooms to change and prepare for the evening’s celebrations.

  Ren still might not be able to talk freely with Tess, but that didn’t mean all conversation was impossible. “I heard someone from a certain bakery came by yesterday with a basket of samples for the cook to try,” she said as Tess draped a sheer cape of amber silk over her shoulders. “Is there any chance we might see more of those buns in the future?”

  She didn’t even attempt to veil the innuendo, and the blush in Tess’s cheeks undercut the answering glare. During that afternoon at the Whistling Reed, Tess had mentioned putting Pavlin on Suilis’s trail. She’d done her best to be businesslike about it, but Ren could tell the ice of Tess’s anger was thawing. And underneath…

  Tess sniffed. “Foolish man—as if it made sense to carry bread all the way here from the Lower Bank.”

  “People have gone farther for a taste of something sweet.”

  Under the guise of adjusting the topazes sparkling in Renata’s hair, Tess flicked her sister’s ear. “I’ll go see if everyone else is ready, alta. You stay here—don’t want you trampling in too soon.”

  Ren touched her heart in apology, and got a quick smile as Tess went out the door. I hope they work it out, she thought, settling her flimsy net mask over her face. Based on Grey’s comments, Pavlin seemed like a genuinely good man. Tess deserved someone like that.

  Then she drew a deep breath, and settled Renata’s mask over her mind.

  There should have been a celebration like this for her adoption, but it had been too soon; even this was too soon. But Renata’s job was to help move the house past that, allowing Donaia to retire gracefully from the public eye for a while. So when the time came, she descended the stairs and waited in the hall while Colbrin announced each of the new members of House Traementis: Tanaquis and Nencoral and Idaglio and Meppe, and then, like the resolution of a musical crescendo, herself.

  Renata moved into the open doorway and, with a languid tug at its tie, let her flimsy capelet slip from her shoulders and into the waiting footman’s hands.

  A tide of gasps and murmurs lifted her lips in a satisfied smile. The warm ballroom lighting gave depth and richness to the bronze silk of her surcoat and caught the sparkles of the green spinels worked into the sheer embroidered overlay. But what people were staring at wasn’t her dress; it was her shoulders and arms, completely bare save for a powdering of pearl dust.

  I used my sleeves at the Gloria to catch their interest. Now my lack of them will hold it, she thought in amusement as Donaia, resplendent in a new surcoat of quilted amber taffeta, handed her a glass of iced wine. Donaia murmured, “I leave it to you to welcome them, my dear niece.”

  It was like stepping into everything she’d dreamed of. The ballroom had been oiled and buffed until every bit of the woodwork gleamed like warmed honey. With a murmur of The budget! and a pert wink at Renata, Tess had hired her old tatting circle from Little Alwydd to assemble a mass of fabric flowers from the scraps left over from the Traementis ladies’ gowns. Silk lobelias and begonias, velveteen peonies and dahlias cascaded down the walls—some doused in compounds imbued to keep away the insects that swarmed along the canals in autumn’s last gasps of heat, others with perfume to mask that. Miniature colored lightstones flickered among the flowers, transforming the stuffy and outdated ballroom into an airy outdoor plaza, and below them lay bountiful trays of cold meats and soft cheeses, berries sparkling with crystallized sugar, dipping creams flavored with mint and basil.

  Everything I ever wanted, and more. It should have been a happier thought.

  Perhaps some hint of that shadow bled through as she freed herself from the initial round of conversations. “Dark thoughts?” Tanaquis asked, wandering up to her side. Renata’s new cousin wore a thin arc of lace fixed to the skin around her brow and cheekbones; it suggested a mask without actually masking anything. “It occurs to me that it might be good to conduct some kind of cleansing ritual for all the adoptees. I know for certain that you, Donaia, and Giuna are free of the curse, but who’s to say whether something doesn’t linger in the Traementis name?”

  Even in the day’s remaining heat, that type of chill wasn’t welcome. “Do you think that’s a risk?”

  “Let’s be safe, not sorry.” Tanaquis patted her shoulder. “I’ll be leaving soon to attend a ritual with our illustrious friends—unavoidable timing, I fear; the stars don’t dance to our schedules—so don’t worry about it for tonight. We can arrange something later.”

  She swept off as if such concerns could be laid aside as easily as an empty wineglass. Her departure gave Renata a clear view of Scaperto Quientis, standing temporarily idle. I should go talk to him, she thought. Except she couldn’t say any of the things she wanted to: gratitude for his help with the Dockwall infiltration, and apology for the Black Rose scaring him out of his skin the night she broke in to ask for that help.

  A beckoning hand instead drew her over to where Donaia stood in quiet conversation with Grey Serrado, resplendent in his dress vigils. “I was just thanking Grey for the services of his sister-in-law,” Donaia said, catching Renata’s arm. “Have you met her charming children? No, you wouldn’t have. Darling little girl, and the boy is so sweet.” Her eyes misted with tears. Between that, her flushed cheeks, and the thick honey of mead on her breath, it seemed clear that Donaia was rowing in her cup from happiness to heartache. The pat she gave Renata’s cheek confirmed it. “You must have been as sweet. Truly, your mother didn’t treasure you as she should.”

  “Perhaps we should find Giuna,” Grey said, gently prying Donaia off her.

  “No! No more hiding back here. You should dance. The two of you, together. Look, there’s Scaperto. I need to talk to him about dog breeding. Go on with you.” With a final push, she tottered off.

  Renata breathed out a soft laugh. “Well, we can’t disappoint her. And I’ve danced very little tonight—too busy fending off people asking something from me.”

  “I ask nothing but that you avoid my toes,” Grey said with a smile, and bowed for her to precede him to the floor. A progression dance was already underway, leaving them to wait in awkward silence at the edge until the sets shifted and the dance swept them up.

  The first figure was a promenade in the sagnasse hold. Which they’d danced before, in this very room… but things had been so different then, back when he was a stranger and a threat.

  When she hadn’t yet seen him through Arenza’s eyes.

  His arm lay across her shoulders with exquisite delicacy, barely making contact. She said, “You needn’t worry about your coat, Captain. The pearl dust is imbued; it won’t rub off.”

  “Yes.” He coughed lightly. “Yes, the pearl dust is my concern.”

  She unwound from the hold and came face-to-face with him. His gaze was studiously on their hands, rising to clasp—as if Captain Grey Serrado, a swordsman trained by Ryvček herself, were afraid he might miss. Or as if he were afraid to let his attention rest on the expanse of bare skin across her colla
rbone and shoulders.

  As their gloved palms came together, Ren briefly lost where she was. She was back in Kingfisher, her bare hand against Grey’s, the tips of his fingers curling warmly over her own.

  The silent prayer of Ir Entrelke, let him not remember that drowned under the wave of heat that swept her from head to toe. She wanted to lace her fingers between his, use that to draw him closer…

  “I didn’t think you could cause more ripples than you did at last autumn’s Gloria,” Grey said as they circled each other around clasped palms. The scent of coffee hovered over him like perfume, far more pleasant to the nose than to the palate. “But I underestimated you.”

  His gaze flicked briefly to her bare shoulders. Scrambling to be Renata, she said the first thing that came into her head. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Make no mistake, Renata,” he said, his voice deepening. “When I flirt with you, you’ll know.”

  Though his accent remained Nadežran, it was the register he used when speaking Vraszenian, and that familiar rumble held more than just words. He wasn’t masked—Vigil officers never were, in uniform—but although his expression remained controlled, his body said what his face did not.

  He was flirting. And he meant it.

  She was grateful beyond words that the dance separated them briefly; it gave her time to regain her wits and her tongue. Which was fortunate, because the next segment involved an intricate change of holds. “Sunwise, Captain Serrado,” she said with a suppressed laugh when he began to turn the wrong way.

  He chuckled and corrected by way of a dizzying flourish that brought her closer to him than the dance required. The music drifted to a close as they grinned at each other over joined hands.

  “That’s a Liganti dance, a Vraszenian one, and now Liganti again that we’ve shared,” he said, releasing her for the bow and curtsy. “I look forward to continuing the pattern.”

  He left her breathing too fast and trying not to think about the twelve kinds of impossibility that faced her.

  Orrucio Amananto chose that moment to scrape together his courage, asking her to partner him for the next call. And if the gossips noticed her distraction—which she had to assume they did—she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

  Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

  One benefit of not giving a shit about cuffs or their courtesies was that Vargo felt free to ignore the carefully worded snub that had arrived from Era Traementis yesterday. A polite note mentioning a musical evening at the Rotunda that he might enjoy: cuff code for We can’t take back your invitation, but don’t show your face here.

  Vargo donned his finest coat and a mask of thin crimson netting, then took a sedan chair to the Pearls.

  He timed his arrival at the Traementis threshold for a moment when the majordomo was called away and some hapless footman had responsibility for collecting the invitations of any latecomers. The man recognized Vargo, if his wide eyes and trembling hand were any indication, but didn’t dare turn him away.

  In this world, a hard smile worked as well as a knife to someone’s throat.

  Vargo kept that smile in place as he entered the ballroom and surveyed the crowd. As he’d intended, the blood-bright velveteen of his coat drank the light and drew their gaze. Vargo gave himself two bells at most before Renata found a way to elegantly give him the boot; he wanted to make certain he was seen—an invited guest of the Traementis—before she did it.

  Hate me all you want. I may be a bloated tick, but you en’t burning me out now. He’d come so close after so long, with an ennoblement charter, entry into the Praeteri, learning about the eisar and whatever Ghiscolo had done to his mind. He wasn’t going to let a bit of disdain and an unproven accusation of murder bring him down.

  ::It won’t,:: Alsius said. He wasn’t hiding in collar shadows but rode proudly at the center of Vargo’s neckcloth, like a pin holding it in place. A bright, eight-legged splash of moral support. ::Gossip passes faster than river trash, and there’s always new dirt to replace it. We just have to wait this out. You’ll see.::

  Patience. Always more Alsius’s strength than Vargo’s.

  When nobody came forward to greet him, he lifted his chin and ventured farther into the room. Aghast at his presence—or maybe just his presumption—the gossiping cuffs parted for him like the Dežera for the Point. He’d been too busy with prison breaks and Lower Bank problems to give fuel to the resentment lit by the Rook’s accusations and Renata’s invective, but now it flared, fanned by the whispers that followed him as he made a circuit of the ballroom.

  ::We’ll stay long enough to show that the rumors don’t concern us,:: Alsius said.

  They don’t. En’t none of them any better than me. Ligs wear gloves ’cause their hands are stained with blood.

  Still, Vargo wasn’t foolish enough to invite a public rebuff by approaching anyone. Not Tanaquis or Benvanna, his sponsors for the second and third Praeteri gates; definitely not Ghiscolo, after whatever had happened at his villa. The circle of cuffs he could actually talk to was rapidly shrinking to a dot.

  Which left him all the more astonished when someone approached him.

  “So, even the jaded Eret Vargo can be surprised?” Iascat Novrus murmured. The silver lining his eyes made them unnervingly bright as he took Vargo’s hand and led him into the swirl of dancers. “Close your mouth unless you mean to use it.”

  His tone was far more confident than Vargo was used to hearing, and carried a hint of Sostira’s steel. It startled Vargo into complying as Iascat pulled him into the hold for a couple’s dance—one slow and sweeping enough to grant them as much privacy as could be had in the midst of a crowd.

  But not for long. “I don’t need a pity dance,” Vargo said, stamping out the brief flash of gratitude that people were staring at both of them now, instead of him alone.

  “And I didn’t need a pity fuck, but here we are.”

  The hardness of Iascat’s delicate features lasted a few beats more before it cracked. “I won’t lie. Watching you silently tell us all to go fuck ourselves is painful… but that’s not why I dragged you out here.”

  “Oh?” Of course Iascat didn’t want Vargo; he wanted something from him. That was a dance Vargo could perform without stumbling. “How can I serve?”

  “Your falling-out with Alta Renata. Nobody seems to know the details, but I can guess.” Iascat’s hand shifted on Vargo’s back, subtle cues to guide him around possible collisions. “She found out the invitation you gave her for the Ceremony of the Accords came from Mettore Indestor.”

  Vargo’s grip tightened. “How did you know that?”

  “Because my aunt’s the one who told her. After the trial. She was quite upset when nothing seemed to come of it, but I suppose Renata was just biding her time.”

  Yes. Smiling through her hatred, until a Praeteri numinat set it free.

  Much like Vargo was smiling now. But it wasn’t hatred he masked; it was the insistent voice that kept whispering for blood at Sostira Novrus’s name. “Why are you telling me this?” Iascat could have sought Vargo out anytime since Veiled Waters if he’d wanted. Doing it now meant he’d found a reason.

  Shifting closer than the dance called for, Iascat said softly, “My aunt has been looking into Renata’s background. There’s a diplomatic packet arriving from Seteris tonight with some kind of important information—something Sostira thinks she can use against Renata. Something you could use to keep the Traementis from cutting you out.”

  Or to hurt Renata the way she’d hurt him. Not publicly; no, that would be a foolish waste of valuable leverage. But Sostira wasn’t the only one who knew how to profit from blackmail.

  Vargo hoped Iascat took the rigidity of his hands as anger at Renata. He couldn’t very well explain that he was afraid of every thought he had related to Sostira. Do I want to make use of this because it’s useful? Or because fucking eisar are influencing my mind?

  He’d taken a good look at himself in the mir
ror before coming here tonight, and knew that the kohl around his eyes, overlaid with a strip of crimson gauze, loaned his gaze a menacing intensity. He turned that intensity on Iascat now. “That doesn’t address what you want.”

  The dance was circling to an end. Iascat pressed his cheek to Vargo’s, his net mask a rough contrast to the soft skin beneath. He whispered, “My aunt has grown more erratic this past year. Novrus is starting to have more enemies than friends. Many in the family think it’s time for her to gracefully retire. When that happens, House Novrus hopes to find a strong ally in House Vargo.”

  Fucking hell. Vargo was beginning to think getting rid of Sostira was a good idea, just so he could have some peace in his own head. Swallowing down the need to unseat her felt like swallowing a rock.

  If Iascat noticed anything strange in his demeanor, he didn’t comment. He only pulled away and bowed over his hands. “The Stella Boreae, in Whitesail, on the late tide.” A wry smile touched his lips. “Try not to kill anyone.”

  Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

  Dancing with Renata had been a foolish move, and Grey was lying to himself if he pretended it was one he couldn’t have avoided. There were a dozen ways out of obeying Donaia’s tipsy order. He’d just chosen not to take any of them.

  All around the room, fans were hard at work, both cooling their holders and covering the tide of gossip. Renata wasn’t the only person to dance with Grey; Parma Extaquium saw no reason his Vraszenian ancestry and lack of rank should stop her from enjoying an aesthetically pleasing view. But Parma wasn’t the heir to her house.

  Nor had she bared her shoulders to the world, in an invitation that made Grey wish he wasn’t wearing gloves.