The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  That pleasant regret burned away when his gaze caught on a crimson coat across the room, a gauze mask covering kohl-edged eyes that glittered with disdain, and a smirk that invited anyone to take exception.

  Renata was out in the gardens, but it took Grey less than a minute to find Donaia, still bending Eret Quientis’s ear about her dog. “What is Vargo doing here?” he hissed.

  Apparently Donaia had managed to overlook what everyone else had long since noticed. She followed Grey’s jabbing finger, and her surprise darkened into fury. “After I specifically told him to find another engagement for this evening? The gall of that man.” She gathered up her surcoat like she meant to march across the dance floor to challenge Vargo herself.

  Quientis stalled her with a hand on her shoulder. “Donaia, I sympathize with your disgust. But perhaps the captain’s grudge against him is more…” He left the suggestion hanging, but Grey could finish it well enough. Warranted. Legitimate. And less likely to bring scandal down on House Traementis. If Vargo were the type to go quietly when invited to leave by the majordomo, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  “An excellent point,” Donaia said, dropping her skirts and laying her hand over Quientis’s. “Captain, I know you’re off duty, but can I ask you to inform Eret Vargo that his presence is required… anywhere that isn’t here? Quietly, if you can. And preferably before it ruins Renata’s night.”

  He hadn’t been looking for an opportunity like this, but he wasn’t going to refuse it when it came wrapped in Donaia’s approval. “Era Traementis, it will be my genuine pleasure.”

  Vargo saw him coming. The deep blue of a Vigil coat stood out among the paler shades of Liganti fashion, and Grey made no attempt to drift with the flow of the room. He cut straight through, fetching up just close enough to Vargo to be slightly inside the man’s personal space. “Eret Vargo,” he said, the heels of his boots coming together with a snap—but he omitted the bow a Vigil captain owed to the head of a noble house. “Let’s step outside.”

  For an instant he thought Vargo might refuse, and this would happen right here in the ballroom. But Vargo swung one arm wide in mocking invitation, and the wind of whispers pursued them out the door.

  Once in the hall, Vargo’s step slowed as if to stop, but Grey clamped one hand on his arm and kept them moving toward the front door. Not for long—Vargo twisted free a moment later—but it was enough to get the message across. They both knew that what was coming shouldn’t have an audience of cuffs.

  In the plaza outside, he shoved Vargo into the shadows between two carriages. The man spun to face him and asked in a deceptively pleasant tone, “Is there a problem, Captain Serrado?”

  Until that moment, Grey hadn’t been certain how he wanted to deal with this. That mockery of innocence decided him. An instant later Vargo was doubled over, dry-retching from the force of Grey’s blow.

  A hand on his shoulder kept him there. Fingers digging into the hollow of Vargo’s collarbone, Grey said, “I know, I know. Assaulting a noble is a crime. Feel free to bring charges before the high commander. I hear he’s not terribly fond of you.”

  Sucking in a breath, Vargo drew back for a retaliatory strike, but Grey knew the dirty tricks of street fighting. With a step to the side and a swift joint lock, he had Vargo against the side of a carriage, one forearm barred across his throat. The spider had scuttled to the safety of his shoulder. Grey ignored it. A king peacock’s venom might be agonizing, but the creature showed no sign of wanting to bite him, and talking mind to mind wouldn’t save Vargo right now.

  “There is indeed a problem,” Grey said. The fury he’d kept caged for so long shredded his voice. “The problem is that you murdered my brother.”

  “So like everyone else, you believe the Rook’s accusations without pr—”

  “Don’t,” Grey snarled, pressing harder. “I know what I know. You planted the powder. You set it off. Don’t add insult by denying it.”

  Vargo’s throat moved under Grey’s arm, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath. “Nobody was supposed to be inside,” he said, so faintly Grey would have missed it if they weren’t breathing the same air. His eyes fluttered shut. “I didn’t know.”

  “And that excuses it?”

  “I never said that.” The red veil of Vargo’s mask added fire to his glare, like he was daring Grey to add more pressure, to take this to its obvious conclusion.

  Even in his rage, Grey remained aware. A shift of movement off to the side was Varuni, but so far she was only watching. She had to have known this was coming—must have known ever since the accusation became public—and Grey had no doubt that if he tried to kill Vargo, she would intervene. Until then, however, she appeared willing to let them have this out.

  Part of him wanted to try. The Rook didn’t kill, but Grey Serrado might.

  What stayed his hand wasn’t that oath, nor his conscience, nor the practical challenges of trying to commit murder in front of Vargo’s bodyguard. It was the self-destructive defiance of Vargo’s expression. Like he would actually welcome it if Grey lashed out again.

  Which meant that the best way to hurt Vargo right now was to refuse.

  He shoved himself back. “Your presence here is unwelcome. Take yourself somewhere you’re wanted.” Dusting off his gloved hands like he’d taken out the trash, he added, “Assuming such a place exists.”

  The muscles stood out in Vargo’s throat as he clenched his jaw—but he was resilient enough to survive for years on the Lower Bank. With the precision of someone reassembling his defenses, he straightened his coat, shot his cuffs, and retrieved the spider from where it had fled to the edge of the carriage window, setting it back onto his shoulder.

  “We both know it doesn’t, Captain,” he said. “But I won’t trouble you any longer. I have business to attend to.”

  With a nod as though they’d just had a pleasant conversation, Vargo waved for his guard and a sedan chair, and left.

  Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

  Growing up, Giuna had always associated the Indestor name with hostility. So when Renata argued for the adoption of Meppe, the former Indestor cousin, Giuna’s reflexive thought had been that the Dežera would flow backward before that happened. Not only because of her own resistance, but because of her mother’s: Donaia had always been less flexible, less forgiving, than either of her children.

  But Renata talked them both around, and looking at Meppe Traementatis now, Giuna was glad she had. Happiness effervesced through him like bubbles in sparkling wine, carving ten years off his clerkish, lined face. His new cousin Idaglio was more sedate but no less delighted. And Giuna wasn’t so sheltered that she didn’t recognize the eagerness thrumming between them. Meppe would be moving into Traementis Manor tomorrow, out of the rented room he could barely afford, but when she approached the two men and asked, “Would you like me to arrange a guest chamber for you both tonight?” they couldn’t accept fast enough.

  Speaking to the servants gave her a welcome excuse to leave the ballroom for a little while. The gossip had taken a more vicious turn after Vargo showed up; someone claimed he and Grey Serrado had gotten into a fight out in the plaza. Giuna didn’t want to think about that—didn’t want to think about Kolya, whose polite manner never stopped him from teasing her in a friendly way. Kolya, who had died so horribly… and the rumors said it was Vargo’s fault…

  “I have a price, though.”

  The voice was soft, and it came from a room that should have been off-limits. Giuna’s delicate slippers made no sound on the carpet as she slowed.

  The reply was immediately familiar: Sibiliat’s most honeyed tone. “Looking ahead to the moment Sostira casts you aside? You’re wise to prepare your landing.”

  “I’m not going back to House Ecchino.” Now Giuna recognized the first speaker as Benvanna Novri, sounding much more intense than usual. “I want to be adopted into the Acrenix.”

  A stifled laugh from Sibiliat made
Benvanna’s voice rise in pitch. “I can be useful! I got Magistrate Rapprecco into a numinat of zeal, and now those kinless Essunta bastards have no aža trade to profit from on the side. But Sostira brushed it off when I told her.”

  “That may be true, but I can do that sort of thing as well as you can.” Better, Sibiliat’s tone implied.

  “Which is why I’m offering something you can’t do. Promise me adoption—in writing, if you please—and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Giuna shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But they were in her house… and the edge to the conversation worried her. She eased closer to the door as Sibiliat said, “I’d have to consult with my father first.”

  “There’s no time for that. He’s already left. You’re his heir; your written promise will stand. But you need to act on this tonight, or you’ll miss your chance entirely.”

  Silence. Giuna could imagine the expression on Sibiliat’s face, the narrow-eyed focus she took on when considering politics. “What’s so valuable, and so urgent?”

  “Information on Renata Viraudax’s past.”

  Giuna’s heart thumped so loud, she feared Sibiliat would hear it.

  A faint rustling and scratching, as of someone scribbling a quick note. “There. Now tell me.”

  “I don’t know the information myself,” Benvanna said. “Sostira got word that her agent in Seteris would be sending along a letter from Eret Viraudax. That’s expected to arrive in Whitesail on the Stella Boreae, late tonight. Sostira beds down early; if you send someone to collect it before the morning, you can claim it for yourself.”

  “And then what?”

  Benvanna’s tone became venomous. “Do whatever you like with it. Sostira may be fickle, but she wouldn’t have cooled on me so fast if that Seterin snot hadn’t come along. I know you’ll cut her down to size.”

  The rustle of fabric warned Giuna. She barely managed to slip into the nearby bathing chamber before Benvanna barreled out of the room, followed more slowly by Sibiliat.

  But she had plenty of time, peering through the slatted opening that released the steam, to observe Sibiliat as she stood and thought.

  These past months, as they grew closer and Giuna grew more confused, she had made a serious study of Sibiliat’s expressions. Not just the ones that showed on her face; those were almost always lies, or the occasional calculated truth. But Sibiliat had a habit of dancing with her hands when deep in thought, like she was playing an instrument or fighting a duel.

  Giuna watched, heart sinking and tears rising, as Sibiliat’s fingers worked through her options, weighed the costs and gains, and came to a decision. Watched until Sibiliat strode down the hall and rounded the corner.

  Slipping out of the bathing room, Giuna crept downstairs after her, where she watched Sibiliat catch the attention of her cousin Fadrin and send him off with a hurried whisper.

  Before she could decide on a course of action, Sibiliat turned and saw her. “Ah, there you are!” Her smile was a lie of delight. “Come dance with me.”

  Giuna slipped out of her grip, puffing up with indignation like the little bird Sibiliat so often called her. But she willed herself to smooth down her anger. “I’ve just come from a round of Parma’s haranguing,” she said. “I wanted to check on Mother. Have you seen her?”

  Tell me. Tell me. You said you’d set aside your suspicions for my sake. Don’t break your promise.

  Sibiliat flicked Giuna’s concern aside with casual cruelty. “Last I saw, Donaia was rosy in her cups and ‘furthering relations’ between Traementis and Quientis. She doesn’t need you mothering her. Come dance!”

  “Later,” Giuna said, putting her off with a wan smile and turning her head so Sibiliat’s kiss landed on her cheek. “I promise.”

  This is what she is. She told you herself, months ago. She manipulates people.

  So did Renata. The difference was, Renata was on Giuna’s side. Sibiliat was the Acrenix heir.

  And House Acrenix was nobody’s friend but their own.

  Gut churning, Giuna fled Sibiliat’s company and went in search of her cousin.

  Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Canilun 3

  Even by the Rook’s standards, he was early in heading for the place where Grey had arranged the meeting with Beldipassi. After the confrontation with Vargo, he couldn’t bring himself to loiter around the Traementis party any longer; grim satisfaction had chilled the glow of his earlier mood.

  He donned his hood, then checked Renata’s balcony for messages before leaving. All he found was the kitten standing with her paws braced against the glass of the door, mewing to be let out. “I’m afraid I must leave you to guard your mistress, Clever Natalya,” he said.

  It was the meeting itself that drew him out so early, though. If Beldipassi held a piece of the Tyrant’s poison, then all the signs pointed to that piece as the start of the cycle—and that might be just what the Rook needed to finally move forward on the goal that had motivated him for two centuries.

  That very possibility drove him to be even more wary. If this whole thing was an ambush, he wanted to know where every obstacle and exit was… and lay a few traps of his own.

  Parts of Eastbridge retained their Vraszenian stamp, with two-story courtyard houses that had once belonged to various kretse. Others had been rebuilt in the Liganti style, townhouses lined up in a row like books on a shelf, separated by the occasional manor. It wasn’t the best area for the Rook to operate in. But Beldipassi had moved here just after the solstice, into a small manor whose back garden was the most suitable place to meet. Familiar enough not to make the target feel vulnerable, but open enough for the Rook to escape if necessary. He studied it from a nearby roof, noting the trees, the gate, the architecture of the house. There was a small fishpond, and the Rook had a sachet of an imported Arthaburi compound that reacted quite brightly with water; that would be useful if he needed a distraction.

  It seemed… not safe. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that. But acceptable, so long as he made a few preparations.

  Grey had spent the afternoon studying maps, familiarizing himself with the terrain. Now he checked that against the situation on the ground, identifying several escape routes and clearing them of obstacles, jamming locks open for quick access. He loosened an area of roof tiles until a foot would shove them free; laundry lines cleared of linens and lowered made for barely visible garottes. A heavy shade break over one of the garden courtyards would collapse with a single kick to one of the support poles.

  He was on his way to lay another trap inside a perfumery—one that sold a few compounds that escaped Prasinet’s tariffs, and therefore had a hidden exit through the side wall into the neighboring wig-maker’s—when he made himself stop. You didn’t do half this much preparation for Dockwall. At this point he was just working off nerves. In ways that would cause headaches for ordinary citizens later on, no less.

  Time to settle in for the boring part. The rooftop he’d been on before would do; he’d see when Beldipassi returned home from the Traementis ball. Which also meant he could see if the man was bringing anyone extra.

  The Eastbridge bells, their clappers padded for the earth hours, softly rang midnight. The respectable entertainments had closed, and anybody who wanted something less respectable had gone to the Old Island. Nobody should be up and about, and Grey had made certain the usual Vigil patrols would be dealing with misfiled complaints on the other side of the district.

  Yet from the street ahead came the muffled sound of footfalls.

  The Rook slipped down an alley, only a slight detour on the way to his destination. Or it would have been—if shadows up ahead hadn’t spoken of someone there, as well.

  It could be coincidence. On the night when he was supposed to meet Rimbon Beldipassi, though, he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  A setup? Maybe not on Beldipassi’s part; nobody had been waiting for him at the house. The shadows didn’t have the silhouette of Vigil uniforms; they might be some noble’s house guards,
or mercenaries.

  Who they were didn’t matter right now. He needed to draw them away, shed them, then circle back to see if the meeting could be salvaged. There was plenty of time.

  To that end, he let the people at the end of the alley spot him before he darted off. They obliged by following, and with the numinatria of his mask thinning the darkness, he got enough of a look to know his pursuers were professionals. Well-armed, moving well, and masked so no one could identify them.

  Moving all too well. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he wasn’t leading them away: They were herding him.

  Even as that thought formed, something fell on him from above.

  It burned like hoarfrost, even through the layers of his clothing. Something heavy and enveloping—and it clung, wrapping unnaturally around his arms and legs. The Rook struggled to free himself, but it was hopeless; he only became more entangled.

  A net—but not an ordinary one. The strands sank tendrils of cold into his flesh, like roots seeking water. When he tried to take a step, his legs gave out and he dropped to one knee.

  His pursuers circled him, watching their trap do its work. “Mark this one in the books,” one of them said, laughing. “Two hundred years, and the Rook’s finally been caught. Go set the snare for Beldipassi. We’ll deliver the Rook… if he lives that long.”

  The net was growing tighter. It had to be some kind of numinatria—the shape of the strands inscribing the figure—which meant that if he broke it—

  He got his fingers into a gap, but the net resisted his attempts to tear it. Imbued, maybe. Had someone died to craft this trap?

  The trap that would finally kill him. He couldn’t throw off the net, he couldn’t break it, and with every passing moment its weight grew heavier on both body and mind, plunging him under the dark surface of despair. He tugged again at the net, but feebly, knowing there was no point.

  Grey knew there was no point. But the Rook did not give up so easily.