The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

“I’m dealing with it,” he said. Vargo wasn’t going to lose the Lower Bank or his ennoblement charter. Not to Ghiscolo fucking Acrenix. Not to nobody.

  “Ask a szorsa for help,” Nikory said eagerly. “Lenskaya, maybe. I got a charm from one, and—it’s helping. I think. The feeling en’t as strong now.” He interlaced his fingers in the sign for luck.

  Just as it wasn’t as strong for Vargo. “Did it fade gradually, or all of a sudden?”

  “Sudden-like, yeah. ’Bout two days after you got nicked.”

  More than a month after Nikory himself was affected. For Vargo, it was less than two weeks. What triggered the shift?

  He didn’t know, but it didn’t change his next moves. “Not Lenskaya; I won’t be involving her in our business anymore. But I’ll look into getting a charm. Meanwhile, Nikory, you tell Sedge and nobody else about what happened to you—but everyone stays away from Acrenix. Not just Ghiscolo, but anybody in that register.”

  ::And the other Praeteri?::

  So far, Ghiscolo seems to have kept this power for himself. Let’s hope that stays the case. Vargo stood, brushing dust from his knees and ass. Nikory scrambled to his feet, tentatively holding out the damp and snotty kerchief. At Vargo’s lifted brow, he crumpled it in his hand.

  “I—” Nikory hesitated. Then: “I was sure I was a dead man.”

  If Vargo hadn’t gotten bored at an orgy, Nikory might have been.

  “You’re not,” he said. “But Ghiscolo Acrenix sure as fuck is.”

  Villa Quientis, Bay of Vraszan: Canilun 10

  As the small boat bucked its way across the choppy waves, Vargo leaned in and murmured to Ren, “Are you feeling all right?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, because she wasn’t sure what would come out if she opened her mouth: an answer or her lunch. Only when the nausea ebbed did she say through her teeth, “The sea and I don’t get along.”

  “Oh.” Vargo looked surprised, then sympathetic. “I could have asked Donaia and Quientis to come into the city, instead of us going to them.”

  “No,” Ren said, then bit down briefly before continuing. “This is supposed to be her retreat. And a bit of seasickness won’t kill me.” If it could, it would have done so on the journeys to and from Ganllech.

  She pulled herself back into persona as they arrived at the villa’s dock. Two Quientis footmen waited there; once they’d helped Renata and Vargo onto dry land, they shouldered the crate that was the reason for this visit, and led the two of them up to the house.

  Vargo was a careful man. He’d tested his theory of layered numinata for cleansing the river before he ever approached her, at least on a simplified scale, and he’d built another model of more refined design after his consultations with Tanaquis. But since he was still technically administering a Traementis charter, granted by Fulvet, he wanted to demonstrate it for them before he began assembling the enormous version that would span the West Channel.

  Scaperto was too gracious a host to rush directly to business, even if he still didn’t entirely trust Vargo. “You must join us for afternoon tea,” he said after he greeted them. “Please—Donaia insists.”

  Although Donaia had left for the bay less than a week before, she was already looking better. Her hair was properly cared for again, silver shining through auburn, and she no longer moved like she was dragging a great weight behind her with every step. She still fell silent at moments in the conversation, especially when Scaperto spoke about members of his family, but she looked…

  Alive again, Renata thought. And then, seeing the way Donaia smiled at her host: In ways she perhaps hasn’t been for a very long time.

  But Vargo was impatient, and so before long he excused himself to oversee the setup of the model in a long trench dug for the purpose. Renata updated Donaia on House Traementis business while he took measurements, made adjustments, and had the servants set up a windbreak when the bay breezes shook the half of the spiral arching delicately over the surface of the trench.

  “The winds over the Dežera can be strong, and you won’t have any breaks to shield against it. Won’t that be a problem?” Scaperto asked, eyeing the prismatium arch with concern.

  “I’ll put Tricats on the supports. But I’ve also added an extra Sebat figure here.” Vargo ran a finger along a curve of prismatium that scattered rainbow light from the sun beating down. “People think of it as purification, but it’s also the harmony of the spheres. The winds will excite that harmony and make use of it.” With a wry chuckle, he added, “It may get a little noisy at times, but the music should be pleasant.”

  Scaperto still looked dubious, as well he might. Numinata that worked fine in miniature didn’t always scale up—the reason the river numinat was so difficult to replace. But the sludge the servants had prepared at Vargo’s instruction was far more contaminated than even the West Channel; if the figure worked on that, then its larger cousin should be able to handle the Dežera.

  So they all hoped, anyway. Nobody would know for sure until Vargo had built the full thing.

  The scent of the sludge ripened in the early autumn sun as Vargo fiddled with the mechanism that would drop all seven foci into their respective layers at the same moment. Donaia used the back of her glove to blot at the sweat beading her brow and lip, until Scaperto handed her a linen kerchief.

  ::Moment of truth.::

  Renata heard Vargo’s voice, and it took her a breath to realize it was a thought directed at Alsius rather than anything spoken aloud.

  He shifted the block on the mechanism, and seven foci of rainbow-shimmering prismatium slid down their chutes and slotted into place. The hairs stood up on Renata’s arms, energy vibrating under her skin like heat lightning. Then, with a hum and a snap, it dissipated, leaving only the warmth of the day and the shirring of cicadas.

  And the water, set loose to flow through the numinat, came out…

  Somewhat cleaner, she thought. More translucent than opaque. But still nothing she would want to put her hand in, much less drink.

  “Perhaps if you ran it through again?” Donaia no doubt meant the suggestion kindly, but it still acknowledged the unspoken truth: The numinat had not performed as Vargo had promised.

  The scar through Vargo’s brow puckered as he raised it. He looked so composed, Renata almost wondered if she’d imagined the disappointing result. When she looked at his shoulders instead of his face, though, she saw the anger he was masking. “Thank you, Era Traementis, but unless the Dežera is willing to flow backward for our convenience, I’m afraid that won’t make a difference.”

  ::I don’t understand, Vargo. The previous model worked perfectly!::

  Scaperto cleared his throat. “I’m afraid this is… not what I’d hoped for, Eret Vargo.”

  His tone wasn’t as suspicious as it might have been, but Renata still heard the current beneath. Nadežra was full of people promising more than they could deliver; she’d done it herself, as part of a hundred cons. He would be wondering if this was more of the same.

  “Something must have gone wrong,” she said. “It worked perfectly when I saw it. But that was a different model. Perhaps this one was damaged in transport?”

  Vargo’s gaze flicked to her. She’d seen no such thing; this was her first demonstration, too. But if Alsius said it had worked, then she trusted them.

  His startlement only showed for an instant before he picked up the thread of the conversation. “It wouldn’t have worked at all were that the case. I’ll need to analyze what went wrong. Your Grace, Era Traementis, I do apologize for wasting your time this afternoon.”

  “Not a waste. We had a lovely lunch.” Donaia slid her hand into the bend of Renata’s elbow. “And you forced my niece to come for a visit.”

  Scaperto frowned. “You’ll need to delay moving forward on construction until we know why the model didn’t work.”

  “Of course.” Vargo spoke as though welcoming the setback, hands open and shoulders relaxed. Nothing to indicate the proportions of
this disaster. “I wouldn’t dream of wasting public funds on something I wasn’t certain would work.”

  The noise Scaperto made sounded less than confident. As Vargo began dismantling the model, Renata saw a flash of color scuttle up the prismatium: Peabody, examining it more closely. How well can spiders see?

  Well enough, it seemed. ::Vargo, the metal. Do these colors look right to you?::

  Vargo’s hands paused in their work. ::They do. Why?::

  ::They seem off to me. As if something went wrong in the transmutation.::

  ::Then… I didn’t fuck it up.::

  Vargo’s back was to Renata; all she could see was the fabric of his coat, easing from its taut line as some of the tension bled out. And his mental reply held everything his face hadn’t shown: the fear that he couldn’t deliver on his promise. That he’d staked not only his public reputation but his opinion of his own skill on this endeavor, and come up short.

  ::Your inscription was perfect,:: Alsius said gently. ::The problem is in the metal.::

  Vargo’s reply sounded like a curse. ::Sabotage.::

  Donaia was still talking, trying to lead everyone back into the house for tea. Renata patted her aunt’s hand and said, “I’m afraid we can’t stay. Eret Vargo will need to talk to Iridet.”

  Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Canilun 12

  The man Iridet sent to inspect the prismatium workshop two days later found nothing, and neither did Vargo himself. But as Vargo growled to Renata afterward, that meant absolutely nothing. “They knew we were coming,” he said. “If there was anything to hide, they would have hidden it by then.”

  And there was almost certainly something to hide. Vargo’s prismatium was coming from multiple workshops, because of the quantity he needed. His first model—which he insisted on demonstrating for Renata after the sabotage, and which worked as advertised—came from House Terdenzi. The prismatium he’d gotten from Amananto, though, was flawed somehow. Ren couldn’t follow Alsius’s technical explanation, but the takeaway was that the metal was about more than its rainbow sheen of colors. The shipment Vargo had received was flawed… in ways that remained imperceptible until the power of the Lumen flowed through and exposed them.

  It might have been an accident. Vargo didn’t believe it, though, and neither did Ren. Which was why the Black Rose now lurked on an Eastbridge rooftop, waiting for a second shadow to join her.

  Of course she didn’t hear him coming. “You told Derossi Vargo who you are?”

  Looking at the Rook was unspeakably strange. Even knowing who was inside the hood, she couldn’t spot anything identifiable in either his face or his voice. Then again, having this conversation with Grey might not have been any easier.

  She sighed. “We’ve finally been honest with each other—on both sides. There’s no denying the things he’s done…” Not just to her. To Kolya. Ren pressed her lips together, then said, “But about his motives, I was wrong. He wants to bring the Praeteri down, and to make this city a better place. And I believe he has no medallion.”

  “He doesn’t.” That came quietly enough that she almost didn’t hear it. After a hesitation, the Rook crouched on the rooftop at her side, close enough to be pleasantly distracting. “Ghiscolo used Quinat on him, too. It can’t make something from nothing; Vargo must want power already, for him to have responded so strongly. But anyone who has a medallion would be immune to that influence.”

  She could believe Vargo wanted power. Can you imagine what this city might be if everybody just did their fucking job for once? It had been part of a rant, halfway through their drunken afternoon together. But there was a difference between wanting power for one’s own benefit, and wanting it for the sake of others.

  Sometimes there was a difference, anyway. Kaius Rex’s poison tended to blur that line.

  “I ask not that you trust him with your secrets,” she said. “Only that you trust me to be right about him. I laid his pattern, and now much more of it is clear. He can help us—you—do what the Rook was made for.”

  After a moment, his gloved hand came to rest over hers. “I do trust you. Now, what are we here for?”

  She explained as they made their way toward the Eastbridge Sebatium. The roof of a bookbindery next door made a good vantage point for checking the area—and the shadowed recess of a dormer window made a good hiding spot when someone unexpectedly turned the corner and headed for the temple.

  “Hello, Meda Amananto,” Ren whispered as a swaybacked old woman trailing several scarves hobbled up to the door and unlocked it. “Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “Good thing you invited me to back you up,” the Rook murmured into her ear. “She looks very dangerous.”

  The tickle of his breath, the pressure of his chest against her back… They’d laid aside their masks, but Ren didn’t know where that left them. Or what was even possible, given all the complications that surrounded them.

  She only knew what she wanted, with an ache that went through her from head to foot.

  The Rook asked, “Shall I sit on her while you ask questions, or would you prefer to be the bully?”

  Steadying her voice, she said, “Cuffs expect it from you. I’ll be the nice one.”

  “As my Lady Rose wishes.” His scent lingered as he slipped away to climb through one of the windows of the Sebatium. And the sensation of his glove, brushing her cheek.

  Ren dragged her wits together and followed him inside.

  The old woman was Orrucio Amananto’s grandmother, Orruciat, and her workshop was in an upper chamber of the Sebatium. An open door and a muffled squeak told Ren the Rook hadn’t waited, trusting she’d be hard on his heels.

  She entered to find him gripping Orruciat in a lock, with one hand over her mouth. “Now, now,” Ren said, dropping into the Black Rose’s voice. “Surely there’s no need for that.”

  The Rook huffed a laugh. “She may look like a kindly old granny, but her elbows are sharp and she knows how to apply them.”

  As if to underscore his point, Orruciat tried to stomp on his foot. When he evaded that, she twisted her head free of his muffling hand. “Let me go, you ruffian, or I’ll garotte you with my scarf!”

  She almost stumbled into the purification basin when the Rook complied. Catching her balance, she straightened the scarves like a huffy pigeon. “Impudent boy.”

  Ren stifled a laugh and held up one gloved hand. “We aren’t here to hurt you, Meda Amananto. We’re only curious what you’re doing here so late at night.”

  “What business do you have with my business?” Taking out a pair of spectacles, she slipped them on and peered at Ren. “And who are you? Never heard stories of the Rook having a sweetheart. Watch yourself, my girl. Can’t trust a man who doesn’t show you his face.”

  “Who says I don’t?” the Rook asked, and Ren heard the echo of Grey in his laugh.

  “You shush. I’ve nothing to say to you. You!” She leveled a crooked finger at Ren. “Do you know who’s been tampering with my prismatium?”

  Her indignation could have been a facade, but Ren doubted it. “That’s what we’re here to discover. If we may?” She gestured at the numinat laid into the floor.

  Orruciat wavered visibly, then stepped aside, turning so she could keep the Rook in view. “Just so long as that one doesn’t break my hands if he doesn’t like what he finds. I made it correctly—my word to the Lumen. I would never disrespect the Great Work. If something went wrong, it wasn’t me.”

  Ren made a grand display of pointing at the door, and caught the playful shrug the Rook gave her as he made a grand display of grudgingly complying. When he was leaning against the frame like an ornamental column, arms crossed over his chest, she came forward and began to examine the numinat.

  What she expected to find, she didn’t know. If there was anything wrong with the prismatium or the way it had been set into the floor, Vargo and Iridet’s inscriptor would have found it—or Orruciat would have. The figure wasn’t active, but th
e metal shone like a rainbow in the glow of the lightstone fixtures. “All the work has been done here?”

  “Right here,” Orruciat confirmed. “And the floor is new-laid, too—no warping to worry about.”

  The floorboards weren’t emitting so much as a sigh when Ren stepped on them. But she heard something else, so faint it was almost inaudible. “Does anyone else hear that?”

  Silence from the other two. Then the Rook said, “Hear what?”

  “Music.” Ren turned her head, trying to locate the source. “In the distance, maybe. It’s…”

  She trailed off to listen better, but the sound remained maddeningly faint. If it wasn’t in the room, though, it wasn’t relevant. She shook off the tingle dancing across her skin and looked up, as if Vargo might have missed a second numinat painted on the ceiling.

  When her head came down, the metal in the floor looked different.

  Ren knelt to examine it more closely. Still a rainbow of colors, red and gold and green and blue and violet—but parts of it had dulled. No, not dulled; simply changed. Where there had been orange and turquoise, the prismatium now gleamed more like the steel it had previously been, shading from polished grey to shining white. The colors of the Vraszenian clans: Anoškin white and Kiraly grey replacing the outsiders.

  “There is something wrong,” she murmured, and tugged off her glove to touch it.

  Or tried to. Her glove wouldn’t come off.

  She looked at it, frowning. The black leather seemed to have fused with her hand, giving her no slack to pull. And the cuff now blended seamlessly with her sleeve. As if—

  As if it wasn’t something she was wearing. As if it was just… her.

  “What’s wrong?” the Rook asked, straightening from the doorway. Orruciat made a warning sound at him, but he paid her no heed.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Nothing except her own foolish refusal to see until now.

  She remembered that moment in the dream, when she reached for a way to hide her identity from Grey. Except… that wasn’t what Ažerais had given her, was it? Hadn’t she thought, more than once over these past few months, that she felt the happiest, the most free, when she wore the Black Rose’s mask? Renata was a lie, and so was Arenza, but the Black Rose was real.