“Better?” Ren asked, propping up just far enough to meet his gaze, her own shadowed by the fall of her hair. He pushed it back so the moons peeking through the window limned her face. He saw no more fear there. Only the same question from before, and an echo of the heat blossoming through him—the reflection of his soul in her eyes.
“Yes,” he said, to all of it, and lifted up to meet her kiss.
22
Three Hands Join
Kingfisher, Lower Bank: Canilun 16
Ren’s first month in Traementis Manor, every morning had begun the same way: waking with the wary stillness of unfamiliar surroundings, until her mind caught up and reminded her. No such tension came now. Her first awareness was of a warm body next to hers; her first sight when she opened her eyes was Grey, asleep on his back, dark hair falling softly away from his brow.
She found herself smiling, without any reason to stop.
It wasn’t as if her problems had vanished. The zlyzen hadn’t haunted her sleep, and Diomen had pulled her from the dream before they could communicate anything across their strengthened bond… but she had no doubt that bill would come due. Tricat still lay in her coat downstairs; they still had no way to destroy it. The other medallions were still out there, and the Praeteri were still manipulating the city with Primordial-driven numinatria—a thought that sent a deep shiver through her.
But here, lying next to a sleeping Grey, she believed they would find a way to deal with those problems.
The night had been mild, and the sheet only half covered his body. She let her gaze roam, remembering the urgency of the night before, shared hunger finally confessed and made whole. Grey was right: She’d been attracted to him, body and heart, as Rook and as hawk, since well before she got the medallion back.
When her attention returned to his face, she found his eyes open.
He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, a touch softer than his smile. In the lazy moments before they drifted off, he’d found soap and cloth and washed her imbued cosmetics away. She’d given him a muzzy pout then, but now she was glad that the face he saw on waking was her own.
“You slept well,” he said. Not a question. He’d woken her from nightmares before.
“Mmn.” Snaking one arm across his chest, Ren burrowed her nose into the warm crook between shoulder and neck. “You’re at least as useful as a kitten for that, and you wake me not at first sun demanding your breakfast.”
His chuckle stirred her hair as he pressed kisses light as kitten paws across her brow. “If so early I woke you, it wouldn’t be for breakfast.”
“No, more likely it would be to break into some noble’s manor.”
That got a full laugh, his ribs shaking beneath her arm. “You have me there, Clever Natalya.”
“So now I am the kitten. Or the feral cat, more like.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s all right. I like your claws.”
“What does that make you?” She poked him in the side.
“You need to ask? Scampering across rooftops in a mask—could I be any more Kiraly?”
Her smile faltered, and Grey’s amusement faded. “What is it? Something wrong?”
Ren traced one fingertip across his shoulder, not looking at him. So many lies to correct and truths to tell; they could spend a year untangling that snarl. “Only that I’m not Dvornik, as I claimed. The Tsverin aren’t my kureč. All of that is made up. My mother never said who her people were.” Her languorous relaxation faded, her throat tightening. “They cast her out. Because of me.”
Grey stroked her hair, tipping his own head toward hers. “I love you not for being Dvornik, but for being Ren. And—well. I can cast no stones.”
Unlike her, he had a kureč, the Szerado. But his given name… “I admit I’ve wondered, ever since Ryvček said you had another name.”
Grey sank back against the pillow with a rueful sigh.
“Ah,” Ren said. “I am guessing you like it not.”
“I could have been Karoslav,” he said meditatively, addressing the ceiling. “A nice, fine name. Or Zlagomir. Or something old-fashioned, like Piotr. But no.”
She waited, lips pressed together where he couldn’t see.
“Gruzdan,” he muttered.
She’d braced herself, but she couldn’t quite choke down her laugh. “Oh dear.”
“Gruzdan Jakoski Szerado,” he repeated, mouth twisting in a wry line. “I changed it as soon as we came to Nadežra.”
“I see why.” Now Ren raised herself up on her elbow, hooking her hair behind one ear. “Then—unless you have some burning desire to be called by that name—”
“I would rather be outed to the whole city as the Rook.”
Laughter burst from her. “I’m sorry,” she said, even though she could see him smiling. “I should not laugh. Normally I have better self-control.”
“It’s all right,” Grey said, brushing an errant wisp of hair from her face. “You need not mask yourself for me.”
There was more darkness there, Ren could tell. He never spoke of family other than Kolya; he didn’t use his patronymic. But he showed no inclination to swim deeper into those waters right now, and she didn’t press. She lost herself in another kiss instead.
Or tried to lose herself. Grey drew back and said, “Something troubles you still. My past?”
“Your future,” Ren admitted. “The pattern I laid. I still know not why it is wrong.” Nor how to fix it. She’d made offerings at the Seven Knots labyrinth on his behalf, but she doubted that was enough.
One hand rose to rub the back of his neck. “Ah, that. I… may have manipulated the cards a bit.”
“You what?”
“You were able to pattern the Rook!” he said defensively. “I wished not to test what your gift would reveal when you patterned me. So when you looked away, I slid two cards from the bottom of the deck into the top.”
Ren sat bolt upright. “Grey—”
He slid one hand down her arm. “I’m sorry for tricking you—”
“It isn’t that. You interfered with your pattern. I’ve cold-decked clients, given them false shuffles, but never when trying to pattern them for real. With you, I meant it to be real.” She pressed one hand to her stomach. “I think what I felt—that was you twisting your own fate.”
Grey eased up to face her, sober but not afraid. “I won’t tell you your trade. But everything that’s happened—Beldipassi, the curse, sharing my secret…” His hand covered hers, warm and rough. “If a twisted fate led me here, I have no complaints.”
Two cards slid in. Those were likely Lark Aloft and The Mask of Nothing, the two she hadn’t been able to interpret. Without those… she would never know what the last two cards would have been. But Sleeping Waters would have been his good future. The right place at the right time. Instead, what he’d done had robbed him of that chance.
It could mean the death curse, but Ren wasn’t at all sure. Horrific as the ambush that nearly killed him had been, she couldn’t help but feel the pattern pointed at something else—and worse.
So your answer still stands. She had to mend it. Somehow.
Ren pressed another kiss to his lips, then reluctantly drew back. “More than a day I have been gone from the manor. I sent a message, but…”
“Duty calls.” He held her a moment longer before letting her slip away.
Duty, and more than just the one she had to the Traementis. There was the medallion downstairs, the Praeteri’s activities, all the questions Vargo had been too ill to ask. She might wish to cocoon herself in Grey’s bed until the river ran dry, but neither of their lives allowed for such indolence.
Half her clothing was still downstairs, and with it, her portable cosmetics kit. Grey didn’t have a very good mirror, but at this point she barely felt like she needed one. She was putting the finishing touches on Renata’s mask when he came down, freshly shaved, and went to stare at her heaped coat. “It’s in here?”
“Yes.” She
made herself pick the coat up, then fish the medallion out of its inner pocket so he could see.
Grey stiffened as though she had him at swordpoint. “Tanaquis recognized it, you said? Has she seen others?”
“The sigil only, I think. The Praeteri, they’ve also been drawing on Primordials. That’s what the eisar are. Not just spirits that can touch the mind; emanations of the Primordials.”
“So much for the Praeteri not being the Rook’s business.”
His response had the Rook’s steel in it. Ren said, “Many symptoms of one disease, given that House Acrenix created the Praeteri. I know not what Ghiscolo aims for, but…”
“But?” he prompted.
“Vargo needs to know,” Ren said softly, bracing herself. “Not that you are the Rook, but the rest of it. His pattern and yours tangle together. And mine.”
Grey said nothing, but turned away, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of the medallion any longer. Almost absently, he touched his chest. He’d donned a shirt, but last night her lips had trailed over skin still red and tight from the numinat that restarted his heart.
“You took me to Vargo that night, didn’t you.”
Before Ren could fall off the edge of the struggle between being honest with Grey and keeping her word to Vargo, he went on. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Stopping a numinatrian curse would require an inscriptor. If it were Tanaquis, or anyone else, you’d have no reason to hide it. And not a day later you and Vargo were friends again.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m mostly insulted he thinks I’m idiot enough not to guess.”
Quietly, she said, “He helped you before he and I reconciled. And he knows not that you are the Rook, or that you know my secrets. He only asked that I not tell you.”
Grey snorted. “Right. Because it lets him pat himself on the back for having helped me, without actually having to deal with me.”
It means he will not buy your forgiveness with your life. Grey wasn’t wrong; Vargo was dodging an uncomfortable conversation. But he was also refusing to take advantage of the good he’d done. Just like in Whitesail, if she hadn’t been there to see.
They weren’t hiding from each other like before; she could watch the bitter, conflicting emotions play across Grey’s expression. “What explanation gave you for what happened to me?”
“None, and he hasn’t asked. Though he…” She trailed off, uncertain if Grey guessing meant she was free of her promise to Vargo. But Grey had to know Ghiscolo had used the death curse before, and Vargo needed to know about the other medallions and the danger they posed.
Groaning, she tucked the medallion away and rubbed her face. “Djek. Between you two there are too many secrets, and me in the middle trying to untangle the threads of what I can say.”
Grey pulled her hands away from her freshly made-up face and tugged her into a hug. “Then perhaps it’s time Vargo and I talked.”
Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Canilun 16
Vargo woke up once in the night to down the medicine left by his physician, but other than that, he slept like the dead. When he finally roused again in the morning, he felt improved enough that after dosing himself a third time, he scrubbed down with a rag, dragged on trousers and a robe, and tucked a still-snoozing Peabody into his pocket. Time to see what damage had been done to his businesses while he was having a staring contest with zlyzen.
He opened his door and found Varuni on the other side of it.
With his head still muzzy from a fading fever, he couldn’t stop his instinctive recoil. How long had she been standing there? She might have heard his footsteps once he roused—but he didn’t put it past her to have staked him out since dawn. Her expression was definitely that of a predator lying in wait.
And her words weren’t much better. “You. Me. We’re going to talk.”
“Do we really have to have this conversation again?” he muttered, brushing past her and heading downstairs for tea to wash away the taste of the medicine, and tolatsy to fill a gut empty and sore from so much puking. “I’m sorry for wandering off on my own; it was necessary; nothing too terrible happened. I’m home. Your investment is safe. You want sweet porridge or savory?” With no live-in servants, Vargo usually made his own breakfast. Might as well make it as a peace offering for Varuni as well.
“We aren’t having that conversation again,” Varuni snapped as he activated the numinat for the stove. “I’ve memorized that script. I don’t need you for it anymore.”
The weary harshness of her response made him face her directly. “Then what conversation is this?”
“The one where I ask what the fuck is the point of me being here, if you don’t actually want my help.”
“There was nothing yesterday that you could have helped with. It was numinatria-related business.”
That did nothing to mollify her. “There’s been a lot of ‘numinatria-related business’ recently.”
He hadn’t told her about the Illius Praeteri. More out of habit than out of respect for the Praeteri’s secrets, but also because he didn’t see the point. It wasn’t the sort of danger she could protect him from, and it had nothing to do with the agreements he’d made with the Isarnah. “None of it has been dangerous.” At her scoff, he said, “You think you could have defended me from getting mind-controlled by Ghiscolo Acrenix? From getting sick?”
Dishes rattled as Varuni slammed a fist against the sideboard. “I think that if you don’t give a shit about telling me what you’re up to, then why should I give a shit what happens to you?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Turning away, he opened the rice bin and measured it into the waiting pot. “You’ve got other grey market connections now. And with Era Destaelio ready to ease the tariffs on Isarnah imports, you don’t really need me anymore.”
“Right,” Varuni spat. “Because that’s all I am. An agent sent here to make sure my family’s investment is safe. I’ve spent five years at your side without developing opinions of my own.”
Vargo’s shoulders hunched. Wasn’t he carrying enough weight already? Alsius, the Lower Bank knots, the people of Nadežra—even if they didn’t know it. And now Ren and Tanaquis, because fuck him if he was going to let them deal with the medallions alone. Varuni didn’t need to add herself to the pile.
You asshole. He could hear her response without needing to provoke it. She wasn’t asking him to do anything more than work with her, instead of around her.
And she was right. She wasn’t tied into any of his knots; her bonds lay to the south, with her family. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a loyal ally. One he’d been treating more and more like a burden he had to escape.
Jamming his finger into the rice to measure the water level, he asked, “Sweet or savory? While this cooks, you can tell me about these opinions, and I’ll tell you what the fuck is going on.”
It took a lot longer than the time necessary to cook the tolatsy. Vargo called a halt to the conversation long enough for him to doctor his porridge with honey and dried fruit and Varuni’s with dried pepper; then they relocated to the morning room and kept going. Varuni did a lot less eating than he did, alternately talking and staring while he talked, because she had better manners than he did. Vargo shoveled the food down and spoke with his mouth full—and a good thing, too, because just as he was running his finger around the inside of the bowl to swipe up the last few grains, a knock came at the door.
Varuni went to answer it, still not blinking enough, and a moment later her call came from the foyer, with zero formality: “Renata’s here!”
“You’re looking better,” Renata said when he came to greet her. “Good. There are matters you and I need to discuss.”
A sidelong glance at Varuni showed her shaking her head; she’d apparently had enough of his revelations for one morning. “Let’s go upstairs,” Vargo said. The truth about Ren was not one of the things he’d told Varuni. That was hers to share if she wanted.
At the top of the stairs, he open
ed the study door. “I’m afraid I’m not at my be—”
Words died as he saw the shadow in his study, arms crossed, silhouetted against the grey sky outside his open window.
Vargo’s pulse beat in his throat. But the Rook made no hostile movement, and Ren was clearly biting down on a smile.
He turned to shout down the stairs. “Varuni, the Rook’s here. But he isn’t trying to beat or kidnap me. Go ahead and enjoy your breakfast.”
When he shut the door, he found Ren giving him a quizzical look. He shrugged. “Long story. Not as long as the one I’m about to hear, I suspect. If you two are planning to make me take my clothes off again, be warned, it won’t be pretty. I’ve only managed a basin bath this morning.”
He sprawled into one of his reading chairs, leaving the other for Ren. The Rook could stay sitting on the windowsill for all Vargo cared.
Or fall out of it. He’d be fine with that, too.
Ren offered Vargo an apologetic grimace. “Yes, we staged that business during the card game. But for good reason.”
A little while later, Vargo was glad he was sitting. Not because what Ren said came as any surprise; if there were three of Kaius Rex’s medallions floating around Nadežra, it stood to reason that there were more. And given the associations of Illi-zero, he couldn’t fault the Rook’s reasoning in thinking he might have it.
No, what would have toppled him over was the surge of disgust and anger. He’d thought Ghiscolo had proposed their original deal only because he was worried about Mettore Indestor, and because he wanted a Cinquerat seat. With the information Vargo had now…
“He used me to get Sessat.” The words ground like rocks out of his throat. “Because Acrenix holds the charter for storing and disposing of possessions confiscated from criminals.” Had Ghiscolo used Quinat to push him toward Indestor, too? More subtly than the shove toward Sostira Novrus. Approaching Ghiscolo had been Vargo’s idea, when he and Alsius found out Mettore had uncovered the Praeteri and was looking for an excuse to shut them down—but at the time, removing Mettore from his seat hadn’t been in Vargo’s plans.
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