The Liar's Knot

by M. A. Carrick

  It was an alien sentiment to Vargo; he couldn’t understand people who needed someone else to be the center of their world like that. But judging by the way Sostira reeled, Iascat had struck right to her heart.

  And he pressed his advantage. “Let me lay this out for you. I have the backing of the rest of the house and the Cinquerat to take the title, the seat, and the medallion. How we do that is up to you. You can retire gracefully and with the gratitude of the family, or… well. Let’s discuss the apple before the worm.”

  “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” she whispered. Something haunted her gaze. “There’s more to it than anyone knows. When I stood in that numinat… I felt something. Not just the Primordial of desire—yes, I know where the medallion comes from. But there’s something else there.” One hand curled unconsciously into a claw. “I can’t describe how I know. I just… know.”

  “Intuition,” Vargo said. When both nephew and aunt looked at him, he shrugged. “Tuat. It seems all the medallion holders had visions during that ritual.” Tanaquis had been devastated to hear that such cosmic knowledge had been there for the taking, and she’d missed it. She’d spent the last several days compiling detailed reports of everything everyone had seen. Everyone who was willing to share, at least.

  “I think not knowing what I’m letting myself in for is going to be my general state for a while,” Iascat said. “But until we’re able to deal with this issue, isn’t it better to keep the medallion safely between us? I understand that these things let you see what people want. What do I want, Aunt Sostira?”

  Vargo bit down on the reminder that they weren’t supposed to be using the medallions. What was one more spot of corruption on what had to be years of accumulated stain? But he still shifted with unease as Sostira fixed her gaze on Iascat.

  Then, as if it had been a staring contest, she blinked. One hand dipped into the neck of her surcoat, and came out with a silver medallion on a chain.

  Iascat took it without flinching. “Thank you, Aunt.” He looped it around his own neck, then reached into a satchel at his side and pulled out a sheaf of papers and a portable writing kit. “If you’ll sign these, I’ll make sure they’re appropriately filed with Fulvet’s office.”

  Sostira’s mouth soured like she’d bitten into an unripe plum, but she took the papers. Iascat cast a glance around the cottage while she signed. “I’ll arrange for you to stay here. I’m afraid Benvanna’s been adopted by the Acrenix—a choice she no doubt regrets now—but if any of your other prospective lovers are willing, they can join you here.”

  It was house arrest under a kinder name, but Sostira made no objection. She just handed over the papers in silence.

  Varuni was waiting outside, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed. Vargo had offered his people as backup for this meeting, but Iascat had brought Novrus guards instead. Thanks to Sostira’s increasingly erratic behavior, he had enough support from his house to make this coup work; now he had the authority of his new position as Eret Novrus. And soon, as Argentet.

  When Iascat was done instructing the guards, he turned to Vargo. “I’ll need to jump through all the hoops to transfer power as soon as possible, but I should be done with that by midnight. I don’t suppose you’re available?”

  He truly had grown from the shy, stammering man who’d barely been able to admit what he wanted on the Night of Hells. Vargo wondered how much more he might change… and how much of that would be the influence of the Tuat medallion.

  If that distinction even meant anything. That was the insidious terror of a Primordial: It fed what was already there, until your own impulses ate you alive.

  “Crookleg Alley?” Vargo asked, testing. That was where he’d invited Iascat after the chaos of the Night of Hells. Whether Iascat met him there or summoned him to Novrus Manor like a hired courtesan would tell Vargo a great deal.

  A smile flickered across Iascat’s full mouth. “I believe you have a townhouse in Eastbridge, Eret Vargo. Unless you think I should be ashamed of our association?”

  Relief washed through Vargo as he agreed. It lasted until Iascat left, and he and Varuni began their stroll back toward the city proper. A slow stroll; more of Vargo’s energy was going into healing Alsius than he wanted anyone to realize, though he was pretty sure Varuni had guessed. The sky was clouding up, and a sharp breeze cut in from the ocean.

  “I’ve got an appointment at midnight,” Vargo said, wondering wryly what Iascat would think if he suggested taking a nap first. “But before then, I’ve got an errand to run. Want to come along?”

  Varuni snorted. “For once you ask. Where’s the errand?”

  Three people had escaped Renata’s speech in the temple. Sostira was taken care of; the holder of Ninat was a mystery they needed to chase down. That left one more loose end that Vargo was long past ready to trim off Nadežra’s hem.

  “Extaquium Manor.” Vargo cracked his neck and checked his concealed knives. “We’re going to have a chat with Sureggio.”

  Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 24

  Once again the entry hall of Traementis Manor bustled with servants and luggage. Donaia had meant to remain at the Villa Quientis for a full month, but the upheavals in the city had brought her back early.

  “As if I would sit out there while everything happens?” Donaia said with asperity when Giuna tried to apologize for something that wasn’t her fault. “I’m not so old yet that you need to tuck me into a chair by the fire. Lumen’s light—I had a letter from Cibrial asking if I want the Caerulet seat. If she thinks that’s a good idea, then clearly someone needs to come talk sense into the Cinquerat.”

  Renata stifled a laugh. Even the truncated holiday had clearly done Donaia a world of good. She looked and sounded once more like the formidable woman who’d greeted her supposed niece what felt like a lifetime ago. Better, even: no longer the mistress of a fading house, struggling against the drowning tide of a curse.

  I hope Tanaquis can protect them. She and Utrinzi had already uncursed every Acrenix bearing the name, while Ren strangled the vengeful instinct that wanted to see them suffer the full weight of Ghiscolo’s actions. Letting a Primordial’s curse rampage through an entire house wouldn’t be good for anybody. But first, Tanaquis had edited the Traementis register to shield everyone else from Tricat’s influence—at least in theory. Whether it worked remained to be seen.

  The medallion wasn’t in Renata’s pocket, but it weighed on her all the same as she greeted Donaia. Family: something she would have to be wary of. She thanked the Faces and the Lumen both that she had years with Tess and Sedge before the medallion ever came into her life; it meant she had something to compare against, anytime she found herself questioning whether her behavior with them was out of the ordinary. But with the Traementis, she would have to be more careful.

  A different weight burdened Grey, though he hid it well as he wrestled playfully with Yvieny. She’d charged full speed into the manor, shrieking for Meatball. When Grey finally disentangled himself from his niece, Alinka asked with a coy smile, “How is Arenza?”

  Renata had practice—and imbued makeup—to hide her blushes. Grey had no such protection, though he did manage to keep his glance from straying to her by dint of bumping noses with Jagyi.

  Alinka would have none of that dissembling. “Oh! Is there a story there?” She poked his shoulder. “As I said, Era Traementis! His heart has been caught at last.”

  “By who?” Giuna asked, with all the sparkling-eyed curiosity of a girl in love with love. “Who’s this Arenza? When do you even have time? You’re always busy.”

  “Yes.” Tess’s dry tone could have emptied the Dežera, and the look she gave Ren could have sent it running backward. “I’m wondering that my own self.”

  A thump at the door would have offered escape, if Renata had any justification for going to help Sedge carry a traveling trunk into the hall. Since she didn’t, she took far too much delight in blinking innocently at G
rey. “You have a sweetheart, Master Serrado?”

  His bland smile promised later retribution as he said, “I prefer to keep matters of the heart private. I’m certain Arenza would feel the same.”

  “Arenza what?” Sedge yelped, dropping the trunk just short of his toes. He shot Ren and Tess a panicked look.

  Donaia frowned in confusion. “Who’s Arenza?”

  Fortunately, Colbrin led Meatball in just then, which set Yvieny off like a firework, and in the ensuing clamor the topic of Arenza fell by the wayside. After all the luggage was brought in, though, Sedge managed to shuffle over to Renata and mutter, “You getting that close to him? Is that safe?”

  Because Sedge didn’t know yet. Neither he nor Tess did.

  She met Grey’s eyes across the entry hall and twitched her fingers toward her siblings. He hesitated only a moment; then he nodded minutely.

  It took a little while to extricate herself from the Traementis and to pass messages where they were needed. But within two bells, Renata and Tess were heading up to her room—“After all, you’ve been sick,” Giuna said anxiously, waving her off—while Grey and Sedge took their leave.

  After a quick change into loose trousers, Tess gave the tree outside the balcony a dubious look. “Are you sure about this? I haven’t been climbing in some time.”

  “You go first,” Ren said. “I’ll be below to stop any fall.”

  There was no fall to stop. In a rustle of leaves, Tess scrambled up to the manor roof, with Ren behind her. There they found Grey and Sedge waiting, Sedge frowning at his scraped palms. “Just saying, you would have slipped, too, if I hadn’t found that loose tile first,” he grumbled.

  “Probably.”

  Grey’s agreeableness earned him a sidelong glare. “Don’t say that just to make me feel better. You’re too good at this for a hawk.” Sedge turned to Tess and Ren. “He’s too good at this. Admit it, you’re Stretsko or something, en’t you? That’s what this is all about, you knowing Arenza and not being where you was supposed to be when I was sent to get you. I wasn’t there to help Ren because of you!”

  Brushing his hair out of his eyes, against a wind that was determined to fling it there, Grey said, “Kiraly, as it happens. But yes, that’s what this is about.” He hesitated only briefly before saying, “I’m the Rook.”

  Sedge gaped for a heartbeat—followed by a gale of laughter which was, in hindsight, completely predictable. It ebbed when Grey and Ren remained serious, and Tess drew in a long, slow breath of understanding.

  “Well, that makes sense of a whole mess of things that didn’t before,” she said. Then she beat a fist against Ren’s shoulder. “And you near tearing your hair out about liking them both. Ha!”

  “Oh really,” Grey said, grinning as though his retribution for Ren’s earlier comment had come sooner than anticipated.

  “Wait! Stop!” Sedge slammed his hands down, and immediately looked guilty at the rattle of tiles. They all fell silent, waiting for someone from below to call up asking who was tromping around on the Traementis rooftop.

  Only after a minute of birdsong, canal splashes, and little else did Sedge dare to whisper, “You’re having me on. Right? En’t no way a hawk’s the Rook. Plus, you’re too young. I saw the Rook, years ago.”

  “That was my predecessor. And I should probably tell you… I’m not certain I’m the Rook any longer. I’ve set the hood aside. It’s… complicated.”

  Ren wasn’t willing to let the admiration in Sedge’s and Tess’s eyes wither away. “The Rook was going to let me die to destroy the medallions. Grey refused.”

  “Or maybe not so complicated.”

  She shot him a fond smile, and got one in return. Sedge groaned. “You’re gonna be goopy, en’t you.” Then he hunched his shoulders at Grey. “Well, I guess I can put up with it for the man who saved my sister’s life. And you en’t a hawk no more, so that’s something.”

  Not a hawk. Not the Rook. But hers. Ren laid her hand over Grey’s and held it tight.

  “I think it’s sweet,” Tess said, laying her hand over their joined ones.

  After a moment Sedge sighed and topped the pile with his own hand. “All right. If we’re going the way of Fiavla, at least we’ll be happy on the road.”

  Their hands below and above Ren’s were a comforting warmth against that chill. A fabric could hold where a single thread would break. And if pattern had something to do with how Kaius had brought Nadežra low…

  Then who better than a szorsa to unweave it.

  ~~Ninat~~

  The story continues in…

  Book Three of the Rook & Rose trilogy

  Keep reading for a sneak peek!

  Acknowledgments

  Usually, acknowledgments exist to thank all the friends and family members who kept the authors watered, fed, and comforted through the writing and publication process. But 2020 was an unusual year by anyone’s standards, so we figured we’d break the usual format.

  We’re grateful to the doctors, nurses, and other medical and emergency personnel who kept the health system functional and beds open for the people who needed them, often at the cost of their own physical and mental health.

  We’re grateful to the essential workers who kept the rest of our society functioning—again, risking their own health and well-being.

  We’re grateful to the Black Lives Matter protesters and other activists who once again took to the streets and the halls of power to protest the systemic racism embedded in our policing and judicial institutions.

  We’re grateful to the officials who pushed for fair and free elections, working tirelessly against a tide of antidemocratic rhetoric and policy to make voting accessible and to see that every vote was counted.

  We’re grateful to the researchers who developed the vaccines that would let us return to something approaching normalcy, and to all the organizations that have been striving to make those vaccines accessible to the whole world.

  In the smaller milieu of our social pod, we’re grateful to Kyle Niedzwiecki and Adrienne Lipoma for letting us take over the den for most of the summer lockdown so we could escape into Nadežra, and particularly to Adrienne, who gave the authors’ egos some badly needed pats on the head as we threaded our way through a complicated draft. Thank you also to the players of The Path to Power—Kyle, Adrienne, Emily Dare, and Wendy Shaffer—for being patient with the game going on hiatus when writing and the world became too much to deal with. Thanks to all the friends and family who supported us virtually, and especially to Carlie St. George and Conna Condon for their comments on the draft.

  The teams at Orbit and Orbit UK have been amazing to work with. Thank you to our editor, Priyanka Krishnan, for wanting more flirting and banter and for giving us the room to let the relationships flourish. Thanks to Ellen Wright and Nazia Khatun for all your work bringing the Rook & Rose series to the eyes of enthusiastic readers. Thanks to Nikki Massoud, Thomas Mis, and the rest of the audiobook team for putting together a cracking good read. Thanks to Tim Paul for a lovely fantasy map of our city, and to Lauren Panepinto and Nekro for the absolutely beautiful book and cover design.

  Last but not least, many thanks to our agents, Eddie Schneider and Paul Stevens, for taking care of business so we can focus on the writing.

  And finally, to anyone else we ought to thank, we plead the amnesia of 2020. We are grateful to you all.

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  Glossary

  advocate: An individual licensed to conduct business within the Charterhouse, usually on behalf of a noble house.

  alta/altan: The titles used for nobility who are not the heads of houses.

  Argentet: One of the five seats in the Cinquerat, addressed as “Your Elegance.” Argentet oversees the cultural affairs of the city, including theatres, festivals, and censorship of written materials.

  aža
: A drug made from powdered seeds. Although it is commonly spoken of as a hallucinogen, Vraszenians believe that aža allows them to see into Ažerais’s Dream.

  Ažerais’s Dream: This place, called “the realm of mind” by inscriptors, is a many-layered reflection of the waking world, both as it was in the past, and as it may be metaphorically expressed in the present.

  Ča: A title used when addressing a Vraszenian.

  Caerulet: One of the five seats in the Cinquerat, addressed as “Your Mercy.” Caerulet oversees the military affairs of the city, including prisons, fortifications, and the Vigil.

  Ceremony of the Accords: A ritual commemorating the signing of the peace agreement that ended the war between the city-states of Vraszan and Nadežra, leaving the latter in the control of its Liganti nobility. The ceremony involves the ziemetse and the members of the Cinquerat, and takes place each year during the Night of Bells.

  Charterhouse: The seat of Nadežra’s government, where the Cinquerat offices are located.

  Cinquerat: The five-member council that has been the ruling body of Nadežra since the death of the Tyrant. Each seat has its own sphere of responsibility. See Argentet, Fulvet, Prasinet, Caerulet, and Iridet.

  clan: Vraszenians are traditionally divided into seven clans: the Anoškin, the Dvornik, the Ižranyi, the Kiraly, the Meszaros, the Stretsko, and the Varadi. The Ižranyi have been extinct for centuries, following a supernatural calamity. Each clan consists of multiple kretse.

  era/eret: The titles used for the heads of noble houses.

  Faces and Masks: In Vraszenian religion, the divine duality common to many faiths is seen as being contained within single deities, each of which has a benevolent aspect (the Face) and a malevolent one (the Mask).