2

Lark Aloft

Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29

After the death of Kaius Sifigno, the Tyrant of Nadežra, the Cinquerat had torn down his palace and built a park on the grounds, intending it to be an exclusive precinct for the leaders of the city to disport themselves. Over the years its exclusivity had declined, along with its reputation, and the Gardens of Peaceful Night became Nightpeace Gardens.

Territory Ren had worked more than once in her days as a Finger. It was the perfect hunting ground for anyone who could fake wealth and gentility enough to pass scrutiny.

With spring well underway, the paths Giuna guided her down were bordered with a restrained riot of color, the landscaping cultivated with as much care as Tess gave to her sewing. It was a maze of small islets, the larger ones boasting tiled plazas for dancing and duels, the smaller holding jugglers, tumblers, patterners, and puppet shows. Arbors and pergolas winding with climbing honeysuckle and sweet pea provided aromatic shelter from the sun during the day and shadows for evening trysts—not all of them between the city’s elites. Nadežra’s night-pieces took their name from the gardens where many of them plied their trade.

Renata wondered if the gardens were especially busy tonight, or if it was only crowded in their vicinity. No sooner had she and Giuna set slipper onto the first dance plaza than they were accosted by people she’d only met in passing—mostly delta gentry, but also some from noble houses. The sort of people whose names were so close to the margins of their family registers, they were in danger of falling off the edge.

“Is your arm still attached?” Giuna asked as Renata fled the dance square and the clutch of the enthusiastic seventh son of a rice merchant. “I’m not certain about my toes.”

Giuna wore the delicate pink-and-gold ensemble that Tess had made for the doomed Coscanum-Indestor betrothal, while Renata’s underdress and surcoat were layered river greens. Together, they looked like wildflowers springing from the reeds—catching the eye of many, and making a splendid advertisement for the rise of House Traementis.

“I think Mede Galbiondi might turn his family millstones himself,” Renata said, only half in jest. She rotated her aching shoulder and pressed her fingers into the muscle to massage out the strain.

“It almost makes you miss Parma, doesn’t it?” Giuna used the excuse of reclaiming her wine from Tess to avoid another hopeful applicant’s gaze. “Too bad she and Bondiro have been permanently banned.”

“What mischief earned that? I thought… What’s the saying? ‘All is forgiven at Nightpeace.’”

“Except sabotaging the place, trying to get House Cleoter’s charter revoked.” Giuna’s grin was impish against the rim of her glass. “I believe a barrel of honey was involved. And several sacks of chicken feathers. And for some reason, a weather vane.”

Renata paused, trying to figure out what that might have been for. Then she shook her head and sipped from the cup Tess handed her. Chrysanthemum wine, chilled and very welcome. “I’m beginning to feel as if I should have just rented one of the booths and set up a sign saying ‘Here Be Marriage Bait.’”

“Better you than me,” Giuna murmured, her gaze catching on something in the crowd of dancers that made her cheeks turn pinker than they already were. Before Renata could follow to its source, a different source of blushes distracted her.

“Oh happy glass, with your lips upon it. Oh happy glass, your fingers caressing its curves. Oh happy glass, filled with sweet wine. And yet even the happiest glass is empty come morning—so goes life and love.”

Oksana Ryvček sauntered up, recognizable despite the shadows of her grey leather fox mask, the skirts of her silver crepe coat swaying with her hips. She clinked her glass against Renata’s. “I know, I know. Keep to the dueling grounds, not the stage. But I’ll wager it was better poetry than whatever they’ve dragged your ears with.” She waved at the dance plaza.

The rich depths of Ryvček’s Vraszenian accent were oddly comforting. As was the fencing master’s next comment: “Let me know if anyone needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Bad poetry isn’t worth dueling over,” Renata said.

“And you a Seterin noblewoman,” Ryvček scoffed. “Careful; you’ll get a reputation for being sensible.”

The warning pricked like a knife under her ribs, a reminder that a liar was never safe. “I’d only hate to waste your talents on something so trivial.”

“Mistress Ryvček enjoys keeping her blade warm.” That came from the direction Giuna had been looking. The white-feathered egret mask approaching belonged to Sibiliat Acrenix, with Marvisal Coscanum, masked in gold iris, following several reluctant steps behind.

“Alta Sibiliat. Alta Marvisal.” Renata offered them both a cautious curtsy.

She got none in return. “Must we be so formal? You’re dear Giuna’s cousin now, after all. You must call me Sibiliat, and I will call you Renata.”

Was that an overture of peace? Sibiliat had resented Renata when she first “arrived” in Nadežra, as a threat to her own social prominence. Perhaps now that Sibiliat’s father finally held a seat in the Cinquerat, she felt secure in her position—secure enough not to share her discovery of Renata’s financial straits with anyone beyond Giuna.

Then again, Ghiscolo Acrenix had conspired with Vargo to get that seat… and Renata had been a tool in their schemes. How much did his daughter know about that?

It would be easier for a friend to find out. Renata smiled and said, “You’re too kind, Sibiliat.”

After a pause long enough to be uncomfortable, Sibiliat’s elbow knocked Marvisal’s. “Alta Renata,” Marvisal began, before her thin lips pressed together at the formality of the address. She took a breath, her willow-thin frame straightening with resolve. “While I can’t hope for the friendship you have with Giuna and Sibiliat, I would like to assure you that I hold no ill will against you for your role in Mezzan’s downfall and the dissolution of my betrothal.” Another elbow, and a flinch. “And I hope that you will not hold his crimes against me.”

“Of course not,” Renata said warmly. “You were as much a victim as any of us.”

Arrant nonsense, but the show of sympathy was necessary. Marvisal relaxed, and the conversation turned to the pleasures and perils of Nightpeace Gardens. They were closed during the winter months, so Sibiliat justifiably believed Renata had never seen them before.

When Ryvček cleared her throat, Renata assumed the duelist was preparing to excuse herself. But no: Ryvček was alerting her to the approach of an unfamiliar man with a tortoiseshell mask gripped tight in his hands. He stopped just far enough away to be awkward and offered a stiff bow. “Alta Renata. Please excuse the interruption. My name is—”

“You,” Marvisal hissed, eyes narrowing. “You have Quinat’s own hubris, showing yourself here.”

Sibiliat caught Marvisal’s wrist before she could raise a hand against the man. “I remember you,” Sibiliat said. “You transferred Caerulet’s records to my father. Meppe, yes? Formerly Indestor?”

“Er. Yes. But don’t hold that against me?” Meppe’s voice quavered in a nervous chuckle that died under Marvisal’s glare. “Right. Sorry. I just… I’m not very good with words. Books, those I’m good with. Should have written a letter instead.”

That last was muttered low enough that Renata suspected she wasn’t meant to hear. His awkwardness supplanted her reflexive hostility with curiosity. “What do you want?”

“I know it’s presumptuous.” His tense laugh scraped like a dry pen nib across paper. “Given what Mettore did. But—well—your house is recruiting—”

“And you think she’ll adopt you?” Marvisal spat at his feet. “I’m amazed Meda Capenni even let you in here. Nightpeace Gardens truly have fallen, when a kinless man can walk their paths.”

Meppe hunched in like the tortoise who’d given its shell for his mask. Twinges of sympathy and suspicion warred within Renata. House Indestor had been large enough that surely most of them knew nothing of Mettore’s plans… but this was Nadežra. Its foundations were built of lies as much as stone.

“Capenni’s net might need mending after a long winter,” Ryvček said, passing her wine to Giuna and shaking out her freed hands. “Bigger fish than this guppy seem to have slipped through.”

“Marvisal!” Mezzan’s shout would have carried across the dance plaza; from only six paces, it was unnecessarily loud. He waved a bottle for her attention, oblivious to everyone else. “’Visal, I hoped you’d come tonight. Your brother can’t stop me from seeing you here.”

The people nearby cleared space as though preparing to watch a fire-eater or a juggling act. Or perhaps it was just from the fumes, Renata thought as Mezzan stumbled closer; the bottle’s contents seemed to have gone as much down his chin as his throat. His shirt was stained with days of sweat and drink, his waistcoat unbuttoned. The thick, steel-blue velvet of his coat was better suited to winter than late spring, and one sleeve was torn as though he’d been dragged. His gloves were nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, Tyrant’s pisspot. I thought you said he’d left the city,” Sibiliat said, pulling Marvisal to safety as Mezzan swayed closer.

“I said Bondiro dumped him outside the city,” Marvisal hissed. “Clearly, he found his way back.”

And had run into some hazards along the way. Reddened lumps adorned Mezzan’s face and hands; they appeared to be bee stings. He said, “You’ll help me, ’Visal, won’t you? Egliadas slammed the door in my face. Like I’m some kind of—” His gaze slewed sideways and landed on Renata. “Traitor!”

The bottle shattered on the tile as Mezzan dropped it in favor of his sword. Meppe-formerly-Indestor stepped forward, mask half-raised like a shield, trying to placate his ex-cousin—but that only made matters worse. “You’re crawling at that foreigner’s heels now?” Mezzan snarled, his blade’s point rising unsteadily to Meppe’s nose. “I’ll deal with you after I’ve cut her face to ribbons.” He swerved and lunged at Renata.

Like a conjuror’s trick, Ryvček appeared in his path. With one hand—and an expression that said she regretted having to touch him even that much—she seized Mezzan’s wrist and twisted it until his sword dropped from his fingers. She caught it in her other hand and swept it to the side, well out of his reach. “I believe it’s illegal for you to carry a blade nowadays. But when has the law stopped your kind?” With a nod to Renata, she said, “If you would…”

Renata took the sword from her, resisting the urge to turn its edge upon Mezzan. After all, there were better ways to hurt him.

Pitching her voice to carry, she said, “Send your petition to House Traementis, Master Meppe. I will give it due consideration.”

Mezzan spat curses until Ryvček wrenched his arm harder. “Are those… bee stings?” she said, studying him. “Those aren’t from the Rook. Though I hear he gave you about half the thrashing you deserve, after your house was dissolved. Come; I’m sure we can find a Vigil officer to give you the other half.” Even with Mezzan in a joint lock, she managed to bow to the quartet of noblewomen. “Alta Renata, that’s a fine sword. Vicadrius, I believe. Bring it to my house next Tsapekny, at fifth sun; you should learn how to use it properly.”

With that, she headed off, forcing Mezzan ahead of her, leaving Renata with a bared blade and a crowd of gossiping onlookers.

And the other three altas, one of whom stood with hunched shoulders and arms wrapped around her middle, as if she regretted having set foot outside tonight.

Sibiliat pulled Giuna close enough to press a kiss to her temple. In a soft voice, she said, “I’d hoped to steal you away from your admirers, little bird, but…” She nodded at the miserable Marvisal.

“I can come with you,” Giuna blurted, then touched Renata’s wrist in apology. “You don’t need me, do you, cousin?”

“I’ll be fine. You go.” When Giuna hesitated, Renata added, “I’ll see what I can do to disperse the gossip.”

She’d made the offer to reassure Giuna, but it was Marvisal who turned to her with too-pale cheeks and said, with a quaver in her voice, “Thank you.”

When the altas were gone, Renata sent Tess to have the sword delivered back to Traementis Manor. Then she called for the musicians, who had stopped playing, to strike up a gratzet—one of the only dances she’d properly learned—and flirted aggressively with every one of her changing partners until nobody was talking about Mezzan anymore.

Fortunately, before any of those partners could try to press what they thought was an advantage, she caught sight of Tanaquis at the edge of the floor. Using that as an excuse to escape, Renata dragged the other woman off.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “You may have wanted to dance, yourself.”

“The figures are interesting,” Tanaquis said. “There are theories about performing numinatria, walking the lines instead of inscribing them. But I don’t think the gratzet holds any power.” Her magpie mask sat on her forehead as though she’d pushed it up and then forgotten it was there. The stylized black feathers blended with her dark hair and brushed the skin of her pale cheeks as she studied Renata. “You were surprisingly kind to poor Meppe.”

“Mostly to needle Mezzan,” Renata admitted. “Donaia will never adopt him. Still, it does no harm to look at his proposal. And we do need people.”

Tanaquis’s grey eyes were thoughtful. “Back from the brink of death, yes. I’ll be very interested to see what the new House Traementis looks like. Whether its… old ways carry over, or whether you take on an entirely fresh character.”

“I’m only relieved we have the chance now.” Renata drew Tanaquis onto a nearby bridge, a tiny, decorative thing that would mostly serve to keep anyone else from standing close enough to overhear. “With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to speak with you about the curse. It troubles me that we still don’t know where it came from. Indestor was our most obvious foe, but there’s no sign that they were behind it—which means we may have another enemy out there.” Possibly even a szorsa. Pattern had uncovered the existence of the curse; pattern might have laid it in the first place.

Tanaquis bit her lip, oddly hesitant for a woman whose tongue was usually only checked by the swift intervention of others. “About that… I’d like to invite you to an event on the solstice. But I can’t say where. Or why. You would just need to trust me without asking questions. And you may not say anything to anyone else. Not even Donaia.”

Renata didn’t bother to control her rising eyebrows. “If you can’t say where, I’m going to have a difficult time attending.”

“Oh! Yes.” Fishing in the pocket under her surcoat, Tanaquis pulled out a circle of soft cotton with precise blackwork crossing it in the lines of a decagram Illi numinat—one without a focus. “Pin this to your shoulder and wait in Traementis Plaza at tenth sun on the solstice. Someone will escort you.”

Renata accepted the numinat and smoothed it in her palm. This had all the marks of a secret society. But why would Tanaquis be involved with such a thing? “This has to do with the curse?”

“After a fashion,” Tanaquis said. “I’m intrigued by what you’ve shown me regarding pattern, and very much want to know more. But we can’t have a proper conversation if my own tongue is leashed.” She clicked it as if impatient to cast off its restraints.

Against her better judgment, Renata was intrigued. Tanaquis knew a great deal about numinatria, but almost nothing about pattern; their previous conversations had made that clear. And so far as Ren knew, pattern and numinatria had nothing whatsoever to do with each other.

But everything she knew had come from her mother. There might be more out there to learn.

She tucked the cloth away, into the bodice of her surcoat where a pickpocket wouldn’t get it. “Thank you.”

Her laugh ominous, Tanaquis said, “Wait until you know what you’re thanking me for.”

Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29

Holding Mezzan’s blade like a rotting eel carcass she was taking out to trash, Tess wandered the crowds in search of one of the off-duty hawks House Cleoter paid to keep the gardens’ peace. She couldn’t very well take the blade back to Isla Traementis herself, nor pay a common runner to do it. But hawks were required to serve if a noble requested it.

She did her best to ignore the curious glances cast her way. Freckled Ganllechyn girls in servants’ greys-and-whites brandishing fancy blades weren’t something folk saw often outside one of Mallort’s tales, but Tess straightened her spine and marched along as though she were the Maid of Mavourneen herself.

It kept the cuffs and their ilk from stopping her but didn’t do twaddle for helping her find a hawk. “Always circling when you’re wanting some peace; not a feather to be found when you need one,” she grumbled, a moment before spotting a flash of blue and tan. “Ha!”

Her triumph lasted only as long as it took to circle a knot of portly gentlemen betting on the number of moths drawn by the light of a bridge lamp. A light that also very nicely limned the honey-dark cheeks and needle-fine features of the last hawk—or person—Tess wanted to see.

Pavlin Ranieri. She hadn’t clapped eyes on him since the day of the Lower Bank riots. She’d been half hoping that luck would stay with her and she’d never have to see his lying face again… but the Kind Ladies had a sense of humor that was anything but funny.

Tess spun on her heel to escape—and promptly brought fate upon herself when she ran face-first into the back seam of a gentleman’s coat.

“Here now, you made me lose count!” He grabbed her shoulder, ignoring her apologies and attempts to squeeze past him. His breath stank of sour wine. “I don’t give an osprey’s arse if you’re sorry, girl. You know what we had riding on this?”

“Going to have to start the count all over,” said one of the other men, earning a groan from the entire lot.

“Foul!” said a third. “It’ll have changed since Beldipassi took the bill. We’ll have to give every man’s mark back to him.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause you’ve already lost!”

“Now, now,” said the gentleman holding the betting billet. “I’m certain we can—”

“See the trouble you’ve made?” Tess’s captor shook her hard enough to rattle her head on her neck. “And what’s this? What’s a rust-head doing walking around with a duelist’s prick?”

“Is there a problem here, mede?” asked a soft, pleasant voice that Tess knew too well. She let her eyes slide closed and prayed the Crone would make her trip and fall on the blade that had tossed her into this tangle.

At least the drunken man released her. “I’ll say there is. This girl’s a thief. Faked a stumble to pick our pockets, and no telling who she stole that sword from. Probably wears that uniform so she can move about without notice.”

Tess could feel everyone’s eyes upon her, Pavlin’s most of all. She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it just as quickly. Men like this didn’t care for any truth but their own.

“I see,” Pavlin said. “Thank you for catching her. You have the Vigil’s gratitude. With your leave, I’ll deal with it from here.”

Taking Mezzan’s sword in one hand and Tess’s elbow in the other, Pavlin led her off. Behind them, the gentlemen busied themselves with congratulating each other for putting a stop to such a menace, and commenting on how much more diligent the Vigil had become now that Ghiscolo Acrenix was Caerulet.

No sooner were they over the bridge and onto the next islet than Tess yanked her arm from Pavlin’s grasp, hard enough to wrench her shoulder. “They’re lying. I wouldn’t put a hand into one of their pockets for an entire bale of byssus.”

“I know.”

“And that’s Mezzan Indestor’s sword. He attacked my alta—”

“Is she all right?” Pavlin touched Tess’s shoulder, and she winced at the contact. At his concern for Renata. At the reminder that he’d only ever paid court to Tess so he could spy on her sister.

“She’s unharmed. Oksana Ryvček was there to deal with him. My alta sent me to deal with the sword, so there you have it.” Tess hugged her middle to keep a bitter laugh from escaping. “Please see it’s delivered to Traementis Manor, as a service to the house. I’ll be on my way.”

“Tess, I’m sorry.” His words caught her as she turned to go. Against her will, she glanced back at him, and wasn’t that a mistake. He was so beautiful, with his dark eyes warmed to gold by the lamps and lashes spiked with tears. And her so shallow that all it took was a pretty face and a bit of remorse to make her want to forgive him.

Anger—at him, at herself—sharpened her tongue. “Sorry you spied on us, or that you were caught at it?”

“I’m sorry that I used you to do it. And that I kept visiting after the captain said I should stop.”

You were told to stop? Tess wanted to scoff, but hope was a curse disguised as a blessing. Burying her fingers under her surcoat before they could give her away with their trembling, Tess asked, “Why did you?”

Pavlin’s hands tightened on the sword. “I was worried. I knew things were harder than you let on, and I wanted to help.”

That explained the baskets of bread… but not the kindness, nor the kissing. And Tess found she didn’t want to know. Whether he’d been lying about that or not, she had secrets to keep—her own and Ren’s. She couldn’t afford to forgive him, even if she wanted to.

Hands clenched in her underskirts to give herself resolve, she said, “So, it was pity. Well, I thank you for it, but I’ve no need of it anymore. My alta’s a Traementis now, and we’ve all the bread we could want.”

Turning away again, she hurried back toward where she’d left Renata waiting. And if she thought sadly of the spice cakes Pavlin used to bring that were her favorites, the ones she’d never taste again… she had only herself to blame.

Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29

Though she was the gate that determined who could enter Nightpeace, Meda Tiama Capenni rarely danced in her own gardens. So when she approached Vargo with one hand extended in invitation, he knew she wanted something.

But she was a gentlewoman, which meant they were halfway through the dance before she shifted from pleasantries to business. “I hear you’re the man to speak with about Isarnah parrots.”

An earthwise woman, Tiama was taller than him, especially in her heeled shoes; Vargo had to tilt his head to glance up at her. “For your gardens, I presume. Be warned—they’re loud creatures.”

“And amusing, if they’re taught to say the right things.” She was leading for this dance and spun him out and back so that the full, weighted skirts of his coat swirled very satisfyingly. As a child Vargo hadn’t given a shit about clothes beyond what he could get from the costermongers for a stolen coat or surcoat, but he’d long ago admitted that Alsius was right; there was pleasure in being well-dressed. Power, too.

The same went for having useful connections. Tiama Capenni might be a gentlewoman, but that didn’t mean she was a law-abiding citizen. And Vargo happened to know that Mažylo—the leader of the Night Moths, the knot that controlled crime in Nightpeace Gardens—was Tiama’s husband in all but register. Above water or below, she found a way to profit from everything that happened here.

“I think I can provide,” Vargo said as they came back together. Parrots weren’t among his usual commodities, but Varuni claimed to have a whole menagerie of them back home; she’d know what to recommend. “It’ll take a while, but you should have them before the gardens close for the winter.”

“I knew I could rely on you.” The dance came to a close; she exchanged a curtsy for his bow, and then they parted.

Leaving him at inconveniently loose ends. He got a good survey of the backs of everyone’s coats and surcoats as people turned away from him, and he kept his expression steady behind his mask of beaded net. Less than a month, and the novelty of the Lower Bank crime lord turned nobleman had already worn off. While the lower ranks of the city saw opportunity in his elevation, their superiors had identified him as a threat—and correctly so, Vargo reflected, tamping down on a smirk. He was here mostly to show the snubs didn’t bother him. He knew where his path forward lay.

He was thinking of leaving when he turned a corner and almost walked straight into Ghiscolo Acrenix and one of Cibrial Destaelio’s four thousand daughters.

There was no way to dodge a conversation, nor time for Alsius to take cover under his collar. Brace yourself, he warned the spider, and stepped up to the pair as though he’d been invited to join them.

The Destaelio woman made a face like she’d just been fed a live eel, but she couldn’t raise a fuss when Ghiscolo welcomed Vargo with a smile. “Eret Vargo. Eutracce here was just commenting on how the gardens have declined this year. What are your thoughts?”

“Oh, I’m certain Eret Vargo isn’t familiar enough with gardening to have an opinion,” Eutracce said.

He gave her a benign smile. “Quite right, alta. Charter or not, when sun hours turn over to earth, I’m just a merchant.”

“A merchant.” Eutracce’s mouth soured further. Her mother held the Prasinet seat, which oversaw Nadežra’s finances, banking, and trade. As a smuggler, Vargo had only ever been one of a swarm of irritating river gnats to her. Now that he’d been ennobled, Her Charity Cibrial Destaelio would do one of two things: swat him, or strike a deal. He was hoping for the latter.

Ghiscolo chuckled. “Such modesty, Eret Vargo. Nadežra’s power has always been founded on trade. The right mercantile connections can be as valuable as holding a critical mountain pass.”

Like, say, the connections that allowed Vargo to bring Isarnah goods through Nadežra while dodging Prasinet’s punitive tariffs. Those had been imposed fifty years ago, after Isarn backed a Vraszenian rebellion… but Cibrial might profit handsomely if she lifted them.

That was helpful of him, Vargo thought as Eutracce’s mouth shifted from sour to thoughtful.

::Yes, he’s always been good at that.::

Until Ghiscolo became Caerulet, House Acrenix’s status had derived entirely from their ability to play the game: a useful alliance here, a well-timed withdrawal of support there. The latter always with a show of regret, so that no stain of treachery marred their reputation.

In truth, they were as dirty as Vargo. Just better able to hide it.

Ghiscolo’s comment meant that instead of excusing herself from the conversation, Eutracce stayed and asked probing questions about Vargo’s business, which he deflected with pleasant responses that revealed nothing. Partway through this, he caught Ghiscolo watching him with a faint, puzzled frown. When Vargo raised a questioning brow, though, Ghiscolo shook his head. “Only noting the cut of your coat. Did Alta Renata’s maid tailor that for you?”

Vargo smoothed a hand down the textured surface of his waistcoat, avoiding Alsius masquerading as a pin. The fabric was an Arthaburi import he hadn’t yet released even to Tess. “No, though I recommend her services—assuming you can get them. I hear she’s quite busy.”

“Perhaps a friend of the alta’s might put in a good word for me,” Ghiscolo said, smiling.

Vargo doubted Ghiscolo’s thoughts had been tied up in tailoring, but their conversation ended with him no more enlightened. And any useful guesses were driven from his head when he saw Iascat Novrus standing, quiet and watchful, at the center of a boisterous group of young cuffs. Scowling, Vargo ducked across a bridge to the next islet before he could be spotted in return.

::Are you certain? He looks lonely,:: Alsius noted as he crept to hide under Vargo’s collar points. ::I could make myself scarce.::

He was a tense little lump after that encounter with Ghiscolo. Normally Vargo didn’t bring him anywhere near the man, and he wished he could have avoided it tonight. As for Iascat… Rumor has it that Sostira’s threatened to disinherit him. I don’t know if that’s because of our assignations, but he can’t afford a public encounter with someone like me. If Vargo was going to burn his asset in House Novrus, he would do it for some better reason than idle chitchat in Nightpeace Gardens.

His change of direction was an auspicious one, because it took him toward a familiar figure standing on a toy bridge, beautifully attired in layers of watered silk. Alsius noticed, too, but his thoughts went in a different direction. ::There’s that Fienola woman! She has an admirable mind. You should arrange a meeting to discuss the river numinat.::

Vargo had barely noticed Tanaquis Fienola standing in Renata’s shadow. They had their heads close together as if conspiring—and then, with a movement that was probably supposed to be furtive but only drew more attention to itself, Fienola handed over a familiar-looking scrap of cloth.

Well, isn’t that interesting. Not surprising; Renata had done a splendid job of making herself a desirable commodity in Nadežra. Vargo had been the first to see it, but now any number of people wanted to invest in her, for a variety of purposes.

::Interesting on both counts,:: Alsius said. ::And also useful. Even more reason to ask Fienola—::

Yes, yes. The last thing Vargo needed was a mental voice prompting him like an actor who’d forgotten his lines. He reached under his collar and scooped out Peabody, depositing him atop a nearby topiary. There’s Silvain Fiangiolli by the acrobats. Make yourself useful and find out why he’s so intent on flirting with that Essunta girl? The last thing we need is those families managing a truce. Ignoring Alsius’s grumbles, Vargo straightened his waistcoat and approached the two women.

“I see Tess spared no time diving into the fabrics I sent,” he said after paying a proper salute to both Renata and Tanaquis. He kept hold of Renata’s hand, turning it in his to draw her closer. “I was right. The green suits you.”

“You have an unexpected eye for such things.” Renata surveyed his own ensemble, a velveteen as dark as pomegranates with swirls burned out to show the black currant silk underneath. Its thread-of-gold embroidery at cuffs and hem could only be smuggled out of Ganllech. This was part of their dance: They both knew they looked good, and both did it to invite the admiration of others. Displaying that admiration was a discreet form of applause.

He did so enjoy interacting with someone who appreciated his skill at playing the game, rather than spitting on him for it.

Releasing Renata’s hand, he said, “Meda Fienola—before I forget. I’d like to speak to you at some point about my plans for the West Channel numinat. The timing of such endeavors is important, and I’m not astrologer enough to chart it out.”

Tanaquis brightened. “Yes! Not tonight, though. I’ll send you an invitation. And perhaps you’ll indulge me in a few questions about your other numinatrian endeavors.”

She might have been talking about the amphitheatre numinat, or the ones he’d dismantled during the riots—including the one inflaming the crowd’s anger. But her gaze was fixed on Vargo’s chest, as if it could bore past coat, waistcoat, and shirt to the numinat burned over his heart.

Showing her that mark might have been a mistake, but at the time he had no other way to convince her to send him into the realm of mind after Renata. Vargo fought to keep his expression unruffled. “Of course.” Right after the Dežera freezes over.

“I’d love to be a part of that conversation,” Renata said. “Since the charter is in Traementis hands, after all.”

It was an odd relic of their past circumstances that Vargo, a fellow noble, was administering someone else’s charter. That wasn’t the reason Tanaquis tapped her lips, though. “Yes, she should join us. I presume you’re not intending to give your own life to imbue the numinat, Vargo. But possibly Renata can supply what you need.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Renata’s reply could have cut steel. Tanaquis’s brows rose, while Vargo’s heart thudded in sudden shock. “Oh, not by dying,” Tanaquis said. “I meant with pattern.”

“Pattern?” Vargo glanced at Renata. Her cosmetics couldn’t quite hide the blush that stained her cheeks. Interesting. He knew she’d sought out that patterner, and maybe put too much faith in the cards, but this was something else. Something novel enough to stir Tanaquis’s boundless curiosity. He let his voice drop, dark and teasing. “Have you been hiding a secret, Alta Renata?”

“Hardly a secret,” she said with a thin laugh. “A—well, I thought it was a silly game. Except after the Night of Hells…” She dismissed that with a shake of her head. “A story for later. But, Tanaquis, I’m afraid I don’t have my cards any longer. Mettore’s kidnappers took them from me, and I haven’t seen them since.”

“I might be able to find them,” Vargo said. “Eret Acrenix holds the charter for storing possessions confiscated from criminals—Well, held it, since it’s supposed to be separate from Caerulet’s office. I don’t know if he’s transferred it yet.”

He spoke on reflex, covering for the completely different thoughts now racing through his head. Was this why he’d seen pattern cards in the realm of mind when he went after Renata’s spirit? He’d assumed it was simply because of the place’s connection to Ažerais, but her comment about the Night of Hells suggested it was more personal than that.

He’d have to tread carefully, though. If Renata discovered he’d sold her out to Mettore that night, everything he’d built with her would come tearing apart like the broken West Channel numinat.

Tanaquis’s eyes were fever-bright with the possibilities. “I think it would be useful. Since the realm of mind appears to be the same as Ažerais’s Dream, and the dream is connected to the wellspring, and the wellspring can act as a focus and be affected by numinatria, it only stands to reason that pattern and numinatria might be more deeply connected than anyone has ever surmised.”

No denying Alsius’s admiration of her mind was warranted. They had their own hypothesis about how to make the river numinat work—but it was only a hypothesis, untested so far. He would sleep easier if he had a second possibility to hand. “You think pattern can be used to augment the focus?”

“I’ve done it before,” Tanaquis said blithely. Then she bit her lip and shot Renata a guilty look.

A boom overhead forestalled any reply to that. Vargo looked up to see a firework blooming in the sky—a regular occurrence in the summer months. He hoped the Lacewater knots were doing their work to make sure no wandering sparks set the tenements alight. The river might still be in full flood, but the weather was dry, and the Old Island could all too easily burn.

Around him everyone was laughing and clapping in delight, but from Renata there came a sound of dismay. He turned to ask whether she didn’t like fireworks, and found her mourning a torn spot on her hem. “I stepped on it,” she said ruefully.

Her maid came swooping in like a sartorial hawk. “Oh dear. I knew I should have taken that up a finger higher. Follow me, alta, and we’ll have you set to rights before the skies go dark again.”

Vargo watched her go, two fingers drumming against his thigh. He’d never followed up on his thought from months ago, of having one of his Seterin contacts look into what had brought such an elegant noblewoman to Nadežra.

Maybe it was time he did.

Nightpeace Gardens, Eastbridge: Fellun 29

The skin shock of fear stayed with Ren as Tess hurried her away. Bad enough having to smile at Vargo as if she didn’t know what he’d done—but damn Tanaquis for bringing pattern up in front of him. Forcing Renata to stumble her way through a clumsy lie, because Vargo had seen her mother’s deck when she met him as Arenza, and he was too good of a gambler for her to trust he wouldn’t recognize the hand-painted cards if he saw them again.

Have you been hiding a secret, Alta Renata?

She couldn’t let herself think about that right now. She had somewhere else, and someone else, to be.

“Well, that worked,” Tess said, examining her skirt. A tearaway hem wasn’t a trick they could use too often—otherwise Alta Renata’s clumsiness would become the talk of the Upper Bank—but it was effective.

Near the northern edge of the gardens, they slipped into the shadows of an enormous tree. Arranging the meeting the ziemetse requested had taken a good deal of finagling, and this was the best Ren could manage: a rendezvous in a back corner of Nightpeace Gardens, where any combination of flashy clothes, a glittering mask, or a slipped bribe could gain Tiama Capenni’s permission to pass through the gates.

While Tess pulled the jade ribbon from Renata’s hair, loosing a simple braid, Ren reached into a pocket no lightfinger would find and drew out the mask of rose-patterned lace.

Her disguise cascaded over her like water, covering the surcoat and underdress of her Liganti-style clothing, leaving her in a tight-fitting coat and breeches. Experimentally, Ren reached for her kissing-comfits, and wasn’t surprised to find she couldn’t touch them. For all she knew, her ordinary clothing had gone… somewhere else.

Tess sucked in a quiet gasp, trailing her fingers over the leather petals flowing down Ren’s arm. “Not a stitch or seam to be found. How does that even work?”

“A blessing from Ažerais?” Ren said, but it was no more than a guess.

Shaking her head, Tess flicked her hands in a shooing motion. “Never you mind about my curiosity. Go and come back, before people start wondering where Alta Renata went off to.”

A quick glance around showed Ren no one nearby. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out and headed for the meeting point.

She didn’t try to hide, exactly; that was too likely to draw attention if she failed. But in dark clothing, at night, in a place like the gardens, it was easy to take paths that kept her from coming too close to anyone. Despite the tension curling in her gut, a smile tugged at her lips. Was this what it felt like to be the Rook?

As she neared the northern boundary of the gardens, the path was empty of anyone save a few pity-rustlers. Their presence was explained when a lump of a shadow atop the bridge rail jumped down.

“See? Told you she’d show.” Arkady Bones had all the swagger of a man grown, packaged in the body of a spindle-thin girl. She gave Ren a cocksure bow and then nodded to the gaggle of waiting pity-rustlers. “Tell the others to keep the hawks and the moths away.”

After they vanished, she flicked a hand at two shadows sitting in the lee of the bridge. “Go on, then. En’t nobody gonna listen in.”

As Ren passed her, one of the shadows rose from the bench and moved into the dim light. “Except you, Ča Bones.”

Perversely, the fact that Ren was already on edge kept her from twitching. The representative the ziemetse had sent was the granddaughter of the former Kiraly clan leader—someone she’d met twice before. Once in the nightmare, and once at the Seven Knots labyrinth, where fear had sent Ren bolting from a friendly gesture.

“Don’t mind me.” Arkady levered herself back onto the bridge post, feet dangling and boots thumping against the support. “Usually my silence is for sale, but tonight it’s free. I keep the Black Rose’s secrets.” She winked at Ren.

The Kiraly woman paused. When Ren made no objection to Arkady staying, she nodded in acceptance. “Thank you for coming, Lady Rose. I am Dalisva Mladoskaya Korzetsu of the Kiraly. I wish to thank you again for all that you did to save the wellspring, and for sending that Liganti worm Mettore Indestor to us for justice.”

There was limited space in Ren’s vocal range where she could sound natural. As Renata she spoke on the higher end, and with a Seterin accent; as Arenza she went low and Vraszenian. Now she pitched her voice toward the middle, and made her vowels purely Nadežran. If I have to invent a fourth persona, I’ll be out of cards. “Mere thanks wouldn’t have required a meeting. What makes the ziemetse interested in me?”

Arkady snorted. “Bet they want you to do something for them.”

Dalisva shot her an irritated look, but didn’t refute it. To Ren she said, “You are the Rose of Ažerais, sent to us in a desperate time. Yes—we have need of your aid. Will you help?”

“That depends on what you’re looking for.”

“The Stadnem Anduske,” Dalisva said. “You were at the amphitheatre during Veiled Waters—but know you what happened before that?” When Ren didn’t respond, she went on. “Their old leader, Andrejek, planned the bombing. But from the Cinquerat he took a pardon, in exchange for calling it off. He cut his knot, and for that treachery his lieutenant Branek tried to kill him.”

Ren bit down on the urge to say, That’s not what happened. A Cinquerat pardon? Snow in Nadežra was more likely. Andrejek backed down because Grey convinced him the whole thing was playing into Mettore’s hands.

But it was Renata who’d been involved in that, not the Black Rose. “What exactly do you want me to do about that?”

“Have you no wish to help Vraszenians? Andrejek has long been wanted by the ziemetse, but Branek… he was Andrejek’s attack dog, held on a tight leash. Now that leash has slipped. He believes violence is the only way to break the Cinquerat’s hold, and he will not flinch from hurting ordinary people. Already his allies in the Stretsko knots attack the businesses of those on the Lower Bank with too much Liganti blood.”

The inconvenience of a mask was that it hid small responses like an arched eyebrow. “First you speak of me helping Vraszenians, and then you worry about people with Liganti ancestry. What do you actually want?”

Dalisva wore no mask, and her passion blazed like a torch. “With Branek leading them, the Anduske will wind up only hurting Vraszenians, by provoking the Cinquerat to tighten their grip. But his hold over the Anduske is not yet secure. If you could capture some of his key supporters and deliver those people to us—even Branek himself—”

They had a high opinion of the Black Rose, if they thought she could pull that off. But Ren couldn’t disagree with their concerns. While House Traementis hadn’t yet suffered any losses on the Lower Bank, that was mostly because their reduced state had left them without much to attack. The nobles were muttering about needing to restore control down there after the riots… and the kind of control they had in mind never meant anything good for Vraszenians.

“I have a list,” Dalisva said, drawing it from a pocket of her shawl and holding it out. “If the ones named here were removed, the rest would be able to do little more than shake their fists.”

Ren eyed the paper, not reaching for it. “Removed.”

“She means killed,” Arkady helpfully supplied from her perch.

Dalisva kept her chin lifted and shoulders straight. “Their fate is for Ažerais to set and pattern to guide. But the ziemetse are wise enough to avoid creating martyrs.”

Smart politics. If the clan leaders didn’t have some skill at that, the delicate balance between Liganti-controlled Nadežra and the rest of Vraszan would have collapsed long ago. Which was, of course, what people like this Branek wanted.

But none of that was Ren’s business. After Veiled Waters she’d lost track of Idusza Polojny, her friend in the Anduske, and she couldn’t afford to spend time being Arenza Lenskaya when she had to be Renata Viraudax Traementatis every waking minute. Nor could she worry about Vraszenian politics when she was busy making amends to House Traementis, for a debt whose magnitude they didn’t even know.

“Please,” Dalisva said, desperation creeping in. “You are the one Ažerais chose. You were conceived—”

She cut herself off, but not soon enough. Ren’s gaze shot to Arkady, whose hands flew up in a warding gesture. “I en’t said nothing!”

From the shadow still sitting in the lee of the bridge came a soft, weary voice. “Only those born of Ažerais can destroy the children of Ažerais. And only those born of Ažerais can save the children of Ažerais.”

Words Ren had heard in the nightmare, when she stood before the twisted echoes of the Charterhouse statues. A szorsa had spoken them—the one who stood for the dead Ižranyi clan in the Ceremony of the Accords.

It would look the opposite of dignified and mysterious if the Black Rose fled from an old, blind woman. Ren forced herself to stand as Dalisva retreated to help the szorsa make her way forward. A strip of embroidered cloth covered the pits where her eyes had been, before something in the nightmare tore them out.

“Forgive us,” the szorsa murmured. “I am Mevieny Plemaskaya Straveši of the Dvornik. We mean no threat to you or your secrets, Lady Rose.”

Ren’s words came out far steadier than she felt. “How did you know?”

Dalisva sighed. “In the nightmare, a Vraszenian woman told Szorsa Mevieny that ‘all of us’ by that wine were poisoned. But she was no part of our delegation. Nor was she the Cinquerat’s servant, or they would not have needed to hunt her. A woman conceived during the Great Dream appears on that terrible night… and then, when Mettore Indestor attempts to use one such to destroy the Wellspring of Ažerais, the Black Rose appears to defend it. Connecting the two was a guess, but—”

“Not a guess,” Mevieny said. “Blind I may be, but the cards speak to me still.”

They didn’t know everything. Only that the Black Rose was the woman they’d met before. If Arkady truly had kept her mouth shut, they didn’t even know her name was Ren.

It was still enough to send spiders crawling up Ren’s spine. My secrets are not safe.

Mevieny said, “Ažerais has blessed you, Lady Rose. Once at your birth, and again when you became her servant. For what purpose wear you that mask, if not to help her children?”

I’m wearing it because you asked for this meeting. Were it not for the Rook’s message, she might have left it to gather dust in her wardrobe forever.

No—that was a lie. And the disguise had come again when she put it on. As if Ažerais truly did have a purpose for her, beyond saving the wellspring.

Was that wishful thinking? A thread of Vraszenian meaning for her to cling to in her new Liganti life, like the rope the Rook had used to draw her out of the pit. An excuse to involve herself in that world again, to be someone other than Alta Renata all the time. To feel like she wasn’t a slip-knot.

Wishful thinking or not, the possibility brought an ache into her throat.

Wordlessly, Dalisva held out the list of names. Ren accepted the list between the tips of two gloved fingers and—why not—made it vanish up her sleeve. “I make no promises… but I’ll see what I can do.”