3

The Friendly Fist

Upper and Lower Bank: Fellun 36

When Vargo’s invitation arrived at the manor, Ren almost refused it. Living as Renata was exhausting enough without having to pretend she still harbored warm feelings for the man. But unless she got Sedge back into his circle, the only way for her to learn anything was to maintain the fiction of their friendship, so she gritted her teeth and forced herself to pen an acceptance.

She was pulling on her gloves and considering whether it was worth overheating under a veil to protect her skin from darkening in the sun when the door to Donaia’s study opened.

“Thank you, Captain,” Donaia said. Her voice was constantly rough, scraped raw by the sorrow she tried to hide when she wasn’t alone. “Perhaps I’m being overly cautious, but after everything—”

“Think nothing of it, Era Traementis.” Grey Serrado gave Donaia one of those heel-clicking bows that made him seem even more stiff and unyielding than his fellow hawks. “The Vigil is happy to serve, and I’m used to following in Alta Renata’s wake.”

“My wake?” Renata echoed, hoping it didn’t sound as wary as she felt.

Brushing invisible lint from Renata’s sleeve, Donaia said, “I’ve asked Captain Serrado to act as your escort to Froghole.”

He nodded. “Not all of the Lower Bank is as safe as Westbridge, and you aren’t accustomed to rough areas.” One hand rose to the hilt of his sword.

Renata wanted to refuse. Except that Donaia, who’d managed to project a facade of confidence even in the worst days of House Traementis’s decline, kept touching Renata and Giuna both as though they might disappear in an eyeblink. After Renata’s part in Leato’s death, the least she could do for Donaia was accept an escort.

Besides, she wasn’t doing anything Serrado shouldn’t see. And her nightmares about him kicking in her door had mostly faded, in favor of horrific visions of the zlyzen. Gloves settled, Renata said, “Very well, Captain—let us go see what Eret Vargo has found.”

They didn’t talk much on the trip across the river, until their skiff approached a wharf swarming with activity. Half a dozen people were in the water itself, their heads bobbing above the brown wavelets, while Vargo watched from above. In his loosely tailored coat of tan suede, he could almost pass for one of the laborers—except they’d all shed coats and surcoats to work in their shirtsleeves.

“I didn’t realize it would take this much effort to retrieve a chunk of prismatium,” Renata said, shielding her eyes from the sun as their skiff drew up to the landing stair.

The water must have carried her voice to Vargo. “When it’s the size of a horse cart and buried in mud, it does. The divers have dug out as much as they can.” He motioned at the swimmers. “Once they attach the cables, the crane will haul it out the rest of the way.”

It spoke to both her opinion of Vargo’s cleverness and her worry about his cunning that she wondered if he’d somehow arranged this discovery. That such a large piece of the broken numinat could have somehow escaped the old salvage efforts, even buried in mud, seemed unlikely. But what would Vargo gain from planting a fake fragment in the riverbed?

She had no choice but to accept his hand to steady her as she left the skiff for the weed-slicked surface of the landing. “Will this make your work easier? Having such a large piece?” That ignorance, she had to neither hide nor fake; no one expected Alta Renata to be an inscriptor.

Of course, they didn’t expect it of a Lower Bank crime lord, either. Vargo said, “We won’t know that until I see it. But if I can study a full cross section rather than the glimpses offered by the few fragments that escaped reuse…” Vargo let the conclusion drift as Serrado stepped off the skiff after Renata. “Captain.”

“Eret.”

“Come to make certain we aren’t attacked by river pirates?”

Serrado met Vargo’s mockery with his usual mask of stoic courtesy. “If necessary. Why, have you done something to offend the Stretsko?”

Renata hid her wince. Before Vargo’s rise, the most powerful gangs on the Lower Bank had been dominated by Vraszenians from the Stretsko clan. They hadn’t appreciated the competition, and she doubted they were any happier about their erstwhile rival now counting himself among the nobility.

Perhaps I can make use of that. Stretsko also made up a large percentage of the Stadnem Anduske, and in the wake of Veiled Waters, those groups were getting more tangled than ever before. Several of the names on Dalisva Korzetsu’s list were related to some of Vargo’s biggest enemies.

The only problem with that fight was she didn’t want either side to win.

Vargo led her up to the dry ground of the embankment, with Serrado following at a polite distance. Ropes stretched up from the water’s surface, leading through the crane to a team of horses hitched and waiting in a narrow alley. Renata tried not to shudder as a diver surfaced. The high waters of the Dežera in flood had washed away a goodly portion of the filth that clogged the West Channel, but that still didn’t make the prospect of swimming in it inviting.

The diver’s signal was taken up by a woman at the base of the crane, then by the teamster handling the horses. He started them walking, the ropes creaking as they pulled taut.

Vargo leaned close to be heard above the noise. Even over the river’s stink, she could smell the sandalwood and clove of his perfume and the leather of his coat. “I promise this will be more interesting once—”

A crack like thunder cut across the creaking of the ropes, followed by a groan and rumble as the crane shook. Spooked by the noise and the sudden lack of resistance, the horses slipped the teamster’s lead and lurched forward. Renata was distantly aware of a hawk’s blue and tan as Serrado lunged for the traces, but the flash of shadow to sun to shadow again disoriented her.

Only when she heard the screams did she realize the shade she now stood in was cast by the crane falling toward her.

Vargo dove for safety. Ren went the other way, rolling frantically through the muck, not sure how far would be far enough—until the cobbles shook beneath her, and something crashed across her legs.

She waited, arms curled over her head, not daring to move, until the only sound left was the thunder of her pulse and the shouting beyond. Then she looked up to find a small beam pinning her legs, a much larger one where she’d been standing, Serrado running one soothing hand down a horse’s neck, and Vargo climbing to his feet on the far side of the chaos. He stripped off his ruined coat with a snarl.

Handing the leads off to the shaken teamster, Serrado rushed to lift away the beam pinning Ren and help her stand. “Alta, are you hurt?” His hands hovered at his sides, as though he dearly wished to check her for injuries, but didn’t dare.

She gingerly felt her own legs through the layers of her skirts, wincing at the tenderness across her shins. “Bruised, I suspect, but nothing worse.”

“No thanks to him.” Leaving her to set herself to rights, Serrado strode around the wreckage to Vargo. This time, the hands he held in check were balled into fists. “Eret Vargo—”

Scowling, Vargo waved Serrado off. “I’m fine as well, Captain. No need to concern yourself.”

A less controlled man might have shoved him. “What concerns me, Eret Vargo, is that you thought only for your own safety and not that of the woman at your side.”

Vargo met Serrado’s glare, his brow furrowed in what seemed to be honest confusion. “I don’t know what you think I could have done. And she’s fine now anyway, so what does it matter? I’d expect you to be more concerned about what caused this to happen in the first place.” He kicked one of the splintered crane supports.

What does it matter? That was the true face of the man who’d sold her to Mettore Indestor on the Night of Hells—and helped her afterward, true, but Ren knew the stories from Sedge. Vargo had a habit of putting people into trouble and then getting them out of it, so they would owe him a debt.

She only half attended to the rest of the conversation, Vargo remembering that he had the right now to call on the Vigil to investigate, Serrado agreeing through gritted teeth. She was too busy wondering whether the crane had been meant to kill Vargo, her, or both of them.

Then something else took the entirety of her attention.

It happened as Serrado was sending a runner to the Aerie and Vargo was arranging a watch on the river so nobody would steal the numinat fragment before he could build another crane. A flicker of gaudy color scurried across a crate; Vargo absently held one hand out so his spider, Master Peabody, could climb up his arm.

And the voice she’d heard that day in the Charterhouse said, ::What happened here?::

Vargo’s lips were pressed into a thin, angry line. Yet she still heard him, an unspoken growl she had to strain to pick out. ::An accident. One of the outriggers for the crane just bolted—but not before I saw the Stretsko knot under her sleeve.:: “Fucking rats.”

That last curse was out loud, she realized, as Vargo slapped the dirt from his gloves and glared at the wreckage of the crane. His shifting gaze swept over her, and she busied herself straightening her own clothes. As if she hadn’t just heard the conversation between him and his coconspirator—who was, somehow, inexplicably, in the body of a spider.

Peabody’s many eyes glittered from the shadows of Vargo’s collar. ::Rats, indeed. I came to tell you that Premyk has made up his mind. He’ll be handing the aža payout to Tserdev tonight, behind the Seven Knots labyrinth.::

Ren’s heart stumbled in its pace. While she’d never heard of Premyk, Tserdev Krasnoskaya Očelen was the head of the Crimson Eyes, the main Stretsko gang controlling Seven Knots. She wasn’t on Dalisva’s list… but her brother Dmatsos was. He’d been leading a lot of the attacks on Liganti-run businesses. And rumor said he’d gone to ground with his sister—if only anybody could locate Tserdev’s lair.

::The hell he will.:: The ice of Vargo’s mental voice belied the bland smile he directed at Renata. ::Aža is my business. Keep watching the Odd Alley den, and I’ll gather people for the labyrinth. We’ll show Premyk what happens to anyone who tries to cut knot for the Stretsko.::

Now Ren knew when and where to find Tserdev. And through her, possibly Dmatsos.

All I have to do is dodge two knots… and Vargo himself.

Froghole, Lower Bank: Fellun 36

Grey chewed on the inside of his lip, watching his runner pick her way across the fallen beams blocking the river stair. He should begin investigating what was clearly no accident… but that would mean leaving Renata here, when Donaia had asked him to protect her.

She stood with aristocratic poise amid the wreckage, as if she hadn’t just nearly been crushed. It must have rattled her, though, because her hands were clenched in the soiled front panel of her surcoat and her gaze, fixed on Vargo, betrayed the tension within. Vargo paid her no mind; he was too busy giving orders to his own people. A pity that crane didn’t land on him.

Except that would have robbed Grey of his revenge. He meant to see Vargo pay for what he’d done, blowing up the Fiangiolli warehouse and taking Grey’s brother, Kolya, with it. What form that vengeance would take was a question he wrestled with day and night… but a beam crushing him flat wasn’t it. Whether Vargo fell to a duelist’s sword or an executioner’s ax, Grey would be the one who made it happen.

He wrenched his gaze away and saw one of Vargo’s fists jerk his chin for the man’s stone-faced Isarnah bodyguard to follow him into the shadows of the alley.

Grey had been taking every opportunity to spy on Vargo’s business. With a swift glance around, he eased behind a stack of crates, close enough to hear their hurried conversation.

“Boss is calling a strike on the Odd Alley Gang tonight,” the fist said. “Wants you to put together a hit team.”

“He thinks Premyk’s behind this?”

A thud, as of a wall being kicked. “Naw, Premyk’s a britch-pissing coward who finally decided to cut knot for the Crimson Eyes. But you ask me, this is the sort of thing Tserdev would order. She en’t never been happy that Vargo took the aža trade. The Eyes want it back.”

A pause. “We’ll need more than just the Fog Spiders.”

“Makes you miss Sedge, hey?”

The thunk that followed was bare flesh on wood. “Fuck Sedge. If I see him again, I’ll skin him for parchment. Tell Vargo I’ll handle it, but he’s staying home.”

“I en’t telling Vargo where he can and can’t go.”

“Who’s the britch-pissing coward now?”

Grey slid away before the two broke apart, his mind whirling.

A gang war was the Vigil’s business. A noble using his strength against the people of the streets was the Rook’s business. And Vargo was a noble now.

Hang his Vigil duty. Grey fell into step behind as Vargo offered Renata his arm and led her away. The man didn’t care who he got killed, so long as he achieved his own goals. And Grey owed it to Donaia and Leato to make certain the heir to House Traementis didn’t get caught in that man’s schemes.

Renata ignored Grey with the studied indifference of the noblewoman she pretended to be. All her attention was on Vargo, in a pretense of friendliness—at least, Grey thought it was pretense. She wouldn’t have told the Rook about Vargo’s involvement in Kolya’s death if she had any real liking for the man.

Vargo, however, cast an annoyed look over his shoulder. “There’s no call to accompany us when you’re needed here to investigate, Captain. I can see to the alta’s well-being.”

Like you did when the crane fell? Grey’s voice sounded cold to his ears as he said, “It will take some time for my squad to arrive. I can be spared until then. Unless you mean to leave the alta standing around while you find a replacement coat suitable to be seen in the Pearls.”

Renata’s soft cough could have been interpreted a dozen ways, but Grey suspected it was meant to hide a laugh. He adopted a concerned frown. “Especially when she might be taking sick.”

It was a testament to Vargo’s own self-control that he didn’t visibly pull back from Renata. His fear of disease wasn’t nearly as secret as he probably wished. “Alta Renata, I’d be happy to offer you the services of my phys—”

His words cut off as a quartet of young men rounded the corner up ahead. They nudged each other when they spotted Vargo, smirking like they’d found the trouble they were seeking.

Younger members of the delta houses tended to wear incongruous accessories, the better to flaunt the wealth and reach of their families’ trading endeavors. Grey recognized the gold-shot scarves of silken caprash wool that marked these four as Essunta. And thanks to a mercenary charter, they all wore swords at their belts.

They’d been Indestor’s clients. After the fall of their patron’s house, the Essunta had no reason to love Derossi Vargo.

The man in the lead was Meda Essunta’s younger son, Gaetaro. He approached closer than manners allowed, as though Vargo would be intimidated by a bit of posturing. “Why, Eret Vargo,” he drawled with exaggerated surprise. “Fancy finding you on the Lower Bank.”

Looking for a fight, it seemed. It galled to be in a position where Grey had to protect Vargo, but Renata was here, and couldn’t be carrying more than a hidden knife or two. Setting a hand on his sword, Grey moved to Vargo’s other side, hoping the reminder of Vigil presence—and the new Caerulet’s patronage—would be enough to make the Essunta boys rethink their grudge.

“Mede Essunta.” Vargo’s smile was as pleasant as sunlight. “I see you’ve dislodged your mouth from your mother’s teat. Too bad you didn’t suckle any wit from her while you were there.”

Djek.

Gaetaro’s hand went for his sword. Grey made to step forward, but Renata beat him to it, interposing herself between Vargo and the Essunta. “Come now,” she said, her Seterin accent a crisp rebuke. “It befits the stature of neither of your houses to brawl like commoners in the street.”

“He is a commoner,” Gaetaro snarled.

“Not any longer,” Renata said. “And that means there’s a proper way to settle this matter.”

Grey’s teeth were set hard against each other; it helped keep the sudden laugh inside. He wasn’t the only one to hear the echo, either. Vargo drawled, “Alta Renata. You’re remarkably fond of volunteering other people for duels.”

“Assuming he knows Uniat from a night-piece’s hole,” Gaetaro spat.

“I’m familiar with both in their contexts,” Vargo said with a smile that was half bedroom and all innuendo. “But if I get confused, I’ll poke you a few times to remember the difference.”

He might be a nobleman now, but he carried no sword, which meant he would need a champion. Grey was trying to figure out how to word his flat refusal when Vargo lifted his walking stick. It had always seemed like a tasteless affectation… but with a twist of the handle, Vargo drew forth a blade. It was thinner than Essunta’s but finely made.

Grey’s eyes narrowed. Vargo had been carrying that stick for at least a year. But Grey couldn’t retroactively arrest him for that. More’s the pity.

“First blood,” Renata said, stepping back as Gaetaro drew his sword. “Conduct yourselves with honor.”

What are the chances, Grey thought. It was only a question of who would cheat first.

Within the first pass, he knew that Vargo was either hiding his skill or not actually a very good swordsman. He fought like a man with a really long knife. It was painful to watch, in both style and form—but also because Vargo wasn’t aiming to score a point. He was trying to tear into his opponent’s softer bits to make him bleed.

Which meant that sooner or later, he was going to lose. And either Vargo preferred to lose dirty rather than clean, or his river rat instincts overwhelmed his pretense at civility.

He’d gotten in too close to make good use of the longer blade. Hooking Gaetaro’s foot from beneath him might have been borderline legal—easy to pass that off as simple footwork—but Vargo kicked the man’s knee out instead.

Grey had just enough time to swear again before the rest of the Essunta quartet howled in.

If Renata hadn’t been there, he would have been tempted to leave Vargo to his fate. But she was, and right now, he was an officer of the Vigil. One who would have to answer some very awkward questions if he hurt a pack of delta gentry. Grey aimed to disarm instead, twisting one blade free with a binding parry, getting the second in an arm lock, but that left the third—

It left the third on the ground, with his sword in Alta Renata’s hand. She panted and brushed her hair from her face like she could smooth her genteel mask back into place.

Vargo was in no position to notice. Gaetaro had backed him against a wall, with the point of his blade at Vargo’s throat. “Cheating means you lose,” Gaetaro snarled. “But here’s a mark to make it clear.” A quick flash, and Vargo’s cheekbone bled.

The retaliation was swift: Vargo seized Gaetaro by the ears and slammed his own skull into the man’s nose.

Four delta gentry and the head of a noble house arrested in one go, Grey thought in mixed fury, amusement, and resignation as he flung away the two Essunta swords he’d collected and waded back in. I can’t wait to see Cercel’s face.

Seven Knots, Lower Bank: Fellun 36

This fucking day, Vargo thought sourly as he waited with Varuni and Nikory in an alley behind the Seven Knots labyrinth.

It hadn’t taken long for him to get out of the Aerie. That tight-assed Captain Serrado must have known the arrest wouldn’t stick; he’d just leapt at the chance to inflict a bell’s worth of embarrassment on Vargo before his inevitable release. But on the heels of that farce of a duel with Gaetaro Essunta, and that coming on the heels of the crane sabotage…

He was almost glad his business tonight was dealing with Premyk. Vargo was in a mood to make people bleed.

Even at this hour, Seven Knots was never really quiet. There were always babes yowling the tenements awake, dogs snuffling in the street for scraps, laborers and skiffers and laundresses making their way between work and home. When a plaza went silent, it was a sure bet that something unpleasant was about to happen—and people around here knew better than to be present when it did.

Premyk waited alone in the plaza. Vargo had sent Nikory and a few others to round him up well in advance of this meeting, giving him plenty of time to stew. The greedy ass had decided to throw his lot and two months of aža profits in with the Stretsko knots. By the time Vargo arrived, Premyk had convinced himself he was doomed to die on the spot… which just showed again that he didn’t understand his boss.

Retribution would come later.

For now, Premyk was staked out in the plaza as bait, flanked by two of Vargo’s people. Tserdev would come to take the traitor’s oath and payment, and Vargo would be waiting to take her.

He couldn’t leave this sort of maneuver to his people, no matter how much Vargo would have preferred to spend the sweltering summer night at home under the cooling effects of a numinat and a slab of cold meat for the lump throbbing on his forehead. The scars on his back were beginning to itch under the layers of sweaty brocade. He was losing the fight against the urge to scratch himself bloody in search of relief when Varuni stiffened beside him.

On the far side of the plaza, an older man with iron-grey braids, one ratted into the long tail of the Stretsko, emerged from the shadows.

“Foolish to be out this late, when even Ažerais lies dreaming,” he said in Vraszenian.

After a moment of silence and a surreptitious prod from one of his guards, Premyk blurted, “But Ažerais looks out for fools and children. And w-we are her children.”

The Stretsko man gave a low, two-toned whistle that sounded like the call of a dreamweaver bird. After several tense moments, two others entered the plaza, boots clomping and shoulders hunched under the weight of a covered sedan chair.

“Wh-what’s this?” Premyk’s voice wavered as the bearers set it down. “Tserdev was supposed to take my knot oath herself. That was the arrangement.”

“The boss isn’t stupid, to walk out in the open,” the Stretsko man said. “Half this district wants her netted. Hawks leave the chairs alone.” He approached Premyk, pulling out a braided cord knobbed on two ends with small beads. At this distance and in the dark, Vargo couldn’t tell the colors, but he’d wager they were crimson. He knew a knot bracelet when he saw one.

“Go on,” said the man, holding out the cord for Premyk to take. “Say your words, show your loyalty, and then Tserdev will respond in kind.”

Premyk edged back like the man was holding out a snake. Only the presence of the guards at his back kept him in place. “I…”

“Is there a problem?” The Stretsko’s voice was silk-soft and sure, like he already knew the answer.

Enough of this theatre. Vargo stepped out of the shadowed alleyway. “It seems there is,” he said, approaching the sedan chair. The bearers only managed half a shout each before they slumped into choke holds from Varuni and Nikory. “Premyk’s proven he has all the loyalty of a cat in heat. I thought I might save your boss the trouble of being betrayed the same way he’s betrayed me.”

“En’t no loyalty to be had with cuffs. Not to them, not from them,” the Stretsko man said, shifting into Liganti. He turned to Premyk, as though he had no concern for Vargo’s approach or the fact that he was outnumbered at least five to one. “You should have kept that in mind before betraying the Crimson Eyes, slip-knot.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Premyk wailed. “He didn’t give me a choice!”

“There’s always a choice,” the man said, drawing a knife. Vargo tensed—but instead of turning the blade on any of them, the Stretsko sliced the cord he was holding in half before casting it into Premyk’s face, followed by a glob of spit.

He was disarmed and on the ground a moment later, held kneeling by Premyk’s guards. Vargo pressed the tip of his cane to the man’s sternum. “That was both dramatic and unnecessary.” Then he raised his voice to address the sedan chair and its occupant. “Tserdev, why don’t you come out of there before I have my people drag you out.”

The chuckle that answered him was too low to be Tserdev’s. Vargo had the sinking realization that the Masks were laughing at him, a moment before the chair door opened… and, like a black bird spreading its wings, the Rook stepped out.

Vargo choked twice on his incredulous laugh at the sight of the famous vigilante ducking under the chair’s lintel: first because he thought it was some trick of Tserdev’s, then because he knew it wasn’t. No ordinary hood cast such impenetrable shadows.

“This fucking day,” he muttered, lifting his cane from the Stretsko’s chest, though he wasn’t stupid enough to draw the sword hidden inside. Vargo was no duelist; he’d had proof enough of that this morning. He couldn’t slap down a delta pup with his blade, much less a master like the Rook.

But maybe it didn’t need to come to swords. He dredged up a careless smile. “This is a surprise and an honor. To what do I owe the pleasure? The Rook doesn’t usually trouble himself with knot business.” A few twitches of his fingers silently ordered Varuni and the others to be ready in case his bullshitting failed.

“Knots tangling are usually no business of mine, no,” the Rook said. His voice was resonant and unplaceable. Vargo kept his gaze on the shadow where a face should be, but there were no clues to be had. I hate not knowing who I’m dealing with.

Except he knew enough. Nadežra’s legendary outlaw, who usually only troubled himself with—

“Nobles,” the Rook said, “are a different matter.”

Fuck. All the time Vargo had spent calculating the costs and benefits of gaining a title, and he’d never considered this.

We have a small problem, old man, he thought to the spider he’d sent out to play backup sentry.

::More than one, I fear, and rather large. The Stretsko brought more than just the Rook. They’ve got our people surrounded.::

Double fuck. That left Vargo with Varuni, Nikory, and the two fists set to keep Premyk in line… against the Rook.

Vargo stalled for time. “If I’d known you were so keen to meet, I’d have thrown a ball in your honor and spared you having to deal with Tserdev.” He took a slow step back, two, and the Rook followed.

“Making me compete with all the others who want a piece of you?” The Rook’s blade whispered free of its sheath. “I preferred a more intimate setting for our first dance.”

“Lucky me,” Vargo said, keeping his voice falsely light. “But as flattered as I am by the attention, I fear I must decline.”

At his signal, Varuni’s hidden chain whip coiled around the Rook’s ankle and yanked him off balance.

And Vargo fled.

Orostin had bribed the caretaker to leave the back door to the labyrinth unbolted. At least that part of the operation hadn’t gone cocked; it swung open easily, and Vargo bolted it behind him. The Rook would have to scale the wall to come after him—after fighting through the mess outside.

But that was the only thing to go right. Not a moment later, three Stretsko appeared by the gate at the front of the labyrinth.

Vargo crouched, choking up on his cane. Unlike born nobles and their duelists, he didn’t have to follow any rules besides the main one: survive.

The Stretsko eyed the cane warily as they crossed the looping path of the labyrinth toward him. That gave Vargo the distraction he needed to palm a knife with his other hand and flick it into the leftmost rat. He aimed for the gut and got the arm instead, but it was enough to slow the man down as the other two charged.

He wielded his cane like a stick at first, trying to bull his way through. When one of the Stretsko was stupid enough to make a grab for it, Vargo twisted the sword free and cut a deep gash along her forearm. But with three on one, he didn’t have enough room to make good use of the long blade, and then one of the rats locked his arm behind him and—

::Vargo, watch out! There’s someone else here!::

A black shadow leapt from the roof, hooking a Stretsko rat and dragging him to the ground. The muck-fucking Rook, Vargo thought furiously—but it wasn’t.

The newcomer was too slender, her form obviously feminine where the Rook’s was swathed into ambiguity by coat and hood. Overlapping leather plates layered like black petals down her chest and arms. Her dark hair was pinned to her head in a swirl of Vraszenian braids, and a mask of rose-tatted black lace broke the upper part of her face into an obfuscating pattern.

“I know you,” he said, frozen by the realization. “You were at the amphitheatre.”

She’d been one of the people fighting the zlyzen across the lines of the great numinat melting the line between waking and dream. He’d set people to find out more about her, and gotten only children’s tales and wild gossip in return. “You’re—”

A Stretsko arm tightened around his throat before he could say the Black Rose. “Fuck off,” a rough voice snarled in Vargo’s ear, while the man’s other hand hovered ready with a knife.

“What disrespect, using such language in Ažerais’s sanctuary.” Her voice didn’t have the unplaceable quality of the Rook’s. It was melodiously Nadežran, with a thin veil of amusement over cold disapproval. “Wasn’t Indestor’s desecration enough? Or will you commit murder right here on the sacred path?”

She has a point, Vargo wanted to say, but he hadn’t survived this long by turning smartass when a man had a knife at his throat.

::Maybe he’s afraid of spiders—::

Maybe let’s not test that theory? Vargo thought back before Alsius decided to play hero.

“Ažerais don’t give three blinks for the likes of this one. Kinless, gutless, and a cuff. That’s three times worthless,” the Stretsko holding Vargo snarled. But his voice and knife wavered as though the Black Rose’s words had struck home.

“Shed blood here, and it is you who becomes worthless. If he is meant to pay, pattern will bring him to you again.”

The brawl outside couldn’t be over, but inside the labyrinth, everything was quiet. The Stretsko at the Rose’s feet crawled to her friend with the knife in his arm. Helping him stand, she muttered to the one holding Vargo, “Kill him and you bring all his knots down on us. Tserdev has no wish for open war, not yet. Let’s go.”

“Him first,” the Black Rose said, nodding at Vargo. “Then you.”

Vargo had a thousand questions—but he also had a self-preservation streak as wide and deep as the Dežera. And questions could be answered by other means, once he was out of this rats’ nest. He slipped away when his captor’s arm loosened, only pausing when he was at the entrance to the temple. “You have my thanks, Lady Rose.”

Come on, Alsius. Time to go. Plunking a forro into the stone offering box, Vargo saluted them all with his cane.

Then he got the fuck out of Seven Knots.

Seven Knots, Lower Bank: Fellun 36

The old man sweeping the floor had sensibly vanished. Once Vargo had time to escape, Ren let the Stretsko leave. Alone, she blew out a long, slow breath.

One that stopped short when a familiar voice said, “You let Vargo get away. You helped him get away.”

Dust rose where the Rook landed on the edge of the labyrinth, but little sound accompanied it. Only his words, low and steady as a duelist’s blade. Although his sword was sheathed as he circled around the path toward her, that meant little with the Rook.

And she’d just set herself against him.

When she’d made her plan to eavesdrop on Vargo’s confrontation with Tserdev, she hadn’t expected it to be shot awry by the Rook. But one chance lost was another gained: If Vargo believed the Black Rose was willing to aid him, he might try to make use of her.

Assuming the Rook didn’t strike her down for getting in his way.

Ren held up her empty hands in a gesture of peace and spoke in the Black Rose’s voice. “You don’t kill. Do you want other people doing it for you? Not as justice, but one knot tearing another apart? In a labyrinth, no less.” He might not care about that, though. There was no hint that he was Vraszenian, apart from knowing the language. She’d even once thought he could be Leato.

“You could have stopped them without letting him go. But it seems you have other loyalties.” The Rook stepped closer—close enough to attack, if he chose. “I thought you knew what he was. I thought you were different. But I suppose I was wrong about you, Lady Rose.”

The stress on that title was a warning in its own right. He knew who she was. Ren. Arenza. Alta Renata.

Nobles are a different matter, he’d told Vargo. And while her nobility had been a lie before, her recent adoption had made it truth.

“I know what he is,” she said, letting her fury creep into her voice. “What I don’t know is his real aim. He trusts… my other self, but she’s not in a position to see everything he’s doing. If he trusts the Black Rose, too, I get a view into what he does when he isn’t playing at noble life.”

The hood cocked to one side. “So that was your plan? Why you happen to be here tonight? So you can earn Eret Vargo’s trust?” It sounded faintly mocking, but some of the cold anger had left his voice.

She grimaced. “No, I was going to follow Tserdev back to her lair. The ziemetse want to have words with her brother Dmatsos. By the way, thanks for sinking my plans.”

A moment passed in silence, followed by a noise that sounded like… Was he laughing at her?

“It seems we sank each other’s plans,” he said. “Shall we call it a draw, and agree to warn each other in the future?”

His words seemed friendly enough. But Ren couldn’t let herself forget: Whoever was under that hood knew her secret. Knew she was a con artist, not Letilia’s daughter. And becoming a noblewoman had put her among his enemies, just like Vargo. He’d promised not to use the truth against her… but that was before her adoption. If those two things came into conflict, which would prove stronger?

If only she knew his identity. That would be leverage enough to keep her safe. But in the absence of that, she’d have to try another tactic.

“I think we can do better than that,” Ren said. “When I told you Vargo was responsible for Kolya Serrado’s death, you said you work alone. But…” She hesitated, artfully, emphasizing it to make sure her uncertainty wasn’t hidden by her mask.

He’d gone still. “But what?” he asked, all trace of laughter gone.

“I patterned you,” she said, letting the words out in a rush. “It didn’t tell me who you are under there, only confirmed things people already guess at. That you aren’t the first Rook. That it’s passed from person to person. But it also showed me—”

This time the hesitation wasn’t calculated. She could see the tension building in his body, calling forth the same in her own. She should never have started talking—except that he needed to know what she’d seen. Her voice slipped toward Vraszenian cadences, if not its sounds. “I know not what the Rook was created for, not specifically. To fight some kind of poison in this city. But the cards told me you have a chance now to do something about that—something more than what the Rooks before you have done. A chance to end it. Or…”

He knew enough about pattern to guess at her meaning. “Or a chance to fail.”

Forever. If the Rook missed this chance, then whatever he fought against—a corruption that went deeper than the nobility—would win. “I don’t want that to happen,” Ren said, and she didn’t have to fake the tremor in her voice. That reading had shaken her to the bone. “I want to help you stop it. And I bet you anything it has something to do with Derossi Vargo.”

“Vargo.” He turned away from her, and for a moment she thought he might slam his fist into one of the pillars. Instead he leaned against it, the empty shadow of his hood staring at the writhing facade of Šen Kryzet. The Mask of Worms: the same card she’d seen in her patterning of him. “That’s a bet I wouldn’t take,” he said softly. “Nobody rises to power that quickly without something backing them. Not in this city.”

Then the hood turned toward her. “Nobody.”

Did he suspect her? Of what? “The only person backing me is Tess. If she is your corruption, then I have a great many questions.”

He huffed, suspicion draining out of his shoulders and back. “Yes, I’ve spent the better part of two centuries fighting against the terror that is Ganllechyn seamstresses.”

“You haven’t seen what she’s like when sewing. The terror is more real than you think.” Her reply seemed to come out on its own, carried by the relief of that tension passing. What do I call him? “Rook” seemed too direct. It was a title, not a name. She opted for no name at all. “I can help you. With Vargo, and with—whatever it is you’re fighting.”

That was a less-than-subtle invitation for him to explain, but he didn’t take the bait. “In return for what?”

She hadn’t thought that far. Normally she would have had the whole thing planned: offers and counteroffers, points of concession and demand. This time her only thought had been to help. But how plausible would that be, coming from her?

“Revenge,” she said at last. “Vargo… he made me trust him. I thought I could read him, and he used that to make me believe he saw me as a friend. Not a tool to further his schemes. I want him to pay for that.”

“It seems Eret Vargo has many debts coming due. I’ll keep your offer in mind—and endeavor not to get on your bad side.” The Rook backed away and unbolted the rear door of the labyrinth. “If you have need of me, you can leave a message on your balcony. Sleep well, Lady Rose.”

And with a nod, he vanished.