5
The Peacock’s Web
Upper and Lower Bank: Summer Solstice
The Traementis kitchens were usually bustling at noon, but with Altas Renata and Giuna out for the day and Era Traementis taking nothing but broth and bread in her room, Colbrin had declared a similarly spare meal for the servants. Nobody complained, as half the staff had been given the night and the next morning off and would be gorging themselves on solstice festival fare, celebrating the New Year. The other half were still recovering from their freedom the night before.
But they’d gathered at the changing of shifts to exchange gossip. Sitting in the chair she’d claimed, Tess sipped her broth and let the liquid and the company warm her. In Nadežra or in Ganllech, in Westbridge or the Pearls, the kitchen was the heart of every home.
Her cheer cooled like a hearth banked as she thought of Westbridge. Uncomfortable as it had been, at least there Tess could be with her sister.
“What’s that frown for?” asked Suilis, poking a plump finger at the furrow between Tess’s brows. The Nadežran girl had been hired to see to Donaia and Giuna after the Traementis fortunes improved. She was round, cheerful, and a comfort to have in the house, with them both being so new.
Also terribly nosy and much too observant. Tess had to constantly remind herself to be on guard. She shook off her frown and gave Suilis a happy smile. “Only thinking of the crowds.”
“Worried you won’t find a quiet corner to share with your sweetheart? You’re off to see him tonight, right?”
Tess’s grip on her bowl tightened. She’d almost managed to forget about Pavlin and their meeting at Nightpeace Gardens last month. She’d only shared the details with Ren. How did Suilis know? “I—I don’t have a—”
“Come off it, now. Sure, he may look like he crawled out of the rookeries, but what’s a rough face to a sweet disposition?” Suilis sighed in happy jealousy. “And those shoulders…”
Panic sputtering, Tess said, “Sedge?” Suilis knew Ren was sending Tess to see him?
Then the rest of Suilis’s words hit her. Sweetheart. Sweet disposition. Shoulders. Tess stifled a groan with the last sip of broth. What had she been thinking, to leave that gossip unchecked? And yet, it was safer than any of the truths Tess daren’t tell. She was off to see Sedge; this would keep anyone from questioning why.
She dredged up a grin. “He does have nice shoulders.” Like Ren always said: Speak the truth and let others fill in the lie.
Suilis giggled and leaned close. “Hope you’ve got a contraceptive numinat,” she whispered, patting Tess’s stomach where the slight bump of her new navel ring was hidden under layers of skirts. “That one could father children with a look.”
He’s my brother, you—Groaning, Tess pressed her brow to her empty bowl and prayed to the Maiden to save her from Suilis’s curiosity.
Thankfully, Colbrin gave them their leave soon after, even passing out paper masks and pouches of coin as New Year’s gifts. House Traementis was still frugal by noble standards, but Donaia had insisted—without any prompting from Renata—that the staff who remained loyal through their impoverishment should enjoy their new enrichment. She said they were “family as much as anyone in the register.” A nice sentiment, if laughable from a woman who never emptied her own chamber pot.
Avoiding speculative looks and knowing grins from the other servants, Tess headed for Westbridge and the ostretta that had become her meeting spot with Sedge since their reunion.
Sedge was already waiting outside when she arrived, but so was what seemed like every other resident of the district. And no few of them seemed to be trying their luck with him, his broad shoulders attracting almost as much interest as his scars and scowl warned off.
His frown cleared when he spotted Tess fighting the current of the crowd. He mouthed a question she couldn’t hear, but she knew well enough to guess he was asking after Ren. Rather than shout their business over the noise, she gestured for him to follow her. Even if they could squeeze into the ostretta, their usual alcove would be taken.
Sedge was very useful for bulling his way through crowds. Wrapping a long arm around her shoulders, he forged a path for them both, in search of someplace quiet and safe.
Ironically, they ended up sitting on the retaining wall of the canal behind the townhouse where Ren and Tess had squatted for almost a year. The damage had been repaired, but the windows were dark. “I suppose they’ve not found a new tenant,” Tess mused, eating fried river oysters off a skewer. She accepted the elderflower wine Sedge passed her and took a swig from the bottle. It chased the oily weight of the oyster with the sweet warmth of a summer rain.
He waved the bottle away when she offered it back, then sprawled along the wall with his head resting on her thigh. “Wouldn’t know. En’t like Vargo or the Spiders are sharing their secrets with me no more.” He scratched at the pale stripe on his wrist.
Setting the bottle aside, Tess tangled her fingers in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. “I wish it were easy to be sorry. But after what he did to Ren, and thinking about those zlyzen attacking her at the amphitheatre—”
“I don’t regret it.” Pressing into her hand, Sedge sighed. “Well, I do. But I wouldn’t choose different if I had to again.”
His words doubled the weight of what Ren had asked her to do. Tess was that tempted to drown it with another swig of wine. To forget everything and drag Sedge back to the solstice revels for some dancing and more oysters… but it wasn’t her choice to make. It was his.
“What if there were a way to get back in grace with Vargo?”
Sedge’s snort was louder than her soft question. “I left him to get shredded by the zlyzen. Not even Ren’s tongue is silver enough to buy his forgiveness for that.”
“Not her tongue, no. But the news she got from the Stadnem Anduske, maybe.”
Sedge caught her wrist and pulled her hand from his hair, sitting up. “What news?” And then, because they all knew each other too well: “What game is Ren running now?”
Tess passed along their sister’s explanations. That Vargo’s ennoblement had sparked a war among the Lower Bank gangs, and he was losing people. That the ousted leader of the Anduske was looking for an ally, and hoped he might find one in Vargo. That tonight the Stretsko were going to use the solstice revels to attack Vargo in his own home in Eastbridge.
Sedge’s jaw tightened. “And if I take this to Vargo, Ren’s hoping he’ll welcome me back into the Spiders. So I can spy on him for her.”
Put like that, it sounded cold. Especially when Ren had sent Tess to make the request rather than do it herself. Tess opened her mouth to assure Sedge that wasn’t the case, but he pressed three fingers to her lips.
“It’s fine. Makes sense. He’s up to something, and we need to know what. And maybe if I’m there, I can protect the other Fog Spiders from whatever he’s up to. My oaths were to them anyways, not Vargo.”
“You’ll do it, then?” She let Sedge help her down off the wall, only stumbling a little when the ground rolled beneath her feet. Maybe broth and an oyster skewer weren’t enough cushion for the amount of wine she’d drunk.
Sedge glanced at the sky, cloudless and blue, the sun making its slow way toward the horizon. “Better do it now if they’re coming tonight. You’ll be all right alone?”
Tess nodded and pushed him ahead of her. “I can see to myself.” Her cheeks were warm, and she was feeling bold. She waved Sedge off one way, then pulled down her mask and set off in the other direction with a determined step and a half-full bottle of elderflower wine.
It was the New Year, a time for new beginnings. And time for her to prove to Nadežra and to herself that she didn’t need a false sweetheart to find true happiness.
Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Summer Solstice
Gazing out over the streams of gaily dressed delta gentry and merchants swirling through the streets and plazas of the Pearls, Ren thought, Never let it be said this city passes up a chance to celebrate.
The chill fogs of Veiled Waters had vanished like a dream. In the Vraszenian calendar, which followed the moons, the New Year had come and gone. But why have one festival when the people of Nadežra could have two? In the solar Seterin calendar, these five days around the solstice were the turning point of the year: a moment outside of time, cutting the month of Colbrilun in half. And while Donaia claimed it was supposed to be an occasion for contemplation and austerity, Ren had never seen any sign of that.
Instead the streets filled with stalls selling food, flowers, trinkets, and more. The masks people wore were paper or lightweight fabric sculpted by wire, made for burning when the five intercalary days were over. Everyone strolled arm in arm, disputes laid aside until time resumed its usual pace—at least in theory. She’d already seen a petty shoving match on one of the bridges that led off the Isla Traementis, when a wandering seller of lemon ice refused to step aside for a man with a cart of honey-drizzled rice balls. The heat was making everyone irritable.
And it was making Renata impatient. Wait in Traementis Plaza, Tanaquis had said. She wore the stitched numinat on her sleeve, as instructed, and the nearest clock tower had rung out tenth sun nearly a bell ago, but there was no sign of anything happening.
The question made Renata jump. Was this what Tanaquis had told her to wait for?
No. It was an ordinary flower seller, one of a thousand crisscrossing the city hawking the beautiful violet roses named for Ažerais. They bloomed in the aftermath of Veiled Waters, and Ren would have loved to buy one. What stayed her hand wasn’t a lack of money; it was the ever-present awareness that she had to remain in persona all the time now. Renata could buy the flower seller’s whole cart… but the Vraszenian tradition was a reminder Ren’s heart couldn’t afford.
“No, thank you,” she said, and resolutely turned away as the flower seller moved on.
The next person to approach her was a man, judging by his build, and gentry or better, judging by the fine goldenrod fabric of his coat. He wore a full mask—a blank face with only shadowed eyes staring out and a narrow slit cutting across the lips, entirely out of keeping with the style of the festival.
“Are you the one I’m waiting for?” Renata asked.
By way of answer, he held out another mask. This one, like his, was shaped like a full face of plain white—but mute and blind. It had no holes cut for the mouth or the eyes.
Her pulse quickened. “You—want me to put that on?”
His hand didn’t waver.
Tanaquis invited you to this. She isn’t the sort to play games. Tanaquis, who said this might help with uncovering the origins of the Traementis curse.
Trying not to show her apprehension, Renata accepted the mask and slid it over her head.
The man took her hand and led her forward at a slow pace. Ren’s breath came hot and damp against the inside of the mask; she was almost glad the lack of eyeholes meant he couldn’t see her fear. She hated this already, with every bone in her body—walking blind, trusting a total stranger to guide her. Then she heard the slosh of water, and the hands guided her down into a splinter-boat; she fumbled for the nearest bench, found it, and sat. A moment later the boat rocked into motion.
You’re not in the box. Mettore is dead.
Clutching the edge of the bench so hard her knuckles ached, Ren prayed that Tanaquis would not steer her wrong.
Floodwatch, Upper Bank: Summer Solstice
Even hearing the sounds of celebration from the Upper and Lower Banks made Giuna feel guilty, as if she were betraying Leato by not sitting at home with her grief.
Your life shouldn’t stop for me, minnow. She could imagine his voice as if he sat next to her, and she swallowed down the lump in her throat. Especially not when the family needs you. Donaia was at home, and Renata was busy with Meda Fienola; someone had to take care of house business.
“Thank you again,” she said to Sibiliat as the skiffer poled them upriver toward Floodwatch. “For all your help.” House Traementis’s social dealings had been curtailed for too long; they benefited greatly from Sibiliat’s evaluation of their adoption candidates. She’d even offered to accompany Giuna today, using the excuse of the solstice to visit some of those candidates and see how they interacted with their current families.
The way Sibiliat draped herself over Giuna from behind, her magnolia perfume warming the air between them, made Giuna feel eight kinds of awkward at once. Was Sibiliat truly serious about her flirtation? Or was this simply a game for her, a pleasant diversion not meant to last?
“Help like this is what House Acrenix is for,” Sibiliat answered, her breath tickling Giuna’s ear. “We’re everybody’s friend.”
“Everybody’s friend but Renata’s,” Giuna said, before she could stop herself.
Sibiliat drew back, taking her warmth and smile with her. There was a facade of amity between those two, but Giuna could always hear the barbs underneath each comment. Sibiliat hadn’t forgiven the deception over Renata’s finances… or the way Renata had displaced her as the center of young noble life.
Giuna expected a catty response. Instead, Sibiliat’s reply was barely audible over the rush of the river and the noise of the celebrations. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.” Her half-sun mask ended at her cheekbones; it didn’t hide the press of her lips. “I just still worry that there’s more to your cousin’s story than she admits. That she may not have your best interests at heart.”
“Don’t judge what you don’t understand,” Giuna said firmly. “Renata may not show her true face to the world, but that’s just her way of being strong. She blames herself for Leato’s death, and she nearly died when she couldn’t sleep after the Night of Hells. And she kept us all brave when we found out about the curse.”
She was grasping at any argument to soften Sibiliat’s suspicion, and only realized what she’d said when Sibiliat’s attention sharpened. “Curse? What curse?”
Giuna clapped her hands over her mouth as though that could catch the words already escaped. But perhaps knowing what they’d been through together would help Sibiliat understand why Giuna had forgiven Renata for misleading them.
Lowering her hands and voice, Giuna said, “It’s what took Leato. And every cousin in our register since before I was born. It would have taken Mother and me as well, if Renata hadn’t put a stop to it.”
Sibiliat’s eyes went wide. “Renata? I didn’t think she had any skill with numinatria. How—”
“I… shouldn’t speak of it.” Giuna straightened her gloves, avoiding Sibiliat’s gaze. She’d already said more than Renata or her mother would be comfortable with.
After a moment, Sibiliat reached out and took one of those hands in her own. “Never mind. It’s enough that you’re safe now.”
“Don’t tell,” Giuna said, scrambling to undo the damage from her loose tongue. “If anyone hears of this, they’ll scorch parchment rather than let themselves be inscribed into our register. Our reputation can’t take that blow right now.”
Sibiliat delivered a swift kiss to her gloved fingertips, then released her hand. “Of course not. If the curse was as old as you say… Doesn’t your mother always say Letilia took the Traementis luck with her when she left? Perhaps Renata brought it back.”
Giuna shivered as the heavy shadow of the Floodwatch Bridge fell over the skiff. The collapse of the previous bridge happened before Letilia left. Had the curse taken hold of them even then? Or was it just the result of her grandfather’s grasping ways?
Tucking Giuna at her side as though the summer night carried a chill, Sibiliat said, “I’ll try to be… not kinder. She’d mistrust that, and I couldn’t manage it anyway. But I’ll do my best to find an equilibrium. For you.”
“Why do I feel like I just did Renata a grave disservice?” Giuna asked dryly, and fought a pleased smile when Sibiliat laughed.
They disembarked on the Upper Bank side of Floodwatch and made their way to the Scurezza townhouse. Giuna was arriving early—the house parties wouldn’t truly get going until full dark—but her list of targets tonight was long enough to require a head start.
The Scurezza footman bowed in greeting. “The family are still at dinner, but Meda Scurezza is expecting you. If you’ll follow me?”
Giuna straightened her mask of iridescent green hummingswift feathers and trailed after the footman as he led them toward the dining room. He opened the door with another bow—and the scene inside froze them all where they stood.
Members of the Scurezza family lay twisted in their chairs or sprawled across the table. The stench of vomit and worse billowed out, and dishes had been knocked onto the rug. Coevis, the cousin who’d applied to join House Traementis, was nearest the door. She had fallen from her chair and lay open-eyed on the floor.
No one moved except Meda Quaniet Scurezza.
She sat at the head of the table, one manicured hand gathering small brown nuts from a dish. The crunch of her teeth on them was the only sound in the world.
Quaniet drew in a strained, rasping breath, but the smile she directed at Giuna was serene. “Now they’ll never leave. We’ll be a family forever.”
Giuna’s mask tumbled from her head as she clamped her hands over her mouth, trying to keep everything inside. She didn’t realize she’d bolted until she was on the front step, heaving the contents of her stomach into the street. A moment later Sibiliat was there, her hand rubbing soothing circles into Giuna’s back. She’d removed her gloves, and used the soft cotton of one to dab the sweat from Giuna’s brow and the bile from her lips.
“Little bird,” Sibiliat said, her voice full of horror. “I’m—I don’t even know what to say.”
“Hawks,” Giuna whispered. “We need to call the hawks.”
“I sent the footman. Will you be all right if I leave you here?”
Giuna nodded like a puppet, and the warmth on her back went away. Only as the sweat chilled to ice did she wonder why Sibiliat had gone back inside.
Maybe some of them are still alive.
She forced herself to her feet. Sibiliat might seem sharp and hard, but it was the hardness of glass. It could be chipped. Even shattered. Giuna couldn’t leave Sibiliat to face that nightmare alone.
Back inside the room of death, Quaniet had slumped forward, a few nuts still clutched in her limp hand. At first Giuna thought Sibiliat had gone somewhere else. But then she saw her friend crawling out from under the dining room table with something in her palm. A smooth violet circle, like a numinatrian focus, though it wasn’t etched with any divine sigil that Giuna could see. The rug, as in many fashionable dining rooms, was woven with a Noctat numinat, to heighten the pleasures of eating and drinking.
Sibiliat saw her in the doorway and pocketed the focus. Giuna’s discarded mask dangled from her wrist. Grimly, she said, “I think Quaniet wanted to make sure everyone would eat their dessert.”
The bowls of nuts. One for every diner, most of them empty.
“Careful!” Giuna yelped as Sibiliat tipped a few into her clean glove.
“I am. One of our apothecaries should be able to say if these were the cause.” As she headed for the door, Sibiliat’s shoe came down with a wet, squelching sound in the puddle of vomit and blood next to Coevis’s head. She staggered to one side, clapping one hand over her mouth. Through her fingers, she moaned, “Oh Lumen—”
The glass was cracking. Giuna helped Sibiliat back to the street, where all the household staff had fled and a crowd was gathering, and sacrificed her own gloves to tend to Sibiliat’s delayed reaction.
Now Meda Scurezza’s words sank in. Giuna whispered, “She wanted them to stay a family. Coevis talking about joining us…” Tears burned in her eyes. “Is this our fault?”
Sibiliat gripped her hand, strong enough to ache. “No, little bird. This—this wasn’t normal. Quaniet went mad. Anyone who blames you for that will face me in a duel.”
It didn’t make the sickness go away. But Giuna held on to Sibiliat’s bare fingers until the hawks came.
Froghole, Lower Bank: Summer Solstice
With Tess’s warnings driving his pace, Sedge skiff-hopped up the river to the Fog Spiders’ den in Froghole. He chafed the bare spot on his wrist where his knot bracelet used to sit, still paler than the rest of his skin after years of being hidden from the sun. Vulnerable, just like him.
Now Ren’s got me walking into the center of the web. But he couldn’t blame her. He was the one who’d chosen blood bonds over knot oaths. And Vargo hadn’t had him killed for it, which not many bosses would grant.
That gave Sedge hope that Vargo might listen to the warning, rather than having him beaten away from the door.
Of course, first he had to get past the door. Which got off to a good start when it opened to reveal Lurets. “Hey,” Sedge said, keeping his voice low. Lurets was as friendly a face as he could hope for, but others in the building wouldn’t be as soft. “Nikory in? Got news Vargo’ll want to hear.”
He didn’t keep his voice low enough. Or maybe there were some street kids keeping watch, and they’d warned the Spiders he was coming. Sedge’s hope shriveled—along with his balls—when Lurets unceremoniously vanished from the doorway to be replaced by Varuni.
She’d been even more pissed than Nikory when Sedge brought Vargo back shredded and near dead during Veiled Waters—blaming herself for not being at Vargo’s back; blaming Sedge for not guarding it like she would’ve. Her face now was polished teak, smoothed of all expression. She eyed him like she was planning how to make one of her chain whips out of his spine.
But Sedge was in it and couldn’t back out, so he rolled his shoulders, prepared for a fight. “Hey, Varuni. Brought some news for Vargo’s ears.”
“I don’t think there’s anything he wants to hear from you.”
“Why don’t you let him be the judge of that,” Sedge said, knowing it for another mistake as soon as the words were out. You didn’t get past Varuni by slamming yourself against her.
He couldn’t do this his way. Faces help him, he had to do this Ren’s way.
Sedge let his shoulders slump, let the belligerence drain off. Let a little of his loneliness show. He might be here for complicated reasons, but at the core of it was a truth. “Look, I en’t stupid. I know it’s asking for a beating or worse to show my face. You think I’d be here if it wasn’t important?”
Varuni knew Sedge. Some people would be stupid enough to come back and beg, but he wasn’t one of them. She studied him for a long moment, then hauled him inside and slammed the door. It wasn’t a welcome; it was her not wanting Vargo’s business shouted out on the street. “Give your news to me. I’ll decide whether he needs to hear it.” Or whether you need a swim in the nearest canal, the set of her jaw said.
It wasn’t good enough, but with time running short, it would have to be. “Remember that patterner I brought for Vargo? Turns out she’s with the Stadnem Anduske—the ones who tried to call off the bombing. That Andrejek fellow. And she gave me a warning to pass on.”
Varuni shifted. Interested, but not entirely hooked. “Why you?”
“Because she thinks I’m still with Vargo. Andrejek says he din’t cut his knot, and he wants an alliance against the oath-breaking bastards who claim he did—bastards who’re in with the Stretsko gangs. The szorsa sent me to tell Vargo that they’re planning an attack on him. Tonight.”
Ren was running a hell of a risk, having him name Arenza as his source. Sedge still felt like he’d eaten bad dumplings when he remembered taking Ren to see Vargo—Ren, half-insane with lack of sleep, and trying to lie to Vargo’s face. She’d survived… but she’d also made Vargo interested in her, and now Sedge was reminding him she existed. If the payoff was getting Sedge back into Vargo’s good graces, though—well, he hoped it would be worth it.
Varuni’s skeptical gaze swept toward the inner door that led to the rest of the building. It was closed, but there would be people listening on the far side. “Here? Let them try.”
“Not here. His townhouse.”
That just made her raise the other brow. “And how do they plan on getting enough people there to do any damage? Caerulet’s got hawks on the Sunrise Bridge, keeping the riffraff out.”
“The skiffers. Half of them are rats, after all. And en’t Vargo’s place just off the main canal? Easy enough to pole in and away without stirring up the hawks.” Sedge leaned forward, daring to catch her wrist. Surprisingly, she let him. “At least tell Vargo. I don’t think the Stretsko plan on killing him, but they won’t hold back if they get a chance, neither.”
The tension in her arm told him to let go before he regretted it. But the anger wasn’t directed at him.
“Lurets!”
Varuni’s bellow knocked Sedge back a step, just in case she was calling Lurets to drive him off, rather than dirtying her own boot. When the inner door swung open, though, Varuni began giving a clipped series of commands—the kinds of orders Sedge used to take, not that long ago. Muster fists to watch the house on the Isla Čaprila, get various crews watching the river landings near Stretsko home turf. Fetch a couple of pigeons that had been trained to fly to a coop on Vargo’s roof, so the people there would have warning when the Stretsko moved.
Sedge heard what she didn’t say. At no point did she tell anybody to take word to Vargo. Which meant Vargo was busy somewhere else—alone.
No wonder Varuni was pissed.
Sedge stayed where he was, keeping clear of the people hopping to follow Varuni’s orders, but the den wasn’t a place for someone with nothing to do. And it was hard, knowing that he used to have a role in this well-ordered bustle. Harder still when some of his fellow Fog Spiders cast him unreadable looks, making him feel even more the outsider.
He reached for the door before the tightness in his chest made him do something stupid. Like offer to help. Or cry.
Varuni’s harsh voice nailed him in place. “The fuck you think you’re going?”
His skin pricked, and he couldn’t say if it was fear or relief. Sedge thumbed at the door. “Just figured I’d keep out of your way.”
“Drop this on us and then scurry off? Not likely. If you did this to distract us, I want you where I can find you.”
Fuck. Now his fate hung on the quality of Ren’s information. And while Sedge trusted his sister, that didn’t extend to the Stadnem Anduske or the Stretsko.
Let’s hope all these preparations don’t send them into their holes, he thought, and followed Varuni to meet his fate.
Isla Čaprila, Eastbridge: Summer Solstice
Night in Eastbridge was a bright affair, especially during the festive intercalary days when the plazas thronged with those who had wealth enough to be bored, but not enough to own one of the villas out in the bay. The crowds were restless; the patrolling hawks were kept busy putting down minor arguments before they could become brawls.
But the brighter the night, the darker the shadows. The Rook hid in one of those, under a domed cupola where a pair of dreamweavers had made their nest. Quiet enough to leave them undisturbed… and to avoid notice from Vargo’s fists, gathering along the canal backing his townhouse. The birds only roused when several skiffs bumped up to the wall and dislodged a score of people proudly displaying the red-knotted wristbands of the Stretsko.
The ensuing scuffle was brutal, but too far from the noisy plazas to attract official notice. Vargo’s second-in-command led the defense, lashing about with that chained menace of hers with a fury that made the Rook’s ankle and wrist twinge in sympathy.
The fight along the canal made an excellent distraction, just as Ren had suggested. It would have been nice if she’d given him more advance warning… but to be fair, he didn’t check her balcony for notes on a nightly basis, either. If they were going to work together, he might need to change that.
And give her more opportunities to catch you?
That was both the Rook and Grey’s own natural wariness talking. Setting that debate aside for later, he jumped across the small gap between houses, then jimmied an upper window open while dangling over the edge of the roof. A bit of oil helped it open quietly.
Or so he’d hoped—but a high whistle rose up when the pane slid along its track. A flick of his knife broke the lines of the numinat painted on the inside of the sill and left the Rook with a stinging hand from the shock of power improperly disrupted. A glance down at the brawl confirmed that they were too busy pummeling each other to have heard it. The Rook slipped through the window and closed it softly behind him.
He remained where he was, surveying the room before taking another step. It was a remarkably well-stocked library, but not one designed for comfort; the close-packed shelves left no room for a chair. A quick scan showed him countless works on numinatria, astrology, mathematics, trade, but no obvious traps lying in wait.
If I were Derossi Vargo, where would I keep the source of my power?
Through an adjoining door he found Vargo’s study and made quick work of the desk and shelves. He glanced into the room beyond—a bedroom decked out in luxuriant decadence—and checked the thickness of the separating wall to confirm that there wasn’t a secret compartment hidden between. A spot of clashing color among the pillows drew his attention, but it was only Vargo’s pet spider running loose.
Jerking back, he shut the door. The venom of a king peacock was supposed to be remarkably painful. And while the Rook could deal with pain, a bite from a spider that oversized would be a pure distillation of agony.
He committed to a more thorough search of the study, not bothering to hide his visit—why waste the time when he’d already broken the window numinat? Let Vargo think the Stretsko got in. The desk locks eventually yielded to his picks, but a quick perusal of the papers produced nothing incriminating, and a knock on the backs and bases of the drawers proved them solid.
Most of the study was given over to an open space inlaid with a blank spira aurea of rainbow prismatium. The slate flooring was dusty with chalk residue, and showed no sign of hidden spaces beneath. Inscription tools filled the cabinets along the wall: a silver basin and ewer for ritual cleansing, a bucket of broken colored chalks, compasses and calipers as small as the Rook’s finger and as long as his leg, waxy chops and blank plugs for foci. Organized clutter that spoke of frequent use.
The dwindling sounds of fighting reminded him that his time was finite. Only centuries of enduring failure kept him from kicking over one of the cabinets in frustration. Coming here had been a slim hope built on an even slimmer one: that Vargo’s rise was due to supernatural influence, and that he kept the source of that influence somewhere obvious enough to find in a mere bell of searching.
There were ten medallions in Nadežra—ten sources of power, of the poison that tainted everyone who touched them. In two hundred years, the Rook had been lucky to stumble across one every few decades. Never for long, and never with any success at destroying them. He’d hoped that with Vargo, he’d finally found the key.
If so, the man knew better than to keep that key here.
The Rook was backing toward the open window, sweeping his gaze over the room one last time, when something odd caught his eye.
Everything in Vargo’s study was beautiful, to be sure, but it all had a use. From the thick curtains to the numinatrian tools to the books on the shelves, there was nothing that didn’t have function as well as form. No art on the walls, no quirky Dusk Road oddities gathering memories and dust.
So why would a man so obviously impatient with useless things keep a plinth in the corner with a plaster bust of some Seterin philosopher?
One shattered head later, the Rook found the storebox hidden in the top of the plinth.
Anything this carefully concealed would be protected. He spied the numinat buried amid the carvings before he opened the box. The memories that lingered in the hood weren’t enough to make him a master inscriptor, but it was easy enough to guess at this figure’s purpose; it would torch the contents of the box if not properly disabled.
But the first Rook had known enough inscription to embed it into every piece of the costume. Most simple numinata could be disabled simply by removing the focus. And Grey knew enough woodworking from Kolya to make a chisel of his knife.
Preparing for another sparking backlash, he wedged the point of his blade in place and hammered at the pommel, chipping off the top layer of wood at the middle of the numinat. Something sizzled along his arms, leaving behind the odor of scorched hair—but the magical protection was gone.
The lock was more complex than the ones on the desk. It was also more delicate, though; easy enough to wiggle the point of his knife into the seam between lid and box and force-pry the thing open.
Heat flashed, followed by the smell of burning paper. He threw the contents to the floor, racing to stomp out the flames before everything useful was destroyed.
Lifting the blackened remains of the box, he found the faint inlay of a second numinat on the inside. One that would have been deactivated if he’d used a pick or a key to turn the lock, rather than brute force.
Points for persistence, the Rook thought sourly. He should have known Vargo wouldn’t trust anything important to just two layers of protection.
But Ir Entrelke hadn’t entirely abandoned him. The shell of the box had smothered the flames better than his boots, leaving a few browned remnants of the papers inside. He lifted them carefully. The outside pages were too blackened to read, but the inside ones had only browned at the edges.
The writing was in neat lines and columns, like it had come from a ledger. A ledger of what, the Rook hadn’t the first clue. But there were family names. Locations. A few shorthand notes.
Nespisci & Lucovic, Suncross, Apilun 206, bar fight to bread riots
Isla Ejče, Fellun 207—Cyprilun 210, Omorre Richerso (moneylender, backed by Attravi)
Skiffer strikes—Colbrilun 207, Canilun 208, Similun 208, Equilun 209
Siren’s Folly, Suilun 209, mutiny
Silvain Fiangiolli & Elessni Essunta, Similun 210—fucking (blackmail?)
Yariček (Cut Ears), Apilun 210, broke knot oath, turned evidence to Caerulet (remnants gathered in)
Scurezza, Fellun 211, breaking betrothal contracts
There were other notes—names and dates and places too fragmented to make any sense out of—but the implication was clear enough. Vargo’s interests went well beyond any feud between Indestor and Novrus, and his reach went far beyond the Lower Bank gangs. Hundreds had died in the bread riots. And people still spoke in whispers about the atrocities committed by the crew of the Siren’s Folly.
What other chaos had Vargo been causing—and reaping the benefits of? What other plans of his were now in ashes on his study floor?
And what was his ultimate aim?
Carefully, the Rook tucked the burned pages away in the hopes he could fill the spaces between the fragments later. Giving the room a final glance, he saw the spider had squeezed in somehow; it was on the desk, hiding ineffectively behind the inkstand.
The Rook briefly considered crushing it, but refrained. The spider was innocent.
Its master was not.
Bay of Vraszan: Summer Solstice
Focusing on what clues she could gather helped keep Ren’s panic at bay. From the Pearls the splinter-boat had moved into broader waters—the East Channel—then downriver, because they didn’t pass through the cleansing numinat. The sounds of the festival faded behind them. When the boat stopped, she thought they’d arrived. But hands, more than one pair, transferred her instead to another boat, this one larger. Canvas flapped in the wind, marking this vessel as a sailboat.
The panic clutched tight again. They can’t be selling me into slavery. I’m the Traementis heir now. Even if they know I’m an imposter, they can’t simply make me disappear.
The pitch and roll of the boat increased, giving Ren something new to distract her: nausea. It had wrung her out like a rag the whole way from Nadežra to Ganllech, when she and Tess fled; it had been no kinder on the journey back. The breath-damp air inside her mask threatened to choke her. Ren wrapped her hands around her elbows, gripping hard enough to bruise, and prayed that Tanaquis was right, that this was worth it, that it would be over soon. Masks have mercy, let it be over soon.
A flurry of activity was presumably the boat coming to shore. They hadn’t gone that far—one of the islands in the bay? A noble villa, maybe. Ren almost didn’t care; she was just grateful for solid ground under her feet again, and a hand guiding her up a path and into a building.
The air inside was cool and dry—unusual in summer, but Renata had visited enough nobles’ houses at this point to recognize the feel of a numinat at work. Fresh incense cut through the stagnant air inside her mask, helping to settle her stomach. She tried to gauge from the murmur of voices and the shuffle of feet how big the room was, how many people were in it, but the blind mask and the unknown surroundings were too disorienting, like she was both too close and too far away to know anything.
A touch at the center of her back almost made her reach for the knives hidden in a shawl she wasn’t wearing.
“You’re doing well.” Tanaquis’s voice, low but encouraging. “I know this is unnerving, but it’s a necessary first rite. It will be over soon.”
First rite. Whether Tanaquis meant it to be or not, that was a clue. For one absurd moment, Ren wondered if nobles swore knot bonds like common river rats, but no—this would be something else. Still, it was familiar enough to steady her breathing and her wits. She was Renata, heir to House Traementis, and needed to behave accordingly.
Tanaquis’s hand guided her a short distance, then pressed on her shoulder until she knelt. The floor beneath her was unpadded stone. Small sounds told of other people nearby: How many? Renata couldn’t suppress a flinch when Tanaquis took hold of her wrists and wrapped a cord around them. Not an effective binding—she could easily get out of it if she had to—but she hated this blindness, hated having to trust.
With a brief squeeze to Renata’s shoulder, Tanaquis brushed past her. From a short distance to Renata’s left came a man’s voice, familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to it. “What are—” Someone must have done something, because he didn’t finish the question.
A tense silence fell. The incense, which had seemed so light at first, began to tickle her nose. She breathed slowly and carefully, and even that seemed too loud.
Then someone else spoke. Not anyone she’d ever heard; she would have remembered this voice. Seterin in its accent, resonant and deep, like the tolling of a huge, brazen bell.
“When we see, we do not know.”
Three voices answered. Tanaquis was one; Renata struggled to identify the other two. “So we close our eyes.”
“When we ask, we do not learn.”
“So we close our mouths.”
“When we reach, we do not grasp.”
“So we bind our hands.”
“Ignorance is the path to enlightenment.”
There was no sound of footsteps. Without warning, a heavy hand landed upon Renata’s head, and she jerked at the touch. “First postulant. Do you swear to keep our secrets, to speak to no one of what we do, to protect the mysteries of our sect, upon pain of eternal blindness?”
Fuck you. Her throat was too tight for the words to come out, which was probably a good thing. The rational part of her knew this was theatre, a rite designed to evoke exactly the tension winding her tight. But after everything she’d been through…
Tanaquis had brought her to this so she could find answers about the curse and learn more about pattern. She wouldn’t have done that without good reason.
And besides, Ren had already broken one sacred oath in her life, when she killed Ondrakja. Twice. This one held far less meaning for her, and if she found herself in a position where she had to break it, she already knew what she would do.
“I swear.”
The hand left her head. “Second postulant. Do you swear…”
It was the man who’d started to speak before. He sounded more eager as he swore; did he know more than she did?
The third voice took no effort at all to identify, a baritone she knew all too well. “I swear,” Derossi Vargo said.
“You have taken ignorance into you and made it your own,” the deep, Seterin voice said. “You have passed the first gate and begun your journey down the path of the Illius Praeteri.”
Villa Extaquium, Bay of Vraszan: Summer Solstice
The crash of a gong shattered the air, and light blinded Renata as Tanaquis pulled off her mask.
She and the others knelt in a small, bare room with no windows, likely in the cellar of a house. Before them stood a pale Seterin man, tall and strongly built, his head shaved and his eyes cast in shadow by the lights above. “Greetings,” he said to the three of them. “I am Diomen, your guide.”
Renata blinked away stars while Tanaquis unbound her hands and drew her to her feet. “There,” Tanaquis said briskly. “First step done—I’m afraid there’s more to go, but I think that one’s the worst, don’t you?”
“Tanaquis.” Her name was a warning, but an amused one, and it came from Ghiscolo Acrenix. Renata wasn’t surprised at all to see him at Vargo’s side, as Tanaquis was at hers. The Illius Praeteri: She’d heard that name from him before, in the conversation she’d spied on after he was raised as Caerulet. When he offered to invite Vargo into their ranks.
What is this?
The final postulant proved to be Rimbon Beldipassi, the delta gentleman who owned the exhibition of curiosities she and Leato had visited back in Pavnilun, before everything went wrong. His sponsor was Sureggio, the head of House Extaquium. Beldipassi chafed his wrists and looked nervously at Diomen, who stood as unmoving as a statue. “Eret Diomen? Or altan?”
“I bear the title of Pontifex here, and need no other.”
Somehow, he made that sound chilling. Beldipassi said, “Pontifex, then. What is this? Eret Extaquium hasn’t told me anything.”
“Nor should he.” Diomen still hadn’t shifted, standing with his hands concealed in the opposite sleeves. His stillness was an effective trick, Renata had to admit; it gave him an otherworldly air. “The man at the beginning of his journey cannot see the end. But as you progress, more will be revealed. The three of you have been chosen, not only by your sponsors, but by far greater forces. It is my task to lead you along the path that will reveal the fullness of the blessings you bear.”
He moved at last, lifting one hand to gesture toward the door. “Go now. Celebrate the first of your achievements. I will see you again.”
Renata fought the urge to glance over her shoulder as Sureggio led them upstairs. It would only make her look nervous and uncertain, and anyway, she was confident that such a glance would only show her the Pontifex, hands once more hidden, watching them go. He was too good at this theatricality to ruin it by moving so soon.
Sureggio led them through a cellar and up into what was clearly his bay villa. Over his shoulder, he said, “I insisted we hold the first initiation here so I could offer you refreshments afterward.”
Like his manor in the city, his villa was sumptuously decorated to the point of excess—and Renata didn’t think it was the heat that explained why the servant who brought them a basin of cool water and a stack of napkins was wearing only a loincloth.
Ghiscolo dampened a napkin and gave it to Renata, smiling. “I still remember how I sweated underneath my mask for my first rite, and that took place in late winter.”
“Thank you, Your Mercy.”
“Ghiscolo,” he said. “One of the charms of the Illius Praeteri is that we don’t stand upon rank during our gatherings.”
Vargo helped himself to a napkin. “Outside it, on the other hand…”
“We all swear to keep the secrets of the order,” Ghiscolo said. “Including who is a member. It would be something of a giveaway if we shed the courtesies outside our rituals.”
Vargo unbuttoned his collar so he could mop his neck. There had been a time—it seemed like years ago—when Renata had felt so comfortable around him that she’d even considered taking the irrevocable step of revealing her true identity. Now everything had to be calculated, weighed for what would seem natural. Renata had shown an attraction to him before; he might wonder at its absence. She let her gaze linger for a moment on the open throat of his shirt, where the scar stood out more lividly than usual, before flicking away.
Only to catch Sureggio Extaquium doing the same thing, far more openly.
She wished they were anywhere other than his villa. Hedonism was one thing; the rumors of the excesses he enjoyed out here in the bay were far darker. Slavery was illegal in Nadežra… but Mettore Indestor had once spoken of selling her to Sureggio.
“Speaking of secrets,” Vargo said. A soft ring echoed as he tipped a glass of chilled wine against Tanaquis’s. “You should take more care in the future. I saw you pass the invitation to Renata at Nightpeace Gardens.”
He gave Renata what he must have thought was a charming smile. “I knew what was to come, so I didn’t think you needed a warning. Forgive me?”
Ghiscolo said something, but Ren couldn’t hear it through the roaring in her mind. She fought the desire to smash her glass into his jaw.
Someday, you will scream for what you’ve done. And I will enjoy watching.
Her smile was more than a mask to cover the urge to rip his throat back open. It was a weapon: a way to manipulate him, as he’d manipulated her. “Surprises lose their savor if you see them coming.”
Rimbon Beldipassi joined them, round cheeks flushed and shining. “How did you know, Mas—er… Eret… no. Uh… Derossi?”
Vargo’s smile tightened. “I pay attention.”
Renata sipped her wine. For once it wasn’t Extaquium’s own pressing, thankfully, but she still contrived to look ill, putting one hand against her stomach and setting the glass aside. “Forgive me. I’m afraid the trip out here left me feeling unwell, and I could use some fresh air. Which way to the nearest balcony?”
“I’ll show you,” Tanaquis said.
It was warmer out on the balcony, almost muggy without the cooling numinata. Nadežra was a misty yellow glow in the distance, and on the other side was the black rush of the sea. Tanaquis led Renata to a circle of chaises, their padded benches exuding the salty-sweet aroma of seawater and beach pea.
“I am sorry for the discomfort,” she said, settling at Renata’s side and pressing a cool hand to her brow and cheek. “Usually we hold our activities closer to the city, but it’s always like this when Sureggio decides to sponsor someone. Some members of the Illius Praeteri are more interested in style than they are in the substance.”
“You indicated this might help with the curse,” Renata said, keeping her voice low. “Well, I’ve joined your society. What now?”
Tanaquis hesitated, casting a glance over her shoulder. She actually looked nervous, as though she thought someone might be listening in. “You’ve started the process of joining. There are three Gates of Initiation, of which this is the first. You’ll need to go through two more before you’re a full member of the Praeteri—and before I’m allowed to talk freely.”
Very few things leashed Tanaquis’s tongue. She wasn’t the sort to be impressed by Diomen’s theatrics; if he intimidated her, then there must be more to him than mere showmanship.
Pointing that out wouldn’t do any good, and neither would pressing her to speak. Renata said, “Is there anything you can tell me about the Illius Praeteri? That name…” She let the question dangle, hoping Tanaquis’s pedantic impulses would rescue her. A Seterin noblewoman ought to be able to translate that phrase in her sleep.
Sure enough, Tanaquis wrinkled her nose. “I know. Awful, isn’t it? I’m honestly surprised the Pontifex puts up with such mangled Old Seterin. It’s meant to indicate something like ‘those who go beyond Illi.’ We deal with… some of the deeper secrets of numinatria. Among other things.”
Renata wondered what those “other things” were. Tanaquis clearly found them tedious, which meant they weren’t intellectual in nature. The trappings of ritual, perhaps; Renata knew enough to recognize the term pontifex as meaning “bridge builder,” but more generally, “high priest.” She sighed. “I see. Am I allowed to know who’s a member?”
“You will, but not yet.”
“What about past members? Mettore Indestor?”
“No. I think Ghiscolo was concerned he might try to shut us down, or take us over. But the Praeteri are mostly from delta families and smaller noble houses. The Cinquerat has enough power in this city; seat holders aren’t allowed to be sponsored in.” Tanaquis huffed in annoyance, her breath stirring the hair at Renata’s cheek. “Honestly, Ghiscolo’s elevation has caused quite a fuss. We’ve spent more time arguing about that than anything interesting. Sponsoring Vargo might be his last act as a member.”
That left Renata with another unanswered question, one she couldn’t share with Tanaquis.
If he wasn’t a member, how had Mettore discovered that she was conceived during the Great Dream?
The Praeteri had seemed like a potential lead. Mettore hated Vraszenians; he would never visit a patterner. And Ren had never told Ondrakja—though Ondrakja might have guessed. That was the most likely explanation.
I just wish everyone who could answer that question weren’t dead.
“You told me this first step was the worst,” she said. “What are the others?”
“I won’t be your sponsor for those, though I’ll get you through them as fast as I can. Other members will lead you through the second and third gates—I know several who are eager. For the second, you’ll know who it is when they give you this signal.” She interlaced her fingers, tucking them inside her palms with only the forefingers extended. “After that, you must submit to whatever orders they give you, no matter how absurd they seem.”
“Any orders?” Renata didn’t bother hiding her alarm. “What if they tell me to do something against House Traementis?” Or against Tess. Delta gentry and minor nobles: They would see a mere servant as a natural playing piece in their games.
Tanaquis looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s possible, depending on your sponsor… Oh, don’t worry,” she said, catching Renata’s growing unease. “‘Possible’ isn’t the same as ‘likely.’ I get to pick your next sponsor; I won’t choose someone who hates you. The orders are usually more embarrassing than anything else.” She hesitated, looking like she might say something more, then brushed it away. “I won’t pretend there aren’t challenges farther down the road of initiation—but it’s up to each member how far they want to go.”
How far did Renata want to go? For its own sake, not very. She had no particular interest in numinatria and could guess at the other sorts of things these cuffs got up to in their secret rituals. But she was desperate to discover how the Traementis had gotten cursed—including how she had been caught up in it, when she wasn’t related to the family at all.
And she wanted to know what Vargo was up to. He hadn’t spoken to his spider spirit tonight that she could tell, but with more opportunities to observe, she might learn something.
“Thank you for the warning,” she said, thinking bitterly of Vargo’s words a little while ago. “I breathe more easily when I know what’s coming.”