7

Sleeping Waters

Froghole, Lower Bank: Colbrilun 35

This time Sedge went to see Vargo by invitation. Not a fancy invitation like the ones Ren was buried under these days; just Lurets scuffing cobbles outside Sedge’s Shambles boarding house until his landlady came up and told him to make the visitor shoo before she called the hawks.

They didn’t say nothing on the walk toward the river. Not even complaints about the stinking summer miasma rising thick from the West Channel debris caught and rotting on Froghole’s bend. Just pulled their collars up over their noses until they passed the threshold and into a building kept cool and sweet-smelling by Vargo’s numinata.

Not that Vargo came by Froghole much these days, but the Fog Spiders still reaped some benefits from being the first knot he took over. Magic air freshening was one. Being the unofficial Charterhouse for Vargo’s business was another.

Several of the Spiders were lounging around, cleaning weapons or fingernails or each other’s pockets in games of sixes. But there were also others: Blackrabbit Drifters, Roundabout Boys, and Moon Harpies; the new boss of the Odd Alley Gang after Premyk was fool enough to turn knot-traitor; even what was left of the Cut Ears from Lacewater, who took refuge with Vargo after their knot-traitor boss sold them out to Caerulet. Sedge spotted the colors of every knot that ever tangled with Vargo and lost.

He met them all, stare for stare, as Nikory took over and led Sedge across the room. No chance of fighting them off if Vargo decided he wanted Sedge bloody, but leastwise he could make them think he wasn’t britch-pissing scared of it. Only once they’d entered the back office did Sedge release a shaky breath and let his fists unclench.

Too soon, maybe. The smaller room felt even more crowded than the outer floor, the leaders of all those knots circled around like a damned Vigil inquisition. Vargo sat at the center behind his desk, Varuni at one shoulder, that spider of his perched on the other. He was the only one smiling in a sea of scowls.

Maybe it was the smile, maybe the blatant display of power. Maybe Sedge was sick of knowing he was fucked no matter what he did, and it made him crusty. He spoke before Vargo could set the tone. “Knew you all missed me, but I didn’t expect a big welcome back. You gonna crack out the chrysanthemum wine, too?”

“Got a taste for that among the Stretsko, did you?”

Vargo’s response—soft as silk and sharp as a knife—rocked Sedge back on his heels. “The fuck? I warned you against them.”

“And while my people were conveniently occupied with their assault, the Rook broke into my house.”

This time he went back a full step. “The f—I missed a chance to see the Rook?”

It was a damn fool response to an accusation of treachery, the kind of thing a kid half his age might say. But the twitch of Vargo’s lip told Sedge he might just have saved his own neck. There was no faking that kind of surprise, not unless you were as good a liar as Ren.

Ren. Sedge doubted it was an accident the Rook had shown up during the fight. But she hadn’t told him… and this moment was the reason why.

Which meant his best option was to continue with honesty. Or as much honesty as he could offer. “Whatever.” Sedge slumped, his gaze dropping to the desk. Surly and resentful. “You think what you want, but I just brought you the message from the Anduske. I din’t have nothing to do with the Stretsko. I en’t no knot-traitor.”

“The wounds I took at the amphitheatre say otherwise.”

“Fuck you!” Sedge slammed his fists on the desk to keep from slamming them into Vargo’s face. Everyone in the room shifted closer, ready to stop Sedge if he was stupid enough to attack.

But Sedge didn’t need fists to take Vargo down. Just the truth.

Through his teeth, he growled, “I thought it was more important, stopping folks from frying you every time they stepped on the numinat. Maybe I chose wrong; I en’t no inscriptor. But even if I did, my oaths are to Nikory and the Fog Spiders. You want to tell me how I broke them? Or maybe you want me to explain to everyone how I didn’t.”

Vargo’s eyes went flat. “Out,” he said to the room at large. “Varuni, Nikory, stay. And you.” His gaze didn’t move from Sedge’s.

The other knot leaders obeyed without a sound. By the time the door shut, Sedge had plenty of time to consider whether that might not have been the brightest thing he’d ever done.

But fuck it—that bare spot on his wrist hurt, worse than the lingering ache from the broken bone. Knot members didn’t have to wear their charms all the time, but fists like Sedge usually did, because they wanted people to know who they fought for. Getting cut out when he hadn’t done anything wrong… That heartless bastard weren’t sworn to nobody. He didn’t understand loyalty.

Nikory did, though. They hadn’t ever been friends; knot leaders couldn’t afford friends among their followers. But they’d had a bond. Nikory cared. Sedge suspected he was the reason that beating hadn’t left any permanent injuries.

He didn’t look happy about his mercy now that Vargo’s river-cold glare was turned on him. Nikory muttered, “I’ve never said nothing about us leaders not being sworn to you. Not to my fists. Not to anyone.”

Your secrets are my secrets. Nikory might have cut him out, but that didn’t make Sedge a knot-traitor. And he wasn’t going to let Vargo trip him into becoming one. “I didn’t actually know,” he said, backing Nikory’s lie. “Not for sure. Until just now.”

Real bright, making Vargo think Nikory had just spilled one of his secrets by accident. But it worked, at least for the moment, because the man changed topics abruptly. “You think one warning is enough to get you back in?”

At least this was firmer footing. “I think you might want what the Stadnem Anduske are offering. And you don’t have the time or patience to risk blowing it, getting them to trust someone else as your go-between.”

“Hmmm.” Vargo ran his thumb across his scarred knuckles. His mouth remained still, but Sedge recognized that look. It was the one Vargo got when he was having a conversation with himself.

Or with that spirit Ren said was riding along in the spider.

When Vargo glanced at Nikory, the leader of the Fog Spiders nodded without hesitation. “You’ll set up a meeting,” Vargo told Sedge. “Someplace away from the Stretsko. If the Rook shows up to that, I’ll carve your eyes out and give them to Varuni for sling stones.”

I’ll make sure Ren knows. Sedge saluted like he used to, before he could think better of it. Vargo’s mouth soured, but all he said was “Also, I want to talk to that patterner again. Lenskaya.”

Arenza Lenskaya was supposed to have vanished for good. According to Tess, though, she’d gone back to Grey Serrado’s house to pattern the hawk’s sister. Ren better stop that, or she’s gonna wind up in front of Vargo again. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Vargo left soon after that, taking his spider spirit and a tight-lipped Varuni with him. Which left Sedge alone with Nikory for the first time since his ousting.

“Din’t mean to get you in trouble,” Sedge said, not certain if an apology meant anything when he’d done it anyway.

But Nikory just shrugged. “At least you distracted him into thinking he gave it away.”

Sedge shifted from foot to foot. Then the words burst out of him: “The Rook really broke into his house? You gotta tell me about that.”

Nikory barked a laugh, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Let’s go get a drink.”

Kingfisher and Westbridge: Similun 18

For months after Kolya’s death, Grey had avoided returning to the Gawping Carp, until Leato’s need dragged him back there. Too many memories seasoned into the knotted wood of the bar and tables; too many stories spilled alongside zrel and ale and elderflower wine. He hadn’t wanted to salt that happy ground with tears.

But it felt right to return after Leato’s death, sitting alone at a table with two empty chairs for his ghosts, two empty cups leaving more in the bottle to slosh into his own. He felt older than his years, lonelier now that both his brother and the friend who was almost one had gone ahead of him. And since Leato was Liganti, there wasn’t even the hope that they might meet again. Memory was the only piece of his soul Grey could still touch.

“Better to mourn bad deals and empty pockets,” one of the old gaffers had told Grey on his last visit, replacing the cup in his hand with cards for their eternal game of nytsa. “Leaves your heart open for new friends to come in.”

Those men had loved and lost more in their lifetimes than Grey could fathom. Their advice made him laugh and ponder the possibility of dragging Donaia to Kingfisher—for both their sakes. Did she even know the rules for nytsa? Had her slipper ever touched land on this side of the Sunset Bridge?

He’d carved an hour free and was idly embroidering the notion of abducting her for an afternoon when he ducked through the threshold of the Carp and found the taproom a shambles: tables and chairs overturned, bottles smashed, and the air thick with eye-watering fumes. There was no sign of the old gaffers and other regulars. Only Dvaran, broom in hand and doing his one-armed best to clean up the mess.

Grey hurried forward to help him right a table. By the time it was on its legs, he’d slipped fully into his hawk’s feathers. “What happened here?” he asked, guiding Dvaran to a seat and pouring him a drink from one of the few unbroken bottles. The Gawping Carp wasn’t the sort of place where brawls broke out, but the mess was too extensive for a robbery. It almost looked like a protection hit… but Dvaran paid his dues to the local knot, and Grey wasn’t the sort of Vigil officer to let his constables indulge in side business.

Mopping his brow with the rag usually kept for the bar, Dvaran leaned heavily on his stump and surveyed the damage with a resigned gaze. “Some new knot aiming to take Moon Harpy territory? These wore armbands instead of braids. Black and yellow, like they was wasps.” He tugged on his pinned sleeve. “They said they was looking for Anduske. Took all the old gaffers. Questioning, they said.”

Grey’s fury chilled at Dvaran’s report. Not thieves or gangs. Not even Vigil violence. He hoped this wasn’t what he feared. “Where did they say they were taking them?”

“Didn’t.” Dvaran hefted himself to his feet and dragged his broom with him. “But a few of them said they were going to check a tip in Westbridge.”

That was enough to put Grey into motion, out the door and only a few streets over to the canal that marked the boundary between Kingfisher and Westbridge. Fishing his captain’s hexagram from his pocket, he pinned it to his coat.

It was almost a shameful relief when he heard shouts and the sound of breaking wood, because those noises weren’t coming from where he feared. Whether it had been their initial target or not, Dvaran’s attackers were at a sedan chair workshop, and one of them was systematically splintering the sides of the nearly finished chairs with his boot.

A man Grey recognized all too well.

“Mezzan!” he snapped, swallowing the name that tried to follow. Not Indestor anymore, not since their house register was burned. Touching his pin, Grey said, “By the authority of the Vigil, I arrest you for—”

“For nothing,” Mezzan said. His arrogant sneer was back as if it had never left, and he turned insolently to display a black-and-yellow armband. “I’m a member of the Ordo Apis, carrying out my duty.”

The Ordo Apis—that was Caerulet’s “special force” for dealing with the Anduske, the one Grey had declined to join. Why the hell would a kinless man like Mezzan be accepted into the ranks of the stingers, after the way House Indestor fell?

A familiar, cynical knot tightened in Grey’s chest. You know why. All those genial, reasonable words Ghiscolo Acrenix spoke that day in the Aerie had been a lie. This was just more of the same brutality, in different hands.

And maybe for the same reason. Acrenix had taken over Mettore Indestor’s seat in the Cinquerat. Maybe he’s taken something else, too. Maybe Mezzan used it to buy a new beginning for himself.

That was a question to chew on later, with his hooded friend. Right now, his duty was to the Vigil. “Does carrying out your duty require—”

“What are you doing here, Serrado?” Lud Kaineto appeared from inside the workshop. His haughty face matched his tone, and he took obvious delight in not having to call Grey “Captain” any longer. “You’ve got no grounds to interfere with us. Your district is Kingfisher. Surely even somebody like you is smart enough to see we’re in Westbridge.”

Somebody like you. Kaineto’s hands might be gloved, but his words weren’t. He’d loathed serving under a Vraszenian captain, seeing it as an unforgivable insult to his status as a gentleman. Grey had briefly thought he’d shed a headache when Kaineto left the Vigil for the Ordo Apis. Instead it had only removed the man’s leash.

Keeping his voice level, Grey said, “You damaged a lot of property in Kingfisher. I’m following up.”

Kaineto clapped Mezzan on the shoulder, grinning. “Got a tip that some Anduske might be there. We had to make sure they weren’t hiding.”

Grey’s jaw ached as he bit down on his response. Getting into a pissing contest with Kaineto wouldn’t do any good—not when something else demanded his attention much more urgently.

“I’ll be having words with Commander Cercel about this,” he said.

Kaineto laughed derisively. “Sure, go hide behind her pin. Yours isn’t worth its steel.”

That bit deeper than it should have. But Grey had years of practice in swallowing his fury; he only turned without bowing and strode away.

As soon as he was out of sight, he took measures to make sure nobody was following him. He knew the rooftops of this area nearly as well as its streets, and that gave him a more direct route to his destination. He only dropped to the ground at the Uča Drošnel, slipping his hexagram pin back into his pocket. After one last check to ensure there were no watching eyes, he knocked on the door of a half basement. “Six bees on a pin.”

Ardaš Ljunan was the one who cracked the door, knife in hand. He lowered it when he saw Grey, and swung the door wider in silent welcome.

Idusza rose as he entered. Instead of the usual greeting, Grey said, “Don’t go outside today. The Ordo Apis are hunting Anduske in Westbridge, and you can’t risk them seeing you.”

Andrejek was lying on the narrow bed, rubbing one of Alinka’s ointments into his healing leg. He sat up abruptly. “Do we need to move?”

Grey shook his head. “That just makes it more likely they’ll catch you. I think this place is safe for now—though we’ll need to see if we can find you another hideout later.” He said it as if he had anywhere to send them. Ryvček would have choice words for him if he asked her to shelter Andrejek. And he didn’t know how Ren had set this one up, except that he suspected the answer involved Alta Renata.

He transferred his attention to Idusza, who had picked up a cudgel as if she expected someone to come through the door any moment. “Mezzan is one of them.”

Her grip tightened on the cudgel. She’d clung hard to the belief that her lover truly sided with the Anduske; after that broke, her fury had been frightening. But Idusza was disciplined enough not to seek revenge when it would put her knot at risk.

Grey couldn’t do it for her, either. But he could keep the Anduske safe, at least for today.

“I’ll make sure they don’t head this way,” he said, turning back to the door.

The bed was close enough to the door for Andrejek to lean out and catch Grey’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “May you see the Face and not the Mask.”

“And you,” Grey said, and headed back in the direction of the sedan chair workshop.

The stingers were still there, shouting at the woodwright. Grey’s hands tightened into fists, helpless to stop them. He’d learned in his early days as a constable that intervening would only incite further bullying—a lesson that almost made him quit before he’d even begun. Only the hope that someday he could command enough power to shield others kept him going.

What power he had was useless here. The Ordo Apis was not answerable to the Vigil.

One hand slid into his coat and touched the concealed pocket there. Grey Serrado couldn’t do much to stop the Ordo Apis… but the Rook had always been like red meat to the hawks.

Time to see if he was as useful a distraction for wasps.

Owl’s Fields, Upper Bank: Similun 28

The ritual of the second initiation was thankfully brief. It took place on the outskirts of Nadežra, in a pavilion among the gardens that supplied Nadežra with fresh produce, and Renata wondered if that was Benvanna’s suggestion. The woman’s final act of domination had been to bring her by sedan chair to the livery stables on the edges of Whitesail, where noble houses kept the horses for their carriages, and travelers or hunters rented mounts for going outside the city. House Traementis hadn’t yet bought new riding horses, and Benvanna no doubt believed that ordering Renata to walk while she rode behind on her gelding was absolute torture.

The heat was bad enough to make it unpleasant, certainly. But given that Ren had never sat on a horse in her life, walking was preferable to the alternative.

The second gate proved to be that of submission, as the first had been of ignorance. When the initiation ceremony was over, servants arrived to serve chilled peaches and wine. Vargo shucked formality along with his sleeveless summer coat; his loose shirt hung limp from the heat. Benvanna fanned herself, complaining of the heat; even Tanaquis had loosened the side lacing of her surcoat. The only one who seemed unconcerned was Sibiliat, and Renata wondered why she was there.

Hoping to avoid Diomen, Renata stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and contemplated whether she could simply flee down the lane. Sixteen years out of Seteris or no, the Pontifex was better equipped than most to catch her out in a lie.

Before she made up her mind, he cornered her in the leafy shade of a pea trellis. Hoping to steer the conversation onto a safe footing, she spoke before he could. “Mede Beldipassi couldn’t join us today?”

“He has not yet passed his second trial,” Diomen said coolly. “Apparently his various businesses keep him quite occupied. If he lacks even the dedication to submit at this stage, I question whether he will advance very far.”

Renata sighed ruefully. “Well, that is his reputation. Always beginning things; rarely finishing them. But perhaps—”

“I understand you grew up in Endacium,” Diomen said, cutting her off. He plucked a pod from the trellis and snapped it. Instead of sucking out the peas inside, though, he examined each before letting it fall to the ground uneaten. “I gave a lecture once at the great agora there. It saddens me that no such centers exist here.”

“There’s the Rotunda,” she said, shaking her head when he offered her a pod.

Diomen’s deep voice was well-suited to scorn. “Hardly a center of learning. And Iridet spares only minimal effort to see to the education of the people. When we speak of the gateway of ignorance, it should not be so literal.” The richness of his laugh was an invitation to relax, but his next words sharpened the edge she balanced on. “Who saw to your schooling? As I recall, House Viraudax holds learning in high esteem.”

“A private tutor. I was often sick as a child, so my education was more… irregular than most.”

“And yet by Quinat’s grace, you have blossomed into health. Do not worry. You carry a blessing from the Lumen; as Pontifex, it is my duty to make certain that blessing reaches its full potential. I would be pleased to tutor you privately, and fill any gaps left in your knowledge.”

With anyone else, she would have read uncomfortable innuendo into his offer. With Diomen, the discomfort was of an entirely different flavor. “That’s very generous, Pontifex,” Renata said. “At present I’m afraid I’m busy and then some with House Traementis’s business. But perhaps at some more leisurely point in the future.” Right after the moons sink into the sea.

Before Diomen could press, she smiled and turned back to the chairs set to take advantage of the breezes sweeping inland off the ocean. Two servants had propped the flaps of the pavilion up on poles to create a shade break, and were passing out cups of lemon-flavored ice on trays etched with frosted lines of numinata.

Vargo rose as she approached, offering his seat to Renata. Once again, the spider seemed not to be with him; she’d heard no silent conversations, and his wilted collar couldn’t have hidden a fly. Was there a reason Vargo came to these events alone?

“You seem flushed,” he murmured, passing her his kerchief.

“Who wouldn’t be, in this heat? Sometimes I regret leaving Seteris.”

Sibiliat left off sucking ice from her spoon to say, “I imagine they regret letting you go. But their loss is our gain. Wouldn’t you agree, Derossi?”

“Vargo.” His smile matched Sibiliat’s for sweetness. “But that’s the only point I disagree on.”

“Can we conclude business?” Tanaquis said, pressing her reddening cheeks. “I’d rather not spend tomorrow shedding like Illi’s serpent.”

All eyes went expectantly to Diomen. Renata wondered if his robe was imbued for coolness; he seemed unaffected by the heat. Sliding his hands into the opposite sleeves, he said, “In order to pass the third gate, you must prove your determination to join our ranks as a full member of the Illius Praeteri. There are no orders to obey now; the choice of proof is yours. Choose carefully, though: You must satisfy the judgment of your sponsors.”

With a poisonously sweet smile, Sibiliat waved her closed fan for Renata to come stand in front of her chair, while Benvanna did the same with Vargo. Renata bit down on a curse. Tanaquis’s choice of sponsors for me is getting worse and worse.

Benvanna spoke first. “Derossi Vargo. How deep does your wish to join us run? How will you show me your zeal?”

“I haven’t already shown it?” he asked, smirking at Sibiliat.

Benvanna looked confused, but Renata could read his hidden meaning: his deal with Ghiscolo to take out Mettore Indestor. Had that all been aimed not at a noble title—or not only—but at this? Was access to the Praeteri his true goal all along?

Sibiliat gave him a tiny smile and a shake of her head. “You were ignorant before, remember?”

Like hell he was.

Vargo pressed his lips tight and turned back to Benvanna. “Then how’s this. I understand House Cassiones has just opened a new sickhouse attached to the Quinatium in Dockwall. I’ll offer my services as an inscriptor there for a day, to help improve their imbued medicines. Is that sufficient?”

“A mere day?” Benvanna scoffed. “To do something you already have skill with?”

Vargo’s expression darkened. “I don’t think you understand how much I dislike sickness.”

Sedge had spoken more than once about Vargo’s horror of disease. Renata cleared her throat and said, “I know it isn’t my place to judge whether his offer suffices, but I can vouch for his sincerity. If the test here is to prove our zeal by doing something we’d very much prefer not to, then this would certainly qualify.” And I certainly don’t mind the idea of him suffering a bit.

Benvanna gave Renata a look like she was still sucking on her lemon ice, but then waved a hand and addressed Diomen. “If she says it’s so, it must be true. I’ll accept this as proof of Vargo’s dedication.”

“And what will you offer as proof, Renata?” Sibiliat asked, carving small arcs in the air with her fan. “Fair warning—I’m not as easily convinced as Benvanna.”

An elegant noblewoman like Renata might go slumming for entertainment, but never for real work. “I can’t be useful at a hospital like Vargo, but I presume Nadežra has orphanages. I will—”

“No,” Sibiliat said before Renata could even finish the offer. “Try again.”

She’d proposed her action too readily. This time Renata bit her lip, pretending to think, before she said, “You must have heard that I didn’t fare well on my way to the first initiation. Being out on open water nauseates me. House Traementis lacks a villa now, but—”

Sibiliat stood, putting herself at eye level. “Do better,” she snapped, tapping Renata’s shoulder with the fan. “Or I’ll assume you don’t actually want to join the Praeteri.”

I don’t. Except that Vargo did, and she had to know why. And Tanaquis hovered just at the edge of Renata’s peripheral vision, jittering with impatience or nerves. Tanaquis, who didn’t dare break the secrecy of the Praeteri but thought their secrets were important enough to suffer through all the theatrical preliminaries.

Sibiliat was looking for real fear, real dread. Renata could try to fake that—but if she failed, she might hamstring herself. Ondrakja had always taught her, though, that the truth was a better weapon than any lie.

The swift wetting of her lips was a nervous reflex, allowed through rather than suppressed. “I can’t swim,” Renata said, her voice trembling. “So I will jump in the river.”

The vicious curve of Sibiliat’s smile said she’d finally cut deep enough. “I suggest the Floodwatch Bridge,” she said sweetly. “After all, you are a Traementis.”

The Great Amphitheatre, the Point: Similun 31

Vargo’s attention was divided like a fraying thread. This way the Praeteri; that way the river numinat; and, doing its best to tear the whole thread to pieces, the Stretsko. Tserdev’s fists had started patrolling Seven Knots, hassling or even attacking any Liganti-looking person who wandered in there alone, and the Vigil’s answering crackdown was undercutting several of Vargo’s businesses. Then an ambush while he was busy in Dockwall left half his Moon Harpies bleeding in the streets of Kingfisher.

Now here he was, legs burning as he finished the long climb up the Point and entered the Great Amphitheatre. Would have been nice if we could have arranged this meeting somewhere more convenient.

The last time he’d been in there, the amphitheatre had glowed with the light of the great, twisted numinat that dragged the Wellspring of Ažerais from dream into reality. In comparison, the brightness of Paumillis and Corillis both waxing toward full was as reassuring as daylight… but the memory of what he’d gone through here made the scarred skin of his back crawl.

No monstrous zlyzen lurked in the emptiness, though. The stands echoed back the rush of the Dežera, the call of nesting dreamweaver birds, and, distantly, the hollow bells of the city chiming sixth earth. Midnight.

::I don’t like this,:: Alsius grumbled.

“You and Varuni both.” It had taken a lot of convincing for her to let him enter the amphitheatre alone, especially after Sedge’s failure to protect him last time. She compromised by waiting a shout away, both of them knowing that even that might be too far if this went sour.

Vargo prayed for Quarat’s luck that it wouldn’t go sour.

Arkady had sworn—once he paid her enough to pry the advice out of her jaws—that Vargo had to meet the Black Rose alone and in the Great Amphitheatre, because she was Ažerais’s servant. If he’d had any other route to contacting the masked woman, he might have told the little extortionist where to shove it.

But he had a Vraszenian problem; only made sense to turn to a Vraszenian solution.

Keep the interruptions to a minimum, Vargo said mentally as he tried and failed to resist smoothing his coat of wine-dark errandi silk, stitched with lace roses in honor of his hoped-for guest. I’ll need to think.

::I always do,:: Alsius said. And then, ::She’s here.::

The way Arkady talked, the Black Rose should have risen up out of the stage where it covered the site of the wellspring. Instead she lounged against the back wall, arms crossed and one boot hooked across to rest on its toe. She must have come from backstage, but neither he nor Alsius had seen her enter. He had to grant that it was effective theatre.

“Come to thank me for Seven Knots?” she asked, her voice carrying like that of an actress.

Alsius had spent years drumming into his head that good manners were an effective tool. “Among other things, yes. Thank you. For Seven Knots, and my life.” He swept an arm to encompass the stage where he’d come too close to becoming a corpse. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think your Lady had taken a liking to me.”

“But you do know better?”

As if he had the favor of anything divine. “I think your Lady cares for the peace and well-being of her city.”

“You did help save this place. And bled more than a little in the process. Not exactly what your reputation would lead anyone to expect.”

Vargo shrugged one shoulder. “Only those who aren’t paying attention. The loss of the wellspring would have destabilized Nadežra rather badly. That’s bad for my business. And stopping it has gained me quite a bit. Blood’s not a pretty coin to pay, but everyone has some to spare.”

::You more than most.::

“So it seems,” the Black Rose said, almost as though she’d heard Alsius’s snarky comment. A silence fell, and he fought the urge to break it. He couldn’t read anything past her rose-patterned mask, not at this distance. “You often find multiple ways to profit, don’t you?”

“Life’s too short to do only one thing at a time,” he said dryly.

Arkady claimed the Black Rose was immortal, but since no one had heard of such a person before Veiled Waters, he doubted that. “I asked to meet with you because I think we might have overlapping goals. You know it was the Stretsko who tried to bomb this place. And they didn’t much care how many Vraszenians would be here when it blew.”

“They did try to steer people to the Charterhouse instead,” the Rose said.

::Interesting that she knows that,:: Alsius murmured. ::Since it happened before she supposedly “manifested.”::

Vargo spread his hands. “But when that failed, they went ahead anyway.”

She uncrossed herself and strolled across the stage, hands linked behind her back. Who had made her disguise, and where had they gotten the materials? Alsius, can you recognize anything of what she’s wearing?

::You’d have to get closer for me to see.::

Not much chance of that. The Rose stopped and pivoted to face him, well out of reach. “Your pitch might be more plausible if the cousins of those Stretsko weren’t causing you trouble all over the city. But as it stands, I think you’re trying to recruit me to take care of your personal enemies for you.”

He matched her posture, hands folded behind, leaning in, and raised it with a smile. Charm: another tool Alsius had taught him to use. “Life’s too short to do only one thing at a time.”

::Noble business, knot business, numinat business, Alta Renata, the Praeteri… Why do two things when you can do seven?::

Vargo continued as though he didn’t have a peacock spider providing sardonic commentary. “It’s true, Tserdev and some of the other knots I’m struggling with have tied themselves to Branek’s Anduske.” It was a weird form of flattery: They’d begun copying his model of organization. Or at least what they thought was his model, each knot leader swearing an oath to a central boss. “If you want to focus on the original core of the Anduske, that’s fine by me. I’m only saying that if Ažerais does want revenge, I’d be happy to facilitate.”

“Justice,” the Rose said. “Not revenge.”

Justice is revenge in formal dress, he thought, but he conceded the point with a bow. She was nibbling at the hook, which meant he’d baited it correctly. “The Ordo Apis is after Branek and the Anduske, too. But if you’d prefer them delivered to Vraszenian authorities instead, I have no objection. Don’t much care where they go, as long as it’s away.”

::Downriver, the Depths…::

Vargo pretended to smooth his collar, jabbing his thumb into the spider hiding inside. You’re bloodthirsty tonight.

::I don’t like this place. We almost died here. And we don’t have time to go through such nonsense again.::

Yes. No time for dying. Do you mind if I finish, then?

::Very well.:: Alsius hunched deeper, sulking, while Vargo tried to find the dangling end of his conversation with the Rose.

“I’m not alone in this,” he told her. “The old leadership of the Anduske—the ones who decided not to blow up the amphitheatre—they’ve reached out to me.”

She cocked her head at Vargo. “You would help them?”

Why did he get the impression that pleased her? Whatever the reason, he could use it. “I think Nadežra’s better off with someone in charge of the Anduske who doesn’t want the canals running with blood. And I think you agree.” He hadn’t heard any tales to suggest she was hunting Andrejek. “But one woman—or whatever you are—can only do so much. If we work together, we could do a lot more.”

She stopped and studied him, her expression unreadable behind the black lace. Then: “Do you know where Šidjin Drumaskaya Gulavka is hiding?”

And hooked. “She’s in Staveswater, my people tell me, under the protection of her uncle.” Staveswater, the biggest Stretsko stronghold in all of Nadežra. And Gulavka was one of Branek’s highest lieutenants… as well as the person bringing most of the non-Anduske knots under his control. “You may be Ažerais’s agent in the waking world, but I don’t recommend going in there alone. You’ll need help.”

He didn’t say, my help. If she went another route, he’d lose out on this bid for alliance… but he’d learn something useful from that refusal.

Her jaw didn’t tighten; she gave off no sign of frustration or struggle with her thoughts. She merely said, “Give me a few days. I’ll let Arkady Bones know.”

Vargo glanced ostentatiously around. “If she’s not watching us already.”

“Oh, she isn’t.”

He huffed a laugh. “You sure? How much did you pay her to stay away?”

The Rose, heading for the stage’s exit, paused to cast a mocking smile over her shoulder at him. “Nothing. She doesn’t charge her friends.”

The Great Amphitheatre, the Point: Similun 31

Ren hid backstage until she heard the receding sound of Vargo’s footsteps. Once the amphitheatre was silent, she climbed one of the covered side staircases meant to give performers access to the stands, then surveyed the ranks of benches from above.

Of course she saw nothing. Ren called out, “I hope that was useful.”

“Are you going to work with him?”

The voice came not from in front of her, but from behind—and above. Ren turned and saw a shadow detach itself from the weathered stone at the top of the amphitheatre.

She sighed. “To be honest, I don’t have a lot of choice. I can’t get Gulavka on my own. But if she’s pulled out of the fabric, Branek will have a harder time consolidating the Lower Bank knots under his control.” Not to mention it might stop some of the violence. Gulavka had led an attack on the Quaratium in Westbridge the previous week, killing two and injuring nine. The new leader of the Anduske was hardly the only one with a taste for blood. “The ziemetse may think I’m some legendary hero, but—well.” Her mouth quirked. “We can’t all be the Rook.”

The wind lifted the skirts of his coat as he jumped down to her level, landing silent as a cat. The hood didn’t so much as ripple. “I’m not certain it’s wise to strengthen his position, even if there are benefits. In fact, I’m positive it isn’t. He’s a master at manipulating events to fall out in his favor.” A grim note entered his voice. “More than I ever credited.”

“Oh, believe me—I’m wary. Unless you want to branch out from targeting the nobility and their schemes, though, I need someone to help me in Staveswater.”

“I have full respect for your wariness. But I found something troubling when I searched his house.” Reaching into his coat, the Rook pulled out a fold of paper. “That’s a copy of what I could salvage. Most of the original caught fire in his office.”

She’d heard him angry before, when he’d confronted her in her own kitchen. This was new, though: He sounded pissed at himself. Ren took the paper and skimmed it, her eyebrows climbing. “I suspect he killed the Scurezza, too,” the Rook said.

“No, he couldn’t have. Quaniet was still alive when Giuna and Sibiliat got there; she confessed to poisoning them all. But the rest…” She folded the paper. “How could he be behind all of this?”

“That’s what I need to find out.”

Ren glanced up at him. “Have you heard of the Illius Praeteri?”

His anger transformed into a contemptuous scoff. “Rich cuffs playing at a mystery cult so they can feel superior even to their own kind. They’ve been around for over a decade; I look into them periodically. It’s business as usual, dressed up in special robes.”

“Vargo’s been recruited to join them. As have I.” She sat down on one of the benches, folding her legs tailor-style. “I’m going along with it as a way to keep an eye on him. But I think he knew about the Praeteri even before he joined. And Ghiscolo—”

The hood turned so rapidly, an ordinary garment would have shifted to show a hint of face. “What about Ghiscolo?”

“Vargo’s working with him,” Ren said, eyeing the Rook warily. Why did that get his attention? “I heard them talking, after you and I met in the Charterhouse. Vargo made a deal with him: a noble title in exchange for bringing down Indestor. And, not so coincidentally, opening up a seat in the Cinquerat.”

The Rook’s voice sank to a growl, and his gloves creaked as they curled into fists. “So much for thinking the Vigil might improve.”

Ren tried not to stare as he paced. The strength of his reaction to that… The Vigil had been hunting the Rook since he began. And under Mettore, their corruption and greed had been a major target of the Rook’s efforts.

But his reaction sounded more personal. Like the last of a dear hope was bleeding out.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his stride, measured his height against the amphitheatre’s back wall. Grey Serrado was hunting the Rook; everyone knew that… but everyone knowing a thing didn’t make it true.

Could the Rook be hiding within the Vigil itself?

The pattern she’d laid for Serrado hadn’t turned up any hint of it. Only that hideous future line, something poisoning his fate. But maybe the forces that protected the Rook’s identity had blocked her reading. Meanwhile, the Rook had been pursuing Kolya Serrado’s killer for the last year, while Kolya’s brother supposedly hunted him.

It was a tenuous thread at best. Besides, she’d been wrong before about who was under that hood. She didn’t want the humiliation of being wrong again.

He still hadn’t spoken. Ren was loath to break the silence—but there was more she hadn’t said. “Acrenix is only half of it, though. Maybe less than half.”

The Rook pivoted like a man facing a new opponent. Ren said, “Vargo has some kind of spirit bound to him.”

“I assume you don’t know this because he told you?” Before she could answer, he muttered, “Though I should know better. People tend to tell you things.”

She bit down on the urge to say, So tell me who you are. “They’re connected, mind to mind. I think the spirit is contained in that spider of his, Master Peabody.” She gazed down at the empty floor, where Vargo had stood. “I’ve been trying to find out what it could be. Some kind of ghost? It talks like a person—like a Nadežran, in fact, and one familiar with numinatria. Vargo called him Alsius.”

“I should have crushed that thing when I had the chance,” the Rook said in disgust. At her raised brow, he added, “The spider was at the house when I visited. It was watching me the entire time. How is it you can hear them?”

“When we fought here… I saw connections between people. A strong one between Vargo and this spirit, and another between me and Vargo. I…”

She trailed off, trying to think how to describe what she’d done. “I strengthened it,” she said at last. “To get him to finish erasing the numinat. But I think that’s why I can hear them now.”

“And Vargo doesn’t know?”

“If he did, I doubt I would be talking to you now.”

Hipping up onto the balustrade, the Rook propped a boot on the wall and looked out at the amphitheatre. She saw more than heard his sigh, in the movement of his shoulders. “So Vargo has a spirit that can keep watch for him but can’t stop intruders. And he hasn’t bothered to improve the protections at his house, which says there’s nothing there that needs it.”

He sounded like he was thinking out loud. Ren stayed silent, waiting to see what he would let slip. “Would be nice if I could drop that bodyguard of his in a dark hole for a few bells,” the Rook said, rubbing absently at his calf, as though remembering Varuni’s chain whip. “Vargo strikes me as the sort to think there’s no safer place in the world than his own pocket.”

Ren had once been a very skilled pickpocket—but she might as well go ahead and cut off her own hand now, rather than try that on Vargo. “If you could catch him alone… that would be useful?”

Even in good light, she could never see more than the edge of a smile within the Rook’s hood. With the moons silhouetted behind him, she couldn’t even see that much. But she read a hint of amusement in the tilt of his head. “The Black Rose has a plan?”

“Not the Black Rose,” Ren said, the idea taking shape in her mind. “Alta Renata.”

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Similun 34

The Rook had patience. Those who wore the hood had worked toward eradicating Kaius Rex’s corrupting influence from Nadežra for two hundred years. And yet as he crouched above an open window at Traementis Manor, listening to the nobles inside discussing inanities over hand after hand of cards, it felt like an interminable wait.

But his patience paid off. Alta Renata’s crisp Seterin voice asked her cousin to go down to the kitchens for spiced chocolate. Her instructions were very precise, and the lilt in her request implied Giuna could—in fact, should—take her time. The half-suppressed giggle in the reply promised Renata would have all the time she might want alone with Eret Vargo.

The door clicked shut. The Rook slipped down, one booted toe nudging the window open wider so he could balance on the sill. A gauzy curtain softened the interior of the upstairs salon where the card game had been set up, until the silvered tip of the Rook’s rapier lifted it aside. Vargo’s back was to the window, and Renata…

Renata looked like she was enjoying something immensely, and the Rook suspected it wasn’t Vargo’s company. He crept into the room, silent as the slide of the curtain over his shoulder.

“Not that your new cousin isn’t charming company,” Vargo said as he shuffled the cards. “But I’d hoped we might have at least some time alone.”

The Rook lived for invitations like that. His blade whispered along Vargo’s ear. “Too bad you won’t get any,” the Rook whispered into the other.

Vargo went utterly still. The sword’s edge rested just a breath away from his throat; any sudden movement on his part would add a scar to match the one on the other side. Across from him, Renata sat frozen, back pressed hard against her chair, looking for all the world like a noblewoman caught off guard by a vigilante who hated her kind.

A flash of color scuttled to the other side of Vargo’s collar. Scooping it up, the Rook flung it out the window and into the night. Vargo jerked as though he’d been struck, and the Rook said, “I don’t like spiders.”

“We’re not much fond of birds,” Vargo managed, with the ghost of his usual sardonic edge.

The man’s sword cane was leaning against the arm of his chair; that followed the spider out the window. Then the Rook circled around, blade at the ready, until he had both Vargo and Renata within reach of a lunge.

His gaze flicked down to her gloves, set aside so she might more easily handle the cards. “I seem to have a knack for catching the alta when she’s undone.”

“It takes more than a scrap of fabric to undo me,” she said coolly.

He couldn’t resist saying, “That sounds like a challenge. What would it take to fluster you?”

One fine eyebrow arched. She must pencil them thicker when she was Arenza; he would look, the next time they met in that guise. In a cool voice, she said, “I thought the Rook specialized in flustering nobles. Surely you don’t need my instruction.”

“Less a challenge, then… and more an invitation to experiment?”

“Should I give you two a moment?” Vargo drawled.

So much for pleasant distractions. “Not necessary,” the Rook said, his voice hardening. “It’s you I came for. You ran off before we could finish our conversation.”

Vargo smirked. “I thought it was a dance.”

The Rook’s cold, eternal anger at the nobility flared up with the heat of Grey’s hatred for his brother’s killer. “It’s neither,” he spat. “And it isn’t a game. You have something. I’ve come to take it from you.”

“This ‘something’… Is it what you were searching for when you broke into my house?” Vargo leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the rear legs. “Or is it something more ephemeral, like my life?”

Neither Grey nor the Rook was stupid enough to believe that throwing away the cane had left Vargo unarmed. But a man with a knife was at a serious disadvantage against one with a sword. It would be easy: a single lunge, and Kolya would be avenged.

Or would he? Vargo had survived some appalling wounds at the amphitheatre—survived, and recovered with unnatural speed.

Either way, the desire to kill was Grey’s, not the Rook’s. This is what the medallions do, he thought. House Taspernum, House Adrexa, House Contorio… all destroyed, because someone else craved their power.

That wasn’t Grey’s reason. But still: He’d sworn not to cross that line. “If I were here to kill you, you’d be dead. Stand up.”

Jaw clenched, Vargo stood and endured the rough pat-down the Rook gave him. Two knives and a sap went onto the table, scattering the abandoned cards, while Renata sat watching in tense silence.

Then, sword re-sheathed, the Rook started a second, more thorough pat-down. Arms, legs, front, back; his gloves ghosted over every part of Vargo in search of the one piece that might unlock the whole puzzle. Assuming it was on Vargo. Assuming that was the reason for his sudden rise to power. The Rook lingered over the small lump at Vargo’s navel until the man winced and muttered, “If you want a contraceptive numinat, you can get them at the Sebatium.”

The Rook shoved him away. Frustrated. Disgusted. But not ready to give up.

“Strip.”

“What now?”

A muffled sound came from Renata, too. The Rook couldn’t spare attention for her. “You’re a clever man. I assume you’re good at hiding things. And having gone to all the trouble of tracking you here, I’m not going to quit before I’m sure.”

When Vargo didn’t move or respond, the Rook’s hand crept toward the hilt of his blade.

“What are you going to do—cut my clothes off of me?” Vargo’s voice was careless, but his body was tense.

Steel whispered a hand’s breadth free in reply.

“Fine,” Vargo growled. “Put that back. I like this coat; I won’t have you making ribbons of it.”

The coat was pomegranate dark, swirls burned into the velvet, and too closely tailored for him to easily remove it himself. The Rook was tempted to slash it off just to destroy something precious to Vargo. Instead, he nodded at Renata. “Help him.” She edged past, as if wary of the Rook, to pull the coat from Vargo’s shoulders, then retreated with the fabric draped over one arm.

With insolent slowness, Vargo untied his cravat, held it up, and dropped it like a flag of surrender. Next came the buttons at his wrists and neck, then his waistcoat. A tease, but not a sexual one. Vargo’s kohl-shadowed glare promised vicious retribution.

His resentment was a mere spark compared to the bonfire that drove the Rook. “I’m growing impatient,” he snapped.

Vargo’s smile was sharp as the Rook’s blade. “I’m worth the wait.”

And then the door opened. The Rook had one frozen instant of seeing the mixed alarm and annoyance on Renata’s face before he heard a high-pitched shriek.

Giuna Traementis. Leato’s little sister, whose departure from the room had been his cue to enter—and who, by Renata’s expression, should not have returned anywhere near this fast. Behind her, red-faced and reaching as though she’d tried to stop her, was Renata’s maid, Tess.

Djek! For an instant he was Grey Serrado, broken from his focus on his goal.

Then calculation took over again. “Be silent. Shut the door.” Her scream would bring the household, but the Rook still had a few moments to see this through. Vargo would bleed if cut from his clothes, but it wouldn’t kill him. The Rook turned, some half-formed jest on his tongue about having an audience, but…

Giuna, white-faced and trembling like a bird as she pressed close under Renata’s protective arm. Giuna, whom he’d held just so after he brought her the news of Leato’s death.

Alta Giuna. She was a noble. He didn’t have time to coddle her tender sensibilities.

But neither did Grey have the stomach for frightening her. He backed toward the window, less graceful than he might have been as his conscience struggled against the purpose to which he’d pledged himself. He might be letting his best chance slip through his fingers—

—or there might be nothing there to find.

“It seems luck is with the house tonight,” he said to Vargo. The curtain fluttered down from its rings when he yanked it aside with too much force. “We’ll meet again, Eret Vargo.”

“When we do, perhaps I’ll force you to remove something, Master Rook.”

Better men than you have failed.

Shouts were building inside the house. He was out of time. Cursing his ill fortune, the Rook swung up a trellis to the rooftop and escaped.