8

The Mask of Ravens

Floodwatch, Upper Bank: Lepilun 6

Somehow the Floodwatch Bridge had seemed less imposing to Renata when it was looming over her barge than when she stood atop it, waiting for Sibiliat Acrenix.

The Dežera’s flood had long since subsided, leaving the water a very long way down. Its channel ran deeper here than around the Old Island, where its waters divided in half; in hindsight, she was glad Sibiliat’s pettiness had made the woman suggest this spot. People had broken their legs jumping or falling from the Sunrise and Sunset Bridges, because the water was too shallow to slow them much before they hit the mud below. At high tide, this should be safe enough.

She’d gone to Tanaquis for swimming tips in preparation for her third Praeteri trial, the two of them splashing in the shoulder-deep canal behind the house in Whitesail. Only now was it clear to Renata just how different this situation was. How unprepared she was.

“News! News!” A scrawny boy with a stack of broadsheets tucked under one arm waved a copy in the air. “Scurezza killers found! Buy a copy, learn all about it!”

Found? Quaniet killed her family; Giuna’s account had made that clear. Chill with foreboding, Renata fished out a centira and took one of his broadsheets.

A moment later she crumpled the cheap paper in her fist, grinding her teeth to hold back a Vraszenian curse.

A sedan chair stopped at the eastern end of the bridge, amid the agricultural bustle of the nearby bean market. The bearers weren’t ordinary hirelings; they wore swords at their hips and House Acrenix’s emblem of a snake twisted into a double loop. They stood at attention as Sibiliat disembarked, brushed her surcoat clean of imaginary dust, and set out toward the center of the bridge.

Renata shouldn’t care, but—“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded of Sibiliat, brandishing the ruined broadsheet. “Blaming the cook? And saying the Anduske put him up to it?”

Sibiliat didn’t even have the grace to look surprised. “It’s astonishing how fast word spreads,” she mused. Delicately pinching the edges of the paper to avoid staining her gloves with the ink, she spread it enough to let her peer at the text. “Yes, this has the right of it.”

“It’s a lie,” Renata snapped.

“The right story,” Sibiliat clarified, letting the river wind take the paper. “One that everyone will believe—after all, the Anduske were ready to commit murder at the amphitheatre. And Father already has the Ordo Apis hunting them for their other crimes; what’s one more?”

Ren’s anger was like one of the Vigil’s attack dogs, fighting the chain that held it back. One more crime was another reason for common Nadežrans to fear Vraszenians, another reason to consider them all cold-blooded criminals. Branek and his ilk might deserve to hang for some of the things they’d done… but they hadn’t done this thing, and they weren’t the only ones who would bear the consequences of that accusation.

Some hint of fury must have leaked through despite her best efforts, because Sibiliat aborted her move to lay a hand on Renata’s shoulder. “Honestly, you should be thanking me. Father and I did this for you—for the Traementis. People were beginning to talk about the lack of answers. With a clear target to blame, no one will think to lay Quaniet’s actions at the feet of your house. You don’t want them saying all the Scurezza died because Coevis thought about leaving them, do you?”

Ren almost slapped her. On another day, under other circumstances, she might have had better self-control. But she’d been standing here for two bells, waiting to jump off a Mask-damned bridge, and there was a tiny part of her that admired the economic elegance of the lie.

In that moment, she hated herself more than she hated Sibiliat.

The other woman sighed. “Well, it’s done, and I don’t care if you’re grateful or not. This isn’t what we’re here for, is it? You’d best get to it.”

“Fine,” Ren snapped—and without letting herself think twice, she climbed the rail and leapt.

She’d worn trousers instead of an underdress, and she’d meant to bundle the front and back skirts of her surcoat around her waist before she jumped, but in her haste, she’d forgotten. The linen flew up and blinded her, so the impact of the water came as a shock. And then the river was closing over her head, and she was sinking.

Ren flailed, the wet fabric of her surcoat tangling everywhere like weeds. Her jaw ached as she clamped down on the urge to scream. This was fucking stupidity—no Mask-damned cult was worth this! She was going to drown for Sibiliat’s petty cruelty, for cuffs and their idiotic rituals—she was going to leave Tess and Sedge alone—

Panic clawed at her throat, choking the air from her lungs. Her whole body jerked with the urge to drag in a breath. Not yet. Light above her glowed like Ažerais’s wellspring, calling her to safety. All she had to do was reach it.

But she wasn’t only in the river. And if the wellspring was the light above, it was also the darkness below, dragging her down into the nightmare that had overtaken everyone on the Night of Hells. She was drowning in that dream again, trapped in a canal, nothing to cling to, nobody to help pull her out.

Ren fought to keep her eyes open, to keep her focus on the light. The water swirled with shadows like the liquid movement of the zlyzen. They waited for her down here, in the river; they waited everywhere her fears lurked. In the water. In the Depths. In Ondrakja’s malice, the tightrope walk of her masquerade, the fire that had burned her childhood to ash.

In her dreams. Haunting her night after night. She thrashed, struggling to escape the river like she struggled every night to escape those nightmares.

Her head broke the surface. Like a bladder filled with air, she’d floated through no skill of her own. And there was the skiff she’d paid for, almost close enough to hit her; the skiffer reached down and hauled her out of the water, and Ren lay in a trembling puddle in the bottom of the boat, not even able to lift herself to a seat.

Fuck Sibiliat, and fuck all cuffs. Fuck Tanaquis for bringing her into the Praeteri.

And while she was at it, fuck herself for ever having agreed to this nonsense.

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Lepilun 6

The afternoon shadows lengthened across Donaia’s study as Giuna paced, skirting the dozing hulk of Meatball by the hearth. Her mother rarely used the study these days, and the imbued barrier of the door ensured that servant ears were less likely to hear what went on inside.

Like Giuna yelling at her cousin for being a damned fool.

The glow had dimmed to twilight gloom and Giuna had worked up a good head of fury by the time Colbrin appeared and ushered Renata inside. Her dusky rose surcoat and underdress were clean and dry, but the remnants of her madcap adventure could be seen in the rumpled wave of her half-dried hair.

The moment the door closed, Giuna snapped, “What in Lumen’s light do you think you were doing, jumping into the Dežera on a dare?” Meatball startled awake, and Renata stepped back. “I know you’re the heir now, but that doesn’t mean you need to mimic Leato in all aspects.”

“Mimic—” Renata’s expression flickered with familiar pain at Leato’s name. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You jumped off a bridge! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Orrucio Amananto had brought the news, the last link in a flower chain of gossip racing across Nadežra. Had Renata thought no one would hear? Judging by the look on her face, yes. She said, “I didn’t do it on a lark; I had reasons. And I took precautions. I know it was risky—that House Traementis needs me as heir for a few months longer, but—”

“Who gives a wet leech about that? You’re family. If you’d been hurt, if you drowned, I…” The salt of tears stung the back of Giuna’s tongue. “I know your mother let you go your own way, but it’s different now. We care about you. And that means that you can’t just go jumping off bridges or—or diving under falling cranes!”

That wasn’t how the accident in Froghole had gone, but if Renata quibbled, Giuna was going to throw something at her. Instead, her cousin just stared at her with a look like—

Like the last thing she’d expected was for that to be the reason for Giuna’s concern.

“Giuna…” Renata passed one hand over her eyes, looking weary. Or maybe hiding that flash of vulnerability. She took a deep breath and said, “Thank you. You’re right; I—I’m not accustomed to taking that into account. To taking you into account, in that fashion. And I’m sorry for worrying you. If it’s any comfort, I truly would not have done it without good reason.”

Even faced with that weariness, Giuna wasn’t quite ready to be mollified. Crossing her arms, she demanded, “What reason? What could possibly require you to endanger yourself like that?”

Renata’s laugh was brief and unamused. “Ask Tanaquis. There’s… I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I’ll say this much. There’s a secret society she’s invited me to join, because she has things she can’t talk about except with other members. Things she believes will shed light on the Traementis curse. The bridge was part of the initiation for this society. I just pray the Lumen will make it worthwhile.”

Of course Renata was trying to help. That was what she did, ever since Leato died. She tried to make up for a loss she saw as her fault.

She didn’t understand that being Traementis meant there was no debt to repay.

Laying a hand on her cousin’s arm, Giuna said, “I know you want to help, but please don’t risk yourself like that again. Nothing is worth losing you. I know Mother would agree.”

After a brief hesitation, Renata laid her hand over Giuna’s. “There’s something else you should know. Eret Acrenix has constructed a story blaming the Stadnem Anduske for the Scurezza murders.”

It doused Giuna in cold like she was the one who’d jumped into the river. “But… it was Quaniet. She confessed as much when she died. Sibiliat heard her. Why would they blame the Vraszenians?”

“Because they can.” Renata’s words were bitter as gall, and she drew a sharp breath in their wake. In a softer tone, she said, “The Vigil and the Ordo Apis are already hunting the Anduske leaders anyway. This allows them to wrap up the investigation without letting it be known that Quaniet killed her whole family rather than let House Traementis adopt her cousin. He’s sparing us the scandal.”

Just like he’d done when he suppressed news of Quaniet’s confession in the first place. If people knew the truth, it would cast a shadow over House Traementis. After so many years of decline, it wouldn’t take much to convince people they were still ill-starred.

And it would be so easy to let the lie stand. Quaniet was dead. The Anduske were criminals anyway. House Traementis was still vulnerable.

Easy—but wrong.

Giuna shook her head hard enough to pull a tress down from its pins. “It isn’t true, though. And if people think Vraszenians were behind this, who knows who might get hurt? We have to say something.” Her gaze flicked up to Renata’s. “Don’t we?”

A tiny, shameful part of Giuna half feared Renata would disagree. She was foreign born, and sometimes too pragmatic for comfort. Would she care about Vraszenians being blamed?

Her cousin’s eyes blazed like the Lumen. “We do,” Renata said, in a hard voice Giuna had never heard from her before. “And we will.”

Staveswater: Lepilun 8

Staveswater was the forgotten part of Nadežra. People looked at it all the time, whenever they had business with the shipping downriver, or gazed past the masts crowding Turtle Lagoon to the buildings beyond. Though “buildings” might be more a courtesy term than anything else: Staveswater was a hodgepodge of boats and rafts and rickety houses on stilts joined by planks and rope bridges until it hung together in something like a district. When people spoke of Nadežra’s regions, they named the Upper Bank, the Lower Bank, and the Old Island—never Staveswater. It was a relic, a poor and close-packed reminder of what the delta had looked like before Nadežra sank stone foundations into the mud and built itself up into a city.

It was the main bastion of the Stretsko clan, and the fists of their various knots kept close watch on the bridges that led from the rest of Staveswater to the area they controlled.

Ren had taken extra care with her makeup this time, painting herself to look not just old, but like a specific old woman. At night, with slow Paumillis’s full face veiled by thick clouds, it was enough to pass. The guards nodded as she creaked her way across one of the connecting bridges with a snail-bag of mending and piecework; one even stepped forward to help her shrug it higher on her back.

Once past them, she tottered her way onward, through the cramped shantytown, until she reached a gap in the structure. In between flowed the waters of the Dežera; across the gap, a set of add-ons clung to a central building like barnacles to a ship. There, gratefully, she put the bag down and pulled its mouth open.

Arkady had insisted she was “too famous” to just walk in like the rest of her beggar pack had done over the last few days. Now she wiggled out of the bag while Ren slung a clawed, padded hook across the gap, trailing a coil of lightweight rope behind it. Once that was secure, a line of small children bearing lumpy, squirming bags emerged from nearby hiding places and began to monkey across.

By the time the first of them touched down in the Stretsko headquarters, Ren had moved onward. Conveniently, she didn’t even have to scrub off the old woman’s guise; all she had to do was slide the lace mask down, and the Black Rose’s costume formed itself around her.

If Renata was a burden she couldn’t put down and Arenza was a reminder of the life she’d never had, the Black Rose was her refuge from all that. Ren knew better than to put much stock in what Dalisva and Mevieny had said about her being chosen; believing too strongly in divine favor was the kind of thing that got a person killed. But putting on the mask made her feel strong, and sometimes, even the illusion of that was enough. The Black Rose wasn’t an orphan, wasn’t a traitor, wasn’t someone without a place to belong. She had a purpose.

She was going to yank a thread out of the middle of Branek’s tapestry and see how much of it unraveled.

If the Stretsko fists were any good, any kind of dramatic move would get her stabbed first, questioned later. Ren found her solution in an unoccupied chair wedged into one corner of a small, uneven platform where three shanties came together. When drama won’t do, be casual. She picked up a piece of cord and looped it around her fingers to play dreamweaver’s nest until three chatting Stretsko came around the corner.

Then she smiled at them, friendly but sharp. “Evening. I trust you’ve heard of me? I’m here to talk to Prazode.”

Their reactions were exactly as she’d hoped: startled and wary, but not immediately violent. The rumors about the Black Rose’s connection to Ažerais kept the fists respectful—though it didn’t stop them from patting her down for weapons while one of their group went to warn the others. Only when a hand brushed too close to the lace shielding her eyes did she pull back. “You may not see the face. Only the mask.”

When they were satisfied she was unarmed, they led her onward. Crossing the single rope bridge that led to the home nest, Ren saw no sign of Arkady or the others. The wind had picked up, which was all to the good; its rush would cover any sounds they might make.

Inside, the Stretsko had mustered an impressive number of fists to receive her, but the usual swagger was tempered by uncertainty. She even saw a couple of people touch their brows in respect.

Prazode, their leader, showed no such courtesy. He sat in a comfortable chair on the far side of the room, with a one-eyed woman at his side; that would be Šidjin Gulavka. Rumor said she was trying to persuade her uncle to swear himself and his knot to Branek, the way Tserdev had done. If she managed that, others would follow, until Branek controlled almost every Stretsko knot.

Ren’s gaze slid to Prazode’s other side, and her breath caught. She’d missed her chance to follow Tserdev in Seven Knots… but here was Tserdev’s brother Dmatsos. His hawk-like nose and light eyes were well-described in Dalisva’s list.

If she could grab both Gulavka and Dmatsos…

“So you’re the Black Rose we’ve heard so much about.” Prazode was a heavyset man with a balding pate, a full beard, and a gleam to his eye that said he was no fool despite his wide smile. “Whom we all have to thank for saving our wellspring.”

At an indecipherable grumble from Gulavka, the amusement left his face and voice. “All of us—which is why I will listen to what you have to say. But I should warn you that listening is all I agree to. My niece and I may disagree in our philosophies, but…” He shrugged. “Family is family.” Many of the people watching bore more than a little resemblance to Prazode. Large family was a blessing for Vraszenians, but especially for the Stretsko. Family was wealth, strength, power, and posterity.

Ren had to choose her words carefully. “I come to speak not of philosophy, but of sacrilege. Šidjin Gulavka endangered the Wellspring of Ažerais—the holiest site in all of Vraszan, the gift through which our goddess’s blessings flow. She must answer for that.”

“You’re a tool of that kinless bastard Vargo,” Dmatsos spat. “I heard how in Seven Knots you rescued him.”

She turned a cool gaze upon him. “You mean how I prevented another sacrilege—murder on the sacred path. My concern is with those who blaspheme against Ažerais and her children, not the struggles of Nadežra’s streets.” She returned her attention to Prazode. “Surrender Ča Gulavka and Ča Očelen to me, and I’ll see to it that the ziemetse judge them fairly.”

“What fairness have the ziemetse?” Gulavka asked. Not angry like Dmatsos—sad. Betrayed. “They live upriver and visit Nadežra once a year to get drunk on sacred aža with their Liganti masters. They care nothing for the city or our people here. They have forgotten us, as they forget—”

“Enough. You will not disrespect our elders.” Prazode waited until Gulavka clamped her lips and nodded in grudging agreement. Then he turned his gaze on Ren. “And you. What power have you over the ziemetse, that you can influence their judgment? I think you make claims you cannot support, Lady Rose.”

“It is not my power or influence that matters, but that of Ažerais.”

Dmatsos stood, throwing his pipe to the floor. “Then tell Ažerais to come and claim us!” he snarled.

Ren never expected Prazode to agree to turn over his niece—but that had never been the point of coming here. And while she could stall all night, Dmatsos’s challenge proved too good an opening to refuse.

Spreading her hands as though the matter were beyond her control, she said, “Perhaps you will heed your ancestor instead.”

On those words, a shrieking rain of rats descended—and one spitting-mad tomcat.

Shouts burst from the Stretsko as the rats fell from the ceiling. Many hit the floor, righting themselves to scurry around in a panicked daze, but some caught themselves mid-fall, flailing claws hooking into braids and clothes and sometimes skin. Ren, out of the immediate scuffle, stifled a laugh as the cat added to the chaos. There were too many rats for one lone tom to handle; she stepped out of the cat’s path as he streaked for the door.

And waited, as the Stretsko tore the rats from their hair and coats and set them down with the care only their clan would show.

And waited, as the rats leaked out through gaps in the walls and the floor or climbed back to the ceiling and the smoke hole through which Arkady had dumped them.

And waited.

Anytime now, Vargo.

Any. Fucking. Time.

She didn’t know what had gone wrong, but the chaos was dying down, and Prazode’s attention was back on her. Extemporizing, she spread her arms. “Do you doubt me now? The Children of the Rat are known for their strong bonds—but those bonds are to all Vraszenians. Even now, you are with the ziemetse woven into a single fabric. And of all clans, the Stretsko should understand that you must find common ground on which to stand… or all of you will fall.”

Ren felt no divine presence. She hadn’t even planned her words, much less their timing.

But no sooner had the word “fall” left her mouth than the floor splintered into kindling.

Not the whole thing. Just the center of it, an area about three paces across. Enough to drop a double handful of Stretsko into the water, and some of the rats with them.

But a clever rat had more than one way out of his hole. Prazode whirled up from his seat and kicked something behind it, and the back wall swung down with a heavy crash, reaching across to the shack on the far side of the water. He wasted no time in bolting, Gulavka and Dmatsos right behind him.

Ren swore. A running leap got her enough of a grip on an overhead beam to sling herself across the gap, avoiding the remaining fists in the room. The wall had taken damage in the transition to its new life as a bridge, and it bowed ominously beneath her feet as she sprinted across. But it held long enough for her to reach the far side.

Up ahead, the trio had split. Prazode, Ren ignored; he wasn’t the one she’d come for. But Gulavka and Dmatsos ran down different walkways, and she couldn’t follow them both.

Gulavka was the cake. Dmatsos was the frosting. She went after Gulavka.

Unfortunately, the Stretsko woman was fast on her feet, and she knew the warren of Staveswater far better than Ren did. Gulavka dodged around a corner; if she got properly out of sight, Ren would never find her. She put on a burst of speed—

As she skidded around the corner, she heard a crash and a grunt of pain.

Gulavka was sprawled flat on the walkway. Ren knelt on her back before she could rise, and bound her hands with the cord from the dreamweaver’s nest, looping it so the woman couldn’t just wriggle free. Gulavka opened her mouth to shout, but Ren grabbed a rag and wadded it into her mouth to muffle her.

“That’s what you get for fucking up Veiled Waters!” Arkady sprang up onto the walkway next to Ren. She twirled the skiffer pole she’d used to trip Gulavka, nearly braining Ren with it. “Did you see the cat? That was my idea. Wish I could have seen it.”

Glancing back the way she’d come, Ren made another snap decision: to trust that Arkady was as competent as she boasted. “The cat was perfect. Can you get this one to the skiff?”

“She won’t go nowhere we don’t want her to. Hey, Blinky—you know how to play sedan chair?” A sharp whistle brought several of Arkady’s kids sliding down from the rooftops, while Arkady sat on Gulavka and directed the kids to carry them both.

With her focus no longer fixed on Gulavka, Ren heard the shouts echoing through Staveswater. Vargo was taking advantage of the whole situation to lead a strike against the river pirates who’d been cutting into his smuggling business, and from the sound of it, the fighting was fierce.

But the Black Rose wasn’t here to help a Lower Bank crime lord take down his enemies.

Coming and going from Renata’s balcony had put her back in climbing trim. Ren swarmed up the side of a shack and arrived on the roof to find the cloud cover thinning out, Paumillis’s light breaking through to illuminate the scene. A swift glance around oriented her: If she’d followed Gulavka this way, then Dmatsos would be…

On the rooftops himself, trying to skirt the chaos below.

Ren sprinted after him. The roofs were no more solid than the fallen wall had been; their moldy shingles and boards bent beneath her feet, threatening to send her back down to what passed for ground level. Dmatsos heard her coming and jinked left, changing course for some unseen target.

No you don’t, Ren thought, grim and exhilarated all at once. Compared with bureaucracy and Praeteri rituals and her life of constant lies, there was something pure about this. She felt like her feet had wings as she closed the gap between them.

Then Dmatsos put his foot right through into someone’s house, sinking up to the thigh. By the time he wrenched his leg free, Ren was close enough to bring him down with a flying tackle.

Down—and down. They rolled off the edge of the roof and hit the walkway below, Dmatsos cushioning Ren’s fall, as much as he could cushion anything when the boards ripped free of their nails at the impact. She let go of him to clutch desperately at the remaining planks, the sluggish waters of Staveswater flowing just below the toes of her boots.

She almost lost her grip at the feel of a hand on her calf, another on her ass. Ren didn’t have time to be offended before she heard Varuni’s dispassionate command: “Drop.”

With Varuni’s strength guiding her, the boat barely dipped when Ren touched down. Dmatsos didn’t receive the same gentle treatment; Varuni hauled him out of the water by his collar and tossed him to the center of the boat, where two of Vargo’s fists bound him with ropes. At the far edge, a third man pulled them into hiding under the walkways.

Which left them one short of the crew who should have been there. “Where’s Vargo?”

Varuni’s mouth hardened. “Problem with the numinat. Had to set it off manually. We’re going to pick him up now.” Her gaze flicked back at one of the fists—the one who’d been responsible for making certain the inscribed raft drifted into place to blow the floor out of the headquarters. “You certain you don’t want to swim for it, Ublits? He’ll probably forgive you. If he doesn’t catch cold.”

“Too late,” Ublits said with the resignation of a dead man. In the shadows ahead, a pale blot was splashing toward them, kicking up spray with every stroke. Unlike Ren, it seemed Vargo could swim.

He caught hold of the boat’s edge, then Varuni’s hand, and used them to roll into the bottom with a slop and a groan. His trousers were black with river water, his coat and waistcoat discarded who knew where. The fine cambric of his shirt was all but transparent, plastered to his skin. Through it, Ren could see the blurred lines of his strange tattoo.

“I get so much as a sniffle, you’re all burning in the Ninatium,” Vargo growled. After another heavy breath, he pushed himself up to his feet, then looked down at Dmatsos with a puzzled frown. “That doesn’t look like Gulavka. Got too many eyes, for one thing.”

“The Stretsko were so generous, they gave me two,” Ren said lightly. “Our friends have the other.”

“Mind leaving me the spare?” Vargo nudged Dmatsos with a stockinged toe. His boots must have gone the way of his other clothes. “You’ve still got Gulavka to satisfy the ziemetse, and I can think of several ways to make use of this one.”

When she didn’t immediately answer, Vargo glanced up. “I don’t plan to kill him. But his presence as my guest would make the Lower Bank a lot more peaceful.”

Your hostage, you mean. She had no doubt he would kill Dmatsos, if he thought that would be more productive. Sedge had made that clear, long before Ren saw for herself what Vargo was really like.

She wanted to refuse. The ziemetse had asked for Dmatsos as well as his sister; giving Vargo a prisoner of his own had never been part of their deal. But Ren was in a boat full of Vargo’s people, heading upriver as fast as the oarsmen could row, and she didn’t think he had enough reverence for the Black Rose to bow to her demands.

Still, she couldn’t show weakness, either. She met Vargo’s gaze steadily. “Call it a loan. I’ll want him back later… or a favor in return.”

Vargo’s smile curved like a sickle. “I could get to like us doing each other favors, Lady Rose.”

It was too close to the words he’d spoken to Alta Renata. But a shout saved her from having to smile back at him: Arkady and her crew, working three to an oar to row a stolen boat free from Staveswater. Arkady herself was sitting on top of Gulavka, and she waved with the arm that wasn’t holding a familiar tomcat. “Where do you want this one delivered?”

Temple of the Illius Praeteri: Lepilun 9

Diomen’s resonant voice was impressive even in a pavilion. In the subterranean chamber where Renata now knelt, it echoed like the voice of the Lumen itself.

“We stand, a few scattered sparks against the darkness of ignorance—but gathered, our light is stronger.”

There was no light for Renata, thanks to the blindfold she wore. Tanaquis had placed it on her in Suncross; their journey after that had gone into a building and then into a tunnel. But not the Depths—the lack of damp and mold told her that. They must be somewhere higher in the Point, somewhere between the river and the amphitheatre above.

“Today, two more flames join the light of the Illius Praeteri. We shine where the Lumen cannot and bring that new light into the world. When we see, we do not know.”

“Ignorance is the path to enlightenment.” The chamber echoed with the reverent response of dozens of voices.

“When we ask, we do not learn.” A hand brushed over Renata’s head, untying the knot of her blindfold.

“Submission is the door to freedom,” the crowd responded.

The silk fell away, and she blinked against the brightness of the light.

“When we reach, we do not grasp.”

“Dedication is the key to mastery.”

“Sister Renata Viraudax Traementatis. Brother Derossi Vargo. You have passed through the Gates of Initiation; welcome to the ranks of the Illius Praeteri.” Diomen took their hands and drew them to their feet.

Around them stood several dozen people in plain, undyed silk robes. Parma Extaquium and Bondiro Coscanum, Sibiliat Acrenix and Benvanna Novri. Tanaquis and Ghiscolo, of course, and Sureggio Extaquium. But others, too: She saw members of Essunta and Fiangiolli both, Attravi and Elpiscio, Lud Kaineto—even Toneo Pattumo, Renata’s former banker. At least half of the delta houses were represented, maybe more. I had no idea the Praeteri extended so far, Renata thought, chilled by the sight.

The space they stood in was lofty stone, the light reflecting off burnished gold surfaces and dark marble veined with sparkling quartz. Nearby stood an enormous podium, with a scroll spread across its top. “A register?” Vargo said, clearly surprised.

Diomen folded his hands into his sleeves. “We address each other as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ not merely as a matter of equality beneath the Lumen, but as a reminder of our bond. While this is not quite the same as a family register, it serves to join us together. Today you were able to enter this place only because you were escorted by others. Once your names are inscribed, you will be able to pass on your own through the warded passage that leads here.”

Renata used the excuse of straightening her surcoat’s skirt to hide her twitch of surprise. She knew the passage Diomen referred to; it was legendary among those who used the tunnels of the Depths. Some unknown magic prevented anyone from passing through.

But she had the distinct impression that the Praeteri hadn’t existed in Nadežra until Diomen’s arrival sixteen years ago—and the warded tunnel long predated that.

Vargo was busy examining the register, his scarred brow arched. As he added his name, Renata said, “This is extraordinary. I had no idea you’d carved out an entire temple within the Point—and warded it against intruders, no less.”

“Oh, we didn’t build it,” Tanaquis said. “This temple dates back to Kaius Rex, or perhaps earlier. He mostly used this place for pointless orgies and the like, but we aspire to more.”

Parma snickered. “Our orgies have points.”

She sounded like she meant it literally. But Renata trusted Tanaquis wouldn’t have put her through this for something merely carnal. While she took Vargo’s place at the podium, Diomen said, “The Gate of Desire may draw you the most strongly, Sister Parma, but our new members may choose a different path. Sister Renata, Brother Vargo, many challenges yet lie ahead: the four Gates of Revelation, and beyond them, the Gates of the Great Mysteries. To pass them all can be the work of a lifetime.”

Then he raised his voice, making good use of the hall’s echoing power. “But today we celebrate our newest brother and sister. Come—let us feast.”

The food and drink waiting in an adjoining chamber were a display of such excessive abundance that Renata knew Sureggio was responsible before he even claimed credit. Mingling and making small talk, she soon realized that for most of the members this was little more than another way to forge connections with their fellow gentry and nobles, spicing their deals with the pleasure of doing so under the cloak of secrecy and ritual. “Making your way to the Great Mysteries takes effort,” Bondiro told Renata, in a tone that left no doubt as to his low opinion of that. “We don’t know exactly how many have gone that far, but it’s only a few. Tanaquis, Ghiscolo—”

“Breccone,” Parma said. “Though I suppose he doesn’t count, now that he’s dead. Cousin Sureggio has, too. But they can’t talk about it—Sureggio tried once, and he got the worst headache. It didn’t go away until he made penance to the Pontifex.”

Renata was doing her best to avoid Sureggio, whose gaze lingered on her as much as on Vargo. He slipped up to her side in a damp cloud of cloying perfume when she was perusing the dishes, though, and stood so close his bony elbow kept brushing hers. “Try the stuffed dreamweaver,” he said, gesturing at a half-dismembered bird lying amid a scatter of iridescent feathers. The open cavity of its chest was filled with pickled eggs. “The sauce is divine.”

Dreamweaver. It was a common accusation from Vraszenians, that the nobility feasted on their sacred bird. Of course Extaquium, whose tables groaned under every exotic delicacy money could buy, would do exactly that.

“Excuse me,” Renata said, her voice tight, and escaped into the less crowded confines of the temple’s main hall.

Where had Tanaquis vanished to? Now that Renata had become a full member of the Praeteri, Tanaquis had better be able to speak freely about whatever it was she thought might be useful. If Renata had to get all the way through to these so-called Great Mysteries first, she might quit right now.

But before she could go in search of Tanaquis, Vargo caught her.

“I’ll admit,” he said, coming up to her side, “your presence makes this whole process more pleasurable. I’ve hardly seen you since our card game was so rudely interrupted. I hope you don’t blame me for what happened.”

She’d been avoiding him, but she could hardly admit it. “I’ve only been busy with Traementis business. I’m trying to reach a point where Donaia can take some time away; His Grace has offered her the use of his villa.” She didn’t see any members of House Quientis among the cultists. Scaperto himself would be barred due to his position in the Cinquerat, and perhaps all his registered kin were too sensible for this nonsense.

Vargo’s voice lowered to an intimate, flirtatious note. “At the risk of being the fish calling the duck wet, you might do with some time away yourself. Care to come by my townhouse on your way home tonight? My wine is better, and we could compare notes somewhere without an audience.”

“Notes on the wine? Or this?” She gestured around at the Tyrant’s former temple.

“This—and what comes next. I suspect you’re no more here for the food than I am. Perhaps we can discuss that… and how we could help each other.”

How you could use me, you mean. She knew that look. To Vargo she was nothing more than a valuable tool, and now he’d found another place to employ her.

His gaze flicked to something past her shoulder, and Renata turned to greet that distraction like salvation—only to realize it was like reaching for a rope in dreams and finding a snake.

“Sister Renata,” Ghiscolo said. “I hope you don’t mind me addressing you with such familiarity.”

She made her tone light. “Why would I, Brother Ghiscolo?”

“That unfortunate affair with the Scurezza family. I was shocked to hear yesterday that your cousin has announced the full tale of what she saw—despite the consequences to House Traementis. Consequences I was hoping to shield you from.”

It was true that quite a few letters had arrived at the manor soon after, withdrawing petitions for adoption. But there were still enough that the Traementis could afford to be choosy, and Tanaquis had decided to accept, which put a genuine smile on Donaia’s face when she heard. “Anyone who would hold Meda Scurezza’s insanity against us, Brother Ghiscolo, is no one we would want in House Traementis.”

His expression was affable and a little hurt. “Still, you might have warned me.”

Giving you a chance to talk us out of it? Before she could force an insincere apology through her teeth, he added, “Sister Quaniet was one of ours. We were also hoping to protect her reputation.”

A soft breath came from Vargo. Renata said, “Her reputation hardly matters now, with every Scurezza dead at her hand. I applaud your zeal for pursuing the Anduske, Brother Ghiscolo—but I think their own crimes are enough to hang them.”

One hand rose to his heart, fiddling with a shirt button in an uncharacteristic show of agitation. The reply, however, came not from Ghiscolo, but from behind Renata’s shoulder. “You show an admirable desire for justice, Sister Renata.”

She hoped her step back looked like she was welcoming Diomen into their circle, rather than escaping the trap of being surrounded by three men she trusted no further than an arm’s reach. “Pontifex.”

“My congratulations to you and Brother Vargo both on progressing so quickly through the Gates of Initiation.” He didn’t smile, but something like satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “Your success only reinforces my belief that you both carry a great blessing. Perhaps you will join the select few who can attain the Gates of the Great Mysteries.”

“You judge me more highly than I deserve,” Renata murmured. She wasn’t getting anywhere near another damned gate if she could help it. But right now, to get away from Vargo and Ghiscolo… “I would love to receive more instruction, though. Perhaps you could give me a tour of this temple?”

Vargo drew breath to say something, but Diomen beat him to it. “It would be my pleasure, Sister Renata.” She took his arm as if he had offered it, and they left the two conspirators behind.

“This temple long predates the Conqueror,” Diomen said as they began a circuit of the main hall. “Or the Tyrant, as Kaius Sifigno is more often called here. I confess I do not know its precise age. A Tricat numinat can be used to weigh such things, but only by comparison: older than one thing, younger than another.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.” Which was true, but also an invitation for him to expand more.

Diomen fixed his unnerving gaze on Renata. “The inscriptor’s art has many subtleties the layperson does not understand. Were you born in Canilun?”

“Colbrilun. The twenty-ninth.”

A faint line marred the skin between his brows. He brought his hands down in mirrored arcs, marking a circle, then stared into his cupped palms at the base. “What I sense must not be due to birth, but some other resonance with Tricat. Something connected with your family, perhaps—something that has stained them.”

“The late Sister Quaniet—”

“I speak not of recent politics.” Diomen’s voice cut her off like a knife. “This is a spiritual stain of long-standing origin. It is gone, but traces linger, like a ghost.”

His behavior might have chilled her more if she hadn’t manipulated other people the same way. “Tanaquis has spoken to you.”

“A skeptic.” Diomen lifted his hands as though he could do nothing about her doubt. “I have not spoken with Sister Tanaquis about you, other than to express surprise when she nominated you for initiation. She has never sponsored a candidate before.” A pleased smile did nothing to soften the sharpness of his gaze. “But your reaction tells me I am right.”

He would be a fool to lie about his source, given that she could verify it with Tanaquis easily enough. Vargo? She had made the mistake of telling him about the curse. It would mean he’d had contact with Diomen, outside the organized rituals of the gates—but that seemed all too plausible.

Renata folded her hands. “Tanaquis invited me because she thought your work here might shed light on… call it an affliction, on House Traementis. It’s gone now, but we still aren’t certain where it came from. If you have insights to offer, I’d be glad to hear them.”

He studied her with unblinking eyes that reminded her of a fen vulture waiting for its prey to die. Then he said, “I am merely a conduit for the Lumen—as are we all. I have no insights. But I know how you might seek them… if you believe yourself ready.”

I’m certainly ready to see what you’re up to. She hid satisfaction and apprehension both as she nodded.

He led her through the archway to a small, nondescript room, whose walls bore more signs of destruction. The floor was unmarred, though, save for a numinat: a circle containing only a many-sided figure and a five-pointed star, oddly twisted upon itself.

Diomen said, “We all learn meditative worship as children, but only in its simplest form: the quieting of the mind, the cleansing of the soul. This numinat is designed for more. Someone has wronged you and your house. Here, you may attune yourself to the energy of that action… and in so doing, perhaps trace it.”

Renata didn’t bother hiding her surprise and skepticism. She was hardly an expert inscriptor, but that didn’t sound much like the numinatria she knew. Diomen took no offense; he merely set a smooth plug of amber glass into the numinat’s focal point. “Stand within, and meditate as if you were in a temple.”

She obeyed cautiously, though the blank surface of the focus was puzzling. “I see no god named here. You mentioned Tricat; should I direct my thoughts to that numen?” Amber was Tricat’s color.

“Direct them to those who have harmed you—whether you know their faces or not.”

Diomen’s smile was anything but reassuring. But this must be why Tanaquis had brought her to the Praeteri: to uncover the origins of the curse, through some different form of numinatria. She would have felt better with Tanaquis present… but if this brought her answers now, she might be spared having to return.

Renata stood within the star and clasped her hands while Diomen activated the numinat.

Then she waited. If she’d been the Seterin noblewoman he assumed, meditation might have been easier. Her only previous attempt had been after days without sleep, after the living nightmare, the zlyzen, Leato screaming as she left him behind…

“Think back to this stain upon your family.” Diomen’s voice was like a burr, irritating instead of soothing. “When did you first know of it?”

“After the Night of Hells,” she admitted, swallowing down the hollow ache in her heart. “Leato said something before he… died.” Before Mettore Indestor’s schemes killed him. And Ondrakja, poisoning them all with ash. And Vargo, who’d sent her there. And herself. “Tanaquis later confirmed that the curse affected all the members of House Traementis.” Dragging them down into what they considered poverty. Ludicrous, compared to what she’d lived through—but the deaths they’d suffered were nothing to laugh at. If I’d detected the curse sooner, would Leato be alive?

“The Traementis have made many enemies over the years. Who might have cursed you?”

She thought at once of Letilia, who had always looked down on her—a maid prettier than her mistress—and taken enjoyment in making Ren’s life miserable. Would she have been petty enough to curse Ren after she and Tess fled?

Easily. “Letilia,” Renata spat, remembering too late that she shouldn’t call her that. “My mother.” Her tone twisted the word into a parody of itself. But could Letilia—vapid, vain, and self-involved—wield enough power to bring down an entire house? Wasn’t that the purview of the divine? Like whatever force it was that Ren had sensed in Ažerais’s Dream, the furious storm that raged against the stone of the goddess’s presence.

Ažerais was different from the other deities. She had no Face and Mask duality; she was simply herself. But what if that wasn’t true? What if what Ren had sensed was her Mask—the malevolent, wrathful side of her power? Maybe centuries of Liganti oppression had warped her, their amphitheatre sitting atop her sacred wellspring, Vraszenians forced to pay for the right to visit it. And this temple beneath it, where spoiled cuffs played games of power.

None of this had anything to do with the curse she was supposed to be thinking about. But Ren didn’t trust herself right now to answer Diomen in Renata’s accent.

Yet he kept asking questions. “Where do your thoughts take you? Toward justice? Toward vengeance? What tool lies ready to hand, that you might employ in righting this wrong?” Prodding her off balance instead of letting her collect herself, until she wanted to snap at him to shut up already.

She’d been this angry while sleepless after the Night of Hells, but only because she was exhausted beyond all reason. She ought to be in control of herself now. She tried to shape an answer for him, but the only things that came to mind were Ren’s answers, not Renata’s. Renata’s life was good. She had the comforts of wealth and the rank to protect her from Nadežra’s brutality. It was Ren who saw all the things wrong with it, Ren who lost almost everything.

The acidic rage burned under the mask of her cosmetics, under the mantle of Renata’s clothes, until she was ready to throw it all off and burn the world down.

“Ah, this is where you’ve gone off to.” Vargo sauntered in, his manner casual—but his wary gaze slid from Renata to Diomen. “I apologize for interrupting, Pontifex, but Renata and I have plans this evening.”

Lies. He’d asked, but she’d never agreed to accompany him home.

Vargo. Now there was a target Renata could be angry at.

“You presume too much, Eret Vargo,” she snapped, letting her fury hone her Seterin accent to a razor edge. “And I hardly think I’m likely to accept another invitation from your hand, given where the last one sent me.”

He stepped back as though struck. “I… see,” he said, gaze dropping to the numinat she stood in. But clearly he didn’t see, because he extended a hand. “Maybe you should come with me.”

“You are interrupting a ritual, Brother Vargo,” Diomen said, frowning with disapproval. “Sister Renata is approaching the first of the revelations. She must complete her journey.”

Vargo ignored him. “Renata, you look a little flushed. Why don’t we get you some wine?”

Her hands clenched so hard her nails cut into her palms. “Did you know he intended to poison me? Maybe you provided him with that ash—after all, you are the aža trade in this city. All for a mercenary charter; well, that’s fitting. You’ll sell yourself to anyone who will pay, won’t you? You’ll whore and you’ll kill, like you killed Kolya Serrado.” The only reason she was able to laugh was because she knew it would cut. “Was Leato’s death also part of the plan? Or merely an unexpected benefit? You failed to get one Traementis heir into your bed; now you have a new one to chase.”

The room was small. There was nowhere for Vargo to retreat from her accusations, but his back pressed against the stone wall as if he could melt into it. Away from her.

“How long have you known?” he asked, voice rough like it had been stripped.

“That you’re a liar and a manipulator? Not nearly long enough.” She spat at his feet. “Would you believe, I was ready to trust you? Well played, Eret Vargo. You had me convinced that you were better than you seemed—but I know now you’re just another river rat clawing your way out of the sewer. And I will see to it that you drown in the shit that birthed you.”

Her voice was so distorted with fury, she didn’t even know what accent she was using anymore. When Vargo lunged forward, she recoiled to strike him, but he trapped her wrist in a bruising grip and twisted her arm until she had no choice but to stagger out of the numinat. He dragged her past Diomen, out of the room, and into the nearly empty hall. The scattering of people who were out there turned to stare as Vargo stumbled to a halt.

“Thank you for your honesty. It seems we can both stop pretending.” His voice shook, composure hanging together by threads as frayed as a cut knot. Releasing her wrist, Vargo strode toward the exit, his parting words loud enough for the few present to hear. “That’s the last favor I do for you.”

She choked on her reply, not even sure what it would have been. The fury that had possessed her was draining away, leaving her cold with horror.

What have I done? She’d just destroyed every shred of trust she’d wrung from Vargo. A stupid move, ruinous to everything she’d tried to build—but she hadn’t been able to hold back. Ren prided herself on self-control, on her ability to maintain her mask no matter the provocation; now she’d thrown that away. And she didn’t even know why.

People were staring. She should go back to Diomen, demand answers for what in the hell had just happened… but she didn’t trust herself anywhere near that conversation. She didn’t trust herself near anyone at the moment.

Praying that Vargo had started moving faster as soon as he was in the tunnel, Ren fled.

Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Lepilun 9

Vargo slammed through the front door of his townhouse and up the stairs to his study, ignoring Varuni’s startled grunt and Alsius’s welcoming chatter. Renata’s words rang louder than the clock tower bells, counterpoint to the drumbeat of blood inside his skull.

Not the accusations about what he’d done; those were true and fair and nothing he hadn’t flayed himself with in the dark hours when Alsius’s voice fell silent. Yes, he’d used people to get where he was. Didn’t everyone? Yes, he’d fucked up—trading Renata to Mettore, the deaths of Kolya Serrado and Leato Traementis, more sins she’d never know about, going all the way back to Alsius’s death.

I didn’t know and It was a mistake didn’t undo any of it. All he could do was harden himself and move on. Like he’d done before.

No, what shook him were her other words. However much he tried to shrug them off, they ate away at his foundations, relentless as the Dežera. He’d thought she wasn’t like the other cuffs. She made it seem like she saw Vargo for himself, for what he could do rather than where he came from. He’d thought that, despite their different backgrounds, they shared a similar outlook. That beyond using each other, they were—could be—friends.

Tonight was supposed to be when he told her the whole story. What the Illius Praeteri were, what they’d done, why she needed to be careful.

At least she’d revealed her true feelings before he made that mistake. Shoving his worthlessness in his face, like she was so much fucking better.

Isn’t she?

Chalk hit the paneled wall with a pitiful puff of dust. Vargo wanted to throw something better, but the only thing in his study that might have done was that stupid bust of Mirscellis, and the Rook had already stolen that satisfaction.

The urge to laugh tangled with his fury and despair, dragging him to the floor. The Rook. The only person in this city who shouldn’t have a reason to despise Vargo. Maybe he should hunt down that kinless bastard and tell him they were after the same fucking thing.

Fuck the nobility: a sentiment Vargo heartily agreed with. And now I’m one of them, so fuck me, too.

He scrubbed his face, the soft kid of his gloves a reminder of everything he wasn’t. The hot shock of humiliation was fading, leaving behind the silence of a cold, familiar resentment. Someone was pounding on his study door. Varuni, demanding to know what had happened. And just out of reach, a spot of chalk-dulled color bounced anxiously.

::Vargo? Is everything… all right?::

Varuni, who only guarded his ass because her people had paid so much for it. Alsius, who’d spent sixteen years shaping Vargo into his tool.

Just another river rat clawing your way out of the sewer. Renata, who’d been born with every privilege and didn’t have the first fucking clue who he was, where he’d come from, or why he’d done what he’d done. Alike? They were nothing alike. And he was glad of it.

“Fuck you,” he growled. At her. At all the cuffs who thought Vargo good enough to use but not to respect. Rising, he tore off his gloves and sent them flying in the direction of the broken chalk. To shut everyone up, he snarled, “I’m fine!”

The pounding stopped. Alsius didn’t. ::What happened? Where’s Renata? I thought you were going to tell her tonight? Did something go wrong with the initiation? Was Diomen there?:: He scuttled after Vargo and sprang onto the desk. Ignoring him, Vargo pulled out paper and yanked the cap from his inkwell. ::Did he do something?::

“Not to me.” Later, Vargo would sit down and tell Alsius what he’d seen, and they would discuss the implications and their next move.

But he couldn’t go back to being a tool just yet. He needed…

Vargo dashed off a quick invitation, devoid of names so it couldn’t be used against him later. Ignoring Alsius’s questions, he stripped bare and threw on something that wouldn’t be out of place in the Froghole slums. Something fitting for Derossi Vargo, biggest knot boss in the whole damned city, and to Ninat’s hell with what any cuff thought of him.

He left his gloves on the floor of his study and slammed down the stairs, startling Varuni into a facial expression. “Get me a message runner and a sedan chair.”

::Vargo, please.:: Peabody scuttled along the wall, following Vargo as he paced. ::If something happened with Renata—::

“Fuck Renata.” He didn’t care what she thought of him.

::I only meant…::

Vargo stepped outside and shut the door so Alsius couldn’t follow. Unless you want to listen to me nailing a cuff into a wall, I suggest you stay home.

Alsius wisely fell silent.

When the chair arrived, Vargo handed the note to the runner. “Take this to Iascat Novrus. Tell him he’s got till midnight if he’s interested. Otherwise, don’t bother.”

The boy reached for the note, but Vargo didn’t let go. “Wait.”

Something in the nipper-cheeked runner’s expression reminded Vargo uncomfortably of the boy he’d been—and of Iascat. The soft smile when he tried to call Vargo by the only first name he knew, and the bruised look when he forced Vargo to admit their fucking was just a way to get at Sostira’s trove of information. Maybe one day Iascat would become like the rest of them… but aside from Renata, he was the only other person who looked at Vargo like he had value beyond his utility. It was a lie; they both knew it—but Vargo wasn’t feeling quite vindictive enough to rip down the rest of Iascat’s illusions just because he was pissed. Time and this fucking city would do it soon enough.

“On second thought,” he said, “take it to Fadrin Acrenix.”

Vargo would be the one nailed to the wall, but that felt right. He’d spent his entire life getting screwed by cuffs. What was one more night?