9

The Face of Balance

Whitesail, Upper Bank: Lepilun 10

It took half a bell of pounding on Tanaquis’s front door to wake Zlatsa. She blinked sleepily at Renata and said, with a lack of tact worthy of her mistress, “Do you know what time it is?”

“First sun. Yes. I need to speak with Tanaquis.”

“Meda Fienola was out late last night. She hasn’t risen yet.”

I know she was out late. I was there.

Ren had spent the whole night pacing the streets, first heading back to Isla Traementis, then veering away when she realized she didn’t dare go back yet. The fury that had possessed her faded over time, but it left fear in its wake. She didn’t understand what had happened, and the only person who might explain it to her was Tanaquis.

She couldn’t even tell whether it was the numinat’s lingering effect or just natural consequence that she wanted to grab Zlatsa by the shoulders and shake her. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t an emergency. Wake her. Now.”

Zlatsa brought her into the parlour and left her there for what seemed like an hour, though only one bell chimed. Finally, the stairs creaked again, and the maid appeared in the doorway. “You’re to go up to her workshop.”

The attic skylights flooded the room with early-morning light, gilding the shelves of books, reflecting too sharply off Tanaquis’s telescope and the lapis-blue star chart enameled into one wall. Tanaquis sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, yawning. “Renata. You should have stayed last night; I wanted to talk to you. Now that—”

“What was that?” Renata’s voice trembled: with exhaustion, with fear, with residual anger. “What did Diomen do to me?”

Tanaquis squinted blearily at her. Sleep still crusted the corners of her eyes. “The Pontifex? He did nothing. It was the eisar.”

“The what?”

“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about—the reason I brought you into the Praeteri. Now I can. Why don’t you sit down?”

She must be looking truly distraught if Tanaquis was showing such concern. Renata’s feet ached from too much time walking in fashionable shoes; she sank into a chair and wrapped her arms around her body.

Tanaquis sighed, rubbing her eyes clear. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to share with you. Parts of it are supposed to be secrets held only by those who achieve the Great Mysteries—in fact, we take measures to make sure no one has a loose tongue. I’ve eased those bonds on myself, but if the Pontifex finds out, I suspect he will not be pleased.”

“I can keep secrets,” Renata said through her teeth. “Talk.”

She forced herself to be patient, because she recognized the signs of Tanaquis sorting her thoughts into an order other people could comprehend. Finally Tanaquis said, “I told you the Illius Praeteri deal with the deeper secrets of numinatria. When most people think about channeling energy, they stop at the obvious things: light, sound, heat, and so forth. Life energy, for fertility or contraception or execution. That sort of thing.

“But there are more subtle types of energy. You recall how I sent Vargo into the realm of mind, when you were sleepless? Mirscellis’s experiments with—”

Renata’s palm slapped hard against the table, hard enough to rattle the books atop it. “I don’t give a damn about Mirscellis. What happened to me didn’t have anything to do with the realm of mind.”

Tanaquis brushed a wisp of hair out of her face, unaffected by the outburst. “Quite right. No, last night Diomen led you to the Gate of Rage, and what you experienced there was the influence of eisar. They’re a type of spirit, without physical form or individuality, an emanation of…” She trailed off, as if weighing how much scholarly explanation Renata would tolerate. If so, she read correctly that the answer was not much. “They’re the energy of—feelings, I suppose you could say. Emotions.”

“That numinat was controlling my mind?”

“Not controlling, no! Eisar have no power to force you to feel anything. They can only touch and amplify what’s already there.”

If Tanaquis meant that to be comforting, she failed utterly. Revulsion coiled in Ren’s gut. Her life depended on her self-control; if that broke, she could ruin everything. Not only for herself, but for Tess, Sedge, the Traementis—everyone she cared about.

Tanaquis was still talking, trying to put out the fire with more words. “Emotional energies—the eisar—are meant to flow through us. It isn’t good for them to be blocked, for the channels to be closed off. The point of the Praeteri rituals is to free them, so they can reach their natural end. Don’t you feel better, having released that anger?”

Not in the slightest. Not with the damage it had done.

But in the moment…

Months of holding her tongue, biting down on all the truths she wanted to fling in Vargo’s face. Forcing herself to smile at him as if all the warmth and trust he’d coaxed from her weren’t rotting inside her heart. It had felt freeing to throw that burden away at last—if only she didn’t have to live with the consequences.

“Diomen should have warned me,” Renata said, her voice shaking again. “Not sprung it on me as a surprise.”

“That was unconventional,” Tanaquis admitted. “The Gates of Initiation require a certain degree of secrecy; ignorance, submission, and zeal can only really be tested by keeping you in the dark. But now that you’ve passed through the initiations, you should have been instructed before exploring the revelations. The Pontifex has mentioned a blessing he believes you carry; perhaps that spurred him to act more precipitously.”

“He was more concerned with what has stained me. I can only assume you told him about the curse.”

Renata was watching closely as she said it. Either Tanaquis was as good a liar as Vargo, or her surprise was genuine. “Not me. He spoke to you about that? How interesting. What did he say?”

Her head ached. Pressing cold fingers into her eyes, she said, “Tanaquis. You promised me this would help with finding the source of the curse—but so far, all it’s done is make things worse.”

“I’m sorry.” Tanaquis’s hands tugged her own down, hot against the chill of Renata’s skin. She chafed them to bring some warmth. “I can only stretch the bindings I’m under so far. The Pontifex believes that if we give knowledge too freely, then initiates would feel they’ve gotten all they needed from the Praeteri. He doesn’t want to lose your involvement in our society. But what I wanted to tell you is that I believe the Traementis curse was driven by eisar.”

The eisar. Emotional energies. Like anger? Diomen had told her to focus on that, on her desire for vengeance against those who had wronged the Traementis. But even so… “How could that be?”

“How much do you know about how the various members of House Traementis died?” It seemed to be a rhetorical question, because Tanaquis kept talking. “Between you and me, quite a few of them brought about their own ends. Oh, not on purpose—they didn’t seek death—but take Donaia’s husband, Gianco. He ruined himself through his addiction to aža. With others it was carrying their greed too far, or unwise choice of lovers. All hells of their own making. That can’t be caused by everyday numinatria, nor through imbuing. I am very curious to know if it can be done with pattern. But eisar numinata can affect the mind, making people act in certain ways. Destructive ones, even.”

Ren scraped through her memories, trying to think if anything in her past felt like the rage that had overtaken her the night before. There was nothing that strong or immediate—it would have been impossible to overlook that—but perhaps something that had been slower, more subtle?

Diomen had spoken about the Gate of Desire; that must be one of the types of eisar. Hadn’t it been her own desires that carried her into this situation? The decision to infiltrate House Traementis, the risks she’d taken to make that happen. Had all of that been due to the eisar? Not creating the urge, just feeding the hunger already in her heart?

But that still didn’t explain how she’d become cursed. Tanaquis had chalked it up to blood—but Ren didn’t have a blood connection to the family. No connection at all, until she was inscribed into their register.

She couldn’t tell Tanaquis that part. “Assuming the curse was caused by eisar… does that mean one of the Praeteri cursed us?”

Tanaquis’s brows rose, as if the possibility had never occurred to her. “We’re not the only people to practice this kind of thing; there are similar sects elsewhere, primarily in the north. But in Nadežra—yes, I suppose it’s logical for you to suspect them.” Curiosity flared bright in her gaze. “I’ve been trying to figure out where pattern fits into all of this, how it can be reconciled with the order of the cosmos. And how it manages to interact with eisar—as clearly it can, given that you detected the curse with your cards, and your cards helped with its removal.”

Renata stifled a sigh. Tanaquis would never let go of her belief that someday she would find a way to slot pattern into her well-organized universe. “I don’t know. Pattern is a thing of intuition, revealing the connections between people—which is how I assume it worked to lift the curse—but there’s no emotion involved. It’s just… patterns.” She lifted her hands, unable to give words to something she just knew.

Before Tanaquis could irritate her with another attempt to subsume pattern into the paradigm she knew, Renata added, “Regardless, I can’t try now. I don’t have a deck with me, nor the concentration to use one.” She needed to sleep—and needed to tell Donaia and Giuna that she’d fallen out with Vargo. What would that mean for their partnership on the river numinat? When it came to business obligations, the law didn’t care if they were on speaking terms or not.

Tanaquis touched her wrist again. “I am sorry that things went poorly for you last night. I promise, I have no desire to see you hurt. And if you’d prefer not to take part in any more Praeteri rituals, that’s fine. You’ve gotten far enough for us to talk openly about this.”

Renata laid her hand over Tanaquis’s. “I do appreciate that you’re trying to help. I—I need some time to think. We can talk more later.”

The Shambles, Lower Bank: Lepilun 12

The half-collapsed building where the Black Rose waited was empty apart from herself and Gulavka. Arkady was the one who’d found it for the Rose and held on to Gulavka while this handoff was arranged; her kids kept watch nearby. The sudden and out-of-tune melody of a skipping song, drifting through the cracked walls, alerted Ren that the Vraszenians were approaching.

“You claim to be Ažerais’s servant, but you betray her and her city just like the ziemetse,” Gulavka muttered from where she knelt. “There is still time to do right by her. Let me go, and all the Faces will look kindly on you.”

Ren ignored the bluster. She just waited, lounging in the room’s one chair, as Dalisva entered with a man at her heels.

“Lady Rose,” Dalisva said, nodding in respect. “Once again, we thank you.”

Gulavka spat on the floor. “This creature is a—”

“Don’t make me regret not gagging you,” Ren said. “Bear in mind that your alternatives to this include Derossi Vargo and the Cinquerat. I’d say you’re getting off lightly.”

“You fool yourself only if you think there is a difference. Betrayers, all of y—Urk!”

Ren tied the gag’s knot tightly to prevent Gulavka from pushing it off with her tongue. It didn’t silence the noise, but at least it rendered her rhetoric incomprehensible.

Dalisva looked saddened by the necessity. “Heed not her bile. Truly you do the work of Ažerais in bringing this one to us. The Stretsko are by family loyalty moved; without her connections, Branek will have a harder time convincing others to follow his lead.”

At Dalisva’s nod, the man hefted Gulavka over his shoulder and carried her kicking from the tenement. Dalisva remained behind. “Would that you could bring us Branek himself,” she said, with more than a hint of suggestion behind the wish.

Ren huffed out a laugh. “Not that I’ll admit it in public, but I have limits. The best hope for dealing with Branek is to back the man he deposed.” She held up one gloved hand before Dalisva could protest. “What you heard was false. Branek and his allies turned against Andrejek without cutting knot, then lied to everyone else to cover what they’d done.”

Dalisva sliced her own hand through the air, as if cutting away a tangle. “Who betrayed whom is not my concern. From the start, the plan to destroy the amphitheatre was Andrejek’s.”

“And who do you want in charge of the Anduske—the man who made the plan but abandoned it, or the one who tried to follow through?” Ren began to pace, hands locked behind her back. “I know your answer is ‘neither.’ But someone is going to lead the Anduske; they won’t vanish simply because you capture their leaders. If Branek falls to an outside force—even to me—that will only make him a martyr to his followers. Whereas if Andrejek exposes him for a traitor, not only he but his ideals will lose credibility.”

“And how do you propose to bring this about?”

Ren couldn’t hold back a sigh, remembering her own cards. The Face of Light, cautioning against hasty action. “It’s going to take time.”

The low ceiling and mildewed walls dulled Dalisva’s bark of laughter. Then she touched her brow in apology. “Forgive me, Lady Rose. I know you will do all you can to slow Branek. But simply to slow him is not enough. We must stop the Anduske themselves, for the safety of all our people.”

“All our people?” Ren’s nerves sharpened at the phrase. “Forgive me, Ča Korzetsu, but we both know that isn’t true.”

The formal address brought Dalisva upright. “I only meant—”

“You meant that you’ve gotten complacent. Maybe not you specifically, but the ziemetse, and the other cities of Vraszan. You’ve come to accept that Nadežra is controlled by the Liganti—you don’t like it, but it’s been that way for two hundred years, so how could it be anything else? But there was a time when nobody had to pay to experience the Great Dream. When no outsider had the power to enact a scheme like Indestor’s, which almost destroyed our connection to Ažerais. And you conveniently forget that Cinquerat control isn’t something that happens once every seven years during the Great Dream, or just at the Ceremony of the Accords. The people here live with it every day.”

Ren wanted to blame that flood of words on the rage numinat Diomen had placed her in, but they might have burst out anyway. Dalisva knew there was a human woman under the mask, one who hadn’t come to the city with the Vraszenian delegation last year. Ren didn’t have to pretend to be some mystical spirit. And she was tired of feeling like the only “true” Vraszenians were the ones who didn’t live in Nadežra—like the people here didn’t count, except as tokens to capture in a game of hexboard.

But she wasn’t the only one with strong feelings. “Have the Anduske not caused worse harm, to less effect?” Dalisva’s fists were clenched, her face twisted with frustration. “The last great uprising was Elsivin the Red’s, and what profit came from that? Whole kretse wiped out, the Isarnah punished for their assistance. The only changes were for the worse. Fifty years have passed, but the sanctions remain.”

She was right—and also wrong. With an effort, Ren lowered her voice. “It’s foolish to try the same thing over and over again, hoping for a different result. The Anduske fight, and they change nothing. The ziemetse refuse to fight, and they change nothing. What if everyone tried something new… like working together?”

Dalisva’s frustration softened. Wistfully, she said, “Ah, if only the Ižranyi still lived. Is that not what everyone says? Without the clan of the dreamweaver, our fabric has pulled askew.” She rubbed her face wearily. “Perhaps you are right, Lady Rose. To have a dream is not enough, though, is it? The ziemetse will not reach out; the Anduske will not reach out. Each scorns the other for the blood or the mud on their hands.”

It was the same obstinacy Ren had seen far too much of in the Charterhouse lately. Seeing it among Vraszenians made her feel tired. The Rook had spent two hundred years fighting an endless battle against the corruption of the nobility. Was she doomed to be the first in a long line of Black Roses, waging an equally hopeless war?

Dalisva’s smile did nothing to wipe away that image. “Perhaps in truth this is why Ažerais chose you, Lady Rose. To bridge the river that has divided us so long. I will pray to An Mišennir that it is so.”

Better bring a big offering. The Black Rose was just a mask to hide a half-Vraszenian face. Neither the Anduske nor the ziemetse had any reason to listen to someone like her.

She abruptly wanted to be anywhere but there, looking at Dalisva’s hopeful expression. “I’ll let you know if I capture anyone else useful,” Ren said, and strode out of the building without saying farewell.

Isla Stresla, Kingfisher: Lepilun 14

When Grey heard Renata’s voice coming through the door of Ryvček’s practice room, he almost turned around and left.

The problem wasn’t him being there; everyone knew Ryvček had trained him. But Renata Viraudax was a busy woman, and the Black Rose equally so—yet Arenza Lenskaya kept finding the time to visit his house, usually when he wasn’t there. Grey couldn’t tell how much of that was sympathy for Alinka, grieving and overworked, and how much was concern over the twisted fate she’d seen for him in her cards.

He hadn’t expected her to react so strongly to that. He almost wished he could undo his trick, or take back the suggestion that she lay the cards for him at all. But she’d patterned the Rook. What if she’d patterned Grey, when he wasn’t around? Better to give her a false answer, making sure her gift didn’t winkle out the truth from the other side. So he’d suggested it, and then when he sent her gaze skittering away during that last shuffle, he’d slipped two cards from the bottom of the deck into a gap near the top.

Every time he thought of that, he remembered her white-eyed fear, the harsh rasp of her breathing as she stared at something he couldn’t see. The rigid tension of her hands in his own. Who knew; maybe it would have been as bad even if he hadn’t interfered. Grey had known for a long time that his fate was a poisoned one. She might have had the same reaction, and uncovered that he was the Rook.

But having gone to those lengths, he needed to make sure he didn’t undo their benefit. Which meant his best course was to be Captain Grey Serrado at her as firmly as possible. Dull, upstanding, and duty-bound, with no time for a life beyond the Aerie.

“You come for practice?” Ryvček said when he entered. “Good. The Vigil are brawlers with swords; no finesse. You could use a polish. Or quit that nonsense and be a duelist. Skill you certainly have, and these past months—djek. More duels than even I can fight. Alta Renata, your people have become as prickly as wet cats.”

In his peripheral vision, Grey saw Renata seizing a chance to catch her breath. Despite her sleeveless fencing coat, the hair plastered to her brow was dark with sweat. Still, her voice was as cool as always when she said, “I’d forgotten you two know each other.”

“Since before he called himself Grey.” Ryvček grinned at the pained look Grey shot her. She and Donaia were the only ones left who remembered.

“Oh?” Renata said. “I confess, I did think ‘Grey’ was an unusual name.”

“He’s Kiraly. And not very creative.” Ryvček racked her practice blade and mopped her face with a cloth. A yell issued from upstairs. She looked at the ceiling with a glare that could burn through the boards. “If those two cease not their arguing—”

Cutting off the common complaint, she winked at Grey. “The pains of living with cousins. I must deal with this. Serrado, why not put the alta through her paces? A student needs many partners to learn from.” And with that, she vanished from the room.

Vengeance for all the times you almost stumbled on her secret, he thought—which didn’t put him in charity with her.

“Is she that suggestive with everyone?” Renata asked as the door shut them in Ryvček’s trap.

“Everyone she hasn’t known since they were children. Leato and I were safe. Mostly,” Grey grumbled, shucking his coat and tying his sleeves down with a pair of cords. He’d come intending to ask Ryvček a question, not to spar, but leaving now would only make Renata more curious. Taking up a practice sword, he gave it a few sweeps to get the feel of its balance. “What have you worked on so far?”

He listened with half an ear as Renata named off drills. She was further along than he’d expect from a beginner, but that made sense; he knew from when he’d ambushed her in her kitchen that she had instinct and experience already. Just no formal training, and no familiarity with swords.

So far as he knew, she still had Mezzan’s Vicadrius blade. She deserved its fine craftsmanship more than that kinless bastard ever had, and it would be a pleasure to help her learn to use it well.

“Three moves,” Grey said when she was done. “I’ll call them, and you respond as fast as you can.”

Like Vargo, her biggest flaw was her inability to judge measure. She was fine when attacking, lunging at Grey from a reasonable distance, but when it was her turn to defend, she retreated farther than necessary. “I know,” she said with a grimace when he pointed this out. “I’m working on it, but—”

But her impulse was to get as far from danger as possible. At least when fencing, he thought. In social matters, she courted danger close enough to kiss.

He reminded himself to be a boring hawk and focused on correcting her technique in as dry a manner as possible. When he finally gave her a respite, she said, “I never thanked you for your assistance during my episode of sleeplessness.”

Assistance. If the Rook hadn’t sent her into a panic, forced her to confess her malady, then all but shoved her into seeking help, who knew how long she might have spent dying before she told someone other than Tess? But he hoped she wasn’t referring to that.

Grey tugged his glove straight, as though her words didn’t trouble him. “Eret Vargo and Meda Fienola solved the problem. All I could do was share what hadn’t worked for the sleepless children.”

The tightening of her lips at Vargo’s name was faint but visible. He’d heard rumors of a rift between them; was the strain of her masquerade starting to bleed through? Renata said, “But Tanaquis spoke very highly of your attempts—in particular, the herbal remedies. Might I ask who your herbalist is?” She hesitated, then confessed, “Donaia isn’t doing well. It isn’t that kind of sleeplessness, but… nightmares. And her appetite is poor. The Traementis physician is attending her, of course, but I wonder if different methods might not produce better results.”

You know damned well who my herbalist is. “My sister,” he said, letting a little of his conflict drag his expression into a frown. Would Ren pretend to misunderstand his ambiguity, or would she slip and reveal that she knew Alinka was Grey’s sister by marriage? “She traveled the river growing up, and had the benefit of learning from a variety of village healers.”

Renata’s expression grew stricken. “I’m sorry—I wasn’t aware you had a sister as well. She might not want to attend to Donaia, especially if dealing with a grieving woman would remind her of her brother’s death. Though…” Was that the hesitation of a real thought? Or an artfully staged pause? “It might help Donaia—might help them both—having the company of someone who understands.”

“Alinka was Kolya—my brother’s—wife.” No need to fake the roughness of those words. If only he could loosen the hold of the grief that strangled him whenever he had to speak of it. “But are you looking for an herbalist for Donaia, or a companion? Alinka is good at the first, but you could easily find better. For companionship…”

It was like fighting with two blades, maintaining the fiction that he didn’t know about Ren, about Arenza, about all the things the Rook knew, while trying to puzzle out the motives behind her words.

Perhaps she was merely making the suggestion out of concern for Alinka—and for Grey. She’d seen herself how much strain their current situation placed on everyone, even without Koszar’s presence adding danger. Alinka was even talking about returning to her family. If she had more money, more stability, then perhaps she wouldn’t take Grey’s niece and nephew away when her kureč came for the next Great Dream.

“They’ve only met once, that I know of,” he said, turning over the possibility as he spoke. “Era Traementis offered us her garden to dance the kanina for Kolya’s passing. Besides, Alinka has her own children to care for. Their company might not be soothing for Era Traementis.”

“We aren’t the best judges of that,” Renata pointed out. “But it might be worth proposing to them.”

“True. Ask Era Traementis first; I wouldn’t want to raise Alinka’s hopes. Or hurt her if the era decides she doesn’t want the company of a Vraszenian widow with a toddler and a… spirited little girl who’s fond of biting.” She’d bitten Arenza during the last visit, when she was refused a pattern of her own. He saw no sign of a bruise; no doubt Ren had taken care to hide that with cosmetics.

Chuckling, Renata lifted her blade again. “Now that it’s decided… I’d love a chance to spar properly with someone other than Ryvček. Would you help me with my sleeves?” She nodded at two pieces of fabric laid over the weapons rack.

Grey retrieved the sleeves, then slid them up her bare arms, lacing them back onto the shoulders of the surcoat. Tess had sensibly included upward-pointing caps to cover the join, so the point of a blade wouldn’t skid inside. Renata might have been able to lace them herself, but not easily. And Grey had seen her use flirtation as a tool before.

It had failed when she tried it on him at the Gloria. It was annoyingly more effective now that he knew the face behind the mask. He kept his movements brisk and efficient, without being rushed… but still, he couldn’t ignore the warmth of her skin, the breath ghosting over his hands as she observed his progress. Nor the pleasant tension it created inside.

When he was done, he said, “How easy do you want me to go on you?” Sparring would at least give him a reason for his unsteady breathing.

The corners of her eyes creased in amusement. “I have no doubt you can trounce me… but don’t go too easy. I ought to learn something, after all.”

Such as whether he fought like the Rook? Grey resolved to use orthodox Liganti style, and raised his blade.

Fortunately—though part of him immediately regretted it—Liganti-style fencing was a very proper affair, especially against someone who hadn’t mastered it. The straight-armed stance kept them at a distance from each other, their blades flirting back and forth, their bodies never closing or passing the way the Vraszenian style was more prone to. Grey confined himself mostly to defense, deliberately leaving openings to encourage her to practice attacking. But after a while she fell into a predictable routine, and he decided to shake it up with a small surprise.

The next time she advanced, he counterattacked like he had before, coming in toward her throat, and she parried as she had before, deflecting him out to the side. Grey responded by dropping his point, stepping in close to seize her hand, and bringing his blade around to the back of her neck.

“Just because we don’t often move in,” he murmured in her ear, “doesn’t mean we can’t.”

Djek. That sounded far too flirtatious.

He released her hand as if it had burned him, then backed away and bowed. “My apologies, alta. I should not have presumed.”

“You owe me one for that fright,” she said dryly, rubbing the back of her neck as if imagining a sharp edge there. “Perhaps you might do me a favor in recompense. Have you ever heard of someone named Alsius?”

He kept his repentant expression from faltering, but the sudden thud of his heart had nothing to do with exertion. That question was no accident. Whether it was this moment or something before it—some mistake he hadn’t even noticed himself making—she did suspect. And she’d thrown that name at him when he was off balance, to see if he reacted.

“Alsius,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard of such a person before today, let alone a spirit. “Someone you know from Seteris?”

“Not Seterin, despite the name. I overheard him talking, and his accent was Nadežran. Upper Bank, though.” She shrugged and adjusted her grip on the blade. “I know a name and a voice is precious little to go on. But I’d like to know who the man is, and given your Vigil resources, I thought you might be able to find out.”

It was good logic whether she suspected him or not. But dutiful, upstanding Captain Grey Serrado was a busy man. “I realize I found Gammer Lindworm, and she’s a legend out of a fire tale, but that doesn’t make me all-knowing. If I hear anything, though, I’ll be sure to tell you. In the meanwhile—” He raised his blade. “Uniat.”

Lacewater, Old Island: Lepilun 21

Vargo waited patiently in a private back room in the Talon and Trick, the card parlour he owned in Lacewater. Out in the front room, slumming delta gentry gambled away their coin on nytsa and sixes, surrounded by just enough Vraszenian trappings to make them feel like they’d gone somewhere exotic. In the room next to his, a szorsa read cards and her clients alike, sifting out any useful information she might pass along to Vargo.

He couldn’t hear any of it, of course. This room was meant for meetings that shouldn’t be overheard.

Even the bell towers couldn’t pierce its walls. Vargo kept the clock in his bones, though, and he knew his guests were late. Normally he understood how to be patient, but tonight he kept catching his fingers drumming against the table or the head of his sword cane.

His fury over the incident with Renata had faded to a sullen glow, but it had left him shaken in other ways. She wasn’t a woman prone to losing self-control… yet a few minutes in that numinat had been enough to tear her mask away. Vargo had blithely assumed he could advance in the Praeteri and keep his true intentions hidden, so long as he knew what to expect. Now he wasn’t so sure.

By comparison, this felt easy. A simple bit of street politics, easily solved with fists and blades.

A disc set into the door rotated—a signal that took the place of knocking. Nikory opened it, admitting a man with a missing ear: Ardaš Ljunan, Sedge’s contact. Vargo felt a brief surge of irritation at Sedge for coming down with a stomach flu earlier today. This would go more smoothly if both messengers were here.

Ljunan was alone. His wary gaze flicked over them all: Vargo, Nikory, Varuni, and Merapo, who led what was left of the Cut Ears. The room had no hangings anyone could hide behind, and Ljunan shouldn’t be able to see the concealed exit. But even if he did, Vargo didn’t have anyone lying in wait there. This meeting would be as honest as he got.

Satisfied, Ljunan turned and nodded to someone outside the room. A moment later, two others entered.

The woman was likely Idusza Polojny. She was holding the arm of a man, not quite steadying him, but ready to catch him if he faltered. Between that and the descriptions Vargo had, he believed the man was, in fact, Koszar Andrejek—and not some decoy.

“Have a seat,” Vargo said, gesturing to the only other chair. Nobody else here was likely to want to sit; they preferred to be on their feet and ready to move. Andrejek, on the other hand, looked like he needed it.

He wasted no time in doing so, nor in speaking. “Ča Vargo. I hope you take no offense if I call you not by the title of the invaders.”

“Given what I know of you, Ča Andrejek, I’d suspect you of insulting me if you did.”

Andrejek chuckled. “Is it true you’ve captured Dmatsos?”

“Is it true you’re not the knot breaker rumor claims?” That had been the hardest part of arranging this meeting: Half his knot leaders threatened to cut off a finger before striking palms with an oath breaker. Ironic that Sedge had been the one to convince them Andrejek was no such thing.

By way of answer, Andrejek unbuttoned his collar and displayed an age-worn charm, knotted from many different pieces. “If this satisfies you, then let us begin. I suspect neither of us wishes to remain here any longer than we must.”

Vargo liked a man who knew how to get down to business. “You think I can help you?”

“If not the Master of the Two Banks, then who?”

That was a title he’d not heard before, but Andrejek was a fool if he thought flattery and sympathy would soften Vargo’s heart. “I should have been clearer. You think I have reason to help you?” He knew what Andrejek wanted from him, and suspected what he had to offer, but there was power in making the other man open negotiations.

Andrejek folded his hands atop the table. “The Crimson Eyes. Tserdev is none of mine, now or before I was overthrown, but I know something of her dealings. Shelter me and mine—someplace safer than where I hide now—help me get word to those who might support me if they knew the truth, and I can share that knowledge with you.”

That investment came with risks. Andrejek’s information might be outdated or worthless. He might hold something vital back to protect his own. And if any of Andrejek’s detractors found out Vargo was sheltering him, he’d end up with twice the enemies.

But laid against that was the chance to get rid of the gutter rats gnawing at his shoes. Vargo could go on clashing with them at the borders… or he could take a risk and strike at their heart.

Like he’d done in Staveswater. And that had turned out quite well.

Vargo spat in his palm and held it out. “Your pledge to give me everything you know. In return, I’ll give you safe harbor for as long as you need.”

Andrejek showed no surprise at Vargo’s bare hand, or that he struck the bargain in street style—which was originally Vraszenian style. Leaning forward, he returned the gesture. Vargo forced a smile through the unpleasant squelching of their palms.

A smile that fled when the door crashed inward.

“Koszar Andrejek! Submit yourself to the authority of the Vigil!”

Andrejek’s and Vargo’s curses overlaid one another. “You did this,” Andrejek hissed, yanking his hand from Vargo’s.

“Why would I—Fuck it.” Defending himself could come later. Vargo flung the table toward the hawks flooding through the door and hurled himself in the other direction, toward the back wall.

Varuni already had the door open and dove through it. Behind Vargo, the room was dissolving into chaos; he caught a glimpse of Merapo going down to an elbow in the face, and then he was in the narrow passageway that led along the back of the Talon and Trick. The canal outside came right up to the parlour’s foundation, so there was no room for hawks to surround the building and no reason for them to think they should… but it was narrow enough to leap, for anyone coming out the hidden door.

Once again, Varuni went first. There was just enough time for Vargo to hear her swear before his jump turned into a headlong sprawl, as somebody tripped him on landing.

He rolled to his feet and found Varuni pinned to the ground. But the people holding her were not in Vigil uniforms; instead they each wore a gold-and-black armband.

Fucking Mask-damned stingers—And to think, there was a time when Vargo had believed Ghiscolo’s new Ordo Apis might actually be useful to him, giving the damned Stretsko something to gnaw on besides him.

He recognized the blade-nosed man who advanced on him. One of the Praeteri, clearly drunk on the power of his new job. “Mede Kaineto,” Vargo said.

“Eret Vargo.” In Kaineto’s mouth, the title was a different kind of insult: one that said he wasn’t worthy of bearing it. “What a surprise that you got caught up in this.”

Vargo’s membership in the Praeteri had to be good for something. Stepping closer and lowering his voice, he said, “An unfortunate accident, Brother Ludoghi. I had no idea that such criminals were hiding out in the vicinity. I’m certain you can set things straight.”

Kaineto’s smile stretched his already thin lips into invisibility. “Of course. But I can’t go against my orders.” He waved at his fellow stingers. “Take them to the Dockwall Prison.”

Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 21

Being in jail was a different experience now that Vargo had a title. Instead of being slung into a common cell with Nikory and the rest, he got a cell of his own, on the top floor of the prison. It had a chair and everything. And a window, through which a spot of bright color scuttled. ::It’s taken me over an hour to get here. What in eleven hells happened?::

Vargo’s cell wasn’t one of the luxurious ones meant for long-term prisoners. Though deep, it was so narrow he could lean the chair back and rest his head against one wall while propping his feet on the opposite. He’d spent the past several bells finding the perfect point of equilibrium. “Clearly, I pissed off every god associated with Quarat. And Sessat.”

::So you’re going to test your luck further trying to break your fool neck?:: Peabody jumped, his landing softer than a fresh pork bun to the gut.

Vargo sat up once Peabody attained the safety of his shoulder. The crack of the chair legs hitting the floor echoed through the dank stone halls and reminded him that, however it might seem, he wasn’t alone.

We were set up, he said silently. Not by Andrejek, I don’t think; all three Anduske got taken. But Dimiterro must have known we’d be there, because he brought the Vigil in force. And the stingers knew to wait at the bolt door.

::You suspect Sedge?::

No, he didn’t. Not really. But… He was the go-between. And I’m starting to doubt he was sick tonight.

::It could also be one of the Anduske, selling Andrejek out.::

Been a lot of that going around, Vargo thought sourly.

The sound of footsteps brought him to his feet. He boosted Peabody up to the windowsill—the guards might try to crush the spider if they spotted him—then turned and straightened his coat. Two hawks stopped at the narrow window in his door, which wasn’t a surprise. They were followed by Ghiscolo Acrenix, which was.

Suddenly very glad Alsius was gone, Vargo said, “Your Mercy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Eret Vargo. You have my deepest apologies for this inconvenience.” At Ghiscolo’s nod, one of the hawks opened the cell door. The other held out the coat, journal, and satchel that had been confiscated when Vargo was arrested. “I believe there was some confusion regarding your involvement in tonight’s raid. But I’m certain your presence at that card parlour was unfortunate happenstance.”

“Very unfortunate,” Vargo agreed dryly, shrugging into his coat and checking his journal to make certain none of his notes were missing. That they’d been read, he had no doubt, but he didn’t keep anything sensitive on him. Especially not after being frisked by the Rook. “What of my guards? They should all be protected by my military charter.”

“They’re being released as we speak.”

“And the others? Was Koszar Andrejek really hiding in Lacewater this whole time?”

Ghiscolo sighed. “I doubt it. But it bodes ill for the owner of the Talon and Trick that Andrejek was caught there.”

Vargo nodded solemnly. It would bode very ill for the owner… if such a person existed as more than a false name on a few deeds and contracts. But he had no doubt that Ghiscolo knew who really owned the place. And now Ghiscolo was letting Vargo know that he knew.

His freedom wasn’t the usual reach-around the Praeteri gave to their brethren, succeeding with Ghiscolo where it had failed with Kaineto. House Acrenix had claws inside their gloves.

Smiling through his fury at how elegantly he’d been set up, Vargo thanked Ghiscolo and allowed himself to be escorted downstairs to wait for his people to be released from the communal cells. He silently took note of the prison’s guards and defenses as he walked through its halls.

He wasn’t the only one who’d been betrayed. And there was more than one way to get someone out of jail.

Though he was going to need some help.

Isla Indestor, the Pearls: Lepilun 24

Wisps of melody drifted in through the windows as Ren crept through the Essunta townhouse. She had an innocent excuse for leaving the party—a need to use the private—and a plausible one for being not where she should be if someone caught her, in the form of a badly concealed intent to meet an unnamed suitor. But she hoped not to have to use the latter, because she was headed for the narrow servants’ stair that led to the roof, and that was a decidedly out-of-the-way place for a tryst.

At least, the sort of tryst most people would imagine. Ren opened the small door and ducked out into the hot summer night.

“I came this close to pinning you against the tiles,” an amused voice said behind her.

“And I came this close to thinking I’d guessed wrong—that the message I left for you about this party didn’t sound like an invitation to do something dramatic.” Ren turned to face the Rook, whose coat hung slack in the windless night.

“You think I do this for fun?”

She cocked her head, studying him. Arms crossed, shoulders tense. “I don’t think it’s what drives you, no. But… I do think you enjoy it, some of the time.”

He didn’t answer that. “So what’s driven Alta Renata out of the lamplight this evening? Bored with noble games?” His words were light as a rapier, and their edge just as sharp.

She hated it when he turned that sharpness against her. Most of the time when they encountered each other, his flirtatious manner rose to the top, and she answered in kind. But then something would set him on edge or remind him that she was a noble now. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t grown up among the cuffs and had spent the last few months feeding him information from the inside—even setting up that chance for him to search Vargo, she still didn’t know for what. When all was said and done, she’d been adopted into the Traementis. That put her among the Rook’s traditional enemies.

Out of habit, she’d been speaking in Renata’s accent, because she was in Renata’s clothing. Now she dropped it, shifting away from the door lest a servant hear them talking. “I need your help with something. It’s urgent.”

The tension eased. With a tilt of his hood, he invited her farther down the narrow, fenced widow’s walk that ran the length of the house. “If your ‘something’ is tonight, I’m afraid I’ll be a bit occupied. But if it can wait until tomorrow…”

“Two nights from now. You heard about the arrests in Lacewater?” At his nod, she said, “Then here is the part you likely haven’t heard. Caerulet calls for them to be executed de Ninate.”

It stopped him mid-pace. That Andrejek, Idusza, and Ljunan would be found guilty and executed was no surprise—but it had been decades since anyone was condemned to die de Ninate. Passing that sentence required a four-person majority in the Cinquerat, including the support of the Iridet seat, because it meant using numinatria to kill the victim.

Slowly. Agonizingly. As a spectacle for the crowd.

The Rook’s answer came as a low growl. “So as usual, the Cinquerat will deal with its problems by tossing them into a furnace numinat. Only this time it’s people instead of paperwork.” The iron railing creaked under the force of his grip. “What’s your plan?”

He hadn’t known about the de Ninate sentence. Ren only knew because she’d overheard Scaperto ranting at Donaia. But he agreed so readily, she wondered if he’d been considering his own rescue anyway. Another stitch in the fabric of her suspicions… because Serrado had worked with Andrejek to stop the riots and prevent the bombing.

Ren said, “I think I can arrange for a gap in the guard at the Dockwall Prison. But a one-person job this is not, especially since Andrejek hasn’t fully recovered from his injuries.” The old ones, or the new ones he’d taken during the arrest.

The Rook made a skeptical noise. It might have been insulting if it weren’t also warranted. She’d been a Finger and a con artist, but it was a long way from pulling a street hustle to infiltrating the most heavily guarded prison in Nadežra. “I’m glad you think so highly of both me and yourself, but I don’t think this is a two-person job, either.”

It wasn’t. And she should have admitted that up front, but she’d been afraid he would refuse. Or laugh in her face. He still might.

“Vargo wants the Black Rose’s help in breaking them out.”

He’d called the meeting as soon as he had been released from the Dockwall. And even in the guise of the Black Rose, facing him had made her gut twist into knots. He and Renata hadn’t met in person since that disastrous night in the temple, conducting all their business by chilly letter. But with the Rose, his coldness was directed at the problem: how to not only break into the Dockwall Prison, but get out again with three fugitives in tow.

She could read a thousand meanings into the Rook’s silence. When he spoke, his tone was far too level. “After he worked so hard to land them in there? Eret Vargo needs to make up his mind.”

Ren couldn’t blame him for assuming that—not when she’d wondered the same herself. “Their meeting was for alliance against the Stretsko. I had Sedge act as their go-between. He says Vargo is in an honest rage at what happened, and Sedge is my brother. I believe him.”

It wasn’t her faith in Vargo’s anger that persuaded her, though, nor even her faith in Sedge. “Will he profit from freeing them? Yes—but in the end, I care not. I cannot stand by and let them be killed. And I hope you cannot, either.”

From the Pearls and Eastbridge came the sound of bells ringing second earth. Only a thin band of deep blue limned the horizon; the rest of the sky was as dark as the shadows within the Rook’s hood.

“I have to go. The fireworks are scheduled to start soon,” he said, vaulting over the rail of the widow’s walk.

Her shoulders sagged with disappointment, but his next words snapped them tight. “Tell Vargo the Black Rose will have the Rook’s support. And that he’ll taste the Rook’s steel if he so much as thinks of playing us foul.”

Ren rocked back on her heels. He wanted her to tell Vargo? She’d been assuming she would have to keep his aid secret. If he even agreed in the first place, which she’d doubted. But it seemed he cared enough about the Anduske to grit his teeth and work alongside Vargo.

Or else he trusted her that much.

A spot of warmth blossomed beneath her ribs as the Rook crouched into a controlled slide down the tiled rooftop, catching his bootheel on the edge to stop his fall. One parting instruction floated up to her as he dropped. “When you go back down… stay clear of Mede Essunta.”

What did he have planned? Her mind spun possibilities as she drew Renata’s persona around her once more, as she sneaked back into the house, as she explained to a confused maid why she was in an upstairs hallway.

Outside, Mede Essunta’s guests were sipping chilled wine, watching as he stepped onto a small podium and began what was sure to be a long-winded and self-important speech about the history his house had of administering Nadežra’s firework charter.

“Can we stand by the fountain?” Renata asked once she found Giuna and Parma. “I don’t know how you endure this heat. I think I might sizzle away into a puddle if I don’t get some cool water on my face.”

As they moved away from the podium and down the path, Essunta called for the fireworks to begin. Renata dearly wished to look around, to see if she could spy a moving shadow. She held her breath along with the rest of the crowd. Waiting, but not for the same surprise.

Nothing happened.

Whispers rose from the restless crowd. Essunta shot a worried glance at Eret Fintenus, his new patron, and shouted again at the barge crew on the river.

Still, nothing happened.

Essunta abandoned all pretense of calm and screamed, spittle flying, that he would see them all doing hard labor in the fields if they didn’t get the fireworks started. Only then did a voice drift down from one of the riverfront house’s balconies.

“Don’t blame them,” the Rook said from his perch on the rail, twirling something in one hand that looked more like a baton than his rapier. “I’ve heard it’s hard to light black powder once it’s been wetted down.”

“You—you dare!” Essunta sputtered.

The Rook laughed. “I have it on excellent authority that I not only dare, I enjoy doing this. The question is, how do you dare, Mede Essunta? When you’ve demonstrated less responsibility with fire than a child.”

He paused a moment to let the crowd murmur questions to each other. What could he mean? Criminal he might be, but the Rook never acted without cause.

“Fontimi should take notes,” Parma muttered, sounding more amused than affronted. “He plays the Rook in the Theatre Agnasce’s productions. His flair for the dramatic pales next to this.”

Everyone fell silent when the Rook stood, balancing atop the rail. “You seem puzzled, Mede Essunta. And yet, didn’t you have Derossi Vargo plant black powder at the Fiangiolli warehouse, on Mettore Indestor’s orders? And then didn’t you and Era Novrus arrange for Vargo to set it off?”

The murmurs spiked in volume. Ren’s blood ran cold. I’m supposed to tell Vargo they’re working together—after this?

The Rook’s voice carried over the noise. “Deny it all you want, but we both know the truth. And I’m tired of taking the blame for the deaths you caused. You want fireworks? Allow me.”

A spark lit the shadows, flaring red as the Rook touched it to the baton and pointed it toward Essunta.

There was a general dive for the shrubbery as everyone around Essunta realized what the Rook held. Essunta himself hit the ground—just as the Rook had given him time to do. It meant the arc of the firework didn’t take him in the chest, but instead burst in a shower of glittering flame over his head.

Essunta shrieked as the sparks ate into his clothing and seared his covering hands. It wouldn’t kill him… but Ren, watching dispassionately, knew it would leave scars. Poetic justice: the hallmark of the Rook.

She didn’t bother to look up. By now the Rook would be gone.

Instead she comforted a distressed Giuna as best she could. And turned her thoughts to Dockwall.