14

The Mask of Mirrors

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

On the holy day of Canilis Tricat, House Traementis more than doubled in size, with four new adoptions.

“Quarat,” Tanaquis had said, nodding in approval, when Renata told her about Donaia’s final choices. “A good number for growth.” She would be the first; the second was Nencoral, a distant cousin of House Fintenus with significant trade connections; the third was Idaglio Minzialli, a rich delta gentleman whose current family had forbidden him to marry the man he loved.

The fourth was the man in question: Meppe, formerly of House Indestor.

Renata had pushed for both Meppe and Idaglio. Apart from Mezzan, who’d somehow managed to secure a job with the Ordo Apis, the former members of House Indestor had not fared well since their dissolution. Many ran afoul of the Vigil for crimes real or imagined, or received missives from Prasinet’s office, claiming they owed vast sums in unpaid taxes. Several had died, and no one was in a hurry to inquire whether it was of natural causes or not. As Renata pointed out, nothing would more clearly show that Traementis had shed its old ways than embracing one of their former enemies—and Meppe genuinely had bureaucratic skill to recommend him.

Earlier that day, all of them had gone to the Pearls’ Tricatium so that Utrinzi Simendis could inscribe each adoptee into the register with their new Traementatis name. Now the doors of the manor were flung wide for the first party it had hosted in many years. While the staff hurried to prepare, the new adoptees took over the second-floor rooms to change and prepare for the evening’s celebrations.

Ren still might not be able to talk freely with Tess, but that didn’t mean all conversation was impossible. “I heard someone from a certain bakery came by yesterday with a basket of samples for the cook to try,” she said as Tess draped a sheer cape of amber silk over her shoulders. “Is there any chance we might see more of those buns in the future?”

She didn’t even attempt to veil the innuendo, and the blush in Tess’s cheeks undercut the answering glare. During that afternoon at the Whistling Reed, Tess had mentioned putting Pavlin on Suilis’s trail. She’d done her best to be businesslike about it, but Ren could tell the ice of Tess’s anger was thawing. And underneath…

Tess sniffed. “Foolish man—as if it made sense to carry bread all the way here from the Lower Bank.”

“People have gone farther for a taste of something sweet.”

Under the guise of adjusting the topazes sparkling in Renata’s hair, Tess flicked her sister’s ear. “I’ll go see if everyone else is ready, alta. You stay here—don’t want you trampling in too soon.”

Ren touched her heart in apology, and got a quick smile as Tess went out the door. I hope they work it out, she thought, settling her flimsy net mask over her face. Based on Grey’s comments, Pavlin seemed like a genuinely good man. Tess deserved someone like that.

Then she drew a deep breath, and settled Renata’s mask over her mind.

There should have been a celebration like this for her adoption, but it had been too soon; even this was too soon. But Renata’s job was to help move the house past that, allowing Donaia to retire gracefully from the public eye for a while. So when the time came, she descended the stairs and waited in the hall while Colbrin announced each of the new members of House Traementis: Tanaquis and Nencoral and Idaglio and Meppe, and then, like the resolution of a musical crescendo, herself.

Renata moved into the open doorway and, with a languid tug at its tie, let her flimsy capelet slip from her shoulders and into the waiting footman’s hands.

A tide of gasps and murmurs lifted her lips in a satisfied smile. The warm ballroom lighting gave depth and richness to the bronze silk of her surcoat and caught the sparkles of the green spinels worked into the sheer embroidered overlay. But what people were staring at wasn’t her dress; it was her shoulders and arms, completely bare save for a powdering of pearl dust.

I used my sleeves at the Gloria to catch their interest. Now my lack of them will hold it, she thought in amusement as Donaia, resplendent in a new surcoat of quilted amber taffeta, handed her a glass of iced wine. Donaia murmured, “I leave it to you to welcome them, my dear niece.”

It was like stepping into everything she’d dreamed of. The ballroom had been oiled and buffed until every bit of the woodwork gleamed like warmed honey. With a murmur of The budget! and a pert wink at Renata, Tess had hired her old tatting circle from Little Alwydd to assemble a mass of fabric flowers from the scraps left over from the Traementis ladies’ gowns. Silk lobelias and begonias, velveteen peonies and dahlias cascaded down the walls—some doused in compounds imbued to keep away the insects that swarmed along the canals in autumn’s last gasps of heat, others with perfume to mask that. Miniature colored lightstones flickered among the flowers, transforming the stuffy and outdated ballroom into an airy outdoor plaza, and below them lay bountiful trays of cold meats and soft cheeses, berries sparkling with crystallized sugar, dipping creams flavored with mint and basil.

Everything I ever wanted, and more. It should have been a happier thought.

Perhaps some hint of that shadow bled through as she freed herself from the initial round of conversations. “Dark thoughts?” Tanaquis asked, wandering up to her side. Renata’s new cousin wore a thin arc of lace fixed to the skin around her brow and cheekbones; it suggested a mask without actually masking anything. “It occurs to me that it might be good to conduct some kind of cleansing ritual for all the adoptees. I know for certain that you, Donaia, and Giuna are free of the curse, but who’s to say whether something doesn’t linger in the Traementis name?”

Even in the day’s remaining heat, that type of chill wasn’t welcome. “Do you think that’s a risk?”

“Let’s be safe, not sorry.” Tanaquis patted her shoulder. “I’ll be leaving soon to attend a ritual with our illustrious friends—unavoidable timing, I fear; the stars don’t dance to our schedules—so don’t worry about it for tonight. We can arrange something later.”

She swept off as if such concerns could be laid aside as easily as an empty wineglass. Her departure gave Renata a clear view of Scaperto Quientis, standing temporarily idle. I should go talk to him, she thought. Except she couldn’t say any of the things she wanted to: gratitude for his help with the Dockwall infiltration, and apology for the Black Rose scaring him out of his skin the night she broke in to ask for that help.

A beckoning hand instead drew her over to where Donaia stood in quiet conversation with Grey Serrado, resplendent in his dress vigils. “I was just thanking Grey for the services of his sister-in-law,” Donaia said, catching Renata’s arm. “Have you met her charming children? No, you wouldn’t have. Darling little girl, and the boy is so sweet.” Her eyes misted with tears. Between that, her flushed cheeks, and the thick honey of mead on her breath, it seemed clear that Donaia was rowing in her cup from happiness to heartache. The pat she gave Renata’s cheek confirmed it. “You must have been as sweet. Truly, your mother didn’t treasure you as she should.”

“Perhaps we should find Giuna,” Grey said, gently prying Donaia off her.

“No! No more hiding back here. You should dance. The two of you, together. Look, there’s Scaperto. I need to talk to him about dog breeding. Go on with you.” With a final push, she tottered off.

Renata breathed out a soft laugh. “Well, we can’t disappoint her. And I’ve danced very little tonight—too busy fending off people asking something from me.”

“I ask nothing but that you avoid my toes,” Grey said with a smile, and bowed for her to precede him to the floor. A progression dance was already underway, leaving them to wait in awkward silence at the edge until the sets shifted and the dance swept them up.

The first figure was a promenade in the sagnasse hold. Which they’d danced before, in this very room… but things had been so different then, back when he was a stranger and a threat.

When she hadn’t yet seen him through Arenza’s eyes.

His arm lay across her shoulders with exquisite delicacy, barely making contact. She said, “You needn’t worry about your coat, Captain. The pearl dust is imbued; it won’t rub off.”

“Yes.” He coughed lightly. “Yes, the pearl dust is my concern.”

She unwound from the hold and came face-to-face with him. His gaze was studiously on their hands, rising to clasp—as if Captain Grey Serrado, a swordsman trained by Ryvček herself, were afraid he might miss. Or as if he were afraid to let his attention rest on the expanse of bare skin across her collarbone and shoulders.

As their gloved palms came together, Ren briefly lost where she was. She was back in Kingfisher, her bare hand against Grey’s, the tips of his fingers curling warmly over her own.

The silent prayer of Ir Entrelke, let him not remember that drowned under the wave of heat that swept her from head to toe. She wanted to lace her fingers between his, use that to draw him closer…

“I didn’t think you could cause more ripples than you did at last autumn’s Gloria,” Grey said as they circled each other around clasped palms. The scent of coffee hovered over him like perfume, far more pleasant to the nose than to the palate. “But I underestimated you.”

His gaze flicked briefly to her bare shoulders. Scrambling to be Renata, she said the first thing that came into her head. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Make no mistake, Renata,” he said, his voice deepening. “When I flirt with you, you’ll know.”

Though his accent remained Nadežran, it was the register he used when speaking Vraszenian, and that familiar rumble held more than just words. He wasn’t masked—Vigil officers never were, in uniform—but although his expression remained controlled, his body said what his face did not.

He was flirting. And he meant it.

She was grateful beyond words that the dance separated them briefly; it gave her time to regain her wits and her tongue. Which was fortunate, because the next segment involved an intricate change of holds. “Sunwise, Captain Serrado,” she said with a suppressed laugh when he began to turn the wrong way.

He chuckled and corrected by way of a dizzying flourish that brought her closer to him than the dance required. The music drifted to a close as they grinned at each other over joined hands.

“That’s a Liganti dance, a Vraszenian one, and now Liganti again that we’ve shared,” he said, releasing her for the bow and curtsy. “I look forward to continuing the pattern.”

He left her breathing too fast and trying not to think about the twelve kinds of impossibility that faced her.

Orrucio Amananto chose that moment to scrape together his courage, asking her to partner him for the next call. And if the gossips noticed her distraction—which she had to assume they did—she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

One benefit of not giving a shit about cuffs or their courtesies was that Vargo felt free to ignore the carefully worded snub that had arrived from Era Traementis yesterday. A polite note mentioning a musical evening at the Rotunda that he might enjoy: cuff code for We can’t take back your invitation, but don’t show your face here.

Vargo donned his finest coat and a mask of thin crimson netting, then took a sedan chair to the Pearls.

He timed his arrival at the Traementis threshold for a moment when the majordomo was called away and some hapless footman had responsibility for collecting the invitations of any latecomers. The man recognized Vargo, if his wide eyes and trembling hand were any indication, but didn’t dare turn him away.

In this world, a hard smile worked as well as a knife to someone’s throat.

Vargo kept that smile in place as he entered the ballroom and surveyed the crowd. As he’d intended, the blood-bright velveteen of his coat drank the light and drew their gaze. Vargo gave himself two bells at most before Renata found a way to elegantly give him the boot; he wanted to make certain he was seen—an invited guest of the Traementis—before she did it.

Hate me all you want. I may be a bloated tick, but you en’t burning me out now. He’d come so close after so long, with an ennoblement charter, entry into the Praeteri, learning about the eisar and whatever Ghiscolo had done to his mind. He wasn’t going to let a bit of disdain and an unproven accusation of murder bring him down.

::It won’t,:: Alsius said. He wasn’t hiding in collar shadows but rode proudly at the center of Vargo’s neckcloth, like a pin holding it in place. A bright, eight-legged splash of moral support. ::Gossip passes faster than river trash, and there’s always new dirt to replace it. We just have to wait this out. You’ll see.::

Patience. Always more Alsius’s strength than Vargo’s.

When nobody came forward to greet him, he lifted his chin and ventured farther into the room. Aghast at his presence—or maybe just his presumption—the gossiping cuffs parted for him like the Dežera for the Point. He’d been too busy with prison breaks and Lower Bank problems to give fuel to the resentment lit by the Rook’s accusations and Renata’s invective, but now it flared, fanned by the whispers that followed him as he made a circuit of the ballroom.

::We’ll stay long enough to show that the rumors don’t concern us,:: Alsius said.

They don’t. En’t none of them any better than me. Ligs wear gloves ’cause their hands are stained with blood.

Still, Vargo wasn’t foolish enough to invite a public rebuff by approaching anyone. Not Tanaquis or Benvanna, his sponsors for the second and third Praeteri gates; definitely not Ghiscolo, after whatever had happened at his villa. The circle of cuffs he could actually talk to was rapidly shrinking to a dot.

Which left him all the more astonished when someone approached him.

“So, even the jaded Eret Vargo can be surprised?” Iascat Novrus murmured. The silver lining his eyes made them unnervingly bright as he took Vargo’s hand and led him into the swirl of dancers. “Close your mouth unless you mean to use it.”

His tone was far more confident than Vargo was used to hearing, and carried a hint of Sostira’s steel. It startled Vargo into complying as Iascat pulled him into the hold for a couple’s dance—one slow and sweeping enough to grant them as much privacy as could be had in the midst of a crowd.

But not for long. “I don’t need a pity dance,” Vargo said, stamping out the brief flash of gratitude that people were staring at both of them now, instead of him alone.

“And I didn’t need a pity fuck, but here we are.”

The hardness of Iascat’s delicate features lasted a few beats more before it cracked. “I won’t lie. Watching you silently tell us all to go fuck ourselves is painful… but that’s not why I dragged you out here.”

“Oh?” Of course Iascat didn’t want Vargo; he wanted something from him. That was a dance Vargo could perform without stumbling. “How can I serve?”

“Your falling-out with Alta Renata. Nobody seems to know the details, but I can guess.” Iascat’s hand shifted on Vargo’s back, subtle cues to guide him around possible collisions. “She found out the invitation you gave her for the Ceremony of the Accords came from Mettore Indestor.”

Vargo’s grip tightened. “How did you know that?”

“Because my aunt’s the one who told her. After the trial. She was quite upset when nothing seemed to come of it, but I suppose Renata was just biding her time.”

Yes. Smiling through her hatred, until a Praeteri numinat set it free.

Much like Vargo was smiling now. But it wasn’t hatred he masked; it was the insistent voice that kept whispering for blood at Sostira Novrus’s name. “Why are you telling me this?” Iascat could have sought Vargo out anytime since Veiled Waters if he’d wanted. Doing it now meant he’d found a reason.

Shifting closer than the dance called for, Iascat said softly, “My aunt has been looking into Renata’s background. There’s a diplomatic packet arriving from Seteris tonight with some kind of important information—something Sostira thinks she can use against Renata. Something you could use to keep the Traementis from cutting you out.”

Or to hurt Renata the way she’d hurt him. Not publicly; no, that would be a foolish waste of valuable leverage. But Sostira wasn’t the only one who knew how to profit from blackmail.

Vargo hoped Iascat took the rigidity of his hands as anger at Renata. He couldn’t very well explain that he was afraid of every thought he had related to Sostira. Do I want to make use of this because it’s useful? Or because fucking eisar are influencing my mind?

He’d taken a good look at himself in the mirror before coming here tonight, and knew that the kohl around his eyes, overlaid with a strip of crimson gauze, loaned his gaze a menacing intensity. He turned that intensity on Iascat now. “That doesn’t address what you want.”

The dance was circling to an end. Iascat pressed his cheek to Vargo’s, his net mask a rough contrast to the soft skin beneath. He whispered, “My aunt has grown more erratic this past year. Novrus is starting to have more enemies than friends. Many in the family think it’s time for her to gracefully retire. When that happens, House Novrus hopes to find a strong ally in House Vargo.”

Fucking hell. Vargo was beginning to think getting rid of Sostira was a good idea, just so he could have some peace in his own head. Swallowing down the need to unseat her felt like swallowing a rock.

If Iascat noticed anything strange in his demeanor, he didn’t comment. He only pulled away and bowed over his hands. “The Stella Boreae, in Whitesail, on the late tide.” A wry smile touched his lips. “Try not to kill anyone.”

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

Dancing with Renata had been a foolish move, and Grey was lying to himself if he pretended it was one he couldn’t have avoided. There were a dozen ways out of obeying Donaia’s tipsy order. He’d just chosen not to take any of them.

All around the room, fans were hard at work, both cooling their holders and covering the tide of gossip. Renata wasn’t the only person to dance with Grey; Parma Extaquium saw no reason his Vraszenian ancestry and lack of rank should stop her from enjoying an aesthetically pleasing view. But Parma wasn’t the heir to her house.

Nor had she bared her shoulders to the world, in an invitation that made Grey wish he wasn’t wearing gloves.

That pleasant regret burned away when his gaze caught on a crimson coat across the room, a gauze mask covering kohl-edged eyes that glittered with disdain, and a smirk that invited anyone to take exception.

Renata was out in the gardens, but it took Grey less than a minute to find Donaia, still bending Eret Quientis’s ear about her dog. “What is Vargo doing here?” he hissed.

Apparently Donaia had managed to overlook what everyone else had long since noticed. She followed Grey’s jabbing finger, and her surprise darkened into fury. “After I specifically told him to find another engagement for this evening? The gall of that man.” She gathered up her surcoat like she meant to march across the dance floor to challenge Vargo herself.

Quientis stalled her with a hand on her shoulder. “Donaia, I sympathize with your disgust. But perhaps the captain’s grudge against him is more…” He left the suggestion hanging, but Grey could finish it well enough. Warranted. Legitimate. And less likely to bring scandal down on House Traementis. If Vargo were the type to go quietly when invited to leave by the majordomo, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

“An excellent point,” Donaia said, dropping her skirts and laying her hand over Quientis’s. “Captain, I know you’re off duty, but can I ask you to inform Eret Vargo that his presence is required… anywhere that isn’t here? Quietly, if you can. And preferably before it ruins Renata’s night.”

He hadn’t been looking for an opportunity like this, but he wasn’t going to refuse it when it came wrapped in Donaia’s approval. “Era Traementis, it will be my genuine pleasure.”

Vargo saw him coming. The deep blue of a Vigil coat stood out among the paler shades of Liganti fashion, and Grey made no attempt to drift with the flow of the room. He cut straight through, fetching up just close enough to Vargo to be slightly inside the man’s personal space. “Eret Vargo,” he said, the heels of his boots coming together with a snap—but he omitted the bow a Vigil captain owed to the head of a noble house. “Let’s step outside.”

For an instant he thought Vargo might refuse, and this would happen right here in the ballroom. But Vargo swung one arm wide in mocking invitation, and the wind of whispers pursued them out the door.

Once in the hall, Vargo’s step slowed as if to stop, but Grey clamped one hand on his arm and kept them moving toward the front door. Not for long—Vargo twisted free a moment later—but it was enough to get the message across. They both knew that what was coming shouldn’t have an audience of cuffs.

In the plaza outside, he shoved Vargo into the shadows between two carriages. The man spun to face him and asked in a deceptively pleasant tone, “Is there a problem, Captain Serrado?”

Until that moment, Grey hadn’t been certain how he wanted to deal with this. That mockery of innocence decided him. An instant later Vargo was doubled over, dry-retching from the force of Grey’s blow.

A hand on his shoulder kept him there. Fingers digging into the hollow of Vargo’s collarbone, Grey said, “I know, I know. Assaulting a noble is a crime. Feel free to bring charges before the high commander. I hear he’s not terribly fond of you.”

Sucking in a breath, Vargo drew back for a retaliatory strike, but Grey knew the dirty tricks of street fighting. With a step to the side and a swift joint lock, he had Vargo against the side of a carriage, one forearm barred across his throat. The spider had scuttled to the safety of his shoulder. Grey ignored it. A king peacock’s venom might be agonizing, but the creature showed no sign of wanting to bite him, and talking mind to mind wouldn’t save Vargo right now.

“There is indeed a problem,” Grey said. The fury he’d kept caged for so long shredded his voice. “The problem is that you murdered my brother.”

“So like everyone else, you believe the Rook’s accusations without pr—”

“Don’t,” Grey snarled, pressing harder. “I know what I know. You planted the powder. You set it off. Don’t add insult by denying it.”

Vargo’s throat moved under Grey’s arm, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath. “Nobody was supposed to be inside,” he said, so faintly Grey would have missed it if they weren’t breathing the same air. His eyes fluttered shut. “I didn’t know.”

“And that excuses it?”

“I never said that.” The red veil of Vargo’s mask added fire to his glare, like he was daring Grey to add more pressure, to take this to its obvious conclusion.

Even in his rage, Grey remained aware. A shift of movement off to the side was Varuni, but so far she was only watching. She had to have known this was coming—must have known ever since the accusation became public—and Grey had no doubt that if he tried to kill Vargo, she would intervene. Until then, however, she appeared willing to let them have this out.

Part of him wanted to try. The Rook didn’t kill, but Grey Serrado might.

What stayed his hand wasn’t that oath, nor his conscience, nor the practical challenges of trying to commit murder in front of Vargo’s bodyguard. It was the self-destructive defiance of Vargo’s expression. Like he would actually welcome it if Grey lashed out again.

Which meant that the best way to hurt Vargo right now was to refuse.

He shoved himself back. “Your presence here is unwelcome. Take yourself somewhere you’re wanted.” Dusting off his gloved hands like he’d taken out the trash, he added, “Assuming such a place exists.”

The muscles stood out in Vargo’s throat as he clenched his jaw—but he was resilient enough to survive for years on the Lower Bank. With the precision of someone reassembling his defenses, he straightened his coat, shot his cuffs, and retrieved the spider from where it had fled to the edge of the carriage window, setting it back onto his shoulder.

“We both know it doesn’t, Captain,” he said. “But I won’t trouble you any longer. I have business to attend to.”

With a nod as though they’d just had a pleasant conversation, Vargo waved for his guard and a sedan chair, and left.

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 3

Growing up, Giuna had always associated the Indestor name with hostility. So when Renata argued for the adoption of Meppe, the former Indestor cousin, Giuna’s reflexive thought had been that the Dežera would flow backward before that happened. Not only because of her own resistance, but because of her mother’s: Donaia had always been less flexible, less forgiving, than either of her children.

But Renata talked them both around, and looking at Meppe Traementatis now, Giuna was glad she had. Happiness effervesced through him like bubbles in sparkling wine, carving ten years off his clerkish, lined face. His new cousin Idaglio was more sedate but no less delighted. And Giuna wasn’t so sheltered that she didn’t recognize the eagerness thrumming between them. Meppe would be moving into Traementis Manor tomorrow, out of the rented room he could barely afford, but when she approached the two men and asked, “Would you like me to arrange a guest chamber for you both tonight?” they couldn’t accept fast enough.

Speaking to the servants gave her a welcome excuse to leave the ballroom for a little while. The gossip had taken a more vicious turn after Vargo showed up; someone claimed he and Grey Serrado had gotten into a fight out in the plaza. Giuna didn’t want to think about that—didn’t want to think about Kolya, whose polite manner never stopped him from teasing her in a friendly way. Kolya, who had died so horribly… and the rumors said it was Vargo’s fault…

“I have a price, though.”

The voice was soft, and it came from a room that should have been off-limits. Giuna’s delicate slippers made no sound on the carpet as she slowed.

The reply was immediately familiar: Sibiliat’s most honeyed tone. “Looking ahead to the moment Sostira casts you aside? You’re wise to prepare your landing.”

“I’m not going back to House Ecchino.” Now Giuna recognized the first speaker as Benvanna Novri, sounding much more intense than usual. “I want to be adopted into the Acrenix.”

A stifled laugh from Sibiliat made Benvanna’s voice rise in pitch. “I can be useful! I got Magistrate Rapprecco into a numinat of zeal, and now those kinless Essunta bastards have no aža trade to profit from on the side. But Sostira brushed it off when I told her.”

“That may be true, but I can do that sort of thing as well as you can.” Better, Sibiliat’s tone implied.

“Which is why I’m offering something you can’t do. Promise me adoption—in writing, if you please—and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Giuna shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But they were in her house… and the edge to the conversation worried her. She eased closer to the door as Sibiliat said, “I’d have to consult with my father first.”

“There’s no time for that. He’s already left. You’re his heir; your written promise will stand. But you need to act on this tonight, or you’ll miss your chance entirely.”

Silence. Giuna could imagine the expression on Sibiliat’s face, the narrow-eyed focus she took on when considering politics. “What’s so valuable, and so urgent?”

“Information on Renata Viraudax’s past.”

Giuna’s heart thumped so loud, she feared Sibiliat would hear it.

A faint rustling and scratching, as of someone scribbling a quick note. “There. Now tell me.”

“I don’t know the information myself,” Benvanna said. “Sostira got word that her agent in Seteris would be sending along a letter from Eret Viraudax. That’s expected to arrive in Whitesail on the Stella Boreae, late tonight. Sostira beds down early; if you send someone to collect it before the morning, you can claim it for yourself.”

“And then what?”

Benvanna’s tone became venomous. “Do whatever you like with it. Sostira may be fickle, but she wouldn’t have cooled on me so fast if that Seterin snot hadn’t come along. I know you’ll cut her down to size.”

The rustle of fabric warned Giuna. She barely managed to slip into the nearby bathing chamber before Benvanna barreled out of the room, followed more slowly by Sibiliat.

But she had plenty of time, peering through the slatted opening that released the steam, to observe Sibiliat as she stood and thought.

These past months, as they grew closer and Giuna grew more confused, she had made a serious study of Sibiliat’s expressions. Not just the ones that showed on her face; those were almost always lies, or the occasional calculated truth. But Sibiliat had a habit of dancing with her hands when deep in thought, like she was playing an instrument or fighting a duel.

Giuna watched, heart sinking and tears rising, as Sibiliat’s fingers worked through her options, weighed the costs and gains, and came to a decision. Watched until Sibiliat strode down the hall and rounded the corner.

Slipping out of the bathing room, Giuna crept downstairs after her, where she watched Sibiliat catch the attention of her cousin Fadrin and send him off with a hurried whisper.

Before she could decide on a course of action, Sibiliat turned and saw her. “Ah, there you are!” Her smile was a lie of delight. “Come dance with me.”

Giuna slipped out of her grip, puffing up with indignation like the little bird Sibiliat so often called her. But she willed herself to smooth down her anger. “I’ve just come from a round of Parma’s haranguing,” she said. “I wanted to check on Mother. Have you seen her?”

Tell me. Tell me. You said you’d set aside your suspicions for my sake. Don’t break your promise.

Sibiliat flicked Giuna’s concern aside with casual cruelty. “Last I saw, Donaia was rosy in her cups and ‘furthering relations’ between Traementis and Quientis. She doesn’t need you mothering her. Come dance!”

“Later,” Giuna said, putting her off with a wan smile and turning her head so Sibiliat’s kiss landed on her cheek. “I promise.”

This is what she is. She told you herself, months ago. She manipulates people.

So did Renata. The difference was, Renata was on Giuna’s side. Sibiliat was the Acrenix heir.

And House Acrenix was nobody’s friend but their own.

Gut churning, Giuna fled Sibiliat’s company and went in search of her cousin.

Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Canilun 3

Even by the Rook’s standards, he was early in heading for the place where Grey had arranged the meeting with Beldipassi. After the confrontation with Vargo, he couldn’t bring himself to loiter around the Traementis party any longer; grim satisfaction had chilled the glow of his earlier mood.

He donned his hood, then checked Renata’s balcony for messages before leaving. All he found was the kitten standing with her paws braced against the glass of the door, mewing to be let out. “I’m afraid I must leave you to guard your mistress, Clever Natalya,” he said.

It was the meeting itself that drew him out so early, though. If Beldipassi held a piece of the Tyrant’s poison, then all the signs pointed to that piece as the start of the cycle—and that might be just what the Rook needed to finally move forward on the goal that had motivated him for two centuries.

That very possibility drove him to be even more wary. If this whole thing was an ambush, he wanted to know where every obstacle and exit was… and lay a few traps of his own.

Parts of Eastbridge retained their Vraszenian stamp, with two-story courtyard houses that had once belonged to various kretse. Others had been rebuilt in the Liganti style, townhouses lined up in a row like books on a shelf, separated by the occasional manor. It wasn’t the best area for the Rook to operate in. But Beldipassi had moved here just after the solstice, into a small manor whose back garden was the most suitable place to meet. Familiar enough not to make the target feel vulnerable, but open enough for the Rook to escape if necessary. He studied it from a nearby roof, noting the trees, the gate, the architecture of the house. There was a small fishpond, and the Rook had a sachet of an imported Arthaburi compound that reacted quite brightly with water; that would be useful if he needed a distraction.

It seemed… not safe. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that. But acceptable, so long as he made a few preparations.

Grey had spent the afternoon studying maps, familiarizing himself with the terrain. Now he checked that against the situation on the ground, identifying several escape routes and clearing them of obstacles, jamming locks open for quick access. He loosened an area of roof tiles until a foot would shove them free; laundry lines cleared of linens and lowered made for barely visible garottes. A heavy shade break over one of the garden courtyards would collapse with a single kick to one of the support poles.

He was on his way to lay another trap inside a perfumery—one that sold a few compounds that escaped Prasinet’s tariffs, and therefore had a hidden exit through the side wall into the neighboring wig-maker’s—when he made himself stop. You didn’t do half this much preparation for Dockwall. At this point he was just working off nerves. In ways that would cause headaches for ordinary citizens later on, no less.

Time to settle in for the boring part. The rooftop he’d been on before would do; he’d see when Beldipassi returned home from the Traementis ball. Which also meant he could see if the man was bringing anyone extra.

The Eastbridge bells, their clappers padded for the earth hours, softly rang midnight. The respectable entertainments had closed, and anybody who wanted something less respectable had gone to the Old Island. Nobody should be up and about, and Grey had made certain the usual Vigil patrols would be dealing with misfiled complaints on the other side of the district.

Yet from the street ahead came the muffled sound of footfalls.

The Rook slipped down an alley, only a slight detour on the way to his destination. Or it would have been—if shadows up ahead hadn’t spoken of someone there, as well.

It could be coincidence. On the night when he was supposed to meet Rimbon Beldipassi, though, he didn’t believe in coincidences.

A setup? Maybe not on Beldipassi’s part; nobody had been waiting for him at the house. The shadows didn’t have the silhouette of Vigil uniforms; they might be some noble’s house guards, or mercenaries.

Who they were didn’t matter right now. He needed to draw them away, shed them, then circle back to see if the meeting could be salvaged. There was plenty of time.

To that end, he let the people at the end of the alley spot him before he darted off. They obliged by following, and with the numinatria of his mask thinning the darkness, he got enough of a look to know his pursuers were professionals. Well-armed, moving well, and masked so no one could identify them.

Moving all too well. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he wasn’t leading them away: They were herding him.

Even as that thought formed, something fell on him from above.

It burned like hoarfrost, even through the layers of his clothing. Something heavy and enveloping—and it clung, wrapping unnaturally around his arms and legs. The Rook struggled to free himself, but it was hopeless; he only became more entangled.

A net—but not an ordinary one. The strands sank tendrils of cold into his flesh, like roots seeking water. When he tried to take a step, his legs gave out and he dropped to one knee.

His pursuers circled him, watching their trap do its work. “Mark this one in the books,” one of them said, laughing. “Two hundred years, and the Rook’s finally been caught. Go set the snare for Beldipassi. We’ll deliver the Rook… if he lives that long.”

The net was growing tighter. It had to be some kind of numinatria—the shape of the strands inscribing the figure—which meant that if he broke it—

He got his fingers into a gap, but the net resisted his attempts to tear it. Imbued, maybe. Had someone died to craft this trap?

The trap that would finally kill him. He couldn’t throw off the net, he couldn’t break it, and with every passing moment its weight grew heavier on both body and mind, plunging him under the dark surface of despair. He tugged again at the net, but feebly, knowing there was no point.

Grey knew there was no point. But the Rook did not give up so easily.

He had outlasted every person who wore the hood. He was born from determination in the face of despair. He was something like a spirit—but one created again and again by those who became him, who imbued the outward facade of the costume with the energy and conviction of their performance.

It didn’t matter what it cost the man inside. The Rook would not die here tonight.

Human weakness folded in on itself, hammered into the steel of that immortal drive. Hands tightening, arms flexing as if to bend iron bars, the Rook pulled at the constricting strands. Sparking energy in all directions, the net tore—then dissipated in a cloud of black smoke, as if it had never been.

Its effect wasn’t gone. He could feel it in his flesh, slowed but still burrowing, still draining. His attackers didn’t know that, though, and they flinched back as he rose to his feet.

“Don’t lay your wager before you see your cards,” the Rook said, retreating slowly through the threshold of a courtyard house and across the garden inside. It funneled his enemies into a clump, but that wasn’t why he chose this route. “You haven’t caught me yet. And I’ve got a net of my own.”

Kicking the pole at his back, he flattened himself against the wall as the heavy canvas awning fell on the cluster. While they struggled underneath the weight, he dashed across the lumpy terrain, using their covered bodies as a stepping stone to launch himself back into the street.

Not everyone had followed and been caught. The Rook’s sword flashed out, not sparing flesh and blood. One man screamed as his blade fell to the ground, the hilt still gripped in his severed hand. By the time the Rook broke through their line, the ones under the canvas were free, and they pounded after him as he slammed through the door of the perfumery.

But they couldn’t see in the dark like he could, and they didn’t know where the hidden exit was. As they staggered to a halt inside the building, the Rook eased shut the panel in the side of the false cabinet and slipped like a ghost through the wig-maker’s shop, toward the door that let out onto an adjoining street.

Free—for all the good it did him. His muscles twitched with warning shocks of greater agony to come. Whatever that net had done to him, it hadn’t stopped working; it had only been slowed. But he still had to make his rendezvous with Beldipassi, had to stop the next stage of the plan.

Not like this. Not on my own.

Grey fought his way up, out of the drowning shadows that had overtaken him. The Rook had gotten him out of the net, but he couldn’t afford to lose himself permanently to that power. I need help.

Ryvček. But she lived in Kingfisher, clear across the river; under the best of circumstances it would have been difficult for him to get there and back in time. With pain ripping along his body like swarms of flame ants underneath his skin, burning away his strength, there was no chance.

Without help, though, Beldipassi would fall to the trap that waited for him. And as for what he held…

The hopelessness eating into his bones wasn’t just logic at work; it twined like a snake with the exhaustion and pain that drained his strength like someone had opened a vein.

No. This couldn’t be the night it ended. Not when they were so close to the goal they’d pursued ever since the Rook became something more than a scrap of wool and a young woman’s grief-stricken anger.

It wasn’t only the effect of the net that made him lurch into a wall as he began walking. The Rook didn’t just have a mandate; he had the ghostly traces of the men and women who’d bound themselves to that role. Those traces gave Grey strength… but they also fought him now, as he forced himself north.

Toward Traementis Manor.