16

The Constant Spirit

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 4

Ren meant to stay awake after she climbed back through her window, even though the hour was appallingly late. It seemed impossible that the ball had been earlier that same night; so much had happened since then, a month might have passed. She needed to think.

She changed into her sleeping robe, sat on the floor at the foot of her bed to dangle and drag the sash for Clever Natalya’s amusement—and woke to find a snoozing ball of fur in her lap and Tess and Suilis exclaiming in concern.

“The letter from Seteris?” Tess whispered urgently once she’d sent Suilis off to refresh the washbasin water and get breakfast for the kitten.

“Destroyed,” Ren said, wincing at a series of thumps just past her door.

“Folks moving in, folks moving out. ’Twould save our bones a lot of aching if the new cousins were the ones going to Quientis’s villa,” Tess said briskly, just as one of the other maids came in to ask whether the alta would be coming to see Era Traementis off.

Downstairs, Renata found a scene too well-organized to be called chaos, despite its flurry. Colbrin was directing it all, instructing an ant brigade of footmen, some in Quientis livery, carrying trunks to a cart waiting outside. Bemused, Renata said, “Is Donaia going to the bay for a rest, or moving to Seste Ligante?”

“I didn’t know what she’d want.” She turned to find Giuna hovering nearby, hands twisting. “It just seemed easier to—well—pack everything.”

The hand-wringing wasn’t all for Donaia’s departure, though. More quietly, Giuna said, “The problem I told you about last night. What are we going to do about it?”

We, not you. Ren still struggled with hearing that kind of speech from anyone other than Tess or Sedge. Too many years of only having those two. And Giuna hadn’t once asked what in a letter from Seteris could be used against her.

“It’s been taken care of,” Renata said, and then Alinka’s arrival gave her a blessed excuse not to try and explain what had happened in Whitesail.

“Please forgive me for being late,” Alinka said, shepherding her children ahead of her. Yvieny immediately went bounding off, shouting for Meatball, while Jagyi sucked his thumb in quiet wariness. Directing her words equally to Colbrin, Giuna, and Renata, Alinka explained, “My brother by marriage was… not well this morning.”

As Giuna went to corral Yvieny and the dog, Renata drew Alinka to the side. “I hope it’s nothing too serious.” He must be all right, or surely she wouldn’t be here.

Alinka laughed awkwardly. “No, just—worse for the wear from drink. Which normally is not his way,” she added hastily. “He said he had an… unpleasant encounter last night.”

Relief unfurled inside Ren. He’s awake enough to talk. And perhaps to lie. While she didn’t know what had transpired between him and Vargo outside the manor, in his shoes, she would have blamed everything on that.

But a bitter thread wove through the relief. Yes, Grey Serrado was a very good liar.

“He asked me to give this to you,” Alinka added, handing over a sealed envelope.

Renata shoved the envelope in her surcoat pocket before anyone else could note it, just as Donaia wandered in blearily. She held her head as though she wasn’t quite sure it would stay on without help. “And people accused me of having too good a time last night,” Renata said with mild amusement, helping Donaia sit away from the commotion and fetching her a pot of strong tea.

“You are a malicious spirit, sent to torment me,” Donaia grumbled, crouching over her cup as though it contained the elixir of life. “How can you be fresh as a flower when I feel like a trampled weed?”

“Youth,” Renata said succinctly, and Donaia laughed so hard she snorted her tea.

“Forget a spirit,” she said as she wiped her chin. “You’re one of the Primordials, set loose from the gods’ binding. Go do something useful, since you’re so young and spry. There’ll be time for goodbyes later.”

Renata circled her fingers the way a Seterin would to banish the ill luck of naming the Primordials—and interlaced them like a Vraszenian once Donaia couldn’t see. Then she went to help organize the chaos.

Donaia had perked up by the time Scaperto Quientis arrived a short while later. Renata gathered that he’d escorted Donaia upstairs the previous night… then left soon after, having seen her safely into the hands of Suilis. His manner as he led her out the door to a waiting carriage showed a similar mix of concern, courtesy, and gentle teasing. Giuna followed, to see them off at the dock.

With the villa party gone and the new cousins yet to move in, the manor seemed very empty. As Renata sat at her desk to glance through the morning’s messages, a crinkle from her pocket reminded her of the envelope Alinka had given her.

She pulled it out with reluctance. So many things it might hold, and so few of them anything she wanted to see right now, with her feelings so tangled. Grey Serrado was the Rook; Grey Serrado had tricked her. The old hurt rose up, choking her, and she swallowed it down. This is probably instructions for returning the hood.

But there would be no rest while she wondered at its contents. Steeling herself, Ren broke the seal and unfolded the envelope.

Something fluttered loose, and she caught it by reflex. A rectangle of stiff paper, painted on its back with the spindle, shuttle, and shears of the three threads. A pattern card. And when she turned it over—

The Constant Spirit.

Ren almost dropped it again. That wasn’t a usual part of a pattern deck, not anymore. It was one of the seven clan cards, which had fallen out of use after the destruction of the Ižranyi—when, according to the legends, every Ižranyi card had gone blank. After that, most szorsas had stopped using the clan cards entirely.

This wasn’t the Ižranyi card. It was the card of the Meszaros, representing the virtues and failings of that clan. They were the Children of the Horse: stubborn and slow-witted, their detractors said, but also hard-working…

… and honest.

The message inside the envelope was only three words.

When you’re ready.

Kingfisher, Lower Bank: Canilun 4

Alinka was a skilled herbalist. Thanks to the tonics she’d given him before she left, Grey was only nursing the memory of a headache by the time a soft knock sent him to the door.

His muscles ached—his bones ached—and a reddened splotch on his chest stung like a burn he didn’t recall getting. But he was alive, and had somehow landed on Alinka’s stoop for her to find in the early dawn hours, wearing unfamiliar clothes and stinking of zrel as though a bottle had been summarily dumped over his head.

He had so many questions. All of which fled when he opened the door and saw Ren—as Arenza—standing on the other side.

She held herself stiffly as he silently gestured her in, barely nodded as he offered tea. He felt her gaze on his back while he ground up pieces off a brick and whisked it into something almost too strong to be drinkable. She looked like she needed it, and Masks knew he did.

She still hadn’t spoken by the time he placed cups on the table. Why should she? You’re the one who promised her honesty.

“You got my message,” he said, then shook his head at the stupidity of that opening. “I—”

“I assume you want this back,” she said, and laid the Rook’s hood on the table like the accusation it was.

Grey pushed the hood aside. “I wanted to make certain you were safe. Last night…” She sat too far away for him to reach out, and might not welcome it if he did. They’d grown close in their various personas—Captain Serrado and Renata, Grey and Arenza, the Rook and the Black Rose—and he knew her well enough to guess at her thoughts.

Vargo had played her. He’d made her believe in the possibility of friendship, while the whole time he’d been using her. Right now, she would be wondering if Grey had done the same.

Had she understood the meaning of the card? She was a szorsa, but the clan cards weren’t common anymore. Grey took a steadying breath and said, “I can’t apologize for not telling you before. I have an obligation. But… I never set out to hurt you. And honestly, I’m glad you finally know. I don’t like lying to you.”

“I believe you.”

Her reply was so quiet, for a moment he wondered if he’d imagined the words he wanted to hear. But then her masklike expression cracked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t bitterness, either. “You gave me a kitten,” she said. “Because of my nightmares. Yes?”

Grey nodded. It was an old Vraszenian superstition, alongside a red thread to keep away the zlyzen. Cats defended against nightmares, chasing them down like little mice.

She ran her thumb across the edge of her teacup. “The Rook knew not that I was having nightmares. Grey Serrado did—but he couldn’t give Arenza a cat, not when he might later see it at Traementis Manor. You helped me, in a way that meant I would never know you had.” A huff escaped her. “A lot of that going around these days.”

Before he could ask what she meant by that, she met his gaze and said, “Even at my most suspicious, I cannot see anything in that other than kindness.”

The heartfelt ring of her words brought an unexpected catch into his throat. Had her life seen so little spontaneous kindness that a kitten for her nightmares took on such importance?

“Has it helped at all? The kitten?” He didn’t think so. She looked almost as exhausted as she had after the Night of Hells. However long of a night it had been for him, hers must have been even longer.

Now her expression lightened into a soft smile. “Yes. Though only when I actually sleep, which I did very little last night. Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

Grey wanted another quiet moment to savor the comfort of her forgiveness, but his life didn’t allow for many of those. He forced himself to break away from that smile, gaze settling on the hood. He took a sip of tea—too hot, too bitter—and said, “Is Beldipassi safe? Did he have… anything?”

“He is safe, and he has a numinatrian medallion. Something the Rook recognized.” Ren’s voice tightened. “As did I.”

“You’ve seen one? Was it the Tricat medallion?” He’d initially abandoned that suspicion when he learned she wasn’t truly Letilia’s daughter. But if she’d had it, all this time…

Grey knocked his cup over, reaching for her wrist. “Tell me you have it still.”

The force of his reaction made Ren recoil, slipping out of his grasp. “Not anymore. I lost it. And—am I right to think it’s the source of the curse on House Traementis?”

“Yes.” His fear turned queasy, spreading cold through him like the spilled tea across the table. Once a family lost their medallion, there was no hope; the repercussions would eddy outward until they struck everyone in the register. It had taken down multiple noble houses in Nadežra’s history—was doing the same right now to the former Indestor.

When he’d inherited the hood, he’d learned the truth about House Traementis’s ill fortunes, but he’d been helpless to do anything to stop their fall. Renata’s adoption seemed to have turned things around for the Traementis. But if she’d had the Tricat medallion and then lost it…

He mopped up the tea, hands shaking. The nightmare had started again. Not Ren. Please, Masks have mercy on us all—not her, too.

Before he could make himself speak, Ren’s hand twitched toward his own. “We are not under it anymore! Tanaquis was able to remove it. Ask me not how; all I know is that she used as her focus the cards that had shown me the curse.”

“Thank the Faces.” He shut his eyes and took the not-quite-offered hand, his skin cold against her warm fingers. Until Leato’s death, he’d hoped the Traementis’s store of ill luck had run dry. The idea that the curse might have been renewed by a second loss of Tricat was gut-wrenching. But after a lifetime of resenting charlatans and women with good intentions but no gift, he’d finally met a szorsa truly blessed by Ažerais. And it seemed pattern could do what numinatria on its own could not.

If only pattern could solve all of Nadežra’s problems. “Where did you lose the Tricat medallion? When? We have to find it. It’s…”

He hesitated. She’d worn the hood. She’d gleaned something of the medallions’ importance. But sorting through the Rook’s memories was hard even for their chosen bearer, never mind a substitute—especially when reaching for those memories meant giving more of oneself to the role. “The medallions are connected to Kaius Sifigno. You know the stories of how he couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be killed… It wasn’t just exaggeration. His chain of office was a set of medallions, one for each numen, all linked. It held power enough to let him take all of Vraszan. The chain—the Uniat piece—broke when he died. The various nobles around him stole the pieces.”

Had it felt like this for Ryvček, when she finally had a chance to share the weight of that secret with someone else? Ren’s eyes were wide as his flood of words continued. “People have been fighting and killing each other over the medallions ever since. The woman who created the Rook knew that power would go on poisoning Nadežra. She drove herself to annihilation, trying to recover and destroy those pieces, but the Rook… continued.” Not quite a spirit, not quite a ghost—all three parts of her soul caught in the weave of the hood. In becoming the Rook, she’d done more than create the pieces of a disguise; she’d created an identity, a persona. And she’d imbued it so deeply with her passion that afterward, there was nothing left of her—not even a body.

At least those of them who wore the hood afterward didn’t pay as high of a price.

“That’s why you suspected me,” Ren breathed. “Rightly, as it turns out. But I—I swear, I knew not what I had. It was among the jewels I stole from Letilia when I left Ganllech. She must have stolen it from the Traementis when she left.”

As Ryvček had always suspected. The decline of their house started with the flight of one spoiled brat.

“Where is it now?” Grey asked. To have two medallions within reach… “And where’s Beldipassi? What happened last night?”

Ren quirked one eyebrow at him, amusement softening her mouth. “You ask three questions at once. Which should I answer first?”

“You could have answered two of those instead of giving me sass.” He fought a smile. “Where’s Beldipassi?”

“With Ryvček.” As Grey’s shoulders relaxed, Ren nodded. “Then I guessed correctly. I knew she was your teacher, and—tell me. Was she the one in the hood when I escaped the prison?”

“Have you any notion how hard we worked to set that up? All my efforts to hide, and still you suspected. We tied ourselves in knots to lead you off the scent—but here it all falls apart in a fortnight.” Grey released her to run a hand through his hair, sighing. “So, Ryvček has Beldipassi. What of his medallion? And Tricat?”

“His looked to me like Illi in its zero aspect. I left it with him; I liked not the idea of taking it myself. But whoever set things up last night sent a fake Rook to speak with him—Fontimi, the actor from the Theatre Agnasce.” Faint laughter shook her shoulders. “He was terrible. I can only hope I looked not so foolish. He went with Beldipassi; I convinced him the alternative was being killed by his employer. As for Tricat… Gammer Lindworm tore it from me during the Night of Hells. It fell when I pulled her knot charm off at the amphitheatre. I—” Ren grimaced. “It never occurred to me that I should pick it up.”

He could hardly blame her. And it was better for her that she didn’t have it.

Worse for everyone else, though, if it was lost in Ažerais’s Dream.

A brief silence fell. Yesterday Grey had been dreading the quiet of these rooms, without Alinka and the children to distract him. But it was warm, and the quiet was a gentle one, and he was less lonely than he’d been in years.

Because of Ren.

He couldn’t say that to her, not yet. Instead he asked, “How is it I still live? That curse should have killed me.”

Ren’s teacup reversed course, thunking onto the table rather than rising to her lips. She opened her mouth, then caught herself; he could see the internal argument as she hesitated. Finally she shook her head. “I… cannot bring myself to lie. This is the first honest conversation we’ve had; to stain that would be wrong. But… I also cannot tell you.”

Her refusal sharpened his curiosity. What could have saved him, that she was unwilling to confess to? Not a medallion; Tricat was gone, and Beldipassi still had his. Tanaquis Fienola had dealt with the Traementis curse; perhaps Ren had gone to her again? Or the curse hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought—after all, he had damaged it. But there would be no reason to hide that, if so. Something to do with pattern? For all he knew, Tess had employed some arcane Ganllechyn stitch-witchery.

Grey forced himself to stop. Even if he guessed right, she wouldn’t tell him, and by trying to guess, he was pushing at the boundaries of her secrets. He’d done that more than enough already.

Especially since there was an unspoken question beneath her words. Do you trust me?

With his mission, and with his life. He’d decided that last night.

“Then I will press not,” Grey said.

Ren fiddled with her teacup. “Your Vigil coat—I forgot to bring it. I will send that along. And—” She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and drew out The Constant Spirit.

He laid his hand over hers. “That was meant as a gift. Keep it.”

“How came you by it?”

It was fascinating, listening to the subtle shifts in her wording. She was disguised as Arenza, but speaking as Ren: her accent fainter, sliding in and out of the markers of Vraszenian speech. When she spoke of pattern, those elements strengthened—and his own voice was responding, easing out of the Nadežran accent he assumed all too easily these days. “It belonged to my mother.”

“Your mother was—” Ren caught herself.

“Meszaros? Yes, this Kiraly has the blood of a plodding horse.” He smiled at her discomfiture. “I know what you meant. Yes, she was a szorsa, though she lacked your gift.”

“A szorsa? But you…” Ren’s lips pressed together.

Her diplomacy was more than he deserved, when he hadn’t exactly made his disdain a secret. Scrubbing exhaustion from his face, Grey said, “My issues are not with szorsas, but with frauds. Ažerais’s gift should be honored.”

Bitterness edged those words—his grandmother’s words. But now wasn’t the time to burden Ren with the weight of his past. Forcing his voice to lighten, he said, “This tea is barely drinkable. What say you to something better?”

Thankfully, she let him change the subject. And the amused tilt of her lips was as bright as the sunlight coming through the window. “Better? Is it wise to be drinking alcohol so early in the day?”

“Who said anything about alcohol?” he asked, retrieving the packet Alinka had left behind for him. He knew whom she’d meant him to share it with. Collecting the cups, Grey said, “What say you to spiced chocolate?”

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Canilun 4

The sweet warmth of the chocolate stayed on Ren’s tongue as she left Kingfisher, changed personas, and took a skiff to the Upper Bank. It was more than taste; it was the odd, not-quite-comfortable comfort of having sat at Grey Serrado’s kitchen table, with no masks between them.

It felt like being naked for the first time with a lover. Except that he’d apparently known the truth of her for months now, ever since the night the Rook had invaded her kitchen. And he accepted it. All that time spent fearing he would turn on Arenza if he knew who she really was… but he’d known all along.

Had he feared the same from her? That she would hate him for lying? Ren understood why he had, though. And while the bruised part of her soul kept bracing for something else to hurt, inch by inch, breath by breath, she’d relaxed into the novelty of being herself around someone other than Tess and Sedge.

If only the discovery of his secrets didn’t come with the news of an ancient poison eating away at Nadežra.

The Mask of Worms, in her pattern for the Rook. Kaius Rex’s chain of office, shattered into pieces, but each still holding a fragment of the original power. Sibiliat had claimed the medallion Ren stole from Letilia was an Acrenix family heirloom, but Ren doubted it, and Grey had confirmed. The Acrenix showed no sign of the type of decline that would have accompanied such a loss. In fact, he now suspected them of holding the Quinat medallion—and possibly Sessat as well, lost in the fall of House Indestor.

She stopped halfway up the river stair, one hand against the damp stones to keep herself steady. The fall of House Indestor.

Meppe.

People stared at the fine alta running, but she didn’t care. Renata slammed through the front door of the manor, shouting, “Meppe!”

Suilis popped into view. “He’s in Era Traementis’s study, alta.”

Where Renata had sent him to start work on their ledgers. Meppe had all but glowed at the prospect; he genuinely seemed to enjoy the straightforward tedium of clerical work. When she burst into the study, he overturned his ink. “Renata—”

“You’re coming with me to Whitesail.”

Isla Stresla, Kingfisher: Canilun 4

Grey would have liked to burrow back into bed after Ren left, but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He only took the time necessary for a basin wash and a shave before carefully folding up the hood and heading for the opposite corner of Kingfisher, where Oksana Ryvček lived.

The midday streets were oddly quiet, even in the market plazas. He passed shopkeepers fretting on their stoops in search of custom that wasn’t there, returned the wary nods of a few carters who recognized him even out of uniform, but the homey buzz and bustle of Kingfisher was absent. Ever since the Dockwall escape, the Vigil had been patrolling the Lower Bank with more vigor than usual, and the Ordo Apis kept breaking into places to search for the missing prisoners. Supposedly following up on leads, but Grey suspected at least half of it was random strikes to keep people afraid, so that no one would shelter Andrejek.

Which meant it was accomplishing nothing at all. Grey didn’t much like leaving the Anduske trio in Vargo’s hands, but he’d seen firsthand the precautions the man was taking. Nobody was going to find them anytime soon. Which was a good thing, since Koszar’s new injuries had set his plans for confronting Branek back almost to where they’d been after Veiled Waters. The only thing weighing in his favor was that Branek blamed Prazode for not protecting Gulavka, Prazode blamed Branek for blaspheming against Ažerais, and the resultant infighting would keep the Stretsko busy for a while. Ren’s doing, she’d admitted over chocolate.

A wry smile of admiration tugged at his mouth as he climbed the steps of Ryvček’s townhouse. His teacher must have set one of her cousins to keep watch, because he’d barely released the fox-headed knocker before the door opened.

“She’s in the training room,” the girl told him, as though that wasn’t always where Ryvček was. With a nod of thanks, Grey went to the back of the house.

“You had an exciting night,” Ryvček said in greeting, not pausing her usual drill.

“Beldipassi?”

“Comfortably ensconced in my attic. And Fontimi in the cellar, not so comfortably bound. He started second-guessing his cooperation around breakfast.” She swept a bow to her imaginary opponent before racking her practice blade and drying her sweat-damp face with a towel. “After two decades failing to achieve anything of note, I’m glad to be included, but also surprised. Why send them to me?”

Grey closed the door against possible eavesdropping. “I didn’t send them. Nor did our hooded friend. Whoever hired Fontimi was waiting with a numinatrian curse that nearly killed me. Ren was the one in the hood last night.”

He knew Ryvček well enough to expect her laughter, but that didn’t make it any easier to sit through. “After all the work we—”

“I know, I know.” He folded his arms and glared at her. “You could take this seriously. I nearly died.”

“Nobody dances the kanina for you today.”

He understood her blithe attitude. Every Rook courted death; she was one of the few who’d survived long enough to retire. If he had died, she would mourn him—but since he lived, why worry?

Ryvček hadn’t felt that curse. The foul wrongness of it, leeching away his vitality, burrowing into his bones. It wasn’t only pain; it was the loss of the desire to live.

Her laughter died as he explained how he’d escaped the net. “You gave yourself to the Rook? Grey—”

“It was the only way. He wanted to continue. I… did not. But once he got me past that, I regained control.” He met her gaze, letting her search as if she might find some hint of the Rook’s shadow there. He wasn’t sure she wouldn’t.

Most people thought of imbuing as relating only to crafting, the making of physical things. Some could imbue performances instead, achieving feats of supernatural strength or dexterity; Ryvček had taught him to do it with fencing.

The connection between the Rook and his bearers went beyond even that. They didn’t imbue him as strongly as his maker had—they didn’t have to, with the framework already there—but they added to it, a new layer with each person who wore the hood. And unlike numinatria, imbuing didn’t pull its power from the outside. It came from within: a thread of the spirit, woven into what they made. That was why imbuing the inscription of a numinat was lethal. Pouring too much of oneself into the Rook…

Other bearers had lost themselves to the hood, never removing it, never resting. Or thinking as the Rook even as they carried on their normal lives, until there was nothing left of the original person. Ryvček had told him, again and again, that he needed to hold some part of himself back.

Last night he’d held nothing back.

If he hadn’t, he would likely be dead. But there would be consequences for his choice.

What Ryvček saw must have reassured her, at least for now. “So you just gave Renata the hood? And the Rook…”

“Tolerated her,” Grey said. “But didn’t accept her.” The Rook chose his own successor and bound them with ties that lasted after death. Ryvček told him once that she thought the Rook claimed their szekani—the part of the soul that was supposed to go into Ažerais’s Dream.

That was fine. It wasn’t like his kin would summon him with the kanina anyway.

Ryvček’s eyebrows rose. “For a real chance at this, it seems even our hooded friend will compromise. Who will you terrify first, the actor or the fool?”

“Actor. The longer we keep him, the less likely it is he’ll survive if we release him.” Fontimi was an oblivious tool in the schemes of the nobility and, Grey suspected, an expendable one. That wasn’t a crime worthy of death.

Ryvček smirked. “In that case, I think a bit of stagecraft is in order.”

Grey met that smile. Ren was right; some parts of being the Rook were definitely fun. “Rooftop?”

“Rooftop.”

He went through the motions of farewells and leaving before circling around to the narrow gap between Ryvček’s house and her neighbor’s. Pulling the hood out, he smoothed the wool with a reluctant hand… then made himself slip it on.

Shadow impressions of the night before swept over him. No clear memories, but a grudging sense of forbearance when Ren donned the hood. Amusement when they faced off against a second imposter. Triumph when Beldipassi showed them the medallion.

And simmering mistrust when Ren recognized the similarity to a medallion she’d once owned. Even if she hadn’t known what she held, even if she hadn’t consciously used it, that power had tainted her.

Yes—and then she let it go. Not voluntarily, not the first time, but she’d left it behind without a second thought during the confrontation at the amphitheatre. As much as a part of him wished she hadn’t—how were they going to get it back?—what the Rook hated above all was the lengths people would go to for that power. Walking away, even in ignorance, was a mark in her favor.

Setting thoughts of Ren aside, he braced himself against the walls and chimney climbed to the roof.

The flat rooftop deck was built as a nighttime refuge from stuffy summer air. Today fitful gusts off the Dežera, bearing the first bite of autumn’s chill, set the Rook’s coattails snapping. A moment later, Ryvček shoved a blindfolded man through the roof hatch—still dressed in the remnants of what was clearly meant to be the Rook’s disguise.

“You should have kept to your usual stage, Fontimi,” he said as Ryvček pushed the man onto his knees. “I don’t take kindly to imposters.”

He knelt before removing the blindfold, so the actor’s first sight was the depthless shadows of the hood. Fontimi’s swallowed shriek came out as a frog croak.

“Thank you for your assistance, duellante,” the Rook told Ryvček, standing but keeping his attention on Fontimi. “You can leave him to me.”

“Just leave no mess for me to clean off my stoop,” Ryvček said, with a meaningful glance at the drop to the street below.

The Rook let his tone sink into playful menace. “That depends entirely on my imitator’s cooperation.”

“I’ll cooperate! I’ll cooperate!” Fontimi babbled as Ryvček left the roof. “What am I cooperating with?”

Intimidation worked much better than pain for persuading people to talk. Intimidation, and the promise of help if they played nice. “You’re going to tell me who hired you, and what you were hired to do. Answer honestly, and I’ll protect you.”

“Nillas Marpremi! He hired me. Gave me this costume, too. It’s much better than the one I wear on stage. You wouldn’t believe how flimsy that thing is, no lining or anything. And nobody would believe me as the real Rook if I were flashing my chest—” Fontimi caught himself, sweating. “You don’t care about that part. Marpremi hired me to get some kind of medallion. Said I should talk Beldipassi into giving it to me, or taking me to wherever he’d hidden it if the thing wasn’t on him. Kind of implied I should beat him up if he didn’t hand it over, but I wasn’t sure I would do that part. Marpremi wasn’t paying me that much, and besides, I only know stage combat.”

“Then what?”

“Once I had it, I was supposed to go to the fountain in the Plaza Giotraia and deliver it to Marpremi. By now he’ll know something went wrong.”

If it hadn’t been for the death curse, the Rook might have chalked this up to ordinary business. The zero-aligned Illi medallion was nearly impossible to track down; it changed hands too frequently, cursing those it left behind. His predecessors had only been able to trace its path by the devastation it left in its wake.

But the ambush was far too sophisticated for a man angling to be the medallion’s next holder. He suspected Marpremi was a middleman working for someone else. But who?

Vargo didn’t have Illi-zero after all—but maybe he wanted it. The man was certainly a skilled inscriptor. Skilled enough to scribe the curse that caught the Rook?

A few more questions proved that Fontimi knew nothing else of use, and the Rook’s impatience to question Beldipassi next made him brusque. “Mistress Ryvček will give you some coin and a change of clothes,” he said. “I suggest you hire on with the next traveling show leaving Nadežra and not return for… a while. If ever.”

“But—” Fontimi’s expression crumpled into disoriented shock. “My career is here in Nadežra. My life is here.”

In the grand scheme of things, this man’s losses were nothing. But this was what the struggle over the medallions did: It ruined people’s lives, in ways great and small.

“That life will be very short if you remain,” the Rook said, tying the blindfold back in place. “The choice is yours.” He knocked on the rooftop hatch and waited until Ryvček had bundled Fontimi away.

For Beldipassi, different tactics were required. Ryvček’s attic was one of her stashing places for her seemingly endless series of cousins who rotated in and out of the house. It had a single window, just barely large enough to admit passage, but the Rook had squeezed through smaller. If the effort made his arms tremble with residual weakness, Beldipassi didn’t have to know.

He found the man dozing in a reading chair, dressed in an ornate lounging robe, open book fallen into his lap. Beldipassi startled awake when the Rook removed the book and perched on the footstool.

“Ten Summers in Seteris,” the Rook said, examining the title page before setting the book aside. “Are you fond of poetry, Mede Beldipassi?”

“I prefer history, but it was the only book in here.” Rubbing sleep and astonishment from his eyes and a bit of drool from his chin, Beldipassi said, “You came back.”

“You have something of great interest to me.”

“This?” Digging into the pocket of his robe, Beldipassi pulled out a timeworn medallion. “If you want it, you can have it. After last night, I want nothing to do with it.”

The disc of gold was both familiar and not, something the Rook had seen but Grey had not. Nausea rolled through him at the sight, and he fought the urge to back away. Only two centuries of poise kept his voice steady. “I’m afraid it’s not so easy as handing it over.”

Beldipassi shivered, fingers curling protectively around the disc. Would he really have surrendered it, if the Rook had reached out? Whatever gave the medallions their power, it was seductive. The more a person used one, the harder it was to give up, like an addict with their drug. “What is it? I saw you at Essunta’s party, and I knew—I’m not even sure how—I knew you could answer that question for me.”

No question that Beldipassi had made use of the medallion, then, knowingly or not. “It gives you insights into the people around you. It guides you to the things you need to accomplish your goals.”

Beldipassi examined the medallion as though for the first time. “Ah. I thought it was just lucky, but that didn’t make sense for an Illi medallion. Luck is Quarat’s domain.”

“It has nothing to do with luck. With a deep enough understanding of numinatria, you can even make those around you want whatever you want them to.” The Rook nodded when Beldipassi blanched. “You said you prefer history to poetry. Can you tell me what Houses Persater, Contorio, Taspernum, and Adrexa have in common?”

Fingers tightening around the medallion, Beldipassi whispered, “They all died.”

“They all used—then lost—a medallion from the Tyrant’s chain of office. Like the one you’re holding.”

Beldipassi dropped the medallion.

Then he shrieked and snatched it up again. “No! I didn’t mean it! I only dropped it—tell me that’s not the same as losing it!”

A laugh ghosted out of the Rook. “If only. I could have set my hood aside ages ago if people had to keep the medallions in their possession at all times. No, ownership is more than mere contact. Do me a favor and place it back on the floor.”

Beldipassi obeyed with alacrity, then retreated even faster when the Rook drew his blade. The odds of this working were vanishingly small… but he couldn’t not try.

This wasn’t the first medallion the Rook had managed to find in his centuries of effort. All previous attempts to destroy them, however, had failed. He had two theories as to why: Either they could only be destroyed when all brought together, or the destruction had to start at the beginning. With Illi-zero.

Taking his sword in both hands, he slammed the point into the medallion.

Ordinary gold would have given way. An ordinary blade would have snapped. Neither happened: The Rook’s imbued sword bent and then sprang back, and the medallion showed not so much as a scratch.

Biting down on a curse, he sheathed his sword once more. Numinatria had made the medallions; it would almost certainly take numinatria to unmake them. He would need to either find an inscriptor he trusted enough for this… or sink himself deep enough into the memories of past Rooks that he could see what they had tried before.

Both held more than a hint of danger. And neither was something he should attempt today.

Sighing, the Rook said, “Mede Beldipassi, I’m going to ask you to do something very difficult.”

Beldipassi’s throat flexed as he swallowed. “You’re going to make me keep it, aren’t you?”

“Until I can figure out how to destroy it. Keep it, and not use it—which will be the harder part.”

“Don’t think about what I want? Oh yes, that should be easy.” Beldipassi’s snide response dulled into fear with his next question. “What happens to me if you destroy it? Will I…”

“You’re in luck. I know a way to remove the curse.” The Rook wondered at that luck—if it was somehow due to the medallions’ influence, if he might not have learned about Fienola’s discovery if he hadn’t worked with Ren the night before. Ren, who used to hold Tricat.

A man could go mad, wondering where that influence ended.

It might even be responsible for the ambush. “How did someone know to send an imposter?” the Rook asked. “Who did you tell about our meeting?”

“Nobody!”

The answer came readily, but he didn’t believe it. The Rook merely looked at Beldipassi in silence until the man squirmed and said, “Just my valet. I wanted him to know not to disturb us!”

The Rook’s teeth clenched so hard they ached. His valet. But for that stupidity…

He wouldn’t have almost died. He wouldn’t have revealed himself to Ren.

Maybe things had worked out for the best after all.

“Your valet is almost certainly in someone else’s pay. I’ll look into it. Meanwhile, I don’t recommend going home.”

Beldipassi blanched. “No, but—will I live in this attic? For how long?”

Not the attic. Sooner or later people would gossip about Ryvček’s reclusive boarder. Given the reputation she’d built over the years, it was likely that some people already suspected her of being the Rook; keeping Beldipassi here would only increase that risk.

But where? He couldn’t send the man away, like he’d done with Fontimi; he had to make sure this medallion didn’t slip through his fingers. Beldipassi couldn’t hide with Grey, though, because he needed someone around to watch him. Nor with Ren, either, because then there were too many people around.

Someplace a person might take a room, without it being an item of gossip. Someplace he could trust.

There were no good options. All he could do was choose the least flawed one.

“I’ll send Grey Serrado to you,” the Rook said. “He’ll take you elsewhere. I need your oath on whatever you hold most dear that you will stay there, and not tell anyone where you are or what you have.”

Falling to one knee with a hand over his heart, Beldipassi said, “I swear on my collection of golden walnuts from the Tomb of the Shadow Lily!”

That would have to do. Meanwhile, the Rook needed to change back into Grey and have a chat with Dvaran about a temporary lodger at the Gawping Carp.

Whitesail, Upper Bank: Canilun 4

Renata didn’t stop to consider whether her new cousin would be ready to receive guests. Fortunately, Tanaquis didn’t recognize ceremony well enough to stand on it. Instead of letting Zlatsa show them to the salon to wait, Renata hauled Meppe up to the garret observatory. Then she stopped at the doorway in bewilderment.

Sprawled facedown on the polished floor in nothing but chalk-dusted trousers and a fitted shirt, Tanaquis clutched a stick of chalk in each hand—and also between the toes of each foot. Her limbs swept up and down, tracing sweeping arcs onto the slate. At Meppe’s croaked giggle, she lifted her head and blinked in confusion.

“Was there something I was supposed to do that I’ve forgotten?” She rose to her knees and removed the chalk from her toes.

Despite her urgency, Renata couldn’t help but ask, “What are you doing?”

“Hm?” Tanaquis followed Renata’s glance to the chalked arcs. “Oh! Chalking the dimensions of a personalized numinat. Of course, you can use standard measurements—most inscriptors do—but I’ve found an organic approach can be more effective when determining the terminus of the spira aurea in relation to—”

“Right. I understand now,” Renata said, before Tanaquis spiraled off herself. “I brought Meppe because of that matter you brought up last night. The cleansing?” Turning to Meppe, who was looking utterly adrift, she improvised, “Tanaquis was concerned that, because the Indestor register was burned rather than being properly undone, there might be some negative effects for you. I wanted to make certain we dealt with that as soon as possible.”

Tanaquis had stood, and was hopping on one foot as she tried to wipe a rag between her toes. “That’s not—Oh. Yes.” She turned a brilliant smile on Meppe; Renata only hoped it didn’t look as false to him as it did to her. “Burned register. Let’s fix that. Renata, would you, ah, oblige me by getting that… thing you used before?”

She had a deck with her, the replacement she was using for her mother’s. Stepping over to the table, she pulled out the cards and shuffled them, her back to the others so they wouldn’t see her lips moving in silent prayer to the Vraszenian ancestors. Then she drew a single card: Sword in Hand.

“Do you always shuffle seven times?” Tanaquis asked as she handed it over. “Fascinating. I wonder if there’s some relation to Sebat. What does this one mean?”

It means I’ve taken up the Rook’s crusade. “It’s the card of commitment,” Renata said. “I think in this instance, it signifies Meppe’s commitment to his new house.”

Tanaquis frowned at the card. “Before, you drew three.”

Because she’d been laying a three-card line for House Traementis. But also for the curse laid for Tricat, whether she knew it or not. “I think,” Renata said, then hesitated. If the Rook was right about Mettore holding Sessat… “For Cousin Meppe’s new loyalty, it ought to be six this time.”

“Fascinating. I’ll wipe down the floor.”

Reeds Unbroken, Pearl’s Promise, The Liar’s Knot, Aža’s Call, A Spiraling Fire, Drowning Breath. She explained the cards while Tanaquis cleaned the boards: endurance, reward, trust, illusions, passion, fear. Or if they were veiled, the dark sides of those concepts. “I’m not sure how to interpret their significance, though. There aren’t any six-card layouts that I’m aware of.”

“We’ll work with it anyway and see what happens,” Tanaquis said cheerfully, presenting Meppe with four sticks of chalk. “Right, cousin. Off with your boots.”

When Tanaquis removed the curse from Donaia, Giuna, and Renata, the numinat had been prepared before they arrived at the townhouse. Now, twice in less than a day, Renata was treated to the spectacle of a master inscriptor laying down lines that could save a life.

Tanaquis didn’t work like Vargo. Her mutterings were all to herself instead of to an Acrenix ghost, and devoid of any profanity or frustration. Where Vargo’s movements were calculated and precise, Tanaquis danced barefoot around the figures she was chalking, each step and figure leading fluidly into the next.

“I dabble in numinatria, you know,” Meppe said to Renata, fiddling with his boots as though uncertain whether he was allowed to put them back on now that he’d made his bird wings on the floor. “I’ve never understood how an inscriptor could get so lost in their work that they imbued a numinat by accident. But this…”

“Don’t worry,” Tanaquis said brightly as she skipped out of the circle to examine her work. “I’m not quite ready to know the cosmos that intimately.”

The process of uncursing Meppe seemed much less dramatic than Renata remembered. Because there was only one of him? Because he was less intensely cursed? Or because she was an outside spectator? Regardless, it was a relief when Tanaquis declared the process complete. Meppe, still bemused, stepped out of the framework and finally put his boots back on. “Thank you for humoring us,” Renata said, favoring him with her most dazzling smile, before remembering that Meppe only had eyes for Idaglio. “My apologies for interrupting your day. Tanaquis, would you mind if I stayed to consult with you on a separate matter?”

“Of course.” Tanaquis glanced down at her chalk-streaked trousers and bare toes. Then her stomach grumbled audibly. “Perhaps you could find us food while I put on clean clothes?”

Renata accompanied Meppe outside, then came back a short time later with the corner ostretta’s errand boy at her heels, bearing a hamper emanating all sorts of tempting smells. The actual taste proved less impressive than the scents advertised, but she’d eaten far worse in her time. Tanaquis joined her, now wearing a surcoat with an ink stain at the knee, and tucked in like she was a fireplace someone had forgotten to supply with coal.

“That was fascinating,” Tanaquis said after she’d removed and eaten the filling from her dumplings, then moved on to the limp, steamed wrappers. “Last night I called the cleansing precautionary, but there’s no question it was necessary.” She finished rolling a wrapper and studied Renata with an intensity that would have made most people squirm. “Also interesting that you correctly identified the source as the Indestor register. Did you learn that from your pattern cards?”

Eating while having such conversations was useful; the time spent chewing and swallowing covered any hesitation. “To be honest,” Renata said, “I made that up. I didn’t want to tell Meppe the Traementis used to be cursed. But I had a dreadful nightmare about him last night, and it put me on edge.”

“Quite a lot of nightmares going around,” Tanaquis murmured, rolling another dumpling wrapper into a ball, heedless of the grease on her fingers. “Just Meppe?”

Renata nodded. Grey had told her a good deal more over their cups of chocolate; he didn’t think House Fintenus had a medallion. Half of them tended to be in the hands of the Cinquerat: Tuat with Argentet, Tricat with Fulvet, Quarat with Prasinet, Sessat with Caerulet, and Sebat with Iridet, following the numinatrian associations of those seats. Many of the others could be tracked by the way the numen’s influence spilled outward through the holders’ registers. Quinat and Ninat had been difficult to locate, but the hedonism of House Extaquium’s members pointed toward them having Noctat, while the social dominance of Coscanum suggested they had the Illi medallion that represented ten. And until Beldipassi approached him, Grey had suspected that Vargo’s extraordinary rise was driven by the other half of Illi, representing zero.

But knowing where the medallions might be wasn’t enough. He needed to destroy them. And while that process might start with Beldipassi’s Illi-zero, if she could get Tricat back for him—make up for her mistake in losing it…

In a rare show of empathy, Tanaquis said, “I could check the household again to confirm, but I would hate to add to Donaia’s worries if she were to find out.” She frowned at her lumpy dumpling ball. “I suppose we’ll have to rely on pattern.”

By now Renata was used to the aura of mingled curiosity and dissatisfaction that surrounded Tanaquis whenever pattern came up. It drove the woman mad that she couldn’t neatly slot its intuitive workings into her ordered cosmos—and not for lack of trying.

Wiping her own fingers clean, Renata said, “If it’s any comfort, the other puzzle I have for you may well need a numinatrian solution. Do you know of a way to bring a physical object out of the realm of mind?”

“You mean like your prismatium mask?” Tanaquis leaned forward, nearly upsetting the table and its platters. “Not yet. Vargo provided very scant details of his experience. Protecting your privacy, when there are things to be learned! I’d hoped his involvement in the Praeteri might pry it out of him, or that you might, but—”

Tanaquis drew back. “I forgot. You had a fight.”

Renata wasn’t about to share details of the Rook’s purpose with Vargo, even if the pattern she’d laid had indicated that he might somehow be involved. Not that she would tell Tanaquis, either—but she had much more confidence in her ability to sell Tanaquis on a false story. “During the Night of Hells, I lost a numinatrian medallion I’d been wearing. I’d like to get it back.”

“By some means other than dosing yourself with ash and falling in? Hmmm. Apart from that mask, I’ve never heard of someone bringing an object back from a spirit trip. Do you still have it?”

“The mask? Yes.”

“Have it sent here. I’d like to study it.” Tanaquis tapped her knee, overlaying the ink stain with grease.

Renata gathered herself to leave. “I’ll do that right away.”

“What’s the nature of the medallion?” Tanaquis asked suddenly.

“I’m not sure what god it invokes—I’ve never really learned the sigils.” Perhaps Grey would be able to answer that once he got a good look at Beldipassi’s. “But it was a fairly simple configuration of three overlapping Tricats.”

Tanaquis hummed. “So Tricat in a tripled arrangement, left in the realm of mind. Fascinating. Why didn’t you mention this in the account you wrote for me after the Night of Hells?”

Djek.

At least it made sense to be taken aback. “I didn’t think it was relevant. You wanted to know what sorts of scenarios we’d encountered and so forth; it didn’t occur to me that you would want to know I’d lost a piece of jewelry.”

“Not relevant!” Tanaquis’s voice rose in pitch as she shot to her feet. “What sort of nonsense are they teaching in Seteris these days? A physically embodied numinat in the realm of mind? Who knows what ripples that might cast into the real world! And by ripples, I mean floodwaters. Tricat tripled, and brought there by ash… It would mean the breakdown or unhealthy growth of familial and communal bonds. Failures of justice. Inability to compromise. Veng—

“Oh.” Tanaquis fell back into her chair as quickly as she’d risen. “Not might. Has.”

Some realizations hit suddenly, like a knife to the ribs. Others took longer to sink in… but left you bleeding just as badly. “You mean—” Renata couldn’t have stood to leave if she wanted to; her knees wouldn’t hold her. The grinding breakdown of business in the Charterhouse; Branek trying to bind all the Stretsko to the Anduske; even well-intentioned things like Giarron Quientatis’s rash attempt to adopt an entire orphanage.

And inexplicable horrors like Meda Scurezza slaughtering her entire family.

“No,” she whispered. “Surely one piece of numinatria couldn’t be responsible for all of that.”

Not even something that belonged to Kaius Rex?

Tanaquis’s eyes had taken on an all too familiar glow as the tide of her own thoughts caught her up. “Responsible? No more than the rain is responsible for weeds growing. Numinatria in the realm of mind—but don’t Vraszenians call it Ažerais’s Dream? A place of pattern. What we’re seeing right now might be the result of those two things working in tandem. Which means it is possible!”

“Tanaquis.” Renata leaned forward to grip her wrist, fingers digging in. “If this is causing problems in the city, we have to get it out of there. How do we do that?”

She had to get it back. Not just to help the Rook. Because she had lost the medallion—let it fall to the ground, unheeded and unimportant, when she turned the zlyzen against Gammer Lindworm—and who knew how much of what was happening in Nadežra right now was her fault.

“I don’t know,” Tanaquis said with an excited grin. She tamped it down when Renata’s grip tightened. “I don’t know yet—but you have pattern, and I have my compass, my edge, my chalk, and myself. Together, we can figure it out!”