17

One Poppy Weeps

Isla Čaprila, Eastbridge: Canilun 5

Renata made it to the foot of Vargo’s steps the next morning before she wondered if this was a mistake.

But she was here, and if she backed out now, she wasn’t sure she would find the courage to try again. Climbing the steps, she rang the bell with more confidence than she felt.

No answer came. After pulling the chain twice more, she was about ready to try his Dockwall office when the door was yanked open.

Vargo looked like he’d played sixes with death and lost every hand. His hair was lank with oil, his bloodshot eyes smudged with kohl two days old. Wrapped in a sumptuous lounging robe of blue and green brocades in a patchwork quilt, the collar open enough to show the scar slashing down his neck, he looked like what the world called him: street trash in the guise of nobility.

He stared at her as though he couldn’t dredge up the energy for a proper scowl. “The fuck do you want?”

“I—” She was off to a splendid start, not even able to offer a worthwhile greeting. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m alive. I assume Serrado is, too, or you’d have come by sooner.” Scraping fingernails through his stubble, he stood aside. “Well, come on. En’t gonna do this on the stoop.”

He led her to the back of the house and the morning room where the two of them had breakfasted together, what seemed like a lifetime ago. A bowl of congealing tolatsy sat on the table; the small warming numinat on the sideboard held a basin of gently steaming water instead of a teapot. The razor and soap waiting alongside said Vargo had been preparing to shave, but he ignored them in favor of slumping onto one of the plum velvet couches. “Don’t have coffee for you. There’s tea if you feel like brewing it.” He waved at the sideboard.

It would provide a distraction and something to do with her hands, but Renata sat instead. “I thanked you the other night, but given the state you were in, I’m not sure if the words registered.”

“They registered. You’re welcome. Don’t mention it, but I think I already covered that.” The lift of his scarred brow added, Anything else?

“I’ve told Captain Serrado nothing,” she assured him. “But—well, I expected you to have questions.”

Vargo merely shrugged. “Our business is the river numinat. Unless this has something to do with that, what does it matter?”

It matters because you nearly died saving him. And because the story she’d crafted to explain Grey’s state was designed to draw Vargo out, offering footholds for getting him to talk about other matters.

But if he wasn’t going to ask, she would have to prod. “You mentioned the Praeteri that night, when you saw the marks on Captain Serrado. Why?”

“Praeteri numinata can do some unpleasant things. As you found out the hard way. I was going to warn you about that, but I was too late.” He toyed with the spoon in the congealed tolatsy, standing it up in the rice porridge and watching it slowly list to one side. “As for death curses, who knows what sort of secrets are shared past the gates we’ve seen? It seemed a logical deduction.”

That was far from the whole truth—but she could hardly admit she’d overheard his conversation with Alsius. Nor, for that matter, could she bring up the absurd possibility that Alsius was somehow the spirit of Ghiscolo’s dead brother inhabiting the body of a king peacock spider. She wished one of them would make a mental comment, but either the spider wasn’t around, or she’d somehow lost the ability to hear them.

Too many secrets between them. Hers as well as his. “What happened in the temple that night… it took me by surprise. I’m not sure what Diomen wanted to achieve; I can only hope he didn’t get it. And that you’ll forgive me for saying such things to you.”

A laugh ghosted from him. “Apologizing for speaking the truth? Fine. You’re forgiven. I figure I owe you after…”

It was almost exactly what he’d said when she came to him after her sleeplessness was cured. Vargo must have heard the echo, too, because he grimaced and muttered, “I didn’t know what Mettore was going to do. I didn’t think you’d be hurt.” Mouth twisting, he added, “Saying that a lot these days.”

His forgiveness came too easily to be real. In the temple she’d spoken with the intent of wounding him—and it seemed she’d succeeded. A sudden impulse of regret made her say, “I won’t pretend that night wasn’t horrific. But what cut most deeply was believing you didn’t care. After I found out… I overheard you talking to Ghiscolo Acrenix. He asked if I was going to be a problem, and you—you said, ‘I don’t get attached to my tools.’”

Vargo’s jaw tightened. In a low voice, Renata said, “After that, I thought I’d misread you completely. That everything between us had been a lie from the start.”

“No reason it should occur to you that I might be lying to Ghiscolo, instead.”

“In that moment? When I’d just learned about your deal with Mettore? No. You sounded very convincing, and you have a certain reputation.” She slid one hand into her pocket. “A reputation that is not unfounded… but also not the whole story.”

Hoping the trembling of her hand didn’t show, she laid the mask of the Black Rose on the table.

The possibility of admitting that truth to him had crossed her mind yesterday, on her way back from Kingfisher. She hadn’t been at all sure she would do it, though—not until he’d delivered that bitter, resigned reply.

She suppressed the urge to snatch the mask back as Vargo picked it up. He let the fabric slide like petals through his fingers, then held it up and studied her through the lace, as though looking for hints of the Black Rose in Renata’s tense expression.

With a sudden gesture, he let the mask drop. “Now I understand why you brought Serrado to me—but I’m still confused. You hate me… so you’ve been helping me?”

She sighed and rubbed one hand over her face. “It began as spying on you. After Sostira told me what you’d done, I wanted to keep a closer eye on what you were doing. Especially when you thought I wasn’t around.”

“Sostira.” A flush darkened Vargo’s skin, and a hint of murder glinted in his eyes. Lurching to his feet, he went to the sideboard and fell silent for the time it took him to swap the basin for the teapot and measure out the tea.

When he spoke again, something unsteady threaded through his voice. “There’s your real enemy. She’s a danger to you as long as she holds Argentet. I can only destroy so many packets from Seteris before one gets through.”

A small noise escaped her, and Vargo turned to look. “What?”

Three different responses rose to her tongue, all of them delicate, political—manipulative. But she was tired of dancing around things. “I’m trying to figure you out, Eret Vargo.”

“I en’t that complicated a man, Renata.” The emphasis on her name, bare of title, deliberately mocked the respect she’d just paid him. As did his slipping accent. “You said it yourself. I’m a jumped-up Lower Bank rat. Anyone from Froghole to Dockwall could tell you what I’m about. The problem is, you cuffs en’t got a shit-crusted clue what people are like when they weren’t born with a pair of gloves shoved up their ass.” He punctuated his self-assassination with a shark’s smile.

Then his speech shifted back to studied elegance. “Thank you for your apology, but we both know what you said in that Praeteri numinat was the Lumen’s own truth. What’s the saying? ‘There’s no washing off Lower Bank filth.’”

She rose to her feet, facing him across a breakfast room that suddenly felt both too small and very large. Vargo merely arched his brow again, as if daring her to refute him.

Instead she nodded at the abandoned basin of water resting next to his forgotten shaving tools. “May I?”

He shrugged and went back to his seat, dropping down hard enough to make it creak, while she dipped the block of soap into the basin. Working it into a lather, she said, “Perhaps you’re right, and there’s no washing it off.” Her hands muffled her voice as she rubbed them over her skin. “Nothing about Nadežra is clean, from Lower Bank to Upper. But this is and always has been a city of masks.”

That last line was delivered in her own accent, and she turned toward him with her face scrubbed clean.

Vargo jerked upright, gaze flicking to the sideboard as though searching for the cosmetics behind her transformation, before fixing again on her. When she laid out the Black Rose’s mask, his expression had been guarded. Now it was raw, open confusion.

He stood, slowly. “The fuck is this?”

“My name is Ren,” she said, her throat tight. What have I done? “I was born in Lacewater and trained as one of Ondrakja’s Fingers. Never in my life have I been to Seteris. I am a con artist.”

“You’re…” His breath hissed through his teeth. Vargo wasn’t a stupid man, nor an unobservant one. She watched as he unraveled the knot. “You’re Lenskaya. And if you were a Finger, then Sedge…”

“Is my brother.” She tipped her wrist upward, showing the faint line of the scar.

She forced herself to hold still when he grabbed her hand and studied the scar like it would reveal another layer of secrets. Her fingers were soft after almost a year in gloves, his calluses rough against them.

He released her as though he’d picked up a dead fish. “How nice for you.” There was something ugly about the way he glared at her wrist, and something uglier still in his voice. “So we’re both liars and hypocrites. Are you a murderer, too?”

She’d taken her mask off. There was nothing to hide behind when that knife slid between her ribs. Leato.

The flinch shook her whole body, and Vargo’s expression transformed on the spot from anger to horror. “Fuck. Renata—Ren—I—”

He froze halfway through reaching out, like he didn’t know how to comfort instead of harm. Like he didn’t know if he could. For an instant she stared at his hand. Then Vargo started to withdraw—

She caught him, clutching his fingers in an awkward grip. It was the only thing she could think to do, because for once in her life, no words would come. She’d meant for the revelation to ease the tension between them, to prove that she did understand. Instead she’d hurt him—again—and he’d done the same.

But that hand spoke a different truth. The friendship she’d once believed in, even if they both kept doing their best to break it.

Vargo stood, hardly breathing, looking at their hands. It lasted long enough for Ren to start feeling embarrassed, and to search for something to say; then Vargo broke the silence. “I… need a drink.”

She let go, and he went to the sideboard. From its depths came a dusty, full-bottomed bottle of fortified wine. He filled one of the teacups, then held it out like a peace offering.

Fuck it. Ren knocked the contents back like the Lacewater rat she was.

Vargo refilled her cup, then took a swig directly from the bottle and clutched it to his chest as he sat. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was hoarse. “Let’s start again? I’m Vargo. Lower Bank knot boss, recently ennobled. And an ass who sometimes says things he regrets. You?”

She laughed unsteadily. “Ren. Arenza Lenskaya really is my name, but I use it now only when… well. You know. Also Renata Viraudax Traementatis, fake noblewoman, and the Black Rose. Though I planned that last one not.”

His smile was grudging, but real. “Not a fake noblewoman; I watched them add you to the register. Shit, that was an even bigger coup than I realized. Sit down. Stop making me look up at you. I died the other day and only woke up a few bells ago.”

Sitting felt like an excellent idea. Vargo took another swig, studying her. Abruptly, he said, “How old are you?”

She fought the urge to touch her bare face. “I’ll be twenty in Equilun.”

“Fuck me. I knew you were younger than me, but under that makeup, you’re still nipper-cheeked. I feel like an old man now.” He eyed the bottle as if trying to gauge whether it would be enough to get them through this conversation. “How the hell did you infiltrate the Traementis like that?”

“I was Letilia’s maid for five years. After Tess and I fled the Fingers.” No way in hell was she going to admit to Vargo that she was a knot-traitor who’d poisoned Ondrakja. Not right now, anyway. “Think you that I will answer all your questions, and ask none of my own? What is your interest in the Praeteri?”

His breath huffed out. “Destroying them, if I can.”

The fortified wine was hitting fast enough that her eyebrows rose. Vargo said, “I mean, I also want to know how they’re doing what they do. There’s a type of spirit called an eisar—”

“Yes, Tanaquis said.”

“Did she also tell you the Praeteri are using that shit all over Nadežra to bolster their own power?” He grimaced and drank again. “Probably not. She might be the only person in that cult who’s actually there to study the mysteries of numinatria. They’ve been doing it for years, though—I’d show you my notes, but the Rook burned ’em. The first time I was able to lay eyes on an active eisar numinat was during the Dreamweaver Riots. But the whole reason I became a cuff was so I could get an invite to the Praeteri and see how they make the damn things.”

Then he glanced around the plush comfort of his breakfast room and snorted. “Well. Part of the reason.”

Ren could hardly cast stones at anyone for wanting luxury. She sipped the wine: rich and dark, smelling of summer cherries, and nothing either of them could have afforded in the past. Vargo said, “My turn. Why the Black Rose? What was a con artist doing at the amphitheatre that night?”

“Initially? Being a prisoner. Mettore’s plan required using ash to poison someone conceived during the Great Dream. He had two: me and—”

Ren stopped, suddenly cold. That’s how Mettore knew. For ages she’d wondered how he could possibly have guessed—especially with Arkady. But Grey had said those who held medallions could tell when someone or something would be useful to their goals.

She took a gulp of her wine, washing down her fear. “The curse on Grey. You recognized it, and as more than just Praeteri work. You—” There was no good way to lie around it. As Vargo reached across to fill her cup again, she said, “I can hear your conversations with Alsius.”

The wine nearly splashed over her hand. Vargo cursed and stopped pouring, then belatedly dug out a wrinkled handkerchief and tossed it to her. While Ren blotted up the spill, he said, “How the fuck—”

“Veiled Waters. You had collapsed. I could see a thread connecting us. I—strengthened it. Somehow. And since then, if I am close enough, if I pay attention… I can hear.” She glanced around. “Except I cannot hear him now.”

“That’s because he’s still passed out. Shit! I told Alsius I heard a voice that night.” Vargo sank back on the couch, staring. “I’m going to lose my mind obsessing over every conversation we’ve had in your presence since then.”

Then, midway through another swallow, he coughed on the wine. “Is it only him you can hear, or—” His eyes narrowed as though he was thinking at her very hard.

“Only the two of you together.” Ren waited until he set the bottle down, then asked, “Is he really Ghiscolo’s brother?” When Vargo nodded, she said, “And he was killed by the same thing that almost got Grey.”

“Seems you’ve heard plenty.”

“But with Ghiscolo you still work.” Her speech was getting more Vraszenian the emptier that bottle became.

Vargo snorted. “Gotta get close enough to your enemy to slip the knife in. Sixteen years ago, he tried to murder Alsius with a death curse. Same one that was laid on Serrado. How did he stumble into it? That’s no simple thing to drop on just anyone. There’s a thousand easier ways to kill a person.”

Ren hesitated. It was the other side of the coin Grey had flipped to her: secrets she couldn’t share, because they weren’t her own.

Before Vargo’s expression could shutter the way it so often did, she spoke her thoughts. “I would tell you if I could. But that secret…”

“Isn’t yours. Got it. Out of idle curiosity, what lie were you planning to feed me if I asked before we started being all honest-like with each other?”

“That he was assisting me by investigating the Ordo Apis.”

Vargo traced a numinat into the dust on the side of his bottle, then wiped it away half-complete. “Alsius didn’t fare as well as Serrado. His spirit got trapped in the body of my pet spider, and we wound up connected.” He tapped his chest, where the numinatrian brand lay hidden. “Once we realized there was no freeing him without killing us both, we started investigating who was behind the curse. The trail led to Diomen. Guebris, the old Acrenix head, had brought him to Nadežra, and was acting as his patron. Alsius thought Diomen was a charlatan, using trickery to control his father. Turns out his tricks are real. But we found out that while Diomen may have crafted the curse, the assassination wasn’t his idea.”

“Ghiscolo.”

Vargo nodded. “He started up the cult after he took over House Acrenix. So the plan’s been, learn their secrets, then once I’ve got those, kill Ghiscolo and Diomen. Then see about making this city less of a shithole.”

Assuming he could pull all of that off without being arrested and executed himself. But Ren knew better than to point that out, and Vargo went on in a deliberately lighter tone. “That’s tomorrow’s business, though. Today is for removing masks and washing off mud and whatever other metaphors you care to add to the pile.”

He topped up her cup, then clinked his bottle against it, hard enough to spill again. Ren looked for his handkerchief before giving up and licking the droplets away. Vargo watched for a moment like a man who hadn’t eaten his morning porridge, then grumbled, “I am not sober enough or drunk enough for this,” and took another swig.

She’d had enough of the wine to snicker at his comment. “The rest of my business can wait also. What say you to the idea of getting drunk and telling each other more things? I have of late been strangely honest, and it feels… good.” More than good. Like—

Like it was all right to be herself.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be. And no particular desire to get off this couch.” Kicking his slippered feet up onto the cushions, Vargo turned his sprawl into a shameless, full-blown lounge. “So. You were one of the famed Lacewater Fingers? Start there.”

Isla Čaprila, Eastbridge: Canilun 5

The message Tess received was brief, cryptic, and worrying.

Bring my makeup to Vargo’s.

Ren had left for Eastbridge at midmorning. Now it was well after noon, and she’d missed two appointments. What had gone wrong? Why did she need her makeup? If it was bruises that needed covering up—if that man had hurt her—

The heavy thump that came a moment after Tess knocked on the door put her heart in her mouth. But after it… was that a giggle?

Before she could fret more, the door swung wide to reveal a very drunk and disheveled Vargo, clinging to the frame. “Tess!” he exclaimed. “I hear you’re a wanted criminal in Ganllech!”

“Wha—” Tess stared past him to see Ren sitting on the floor of the hallway… without a spot of makeup on.

Her sister waved one hand loopily in Tess’s direction. “He knows everything. Long story. Come inside. Vargo believes not that I can put my face on while drunk; ’m gonna prove him wrong.”

Charterhouse, Dawngate: Canilun 6

Vargo woke the next morning wishing that the truth in wine didn’t come with predictable consequences. Yesterday he woke up feeling like death because he’d died. Today, he only wished he had.

::It’s your own fault for letting me sleep through important conversations,:: Alsius grumbled. After two days of his own dead sleep, he’d woken up chipper—until Vargo relayed the reason for his hungover state. ::A conversation I actually could have participated in!::

“Please, not so loud,” Vargo said, mixing up a concoction of pear juice, ginger, and willow bark that had never let him down. Perhaps he should send the recipe to Traementis Manor.

He could understand Alsius’s enthusiasm. For sixteen years the old man had precisely one person he could talk to; the prospect of being able to double the size of his social world made him giddy. And, true to form, Alsius was salivating to learn how it had been done, pronouncing Vargo’s secondhand and hungover explanation “quite insufficient.”

But the eagerness still rankled, for reasons Vargo preferred not to examine too closely.

He let the flood of questions go mostly unanswered while he bathed, shaved, and debated spending another day in his robe. He’d already let business slide for two days, though—three more than he could afford—so eventually he dressed. Then he sent a messenger boy to the Isarnah compound in Floodwatch, letting Varuni know he was feeling well enough to make himself into a target again, and would meet her at the Froghole headquarters.

::Could we make a brief detour to Traementis Manor before that? I should like to pay my respects to Renata personally.::

“Give the woman a chance to rest before giving her reason to regret having said anything.” It came out more sourly than Vargo intended. “We’ll see her soon enough, but business won’t wait.”

Just as Vargo was pulling on his gloves, however, a messenger in Charterhouse livery arrived with a summons he didn’t dare ignore.

Visiting the Charterhouse made Vargo want to take his hangover and crawl back into his deathbed. Bureaucracy that usually moved turtle slow had become mired to the point of stagnation. Vargo would have suspected Praeteri influence, except that it wasn’t like the usual push and pull of warring delta houses. Nobody could get anything through, not even with help from their friends in the cult.

The liveried messenger whisked Vargo past the morning crowd of petitioners and advocates clogging the main atrium. Past the doors of the Cinquerat’s public audience chamber and the archways leading to their offices, to upper-level halls that echoed with the somber hush of infrequent use.

::Maybe he’s leading us into an ambush.::

The way things have been going lately, don’t joke, Vargo thought as they passed through a set of polished doors of cherrywood and into a more intimate version of the audience chamber below. There was no spectator’s gallery, the Cinquerat thrones were understated rather than ostentatious, and instead of house benches for the nobility, comfortable chairs had been set up in rows.

They weren’t the first arrivals. Among the quietly chatting cuffs, Vargo spotted Faella Coscanum and her brother, Paumilla Cleoter and her heir and spare, Sibiliat and Fadrin Acrenix—Vargo quickly looked away before he caught their attention—and…

::Look, there she is! Renata! I mean, Alta Renata. Do forgive my manners. It’s just been so long since I’ve had a proper conversation—::

I talk to you every day, old man, Vargo grumbled, even as he felt his face warm. This was the sort of thing Ren had been privy to for months. He preferred to not think about what she might have overheard.

From the stiffening of her spine, she definitely heard Alsius shouting for her, but if she tried to reply, nothing came across. Peabody tickled Vargo’s neck as he crawled out of hiding and raised his colorful abdomen in an attempt to catch her attention.

::Why isn’t she saying anything?:: he asked mournfully.

I don’t think she can. Vargo ignored the welling of petty satisfaction that at least some things remained private. We can ask later. Right now, I’d like to know why everyone was summoned here.

::Representatives from all the noble houses? Someone must have invoked their right to a private tribunal.::

Dread settled over Vargo as his gaze swept the gathering again, searching for some hint of who might have done so, and why.

He wished he and Renata—Ren—had spent a little less time drinking the previous day, and a little more time planning. She hadn’t approached him here; were they going to keep up a facade of estrangement? It might be useful, if only because people would wonder at a reconciliation so soon after the events at the Traementis adoption ball.

It meant he had to fight to keep his gaze from drifting toward her, though. Even knowing the truth, he could barely make himself believe the woman talking to Parma was the Lacewater rat he’d met yesterday, much less the Vraszenian szorsa he’d hauled in for interrogation. Unlike him, she didn’t wear the marks of hardship openly; she’d had a mother for her early years, and then after that, Ondrakja had made sure to protect the asset of her “pretty face.”

Vargo’s skin crawled, remembering the loathing with which Ren had uttered that phrase. No wonder she preferred to be admired for her clever mind.

But the real marvel was in her bearing. She inhabited her role as naturally as breathing—as if she believed without question that she was every bit as good as those around her. As if it never crossed her mind that they might question it, either.

He was staring, despite meaning not to. Vargo nudged Alsius back under his collar before anyone could see him, then turned away and dropped heavily into the single chair set aside for his one-man house.

A few other nobles had trickled in; now two of the Destaelio daughters—the only two not currently traveling on their mother’s business—nodded to the doorman to close the doors behind them.

Once everyone was seated, Sostira Novrus stood up.

Vargo’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He still couldn’t look at her without thinking, I would do the job better. Not because he had any passion for Argentet’s duties; if someone offered him the Cinquerat seat of his choice, he would take Prasinet or Iridet or even Fulvet first. No, it was because he wouldn’t get caught up in petty feuds. He wouldn’t estrange the city’s Vraszenian residents for no better reason than prejudice and greed. If he had her power—

::Steady, my boy.::

Grateful for Alsius’s stabilizing presence, Vargo sat up as Sostira began to speak.

“I thank you all for attending this tribunal, and I won’t waste your time. Three nights ago, someone broke into the Novrus shipping office in Whitesail and destroyed a certain letter. My fellow Cinquerat members have already reviewed and accepted the testimonies of several witnesses as to the existence of this letter and the tampering with the cabinet where it was stored, and the ash around the incendiary numinat used to destroy it.”

Cibrial Destaelio and Scaperto Quientis looked distinctly pained at Sostira’s words, but none of the Cinquerat denied her claim. With a smug lift of her chin, Sostira continued, “The missing letter was from Eret Ebarius Viraudax, the father of Alta Renata Viraudax Traementatis.”

::This is bad.::

Vargo agreed… but he was also very aware of Renata sitting across the room, listening to everything they said. While Vargo was used to Alsius’s gloom, she wouldn’t be. Nonsense. Any evidence Argentet might have is circumstantial at best—

::Sostira Novrus isn’t a fool. She wouldn’t bring this to tribunal unless she was confident of her proof.::

Wouldn’t she? Iascat had said his aunt had grown more erratic. He was there, too, watching Sostira with his lips pressed tight.

But most people’s attention was on Renata, who listened to Sostira’s accusation with exactly the kind of raised brows one would expect from a woman suffering a baseless political attack. Now she said, “Your Elegance, I find it troubling that you’ve apparently gone digging into my family situation behind my back—all the more so because I can’t imagine why you would. I’m a registered noblewoman of Nadežra, and moreover one who hasn’t committed any crime. But regardless of your motivations, I swear beneath the Lumen’s light that I have destroyed no letter intended for you.”

“Then perhaps you would be so good as to account for your whereabouts the evening of the Traementis ball.”

A faint line of puzzlement creased Renata’s flawless brow. “At the ball, Your Elegance. Yes, I retired early—but not because I needed to run off to Whitesail. I’ve simply been very busy of late, and I knew that beginning the following morning, the duties of the head of house would fall upon me. I thought it wiser to get some sleep.”

“Did you?” Sostira pivoted to look at the man on her left. “Does Fulvet have a response to that?”

Dragging in a breath as though it contained broken glass, Quientis said, “I spent much of the evening in Era Traementis’s company. At around midnight, she wished to retire for the night—and to say good night to her family. Alta Renata was nowhere to be found. We searched everywhere, including her room. It was nearly seventh earth before Era Traementis gave up and allowed me to put her to bed.”

Now Vargo had to hold in his own gloom-filled thoughts. Lies had their uses, but honesty was the sharpest blade. Quientis’s testimony was effective because he was so clearly speaking in spite of his preferences. No doubt Sostira calculated that when she maneuvered Renata into the lie.

She waited for the whispers to die down before returning her attention to Renata. “A crime against a head of house and a member of the Cinquerat is no small thing. One might even consider it treason. Would you like to amend your statement, Alta Renata? After all, everyone here knows how convincing you can be.”

::Well played,:: Alsius said quietly. ::If she tries to talk her way out of this, she’ll only look more guilty.::

Vargo’s fist clenched. He couldn’t say whether the desire to strangle Sostira was natural, or a product of the urge that had buzzed in the depths of his mind since that night at the Villa Acrenix.

Renata made no attempt to revise her lie. Instead her expression hardened. “Treason, Your Elegance? That’s a strong word to employ so casually. Just what am I supposed to have destroyed, that poses a threat to Nadežra itself?”

“I think you and I know exactly what was destroyed, and why you might risk sneaking away from a ball you were hosting to do so.”

Talking around the content of the letter would only make everyone more curious as to what might be in it. If that curiosity was whetted, Vargo suspected twenty more letters would go out on the next tide, asking Eret Viraudax about the daughter he didn’t have.

There was a way to stop Sostira… and possibly nudge circumstances enough for Cibrial Destaelio to wrest Argentet out of her hands. Vargo’s motives might be tainted by the urge Ghiscolo had planted, but in the end it didn’t matter. Even if it helped Ghiscolo, it also helped Ren.

“I’m afraid you’ve accused the wrong person, Your Elegance.” Vargo stood and thumped his sword cane to draw the room’s attention. “Alta Renata didn’t destroy your letter. I did.”

Before he could lose his audience’s attention to a furor of speculation, Vargo added, “And I wasn’t the only one there that night. Fadrin Acrenix was attempting to break into your office as well. I greeted him with a fist to his biscuits.”

“That was you?” Fadrin snarled, leaping to his feet. The scrapes and bruises from the beating Vargo gave him had blossomed in the intervening days. Not even makeup could entirely hide them from those who were looking—as everyone in the room now was.

“Sent him floating down the Dežera in the Acrenix sedan chair. The red-lacquered one. I’m certain if you examined it you would find water damage. Assuming it isn’t at the bottom of the river.” Vargo’s taunting smile invited Fadrin to reinforce his claims with physical retribution.

Tragically, Sibiliat succeeded in dragging her cousin back down. Vargo turned his attention to the Cinquerat, avoiding Ghiscolo’s cold stare. “If treason charges are to be made, then it’s House Vargo and House Acrenix that should shoulder them. But I took the liberty of examining the contents of the letter from Eret Viraudax before I destroyed it. I didn’t find anything anybody could use against his daughter—which I assume was your aim.”

Fighting laughter, Vargo bowed in Renata’s direction. “Your father sends his regards and hopes you remain in good health. Your mother… is also well.”

Renata’s mouth soured at the reference to Letilia, while Sostira snarled, “All this proves is that the two of you colluded—”

“The two of us?” Vargo laughed incredulously. “Here I thought Argentet knew everything that happened in Nadežra. No, Your Elegance—I just can’t let other people take credit for my achievements.”

Half the chamber was talking now, but from what Vargo could hear, more of them were talking about him and the Acrenix than Renata, and Ghiscolo was glaring murder at Sibiliat and Fadrin. That was victory enough for the moment. Fuck you for whatever you did to me that night.

Sostira tried to regain the floor, but the tumult continued until Cibrial Destaelio stood up. “Under the circumstances,” Prasinet said, projecting her voice firmly over the noise, “I believe this is a much smaller matter than Her Elegance claims. For interfering with the correspondence of a Cinquerat seat, I propose that House Vargo be fined two hundred forri. For attempted interference, a fine of twenty forri to House Acrenix. Alta Renata, do you wish to bring a complaint against Era Novrus for false accusations?”

In her shoes, Vargo would have said yes. But he couldn’t trust his own judgment.

“Thank you, Your Charity, but no,” Renata said, keeping her eyes on Sostira. “I believe any dispute between us can be settled by other means. Oksana Ryvček has offered to stand for me if ever I have need of it.”

Sostira flinched at the implied threat. Fighting a smile, Prasinet moved on. “Altan Fadrin, do you wish to bring assault charges against Eret Vargo?”

“He doesn’t,” Sibiliat said, before Fadrin could respond. Her cousin nodded with his jaw clenched tight. Vargo wondered if he would also be receiving a duel challenge soon—and if Ren could talk Ryvček into representing him, too.

Destaelio nodded crisply. “Then what is the verdict of my peers?”

Quientis concurred almost before the words were out of her mouth, followed by Simendis. With two Cinquerat members recused, that made for a unanimous verdict, and they wasted no time in declaring the affair ended.

Which was by no means the end. Renata was swarmed by those eager to express their sympathy—or just to get as close to the gossip as they could. Vargo, as usual, had a clear path to leave. For once, he didn’t mind being shunned by his peers.

But when he slipped from the tribunal chamber, he found that not everyone was avoiding him.

“I wish I could have seen you nut-punch Fadrin,” Iascat said as Vargo approached.

“I can do it again if you’d like. Once will never be enough.” Vargo shifted so he could keep an eye on the door. The last thing he wanted was for Iascat to lose his chance at ousting his aunt because he was caught consorting with the enemy.

Yet another desire he couldn’t trust.

“I’m just glad nobody thought to ask how you found out about the letter.” Iascat’s full lips flattened into a bitter line. “Though I’m certain my aunt knows.”

“I wouldn’t have given you up.”

“Then why does it feel like you have?”

Before Vargo could respond, the doors behind them creaked. Iascat gave him a last, unreadable look, then strode off.

Renata was leaving, surrounded by a cloud of others. Vargo crossed his arms and lounged against the wall, giving her his most insolent look—but to Alsius he said, I did that to help Renata, but I’m not certain it wasn’t driven partly by the compulsion Ghiscolo somehow put on me at the last Praeteri meeting, to undercut Sostira Novrus and take her place. It’s a good thing you helped counteract that, or I might have killed her by now.

::I assumed as much. Why are you telling—Oh! Very clever. Farewell, Alta Renata. I do hope we have a chance to speak soon!::

She couldn’t respond, of course. But Vargo saw a cloud flicker behind that serene mask, and he wondered what she knew that she hadn’t told him yet.

Kingfisher, Lower Bank: Canilun 8

“Captain,” Ranieri said, “wasn’t this stuff supposed to be sold off?”

He hefted the box, settling it onto his left shoulder this time, having already exhausted the right. Grey felt a little bad making his constable carry the whole weight—but at least it was getting lighter as they went.

He glanced at his notes, identifying the items and who they’d been taken from. “Goods confiscated by the Vigil are supposed to be sold.”

“And these—”

“Weren’t taken by the Vigil. The Ordo Apis is a separate organization, and according to Alta Renata, their charter doesn’t include anything about the disposition of items. They didn’t have the right to take them in the first place, so they don’t have the right to sell them now. And neither do we.” That also applied to the ones his fellow officers had pocketed, but Grey was already pushing a boundary by returning these things to their owners.

Cercel had questioned him for formality’s sake when Gil Vasterbol complained. Grey had cheerfully pointed out the limitations in the charter that allowed Vasterbol to sell hawk-confiscated goods through his pawnshop, and topped that with a comment about repairing Vigil relations in Kingfisher. The former shut Vasterbol up; the latter left Cercel nodding thoughtfully.

There was no doubt that teaming up with the Black Rose had helped the Rook in his mission, but Grey had never let himself consider how satisfying it would be to join forces with Alta Renata.

Or how distracting, he thought as he backtracked to the tenement he’d walked past while thinking of her.

Many of the people whose doors they stopped at were reluctant to open them. Some of those doors still bore scuff marks and bootprints from stingers kicking them down. And while nobody dared to spit on him and Ranieri, thanks were as rare as dreamweavers in winter.

“A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss,” Levinci grumbled when they returned to the wagon for another load. With Lud Kaineto gone, Grey had needed a new lieutenant. He would have preferred to promote Ranieri, but a baker’s boy with mixed ancestry over a delta son… at least with Levinci in Kaineto’s place, Grey’s other troublemakers had become less obnoxious. But they would never understand the silt of resentment settled along the Lower Bank.

“I’ll hang a medal on you when we get back to the Aerie,” Grey said, pointing out another bag for Ranieri to carry.

As they headed to the next street on his list, Ranieri said, “Captain, would you consider the Oyster Crackers dangerous?”

“It depends on what kind of danger you mean. They’re thieves, not killers; they prefer to slip in and out without being seen. Why do you ask?”

“Something Tess asked me to look into.” Ranieri became very occupied with the bag on his shoulder. It was an obvious enough excuse for distraction that Grey didn’t press. He was just glad to hear the two of them were talking, after the rift that came on the heels of Tess discovering Pavlin was a hawk—as long as it didn’t mean Tess was looking to return to a life of crime.

His good mood soured when he looked up and found Kaineto approaching with three other men, all wearing the gold-trimmed black armband of the stingers.

Kaineto’s liver-pale lip curled in a sneer. “Serrado. Your presence is required for questioning.”

Grey motioned for Ranieri to stand back. “Regarding what? I’m on duty right now.”

“Ordo Apis business supersedes your duty. Come with us—unless you want to cause more trouble for Kingfisher.”

Grey glanced around. The street was quiet but not empty; everybody in sight was watching warily, ready to bolt.

Kingfisher had seen enough trouble at the hands of the stingers. “We’re almost done here anyway. Ranieri, tell Levinci he has command.”

“Captain—”

A twitch of Grey’s hand stopped the protest. “Do your work, Constable. I’ll see you back at the Aerie.”

He hoped that was true.

Suncross, Old Island: Canilun 8

Grey had a good guess as to what was coming. The stingers had been formed to deal with the Stadnem Anduske; he was Vraszenian, and he’d worked with the ziemetse last year. Never mind that the ziemetse considered the Anduske almost as much of a threat as the Cinquerat did. In the eyes of Liganti cuffs like Kaineto, every Vraszenian was the same.

He had stories prepared, both if they knew he’d helped Andrejek after the schism, and if they didn’t.

He didn’t get to use either of them, because his guess turned out to be wrong.

Kaineto and the others took him to the plain-faced building in Suncross that the stingers had claimed as their headquarters. They’d already confiscated his sword, his knife, and his sap; they didn’t search him beyond that. Stupid. But lucky. The pocket that held the Rook’s hood was well-hidden, but that didn’t mean a determined search wouldn’t find it. After today, he wouldn’t risk that again.

They marched him into a small stone room, forced him into a chair, and tied him to it. Although a numinat was painted on the flagstones beneath him, Grey didn’t think it was active. The focus would be underneath his chair, so he couldn’t see if it was in place, but he didn’t feel any different.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, allowing his irritation to show. If tying him up was their starting move, then playing nice wasn’t on the agenda. He fixed his glare on Kaineto. “Or are you just having fun being petty?”

“Yes. To both of those questions. And now perhaps you’ll answer mine. What do you know about the disappearance of Mede Rimbon Beldipassi?”

It felt like the chair had been dropped into a Depths sinkhole, with Grey still bound to it: the airless cold shock of fear. Djek! Ryvček was always warning him about keeping separate lives, and at least a dozen hawks must have witnessed Beldipassi seeking him out at the Aerie. But it was a leap from that to this.

Marpremi, the man who hired Fontimi, had been found floating in the Pomcaro Canal, but Beldipassi’s servants had all vanished. Had one of them—

“His valet claims you arranged a meeting for him, and he hasn’t been seen since. I’ll ask once more. What do you know about his disappearance?”

“Nothing beyond what you’ve already said,” Grey answered. Had they learned whom the meeting was supposed to be with? If so, let them be the ones to admit it. “I didn’t even know he was missing until you told me. He doesn’t live in Kingfisher, so he isn’t my business.”

Although there was an empty chair facing Grey, Kaineto remained standing, the better to lean in. He wasn’t good at being intimidating, but the circumstances lent him a menacing air. “You might want to rethink that answer.”

“There’s no rethinking the facts.”

“With the right pressure, a man can be made to rethink anything.” Kaineto straightened and gestured to one of his fellow stingers, a woman Grey didn’t recognize. She handed him a small, round object. It wasn’t marked with a god’s sigil, and Grey’s body tensed. Praeteri numinatria.

Kaineto crouched to slot it into place under Grey’s chair, then backed away and let the woman paint shut the activating circle. He grinned at Grey, a pure display of teeth and malice. “We’ll leave you to consider.”

Grey let his head sag as they shut the door on him, tensing for whatever the numinat was meant to do.

He couldn’t feel anything. And that was all the more insidious, because Kaineto wouldn’t smile like that if it weren’t something awful. Grey knew those smiles; he’d grown up with them, little knives slicing shallow cuts over and over so the wounds never healed and scars never formed. An old woman’s smile tearing through you with the sharp edges of every card she drew, leaving you open and bleeding, empty and hollow. In the face of that, death didn’t seem like such a terrible alternative, and you understood why your mama might hold you under the cold water, might wade in herself and never come back up. Your fault, your fault, your fault eating away at him like ripples against the shore.

Grey shuddered, rattling the chair’s legs against the floor. He dragged in a breath, but his lungs felt too tight to hold anything.

No. Kolya had gotten him out. They’d fled to Nadežra and pretended they were hiding from people who didn’t care enough to look for them. But Kolya cared. Leato cared. Donaia cared.

Dead. Dead. And the third dying by inches after so many losses. He’d misled one brother, failed the other, and could do nothing to help a woman too good to mother one such as him. Grey hadn’t fled the suffering; he’d brought it with him and inflicted it on the people around him. Just like them. Just like her. And Ren would be next.

A sob tore from his throat. He was shaking so hard his chair toppled sideways, his shoulder wrenching and bound wrists bending as he slammed into the floor.

Someone pulled him upright. Set him back inside the numinat. Walked around and sat down to face him.

Ghiscolo Acrenix.

“Captain Serrado.” Ghiscolo sighed as if disappointed. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

For the briefest instant, when he was on his side and out of position, Grey’s head had cleared a tiny bit. Enough to know that these thoughts were the work of the numinat—attacking not his body, but his mind, dragging him down into a pit of heart’s pain.

Ghiscolo leaned forward and spoke quietly. “I know you arranged that meeting for Beldipassi. I know you’re in contact with the Rook. Tell me how to find him.”

Grey wasn’t the first person to be tortured over that question. “No.”

“I don’t like doing this, Captain Serrado. But I have a duty to this city. A duty to bring order to Nadežra, and to lead its people to the best of my ability. I believe the Rook has Mede Beldipassi—that he kidnapped the man from their meeting. A meeting you set up. I’m surprised you of all people would work with the Rook in secret.”

Kolya, burned beyond recognition. Grey leaned into that memory, into the agony it brought, because that was a shield against Acrenix’s probing. “I want my brother avenged,” he snarled. “The Rook can help with that.”

Sighing, Ghiscolo placed his hands over his heart. “You don’t have to suffer like this. It can end at any time, if you tell me what you know. Where Beldipassi might be. Where the Rook might have taken him. In return, I’ll help you get revenge on Derossi Vargo. You’ll finally be able to heal.”

Vargo pinned against the side of a carriage, Grey’s arm across his throat. The way his own father had pinned him, so many times. I’m as bad as he is.

Ghiscolo’s words tugged at him, sweet and tempting. The pain can end. You can heal.

Two of Ghiscolo’s fingers had slipped between the buttons of his shirt. He wasn’t touching his heart.

He was touching his medallion.

Panic pierced the fog of Grey’s agony. After that business in the Charterhouse, Ren had passed along word of what Ghiscolo did to Vargo. He didn’t merely have a medallion; he knew how to use its full power, controlling the desires of others. This was Quinat, the numen of power… and also of healing.

The Rook was immune to that influence—but Grey wasn’t the Rook. Not right now.

He didn’t have time to think about Ryvček’s warnings. The medallion’s power was feeding his desire for an escape from the agony of the numinat, until it overwhelmed everything else. Already his mouth was opening.

The hood was inside his uniform, just above his heart.

Help me.

And like before—like the night he was ambushed; the night Ghiscolo must have sent the stingers to ambush him, because Ghiscolo knew about the meeting, Ghiscolo knew—Grey gave himself over to the shadows.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Ghiscolo leaned even closer. “Don’t you want this to end?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t artifice; it was truth. The Rook wanted the suffering to end. For everyone, himself included. The despair of the ambush numinat had sunk its claws in only shallowly, because the Rook was a rejection of the idea that nothing could be done—but that rejection was born of pain. Grief and loss and horror were the foundations of this house, and all the shades who inhabited it had built its walls higher with their own suffering. But someday, the Rook prayed, that house would fall.

“Then tell me—”

“There’s nothing to tell. The Rook found me, not the other way around. I can’t give you what you want.”

Ghiscolo’s jaw tightened. “Captain Serrado—”

With a slam like thunder against stone, the door to the Rook’s left swung open, revealing a woman as tall and immovable as the Point. “What is going on here?” Cercel demanded.

Her righteous fury doubled when she saw Ghiscolo. “Your Mercy,” she said. “Why has one of my captains been brought in for questioning? I was told it was Anduske related, but your men seem to think it has to do with the disappearance of a delta gentleman.” Through the blurring of his tears, the Rook saw Ranieri and Kaineto trading scowls.

Standing, Ghiscolo withdrew his hand and smoothed the pucker from his shirt and waistcoat. “You’re questioning Caerulet?” If not for the leashed anger behind it, his smile would almost have looked genial.

“I would not presume.” Cercel’s bow was a sop to that anger. “But I do question the overreach of the Ordo Apis. I’ve read their charter, and it clearly restricts the scope of their powers to issues pertaining to the Stadnem Anduske’s activities in Nadežra. If this is regarding a gentleman’s disappearance…” Her smile was pure steel. “That’s a matter for the Vigil.”

Ghiscolo nodded. “Which also falls under my purview—”

“Your purview, but not your direct authority. If you want to detain a Vigil officer, then speak with High Commander Dimiterro. Which you have not done.”

The Rook let out a stifled moan. Cercel’s attention shot to the floorboards, and her face went white. “Are you torturing him?”

Before Ghiscolo could answer, she snatched out her dagger and raked it through the numinat, breaking the encircling line. Light flashed, and the miasma of suffering vanished.

“Constable, help the captain,” Cercel said, handing her knife to Ranieri, who quickly cut the Rook loose and helped him stand.

That hand on his arm was salvation. The Rook was on the verge of pulling out the hood, armoring himself in those layered defenses. It would destroy Grey Serrado’s life, but that didn’t matter. Ghiscolo was right there. And the shock of the Rook appearing in their midst would buy him the opening he needed.

But Ranieri’s hand was on his arm, slowing his reach for the hidden pocket. Just long enough for Grey to drag himself back under control.

I am Grey Serrado. Not the Rook. Not here, not now.

His conviction held. For the moment.

Cercel faced Ghiscolo with the rigid correctness of an officer. “I will, of course, be reporting my actions to High Commander Dimiterro and submitting myself to any censure he feels necessary.” As she stepped back to allow Grey and Ranieri to pass, she gave the whole room, Caerulet and stingers alike, a scathing look. “In accordance with the law, of course. Good day, Your Mercy.”