22

Three Hands Join

Kingfisher, Lower Bank: Canilun 16

Ren’s first month in Traementis Manor, every morning had begun the same way: waking with the wary stillness of unfamiliar surroundings, until her mind caught up and reminded her. No such tension came now. Her first awareness was of a warm body next to hers; her first sight when she opened her eyes was Grey, asleep on his back, dark hair falling softly away from his brow.

She found herself smiling, without any reason to stop.

It wasn’t as if her problems had vanished. The zlyzen hadn’t haunted her sleep, and Diomen had pulled her from the dream before they could communicate anything across their strengthened bond… but she had no doubt that bill would come due. Tricat still lay in her coat downstairs; they still had no way to destroy it. The other medallions were still out there, and the Praeteri were still manipulating the city with Primordial-driven numinatria—a thought that sent a deep shiver through her.

But here, lying next to a sleeping Grey, she believed they would find a way to deal with those problems.

The night had been mild, and the sheet only half covered his body. She let her gaze roam, remembering the urgency of the night before, shared hunger finally confessed and made whole. Grey was right: She’d been attracted to him, body and heart, as Rook and as hawk, since well before she got the medallion back.

When her attention returned to his face, she found his eyes open.

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, a touch softer than his smile. In the lazy moments before they drifted off, he’d found soap and cloth and washed her imbued cosmetics away. She’d given him a muzzy pout then, but now she was glad that the face he saw on waking was her own.

“You slept well,” he said. Not a question. He’d woken her from nightmares before.

“Mmn.” Snaking one arm across his chest, Ren burrowed her nose into the warm crook between shoulder and neck. “You’re at least as useful as a kitten for that, and you wake me not at first sun demanding your breakfast.”

His chuckle stirred her hair as he pressed kisses light as kitten paws across her brow. “If so early I woke you, it wouldn’t be for breakfast.”

“No, more likely it would be to break into some noble’s manor.”

That got a full laugh, his ribs shaking beneath her arm. “You have me there, Clever Natalya.”

“So now I am the kitten. Or the feral cat, more like.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s all right. I like your claws.”

“What does that make you?” She poked him in the side.

“You need to ask? Scampering across rooftops in a mask—could I be any more Kiraly?”

Her smile faltered, and Grey’s amusement faded. “What is it? Something wrong?”

Ren traced one fingertip across his shoulder, not looking at him. So many lies to correct and truths to tell; they could spend a year untangling that snarl. “Only that I’m not Dvornik, as I claimed. The Tsverin aren’t my kureč. All of that is made up. My mother never said who her people were.” Her languorous relaxation faded, her throat tightening. “They cast her out. Because of me.”

Grey stroked her hair, tipping his own head toward hers. “I love you not for being Dvornik, but for being Ren. And—well. I can cast no stones.”

Unlike her, he had a kureč, the Szerado. But his given name… “I admit I’ve wondered, ever since Ryvček said you had another name.”

Grey sank back against the pillow with a rueful sigh.

“Ah,” Ren said. “I am guessing you like it not.”

“I could have been Karoslav,” he said meditatively, addressing the ceiling. “A nice, fine name. Or Zlagomir. Or something old-fashioned, like Piotr. But no.”

She waited, lips pressed together where he couldn’t see.

“Gruzdan,” he muttered.

She’d braced herself, but she couldn’t quite choke down her laugh. “Oh dear.”

“Gruzdan Jakoski Szerado,” he repeated, mouth twisting in a wry line. “I changed it as soon as we came to Nadežra.”

“I see why.” Now Ren raised herself up on her elbow, hooking her hair behind one ear. “Then—unless you have some burning desire to be called by that name—”

“I would rather be outed to the whole city as the Rook.”

Laughter burst from her. “I’m sorry,” she said, even though she could see him smiling. “I should not laugh. Normally I have better self-control.”

“It’s all right,” Grey said, brushing an errant wisp of hair from her face. “You need not mask yourself for me.”

There was more darkness there, Ren could tell. He never spoke of family other than Kolya; he didn’t use his patronymic. But he showed no inclination to swim deeper into those waters right now, and she didn’t press. She lost herself in another kiss instead.

Or tried to lose herself. Grey drew back and said, “Something troubles you still. My past?”

“Your future,” Ren admitted. “The pattern I laid. I still know not why it is wrong.” Nor how to fix it. She’d made offerings at the Seven Knots labyrinth on his behalf, but she doubted that was enough.

One hand rose to rub the back of his neck. “Ah, that. I… may have manipulated the cards a bit.”

“You what?”

“You were able to pattern the Rook!” he said defensively. “I wished not to test what your gift would reveal when you patterned me. So when you looked away, I slid two cards from the bottom of the deck into the top.”

Ren sat bolt upright. “Grey—”

He slid one hand down her arm. “I’m sorry for tricking you—”

“It isn’t that. You interfered with your pattern. I’ve cold-decked clients, given them false shuffles, but never when trying to pattern them for real. With you, I meant it to be real.” She pressed one hand to her stomach. “I think what I felt—that was you twisting your own fate.”

Grey eased up to face her, sober but not afraid. “I won’t tell you your trade. But everything that’s happened—Beldipassi, the curse, sharing my secret…” His hand covered hers, warm and rough. “If a twisted fate led me here, I have no complaints.”

Two cards slid in. Those were likely Lark Aloft and The Mask of Nothing, the two she hadn’t been able to interpret. Without those… she would never know what the last two cards would have been. But Sleeping Waters would have been his good future. The right place at the right time. Instead, what he’d done had robbed him of that chance.

It could mean the death curse, but Ren wasn’t at all sure. Horrific as the ambush that nearly killed him had been, she couldn’t help but feel the pattern pointed at something else—and worse.

So your answer still stands. She had to mend it. Somehow.

Ren pressed another kiss to his lips, then reluctantly drew back. “More than a day I have been gone from the manor. I sent a message, but…”

“Duty calls.” He held her a moment longer before letting her slip away.

Duty, and more than just the one she had to the Traementis. There was the medallion downstairs, the Praeteri’s activities, all the questions Vargo had been too ill to ask. She might wish to cocoon herself in Grey’s bed until the river ran dry, but neither of their lives allowed for such indolence.

Half her clothing was still downstairs, and with it, her portable cosmetics kit. Grey didn’t have a very good mirror, but at this point she barely felt like she needed one. She was putting the finishing touches on Renata’s mask when he came down, freshly shaved, and went to stare at her heaped coat. “It’s in here?”

“Yes.” She made herself pick the coat up, then fish the medallion out of its inner pocket so he could see.

Grey stiffened as though she had him at swordpoint. “Tanaquis recognized it, you said? Has she seen others?”

“The sigil only, I think. The Praeteri, they’ve also been drawing on Primordials. That’s what the eisar are. Not just spirits that can touch the mind; emanations of the Primordials.”

“So much for the Praeteri not being the Rook’s business.”

His response had the Rook’s steel in it. Ren said, “Many symptoms of one disease, given that House Acrenix created the Praeteri. I know not what Ghiscolo aims for, but…”

“But?” he prompted.

“Vargo needs to know,” Ren said softly, bracing herself. “Not that you are the Rook, but the rest of it. His pattern and yours tangle together. And mine.”

Grey said nothing, but turned away, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of the medallion any longer. Almost absently, he touched his chest. He’d donned a shirt, but last night her lips had trailed over skin still red and tight from the numinat that restarted his heart.

“You took me to Vargo that night, didn’t you.”

Before Ren could fall off the edge of the struggle between being honest with Grey and keeping her word to Vargo, he went on. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Stopping a numinatrian curse would require an inscriptor. If it were Tanaquis, or anyone else, you’d have no reason to hide it. And not a day later you and Vargo were friends again.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m mostly insulted he thinks I’m idiot enough not to guess.”

Quietly, she said, “He helped you before he and I reconciled. And he knows not that you are the Rook, or that you know my secrets. He only asked that I not tell you.”

Grey snorted. “Right. Because it lets him pat himself on the back for having helped me, without actually having to deal with me.”

It means he will not buy your forgiveness with your life. Grey wasn’t wrong; Vargo was dodging an uncomfortable conversation. But he was also refusing to take advantage of the good he’d done. Just like in Whitesail, if she hadn’t been there to see.

They weren’t hiding from each other like before; she could watch the bitter, conflicting emotions play across Grey’s expression. “What explanation gave you for what happened to me?”

“None, and he hasn’t asked. Though he…” She trailed off, uncertain if Grey guessing meant she was free of her promise to Vargo. But Grey had to know Ghiscolo had used the death curse before, and Vargo needed to know about the other medallions and the danger they posed.

Groaning, she tucked the medallion away and rubbed her face. “Djek. Between you two there are too many secrets, and me in the middle trying to untangle the threads of what I can say.”

Grey pulled her hands away from her freshly made-up face and tugged her into a hug. “Then perhaps it’s time Vargo and I talked.”

Eastbridge, Upper Bank: Canilun 16

Vargo woke up once in the night to down the medicine left by his physician, but other than that, he slept like the dead. When he finally roused again in the morning, he felt improved enough that after dosing himself a third time, he scrubbed down with a rag, dragged on trousers and a robe, and tucked a still-snoozing Peabody into his pocket. Time to see what damage had been done to his businesses while he was having a staring contest with zlyzen.

He opened his door and found Varuni on the other side of it.

With his head still muzzy from a fading fever, he couldn’t stop his instinctive recoil. How long had she been standing there? She might have heard his footsteps once he roused—but he didn’t put it past her to have staked him out since dawn. Her expression was definitely that of a predator lying in wait.

And her words weren’t much better. “You. Me. We’re going to talk.”

“Do we really have to have this conversation again?” he muttered, brushing past her and heading downstairs for tea to wash away the taste of the medicine, and tolatsy to fill a gut empty and sore from so much puking. “I’m sorry for wandering off on my own; it was necessary; nothing too terrible happened. I’m home. Your investment is safe. You want sweet porridge or savory?” With no live-in servants, Vargo usually made his own breakfast. Might as well make it as a peace offering for Varuni as well.

“We aren’t having that conversation again,” Varuni snapped as he activated the numinat for the stove. “I’ve memorized that script. I don’t need you for it anymore.”

The weary harshness of her response made him face her directly. “Then what conversation is this?”

“The one where I ask what the fuck is the point of me being here, if you don’t actually want my help.”

“There was nothing yesterday that you could have helped with. It was numinatria-related business.”

That did nothing to mollify her. “There’s been a lot of ‘numinatria-related business’ recently.”

He hadn’t told her about the Illius Praeteri. More out of habit than out of respect for the Praeteri’s secrets, but also because he didn’t see the point. It wasn’t the sort of danger she could protect him from, and it had nothing to do with the agreements he’d made with the Isarnah. “None of it has been dangerous.” At her scoff, he said, “You think you could have defended me from getting mind-controlled by Ghiscolo Acrenix? From getting sick?”

Dishes rattled as Varuni slammed a fist against the sideboard. “I think that if you don’t give a shit about telling me what you’re up to, then why should I give a shit what happens to you?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Turning away, he opened the rice bin and measured it into the waiting pot. “You’ve got other grey market connections now. And with Era Destaelio ready to ease the tariffs on Isarnah imports, you don’t really need me anymore.”

“Right,” Varuni spat. “Because that’s all I am. An agent sent here to make sure my family’s investment is safe. I’ve spent five years at your side without developing opinions of my own.”

Vargo’s shoulders hunched. Wasn’t he carrying enough weight already? Alsius, the Lower Bank knots, the people of Nadežra—even if they didn’t know it. And now Ren and Tanaquis, because fuck him if he was going to let them deal with the medallions alone. Varuni didn’t need to add herself to the pile.

You asshole. He could hear her response without needing to provoke it. She wasn’t asking him to do anything more than work with her, instead of around her.

And she was right. She wasn’t tied into any of his knots; her bonds lay to the south, with her family. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a loyal ally. One he’d been treating more and more like a burden he had to escape.

Jamming his finger into the rice to measure the water level, he asked, “Sweet or savory? While this cooks, you can tell me about these opinions, and I’ll tell you what the fuck is going on.”

It took a lot longer than the time necessary to cook the tolatsy. Vargo called a halt to the conversation long enough for him to doctor his porridge with honey and dried fruit and Varuni’s with dried pepper; then they relocated to the morning room and kept going. Varuni did a lot less eating than he did, alternately talking and staring while he talked, because she had better manners than he did. Vargo shoveled the food down and spoke with his mouth full—and a good thing, too, because just as he was running his finger around the inside of the bowl to swipe up the last few grains, a knock came at the door.

Varuni went to answer it, still not blinking enough, and a moment later her call came from the foyer, with zero formality: “Renata’s here!”

“You’re looking better,” Renata said when he came to greet her. “Good. There are matters you and I need to discuss.”

A sidelong glance at Varuni showed her shaking her head; she’d apparently had enough of his revelations for one morning. “Let’s go upstairs,” Vargo said. The truth about Ren was not one of the things he’d told Varuni. That was hers to share if she wanted.

At the top of the stairs, he opened the study door. “I’m afraid I’m not at my be—”

Words died as he saw the shadow in his study, arms crossed, silhouetted against the grey sky outside his open window.

Vargo’s pulse beat in his throat. But the Rook made no hostile movement, and Ren was clearly biting down on a smile.

He turned to shout down the stairs. “Varuni, the Rook’s here. But he isn’t trying to beat or kidnap me. Go ahead and enjoy your breakfast.”

When he shut the door, he found Ren giving him a quizzical look. He shrugged. “Long story. Not as long as the one I’m about to hear, I suspect. If you two are planning to make me take my clothes off again, be warned, it won’t be pretty. I’ve only managed a basin bath this morning.”

He sprawled into one of his reading chairs, leaving the other for Ren. The Rook could stay sitting on the windowsill for all Vargo cared.

Or fall out of it. He’d be fine with that, too.

Ren offered Vargo an apologetic grimace. “Yes, we staged that business during the card game. But for good reason.”

A little while later, Vargo was glad he was sitting. Not because what Ren said came as any surprise; if there were three of Kaius Rex’s medallions floating around Nadežra, it stood to reason that there were more. And given the associations of Illi-zero, he couldn’t fault the Rook’s reasoning in thinking he might have it.

No, what would have toppled him over was the surge of disgust and anger. He’d thought Ghiscolo had proposed their original deal only because he was worried about Mettore Indestor, and because he wanted a Cinquerat seat. With the information Vargo had now…

“He used me to get Sessat.” The words ground like rocks out of his throat. “Because Acrenix holds the charter for storing and disposing of possessions confiscated from criminals.” Had Ghiscolo used Quinat to push him toward Indestor, too? More subtly than the shove toward Sostira Novrus. Approaching Ghiscolo had been Vargo’s idea, when he and Alsius found out Mettore had uncovered the Praeteri and was looking for an excuse to shut them down—but at the time, removing Mettore from his seat hadn’t been in Vargo’s plans.

All these years, Vargo had thought his mind a fortress. Now he didn’t even have that.

::Just one more thing we’ll make him regret.:: Alsius had woken during the briefing; he was crouched on Vargo’s shoulder, ready to bolt for cover if the Rook made any move toward him. ::Now that we know about these medallions, I can start looking for them. I wager I’ll have more success than some defenestrating lout.::

And I might do better at destroying them.

Vargo said that in the full knowledge that Ren would hear and the Rook wouldn’t. Two hundred years, and the man—or whatever he was—had made no progress on that front?

Ren frowned at him. Vargo’s next thought was directed to Alsius but intended for Ren. Do you know who’s under that hood? Just nod or stay still.

For a moment he thought she was saying “no.” But then her head moved in an infinitesimal nod.

Fine, he thought, keeping that one to himself. Ren trusted the Rook; Vargo trusted Ren. To the shadow on the sill, he said, “Tell me what you’ve tried so far with destroying the medallions.”

The Rook’s reply was admirably comprehensive, and gave Vargo some sense of the scale of the problem. “But I’ve never had a chance to try with Illi-zero,” the Rook said at the end.

“Then that’s where we start,” Vargo said. “Do you trust Tanaquis enough to involve her? Normally my ego doesn’t like admitting someone knows more than I do, but she’s the best educated of us on the topic of Primordials.” He almost got the word out without shuddering. Almost, but not quite.

The Rook exchanged a look with Ren, then gave the most reluctant nod Vargo had ever seen.

But it was easier to keep a secret if you knew everyone who held it. “How does Serrado fit into this? Why was he attacked?”

“I paid him a visit after the Essunta party,” the Rook said, his tone as cold as an ocean-born wind. “I felt it was time we had an honest conversation.”

“Serrado set up a meeting between Beldipassi and the Rook.” Ren tilted her head toward the outlaw. “Ghiscolo found out somehow—we suspect Beldipassi’s valet. Serrado took the curse meant for the Rook.”

Ghiscolo. Vargo felt the weight of Ren’s gaze. She’d started this conversation by saying she was tired of juggling secrets… but she was still holding some of Vargo’s.

May I say it? he thought to Alsius.

::My brother—no, he is no brother of mine. Ghiscolo is a threat. I shudder to think who else he may have killed with that perversion of the Lumen’s grace.::

Vargo let Alsius scuttle onto his hand and set him on the arm of his chair, then looked up at the Rook. “You’ve been sticking your hood in noble business for a while. Remember when Guebris Acrenix’s heir was found dead in his home sixteen years ago? Failed numinatrian experiment?”

“I’m aware of it.”

“It wasn’t an experiment. It was the same death curse that was used on Serrado. And Alsius Acrenix didn’t die—not exactly.” Peabody lifted his colorful abdomen in salute. “We’ve been together since then. That’s how I knew how to lift the curse.”

Tracking the direction of the Rook’s eyes was impossible, but the hood seemed fixed on the spider. Vargo added, “Not that you have any reason to believe me, but he never knew about the Acrenix medallion until last night. And if he’d known what it was—” Vargo shuddered. “He would have tried to destroy it.”

“If he expects that to endear him to me,” the Rook said, “tell him I like spiders about as much as I like nobles.”

“Well, he doesn’t like you, either. You threw him out a window.”

Ren cleared her throat. “The point is, you have shared enemies. And my patterns say that your threads, joining together, might just make enough rope to hang our problems.”

Vargo didn’t share her confidence in pattern, but he wouldn’t object to having the Rook on his side instead of being a thorn in it. In fact—“I understand you volunteered me to Utrinzi Simendis to take down the Praeteri.”

“I understand that’s been your goal all along. Though you’ve taken your time in going about it.”

“Because I wanted to know how their numinatria worked. Now that I know more than I ever wanted to, it’s long past time for them to go—and their leaders along with them.” Vargo cracked his knuckles systematically, up one hand and down the other. “Let’s talk about how to do that.”

Isla Extaquium, Eastbridge: Canilun 17

Thunder rattled the sky as Renata’s sedan chair arrived in the plaza in front of Extaquium Manor. But the storm wouldn’t keep anyone from attending Sureggio’s party; on the contrary, it was the reason for the occasion. There was an old Seterin tradition of writing poems inspired by the dance of the Lumen in the clouds.

Not that she expected many poems tonight. Sureggio’s version was a drinking game, with guests downing spirits every time the lightning struck. She had no interest in this kind of event; she wouldn’t have bothered to accept Parma’s invitation were it not for one thing.

The Illius Praeteri were also holding a ritual, in a select gathering within the party itself.

Vargo couldn’t strike against them in the hidden temple, not with it warded against intruders. It was possible to bring nonmembers of the Praeteri in—otherwise he and Ren couldn’t have been brought in for their third initiation—but he’d studied the cult’s register. That effect was created through the use of Tuat, which meant each member could bring only one guest. For a raid like Iridet wanted, capturing as many high-ranked cultists as possible, Vargo would need a lot more than that.

So instead they were targeting a ritual outside the temple. Renata wasn’t far enough into their circle to receive an invitation; Tanaquis was, but unfortunately, Simendis had forbidden her to attend. He was still angry at her for not telling him the true nature of the Praeteri, and he’d refused to let her anywhere near Extaquium Manor, lest anyone connect his protégé to the cult. Which meant it was up to Renata and Vargo to find the secret gathering, bring in his force, and give Iridet the grounds he needed to prosecute their heresy.

Dampness hung heavy on the air. Despite the cleansing rain rolling in from the north, warmth and cloying scents blanketed the manor’s front steps; inside, it was worse. The lights were all dimmed to a suggestive glow, shining off the bodies of the servants, who for the occasion had been painted with storm clouds and lightning bolts. The only fresh air came from the doors to the garden terrace. Beyond them, an awning of the thinnest net covered the scattering of divans and couches, each cluster supplied with its own water pipe for smoking. The numinat worked into the net would shield the partygoers from whatever fell from the sky: rain, hail, or even lightning, should the Lumen aim a strike at them.

Renata avoided the terrace. The haze of smoke out there would dull her wits even if she didn’t partake directly, and the gardens didn’t provide nearly enough space or privacy for a secret ritual. No, it would be somewhere in the house.

Moving through the party felt like her days in Lacewater, without the stinking canals. She had to revive every trick she knew to cut short unwanted suggestions and fend off wandering hands, even to the point of putting a discreet joint lock on one gentleman too drunk to recognize her as more than an attractive female body. She spotted Vargo in time to see him fumble a chilled drink into the lap of an aggressive suitor from House Cleoter. No sound or sign of Alsius; presumably the spider was off conducting his own search.

They needed to do the same. And what better way to search than to pretend to be seeking privacy?

Vargo shivered as she ran a hand up his spine to settle across his shoulders, like a cat that had been stroked backward. The midnight velvet nap of his coat was as soft as the pads of Clever Natalya’s toes. Renata’s chin came to rest on his opposite shoulder, and she greeted the surprised looks of the other guests with a satisfied smirk.

“You said you’d come find me.” She let the whisper lick Vargo’s ear, but made it loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I only just noticed your arrival.” His hand found hers on his shoulder, and he toyed with the pearl closings of her gloves. “I didn’t want to be rude and leave in the middle of a conversation.”

“Then I’ll be rude for you.” Stepping back, she tugged him to his feet. To their audience, she said, “You don’t mind, do you? I don’t think any of us came here to talk.”

As they made their way from the salon to the fresher air of the hallways, Vargo slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Under the guise of whispering something naughty, he said, “Well, that’s a seed bun tossed to the snappers. I suppose this means we’ve officially reconciled?”

She giggled and swatted him before cupping her hand around his ear to whisper back, “It was the quickest way to get you away. I’d rather not still be here when the clothes start coming off. And it gives us an excuse to nose around.”

“Indeed. If only we weren’t burdened with such pressing concerns…”

Ren couldn’t deny the way her skin tingled at the liquid warmth in his voice, the weight of his hand at the small of her back. But there was a difference between feeling it and wanting to follow through. “Vargo… I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

Her body remained pliant against his, but he was canny enough to separate mixed cues. The hand on her back lightened, leaving behind only the illusion of pressure. “You’re not interested.”

“More like not available.”

It was a risk, saying even that much. Vargo knew almost all of her secrets now; it would take only one flash of insight to connect pieces she needed him to keep separate. But she couldn’t take this too far—not when her relationship with Grey was still so new, and so fragile. Vargo might heat her blood, but Grey warmed her heart.

Vargo gave her a wry grin and a quick, impartial squeeze. “Don’t tell Alsius. He’ll be devastated. You’re several cuts above what I usually drag to my bed.”

He was masking something. Not the hurt of rejection; that, she’d seen on him before. Something else. “Vargo—”

“I’m happy you’ve found someone who can know all of you.” His grin widened, and he winked. “I’ll leave it to Sedge to make the appropriate threats.”

Sedge would lose his mind when he found out she was sleeping with the Rook and a former hawk, all in one man. But that was very much a concern for later. “Shall we find ourselves some heretics?”

A bark of laughter drew several eyes in their direction. Vargo led her past them, leaving a storm of whispers in their wake. “Let’s hope for heretics and not any of the other things we might stumble on here. I’m relying on you to preserve what innocence I have left.”

His jest turned out to be not far off the mark. Ren thought herself worldly; it was a common saying that there were no children in the streets. Their tour through Extaquium Manor, however, made it clear to her that nobody could be as inventive as the bored and wealthy.

She was beginning to think they were never going to find what they were looking for when they came into a room that, according to bookshelves along the far wall, was supposed to be a library. “I didn’t take Sureggio for much of a reader,” Vargo scoffed. He kept his voice low even though the man passed out with his head in a large vase was unlikely to wake. “I suppose he just has these books for show.”

“For show,” Ren murmured, “or…”

The gaps weren’t that hard to find, once she looked for them. Nor was the trigger, which Vargo located in the floor. Planting his bare hand against a marquetry circle, he twisted it, and the bookcase swung backward.

Beyond the low arch was a shaft, a metal staircase spiraling up into darkness, and a niche with a covered bowl of lightstones. Unfortunately, even setting a single foot on the first riser made the shaft echo with the creaking of the spiral. There would be no sneaking up these stairs.

Vargo drew back into the library. “I haven’t seen Sureggio, Diomen, Ghiscolo, or any of the other important Praeteri down here. Do we gamble that this is it, and that they’ve gathered already?”

The storm had been building outside while they searched; now thunder echoed down the shaft. “It sounds like it’s open to the outside, wherever it leads. But—” Ren leaned in to listen. In the wake of the thunder, something else came through. “I hear voices. I think this is it.”

Though he wore the elegant clothing of a cuff, Vargo’s smile was pure Lower Bank threat. “I’ll signal my people. We’re going to want to drive hard through the house. Can you wait here? Make certain nobody leaves… and nobody gets through to warn them?”

He barely waited for her nod before he was gone. Leaving Ren standing next to a secret door, wondering if she should close it, wondering if the man with his head in the vase was going to wake up, wondering—

Was that a scream?

The sound twined with the renewed thunder, and Ren risked a couple of steps up the stairs in order to hear better. It faded to agonized moans, but yes: Someone up there was in extreme pain.

She gripped the central post, fighting with herself. How long would it take Vargo to gather his people? And what exactly did she think she was going to do without them?

Those aren’t the real questions. The real question was whether she could stand there listening to someone scream and not act.

Her mask was always with her, folded small and tucked into a well-hidden pocket. She drew it over her face, waited for the next roll of thunder, and flung herself up the stairs.

The boots of the Black Rose didn’t fully muffle Ren’s footsteps, but the sky and the screams gave her cover. At the top of the stairs was a small bedroom, unoccupied; it had double doors open to a terrace that must sit high on the manor’s roof, sheltered from easy view.

A group of people stood on that terrace, beneath an intricate framework of numinata. Blue lightning danced along its rods, channeling downward to the tiles below, where a man lay naked and screaming. As the light faded, his distorted voice eased into something more recognizable. “Clay! Give me the clay!”

Sureggio Extaquium. Ren watched him swiftly mold the offered clay in his hands, and remembered what Vargo had told her about the making of Praeteri foci.

The fact that Extaquium was suffering for the creation of one did nothing to outweigh the suffering it would create elsewhere. Who are you planning to use that on?

A shadow suddenly eclipsed the door. Ren jerked back, but not fast enough; a hand caught her head, fingers digging into her braids so she couldn’t slip free. It dragged her out onto the terrace and forced her to her knees.

“It seems our gathering isn’t as private as you promised, Brother Sureggio.” Diomen’s rich voice rang out over the cultists, chanting in blasphemous praise to the Primordial of suffering.

They broke off and turned to face him. Ren’s gaze swept over their ranks, cataloguing faces. Plenty of targets… but no Ghiscolo, not that she could see.

Sureggio lurched to his feet and shrugged on a robe. He approached with the halting steps of a man whose muscles weren’t quite under his control, his flapping garment doing little to hide his nudity. The scent of scorched hair lingered on him; all that flesh on display was blasted smooth.

“It’s that Rose person!” Ebrigotto Attravi exclaimed. “How remarkable.”

Sureggio’s words slurred as if he were drunk—which he probably was. “I can always make room for uninvited guests.”

Their lack of concern eased the tension that had gripped the other Praeteri. Nervous laughter followed, chasing the rumble of a lightning strike. In the brief distraction, Ren twisted free of Diomen’s hand, but Attravi’s two strapping sons blocked her way with swords before she could get far.

I should have waited.

“There is no room for unbelievers in our gatherings,” Diomen said, his voice as deep and uncompromising as the thunder. “And we must make certain the new focus works. Bring her.”

Ren didn’t fight as they pushed her across the terrace. With so many cultists around her, she didn’t stand a chance; better to wait for an opening.

On the far side of the frame that had gathered and dissipated the lightning, a more traditional numinat was painted on the tiles. Heavy rain sheeted over it, stinging as it struck Ren’s cheeks. At a wave of Diomen’s hand, Ebrigotto Attravi came over to tie Ren’s hands and feet.

When they shoved her into the numinat, she took care to roll so her back faced away from the Praeteri. Attravi didn’t know the first thing about tying people up. He hadn’t noticed Ren bracing her hands to gain slack, and his knot slipped as she worked her hands free. But she remained still as Diomen placed the new focus in the center of the numinat and retreated to safety.

As he bent to close the circle, she slapped her hands against the tiles and shoved her bound feet toward the focus.

For the briefest instant, agony unlike anything she’d felt before tore through her body—not just pain, she’d felt that before, but Primordial agony that seared her from her skin to the marrow of her bones—and she screamed.

But her feet slammed into the lump of clay and knocked it out of place. And with a flare of violet light, the numinat broke.

Isla Extaquium, Eastbridge: Canilun 17

Renata wasn’t at the entrance to the stairwell shaft, because of course she wasn’t. That woman dove toward danger like an osprey stooping for trout. Muttering a curse, Vargo surged ahead without waiting for his assembled knots, without waiting for Varuni and Sedge. He’d meant for them to lead the charge because he had a sense of self-preservation—but that was a few moments longer Ren might be in trouble.

We’re going to chat with her later about the meaning of “wait here,” he thought at the spider hidden in the collar of his coat. Alsius’s silence was its own form of agreement.

The spiral staircase shook and groaned as Vargo bolted up as quickly as he dared. At the top he hurled himself out into the rain, where a crowd gathered at the edge of a complex framework of copper rods and wires.

He’d seen dogfights and bear-baitings often enough to recognize the same bloodlust in the cries of the cuffs. He let a lifetime of resentment at their hypocrisy power his voice as he shouted, “Members of the Illius Praeteri, stand down and surrender yourselves to Iridet’s justice.”

Inscribe under “words I never thought I’d say in my life.”

But there was no time to savor the irony. Ripping one of the copper rods from the frame, Vargo surged forward and applied it to the back of the first set of knees in range. “In accordance with the”—his elbow smashed into Infassa Cleoter’s nose—“Charter for the Purification”—a knee in Ebrigotto Attravi’s groin—“of Heretical Numinatria.”

The rod was a copper streak aimed at Sureggio Extaquium’s head, but the man ducked before it connected. And in the space left behind, Vargo spotted Ren—no, the Black Rose—slumped in the center of a fried numinat, leather armor and hair slick from the rain and skin paler than usual.

Yelps and curses told him his people weren’t far behind, and he heard the familiar metallic clink of Varuni’s chain whip doing its work. As a punch came toward his face, he dropped to his knees and skidded across the tiles toward Ren, reaching for the rope that bound her ankles. If they’d killed her…

One black-gloved hand batted at him when he reached for the rope. “I’ve got it,” Ren said, even if the weak rasp of her words put that into question. “Catch the others. Ghiscolo’s not here.”

Sedge dropped to his knees next to Vargo, a flash of lightning illuminating a face bleached with fear. “I’ve got her. You—watch out!”

A boot crashed into Vargo’s hip, sending a flare of pain up his back. He rolled and came to his feet—

And found himself facing Diomen.

You’ll do, Vargo thought grimly. It looked like some of the Praeteri were escaping via another exit, but his people had corralled most of them. They’d be quick enough to sell each other out; street knots had ten times the loyalty of cuffs looking to save their own asses. And if Ghiscolo wasn’t here, that meant Vargo didn’t have to split his attention.

He palmed two knives. Iridet could just deal with not having the Pontifex alive to prosecute.

But he never got close. As he leapt, Diomen brought his hands together. Vargo had a heartbeat to see two semicircular pieces of a numinat in his grip, before they joined into a whole—and the world blew away.

Vargo was in midair, the rain frozen around him while everything else slid past. That’s odd, he thought… before his perspective righted itself. The world wasn’t moving, he was; Vargo was flying backward off the roof, and fuck fuck fuck—

He hit the tiles and slid toward the low railing that guarded the edge. Not low enough: His body went right under. His desperate snatch wrapped his fingers around one of the bars, but only for a moment; his weight was too much, the metal slicked by rain, and he couldn’t hold on.

Vargo fell.

For half an instant, before he stopped with a sudden wrench of his shoulder. Another pained grunt overlaid his. Slitting his eyes against sheeting water that stung like ice, Vargo looked up… into a hood that held only shadows where a face should be.

The Rook.

Isla Extaquium, Eastbridge: Canilun 17

The Rook should have followed Vargo’s people.

But he’d believed that up the side of Extaquium Manor would be faster than shoving through the party inside… and he’d been reluctant to follow along like another minion. Unfortunately, a renovation had removed the decrepit balcony he had planned to use as a waypoint, and by the time he found a new path to the roof, the chaos was in full blast.

Vargo’s people fighting. Praeteri escaping. Ren curled on her side, and Sedge hunched over her.

He knew which of those places he needed to be—right up until the moment Vargo got blasted off the roof.

He stared down at the man he’d caught, dangling like a baited hook over the rain-flooded plaza several stories below. He’d lunged for Vargo on reflex. Now he had to make a choice.

It’s possible the fall won’t kill him.

Vargo’s free hand wrapped around his rescuer’s forearm, but the Rook’s silk sleeve was too loose to provide a secure grip. And the lip of the rooftop jutted out too far to offer a foothold.

The shouting behind him didn’t drown out the unsteadiness of Vargo’s voice—nerves, fatigue, a breath of laughter at something that wasn’t the least bit funny. “This is all very dramatic, but if that’s the only reason you’re not pulling me up…”

“I’m trying to find a reason I should.”

For the first time in weeks, the Rook was nowhere in Grey’s thoughts. It was only him, looking down at the man who’d… not murdered Kolya, not on purpose, but he’d orchestrated the explosion. The fact that Vargo had saved Grey’s life didn’t make up for that.

A cry lodged in his throat, all the things he’d lost because of this kinless bastard’s greed and carelessness. The wound in his heart didn’t fucking care if it was all to take down Indestor, the Praeteri, the same things Grey despised and the Rook fought against. It didn’t care if Vargo hadn’t intended for anyone to get hurt.

An accident: like Vargo slipping from the roof. He might not die. Let pattern and gravity decide his fate. In the absence of any adjustment, Grey’s hold was slipping, his arm straining under the weight. Eyes wide with fear, Vargo tried to grab the rooftop edge with his free hand, only for his fine eelskin glove to slip like it was greased.

“The Rook doesn’t kill.” His whisper was almost lost in the fall of the rain.

“No,” Grey said. “But if I remove this hood… I’m just a man.” One who’s dreamed of this moment for far too long.

The Rook would abandon him if he let Vargo fall. Ren would abandon him. Two new wounds in his heart, to replace the one he wanted so desperately to heal with the balm of revenge.

But that wouldn’t heal anything. And as much as Grey would hate himself for not avenging Kolya… he would hate himself more if he did.

Grey caught Vargo’s flailing hand, dragging the man high enough that he could hook one leg over the edge. Vargo hauled himself up to sprawl on his stomach as though embracing safety.

He expected to feel hollow inside. Bitter. He’d had his chance, and he’d given it up.

Instead he felt like he’d had his chance… and he’d taken it.

“That’s for Serrado,” he said, and left Vargo to wonder over what he meant. Turning away, he crossed the terrace in search of the Rose.

The chaos had ended. The man he assumed was the Pontifex was nowhere to be seen, but Vargo’s people had the remainder well in hand, and Ren stood a little distance apart, watching him.

“I couldn’t get to you in time,” he said in a low voice as he drew near.

She touched his arm. The black lace of her mask didn’t hide her mouth, and the trace of relief there. “It’s all right. I’m fine… and you were where you needed to be.”