The Liar's Knot

Book 2: Rook & Rose

by M.A. Carrick

Genres: Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

Trust is the thread that binds us . . . and the rope that hangs us.

In Nadezra, peace is as tenuous as a single thread. The ruthless House Indestor has been destroyed, but darkness still weaves through the city's filthy back alleys and jewel-bright gardens, seen by those who know where to look.

Derossi Vargo has always known. He has sacrificed more than anyone imagines to carve himself a position of power among the nobility, hiding a will of steel behind a velvet smile. He'll be damned if he lets anyone threaten what he's built.

Grey Serrado knows all too well. Bent under the yoke of too many burdens, he fights to protect the city's most vulnerable. Sooner or later, that fight will demand more than he can give.

And Ren, daughter of no clan, knows best of all. Caught in a knot of lies, torn between her heritage and her aristocratic masquerade, she relies on her gift for reading pattern to survive. And it shows her the web of corruption that traps her city.

But all three have yet to discover just how far that web stretches. And in the end, it will take more than knives to cut themselves free...

'The Mask of Mirrors is exactly the fantasy adventure novel you're craving: an escape into a vast, enchanting world of danger, secret identities, and glittering prose'
Tasha Suri, author of The Jasmine Throne

'The Mask of Mirrors kept me up reading way past my bedtime. A web of intrigue, magic, and the art of the con this novel will catch hold of your dreams and keep you from sleeping'
Mary Robinette Kowal, author of The Calculating Stars

'The Mask of Mirrors ushers you into the fascinating city of Nadezra, replete with complex politics, intricate magic, and mysteries that readers will be racing to unravel. Wonderfully immersive--I was unable to put it down'
Andrea Stewart, author of The Bone Shard Daughter

'An intricate, compelling dream of a book that kept me turning pages, with a world and characters that felt deeply real and plenty of riveting twists and turns. I loved it!'
Melissa Caruso, author of The Obsidian Tower

'For those who like their revenge plots served with the intrigue of The Goblin Emperor, the colonial conflict of The City of Brass, the panache of Swordspoint, and the richly detailed settings of Guy Gavriel Kay'
Booklist (starred review)

'Utterly captivating. Carrick spins an exciting web of mystery, magic, and political treachery in a richly drawn and innovative world.'
S. A. Chakraborty, author of The City of Brass

Release date: December 7, 2021

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 688

Sample

Tricatium, the Pearls: Fellun 15

The precise elegance of a numinat reflected an orderly cosmos: one where each person and thing had their place, and the relationships between them could be measured to perfection.

Donaia Traementis knew all too well that order was often nothing more than a mask over chaos. The long scroll of the Traementis family register connected names with the lines of marriage, adoption, and descent… and far too many of those names were overlaid with the Ninat of death. For past generations it was only natural, but the truncated limbs of Donaia’s family tree gave mute testimony to the curse that had haunted House Traementis in recent years.

A curse now lifted, thanks to the name Tanaquis Fienola was inscribing into the register.

Three women stood around Tanaquis as she wrote: Donaia; her daughter, Giuna; and Renata Viraudax—soon to be Renata Viraudax Traementatis. Ordinarily a registry inscription would draw a crowd of observers and well-wishers to ring the participants. Instead, the Tricatium echoed around the small cluster that had gathered, all empty benches and soaring arches of polished oak that gleamed like satin and smelled of linseed oil.

Scaperto Quientis was there as Fulvet, the Cinquerat seat that oversaw civic matters like adoptions. Utrinzi Simendis, who held the religious Iridet seat, had emerged from his usual seclusion to oversee the inscription itself. A handful of trusted servants had come in the place of family members. And the friends of House Traementis, all two of them: Sibiliat Acrenix and Derossi Vargo.

Donaia’s house had done a fine job of alienating half of Nadežra, long before the curse began reaping them like grain.

A final sweep of Tanaquis’s compass inscribed the closing circle around the newest register entry. “It needs only your mark, Alta Renata. One moment—”

Renata rocked back on her heels to stop her forward momentum as Tanaquis stepped out of the silver circle embedded into the floor and set the closing arc in place. Like a sluice opening, the power of the Lumen coursed through the figure, the warm welcome of honey in tea.

“There.” Tanaquis dusted her hands, though for this numinat she’d used no chalk. “Now you may sign.”

Renata glanced at the register, then at Giuna and Donaia. Once, she had hesitated to accept Donaia’s offer of adoption. Once, Donaia had hesitated to offer. Now she nodded, and Renata stepped forward and signed the register with economical flourish.

And so she became family, as Leato had so earnestly wished.

Donaia hid her trembling hands under the apron of her surcoat, a tight ball of grief pressing into her stomach. Not even a month since her son had died, and so much had changed. Some of it for the better, yes… but all of it brittle and colorless now that her sweet boy’s light had returned to the Lumen.

He would want this to be a bright occasion, though—a rare moment of growth and celebration, a new dawn for their house. “Welcome to the family,” Donaia said to Renata as Tanaquis deactivated the circle and retrieved her quill. Giuna was already flinging herself at her new cousin with unseemly enthusiasm. Clasping her hands tight to keep from doing the same, Donaia asked, “About the rest… Are you certain?”

“It’s only until next fall, when Giuna comes of age,” Renata said over her new cousin’s shoulder. “I should be asking you and Giuna—are you sure I’m not treading on toes by doing this?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to remain heir,” Giuna said softly.

Before Donaia could think of a way to scold her without embarrassing Renata, Scaperto Quientis interrupted. “Ninat willing, this precaution won’t be necessary,” he said, setting a sheaf of pages down on the podium abandoned by Tanaquis. “I hope to cross wits and disagree on civic matters with you for many more years, Era Traementis.”

Donaia smoothed her skirts and joined him at the podium. By all rights she ought to resent Eret Quientis; his family had taken the Fulvet seat from hers when the Traementis fall began. But he never ground their faces in it—he’d even granted them their first new charter in years—and he’d worked with Renata to stop the riots during Veiled Waters the previous month.

She accepted the pen from him and smiled. “I’d rather work together, if you don’t mind.”

As she signed her name to the legal documents, Quientis said softly, “Once your heir is settled in… I know House Traementis sold its villa in the bay. Should you need a respite, you’re welcome to the use of ours.”

Her grief would haunt her no matter where she went, but Donaia had to admit it might help to leave Traementis Manor for a time. “Thank you,” she said, equally softly. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Then she stepped away so Renata could sign as well, finishing the paperwork. Tanaquis stood nearby, tugging her gloves back on. “Congratulations,” she said to Donaia. “An auspicious day for such matters, and now that your curse is gone—”

“Not here,” Donaia hissed. Vargo and Sibiliat both were waiting at a distance, but not so far that a keen ear couldn’t catch whispers in the echoing Tricatium. Even the scratch of Renata’s pen nib seemed loud.

Tanaquis pretended to smooth the ever-straying wisps of her dark hair. “I only meant to say that Traementis’s fortunes should be on the rise. I’m happy for you.”

Donaia caught her hand—the glove ink stained, as always—and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. You’ve been a true friend to our house.”

Better than some. Sibiliat was kind enough to Giuna, but even House Acrenix, legendary for their friendships and alliances across Nadežra, had been less than eager to help the Traementis during their decline. And Vargo…

The man slid up to them, smooth as a river eel and faintly resembling one with his scarred throat and his coat of river-green caprash wool. The gaudy spider pin on his lapel was no complement to the ensemble, but Donaia wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. When he spoke, the polished courtesy of his baritone voice held no trace of his Lower Bank origins. “My congratulations as well, Era Traementis. I can’t imagine how hard these weeks have been for you, but I hope you can take some comfort in Alta Renata. She is a treasure.”

“Thank you, Eret Vargo,” Donaia said, her diction almost as clipped as Renata’s. His presence rankled, a reminder that he was now her equal, in legal status, if in nothing else. No ennoblement would ever erase what he was.

A fact that didn’t seem to bother Renata. She joined them with a smile and a Seterin-style curtsy for Vargo, thanking him for attending. Vargo lifted her gloved hand from her shoulder and said, “I’m only sorry that you’ve refused all my attempts to arrange a celebration. Now I’ll have to devise some other ruse to lure you from your duties.”

“My duties?” The lingering touch of his hand brought color to Renata’s cheeks and snapping amusement to her eyes. “I believe you’re the one now in charge of a noble house—with no one to assist you.”

“But much less business to conduct than House Traementis. I think it comes out even.”

That, Donaia knew, was a bald-faced lie. Though it would be interesting to see how quickly the city’s nobility closed ranks against the upstart who had somehow wormed his way in among them.

His flirtatious manner worried her. Renata was still a stranger to Nadežra; she didn’t understand what kind of man Vargo was. She trusted him, and so far their partnership had been useful… but Donaia would have to ensure that relationship remained one of business only.

“I’m surprised you aren’t already neck-deep in applications from people wishing to be inscribed into your house register, Eret Vargo,” Donaia said. “I fear my desk might collapse under the weight of them. Though of course, Traementis can afford to be discerning.”

“Your house has always had that reputation,” Vargo said with a mocking bow. “And your first adoption has set quite a high bar.”

It was a skillful knife thrust, a subtle gibe at the old Traementis habit of insularity and a reminder that he’d seen the value of Renata before anyone else did, all neatly wrapped up in a single package. Donaia was glad when Scaperto approached and handed her the leather folder containing the formal adoption and heirship papers, held shut with a loop around the stacked triangles of the Fulvet seal.

Scaperto looked no more friendly to Vargo as he said, “This isn’t the time or place for it, but we need to speak soon about your plans for the river-numinat charter.”

“Of course,” Vargo said smoothly. “Is tomorrow too soon? I’m eager to get started while the weather is warm and the winds are fair.”

And the fox has gone a-courting. Donaia pressed her lips against the third line of the old delta farmer’s saying and took Renata’s arm to lead her out before Vargo could claim it.

He might have extended the first hand, but now she was Donaia’s to protect.

The Aerie, Duskgate, Old Island: Fellun 15

Grey Serrado strode up the wide steps of quartzite and granite that rose from Vigil Plaza to the Aerie. He was back in his blue-and-tan dress vigils, the double-lined steel hexagram of his rank once more pinned to his collar. It was almost like the upheavals of the last few months had never happened… if one didn’t look too closely.

That was Nadežra. Built on the shifting shoals of a river delta, the city lacked the feeling of permanence that grounded the inland cities of Vraszan. Like the dreams and the river it was named for, Nadežra changed while the mind was elsewhere.

But some places anchored the city, as surely as the Old Island stood against the river, splitting it into the East and West Channels. The amphitheatre built atop the Point; the Charterhouse, where Nadežra’s laws were made.

And the Aerie, where those laws were—occasionally, when it benefited the powerful—enforced.

The Aerie’s shadow fell over Vraszenians more often in threat than protection, but Grey had joined the Vigil hoping that something that couldn’t be broken from the outside might be shifted from the inside. The crisis during Veiled Waters had damaged that naive hope, but the changes since then had breathed new life into it.

He’d dressed that morning intending to witness Renata Viraudax’s inscription into House Traementis—an adoption he was still conflicted about, for reasons he couldn’t share with Donaia. But then a messenger arrived at his door, instructing him to report to the high commander’s office at sixth sun. Any other captain might wonder if such an invitation hinted at a promotion, especially after the service Grey had rendered in evacuating the Great Amphitheatre during Veiled Waters. But Grey knew there was no world in which a Vraszenian would be promoted past captain.

He smoothed down his waistcoat and entered the Aerie. His timing was flawless; the bells of the city rang out the noon hour as he presented himself to the lieutenant working the desk outside High Commander Dimiterro’s office. “Captain Grey Serrado, reporting as ordered.”

The old secretary was gone, swept away with the previous high commander. Grey recognized this one by sight but not name. The man nodded, without the barely veiled contempt many of the Vigil’s lieutenants directed at its only Vraszenian captain. “The high commander will be with you—”

The heavy door of the office swung open. “—now,” the lieutenant finished, without missing a beat.

“Serrado.” Commander Cercel gave Grey a once-over as though worried he might have worn his patrol slops to meet their superior. He must have passed muster, because all she said was “Come in.”

The first thing he noticed when he entered the high commander’s office was that the shelves full of bottles of alcohol were gone, as were the Ghusai carpet and the smell of old wine soaked into it from years of abuse. The second was that Dimiterro wasn’t alone. The man seated to one side of his desk wore not the uniform of a hawk, but the finely tailored silk coat of a nobleman, its glacial shade harmonizing elegantly with the darker blue of the Vigil hangings.

Grey snapped his heels together and bowed to his new high commander, then pivoted and bowed a second time. “Your Mercy.”

He eyed Eret Ghiscolo Acrenix warily, recalculating the possible purpose of this meeting. The man might be Liganti and a nobleman, but unlike his predecessor as Caerulet, he had no reputation for loathing Vraszenians. So what did he want with Grey?

Acrenix waved him to stand at rest. “Captain Serrado, welcome. As I understand it, we have you to thank for the salvation of the Great Amphitheatre.”

And the people who were in it. But Grey had long practice in keeping such thoughts behind his teeth.

“The lack of public commendation for your efforts is unfortunate, but unavoidable, I fear,” Acrenix said. To his credit, his regret seemed genuine. “The mood in the city is extremely delicate right now. The plan to destroy the amphitheatre and the wellspring may have started with Mettore Indestor, but there’s a great deal of negative sentiment against Vraszenians for their role in it, and in the riots. You deserve something, though. While I can’t take official action as Caerulet, I can send a reward to you from my private coffers. A bonus for hazardous duty.”

“I don’t need a reward for doing my job.” The reply was as automatic as it was brusque. Only when he noticed Cercel’s wince did Grey soften it with a nod and a soft “Your Mercy.”

“An admirable sentiment,” Acrenix said. “The Vigil could use more people like you. But a reward isn’t a bribe for doing your job; it’s a reminder to myself not to take such efforts for granted. So for my sake, if not your own.”

More people like Grey? That wasn’t merely a different tune from Mettore Indestor’s; it was being played on an entirely new instrument.

Cercel cleared her throat, and Grey realized his startlement had left them hanging in silence for too long. Nor had it given him any time to think of a way to refuse. Besides, the Masks knew he could use the money. Ancient callings might make for good stories, but they didn’t pay well.

Bowing again, Grey said, “Thank you, Your Mercy.”

“Don’t thank me too much,” Acrenix said dryly. “I’m afraid the true reward for competence is more work. You see, while Mettore Indestor may have manipulated the Stadnem Anduske into attempting to blow up the Great Amphitheatre… the fact remains that they did try, and they’re free to try again.”

These were dangerous shoals, given some of Grey’s recent activities. “Though they’ve left Nadežra, the ziemetse share Your Mercy’s concerns. Their envoy is making every effort to find the perpetrators.”

“And will this envoy turn those perpetrators over to us? Or will they face the justice of the clan elders, as Mettore Indestor did?” Dimiterro’s harsh tone said well enough what he thought of that.

Acrenix held up one hand. “Those were extraordinary circumstances, but we can’t deny the ziemetse’s decision to execute him was both earned… and useful.” His wry smile faded as he turned to Grey. “Convenient as it was, though, that sort of justice isn’t something we should allow to continue. Which is why I asked to speak with you. Your familiarity with the situation on the Lower Bank is particularly needed just now.”

Ah, there it was. The expectation that Grey would be their pet Vraszenian.

Aren’t you? His inner voice in that moment sounded very much like Koszar Andrejek, the leader—or former leader—of the Anduske. Andrejek, who could barely move after the beating he’d taken from his people when he gave the order to stop the amphitheatre attack.

Grey kept his tone neutral. “You want me to hunt down the leaders of the Stadnem Anduske.”

“This setback won’t stop them for long,” Acrenix said. “Easier to prevent them from doing something worse while they’re fractured and scattered.”

Fractured. Was it possible Acrenix knew that Andrejek no longer had control of his people? Even Grey had to admit the group posed a greater threat without Andrejek’s idealism to leaven them. People who would cut knot and beat their leader because he showed a minimum of sense wouldn’t confine themselves to printing broadsheets of dissident rhetoric.

Leaning forward to make sure he had Grey’s attention, Acrenix went on. “I’m not looking for scapegoats to string up in Suncross. It may satisfy a few people’s bloodlust to have someone to blame, but in the long run, it does nothing to root out the problem. The high commander suggested you could be trusted not to grab the first Vraszenian you hear cursing the Cinquerat over a cup of zrel.”

That suggestion had to have come from Cercel; Dimiterro was too new to know anything about Grey beyond his blood. And as much as Grey hated the idea of being treated like the Vigil’s pet Vraszenian, he was grateful to his commander for using him to protect the people who were just living their lives. Most of the Liganti and Nadežran officers wouldn’t care. He was surprised—and surprised to be gratified—that Acrenix seemed to.

But also puzzled. Because while Caerulet might hold the charter for the Vigil, that charter restricted how directly the seat could be involved in its running. Mettore had toyed with those restrictions like a game of dreamweaver’s nest. Was Ghiscolo no better?

“I’m assigned to Kingfisher,” Grey said. “The Anduske could be anywhere. As for additional assignments, I take my orders from my commanding officers.” He nodded at Cercel and Dimiterro in turn.

Cercel’s flat look said Grey would pay for that bit of obstinance later, but Dimiterro nodded as though that was the only proper response. “Well spoken.”

Acrenix said, “Indeed. But in this case, I’m afraid I’ve been unclear. I’ve granted a new charter for a special force, the Ordo Apis, to address the issue of insurgents within Nadežra. They won’t be limited to any particular district, and they’ll answer directly to me. I’d like you to join in a command position. Given your experience, I think you’d be well-suited to help with this mission.”

The implications chilled him. The Vigil was flawed, with a tendency toward inefficiency, corruption, and abuses of power, but there were checks against that: good people within the Vigil who cared about their mandate, and Fulvet’s judges to prevent people disappearing onto penal ships without due process.

Perhaps that was what Acrenix wanted in asking Grey to join—in a command position, even. Grey could be such a check.

Or you can be the mask they hide behind.

Much depended on Ghiscolo himself. Until recently, no member of House Acrenix had ever held a seat in the Cinquerat. His rise might have been a new shift in the hidden structure of Nadežra… or the culmination of something already there.

Regardless of the answer, the offer was impossible. Even if Grey trusted the intent of this charter, he couldn’t turn around and hunt the people he’d already helped hide. His conscience wouldn’t stand for it.

And he could never work directly for a nobleman. The mask Grey hid behind wouldn’t stand for it.

Grey bowed his head. “I’m honored by your trust, Your Mercy, and grateful for the opportunity. I’d like some time to think about it. I have other responsibilities—”

“You mean your vendetta against the Rook?” Glancing at Cercel, Acrenix impatiently tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Your commander assures me you haven’t made improper use of Vigil resources to pursue it.”

“That isn’t what I meant, no. Though I do want the man who murdered my brother to pay.” Let Ghiscolo think that the anger burning in Grey’s response was meant for the Rook.

Studying him with a gaze as intent as any hawk, Acrenix eventually nodded. “Understandable. I would want the same.” He stood, signaling an end to the unexpected meeting. “I hope you’ll still consider joining the Ordo Apis. Let your commander know your decision. I’ll be collecting a roster of candidates at the end of the week.”

With a nod to Dimiterro, he left. Grey trailed Cercel out of the office. She waited until they were alone in the hallway to say, “I suppose I’m not surprised, but I am glad you decided to stay on. Don’t tell the others, but you’re my best captain.”

After the tension of that meeting, Grey was relieved to see she knew him well enough to know he’d already made his decision. “I thought I was your biggest headache.”

She flicked his hexagram pin. “You really want to remind me of that right now, Serrado? We’re having a moment.”

“My mistake.”

His smile faded as Cercel walked away. Grey’s hooded friend had wondered for decades whether the Acrenix were touched by the corruption that threaded through Nadežra, but had never found any proof.

Grey wanted to believe in the possibility that they weren’t. That for the first time, he was serving under an honest power.

But he knew better than to trust it.

Isla Prišta, Westbridge: Fellun 15

Although Renata was prepared for the knock, it still made her tense.

She forced herself to wait, sitting quietly in her damaged parlour, while Tess answered the door. The patchwork light slipping between the boards Sedge had nailed across the broken windows fell on a room mostly stripped of its elegance: the looters had taken all the small valuables, everything easily carried, and even some things that weren’t. The couch Renata perched on was the only piece of furniture left in the room. Her erstwhile landlord had tracked down a few of the stolen items, but the shady markets of the Lower Bank were glutted from the riots two weeks ago. Even Derossi Vargo’s web couldn’t catch everything she’d lost—especially when three-quarters of the things she’d listed for him didn’t exist.

Tess curtsied in the doorway. “Alta Giuna is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Tess.” Renata rose and smoothed the front of her loose surcoat, as if it were the fine silk she’d been wearing for the adoption earlier that morning, instead of plain tabinet. Half the pretense of her con might have fallen into dust, but the other half had to keep standing.

Giuna had changed into her usual shapeless and dull clothes, fitting for the day’s work, and had her golden curls pinned up and covered with a cotton kerch. The nervous twisting of her fingers in her skirts and the press of her lips as she entered the parlour were new. They’d had little chance to speak in private after Giuna learned the truth of Renata’s finances, and no chance at all after Giuna had forgiven her.

Her gaze flitted around the ruined parlour, from the boarded windows to the bare mantel to the broken remains of glass Tess had swept into the corner. “I thought Westbridge was supposed to be safe,” she murmured. “Or did Indestor’s people do this when they abducted you?”

“The riots.” Renata allowed herself a bitter laugh. “They must have been terribly disappointed when they realized how little there was to take.”

“Oh.” After a silent moment of shifting foot to foot and looking anywhere but at Renata, Giuna lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. “About that. I… here.” She held out a wrapped bundle of fabric.

Renata knew, even as she accepted the bundle, what Giuna had given her. The weight and shape were familiar, and brought an unexpected hitch to her breath.

But she had to unwrap it, even as she silently damned Giuna for catching her off guard. The fabric made a soft nest in her hand. Tucked into its heart was the blue glass bauble she’d bought for Giuna at the Autumn Gloria, five months and a lifetime ago.

“I thought, since you… lost… the one you bought for yourself, you might accept this one as…” Giuna’s babbling ended in a soft exhalation. “As an apology.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Renata said, cradling the glass sculpture in both hands. “That falls to me instead.” And to Sibiliat Acrenix, who hired someone to break into her townhouse while Renata lay unconscious in Traementis Manor, exposing the secret of her poverty.

“Then shall we strike palms and call it even? Otherwise, we’ll be arguing all day over who owes an apology to whom, and I don’t want you spending another night under this roof.” Giuna nodded at the boarded windows. “It’s not safe.”

No, it isn’t. But not for the reasons Giuna thought.

After they touched palms, Renata took her supposed cousin’s hand in her own. True cousin, now—at least as the Liganti count such things. Her voice dry with irony, she said, “Shall I give you the tour?”

Ren’s skin pricked as she took her new cousin into the service rooms, buried in a half cellar with only narrow windows near the ceiling for light. This was her true home, the place where she and Tess had launched this con. The one place in Nadežra where she could be herself: not Alta Renata Viraudax Traementatis, nor even Arenza Lenskaya, the Vraszenian pattern-reader who came closer to the truth of who she was, but Ren. A river rat born and raised in the Lacewater slums, trained in the arts of lying and thieving after her mother died.

But Giuna knew nothing of that. All she knew was that Renata had entered their lives hoping to live off the wealth of House Traementis.

Giuna wrapped her hands around her elbows, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. “You should have told us at the start. We would have done something to help. Well, perhaps not Mother; she still hates Letilia. But I would have. And… and Leato.”

Ren had been in this kitchen with him, in the shifting realm of Ažerais’s Dream. Just before she led him up to the Point—and to his death.

It was easier not to think about that, to do what needed to be done without dwelling on the why. But then she would catch sight of the ripples—Donaia’s hands trembling before she hid them in her surcoat, Giuna’s breath hitching before saying her brother’s name—and guilt dragged at her like a drowning tide.

If only she’d turned away when she encountered him in the nightmare. If only she hadn’t invited him to join her at the Charterhouse. If only she hadn’t returned to Nadežra in the first place. If, if, if…

Sensing the spiral of Ren’s thoughts as only a sister could, Tess snatched a well-scribbled sheet of paper off the kitchen table. “We should get to work,” she said briskly. “Master—I mean Eret Vargo’s agent will be here to take the keys at first earth, and we’ve a lot to do. Alta Giuna, you’re on candle duty. Make certain you spatter and scrape at least three layers. Alta Renata, you’re on floor scuffing and window smudging. I’ll start dusting.”

She passed Giuna three candles, each a different shade of pale beeswax. Renata was handed a bag of shoes—not just the fine ones she wore, but men’s boots and servants’ brogues, picked up cheaply from a secondhand vendor because they lacked mates. Tess said, “When Sedge gets here, he’ll help me shift the furniture and rugs. Any questions?”

Giuna’s startled look flickered between them. She’d witnessed the close relationship between mistress and maid, but this was the first time she’d seen Tess take charge. In fact, apart from using the correct title and name, Tess seemed to have forgotten herself, talking more to Ren than to Renata.

Ren hated doing it, especially in the kitchen that had been their refuge, but she had to step in before Tess slipped up more. She put a quelling note in her voice as she said, “Very well, Tess. Shall we, Giuna?”

Flushing at the reprimand, Tess lowered her eyes and bobbed a curtsy before trailing them back up to the main floor.

For the next hour, the house echoed with more sound than it had heard since the looters broke in. So far as Vargo knew, Renata had been using the entire house she rented from him. When she left, it needed to look like that was true—hence the dripped wax, the bootprints, the marks on the windows, and other small signs of use. She was strangely grateful for the riots, which gave her the perfect excuse for having so few possessions to carry out. Nobody had been paying attention when she moved in, but Alta Renata was well-known enough now that her few paltry crates would have seemed suspicious.

Giuna was helping her heave the mattress up to the bedroom when Sedge’s rough voice came from below.

“Perhaps we could let your footman take over?” Giuna asked, out of breath and blotting sweat from her brow with her sleeve. Her gaze snagged on her bare hand. “Oh, my gloves!” She darted across the entry hall and snatched them from a sideboard, yanking them on before she could be caught half-dressed—leaving Renata halfway up the stairs, clutching at the top of the mattress to keep it from sliding back down.

The weight lessened before her grip failed. “I got you, alta. Fine lady like you en’t supposed to do this sort of thing.”

With Giuna safely obscured by the mattress and Sedge, Ren was free to give him an ironic look. He’d said that kind of thing sometimes when they were Fingers together, children in Ondrakja’s gang, faking the manners of fancy cuffs. Now she was a fine lady—by law and by lie.

“With one hand, Master Sedge?” she asked, arching a brow at the wrist Ondrakja had snapped, bound with an imbued brace of Tess’s making. “I think this ‘fine lady’ is at lea