Ren and Tess were not out, nor asleep. They sat tucked under the staircase, listening, Ren’s hand clamped hard over the charm on her wrist. “Please,” Tess begged, “we can just go—”

“No. Not yet.”

Ren’s voice didn’t waver, but inside she shook like a pinkie on her first lift. What if it didn’t work?

She knew they should run. If they didn’t, they might miss their chance. When people found out what she’d done, there wouldn’t be a street in Nadežra that would grant her refuge.

But she stayed for Sedge.

A creak in the hallway above made Tess squeak. Footsteps on the stairs became Simlin rounding the corner. He jerked to a halt when he saw them in the alcove. “There you are,” he said, as if he’d been searching for an hour. “Upstairs. Ondrakja wants you.”

Ren eased herself out, not taking her eyes from Simlin. At thirteen he wasn’t as big as Sedge, but he was far more vicious. “Why?”

“Dunno. Didn’t ask.” Then, before Ren could start climbing the stairs: “She said both of you.”

Next time, I’ll hit you somewhere softer.

They should have run. But with Simlin standing just an arm’s reach away, there wasn’t any hope now. He dragged Tess out of the alcove, ignoring her whimper, and shoved them both up the stairs.

The fire in the parlour had burned low, and the shadows pressed in close from the ceiling and walls. Ondrakja’s big chair was turned with its back to the door so they had to circle around to face her, Tess gripping Ren’s hand so tight the bones ached.

Ondrakja was the picture of Lacewater elegance. Despite the late hour, she’d changed into a rich gown, a Liganti-style surcoat over a fine linen underdress—a dress Ren herself had stolen off a laundry line. Her hair was upswept and pinned, and with the high back of the chair rising behind her, she looked like one of the Cinquerat on their thrones.

A few hours ago she’d petted Ren and praised her skills. But Ren saw the murderous glitter in Ondrakja’s eyes and knew that would never happen again.

8220;Treacherous little bitch,” Ondrakja hissed. “Was this your revenge for that piece of trash I threw out? Putting something in my tea? It should have been a knife in my back—but you don’t have the guts for that. The only thing worse than a traitor is a spineless one.”

Ren stood paralyzed, Tess cowering behind her. She’d put in as much extract of meadow saffron as she could afford, paying the apothecary with the coin that was supposed to help her and Tess and Sedge escape Ondrakja forever. It should have worked.

“I am going to make you pay,” Ondrakja promised, her voice cold with venom. “But this time it won’t be as quick. Everyone will know you betrayed your knot. They’ll hold you down while I go to work on your little sister there. I’ll keep her alive for days, and you’ll have to watch every—”

She was rising as she spoke, looming over Ren like some Primordial demon, but mid-threat she lurched. One hand went to her stomach—and then, without any more warning, she vomited onto the carpet.

As her head came up, Ren saw what the shadows of the chair had helped conceal. The glitter in Ondrakja’s eyes wasn’t just fury; it was fever. Her face was sickly sallow, her skin dewed with cold sweat.

The poison had taken effect. And its work wasn’t done.

Ren danced back as Ondrakja reached for her. The woman who’d knotted the Fingers into her fist stumbled, going down onto one knee. Quick as a snake, Ren kicked her in the face, and Ondrakja fell backward.

“That’s for Sedge,” Ren spat, darting in to stomp on Ondrakja’s tender stomach. The woman vomited again, but kept wit enough to grab at Ren’s leg. Ren twisted clear, and Ondrakja clutched her own throat, gasping.

A yank at the charm on Ren’s wrist broke the cord, and she hurled it into the woman’s spew. Tess followed an instant later. That swiftly, they weren’t Fingers anymore.

Ondrakja reached out again, and Ren stamped on her wrist, snapping bone. She would have kept going, but Tess seized Ren’s arm, dragging her toward the door. “She’s already dead. Come on, or we will be, too—”

“Come back here!” Ondrakja snarled, but her voice had withered to a hoarse gasp. “I will make you fucking pay…”

Her words dissolved into another fit of retching. Ren broke at last, tearing the door open and barreling into Simlin on the other side, knocking him down before he could react. Then down the stairs to the alcove, where a loose floorboard concealed two bags containing everything they owned in the world. Ren took one and threw the other at Tess, and they were out the door of the lodging house, into the narrow, stinking streets of Lacewater, leaving dying Ondrakja and the Fingers and the past behind them.

Chapter 1

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Suilun 1

After fifteen years of handling the Traementis house charters, Donaia Traementis knew that a deal which looked too good to be true probably was. The proposal currently on her desk stretched the boundaries of belief.

“He could at least try to make it look legitimate,” she muttered. Did Mettore Indestor think her an utter fool?

He thinks you desperate. And he’s right.

She burrowed her stockinged toes under the great lump of a hound sleeping beneath her desk and pressed cold fingers to her brow. She’d removed her gloves to avoid ink stains and left the hearth in her study unlit to save the cost of fuel. Besides Meatball, the only warmth was from the beeswax candles—an expense she couldn’t scrimp on unless she wanted to lose what eyesight she had left.

Adjusting her spectacles, she scanned the proposal again, scratching angry notes between the lines.

She remembered a time when House Traementis had been as powerful as the Indestor family. They had held a seat in the Cinquerat, the five-person council that ruled Nadežra, and charters that allowed them to conduct trade, contract mercenaries, control guilds. Every variety of wealth, power, and prestige in Nadežra had been theirs. Now, despite Donaia’s best efforts and her late husband’s before her, it had come to this: scrabbling at one Dusk Road trade charter as though she could milk enough blood from that stone to pay off all the Traementis debts.

Debts almost entirely owned by Mettore Indestor.

“And you expect me to trust my caravan to guards you provide?” she growled at the proposal, her pen nib digging in hard enough to tear the paper. “Ha! Who’s going to protect it from them? Will they even wait for bandits, or just sack the wagons themselves?”

Leaving Donaia with the loss, a pack of angry investors, and debts she could no longer cover. Then Mettore would swoop in like one of his thrice-damned hawks to swallow whole what remained of House Traementis.

Try as she might, though, she couldn’t see another option. She couldn’t send the caravan out unguarded—Vraszenian bandits were a legitimate concern—but the Indestor family held the Caerulet seat in the Cinquerat, which gave Mettore authority over military and mercenary affairs. Nobody would risk working with a house Indestor had a grudge against—not when it would mean losing a charter, or worse.

Meatball’s head rose with a sudden whine. A moment later a knock came at the study door, followed by Donaia’s majordomo. Colbrin knew better than to interrupt her when she was wrestling with business, which meant he judged this interruption important.

He bowed and handed her a card. “Alta Renata Viraudax?” Donaia asked, shoving Meatball’s wet snout out of her lap when he sniffed at the card. She flipped it as if the back would provide some clue to the visitor’s purpose. Viraudax wasn’t a local noble house. Some traveler to Nadežra?

“A young woman, Era Traementis,” her majordomo said. “Well-mannered. Well-dressed. She said it concerned an important private matter.”

The card fluttered to the floor. Donaia’s duties as head of House Traementis kept her from having much of a social life, but the same could not be said for her son, and lately Leato had been behaving more and more like his father. Ninat take him—if her son had racked up some gambling debt with a foreign visitor…

Colbrin retrieved the card before the dog could eat it, and handed it back to her. “Should I tell her you are not at home?”

“No. Show her in.” If her son’s dive into the seedier side of Nadežra had resulted in trouble, she would at least rectify his errors before stringing him up.

Somehow. With money she didn’t have.

She could start by not conducting the meeting in a freezing study. “Wait,” she said before Colbrin could leave. “Show her to the salon. And bring tea.”

Donaia cleaned the ink from her pen and made a futile attempt to brush away the brindled dog hairs matting her surcoat. Giving that up as a lost cause, she tugged on her gloves and straightened the papers on her desk, collecting herself by collecting her surroundings. Looking down at her clothing—the faded blue surcoat over trousers and house scuffs—she weighed the value of changing over the cost of making a potential problem wait.

Everything is a tallied cost these days, she thought grimly.

“Meatball. Stay,” she commanded when the hound would have followed, and headed directly to the salon.

The young woman waiting there could not have fit the setting more perfectly if she had planned it. Her rose-gold underdress and cream surcoat harmonized beautifully with the gold-shot peach silk of the couch and chairs, and the thick curl trailing from her upswept hair echoed the rich wood of the wall paneling. The curl should have looked like an accident, an errant strand slipping loose—but everything else about the visitor was so elegant it was clearly a deliberate touch of style.

She was studying the row of books on their glass-fronted shelf. When Donaia closed the door, she turned and dipped low. “Era Traementis. Thank you for seeing me.”

Her curtsy was as Seterin as her clipped accent, one hand sweeping elegantly up to the opposite shoulder. Donaia’s misgivings deepened at the sight of her. Close to her son’s age, and beautiful as a portrait by Creciasto, with fine-boned features and flawless skin. Easy to imagine Leato losing his head over a hand of cards with such a girl. And her ensemble did nothing to comfort Donaia’s fears—the richly embroidered brocade, the sleeves an elegant fall of sheer silk. Here was someone who could afford to bet and lose a fortune.

That sort was more likely to forgive or forget a debt than come collecting… unless the debt was meant as leverage for something else.

“Alta Renata. I hope you will forgive my informality.” She brushed a hand down her simple attire. “I did not expect visitors, but it sounded like your matter was of some urgency. Please, do be seated.”

The young woman lowered herself into the chair as lightly as mist on the river. Seeing her, it was easy to understand why the people of Nadežra looked to Seteris as the source of all that was stylish and elegant. Fashion was born in Seteris. By the time it traveled south to Seteris’s protectorate, Seste Ligante, then farther south still, across the sea to Nadežra, it was old and stale, and Seteris had moved on.

Most Seterin visitors behaved as though Nadežra was nothing more than Seste Ligante’s backwater colonial foothold on the Vraszenian continent and merely setting foot on the streets would foul them with the mud of the River Dežera. But Renata’s delicacy looked like hesitation, not condescension. She said, “Not urgent, no—I do apologize if I gave that impression. I confess, I’m not certain how to even begin this conversation.”

She paused, hazel eyes searching Donaia’s face. “You don’t recognize my family name, do you?”

That had an ominous sound. Seteris might be on the other side of the sea, but the truly powerful families could influence trade anywhere in the known world. If House Traementis had somehow crossed one of them…

Donaia kept her fear from her face and her voice. “I am afraid I haven’t had many dealings with the great houses of Seteris.”

A soft breath flowed out of the girl. “As I suspected. I thought she might have written to you at least once, but apparently not. I… am Letilia’s daughter.”

She could have announced she was descended from the Vraszenian goddess Ažerais herself, and it wouldn’t have taken Donaia more by surprise.

Disbelief clashed with relief and apprehension both: not a creditor, not an offended daughter of some foreign power. Family—after a fashion.

Lost for words, Donaia reassessed the young woman sitting across from her. Straight back, straight shoulders, straight neck, and the same fine, narrow nose that made everyone in Nadežra hail Letilia Traementis as the great beauty of her day.

Yes, she could be Letilia’s daughter. Donaia’s niece by marriage.

“Letilia never wrote after she left.” It was the only consideration the spoiled brat had ever shown her family. The first several years, every day they’d expected a letter telling them she was stranded in Seteris, begging for funds. Instead they never heard from her again.

Dread sank into Donaia’s bones. “Is Letilia here?”

The door swung open, and for one dreadful instant Donaia expected a familiar squall of petulance and privilege to sweep inside. But it was only Colbrin, bearing a tray. To her dismay, Donaia saw two pots on it, one short and rounded for tea, the other taller. Of course: He’d heard their guest’s Seterin accent, and naturally assumed Donaia would also want to serve coffee.

We haven’t yet fallen so far that I can’t afford proper hospitality. But Donaia’s voice was still sharp as he set the tray between the two of them. “Thank you, Colbrin. That will be all.”

“No,” Renata said as the majordomo bowed and departed. “No, Mother is happily ensconced in Seteris.”

It seemed luck hadn’t entirely abandoned House Traementis. “Tea?” Donaia said, a little too bright with relief. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

“Coffee, thank you.” Renata accepted the cup and saucer with a graceful hand. Everything about her was graceful—but not the artificial, forced elegance Donaia remembered Letilia practicing so assiduously.

Renata sipped the coffee and made a small, appreciative noise. “I must admit, I was wondering if I would even be able to find coffee here.”

Ah. There was the echo of Letilia, the little sneer that took what should be a compliment and transformed it into an insult.

We have wooden floors and chairs with backs, too. Donaia swallowed down the snappish response. But the bitter taste in her mouth nudged her into pouring coffee for herself, even though she disliked it. She wouldn’t let this girl make her feel like a delta rustic simply because Donaia had lived all her life in Nadežra.

“So you are here, but Letilia is not. May I ask why?”

The girl’s chin dropped, and she rotated her coffee cup as though its precise alignment against the saucer were vitally important. “I’ve spent days imagining how best to approach you, but—well.” There was a ripple of nervousness in her laugh. “There’s no way to say this without first admitting I’m Letilia’s daughter… and yet by admitting that, I know I’ve already gotten off on the wrong foot. Still, there’s nothing for it.”

Renata inhaled like someone preparing for battle, then met Donaia’s gaze. “I’m here to see if I can possibly reconcile my mother with her family.”

It took all Donaia’s self-control not to laugh. Reconcile? She would sooner reconcile with the drugs that had overtaken her husband Gianco’s good sense in his final years. If Gianco’s darker comments were to be believed, Letilia had done as much to destroy House Traementis as aža had.

Fortunately, custom and law offered her a more dispassionate response. “Letilia is no part of this family. My husband’s father struck her name from our register after she left.”

At least Renata was smart enough not to be surprised. “I can hardly blame my gra—your father-in-law,” she said. “I’ve only my mother’s version of the tale, but I also know her. I can guess the part she played in that estrangement.”

Donaia could just imagine what poison Letilia’s version had contained. “It is more than estrangement,” she said brusquely, rising to her feet. “I am sorry you crossed the sea for nothing, but I’m afraid that what you’re asking for is impossible. Even if I believed that your mother wanted to reconcile—which I do not—I have no interest in doing so.”

A treacherous worm within her whispered, Even if that might offer a new business opportunity? Some way out of Indestor’s trap?

Even then. Donaia would burn Traementis Manor to the ground before she accepted help from Letilia’s hand.

The salon door opened again. But this time, the interruption wasn’t her majordomo.

“Mother, Egliadas has invited me to go sailing on the river.” Leato was tugging on his gloves, as if he couldn’t be bothered to finish dressing before leaving his rooms. But he stopped, one hand still caught in the tight cuff, when he saw their visitor.

Renata rose like a flower bud unfurling, and Donaia cursed silently. Why, today of all days, had Leato chosen to wake early? Not that fourth sun was early by most people’s standards, but for him midmorning might as well be dawn.

Reflex forced the courtesies out of her mouth, even though she wanted nothing more than to hurry the girl away. “Leato, you recall stories of your aunt Letilia? This is her daughter, Alta Renata Viraudax of Seteris. Alta Renata, my son and heir, Leato Traementis.”

Leato captured Renata’s hand before she could touch it to her shoulder again and kissed her gloved fingertips. When she saw them together, Donaia’s heart sank like a stone. She was used to thinking of her son as an adolescent scamp, or an intermittent source of headaches. But he was a man grown, with beauty to match Renata’s: his hair like antique gold, fashionably mussed on top; his ivory skin and finely carved features, the hallmark of House Traementis; the elegant cut of his waistcoat and fitted tailoring of the full-skirted coat over it in the platinum shimmer of delta grasses in autumn.

And the two of them were smiling at one another like the sun had just risen in the salon.

“Letilia’s daughter?” Leato said, releasing Renata’s hand before the touch could grow awkward. “I thought she hated us.”

Donaia bit down the impulse to chide him. It would sound like she was defending Renata, which was the last thing she wanted to do.

The girl’s smile was brief and rueful. “I may have inherited her nose, but I’ve tried not to inherit everything else.”

“You mean, not her personality? I’ll offer thanks to Katus.” Leato winced. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t insult your mother—”

“No insult taken,” Renata said dryly. “I’m sure the stories you know of her are dreadful, and with good cause.”

They had the river’s current beneath them and were flowing onward; Donaia had to stop it before they went too far. When Leato asked what brought Renata to the city, Donaia lunged in, social grace be damned. “She just—”

But Renata spoke over her, as smooth as silk. “I was hoping to meet your grandfather and father. Foolish of me, really; since Mother hasn’t been in contact, I didn’t know they’d both passed away until I arrived. And now I understand she’s no longer in the register, so there’s no bond between us—I’m just a stranger, intruding.”

“Oh, not at all!” Leato turned to his mother for confirmation.

For the first time, Donaia felt a touch of gratitude toward Renata. Leato had never known Letilia; he hadn’t even been born when she ran away. He’d heard the tales, but no doubt he marked at least some of them as exaggeration. If Renata had mentioned a reconciliation outright, he probably would have supported her.

“We’re touched by your visit,” Donaia said, offering the girl a courteous nod. “I’m only sorry the others never had a chance to meet you.”

“Your visit?” Leato scoffed. “No, this can’t be all. You’re my cousin, after all—oh, not under the law, I know. But blood counts for a lot here.”

“We’re Nadežran, Leato, not Vraszenian,” Donaia said reprovingly, lest Renata think they’d been completely swallowed by delta ways.

He went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “My long-lost cousin shows up from across the sea, greets us for a few minutes, then vanishes? Unacceptable. Giuna hasn’t even met you—she’s my younger sister. Why don’t you stay with us for a few days?”

Donaia couldn’t stop a muffled sound from escaping her. However much he seemed determined to ignore them, Leato knew about House Traementis’s financial troubles. A houseguest was the last thing they could afford.

But Renata demurred with a light shake of her head. “No, no—I couldn’t impose like that. I’ll be in Nadežra for some time, though. Perhaps you’ll allow me the chance to show I’m not my mother.”

Preparatory to pushing for reconciliation, no doubt. But although Renata was older and more self-possessed, something about her downcast gaze reminded Donaia of Giuna. She could all too easily imagine Giuna seeking Letilia out in Seteris with the same impossible dream.

If House Traementis could afford the sea passage, which they could not. And if Donaia would allow her to go, which she would not. But if that impossible situation happened… she bristled at the thought of Letilia rebuffing Giuna entirely, treating her with such cold hostility that she refused to see the girl at all.

So Donaia said, as warmly as she could, “Of course we know you aren’t your mother. And you shouldn’t be forced to carry the burden of her past.” She let a smile crack her mask. “I’m certain from the caterpillars dancing on my son’s brow that he’d like to know more about you, and I imagine Giuna would feel the same.”

“Thank you,” Renata said with a curtsy. “But not now, I think. My apologies, Altan Leato.” Her words silenced his protest before he could voice it, and with faultless formality. “My maid intends to fit me for a new dress this afternoon, and she’ll stick me with pins if I’m late.”

That was as unlike Letilia as it was possible to be. Not the concern for her clothing—Letilia was the same, only with less tasteful results—but the graceful withdrawal, cooperating with Donaia’s wish to get her out of the house.

Leato did manage to get one more question out, though. “Where can we reach you?”

“On the Isla Prišta, Via Brelkoja, number four,” Renata said. Donaia’s lips tightened. For a stay of a few weeks, even a month or two, a hotel would have sufficed. Renting a house suggested the girl intended to remain for quite some time.

But that was a matter for later. Donaia reached for the bell. “Colbrin will see you out.”

“No need,” Leato said, offering Renata his hand. When she glanced at Donaia instead of taking it, Leato said, “Mother, you won’t begrudge me a few moments of gossip with my new cousin?”

That was Leato, always asking for forgiveness rather than permission. But Renata’s minute smile silently promised not to encourage him. At Donaia’s forbearing nod, she accepted his escort from the room.

Once they were gone, Donaia rang for Colbrin. “I’ll be in my study. No more interruptions barring flood or fire, please.”

Colbrin’s acknowledgment trailed after her as she went upstairs. When she entered the room, Meatball roused with a whine-snap of a yawn and a hopeful look, but settled again once he realized no treats were forthcoming.

The space seemed chillier than when she’d left it, and darker. She thought of Alta Renata’s fine manners and finer clothes. Of course Letilia’s daughter would be dressed in designs so new they hadn’t yet made their way from Seteris to Nadežra. Of course she would have enough wealth to rent a house in Westbridge for herself alone and think nothing of it. Hadn’t Gianco always said that Letilia took House Traementis’s luck with her when she left?

In a fit of pique, Donaia lit the hearthfire, and damn the cost. Once its warmth was blazing through the study, she returned to her desk. She buried her toes under the dog again, mentally composing her message as she sharpened her nib and filled her ink tray.

House Traementis might be neck-deep in debt and sinking, but they still had the rights granted by their ennoblement charter. And Donaia wasn’t such a fool that she would bite a hook before examining it from all sides first.

Bending her head, Donaia began penning a letter to Commander Cercel of the Vigil.

Upper and Lower Bank: Suilun 1

Renata expected Leato Traementis to see her out the front door, but he escorted her all the way to the bottom of the steps, and kept her hand even when they stopped. “I hope you’re not too offended by Mother’s reserve,” he said. A breeze ruffled his burnished hair and carried the scent of caramel and almonds to her nose. A rich scent, matching his clothes and his carriage, and the thin lines of gold paint limning his eyelashes. “A lot of dead branches have been pruned from the Traementis register since my father—and your mother—were children. Now there’s only Mother, Giuna, and myself. She gets protective.”

“I take no offense at all,” Renata said, smiling up at him. “I’m not so much of a fool that I expect to be welcomed with open arms. And I’m willing to be patient.”

The breeze sharpened, and she shivered. Leato stepped between her and the wind. “You’d think Nadežra would be warmer than Seteris, wouldn’t you?” he said with a sympathetic grimace. “It’s all the water. We almost never get snow here, but the winters are so damp, the cold cuts right to your bones.”

“I should have thought to wear a cloak. But since I can’t pluck one from thin air, I hope you won’t take offense if I hurry home.”

“Of course not. Let me get you a sedan chair.” Leato raised a hand to catch the eye of some men idling on the far side of the square and paid the bearers before Renata could even reach for her purse. “To soothe any lingering sting,” he said with a smile.

She thanked him with another curtsy. “I hope I’ll see you soon.”

“As do I.” Leato helped her into the sedan chair and closed the door once her skirts were safely out of the way.

As the bearers headed for the narrow exit from the square, Renata drew the curtains shut. Traementis Manor was in the Pearls, a cluster of islets strung along the Upper Bank of the River Dežera. The river here ran pure and clear thanks to the numinat that protected the East Channel, and the narrow streets and bridges were clean; whichever families held the charters to keep the streets clear of refuse wouldn’t dream of letting it accumulate near the houses of the rich and powerful.

But the rocky wedge that broke the Dežera into east and west channels was a different matter. For all that it held two of Nadežra’s major institutions—the Charterhouse in Dawngate, which was the seat of government, and the Aerie in Duskgate, home to the Vigil, which maintained order—the Old Island was also crowded with the poor and the shabby-genteel. Anyone riding in a sedan chair was just asking for beggars to crowd at their windows.

Which still made it better than half of the Lower Bank, where a sedan chair risked being knocked to the ground and the passenger robbed.

Luckily, her rented house was on Isla Prišta in Westbridge—technically on the Lower Bank, and far from a fashionable district, but it was a respectable neighborhood on the rise. In fact, the buildings on the Via Brelkoja were so newly renovated the mortar hadn’t had time to moss over in the damp air. The freshly painted door to number four opened just as Renata’s foot touched the first step.

Tess made a severe-looking sight in the crisp grey-and-white surcoat and underskirt of a Nadežran housemaid, but her copper Ganllechyn curls and freckles were a warm beacon welcoming Renata home. She bobbed a curtsy and murmured a lilting “alta” as Renata passed across the threshold, accepting the gloves and purse Renata held out.

“Downstairs,” Ren murmured as the door snicked shut, sinking them into the dimness of the front hall.

Tess nodded, swallowing her question before she could speak it. Together they headed into the half-sunken chambers of the cellar, which held the service rooms. Only once they were safely in the kitchen did Tess say, “Well? How did it go?”

Ren let her posture drop and her voice relax into the throaty tones of her natural accent. “For me, as well as I could hope. Donaia refused reconciliation out of hand—”

“Thank the Mother,” Tess breathed. If Donaia contacted Letilia, their entire plan would fall apart before it started.

Ren nodded. “Faced with the prospect of talking to her former sister-in-law, she barely even noticed me getting my foot in the door.”

“That’s a start, then. Here, off with this, and wrap up before you take a chill.” Tess passed Ren a thick cloak of rough-spun wool lined with raw fleece, then turned her around like a dressmaker’s doll so she could remove the beautifully embroidered surcoat.

“I saw the sedan chair,” Tess said as she tugged at the side ties. “You didn’t take that all the way from Isla Traementis, did you? If you’re going to be riding about in chairs, I’ll have to revise the budget. And here I’d had my eye on a lovely bit of lace at the remnants stall.” Tess sighed mournfully, like she was saying farewell to a sweetheart. “I’ll just have to tat some myself.”

“In your endless spare time?” Ren said sardonically. The surcoat came loose, and she swung the cloak around her shoulders in its place. “Anyway, the son paid for the chair.” She dropped onto the kitchen bench and eased her shoes off with a silent curse. Fashionable shoes were not comfortable. The hardest part of this con was going to be pretending her feet didn’t hurt all day long.

Although choking down coffee ran a close second.

“Did he, now?” Tess settled on the bench next to Ren, close enough that they could share warmth beneath the cloak. Apart from the kitchen and the front salon, protective sheets still covered the furniture in every other room. The hearths were cold, their meals were simple, and they slept together on a kitchen floor pallet so they would only have to heat one room of the house.

Because she was not Alta Renata Viraudax, daughter of Letilia Traementis. She was Arenza Lenskaya, half-Vraszenian river rat, and even with a forged letter of credit to help, pretending to be a Seterin noblewoman wasn’t cheap.

Pulling out a thumbnail blade, Tess began ripping the seams of Ren’s beautiful surcoat, preparatory to alteration. “Was it just idle flirtation?”

The speculative uptick in Tess’s question said she didn’t believe any flirtation Ren encountered was idle. But whether Leato’s flirtation had been idle or not, Ren had lines she would not cross, and whoring herself out was one of them.

It would have been the easier route. Dress herself up fine enough to catch the eye of some delta gentry son, or even a noble, and marry her way into money. She wouldn’t be the first person in Nadežra to do it.

But she’d spent five years in Ganllech—five years as a maid under Letilia’s thumb, listening to her complain about her dreadful family and how much she dreamed of life in Seteris, the promised land she’d never managed to reach. So when Ren and Tess found themselves back in Nadežra, Ren had been resolved. No whoring, and no killing. Instead she set her sights on a higher target: use what she’d learned to gain acceptance into House Traementis as their long-lost kin… with all the wealth and social benefit that brought.

“Leato is friendly,” she allowed, picking up the far end of the dress and starting on the seam with her own knife. Tess didn’t trust her to sew anything more complicated than a hem, but ripping stitches? That, she was qualified for. “And he helped shame Donaia into agreeing to see me again. But she is every bit as bad as Letilia claimed. You should have seen what she wore. Ratty old clothes, covered in dog hair. Like it’s a moral flaw to let a single centira slip through her fingers.”

“But the son isn’t so bad?” Tess rocked on the bench, nudging Ren’s hip with her own. “Maybe he’s a bastard.”

Ren snorted. “Not likely. Donaia would give him the moon if he asked, and he looks as Traementis as I.” Only he didn’t need makeup to achieve the effect.

Her hands trembled as she worked. Those five years in Ganllech were also five years out of practice. And all her previous cons had short touches—never anything on this scale. When she got caught before, the hawks slung her in jail for a few days.

If she got caught now, impersonating a noblewoman…

Tess laid a hand over Ren’s, stopping her before she could nick herself with the knife. “It’s never too late to do something else.”

Ren managed a smile. “Buy piles of fabric, then run away and set up as dressmakers? You, anyway. I would be your tailor’s dummy.”

“You’d model and sell them,” Tess said stoutly. “If you want.”

Tess would be happy in that life. But Ren wanted more.

This city owed her more. It had taken everything: her mother, her childhood, Sedge. The rich cuffs of Nadežra got whatever they wanted, then squabbled over what their rivals had, grinding everyone else underfoot. In all her days among the Fingers, Ren had never been able to take more than the smallest shreds from the hems of their cloaks.

But now, thanks to Letilia, she was in a position to take more.

The Traementis made the perfect target. Small enough these days that only Donaia stood any chance of spotting Renata as an imposter, and isolated enough that they would be grateful for any addition to their register. In the glory days of their power and graft, they’d been notorious for their insular ways, refusing to aid their fellow nobles in times of need. Since they lost their seat in the Cinquerat, everyone else had gladly returned the favor.

Ren put down the knife and squeezed Tess’s hand. “No. It is nerves only, and they will pass. We go forward.”

“Forward it is.” Tess squeezed back, then returned to work. “Next we’re to make a splash somewhere public, yes? I’ll need to know where and when if I’m to outfit you proper.” The sides of the surcoat parted, and she started on the bandeau at the top of the bodice. “The sleeves are the key, have you noticed? Everyone is so on about their sleeves. But I’ve a thought for that… if you’re ready for Alta Renata to set fashion instead of following.”

Ren glanced sideways, her wariness only half-feigned. “What have you in mind?”

“Hmm. Stand up, and off with the rest of it.” Once she had Ren stripped to her chemise, Tess played with different gathers and drapes until Ren’s arms started to ache from being held out for so long. But she didn’t complain. Tess’s eye for fashion, her knack for imbuing, and her ability to rework the pieces of three outfits into nine were as vital to this con as Ren’s skill at manipulation.

She closed her eyes and cast her thoughts over what she knew about the city. Where could she go, what could she do, to attract the kind of admiration that would help her gain the foothold she needed?

A slow smile spread across her face.

“Tess,” she said, “I have the perfect idea. And you will love it.”

The Aerie and Isla Traementis: Suilun 1

“Serrado! Get in here. I have a job for you.”

Commander Cercel’s voice cut sharply through the din of the Aerie. Waving at his constables to take their prisoner to the stockade, Captain Grey Serrado turned and threaded his way through the chaos to his commander’s office. He ignored the sidelong smirks and snide whispers of his fellow officers: Unlike them, he didn’t have the luxury of lounging about drinking coffee, managing his constables from the comfort of the Aerie.

“Commander Cercel?” He snapped the heels of his boots together and gave her his crispest salute—a salute he’d perfected during hours of standing at attention in the sun, the rain, the wind, while other lieutenants were at mess or in the barracks. Cercel wasn’t the stickler for discipline his previous superiors had been, but she was the reason he wore a captain’s double-lined hexagram pin, and he didn’t want to reflect badly on her.

She was studying a letter, but when she brought her head up to reply, her eyes widened. “What does the other guy look like?”

Taking the casual question as permission to drop into rest, Grey spared a glance for his uniform. His patrol slops were spattered with muck from heel to shoulder, and blood was drying on the knuckles of his leather gloves. Some of the canal mud on his boots had flaked off when he saluted, powdering Cercel’s carpet with the filth of the Kingfisher slums.

“Dazed but breathing. Ranieri’s taking him to the stockade now.” Her question invited banter, but the door to her office was open, and it wouldn’t do him any good to be marked as a smart-ass.

She responded to his businesslike answer with an equally brisk nod. “Well, get cleaned up. I’ve received a letter from one of the noble houses, requesting Vigil assistance. I’m sending you.”

Grey’s jaw tensed as he waited for several gut responses to subside. It was possible the request was a legitimate call for aid. “What crime has been committed?”

Cercel’s level gaze said, You know better than that. “One of the noble houses has requested Vigil assistance,” she repeated, enunciating each word with cut-glass clarity. “I’m sure they wouldn’t do that without good cause.”

No doubt whoever sent the letter thought the cause was good. People from the great houses always did.

But Grey had a desk full of real problems. “More children have gone missing. That’s eleven verified this month.”

They’d had this conversation several times over the past few weeks. Cercel sighed. “We haven’t had any reports—”

“Because they’re all river rats so far. Who’s going to care enough to report that? But the man I just brought in might know something about it; he’s been promising Kingfisher kids good pay for an unspecified job. I got him on defacing public property, but he’ll be free again by tonight.” Pissing in public wasn’t an offense the Vigil usually cracked down on, unless it suited them. “Am I to assume this noble’s ‘good cause’ takes precedence over finding out what’s happening to those kids?”

Cercel breathed out hard through her nose, and he tensed. Had he pushed her patience too far?

No. “Your man is on his way to the stockade,” she said. “Have Kaineto process him—you’re always complaining he’s as slow as mud. By the time you get back, he’ll be ready to talk. Meanwhile, send Ranieri to ask questions around Kingfisher, see if he can find any of the man’s associates.” She set the letter aside and drew another from her stack, a clear prelude to dismissing him. “You know the deal, Serrado.”

The first few times, he’d played dense to make her spell it out in unambiguous terms. The last thing he could afford back then was to mistake a senior officer’s meaning.

But they were past those games now. As long as he knuckled under and did whatever this noble wanted of him, Cercel wouldn’t question him using Vigil time and resources for his own investigations.

“Yes, Commander.” He saluted and heel-knocked another layer of delta silt onto her carpet. “Which house has called for aid?”

“Traementis.”

If he’d been less careful of his manners, he would have thrown her a dirty look. She could have led with that. But Cercel wanted him to understand that answering these calls was part of his duty, and made him bend his neck before she revealed the silver lining. “Understood. I’ll head to the Pearls at once.”

Her final command followed him out of the office. “Don’t you dare show up at Era Traementis’s door looking like that!”

Groaning, Grey changed his path. He snagged a pitcher of water and a messenger, sending the latter to Ranieri with the new orders.

There was a bathing room in the Aerie, but he didn’t want to waste time on that. A sniff test sent every piece of his patrol uniform into the laundry bag; aside from the coffee, that was one of the few perks of his rank he didn’t mind taking shameless advantage of. If he was wading through canals for the job, the least the Vigil could do was ensure he didn’t smell like one. A quick pitcher bath in his tiny office took care of the scents still clinging to his skin and hair before he shrugged into his dress vigils.

He had to admit the force’s tailors were good. The tan breeches were Liganti-cut, snug as they could be around his thighs and hips without impeding movement. Both the brocade waistcoat and the coat of sapphire wool were tailored like a second skin, before the latter flared to full skirts that kissed the tops of his polished, knee-high boots. On his patrol slops, the diving hawk across the back of his shoulders was mere patchwork; here it was embroidered in golds and browns.

Grey didn’t have much use for vanity, but he did love his dress vigils. They were an inarguable reminder that he’d climbed to a place few Vraszenians could even imagine reaching. His brother, Kolya, had been so proud the day Grey came home in them.

The sudden trembling of his hands stabbed his collar pin into his thumb. Grey swallowed a curse and sucked the blood from the puncture, using a tiny hand mirror to make sure he hadn’t gotten any on his collar. Luckily, it was clean, and he managed to finish dressing himself without further injury.

Once outside, he set off east from Duskgate with long, ground-eating strides. He could have taken a sedan chair and told the bearers to bill the Vigil; other officers did, knowing all the while that no such bill would ever be paid. But along with stiffing the bearers, that meant they didn’t see the city around them the way Grey did.

Not that most of them would. They were Liganti, or mixed enough in ancestry that they could claim the name; to them, Nadežra was an outpost of Seste Ligante, half tamed by the Liganti general Kaius Sifigno, who restyled himself Kaius Rex after conquering Vraszan two centuries past. Others called him the Tyrant, and when he died, the Vraszenian clans took back the rest of their conquered land. But every push to reclaim their holy city failed, until exhaustion on both sides led to the signing of the Accords. Those established Nadežra as an independent city-state—under the rule of its Liganti elite.

It was an uneasy balance at best, made less easy still by Vraszenian radical groups like the Stadnem Anduske, who wouldn’t settle for anything less than the city back in Vraszenian hands. And every time they pushed, the Cinquerat pushed back even harder.

The busy markets of Suncross at the heart of the Old Island parted for Grey’s bright blue coat and the tawny embroidered hawk, but not without glares. To the high and mighty, the Vigil was a tool; to the common Nadežran, the Vigil was the tool of the high and mighty. Not all of them—Grey wasn’t the only hawk who cared about common folk—but enough that he couldn’t blame people for their hostility. And some of the worst glares came from Vraszenians, who looked at him and saw a slip-knot: a man who had betrayed his people, siding with the invaders’ descendants.

Grey was used to the glares. He kept an eye out for trouble as he passed market stalls on the stoops of decaying townhouses, and a bawdy puppet show where the only children in the crowd were the pickpockets. They trickled away like water before he could mark their faces. A few beggars eyed him warily, but Grey had no grudge against them; the more dangerous elements wouldn’t come out until evening, when the feckless sons and daughters of the delta gentry prowled the streets in search of amusement. A pattern-reader had set up on a corner near the Charterhouse, ready to bilk people in exchange for a pretty lie. He gave her a wide berth, leather glove creaking into a fist as he resisted the urge to drag her back to the Aerie for graft.

Once he’d passed under the decaying bulk of the Dawngate and across the Sunrise Bridge, he turned north into the narrow islets of the Pearls, clogged with sedan chairs. Two elderly ladies impressed with their own importance blocked the Becchia Bridge entirely, squabbling like gulls over which one should yield. Grey marked the house sigil painted onto each chair’s door in case complaints came to the Aerie later.

His shoulders itched as he crossed the lines of the complex mosaic in the center of Traementis Plaza. It was no mere tilework, but a numinat: geometric Liganti magic meant to keep the ground dry and solid, against the river’s determination to sink everything into the mud. Useful… but the Tyrant had twisted numinatria into a weapon during his conquest, and mosaics like this one amounted to emblems of ongoing Liganti control.

On the steps of Traementis Manor, Grey gave his uniform a final smoothing and sounded the bell. Within moments, Colbrin opened the door and favored Grey with a rare smile.

“Young Master Serrado. How pleasant to see you; it’s been far too long. I’m afraid Altan Leato is not here to receive you—”

“It’s ‘Captain’ now,” Grey said, touching the hexagram pin at his throat. The smile he dredged up felt tired from disuse. “And I’m not here for Leato. Era Traementis requested assistance from the Vigil.”

“Ah, yes.” Colbrin bowed him inside. “If you’ll wait in the salon, I’ll inform Era Traementis that you’re here.”

Grey wasn’t surprised when Colbrin returned in a few moments and summoned him to the study. Whatever Donaia had written to the Vigil for, it was business, not a social call.

That room was much darker, with little in the way of bright silks to warm the space—but warmth came in many shapes. Donaia’s grizzled wolfhound scrambled up from his place by her desk, claws ticking on wood as he trotted over for a greeting. “Hello, old man,” Grey said, giving him a good tousling and a few barrel thumps on the side.

“Meatball. Heel.” The dog returned to Donaia’s side, looking up as she crossed the room to greet Grey.

“Era Traementis,” Grey said, bowing over her hand. “I’m told you have need of assistance.”

The silver threads lacing through her hair were gaining ground against the auburn, and she looked tired. “Yes. I need you to look into someone—a visitor to the city, recently arrived from Seteris. Renata Viraudax.”

“Has she committed some crime against House Traementis?”

“No,” Donaia said. “She hasn’t.”

Her words piqued his curiosity. “Era?”

A muscle tightened in Donaia’s jaw. “My husband once had a sister named Letilia—Lecilla, really, but she was obsessed with Seteris and their high culture, so she badgered their father into changing it in the register. Twenty-three years ago, she decided she would rather be in Seteris than here… so she stole some money and jewelry and ran away.”

Donaia gestured Grey to a chair in front of the hearth. The warmth of the fire enveloped him as he sat down. “Renata Viraudax is Letilia’s daughter. She claims to be trying to mend bridges, but I have my doubts. I want you to find out what she’s really doing in Nadežra.”

As much as Grey loathed the right of the nobility to commandeer the Vigil for private use, he couldn’t help feeling sympathy. When he was younger and less aware of the differences that made it impossible, he’d sometimes wished Donaia Traementis was his mother. She was stern, but fair. She loved her children, and was fiercely protective of her family. Unlike some, she never gave Leato and Giuna reason to doubt her love for them.

This Viraudax woman’s mother had hurt her family, and the Traementis had a well-earned reputation for avenging their own.

“What can you tell me about her?” he asked. “Has she given you any reason to doubt her sincerity? Apart from being her mother’s daughter.”

Donaia’s fingers drummed briefly against the arm of the chair, and her gaze settled on a corner of the fireplace and stayed there long enough that Grey knew she was struggling with some thought. He kept his silence.

Finally she said, “You and my son are friends, and moreover you aren’t a fool. It can’t have escaped your notice that House Traementis is not what it once was, in wealth, power, or numbers. We have many enemies eager to see us fall. Now this young woman shows up and tries to insinuate herself among us? Perhaps I’m jumping at shadows… but I must consider the possibility that this is a gambit intended to destroy us entirely.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I can’t even be certain this girl is Letilia’s daughter.”

She must be worried, if she was admitting so much. Yes, Grey had suspected—would have suspected even if Vigil gossip didn’t sometimes speculate—that House Traementis was struggling more than they let on. But he never joined in the gossip, and he never asked Leato.

Leato… who was always in fashion, and according to that same gossip spent half his time frequenting aža parlours and gambling dens. Does Leato know? Grey swallowed the question. It wasn’t his business, and it wasn’t the business Donaia had called him for.

“That last shouldn’t be too hard to determine,” he said. “I assume you know where she’s staying?” He paused when Donaia’s lips flattened, but she only nodded. “Then talk to her. If she’s truly Letilia’s daughter, she should know details an imposter wouldn’t easily be able to discover. If she gives you vague answers or takes offense, then you’ll know something is wrong.”

Grey paused again, wondering how much Donaia would let him pry. “You said you had enemies she might be working for. It would help me to know who they are and what they might want.” At her sharply indrawn breath, he raised a hand in pledge. “I promise I’ll say nothing of it—not even to Leato.”

In a tone so dry it burned, Donaia began ticking possibilities off on her fingers. “Quientis took our seat in the Cinquerat. Kaineto are only delta gentry, but have made a point of blocking our attempts to contract out our charters. Essunta, likewise. Simendis, Destaelio, Novrus, Cleoter—Indestor—I’m afraid it’s a crowded field.”

That was the entire Cinquerat and others besides… but she’d only stumbled over one name.

“Indestor,” Grey said. The house that held Caerulet, the military seat in the Cinquerat. The house in charge of the Vigil.

The house that would not look kindly upon being investigated by one of its own.

“Era Traementis… did you ask for any officer, or did you specifically request me?”

“You’re Leato’s friend,” Donaia said, holding his gaze. “Far better to ask a friend for help than to confess our troubles to an enemy.”

That startled a chuckle from Grey. At Donaia’s furrowed brow, he said, “My brother was fond of a Vraszenian saying. ‘A family covered in the same dirt washes in the same water.’”

And Kolya would have given Grey a good scolding for not jumping to help Donaia right away. She might not be kin, but she’d hired a young Vraszenian carpenter with a scrawny kid brother when nobody else would, and paid him the same as a Nadežran.

He stood and bowed with a fist to his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can discover for you. Tell me where to find this Renata Viraudax.”

Chapter 2

The Face of Gold

Isla Prišta, Westbridge: Suilun 4

Some things were worth paying good money for. The materials for Ren’s clothing, for example: Tess was a genius at sewing, but even she couldn’t make cheap fabric hold up to close inspection.

The mirror Ren arranged next to an upstairs window was another one of her investments, as were the cosmetics she set in front of it. The one contribution her unknown father had made to her life was hair and skin a few shades lighter than her Vraszenian mother’s—light enough to pass for Liganti or Seterin, with help. But making herself look plausibly like Letilia Traementis’s daughter took extra effort and care.

Ren angled the silvered glass to take advantage of the natural light, then brushed powder across her face, making sure she blended it up into her hairline and down her throat. Years cooped up indoors as Letilia’s maid had done a fair bit to lighten her complexion, and the oncoming winter wouldn’t afford her many opportunities to be in the sun, but she would have to be careful when the warmer months came. Given half an excuse, her skin would eagerly tan.

But at least she didn’t have to worry about the powder rubbing off. All her cosmetics were imbued by artisans like Tess, people who could infuse the things they made with their own spiritual force to make them work better. Imbued cosmetics might be more expensive, but they would stay in place, blend until their effects looked natural, and not even irritate her skin. Imbuing didn’t receive the respect given to numinatria, but compared to the pastes and powders Ren had used back when she was a Finger, these seemed like a miracle.

Switching to a darker shade, she thinned the apparent shape of her nose and made her eyes seem more closely set, adding a few years to her age by contouring out the remaining softness of youth. Her cheekbones, her mouth—nothing remained untouched, until the woman in the mirror was Renata Viraudax instead of Ren.

Tess bustled in with an armful of fabric. She hung the underdress and surcoat from the empty canopy bars of the bed before flopping onto the dusty ropes that should have held a mattress.

“Whoof. Well, I can’t speak to the state of my fingers or my eyesight, but the embroidery’s done.” She held her reddened fingers up to the light. “Wish I could just leave the insides a tangle, but it’d be Quarat’s own ill luck if a gust of wind flipped your skirts and flashed your messy backing for the world to see.”

She stifled a giggle. “I meant your embroidery, not what’s under your knickers.”

A masquerade was more than just its physical trappings. “Tess.”

The mere pitch of that word was enough to remind her. Renata’s voice wasn’t as high as Letilia’s—that woman had cultivated a tone she referred to as “bell-like,” and Ren thought of as “shrill”—but she spoke in a higher register than Ren. Now she said Tess’s name in Renata’s tone, and Tess sat up.

“Yes, alta. Sorry, alta.” Tess swallowed a final hiccup of laughter. Her part required less acting, but she struggled harder to get into it. With her round cheeks and moss-soft eyes, she’d been one of the best pity-rustlers in the Fingers, but not much good at lying. She stood and bobbed a curtsy behind Renata, addressing her reflection. “What would the alta like done with her hair?”

It felt uncomfortable, having Tess address her with such deference. But this wasn’t a short-term con, talking some shopkeeper into believing she was a rich customer long enough for her to pocket something while his back was turned; she would need to be Renata for hours at a time, for weeks and months to come. And she needed to associate every habit of manner and speech and thought with Renata’s costumes, so they wouldn’t slip at an inopportune moment.

“I believe you had some ribbon left over,” Renata said. “I think it would look lovely threaded through my hair.”

“Oooh, excellent idea! The alta has such a refined sense of style.”

Tess had never been an alta’s maid. While Ren had run herself ragged satisfying Letilia’s petty demands, Tess had been sewing herself half-blind in the windowless back room of a grey-market shop. Still, she insisted that obsequiousness was part of the role, and no amount of correction from either Ren or Alta Renata could stamp it out. Sighing, Renata put in her earrings—formerly Letilia’s—while Tess retrieved ribbon, brushes, needle, and thread, and set to work.

Tess’s skill at imbuing went toward clothing, not hair, but by some undefinable magic she twisted the strands into a complicated knot, turning and tucking them so the outermost parts were the ones bleached lighter by sun and wind, and the darker sections were hidden away.

Just as Ren herself was hidden away. She breathed slowly and evenly, nerves beginning to thrum with familiar excitement.

By the end of today, the nobles of the city would know Renata Viraudax’s name.

The Rotunda, Eastbridge: Suilun 4

The Rotunda, situated on the Upper Bank side of the Sunrise Bridge, was a marvel of beauty and magic. Under a vaulted glass dome etched with colored numinata that kept the interior cool in the day and lit at night, a wide marble plaza allowed for casual strolling and diverting entertainments. In the center, a small garden offered benches where patrons could rest their weary feet. Around the perimeter, shops presented the finest imbued wares for the delight of those who could afford them.

Twice a year, in the spring and the fall, merchants from Seste Ligante arrived bearing the newest fabrics and fashions, setting up displays of their wares in the Rotunda. And all the nobles and delta gentry of Nadežra flocked to the seasonal Gloria, to spend, to see, and to be seen.

Despite her resolve to think only Renata’s thoughts, Ren couldn’t keep her pulse from quickening as she passed through the Rotunda’s grand archway with Tess in tow. She’d often peered at the riches beyond, but she’d been inside only once before—with Ondrakja, not long before everything fell apart.

The scheme had been an audacious one. Ondrakja came in first, dressed as a rich merchant from one of the upriver cities, and examined some jewelry. While the jeweler’s back was turned, a sapphire bracelet vanished. The Vigil constables guarding the Rotunda searched Ondrakja from head to foot, but found no sign of the gems, and the only people near her when the bracelet disappeared were nobility they dared not accuse. The hawks threw her in jail for the night on principle, but the next day they let her go.

Half an hour after Ondrakja was quietly force-marched out of the Rotunda, a beautiful girl who presumably belonged to one of the delta houses came up and browsed the jeweler’s wares. It had been laughably easy for Ren to remove the bracelet from the putty Ondrakja had stuck to the underside of the counter, then walk out with no one the wiser.

Ondrakja had been so pleased with her for that one. She’d bought Ren a bag of honey stones to suck on, and let her wear the bracelet for a whole day before it was fenced.

“May I help you find someone, alta?” a man asked, stepping too close to her side. “You seem lost.”

Djek. A hawk!

“Just taking in the view,” she said reflexively. Long hours of practice paid off; despite the skin-shock of fear, her words came out in the clipped, fronted vowels of Seteris.

She got a second shock when she looked properly at the man who’d addressed her. Since when are they making Vigil officers out of Vraszenians? His accent was cleanly Nadežran, but there was no mistaking him for anything other than full-blooded Vraszenian, with his thick, dark hair—trimmed short though it was—and sun-bronzed skin.

Yet he wore the double-lined hexagram pin of a captain.

Maybe they just thought he looked too good in dress vigils to pass up. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the lean build of a duelist rather than a soldier, his eyes a deeper shade of his coat’s sapphire. Apart from his heritage, he was exactly the kind of man Nadežra’s elite would prop up in a corner as decoration at an event like this.

But she’d used her own pretty face as a tool too often to let someone else do the same to her.

He stepped closer to avoid a passing couple, and Renata found herself expertly edged aside from the traffic. “Your accent—you’re from Seteris? Welcome to Nadežra. Is this your first visit to the Rotunda?”

“It is indeed.” She let her gaze drift across the tables and mannequins displaying wares for this season’s Gloria. “I must say, it is… interesting, seeing what happens to Seterin fashion in its journey here.”

Just a touch of condescension. To the Seterins and Liganti across the sea, Nadežra was a foreign backwater. Letilia had never hesitated to heap scorn on it, and her daughter wouldn’t have shed those prejudices entirely.

The captain nodded amiably rather than taking offense. “The Rotunda can be distracting for those unused to it—and the pickpockets who manage to sneak in like to take advantage of that. Allow me to escort you until you get your bearings.”

The worst thing she could do would be to hesitate. “I’d be grateful,” she said, motioning for Tess to fall back a few steps. A Seterin woman who hadn’t grown up among Nadežra’s political tensions wouldn’t turn her nose up at the escort of a handsome Vigil captain, even if he was Vraszenian. She laid gloved fingers on the sleeve of his coat. “Your uniform is that of this city’s guard, I believe? No pickpocket will dare approach if I have you at my side.”

“Captain Grey Serrado of the Vigil, yes. And I will make certain they do not, alta.” He drew away from her touch, his smile betraying not a flicker of interest in her flirtation.

Serrado. She rolled the syllables around in her mind as she returned the introduction, comparing them against his appearance. Szerado. And “Grey” was hardly a Vraszenian name. So he was one of those types—the ones who tried to separate themselves from their origins, in hopes of currying favor with the Liganti.

Ren might play the role out of necessity. He was a slip-knot by choice.

She pushed the thought away. It wouldn’t matter to Alta Renata. “This way looks more interesting,” she said, glancing to the left when Serrado would have led her right—as though she didn’t know the ebb and flow of the Gloria.

“The promenade progresses earthwise for the Autumn Gloria,” Serrado explained, following the rest of the foot traffic that curved rightward from the entry. “In the spring, it circles sunwise. You’ll find the newest and most expensive goods at the start, and the overlooked treasures near the end.”

“Is that so.” She stopped at a table of perfumes. The woman behind it sized her up in a blink and glided forward, inquiring whether the alta would like to sample any of the scents. Renata allowed her to unstopper a few bottles and wave their wands under her nose, then dab a touch of one to the inside of her wrist. It smelled of eucalyptus, mellowed by something earthier beneath, and the seller promised the scent was imbued to last all day. Buy something now, to show that I don’t care about cost? she wondered. Or demonstrate my taste and discretion by refraining?

She was beginning to attract notice, and not just from the shopkeepers. Some of that was because she looked both noble and unfamiliar, but mostly it was due to her clothing.

Even amid the splendor of the Gloria, she stood out like the blue of autumn skies. Her underdress of gold-shot amber silk was simple almost to the point of austerity, but the azure surcoat showed Tess’s fine hand at work. The bandeau was stitched with clever tucks, lifting her bosom rather than crushing it flat. The surcoat’s bodice lacked the rigid stays meant to give it a straight shape; instead it was tailored almost like a man’s waistcoat, tight through her waist and flaring over her hips before falling into the apron-like panels of the fore and back skirts. On those Tess had exercised restraint; the beauty of the embroidered leaf motif came from quality rather than quantity—turning their tight finances into a virtue. Subtle imbuing made the gold threads shift with the colors of the season. Nobody could look at such a dress and doubt that Alta Renata had paid a small fortune for such work.

And then there were the sleeves. Attached at the shoulder and wrist, they parted and draped in between, leaving the entirety of her arm exposed. She caught one grey-haired old trout frowning in disapproval and hid a smile. Good. I have their attention.

That was the goal of today’s excursion. If Renata Viraudax sat quietly in her townhouse waiting for Donaia to acknowledge her, she’d be easy to ignore. But if she made herself a public sensation, the Traementis would have to respond.

Besides, it was fun. Strolling the Rotunda in beautiful clothing, perusing the wares like she could afford to buy this whole place… if only it met her exacting standards. After a life on the streets, even a sip of this wine tasted sweet.

Renata made unimpressed noises at the perfume and wandered onward, attracting more eyes as she went. No one approached her, though—perhaps put off by the fact that she seemed to have her own personal escorting hawk.

She did her best to shed him. But no matter how long she perused wares and vocally dithered over whether they were the best the Gloria had to offer, Captain Serrado didn’t oblige her with his boredom so she could send him on his way. She was halfway around the Rotunda, contemplating increasingly absurd schemes for getting rid of him, when she caught sight of the next display.

Velvet panels formed a backdrop for beautiful, empty faces of filigree and stiffened silk. While the masks that rich Nadežrans wore when slumming on the Old Island and the Lower Bank mostly marked them out as targets for plucking, Ren had always loved the masks brought out during the Festival of Veiled Waters. When she was five, her mother had bought her one—just a cheap paper thing, but she’d treasured it like it was made of solid gold.

But Renata Viraudax knew nothing of Nadežran mask traditions. “How odd,” she said, drifting toward the display as if it held no particular allure. “I’ve never seen anything like this in Seteris.”

“That’s because Seteris doesn’t have Nadežra’s long and storied history with masks.”

The reply didn’t come from Captain Serrado. Behind Renata, Tess whimpered.

Tess liked a handsome man as much as the next person, but what really made her go faint was good tailoring. And the clothes of the man who had spoken were exquisite—even Ren could see that. Not innovative in the ways Tess could achieve, but the green wool of his coat was as soft as a carpet of stone moss, cut flawlessly so it didn’t wrinkle as he moved. His waistcoat was much darker than Liganti fashion favored, appearing black until it caught the light and flashed emerald, and his coat and collar points rose to his jaw without threatening to wilt. Renata’s gaze passed over an odd, iridescent spider pin clasped to his lapel, then snagged on the jagged scar ripping up the side of his neck, too high for even fine linens and high collars to entirely hide.

Ignoring Tess and Captain Serrado, the man stepped into the gap next to Renata. It would have felt invasive if he’d been looking at her, but his gaze was on the array of wares. “Masks are worn for many Nadežran festivals, and sometimes ordinary occasions, to sweeten the air and protect the skin. The Tyrant became quite attached to them in the latter stages of his… illness.” He gave a delicate shudder. “Even our most infamous outlaw, the Rook, is known for hiding his face. One can’t visit our fair delta and not acquire a mask.”

He plucked down one of lapis caught in stiffened gold lace, similar to the embroidery on Renata’s surcoat, and offered it to her. “Derossi Vargo. Apologies for my presumption, but I had to make the acquaintance of the most stylish woman to grace this year’s Gloria.”

The flattery was unsubtle, but delivered smoothly enough to charm, and Renata was just grateful someone had finally broken the hawk-shaped wall at her back.

Derossi Vargo. The name seemed nigglingly familiar, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t place it. It wasn’t a noble name, but he might be from one of the delta houses, the gentry of Nadežra.

She accepted the mask and held it against her face. “How is a visitor to know which one to buy?”

“Why, whichever one pleases you best and costs the most.”

Before Vargo could fetch down another, the shopkeeper hurried over. “There’s more than just beauty to be had here, alta,” she said, selecting a few other styles that complemented Renata’s coloring and ensemble. “My husband does the finest imbuing in Nadežra. Take this one.” She held up two circles of overlapping silver and gold. “It’ll keep your complexion dry in our humid air. Or here.” Up came a midnight-blue domino decked with shimmering onyx. “This will hide you from prying eyes on your way to an assignation. I’ve masks that’ll clear up your spots—not that you’ve any need for that—or that’ll protect you from the sick fogs that roll up from the Lower Bank.”

“Really,” Vargo murmured, reaching for that last one. “It fends off disease?”

Renata drifted away as the shopkeeper made improbable promises. The display was small—most of the focus in the Rotunda was on imported goods, not local products—and her wandering gaze alighted on a mask tucked into a bottom corner, as if the shopkeeper knew nobody was likely to want it.

Where her childhood mask had been clumsily painted with a rainbow of colors, this one was hammered prismatium, shimmering like the tail of a dreamweaver bird. The mask-maker had sculpted the metal into gentle waves, ebbing and flowing like the River Dežera. It wasn’t anything Renata Viraudax needed… but Ren wanted it so badly it took all her will not to let the yearning show.

“What’s caught your attention?” Vargo’s question was warm, amused, like they were old friends rather than acquaintances of mere moments. He drew close, peering over her shoulder. “Ah. That’s a very… Nadežran mask.”

“Vraszenian, you mean,” Captain Serrado muttered. He looked away when Vargo glanced over.

“I suppose you would know, Captain.” Vargo’s tone rippled like the prismatium of the mask, full of colors hidden just under the surface. The smile he turned on Renata was equally pleasant and enigmatic. “Do you like it?”

Just be Renata. It had sounded so easy when she was getting dressed this morning. In practice, keeping unwanted thoughts from welling up was proving far harder than she’d anticipated. “What makes it so Nadežran? Or Vraszenian—whichever.” She dismissed the quibble over terminology with a flutter of one hand.

If she’d wanted to persuade them she’d never been to Nadežra in her life, she couldn’t have chosen a better method. Both men bristled, brothers in indignation. Serrado might be a slip-knot, but his ancestry was as Vraszenian as they came, while Vargo looked like a typical Nadežran, mixed Vraszenian and Liganti blood—and neither of them appreciated being lumped in with the other.

Vargo’s indignation broke first, into rueful chuckles. He lifted the mask and turned it to admire the prismatium. Faint etching and the shape of the edges gave it the appearance of feathers. “Nadežran because the dreamweaver bird is a symbol of the city. They flock here every spring to mate, when we celebrate the Festival of Veiled Waters. Vraszenian because the Vraszenian people say they’re descended from those same birds, so they flock here as well.”

A muscle jumped in Serrado’s jaw, but he said nothing to correct the inaccuracy or half-veiled insult in Vargo’s description. Vraszenians did not consider dreamweavers their ancestors, but the symbol of one: Ižranyi, the youngest and most favored daughter of Ažerais, the goddess of their people. She and her siblings had founded the seven Vraszenian clans.

The Ižranyi clan was lost now, slaughtered centuries ago in a divine cataclysm that left their entire city a haunted ruin. But their emblem was still honored.

Taking the mask from Vargo, Renata held it up, comparing it against him. “It almost matches your spider pin! But not your coat, I fear.”

Fighting a smile, Vargo absently touched the pin as Renata settled the mask on her face and checked the shopkeeper’s mirror.

It was a mistake. Seeing the mask’s sculpted curve cradling the line of her jaw like a caress, Ren found herself completely unable to care about Tess’s budget and the limits of her forged letter of credit.

Her reflection assured that her yearning remained hidden, but nevertheless Vargo nodded. “I’ll buy it for you—if the alta will allow.” He lifted the mask from Renata’s face, his gloved fingers brushing her cheek in passing, and handed it to the shopkeeper for wrapping, along with the mask that kept away disease. “Call it a welcoming gift.”

Well, that solves the budget problem. “You don’t even know my name,” she said, smiling.

There was another scar through his brow, smaller than the one on his neck, that became visible when he arched it. Whoever Derossi Vargo was, he flung money around like a cuff and had the marks of a Lower Bank rat. He handed her the wrapped mask with a flourish. “There’s an obvious solution to that.”

In response, Renata swept him the most elegant curtsy she could in the confines of the stall, giving her name in a voice that carried to the onlookers. Vargo cocked his head and said, “Viraud—Oh! Number four, Via Brelkoja.”

A chill washed over her skin. How did he know her address?

“I believe I’m your new landlord,” he said, with a small bow. “I hope you’re finding the house suitable to your needs.”

That niggling sense of recognition flashed into clarity, and a sense of relief. She knew his name because she’d seen it on the papers she’d signed to lease her townhouse. “Ah, of course! Please forgive me—I should have known.” Passing the mask to Tess, she curtsied again. “Thank you, Master Vargo, for the gift. It seems I could have no more fitting memento of this city.”

Serrado was radiating disapproval like a blazing hearth. And it seemed Tess agreed with him, because she intervened. “Oh, alta, it’s that cold in here. I’ve your wrap for you.” She bundled Renata in an artful drape of silk, conveniently stepping in front of Vargo. “Do you wish to go back? I can ask the captain to call a chair.”

Go back? At this point that would be disastrous. Renata was here to make an impression on the great and powerful, and her first conversation of substance was with someone of no social standing, rich and charming though Vargo might be.

But she’d seen Letilia make enemies by giving people her back when she decided they weren’t important enough to merit her time. “Nonsense, Tess. Seterin winters are much colder than this.” She let the wrap slip down enough to show her bare shoulders—which had, after all, been Tess’s idea in the first place. “I’ve barely seen half the Gloria yet.”

As if sensing the dismissal, Vargo swept the skirts of his coat back and bowed to Renata. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. I hope our paths may cross again. Perhaps an occasion that allows you to wear your new mask? Alta.” After a brief hesitation, he nodded at Serrado as well. “Captain.”

A sigh escaped Tess as Vargo sauntered off, giving an excellent view of his broad shoulders and striking bootheels and swinging green coat.

Serrado, unfortunately, did not follow suit. He’d gotten his disapproval under control, his face once again a bland mask, avoiding the eye contact that would let Renata gracefully release him.

Sighing inwardly, she turned to face the remaining half circle of the Rotunda. She saw people murmuring behind their fans and gloves, trying with varying degrees of success to pretend they weren’t gossiping about her… and among them, moving toward her, a recognizable golden head.

“Cousin!” Leato Traementis was upon her, taking both her hands. It was impossible not to answer his grin with one of her own, even as Leato’s turned rueful. “Alta Renata, rather. But maybe someday soon—Grey! Lumen’s light, man, I haven’t seen you in forever. How do you know Alta Renata? Did Mother ask you to look after her?”

Renata kept her gaze on Leato, but in her peripheral vision she saw Captain Serrado stiffen.

Suddenly her oddly persistent shadow made a good deal more sense.

“Hello, Leato,” Serrado said. “No, the alta and I aren’t acquainted. I’m on duty and she seemed in need of an escort.” His bronze skin didn’t show blushes well, but Renata recognized the look he was giving Leato. She’d thrown just that sort of quelling glance at Tess when her sister said too much.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Serrado bowed, with military precision rather than Vargo’s swagger or Leato’s easy grace. “Alta Renata, I leave you in Altan Leato’s care.” Over the half-voiced protest from the Traementis heir, he said, “Enjoy the rest of the Gloria.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Captain,” she said, answering his precision with an excruciatingly correct curtsy. “It was most generous of you.”

As Leato gaped at Grey’s retreating back, Era Traementis came sweeping up behind her son. “Alta Renata,” she said. Her expression was cordial, but her words were too melodious to be anything other than a performance. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Your Gloria is the talk of the town,” Renata replied. “And now that I’m here, I can see why. Such a display! We have nothing like this at home. The goods for sale, certainly—but not this kind of event, bringing everyone together to set the tone for the upcoming season.”

“Yes, there are many things on display.” Donaia’s attention flicked briefly to Renata’s bare arms. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. The Gloria was Letilia’s favorite event as well.”

“That’s hardly a character flaw, Mother.” Leato shifted to Renata’s side, forming a wall of solidarity against Donaia’s disapproval. “Otherwise Giuna and I also bear the shame of enjoying it. Giuna, come meet Letilia’s daughter that I was telling you about.”

At Leato’s wave, the girl who’d been standing in Donaia’s shadow hesitantly stepped forward. She was dressed like her mother, in clothes more mature and restrained than someone her age should be wearing. Between that and her timidity, Renata had mistaken her for Donaia’s maid.

There was no missing the resemblance to Leato, however. Or to Letilia, at least as far as features went. Not with all her artifice could Letilia have made that tremulous smile and coltish curtsy seem genuine. “Alta Renata. I hope you aren’t finding Nadežra too strange.”

“Not strange so much as… different from how Mother described it.” She delivered her reply with a conspiratorial air, inviting Giuna to imagine the nature of the difference.

Giuna’s laugh was a startling sound, like finches taking wing. Leato joined in, and even Donaia’s lips curved in a reluctant smile. “Yes, I imagine she made most of it sound dreadful,” Giuna said. To Renata’s surprise, she nudged Leato out of the way so she could take Renata’s arm. “Why don’t we finish the Rotunda together and you can tell us how this is all hopelessly out of fashion already?”

She tilted her head close for an additional whisper as they began to stroll. “And maybe you can tell me what you were talking about with Master Vargo.”

So he was well-known, even in noble circles. I’m not the only one who leverages the appeal of good tailoring. “He was explaining Nadežran mask traditions to me. Then we realized he owns the house I’m renting, so he bought me a mask as a welcoming gift.”

“Yes, you’ll need a mask if you want to do anything interesting while you’re here. Mother won’t let me wear them outside of festivals.” Giuna sighed, more resigned than rebellious, and picked up a drape reminiscent of the one Renata wore. The wintergreen satin was embroidered with darting silver fish, and its fine weave slipped through her fingers. With another sigh, she carefully folded it and set it back on the display table. “Why did you come to Nadežra?”

Of course Donaia hadn’t said anything to her daughter about Renata’s hope for reconciliation. Donaia was close enough to overhear; should she press the issue? No—if Leato has irritated her by approaching me, I’ll gain more by playing her side.

And besides, if half the point of coming to the Gloria was to be seen, the other half was to start making connections with people outside House Traementis. “I was hoping to see the city, of course. Not just the places, but the people. Mother claimed to know everyone in her day, but I have no idea which names to attach to which faces.”

Sheltered she might be, but Giuna turned out to be a font of useful gossip, orienting Renata with the kinds of details Ren could never have picked up on her own. Donaia fell back, either satisfied that Renata wasn’t trying to suborn her daughter or aware that hovering made her look suspicious. Leato sauntered along with his hands in his pockets, the picture of an indulgent older brother.

It was only when Giuna was pointing out the eldest son of Eret Mettore Indestor that Leato intervened. He took a delicate sculpture of blown blue glass from Giuna’s hands and put it back on the table. “She doesn’t need to know Mezzan Indestor, and you shouldn’t know him, either. Not after what he did to that actor.”

“Actor?” Renata said, turning so she could study the man in question without being obvious. “Do share.”

Mezzan Indestor looked to be a few years older than Leato, with straw-blond hair and a slate-blue coat unsubtly brocaded with five-pointed stars. That was the emblem of the Cinquerat, where his father held the military Caerulet seat. But such stars were also associated with power and leadership… and therefore often worn by people who didn’t understand either.

Leato glanced back at Donaia—now occupied with perusing the glassware—then at Giuna. Renata cocked her head, letting a dangling curl brush her bare shoulder, and Leato gave in. “There was a theatrical that premiered a few weeks ago at the Theatre Agnasce—had Her Elegance’s stamp of approval and everything.” He nodded toward a steel-haired woman and her circle of admirers. Giuna had identified her earlier as Era Sostira Novrus, holder of the Argentet seat in the Cinquerat, overseeing the city’s cultural affairs. Among other things, that meant she ran the office that licensed theatrical performances—and now that Leato had drawn the connection, Renata noted Mezzan Indestor glaring at the older woman, face sour like he’d been force-fed an unripened plum.

Leato went on. “She must have wanted a chance to undercut Eret Indestor, because the show wasn’t subtle in its mockery. There was a whole monologue about Caerulet encouraging graft in the Vigil. When he heard it, Mezzan jumped onto the stage and challenged the lead actor to a duel.”

Renata said, “Perhaps I misunderstand Nadežran etiquette and law, but I thought civilian commoners weren’t permitted to carry swords.”

“You don’t misunderstand,” Leato said grimly. “The actor had a stage sword and no real knowledge of how to use it.”

“That poor man,” Giuna whispered. “Is he…”

Leato shook his head. “Even imbued medicines and a healing numinat weren’t enough. He’s alive, but they say his face is ruined.”

Edging closer to her brother’s side—and putting him between her and Mezzan Indestor—Giuna said, “Someone should do something.”

“Who? What? Mezzan’s father runs the Vigil and grants the charters for every mercenary company and private guard in Nadežra. You think Eret Indestor is going to let anything touch his son?”

“Leato, that’s enough,” Donaia cut in briskly. “You’ll give Alta Renata the impression that the only law that rules here is power.”

If it weren’t for years of practice at forcing smiles at people like Era Traementis, Ren’s anger might have caused her to lose character entirely. Power was the only law in Nadežra, and the Traementis knew it too well to pretend otherwise. The only saving grace was that all three were clearly united in loathing Mezzan—because that meant Ren didn’t have to mouth words of approval just to continue ingratiating herself with them.

“How dreadful,” she murmured, trying to achieve the disinterested condemnation of someone unfamiliar with the parties involved. “Is the theatrical still playing? I’ve half a mind to go see it.”

“Sadly, no,” Leato said. “They couldn’t find another actor willing to take the role, so the backers pulled it to save face.”

“Are we talking about The Thief of the Old Island? Dreadful production. Mezzan did Nadežra a favor, getting it shut down. I don’t understand what Her Elegance was thinking, approving it.”

The woman who spoke reminded Renata powerfully of Letilia. Not in appearance—her hair was pale gold instead of honey brown, her face all sharp features in a heart-shaped frame—but she shared the same air of ruthless social dominance, always alert for the scent of a competitor.

Letilia, however, wouldn’t have shown nearly so much care to the elderly woman in the wheeled chair beside her. “You agree, don’t you, Grandmama?” the young woman asked. “The play was dreadful, you said.”

She’d pitched her voice to carry, and still a moment passed before the confusion cleared from the older woman’s oddly unlined face. “Ah yes. That thing. Dreadful. Couldn’t understand a word of it. Why are you bringing it up?”

“No reason.” Smiling, the young woman transferred her attention. “Giuna, dearest! If I’d known you were coming to the Gloria, I would have included you in our party. Grandmama has arranged for coffee and cakes later. Grandmama, surely room can be made to include Alta Giuna and her family?”

It was hard to tell if the old woman didn’t hear or was deliberately ignoring her granddaughter in favor of staring down Renata. Despite being in a chair, she managed to convey an impression of looking very much down.

Donaia stepped in before things grew more uncomfortable. “Alta Renata, may I present Alta Carinci and her granddaughter Sibiliat, heir of House Acrenix. Altas, this is Renata Viraudax, recently of Seteris.”

Renata’s smile as she curtsied was as much for Donaia’s words as the people in front of her. Recently of Seteris—not a visitor from Seteris. Whether she realized it or not, Donaia was beginning to resign herself to her “niece’s” presence in the city.

And meeting the Acrenix women was a social coup. Their family had never held a seat in the Cinquerat, but their head, Eret Ghiscolo Acrenix, was the most influential noble in the city outside that council of five. “I’m delighted,” Renata said, quite sincerely. “I understand from my mother that your house is one of the oldest in Nadežra.”

“Mother?” Alta Carinci squinted at Renata, as much as a woman could squint when her skin seemed stretched taut over bone. “Ha! You said she couldn’t possibly look familiar,” she crowed, her bent finger pointing first at Sibiliat, then redirecting toward Renata. “She’s the image of Lecilla, except better-mannered and with a nicer voice. No wonder you look sour in the puss, eh?” That last was directed at Donaia, accompanied by a smirk.

Donaia’s expression grew even more brittle. “I don’t know what you—”

“Clearly, you don’t. Letting your poor niece wander alone. What were you thinking, allowing her to talk to that Vargo character?”

“Grandmama!” Sibiliat’s expression of horror was a little too delighted to be earnest.

Carinci was clearly the sort of woman who reveled in the freedoms granted by power, wealth, and age. “I’m not saying he isn’t pretty to look at, but you can’t wash off that Lower Bank dirt, no matter how hard you scrub.”

“Your pardon, alta,” Renata said, breaking in. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. It’s true my mother is Letilia—Lecilla—who was Gianco’s sister, but she’s no longer in the Traementis family register. So I am not Era Traementis’s niece.”

She let a touch of regret flavor the words. Carinci scoffed. “Registered or not, unless your mother is here with you—no? Of course she isn’t—then Donaia should be looking after you and who you associate with. Gossip leaves dirt on everything around it.”

“How fortunate, then, that Renata is joining us for dinner next week,” Donaia snapped. “I don’t need you, Alta Carinci, to remind me of my duty to my family—even those who aren’t in the register.”

Renata smothered a triumphant smile. Her flirtation with Vargo, though a misstep, had transformed into useful leverage. Where sweet words failed, public pressure succeeded. “Era Traementis has been very kind to me,” she hastened to assure Carinci. “The fault lies with my mother, and with myself. I don’t know my way around Nadežra and its people.”

“Then let me be your guide.” Sibiliat reached for her hands, and Renata controlled the urge to pull back. She’d seen Letilia engage in this kind of fight often enough to recognize it for what it was: claws sheathed in velvet. “We must make sure you have good stories to take back to Seteris.”

Want me out of your city, do you? Better and better. Judging by Donaia’s behavior, she didn’t like the Acrenix women—which meant she would like watching Renata threaten Sibiliat’s dominance of the social scene.

But Sibiliat was too clever to give Renata her back. As if an idea had just come to her, she made a small, delighted sound. “Leato! A few of us are going on a ramble tonight. You simply must join, and bring your cousin along.” Leaning close to Renata—a shift that emphasized her advantage in height—she said, “There’s a new card parlour on the Old Island that does pattern readings.”

Giuna perked at Sibiliat’s suggestion. “I’ve never had my pattern read!”

Sibiliat replied before Leato or Donaia could, stroking Giuna’s sleeve. “Not this time, little bird. It’s too rough.”

“I’m willing if Alta Renata is,” Leato said. “You don’t have anything like Vraszenian pattern reading in Seteris, do you?”

“I’ve never even heard of it. Is it like astrology?”

Carinci’s nose wrinkled as if she smelled something foul on the wheel of her chair. “Nothing nearly so sensible. A pack of cards, and some bent old Vraszenian crow claiming the random chance of their arrangement somehow reveals your fate. Utter nonsense. I can’t believe you would waste your time with such things, Sibiliat.”

“It’s for fun, Grandmama. Didn’t you do things for fun when you were our age?”

“I wish I got to do things for fun,” Giuna grumbled, one finger running over the glass sculpture Leato had made her put down. Her voice was soft enough that Renata suspected nobody was meant to hear.

The crystal decorations, the scarf: It was painfully clear that Giuna craved something pretty for herself, and equally clear that her mother had tied the Traementis purse strings tight. It seemed that in all the years since Letilia ran away, Donaia hadn’t changed a bit.

As Giuna reluctantly drew her hand back, Renata plucked the sculpture from the table and selected a green one to match, handing the pieces to the merchant. “Wrap them separately, please.” To Giuna she said, “Those are lovely, aren’t they? The green one is just what the mantel in my parlour needs, and I’m sure you can find a suitable place for the blue one.”

Donaia caught the trailing end of her words and pivoted sharply, mouth open to protest. But it was too late; the merchant had placed the blue crystal in a protective case and wrapped that in an elegant fold of fabric, and Renata presented it to a dumbstruck Giuna. Donaia could hardly refuse the gift now—not without breaking her daughter’s heart and creating a scene in front of the Acrenix women.

Renata felt a warm glow of triumph as the latter moved on a few minutes later, Carinci making no secret of her need to be seen speaking to other people. She’d attracted attention, made progress against Donaia, and now in place of a forbidding Vigil captain she had Giuna stuck to her side like a grateful burr.

Leato led them through the rest of the Gloria, even after Donaia quit the field, murmuring that she needed to rest her feet and have a warm drink. He introduced Renata to people along the way, then stayed with her as she backtracked to purchase perfume, gloves, a kitten-soft cloak. Tess accepted them all without complaint, though Ren could practically hear her crying, The budget!

The budget would survive. Some of these things would be useful in her masquerade, and the rest—like the glass bauble—she intended to pawn. The point was to be seen buying them, so that everyone would know Renata Viraudax had both money and good taste.

When Tess’s arms were full, Renata mimed exaggerated exhaustion. “If I’m to be any use at all tonight, I should go home and rest. Where should I be and when?”

“The foot of the Lacewater Bridge in Suncross. Is second earth too early?”

Renata shook her head. Second earth gave her roughly two hours after sunset. Hopefully enough time for Tess to put together a suitable ensemble.

Leato’s next instructions put that fear to rest. “Wear a mask, but don’t dress too finely; Lacewater isn’t the kind of place you want to draw attention to your wealth.”

Lacewater. Unease roiled in her gut, like Ondrakja’s hand curling languidly around her jaw before digging sharp nails into flesh.

After five years away, Ren was going home.

The Rotunda, Eastbridge: Suilun 4

Grey lost sight of Alta Renata and the Traementis family after they parted ways with the Acrenix. By then he could see the humor in the whole farce. Bad enough having to tolerate Derossi Vargo, when a year ago Grey would have had ample cause to arrest him. But then being caught out by Leato! In the space of a single minute, Grey had blown his cover to Renata and thrown away an opportunity to see his friend. Those had been too scarce, these past months.

He shifted his weight to relieve the ache in his back from standing too long on hard marble and tried not to track the passage of the sun across the ribs of the dome, waiting for this interminable day to end. He’d had to trade several favors to get his unit assigned to the Rotunda; soft duties like this were much in demand. But Donaia had assured Grey that if the daughter was like the mother, Alta Renata would be at the Autumn Gloria.

Perhaps she did resemble her mother in that respect, but Renata Viraudax hadn’t been what he’d expected. Beautiful and elegant, yes—but she was also shrewder than she let on, plucking the strings of the Gloria like an expert harpist.

And he unnerved her. Not as a man or as a Vraszenian; it was the unease of someone being watched by a hawk. She’d hidden it well, even tried to divert him by flirting… but he’d once hidden that same unease, back when he and Kolya first arrived in Nadežra.

Were Donaia’s suspicions correct? Or was something else going on?

The approach of Breccone Indestris pulled Grey from his musings. “Captain,” the altan said, his voice round and polished with self-importance. “I’ve noticed Era Novrus’s wife acting strangely. Someone suggested she may have taken aža before coming here. Please see that she’s quietly escorted away before she causes an embarrassment. I’d hate for someone to have to bring her in for causing a public disturbance.”

Djek. Could this day get any worse? Breccone had been born into House Simendis, but he’d married into Indestor. Clearly, he was doing his part to further Indestor’s ongoing feud with Novrus, their rivals in the Cinquerat. Petty interference at the Gloria might be less destructive than burning each other’s warehouses in Dockwall, but at least Grey could do something useful about the latter; here he had no way to avoid being used as a tool against House Novrus. “Yes, Altan Breccone. At once.”

Breccone left without waiting to see his orders carried out. Grey nodded at four of his lieutenants who’d been idling nearby—delta gentry sons and daughters who might have a chance of convincing the wife of a Cinquerat seat to leave quietly.

When he’d finished dispatching them, he saw Era Traementis beckoning to him from the shelter of a pillar.

She obviously didn’t want to be seen talking to him. Grey drifted over and took up his watchful stance again, close enough to speak quietly and be heard. “My apologies, era. I should have taken steps to avoid Leato.”

Her sigh was heavy enough to carry over the Rotunda’s noise. “No, I should have kept a better rein on him. He’s missed you lately.”

There was nothing Grey could say to that, and she saved him from needing to. “Have you learned anything about the Viraudax girl?”

“The house she’s renting belongs to Vargo. I don’t think they’re colluding, though; she was surprised to meet him. He pretended the same, but he’s much too well-informed not to recognize her as one of his tenants. I’m not sure why he feigned ignorance.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Donaia’s lip curl. “Because he’s too crooked to see straight. But Vargo isn’t connected to—”

She stopped short of finishing the sentence. To Indestor. Grey left that part unspoken as well. “She can afford to rent from him, so clearly she isn’t hurting for money.”

“And yet she can’t seem to afford enough fabric for sleeves.”

Across the Rotunda, he watched as Renata pointed at something on a distant table, that drape of fabric curving gracefully beneath her bare arm. She was taking every opportunity to draw attention to her daring style—to great effect. “I imagine Vargo vetted her finances thoroughly before renting the house to her, but I can still check with the usual banking families and see where her money is coming from. In the meanwhile, I thought I might hire a few street children to watch the house. Keep an eye on where she goes, and who comes to visit her.”

“After today? Half of Nadežra will.”

“Yes, but there’s still value in knowing who she sees, and who she turns away.” He watched as Renata handed another package to her dowdy servant. With the coloring and accent of Ganllech making the girl nearly as foreign as Renata, she shouldn’t have been so unremarkable. It was as though her dull uniform was a deliberate blind to turn focus toward her stylish mistress.

Well, Grey had noticed her. “I’ll also have someone look into the maid and ask around Little Alwydd for any relations she might have.” Ranieri would suit the task. He was Lower Bank born, which would raise fewer questions if he went nosing about. And it would make use of those looks of his, which were usually more hindrance than help. “She’ll know things about her mistress that nobody else will.”

Donaia sniffed. “If she’s half as good as Colbrin, you’ll get more from a stone.”

“There are few servants in this world as good as Colbrin. And few women who can inspire loyalty like you.”

He tipped his head at her startled look. “You… stop flattering me, you rapscallion,” she sputtered, but a flush warmed her cheeks, and he’d managed to chase the frown away.

“Apologies for my presumption, era.” A squabbling flock of nobles and hawks was approaching the gate. At their center was a dazed-looking Benvanna Novri and her furious wife. “And apologies for having to cut this conversation short. Duty calls.”

Many duties. Between his assigned work for the Vigil, Donaia’s commission, the problem of the missing children…

Grey sighed. It was going to be a long night.