The Mask of Mirrors, M. Carrick; [best books to read in your 20s .txt] 📗

both of us being silly, and the world’s falling apart too fast for that. Of course all the attention’s on you—and all the risk. I wouldn’t want that for a seat on the Cinquerat and free run of Vargo’s warehouses. But here’s me weeping because you’re doing what you ought and the plan’s working as we intended.”

Not at all as they intended. If this con was supposed to win them safety, it had failed beyond comprehension… but Ren understood what she meant. Tess couldn’t handle the sort of scrutiny Renata Viraudax attracted. Ren could—as long as she had Tess at her side.

Someone in Little Alwydd had already cleaned up Tess’s injuries, but Ren got the fire started, warmed a little water, and washed her sister’s face again, wiping away the marks of the tears. They still had some of the imbued ointments Vargo had sent over after the Night of Hells; she daubed those along the cut and over the goose egg on Tess’s forehead, with all the delicacy she used to use when picking pockets. There wasn’t any food but stale bread, but Ren soaked it in the last of Eret Extaquium’s cloying wine and gave it to Tess to eat.

Instead of eating, Tess stared at the bread, fingers curled around it like she was cradling a wounded bird.

Bread. Probably the remains of Pavlin’s last basket. Before Ren could snatch away her mistake, Tess whispered, “What do I do if I see him again? I really… I thought…”

And then, quiet enough that it hovered on the edge of sound: “I liked him.”

A life full of lies, and Tess thought she’d found a truth she could hold on to. A truth just for herself.

Ren sat on the floor next to her and tipped her head onto Tess’s shoulder. “I know.”

Upper Bank and Lower Bank: Cyprilun 34

All noble betrothal agreements were posted in the Tuatium in the Pearls until the wedding took place. It took only a brief glance at the Coscanum-Indestor scroll for Vargo to confirm his suspicions, and only a moderately inflated bribe after that to learn where Meda Fienola lived.

“Breccone Indestris,” he said without preamble when she came to the door.

“I… I beg your pardon?” She glanced past him, but between the mist and the late hour, there was little to see. “Master Vargo?” Her wrinkled nose was all the mirror Vargo needed to tell him that, despite Alsius’s assurances, a quick change and a bucket wash did not in fact leave him looking “perfectly presentable.”

Too late to fix that now. He had to convince a cuff to turn against one of her own, on evidence barely more substantial than fog. “Breccone Simendis Indestris is behind the ash production.”

At least it made her forget his appearance. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have this discussion on my front step,” she said, swinging the door wider.

Vargo followed her to a dusty parlour smelling vaguely of damp. The only indication that it ever saw use was the numinat that flared to life when the door closed behind them, bathing the room in steady light.

Fienola didn’t offer him a seat or something to drink. Her mind was on other matters. “What makes you think Breccone has anything to do with ash?”

Her use of his unadorned name wasn’t encouraging. Breccone might belong to House Indestor now, but he was the grandnephew of Utrinzi Simendis—which was to say Iridet, which was to say Tanaquis’s boss. Just because Nadežra’s elite tracked kinship through registers and numinatria didn’t mean blood lost all meaning for them.

Fishing in his pocket, he drew out the waxy remains of the foci and scattered them across the tea table at his hip. The scent of juniper filled the room.

“You’ve heard about the riots on the Lower Bank today? They were exacerbated by numinata. I was able to neutralize most of them—I hope. I suspect Altan Breccone intended for them to be destroyed in the chaos, or else he would go back to erase them before anyone could get a good look, but the unrest calmed more quickly than anyone could have guessed.” Quickly enough that it took Vargo by surprise. He’d have to see if Iascat was open to another assignation; the Novrus heir might know what had transformed his aunt into an avatar of Quarat’s own generosity.

He added, “That wax carries the same scent as the wax Indestris used for the Coscanum-Indestor betrothal, and the chop used to stamp it is the same style.”

Fienola began examining each focus in turn. Her fingers were gloved only in chalk and ink stains, and Vargo’s own gloves were lost somewhere in the muck of the Uča Obliok, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“These do smell like his,” she admitted, picking out some of the larger pieces and fitting them together like a puzzle. “And Breccone does prefer the Muinam style for his chops. Thinks that overwrought complexity equals power.”

Vargo snorted reflexively, and Fienola laughed instead of frowning at his disrespect. ::I do like her,:: Alsius said.

Shut up. Her opinions on numinatrian styles wouldn’t be worth river mud if she wasn’t willing to help them. He played his last card. “There was a seventh numinat. And it was affecting the crowd’s emotions.”

Fienola’s hand flattened on the table, scattering the pieces. “Breccone scribed a numinat that drew on eisar?”

::Marry this girl.::

I’m not your proxy, old man. But Vargo was impressed, too. Only scholars like Alsius knew much about eisar—spirits linked with human emotions—and even then, “much” wasn’t very much. “You might ask him about that once he’s in custody. Along with how he did it, since the focus was blank.” If Vargo could have spared the time, he would have arranged to ambush and interrogate Breccone himself before reporting the man. But with the Lower Bank still smoldering, he didn’t dare wait.

“Yes. Of course.” Fienola absently flipped the largest piece of wax between her fingers as she thought. “I see your point regarding the riot. But what makes you think this