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

“I’ve seen the numinat used to make ash. Or the remnants of it, anyway,” Vargo said. “And at first I didn’t understand what it was used for. I’ve been studying the traces for a while, trying to reconstruct the figure. I was planning on coming to tell you, but then the riots started, and…” He shrugged.

She accepted the lie. “And Breccone?”

“The linework on the remnants has the same feathering,” Vargo said. She was a good enough inscriptor to understand why that was evidence—but it was a long way from understanding his point to doing anything about it. Vargo locked his hands behind his back and waited.

Tanaquis scooped the wax into a decorative bowl, leaving a clean sweep through the dust of the tea table, then stood silent, pondering the bright wood. “These won’t prove anything about ash,” she finally said. “But they’ll be enough to arrest and question Breccone about his involvement in the riots.”

Vargo’s guess had been right. Fienola’s mind went to numinatria first, second, and third; while she wasn’t ignorant of politics, those ran a distant fourth to her real concern.

But unlike some of the other Cinquerat seats, Iridet didn’t have its own armed force, and Indestor would close ranks to protect Breccone. “If you need help, I can—”

She held up a dusty hand. “I believe Captain Serrado can be trusted to do his duty, and he’s seconded to me for the investigation. Good evening, Master Vargo.”

He swallowed his protest. Even if he came along, Fienola was hardly going to let him interrogate Indestris mid-arrest. He’d have to arrange something later—through official channels or otherwise.

For now, he accepted her dismissal. Vargo saw himself out and went home to Eastbridge, where he could at least scrub himself properly clean.

When he saw a runner race off as his sedan chair approached the final bridge to Isla C aprila, he sighed, knowing what awaited him—but to his surprise, although Sedge and Varuni were on his doorstep, neither of them launched into a lecture about him vanishing. Sedge jerked his chin for Vargo to step aside as Varuni paid the chair bearers.

The fist reeked of filth from the riots, but Vargo held his breath long enough to listen as Sedge told him, “I found your missing saltpeter. It’s in a chandler’s shop in Grednyek Close, northern part of Seven Knots. Chased one of the agitators in there. Weren’t out in the open—they en’t that dumb—but after I knocked him out, I saw. Except it en’t saltpeter no more.”

Vargo didn’t need him to say any more. “It’s black powder. Let’s go.”

He paid a skiff to carry them around the Point to the Lower Bank. Despite his best efforts to go on questioning Sedge, he soon ran out of things to ask, and Varuni took full advantage of the remaining river trip to let him know what she thought of assholes who pretended they were going to stay safe and sound and instead ran off the moment her back was turned. Vargo entertained brief visions of having the skiffer assassinated so he couldn’t gossip about the conversation with his friends later.

But once they reached the Lower Bank, he had bigger worries. The Vigil was still out in force, patrolling to stop anyone who thought to use the darkness to start more trouble, and clumps of Vraszenians were doing the same. Their trio had to take a circuitous path, hiding more than once, before they got to the shop where Sedge had found the powder.

It was empty.

Not totally cleared out. They’d left behind the bronze mortar and pestle, probably because those were too heavy to move, and the sieves they’d used to corn the powder. But the powder itself was gone.

Sedge let out a stream of curses. “I swear it was here at first earth. Ladnej and Smuna saw it, too—”

“Then maybe you should have left Ladnej and Smuna to keep an eye on it,” Vargo snapped.

“We was trying to find you! And to keep the fucking city from burning down! How much more d’you—” Sedge clamped his jaw shut on the rest of it, breathing hard.

“So now instead of burning down, it’ll just blow up!”

Vargo might have said more, but a scuff of Varuni’s boot on the floorboards stopped him. Truly amazing, how much disapproval that woman could imbue into a blank stare.

Grinding his teeth, Vargo turned to the window, cupping his eyes to the dirty glass pane. An ostretta on the corner seemed closed, but slivers of light glimmered through the boards nailed over its windows. The rest of the square was full of fog and empty of traffic. Intermittent oil lamps failed to provide much illumination, their light a dim nimbus smothered by the mists.

First earth might have seen the lamplighters go through, if they’d been delayed by the unrest.

“Send fists to question the people living around here, anyone who was in that ostretta, and the lamplighters. Someone had to move it. I want to know who. And where.”

The Aerie and Eastbridge: Cyprilun 34

Grey didn’t even make it to the Aerie steps before Fienola’s runner found him. He kept his expression blank as he read her note, and then as he met the curious gazes of his squad.

“Kaineto. Take Levinci and Ecchino and prepare the reports for Commander Cercel. Once that’s done, the rest of you are relieved save Ranieri, Tarknias, and Dverli—you’re with me.”

The constables singled out didn’t even try to hide their groans, or the jealous looks they threw at their squadmates, or the death glares aimed at Grey’s back. Ranieri matched Grey’s stride as they headed toward the Sunrise Bridge.

“Captain, we’ve been thick in the mud all day,” he said, keeping his voice low. With none of the lieutenants there, he was stepping up to do that job, speaking on behalf of his fellow constables. He’d make a better lieutenant than Kaineto—if only I could promote him. “We’d been thinking we were finally done, what with everything calming down.”

Ranieri must