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

few days,” she said, setting the basket on the table and the bucket to warm by the coals.

Ren stiffened. “What is that?”

“Just bread.” Tess pulled out a loaf still dusted in flour and waved it to show it was safe. “From the bakery down the way.”

Turning, she started filling the empty breadbox. “I happened into the baker’s boy the other day, and we got to talking. Well, not boy. Man. Son. And he was asking how their shop might get the alta’s custom, and before I knew it he was promising to bring by samples. I told him it wasn’t likely and about your delicate digestion and particular tastes and all, but…”

Tess was babbling. Tess only babbled when she was nervous, or when she was excited about a design. She seemed to realize it as well. She turned, leaning back against the table, lip buttoned by her teeth. “I didn’t give anything away. It would have been odd if I hadn’t talked to him. And rude.”

Ren exhaled slowly. “No, it is all right. I am just cautious having people around here.” The fastest way for her masquerade to fall apart would be if someone realized Alta Renata was sleeping on the kitchen floor.

Slumping dramatically, Tess placed a hand over her heart. “There’s a relief. Now I can be glad he’s given our purses a bit of rest. Into the chair with you, and let’s get that stuff off your face.” Tess grabbed a cloth and dunked it into the still-cold water, then tossed it and a cake of soap to Ren. Perching on her stool, she took out a thumb knife and started picking the copper lace off the bandeau.

Someday I’ll be able to afford hot water. Ren sighed and rubbed the soapy cloth over her face, wiping away the mask of Renata Viraudax.

Then she paused, looking at the residue on the fabric. “Tess… I need something tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

So much for giving our purses a rest. “Go and buy more of the imbued face powder. But this time in a darker shade.”

5

The Face of Ages

The Shambles, Lower Bank: Suilun 24

Grey’s ambushers weren’t as stealthy as they thought. He marked three trailing him and one running ahead as soon as he crossed the Uc a Obrt into the Shambles. As he made his way through the warren of islets, he caught flickers of movement along the edges of roofs, and when he entered his destination—an alley strangled between two tenements—he spotted an elbow not quite tucked out of sight behind a pile of broken crates.

He continued on as though he’d seen nothing. If he spooked them now, he might never get another chance. And he could take care of himself.

Especially when some of his ambushers didn’t even come up to his hip.

A shrill “Get him!” sounded the charge. Howling feral, the street children leapt down from rooftops and surged up from gutters, wielding sticks and cobbles and the occasional rusty knife. Grey leapt back, dodging a few desperate swings from a particularly ferocious boy before twisting the knife away and stabbing it into the mold-softened boards of the alley wall, too high for the kid to reach. Better hawks than him had wound up with lockjaw after failing to appreciate the dangers of a rusty knife.

At least they weren’t trying to kill him. As the disarmed boy fell back, the rest pressed forward, herding him against the brothel wall that formed the back of the alley. Grey let himself be herded. He’d rather not have them on all sides of him, and if things got too dangerous, he had enough advantage in weight to just bull his way clear.

But escaping now would undo the work of the past two weeks. Hunting down clues about the boy who’d said he couldn’t sleep, chasing rumors about other missing street children, hearing one name over and over again: Arkady Bones. Not a threat, but a protector. Arkady was organizing the child gangs. Arkady would keep them safe.

Arkady could be found in Splinter Alley, in the Shambles.

Grey had expected a challenge, not a nipper-cheeked ambush. Better to end this farce before someone got hurt. “I wish not to make trouble. I came only to see Arkady Bones.” He dropped into his natural accent, easy as sinking bare feet into river mud. He’d donned his own clothes as well: loose trousers, wide sash binding his waist, high boots and collar, his black panel coat lightened by colorful, looping embroidery that bore little resemblance to the geometric shapes preferred by the Liganti. Only his cropped hair marked him as anything but river-born Vraszenian. He’d erased all signs of the hawk.

A hard-edged voice cut through the whispers of distrust. “What’s an old uncle like you want with her?” One of the smaller kids shoved through the mob, spindle thin and brown from head to heel, her eyes snapping with scorn, like a sparrow with a grudge.

She had to be a favorite in Arkady’s gang; the other kids made way with as much alacrity as a flight of hawks for their commander. Grey sized up her jutted chin and scab-knuckled fists, half hidden by the wide cuffs of a pilled woolen coat, and decided that straight talk might be the only virtue this girl appreciated.

“Kids are going missing. The ones who come back die from lack of sleep. I want to know why, so I can stop it.”

The girl crossed her arms and flicked a disdainful glance over him. Not a sparrow, Grey decided. A rooster. One bred to fight.

“Right. I’m listening.”

Grey blinked. She couldn’t mean… “I would prefer directly with Arkady to deal.”

“Yeah. And I said I’m listening. Who’s talking?”

The girl facing off against him had all the tattered authority and bluster of a knot leader… but she couldn’t be more than twelve years old.

“Grey Szerado.” He fought the urge to hunker down to her level, suspecting that would only get him a fist in his face. “A few ideas I have