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

warp and weft of that fabric was looser. By playing the role of Arenza Lenskaya, Ren could wheedle information out of the local-born Vraszenians, whose first question wasn’t Who are your people? Some, like Ondrakja, were part of the criminal underworld; the rest just kept a finger on the pulse of the gangs for their own protection. They knew who held what territory and did what kind of work, and who was in charge—and they knew Vargo.

He ran a large confederation of knots across the Lower Bank, formed from the Blue Cobs, the Leek Street Cutters, the Roundabout Boys, and a variety of other gangs. Many were smugglers, as Donaia had said, slipping goods past the customs officials and selling them at a cut rate. A year ago Vargo had moved to Eastbridge on the Upper Bank and started buying up buildings and land in his knots’ territories, putting his money into legitimate businesses.

But none of that told her whether his plan for the river charter was something House Traementis should back. If she couldn’t answer that question, she couldn’t suggest that Donaia make her an advocate. And she needed some kind of leverage to continue her progress—not to mention some kind of income, so she wouldn’t run through her letter of credit before she got access to the house’s accounts.

Working as a patterner gave her both. According to street gossip, three years ago a szorsa had warned Nikory not to trust his ladylove. He didn’t listen, and got his tongue split when she reported him to the office of Argentet in the Cinquerat for seditious talk. Since then he’d consulted patterners on a regular basis. If Ren had hooked him, she could have used that to pry all manner of secrets out.

But the Masks had shown one mercy: Serrado hadn’t recognized her. Dressed in full, kilted skirts with a sash belt and a shoulder-buttoned shirt, face made up to emphasize her Vraszenian features instead of the Liganti side, she’d been right in front of him and he hadn’t realized it.

Ren’s heart was finally slowing down. She cursed the money she’d left behind—undoubtedly gone by now. She’d been hoping to use it to get Tess a birthing-day gift without touching the budget, but now she’d have to nick something. And thanks to Serrado, the mark she’d spent half the day waiting for would never approach her again. Conning Nikory had been her best plan for getting information on Vargo’s other business dealings. Now she’d have to risk something more dangerous.

Ren exhaled slowly. The sun was setting, but the life of the street continued: a ribbon seller with her stick full of colorful wares, a woman carrying a screaming child, a costermonger with a barrow of less-than-fresh mussels.

This used to be her world. Five years in Ganllech couldn’t erase that, and neither could Renata Viraudax.

Out here, she knew exactly which risks to take.

Pushing off the wall, Ren straightened her disguise and set out through the growing gloom.

Froghole, Lower Bank: Suilun 24

All the rookeries clinging to the Lower Bank stank of waste and disease, but the bend that cradled Froghole captured that stink and fermented it into a fetid wine. The taste of it rolled thick over Vargo’s tongue as he crossed a crumbling bridge into the bowels of the rookery. He tugged his cowl—imbued against smells—over his face and wished he’d brought his newest mask instead. The fists riding in his wake had to make do with kerchiefs and scarves.

A river mist had risen as night descended, the intermittent fish-oil lanterns painting it a dingy yellow. It hid the sight of their passage, but not the sound of their boots tromping. Only the rats failed to scurry into the shadows. The true masters of Froghole, they were.

When Vargo had been a boy, flea infested and rat bitten as any gutter-rutting cur, escaping the rookeries had seemed an impossible dream. Every return was a reminder that there was no waking up from reality.

Shaking off the weight of past memories, Vargo spoke over his shoulder. “Which depot got hit?”

Varuni, his Isarnah bodyguard, had the build of a pit bull and the determination to match. She took the task of keeping him informed as seriously as she took her job of protecting him—or rather, her people’s investment in him. “The one on Glusky Lane. The old lace mill.”

Vargo’s step faltered. He’d mapped Froghole into his soul through days of hunger and nights of fear. But if he had a fondness for any squat from those days, it’d be the old lace mill. Hadn’t it been his refuge when he’d no hope left but to die?

It didn’t matter that Vargo had retired the mill to become just another link in his aža smuggling chain. It was his. And he was going to end whoever had poached it.

Nikory and Orostin stood outside, waiting for his arrival. Rot had overtaken the mill in the years since Vargo moved to less unsavory headquarters. Someone had tacked thin leather hides, checkered with mildew, over the places where the boards had rotted away.

“Who’s on this patch?” Vargo asked softly. The decay was one thing, impossible to fight in sinking Froghole, but his people knew better than to let thieves slip through.

An uneasy look passed between Nikory and Orostin. “Hraček, before he died,” Orostin said. “Been unstable round here since then.”

Hraček, who’d been drugged by someone while Vargo plied Renata Viraudax with spiced chocolate. By the time Vargo had arrived, Hraček had been too far gone to talk. Not from the drug, but from the wounds covering him from scalp to heel, ragged slices shredding his flesh into strips. He’d struggled too much for anyone to treat them before he bled out.

The only thing that kept Vargo from punching the wall was the possibility that it might collapse under the blow and bring the roof down with it. Over two weeks since Hraček’s death, and all he had was a corpse and questions. And now