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

On the surface, nothing seemed amiss. Colbrin invited her to have a seat in one of the heavy, antique chairs, promising that Era Traementis would be with her shortly, and offering to bring her warmed wine. Renata accepted, grateful she wouldn’t have to choke down more coffee, then realizing too late that it might be more of the vile mess Eret Extaquium had sent her. But by then Colbrin had shut the door, and she was alone.

Had Donaia discovered Leato’s lie about the night of the Extaquium party? But surely Leato would be the one taken to task for that. And why would Donaia summon Renata to the study instead of the salon?

Ondrakja had called it “feeling the currents,” the instinct that guided Ren in knowing how to manipulate people, when to press and when to back off, what bait they would rise to and what would lay their fears to rest.

It told her now that something had gone awry.

She stood in the center of the carpet, eyes half-closed, mind racing over all the factors. Not Vargo; she’d been preparing to give Donaia her pitch for why the man’s charter was worth backing, but hadn’t done it yet. Not any kind of offense to Leato or Giuna. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about Letilia in the last several days, so it couldn’t be any error there; Donaia would have called her in sooner if so. Had the damned woman written to Seteris? Gotten a reply saying there was no Letilia there, that House Viraudax had never heard of anyone named Renata?

The bottom dropped out of Ren’s stomach. Writing to Seteris.

House Pattumo. Her Mask-cursed bankers, who should have taken twice or three times as long to find out there was a problem with her letter of credit.

It wasn’t a disaster yet. The advantage of claiming noble status was that no one leapt to accuse her of lying; they only politely informed her that there seemed to be some difficulty, and undoubtedly the alta would be able to clear it up. Renata had talked Mede Pattumo down and sent him away smiling, buying herself more time.

But not with Donaia. She must have been keeping watch—probably through her pet hawk—and heard there was a problem with Alta Renata’s finances. For a clutch-fist like her, with a history of being annoyed by Letilia’s profligate ways, that was the one misstep most likely to set her off.

And growing up in Nadežra, Ren had heard plenty of stories about the Traementis taste for vengeance.

Ren’s eyes opened. She didn’t move, but her pulse leapt as if she’d begun running. The study windows overlooked a small balcony; from there she could easily get to the roof, climb down on a sheltered side of the manor, and escape through backstreets. Warn Tess, grab the two rucksacks that had been sitting ready by the kitchen door since they moved into the townhouse, and vanish.

Only as a last resort. She hadn’t become Ondrakja’s prized student by cutting and running at the first sign of trouble. If all Donaia knew was that Renata’s wealth was in question, then the worst Ren currently faced was delay in her plans. She wasn’t nicked. Not yet.

The best path was to distract Donaia. Give her something appealing enough that she would forget, or at least forgive, the money problem. Not the report on Vargo; that wouldn’t be enough. Ren needed better leverage.

In three swift strides she was at the desk, riffling through the papers there, keeping an ear on the corridor outside. Everything went back exactly where it had come from, at the same angle. Letters, ledgers, scribbled calculations with no context. Nothing useful there. A quick glance at the hearth—cold, even in this season—showed her no wadded-up papers awaiting the flame.

She circled the desk and praised the Faces and Masks. It was ancient, dating back to the civil war at least—possibly before—and the locks on its drawers were no younger. Ren could practically have picked them with a fingernail. She slipped a pin from the ribbon in her hair, laid it over the edge of the desk, and used a stone paperweight to hammer its tip sideways. Then she knelt, not letting herself think about what would happen if Donaia walked in and found Alta Renata breaking into her desk. You can’t outrun the hawks if you’re looking over your shoulder. That was another thing Ondrakja used to say.

She slid the pin into the lock, closing her eyes so vision wouldn’t distract her. Past the wards, fishing upward—there. Ren found the latch and flipped it. For House Traementis’s sake, she hoped Donaia had a strongbox with a better lock where she kept truly sensitive documents. For her own sake, she hoped there was something moderately sensitive here.

In the first drawer, a ledger and numerous accounts related to various charters—mostly ones Donaia seemed to have sold off. Given time, Ren could have made sense of them, but time was a luxury she didn’t have. She shut the drawer, relocked it, and moved to the other end of the desk. Her breath came faster, but her hands were steady. Like the night she’d stolen Letilia’s jewels and petty coin, with Tess keeping watch, ready to hiss an alarm if she saw the city militia coming. I always did make a better thief than a maid.

More letters, this lot important enough that Donaia had troubled to lock them away. One was creased as if someone had wadded it up, then smoothed it out again. Ren began to read.

Era Traementis,

You are a proud woman. I understand that, and I respect it. Never think that the current situation causes me to look down upon you. House Traementis is one of the oldest in the city, and it would grieve me terribly to see your name dragged in the river, your failures exposed to public view.

I therefore propose a compromise that will allow you to save face. In the register of House Indestor there are several