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

“Hmm.” His fingers drummed across the folder, and Renata hid a smile.

But then he asked the question she’d been hoping he would overlook. “Who would administer this for you?”

There was no point in lying; he would find out eventually. “Derossi Vargo.”

Quientis’s expression went stony. Renata raised her eyebrows. “A moment ago you liked the idea, Your Grace. Surely it doesn’t lose all merit because of one name.”

“That depends on what influence the name has.” Quientis looked out the window, while Renata tried not to fidget.

Finally he turned back. “You said you wanted to escape the shadow of your mother’s reputation. I want some demonstration that you have the skill and dedication to see this through—that you won’t simply run away at the first obstacle. Era Destaelio has tied up a shipment of mine in the customs house, some saltpeter from the Dawn Road. Get her to release it and waive the fees—by some means other than crass bribery; I know Master Vargo has the pockets for that—and I’ll give your proposal some consideration.”

Consideration. Renata wanted to slap him. Of course he promises nothing, and I have to work for free.

But that was the way of things for those in power, and she had no choice but to play his game. “I’ll need details on the shipment,” she said crisply, as if this were no obstacle at all. Figuring out how to take care of it would come later.

He stood, a clear dismissal—but also more respect than he’d greeted her with. “Quarat’s luck to you, Alta Renata. I look forward to seeing how different you are from your mother.”

Kingfisher, Lower Bank: Equilun 27

The Gawping Carp wasn’t the kind of tavern anyone sought out of their own volition. It was the sort of place you stumbled over and grew into, as Grey and Kolya had, that first day they arrived in Nadežra. Now Grey had to duck to avoid banging his head on the sagging lintel. Hardwood beams seasoned with smoke and unlikely stories kept the roof from sinking upon the patrons, like the giant of Brevyik holding up the sky. A circle of gnarled old men surrounded one of the back tables, playing a permanent game of nytsa. They’d been hunched there for longer than Grey had been coming to drink, like saplings rooted deep and grown into old oaks.

Grey hadn’t been back since his promotion to captain, but Dvaran at the bar nodded as though he’d just stepped out for a piss. Grey’s usual was already poured, with a sausage roll wrapped in a greasy broadsheet set next to it.

“Good to see you, son,” Dvaran said, then glanced at the corner opposite the nytsa game. Leato waited there with his own mug and roll. “Both of you.”

“It’s been too long,” Grey said, pulling out a few centiras.

“No charge.” Dvaran waved off the coins with one hand. The other arm ended at the elbow, courtesy of a brawl years ago. “Sorry to hear about your brother.”

Would he ever get used to it—feeling like he was being gutted from the inside? Would it ever go away? Grey swallowed down the misery and nodded. In a place like this, tears were only shed for the passing of heroes long dead. Kolya was a carpenter whose ashes hadn’t been on the wind more than six months.

“Thank you,” Grey managed, the words scraping his throat.

“How’re his wife and nippers—”

“In mourning.” It came out harder than he’d intended, but Dvaran only nodded and nudged the mug closer. Taking the sympathy offering, Grey joined Leato.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Leato said.

Grey hadn’t been certain, either, until he found his feet leading him here instead of home. “You asked me to.” He searched for anything to look at besides the empty chair next to him, and settled on a knot in the grain of the table that, when he was drunk enough, resembled a raccoon poling a river skiff.

“Even so.” Leato traced a triangle in a puddle of spilled beer.

“You’ll ruin your gloves.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother appreciates the value of a good pair of gloves.”

Leato snorted and pulled one off, flicking the spill from the table with his bare hand. “Better?”

“Yes.” Only river-rooted Nadežrans frequented the Gawping Carp. Nobody here gave a frayed end about gloves.

But Leato seemed more interested in studying the table than explaining his invitation. It was possible he just wanted to meet without the worries of rank and blood, like they used to, but Grey didn’t think that was the case. Something had changed in Leato—a change that predated Kolya’s death. He might smile and play the wastrel for the rest of the world, but Grey knew better.

“Why did you ask me here?”

Leato stopped picking at the wrapping on his roll. “I need your help finding someone.”

Grey stiffened. For the flash of an instant, he was tempted to cast his beer in Leato’s face and cut all ties to anyone in the Traementis register.

“If you have a request for the Vigil, you should take it to the Aerie,” he said evenly. Not here, the place where they were beyond Liganti and Vraszenian, master and servant. Not here, with Kolya’s seat empty between them.

“Grey—”

“Why did your mother make Renata Viraudax her advocate?” He’d been fuming ever since he’d heard the news. It was the complete dismissal of his findings as much as the wasted time and effort that infuriated Grey—as though his honest assessment had less value than the flattering lies of a woman who happened to share Donaia’s rank and blood.

Leato’s blinking confusion said that neither his mother’s previous fears nor Grey’s conclusions about them had reached his ears. “Because she’s more personable than Mother, more dependable than me, and more experienced than Giuna. Should she not have?”

The urge to tell clawed at Grey, but no. He’d promised Donaia. “It makes no difference to me,” he muttered. “It just seemed sudden.”

He pushed his chair back. He only needed some distance to collect