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

tactics. “Gossip has you putting a bug up Mettore’s nose with this charter of yours. You know the Traementis name isn’t strong enough protection if a true falling-out with House Indestor should occur.”

Renata only just managed to avoid stumbling. “I—what?”

Sostira pulled her closer, under the guise of steadying her. “If Novrus had reason to ally with Traementis, that might change. When the floods come, nobody wants to be stranded on a bridge between islets.”

Idiot. Don’t underestimate her. This was just the other side of the coin Mettore had “offered” Donaia: ensure the house’s survival—at least for a time—by selling someone into marriage.

Renata couldn’t afford to turn Sostira down cold. “You are most generous, Your Elegance. There might be a great deal our houses could offer each other.”

The dance ended and Sostira released her, but not before running her bare thumb across Renata’s lower lip. “I hope to learn more about what you have to offer,” she murmured, and left Renata standing alone on the floor.

Her earlier triumph had faded away, leaving her cold. She cast her gaze around for Scaperto Quientis, hoping to retrieve her momentum, but saw no sign of him.

Instead she found herself looking at Mettore Indestor.

Who came at her as directly as Era Novrus had, though at least he offered his hand for the next dance rather than claiming Renata’s without asking. Unapproachable, Renata thought with uneasy humor, remembering Vargo’s earlier comment. Didn’t anyone notify Mettore?

“You’re an admirable woman, Alta Renata. Few come out of a conversation with Era Novrus looking so unrattled.” He turned her in promenade, leading her right past where Sostira now stood with her current wife, Benvanna Novri. Both women could have carved ice with their glares—Benvanna’s at Renata, and Sostira’s for Mettore. His deep voice dripped satisfaction as he said, “She can be a bit much.”

Renata made an innocuous answer while her mind whirled. It was inconceivable that Eret Indestor could be afraid of an alliance between Traementis and Novrus. But if not that, then why had he bothered to approach her? Two members of the Cinquerat in the space of a bell: It wasn’t the kind of coincidence she liked.

“You’re Lecilla’s daughter, yes? Letilia, rather.” The dance separated them briefly. When they came together again, Mettore seemed to have moved on to other topics. “I wonder how long you’re planning to remain in Nadežra. Certainly until the Festival of Veiled Waters, I hope. You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course, Your Mercy.” She left it ambiguous how many of his questions that was meant to answer.

“It isn’t the proper year to see the Wellspring of Ažerais, of course, but in some ways that’s better. You don’t have to wade through a mob of Vraszenians lapping at it like parched dogs.” Mettore was subtle compared to Sostira. His grip didn’t tighten, nor did he yank Renata about or sneer with disdain—but the way his bootheels struck the floor, his tone going cold, echoed what she already knew. The man loathed Vraszenians and made no secret of it.

Did his plans have to do with the Festival of Veiled Waters, then? Ažerais’s wellspring was undoubtedly magical; drinking its waters granted true dreams, glimpses of the pattern of the world. But the Great Dream only came once every seven years; the wellspring’s appearance was more than a year away.

“I could hardly leave without seeing one of your famous Nadežran masquerades,” she said lightly. “But as I understand it, the celebration of Kaius Rex’s death comes before Veiled Waters.”

“Yes. Though in Nadežra it’s more politely referred to as the Night of Bells. Sadly, I’ve not been able to enjoy that since I inherited the Caerulet seat from my mother. I’m always busy that night with the commemoration of the Accords.” Mettore’s smile was more teeth than amusement. “More Vraszenians to wade through.”

Did he expect her to empathize with his obvious distaste? “I wish you luck with that, Your Mercy,” she said politely, at a loss for anything better.

By the time the dance ended, she’d achieved no enlightenment as to why Indestor had drawn her onto the floor. And his parting words provided no clarity for her reeling thoughts—only more worry. “Thank you for the dance, alta. I look forward to more dealings in the future.”

Isla Indestor, the Pearls: Pavnilun 5

Renata spotted Leato and Donaia easily enough, standing near the mass of dancers. The ballroom was the wrong place to have a conversation about Mettore Indestor’s intentions, but perhaps a stroll in the gardens—

Then Giuna came stumbling through the crowd, hands twisting into the delicate fabric of her underdress. Renata caught a glimpse of her face before her mother and brother closed around her, saw the bright streak of a tear down one cheek.

“Please don’t f-uh-huss,” Giuna said as Renata approached, her words catching on an unsteady breath. “It wasn’t anything. I j-just need some air.” Which was true enough from the way she was gulping it, but didn’t satisfy Leato.

“Who was she dancing with?” he asked Donaia. When his mother shook her head, he stood taller to scan the ballroom.

That parted the family shield enough for Giuna to catch sight of Renata. “C-cousin,” she sobbed, reaching out.

“What’s wrong?” Renata asked, clasping Giuna’s hand in both of hers and stepping into the Traementis circle. “You must tell me what happened, so I know who to shun.”

A tiny laugh bubbled up between the hitched breaths. “Please don’t on my account. You mustn’t make it worse. It’s only…” She ducked her head as though ashamed to look anyone in the eye. “I didn’t want to, but I didn’t know how to refuse, and then when we were all in the star, he said I’d never been much before, but now even he might consider taking me as… as a contract wife.”

It was like a slap to the face. Being a contract spouse—lower in status than a primary husband or wife—might be a great honor for a commoner, or even delta gentry. But for someone of