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

Commander Cercel’s voice cut sharply through the din of the Aerie. Waving at his constables to take their prisoner to the stockade, Captain Grey Serrado turned and threaded his way through the chaos to his commander’s office. He ignored the sidelong smirks and snide whispers of his fellow officers: Unlike them, he didn’t have the luxury of lounging about drinking coffee, managing his constables from the comfort of the Aerie.

“Commander Cercel?” He snapped the heels of his boots together and gave her his crispest salute—a salute he’d perfected during hours of standing at attention in the sun, the rain, the wind, while other lieutenants were at mess or in the barracks. Cercel wasn’t the stickler for discipline his previous superiors had been, but she was the reason he wore a captain’s double-lined hexagram pin, and he didn’t want to reflect badly on her.

She was studying a letter, but when she brought her head up to reply, her eyes widened. “What does the other guy look like?”

Taking the casual question as permission to drop into rest, Grey spared a glance for his uniform. His patrol slops were spattered with muck from heel to shoulder, and blood was drying on the knuckles of his leather gloves. Some of the canal mud on his boots had flaked off when he saluted, powdering Cercel’s carpet with the filth of the Kingfisher slums.

“Dazed but breathing. Ranieri’s taking him to the stockade now.” Her question invited banter, but the door to her office was open, and it wouldn’t do him any good to be marked as a smart-ass.

She responded to his businesslike answer with an equally brisk nod. “Well, get cleaned up. I’ve received a letter from one of the noble houses, requesting Vigil assistance. I’m sending you.”

Grey’s jaw tensed as he waited for several gut responses to subside. It was possible the request was a legitimate call for aid. “What crime has been committed?”

Cercel’s level gaze said, You know better than that. “One of the noble houses has requested Vigil assistance,” she repeated, enunciating each word with cut-glass clarity. “I’m sure they wouldn’t do that without good cause.”

No doubt whoever sent the letter thought the cause was good. People from the great houses always did.

But Grey had a desk full of real problems. “More children have gone missing. That’s eleven verified this month.”

They’d had this conversation several times over the past few weeks. Cercel sighed. “We haven’t had any reports—”

“Because they’re all river rats so far. Who’s going to care enough to report that? But the man I just brought in might know something about it; he’s been promising Kingfisher kids good pay for an unspecified job. I got him on defacing public property, but he’ll be free again by tonight.” Pissing in public wasn’t an offense the Vigil usually cracked down on, unless it suited them. “Am I to assume this noble’s ‘good cause’ takes precedence over finding out what’s happening to those kids?”

Cercel breathed out hard through her nose, and he tensed. Had he pushed her patience too far?

No. “Your man is on his way to the stockade,” she said. “Have Kaineto process him—you’re always complaining he’s as slow as river mud. By the time you get back, he’ll be ready to talk. Meanwhile, send Ranieri to ask questions around Kingfisher, see if he can find any of the man’s associates.” She set the letter aside and drew another from her stack, a clear prelude to dismissing him. “You know the deal, Serrado.”

The first few times, he’d played dense to make her spell it out in unambiguous terms. The last thing he could afford back then was to mistake a senior officer’s meaning.

But they were past those games now. As long as he knuckled under and did whatever this noble wanted of him, Cercel wouldn’t question him using Vigil time and resources for his own investigations.

“Yes, Commander.” He saluted and heel-knocked another layer of delta silt onto her carpet. “Which house has called for aid?”

“Traementis.”

If he’d been less careful of his manners, he would have thrown her a dirty look. She could have led with that. But Cercel wanted him to understand that answering these calls was part of his duty, and made him bend his neck before she revealed the silver lining. “Understood. I’ll head to the Pearls at once.”

Her final command followed him out of the office. “Don’t you dare show up at Era Traementis’s door looking like that!”

Groaning, Grey changed his path. He snagged a pitcher of water and a messenger, sending the latter to Ranieri with the new orders.

There was a bathing room in the Aerie, but he didn’t want to waste time on that. A sniff test sent every piece of his patrol uniform into the laundry bag; aside from the coffee, that was one of the few perks of his rank he didn’t mind taking shameless advantage of. If he was wading through canals for the job, the least the Vigil could do was ensure he didn’t smell like one. A quick pitcher bath in his tiny office took care of the scents still clinging to his skin and hair before he shrugged into his dress vigils.

He had to admit the force’s tailors were good. The tan breeches were Liganti-cut, snug as they could be around his thighs and hips without impeding movement. Both the brocade waistcoat and the coat of sapphire wool were tailored like a second skin, before the latter flared to full skirts that kissed the tops of his polished, knee-high boots. On his patrol slops, the diving hawk across the back of his shoulders was mere patchwork; here it was embroidered in golds and browns.

Grey didn’t have much use for vanity, but he did love his dress vigils. They were an inarguable reminder that he’d climbed to a place few Vraszenians could even imagine reaching. His brother, Kolya, had been so proud the day Grey came home in them.

The sudden trembling of his hands stabbed his collar pin into his