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

away and urbane mask once more in place, Vargo laid the document down. “I’m impressed. Afraid to check the balance of your bribe account, but impressed.”

She arranged her expression into grave lines. “Well… I know you told me not to bankrupt you… but you’ll need to let Tess back into your fabric warehouse.”

“Yes, of course. You can have whatever fabric you want.” He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “I meant, how much did you end up slipping to the Cinquerat to get this? Fulvet at the very least must have extracted a heavy price.”

Now Renata let the gravity crack. She’d already enjoyed the pleasure of watching first Scaperto Quientis and then Donaia react to her tale, but it had yet to lose its savor. “You owe nothing, except material to make wedding clothes for Marvisal Coscanum and Mezzan Indestor.”

“What do wedding clothes have to do with…” The rest of the question dangled from Vargo’s incredulous expression. With a bemused shake of his head, he lounged back in his seat. “No hiding behind ‘trade secrets.’ I have to know. How did you manage to get a valuable nine-year inaugural charter from Fulvet in exchange for a set of wedding clothes?”

She counted the steps off on her fingers. “Well, in exchange for the loan of Tess’s talents, Alta Faella was kind enough to take tea with myself and Nanso Bagacci last week. And Fluriat Bagacci was so pleased to have her brother restored to polite society that she revoked her bid to repair the bridge at Floodwatch. Which means Mede Attravi is certain to win that contract—so he can repay the debt he owes Mede Elpiscio for crashing his pleasure barge into the Elpiscio docking pier. With the pier repaired, Mede Elpiscio will no longer need to use the jetty in Whitesail, leaving it open for Era Destaelio’s use. After that…” She spread her hands, revealing the result of an invisible card trick. “Her Charity said she saw no reason to keep Eret Quientis’s shipment of saltpeter impounded any longer. And he was so impressed with my methods that he granted Traementis the charter outright.”

Vargo took a long pull from his glass to wash down his astonishment. “I knew from the moment I saw you bare-armed at the Gloria: You are a singular woman, Renata Viraudax.”

Men had often looked at her the way Vargo was looking at her now, but always for her beauty—never her ingenuity. And Ren, who was used to treating that kind of admiration as nothing more than a useful lever, felt her breath catch.

The smile playing at one corner of Vargo’s mouth said he noticed. But rather than lean on that lever, he lifted his glass in a toast. “I imagine congratulations will soon be in order? You’re probably an inkwell away from being scribed into a great house register.”

Frustration chilled her glow. Donaia had said nothing yet about any such thing. “Some deals are more easily struck than others,” she said, keeping her voice light. “But if you have any more schemes tucked away in your pocket, I’d be glad to represent them in the Charterhouse.”

“I’ll review my pending schemes for how best to use your talents.” Finally noticing the hostess hovering just out of earshot, Vargo waved for her to begin serving. “In the meantime, you’ve only explained the outing with Coscanum. I’ve yet to hear about the dancing and the duel.”

Renata would have preferred the Vraszenian ostretta again—not least because she could have had spiced chocolate—but Vargo had clearly chosen this one to please her, as he kept asking how the food compared to Seterin expectations. Renata deflected his questions as best she could. In Ganllech the rich had their secret Seterin banquets, but as a mere maid, she’d never been allowed to do more than smell the food there. The rest of Ganllechyn cuisine kept a person alive, and that was about all one could say for it.

Fortunately, the gossip offered her plenty of material for distraction. She told him about her peculiar conversation with Mettore Indestor, and the insult Mezzan had offered Giuna. “Either they’re playing a deeper game than I can fathom,” she said, “or father and son aren’t communicating well about their plans.” She strongly suspected the latter.

Then she paused and said thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose you know anything about some difficulties around a warehouse belonging to House Fiangiolli?”

Vargo’s fork slipped on the bit of roast duck he was attempting to skewer. He set it aside, then rinsed his fingers in a small bowl of lemon water. “There was a fire late last year. They say Mede Fiangiolli was storing illegal black powder there, and was killed when it detonated. Why?”

She had an excuse prepared, but it stuck on her tongue. “I think I heard about that, now that you mention the details. Didn’t more than one person die?”

Vargo dried his hands with meticulous care. “A Vraszenian man, too. Some connection to the Traementis—I imagine that’s why you know. Most people forget him. You haven’t said why you’re asking.”

She cleared her throat. “I overheard something during the party that made me wonder if the fire might have been an early part of the conflict between Indestor and Novrus. Don’t the Fiangiolli administer a number of charters for Novrus?”

That’s why the Rook wanted that note, she realized. Because it had to do with the night Kolya Serrado died.

I have to tell Captain Serrado.

Except she couldn’t. The last thing her masquerade needed was a hawk knowing she’d broken into Mettore’s office. And how else could she justify having such information?

She could send him an anonymous message. He was too canny to give much credence to something like that… but it might do a little good.

“Rumor blames the Rook for the fire that detonated the powder,” Vargo was saying, “but it could have been the Vigil. They were on their way to raid the place and arrived conveniently late.” His hands moved restlessly over the table, brushing away crumbs, rubbing at