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

a small stain that had seeped into the cloth. “It’s not as uncommon as you might think—the raiding, not the explosion. Novrus recently shut down one of Indestor’s prison hulks, claiming it was being used to print seditious literature. It’s a dance for them. They fight like other people flirt.”

“I don’t think Mettore is Sostira Novrus’s type,” Renata said dryly.

Vargo’s bark of laughter made the patrons in several galleries look toward them. He smothered it with a sip of wine. “No, and I don’t believe Mettore has a type.”

“Certainly not me—and thank the Lumen for that. I wish I knew what he wanted from me… other than to make certain I’ll remain in Nadežra for the time being.” She wet her fingertips and wiped them clean, thinking.

“Of course you have to stay,” he said. “And not only because leaving would ruin all your hard work. At the very least, you have to attend the Night of Bells masquerade; I want to see my gift put to use.”

The mask he’d given her. She hadn’t worn it since that night in Lacewater. Renata smiled and said, “I’m very curious to see what mask you will wear, Master Vargo.”

Whitesail, Upper Bank: Pavnilun 12

The transition from winter to spring came as a string of daily downpours. Bored with months of indoor pursuits, nobles and gentry alike were on the hunt for novelty. So when Rimbon Beldipassi, merchant client of House Cleoter and most recent addition to the ranks of the delta gentry, opened an exhibition of curiosities and wonders, it quickly became the only subject worth discussing.

But Beldipassi apparently knew that exclusivity created value, because he only allowed a trickle of visitors instead of a deluge. Not even Vargo’s money could buy access—though that might have been prejudice as much as canny business sense. Ren entertained the notion of a night break-in so she could drop knowing hints about the exhibit, but resigned herself to being on the outside of fashion.

Until Leato sent her an invitation. How he’d gotten it, she didn’t know, but on a rainy afternoon in mid-Pavnilun, the two of them went to Whitesail.

Staring at a spread of wrinkled lumps of gold under glass, Renata was glad she hadn’t bothered breaking in. She wouldn’t have known how to describe half the things there. “What are these supposed to be?”

Leato tilted his head, as though a new perspective might illuminate the answer. “Numinatrian foci? Melted? Ah, no. See—” He pointed at a card tucked into the corner. “Painted walnut shells from the tomb of the Shadow Lily.”

Renata bit down on her next question, not sure whether the Shadow Lily was something an educated noblewoman would know about, or the nonsense it sounded like. Instead she strolled to the next case, where she was confronted with the wide-eyed skull of a lemur—whatever that was—and a twisted scrap of metal purporting to be a broken link from the chain of office that once belonged to the Tyrant Kaius Rex. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to Beldipassi’s collection, nor anything beyond the cards to prove its authenticity. Maybe he’s as much of a con artist as I am.

A smart con artist, if so. His exhibit mostly didn’t bother with treasures from Seteris or Seste Ligante—things that might be expensive to acquire or easily exposed if faked. “I suppose many of these are from along Nadežra’s trade routes. We get some southern goods in Seteris, of course, but I must confess I’ve never seen anything like half of what’s here.” She offered Leato a pert little curtsy. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“Thank you for saving me from another afternoon chained to my mother’s desk. She only let me escape because of you.” He returned her curtsy with an overly elegant bow, reminding her of the moment with the Rook in Mettore Indestor’s study. Ducking to peer at a filigreed pot that would never hold water, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Leato’s charm and eager friendliness already made detachment difficult to maintain. If she started thinking him a hero…

No, better to keep thinking of him as he was: the son and heir to one of Nadežra’s oldest families. “As though your mother would begrudge you anything. You could run away to Arthaburi to become a bell-dancer and she would forgive you.”

She thought her delivery light enough to be taken for teasing, but Leato’s grin faded, and he looked away. “I’m not as free as you seem to think. I’d love to travel the Dawn and Dusk Roads, see all the places these things come from… but I can’t. I have too many duties in Nadežra.”

Duties that involve a hood? The idea was still absurd. The river rat in her kept stomping her foot and insisting the Rook couldn’t possibly be a cuff. But it was undeniably true that there was more to Leato than she’d initially realized… and she couldn’t just let her suspicion lie.

There was no one else in the room to overhear. She moved closer and gently rested a hand on his arm. “I know. And I’m sorry. I recognize that you aren’t the frivolous layabout most people assume. Giuna’s told me.”

Leato’s muscles tensed under her hand, and he shifted away. “Told you what?” He studied a case of strange metal implements labeled only Ritual artifacts from Xake as though he’d developed a sudden interest in joining the Xakin priesthood.

“That you don’t spend nearly as much time with Orrucio Amananto as you claim. That you play up being more drunk than you are. That you go out at night sometimes, in secret.” She nudged him around to face her. “What are you after, cousin? I’d like to assist… but I can’t if I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

“You know what I’m trying to do,” Leato said. “Help my family. Is that Ganllechyn embroidery behind you? I thought frivolous decoration was declared a sin there thirty years ago.”

His attempt to change the