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

thumb. Grey swallowed a curse and sucked the blood from the puncture, using a tiny hand mirror to make sure he hadn’t gotten any on his collar. Luckily, it was clean, and he managed to finish dressing himself without further injury.

Once outside, he set off east from Duskgate with long, ground-eating strides. He could have taken a sedan chair and told the bearers to bill the Vigil; other officers did, knowing all the while that no such bill would ever be paid. But along with stiffing the bearers, that meant they didn’t see the city around them the way Grey did.

Not that most of them would. They were Liganti, or mixed enough in ancestry that they could claim the name; to them, Nadežra was an outpost of Seste Ligante, half tamed by the Liganti general Kaius Sifigno, who restyled himself Kaius Rex after conquering Vraszan two centuries past. Others called him the Tyrant, and when he died, the Vraszenian clans took back the rest of their conquered land. But every push to reclaim their holy city failed, until exhaustion on both sides led to the signing of the Accords. Those established Nadežra as an independent city-state—under the rule of its Liganti elite.

It was an uneasy balance at best, made less easy still by Vraszenian radical groups like the Stadnem Anduske, who wouldn’t settle for anything less than the city back in Vraszenian hands. And every time they pushed, the Cinquerat pushed back even harder.

The busy markets of Suncross at the heart of the Old Island parted for Grey’s bright blue coat and the tawny embroidered hawk, but not without glares. To the high and mighty, the Vigil was a tool; to the common Nadežran, the Vigil was the tool of the high and mighty. Not all of them—Grey wasn’t the only hawk who cared about common folk—but enough that he couldn’t blame people for their hostility. And some of the worst glares came from Vraszenians, who looked at him and saw a slip-knot: a man who had betrayed his people, siding with the invaders’ descendants.

Grey was used to the glares. He kept an eye out for trouble as he passed market stalls on the stoops of decaying townhouses, and a bawdy puppet show where the only children in the crowd were the pickpockets. They trickled away like water before he could mark their faces. A few beggars eyed him warily, but Grey had no grudge against them; the more dangerous elements wouldn’t come out until evening, when the feckless sons and daughters of the delta gentry prowled the streets in search of amusement. A pattern-reader had set up on a corner near the Charterhouse, ready to bilk people in exchange for a pretty lie. He gave her a wide berth, leather glove creaking into a fist as he resisted the urge to drag her back to the Aerie for graft.

Once he’d passed under the decaying bulk of the Dawngate and across the Sunrise Bridge, he turned north into the narrow islets of the Pearls, clogged with sedan chairs. Two elderly ladies impressed with their own importance blocked the Becchia Bridge entirely, squabbling like gulls over which one should yield. Grey marked the house sigil painted onto each chair’s door in case complaints came to the Aerie later.

His shoulders itched as he crossed the lines of the complex mosaic in the center of Traementis Plaza. It was no mere tilework, but a numinat: geometric Liganti magic meant to keep the ground dry and solid, against the river’s determination to sink everything into the mud. Useful… but the Tyrant had twisted numinatria into a weapon during his conquest, and mosaics like this one amounted to emblems of ongoing Liganti control.

On the steps of Traementis Manor, Grey gave his uniform a final smoothing and sounded the bell. Within moments, Colbrin opened the door and favored Grey with a rare smile.

“Young Master Serrado. How pleasant to see you; it’s been far too long. I’m afraid Altan Leato is not here to receive you—”

“It’s ‘Captain’ now,” Grey said, touching the hexagram pin at his throat. The smile he dredged up felt tired from disuse. “And I’m not here for Leato. Era Traementis requested assistance from the Vigil.”

“Ah, yes.” Colbrin bowed him inside. “If you’ll wait in the salon, I’ll inform Era Traementis that you’re here.”

Grey wasn’t surprised when Colbrin returned in a few moments and summoned him to the study. Whatever Donaia had written to the Vigil for, it was business, not a social call.

That room was much darker, with little in the way of bright silks to warm the space—but warmth came in many shapes. Donaia’s grizzled wolfhound scrambled up from his place by her desk, claws ticking on wood as he trotted over for a greeting. “Hello, old man,” Grey said, giving him a good tousling and a few barrel thumps on the side.

“Meatball. Heel.” The dog returned to Donaia’s side, looking up as she crossed the room to greet Grey.

“Era Traementis,” Grey said, bowing over her hand. “I’m told you have need of assistance.”

The silver threads lacing through her hair were gaining ground against the auburn, and she looked tired. “Yes. I need you to look into someone—a visitor to the city, recently arrived from Seteris. Renata Viraudax.”

“Has she committed some crime against House Traementis?”

“No,” Donaia said. “She hasn’t.”

Her words piqued his curiosity. “Era?”

A muscle tightened in Donaia’s jaw. “My husband once had a sister named Letilia—Lecilla, really, but she was obsessed with Seteris and their high culture, so she badgered their father into changing it in the register. Twenty-three years ago, she decided she would rather be in Seteris than here… so she stole some money and jewelry and ran away.”

Donaia gestured Grey to a chair in front of the hearth. The warmth of the fire enveloped him as he sat down. “Renata Viraudax is Letilia’s daughter. She claims to be trying to mend bridges, but I have my doubts. I want you to find out what she’s really doing in