The Mask of Mirrors by M. Carrick; (different e readers txt) 📕

Ren twisted, looking down. Below her, impossibly far below, she saw a writhing mass of zlyzen, still tearing, still feeding.

Her fingers dug into the leather of his glove. “No! Leato—we have to go back for him—”

“You first. Then him.”

The Rook drew her up and out of the pit. She felt the threads around her again, the world weaving itself from dream back into reality—and then she realized what that would mean.

“Wait!”

But it was too late. Ren had dragged everyone into the nightmare with her; when she left, it ended. The paved floor of the amphitheatre was smooth and flat.

And Leato was gone.

13

A Brother Lost

Dawngate, Old Island: Cyprilun 17

Vargo didn’t often live in his body. He’d grown up thinking bodies were for pain—inflicting, receiving—a belief that lingered even though pain was rarely a concern for him anymore. These days, he mostly thought of his body as a tool. He spent the majority of his time in his head, where he was unassailable, calculating how everything around him could be used.

But he recognized the appeal of the physical. And sometimes he wanted the slap of flesh against flesh, the grind of hips and the slickness of sweat, the fuck and yes and almost there of it all.

Like now, with Iascat Novrus pinned between Vargo and the side wall of the Theatre Agnasce, only the columns and the shadows shielding them from discovery. Calculation still played a part; most cuffs were too terrified of Iascat’s aunt Sostira and her uncanny ability to ferret out secrets to get close to her heir. Which left Iascat starved for affection… and for touch. Only someone who didn’t fear blackmail—someone without shame—could give him what he wanted. And that, in turn, was leverage.

But they were past calculation now. Vargo was well and truly in his body—his and Iascat’s, with his hand wrapped around Iascat and their ragged breathing lost under the noise of the plaza.

The Novrus heir bit down on his own fist to keep from crying out as he peaked. And Vargo was excruciatingly close to the edge when the voice in his head broke in.

::Something’s happened at the Charterhouse.::

Not. Bloody. Fucking. Now.

::Yes, now,:: Alsius snapped. There was no amusement in his voice, no sardonic commentary on Vargo’s current activities. ::The people here—they’ve vanished. The Cinquerat, the clan leaders, all of them.::

It jolted him back into his head. His body still chased release, but cold shock washed through him, dulling the sharp edge of pleasure to mere friction. What do you mean, vanished?

::I mean they disappeared before my eyes.::

“Is… is something wrong?”

Vargo had stopped moving. Iascat twisted to look at him with pupil-blown eyes made larger by the paint that lined them. The man’s lips were soft and his ash-pale hair mussed; bits of grit stuck to his cheek where it had been pressed into the wall. He should have looked irresistible. But Vargo had bigger concerns now.

“Too much aža,” Vargo said, snatching for the first lie that came to hand. “I’m finished for the night.”

“But you… didn’t. Did you?”

::Vargo!::

I’m coming. The irony of that reply didn’t escape him. But Vargo hadn’t spent two bells on his knees convincing Fadrin Acrenix to make this introduction to let his chance go to waste.

He brushed the grit from Iascat’s cheek with deliberate tenderness, giving him a languid, open-mouthed kiss, as if he had all the time in the world. “Some other night?”

His question was met with a shy smile and an enthusiastic nod. “Yes. Next time. D-Derossi.”

Something in Vargo’s chest twinged at the name. He fastened his loose trousers and settled his bead-heavy robe back in place with a shrug. The paints on his chest were smeared, their mirror printed onto Iascat’s back. “Call me Vargo,” he said, and slipped out from the columns into the crowded plaza.

Tell me what happened.

::The usual, at first. Speeches, pageants, wine. Should have been tedious mingling after that. But everyone who drank the wine just… faded away. People don’t do that, Vargo!::

No, they didn’t. Not by any magic Vargo knew of. And Alsius sounded more panicked than he’d heard in years.

He’d sent Renata in there.

What the fuck had he let Indestor manipulate him into doing?

Vargo wove toward the Charterhouse, the oblivious crowd offering little resistance. But as he neared the steps, a functionary in Fulvet livery flung himself through the door and shrieked, “They’re gone! The Cinquerat have all vanished!”

Only a few people heard him over the noise of the masquerade, but those whispered to their neighbors, and like the ringing of the bells, word began to ripple outward. Something’s wrong. Something happened at the Charterhouse. By the time it crossed the plaza, rumor would have built it into a dozen different stories, none of them accurate, and all of them dangerous.

Vargo had been in riots before, and while he wasn’t sure a crowd of cuffs could rouse themselves to the lethal panic of a Lower Bank brawl, he didn’t want to find out.

He diverted sideways without stopping, down an alley whose previous occupants were hurrying to see what the problem was. Pulling off his beaded robe, he thought at Alsius, I need to change into something more practical. Meanwhile—find me a sample of that wine.

Old Island: Cyprilun 17

The sound swept toward Tess, a rising tide of murmurs and alarm.

She’d found a place near the dancing to watch the costumes go by, wistfully curious whether the girls at the Westbridge revels were giving Pavlin a moment to rest. Now she tugged on someone’s sleeve—a man in an outrageous costume that took up twice as much space as his body, with hasty seams that offended her professional pride. “Begging your pardon, but can you tell me what’s happening?”

“It’s the Charterhouse ceremony,” he said, too full of his news to realize he was gossiping with a mere servant in a plain two-color mask. “Everyone there has been murdered!”

“What?” She tore a badly stitched ribbon loose when she clutched