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

said hesitantly, “Does it have to mean bad things, though? The Face of Gold is wealth, isn’t it? I know it was bad in your nightmare, but it might mean something else here. Maybe them getting rich again.”

Ren swallowed the automatic scoff that rose to her lips. Three cards; two possible interpretations for each. The Mask of Ashes was destruction, no question about that. Hadn’t she watched Leato’s body burn just hours before? But the other two… did they mean disaster and greed, or calamity averted and a return to wealth?

There had to be a way to make sure it would be the latter. To help the Traementis, instead of letting their bad fortune tear them apart. But when Ren went to collect her cards and ask the question, Tess intercepted her with a cup. “Oh, no. You aren’t touching those again until you’ve had some sleep. Drink this, and we’ll see what it does for you.”

Ren recoiled from the cup like it was a viper. “What is that? What are you trying to do to me?”

“Help you sleep,” Tess said with patient determination. “I got it from Vargo’s physician—told him you were up all night with bad dreams. And I’ve some nice chamomile tea for you, and lavender sachets tucked into the bedding. We’ll have you sawing logs in no time, and see if you don’t feel better in the morning.”

Not poison. Why would Tess try to poison her? Ren drank the medicine down, grimacing at the taste, and accepted everything else Tess handed her after that.

But she knew, even before she lay down, that it wasn’t going to work. The zlyzen had gotten her. They’d killed Leato, but they’d torn some part of her away, too, and she was never going to sleep again.

15

The Face of Glass

Froghole, Lower Bank: Cyprilun 20

Ren had much less practice being Arenza, compared to Renata. The next morning she had to redo her makeup three times, swearing throughout, before Sedge pronounced it good enough to pass. “You sure you want to do this?” he said when she was finally done.

“You’re the one saying he will be more suspicious if I don’t come,” she said grimly. “Tell me what other option I have.”

Running away. But she’d told Donaia she wouldn’t, and Sedge didn’t suggest it. He only dug in one pocket and produced a battered little tin. “Swiped this from Orostin. Should help keep you alert for a bit.”

She opened it to find snuff tobacco inside. Ren had never used it before, but she knew how; she placed a pinch on the back of her hand, sniffed hard—then promptly sneezed several times in quick succession.

Sedge managed a weak smile. “Try not to sneeze all over Vargo.”

He took her to a seedy nytsa parlour in Froghole—exactly the sort of place where the leader of half the rookery knots in Nadežra might conduct the illegal side of his business. At fourth sun, even hardened gamblers tended to bury their faces in pillows rather than card hands, but the parlour was far from empty. A half dozen men and women cast in the same mold as Sedge loitered around a front table. The way they didn’t glance over when the door opened said their presence was anything but casual.

Soot blackened the windows, leaving the room in a perpetual gloaming. Vargo sat near the far wall, his finery a jarring counterpoint to the cheap, wine-stained baize covering the tables and the bare, gnarled wood of the flooring. Even here, it seemed he preferred to dress elegantly. But he’d forgone gloves, scarred knuckles on display as his bare fingers drummed the table in boredom.

He wasn’t merely waiting. Across from him, a man in a much cheaper coat droned on in a voice too low for Arenza to make out. Behind Vargo’s left shoulder, a stocky, stern-faced woman with the dark skin of an Isarnah was as alert as her boss was bored. When she noticed Sedge’s entrance, she nudged Vargo, and he interrupted his companion.

“I’ve heard enough. Take Varuni around to remind Udelmo that I expect him to report all income from the dice games, not just the income he thinks I should know about. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Nikory.”

Arenza’s pulse thudded like a drum. Nikory. She ducked her chin and tried to look like her nervousness was at meeting Vargo rather than fear his lieutenant would remember the patterner who’d tried to cold-deck him.

Either way, she was waving a flag of weakness, with no chance Vargo wouldn’t notice—and use it to his advantage. “On second thought, Varuni, you stay. Sedge can deal with Udelmo.”

Sedge had the benefit of sleep to help him disguise his hesitation. Half of what made Ren willing to walk in here was knowing Sedge would be around if something went wrong. But if he balked now, something would go wrong.

He touched the inside of his wrist. An old gesture, from back when Ondrakja used to split them up: It was his way of reassuring Ren. “Limping or bedridden?” he asked Vargo.

“Limping—for now. It’s only a first offense.”

The casual tone belied the harshness of Vargo’s answer. Sedge nodded and left with Nikory, and Vargo leaned back in his chair, studying Arenza. The twist to his smile was all the clue she needed to tell her this theatre was for her benefit. “You’re Lenskaya?”

She nodded, concentrating on her mouth, her throat, so her accent would come out right. The more Vraszenian she could make her speech, the better for her disguise. “What is this about? Why has your man brought me here?”

“I understand you recently laid a pattern on behalf of an acquaintance of mine. A most interesting pattern.” He leaned his elbows on the table, steepled fingers pressed to his lips. “Alta Renata Viraudax. Do you remember?”

Of course she did; she’d spent most of her sleepless night reviewing it. “I remember.”

Vargo tilted his head. “Care to be more forthcoming?”

The soft words of his invitation