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

since Mama died, Ren thought. She’d done it for Ivrina because she could do nothing else: not afford a cremation in anything other than a mass bonfire, not dance the kanina for her to let the ancestors know she’d passed, the way the Kiraly in the plaza had gathered to do. A Vraszenian could make offerings alone, could walk a labyrinth alone—but some parts of their faith required a community, and she’d had none.

She didn’t lift her head until she came to the circular space at the heart of the labyrinth. She was nearly alone; most of the people in the building had crowded at the doorway, music drifting in from the plaza beyond. The dance had begun. Every Vraszenian in Nadežra who belonged to the clan leader’s kurec was joining in, stamping and clapping, while the other members of their clan watched, mourning.

Ren drew an unsteady breath. The point of walking the labyrinth was to find peace, not to upset herself more. But it took nothing now to bring her to the edge of tears, just as it took nothing to make her angry. Her foundation was washing away more with every sleepless hour.

There was a bowl of water at the center of the circle, in echo of Ažerais’s wellspring. Ren knelt, dipped her fingers, and touched them to her brow, murmuring a soft prayer. Then she stood and walked a straight line out of the labyrinth, leaving her misfortunes behind.

At least in theory.

She didn’t try to leave yet, though. The temple was teeming with people watching the kanina, and she didn’t want to join them—to see whether the dancers had succeeded in calling the spirits of the ziemic ’s ancestors. Instead she wandered into the sheltered depths to one side of the labyrinth, where some toothless old Vraszenians were selling knotted charms: roses for good luck, stars for fertility, double wheels for wealth. She stared blindly at their wares while she waited for the crowd outside to disperse.

There was a red-threaded labyrinth laid out on one of the blankets, the sort one hung over a bed. Like the charm she’d had as a child. She didn’t have a proper bed anymore, just a pallet in front of the hearth that she shared with Tess, but she could still buy it and see if it did any good.

Except she couldn’t. When Ren reached into her purse, she remembered she’d given all her money to the Faces and the Masks.

Someone next to her reached out and picked up the labyrinth, handing a centira to the seller. Seeing it go made Ren want to burst into tears. Biting down so hard her jaw ached, she turned to leave.

The young woman next to her pressed the labyrinth into her hands. “Here.”

Ren stared at it, not understanding. Then at the young woman, who met her gaze with steady eyes. After a moment of mute silence, the young woman said, “You remember me not?”

Where is my grandfather? Please, his health is not good! Put me in with him!

The Kiraly ziemic had died during the Night of Hells. The young woman in front of her was wearing Kiraly grey. That was his funeral kanina Ren had just heard, and this woman—

“You were with me in the cell,” she said quietly. “And then you vanished.”

Panic seized Ren by the throat and shook her like a terrier with a rat. This woman remembered her. Tanaquis had said the investigators were looking for the Vraszenian woman people had seen—the woman who might be responsible for the Night of Hells. Ren.

“Wait!” The Kiraly reached for her. “Wait, I—”

Ren didn’t stay to hear the rest. She bolted, slamming through the people returning to their devotions in the colonnade, through the horde of Kiraly outside mourning their dead elder, through Seven Knots and out of it, running for Westbridge, running for a home that had vanished years ago.

Crookleg Alley, the Shambles, Lower Bank: Cyprilun 20

There were a few places in Nadežra safe from prying eyes. Vargo had made a point of acquiring several, houses and warehouses and other locations not associated with his name and used so infrequently that anyone keeping watch would waste enough of their time to give up. And to his satisfaction, the letter he sent at fifth sun was answered before seventh.

It seemed he’d left Iascat Novrus hungry for more.

With a clean room and a luxurious bed instead of a grimy alleyway and the wall of the Theatre Agnasce—and no crisis to interrupt—Vargo had all the time he needed to break Iascat in a variety of ways, all pleasurable to them both. He made full use of it, and afterward they lay in a tangle of sheets and cooling sweat, Iascat half draped over Vargo in boneless lassitude.

His forefinger toyed with the pair of tiny, etched discs dangling from Vargo’s navel piercing. One was a standard contraceptive numinat; the other at least theoretically fortified his body against disease. Whether it worked or not, he had his doubts—but certainly it didn’t do him any harm.

Then Iascat’s hand drifted upward and began tracing the lines above Vargo’s heart.

“That tickles,” Vargo murmured. He didn’t exactly mind, but it bordered on an intimacy he wasn’t inclined to share.

“I’ve never seen a numinat inscribed on skin before.” Iascat’s breath ghosted over the tattoo. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

Plucking up Iascat’s hand to keep it from straying more over forbidden territory, Vargo brought his fingers to his lips. “It might be, if it was more than a bunch of nonsense scribbles I got because I thought it would be intimidating.” At Iascat’s startled look, he shrugged his free shoulder. “I was young. And stupid.”

That part, at least, was true.

Iascat’s fingers brushed Vargo’s lower lip. “It’s hard to imagine you like that.”

A snort escaped Vargo. “I’ve changed. Grew up.” Nothing remained of the boy he’d been. Not even his name.

“I suppose we all do.” Iascat sighed and turned onto his back, his hand slipping from Vargo’s grip, his gaze fixed