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

Velvet panels formed a backdrop for beautiful, empty faces of filigree and stiffened silk. While the masks that rich Nadežrans wore when slumming on the Old Island and the Lower Bank mostly marked them out as targets for plucking, Ren had always loved the masks brought out during the Festival of Veiled Waters. When she was five, her mother had bought her one—just a cheap paper thing, but she’d treasured it like it was made of solid gold.

But Renata Viraudax knew nothing of Nadežran mask traditions. “How odd,” she said, drifting toward the display as if it held no particular allure. “I’ve never seen anything like this in Seteris.”

“That’s because Seteris doesn’t have Nadežra’s long and storied history with masks.”

The reply didn’t come from Captain Serrado. Behind Renata, Tess whimpered.

Tess liked a handsome man as much as the next person, but what really made her go faint was good tailoring. And the clothes of the man who had spoken were exquisite—even Ren could see that. Not innovative in the ways Tess could achieve, but the green wool of his coat was as soft as a carpet of stone moss, cut flawlessly so it didn’t wrinkle as he moved. His waistcoat was much darker than Liganti fashion favored, appearing black until it caught the light and flashed emerald, and his coat and collar points rose to his jaw without threatening to wilt. Renata’s gaze passed over an odd, iridescent spider pin clasped to his lapel, then snagged on the jagged scar ripping up the side of his neck, too high for even fine linens and high collars to entirely hide.

Ignoring Tess and Captain Serrado, the man stepped into the gap next to Renata. It would have felt invasive if he’d been looking at her, but his gaze was on the array of wares. “Masks are worn for many Nadežran festivals, and sometimes ordinary occasions, to sweeten the air and protect the skin. The Tyrant became quite attached to them in the latter stages of his… illness.” He gave a delicate shudder. “Even our most infamous outlaw, the Rook, is known for hiding his face. One can’t visit our fair delta and not acquire a mask.”

He plucked down one of lapis caught in stiffened gold lace, similar to the embroidery on Renata’s surcoat, and offered it to her. “Derossi Vargo. Apologies for my presumption, but I had to make the acquaintance of the most stylish woman to grace this year’s Gloria.”

The flattery was unsubtle, but delivered smoothly enough to charm, and Renata was just grateful someone had finally broken the hawk-shaped wall at her back.

Derossi Vargo. The name seemed nigglingly familiar, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t place it. It wasn’t a noble name, but he might be from one of the delta houses, the gentry of Nadežra.

She accepted the mask and held it against her face. “How is a visitor to know which one to buy?”

“Why, whichever one pleases you best and costs the most.”

Before Vargo could fetch down another, the shopkeeper hurried over. “There’s more than just beauty to be had here, alta,” she said, selecting a few other styles that complemented Renata’s coloring and ensemble. “My husband does the finest imbuing in Nadežra. Take this one.” She held up two circles of overlapping silver and gold. “It’ll keep your complexion dry in our humid air. Or here.” Up came a midnight-blue domino decked with shimmering onyx. “This will hide you from prying eyes on your way to an assignation. I’ve masks that’ll clear up your spots—not that you’ve any need for that—or that’ll protect you from the sick fogs that roll up from the Lower Bank.”

“Really,” Vargo murmured, reaching for that last one. “It fends off disease?”

Renata drifted away as the shopkeeper made improbable promises. The display was small—most of the focus in the Rotunda was on imported goods, not local products—and her wandering gaze alighted on a mask tucked into a bottom corner, as if the shopkeeper knew nobody was likely to want it.

Where her childhood mask had been clumsily painted with a rainbow of colors, this one was hammered prismatium, shimmering like the tail of a dreamweaver bird. The mask-maker had sculpted the metal into gentle waves, ebbing and flowing like the River Dežera. It wasn’t anything Renata Viraudax needed… but Ren wanted it so badly it took all her will not to let the yearning show.

“What’s caught your attention?” Vargo’s question was warm, amused, like they were old friends rather than acquaintances of mere moments. He drew close, peering over her shoulder. “Ah. That’s a very… Nadežran mask.”

“Vraszenian, you mean,” Captain Serrado muttered. He looked away when Vargo glanced over.

“I suppose you would know, Captain.” Vargo’s tone rippled like the prismatium of the mask, full of colors hidden just under the surface. The smile he turned on Renata was equally pleasant and enigmatic. “Do you like it?”

Just be Renata. It had sounded so easy when she was getting dressed this morning. In practice, keeping unwanted thoughts from welling up was proving far harder than she’d anticipated. “What makes it so Nadežran? Or Vraszenian—whichever.” She dismissed the quibble over terminology with a flutter of one hand.

If she’d wanted to persuade them she’d never been to Nadežra in her life, she couldn’t have chosen a better method. Both men bristled, brothers in indignation. Serrado might be a slip-knot, but his ancestry was as Vraszenian as they came, while Vargo looked like a typical Nadežran, mixed Vraszenian and Liganti blood—and neither of them appreciated being lumped in with the other.

Vargo’s indignation broke first, into rueful chuckles. He lifted the mask and turned it to admire the prismatium. Faint etching and the shape of the edges gave it the appearance of feathers. “Nadežran because the dreamweaver bird is a symbol of the city. They flock here every spring to mate, when we celebrate the Festival of Veiled Waters. Vraszenian because the Vraszenian people say they’re descended from those same birds, so they flock here as