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

workmen’s cursing—only her tone of voice—because he glanced their way with annoyance, not outright fury. That was enough to make him divert his course, though, and Grey’s heart began to hammer.

“Who is this?” Indestor asked, his frown directed at Arkady instead of Grey.

Cercel did her best to draw his attention. “Child from the Vraszenian delegation. Got lost. The captain’s returning her to her people.”

Indestor grunted, examining Arkady with a suspicious eye. “Filthy little gnat, isn’t she? Not surprising.”

The look he turned on Grey wasn’t much friendlier. “What about you? It’s been over a week. Iridet’s woman hasn’t turned up answers, which means the Vraszenians are probably responsible. If you don’t have anything useful for me, maybe I should put someone else in charge.” His scowl flicked down to Arkady. “Or hold on to one of their own—see if that convinces them to talk.”

“Sir!” Cercel interposed herself before Grey could respond. “The delegation has cooperated so far. If we start imprisoning their children, most of them will leave, and that will badly damage our ability to find the one responsible. Give us a little longer; I promise we’ll have answers for you soon.”

Grey held his breath, and Arkady. Thank the Faces, she had enough sense to keep her mouth shut now. One insolent look from her, and Indestor would have her right back in that cell.

“Fine,” Indestor said, through his teeth. “But none of them leave this city until we have answers. No matter how small.”

The workmen had finished hanging the first door and were standing about uncertainly, because Indestor was in the way of the other one. He transferred his fury to them. “Why hasn’t this been taken care of? Can’t my people even fix a damned door?”

Grey recognized an escape when he saw one. With Cercel guarding their retreat, he got both hands on Arkady’s shoulders and hauled her down the steps of the Aerie.

“Now I know why hawks are brown,” she said as they fled back toward the Shambles. “It’s ’cause you all take turns diving up that mudlicker’s ass.”

Lower Bank and Old Island: Cyprilun 29

Sedge was surprised to find Ren lurking at the foot of the Sunset Bridge dressed and painted as Arenza. For what they had in mind, she couldn’t be Renata, but— “En’t that dangerous?” he asked, waving off the girl trying to sell him new-blooming roses of Ažerais. “Thought you said people was looking for you.”

“They are,” Ren admitted. She’d bought a rose and was twiddling the violet bud nervously between her fingers. “But I had to meet with Idusza.”

“Hope you got something useful from her.”

“Gave more than got.” Ren grinned. “Did I tell you they want to steal Eret Quientis’s saltpeter?”

Sedge rubbed his eyes. Ren’s schemes made his head ache sometimes. “The saltpeter you chased all over Nadežra to get for him? Now you’re helping somebody else take it?”

“Idusza told me before the Night of Hells that she wanted advice from the pattern. I finally laid that out today. When the things I told her prove uncannily accurate, her faith in my abilities will be complete—and then perhaps she’ll trust me enough to talk about Mezzan.” The wicked bent to Ren’s grin told Sedge that “uncanny accuracy” would be no coincidence. He sometimes thought his sister couldn’t look at a piece of string without calculating what useful knots she could tie in it.

Since his own life had enough knots in it already, he changed the subject. “You look better.”

It fell short of what he really meant, but there was no good way to say, You looked like a walking corpse last time I saw you; glad you en’t dead. Ren only nodded—she of all people understood—and led the way into the crowd thronging the bridge, shuffling slowly toward the Old Island.

“Is it my imagination,” she said as she dodged around the clanging bulk of a pot-seller, “or does your boss know more about numinatria than he lets on?”

“Let on to that Fienola woman quick enough.” It all worked out in the end, but it had been a harrowing few hours waiting in that chamber. Worrying that Vargo couldn’t bring Ren back. Worrying that he could, and then Sedge would have to kill his boss for learning the truth about Ren. Worrying that Vargo wouldn’t come back, and then Varuni would kill Sedge and wear his scalp as a wig.

“Just be glad he does,” Sedge added. “Most people in the gangs don’t know Illi from Uniat, but Vargo… you know he took Ertzan Scrub’s crew without breaking a single bone? Just chalked one of them figures in an empty warehouse and starved ’em ’til they agreed he was boss.”

The reason for the slowness on the bridge became apparent: two wagons up ahead had come nose-to-nose, and neither was giving way. Ren eyed it for a moment, then cocked a questioning brow at Sedge; when he nodded, she hopped up onto the bridge’s railing and began skirting the crowd, with him close at her heels. “Have you noticed ever a mark on his chest? A numinat, I think, but I couldn’t make out the details.”

Sedge waited until they’d cleared the crowd and jumped down onto the berm on the Duskgate side of the river’s channel before he asked, “When did you see that?” Ren was usually much too wary to go taking up with somebody like Vargo, no matter how pretty the man dressed.

“The Night of Bells,” she said dryly. “Or did you not see his costume?”

Sedge snorted. “Weren’t much of it to see. But yeah, some of us have seen that tattoo. There was a riot in Froghole two years back; Vargo took a bottle to the neck. Varuni used his shirt to sop the blood. We all thought he was dead as Ninat, but he’s up and walking the next day like he’s fucking Kaius Rex. Dunno if the tattoo had anything to do with it, though. He says it’s just scribbles.” Then again, Vargo was like