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

Idusza laughed in delight as she poured a liberal splash of zrel into tea as black as river mud. “Your cards have painted the faces of the skeptics with shame, szorsa. Never has a theft gone so easily. It was as though the dogs were helping the fox enter the coop.”

They were sitting together in the apartment above the chandler’s shop, with Arenza listening to Idusza recount the theft of the saltpeter. Waving off the offered zrel, she made suitably pleased and amused noises as Idusza told her about a guard distracted by a jilted lover, a service door with a broken latch, and the saltpeter waiting exactly where Arenza had predicted it would be.

Sipping her tea, Arenza said, “Pattern guided you well. I was only the messenger.”

More like the architect. Ren already knew where the saltpeter was and how it was guarded, thanks to Renata’s earlier work with Quientis; a little delicate interference and a stacked deck for Idusza let her pass along the vulnerabilities as divine inspiration.

“In these times, our people have need of such messengers.” Idusza pressed the rim of her cup to her lips, eyes narrowing as she studied Arenza. “Andrejek said the same. He wants to meet you.”

Idusza had been feeling her out for recruitment to the Anduske since they first met, but this was something more. Arenza let her startlement show. “But—I am a stranger. He is a wanted man, by the ziemetse as well as the Cinquerat; surely he meets only with those he trusts.” Which apparently included Idusza. Had Mezzan managed to target someone that high in the Stadnem Anduske’s leadership?

“He trusts me, and I trust you.” Idusza drained her cup and set it to one side. She leaned forward, curved braid swinging in the air. Not even her soft, rounded cheeks could dull the hard edge to her words. “For decades we’ve fought to take back what is ours. So long that we have forgotten it belongs also to Ažerais. The ziemetse are useless; they accept a stalemate with Nadežra’s captors. We treat not with our enemies as they do. But you’ve reminded me—your assistance has reminded us all—that this is our goddess’s blessed city. How can we take it back without her blessing?”

“You treat not with your enemies. And yet—” Arenza cut the words off, ducking her head. “Forgive me. You’ve heard that song already from me.”

Idusza bypassed the tea and poured a straight shot of zrel into her empty cup. “Mezzan has had many chances for betraying me, and taken none. He supports us. And… he is useful.”

Useful. Was Mezzan how the Stadnem Anduske had learned about the saltpeter? Maybe not; Quientis had held that trade charter for years.

Arenza held her tongue, waiting. The whole point of conning Idusza had been to find out what Mezzan was up to, but so far, the woman had resisted all her efforts to pry into that relationship. At last there was an uncertain note in her voice, and she stared at the zrel in her cup rather than drinking it.

Finally, Idusza said, “My relationship with Mezzan is… complicated. My mother says always I go against her wisdom to do things she likes not. I think it’s the same for him with his father. I hoped…” The words trailed off, and Idusza shook her head. “It matters not. Your cards give true guidance—I doubt that no longer—and they say he is a problem. But we need him only a short while longer.”

Arenza’s pulse quickened. Idusza wasn’t turning on her lover, not yet… but that was more than she’d ever let slip before. “Need him for what? If he supported you publicly, I would understand why it is worth holding Caerulet’s son so close. But he keeps his silence.”

“You think it chance that the Vigil has this past year accomplished nothing against us? Mezzan turns their eyes aside when we need it most. I will tell the others to be cautious—I will myself be cautious—but that is too valuable to throw away.”

A short while longer, Idusza had said. What were they planning? And more to the point, how much did it matter to Indestor?

But Idusza looked like she had already said too much. Arenza poured her more tea and said, “Then I hope Ažerais watches over you, and blesses what you do next.”

The Shambles, Lower Bank: Cyprilun 30

Like all of Nadežra’s rookeries, the Shambles never slept, only rested its eyes. As Ren passed one stoop, a bundle of rags stirred, the haggard man under them watching her with hunger and speculation. A pair of night-pieces working a corner watched with similar speculation, but no hunger; they could judge customers, and knew they’d get no coin or interest from her.

She wore the same nondescript dark breeches and Liganti-style coat she’d used when scouting prior to starting her con, with a kerchief in her pocket in case she needed to cover her face. If the Rook expected her to wear the shawl he’d sent, he wouldn’t have invited her to the Shambles; such fine fabric would only get ruined or stolen here.

She was, however, armed with as many knives as she could reasonably conceal.

The Three Eels stood at the end of a blind alley, across from a wainwright’s abandoned workshop, where boards were nailed over the mouth of a yawning entry large enough to drive a cart through. It was exactly the sort of setup the Fingers might have used to ambush drunken patrons emerging from the ostretta. The sort of place an outlaw might lie in wait? Ren hesitated in the shadows, watching for any suspicious movement.

Not even a rat.

Which left the Three Eels, looking only slightly less abandoned than the wainwright’s shop. A sign hung from the eaves; if Ren squinted, she could just make out three loops spotted with flaking grey paint chipped into wood eaten away by black mold.

The Shambles was a long way from her old turf on the Island. She didn’t know the