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

Ren’s exhale was unsteadier than it should have been. Fair enough: He was the Rook. If he couldn’t distract a guard himself, he should hang up his hood. But why play these games with her?

She wouldn’t get any answers with him gone. Ren straightened her coat and considered her options. She wasn’t dressed for conventional distraction, and if the guard was worth a salted herring, he’d ignore anything like that anyway. She could start a brawl in the Three Eels, but—

The wind gusted, swinging the sign on its rusted hinges. She thought back to what the drunk had told her about the ostretta and its history, and for the first time since she read the Rook’s note, a genuine smile rose to her lips.

Ren soon had cause to be glad she’d scouted some escape routes, and by the time she circled back around to the wainwright’s, she was seriously out of breath. The window the Rook had mentioned wasn’t too inaccessible, but he was an optimist if he thought she could fit through it. She wasn’t about to quit, though, so she scaled the wall and wormed her way through at the cost of only a few bruises and one snagged button.

As she landed, she heard him say, “I’m impressed. On a second look, I honestly wasn’t sure a cat could squeeze through.” The Rook leaned against the far wall of the workshop, past a graveyard of joiner’s tools, wheel spokes, and axles.

“You could’ve helped,” Ren muttered, dusting herself off.

“And miss observing a master in action?” The hood shook from side to side, and he skirted a stack of rotted boxboards to join her. “I saw the furor outside. Well done, if a little noisier than I expected.”

He took out a small glowing stone on a short chain, which he latched around his wrist. The same one he’d had at Indestor Manor? Or did he have Vargo’s kind of money, to buy numinatrian pieces whenever he needed them?

“Help me with this,” the Rook said, and reached for the stack of boards.

They concealed a small printing press and, stacked beside it, a bound sheaf of broadsheets smelling of pulp and fresh ink. He worried one free, holding it so they could both skim the Vraszenian text.

“‘The Liganti are the cuckoo invading our nest. We must starve them out,’” he read. “‘Novrus has turned the Wellspring of Ažerais into her pocket. We must not fill it… Let’s see how the vulture fares when there are no bones to pick clean…’ Someone needs to choose a metaphor and stick to it.”

“They want people staying away during Veiled Waters?” Ren said, frowning. In a normal year, it would have made sense. Argentet’s control over the city’s cultural affairs included the amphitheatre, and therefore access to the wellspring, and they charged for the privilege of going near it. Even during off years, when the wellspring didn’t manifest for the Great Dream, Vraszenians paid to hold their celebrations in what remained of their sacred site. The money was supposed to fund the city’s cultural institutions and events, but in practice, most of it went into the pocket of whoever held the Argentet seat—a long-standing point of grievance.

But people were furious when Iridet closed the amphitheatre for investigation after the Night of Hells. Only two days had passed since Tanaquis had persuaded him to reopen it—and now the Stadnem Anduske were telling people to stay away? “Sostira will be furious.”

The broadsheet crinkled in the Rook’s tightened grip. “Friend of yours, Alta Renata?” For all the softness of his words, they held an edge of threat that hadn’t been present before, and Ren’s breath caught. She’d spoken without thinking—and spoken like a noble.

Carefully folding the broadsheet, the Rook tucked it into his coat and scanned the rest of the workshop. His voice eased. “But Novrus is no friend of Indestor’s. Still, seems unlikely he’d use the Stadnem Anduske just for this. Unless he’s hoping Novrus will crack down on Vraszenians for not going to the amphitheatre.”

“Hard to punish people for that—though she could find ways to hurt them if she wanted.” Ren twitched aside a filthy canvas to reveal a stack of blank paper underneath, ready for printing. “He could just want to hamstring Novrus. But he has other ways of doing that—safer ones than his son cozying up to a Vraszenian.”

A box of type blocks rattled as the Rook shifted it. “So what’s his play here?” he muttered, quietly enough that Ren suspected he was talking to himself.

“He might provoke the Stadnem Anduske to do something he can punish them for. But it doesn’t fit. I patterned Met—Eret Indestor. Whatever his plan, it involves magic.” She found a jug of ink, opened it, and sniffed, trying to detect any trace of ash. “This isn’t magic.”

“Unless they’ve figured out how to imbue bad rhetoric, I agree.” He glanced toward the door and the board he’d pried away to gain entry. It was propped back in place, but wouldn’t fool a close inspection. “How long is the sentry likely to be occupied?”

She snorted, a touch of humor slipping through despite her tension. “Depends on whether I accidentally started a gang war. They are apparently very proud of that sign.”

According to her gutter informant, the Three Eels used to be the Three Wheels, after the wainwright’s, before the rise of a knot called the Eels led the ostretta’s owner to declare his allegiance and crudely modify the sign. At the moment, he was under the impression that the sentry, working for the rival Mudslingers, had stolen it.

“Accidentally.” The Rook chuckled and searched the press, running a gloved hand over the paper frame as though he could read the sheets it had once held. “Maybe these people should hire you to write for them.”

He sounded like he might mean it as a compliment. She found a few more broadsides on a table—and then a drawer set into the side of the table, whose handle wasn’t dusty.