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

and as near as she could tell, Vargo was doing the same. He was merely giving her something more pleasant to think about than radicals or curses.

And so, bit by bit, she relaxed into it. She began returning his jokes with sallies of her own, his sidelong glances with smiles. They were only playing for tokens, after all, not money. There was no need to keep her guard up. He was manipulating her, yes—but for no more nefarious purpose than the simple, honest pleasure of flirtation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a chance to enjoy that.

I’m not sure I ever have.

The realization jolted her. She reached for the deck to shuffle again, and Vargo laid his hand over hers. His calluses were rough against her glove-softened skin. “That’s twenty-one points,” he said. “Or didn’t you notice?”

She knew she’d taken the last hand, but she hadn’t calculated the total. “Oh.” Then, as Vargo kept his hand on hers, she raised an eyebrow at him. “I half suspect you let me win, as I know I wasn’t playing very well.”

“It seems I’ve failed to distract you from your problems.” He fell silent as he collected the cards and ran his thumb over their smooth-cut edges. “I know you don’t want to talk about it—whatever’s bothering you—but if you did, I’d listen.” He made a face. “Without using it against you.” A wince. “Or gossiping.” A sigh. “Or judging.”

He sounded like a boy being prompted by his mother. It was endearingly awkward. Too blunt, and not at all the way to persuade someone to share a personal secret.

But it was that very bluntness that tempted her.

Here in the semi-private space of the alcove, with the sandalwood and clove scent of his perfume spicing the air, it was easy to forget that the man sitting across from her had issued a veiled threat to Arenza, that he paid Sedge to beat people up, that he ran knots up and down the Lower Bank.

Yes—and you’re a knot-breaking murderer. Her past was no cleaner than his. As for their current lives… his was, in its own way, more honest than hers. Everybody knew who and what Vargo was. And if he truly was hiding an identity as the Rook, then he donned his mask for the greater good, which was more than Ren could claim.

“It’s…” She hesitated, wishing she still had cards in hand to disguise her nerves. “A spiritual affliction. I don’t know what kind. But it’s on me, and Giuna, and Donaia.”

“You only just learned of this? From whom?” His brow furrowed. In concern, but also that focus he took on when faced with a problem. “Is it some residual effect of your sleeplessness? Why all three of you? Why just you three? What— Ah. I’m talking and not listening, aren’t I?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “All very good questions, and ones Meda Fienola is investigating. Along with, I hope, a way to remove it.”

“Would you allow me to contact her with an offer of assistance?”

Ren desperately wanted any help she could get. But she’d already taken a risk by sharing this much with him. “While I’d be glad of that… I’m not sure Era Traementis would agree.”

“I understand.” Setting the deck aside, he covered her hand with his, a gesture of protection rather than flirtation. For once she didn’t feel the instinct to pull away, and she let him warm her cold fingers. “The offer remains, or if you just need to talk. I suspect you hate trusting others to take care of you as much as I do.”

And to keep my secrets. Ren searched his gaze, and Vargo didn’t look away. If he was the Rook, then he knew who lay beneath the masks of Renata and Arenza. And even if he wasn’t…

She wanted to tell him. To have someone else she could be honest with. Not family, like Tess and Sedge, but an ally, a partner—a friend.

Before she could do more than absorb the shock of that thought, Vargo’s gaze flicked to the gap in the curtains. He pulled his hand away as someone coughed outside. When he twitched the curtain aside, one of Breglian’s staff was waiting.

“Deepest apologies, Master Vargo. Alta. I was told you were finished and would be leaving,” he said, not sounding particularly apologetic at all. Ghiscolo Acrenix stood two paces away, and behind him Carinci Acrenix was being hoisted up the stairs, chair and all, by two strapping young Vraszenians whose stained aprons suggested they usually worked in the kitchens.

As efficiently as they’d been led to the alcove, Renata found herself and Vargo escorted out of it, receiving a nod from Ghiscolo in passing. She expected Vargo to be all scowls as they walked out the door, but instead he laughed. “That’s the nicest boot anybody’s ever given me. I apologize for the lackluster end to the evening.”

A faint hiss escaped him as they finished descending the stairs, and he leaned against a pedestal holding a statue of some past Cinquerat seat holder—looking casual, but also taking his weight off his knee. “Shall I call you a sedan chair, or offer further distraction in liquid form?”

She couldn’t quite tell if that was an invitation back to his house, and she suspected the ambiguity was deliberate. But with the chill, misty air clearing her head, she remembered her original purpose in going to Dockwall. “A sedan chair, I think—but before that, I have a favor to ask of you. It’s why I came to your office.”

“I’ll admit, I was wondering. What favor?”

“A small thing, and it’s already been reported to the Vigil—but you have resources they don’t. You recall Eret Quientis’s shipment of saltpeter? After all my hard work getting it out of Era Destaelio’s clutches, someone’s gone and stolen it.”

He stilled, all traces of playfulness vanishing. “Did you say saltpeter?”

“Yes.”

He came off the pedestal like somebody had called him to attention. “An entire shipment?”

“Is that significant?”

His incredulous look broke on a bark of