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

fix on his face, but kept tracking off center. “What’s an old sot like me gonna do against three healthy bucks but get his own self beat?” His broken nails scrabbled at Grey’s fingers, and Grey relented, opening his hand and letting the old man take the coin.

At least he had a description—one whose significance didn’t require any new hunting. One of the captains under Commander Nalvoccet had a wine-stain birthmark spanning half his brow; his squad liked to rub it for good luck.

Three hawks out of uniform had taken Arkady Bones. But why? What use was one foul-mouthed street rat to the likes of Mettore Indestor?

Before Grey could escape the Shambles to find out, someone else found him.

“Captain Serrado. I’ve been looking for you,” Vargo said, sliding smoothly into his path.

“Congratulations on succeeding.” Grey knew Vargo’s web spread all through the Lower Bank, but he didn’t appreciate finding himself caught in it. “If you have official business for the Vigil, leave a message at the Aerie.”

“I’m not entirely certain I’d be welcome at the Aerie. Especially not with this message.” Vargo smirked. He was waiting for Grey to take the bait and ask—which only made Grey want to strike his smug face.

But Vargo’s Isarnah bodyguard looked like she knew her business, so he refrained. “My condolences that your reputation precedes you. I don’t have time to help you. A child has gone missing—”

All manipulation dropped away, leaving the hard edges of the man who’d taken over half the city’s underworld. “A pile of black powder has gone missing, too. My guess is that you’ll find it somewhere in or around the Charterhouse. Do you have time for that?”

Grey’s breath left his lungs like a boot had struck him in the gut. Not saltpeter: black powder. “Where was it?”

“Before it walked off? A shop in Grednyek Close. Looks like the Stadnem Anduske had it. I imagine you’ve heard they’re planning a protest at the Charterhouse today. Not likely to be coincidence.”

Not coincidence at all. But what exactly was their plan? Possibilities flickered through Grey’s mind, like cards in the hands of a streetside entertainer: a strike at the Cinquerat, in retaliation for Indestor’s manipulation. Or another part of Indestor’s plan, a massacre of Vraszenians for some unknown purpose. Even a massacre planned by the Stadnem Anduske themselves, to provoke a true rebellion—one that might prod the rest of Vraszan into retaking Nadežra at last.

Idusza swore Andrejek wouldn’t harm his own people… but the rank and file didn’t always know what the leadership was doing. And sometimes radicals decided their goals could only be bought with blood.

Just like in the Fiangiolli warehouse. Somebody deciding their own aims mattered more than the life of a Vraszenian carpenter.

But Grey couldn’t do anything if he let the memories of Kolya’s death drag him under. “Thank you for bringing this to me.” Grey was excellent at being polite to people he disliked. He also knew when he wasn’t being told the whole story. “Why don’t you walk with me and tell me how you got involved in this business.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve been up all night, and could really use some sleep.” Vargo choked up on his cane and flicked it in a mockery of salute. “Good work with Breccone Indestris, by the way.” Then he was off down the street, before Grey could ask how Vargo had known about that.

Grey made it as far as the plaza before someone else stopped him. Idusza, worse for the wear since he’d last seen her; her face was bruised, and one eyebrow split.

“Why do I even have an office,” he muttered as she jerked her chin for him to follow her.

She didn’t lead him far, just to a sheltered stoop out of sight of the Aerie’s front steps. “Tell me about the black powder,” he growled before Idusza could speak.

“You know about that?”

Grey crossed his arms to keep himself from punching the stone threshold and most likely breaking his hand. “I thought Koszar Andrejek was a man of his word. I guess I was mistaken.”

“This isn’t us!” Idusza hissed. “We stood down, like we promised. Calmed people as much as we could. And we abandoned our plan… but not everyone agreed.”

“So they’ll still bomb the Charterhouse.”

“What?” Idusza recoiled. Then she laughed—a bitter, wild laugh. “No. The Charterhouse was meant to protect our people. Boycott the amphitheatre and give everyone somewhere else to go. But your Seterin friend ruined it. Now Argentet pays for people to go, so everyone flocks there.”

The bottom dropped out of Grey’s stomach. The amphitheatre.

That—not the Charterhouse—was the target.

Blow up the Great Amphitheatre, which Kaius Rex had built in an attempt to destroy the wellspring. The site had been a temple once, a huge open-air labyrinth with the wellspring at its heart, appearing every seven years. The Tyrant paving it over was blasphemy—and Vraszenians had never forgotten.

“You have to stop them.”

“We tried.” Her eyes were bleak. “Two of our people are dead. Another may join them. And Andrejek is too hurt to stand. The ones who splintered off, they’re at the amphitheatre, setting the bombs.”

Setting the bombs… and blending in with all the other Vraszenians and Nadežrans taking advantage of Scaperto Quientis’s generosity. “They would kill our own people?”

“‘Those who suckle at the teat of the oppressors are no people of ours,’” Idusza quoted hollowly. That line had shown up more than once in the Anduske’s broadsheets over the years.

“I’ll alert the Aerie,” Grey said. “You have to go to the elders. Tell them everything. There still might be a chance to get people out. Thin the crowds, at the very least.”

Idusza spread her hands. “And to me the ziemetse will listen? They know I am Stadnem Anduske. I won’t get near them.”

Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. No, the elders wouldn’t listen to her. But Grey had been working with them for weeks. They might listen to him.

But he had to warn Cercel, and a little girl was missing. Even if