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

“Or someone working for them.” That was always the way of it. The cuffs gave orders to the delta gentry, and they contracted the actual work out to others. The sick anger that had nearly drowned Grey in the wake of Kolya’s death was back. It came in waves, and every time it found a new target, it surged higher. “But that doesn’t explain who set it off.”

“You still believe it was the Rook.”

“You don’t know what I believe.”

“I know he’s an easy scapegoat compared to—”

“You’re a cuff,” Grey snapped. “Why are you defending him?”

Leato shook his head, gaze sliding to one side. They hadn’t argued about the differences between them in years. Carefully, Grey refolded the anonymous note. “Perhaps you’re right that Idusza knows something.”

Leato studied him for several moments before responding. “And if she’s Anduske, then she’s got no reason to be loyal to Indestor.” He said the name tentatively, as if afraid Grey himself was black powder, primed to go off. “But Idusza didn’t send this—that wouldn’t make any sense, sending an anonymous note, then contacting you herself.”

“No, but the person who did might be Anduske, too. I say we find out.” Grey drained the last of his beer and stood, waving for Leato to follow him into a back room. When Leato glanced at Dvaran, Grey said, “Don’t worry. We have permission.”

Dvaran kept a sack of the clothes that had been abandoned in the taproom on rowdier nights, bits and pieces that never found their way back to their owners. Grey rooted through it and found a few that would work. He tossed them at Leato. “Strip. Put these on.”

Leato made a face at the musty smell. “Do I have to?”

“Unless you want to get knifed. The stink of the West Channel is more welcome in Seven Knots than the perfumes of the Pearls.” Grey let the accent he’d worked so hard to scrub away drag his voice down into his throat. “And there is no putting you in a panel coat. Not even a horse-brained Meszaros would mistake you for one of the people.” He might be Kiraly, but his mother’s clan was Meszaros; he was allowed to mock them.

Sighing, Leato stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. “It’s odd hearing you talk like that. Not bad odd or anything, just—it reminds me of when we met.”

Grey swung one leg over a chair so he could rest his elbows on the back. “Funny. I recall not our first meeting. To me, all you cuffs looked and sounded the same.” He smiled to take the sting out of the teasing.

Leato’s snort turned into a sneeze when he made the mistake of beating dust from the patched trousers. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all rich and blond and arrogant. I’m actually Orrucio Amananto, but I didn’t want to embarrass you by correcting the mistake.”

The chair legs scraped across the floor as Grey stood and gave him an exaggerated bow, knife proffered across his forearm like he was presenting a duelist’s blade. Where they were going, anyone bearing a sword would raise questions. “And I am secretly Prince Ivan from the tales. But then, so is every Vraszenian man. Ready?”

Grimacing, Leato took the knife and tugged a cap over his forro-bright hair. “Lead on, Prince Ivan.”

The Gawping Carp was on the edge of Kingfisher where it butted up against Westbridge and Seven Knots. The streets took an abrupt turn for the worse when they entered the Vraszenian rookery, halving in width, formed into tunnels by lines of hanging laundry and sun-faded shade-breaks. The scent of garlic, steaming rice, and strong spices battled with the stink of bodies and slightly turned meat. To others—to Leato—it might be unpleasant. To Grey, it smelled like home.

He led the way through streets that had formed according to convenience rather than planning, until the tangle opened up into the wider lanes and courtyard houses owned by the more successful trading kretse.

Even Leato could tell the nice parts of the Lower Bank from the rest. “I thought you said her family wasn’t very rich.”

“We go not to where they live. Perhaps this is the house of one of her friends.”

They passed through a small plaza where every porch was peopled with gammers and naunties nattering over embroidery, or gaffers and nuncles arguing over family rivalries a century old. An archway up ahead marked the entrance to Grednyek Close, but Grey stopped Leato before he could walk through. “Aren’t we both going in?” Leato said. “I thought that was why you called me here.”

“It is—but I want to be careful.” Something about this wasn’t sitting right with him. The nice neighborhood, the anonymous note, Idusza coming out of hiding at last. “Let me first ask around. See what the people who live here say.”

Leato grimaced. “I… didn’t bring much money with me. Sorry—I didn’t think we’d need it.”

Grey stared at him, uncomprehending. Then a laugh bubbled up. “You think I will bribe them to talk?”

“That’s how I’ve had to do it,” Leato said defensively.

Clapping him on the shoulder, Grey said, “That’s because you are not Vraszenian. Give me a bell or two.”

The gammers and gaffers would have liked him better if his hair was braided, but Grey had better success than he expected—because even a short-haired Vraszenian met with more approval than the “cheese-eater” who kept visiting Idusza in the rooms above the chandler’s shop.

Leato frowned when Grey shared that with him. “I thought these Stadnem Anduske types would never take up with one of us.”

“It is odd. But stranger things have happened.”

The air around the chandler’s shop was heavy with the scents of oil and beeswax, the door at the top freshly painted the red of the Stretsko clan, just like the door at the Polojny apartment. Grey knocked, leaning in to speak through the panels.

“Is C a Idusza Polojny at home?”

“Who are you?” The voice was muffled and wary, but female, and not elderly.

“Grey Szerado. Of the