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

The only unworn piece she had left was a numinatrian medallion—the one Sibiliat was looking for. Almost as big across as her thumb, the many-sided bronze pendant was etched with Tricats: three overlapping triangles that stood for stability, community, and justice.

Which one the numinat was supposed to foster depended on the sigil etched at the center of the design, naming the god whose power it channeled. But Ren couldn’t read Enthaxn, the archaic script from the empire that birthed Seteris, which inscriptors used to scribe the names of their gods. Nor was it one of the Seterin gods worshipped widely enough in the south for her to recognize its sigil.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d pretended not to have it. Winning Sibiliat over by returning an Acrenix family heirloom could’ve proven useful. But it might have looked suspicious—not to mention that Tricat also signified home, family, and the completion of plans. It was possible its power could help her complete her plan to get into the House Traementis register.

She traced one Tricat with the tip of her finger. The bronze wouldn’t harmonize with the costume Tess was currently swearing at on the other side of the kitchen—as usual, Tess’s vision threatened to outstrip her ability to finish the work in time—but numinata didn’t have to be visible to work. Ren could hide it under her clothing, and Sibiliat would never know it was there.

The sound of a bell cut off Tess’s stream of invective. Her head came up, body tensing to stillness. “Tell me I didn’t just hear that,” she whispered.

The bell rang again. The one at the front door.

“Get you upstairs! I’ll stall as long as I’m able.” Tess’s needle-reddened fingers twisted her curls in a vain attempt to smooth away a sleepless night’s worth of frizzing. The scowl on her face as she headed for the entry hall promised cheerful murder to the person tugging on the bell.

Ren darted up the stairs to the second floor before Tess answered the door. This wasn’t the first time she’d had an unexpected visitor; cultivating a reputation for privacy didn’t entirely prevent people from stopping by. She habitually wore a suitable house robe even while down in the kitchen and didn’t remove her makeup until it was time to sleep, so she wouldn’t be caught out if someone showed up without warning. But she hated having to shift modes so suddenly.

Voices drifted up from below. Ren couldn’t quite make out the words, but Tess’s brief comments were answered by a familiar baritone. What the fuck is Vargo doing here?

That wasn’t a Renata thought, and she smoothed it away. Only when she was secure in her persona did she enter the salon they kept furnished for inconvenient visitors, one hand holding the robe shut over her underdress, as if she hadn’t been up for hours already.

“Here’s the alta now,” Tess said. “Alta Renata, Master Vargo come to see you. I’ll get tea.”

Vargo craned his head to watch Tess’s retreating back. “Did I do something to offend your maid? Perhaps she found some fault with the spoils from her most recent warehouse raid?”

“She’s putting the finishing touches on my costume for this evening. Even I tread carefully at such times.” Renata seated herself, wishing she had dressed properly. A house robe wasn’t inappropriate attire for receiving a guest before noon, but Vargo’s impeccable courtesy somehow made her even more self-conscious than if he’d acknowledged her informal state. “What brings you here at such an early hour?”

“The expected answer on a day like this is that I came for a peek at the alta’s costume, but I already have an idea of what to look for tonight.” He tapped his cheek, doing his best to look all-knowing, then dug into his coat pocket. “I’m a dull, business-minded fellow. I only came with an opportunity for you.”

With a flourish that belied his claim to dullness, he presented her with an envelope of silk-smooth paper.

The seal displayed the five-pointed star of the Cinquerat. Curious, Renata broke the wax and unfolded the paper to reveal a card inside, inviting the bearer and one guest to attend the ceremony at the Charterhouse commemorating the signing of the Accords.

She couldn’t prevent her startlement from showing. “How did you get this?”

“Trade secrets,” he said, his voice rich with restrained laughter. “I’d go myself, but even the Vraszenians in attendance will be too important to speak with the likes of me. Besides, I already know Nadežra’s history. You should have to sit through the official pageant at least once.”

She’d seen many versions of it, staged in a variety of ways, ranging from blood-spattered horror to sex farce. The Charterhouse rendition, she imagined, would be more sedate. “Surely you have more in mind than my historical education.”

“The entire Cinquerat will be there, with the usual crowd of hangers-on.” Vargo leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Including Mettore Indestor, who will be in a particularly foul mood since he has to share a cup with a Vraszenian—Kiraly this year, I believe. Who knows what he might let slip?”

Renata’s fingers tightened on the card. Another dose. That was what Mettore had told his hireling to get, the night Ren broke into his office. Poison? Could he be planning to assassinate the Kiraly clan leader? No, because they would be sharing the cup… but someone else at the event, perhaps.

She ran her thumb across the calligraphed letters and said, “If nothing else, I imagine there’s benefit to being seen at such an event. Thank you.”

“Anything for my favorite advocate.” Vargo rose and bowed. “Don’t bother Tess—I’ll see myself out.”

Dawngate, Old Island: Cyprilun 17

The streets of Nadežra were filled with noise and color and movement, from the Upper Bank to the Lower. Performers and vendors clogged the narrow lanes and bridges, and even on the wider spans of the two Island bridges, sedan chairs moved more slowly than snails, forcing their way through the crowds one hard-won step at a