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

Once the party of chattering nobles had taken themselves off to another part of the maze, the Rook released her wrist. “If you’ve come to demand the return of your glove, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. It’s gone the way of Mezzan Indestor’s sword.”

“I don’t give a damn about the glove,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I want to know if you killed Kolya Serrado.”

It wasn’t what she’d meant to ask. She’d followed with the intent of asking him point-blank whether he was Leato or not. But the pain she’d seen in Serrado tonight, the distance between two men who had once been close… she had to heal that if she could.

For her own sake, too. For the child who’d once adored stories of the Rook and had to know whether he’d crossed that line.

The papier-mâché column he’d braced himself against crunched under his grip.

“Yes.” The admission was like jagged glass, shredding one of her last remaining childhood illusions.

“But you don’t kill.” It burst out before she could stop it, the protest of Ren instead of Renata Viraudax. The Rook’s head came up, and she rushed onward to cover. “I’ve heard the stories. The Rook—you—you aren’t a murderer.”

“Tell that to Kolya Serrado,” he hissed. He turned away, but came up against his reflection boxing them in, black glove pressing against the glass.

Ren prided herself on her ability to read people, and tonight that ability had been preternaturally sharp. But she couldn’t read the Rook. With his body shrouded in leather and silk, his face hidden in shadow, his back to her, the entire thing could have been an act put on for her benefit.

But she didn’t think so.

“The fire killed him,” he said into the mirror, so softly that she had to strain to hear it. “I didn’t start it. But it’s my fault he was caught in it.”

Relief gutted her. Not a murderer. The guilt he carried was of a different sort.

He twisted, addressing her over his shoulder. “What interest does a Seterin alta have in the Rook? Or in a dead Vraszenian, for that matter?”

What answer could she give? Ren opened her mouth, not sure what she would say—and outside, the bells began to ring. Legend said the same bells had miraculously rung the night the Tyrant died, rippling outward from the Charterhouse tower and across the city to announce the passing of the man who’d held the land of Vraszan in his grip for decades.

The Rook looked up as though he could see the bells through the roof. The faint light showed his jaw tightening, but his voice was deceptively light. “A puzzle for another time, it seems.”

Opening his coat to shield Renata, he shattered the mirror at her side with a slam of his elbow.

“I trust you can find your own way out?” he said, as shards rained down from the top of the frame. On the other side of the broken mirror hung a heavy canvas drape. Glass crunched under his boots as he pulled it aside to reveal a door set into a paneled wall.

“Blessings of the Tyrant’s downfall upon you, Alta Renata,” the Rook said. With that, he escaped through the door.

Charterhouse, Dawngate, Old Island: Cyprilun 17

Renata was out of breath and full of questions by the time she made it to the Charterhouse steps, none of which were answered by seeing Leato waiting there. She already knew the Rook’s disguise was imbued; it might transform from practical garb to gaudy costume with almost no effort at all.

The curious look he turned on her was no evidence, either. He didn’t act like a man she’d just accused of murder… but Ren lied too well herself to trust anyone else’s mask of innocence.

Among the dignitaries assembled on the steps, the five members of the Cinquerat stood out. Clothed in the colors of their seats—grey, brown, green, blue, and the many-hued silks of Iridet—they looked bored and ready for the night to be over with. Mettore was scowling at Leato, the hard set of his jaw visible beneath his sapphire-studded mask.

Then he looked at her, and the bottom dropped out of Ren’s stomach.

It’s me.

She knew it with the instinct that had guided her mother in reading patterns, the same instinct that had translated the pattern she’d laid on the kitchen floor. The missing information signaled by The Mask of Fools, the message Lark Aloft promised was coming—it was her.

And she’d handed herself to him.

The peal of the bells was fading into the distance. Everyone began climbing the steps, passing through the great double doors. Renata’s only choices were to follow, or to publicly flee.

A choice made more difficult as Leato took her arm. “Renata?” he asked when she didn’t move with the others. “Don’t waver on me now. Mother was positively gleeful when I told her you’d landed an invitation.”

Her hands tensed. I need this, she thought. To get into House Traementis. And she’d put herself in front of Mettore at the engagement party; the damage was done. She didn’t know what information he’d gotten from her, what she’d supplied that he’d been lacking… but he already had it.

What would he do with it?

The only way to find out was to keep an eye on him. Renata allowed Leato to escort her through the great archway and the public atrium, the five stern statues of the Cinquerat glaring disapproval at her. Beyond them lay the audience hall where the council issued public pronouncements. Renata and the other observers filtered through the rising arcs of benches that overlooked the floor, while Mettore and the others took their seats on the dais, facing the door.

When they were ready, a single bell tolled.

The show of power wasn’t subtle: the Cinquerat entering first, with their people, into their own halls of power, then ringing for the Vraszenian delegation like they were servants. But the Vraszenians knew the ceremony, and had a century and a half of practice at