The Traitor Baru Cormorant (The Masquerade, #1)

by Seth Dickinson

This is the truth. You will know because it hurts.

“Do you remember Salm?” And Baru took him in her own arms, shocked by how frail he felt, by how close they were in height, and whispered in his ear: “I remember my father. I remember my fathers.”

Someone knocked on the door. She went and opened it. “You should just say ‘come,’ Your Excellence. In Falcrest I mastered the ways of doors.” Muire Lo brought the tray of breakfast to her desk.

Muire Lo pawed at the grip around his throat, eyes wide. The woodsman used his other hand to push an interloper away, politely but firmly, and continued strangling the life out of Muire Lo with calm inexorable strength.

The assassins who went after Governor Cattlson met two Clarified disguised as maids. None of the assassins escaped. (No maid in the Governor’s House ever suffered disrespect again.)

“Go to Treatymont,” she told the Mannerslate’s captain. “Go to the Governor’s House. Tell Cattlson that I renounce my name and station, that I repudiate his false Republic and all its power. Tell him that I am Baru Fisher, the Fairer Hand, and that I will set Aurdwynn free.”

Duke Heingyl’s cavalry cantered forward. Gathered their lines, made their spacings firm, lowered their lances. Blew their horns. “Well, I’ll be fucked,” Pinjagata told his neighbors, huddled under their upraised shields. “I think he’s charging.” And so Heingyl’s cavalry charged.

The Duchess of Cattle, aloof, skirted the killing ground and trotted her mount toward Baru. “Your banner fell,” she said. “Thought I might climb the hill and piss on your corpse.” “You’ve rather botched the chance,” Baru said,

Why not? What would be lost, what evil done? The Masquerade would crush any rebellion. In her hands, she could ensure it was swift, merciful. And with her hard-won power, she could save her home. But that will not be enough now. Good-bye, she thinks. Good-bye, kuye lam. I will write your name in the ruin of them. I will paint you across history in the color of their blood. The tide comes in. The Throne’s man watches her, waiting for her to lift her eyes and make a census of the birds.