The Mask of Mirrors (Rook & Rose, #1)

by M.A. Carrick

“I’d be more sympathetic to His Mercy’s complaints if he weren’t the main reason my clients need guards,” Vargo muttered. “We live in a topsy-turvy world, Alta Renata, where the criminals are honest, and it’s the upright folk you have to be wary of.”

“Are you suggesting Eret Indestor would falsely accuse me?” “I’m suggesting that if you were to disappear off the street one day and find yourself on a penal ship, there’s not much anyone here could do.”

She unwrapped her mother’s pattern deck with care. These weren’t the cheap, woodblock-printed things she’d been using on the street; cold-decking required two identical decks, and cards like Ivrina Lenskaya’s were unique. Hand-painted, imbued not to wear down from use, with the symbols of the three threads forming a triangle on their backs, spindle and shuttle and shears.

“The truth is that I have the charter.” The glass paused halfway to Vargo’s lips. Shadows moved under his collar, Peabody peeking out again. “I beg your pardon?” “As you can see.” She unwound the cord from the toggle holding the folder shut—a button bearing Fulvet’s stacked triangle seal. Inside, a paper full of dense calligraphy outlined the terms of the charter and granted it to House Traementis for a period of nine years. “Era Traementis is prepared to sign the administration contract at your convenience.”

“No hiding behind ‘trade secrets.’ I have to know. How did you manage to get a valuable nine-year inaugural charter from Fulvet in exchange for a set of wedding clothes?” She counted the steps off on her fingers. “Well, in exchange for the loan of Tess’s talents, Alta Faella was kind enough to take tea with myself and Nanso Bagacci last week. And Fluriat Bagacci was so pleased to have her brother restored to polite society that she revoked her bid to repair the bridge at Floodwatch. Which means Mede Attravi is certain to win that contract—so he can repay the debt he owes Mede Elpiscio for crashing his pleasure barge into the Elpiscio docking pier. With the pier repaired, Mede Elpiscio will no longer need to use the jetty in Whitesail, leaving it open for Era Destaelio’s use. After that…” She spread her hands, revealing the result of an invisible card trick. “Her Charity said she saw no reason to keep Eret Quientis’s shipment of saltpeter impounded any longer. And he was so impressed with my methods that he granted Traementis the charter outright.” Vargo took a long pull from his glass to wash down his astonishment. “I knew from the moment I saw you bare-armed at the Gloria: You are a singular woman, Renata Viraudax.”

She told him about her peculiar conversation with Mettore Indestor, and the insult Mezzan had offered Giuna. “Either they’re playing a deeper game than I can fathom,” she said, “or father and son aren’t communicating well about their plans.” She strongly suspected the latter.

Vargo smiled, sharp as a rookery knife. He wouldn’t be here if Mettore had any other option. “That’s very generous, Your Mercy. But what could I possibly do for you that you can’t do yourself?” If Mettore heard the implicit resistance, he didn’t bother to acknowledge it. “The Night of Bells is in two weeks. I’d like Alta Renata to attend the Ceremony of the Accords at the Charterhouse. You can make certain she does.”

Vargo’s finger tapped twice before he stilled it. Every hook needs a lure… ::You can’t actually be considering—:: Why not? He won’t kidnap her or kill her at the Accords. It’s too public. And the information we have on his ash dealings isn’t nearly enough to sink him—not to the degree our plans require.

She tipped the cup to her lips and drank. The wine slid across her tongue and down her throat, like an oil slick instead of shimmering light. Leato grimaced in sympathy. “I think it’s gone off.” It wasn’t off. It was wrong. It burned in her throat, seared through her until her necklace and mask and gown burned her skin. The light around her fractured into sickly rainbows, forming a web of threads connecting her to Leato, to Mettore, threads everywhere she looked. She heard murmurs from the crowd, people turning to one another with worried expressions, and she tried to speak, to warn them that they should run. But it was too late. The world was unraveling around her, the warp and weft sliding apart, and she fell through the gaps between.

She was the reason this nightmare had begun. When she drank the drug-laced wine, she fell through into the dream—and pulled everyone else with her.

But that was only part of it. By coming to the Charterhouse, she’d given Mettore something he needed—but whatever that was, it had gone wrong. Storm Against Stone wasn’t just this moment; it was also his ill future, in the pattern she had laid.

When the nightmare began, the Charterhouse had tried to crush her with her own insignificance. Now she felt the opposite—the scale of her signif...