The Mask of Mirrors M. Carrick; (classic novels to read txt) 📖

makes sense.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not at my best.”

“I could send something to help with that, although…” Vargo sat back, studying his folded fingers. “That might not be wise. I’ve heard they used ash. I’ve also heard that ash… doesn’t play well with other drugs.”

Right now, she wasn’t sure she cared. She was so tired she wanted to cry. It took an effort of will to channel that into something useful instead. “You know about ash?”

Vargo grimaced. “As much as anyone does. It’s a derivative of aža. First came to my attention back in Suilun—I looked into it because I hadn’t heard about it before. Because I didn’t control it. And because…” He looked away. “Because I am the aža trade in this city, which means they’ve been using my supply to make it.”

Not so honest a businessman, are you? She only barely managed to keep that reply behind her teeth. Aža was harmless. If the Tyrant hadn’t outlawed it, and the Cinquerat hadn’t maintained nominal control, it wouldn’t even have to be smuggled in.

She sorted carefully through her mind, trying to figure out what she could safely tell him. “Meda Fienola thinks Leato and I got a double dose.”

“That’s fast work. Did she say how—” Vargo’s question tumbled into a self-deprecating huff. “Sorry. I expect the last thing you want right now is another interrogation.”

“As long as you don’t ask about the nightmares, it’s fine.” Those were dangerous territory; the moments leading up to them, less so. “I have no idea how the ash got into the cups.”

The scar cutting through Vargo’s furrowed brow gave it a permanently cynical look. “I can’t imagine a reason he’d dose himself, not even to ruin relations with the Vraszenians, but I have to ask… did anything strange happen with Mettore Indestor?”

The whole conversation felt like balancing on a rope while drunk. “We didn’t speak, but when he saw me…”

She shouldn’t have let herself continue that sentence. Vargo’s gaze flicked up, sharpening with curiosity.

Then inspiration came. “You must promise you won’t mock me for this,” she said.

Vargo’s lips twitched. “Well, certainly not to your face.”

Annoyance twanged along her nerves, but that was exhaustion talking and she knew it. He was trying to lighten the mood. “I… consulted a patterner. About Indestor.”

“I didn’t realize pattern had much of a following in Seteris.” Or any, the lift of his scarred brow added.

“It doesn’t. But I was having abysmal luck finding anything we could use against him, so I—well, I figured, what was the harm in trying? And the woman I spoke to…” She let her fingers curl open and closed, as if grasping for words. It wasn’t much of a pretense anyway. “At the time I dismissed what she said, but now I find that a great deal harder.”

“You should have a care with which ones you talk to,” Vargo warned her. “Most of them are harmless frauds, but others sell their information. Era Novrus owns more than a few.”

I bet you do, too. Masks have mercy—if she didn’t sleep, she was going to wind up letting one of those thoughts escape her mouth. “If anyone paid to find out that I’m concerned about House Indestor, I’m not the one who got fleeced.”

Vargo frowned. “What did she say, to turn a rational Seterin noblewoman into a believer?”

“She warned me that Mettore was planning something that involved magic—she didn’t know what kind, or why. That he was—or is—building toward some decisive action, some turning point, and that he would unleash a power he couldn’t control. That whatever he was doing would change things forever. And—”

Even with a lie to cover her source of information, it was difficult to make herself say the words. “That I was part of it somehow. That Mettore… needed me for something.”

“Needed you,” Vargo murmured, his gaze growing distant. “Interesting. I’d give a great deal to know what made her so sure of that.” He clearly didn’t believe the answer was “pattern.”

He fiddled with the edge of his collar. “Magic. Inscription? If he wanted to do something that used you as a focus, that would prove very bad for you—you aren’t a god, endlessly channeling energy from the Lumen. But there are easier and more subtle ways to kill a person, if that was his goal.”

“I don’t think this was what he planned—I think it was some kind of accident. Whatever he’s doing, it isn’t finished yet.” She couldn’t suppress her shudder.

Vargo reached for her. She jerked away without thinking, leaving him with a hand suspended between them. He let it drop to his lap, his expression shuttering before she could read it.

But he spoke as though the rebuff hadn’t happened. “What’s her name? The patterner.”

“Lenskaya.” Then, too late: Djek. I should have said I didn’t know.

“And where did you meet her? I’d like to speak with her myself. If only to make certain she doesn’t have some other agenda.”

“I, ah—” I didn’t think this through. “Coster’s Walk. Leato sent me there; he went to her before.” At least Vargo’s lieutenant Nikory hadn’t gotten far enough into her snare to learn her name before Serrado drove him off. “But she isn’t always there.”

“Lenskaya on Coster’s Walk.” His fingers tapped a rapid beat against his knee. “That should be enough for my people to find her.”

Not if I’m not there to be found. But would that make things worse? Some mysterious patterner gave Renata information, then vanished? She couldn’t make that calculation—not right now, with Vargo right there. It was a problem for later.

She had a funeral to get through first.

When was the last time the bells had chimed? “I should get dressed,” she said. “You’ll be there today? At the Ninatium?”

Vargo took his cue, standing and giving her a slight bow. “I will. If you need a moment of peace, tug on your left earlobe. I have some skill at being a distraction.”

It was the same signal she used with Tess, from their time in the Fingers.