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

held a sharp, threatening edge. She said, “What a szorsa tells her client should remain private, but—I will show you. If you wish.”

“I wish. Sit. Please.” He waved at the chair Nikory had vacated. Holding out his hand to Varuni, he accepted the forro she placed in his palm and set it on the table where a szorsa’s bowl should be. “It seems only fair, even if the reading isn’t precisely for me.”

She left the coin where it was for the time being. Vargo might mean it as a bribe, but to her it was a gift to Ir Entrelke Nedje, and to snatch it up right away would look greedy. Then she began to lay out the cards, with no attempt at showmanship or artifice whatsoever. She’d even placed them all at the top of the deck, to reduce the chances that she would forget what she was doing halfway through. Faces and Masks, just let me get through this.

The past row she went through quickly. It hadn’t been entirely clear when she laid the pattern before, and she didn’t gain any new insights now. When she came to the present row, she slowed. “Here the alta’s fate runs afoul of another’s—Lark Aloft, and The Mask of Fools. They fit together, you see; they say Eret Indestor lacks some knowledge, some information. And I warned the alta this somehow involved her. But more I could not say.”

“So she knew going in that he wanted something from her,” Vargo murmured, studying Arenza rather than the cards.

“No!” The denial burst from her, unbidden. “She had no idea. Had I seen that, think you that I wouldn’t have warned people? Tried to stop it?”

She regretted the protest, but it was too late to take it back. Vargo’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you. Maybe you would have.” He might have a touch of Varadi in him, but his skepticism was that of any Liganti-leaning Nadežran. “Too bad your patroness isn’t more direct with her warnings.”

Patroness? She didn’t think he was referring to Ažerais or the deity of fate, but if not them, then she didn’t know who.

“What does the alta’s future hold?” he asked, tapping next to the final row.

“Not hers. Indestor’s.” Her fingers trembled as she turned over the top row. “You see that seven of the nine cards come from the spinning thread. That means magic. Two Roads Cross means he plans some decisive action—but I doubt the Night of Hells was it. He wants to change something.” She tapped Wings in Silk, then Storm Against Stone. “To do that… he will unleash a terrible power.”

“Power usually implies numinatria,” Vargo said, his gaze fixed on something past her shoulder. “But numinatria is rational, contained…”

A flicker of movement caught Arenza’s attention. She glanced down and found a jewel-toned shape the size of a child’s hand scuttling over the arm of the chair toward her lap.

One part of her mind said, That’s Master Peabody. The rest of her shrieked and overturned her chair.

It was staged. She knew it was staged. But in that moment, she felt spider legs all over her skin, remembered the sticky strands of the web wrapping her in the nightmare. The only thing that brought her back to reality was the sound of Vargo’s people snickering. If he hadn’t kept his own face straight, the rage flooding her would have made her throw a knife at him.

“Ah, that’s where he got to. Come here, Peabody.” Vargo ducked under the table. When he emerged, he had the spider on his sleeve—and one of her cards caught between two fingers. “I believe you dropped this.”

Because she’d laid the original pattern using her mother’s cards, she’d brought that deck with her. Seeing the card in Vargo’s hand now added to her fury. She snatched it back from him with shaking hands—then froze.

“The Laughing Crow,” she whispered. “Communication—Argentet. Era Novrus knows something.”

“Does she, now.” Vargo turned to the silent, watchful Varuni. “And you thought this was a waste of time. It seems I’ll need to follow up with someone from House Novrus.”

Varuni snorted, stony face cracking into something that was almost an expression. “I’ll arrange somewhere safe from prying eyes.”

Vargo tucked the spider under his collar, then turned his attention back to Arenza. “Thank you for sharing this information. Is there anything else I should know?” He obviously thought she’d dropped the card on purpose, that the whole thing was a ruse to pass along a hint.

At least I did one good thing. If he had any suspicion that I looked like Renata, screaming at the sight of Peabody probably convinced him otherwise.

She hoped.

Vargo cleared his throat, bringing her back to her surroundings. He’d asked her a question, and she couldn’t remember what it was. The fabric of her mind was thinning to gauze. “No,” she said, hoping it was the right answer.

“Then I won’t waste any more of your time.” Vargo took another forro from his bodyguard and set it next to the first one. “Thank you for coming, szorsa… What’s your given name?”

“Arenza.” Then, too late: Fuck. I should have lied.

“Arenza? Arenza Lenskaya.” He said her name like he was tasting it. His gaze dropped with casual menace from her face to her hands. “You must be new to the city. The punishment for graft here is so harsh, I’ve hardly ever seen a Nadežran-born szorsa with all her fingers intact. You have lovely hands. Don’t you agree, Varuni?”

The Isarnah woman didn’t even glance at Arenza’s hands. “Yes.”

Fingers drumming again, Vargo studied Arenza for long enough that the beat began to sink into her head, becoming the rhythm of booted feet coming to arrest her. To pull her fingernails, break her bones, brand the backs of her hands so clients would know she was a liar.

Then Vargo smiled. “But I wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen to a friend. You can relax, Szorsa Arenza. So long as you don’t disappear again, I’ll keep your secrets.”

Because she might be useful