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

She tugged it open to reveal another printing frame, already set with text.

“We should go before— You found something?”

“Another plate.” She rubbed her thumb across the letters; it came away clean. “Not used yet, or they wiped it down very well.”

The Rook approached, but not close enough for her to make out the reversed type by the light of his stone. “Now that’s a reading I’d be interested in hearing. What offering should I make, Szorsa Arenza?” A soft huff of air might have been a laugh, and he lifted one hand. “I understand gloves are a common currency, but I’m afraid these are an heirloom.”

Ren tried not to stare. Was he offering her some kind of bargain, in exchange for the plate?

Several responses tried to leap free. I want to know if you’re Vargo and playing with me like a cat with a three-legged mouse. I want to know something that will give me power over you, the way you have power over me.

But neither of those things were what she wanted most.

Her lips had gone dry. She wet them and said, “I want to know what you will do with me. With what you know.”

The Rook’s hand disappeared into the shadows of his hood, rubbing at his jaw. “You mean, am I going to expose you. No. Bit hypocritical of me to go revealing other people’s secret identities, don’t you think? If nobles are fool enough to welcome you, that’s their problem.”

It sent a tremor through her, not of fear, but of surprise. “You— But—”

Every street-sharpened instinct said, But what you know is a weapon. He could use it to control her.

Yet it sounded like he wouldn’t.

He sighed. “Look… what should I call you?”

The question cut deeper than it should have. Whether she was painted and dressed as Renata or Arenza, she wore a mask to face the world; only Tess and Sedge saw her. But the Rook had broken through all the masks when he ambushed her in the kitchen, uncovering the real person beneath the lies.

Which left only one answer. “Ren.”

“Ren. Your business is your own. I don’t think you caused the Night of Hells, and you’re working against Indestor. So you can stop pressing back into that table like you want to crawl under it for safety. I’m not going to turn you in or use this against you. Deal?” He spat into his glove and reached out.

She held on to the table while the world danced around her, details shifting into new positions. The shawl full of knives. The message summoning her to the Shambles. The window left unlatched. If all I wanted was a distraction, I wouldn’t have invited you.

The Rook wasn’t blackmailing her. He was making amends for that night in the kitchen.

Ren spat in her own palm and took his hand. The leather of his glove curled around her palm; she felt the strength of his grip, and returned it in kind. “Deal.”

“Good.” The light at his wrist revealed the curve of a smile as he craned his neck to peer at the plate half-hidden behind her. “Now, are you going to share?”

She wiped her hand dry and picked up the plate, holding it carefully so the trembling in her hands wouldn’t make her drop it. Reading the reversed text would have been difficult enough on its own, given how rusty her Vraszenian was; her head spinning in relief didn’t help, nor did the Rook leaning in at her side. She’d only puzzled through a few lines when he spoke.

“It’s not just avoiding the amphitheatre. They’re calling for a gathering at the Charterhouse.” His exhalation ruffled the hair near her ear. “That’s a lot of Vraszenians in a Vigil-heavy space.”

Ren found the date, sitting on a line by itself. “The thirty-fifth of Cyprilun. Five days from now. If they tell people too far ahead of time, the Vigil will try to stop them; they must be saving this for closer to the actual day.”

The Rook’s finger traced down the lines of backward text. “What better way to arrange a massacre than by first arranging a protest?”

And what better way to make a protest seem legitimate than to have it organized by those who hated the Cinquerat?

“But—”

The strike of boots on the cobbles outside cut her off before she could tell him what Idusza had said about Mezzan. The Rook spoke rapidly. “Put it back. Out the window.” He set himself between Ren and the doorway. “I’ll draw him off.”

She moved without hesitation, returning the frame to the drawer and shutting it to the exact depth where she’d found it. Then she ran for the window, planting one foot against the wall to give her the extra lift she needed to catch the frame. Two more buttons tore free as she squirmed through; speed mattered more than caution now, and she took bruises when she tumbled to the ground outside.

From inside the abandoned shop, she heard a shout of discovery, a laugh, a scuffle, and the crash of wood breaking; then she was too far away to hear anything more.

Isla Prišta, Westbridge: Cyprilun 30

Tess had sworn up and down that she’d stay awake until Ren came home from her meeting with the Rook, but when Ren eased the kitchen door open, she found her sister curled on the new mattress, breathing softly and evenly in sleep. The needle and fabric fallen from her fingers showed her determination, though, and the fire hadn’t yet burned down, so it couldn’t have been long since she nodded off.

Ren carefully plucked away the needle before Tess could roll onto it. The mattress took up an inconvenient amount of kitchen floor, but they’d judged that better than heating one of the upstairs bedrooms, especially when they didn’t have proper linens. She tugged a blanket over Tess, lit a candle at the hearth, then gathered a few things and went upstairs.

Not to the parlour; that was too much Renata’s territory. Instead she