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

You don’t need me to gain access to charters any longer.”

“What makes you think that? Access doesn’t mean anyone’s going to give them to me. Besides—” Laughter warmed his words like brandy. “I’ve been enjoying our partnership. Haven’t you?”

She had. But balanced against that was Sedge’s bruised face, and the uncertainty about what Vargo was hiding.

Whatever it was, she stood a better chance of uncovering it if she stayed near him. “Perhaps the contract can remain undamaged, then. You, on the other hand…” She nodded past him to where Carinci Acrenix sat, eyeing Vargo like he was wearing his Night of Bells costume again.

Following Renata’s nod, Vargo paled. Now he looked like a man who’d nearly been clawed to death by zlyzen. But he shook off his frozen dread with a cleared throat and a straightening of his cuffs. “Yes. Right. Remind me why I agreed to this?”

Without waiting for Renata’s answer, he headed toward Carinci, though without his previous swagger.

“Studying the competition? You’ve proven yourself remarkably skilled at making Nadežra dance to your tune, but that man…”

It was Sostira Novrus. Motioning for her heir, Iascat, to hang back, she glided up to Renata’s side, still dressed in the silver and pearl-grey robes of Argentet.

She ought to have looked pleased. Despite Mettore’s efforts to make sure House Novrus took as much damage as possible from his schemes, the feud with Indestor had ended decisively in her favor. Her expression, though, was cool and calculating.

“There’s no competition here, Your Elegance,” Renata said, and began to step away.

But Novrus’s next words stopped her. “Do you think any of this was an accident? Ennoblement charters don’t fall from the sky—nor are they granted out of simple gratitude. Ghiscolo and Eret Vargo have been working together toward this end for some time now.” She paused just long enough for Renata to fumble for an answer, then added, “Assuming this is the end.”

So much for enjoying the glow of success. “One might almost think you were worried, Your Elegance,” Renata said. “Not only about an alliance between Vargo and Acrenix… but Vargo and Traementis. Your attempt to drive a wedge between us is sadly transparent.”

Sostira caught her, one hard-fingered hand gripping Renata’s wrist so she couldn’t escape without making a scene. Ren almost used a river rat trick to break her grip, and never mind the scene; it would have been worth it to see the woman’s shock. But she held still as Sostira leaned in and spoke in a low, intense murmur.

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence by assuming you’re ignorant of the man’s origins, and how he made his fortune. Apparently, it doesn’t bother you that he’ll kill his enemies without a second thought. Or take someone’s money in exchange for planting contraband on a rival’s property, and then someone else’s money to blow that contraband up. Or use every secret he holds as blackmail—perhaps because he’s persuaded you that he’d never do such things to you.”

Her thin lips bent in a venomous smile. “But he will, my dear. He already has.”

Ren knew exactly what reaction Sostira wanted, but she couldn’t stop the bottom of her stomach from dropping. “What do you mean?”

Sostira let go of her wrist. The hold wasn’t necessary anymore, and they both knew it. “That invitation to the Ceremony of the Accords. It came from him, didn’t it? Did you ever stop to wonder where he got it from?”

Trade secrets, Vargo had said. A flirtatious echo of her own comment to him—but he’d never answered properly.

“Mettore Indestor gave it to him,” Sostira said. “And paid him with administration of a military charter through House Coscanum. All in exchange for making certain you would be present at the Charterhouse on the Night of Bells.”

Ren stood mute. Every instinct told her to say something, anything, to hide that Sostira’s knife had found its mark. But she couldn’t find any words.

Novrus made a small, pleased sound. “Think about that, my dear.” She patted Renata on the cheek and turned away. At a snap of her fingers, Iascat joined her, and together they glided off.

Ren began walking, too. She came to a set of stairs and climbed them, not caring whose offices she was headed toward; the hallways upstairs were mostly silent and deserted, and she needed to be alone so that no one would witness it when her mask shattered.

Vargo. Mettore. The Night of Hells.

Mettore had wanted her for his schemes… and Vargo had known it.

I suspect my association with you had something to do with it. Vargo’s words when he told her about the military charter with Coscanum. At the time, she’d thought it was flattery.

But he’d sold her out.

That entire night, playing cards at Breglian’s. His injured knee—an injury that suddenly ceased to trouble him when she told him about the missing saltpeter, but she’d thought that was because concern over the danger had taken precedence. Now, in hindsight, she saw it for what it was: a performance.

All of it was a performance. The little slips that made it sound like he was covering for something. His pretense of concern for her. He’d figured out that she thought he might be the Rook, and he’d used that to his advantage, luring her into trusting him. Playing the same game she’d played with the Traementis. The whole night had been nothing but manipulation—not honest friendship and flirtation, but a deeper game whose existence she hadn’t even suspected.

She’d been so blinded by her own assumptions—by her conviction that she was too good a player to be played, and her desperate wish to have someone else she could trust in her life—that she’d never realized he was using her, every step of the way.

Ren staggered to a halt, breath coming too rough and fast; her fingers flexed against the cold surface of a marble column to hold herself up. Only the awareness that someone might come along let her pull herself back together.

When she did, she realized someone had.

He stood at a