The Mask of Mirrors by M. Carrick; (lightest ebook reader txt) 📗

the shadowed alleyway. “It seems there is,” he said, approaching the sedan chair. The bearers only managed half a shout each before they slumped in chokeholds from Varuni and Nikory. “Premyk’s proven he has all the loyalty of a feral cat. I thought I might save your boss the trouble of being betrayed the same way he’s betrayed me.”

That wasn’t precisely true. Vargo didn’t have knot-bonds with any of his gang leaders. But less than a handful of people knew that, and Premyk wasn’t one of them.

“En’t no loyalty to be had with cuffs. Not to them, not from them,” the Stretsko man said, switching to street-accented Nadežran. He turned to Premyk, as though he had no concern for Vargo’s approach or the fact that he was outnumbered at least five to one. “You should have kept that in mind before betraying the Stretsko, slip-knot.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Premyk wailed. “He didn’t give me a choice!”

“There’s always a choice,” the man said, drawing a knife. Vargo tensed—but instead of turning it on any of them, the Stretsko sliced the cord he was holding in half before casting it into Premyk’s face, followed by a glob of spit.

He was disarmed and on the ground a moment later, held kneeling by Premyk’s guards. Vargo pressed the tip of his cane to the man’s sternum. “That was both dramatic and unnecessary.” Then he raised his voice to address the sedan chair’s occupant. “Tserdev, why don’t you come out of there before I have my people drag you out.”

The chuckle that answered him was too low to be Tserdev’s. Vargo had the sinking realization that the Masks were laughing at him—one Mask in particular—a moment before the sedan-chair door opened and the Rook unfolded himself from within, like a black bird spreading its wings.

Vargo choked twice on his incredulous laugh at the sight of the famous vigilante ducking under the chair’s lintel—first because he thought it was some trick of Tserdev’s, then because he knew it wasn’t. No ordinary hood cast such impenetrable shadows on a man’s face.

“This fucking day,” he muttered, lifting his cane from the Stretsko’s chest, though he wasn’t stupid enough to draw the sword hidden inside. Vargo was no duelist. He couldn’t slap down a delta pup with his blade, much less a master like the Rook.

But maybe it didn’t need to come to swords. He dredged up a careless smile. “Now this is a surprise and an honor. To what do we owe the pleasure? Word is the Rook doesn’t trouble himself with knot business.” With a few twitches of his fingers, he silently ordered Varuni and the others to be ready in case his bullshitting failed.

“Knots tangling are usually no business of mine, no,” the Rook said. His voice was resonant and unplaceable. Vargo kept his gaze on the shadow where a face should have been, but there were no clues to be had. I hate not knowing who I’m dealing with.

Except he knew enough. Nadežra’s legendary outlaw, who usually only troubled himself with—

“Nobles,” the Rook said, “are a different matter.”

Fuck. All the time Vargo had spent calculating the costs and benefits of gaining the title of eret, and he’d never considered this.

Alsius, we have a small problem.

::More than one, I fear, and rather large, too. The Stretsko brought more than just the Rook. Orostin’s down, and they’ve got our people surrounded.::

Double fuck. That left Vargo with Varuni, Nikory, and the two fists set to keep Premyk in line… against the Rook.

“So this is something of a welcome?” Vargo stalled to give them time to get in place. “If I’d known you were so keen to meet, I’d have sent you an invitation to my upcoming ball and spared you having to deal with Tserdev.” He took a slow step back, two, and the Rook followed.

“Making me jockey with all the others who want a piece of you?” The Rook’s blade whispered free of its sheath. “I preferred a more intimate setting for our first dance.”

“Lucky me,” Vargo said, keeping his voice falsely light. “But as flattered as I am by the attention, my dance card is full.”

At a final tap of his finger, Varuni’s hidden chain whip coiled around the Rook’s ankle and yanked him off-balance.

And Vargo fled.

Orostin had bribed the priest to leave the back door to the labyrinth unbolted. At least that part of the operation hadn’t gone cocked. It swung open easily, and Vargo bolted it behind him. The Rook would have to scale the wall to come after him—after fighting through the mess outside.

But that was the only thing to go right. Not a moment later, three Stretsko appeared by the gate at the front of the labyrinth.

Vargo crouched, choking up on his cane. Unlike born nobles and their duelists, he didn’t have to follow any rules besides the main one: survive.

The Stretsko eyed the cane warily as they crossed the looping path of the labyrinth toward him. That gave Vargo the distraction he needed to palm a knife with his other hand and flick it into the leftmost rat. He aimed for the gut and got the arm instead, but it was enough to slow the man down as the other two charged.

He wielded his sword cane like a stick at first, trying to bull his way through. When one of the Stretsko was stupid enough to make a grab for it, Vargo twisted the sword free and cut a deep gash along her forearm. But with three on one, he didn’t have enough room to make good use of the long blade, and then one of the rats locked his arm behind him and—

::Vargo, watch out! There’s someone else here!::

A black shadow leapt from the roof, hooking a Stretsko rat and dragging him to the ground. The muck-fucking Rook, Vargo thought furiously—but it wasn’t.

The newcomer was too slender, her form obviously feminine where the Rook’s was swathed into ambiguity by coat and hood. Overlapping leather plates were layered like black