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

the essence was clear enough. It was a screed against the Cinquerat, the noble and delta houses, and anyone else with “foreign” blood in Nadežra. The sort of thing that would get anyone caught with it arrested by the Vigil.

Crumpling the paper into a wad, Renata tossed it into the river just as Leato finished a purchase and turned back to her.

“Cousin, you must try this,” he said, offering a hollowed-out section of reed.

She knew what was in the reed before she touched it, the scent curling around her like a blanket. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the aroma ease the self-disgust that shook her at the Stretsko’s words. He didn’t know her, didn’t know what she was doing. If he did, he’d likely applaud her for pulling one over on the cheese-eaters. But when she opened her eyes and found Leato watching eagerly for her reaction, it was hard to recall why she should take pride in that.

Before Ren could bury those thoughts under one of Renata’s smiles, a commotion from the riverbank sent a ripple through the unsteady ground of the flotilla. The trader who’d sold Leato the chocolate began swiftly untying the ropes that bound him to the skiff walkway.

“What’s happening?” she asked, as other traders began doing the same. Shouts rose up from the wharf side of the market, and then something much stronger than a ripple rocked their skiff, sending the reed tumbling from her hands and into the river. Leato caught her with a strong arm around her waist before she could do the same.

Ren clutched him close, cold with sudden fright. There was a reason she’d never liked the river markets. She couldn’t swim—and in a freezing river, wearing the heavy underdress and surcoat of a noblewoman…

“I have you,” Leato said in a low murmur. She could taste chocolate on the breath warming her cheek. “It’s the Vigil. Mettore throwing around his weight again.”

He set her on her feet, but kept his arm tight around her as he turned to the woman casting lines off their section of walkway. “You, skiffer! I’ll give you ten forri and the protection of my house if you get us away from this.”

Most of the skiffers and river traders were doing just that, spreading out across the channel like ducks fleeing a barge. But Renata saw more than a few people, most of them fair-skinned Nadežrans, struggling to swim ashore after being unceremoniously knocked into the water by a skiffer’s long pole.

The skiffer eyed Leato and Renata, pole raised as she weighed her options. Not far away, the hawks were dragging people off boats and out of the water. Only when Leato held out a fist of forri did she relent, swiping the coins from his hand and sinking her pole into the river to push them to safety.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Ren looked for the Stretsko, but all she saw of him was a school of sodden broadsheets floating downriver.

Froghole, Lower Bank: Apilun 8

Winter had its teeth deep in Nadežra’s flesh, but that didn’t stop Yurdan from sweating like the delta fens in summer. His eyes were too wide, pupils devouring the muddy blue, and he didn’t blink enough—but he kept his wits enough to talk, and that was what mattered.

“I—I see things,” he stammered, pointing one trembling finger at the walls of the old lace mill. “It. Them. Staring at me. The walls are watching. This whole fucking city is made of eyes. Everywhere I look, they’re looking back at me. And they don’t blink.” He squeezed down on himself, eyes and fists clenched shut, arms wrapped tight around curled-up legs. “Masks have mercy—is that what happens? Places like this, all the bad shit that happens, all the shit we do… this is what we leave behind.”

“He’s starting to make less sense,” Vargo murmured to Varuni, who was taking notes. To Sedge he said, “How long is it now?”

Sedge was kneeling by Yurdan, ready to act if something went wrong. He had Vargo’s pocket watch in one hand, and took his eyes off Yurdan long enough to glance at it. “Not quite two bells.”

Vargo slowly spun a half-filled glass vial between his fingers, watching the darkly iridescent powder inside slip from one end to the other like delta silt. He’d assumed Hraček’s death was an attack on his organization, maybe by one of the Stretsko knots, his main rivals on the Lower Bank. But as autumn slipped into winter, he got reports from across the city—Froghole, Kingfisher, all down the Lower Bank, and even on the Old Island—of other people turning up bleeding like Hraček. Not Vargo’s people; members of other knots, or even ordinary citizens. They all had one thing in common.

Ash. A drug nobody had heard of before this year. A drug Vargo didn’t control, and didn’t understand.

Not yet, anyway. One bell for the effects to set in. Another for Yurdan’s descriptions to unravel into babble. Vargo’s stool creaked as he pocketed the vial and leaned forward, watching for changes in Yurdan’s demeanor. Anything that might give him a clue.

“Yurdan. Do you remember why you’re here?”

Glassy eyes rolled back and forth before fixing on Vargo. “You asked for a volunteer.”

“Yes. For what?”

“I…” Something past Vargo’s shoulder caught Yurdan’s attention, and his answer died in a strangled moan.

“Yurdan, what day is today?”

Nothing but mumbles, then: “Fuck me. The curtain’s gone.”

“The curtain isn’t the only thing,” Vargo muttered. To Varuni he said, “Note that he’s lost the ability to answer questions.”

“Behind you—look—” Yurdan tried to lunge toward Vargo, but Sedge was ready for him, dropping the pocket watch to grab him by the shoulders.

::Nothing there,:: Alsius assured Vargo. ::He’s jumping at shadows. This seems much like aža, only a good deal less pleasant.::

Agreed, Vargo thought in reply. So what the fuck is the appeal?

When Yurdan heard Vargo was looking for a volunteer to test ash’s effects, he stepped forward. He and Hraček had been lovers