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

Idusza Polojny’s family in Seven Knots had been a rude awakening on that front; all Ren’s previous time as Arenza had been spent speaking accented Liganti. But a szorsa delivering fate’s message had to speak Vraszenian, or no one would listen to her.

She hadn’t found Idusza, but at least she got entertainment out of listening to Idusza’s mother rant about the slip-knot who’d pestered her about her daughter. Serrado should have worn a wig. A traditional family like the Polojny didn’t think much of a man who cut his braids off.

But Renata Viraudax didn’t speak even five words of Vraszenian, and her business here had nothing to do with them. “I’m Master Vargo’s advocate in the Cinquerat,” she told the guards at the gate. “I need to speak with him.”

She expected to be taken to an office, but instead the stable girl they flagged down led Renata through a winding maze of stock from half a dozen lands. Bales of wool and cured sheepskin from Ganllech, a row of pungent casks stamped with the crimson markings of the Dubrakalčy, bags of salt from Nchere.

“Master Vargo has trading charters with so many places?” Renata asked. Vargo had led her to believe he didn’t administer any charters yet. Certainly not enough to explain the variety of goods in his warehouse.

The girl shook her head. “We just hold the goods for the kretse and the delta gentry. Keep it from getting nicked or burned before it’s sold. Oi, Master Vargo! Cuff come to see you.”

Vargo was in the middle of a rapid exchange with a spare, angular person in a panel coat and the braids of a kurec leader. One of the lihoše, then: born a woman, but taking on a male identity so he could lead his people. Only sons were allowed to be kurec leaders, and if there were none—or if all the available ones were incompetent—then a daughter would become a son instead.

His rapid Vraszenian was so shot through with road cant that Ren had difficulty following it. Vargo answered in kind, a little more slowly, and only broke long enough to nod at Renata. Most of his attention was on the lihosz and the bolt of rose-patterned black lace half unrolled between them.

Either Vargo was already winning or he put Renata’s presence above profit, conceding whatever they’d been arguing about. The lihosz spat into his hand and held it out for shaking. Vargo—gloveless—did the same, then gestured for a group of waiting haulers to follow the Vraszenian.

He approached Renata, grimacing and pulling out a kerchief to clean his hand. “My apologies, alta. If I’d known you were coming, I would have greeted you properly.”

His knuckles weren’t as marred as Sedge’s, but Renata caught sight of multiple scars before he tugged his glove back on. “I apologize for troubling you here, Master Vargo. Though now that I’ve seen this place, I understand the complaints I’ve been hearing from Caerulet’s office about ‘off-book guards.’” She wondered how many of the people protecting the warehouses against thieves were thieves themselves—just on Vargo’s payroll.

“I’d be more sympathetic to His Mercy’s complaints if he weren’t the main reason my clients need guards,” Vargo muttered. “We live in a topsy-turvy world, Alta Renata, where the criminals are honest, and it’s the upright folk you have to be wary of.”

Trying to convince me you can be trusted? Sedge didn’t spill Vargo’s secrets, but he talked about the man readily enough. It left her no more certain what to think of him than she’d been before.

Vargo said, “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a busy time. I have a caravan from Sefante and a ship from Ganllech, and no manager to deal with them. Care to talk while we walk?”

“Of course. And please don’t take it the wrong way when I say I’m glad to hear you’ve had your share of problems with Eret Indestor. I’ve been trying to assist Era Traementis by arranging for some mercenaries to guard one of her trading charters, but he’s made that nearly impossible. As for your own charter… you would think cleansing the river has nothing to do with military matters, and yet he’s taking the strangest interest in it.” She kept her words mild, but saturated them with bitterness.

Leading a winding path through stacked hardwood, Vargo said, “What sort of interest? Is Mettore aware of my involvement, or is this merely an extension of his siege against House Traementis?”

“Yes to both. Sadly, my attempt to help Altan Mezzan save face against the Rook sank under the weight of his petulance, so it hasn’t done much to win me favor there. I tried to get a meeting with Eret Indestor, to see if I could strike some kind of bargain, but I appear to be utterly beneath his notice.”

“Count yourself lucky.” A runner came by with several cramped ledger sheets. Vargo skimmed them with a finger before nodding and sending the boy off again. After a moment of staring into space, lips moving silently, he shook himself and turned back to Renata. “Keep clear of Indestor. You’re capable enough, but Mettore Indestor isn’t the sort of enemy you’re equipped to deal with. I’ll take care of it—give him something else to occupy his attention.”

Renata could imagine what he meant—she was learning the sort of man Vargo was—but he had no idea what sort of woman she was. “I can hardly keep clear of him when I’m representing the Traementis in the Charterhouse. And I can’t be a very effective advocate when I’m fighting half-blind.”

They’d passed into a tilted forest of silks and lace, the outermost bolts leaning drunkenly against the inner layers. Dust hung heavy in the air, mixing with camphor and cedar, and Vargo’s particular clove scent. He pulled Renata into a gap between the stacks, rendering them invisible unless someone passed directly alongside them.

“This is how the Cinquerat operates,” he said, his voice quiet but hard. “They make the rules, but they don’t play by them. Indestor’s just