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THE MASK OF MIRRORS

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BOOK TWO OF THE ROOK & ROSE TRILOGY

by

M. A. Carrick

Seven Knots, Lower Bank

The rookery of Seven Knots never slept. There were always babes yowling the tenements awake, dogs snuffling in the streets for scraps, laborers and skiffers and laundresses making their way between work and home. When a plaza was silent, it was a sure bet that something unpleasant was about to happen—and you didn’t want to be there when it did.

The plaza behind the Seven Knots labyrinth was shrouded in that anticipatory quiet, but Vargo was waiting by choice—by design—in the shadows of one of the many twisty passages that sprang from it. Varuni and Nikory waited beside him, with Orostin and a dozen other fists planted in the nearby alleyways to keep watch.

The only person not there by choice was Premyk, the knot-traitor who’d thrown his lot and six months of aža profits in with the Stretsko gangs. The same gangs that were creating problems for Vargo up and down the Lower Bank.

When Vargo confronted him, Premyk clearly expected to die on the spot—which just showed again that he didn’t understand his boss. Retribution would come later. Right now, Premyk was staked out in the plaza as bait, flanked by two of Vargo’s people in place of Premyk’s own. The Stretsko boss would come to take the traitor’s oath and his payment, and Vargo would be waiting to take her.

It was the sort of maneuver that couldn’t be left to his people, no matter how much Vargo would have preferred to spend the sweltering summer night at home under the cooling effects of a numinat. His back—still not fully healed from the shredding the zlyzen had given it—was beginning to itch under the layers of sweat, bandages, and brocade that swaddled it. He was losing the fight against the urge to strip it all off in search of relief, when Varuni stiffened beside him.

On the far side of the plaza, he spied movement. An older man with iron-grey braids, one ratted into the long tail of the Stretsko, emerged into the plaza.

“Foolish to be out this late, when even Ažerais lies dreaming,” he said in Nadežran-flavored Vraszenian.

After a moment of silence and a surreptitious prod from one of his guards, Premyk blurted in the same language, “But Ažerais looks out for fools and children. And w-we are her children.”

The Stretsko man gave a low, two-toned whistle that sounded like the call of a dreamweaver bird. After several tense moments, two others entered the plaza, boots clomping and shoulders hunched under the weight of a covered sedan chair.

“Wh-what?” Premyk’s voice wavered on the question as the bearers set the chair down. “Tserdev was supposed to take my knot oath herself. That was the arrangement.”

Vargo traded a look with Varuni. Every word the man spoke was another chance for him to betray Vargo and warn Tserdev of their trap.

“The boss isn’t stupid, to walk out in the open,” the Stretsko man said. “Half this district wants her netted. Hawks leave the chairs alone.” He approached Premyk, pulling out a braided cord knobbed on two ends with small wooden beads. At this distance and in the dark, Vargo couldn’t tell the colors, but he knew a knot bracelet when he saw one.

“Go on,” said the man, holding out the cord for Premyk to take. “Say your words, show your loyalty, and then Tserdev will respond in kind.”

Premyk edged back like the man was holding out a snake. Only the presence of the guards at his back kept him in place. “I…”

“Is there a problem?” The Stretsko man’s voice was silk-soft and sure, like he already knew the answer.

Enough of this theatre. Vargo stepped out of 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 petals down her chest and arms. Her dark hair was pinned to her head in a swirl of Vraszenian braids, and a mask of black rose-tatted lace broke the upper part of her face into an obfuscating pattern.

More to the point, she seemed to be helping Vargo rather than hunting him.

“I know you,” he said, frozen by the realization. “You were at the amphitheatre.”