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“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.”

She’d been one of the people fighting the zlyzen across the lines of the great numinat Vargo had only barely managed to destroy. He’d set people to find out more about her and gotten only children’s tales and wild gossip in return. “You’re—”

A Stretsko arm tightened around his throat before he could say the Black Rose. “Fuck off,” a rough voice snarled in Vargo’s ear, while the man’s other hand hovered ready with a knife: to cut Vargo or the Rose, whichever proved necessary.

“What disrespect, using such language in Azerais’s sanctuary.” Her voice didn’t have the unplaceable quality of the Rook’s. It was melodiously Nadezran and definitely female, with a thin veil of amusement over cold disapproval. “Wasn’t Indestor’s desecration enough? Or will you commit murder right here on the sacred path?”

She has a point, Vargo wanted to say, but he hadn’t survived this long by turning smartass when there was a knife at his throat.

“Azerais don’t give three blinks for the likes of this one. Kinless, knotless, and a cuff. That’s three times worthless,” the Stretsko holding Vargo snarled. But his voice and knife wavered as though the Black Rose’s words had struck true.

“If you shed blood here, it is you who becomes worthless. If he is meant to pay, pattern will bring him to you again.”

The brawl outside couldn’t be over, but inside the labyrinth, everything was quiet. The Stretsko at the Rose’s feet crawled to her friend with the knife in his arm. Helping him stand, she muttered to the one holding Vargo, “Kill him and you bring all his knots down on us. Tserdev has no wish for open war. Let’s go.”

“Him first,” the Black Rose said, nodding at Vargo. “Then you.”

Vargo had a thousand questions — but he also had a self-preservation streak as wide and deep as the Dezera. And questions could be answered by other means once he was out of this rats’ nest. He slipped away when his captor’s arm loosened, only pausing when he was at the entrance to the temple. “You have my thanks, Mistress Rose.”

Come on, Alsius. Time to go. Plunking a forro in the stone offering box, Vargo saluted them all with his cane.

Then he got the fuck out of Seven Knots.

if you enjoyed

THE MASK OF MIRRORS

look out for

THE RANGER OF MARZANNA

The Goddess War: Book One

by

Jon Skovron

When their father is murdered by imperial soldiers, two siblings set out on opposite paths — one will destroy the empire forever and the other will save it, in this thrilling new epic fantasy.

Sonya is training to be a Ranger of Marzanna, an ancient sect of warriors who have protected the land for generations. But the old ways are dying, and the Rangers have all been forced into hiding or killed off by the invading empire.

When her father is murdered by imperial soldiers, she decides to finally take action. Using her skills as a Ranger, she will travel across the bitter cold tundra and gain the allegiance of the only other force strong enough to take down the invaders.

But nothing about her quest will be easy. Because not everyone is on her side. Her brother, Sebastian, is the most powerful sorcerer the world has ever seen. And he’s fighting for the empire.

1

Istoki was not the smallest, poorest, or most remote village in Izmoroz, but it was close. The land was owned by the noble Ovstrovsky family, and the peasants who lived and worked there paid an annual tithe in crops every year at harvest time. The Ovstrovskys were not known for their diligence, and the older folk in Istoki remembered a time when they would even forget to request their tithe. That was before the war. Before the empire.