Empress of Rogues

by Carrie Summers

  When no one objects, she twists the handle and nudges the door open a crack. Brilliant light falls through the gap, stark after the time spent in the dimly lit servants’ area. Blinking, Myrrh peers through the opening.

  Her heart stutters at the sight of an iron cage standing central to the room. A pair of guards stand over it with spear tips stuck through the bars and hovering over a huddled form.

  “Glint,” she whispers.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE DOOR SMACKS against the inner wall of the council chamber when Myrrh throws it open. She knows she’s left caution pooling in the servants’ corridor behind her, but she can’t help it. All she can see is Glint’s half-lidded eyes, his slack lips, the fresh trickle of blood oozing down over his hip. He’s in a seated position, knees draw toward his chest as if to protect the gut wound that can’t heal under the conditions in which he’s being kept. His hair hangs lank over his forehead. Even with the loud noise Myrrh made entering the room, he doesn’t look up.

  She covers half the distance between the servants’ entrance and Glint’s cage before the rest of the room starts to penetrate her awareness. The council is seated along one side of a long table, all facing Glint except for the councilman presiding over the head of the gathering. Emmerst sits at the far end of the gleaming table, ring-crusted fingers laid on the waxed surface, a look of utter shock on his face.

  “Myrrh,” one of her friends hisses, “wait.”

  It’s a little late for that, but the warning gives her pause. Myrrh’s eyes fly between the council and Glint, and her heart plummets into her gut as she forces herself to stop and turn to face the table, chin raised, lip curled in an expression of disgust.

  “Well this is interesting,” Emmerst says. “A woman with an uncanny resemblance to the city’s newest fugitive delivers herself straight to the council chamber. You realize this isn’t how bounties work, don’t you?”

  At his words, the guards standing over Glint stiffen and make as if to approach her, but another councilman waves them back.

  Emmerst’s fingers curl, the only outward betrayal of his annoyance at that.

  Myrrh sets her jaw and keeps her eyes off the man, choosing instead to search the faces of the council for others she recognizes. It’s been a few weeks, but she can still pick out the men who attended Glint’s dinner parties while he was maneuvering for the nomination as Maire. Eyes landing on a gray-haired man, she waits until she has his attention.

  “Merchant Kantwell. Do you remember me?”

  The man blinks, looking confused until recognition slowly melts over his features. “Miss…?”

  “Ava. I am Merchant Giller’s fiancée. We met in his home not long ago. I was greatly enjoying hearing you speak on the trade situation in the Crags, but I was forced to retire early when my parents sent a carriage to fetch me.” She gestures toward Hawk and Ivy.

  Hawk clears his throat. “An unwed young woman should not jeopardize her reputation by remaining out late in the company of a man, even if they are to be wed and he is entertaining some of the preeminent citizens of a city.”

  Myrrh can’t help but glance toward her mentor. He’s good at this. She didn’t even realize he knew those fancy words.

  The gray-haired councilman, Kantwell, furrows his brow and stares at her. His eyes travel the length of her body, and when his gaze reaches the slit in her dress, he raises a skeptical eyebrow. “If you say so. And yes, I do recall our previous meeting, as I’m sure some of my fellow councilmen do. But of course, this was before we discovered that your fiancé is a murderer, and the culprit behind the Maire’s disappearance. All the woes of the last few weeks, the disorder in the city and the terrible effects on Ostgard’s commerce, are due to the young man you have agreed to wed. Knowing of his guilt, I’m surprised you and your parents”—he nods at Hawk and Ivy—“haven’t fled the city. But then, if Councilman Emmerst is to be believed, you aren’t just an unwitting innocent wrapped up in the evil deeds of your intended husband. You’ve been quite aware of Merchant Giller’s actions all along.”

  Behind her, Myrrh hears the indrawn breath and rustling of clothes as her fellow thieves prepare for the situation to dive into violence. She sighs audibly, glancing over her shoulder and casting them a slight smile.

  “Forgive the councilman,” she says. “Because he has right to worry. You see, Merchant Emmerst is right. Glint—that’s the name he actually goes by—and I are indeed coconspirators.”

  Chairs squeak against the floor as council members sit up straighter. Both Emmerst and Kantwell rise halfway out of their chairs while the guards once again move toward her. Myrrh steps aside as Resh and Warrell step between her and the Shields.

  “Then the man we heard from a few minutes ago lies,” says a pinched-faced man seated beside Merchant Kantwell. “I knew it. Wonder what Giller offered him to risk himself with such a tale.”

  Myrrh blinks, confused. Which man? Before the guards can reach her friends, leading to a clash of blades, she rushes the table and, planting one palm on the silky surface, leans over the tabletop directly opposite Kantwell. “That’s right,” she says. “We are allies in deceiving you.”

  Merchant Kantwell shakes his head. “Why would you admit such a thing?”

  “Because we didn’t conspire in the murder of the Maire. The man you have in a cage is not Merchant Giller.”

  “It’s four of us against two of you,” Resh growls at the Shields. “I don’t suggest you pick this fight until your masters hear the lady out.”

  Kantwell gestures with his fingers, and the advancing footsteps seem to slow. Myrrh risks a glance over her shoulder. The guards halt their advance just a pace shy of striking distance of Resh and Warrell.

  “Four?” the larger of the two Shields asks, his gaze flicking between Resh and Warrell.

  Hawk casts Myrrh a questioning look. When she nods, he grins wide enough to bare one of his gold molars as he draws a finely crafted dagger from a hidden pocket in the suit coat. That’s one benefit of borrowing merchant’s attire from a thief, she supposes. Glint’s wardrobe is far more suited to disguising weaponry than the ridiculous dress she’s stuck in.

  Ivy follows suit, producing knives from within the cuffs of her sleeves. Myrrh’s so-called parents move forward to join her guards.

  “I believe that makes four, right?” Hawk asks, glancing at Resh as if unsure of his math.

  Resh nods. “I think it does, yes.”

  Myrrh turns back to Kantwell. “As I was saying, Glint—actually, that’s not his real name either—didn’t murder the Maire, and I can prove it.”

  At the end of the table, Emmerst snorts. “And how exactly are you going to do that? The man vanished without a trace weeks ago.”

  Reaching into her satchel, Myrrh extracts a hard metal band and sets it on the table with a clack. She removes her hand, revealing the former Maire’s signet ring. When she and Glint first met, he impressed her by showing the ring off and claiming he’d stolen it from the Maire’s own bedchamber. Of course, that was true, but what he’d left out at the time was that the Maire was his father.

  “Excuse me,” says a sneering councilman near the end of the table opposite Emmerst. “You said that his name is neither Glint nor Giller. So please do illuminate us. Who is this scoundrel?” He gestures at the cage.

  “I’m getting there,” Myrrh says with a sweet—and utterly false—smile. “First, the Maire.”

  As Kantwell examines the signet ring, small wrinkles form between his eyebrows. “All right, so you have the Maire’s ring. What does that prove?”

  “Nothing, alone. It’s just added evidence to support my claim that I—without Glint’s approval or knowledge—abducted the Maire and sent him into exile in a debtor’s prison.”

  A strange sort of silence grips the hall for a moment, after which the chamber erupts with raised voices. Myrrh’s friends close ranks and back toward her, forming a tight shield.


  Kantwell shakes his head as he raises a hand for silence. “This is…” He swallows, then his face hardens. “Now wait. This sounds like a claim made by a besotted young woman hoping to spare her beloved from execution.”

  Myrrh holds his gaze while others among the councilmen mutter.

  Emmerst slams his hand down on the table. “Sixing pox, men. Why are you even listening to her? Haven’t I shown you enough evidence?”

  Myrrh whirls on the man. “And what evidence is that, exactly? What did you tell the rest of the council that led them to believe such a serious accusation?”

  Merchant Emmerst sneers. “Among other things, the fact that you just arrived in possession of the deceased Maire’s signet ring only strengthens my allegations.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s the best you have. Where’s the body?”

  “No one knows. Except you and your lover, of course.”

  Kantwell clears his throat and glances down the table toward one of the other men that Myrrh recognizes as a former ally of Glint’s, or rather, an ally of Merchant Giller’s.

  Merchant Emmerst rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m being forced to reiterate these things which I’ve already proved to the council’s satisfaction. But since you insist, for starters, I have numerous witnesses who can attest to heated meetings between that man”—he jabs a finger at Glint, who remains motionless and apparently unaware of the situation around him—“and the former Maire. I have further records: copies, tracings, and stolen originals of written communication between the pair. The esteemed councilmen here have read the documents and can attest to the quantity of threats therein, veiled and direct.”

  Myrrh thinks back to the letter she discovered between Glint and his father. At that time, the Maire had been pressuring his son to help him fend off an assault on his power from Emmerst’s camp. Emmerst has had his eye on the Maire’s seat for much longer than Myrrh has been embroiled in the situation. It’s not surprising, she supposes, to find out his spies were keeping tabs on the interactions between Glint and the Maire.

  Emmerst doesn’t know everything though. Nothing in the communication gave away Glint’s relationship to the man. Of course, Glint hates his father and wants no association with him. The fact that he took on the guise of Merchant Giller when it would have been so much easier to gain council standing as the bereaved son of the missing Maire is proof enough that he has no desire to take up his father’s name.

  Emmerst snarls at her, lip curling. “No arguments against my evidence, I see. By my guess, you were aware of the killer’s plans all along, even if you weren’t physically present at the assassination.”

  Myrrh glares at the man, then glances again at Merchant Kantwell. “I assume that you have taken pains to check this so-called evidence for forgeries. And what of these eyewitnesses? Are they trustworthy?”

  Kantwell shows his palms. “Most were servants to the former Maire, Miss…Ava. They have no reason to lie unless they’ve been bribed. And our colleague here would never stoop to such things, would you, Emmerst?”

  Merchant Kantwell’s hesitation before speaking her name shows that his belief in her story is rapidly deteriorating. The fact that her supposed parents just drew blades that they seem quite willing to use probably further lowered her believability.

  Emmerst rises halfway out of his chair. “I move we finalize the guilty vote and arrest this woman as well. She can die with Glint or Giller or whatever his real name is. The spectacle will please the population.”

  The pair of guards resumes their slow advance as Emmerst pushes back his chair and strolls toward the main entrance to the chamber. Myrrh feels her friends tense, preparing to run as he slides aside a smaller panel in the door and speaks through it. “We’ll need additional security in here.”

  “His name is Dominic,” Myrrh blurts. “Dominic Evenescuel, son and heir to the former Maire of Ostgard. That’s why Glint visited the Maire’s Palace over and over. His father demanded that Glint help fend off Emmerst’s assaults on his position. Glint wanted nothing to do with him, but the Maire had leverage. He’d taken a man prisoner who was dear to us both and was threatening the man’s execution. When all other ideas seemed to have failed, I abducted the Maire and sent him away for that and for the cruelty he worked in this city.”

  A roar fills the chamber as councilmen jump to their feet, many sending their chairs toppling. The door bursts open and the newly summoned guards shoulder into the chamber, three men and a woman in expertly maintained armor with scars to prove they’re no strangers to fighting.

  “Cease!” Kantwell’s bellow, rising from a chest slightly sunken with age, causes Myrrh to start. The man picks up a goblet half full of amber-colored liquid and smashes it on the tabletop. Three seats down, two more councilmen stand and shove their way to Kantwell’s side to show their support.

  “This proves it,” Kantwell yells. “Her story is the same as the other man’s. I suggest we withhold the guilty judgment until such time as Emmerst can be tried for treason against the city.”

  Backpedaling away from the advancing guards, Myrrh whips her head toward the aging councilman. “Which man are you talking about?”

  Kantwell nods at a junior council member near the far end of the table. With a nod, the younger man dashes across the room, dodging another goblet, this one thrown by Emmerst, and throws open the door to a side chamber.

  He peers in, then freezes. The man shakes his head and turns with a shrug. “He’s gone.”

  “What? Gone?” Kantwell hollers. “How?”

  “The window’s ajar.”

  “And you expect me to believe a man of his girth climbed out it?”

  “I can only tell you that—”

  A loud whip crack slices through the chamber, cutting off the junior councilman’s words. Motion in the room ceases as heads swivel toward the door.

  Myrrh’s knees wobble as she recognizes the blood-red leathers, the cruel sneer, the calculating eyes.

  The Scythe has returned to Ostgard.

  Upon seeing the woman, Ivy mutters a curse under her breath, and her knuckles go white around the grips of her knives. Myrrh understands. Even after knowing the Scythe—or as Glint calls her, Meredith—outside of her role as the merciless assassin and punisher who served as the Maire’s private attack dog, Myrrh can’t help the urge to shrink and hide. At least a decade of her life was spent in fear of the woman’s wrath.

  The Scythe stalks into the room with long strides, and only then does Myrrh notice Bernard shuffling in behind her.

  “Girth…” he mutters, pinching the rotund bulge of his stomach. “I’d like to see that old man get through the window.”

  The Scythe draws to a halt in the center of the room. “And here we are,” she says, running her gaze over the council. Even Emmerst seems cowed as he shrinks back into the chair. “It’s been some time since we saw one other, hasn’t it? Did you assume I fled my post when the Maire disappeared? Were you glad to have the specter of my Knives removed from your throats?”

  When no one speaks, the Scythe lets out a cruel laugh. She coils her whip, slowly, then draws out a long, thin blade that looks almost black in the candlelight. Shifting her grip, she carefully tests the edge against the leather of her glove.

  Bernard clears his throat. “That one there”—he points at Emmerst—“said that my claim was laughable. Said I needed some kind of proof to back up what he called a delusion over the relationship between Dominic and his father. Well, here she is. You all recall the Scythe’s reputation for viciousness, I’m sure, but what you don’t know is why she did the former Maire’s bidding in such a fashion. It’s old magic, an ancient bond. The Scythe is oathbound now and forevermore to serve Dominic’s family. As will her children be tied to Dominic’s offspring. The oath is unbreakable and everlasting.”

  “Which is why I am now here to free my lord,” the Scythe says, eyes fierce. As she speaks, the sounds of
battle spill from the antechamber outside the main hall. A Shield comes staggering through the door, his face bloodied and stunned. A black-clad combatant follows like liquid shadow, and before Myrrh can blink, the Shield’s throat is open, his lifeblood spilling on the floor of the council chamber.

  “Guards! Defend your council!” Emmerst shrieks as he retreats toward the wall. But the Shields already in the chamber give one look at the Scythe and drop their weapons. Palms up, they back away from the cage and Myrrh’s friends.

  The Scythe looks over her shoulder toward the antechamber and whistles loudly. “Now to see about this cage. And I do believe you have some foreign shaman capable of addressing Glint’s wounds? I recommend you send for the healer without delay.”

  Moments later, no doubt summoned by the whistle, a pair of blacksmiths trot into the chamber, red-faced and slightly wide-eyed from having threaded through the battle in the exterior chamber. With chisels and mallets, they set to work on the welded hinges of the cage.

  As the sounds of fighting outside the chamber quiet, the Scythe’s handpicked soldiers, her Knives, begin to filter into the room, the woman gestures toward Emmerst with her chin. He’s been slinking along the wall, headed for the servants’ door where Myrrh and her friends entered. The Knives need no more instruction and quickly hurry to capture the man.

  “And now,” the Scythe says, “we should talk about my oathlord’s future here in Ostgard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE COUNCIL CHAMBER is filled with the low drone of voices as the blacksmiths work at the hinges. Myrrh sits in a chair beside the cage, watching Glint as the shaman summoned from who-knows-where inside Maire’s Quarter mutters in a singsong voice. The wizened man has laid Glint down and now reaches through the bars to pass hands over his midsection and face. Cupped in the shaman’s palms, pucks of some pungent-smelling substance smolder and release smoke that sinks over Glint rather than rising toward the ceiling. Beside the healer stands a pot of unguent, greasy stuff with a purplish tint. Before beginning the chant and smoke treatment, the man carefully lifted Glint’s nightshirt, freeing the fabric where it had become fused with dried blood from the wounds, and tenderly smeared the ointment over each of the seeping gashes where the assassin’s blades penetrated Glint’s gut.