***
“Myrrh.”
“What? Ow!” Myrrh jerks upright when something jabs her injured ribs. She manages to push herself upright, blinking in the bright sun, and sees Nyx standing over her.
“We’re almost there. Figured you’d want to arrive awake.”
Yawning, Myrrh tries to get her bearings. The raft. Smelly water. A bunch of exhausted thieves and a squad of deadly fighters on the way to a floating settlement where everyone thinks Myrrh killed their leader. Right.
She lays a hand over her ribs. “Why’d you have to kick me where it hurts?”
Nyx grins, exposing a gold tooth. “Got you awake, didn’t it?”
Hawk shoulders the man aside not too gently, setting the raft rocking and prompting a hiss of annoyance from the raftman. He extends a hand and helps Myrrh up. “You could have had the healer look at that,” he says quietly.
Myrrh shrugs. Yeah, that might have been a good idea. She didn’t think of it because the mist had still been dulling the pain. Anyway, in a few hours, she’d be able to place another few drops under her tongue—just in time to creep into Elomstead and try to figure out how in the sixing depths they are supposed to contact Nab.
Provided this little encounter goes well, that is.
Shading her eyes, she squints across the bog, through a thin stand of dead trees draped with curtains of moss to the humble collection of shacks floating among the trunks. Judging by the sun, it’s nearly midday, which means the Refuge has indeed moved farther from the city. Of course, it’s obvious by the location of the platforms and docks as well, scattered among the tree trunks—judging by the peeling bark and silvered wood, this grove has been dead even longer than the others she’s seen out in the bog.
She blinks again, rubbing her hands against her cheeks to try to wake herself up.
“Yo! Eyes alert, laggards!”
The shout comes from somewhere within the trees, puncturing her tiredness. Myrrh stiffens and moves forward, making sure that the sentries, wherever they are hidden, can see her.
She raises her hands, showing empty palms. “I came to pay respects to Lucky and the smugglers who joined him on the bottom of the bog,” she calls. “And I want to help you avenge them.”
“Eh! Is she mad?” someone yells. “Murdered ’im and then came to confess in person?”
“I saw Lucky die. Your friends too. But it wasn’t by my hand.”
In the forest of reeds growing around one of the nearest tree trunks, someone moves. Myrrh spies metal glinting dully in the sun as an iron-tipped crossbow bolt emerges from the fall of hanging moss.
“Give me a chance to tell you what happened. Silver, the woman who was a guest of Lucky’s, killed each of them without remorse. She has allies, and they have terrible power. The Nightblades are a threat to all of us, deadlier than the Scythe’s Knives who have accompanied me this morning. If we’re going to defeat them, we need to stand together.”
“We got no reason to believe you,” someone else calls. Glancing up, Myrrh spots what looks like a raven’s nest in the wide crook of a few dead branches. A sentry must be hiding there.
“No, but it won’t cost you anything to hear me out either. I’ll come alone and unarmed—my companions can remain on the raft under guard. If, after I’ve had a chance to speak, you aren’t satisfied, you can kill me then. My ribs are broken, and I haven’t slept in days. I’m no threat.”
“Oy! What you think?” The shout goes up from the thicket where a man has his crossbow trained on her. “Might be nice to have a chance to look her in the eyes while we take our revenge, eh?”
“Or we could curse ourselves when she springs whatever trap she’s setting.”
Myrrh raises her hands higher. “There’s no trap. Nothing but an explanation. And…I have a business proposal.”
“See what I mean?” someone else calls. “She’s totally cracked. Proposing a business arrangement when she ought to be fleeing for her life.”
“I’ve recently come into possession of something that might interest you,” Myrrh continues. “As evidenced by the Knives serving as my honor guard, the city of Ostgard now belongs to me. As such, I will need to appoint an organization to oversee shipping on the River Ost. Shipping of legal goods, mind you—the rest will have to find another way past the city.” She sweeps her arm to take in the bog and its braided channels. “I thought perhaps, with the vast expertise in the movement of goods…perhaps the good citizen’s of Carp’s Refuge would like to take up the responsibility of organizing the city’s river trade. The stipend will be generous, of course.”
A stunned hush holds the bog in its grip for a few breaths, and then finally the crossbow-wielding sentry stands from his hidden platform among the reeds.
“We’ll grant you leave to explain yourself, I suppose.”
Chapter Thirty
DAWN BREAKS WHILE Myrrh’s raft, one of a fleet of seven, drifts along the currents with nudges from the pole-wielding woman at the rear of the vessel. They’ve traveled through the night, following secret channels that parallel the Ost but are separated from the river by a wedge of increasingly dry land. According to the smugglers, this part of the bog eventually empties into strange, gurgling holes in the ground another day’s travel south of Elomstead. Over the years, a few Refuge dwellers have tried exploring the larger of the holes, underwater caverns that seem to go on forever. In the imagination of these explorers, the cavern systems emerge somewhere near the Port Cities—finding an actual route through them would take the smuggling enterprise to another level. But no exit has ever been found.
They’ve been traveling through the bog since midafternoon the previous day, a languid journey that’s almost been pleasant. If not for the stench of swamp water, Myrrh can imagine merchant-class matrons taking pleasure cruises past the water birds and stands of irises and lilies. Regardless of the smell, she’s finally been able to catch some sleep. Even without using mist to dull the pain, she can, at last, breathe without feeling her broken ribs with each inhalation.
“There,” says Nyx, pointing with the butt end of his dagger. He’s been using it to dig mud from the cracks between the tread on his boots. Seems a pointless effort, but Myrrh’s never understood the man.
She looks in the direction he’s indicating and spies the dark columns of chimney smoke against the clouds pink with early light. Elomstead is the second settlement downriver from Ostgard, and owing to the distance between the city’s sewer outlets and the mixing of water from smaller and cleaner streams, it’s much more favored as a stopover than the nearest downriver town. Plus, due to the steady rise of the terrain between the bog and the river, there’s enough dry land to support modest farms and an apple orchard. She spies one of the farmers now, a dark figure bent over a furrow in the ground, hoe in hand.
Standing, she moves to the front of the raft to speak with Breeze, a woman who has emerged as a leader in Carp’s Refuge and, as she’s admitted privately to Myrrh, who plans to make a formal bid for head smuggler once this operation is over.
“The pine woods at the shoreline seem a good spot to put in?” Myrrh asks, though she could just order the stop there. From what she can tell, Breeze would be a good person to work with. A capable liaison, especially when the smugglers take over management of river shipping through Ostgard. Showing her respect will build a good foundation for a possible working relationship.
Breeze nods. “We have, shall we say, an arrangement with the farmer whose land borders the woods. The woman lives alone and happens to have a few root cellars that have extra space for the temporary storage of goods. Plus a tool shed where she doesn’t mind finding spare weapons tucked away.”
Myrrh smirks. “Perfect. Figure we can get everyone into cover there?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll hide the rafts in the reeds at the shore, get to cover, then send the men in.”
Myrrh pulls a strip of the velvet dress from her satchel. She ru
ns her fingers along the stitching in the hem, making sure that the rubies have been removed before handing it over. “Have one of the men tie it around his arm like it’s a token from a woman. Hopefully, Nab is smart enough to recognize it.”
They’ve decided, after some discussion, to send a pair of smugglers—relative newcomers to the Refuge, and men who were never introduced to Silver—to the inn’s common room where they’ll wait to hear from the boy. Assuming Nab is correct in saying that Silver plans to wait and allow Glint to rest, they have at least another couple of days before Silver’s band will move on, so if after a few hours spent downing tankards, the smugglers haven’t made contact with Nab, they’ll try another plan.
Hopefully it won’t come to that.
***
The pair of men Breeze sent into the village return midafternoon. Myrrh spies them darting across the field with shoulders hunched and heads spinning to glance over their shoulders every few paces. They look so anxious she jumps to her feet and has her dagger drawn by the time they tumble through the entrance to the ramshackle tool shed where Myrrh, Breeze, and the other leaders are waiting.
“How far behind?” Breeze asks.
“How far behind what?” one of her smugglers responds.
“The pursuit.”
The smuggler shakes his head. “Ain’t no pursuit. We’re just glad to be clear of that place and those people is all. They’re unsettling.”
“To put it mildly,” his partner says.
Myrrh relaxes—a bit. She steps aside so the men can move farther into the shed. Though she’s inclined to give them a moment to collect themselves, Breeze has no such intent. “Report then,” the woman says.
The smuggler who Myrrh already marked as the talkative one runs a hand through a shock of auburn hair that rises like a haystack from his skull. “Mistress Myrrh here said they was powerful, and it wasn’t that I doubted her, but I guess I didn’t imagine it would be so drowning obvious. They’ve got six or eight men and women sitting out in the common room all hours of the day, as far as we could tell at least. And it’s unsettling the way they just stare. Makes a person feel worried for their own safety, like it’s a crime to order a breakfast of bacon and ale.”
“Did they do anything?” Breeze says. “Work any of these cantrips Myrrh told us about?”
The smuggler shakes his head. “Just sat there making us feel unwelcome, and doing a good job of it too. But we stayed like you told us and waited for the boy to turn up.”
Despite herself, Myrrh takes a few steps forward, looming over the poor man where he’s taken a seat on an overturned bucket. “How is he? How is Nab?”
The smuggler shrugs. “No concerns as far as I can tell, and given what that kid can do, I guess I’d say it seems he can take care of himself.”
Myrrh shares a glance with Hawk but doesn’t press for more details on Nab’s abilities. They’ll probably learn about them soon enough.
Swallowing, the smuggler stretches out a hand. “Anybody got a waterskin? Or a flask of something stronger if the mistress okays it. Was a thirsty run back from the inn.”
Myrrh nods at Nyx, who she happens to know keeps a supply of whiskey at the ready. He shrugs at her, eyes wide in overacted insult that she’d assume such a thing. But when she holds his gaze and nods, he sighs loudly and tramps across the shed to deliver the liquor.
The smuggler unscrews the brass lid off the leather flask and takes a deep, deep drink. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, sighs, and finally continues. “So I know how this sounds, but I’m telling you straight. Kid can talk direct into your head, scarcely moving his lips, not even looking your way. You might not believe me, but it’s the truth. He—”
“I believe you,” Myrrh says. “Shadow speech. It’s the fifth or sixth cantrip if I remember right.”
“If you say so,” the man says. “Anyway, to get down to the short of it, the kid said to tell you this precisely. He’s learned something, he says, that the ninth cantrip isn’t a cantrip at all. It’s Skorry’s secret and Skorry’s plan, and a lot more things make sense now. He says those are things to talk about on another day. Right now, though, the way out of this is to hit the inn at sundown. Precisely, he says, right when the sun touches the horizon, and we need to come through as many entrances as possible. We got to be quick and merciless—this is a part where he said I had to be crystal clear with you, Myrrh. Strike fast, strike hard, and don’t let your wimpy soft side screw his plan up. And, for once, don’t be late, he says.”
Myrrh takes a seat on a sawhorse, shaking her head. Half the message sounds like it came straight from the kid’s mouth, particularly the insults. But what is this about Skorry’s plan? That doesn’t sound like Nab at all. If anything, it sounds like something a Nightblade would say, or some religious fanatic worshiping at the temple in East Fifth. Put together, the message gives Myrrh a queasy feeling in her stomach and a stale taste in her mouth, but it doesn’t seem they have much choice.
“All right,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll be ready to attack the inn the moment the sun goes down. One last question though.”
The smuggler looks at her expectantly, so she carries on. “You didn’t happen to see Glint, did you?”
“Sorry, Mistress. Not a whisker of him. But according to the comments of some of those Nightblades, sounds like he’s been plenty busy keeping Silver company in one of them upstairs bedchambers.”
Chapter Thirty-One
NEAR THE EDGE of town, when they can’t get any closer without running the risk of being seen, Myrrh leads the party into a hay barn. Smugglers and Knives and her friends gather round while she upends her satchel and dumps the contents onto the layer of straw that covers the floor. The velvet strips she stuffs into her pockets before anyone can look too close and wonder why she’s carrying them.
That leaves a pair of tattered reading primers and the Haava substances—or what’s left of them anyway. Altogether, there are six crystals of phantom, eleven lumps of glimmer resin, and enough etch for a single person to get the effects from its smoke. The etch, at least, isn’t useful here—when smoked, it allows the user to see the auras of people and the trails these auras leave behind. Wonderful for tracking, but she already knows where the enemy is hiding. She tucks the little packet of dried leaf into a thigh pocket on her trousers.
Most important for the operation tonight is the phantom. There are few edges Myrrh’s group can get over the Nightblades, but phantom is one of them. Much like Silver’s people can vanish into shadow, the phantom will allow six people to become insubstantial. Hard to see and hard to hit as well. She plucks the little vial holding the crystals from the straw and dispenses a dose to each of the six most senior Knives. Those men and women also get a lump of glimmer, enabling whip-quick reflexes and low-light vision. Finally, the remaining five doses of glimmer go to the second rank of Knives.
And just like that, her windfall of Haava substances, taken from the hideout of a dead man, is all but gone. In a different life, the phantom could have made her a fortune. Utterly undetectable, she could have slipped into the throne rooms of the Inner Kingdoms and stolen the crown jewels. Or if not that, each crystal could have been sold for a small fortune, enough to set her up for a life of comfort, no thieving required.
But that’s not the life she was handed, and far more precious than the crown jewels of some middling kingdom, Nab and Glint are waiting inside Elomstead’s inn. She has no regrets over giving up the last of her stash.
The plan is straightforward. As the most highly trained fighters, the top-ranked Knives will creep through the town, invisible, and take up station at separate entrances to the inn—windows, doors, and from the second-story balcony. The only requirement for their choice of infiltration points is that they can see the setting sun. The timing was important to Nab, enough that he stressed it twice.
The second and third ranks of Knives, some aided by glimmer and some not, will be in position to start s
printing for the inn the moment the sun drops, but until then, they’ll wait just out of sight so as not to blow the surprise.
As for the smugglers, they’ve done enough by bringing Myrrh and her fighters here, and Silver has already killed too many of their number. For the evening’s operation, they’ll hang back to cover the retreat, keep the rafts ready to cast off, and generally watch the others’ backs.
That leaves Myrrh and her leadership. Without phantom and with their recognizable faces, they can’t approach on foot for fear they’ll be spotted by lookouts. Fortunately, Breeze has come through again. After a quick negotiation with one of her farmer contacts, she’s easily traded one of Myrrh’s rubies for the use of a hay cart. The smuggler’s soon-to-be leader will drive the cart while Myrrh and her friends hide in the back, buried by hay. The moment the first Knives enter the building, they’ll jump out to help, running through the front door, diving through windows, whichever entrances look the most promising. And then, she supposes, they’ll just have to see what Nab has planned.
With good fortune and the blessing of the Queen of Nines, it will work.
She stands and stretches, leaving the now-empty satchel and the reading primers on the ground. From outside, the squeal of cartwheels presses through the splintery planks of the hay shed. Their ride is here.
As she nudges open the flimsy barn door, Myrrh shades her eyes and glances at the descending sun. Her brows draw together.
“Sixes,” she mutters.
“What?” Hawk says as he steps up beside her.
She points to the sky above the buildings of the village where, for the first time since noon the day before, clouds have started to gather. Already, they billow to the height of small hills over the horizon, and by the direction of the wind and the movement of the clouds themselves, they appear to be getting closer.
Quickly.
“Don’t suppose you have any fancy way to know the time of sunset when you can’t see it,” Hawk says.
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