Ruler of Scoundrels (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 2)

by Carrie Summers

  If the safehouse looks run-down from the outside, the interior is anything but. Behind the shabby disguise, hardwood planks and stone pillars defend syndicate secrets. Velvet drapes hang over windows, and oil-lamp chandeliers cast a warm glow over the rooms. The storerooms are empty now, looted by Glint’s people after they helped Myrrh take down Slivers. Eventually, though, they’ll be full of Ghost syndicate riches.

  Graves shuffles a few paces away, running a hand through his hair.

  “Don’t blame yourself for Glint’s trespassing,” she says. “He has no notion of boundaries.”

  Concern still wrinkles the man’s brow. “The problem is, Mistress, I don’t know how he got in. I’ve been watching the door since you left, and everything else should be locked and barred. Seems we have a security problem.”

  Glint snorts. “I’m sorry, friend. I was only teasing Myrrh when I mentioned the inadequacy of her guards. There’s no security issue—the kid let me in. Kitchen window.”

  “You mean Nab?” Graves blinks as he glances at the door to Nab’s bedroom. At Myrrh’s insistence, the boy sleeps in a room with no windows, as much to keep him from sneaking out and getting in trouble as to make sure he can’t be abducted again. “I thought he was asleep.”

  “He was when I left…” Myrrh checked just before heading to The Queen’s Dice.

  “Like I said, I’ve been keeping watch since you left. Don’t see how he could have slipped out of the room.”

  Glint stalks to the door and shoves it open. Lamplight falls on the rumpled covers of Nab’s empty bed. “Maybe you do have a problem after all, then.”

  Myrrh sighs. “You didn’t let him onto the street did you, Glint?”

  With a crooked smirk, Glint shrugs. “Last I saw, he was raiding the pastry cabinet. I wouldn’t worry too much, Myrrh. He’s been on the streets his whole life.”

  “Yeah, but unpleasant things are happening in Rat Town right now.”

  Myrrh glances at the Scythe. The woman remains motionless, giving the sense that she’s carved of something other than flesh. Myrrh’s never known Glint to use a bodyguard, except in the case where she posed as a hired sword named Rella. But that wasn’t for his protection; she was just there to make him look more like a wealthy merchant.

  Glint saunters toward a sitting room off the main chamber. Behind him, Graves starts to shuffle off before casting a questioning glance at Myrrh.

  She nods. “Go ahead. I’ll stand watch until dawn.”

  He climbs the curving walnut staircase, shoulders finally relaxed.

  Glint nudges one of the richly upholstered chairs, turning it slightly toward her. “Shall we? Meredith can watch the door.”

  Meredith? Myrrh glances at the Scythe. If the woman is surprised at Glint’s use of her given name, she doesn’t show it.

  The lamp in the sitting room burns lower than those in the main hall, the dim light adding intimacy to the chamber. Glint waits for her to sit before flopping into one of the armchairs and slipping off his shoes. He sets his heels on the low table between them.

  Myrrh rolls her eyes. “I see your manners haven’t improved since I saw you last.”

  Since the morning he kissed her and told her they were now rivals.

  “You’re quite aware that I know how to conduct myself in polite company. But I think you secretly prefer me this way. Unruly and proud of it.”

  He winks.

  She looks away to hide her blush.

  “Why are you here, Glint? Don’t you have a syndicate to run?”

  “Maybe I’m out touring the city to determine the target of my next criminal conquest.”

  “You’ll fail if you try to take Rat Town.”

  He smirks. “Maybe, maybe not. So, did you enjoy your trip to my childhood home?”

  Craghold. Cold stone and incessant, drizzling rain. Dreary evergreens with drooping boughs. Castle walls stained black where water has run over the stone for centuries.

  She’ll never forget the sight of Hawk huddled in a damp-walled cell too small for him to fully stretch out. The uncaring guards and the skeleton staff that wordlessly accepted the Scythe’s story about Glint taking over his father’s position as head of the family. There was no mention of Glint’s given name, though surely some of the servants must have remembered the young boy who once inhabited the halls.

  “I wasn’t there long enough to form much of an opinion.”

  He stares into the distance, a bitter smile on his lips. “Tactful as always.”

  “Do you plan to give a real answer to my question about why you came?”

  He sighs. “Actually, yes. I wanted to warn you. Trouble’s afoot.”

  “You’ve heard about Noble, then?”

  His eyebrows draw together. “He’s back already?”

  She brushes off his concerned stare. “I’ll deal with it. Guess that’s not what you came to say, though.”

  Tapping his lower lip with his forefinger, he glances at a shelf holding liquor bottles. “I was going to offer to pour you a drink, but I’m wondering…do you want to get out of here for a while? I’ve been so busy lately. All work and no play.”

  “I just told Graves I’d take the night watch.”

  He glances at the Scythe who nods. “You won’t find a better sentry than Meredith in the city. Provided you trust me to provide temporary security for your enterprise.”

  “You did say we were enemies now...”

  “You know that’s not true. I said nothing of the sort.”

  “Rivals, then. You swear this isn’t some elaborate plot to take over Ghost territory?”

  “As you’ll recall, that’s not how I like to operate. But if you insist”—he lays a hand on his heart—“I earnestly swear I will not attempt to take over Rat Town tonight.”

  “What about this warning you wanted to deliver?”

  “I’d hate for you to think of me as nothing but a spreader of gloom. Perhaps we could have a little fun while I’m explaining my concern.”

  Under his intent stare, Myrrh feels her pulse speed. She turns her head aside.

  He seems to sense her reluctance. “Life can’t be all business, can it, Myrrh? I swear I’ll be a gentleman. As much as any rogue can be, anyway. And if you like, we could combine the outing with a bit of lucrative work. Split the proceeds sixty-forty?”

  She glares.

  Glint laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Even split.”

  ***

  “At least some parts of the city are still running,” Myrrh says as they crouch between stone gargoyles overlooking the Neck’s night market. Below, vendors fight for attention, jangling pots, strumming lutes, crying out offers on jewelry and pottery from isles in the Gray Sea. Smoke from food stalls joins the thin fog that blankets the city, painting halos around street lamps and jugglers’ brands.

  Glint’s gaze lifts over the rooftops and open bazaar squares to take in the staid rooflines of Maire’s Quarter. “It’s been quite a mess in the council, as you can imagine. The sudden loss of the Maire’s authority has left them scrambling.”

  “How is Merchant Giller faring in his ploy to gain influence?”

  He casts her a laden glance. “He’s not the same man without Rella to guard his movements and warm his bed.”

  “Hey!” she says. “She never agreed to any sort of tryst.”

  He shrugs. “We were just pretending anyway, right? Maybe I took my fantasy a bit farther than you did.”

  Glint winks. Myrrh’s tongue feels like a lump of dead flesh for all her ability to come up with a response.

  “Anyway, I’ve had a few setbacks in my plans. Your sudden removal of the man I was trying to keep in office has presented interesting problems.”

  “Do you resent me for not telling you my plans?”

  He shrugs. “Well, not resent, per say. I have been known to show a little frustration over the past weeks, though.”

  “It wa
s the only way I could think of to free you from Slivers’ clutches.”

  “And it worked. It’s more the lack of warning that I occasionally find vexing.”

  “I thought it would be hard for you to knowingly betray your father. Family ties…they cause people to behave strangely.”

  Not that Myrrh would know first-hand.

  “I get it. And I guess I can’t be sure I’d have agreed to the plan, no matter how I feel with hindsight.”

  “So…those times when you’re vexed with me. Should I be worried now that I’ve followed you into neutral turf where no one would interfere if you decided to take your revenge?”

  On the street below, shoppers and entertainers and peddlers with laden carts stream in both directions. A member of the Shield Watch stands lazily on a corner, eyes on the crowd. Glint won’t harm her despite his talk, but she probably does need to start thinking about her vulnerabilities. Just like Sapphire said.

  A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “We both know how well you fared last time we sparred. You ended up on your back with your wrists pinned, and the thing is, I’m not sure you minded that much. So I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to get you into a compromised position again.”

  Her cheeks heat at the memory. “Do you flirt with all the women the way you do with me?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says.

  She turns her eyes back to the street below. “Seriously, there’s talk around Rat Town that the Shield Watch will fall apart unless the council can unite behind a new Maire. I heard that some bargemen are flaunting the tariff laws, and the Shields do nothing. Are you worried that Emmerst will make his move before you can stop him? Wasn’t that half the reason you were protecting your father?”

  He sinks back onto his heels, long fingers clasped loosely in front of his shins. “Yes, I’m quite worried. But he may not be the most serious problem right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember Lavi?” He cups a hand over his eye to remind her of the eye patches the woman wears for training.

  “Do I look empty-headed enough to forget her in the space of a fortnight?

  He drops his gaze. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Lavi’s dead, Myrrh.”

  “What? How?”

  His lips make a thin line. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. Nyx found her in the tenement safe house. Already cold. No physical damage. No signs of any of the common poisons.”

  “Was she ill?”

  He shrugs then shakes his head. “Not that I know of. She wasn’t old enough to go by most natural causes. Normally, I’d say it was just bad luck. Miser knows she was odd in other ways. But then I started hearing chatter coming out of the other syndicates. Haven, Blackfold. The deaths are scattered but they follow the same pattern. No easy explanation. No sign of intruders. I’m guessing the problem hasn’t struck Ghost syndicate yet, or you wouldn’t have been surprised by Lavi’s circumstances.”

  “Not that I know of. Our affiliation is a bit looser than most syndicates’. Former grubbers aren’t in the habit of reporting in every day.”

  “Well, I doubt your respite will last.”

  “Is it just the syndicates? Or are regular people dying?”

  An acrobat flips by on the street, prompting wowed gasps from some of the pedestrians and annoyed mutters from others. Glint pulls a copper from a hidden pouch and tosses it down, his expert aim sending the coin into a gap between people. Myrrh wonders at the futility of the gift—the acrobat is already at the next corner—until the man stops, returns with a series of cartwheels, and scoops the glinting coin from the cobblestones.

  “Not just the syndicates, but the deaths do seem confined to people engaged in illicit work. Fences, prostitutes, independent smugglers. Someone is targeting us deliberately.”

  “Emmerst? Someone else in the council?”

  He shakes his head. “I seriously doubt it. Right now, the major focus of every merchant in the city is using my father’s disappearance as a chance to grab power, not chase down petty thieves. Ostgard’s scoundrels have a golden opportunity for easy pickings. Except now we have a silent killer to track down.”

  “You are a pretty big spreader of gloom,” she says as she stands and rolls her ankles to work out the stiffness.

  Glint chuckles. “Told you. But didn’t I also promise a good time?”

  He stands with easy grace, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Since you won’t split sixty-forty, I was thinking we could make a little wager tonight. I talked with a representative from the Irons syndicate and got permission to do a bit of work on their turf. After all the major heists and political wrangling lately, I bet you miss the chance for some low-stakes thievery. We’re all cutpurses at heart, right?”

  “Since when were you a simple cutpurse?” she asks, cocking a hip. If he wants to have this little contest, he’s in for a rude surprise. At one point, Myrrh was the best freelance pickpocket south of In Betweens.

  “Oh, I have a few tricks.” His smile is way too confident for someone who grew up in a merchant household.

  “You’re on then. Rules?”

  He pauses as if remembering something. “Actually, before we get down to business, there’s something I meant to ask. How’s Hawk? Any improvement.”

  Myrrh shakes her head. “Better not to ask if you don’t want to ruin your reputation as a pleasant companion.”

  His smile falls away. “Fair enough. Well, if there’s anything more I can do to help him…”

  She nods, gaze fixed on the street below. “Thanks.”

  “Anyway, rules. We stick to the night market. No looting some mansion in the Fifths and claiming the spoils were plucked from a moving target.”

  She snorts. “Are you calling me a cheater?”

  He laughs and raises his hands in protest. “I’m just trying to be clear.”

  “So we stick to the Neck. When’s the deadline.”

  “Meet back here at dawn?”

  “Fine. What about interference?”

  “You mean, if you see me about to snag a purse, you’d call attention to it?” He casts her a wounded look. “Where’s your thief’s honor?”

  She shrugs. “You wanted to be clear, right?”

  “Fine. No interference. So, what’s the wager, Myrrh?”

  The mischievous look in his eyes suggests that she’d better suggest something unless she wants him to come up with an alternative that involves her removing clothing.

  “A couple gold pieces?”

  He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Boring. But fine. Two gold it is.”

  “No glimmer,” she adds as he starts examining the crowd below.

  “Fair. Now, if you’re done talking…?”

  She knuckles him in the shoulder. “Good luck, loser.”

  Chapter Three

  AT STREET LEVEL, Myrrh swims through a sea of people. Shouts and laughter and currents of music wash around her. It’s warmer down below than on the rooftops, the air heated by the cook fires of the food vendors and the bodies of so many market-goers. Still, it’s nowhere near as chaotic as the Rat Town street market can get. The weekly affair just off First Docks is more like a melee than a pop-up bazaar.

  She’s been at the contest for about an hour, and the spoils of her efforts fill a coin purse that tugs on her shoulder and neck. Mostly coppers, though—as much as the merchant-class market-goers seem to want to impress, they haven’t brought much cash into the Neck tonight. Spotting a gap in the crowd, she strikes for the open space and takes up a station against the wall of a stone building. A shipping company’s placard hangs near her head.

  She keeps the hood of her cloak pulled forward as she scans the square in front of the building. Across the space, a merchant of obvious means haggles inexpertly with a savvy horse broker. The merchant wears pants belted halfway over his abundant paunch, and a jacket pulls wrong on his shoulders. This could be good—ill-fitt
ing garments often make it easier to pick a pocket without the mark noticing.

  The merchant jangles a coin purse, a clear attempt to sway the broker with the promise of imminent payment. Even better, Myrrh glimpses the flash of gold. The broker counters the negotiating tactic by scanning the crowd for a more eager buyer.

  Chastened, the merchant lets his purse drop and saunters toward the horses the broker has on offer tonight.

  Myrrh slips closer. Aside from the heavy but not very valuable haul of copper pieces, she’s plucked a brooch from the bodice of a scrawny merchant’s wife. That might gain her ground in the competition against Glint, but the gold pieces the horse buyer flashed would likely clinch her victory. She keeps a sharp eye on her mark’s movement as she slides through the crowd.

  The horses are nervous, stamping as the merchant makes an act of examining them. He peers at their hooves, curling his lip in false disappointment. As he steps close to a bay mare and leans forward to run a hand down her foreleg—Myrrh seriously doubts he knows what to look for—the broker jumps to block his way.

  “Sorry, sire. The commotion in the market makes them spook easily. I wouldn’t wish to see a man of such obvious pedigree come to harm.” The broker’s smile is just short of a sneer.

  Spluttering in offense at the veiled scolding, the merchant takes a step back. Still, he clearly needs a horse, or he wouldn’t persist. His hand strays toward his purse as if he’s contemplating another offer.

  Myrrh glides forward, a small knife in her palm. Once within a few paces, she pretends to trip and fall toward the mare’s hindquarters. As she hoped, the broker jumps forward and catches her.

  The merchant sniffs, clearly disgusted by her clumsy entrance and commoner’s garb.

  Myrrh blinks as if flustered, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry! What a beautiful animal. I didn’t mean to startle her,” she says as she reaches for the horse’s sleek back.

  The broker catches her wrist and forcibly turns her away. Myrrh nibbles her lip and widens her eyes, scanning the crowd. She’s made herself memorable, which is ordinarily a poor tactic for a cutpurse. But this payout will be worth it, and besides, she doesn’t work the Neck. By the time she comes back—if she comes back—these people will have forgotten her face.