The merchant rolls his eyes in annoyance. She pretends not to see and steps around him, tapping him on the shoulder opposite his coin purse. He shakes off her touch, grimacing.
Myrrh points. “There. See her? The woman with the cart? She seriously wouldn’t stop hassling me.”
As the men turn to look, she presses the wickedly sharp edge of her knife against the strap securing the merchant’s purse. It falls heavily into her hand, and she tucks it into her cloak in a single smooth motion.
“Do me a favor. Distract her if she tries to follow me.” With that, Myrrh scampers off and quickly melts into the crowd.
She makes a few turns, winding through the maze of streets and alleys. Throughout the night, she’s kept a map in her head, noting the areas she’s already worked. She can’t backtrack and risk being recognized, especially as the hours lengthen and her marks have more time to realize they’ve been robbed.
Eventually, she presses into the crowd filling another intersection packed with stalls. At the far side, a narrow aisle between buildings cuts a dark slash in the night. She slips into the gap, tucking into the relative silence between the tall stone walls. A peek into the new purse shows four gold pieces, half-a-dozen silvers, and a handful of coppers. A nice boon from the Queen of Nines. She shoves the pouch deep into a pocket inside her cloak, then secures the leather tabs that hold the pocket closed. Continuing down the aisle, she keeps her ears perked for sounds above and behind while she approaches the next street.
One of the wider avenues in the district, the cobblestone strip cuts toward Maire’s Quarter. As she turns for the richer end of the market, she spots him.
Glint stands with a pair of merchant women, hand on his chest as he regales them with some sort of tale. The women are rapt, staring with obvious fascination at his dark eyes and the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his brow. He’s the perfect mix of roguishness and genteel manners, clad in finery that shows his wealth, yet somehow looking far more casual in it than his merchant peers manage.
One of the women, a redhead wearing a deep purple gown and hip-length cloak lays a flirting hand on his shoulder. Myrrh grits her teeth at the ridiculous pang of jealousy that tightens her chest. She steps into the shadows of a shop awning, remembering the rule about not interfering. Whether Glint is just amusing himself by speaking with these women, or whether they are his marks, Myrrh can’t accidentally distract him.
Even if she secretly wants to chase off his admirers.
In response to the woman’s touch, Glint turns on his winning smile. He cocks his head and steps inappropriately close to the woman. Her heaving breasts struggle against her corset as he runs a hand down her back, his gaze fixed on her eyes. The friend looks on in obvious dismay over not being chosen for his attention.
As Glint steps even closer, he slips clever fingers into the woman’s coin purse. A gold piece catches the light as he palms it. With his other hand, he brushes a finger achingly close to, but not touching, the woman’s jawline.
Myrrh is aghast at the ease with which he fools these women. Isn’t it somehow against the rules to use his charm during their little contest? This was about who was the better cutpurse, not who had the most practice in seducing the opposite sex. She doubts she’d win an argument accusing him of cheating, though. After all, nothing in the rules specified how they were to pursue their trade.
With a regretful expression, Glint steps back. He tucks his hand—and the coin—into the pocket of his trousers. Showing no shame, the redhead follows the motion with her eyes, her gaze lingering on his hips.
Myrrh snorts.
After a few more words, Glint sighs heavily and glances toward Maire’s Quarter. He gestures in that direction, the apologetic look on his face deepening. No doubt he’s explaining some obligation he has in the district.
The women frown in clear disappointment, the redhead attempting to close the distance between them again. Glint seems not to notice as he takes a halting step down the street before stopping and catching their hands in turn. He lays a kiss on the backs of each of their fingers before hurrying away.
The women look ready to faint.
Myrrh curls her lip and turns the other way, looking for her next mark.
***
The coming dawn adds a blush to the eastern sky. Myrrh shivers in the chill air as she stands beside Glint on the rooftop, watching the night market dissolve into empty gray streets.
“I saw you work,” she says. “Your methods are…interesting. I’m tempted to accuse you of cheating.”
He smirks. “Like every thief worth his caltrops, I use my strengths to their best advantage.”
“I suppose I’ll let that claim pass, as long as you admit your looks are your only trick.”
He turns toward her and steps close, looking down with intense eyes. “Are they, or is there more to me? What do you think, Myrrh?” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Myrrh plants her hands on his chest and pushes him away. “I think you’re delaying the tallying of our profits. Probably because you’re afraid to lose the wager.”
He scoffs and hits her with a crooked smile. “Maybe I don’t want to embarrass you…”
She snorts. “Lay down your cards, scoundrel.”
They crouch side by side on the flat slates of the rooftop and lay out their profits from the night. Like her, he pinched plenty of copper pieces. The luster of gold makes up only a small percentage of his loot. By the time the coins are counted, he’s bested her by just over a silver piece. But she nabbed a larger pile of jewelry which now lies glittering beside her stacks of coins.
“I’m pretty sure I won,” she says with a confident smirk.
He raises an eyebrow, eyes shining in the faint glow of the sky. “We’d need an appraisal to be certain.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I think it’s fairly obvious my catch is worth more.”
“But you see, there’s one more piece I forgot to add to my pile.”
From his jacket pocket, he pulls the glinting links of a gold chain. The pendant snags on the hem, then drops free. Myrrh’s jade-and-emerald necklace dangles in front of her eyes.
“How?” Then she realizes…his hand at her ear after he tucked away her strand of hair…his fingertips trailing down her neck. “You’re a shameless knave.”
He laughs as she snatches the necklace back from him and shoves it into her pocket.
“We actually never specified whether the other person was a fair mark,” he says. “So maybe we should call it a tie?”
Myrrh’s cheeks are hot. She can’t believe he stole the jewelry from around her neck. Of all the lowlife ploys…
“Now I say you’re a cheater for sure.”
“Oh, don’t be a sore loser just because I plucked something right off your lovely neck. Maybe you should be glad that’s not the only garment I removed without you knowing.”
She aims a kick at his shin. He deftly dodges.
“Fine,” she says. “We’ll call it a tie. I have to get back anyway.”
“Work beckons, huh?”
She nods. “I need to arrange security for tonight at the gambling houses before I can even think about getting some sleep.”
“How’s it going, by the way? Syndicate doing well? Your freelancers falling in line?”
“More or less.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure my people watch out for Ghost members sniping our operations.”
She sighs. “We have plenty to do just keeping Rat Town running. I wouldn’t worry about Ghost moving in on your turf.”
A troubled look crosses his face. “I’m only teasing, anyway. I meant to propose something to you earlier…a truce between our organizations. Especially while thieves are dying with no explanation.”
His words bring a small pang of worry to her chest, but she brushes it off and tries to keep the tone light. “I’m not sure I can trust you after what you pull
ed in our little contest just now. How do I know you won’t turn around and pluck the prize gems from around my syndicate’s neck? So to speak.”
He lifts his hands in mock offense. “I would never!”
Myrrh rolls her eyes. “Fine. We have a truce. I’ll let my council know. But I really better go now.”
“Same. Duty calls.” He pauses, squeezing her shoulder before releasing it. “This was fun, Myrrh. I needed it after the past weeks.”
A faint smile touches her lips. “It was. Thanks.”
He crouches and gathers his loot in a pile before sweeping it into a coin pouch. “Hey, Myrrh? You’ll be careful, won’t you? With Noble and whoever is targeting the city’s thieves?”
“I will. You too, okay?”
He nods. “Send a messenger if anything happens to one of your people. Or if you need help.”
Myrrh collects the spoils of her night’s work, then stands. “Good night, Glint. See you around.”
Chapter Four
“ALL RIGHT,” MYRRH says. “It sounds like Sapphire has the bouncers she needs tonight. And you found some members eager to skim a bit of cargo from First Docks, yeah?”
Finally feeling awake now that the evening meeting is nearly over, Myrrh lounges at a circular table in the back room of Rikson’s Roost. A large mug of coffee steams before her. Facing her, the other members of Ghost syndicate’s council lean back in their chairs, nodding confirmation that the jobs have thieves willing to work them.
Like usual, the others have been largely silent throughout the discussion, willing to go along with whatever Myrrh suggests. Which makes her remember Sapphire’s words from the evening before. She needs the people around her to offer more contrary opinions.
Toad, a man so lanky he needs to stoop inside every building in Rat Town, leans forward. “About Noble…”
Myrrh pulls out her dagger and digs the point into the tabletop. “We’ll have to deal with him.”
“What do you suggest?” asks Ivy, a woman whose age Myrrh simply can’t guess. With stark white hair and an unlined face, she could be anywhere from thirty to sixty. Myrrh didn’t know the woman until recently. But Myrrh’s glad she took advice from Warrell, her closest friend in the syndicate, and recruited her. Ivy is shrewd even if she doesn’t speak up enough.
“For now, we’ll spread the word that Noble and his supporters are barred from entering any Rat Town establishments. Both the ones we control directly and those we don’t.”
Carver, a heavily built man with a voice like poured gravel, taps a thick finger on the table. “Are we prepared to enforce that?”
“We have to be. And we should let Ghost members know that if they encounter Noble and his gang on the streets, they’re to be shown back to First Bridge.”
Warrell lays his hands on the table, surprising Myrrh with his apparent intent to speak. “That won’t solve the problem.” He fixes her with a serious gaze.
She nods in agreement. “Unfortunately, I suspect the only way we’ll be rid of him and his Whites is when they’re feeding fish on the bottom of the Ost. But we can’t just take them one by one, or we risk giving Noble fodder for gaining sympathy. We’ll need to find their den. Take out the whole pack at once.”
Briefly, the image of a teenage boy toppling from a barge, face frozen in shock as he falls toward a drowning death, flashes in her thoughts. It’s easy for her to talk about assassinating Noble and his crew. That’s what crime bosses do. But the thought of actually ordering men’s deaths turns her stomach. She hopes the others can’t see this weakness.
“The situation with Noble brings up the general concern of turf security,” Carver says.
Myrrh winces. Yeah, that. Another thing she hadn’t really thought through before deposing Slivers. Already there have been complaints from Rat Town shopkeepers near the border with the In Betweens district. The Haven syndicate has been casing the shops, browsing with bared steel no doubt in preparation for late-night visits by a Haven representative offering to provide “protection” for the establishments.
She digs her dagger deeper into the wood of the table, twisting the point to make a little pile of sawdust. “I recently learned that Slivers had a few members of the Shield Watch on the payroll. While on their usual patrol between Rat Town and In Betweens, they kept an eye out for stray Haven people. That would help our cause.”
“But a payroll takes funds,” Toad says. “We collect some tribute from shops and taverns, but they don’t have much to give right now. The chaos in the city is hitting their profits hard.”
Myrrh nods. “And a syndicate formed of grubbers who want the full take from their jobs leaves us with other income. It’s a problem.”
“Either we gotta ask for charity from our members, or we’ll have to start imposing a tax,” Ivy says.
“People ain’t gonna like it,” Carver says.
Myrrh shrugs. “I know. Let’s think about it. Hey, any news on Ghost members gone missing or turned up dead?”
After sleeping through the day, she finds that Glint’s warning from last night feels distant. She doesn’t doubt that Lavi’s gone, but is it really a citywide issue? Maybe Glint’s just grasping for an explanation as to how one of his best skirmishers died young and in her sleep. Sometimes you just roll sixes.
Unfortunately, a shadow crosses Ivy’s face. “Maybe,” the other woman says. “An associate of mine, goes by Cobalt. He hasn’t been around lately. At least not in the usual places...here in the Roost and down at the Oaken Keg. He’s only a part-time grubber, though. Works some shifts in Smeltertown. So it makes it hard to know for sure.”
“How long?”
Ivy shrugs. “I wasn’t paying much attention until that job with the barge of Ishvar tapestries came up. I thought he and I could work it together.”
“So maybe six days?”
Ivy nods. “I suppose you could say Cobalt enjoys his ale. Hard not to find him in one of the taverns once the sun goes down. Even stranger for him to go almost a week without.”
“Do you know his squats?”
“I know a couple spots in the Spills where he likes to sleep.”
“Can you take me there a little later?”
“Sure, probably,” Ivy says. “I don’t have much going on tonight except a date with some of Rikson’s finest ale.”
“Thanks,” Myrrh says, sheathing her dagger as she stands. “If that’s it, see you tomorrow. Same time. Same place.”
“Reckon so,” Carver says.
***
The Oarsman is a rickety inn that stands along the waterfront a few blocks north of First Bridge. Mostly known for its spectacular common-room brawls and its uncommonly strong ale, the establishment also boasts cheap rooms. Of course, most people don’t use them to sleep. It’s a rare—or deaf—person who can drift off with the sounds from below penetrating the floorboards of the second story.
Myrrh starts as a particularly loud crash shakes the building’s frame. She shakes her head. She’s been standing in the upstairs hallway long enough for one of the prostitutes to drag a young bargeman into her room and send him back out, their business complete. Granted, he was young, but that’s still way too long to hesitate outside a door.
Myrrh swallows and squeezes the latch. She doesn’t bother knocking anymore when she visits Hawk. He never answers. Which makes her wonder why she continues hoping she’ll find a changed man during one of these evening visits.
Her former mentor sits by the drawn curtains over the window, staring through a narrow gap where the pieces of fabric don’t quite meet. What is he looking for out there? The man he was before he fell into the Maire’s clutches?
“They’re still feeding you, I see,” she says with a cheeriness she doesn’t feel. At least there’s that. He eats when food appears before him. If someone asks him a direct question, he answers. But the responses are limited: yes, no, I don’t know. Never enough to explain what happened.
He lo
oks away from the window and almost meets her eyes, which is better than she gets most nights. Still, the sight of him causes her throat to clamp down. Where before, his face was strong beneath a scruff of whiskers, now his cheeks sag under the weight of the scraggly beard that’s grown in the nearly two months since his capture. She asked him once, shortly after their return, if she could bring a barber to visit him. The response was one of the few clear answers she’s received in the tenday they’ve been back from Craghold: no.
Two flimsy chairs bracket the table beneath the window. It’s where he eats the meals put before him and where she sits every evening, making one-sided conversation and wondering how long this can last. Glint sent money for Hawk’s room and board. That alone would have prompted the Hawk she once knew into breaking free of this malaise. The man who taught her thievery didn’t accept charity.
The man living above the racket in The Oarsman’s common room seems to care about nothing, least of all himself.
She sits down anyway, tucking her satchel close to her feet. Tugging back the curtain, she watches the oily flow of the Ost and the wavering bars of light cast by streetlamps on the other bank. If not for the terrible wailing of the singer who has taken up a perch in the corner of the common room below—that and the angry bellow of some drunken sailor—it might almost be peaceful up here.
“I can’t stay long tonight,” she says. “It’s not safe after dark right now. In another half an hour, I’ll need a bodyguard to move around the district.”
She watches his gaze for a hint of concern. Despite the emotionless armor he used to wrap around himself, she knows her mentor cared for her. That man must be somewhere behind the dull eyes of the creature sitting opposite her. But the comment doesn’t bring him forward.
“It’s Noble. They say he has a bounty on my head. I figure most of Rat Town is loyal to me, or at least to the Ghost syndicate. It’s already better for them here with Slivers gone. But all it takes is one opportunist finding a chance to put a dagger in my back.”
Ruler of Scoundrels Page 3
