Ruler of Scoundrels

by Carrie Summers

  And anyway, they’re not going to be as upset as Nab, who will wake up from his small dose of nightbark to find himself locked in a room with Sapphire, her deck of cards, and a guard bristling with knives. If Rattle’s the killer and the trinkets are the way he marks his targets, he’ll have a hard time getting to Nab today. If Rattle is innocent, maybe Nab will learn a thing or two about how not to lose at Miser’s Draw. Or at least, he’ll get an idea about how quickly his coin could vanish at a gambling table.

  The usual line of horses and carts that forms up in the Yards, ready to ferry bargemen and traders back and forth between the warehouses and the various city districts, hasn’t materialized. Myrrh doesn’t mind. She hasn’t had much time to be alone lately.

  After about an hour’s walk along the waterfront, she reaches the border of the Crafter’s District and finally manages to hail a cart driver. He looks down at her with half-lidded eyes, groggy due to the early hour. The shine of a silver coin quickly wakes him, and he jabs a thumb toward the back seat.

  The sun has just barely cleared the eastern mountains by the time she climbs out of the cart in Lower Fringe. She flips the man his coin and hurries on. Soon, she stands at Glint’s front door, pounding on the wood with the butt of her dagger.

  It takes a good five minutes of knocking before she spies motion. One of the curtains flicks aside but quickly falls back into place.

  She knocks harder.

  “I’m coming, Mistress Myrrh,” a deep voice calls. “Just have to get my britches on.”

  She lowers her dagger as a red-faced Bernard, Glint’s loyal cook, opens the door.

  “Apologies, Mistress. I didn’t expect anyone, and I was asleep, you see. I had a late evening entertaining—”

  “Who is it, Bernard?”

  Myrrh’s shocked to hear a woman’s voice emanating from the kitchen, or possibly, the small bedroom attached to it. The door to Bernard’s kitchen domain opens a crack, and a woman’s gray head peers out.

  Though it seems impossible, Bernard flushes and even brighter shade of crimson.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Bernard. I’m looking for Glint.”

  Still flustered and dry washing his hands, the man shakes his head. “Sorry, Mistress. He’s been over in Maire’s Quarter for the last few days. I could help you send a letter via courier.”

  And what could she possibly say to convey all her thoughts and questions in a letter? That she’s worried Rattle, a man with skills and resources she can’t even begin to fathom, may be their mystery assassin? The problem is, that theory doesn’t quite hold up, particularly given the help—and rubies—he gave her to deal with Noble. In fact, the only possible connection is Nab’s story about Rattle giving him that trinket. Pretty thin evidence to accuse a man of murder. But he did show up around the time she first heard of the killings, and there’s no doubt he has sophisticated tools at his disposal. Likely sophisticated enough to leave bodies with no apparent damage or cause of death.

  Plus, he has an extremely unsettling presence.

  “Do you expect Glint back anytime soon?” she asks.

  Bernard shakes his head sadly. “I’m afraid not, Mistress. Are you sure you don’t need to send a message?”

  “No thank you. If I must, I can use a hidden path to access the—”

  The big man raises his hands and pats the air to quiet her. “I have an arrangement with the young master. We don’t discuss his clandestine affairs. For my own protection, he says.”

  Right. Bernard is no thief. Glint wouldn’t want him involved in any sort of illicit dealings. That includes discussions of the illegal routes into Maire’s Quarter.

  “Well, if he arrives unexpectedly, please tell him I have an urgent need to speak to him.”

  “Will do, Mistress.” Bernard blinks a few times as if torn between propriety and returning to the guest who stayed overnight. “May I offer you some coffee or a light breakfast?”

  She smiles, understanding why Glint is so fond of the man. “No, thank you. Enjoy your morning.”

  The door shuts with a heavy click as she trots off toward the only other place where she knows Glint does business. It’s a tenement building not far away, a safe house where she helped bring captives from a raid against Porcelain Hand, and where many of Glint’s people lay their heads at night.

  It’s also where, according to Glint, Lavi died.

  ***

  The lines at the sides of Mink’s mouth have deepened in the weeks since Myrrh last saw her. Clearly, the woman’s not happy to be awake at what most underworld denizens would consider an obscene hour. But it’s likely more than that causing the aging assassin stress. The boss of her organization is off in Maire’s Quarter, leaving the rest of the leadership to cope. Meanwhile, they’ve lost three people to a mystery killer.

  “It was Nyx who found her,” Mink says as she gestures for Myrrh to enter the room that was Lavi’s bedchamber. “He’s been even more sullen since.”

  Myrrh cringes. Nyx was already unpleasant.

  The floorboards creak as she steps into the room. The bed has been made, and a stack of women’s clothing leans into one of the corners. An array of eye patches is lined up on top. Unexpectedly, Myrrh feels tears welling. She swallows and brushes them away.

  “She was just lying in her bed?”

  Mink nods. “Nyx thought she was asleep. Out of the group, he got along with her best. Enough that he threw his shoe at her to wake her only to find she wasn’t going to wake up ever again.”

  Myrrh takes a shaky breath and turns to examine the doorjamb. When she spots the charm pegged halfway across the top, it feels like a heavy stone settles onto her chest.

  She points at the trinket. “Have you seen this anywhere else?”

  Mink cocks a surprised eyebrow. “Huh…no idea where that came from.”

  “You remember Nab, I assume.”

  “Little rat that thinks he’s big stuff?”

  “That’s the one. He said a guy named Rattle gave him one of those charms for protection. The problem is, if they’re supposed to protect people, they’re not working. As far as I know, Ghost syndicate has only lost one person to the killer, but I found a charm just like that one hanging over the door to the room where he died.”

  Mink grimaces. “I can check the”—she swallows—“I can look into the scenes where we lost the other four.”

  “Wait, four?”

  The woman’s lips make a thin line as she nods. “Two since Glint left. I wish we could get over there to talk to him. He says he doesn’t know what to do about this, but we clearly can’t keep doing nothing.”

  “You can’t use the thieves’ path? Go under the bridge across the barges?”

  Mink casts her a perplexed look which vanishes after a moment. “That’s right. You probably don’t know. We’ve had some problems with the people from Porcelain Hand. Not all of them have been so eager to fall into our hierarchy, especially now that people are dying unexpectedly. A few of them sabotaged and collapsed the sewer tunnel that provided access to the underside of Fourth Bridge. With the Maire’s seat empty, neither the city council nor the upstanding residents of Lower Fringe seem to know who’s supposed to pay to have the tunnel repaired.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  “For us and for the people whose plumbing is backing up into their homes.”

  Myrrh grimaces. “Yuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  She taps her knuckles against the door frame. “Does Glint even know about the other deaths?”

  Mink shakes her head. “We tried to send a message, but the guards watching over the entrances to the Quarter are taking their duties more seriously lately. Or rather, they’re enjoying the opportunity to deny entry to anyone who lacks papers and a sufficient bribe. Unfortunately, the couriers in this district are honest to a flaw. Resh tried to convince one to pay his way across with our funds.” She shrugs. “He refused.”

  “W
hat about the Scythe? Can she get across?”

  “Glint sent her away to Craghold. Maybe ten days ago. I guess someone recognized her and chased after her looking for information on the Maire. He’ll find a way to bring her back eventually, but not until things have settled.

  Myrrh thinks of sending Mink to Bernard to ask about a courier, but then she remembers the cook’s refusal to be dragged into syndicate business. And anyway, this issue is bigger than what would fit in a messenger’s head.

  As she reenters the hallway, a knock comes at the ground-floor door. Mink steps around her and heads down the stairs ahead of Myrrh. When she opens the door, Tep, Bernard’s young assistant, stalks in and casts Myrrh a glare. He and Nab could be brothers judging by the similarities in their demeanors.

  “Aren’t you the scullion boy?” Mink asks with a confused look on her face.

  Tep rolls his eyes. “I am an apprentice chef. Not a scullion and definitely not an errand boy. But Bernard thinks Myrrh might want this back. Seems like she dropped it on the doorstep.”

  Myrrh takes an unwitting step back from his outstretched hand and the charm nestled in his palm. Finally, she plucks it from his hand.

  “Was it inside or out?” she asks.

  “Rolled into the dining room. Why?”

  She shakes her head. “Do me a favor, will you, Tep?”

  He curls his lip. “Why does everyone seem to think they can order me around?”

  “I think it would be best if you, Bernard, and his lady friend took a trip upriver. Might as well get away while Glint is busy, right?”

  The kid scoffs, but she can see he’s clearly interested. She plucks a ruby from the pouch tucked into her jacket, prompting Mink to widen her eyes. Tep stares, mouth slack, as she plops it into his hand.

  “Maybe we will get away since there’s nobody around to complain about it.” With a last sneer, he turns and bolts, fist clutched tight around the gem.

  Myrrh swallows the stone in her throat. Whether the Shield Watch wants to let her pass or not, it’s clearly time to go find Glint. Before he or someone from his household dies unexpectedly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE PROPRIETOR OF the dress boutique shrieks when Myrrh steps through the door. Her eyes shoot to the window, clearly searching for the guard she hired in the aftermath of Myrrh’s last robbery.

  Unfortunately for her, the guard is currently unconscious in the alley behind the shop. Myrrh’s not much of a brawler, but the man was even worse. And given the bit of nightbark she dribbled on his tongue—the remainder of Nab’s dose and the last of her supply—he won’t be waking up from the knock to the head any time soon.

  “I get the sense you remember me,” Myrrh says. “While I thought the color of the last gown you provided was flattering, I was rather scandalized by how much cleavage it displayed. I suspect you would like to provide something more modestly styled this time. Perhaps in blue.”

  All color has vanished from the woman’s face. As Myrrh takes another step into the shop, the woman starts to sway. Abruptly, she faints dead away.

  Myrrh groans.

  How is she supposed to get a proper fit now?

  ***

  Unfortunately, with her attention focused on the neckline and closure, Myrrh didn’t pay nearly enough attention to the cut of the gown’s skirt. In particular, the long slit that runs up her thigh nearly to her hip.

  Sixing. Worthless. Fainting. Woman. If she’d just stayed conscious, Myrrh might have even paid for a dress—and the woman’s advice on which garment would best suit her purpose.

  But here she is, striding up to Fourth Bridge in a midnight blue sleeve that exposes three-quarters of her thigh with every step. The guards seem torn between reaching for their cudgels and reaching for their belt buckles.

  She tilts her chin up, clutches her handbag tight, and sneers. The forwardmost guard, a man with a lantern jaw and what looks to be about three days of stubble stares at her, his mouth half-open.

  “I need to get over to see my fiancé. It’s important.” She looks to the side and taps her foot impatiently.

  “I—hand over your papers and I’ll see what I can”— he swallows and runs his eyes down her body—“I’ll see what I can do.” The last words are delivered in a tone that hints at what sort of bribes she might offer.

  Myrrh curls her lip. “I just arrived from upriver. Do you expect me to travel all the way up to the top of East Fifth to grab your precious paper out of my father’s desk? My fiancé insisted I visit him as soon as I arrived. We have details of our union to finish planning.”

  The man gives her a lewd smirk while a pair of guards behind him chuckle. One whispers things that would have her blushing or pulling her dagger if she weren’t pretending to be Merchant Giller’s upper-class bride-to-be. Instead, she strikes them with her most withering expression of disdain. “My intended is newly appointed to the city council. Perhaps I should mention the…delay I’ve been subjected to here.”

  The forward guard crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t care if you’re the Maire returned from whatever hole he fell into. You still need papers to cross Fourth Bridge.”

  Sixes. This isn’t going very well.

  She scans the line of men barring passage across the span. Aside from the guy in front and the pair snickering behind and to his right, there are three more sentries. Two are watching the scene with what seems to be a mix of amusement, concern, and lechery. But the last stares straight ahead. His cheeks are colored with either embarrassment or anger. Either way, he seems her best hope. Myrrh stalks over and steps within reach.

  “I remember you,” she bluffs. “You stood watch last time I came through with Merchant Giller.”

  He blinks, surprised to be addressed. When she reaches out and runs a finger down his chest, the other men stare.

  “I…I don’t recall, Mistress.”

  “My fiancé pays well for the pleasure of moving about the city without attracting attention. It’s gotten much worse since his appointment to the council. So many hangers-on scrabbling for power. But it’s okay for you to admit having seen us. I give you permission.”

  There’s one thing about years spent as a pickpocket. It makes for deft hands. When she flashes the ruby before slipping it into the pocket of his jerkin, his eyes widen. “For your earlier discretion,” she says in a voice too low for the others to hear.

  The next closest guard swallows, clearly imagining other words she might have said.

  “I… well, the fact is, I do remember the merchant and this young woman,” the man says. “She had her papers then.”

  With a smile, she lays her palm against his chest. One of the other guards wipes his mouth. She hopes he wasn’t actually drooling.

  “And I understand you might require a token of Merchant Giller’s appreciation for letting me pass. He’s given me a small allowance for such purposes.”

  Of all the things she’s pretending, acting as if she’s a kept woman, beholden to Glint’s charity, rankles worst of all. But her ploy seems to be working. Even the forward guard seems to be softening.

  “And anyway,” she says in a conspiratorial tone, “we all know it’s the grovelers and beggars down in Rat Town and the Spills that need to be kept out of the respectable areas of the city. One never knows what that rabble might get up to.”

  That seals it. With a heavy sigh, the guard holds out his hand. She counts out six silver coins—one for each man—and drops them into his palm. The last guard practically gloats upon seeing the paltry sum his companions earned.

  Heart still thudding, Myrrh nonetheless forces herself to keep a sedate pace as she crosses the bridge. Not that her dress gives her much choice. If she moves any faster, it will probably tear the rest of the way to her hip. For all she knows, she might be arrested for indecency in such a respectable neighborhood.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE INVITATION FROM Glint said his new sleeping
quarters were three doors away from where they last dined in the Quarter. Meaning three mansions down the street from the Maire’s palace. Myrrh feels the eyes of the district’s residents on her while she stands on the doorstep.

  The door swings open as she raises her fist to knock.

  Glint is shirtless, wearing loose pants with cuffs that brush the tops of his bare feet.

  He raises his eyebrow at her dress and the long expanse of her exposed thigh. “I might be partially unclothed, but it’s in the privacy of my own home. You have interesting taste in attire lately.”

  She glares. “It wasn’t by choice.”

  Glint plants his hands on either side of the door frame, managing to show off his musculature while blocking the way inside. “Oh?”

  “Let me in, Glint.”

  “I have to admit when I sent you the invitation, I didn’t honestly expect you to accept. Especially dressed so…alluringly.”

  She rolls her eyes. “For your information, I didn’t come to see your sleeping quarters. The thieves’ path is blocked as I’m sure you’re aware. I had to use Fourth Bridge to enter the Quarter.”

  His eyes are laughing at her. “So you put on the most camouflaging attire you could find and crept across the bridge from shadow to shadow. Right under the guards’ noses, no less. I’m impressed.”

  She plants a palm on his bare chest and shoves, sending him staggering back. He laughs as a strand of hair falls over his forehead.

  “We have to talk, Glint. It’s important.”

  She steps across the threshold. The air inside his entryway is cool and smells of silver polish and antique wood. Oil paintings hang in gilded frames, depicting rolling countryside and flowering trees.

  “It is still early, I suppose. No harm in a few drinks and some dinner conversation before we fall into bed together.”

  He steps past her, knuckling her lightly on the shoulder.

  “I mean it,” she says. “This is serious.”