Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1)

by Carrie Summers

  Glint’s eyes hold a spark of amusement as he grabs a candle from a wall sconce and uses it to light the wicks on the delicate tapers. He pulls out a chair for her, gestures for Nab to sit back down, and takes his spot at the head of the table.

  The boy returns again, bearing a stack of fine china and polished silver cutlery. A set of napkins drapes his arm. As he sets the table, he casts a shy glance at her and a somewhat sullen one at Nab—they’re near the same age, and the boy no doubt wonders what Nab has done to earn a seat at Glint’s table.

  After a carafe of wine arrives, Glint snaps the folds from his napkin and places it on his lap. He pours a swallow each for Myrrh and himself, then summons a glass of water for Nab.

  He raises his glass. “To friends among scoundrels.”

  Chapter Six

  GLINT MEETS HER in a dark corridor under the stairs, next to a narrow door. Myrrh’s new leathers fit close to her skin, making her feel stronger. Quicker.

  “What do you know about glimmer?” he asks, holding up a little packet of waxed paper.

  “I know your men used it to capture me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I thought it was just a rumor. Rat Town grubbers say it makes you twice as strong. Along with the ability to see in pitch darkness. A miracle for thieves, which is why I was sure it didn’t exist.”

  A wry smile tugs the corner of his mouth. “I worked hard to connect with a source. It’s…few sellers want to traffic in something that can be so dangerous if used wrong. But if rumors—and misinformation—are spreading, I worry that our access will make us a target.”

  He catches her wrist, turns her palm face up, and drops the packet into her hand. A small ball of dark resin has been pressed into the paper.

  “It won’t make you stronger. Just…quicker. More precise. Your grubber friends are right about the changes to your vision, mostly. Glimmer-sight is much like a cat’s. Your eyes will amplify the faintest hints of light. Of course, bright light is painful when under the influence.”

  “What’s the danger in misuse?”

  “Nothing if the dose is precise and the resin uncontaminated. It comes from the same distant island as nightbark, which you have recent experience with. The compounds from Haava have impressive effects, but if too much of any particular resin gets into one’s body, there can be permanent damage. No more than one dose every five days, okay?”

  Myrrh tucks the packet into a pocket inside her jacket. Near her left collarbone. The little lump of resin seems to push on the nerves there.

  “What kind of damage?”

  “Depends on the compound. I haven’t seen it for myself, but I’ve heard the silver gleam never leaves the eyes of the glimmer-blind. That’s how you recognize them. Plus their inability to see in daylight. Sunlight turns their vision pure white and painful. Which is why, on the source island, they’re sometimes called Whites.”

  “So who measured this dose?”

  He nods. “Good. Better to be cautious. It was portioned by my supplier.”

  “And I should trust this person?”

  “As much as you can anyone. She has a long history of providing the resin to royal houses in the Inner Kingdoms. The personal guard and assassins working for the Sapphire Queen reportedly use it frequently. I was able to verify the contracts between the palaces and my contact, though I can’t confirm the use by the Sapphire guard. The throne holds its secrets too close.”

  “Do you take her word on the correctness of the doses?”

  He smirks. “Yes, but I also cut each ball in half. The effects are shorter-lived than would technically be safe, but I have no desire to see my associates go glimmer-blind.”

  Myrrh lays her hand on the deadbolt securing the door. “I should go.”

  He steps back and bows. “I won’t keep you from your task. Don’t fear to use the resin if circumstances demand. I’d like it if you returned alive.”

  ***

  Down near the river, Myrrh rolls her shoulders, rises onto the balls of her feet, and takes a deep breath.

  The night wraps her, an old friend. Wherever the work, whatever the job, she can count on darkness to help her.

  Ahead, the waterfront curves a graceful arc, bending away from her in either direction. Fourth Bridge arches over the water, the guardhouse in the center blazing with light. The Shield Watch is out in force, just like she expected. No boon from the Queen of Nines tonight.

  The bridge is a big problem. From this part of the city, it’s the only access to Maire’s Quarter. She can’t cross it openly. At this time of night, delivery carts are prohibited, so she can’t stow away. A merchant’s entourage would need to present papers for every member—she has slim chances of impersonating someone with rightful access.

  This is a test. She and Glint both know it.

  A few wagons and horseback riders travel along the waterfront, wheels squealing and animals snorting. Myrrh blends with the flow of pedestrians as she heads north, checking for gaps in the guards’ attention. Every Shield stands rigid with keen eyes.

  She stops near a spill of light from an upscale tavern. Inside, men in waistcoats sip brandy. Women titter over rose-colored wine. Myrrh steps back a few paces and peers down a narrow aisle between the tavern and the neighboring building. Back in the darkness, a short staircase leads to a side door in the tavern. Probably the kitchen entrance. She slips into the slender corridor to wait and watch, ears perked for the sound of a door opening behind her.

  On the section of river ahead, a pair of barges cut dark shadows over the water. Men work long poles on one, shoving the vessel upriver. On the other, two men in the stern slice the water with sleek paddles, guiding the barge down the slow-flowing river. It’s a different scene than First Bridge, where captains use sails and oar teams for both directions of travel. Here, the passages beneath Fourth Bridge are barely wide enough to allow the vessels through. Poles are the only way to move upriver.

  She studies the cadence of the pole men. Eight on a side. They work in groups to the shout of a man in the rear of the barge. With each barked command, half the men hold the vessel in place while the others move forward and plant their poles to pull the heavy barge forward. The process seems agonizingly slow.

  At the head of the vessel, a spotter holds a lantern high, watching the inky water for bobbing flotsam. Which makes Myrrh think. If the barge were swept downstream to collide with the bridge, the chaos might be enough to let her slip across to Maire’s Quarter unnoticed. She chews her lip, then shakes her head. Innocent people might get hurt. And crashing a barge is hardly a low-profile tactic; she expects Glint is interested in her ability to be discreet.

  Not that she cares what he thinks. This job is payback for the coin and Nab’s rescue.

  Behind her, the door squeaks as it opens. Smoothly, so as not to attract attention, Myrrh slips out of the aisle. Liquid splashes, and she peeks around the corner in time to see the cook shaking the last drops of water from a pot.

  Myrrh stiffens when she peers into the recesses of the corridor. The aisle dead-ends against the back wall of another building, and in the glow from the door, she picks out a darker shadow against the stone blocks. Medium height, slight build. Another thief?

  The door clicks shut, snuffing the last light. Leather scuffs against stone. A faint grunt comes from above, and she whips her head up to see a shadow disappearing over the edge of the rooftop.

  How long was the person behind her? She hates to think they slipped down from the rooftop without her knowing. Maybe they entered the aisle when the cook opened the door.

  Maybe it was Glint keeping tabs.

  She runs a thumb over the little lump of glimmer inside her jacket. It probably was him, now that she considers it.

  Fine. Let him follow her, as long as he doesn’t mess up her job.

  The presence of another shadowy figure reminds her of the thieves’ paths she noticed during the day. The paths web the ci
ty from Fifth Bridge down to First. Why assume that Maire’s Quarter is different?

  If anything, hidden access is more critical when it comes to the Quarter. And if thieves and smugglers can’t go over Fourth Bridge, could it be they go under?

  ***

  The entrance is a loose grate a block and a half away from the bridge. It opens inside an alley just a few doors away from Glint’s residence. Does he know that? Is it part of the reason he chose the location?

  Myrrh glances over her shoulder as she creeps toward the opening, noticing that unlike the rusted metal of the grate, the hinges are clean and glistening with oil. The smell of sewage and moss rises from the grate. As she draws within a pace, the expected child detaches from a shadowy corner where a chimney juts from a wall.

  “Affiliation?” she asks.

  “None.” Myrrh glances at the outstretched hand, wondering whether Glint plans to compensate her for tolls.

  “Sorry, no entrance.” The grubby hand vanishes into a pocket, and the child glances up toward a shuttered window a floor above Myrrh’s head. A gesture the girl should have been taught not to use.

  “I have no plans inside Maire’s Quarter. I only need passage through.”

  “No grubbers allowed. Go away.”

  For all the grime worked into her cheeks and the hunched way she carries herself, the girl has sharp eyes. Her gaze keeps flicking to Myrrh’s weapon hand. Myrrh glances toward the shadowed corner where the child was hiding. There, a rope—rubbed with soot to blend with the stone—runs up the wall, through a pulley, and into the upstairs window. That’s the alarm.

  The girl follows her glance, pauses for a moment, then leaps for the rope. Myrrh is faster. She yanks her dagger from the sheath and slams it against the rope, pinning the cord against the stone. The girl yanks on the loose end, but Myrrh presses too hard. She elbows the girl back, careful not to hurt her.

  “Run,” she hisses, dropping a silver fivepence out of her sleeve pocket and onto the cobbles. “Lay low. Ask for your same job in a couple weeks if you want. They won’t remember your face.”

  The girl yanks harder. Myrrh grabs the rope above and below her blade and holds it tight while she slices.

  Then, unfortunately, the child screams.

  Sixes.

  Myrrh hoped that criminal operations in Lower Fringe had a greater need for discretion than in Rat Town. Seems she was wrong.

  She shoulders the girl aside and heaves the grate open. A square of light illuminates the wall on the opposite side of the alley as the window shutter opens. Myrrh jams her dagger into her sheath, drops to her belly on the floor of the alley, and shoves her legs down the hole. She fishes for a ladder rung with her toe as a man shouts for her to stop.

  The ladder is slick. Even when she gets toes on the rungs, her feet slip and slide. One rung disappears, too high for her toes. She scrabbles fingers over the cobbles, seeking some kind of grip as her body slides into the hole. Her toes slide off the next rung too. Myrrh throws her arms wide in hopes she won’t plummet all the way down.

  Her leather sleeves drag over the edge of the hole as she builds up speed. As her palms near the edge, by some whim of the Queen of Nines, the fingers of her right hand catch on a crack between cobblestones. The impact jars her shoulder. She kicks out, landing a foot on a rung, and grabs the uppermost iron bar with her free hand.

  The girl stomps on her above-street hand.

  “Miser’s toes, you’re a little imp,” Myrrh hisses.

  The girl just glares.

  Shaking her head, Myrrh yanks her hand from beneath the boot and slaps it on the ladder. As she scrambles down, the girl yells again.

  Her boots land on solid ground. A relief, though it wouldn’t be the first time she had to wade through sewage. She keeps a hand on the ladder, squinting into the ink ahead. Her eyes water from the stench.

  On one side of the tunnel, a narrow walkway offers dry passage beside the stream of sewage. Myrrh takes a first step and yelps when the surface underfoot wobbles. She peers closer and notices gaps between the stones. Farther ahead, wooden planks span longer spaces between stone blocks.

  Up above, the first heavy footfalls enter the alley.

  Sixes and seeping pox. It’s blacker than the Miser’s heart up ahead. Back to the wall, Myrrh edges forward and digs into her jacket for the glimmer. Fumbling the packet open, she nearly drops the little ball of resin. Fortunately, it sticks to her finger long enough for her to jam it between her cheek and gum.

  The tunnel explodes with light.

  With her next breath, cold energy pours into Myrrh’s body. She springs forward with icy precision, lands on a stone block a body length distant. Two more long strides bring her to the first plank. Light as a bird, she scampers across the wooden bridge. Looks back. As a heavy boot, scuffed with use, lands on the top ladder rung, she kicks the plank off its blocks and watches it float away on the stream of filthy water.

  Whoever controls this access is not going to be happy with her.

  She sprints across the next few sections of bridge, kicking each down behind her.

  And hopes this tunnel leads to a decent escape.

  Chapter Seven

  WITH THE GLIMMER singing in her veins, each drop of condensation on the tunnel walls is a brilliant prism, shattering light into twinkling stars. She steps like a cobra strikes, with lightning quickness and the surety that each foot will find its mark. Behind her, the self-proclaimed owners of the tunnel bumble like oafs through the fetid stream.

  With every step, her lead on them grows.

  Now she gets why Glint wanted her to have the glimmer resin.

  The tunnel doglegs to the right before she gets a view of the exit. A stone wall caps the passage, allowing the sewage out through a low grate in the bottom. Open air lies beyond, the glow of torchlight like a blazing fire. Almost too bright with the glimmer.

  Myrrh hurries forward to the grate. The planks she’s been dislodging have piled up against the metal, and when she kicks the bars, swinging the grate up on hinges as well oiled as those at the entrance, the boards spill out with a series of splashes as they drop into the River Ost.

  Myrrh winces. Not as stealthy as she’d hoped.

  She props the grate open with a bar attached to the bottom edge, then crouches, peering out over the water. A wide shadow darkens the river between her vantage and the first support pillar of Fourth Bridge. An island of stone and rubble built to anchor the support slopes down from the pillar’s base. Myrrh needs to get over there, but how?

  She looks down, scanning the sheer wall beneath the tunnel’s exit. Sewage falls over the lip in a wide waterfall. No hand or footholds there.

  She looks up. Finds nothing to grab.

  This has to be the thieves’ route into Maire’s Quarter. There was even the expected urchin guarding the entrance, collecting tolls, and barring entry. So what is she missing? Where does the path go? She expected some sort of ladder bolted to the stone, hidden in the shadows of the bridge’s great arches. Or maybe a web of rope that an agile thief could scramble up across. Maybe even some sort of zip line with a pulley and handle.

  A rope swing?

  There’s nothing.

  She dangles a leg out the low exit, braces an arm on the inner wall, and ducks her whole torso out to feel around. Her hand runs over cold stone while sewage laps at her new leather pants.

  Sixes.

  She ducks back into the passage. The stench in the tunnel seems much worse after her gulps of fresh air. Thank the Nines, glimmer doesn’t sharpen her sense of smell. As she pulls her leg back in, she hears a shout from the river.

  Despite her head start, the splashing of some very angry thugs is getting noticeably closer. Myrrh balls her fists. Unless she figures this out, she’ll have to choose between facing the oncoming ruffians or taking her chance in the Ost. She’s a passable swimmer, but not strong enough to fight the current until she’s away from Lower Frin
ge and the row of guards on the waterfront.

  She touches her dagger’s hilt, shaking her head. This shouldn’t be sixing necessary. Why guard the entrance to a dead end?

  Another shout from the river as one of the bargemen calls out a rhythm to the men working the poles.

  Myrrh stiffens and swipes a hand down her face. Of course.

  Barge captains use poles to travel near Third and Fourth Bridges because the passages under the bridges are just barely wide enough for the vessels. The barges are the thieves’ path into Maire’s Quarter. And if she’d come here with permission of the syndicate that controlled access, she’d have all the time in the world to wait for a boat to span the gap between the tunnel’s exit and the bridge’s support pillar.

  She shakes her head, disgusted with her predicament. How many gaps between pillars lie between here and Maire’s Quarter? How many barges will she have to wait for if she’s lucky enough to get across the first gap without her pursuers following? Four? Five?

  She doesn’t have a sixing chance.

  Myrrh sticks her head through the slot. With poles bristling on either side, the barge looks like a long-legged water insect. In the bow, the spotter’s lantern flares in the night, sparks leaping off the ripples where the current breaks around the blunt front of the vessel.

  The barge won’t reach her for at least a minute. She glances back down the tunnel. Light now warms the wall where the tunnel doglegs. The thugs will arrive first.

  Gritting her teeth, she draws her dagger. Without the plank bridges, the jump between stone blocks is more than double her height. She takes a breath. Focuses on the glimmer-ice filling her veins. She leaps and lands a foot precisely on a stone block. As the foothold teeters beneath her soft sole, tiny adjustments in the muscles of her lower leg compensate. She jumps again and again, hopping over the fetid water. If she survives this, she can’t exactly make her way across Maire’s Quarter smelling like she’s been wading through sewage.

  The lantern comes into view, held high above the shining bald head of a goon three times her size. Hardened-leather armor covers him from neck to boots, and an ugly-looking mace swings in a holster at his hip.