Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1)

by Carrie Summers

  After buttoning up the sleeves of the tunic, she hangs up her leather work clothes. She hurries out the door before discomfort with all the finery gets the best of her.

  Glint waits by the crackling fire in the room where they spoke the night before. He holds a glass filled with a small splash of amber liquid.

  “So,” he says.

  “So,” she responds.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  She shakes her head as she takes a seat. The warm smell of leather upholstery puffs up around her as the seat cushion exhales.

  “Hawk hated not telling you about this, you know,” he says, eyes watching the dancing flames. “He wanted to wait until we were more established. More secure. It terrified him to think the opposition might harm you to get to him.”

  “And who is this opposition?”

  He smirks. “Every syndicate in the city. And of course the Maire and the Shield Watch.”

  “I see. You said you wanted to start at the beginning…”

  “That I did. And I suppose the story begins with Hawk. He was the first.”

  “The first what?”

  “My first recruit. Except that isn’t quite right. I approached him but never assumed authority over him. We were partners in everything but name; he wouldn’t agree to the title since it was me funding the operation.”

  Myrrh nods. Hawk was always stubborn, and if he didn’t put in an equal stake, she has no doubt he would have refused an equal share.

  “So you’re starting a new syndicate? Is that why you’re…” She sweeps a hand around the room. “Is that why I get a feeling you’re just moving in here?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think of us as a syndicate. We aren’t playing their games. We bear no marks, claim no turf. Our organization doesn’t even have a name. I want none of that.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  He rotates in his chair, leans forward with elbows on his knees. Both hands wrap his glass as he fixes her with a stare. “I will own this city. And it will make me and mine filthy, filthy rich.”

  Myrrh leans back, props an elbow on the chair arm. “That’s all, huh?”

  He shrugs a single shoulder. “For starters,” he says with a wink. “Though I don’t want you to think of me as simply greedy. I have reasons for my aspirations. Perhaps someday I’ll tell them to you.”

  She props her chin on her hand as if disinterested in his last comment. He wants her to be curious about him. Myrrh isn’t going to fall for the mysterious stranger thing. “So you recruited Hawk when?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “And since?”

  “We’ve grown, one handpicked associate at a time. Ostgard is bursting with tragically misapplied talent. We’ve watched. When we’ve identified a particularly adept thief, we’ve reached out. One by one, we’ve plucked the gems from the city’s criminal organizations. You didn’t ask why every syndicate in the city is our enemy, but that’s the answer. Most don’t yet know why their best thieves and cleverest assassins have disappeared, cutting into earnings and leaving their leaders scrambling to defend crumbling empires. They will though.”

  “I don’t understand where your gigs come from if you don’t control turf? Are you like an affiliation of grubbers? Each taking freelance jobs from other syndicates?”

  “For now, we exist—no, thrive—in the gaps. We’re the net that no one sees, casting wide for the prizes no one else has the guts or the skills to snare. Porcelain Hand might control Lower Fringe and Fourth Bridge access to Maire’s Quarter, but they can’t field anyone talented enough to pinch the Maire’s signet ring from his bedside table.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “And you can?”

  With a wink, he raises his right hand and wiggles his middle finger. A heavy gold band encircles it. Myrrh can’t help herself. Her eyes widen as she peers closely at the M worked into the face.

  “Speaking of…Maire’s Quarter wasn’t what I imagined.”

  He grins. “Never seen a place where thieves can walk openly because the people there can’t believe you’d try it? Ironic, isn’t it? But for all their conceit, the lax attitude stops on the doorsteps of the manor houses. The merchant cartels are no different than the crime syndicates when it comes to trust. Even if the only people allowed into their ornate foyers and parlors are other traders of their ilk, they staff in-house guards so thick you can hardly walk a hallway without knocking into one.”

  “So how’d you get the ring?”

  “A story for another night, I think. Weren’t you concerned about joining up with such rabble as I might lead? Wanted to know what trouble you’d land yourself in?”

  Myrrh rolls her eyes. “Fair enough.”

  “So that was our early plan. Build up resources until we suck the criminal market dry. The weaker syndicates will simply collapse. The others will begin to fight amongst themselves. Meanwhile, everyone who joins up with Hawk and me could plan to see nothing but profit.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in the petty wars over turf. Isn’t undercutting the other syndicates similar?”

  “There’s a difference. The existing organizations are concerned about boundaries. I don’t want to battle Porcelain Hand to scratch out a workable area in Lower Fringe. I want to erase them altogether.”

  “Semantics.”

  “If you say so.” He sets his glass aside with a heavy click and sighs. “That brings me up to now. We were cautious in approaching defectors, and we made our offers so sweet that no one turned us down and went tattling to a boss. But clearly someone fit the puzzle together. Hawk was nervous during the last days. He said he needed to get back to Rat Town to keep an eye on you.”

  “It was the Scythe that came for him though. Not the Slivers syndicate or Rat Town freelancers. You think someone turned him in as revenge for your meddling in their organization?”

  Glint shrugs. “I assume so. But we may never know.”

  “Sixing pox we won’t know. Don’t tell me you aren’t planning to avenge him.”

  He chews his lip, anger darkening his face. “I want nothing more. But which is the better revenge: letting our small empire fall apart while I track down his betrayer or utterly destroying every hope that the Rat Town scum will earn a living in this city again? Believe me, the people who threw him to the Scythe will pay.”

  Myrrh swallows the lump in her throat. “It’s hard for me to imagine never finding out why he died. What if it wasn’t because you poached talent from Slivers?”

  Glint’s brow furrows as he considers her words. “I suppose it could be related to our other work. The problem you’ve helped me with this evening.”

  “Which is?”

  “We recently discovered a situation that threatens the whole enterprise. Threatens criminal activity across the city, in fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “It has to do with the balance of power in the council. Down here in the gutters and alleys, we tend to think of the Maire as our ultimate enemy. Commander of the Shield Watch, ruler of the city council. The nexus of corruption and creator of all our misery.”

  Myrrh’s thoughts flash back to a raid when she was just an urchin groveling on corners for handouts. She remembers the sound of boots as a cadre of Shields marched through Rat Town, roughing up honest workers and throwing her friends into the muck. Again, she hears the sick sound of a cudgel bashing Myck’s skull in. The ragman had often flipped coppers to the hungriest kids instead of paying his taxes.

  The Maire ordered that purge. He sent criers through the streets afterward to warn Rat Towners about skimping on their taxes. About the evils of vagrancy and the immorality of drunkenness.

  She thinks about the yellow light in the streets when she heard the Maire’s Scythe had brought half-a-dozen soldiers to carry Hawk away.

  Her tongue is thick when she speaks. “He is the ultimate enemy.”

  Glint laces his fingers and drops his chin to t
hem, considering his words. “This is a difficult topic. Yes, he’s filth. The worst kind. The city could be burning, and he’d complain if someone took water from his bath to douse the flames.” He meets her eyes. “But we need him. And this change in the council threatens to unseat him.”

  She blinks, trying to fathom what he’s saying. “Need him?”

  “Have you ever left the city, Myrrh?”

  She stammers, still struggling with his previous statement. “I…uh—"

  “I don’t ask this to condescend. Only to understand what you’ve seen. You see, before I became…this.” He gestures at himself, the loose black tunic open at the throat, soft leather pants, Maire’s signet ring glinting on his finger. “I had the opportunity…hmm. The details don’t really matter. Suffice to say, I traveled widely, especially among the Port Cities.”

  Myrrh drags her attention back to the conversation.

  “And?”

  “And I came to understand how…inept the Maire is at ruling this city. In the ports, especially Ishvar and Tangesh, the streets are pristine. No compost rotting in piles, no rats skittering from the sudden light of a torch. No peddlers dragging carts or beggars hoping for coin.”

  “So, little room for thieves, you’re saying.”

  “Well, that depends on your perspective. Just because something looks clean from the outside doesn’t mean it’s not rotten underneath. I wouldn’t say there are no criminals. Just that those who haven’t fled have been pressed into working for the ruling class. Doing all the dirty things the councilmen and trade magnates won’t. Mostly, that means enforcing the things most of us turned lawless to avoid. One-time criminals now extort tariffs from honest workers, usually at the tip of a blade. Others eliminate dissent by silencing those who speak up. Permanently.”

  “You really think that could happen here?”

  “I know that could happen here. All it takes is a Maire with the will—and the competence—to move street by street. Flushing us out like rats from a fire. And that’s the sort of leader who is currently building support within the council. Merchant Emmerst.”

  “So you and Hawk were planning to undermine this? A pair of crooks with a newborn network of thieves?”

  “That’s exactly what we were planning to do. It’s going to be difficult. Exceedingly difficult. I could really use your help, Myrrh.”

  This whole conversation makes her feel numb. She stares at her hands. He wants her to support the man responsible for so much cruelty…how could she possibly consider it?

  “He killed Hawk,” she says.

  “I know. Set his pet killer on him. The Scythe is the only competent member of Maire’s regime. Well, and the underlings she recruits.”

  “If he’s so inept, why does she serve him? Money?”

  Glint’s gaze wanders to the fire. “That’s an interesting tale. Apparently, there’s a vow of absolute loyalty between the Scythe’s family and the Maire’s. Made under the old magic of the crag oaths. The Scythe’s father served the Maire when he was just a greedy merchant. Died sometime during the power struggle that led to the Maire claiming his current title. That’s when the Scythe took over.”

  “I still can’t believe you want me to help that man keep his title.”

  “Only because the alternative is so, so much worse.” Light from the flames dances on Glint’s face as he watches them flicker. “It doesn’t have to be forever. What we can protect, we can also destroy.”

  “How do you plan to…keep him in power?”

  “The plan is somewhat complicated. But the short answer is I’ll play the merchants’ game.”

  “Explain.”

  “You mentioned earlier that it seems like I’m just moving into this residence.” He gestures toward the wall and the ornate furnishings. “Quite true. And from what you’ve seen, does it strike you as a rogue’s den?”

  “It’s an unlikely place to run your syndicate from.”

  He fixes her with an even stare. “As I said, I don’t think of it as a syndicate.”

  “Your affiliation of scoundrels and sneaks?”

  “Let’s call it my consortium of rogues and freebooters.”

  “Now you’re just being difficult.”

  He winks. “Maybe, but you’re less tense when you’re distracted by an argument. Relaxation softens those charming features.”

  She looks away. “It’s all just words.”

  “I suppose I’ve acquired a taste for verbal sparring after years of negotiations,” he says. “I can keep my sharp tongue restrained if you’d rather.”

  Myrrh leans back and drapes an arm on the chain. “Negotiations, huh? I thought you and Hawk only started this…cabal of connivers and knaves a year ago.”

  A smile teases his lips. “Well done. I concede to your verbal superiority. And yes, that’s true. I was in a different business before this. However, I do believe I’ve found my calling.” He pauses to look about the cozy room with all its finery. “So, as to why I’m just now acquiring enough furniture to make this place livable, I’d like to introduce you to Ostgard’s newest merchant, a young man with contracts to sell and eyes on a seat in the city’s venerable council.”

  He stands and brushes his hands down his torso.

  “Wait, you?”

  Glint grins. “Of course. And like any newcomer to the city’s trader class, I’m setting up a modest residence here in Lower Fringe. Close to Maire’s Quarter and the major markets as well as Third Docks. Away from the tussling for status in East and West Fifth. I’m not here to impress with the cut of my waistcoat or the pedigree of the horses that pull my carriage. I want coin and a voice when it comes to trade policy. And I think I have what it takes to earn them.”

  Introduction finished, he flops into his chair.

  Myrrh tugs on a strand of hair that has escaped her ponytail. “Speaking of, where did you get all this lovely furniture, not to mention these contracts you plan on selling?”

  “All honestly stolen by my network of pilferers and tricksters, of course.”

  “I thought you just conceded.”

  “I’m a sore loser.”

  She snorts. “So what do you want me to do? And for that matter, why me?”

  “Because Hawk claimed you were the most dependable thief he’d ever trained. And that with the proper instruction, you would be the most capable too. I want to teach you.”

  The intensity in his eyes shows he’s telling the truth. But seriously, why? There are dozens and dozens of rogues and cutpurses looking for work in Ostgard. Sometimes, it seems like you can’t spit on a Rat Town street without dirtying the shoe of a skulking crook.

  “You still haven’t answered what sort of job you want me for.”

  He smiles crookedly, eyes locked on hers. “Some of my ideas are better left for later. But I’ll say this. Every merchant aiming for a seat on the city council needs a bodyguard. Someone close. Trustworthy enough to share in all the merchant’s secrets. Of course, I can handle my own defense. I need you for the work I can’t do while wining and dining. They’ll never expect that my personal security guard is one of the best thieves in Ostgard.”

  Chapter Ten

  MYRRH WAKES WITHOUT the panic of the morning before, though she’s still skeptical of the mountain of goose down atop her body. She swims free, nightgown tangling her legs like weeds in the river. The new curtains slide aside on a brass rod, exposing a real glass windowpane and a view of smoke hanging low over the city, filling streets with tendrils of haze.

  It’s noon. Maybe later.

  She pulls fingers through her tangled hair, clean now after last night’s bath in one of the building’s many rooms. A scented bath with oils she couldn’t identify. Hot water straight from a pipe and a tank on the roof where a fire heats the contents.

  She shuffles to the door. Nab is sitting in the hall right outside her room.

  He jumps to his feet, relief in his eyes before he pulls a ma
sk over it and changes his boy’s excitement into a teen’s swagger. Myrrh contains her amusement.

  “Nice dress,” he says.

  “It’s a nightgown. I think.”

  He chews his lip, shuffling, seeming unsure what to say next. So much has happened.

  “Oh.” He brightens when he remembers a mission. “Glint said to tell you he went out for the afternoon. He’ll be back before evening. He said to be ready to accompany him to a dinner.”

  A dinner? With him posing as a merchant? She needs to wake up before she can consider this information.

  “Do you know if there’s coffee in the house?”

  “Um.”

  She drops an arm over his narrow shoulders, ignoring his responding stiffness. “Come on. Let’s go see.”

  Downstairs, she pokes her head into the kitchen. The red-cheeked chef, thick around the waist and wearing an apron, jumps when she reaches through the door and knocks on the wall. He’s standing over a butcher-block counter flogging some sort of meat with a spiked hammer.

  “Madame?” he says.

  She blinks and almost laughs at the notion. “Myrrh is fine. Got any coffee?”

  His brow furrows, and he hisses toward an out-of-view corner. A boy grumbles and steps forward, hair stacked up like a shock of wheat.

  “Well?” the chef says impatiently. “Get the—get Myrrh some coffee.”

  The boy’s nod is sullen, but he shuffles to the far wall, fills a copper pot with water, and sets it on an iron stove.

  The chef pulls a bundle of herbs from beneath the counter and starts chopping them with a wicked-looking cleaver. After a moment, he casts a glance her way as if to suggest she move along.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Myrrh says, “how long have you worked for Glint?”

  “Since he was a wee…” He pauses, seeming to realize he’s trafficking in information that might be restricted. “Many years, Madame. Mistress. Myrrh.”

  “I see. And does he treat you well?”

  The man pushes the chopped herbs into a pile. “Tep will bring your coffee when it’s finished.”

  A sideways glance adds to the dismissal. Myrrh steps back and shuts the door.