Nab is lounging at the table, a bare foot up on the polished surface.
“Don’t you have better manners than that?” she asks.
“Glint does it.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to.”
“So you’re my mother now?” he asks, petulant. But he takes his foot down anyway.
Myrrh takes a seat across from him. Since last night, the chairs have multiplied. A full complement now surrounds the table.
“What do you think of this place, Nab? We can stay. I’m just not sure we should.”
He snorts and stares at her, incredulous. Myrrh winces. She hoped he’d at least consider it since she’s not sure where else they’ll go. Regardless of whether she wants to commit to Glint’s criminal enterprise, she’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth about her prospects in Rat Town. Whoever betrayed Hawk would come for her next.
“You get knocked over the head on last night’s job or something?”
Myrrh shrugs. “Did a little swimming in the Ost. Otherwise, nothing so exciting.”
“Must just be the bag of rocks you use for a brain then. Of course we should stay. When was the last time you got food for nothing? A real bed? Walls thicker than the Maire’s underpants…?”
She swallows the argument she was brewing. Thought she was going to have to convince him.
“It’s not for nothing. The food, I mean. There’ll be work.”
“You mean like fetching papers from the night market? Like I said, pretty much food for nothing.”
“More than that. All this”—she gestures at the multiplying furnishings—“we gotta help earn enough to pay for this kind of stuff. And more. Glint has plans.”
He shrugs. “Do I get more of those chocolate tarts? Another bath that smells like flowers? Come on, Myrrh. You really want to go back to sleeping twenty paces from the bog in a shack that will topple into the mud next big flood?”
“I just like to be cautious.”
“Glint told me Hawk wanted you here.”
A pang at her dead friend’s name. Myrrh shoves the sadness down. Can’t let it influence her decision. “But Hawk didn’t bring me—us—in. Thought it was too dangerous.”
“Well, he seems to have messed up that assessment. He sure wasn’t hanging out in Lower Fringe when the Scythe came.”
“No. And Rat Town isn’t an option for us anymore.”
“Then stop being such a head-knocked pigeon. This is a good deal, Myrrh.”
She glances toward the kitchen and lowers her voice.
“He wants me to be his personal bodyguard, Nab. While he pretends to be a merchant. I don’t know a thing about security or trader society.”
The boy grimaces, then laughs. “What? Miser’s balls…you protect him? Is he crazy?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. And don’t be vulgar.”
“Just make sure he gives me some jobs too. I gotta start stashing loot for when it all comes crashing down.”
The kitchen door swings open and the boy, Tep, shoulders out with a china cup and saucer. He spots Nab, then sighs and starts to turn back to fetch a second cup.
“It’s okay,” Myrrh says. “Nab’s too young for coffee anyway. It’s not a drink for little kids.”
Tep smirks while Nab glares daggers at her.
Myrrh accepts the cup and raises an eyebrow at Nab, daring him to argue like a complaining child. He crosses his arms and puts a foot back on the table.
***
After coffee, Myrrh excuses herself, leaving Nab to sulk at the table. As she steps onto the first stair, she glances back and sees Tep emerging from the kitchen with a set of dice. Was he watching for her to leave? She’s long wished for a friend for Nab, the orphan turned urchin turned apprentice thief. Not many kids his age inhabit the Spills, and those who do live there work dawn to dusk at the docks or in Smeltertown.
Nab grunts a greeting, returned in kind by Tep. But after a moment, Nab nudges out a chair with his toe. Tep grins and spills the dice on the tabletop.
That alone is reason for Myrrh to take the job.
She checks the doors on the second-floor landing. Still locked. But on the third floor, near her bedroom, she finds a room packed with crates and shelving. Bottles of wine lie on bolts of fabric that match the curtains in her room. A stack of books teeters in the corner. Drawn to the pile, she runs fingers along the spines. Gold lettering stamped into leather. Titles that speak of faraway lands. Mysterious people. Stories, not the dry histories she learned with.
Myrrh can read. A secret taught to her by Hawk over many long, candlelit evenings.
Did her mentor teach the skill to Glint too?
One of the titles captures her interest. A Stranger Tide. What does it mean? To her, the ocean is a distant thing. Mythical. The tides are equally mysterious.
She pulls the book from the stack, straightening the others, and backs from the room. Most of the other rooms on the floor are locked. Except for the pair of double doors opposite the stairwell. She squeezes the latch.
It’s Glint’s room.
A wide four-poster bed, unmade, presides over the room. Heavy dressers stand beside a small table with a crystal decanter half full of whiskey. There are just one chair and one tumbler.
A bookshelf squats beneath a pair of framed maps. One of the city and one she doesn’t recognize but suspects as depicting the Vellos continent and Ostgard’s place on it.
Glint can read, it seems. And he’s done quite well impersonating the young, rich merchant freshly arrived in the city.
She slips into the room, leaving the door ajar, and pads to a writing desk that sits below the window. The curtains are open. From Glint’s room, a sliver of the waterfront is visible, peeking between buildings.
She sets down the book and tries the little desk drawer. Locked.
A stack of papers has been dropped haphazardly on the desk’s surface. Myrrh takes a seat and picks them up, begins leafing through. Purchase orders. Shipping receipts. A scrawled note:
Haven second.
Check Ishvar channels for more supply, but use caution over white contamination.
Rumors you may have been recognized in East Fifth.
She puzzles over the words for a moment. Who wrote this? Glint? Hawk? After a moment she shrugs and sets it aside.
The next paper has five columns of numbers and nothing else. No explanation for their meaning. She shuffles it off and peers at the next.
“Finding anything interesting?”
Myrrh jumps to her feet, sending the chair skidding across the floor. Glint is lying on his bed, hands behind his head, long legs outstretched. How long has he been in here?
“I can explain that if you like.” He nods at her hands. The paper hangs limp from her fingers.
Myrrh swallows to gather her composure, then sets the paper back on the stack. “I’m guessing you were practicing your sums. You could try counting on your fingers.”
“Clever. But no. It’s a ledger tracking the price of ores and smelted metals. While considering which goods I—posing as our friend Merchant Giller—would have the most luck trafficking in, I examined the outputs from Smeltertown. It’s Ostgard’s only industry, you see…all the other wealth in this lovely city is skimmed off the trade in goods that come in and out on the River Ost.” He shakes his head. “We’re nothing but leeches really. In any case, robbing the ingot trade would do too much harm to Rat Town and everyone that depends on regular shifts at the smelters. I just haven’t got around to throwing away that ledger.”
“So you’re an altruist.”
“How do you mean?”
“You won’t steal if it harms the poor.”
He turns his eyes to the ceiling. “No, just a pragmatist. I need Ostgard to keep functioning or I won’t have an empire to rule. And for the city to thrive, it needs shift workers. Who else will shine shoes and empty chamber pots in Maire’s Quarter?”
“
I see.”
“I don’t suppose you want to explain why you’re searching through my belongings. I was under the impression we were working to establish trust.”
“Maybe I didn’t know this was your room.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t lie to the man who wants to make you his closest associate.” His eyes remain on the ceiling as if this is a casual conversation, but Myrrh can almost feel the tension in his body.
He’s right to be angry at her snooping. But Myrrh can’t bring herself to grovel out an apology.
“If you were truly concerned, you should have locked the door.”
“It shouldn’t have been necessary.”
Myrrh sighs. “Fair. I won’t enter again without your permission.”
“Thank you.” He rolls his head to look at her. “Dinner is in two hours. The leathers and your dagger will be fine for tonight, but we’ll want to add to your weaponry.”
“Where are we going?”
“The merchant’s family name is Buliat. We’ll arrive together, and I’ll leave you posted in front. Once dinner is underway, I need you to find an alternate entrance. Search Merchant Buliat’s study for information on his next shipment of Jalla spices. He’s something of an upstart, so I doubt he has in-house security. But I can’t say for sure.”
It sounds easy enough. “Anything else?”
“Feel free to supplement our coffers if you find items that won’t immediately be missed.”
She nods, looking forward to a simple assignment. “I’ll be ready.”
“Don’t forget your book when you go.” He nods toward the desk. “And yes, you can borrow it. A Stranger Tide is one of my favorites.”
Myrrh feels the blush in her cheeks as she grabs the book, slowly, not snatching.
“Oh, Myrrh?” he says as she steps to the door.
She turns.
“You have my permission to enter anytime. Just ask. And that’s a nice…nightgown. I think my grandmother wore something similar.”
With a glare, Myrrh stalks through the doors and pulls them shut behind her. Hard.
Through the heavy wood, she hears him laughing.
Chapter Eleven
GLINT LOOKS LIKE a different man in a buttoned waistcoat over a silk shirt. His hair is slicked back, and the scruff of his beard has been shaved clean.
Myrrh needs a minute to collect herself from the shock. She wouldn’t have recognized him if he hadn’t come knocking at her bedroom door at the expected time.
He looks her up and down. “Are your boots okay? I was worried they might pinch.”
After her swim in the river, the pair she wore last night is still damp. She’s laced a pair of the tall black ones over her pants.
“They’re fine.”
His eyes pause on her dagger. “Tomorrow we start training with the sword. We’ll just hope Buliat has little experience with security.”
“Would it help if I brought one for show?”
He thinks for a moment. “Better not to be burdened with something you haven’t learned to use. I don’t anticipate trouble, but we shouldn’t be overconfident.”
“If there is trouble, can you fight in that clothing?” she asks, casting a skeptical glance at his finery.
He grins and flicks his wrist. Myrrh doesn’t even know where the blade in his hand came from, but an instant later, it’s at her throat.
“I should be okay,” he says.
“I guess so.” She feels the embarrassment in her cheeks.
“Though that wasn’t really fair. We don’t expect our allies to attack. I’m sure you’d surprise me just as easily.”
She’s not sure, but she’s grateful for his kindness in saying so.
“Shall we?” he says. “I have a couple more details to explain on the way.”
She checks her weapon and nods. “Ready.”
***
Myrrh can’t help but feel exposed walking openly along the waterfront. But with Glint leading the way, acting every inch the arrogant merchant, no one pays her any heed. Not even the row of Shields guarding the river.
“I believe I mentioned before, but my family name is Giller,” he says as they stroll. “Our major business is in ocean shipping. We have five caravels working out of Tashkal, sailing the main routes to the Hevish Archipelago and Gargoa. My older brother will inherit the business, which leaves me with a minor allowance to found my own venture. I’ve chosen Ostgard so that I won’t be competing against my sibling.”
“Does it matter that I haven’t heard any of those names before?” she asks.
“You’ve heard them now, right? Can you repeat what I just said?”
“Family business in Tashkal. Shipping to Hevish Archipelago and Gargoa.”
He pauses for her to catch up and grins. “I figured you’d be able to. And as to your question, just by recognizing the names, you probably know more than half the merchants in the city. They’re good at pretending but terrible at actually learning something.”
“Is that what you go by? Giller?”
“Merchant Giller to most. My close associates may call me Penn.”
“Including me?”
“Depends on how close you want to get,” he says with a wink. “It can be dangerous to get too familiar with your employer, you know.”
“I wasn’t asking—”
He laughs. “I know. But it’s worth thinking about. The assumption that you and I are having liaisons might work to our favor because people would be more likely to speak freely in front of you. But you’d have to be…convincing.”
Myrrh knows she’s blushing furiously. Can he see it?
“A strict merchant-and-bodyguard relationship is fine,” she says.
Again, Glint laughs. “Fair enough, Rella.”
“Rella?”
“Rella Aventile. Does it work for a name? Most personal security comes from merchant-class families who don’t have wealth to set up all the heirs with their own businesses. Your mother was a wheat baroness from one of the independent territories inland, but the blight from ten years ago wiped out too much of your family’s savings.”
“Am I going to need to explain all this to anyone?”
“You shouldn’t. But always best to have contingencies, right?”
She nods. Fair enough.
Glint resumes walking at a slow saunter, hands in his pockets.
“I will say, though,” Myrrh begins, “if Rella were to get into a relationship with the man she’s supposed to be guarding, she’d want to be sure he’s worth her while.”
“Oh?” Glint raises an eyebrow.
“It’s a risk, like you said. Could be dangerous for her. But she’d consider it if he shows talent in his chosen pursuits. Speaks to a level of focus that could be attractive to someone like her.”
A smile pulls at his lips. “Then perhaps Merchant Giller will feel inspired to show how very well he plays these other traders. He does intend to build an empire, you know.”
***
A woman in servant’s livery opens the heavy wood door to Merchant Buliat’s home. The building is modest by Lower Fringe standards, just two stories, but the intricate ornamentation on the facade and the detached servants’ quarters suggest up-and-coming wealth. The residence sits on a low rise, nearly on the border with East Fifth. Glancing at the second-floor balcony that runs along the entire front face of the building, Myrrh imagines the view of the city is quite spectacular.
The balcony is also a likely target for her entrance into Buliat’s private rooms.
“The merchant and mistress will be down in a moment,” the servant says. “May I invite you in for a drink?”
Glint catches Myrrh’s eye to make sure she heard. Don’t try to enter until she’s certain the Buliats are downstairs and distracted. Myrrh controls the impulse to roll her eyes, remembering that he wouldn’t have brought her if he didn’t deem her competent.
“Thank you.” As Gl
int steps through the door, he begins to unbutton his waistcoat. Myrrh notices that he doesn’t gawk. He scarcely glances at the polished surfaces and glinting chandelier in the foyer. The servant remains in the doorway, and Glint has to take a step back to pass off his coat for her to hang.
“Pardon, Merchant,” the woman says as she folds his coat over her arm. “The mistress asked that anyone accompanying you also come inside. Your escort may wait in a chamber we’ve prepared.”
Glint spins on his heels, casually tucking a hand in his pocket. “I prefer my bodyguard remain where she can watch the street. I’m not concerned for my safety in your mistress’s lovely home.”
“Rightly judged. You certainly needn’t be concerned.” The servant nods toward an antechamber. A shadow darkens the foyer’s floor as a heavily built man in hardened-leather armor steps into the archway. “Rest assured, the exterior of the house is just as secure. We have additional sentries posted nearby. If you didn’t notice them on your approach, they’re doing their jobs well.”
Glint’s slow blink is the only sign that the unexpected situation bothers him. He inclines his head politely. “In that case, I’m sure Miss Aventile will be glad to wait in the comfort of your home rather than exposed to the chill night.”
He beckons Myrrh forward. With a nod, she mounts the pair of steps leading to the door and steps in, hand resting lightly on her dagger. Not as a threat, but to prove Rella’s dedication to her merchant master’s safety. She meets Glint’s eyes, searching for a hint as to whether he wishes the plan to continue. His shoulders rise in the faintest shrug.
It’s up to her.
The home smells of fresh-cut flowers and tung oil that has been worked into the heavy wood furniture. A single bench stands against the marble-tiled wall. As Myrrh approaches the bench, the servant rushes forward and touches her elbow.
Myrrh whirls, eyes narrowed, and the servant gasps.
“Pardon, Miss…”
“Aventile,” Myrrh says in a flat tone.
“Miss Aventile. The mistress has prepared the west alcove for you.” She scurries forward to an archway opposite the burly guard’s antechamber. With a sweeping gesture, she invites Myrrh to enter.
Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1) Page 7
