“I see. And the good Merchant Giller isn’t afraid to move about Maire’s Quarter without protection?”
His pace slows, and he glances at her sideways. “Is Rella that concerned to let him out of her sight? Maybe she’s decided to consider a relationship after all.”
She rolls her eyes and keeps walking before he can notice the blush on her cheeks. At the next intersection, they turn. The front door of Glint’s residence is straight ahead. As she approaches the door, he touches her shoulder, making her jump.
“All teasing aside, I’m safe in Maire’s Quarter. But you’ll be moving through the lower half of the city to intercept that barge. Keep your head up and your face down. We still don’t have answers on Hawk.”
She looks away. When Hawk died, she vowed to get vengeance. And she’s done nothing to find his betrayers. After this heist, she will find a way to dig deeper.
“Hey,” Glint says as he steps close. “We will get revenge for his death. And we’ll make sure to honor his legacy by building the empire he envisioned.”
She shrugs, not ready to meet his eyes. “He deserved better.”
“I know.” He lays hands on her shoulders.
Myrrh pulls away and turns for the door. “I have a heist to plan.”
Chapter Fifteen
MYRRH’S EYES STING from the smell of river water. Upstream, maybe a half hour’s walk, First Bridge is a line of floating torches above the Ost. Downstream, the river swirls and stinks until the braided channels that drain the western bog inject water that merely smells of algae and stagnation. It hasn’t rained in a few days; that’s the real problem. A good downpour would flush the contaminants from the Smeltertown slag heaps rather than leaving them to trickle in. Plus it would blast the sewers clear for a while. In any case, Myrrh’s eyes start to tear as she walks onto a rickety pier that juts from the muddy bank. The flimsy wood wobbles in the shifting currents as she squints and searches downriver.
Buliat’s shipping manifest, carried here by a pigeon, according to Glint, has the barge arriving in the wee hours tonight. At least, that’s what Glint calculated. Myrrh is skeptical that the vessel will appear on schedule. But Glint was adamant. It has something to do with shipping permits and congestion around the Ostgard bridges. Captains that miss their dates pay hefty fines on top of the tariffs the Maire charges for passage and trade.
Somewhere on the riverbank behind her a bird warbles. The breeze is blowing downstream. Occasionally, it carries a bit of laughter or a shout, sounds of the usual debauchery in Rat Town and the Spills. Near where the pier joins the bank, Les, one of the thieves assigned to her, and incidentally, the man she kicked in the gut on the night of her abduction, sits in a waiting rowboat. The oars knock against wood when he reaches for his waterskin. The cork comes out with a pop, and she hears faint noises from his throat as he drinks.
Otherwise, aside from the splash of the river against the pier’s posts, the night is still.
There. Exactly when Glint predicted.
Myrrh smirks, glad she didn’t make a bet against his calculation. The barge cuts upriver, too silent to hear from here, but surely pulled by the splash of oars. A lantern floats above the vessel’s nose, held aloft on a spotter’s pole. Shadow still cloaks the vessel and crew, but not for long.
She pulls out a small whistle and trills off a series of notes that sound like birdsong. A few hundred paces downstream, three more rowboats detach from the riverbanks. Oars muffled by cloth wound around the paddles tug against the Ost’s stinking waters. Already, the thieves aboard will have dosed themselves with glimmer. To her men, the barge will appear as clear as if it’s advancing upriver under a noonday sun.
Down below, Les looks up expectantly, waiting for her command. His eyes begin to gleam silver as the resin takes hold, but Myrrh’s hesitating. She wants to give her other senses a chance to read the situation. The sounds from the barge. The breeze raised by the river currents. They’ll disappear under the glare from the glimmer-sight.
“Not yet,” she says softly. “I have a better view here.”
He nods and checks the stowage of his small rucksack and waterskin. Raises the oars in readiness but doesn’t shove off the bank.
The swiftest of Myrrh’s little vessels skims across the river toward the lonely light at the front of the barge. Slowly, more details of the vessel emerge. She spots the angular lines of the cabin and the faint glint of moonlight off the river-wet oars. Moments later, the rowboat disappears behind the bigger vessel. Myrrh makes the sign of the Queen of Nines.
No alarm goes up. The barge’s oars continue their rhythmic churning. Myrrh’s rowboat appears on the far side of the barge, the thief inside raising a single oar to indicate success.
No unnecessary harm to innocents. That was Myrrh’s goal, along with a successful operation. The three thieves on the water carry small crossbows armed with darts dipped in nightbark serum. The raised paddle means the man at the barge’s tiller, likely the captain of the vessel, has been darted.
Quickly, the thief reverses course and rows into the barge’s wake where he’ll board from the stern. Meanwhile, the other two rowboats move in.
Myrrh finally pulls out her ball of glimmer resin and tucks it into her cheek.
The world explodes with light as her men fire darts into the necks of the pair of guards standing amidships with eyes on the water. The guards sway, teeter, and fall bonelessly to the deck. It takes a few breaths for the oarsmen to understand their protection has abruptly disappeared. Then the first shouts go up. Night air carries words as if they were spoken in her ear.
“Treachery!”
“Pirates!”
The last brings a grin to her face. She’s hardly the pirate queen from A Stranger Tide, but this is a start.
“Now,” she says, waving Les forward. He stabs a paddle into the mud and shoves back, bringing the rowboat directly beneath her. With the glimmer, she lands lightly in the bottom of the boat. Though the little vessel wobbles as Les begins to row for the barge, Myrrh stands as easily as if she’s on level ground.
Aboard the barge, the lantern goes flying as the spotter whirls. The lamp turns end over end. A pool of fire spills across the deck. Immediately, the thief already aboard whips off his cloak and starts beating at the flames. Her men still on the water dodge the strikes of oars and row for the back of the vessel where they quickly leap aboard.
Swords come out, throwing wild glints in her glimmer-sight. The moment her thieves draw their steel, at least half the oars hit the decks as their bargemen surrender. The others brandish paddles like they’re pikes.
The barge starts to yaw, turning broadsides to the current. Myrrh gasps and steps to the front of her quickly approaching rowboat as the barge’s deck rocks when the river grabs hold.
“Cease!” Myrrh yells before blowing a shrill note on the whistle. Responding to the urgency in her voice, Les rows faster. They knife through the water toward the vessel. On deck, her men easily bat away thrusts from the oarsman. But she needs to get the big boat righted. Finally, they draw even with the barge, easing up near the stern.
“Dart one of the oarsmen,” Myrrh shouts as she snatches the anchor rope from her rowboat and executes a perfectly aimed leap to land on the barge’s deck. She loops the rope over the same bollard where the other rowboats have tied up. With a few running steps, she jumps and catches hold of the roof of the cabin. Her feet paddle against the wall as she vaults up atop it. The deck is in chaos. The only good news is that the fire is out now, thanks to the quick work of her man.
As she steps to the front edge of the roof, a dart streaks from the rowboat and sticks in an oarsman’s neck. He sways, then topples. The other bargemen’s eyes go white rimmed.
“Anyone else?” she shouts.
The oarsmen drop their paddles.
“Good! As you may have guessed, we are apprehending this vessel. Anyone who doesn’t accept that can get off with your fellow crew.�
� She nods to the thief who is inspecting his cloak for holes burned into the leather.
“On it,” he says. He grabs an unconscious guard by the feet and starts dragging him toward the stern.
Myrrh glances at the shore. The barge has drifted farther downriver than she hoped.
“No one? Okay. Then if you want to live, I suggest you get back on those paddles.”
Men jump to obey.
Another of her thieves hurries to take the tiller as the bite of the oars slowly brings the vessel around. The barge begins to surge forward as coordinated paddling pulls it upriver.
“All right,” she shouts. “Now, seeing as I’m a forgiving person, I’m prepared to offer you more than a chance to survive the night. This barge is about to become property of my organization. We’ll need men to work the decks. Prove your worth tonight, and I’ll consider keeping you on.”
She glances toward the nose of the ship where the spotter crouches, trembling. “But not you,” she says, nodding at him. “You set fire to your own vessel.”
He jumps up, hands clutched in front of his chest. “I—I don’t want to die, missus. It was a mistake. Just—I’ll serve you well, I swear!”
She laughs. “Shoot him.”
His face screws up as Les aims another dart. The man shrieks when the point plunges into his neck. As he slumps to the deck, a couple of the bargemen moan in fear.
Myrrh jumps down, landing gracefully with one foot on a spice crate.
“Oh, stand straight, you cowards. They’re not dead, though they may have headaches when they finally wash ashore.” She gestures toward the stern where her men are loading the first guard into a rowboat. One thief stands in the bottom of the small vessel, taking the man’s feet under the seat so he won’t fall out if he startles awake. Her man hands up the oars before climbing out and casting the little rowboat free.
The bobbing vessel is soon lost in the darkness, sure to carry its passenger well past dawn before someone spots the helpless boat and fishes him out.
Her men repeat the process, loading a man per boat while she watches the shore for the main channel where the bog empties into the river. With the distance they were swept downriver, she’s sure they’ll need to paddle back to reach it.
“Hew closer to the bank, if you will.” She squints. There…the glimmer-heightened flash of starlight off water looks promising. She climbs onto a crate near the rail, hoping for a better view.
Myrrh scarcely has time to turn when the cabin door flies open, cracking against the outer wall. A young man sprints out, hair tousled with sleep. He charges toward her as she slaps for her dagger. Myrrh jumps backward, trying to escape his wild punches. Suddenly, he freezes. She spots the dart stuck just below his hairline as one of her thieves dashes forward and delivers a kick to the boy’s ribs. His eyes open wide with shock as he topples, the side of his knee catching on the rail and tipping him headfirst into the Ost.
“No!” Myrrh runs for rail, just in time to see a paddle crack against the boy’s head.
He’s limp now, facedown, the nightbark in full effect.
Myrrh’s rowboats are gone. The water’s not fit for swimming here; the flux gained by swallowing just a few drops often kills.
No doubt, the boy has already inhaled the foulness, probably swallowed it too. There’s nothing she can do for him.
She watches his body recede on the current, just another bit of flotsam. A hard stone fills her throat as she clenches the low rail in a white-knuckled grip.
Behind her, silence reigns over the vessel.
“I would appreciate it if no one else tries any foolish heroics,” she says, forcing herself to stand straight. The bargemen still need to continue to fear her. With every ounce of will she possesses, she steps again onto a crate and regains command.
She points to the channel where they’ll leave the Ost. It’s deep enough for a ship to weave away and out of sight from the Ost, but only if the helmsman knows the way.
Which Myrrh’s does.
Feeling anything but the pirate queen she imagined herself less than an hour ago, she stands near the prow of her new prize as they row it to safety.
***
Carp’s Refuge is as much a haven for misfits and hermits as it is a stopover for smugglers using the bog to bring goods around Ostgard. Members of both groups watch from weathered boardwalks and ramshackle shanties as the barge cuts through the morning sunlight on its slow passage into the settlement. Quite a few residents choose the occasion of their passing to start sharpening blades and oiling crossbow mechanisms.
Myrrh stands in the nose of the barge, scanning the houseboats and hovels for signs leading to the Frog’s Whistle pub. She’s never been to Carp’s Refuge before and has sometimes wondered whether it was just a rumor. Not much smuggling work for a grubber from Rat Town. Ordinarily, the chance to see something new would have her alert and grinning. Not to mention, the successful capture of a whole sixing barge. But she can’t stop seeing the shocked look on the young man’s face as he toppled overboard.
She didn’t kill him, exactly, but it’s the closest she’s ever come.
The settlement is organized around a network of channels, much like streets in an ordinary town. But here, nothing is so permanent. The denizens of Carp’s Refuge move as the flow of water and attention from the Shield Watch fluctuate. She’s heard stories of smugglers rowing into Ostgard for a night of carousing in the Spills only to find the whole Refuge vanished when they returned at dawn. Along with every bit of loot the smuggler was bringing through, of course.
That won’t happen to her score. At least two people will stay with the barge until it’s emptied, cleaned, and refitted so that no trace of its previous owner remains.
She shakes her head. A whole sixing barge. Scant weeks ago, she never would have imagined.
Finally, she spots the Frog’s Whistle, marked not by a placard hanging outside, but rather by the row of drunks sleeping on the boardwalk outside the front door.
They tie up directly in front of the semiconscious patrons who grumble and roll over, pulling cloaks over their heads to shut out the morning sun.
Myrrh debarks and pushes through the flimsy door into the darkened interior. The glimmer’s been gone for more than an hour, leaving her tired and clumsy, not to mention half blind in the dark. She clenches her jaw to keep her focus as she searches the nearly deserted establishment for Jak, the fence.
He smiles insincerely when she spots him. Sitting at the far edge of the bar, he’s bent over a cup of coffee.
“Where’s your necklace?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He smirks. “Ahh, Myrrh. Perhaps we got started wrong. I’d like to offer a gesture of peace if you’re willing. You’re rather more…talented than I first assumed.”
“You mean you thought I was a petty thief bringing you the results of my best night’s work, and now you’re getting a notion of my capabilities?”
“Something like that. Coffee?” He waves for the bartender, a gray-faced man who looks unready to be awake.
She shakes her head. “Just water.”
When the bartender pours, little bits of sediment sift to the bottom of the glass. Myrrh shoves it gently away. “On second thought, have any ale?”
The bartender snorts and taps her a foaming mug.
“Like I said,” Jak says, “I apologize for our first introduction. Seems you brought in quite a haul.” He leans to glance out the open door.
“No more than I planned to take. Glint told you the arrangement?”
“I fence half the spices now, and he stores the rest to put on the market at a rate that won’t be suspicious. He didn’t suggest anything for the barge though.”
“No, that wasn’t strictly part of my mission. I just found it easier to take the whole thing than find a place to unload. I’ve planned a refitting. After that, I’m not sure. Have to talk to Glint. Or maybe I’ll ju
st keep it as my share of the haul.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“Well in that case, maybe I can look forward to fencing the fine goods you smuggle on it.”
“Perhaps.”
Les steps through the door and takes a seat beside her.
“Found a raft that can take you to the Spills.”
“What did the bargemen say about staying on?” she asks. She left him to negotiate with them, figuring the use of an intermediary would impress upon them her authority.
He smirks. “I think they’re far too scared of you to say no.”
“Good. Offer room and board in Carp’s Refuge while the barge is refitted, plus extra for any who wish to help with that work. I’ll take a small sample of our pickings and head into the city. Glint will send others to help with the unloading.”
“As you say…Mistress.”
Jak raises an eyebrow. “Mistress, huh? Never met a woman kingpin. What’s that make you, queenpin?”
“Just find us some buyers for that spice,” she says, downing half her mug in a few long pulls. “I’m going home to bed.”
***
Myrrh drops a coin into the raftman’s outstretched palm, hikes the satchel full of spices onto her shoulder, and steps onto the muddy streets of the Spills. The raftman’s pole makes a sucking sound as he plunges it into the muck to shove off again. Myrrh pulls her hood up over her hair and starts forward.
She’s thinking of Glint’s warning about the lower districts and what happened to Hawk. But by the time she crosses out of the forest of stilt houses in the Spills and into the crowded buildings of Rat Town, she realizes there was no need to worry. It’s still well before noon. Far too early for the lowlifes of Rat Town to be awake, much less on the hunt for a grubber who disappeared weeks ago.
As she winds through the familiar streets, her exhaustion and regret for what happened with the young man start to bleed into her memories of Hawk. She spies a tavern where they used to drink and listen to stories about heists gone wrong and near misses with the Shields. The porch out front is filthy with an overturned spittoon, dust, and spilled drinks. But it was home once, just like the rest of this sixing district. As she stares at the darkened doorway, her lip starts trembling. She wants so badly to go inside and smash things until someone gives her answers.
Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1) Page 10
