Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1)

by Carrie Summers

  “Wait, who’s Goosefoot?”

  The child rolls his eyes. “Ask V if you can’t figure it out.” He runs off.

  Porcelain Hand then. It’s probably the missing members of the inner circle reaching out. She doesn’t recognize the name from Glint’s list of thieves to recruit though. Goosefoot is deadweight. Either way, she’ll have to let the others know. It will be nice to do something better than dozing in the dining room of an empty mansion, waiting for evening to darken the streets.

  Myrrh closes the panel, then makes a patrol of the ground floor to make sure all the windows are latched. The Slivers syndicate already has what it came for, but if any nearby grubbers have caught wind of last night’s upheaval, they’ll be eager for easy pickings. Glint kept a key to the front door hanging from a post in the kitchen. She uses it to secure the bolt before pulling her cloak over her hair and trudging toward the other safe house.

  Most of the leaders are sleeping in rooms upstairs, resting up in preparation for whatever they’ve planned for tonight. She rouses Mink and lets the older woman rouse the others. A few minutes later, they’re gathered around the circular table in the downstairs room. Including, Myrrh is surprised to see, V.

  The bartender nods when Myrrh repeats the message.

  “One of ours.”

  “His position in your organization?” Resh asks.

  “Shake’s lackey. An incompetent thief, but good at following directions.”

  Myrrh watches the subtle shift of expressions on Glint’s people. They’d reached the same conclusion she did about Goosefoot. Given their situation, no one wanted to waste time on demands from an underling. But Myrrh remembers seeing Shake on the list of worthy recruits. Near the top.

  “I’ll go to Winks,” Mink says. “See what he has to say.”

  Resh nods. “I’ll join you. We’re in a difficult position. Need to consolidate here before we can hit Slivers, but since we don’t know why they grabbed Glint, we don’t know how urgent the situation is.”

  And Nab and Tep, Myrrh thinks. She says nothing.

  “What else?” Nyx asks. “As long as we’re awake”—he snarls at Myrrh—“might as well set a strategy for tonight.”

  “Would you rather she’d kept the message to herself?” Mink asks.

  “I’d rather Glint hadn’t brought on an amateur grubber just because he felt guilty for getting her daddy thief whacked.”

  Myrrh flares her nostrils but otherwise doesn’t react. It doesn’t matter what Nyx thinks. As far as she can tell, he’s cruel for the sake of it.

  Resh’s face is stony as he turns to the smaller man. He slowly scoots back his chair, stands, leans forward, and looms. “I’m not Glint. Not calling the shots here. But I am certain he would evict you from this organization for those words.” The bald man turns to Myrrh. “But our uncivilized friend does bring up a point. We assumed someone in Slivers was responsible for Hawk’s unfortunate end. And now they’ve taken Glint.”

  “And Nab,” she says softly.

  Resh’s face gentles. “And Nab. And the cook’s lad. Forgive me. With your experience in Rat Town, can you think of a reason? Something that might help us retaliate and recover our allies?”

  Myrrh isn’t sure what to say. After seeing that note from the Maire, she isn’t sure about anything. Except her need to find out what happened.

  “Not yet. But that is one advantage of being an amateur grubber.” She glares briefly at Nyx. “You don’t need my help consolidating in Lower Fringe. And with the big players moving, I doubt many people will pay attention to a small-time thief skulking through the Rat Town alleys. I’m leaving at dusk.”

  Resh nods. “A good plan.”

  “Before I go,” she says, “I’d like to talk to the chef myself. See if he remembers anything strange from the last few days.”

  Lavi tips her chair back. “I’ll say this for Glint—he inspires loyalty. Sixing cook has been working himself to death trying to get us to eat. Says keeping us fed and strong is the only thing he can do to help his young master.” She gestures with her chin toward the back wall of the room. “He’s in the kitchen down the hall.”

  “Thanks.” Myrrh slides back her chair and slips through the door.

  The chef stands over a pot of boiling water, cutting potatoes. Each chunk splashes as it tumbles into the water. He scarcely glances at her as she steps into the room. Exertion has reddened his face more than usual, and sweat dampens his hairline.

  “After a blow to the head like that, don’t you think you should be resting?” she asks.

  “Can’t. They have the young master.”

  “I never learned your name,” Myrrh says as she steps up beside him. She pulls a potato from a basket, plunges it into a bucket of lukewarm water to scrub off the dirt.

  “It’s Bernard, miss.”

  “Myrrh.”

  “I know. You told me before. And the young master couldn’t speak two sentences without mentioning you.”

  The words might have made her smile a day ago. Now she isn’t sure what to think.

  “You mentioned earlier that you’ve been with Glint for a long time.”

  “I shouldn’t have, miss. It wasn’t my story to tell.” He accepts a freshly scrubbed potato from her and begins to slice it to pieces.

  “Why not?” Steam from the pot flows out the cracked shutters on the window overhead. It makes her think of the window in Glint’s kitchen and the damage this man took for his “young master.” What did Glint do to inspire such loyalty? It doesn’t quite fit with her new picture of a man who kept secrets, lied to her about a relationship with the leader of the city. The same city leader who ordered Hawk’s capture—she assumes—and his execution. If being knifed in an alley, the Scythe’s usual method, could even be named an execution.

  “I’m sorry, miss. Myrrh. I’m not supposed to talk about it. Request of the young master himself.”

  She picks up another potato, brushes off dirt, and plucks out a sprouting eye before dunking it. Bernard grabs a dish from a shelf and pinches out a healthy measure of salt, sprinkling it into the pot. The water froths in response.

  “The things you know might help us rescue him. Do you think Glint would allow an exception in this case?”

  “I know nothing about this Slivers gang. My relationship with the young master is as a loyal chef.”

  “But you may know something about his relationship to the Maire.”

  Bernard’s hesitation might have been easy to miss if she weren’t looking for it. But she glimpses the paring knife held motionless against the rough skin of the potato, the flash of emotion across his face. He does know.

  Bernard rises on tiptoe and nudges the shutter closed. Cut off from its exit, the trail of steam billows and begins to collect near the ceiling.

  “I made the young master a promise,” Bernard says with iron in his voice. “He wanted a new start.”

  “Did he work for the Maire? Or maybe his mother did. Is that why merchant henchmen murdered her?”

  Bernard’s hand trembles as he accepts the next scrubbed potato. Myrrh hates to put him through this, but she needs these answers.

  “I can’t say. He’d never forgive me.”

  She turns and leans the small of her back against the high counter. There has to be a way to get information from the man without making him feel as if he’s betrayed Glint.

  “Did you know the Maire before?” she asks. “Could Glint really object to you talking about your own history?”

  Another chunk of potato splashes down, and droplets land on Bernard’s forearm. He winces and pulls his hand back. A few deep breaths expand his chest while he thinks.

  “Would knowing this really help recover the young master?” he asks. “On your honor, I need the truth.”

  Myrrh presses her lips together. “I can’t say for certain. That’s the truth. But we know so little right now. I really can’t understand why Slivers would
come after him. At this point, anything you can tell me has a chance of helping me find him and the boys.”

  Bernard sighs. “The Maire hired me as his personal chef when he was an upcoming merchant with a young wife…” He swallows, looking at his hands, the paring knife and half a potato cradled in his large palms. “And a little boy.”

  Myrrh doesn’t remember hearing the Maire had a son…wait.

  “Then Glint is his…?”

  Bernard snaps his attention to the pot, begins slicing the potato like his very life depends on it. “I said nothing of the sort,” he mutters.

  ***

  Glint is the Maire’s son. It knocks the breath from her every time she thinks the words. Myrrh paces back and forth across the second-floor storage room in Glint’s home, shoving knives and piano wire and caltrops into the same canvas rucksack Glint used to carry weapons to their practice a few days ago. She wants to scream, wants to grab Glint by the shoulders and demand answers.

  Why all the lies? What was his angle? Did Hawk die because of the man’s fraud? She stops pacing and rests a hand against her forehead. Her shock at finding a picture of a woman in Glint’s drawer seems so stupid now. A hidden girlfriend is the least of his deceptions.

  The only thing that makes her think that maybe—maybe—there’s a reasonable explanation for Glint’s lies is Bernard’s loyalty. The chef knows the truth of Glint’s upbringing and follows him anyway. But it’s not enough to convince her that he’s anything short of a lowlife con artist.

  Regardless of Glint’s betrayals, she needs to find him so she can free Nab. And Tep. He’s an obnoxious little flea, but as far as she knows, he’s innocent. After that, Slivers can do what they want with Glint. She’ll go back to the freedom of a grubber life. Never should have gotten tricked into believing she should be more anyway.

  Are you thinking about this rationally? the traitorous voice in the back of her mind whispers. Doesn’t he deserve a chance to explain? Maybe he had a good reason for hiding his past.

  Or maybe he knew she’d slit his throat the moment she found out he was the son of the man who killed Hawk.

  Myrrh grabs a throwing knife and hurls it at a wooden support post in the middle of the room. The blade clatters off the wood. She grits her teeth and clenches her fist.

  Save it. Save the rage. That’s what Hawk would say.

  With a deep breath, Myrrh packs her anger down tight. It’s a cold fire burning in her chest. She cinches the drawstring on the rucksack, drags it on, and drapes her cloak over it. Heads down the stairs and toward the door.

  Evening light already paints the street red as she steps outside. The hour will soon arrive when the city’s underworld will awake. And she will cut through it like a knife through the fog.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  RAT TOWN CLOSES around her like the embrace of a drunken friend who always seems a wrong word away from turning violent. Familiar in a way that makes her either want to cry in relief or empty her stomach. Streets of mud crisscross the district with no attempt at organization. Here and there, walkways of loose wood planks provide relief from the slimy muck. Hopelessly dilapidated, buildings lean against each other for support. Flames burn in dirty lanterns, the glass so begrimed that the light scarcely penetrates.

  Home.

  In all its filthy glory.

  She slips down alleys and through dirt yards with her cloak’s hood pulled forward to shadow her face. Her dagger’s hilt presses hard against her palm. Slivers has so many dens in this warren of ramshackle shops and run-down inns that it’s a roll of the dice to decide where to start. So she decides to go back to where this whole mess began. Rikson’s Roost is the tavern where she secured the contract to rob the barge at First Docks, the operation where Warrell betrayed her. And it’s the saloon where she heard the news of Hawk’s capture just a few hours later. The establishment is more popular with freelancers than syndicate members. Better chance of picking up rumors and grabbing a drink without being noticed.

  She hears the tavern from two blocks away. Voices shout over a piano that hasn’t been tuned in years. Someone starts to sing, but it’s cut short by the crash of breaking glass. Laughter follows.

  As she approaches the door, she pulls her cloak tighter and ducks her head. The rucksack under her cloak will help disguise her slight stature, and as long as she keeps to herself, it’s doubtful anyone will notice her. As she steps onto the long porch, a man sails out the open door, arms windmilling. He hits the street with a thump and slides through the muck. Moments later, he rolls to his feet and grins. Blood runs down his chin from the freshly knocked-out teeth.

  “Sore loser.” He cackles, then runs off, pockets clinking.

  With a disgusted shake of his head, the bouncer dusts off his hands and heads back inside. Another figure steps into the doorway and makes a rude gesture into the night air. Myrrh assumes he’s the gambler who just paid to have the other man thrown out.

  When the man retreats, Myrrh steps into the doorway. She takes a deep breath, then regrets it as her nose fills with the smell of stale beer and body odor. Amazing how quickly she forgot that part.

  She steps into the noise. At the far end of the bar, a couple of empty stools stand in relative darkness. She slips onto one, head down, hands loose on the bar top. A thousand scratches mar the wooden surface, memorializing years of knife fights and lonely patrons scratching out messages and doodles.

  “What do you want?” The bartender stands sideways to her, eyes on the rest of the room.

  “Ale, please.”

  He slaps his bar towel lightly on the counter by way of a response and stalks over to the tap. Shortly after, a foaming mug appears in front of her.

  “Two coppers,” the bartender says. He doesn’t take his hand away until she planks the coins onto the bar.

  Myrrh makes the mistake of looking up when she thinks he’s moved off, and their eyes meet. She sees the flicker of surprise when he recognizes her.

  With a subtle shake of her head, she pulls her dagger from its sheath and lays it on the bar top, fingers resting lightly on the hilt.

  “I’m just here for information.”

  The man actually stammers, and before he manages to sort out his words, she feels a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  Myrrh whirls, ducks away from the grip, and comes up with her blade at a muscular throat.

  Growling, she raises her eyes to the face. And stiffens.

  “Warrell.”

  The man’s eyes plead while he raises his hands.

  All the rage comes flooding back. The memories of his betrayal. The horror of hours spent as a helpless captive. “I’m surprised you have the guts to face me. Stupid, really.” She presses the blade harder against his windpipe.

  “W…wait. Myrrh.” He takes a deep breath, flinches at the bite of her steel against his skin. “I need to...I’m…thank the Nines, you’re here.” His eyes flick to the bartender. “I’ll have an ale as well. And another for Myrrh when she finishes the first.”

  Myrrh snarls. “There’s no need. Warrell won’t be drinking.”

  Warrell raises a hand toward her dagger, then seems to think better of it. Good. A few weeks ago, she might have hesitated to spill blood in the Roost. Not now.

  “I know you think I betrayed you—”

  “You sold me out for a lighter purse than I could make picking pockets in the night market.”

  “I can explain.”

  “Can you explain Hawk too? How much did you get for him?”

  He shakes his head, and her dagger draws a bead of blood. “I did sell you out. But I had a good reason. You couldn’t know, or the plan would have failed.”

  “I don’t need to listen to this. Should I kill you here or outside?”

  He blinks. “Glint had to trust you. It wouldn’t have worked if you’d known. You wouldn’t have been…convincing enough.”

  “What in the sixing pox are you talking about?
” The veins in her temples are throbbing. Hadn’t Glint said a similar thing? That Warrell had to believe that he’d thrown her to the hounds? Seems both these men were trying to use her to fool the other.

  Another mug clacks against the bar top. Myrrh grits her teeth.

  “Can we have that drink?” Warrell asks. “Once you hear what I have to say, I think you’ll have a different opinion of me.”

  “Nothing you can say will convince me that it’s okay that you abandoned me to a kingpin from Lower Fringe and betrayed Hawk to the Scythe.”

  He licks his lips. “There’s someone else you should talk to then.” He nods at the bartender who swallows and disappears into the back room.

  Myrrh is caught between her desire for revenge and her curiosity. The little voice that pleaded for her to listen to Glint is now asking her to let this play out.

  “Sit.” She keeps her blade at his neck while Warrell slides onto a stool and wraps a large hand around his mug. Myrrh stays on her feet.

  The moment drags on, her dagger against his throat, his eyes on the door where the bartender disappeared. If the other patrons are surprised to see her or concerned about her bared steel, none dare show it. Finally, another door opens, the exit into the set of rooms where Rikson’s family lives.

  “Myrrh!”

  The sound of Nab’s voice nearly makes her lose her grip on the dagger. She stares, mouth agape as he approaches. The boy’s first steps are those of a child reunited with a beloved sibling. But the same transformation that began in Glint’s home takes over, and he slows his walk to that of a surly teenager.

  It’s everything she can do not to laugh in relief at seeing him alive. She lowers her blade from Warrell’s throat.

  Nab steps close, eyes pleading. “They have Glint, Myrrh, and they’re saying all these lies about him. You have to help!”

  Myrrh swallows. She almost forgot how much Nab looked up to Glint and how much it will hurt him to learn the truth.

  Warrell clears his throat. “So, are you ready to at least hear me out?”

  ***

  Warrell nurses his ale before he speaks, downing it with slow sips and watching the lamplight flicker off the rows of dirty bottles behind the bar. It took some convincing on Myrrh’s part, but Nab is back in Rikson’s kitchen being watched over by the tavernkeep’s wife. She’ll talk to him later. Alone.