Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1)

by Carrie Summers

  But for how long? Without Glint, she has no way to get Hawk free. The Maire would sooner have her executed for knocking at his door than listen to her pleas. But Glint is a prisoner to one of the most ruthless gangs in the city. They tolerated her request to see him because she’s been a trustworthy presence in Rat Town for years. Working the contracts Slivers won’t bother with. Never treading on their business. Their charity will end the moment she works against their interests.

  She needs to get him free despite the danger. Not because she cares what happens to him—she still hasn’t made up her mind on that. Because he’s the key to saving Hawk.

  Unfortunately, she’s not in much of a position to bargain. Even scrounging what she can from Glint’s mansion, she’ll never put together a ransom package worth considering. Glint’s leadership is eager for a strike against Slivers, but they really don’t have the resources. Not with Glint missing, the supply cache looted, and the situation with Porcelain Hand still unstable. Besides, after seeing where Glint’s being held—deep within one of Slivers fortified dens—Myrrh’s pretty sure he’d be dead by the time a rescue mission reached him. There’s no chance of coming in quiet, and the Slivers guards will just kill him at the first sign of an attack.

  Which means she needs a real plan. The kind of plot that Slivers won’t expect. One of Hawk’s lessons was that grubbers can’t rely on the muscle of a syndicate to back them up. In other words, she’ll gain nothing by brute force. She’s got to use her head.

  Myrrh retreats into the darkness of the squat. Leans against the wall. Closes her eyes and thinks.

  ***

  Noble, the head honcho for the Slivers syndicate, stares at her from within a massive leather-upholstered armchair. He’s balding, and the fringe of hair that encircles his head hangs well below his earlobes. Patchy scruff decorates his chin, and when he curls his lip in a snarl, yellowed teeth peek into view.

  He doesn’t invite her to sit, though three more chairs circle the animal-skin rug in the center of the room. She stops a pace short of treading on the dead thing’s fur and runs eyes over the walls of Noble’s den. The decor is nothing like the tasteful furnishings Glint was adding to his merchant’s mansion—briefly, she wonders why his sense of taste didn’t give her a clue that he wasn’t being honest. Was she too lost in grief over Hawk? Too charmed by Glint’s easy confidence? Either way, there’s no question this room is home to a king among scoundrels. Gold and silver and mismatched art festoon the walls. And the whole place smells like liquor.

  “You going to talk, or are you just wasting my time?” Noble holds a tumbler full of cloudy brown alcohol in yellowed fingers thick with calluses.

  “I’ve come to beg for Hawk’s life,” she says, chin raised.

  “Sixing waste of time. I knew it.” He sighs heavily. “Little rat’s gone mad over losing her daddy. Hawk’s dead, girl.”

  She shakes her head. “The Scythe took him. Enough people saw it; there’s no question. But after that, everyone just assumed she killed him like she has every other thief she’s captured. She didn’t. He’s alive.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because Glint convinced his father to spare Hawk’s life. And the minute you execute him, Hawk dies.”

  Noble takes a sip from his drink, then rests the tumbler over his crotch. “Glint told you this? Surely there’s no ulterior motive there…”

  “I have proof.” She starts to pull out the crumpled letter.

  “Frankly, I don’t care if you do.”

  She blinks. “But…Hawk’s life depends on it.”

  “It’s a sad tale. Tragic. Another lowlife grubber ground down beneath the heel of the Maire’s regime.” He raises his glass in a mock toast to a lost friend.

  Keep it together, Myrrh.

  “You know the Maire won’t ransom Glint.”

  “I don’t know that for sure.” He shifts his bulk in his seat. “And to be frank, I’m sort of hoping he doesn’t. It will give me the excuse to do exactly as I please with the fruit of the Maire’s sixing loins. Humiliation. Execution. How many people like me get this kind of chance?”

  Her nostrils flare. “In that case, as I said, I came to bargain. Perhaps I can offer you something more enticing than the chance to beat a man to death.”

  “Actually, you said you came to beg.”

  “Allow me to correct myself then. I’d like to make a deal.”

  The man’s cheek twitches. “Could it be you’ve taken a fancy to the highborn lad?” He hawks and spits the goblin mucus onto his rug. “No deal.”

  “This isn’t about Glint. Hawk did good work for the people of Rat Town. You know that.”

  “And I’m sorry he suffered the fate most of your ilk will eventually face. A hard life and an anonymous death—or, if you prefer to cling to your delusions, a last few years spent rotting in a dank prison cell.”

  “You aren’t sorry, or you’d listen to my offer.”

  He laughs without mirth. “You got me. What’s the life of a poor grubber compared to my chance to hit the Maire where it hurts?”

  Myrrh focuses on Hawk’s lessons. Her emotions remain locked deep down under her heart and lungs where this worthless piece of trash can’t see them. She’s all business when she fixes him with a hard stare.

  “I can give you and your best men a full night’s looting access to the Maire’s palace. You won’t run into any trouble. Take whatever you want.”

  He taps his fat finger on his glass. “I’m listening.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THREE NIGHTS LATER, Myrrh and a collection of thieves huddle near the exit for the storm drain that tunnels beneath Maire’s Quarter. As the barge they crossed to reach the drain moves out of the passage beneath the bridge, Mink flashes the vessel’s spotter with a quick blink of gratitude from their hooded lantern. The spotter raises his lamp in acknowledgment as the barge moves on up the river, burly men working their poles in the same cadence they’ve kept since the vessel came into view.

  They’re committed now.

  Myrrh peers over the dark water and makes eye contact with Resh. The big man stands against the previous pillar, having accompanied them this far to impress upon the Slivers gang members the new ownership of this particular thieves’ path. The man meets her stare and gives a solemn nod. As soon as he returns to Lower Fringe, he and the remnants of Porcelain Hand will begin their part of the plot.

  Myrrh feels a moment of doubt, wondering if she can count on the members of the rival syndicate, especially so soon after Glint moved against them. But given the rewards they’ve been offered, she suspects they’ll attack the task with enthusiasm.

  She turns back toward the group crowding the end of the tunnel. All told, there are seven members of Slivers, hand chosen by Noble for this chance at the best pickings in town. Glint and Mink stand apart from the Rat Town thieves, clear in their distrust of the Rat Towners. At Myrrh’s nod, Mink passes packets of glimmer to the Slivers thieves, part of the bargain Myrrh negotiated. She then steps back to the tunnel exit to stash the lantern for later.

  When the eyes of the Slivers thugs gleam silver in the darkness, Myrrh leads the band forward. They stop at the exit for the storm drain, ears cocked for noise in the alley above. This time of night, merchants and their consorts are returning from dinner parties and cocktails, and false laughter bubbles over the street. But the sounds are distant. The alley seems deserted.

  Myrrh nods and opens her canvas sack. Unlike Glint, who could make his way across the barges in formal dining attire, she wasn’t about to try to balance on a plank bridge above sewage and then leap from ship to ship in a ridiculous dress. Not when she hopes to arrive wearing something other than awful-smelling tatters. She pulls out the gray-velvet gown that Lavi purchased all those days ago.

  The others wait expectantly. Myrrh rolls her eyes and raises an eyebrow at the men until they turn their backs. She slips out of her leathers and sl
ides the gown over her head.

  “Okay,” she says. As they turn around, she puts her back in front of Glint. He fastens the buttons with none of the teasing fingers and loaded words from before. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t know what to think of him, and he seems smart enough not to try flirting.

  Once the dress is secured, she pulls out her jade necklace, clasps it around her neck.

  Glint looks away, an unreadable expression on his face. Or maybe not so unreadable. She has no doubt he regrets what he did.

  “Which one of you comes with us?” she asks Noble. The ugly man leans against the wall, looking surly, as he nudges one of his thieves in the back of the knee. The spindly man steps forward, smoothing hair that may have been brushed tonight for the first time in years. He almost looks respectable.

  Almost.

  With the Queen of Nine’s blessing, the shock of their arrival will distract from his appearance. Having a Slivers member along throughout the night was part of Noble’s requirements for the deal. If he was going to release Glint, he needed to be sure it wasn’t just an elaborate escape plot. The thief will pose as an added security guard, but he’ll carry a set of poison darts somewhere on his body. Myrrh doesn’t doubt he’d use them if Glint tried to run.

  “We’ll notify you when it’s time,” she says.

  Noble curls his lip. “Fine.”

  Mink slips into the alley first, scanning the surroundings before motioning Glint and Myrrh up from the dark. The Slivers man follows, eyes wide at the experience of stepping onto a Maire’s Quarter street. After Myrrh crouches to lower the grate into place, Glint leads the group onto a wider street and toward the palace.

  “He won’t budge on the agreement,” he says, stepping close to Myrrh. “Not to mention, I assume you understand the dangers of bringing thugs into the Quarter.”

  She’s kept him ignorant of the plan on purpose. Better that he doesn’t know some of her contingencies. But clearly, he’s not used to having someone else in charge. “And those are?”

  “There’s a reason it’s easy to walk openly here. Would-be thieves must use caution if we don’t wish to lose the privilege in the future.”

  “No one will know they’ve been here.”

  He sticks his hands in his pockets, reminding her of their leisurely night strolls. “I don’t think they’re here to sightsee.”

  “No, they’re not. But do you remember that trust we built? The trust you betrayed, I should add?”

  His jaw clenches. Myrrh looks away to keep from getting distracted. Even beneath the swelling on his face, the fading bruises and cuts that mar his cheekbones, his features are striking.

  “Fair enough. As long as you’ve considered that I might have useful input as far as your plan goes.”

  “I have. Listen, Glint, I respect your opinion. I’m even on my way to forgiving you. But it’s just better this way. The more you question things, the harder it is for me to focus.”

  “I’ll just have to trust you then.” He turns down another street, winding his way through the district with easy familiarity. And why not? His father might not have been the Maire when Glint still lived with him, but if the family didn’t have a house in Maire’s Quarter, they surely had plenty of invitations to dinners and such.

  After another few blocks of walking, Glint’s pace slows. He stops near a semicircular staircase of white stone and nods, face a mix of disdain and uncertainty. Clearly, they’ve arrived.

  Atop the stairs, double doors stand closed. Carved of dark wood and inset with some sort of green stone, they are as formidable as the army of Shields that guards the district.

  Myrrh swallows and ascends the marble stairs. She knocks before she loses her nerve.

  An annoyed expression twists the servant’s face when he opens the door. “Yes?”

  “We’ve come to see the Maire.”

  Annoyance fades to disdain as the servant looks them up and down. He curls his lip in disgust at the sight of Glint’s injured face. “Audiences are by appointment only. Good night.”

  He tries to shut the door, but Myrrh shoves a tightly laced boot into the gap. Even with the protection of the leather, she grunts in pain as the heavy corner smashes her foot.

  “Actually, you’ll want to go check with him. Tell him his son and fiancée have come to call.”

  The servant blinks. Glint coughs in surprise but quickly covers it. He steps forward and suddenly transforms from a regretful thief to the commanding son of the most powerful man in the city.

  “Go ask,” he says. “We’ll wait.”

  The servant thins his lips and glances down at Myrrh’s foot. She withdraws it from the gap, and the door clicks shut. Footsteps retreat into the house.

  Shortly, the door swings open again.

  “The Maire will see you as soon as he has changed out of his nightclothes. Might I offer you a late dinner?”

  “Please,” Myrrh says as she sweeps into the foyer.

  ***

  The wine has been poured and the table set for three by the time the Maire stalks into the room. Myrrh sees where Glint inherited his looks. The man is handsome, nearly to a fault. His dark hair sets off his keen eyes and straight nose, his pair of lips that curve just right. But where Glint wears those same features with confidence, his father has twisted them into a cruel arrogance.

  Under Glint’s gaze, Myrrh often felt as if she were being judged. Held up to a standard in Glint’s mind.

  His father immediately discards her as trash.

  “Let me guess,” the Maire says as he circles the table like a predator. “You found a nice girl. Managed to impress her with the modest results of your trading business in the Port Cities. Or did you woo her with your criminal takings?”

  Glint takes a deep breath and raises his wine glass for a swallow.

  “Or, wait”—the man rounds the table until he stands behind Glint, facing her—“you did tell her you’re an unrepentant rogue now, didn’t you? What do you think of that, Miss…” He scans her up and down as if wondering where his son found such a gutter scamp.

  “Miss Aventile,” she says with a clipped voice. “And we met under circumstances that have nothing to do with my fiancé’s business dealings—”

  The Maire laughs. “Lies. I know exactly how women think. And they always have their eyes on the treasure they’ll gain by opening their legs.”

  Glint sets his glass down so hard wine splashes over the rim. At the far end of the room, a pair of the Scythe’s underlings stiffens as their hands twitch toward their weapons. In the antechamber beyond, Mink rises from a richly upholstered sofa and nears the doorway in three liquid strides.

  Myrrh glances the other direction, toward the wall behind the head of the table. The Scythe is a statue in her red leathers, moving nothing but her eyes as she follows her master’s movements. Myrrh has no doubt she calculated Glint’s intent the moment he slammed his glass down, deciding it was an expression of anger, not a threat to the Maire.

  “Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve learned the shallow truth behind a woman’s interest…what do you go by now? Glint?”

  “Your son,” Myrrh says, stressing the word, “does not need to fear such motives with me.”

  “Unlike his mother?” the Maire says, eyes cruel as he watches Glint’s shoulders hunch.

  Despite Glint’s betrayal, Myrrh feels nothing for him right now but pity. How must it have been to grow up with this sixing pig for a father?

  Glint inhales, releasing the stem of his glass and turning a hateful glare to his father. “Nothing you’ve ever done—no wealth, no Maire’s title—nothing has made you worthy of Mother’s affection. If her father hadn’t forced her into the marriage, she never would have chosen someone like you.”

  The Maire stalks to a side door and kicks it. “Where is our dinner service?” he shouts before returning to sit at the head of the table.

  Silence gathers for
a moment until a servant sticks her head out the door. “First course in less than five minutes, Maire.”

  The Maire’s napkin snaps in the air as he shakes out the folds and lays it in his lap. “Of course, the worst part of my marriage is that I ended up with you. Isn’t that ironic? What happened to your face, by the way? Lose another fight?”

  During the exchange, Myrrh’s gaze flicks to the Scythe. The woman’s face remains still, untouched by emotion. Except for the little twitch of anger in her lower eyelid. And something deep in her eyes.

  “As I was saying, I met Glint under surprising circumstances,” Myrrh says as if the other conversation isn’t happening. “I was looking for my father.”

  “And you came to my no-good son looking for help?” The Maire laughs. “What terrible luck for you.”

  This time, the Scythe blinks when the Maire explicitly acknowledges his relationship to Glint.

  “Not exactly. My da went missing, you see. After paying a visit to Rat Town, of all places. We’re traders from upriver trying to expand into Ostgard, and I hate to say, but my father had a bad habit of looking for deals where other people of breeding are afraid to tread.”

  “Now I get it,” the Maire says, sneering at Glint. “You swindled this girl’s father. He got wise to it and took out his lost earnings on your face.” His brows draw together. “No. That’s not right. Surely the girl didn’t fall for you with your face in that condition, especially if her father’s responsible. Maybe she knocked you around when she learned you were my son. Realized what a fortune she was missing out on, so whacked you in the face until you agreed to come beg for your inheritance.”

  “His name is Hawk,” Myrrh says. “My father.”

  The smile drops from the Maire’s face.

  Before the conversation can continue, a trio of servants emerges from the kitchen. Balanced on their hands, three bowls of soup steam. They smell delicious. Briny in a way Myrrh doesn’t recognize. Nonetheless, she ignores the offering and keeps her gaze on the Maire. And the Scythe behind him.