Empress of Rogues

by Carrie Summers

  “You didn’t have to kill him,” Nab says again.

  “Like I already told you, your misdirection was about to fail. The Shield would have turned on you.”

  “Right, and if that had happened, then you could have killed him.”

  Myrrh grinds her teeth. Down inside, she suspects that Nab feels responsible for the man’s death. She hasn’t forgotten his guilt when one of the loggers who had attacked the party near Pineshadow was killed while under Nab’s influence. The boy won’t say it—he won’t admit the effect that death has on him, maybe not even to himself. But it’s obvious to someone who has cared for the little flea for the last few years.

  Anyway, Nab’s at least partly right. If one Shield had escaped with false memories planted by the boy’s suggestion, his report might have bought Myrrh and her thieves time.

  But the man didn’t escape because she killed him. And by her guess, they have until midmorning to flee the area.

  She runs a hand over the glossy wood of the wardrobe a pair of her underlings filched from a household in Upper Fringe. Within the trim, geometric cutouts display inlaid mother-of-pearl and jade, and the handles are molded from solid gold. Such a shame to leave it behind, especially since it was a gift. But it won’t be the first time she’s abandoned most everything she owns.

  Myrrh yanks open the door and drags out the merchant’s gown she wore to Pineshadow.

  “Wait. What in the sixing depths are you doing?” Nab asks as she takes out her dagger and start slitting the fabric, cutting away the cuffs of the sleeves and the hem at the bottom of the skirt.

  “I’ll show you later,” she says as she stuffs the strips of fabric into her satchel. Pinching the velvet between her thumb and middle finger, she feels the hard lumps of the rubies she painstakingly sewed into the garment. Within hours, if she’s not Ostgard’s most-wanted fugitive, she’ll be near the top of the list. Hopefully, the gems will help her buy sanctuary.

  She jumps when the door to her room abruptly swings open.

  “Mistress Myrrh…” Nettle breaks off when she spies Nab. “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you while you had a guest.” She ducks her head and starts to retreat out the door, but Myrrh waves her back inside.

  “What is it?”

  Nettle glances again at the boy, which perplexes Myrrh.

  “It’s another report,” the young woman says after a moment.

  Now Myrrh understands. Nettle wishes to spare Nab from worrying about the morning’s events. She seems to understand Nab’s sensitivity more easily than Myrrh does. Or at the very least, she seems more willing to coddle him.

  Of course, Nettle hasn’t yet been forced to walk down the street squawking like a chicken due to Nab’s misdirection cantrip, nor has she wasted days chasing the kid halfway across the city because he won’t listen to adults’ warnings. Moreover, for as long as she’s known the child, Myrrh has tried to push him away from a criminal life. But he persists, so if he wants to be a full-fledged syndicate member someday, he’ll have to learn to handle the ugly side too.

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Nab will need to know what to watch out for once we’re on the move anyway.”

  Nettle’s brow furrows as she takes in the information. She probably thought Nab would be sent to safety somewhere while Myrrh and much of Ghost’s leadership go into hiding. But the truth is, Myrrh doubts anyone in Rat Town will be safe in the coming days. Better to keep the little miscreant in her sight, even if it means he’s traveling with a wanted criminal.

  “It’s the boundary with In Betweens, Mistress. Rikson told me to tell you that Haven has flipped again, and they’re not just offering support for a Shield advance into Rat Town. Many of their operatives are escorting the Shields across the border into our district.”

  “Sixes,” Myrrh curses. That’s the problem with most criminal organizations. Or rather, with all criminal organizations she’s had dealings with aside from Glint’s followers and Ghost Syndicate. Even if you can persuade the kingpin or lead council into an allegiance—which Myrrh recently accomplished with the Haven organization by saving the life of a leader’s daughter—memories of good deeds are short while vendettas never seem to die.

  “He said to tell you it was a coup inside Haven. Thought you might feel better knowing you weren’t betrayed by your new allies.”

  Myrrh shrugs. Maybe that cuts the sting a bit, seeing as she squandered her last dose of healing serum on the girl when she could have rushed to Glint’s bedside and bought him the health and reflexes he needed to escape Emmerst’s clutches.

  “How about the docks?” The previous message from Rikson, delivered just after the safe house brawl, claimed that the Shields had taken possession of First Docks while setting a barricade to prevent anyone from evacuating the district across nearby First Bridge.

  She imagines a map of Rat Town. With Shield forces establishing lines at First Docks and the border with In Betweens, that means the eastern and northern edges of the district are sealed. Myrrh wouldn’t be surprised to soon learn that more squads have crept into the Spills, wading through shin-deep muck to set a line on Rat Town’s southern border.

  Hemmed in on three sides, and the noose will soon tighten.

  That’s all right. For her plans anyway. There’s only one place Myrrh can go where she’ll be hidden enough to avoid capture but close enough to plan Glint’s rescue.

  Carp’s Refuge is a floating smugglers’ haven that moves about the shifting channels in the bog west of the city. Myrrh’s done business there. Not that often, because the smugglers’ organization and the city’s syndicates keep their businesses separate whenever possible. Different markets and different marks. It’s safer that way because, otherwise, scrutiny on one group could lead to arrests in the other.

  Nonetheless, she’s hoping to leverage her prior association—and the wealth she once brought the Refuge on the decks of a stolen barge—to gain sanctuary for a day or two.

  She swallows, trying to ignore the risks in this plan. Will they grant her safe harbor, a place to hide where the Shields can’t find her? Or will they turn her away for arriving unannounced? Perhaps it depends on whether she decides to admit her predicament.

  ***

  Poled by a sallow-faced man in a patchwork coat, the raft floats over reeds and muck and around dead trees swallowed long ago by the bog. Cloak clutched tight around her, Myrrh shivers despite the midday sun. The events of the last day and night are starting to sink in, chilling her flesh and weighing hard on her thoughts. She thinks of her last conversation with Glint. The Death Cloak plaguing Hawk’s friends was finally banished, and though the plague of oathbinding wasn’t yet cured, Myrrh and Nettle had stopped the spread. Glint felt certain he would be elected to the Maire’s seat, the very position Emmerst has now gained—at least provisionally—by arresting and accusing him. Despite his terrible injuries, Glint was optimistic and assured.

  He even declared his intent to give up the criminal life with a plan to hand over his syndicate to Myrrh. She remembers his intense stare when he mentioned that it wasn’t impossible for a Maire to have a scandalous relationship with an underworld queen.

  Now, assuming Emmerst has managed to keep him alive after reopening his wounds, Glint will soon be executed. And given her current situation, Myrrh wonders what kind of idiocy leads her to believe she might save him.

  The poleman keeps casting Myrrh skeptical glances, and it’s not hard to guess why. There’s a protocol for movements and transactions between Carp’s Refuge and Ostgard’s syndicates. Every ten days or so, a coded update reaches the major syndicates’ headquarters, informing the crime rings on the Refuge’s newest location. Similarly, enciphered messages leave the criminals’ hideouts and dens, containing formal requests for entrance into the Refuge or assistance with the movement of goods. The smugglers usually respond with a password to be offered upon entrance to the Refuge.

  A request Myrrh didn’t make, and a pass
word she doesn’t possess.

  Her imminent arrival breaks a long-standing agreement, and though thieves lack honor in many ways, the rejection of mutually accepted protocols is not the way rules are broken.

  But she won’t feel guilty under poleman’s scrutiny. If the leaders in the Refuge have a problem with her arrival, they can express their displeasure to her directly. She won’t bother herself with an underling’s opinion.

  The journey through the bog seems longer than she remembers, which might be due to the urgency of her circumstances, or it might be because the chaos in the city has overspilled its borders, forcing the smugglers to retreat farther into the swampy region. Regardless, it’s a struggle not to glance around the nearly empty raft and feel dismay over heading into exile with scarcely anything but the clothes on her backs. Both she and Nab are each traveling with a single satchel full of their most important possessions—arriving with luggage would be the opposite of inconspicuous.

  Between the two of them, they’ve stashed a trunk in a back room at the Queen’s Dice, but Sapphire, the proprietor, warned them that she won’t hesitate to dispose of the chest if she worries it will cast suspicion on the gambling hall.

  Myrrh can’t blame the woman. The news of the Shield advance has cast a grim mood over all of Rat Town. Even the law-abiding citizens of the district have enough experience with the city guard to know that innocence will be meaningless if the Shields have a mind to prove their ruthlessness to their new master.

  As Myrrh pulls her satchel close to her ribs, she wonders what Nab selected as his most treasured things. Dice, of course. But other than that, she wouldn’t be surprised to find that his small bag is stuffed to the brim with pastries. Little does he know, of course, that she managed to make space in her own satchel for a pair of his reading primers. A few days spent hiding out on a floating settlement with no escape but to swim through fetid water for an hour or more will present a perfect opportunity to catch up on his instruction.

  At the thought, a smile almost touches her lips. The anticipation of his torment is likely the only bright spot for the day.

  Besides Myrrh and Nab, the raft has no other passengers. Her former self, the freelance thief who, scant months ago, struggled each day to scrape together coin for a meal, would be aghast to learn she’d one day pay a full fare for just the two of them. In truth, she was reluctant to leave her friends behind in Rat Town. The safe house guards are especially vulnerable because they were part of the morning’s fight. Fortunately, the only person who survived from Emmerst’s side is Glint’s former butler. And Myrrh suspects it will take a lot to force him back into Rat Town to make identifications. Emmerst might threaten violence or imprisonment, but considering that the servant watched a squad of Shields die at the hands of Ghost Syndicate, jail will likely seem the better option.

  In any case, Myrrh’s plan to arrive at the Refuge unannounced is bad enough. Arriving with a boat full of syndicate thieves would almost certainly not go well.

  Ahead, a large group of dead trees stands wet-footed in the marsh. The trunks are silvered and their branches broken and sharp. Thick stands of reeds clog the water around their base. At the sight of the landmark, the raftman tenses, which Myrrh assumes means that they’re nearing Carp’s Refuge.

  She sighs. “I’ll see to it that you’ll take no blame for granting us passage,” she says. Perhaps it’s an empty assurance since she can’t predict how the leaders will react, but she will make it a point to defend the man.

  He doesn’t respond but rather shrugs faintly and plunges his long pole into the water once again.

  “Are we there?” Nab asks, sitting up.

  The clicks of crossbow mechanisms answer his words as, with scarcely a splash or rustle, half a dozen guards stand from within the blinds set up to either side of the channel. The raftman braces and jabs the pole into the bottom of the bog to stop the vessel. When the raft slides to a halt, he stands with jaw locked, eyes on the trees ahead.

  “We’ve had no advance word of travelers from the city,” one of the guards says. His eyes maintain what looks to be a perpetual squint, probably from keeping watch across the water. Unlike the raftman, his clothing is anything but ratty. The blind, a woven screen of reeds disguised with finer-stalked grasses, hides his legs, but he wears boiled-leather armor on his torso, and fine lambskin gloves protect his hands while leaving his fingers dexterous.

  “I apologize most sincerely for the breach of etiquette,” Myrrh says, inclining her head in greeting. She holds her hands away from her sides, not in surrender, but to show she has no intent of reaching for a weapon.

  “What business brings you here unannounced?”

  “A negotiation of critical importance. I have only until noon to deliver an offer to Jak.”

  She spots the flash of recognition when she says Jak’s name and knows that—so far—her gamble is working. As one of the city’s preeminent fences of illicit goods, Jak is one of the few people who keeps steady ties with both the smugglers and the syndicates. Ironically, Glint was becoming another such individual, his natural charisma negating the wariness of the Refuge’s denizens. Myrrh’s breath comes out in a little huff. Too bad Glint isn’t here to smooth over her unexpected arrival.

  The guard remains silent, pinning her with that squint-eyed stare.

  Myrrh keeps her thief’s mask firmly in place despite her nerves. “I have word he may be at the Frog’s Whistle.”

  The guard’s nod is nearly imperceptible and likely unconscious, confirming her hope that the fence is where she last met him, in the saloon and boardinghouse at the center of the settlement.

  “An urgent need is insufficient excuse to approach without permission,” the guard says.

  “And for that, I do apologize—”

  “You’ll have to speak with Lucky.”

  Myrrh nods, her face impassive even as eels swirl in her belly. Lucky is head of the smugglers’ ring and infamous for his intolerance when he feels he’s been wronged. He won’t appreciate her unannounced arrival.

  At the same time, the guard hasn’t outright turned the raft away, so perhaps she should take heart. Many of the smugglers in the settlement have had favorable dealings with Myrrh, and it seems likely that their leader is aware of her reputation.

  The guard nods toward a dock, which is cleverly hidden in the reeds between the dead trees. At its end, another pair of sentries has appeared as if by magic.

  “We’ll be happy to speak with Lucky,” Myrrh says. “Though I hope he’ll be considerate of the time-sensitive nature underlying my visit.”

  She turns her eyes from the guard as if unconcerned about the coming meeting.

  “Just you,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” She turns back to him.

  “We’ll go ahead and take the boy to a secure holding room.”

  Myrrh’s throat tightens. “I appreciate your concern for my young charge. But he’s something of an apprentice to me. I’ve recently been making him privy to all my negotiations and dealings.”

  The guard smirks as he opens a gate in his blind and executes a graceful jump onto their raft. He clamps a hand around Nab’s arm. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. It’s a long-standing policy here to separate a group of trespassers. Fortunately, as you just mentioned, the boy is already privy to your plans. It shouldn’t be a problem for us to crosscheck your stories, should it?”

  Chapter Three

  LUCKY’S DEN ROCKS every time someone steps on or off the walkway surrounding the shack. Swaying with the motion, Myrrh sits casually in the straight-backed chair provided, one foot stretched out in front, an elbow draped uncomfortably over the back. Her pose is deliberately casual, a statement of how little this meeting worries her.

  Across the darkened room, Lucky leans against the wall. He’s big without being bulky. Stern might be the best word to describe his demeanor. Or maybe strong.

  He stares at her and she back, a stalemate la
sting long enough for Myrrh’s armpit to start to hurt where the chair jabs it.

  Finally, the smuggler king sucks his teeth and speaks. “We haven’t meant.”

  “No.”

  “First woman in charge of Rat Town. I’m surprised you’ve lasted, considering…”

  If anything, she works her stare into a flatter expression. The flash of annoyance she feels at the veiled insult, whether to her gender or her competence, hides deep within the confines of her thief’s mask.

  After a moment, he nods. “And not easy to rile. That, in part, explains the not insignificant amount of loyalty you inspire in your syndicate. I get word of it often.”

  From insulting her to giving what sounds like a compliment. The man is poking and prodding, searching for a reaction. But she can’t be seen as weak to flattery any more than she can be baited with threats or insults. She shrugs a single shoulder. “My organization shares my values.”

  “And do those values include breaking a long-standing code and intruding uninvited? Each of the alarm tripwires and expensively purchased charms your passage tripped will have to be painstakingly replaced rather than simply relocated as would’ve happened were we given notice.”

  She allows herself the faintest wince to show that, in this, she understands she’s cost his organization time and resources. She thinks of the rubies tucked inside her satchel, but she doesn’t reach for them. Best to not squander her precious currency. And anyway, they’ve done her the small honor of not confiscating the satchel or her dagger before sending her in to meet their leader. Few organizations, whether rival or ally, would do the same. That bodes well, but she would destroy the trust by grabbing for her bag and—to Lucky’s eyes, no doubt—the weapon contained within.