“Ghost Syndicate will pay fair recompense for the inconvenience and resources,” she says. “You have my word.”
“But that’s not the real issue, is it? You may be green”—he raises an eyebrow, once again challenging her position—“but I assume you have long been aware of our arrangement.”
“I have, and I wouldn’t think of breaking it without pressing reason. My associate’s offer for Jak is both substantial and time-limited.”
“So I’ve been told. Yet the value of an arrangement between two people external to my organization is no excuse for my rules to be broken. And beyond that, I’m perplexed. Requests for the fencing of goods are rarely so urgent. Even contraband that will be dearly missed by a high-ranking merchant can usually be hidden for quite some time. In fact, that’s often a better choice, isn’t it? To allow interest in the items to fade before they are placed on the market?”
“But when one of the involved parties has an urgent need for funds, it may have nothing to do with the quality of the items and everything to do with the ability of a fence to move them quickly.”
“And who is this needful party?”
“I assured the client of my discretion. It would be terribly remiss of me to break that faith.”
“A very selective concept of honor,” he muses.
Myrrh clenches her jaw. He’s right about that, unfortunately. She shouldn’t have claimed a moral code as the reason for her secrecy. In fact, the longer she sits here, the worse she starts to feel about the plan. It was concocted in haste after a nearly sleepless night and rude awakening.
The level of interest in her whereabouts—and word of the bounty that will probably be offered on her head—are exactly the reason Carp’s Refuge keeps distance from the city’s crime rings. Myrrh figured she could slip into the Refuge largely unnoticed. She planned to quietly take a room in the Frog’s Whistle, where she and Nab could lay low for a few days while planning Glint’s rescue. Her presence shouldn’t have been a threat to the smugglers because scarcely anyone would have known she was here. The only way the Shields can find the outpost is if someone rats out the location. Which will only happen if there’s more money on offer than the usual smuggling rewards. Such as a sizeable bounty for a wanted woman.
Myrrh’s situation now is anything but discreet. The guards know she’s here, and a good twenty people saw her being escorted to Lucky’s office. By now the news of her arrival has probably reached most of the settlement. And once word arrives from Ostgard about her status, any lie she tells now will crumple. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if her story matches Nab’s. They’re sixed if they try to keep up the ruse.
Which leaves her in the position of either coming clean and throwing herself at Lucky’s mercy or figuring out how to retrieve Nab and escape. To where, she has no idea.
Anyway, neither option sounds likely to succeed. Shifting in her chair to take the pressure off her hip, she yawns like this is just another negotiation. Meanwhile, her thoughts race through contingencies—if race is even the appropriate word considering her lack of sleep. Perhaps better would be to say that her thoughts blunder from shapeless idea to shapeless idea.
“So where does this leave us, Mistress—”
Lucky’s words are cut off when the door swings open, admitting a glaring column of sunlight. A woman stalks through the door, all black leather and sleek raven-colored hair.
Lucky sighs audibly. “It seems today is the day for unmannered guests. Though this one, at least, is here at my request. Allow me to introduce Silver, visiting from Tangesh.”
Myrrh raises a genuinely curious eyebrow at this. Tangesh. Just the mention of the distant Port City raises a flood of emotions. She thinks of the aging, one-eyed rogue, Rattle, and the rivalry the man had with Glint when they were both upstart traders working the coast. Images crowd her mind, sights and scents of the exotic woods and oils that funnel through the ports, of the fine wines and intricate tapestries and pickled delicacies that come from the Port Cities and their vicinities. She thinks of the Death Cloak, the terrible and murderous agent of some vile god from the region, and from there remembers the slightly less fearsome yet still troubling organization known as the Nightblades. The conglomerate of coastal thieves’ and rogues’ guilds worship the trickster god Skorry for the cantrips he grants.
Cantrips like the misdirection charm Nab works with just a twist of his fingers.
The woman turns, exposing startling golden eyes and exotic features. “Pleased,” she says in a tone that suggests otherwise.
“And this is Myrrh,” Lucky continues, “leader of one of our city’s vaunted syndicates.”
Myrrh nods in greeting. At least the woman’s arrival has bought her some time to think.
“What brings you all the way here?” Myrrh asks, knowing that the question is more of a challenge than a pleasantry. Among rogues, such information is usually held close.
The woman’s face twists in a wry expression. “Bold, aren’t you? One of the reasons you’ve clawed your way to the top of your organization, I’m sure. Needless to say, my reasons are my own.”
Lucky chuckles as he detaches from the wall and stalks to a chair behind his simple desk. “Back to the subject of discretion, Silver’s is admirable. I can answer for her, seeing as it’s my coin that has purchased her visit. Given the situation in the city, we in Carp’s Refuge begin to feel insecure in our position. If Ostgard falls too deeply into chaos, the profit margins in smuggling goods around the city start to narrow. I am investigating alternative markets for our skills.”
He leans back in his chair, fists planted on the table and an intent to look on his face. Clearly he’s wondering how Myrrh will respond. Though it would seem that general lawlessness would benefit those engaged in questionable dealings, it sometimes doesn’t work that way. Chaos makes everyone a criminal, potentially increasing competition and undercutting the value of ill-gotten gains.
Myrrh thinks of her dagger, still sheathed at her belt, and stifles an urge to draw it to clean beneath her nails. Instead, she contents herself by examining them as if they were far more interesting than this conversation. “My organization has done well in recent times,” she says simply. “Though we have been busy with humanitarian efforts. We’ve never targeted the unfortunate, of course, but lately we’ve been busy assuring their safety. Fortunately, the heiresses and shipping moguls in some of the other districts have had no such protection.” She winks.
Lucky smirks. “I’ve heard you fancy yourself a citizen’s vigilante. Pleased to hear it hasn’t kept you from your profit-seeking ventures. Anyway…” He turns his attention to Silver, who has been watching the exchange with keen eyes. Just a glance tells Myrrh the woman has an agenda that extends far beyond offering advice to Lucky’s smugglers. The man’s eyes flick up and down the woman’s body, lingering on her hips and breasts. “Is there something you need?”
Myrrh suppresses a groan, understanding by his gaze why he was so tolerant of Silver interrupting his meeting. For her part, Silver seems to know quite well the effect she has on the smugglers’ leader. She almost purrs as she cocks her head and stalks closer to the desk. “To tell the truth, it was nothing but curiosity. I heard you were in conversation with the woman who has just become the most wanted criminal in the city. Accessory to, apparently, the murder of the former Maire. It surprised me to learn that you’d granted her sanctuary. Or maybe negotiations on that are the subject of this meeting.”
Sixes. Myrrh’s heart rattles her ribs as Lucky leans farther and farther forward. His knuckles go white as his fists clench.
“Oh,” Silver says. “I’m guessing by your reaction that you didn’t know?”
With barely contained fury vibrating through his body, Lucky stands. Myrrh shrinks against the back of her chair. He turns on her, suddenly looking much taller and wider. Yeah, it seems she should have come clean a little sooner.
She thinks better of sitting and jump
s to her feet.
“There are false accusations being—”
“Enough!” Lucky roars, cutting her off.
Sixes on top of sixes.
He’s nearly atop her, eyes bulging. Taking a deep breath, Myrrh swallows and raises a hand. She works fingers through the motions of the misdirection cantrip, praying to the Queen of Nines that it will actually work. She’s succeeded once before at it—once out of perhaps two-dozen attempts. When she finishes the motion, she takes another step back and tries to plant a suggestion in his mind.
“I didn’t come to ask for sanctuary; you know that. And isn’t every thief in Ostgard a target of the Shields? That’s hardly news. Anyway, it seems almost humorous that this woman would burst in here just to tell you I’m a criminal.”
Okay, so the cantrip doesn’t seem to be working. Lucky is still advancing, and while she was focused on twisting her fingers through the cantrip’s motion, brass knuckles have appeared on his massive fists.
“Well, I’m glad we’ve finally had a chance to meet, but I’d better be going,” Myrrh says as she dashes for the door.
Lucky gets there first, swinging the flimsy wood shut with a bang and resting his meaty palm against it to hold it closed. He growls as he turns on her.
Like liquid metal, Silver steps between them. The woman’s hands come up, and as she also makes a curious motion, Myrrh feels her thoughts deadening. She feels…lost, wandering in darkness. In fact, she fights the urge to search out a quiet corner to lie down. As she sways, a woman’s voice reaches for her from a distant place.
“Our meeting this morning was quick and final. You’ll pay me the remainder of my fee and forget your interest in the operations near Tangesh. The environs are murder for smugglers, the pickings slimmer than here. As for the recollection you might have of another woman, your dirty mind does tend to conjure interesting fantasies, but the meeting was just between you and me.”
The woman’s words, meant for someone else, shake Myrrh free of her daze. The motion was similar to the finger wiggle of Nab’s cantrip, but Silver has embellished the gesture, growing it to something much more powerful. Even when she watched from behind, the charm had nearly ensnared her. Backing away, Myrrh draws her dagger.
Silver glances her way as Lucky stumbles toward his desk. From a drawer on the far side, he pulls out a heavy sack that clinks as he drops it into Silver’s palm.
“I assume you’re not a fool even if you’re acting like one now, Myrrh,” Silver says. “You clearly have some dealings with Skorry. Enough to know the cantrip won’t last, especially if your presence here contradicts it. Out.”
Myrrh hesitates for only a moment, and then, with a nod, hurries through the door. Moments later, Silver follows on her heels.
“We have to go,” the woman says. “Now. I have a boat waiting on the southern edge of the Refuge.”
Myrrh shakes her head. “I can’t. Nab.”
“Nab what?” Silver is already trotting and looks back as she leaps to the next platform. She stretches out her arms in exasperation. “Are you coming?”
“He’s my…he’s my brother. They have him in holding.”
Silver groans. “Depths,” she mutters. “I need you to help row if we want to get clear before they send pursuit.”
“Then you’ll have to help me.”
With a sigh, the other woman nods.
Only to step back against the wall when Lucky comes barreling out of the shack, face purple. He crosses the watery gap between platforms in a massive jump that sets them rocking wildly. Silver curses and backpedals frantically as the big man aims a fist for her gut.
Chapter Four
SIXES.
All right, so Myrrh appreciates the woman’s help in getting clear of Lucky’s den. That doesn’t mean she wants to get involved. The kind of intervention Silver offered rarely comes without an ulterior motive—thieves just don’t stick their necks out for strangers. Right now, Lucky’s distracted with his attack on the woman. Myrrh can probably slip away and grab Nab.
Except she has no idea where he’s being held. It seems that Silver’s been in Carp’s Refuge for at least a few days, which means she’s probably Myrrh’s best bet for finding Nab.
Plus she did mention a boat.
Silver takes the punch to the gut as well as can be expected given that Lucky is twice her size. She manages to keep her feet and even staggers out of range of the follow-through, but the blow leaves her curled over her belly, scarcely able to put up a defense as Lucky raises his arm to backhand her. Myrrh grits her teeth, shakes her head, and with a shout, leaps the gap between floating platforms. Sprinting forward, she flips the dagger in her grip and brings the butt end down against the back of his head.
The angle is poor; the man is a good three heads taller than her, and the attack scarcely seems to register. Whirling, he throws an elbow, which she barely dodges. Myrrh stumbles, narrowly avoiding the watery chasm behind her. Lucky growls and steps closer.
Fortunately, Myrrh’s move bought Silver just enough time to put two paces of distance between her and the smuggler. Wincing in pain, the woman raises her hand and works it through another intricate motion.
Silver steps into the shadows and vanishes.
Myrrh blinks. All that remains of the woman is the sense that the shadows aren’t quite right. The angles don’t meet quite right, and the edges fuzz strangely. The effect is enough to make Myrrh feel queasy. The hairs on her neck stand on end as if there were a phantom nearby.
Phantom. Of course. A dose of the Haava substance will allow her to disappear just as effectively as Silver has.
Myrrh’s hand plunges into her satchel in search of the vial holding the clear crystals.
Except then she realizes: If doses are used too close together, Haava substances have terrible side effects. From what she remembers of Glint’s research into phantom, it could only be safely used once a month. Or was that week? A season?
Myrrh has no idea how many days it’s been since she slipped a crystal under her tongue and infiltrated the keep at Craghold. Surely not a month, but more than a fortnight.
She shakes her head—too risky. Instead she raises her dagger to guard her face but keeps the edge angled to appear less threatening.
“Ghost Syndicate has no quarrel with Carp’s Refuge. Look”—she gestures toward the decking behind the man—“you felt what the woman did, charming you with some trick and forcing your mind to places you wouldn’t otherwise go. And now she’s vanished. Rat Towners have been friends of the Refuge for years. Why would you believe her over me?”
“Do you think me a fool?” Lucky growls. “I’ll deliver you to the Shields myself.”
Okay, well, she thought it was a reasonable defense. The point of her dagger rotates toward the man.
“We don’t have to be—aah!” Myrrh’s words turn into a scream as, her reflexes dulled by lack of sleep, she takes one step too far and plunges off the back of the platform. The edge of the adjacent deck smacks her hard across the shoulder blades, and she feels ribs crack an instant before swampy water closes over her.
Body seizing at the sudden injury, Myrrh swims awkwardly for the surface. After a few long seconds, her head breaks free. She spits out a mouthful of rotting vegetation and murky water, then coughs, each breath stabbing her lungs.
Frantic, she searches for Lucky, expecting him to either jump after her or to hurl a throwing knife through her eye.
She must have gotten turned around because she can’t see him. Swimming hard to get under cover beneath the overhanging planks of the closest platform, she cranes her neck to locate the man.
Nothing.
“Myrrh. Here.” The disembodied voice floats down from a nearby mooring post where ropes bind a platform loosely to its neighbors. A coil of rope comes sailing through the air to splash down next to her, the far end fixed to the anchor. Myrrh thrashes through the water to grab the line and with a quick pull, yank
s herself toward the platform. Ribs screaming, she reaches up to grip the planks and attempts to drag herself out of the water. A shadowy hand, there yet not, grabs her firmly by the wrist. Silver tugs hard, helping Myrrh climb high enough to flop onto the wooden deck.
Breathing shallowly, she blinks water from her eyes and looks around.
Lucky lies slumped on the platform, his throat slit.
Oh, sixes.
“We need each other,” Silver says, her voice clear despite her insubstantial form. “How that works, I’m not sure. But I suggest we sort out our pecking order later. For now, you must listen to me. We’ll get your brother quickly, then flee into the bog.”
“I have to stay near the city,” Myrrh says.
The other woman gives a disgusted snort. “We may not have time to escape the Refuge as it is. And even if we manage it, we’ll have two hundred smugglers on our heels. From what I’ve recently learned, you are no safer in Ostgard. So if you want to live—if you want to keep your brother alive—I suggest you follow my lead.”
Chapter Five
MOVING UNNOTICED THROUGH a floating outpost filled with hardened smugglers would be difficult enough in the middle of the night. In broad daylight, it ranks among Myrrh’s stupidest escapades. Pain from her ribs stabs with every breath. Each of her steps causes the decking beneath her to rock or bounce or both. Wavelets slap the floats and logs on the platforms’ undersides, and where rafts and rowboats have tied up, the wood knocks together as the dock shifts. Worse, the midday heat has settled over Carp’s Refuge like a sodden blanket, bringing lazy silence to the walkways and outdoor decks. Even the frogs and buzzing dragonflies seem to have retreated to whatever shade they can find.
Smugglers sit in the doorways of knocked-together shanties, sharpening blades or absently rolling dice in their palms. Their eyes squint against the sun’s glare, alert despite the heat and the quiet. Maybe alert because of the quiet. Other residents, the honest crafters and boatmen who have taken up residence to ply their trades away from the tariffs and taxes of Ostgard’s leadership, sit beneath awnings and work on projects ranging from tin punching to bootblacking. Myrrh doesn’t know how far news of her wanted status has reached or how many in the Refuge know she’s here. But the outpost has never been kind to outsiders, and just moving through the back reaches of the settlement, away from the Frog’s Whistle and the main docks, will draw negative attention.
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