She holds her breath as she eyes a gap between decks. Too far to step, which means she’ll have to leap and set the platforms rocking. As she plants a foot in preparation, a shadow hand grabs her shoulder, startling her.
“No,” Silver whispers. “This way.”
Myrrh lets out a shaky breath. Bad enough to be creeping through a floating, heavily manned outpost in broad daylight. Possibly worse to be doing it with an invisible stranger.
Stepping back into the shadows, she places her back to the wall and starts edging in the direction Silver nudged her.
“There. See the bars?”
Myrrh peers. Right. On the wall of a nearby shack, a set of iron bars has been bolted to the wood over a pair of window shutters, sealing them shut. She raises her eyebrows. She knew they’d take Nab somewhere secure, but she didn’t expect the refuge to have a real jail.
“Ideas?” she whispers.
“A few.”
Myrrh clenches her fists. “It would be easier to follow your lead if I knew where you’re going.”
“We need to assess the security situation. I have poisoned darts. What can you contribute?”
“What can I contribute? Is this a business negotiation? I just want to free Nab while harming as few people as possible.”
Silver lets out another of her disgusted snorts, clearly audible over the light splashing of water beneath their deck. “I doubt they’ll say the same about you when they find Lucky’s body.”
Myrrh rolls her eyes. Easy for the woman to be careless when she’s all but invisible.
“It wasn’t my choice to kill Lucky,” she hisses. “That’s on you. Anyway, can you keep the noise down?” Yes, the corpse stuffed beneath one of the platforms will be discovered soon enough—if nothing else, because of the smell. But discussing the man’s murder in something that barely qualifies as a whisper won’t make the discovery any slower.
The other woman is silent for a moment, which makes Myrrh think that maybe she got through.
She almost lets out a yelp of surprise when Silver speaks at full volume.
“It’s strange,” the woman says. “You know something of Skorry’s boons, but clearly not all. No one but you can hear me.”
Myrrh jams her back against rough planks, frantically trying to blend with the ramshackle siding. Her gaze arrows to a nearby platform where a man, back turned to them, is scaling fish on a small stool. But despite the deafening ruckus from Silver, the man doesn’t even look up from his task.
Ever so slowly, Myrrh peels her back off the wall. She peers at the disconcerting shadows where Silver has concealed herself. Or the shadows that the woman has become. Whichever.
All right, so maybe the Port City thief has a few tricks.
“To satisfy your obvious curiosity,” the woman says, still using a conversational tone, “I was only whispering before to help you remember to be quiet.”
Myrrh’s eyes narrow, but Nab’s rescue is more important than her pride. She shoves her annoyance to the back of her mind.
With a nod, she continues forward. When she draws even with the fisherman, his knife still scraping slivery scales from the flesh, she holds her breath and slinks to the side, around a building that puts her out of his sight. A shiver travels the length of her spine, the sense that surely he must have noticed, but no shout comes.
The jail lies straight ahead. Creeping along the outer wall of the building, Myrrh clutches her dagger in a too-tight grip. Every tiptoed step makes her wince as her ribs twinge. With the sun almost directly overhead, shade is scant. Glancing back at Silver makes her head spin when she tries to focus on the uncanny patch of mismatched darkness.
Myrrh peers around the front of the building, then quickly pulls her head back before the guards spot her. She holds up a hand, extending two fingers.
“Two we can handle without raising an alarm,” Silver says, still speaking at full volume into Myrrh’s ears. Or maybe she’s speaking directly into Myrrh’s mind. It’s hard to tell. “Provided you can incapacitate one. Or better, kill him.”
Myrrh grimaces, unsure whether she can manage either with her injury. But considering the alternative—fleeing and leaving Nab in the clutches of a group who will surely conclude she killed their leader—she has to try.
Myrrh nods, pointing at the corner in front of her to indicate she’ll try for the nearest guard. As a shadow, Silver should have no trouble circling around the back of the building and taking out the man posted at the far corner.
“I’ll distract them to give you the chance to strike,” Silver says. “Wait until you hear me grab their attention.”
Which she plans to do how? It would be nice to know what the woman intends so that Myrrh knows what to listen for. Unfortunately, she’s too close to the nearest guard to ask for more information, even in a whisper. She turns around, intent on signaling the woman to pause, but the disquieting collection of shadows has already retreated to the far end of the platform.
Myrrh jerks in surprise when, without warning, Silver retakes her corporeal form. Shoulders straight, long hair tossed over her shoulders to fall most of the way down her back, she smirks at Myrrh and disappears from view.
Sixing woman. There are reasons Myrrh spent most of her thief’s career working as a freelance grubber. A solo operator. It kept her from having to work with people like Silver.
Ribs aching, the pain flaring with each shallow breath, Myrrh counts backward from one hundred to remain patient. She’s reached sixty-two when she hears voices from the front wall of the jail. Silver’s low laugh drifts over the outpost, and one of the guards responds in an amused tone, then chuckles. Myrrh fishes in her satchel for one of the strips of fabric she cut from her dress. Ideally, she would have removed the rubies in case she fumbles, but there’s no time to regret that choice. The velvet gripped tight, she steps around the corner and quickly assesses the situation.
She has to give Silver credit for flawlessly executing her part in the plan. So far at least. The woman stands with a hip cocked, a sly smile on her face. She stares up at the guard nearest her, golden eyes peering through dark lashes. The man says something inane about the bog channels, and she laughs and touches his shoulder. Myrrh catches the woman’s eye and nods to indicate her readiness. With a face like Silver’s, a few smoldering glances might be enough to completely distract her mark from Myrrh’s attempt to incapacitate his partner, but Myrrh’s betting the woman has something more than flirtation up her sleeve.
With a barely imperceptible nod, Silver raises a hand and makes a gesture similar to the misdirection cantrip, but slightly altered. Almost casually, the woman then points to the dead trees visible on the eastern edge of the outpost. “Interesting, isn’t it? There must have been an island here at one point.”
Both men’s heads whip in the direction indicated, their bodies stiff as if the grove of silvery trunks were the most captivating sight ever.
Myrrh surges forward and wraps the strip of velvet around her target’s throat. He’s a small man, which is fortunate because even with Silver’s magic-aided distraction, he fights the sudden strangulation. She grits her teeth and hangs on to the fabric as he tries to wedge fingers underneath it. Twisting the ends of the strip around each other to tighten the noose, Myrrh sees black at the edges of her vision as agony radiates from her injured ribs.
Finally, the guard sways, then drops to his knees. She keeps the fabric tight while he slumps against the wall, then painstakingly drags him out of view.
Myrrh knots the velvet to keep him from regaining consciousness, but she must work quickly so that the lack of blood to his brain doesn’t kill him. She spots a kerchief tucked into his leather tunic, yanks it free, and jams it between his teeth. Cinching the gag as tight as her strength allows, she ties it behind his head.
Myrrh pauses, takes a breath, looks around. Thank the Nines, she hasn’t been spotted. So far so good.
A coil of loose rope rests bes
ide one of the platform’s anchor posts, and she quickly uses it to bind his wrists and ankles. Finally, she removes the velvet strap from his neck. Relief washes through her when he starts to stir.
With the butt of her dagger, she delivers a sharp blow to his temple, then checks his pulse. Alive.
Her head spins as she stands, but Myrrh slaps a hand against the wall of the jail to steady herself, then steps back into Silver’s view. The remaining guard seems befuddled now, his words coming more slowly as Silver continues with an empty discussion of the flow of water through the swampy region. Myrrh almost snorts at how comically easy it is for an attractive woman to keep a man’s interest, regardless of how boring the conversation topics are.
Her eyes go to the door of the small room.
A heavy padlock secures the handle.
Sixes. As Myrrh starts backing away, intent on searching the other guard’s pockets for a key, Silver shakes her head. Myrrh pauses, eyes wide and questioning. They don’t have long. At any moment, someone could come strolling into view, and the whole operation will be blown.
“It makes me wonder why the Ostgard’s council hasn’t approved a system of levees,” Silver says. “I’ve heard that the streets in the Spills district are flooded more often than not.” As the woman speaks, she raises her hand and works her fingers through another contortion.
Myrrh gasps audibly as the bar slides free of the padlock. She realizes her mistake as the guard starts to turn, but Silver touches him on the arm again and works the distraction cantrip.
“Look how frayed that rope is,” Silver says as she points, voice suggesting that a ratty mooring line is the most interesting thing in the world.
The man stares and gives a low whistle. “Now that’s something, isn’t it?”
Myrrh rolls her eyes as she steps forward. Fortunately, Rattle didn’t teach Nab that particular cantrip. The last thing she needs is another means for the boy to make her look like an idiot. Creeping on tiptoes, she nears the door and pulls the padlock free. Setting it gently on the deck of the platform, she then swings the hasp aside and cracks the door open. Peering through the gap, she spots Nab huddled in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest. He looks up and blinks.
Quickly, Myrrh opens the door farther, then puts her face where he can see it. She raises a finger to her lips to shush him, then motions him forward.
Nab jumps to his feet and scurries across the room, surprisingly silent for someone moving so quickly. Myrrh steps back as he slips into the sunlight.
The boy flings his arms wide as if he’s going to embrace her, but then he notices Silver and drops his hands to the side. He rolls a shoulder and leans against the wall, a ridiculous attempt to look nonchalant.
Myrrh contains a sigh.
“So if I were to want to bring goods around Ostgard, my best bet would be to send a message to Lucky, is that right?” Silver asks, running a hand over her curves as if assuring herself her clothing is still in place. Or maybe to suggest that it doesn’t need to stay that way.
The guard straightens up, his chest puffing at the opportunity to offer more expertise.
“Most of our clients do approach Lucky directly, but if you’d rather work through me, I can make sure our leader understands the importance of your request.”
As Silver nods, eyes wide in apparent appreciation, she waves Myrrh and Nab away. Myrrh orients, putting the stand of trees to her left to plot a route to the outpost’s southern edge and Silver’s boat. Touching Nab on the shoulder, she creeps toward the edge of the platform. At the gap, she helps him across so that he doesn’t need to jump and set the platform rocking. Her heart finally starts to slow as she makes the long step and hurries for the next corner where she can get a building between her and the guard.
Just before she rounds the corner, she hears a strangled yelp followed by a wet gasp. She whirls to see Silver release the guard’s hair as she shoves the man, his throat gaping and bloody, down to the deck. Lip curled, the woman rolls him to the edge of the platform and, bracing for his weight, lowers him into the water. The corpse bobs lightly in the swamp, blood spreading.
What in the sixing fates…? Hadn’t they agreed to avoid more killing? All the woman needed to do to escape was use another of her cantrips. Myrrh stands paralyzed and revolted as Silver crouches and cleans the blade of her small knife on a coil of rope.
When she stands, she casts Myrrh an infuriating smile as if daring her to challenge the decision.
Myrrh’s tempted to stop right there and raise the alarm, accusing Silver of the murders. But what good will that do? All the woman needs to do to plead innocence is use her misdirection cantrip to convince the smugglers that Myrrh, who is already wanted by Ostgard’s authorities and who exposed all Carp’s Refuge by arriving unannounced, is the real culprit.
The other alternative is for Myrrh and Nab to try to make their own escape. But how? To where? Myrrh is injured, and Nab is a twelve-year-old runt. Hardly the team she’d pick to elude an outpost of furious smugglers.
Stomach sick with the need to keep working together, Myrrh satisfies herself with a glare, then guides Nab around the corner. Escape comes first. She can deal with Silver later.
Chapter Six
THE ROWBOAT SURGES forward every time Silver tugs at the oars. Reeds rasp against the boat’s hull as it skims through the shallows. Deep in exhaustion’s grip, Myrrh sways with the motion. With each blink, her eyelids slide shut. Leaden, they resist her efforts to reopen them. Tucked against her in the stern of the boat, Nab has fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his mouth open. If not for the circumstances, Myrrh would be tempted to find something to drop in it as revenge for his many tricks. Instead, she wants to nestle close and join him in slumber, a situation he would surely find humiliating if he woke and found himself snuggled up.
Especially with Silver’s golden eyes as witness.
Her head rocking with the boat’s motion, Myrrh examines the woman. Silver’s gaze roves over the surrounding bog, in constant motion as she searches for threats. Since climbing into the small vessel, the only words the woman has spoken were to claim the first shift at the oars. Myrrh felt no shame in accepting that, particularly with her broken ribs. In truth, she’s not even sure she can row. But Silver doesn’t need to know that just yet. Right now, all that matters is allowing the woman to put distance between their boat and the outpost before the bodies are discovered.
The bodies. The more Myrrh thinks about it, the more furious she becomes. Even if she can clear up her situation in Ostgard by rescuing Glint and turning the tables on Emmerst, she now has to find a way to prove her innocence to Carp’s Refuge. She might not have been on close terms with the smugglers, but they’ve worked together many times. The last thing she needs is another rival organization aiming for Ghost Syndicate’s downfall.
Both of the dead men could have been tied up, gagged, and hidden rather than murdered. Forgetting the morality of it, that would have been a better plan for avoiding pursuit. The dead guard, in particular, will have been discovered floating in the middle of the outpost by now, and the discovery of his body has surely sent people to search for Lucky.
So what would cause Silver to choose to leave such obvious tracks over a discreet escape? Does she have some vendetta against Lucky? Is she just bloodthirsty?
Myrrh sighs. She’s injured and exhausted, and after seeing what that woman can do with her cantrips, Myrrh has no illusions she can beat the woman in an open fight. Extracting herself from the situation is going to take cleverness—something she currently lacks.
She shakes her head gently. Over the last day and night, her situation seems to get worse with every decision she makes.
“You could thank me,” Silver says as she pulls the oars with another strong stroke.
Myrrh feels her lip twitch in disgust despite the thief’s mask she settles into place. “Perhaps I would if I knew your motive. I find it hard to believe you
intervened with Lucky solely for my benefit.”
The woman’s eyes narrow. “That’s a rather uncharitable conclusion.”
“I’m no stranger to the habits of thieves and cutthroats. I consider it a practical conclusion.”
Silver pulls again on the oars. The motion presses Myrrh’s weight forward, then back against the hull of the rowboat. Her rib cage seems to groan and creak with the stress.
“Then let’s consider your conclusion further,” Silver says. “What other reason might I have to burst into one of Lucky’s private meetings? Within minutes, one of his underlings would surely have done the same, bringing the man word of your fugitive status and leaving you to contend with two enemies at once. If I had no desire to help you, I would have let that play out before pursuing my own agenda.”
All Myrrh really wants to do is close her eyes and finally get some sleep. Trying to decipher this woman’s point is more than her exhausted mind can process. She shrugs. “I’ve had a rather difficult day. Perhaps we could resume this game later.”
“When it’s your turn to row, you mean?” Silver asks. “With what looks to be at least three broken ribs? I’m sure you’ll be more inclined to conversation then.”
So the woman knows about Myrrh’s injuries. Sixes. She sighs. “It’s probably true that you helped me and my brother—”
Silver snorts and rolls her eyes. “Why don’t we drop that pretense as well. I know he’s not your brother.”
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