Empress of Rogues

by Carrie Summers

  Myrrh presses her lips together and continues. “You helped us escape the outpost. But I didn’t ask for your aid, and I’m not sure I’m in a better position now than I was before. The responsibility for the men’s murders will surely be laid at my feet. Frankly, I’m inclined to think I should have taken my chances by throwing myself at Lucky’s mercy.”

  “That’s interesting,” Silver says, “seeing as he’s been laying plans with a certain faction of Ostgard’s city council to rat out each of the syndicates with which he’s done business.”

  Myrrh blinks in surprise but the struggles to reopen her eyes. She takes a deep breath and wipes the sleep from them. “And I’m supposed to accept that based solely on your word?”

  Silver shrugs and ducks a low-hanging willow branch that she somehow sensed despite facing opposite the direction of the boat’s travel. Myrrh leans to the side to avoid being clobbered by the branch and finds the gunwale of the little vessel rather comfortable. She drops an elbow onto it, wincing at the stretch in her ribs, and pillows her head on her arm.

  “I have no more reason to believe that story than I have to accept that you helped me out of the goodness of your heart,” she says around a yawn.

  Silver smirks. “I said your conclusion about my actions was uncharitable. I didn’t say it was inaccurate. As for proof of Lucky’s intents, I have nothing concrete to show you. Consider this though: I suspect you’ve heard about conditions in the Port Cities, perhaps from thieves who have been forced to flee. A few years ago, the city’s new rulers imposed harsh order. The punishment for all crime is death—except when it’s sanctioned by those same leaders. By hiring their enforcers from amongst the former syndicates—assassins and extortionists and all manner of unsavories—the regimes in Ishvar and Tangesh turned the underworld against itself.”

  The woman falls silent for a moment, pulling on the oars, then continues, “I convinced Lucky through some of my…tricks that he contacted me for information about moving his operation to Tangesh. Truly, it’s the direct opposite. Some of my allies wish to move their smuggling operations to Ostgard, but we find we aren’t alone in that interest. Emmerst and his allies on the council wish to move the Port Cities—or at least, the spirit of them—to Ostgard. They’ll start by purging any syndicates or freelancers who refuse to operate by the new regime’s rules.”

  Myrrh’s focus drifted while woman talked, but the words sink in anyway, and after a moment, memories of a conversation with Glint surface. He spoke of similar things, of foreign interests from the ports moving into Ostgard with a plan to change everything. In fact, he claimed that Emmerst was the faction’s ringleader. According to Glint’s information, the changes in Ishvar and Tangesh have squeezed out all criminal operations with a moral code, leaving only the crime rings that have no care for sparing the innocent. The situation in Ostgard might be tough, with whole districts full of lowborn families barely scraping by, but at least the city’s honest thieves have wealthy targets they can harass without putting the burden on the poor. According to Glint, the commoners in the Port Cities are scarcely more than slaves, living in constant fear of the thugs who have been given free authority by the ruling regime.

  So some of the woman’s story makes sense. But something in Myrrh’s gut tells her that it just doesn’t add up. Unfortunately, she can’t figure out what strikes her as off about it. Not right now.

  Another surge of the boat sets her mind adrift, the puzzle of Silver’s motives scattering like mist. Instead, she hears Glint’s voice from the edge of a dream, a faintly mocking tone challenging her to some contest or another. She smirks back while he hands her a glass of wine, and they sink into armchairs before his fireplace in the sitting room of his Lower Fringe residence. She glances toward him, sees his flashing dark eyes and the faint curl of his lips. His beard is a day-old shadow. With a long leg outstretched and an arm draped over the chair, he somehow manages to appear casual while still dominating the room. He sips his wine. She smiles, just for a moment, as sleep takes her.

  Chapter Seven

  MYRRH JERKS AWAKE when the boat knocks against something. She sits bolt upright and grabs for Nab when he flails from sleep, setting the boat rocking wildly.

  Silver shushes them with a hiss and—rather than a finger pressed to her lips like an ordinary person—by drawing her fingers across her throat. What is it with this woman and severed windpipes?

  The boat floats in a sparse grove of skeletal trees, near enough to one that Myrrh could reach out and touch the smooth trunk. Working the oars in the oarlocks, Silver dips the paddles into the water and nudges the boat back up against the tree. The hull vibrates with the soft collision. That must have been what woke Myrrh and Nab.

  Why have they stopped? Swiveling, Myrrh looks for sign of pursuit, but another sharp hiss from Silver cuts her search short.

  The woman grabs a pile of rope, one end of which is tied to a bolt on the vessel’s bow. She reaches it around the far side of the trunk and nods at Myrrh. Her ribs protesting, Myrrh grabs it and pulls to hold the vessel tight to the tree.

  The faint sound of splashing penetrates the grove.

  Nab’s eyes widen as he spins, climbing to his knees to look behind him. Silver casts Myrrh a glare that suggests if she doesn’t control the boy, the woman will do to them what she did to Lucky and the guard. Myrrh glares back but lays a hand on Nab’s shoulder to warn him.

  “They’re in the trees,” a man calls. “Saw them go in.”

  Myrrh sees them now, four boats gliding toward the grove. Each holds two smugglers, one at the oars, while the other either carries a readied crossbow or casually dangles a grappling hook from his fist.

  So…what exactly was Silver’s plan? Their pursuers clearly know where they’ve tried to hide. Given that the trees are the only cover—as far as she can see—for a good fifteen minutes’ row in any direction, they must look like toddlers trying to hide behind an object far too small to offer concealment.

  Myrrh casts the woman a confused glance and shrugs.

  Silver rolls her eyes.

  She grabs for the end of the rope Myrrh’s holding, then hitches it through another bolt on the vessel’s rail to hold the boat fast. Their pursuers are near enough now that Myrrh can hear the oars creaking in the oarlocks. She grits her teeth to keep from looking, knowing that the motion will only make them easier to spot.

  For all the good that will do, seeing as the smugglers know they rowed into the small group of trees and didn’t come out.

  Myrrh reaches for her dagger as the nose of the first boat pushes through the reeds and into the dead grove. Early evening sun shines red on the water, throwing scarlet glints over the scene.

  She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and draws her weapon. Eight smugglers against a boy, a woman with broken ribs, and a Port City thief who seems to have a loose grip on reality. She squeezes Nab’s shoulder. “Just stay low,” she breathes.

  “There,” one of the smugglers says, pointing at their boat with an oar.

  Myrrh takes a breath and hunkers down to provide a smaller target. Her eyes flick to Silver—just in time to see the woman make a quick motion with her fingers and disappear into shadow.

  Sixing. Worthless. Conniver.

  The boat rocks slightly, and leather scrapes against wood as the now-insubstantial woman climbs from the boat and into the tree, abandoning them. Too late, Myrrh jumps for her, intent on snatching a limb and pulling her back into the rowboat to share her and Nab’s fate. Myrrh’s hand slaps smooth wood.

  Clicks fill the grove as the smugglers ready crossbows. In the glare of the sun, the men and women in the boat are shadowy silhouettes, but the tips of the crossbow bolts glint in the light.

  It’s useless. In her current condition, Myrrh doubts she could beat a smuggler one on one. With eight men and women against her and Nab, there’s no chance. Raising her hands in surrender, she drops her dagger. The weapon clatters into the bottom of t
he boat.

  A weapon fires with a twang, and a bolt hisses past Myrrh’s ear.

  “Don’t hurt the boy,” she says, words stumbling over one another. “His only crime is having me as a protector.”

  “Crime enough, as far as I’m concerned,” one of the smugglers growls.

  “Fool!” another snaps.

  Myrrh’s throat clamps down. She fixes her face in a pleading expression. They have to see that it’s not right, killing a boy before he learns to shave. She ducks her head and—keeping her hands visible—awkwardly passes the strap of her satchel over it before shrugging the bag off her shoulder.

  “There’s a small vial inside,” she says to Nab, too quiet for the smugglers to make out. “The crystals are called phantom. If they kill me, slip one—just one—under your tongue.”

  It’s a thin hope—the smugglers already know Nab is here—but he’s small enough that he might be able to climb high into the trees, out of reach and undetectable due to the phantom’s effects.

  “Are you so frightened of a single woman and child that you’d forfeit the bounty?” someone says.

  Myrrh blinks as, with a snarl, one of the smugglers smacks another on the back of the head. The target of the attack holds a fresh crossbow bolt in his mouth, and he’s partway through arming the weapon.

  “Hey!” he says, voice muffled from speaking around the bolt.

  “The Shields want her alive so they can make an example. Double the bounty that way.”

  “But they didn’t say nothing about the boy,” another of the men says, taking aim at Nab.

  Desperate, Myrrh throws herself across the child, prompting an insulted squawk.

  A bolt whizzes over her head.

  “The phantom,” she hisses. “Take it.”

  “Can’t…move…” Nab manages.

  A sudden splash brings Myrrh’s head up, her elbow still planted against Nab’s shoulder blade to keep the little flea from sitting up.

  Across the grove, shadows flow over the rail of one of the boats. With a strangled yelp, the man who just shot at Nab claws at his own neck. His voice turns to a gargle as a red smile opens across his throat. Blood sprays across his companion as he topples backward, hitting the water with a loud slap. Silver’s shadowy form springs into the air to take hold of a dead tree limb, and the boat overbalances, dumping the other smuggler headfirst into the swamp.

  The other smugglers’ eyes are white around the edges as, panicked, they start rowing from the grove. Myrrh winces as Silver’s shadow flows from tree to tree, branches vibrating as they take the woman’s weight. The darkness pools above the slowest of the boats, then drops into the stern, sending the front of the boat heaving out of the water. The woman at the oars tumbles toward the man hunkering in the back.

  Shadows move, a tendril snatching the crossbow that falls from the man’s grasp. Once in Silver’s grip, the weapon joins the darkness, nearly vanishing. Only the gleaming tip of the bolt shows as, with a click, it hurtles free of its housing. The smuggler’s eyes widen, and her mouth makes a surprised circle as the bolt skewers her through the heart.

  The man flails his fists at the air around him but connects with nothing. As he clamors over his fallen partner, grabbing for the oars, Silver leaps from the boat and once again gains the trees.

  She is smoke. Liquid death. A monster.

  Two of the boats are clear of the trees now. The blob of shadow perches over the last, the man at the oars whimpering as he yanks at them. The boat jerks side to side as paddles skim off the water rather than biting as they should.

  “Stop!” Myrrh shouts, unsure whether she’s speaking to Silver or the terrified smuggler in an attempt to still his panic and help him escape before the rogue strikes.

  Either way, her call seems to penetrate his terror, and a moment later, he’s pulling at the oars with proper coordination. The front end of the boat bursts from the glade, red light shining on the weathered wood. As the man passes into the sunset’s glow, Myrrh breathes a sigh of relief. Silver is going to let him go.

  But then, with a whistle, a throwing knife arrows from the patch of darkness where Silver hides. It slides into the smuggler’s eye socket with a slick crunch. He slumps sideways, his weight on the oar pressing it into the water and sending the boat into a slow spin.

  Horror fills Myrrh’s throat, drowning her words. Other than pursuing the woman they believed responsible for their leader’s death, the smugglers have done no wrong. Well, except maybe the man who shot at Nab. Myrrh feels no remorse that he now floats face down.

  The others though.

  As Silver’s shadow returns to the boat, the darkness sliding over tree branches and down the final trunk to step lightly into their small vessel, Myrrh plants her feet and stands.

  When Silver rematerializes, she smirks and raises an eyebrow as if—yet again—daring Myrrh to protest her actions. Myrrh narrows her eyes. This has gone on too long, all because Myrrh felt at too great a disadvantage. But sleep has brought insights. Or at the very least, it’s put some steel in her spine.

  “Enough,” she says.

  The woman sneers and draws breath to speak, but Myrrh cuts her off.

  “No. You don’t get to speak until I’m finished explaining how things are going to work between us.”

  Chapter Eight

  NAB GIVES A little squeak and scoots away from Myrrh’s feet as if to suggest he wants no part in her lunacy. And maybe that’s a good call, considering that the woman just killed four smugglers without getting winded

  No, wait. Three smugglers. With a tremendous effort, Myrrh keeps her gaze from flicking to the boat still floating between the trees. One of its occupants had his throat slit, but the other only toppled overboard. It might be stupid to hope that Silver has forgotten the man, but maybe in the chaos it slipped her mind.

  “When we met, I called you bold,” Silver says. “But perhaps you’re just stupid. You realize you have no chance against me. I could kill you both and leave your bodies for the crows. Given that you can’t row, that’s probably my best choice.”

  “But you won’t do that,” Myrrh says. “Not after you’ve gone through all this effort to help us escape the outpost.”

  “Effort I am now coming to regret.”

  “Are you? Because you still haven’t explained why you chose to intervene with Lucky. I give you credit for deflecting the conversation and taking advantage of my weariness. But I’m awake now.”

  “You did yourself better service when you weren’t.”

  Myrrh smirks. “I suppose we’ll have to disagree on that point.”

  In the bottom of the boat, Nab flicks his gaze back and forth between the women. His hand creeps toward Myrrh’s satchel, probably in search of the phantom. She sighs as she crouches, ribs aching, and retrieves the small bag. Nab mutters something in protest that sounds suspiciously like, “Miser’s balls.”

  She rolls her eyes. By now, she would hope he had a little more faith.

  As she lifts the satchel’s strap over her head so that it hangs across her body, she hears a faint slap of wavelets against the abandoned boat’s hull.

  Myrrh speaks loudly to try to cover the sound. “Here’s what I think. I think you entered Lucky’s office with the intent of provoking him against me. You wanted me in a position where I needed to flee, and you wanted to be there to help.”

  Silver snorts. “You have a rather high opinion of yourself.” Her eyes flick to the other boat where hands have appeared on the far rail. With a sigh, she pulls out another throwing knife.

  “No.” Myrrh knocks the woman’s hand, and the knife tumbles into the bottom of the boat.

  The glare Silver turns on her is full of poison. But somewhere deep in that golden gaze, Myrrh thinks she spies something else. Fear, perhaps.

  “How dare you?”

  “I dare because you are a viper with no conscience. And I won’t have more deaths on my head.”

>   “I suspected you might be an idealist,” Silver says as she reaches for the fallen knife. When Myrrh stomps down on the woman’s hand, Silver strikes her in the rib cage with four fingers stacked into a spear.

  The breath leaves Myrrh’s lungs, and sparks appear at the edge of her vision. Panting, she forces her knees to unlock so that she doesn’t pass out.

  Silver comes up with the blade, and now the glinting edge faces Myrrh’s throat. An image of Glint’s face flashes through Myrrh’s thoughts. If she dies here at Silver’s savage hand, Myrrh has no doubt Glint’s rescue plot will be sixed. He’ll die to Emmerst’s executioner in nine days. And then, as Maire of the city, Emmerst will do to Ostgard what others have done to the Port Cities.

  Glint isn’t the only person depending on her rescue. If she doesn’t unseat Emmerst, every honest thief and spy in the city will lose their livelihoods. Many of them will lose their lives in the coming purge.

  But Myrrh won’t stand by while the woman slays another defenseless smuggler. Rather than backing off, she snatches Silver’s wrist, digging fingernails between the tendons and loosening the woman’s grip on the blade.

  Silver’s eyes widen. Her lips pull back, showing a flash of teeth.

  “Here are some facts,” Myrrh growls. “You burst into Lucky’s office with news that I was wanted in the city. At the time, I found it surprising that you—a stranger in Carp’s Refuge—received this information before any of Lucky’s underlings. But alone that’s nothing more than an irregularity. It’s what came after. First, you claimed you needed me to row the boat, but that’s clearly not the case since you’ve realized I cracked some ribs. All we are now is dead weight.”

  “Hey!” Nab protests. “I can row.”

  Both women look at him with raised eyebrows. Skinny arms lost in the sleeves of his tunic, Nab nonetheless puffs out his chest. Myrrh rolls her eyes. “And that’s another thing. You know he’s not my brother. Probably knew all along, which suggests you know more about me than you’ve let on.”