Empress of Rogues

by Carrie Summers

  “Fine,” she says, nodding at the Mouth. “Nab knows the paths in Rat Town as well as he knows how to flatter the owners of every bakery in the district.”

  With a nod, the creature turns to Nab. “Lead.”

  Moments later, they’ve vanished into the darkness.

  ***

  At first, creeping through the shadows on Second Bridge, Myrrh hopes she’s wrong. She wants the vision before her to be her imagination. Between the highest towers of Second Bridge, ornate limestone pillars streaked with black from the rain and soot and covered with age-weathered carvings depicting gods that have long since passed from knowledge, a heavy cage is suspended by chains with links as thick as Myrrh’s wrist. The bars are a hand’s width apart, too close for even Nab to slip through, yet far enough that it must be impossible to get comfortable. The bottom of the cage is high enough above the bridge that a wagon could pass beneath, low enough that someone standing below could easily jab the occupant with a fire poker or the tip of a sword.

  A pair of iron lances lean against one of the pillars, likely placed there for ease of public torment.

  As she draws nearer, Myrrh’s jaw clenches. She feels sick, nausea swelling, as she accepts that Glint is indeed imprisoned above. He lies on his side, hip and elbow pressing through the bars of the cage. He’s wearing the same simple nightshirt and trousers she last saw him in, but they are now filthy and bloodstained. As she watches, he shifts, muttering something unintelligible. A shudder wracks his body, and he cries out.

  Myrrh starts forward, but Silver snaps a hand out and points to the pair of guards hiding in niches in the pillars. They stand with arms hugged close, but with their hands hovering near the cudgels at their sides.

  Silver makes a gesture that Myrrh recognizes as a cantrip. “He’s delirious,” the woman says at full volume. She must be using her shadow-speaking ability.

  “He’ll die up there long before his execution,” Myrrh breathes.

  “I heard last night that Emmerst employs someone with a particular power of healing, a shamanic type from the Outer Isles. According to the gossip in the taverns, the man arrives at dawn and dusk and works just enough of a spell to keep Glint alive. Wretched, but alive.”

  Wretched indeed. Myrrh can’t bear to look anymore, and she turns away. Maybe the delirium is a mercy. “So how do we free him?”

  Silver takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. The cage is secured with padlocks, which I could likely open. But they’ve also poured molten iron over the hinges. We’d have more luck with a hacksaw than a cantrip, I think. But you’ve seen him. We should go.”

  Myrrh nods, pressing her lips together when her lower one starts to tremble. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  SILVER IS TALKING, but Myrrh can’t focus on the words. She sits on a three-legged stool, her boots planted in a finger’s depth of Ost-smelling water. Glint’s curled form, tucked into the corner of the iron cage, hangs in her mind. And crowding close behind that image, she sees Hawk and possibly the rest of Ghost’s leadership herded into a pen in Smeltertown. Penned like cattle, exposed to the rain and the cold.

  Wait…

  Abruptly she straightens, the idea and the resolve to execute it arriving in a flash. “We’ll free him tonight.” Specifics of the plan start to fall into place in her mind.

  With a condescending sneer, Silver leaves off whatever she was saying to Nab and the Mouth and turns to Myrrh. “Such enthusiasm for the cause. You did see where he was being held, didn’t you? I’d hoped that by showing you, I could impress upon you the difficulty of our task.”

  She turns back to Nab and the Mouth, who is now shifting back and forth like a trapped snake. Or perhaps like a hunting snake, reptilian eyes locked on Nab. “Have you assessed him yet?”

  “Wait, what?” Myrrh says, dragging her thoughts from her plotting. “Assessed him for what?”

  Silver rolls her eyes. “Whoever taught the boy the cantrip put him in danger. Skorry’s gifts should not be bestowed without his blessing. The child needs a proper initiation if he is to keep using the tricks. Especially if he wishes to advance to the next level.”

  “You’ll teach me more?” Nab asks, his teeth flashing in a grin, bright in the dank room.

  “Initiation?” Myrrh says as she raises a hand to caution him. His smile turns to an instant glare.

  “He’ll need to accept the Nightblade creed and learn Skorry’s wishes, among other things.”

  “No. Nab is Ghost Syndicate.”

  Silver arches an eyebrow. “Is he? From what I’ve heard, you discourage him from thievery.”

  “He is,” Myrrh says. “And as soon as we’ve freed Glint, you will leave Rat Town. I’d suggest you leave Ostgard entirely, but whether another syndicate tolerates you in their district isn’t really my concern.”

  “With this one, I believe there’s no chance,” the Mouth says, gesturing toward Myrrh.

  Silver sucks her teeth. “I believe you are right. I witnessed her attempt to bring forth a gift, and it was fumbling at best.”

  “You don’t really think I would want to join your organization, do you?” Myrrh asks.

  “You see, that’s where you must have received false information. The Nightblades aren’t a syndicate or organization—not in the manner of Ghost or Haven. As it happens, I run my own operation entirely separate from the Blades, a small affiliation of expert thieves and smugglers. The common bond among Nightblades is nothing but our promise to Skorry. We are united in serving his desires in exchange for the considerable advantages offered by his gifts. And yes, since you were at least attempting the cantrip, I thought it best that the Mouth evaluate you as well. You don’t, however, seem to be a good fit.”

  Nab snorts. “Yeah, she’s way too bossy. You should steer clear.”

  “No one asked you, Nab,” Myrrh says.

  “In contrast, the boy is strikingly well-suited,” the Mouth says. “I believe he could attain the third or fourth cantrip within a tenday of initiation.”

  “No way!” Nab hops a little and pumps his fist. “How do I do this initiation then?”

  “Wait, Nab, I have to think about this. We need more information.”

  He turns to face her, splashing fetid water a hand’s width up his pants’ cuffs, and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s not your decision. I never asked you to be my mom.”

  No, but he still makes a nest in her room when he’s scared, and there’s no one else to look out for him. No matter how high an opinion he has of his abilities, Nab is still the scrawny rat that Myrrh and Hawk rescued from a starving pickpocket’s life. Only now he’s a little bit taller.

  “I understand your hesitation,” Silver says. “You want to protect him.”

  Nab stomps a foot. “And like I just said, I don’t need her protection.”

  Silver’s glance somehow manages to quiet his protesting before she turns her attention back to Myrrh. “The truth is, Skorry can be jealous. Ill fates usually befall someone who uses his gifts without expressing the proper gratitude. I’m curious…what happened to the person who taught the boy the trick he now uses so freely.”

  Myrrh thinks of Rattle and the crossbow bolt that skewered him through the throat. Hiding her thoughts behind her thief’s mask, she shrugs a shoulder. “Moved on, I guess.”

  Silver narrows her eyes. “Interesting. Regardless, I imagine you recognize the difficulty in getting Nab to stop using the cantrip. At this point, the best way to protect him is to allow the Mouth to bring him into Skorry’s fold. As you must recognize, the cantrips are powerful. What better defense for a boy than the ability to distract and control those who might harm him?”

  “Yeah. What she said,” Nab adds.

  Myrrh sighs. She wants to tell him that a choice like this is serious. But scolding has never worked with him. What chance is there it’s going to start now? Nab is staring at the Mouth with something akin to awe. And
…pride? Clenching her fists, Myrrh nods her head slowly. Maybe it’s time to start treating Nab like he imagines himself. It doesn’t mean she has to stop caring for him, or that the worry for his safety is ever going to go away. But if she’s going to lose him to the thief’s life either way, best to keep him as close as she can.

  “It’s. Not. Your. Choice. Myrrh,” Nab says, but when Silver lays a gentling hand on his shoulder and squeezes, he clamps his mouth shut and settles for fixing Myrrh with a steady glower.

  “You’re right,” she says, the words grating in her mind. “I would never want to prevent you from learning something you’re so good at. But for today, right now, I need you. As far as I know, you’re the only member of Ghost Syndicate I can rely on—I can’t execute the operations today without you. We have syndicate work to do.”

  Silver blinks, off-balanced by Myrrh’s words. “Work? I thought for sure you’d focus your efforts on rescuing Glint, seeing as it was your decision to kidnap the Maire that gave Emmerst his opening.”

  Myrrh turns a flat stare on her. “I’ll speak to my associate alone, and then I’ll let you know how you can help with the plan.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “NO UNNECESSARY KILLING,” Myrrh says as she and Silver step off First Bridge and into the crowded area of warehouses between the River Ost and Smeltertown. She wears a hooded wool cloak over her thief’s leathers, her hair braided and pinned on top of her head, her face smudged with charcoal dust to disguise her features. Silver walks a pace ahead, an imperious sneer on her face. Cart drivers and dockworkers wither under the woman’s glare, unconsciously stepping aside to clear a path. Silver keeps her hands free, ready to use a distraction cantrip at the first suspicious glance. All the same, Myrrh feels the Shield presence all around. She keeps her face downturned to avoid notice.

  “I’m sure we disagree on the definition of necessity,” the woman calls over her shoulder, loud enough to be heard over the squawking of birds that squabble over scraps from alleyway trash heaps.

  “Then you’ll have to work harder to see things from my perspective,” Myrrh says. “I will do this without you, and somehow I get the feeling that you don’t want all of Glint’s gratitude directed at me alone. He already holds me in rather high regard.”

  Silver’s shoulders tense as the blow connects. As Myrrh suspected, she’s less certain of her standing with Glint than she lets on. The woman huffs. “As far as I can tell, your plan depends on me. This part, at least. Otherwise, why are we marching into Smeltertown together?”

  “Your abilities increase my chance of success, but not so much that I need you. You might try your own plot to free Glint, but I seriously doubt it will work. Your gambler’s luck cantrip brought us together, giving you a chance where you had none. Once we free whichever of my leadership are held captive in this Smeltertown pen you’ve heard rumors of, I’ll have even less need for you, while you’ll benefit even more from having me as an ally.”

  Silver scoffs but doesn’t seem to have a ready retort. The woman turns down a narrow aisle between warehouses, both to avoid an oncoming cart, and to steer them toward the heart of Smeltertown. The clang of the ore crushers is absent today, the acrid smell of cinders scarcely noticeable. Many of the ore crushers and ironworks were already shuttered due to the chaos following the Maire’s disappearance. Maybe Emmerst’s purge of Rat Town has swept up the remaining innocent workers, leaving the smelters entirely empty.

  “Regarding your precious desire to avoid killing,” Silver says, “it will be difficult to stop and ask your permission while in the middle of a fight.”

  Myrrh sighs and shakes her head. “Do you even know how many you killed yesterday?”

  Silver stops and turns. “Of course. Seventeen.”

  “Yet you feel no remorse? Is that what it takes to be a thief in the Port Cities?”

  A strange expression flickers on the woman’s face. Myrrh can’t be certain, but it almost looks like confusion.

  “Lucky’s smugglers and the Haven goons would have killed me,” Silver says. “That’s all I need to know.”

  It’s hopeless to argue morals with this woman. Myrrh gestures for her to continue moving. “As long as we stick to the plan, that shouldn’t be a concern today.”

  ***

  Okay, so this isn’t going to be quite as easy as Myrrh expected. When Silver spoke of Rat Towners rounded up and herded into a pen in Smeltertown, Myrrh imagined some sort of flimsy corral like those that stand outside the city’s stables. She didn’t think it would be as simple as creating a diversion so the captives could crawl under the bottom rail unnoticed, but she did figure it would be relatively straightforward. The Shields aren’t known for their intelligence as much as their quickness with the cudgel. For real criminals, the sort that Ostgard’s merchants fear as real threats to their enterprises, the former Maire used to call on the Scythe and her handpicked squad of ruthless enforcers. With the Scythe now loyal to Glint—last Myrrh heard, she went upriver to avoid blowing Glint’s cover—Myrrh assumed the security here in Smeltertown would be poor at best.

  Unfortunately, it seems that someone on the city council—probably Emmerst—has injected a bit of smarts into the Shield ranks.

  First of all, the pen is better termed a yard, and it hasn’t been hastily erected to keep the rabble in. The enclosure, probably built over the course of a few months, was originally constructed to keep criminals out, securing the yard’s contents—the metals output by the smelter—against theft. Broken glass is mortared into the top of high stone walls, and the only entrance to the yard is through the smelter building itself.

  A few Rat Towners mill inside the storage yard, stirring up dust and ash and feeling along the walls for chinks. But most of the captives huddle in small groups, shoulders hunching every time one of patrolling guards marches past.

  “I count twenty-six guards inside, ten on the perimeter, plus however many are inside the smelter,” Silver says. “Though it’s possible I double counted a couple.”

  To get a vantage into the area, Myrrh and Silver have crept into the offices of an out-of-business printing press and climbed into the attic. Crouched between rats’ nests of chewed paper, they watch through the louvers of a wooden vent.

  Myrrh nods. With those kinds of odds, it doesn’t really matter if the count is precise. Alone, she and Silver don’t stand a chance against that many Shields—even if Myrrh’s ribs weren’t broken, the most she could handle is two or three. There are probably two captives for every guard, but the Rat Towners are unarmed, and most of them are untrained. She’s heard far too many hollow cracks of cudgels against skulls in her lifetime to even consider inciting the innocent people to riot.

  Which means that success here will come down to whether she made a mistake in placing faith in Nab.

  In the eaves above the vent, a pigeon coos. Silver shifts, grunting lightly as one of her knees cracks. Judging by the way her jaw works beneath the skin, Myrrh suspects she’s fighting the urge to complain about the lack of action. It’s not as if Myrrh is particularly comfortable, given the dart of pain every time she breathes. But she remains still to prove a point. Down by her side, opposite her body from Silver, she works her fingers through the cantrip, practicing like she saw Nab doing. It’s been bothering her, what the Nightblades said about Skorry’s demands and her lack of qualifications. First of all, she still doesn’t trust Silver’s word that Nab really needs to be initiated. There must be a way to get more information, even if it means investigating on her own. Second, she’d rather not give Silver another chance to call her attempt at using the cantrip “fumbling.”

  One of the guards patrolling the outer perimeter of the enclosure has a livid scar slashing across his cheek, and he seems to favor his right knee or ankle—recognizable traits she uses to mark his movements. As Myrrh notices him making his third circuit around the building and yard, she spots movement in an alley opposite their position in the printer’s l
oft. Five—no, six—figures advance along the side of a shuttered warehouse. They wear hooded cloaks, but everyone except the leader has pushed back the hood to avoid looking too much like the rogues they are. Two carry hammers as if coming to work at a smelter. Everyone has a long blade slung at their hip.

  When the leader reaches the end of the alley, Myrrh gets a good look at his face and confirms the newcomers’ identities. It makes sense that Resh, one of Glint’s most trusted thieves, would leave his hood up. His gleaming bald head has a way of gathering attention. The group isn’t trying to hide their movements, not in broad daylight, but it wouldn’t be wise to be too memorable either.

  Myrrh pulls one of the strips of velvet from her satchel and stuffs the end between the louvers. She slowly feeds the fabric out until half an arm’s length dangles down the wall of the building.

  “I assume you have a reason for that,” Silver says.

  Myrrh points to the group of newcomers. “Just signaling our reinforcements.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “OUCH,” MYRRH SQUEAKS as Resh sweeps her up in a hug. When he releases her, she winces and lays a hand on her ribs, but not quick enough. Before she can backpedal out of reach, Warrell, one of her oldest friends and a member of Ghost’s council, swoops in and grabs her up. “Warrell, ouch,” she manages.

  “Eh?” he asks, putting her down.

  She retreats from the group, once again holding her ribs. “Sorry. Had a bit of a slip yesterday.”

  Resh shakes his bald head, the row of diamond studs in his left ear catching hints of light that filter through the shuttered windows of the building’s lower level. “We heard there was trouble out at Carp’s Refuge, and then Nab said it was you that stirred it up. Myrrh, what happened? Whispers in the underground say the smugglers are out for blood now.”