Myrrh glances at Silver, who stands with a hip cocked and an impenetrable expression on her face. Myrrh shakes her head. Whatever.
“It’s a complicated story, but suffice to say things didn’t go as I’d hoped. We’ll have to deal with the repercussions later. Speaking of surprises, I thought the Shields got you two.” She looks at Warrell and Ivy, another senior member of Ghost Syndicate. She didn’t expect them to arrive with Glint’s top people, Resh and Nyx, but it makes sense that they went underground in Lower Fringe when the Shields moved on Rat Town. Myrrh doesn’t recognize the other two newcomers, a burly woman who holds the ore-crushing hammer in a fist the size of a horse’s hoof, and a sharp-featured man with darting eyes. She assumes they are members of Glint’s organization that she hasn’t had a chance to meet yet. People she would have greeted soon enough, as their new leader, if things had gone differently.
All at once, the last conversation she had with Glint comes rushing back. He was convalescing in bed, pulled from the brink of death, and he’d decided to give up the criminal life so he could focus on leading the city of Ostgard. His bid for taking the Maire’s seat was nearly complete.
He talked about giving her control of his organization. The ruler of the city and his underworld queen. Wasn’t that what he said? Or has her mind turned conjured those words in the mostly sleepless time since? Now, with Glint a bleeding wretch in a hanging iron cage, with Emmerst in firm position to take hold of Ostgard, with Silver telling tales of a relationship with Glint, now Myrrh feels like maybe it was all a dream.
Warrell growls low in his throat, shaking his head and pulling Myrrh back to the present. “We got clear shortly after you headed into the bog. Hawk and Carver…”
“Hawk and Carver led off a squad of Shields when they closed in on our fallback location. They’re the only reason we made it to Second Bridge and across to the thieves’ paths in the Neck,” Ivy says, her face grim. “Seeing as they didn’t meet us at the rendezvous, I assume the noose slid tight.”
Myrrh glances toward the building’s wall nearest the enclosure. “If the Lady rolls us nines, they’ll be inside the pen then.” She doesn’t need to add anything about the alternative. If Hawk and Carver threw sixes, it’s probably too late for a rescue attempt. “What about Toad?” she asks, naming the final member of her council.
Warrell and Ivy share a look. Myrrh’s pulse stutters. Dead?
“This isn’t easy to say,” Warrell says. “But it seems Toad was in league with Emmerst.”
“Wait, what?”
“I saw him leading Shields to the Queen’s Dice,” Ivy says. “Guess he thought you might seek refuge with Sapphire.”
Myrrh shakes her head. Of her advisers, she felt she knew Toad the least, but still. She already knew Sapphire has been taken, but the betrayal makes it so much worse. If it turns out Sapphire has been harmed, she won’t rest until she tracks Toad down and makes him pay.
“Any word on the rest of the syndicate?” she asks.
Warrell shrugs. “Scattered. Those that weren’t rounded up are likely long gone from Rat Town. Heard it’s nearly deserted over there, Myrrh. Just a few poor souls living behind barred windows and locked doors, left praying to the Queen of Nines the Shields won’t grow bored and gather more people into another pen.”
“Empty unless you count the Haven members sizing up the district street by street,” Ivy says.
Myrrh grits her teeth at the thought of the rival gang figuring out how to divide up her turf, picking out strongholds for their expanded operations and deciding who gets to shake down which businesses for tribute. That is, if the cheesemakers and tailors and wheelwrights of Rat Town are ever freed from the prison across the street.
How did this all happen so fast? Just a few days ago, Ghost Syndicate was in full control of the district. Despite the threats to Glint from the oathbound, despite the Death Cloak killing thieves across the city, Myrrh’s small empire was strong and functioning. And now it’s crumbled. Rat Town is emptied. It’s like none of the hard-fought battles against the Slivers gang or the former Maire ever happened.
For a moment, Myrrh wants to sink to the floor. At her feet, a square of lighter-colored floorboards shows where the printing equipment used to stand before the business was shuttered. Maybe she should follow the printer’s example and close up shop? Head up the Ost and carve out a new home in the Inner Kingdoms. She was always best when working freelance, right?
She shakes her head, knowing that’s not really true. Life might have been simpler when all she worried about was securing grub and shelter for her and Nab. Small jobs with modest take. Skimming the edges of the underworld without needing to worry about its intrigue and violence.
Life might have been simpler, but she hadn’t been any happier. Half the nights, the only reason Nab ate was because she went hungry. What might look like simplicity in hindsight was a hardscrabble existence. Living just a few picked pockets short of starvation. Always worried the Shields or the Scythe would catch her in the act and make her disappear.
Anyway, she’s kidding herself if she thinks she can abandon the people who have come to rely on her. Those Rat Towners penned up across the street aren’t going to get help from anywhere else. And leaving for the Inner Kingdoms now would be abandoning Nab to whatever plot Silver and the Mouth have for him.
Anyway, even if Nab were safe and Rat Town secure, she would never, never leave Glint in Emmerst’s clutches. She’ll wind up in the cage beside him before she lets that man execute him.
“Well, we’ve come back from worse situations, right?” she says, running her eyes over the small collection of thieves in the dim room.
“I’m not sure I can recall,” Warrell hedges with a shrug.
“Ah, come on. You and me started as grubbers, right? We’re used to operating with no resources.”
“And that’s why we usually chose achievable targets. At the moment, you’ve got Haven, Carp’s Refuge, and the entirety of the city guard standing against you. Oh, and a bounty the size of a king’s treasury on your head, which probably means anyone outside this room is as likely to turn you in as help you.”
She smirks. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It makes me so glad that Nab found you.”
“But despite the odds, we’re here, aren’t we?” Ivy says. “Since the moment Nab knocked at the door of Bernard’s kitchen and he let the little rat in, I’ve had reason to hope we’ll take back what’s ours. He did good, that kid, finding us.”
Myrrh nods. Nab did do good. She’ll probably have to tell him that, even if it means he’ll be insufferable afterward.
“Well then,” she says, glancing around the room. “We ready for a prison break?”
Chapter Seventeen
NYX, THE THIEF of Glint’s with the rat-like face and sour demeanor, pulls her aside as the group moves upstairs so everyone can have a look at the layout of the yard from above.
“Your ribs,” he says.
Myrrh has never really liked the man—ever since Glint introduced them, he’s been dismissive and condescending. She feels the skin around her eyes tighten as she prepares for a comment about how her injury makes her a liability.
“I can manage,” she responds.
Nyx shakes his head. “Sure, whatever you say. But it would be easier with this. Glint would insist.”
He pulls a small glass vial from what appeared to be a fold in his tunic but must be a hidden pocket. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he waits for her to take it. Myrrh holds the little container up to a gap in the siding so that light shines through and notices dark flecks floating in the liquid.
“And this,” he says, handing over what looks like a medicine dropper.
She blinks. “What is it?”
Nyx’s lip curls, the shadow of his disdain for her inexperience returning. “Mist. Four drops under the tongue.”
Mist? The name makes her think it’s another Haava substance, li
ke glimmer and etch, one of the compounds from the distant archipelago that conveys special abilities when used. And terrible consequences if misused.
“The effects?”
“You won’t feel the injury. It doesn’t help heal, just covers the pain.”
“And if I use too much?”
The man resumes walking toward the steep stairs to the attic. “Permanent numbing to pain. Doesn’t sound too bad until you realize someone could be slitting your throat and you’d have no idea until you noticed the spray of your lifeblood.”
“Wait,” she says, catching up. “How often can I use it.”
He gives an annoyed sigh as if preventing her from overdosing is too much of a burden to bear. “Twice a day. The effects last around an hour.”
Myrrh nods, shaking the little vial to mix the contents. “Thanks.”
Nyx rolls his eyes. “Like I said, Glint would insist.”
Myrrh pulls the cork, and sharp fumes from the liquid sting her nose. Careful, Myrrh pulls just a single drop into the dispenser, lifts her tongue, and squeezes it into her mouth. In a moment of paranoia, she thinks that this would be a perfect opportunity for Nyx to get rid of her, but she doubts he’d betray Glint in that way. The drop is frigid as it spreads behind her lower teeth, the chill immediately sending tendrils through her body. On her next breath, the sharp pain in her ribs seems to dull.
Quickly, she dispenses the other three drops, and by the time she reaches the attic and crouches behind the others as they take turns peering through the louvers, the pain is gone.
Nines, it feels nice to breathe without the sensation that there’s a knife in her lung.
She drops to a crouch and scans the faces of the others as they turn from the vent. “So, can we do it?” she asks. “I figure if we’re careful we can start picking off the perimeter patrols. They don’t seem to be checking in at a central location. The most important thing is avoiding a commotion.”
Silver smirks. “I’m sure I don’t have to mention my opinion on the best way to do that.”
Myrrh ignores her. “The storehouse opposite the yard seems like a good—”
“Hold on a second, Mistress Myrrh,” Resh says. “Before we get down to planning, I should probably make a couple of introductions.” He looks pointedly at the pair of thieves Myrrh hasn’t yet met.
Confused, Myrrh nods at them. “I assume you’re out of Lower Fringe. Associates of Glint’s?”
“Not exactly,” Resh says.
The first of the strangers, the burly woman, twists her hammer in her grip. “Name’s Wrench. Me and Bobber”—she nods at the sharp-featured man—“came at the request of our boss.”
“And your boss is…?”
“Ticktock.”
It takes Myrrh a moment to place the name as the leader of the biggest Smeltertown syndicate. “You’re Blood Garnets.” She glances at Resh, who nods. He doesn’t appear nervous about the choice to involve outsiders, but Myrrh isn’t so sure she likes this. Wasn’t Resh just enumerating the difficulties with her status as a wanted woman?
“We figured the best way to succeed here is to get someone who knows the turf, Myrrh,” Warrell says, showing his palms. “And anyway, we didn’t want to upset the peace with the Garnets by conducting an operation here without asking.”
That, at least, makes some sense. It’s standard Ostgard etiquette to secure permission from the syndicate in control of a particular region before working their turf. Usually the arrangement involves some sort of sharing in the profits.
“All right, so you’re here,” Myrrh says, deciding there’s no use in questioning a decision that’s already been made. “Any ideas on how we can quietly capture and contain the perimeter guards.”
Wrench shakes her head, the slabs of flesh on her cheeks hard. “Even if you eliminate them all, you’d still have to get the doors to the smelter open. I happen to know that there’s an iron bar thicker than your scrawny arm across the inside. Better to get inside quietly and spring the prisoners from there. If they run as fast as I’ve seen most Rat Towners move when the Shields are approaching, all you need to do is get the door open and distract the guards.”
Myrrh blinks. “Okay. So how are we supposed to get inside if there’s this bar thicker than my arm?”
Wrench nods at Myrrh’s satchel. “We can get you in. But there’s a toll.”
Myrrh sighs. A toll. It’s not uncommon for syndicates to charge for the use of thieves’ paths or other organization assets. She just figured Resh had already paid whatever fees the Blood Garnets requested. “How much.”
“I hear you’ve come into a large quantity of rubies. We’ll need ten. More if they’re small.”
She feels her thief’s mask slip. That’s a major payment. The sort of sum that would ordinarily buy operating rights to a few docks or buildings for months.
Seeming to sense Myrrh’s shock, Wrench smirks. “Or we could leave the five of you to deal with three dozen guards alone. Whether we’d remain quiet about your plans to upset a Shield installation on our turf, thereby drawing attention to our humble district, would be up to Ticktock to decide.”
Myrrh grits her teeth. The rubies are nice, but freeing her friends is more important. “Six rubies.”
“Eight.”
She shakes her head and stays firm. “Six, and Ghost won’t have a reason to hold a grudge against the Blood Garnets. I don’t have to run this part of the operation now. Once Emmerst is removed, the Shields will let the prisoners go anyway.”
Wrench holds Myrrh’s eyes for a few seconds, then shrugs and nods. “Six.”
Myrrh pulls out the shortest strip of fabric from her satchel, draws her dagger, and starts cutting through the stitching. “Now perhaps you can explain how you plan to get us inside.”
***
Myrrh stares through the dark shaft with her lip curled skeptically. The problem isn’t that she’s a stranger to tunnels and ducting, or even that the shaft is scarcely tall enough to belly crawl along. It’s that she’s never met Ticktock, and she wasn’t present for the negotiations between Resh and the Blood Garnets boss. She doesn’t like working off someone else’s plan.
“You realize that the continued good standing between our organizations depends on your actions here, right?” she asks.
Wrench blinks, her expression flat. “The Shields set up their prison in our turf, and Ticktock isn’t happy about it. If you’re concerned we’re aiming for the bounty on your head, forget your worry. No one here believes Emmerst would pay up anyway.”
Myrrh nods. It might be nicer to hear that the Garnets’ true reason for refusing to turn her in for the bounty is some sort of thieves’ honor, but Wrench’s explanation is more believable. And Ticktock’s crew is probably right to doubt Emmerst’s honesty. Still, she can’t bring herself to crawl through the tunnel with no one guarding her back.
“Warrell,” she says, catching the big man’s eye. Out of everyone from Rat Town—except for her mentor, Hawk, of course—he’s her most trusted ally.
“Mistress?” Warrell says expectantly.
“Stay here in case something goes wrong. If we end up trapped inside, gather whatever resources you can and try to hold Rat Town against Haven and the Shields. If we keep our home turf, there’s a better chance we can regroup.”
His brow furrows as if he wants to object, but when Myrrh’s gaze flicks to Wrench and back, he seems to understand. The big man nods. “Got it,” he says.
With that, Myrrh runs her gaze over the rest of the group. “Everyone ready?”
When no one objects, she nods and clambers up into the tunnel. It’s a stone-walled horizontal shaft that leaves the cellar wall of a storehouse across the street from the smelter and enters the smelter building itself, exiting into a small underground chamber built for holding coal and charcoal for the furnace. Crawling forward on her belly, Myrrh gives silent thanks to the mist for numbing her ribs, and by association, she thank
s Nyx for providing it. He’s not a pleasant man, but in this case, he has spared her a world of pain. For Glint and Hawk and the innocent Rat Towners inside the prison, she would try to make this crawl anyway, but it wouldn’t be easy.
The elbows of her thief’s leathers scuff over stone, and she pushes with her toes and knees, sliding her hips forward over the rough rock and mortar. After a couple of body lengths of forward progress, the tunnel goes abruptly black. Myrrh stifles the urge to look, knowing that someone, probably Resh or Ivy, has crawled in behind her, snuffing the light. Since she can’t see anyway, Myrrh closes her eyes and continues worming her way forward.
She crawls and wiggles for another minute or two before catching a whiff of coal dust from the end of the tunnel. Not long after, Myrrh’s elbow knocks against the secret exit hatch, which, according to Wrench and Bobber, should swing open on hidden hinges. She draws in a breath and nudges the panel, exhaling in relief when the wood swings away, showing more darkness beyond. She quickly lifts the wooden flap and struggles free of the shaft. Something—coal fragments, she assumes—crunches and crumbles underfoot when she gets herself upright and moves away from the hatch.
Pulling the flint and steel from her pocket—items thoughtfully given to her by Ivy when Wrench and Bobber described the tunnel and its dark exit—she strikes sparks until she can spot the oil lantern waiting on the far side of the room. She hurries across, feet shuffling through grit, and knocks sparks from the flint until one catches on the wick. Warm glow flares across the room, exposing a heap of dark stone, a shovel, and pails for carrying the coal. A simple ladder climbs from the room to the smelter above, the ascent currently blocked by a closed trapdoor.
The others exit the tunnel no more gracefully than Myrrh felt, and she’s glad for the hatch overhead that muffles the sounds as they curse and grunt. Once everyone is assembled, she scans their faces. “Silver?” she asks. “You’re ready to get the bar off that door?”
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