Empress of Rogues

by Carrie Summers

Ash puffs through gaps around the hatch where smelter workers shovel coal to feed the blaze.

  “The hatch,” she shouts, but Carver is already there, working the latch free. He pops the little door open, then dashes to the back of the furnace where the big iron belly connects with the chimney. Something clanks inside as he pulls a lever to close the flue.

  He nods, and Myrrh pumps, and ash billows into the air in a thick cloud. She pauses and yanks out the collar of her woolen undershirt from beneath her thief’s leathers, pulls it over her nose and mouth, and shoves down on the bellows again. More ash and dust bursts from the hatch, swirling through the air. People start coughing. Her throat burns.

  After two more big breaths from the bellows, the ash is too thick to breathe. It’s hard to see, and the sounds of combat have faded beneath the choking coughs and gags.

  Myrrh can’t breathe, can’t talk, so she grabs Carver, and they run for the door. Tears blur her vision, turning the fogged scene watery, making figures into a smear of shadow, the doorway into a blur of light.

  Even so, she sees the gap when the wall of guards parts. Shields go down coughing, and, spying the fresh air, Rat Towners stampede over the struggling figures.

  Lungs bursting, Myrrh runs with the tide. The guards are down on either side of the doorway, curled fetal to protect their guts as Rat Towners pour past, some leveling kicks at the Shields’ bodies.

  She coughs and gags when she finally reaches the muddy street, and Myrrh’s so glad for the air she turns her face to the sky and lets the frigid drizzle clean her face. Soon after, Carver’s beside her. The streams of Rat Towners are dividing, people hurrying for alleys and melting into crowds of onlookers who have stopped to try to understand the commotion.

  She turns north and east, deeper into Smeltertown where it’s easier to disappear. Carver follows silently, and when they’re clear of the area, they stop, breathe a moment, and change course for Lower Fringe and the meet-up point.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “DRINK, MISTRESS?” BERNARD asks as she leans back in her chair. She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a breath. Around the table in the first-floor meeting room of the safe house, she hears the others shifting in their seats.

  The fact that Bernard’s here bothers her more than it should. Glint always worked so hard to isolate his cook and friend from the criminal side of his life, but the moment Emmerst’s thugs captured Glint from his mansion a few blocks away, the senior members of Glint’s organization seem to have made no effort to protect either the red-faced chef or his apprentice, Tep. Bernard emerged from the simple tenement kitchen just moments after Myrrh and Carver stepped through the door. He explained that Nyx had summoned him here and that Tep and Nab had scurried off to look for a healer ahead of Sapphire’s arrival.

  She opens her eyes. “What have you got?”

  “Tea if you like. Or if that isn’t to your taste right now, I brought over a bottle of fine brandy from Tangesh and a flagon of a red wine vintage that Glint took a liking to recently.”

  The others—Warrell, Carver, Silver, Ivy, Resh, and Nyx—sit around the table looking bone-weary and in need of baths. Hawk still hasn’t arrived, but that’s not surprising given Sapphire’s condition. Neither of Glint’s associates have ideas on where to get the Haava healing serum, which means the best chance of helping Sapphire beyond what the healer can doe lies in springing Glint from his cage.

  As if she needed more motivation.

  “The brandy please, Bernard.”

  “As I thought,” he says. “Exactly what Master Glint would order. He told me about your similarities long before I noticed it, of course. Said there were things between the two of you that surprised him.”

  It’s almost as if the temperature in the room changes, a sudden chill washing over the table from where Silver sits. Even Warrell seems to notice it, and he casts the woman a strange glance before returning his attention to Bernard.

  “Got any ale, my friend?” he asks.

  Bernard shuffles apologetically, showing his palms. “When Tep returns, I could send him out in search of a cask.”

  “Warrell will have brandy too,” Myrrh says. “A little warmth after the walk in the rain. You just focus on keeping your face out of the windows, and when Tep comes back, I think you two should head back to the other house.”

  The man’s jaw hardens—at least, that’s what she thinks she spies beneath the layer of softness in his red cheeks. “Much as I respect your words, Mistress,” he says, “I’m afraid I must ignore the suggestion. I won’t be leaving when there’s something I might be able to do here. Just like before.”

  She sighs and nods, remembering another time when Bernard dipped into the underworld, working his knuckles to the bone in the kitchen here to keep thieves fed while they worked to help Glint. Maybe it’s hopeless to try to insulate the man from criminal activities.

  She turns to the others as Bernard bustles out the door, muttering something to himself. “We were supposed to wait for my signal before opening the door. So what went wrong?”

  Silence holds for a moment, and then Nyx rubs a hand over his thin, brushed-back hair. “I didn’t see it, since I was watching for you, but that first yell came from near the door.”

  His gaze flicks to Silver, and the woman’s lip twitches. Myrrh looks at her expectantly, ready for an explanation, but she offers nothing.

  “Same story from me,” Resh says. He untwines the fingers of his clasped hands and turns his palms to the ceiling. “You may have seen the oil cask I broke once things went sour. I left another to leak onto a pile of wood behind the table and planned to spark the planks when the signal came. Ivy had her sights on clubbing the worst of the drunkards upside the head. We figured with those things together, it would buy time to get the doors thrown wide and start some other chaos to keep the Shields busy while people ran.”

  “But the shout alerted the guards before you got the signal?”

  “When the shout came from the door, the dice players sat bolt upright. One spotted Ivy lurking a bit too close. I saw his eyes pick out the blade in her hand. That’s when he jumped up and upset the table and blew the rest of the operation.”

  Myrrh turns to Silver. “All right, so what happened at the door?”

  The woman’s eyes are half-lidded as if she’s trying to suggest the conversation bores her. “In truth, I don’t see why we’re wasting time discussing this since the operation was a success. Especially when that success is likely due to the change in plans I was forced to make.”

  Myrrh’s hand wanders toward her dagger. “Did I hear that correctly? You changed our plan? I assumed there was a mistake.”

  “Well, the plan didn’t account for your Rat Towners to start wandering into the building before you turned up. When they did, I had to act. The bar was far too heavy for me to lift. Too heavy for just one of the guards even. I needed to use the mass-delusion cantrip to convince both of them to open the door, which meant I needed to do it before any of the prisoners wandered too close and got caught up. Unfortunately, one of the fools let the bar slip from his grip, and it landed on his foot.”

  The room is still silent when Bernard pushes back through the door carrying a tray with a decanter and a set of tumblers. He seems to notice the tension in the air and quickly flees after setting it on the table. When the door shuts with a click, Myrrh taps a finger on the table.

  “You’re out,” she says.

  “Pardon?” Silver arches an eyebrow.

  “I’ll be taking just a small selection of operatives into Maire’s Quarter tonight. You aren’t invited.”

  The woman’s composure slips, her face showing a sort of bewildered disgust. “You can’t possibly do this without me. Your plan hinges on my abilities.”

  The truth is, Myrrh hasn’t told Silver everything she plans, but that’s only partly because she hasn’t figured out all the details. Either way, Silver’s abilities would be an asset.
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br />   If they were wielded by someone she could actually trust.

  Myrrh runs her eyes over her true allies before speaking. “Don’t look at her hands, whatever you do.” And then, to Silver she says, “This is not a negotiation. Resh can see you out.”

  “You told the kid that he could go through the initiation after this is over. You can’t think the offer will still stand if you cut me out. Skorry’s vengeance won’t be kind.”

  Myrrh shrugs. “I’ll handle Nab just like I always have.”

  Chapter Twenty

  MYRRH AND A particular boutique owner in Lower Fringe have a history that mostly involves Myrrh scaring the wits out of or incapacitating the proprietor before stealing whichever ridiculous gown suits her fancy. So when Myrrh pulls the door open and steps into the shop, she’s greeted with the sound of shattering glass. Having dropped the decorative vase she was holding, the owner flees the building through a back exit, leaving the rear door swinging.

  “Well, this is getting easier,” Myrrh comments over her shoulder as Ivy follows her into the shop. Standing guard outside—just in case the woman decides to return with help—Warrell wipes the astonished look off his face and continues to scan the street for threats.

  “I guess you’ve had some practice?” Ivy says.

  “You could say that.”

  Browsing through the gowns, Myrrh fingers the fabrics and keeps her face fixed in a confident expression she doesn’t quite feel. Getting rid of Silver seemed like a good idea at the time, but it may have been better to keep the woman close even if she couldn’t follow instructions. Given the number of enemies Myrrh’s managed to make in the last couple of days, adding a woman with highly unsettling powers and no apparent conscience may have made her situation even more precarious. But still, it feels good to have friends rather than adversaries watching her back.

  She picks up a scarlet dress with a floor-length skirt and a slit that opens halfway up the thigh. The neckline has a respectable plunge to it, which ordinarily might help her cause when trying to persuade the guards to ignore the resemblance between her face and the wanted posters tacked up in the city. But running around half-clothed isn’t a good way to stay warm or to slip unnoticed through a crowd. And if they do manage to free Glint, she doesn’t want the first words out of his mouth to be something about her state of undress.

  Well, okay, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, as long as no one else is listening in.

  She lets the scarlet fabric fall from her fingers and moves to another rack that appears to have a more demure selection. There’s a long-sleeved gown in emerald green that is fitted through the bodice but not too tight. Good for movement without obnoxious layers or lace to catch on things, and the stays along the ribs might provide some splinting if the mist wears off unexpectedly.

  She shrugs and pulls it off the rack, bundling it into her satchel.

  “How about this one?” Ivy asks, holding out a black scrap that might actually cover her, but might not.

  Myrrh shakes her head. “No. Seriously.”

  Scanning a bar hung with a variety of dresses, she pulls down an immense thing in light blue that has enough lace and chiffon to clothe half of Rat Town. It reminds Myrrh of a giant fair-weather cloud. She shoves it toward Ivy.

  The older woman gives her a horrified stare. “That? Is that even an article of clothing? It looks more like a pair of curtains got in a fight with a wedding cake.”

  “Matrons in Maire’s Quarter display their status by the volume and discomfort of their gowns.”

  Ivy’s lip curls. “Matron…what are you saying?”

  “Well, you are going to play the part of my mother.”

  “Wait, you didn’t tell me this before.” The woman looks down at her strong physique, the long muscles showing beneath the tight-fitting thief’s leathers. She looks again at the massive dress, which rustles when Myrrh shakes it gently.

  Myrrh laughs. “It’s not that bad, right?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Myrrh stretches out her arm to the side and tilts her head to give the garment a once-over. “Okay. It’s awful. But it will also be convincing.”

  Sighing, Ivy snatches it from her. “You owe me a nice bottle of whiskey when we get back to Rikson’s Roost.”

  “Nice?” Myrrh says, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t think Rikson carried that particular variety.”

  “Okay, how about you owe me a strong bottle of whiskey.”

  “Fair enough,” Myrrh says, heading toward the door. “Let’s get back to the tenement. I need some help practicing something.”

  ***

  Late in the afternoon, the front door to the tenement swings outward, hitting the building wall with a thud that rattles the framing, and Hawk and Sapphire finally stagger in. Myrrh’s mentor’s eyes are hollow, his face drawn and filthy.

  Sapphire looks as if she’s barely alive. Her head lolls forward, loose on her neck. The damaged arm hangs limply at her side, the sleeve cut away. Somewhere along their journey from Smeltertown to the safe house, Hawk has stopped to have the wound cleaned and bandaged. White muslin wraps Sapphire’s forearm from her hand to past her elbow. In a few places, blood spots bloom like brilliant red poppies spreading across the dressing.

  Myrrh rushes from the room where Ivy has been helping her practice the misdirection cantrip, shaking out the stiffness in her fingers from the hours of contortion she’s put them through.

  “How is she?”

  Hawk shakes his head, jaw set, as he treads awkwardly down the short first-floor hall to the nearest bedroom, all but carrying Sapphire. He shoulders through the opening with Myrrh and Ivy following and stops at the bed where the three of them lower Sapphire to the mattress. Myrrh pulls off the woman’s shoes before lifting her legs onto the bunk. Throughout the process, Sapphire says nothing, though a faint moan escapes her swollen lips.

  They step outside the room and pull the door closed before Hawk speaks. “We got help from a healer’s apprentice in Trader’s Row. He poured spirits over the wound and said the bandages had been boiled. But I could see the doubt in his eyes about her chances. Especially since she scarcely raised her head when the spirits hit the raw flesh. I don’t know how she kept walking, to be honest.”

  “I don’t know how you carried her.”

  Hawk shakes his head. “Thought I’d have to give up more than once. Got help from a carter between Trader’s Row and the waterfront near here. He didn’t like the look of us much, that was clear, but he had enough conscience to let us ride in the cart bed with a couple of barrels of oats anyway.”

  “Any signs of infection?” Myrrh asks, glancing toward the door. “Tep came back a couple of hours ago and said he and Nab split up to have a better chance of finding a healer with enough skill to help. I told them we might need someone who can…take the limb.” She had given the boy a small handful of rubies with strict instruction that he only show them if necessary—only if someone has the skill, but seems reluctant to help, and never to pull them out on the open street or in a building where someone in a crowd might spot the sparkle.

  “I can’t say with all the…Myrrh, she’s in bad shape all over. Tried to check her shoulder, but she’s just as bruised and swollen there as around her face.”

  Myrrh swallows, thinking of the bruises on Sapphire’s cheeks looking like ripe plums ready to split, the way her eyelids have puffed, and the bloody splits on her lips.

  “We’re springing Glint tonight,” she says. “He’s our chance at finding a healing serum that can rescue the arm.”

  Hawk’s brows give a quick twitch of surprise. “Tonight? I heard he’s being kept in a cage with frozen hinges, hung the height of two men above Second Bridge.”

  “By a chain with links as thick as my wrist—well almost. It’s true. And there are guards, though I doubt they’re needed.”

  “So you plan to vanish him from his cage? Sounds like an interesting heist.”

&nbs
p; “Something like that. I do need a little help though.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ll get moving on the plan soon. I need to make a quick trip to Glint’s mansion to fetch a couple of things. In the meantime, it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to steal a horse and carriage, would it? Any color on the upholstery would be fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  TORCHES CRACKLE AND spit in the drizzle, the flames leaping in a long line all the way across Fourth Bridge. On the end where the heavy structure rams into the Lower Fringe waterfront, a line of Shields stands shoulder to shoulder, peering into the murk of a rainy evening. Behind the row, another pair of guards marches back and forth across the bridge, pausing to nod every few times they pass one another. It almost seems like the display is for show, an act put on to intimidate the residents of Lower Fringe into groveling in apology for having harbored the criminal who murdered the city’s Maire.

  Myrrh lets the curtain fall back into place over the carriage’s glass-pane window, restoring the cozy atmosphere of the lamp-lit interior. Opposite her on a bench seat—upholstered in dark-blue velvet, which according to Hawk was the only choice unless she preferred a very garish light green—Hawk and Ivy look miserable in their finery. The light-blue gown is even worse with someone inside it, the lace foaming around Ivy’s face and neck and causing her to bat at the stuff and glower periodically. Hawk, in the meantime, is tugging at his loose-collared silk shirt and velvet waistcoat like they’re attacking him. Unlike with the gowns, there was a ready supply of merchant’s garb in Glint’s mahogany wardrobe. The clothes don’t fit Hawk quite as well, or maybe it’s just that the man isn’t at ease in such finery. Either way, with the smell of sandalwood that occasionally reaches her nose from the clothing, the same scent she remembers on Glint’s skin, she can’t help but recall him reclining in the sitting room of his mansion, a glass of wine cupped in his long fingers, feet stretched toward the fire.