Empress of Rogues

by Carrie Summers

  Myrrh swallows at the memory, fighting tears. It seems so long ago that Glint staggered into the mansion, pale and bleeding and clutching his belly, but when her tired mind runs through the events since, she realizes it’s only been a few days.

  How much longer has it felt for Glint, held at the brink of death for the amusement and spectacle and furthering of Emmerst’s political ambitions.

  Her cheeks heating with anger, she glances across the room to where the man and his closest allies have been corralled. A handful of the Scythe’s fighters stand guard over the miserable huddle of men, their fine clothing now disheveled, their waxed mustaches askew.

  On the other side of the room, the council’s other faction, those who supported Glint’s bid, sit at the table or stand behind it. They, too, are under guard, but the Knives stand back a few more paces. According to the Scythe, no one will be free to leave the hall until Glint can pass judgment on the council that voted to condemn him. It will be up to Glint how he wants to lead the city, or whether he wants to take the leadership at all. Maybe he’ll retreat to Craghold and leave Ostgard to its politics and deceit. Either way, the woman won’t make those choices for her master. She stands at Myrrh’s side now, her attention also captured by the shaman’s efforts and the slow return of color to Glint’s face.

  Myrrh’s friends sit along the wall, waiting in near silence. From some hidden pouch, Nyx has produced a pair of dice. He and Resh toss them in some sort of game, though they don’t appear to be making wagers.

  Myrrh starts when a councilman at the table clears his throat. Kantwell pushes up from his chair. “May I approach?” he asks the Scythe.

  The woman locks eyes with one of her Knives, who moves to escort the man. “Make an aggressive move, and I won’t hesitate to have you put down,” she says.

  Kantwell ducks his head. “Understood.”

  Once reaching the cage, he glances in at Glint and grimaces. “We truly didn’t know. Emmerst’s evidence was compelling, and he took pains to make us feel that we should have a firm response. Otherwise we’d all be in danger from assassins, he said.”

  The Scythe doesn’t respond, her gaze flat as she watches the man.

  “But there’s something else we must consider.” Kantwell glances at Myrrh. “Regardless of your personal vendetta due to the Maire’s imprisonment of one of your friends, you’ve admitted publicly to abducting the city’s leader. Ostgard must pay some heed to the rule of law.”

  Across the room, Ivy snorts. “Rule of law. Has he ever left the Quarter? Does he have any idea what the tariff takers do to honest bargemen?”

  Myrrh sighs as she turns her gaze on Kantwell. “I’m not interested in your form of justice.”

  “I suspect you’ll find the rule of law rather changed in the coming days,” the Scythe says simply as she makes a point of running her gaze over the room and her Knives. “Of course, it will all depend on my lord’s wishes, but given your inability to field a force to challenge my soldiers, you’d do well to ingratiate yourself with the new order rather than casting back to the old rules. You’ve witnessed the so-called defense put up by the Shields, and any household guard retained by the merchant families will be swiftly dealt with. Under the Maire, I had fewer than a score of Knives. It was all I needed. Suffice to say, I’ve been busy in the weeks since. Men and women loyal to me now guard the entrances to the Quarter, and we’re in the process of establishing order district by district.”

  Though Kantwell’s cheek twitches at the woman’s casual declaration that she now has control of the city, he must realize she’s correct. Bowing stiffly, he turns back for the table and stalks with shoulders straight. The other councilmen cast him despairing looks, perhaps only now realizing that their empires are lost if they don’t find a way to join the new regime.

  Silence falls yet again, save for the rhythmic strike of hammers against chisels. Myrrh lets her thoughts travel to the hours and days ahead. She can’t know how Glint will respond upon hearing that the secret of his parentage is out, but she does know there will be a tremendous amount of work to do to reestablish Ghost Syndicate’s control of Rat Town. And she still needs to clear her name with the smugglers at Carp’s Refuge, if that’s even possible. On top of that, she needs to try to find healing serum for Sapphire, and Silver still presents a problem. Myrrh knows the location of one of the woman’s Rat Town safe houses, but where there’s one, there are likely more. And speaking of, she needs to discover more about the Nightblades cult and their relationship to Skorry. Nab will never give her peace until she either allows him to undergo the initiation or proves unequivocally that it’s a bad idea.

  As she sighs, trying to put an order of priority to the many looming tasks, a sudden clang startles her upright. Even the Scythe jumps as the final frozen hinge hits the marble floor and the door to Glint’s cage falls open, its weight snapping the padlock that held the latch shut.

  Myrrh’s on her feet in an instant, rushing into the cage and falling to her knees beside Glint. She slides hands under his shoulders and looks to the shaman for permission. The elderly man nods as he rises from a crouch and walks toward the cage entrance.

  “I wake him now,” the healer says, his accent thick.

  Myrrh drops to her butt, legs outstretched. As she pulls Glint’s head and shoulders onto her lap, brushing dark curls from his forehead, his eyelids flutter. Hand trembling, she cups his cheek as the shaman shuffles over and drops to his heels beside them. Stubble prickles the palm of her hand. Glint’s skin is warm but not hot. No sign of fever as far as she can tell.

  From a leather pouch adorned with bits of metal bent into strange shapes, the shaman pulls out a small vial. He pulls free the cork and waves the open top beneath Glint’s nose. Myrrh catches a whiff of what seem to be ordinary smelling salts.

  After a couple of breaths, Glint stirs. His head twists on his neck, his eyes shift beneath the lids before he blinks and twitches and finally looks up at her.

  “Myrrh…” The corners of his lips twitch as if he wishes to smile, but then the faintest wrinkle forms between his brows. He looks down and reaches with a trembling hand for the wounds on his stomach.

  Myrrh casts the shaman a questioning look. “Can he move yet?”

  The man hesitates for a moment, probably translating the question in his mind and thinking over the answer. He then nods. “Very slow. Not hurt again or healing undone.”

  “Got it,” Myrrh says. She lays a hand over Glint’s and moves it to his chest. “Best to leave it alone,” she whispers.

  Glint looks back up at her. “Emmerst?”

  Myrrh shifts to get a better angle, sliding Glint’s torso farther down her thighs. “It’s over. Emmerst is finished. You’ll have to decide his punishment, but not now. Now you need to rest.”

  He blinks, confused. “How? Was it you?”

  Myrrh shrugs. “I wish I could claim all the credit for beating him, but you have many more people to thank.” She glances up and beckons the Scythe to enter the cage. The woman seems reluctant, but after a moment stoops and steps through the open door.

  “Meredith,” Glint says quietly. “Wait.” He seems to register the Scythe’s uniform and glances around to see the Knives standing over huddling councilmen.

  “I’m sorry,” Myrrh says. “I know you never wished to have your family name known.”

  His face is troubled, but only for a moment. The emotion seems to require too much effort. As his eyelids start to sink again, Myrrh swallows and, gathering her courage, bends forward and places a light kiss on his forehead.

  Eyes closed, Glint smiles. “Oh, Myrrh,” he says, putting more strength into his words than she thought he had. “If you’re going to kiss me, can’t you at least do it like you mean it?”

  Immediately, Myrrh feels the heat in her cheeks. She feels the eyes of everyone in the chamber on her. But Glint’s right. She should kiss him like she means it. Gently, she slides him off her lap and ge
ts back onto her knees. Leaning forward, she parts her lips and presses them to his.

  Though his body is still, his strength so faint, Glint responds with eagerness. His tongue brushes her lips, and then he takes hold of her lower lip, sucking it between his and then lightly biting down. Myrrh’s belly tightens as she sucks in a breath, her pulse racing. She’s leaning farther into the kiss, the sounds and sensations from the council chamber fading, when a tremendous crash shatters the spell.

  Myrrh jerks upright, a shocked sound escaping her throat as she tries to make sense of what’s happening. Around the chamber, doors hang on twisted hinges, their wood shattered. Councilmen are yelling, retreating into smaller huddles as the Knives seem to be fighting opponents that just aren’t there.

  No. That’s not right.

  As a spray of blood arcs across the room, spattering the floor, and a Knife falls with an opened throat, Myrrh realizes what’s happening.

  The soldiers are fighting against shadows.

  Silver is here, and she’s brought friends.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “WE YIELD,” THE Scythe shouts in desperation as yet another of her Knives falls.

  Standing just outside the cage—she can’t even find an adversary to take on, since Silver’s allies are all but invisible—Myrrh’s throat clamps down. She should never have cast Silver out from her plan. The deaths of the Scythe’s loyal men and women are on Myrrh’s head now, and she has a feeling Silver is far from finished with her vengeance.

  “I said, we yield,” the Scythe says again, dropping her blade and raising her hands. She stands in a combat crouch just a few paces from Myrrh, encircled by swirling shadows that move in a sickening fashion, all unnatural angles, darkness cast by lights that don’t exist. It’s worse when trying to take in the whole room at once, as if dozens of candelabras are swinging wildly in a chamber full of puppets. Just trying to make a count of the fallen Knives, Myrrh gets dizzy.

  And then, all at once, six black-clad rogues emerge from where, before, there was only shadow.

  Silver stands in the center of the room, an imperious smirk on her face. “Your surrender is accepted.”

  In the quiet that follows, Myrrh is finally able to look around and take stock. All across the council hall, Knives lie injured and dead. Of course, the Scythe’s fighters fared better than Lucky’s smugglers did against Silver—apparently, though the cantrip makes the Nightblades difficult to see, it doesn’t make them invulnerable. Two rogues in supple leather clothing cut in the fashion of the Port Cities are sprawled motionless on the floor. Masks cover their faces, making it difficult to say for sure, but Myrrh suspects they’re dead. She feels a flash of pride. A flash that quickly vanishes when reality sets in.

  Two Nightblades down to at least fifteen Knives. And those who remain of the Scythe’s force are bleeding and breathless. The air smells of the blood of their fallen comrades, and the sound of ragged breathing cuts through the silence as a pair of wounded draw breath into lungs filled with fluid. Along the walls, the councilmen cower and whimper. In a sudden panic, fearing she lost them in the fight, Myrrh searches for her friends.

  There, near the entrance to the chamber, they’re being guarded by two Nightblades, each wielding a pair of long daggers. Hawk meets Myrrh’s eyes and shrugs as if to say he doesn’t see a way to change the odds here.

  “I’m sure you have a purpose here.” The Scythe doesn’t drop her gaze as she speaks. “Do you plan to state it?”

  Myrrh can’t help but admire the woman’s poise. Most would be meek in the face of such a terrible defeat, but not the Scythe. Maybe she can’t feel anything right now but the desire to keep her oathlord alive.

  Thinking of Glint causes Myrrh to start stepping slowly toward the cage, her eyes locked on Silver. Noticing the motion, the woman turns to Myrrh and smirks.

  “Ah. Yes. Our mutual friend. Please remain there while I have some time to speak to him alone.”

  Myrrh blinks as the woman strides closer, her long hair still without a tangle, falling straight and silky down her back. Her eyes seem to spark as she looks away from Myrrh and into the cage where Glint has managed to gain a seated position. One long stride at a time, her fitted leather hugging her body, Silver approaches the cage. She ducks inside, then moves to crouch beside Glint.

  Eyes locked with his, she makes a small motion with her fingers.

  Myrrh cries out a warning, but it’s not necessary. Glint doesn’t look away from the woman’s face, and after a long moment of confusion, Myrrh realizes that Silver has probably used the shadow-speech cantrip, allowing her to speak to Glint while concealing her words from the others in the chamber.

  Glint says nothing, though his lower eyelid twitches. Myrrh knows that expression, the tightly controlled anger visible only because she’s spent so much time with him.

  Still, the silence holds, and then finally, Glint nods. He turns to look at Myrrh, and just like that his mask shatters.

  “I’ll be departing with Mistress Silver tonight,” he says, eyes full of despair. “We won’t be leaving instructions on how to follow us, and I suggest you don’t try.”

  “Dominic,” the Scythe says, shaking her head. “I can’t—”

  “You must, Meredith. It’s the only way. You remember your vow. As much as I hate to force you to act based on the oath, not out of your own free will, I am now commanding you to let me go.”

  Dark spots bloom on the Scythe’s cheeks, and her body vibrates with contained rage. After a moment, she nods. “As you wish, oathlord.”

  “Glint, whatever she has on you…” Myrrh says. “This trick she pulled. We can still fight it. The Nightblades are mortal, not gods.”

  The knot of cartilage in his throat bobs as he swallows. Glint’s skin is waxen, a sheen of sweat on his face. The healing has spared him from death, but he has a long way to go before he’ll be whole again.

  “Listen, Myrrh. You must know by now that I wouldn’t leave you if I had any choice in the matter. I’m done pretending and fighting my better judgment when it comes to you. So believe me when I say that I must go. And after I leave, you and Hawk and Meredith must put Ostgard back together without me.”

  Myrrh shakes her head, mouthing the word no. A hand falls on her shoulder, and she jerks, whirling.

  There’s no one there.

  She blinks.

  And just like that, Nab emerges from shadow.

  It feels like a sword has just run her through.

  “How?” she asks, dumb with shock.

  He gives a casual shrug. “They said I was a natural. A prodigy. But even the Mouth underestimated my talents.”

  “When?”

  “Does it matter? It’s over now, Myrrh. I’m a Nightblade. But if you must know, I left shortly after Tep and I set out to find a healer for Sapphire. I went back to Rat Town and found the Mouth waiting for me.”

  Myrrh’s chest feels torn open as she looks into the boy’s eyes and realizes she’s lost him.

  “I listened to you for years, Myrrh,” he says. “I obeyed when you told me to stay quiet. To be weak. To seek out a mediocre life where all I could hope for was a career as a petty thief. It’s time for you to listen to me now. We’re leaving. And you are not to follow. Never. Get back to Lower Fringe, take the healer.” He nods toward the shaman. “You should help Sapphire. Look after those who are left.”

  Her words are dead in her throat. Her heart lies flayed open on the floor of the chamber. She looks back to Glint and sees haunted eyes.

  “It’s time for us to go,” he says. “Meredith is now in your service. She will be as faithful to you as she was to my father and then me.” He glances at the Scythe. “That is my command.”

  A tear spills down the woman’s face as she nods. “As you say, Lord Evenescuel.”

  Climbing shakily to his feet, Glint is forced to lean on Silver for support lest he fall. As he touches her, a look of joy spreads across the w
oman’s face. She turns a triumphant look on Myrrh.

  “Good-bye, Myrrh,” Glint whispers as they pass her on the way to the door. Myrrh reaches out a hand to touch him, but her fingertips just brush his sleeve.

  “Yes,” Silver says with a sneer. “Good-bye, Myrrh.”

  As they reach the door and the Nightblades fall into a wedge behind them, Myrrh’s knees start to wobble. When Nab hurries to follow, catching up and falling into step with the others, she can’t keep her feet anymore.

  She falls to a seat on the floor and presses her forehead to her knees.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MYRRH IS MOVING through water, slow and dreamlike. She blinks and stares as the Scythe—Meredith—calls Knives in from the front rooms to help keep order. Not that there’s much risk of violence. The councilmen still huddle in their faction groups. Myrrh’s friends have approached, standing near but seeming unsure whether to speak to her. She can’t meet Hawk’s eyes, not right now, because somehow that will make it real. They found Nab together, a little rat begging with one hand, reaching into pockets with the other while his mark was distracted searching for coins. They fed him, brought him back to their ramshackle squat in the Spills, and tried to teach him how to live a better life. How to wind up more than a petty thief and criminal.

  Now he’s gone, and Myrrh’s not sure which is worse: Glint allowing himself to be taken because of some unfathomable leverage Silver has over him, or Nab choosing to go with the Nightblades all on his own.

  Either way, she’s failed. They’re both gone, and all Myrrh has left is her duty.

  With a deep breath, she raises her forehead from her knees and climbs to her feet. Meredith stands nearby, her face stony as she watches the shaman scuttle between the bodies of her Knives. Following his ministrations, the smoke and ointments and muttered words in a strange language, three of the soldiers have managed to sit up. They clutch wounds and wait for their fellow fighters, those Meredith summoned, to come by and wrap field dressings over the gashes. But many of the Knives remain motionless even after the shaman’s touch. For some, all he can do is gently close their eyelids and cross their hands over their chests, granting them a sort of peace in death.