“Say I decide to try the etch…is it better to use during the day or at night? And how long does it last?”
“It works equally well in light or darkness. But it can be rather disorienting the first time you try, so I suggest daytime. You’ll need a few free hours.”
“You know where I live,” she says, a statement of fact not a question.
He inclines his head again in agreement.
“Come tomorrow at midday.”
“I’ll see you then.” With that, he stands and leaves the establishment as abruptly as he did after their first meeting. Feeling suddenly adrift, Myrrh searches the room until she spots the serving girl. She’s approaching with Myrrh’s mug of ale.
“Sapphire said I could sleep on the cot in the kitchen tonight,” Myrrh says when the girl sets down her drink. “Can you show me where that is?”
As Myrrh pulls a few coppers from her purse to pay for the ale, the girl ducks a little curtsy and motions for her to follow.
The cot isn’t particularly comfortable, and noise from the gambling hall filters through the walls. But it’s better than getting ambushed again. And by tomorrow night, she should have better tools to start dealing with the situation.
***
Myrrh’s bedroom is the biggest in the safe house, but it still feels small with Rattle leaning against one wall. Piebald is pacing in the corridor outside, clearly worried for her. She doesn’t blame him really; Rattle practically exudes the essence of a killer. She wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone with one of her thieves either.
She pinches the stem of the little brass pipe between two fingers and lowers a candle flame toward the bowl. Inside, pieces of crushed etch leaf start to curl and smolder.
“Take it very slow,” he says. “The effects are quick, and you want to stop as soon as you see the etchings.”
When she inhales, her throat and lungs burn. She clamps her lips over a cough. Many of the city’s thieves smoke tobacco and willow leaf, but she’s always hated the habit.
“Yuck,” she says, grimacing as she exhales.
“Not a smoker, I see. I’ll leave you a small brazier for next time. You’ll just need to put your face over it.”
Rattle takes the pipe and inhales a lungful. He holds his breath for a moment then lets out a cloud of smoke. It’s reassuring that he deliberately took more leaf than her. She won’t go etch-mad from an overdose.
After her second inhalation, the substance begins to take effect. If she squints, she can perceive a faint cloud surrounding Rattle.
“I think it’s working,” she says.
He sucks another breath through the pipe and hands it back. “Once more, but none after that. Even if the effects are light, it’s better than getting too much.”
With a nod, she draws in a last small breath of smoke and holds it.
The room suddenly blooms with the trails of those who’ve been inside it. She blinks, stunned. Walking slowly so as not to trip, Myrrh slips into the hall. She follows it to the stairs and looks down into the entryway and dining room.
Etchings fill the room, a film left on surfaces and a shimmer in the air. But she perceives them with more than her sight. As she focuses on each trail, she feels a buzzing tingle at the base of her skull. A specific taste on the back of her tongue. Some spicy, some bitter, some cloying. The etching is different for everyone. She tiptoes slowly down the stairs and glances at the door to Nab’s bedroom. The fog lingering around the doorknob and oozing from beneath the door reminds her, strangely, of a mouse nest. His residue is faintly musty, but cozy. A thick trail of the same substance leads into the kitchen, collecting around the sweets cupboard.
Rattle follows her as she explores, trailing a cloud that feels to her like a mix of wood smoke and cloves. Now that she knows what to look for, it’s easy to recognize his etching even though dozens of tracks crisscross the room.
“How long does the trail remain?” she asks.
“It fades over the course of about two days.”
She nods. “I understand now why I need to see one of Noble’s people to connect them to their trail.”
“But once you form the association, you’ll always be able to identify their etching.”
She gazes back up the stairs and spots Piebald leaning with arms crossed against the back wall of the corridor. His residue reminds her of canvas tarps and books. Even if she didn’t already know where he sleeps, she’d recognize his room as the second door on the right.
“How much etch can you give me? The search for Noble would be much faster if I had help.”
Rattle shakes his head. “The deal is for you alone. You already mentioned the expense, so I’m sure you understand. I’ll start by giving you enough for three uses. Plus the brazier so you don’t waste any by coughing.”
“And if I haven’t found Noble’s hideout by then?”
“Then I’m not sure this is ripe soil for the empire I’d like to grow. But we could discuss the circumstances and reasons for your failure.”
Myrrh guards her expression carefully, refusing to be baited by his words. “And when do you plan to tell me about the other tools you can offer the syndicate?”
“Eventually. Provided things go well. For now, if you’re satisfied with the substance and clear on how to avoid consuming too much, I have business elsewhere.”
She shrugs and gestures toward the door. “I plan to head out and make the best of this dose anyway.”
With a grunt of acknowledgment, he pulls three packets from his pocket, slides them into a small brass brazier, and presses it into her palm. The paper crinkles as she curls her fingertips into the pot.
Rattle leaves in a trail of clove-scented smoke.
Chapter Thirteen
IT SEEMS UNLIKELY she’ll learn anything about Noble’s movements or those of his crew when she doesn’t know which etchings to look for. Nonetheless, Myrrh leaves the safe house and clambers up the downspout from a rain gutter in an alley a few blocks away. From there, she scampers up a slanted gable to the roof peak and walks it like a Rhemmsfest entertainer on a tightrope.
Part of one of many thieves’ paths that web Rat Town from the river to the Spills, this particular route sticks to the roofs. The Shield Watch hasn’t been much of a problem in the district lately; seems they aren’t interested in dealing with lowlifes without the Maire to force them into it. But considering the riot of sensation flooding her from the etchings and the fact that the trails fill the streets below, the rooftops give her a chance to get used to her new perception without getting overwhelmed.
Besides, she needs a little time alone to think.
Yesterday evening, she helped Glint move closer to gaining power in the city’s government. A thief with a seat on the city council...he’s right in saying that’s good for the city’s underworld. And it’s certainly better if Glint can stop Emmerst from taking control and imposing martial law. Not only would severe policing make the thieves’ work harder but also, the city would eventually choke. For better or for worse, Ostgard needs a bit of chaos. Dockworkers and tavernkeepers depend on the money that comes from the river trade, and a successful river trade depends on bargemen being able to bribe dishonest tariff takers into overlooking certain stacks of cargo.
Of course, if taxes were lower or the city provided services to the lower classes, people could get by with hard work. Honest work. But Emmerst wouldn’t take his reforms that far. Myrrh’s seen enough of the city’s merchants and traders to know they’re all the same. Greedy and ignorant.
So it’s a good thing that Glint may be in a position to stop Merchant Emmerst. Yet there’s no escaping the fact that Glint’s also her rival. And she just handed him what he needs to someday own the entire sixing city.
Maybe it’s not worth worrying about right now. She has bigger concerns with Noble and the mystery killer—if there is a killer and the deaths aren’t just a long string of sixes on fate’s dice.
/> At the far edge of the roof, a short length of ladder drops off the peak to access a swinging rope bridge stretched over a dark alley. In the rubbish heaps below, one of Rat Town’s truly unfortunates dozes under a cast-off square of rodent-chewed canvas. The woman’s etch-exposed residue pools here and in the dead-end corner where a stack of broken bricks must hide the beggar’s possessions. Incongruously, her trail has the scent and color of violets. When Myrrh focuses on it, the hum at the base of her skull reminds her of the buzzing of bees.
Myrrh balances across the bridge, rough rope sliding beneath her palms while she walks with her toes turned out and the arches of her feet bent over the single cord beneath. The ropes vibrate and shimmy under her weight, the planks that anchor them to the buildings crackling.
She’s never liked this bridge.
On the other side, the path winds across a flat-topped roof where a few Rat Town denizens have pitched tents and knocked together thin-walled shacks where they conduct the sorts of businesses that are too dangerous or illegal to happen at street level. Even in a half-feral district like this.
She smells the pungent odor of hoi resin being smoked in one shack. In another, a purple light burns even at this early hour. The sign of a life-wager in progress. Sometimes, the truly desperate make bets on how long they can survive various forms of deprivation. Air. Water. Food. Sleep. Having their blood removed by the cupful. A few sadistic people, often from the wealthy merchant districts, will pay to witness the suffering.
Myrrh hates this aspect of Rat Town. The black despair that’s always lurking. Sometimes, she wonders if the revelry and debauchery and the too-loud laughter of the prostitutes and their patrons is just a fancy suit pulled over flesh riddled with boils and unhealing sores.
Or maybe it’s just the etch getting to her. The sight of so many trails leading to and from these rooftop shacks where life is cheap.
She hurries past, following the wider track of residue that leads to a plank bridge between this building and the next, a shingled roof that slants to shed the rain. Where there are shingles, that is. Dark holes pock the rooftop, some with ragged edges where an unlucky thief planted a foot too hard.
She moves carefully across, up one side and down the other to perch above a rotting rain gutter.
The path splits here, the left branch leading toward the waterfront, the right into the heart of the district and eventually to the edge of the Spills. She turns left and follows the edge of the roof until she reaches a gap between buildings. Below, a dark corridor separates the rooming house she’s standing atop from a dank tavern that never closes. She wonders who left the etchings that condense into a thick film in front of the tavern’s low door and whether the drinkers are still inside. Most places like that keep a set of rotting mattresses in the back room. Easier to get started the next day.
She leaps, leather boots scraping as she lands on the tavern’s roof. From here, she catches a whiff of the River Ost, the water smelling fresher than most days. The rains a few days back must have washed some of the seeping foulness from the sewers upriver, flushing it down in a tide of stench and leaving a cleaner aftermath.
As she slips closer to the final row of buildings along the water, she realizes why she’s come this way. It wasn’t just a chance to get accustomed to the effects of the etch. Nor did she just need time to think.
Hawk’s time in Craghold stole something from him. Rattle spoke of etch revealing the traces of a person’s energy, and Glint mentioned the ability to see the ghost of someone’s passage. To Myrrh, the residue seems to be the echo of a soul.
Maybe if she uses it to examine Hawk, she’ll find a clue about what happened to him.
***
Myrrh stands in the dimly lit corridor outside Hawk’s second-story room in The Oarsman. Dreading what’s inside, she pats her jacket pockets as if she might find some excuse to turn aside. She feels something hard pressing against her right hip, and her brow furrows as she wiggles fingers into the pocket. That’s right. She still carrying the little metal charm she plucked from the lintel above Cobalt’s door. She forgot to mention that to Glint. It seems unlikely to matter; discovering that Cobalt was a thief without superstitions would have been more surprising than finding evidence of them.
But still, since she hasn’t seen the symbol before, it’s worth mentioning next time she and Glint cross paths.
She sighs. It’s really no use delaying this visit. Already, the effects of the etch are dimming. She lays a hand on the cool metal of the latch and squeezes.
The door swings open, granting a view of Hawk’s austere room. Nab’s trail is all over the place inside, pooling at Hawk’s bedside and clinging to the man—Myrrh had no idea the boy has been visiting. Nab’s essence is joined by traces of residue from the serving girls downstairs, probably left when they’ve changed Hawk’s chamber pot and brought him food.
But Hawk’s etching is scarcely visible. What scraps are there are gray and faded, reminding Myrrh of the impression left behind on underlying parchment when a scribe presses a quill to the topmost sheet of a stack. Strangely, Myrrh has the idea that somewhere, Hawk’s spirit is vibrant, leaving a blazing trail across a shadow landscape.
But not here.
As usual, he’s sitting near the window, staring absently through the gap between curtains. Myrrh tries to force her feet to step into the room, but she just can’t do it.
Today, affected by the etch, she just can’t bear to keep up the façade. Backing away from the door, she pulls it shut with a click.
Myrrh fights panic as she hurries downstairs and through The Oarsman’s common room, dashing across the street to find the low wall at the edge of the waterfront. She crouches before it and presses her forehead to the rough stone. Four barges pass, their crew pulling hard at the oars, before she can breathe normally again.
***
The etch has faded. Surrounded only by what her ordinary senses perceive, Myrrh shuffles back into Rat Town’s maze of streets. At least two hours remain before dusk, two hours where she can likely move about safely, so she begins working a circuit through the area where gambling dens and taverns are as thick as the cockroaches in the establishments’ kitchens.
It’s too early for most to be open, but when she stands at the door and knocks long enough, eventually someone answers. She asks about security and whether Ghost syndicate has provided enough muscle to keep the peace. In that regard, her organization has done well. Aside from the violence in The Queen’s Dice a few nights back, there have been just the usual bar fights and accusations of cheating.
She asks about Noble. Since the fight in Sapphire’s gambling house, he and his glimmer-blind associates have been barred from the district’s gaming halls and taverns. A few of the tavernkeepers report that the former Slivers boss and his lieutenants tried to gain entrance the first night of the ban, but not since.
“If you think you have enough blades on hand to contain a brawl, let them in if they try again. Send a message to the Roost. Tell Rikson to fetch me. It doesn’t matter what time it is.”
Despite skeptical glances, the proprietors agree. By the time dusk approaches, Myrrh arrives at Rikson’s Roost satisfied with her progress. With good fortune, her evening meeting with the Ghost council will proceed smoothly; she wants to be home before full dark.
Chapter Fourteen
FOUR GRIM FACES look up from the circular table in Rikson’s back room. Something’s obviously wrong.
Myrrh stops short before reaching her chair. “What? What is it?”
Toad blinks his watery blue eyes. “Rikson’s wife was badly injured. Yesterday morning.”
Her pulse speeds. The others stare at her as if waiting for an explanation. Or maybe as if to blame her. But why?
As she resumes heading for her chair, there’s a decided chilliness to their stares. Myrrh’s thoughts race. Is it because she hasn’t done more about Noble? Do they think Hetty Rikson’s injuries are relate
d to Cobalt’s death?
“Before we talk more, I just wanted to check: You did get my message last night, right? I was detained in Lower Fringe.”
“We did,” Carver says in a flat voice. The big man seems to take up even more space than usual, perhaps due to the frustration that radiates from him.
Myrrh remains standing, hands gripping the back of her chair. “All right. Out with it. You blame me for her injuries?”
Warrell’s chest swells as he inhales. “It’s not that, Myrrh. We’re angry because we knew what happened by late last night, but we haven’t done anything about it. We can’t agree on how best to retaliate, mostly because we’re used to following your lead.”
She slides out her chair and sits, accidentally knocking a shoulder against the dangling candle lantern and setting it swinging. The light shifts wildly over the walls until Ivy reaches up and stills the lamp.
“Wait…retaliate? Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Myrrh says, her thoughts flashing to an image of Hetty Rikson, a gentle woman with an easy smile. Though the Roost is a customary haunt of cutpurses and schemers, the Riksons are honest people just trying to earn a living. Who would possibly want to harm Hetty?
Toad folds one long-fingered hand over the other. “Mrs. Rikson left yesterday morning with a handcart full of linens to deliver to a laundry near the border of In Betweens. She should have arrived late morning and returned back here in the early afternoon.”
“But she didn’t…?”
He shakes his head. “Yes and no. She arrived at the laundry, but she’d been beaten.”
“Beaten? Really?” Myrrh sits up straight, her chair teetering back with the sudden shift.
“A nasty knock on the head. When we finally talked to the laundress”—Toad swallows what appears to be a lump of regret—“the woman said she helped Hetty put a compress over the gash where her forehead was split open. Hetty was speaking and seemed alert. She said she’d been confronted by gang members from Haven who wanted a toll for passage down the street near the laundry.”
Ruler of Scoundrels (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 2) Page 9