The residue surrounding him reminds her of wasp nests and the puffball mushrooms that sometimes pop up in the Spills. The buzzing in her skull is the low hum of a dragonfly’s wings. There’s a faint scent of autumn wind about him. None of these perceptions seem to connect to the man himself, no more than Rattle seemed suited to the smell of cloves. But she’s certain she can recognize Hemlock’s trail now.
As for his face, it’s more striking than most thieves’, lacking the scars and permanent scowls of so many of his peers. The glimmer shows deep in his gaze, flashing silver like a cat’s in the night. If she didn’t know he was Noble’s associate, she might have made the mistake of judging him as a man of integrity based on his appearance.
“I hear your boss is offering a bounty on my head,” she says.
Any response he might have offered is delayed when a young woman approaches, worrying at the hem of her apron. She tiptoes close to Myrrh, edging around the men as if to stay out of arm’s reach.
“You must be Francie,” Myrrh says.
The barmaid nods. “Can I get you something, Mistress Myrrh?”
Myrrh rises far enough out of her chair to peer into the men’s mugs. “Could I buy you gentlemen a round?”
Hemlock takes his eyes off her long enough to turn his head toward Francie. He winces as the light from a nearby lantern sneaks under his hat brim. “Please bring Myrrh an ale on my tab. We’ve intruded on her turf. It’s the least I can do.”
His face betrays no emotion as Francie bobs a little curtsy. “And for you, sires?”
Hemlock shakes his head. “Perhaps later.”
The young woman is obviously relieved at the dismissal and hurries off. Myrrh shifts in her seat, checking that her people are still looming and ready to strike. She’s walking a narrow bridge right now, and a bottomless chasm of malice lies on either side.
“There’s no point in denying Noble’s intents toward you,” Hemlock says. “Nor mine. I doubt you can truly understand the depth of my rage without facing the same circumstances. Unlike many criminals, I once enjoyed sunlit afternoons and the glow of a fine chandelier.”
“I could have had you killed as you left Maire’s Quarter that night. Instead, I kept my word and let you walk out untouched. But I couldn’t leave you whole, either. Even glimmer-blind, you’re a threat.”
“You assume much to think an ambush at the exit from Maire’s Quarter would have been successful. Noble is not the trusting sort. We were prepared to be double-crossed. Of course, he obviously underestimated your inventiveness in this regard.”
“Speaking of unsuccessful ambushes, I assume your group was responsible for my abduction attempt a fortnight or so ago.”
“Your marksman surprised us with his stealth and skill.”
His. The man’s use of the male pronoun proves they caught no glimpse of Mink.
“Is that failure the reason we haven’t had any sign of you since?”
Francie returns with Myrrh’s ale and deposits it on the table, whipping her arm back as if the mug turned venomous the moment it shared a table with the Slivers men. She scurries off.
“Just because we haven’t appeared openly doesn’t mean we aren’t watching you. We lost good people to your hidden marksman, and now you move about with much more formidable defenses. That’s why I’m here.”
Myrrh considers taking a drink of her ale but thinks better of it. “You’d like to politely request I reduce the number of armed men and women who guard me? A bold tactic.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Annoyance? Amusement? Myrrh has no idea.
“Noble has a proposal. Here’s the thing: given your increased security, it’s clear we won’t be able to take you without suffering losses. We are prepared for that if needs demand, but our fledgling organization has few good thieves and ruffians as it stands.”
“Again, this sounds as if you’re asking me to reduce my guard.”
“I’m asking for your surrender.”
She snorts. “Even better.”
“You see, despite our smaller numbers, we actually have the advantage. You don’t know when or where we’ll strike. Will we lure you out by abducting honest residents of this slum one by one? Will we strike next time you return home after a midnight meeting with the one-eyed stranger, killing half your men before the others close ranks and drag you to cover? Will we send a pretty young associate to get work as a serving girl for The Oarsman? At this point, I’m not sure your beloved Hawk would fight back if one of the girls laid a blade against his throat. He certainly wouldn’t warn you about a dagger-wielding intruder as you pushed through the door for another of your visits.”
Myrrh keeps her face even as he pauses and leans forward, but her pulse is roaring in her ears.
“However we decide to capture you—or to be honest, straight-out kill you if we must—people you care for will be hurt. Probably killed. Or you can give yourself up. Noble will step back in and reclaim the district. Members of your syndicate will be incorporated into our organization if they choose to remain. No hard feelings—they won’t be punished. Life will just go back to the way it was. With a bit more syndicate take going to the leadership to account for our new hardships.”
Finally, Myrrh lifts her mug and takes a swallow of ale. She’s chilled to know how much they’ve been watching her. But if it were as easy to get to her as he makes it sound, they would have done it by now.
“You will never have Rat Town back,” she says.
Hemlock narrows his silvery eyes. “I’m looking forward to watching you die slowly. We’ll start by removing your eyes, I think.”
“All the more reason for me to reject Noble’s little proposal. I’ve done well avoiding your clutches so far. In fact, the only reason any of you are still walking around is that your crew has been less of a nuisance than I first imagined you might be.”
One of the underlings shifts, moving slightly toward her. Myrrh’s men react instantly, blades fleeing their sheaths. The thug smirks and continues his reach for his mostly empty mug of ale.
“Something’s puzzling me,” she says after the man drinks and returns his mug to the table. “Is your life so bleak now that you no longer care to preserve it? Otherwise why come into my territory with just three”—she cocks her head as she peers at one of the thugs—“cut-rate bullies to protect you?”
None of the thugs rise to the bait, but she spots an angry tic in one’s eyelid.
“Suffice to say I’m not concerned for my safety at this time.”
“I’m not sure if that’s due to arrogance or ignorance, but if you ask nicely, I’ll let you leave tonight without getting hurt. Call it a gesture of good faith. Proof that if you were to walk away from Rat Town in the same peaceable manner, we’ll gladly let you pass the borders unharmed.”
“So I take it you officially refuse the request for surrender?” he says.
“I thought that was obvious.”
Hemlock leans back and tugs his hat brim lower. It’s some sort of signal.
Across the street, the front wall of a building explodes into flame, the sudden flare turning the tavern’s windows into squares of brilliant orange.
One of her guards reaches around the nearest underling and yanks Myrrh away as another goon pulls his hands from beneath the table, knives flashing. Her guards close around her as shouts fill the bar. The front door flies open, and one of her sentries staggers in, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.
“Get her out of here,” he yells.
Myrrh shouts in protest as Warrell’s squad starts dragging her away, their bodies shielding her from Hemlock and his underlings. The floorboards shake as they run for the back room. Through the windows, she glimpses shadows running back and forth before the burning building.
Meanwhile, Hemlock stands in the center of the chaos filling the tavern, hat hiding everything but the cruel smile that twists his lips. She kicks her feet, trying to escape her own
men, as he calmly walks through the door and out into the night.
Chapter Eighteen
RUNNING FEET POUND the planks laid over the thick mud in the alley behind the Oaken Keg. From inside the circle of bodies guarding her, Myrrh glimpses frightened eyes, dirty faces, mothers carrying wailing children away on their hips.
Men and women are shouting for buckets and water. Jostled by her guards as they push against the flow of fleeing people, Myrrh tries to break through the wall of bodies. It’s no use. The alley’s narrow, no more than an outdoor hallway. Her defenders are packed around her like cigars in a tin.
When they reach the street, she sees the flames leaping high over Rat Town, licking the bottoms of the low clouds that hang over the district. Already, the burning building is hollow, blackened timbers a skeleton around the roaring fire. Choking black smoke pours from windows in the next building over. People stagger out the doors at street level and scramble out of second-story windows, lowering their bodies with hands clutching the sills until they finally let go and drop to the cobblestones. Most limp and stagger when they rise. Some must crawl away.
A family races past Myrrh’s group, hands clutched tight, the youngest child carrying a rag doll.
Myrrh’s eyes return to the spitting, roaring blaze. A fire like this could destroy the whole district.
Right now, Hemlock doesn’t matter. She can pick up his trail another time. It takes two days for an etching to fade completely.
Her guards start moving again, but Myrrh stops dead as they try to shepherd her toward the safe house.
“We need to organize the syndicate and get them helping with the bucket brigade!” she yells. “Split up now and rouse everyone you can think of.”
Warrell steps to face her, his expression hard. “That’s what Noble wants.”
“If we don’t get this contained, the whole sixing district will burn!”
He crosses his arms. “I’ll send two men to start organizing the syndicate. The rest of us will escort you home.”
“But—”
“No buts. Hemlock admitted that your security has deterred more attempts at your capture. This chaos is the perfect chance to take you down. It’s probably the whole reason they set the blaze.”
One of the other thieves, the sentry whose head was gashed, nods grimly. “They had a plan all along. I caught a woman dressed as a beggar soaking the building’s siding with liquor. When I tried to stop her, two men jumped to me.”
Myrrh tries to shove past Warrell. It’s like trying to push a building onto its side. “I don’t care if they planned this! I can’t just hide while Rat Town burns.”
“If you want to help rebuild what we lose, you will,” Warrell says. His flat voice is intended to shut down arguments. In the time they’ve worked together for Ghost syndicate, this is the most assertive she’s seen him.
Sparks leap higher and higher, setting the underbelly of the clouds aglow. Standing between her and the blaze, Warrell is wreathed in light and smoke, and blocking the heat with his body. A trickle of sweat slips down his cheek.
Unfortunately, the man is right.
Myrrh makes fists of her hands. “We run then. As fast as we can safely move. I want you back helping fight this fire in minutes.”
Warrell nods and taps two of the men on the shoulder. He jabs his thumb toward Rikson’s Roost and the other customary haunts of syndicate members. “Gather as many people as you can,” he says.
As they dash off, the others quickly form up, surrounding Myrrh. Together, they set off at a run for the safe house.
***
The effects of the etch are fading already. Still, enough lingers that she can tell Nab hasn’t returned. She wrenches her eyes from his closed door and turns to Graves and Piebald. Here, sheltered from the outside air, she can smell the stale smoke on her clothing.
“Noble may come at us before dawn. Be ready. And if the blaze turns this way, be prepared to move.”
At the edges of the main room, in the little antechamber they use as a parlor, and in the open door to the kitchen, thieves straighten and blink the drowsiness from their eyes. Graves and Piebald survey the guards as they check their own weapons.
Wearily, Myrrh climbs the stairs.
The window in her room faces south, toward the fire. Rooftops are black teeth silhouetted by the wide glow. The blaze is spreading toward the water but not in the other direction. Maybe the brave people of Rat Town have focused their efforts on the inland aspects, preventing it from eating deeper into the district.
Still, at least three blocks have burned already. She shakes her head, thinking of all those structures people couldn’t afford to build in the first place.
Worse than the lost buildings, though, are the lost lives. Ahead of the blaze, most people have likely fled. But the unfortunate inhabitants of those early buildings, especially the first…not a chance.
Noble and his gang don’t care who gets hurt or killed. Their only concerns are power, revenge, and wealth. Hemlock threatened to harm innocents until she gives up. Clearly he won’t hesitate to make good on that promise. Or to use Hawk to get to her.
She simply can’t wait anymore, searching for Noble’s nest at her leisure. Rooting out his gang has now become Ghost syndicate’s most important task.
She closes her eyes, chest aching. Even more important than finding Nab.
Come to think of it, with all Hemlock’s threats, could he be behind the boy’s disappearance? She shakes her head. Probably not. If it were Hemlock’s and Noble’s doing, the Slivers thief would likely have used that information against her tonight. Besides, the sight of that trinket pegged to Nab’s door frame keeps returning to her mind and bringing with it images of Cobalt’s dead body. Myrrh freelanced for the Slivers syndicate for years without seeing that symbol. There are missing connections in the puzzle.
Myrrh’s head spins as the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten. For a few breaths, it’s all too much. She braces her hands against the wall, worried she might drown beneath the strain.
When the dizziness passes, she closes the window shutters and replaces the bar she had installed after Glint’s antics with the latch. The angry glow from the fire and a faint hint of smoke still press through the crack. She runs a finger along the edge of the gap, fighting a wave of guilt for being locked up safe while people are losing their homes.
Tomorrow, Ghost syndicate will hunt for Nab and Hemlock. Perhaps the worst part of the plan is that she must leave the search for Nab to the others. She’s the only person who can trail Hemlock. None of her people even know how because she’s told no one but Glint about the etch.
That’s another task for tomorrow, choosing a few thieves to trust with that secret. If nothing else, those she chooses will know why she’s abandoning Nab. It seems important that she’s not alone in that knowledge.
Myrrh pulls the room’s chair in front of the window and sits. She leans her head back against the cushion and watches the firelight dance along the crack between the shutters. Time slips past, and eventually, gray predawn light joins the angry glow. Not long after, scattered raindrops patter on the roof overhead.
And then, the skies open. She opens the shutters to watch the deluge smother the fire.
Chapter Nineteen
MYRRH’S BOOTS SCUFF against the cinder-strewn cobblestones as she walks silently through the ruins of another block. Wet ash clings to her boots and splatters her pants up to the knees. It’s still drizzling, the falling mist hazing the view and pulling the smoke and ash from the air. Water gathers in murky pools or—on the few streets that boast gutters—runs toward the Ost.
Where the buildings stood, it’s still too hot to walk. People sit beside the remains of the bunkhouses and tenements where they once lived, waiting for the steam to stop rising. Myrrh doubts they’ll be able to pluck much from the wreckage, but until they know, they can still hope.
Hemlock’s trail was right where s
he’d hoped to find it outside the Oaken Keg. The tavern survived with just some charred siding and a few holes eaten through the roof shingles. As Myrrh suspected last night, the people of Rat Town focused on the inland edge of the blaze first, figuring that the River Ost would serve as a barrier to the fire’s eastern march.
Hemlock seemed to have come and gone from the tavern by the same route: a right turn outside the door followed by a quick bend toward the river. From there, the etching climbed a wooden ladder tacked to a building. Myrrh followed it across rooftops, down through alleys, and even through a building’s front door and out the back until, suddenly, it crossed a main street and plunged into the still-smoking remains from the blaze. He must have cut in front of the fire’s path. Unfortunately, Myrrh’s only hope is to skirt the hot regions and try to pick up the trail on the other side.
She pauses beside a pair of children who huddle together.
“Are your parents missing?” she asks.
The little girl shrinks into the boy. “Don’t got none.”
“Do you live here?”
“Did. They let us stay in the cellar around back.”
Long ago, Myrrh remembers being asked similar questions. She also remembers the mistress of the orphanage slapping her wrist and telling her she should never admit the truth. Too many people prey on children who have no one to look out for them.
Did these children never learn that lesson? Or has the shock of the fire stolen their smarts?
A fortnight past, she would have sent them to Hetty Rikson for a hot meal and a bed for a while. Now, Myrrh doesn’t know what to offer. Helping them herself would only endanger the pair. Until Noble is dealt with, no one Myrrh brings close is safe.
She touches Warrell on the shoulder. The big man wasn’t paying attention to her conversation; his eyes were fixed on the street ahead, watching for threats. Or perhaps wondering what information the etch brings to her senses. He handled her confession well. Didn’t complain that she’d kept Rattle’s offer to herself. But he’s been more reserved than usual since.
Ruler of Scoundrels (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 2) Page 12