Ruler of Scoundrels (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 2)

by Carrie Summers

  “Where’s the closest orphanage?” she asks.

  Warrell shakes his head, seeming to notice the children for the first time. “Last one shut down a couple years back I hear.”

  “Can you think of anyone who can take these two in for a while?”

  The orphans stare up at her with wide eyes, the boy wrapping an arm protectively around his sister.

  Warrell blinks and sucks his teeth while he considers. “Ivy maybe.”

  Myrrh nods. Not that the other woman doesn’t already have plenty of responsibility with her own children. She won’t be able to provide for these two for long. But they can’t just remain here in the rain.

  What happened to the district’s orphanages to shut them down? Did Slivers stop supporting them? Did they ever lend funds in the first place? Myrrh was kicked out to make room for younger kids when she turned eight, the age when the mistress decided Rat Town urchins could fend for themselves. After that, she didn’t pay much attention to the situation for orphans in the district.

  As long as Ghost syndicate has funds coming in from its members, they ought to be able to afford to donate some to a home for Rat Town’s youngest. She can probably explain the charity to the members as a chance to reduce competition from up-and-coming thieves…set them on a path to honest work that won’t interfere with anyone’s scores.

  But like so many other things, that’s a problem for later.

  She crouches in front of the pair and pulls a small handful of coppers from her coin purse. A bigger sum would just make them a target.

  “Do you know where Rikson’s Roost is?” she asks.

  The girl seems to have lost her tongue, but the boy nods. Despite the coins in Myrrh’s outstretched palm, he glares at her with wary eyes.

  “Take the money,” Myrrh says, sliding her hand closer.

  Finally, the girl snatches the coins and tucks them into a fold of her grimy dress.

  “Go to Rikson’s Roost and get yourselves a meal.”

  “We gotta wait to see if all our stuff burned,” the boy says, chin raised as if to dare her to demean his meager possessions.

  Myrrh drops off her heels and takes a cross-legged seat on the filthy street. “I know you probably had some nice things. Worked hard for them too. But this kind of fire doesn’t leave stuff behind. Your sister is cold, and you need a place to sleep for a while. I want you to stay at the Roost until evening. A woman will be there later on. White hair but with a young face. Tell her Myrrh asked her to help you.”

  The boy’s hands ball into little fists. “We don’t need no grown-up help. I’ll keep Nellie warm.”

  “It’s hard to accept help. I know as well as anyone. But Nellie here could use a bowl of hot lamb stew, don’t you think?”

  The girl swallows and nods, quick as a bird taking a drink.

  Aside from Warrell, three other thieves are accompanying Myrrh on her search. From the crunch of boots on the cinders, she can tell they’re getting impatient. And she’s pretty sure the boy will see reason, as long as he doesn’t have to admit to accepting charity in front of all these grown men.

  She stands and smooths the girl’s tangled hair before starting forward. As she steps away, the girl starts whispering to her brother, no doubt angling to get herself that lamb stew.

  The burn scar is about two blocks wide and ten long. As it turned out, the rain stopped the progress before the river had a chance, but it was close. Just a couple more blocks. As Myrrh walks the perimeter, searching through the etchings left by hundreds of Rat Towners over the past couple days, she peers into the ruins as well. The streets that cross through the scar are blackened and nearly as debris-filled as the jumbled char piled over the building foundations. No doubt the mess hides many more etchings, Hemlock’s among them. But unless he died in the blaze, his trail will have to exit the scar somewhere.

  Along the water edge of the burn, she covers the distance twice to make sure she’s not missing anything. The first section of Hemlock’s trail headed toward the river, making this the most likely exit. But among dozens of etchings that remind her of everything from blooming roses to unwashed linens, there’s no sign of Hemlock’s residue.

  Reluctantly, she heads to the far corner and prepares to turn inland when her breath seizes in her chest.

  A half-block north, Nab’s trail crosses the street. His etching is unmistakable, the dusty mouse nest, all straw and husks of grass seed and tight spaces. Unmistakable, but faint. Unlike most of the tangled etchings laid down by people fleeing and fighting the fire, Nab’s is scarcely more than a tingle in her awareness. A limb that’s mostly asleep and will soon be completely numb.

  By tonight—or possibly even by noon—the trace will be gone.

  Warrell gives a questioning grunt as Myrrh stands and blinks. After this dose, she has just one more opportunity to use the etch. If she abandons her search for Hemlock’s trail, it may fade before she gets another chance to follow it.

  But Nab’s will certainly fade. He’s been missing for days, and he’s possibly the target of a mysterious assassin. If she doesn’t follow him now, she may live in regret for the rest of her life.

  Hemlock and Noble and their gang won’t leave Rat Town until they’re either dead or they’ve been chased away. Even if this trail fades, Hemlock will probably creep from their den and leave another etching soon.

  Nab, on the other hand, may already be gone.

  “It’s Nab. He was there yesterday or the day before.” She points toward the trail. After crossing the street, it slips into an alley that heads for the river.

  “Why do you say that, Mistress Myrrh?” asks one of her escorts. He’s a young man, early twenties. Moderately handsome but with a frustrating habit of never looking at someone when he speaks. Goes by Otter if she remembers right.

  Warrell looks at her expectantly, clearly wondering if she’s going to spill her secret to the other thieves helping her search. In truth, she’s not totally sure why she’s kept her discussions with Rattle from the rest of the syndicate. She told herself she didn’t want Rattle getting too chummy with the other thieves. If they knew he had these so-called resources, they might have lost their natural wariness in their eagerness to acquire some. And since Myrrh still hadn’t made up her mind about the man—still hasn’t, for that matter—she didn’t want her people to form contrary opinions.

  But maybe she just wanted some secrets of her own. Maybe they made her feel more qualified to be a crime boss.

  Either way, the people with her deserve a little more information.

  “Let’s just say I have access to a particular substance that lets me track someone long after they’ve passed.”

  The young thief grins, still looking to the side of her face. It’s awfully disconcerting, but quirks aren’t uncommon among grubbers. In many cases, the idiosyncrasies are half the reason they’ve chosen the freelance life. Easier to work alone when you’re peculiar. “I was wondering how you figured on chasing down that Slivers thug. Thought you might be kidding yourself, if you don’t mind me saying, Mistress.”

  “I don’t mind you saying, no. But I’d appreciate you keeping the information to yourself.”

  He shrugs and shifts his gaze to the other side of her face. Maybe he just likes to look at ears. “Will do.”

  “That goes for the rest of you too,” Warrell says, looking like he’s about to cuff someone around the ears to make a point. He turns his attention back to Myrrh. “About the trails, it’s a tough choice.”

  She nods, glad he sees the dilemma. As she glances down the street and focuses on Nab’s etching, the phantom sound of little mouse claws scratches at the base of her skull.

  Finally, she draws herself up straight. “We have to follow Nab. There’s another threat in the city. Maybe even bigger than Noble, and something I found in Nab’s room makes me think he may know something about it.”

  As far as excuses go, it’s a pretty good one.
/>   Chapter Twenty

  PROGRESS IS SLOW. Nab’s trail is fainter in some areas, maybe because he was moving fast or had little interest in his surroundings. Between the burned blocks and the waterfront, she has to double back three times to find where she lost the track.

  In other places, though, the residue is thicker, pooling where he must’ve stopped to watch a barge slide down the river. There’s a lake of Nab essence outside a waterfront bakery.

  The trail heads upriver for about half the length of the Rat Town waterfront. Though the shouts of bargemen reach her ears, and the rain grows heavier again, hissing as it falls on the river and cobblestones, she still hears the clicking of little rodent claws, feels them scratching inside her skull when she’s right atop the etching.

  But the sensations are fading, the etch slowly draining from her body. When the trail seems to stop at a ladder that leads down to a section of First Docks, Myrrh thinks she’s reached another thin section and walks on past. Three blocks later, she’s caught no more hints of Nab’s passage.

  With a sigh, she turns back for the ladder.

  “Myrrh?” Warrell asks.

  She shakes her head. “Running out of time. We can talk later.”

  The iron rungs of the ladder are cold and slick under her hands, and the dock bounces lightly when she hops down onto it. Wet wood softens her footsteps as she paces back and forth along the platform, searching for traces of Nab’s etching. Warrell climbs down to join her while the other three thieves stand watch up top.

  This section of dock is large enough for three barges to tie up, but only two are currently taking advantage of the cleats. From the downriver edge of the platform, an unsteady plank bridge extends to the next dock. Myrrh’s contemplating setting foot on it when a man emerges from the captain’s cabin on the closer of the two barges.

  His eyes travel from her to Warrell and then up to the three unsavory-looking men encircling the ladder. He reaches back into his cabin and comes up with a leather belt and sheathed dagger.

  “Can I help you?” he asks as he quickly buckles on his weapon. He must know he wouldn’t stand a chance against a band of five trained rogues, but it’s probably a matter of principle for him. Better to do something than simply stand by while being robbed.

  Myrrh isn’t in the mood to try to reassure him. “I’m looking for a boy. He’s ten or eleven, but he tries to act older.”

  “What did he do? Cheat you at cards?”

  She has to give the man credit. He doesn’t cower like most would.

  “He’s my…” He’s her what? Adopted kid brother? “I look out for him. Try to keep him out of trouble.”

  The captain’s face softens. Reaching into his cabin again, he pulls out an oiled-leather cloak and drapes it over his head and shoulders to keep off the rain.

  “Well in that case, I thought I saw a kid talking to Bruno a couple days back.”

  “Who’s Bruno?”

  The man nods toward the other barge, which she now notices is rather dilapidated. She raises an eyebrow.

  “He makes a couple trips a week, ferrying kegs of Rat Town ale upriver to Averton. That’s the nearest town—”

  “I know where Averton is.”

  He shrugs. “Okay, well, he takes ale to Averton and comes back with the empties plus a heap of rubbish from the Fifths and Maire’s Quarter. Dumps it south of First Bridge then heads back here to tie up and drink for a couple days.”

  “He aboard?”

  The man climbs over his vessel’s rail. “I assume so.”

  He stomps across the dock, drags an oar off the deck of Bruno’s vessel, and uses it to knock on the wall of the cabin. The splintering wood shivers as something, likely the meaty side of a fist, thumps against the inside wall in acknowledgment. After a moment, the door swings open, and a thickly bearded man steps out.

  He manages to include everyone in sight with his glare. “What?”

  The first captain pushes the oar back over the rail. Bruno watches the paddle clatter to the deck but doesn’t seem bothered by the man using it as a door knocker.

  “You were talking to a kid a couple days back, right?” the first captain asks.

  Bruno shrugs. “Sure”—he glares at Myrrh’s thieves once again—“but it wasn’t the sort of conversation to concern your type.”

  “The lady’s looking for him. Says she takes care of him.”

  Bruno hawks and spits over the rail. “Not doing a very good job then, is she?”

  Myrrh clasps her hands behind her back to hide her irritation. “What did you talk about?”

  “The kid said he wanted a ride up to East Fifth. Said he would pull an oar to earn it, and I felt so sorry for laughing at him that I let him on for free.”

  “East Fifth? Why?”

  “He was going on about how he has skills but doesn’t get to exercise them and how he thought he might have better prospects elsewhere in the city. Said he planned to look for work starting at the top.”

  A wave of relief takes the strength from Myrrh’s legs, and she sags against the masonry of the river channel’s wall. Nab wasn’t kidnapped. He was just annoyed because she tries too hard to protect him. And maybe because she told him he couldn’t steal from local bakeries.

  He was alive two days ago, and given the existence of a reasonable explanation for his absence, she doubts he’s met an untimely end since. He’s probably being chased from a wealthy neighborhood or laughed out of a rival syndicate’s favorite tavern right now. The trinket from his doorjamb still worries her, but maybe he’s actually safer away from his bedroom.

  Myrrh’s certain Nab won’t find better prospects outside of Rat Town. He’ll be back, probably trying to act like he never left.

  And in the meantime…

  Now Myrrh’s got to deal with the fact that she just wasted her second dose of etch searching for a runaway kid who doesn’t want to be found.

  She’s got one chance left to track down Noble and his crew. If she doesn’t, last night’s fire may seem like a cheery little blaze.

  ***

  When she returns to the safe house, Graves and Piebald have handed off sentry duty to Precious and a woman named Lavender. The group of thieves who live elsewhere but take shifts guarding Myrrh’s residence have rotated out as well, giving up their posts to people who look nearly as weary as Myrrh feels. The smells of smoke and wet ash cling to them, proof that her gang of thieves and ruffians is far different than the Slivers syndicate who apparently didn’t think twice about setting fire to their neighbors’ homes.

  “Got a message for you, Mistress,” Precious says.

  Unease squirms in her belly. After the last day and night, she doesn’t want any more news.

  “It’s from your friend Glint. He says he was officially appointed, whatever that means. Also, he wanted to extend an open invitation for you to visit him at a set of rooms he’s renting in Maire’s Quarter. Three doors away from where you last dined together in the Quarter.” At this point, Precious blushes furiously. “He said he’d love your company for another meal, but if you’re short on time, you could go straight to examining his new sleeping quarters.”

  Myrrh has to turn aside to keep the heat in her cheeks from showing. She can’t help but think about how he acted when he was drunk, and how sometimes liquor brings out deeper emotions. He’s a shameless flirt and no stranger to women, but even with all the problems plaguing her and Ghost syndicate, her thoughts keep returning to his maudlin sentimentality, the plea to run away together, and the kiss she cut short. The appointment he spoke of in the message must be his—or rather, Merchant Giller’s—official appointment to the city council. If the wedge pushing them apart is their control of rival syndicates, the council’s vote just drove it deeper.

  She sighs. Well, at least the message wasn’t word of another murder.

  “I’m going to rest for a couple hours. Can you or your replacement please wake me by noon? I�
�ve asked some people to meet me at the Roost early this afternoon.”

  “Sure thing, Mistress.”

  She gives a last look at Nab’s door as she climbs the stairs. Speaking of annoying males, she needs a plan for dealing with the little flea when he returns. Maybe involving leg irons and a stack of reading primers taller than his head.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “A WHILE AGO, I asked you four to keep watch for Rattle. I mentioned his interest in Ghost syndicate and said I wanted to know whether he could be trusted. I still don’t know if that’s true.”

  Myrrh sits in the back room of the Roost with the former members of her council. In a moment, they will open the door and allow in nearly thirty additional thieves and killers, packing the room with the best brawlers, blademasters, spies, and sneaks the syndicate can field. But first, she wants her closest allies to know everything.

  “Rattle gave me access to a substance called etch. I explained the effects to Warrell this morning.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Ivy says. “Let’s you follow phantoms.”

  “Sort of. For around two days after someone passes through an area, their trail can be sensed by someone using etch. But only if the tracker knows to connect the particular trail to the person. The reason I met with Hemlock last night was so I could learn to recognize signs of his passage. Obviously, the meeting didn’t go as I hoped.”

  Grim expressions harden her friends’ faces at the reminder of last night’s tragedy. Over the course of the day, Abe Rikson has been shifting back and forth between collecting names of missing people and caring for his ailing wife. So far, his list of the missing is nearing forty people long. Maybe some of them will be found over the next days, but it seems likely that most are dead.

  Killed by Noble’s crew.

  Myrrh has often turned a blind eye to the violence that seethes in the city’s underworld. As a freelance thief, she took jobs where the only damage was to the coffers of merchants and traders who had more wealth than they could spend in dozens of lifetimes, and who’d earned it just as dishonestly as she relieved them of it. She’s seen plenty of terrible damage done, but it has almost always been the poor denizens of Rat Town suffering at the hands of the Shield Watch or the Maire’s personal guard.