Ruler of Scoundrels

by Carrie Summers

  Myrrh rolls her eyes. “You understand you’re going to owe me a massive favor, right? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE FRONT OF the boutique boasts enormous pane-glass windows so precisely made that the light passing through them scarcely wavers. Around two dozen gowns stand on wooden forms in the store’s showroom. They range from sleek to billowing with colors from deep blue to blood red to a pale-yellow thing that reminds Myrrh of moldy cheese.

  She isn’t going to be able to try anything on; the shop’s owner already proved that when Myrrh tried to browse the selection weeks ago. And from her vantage across the street where she’s sipping coffee out of a tin cup she has to return before leaving the coffee cart, she can’t tell what types of closures the dresses have. Myrrh really doesn’t want something that fastens up the back. Glint’s cook, Bernard, is nice enough, but the idea of his garlic-scented fingers fumbling at her buttons is unpleasant.

  Absently, she presses her fingertips against the jade-and-emerald pendant resting beneath her tunic. Something that matches her necklace would be nice. Her boots on the other hand…she looks down, grimacing at the scuffed toes—either she needs a gown that drags the floor, or she had better make off with fresh footwear when she snags the dress.

  She tips back the last swallow of coffee, scalding her throat a bit, then returns the cup to the vendor. With casual strides, she crosses the street and passes in front of the boutique’s window. There: in the back corner of the shop, she spies a velvet gown the color of emeralds. As best she can tell, it’s cut for a slim build. She can’t see the buttons, but she’ll just have to hope.

  She keeps a steady pace until she reaches the end of the block, then stops and turns her head as if trying to find her way through the streets. But really, she’s checking for guards. The shopkeeper doesn’t seem to have hired anyone, and after a moment, she realizes why. Two blocks farther down the street, a member of the Shield Watch leans against the square-cut cornerstones of a bank. He looks really bored. And since he hasn’t perked up despite her arrival in a hooded cloak and soft leather boots, she guesses the tumult in Maire’s Quarter has made him lazy too.

  Myrrh’s initial plan involved building some sort of fire in the alley and raising the alarm, the old distract-and-grab gambit. But with the guard so close, it will be better to do this quietly.

  She turns the corner and follows a cross street until she intersects the alley that runs behind the shop. After glancing both ways, she slips down the narrow passage and starts counting doorways as she advances. The shop was fourth from the corner; she stops at its back door. It’s locked, but not barred. She slips a pair of lock picks from a pouch in her sleeve and starts fishing inside the lock mechanism. A few breaths later, she’s rewarded with a satisfying click. She creeps inside.

  “Hullo,” she says loudly, leaning a hip against the merchant’s counter. The woman is currently in the front of the shop, fussing with tiers of fabric that waterfall down the voluminous skirt of a dress cut for a large woman.

  The owner whirls with a squeak, hands flying to her breast.

  Myrrh draws her dagger and starts using it to clean her fingernails. “You probably don’t remember me, but I haven’t been able to forget your fine assortment of gowns.”

  The shopkeeper jumps for the door, no doubt planning to scream for help from the Shield. Myrrh beats her there with three long-legged strides. She slaps her palm against the wood, leans down and picks up the bar, then drops it into place.

  “I thought you might have advice on which of these gowns is most suited to my build,” Myrrh continues.

  The woman stammers, eyes flitting between Myrrh’s dagger and her face. “I don’t keep coin here. It goes to the bank each night.”

  Myrrh cocks her head. “Am I slurring? I’m looking for fashion advice, not the contents of your safe. Or is it…?” She pauses, taps a finger on her lip. “I remember a little better now. Last time I was here, you asked me to leave. You claimed you didn’t cater to street rats. It must have been another shop where they were kind enough to help me.”

  The woman backs away, running into one of the dress forms and knocking it over. She blinks furiously as if enough attempts will erase the sight of Myrrh and her drawn weapon.

  Myrrh sighs and steps closer. She did promise Glint she would get back soon, and she’s never enjoyed tormenting people. She only needed to herd the woman away from the windows. With a glance back toward the street, she verifies that the forest of gowns now hides them from sight. Lunging forward, she flips her dagger and knocks the hilt against the woman’s temple.

  The woman’s eyes roll, but she doesn’t quite collapse. Slipping behind her, Myrrh wraps an arm around her throat and squeezes. That does the trick. The woman’s knees buckle, and Myrrh lowers her to the floor.

  The shopkeeper won’t remain unconscious for long. Hurriedly, Myrrh yanks the emerald dress from its display form. A row of dress boots stands along the back wall of the room. She grabs a pair as she races past.

  Back in the alley, she unties a rope that fastens a square of canvas over a stack of empty pallets. Wrapping the dress and boots in the heavy cloth, she slings it over her shoulder and sets off at a brisk walk for Glint’s residence.

  ***

  Sixing pox.

  The dress closes in the back. Not with buttons, though. It’s obnoxious in a different way than the gown Lavi bought her when she was a prisoner-guest of Glint’s. This particular dress has annoying little hooks. And it’s snug enough over her rib cage that she can’t possibly contort her arms to reach all of them. Especially with the nasty bruise where the thug punched her last night. She didn’t bother to think about that while choosing a gown, but fortunately the velvet sides are high enough to cover it. The neckline, however…whoever made this particular garment wasn’t concerned with propriety. Her necklace’s pendant hangs a full hand’s length above the point where the plunging sides finally meet. Myrrh’s surprised her belly button doesn’t show.

  In any case, Bernard is apparently as dismayed at the situation with her dress closure as she is. Brows in a worried steeple over his red nose, he casts a pleading glance at Tep, the servant boy.

  “Oh fine,” the kid says. “I’ll tell Glint you have a question about the menu.”

  Bernard mops his brow in relief.

  While Tep is out in the dining room, Myrrh shuffles over to the wall—how do most women get around in these sausage casings?—and pulls down a silver serving platter. As far as mirrors go, it’s barely serviceable. But given what she can see of the state of her hair, maybe that’s a good thing.

  She’s dragging fingers through her tangles, trying to work out the worst of the snarls when she hears the door open.

  Myrrh turns, and Glint stops in his tracks. His mouth opens and closes like a beached fish.

  “That’s a…lovely gown,” he finally manages.

  “My eyes are up here,” she returns.

  He cringes. “So is your hair.”

  Myrrh sighs. “I know. I’m working on it.”

  “Would a fork help, miss?” Bernard asks. “It’s sort of similar to a comb.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll try whatever you have.”

  Glint’s eyes have strayed back to her exposed cleavage, and he only drags them back to her face when she steps forward and flicks him on the ear. “You’re here to fasten my dress, not stare at my breasts.”

  He swallows. “Right. Well, at least Councilman Kathell won’t be thinking of his wife for the next few hours.”

  Glint presses his fingers against her velvet-clad arms—the fabric the dressmaker saved in the breast area has been added to the sleeves—and gently spins her around. Deft fingers work the little hooks through the intended stitching. When he’s done, he traces a finger along her spine, starting at the top of her dress and slipping under her ratted hair to the nape of her neck. When she shivers, he lets out a low chuckle.


  “Just had to make sure my fiancée doesn’t spend the next few hours thinking of Councilman Kathell,” he says with a wink as she turns.

  “Will it really be that long?” she whines. The thought of remaining stuffed in this green tube for any length of time is really unappealing.

  “I suspect they’ll linger until midnight now that you’re here to entertain them.”

  She feels lightheaded at the thought of so many hours dragging by. “To tell the truth, I’ll probably faceplant in one of Bernard’s lovely dishes if I try to stay awake that late.”

  “You?” he asks with a skeptical glance.

  “Long night last night.”

  “Ahh. Which may explain your sudden appearance on my doorstep.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I know. Once the council members and their wives leave, you’ll have my undivided attention.” He runs his gaze up and down her body. “And whatever other services I can provide.”

  She jabs him on the breastbone with a knuckle. “Cut it out. And you didn’t tell me their wives are here too.” The other women are not going to approve of her scandalous attire.

  “Any man seeking a council seat must show that he’s a worthy peer. Or woman, for that matter…there’s no prohibition against it, even if the current council is too full of chauvinists to invite one. In any case, an appointment is as much about social suitability as it is merchant standing.”

  She snorts. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to invite me to this little party, then?”

  Glint smirks. “Believe me, they won’t be paying much attention to your manners.”

  “Anyway, about the messenger to Rat Town…”

  He nods. “Tell Bernard what you need sent and to whom. He’ll see that it gets done.”

  “I’ll be around front soon, then.”

  His hand cups her waist and slides over her hip. “I look forward to it, my dear.”

  She slaps him lightly and shoves him toward the door.

  When she turns back to the kitchen, Bernard is slicing carrots as if his life depends on it. His face is redder than the tomatoes in the basket beside him.

  Chapter Ten

  USING A PAIR of forks and the coarse-bristled scrub brush Bernard uses to clean potatoes, plus a bit of water to tame the kinks, Myrrh finally gets her hair presentable. She pulls her cloak over the dress to avoid drawing attention while she circles the building from the kitchen’s alleyway exit to the grand front entrance. Tep follows on her heels, taking the cloak and running back for the kitchen just before she steps up to the door.

  The sixing city council. What is she doing attending one of their dinners? Her heart thumps against her ribs as she taps lightly on the heavy wood.

  Glint’s eyes widen when he opens the door, and the knot of cartilage in his throat bobs as he swallows. But he quickly recovers his composure.

  “Ah, darling! What a lovely surprise. I asked my footman to send word to your father, but I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

  He steps aside and offers his arm, allowing her a first glimpse of the city’s vaunted council. Some of them anyway. From what she can remember, there are twelve members. Just five men are seated at Glint’s table, along with four of their wives. Together, they exude a cloud of arrogance she can smell from the door.

  Myrrh slides a hand into the crook of Glint’s arm and tries to ignore the play of muscles under her fingers. Head high, not breathing too deep for fear she’ll fall out of the gown, she trails him to the table.

  “Councilmen, ladies,” Glint says, “I’d like you to meet my lovely fiancée, Ava.”

  She stiffens at the name but quickly relaxes. Of course he couldn’t introduce her by a thief’s handle. Some warning would have been nice, though.

  The men nearly fall over themselves in their rush to stand and duck shallow bows. Meanwhile, the women just barely contain their disdain. Each of them is wearing a gown slathered with ornate ruffles and lace. All the way up to the tight closures around their necks.

  Despite herself, Myrrh feels the blush in her cheeks. If that’s what the merchant matrons wear, why does a shop in Lower Fringe sell the kind of scraps she’s stuffed inside?

  As if to reassure her, Glint slides an arm around her waist and squeezes. She just barely avoids wincing at the stab of pain from her bruise.

  The man unaccompanied by a wife casts her an open leer. “Now this takes me back,” he says. “Before I secured my council seat, my wife was a vixen much like your dear Ava. Clever, too. We regretted taking the seat for the prim attire she had to adopt, but I assure you, she made up for it with plenty of costumes once we got home. Sometimes I do miss that woman.”

  Ew. Myrrh’s lip twitches in disgust when the gray-haired man winks at Glint. The other women seem equally unimpressed by him speaking of Myrrh in the third person, not to mention, his hinting about what he and his dead wife used to do in the bedroom. She senses the wives thawing toward her.

  A little bit, anyway. She wonders which of these women Glint had a tryst with and decides she’d rather not know.

  Unfortunately, Glint answers her question when he nods to the far end of the table. “Councilman Kathell, as ranking member you have the right to dine beside my intended. At least, that’s how we arrange seating in the Port Cities. But I wonder if you’ll permit me to breach etiquette by seating her beside me. I’ve been so occupied with business dealings lately that I haven’t had much time with my beloved.”

  As the thick-necked man inclines his head, struggling to conceal his disappointment, Myrrh glances at his wife. The woman is beautiful with pale hair swept up from a graceful neck. Even with the confining dress that is apparently part of the uniform of a councilman’s wife, Myrrh can tell she has a willowy figure. She forces away a little pang of jealousy. Glint’s not really hers, and even if he were, it shouldn’t matter who else he’s been involved with.

  Glint pulls out a chair for her then shakes the wrinkles from his napkin as he sits and lays it over his lap. “So as I was saying, the biggest danger to our city’s welfare is the recent threat from the shipping companies to send goods overland unless we reduce tariffs on the river passage.”

  The gray-haired councilman leans forward. “But what can the council do besides capitulate? We don’t control the roads through the mountains.”

  Myrrh’s place at the table is bare, leaving her nothing to fiddle with and no food to distract her. She runs her thumbs over the arms of her chair to keep busy. When Tep emerges with a glass of wine and a napkin, she casts him a grateful look. He assiduously ignores it.

  Glint raises a finger to stop him before he escapes to the kitchen. “Please bring Miss Relante a plate of appetizers so she doesn’t go hungry while waiting for Bernard’s next offering.”

  Exhaling, Myrrh relaxes into her seat. Fatigue from the last few days rises through her body, and she stifles a yawn.

  “True, the mountains are not within Ostgard’s control,” Glint says to the gray-haired man. “It’s the plight of independent cities and territories across Vellos. We must either have the resources to stand alone, or we must accept”—he sniffs as if in disgust—“affiliation with a greater country or kingdom. Yet the issue with shipping never arose under the previous Maire.”

  “Because Craghold was his family home,” the widowed councilman returns. “He had contacts with the minor fiefdoms that control travel on the mountain roads and was able to arrange bribes. As long as we paid more to have certain caravans denied passage than the mountain lords earned by allowing the same caravans through, the shipping companies had no recourse.”

  “Except to approach the smugglers,” another man says. He pulls a tin of snuff from his pocket, pinches a wad, and tucks it under his lip. “Sometimes I think we ought to burn Rat Town to the ground and be done with it.”

  Fortunately, Tep chooses that moment to return with her food, and Myrrh can lose herself in the nutcakes and dried fruit. G
lint lets out a relieved sigh. No doubt he was worried she was going to speak up in Rat Town’s defense.

  “No offense, my new friend,” Glint says, “but I believe we all know that we can’t survive without Rat Town. Would you rather have unmannered bargemen coming ashore to seek entertainment in the Fifths?”

  The man sniffs. “A fine point, Merchant Giller. I see now why so many of the council speak so highly of you.”

  Glint raises his glass in a toast. “If such esteemed men express praise of my efforts in Ostgard, then I am truly honored.”

  Myrrh doesn’t miss the laden glances that pass between the council members. They are seriously considering Glint as an appointee. Even Kathrell has a contemplative expression on his face.

  As the afternoon drags on into evening, it gets harder and harder to focus on the conversation. Mostly, the men talk about how to get richer while the women push food around on their plates. Occasionally, a councilman throws Glint a question that’s an obvious test judging by the sudden interest his peers show in the response. In each case, Glint’s answers seem to please the men, and soon enough, they’re calling for more wine.

  Bernard outdoes himself with a roast suckling pig cooked to perfection, but by the time the meat hits her plate, Myrrh’s head is swimming. She grips the arms of her chair to remain upright.

  “Darling?” Glint asks.

  “I fear I may have had a glass too many of your fine wine,” she says.

  This brings knowing chuckles and a few suggestive comments from the other end of the table. One of the men winks at Glint, but either he misses the gesture, or he ignores it.

  “Shall I send for a carriage to return you to your father’s?” he asks.

  “I think…I think that might be wise. In the meantime, might I borrow a room to lie down in?”

  Glint stands and offers his hand. “Of course, my beloved. I’ll escort you up. Gentlemen, enjoy your meat. I’ll return in a moment.”