“This was a Rat Town laundry, right? Hetty didn’t cross into In Betweens, did she?”
“She didn’t set foot outside of Rat Town. Seems Haven has made their first bid for a slice of our turf. We might still be oblivious to the move if they hadn’t tried to extract one of their first tolls from the wife of one of our favorite tavern keepers.”
Myrrh clenches her jaw while tapping a finger on the tabletop. “You said she was speaking and alert. Does that mean she’s not anymore?”
Ivy sighs. “I’ve been sitting with her much of the afternoon. She’s not well, Myrrh. A group of kids found her wandering near the waterfront yesterday evening. Her head had stopped bleeding, but she was muttering and clearly disoriented. We sent a messenger to the laundress, who claimed she sent Hetty off in the early afternoon because she seemed fine and because the woman had to get started on her afternoon washing.”
“When you say ‘not well,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“She hasn’t come back to awareness since we brought her home. If anything, she’s gotten worse. Her eyes don’t respond to light. We’ve been able to dribble water and a bit of tonic suggested by a healer past her lips…” Ivy pauses for a moment then clears her throat. “Other than that, seems we don’t have much choice but to wait and hope.”
Myrrh drags her hands through her hair and puffs her cheeks as she exhales. “That’s all we know about Haven’s moves?”
Ivy nods. “So far.”
Myrrh thinks back to her conversation with Glint weeks ago. He wanted to nominate her as second-in-command, responsible for his organization when he was occupied with his merchant guise. It had become an issue because his leadership hadn’t been able to make decisions without him. Ghost syndicate was supposed to be different. The members were freelancers before she banded them together. The point of having a council was to make sure that there was always someone available to make difficult decisions.
But how would she have felt if they had moved without her. What if she’d returned from Glint’s home to find Ghost syndicate at open war with Haven? She wouldn’t have been pleased with that, either.
“I’m sorry I was away,” she says. “It was important.”
“I’m sure it was,” Ivy says, though she doesn’t sound particularly convinced.
Myrrh sighs. “We’ll start by imposing a percentage donation to the syndicate on all jobs run by its members—they’ll still make more than they did accepting freelance gigs from Slivers. Tomorrow, someone will approach the Shields known to have taken bribes from Slivers. If the Queen of Nines rolls well for us, the extra muscle will be enough to push Haven back without any further conflict. Except when it comes to those who hurt Hetty. That’s personal. We need to figure out which streets she would have taken to reach the laundry. Shouldn’t be hard to find these so-called toll takers.”
“It’s a good plan, Mistress Myrrh,” Carver says.
It’s a strange time for him to call her by the title many of the syndicate members started using in the days after the coup. There’s something in his tone that suggests he wants to say more. She waits for him to speak.
“What is it, Carver?” she finally says.
“What happens if it doesn’t work? We’ll need to make more hard choices. The truth is, I’m honored you asked me to sit on the council, but I worked freelance for a reason. I’m good at making decisions for Carver the thief, not a whole syndicate.”
“Wait, are you quitting?”
He unclasps his enormous hands and turns his palms up as if in surrender. “I’m asking you to take charge. I’m happy to pass on orders to the rest of the syndicate. Whatever you say needs to be done. But I don’t want to be the person deciding what those orders are.”
“And the rest of you?”
Myrrh blinks as she runs her gaze around the table. The others fidget and shrug.
“I just want to go back to plucking kegs of brandy off barges heading for West Fifth,” Ivy says. “After I’m done caring for Hetty, that is.”
“But what about next time I have to be away? I need someone to step in.”
“Maybe you should stick around until we get Rat Town stabilized,” Warrell says with an apologetic shrug.
Even though Myrrh knows she was making most of the decisions the last few weeks, she still feels abandoned. Running a whole syndicate is too much responsibility for her to take on alone.
Sure, Glint does it.
Noble did it.
But didn’t they have some practice first?
Myrrh thinks back to her early conversations with Glint. He came back to Ostgard with a righteous purpose. Wanted to carve out a spot in the city where he grew up. But he didn’t work under another crime lord before founding his organization. He just…started building. Sure, he connected with Hawk and started their partnership, but he would have built his network with or without her former mentor.
Where did he get the courage? Was it just part of him, or did he have the same kinds of doubts she’s feeling now?
The others are staring at her expectantly.
Warrell leans forward to catch her gaze. “You’ve been doing the job since the day we threw Slivers out. Remember, we were sitting at the bar in the front room. Already, people thought of you as their leader. Not me, and not some council.”
“I expected to get Hawk back. I figured he would help us guide the syndicate, so anything I said was what I imagined he would suggest.”
“And when he came back in his current condition, did you stop taking control of these meetings?”
She shrugs. “No, I guess not.”
“We spent the last full day wringing our hands,” Toad says. “And you came up with a plan for action within minutes of hearing what had happened.”
“That’s partly because we’re all here together. I understand that you were waiting for me before.”
Warrell takes a breath before speaking. “What if Ivy were sick in bed today? Would you wait to act on Haven until she joined us?”
Myrrh thumps her fist lightly on the table. Warrell has a point. No, she wouldn’t wait.
“What would the rest of the syndicate think if I started calling myself the boss.”
Ivy snorts. “They’d probably be relieved to get back to the comfortable notion of a kingpin guiding the organization. Most people like to take direction even if they won’t admit it. Takes off some of the pressure.”
“But Ghost syndicate is an affiliation of grubbers.”
“And they know you respect that.”
Myrrh takes a deep breath. Her toe taps agitatedly against the floorboards; she’s running out of arguments.
“I can’t always be in Rat Town. I mean, seriously, what if someone like Warrell”—she casts him a mock glare—“sells me out to a shady group from Lower Fringe. It’s happened before.”
“I’m not saying we won’t try,” Carver says. “But it would go better if you left explicit directions.”
Myrrh groans and props her forehead on her fingertips. “Fine. You can tell yourselves I’m boss of Ghost syndicate. But you aren’t getting out of these evening meetings. I still need people to pass along the orders.”
The others settle into their chairs, looking more at ease than Myrrh remembers seeing them since the ousting of Slivers. Aside from the lines of strain around Ivy’s eyes, no doubt caused by her worry for Hetty Rikson, they already seem more like the carefree thieves she remembers from their grubber days.
If only Myrrh could relax alongside them.
“All right,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Down to business then. Tomorrow we’ll need a small team of skirmishers to deal with the Haven toll-takers. The pay for the gig can be a note of credit against the syndicate coffers—they should fill quickly once we impose a mandatory five percent donation from jobs.”
Toad nods. “I know a few guys who’d be eager for that gig. Fans of Mrs. Rikson’s pot pies.”
“In terms o
f dealing with Noble, I’ve asked the taverns to start allowing his crew inside if they can handle a scuffle. We need to start tracking down his location, which means we need to set some snares. I’m going to need a few strong fighters to accompany me while I follow his trail. I’ll pay half their wages from my personal stash and we’ll pay the other half from the syndicate vault.”
Warrell looks ready to protest, no doubt uneasy about the idea of her personally chasing after Noble and his people. She fixes him with an unbreaking stare, daring him to object after he just abdicated responsibility.
He presses his lips together and nods. “I’ll gather a squad of our best, Mistress.”
“We’ll run the usual operations at First Docks, watching for cargo marked with family crests from the Fifths. Plus security on the gambling houses. And we’ll need to strengthen our presence near the border with In Betweens. Remind the shops and inns that we’re still in charge. Got it?”
The others nod as they take mental notes.
“One last thing,” Myrrh says. “And this assignment is for you four only. I want to keep a watch out for Rattle to get a better idea about his movements.”
“Rattle?” Carver asks.
“Tall. Missing an eye and wears different replacements for it. Yesterday and today, it was a silver sphere. Before that, red glass. Ivy has seen him.”
The other woman nods. “Looks a bit like death in thief’s leathers.”
“Anything in particular we should watch out for?”
“He claims he wants to be part of our organization. I’m not sure I trust him. I particularly don’t like the fact that he tried to make me feel like we’re auditioning for him.”
“Then why deal with him?” Toad asks.
“Because he has resources that could be a huge asset. Enough that I can’t dismiss him without further investigation.”
“I’ll watch for him” Ivy says.
The others nod in agreement.
“Good. But whatever you do, don’t mention this conversation outside this room.”
“You think he’s dangerous?” Carver asks.
“I know he’s dangerous. I’m just not sure to whom.”
Chapter Fifteen
LACK OF ALONE time and personal space over the next few days tries Myrrh’s patience. Every time she leaves the safe house at night, at least five heavily armed Ghost members accompany her. During the day, she reduces her bodyguard count to two. Paying half their wages for the work, she quickly starts to run low on the coin she stole and stashed before Noble resurfaced.
A few days in, Warrell and Ivy convince her to pay her security detail entirely out of syndicate coffers. That’s less than any other syndicate boss takes and spends from their underling’s efforts, but still it rankles. Myrrh’s been taking care of herself for as long as she can remember. Well, since the orphanage anyway. And she doesn’t feel like a crime boss. More like a pickpocket running a circus.
But no one else can know how inadequate she feels, or everything will fall apart.
She makes a point of frequenting a variety of establishments in the district, avoiding some of her usual haunts to be more visible overall. Noble needs to see her out and about if he’s going to be tempted to show himself.
When it’s been a few days since she was around The Queen’s Dice for Rattle’s midnight appearance, he finally leaves word with Sapphire. He’s heard of a foreign trader lodging in Upper Fringe. Apparently, the foreigner is interested in selling rubies mined by illegal slave labor in the Inner Kingdoms. It’s a ripe target, and Rattle’s hoping to move on it.
Myrrh sends a message to Glint to ask if he has a contact in the Seven Fingers syndicate, the organization that runs Upper Fringe. She hopes that with a good pitch, she can secure permission for an operation in their turf.
She hears back the next day. Unfortunately, relations between Glint’s organization and his neighbors in Upper Fringe are strained. An introduction through him would do her no good. And Myrrh can’t make the trip there herself; it would take the whole day or more to get to Upper Fringe and back, and she can’t leave Rat Town until things are under control.
The next night, she waits in The Queen’s Dice to give Rattle the news herself. He arrives as he has every other time, stepping silently into the gambling hall and approaching her table.
“Myrrh,” he says as he sits.
“You can’t pull the heist as a representative of Ghost syndicate.”
The serving girl hurries over with a water. Myrrh brushes away the girl’s questioning glance. She won’t be here long.
Rattle lays his palms on the table. “Go on.”
“I don’t have a contact in the syndicate that owns the turf. Not yet. You can hit it as a freelancer, either by asking for permission or poaching. But if you do that and you get caught, my syndicate will deny ever knowing you.”
He nods slowly, one eye fixed on her, the stark white orb—polished marble, maybe—in his other socket inscrutable.
“The trader has hefty private security. I could use a partner.”
“You can’t take anyone from Ghost. We can’t be involved.”
“I don’t want to take just anyone. I’m interested in working with their boss.”
The idea of leaving behind her responsibilities for an evening or two is tempting. But she can’t. And she can’t admit the reason to Rattle, either. He needs to think Rat Town is under control and running smoothly. “If I had the time, I would’ve traveled to Upper Fringe and secured permission for an operation. But I’m too busy. Syndicate business.”
“Any progress on Noble?” he asks.
“I’ll let you know when there is,” she says flatly.
Rattle takes a sip from his water, stands, and starts to leave.
“Rattle.”
He turns to look at her.
“We have jobs here. Plenty of criminal work and security operations to be done. If you’re serious about joining the organization…”
“I’ll be back with some rubies. Like you said, I can’t poach this job as a member of Ghost syndicate, so better if I stay freelance for now. We can talk once I return.”
***
It’s been seven days since her council quit. Hetty Rikson woke on day five, but she remembers little, her thoughts are slow, and she can’t stand without falling. The toll-takers near the laundry have been beaten within an inch of their lives. Haven has retreated, its members a menacing presence just over the border with In Betweens, but no longer venturing into Rat Town. For now, the situation there will keep.
Myrrh returns to the safe house early in the evening and knocks five times then twice. Precious, an aging thief with a slow gait but the fingers of an artist, opens the door.
Myrrh dismisses her escort with a nod, and the two burly men that have shadowed her movements today turn and head for the taverns.
She steps through the door and pats Precious on the shoulder. “Seen Nab?”
He shakes his head, and Myrrh sighs. The kid is always out this time of day. They haven’t crossed paths since a day or two after she scolded him for stealing from the bakeries. She could use his annoying teasing right about now. A break from the endless reports on syndicate operations would be refreshing.
Extra armed men and women guard the downstairs rooms of the safe house, and another sentry stands with arms crossed at the end of the upstairs corridor. Myrrh nods to her people as she tromps across to the stairway and slowly trudges up the stairs toward her room.
When she opens the door and yelps, a dozen blades hiss as they leave their sheaths.
“It’s okay,” she says quickly, glaring at Glint. He’s lounging in the single chair at her bedside.
She steps through the door and closes it with a firm click.
“I’m impressed with your security improvements,” Glint says, spinning one of his knives across his fingers.
“You can’t be that impressed, seeing as you got in again.
”
He shrugs. “Only because I know your weaknesses. Including your habit of opening your window shutters for a few minutes every morning to let in fresh air. The shutters swing outward. It wasn’t too hard to have one of my associates lean down from the rooftop and press some sticky resin into the latch mechanism.”
“Leaving me exposed to intruders.”
“Which is why I’ve been here since mid-afternoon.”
Myrrh has stepped closer and now stands at the foot of her bed, a few paces from his seat. She takes a whiff of the air near him. “Are you drunk?”
“No. Though I have been waiting a while. I had a glass of port.”
She cocks her head. “Just one?”
“Well, maybe two.”
“How about the one in your hand?” she asks, nodding toward the small goblet he’s balancing on a knee.
“For you?” he suggests, holding it out with a guilty smile.
Myrrh smirks. “Why are you here this time?”
The expression that crosses his face seems so maudlin Myrrh nearly takes a step back.
“Will you sit with me?” he asks, the emotion vanishing as quick as it came.
She runs her eyes pointedly over the room as if to note that there’s only one chair.
He sighs and stands, setting the glass of port on her bedside table and slipping the knife into a hidden pocket. Normally, Myrrh might protest this act of chivalry, but right now she’s just too tired. Relieved, she sinks into the chair. From this vantage, she notices the bottle of port. It’s possible that he brought a partially empty container, but if not, he’s had more than two glasses.
Glint wanders the room, then stops and leans a shoulder against the wall, hands fidgeting. He chews the corner of his lip, and after a moment gestures toward the bed. “May I?”
When she nods, he slips off his boots and flops on top of the quilt. Again, a mournful expression darkens his features.
Something isn’t right.
“Are you okay, Glint?”
“I lost two more people, Myrrh. No explanation. No threats ahead of time. One was found sitting in a darkened booth in a basement tavern. The other never got out of the cot he rented in a Crafter’s District bunkhouse.”
Ruler of Scoundrels Page 10