Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  “For Ishri. Master Pombrine has the item.”

  “Then run to it!”

  Scalacay dashed away, leaving Pombrine to hurry to his office with hardly less haste, the package clutched in one sweaty hand. He fumbled the door shut and turned the key, the five locks closing with a reassuring metallic clatter.

  Only then did he allow himself to breathe. He placed the package reverently upon his desk. Now he had it, he felt the need to stretch out the moment of triumph. To weigh it down with the proper gravitas. He went to his drinks cabinet and unlocked it, took his grandfathers bottle of Shiznadze from the place of honor. That man had lived his whole life waiting for a moment worthy of opening that bottle. Pombrine smiled as he reached for the corkscrew, trimming away the lead from the neck.

  How long had he worked to secure that cursed package? Circulating rumors of his business failings when in fact he had never been so successful. Placing himself in Carcolf’s way again and again until finally they seemed to happen upon each other by chance. Wriggling himself into a position of trust while the idiot courier thought him a brainless stooge, clambering by miniscule degrees to a perch from which he could get his eager hands around the package, and then … unhappy fate! Carcolf had slipped free, the cursed bitch, leaving Pombrine with nothing but ruined hopes. But now … happy fate! The thuggery of that loathsome woman Javre had, by some fumbling miracle, succeeded where his genius had been so unfairly thwarted.

  What did it matter how he had come by it, though? His smile grew wider as he eased the cork free. He had the package. He turned to gaze upon his prize again.

  Pop! An arc of fizzy wine missed his glass and spurted across his Kadiri carpet. He stared openmouthed. The package was hanging in the air by a hook. Attached to the hook was a gossamer thread. The thread disappeared through a hole in the glass roof high above where he now saw a black shape spread-eagled.

  Pombrine made a despairing lunge, bottle and glass tumbling to the floor and spraying wine, but the package slipped through his clutching fingers and was whisked smoothly upward out of his reach.

  “Guards!” he roared, shaking his fist. “Thief!”

  A moment later he realized, and his rage turned in a flash to withering horror.

  Ishri would soon be on her way.

  With a practiced jerk of her wrist, Shev twitched the parcel up and into her waiting glove.

  “What an angler,” she whispered as she thrust it into her pocket and was away across the steeply pitched roof, kneepads sticky with tar doing most of the work. Astride the ridge and she scuttled to the chimney, flicked the rope into the street below, was over the edge in a twinkling and swarming down. Don’t think about the ground, never think about the ground. It’s a nice place to be, but you wouldn’t want to get there too quickly …

  “What a climber,” she whispered as she passed a large window, a garishly decorated and gloomily lit salon coming into view, and—

  She gripped tight to the rope and stopped dead, gently swinging.

  She really did have a pressing engagement with not being caught by Pombrine’s guards, but within the room was one of those sights that one could not simply slide past. Four, possibly five, or even six naked bodies had formed, with most impressive athleticism, a kind of human sculpture—a grunting tangle of gently shifting limbs. While she was turning her head sideways to make sense of it, the lynchpin of the arrangement, who Shev took at first glance for a red-haired strongman, looked straight at her.

  “Shevedieh?”

  Decidedly not a man, but very definitely strong. Even with hair clipped close, there was no mistaking her.

  “Javre? What the hell are you doing here?”

  She raised a brow at the naked bodies entwined about her. “Is that not obvious?”

  Shev was brought to her senses by the rattle of guards in the street below. “You never saw me!” And she slid down the rope, hemp hissing through her gloves, hit the ground hard, and sprinted off just as a group of men with weapons drawn came barreling around the corner.

  “Stop thief!”

  “Get him!”

  And, particularly shrill, Pombrine desperately wailing, “My package!”

  Shev jerked the cord in the small of her back and felt the pouch split, the caltrops scattering in her wake, heard the shrieks as a couple of the guards went tumbling. Sore feet they’d have in the morning. But there were still more following.

  “Cut him off!”

  “Shoot him!”

  She took a sharp left, heard the flatbow string an instant later, the twitter as the bolt glanced from the wall beside her and away into the night. She peeled off her gloves as she ran, one smoking from the friction, and flung them over her shoulder. A quick right, the route well planned in advance, of course, and she sprang up onto the tables outside Verscetti’s, bounding from one to the next with great strides, sending cutlery and glassware flying, the patrons floundering up, tumbling in their shock, a ragged violinist flinging himself for cover.

  “What a runner,” she whispered, and leaped from the last table, over the clutching hands of a guard diving from her left and a reveler from her right, catching the little cord behind the sign that said Verscetti’s as she fell and giving it a good tug.

  There was a flash like lightning as she rolled, an almighty bang as she came up, the murky night at once illuminated, the frontages of the buildings ahead picked out white. There were screams and squeals and a volley of detonations. Behind her, she knew, blossoms of purple fire would be shooting across the street, showers of golden sparks, a display suitable for a baron’s wedding.

  “That Qohdam certainly can make fireworks,’ she whispered, resisting the temptation to stop and watch the show and instead slipping down a shadowy snicket, shooing away a mangy cat, scurrying on low for three dozen strides and ducking into the narrow garden, struggling to keep her quick breath quiet. She ripped open the packet she had secured among the roots of the dead willow, unfurling the white robe and wriggling into it, pulling up the cowl and waiting in the shadows, the big votive candle in one hand, ears sifting at the night.

  “Shit,” she muttered. As the last echoes of her fiery diversion faded she could hear, faintly, but coming closer, the calls of Pombrine’s searching guards, doors rattling as they tried them one by one.

  “Where did he go?”

  “I think this way!”

  “Bloody firework burned my hand! I’m really burned, you know!”

  “My package!”

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered. To be caught by these idiots would be among the most embarrassing moments of her career. The time she’d been stuck in a marriage gown halfway up the side of the Mercers guildhall in Adua, with flowers in her hair but no underwear and a steadily growing crowd of onlookers below, would take some beating, but still. “Come on, come on, come—”

  Now, from the other direction, she heard the chanting, and grinned. The Sisters were always on time. She heard their feet now, the regular tramping blotting out the shouting of Pombrine’s guards and the wailing of a woman temporarily deafened by the fireworks. Louder the feet, louder the heavenly song, and the procession passed the garden, the women all in white, all hooded, lit candles held stiffly before them, ghostly in the gloom as they marched by in unison.

  “What a priestess,” Shev whispered to herself, and threaded from the garden, jostling her way into the midst of the procession. She tipped her candle to the left, so its wick touched that of her neighbor. The woman frowned across and Shev winked back.

  “Give a girl a light, would you?”

  With a fizzle it caught, and she fell into step, adding her own joyous note to the chant as they processed down Caldiche Street and over the Fintine bridge, the masked revelers parting respectfully to let them through. Pombrine’s place, and the increasingly frantic searching of his guards, and the furious growling of a pair of savagely arguing Northmen dwindled sedately into the mists behind.

  It was dark by the time she slipped silent
ly through her own open window, past the stirring drapes, and crept around her comfortable chair. Carcolf was asleep in it, one strand of yellow hair fluttering around her mouth as she breathed. She looked young with eyes closed and face relaxed, shorn of that habitual sneer she had for everything. Young, and very beautiful. Bless this fashion for tight trousers! The candle cast a faint glow in the downy hairs on her cheek, and Shev felt a need to reach up and lay her palm upon that face, and stroke her lips with her thumb—

  But, lover of risks though she was, that would have been too great a gamble. So instead she shouted, “Boo!”

  Carcolf leaped up like a frog from boiling water, crashed into a table and nearly fell, lurched around, eyes wide. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, taking a shuddering breath. “Do you have to do that?”

  “Have to? No.”

  Carcolf pressed one hand to her chest. “I think you might have opened the stitches.”

  “You unbelievable baby.” Shev pulled the robe over her head and tossed it away. “It barely broke the skin.”

  “The loss of your good opinion wounds me more deeply than any blade.”

  Shev unhooked the belts that held her thief’s tools, unbuckled her climbing pads, and started to peel off her black clothes, acting as if it was nothing to her whether Carcolf watched or not. But she noted with some satisfaction that it was not until she was slipping on a clean gown that Carcolf finally spoke, and in a voice slightly hoarse besides.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “It has always been a dream of mine to see a Sister of the White disrobe before my eyes, but I was rather wondering whether you found the—”

  Shev tossed over the package and Carcolf snatched it smartly from the air.

  “I knew I could rely on you.” Carcolf felt a little dizzy with relief, not to mention more than a little tingly with desire. She had always had a weakness for dangerous women.

  Bloody hell, she really was turning into her father …

  “You were right,” said Shev, dropping into the chair she had so recently frightened Carcolf out of. “Pombrine had it.”

  “I bloody knew it! That slime! So hard to find a good expendable decoy these days.”

  “It’s as if you can’t trust anyone.”

  “Still. No harm done, eh?” And Carcolf lifted up her shirt and ever so carefully slid the package into the uppermost of her two cash belts.

  It was Shev’s turn to watch, pretending not to as she poured herself a glass of wine. “What’s in the parcel?” she asked.

  “It’s safer if I don’t tell you.”

  “You’ve no idea, have you?”

  “I’m under orders not to look,” Carcolf was forced to admit.

  “Don’t you ever wonder, though? I mean, the more I’m ordered not to look, the more I want to.” Shev sat forward, dark eyes glimmering in a profoundly bewitching way, and for an instant Carcolf’s head was filled with an image of the pair of them rolling across the carpet together, laughing as they ripped the package apart between them.

  She dismissed it with an effort. “A thief can wonder. A courier cannot.”

  “Could you be any more pompous?”

  “It would require an effort.”

  Shev slurped at her wine. “Well, it’s your package. I suppose.”

  “No it isn’t. That’s the whole point.”

  “I think I preferred you when you were a criminal.”

  “Lies. You relish the opportunity to corrupt me.”

  “True enough.” Shev wriggled down the chair so her long, brown legs slid out from the hem of her gown. “Why don’t you stay a while?” One searching foot found Carcolf’s ankle, and slid gently up the inside of her leg, and down, and up. “And be corrupted?”

  Carcolf took an almost painful breath. “Damn, but I’d love to.” The strength of the feeling surprised her and caught in her throat, and for the briefest moment she almost choked on it. For the briefest moment, she almost tossed the package out the window, and sank down before the chair, and took Shev’s hand and shared tales she had never told from when she was a girl. For the briefest moment. Then she was Carcolf again, and she stepped smartly away and let Shev’s foot clomp down on the boards. “But you know how it is, in my business. Have to catch the tide.” And she snatched up her new coat and turned as she pulled it on, giving herself time to blink back any hint of tears.

  “You should take a holiday.”

  “With every job I say so, and when every job ends, I find I get … twitchy.” Carcolf sighed as she fastened the buttons. “I’m just not made for sitting still.”

  “Huh.”

  “Let’s not pretend you’re any different.”

  “Let’s not pretend. I’ve been considering a move myself. Adua, perhaps, or back to the South—”

  “I’d much rather you stayed,” Carcolf found she had said, then tried to pass it off with a carefree wave. “Who else would get me out of messes when I come here? You’re the one person in this whole damn city I trust.” That was a complete lie, of course; she didn’t trust Shev in the least. A good courier trusts no one, and Carcolf was the very best. But she was a great deal more comfortable with lies than with truth.

  She could see in Shev’s smile that she understood the whole situation perfectly. “So sweet.” She caught Carcolf’s wrist as she turned to leave with a grip that was not to be ignored. “My money?”

  “How silly of me.” Carcolf handed her the purse.

  Without even looking inside, Shev said, “And the rest.”

  Carcolf sighed once more and tossed the other purse on the bed, gold flashing in the lamplight as coins spilled across the white sheet. “You’d be upset if I didn’t try.”

  “Your care for my delicate feelings is touching. I dare say I’ll see you next time you’re here?” she asked, as Carcolf put her hand on the lock.

  “I shall count the moments.”

  Just then she wanted a kiss more than anything, but she was not sure her resolve was strong enough for only one, so though it was a wrench, she blew a kiss instead and pulled the door to behind her. She slipped swiftly across the shadowed court and out the heavy gate onto the street, hoping it was a while before Shevedieh took a closer look at the coins inside the first purse. Perhaps a cosmic punishment was thus incurred, but it was worth it just for the thought of the look on her face.

  The day had been a bloody fiasco, but she supposed it could have been a great deal worse. She still had ample time to make it to the ship before they lost the tide. Carcolf pulled up her hood, wincing at the pain from that freshly stitched scratch, and from that entirely unreasonable ulcer, and from that cursed chafing seam, then strode off through the misty night, neither too fast nor too slow, entirely inconspicuous.

  Damn, but she hated Sipani!

  Gillian Flynn

  Gillian Flynn is the author of the #1 New York Times best seller Gone Girl, the New York Times best seller Dark Places, and Sharp Objects, which won two Dagger Awards. A former writer and critic for Entertainment Weekly, her work has been published in forty countries. She lives in Chicago with her husband and son.

  In the tense and twisty thriller that follows, she shows us that while it’s always good to want to take your career to the next level, sometimes trying to get there can take you into some very tricky and dangerous territory.

  WHAT DO YOU DO?

  Gillian Flynn

  I didn’t stop giving hand jobs because I wasn’t good at it. I stopped giving hand jobs because I was the best at it.

  For three years, I gave the best hand job in the tristate area. The key is to not overthink it. If you start worrying about technique, if you begin analyzing rhythm and pressure, you lose the essential nature of the act. You have to mentally prepare beforehand, and then you have to stop thinking and trust your body to take over.

  Basically, it’s like a golf swing.

  I jacked men off six days a week, eight hours a day, with a break for lunch, and I was always
fully booked. I took two weeks of vacation every year, and I never worked holidays, because holiday hand jobs are sad for everyone. So over three years, I’m estimating that comes to about 23,546 hand jobs. So don’t listen to that bitch Shardelle when she says I quit because I didn’t have the talent.

  I quit because when you give 23,546 hand jobs over a three-year period, carpal tunnel syndrome is a very real thing.

  I came to my occupation honestly. Maybe naturally is the better word. I’ve never done much honestly in my life. I was raised in the city by a one-eyed mother (the opening line of my memoir), and she was not a nice lady. She didn’t have a drug problem or a drinking problem, but she did have a working problem. She was the laziest bitch I ever met. Twice a week, we’d hit the streets downtown and beg. But because my mom hated being upright, she wanted to be strategic about the whole thing. Get as much money in as little time possible, and then go home and eat Zebra Cakes and watch arbitration-based reality court TV on our broken mattress amongst the stains. (That’s what I remember most about my childhood: stains. I couldn’t tell you the color of my mom’s eye, but I could tell you the stain on the shag carpet was a deep, soupy brown, and the stains on the ceiling were burnt orange and the stains on the wall were a vibrant hungover-piss yellow.)

  My mom and I would dress the part. She had a pretty, faded cotton dress, threadbare but screaming of decency. She put me in whatever I’d grown out of. We’d sit on a bench and target the right people to beg off. It’s a fairly simple scheme. First choice is an out-of-town church bus. In-town church people, they’ll just send you to the church. Out of town, they usually have to help, especially a one-eyed lady with a sad-faced kid. Second choice is women in sets of two. (Solo women can dart away too quickly; a pack of women is too hard to wrangle.) Third choice is a single woman who has that open look. You know it: The same woman you stop to ask for directions or the time of day, that’s the woman we ask for money. Also youngish men with beards or guitars. Don’t stop men in suits: That cliché is right, they’re all assholes. Also skip the thumb rings. I don’t know what it is, but men with thumb rings never help.