Pressure, enough that he exhales with the effort, and then the rope parts. Blood rushes into her hands, aching as it floods cold fingertips.
“Now please don’t attack me,” he says mildly. “I truly don’t wish to bind you again. A nice dagger, by the way. I had Les retrieve it once my associates finally managed to arrive with you.”
Leather creaks as he retreats to a stand. Myrrh slaps her hand against the floor and pushes up, gritting her teeth when dizziness rises. She yanks off the blindfold and winces as light stabs her eyes. Next, she fumbles at the gag, but the strip of cloth is too tight to pull off, and the knot is welded. Eyes narrowed, she snaps her gaze to him while scooting toward the wall for support.
“I was going to suggest that you remove your blindfold, but I see you’re good at taking the initiative.”
The room’s light comes from a massive iron lantern hanging from a chain bolted to the ceiling. The glow of a dozen candles flares behind the man, shadowing his features and silhouetting close-tailored leathers. His hair just touches his ears, rain droplets winking in the light. Judging by his voice and the slightly cocky stance, she guesses he’s just a few years older than her. Midtwenties maybe.
Her eyes travel down his arm to where long fingers loosely grip the hilt of Hawk’s dagger.
At once, the weight of his death hits her all over again. Her eyes burn as she imagines snatching the blade, whipping it in her grip, and sinking it to the hilt in his neck. It has not been a good day.
Unfortunately, her limbs are so stiff she doubts she could even reach her feet, much less stay on them.
“If you’ll permit me…?” he asks, stepping close and pointing at her ear with the blade.
Her brows draw together until she realizes he means the gag. Swallowing her pride, she nods.
He drops to a crouch on one heel, the other leg splayed out before her, then slips a finger under the gag to guide his other hand. The candlelight strikes his face as he cocks his head in concentration. Dark eyes, straight brow. They’re features common among Ostgarders with roots in the eastern mountains. She’s definitely never seen him before.
The threads in the gag part with a tearing sound. As it loosens and falls from her mouth, she rejects a dozen threats that form in her mind. A sharp tongue won’t earn her anything. Instead, she swallows the taste of linen, purses her lips, and contemplates spitting at the man. Probably not a good idea either.
“Water?” he asks.
She fights the impulse to reject the offer and nods instead. Thirst will only make her weak. Sheathing Hawk’s dagger, the man stands and moves aside, granting a better view of the room. As she suspected, a single straight-backed chair stands near a door that hangs ajar. The walls are unadorned stone, broken only by one shuttered window. Beyond the door, the corridor is dim but not dark. The man crosses the room with long strides, moving with the grace of the thief she suspects he is. If he were part of the Shield Watch, the city guard that keeps violence in Ostgard to a mere simmer, she’d either be in a Smeltertown prison or strung up from the gibbet overhanging the Ost south of First Bridge. If he worked under the Scythe, he’d wear red, and she’d be cooling in an alley beside Hawk.
But he doesn’t bear any of the obvious marks of the city’s major criminal syndicates either. No bar piercing the cartilage of his upper ear like the Slivers, no gray scarf around his knee like Haven favors. Maybe the simple explanation is he’s security for the merchant group that controls the barge she was planning to rob. It’s possible the owners want to know who sent her. But then, how does she explain Warrell’s betrayal? He had the same information she did, and he’d clearly been cooperating with the guards on the barge.
The man sticks his head into the hallway, speaks in a low voice, and soon returns with a tin cup of water. He nods toward the floor near her hip. Myrrh’s surprised to see a neatly folded stack of clothes beside a pair of dry boots.
“They should fit,” he says as he places the cup near her knee. “I’ll give you privacy to change. Please don’t do something stupid like trying to escape out the window. The drop is farther than you want to fall, and a downclimb in this rain would not go well.”
“Am I a prisoner?” she asks as he walks to the door. She’s thinking of Nab waking alone in their miserable squat. Losing two people in less than a day.
His gaze is piercing, but she can’t read the expression on his face. “We’ll speak more once you’re dressed.”
Chapter Three
MYRRH’S KNEES WOBBLE as she crosses the room, clad and dry. She can’t let him see how weak she is, so she locks her knees before she nudges the door open.
Though someone was in the hallway earlier to hand him the cup of water, now the man is alone. He leans a shoulder against more bare-stone walls and has his feet crossed easily at the ankles. Whereas the first room smelled mostly of rain and wet stone, the corridor carries that same sandalwood scent she smelled on his clothing. Candles flicker in glass lanterns tinted a faint ruby. A runner woven with patterns of Ishvar design stretches the length of the hall, softening the slate tiles and swallowing the echoes.
She spots a window partway down the hall. It’s still dark outside. Still night. Maybe Nab is still asleep.
The man keeps his hands in his pockets as he pushes off the wall. “I have a fire going in one of the other rooms.”
Myrrh remains in the doorway. “Why am I here?”
“I prefer not to answer questions out of order.”
“And I prefer knowing why I was betrayed by my friend and carried off like a sack of oats.”
His face hardens. “The disloyalty of your associates is not something I can speak to. Perhaps you should choose your allies more carefully. As for your treatment, it was…necessary. Your friend needed to believe he’d thrown you to the hounds. Now, I’m offering a warm fire and a chance to speak on respectful terms. Or will you force me to reconsider my hospitality?”
He makes a point of running his eyes down her length. She can’t deny that the clothing is some of the most comfortable she’s worn. Finespun linen moves over her skin with none of the scratchiness of wool, and the cut allows as much movement as her thief’s garb. Even the boots are a passable fit, new leather not yet scuffed with use. The dyes on the shirt and trousers are a mix of midnight blues and steel gray, while the boots are a deep red that few can impart to leather.
Hardening her jaw, she forces herself to keep her gaze off the floor as she strides forward. With a nod, he turns and leads the way.
At the window, he slows and swings a shutter closed, but not before Myrrh notices the shine of a real glass pane and—far below—the flicker of streetlamps struggling against the night and the storm. They must be three floors up, maybe four. How far did his men carry her? Well away from Rat Town and its crowd of ramshackle buildings that can’t grow taller than a couple stories without the lower supports bowing out and splintering.
Before the corridor ends in a staircase that turns a sharp corner into darkness, she feels the heat radiating from an open door on the left. The man stops at the threshold and waves her in.
The room is as bedecked as the first chamber was bare. Deep carpets overlap on the floor, a mix of reds that swallow her feet and make her want to slip off her boots. Three large chairs upholstered in leather and set with pillows circle a blazing fire. Atop a low wood table polished to a gleam, a decanter of burgundy wine waits beside a pair of goblets.
The man adjusts a painting as he steps toward a chair near the wall. He waits, arms crossed, until she sits in the chair farthest away from him. With a sigh and a smirk, he steps forward and takes the central seat.
“I prefer not to yell across the room. Wine?”
He picks up a goblet and the decanter. When Myrrh shakes her head, he shrugs and returns both to the table.
The man holds her stare while the fire crackles. She gets the sense he’s searching for something in her expression. Maybe he’s waiting for h
er to break down. She keeps her emotions off her face just like Hawk taught her.
“Hawk spoke of you often.” The faint narrowing of his eyes shows a smugness over dropping this surprise.
A vein pulses in her temple. Can he see it? She blinks as if he hadn’t spoken.
With a sigh, the man reaches for the wine. He splashes a small measure into a goblet and sips, running the liquid over his tongue before swallowing. “A nice vintage. Among other things, this cask came from the barge you meant to rob.”
Does that mean he represents the vessel’s owners after all? She really doesn’t think so. Maybe he swiped the score out from under her…that might explain the guards on the waterfront. Extra muscle standing watch while he grabbed what he wanted.
“What makes you think I had plans for that barge?”
He returns the goblet to the table. “Perhaps an introduction is in order. I’m Glint.”
“Seems you already know plenty about me. Or at least, you assume to.”
“But the exchange of monikers is a social custom. It puts the other person at ease by permitting them to freely use something which is deeply and personally your own. In many cases, your very first and only permanent possession.”
She thinks she detects a hint of amusement in his eyes. “And Glint is the name your mother gave you?”
The corner of his mouth draws back in a wry smile. “As much as Myrrh was yours, I assume.” He inhales deeply and closes his eyes as if scenting the heady incense she chose to name herself after. “Pungent. A touch exotic. And very, very smooth. It’s a decent choice.”
“Perhaps more inventive than…what? The flash of a blade in the night?”
“Is that where you think I got the name?” He stretches his legs out long, pointing the soles of his boots toward the fire. “I prefer to imagine the winking of lots and lots of coins under candlelight.”
“Well, Glint, we’ve met. Now why am I here?”
As he draws his feet back and leans forward, his posture changes from lazy cat to ready predator. She suddenly feels as if there’s an invisible blade at her throat. A wrong word and he’ll press the edge through flesh.
“You’re here because Hawk trusted you. That’s enough to earn you an audition. But don’t mistake your position. It takes more than the word of a dead man to convince me of your worth.”
An audition? What could possibly make him think she’d want that?
“I don’t even know who you are.”
He circles his hand in the air. “Which is why I proposed we begin with the introductions, a process that didn’t seem to interest you.”
She narrows her eyes, done being polite. Whatever power this man thinks he has over her, she’d rather face a contest of blades than sit here dueling with words. “When Hawk spoke of me, did he mention that I hate arrogant thieves who pretend at thrones and castles by collecting sycophants and vying for so-called territory in a city that belongs to no one but the Maire and those who pay his tariffs?”
A wide grin splits Glint’s face. “He may have mentioned something of the sort.” Rotating toward the table, he pours himself another small measure of wine. “You sure you won’t have some?”
Myrrh doesn’t answer.
He sighs and leans back, hand wrapped around the goblet’s globe. “So, given the information at hand, you’ve decided I’m a thief. Interesting.”
“I shouldn’t have been so precise. Smuggler or extortionist are equally likely. Certainly, you’re an abductor, though you’ll make no ransom on someone like me.”
He swirls the wine in his glass, watching the flames. “In truth, I’d rather be none of those things. But I refuse to follow rules designed to prevent me from achieving more in life than a sore back and daily meals. So I suppose I’ll accept your label, though I’d prefer to consider myself an entrepreneur. Or perhaps even a rebel.”
“How did you know Hawk?”
“So you admit he was familiar to you.”
“You seem to know enough about me there’s little point in pretending. And ‘familiar’ would be an understatement.”
When he glances at her, his eyes hold real pain. “Hard to speak of him in the past, isn’t it?”
She surprises herself by speaking honestly. “It’s not the words that hurt. Words lie as often as they speak truth. It’s the absence. The space he used to fill.”
If she’s not mistaken, a faint light dies in Glint’s eyes as he lowers them from her face. “You really believe it, then? Don’t you think there’s a chance the Scythe was merciful?”
“Six blades came with her to take him down. That’s not the sort of force she uses when she plans to have a chat.”
He swigs the contents of his goblet in a single swallow and pours another. “No, I know he’s gone. I just hope I can keep from letting his dreams die with him.”
What dreams? She runs a hand down the fine weave of her trousers, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest. She thought Hawk trusted her. Sometimes, she even imagined he considered her something of a daughter. Yet she knew nothing of his interaction with this man.
“You still haven’t answered my question. How did you know him?”
He shoots her a sideways glance. “We had…joint interests. As far as the details go, you still have to earn my trust, remember?”
“Right. Your audition. Didn’t Hawk tell you I’m freelance? I’m not looking for any permanent affiliation. But if you have a contract, I’ll consider it.”
A sad smile touches his lips. “You can’t go back, you know. That was the whole point of nabbing you under that other grubber’s nose. As far as Rat Town is concerned, you need to be as dead as Hawk. Or at least taken by the bargeman you tried to rob, likely to be sold in a slave market downriver.”
“What? Why?” Again her thoughts shoot to Nab, sleeping alone in the run-down shack in the Spills. She has to go back.
“Though I hope my efforts in saving you will benefit me directly, I had you plucked off the waterfront because Hawk asked it of me. If the worst happened, he knew you’d be next. Someone around Rat Town didn’t like the work Hawk and I were doing.”
“Another reason for me to get back. Hawk deserves vengeance.”
“And where will you start? Do you plan to take on the Slivers gang alone? You saw where your grubber friend’s—”
“Warrell.”
“You saw where Warrell’s true loyalties lie. The moment you lost Hawk’s protection, he sold you straight off. Granted, he sold you to me. But it could as easily have been the next group that came asking.”
“There’s someone in the Spills who depends on me. I can’t just leave him.”
“The kid. Nab.”
Her fingertips tingle with sudden panic. She shouldn’t have mentioned the boy. Not without knowing more about Glint’s intentions. For all she really knows, this is an elaborate ruse. Or is she just being paranoid?
“Myrrh, I won’t hurt him. I swear it.”
She meets his eyes. Searches for clues.
“I’ll get him to safety. Please don’t risk yourself. I owe it to Hawk to keep you safe from his enemies.”
She takes a deep breath. His tone is honest, but thieves are consummate liars.
“Would you at least accept my hospitality for tonight?” he asks. “This…base of operations is still coming together, as you may have noticed by the lack of furnishings. And I must warn you—I’m not much of a cook. Safer for you to just stick with bread and cheese for now.”
She shakes her head, confused. “You had a servant fetch the water, didn’t you? Not that I care about the meal.”
He smirks. “I had Les fetch the water, and once I decided I could handle you if you got a notion to pick a fight, I sent him away. As for my cook, he’ll be back tomorrow. I sent him to safety in case you reacted poorly to my offer and tried to cut your way to freedom.”
Is he trying to distract her by joking? Put her at ease? Something
doesn’t add up here. Myrrh taps fingers on her knees. Most criminal enterprises have a strict pecking order where the higher-ups don’t fend for themselves in empty buildings. “Which syndicate?”
“Come again?”
“If I’m going to be knifed in my sleep, I want to know which organization bears responsibility. Who do you work for?”
He raises a single eyebrow. “I thought it was obvious.”
“I know all the major players, but you don’t wear a mark.”
“Not that. I don’t work for anyone. Now, is there an organization that answers to me? Perhaps. But you won’t have heard of us.”
More vague answers. She sighs. All at once, the night’s events seem to press down. Myrrh’s body is heavy with grief and confusion. She does need rest, even if she leaves at first light to find Nab.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll find you a room with enough furniture you won’t have to sleep on the floor. One you can bar from the inside if you wish.”
He offers a hand, which she reluctantly takes. Calluses ridge his palm, but his nails are neatly filed. As soon as she’s upright, she jerks her hand away.
With a nod of understanding, he leads her out the door.
Chapter Four
MYRRH WAKES WITH a start, disoriented. There are no splintered floorboards under her cheek. No familiar warbling of water birds in the bog at the district’s edge. She sits bolt upright and throws off a feather-stuffed coverlet.
And nearly falls off the thigh-high bed.
She coughs and grabs handfuls of the sheet. Last night’s events come roaring back.
She’s in Glint’s safe house. Or rather, as he called it, his base of operations. Whatever it is, she’s not in immediate danger. At least, she’s safe enough that she can calm her thudding heart and panting breaths.
Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1) Page 2