Myrrh yells and sprints forward, feet knifing through the air and lighting for just heartbeats on the stone blocks.
Another rogue shoves into view, not as mountainous as his partner but with a sly look that makes him seem more dangerous. He draws a knife. The steel sings as it leaves the sheath.
Myrrh jumps, kicks off the wall, and redirects her momentum toward the lantern. She knocks the big man’s wrist with a solid strike of her forearm. His hand opens, and the lantern tumbles down, spraying lamp oil that catches fire and throws little splatters of flame onto the tunnel walls. As Myrrh shoots out a hand, grabbing on to the man’s arm long enough to swing herself back to the nearest stone block, the brown stream swallows the lantern.
The small pools of oil burn blue for a couple heartbeats before winking out. Now she can see, but they can’t.
The big man roars in anger, charges for the spot where she landed.
But Myrrh is already gone. Blind in the darkness, the goon crashes into the wall, spraying sewage over the stonework as Myrrh leaps to a platform just behind the sly thief. The man’s arms are up in defense. He backs toward her, free hand waving in the air to fend off an approach. She jabs an elbow into his spine.
Even when surprised and stumbling, the man catches his balance and spins, backsteps out of her reach. He rotates his blade in his palm, cocking his ear to listen for her movements.
His partner roars like a bull and charges across the corridor again, arms catching nothing but air.
“Freeze, you idiot,” the other hisses. “Actually, no. Go defend the exit.”
The big man’s brow lowers, a growl rising from deep in his chest. He seems torn over whether to obey. Then, with a glare into the darkness, he turns and stomps for the open grate over the river.
Another shout from the water echoes down the tunnel, this time very close. Myrrh whips her attention to the slot at the end of the tunnel as the nose of the barge comes into view.
She must catch that boat.
With held breath, she jumps forward, once again hopping between blocks. The big man bars the way, his meaty arm too close to the wall for her to leap past. With a shout, she kicks him in the back of the knee. He goes down, hands plunging into the lumpy flow. Myrrh plants a foot on his back, uses it to spring for the exit.
Her glimmer-sight picks color from the bargemen’s clothing as they pole the vessel along.
Behind her, flint strikes steel, and another torch flares to life.
Myrrh covers the remaining distance to the exit in two breaths. She dives through the slot, trusting the glimmer and every reflex she gained from Hawk’s training. Her hands slam down on the wooden deck of the barge. She tucks her head, turns the dive into a roll, comes up on her feet.
Surprised grunts on either side. The spotter in the front of the barge whirls, mouth wide with shock. Myrrh shakes another silver fivepence from her sleeve, grabs the spotter’s free hand, and presses the coin into his palm.
“Please,” she whispers, glancing at the barge’s cabin. Exposed by a glass-paned window, the captain sits in the glow of a lantern, smoking a pipe and sorting through a stack of papers.
She sprints two steps across the deck and climbs onto a low rail, searching the island of rubble for the best landing spot.
The men on the poles can’t stop their work, not with the treacherous water underneath. The pair closest to her stare openly as she crouches, sets her toe, and jumps. She lands smoothly on the jagged pile of moss-slicked stones, slaps hands onto the top of a slanting slab, and scampers up to put her back to the bridge pillar.
Silhouetted by the torch inside the tunnel, the big goon’s legs are like trees. Sewage streams around him as he crouches to peer out.
She holds her breath as he waves at one of the men working the poles.
The pole man glances toward the spotter as if searching for direction.
Raising the lantern high, the spotter opens his hand and peers down at the coin. He glances toward the captain’s cabin, then shakes his head at the pole man.
The next time the man works his pole free from the river bottom and steps forward along the deck to plant it again, he whacks the thug’s outstretched arm. Hard.
Relief floods Myrrh’s chest.
By the time the smaller man arrives at the open grate, the barge is out of reach.
He squats, peers out the slot. Fastens his gaze on her. Hatred burns in his eyes.
Myrrh slides around the pillar, back pressed against the cold stone, and takes up position to watch for the next barge to come this way.
It’s up to the Queen of Nines to decide whether one will come for her before the goons can cross to her island.
Chapter Eight
THE QUEEN OF Nines rolls her a lucky streak. By the time Myrrh reaches the final island, the goons are still two gaps back. But despite her efforts to stay dry in the sewage tunnel, the thugs’ splashing covered her with reeking droplets. While waiting for the final barge to bridge the passage between the last island and a storm drain where runoff—not sewage…plumbing in Maire’s Quarter carries that downstream of their precious waterfront—makes a silvery streak down the retaining wall, Myrrh slips into the Ost, hands clutching tight to chunks of rubble, and allows the water to flow over her head. Far better to enter Maire’s Quarter dripping wet than smelling like the inside of a bilge pump.
She holds up another coin when the next barge makes its ponderous way into the gap. At the nose of the boat, the spotter squints as if trying to tell whether she’s offering copper or silver. Apparently, he soon realizes that any coin is better than none. He nods and gestures to the deck. She flips him the coin as she boards and is across in three long steps. With feet balanced on the rail, she pries open the grate covering the storm drain. There’s no prop bar here, and the grate is heavy, cutting into her shoulder while she kicks free of the barge. Finally, the grate scraping down the back of her leather jacket, she manages to wiggle inside.
She stands and scurries through the tunnel until she finds a ladder leading up and out. Beside the ladder, someone has scratched the sign of the Queen of Nines onto the wall. The universal thieves’ symbol.
She swipes water off her clothes and wrings out her hair before climbing into the open air above.
Myrrh slips through Maire’s Quarter with her heart in her throat. Even the alleys are so wide the light reaches every corner. She glances back once and sees wet footprints, shining in the glow of streetlamps with leaded glass that fractures the light into intricate patterns. The buildings are tall, taller than Lower Fringe even, and ornate with spires and cornices and gargoyle faces leering down.
She can’t hide or skulk or slip through shadows here. If there are thieves’ paths in the district, they’re invisible to her. At each street corner, she freezes, certain someone will seize her by the elbow, demanding papers or simply accusing her of being a trespasser based on her appearance.
Instead, the worst she earns is a snort of annoyance when someone is forced to step around her. People walk with purpose here. There’s no scurrying, no touching of brows or throwing of elbows depending on where one sits in the pecking order.
And after a few blocks of stark terror at moving about so exposed, Myrrh realizes that no one thinks to question her appearance—despite her wet hair and occasionally dripping clothing—because the bridges and waterfront are so well guarded. The denizens of Maire’s Quarter just can’t believe that a lowlife scoundrel like her could be walking these streets.
Their arrogance makes her invisible.
After making the realization, Myrrh steps into the part like an actor on a platform at Rhemmsfest. She wraps a hand around her blade and walks with a swagger. She’s no rogue crossing the district on a contract from a shadowy kingpin over in Lower Fringe. She’s a hired guard, private security brought into the Quarter by a merchant with much to protect. While her employer meets with important contacts—maybe even the Maire—she’s walking a
perimeter. Keeping a sharp eye out for her boss’s rivals or, Patron forbid, any seedy characters who might have slipped past the Shield Watch.
By the time she reaches Third Bridge, her worry over finding an escape from the district via a thieves’ path is gone. The Shields aren’t watching people going out of Maire’s Quarter. If anything, they’re hustling them along to better focus on incoming traffic.
Just to be safe, Myrrh waits near the bridge until a merchant’s palanquin approaches. Hidden inside, the merchant won’t notice Myrrh sliding up behind, hand on her blade and hard eyes searching the street for any threat to her new “master.”
Third Bridge passes beneath her feet as easily as a stretch of muddy street back in the Spills. The moment she’s across and out of sight of the waterfront, she ducks into an alley and breaks into a laugh.
The famous Maire’s Quarter. Easiest place for a thief to walk openly in the whole sixing city. Who knew?
Her hair has dried, hanks crunchy as she regathers it into a ponytail and ties a leather cord to fasten it. When she probes the vanishing lump of glimmer resin with her tongue, the ball disintegrates into a paste against her gum. Already, her vision begins to dim, shadows once more holding tight to their secrets.
She shrugs. Just one more task to accomplish and she can head back to the safe house.
The long way around this time.
The Neck’s night market throngs with people and light. Stalls crowd the streets, a clutter of wood and awnings and sizzling meats. Jugglers throw fiery brands high above the crowd, causing shoppers and wanderers to flinch and scatter. Musicians stand in pools of their own music, whether piping from a flute, drumming, or picking a quick tune from the strings of a lute. Bowls at their feet hold a scattering of coins, often defended by dogs with ragged fur who curl lips at anyone that lingers too long and too close to their masters’ earnings.
All manner of wares decorate the tables and glass-topped display cases. Cloth from distant islands. Glittering jewelry. Musical instruments with wood polished to a smooth luster. Plugs of incense send curls of smoke over the market, the pungent trails joining the haze from the cook fires and torchlight.
Myrrh keeps to the bright aisles between stalls, cutting the straightest path she can toward the corner of the market where deals are made on paper rather than by coins exchanged for goods. Fewer buyers wander amongst these trade houses, the structures semi-permanent with real doors and walls offering privacy for brokers and customers.
She scans the placards hanging over the thresholds, ignoring the hard glares of private guards who stand with hands clasped before their belts. There.
Southland Enterprises.
She taps on the door. A shaft of light falls onto the cobblestones when the latch clicks and the door opens a crack.
“Negotiations closed for the night,” a woman says through the gap.
A pair of bulky guards with precisely fitting armor edge closer.
“Even under the auspices of the half moon?” She repeats the phrase Glint told her to speak.
She steps back as the door swings wide. A woman with light-brown hair and a jacket ornamented with silk piping nods at the guards who step away. She motions Myrrh inside, then shuts the door behind her.
A brazier burns in the corner of the room, warming the small space. Myrrh edges closer, glad for the heat after her dunking. Her clothes have mostly dried, but the chill remains.
The woman pulls out a leather document wallet and hands it over. Her face is set in distinct displeasure.
“Tell him this cancels our debt. Any further demands will not be answered, and if he does not desist, unpleasant things will happen to whichever”—she curls her lip as she runs eyes down Myrrh’s body—“scamp he sends to threaten me next.”
Myrrh has been called much worse. She tucks the wallet inside her jacket and leaves without a word. The door clicks shut behind her as she turns for the inland border of the district and the alleys and paths she’ll use to make her way back.
***
Glint opens the door before she lays a hand on the latch.
She pulls out the document wallet as she stalks into the dining room. Candles burn warmly in the wall sconces, and though the tablecloth is gone, flames continue to eat away the tapers from dinner, sending wax flowing over the gleaming candlesticks into pools on the table.
“Were you following me?”
“And good evening to you too.”
“Well?” She strides to the table and starts picking at the candle wax.
“Early on, yes. I didn’t mean for you to see me. Bad timing with the chef dumping his pasta water.”
“Why?”
“Why was I following you?”
“Wouldn’t it be enough to know whether I came back with your documents?” She drags a finger across the tabletop, noticing a new pair of cushioned chairs against the far wall. Between the chairs, a small table supports a bowl of nuts. Does he always redecorate at night?
“Tonight’s work wasn’t really about results, though I did need to fetch these papers one way or the other. I’m more interested in my associates’ methods than anything. Fleeing down a storm grate with no idea where it leads was an interesting choice. Brazen. I wasn’t sure whether you’d survive the pursuit. Porcelain Hand isn’t known for mercy—speaking of, that situation with the men who followed you will need resolving.”
Myrrh focuses on the flow of air through her nostrils, a slow inhalation, a slow exhalation. “You saw them go after me and didn’t help…?”
Glint crosses the room and stands across the table from her. He plants his hands on the gleaming surface and stares. “I didn’t think you were the sort of woman who wants to be rescued. You must admit you’re an unlikely damsel in distress.”
She presses her lips together. When he puts it that way, no, she’d be furious if he’d treated her like a novice pickpocket working her first job.
He nods. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, I’m working on securing permission to use the route into Maire’s Quarter. In the meantime, best you avoid it. I have other plans for you anyway.”
She lays her palms on the table, mirroring his pose. “You assume so much.”
“I’m an optimist.”
“I need answers before I lift another finger for you. What’s in that wallet?” She nods at the folded leather stuck through his belt.
“Confirmation. Bills of lading that prove what Hawk and I feared.”
“Which is?”
“It would be best if I start at the beginning. But I need to know…are you in? I can offer you more riches and power than anyone in the city. Eventually, anyway. But I won’t give you my secrets without some assurance. Hawk told the truth when he described your abilities—I saw that much tonight. Now I need your word.”
She stares at him. Hawk trusted this man—she ignores the pang in her chest at the reminder of how much her mentor hid from her.
Is it stubbornness that makes her want to walk out the front door or something else? Glint represents everything she rejected when she became a freelancer, but she does need a foothold to start over, assuming what he said about Rat Town is true.
“We seem to be at an impasse. You won’t tell me your plans without my commitment to join them. But I won’t leap into something without knowing where I’ll land.”
“Hmm. Indeed.”
“How about this? I’m not a snitch. And I don’t care about syndicate politics. You have no reason to worry about me selling your precious secrets—who would I peddle them to anyway?”
He stands straight, sucks the corner of his lower lip. “I suppose that’s good enough for now. Shall we go upstairs? Perhaps you’d like to change out of your work clothes before we speak.”
“One more thing: where’s Nab?”
He smiles, a gentleness on his face she hasn’t seen before. “Sleeping. Practically had to carry him away from the table. He wanted to wait up for you, kept f
alling forward and knocking his forehead. Would you like to look in on him for proof?”
“I’ll trust you. This time.”
Chapter Nine
A WARDROBE CRAFTED of some dark wood has joined the bed in her room. Burgundy curtains now hang over the shuttered window, and a rug with thick pile lies beside the bed.
“One of my associates hung your spare clothes inside,” he says, gesturing toward the wardrobe. “I took the liberty of asking her to fetch you a few more things. If you remain here, rounding out your attire will be up to you.”
After he shuts the door, Myrrh swings the wardrobe open. Along with the nicely tailored tunic and trousers from yesterday, there’s some sort of long dress thing, which she thinks may be a nightgown—sleeping in the back rooms of taverns and abandoned stilt houses has left her somewhat ignorant of the normal clothing customs. The real surprise is a dress, dark-gray velvet with black slashes. The sight of the gown makes her cringe. It’s kind of frightening actually. She snatches down the shirt and pants, noticing two more pairs of boots lined on the wardrobe floor, smooth black leather that laces to the knee.
On one side of the standing wardrobe, there’s a column of drawers. She opens the bottom one and finds her old woolens freshly laundered and folded. The next drawer is empty, but her cheeks heat when she opens a third and finds underclothing. Satin with lace accents. He did say he had a female associate buy these things, right?
She glances around the room, self-conscious as she disrobes and slides into the underclothes. The fabric is slithery cool against her skin. The softest thing she’s ever worn is a muslin jumper. Nothing even close to this. Before she can think too much about it, she yanks on the tunic and trousers. Her hair is still a wreck from the dunking in the river, but the best she can do is pluck apart a few tangles with her fingers.
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