A small table has been set with a flagon of wine and a simple meal of bread, grapes, and cheese. A single chair stands between the table and the alcove’s entrance. Myrrh picks it up, carries it to the far side of the table, and plants it where she can sit without turning her back to the rest of the home. Leaning over the table, she pulls the food and wine into easy reach.
“Victuals for my hired help,” Glint says. “Your mistress is too kind.”
The servant bows. “She and the merchant recognize the value of friendships among traders. They hope to forge long and prosperous ties in this city.”
“Indeed,” Glint says, spinning on his heels. “And how long have you been with them?”
Another sweeping gesture invites him to precede the servant through a grand archway and deeper into the house. “Quite some time. But I won’t retain my position if the mistress descends and finds that I haven’t offered you the hospitality she requested. Please.”
Glint chuckles as he starts for the archway, boots clicking against the polished floor. “I quite understand. My mother was much the same.”
Myrrh leans to watch the pair’s retreat. A larger room opens beyond the archway, dominated by a grand staircase ending in a pool of gold-toned carpeting. The servant guides Glint to the right of the stairway and through another door into what Myrrh assumes is the dining room.
Across the foyer, the guard grunts and steps back into the alcove. He takes a seat in a straight-backed chair and turns his attention to the front door.
Myrrh plucks a grape off the vine and pops it into her mouth. This isn’t going to be easy.
Chapter Twelve
MYRRH EATS ENOUGH to make her appreciation of the hospitality believable; most guards would be relieved to earn a night’s pay without working for it. In the time it takes her to finish the meal, the guard gets up once, stomps to the back of the foyer, and disappears behind a screen. The sound of liquid splashing into a pot eliminates her idea of asking to use the bathroom and quickly slipping off to find those sixing papers Glint wants.
After maybe half an hour, Merchant and Mistress Buliat descend the stairs. The woman’s gown swishes with each step, dragging on the floor. Her hair is pinned atop her head in a ridiculous arrangement that looks like a gob of horse apples. The merchant, in contrast, wears simple linen trousers and a loose-cut shirt belted at the waist.
She takes his arm as they alight on the gold carpet, and he leans close to whisper something before they turn for the dining room.
Mistress Buliat glances over her shoulder, and Myrrh looks away just in time.
When they vanish from sight, Myrrh yawns and stretches. She scoots back from the table and exits the alcove, swinging her arms as if to limber them.
“Nice gig here,” she comments as she strolls toward the guard’s alcove.
He grunts as she leans a shoulder against the support for the arched entry.
“I’d been looking for a good, consistent employer for a while before I found this. Worked barges between here and Glendarn before Merchant Giller made his offer.”
Up close, she notices his eyes are a touch red. Glassy. Maybe he was out drinking too late last night. She also catches him glancing at her dagger. Alone, it is a strange choice of weapon for a bodyguard. The reach is too short. But at least she’s small, which makes it slightly more believable. Still, she should have at least two blades close at hand. Or better, a crossbow for range.
He sticks a thick finger in his ear and scratches. “Worked a few vessels myself. Back before I landed in Ostgard. Tough work.”
“Least it stays interesting, right? Not so much sitting and staring at doors.”
She’s not sure if the low sound in his throat is a laugh or a growl. Hopefully a laugh. His eyes linger on her breasts, and she waits for his disgusting suggestion on what they could do to make the time pass.
The leering does give her another chance to think about those bloodshot eyes though. Something kept him from getting a good rest last night.
“So, got any dice?” she asks.
His callused fingertips fidget with creases in his heavy canvas pants. Leaning out of the room, he flicks a nervous glance toward the rest of the house. So, it is gambling that keeps him up late.
“Can’t,” he says, obvious reluctance in his voice.
Myrrh huffs and waves off his concern. “I’ve been with Merchant Giller for half a year. Started providing security for his negotiations all the way down in the Port Cities. These dinners take hours.”
He glances toward the dining room again. Shakes his head.
“There are two of us. More than enough to protect this hallway, right?”
“My dice are in my quarters. I’d have to go out and get them.”
Myrrh’s eyes widen ever so slightly as she remembers the detached servants’ quarters behind the house. She’d hoped to distract him with dice while she thought of something else. But this is even better. A boon from Lady Nine.
“No problem. I’ll watch the door for you.”
He glances at her dagger as if skeptical.
You don’t expect a strike from an ally. Remembering Glint’s earlier actions, she springs. In half a breath, her blade is drawn and against his throat. The guard bats it away easily and raises a fist. She backs away, laughing and raising hands in surrender.
“No harm meant. How about this…I’ll give you double odds on the first round. Nines and threes both.”
It’s almost a sure bet that he’ll clean out whatever purse she brought with those odds. The man’s internal battle is obvious on his face. His willpower loses.
“Lock the door. Knock is three taps, pause, then one. No one else allowed in.”
“Three then one. Got it. No one will know you were gone.”
With a grunt, he stands and lumbers toward the exit. A wash of night air swirls into the room when he opens the door. Myrrh rushes forward the moment he pulls it shut. She twists the deadbolt and dashes for the archway leading to the rest of the house.
From the dining room, she hears the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of voices. Occasionally, the mistress of the house titters, but the discussion is otherwise between Glint and the other man. By the sound of it, the conversation is amiable if not downright friendly.
Now where is the study?
A smaller exit leaves the grand hall opposite the dining room. Unlike the wide archway, this is sealed by a closed door. Upstairs, a railing encircles the hall, providing a view down from all angles. At least half-a-dozen rooms open off the balcony. Other than the double doors, which she assumes lead to the bedchamber, the study could be behind any of them. She doesn’t have much time, so she’ll have to hope she gets lucky. Starting with that downstairs room.
As she slips into the grand hall, she spots the servant. The woman was nearly hidden on the other side of the stairwell’s stone banister. She’s standing with arms clasped behind her back and an attentive eye on the dinner proceedings.
Sixes.
Myrrh had hoped the woman would double as a kitchen servant, ferrying courses and empty plates to and from the kitchen.
But she doubts she’ll get another chance. The guard won’t take long to fetch something from his quarters.
She creeps, heel to toe, along the wall toward the downstairs door. Every few paces, low tables stand against the wall, displaying vases and statuettes; Myrrh is exceedingly careful to give them a wide berth.
One step after another, she approaches the door.
A loud laugh from the dining room makes her jump. She whips her head just in time to see the servant turning her attention back to the room. Inside, Myrrh can now see the table, easily as long as Glint’s but set for just three.
Glint takes his hand off his belly as he recovers from his overly enthusiastic burst of laughter. He dabs at his eyes as if wiping away tears, and as he lowers his napkin, his eyes meet hers, flick to the servant, then return to hers with an intens
e stare.
The message: he just saved her from being spotted.
She nods in gratitude, then hurries on. Can’t worry about mistakes that didn’t happen.
Unfortunately, the door is locked.
She thinks of the lockpicks she tucked into a pocket in her sleeve. No. Not enough time. Especially when she doesn’t know whether it’s even the right room.
Swallowing, she turns to face the stairway. She still has time to get up there and search a room or two.
But it means passing within a pace or two of the servant. No matter how stealthy she is, it’s too risky.
Unless Glint can help.
Sliding away from the door, she catches his eye again. Because of the table’s orientation, he’s the only person with a direct view of the main hall. She points to the stairs.
His brow furrows as he looks at Merchant Buliat. After listening to something the man says, he gives an exaggerated nod.
Was that meant for her?
Myrrh’s got no idea, but either she gives up now, or she hopes Glint has a plan. She creeps forward and lays a hand on the stair railing.
“Excuse me,” Glint calls, motioning for the servant. “Could I trouble you for a white wine?”
Mistress Buliat instantly starts patting the carafes they’ve already supplied, clearly horrified that her guest needed to make a request.
Glint puts on the sort of smile Myrrh didn’t even know he had. A complete heart melter. He sets a calming hand on the mistress’s wrist. “It’s just that I get phlegm, you see. It comes from my coastal ancestry. White vintages are least likely to cause me distress.”
Myrrh contains a laugh and crouches down as the mistress motions furiously for the servant. Moments later, she’s up the stairs and on the balcony, hurrying for the first door. A closet.
A grin spreads across her face when the second door leads to her target. The massive desk and heavy wood shelving leave no question that she’s found the right place. She runs forward and starts rifling through papers.
Fortunately, Merchant Buliat doesn’t keep nearly the number of stray papers Glint does. Just a quick search turns up a shipping manifest for Jalla spices that shows the cargo left Ishvar a couple weeks ago. Myrrh has no idea what that means for arrival here, but it will have to do. She quickly straightens the papers and dashes out, shutting the door quietly.
She dashes for the stairs and then stops short.
The servant is back, but now she’s pacing back and forth in front of the stairs.
Chapter Thirteen
SIXES ON TOP of sixes.
There’s no way she’s getting down the stairs. And she’s pretty sure Glint’s done what he can unless he wants to throw this whole dinner down the storm grate.
Can’t go down, which means the only option is out. Which also means she needs another way back in, seeing as she barred the sixing front door. But that problem is going to have to wait.
Thinking of the second-floor balcony she noticed from the street, she focuses on the door nearest the front wall of the house. But that’s no good, because didn’t Merchant Buliat mention sentries? She’d be pretty sixing noticeable climbing down right over the street.
The back wall of the building is going to be the best bet. Which means going through the merchant’s bedroom.
With her shoulder skimming the wall, Myrrh slips toward the double doors. They’re right at the top of the stairs. In plain view of the servant’s pacing.
Myrrh needs to be smoke. So smooth she can hide in plain sight.
She creeps forward, each motion as slick as glass. The doors stand just ahead.
Down below, the pacing footsteps continue. She can’t look, can’t tear her focus from the door latch. Her hand reaches forward. Cool metal slides under her palm. She squeezes the latch and feels resistance followed by a click.
Footsteps continue, back and forth. No hesitation. Just impatience and annoyance that the dinner is taking so long.
Myrrh breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth. Nudges the door open.
It glides on silent hinges. The temptation to leap forward is almost irresistible, but Myrrh slides slowly through the gap. Risks a glance toward the stairs as she turns to guide the door shut.
She can’t hear the footsteps anymore. Can’t see over the edge of the top step. She makes the sign of the Queen of Nines and hopes as she presses the door closed. Slowly, she releases the latch.
A single candle burns on the nightstand beside one of the twin beds. The flame dances in the breeze from the cracked-open window.
Above a dresser, a set of hooks holds necklaces. Gems and gold and glass beads glint in the candle’s glow. So many. Myrrh hesitates half a breath before running over and snatching a gold chain with a thumbnail-sized jade pendant surrounded by twinkling emeralds.
If she’s bungled tonight’s task so badly that it’s the last job she does for Glint, at least she’ll have something to help fund a relocation.
She hurries for the window, tucking the necklace into a jacket pocket.
The drop is about three times her height. Taller than she thought when looking up at that balcony. Grimacing, she wrenches the window open, earning a groan from the frame, and lowers herself out, feetfirst.
Even dangling by her fingertips, her toes are a good ten feet above the cobblestones of the alley. Good thing she knows how to roll.
Myrrh lets go, braces, hits hard. First her ankles, then knees, then hips wrench with the strain. Her back hits the cobblestones, and she rolls, her spine crunching over the uneven rock.
She coughs as she stands, wincing. Her right ankle isn’t right, aches deeply. Hopefully it’s just a sprain.
Fifty paces away, a door opens. The hulking guard from the foyer steps out, shaking a pouch of dice. His head is turned the other way, toward the alley exit.
Myrrh sprints and leaps onto his back. With a low yell, she yanks out her dagger, flips it hilt first, and clubs him in the temple. The man crumples, taking her down with him. His bulk slams onto her already-injured ankle. She bites down, holding tight to a scream, and presses against his body with her other foot until she can get her pinned leg free.
He groans but remains unconscious.
Myrrh stands, squeezing her forehead between her thumb and middle finger, gritting her teeth against the pain in her ankle. Sheathing her dagger, she darts into his quarters and searches until she spots a bottle of cheap liquor. She yanks out the cork and rushes outside, grimaces as she grabs his stubbly chin to pull his mouth open. She pours out more than half the bottle, some of which goes down his throat. The rest splashes over his face and neck.
He sputters and coughs, rolls over, and falls still.
Quickly, she sets the bottle outside his door, grabs the dice pouch, and throws it under the cot inside the room. Finally, she searches his pockets, curling her lip at the feel of his body heat, until her fingers brush a metal key ring.
Thank the Nines.
Thinking of the sentries the merchant claimed he’d stationed outside, she does a quick scan of the alley. But if someone were watching, they’d be on her by now. Especially since she just dropped out of their master’s bedchamber window.
She gives the man another knock on the head for good measure. He needs to stay unconscious for a while. She feels a quick, guilty pang, but then she remembers his leering gaze and bloodshot eyes. Serves him right for staring at her breasts like that.
Myrrh runs to the end of the alley and peers out. Clouds scud over a half moon, painting shifting shadows across the stone walls and streets. A light fog gathers near the ground, slowly swirling. From here, the street falls away toward the river, streetlamps standing like sentries in pools of their own light. Long streaks of torchlight reflect off the River Ost, wavering in the current.
She takes a breath, then slips forward, scanning the scene for sentries with every step. Still, no one challenges her.
At the building�
��s front corner, Myrrh waits until a thicker band of clouds slips over the moon, then hurries forward and fumbles through the set of three keys until she finds the one that fits.
She sighs in relief as she twists the latch and steps inside.
Three faces greet her arrival. Glint’s hard gaze pierces her, while the merchant and mistress simply stare in openmouthed shock.
“Mistress, Merchant,” she says, curtsying. “You’re finished with the meal already?”
“What’s going on?” the mistress finally manages to say. “Where’s Gendall?”
Glint is a granite statue. Myrrh’s thoughts race as she approaches the Buliats, offering out the keys.
“I didn’t wish to spoil your evening, especially after you’ve offered such hospitality.” Myrrh pauses until Merchant Buliat raises a hand, a perplexed expression on his face, and accepts the key ring. “Shortly after you started dining, your guard said he needed to patrol the perimeter.”
Mistress Buliat lays a hand on her husband’s arm. “Did you give him that instruction? I asked him to keep an eye on”—her eyes flit to Myrrh—“to watch the front door.”
“Well, as far as I can tell, he was more interested in keeping an eye on a bottle of liquor. When he hadn’t returned by the time I finished eating, I wondered if something had gone wrong. I needed to know for the sake of my master’s safety. No offense intended. I noticed that…Gendall did you say? I noticed he’d left his keys, so I locked the door behind me so as not to leave you undefended while I went searching for the problem.”
“And?” Mistress Buliat says, voice ever so slightly shrill.
“It appears the issue was with his taste for alcohol. I’m sorry to say I found him passed out behind the building.”
Merchant Buliat’s face purples with anger. He stalks to the door.
“Merchant Giller,” he says, “I’m horribly ashamed over this. I hope it doesn’t detract from the fortuitous discussions we’ve had tonight.”
“Not at all, Merchant Buliat. I know quite well how difficult it is to find loyal help, which is why I feel so lucky to have found Miss Aventile.”
Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1) Page 8