He raises an interested brow. “As much as Merchant Giller might appreciate the…attention. No. Tonight the same rules apply to you as the others. I seem to recall Lavi hanging a gown in your wardrobe.”
The smile falls from her face. “Seriously?”
“Quite. I’m looking forward to the entertainment of watching you try to walk in it.”
She sighs.
“But on an actual serious note, this is important, Myrrh. I don’t want to pressure you, but you need to make an impression on them. They know you have some skills. Word got around about the spice theft. But it will take more than that to make them want to follow you.”
“I take it falling down the stairs in a ball gown isn’t the impression you’re hoping for.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just be yourself. Except for the part where you act like an upstart grubber from Rat Town.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“Anytime.” He winks.
Chapter Eighteen
MYRRH ISN’T SURE how to fasten the gown. It has buttons up the back, which no matter how she contorts, she simply can’t reach. Who came up with this idiotic garment design?
She tries slipping out of the sleeves and spinning the dress around to fasten the buttons. But then the sixing thing won’t slide over her breasts despite the slickness of her satin underthings.
Finally, she undoes the little row of ebony-wood buttons, drags the stupid thing on properly, and slips out the door of her room. The air in the hallway cools her poorly defended back as she peers through doors trying to figure out where Nab is hiding.
“Struggles, dear?” Glint asks, a smile in his voice.
“What possesses women to wear something like this?” she asks, whirling on him.
He shrugs and leans a shoulder against the wall outside his door. He’s wearing a tailored coat over a white shirt with loose laces over his chest. The cartilage in his neck bobs as he meets her eyes. “Honestly? I don’t know. If you want my cynical guess, it’s because somewhere along the line, a man got involved in the design process. He wanted to control your ability to clothe yourself, as monstrous a notion as that seems. Though I admit it looks nice on you. Can I help?”
Myrrh stomps over barefoot and holds her hair out of the way, presenting her back. Deft fingers pull the fabric tight and slip the buttons into place.
“There,” he says, low voice close to her ear. “Tomorrow, remind me to have Lavi show you the way to our tailor. Once I make my move into trader society, we’ll have to entertain, and I’d hate to have to dress you every time.”
She steps forward, away from his breath on her shoulder.
“We’ll entertain? I was under the impression you wanted me to manage the organization so you could separate your criminal activity from your playacting at being a merchant.”
He pushes off the wall and steps up beside her, offering his arm. “That’s the beauty of the situation. When it was Hawk who planned to take over operations, keeping him out of sight would have been advisable. No trader with half a wit would believe Hawk was an upstanding citizen. But I’m certain you can pull it off. They’ll be too busy looking down your bodice to notice the dagger in your hand. As it were.”
Myrrh hesitates for a moment before sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. Under her fingers, his bicep tenses and relaxes as he tucks his hand into the fold of his jacket. He stops at her door.
“What?” she asks.
“Most people wear shoes to dinner.”
Myrrh whips her hand away. “Don’t wait. I’ll see you down there.”
He smirks. “If you insist.”
***
Myrrh hears the guests before she reaches the second-floor landing. Raucous laughter. The clink of glasses. She counts three bawdy comments as she descends the last flight of stairs.
It sounds like a Rat Town tavern in the dining room, but the view inside the room is everything Rat Town is not.
A new chandelier hangs from the ceiling, blazing with dozens of candles. Silver gleams on the table, cutlery and pitchers polished to perfection. Rugs have been spread across the floor, not the deep pile of the sitting room, but rather the intricate weave of Ishvar artisans. Each one had to have cost more than she made in the last year of nightly freelance gigs. She hasn’t a clue how the organization will pull off enough heists to present Glint as a man who slaps down half-a-dozen carpets like this in just his dining room.
She stops at the entrance to the room, taking the measure of the guests.
There are seven. Dressed in finery easily as ornate as her velvet gown, but also dripping with gold and jewels, not one looks like a thief. Myrrh might as well have walked into a dinner at the Maire’s palace. Except for the banter and the wine stains already decorating the tablecloth.
Standing at the head of the table, Glint calls something to Nab, who is seated halfway down the table. The boy lifts a glass and grins adoringly at the thief. Myrrh hopes it’s just water in that cup.
She steps into the room. A man near her end of the table notices her and elbows the middle-aged woman beside him. Hair pinned up in an elaborate set of curls, the woman stops speaking and gives Myrrh a slow and judging once-over. Myrrh wonders, briefly, if the woman is responsible for the contents of her wardrobe. Glint did say her clothing was selected by one of his associates.
Silence descends on the table.
“Ah, our newest recruit. Everyone, meet Myrrh. Hawk’s protégé.”
Glint’s stare commands her forward. Myrrh doesn’t feel like a protégé, and certainly not like someone meant to lead these people, but she steps to the table and lays her hand on the back of an unoccupied chair. Glint shakes his head, an almost imperceptible motion. His eyes flick to the empty spot on his right.
Running her finger along the chair back as if she were simply inspecting its quality, Myrrh inclines her head toward the group and glides forward. Heads turn to follow her progress. Eyes seem to pierce the velvet gown, looking for the grubber thief hidden beneath.
Myrrh raises her chin. Showing insecurity in front of a room of career criminals is a sure way to end up knifed in the back. They need to respect her, or better yet, fear her. She turns narrowed eyes on them, imagining herself not in a rustling bushel of fabric, but in the ratty woolen thief’s garb she’s worn every night as she’s worked her way from middling pickpocket to one of the most successful freelancers south of Third Bridge. While these people were taking orders, she was cutting her own path. She is twice the rogue they are.
It seems to work. Conversation resumes, the woman with the elaborate hair deliberately turning away and mentioning something to her neighbor about the price of teakwood carvings from the Sovild witches.
She hears the soft rush of air as Glint exhales. He turns back to Nab. “If you wouldn’t mind, tell Tep we’re ready for more wine and the first course.”
Nab jumps up, not at all bothered by being named errand boy for the party. If anything, he looks honored to be chosen. Myrrh sighs. Why doesn’t the little flea give her that kind of respect? She’s been putting food in that skinny belly for the better part of three years. Maybe she ought to stop, let him scratch out his own meals for a change.
Except she’d break down at the first glimpse of the dull-eyed hunger he wore when she and Hawk found him begging. All knobby knees and too-large eyes, he looked just a day or two short of starvation. He still hasn’t outgrown those hungry years. Not yet.
The boy returns followed by Tep, who makes a round of the table, refilling goblets. Including Nab’s. Oh well. As he’s said many times, she’s not his mother.
“So,” Glint says in a conversational tone.
The room instantly stills. All eyes turn to him.
He raises his glass. “To Hawk.”
“Hawk,” everyone choruses.
Dizziness strikes her. Myrrh manages to tip a sip of wine down her throat before setting her goblet down with a clack. Glin
t could have told her this was a wake as much as a dinner.
Then again, if he’d warned her, could she have walked in here with the same confidence?
Around the table, thieves start telling stories of scores and heists that Hawk set up. There are tales of drunken celebrations too, and none of them sound like the serious man who pushed her so hard to learn the craft. Myrrh holds her own stories inside. These people don’t need to hear how Hawk went hungry one week so she could eat when pickings were thin. Or how he handed over his dagger and told her to never, ever let the edge get dull. None of them knew the man like she did. Not even Glint. And they don’t deserve to meet him now.
She stiffens when Glint touches her hand. The man leans close to her ear. “Eat,” he whispers. “Hawk taught you to hide emotions, right? Food is an excellent distraction.”
A small roast bird sits on a little plate in front of her. When did it appear? While she was staring into space, fighting tears over Hawk’s loss? Glint is right. She’s dangerously close to showing what she really feels.
The smell of herbs and butter and meat finally registers. Myrrh’s mouth starts to water. She picks up a fork and knife and examines the bird. A quail? Where to start? She punctures the golden skin over the breast, feels it crinkle around her fork. The bird is so small, it’s hard to work the knife in.
Glint nudges her under the table with his foot. Rather deliberately, he picks up the quail in both hands and tears off a bite with his teeth. He winks as he chews, and Myrrh glances down the table. At least half the guests have likewise abandoned their manners. One, a balding man with knuckles the size of walnuts, pulls a wing off his bird and actually slings it across the table at a woman with a gem-studded eye patch.
The woman laughs and shrugs. “More for me.” She picks up the wing and sucks meat from the bone.
When she looks back at Glint, he raises an eyebrow, eyes twinkling as if to say, “I told you so.”
Nab falls into the conversation much more easily than Myrrh does. Maybe she’s still off-balanced by the reminder of Hawk’s loss. Glint leans forward and points the tip of his knife at each of the thieves, introducing them to her. Mink, Resh, Lavi—she’s the one with the eye patch—Scowl, obvious because of his expression, Nyx, Shiny, and Gray. Myrrh nods, matching names to faces in her memory.
She’s glad for the distracting parade of courses that lands in front of her. More meat. Cheeses. A fruit divided into sections that Glint calls an orange. She’s not sure if he’s teasing her. It seems as ludicrous as calling apples reds and greens. But the taste is divine. A hundred little pouches of juice release their nectar over her tongue when she bites down. If her life from here on out is filled with stupidly named fruit and a table full of swindlers who don’t care how much food they spill on their fancy clothing, she thinks she can be happy.
Dessert arrives. Nab groans in pleasure to see the little plate with another chocolate tart like he sampled a few nights ago.
Partway through the course, Glint takes a deep breath, gathering attention without needing to speak.
Myrrh’s heart hammers in her chest. Is he going to bring up his plans for her? She hasn’t really had the chance to make an impression one way or the other.
“There’s one more thing,” he says.
Myrrh lays down her fork.
“We’ve been growing in strength for months. Preparing our moves. One of our founders is dead. He can’t be replaced.”
Glint’s gaze passes over her as he makes eye contact with the rest of his leadership. Her neck tenses as she forces her eyes off her plate.
“But we can honor him. We can make this organization everything Hawk wanted it to be. Starting tonight.”
Her brow knits. That doesn’t sound like a preamble for explaining her promotion.
“Originally, I expected to wait to make this move, but certain…actions”—he flicks his gaze to her—“have changed some priorities.”
Actions? Myrrh cocks her head.
“For reasons I won’t go into, Porcelain Hand has denied us access in and out of Maire’s Quarter. Obviously, if we want to keep making the kinds of scores that fund this sort of debauchery”—he gestures to the table and the remains of the feast—“we need to secure that tunnel.”
“Are you talking about claiming territory?” asks Resh, the bald man who threw some of his dinner at Lavi. “Thought that wasn’t the sort of thing we bother with.”
Glint stands, presses the point of his steak knife into the table, lightly supporting it with his index finger and thumb. “I’m not talking about scratching out turf. I’m talking about a quick, decisive strike. We’re going to gut the syndicate, tear out its heart, and put our own regime in place. A coup. Before the sun rises, we’ll be kings and queens of Lower Fringe. And if we do it right, we’ll be unassailable.”
Murmurs rise from the guests. Though Glint shows no doubt outwardly, Myrrh can feel it coming off of him. Regardless of what he claims, this is a strike intended to claim turf. A change in the strategy that lured these people to the organization in the first place. He’s probably debating whether the change needs more justification, weighing that against the weakness that explaining himself could indicate.
“Everyone able to get their men and women into place for a strike?”
He looks around the table as if daring someone to refuse.
Finally, a grin splits Lavi’s face. “Nines in the hand. This sounds like the most fun we’ve had since you pinched that sixing signet ring.”
Chapter Nineteen
WHY DIDN’T GLINT mention the problems with the thieves’ path earlier? If he wants her to make a good impression, why put her off-balance with surprises? And furthermore, if he didn’t want her to cause trouble with Porcelain Hand during her “audition,” he ought to have warned her.
Anyway, she can’t help her singing nerves as she heads up the stairs to prepare for the operation. She’s been paired with Mink, the middle-aged woman with the curled hair and superior attitude. The choice almost makes Myrrh think that Glint is setting her up to fail. But that can’t be the case, can it?
When she hears his footsteps following her up the stairs, she turns.
“Is the access tunnel the only reason you decided to go after Porcelain Hand?”
He stops one stair below her, his eyes even with hers. Shadows sketch the strong lines of his features. “Are you questioning the decision?”
“Only the motive.”
“It wasn’t going well.”
“What wasn’t?”
“Your introduction. Half of them had dismissed you as unimportant.”
Myrrh is glad for the lack of candlelight in this part of the stairwell. Shame fills her cheeks.
“How did you know that?”
“I know my people.” He cups her elbow, urging her to continue up the stairs. “But it wasn’t your fault. Let’s talk elsewhere.”
She expects another conversation in the sitting room but then remembers that Glint sent Nab and Tep up there with a decanter of heavily watered wine and a set of dice. Instead, he guides her to his room. Inside, he offers her the lone chair at the table. After pacing for a moment, he drags over the chair from the writing desk and sets it opposite her.
He faces her over the low candle burning between them. “In truth, the problem is with my leaders, not you. That’s part of why I brought up Hawk. To watch their reactions. They aren’t ready to consider anyone else as my second-in-command, as it were. Mink—”
“No need to rub it in. It was pretty clear what she thinks of me.”
“And does she have any reason for that opinion?”
“No,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s the problem. She thinks I’m a no-good grubber from the Spills. Looked at me like this was my first sixing time out of Rat Town.”
He stares at her, gaze penetrating. “Some of that’s true, isn’t it?”
Abruptly, she’s so angry she could spit. “
I chose the freelance life. And I worked my way up without the help of a syndicate. I’m a sixing good thief, Glint.”
He sighs and leans back. “I know.”
“Then why are you defending her?”
“I’m guessing after what happened during the spice theft that you’ve never killed someone before. I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but we need to get that out in the open.”
That shuts her up for a minute. “I’m a thief, not an assassin.”
“Doesn’t matter. Whether you’re a smuggler or a privateer or an informant for the wrong people, eventually it will happen. Like back in that sewage tunnel on your first job with me. You came out alive. But so did the men chasing you.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill them. Just slow them down so I could hop the barge.”
“Would you have been safer if you’d left two bodies behind? They could have caught you halfway across the river.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Point is—”
“Point is, you seem bound and determined to put me down here. Not a full day after you said you wanted me to take over your organization.”
He pulls the glass stopper from his decanter of whiskey and pours a splash into the tumbler. Myrrh shakes her head when he offers it, though the sharp fumes smell pretty good right now.
“If you’ll let me finish…the point is, Mink cut her way into Haven’s inner circle by being one of the best assassins ever to work in Ostgard. She might have killed her way straight to the kingpin position if I hadn’t enticed her away. Not only that, she’s a passable thief besides. So she has every right to be arrogant, and I don’t blame her for looking at you and seeing a wide-eyed girl on a sightseeing trip.”
Myrrh’s toes crack as she curls them inside her lace-up boots. She clamps her teeth over her words and settles for hitting him with her hardest glare.
“You can be mad all you like. I’m just telling you the truth. Lately, you’ve proved everything Hawk said about you. Including the part about how you could use a little humility. A little less confidence in some situations.”
Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1) Page 12