Empress of Rogues
Author: Carrie Summers
Date: 2019-02-13 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: The man that Myrrh loves has nine days to live. A thief and a scoundrel, he's been sentenced to death for a crime she committed. And she's the only one who can save him. Peek beneath the surface at the dark underworld of Ostgard, a river port where the upper-class merchants are more corrupt than the thieves. In the city's warren of grimy streets, a dagger between the ribs is the punishment for weakness. Strange magic has unsettling consequences. And a small band of criminals prove there is still honor among thieves. Book 4 in the Chronicles of a Cutpurse series, Empress of Rogues continues the
Publisher: Lonely Crag Press

Table of Contents

Map of Ostgard

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Empress of Rogues

Book Four

Chronicles of a Cutpurse

Carrie Summers

Map of Ostgard

Chapter One

THE CRIERS ENTER Rat Town just after dawn, slogging through muddy streets emptied of nighttime debauchery and alleyway skulks. Their calls echo off clapboard siding and press through Myrrh’s latched shutters.

“The Maire is dead and his murderer found!”

“Ostgard’s Maire-elect will address the crowd at midday in the Neck’s market square!”

Myrrh drags her covers over her head, as much to shut out the noise as to block the morning light and the worries it brings. Where is Glint now? Locked away in the dark? Chained to a post out in public where the sun’s first rays will finally stop the shivering that pulls against the deep wounds in his belly? Is he hurting? Afraid? …Alive?

Outside, the sound of hammering joins the crier’s words. Myrrh grabs her pillow, intent on piling it over the top of the covers to further muffle the racket, but stops herself.

She can’t hide from this. A sleepless night is no excuse to cower in her bed while Merchant Emmerst takes control of the city, using his accusation against Glint as the kindling to fuel his rise.

She throws off the covers and stomps to the window where she shoves the shutters wide. Chill air washes over her but doesn’t penetrate her thief’s leathers. In the wee hours of the morning, she fell into bed fully clothed. Before that, Myrrh sat in council with the ranking members of Ghost Syndicate and the remnants of Glint’s inner circle, their low and furious voices filling the back room of Rikson’s Roost.

But toward what conclusion? Given the security surrounding Maire’s Quarter, no doubt bolstered now that Emmerst has a scapegoat, how can a pair of thieves’ syndicates rescue Glint, much less clear his name?

Ten days until his execution, or so Emmerst claimed.

Nine now.

From her second-story vantage, Myrrh scans slate-tiled rooftops and peers into the warren of narrow alleys that web Rat Town like animal tunnels. A few doors away from her safe house, broken glass is strewn on the cobblestones, a half-burned candle in its midst. She spies the lamppost from which the lantern was knocked, probably during some drunken argument.

At the corner nearest the mess, a foot and lower leg stick out from the shadow of a building. The owner appears motionless, either drunk or dead. Equally likely states after a night out in Rat Town.

She stares at the body, unable to help herself from imagining Glint’s face on the sprawled figure, his dark eyes sightless and cloudy, his aggravating smirk vanished.

One of the criers rounds the corner, face twisted in a grimace as he glances down at the body. Shaking his head as he steps over the extended leg, he stops at the lamppost and pulls a leaflet from a satchel. He pins it against the lamppost and delivers a few hard whacks with a hammer to fix it there.

Myrrh shakes her head. It isn’t hard to imagine the words scrawled across the paper. Whether they’re formal accusations against Glint or new laws imposed on the denizens of Rat Town and other commoner districts, hard times are coming.

And not the sort of hard times in which thieves thrive.

The crier cups hands around his mouth. “Attend the first speech delivered by Ostgard’s Maire-elect at noontime today in the Neck’s central square!”

A speech in which the man will lay the blame for all the city’s ills at Glint’s feet, accusing him of murdering the former Maire and plunging Ostgard into chaos.

And the worst part of it is that people will believe Emmerst. Even while disorder has allowed many of the criminal syndicates to grow stronger, the law-abiding citizens of Ostgard have suffered in the uncertainty and unrest. It’s been worse for the merchant class. The lack of leadership has ruined their ordinary tariff-skimming and bribery schemes. And the merchants, more than anyone, have resources to put behind someone who will restore order.

Behind Emmerst.

No doubt they’re slavering at the notion of seeing Glint executed. Especially since he managed to insert himself into their ranks under the guise of an invented character, Merchant Giller. He’s painted each of them as a fool, something Ostgard merchants can’t abide.

“And don’t forget it’s your fault,” Myrrh mutters to herself. “Glint’s being blamed for something you did.” Although she didn’t murder the Maire, she did send Glint’s estranged father to a remote island where he’s imprisoned in a debtors’ colony. She could send a barge to retrieve him, proving Emmerst’s accusation as false. But the exoneration would come far, far too late for Glint.

Myrrh yanks the shutter closed, but it bangs too hard against its housing and flies open again. She growls at it.

“I’m trying to sleep over here, you know.”

Myrrh jumps and whirls, hand reaching for her dagger on instinct even though she recognizes Nab’s voice. “What half-sixed reason makes you think it’s okay to sneak into my room?”

The boy, hair mussed after the long night following Glint’s capture, sits up from a nest of blankets he’s piled in the corner. “Couldn’t sleep with all the people tromping through the common room downstairs,” he says. “Figured I’d bother you instead.”

By which he means, but would never admit, that he’d come up here for comfort.

“I see. Well, consider your bothering mission a success. And it was your choice to take a downstairs room, I might add. As I recall, you claimed that being near to the kitchen mattered more than whether it would be noisy.”

The boy smirks as he flops back into his nest, arms flung wide. “Speaking of noise, did you hear the criers?”

“Citizens of Ostgard!” As if on cue, the call rises from the street. Myrrh glances down to see the crier planted almost directly below her window. He’s produced a speaking horn and seems to be digging in for a prolonged shouting spree. It makes her wish for a full chamber pot.

“The vile murderer of our former Maire has been apprehended at last. Now we wait for justice to be done and order restored.”

“I don’t understand how Glint let this happen,” Nab says.

Myrrh takes a deep breath. If there’s one good thing to come from the disorder in the city, it’s the near shutdown of the smelters. Not because it’s left people without work, but because the choking smog from Smeltertown no longer blankets Rat Town’s streets. The air isn’t exactly sweet, but at least it doesn’t sting her nose and throat.

“He reached too far, too fast,” Myrrh says. “He had a plan to steal the whole sixing city out from under the merchants’ noses, and he almost accomplished it. With those kinds of stakes, the fall is pretty far.”

Leaving the window, Myrrh steps to a small desk and takes a seat in the straight-backed chair. A stack of coarse paper, an inkwell, and a pair of quills await her orders for Ghost Syndicate. She stares at the supplies, not sure where to start. In the council last night, they broke off having only resolved to retrieve Glint by whatever means necessary. Problem is, no one knows what means those are. They have no idea where he’s being held or what security surrounds him.

Well, at the very least she can make sure to keep Ghost Syndicate operating smoothly. To manage a rescue, she may need every thief and assassin at her disposal—and likely, all those reporting to Glint from Lower Fringe.

Her mind fogged by lack of sleep and confused by the chattering worries for Glint’s safety, she nonetheless starts scratching words onto paper.

Sometime in the midst of listing the petty crimes that syndicate members should avoid until they understand Emmerst’s plan, she lays her forehead in the crook of her elbow. Just for a moment, she tells herself. To rest her eyes.

Sleep falls over her like a silken drape.

***

“Mistress, wake up.”

The voice is soft and gentle and unlike a thief’s. Myrrh raises her head, confused. She blinks. Turns. Nearly falls out of her chair.

“Sorry, Mistress.” Nettle, the maid from the Pineshadow’s Stalwart Pony stands beside Myrrh’s chair, worrying her apron tie. A few days ago, she journeyed with Myrrh from the mountain village to Ostgard.

Myrrh yawns and rubs a hand down her face. “I thought for sure you and Hawk would be gone by now.”

“Gone?”

“Back to Pineshadow to free those oathbound by Bartholomew.”

The girl grimaces at Bartholomew’s name. The son of the castellan assigned to protect Glint’s holdfast used ancient magic from the Crags region to enslave the minds of countless residents of the castle’s surroundings. Nettle’s beloved and mother are among the oathbound, but the power to free them has passed to Myrrh’s mentor, Hawk. Myrrh assumed the pair would have been on the trail to Pineshadow at sunrise.

Nettle chews her lip. “It doesn’t feel right to abandon the city after what happened to Master Glint.”

“But there’s little you can do here,” Myrrh responds. “Better to help those you can, right?”

A shy smile touches Nettle’s lips. “Well, I do believe Nab has grown fond of my baking. That’s one person I help, even if it’s to keep him from stealing pastries from respectable businesses. But it’s not about me. I don’t think it’s right to pull Hawk away until you’ve rescued Master Glint. You can use his advice, right?”

Myrrh smirks at the pastry comment. Yawning to dispel the last strands of sleep, she glances toward the now-empty corner where the boy nested overnight. It’s probably for the best that he’s already cleared out the evidence. He’s many years too young for Nettle, but Myrrh suspects his taste for her baked treats has caused him to develop something of a crush on the young woman. He’d be humiliated for her to see that he’d dragged bedding into Myrrh’s room like a frightened child.

“I always appreciate Hawk’s advice,” Myrrh says. “But we have to think of the people oath—”

An awful crash from downstairs shatters her words. All sleep vanished like smoke in a gale, Myrrh jumps from her chair and rushes to the door. Her running footsteps thud against the wood floor as she races to the staircase.

Below, the safe house’s common room is in chaos. A candelabra has toppled, and tongues of flame stretch from each of the candles. Splinters of wood from the smashed front door litter the entryway.

Grunts and the clash of steel fill the air, while men and women fight atop the Ishvaran rug in the center of the room. Two men lie motionless at the edges of the fray. One, a city guardsman known as a Shield, is clearly dead, a yawning gash in his windpipe. The other is face down, but the thief’s leathers mark him as one of her own. Four Shields remain on their feet, facing off with three members of Ghost Syndicate. The thieves are holding, but they’ve been forced into a triangle, standing back to back.

“Sixing rot,” Myrrh snaps as she runs down the stairs and yanks her dagger free. As she nears the bottom, she spots motion near the kitchen door. Nab is so absorbed in the sweet bun clutched in his sticky fist, he seems more bewildered than concerned by the brawl and fire.

“Nab! Run!” she shouts.

The boy blinks, looks from her to the fight, then finally tosses his pastry to the floor.

“Hey!” he shouts, waving at the nearest Shield.

Myrrh’s heart crams its way into her throat as the guard grunts, throws an elbow at one of her thieves, and turns on Nab. Sixing little flea. She dashes forward, dagger high.

Nab twists his fingers through the intricate motion for the misdirection cantrip, a trick he learned from a now-dead rogue, Rattle. Myrrh slows as the guard freezes on his way to attack the boy.

“These tumbledown hovels are all the same, right?” Nab asks with pointed casualness. “You thought you heard something suspicious inside, but it must have been rats. Unfortunately, rotten floorboards collapsed under your friend”—Nab gestures to the man with a slit throat—“and another of your squad blundered into a poisonous spider’s web.”

The flames are spreading, and Myrrh can’t stand around like a fool while they reach for the room’s drapes. As she sprints past the fray, she spies the pair of needles jutting from a Shield’s neck. Right. Piebald’s blow-dart trap. How Nab managed to see the metal slivers and so quickly concoct the explanation about the poisonous spider, Myrrh has no idea. She’d never have come up with something so quickly. But misdirection only works if the target is inclined to believe the suggestion, so they’re fortunate Nab is so clever.

As she yanks a tapestry—priceless, probably—from the wall and starts beating at the flames, something thumps down behind her. An arm falls across her view, the glove armored with ring mail, the sleeve the somber blue of the Shield’s livery. Fingers tremble then go still as the poison finishes its work.

The flames stubbornly resist her efforts, leaping from the oiled wood floor each time she whips the tapestry away. Smoke begins to fill the room, smelling faintly of the citrus-scented candles now melting into puddles of wax.

She whirls, glances up the stairs. Nettle stands atop the flight, her mouth making a small O. When Myrrh catches her eye, the girl nods and hurries down the stairs. She whips the shawl off her shoulders and starts attacking the blaze.

“To call the decrepit building a death trap would be an understatement,” Nab continues in his calm voice. “You hated to leave your friends, but they were already dead.”

With a faint shrug, the Shield under Nab’s spell turns for the ruined door. A look of confusion twists his brow as he passes the fight. Two Shields are still standing, and one casts him a look of outright fury. A thief leaps at the soldier’s momentary distraction and plunges a dagger into his midsection. The Shield coughs and goes down on a knee. The misdirected guard blinks and slows, his mind clearly at war with Nab’s cantrip.

The flames are finally dwindling. With a shout, Myrrh leaps forward and slices the bespelled guard across the throat.

“Hey!” Nab protests.

“Mistress! Another!”

Nettle’s shout sets Myrrh spinning for the door, blade raised. She expects another squad of Shields, but nearly trips when she sees the ornate servant’s uniform and the familiar face above it. As another of the Shields falls behind her, she locks eyes with Glint’s former butler. Or rather, the butler who served Merchant Giller, the persona Glint adopted when infiltrating the merchant class and city council.

All at once, she understands why the Shields are here. Emmerst no doubt wants to eliminate Glint’s network of allies, and he must have started by interviewing the staff that worked in Merchant Giller’s mansion in Maire’s Quarter. Glint kept his lives strictly separate, hiring two separate rosters of servants and forbidding the thieves working for him in Lower Fringe from visiting him at his Maire’s Quarter residence. To his associates on either side of the river Ost, his other self might not have existed.

Only one person crossed the boundaries he set. More than once, Myrrh snuck into Maire’s Quarter to speak with him. Worse, she insisted on regular communication between her Rat Town safe house and Glint’s Maire’s Quarter residence. Communication that, while sealed with wax, likely hinted at illicit doings simply because no upstanding merchant had business in a Rat Town slum.

When Emmerst came for Glint, the others present in his dining room could plausibly deny any knowledge of Glint’s dealings outside Lower Fringe. Attending a dinner was no crime, even in Ostgard. But with Myrrh present and now identified as a criminal…they probably looked as guilty as she did.

But worst, she’s led the Shields straight to Ghost Syndicate. At the very least, the safe house is blown. Myrrh’s customary haunts are likely compromised as well.

With a shout of frustration, she runs toward the butler, but the man is quick. He’s out the door before she reaches the entryway. She sighs as she peers out into the street. He’s gone.

“Finish them off and collect your things,” she calls as she returns to the common room and gestures at the injured Shields. “We’re leaving.”

Dismayed gazes meet hers. A hurried retreat from Ghost’s strongholds does not bode well for the start of the campaign to rescue Glint.

For that matter, it doesn’t bode well for Ghost Syndicate’s continued survival.

Chapter Two

NAB GLARES AT her from his seat at the foot of the bed. His skinny arms are folded across his chest, and his feet don’t quite reach the floor.

“Why don’t you go check your packing again?” Myrrh asks as she slides her nightstand from the wall to expose the hidden drawer in its back. Inside are the remains of the trove of Haava substances she recovered from Rattle’s hideout after Mink killed the aging rogue. A dose of etch that gives the ability to see a trail where someone has passed. Enough glimmer to provide night vision and accelerated reflexes to maybe eleven or twelve thieves for a night. Six crystals of phantom, the powerful substance that turns a person insubstantial. She shoves the whole lot into her satchel along with the small brazier she uses for burning and inhaling the etch.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Nab says again.

“Like I already told you, your misdirection was about to fail. The Shield would have turned on you.”

“Right, and if that had happened, then you could have killed him.”

Myrrh grinds her teeth. Down inside, she suspects that Nab feels responsible for the man’s death. She hasn’t forgotten his guilt when one of the loggers who had attacked the party near Pineshadow was killed while under Nab’s influence. The boy won’t say it—he won’t admit the effect that death has on him, maybe not even to himself. But it’s obvious to someone who has cared for the little flea for the last few years.

Anyway, Nab’s at least partly right. If one Shield had escaped with false memories planted by the boy’s suggestion, his report might have bought Myrrh and her thieves time.

But the man didn’t escape because she killed him. And by her guess, they have until midmorning to flee the area.

She runs a hand over the glossy wood of the wardrobe a pair of her underlings filched from a household in Upper Fringe. Within the trim, geometric cutouts display inlaid mother-of-pearl and jade, and the handles are molded from solid gold. Such a shame to leave it behind, especially since it was a gift. But it won’t be the first time she’s abandoned most everything she owns.

Myrrh yanks open the door and drags out the merchant’s gown she wore to Pineshadow.

“Wait. What in the sixing depths are you doing?” Nab asks as she takes out her dagger and start slitting the fabric, cutting away the cuffs of the sleeves and the hem at the bottom of the skirt.

“I’ll show you later,” she says as she stuffs the strips of fabric into her satchel. Pinching the velvet between her thumb and middle finger, she feels the hard lumps of the rubies she painstakingly sewed into the garment. Within hours, if she’s not Ostgard’s most-wanted fugitive, she’ll be near the top of the list. Hopefully, the gems will help her buy sanctuary.

She jumps when the door to her room abruptly swings open.

“Mistress Myrrh…” Nettle breaks off when she spies Nab. “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you while you had a guest.” She ducks her head and starts to retreat out the door, but Myrrh waves her back inside.

“What is it?”

Nettle glances again at the boy, which perplexes Myrrh.

“It’s another report,” the young woman says after a moment.

Now Myrrh understands. Nettle wishes to spare Nab from worrying about the morning’s events. She seems to understand Nab’s sensitivity more easily than Myrrh does. Or at the very least, she seems more willing to coddle him.

Of course, Nettle hasn’t yet been forced to walk down the street squawking like a chicken due to Nab’s misdirection cantrip, nor has she wasted days chasing the kid halfway across the city because he won’t listen to adults’ warnings. Moreover, for as long as she’s known the child, Myrrh has tried to push him away from a criminal life. But he persists, so if he wants to be a full-fledged syndicate member someday, he’ll have to learn to handle the ugly side too.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Nab will need to know what to watch out for once we’re on the move anyway.”

Nettle’s brow furrows as she takes in the information. She probably thought Nab would be sent to safety somewhere while Myrrh and much of Ghost’s leadership go into hiding. But the truth is, Myrrh doubts anyone in Rat Town will be safe in the coming days. Better to keep the little miscreant in her sight, even if it means he’s traveling with a wanted criminal.

“It’s the boundary with In Betweens, Mistress. Rikson told me to tell you that Haven has flipped again, and they’re not just offering support for a Shield advance into Rat Town. Many of their operatives are escorting the Shields across the border into our district.”

“Sixes,” Myrrh curses. That’s the problem with most criminal organizations. Or rather, with all criminal organizations she’s had dealings with aside from Glint’s followers and Ghost Syndicate. Even if you can persuade the kingpin or lead council into an allegiance—which Myrrh recently accomplished with the Haven organization by saving the life of a leader’s daughter—memories of good deeds are short while vendettas never seem to die.

“He said to tell you it was a coup inside Haven. Thought you might feel better knowing you weren’t betrayed by your new allies.”

Myrrh shrugs. Maybe that cuts the sting a bit, seeing as she squandered her last dose of healing serum on the girl when she could have rushed to Glint’s bedside and bought him the health and reflexes he needed to escape Emmerst’s clutches.

“How about the docks?” The previous message from Rikson, delivered just after the safe house brawl, claimed that the Shields had taken possession of First Docks while setting a barricade to prevent anyone from evacuating the district across nearby First Bridge.

She imagines a map of Rat Town. With Shield forces establishing lines at First Docks and the border with In Betweens, that means the eastern and northern edges of the district are sealed. Myrrh wouldn’t be surprised to soon learn that more squads have crept into the Spills, wading through shin-deep muck to set a line on Rat Town’s southern border.

Hemmed in on three sides, and the noose will soon tighten.

That’s all right. For her plans anyway. There’s only one place Myrrh can go where she’ll be hidden enough to avoid capture but close enough to plan Glint’s rescue.

Carp’s Refuge is a floating smugglers’ haven that moves about the shifting channels in the bog west of the city. Myrrh’s done business there. Not that often, because the smugglers’ organization and the city’s syndicates keep their businesses separate whenever possible. Different markets and different marks. It’s safer that way because, otherwise, scrutiny on one group could lead to arrests in the other.

Nonetheless, she’s hoping to leverage her prior association—and the wealth she once brought the Refuge on the decks of a stolen barge—to gain sanctuary for a day or two.

She swallows, trying to ignore the risks in this plan. Will they grant her safe harbor, a place to hide where the Shields can’t find her? Or will they turn her away for arriving unannounced? Perhaps it depends on whether she decides to admit her predicament.

***

Poled by a sallow-faced man in a patchwork coat, the raft floats over reeds and muck and around dead trees swallowed long ago by the bog. Cloak clutched tight around her, Myrrh shivers despite the midday sun. The events of the last day and night are starting to sink in, chilling her flesh and weighing hard on her thoughts. She thinks of her last conversation with Glint. The Death Cloak plaguing Hawk’s friends was finally banished, and though the plague of oathbinding wasn’t yet cured, Myrrh and Nettle had stopped the spread. Glint felt certain he would be elected to the Maire’s seat, the very position Emmerst has now gained—at least provisionally—by arresting and accusing him. Despite his terrible injuries, Glint was optimistic and assured.

He even declared his intent to give up the criminal life with a plan to hand over his syndicate to Myrrh. She remembers his intense stare when he mentioned that it wasn’t impossible for a Maire to have a scandalous relationship with an underworld queen.

Now, assuming Emmerst has managed to keep him alive after reopening his wounds, Glint will soon be executed. And given her current situation, Myrrh wonders what kind of idiocy leads her to believe she might save him.

The poleman keeps casting Myrrh skeptical glances, and it’s not hard to guess why. There’s a protocol for movements and transactions between Carp’s Refuge and Ostgard’s syndicates. Every ten days or so, a coded update reaches the major syndicates’ headquarters, informing the crime rings on the Refuge’s newest location. Similarly, enciphered messages leave the criminals’ hideouts and dens, containing formal requests for entrance into the Refuge or assistance with the movement of goods. The smugglers usually respond with a password to be offered upon entrance to the Refuge.

A request Myrrh didn’t make, and a password she doesn’t possess.

Her imminent arrival breaks a long-standing agreement, and though thieves lack honor in many ways, the rejection of mutually accepted protocols is not the way rules are broken.

But she won’t feel guilty under poleman’s scrutiny. If the leaders in the Refuge have a problem with her arrival, they can express their displeasure to her directly. She won’t bother herself with an underling’s opinion.

The journey through the bog seems longer than she remembers, which might be due to the urgency of her circumstances, or it might be because the chaos in the city has overspilled its borders, forcing the smugglers to retreat farther into the swampy region. Regardless, it’s a struggle not to glance around the nearly empty raft and feel dismay over heading into exile with scarcely anything but the clothes on her backs. Both she and Nab are each traveling with a single satchel full of their most important possessions—arriving with luggage would be the opposite of inconspicuous.

Between the two of them, they’ve stashed a trunk in a back room at the Queen’s Dice, but Sapphire, the proprietor, warned them that she won’t hesitate to dispose of the chest if she worries it will cast suspicion on the gambling hall.

Myrrh can’t blame the woman. The news of the Shield advance has cast a grim mood over all of Rat Town. Even the law-abiding citizens of the district have enough experience with the city guard to know that innocence will be meaningless if the Shields have a mind to prove their ruthlessness to their new master.

As Myrrh pulls her satchel close to her ribs, she wonders what Nab selected as his most treasured things. Dice, of course. But other than that, she wouldn’t be surprised to find that his small bag is stuffed to the brim with pastries. Little does he know, of course, that she managed to make space in her own satchel for a pair of his reading primers. A few days spent hiding out on a floating settlement with no escape but to swim through fetid water for an hour or more will present a perfect opportunity to catch up on his instruction.

At the thought, a smile almost touches her lips. The anticipation of his torment is likely the only bright spot for the day.

Besides Myrrh and Nab, the raft has no other passengers. Her former self, the freelance thief who, scant months ago, struggled each day to scrape together coin for a meal, would be aghast to learn she’d one day pay a full fare for just the two of them. In truth, she was reluctant to leave her friends behind in Rat Town. The safe house guards are especially vulnerable because they were part of the morning’s fight. Fortunately, the only person who survived from Emmerst’s side is Glint’s former butler. And Myrrh suspects it will take a lot to force him back into Rat Town to make identifications. Emmerst might threaten violence or imprisonment, but considering that the servant watched a squad of Shields die at the hands of Ghost Syndicate, jail will likely seem the better option.

In any case, Myrrh’s plan to arrive at the Refuge unannounced is bad enough. Arriving with a boat full of syndicate thieves would almost certainly not go well.

Ahead, a large group of dead trees stands wet-footed in the marsh. The trunks are silvered and their branches broken and sharp. Thick stands of reeds clog the water around their base. At the sight of the landmark, the raftman tenses, which Myrrh assumes means that they’re nearing Carp’s Refuge.

She sighs. “I’ll see to it that you’ll take no blame for granting us passage,” she says. Perhaps it’s an empty assurance since she can’t predict how the leaders will react, but she will make it a point to defend the man.

He doesn’t respond but rather shrugs faintly and plunges his long pole into the water once again.

“Are we there?” Nab asks, sitting up.

The clicks of crossbow mechanisms answer his words as, with scarcely a splash or rustle, half a dozen guards stand from within the blinds set up to either side of the channel. The raftman braces and jabs the pole into the bottom of the bog to stop the vessel. When the raft slides to a halt, he stands with jaw locked, eyes on the trees ahead.

“We’ve had no advance word of travelers from the city,” one of the guards says. His eyes maintain what looks to be a perpetual squint, probably from keeping watch across the water. Unlike the raftman, his clothing is anything but ratty. The blind, a woven screen of reeds disguised with finer-stalked grasses, hides his legs, but he wears boiled-leather armor on his torso, and fine lambskin gloves protect his hands while leaving his fingers dexterous.

“I apologize most sincerely for the breach of etiquette,” Myrrh says, inclining her head in greeting. She holds her hands away from her sides, not in surrender, but to show she has no intent of reaching for a weapon.

“What business brings you here unannounced?”

“A negotiation of critical importance. I have only until noon to deliver an offer to Jak.”

She spots the flash of recognition when she says Jak’s name and knows that—so far—her gamble is working. As one of the city’s preeminent fences of illicit goods, Jak is one of the few people who keeps steady ties with both the smugglers and the syndicates. Ironically, Glint was becoming another such individual, his natural charisma negating the wariness of the Refuge’s denizens. Myrrh’s breath comes out in a little huff. Too bad Glint isn’t here to smooth over her unexpected arrival.

The guard remains silent, pinning her with that squint-eyed stare.

Myrrh keeps her thief’s mask firmly in place despite her nerves. “I have word he may be at the Frog’s Whistle.”

The guard’s nod is nearly imperceptible and likely unconscious, confirming her hope that the fence is where she last met him, in the saloon and boardinghouse at the center of the settlement.

“An urgent need is insufficient excuse to approach without permission,” the guard says.

“And for that, I do apologize—”

“You’ll have to speak with Lucky.”

Myrrh nods, her face impassive even as eels swirl in her belly. Lucky is head of the smugglers’ ring and infamous for his intolerance when he feels he’s been wronged. He won’t appreciate her unannounced arrival.

At the same time, the guard hasn’t outright turned the raft away, so perhaps she should take heart. Many of the smugglers in the settlement have had favorable dealings with Myrrh, and it seems likely that their leader is aware of her reputation.

The guard nods toward a dock, which is cleverly hidden in the reeds between the dead trees. At its end, another pair of sentries has appeared as if by magic.

“We’ll be happy to speak with Lucky,” Myrrh says. “Though I hope he’ll be considerate of the time-sensitive nature underlying my visit.”

She turns her eyes from the guard as if unconcerned about the coming meeting.

“Just you,” he says.

“Excuse me?” She turns back to him.

“We’ll go ahead and take the boy to a secure holding room.”

Myrrh’s throat tightens. “I appreciate your concern for my young charge. But he’s something of an apprentice to me. I’ve recently been making him privy to all my negotiations and dealings.”

The guard smirks as he opens a gate in his blind and executes a graceful jump onto their raft. He clamps a hand around Nab’s arm. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. It’s a long-standing policy here to separate a group of trespassers. Fortunately, as you just mentioned, the boy is already privy to your plans. It shouldn’t be a problem for us to crosscheck your stories, should it?”

Chapter Three

LUCKY’S DEN ROCKS every time someone steps on or off the walkway surrounding the shack. Swaying with the motion, Myrrh sits casually in the straight-backed chair provided, one foot stretched out in front, an elbow draped uncomfortably over the back. Her pose is deliberately casual, a statement of how little this meeting worries her.

Across the darkened room, Lucky leans against the wall. He’s big without being bulky. Stern might be the best word to describe his demeanor. Or maybe strong.

He stares at her and she back, a stalemate lasting long enough for Myrrh’s armpit to start to hurt where the chair jabs it.

Finally, the smuggler king sucks his teeth and speaks. “We haven’t meant.”

“No.”

“First woman in charge of Rat Town. I’m surprised you’ve lasted, considering…”

If anything, she works her stare into a flatter expression. The flash of annoyance she feels at the veiled insult, whether to her gender or her competence, hides deep within the confines of her thief’s mask.

After a moment, he nods. “And not easy to rile. That, in part, explains the not insignificant amount of loyalty you inspire in your syndicate. I get word of it often.”

From insulting her to giving what sounds like a compliment. The man is poking and prodding, searching for a reaction. But she can’t be seen as weak to flattery any more than she can be baited with threats or insults. She shrugs a single shoulder. “My organization shares my values.”

“And do those values include breaking a long-standing code and intruding uninvited? Each of the alarm tripwires and expensively purchased charms your passage tripped will have to be painstakingly replaced rather than simply relocated as would’ve happened were we given notice.”

She allows herself the faintest wince to show that, in this, she understands she’s cost his organization time and resources. She thinks of the rubies tucked inside her satchel, but she doesn’t reach for them. Best to not squander her precious currency. And anyway, they’ve done her the small honor of not confiscating the satchel or her dagger before sending her in to meet their leader. Few organizations, whether rival or ally, would do the same. That bodes well, but she would destroy the trust by grabbing for her bag and—to Lucky’s eyes, no doubt—the weapon contained within.

“Ghost Syndicate will pay fair recompense for the inconvenience and resources,” she says. “You have my word.”

“But that’s not the real issue, is it? You may be green”—he raises an eyebrow, once again challenging her position—“but I assume you have long been aware of our arrangement.”

“I have, and I wouldn’t think of breaking it without pressing reason. My associate’s offer for Jak is both substantial and time-limited.”

“So I’ve been told. Yet the value of an arrangement between two people external to my organization is no excuse for my rules to be broken. And beyond that, I’m perplexed. Requests for the fencing of goods are rarely so urgent. Even contraband that will be dearly missed by a high-ranking merchant can usually be hidden for quite some time. In fact, that’s often a better choice, isn’t it? To allow interest in the items to fade before they are placed on the market?”

“But when one of the involved parties has an urgent need for funds, it may have nothing to do with the quality of the items and everything to do with the ability of a fence to move them quickly.”

“And who is this needful party?”

“I assured the client of my discretion. It would be terribly remiss of me to break that faith.”

“A very selective concept of honor,” he muses.

Myrrh clenches her jaw. He’s right about that, unfortunately. She shouldn’t have claimed a moral code as the reason for her secrecy. In fact, the longer she sits here, the worse she starts to feel about the plan. It was concocted in haste after a nearly sleepless night and rude awakening.

The level of interest in her whereabouts—and word of the bounty that will probably be offered on her head—are exactly the reason Carp’s Refuge keeps distance from the city’s crime rings. Myrrh figured she could slip into the Refuge largely unnoticed. She planned to quietly take a room in the Frog’s Whistle, where she and Nab could lay low for a few days while planning Glint’s rescue. Her presence shouldn’t have been a threat to the smugglers because scarcely anyone would have known she was here. The only way the Shields can find the outpost is if someone rats out the location. Which will only happen if there’s more money on offer than the usual smuggling rewards. Such as a sizeable bounty for a wanted woman.

Myrrh’s situation now is anything but discreet. The guards know she’s here, and a good twenty people saw her being escorted to Lucky’s office. By now the news of her arrival has probably reached most of the settlement. And once word arrives from Ostgard about her status, any lie she tells now will crumple. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if her story matches Nab’s. They’re sixed if they try to keep up the ruse.

Which leaves her in the position of either coming clean and throwing herself at Lucky’s mercy or figuring out how to retrieve Nab and escape. To where, she has no idea.

Anyway, neither option sounds likely to succeed. Shifting in her chair to take the pressure off her hip, she yawns like this is just another negotiation. Meanwhile, her thoughts race through contingencies—if race is even the appropriate word considering her lack of sleep. Perhaps better would be to say that her thoughts blunder from shapeless idea to shapeless idea.

“So where does this leave us, Mistress—”

Lucky’s words are cut off when the door swings open, admitting a glaring column of sunlight. A woman stalks through the door, all black leather and sleek raven-colored hair.

Lucky sighs audibly. “It seems today is the day for unmannered guests. Though this one, at least, is here at my request. Allow me to introduce Silver, visiting from Tangesh.”

Myrrh raises a genuinely curious eyebrow at this. Tangesh. Just the mention of the distant Port City raises a flood of emotions. She thinks of the aging, one-eyed rogue, Rattle, and the rivalry the man had with Glint when they were both upstart traders working the coast. Images crowd her mind, sights and scents of the exotic woods and oils that funnel through the ports, of the fine wines and intricate tapestries and pickled delicacies that come from the Port Cities and their vicinities. She thinks of the Death Cloak, the terrible and murderous agent of some vile god from the region, and from there remembers the slightly less fearsome yet still troubling organization known as the Nightblades. The conglomerate of coastal thieves’ and rogues’ guilds worship the trickster god Skorry for the cantrips he grants.

Cantrips like the misdirection charm Nab works with just a twist of his fingers.

The woman turns, exposing startling golden eyes and exotic features. “Pleased,” she says in a tone that suggests otherwise.

“And this is Myrrh,” Lucky continues, “leader of one of our city’s vaunted syndicates.”

Myrrh nods in greeting. At least the woman’s arrival has bought her some time to think.

“What brings you all the way here?” Myrrh asks, knowing that the question is more of a challenge than a pleasantry. Among rogues, such information is usually held close.

The woman’s face twists in a wry expression. “Bold, aren’t you? One of the reasons you’ve clawed your way to the top of your organization, I’m sure. Needless to say, my reasons are my own.”

Lucky chuckles as he detaches from the wall and stalks to a chair behind his simple desk. “Back to the subject of discretion, Silver’s is admirable. I can answer for her, seeing as it’s my coin that has purchased her visit. Given the situation in the city, we in Carp’s Refuge begin to feel insecure in our position. If Ostgard falls too deeply into chaos, the profit margins in smuggling goods around the city start to narrow. I am investigating alternative markets for our skills.”

He leans back in his chair, fists planted on the table and an intent to look on his face. Clearly he’s wondering how Myrrh will respond. Though it would seem that general lawlessness would benefit those engaged in questionable dealings, it sometimes doesn’t work that way. Chaos makes everyone a criminal, potentially increasing competition and undercutting the value of ill-gotten gains.

Myrrh thinks of her dagger, still sheathed at her belt, and stifles an urge to draw it to clean beneath her nails. Instead, she contents herself by examining them as if they were far more interesting than this conversation. “My organization has done well in recent times,” she says simply. “Though we have been busy with humanitarian efforts. We’ve never targeted the unfortunate, of course, but lately we’ve been busy assuring their safety. Fortunately, the heiresses and shipping moguls in some of the other districts have had no such protection.” She winks.

Lucky smirks. “I’ve heard you fancy yourself a citizen’s vigilante. Pleased to hear it hasn’t kept you from your profit-seeking ventures. Anyway…” He turns his attention to Silver, who has been watching the exchange with keen eyes. Just a glance tells Myrrh the woman has an agenda that extends far beyond offering advice to Lucky’s smugglers. The man’s eyes flick up and down the woman’s body, lingering on her hips and breasts. “Is there something you need?”

Myrrh suppresses a groan, understanding by his gaze why he was so tolerant of Silver interrupting his meeting. For her part, Silver seems to know quite well the effect she has on the smugglers’ leader. She almost purrs as she cocks her head and stalks closer to the desk. “To tell the truth, it was nothing but curiosity. I heard you were in conversation with the woman who has just become the most wanted criminal in the city. Accessory to, apparently, the murder of the former Maire. It surprised me to learn that you’d granted her sanctuary. Or maybe negotiations on that are the subject of this meeting.”

Sixes. Myrrh’s heart rattles her ribs as Lucky leans farther and farther forward. His knuckles go white as his fists clench.

“Oh,” Silver says. “I’m guessing by your reaction that you didn’t know?”

With barely contained fury vibrating through his body, Lucky stands. Myrrh shrinks against the back of her chair. He turns on her, suddenly looking much taller and wider. Yeah, it seems she should have come clean a little sooner.

She thinks better of sitting and jumps to her feet.

“There are false accusations being—”

“Enough!” Lucky roars, cutting her off.

Sixes on top of sixes.

He’s nearly atop her, eyes bulging. Taking a deep breath, Myrrh swallows and raises a hand. She works fingers through the motions of the misdirection cantrip, praying to the Queen of Nines that it will actually work. She’s succeeded once before at it—once out of perhaps two-dozen attempts. When she finishes the motion, she takes another step back and tries to plant a suggestion in his mind.

“I didn’t come to ask for sanctuary; you know that. And isn’t every thief in Ostgard a target of the Shields? That’s hardly news. Anyway, it seems almost humorous that this woman would burst in here just to tell you I’m a criminal.”

Okay, so the cantrip doesn’t seem to be working. Lucky is still advancing, and while she was focused on twisting her fingers through the cantrip’s motion, brass knuckles have appeared on his massive fists.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve finally had a chance to meet, but I’d better be going,” Myrrh says as she dashes for the door.

Lucky gets there first, swinging the flimsy wood shut with a bang and resting his meaty palm against it to hold it closed. He growls as he turns on her.

Like liquid metal, Silver steps between them. The woman’s hands come up, and as she also makes a curious motion, Myrrh feels her thoughts deadening. She feels…lost, wandering in darkness. In fact, she fights the urge to search out a quiet corner to lie down. As she sways, a woman’s voice reaches for her from a distant place.

“Our meeting this morning was quick and final. You’ll pay me the remainder of my fee and forget your interest in the operations near Tangesh. The environs are murder for smugglers, the pickings slimmer than here. As for the recollection you might have of another woman, your dirty mind does tend to conjure interesting fantasies, but the meeting was just between you and me.”

The woman’s words, meant for someone else, shake Myrrh free of her daze. The motion was similar to the finger wiggle of Nab’s cantrip, but Silver has embellished the gesture, growing it to something much more powerful. Even when she watched from behind, the charm had nearly ensnared her. Backing away, Myrrh draws her dagger.

Silver glances her way as Lucky stumbles toward his desk. From a drawer on the far side, he pulls out a heavy sack that clinks as he drops it into Silver’s palm.

“I assume you’re not a fool even if you’re acting like one now, Myrrh,” Silver says. “You clearly have some dealings with Skorry. Enough to know the cantrip won’t last, especially if your presence here contradicts it. Out.”

Myrrh hesitates for only a moment, and then, with a nod, hurries through the door. Moments later, Silver follows on her heels.

“We have to go,” the woman says. “Now. I have a boat waiting on the southern edge of the Refuge.”

Myrrh shakes her head. “I can’t. Nab.”

“Nab what?” Silver is already trotting and looks back as she leaps to the next platform. She stretches out her arms in exasperation. “Are you coming?”

“He’s my…he’s my brother. They have him in holding.”

Silver groans. “Depths,” she mutters. “I need you to help row if we want to get clear before they send pursuit.”

“Then you’ll have to help me.”

With a sigh, the other woman nods.

Only to step back against the wall when Lucky comes barreling out of the shack, face purple. He crosses the watery gap between platforms in a massive jump that sets them rocking wildly. Silver curses and backpedals frantically as the big man aims a fist for her gut.

Chapter Four

SIXES.

All right, so Myrrh appreciates the woman’s help in getting clear of Lucky’s den. That doesn’t mean she wants to get involved. The kind of intervention Silver offered rarely comes without an ulterior motive—thieves just don’t stick their necks out for strangers. Right now, Lucky’s distracted with his attack on the woman. Myrrh can probably slip away and grab Nab.

Except she has no idea where he’s being held. It seems that Silver’s been in Carp’s Refuge for at least a few days, which means she’s probably Myrrh’s best bet for finding Nab.

Plus she did mention a boat.

Silver takes the punch to the gut as well as can be expected given that Lucky is twice her size. She manages to keep her feet and even staggers out of range of the follow-through, but the blow leaves her curled over her belly, scarcely able to put up a defense as Lucky raises his arm to backhand her. Myrrh grits her teeth, shakes her head, and with a shout, leaps the gap between floating platforms. Sprinting forward, she flips the dagger in her grip and brings the butt end down against the back of his head.

The angle is poor; the man is a good three heads taller than her, and the attack scarcely seems to register. Whirling, he throws an elbow, which she barely dodges. Myrrh stumbles, narrowly avoiding the watery chasm behind her. Lucky growls and steps closer.

Fortunately, Myrrh’s move bought Silver just enough time to put two paces of distance between her and the smuggler. Wincing in pain, the woman raises her hand and works it through another intricate motion.

Silver steps into the shadows and vanishes.

Myrrh blinks. All that remains of the woman is the sense that the shadows aren’t quite right. The angles don’t meet quite right, and the edges fuzz strangely. The effect is enough to make Myrrh feel queasy. The hairs on her neck stand on end as if there were a phantom nearby.

Phantom. Of course. A dose of the Haava substance will allow her to disappear just as effectively as Silver has.

Myrrh’s hand plunges into her satchel in search of the vial holding the clear crystals.

Except then she realizes: If doses are used too close together, Haava substances have terrible side effects. From what she remembers of Glint’s research into phantom, it could only be safely used once a month. Or was that week? A season?

Myrrh has no idea how many days it’s been since she slipped a crystal under her tongue and infiltrated the keep at Craghold. Surely not a month, but more than a fortnight.

She shakes her head—too risky. Instead she raises her dagger to guard her face but keeps the edge angled to appear less threatening.

“Ghost Syndicate has no quarrel with Carp’s Refuge. Look”—she gestures toward the decking behind the man—“you felt what the woman did, charming you with some trick and forcing your mind to places you wouldn’t otherwise go. And now she’s vanished. Rat Towners have been friends of the Refuge for years. Why would you believe her over me?”

“Do you think me a fool?” Lucky growls. “I’ll deliver you to the Shields myself.”

Okay, well, she thought it was a reasonable defense. The point of her dagger rotates toward the man.

“We don’t have to be—aah!” Myrrh’s words turn into a scream as, her reflexes dulled by lack of sleep, she takes one step too far and plunges off the back of the platform. The edge of the adjacent deck smacks her hard across the shoulder blades, and she feels ribs crack an instant before swampy water closes over her.

Body seizing at the sudden injury, Myrrh swims awkwardly for the surface. After a few long seconds, her head breaks free. She spits out a mouthful of rotting vegetation and murky water, then coughs, each breath stabbing her lungs.

Frantic, she searches for Lucky, expecting him to either jump after her or to hurl a throwing knife through her eye.

She must have gotten turned around because she can’t see him. Swimming hard to get under cover beneath the overhanging planks of the closest platform, she cranes her neck to locate the man.

Nothing.

“Myrrh. Here.” The disembodied voice floats down from a nearby mooring post where ropes bind a platform loosely to its neighbors. A coil of rope comes sailing through the air to splash down next to her, the far end fixed to the anchor. Myrrh thrashes through the water to grab the line and with a quick pull, yanks herself toward the platform. Ribs screaming, she reaches up to grip the planks and attempts to drag herself out of the water. A shadowy hand, there yet not, grabs her firmly by the wrist. Silver tugs hard, helping Myrrh climb high enough to flop onto the wooden deck.

Breathing shallowly, she blinks water from her eyes and looks around.

Lucky lies slumped on the platform, his throat slit.

Oh, sixes.

“We need each other,” Silver says, her voice clear despite her insubstantial form. “How that works, I’m not sure. But I suggest we sort out our pecking order later. For now, you must listen to me. We’ll get your brother quickly, then flee into the bog.”

“I have to stay near the city,” Myrrh says.

The other woman gives a disgusted snort. “We may not have time to escape the Refuge as it is. And even if we manage it, we’ll have two hundred smugglers on our heels. From what I’ve recently learned, you are no safer in Ostgard. So if you want to live—if you want to keep your brother alive—I suggest you follow my lead.”

Chapter Five

MOVING UNNOTICED THROUGH a floating outpost filled with hardened smugglers would be difficult enough in the middle of the night. In broad daylight, it ranks among Myrrh’s stupidest escapades. Pain from her ribs stabs with every breath. Each of her steps causes the decking beneath her to rock or bounce or both. Wavelets slap the floats and logs on the platforms’ undersides, and where rafts and rowboats have tied up, the wood knocks together as the dock shifts. Worse, the midday heat has settled over Carp’s Refuge like a sodden blanket, bringing lazy silence to the walkways and outdoor decks. Even the frogs and buzzing dragonflies seem to have retreated to whatever shade they can find.

Smugglers sit in the doorways of knocked-together shanties, sharpening blades or absently rolling dice in their palms. Their eyes squint against the sun’s glare, alert despite the heat and the quiet. Maybe alert because of the quiet. Other residents, the honest crafters and boatmen who have taken up residence to ply their trades away from the tariffs and taxes of Ostgard’s leadership, sit beneath awnings and work on projects ranging from tin punching to bootblacking. Myrrh doesn’t know how far news of her wanted status has reached or how many in the Refuge know she’s here. But the outpost has never been kind to outsiders, and just moving through the back reaches of the settlement, away from the Frog’s Whistle and the main docks, will draw negative attention.

She holds her breath as she eyes a gap between decks. Too far to step, which means she’ll have to leap and set the platforms rocking. As she plants a foot in preparation, a shadow hand grabs her shoulder, startling her.

“No,” Silver whispers. “This way.”

Myrrh lets out a shaky breath. Bad enough to be creeping through a floating, heavily manned outpost in broad daylight. Possibly worse to be doing it with an invisible stranger.

Stepping back into the shadows, she places her back to the wall and starts edging in the direction Silver nudged her.

“There. See the bars?”

Myrrh peers. Right. On the wall of a nearby shack, a set of iron bars has been bolted to the wood over a pair of window shutters, sealing them shut. She raises her eyebrows. She knew they’d take Nab somewhere secure, but she didn’t expect the refuge to have a real jail.

“Ideas?” she whispers.

“A few.”

Myrrh clenches her fists. “It would be easier to follow your lead if I knew where you’re going.”

“We need to assess the security situation. I have poisoned darts. What can you contribute?”

“What can I contribute? Is this a business negotiation? I just want to free Nab while harming as few people as possible.”

Silver lets out another of her disgusted snorts, clearly audible over the light splashing of water beneath their deck. “I doubt they’ll say the same about you when they find Lucky’s body.”

Myrrh rolls her eyes. Easy for the woman to be careless when she’s all but invisible.

“It wasn’t my choice to kill Lucky,” she hisses. “That’s on you. Anyway, can you keep the noise down?” Yes, the corpse stuffed beneath one of the platforms will be discovered soon enough—if nothing else, because of the smell. But discussing the man’s murder in something that barely qualifies as a whisper won’t make the discovery any slower.

The other woman is silent for a moment, which makes Myrrh think that maybe she got through.

She almost lets out a yelp of surprise when Silver speaks at full volume.

“It’s strange,” the woman says. “You know something of Skorry’s boons, but clearly not all. No one but you can hear me.”

Myrrh jams her back against rough planks, frantically trying to blend with the ramshackle siding. Her gaze arrows to a nearby platform where a man, back turned to them, is scaling fish on a small stool. But despite the deafening ruckus from Silver, the man doesn’t even look up from his task.

Ever so slowly, Myrrh peels her back off the wall. She peers at the disconcerting shadows where Silver has concealed herself. Or the shadows that the woman has become. Whichever.

All right, so maybe the Port City thief has a few tricks.

“To satisfy your obvious curiosity,” the woman says, still using a conversational tone, “I was only whispering before to help you remember to be quiet.”

Myrrh’s eyes narrow, but Nab’s rescue is more important than her pride. She shoves her annoyance to the back of her mind.

With a nod, she continues forward. When she draws even with the fisherman, his knife still scraping slivery scales from the flesh, she holds her breath and slinks to the side, around a building that puts her out of his sight. A shiver travels the length of her spine, the sense that surely he must have noticed, but no shout comes.

The jail lies straight ahead. Creeping along the outer wall of the building, Myrrh clutches her dagger in a too-tight grip. Every tiptoed step makes her wince as her ribs twinge. With the sun almost directly overhead, shade is scant. Glancing back at Silver makes her head spin when she tries to focus on the uncanny patch of mismatched darkness.

Myrrh peers around the front of the building, then quickly pulls her head back before the guards spot her. She holds up a hand, extending two fingers.

“Two we can handle without raising an alarm,” Silver says, still speaking at full volume into Myrrh’s ears. Or maybe she’s speaking directly into Myrrh’s mind. It’s hard to tell. “Provided you can incapacitate one. Or better, kill him.”

Myrrh grimaces, unsure whether she can manage either with her injury. But considering the alternative—fleeing and leaving Nab in the clutches of a group who will surely conclude she killed their leader—she has to try.

Myrrh nods, pointing at the corner in front of her to indicate she’ll try for the nearest guard. As a shadow, Silver should have no trouble circling around the back of the building and taking out the man posted at the far corner.

“I’ll distract them to give you the chance to strike,” Silver says. “Wait until you hear me grab their attention.”

Which she plans to do how? It would be nice to know what the woman intends so that Myrrh knows what to listen for. Unfortunately, she’s too close to the nearest guard to ask for more information, even in a whisper. She turns around, intent on signaling the woman to pause, but the disquieting collection of shadows has already retreated to the far end of the platform.

Myrrh jerks in surprise when, without warning, Silver retakes her corporeal form. Shoulders straight, long hair tossed over her shoulders to fall most of the way down her back, she smirks at Myrrh and disappears from view.

Sixing woman. There are reasons Myrrh spent most of her thief’s career working as a freelance grubber. A solo operator. It kept her from having to work with people like Silver.

Ribs aching, the pain flaring with each shallow breath, Myrrh counts backward from one hundred to remain patient. She’s reached sixty-two when she hears voices from the front wall of the jail. Silver’s low laugh drifts over the outpost, and one of the guards responds in an amused tone, then chuckles. Myrrh fishes in her satchel for one of the strips of fabric she cut from her dress. Ideally, she would have removed the rubies in case she fumbles, but there’s no time to regret that choice. The velvet gripped tight, she steps around the corner and quickly assesses the situation.

She has to give Silver credit for flawlessly executing her part in the plan. So far at least. The woman stands with a hip cocked, a sly smile on her face. She stares up at the guard nearest her, golden eyes peering through dark lashes. The man says something inane about the bog channels, and she laughs and touches his shoulder. Myrrh catches the woman’s eye and nods to indicate her readiness. With a face like Silver’s, a few smoldering glances might be enough to completely distract her mark from Myrrh’s attempt to incapacitate his partner, but Myrrh’s betting the woman has something more than flirtation up her sleeve.

With a barely imperceptible nod, Silver raises a hand and makes a gesture similar to the misdirection cantrip, but slightly altered. Almost casually, the woman then points to the dead trees visible on the eastern edge of the outpost. “Interesting, isn’t it? There must have been an island here at one point.”

Both men’s heads whip in the direction indicated, their bodies stiff as if the grove of silvery trunks were the most captivating sight ever.

Myrrh surges forward and wraps the strip of velvet around her target’s throat. He’s a small man, which is fortunate because even with Silver’s magic-aided distraction, he fights the sudden strangulation. She grits her teeth and hangs on to the fabric as he tries to wedge fingers underneath it. Twisting the ends of the strip around each other to tighten the noose, Myrrh sees black at the edges of her vision as agony radiates from her injured ribs.

Finally, the guard sways, then drops to his knees. She keeps the fabric tight while he slumps against the wall, then painstakingly drags him out of view.

Myrrh knots the velvet to keep him from regaining consciousness, but she must work quickly so that the lack of blood to his brain doesn’t kill him. She spots a kerchief tucked into his leather tunic, yanks it free, and jams it between his teeth. Cinching the gag as tight as her strength allows, she ties it behind his head.

Myrrh pauses, takes a breath, looks around. Thank the Nines, she hasn’t been spotted. So far so good.

A coil of loose rope rests beside one of the platform’s anchor posts, and she quickly uses it to bind his wrists and ankles. Finally, she removes the velvet strap from his neck. Relief washes through her when he starts to stir.

With the butt of her dagger, she delivers a sharp blow to his temple, then checks his pulse. Alive.

Her head spins as she stands, but Myrrh slaps a hand against the wall of the jail to steady herself, then steps back into Silver’s view. The remaining guard seems befuddled now, his words coming more slowly as Silver continues with an empty discussion of the flow of water through the swampy region. Myrrh almost snorts at how comically easy it is for an attractive woman to keep a man’s interest, regardless of how boring the conversation topics are.

Her eyes go to the door of the small room.

A heavy padlock secures the handle.

Sixes. As Myrrh starts backing away, intent on searching the other guard’s pockets for a key, Silver shakes her head. Myrrh pauses, eyes wide and questioning. They don’t have long. At any moment, someone could come strolling into view, and the whole operation will be blown.

“It makes me wonder why the Ostgard’s council hasn’t approved a system of levees,” Silver says. “I’ve heard that the streets in the Spills district are flooded more often than not.” As the woman speaks, she raises her hand and works her fingers through another contortion.

Myrrh gasps audibly as the bar slides free of the padlock. She realizes her mistake as the guard starts to turn, but Silver touches him on the arm again and works the distraction cantrip.

“Look how frayed that rope is,” Silver says as she points, voice suggesting that a ratty mooring line is the most interesting thing in the world.

The man stares and gives a low whistle. “Now that’s something, isn’t it?”

Myrrh rolls her eyes as she steps forward. Fortunately, Rattle didn’t teach Nab that particular cantrip. The last thing she needs is another means for the boy to make her look like an idiot. Creeping on tiptoes, she nears the door and pulls the padlock free. Setting it gently on the deck of the platform, she then swings the hasp aside and cracks the door open. Peering through the gap, she spots Nab huddled in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest. He looks up and blinks.

Quickly, Myrrh opens the door farther, then puts her face where he can see it. She raises a finger to her lips to shush him, then motions him forward.

Nab jumps to his feet and scurries across the room, surprisingly silent for someone moving so quickly. Myrrh steps back as he slips into the sunlight.

The boy flings his arms wide as if he’s going to embrace her, but then he notices Silver and drops his hands to the side. He rolls a shoulder and leans against the wall, a ridiculous attempt to look nonchalant.

Myrrh contains a sigh.

“So if I were to want to bring goods around Ostgard, my best bet would be to send a message to Lucky, is that right?” Silver asks, running a hand over her curves as if assuring herself her clothing is still in place. Or maybe to suggest that it doesn’t need to stay that way.

The guard straightens up, his chest puffing at the opportunity to offer more expertise.

“Most of our clients do approach Lucky directly, but if you’d rather work through me, I can make sure our leader understands the importance of your request.”

As Silver nods, eyes wide in apparent appreciation, she waves Myrrh and Nab away. Myrrh orients, putting the stand of trees to her left to plot a route to the outpost’s southern edge and Silver’s boat. Touching Nab on the shoulder, she creeps toward the edge of the platform. At the gap, she helps him across so that he doesn’t need to jump and set the platform rocking. Her heart finally starts to slow as she makes the long step and hurries for the next corner where she can get a building between her and the guard.

Just before she rounds the corner, she hears a strangled yelp followed by a wet gasp. She whirls to see Silver release the guard’s hair as she shoves the man, his throat gaping and bloody, down to the deck. Lip curled, the woman rolls him to the edge of the platform and, bracing for his weight, lowers him into the water. The corpse bobs lightly in the swamp, blood spreading.

What in the sixing fates…? Hadn’t they agreed to avoid more killing? All the woman needed to do to escape was use another of her cantrips. Myrrh stands paralyzed and revolted as Silver crouches and cleans the blade of her small knife on a coil of rope.

When she stands, she casts Myrrh an infuriating smile as if daring her to challenge the decision.

Myrrh’s tempted to stop right there and raise the alarm, accusing Silver of the murders. But what good will that do? All the woman needs to do to plead innocence is use her misdirection cantrip to convince the smugglers that Myrrh, who is already wanted by Ostgard’s authorities and who exposed all Carp’s Refuge by arriving unannounced, is the real culprit.

The other alternative is for Myrrh and Nab to try to make their own escape. But how? To where? Myrrh is injured, and Nab is a twelve-year-old runt. Hardly the team she’d pick to elude an outpost of furious smugglers.

Stomach sick with the need to keep working together, Myrrh satisfies herself with a glare, then guides Nab around the corner. Escape comes first. She can deal with Silver later.

Chapter Six

THE ROWBOAT SURGES forward every time Silver tugs at the oars. Reeds rasp against the boat’s hull as it skims through the shallows. Deep in exhaustion’s grip, Myrrh sways with the motion. With each blink, her eyelids slide shut. Leaden, they resist her efforts to reopen them. Tucked against her in the stern of the boat, Nab has fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his mouth open. If not for the circumstances, Myrrh would be tempted to find something to drop in it as revenge for his many tricks. Instead, she wants to nestle close and join him in slumber, a situation he would surely find humiliating if he woke and found himself snuggled up.

Especially with Silver’s golden eyes as witness.

Her head rocking with the boat’s motion, Myrrh examines the woman. Silver’s gaze roves over the surrounding bog, in constant motion as she searches for threats. Since climbing into the small vessel, the only words the woman has spoken were to claim the first shift at the oars. Myrrh felt no shame in accepting that, particularly with her broken ribs. In truth, she’s not even sure she can row. But Silver doesn’t need to know that just yet. Right now, all that matters is allowing the woman to put distance between their boat and the outpost before the bodies are discovered.

The bodies. The more Myrrh thinks about it, the more furious she becomes. Even if she can clear up her situation in Ostgard by rescuing Glint and turning the tables on Emmerst, she now has to find a way to prove her innocence to Carp’s Refuge. She might not have been on close terms with the smugglers, but they’ve worked together many times. The last thing she needs is another rival organization aiming for Ghost Syndicate’s downfall.

Both of the dead men could have been tied up, gagged, and hidden rather than murdered. Forgetting the morality of it, that would have been a better plan for avoiding pursuit. The dead guard, in particular, will have been discovered floating in the middle of the outpost by now, and the discovery of his body has surely sent people to search for Lucky.

So what would cause Silver to choose to leave such obvious tracks over a discreet escape? Does she have some vendetta against Lucky? Is she just bloodthirsty?

Myrrh sighs. She’s injured and exhausted, and after seeing what that woman can do with her cantrips, Myrrh has no illusions she can beat the woman in an open fight. Extracting herself from the situation is going to take cleverness—something she currently lacks.

She shakes her head gently. Over the last day and night, her situation seems to get worse with every decision she makes.

“You could thank me,” Silver says as she pulls the oars with another strong stroke.

Myrrh feels her lip twitch in disgust despite the thief’s mask she settles into place. “Perhaps I would if I knew your motive. I find it hard to believe you intervened with Lucky solely for my benefit.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “That’s a rather uncharitable conclusion.”

“I’m no stranger to the habits of thieves and cutthroats. I consider it a practical conclusion.”

Silver pulls again on the oars. The motion presses Myrrh’s weight forward, then back against the hull of the rowboat. Her rib cage seems to groan and creak with the stress.

“Then let’s consider your conclusion further,” Silver says. “What other reason might I have to burst into one of Lucky’s private meetings? Within minutes, one of his underlings would surely have done the same, bringing the man word of your fugitive status and leaving you to contend with two enemies at once. If I had no desire to help you, I would have let that play out before pursuing my own agenda.”

All Myrrh really wants to do is close her eyes and finally get some sleep. Trying to decipher this woman’s point is more than her exhausted mind can process. She shrugs. “I’ve had a rather difficult day. Perhaps we could resume this game later.”

“When it’s your turn to row, you mean?” Silver asks. “With what looks to be at least three broken ribs? I’m sure you’ll be more inclined to conversation then.”

So the woman knows about Myrrh’s injuries. Sixes. She sighs. “It’s probably true that you helped me and my brother—”

Silver snorts and rolls her eyes. “Why don’t we drop that pretense as well. I know he’s not your brother.”

Myrrh presses her lips together and continues. “You helped us escape the outpost. But I didn’t ask for your aid, and I’m not sure I’m in a better position now than I was before. The responsibility for the men’s murders will surely be laid at my feet. Frankly, I’m inclined to think I should have taken my chances by throwing myself at Lucky’s mercy.”

“That’s interesting,” Silver says, “seeing as he’s been laying plans with a certain faction of Ostgard’s city council to rat out each of the syndicates with which he’s done business.”

Myrrh blinks in surprise but the struggles to reopen her eyes. She takes a deep breath and wipes the sleep from them. “And I’m supposed to accept that based solely on your word?”

Silver shrugs and ducks a low-hanging willow branch that she somehow sensed despite facing opposite the direction of the boat’s travel. Myrrh leans to the side to avoid being clobbered by the branch and finds the gunwale of the little vessel rather comfortable. She drops an elbow onto it, wincing at the stretch in her ribs, and pillows her head on her arm.

“I have no more reason to believe that story than I have to accept that you helped me out of the goodness of your heart,” she says around a yawn.

Silver smirks. “I said your conclusion about my actions was uncharitable. I didn’t say it was inaccurate. As for proof of Lucky’s intents, I have nothing concrete to show you. Consider this though: I suspect you’ve heard about conditions in the Port Cities, perhaps from thieves who have been forced to flee. A few years ago, the city’s new rulers imposed harsh order. The punishment for all crime is death—except when it’s sanctioned by those same leaders. By hiring their enforcers from amongst the former syndicates—assassins and extortionists and all manner of unsavories—the regimes in Ishvar and Tangesh turned the underworld against itself.”

The woman falls silent for a moment, pulling on the oars, then continues, “I convinced Lucky through some of my…tricks that he contacted me for information about moving his operation to Tangesh. Truly, it’s the direct opposite. Some of my allies wish to move their smuggling operations to Ostgard, but we find we aren’t alone in that interest. Emmerst and his allies on the council wish to move the Port Cities—or at least, the spirit of them—to Ostgard. They’ll start by purging any syndicates or freelancers who refuse to operate by the new regime’s rules.”

Myrrh’s focus drifted while woman talked, but the words sink in anyway, and after a moment, memories of a conversation with Glint surface. He spoke of similar things, of foreign interests from the ports moving into Ostgard with a plan to change everything. In fact, he claimed that Emmerst was the faction’s ringleader. According to Glint’s information, the changes in Ishvar and Tangesh have squeezed out all criminal operations with a moral code, leaving only the crime rings that have no care for sparing the innocent. The situation in Ostgard might be tough, with whole districts full of lowborn families barely scraping by, but at least the city’s honest thieves have wealthy targets they can harass without putting the burden on the poor. According to Glint, the commoners in the Port Cities are scarcely more than slaves, living in constant fear of the thugs who have been given free authority by the ruling regime.

So some of the woman’s story makes sense. But something in Myrrh’s gut tells her that it just doesn’t add up. Unfortunately, she can’t figure out what strikes her as off about it. Not right now.

Another surge of the boat sets her mind adrift, the puzzle of Silver’s motives scattering like mist. Instead, she hears Glint’s voice from the edge of a dream, a faintly mocking tone challenging her to some contest or another. She smirks back while he hands her a glass of wine, and they sink into armchairs before his fireplace in the sitting room of his Lower Fringe residence. She glances toward him, sees his flashing dark eyes and the faint curl of his lips. His beard is a day-old shadow. With a long leg outstretched and an arm draped over the chair, he somehow manages to appear casual while still dominating the room. He sips his wine. She smiles, just for a moment, as sleep takes her.

Chapter Seven

MYRRH JERKS AWAKE when the boat knocks against something. She sits bolt upright and grabs for Nab when he flails from sleep, setting the boat rocking wildly.

Silver shushes them with a hiss and—rather than a finger pressed to her lips like an ordinary person—by drawing her fingers across her throat. What is it with this woman and severed windpipes?

The boat floats in a sparse grove of skeletal trees, near enough to one that Myrrh could reach out and touch the smooth trunk. Working the oars in the oarlocks, Silver dips the paddles into the water and nudges the boat back up against the tree. The hull vibrates with the soft collision. That must have been what woke Myrrh and Nab.

Why have they stopped? Swiveling, Myrrh looks for sign of pursuit, but another sharp hiss from Silver cuts her search short.

The woman grabs a pile of rope, one end of which is tied to a bolt on the vessel’s bow. She reaches it around the far side of the trunk and nods at Myrrh. Her ribs protesting, Myrrh grabs it and pulls to hold the vessel tight to the tree.

The faint sound of splashing penetrates the grove.

Nab’s eyes widen as he spins, climbing to his knees to look behind him. Silver casts Myrrh a glare that suggests if she doesn’t control the boy, the woman will do to them what she did to Lucky and the guard. Myrrh glares back but lays a hand on Nab’s shoulder to warn him.

“They’re in the trees,” a man calls. “Saw them go in.”

Myrrh sees them now, four boats gliding toward the grove. Each holds two smugglers, one at the oars, while the other either carries a readied crossbow or casually dangles a grappling hook from his fist.

So…what exactly was Silver’s plan? Their pursuers clearly know where they’ve tried to hide. Given that the trees are the only cover—as far as she can see—for a good fifteen minutes’ row in any direction, they must look like toddlers trying to hide behind an object far too small to offer concealment.

Myrrh casts the woman a confused glance and shrugs.

Silver rolls her eyes.

She grabs for the end of the rope Myrrh’s holding, then hitches it through another bolt on the vessel’s rail to hold the boat fast. Their pursuers are near enough now that Myrrh can hear the oars creaking in the oarlocks. She grits her teeth to keep from looking, knowing that the motion will only make them easier to spot.

For all the good that will do, seeing as the smugglers know they rowed into the small group of trees and didn’t come out.

Myrrh reaches for her dagger as the nose of the first boat pushes through the reeds and into the dead grove. Early evening sun shines red on the water, throwing scarlet glints over the scene.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and draws her weapon. Eight smugglers against a boy, a woman with broken ribs, and a Port City thief who seems to have a loose grip on reality. She squeezes Nab’s shoulder. “Just stay low,” she breathes.

“There,” one of the smugglers says, pointing at their boat with an oar.

Myrrh takes a breath and hunkers down to provide a smaller target. Her eyes flick to Silver—just in time to see the woman make a quick motion with her fingers and disappear into shadow.

Sixing. Worthless. Conniver.

The boat rocks slightly, and leather scrapes against wood as the now-insubstantial woman climbs from the boat and into the tree, abandoning them. Too late, Myrrh jumps for her, intent on snatching a limb and pulling her back into the rowboat to share her and Nab’s fate. Myrrh’s hand slaps smooth wood.

Clicks fill the grove as the smugglers ready crossbows. In the glare of the sun, the men and women in the boat are shadowy silhouettes, but the tips of the crossbow bolts glint in the light.

It’s useless. In her current condition, Myrrh doubts she could beat a smuggler one on one. With eight men and women against her and Nab, there’s no chance. Raising her hands in surrender, she drops her dagger. The weapon clatters into the bottom of the boat.

A weapon fires with a twang, and a bolt hisses past Myrrh’s ear.

“Don’t hurt the boy,” she says, words stumbling over one another. “His only crime is having me as a protector.”

“Crime enough, as far as I’m concerned,” one of the smugglers growls.

“Fool!” another snaps.

Myrrh’s throat clamps down. She fixes her face in a pleading expression. They have to see that it’s not right, killing a boy before he learns to shave. She ducks her head and—keeping her hands visible—awkwardly passes the strap of her satchel over it before shrugging the bag off her shoulder.

“There’s a small vial inside,” she says to Nab, too quiet for the smugglers to make out. “The crystals are called phantom. If they kill me, slip one—just one—under your tongue.”

It’s a thin hope—the smugglers already know Nab is here—but he’s small enough that he might be able to climb high into the trees, out of reach and undetectable due to the phantom’s effects.

“Are you so frightened of a single woman and child that you’d forfeit the bounty?” someone says.

Myrrh blinks as, with a snarl, one of the smugglers smacks another on the back of the head. The target of the attack holds a fresh crossbow bolt in his mouth, and he’s partway through arming the weapon.

“Hey!” he says, voice muffled from speaking around the bolt.

“The Shields want her alive so they can make an example. Double the bounty that way.”

“But they didn’t say nothing about the boy,” another of the men says, taking aim at Nab.

Desperate, Myrrh throws herself across the child, prompting an insulted squawk.

A bolt whizzes over her head.

“The phantom,” she hisses. “Take it.”

“Can’t…move…” Nab manages.

A sudden splash brings Myrrh’s head up, her elbow still planted against Nab’s shoulder blade to keep the little flea from sitting up.

Across the grove, shadows flow over the rail of one of the boats. With a strangled yelp, the man who just shot at Nab claws at his own neck. His voice turns to a gargle as a red smile opens across his throat. Blood sprays across his companion as he topples backward, hitting the water with a loud slap. Silver’s shadowy form springs into the air to take hold of a dead tree limb, and the boat overbalances, dumping the other smuggler headfirst into the swamp.

The other smugglers’ eyes are white around the edges as, panicked, they start rowing from the grove. Myrrh winces as Silver’s shadow flows from tree to tree, branches vibrating as they take the woman’s weight. The darkness pools above the slowest of the boats, then drops into the stern, sending the front of the boat heaving out of the water. The woman at the oars tumbles toward the man hunkering in the back.

Shadows move, a tendril snatching the crossbow that falls from the man’s grasp. Once in Silver’s grip, the weapon joins the darkness, nearly vanishing. Only the gleaming tip of the bolt shows as, with a click, it hurtles free of its housing. The smuggler’s eyes widen, and her mouth makes a surprised circle as the bolt skewers her through the heart.

The man flails his fists at the air around him but connects with nothing. As he clamors over his fallen partner, grabbing for the oars, Silver leaps from the boat and once again gains the trees.

She is smoke. Liquid death. A monster.

Two of the boats are clear of the trees now. The blob of shadow perches over the last, the man at the oars whimpering as he yanks at them. The boat jerks side to side as paddles skim off the water rather than biting as they should.

“Stop!” Myrrh shouts, unsure whether she’s speaking to Silver or the terrified smuggler in an attempt to still his panic and help him escape before the rogue strikes.

Either way, her call seems to penetrate his terror, and a moment later, he’s pulling at the oars with proper coordination. The front end of the boat bursts from the glade, red light shining on the weathered wood. As the man passes into the sunset’s glow, Myrrh breathes a sigh of relief. Silver is going to let him go.

But then, with a whistle, a throwing knife arrows from the patch of darkness where Silver hides. It slides into the smuggler’s eye socket with a slick crunch. He slumps sideways, his weight on the oar pressing it into the water and sending the boat into a slow spin.

Horror fills Myrrh’s throat, drowning her words. Other than pursuing the woman they believed responsible for their leader’s death, the smugglers have done no wrong. Well, except maybe the man who shot at Nab. Myrrh feels no remorse that he now floats face down.

The others though.

As Silver’s shadow returns to the boat, the darkness sliding over tree branches and down the final trunk to step lightly into their small vessel, Myrrh plants her feet and stands.

When Silver rematerializes, she smirks and raises an eyebrow as if—yet again—daring Myrrh to protest her actions. Myrrh narrows her eyes. This has gone on too long, all because Myrrh felt at too great a disadvantage. But sleep has brought insights. Or at the very least, it’s put some steel in her spine.

“Enough,” she says.

The woman sneers and draws breath to speak, but Myrrh cuts her off.

“No. You don’t get to speak until I’m finished explaining how things are going to work between us.”

Chapter Eight

NAB GIVES A little squeak and scoots away from Myrrh’s feet as if to suggest he wants no part in her lunacy. And maybe that’s a good call, considering that the woman just killed four smugglers without getting winded

No, wait. Three smugglers. With a tremendous effort, Myrrh keeps her gaze from flicking to the boat still floating between the trees. One of its occupants had his throat slit, but the other only toppled overboard. It might be stupid to hope that Silver has forgotten the man, but maybe in the chaos it slipped her mind.

“When we met, I called you bold,” Silver says. “But perhaps you’re just stupid. You realize you have no chance against me. I could kill you both and leave your bodies for the crows. Given that you can’t row, that’s probably my best choice.”

“But you won’t do that,” Myrrh says. “Not after you’ve gone through all this effort to help us escape the outpost.”

“Effort I am now coming to regret.”

“Are you? Because you still haven’t explained why you chose to intervene with Lucky. I give you credit for deflecting the conversation and taking advantage of my weariness. But I’m awake now.”

“You did yourself better service when you weren’t.”

Myrrh smirks. “I suppose we’ll have to disagree on that point.”

In the bottom of the boat, Nab flicks his gaze back and forth between the women. His hand creeps toward Myrrh’s satchel, probably in search of the phantom. She sighs as she crouches, ribs aching, and retrieves the small bag. Nab mutters something in protest that sounds suspiciously like, “Miser’s balls.”

She rolls her eyes. By now, she would hope he had a little more faith.

As she lifts the satchel’s strap over her head so that it hangs across her body, she hears a faint slap of wavelets against the abandoned boat’s hull.

Myrrh speaks loudly to try to cover the sound. “Here’s what I think. I think you entered Lucky’s office with the intent of provoking him against me. You wanted me in a position where I needed to flee, and you wanted to be there to help.”

Silver snorts. “You have a rather high opinion of yourself.” Her eyes flick to the other boat where hands have appeared on the far rail. With a sigh, she pulls out another throwing knife.

“No.” Myrrh knocks the woman’s hand, and the knife tumbles into the bottom of the boat.

The glare Silver turns on her is full of poison. But somewhere deep in that golden gaze, Myrrh thinks she spies something else. Fear, perhaps.

“How dare you?”

“I dare because you are a viper with no conscience. And I won’t have more deaths on my head.”

“I suspected you might be an idealist,” Silver says as she reaches for the fallen knife. When Myrrh stomps down on the woman’s hand, Silver strikes her in the rib cage with four fingers stacked into a spear.

The breath leaves Myrrh’s lungs, and sparks appear at the edge of her vision. Panting, she forces her knees to unlock so that she doesn’t pass out.

Silver comes up with the blade, and now the glinting edge faces Myrrh’s throat. An image of Glint’s face flashes through Myrrh’s thoughts. If she dies here at Silver’s savage hand, Myrrh has no doubt Glint’s rescue plot will be sixed. He’ll die to Emmerst’s executioner in nine days. And then, as Maire of the city, Emmerst will do to Ostgard what others have done to the Port Cities.

Glint isn’t the only person depending on her rescue. If she doesn’t unseat Emmerst, every honest thief and spy in the city will lose their livelihoods. Many of them will lose their lives in the coming purge.

But Myrrh won’t stand by while the woman slays another defenseless smuggler. Rather than backing off, she snatches Silver’s wrist, digging fingernails between the tendons and loosening the woman’s grip on the blade.

Silver’s eyes widen. Her lips pull back, showing a flash of teeth.

“Here are some facts,” Myrrh growls. “You burst into Lucky’s office with news that I was wanted in the city. At the time, I found it surprising that you—a stranger in Carp’s Refuge—received this information before any of Lucky’s underlings. But alone that’s nothing more than an irregularity. It’s what came after. First, you claimed you needed me to row the boat, but that’s clearly not the case since you’ve realized I cracked some ribs. All we are now is dead weight.”

“Hey!” Nab protests. “I can row.”

Both women look at him with raised eyebrows. Skinny arms lost in the sleeves of his tunic, Nab nonetheless puffs out his chest. Myrrh rolls her eyes. “And that’s another thing. You know he’s not my brother. Probably knew all along, which suggests you know more about me than you’ve let on.”

“Maybe I have a soft spot for female thieves,” Silver says. Her gaze turns to the smuggler who has now climbed all the way into the small rowboat. He shrinks down. “You realize we can’t let him escape.”

“Because that would let him return to Carp’s Refuge with news of our little disagreement? Because now that he’s seen you in plain sight, there’s an alternative to the notion that I killed Lucky and the guard?”

“Because I have a part to play in Glint’s rescue, and if the extent of my powers are known, we won’t succeed.”

In the shocked silence that follows, the smuggler picks up his boat’s oars and furtively dips them into the water.

Myrrh’s brows draw together. “Did you just say…?”

Silver nods. “Now shall I kill him, or would you like to do the honors?”

Myrrh whips out her dagger. The hint of a smile forms on Silver’s lips a moment before Myrrh cracks the butt of her weapon against the woman’s skull.

As the woman drops to a heap in the bottom of the boat, Myrrh snatches the throwing knife and aims at the fleeing smuggler. “Stop,” she says. “Or I’ll put this between your shoulder blades.”

It’s a bluff—Myrrh can’t hit the side of a building with a throwing knife—but it works. The man drops the oars and holds up his hands.

Myrrh nods at Nab. “Tie him to one of the trees, but not so tightly that he won’t be able to work himself free. It’s a long swim and wade back to Carp’s Refuge, but he should be able to make it if he doesn’t do something stupid like try to follow us. Oh, and set his boat adrift.”

Chapter Nine

FOR ALL THE good it will do—Silver probably has a cantrip for untying knots or severing ropes—Myrrh binds the unconscious woman’s hands behind her back while Nab awkwardly rows them from the grove. The sun is a molten ball on the horizon, its glare igniting the water and turning swamp grasses to blood-red blades. But to the east and south, clouds have begun to pile up over the landscape. Ostgard and its surroundings rarely escape the rain for more than a few hours. By midnight, they’ll surely be wishing for the oppressive heat that smothered Carp’s Refuge at midday.

“Where are we—”

Nab cuts his question short when Myrrh gives him a sharp look and points back to the grove. They aren’t yet out of earshot of the remaining smuggler. But she gestures northward. From what she recalls of the bog’s extents, the swamp peters out toward the northern reaches of Ostgard, where woodland presses up against the upper-class district of West Fifth. Once on dry land, they should be able to skirt the city. From there…well, she hasn’t quite figured that out yet. But they’ll definitely be better off on foot than in this sixing boat.

Nab’s hair flops into his eyes with every pull of the oars. Unfortunately, his bravado can’t make up for his twig-like arms. Steeling herself to handle the pain in her rib cage, Myrrh nudges him to the side of the bench and takes one of the oars from his grip.

“On three,” she says. “One, two, three.”

The boat skims forward as they pull together. The progress isn’t tremendous, but they’re moving faster than Nab was managing alone. The greater damage in Myrrh’s chest seems to be on the right side, so she pulls harder with her left arm.

She’s starting to think they have a chance to reach land in the wee hours of the morning—if she remembers Ostgard’s geography right—when Silver stirs.

“Vel’s poisonous sweat,” she mutters, a southern curse Myrrh hasn’t heard. “You are as annoying as you are stupid.”

Myrrh ignores her, focusing on the oar in her hand.

“I suppose you left that man to carry word back to Carp’s Refuge. Which means we can count on a reception when we land…” She leans to the side as if studying the swamp ahead. “You’re aiming for the woods outside the northern half of the city, am I right?”

“The smuggler won’t be a problem,” Myrrh says.

“Oh? Interesting. Either you killed him, or you left him marooned in the grove, which is effectively the same thing.”

Is it? Myrrh told herself the man would be able to swim and wade back to Carp’s Refuge. Or if not that, to the outskirts of Ostgard where the bog fades into muddy streets and stilt houses. But then again, she doesn’t know how long she slept while Silver rowed. Maybe the grove of dead trees is farther from land than she thought. The man did say something about that while Nab was tying him to the tree.

“Stabbed in the night, my head hurts,” Silver says. “But I still suspect I can row better than you two.”

Myrrh’s nostrils flare, but she keeps pulling on the oar.

“How about you, Nab? What do you think of Myrrh’s decision to leave loose ends when your lives and—if you don’t manage to free Glint—the lives of your friends in Rat Town are at stake?”

Myrrh clenches her jaw. How does this woman know so much?

Silver smirks as she pulls her hands from behind her back, the rope that bound her wrists pinched between thumb and forefinger. With a yawn, she leans back against the boat’s stern.

Throughout the exchange, Nab has been silent, his eyes darting back and forth between the women. Finally, he pulls his oar from the water and sets the handle across his lap. Myrrh’s next pull sets the boat yawing to the left, and she has to dunk her paddle and brace to correct.

“Nab?” she says.

“This is stupid.”

“What?”

“The way you two are acting. You’re like kids seeing who can spit farther off Second Bridge.”

Myrrh feels her cheek twitch. That’s not true, is it? She’s just trying to take control of a day where every toss of the dice has seemed to come up sixes. Starting by refusing to let this woman dictate her choices.

Silver sneers. “You too, huh, kid? I would think you both would show more appreciation. Not to mention, respect for the fact that I’m your best chance for helping right the situation in Ostgard.”

“You know,” Myrrh finally snaps, “I don’t care which cantrips you’ve learned or why you know so much about my situation. Regardless of the predicament with Glint and Emmerst, if your solution is to murder innocent people, I don’t want your help.”

“And would Glint say the same?” Silver asks with a raised eyebrow. “And to call my victims innocent is hardly the truth. Lucky’s band, as I already mentioned, is in league with Emmerst. They plan to see Ostgard ruined.”

“And as I mentioned, I have no reason to believe your story.”

“Is your doubt in my story so strong that you’d bet Glint’s life on it?”

Enough. Myrrh has had it with this woman and her mysterious knowledge.

“I think it’s time you explain how you know him. And how you know so much about me.”

“I almost never agree with Myrrh,” Nab says. “But it’s hard to trust someone who keeps bragging about their secrets. Oh, I can help with Glint. Oh, aren’t I clever dropping hints about how I know so much about you.” He says the last sentences in a mocking, singsong voice.

The woman stares at them. “I’ve known Glint a long time. Certainly longer than you have. And I daresay I have a right to keep details of our relationship secret.”

The way the woman says relationship sends a wicked little dart through Myrrh. But that’s probably calculated. Given how much she knows about Myrrh’s situation, she probably also knows that Myrrh has played the part of Merchant Giller’s fiancée. She’s probably also guessed that there’s something real underlying the act.

Not that she’d be right about that. The last time Myrrh and Glint talked, they discussed the possibility of a future. Someday. Somehow. For now, all she has are the memories of a couple of drunken kisses.

“Arguing with her is a waste of time, Nab,” Myrrh says. “We need to make for the woods outside West Fifth.”

“And from there?” Silver muses. “If you manage to slip around the city, you could follow the Ost upstream to the nearest settlement. You might get a pigeon to your allies in the city, and they might even send a response. But you’ll never scrape together a rescue plan working like that. Not in the five days Glint has remaining.”

“Wait, five?”

Silver blinks, and then a pitying look settles over her face. “You didn’t know, of course. So much news chased you out of Ostgard when you fled, but you were busy trying to fool Lucky into granting you sanctuary, so you haven’t heard it.”

Myrrh sighs. “And?”

“It seems your escape from the Shields caused Emmerst to reevaluate the security of his position. For whatever reason, the man seems to think you’re a threat to his plans. Or at least, that’s the conclusion I draw from hearing his latest orders. Curfew from dusk until dawn. All those who can’t obtain vouchers of employment are to be rounded up and held in camps being erected in Smeltertown. There are to be mandatory rallies and speeches where Emmerst and his lackeys will speak about the new order. And of course, Glint’s public trial and execution have been moved forward. He dies in five days.”

Myrrh tries everything to keep her thief’s mask in place, but for a moment, it’s all too much. Jaw clenched, she pinches her temples between thumb and forefinger.

“And you want to help us rescue him. I’m not so proud as to refuse the aid, but you haven’t given me a reason to trust you either.”

“Let me put it this way. Despite your actions today, I know you’re not a fool. You must realize it wouldn’t be a tremendous challenge for me to drown you both. I might even be able to free Glint on my own. But as I already mentioned, I’ve known him longer than you. More…deeply than you, I’d wager as well. And saving him is more important to me than indulging the annoyance I feel every time you speak. It’s more important to me than the lives of half a dozen smugglers who made the mistake of interfering with my plans. I’ve gambled enough to understand odds, and right now, they say we’re more likely to succeed when working together. But if you persist in delaying us by stopping in the middle of a nines-forsaken swamp to argue, I may just roll the dice and go it alone.”

Myrrh’s mouth tastes like bile as she swallows her words. Because, sixes take the woman, she’s probably right. Glint’s situation is grim, and it will probably only get worse.

“Fine,” she says at last.

“Then move and let me row. I happen to know that patrols have been stepped up in the woods, but I have contacts among the warehouses at the edge of In Betweens. We can slip into the city and establish a base there. One of the thieves’ paths ends nearby.”

Back into the city she so recently fled. Myrrh’s not sure that’s the best move, but then, she only left because Carp’s Refuge seemed close enough to coordinate a rescue yet hidden enough to stay clear of Emmerst’s forces. And—unfortunately—Silver is right about her chances of overseeing the rescue from the nearest upstream town.

Myrrh is a thief and a sneak. She knows the thieves’ paths like she knows the bemused smile Glint gives her when he teases. If she wants to free him, she should use her strengths, not try to give orders from afar like a general or merchant commander.

“Unless you disagree?” Silver prompts, her tone condescending.

Myrrh nudges Nab off the seat, then joins him in the rear of the boat as Silver takes the oars. As the boy yawns and settles his head on the rail, Myrrh stares over the swamp and the fog that’s rising from its surface, thickening the air.

She doesn’t want to look at the other woman. Doesn’t want to remember Silver’s tone when she spoke about her reasons for rescuing Glint. Because Myrrh knows that tone. Silver cares. And that leaves little doubt over what sort of relationship she’s refusing to describe.

Chapter Ten

MYRRH SLEEPS FOR a while, waking once when it begins to drizzle, and again when the drizzle becomes a downpour and frigid water soaks through her clothes. She sits up, shivering, and pulls her knees close. Beside her, Nab’s teeth chatter audibly; he doesn’t even complain when she drapes an arm over his shoulders and pulls him against her.

Sixing rain.

To either side of the boat, raindrops hiss against the surface of the swamp. Occasionally, a bullfrog’s croak groans in the night. Despite the years spent scraping by in Ostgard’s slums, the nights when she slept out because her latest squat had been discovered by the Shields, Myrrh is fairly certain that between the bone-deep chill and the broken ribs, she’s as uncomfortable as she’s ever been. But as soon as that thought enters her mind, she curses the selfishness. Glint is surely ten times as miserable. The last time she saw him, he could barely walk due to gut wounds delivered by the knives of a dozen would-be assassins. And that was before Emmerst manhandled him out the door, reopening the gashes. The truth is, Myrrh can’t even be certain he’s alive, and it’s possible that all this is for nothing.

She cuts off those thoughts before they lead to despair. Thieves don’t cry.

“I assume you have a plan,” Silver says. “If nothing else, we can use it as a starting point.”

The truth is, concocting a plan was to have been Myrrh’s first priority once she’d secured a temporary hideout in the Frog’s Whistle. Seeing as that didn’t go as expected, leaving her fleeing for her life rather than planning to save Glint’s, she’s no further along than she was when her thieves’ council broke up in the hours after Glint’s capture.

“Why don’t we start with your ideas?” she says, baring her teeth in an insincere smile.

Silver scoffs. “I suspected as much. I suppose we should start by discussing where he’s being held. Do you know?”

“We will probably know soon enough. I’m sure the only reason Emmerst captured Glint—and the only reason he didn’t kill him right away—is because his support for the bid for Maire is weaker than he lets on. He needed a scapegoat for the troubles in the city and a rallying point for people who have suffered because of them. Glint was about to steal the Maire’s seat out from under him, so who better to set up as a villain than the man who was about to best him?”

“That’s not a bad theory, actually,” Silver says. Myrrh waits, jaw clenched, for the woman to follow through with an insult, but none comes. After a moment, Silver speaks again. “So you think he’ll have Glint somewhere public?”

“As soon as he’s recovered enough that bringing him into the public view won’t kill him.”

The rain and the fog snuff most of the moonlight, but the orange glow of Ostgard’s many street lamps and torches filters through the storm from their right. There’s just enough light for Myrrh to spot the surprise on Silver’s face. The woman didn’t know he had been hurt before his capture. Good. It’s nice to be the one holding a secret or two.

The woman says nothing for a while, then speaks through slightly clenched teeth. “Anything else you feel you should share about Glint’s situation? The last time we met, he was healthy and making strong inroads with the council. He seemed to feel the nomination for Maire was all but certain.”

Myrrh swallows. They met? Somehow she had the idea that Silver was a figure from Glint’s past. An old flame, most likely, but it’s not like she believed she was the first woman to capture his attention. But Silver’s words suggest they’ve been meeting regularly. If he were using her as a contact with the Port City thieves, wouldn’t he have mentioned it? He had been preparing to hand over control of his syndicate, after all.

Which poses the question, what reason would he have to keep his meetings with Silver a secret? Perhaps if they were for reasons other than professional dealings? She shakes her head. She’s just letting the woman get to her.

“What do you know about Haven Syndicate?” Myrrh asks, avoiding the question of Glint for the moment.

“I know they’ve been rivals of the Rat Town thieves for years.”

“Until two nights ago when one of our conflicts ended with me saving the life of one of their children.”

“A peace that barely lasted a day. I know they’ve been helping the Shields press into Rat Town.”

The woman is well informed. How was she able to gather so much information so quickly as a guest in Carp’s Refuge?

“Which makes me wonder why you think this warehouse in their district is the best place to establish a base of operations,” Myrrh comments.

Silver smirks and arches an eyebrow. “Concerned that the location will make you too dependent on me to establish lines of communication? After all, it hardly seems wise for you to move around in enemy territory, especially with the bounty on your head.”

“That is a concern.”

“Fortunately, allegiances shift quickly. By the time we land, control of the syndicate may have flipped again.”

“Was it the ferrymen on the rafts?”

“Pardon?”

“Who was bringing you the news from Ostgard? I assume Skorry’s gifts don’t allow you some kind of far-sight.”

Rather than answering, Silver nods toward something behind Myrrh, who glances over her shoulder. Sometime during the conversation, the boat has turned toward the city, and they’ve nearly reached the first of the darkened buildings hunkering in the mud at the edge of the swamp. Silhouetted against the ruddy fog filling In Betweens, the warehouses could be hiding any number of threats.

Myrrh holds Nab close as the boat slides into the mud. Lithe and nearly silent, Silver hops out and steadies the vessel.

Silver didn’t answer the question, but delaying here only means they’re exposed to Haven’s lookouts. Myrrh takes a breath, wincing as her ribs protest, and climbs out of the boat.

***

Silver’s warehouse contact turns out to be the man hired to guard the building. At least that means they don’t need to get rid of any security. Better, the man isn’t part of the Haven Syndicate. In the lower-class districts, security is usually provided by the syndicate that controls the region—that is, if the owner of the building doesn’t want its contents regularly targeted by the crime rings. In this case, though, the guard and his brother are solo operators who manage to avoid trouble by paying tribute—sponsored by the warehouse owner—to Haven.

At least, that’s what he claims when Myrrh questions him after he leads their sodden group into the building.

It’s a cavernous space, shadows within shadows. The musty air seems to cling to Myrrh’s skin and mix with the rainwater, making her feel even slimier. But the office room, a flimsy-walled chamber tucked into the back corner of the warehouse floor, has a pot-bellied stove with a well-stoked fire. After feeling the first wave of heat, she sighs in relief and peels off her sodden cloak. At least if the guard decides to rat out their location to Haven, the warmth will have brought some movement back to her joints. She might take out one or two of the attackers before they finish her.

“You are secure here until dawn,” the guard says. He has a square jaw and eyes that look almost kind. If Myrrh were the trusting sort, the man would probably earn that trust based on appearance alone. Of course, as it stands, she’s going to have to trust him because she’s out of choices.

“What happens at dawn?” she asks.

“Shield patrols come through during the daylight hours. I won’t be here to send them away.”

“Who guards during the day? Haven?”

The man shakes his head. “My brother. We share the work evenly. But he’s not so good at quick talking the Shields in another direction. His accent, you know?”

Now that he mentions it, Myrrh hears a faint foreign lilt in the man’s words. That’s surprising. A fairly universal truth around Ostgard is that neither the crime rings nor the honest tradespeople in the lower districts trust outsiders. Myrrh grimaces when thinking about the way she’s seen honest travelers treated. The prejudice might have been formed after years spent knuckling under a merchant class filled with foreign families, but it’s still not pleasant.

Either way, it’s incredibly unlikely that Haven would welcome freelance guards of foreign birth working in their district. The man claimed he and his brother pay tribute, but it must be a tremendous sum to buy the syndicate’s tolerance. So who is the owner of the place—and the goods stored inside—and what would motivate them to hire foreign security when it would cost a fraction to pay Haven for the work?

The situation makes her wonder whether Silver is telling the truth about the man being a simple contact. For all Myrrh knows, the woman owns the sixing building. In fact, the more she thinks about it, the more she wonders whether Silver planned to arrive here all along, bringing Myrrh deeper into her domain.

Myrrh grits her teeth. The woman’s motives are a mystery, as are her resources, but right now Myrrh needs to focus on Glint. If they’re going to get this rescue underway, they need to start planning.

“I assume you are going to head out tonight,” Myrrh says, directing her words at the other woman. “We’ll need to start contacting people.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” the guard says. “The streets aren’t safe. I’ve heard the fighting from here. Haven against Ghost Syndicate, Shields against the rabble. Haven factions against each other.”

Myrrh perks up at the mention of Ghost Syndicate—sounds like they’ve been pushing back against Haven for leading the Shields into Rat Town. But she’s not so stupid as to ask directly. When she nudges Nab and presses her lips together to remind him to keep his mouth shut, the boy rolls his eyes as if to suggest he didn’t need to be told.

“I have ways to move about unnoticed, Arne,” Silver says. The guard looks ready to protest, but Silver turns away from him to address Myrrh. “I need to know who to get in touch with and where. We can use this as a base.”

Myrrh flicks her gaze to Arne. Should they really be having this conversation in front of him? “Your friend here just said the warehouse isn’t safe after dawn.”

“Which is why we’ll head up top and sleep during the day. The Shield patrols come through in the morning, so by afternoon we can begin planning.”

“Up top?” Myrrh says.

Silver kicks the office door open and points to the system of catwalks that crisscross the upper reaches of the warehouse. “There are a couple of rooms up there. Hammocks inside. Long as nobody snores, the Shields won’t bother with more than a quick walk-through of the floor.”

“It seems like you’ve used this is a safe house before,” Myrrh comments, tapping her finger on her knee.

“I do business here fairly frequently.”

“Earlier, Lucky said you came to the Ostgard region just recently.”

“And as I’ve mentioned, I was able to plant some suggestions about my presence into his mind. Now, are we done with the interrogation? I’d like to get down to business.”

“It just seems strange to me,” Myrrh says. “So many coincidences. Was it simple luck that brought you here around the time Glint was captured?”

“Are you asking whether I knew it was going to happen?”

“Not necessarily. But it also seems convenient that you happened to be in Carp’s Refuge when I arrived. Especially when it seems you know a lot about me, enough to know I’d agree to an unlikely alliance if it meant saving Glint. I’m just trying to figure out how all the pieces fit together.”

Silver gives Arne a curt nod of dismissal that definitely looks like a communication between a boss and her underling. Hands clasped before his belly, Arne ducks his head and strolls out the door. Silver leans forward and pulls it shut.

“Any other concerns to air?” she asks. “Because I thought we’d put this conversation to bed already. It’s time we move past your paranoia if we want to get down to saving Glint.”

“All right. If you really want to move forward, tell me whether you expected me in Carp’s Refuge. Looking back on yesterday’s events, it seems to me as if you were waiting to burst into my meeting with Lucky. When you assassinated him, you left me no recourse but to accept your help escaping. Look me in the eyes and explain why I shouldn’t feel manipulated.”

Silver takes a deep breath, her nostrils flaring slightly. “I know you Ostgard thieves put a lot of stock in luck. Isn’t that the currency your Queen of Nines traffics in? She grants luck in exchange for your prayers and faith, right?”

“That’s up for debate, I’d say,” Myrrh says with a shrug. Sure, she flips a few coins down stray wells as offerings to the Queen, and she’s been known to mutter a prayer or two when caught in a difficult situation. But she’s never figured it as more than superstition.

“Well, you’d have a hard time denying that Skorry grants powerful gifts. I even saw you attempting to use one—not that it worked for you.”

At this, Nab starts giggling. “Did you forget how to do the cantrip already?”

Myrrh ignores him, keeping her eyes on Silver. “And?”

“I suspect that your Queen and my Skorry are facets of the same being. Or brother and sister, at least. There are nine boons he grants. Same as your lucky number.”

“Okay…”

“Devotees of Skorry learn the cantrips in a specific order: misdirection, distraction, mass delusion, shadow step, shadow speak, gambler’s luck, open lock, and choke hold.”

“Wait,” Myrrh says. “That’s just eight.”

Silver smirks. “True. But not only do we learn them in a particular order, we are also only granted the insight on our next boon if Skorry deems us worthy. We know from visions that there are nine charms, but no one has received the final boon. It’s still a mystery.”

Myrrh thinks through the charms she’s seen Silver use. She opened the padlock on Nab’s jail, which was the cantrip just before the eighth, choke hold.

“And yes, you might have noticed I know seven of the eight,” Silver says as if following her thoughts. “I’ve been a disciple of the trickster god since I was fifteen.”

“What do I need to do to learn the second cantrip?” Nab asks, raising his hand and working his fingers through the misdirection motion. Like lightning, Silver crosses the room in two long strides and knocks his hand aside.

Nab looks at her with wide eyes.

“Never attempt to charm another of the faithful,” Silver growls. “Many of us would kill you for the attempt.”

“Miser’s breath,” Nab mutters as he steps back into the corner and crosses his arms. “Grumpy…”

Silver’s eyes are narrowed as she looks from Nab to Myrrh. “In truth, neither of you should have been taught what you have. It’s a strange situation, and the same way you have questions about me, I’d like to learn who broke our rules and taught you. But you’ll notice I’m ignoring my curiosity in favor of the task at hand.”

Myrrh rolls her eyes. “Which we can get back to when you finish explaining the large number of apparent coincidences that led us here.”

“And if you’d have listened carefully, you might have already guessed why we ended up in Carp’s Refuge at the same time. I suspect the sixth cantrip. The moment I got news of Glint’s capture, I started performing it during idle moments.”

“The sixth…” Myrrh works it through in her head. “Gambler’s luck?”

The woman nods. “Unless you are hoping to charm the dice into rolling your way, it’s difficult to know whether the cantrip succeeds. The currents of fate are strange, and one motion can set a whole new whirlpool spinning. Still, since you asked, that’s my best guess at an explanation. I asked for luck because I wasn’t sure how else I could save him.”

Myrrh holds the woman’s gaze. Maybe she’s telling the truth, maybe not. Either way, it’s probably the best explanation she’s going to get. “You asked about which of my associates you should contact. Start with Warrell, Ivy, and Hawk. The best way to track them down is to start at a tavern called Rikson’s Roost.”

Chapter Eleven

“WHAT’S HER DEAL?” Nab asks the moment Silver leaves the warehouse. His cheeks are still dark with embarrassment over the woman’s reaction to his attempt to make the cantrip motion, and he glowers out from beneath lowered brows.

Myrrh sighs. “I wish I knew. The only thing I like about this situation is that we’re not locked up awaiting judgment either by Emmerst or by Lucky’s smugglers.”

The boy kicks his toe against the old floorboards of the office. “She acts like she’s the sixing queen of Ostgard or something.”

She almost tells him to watch his language but, considering what Silver just did to the poor little rat, decides against it. Instead, she just nods and plucks her cloak off the back of a chair near the stove. Flipping it over, she replaces it over the chair back to dry the other side.

“And anyway,” Nab says, “why’s she being all gaga over Glint? She acts like they’re hooked together.”

Myrrh shrugs. “Maybe they are.” She doesn’t want to believe that notion, but the woman didn’t seem to be lying about her recent meetings with him—meetings Myrrh knew nothing about. And Silver definitely let her emotions show when she spoke about rescuing him.

Nab’s brow furrows beneath the messy fringe of hair that flops into his eyes. “But I thought you and Glint were…” He circles his hand in the air. “You know. Into each other. In gross ways.”

He makes a face that looks so much like he just swallowed a dead fish that Myrrh can’t help but laugh.

“What?” he asks with an exaggerated shrug. “It’s true, right?”

“I don’t know, Nab. I thought so.”

The boy’s eyes go distant while he thinks. Turning her back to the stove to warm her butt and the backs of her legs, Myrrh stares out the office door into the darkened warehouse. A hulking shadow, Arne tromps through the aisles between stacks of crates and canvas-draped heaps. The outer warehouse door creaks open as he steps outside to continue his patrol around the building’s perimeter. A few minutes later, he enters, dripping wet, through the side door, tramps through the aisles, and leaves again. It’s the same circuit over and over, which Myrrh would warn him against if it were her place. Patterns mean predictability, exactly the kind of weakness thieves like to exploit.

But maybe the owner of the warehouse doesn’t feel the need to deter thieves. Maybe the guard’s job is to serve as a token presence to convince the Shields that the warehouse is an ordinary building in one of Ostgard’s lower districts. Which is to say: probably illegal, but not so much that intervening would be worth more than sitting back and collecting the owner’s bribes.

Myrrh sighs, and when the heat has soaked through her pants and jerkin, she stalks to the office door and peers out. It seems strangely quiet out there on the floor.

“Hey, so—”

To his credit, Nab shuts up the instant Myrrh raises a hand to silence him. She takes another step out the door and listens closely. Arne should have returned by now, in through the building’s side door according to his route. It isn’t necessarily bad news that he’s late. Maybe he spied something suspicious and went to check it out.

Or maybe Silver ratted Myrrh and Nab out, hoping to secure the bounty for herself. There could be Shields moving in on them right now.

Myrrh takes a deep breath and turns it into a yawn—best to act casual and unaware if this is a trap. Stepping back toward the potbellied stove, she hugs her arms tight and shivers. Once facing Nab, she fixes him with an intent stare, compelling him to alertness.

Again to his credit, the kid gives a nearly imperceptible nod. He acts like he’s stretching, but instead he’s reaching for the ratty sack holding the stuff he brought from the safe house in Rat Town.

Just then, the squeak of metal on metal echoes through the warehouse. The heavy tread of boots on warped wood planks follows, familiar after listening to Arne make his rounds a dozen times before. He must have stopped for a moment to empty his bladder or greet a fellow guard.

Myrrh sighs, and her shoulders relax. She brushes her fingers through the air to tell Nab he can relax. False alarm.

But what if it hadn’t been? She and Nab are in a room with just one exit, and the only person watching out for their safety answers to someone else. Myrrh has let Silver take way too much power in the situation. At first, Myrrh was able to justify the arrangement as the best of bad options. But even if the woman’s cantrips give her the ability to vanish into thin air and speak through shadows—powerful in an ally, deadly in an enemy—that’s no reason for Myrrh and Nab to be where she expects if and when she returns.

Wasn’t Myrrh just thinking about how stupid it was to be predictable?

The next time Arne slips outside the door, she scoops up her satchel.

“Come on,” she whispers.

“Where to?”

“To somewhere Silver won’t expect.”

***

To someone from In Betweens, the particular smell rising from the grates on a given street is probably as good a way as any to orient through the district. Since slipping out of the warehouse and creeping just a few blocks deeper into the city, Myrrh’s identified four distinct stenches and degrees of warmth escaping the sewers. The reek makes her glad she doesn’t know the thieves’ paths in this part of town. Better to take her chances at street level than confront whatever lurks beneath.

Still, above-ground movement is awfully exposed.

She shakes her head, not wanting to bring Nab another step into the criminal underworld but recognizing he’s better as a thief than dead or captured by Shields. She reaches into her satchel, nudges him, and steps beneath the awning of what looks to be a shuttered blacksmith’s workshop. An anvil stands outside—it’s too heavy to be worth stealing, and the other equipment is locked up tight behind massive ironbound doors.

Searching with fingertips numb from the cold, Myrrh takes a moment to locate the packets of glimmer resin in the bottom of her satchel. She pulls one out and sighs. If Glint had given her these doses, she’d feel safe pinching one in half and handing a portion to Nab. Despite trusting his supplier, Glint shaves down the doses he gives his thieves—better to have short-lived effects than permanent glimmer-blindness. But the resin she has now came from Rattle’s stash, taken from the one-eyed rogue’s belongings after Mink pierced the man with a fatal crossbow bolt. Turned out, Rattle wasn’t all bad, but Myrrh doubts he was as cautious with the dose size as Glint.

She unwraps the waxed paper from around the small lump of resin, bites off more than two thirds, then hands the rest to Nab.

“Eww,” he whispers. “I don’t want your spit.”

She sighs. “Wipe it clean then. Tuck the resin between your lower teeth and your cheek, okay? It has to dissolve slowly.”

“Wait, is this…?”

In the dim red glow filtering through the fog and the rain, she sees his face split into a wide grin. Great. What has she done?

“Yes, and that’s why I’m telling you to be careful.”

“Nines in the nutsa—”

“Nab!”

“I can’t wait to tell Tep you gave me glimmer. He’s been pestering Bernard to pester Glint to let him try it for a year.”

“Just put it in your mouth and be quiet.”

A shout drifts down the street, sounding suspiciously like Arne. Judging by the tone, the man is more concerned than angry. He’s probably wondering what happened to them. Still, in the dark of night near the ragged edge where city meets bog, a shout is bound to draw attention.

Myrrh glances at the outer wall of the blacksmith’s, hoping again for a stray pry bar or hammer forgotten in the evening’s cleanup. Whatever else the smith might be, he keeps a tidy shop. It’s a shame because with her ribs sending shooting pains as she moves, Myrrh doesn’t feel agile enough to fight well with a dagger. Not that it would hurt any less to swing a pry bar at an attacker—it would most certainly hurt worse. But that kind of attack requires a lot less aim.

She draws her dagger and winces at the dart of pain from the motion. The glimmer slides into the pocket between her back molars and cheek, and almost instantly she feels the first tingles waking in her nerves. The narrow street flares with light, the glow from the sky painting the wet cobblestones an angry red. Holes where stones have been knocked free of the pavement are dark pits, but with the glimmer-sight, she can even pick details from that blackness.

“Whoa,” Nab says, waving a hand in front of his face. He jumps sideways, whirls in the air, and lands in a semblance of a combat stance. Punching the air, he makes small sound effects as if felling a few dozen opponents.

Myrrh rolls her eyes and snaps out a hand to still him. Her glimmer-honed reflexes make the motion whip-quick. The pain comes just as fast, and she sucks air through her teeth. “Don’t make me regret giving you the dose.”

Nab shakes her hand off and struts to the support post of the awning. He leans against it and tucks a hand in his pocket like he’s master of the underworld. She sighs.

Now that they’re clear of the warehouse’s immediate vicinity, she needs to get oriented and figure out somewhere to hide and lay in wait. Myrrh wants to be in place long before Silver returns. If she plans this right, for once she’ll have the drop on the woman rather than the other way around.

Chapter Twelve

AFTER CREEPING A zigzag course through the streets to learn the area around Silver’s warehouse, Myrrh spots the ideal perch. A rickety staircase climbs the side of a two-story warehouse and reaches a landing where someone has stacked empty shipping crates. Height and concealment—if Myrrh were a Nightblade follower of Skorry, she might guess that she’d been granted the gambler’s luck cantrip. Instead, the grubber in her wonders if this is just another layer of setup. Maybe she’s being stupid to think she can gain an advantage on the other woman.

But since it would be even stupider to choose a worse hiding spot due to pessimism, she nudges Nab up the ladder and follows once he gains the landing.

The boy shivers in the rain but tries to hide it. His hands are crammed into the folds of his woolen tunic. He doesn’t complain when she sheds her cloak and lays it over two stacks of crates that meet at their corners, forming a makeshift tent.

Tucked beneath it, she presses as close as she thinks he’ll allow, lending her body heat to the shelter. After a moment, his shivers calm, and he jams a hand into his small satchel.

Myrrh can’t help laughing when he pulls out a handful of what looks like it might have been a sweet roll before the rain got to it. Now it’s closer to porridge. Nab shrugs and starts licking the paste off his hand.

Judging by the color of the light—a judgment made somewhat more difficult by the glimmer-sight brightening shadows to daylight—it’s past midnight. Myrrh sent Silver to Rikson’s Roost to gather allies. If that were the woman’s only destination, she’d be back long before dawn, but Silver also said she wanted to survey the boundary of Maire’s Quarter to see if she can glean information on Glint. So it could be near daybreak before she arrives.

The thought of Glint’s name brings a pang to Myrrh’s chest. The criers were summoning people to the Neck’s market square to hear Emmerst formalize the accusations against him. Was Glint there, dragged in front of the population to be accused? Did he have to listen to their angry shouts?

She shakes her head. Better not to think about that right now.

Across the street, nearly concealed by a pile of broken plank siding that looks to have been stripped from a demolished building, Myrrh spies motion. She lays a hand on Nab’s arm, stilling him. The boy looks up from the mess on his hands, pastry goo on his chin.

She points.

Nab nods, looks at his hands, and shrugs. Sighing, she gestures for him to finish cleaning them off.

It looks like a person is moving down below, the rounded dome of their head sticking up above the planks. But whoever it is seems to be crouching in the shadow of a building’s eaves, almost as if they are also hiding out in the rain on this dark night. She peers harder, willing the glimmer to allow her vision to pierce solid wood, which of course it can’t.

Another flicker of movement catches her eye, this time from atop a building that stands between them and Silver’s warehouse.

And another, a rogue-like figure slipping through a shoulder-width aisle between buildings.

Sixes.

“You see them?” Nab breathes.

She nods, noticing three more shadows as they take up additional stations along the street leading to Silver’s hideout. Myrrh’s pulse speeds when she hears the telltale squeak of the warehouse door. Arne coughs as he steps into the street, grumbling to himself. As the guard draws near the shadowy figure closest to him, the hidden man shrinks back against the wall, ducking into the rough shadows. To Myrrh, the movement is accentuated by the glimmer, the shine of the man’s eyes and his moon-pale face as clear as if dawn light filled the street.

Arne is oblivious as he stomps past. He scans the street ahead as if searching for her and Nab.

As the guard passes the first man’s hiding place, putting his back to the hidden rogue, Myrrh cringes. She grips her dagger tight even though she could do nothing to defend Arne, not against six attackers. But as his heavy footsteps take him farther along the street, out of range of the man’s leap, she exhales.

These people are waiting for someone—by their positioning, she guesses they’re waiting for someone associated with Silver’s warehouse. But they don’t appear to be after Arne, nor does he seem aware of their presence. So is it Silver they’re after? Or is it Myrrh?

***

Even though the other rogues seem unaware of Myrrh’s presence, the situation still feels like a standoff. Myrrh’s knees ache from crouching, and Nab looks like being forced to hold still is the worst tragedy of his short life. After a while, he starts working his fingers through the misdirection cantrip, his hands hidden by the crates. Myrrh’s careful not to look in case he might capture her attention. But his practicing makes her wonder whether she would have better success with the trick if she devoted more time to mastering it.

Not that she’d ever admit to Nab that she might be learning something from him.

The night drags on, and eventually predawn pales the sky to the east.

When Silver appears at the end of the street, followed by a slight figure that Myrrh can’t identify as male or female, everyone hiding along the avenue stiffens. So…seems Silver is the guest of honor at this little party.

Which leaves Myrrh with a decision. If they’ve come to harm the woman—a situation that seems likely given that they haven’t jumped out to hug her—should Myrrh warn her? Help her even? Even with the glimmer-sight, she hasn’t been able to pick out any familiar faces from the shadows. The skulks are probably Haven, but she has no way to know whether they belong to the faction that’s supporting the Shields or the group that has sided with Ghost Syndicate.

Nab looks at her expectantly, as if waiting for a cue.

Silver and her mysterious companion step onto the street.

Sixes. This would be easier if the woman would just notice the ambush. Silver’s footfalls slap against the cobblestones, while those of her companion scrape the street, the rasping of hard leather against rock. They’ve advanced maybe twenty paces when the shadow on the rooftop opposite Myrrh slowly expands, the man standing to full height. Myrrh spots the hard angles of a crossbow, hears the barely audible click as the mechanism is armed.

She balls her fist, pounds it lightly against her thigh, and leans out from the shelter of the crates. Rain spatters the top of her head as she leaves the makeshift tent formed by her cloak.

“Silver,” she calls, “ambush.”

At once, the street erupts with motion. Men and women leap from their hiding spots. The crossbow on the opposite rooftop releases with a faint twang and a hiss as the bolt streaks down.

Silver’s hands blur, and a heartbeat later, she vanishes in a collection of shadows. The bolt sparks when it hits the street just half a pace in front of where the woman stood. Her companion hunches and scurries toward the wall of a warehouse, uttering something in a voice that sounds like a crow’s knife-on-whetstone grumbling.

Another crossbow shot glances off a cobblestone just behind the slight figure’s heels.

A wet gasp snares Myrrh’s attention, and she swallows a flood of metal-tasting saliva as the first of the ambushers falls, clasping at the dark slit in her throat. Blood, black in the dimness, spills down the attacker’s chest as she takes a single step forward, then topples.

The next attacker falls moments later, equally dead.

A thunk rips a shout from Myrrh’s throat as a crossbow bolt strikes the crate just a hand’s width from her face. She shoves back into the shelter of the stack and drags a hand over her rain-wet hair to squeeze the water away from her eyes.

“We need to help her,” Nab says.

“We already did. Any more will just interfere.” Myrrh swallows the uncomfortable taste in her mouth. She does not doubt that Silver will survive this while the Haven ambushers will not. There’s no point in attempting to convince the woman to take a prisoner or extend mercy to those trying to flee. It was Myrrh’s choice to warn Silver of the attack, so the deaths are as much on her as they are on the Nightblade woman.

“Above, Silver,” Silver’s companion croaks. “The archer is moving.”

Wood creaks and the landing trembles beneath Myrrh and Nab as someone—presumably Silver—starts up the stairs. A couple of breaths later, shadows shift as the woman, still nearly invisible, reaches the landing.

“Remind me to get you a ranged weapon,” Silver says with a hint of disdain as the shadows flow up the wall behind Myrrh and disappear onto the roof. The hiss of more shots soon follows, this time originating from the rooftop above Myrrh’s head. A startled yelp echoes in the night, followed by the heavy, wet thud of a body falling a long distance to the street.

Stillness follows. The croaking of bullfrogs in the bog swells to fill the silence.

Silver reappears on the landing. “Come on,” she says. “This location is blown.”

“Obviously,” Myrrh responds. “Who’s your friend?”

“We can talk about it once we’re off the streets.”

Dragging sounds from the street bring Myrrh upright. Her knees ache as she stands and pulls the cloak tent off the crates, once again settling it over her shoulders. Down below, Silver’s companion is moving the bodies out of the middle of the street and into the shadows of buildings.

“We agreed you would head into Rat Town and gather my leadership. Instead, you’ve returned with someone I don’t know.”

“As I said, I’ll explain once we’re hidden.”

A startled shout announces Arne’s arrival, the guard having returned from his circuit through the nearby streets. Silver’s companion hurries toward the man and speaks to him in that disconcerting rasp, the words too soft for Myrrh to make out.

“Mistress?” he asks, looking up at their position when the companion points to them. “Is that right? You want everything moved?”

Silver rematerializes on the landing. “As many of the goods as you can relocate before the first Shield patrol,” she calls down, cupping her hand to direct her voice. “Start with the weapons and the crates along the south wall. If the situation somehow escapes detection today, we’ll continue moving things after dark. You can recruit help, I assume?”

The man shows his palms. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Huffing, Silver steps onto the staircase. She looks back at Myrrh and Nab. “Coming?”

Nab starts forward, but Myrrh lays a restraining hand on him. “No. Not without information. I’ve had enough of your secrets.”

The woman groans. “This again?”

“Yes, this again.”

“Obviously, you see that I have an operation here. Surely you can understand why I’d avoid disclosing my business dealings to someone who might, under other circumstances, be a rival.”

Myrrh rolls her eyes, not bothering to hide the expression. “Conducting business in In Betweens makes you a rival for Haven, not me. But that’s not the point. Where are my friends?”

Silver fixes her with a flat stare. “From what I was able to discover, the woman who runs the gambling establishment—”

“Her name is Sapphire.”

“Sapphire has been taken in by the Shields for illegal gaming. Your mentor—Hawk, I believe—was corralled with many of the Rat Town denizens and herded to a holding pen in Smeltertown. As for the leadership of your syndicate, I was told that they haven’t been seen. The hope is that they’ve gone deeper underground. The fear is that they’ve been quietly removed from the city, likely on a corpse wagon.”

Myrrh can’t hide her shock. All that in just a single day? “How do I know that’s the truth?”

Silver shrugs. “One option is you decide to trust me. Otherwise, you have no way to know.”

“Who is your friend?”

“That I will explain. But it will take time. Shall we go? I have a fallback location where we can regroup. On the way, you can stop and visit Glint.”

“Wait, what?”

“Did I forget to mention that? I managed to locate him. You’ll have the best chance at seeing him if we get there before dawn.”

Chapter Thirteen

EVEN UP CLOSE, even with the glimmer-sight, it’s impossible to know whether Silver’s companion is male or female or neither. In place of ordinary clothing, supple leather strips wind around and around the person’s limbs, overlapping and crisscrossing and somehow managing to conceal any hint of breasts or a bulge in the groin. Smooth skin—uncannily smooth—scarcely folds when the person speaks; it reminds Myrrh of the rubber sheets that some barges carry up the River Ost, a strange substance that Hawk told her comes from taps inserted into trees to make them bleed.

“Do you have a name?” Myrrh asks in a whisper as they creep along the border where In Betweens meets West Fifth, one of the districts of Ostgard that Myrrh has rarely visited. The posh mansions and wrought iron fences seem untouchable for people of her ilk, criminals from the slums. Sure, now that she’s boss of a thieves’ syndicate, Myrrh’s safe houses have the same expensive sort of wall hangings and decorative vases that adorn these upscale dwellings. But the outsides of Ghost’s various hideouts are ramshackle by necessity, and the furnishings inside still feel false, like she’s an imposter.

“No name,” the person responds in the strange rasping voice. “We’ll talk later.”

As they reach the River Ost and turn downstream, slipping along the waterfront like eels through oil, the gray light of dawn filters through the falling rain. Silver glances toward the east and hurries their pace. For once, Myrrh feels no need to argue. They can’t be outdoors and off the thieves’ paths when the sunlight comes, and they can’t use the paths through Haven’s district. She quickens her step and keeps pace, nudging Nab from behind.

The glimmer-sight starts to fade as they wind between waterfront food stands with shutters locked for the night. A barge slips past on the Ost, heading downstream with the spotter still pointing a lantern toward the dark water ahead of the vessel’s snub nose. In the rear of the boat, the cherry of a cigar shines through the murk.

Myrrh stops short when she realizes they’ve reached the border of Rat Town. Silver’s fallback hideout is in Ghost Syndicate territory? The woman notices her reaction and shrugs. “Chaos creates opportunity. I paid a fleeing member of the syndicate you ousted for information on a suitable location. You’ve had plenty of work to do consolidating control of the district…makes it easy to conduct business unnoticed. Perhaps we can formalize an agreement later—I’d enjoy keeping a presence in this part of the city.”

The words aren’t an apology, but they’re at least respectful of Myrrh’s position. “We can discuss it,” Myrrh says in a tone that makes no promises.

“We should part ways here. My companion can take the boy to safety—they can help each other in fact, assuming he knows the hidden paths. We can join them after you see Glint.”

Myrrh hides her alarm at the thought of being separated from Nab. “I prefer to stay together.”

For once, Nab doesn’t seem keen to argue. He sidles away from the unsettling person, eyes wide.

Silver sighs. “Would it help to know our destinations? My safe house is just across from the dock master’s offices. Basement level.”

Myrrh grimaces at the thought, thinking of the bilge pumps in those waterfront establishments and the sour-faced people hired by businesses to work their pedals. This far downstream, the river’s stench is barely tolerable for people who work above ground. Below street level where constant seepage brings river water through building foundations, it can be eye-wateringly bad.

Silver smirks. “Indeed. I do hope that if we come to an arrangement, you might allow me the luxury of a first- or second-story office.”

“And our destination?” Myrrh asks.

The woman gestures downstream toward the shadowy span of Second Bridge. Just starting to emerge from the fog, its towering pillars look huge in the haze.

“They have him in the Neck?” A piece of neutral territory, Second Bridge connects Rat Town to the market and trade district named for the narrow neck of land where the river nearly doubles back on itself. The bridge itself is a favorite spot for Myrrh, a place where merchants catering to both rich and poor set up lively businesses and stalls—there are surgeons and tattooists, dealers in exotic birds and sellers of meats of questionable origins.

“On the bridge itself. It will be easier to show you than explain.”

Myrrh glances at Nab, who shrugs. “It’s fine, I guess. I know how to find the dock master’s.”

“The Mouth wishes him no harm,” Silver says.

“The…what?”

“Skorry’s Mouth. It takes longer to explain than the time we have available. But on my thief’s honor, you can trust that your friend will be safe. Provided we don’t run into trouble ourselves, you’ll be reunited by sunup. But we need to go, Myrrh.” Silver, counter to her usual coldness, speaks almost gently. It’s probably just a deceiver’s ploy to put Myrrh at ease, but for all Myrrh’s efforts to resist, the ploy works.

“Fine,” she says, nodding at the Mouth. “Nab knows the paths in Rat Town as well as he knows how to flatter the owners of every bakery in the district.”

With a nod, the creature turns to Nab. “Lead.”

Moments later, they’ve vanished into the darkness.

***

At first, creeping through the shadows on Second Bridge, Myrrh hopes she’s wrong. She wants the vision before her to be her imagination. Between the highest towers of Second Bridge, ornate limestone pillars streaked with black from the rain and soot and covered with age-weathered carvings depicting gods that have long since passed from knowledge, a heavy cage is suspended by chains with links as thick as Myrrh’s wrist. The bars are a hand’s width apart, too close for even Nab to slip through, yet far enough that it must be impossible to get comfortable. The bottom of the cage is high enough above the bridge that a wagon could pass beneath, low enough that someone standing below could easily jab the occupant with a fire poker or the tip of a sword.

A pair of iron lances lean against one of the pillars, likely placed there for ease of public torment.

As she draws nearer, Myrrh’s jaw clenches. She feels sick, nausea swelling, as she accepts that Glint is indeed imprisoned above. He lies on his side, hip and elbow pressing through the bars of the cage. He’s wearing the same simple nightshirt and trousers she last saw him in, but they are now filthy and bloodstained. As she watches, he shifts, muttering something unintelligible. A shudder wracks his body, and he cries out.

Myrrh starts forward, but Silver snaps a hand out and points to the pair of guards hiding in niches in the pillars. They stand with arms hugged close, but with their hands hovering near the cudgels at their sides.

Silver makes a gesture that Myrrh recognizes as a cantrip. “He’s delirious,” the woman says at full volume. She must be using her shadow-speaking ability.

“He’ll die up there long before his execution,” Myrrh breathes.

“I heard last night that Emmerst employs someone with a particular power of healing, a shamanic type from the Outer Isles. According to the gossip in the taverns, the man arrives at dawn and dusk and works just enough of a spell to keep Glint alive. Wretched, but alive.”

Wretched indeed. Myrrh can’t bear to look anymore, and she turns away. Maybe the delirium is a mercy. “So how do we free him?”

Silver takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. The cage is secured with padlocks, which I could likely open. But they’ve also poured molten iron over the hinges. We’d have more luck with a hacksaw than a cantrip, I think. But you’ve seen him. We should go.”

Myrrh nods, pressing her lips together when her lower one starts to tremble. “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Fourteen

SILVER IS TALKING, but Myrrh can’t focus on the words. She sits on a three-legged stool, her boots planted in a finger’s depth of Ost-smelling water. Glint’s curled form, tucked into the corner of the iron cage, hangs in her mind. And crowding close behind that image, she sees Hawk and possibly the rest of Ghost’s leadership herded into a pen in Smeltertown. Penned like cattle, exposed to the rain and the cold.

Wait…

Abruptly she straightens, the idea and the resolve to execute it arriving in a flash. “We’ll free him tonight.” Specifics of the plan start to fall into place in her mind.

With a condescending sneer, Silver leaves off whatever she was saying to Nab and the Mouth and turns to Myrrh. “Such enthusiasm for the cause. You did see where he was being held, didn’t you? I’d hoped that by showing you, I could impress upon you the difficulty of our task.”

She turns back to Nab and the Mouth, who is now shifting back and forth like a trapped snake. Or perhaps like a hunting snake, reptilian eyes locked on Nab. “Have you assessed him yet?”

“Wait, what?” Myrrh says, dragging her thoughts from her plotting. “Assessed him for what?”

Silver rolls her eyes. “Whoever taught the boy the cantrip put him in danger. Skorry’s gifts should not be bestowed without his blessing. The child needs a proper initiation if he is to keep using the tricks. Especially if he wishes to advance to the next level.”

“You’ll teach me more?” Nab asks, his teeth flashing in a grin, bright in the dank room.

“Initiation?” Myrrh says as she raises a hand to caution him. His smile turns to an instant glare.

“He’ll need to accept the Nightblade creed and learn Skorry’s wishes, among other things.”

“No. Nab is Ghost Syndicate.”

Silver arches an eyebrow. “Is he? From what I’ve heard, you discourage him from thievery.”

“He is,” Myrrh says. “And as soon as we’ve freed Glint, you will leave Rat Town. I’d suggest you leave Ostgard entirely, but whether another syndicate tolerates you in their district isn’t really my concern.”

“With this one, I believe there’s no chance,” the Mouth says, gesturing toward Myrrh.

Silver sucks her teeth. “I believe you are right. I witnessed her attempt to bring forth a gift, and it was fumbling at best.”

“You don’t really think I would want to join your organization, do you?” Myrrh asks.

“You see, that’s where you must have received false information. The Nightblades aren’t a syndicate or organization—not in the manner of Ghost or Haven. As it happens, I run my own operation entirely separate from the Blades, a small affiliation of expert thieves and smugglers. The common bond among Nightblades is nothing but our promise to Skorry. We are united in serving his desires in exchange for the considerable advantages offered by his gifts. And yes, since you were at least attempting the cantrip, I thought it best that the Mouth evaluate you as well. You don’t, however, seem to be a good fit.”

Nab snorts. “Yeah, she’s way too bossy. You should steer clear.”

“No one asked you, Nab,” Myrrh says.

“In contrast, the boy is strikingly well-suited,” the Mouth says. “I believe he could attain the third or fourth cantrip within a tenday of initiation.”

“No way!” Nab hops a little and pumps his fist. “How do I do this initiation then?”

“Wait, Nab, I have to think about this. We need more information.”

He turns to face her, splashing fetid water a hand’s width up his pants’ cuffs, and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s not your decision. I never asked you to be my mom.”

No, but he still makes a nest in her room when he’s scared, and there’s no one else to look out for him. No matter how high an opinion he has of his abilities, Nab is still the scrawny rat that Myrrh and Hawk rescued from a starving pickpocket’s life. Only now he’s a little bit taller.

“I understand your hesitation,” Silver says. “You want to protect him.”

Nab stomps a foot. “And like I just said, I don’t need her protection.”

Silver’s glance somehow manages to quiet his protesting before she turns her attention back to Myrrh. “The truth is, Skorry can be jealous. Ill fates usually befall someone who uses his gifts without expressing the proper gratitude. I’m curious…what happened to the person who taught the boy the trick he now uses so freely.”

Myrrh thinks of Rattle and the crossbow bolt that skewered him through the throat. Hiding her thoughts behind her thief’s mask, she shrugs a shoulder. “Moved on, I guess.”

Silver narrows her eyes. “Interesting. Regardless, I imagine you recognize the difficulty in getting Nab to stop using the cantrip. At this point, the best way to protect him is to allow the Mouth to bring him into Skorry’s fold. As you must recognize, the cantrips are powerful. What better defense for a boy than the ability to distract and control those who might harm him?”

“Yeah. What she said,” Nab adds.

Myrrh sighs. She wants to tell him that a choice like this is serious. But scolding has never worked with him. What chance is there it’s going to start now? Nab is staring at the Mouth with something akin to awe. And…pride? Clenching her fists, Myrrh nods her head slowly. Maybe it’s time to start treating Nab like he imagines himself. It doesn’t mean she has to stop caring for him, or that the worry for his safety is ever going to go away. But if she’s going to lose him to the thief’s life either way, best to keep him as close as she can.

“It’s. Not. Your. Choice. Myrrh,” Nab says, but when Silver lays a gentling hand on his shoulder and squeezes, he clamps his mouth shut and settles for fixing Myrrh with a steady glower.

“You’re right,” she says, the words grating in her mind. “I would never want to prevent you from learning something you’re so good at. But for today, right now, I need you. As far as I know, you’re the only member of Ghost Syndicate I can rely on—I can’t execute the operations today without you. We have syndicate work to do.”

Silver blinks, off-balanced by Myrrh’s words. “Work? I thought for sure you’d focus your efforts on rescuing Glint, seeing as it was your decision to kidnap the Maire that gave Emmerst his opening.”

Myrrh turns a flat stare on her. “I’ll speak to my associate alone, and then I’ll let you know how you can help with the plan.”

Chapter Fifteen

“NO UNNECESSARY KILLING,” Myrrh says as she and Silver step off First Bridge and into the crowded area of warehouses between the River Ost and Smeltertown. She wears a hooded wool cloak over her thief’s leathers, her hair braided and pinned on top of her head, her face smudged with charcoal dust to disguise her features. Silver walks a pace ahead, an imperious sneer on her face. Cart drivers and dockworkers wither under the woman’s glare, unconsciously stepping aside to clear a path. Silver keeps her hands free, ready to use a distraction cantrip at the first suspicious glance. All the same, Myrrh feels the Shield presence all around. She keeps her face downturned to avoid notice.

“I’m sure we disagree on the definition of necessity,” the woman calls over her shoulder, loud enough to be heard over the squawking of birds that squabble over scraps from alleyway trash heaps.

“Then you’ll have to work harder to see things from my perspective,” Myrrh says. “I will do this without you, and somehow I get the feeling that you don’t want all of Glint’s gratitude directed at me alone. He already holds me in rather high regard.”

Silver’s shoulders tense as the blow connects. As Myrrh suspected, she’s less certain of her standing with Glint than she lets on. The woman huffs. “As far as I can tell, your plan depends on me. This part, at least. Otherwise, why are we marching into Smeltertown together?”

“Your abilities increase my chance of success, but not so much that I need you. You might try your own plot to free Glint, but I seriously doubt it will work. Your gambler’s luck cantrip brought us together, giving you a chance where you had none. Once we free whichever of my leadership are held captive in this Smeltertown pen you’ve heard rumors of, I’ll have even less need for you, while you’ll benefit even more from having me as an ally.”

Silver scoffs but doesn’t seem to have a ready retort. The woman turns down a narrow aisle between warehouses, both to avoid an oncoming cart, and to steer them toward the heart of Smeltertown. The clang of the ore crushers is absent today, the acrid smell of cinders scarcely noticeable. Many of the ore crushers and ironworks were already shuttered due to the chaos following the Maire’s disappearance. Maybe Emmerst’s purge of Rat Town has swept up the remaining innocent workers, leaving the smelters entirely empty.

“Regarding your precious desire to avoid killing,” Silver says, “it will be difficult to stop and ask your permission while in the middle of a fight.”

Myrrh sighs and shakes her head. “Do you even know how many you killed yesterday?”

Silver stops and turns. “Of course. Seventeen.”

“Yet you feel no remorse? Is that what it takes to be a thief in the Port Cities?”

A strange expression flickers on the woman’s face. Myrrh can’t be certain, but it almost looks like confusion.

“Lucky’s smugglers and the Haven goons would have killed me,” Silver says. “That’s all I need to know.”

It’s hopeless to argue morals with this woman. Myrrh gestures for her to continue moving. “As long as we stick to the plan, that shouldn’t be a concern today.”

***

Okay, so this isn’t going to be quite as easy as Myrrh expected. When Silver spoke of Rat Towners rounded up and herded into a pen in Smeltertown, Myrrh imagined some sort of flimsy corral like those that stand outside the city’s stables. She didn’t think it would be as simple as creating a diversion so the captives could crawl under the bottom rail unnoticed, but she did figure it would be relatively straightforward. The Shields aren’t known for their intelligence as much as their quickness with the cudgel. For real criminals, the sort that Ostgard’s merchants fear as real threats to their enterprises, the former Maire used to call on the Scythe and her handpicked squad of ruthless enforcers. With the Scythe now loyal to Glint—last Myrrh heard, she went upriver to avoid blowing Glint’s cover—Myrrh assumed the security here in Smeltertown would be poor at best.

Unfortunately, it seems that someone on the city council—probably Emmerst—has injected a bit of smarts into the Shield ranks.

First of all, the pen is better termed a yard, and it hasn’t been hastily erected to keep the rabble in. The enclosure, probably built over the course of a few months, was originally constructed to keep criminals out, securing the yard’s contents—the metals output by the smelter—against theft. Broken glass is mortared into the top of high stone walls, and the only entrance to the yard is through the smelter building itself.

A few Rat Towners mill inside the storage yard, stirring up dust and ash and feeling along the walls for chinks. But most of the captives huddle in small groups, shoulders hunching every time one of patrolling guards marches past.

“I count twenty-six guards inside, ten on the perimeter, plus however many are inside the smelter,” Silver says. “Though it’s possible I double counted a couple.”

To get a vantage into the area, Myrrh and Silver have crept into the offices of an out-of-business printing press and climbed into the attic. Crouched between rats’ nests of chewed paper, they watch through the louvers of a wooden vent.

Myrrh nods. With those kinds of odds, it doesn’t really matter if the count is precise. Alone, she and Silver don’t stand a chance against that many Shields—even if Myrrh’s ribs weren’t broken, the most she could handle is two or three. There are probably two captives for every guard, but the Rat Towners are unarmed, and most of them are untrained. She’s heard far too many hollow cracks of cudgels against skulls in her lifetime to even consider inciting the innocent people to riot.

Which means that success here will come down to whether she made a mistake in placing faith in Nab.

In the eaves above the vent, a pigeon coos. Silver shifts, grunting lightly as one of her knees cracks. Judging by the way her jaw works beneath the skin, Myrrh suspects she’s fighting the urge to complain about the lack of action. It’s not as if Myrrh is particularly comfortable, given the dart of pain every time she breathes. But she remains still to prove a point. Down by her side, opposite her body from Silver, she works her fingers through the cantrip, practicing like she saw Nab doing. It’s been bothering her, what the Nightblades said about Skorry’s demands and her lack of qualifications. First of all, she still doesn’t trust Silver’s word that Nab really needs to be initiated. There must be a way to get more information, even if it means investigating on her own. Second, she’d rather not give Silver another chance to call her attempt at using the cantrip “fumbling.”

One of the guards patrolling the outer perimeter of the enclosure has a livid scar slashing across his cheek, and he seems to favor his right knee or ankle—recognizable traits she uses to mark his movements. As Myrrh notices him making his third circuit around the building and yard, she spots movement in an alley opposite their position in the printer’s loft. Five—no, six—figures advance along the side of a shuttered warehouse. They wear hooded cloaks, but everyone except the leader has pushed back the hood to avoid looking too much like the rogues they are. Two carry hammers as if coming to work at a smelter. Everyone has a long blade slung at their hip.

When the leader reaches the end of the alley, Myrrh gets a good look at his face and confirms the newcomers’ identities. It makes sense that Resh, one of Glint’s most trusted thieves, would leave his hood up. His gleaming bald head has a way of gathering attention. The group isn’t trying to hide their movements, not in broad daylight, but it wouldn’t be wise to be too memorable either.

Myrrh pulls one of the strips of velvet from her satchel and stuffs the end between the louvers. She slowly feeds the fabric out until half an arm’s length dangles down the wall of the building.

“I assume you have a reason for that,” Silver says.

Myrrh points to the group of newcomers. “Just signaling our reinforcements.”

Chapter Sixteen

“OUCH,” MYRRH SQUEAKS as Resh sweeps her up in a hug. When he releases her, she winces and lays a hand on her ribs, but not quick enough. Before she can backpedal out of reach, Warrell, one of her oldest friends and a member of Ghost’s council, swoops in and grabs her up. “Warrell, ouch,” she manages.

“Eh?” he asks, putting her down.

She retreats from the group, once again holding her ribs. “Sorry. Had a bit of a slip yesterday.”

Resh shakes his bald head, the row of diamond studs in his left ear catching hints of light that filter through the shuttered windows of the building’s lower level. “We heard there was trouble out at Carp’s Refuge, and then Nab said it was you that stirred it up. Myrrh, what happened? Whispers in the underground say the smugglers are out for blood now.”

Myrrh glances at Silver, who stands with a hip cocked and an impenetrable expression on her face. Myrrh shakes her head. Whatever.

“It’s a complicated story, but suffice to say things didn’t go as I’d hoped. We’ll have to deal with the repercussions later. Speaking of surprises, I thought the Shields got you two.” She looks at Warrell and Ivy, another senior member of Ghost Syndicate. She didn’t expect them to arrive with Glint’s top people, Resh and Nyx, but it makes sense that they went underground in Lower Fringe when the Shields moved on Rat Town. Myrrh doesn’t recognize the other two newcomers, a burly woman who holds the ore-crushing hammer in a fist the size of a horse’s hoof, and a sharp-featured man with darting eyes. She assumes they are members of Glint’s organization that she hasn’t had a chance to meet yet. People she would have greeted soon enough, as their new leader, if things had gone differently.

All at once, the last conversation she had with Glint comes rushing back. He was convalescing in bed, pulled from the brink of death, and he’d decided to give up the criminal life so he could focus on leading the city of Ostgard. His bid for taking the Maire’s seat was nearly complete.

He talked about giving her control of his organization. The ruler of the city and his underworld queen. Wasn’t that what he said? Or has her mind turned conjured those words in the mostly sleepless time since? Now, with Glint a bleeding wretch in a hanging iron cage, with Emmerst in firm position to take hold of Ostgard, with Silver telling tales of a relationship with Glint, now Myrrh feels like maybe it was all a dream.

Warrell growls low in his throat, shaking his head and pulling Myrrh back to the present. “We got clear shortly after you headed into the bog. Hawk and Carver…”

“Hawk and Carver led off a squad of Shields when they closed in on our fallback location. They’re the only reason we made it to Second Bridge and across to the thieves’ paths in the Neck,” Ivy says, her face grim. “Seeing as they didn’t meet us at the rendezvous, I assume the noose slid tight.”

Myrrh glances toward the building’s wall nearest the enclosure. “If the Lady rolls us nines, they’ll be inside the pen then.” She doesn’t need to add anything about the alternative. If Hawk and Carver threw sixes, it’s probably too late for a rescue attempt. “What about Toad?” she asks, naming the final member of her council.

Warrell and Ivy share a look. Myrrh’s pulse stutters. Dead?

“This isn’t easy to say,” Warrell says. “But it seems Toad was in league with Emmerst.”

“Wait, what?”

“I saw him leading Shields to the Queen’s Dice,” Ivy says. “Guess he thought you might seek refuge with Sapphire.”

Myrrh shakes her head. Of her advisers, she felt she knew Toad the least, but still. She already knew Sapphire has been taken, but the betrayal makes it so much worse. If it turns out Sapphire has been harmed, she won’t rest until she tracks Toad down and makes him pay.

“Any word on the rest of the syndicate?” she asks.

Warrell shrugs. “Scattered. Those that weren’t rounded up are likely long gone from Rat Town. Heard it’s nearly deserted over there, Myrrh. Just a few poor souls living behind barred windows and locked doors, left praying to the Queen of Nines the Shields won’t grow bored and gather more people into another pen.”

“Empty unless you count the Haven members sizing up the district street by street,” Ivy says.

Myrrh grits her teeth at the thought of the rival gang figuring out how to divide up her turf, picking out strongholds for their expanded operations and deciding who gets to shake down which businesses for tribute. That is, if the cheesemakers and tailors and wheelwrights of Rat Town are ever freed from the prison across the street.

How did this all happen so fast? Just a few days ago, Ghost Syndicate was in full control of the district. Despite the threats to Glint from the oathbound, despite the Death Cloak killing thieves across the city, Myrrh’s small empire was strong and functioning. And now it’s crumbled. Rat Town is emptied. It’s like none of the hard-fought battles against the Slivers gang or the former Maire ever happened.

For a moment, Myrrh wants to sink to the floor. At her feet, a square of lighter-colored floorboards shows where the printing equipment used to stand before the business was shuttered. Maybe she should follow the printer’s example and close up shop? Head up the Ost and carve out a new home in the Inner Kingdoms. She was always best when working freelance, right?

She shakes her head, knowing that’s not really true. Life might have been simpler when all she worried about was securing grub and shelter for her and Nab. Small jobs with modest take. Skimming the edges of the underworld without needing to worry about its intrigue and violence.

Life might have been simpler, but she hadn’t been any happier. Half the nights, the only reason Nab ate was because she went hungry. What might look like simplicity in hindsight was a hardscrabble existence. Living just a few picked pockets short of starvation. Always worried the Shields or the Scythe would catch her in the act and make her disappear.

Anyway, she’s kidding herself if she thinks she can abandon the people who have come to rely on her. Those Rat Towners penned up across the street aren’t going to get help from anywhere else. And leaving for the Inner Kingdoms now would be abandoning Nab to whatever plot Silver and the Mouth have for him.

Anyway, even if Nab were safe and Rat Town secure, she would never, never leave Glint in Emmerst’s clutches. She’ll wind up in the cage beside him before she lets that man execute him.

“Well, we’ve come back from worse situations, right?” she says, running her eyes over the small collection of thieves in the dim room.

“I’m not sure I can recall,” Warrell hedges with a shrug.

“Ah, come on. You and me started as grubbers, right? We’re used to operating with no resources.”

“And that’s why we usually chose achievable targets. At the moment, you’ve got Haven, Carp’s Refuge, and the entirety of the city guard standing against you. Oh, and a bounty the size of a king’s treasury on your head, which probably means anyone outside this room is as likely to turn you in as help you.”

She smirks. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It makes me so glad that Nab found you.”

“But despite the odds, we’re here, aren’t we?” Ivy says. “Since the moment Nab knocked at the door of Bernard’s kitchen and he let the little rat in, I’ve had reason to hope we’ll take back what’s ours. He did good, that kid, finding us.”

Myrrh nods. Nab did do good. She’ll probably have to tell him that, even if it means he’ll be insufferable afterward.

“Well then,” she says, glancing around the room. “We ready for a prison break?”

Chapter Seventeen

NYX, THE THIEF of Glint’s with the rat-like face and sour demeanor, pulls her aside as the group moves upstairs so everyone can have a look at the layout of the yard from above.

“Your ribs,” he says.

Myrrh has never really liked the man—ever since Glint introduced them, he’s been dismissive and condescending. She feels the skin around her eyes tighten as she prepares for a comment about how her injury makes her a liability.

“I can manage,” she responds.

Nyx shakes his head. “Sure, whatever you say. But it would be easier with this. Glint would insist.”

He pulls a small glass vial from what appeared to be a fold in his tunic but must be a hidden pocket. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he waits for her to take it. Myrrh holds the little container up to a gap in the siding so that light shines through and notices dark flecks floating in the liquid.

“And this,” he says, handing over what looks like a medicine dropper.

She blinks. “What is it?”

Nyx’s lip curls, the shadow of his disdain for her inexperience returning. “Mist. Four drops under the tongue.”

Mist? The name makes her think it’s another Haava substance, like glimmer and etch, one of the compounds from the distant archipelago that conveys special abilities when used. And terrible consequences if misused.

“The effects?”

“You won’t feel the injury. It doesn’t help heal, just covers the pain.”

“And if I use too much?”

The man resumes walking toward the steep stairs to the attic. “Permanent numbing to pain. Doesn’t sound too bad until you realize someone could be slitting your throat and you’d have no idea until you noticed the spray of your lifeblood.”

“Wait,” she says, catching up. “How often can I use it.”

He gives an annoyed sigh as if preventing her from overdosing is too much of a burden to bear. “Twice a day. The effects last around an hour.”

Myrrh nods, shaking the little vial to mix the contents. “Thanks.”

Nyx rolls his eyes. “Like I said, Glint would insist.”

Myrrh pulls the cork, and sharp fumes from the liquid sting her nose. Careful, Myrrh pulls just a single drop into the dispenser, lifts her tongue, and squeezes it into her mouth. In a moment of paranoia, she thinks that this would be a perfect opportunity for Nyx to get rid of her, but she doubts he’d betray Glint in that way. The drop is frigid as it spreads behind her lower teeth, the chill immediately sending tendrils through her body. On her next breath, the sharp pain in her ribs seems to dull.

Quickly, she dispenses the other three drops, and by the time she reaches the attic and crouches behind the others as they take turns peering through the louvers, the pain is gone.

Nines, it feels nice to breathe without the sensation that there’s a knife in her lung.

She drops to a crouch and scans the faces of the others as they turn from the vent. “So, can we do it?” she asks. “I figure if we’re careful we can start picking off the perimeter patrols. They don’t seem to be checking in at a central location. The most important thing is avoiding a commotion.”

Silver smirks. “I’m sure I don’t have to mention my opinion on the best way to do that.”

Myrrh ignores her. “The storehouse opposite the yard seems like a good—”

“Hold on a second, Mistress Myrrh,” Resh says. “Before we get down to planning, I should probably make a couple of introductions.” He looks pointedly at the pair of thieves Myrrh hasn’t yet met.

Confused, Myrrh nods at them. “I assume you’re out of Lower Fringe. Associates of Glint’s?”

“Not exactly,” Resh says.

The first of the strangers, the burly woman, twists her hammer in her grip. “Name’s Wrench. Me and Bobber”—she nods at the sharp-featured man—“came at the request of our boss.”

“And your boss is…?”

“Ticktock.”

It takes Myrrh a moment to place the name as the leader of the biggest Smeltertown syndicate. “You’re Blood Garnets.” She glances at Resh, who nods. He doesn’t appear nervous about the choice to involve outsiders, but Myrrh isn’t so sure she likes this. Wasn’t Resh just enumerating the difficulties with her status as a wanted woman?

“We figured the best way to succeed here is to get someone who knows the turf, Myrrh,” Warrell says, showing his palms. “And anyway, we didn’t want to upset the peace with the Garnets by conducting an operation here without asking.”

That, at least, makes some sense. It’s standard Ostgard etiquette to secure permission from the syndicate in control of a particular region before working their turf. Usually the arrangement involves some sort of sharing in the profits.

“All right, so you’re here,” Myrrh says, deciding there’s no use in questioning a decision that’s already been made. “Any ideas on how we can quietly capture and contain the perimeter guards.”

Wrench shakes her head, the slabs of flesh on her cheeks hard. “Even if you eliminate them all, you’d still have to get the doors to the smelter open. I happen to know that there’s an iron bar thicker than your scrawny arm across the inside. Better to get inside quietly and spring the prisoners from there. If they run as fast as I’ve seen most Rat Towners move when the Shields are approaching, all you need to do is get the door open and distract the guards.”

Myrrh blinks. “Okay. So how are we supposed to get inside if there’s this bar thicker than my arm?”

Wrench nods at Myrrh’s satchel. “We can get you in. But there’s a toll.”

Myrrh sighs. A toll. It’s not uncommon for syndicates to charge for the use of thieves’ paths or other organization assets. She just figured Resh had already paid whatever fees the Blood Garnets requested. “How much.”

“I hear you’ve come into a large quantity of rubies. We’ll need ten. More if they’re small.”

She feels her thief’s mask slip. That’s a major payment. The sort of sum that would ordinarily buy operating rights to a few docks or buildings for months.

Seeming to sense Myrrh’s shock, Wrench smirks. “Or we could leave the five of you to deal with three dozen guards alone. Whether we’d remain quiet about your plans to upset a Shield installation on our turf, thereby drawing attention to our humble district, would be up to Ticktock to decide.”

Myrrh grits her teeth. The rubies are nice, but freeing her friends is more important. “Six rubies.”

“Eight.”

She shakes her head and stays firm. “Six, and Ghost won’t have a reason to hold a grudge against the Blood Garnets. I don’t have to run this part of the operation now. Once Emmerst is removed, the Shields will let the prisoners go anyway.”

Wrench holds Myrrh’s eyes for a few seconds, then shrugs and nods. “Six.”

Myrrh pulls out the shortest strip of fabric from her satchel, draws her dagger, and starts cutting through the stitching. “Now perhaps you can explain how you plan to get us inside.”

***

Myrrh stares through the dark shaft with her lip curled skeptically. The problem isn’t that she’s a stranger to tunnels and ducting, or even that the shaft is scarcely tall enough to belly crawl along. It’s that she’s never met Ticktock, and she wasn’t present for the negotiations between Resh and the Blood Garnets boss. She doesn’t like working off someone else’s plan.

“You realize that the continued good standing between our organizations depends on your actions here, right?” she asks.

Wrench blinks, her expression flat. “The Shields set up their prison in our turf, and Ticktock isn’t happy about it. If you’re concerned we’re aiming for the bounty on your head, forget your worry. No one here believes Emmerst would pay up anyway.”

Myrrh nods. It might be nicer to hear that the Garnets’ true reason for refusing to turn her in for the bounty is some sort of thieves’ honor, but Wrench’s explanation is more believable. And Ticktock’s crew is probably right to doubt Emmerst’s honesty. Still, she can’t bring herself to crawl through the tunnel with no one guarding her back.

“Warrell,” she says, catching the big man’s eye. Out of everyone from Rat Town—except for her mentor, Hawk, of course—he’s her most trusted ally.

“Mistress?” Warrell says expectantly.

“Stay here in case something goes wrong. If we end up trapped inside, gather whatever resources you can and try to hold Rat Town against Haven and the Shields. If we keep our home turf, there’s a better chance we can regroup.”

His brow furrows as if he wants to object, but when Myrrh’s gaze flicks to Wrench and back, he seems to understand. The big man nods. “Got it,” he says.

With that, Myrrh runs her gaze over the rest of the group. “Everyone ready?”

When no one objects, she nods and clambers up into the tunnel. It’s a stone-walled horizontal shaft that leaves the cellar wall of a storehouse across the street from the smelter and enters the smelter building itself, exiting into a small underground chamber built for holding coal and charcoal for the furnace. Crawling forward on her belly, Myrrh gives silent thanks to the mist for numbing her ribs, and by association, she thanks Nyx for providing it. He’s not a pleasant man, but in this case, he has spared her a world of pain. For Glint and Hawk and the innocent Rat Towners inside the prison, she would try to make this crawl anyway, but it wouldn’t be easy.

The elbows of her thief’s leathers scuff over stone, and she pushes with her toes and knees, sliding her hips forward over the rough rock and mortar. After a couple of body lengths of forward progress, the tunnel goes abruptly black. Myrrh stifles the urge to look, knowing that someone, probably Resh or Ivy, has crawled in behind her, snuffing the light. Since she can’t see anyway, Myrrh closes her eyes and continues worming her way forward.

She crawls and wiggles for another minute or two before catching a whiff of coal dust from the end of the tunnel. Not long after, Myrrh’s elbow knocks against the secret exit hatch, which, according to Wrench and Bobber, should swing open on hidden hinges. She draws in a breath and nudges the panel, exhaling in relief when the wood swings away, showing more darkness beyond. She quickly lifts the wooden flap and struggles free of the shaft. Something—coal fragments, she assumes—crunches and crumbles underfoot when she gets herself upright and moves away from the hatch.

Pulling the flint and steel from her pocket—items thoughtfully given to her by Ivy when Wrench and Bobber described the tunnel and its dark exit—she strikes sparks until she can spot the oil lantern waiting on the far side of the room. She hurries across, feet shuffling through grit, and knocks sparks from the flint until one catches on the wick. Warm glow flares across the room, exposing a heap of dark stone, a shovel, and pails for carrying the coal. A simple ladder climbs from the room to the smelter above, the ascent currently blocked by a closed trapdoor.

The others exit the tunnel no more gracefully than Myrrh felt, and she’s glad for the hatch overhead that muffles the sounds as they curse and grunt. Once everyone is assembled, she scans their faces. “Silver?” she asks. “You’re ready to get the bar off that door?”

The Nightblade rogue rolls her eyes as if to suggest she needs no reminders but nods anyway.

“Okay,” Myrrh says. “Up then, and quietly. Silver first.”

To her friends’ credit, no one acts terribly surprised when Silver wiggles her fingers and vanishes into an angular collection of shadows. Myrrh contains a smirk as she imagines the woman’s annoyance at the lack of reaction. She turns down the wick on the oil lamp, dimming the light to the barest glow, as the upper hatch creaks open and Silver climbs silently into the smelter building. The scent of cinders drifts down through the opening—even with the furnace cold, the fumes are stronger than the customary acrid scent that fills Smeltertown’s streets. Working in the building when the fires are stoked must be awful.

After waiting for a ten count to make sure the Nightblade gets clear of the exit—and in case there’s a problem and Silver thinks it’s worth alerting the group—Myrrh carefully climbs the ladder and peeks into the room above. She can’t track Silver’s progress, but she imagines the woman is already moving toward the front door where two stout Shields stand with bored expressions and hands on their short swords. To Myrrh’s left, the hulking mass of the furnace blocks her view of the exit to the yard. Across the room, though, she spots six guards sitting around a table and throwing dice. An open bottle of amber-colored liquid suggests they won’t be particularly alert to the thieves’ furtive motions as they prepare to free the captives.

As soon as her feet clear the ladder, Myrrh scurries behind the furnace so she can get a view out into the yard. She expected the door to be closed and is surprised to see that not only is the door to the yard open but some of the prisoners are inside and now huddle against the walls as shelter against the spitting rain. Overconfident, apparently, the guards pay them no mind, except when a patroller from outside stops in the doorway and casts a longing glance at the dice game. Then the gamblers make a token effort to appear alert, running eyes over the shivering wretches against the wall.

Slipping her cloak over her head, Myrrh heads toward the exit. Between her smudged face and the ragged state of her clothing, she looks no different than the one hundred or so Rat Towners held captive, and now that she’s inside, the guards don’t give her a second glance as she passes them.

So far, this is much easier than she expected. At the very least, she assumed there’d be a need to bluff her way past guards at the door—or more likely, to climb through a window to exit the building. Just walking out the door is simple.

But of course, that usually means she’s in for a different surprise.

Before she steps into the yard, Myrrh casts a glance back to make sure the others are settling into place. All seems in order, with Nyx slouching toward a group of captives huddling against the wall, and Resh and Ivy silently slipping toward the guard table, eyes alert for advantages and distractions. Their job will be to capture and hold the gamblers’ attention long enough for the fleeing Rat Towners to turn the scene in the smelter to chaos.

Good. Now all Myrrh needs to do is get the prisoners ready to bolt.

Chapter Eighteen

WHEN MYRRH SPIES Hawk across the yard, the tension in her chest unwinds, more than she’d like, if she’s honest. Her knees wobble, and for a moment, she wants to run to him and lay her head on his shoulder and stop worrying about her crumbling syndicate and Glint’s cage and the hard-faced guards wandering around the yard with cudgels in their grip. She stops herself, forces a breath, and then banishes the weakness. She built Ghost Syndicate without Hawk, and she’s here as his would-be rescuer, not the young pickpocket he pulled from the gutter ten years ago.

Raising her chin, she starts across the yard through the scattering of Rat Towners. They crouch and stand and sit on empty ore crates in the rain, eyes downcast. Tears have cut streaks through the dirt on their cheeks. Myrrh clenches her fists and moves quickly, but after a few steps she realizes how this confidence must make her stand out. Ducking her head, she forces her shoulders into a hunch and shuffles forward as if she feels as miserable as the rest of them. Cutting a straight path to Hawk won’t do either, so she takes a winding course as if wandering aimlessly. Finally, head down and hands curled around her belly, she comes up behind her former mentor.

“Hawk.”

Her low-spoken word reaches the man’s ears, and he turns, brow furrowed as if trying to place the voice. When he spies her, his eyes widen for a moment, but his face quickly flattens.

“Sixes. Where did they catch up with you?” he asks. He glances at her scuffed and rain-soaked clothing, her smudged face and unkempt hair. “I’m guessing they haven’t connected this”—he gestures at her face—“with the notorious woman accomplice in the Maire’s murder.”

Myrrh gives a little head shake. “Listen. They didn’t capture me. We should have the door open shortly, and you need to be ready to run. We’ll rendezvous at Glint’s Lower Fringe safe house. Not the mansion. The tenement building.”

Hawk blinks as he takes in the information. His eyes dart to the side, bringing her attention to a pair of guards who are standing over an old man who sits with a broken walking cane across his lap. One kicks the longer half of the cane, sending the stick clattering. The man scrambles for it, and the guards laugh.

All at once, Myrrh doubts herself. Doubts her plan. It’s always been like this when she has Hawk to rely on.

“I count twenty-two guards inside,” he says. “Could get ugly.”

She hardens her jaw. “Ivy and Resh are working up a distraction. They’ll keep the guards from giving chase. Most of them, anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just nods, and Myrrh has to make fists of her hands to hold tight to her the last shreds of confidence. “Who else is here from Ghost? I need to tell them where to meet up.”

Hawk swallows, a flicker of darkness on his face that he quickly masters. “Carver. Usually pacing along the back wall.” He glances to her left, and after a moment, he nods. “Like now.”

Shifting her weight and shuffling her feet while keeping her head down, she peers out of the corner of her eye. Carver is a gaunt figure, stalking along the stone-built wall with what is probably too much confidence given the situation.

“Who else?”

He pauses, looking toward the entrance to the smelter, a yawning double door wide enough to accommodate a horse-drawn wagon. A small group of guards stand just outside the opening, looking in with tension knotting their shoulders. Sixes. Have her friends been noticed? Myrrh’s breath freezes in her throat as she mentally prepares to whip out her dagger and fight her way out. But after a moment, one of the guards laughs and cups his hands around his mouth.

“Miser’s piss pot, and there I thought Grant was gonna win all the coins. Can’t make decent wagers when one guy at the table can outbid you five times over.”

Myrrh blows through loose lips. It seems the tension had nothing to do with the operation after all. She turns back to Hawk. “So who else is here?”

Again, a shadow crosses his features.

“Listen, Myrrh. I hate to say it but Toad—”

“I heard. He brought the Shields down on the Queen’s Dice.”

“Myrrh, it’s Sapphire.”

“What did they do? Is she—”

He lays a hand on her shoulder and steps aside, revealing a trio of people, two crouching and one sitting, tucked between a pair of hulking iron contraptions. The machines, all heavy bars and metal teeth, strike Myrrh as menacing, and when she notices the threads of fabric clinging to what look like iron spikes meant to crush ore, her eyes widen.

It takes her a full breath to recognize the woman sitting next to the ore crusher with an arm cradled to her chest, her face so dark and swollen with bruises it scarcely looks human. Myrrh sucks in a sharp breath, unable to hold her thief’s mask. She looks again at the ore crusher, matching the threads on its teeth to the linen weave of Sapphire’s jacket, the dark-blue coat she favors when dealing games at her gambling establishments.

Myrrh’s hand comes to her mouth, covering the horror-struck O shape of her lips. Eyes closed—or maybe swollen shut—Sapphire hasn’t noticed Myrrh’s arrival.

“They wanted information about your location. Sapphire couldn’t have given it if she’d wanted to, I imagine. Regardless, her arm bones are shattered,” Hawk says. “The skin’s more like pulp than anything. If we could get her to a good healer, there’d be a chance of saving it. As it stands…”

Myrrh can’t drag her eyes away. She wants to go to the woman, but there’s no time. “She has to get out when the doors open. Can you move with her? Help get her to Lower Fringe?” Myrrh’s thinking of the doses of healing serum she used on the Haven member’s daughter and Glint. In both cases, they cured what would have been fatal wounds. Surely she could fix Sapphire’s arm with another vial. But the healing tonic is among the rarest of the Haava substances. She wouldn’t even know where to start looking, not without Glint’s help.

Regardless, with the filthy conditions in the yard, it’s not just a question of whether Sapphire’s arm can be saved. Infection will soon take hold if the limb isn’t cleaned and bandaged. The woman could be dead within a tenday.

Myrrh takes a shaky breath. “Okay, I need to alert Carver.”

Hawk nods. “I’ll help Sapphire start toward the building.”

“And Hawk,” she says, face heating as shock over Sapphire’s condition gives way to rage. She scratches at her calf, pinches an imaginary louse from the leather folds of her trousers, then flicks her fingers as if getting rid of the carcass. Scratching again, she digs into her boot and palms a small blade she keeps holstered there. When she stands, she steps close to Hawk and slips the knife into his pocket. “If you happen to cross paths with the guards who did this to her in the course of escape, see that they lose an eye or two.”

***

With Carver following her lead, winding his way through the crowd and whispering in Rat Towner ears, Myrrh works her way back toward the entrance to the smelter. She tracks the guards in her peripheral vision, making note of which men and women are paying attention to the prisoners, and which are looking for a corner to piss in or checking the smelter building to see if it’s time for a shift change. A pair of hard-faced Shields have taken up posts central to the yard and are using an old wooden pallet to get a better view. Those two will be an issue. When she catches Carver’s eye, she gestures to them with a pair of fingers held close to her thigh.

He nods, a faint motion that few people would notice.

The smell of cinders strengthens as she nears the building. Myrrh grimaces. It really must be eye-wateringly bad inside when the furnace is actually running. Even now, her throat stings.

When she’s almost at the door, she runs through the plan in her mind. Nyx will be near the entrance, watching for her signal. He’ll be in position to pass the command on to Silver, Resh, and Ivy. As soon as Resh and Ivy grab the attention of the gambling off-duty guards, Silver will get the bar off the door either by lifting it while still cloaked in shadow, or by retaking her material form and using a cantrip to misdirect the guards and convince them they need to open the door.

She spots Carver working toward her flank at a diagonal. They’ll enter the building together, ready to fight as a team if necessary.

“Hey!” The shout tears through the air inside the smelter, putting a stutter in Myrrh’s step. Her eyes arrow to the building’s interior, but she can’t see anything in the relative darkness ahead.

She senses Carver at her side, can almost feel the tension in his body. Out in the yard, Rat Towners hurry their progress toward the building, thinking the sudden sound may have been the signal. The sudden motion brings shouted questions and commands across the yard, the guards calling back and forth to each other and demanding the prisoners hold still.

The orders only increase the abrupt rush for the door. Myrrh’s eyes widen when she sees both prisoners and guards streaming into her path, blocking her view of the position where she expects to see Nyx.

A loud clatter comes from the building, another shout, and then light spills across the floor as the outer door opens.

“Sixes, we’re not ready,” she curses as she hurries forward, shoving through Rat Towners in her haste.

“Miser’s breath,” Carver says as they step into the darkness of the smelter. Myrrh blinks, trying to pick details from the shadows. The gamblers’ table lies on its side, rolling on the circular top. A spray of broken glass decorates a puddle of what looks like the liquor the guards were drinking. It takes her a few breaths to sort out order from the shadows and recognize Ivy grappling with one of the guards. She can’t see Resh or Silver anywhere, and every time she looks toward the outer door, the light from the street blinds her.

A young Rat Towner man goes stumbling past, limbs flailing, feet stumbling. A guard follows on his heels, cudgel raised. Myrrh darts forward and sticks out a foot, tripping the guard, before heading toward Ivy. A few steps later, the Ghost Syndicate woman drops her opponent with a punch to the neck and shakes her head to wave Myrrh off.

Whirling, Myrrh turns back, intent on regrouping with Carver. The long-limbed man has a foot planted on the neck of the guard she tripped, and he waves her over as he stoops and yanks the cudgel from the man’s hands.

Myrrh catches a glimpse of the scene in the yard, prisoners and guards pushing and shoving. The horde shoves through the double door, blocking most of the light from the yard and bringing the melee into the smelter.

“Forward!” Myrrh shouts in Carver’s ear as the room fills with the grunts and slaps and the occasional wet thud of a well-aimed hit. “We have to hold the door.”

He nods and starts pushing forward, Myrrh guarding the rear. The acrid fumes in the smelter burn her throat and the inside of her nose. She thinks she glimpses Hawk and Sapphire, the gambling house proprietor leaning heavily on the man’s shoulder as she staggers, blind. But a pair of wrestling shadows tumbles across her view before Myrrh can head that way to help. She smells sweat and blood, and shouts of pain and anger fill her ears.

“Sixes,” Carver says, pulling her attention around. She spins just in time to see a wall of guard flesh move across the front exit. At least six armed Shields have reached the opening first. There’s a momentary tussle as a guard tries to step out and pull one of the doors closed. A Rat Towner spies the gap and dives through. Three cudgels descend, battering the man across the back, and a Shield picks him up by the ragged collar of his jacket and tosses the man back into the smelter.

“Just hold the opening,” the Shield at the center of the line yells. “Get the mob subdued. Knock them senseless. Kill them if you have to.”

A few feet away, a loud bellow shakes the air. As Myrrh sidesteps a downed guard, delivering a kick to his gut for good measure, she spies the shiny dome of Resh’s bald head. The man yells again, raising a cask of something over his head. He brings the little barrel crashing down. Wood splinters and what looks like lamp oil spills.

“Fire,” Myrrh shouts as the bald thief drops to his heels and starts pulling striking sparks from a flint, the little red motes falling on the oil. Rat Towners seem to hear her, and they back away from the puddle of oil as the first spark takes, raising a flame that licks at the oil in almost a desultory fashion. Not very good oil then.

With a roar of frustration, Resh abandons his attempt to off-balance the guards with the flames, and instead lowers his shoulder and starts charging for the door. Carver spots the motion and falls in step behind. Myrrh’s about to join when a second rank of Shields steps in front of the first. At least a dozen, maybe fifteen, armed guards now hold the door, and many have drawn edged weapons. One strikes, the flat of the blade catching the light from the street for just a moment before a spray of blood flies back into the crowd, and someone cries out in pain.

“Wait! Carver!” she shouts, dashing forward and grabbing the man’s shoulder. Better to go out through the secret tunnel than sacrifice themselves on the Shield’s blades. But that won’t do either, because it leaves Hawk behind. It leaves Sapphire with a crushed arm and ruined face. It leaves all the innocent people from Rat Town who were rounded up because Emmerst decided to crack down on her home district.

Warrell is on the other end of the tunnel, though, and maybe she can call to him for help. He can run to the Blood Garnets, and maybe they can attack the Shields from the outside, get that exit open so the prisoners can escape.

As she drags Carver in that direction, her eyes fall on something else. The bellows. A pair of massive wedges with accordion-shaped bladders, they stand on either side of the huge iron furnace. Spouts at the narrow ends of the wedges connect to vents in the side of the furnace through leather hoses the diameter of Myrrh’s calf. Usually, the bellows provide air to the furnace fire, raising such heat that ore in the firepot melts, releasing the metals inside the rock as red-hot streams. Now, they’d blow air on nothing but dead ash.

Ash that stings the eyes and burns the throat.

“This way,” she shouts abruptly, all but yanking Carver off his feet. A guard steps into their path, but Carver brings down the cudgel he stole from the Shield’s compatriot, smashing it against the man’s collarbone and sending him staggering. Myrrh steps in, taking advantage of the guard’s stumble, and slashes him across the elbow where a gap in the hardened leather panels of his armor makes it easy to cut through the jerkin into the flesh beneath. He yelps, falls back, and she catches a whiff of liquor as he reels off in search of easier targets.

At the closest of the two bellows, she yanks the handle up and feels the movement of air at her feet as a flap opens and the bladder sucks in a breath. Pushing down with all her weight, she forces air through the hose and into the furnace.

Ash puffs through gaps around the hatch where smelter workers shovel coal to feed the blaze.

“The hatch,” she shouts, but Carver is already there, working the latch free. He pops the little door open, then dashes to the back of the furnace where the big iron belly connects with the chimney. Something clanks inside as he pulls a lever to close the flue.

He nods, and Myrrh pumps, and ash billows into the air in a thick cloud. She pauses and yanks out the collar of her woolen undershirt from beneath her thief’s leathers, pulls it over her nose and mouth, and shoves down on the bellows again. More ash and dust bursts from the hatch, swirling through the air. People start coughing. Her throat burns.

After two more big breaths from the bellows, the ash is too thick to breathe. It’s hard to see, and the sounds of combat have faded beneath the choking coughs and gags.

Myrrh can’t breathe, can’t talk, so she grabs Carver, and they run for the door. Tears blur her vision, turning the fogged scene watery, making figures into a smear of shadow, the doorway into a blur of light.

Even so, she sees the gap when the wall of guards parts. Shields go down coughing, and, spying the fresh air, Rat Towners stampede over the struggling figures.

Lungs bursting, Myrrh runs with the tide. The guards are down on either side of the doorway, curled fetal to protect their guts as Rat Towners pour past, some leveling kicks at the Shields’ bodies.

She coughs and gags when she finally reaches the muddy street, and Myrrh’s so glad for the air she turns her face to the sky and lets the frigid drizzle clean her face. Soon after, Carver’s beside her. The streams of Rat Towners are dividing, people hurrying for alleys and melting into crowds of onlookers who have stopped to try to understand the commotion.

She turns north and east, deeper into Smeltertown where it’s easier to disappear. Carver follows silently, and when they’re clear of the area, they stop, breathe a moment, and change course for Lower Fringe and the meet-up point.

Chapter Nineteen

“DRINK, MISTRESS?” BERNARD asks as she leans back in her chair. She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a breath. Around the table in the first-floor meeting room of the safe house, she hears the others shifting in their seats.

The fact that Bernard’s here bothers her more than it should. Glint always worked so hard to isolate his cook and friend from the criminal side of his life, but the moment Emmerst’s thugs captured Glint from his mansion a few blocks away, the senior members of Glint’s organization seem to have made no effort to protect either the red-faced chef or his apprentice, Tep. Bernard emerged from the simple tenement kitchen just moments after Myrrh and Carver stepped through the door. He explained that Nyx had summoned him here and that Tep and Nab had scurried off to look for a healer ahead of Sapphire’s arrival.

She opens her eyes. “What have you got?”

“Tea if you like. Or if that isn’t to your taste right now, I brought over a bottle of fine brandy from Tangesh and a flagon of a red wine vintage that Glint took a liking to recently.”

The others—Warrell, Carver, Silver, Ivy, Resh, and Nyx—sit around the table looking bone-weary and in need of baths. Hawk still hasn’t arrived, but that’s not surprising given Sapphire’s condition. Neither of Glint’s associates have ideas on where to get the Haava healing serum, which means the best chance of helping Sapphire beyond what the healer can doe lies in springing Glint from his cage.

As if she needed more motivation.

“The brandy please, Bernard.”

“As I thought,” he says. “Exactly what Master Glint would order. He told me about your similarities long before I noticed it, of course. Said there were things between the two of you that surprised him.”

It’s almost as if the temperature in the room changes, a sudden chill washing over the table from where Silver sits. Even Warrell seems to notice it, and he casts the woman a strange glance before returning his attention to Bernard.

“Got any ale, my friend?” he asks.

Bernard shuffles apologetically, showing his palms. “When Tep returns, I could send him out in search of a cask.”

“Warrell will have brandy too,” Myrrh says. “A little warmth after the walk in the rain. You just focus on keeping your face out of the windows, and when Tep comes back, I think you two should head back to the other house.”

The man’s jaw hardens—at least, that’s what she thinks she spies beneath the layer of softness in his red cheeks. “Much as I respect your words, Mistress,” he says, “I’m afraid I must ignore the suggestion. I won’t be leaving when there’s something I might be able to do here. Just like before.”

She sighs and nods, remembering another time when Bernard dipped into the underworld, working his knuckles to the bone in the kitchen here to keep thieves fed while they worked to help Glint. Maybe it’s hopeless to try to insulate the man from criminal activities.

She turns to the others as Bernard bustles out the door, muttering something to himself. “We were supposed to wait for my signal before opening the door. So what went wrong?”

Silence holds for a moment, and then Nyx rubs a hand over his thin, brushed-back hair. “I didn’t see it, since I was watching for you, but that first yell came from near the door.”

His gaze flicks to Silver, and the woman’s lip twitches. Myrrh looks at her expectantly, ready for an explanation, but she offers nothing.

“Same story from me,” Resh says. He untwines the fingers of his clasped hands and turns his palms to the ceiling. “You may have seen the oil cask I broke once things went sour. I left another to leak onto a pile of wood behind the table and planned to spark the planks when the signal came. Ivy had her sights on clubbing the worst of the drunkards upside the head. We figured with those things together, it would buy time to get the doors thrown wide and start some other chaos to keep the Shields busy while people ran.”

“But the shout alerted the guards before you got the signal?”

“When the shout came from the door, the dice players sat bolt upright. One spotted Ivy lurking a bit too close. I saw his eyes pick out the blade in her hand. That’s when he jumped up and upset the table and blew the rest of the operation.”

Myrrh turns to Silver. “All right, so what happened at the door?”

The woman’s eyes are half-lidded as if she’s trying to suggest the conversation bores her. “In truth, I don’t see why we’re wasting time discussing this since the operation was a success. Especially when that success is likely due to the change in plans I was forced to make.”

Myrrh’s hand wanders toward her dagger. “Did I hear that correctly? You changed our plan? I assumed there was a mistake.”

“Well, the plan didn’t account for your Rat Towners to start wandering into the building before you turned up. When they did, I had to act. The bar was far too heavy for me to lift. Too heavy for just one of the guards even. I needed to use the mass-delusion cantrip to convince both of them to open the door, which meant I needed to do it before any of the prisoners wandered too close and got caught up. Unfortunately, one of the fools let the bar slip from his grip, and it landed on his foot.”

The room is still silent when Bernard pushes back through the door carrying a tray with a decanter and a set of tumblers. He seems to notice the tension in the air and quickly flees after setting it on the table. When the door shuts with a click, Myrrh taps a finger on the table.

“You’re out,” she says.

“Pardon?” Silver arches an eyebrow.

“I’ll be taking just a small selection of operatives into Maire’s Quarter tonight. You aren’t invited.”

The woman’s composure slips, her face showing a sort of bewildered disgust. “You can’t possibly do this without me. Your plan hinges on my abilities.”

The truth is, Myrrh hasn’t told Silver everything she plans, but that’s only partly because she hasn’t figured out all the details. Either way, Silver’s abilities would be an asset.

If they were wielded by someone she could actually trust.

Myrrh runs her eyes over her true allies before speaking. “Don’t look at her hands, whatever you do.” And then, to Silver she says, “This is not a negotiation. Resh can see you out.”

“You told the kid that he could go through the initiation after this is over. You can’t think the offer will still stand if you cut me out. Skorry’s vengeance won’t be kind.”

Myrrh shrugs. “I’ll handle Nab just like I always have.”

Chapter Twenty

MYRRH AND A particular boutique owner in Lower Fringe have a history that mostly involves Myrrh scaring the wits out of or incapacitating the proprietor before stealing whichever ridiculous gown suits her fancy. So when Myrrh pulls the door open and steps into the shop, she’s greeted with the sound of shattering glass. Having dropped the decorative vase she was holding, the owner flees the building through a back exit, leaving the rear door swinging.

“Well, this is getting easier,” Myrrh comments over her shoulder as Ivy follows her into the shop. Standing guard outside—just in case the woman decides to return with help—Warrell wipes the astonished look off his face and continues to scan the street for threats.

“I guess you’ve had some practice?” Ivy says.

“You could say that.”

Browsing through the gowns, Myrrh fingers the fabrics and keeps her face fixed in a confident expression she doesn’t quite feel. Getting rid of Silver seemed like a good idea at the time, but it may have been better to keep the woman close even if she couldn’t follow instructions. Given the number of enemies Myrrh’s managed to make in the last couple of days, adding a woman with highly unsettling powers and no apparent conscience may have made her situation even more precarious. But still, it feels good to have friends rather than adversaries watching her back.

She picks up a scarlet dress with a floor-length skirt and a slit that opens halfway up the thigh. The neckline has a respectable plunge to it, which ordinarily might help her cause when trying to persuade the guards to ignore the resemblance between her face and the wanted posters tacked up in the city. But running around half-clothed isn’t a good way to stay warm or to slip unnoticed through a crowd. And if they do manage to free Glint, she doesn’t want the first words out of his mouth to be something about her state of undress.

Well, okay, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, as long as no one else is listening in.

She lets the scarlet fabric fall from her fingers and moves to another rack that appears to have a more demure selection. There’s a long-sleeved gown in emerald green that is fitted through the bodice but not too tight. Good for movement without obnoxious layers or lace to catch on things, and the stays along the ribs might provide some splinting if the mist wears off unexpectedly.

She shrugs and pulls it off the rack, bundling it into her satchel.

“How about this one?” Ivy asks, holding out a black scrap that might actually cover her, but might not.

Myrrh shakes her head. “No. Seriously.”

Scanning a bar hung with a variety of dresses, she pulls down an immense thing in light blue that has enough lace and chiffon to clothe half of Rat Town. It reminds Myrrh of a giant fair-weather cloud. She shoves it toward Ivy.

The older woman gives her a horrified stare. “That? Is that even an article of clothing? It looks more like a pair of curtains got in a fight with a wedding cake.”

“Matrons in Maire’s Quarter display their status by the volume and discomfort of their gowns.”

Ivy’s lip curls. “Matron…what are you saying?”

“Well, you are going to play the part of my mother.”

“Wait, you didn’t tell me this before.” The woman looks down at her strong physique, the long muscles showing beneath the tight-fitting thief’s leathers. She looks again at the massive dress, which rustles when Myrrh shakes it gently.

Myrrh laughs. “It’s not that bad, right?”

“Yes. It is.”

Myrrh stretches out her arm to the side and tilts her head to give the garment a once-over. “Okay. It’s awful. But it will also be convincing.”

Sighing, Ivy snatches it from her. “You owe me a nice bottle of whiskey when we get back to Rikson’s Roost.”

“Nice?” Myrrh says, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t think Rikson carried that particular variety.”

“Okay, how about you owe me a strong bottle of whiskey.”

“Fair enough,” Myrrh says, heading toward the door. “Let’s get back to the tenement. I need some help practicing something.”

***

Late in the afternoon, the front door to the tenement swings outward, hitting the building wall with a thud that rattles the framing, and Hawk and Sapphire finally stagger in. Myrrh’s mentor’s eyes are hollow, his face drawn and filthy.

Sapphire looks as if she’s barely alive. Her head lolls forward, loose on her neck. The damaged arm hangs limply at her side, the sleeve cut away. Somewhere along their journey from Smeltertown to the safe house, Hawk has stopped to have the wound cleaned and bandaged. White muslin wraps Sapphire’s forearm from her hand to past her elbow. In a few places, blood spots bloom like brilliant red poppies spreading across the dressing.

Myrrh rushes from the room where Ivy has been helping her practice the misdirection cantrip, shaking out the stiffness in her fingers from the hours of contortion she’s put them through.

“How is she?”

Hawk shakes his head, jaw set, as he treads awkwardly down the short first-floor hall to the nearest bedroom, all but carrying Sapphire. He shoulders through the opening with Myrrh and Ivy following and stops at the bed where the three of them lower Sapphire to the mattress. Myrrh pulls off the woman’s shoes before lifting her legs onto the bunk. Throughout the process, Sapphire says nothing, though a faint moan escapes her swollen lips.

They step outside the room and pull the door closed before Hawk speaks. “We got help from a healer’s apprentice in Trader’s Row. He poured spirits over the wound and said the bandages had been boiled. But I could see the doubt in his eyes about her chances. Especially since she scarcely raised her head when the spirits hit the raw flesh. I don’t know how she kept walking, to be honest.”

“I don’t know how you carried her.”

Hawk shakes his head. “Thought I’d have to give up more than once. Got help from a carter between Trader’s Row and the waterfront near here. He didn’t like the look of us much, that was clear, but he had enough conscience to let us ride in the cart bed with a couple of barrels of oats anyway.”

“Any signs of infection?” Myrrh asks, glancing toward the door. “Tep came back a couple of hours ago and said he and Nab split up to have a better chance of finding a healer with enough skill to help. I told them we might need someone who can…take the limb.” She had given the boy a small handful of rubies with strict instruction that he only show them if necessary—only if someone has the skill, but seems reluctant to help, and never to pull them out on the open street or in a building where someone in a crowd might spot the sparkle.

“I can’t say with all the…Myrrh, she’s in bad shape all over. Tried to check her shoulder, but she’s just as bruised and swollen there as around her face.”

Myrrh swallows, thinking of the bruises on Sapphire’s cheeks looking like ripe plums ready to split, the way her eyelids have puffed, and the bloody splits on her lips.

“We’re springing Glint tonight,” she says. “He’s our chance at finding a healing serum that can rescue the arm.”

Hawk’s brows give a quick twitch of surprise. “Tonight? I heard he’s being kept in a cage with frozen hinges, hung the height of two men above Second Bridge.”

“By a chain with links as thick as my wrist—well almost. It’s true. And there are guards, though I doubt they’re needed.”

“So you plan to vanish him from his cage? Sounds like an interesting heist.”

“Something like that. I do need a little help though.”

“Oh?”

“We’ll get moving on the plan soon. I need to make a quick trip to Glint’s mansion to fetch a couple of things. In the meantime, it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to steal a horse and carriage, would it? Any color on the upholstery would be fine.”

Chapter Twenty-One

TORCHES CRACKLE AND spit in the drizzle, the flames leaping in a long line all the way across Fourth Bridge. On the end where the heavy structure rams into the Lower Fringe waterfront, a line of Shields stands shoulder to shoulder, peering into the murk of a rainy evening. Behind the row, another pair of guards marches back and forth across the bridge, pausing to nod every few times they pass one another. It almost seems like the display is for show, an act put on to intimidate the residents of Lower Fringe into groveling in apology for having harbored the criminal who murdered the city’s Maire.

Myrrh lets the curtain fall back into place over the carriage’s glass-pane window, restoring the cozy atmosphere of the lamp-lit interior. Opposite her on a bench seat—upholstered in dark-blue velvet, which according to Hawk was the only choice unless she preferred a very garish light green—Hawk and Ivy look miserable in their finery. The light-blue gown is even worse with someone inside it, the lace foaming around Ivy’s face and neck and causing her to bat at the stuff and glower periodically. Hawk, in the meantime, is tugging at his loose-collared silk shirt and velvet waistcoat like they’re attacking him. Unlike with the gowns, there was a ready supply of merchant’s garb in Glint’s mahogany wardrobe. The clothes don’t fit Hawk quite as well, or maybe it’s just that the man isn’t at ease in such finery. Either way, with the smell of sandalwood that occasionally reaches her nose from the clothing, the same scent she remembers on Glint’s skin, she can’t help but recall him reclining in the sitting room of his mansion, a glass of wine cupped in his long fingers, feet stretched toward the fire.

“No room for failure tonight, okay?” Myrrh says as the carriage creaks into motion again, Nyx, in his servant’s livery, having urged the horses forward. Behind the carriage’s cab, Warrell and Resh stand on a wooden platform in a pair of matched uniforms the organization keeps around for posing as private security. Occasionally, one of them shifts and causes the carriage to rock. Other than Silver, Carver is the only person missing from the group. Him, she sent into Rat Town to try to start assessing the Haven situation—and to start tracking down Toad.

“I got that part,” Hawk says. “It’s the questions about how we’re supposed to manage this whole thing that I’m not so clear on.”

Ivy nods in agreement. “I don’t understand why we’re supposed to just go with whatever you say. I mean, we’re supposed to be the parents here, right?”

Hawk’s brow furrows. “Parents?”

Myrrh smirks. She hasn’t had time to tell him that part. “Yes, Papa. And we’re here, all the way down from the Inner Kingdoms, Wayren to be precise. My brother has a new trade deal under negotiation to bring our barley down the Ost and into the Port Cities where they have a fascination with grains we consider to be humble food for the peasants. It seems they consider them exotic.”

“I see.”

Ivy threads her hand between Hawk’s arm and ribs, wrapping gloved fingers around his bicep. Hawk stiffens, his thief’s mask shattering. He glances sideways at the other thief, a deep blush in his cheeks.

“I do hope our son has found an advantageous situation, don’t you darling?” she says. “I’ve heard the chaos in the city has caused havoc in the trade markets.”

Myrrh can’t help the smile on her lips as she watches Hawk try to master his flustered reaction. All of a sudden, she remembers a night in Rikson’s Roost, back when she and Hawk and Ivy were freelancers. She noticed Hawk’s attention captured by something across the room, an informal dice game where it appeared that the wagers were for who would buy the next round. Hawk gave up dicing many years ago, and Myrrh remembers having concluded that he was fighting the longing to rescue the honor of the poor suckers who’d been lured into funding a particular woman’s evening. But now, Myrrh wonders if that longing was for Ivy’s company instead.

“Of course, after we get across the bridge into Maire’s Quarter, our story is going to change. You’re still my parents, of course, but you’ll need to follow my lead when I figure out the rest.”

The carriage sways, the wheels on the right side squeaking as the horse team pulls it into a turn. That means they’ve driven onto the bridge. A moment later, the cab lurches, and Myrrh’s head dips forward as they stop. She brushes aside the curtain and leans to peer out as one of the two patrolling guards slips through the wall of Shields and approaches, hand on the butt of his cudgel.

“Fourth Bridge is closed after dusk.”

The carriage leans to the side then springs up as Warrell and Resh climb off the platform in the rear and move to stand near Myrrh’s door. She holds the curtain open long enough to make eye contact and nod. She’s ready.

“Merchant Occela has pressing business within the Quarter. His son is already inside, having made arrangements for his arrival and accommodations. We were due just after midday, but the carriage became mired north of the city. The horses we obtained in Previt were unsound, the mare lame and scarcely able to pull, while the gelding’s mouth was hardened against the bit. Needless to say, we’ll be sending men to—”

“Bridge is closed. No exceptions.”

“Govan,” Myrrh says, cracking the carriage door. She picks up a stack of paper—sales receipts she grabbed from the dress boutique, and steps from the cab onto the runner. Warrell, feigning shock, hurries over and offers an arm.

“Miss Occela, it’s unseemly for you to expose yourself to such weather and company. Please remain inside while the guardsman and I sort this out.”

“I’m sure the man just needs to see our papers,” she says, turning a bright smile on the guard. She looks him up and down as if impressed. “I’m glad to see that the city is taking such pains to protect the security of respectable people. I’m certain we’ll be safe inside the Quarter with such diligent guardsmen on watch.”

He puffs his chest just slightly, but shakes his head. “Apologies, Mistress.”

“Miss.”

“Pardon?”

“Miss, not Mistress. I’m as of yet unwed and not yet introduced to society. My parents feel I am still too innocent for suitors, that I might find myself under the sway of someone unscrupulous. What do you think, sire?”

He screws his eyes shut in a hard blink, then shakes his head. “I—I’m sure I can’t comment on that, Miss.”

Myrrh sighs and pouts her lower lip briefly. “Well, regardless, I do hope they’ll introduce me soon. I would truly love to experience Ostgard’s famed soirees on one of these trips, even if I am still too shy for dancing or unchaperoned conversation with a…man.” Her eyes widen. From within the carriage, she hears Ivy trying to shush Hawk, who is probably trying not to laugh.

“What’s going on up there?” someone shouts from farther along the bridge. A moment later, the other patrolling guard slips through the row of sentries and approaches.

The first guard clears his throat. “I was just explaining to these people that the bridge is closed at night until a new Maire can be chosen and order can be restored.”

Myrrh tries to put a vacant look in her eyes as the newcomer approaches. “But I just don’t understand how there can be any harm in letting across three travelers who have journeyed all the way from the Inner Kingdoms. It’s truly not our fault that the stable master in—where were we when we obtained those awful horses, Govan?”

“Previt, Miss.”

“Right, in Previt. Truly, he was a cruel and disgusting man, selling us the use of such beasts that couldn’t even pull the carriage through mud no deeper than Govan’s ankle.”

The second guard clears his throat. “Whether the Previt stable master delayed your arrival or not, the orders from the council are strict. Perhaps you can find temporary accommodations in East Fifth that would suit your station, Mistress.”

“Miss,” she says.

“Pardon?”

“Our companion here is not yet wed, Prost,” the first guard quickly says, “but we should leave it at that to avoid getting distracted from the topic at hand.”

Myrrh lets out a heavy sigh and looks over the shoulders of the men toward the lights of Maire’s Quarter as if imagining all the balls she’s not allowed to attend. After a moment, she turns her gaze back to the guards, focusing on the newcomer since he appears to be the squad leader.

“But we visited the Ostgard consul at Lederford, you see, and she forced us to remain in the township for three whole days while drafting and approving our entry papers. You may never have been to Lederford—I don’t see why anyone would go there except to receive Ostgard papers—but it’s a positively horrid place. My mattress was stuffed with straw beneath just a thin layer of wool, and I could smell it while I was attempting to sleep. It was like bedding down in a stable really.”

The guards are starting to look faintly panicked. Given their occupation as Shields—any guardsmen who could claim a respectable tally of wits were previously snapped up by the Scythe for her handpicked force—Myrrh guesses they’re no geniuses themselves. But it’s clearly still a challenge for them to know how to respond to someone so blatantly empty-headed.

A look of dismay passes between them.

“Miss Occela, perhaps we should heed the suggestion and set ourselves toward this East Fifth for the night,” Warrell says in a gentle tone that suggests he doesn’t wish to upset a young woman with such delicate sensibilities.

“Oh, nonsense, Govan,” she says, slapping him lightly on the shoulder as if this is all a big joke. “Here,” she says sharply, brandishing the papers and fluttering them in front of the lead guard’s face. “Proof that we’re an upstanding family. We present no danger to the good citizens of Ostgard.”

“Unless her condition is catching,” Myrrh hears a woman say from within the row of Shields barring the way. “Do you think stupidity is contagious?”

The lead guard makes as if to gently turn her hand away, and that’s when Myrrh strikes. In the commotion of flapping papers and moving arms, she raises her other hand and catches the man’s eye with a wave of her fingers before she works them through the cantrip. Unlike other times when she’s tried the trick—even with Ivy, who she did manage to misdirect into performing simple tasks—Myrrh feels the charm take hold. It’s as if a faint thread suddenly binds the man to her, invisible and pulling his eyes to her face.

“You know,” she says in a low voice, “it might just be easier to let the carriage through. We have the papers. It’s much more difficult to back a carriage off a bridge than to pull it forward. And anyway, what harm could three merchants from the Inner Kingdom do when half the city is forced to hide in their homes due to lawlessness.”

The other guard is just staring at her as if astonished anyone could be so oblivious to what she’s been told. Blinking and smiling, she flutters the papers at him, too, and uses the movement to cover another use of the cantrip.

“And speaking of lawlessness, what if we’re waylaid while trying to find accommodations outside the Quarter? My brother is expecting us. It’s already arranged. Just think of the damage to Ostgard’s reputation if foreign traders aren’t allowed to seek shelter in lodgings they’ve already arranged and paid for?”

Both men wear conflicted looks. Behind them, the row of guards shifts as if impatient that this has gone on so long. One, a woman—probably the source of the comment about Myrrh’s “condition”—has a hand on her blade. A good length of steel shows where she’s pulled it from the sheath.

“Perhaps it would help if we swear not to mention that we were allowed passage across the bridge after dark. It doesn’t appear that anyone is paying particular attention to the comings and goings at this hour.”

The leader of the guard taps a finger against his chin. “You know, I wasn’t convinced at first, but now that you mention it, it would probably be safer for you to enter now than seek shelter elsewhere.”

The other nods. “Isn’t the purpose of the closure and curfew to keep our upper-class citizens safe?”

“Exactly,” the first says, brightening at the excuse.

“Then it’s settled,” Myrrh says brightly. “I’ll just walk with you two across the bridge so that you can point out the most interesting features of your fair city.” She hands off the papers to Warrell, then lays a hand on the guard’s shoulder, keeping his attention in case she needs to renew the cantrip.

With a faintly bewildered look, the guard captain turns to the row of Shields. “Make way for Merchant Occela’s carriage,” he barks. “And hold the defense until I return. I’ll be gathering a guard force to escort the good merchant’s family all the way to their accommodations within the Quarter. It would not do to have respectable visitors to our city vulnerable to harassment by criminals at this late hour.”

Myrrh’s heart sinks as she meets Warrell’s eyes. Sixes.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“I BELIEVE WE should consider this a case of being too persuasive,” Resh mutters as he and Warrell head toward the platform on the rear of the carriage. “Permission to cross the bridge is one thing. An armed escort quite another.”

Myrrh stops at the carriage door and clears her throat, reminding one of the men to return and open her door for her. “I’ll work it out,” she says into Warrell’s ear as she steps onto the running board.

They traversed the bridge without incident, Myrrh making vapid conversation with the guard while keeping a hand ready to refresh the cantrip, but once they entered Maire’s Quarter, the man insisted that she relax inside her carriage for the remainder of the journey to her accommodations.

“Miss Occela,” the guard says just before she climbs in.

“Yes?”

“In order to provide escort to your quarters, I’ll need to know where we’re destined. When we reach the guardhouse a block into the district, I’ll collect men to help with your protection, and I’ll send a runner ahead to make sure the route is clear of trouble.”

Sixes. And of course, Myrrh has no address in mind. The only cross streets she knows are the location of the residence Glint leased under his disguise as Merchant Giller. If there’s a worse location to give as a destination, she’s not sure she could conceive of it, seeing as Merchant Giller was just arrested for allegedly assassinating the city’s leader. The building will be watched. Might as well climb onto a dais in the central square and announce herself as the wanted accomplice in the killing.

Unfortunately, she has to say something, so she rattles off Glint’s address and hopes the guard isn’t familiar with the private residences of the city’s merchants. She doesn’t plan to be under guard by the time they arrive anyway.

“Needless to say, we’ll want to take care of our escort before we reach our destination,” she says after shutting the carriage door to muffle her voice.

Ivy snorts. “I assume you have a plan?”

“Not just yet, but I’m working on it,” she responds while moving into a crouch between the bench seats.

Ordinarily, the slow pace of the carriage would make her antsy, but right now she’s glad for the sedate clop of the horses’ hooves against the slate paving in the Quarter. The carriage is surprisingly comfortable, riding on well-tuned springs. As Myrrh shuffles back and forth in her crouch, patting the floorboards, she does notice that it seems to sway as if slightly top-heavy. But that’s a minor complaint.

“So, Myrrh,” Hawk says as she explores the joining of the floorboards near the right wall, and then the panels on the wall itself. “That gesture you made…”

Something in his tone makes Myrrh look up from her explorations. “Yes?”

“Can you tell me its origin?” Still, his voice seems rather tense, as if he’s hiding something.

“Maybe you should tell me what’s worrying you, Hawk. We’ve never been ones for secrets, unless it involves a prime stash of loot, right?”

He nods, shoulders slumping. “I would tell you if I could, honestly. But the truth is I can’t say what bothers me. There is much I don’t know from my time…away.”

Myrrh’s eyebrows draw together. “From the time your soul was separated from your body?”

Hawk nods. “Right. I have the sense that I spent time in some sort of void, and I know from your account that the faint link between my spirit and body formed a sort of gateway that allowed the Death Cloak passage into the world.”

“That’s more or less it,” Myrrh says with a nod. “Rattle claimed that the trinkets with Skorry’s sign had been used by the Nightblades for years as protection against Death Cloak attacks, but I can’t say that it worked. That’s the only connection I can see with the cantrip—according to the Nightblades, the charm effects caused by the cantrips are gifts from Skorry as well.”

Hawk blinks as if trying to sort through his words. “I wish I could better describe what I experienced when you made the motion. The best I can say is that I remember a feeling of being used when I was in the void and the Death Cloak found passage through my body. I felt a similar thing when I saw you work that charm. I know Nab’s been at it with the same trick, fooling bakers who don’t give him enough free sweets. But I never experienced that deeper sensation until now.”

When he speaks, Myrrh can’t help thinking about the Mouth and Silver and their talk of Skorry’s jealousy. Maybe there was truth in their words, and maybe they meant well in offering to initiate Nab. Well, maybe that’s part of the story, but it can’t be the full explanation. Myrrh is certain that Silver has an ulterior motive for offering to have the boy taught. Regardless, Hawk has given her more to think about regarding this so-called initiation.

Just as soon as this operation is over.

The carriage hits a bump, and the jolt sends her flying toward the opposite side of the cab. As she scrambles to her feet to keep her balance, her toe catches on what seems to be a loose floorboard. Hurrying, Myrrh searches with her fingers until she finds the crack.

“Here,” she says quickly. “Help me lift.”

***

By the time the carriage draws to halt at what Myrrh assumes is the guard post, they’ve managed to work three of the floorboards loose. With Hawk and Ivy holding her feet in case she slips, Myrrh turns upside down and sticks her head through the hole in the floor to get a good look at the situation. Between the spokes of the carriage wheel, she spots the guard walking toward the building, shoulders set. Outside the post itself, four guards keep watch. The front door is ajar, and warm light falls through the crack. Other than at the guard post, there doesn’t appear to be anyone out and about in this part of town. At this hour, the residents of Maire’s Quarter have probably headed toward the center of the district to be seen strolling the avenues, browsing high-end boutiques, and dining in the expensive establishments lining the main thoroughfare.

At the entrance to the building, the lead guard snaps his fingers, barks an order, and points to the carriage. Two of the guards leave their posts and trot over, hands on weapons. One nods a greeting toward the front of the carriage where Nyx holds the reins, and then they take up station near the front wheels, feet planted firmly. Myrrh grimaces. So much for the idea that they wait until the lead guard goes inside, then make a run for it. Even if she and Ivy and Hawk could slip out the bottom of the carriage, grabbing Warrell and Resh before the rest of the guards emerge from the post, they’d be abandoning Nyx to deal with the Shield escort alone.

She struggles upright, chewing her lip and freeing her ankles from her friends’ grasps. Pulling aside the curtain, she peers forward at the new guard standing sentry near the front of the carriage. “All right. Diversion time. I’ll get ahead of our path and get it set up. You guys stay here and run when it happens.”

“When it happens…” Ivy says. “I assume it will be obvious then?”

A plan is coming together in Myrrh’s head. “Don’t worry,” she says with a smirk. “I think you’ll know when it’s time.”

She slips her feet through the gap in the floorboards, and then manages to worm through the hole, ending in a half-reclined position beneath the carriage. Rainwater soaks through the fabric of her dress, chilling her hip. She grimaces as she scoots toward the rear of the carriage and emerges beneath Resh and Warrell’s platform. Resh startles, letting out a quick grunt, but he clamps his lips shut when he recognizes her face. Moving into a crouch, she tries vainly to wipe the grit from the deep-green satin of her skirt. So much for looking respectable.

Now that she’s trying to move in the gown, Myrrh wishes she’d chosen the dress with the thigh-high slit after all. Her stupid skirt only lets her take tiny little steps because the sixing thing pulls tight whenever her feet are more than half a pace apart. Tip-toeing like a clown on stilts, she reaches the shelter of an alley with almost no time to spare—the moment she feels the shadows wrap her, the door to the guard post opens and the remainder of the escort emerges. Marching with purpose, five more Shields step to the carriage to join those already standing sentry.

Myrrh shakes her head. Her earlier worry that the cantrip would wear off before the carriage reached the far end of the bridge seems ridiculous now. The charmed guard would probably escort the carriage all the way to the Port Cities before snapping out of it.

Okay then. Time to get the diversion ready. But first, Myrrh needs to deal with this stupid dress. Pulling her dagger from a sheath strapped to her calf, she grabs the skirt’s hem and opens a long slit up to her thigh, baring what looks like yards and yards of white skin. She shivers as the cool air hits her skin, but at least the rain has stopped actively falling. Glancing down, she notices that the wet from the street has caused her dress to cling to her body, accentuating her curves.

Myrrh sighs. It’s not how she’d intended to present herself in Maire’s Quarter, but thieves must improvise.

***

“Some ambush,” Myrrh mutters to herself as she takes up station in a recessed doorway along what should be the carriage’s route to Glint’s residence. In the eaves of the building above, pigeons coo. She looks up as a shutter bangs against the stone facing of the building, and a broom emerges from the window. Wielded by an arm sleeved in servants’ livery, the broom swipes at the roof’s overhang.

“Shoo!” the servant calls. “The mistress will murder me if you’re making that racket when she’s back from dinner.”

With offended squawks, a pair of pigeons takes flight, fat bellies dragging against their rapid wing beats.

Myrrh presses deeper into the recess as she hears the faint sound of hooves. Moments later, an adolescent boy jogs past, casting glances down the alleyways. The insignia on his woolen coat marks him as a Shield, but his lack of weapons suggests he’s in training. He must be the runner sent to make sure the path is clear for the carriage. She holds her breath as the boy’s eyes pass over her without picking her shape from the shadows.

The carriage turns onto the street, and Myrrh sidles toward the edge of the alcove. A lantern has been added to the cart—it swings from a pole inserted through a housing near Nyx’s seat. In the swaying light, the lead guard’s face is set in a look of absolute conviction about his task, while the other guards look decidedly annoyed. It would be funny if it weren’t for the difficulty the situation presents.

Myrrh waits until the carriage is around twenty paces away, takes a deep breath, and lets out a shriek. She bursts from the alcove, hands flapping, eyes wide.

“Help!” she shouts.

Nyx tugs on the reins, bringing the carriage to a swift stop. The cab lurches, springs squealing, and Resh and Warrell jump from their platform. Meeting her eyes, Resh shakes his head as if to suggest she’s lost it.

“Miss Occela?” the lead guard asks, looking utterly dumbfounded.

“The brutes!” Myrrh wails. “Pulling me from the carriage. I thought this city was supposed to be safe.”

The doors on the cab open, and Hawk climbs out. He offers a hand and Ivy jumps down in a cloud of lace. “Darling?” she says. “Oh thank the skies. I thought we’d lost you. I was so afraid!”

The Shields look at one another, completely lost. Face purpling with shame or rage or both, the leader whirls on them. “Were you not supposed to protect this young woman?”

“Protect?” Myrrh asks in a shrill voice. “One of them pulled me from the carriage. He said I would fetch a handsome ransom. That or I’d make a lovely soldier’s bride.”

“Oh, Miser’s flesh,” Ivy says, staggering as if swooning. “My innocent daughter!”

She places her forearm against her brow and sags against Hawk. Myrrh’s mentor simply stares and blinks as if unable to believe this melodrama is actually working.

“You incompetent louts!” the guard captain says, stomping toward the nearest of the Shields. While his back is turned, Myrrh gestures to Nyx to climb down from the carriage.

“Miss Occela,” Warrell says, going down on a knee before her. “I saw him take you, but these heathens”—he casts a furious glare at a guard—“had me in a crossbow sight. I thought it better that I stay alive in hopes to organize a rescue. Please forgive me for failing you.”

Myrrh raises her chin, eyes narrowed at the Shields. “Then they’re all in on it. I can’t believe this…” Her lower lip trembles as she holds her eyes open in hopes of creating tears by not blinking. “This outrage! If I hadn’t had training in how to deliver a knee to a man’s sensitive areas, I never would have escaped.”

The guard captain is now frozen, quivering in what appears to be abject shame.

“Captain,” a Shield says, “this is not right. The carriage doors never opened. None of our number are missing.”

“Then how do you explain this young woman’s appearance in the street before us, disheveled and distressed? You are all liars and traitors!”

Resh steps forward and bows deeply. “Mistress, Master. I failed to shield your daughter from evil. Please allow me to carry her to the accommodations.” Quickly, before the guards have more time to state their case, he sweeps Myrrh up and tosses her over a shoulder before setting off at a run. The rest of the party follows a heartbeat later, their feet slapping the pavement.

“Closest thieves’ path. Anyone know the entrance?” Hawk says as they turn down an alley. Apparently, he’s finally snapped out of his shock at Myrrh’s reappearance. “And might I add, interesting tactic, Myrrh.”

“Insane tactic is more like it,” Nyx mutters.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” Myrrh says. “And you can put me down now, Resh.”

She feels the big man’s ear rub against her ribs as he shakes his head. “And let you pull another stunt like that? I think I’d rather carry you until we’re clear.”

An outraged shout finally rises from the street behind them, causing Resh’s shoulder to jam harder into her belly as he quickens his pace. She mutters a curse at the rough treatment, but is thankful the mist is still numbing her ribs.

“Head toward the center of the district,” Myrrh says. “It won’t take long for the alarm to go up, and we need to reach the council chamber before word of our little stunt does.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

NEAR THE CENTER of the district, the group spies the first merchants out for evening strolls, and Myrrh finally convinces Resh to put her down. They haven’t heard sounds of pursuit after that first yell, which makes Myrrh think they got away clean due to the confusion.

“Carrying me really wasn’t necessary,” she says, straightening her ruined gown, for all the good that does.

Nyx snorts and rolls his eyes. Everyone else withholds comment.

“Anyway, so far so good, right?” she says.

“Well…I suppose that depends on your definition of success,” Ivy hedges.

“We’re here, aren’t we?”

“And where exactly is here?” Hawk says with a skeptical lift of his eyebrow.

“A block from our destination.” Myrrh points toward the square that opens at the end of the alley they’ve been following. Across the empty area stands an imposing marble-walled building. A long row of pillars guards the front where a pair of stout doors is closed against the night. “The council hall.”

Ivy’s face twists in confusion. “I thought you weren’t very familiar with the district. Didn’t you just mention that you gave the escort Glint’s address because you didn’t know anywhere else to name? So how do you know that’s the council hall?”

“I don’t,” Myrrh says with a grin. “At least not for sure. But I know how to recognize the Maire’s Palace, and that’s not it. So by process of elimination…”

Nyx lets out an exasperated sigh. “Great.”

“Anyway, that building looks official. If it’s not the council hall, someone inside ought to be able to give us directions.” Myrrh wiggles her fingers to remind them of her cantrip power.

“And we all saw how well that went last time,” Nyx mutters. “Anyway, you mentioned that you wanted to speak with the council, and I still don’t understand why that’s a good idea.”

Myrrh chews her lip while she stares at the building. “Because they’re the only people in the city who can overrule Emmerst. Honestly, I have some ideas on how I’m going to convince them, but it will depend on the mood. I don’t want to lay out a plan that’s likely to change the moment we get inside. Ideally, we walk out of there with the keys to Glint’s cage—so to speak anyway—and an official letter of apology from the council. But you should be prepared to follow my lead if it seems that taking hostages is a better idea.”

Nyx snorts. “Wonderful.”

Hawk elbows him. “Shall we?”

Crossing the square, Myrrh ignores the somewhat aghast looks by society matrons as they take in her rain-and-mud-soaked dress and the long slit exposing her thigh. She keeps her chin up as if this is her normal attire and continues forward. The women quickly look away.

As the group passes by small knots of merchant-class strollers, Myrrh catches snatches of conversation. The main subject seems to be Glint’s upcoming punishment, but there’s a glum tone to the discussion. She gathers that the sour notes aren’t due to any pity for Glint, but rather the dismay over Emmerst’s status as Maire-elect. Regardless of his success in apprehending the supposed murderer, he’s foreign, which means that most of the Ostgard merchants—particularly those who don’t hold council seats—will fare poorly in any realignment of wealth and power.

Among a few groups out for the evening stroll, however, there’s talk of other less scrupulous things. An end to the curfew will mean a return to the gambling halls and brothels in lower-class districts—many of the men mutter about their favorite places to pick a fight without Shield intervention. A new Maire is a chance for a fresh system of tariffs and new ways to exploit honest workers.

Myrrh shakes her head and hurries on. The sooner she’s out of Maire’s Quarter, the better.

Near the front of the council hall, Myrrh slows to get a good look at the double doors. The lack of guards almost certainly means they’re locked. Better to choose a more discreet entrance anyway. Looking casually over her shoulder, she scans the square to make sure no one is paying the group much attention, then leads them quickly down a narrow aisle that separates the council hall from the adjacent building, a restaurant with an apartment on the second story.

When they reach the intersection of the aisle and the alley that runs behind the marble hall, Myrrh raises a hand to call a halt. She peeks around the corner and spies a short flight of stairs leading to a simple door. An oil lamp is affixed to the wall beside the stairs, burning dirty oil and casting a wan light on the platform. A servants’ entrance no doubt. It’s a possible entry point, but not quite what Myrrh’s looking for. She scans farther along the building and spies an iron fire escape leading to the second floor. Better.

“This way,” she says.

One by one, they file into the alley. Shivering in her wet dress, Myrrh winces when she feels a pang from her ribs. Sixes. Not a great time for the mist to wear off. Hissing through her teeth, she draws a quick halt, just long enough to administer fresh drops under her tongue.

As coolness spreads through her body, Myrrh sighs. The sound dies in her throat, and ice travels her spine when she hears voices behind them.

“Yeah, but Andel said something wasn’t right with the captain.”

“Andel said that because he’s one of the men the captain’s blaming for this mess. Look at it this way. If the captain’s not crazy, and we find the woman, we’ve got one hefty bounty to collect.”

Double sixes. Okay, servants’ entrance it is. Gesturing frantically, she hurries up the steps and tries the latch. Locked. Warrell joins her on the platform and shoves a meaty hand against the door, which doesn’t budge.

“Wait,” she says while fishing for a lockpick.

Warrell slams a shoulder into the door. The wood around the bolt splinters, and the door explodes inward.

“There they are!” the shout comes from the end of the alley.

“Okay, don’t wait,” Myrrh says, shoving through the door.

A narrow hallway stretches to either side of the entrance, paralleling the back wall of the building. Myrrh looks back and forth, shrugs, and darts to the right as the others burst through the door. Whirling, she gropes for the dagger sheathed at her calf, cursing her gown’s design for having no good spot to keep her blade closer at hand. Weapon at the ready, she flexes the fingers of her free hand, limbering cold knuckles in preparation to use the cantrip. The others form up in the hall around her, blades drawn as they wait for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

The first heavy step shakes the staircase, and then…silence falls. Myrrh hears a strange gurgle, like a throat being cleared, but nothing further. After a few breaths, she tiptoes forward and peers out the door. The alley is deserted.

Unease settles over her shoulders, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. She turns to the others.

“Uh. What happened?” Nyx asks.

She shrugs. “I assume someone helped us. I just hope it wasn’t Silver.”

“And you don’t think we should find out?”

“You mean go back out and hunt down our rescuers when we’re already inside the building?”

“I just don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” Myrrh says. “But I don’t think we have the luxury of searching for answers right now. Let’s get to the council chambers.”

***

A wide-eyed serving girl drops a silver platter topped with appetizers when Myrrh rounds a corner and startles her. Trying to calm her own thudding heart, Myrrh swallows and after a breath regains her wits enough to bring up a hand and move her fingers through the cantrip. The girl’s eyes appear to defocus, and again, the sensation of a connection tugs at Myrrh, this time like hundreds of sharp but painless needles bursting from her nerve endings and hooking into the girl. She shudders slightly at the disconcerting feeling, especially the sensation that it’s left her vulnerable in some way.

“So sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I could certainly use your help,” she says as the rest of the group catches up and crowds behind her in the hallway. “I came to find my father, you see. He’s a city councilman, and Mother says he’s going to be in meetings all night.”

“The hearings,” the girl says, nodding blankly.

Myrrh exhales in relief at the confirmation that they’re in the right buildings. “Hearings, you say? Is there anything about them I should know before going in? My father will be angry that I interrupted him. Better if I don’t make a fool of myself.”

The girl blinks. “I don’t know much. Only that the council is laughing a lot, especially when they poke at that awful man and ask for a vote.”

Myrrh catches the eyes of her companions, hoping that one of them understands what the girl means, but everyone shrugs. “Well, my aunt and uncle here have come a long way to visit the city. Mother says that my father needs to take a break to greet his own brother because she’s not a hotelier or tour guide.” With this, Myrrh covers her mouth with her hand as if she’s said too much. “You’ll help me and my guards find him, won’t you?”

“I…” The girl glances down at the spilled food. “I shouldn’t leave this mess here.”

“Don’t worry,” Myrrh says. “If anyone gives you trouble over it, I’ll explain to Papa how helpful you were. After all, no councilman would want you to leave his family to wander the service corridors, right?”

The servant nods slowly, seeming undecided. Myrrh reaches forward and tucks a stray strand of hair behind the girl’s ear and, while withdrawing her hand, works the cantrip again.

“You needn’t enter the council chambers,” she says. “Just leading us there will be enough, and then you can hurry back here to clean up.”

The girl straightens and motions the group forward. “You’re right. This way.”

The service corridors are a maze, a warren of passages and junctures that would have taken the group far too much precious time. By the time they reach a dark walnut door set with an oiled brass handle, Myrrh feels thoroughly turned around.

“Hopefully we won’t have to leave by that route,” Ivy mutters.

Myrrh lays a hand on the latch. “I assume the council is within.”

The girl nods.

“Thank you. You’ve been more than helpful. Now I suggest you see to the mess.”

Stiffening as if only now remembering the platter of spilled food, the girl ducks a quick curtsy and darts around the group, heading back the way they came.

“Well then,” Myrrh says, taking a breath. “Everyone ready?”

When no one objects, she twists the handle and nudges the door open a crack. Brilliant light falls through the gap, stark after the time spent in the dimly lit servants’ area. Blinking, Myrrh peers through the opening.

Her heart stutters at the sight of an iron cage standing central to the room. A pair of guards stand over it with spear tips stuck through the bars and hovering over a huddled form.

“Glint,” she whispers.

Chapter Twenty-Four

THE DOOR SMACKS against the inner wall of the council chamber when Myrrh throws it open. She knows she’s left caution pooling in the servants’ corridor behind her, but she can’t help it. All she can see is Glint’s half-lidded eyes, his slack lips, the fresh trickle of blood oozing down over his hip. He’s in a seated position, knees draw toward his chest as if to protect the gut wound that can’t heal under the conditions in which he’s being kept. His hair hangs lank over his forehead. Even with the loud noise Myrrh made entering the room, he doesn’t look up.

She covers half the distance between the servants’ entrance and Glint’s cage before the rest of the room starts to penetrate her awareness. The council is seated along one side of a long table, all facing Glint except for the councilman presiding over the head of the gathering. Emmerst sits at the far end of the gleaming table, ring-crusted fingers laid on the waxed surface, a look of utter shock on his face.

“Myrrh,” one of her friends hisses, “wait.”

It’s a little late for that, but the warning gives her pause. Myrrh’s eyes fly between the council and Glint, and her heart plummets into her gut as she forces herself to stop and turn to face the table, chin raised, lip curled in an expression of disgust.

“Well this is interesting,” Emmerst says. “A woman with an uncanny resemblance to the city’s newest fugitive delivers herself straight to the council chamber. You realize this isn’t how bounties work, don’t you?”

At his words, the guards standing over Glint stiffen and make as if to approach her, but another councilman waves them back.

Emmerst’s fingers curl, the only outward betrayal of his annoyance at that.

Myrrh sets her jaw and keeps her eyes off the man, choosing instead to search the faces of the council for others she recognizes. It’s been a few weeks, but she can still pick out the men who attended Glint’s dinner parties while he was maneuvering for the nomination as Maire. Eyes landing on a gray-haired man, she waits until she has his attention.

“Merchant Kantwell. Do you remember me?”

The man blinks, looking confused until recognition slowly melts over his features. “Miss…?”

“Ava. I am Merchant Giller’s fiancée. We met in his home not long ago. I was greatly enjoying hearing you speak on the trade situation in the Crags, but I was forced to retire early when my parents sent a carriage to fetch me.” She gestures toward Hawk and Ivy.

Hawk clears his throat. “An unwed young woman should not jeopardize her reputation by remaining out late in the company of a man, even if they are to be wed and he is entertaining some of the preeminent citizens of a city.”

Myrrh can’t help but glance toward her mentor. He’s good at this. She didn’t even realize he knew those fancy words.

The gray-haired councilman, Kantwell, furrows his brow and stares at her. His eyes travel the length of her body, and when his gaze reaches the slit in her dress, he raises a skeptical eyebrow. “If you say so. And yes, I do recall our previous meeting, as I’m sure some of my fellow councilmen do. But of course, this was before we discovered that your fiancé is a murderer, and the culprit behind the Maire’s disappearance. All the woes of the last few weeks, the disorder in the city and the terrible effects on Ostgard’s commerce, are due to the young man you have agreed to wed. Knowing of his guilt, I’m surprised you and your parents”—he nods at Hawk and Ivy—“haven’t fled the city. But then, if Councilman Emmerst is to be believed, you aren’t just an unwitting innocent wrapped up in the evil deeds of your intended husband. You’ve been quite aware of Merchant Giller’s actions all along.”

Behind her, Myrrh hears the indrawn breath and rustling of clothes as her fellow thieves prepare for the situation to dive into violence. She sighs audibly, glancing over her shoulder and casting them a slight smile.

“Forgive the councilman,” she says. “Because he has right to worry. You see, Merchant Emmerst is right. Glint—that’s the name he actually goes by—and I are indeed coconspirators.”

Chairs squeak against the floor as council members sit up straighter. Both Emmerst and Kantwell rise halfway out of their chairs while the guards once again move toward her. Myrrh steps aside as Resh and Warrell step between her and the Shields.

“Then the man we heard from a few minutes ago lies,” says a pinched-faced man seated beside Merchant Kantwell. “I knew it. Wonder what Giller offered him to risk himself with such a tale.”

Myrrh blinks, confused. Which man? Before the guards can reach her friends, leading to a clash of blades, she rushes the table and, planting one palm on the silky surface, leans over the tabletop directly opposite Kantwell. “That’s right,” she says. “We are allies in deceiving you.”

Merchant Kantwell shakes his head. “Why would you admit such a thing?”

“Because we didn’t conspire in the murder of the Maire. The man you have in a cage is not Merchant Giller.”

“It’s four of us against two of you,” Resh growls at the Shields. “I don’t suggest you pick this fight until your masters hear the lady out.”

Kantwell gestures with his fingers, and the advancing footsteps seem to slow. Myrrh risks a glance over her shoulder. The guards halt their advance just a pace shy of striking distance of Resh and Warrell.

“Four?” the larger of the two Shields asks, his gaze flicking between Resh and Warrell.

Hawk casts Myrrh a questioning look. When she nods, he grins wide enough to bare one of his gold molars as he draws a finely crafted dagger from a hidden pocket in the suit coat. That’s one benefit of borrowing merchant’s attire from a thief, she supposes. Glint’s wardrobe is far more suited to disguising weaponry than the ridiculous dress she’s stuck in.

Ivy follows suit, producing knives from within the cuffs of her sleeves. Myrrh’s so-called parents move forward to join her guards.

“I believe that makes four, right?” Hawk asks, glancing at Resh as if unsure of his math.

Resh nods. “I think it does, yes.”

Myrrh turns back to Kantwell. “As I was saying, Glint—actually, that’s not his real name either—didn’t murder the Maire, and I can prove it.”

At the end of the table, Emmerst snorts. “And how exactly are you going to do that? The man vanished without a trace weeks ago.”

Reaching into her satchel, Myrrh extracts a hard metal band and sets it on the table with a clack. She removes her hand, revealing the former Maire’s signet ring. When she and Glint first met, he impressed her by showing the ring off and claiming he’d stolen it from the Maire’s own bedchamber. Of course, that was true, but what he’d left out at the time was that the Maire was his father.

“Excuse me,” says a sneering councilman near the end of the table opposite Emmerst. “You said that his name is neither Glint nor Giller. So please do illuminate us. Who is this scoundrel?” He gestures at the cage.

“I’m getting there,” Myrrh says with a sweet—and utterly false—smile. “First, the Maire.”

As Kantwell examines the signet ring, small wrinkles form between his eyebrows. “All right, so you have the Maire’s ring. What does that prove?”

“Nothing, alone. It’s just added evidence to support my claim that I—without Glint’s approval or knowledge—abducted the Maire and sent him into exile in a debtor’s prison.”

A strange sort of silence grips the hall for a moment, after which the chamber erupts with raised voices. Myrrh’s friends close ranks and back toward her, forming a tight shield.

Kantwell shakes his head as he raises a hand for silence. “This is…” He swallows, then his face hardens. “Now wait. This sounds like a claim made by a besotted young woman hoping to spare her beloved from execution.”

Myrrh holds his gaze while others among the councilmen mutter.

Emmerst slams his hand down on the table. “Sixing pox, men. Why are you even listening to her? Haven’t I shown you enough evidence?”

Myrrh whirls on the man. “And what evidence is that, exactly? What did you tell the rest of the council that led them to believe such a serious accusation?”

Merchant Emmerst sneers. “Among other things, the fact that you just arrived in possession of the deceased Maire’s signet ring only strengthens my allegations.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s the best you have. Where’s the body?”

“No one knows. Except you and your lover, of course.”

Kantwell clears his throat and glances down the table toward one of the other men that Myrrh recognizes as a former ally of Glint’s, or rather, an ally of Merchant Giller’s.

Merchant Emmerst rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m being forced to reiterate these things which I’ve already proved to the council’s satisfaction. But since you insist, for starters, I have numerous witnesses who can attest to heated meetings between that man”—he jabs a finger at Glint, who remains motionless and apparently unaware of the situation around him—“and the former Maire. I have further records: copies, tracings, and stolen originals of written communication between the pair. The esteemed councilmen here have read the documents and can attest to the quantity of threats therein, veiled and direct.”

Myrrh thinks back to the letter she discovered between Glint and his father. At that time, the Maire had been pressuring his son to help him fend off an assault on his power from Emmerst’s camp. Emmerst has had his eye on the Maire’s seat for much longer than Myrrh has been embroiled in the situation. It’s not surprising, she supposes, to find out his spies were keeping tabs on the interactions between Glint and the Maire.

Emmerst doesn’t know everything though. Nothing in the communication gave away Glint’s relationship to the man. Of course, Glint hates his father and wants no association with him. The fact that he took on the guise of Merchant Giller when it would have been so much easier to gain council standing as the bereaved son of the missing Maire is proof enough that he has no desire to take up his father’s name.

Emmerst snarls at her, lip curling. “No arguments against my evidence, I see. By my guess, you were aware of the killer’s plans all along, even if you weren’t physically present at the assassination.”

Myrrh glares at the man, then glances again at Merchant Kantwell. “I assume that you have taken pains to check this so-called evidence for forgeries. And what of these eyewitnesses? Are they trustworthy?”

Kantwell shows his palms. “Most were servants to the former Maire, Miss…Ava. They have no reason to lie unless they’ve been bribed. And our colleague here would never stoop to such things, would you, Emmerst?”

Merchant Kantwell’s hesitation before speaking her name shows that his belief in her story is rapidly deteriorating. The fact that her supposed parents just drew blades that they seem quite willing to use probably further lowered her believability.

Emmerst rises halfway out of his chair. “I move we finalize the guilty vote and arrest this woman as well. She can die with Glint or Giller or whatever his real name is. The spectacle will please the population.”

The pair of guards resumes their slow advance as Emmerst pushes back his chair and strolls toward the main entrance to the chamber. Myrrh feels her friends tense, preparing to run as he slides aside a smaller panel in the door and speaks through it. “We’ll need additional security in here.”

“His name is Dominic,” Myrrh blurts. “Dominic Evenescuel, son and heir to the former Maire of Ostgard. That’s why Glint visited the Maire’s Palace over and over. His father demanded that Glint help fend off Emmerst’s assaults on his position. Glint wanted nothing to do with him, but the Maire had leverage. He’d taken a man prisoner who was dear to us both and was threatening the man’s execution. When all other ideas seemed to have failed, I abducted the Maire and sent him away for that and for the cruelty he worked in this city.”

A roar fills the chamber as councilmen jump to their feet, many sending their chairs toppling. The door bursts open and the newly summoned guards shoulder into the chamber, three men and a woman in expertly maintained armor with scars to prove they’re no strangers to fighting.

“Cease!” Kantwell’s bellow, rising from a chest slightly sunken with age, causes Myrrh to start. The man picks up a goblet half full of amber-colored liquid and smashes it on the tabletop. Three seats down, two more councilmen stand and shove their way to Kantwell’s side to show their support.

“This proves it,” Kantwell yells. “Her story is the same as the other man’s. I suggest we withhold the guilty judgment until such time as Emmerst can be tried for treason against the city.”

Backpedaling away from the advancing guards, Myrrh whips her head toward the aging councilman. “Which man are you talking about?”

Kantwell nods at a junior council member near the far end of the table. With a nod, the younger man dashes across the room, dodging another goblet, this one thrown by Emmerst, and throws open the door to a side chamber.

He peers in, then freezes. The man shakes his head and turns with a shrug. “He’s gone.”

“What? Gone?” Kantwell hollers. “How?”

“The window’s ajar.”

“And you expect me to believe a man of his girth climbed out it?”

“I can only tell you that—”

A loud whip crack slices through the chamber, cutting off the junior councilman’s words. Motion in the room ceases as heads swivel toward the door.

Myrrh’s knees wobble as she recognizes the blood-red leathers, the cruel sneer, the calculating eyes.

The Scythe has returned to Ostgard.

Upon seeing the woman, Ivy mutters a curse under her breath, and her knuckles go white around the grips of her knives. Myrrh understands. Even after knowing the Scythe—or as Glint calls her, Meredith—outside of her role as the merciless assassin and punisher who served as the Maire’s private attack dog, Myrrh can’t help the urge to shrink and hide. At least a decade of her life was spent in fear of the woman’s wrath.

The Scythe stalks into the room with long strides, and only then does Myrrh notice Bernard shuffling in behind her.

“Girth…” he mutters, pinching the rotund bulge of his stomach. “I’d like to see that old man get through the window.”

The Scythe draws to a halt in the center of the room. “And here we are,” she says, running her gaze over the council. Even Emmerst seems cowed as he shrinks back into the chair. “It’s been some time since we saw one other, hasn’t it? Did you assume I fled my post when the Maire disappeared? Were you glad to have the specter of my Knives removed from your throats?”

When no one speaks, the Scythe lets out a cruel laugh. She coils her whip, slowly, then draws out a long, thin blade that looks almost black in the candlelight. Shifting her grip, she carefully tests the edge against the leather of her glove.

Bernard clears his throat. “That one there”—he points at Emmerst—“said that my claim was laughable. Said I needed some kind of proof to back up what he called a delusion over the relationship between Dominic and his father. Well, here she is. You all recall the Scythe’s reputation for viciousness, I’m sure, but what you don’t know is why she did the former Maire’s bidding in such a fashion. It’s old magic, an ancient bond. The Scythe is oathbound now and forevermore to serve Dominic’s family. As will her children be tied to Dominic’s offspring. The oath is unbreakable and everlasting.”

“Which is why I am now here to free my lord,” the Scythe says, eyes fierce. As she speaks, the sounds of battle spill from the antechamber outside the main hall. A Shield comes staggering through the door, his face bloodied and stunned. A black-clad combatant follows like liquid shadow, and before Myrrh can blink, the Shield’s throat is open, his lifeblood spilling on the floor of the council chamber.

“Guards! Defend your council!” Emmerst shrieks as he retreats toward the wall. But the Shields already in the chamber give one look at the Scythe and drop their weapons. Palms up, they back away from the cage and Myrrh’s friends.

The Scythe looks over her shoulder toward the antechamber and whistles loudly. “Now to see about this cage. And I do believe you have some foreign shaman capable of addressing Glint’s wounds? I recommend you send for the healer without delay.”

Moments later, no doubt summoned by the whistle, a pair of blacksmiths trot into the chamber, red-faced and slightly wide-eyed from having threaded through the battle in the exterior chamber. With chisels and mallets, they set to work on the welded hinges of the cage.

As the sounds of fighting outside the chamber quiet, the Scythe’s handpicked soldiers, her Knives, begin to filter into the room, the woman gestures toward Emmerst with her chin. He’s been slinking along the wall, headed for the servants’ door where Myrrh and her friends entered. The Knives need no more instruction and quickly hurry to capture the man.

“And now,” the Scythe says, “we should talk about my oathlord’s future here in Ostgard.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE COUNCIL CHAMBER is filled with the low drone of voices as the blacksmiths work at the hinges. Myrrh sits in a chair beside the cage, watching Glint as the shaman summoned from who-knows-where inside Maire’s Quarter mutters in a singsong voice. The wizened man has laid Glint down and now reaches through the bars to pass hands over his midsection and face. Cupped in the shaman’s palms, pucks of some pungent-smelling substance smolder and release smoke that sinks over Glint rather than rising toward the ceiling. Beside the healer stands a pot of unguent, greasy stuff with a purplish tint. Before beginning the chant and smoke treatment, the man carefully lifted Glint’s nightshirt, freeing the fabric where it had become fused with dried blood from the wounds, and tenderly smeared the ointment over each of the seeping gashes where the assassin’s blades penetrated Glint’s gut.

Myrrh swallows at the memory, fighting tears. It seems so long ago that Glint staggered into the mansion, pale and bleeding and clutching his belly, but when her tired mind runs through the events since, she realizes it’s only been a few days.

How much longer has it felt for Glint, held at the brink of death for the amusement and spectacle and furthering of Emmerst’s political ambitions.

Her cheeks heating with anger, she glances across the room to where the man and his closest allies have been corralled. A handful of the Scythe’s fighters stand guard over the miserable huddle of men, their fine clothing now disheveled, their waxed mustaches askew.

On the other side of the room, the council’s other faction, those who supported Glint’s bid, sit at the table or stand behind it. They, too, are under guard, but the Knives stand back a few more paces. According to the Scythe, no one will be free to leave the hall until Glint can pass judgment on the council that voted to condemn him. It will be up to Glint how he wants to lead the city, or whether he wants to take the leadership at all. Maybe he’ll retreat to Craghold and leave Ostgard to its politics and deceit. Either way, the woman won’t make those choices for her master. She stands at Myrrh’s side now, her attention also captured by the shaman’s efforts and the slow return of color to Glint’s face.

Myrrh’s friends sit along the wall, waiting in near silence. From some hidden pouch, Nyx has produced a pair of dice. He and Resh toss them in some sort of game, though they don’t appear to be making wagers.

Myrrh starts when a councilman at the table clears his throat. Kantwell pushes up from his chair. “May I approach?” he asks the Scythe.

The woman locks eyes with one of her Knives, who moves to escort the man. “Make an aggressive move, and I won’t hesitate to have you put down,” she says.

Kantwell ducks his head. “Understood.”

Once reaching the cage, he glances in at Glint and grimaces. “We truly didn’t know. Emmerst’s evidence was compelling, and he took pains to make us feel that we should have a firm response. Otherwise we’d all be in danger from assassins, he said.”

The Scythe doesn’t respond, her gaze flat as she watches the man.

“But there’s something else we must consider.” Kantwell glances at Myrrh. “Regardless of your personal vendetta due to the Maire’s imprisonment of one of your friends, you’ve admitted publicly to abducting the city’s leader. Ostgard must pay some heed to the rule of law.”

Across the room, Ivy snorts. “Rule of law. Has he ever left the Quarter? Does he have any idea what the tariff takers do to honest bargemen?”

Myrrh sighs as she turns her gaze on Kantwell. “I’m not interested in your form of justice.”

“I suspect you’ll find the rule of law rather changed in the coming days,” the Scythe says simply as she makes a point of running her gaze over the room and her Knives. “Of course, it will all depend on my lord’s wishes, but given your inability to field a force to challenge my soldiers, you’d do well to ingratiate yourself with the new order rather than casting back to the old rules. You’ve witnessed the so-called defense put up by the Shields, and any household guard retained by the merchant families will be swiftly dealt with. Under the Maire, I had fewer than a score of Knives. It was all I needed. Suffice to say, I’ve been busy in the weeks since. Men and women loyal to me now guard the entrances to the Quarter, and we’re in the process of establishing order district by district.”

Though Kantwell’s cheek twitches at the woman’s casual declaration that she now has control of the city, he must realize she’s correct. Bowing stiffly, he turns back for the table and stalks with shoulders straight. The other councilmen cast him despairing looks, perhaps only now realizing that their empires are lost if they don’t find a way to join the new regime.

Silence falls yet again, save for the rhythmic strike of hammers against chisels. Myrrh lets her thoughts travel to the hours and days ahead. She can’t know how Glint will respond upon hearing that the secret of his parentage is out, but she does know there will be a tremendous amount of work to do to reestablish Ghost Syndicate’s control of Rat Town. And she still needs to clear her name with the smugglers at Carp’s Refuge, if that’s even possible. On top of that, she needs to try to find healing serum for Sapphire, and Silver still presents a problem. Myrrh knows the location of one of the woman’s Rat Town safe houses, but where there’s one, there are likely more. And speaking of, she needs to discover more about the Nightblades cult and their relationship to Skorry. Nab will never give her peace until she either allows him to undergo the initiation or proves unequivocally that it’s a bad idea.

As she sighs, trying to put an order of priority to the many looming tasks, a sudden clang startles her upright. Even the Scythe jumps as the final frozen hinge hits the marble floor and the door to Glint’s cage falls open, its weight snapping the padlock that held the latch shut.

Myrrh’s on her feet in an instant, rushing into the cage and falling to her knees beside Glint. She slides hands under his shoulders and looks to the shaman for permission. The elderly man nods as he rises from a crouch and walks toward the cage entrance.

“I wake him now,” the healer says, his accent thick.

Myrrh drops to her butt, legs outstretched. As she pulls Glint’s head and shoulders onto her lap, brushing dark curls from his forehead, his eyelids flutter. Hand trembling, she cups his cheek as the shaman shuffles over and drops to his heels beside them. Stubble prickles the palm of her hand. Glint’s skin is warm but not hot. No sign of fever as far as she can tell.

From a leather pouch adorned with bits of metal bent into strange shapes, the shaman pulls out a small vial. He pulls free the cork and waves the open top beneath Glint’s nose. Myrrh catches a whiff of what seem to be ordinary smelling salts.

After a couple of breaths, Glint stirs. His head twists on his neck, his eyes shift beneath the lids before he blinks and twitches and finally looks up at her.

“Myrrh…” The corners of his lips twitch as if he wishes to smile, but then the faintest wrinkle forms between his brows. He looks down and reaches with a trembling hand for the wounds on his stomach.

Myrrh casts the shaman a questioning look. “Can he move yet?”

The man hesitates for a moment, probably translating the question in his mind and thinking over the answer. He then nods. “Very slow. Not hurt again or healing undone.”

“Got it,” Myrrh says. She lays a hand over Glint’s and moves it to his chest. “Best to leave it alone,” she whispers.

Glint looks back up at her. “Emmerst?”

Myrrh shifts to get a better angle, sliding Glint’s torso farther down her thighs. “It’s over. Emmerst is finished. You’ll have to decide his punishment, but not now. Now you need to rest.”

He blinks, confused. “How? Was it you?”

Myrrh shrugs. “I wish I could claim all the credit for beating him, but you have many more people to thank.” She glances up and beckons the Scythe to enter the cage. The woman seems reluctant, but after a moment stoops and steps through the open door.

“Meredith,” Glint says quietly. “Wait.” He seems to register the Scythe’s uniform and glances around to see the Knives standing over huddling councilmen.

“I’m sorry,” Myrrh says. “I know you never wished to have your family name known.”

His face is troubled, but only for a moment. The emotion seems to require too much effort. As his eyelids start to sink again, Myrrh swallows and, gathering her courage, bends forward and places a light kiss on his forehead.

Eyes closed, Glint smiles. “Oh, Myrrh,” he says, putting more strength into his words than she thought he had. “If you’re going to kiss me, can’t you at least do it like you mean it?”

Immediately, Myrrh feels the heat in her cheeks. She feels the eyes of everyone in the chamber on her. But Glint’s right. She should kiss him like she means it. Gently, she slides him off her lap and gets back onto her knees. Leaning forward, she parts her lips and presses them to his.

Though his body is still, his strength so faint, Glint responds with eagerness. His tongue brushes her lips, and then he takes hold of her lower lip, sucking it between his and then lightly biting down. Myrrh’s belly tightens as she sucks in a breath, her pulse racing. She’s leaning farther into the kiss, the sounds and sensations from the council chamber fading, when a tremendous crash shatters the spell.

Myrrh jerks upright, a shocked sound escaping her throat as she tries to make sense of what’s happening. Around the chamber, doors hang on twisted hinges, their wood shattered. Councilmen are yelling, retreating into smaller huddles as the Knives seem to be fighting opponents that just aren’t there.

No. That’s not right.

As a spray of blood arcs across the room, spattering the floor, and a Knife falls with an opened throat, Myrrh realizes what’s happening.

The soldiers are fighting against shadows.

Silver is here, and she’s brought friends.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“WE YIELD,” THE Scythe shouts in desperation as yet another of her Knives falls.

Standing just outside the cage—she can’t even find an adversary to take on, since Silver’s allies are all but invisible—Myrrh’s throat clamps down. She should never have cast Silver out from her plan. The deaths of the Scythe’s loyal men and women are on Myrrh’s head now, and she has a feeling Silver is far from finished with her vengeance.

“I said, we yield,” the Scythe says again, dropping her blade and raising her hands. She stands in a combat crouch just a few paces from Myrrh, encircled by swirling shadows that move in a sickening fashion, all unnatural angles, darkness cast by lights that don’t exist. It’s worse when trying to take in the whole room at once, as if dozens of candelabras are swinging wildly in a chamber full of puppets. Just trying to make a count of the fallen Knives, Myrrh gets dizzy.

And then, all at once, six black-clad rogues emerge from where, before, there was only shadow.

Silver stands in the center of the room, an imperious smirk on her face. “Your surrender is accepted.”

In the quiet that follows, Myrrh is finally able to look around and take stock. All across the council hall, Knives lie injured and dead. Of course, the Scythe’s fighters fared better than Lucky’s smugglers did against Silver—apparently, though the cantrip makes the Nightblades difficult to see, it doesn’t make them invulnerable. Two rogues in supple leather clothing cut in the fashion of the Port Cities are sprawled motionless on the floor. Masks cover their faces, making it difficult to say for sure, but Myrrh suspects they’re dead. She feels a flash of pride. A flash that quickly vanishes when reality sets in.

Two Nightblades down to at least fifteen Knives. And those who remain of the Scythe’s force are bleeding and breathless. The air smells of the blood of their fallen comrades, and the sound of ragged breathing cuts through the silence as a pair of wounded draw breath into lungs filled with fluid. Along the walls, the councilmen cower and whimper. In a sudden panic, fearing she lost them in the fight, Myrrh searches for her friends.

There, near the entrance to the chamber, they’re being guarded by two Nightblades, each wielding a pair of long daggers. Hawk meets Myrrh’s eyes and shrugs as if to say he doesn’t see a way to change the odds here.

“I’m sure you have a purpose here.” The Scythe doesn’t drop her gaze as she speaks. “Do you plan to state it?”

Myrrh can’t help but admire the woman’s poise. Most would be meek in the face of such a terrible defeat, but not the Scythe. Maybe she can’t feel anything right now but the desire to keep her oathlord alive.

Thinking of Glint causes Myrrh to start stepping slowly toward the cage, her eyes locked on Silver. Noticing the motion, the woman turns to Myrrh and smirks.

“Ah. Yes. Our mutual friend. Please remain there while I have some time to speak to him alone.”

Myrrh blinks as the woman strides closer, her long hair still without a tangle, falling straight and silky down her back. Her eyes seem to spark as she looks away from Myrrh and into the cage where Glint has managed to gain a seated position. One long stride at a time, her fitted leather hugging her body, Silver approaches the cage. She ducks inside, then moves to crouch beside Glint.

Eyes locked with his, she makes a small motion with her fingers.

Myrrh cries out a warning, but it’s not necessary. Glint doesn’t look away from the woman’s face, and after a long moment of confusion, Myrrh realizes that Silver has probably used the shadow-speech cantrip, allowing her to speak to Glint while concealing her words from the others in the chamber.

Glint says nothing, though his lower eyelid twitches. Myrrh knows that expression, the tightly controlled anger visible only because she’s spent so much time with him.

Still, the silence holds, and then finally, Glint nods. He turns to look at Myrrh, and just like that his mask shatters.

“I’ll be departing with Mistress Silver tonight,” he says, eyes full of despair. “We won’t be leaving instructions on how to follow us, and I suggest you don’t try.”

“Dominic,” the Scythe says, shaking her head. “I can’t—”

“You must, Meredith. It’s the only way. You remember your vow. As much as I hate to force you to act based on the oath, not out of your own free will, I am now commanding you to let me go.”

Dark spots bloom on the Scythe’s cheeks, and her body vibrates with contained rage. After a moment, she nods. “As you wish, oathlord.”

“Glint, whatever she has on you…” Myrrh says. “This trick she pulled. We can still fight it. The Nightblades are mortal, not gods.”

The knot of cartilage in his throat bobs as he swallows. Glint’s skin is waxen, a sheen of sweat on his face. The healing has spared him from death, but he has a long way to go before he’ll be whole again.

“Listen, Myrrh. You must know by now that I wouldn’t leave you if I had any choice in the matter. I’m done pretending and fighting my better judgment when it comes to you. So believe me when I say that I must go. And after I leave, you and Hawk and Meredith must put Ostgard back together without me.”

Myrrh shakes her head, mouthing the word no. A hand falls on her shoulder, and she jerks, whirling.

There’s no one there.

She blinks.

And just like that, Nab emerges from shadow.

It feels like a sword has just run her through.

“How?” she asks, dumb with shock.

He gives a casual shrug. “They said I was a natural. A prodigy. But even the Mouth underestimated my talents.”

“When?”

“Does it matter? It’s over now, Myrrh. I’m a Nightblade. But if you must know, I left shortly after Tep and I set out to find a healer for Sapphire. I went back to Rat Town and found the Mouth waiting for me.”

Myrrh’s chest feels torn open as she looks into the boy’s eyes and realizes she’s lost him.

“I listened to you for years, Myrrh,” he says. “I obeyed when you told me to stay quiet. To be weak. To seek out a mediocre life where all I could hope for was a career as a petty thief. It’s time for you to listen to me now. We’re leaving. And you are not to follow. Never. Get back to Lower Fringe, take the healer.” He nods toward the shaman. “You should help Sapphire. Look after those who are left.”

Her words are dead in her throat. Her heart lies flayed open on the floor of the chamber. She looks back to Glint and sees haunted eyes.

“It’s time for us to go,” he says. “Meredith is now in your service. She will be as faithful to you as she was to my father and then me.” He glances at the Scythe. “That is my command.”

A tear spills down the woman’s face as she nods. “As you say, Lord Evenescuel.”

Climbing shakily to his feet, Glint is forced to lean on Silver for support lest he fall. As he touches her, a look of joy spreads across the woman’s face. She turns a triumphant look on Myrrh.

“Good-bye, Myrrh,” Glint whispers as they pass her on the way to the door. Myrrh reaches out a hand to touch him, but her fingertips just brush his sleeve.

“Yes,” Silver says with a sneer. “Good-bye, Myrrh.”

As they reach the door and the Nightblades fall into a wedge behind them, Myrrh’s knees start to wobble. When Nab hurries to follow, catching up and falling into step with the others, she can’t keep her feet anymore.

She falls to a seat on the floor and presses her forehead to her knees.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

MYRRH IS MOVING through water, slow and dreamlike. She blinks and stares as the Scythe—Meredith—calls Knives in from the front rooms to help keep order. Not that there’s much risk of violence. The councilmen still huddle in their faction groups. Myrrh’s friends have approached, standing near but seeming unsure whether to speak to her. She can’t meet Hawk’s eyes, not right now, because somehow that will make it real. They found Nab together, a little rat begging with one hand, reaching into pockets with the other while his mark was distracted searching for coins. They fed him, brought him back to their ramshackle squat in the Spills, and tried to teach him how to live a better life. How to wind up more than a petty thief and criminal.

Now he’s gone, and Myrrh’s not sure which is worse: Glint allowing himself to be taken because of some unfathomable leverage Silver has over him, or Nab choosing to go with the Nightblades all on his own.

Either way, she’s failed. They’re both gone, and all Myrrh has left is her duty.

With a deep breath, she raises her forehead from her knees and climbs to her feet. Meredith stands nearby, her face stony as she watches the shaman scuttle between the bodies of her Knives. Following his ministrations, the smoke and ointments and muttered words in a strange language, three of the soldiers have managed to sit up. They clutch wounds and wait for their fellow fighters, those Meredith summoned, to come by and wrap field dressings over the gashes. But many of the Knives remain motionless even after the shaman’s touch. For some, all he can do is gently close their eyelids and cross their hands over their chests, granting them a sort of peace in death.

“At daybreak, we’ll make arrangements for honorable burials,” Meredith says in a voice loud enough to carry through the room. “For now, our task remains. We will continue to establish order in the city, moving out from Maire’s Quarter and pushing back on any Shields or unsavories who resist.”

Climbing to her feet, Myrrh nods. “Thank you,” she says.

Meredith turns to her, her face every inch the merciless commander of an unbeatable force of razor-honed fighters. Unbeatable unless the enemies move through shadows and strike unseen.

Myrrh takes a shaky breath. The Nightblades are gone. Best to simply banish them from her memory.

She stalks over to the group of councilmen who opposed Emmerst in the end. Her voice is flat when she speaks, and it it feels to her as if someone else inhabits her body, forcing the words from her throat. “For your decision at the end to break from Emmerst and for the faith you once put in Dominic Evenescuel, you will have a chance to redeem yourselves and find a place in Ostgard’s future. Go home now. Wait for a summons. When I’m ready, we will reconvene in the Maire’s Palace and begin laying plans for the restoration of order and restructuring of laws in our city.”

Though every man before her is corrupt to some degree, they also have experience in Ostgard’s affairs, experience she will need if she is to find a way to put the city back on its feet. Afterward, their fate will depend on how they respond to her leadership. It’s not hard to guess what will happen. Most likely, they won’t adapt, especially when they have to knuckle under the authority of thieves and cutpurses. Because Myrrh already knows that’s how it’s going to be. If she’s going to lead the city, she won’t do it without Ivy and Warrell, Hawk, Resh, and maybe even Nyx. That should be interesting, a city run by its underworld bosses.

Slowly, as if afraid that quick motions will bring blades to their throats, the councilmen climb to their feet. One step, another, and then they run like rodents fleeing the light. Myrrh lets out a sigh as she turns to the other group, some of whom have climbed to their feet already, as if hopeful they’ll receive the same offer.

She shakes her head before anyone has a chance to speak. “You have two days to gather your households and leave Ostgard as traitors. For your crimes, any property you cannot take with you will be confiscated and sold at auction, the proceeds used for improvements in the lower districts, among other things.”

The men blink and furrow their brows as if she’s speaking in a foreign tongue. When no one moves, the Scythe stalks forward, uncoils her whip, and cracks it just a finger’s width from the nearest councilman’s face. Shouting, they burst into motion and run for the door.

Myrrh hurries forward and catches hold of Emmerst. “Not you,” she says, yanking so hard he falls backward, landing on his rear and sprawling. He blinks up at her, eyes wide, face chalky.

Myrrh glances at Meredith. “We’ll need a secure cell until we can find a barge headed downriver. One that can weather the open sea. Emmerst here will be joining his former acquaintance, the elder Master Evenescuel, in exile on the island debtor’s colony. I’m sure the two of them will have much to discuss.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Meredith says.

“After he has finished tending to your wounded, will you please escort the shaman to Lower Fringe? My friend Sapphire needs him. We’ll meet you at Merchant Giller’s residence.”

“As you say.” The Scythe nods at one of her Knives, who jumps forward and grabs Emmerst roughly by the arm.

Myrrh gathers herself, takes a breath, and turns toward her friends. “We’re done here, I believe.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

EVENTUALLY, SHE WILL have to get some rest. The sun is rising outside Glint’s Lower Fringe residence, streaking the walls of the room in red, as Myrrh stands over the bed she slept in so many times. First while she was Glint’s prisoner—though he was certainly too polite to define their relationship in that way—and later when they were working together as colleagues, then friends, then something more. Now the master suite at the end of the hall is empty. The corridors are silent. Somewhere down below, the shaman works over Sapphire’s arm. Already, they’ve learned that the bones will never be straight and strong. She won’t deal cards like she once did. But she won’t lose the limb.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Myrrh drops her head into her hands. Ostgard is hers. The whole sixing city. She can build it into whatever she might dream, a place where kids from Rat Town aren’t faced with the choice of begging or picking pockets. Where there’s more honest work to be had, work that pays enough for a person to have both a roof overhead and a belly full of food. Somewhere that tradespeople don’t have to go to criminal syndicates for protection from the city’s own guard force. As for what to do about the syndicates, she can’t even begin to decide. For as long as she’s been alive, the underworld was Ostgard’s answer to the corruption in the merchant class. If that corruption is gone, should the syndicates be forced to disband? Myrrh knows enough to crack down on most of them, but that would be like turning traitor on her own people.

Anyway, they’re decisions for another day.

Crawling onto the bed, she curls on her side atop the covers and stares out the window, waiting for her eyes to close and sleep to finally take her.

A knock on the door banishes any hope of that.

“Come in,” she says, forcing herself upright.

The well-oiled hinges open silently, and Resh sticks his head in the door. His face looks as drawn and weary as she feels.

“Your gambler friend is awake. Says she wants to see you.”

“Her arm?”

Resh shrugs. “Still attached anyway.”

Myrrh shakes her head. She’ll never make it up to Sapphire, the woman having lost the use of her arm because Toad, a man she handpicked to help guide Ghost Syndicate, betrayed them all. Toad might be first to blame for the injury, but Myrrh is right behind him. As much as she wants just to curl up and forget the world exists, Myrrh owes it to Sapphire to come now.

She heads for the wardrobe opposite the bed, opens it, and pulls out a set of fresh thief’s woolens. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

***

Myrrh doesn’t know what to say as she steps through the door into Sapphire’s bedchamber. The proprietor of The Queen’s Dice is propped against the headboard, enthroned by pillows. Though her face is still swollen, the bruises livid, her eyelids are open now. She tracks Myrrh’s movement into the room.

“It’s not your fault,” Sapphire says, rescuing Myrrh from speaking first.

“It is. Absolutely.”

“How could you know?”

“Doesn’t matter. I should have known.”

Sapphire takes a deep breath, then winces as the movement shifts her arm. “Sixing Toad. Sixing Shields.”

“Will you be able to use your hand at all?” Myrrh asks, stepping closer to the bed. Unlike in her upstairs chamber, the blinds are drawn here, and only a pair of wall lamps light the chamber. They burn scented oil, filling the room with the rich smell of cloves and cinnamon, perhaps chosen to ease Sapphire’s body toward sleep.

“The wrinkled fellow couldn’t say for certain. Maybe some. I hope I’ll use it some anyway. Enough to work the keg taps and smack lazy dealers on the back of the head.”

Myrrh swallows. “We got revenge at least. Emmerst is ruined, and the Scythe’s fighters are bringing the Shields under our control. We’ll cull any with a cruel streak, even if it means getting rid of them altogether.” She pauses, glances at the bandaged limb. “But it won’t bring your arm back.”

“No, I guess it won’t. You’re going to hunt down Toad, I suppose.”

Myrrh nods. “He’ll regret his birth when I’m finished with him.”

She feels a presence behind her, then hears the soft hiss of boots over the deep carpet in the bedchamber. Hawk steps up beside her and lays a hand on her shoulder.

“This Nightblade woman,” Sapphire says, her voice getting weaker with the effort of the lengthening conversation.

It’s a struggle for Myrrh not to let her anger take hold again. To stay upright even though there’s a pit where her heart used to be. Myrrh clenches her jaw for a moment, then speaks, “She took Glint. But Nab went willingly.”

Hawk makes a low sound in his throat while walking to the window. He cracks the drapes and peers out, admitting a beam of brilliant sunshine. Myrrh squints and grimaces.

“Hard to believe,” Hawk says. “I can’t help but keep hoping there’s another explanation. After all we did for him. You don’t think there’s a chance, do you?”

“You saw. He turned to shadow.” Myrrh shakes her head. “Some kind of prodigy, he said. How could we compete with a group and god that gives him that kind of power?”

Hawk’s shoulders slump as he drops the curtain back into place. “Maybe we held him back.”

“We only wanted to protect him.”

“I know.”

“I was wondering, Hawk, when the Nightblades were in the room, did you feel the same sort of sensation as when I worked the cantrip?”

Hawk nods, but then his eyebrows draw together. “From the others, yes. It was nearly overwhelming, to tell the truth. But now that you mention it…there was nothing of the sort from Nab. When he passed me on their way out, it was almost like the oppression lifted for a moment.”

Sapphire shifts her legs, then grimaces. “Sixing pox, this arm hurts,” she says. “But what you and the others have said about these Nightblades reminds me. A few months back a pair of foreign gamblers wanted one of my girls to deal them some strange game out of the Port Cities, which of course I didn’t allow because I didn’t know the odds. Anyway, they were talking…” She chews her bottom lip for a moment. “Said something about a darkness that had taken their friends. Too many times using the gifts is what they said. But then one guy talked about how he’d been using them all along to shift things in his favor…persuade people to see his point of view, and he’d never felt any different. He watched his friends turn cruel, though, and I guess he had to leave Tangesh when he started to worry for his safety among people that were once his friends.”

“You think these gifts could be the cantrips?” Myrrh asks.

Sapphire shrugs her good shoulder.

“Actually…what if…?” Hawk grips the back of his neck. “Naw. It’s foolish. Grasping at something that’s not likely true.”

Myrrh’s toes curl. “Right now we’ve got nothing to hope for, so it can’t get much worse, right? What are you thinking, Hawk?”

“I was just thinking…what if we’re not giving Nab enough credit? What if, yeah, he went back to the Mouth and Silver to get some training, but then he caught wind of their plans. What if he realized that none of us could stand against Silver and her Nightblades when they can turn to shadow and strike, so maybe he figured that infiltrating was his only chance of helping. Especially given how quick he picked up the tricks.”

Myrrh blinks. It’s a thin hope really. But it’s a hope. “If that’s true, where does it leave us? What do we do?”

“Trust him maybe?” Hawk says.

“But what if he needs our help? How would we know?”

“Think. Did he say anything?”

Myrrh taps her fingers against her thighs, the thief’s woolens soft against her skin. “Just that I needed to let him go. And…” She cocks her head, then turns toward Sapphire’s bed. “He said I needed to go take care of Sapphire. Look after the people I have left.”

“You think there’s any meaning in that?”

“Hmm,” Sapphire says. “You know…the last time you left him in my care, we worked a little something out. You were so insistent that I keep practicing with him on those sixing reading primers.”

Myrrh shrugs and nods, feeling a little defensive. “Sure. If he were ever going to make something of himself, I knew he had to know how to read. It’s the same thing Hawk forced on me.” She glances at her mentor to spread the blame around a little bit.

Sapphire smirks. “Yes, I know. I get it. But those primers…they’re torturous. So I worked out a deal with him. We’d play a game. I’d leave him written instructions for missions, hide the notes in a particular little niche behind some loose bricks on the oven in the Dice’s kitchens. If he could puzzle out the mission, execute it, and leave a written report in the same spot, I’d give him a couple of coppers to spend on sweet buns.”

“You think he might have left a note,” Myrrh says.

“I think you better hurry over and check because I wouldn’t put it past the little flea.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Myrrh,

Downriver. First inn in Elomstead. They plan to rest there until Glint can travel more easily.

Don’t be an idiot. If you blow my cover, I’m sixed. Don’t make a move until you hear from me.

- Nab

Myrrh sinks to a seat against the kitchen wall in the Queen’s Dice, gripping the piece of paper tight in her fists. Her vision swims for a moment, but she blinks away the wet.

“Good for nothing urchin called me an idiot,” she says with a faint smile.

The others, Resh and Ivy, Warrell, Nyx, and Hawk, laugh. Myrrh takes a shaky breath.

“We need to go downriver,” she says. “But we should expect that Silver has left scouts and sentries behind. They’ll be watching for us to follow.” As she speaks, she remembers Glint’s words. He ordered her not to follow, told her to forget him. Surely, there was reason behind the warning. Silver must have threatened some sort of consequence, probably against people left behind in Ostgard. A small part of her wants to respect that wish, to stay here like he asked and rebuild the city.

But it’s a very, very small part, and anyway, Glint had no idea that Nab was on their side. He might be furious with her for disobeying his request, but if they are ever going to make something work between them, he’d have to get used to it.

“Well, the river is out, I think,” Resh says. “If she’s got spies watching it.”

“Yeah,” Myrrh says, “We need to figure out how to move in a way she’ll never expect. And I think I have an idea. Could you kindly contact someone in Maire’s Quarter to have word brought to the remaining councilmen? I’ll speak with them eventually, but right now I have much more pressing business with the Nightblades.”

***

The raftman shakes his head in astonishment when Myrrh’s group arrives at the muddy bank where the bog laps up against the Spills, tendrils of night mist still clinging to the surface of the stinking water. It’s nearly the same time of day as the last time Myrrh made this journey, midmorning after an eventful night with little sleep.

“Dunno if you’re insane or stupid,” the man says, moving a wad of chewed leaf around in his lower lip.

“Perhaps both,” Myrrh says. “But the story most people in Carp’s Refuge have heard is wrong.” She glances over her shoulder at the small squad of elite Knives that Meredith insisted she bring with her to the Refuge. They each wear the Scythe’s dark-red insignia sewn to the shoulder of their leather tunics, clearly marking their station. “And I hope the presence of my friends here will cause the smugglers to hesitate before attacking. I’d like to have a chance to explain because I think they’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

The man spits a stream of saliva off the edge of the raft. “You seem awfully confident in that. Not sure I want to be standing on the raft’s deck when the crossbowmen catch sight of you.”

“But since you need to earn a living just like everyone else in this city, you’ll take me and my friends out to the Refuge anyway, right?”

He squints at her satchel. “For a couple of them rubies I hear you like to carry around, I suppose I will.”

One of the Knives growls a warning, but Myrrh holds up a hand. If she were in the raftman’s position, she wouldn’t be eager to ferry the newest enemy of Carp’s Refuge to the smugglers’ hideout either. The fact that he’s agreed to do it at all means there’s a chance she’ll succeed with the morning’s plan.

“One gem now, one after we arrive at the Refuge,” she says.

The man squints one eye shut, looking at her crooked. “And if they shoot you before we arrive, that mean I don’t get paid?”

“If they shoot me before we arrive, you’ll be able to take all the rubies you want off my dead body.”

“Huh,” he says, sucking his teeth. “Good point. Okay, climb aboard. But your pet Knives gotta stay back.”

Myrrh shakes her head. “Not part of the deal.”

“Carp’s Refuge moved in the night yesterday, out of consideration for the events ongoing in Ostgard. You’ll never find it without me.”

She hesitates. At first, Myrrh hadn’t planned to bring the Knives, but it made a lot of sense once Meredith suggested—or rather demanded—that a squad accompany her. The added protection is nice, but more importantly, it shows how greatly things have changed in the city.

“Four rubies, and they come.”

The man cocks his head and spits again. “Unarmed.”

She glances back at the Knives—the leader shrugs.

“Okay. Unarmed.”

“Then, welcome aboard, and I’ll take two of them rubies now,” the man says with an extravagant bow.

***

“Myrrh.”

“What? Ow!” Myrrh jerks upright when something jabs her injured ribs. She manages to push herself upright, blinking in the bright sun, and sees Nyx standing over her.

“We’re almost there. Figured you’d want to arrive awake.”

Yawning, Myrrh tries to get her bearings. The raft. Smelly water. A bunch of exhausted thieves and a squad of deadly fighters on the way to a floating settlement where everyone thinks Myrrh killed their leader. Right.

She lays a hand over her ribs. “Why’d you have to kick me where it hurts?”

Nyx grins, exposing a gold tooth. “Got you awake, didn’t it?”

Hawk shoulders the man aside not too gently, setting the raft rocking and prompting a hiss of annoyance from the raftman. He extends a hand and helps Myrrh up. “You could have had the healer look at that,” he says quietly.

Myrrh shrugs. Yeah, that might have been a good idea. She didn’t think of it because the mist had still been dulling the pain. Anyway, in a few hours, she’d be able to place another few drops under her tongue—just in time to creep into Elomstead and try to figure out how in the sixing depths they are supposed to contact Nab.

Provided this little encounter goes well, that is.

Shading her eyes, she squints across the bog, through a thin stand of dead trees draped with curtains of moss to the humble collection of shacks floating among the trunks. Judging by the sun, it’s nearly midday, which means the Refuge has indeed moved farther from the city. Of course, it’s obvious by the location of the platforms and docks as well, scattered among the tree trunks—judging by the peeling bark and silvered wood, this grove has been dead even longer than the others she’s seen out in the bog.

She blinks again, rubbing her hands against her cheeks to try to wake herself up.

“Yo! Eyes alert, laggards!”

The shout comes from somewhere within the trees, puncturing her tiredness. Myrrh stiffens and moves forward, making sure that the sentries, wherever they are hidden, can see her.

She raises her hands, showing empty palms. “I came to pay respects to Lucky and the smugglers who joined him on the bottom of the bog,” she calls. “And I want to help you avenge them.”

“Eh! Is she mad?” someone yells. “Murdered ’im and then came to confess in person?”

“I saw Lucky die. Your friends too. But it wasn’t by my hand.”

In the forest of reeds growing around one of the nearest tree trunks, someone moves. Myrrh spies metal glinting dully in the sun as an iron-tipped crossbow bolt emerges from the fall of hanging moss.

“Give me a chance to tell you what happened. Silver, the woman who was a guest of Lucky’s, killed each of them without remorse. She has allies, and they have terrible power. The Nightblades are a threat to all of us, deadlier than the Scythe’s Knives who have accompanied me this morning. If we’re going to defeat them, we need to stand together.”

“We got no reason to believe you,” someone else calls. Glancing up, Myrrh spots what looks like a raven’s nest in the wide crook of a few dead branches. A sentry must be hiding there.

“No, but it won’t cost you anything to hear me out either. I’ll come alone and unarmed—my companions can remain on the raft under guard. If, after I’ve had a chance to speak, you aren’t satisfied, you can kill me then. My ribs are broken, and I haven’t slept in days. I’m no threat.”

“Oy! What you think?” The shout goes up from the thicket where a man has his crossbow trained on her. “Might be nice to have a chance to look her in the eyes while we take our revenge, eh?”

“Or we could curse ourselves when she springs whatever trap she’s setting.”

Myrrh raises her hands higher. “There’s no trap. Nothing but an explanation. And…I have a business proposal.”

“See what I mean?” someone else calls. “She’s totally cracked. Proposing a business arrangement when she ought to be fleeing for her life.”

“I’ve recently come into possession of something that might interest you,” Myrrh continues. “As evidenced by the Knives serving as my honor guard, the city of Ostgard now belongs to me. As such, I will need to appoint an organization to oversee shipping on the River Ost. Shipping of legal goods, mind you—the rest will have to find another way past the city.” She sweeps her arm to take in the bog and its braided channels. “I thought perhaps, with the vast expertise in the movement of goods…perhaps the good citizen’s of Carp’s Refuge would like to take up the responsibility of organizing the city’s river trade. The stipend will be generous, of course.”

A stunned hush holds the bog in its grip for a few breaths, and then finally the crossbow-wielding sentry stands from his hidden platform among the reeds.

“We’ll grant you leave to explain yourself, I suppose.”

Chapter Thirty

DAWN BREAKS WHILE Myrrh’s raft, one of a fleet of seven, drifts along the currents with nudges from the pole-wielding woman at the rear of the vessel. They’ve traveled through the night, following secret channels that parallel the Ost but are separated from the river by a wedge of increasingly dry land. According to the smugglers, this part of the bog eventually empties into strange, gurgling holes in the ground another day’s travel south of Elomstead. Over the years, a few Refuge dwellers have tried exploring the larger of the holes, underwater caverns that seem to go on forever. In the imagination of these explorers, the cavern systems emerge somewhere near the Port Cities—finding an actual route through them would take the smuggling enterprise to another level. But no exit has ever been found.

They’ve been traveling through the bog since midafternoon the previous day, a languid journey that’s almost been pleasant. If not for the stench of swamp water, Myrrh can imagine merchant-class matrons taking pleasure cruises past the water birds and stands of irises and lilies. Regardless of the smell, she’s finally been able to catch some sleep. Even without using mist to dull the pain, she can, at last, breathe without feeling her broken ribs with each inhalation.

“There,” says Nyx, pointing with the butt end of his dagger. He’s been using it to dig mud from the cracks between the tread on his boots. Seems a pointless effort, but Myrrh’s never understood the man.

She looks in the direction he’s indicating and spies the dark columns of chimney smoke against the clouds pink with early light. Elomstead is the second settlement downriver from Ostgard, and owing to the distance between the city’s sewer outlets and the mixing of water from smaller and cleaner streams, it’s much more favored as a stopover than the nearest downriver town. Plus, due to the steady rise of the terrain between the bog and the river, there’s enough dry land to support modest farms and an apple orchard. She spies one of the farmers now, a dark figure bent over a furrow in the ground, hoe in hand.

Standing, she moves to the front of the raft to speak with Breeze, a woman who has emerged as a leader in Carp’s Refuge and, as she’s admitted privately to Myrrh, who plans to make a formal bid for head smuggler once this operation is over.

“The pine woods at the shoreline seem a good spot to put in?” Myrrh asks, though she could just order the stop there. From what she can tell, Breeze would be a good person to work with. A capable liaison, especially when the smugglers take over management of river shipping through Ostgard. Showing her respect will build a good foundation for a possible working relationship.

Breeze nods. “We have, shall we say, an arrangement with the farmer whose land borders the woods. The woman lives alone and happens to have a few root cellars that have extra space for the temporary storage of goods. Plus a tool shed where she doesn’t mind finding spare weapons tucked away.”

Myrrh smirks. “Perfect. Figure we can get everyone into cover there?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll hide the rafts in the reeds at the shore, get to cover, then send the men in.”

Myrrh pulls a strip of the velvet dress from her satchel. She runs her fingers along the stitching in the hem, making sure that the rubies have been removed before handing it over. “Have one of the men tie it around his arm like it’s a token from a woman. Hopefully, Nab is smart enough to recognize it.”

They’ve decided, after some discussion, to send a pair of smugglers—relative newcomers to the Refuge, and men who were never introduced to Silver—to the inn’s common room where they’ll wait to hear from the boy. Assuming Nab is correct in saying that Silver plans to wait and allow Glint to rest, they have at least another couple of days before Silver’s band will move on, so if after a few hours spent downing tankards, the smugglers haven’t made contact with Nab, they’ll try another plan.

Hopefully it won’t come to that.

***

The pair of men Breeze sent into the village return midafternoon. Myrrh spies them darting across the field with shoulders hunched and heads spinning to glance over their shoulders every few paces. They look so anxious she jumps to her feet and has her dagger drawn by the time they tumble through the entrance to the ramshackle tool shed where Myrrh, Breeze, and the other leaders are waiting.

“How far behind?” Breeze asks.

“How far behind what?” one of her smugglers responds.

“The pursuit.”

The smuggler shakes his head. “Ain’t no pursuit. We’re just glad to be clear of that place and those people is all. They’re unsettling.”

“To put it mildly,” his partner says.

Myrrh relaxes—a bit. She steps aside so the men can move farther into the shed. Though she’s inclined to give them a moment to collect themselves, Breeze has no such intent. “Report then,” the woman says.

The smuggler who Myrrh already marked as the talkative one runs a hand through a shock of auburn hair that rises like a haystack from his skull. “Mistress Myrrh here said they was powerful, and it wasn’t that I doubted her, but I guess I didn’t imagine it would be so drowning obvious. They’ve got six or eight men and women sitting out in the common room all hours of the day, as far as we could tell at least. And it’s unsettling the way they just stare. Makes a person feel worried for their own safety, like it’s a crime to order a breakfast of bacon and ale.”

“Did they do anything?” Breeze says. “Work any of these cantrips Myrrh told us about?”

The smuggler shakes his head. “Just sat there making us feel unwelcome, and doing a good job of it too. But we stayed like you told us and waited for the boy to turn up.”

Despite herself, Myrrh takes a few steps forward, looming over the poor man where he’s taken a seat on an overturned bucket. “How is he? How is Nab?”

The smuggler shrugs. “No concerns as far as I can tell, and given what that kid can do, I guess I’d say it seems he can take care of himself.”

Myrrh shares a glance with Hawk but doesn’t press for more details on Nab’s abilities. They’ll probably learn about them soon enough.

Swallowing, the smuggler stretches out a hand. “Anybody got a waterskin? Or a flask of something stronger if the mistress okays it. Was a thirsty run back from the inn.”

Myrrh nods at Nyx, who she happens to know keeps a supply of whiskey at the ready. He shrugs at her, eyes wide in overacted insult that she’d assume such a thing. But when she holds his gaze and nods, he sighs loudly and tramps across the shed to deliver the liquor.

The smuggler unscrews the brass lid off the leather flask and takes a deep, deep drink. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, sighs, and finally continues. “So I know how this sounds, but I’m telling you straight. Kid can talk direct into your head, scarcely moving his lips, not even looking your way. You might not believe me, but it’s the truth. He—”

“I believe you,” Myrrh says. “Shadow speech. It’s the fifth or sixth cantrip if I remember right.”

“If you say so,” the man says. “Anyway, to get down to the short of it, the kid said to tell you this precisely. He’s learned something, he says, that the ninth cantrip isn’t a cantrip at all. It’s Skorry’s secret and Skorry’s plan, and a lot more things make sense now. He says those are things to talk about on another day. Right now, though, the way out of this is to hit the inn at sundown. Precisely, he says, right when the sun touches the horizon, and we need to come through as many entrances as possible. We got to be quick and merciless—this is a part where he said I had to be crystal clear with you, Myrrh. Strike fast, strike hard, and don’t let your wimpy soft side screw his plan up. And, for once, don’t be late, he says.”

Myrrh takes a seat on a sawhorse, shaking her head. Half the message sounds like it came straight from the kid’s mouth, particularly the insults. But what is this about Skorry’s plan? That doesn’t sound like Nab at all. If anything, it sounds like something a Nightblade would say, or some religious fanatic worshiping at the temple in East Fifth. Put together, the message gives Myrrh a queasy feeling in her stomach and a stale taste in her mouth, but it doesn’t seem they have much choice.

“All right,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll be ready to attack the inn the moment the sun goes down. One last question though.”

The smuggler looks at her expectantly, so she carries on. “You didn’t happen to see Glint, did you?”

“Sorry, Mistress. Not a whisker of him. But according to the comments of some of those Nightblades, sounds like he’s been plenty busy keeping Silver company in one of them upstairs bedchambers.”

Chapter Thirty-One

NEAR THE EDGE of town, when they can’t get any closer without running the risk of being seen, Myrrh leads the party into a hay barn. Smugglers and Knives and her friends gather round while she upends her satchel and dumps the contents onto the layer of straw that covers the floor. The velvet strips she stuffs into her pockets before anyone can look too close and wonder why she’s carrying them.

That leaves a pair of tattered reading primers and the Haava substances—or what’s left of them anyway. Altogether, there are six crystals of phantom, eleven lumps of glimmer resin, and enough etch for a single person to get the effects from its smoke. The etch, at least, isn’t useful here—when smoked, it allows the user to see the auras of people and the trails these auras leave behind. Wonderful for tracking, but she already knows where the enemy is hiding. She tucks the little packet of dried leaf into a thigh pocket on her trousers.

Most important for the operation tonight is the phantom. There are few edges Myrrh’s group can get over the Nightblades, but phantom is one of them. Much like Silver’s people can vanish into shadow, the phantom will allow six people to become insubstantial. Hard to see and hard to hit as well. She plucks the little vial holding the crystals from the straw and dispenses a dose to each of the six most senior Knives. Those men and women also get a lump of glimmer, enabling whip-quick reflexes and low-light vision. Finally, the remaining five doses of glimmer go to the second rank of Knives.

And just like that, her windfall of Haava substances, taken from the hideout of a dead man, is all but gone. In a different life, the phantom could have made her a fortune. Utterly undetectable, she could have slipped into the throne rooms of the Inner Kingdoms and stolen the crown jewels. Or if not that, each crystal could have been sold for a small fortune, enough to set her up for a life of comfort, no thieving required.

But that’s not the life she was handed, and far more precious than the crown jewels of some middling kingdom, Nab and Glint are waiting inside Elomstead’s inn. She has no regrets over giving up the last of her stash.

The plan is straightforward. As the most highly trained fighters, the top-ranked Knives will creep through the town, invisible, and take up station at separate entrances to the inn—windows, doors, and from the second-story balcony. The only requirement for their choice of infiltration points is that they can see the setting sun. The timing was important to Nab, enough that he stressed it twice.

The second and third ranks of Knives, some aided by glimmer and some not, will be in position to start sprinting for the inn the moment the sun drops, but until then, they’ll wait just out of sight so as not to blow the surprise.

As for the smugglers, they’ve done enough by bringing Myrrh and her fighters here, and Silver has already killed too many of their number. For the evening’s operation, they’ll hang back to cover the retreat, keep the rafts ready to cast off, and generally watch the others’ backs.

That leaves Myrrh and her leadership. Without phantom and with their recognizable faces, they can’t approach on foot for fear they’ll be spotted by lookouts. Fortunately, Breeze has come through again. After a quick negotiation with one of her farmer contacts, she’s easily traded one of Myrrh’s rubies for the use of a hay cart. The smuggler’s soon-to-be leader will drive the cart while Myrrh and her friends hide in the back, buried by hay. The moment the first Knives enter the building, they’ll jump out to help, running through the front door, diving through windows, whichever entrances look the most promising. And then, she supposes, they’ll just have to see what Nab has planned.

With good fortune and the blessing of the Queen of Nines, it will work.

She stands and stretches, leaving the now-empty satchel and the reading primers on the ground. From outside, the squeal of cartwheels presses through the splintery planks of the hay shed. Their ride is here.

As she nudges open the flimsy barn door, Myrrh shades her eyes and glances at the descending sun. Her brows draw together.

“Sixes,” she mutters.

“What?” Hawk says as he steps up beside her.

She points to the sky above the buildings of the village where, for the first time since noon the day before, clouds have started to gather. Already, they billow to the height of small hills over the horizon, and by the direction of the wind and the movement of the clouds themselves, they appear to be getting closer.

Quickly.

“Don’t suppose you have any fancy way to know the time of sunset when you can’t see it,” Hawk says.

Myrrh just shakes her head. Sixes.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“OKAY, THERE THEY are,” Hawk says in a low voice.

Myrrh nods, sending a fresh shower of hay fragments down the back of her neck. She grits her teeth to quell the need to scratch—too much movement will give away their hiding spot.

The cart is parked opposite the inn with Breeze perched on the bench seat. Occasionally, the woman stands halfway up and peers down the street as if checking the status at the docks. Just a simple farmer waiting to ship a load of hay up or downriver, or so Myrrh hopes the cart appears.

With her fingertips, she widens the little hole in the hay through which she’s peering and spots the pair of smugglers, the talkative one with the auburn hair and his silent and surly companion, returning to the inn’s common room.

Myrrh traces the sign of the Queen of Nines against her thigh, hoping the Lady will grant some kind of boon—if she exists anyway. Far from simply shrouding the western horizon, the clouds have now moved in so that the entire sky is blanketed, the light murky and wet. In these conditions, sunset will be nothing more than a slow gray transition to darkness. Nab must surely see that too, so Myrrh hopes that he’ll find a way to send a message and a revised plan through the same pair of smugglers.

When the two men reach the small front porch of the inn, the one with the auburn hair steps forward to take the lead. Despite being so unsettled earlier, he shows no sign of nervousness now. Myrrh makes a mental note to offer him a good position in whatever organization she creates from the current chaos in Ostgard. As he reaches for the door handle, the door abruptly opens, causing him to jump back with a yelp of surprise.

A Nightblade appears in the doorway, arms folded across a broad chest. Auburn-hair ducks his head and touches his brow and tries to step around Silver’s fighter. “Pardon, sire,” he says.

“Tavern’s closed,” the Nightblade says.

Auburn-hair shuffles. “Excuse me?”

“This tavern is closed. The barkeep is serving hotel guests only tonight.”

The smuggler hesitates for a moment, then nods. “We was hoping to rent a room anyway. The barge we was supposed to work tonight got held up downriver, leaving us with no berth or bunk.”

Again, he tries to step past the Nightblade, but the imposing rogue snaps out a hand, planting it on the doorjamb and blocking the smugglers’ path. “The rooms are already rented for the night. I suggest you move on.” His hand strays toward the sheathed dagger on his belt to accentuate the statement. Myrrh winces as, undaunted, Auburn-hair makes an act of trying to peer around the Nightblade’s body.

“Perhaps I could speak to the innkeeper instead of a patron? You don’t exactly have the look of someone who would content himself to run a riverside boarding establishment.”

“Last chance,” the Nightblade says. “Move along.”

“Oy!” Breeze calls from the wagon seat. “Methinks it would be best ye leave the fellow to his pints. He says the inn’s closed, and he’s got a look about him that suggests you would be wise to listen.”

Myrrh breathes a sigh of relief, hoping the pair will heed their leader. Talking their way past a Nightblade wasn’t part of the plan.

“We just want a pint or two,” the surly smuggler says, turning to face Breeze. Seeming to have grasped Breeze’s hint, Auburn-hair shoots out a hand to quiet him. But the Nightblade’s eyes have already narrowed.

“You know, I thought it was strange, you being so determined to get in here. And now I remember why you look so familiar. You were here this morning. Seemed to be paying quite a lot of attention to business you ought not be interfering in.”

Auburn-hair takes a step back, but the Nightblade’s hands are already up, and he flashes his fingers through a cantrip. Myrrh spots, in the dark of the inn behind him, the flash of a blade as someone else advances to help.

When the Nightblade finishes the cantrip, Auburn-hair and his companion go stiff and staring, and neither flinches as the second of Silver’s people steps forward with a gleaming dagger in hand and a feral grin on his face.

“Sunset or not, we’re going in now,” Myrrh says as she stands from the hay. “Go! Now! And don’t look at their hands.”

Immediately, the street fills with the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood. Across the front of the inn, windows shatter inward, broken by the unseen hands of the nearly invisible Knives. Inside one of the windows, a latch moves as if by divine force, and the broken pane slides upward, providing entrance to the common room.

Dagger clutched tight, Myrrh leaps from the wagon, sprints across the street, and shoulders the charmed smugglers out of the way before the Nightblade can draw his weapon across their throats. Growling, the man leaps at her, but she dodges artfully and runs to the side, gaze fixed on the newly opened window. As she bunches her legs and springs, diving through the opening, the Nightblade roars in frustration. His feet pound across the floorboards of the porch as he sprints back through the door, intent on intercepting her.

The scene inside the inn is chaos. Even knowing what’s happening, that the common room is full of shadows fighting the insubstantial, Myrrh can hardly make sense of it. Tables crumple, legs splintering under the weight of unseen bodies. Glass mugs shatter, ale spraying and ever so briefly coating figures in foam, displaying the bounds of a phantom-vanished Knife or the outline of a shadowy Nightblade.

Someone hits her from behind, hard, and Myrrh sprawls. She scrambles forward, looking over her shoulder, desperate to get clear of the next blow. There. She picks out a shape from the movement of shadows, yanks out her boot knife, and makes a desperate throw into the darkness. An angry yelp and a spray of blood reward her efforts.

The strike buys her enough time to scramble to her feet, to weave through the madness and get her back to a wall. Scanning the room, she begins to make sense of the tumult. The Knives rendered invisible by the phantom seem to be holding their own, dancing away from shadows in a blur of wavering air. They appear to be dishing as many blows as they take. But the other Knives, the brave men and women who the Scythe recruited and Myrrh pressed into service to chase down her personal enemies, are not faring so well. Already, two have fallen and lie bleeding and moaning.

Meanwhile, not a single Nightblade seems to have been slowed by an injury. Myrrh shakes her head. Whatever Nab had planned, either Myrrh’s forces came too early, or they arrived too late.

They aren’t going to win this.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“RETREAT!” MYRRH SHOUTS even though she knows it’s too late and that of those who can hear her, most are so busy fighting for their lives they can’t possibly reach the exits. But she starts forward anyway, edging along the wall and shouting again and again for the Knives and her friends to save themselves.

“Myrrh, stop!”

Myrrh freezes at the sound of Nab’s voice so clear in her mind. She whips her head back and forth, searching for him.

“Miser’s balls, you can be such an idiot. Did it occur to you to wait a day when the clouds came in? To try again tomorrow rather than barging in like this?”

Myrrh shakes her head. Of course there’s no point in arguing that wet weather near Ostgard usually sets in for a week at a time, so Myrrh starts forward again, pushing for the door in hopes she can somehow hold the exit long enough for some people to escape.

“I said stop. Listen, Myrrh.”

She grits her teeth and, lacking a better idea, speaks into the empty air, hoping he can hear her. “It’s useless. Our best chance is to regroup.”

“Your best chance is to listen to me because we can still win this, but I can’t do it alone. You have to get to the middle of the room.”

“What?” She stares into the fray, the mix of insubstantial and solid figures locked in combat.

“Just do it, Myrrh. We can argue about whether it was a good idea later.”

“If we’re still alive,” Myrrh mutters before she takes a deep breath and plunges into the melee.

Glancing blows from struggling fighters knock her sideways and send her staggering as she marches through the spray of blood and spilled beer, across shards of glass and through the shout and sweat of desperate combatants. Shoulders hunched and dagger drawn, she stands waiting in the center of the room with her jaw clenched.

“Sheathe your blade. Quick.”

Okay, this is too much. Myrrh shakes her head.

“I swear it, Myrrh, on…Sixes, I swear on whatever you think I should. If I’m lying, may I never taste a sweet bun again.”

“Okay fine. I believe you. Why though?”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but you have to lift me up high. Onto your shoulders or something.”

“What?” she asks, face screwing up in confusion.

“I need people to be able to see me, and it’s not going to happen if I’m stuck down here looking at people’s belly buttons.

The comment is so ridiculous, Myrrh almost laughs. A finger jabs her in the ribs. Hard. “Just do it,” Nab says.

“Ow,” she mutters as she jams her dagger into its sheath, then holds out her hands. When Nab’s smaller, shadowy hands close around her wrists and guide the crooks of her thumbs to his armpits, she fights a brief impulse to tears. Nab’s really here, really okay, and he didn’t betray her after all.

“Okay, lift me. Quick.”

The little rat is much heavier than she remembers, which makes sense since he hasn’t let her pick him up for at least three years. Myrrh staggers under the weight, wondering, ridiculously, what she appears to be doing, squatting and straining in the middle of a losing battle. Like she’s attempting some desperate ritual maybe?

Nevertheless, she resets her feet under her, pushes hard with her thighs, and manages to stand to her full height, arms stretched high overhead.

Nab’s shadowy feet wiggle, and she takes a blow to the face from his bootheel.

“Again, ow.”

“Wimp. Okay, now I need you to yell. Scream, actually. As loud and high as you possibly can.”

“Scream?”

“Yes. Just do it.”

Sucking in a tremendous breath, Myrrh screams with every drop of strength she can summon between holding Nab above her head and sidestepping shadowy combatants. She runs out of air and is sucking in a breath to shout again when Nab abruptly materializes, his ragged pants blocking her view of the room. She cranes her neck to look past him. The fighting has momentarily stopped. From the front door to the bar counter at the rear of the common room, all eyes are on her and her passenger.

The stillness holds for a heartbeat, and then Nab wiggles in her grasp. When he makes a motion with his hands, she understands. He’s working a cantrip, and her scream got everyone’s attention.

Abruptly, the cantrip takes hold, and Myrrh shakes her head in awe as all sound ceases and everyone stares up at Nab with rapt attention. He speaks softly and somewhat sadly. “The life of every Nightblade here is forfeit,” he says. “You will drop your weapons and submit to your execution. All fighters who are not Nightblades must carry out this command. Grant them a quick and merciful death, giving them freedom from the Void Stalker who stole their spirits long ago.”

Myrrh’s arms have started to shake, trembling not only with the effort of holding Nab aloft but also with the realization of what the boy just had to do. The number of deaths he ordered. As Nightblades lose their shadow form and lay down their weapons, submitting their necks to the blades, her stomach heaves. The Knives waste little time in carrying out the executions.

“You can put me down now,” Nab says in his regular boy’s voice, spoken from his throat rather than his mind. She sets him lightly on the ground, her jaw locked over her constricted throat. She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t have had to…I should have stopped Silver long before it came to this.”

Nab shakes his head and runs his eyes over the ongoing massacre. When the last Nightblade sinks to her knees, hands clutching her gaping throat, the boy swallows. “The fault here belongs to neither of us. An event like this was inevitable the moment that Disciples of the Void infiltrated Skorry’s temple and poisoned the sunken pool, allowing the void taint to be spread by Skorry’s gifts. Rattle knew some of this and had begun to unravel a solution. But he wasn’t fast enough.”

Myrrh blinks, trying to take in all this new information. The void? A sunken pool? Nab must have learned all of this after his so-called initiation. He’s going to have a lot to tell her after this is over and they’re on their way back to Ostgard.

The sounds of labored breath fill the room, and then a few Knives begin to shuffle about the chamber, righting toppled chairs and gathering splintered wood against the wall. They step around the bodies for now as if waiting for instruction on dealing with the dead.

Myrrh scans the bodies of the executed Nightblades, searching for Silver. She didn’t see Glint earlier, and he has no ability to vanish, so he must still be upstairs. “So this void taint…when you say it stole their spirits, you mean it changed these people?” That squares with what Sapphire overheard in her gambling hall while listening in to the men from the Port Cities talking about how their friends had become so different.

Nab nods, looking weary beyond his years. “It may not look like it, but their deaths were a mercy.”

Myrrh’s brow knits when she’s finished scanning the room. “Where’s Silver?”

Head cocked, Nab surveys the room. “I don’t know. She has been leaving Glint upstairs, charmed into staying in place by her distraction cantrip, when she comes down to make a speech at sunset. If you’d arrived at the appointed moment, I would have been able to appear beside her and use the mass-delusion cantrip, and all this could’ve happened without anyone having to fight.”

Myrrh rolls her eyes. “It was cloudy. We improvised.”

The boy shrugs. “Anyway, I imagine Silver is still in her room playing with her toy. I can take care of her.”

Myrrh shakes her head. “You can charm her, but it will be my hand on the blade. Let’s go.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

IN THE UPSTAIRS hall, Nab focuses on the latch to one of the bedroom doors and wiggles his fingers. The lock opens with a click. Myrrh just shakes her head. He’s going to be insufferable after this.

Together, they lay fingers on the handle. She counts to three in a whispered voice, and they throw the door open, Nab running in first to capture Silver’s attention.

Only, Silver isn’t there.

Myrrh skids to a stop, feet sliding when the rug beneath them slips over the wood floor. She blinks, aghast, at Glint, who lies in the bed, bandages wound around his midsection, a sheet covering his legs.

He holds a dagger to his own throat with a trembling hand. A drop of blood runs down his neck from where the blade has already bitten him. His face is slick with sweat, his eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“Glint?” she whispers.

He shakes his head, and the dagger bites deeper. “There’s no point now. She’s gone.”

“No point to what? I don’t understand.” She edges closer, moving only her legs, upper body perfectly still so as not to provoke him.

“Don’t you see, Myrrh? We were finally going to build the empire we dreamed of all those years ago.”

Something is definitely not right. She keeps her eyes fixed on his face, searching for clues. But all she sees there is deep despair.

“She’s been manipulating you,” Myrrh says gently. “Using her cantrips. Glint, you know her powers.”

“No!” Glint yells, his weapon arm going rigid, the dagger quivering. “I told you not to come. I tried to make it easy for you by pretending it was difficult for me to leave you. But it was the easiest decision in the world. Only now, it doesn’t matter anyway because you ruined everything by following us.”

Myrrh shakes her head. No matter what he says, she refuses to believe this is Glint. Silver is speaking through him still. Acting through him still. She can’t get her eyes off the blade.

“Listen,” she says. “You can beat her. Glint, her army is done. Defeated. We can go home and rebuild Ostgard now.”

Glint’s breathing heavily now, sucking air through clenched teeth. His hand trembles on the blade.

“She retreated for the sake of the cause. But don’t think she’s finished with you or Ostgard, especially now. Only now”—the tendons in his neck stand out as he strains both to cut his own throat and to resist the impulse—“I’ll never be part of it.”

“Glint.” Myrrh raises her hands in a placating motion. “You don’t want to be part of whatever plans are inside her cracked skull. I know that. I have faith in the person you are. You’re just—”

“Oh, for the sake of the Nines,” Nab says, shoving her aside. “You and your sixing drama.”

Stepping between Myrrh and Glint, he raises his right hand and makes a quick gesture. Immediately after, Glint’s breathing slows. He lets out a soft moan.

“She’s gone,” Nab says. “The cantrips are broken. You’re free to get back to whatever gooey stuff you want to say to Myrrh.”

Myrrh can’t even look at Nab long enough to roll her eyes as, with a deep sigh, Glint lets his knife hand fall to the bed. The dagger slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. Rushing forward, Myrrh kicks it under the bed and plants her hands on either side of Glint’s blanket-covered thighs.

He winces as the motion jostles the bed. “Ow,” he says, hand reaching feebly for his bandaged midsection. Then, “Myrrh…” The hand comes up and touches her cheek. “Things are…fuzzy. I assume you came to rescue me despite my orders to the contrary.”

She smirks. “You could say that.”

“You know, I can’t suffer disobedience in my wenches,” he says with a crooked grin, tugging gently on a lock of her hair. “I’ll have to think up a suitable punishment for such headstrong behavior. For starters, you can kiss me.”

Myrrh rolls her eyes and presses her mouth to his, leaning into him.

Glint squeaks. “Gently, please,” he says around her lips.

“Gross,” Nab mutters as he steps out of the room.

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE MORNING AFTER the battle against the Nightblades, Myrrh gives Breeze and her smugglers leave to return to their rafts and begin the journey back to Carp’s Refuge. But to allow Glint’s wounds time to heal, she decides to keep her force of Knives at Elomstead’s inn for a few more days. Glint sleeps most of the time, but when he wakes, he remembers flashes and confused scenes from his time spent under Silver’s spells. Myrrh is relieved to learn that the talk of Silver using him as a bedchamber toy is nothing more than gossip. He can barely manage to kiss her without becoming winded, much less anything more exciting.

As a small recompense for having smashed the common room to kindling, the Knives help bury the dead and restore the inn, carrying broken furniture to the woodworker’s shop for repairs. For five rubies—as much money as the innkeeper would ordinarily make in a season—Myrrh rents out every room in the inn while waiting for Glint to be ready to travel. She visits the docks daily in search of a barge with room to carry her and the troops, and when she finally finds a willing captain, she pays him another of the rubies for the favor of remaining docked and waiting for her.

A picture of the situation with this Void Stalker, the Nightblades, and Silver’s plan comes to her in fragments and passing references she can’t quite piece together, so finally, when he’s strong enough to talk for a while, Myrrh decides to get the full story. While Hawk and Nab listen in, she sits at Glint’s bedside and drags out his history with the woman.

“There was something between us,” Glint says, his eyes distant, voice still weak. “But it was long ago. We were business partners at first—she fenced many of the goods I brought into the Port Cities. We grew closer, but then she fell in with the Nightblades. I assumed it was her new friends that changed her because the differences were subtle at first. I broke off our relationship when I realized how cruel she’d become. She never directed it at me, but she had grown more manipulative. Anyway, she wasn’t someone I wanted to be around. Imagine my shock when she turned up outside my door in Lower Fringe.”

“She mentioned something about that,” Myrrh says.

He raises an eyebrow. “Probably made it sound like there was more to our meeting than me shutting the door in her face too.”

“Did you really?” she asks, laughing.

“Sadly, I’m too much of a gentleman for that. I offered her dinner, listened to her impossible, demented plan about taking over Ostgard by bringing an army of Nightblades, infiltrating the syndicates, seizing the city all at once. Of course now…”

“It doesn’t sound quite as demented,” Myrrh says.

“Demented, yes,” he says. “Impossible, maybe not.”

Myrrh sighs. It’s true. If the woman had decided to stay in Ostgard, she might not have had the forces to take the whole city, but she would have spilled enough blood to fill the River Ost’s channel.

“So you just saw her that one time? You probably realize this by now, but she had been keeping pretty close tabs on you.”

Glint nods. “I’m not surprised. And she did send messages asking for more meetings. I just didn’t respond.” He pauses and looks at her. “If I had known it was more than just the cracked scheme of a washed-up fence, I would have told you. I hope you believe that.”

Myrrh nods, finding that she does. “So she changed just after joining the Nightblades, or was there a delay?”

“It’s hard to remember honestly. I’d mostly forgotten about her until she showed up. I thought it was her association with the cult making her…” He shrugs. “Making her arrogant I guess. But it sounds like there was something else…” He looks toward Nab.

The boy, busy whittling something from a broken table leg, nods without looking up. “The corruption in Skorry’s gifts was faint at first, so she could have been part of the Nightblades for a long time before it affected her. Especially if the void disciples infiltrated the temple after she joined. But once the connection was open between the sunken pool and the void, it got stronger each year.”

Myrrh’s brow furrows. “How do you know this, Nab?”

The boy bites the corner of his lip in concentration while he drills the tip of his knife into a particular feature he’s sculpting from the wood. “From the Mouth.”

“Wait. So they told you? What about Silver?”

“When you and I were getting ready to leave—when you sent me to find Resh and Nyx—the Mouth pulled me aside and asked to meet up later so Silver wouldn’t overhear. The Mouth is dead to the gifts and can’t work a single cantrip. But Skorry speaks through the Mouth’s lips.”

“Okay…so this person asked to meet. And they just told you this whole story?”

“Yeah, along with the training, which it turns out I didn’t need much of. So basically, Skorry has been trying to banish the taint ever since the Disciples of the Void poisoned the pool. He’s been trying to withdraw his gifts, but it doesn’t work that way. The only thing he managed to do was keep the secret of the ninth cantrip.”

“I thought you said there was no ninth cantrip.”

“Exactly. The secret is that anyone who masters the eighth gains terrible power over every other follower of Skorry. Do you remember when Silver freaked out at me for making the cantrip motions toward her.”

Myrrh nods.

“Well, it turns out there’s a reason for that. The higher you advance through the cantrips, the more susceptible you are to them…until you reach the ninth. Then you’re immune, but you’re able to basically make the other followers into slaves if you want.”

“So that’s why it was so easy for you to use mass delusion on the Nightblades, even when you commanded them to submit to execution?”

“Yeah, more or less.” He whittles a long strip of wood from his creation.

“So why you, Nab?” Glint asks.

Nab rolls his eyes. “Because I’m awesome?”

“Seriously…” Myrrh says.

The boy sighs. “So apparently, Rattle and the Mouth were working together for a long time. Trying to find people with a natural talent for the cantrips.” He pauses whittling and points at himself, eyebrows raised.

“Or maybe they were looking for someone with such an overgrown sweet tooth that they’d practice the misdirection cantrip for hours and hours in hopes of fooling Rat Town’s bakers,” Myrrh says.

“Regardless,” he says, “Rattle died without getting word to the Mouth about my prodigious talent.”

Myrrh shakes her head. Where did he even learn words like prodigious? “So it was just dumb luck that brought you and the Mouth together?”

“Or Skorry had a hand in it. I kind of think Silver is right about one thing. She said that she thought Skorry and the Queen of Nines were related. I think that’s true. Either they’re facets of the same being, or they’re allied in fighting the void. Anyway, since I’ve never been anointed by water from the sunken pool in Skorry’s temple, I’m immune to the taint.”

“Now wait,” Hawk says. “I sensed something…I sensed darkness when Myrrh used the cantrips, same as I did with the Nightblades. And she’s never touched the sunken pool. Whatever that is.”

Nab shrugs. “Hmm. So maybe it’s just the purity of my innocent soul,” he says, sticking his tongue through the hole where he recently lost a baby molar. “Anyway, I guess it’s a good thing she’s terrible at the cantrips, or she’d probably turn into an evil witch like Silver.”

Myrrh sighs. “I’m starting to wish you’d run away after all.”

Nab smirks, looking rather pleased with himself. “Anyway, you’ve probably guessed, but I’m going to have to take a trip down to the Port Cities soon.”

“Uh, pardon?” Myrrh says.

“To deal with the void cult and cleanse the pool. It’s pretty much the reason that things have gotten so crappy along the coast.” He glances at Glint. “You’re always talking about how rotten the leadership is and how the citizens of the cities are so oppressed.”

Myrrh blinks, not really sure what to say. “Maybe we should save the rest of this conversation for later.”

Nab snorts and holds up the carving he’s been working on. It bears a vague resemblance to a person, though highly disproportioned. Myrrh cocks her head. She doesn’t want to make him feel bad, but it’s really a terrible effort. “It’s…nice,” she says.

He laughs. “Yes, I think so. It looks just like you.”

***

Later, Myrrh shoos the others out of the room and climbs onto the far side of the bed, settling gently beside Glint. He runs a hand down her cheek, neck, and then brushes her breast with the tips of his fingers. Myrrh feels her pulse in her neck as her breath quickens.

“I thought you were too weak,” she says.

He smirks. “I am. But it’s so fun to watch you blush.”

She elbows him, provoking a hiss. “Ow.”

“That’s what you get for teasing,” she says.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Just you wait, Mistress Myrrh. I’ll make up for it.”

Myrrh turns on her side and traces a finger down his torso and across his hip, carefully avoiding his groin even when he closes his eyes. “Or maybe it’s me who will have things to make up for.”

He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “I should know better than to try to challenge someone of your talents. Unless, of course, we’re talking about thieving.”

“Hey! I just stole you from under Silver’s nose, right?”

“I guess you did. Sort of.” His brows draw together. “So, about that. Remember when I told you not to follow us?”

“It would be difficult to forget…”

“Well, I had a good reason. You may remember, I said that based only on what Silver told me through her shadow speech, not due to influence from a cantrip. And I’m afraid that the problem hasn’t vanished.”

Myrrh shifts, sitting up on a hip so she can look down at him. “So what did she say?”

He presses his lips together for a moment. “She threatened to bring the Nightblades down on Ostgard if I didn’t go with her quietly.”

“Her impossible, demented plan.”

“Which had started to look a lot more realistic given how easily they dispatched the Scythe’s Knives.

“But Nab dealt with them.”

Glint sighs. “He dealt with every Nightblade in the inn—except Silver. I mean, please don’t think I’m complaining, but we’d be in a much better position if you hadn’t let her escape.”

“Hey!” Myrrh says. “I wasn’t the one lying in bed watching her climb out the window.”

He smirks. “Anyway, it’s not about the small force of Nightblades we dealt with here. Not really. Apparently, there are hundreds of them training in the Port Cities. Silver has been planning to expand, but she claims she hadn’t decided in which direction. She was in Ostgard deciding whether to move on our city first, or whether to consolidate control farther along the coast. When she spoke to me in the council chamber, she said she’d spare Ostgard if I agreed to go with her. After seeing what the Nightblades did to Meredith’s Knives, I didn’t feel like I had a choice. And I thought that if I left, I could maybe get word to you later and warn you. But now that we’ve beaten her here, I’m afraid she’ll turn her sights on Ostgard purely for revenge.”

“We need to get home,” Myrrh says. “Get organized.”

“Will it be enough?” he asks. “Clearly Nab has power over the Nightblades, but as for the rest of us, we’re hopeless against them.”

Myrrh thinks ahead to the coming days. “It sounds like a difficult war is coming. But we can’t give up. We’ve won before, against the Death Cloak and the oathbinding, and even against Silver herself.”

He grabs her hand and squeezes. “I guess it’s pointless to ask whether you think we should run away together and leave Ostgard to fend for itself. You still have a few of those rubies, right? Should be enough to get us somewhere exotic, fund the startup of a new syndicate…”

Myrrh smirks. “And if I said yes, would you go?”

He shrugs, brushing her cheek with the back of a knuckle. “I’ll never have to answer that because I know you won’t leave the city at Silver’s mercy.”

She laughs. “No, I guess I wouldn’t be able to. So what do you say we head back tomorrow and create the first city government run entirely by thieves and scoundrels?”

“You’re on,” he says as he winds his fingers through her hair and pulls her face down to his.

Myrrh closes her eyes and breathes in his scent. Sandalwood and clove. They just talked about going home, but she feels as if she’s already there.

Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for reading Empress of Rogues. I really hope you liked it! As a working writer, I am utterly dependent on my readers to spread the word about my books. Please consider leaving a review for me and other authors you enjoy. Even just a sentence helps immensely.

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Book 5 in this series, Chronicles of a Cutpurse, will be coming to Amazon soon! Check for Sovereign of Shadows on your local storefront. You can also join my reader group (see below) or follow my Amazon author page to get a notice when it releases.

In the meantime, I have some other series you might enjoy.

Links:

The Shattering of the Nocturnai – the complete series, now available as a boxed set for 50% off the cover price.

Heart of the Empire - Book 1 in the complete trilogy, The Broken Lands.

Stonehaven League – A LitRPG series! Book 1 is Temple of Sorrow.

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--Carrie