Ruler of Scoundrels
Author: Carrie Summers
Date: 2018-05-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: Planning freelance heists and skulking through alleys is one thing. Running a thieves' syndicate is something else entirely. Wearing the tarnished crown of an underworld queen, Myrrh now sits on the ruling council of Ghost syndicate. It's hard enough pulling together a rabble of miscreants and villains, but when thieves across the city start turning up dead and a disturbing stranger offers to help Myrrh solve the crimes, she starts to wonder if she should have accepted the simple position of Glint's second-in-command. Not to mention, the unspoken offer of sharing more than the leadership of hi
Publisher: Lonely Crag Press

Table of Contents

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

Ruler of Scoundrels

Book Two

Chronicles of a Cutpurse

Carrie Summers

Chapter One

STREWN ACROSS A table in The Queen’s Dice, shards of glass twinkle in the lamplight. A dark pool of blood spreads across the battered floorboards. Myrrh can’t stop staring at the stain, its sticky surface marred by a single footprint.

After a deep breath, she turns to the mistress of the house. Sapphire, a sturdy woman with a raised scar across her chin, stands behind one of her dealers, a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are hard. Uncompromising. This violence happened under Myrrh’s watch in Ghost syndicate turf. It’s Myrrh’s responsibility.

Myrrh closes her mind to the smell of blood and hardens her jaw. “You should probably get that cleaned up before it dries.”

Sapphire narrows her eyes. “You needed to see what happened here.”

The woman’s tone is just short of defiant. Myrrh feels her nostrils flare, and she forces her hands into her pockets to show the proprietor she won’t be intimidated. She edges around the blood and steps toward a wall where a wrought-iron symbol dedicated to the Queen of Nines hangs askew. She feels the stares of the dealers and the bartender. They’re pretending to be interested in a game of dice on the opposite side of the room.

“I assure you I’m capable of understanding a report without being subjected to the grisly scene. You do realize I came into leadership of the Ghost syndicate by skill rather than chance, don’t you?”

“However you gained control of the turf isn’t my concern. The welfare of my business establishment is.”

Myrrh sighs as she turns back to the woman. “Why don’t you start by telling me what happened?”

Sapphire hesitates, seeming off-balanced by Myrrh’s sudden change of tone. After years of working with the Slivers syndicate, she’s probably more used to threats than being asked for her side of the story.

Myrrh calls across the room to the bartender. “Hey, can you get us an ale and whatever Sapphire is drinking? On me.”

He blinks as if unsure.

“Or do I need to do it myself?” Myrrh prompts.

The man’s chair squeals as he pushes back from the dice game. Returning her attention to Sapphire, Myrrh gestures toward an empty table, eyebrows raised in question. After a moment, the proprietor nods. They pull out chairs and sit in tense silence until the drinks arrive, a pewter mug with overflowing foam for Myrrh and a modest tumbler of whiskey for Sapphire. Myrrh drops a silver piece onto the table, the coin settling with a click. The bartender’s practiced hand sweeps it away.

Sapphire lays two fingers on the bartender’s arm before he walks away. She flicks her eyes toward the spilled blood. “You can start on that now. Fetch Becky to help.”

The man rounds the bar and pushes through a swinging door that squeals as it opens. His gruff voice echoes in the back rooms. Meanwhile, the dealers—five in total—lean close to one another and whisper over the dicing table. One, a woman, glances at Myrrh with open curiosity while a man with slicked-back hair glares her way.

“The rest of you scat,” Sapphire calls.

They hesitate until their boss lays hands on the table and threatens to stand. With disappointed snorts, they abandon their game. More glass crunches under their feet as they file through the room to the back door. Once they’re outside, Sapphire gets up and drops the bar into place before returning to her seat.

“It’s been a decade since someone was knifed in my establishment,” she says bluntly. “I never liked Slivers’ methods, but I can’t argue with their results.”

Myrrh takes a swallow of her ale, sets the mug on the table with a clack. “And you blame me.”

Sapphire shrugs, allowing Myrrh to draw her own conclusions. Myrrh studies a line of foam sliding down her mug as she considers her response. Should she attempt to defend herself? Ask questions? Either option would make her look weak and inept. She decides to hold her silence.

The bartender returns, trailed by a wan-faced scullery maid—Becky, it seems—who blanches at the sight of the blood. Ignoring her hesitation, the bartender drops a set of rags over the rapidly drying pool. He raises an eyebrow at Becky. The girl swallows and falls to her knees beside the bucket she carried into the room.

For a while, the only sounds in the gambling hall are the splash of water and the scratching of the scrub brush’s bristles. The bartender stands over the girl, monitoring her work and occasionally stepping behind the bar for more clean rags.

Finally, the proprietor of the gambling den snorts in amusement. Myrrh blinks, not sure what’s funny about the situation.

“All right, you got me. I had to test your mettle, see what the new boss of Rat Town is made of. But no, I don’t blame you for what happened here. Your men performed well. Got the fight stopped before anyone got killed. And considering the situation, that was quite a feat.”

“Ghost syndicate doesn’t have a strict hierarchy,” Myrrh says.

Sapphire’s brows draw together while she runs a finger around the rim of her glass. The smell of wet wood impregnated with years of spilled liquor rises from the floor and finally starts to overpower the stench of blood.

“Not sure I follow your change of subject,” the proprietor says.

“You called me the boss of Rat Town. Said the security assigned to your establishment were ‘my men’. But the syndicate’s decisions are made by a council, not a single person.”

“Well, claim what you will. According to everyone I’ve heard tell it, only one woman calls the shots in your new syndicate.”

Myrrh takes another swallow of her beer and wonders if she should ask why no one’s helping poor Becky.

“But I didn’t send Wren to fetch you just so I could see your reaction,” Sapphire says.

“Wren?”

“The little orphan girl.”

Right. The urchin who came knocking at her safe house door. “So what is this about then?”

Becky casts a nervous glance in their direction, prompting the bartender to nudge her hip with his toe. She jerks, nearly knocking over the bucket of red water.

“In case you’re wondering,” Sapphire says, “I caught Becky here pinching coins from one of the tables. The way I see it, my patrons have a right to enjoy their gaming without being pickpocketed. Especially when the thief is lucky to have honest work under my roof. But we’ve all made mistakes at one time or another. Isn’t that right, Becky?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the girl says as she scrubs harder.

Sapphire smirks and winks at Myrrh. “In any case, I didn’t send for you just because there was a brawl. It’s about who came looking for the fight. And why. The Queen’s Dice had a prior arrangement with the Slivers syndicate, as I’m sure you’re aware. I admit to being surprised to see Noble back here. Especially given his new…condition.”

Noble. The former leader of the Slivers syndicate, the gang that Myrrh and her associates recently ousted. Yeah, Myrrh can see why his reappearance might cause problems.

“So it’s true?” Myrrh says. “He’s a White? I never got confirmation.”

“If by that, you mean blinded by glimmer in all but the dimmest light…eyes shining silver…yeah, I’d say he’s a White.”

“I expected him to turn up in Rat Town eventually,” Myrrh says. “Sorry it brought trouble to your establishment.”

Sapphire shrugs. “Long as you make it right with extra security until he’s been dealt with, we’re good.”

Myrrh keeps her face even. It’s been hard enough to find thieves willing to take on security gigs as it stands. As former freelancers, the members of Ghost syndicate are accustomed to heists and smuggling and blackmail. Guard duty is boring.

When Slivers controlled the territory, it was simpler. Syndicate members didn’t have a choice in their assignments. But that’s not the sort of organization Myrrh founded.

“It will be hard to find the muscle unless you’re willing to pay out a larger percentage of your profits.”

Sapphire glares, but Myrrh holds firm. She’s pretty sure the proprietor’s spending half of what she paid under Noble’s organization.

“I could increase the allowance as long as the situation is temporary,” Sapphire says after a moment.

“Then I’ll figure it out.”

Sapphire taps a finger on the table. “So. Noble’s not happy with you.”

“I imagine not.”

“He was throwing around a lot of nasty threats. I’d be wary. He still has heavy support in this district. Lots of thieves and sellswords lost their livelihoods when you ousted Slivers.”

“They’re welcome to work for Ghost syndicate as long as they agree to our rules.”

“I’m not the audience you need to reach with that message,” Sapphire says.

“No, I guess not.”

“The way you talk about the syndicate, I’m not surprised people call you the boss. It’s clear you make most of the decisions.”

Myrrh doesn’t respond. A cool swallow of ale slides down her throat.

“Anyway, when Noble started mentioning a bounty for your head, that’s when blades came out. I’ll give you credit. He might have support after so many years spent running Rat Town, but you have your own loyalists. A shift worker from the smelters took a nasty slash to the arm when he threatened one of Noble’s lackeys. That’s when your security stepped in and started throwing the Slivers crew out the door.”

“How many were there?”

“Five, counting Noble.”

“Any others glimmer-blind?”

Sapphire shakes her head. “Just the kingpin. He wears a hat low over his eyes. Can’t seem to look directly at candles without pain. I’m not surprised he’s got a vendetta.”

Myrrh takes a deep breath. Maybe she should have listened to Glint and ambushed the Slivers leadership before they learned she’d slipped them a glimmer overdose and taken over their turf. But that would have meant going against her word. Sometimes, details mattered.

The reminder of Glint brings a tightness to her chest that eases when she takes another deep drink of ale. No doubt he would have good advice on how to deal with Noble’s reemergence. Probably delivered close to her ear in a low voice. She grits her teeth at the involuntary shiver the thought prompts.

Myrrh needs to avoid distractions like Glint. She has a syndicate to run. Kids like Nab need her protection, especially with the city trembling in fear over the turmoil in Maire’s Quarter. Plus, she has to figure out what’s going on with Hawk. Why he came out of Craghold so…changed.

And right now, she needs to conclude business with Sapphire and The Queen’s Dice. Ideally followed by a nice date with her pillow.

“You comfortable with my people denying Noble entry tomorrow night?” she asks.

Sapphire slugs back the last of her whiskey. “Please.”

“The guards will be here at dusk then.”

“There’s another thing,” Sapphire says.

“Oh?”

“A man. Never seen him before. He spoke to me once things quieted down.”

“What about him?”

“He said he wanted me to give you a message.”

“Another threat?”

“I don’t think so. He came from downriver. Some place called Glenhaven.”

“It’s about halfway between here and the sea.”

“If you say so,” Sapphire says with a shrug. “Anyway, he heard of Ghost syndicate and was, as he said, intrigued. He wants to talk to you.”

“Like I said earlier, anyone who wants to abide by the syndicate rules is welcome to work for us. We send word through the taverns every evening. New gigs and what they pay.”

“I think he’s looking for more than a stray job here and there. He asked if you would meet him here tomorrow. Around midnight.”

“If he’s interested in the syndicate, he can ask any Ghost member. I’m sure plenty of them enjoy throwing dice at your tables.”

Sapphire presses her lips together. “If you don’t mind me saying, the man had an air about him. Seemed to be more than a common thief. I’d figure out what he’s about if I were you.”

The woman’s serious tone grabs Myrrh’s attention. She gets the sense Sapphire wouldn’t keep pressing if she didn’t think it was important.

“In that case, no, I don’t mind you saying. And I’ll try to be here.”

Myrrh plants her palms on the table and stands. Before she can step away, Sapphire touches her wrist. “Then I’ll drop you another bit of honest advice. You shouldn’t walk around Rat Town this late alone.”

Myrrh shrugs. “I’ve never had a problem.”

The silence stretches out.

“Look,” Sapphire says, “I don’t know you well enough to care one way or the other about your safety. But I do care about Rat Town. Regardless of Slivers’ flaws, they kept order around here. Don’t kid yourself into thinking Ghost syndicate would hang together without you. They’d collapse the moment you got knifed in an alley, leaving us in a much worse situation than we had before. So if you care about anyone down here and want to see them live until next Rhemmsfest, quit being careless.”

After a moment, Myrrh sighs. “Fair enough. Got anyone who could escort me to my residence?”

Sapphire smiles crookedly. “We secure more bets in a night than any gambling house in Rat Town. Think I sit on that much coin without plenty of my own muscle to guard it?”

The woman nods toward one of the walls, no doubt catching the eye of someone at a hidden peephole.

“A man will meet you outside,” she says.

Chapter Two

MYRRH’S CURRENT RESIDENCE hasn’t really changed from when Slivers used it as a safe house. From the outside, the place looks as ramshackle as any Rat Town construction. Warped siding has been slapped over a rickety skeleton, everything splintery with age. Up top, the mist-cloaked second story looks ready to blow away in the next strong wind.

Myrrh steps onto the creaking stoop, glancing at the crust of mud that splatters the walls almost to window height. The escort Sapphire provided, a man who looks ready to collapse under the weight of his own muscles, gives a concerned grunt. No doubt he’s thinking about how Sapphire won’t be pleased to learn he let Myrrh enter a death trap.

“You can go now,” she says as she raps on the door. A pattern of five knocks, then two. Tomorrow, the signal will be different.

A piece of wood slides aside at face level. Graves, the man keeping watch on the front door of the safe house, peers out. He looks strangely nervous, eyes flitting. Did gossip about Noble’s threats make it back here already?

“Who’s there?” he asks.

Myrrh rolls her eyes and presses her face closer to the light. “You sixing well know who. I just left an hour ago.”

“I—”

She glimpses the panic in his eyes and realizes his question was meant to give her a chance to escape. Legs suddenly tense, she glances to the side and gets ready to jump off the step.

“Your guards do a terrible job, you know.”

The wild thumping of Myrrh’s heart slows when she recognizes the voice. Glint. Then it starts to speed up again at the thought of seeing him.

Graves’ eyes vanish, swept aside and replaced by a darker, more intense pair.

“Mistress?” her escort asks, stepping closer but avoiding putting weight on the creaking steps.

“It’s fine,” she says. “My friend appears to have forgotten his manners in his desire to humiliate my loyal associates. But he means me no harm.”

The door opens. Lit from the side by the warm glow of a lantern, Glint bows. He’s dressed in merchant’s garb, finely tailored silk with a loose-collared shirt.

“You have mud on your shoes,” Myrrh comments. “Kind of spoils the disguise. I hope you aren’t planning on any late-night soirees in Maire’s Quarter.”

He smirks as he tucks away the dagger he likely had pressed to Graves’s back. Released from Glint’s grasp, the sentry looks both uncertain and angry.

“I truly won’t harm her,” Glint says to Sapphire’s man. “Thanks for accompanying her. I have no desire to see my lovely former associate beset by ruffians.”

Myrrh shoves past Glint, out of the damp Rat Town night and into the warm scents of the safe house. Her footsteps falter when she notices the Scythe, a hardened fighter sworn to defend Glint with her life. The woman leans against one of the dark-paneled walls, a flat expression on her face.

With clear reluctance, Myrrh’s escort turns to go as Glint swings the door shut. The latch engages, snuffing the faint shouts and thumps that pepper Rat Town by night.

If the safehouse looks run-down from the outside, the interior is anything but. Behind the shabby disguise, hardwood planks and stone pillars defend syndicate secrets. Velvet drapes hang over windows, and oil-lamp chandeliers cast a warm glow over the rooms. The storerooms are empty now, looted by Glint’s people after they helped Myrrh take down Slivers. Eventually, though, they’ll be full of Ghost syndicate riches.

Graves shuffles a few paces away, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t blame yourself for Glint’s trespassing,” she says. “He has no notion of boundaries.”

Concern still wrinkles the man’s brow. “The problem is, Mistress, I don’t know how he got in. I’ve been watching the door since you left, and everything else should be locked and barred. Seems we have a security problem.”

Glint snorts. “I’m sorry, friend. I was only teasing Myrrh when I mentioned the inadequacy of her guards. There’s no security issue—the kid let me in. Kitchen window.”

“You mean Nab?” Graves blinks as he glances at the door to Nab’s bedroom. At Myrrh’s insistence, the boy sleeps in a room with no windows, as much to keep him from sneaking out and getting in trouble as to make sure he can’t be abducted again. “I thought he was asleep.”

“He was when I left…” Myrrh checked just before heading to The Queen’s Dice.

“Like I said, I’ve been keeping watch since you left. Don’t see how he could have slipped out of the room.”

Glint stalks to the door and shoves it open. Lamplight falls on the rumpled covers of Nab’s empty bed. “Maybe you do have a problem after all, then.”

Myrrh sighs. “You didn’t let him onto the street did you, Glint?”

With a crooked smirk, Glint shrugs. “Last I saw, he was raiding the pastry cabinet. I wouldn’t worry too much, Myrrh. He’s been on the streets his whole life.”

“Yeah, but unpleasant things are happening in Rat Town right now.”

Myrrh glances at the Scythe. The woman remains motionless, giving the sense that she’s carved of something other than flesh. Myrrh’s never known Glint to use a bodyguard, except in the case where she posed as a hired sword named Rella. But that wasn’t for his protection; she was just there to make him look more like a wealthy merchant.

Glint saunters toward a sitting room off the main chamber. Behind him, Graves starts to shuffle off before casting a questioning glance at Myrrh.

She nods. “Go ahead. I’ll stand watch until dawn.”

He climbs the curving walnut staircase, shoulders finally relaxed.

Glint nudges one of the richly upholstered chairs, turning it slightly toward her. “Shall we? Meredith can watch the door.”

Meredith? Myrrh glances at the Scythe. If the woman is surprised at Glint’s use of her given name, she doesn’t show it.

The lamp in the sitting room burns lower than those in the main hall, the dim light adding intimacy to the chamber. Glint waits for her to sit before flopping into one of the armchairs and slipping off his shoes. He sets his heels on the low table between them.

Myrrh rolls her eyes. “I see your manners haven’t improved since I saw you last.”

Since the morning he kissed her and told her they were now rivals.

“You’re quite aware that I know how to conduct myself in polite company. But I think you secretly prefer me this way. Unruly and proud of it.”

He winks.

She looks away to hide her blush.

“Why are you here, Glint? Don’t you have a syndicate to run?”

“Maybe I’m out touring the city to determine the target of my next criminal conquest.”

“You’ll fail if you try to take Rat Town.”

He smirks. “Maybe, maybe not. So, did you enjoy your trip to my childhood home?”

Craghold. Cold stone and incessant, drizzling rain. Dreary evergreens with drooping boughs. Castle walls stained black where water has run over the stone for centuries.

She’ll never forget the sight of Hawk huddled in a damp-walled cell too small for him to fully stretch out. The uncaring guards and the skeleton staff that wordlessly accepted the Scythe’s story about Glint taking over his father’s position as head of the family. There was no mention of Glint’s given name, though surely some of the servants must have remembered the young boy who once inhabited the halls.

“I wasn’t there long enough to form much of an opinion.”

He stares into the distance, a bitter smile on his lips. “Tactful as always.”

“Do you plan to give a real answer to my question about why you came?”

He sighs. “Actually, yes. I wanted to warn you. Trouble’s afoot.”

“You’ve heard about Noble, then?”

His eyebrows draw together. “He’s back already?”

She brushes off his concerned stare. “I’ll deal with it. Guess that’s not what you came to say, though.”

Tapping his lower lip with his forefinger, he glances at a shelf holding liquor bottles. “I was going to offer to pour you a drink, but I’m wondering…do you want to get out of here for a while? I’ve been so busy lately. All work and no play.”

“I just told Graves I’d take the night watch.”

He glances at the Scythe who nods. “You won’t find a better sentry than Meredith in the city. Provided you trust me to provide temporary security for your enterprise.”

“You did say we were enemies now...”

“You know that’s not true. I said nothing of the sort.”

“Rivals, then. You swear this isn’t some elaborate plot to take over Ghost territory?”

“As you’ll recall, that’s not how I like to operate. But if you insist”—he lays a hand on his heart—“I earnestly swear I will not attempt to take over Rat Town tonight.”

“What about this warning you wanted to deliver?”

“I’d hate for you to think of me as nothing but a spreader of gloom. Perhaps we could have a little fun while I’m explaining my concern.”

Under his intent stare, Myrrh feels her pulse speed. She turns her head aside.

He seems to sense her reluctance. “Life can’t be all business, can it, Myrrh? I swear I’ll be a gentleman. As much as any rogue can be, anyway. And if you like, we could combine the outing with a bit of lucrative work. Split the proceeds sixty-forty?”

She glares.

Glint laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Even split.”

***

“At least some parts of the city are still running,” Myrrh says as they crouch between stone gargoyles overlooking the Neck’s night market. Below, vendors fight for attention, jangling pots, strumming lutes, crying out offers on jewelry and pottery from isles in the Gray Sea. Smoke from food stalls joins the thin fog that blankets the city, painting halos around street lamps and jugglers’ brands.

Glint’s gaze lifts over the rooftops and open bazaar squares to take in the staid rooflines of Maire’s Quarter. “It’s been quite a mess in the council, as you can imagine. The sudden loss of the Maire’s authority has left them scrambling.”

“How is Merchant Giller faring in his ploy to gain influence?”

He casts her a laden glance. “He’s not the same man without Rella to guard his movements and warm his bed.”

“Hey!” she says. “She never agreed to any sort of tryst.”

He shrugs. “We were just pretending anyway, right? Maybe I took my fantasy a bit farther than you did.”

Glint winks. Myrrh’s tongue feels like a lump of dead flesh for all her ability to come up with a response.

“Anyway, I’ve had a few setbacks in my plans. Your sudden removal of the man I was trying to keep in office has presented interesting problems.”

“Do you resent me for not telling you my plans?”

He shrugs. “Well, not resent, per say. I have been known to show a little frustration over the past weeks, though.”

“It was the only way I could think of to free you from Slivers’ clutches.”

“And it worked. It’s more the lack of warning that I occasionally find vexing.”

“I thought it would be hard for you to knowingly betray your father. Family ties…they cause people to behave strangely.”

Not that Myrrh would know first-hand.

“I get it. And I guess I can’t be sure I’d have agreed to the plan, no matter how I feel with hindsight.”

“So…those times when you’re vexed with me. Should I be worried now that I’ve followed you into neutral turf where no one would interfere if you decided to take your revenge?”

On the street below, shoppers and entertainers and peddlers with laden carts stream in both directions. A member of the Shield Watch stands lazily on a corner, eyes on the crowd. Glint won’t harm her despite his talk, but she probably does need to start thinking about her vulnerabilities. Just like Sapphire said.

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “We both know how well you fared last time we sparred. You ended up on your back with your wrists pinned, and the thing is, I’m not sure you minded that much. So I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to get you into a compromised position again.”

Her cheeks heat at the memory. “Do you flirt with all the women the way you do with me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says.

She turns her eyes back to the street below. “Seriously, there’s talk around Rat Town that the Shield Watch will fall apart unless the council can unite behind a new Maire. I heard that some bargemen are flaunting the tariff laws, and the Shields do nothing. Are you worried that Emmerst will make his move before you can stop him? Wasn’t that half the reason you were protecting your father?”

He sinks back onto his heels, long fingers clasped loosely in front of his shins. “Yes, I’m quite worried. But he may not be the most serious problem right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember Lavi?” He cups a hand over his eye to remind her of the eye patches the woman wears for training.

“Do I look empty-headed enough to forget her in the space of a fortnight?

He drops his gaze. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Lavi’s dead, Myrrh.”

“What? How?”

His lips make a thin line. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. Nyx found her in the tenement safe house. Already cold. No physical damage. No signs of any of the common poisons.”

“Was she ill?”

He shrugs then shakes his head. “Not that I know of. She wasn’t old enough to go by most natural causes. Normally, I’d say it was just bad luck. Miser knows she was odd in other ways. But then I started hearing chatter coming out of the other syndicates. Haven, Blackfold. The deaths are scattered but they follow the same pattern. No easy explanation. No sign of intruders. I’m guessing the problem hasn’t struck Ghost syndicate yet, or you wouldn’t have been surprised by Lavi’s circumstances.”

“Not that I know of. Our affiliation is a bit looser than most syndicates’. Former grubbers aren’t in the habit of reporting in every day.”

“Well, I doubt your respite will last.”

“Is it just the syndicates? Or are regular people dying?”

An acrobat flips by on the street, prompting wowed gasps from some of the pedestrians and annoyed mutters from others. Glint pulls a copper from a hidden pouch and tosses it down, his expert aim sending the coin into a gap between people. Myrrh wonders at the futility of the gift—the acrobat is already at the next corner—until the man stops, returns with a series of cartwheels, and scoops the glinting coin from the cobblestones.

“Not just the syndicates, but the deaths do seem confined to people engaged in illicit work. Fences, prostitutes, independent smugglers. Someone is targeting us deliberately.”

“Emmerst? Someone else in the council?”

He shakes his head. “I seriously doubt it. Right now, the major focus of every merchant in the city is using my father’s disappearance as a chance to grab power, not chase down petty thieves. Ostgard’s scoundrels have a golden opportunity for easy pickings. Except now we have a silent killer to track down.”

“You are a pretty big spreader of gloom,” she says as she stands and rolls her ankles to work out the stiffness.

Glint chuckles. “Told you. But didn’t I also promise a good time?”

He stands with easy grace, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Since you won’t split sixty-forty, I was thinking we could make a little wager tonight. I talked with a representative from the Irons syndicate and got permission to do a bit of work on their turf. After all the major heists and political wrangling lately, I bet you miss the chance for some low-stakes thievery. We’re all cutpurses at heart, right?”

“Since when were you a simple cutpurse?” she asks, cocking a hip. If he wants to have this little contest, he’s in for a rude surprise. At one point, Myrrh was the best freelance pickpocket south of In Betweens.

“Oh, I have a few tricks.” His smile is way too confident for someone who grew up in a merchant household.

“You’re on then. Rules?”

He pauses as if remembering something. “Actually, before we get down to business, there’s something I meant to ask. How’s Hawk? Any improvement.”

Myrrh shakes her head. “Better not to ask if you don’t want to ruin your reputation as a pleasant companion.”

His smile falls away. “Fair enough. Well, if there’s anything more I can do to help him…”

She nods, gaze fixed on the street below. “Thanks.”

“Anyway, rules. We stick to the night market. No looting some mansion in the Fifths and claiming the spoils were plucked from a moving target.”

She snorts. “Are you calling me a cheater?”

He laughs and raises his hands in protest. “I’m just trying to be clear.”

“So we stick to the Neck. When’s the deadline.”

“Meet back here at dawn?”

“Fine. What about interference?”

“You mean, if you see me about to snag a purse, you’d call attention to it?” He casts her a wounded look. “Where’s your thief’s honor?”

She shrugs. “You wanted to be clear, right?”

“Fine. No interference. So, what’s the wager, Myrrh?”

The mischievous look in his eyes suggests that she’d better suggest something unless she wants him to come up with an alternative that involves her removing clothing.

“A couple gold pieces?”

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Boring. But fine. Two gold it is.”

“No glimmer,” she adds as he starts examining the crowd below.

“Fair. Now, if you’re done talking…?”

She knuckles him in the shoulder. “Good luck, loser.”

Chapter Three

AT STREET LEVEL, Myrrh swims through a sea of people. Shouts and laughter and currents of music wash around her. It’s warmer down below than on the rooftops, the air heated by the cook fires of the food vendors and the bodies of so many market-goers. Still, it’s nowhere near as chaotic as the Rat Town street market can get. The weekly affair just off First Docks is more like a melee than a pop-up bazaar.

She’s been at the contest for about an hour, and the spoils of her efforts fill a coin purse that tugs on her shoulder and neck. Mostly coppers, though—as much as the merchant-class market-goers seem to want to impress, they haven’t brought much cash into the Neck tonight. Spotting a gap in the crowd, she strikes for the open space and takes up a station against the wall of a stone building. A shipping company’s placard hangs near her head.

She keeps the hood of her cloak pulled forward as she scans the square in front of the building. Across the space, a merchant of obvious means haggles inexpertly with a savvy horse broker. The merchant wears pants belted halfway over his abundant paunch, and a jacket pulls wrong on his shoulders. This could be good—ill-fitting garments often make it easier to pick a pocket without the mark noticing.

The merchant jangles a coin purse, a clear attempt to sway the broker with the promise of imminent payment. Even better, Myrrh glimpses the flash of gold. The broker counters the negotiating tactic by scanning the crowd for a more eager buyer.

Chastened, the merchant lets his purse drop and saunters toward the horses the broker has on offer tonight.

Myrrh slips closer. Aside from the heavy but not very valuable haul of copper pieces, she’s plucked a brooch from the bodice of a scrawny merchant’s wife. That might gain her ground in the competition against Glint, but the gold pieces the horse buyer flashed would likely clinch her victory. She keeps a sharp eye on her mark’s movement as she slides through the crowd.

The horses are nervous, stamping as the merchant makes an act of examining them. He peers at their hooves, curling his lip in false disappointment. As he steps close to a bay mare and leans forward to run a hand down her foreleg—Myrrh seriously doubts he knows what to look for—the broker jumps to block his way.

“Sorry, sire. The commotion in the market makes them spook easily. I wouldn’t wish to see a man of such obvious pedigree come to harm.” The broker’s smile is just short of a sneer.

Spluttering in offense at the veiled scolding, the merchant takes a step back. Still, he clearly needs a horse, or he wouldn’t persist. His hand strays toward his purse as if he’s contemplating another offer.

Myrrh glides forward, a small knife in her palm. Once within a few paces, she pretends to trip and fall toward the mare’s hindquarters. As she hoped, the broker jumps forward and catches her.

The merchant sniffs, clearly disgusted by her clumsy entrance and commoner’s garb.

Myrrh blinks as if flustered, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry! What a beautiful animal. I didn’t mean to startle her,” she says as she reaches for the horse’s sleek back.

The broker catches her wrist and forcibly turns her away. Myrrh nibbles her lip and widens her eyes, scanning the crowd. She’s made herself memorable, which is ordinarily a poor tactic for a cutpurse. But this payout will be worth it, and besides, she doesn’t work the Neck. By the time she comes back—if she comes back—these people will have forgotten her face.

“I was hurrying to get away, you see,” she says. “There was a peddler who just wouldn’t leave me alone. Kept saying she had the finest onions in the city.”

The merchant rolls his eyes in annoyance. She pretends not to see and steps around him, tapping him on the shoulder opposite his coin purse. He shakes off her touch, grimacing.

Myrrh points. “There. See her? The woman with the cart? She seriously wouldn’t stop hassling me.”

As the men turn to look, she presses the wickedly sharp edge of her knife against the strap securing the merchant’s purse. It falls heavily into her hand, and she tucks it into her cloak in a single smooth motion.

“Do me a favor. Distract her if she tries to follow me.” With that, Myrrh scampers off and quickly melts into the crowd.

She makes a few turns, winding through the maze of streets and alleys. Throughout the night, she’s kept a map in her head, noting the areas she’s already worked. She can’t backtrack and risk being recognized, especially as the hours lengthen and her marks have more time to realize they’ve been robbed.

Eventually, she presses into the crowd filling another intersection packed with stalls. At the far side, a narrow aisle between buildings cuts a dark slash in the night. She slips into the gap, tucking into the relative silence between the tall stone walls. A peek into the new purse shows four gold pieces, half-a-dozen silvers, and a handful of coppers. A nice boon from the Queen of Nines. She shoves the pouch deep into a pocket inside her cloak, then secures the leather tabs that hold the pocket closed. Continuing down the aisle, she keeps her ears perked for sounds above and behind while she approaches the next street.

One of the wider avenues in the district, the cobblestone strip cuts toward Maire’s Quarter. As she turns for the richer end of the market, she spots him.

Glint stands with a pair of merchant women, hand on his chest as he regales them with some sort of tale. The women are rapt, staring with obvious fascination at his dark eyes and the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his brow. He’s the perfect mix of roguishness and genteel manners, clad in finery that shows his wealth, yet somehow looking far more casual in it than his merchant peers manage.

One of the women, a redhead wearing a deep purple gown and hip-length cloak lays a flirting hand on his shoulder. Myrrh grits her teeth at the ridiculous pang of jealousy that tightens her chest. She steps into the shadows of a shop awning, remembering the rule about not interfering. Whether Glint is just amusing himself by speaking with these women, or whether they are his marks, Myrrh can’t accidentally distract him.

Even if she secretly wants to chase off his admirers.

In response to the woman’s touch, Glint turns on his winning smile. He cocks his head and steps inappropriately close to the woman. Her heaving breasts struggle against her corset as he runs a hand down her back, his gaze fixed on her eyes. The friend looks on in obvious dismay over not being chosen for his attention.

As Glint steps even closer, he slips clever fingers into the woman’s coin purse. A gold piece catches the light as he palms it. With his other hand, he brushes a finger achingly close to, but not touching, the woman’s jawline.

Myrrh is aghast at the ease with which he fools these women. Isn’t it somehow against the rules to use his charm during their little contest? This was about who was the better cutpurse, not who had the most practice in seducing the opposite sex. She doubts she’d win an argument accusing him of cheating, though. After all, nothing in the rules specified how they were to pursue their trade.

With a regretful expression, Glint steps back. He tucks his hand—and the coin—into the pocket of his trousers. Showing no shame, the redhead follows the motion with her eyes, her gaze lingering on his hips.

Myrrh snorts.

After a few more words, Glint sighs heavily and glances toward Maire’s Quarter. He gestures in that direction, the apologetic look on his face deepening. No doubt he’s explaining some obligation he has in the district.

The women frown in clear disappointment, the redhead attempting to close the distance between them again. Glint seems not to notice as he takes a halting step down the street before stopping and catching their hands in turn. He lays a kiss on the backs of each of their fingers before hurrying away.

The women look ready to faint.

Myrrh curls her lip and turns the other way, looking for her next mark.

***

The coming dawn adds a blush to the eastern sky. Myrrh shivers in the chill air as she stands beside Glint on the rooftop, watching the night market dissolve into empty gray streets.

“I saw you work,” she says. “Your methods are…interesting. I’m tempted to accuse you of cheating.”

He smirks. “Like every thief worth his caltrops, I use my strengths to their best advantage.”

“I suppose I’ll let that claim pass, as long as you admit your looks are your only trick.”

He turns toward her and steps close, looking down with intense eyes. “Are they, or is there more to me? What do you think, Myrrh?” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Myrrh plants her hands on his chest and pushes him away. “I think you’re delaying the tallying of our profits. Probably because you’re afraid to lose the wager.”

He scoffs and hits her with a crooked smile. “Maybe I don’t want to embarrass you…”

She snorts. “Lay down your cards, scoundrel.”

They crouch side by side on the flat slates of the rooftop and lay out their profits from the night. Like her, he pinched plenty of copper pieces. The luster of gold makes up only a small percentage of his loot. By the time the coins are counted, he’s bested her by just over a silver piece. But she nabbed a larger pile of jewelry which now lies glittering beside her stacks of coins.

“I’m pretty sure I won,” she says with a confident smirk.

He raises an eyebrow, eyes shining in the faint glow of the sky. “We’d need an appraisal to be certain.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I think it’s fairly obvious my catch is worth more.”

“But you see, there’s one more piece I forgot to add to my pile.”

From his jacket pocket, he pulls the glinting links of a gold chain. The pendant snags on the hem, then drops free. Myrrh’s jade-and-emerald necklace dangles in front of her eyes.

“How?” Then she realizes…his hand at her ear after he tucked away her strand of hair…his fingertips trailing down her neck. “You’re a shameless knave.”

He laughs as she snatches the necklace back from him and shoves it into her pocket.

“We actually never specified whether the other person was a fair mark,” he says. “So maybe we should call it a tie?”

Myrrh’s cheeks are hot. She can’t believe he stole the jewelry from around her neck. Of all the lowlife ploys…

“Now I say you’re a cheater for sure.”

“Oh, don’t be a sore loser just because I plucked something right off your lovely neck. Maybe you should be glad that’s not the only garment I removed without you knowing.”

She aims a kick at his shin. He deftly dodges.

“Fine,” she says. “We’ll call it a tie. I have to get back anyway.”

“Work beckons, huh?”

She nods. “I need to arrange security for tonight at the gambling houses before I can even think about getting some sleep.”

“How’s it going, by the way? Syndicate doing well? Your freelancers falling in line?”

“More or less.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure my people watch out for Ghost members sniping our operations.”

She sighs. “We have plenty to do just keeping Rat Town running. I wouldn’t worry about Ghost moving in on your turf.”

A troubled look crosses his face. “I’m only teasing, anyway. I meant to propose something to you earlier…a truce between our organizations. Especially while thieves are dying with no explanation.”

His words bring a small pang of worry to her chest, but she brushes it off and tries to keep the tone light. “I’m not sure I can trust you after what you pulled in our little contest just now. How do I know you won’t turn around and pluck the prize gems from around my syndicate’s neck? So to speak.”

He lifts his hands in mock offense. “I would never!”

Myrrh rolls her eyes. “Fine. We have a truce. I’ll let my council know. But I really better go now.”

“Same. Duty calls.” He pauses, squeezing her shoulder before releasing it. “This was fun, Myrrh. I needed it after the past weeks.”

A faint smile touches her lips. “It was. Thanks.”

He crouches and gathers his loot in a pile before sweeping it into a coin pouch. “Hey, Myrrh? You’ll be careful, won’t you? With Noble and whoever is targeting the city’s thieves?”

“I will. You too, okay?”

He nods. “Send a messenger if anything happens to one of your people. Or if you need help.”

Myrrh collects the spoils of her night’s work, then stands. “Good night, Glint. See you around.”

Chapter Four

“ALL RIGHT,” MYRRH says. “It sounds like Sapphire has the bouncers she needs tonight. And you found some members eager to skim a bit of cargo from First Docks, yeah?”

Finally feeling awake now that the evening meeting is nearly over, Myrrh lounges at a circular table in the back room of Rikson’s Roost. A large mug of coffee steams before her. Facing her, the other members of Ghost syndicate’s council lean back in their chairs, nodding confirmation that the jobs have thieves willing to work them.

Like usual, the others have been largely silent throughout the discussion, willing to go along with whatever Myrrh suggests. Which makes her remember Sapphire’s words from the evening before. She needs the people around her to offer more contrary opinions.

Toad, a man so lanky he needs to stoop inside every building in Rat Town, leans forward. “About Noble…”

Myrrh pulls out her dagger and digs the point into the tabletop. “We’ll have to deal with him.”

“What do you suggest?” asks Ivy, a woman whose age Myrrh simply can’t guess. With stark white hair and an unlined face, she could be anywhere from thirty to sixty. Myrrh didn’t know the woman until recently. But Myrrh’s glad she took advice from Warrell, her closest friend in the syndicate, and recruited her. Ivy is shrewd even if she doesn’t speak up enough.

“For now, we’ll spread the word that Noble and his supporters are barred from entering any Rat Town establishments. Both the ones we control directly and those we don’t.”

Carver, a heavily built man with a voice like poured gravel, taps a thick finger on the table. “Are we prepared to enforce that?”

“We have to be. And we should let Ghost members know that if they encounter Noble and his gang on the streets, they’re to be shown back to First Bridge.”

Warrell lays his hands on the table, surprising Myrrh with his apparent intent to speak. “That won’t solve the problem.” He fixes her with a serious gaze.

She nods in agreement. “Unfortunately, I suspect the only way we’ll be rid of him and his Whites is when they’re feeding fish on the bottom of the Ost. But we can’t just take them one by one, or we risk giving Noble fodder for gaining sympathy. We’ll need to find their den. Take out the whole pack at once.”

Briefly, the image of a teenage boy toppling from a barge, face frozen in shock as he falls toward a drowning death, flashes in her thoughts. It’s easy for her to talk about assassinating Noble and his crew. That’s what crime bosses do. But the thought of actually ordering men’s deaths turns her stomach. She hopes the others can’t see this weakness.

“The situation with Noble brings up the general concern of turf security,” Carver says.

Myrrh winces. Yeah, that. Another thing she hadn’t really thought through before deposing Slivers. Already there have been complaints from Rat Town shopkeepers near the border with the In Betweens district. The Haven syndicate has been casing the shops, browsing with bared steel no doubt in preparation for late-night visits by a Haven representative offering to provide “protection” for the establishments.

She digs her dagger deeper into the wood of the table, twisting the point to make a little pile of sawdust. “I recently learned that Slivers had a few members of the Shield Watch on the payroll. While on their usual patrol between Rat Town and In Betweens, they kept an eye out for stray Haven people. That would help our cause.”

“But a payroll takes funds,” Toad says. “We collect some tribute from shops and taverns, but they don’t have much to give right now. The chaos in the city is hitting their profits hard.”

Myrrh nods. “And a syndicate formed of grubbers who want the full take from their jobs leaves us with other income. It’s a problem.”

“Either we gotta ask for charity from our members, or we’ll have to start imposing a tax,” Ivy says.

“People ain’t gonna like it,” Carver says.

Myrrh shrugs. “I know. Let’s think about it. Hey, any news on Ghost members gone missing or turned up dead?”

After sleeping through the day, she finds that Glint’s warning from last night feels distant. She doesn’t doubt that Lavi’s gone, but is it really a citywide issue? Maybe Glint’s just grasping for an explanation as to how one of his best skirmishers died young and in her sleep. Sometimes you just roll sixes.

Unfortunately, a shadow crosses Ivy’s face. “Maybe,” the other woman says. “An associate of mine, goes by Cobalt. He hasn’t been around lately. At least not in the usual places...here in the Roost and down at the Oaken Keg. He’s only a part-time grubber, though. Works some shifts in Smeltertown. So it makes it hard to know for sure.”

“How long?”

Ivy shrugs. “I wasn’t paying much attention until that job with the barge of Ishvar tapestries came up. I thought he and I could work it together.”

“So maybe six days?”

Ivy nods. “I suppose you could say Cobalt enjoys his ale. Hard not to find him in one of the taverns once the sun goes down. Even stranger for him to go almost a week without.”

“Do you know his squats?”

“I know a couple spots in the Spills where he likes to sleep.”

“Can you take me there a little later?”

“Sure, probably,” Ivy says. “I don’t have much going on tonight except a date with some of Rikson’s finest ale.”

“Thanks,” Myrrh says, sheathing her dagger as she stands. “If that’s it, see you tomorrow. Same time. Same place.”

“Reckon so,” Carver says.

***

The Oarsman is a rickety inn that stands along the waterfront a few blocks north of First Bridge. Mostly known for its spectacular common-room brawls and its uncommonly strong ale, the establishment also boasts cheap rooms. Of course, most people don’t use them to sleep. It’s a rare—or deaf—person who can drift off with the sounds from below penetrating the floorboards of the second story.

Myrrh starts as a particularly loud crash shakes the building’s frame. She shakes her head. She’s been standing in the upstairs hallway long enough for one of the prostitutes to drag a young bargeman into her room and send him back out, their business complete. Granted, he was young, but that’s still way too long to hesitate outside a door.

Myrrh swallows and squeezes the latch. She doesn’t bother knocking anymore when she visits Hawk. He never answers. Which makes her wonder why she continues hoping she’ll find a changed man during one of these evening visits.

Her former mentor sits by the drawn curtains over the window, staring through a narrow gap where the pieces of fabric don’t quite meet. What is he looking for out there? The man he was before he fell into the Maire’s clutches?

“They’re still feeding you, I see,” she says with a cheeriness she doesn’t feel. At least there’s that. He eats when food appears before him. If someone asks him a direct question, he answers. But the responses are limited: yes, no, I don’t know. Never enough to explain what happened.

He looks away from the window and almost meets her eyes, which is better than she gets most nights. Still, the sight of him causes her throat to clamp down. Where before, his face was strong beneath a scruff of whiskers, now his cheeks sag under the weight of the scraggly beard that’s grown in the nearly two months since his capture. She asked him once, shortly after their return, if she could bring a barber to visit him. The response was one of the few clear answers she’s received in the tenday they’ve been back from Craghold: no.

Two flimsy chairs bracket the table beneath the window. It’s where he eats the meals put before him and where she sits every evening, making one-sided conversation and wondering how long this can last. Glint sent money for Hawk’s room and board. That alone would have prompted the Hawk she once knew into breaking free of this malaise. The man who taught her thievery didn’t accept charity.

The man living above the racket in The Oarsman’s common room seems to care about nothing, least of all himself.

She sits down anyway, tucking her satchel close to her feet. Tugging back the curtain, she watches the oily flow of the Ost and the wavering bars of light cast by streetlamps on the other bank. If not for the terrible wailing of the singer who has taken up a perch in the corner of the common room below—that and the angry bellow of some drunken sailor—it might almost be peaceful up here.

“I can’t stay long tonight,” she says. “It’s not safe after dark right now. In another half an hour, I’ll need a bodyguard to move around the district.”

She watches his gaze for a hint of concern. Despite the emotionless armor he used to wrap around himself, she knows her mentor cared for her. That man must be somewhere behind the dull eyes of the creature sitting opposite her. But the comment doesn’t bring him forward.

“It’s Noble. They say he has a bounty on my head. I figure most of Rat Town is loyal to me, or at least to the Ghost syndicate. It’s already better for them here with Slivers gone. But all it takes is one opportunist finding a chance to put a dagger in my back.”

She sighs as his eyes wander back to the fog-draped night outside the window. It’s getting harder and harder to pretend at these conversations. Laying her palms flat on the table, she leans forward.

“I need you, Hawk. Whatever this is, I need you to come back. Warrell and the council are loyal, but they’re not experienced. Not like you.”

Myrrh clenches her jaw to keep her emotions from spilling over. Sometimes, when she’s near to sleep and feeling philosophical, she wonders if she would even have dared form the Ghost syndicate if she’d known Hawk would be so…broken. She’d counted on having him on her side.

On the journey back from Craghold, the Scythe told her that Hawk had been defiant on the march from Ostgard to the prison. Whatever had happened to the aging thief had occurred during his time there. But the fortress held only a tiny staff who adjusted the dust cloths covering the furniture and swept the leaves from the courtyard each autumn. Only a handful of soldiers kept watch over the wall. They hadn’t even needed to guard the prison; Hawk was the only person within, and an escape would have brought him straight into the inner bailey where he’d have immediately fallen under arrows shot from the wall.

Glint has no more ideas than the Scythe regarding Hawk’s change. She wonders if she should press him to think harder. Could it be something about Craghold itself that ruined her mentor’s mind? But Glint was just a young boy when the Maire brought their family from the mountains to Ostgard. It seems hopeless to think he might suddenly remember a critical detail.

She reaches across the table and touches the back of Hawk’s hand. He doesn’t respond, not even to pull away.

“There’s another concern. Across the city, thieves are turning up dead with no explanation. I’m heading out after this to look for a missing syndicate member. I don’t suppose you want to come...?” She gives a silent and sad laugh.

Hawk’s gaze follows a barge on a downriver run. Too fast. The captain has men on both the sails and the oars. Two strong bargemen grasp the tiller, their straining muscles visible even from the inn’s windows. A nighttime run through the city. If the barge is fast enough, the tariff takers won’t be able to sling grapples onto its deck. The method is much faster than using the smuggling route through Carp’s Refuge, but far riskier. With the narrow passages under the city’s bridges added to the threat of the Shield Watch and tariff takers, few vessels attempt it.

At least, few attempted it a month ago, back when the Maire still controlled the city. Now, the old order is breaking down.

Myrrh raps the tabletop with her knuckles as she stands. “Well, good to see you, Hawk. Come back to us, okay?”

As she walks to the door, he reaches forward and tugs the curtain closed again.

Chapter Five

MYRRH AND IVY step off the last crooked cobblestones at the edge of Rat Town and into the squelching mud that passes for streets in the Spills. The smell of things rotting in the bog beyond the swath of stilt houses sweeps Myrrh back to a different time. She can almost hear the pattering of rain on the shingled roof of the squat she once shared with Nab and Hawk. If she closes her eyes, the drizzle falling from low clouds overhead is instead the fine mist that often penetrated their shack’s siding when the wind and rain kicked up.

Back then, all she had to worry about was finding her next job. Stealing enough copper pieces to feed herself when the major gigs were scarce. Plus a little extra to put food in Nab’s belly.

But there were hungry nights. Times when she shivered far from shelter while Shields marched through Rat Town during one of their purges. Cracking skulls before they asked questions. Uncaring if they left lifeless bodies in their wake.

Myrrh might feel her responsibilities like a lead cloak over her shoulders, but things are better for the people of Rat Town now. She hopes, anyway.

As Myrrh and Ivy tromp deeper into the eerie forest of stilt houses, the long legs of the buildings at angles that won’t hold up their burdens for long, she remembers other things. Earlier times before Hawk took her into his care. A specific memory makes her wince, the hard crack of a stick against her knuckles when she was caught picking pockets. Back then, she was just a little urchin with big eyes peering from a mop of dark hair. Not even the hard-faced barge captains or cunning sellers of knickknacks could conscience turning her in to the Shield Watch when her wrist was no thicker than a broomstick in their grips. So they’d hurt her, no doubt thinking the punishment would teach her not to steal. A child like her should not dare look under the Maire’s law for the opportunities that might lurk beneath.

The abuse never worked, of course, but what they never realized was how easy it would actually have been to turn her around. A barge captain could have offered a copper piece if she would just scurry to the dumpling cart and bring a fresh package of steaming food back while he finished his business with the dockmaster. Myrrh wouldn’t even have pinched one of the dumplings from the paper wrapping, no matter how much her stomach ached at the gingery smell. Because that chance to earn a copper would have meant someone thought her efforts were worthwhile. It would have proved that with enough effort, she could make something of herself.

But anyway, those days are long past. Now Myrrh is worth something. A whole syndicate of thieves depends on her and the council she gathered. As she slops through the mud beside Ivy, she takes a deep breath and straightens her spine. With the blessing of the Queen of Nines, Cobalt is just off carousing in another district. Or maybe he hopped a barge downriver to see what fortune might bring in one of the stopovers between Ostgard and the Port Cities. People leave the city all the time to seek better prospects. Of course, most come back, shoulders slumped and lips sealed over whatever failures greeted them in other towns.

Myrrh can hope that’s the worst that might befall Cobalt, anyway.

She glances at the woman beside her. Aside from her operation with Mink, Glint’s expert assassin who was paired with Myrrh during the bid to unseat the Porcelain Hand syndicate, she hasn’t had much chance to work with a female thief.

“How often have you and Cobalt run jobs together,” she asks, careful to speak as if the man is still alive.

Ivy glances toward the sky as if calculating the time, then seems to think better of it when the drizzle hits her eyes. She grimaces as she swipes the water from her face. “A year or two, I figure. Sometime before the last Rhemmsfest was our first time on a score. He stood sentry while I held up a cart leaving the Yards.”

Myrrh raises an eyebrow. The Yards are across the River Ost. Not Slivers territory, which means she or Cobalt must have a contact within the syndicate controlling the Yards and Smeltertown beyond. Blackfold. Nasty people. Given what Ivy mentioned about Cobalt working part-time in the smelters, seems likely he was the contact. Which also makes her wonder…could his disappearance be as simple as having left to join the rival organization?

“Anything special about him?” If he didn’t just leave and his body is slowly rotting somewhere, it seems strange to her that there’d be no relationship between him and the other victims. What point would there be in eliminating random targets?

“Not sure what to say to that. He was just a regular grubber. Fairly competent, but not someone you’d expect to wind up as a syndicate boss someday. Mostly I liked working with him because we both have kids.”

Myrrh can’t hide her surprise as her footsteps slow. “You have children?” She’s never thought of her fellow thieves as parent material. Why bring a kid into such a miserable life? But she supposes it must happen. Clearly it happens, judging by what Ivy just said.

The older woman smirks. “Don’t be so sure you won’t have your own someday.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Ivy snorts. “Anyway, yes, I have a boy and a girl. Every copper I take goes to making sure they don’t end up like me.”

“Where?”

“Where do they live, you mean?”

Myrrh nods.

“Rat Town, same as you and me. But they work running errands for shops. When Rachel is old enough, she’ll have an apprenticeship with a seamstress. Theo…well, I’m hoping to get him in with a hostler. He does better with animals than people. Coarse, that boy.”

Even though this talk of children makes Myrrh’s skin crawl—Nab is more than enough responsibility for her, and he doesn’t even want her to look after him—she’s glad to know that life is almost normal for some Ghost members. Someday, she hopes everyone in the syndicate can feel confident having children if they want them.

“There,” Ivy says. “Cobalt sometimes hangs a hammock under that house.” She points to a small shack, the single room surrounded by a balcony just wide enough to walk on. A crooked ladder climbs from the muck to the platform.

There’s no hammock swinging beneath the home.

“Do you know the people that live above?”

Ivy shakes her head.

“I’ll go up, then.”

Myrrh swings onto the ladder and scampers up. When she raps on the doorframe, a man with a gaunt face and a thin halo of hair answers, pulling back the curtain that serves as a door. He shakes his head when she asks about Cobalt. No sign of the man.

Back down in the mud, she gestures for Ivy to lead on. According to the other thief, Cobalt’s second squat isn’t far.

“What about his children? He doesn’t live with them?”

Ivy shakes her head. “They live downriver. On the outskirts of a town called Frent, I think. The mother raises vegetables. Cobalt visits sometimes.”

“So maybe that’s where he’s gone.”

“Maybe so.”

Myrrh doesn’t want to acknowledge the faint odor she smells as they draw near the second shack. It’s not the olive-green stench of rotting plants—that’s ever-present in the Spills. This smells like spoiled meat.

And it gets stronger as they approach.

Ivy’s troubled gaze reflects the expression Myrrh feels on her own face. There’s little doubt about what they’ll find in the small shanty atop the stilt platform. Myrrh starts for the ladder. Ivy lays a restraining hand on her forearm.

“Have you ever seen someone…someone who’s been gone for a while?” she asks.

Myrrh shakes her head, lips pressed together.

“Maybe it should be me that goes up then. I helped when the yellow pox went through Rat Town. Probably before you were born.”

Myrrh wants to take the easy route, but she can’t. She needs to be up there to look for clues about what happened to Cobalt if his situation is as mysterious as Lavi’s was.

“If it was some form of sickness, better you stay down here,” Myrrh says. “Because of your kids and all.”

The tightness around the woman’s eyes eases as she hands over the lantern. Whether or not she’s witnessed something like this, she’s clearly not eager to see it again.

Balancing awkwardly with the lantern in one hand, her other hand gripping the rungs, Myrrh makes her way up the ladder. The smell gets worse the higher she goes, almost as if it collects in a pillow atop the platform and spills over the edges. She coughs and hurries as best she can, desperate to get her tunic pulled up over her nose and mouth before the stench makes her retch.

Myrrh doesn’t know enough to judge how long he’s been dead. Days, most likely. Cobalt’s body leans against the wall, legs outstretched, hands in his lap. The flesh is bloated, clothes tight over his trunk and legs. His head lolls forward. Dark spots mar his skin where decay has begun, but she sees no obvious sign of disease. There’s definitely no blood.

Her jaw clenches as she moves closer, a surge of bile rising in her throat. She tries not to see the wriggling of maggots and instead focuses on the scene as a whole. Cobalt’s bedroll is neatly folded and stacked in the corner opposite his body. Beside it, a plate holds a dry crust of bread and a wedge of moldy cheese. A lantern stands next to his leg, the wick black, the oil reservoir dry. It’s almost as if he abandoned his evening meal then fell asleep with the lamp burning, and after all these days, the lantern’s fuel has finally run out.

There’s nothing else in the room. Closing her eyes to summon her courage, Myrrh sets down her lantern and edges toward the body. With delicate fingertips, she plucks at his cloak, pulling it back from the stretched wool tunic. She runs her hands along the cloak’s oiled leather, feeling for pockets, for some sort of clue. Stuffed like a sausage inside the woolen thief’s garb, the body presses hard enough against the fabric to show her there are no telltale lumps of hidden pockets there either.

There’s nothing. No reason for him to have died. Just like Glint said about Lavi.

Myrrh turns for the door and picks up her lantern, wondering if she’ll ever get the smell of death out of her nose. That’s when she spots it, the faint shine of metal above the door. A small charm has been tacked to the door frame. She reaches up and pries it free. The trinket drops into her palm, sharp edges pressing into her calluses. It’s a symbol she’s never seen before, a diamond pierced by crossed daggers.

Rogues and cutpurses are superstitious. It’s easy to see that by traveling the thieves’ paths that crisscross the city, the ways marked by the sign of the Queen of Nines scratched into wood or drawn in charcoal on stone. It’s no surprise that Cobalt would place a charm above his door. Still, the unfamiliar symbol makes her think it’s a lead to pursue.

Despite what they both knew, Myrrh still sees the hope in Ivy’s eyes when she descends the ladder. She shakes her head. Ivy drops her gaze.

“I’ll leave a report for the corpse wagon,” the woman says. “And I’ll try to find a way to send word to the family.”

Myrrh takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she says. “We’ll get word through the syndicate, too. Plan a time to raise glasses in his honor.”

“He deserves that,” Ivy says. “Poor sixing fool…never hurt anyone.”

Chapter Six

IT’S A LONG and somber trudge back to Rikson’s Roost. As Myrrh and Ivy near the doorway, Ivy hesitates.

“You suspected something had happened to him,” the woman says.

Myrrh glances at a dirty streetlamp and the sickly glow it casts over nearby cobblestones. Once, the deep shadows in Rat Town wrapped her tight and hid her from the Shield Watch. Now, with Noble’s threats and a mystery killer on the loose, she wishes someone bothered to clean the lanterns occasionally.

She shivers in the damp night air. “A contact of mine warned me there have been mysterious deaths in the city. Similar circumstances to Cobalt’s.”

“You didn’t actually tell me what his circumstances were.”

Myrrh shrugs. “It’s almost as if there were no special circumstances. I could see no reason for his death. No injuries. He looked healthy.”

Ivy is hiding her grief well, but Myrrh spies a shadow of it behind the woman’s eyes. “He was. No older than me. It’s hard for me to think about his kids learning what happened.”

“Between this and the threat from Noble’s crew, I think Ghost members should work in pairs. Especially at night.”

“Yeah. Grim times, I guess. Almost makes me miss the Maire and the vague attempt by the Shield Watch to keep order.”

Myrrh looks away so the other woman can’t read her face. Aside from Warrell, the other council members don’t know her part in the Maire’s exile.

“Speaking of working in pairs, I have an appointment of sorts at The Queen’s Dice. Come with me?”

Ivy casts a longing glance at the warm light spilling from the door of the Roost. No doubt she’s thinking of the tankard that was about to fall into her hand.

“The ale there’s not as good as what they have at Rikson’s, but I’ll buy the first round.”

Ivy smirks. “It’s a deal, I suppose.”

***

Inside Sapphire’s gambling house, Ivy waves a pair of fingers when she spots a table full of smugglers Myrrh recognizes from her time in Carp’s Refuge.

Ivy casts Myrrh a questioning look. “So what’s the job?”

“Not a job so much as an introduction. Someone’s been here looking for me. A stranger. No idea what his intents are.”

“Should we meet him together?”

“Hmm. Let me think.” Myrrh steps up to the bar and waits for the bartender to acknowledge her. “Two ales, please.”

When he turns his back to tap the foamy drinks from the keg, Myrrh runs her gaze over the room. She has at least a passing familiarity to everyone inside, which means the stranger hasn’t arrived yet. He told Sapphire he’d be here at midnight. They probably have at least half an hour to wait.

She slides a mug toward Ivy when the bartender delivers them. “I think we’ll learn more if you watch from a different table while I talk to him. Keep an eye out for anyone who is paying outsized interest to our conversation.”

“Drinks are on the house for coming through on tonight’s security,” the bartender says, swiping his towel over the counter before heading off to serve another customer.

“Then I’ll take the opportunity to catch up with some old friends,” Ivy says. She strides across the room and pulls up a chair at the smugglers’ table. The dealer acknowledges her with a curt nod, sliding a pair of cards in front of her on the next deal. Faces go blank as everyone peeks at their hands and the first round of betting begins.

A piper plays a quiet tune in the corner, providing music for a pair of buxom dancers who aren’t wearing quite enough clothing. Myrrh’s eyes wander to the floorboards where the pool of blood stood last night. The outline is almost invisible, no doubt thanks to lye and a lot of effort on Becky’s part. Filled with gamblers and serving girls and hangers-on, The Queen’s Dice could be a different establishment from the one she visited last night. She turns back to the bar and begins to nurse her ale.

A few minutes later, Sapphire pulls up a stool next to her.

“If Rattle turns up, do you want to use one of my private rooms to talk? We run our high-stake games in the back.” She huffs. “Merchants might come to Rat Town to slum, but they don’t actually want to be subjected to commoner contact.”

“That’s his name? Rattle?”

“So he says.”

“I brought an associate to watch from afar. I’ll talk to him out here.”

“Suit yourself,” Sapphire says. She produces a deck of cards from a pouch on her belt. “Care for a game of Miser’s Draw?”

Myrrh laughs. “I’ll keep the few coppers I have, thanks.”

The woman cuts the deck one-handed. She then bends the pack and sends the cards flying through the air with a whirr to securely arrive in her other hand. “I’m just teasing anyway. One of my dealers didn’t show today so I’m filling in.”

After what Myrrh saw in Cobalt’s shack tonight, Sapphire’s words put a chill in her gut. “Does that happen often?” she asks.

Sapphire sighs and shuffles the deck. “More than I’d like. Maybe I pay them too well if they think they can drop shifts when the urge strikes.”

Myrrh considers asking the woman to inform her if the dealer or any of her other workers actually disappear. Glint did say the mysterious deaths included prostitutes and fences and others who worked on the wrong side of the law. Dealing cards is a gray area, as is running a gambling house. Under the Maire’s rules, wagers were legal, but with the taxes imposed on the bets, no one could have made money that way. Sapphire is most certainly guilty of avoiding her tax payments, but if that’s reason for this mystery killer to strike, just about every citizen of Ostgard has reason to fear.

She decides against saying anything. Sapphire has enough to worry about with Noble’s crew prowling the district.

“And here is your new admirer,” Sapphire says, holding the deck of cards so that when she points at a man who just entered the room, her finger is hidden from his view.

Myrrh keeps her eyes on the bar top, fingertips pressed against the cool pewter of her mug. After a moment, she yawns and looks around the room as if considering whether to join one of the gaming tables.

Rattle is a dark figure, preternaturally still against the commotion in the gambling hall. He wears a black leather coat cut below the hips, unbuttoned and showing a tight-fitting shirt of dark wool beneath. The metal buckles on his belt and boots have been scuffed and oiled so they don’t catch the light. His dark hair is pulled back and fastened in a neat tail at the nape of his neck, and though not quite swarthy, his lined face is tan enough to indicate he spends some time under the glare of the sun.

One of Rattle’s eyes is the dark brown of rich coffee. The other is an orb of polished ruby-tinted glass. A faint scar crosses his eyebrow, attesting to the long-ago injury that cost him sight in that eye.

His bearing alone suggests a competent thief. But when his single-eyed gaze finds hers, she shivers in the knowledge that this man isn’t just an expert at his craft. He’s a merciless assassin and untouchable rogue. And he knows she can see it.

Myrrh leaves her half-empty drink behind and stands straight as she crosses the room toward the newcomer. He tracks her with his gaze as she weaves through the tables and avoids a scurrying barmaid.

“Myrrh, I assume,” he says as she stops a pace away and crosses her arms.

“I understand you wish to speak with me.”

“Shall we sit?” His voice is neither gruff nor smooth. It’s almost as if he wishes his words to be as unmemorable as possible.

She gives him a curt nod and gestures toward one of the few tables reserved for patrons not playing in the evening’s games. When they sit, it seems as if the room stills. Not so much as to be blatant, but in the way that conversations in a crowd of market-goers sink to whispers as people pass the corpse of a stray dog trampled under the hooves of a team of horses.

Myrrh pitches her voice low so that any would-be eavesdroppers will be disappointed. “Sapphire conveyed something of your interest in our syndicate, but I prefer to hear what you have to say directly.”

Sidelight from the table’s lantern sparks a glow deep in the man’s false eye. “It’s rare that a new organization so quickly grows from the ashes of another. The situation piqued my interest.”

“Some might say Slivers made a mistake by allowing so many freelancers to work Rat Town and First Docks. If we hadn’t had such a large grubber population ready to take over, no doubt there would have been the usual struggle for control.”

Rattle glances up as a serving girl approaches. Something in his gaze makes her pause, or maybe it’s just the shock of his glass eye, but after a moment she collects herself and stands beside them expectantly.

“I’ll have a water,” he says.

Myrrh shakes her head. “Nothing for me.”

He waits until the girl is a few paces away before leaning over the table toward Myrrh. “You succeeded spectacularly in grabbing control of Rat Town, yet your gambit to take the territory left you with powerful enemies.”

She shrugs. “A thief’s life is a dangerous one.”

“I can help you fend off Noble’s crew. I have certain…resources at my disposal.”

“Let’s start with you explaining why you want to help.”

“Hmm. Well, like you, I prefer freelance work. I don’t enjoy being beholden to an organization, and it’s rare that I find partners I can trust. But as I’ve aged, my reflexes have slowed. It’s harder to run halfway across the city to escape a persistent guard. A syndicate like yours could allow me the freedom I cherish while providing the support I will need in my later years.”

She’s surprised to hear him admit his failings. Most criminals are far too nervous to show such weakness for fear it will bring the vultures. In a way, that speaks to his abilities. Regardless of whether his skills are faltering, he’s still confident he can withstand an attack.

“All right. So you want support from my organization. What do you offer in exchange? We have little interest in giving charity.”

The serving girl returns with his water.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes still locked with Myrrh’s.

When the girl leaves, he takes a breath and continues. “I mentioned resources. I’m not ready to go into specifics until I know where we stand. However, my experience alone would more than make up for any drain I put on your organization. I am looking to lead. Perhaps to serve as a strategist and mentor. I understand you make decisions by way of a council.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s a bold request.”

“I see no benefit in hiding my aims. I understand we will need some time to get to know one another. What if, say, I helped you deal with Noble and the other Whites?”

“I’m not opposed to having the problem resolved sooner than later, but frankly, for all I know you’re working for Noble. Say I allow you to deal with him. How could I trust your report that the situation had been resolved? If I were to let down my guard so easily, he’d have an easier time getting his revenge.”

“Oh, I’m not offering to kill him for you. I’m offering to give you the tools to take care of your own problem.”

She stifles the urge to bristle at his implication that she can’t solve this without his help. “I already have an instructor in the art of swordplay.”

“I was under the impression that you and Glint were no longer quite so close.”

She’s glad for all the hours Hawk spent drilling her in hiding her reactions. How does he know about Glint? Myrrh’s definitely uneasy now.

“In any case,” she says, “opening Noble’s throat is not how I plan to resolve this. It’s not my style.”

“So why do you assume I wish to teach you to fight?”

“Is it poisons then?”

“You hide your emotions well. I know it disturbs you that I claim to know so much about your recent history. But there’s no real magic in it. I have means of identifying relationships between people. The boy, Nab—”

“Nab has nothing to do with this. He’s learning his letters. He’ll get an apprenticeship as a scribe or courier.”

He raises a hand to stop her objections. “Whatever your plans for him, I was only going to say that I recognized the bond between you two and asked him a few things. Such as whether he could tell me about recent events and your place in them.”

Beneath the table, Myrrh digs her fingernails into her kneecaps. “When did you talk to him? He’s supposed to stay inside until the unrest in the city quiets.”

Rattle shrugs. “Perhaps he didn’t get that message. I followed him last night while he patrolled a circuit that took him past half-a-dozen of the district’s bakeries. Apparently, few of them lock their back windows.”

That little rat. He snuck out after letting Glint into the safe house. She should have checked when Glint claimed to have left him scavenging for pastries in the kitchen.

“Sixing flea,” she mutters. “I’ll have to deal with Nab later. So you must have followed me home after I came here to talk to Sapphire last night.”

“I figured she would call for you. Regardless of your claim that Ghost syndicate is run by council, it seems to me that everyone defers to you.”

“For now. Once the turmoil settles, I suspect it will be harder to exert authority.”

He nods. “Insightful for someone of your level of experience. During chaos, most people are all too willing to follow whoever seems to know where they’re going. It’s afterward that they start to complain about where the group ended up.”

Across the room, a chorus of disappointed groans rises from a table. A man with a wide face grins as he drags a massive pile of copper and silver coins toward his region of the tabletop. Rattle’s expression remains flat…almost. The faintest crow’s feet show as his eyes smile in amusement at the losers’ dismay.

The reaction from the Ghost members working as bouncers is much different. Hands on cudgels, they shift toward the table in case some of the losers decide to protest with their fists as well as their voices.

“You said you can recognize relationships between people,” Myrrh says, “but you didn’t see me and Nab interact. I haven’t even seen his weaselly little face in a few days.”

So far, Rattle’s water has stood untouched. He blinks, lifts the glass, and takes a swallow. “You’re right. I’ve never seen the two of you together, yet I know of your bond. Which brings us back to a discussion of the tools and resources I can offer you.”

“Tools and resources which you won’t talk about unless I agree to give you a position in the organization. On the council no less.”

“I didn’t say that, precisely. Certainly we’ll need a greater level of trust and cooperation for me to give you everything. But I understand we’ll remain at an impasse if I give you nothing. You are obviously aware of the effects of the glimmer resin, seeing as you used it to blind Noble and six of his men.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“There are other compounds from the Haava Islands.”

“Like nightbark,” she says, remembering the conversation with Glint where he explained that both substances caused terrible effects if too much was taken.

“Yes, that’s another which is commonly known. The compounds I’m talking about are much rarer. The substance I used to learn about you and Nab is called etch.”

“And?”

“You rightly concluded that I followed you from this establishment to your safe house. But it wasn’t your body I trailed. Every person has a unique signature. It’s a mix of their thoughts and spiritual energies plus the physical: the scented oils they wear, the particular odor of their sweat. As they move about their homes and cities, they leave behind a trail—an etching. This residue tends to collect more thickly around the places and people the subject holds dear. Your friend Nab is practically smothered in your lingering essence.”

Myrrh grimaces a little at the thought. “Etch resin lets you see this residue?”

“It’s a leaf actually. You must smoke it, which makes the dosage harder to calculate. But yes, when you’re influenced by etch, the trails are visible. It’s not easy to describe. Better to experience.”

“What’s the negative if you have too much? Nightbark kills. Glimmer blinds.”

“Etch maddens.”

“I see.”

“Etch can help you find Noble—you need to see the living person to learn to recognize their etching, but after that it would be trivial to follow him to his nest. I’ll give you a small supply for free, in exchange for allowing me probationary membership in your syndicate. I understand you won’t be ready to accept me on the council at first, but I would expect a position eventually.”

Myrrh lets the sounds from the gaming tables fall over her. From the bar, she hears Sapphire calling out a bawdy taunt, trying to goad someone into making a bigger bet.

“Perhaps you’d like some time to think about my offer,” he says.

She nods. “I’ll look for you here. Same time tomorrow, shall we say?”

He stands and leaves the table without another word. A small puff of cool air falls over her as he pulls the door open and steps into the night.

Chapter Seven

NOT LONG AFTER Rattle’s departure, Myrrh slips up beside Ivy. The woman has a silver and two coppers riding on her hand of cards, but she quickly folds and leaves her bet behind.

“I could have waited,” Myrrh says as they stride back toward the bar.

Ivy smirks. “I had two court’s fools, a six, and a three. Nearly the worst hand in Miser’s Draw. But now they’ll never know it.”

Myrrh leans an elbow against the bar and turns to face the other woman. “Tell me what you saw.”

Ivy grimaces. “I wouldn’t want to cross that man. I got the sense he wasn’t the forgiving type. But I’m almost certain he came alone.”

The bartender steps up with an expectant look.

Myrrh shakes her head. “I’m leaving soon.”

“Can you have one of the girls drop another ale by my spot at the Miser’s Draw table?” Ivy asks. When the bartender nods and heads for the tap, she turns back to Myrrh. “So what did he want?”

Myrrh isn’t ready to tell her council about etch. Best not to set the wrong expectations—she needs to know whether Rattle is trustworthy first. “He’s freelance from downriver. Getting older, thinks it’s time to join an organization.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him we have plenty of jobs, but he’s interested in leadership.”

“That takes trust.”

“That’s exactly what I told him. He’s welcome to stay in Rat Town and take some of the gigs open to syndicate members. After that, we’ll see.”

Ivy nods and glances at her spot in the card game.

“Go ahead,” Myrrh says. “I’m sure Sapphire has someone to send with me for the walk to the safe house.”

***

It’s not even halfway between midnight and dawn, but the streets are already as quiet as she’d expect from the morning hours when Rat Town sleeps off the night’s debauchery. A few muffled voices and shouts are held tight by the district’s taverns and gambling houses, the doors shut as if to keep out the darkness and unease that crouches over the city. Even the faint strains of music reflect the mood, harpists and lute players choosing tunes in minor keys, singers opting for quiet ballads.

Sapphire has assigned a different slab of muscle to guard Myrrh on the walk between The Queen’s Dice and home. The man follows a pace or two behind her, his feet thudding against the cobblestones. He holds his silence, responding with grunts if anything. It’s just as well; Myrrh doesn’t feel like talking.

She doesn’t know what to make of Rattle. Can she trust him? Glint never mentioned anything about etch or other rare substances from Haava. And she still can’t help worrying that Rattle is working for Noble. From the perspective of the former Slivers boss, it would be a suitable revenge to trick her into using a compound that would turn her mad.

But if Rattle is telling the truth, this is an opportunity she shouldn’t pass up. The ability to track people and glean information about who and what they care for could be a tremendous boon. Flushing Noble’s nest would be a good first use for the leaf. As for other applications, her mind races through options: the opportunity to extract blackmail material from merchants, the ability to know where affluent travelers have rented rooms for their stay in Ostgard, the chance to follow tariff collectors to the city council’s secret vaults.

Distracted by her whirling thoughts, she hears the footsteps too late. By the time she spots the shadows emerging from the alley ahead, her bodyguard is already under attack.

He grunts as something hard thuds against flesh. Myrrh whirls, intent on closing the distance so they can fight back to back. Her breath catches when he falls to a knee. Three assailants surround him, flowing through the night like wraiths. Her guard lashes out with a backhand swipe, knocks out a knee, but another of the attackers leaps onto his back. Lithe, slight of build. Myrrh marks her as a woman, but she can’t be sure.

Myrrh shouts and jumps to his defense, aiming a fist at the shadowy area beneath the attacker’s cowl. Her knuckles connect with a crunch, snapping the woman’s head back. She spots the flash of glimmer in the woman’s eyes, the gleam of teeth as she snarls at the pain. With the glimmer resin coursing through their veins, the attackers can see as if in broad daylight. They can move with the precision of vipers.

Myrrh doesn’t have time to figure out whether she recognizes the attacker. A heartbeat later, the last of the trio that jumped her bodyguard is on her. A heavy fist pounds her ribs under her right arm. Myrrh feels the bones flex, pain flashing through her chest. The muscles of her back seize, and her arm goes limp as she stumbles away. With desperate blocks, she deflects a couple more blows that aim for her face.

Thumping footsteps announce when the remaining three ambushers sprint from the alley mouth, more black-clad ruffians into the fray. Myrrh shoots a frantic gaze to her bodyguard who is struggling to regain his feet under a hail of blows from two of the shadowy attackers. They attack with fists and the flash of brass knuckles. No blades.

Myrrh doubts that’s because they lack the expertise. These people want to take her alive. Noble wishes to extract his punishment in person. Slowly.

A kick knocks out Myrrh’s knee from behind. She nearly falls. Yelling through gritted teeth, she forces her paralyzed right arm back to life. Her dagger flashes in the yellow glow from a nearby lantern as she yanks it free. Quick-stepping back, she tries to get her flanks clear.

There are just too many. She wasn’t vigilant enough. With a few long strides and a sliding attack, one of the assailants knocks Myrrh’s feet out from under her. She hits hard. The dagger goes flying across the street and clatters against a wall. She raises fists to defend her face, brings her feet up to kick away attacks.

A sickening crack echoes through the street when a nightstick whacks her bodyguard’s skull.

He collapses in a heap.

The attackers surround her, looming over her in a circle of silvery glimmer eyes.

She has a moment to wonder where Noble got access to the resin before hands snatch her wrists and ankles. She flails, unwilling to give up without a struggle. Her captors grunt but hold firm, their motions sharpened by the glimmer. Myrrh never stood a chance against these odds. Why didn’t she listen more closely to the warnings?

Abandoning the guard’s slumped body, the captors drag her out of sight and into a dark aisle between buildings.

“Get her bound,” the woman hisses.

Myrrh closes her eyes, trying to place the voice. But recognition doesn’t come. She was probably just a low-level skirmisher under Noble’s hierarchy. Not important enough for Myrrh’s and Glint’s people to recruit during the coup. But with glimmer singing in her veins, she’s twice the fighter Myrrh is.

One of the captors wraps a length of stiff rope around her left wrist, cinching it painfully tight before roughly grabbing the other arm and binding them together. Noble’s people drag her upright and shove a gag through her lips. Too late, Myrrh tries to yell. It wouldn’t have done any good, not in Rat Town. But she hates that she went to this fate quietly.

Now a blade comes out, glinting in the woman’s grip. She snarls and presses it to Myrrh’s neck.

“We’re moving,” she says. “Don’t fight if you want to live.”

Myrrh doesn’t acknowledge her. Instead, she turns her eyes forward, focuses on the alley mouth.

She spots movement an instant before a hissing sound ends with a strange pop as a crossbow bolt skewers one of her captor’s windpipes. The man falls to the ground, a wet whistle escaping his throat.

The next bolt takes the woman in the eye. She spirals silently to the alley floor.

Another shot misses and strikes the wooden wall at the back of the alley with a thunk. Two captors scramble for the alley entrance leaving two to guard her. Myrrh bursts into action, jamming an elbow into the voice box of the man on one side of her, whirling and bringing her knee to the other’s groin. Both double over.

She sprints down the dead-end alley. By the time she reaches the street, one of the men who ran to find the attacker is down, a crossbow bolt bristling from between his ribs. The other is running full tilt away from the scene.

There’s no sign of her rescuer. Just shadows and fog and the grimy light from a pair of neglected streetlamps. The movement she thought she spotted was directly opposite the alley, but there’s nothing there now but splintery siding and a window with drawn curtains. She searches up and down the street, scanning alcoves and doorways. Nothing. Her bodyguard is still unconscious in the center of the street.

Behind her, the man she kneed grunts as he starts to recover. A footfall crunches as it lands on the trash filling the alley. She can’t stand here any longer.

Myrrh runs to her bodyguard’s side. Shoves a toe against his shoulder. He rolls, falling from a slumped-over kneeling position to an open-eyed sprawl on the cobblestones.

Bile rises in her throat as she quickly crouches and maneuvers her bound hands to feel for a pulse.

A weak thrumming. He might live, but Myrrh can do nothing to defend him.

Anger floods her veins as Myrrh stands and takes off sprinting. Her hands saw back and forth across her belly, arms desperate to pump the air and speed her escape.

Behind, another hiss cuts the air. A body thumps as it hits the street. She risks a glance back but still can’t see who saved her.

At the next corner, she turns and runs hard for home.

Chapter Eight

WHEN THE SUN rises, Myrrh is still pacing. Graves gave up his attempts to persuade her to go to sleep when dawn began to pale the sky above the crooked roofs to the east. He wandered off to bed, rousing another of the syndicate’s thieves to guard the safe house door. The new sentry, Piebald, is a man in his thirties with a line of hoops in one ear and a mischievous gleam anchored in his eyes. They haven’t spoken much since he took up the watch. Right now, he’s sitting at a small table, staring at the door while he gives himself a haircut by holding locks of hair out from his scalp and severing them with his belt knife.

Despite the hours that have passed since the ambush, Myrrh’s hands still shake when she takes them out of her pockets. It’s almost certain that Noble sent the attackers, but who rescued her? Possibly Rattle, a ploy to prove his loyalty. If so, he’ll surely tell her next time she sees him. But that doesn’t seem quite right, because if nothing else, she didn’t see a crossbow on him. His jacket was cut close enough to his body that a weapon like that would have been hard to conceal.

Warrell, maybe? He’s protective of her, and is more likely to have her quietly followed than to confront her about safety.

A wave of melancholy hits her when the next name comes to mind. A few weeks ago, she would’ve been sure it was Hawk that saved her. Not anymore.

As she turns to pace the other direction, Nab comes shuffling out of his room. Myrrh does a double take as he yawns and stretches. Has he grown? It hasn’t been that long since she saw him. More likely, the events of recent weeks have caused him to carry himself differently. Or maybe she’s adjusting her expectations, learning to think of him as more than the urchin pickpocket she took into her care a few years ago.

“I heard you’ve been robbing bakeries,” she comments.

Nab rubs his eyes as he shrugs. “I am a thief.”

She closes her eyes. How can she possibly convince him there’s a better way? “Rat Town isn’t safe at night. Not right now.”

“That’s the nice thing about being an orphan,” he says. “No parents to tell you what to do.” He casts her a pointed stare.

He’s right in that she has no real authority over him, at least not personally. She could threaten to kick him out of the safe house; everyone else here pulls their weight by working jobs to buy food and standing watch at the door. But the threat wouldn’t work, because he’d probably just move back to their old squat. Or maybe one of the other dens inhabited by Ghost members would offer him a bed.

“But the leaders of your syndicate can tell you what to do. Ghost has an arrangement with the honest people of Rat Town. We keep the Shield Watch off their backs and distract the most persistent of the tax collectors. Plus we make sure rival syndicates don’t come in and start demanding tithes. In exchange, the shopkeeps and bakers and whorehouse madams pay us a small tribute. This arrangement does not include us stealing from them.”

He slouches and rolls his eyes. “Then give me a real job.”

“I need to send a message to Glint today.”

He scoffs. “I said real.”

Myrrh pinches her temples between her thumb and middle finger. Just as well. She was thinking of personally carrying the news of Cobalt’s death to Glint anyway. It would be a good chance to talk to him about etch and Rattle’s offer.

“I’ll try to think of something, but only if your tutor gives me a good report on your reading progress.”

Nab mutters something under his breath that sounds like a reference to the Miser’s anatomy. Without another word, he shuffles toward the kitchen. Piebald pretends to yawn to cover his amusement.

“I’m going to try to catch a catnap,” Myrrh says. “Can you ask the sentry to wake me before noon?”

“Sure thing, boss,” he says, slicing through another chunk of hair.

“And please sweep up after you’re done playing barber.”

He groans but nods.

***

Myrrh steps out the door of the safe house and into midday light filtered by high clouds. Her body aches from the struggle last night, and her eyes burn from waking after such a short morning nap. But it will take more than two hours to reach Glint’s base of operations, and that’s if she can manage a quick pace. She can’t squander any more daylight.

Of course, a quick pace seems unlikely, given the bags of wet sand that seem tied to her feet.

The shortest route to Lower Fringe cuts across the Neck and Maire’s Quarter. By night, she could probably traverse the thieves’ paths across the Quarter without incident. It’s too risky in broad daylight, though, even with the chaos gripping the city. Instead, she heads for Second Bridge, intent on skimming just the southern border of the Neck on the way to the eastern bank of the Ost.

Even though noon has come and gone, Rat Town still slumbers. The results of last night’s revelry spill from some of the taverns: pools of vomit, broken glass bottles, and the occasional drunk sleeping around the side of a building. Closer to Second Bridge, a few of the district’s honest tradespeople and shopkeepers have unlatched their doors and hung out their placards. Many have hired armed guards to stand beside their doors. Myrrh doesn’t like the look of that. It means they don’t trust Ghost syndicate’s protection.

She keeps moving though, intent on reaching Glint’s and making the return journey before nightfall. After last night, she doesn’t intend to be on Rat Town streets after dark. Not until Noble is dealt with.

She reaches the foot of Second Bridge and starts across. The bridges are named for the order in which a barge passes beneath them as it travels upriver. But of the five spans that arch over the River Ost, binding the city and its commerce in strange ways, Second Bridge is the oldest. It’s also her favorite because of the massive limestone towers that rise from islands in the river, supporting heavy timbers that are painted with tar each year to stave off rot. Carvings decorate the towers from top to bottom, faces and figures and ancient symbols all muted with age. Moss clings beneath cornices and overhangs like beards, giving the whole bridge the appearance of having been transported from a distant jungle.

The bridge is only wide enough for one direction of wagon travel at a time, especially because the city allows a few peddlers to set up stalls in the shadows of the limestone pillars. Because the bridge connects Rat Town, home to lowlifes and humble tradesmen, to the Neck where shipping magnates and foreign traders have their offices, it’s one of the few places where sellers who cater to both populations can work. A woman with sly eyes winks at Myrrh as she cries out the benefits of her love potions and perfumes. Farther along, a surgeon numbs a patient by offering swallows of whiskey so strong the fumes make Myrrh’s eyes water. As she hurries past, the surgeon lays a razor against the patient’s foot and slices out a deep wart.

The center of the bridge is the true boundary between districts, but the entire span is treated as neutral territory. A sort of no man’s land where all are welcome. Myrrh’s glad for the separation from the Neck. It’s one less thing to worry about. Irons, the syndicate running most crime operations in the other district, had a peaceable relationship with Slivers. Myrrh doesn’t see any reason for them to change their behavior now that Ghost runs Rat Town. But she hasn’t had a chance to sit down and parley with the leaders yet either.

Once onto the cleaner streets of the Neck, she pulls her cloak’s hood forward. After her recent pickpocketing spree, it seems like a good idea. She stops at a cart selling sticky buns and buys breakfast, no doubt spending coppers she stole from merchants patronizing the district’s night market.

The bun is divine, filling her palate with aching sweetness and rich butter layered with hints of cinnamon and clove. She nibbles as she walks, savoring the experience. Back in Rat Town, the bakers do what they can. But fine white baking flour is beyond their means. And anyway, seems Nab would probably just steal the offerings if they managed to produce them.

As she nears the edge of the district, an urchin girl steps from an alley. She chews a chapped lip and turns doe eyes on Myrrh as she holds out a hand to beg.

“Please, just a copper, missus. A copper for me dinner.”

The girl’s voice is singsong and intended to distract. When Myrrh feels her accomplice’s little hand slipping into her cloak, she steps back and snatches the boy by the wrist. The children’s eyes widen and the girl tries to run. Too slow. Myrrh grabs hold of her ratty tunic and spins her around.

“Just hold still a minute,” she says, giving the boy’s wrist a squeeze. Quickly, before they get a chance to try to flee again, she plucks a pair of silver pieces from her coin purse.

Awe lights the children’s faces as she presses a silver piece into each of their hands.

“When you choose a mark,” she says, “look for someone with their purse on the outside of their jacket or cloak. And for the Queen of Nine’s sake, don’t pick a fellow thief. Do what you want with those silvers, but I suggest you buy better shoes. You’ll make more mistakes, and when you do, you want to be able to run fast.”

She glances at their feet and the ratty sandals held on by decaying leather straps. The children give her solemn nods.

“Now scat,” she says, “before you draw attention to me.”

They scurry off like mice, and Myrrh resumes walking. Soon enough, she reaches the waterfront where the Neck butts up against the Crafter’s District. Here, hawkers call out prices on inexpensive jewelry, and acrobats tumble between the parade of wagons on the wide street, flipping dangerously close to the mule teams in hopes of impressing onlookers and earning more coins for their performances. The bottoms of Myrrh’s feet ache, and she gives in, hailing a cart for the rest of her journey. With her head propped against the seat, she watches the city pass by. A half-hour later, the cart stops at the cross street near Glint’s home.

***

“—I really don’t think the Jalla merchants will…”

Glint’s words falter when he opens the door and sees her outside his home. She’s about to speak when he suddenly reaches out and shoves her back and out of sight. He squeezes through the door, allowing her no glimpse of who is inside, then pulls it firmly shut behind him.

“Patron’s favor,” he says, swearing to the deity favored by merchants, “this meeting may be saved after all. I need you to get a dress. Fast.”

“But I—wait. What’s going on?”

“I’m about to either clinch a council seat or lose everything. But I need a fiancée.”

She sighs. Of all the sixing things he could have said… “Glint, I don’t have time to pretend. I need to ask you—”

“Whatever it is, yes. I agree. But I need you to do this first. Please.”

She lays a hand against her forehead. “I have to be back before dark. Rat Town’s not safe.”

“You can stay here.”

“And anyway, I can’t afford a dress. I gave most of the money I brought to a pair of urchins.”

He pats his pants pockets then slips a hand into his waistcoat. She notices the crimson silk vest beneath and realizes this is probably the fanciest getup she’s seen him in.

“I left my coin pouch inside and can’t really go back for it without raising questions—my guests are already here if you hadn’t gathered that. But you are resourceful, aren’t you? Or do your skills stop at pickpocketing?” An amused smile twists his lips.

Myrrh rolls her eyes. “Of course I can steal a dress.” She taps fingers on her thigh and sighs heavily. “Fine. I’ll help you with your little problem. But I need to get a message to Rat Town. If I’m going to be here overnight, I have engagements that will need to be postponed.”

“Done.”

“How soon do you need me in a sixing dress?”

“It should be the finest gown you can come up with. And I needed you here an hour ago. Do what you can, and Bernard will let you in the back door to the kitchen so you can freshen up. Afterward come back around here and knock.”

She licks her lips, already running through potential boutiques she can target. Most shops in Lower Fringe buy from honest working people in the Crafter’s District, reselling at a ridiculous markup so their patrons need not dirty their shoes by walking through lower-class areas. Whichever shop she chooses for the theft won’t harm an honest dressmaker. And there’s one nearby where the owner was rather rude when she once stepped inside to look at the garments on offer.

“I should be back within an hour,” she says. “But why do you need a fiancée for this, Glint?”

“Well, I suppose you could say there’s a key council member who’s convinced I’ve had relations with his wife. Actual evidence of the fiancée I’ve spoken of in our meetings would go a long way toward quieting his worries.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Have relations with his wife?”

He hesitates, toe scuffing back and forth across the slate doorstep. “In the days when Hawk and I worked together, I may have formed fleeting romantic attachments with some of the city’s prominent ladies. In order to gain information, you understand.”

“So yes, you slept with the man’s wife.”

“Not exactly, but…we don’t really need to get into the details, do we?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Anyway, I assure you there’s been no one else since our betrothal, darling.”

Myrrh rolls her eyes. “You understand you’re going to owe me a massive favor, right? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Chapter Nine

THE FRONT OF the boutique boasts enormous pane-glass windows so precisely made that the light passing through them scarcely wavers. Around two dozen gowns stand on wooden forms in the store’s showroom. They range from sleek to billowing with colors from deep blue to blood red to a pale-yellow thing that reminds Myrrh of moldy cheese.

She isn’t going to be able to try anything on; the shop’s owner already proved that when Myrrh tried to browse the selection weeks ago. And from her vantage across the street where she’s sipping coffee out of a tin cup she has to return before leaving the coffee cart, she can’t tell what types of closures the dresses have. Myrrh really doesn’t want something that fastens up the back. Glint’s cook, Bernard, is nice enough, but the idea of his garlic-scented fingers fumbling at her buttons is unpleasant.

Absently, she presses her fingertips against the jade-and-emerald pendant resting beneath her tunic. Something that matches her necklace would be nice. Her boots on the other hand…she looks down, grimacing at the scuffed toes—either she needs a gown that drags the floor, or she had better make off with fresh footwear when she snags the dress.

She tips back the last swallow of coffee, scalding her throat a bit, then returns the cup to the vendor. With casual strides, she crosses the street and passes in front of the boutique’s window. There: in the back corner of the shop, she spies a velvet gown the color of emeralds. As best she can tell, it’s cut for a slim build. She can’t see the buttons, but she’ll just have to hope.

She keeps a steady pace until she reaches the end of the block, then stops and turns her head as if trying to find her way through the streets. But really, she’s checking for guards. The shopkeeper doesn’t seem to have hired anyone, and after a moment, she realizes why. Two blocks farther down the street, a member of the Shield Watch leans against the square-cut cornerstones of a bank. He looks really bored. And since he hasn’t perked up despite her arrival in a hooded cloak and soft leather boots, she guesses the tumult in Maire’s Quarter has made him lazy too.

Myrrh’s initial plan involved building some sort of fire in the alley and raising the alarm, the old distract-and-grab gambit. But with the guard so close, it will be better to do this quietly.

She turns the corner and follows a cross street until she intersects the alley that runs behind the shop. After glancing both ways, she slips down the narrow passage and starts counting doorways as she advances. The shop was fourth from the corner; she stops at its back door. It’s locked, but not barred. She slips a pair of lock picks from a pouch in her sleeve and starts fishing inside the lock mechanism. A few breaths later, she’s rewarded with a satisfying click. She creeps inside.

“Hullo,” she says loudly, leaning a hip against the merchant’s counter. The woman is currently in the front of the shop, fussing with tiers of fabric that waterfall down the voluminous skirt of a dress cut for a large woman.

The owner whirls with a squeak, hands flying to her breast.

Myrrh draws her dagger and starts using it to clean her fingernails. “You probably don’t remember me, but I haven’t been able to forget your fine assortment of gowns.”

The shopkeeper jumps for the door, no doubt planning to scream for help from the Shield. Myrrh beats her there with three long-legged strides. She slaps her palm against the wood, leans down and picks up the bar, then drops it into place.

“I thought you might have advice on which of these gowns is most suited to my build,” Myrrh continues.

The woman stammers, eyes flitting between Myrrh’s dagger and her face. “I don’t keep coin here. It goes to the bank each night.”

Myrrh cocks her head. “Am I slurring? I’m looking for fashion advice, not the contents of your safe. Or is it…?” She pauses, taps a finger on her lip. “I remember a little better now. Last time I was here, you asked me to leave. You claimed you didn’t cater to street rats. It must have been another shop where they were kind enough to help me.”

The woman backs away, running into one of the dress forms and knocking it over. She blinks furiously as if enough attempts will erase the sight of Myrrh and her drawn weapon.

Myrrh sighs and steps closer. She did promise Glint she would get back soon, and she’s never enjoyed tormenting people. She only needed to herd the woman away from the windows. With a glance back toward the street, she verifies that the forest of gowns now hides them from sight. Lunging forward, she flips her dagger and knocks the hilt against the woman’s temple.

The woman’s eyes roll, but she doesn’t quite collapse. Slipping behind her, Myrrh wraps an arm around her throat and squeezes. That does the trick. The woman’s knees buckle, and Myrrh lowers her to the floor.

The shopkeeper won’t remain unconscious for long. Hurriedly, Myrrh yanks the emerald dress from its display form. A row of dress boots stands along the back wall of the room. She grabs a pair as she races past.

Back in the alley, she unties a rope that fastens a square of canvas over a stack of empty pallets. Wrapping the dress and boots in the heavy cloth, she slings it over her shoulder and sets off at a brisk walk for Glint’s residence.

***

Sixing pox.

The dress closes in the back. Not with buttons, though. It’s obnoxious in a different way than the gown Lavi bought her when she was a prisoner-guest of Glint’s. This particular dress has annoying little hooks. And it’s snug enough over her rib cage that she can’t possibly contort her arms to reach all of them. Especially with the nasty bruise where the thug punched her last night. She didn’t bother to think about that while choosing a gown, but fortunately the velvet sides are high enough to cover it. The neckline, however…whoever made this particular garment wasn’t concerned with propriety. Her necklace’s pendant hangs a full hand’s length above the point where the plunging sides finally meet. Myrrh’s surprised her belly button doesn’t show.

In any case, Bernard is apparently as dismayed at the situation with her dress closure as she is. Brows in a worried steeple over his red nose, he casts a pleading glance at Tep, the servant boy.

“Oh fine,” the kid says. “I’ll tell Glint you have a question about the menu.”

Bernard mops his brow in relief.

While Tep is out in the dining room, Myrrh shuffles over to the wall—how do most women get around in these sausage casings?—and pulls down a silver serving platter. As far as mirrors go, it’s barely serviceable. But given what she can see of the state of her hair, maybe that’s a good thing.

She’s dragging fingers through her tangles, trying to work out the worst of the snarls when she hears the door open.

Myrrh turns, and Glint stops in his tracks. His mouth opens and closes like a beached fish.

“That’s a…lovely gown,” he finally manages.

“My eyes are up here,” she returns.

He cringes. “So is your hair.”

Myrrh sighs. “I know. I’m working on it.”

“Would a fork help, miss?” Bernard asks. “It’s sort of similar to a comb.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll try whatever you have.”

Glint’s eyes have strayed back to her exposed cleavage, and he only drags them back to her face when she steps forward and flicks him on the ear. “You’re here to fasten my dress, not stare at my breasts.”

He swallows. “Right. Well, at least Councilman Kathell won’t be thinking of his wife for the next few hours.”

Glint presses his fingers against her velvet-clad arms—the fabric the dressmaker saved in the breast area has been added to the sleeves—and gently spins her around. Deft fingers work the little hooks through the intended stitching. When he’s done, he traces a finger along her spine, starting at the top of her dress and slipping under her ratted hair to the nape of her neck. When she shivers, he lets out a low chuckle.

“Just had to make sure my fiancée doesn’t spend the next few hours thinking of Councilman Kathell,” he says with a wink as she turns.

“Will it really be that long?” she whines. The thought of remaining stuffed in this green tube for any length of time is really unappealing.

“I suspect they’ll linger until midnight now that you’re here to entertain them.”

She feels lightheaded at the thought of so many hours dragging by. “To tell the truth, I’ll probably faceplant in one of Bernard’s lovely dishes if I try to stay awake that late.”

“You?” he asks with a skeptical glance.

“Long night last night.”

“Ahh. Which may explain your sudden appearance on my doorstep.”

“We need to talk.”

“I know. Once the council members and their wives leave, you’ll have my undivided attention.” He runs his gaze up and down her body. “And whatever other services I can provide.”

She jabs him on the breastbone with a knuckle. “Cut it out. And you didn’t tell me their wives are here too.” The other women are not going to approve of her scandalous attire.

“Any man seeking a council seat must show that he’s a worthy peer. Or woman, for that matter…there’s no prohibition against it, even if the current council is too full of chauvinists to invite one. In any case, an appointment is as much about social suitability as it is merchant standing.”

She snorts. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to invite me to this little party, then?”

Glint smirks. “Believe me, they won’t be paying much attention to your manners.”

“Anyway, about the messenger to Rat Town…”

He nods. “Tell Bernard what you need sent and to whom. He’ll see that it gets done.”

“I’ll be around front soon, then.”

His hand cups her waist and slides over her hip. “I look forward to it, my dear.”

She slaps him lightly and shoves him toward the door.

When she turns back to the kitchen, Bernard is slicing carrots as if his life depends on it. His face is redder than the tomatoes in the basket beside him.

Chapter Ten

USING A PAIR of forks and the coarse-bristled scrub brush Bernard uses to clean potatoes, plus a bit of water to tame the kinks, Myrrh finally gets her hair presentable. She pulls her cloak over the dress to avoid drawing attention while she circles the building from the kitchen’s alleyway exit to the grand front entrance. Tep follows on her heels, taking the cloak and running back for the kitchen just before she steps up to the door.

The sixing city council. What is she doing attending one of their dinners? Her heart thumps against her ribs as she taps lightly on the heavy wood.

Glint’s eyes widen when he opens the door, and the knot of cartilage in his throat bobs as he swallows. But he quickly recovers his composure.

“Ah, darling! What a lovely surprise. I asked my footman to send word to your father, but I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

He steps aside and offers his arm, allowing her a first glimpse of the city’s vaunted council. Some of them anyway. From what she can remember, there are twelve members. Just five men are seated at Glint’s table, along with four of their wives. Together, they exude a cloud of arrogance she can smell from the door.

Myrrh slides a hand into the crook of Glint’s arm and tries to ignore the play of muscles under her fingers. Head high, not breathing too deep for fear she’ll fall out of the gown, she trails him to the table.

“Councilmen, ladies,” Glint says, “I’d like you to meet my lovely fiancée, Ava.”

She stiffens at the name but quickly relaxes. Of course he couldn’t introduce her by a thief’s handle. Some warning would have been nice, though.

The men nearly fall over themselves in their rush to stand and duck shallow bows. Meanwhile, the women just barely contain their disdain. Each of them is wearing a gown slathered with ornate ruffles and lace. All the way up to the tight closures around their necks.

Despite herself, Myrrh feels the blush in her cheeks. If that’s what the merchant matrons wear, why does a shop in Lower Fringe sell the kind of scraps she’s stuffed inside?

As if to reassure her, Glint slides an arm around her waist and squeezes. She just barely avoids wincing at the stab of pain from her bruise.

The man unaccompanied by a wife casts her an open leer. “Now this takes me back,” he says. “Before I secured my council seat, my wife was a vixen much like your dear Ava. Clever, too. We regretted taking the seat for the prim attire she had to adopt, but I assure you, she made up for it with plenty of costumes once we got home. Sometimes I do miss that woman.”

Ew. Myrrh’s lip twitches in disgust when the gray-haired man winks at Glint. The other women seem equally unimpressed by him speaking of Myrrh in the third person, not to mention, his hinting about what he and his dead wife used to do in the bedroom. She senses the wives thawing toward her.

A little bit, anyway. She wonders which of these women Glint had a tryst with and decides she’d rather not know.

Unfortunately, Glint answers her question when he nods to the far end of the table. “Councilman Kathell, as ranking member you have the right to dine beside my intended. At least, that’s how we arrange seating in the Port Cities. But I wonder if you’ll permit me to breach etiquette by seating her beside me. I’ve been so occupied with business dealings lately that I haven’t had much time with my beloved.”

As the thick-necked man inclines his head, struggling to conceal his disappointment, Myrrh glances at his wife. The woman is beautiful with pale hair swept up from a graceful neck. Even with the confining dress that is apparently part of the uniform of a councilman’s wife, Myrrh can tell she has a willowy figure. She forces away a little pang of jealousy. Glint’s not really hers, and even if he were, it shouldn’t matter who else he’s been involved with.

Glint pulls out a chair for her then shakes the wrinkles from his napkin as he sits and lays it over his lap. “So as I was saying, the biggest danger to our city’s welfare is the recent threat from the shipping companies to send goods overland unless we reduce tariffs on the river passage.”

The gray-haired councilman leans forward. “But what can the council do besides capitulate? We don’t control the roads through the mountains.”

Myrrh’s place at the table is bare, leaving her nothing to fiddle with and no food to distract her. She runs her thumbs over the arms of her chair to keep busy. When Tep emerges with a glass of wine and a napkin, she casts him a grateful look. He assiduously ignores it.

Glint raises a finger to stop him before he escapes to the kitchen. “Please bring Miss Relante a plate of appetizers so she doesn’t go hungry while waiting for Bernard’s next offering.”

Exhaling, Myrrh relaxes into her seat. Fatigue from the last few days rises through her body, and she stifles a yawn.

“True, the mountains are not within Ostgard’s control,” Glint says to the gray-haired man. “It’s the plight of independent cities and territories across Vellos. We must either have the resources to stand alone, or we must accept”—he sniffs as if in disgust—“affiliation with a greater country or kingdom. Yet the issue with shipping never arose under the previous Maire.”

“Because Craghold was his family home,” the widowed councilman returns. “He had contacts with the minor fiefdoms that control travel on the mountain roads and was able to arrange bribes. As long as we paid more to have certain caravans denied passage than the mountain lords earned by allowing the same caravans through, the shipping companies had no recourse.”

“Except to approach the smugglers,” another man says. He pulls a tin of snuff from his pocket, pinches a wad, and tucks it under his lip. “Sometimes I think we ought to burn Rat Town to the ground and be done with it.”

Fortunately, Tep chooses that moment to return with her food, and Myrrh can lose herself in the nutcakes and dried fruit. Glint lets out a relieved sigh. No doubt he was worried she was going to speak up in Rat Town’s defense.

“No offense, my new friend,” Glint says, “but I believe we all know that we can’t survive without Rat Town. Would you rather have unmannered bargemen coming ashore to seek entertainment in the Fifths?”

The man sniffs. “A fine point, Merchant Giller. I see now why so many of the council speak so highly of you.”

Glint raises his glass in a toast. “If such esteemed men express praise of my efforts in Ostgard, then I am truly honored.”

Myrrh doesn’t miss the laden glances that pass between the council members. They are seriously considering Glint as an appointee. Even Kathrell has a contemplative expression on his face.

As the afternoon drags on into evening, it gets harder and harder to focus on the conversation. Mostly, the men talk about how to get richer while the women push food around on their plates. Occasionally, a councilman throws Glint a question that’s an obvious test judging by the sudden interest his peers show in the response. In each case, Glint’s answers seem to please the men, and soon enough, they’re calling for more wine.

Bernard outdoes himself with a roast suckling pig cooked to perfection, but by the time the meat hits her plate, Myrrh’s head is swimming. She grips the arms of her chair to remain upright.

“Darling?” Glint asks.

“I fear I may have had a glass too many of your fine wine,” she says.

This brings knowing chuckles and a few suggestive comments from the other end of the table. One of the men winks at Glint, but either he misses the gesture, or he ignores it.

“Shall I send for a carriage to return you to your father’s?” he asks.

“I think…I think that might be wise. In the meantime, might I borrow a room to lie down in?”

Glint stands and offers his hand. “Of course, my beloved. I’ll escort you up. Gentlemen, enjoy your meat. I’ll return in a moment.”

“Oh, take your time,” the gray-haired man says with raised eyebrows.

Once on the stairs, Myrrh leans against him as they climb. “I plan to be thoroughly asleep the moment I lie down,” she says. “I hope you don’t expect me to get back up and pretend to leave in a carriage.”

Glint hums in amusement, a low sound that vibrates his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll usher them out soon. Bernard can serve his raspberry tarts on top of the pig if necessary. I’m not letting you out of this house in that dress.”

“I can’t take it off on my own anyway.”

Stopping on the second-floor landing, he lays hands on her waist and slides them up along her ribs. “Are you asking me to undress you?”

Myrrh is too tired to come up with a clever response. “Just show me which bed to use,” she says.

Chuckling, he cups a hand on her elbow and helps her up the next flight of stairs and down the hall to the chamber she used during her previous stay.

Her bedroom is unchanged, down to the unmade covers and the wardrobe doors standing open. The matronly nightgown Lavi bought her still hangs on a hook, and Myrrh would be willing to bet the lacy underthings still fill the drawers. But at this point, she’s too tired for curiosity.

She flops onto the bed, awkwardly due to the dress not allowing her to move like a normal person. With a smirk, Glint pulls off her new boots and drops the down cover over her.

“Good night, my darling,” he says, pressing a joking kiss onto her forehead.

The place where his lips touched tingles until she falls asleep.

Chapter Eleven

MYRRH SLEEPS THROUGH the evening and night, waking when bars of morning light slice through the gaps between the curtains. She drops her feet off the edge of the bed and into the thick pile of the carpet.

Sometime during the night, her clothes were deposited in a neat stack beside the door. Her scuffed leather boots stand beside them. Stretching, she yawns, then tries reaching for the hooks at the back of her dress. It’s no use, but fortunately she doesn’t intend to wear the sixing thing again. Her belt and dagger rest atop her clothing. Careful not to cut herself, she slides the dagger’s blade between the fabric and her rib cage, sawing back and forth until the dress comes apart in the front.

She gives the sixing thing a triumphant look as she leaves it in a puddle on the floor.

Beneath her stack of clothing, there’s a note.

Wake me when you’re up.

-G

Once dressed, she slips into the hall. One of the double doors to Glint’s master bedroom stands slightly ajar. She peers through the crack, a little uncertain about just barging in despite the invitation.

All she can see is the bottom of his bare foot hanging off the side of the bed. Quietly, she nudges the door open and creeps inside.

He’s sprawled on the wide bed, his naked back exposed while a sheet covers his legs and butt. He seems sound asleep, his chest expanding and contracting with his deep breaths.

“Glint,” she whispers.

He doesn’t stir.

“Hey.”

No result.

On tiptoes, she heads for a window and slides back the drape to allow in a little more light. From this angle, she sees his finely cut features at uncustomary ease, his brow neutral rather than quirked in a mischievous or amused expression.

Myrrh really doesn’t like waking people up. She tries to make a little more noise as she pads back across the room to a small side table. The chair squeals when she pulls it out, and still he remains oblivious.

Finally, she groans and stalks to his bedside.

“Wake up, Glint—”

Her words end in a little yelp when he snaps to life and snatches her wrist from the air just before her fingertips reach his shoulder.

Heart slamming her ribs, she tries to calm her breathing. “You jerk! How long were you awake?”

Glint laughs as he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. “Since you came out of your room. I wanted to see how you decided to wake me.”

She slaps him on the shoulder. “That wasn’t nice.”

“I never claimed to be a gentleman,” he says with a wry smile.

He stands and idly rubs a hand over his rippled belly. Myrrh realizes she’s staring and tears her eyes away. He’s wearing loose trousers that sit low on his hips. As he stretches and approaches the back wall of the room, the long muscles along his spine shift beneath his skin. The smell of sandalwood trails his movements.

He tugs a length of rope that lies on the floor, one end disappearing through a hole in the slates. When he turns, a proud grin shows his teeth. “The bell is my newest addition to Merchant Giller’s mansion. Tep will be up shortly with coffee.”

Myrrh realizes her feet are still rooted to the spot where he surprised her. Shaking free of her paralysis, she marches to the table and takes a seat. Glint prowls closer, looking every inch the graceful fighter she remembers from their brief sparring session.

He drops to a seat and stretches his legs out long, rubbing a hand over his chest. He’s clearly doing this on purpose, hoping for a reaction. Maybe it’s revenge for her dress.

“We have a lot to discuss it seems,” he says, resting a forearm on the table. “The attack by Noble’s people, for instance.”

She lowers her eyebrows. “How did you know?”

“You won’t be happy with me, even though it probably saved your life.”

“You sent the person with the crossbow….”

“Mink. I asked her to watch you until we had a better idea about the strange deaths and the seriousness of your situation with Noble.”

Myrrh should have realized that Glint’s assassin had fired the shots. She’s only had one chance to see the woman at work, but Myrrh will never forget how Mink dropped a man with a throwing knife from a hundred paces. According to Glint, she might be the best killer in the city.

He’s right: she’s not happy with him for sending someone to babysit her. But if Mink hadn’t intervened, Myrrh would either be dead or, more likely, suffering some sort of torture at Noble’s hand.

Glint is watching her keenly. She keeps her expression flat. “Tell Mink I appreciate her work. You can have her stop following me. I won’t be moving without protection until the situation is resolved.”

“From what I hear, you had protection.”

“Not enough. And my thoughts were elsewhere. Had I been warier, Noble’s people wouldn’t have ambushed us so easily.”

“And where were those thoughts?” His long fingers arch as he absently rubs the tabletop with his fingertips.

Before she can answer, Tep knocks lightly at the door.

“Come ahead,” Glint says.

The boy enters with a tray holding a pair of china cups and a pot. He sets the coffee between them and glares at Myrrh as if it’s her fault he’s slaving away so early.

After he leaves, shutting the door with a click, Glint pours coffee for them both. He sits back, lightly supporting his cup with the fingertips of both hands. He blows on his drink while waiting for her to speak.

“What do you know about etch?” she asks.

Glint leans forward, feet flat on the floor, and sets down his coffee. “Where did you hear about that?”

“From a man who wants to join Ghost syndicate.”

His teeth work at the corner of his lower lip. “Well, if it’s real and not just a rumor, I know etch is exceedingly expensive.”

“I think it’s real. He offered me a sample free of charge.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“No. And if it’s as expensive as you make it sound, why would he need Ghost syndicate?”

“Hmm. Why indeed…?”

Again, Glint sits back and picks up his coffee. Myrrh leans forward to blow on hers then takes a small sip. The rich flavor expands in her mouth, promising a jolt of alertness when it hits her belly.

“Do you think he could be working for Noble?”

“I doubt it. Slivers wasn’t a particularly wealthy organization even when they controlled Rat Town. Where did this man come from?”

“He was vague about that. Downriver, he said. He was freelance most of his life, but now he’s looking for an organization.”

“If he has a supply of etch, which I’m not sure I believe, he probably stole it. That’s quite a score…though possibly difficult to offload. Maybe he’s hoping to sell you some after you try the sample.”

Myrrh shrugs. “It could be. Why ask for a seat on Ghost’s council then?”

“You didn’t tell me that part.”

“I was getting to it.”

“I don’t know, Myrrh. Maybe he’s for real. Maybe he’s tired of grubbing. But if he wants a crack at leadership, what’s to keep him from trying to take over entirely? I’d be careful.”

“That’s part of why I came here. I wanted to see what you knew before I accepted any offers.”

“Sorry I don’t have more information. The rumors say etch lets you see ghosts, in a way. You can tell where people have been by the images they leave behind.”

“That agrees with what Rattle said, more or less.”

“So what else?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“You said this Rattle was just part of why you came. Which suggests you had other reasons for visiting me.”

She nods. “It’s about the dying thieves.”

“Mink said you took a trip into the Spills. Went into a shack that smelled decidedly bad.”

Myrrh grimaces at the reminder she was being followed. The Spills were nearly silent, and still she didn’t notice Mink on her tail.

“His name was Cobalt. Same deal as Lavi. No obvious injury, too young to die of natural causes. When I found the body, it looked like he’d just set down his dinner, leaned back against the wall, and died.”

Concern furrows Glint’s brow. “Anything else? There has to be a connection, but I’ve turned up nothing so far.”

“He worked part-time in Smeltertown between grubber gigs. Did Lavi have any business near the smelters?”

Glint shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I poached her from Haven at the same time I recruited Mink. I’ll see if Mink remembers anything I don’t.”

Myrrh takes another deep breath of the steam coiling from her coffee. Like everything in Lower Fringe, the coffee’s a league above anything she can get in Rat Town. Rich without getting too bitter. Many-layered in its flavor.

She takes a sip then speaks, “Until we know what’s going on, I’m suggesting my thieves work in pairs.”

“A good plan. I’ll do the same. Though I can’t force them to share a bed…it seems like people are dying in their homes as much as anywhere else.”

“But maybe some sort of poisoning is happening while they’re on the streets. Two pairs of eyes have a better chance of spotting it.”

Glint nods as he crosses his legs at the ankles. “Even if they don’t spot it, we’ll know more if—Miser steal this—both partners die after working somewhere together.”

Myrrh’s tired of squinting in the relative darkness of his room. As long as she’s awake during the daylight hours, she might as well enjoy them. She crosses the room to open the curtains all the way before returning to the table.

Glint shades his eyes and pretends the glare pains them.

Myrrh snorts. “Weakling.”

“Don’t make me overpower you to prove a point.”

“So how did your discussions with the councilmen turn out?”

Glint smirks. “Exceedingly well, thanks to you. I meant to ask: how did you get out of that dress? I was looking forward to helping you.”

“By brutally murdering it. That foul garment won’t be scandalizing anyone again.”

He casts her a concerned glance. “I’m not sure I want the details. In any case, I’m almost certain they’ll offer me the vacancy left by my father. I just hope the news will come in time for me to do something about Emmerst’s bid for the title of Maire.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask something. No offense intended, but you and your father do share a family resemblance. Has no one noticed?”

“I think that works in my favor, actually. They feel like they already know me, but they can’t place the reason. For the whole time my father was Maire, he lived alone. I doubt many people even remember he had an estranged son, and if they do, they probably assume I met an untimely end. It’s perfect, really.”

“I thought it would take a majority vote to add a new member. Will the five you hosted yesterday be enough?”

“It should be. I only invited those who I thought were undecided.”

“So what happens if you’re appointed? Do council members have to live in Maire’s Quarter?”

“Not right away. As I’m yet to wed my beautiful bride, it makes sense that I’d keep my residence here. No doubt the future mistress of my house will want a say in selecting and furnishing our permanent home.”

“Isn’t our supposed betrothal going to be a problem eventually? How long are you planning to pretend to be a merchant?”

“For as long as my associates can keep stealing enough goods for me to resell. It’s the best racket in the city…getting merchants and traders to pay for things I stole from them in the first place.”

Myrrh finishes her coffee and sets the cup on the tray. “But it will seem strange if you never actually wed your fiancée won’t it?”

Silence follows her words. She starts to fidget under his intent stare. After a moment, he chuckles.

“I hope she’ll make an appearance now and again. I do enjoy her company. In any case, I’m an artful pretender. I’m sure I can come up with an explanation to reassure my peers if the length of my engagement becomes a concern.”

“I like seeing you too, Glint. But I have a syndicate to run. A rival syndicate to yours, I might add. I can’t slink around half-clothed whenever you need me.”

His eyes travel her body, and this time it’s not to tease her. There’s genuine interest in his gaze. Myrrh’s not sure if he meant for her to notice.

“Rivals,” he says quietly. “I wish it were otherwise, you know. There’s still a place here for you if things change. You don’t even have to wear a gown.”

“People in Rat Town depend on me.”

“I know. And unfortunately for me, you won’t let them down. In any case, your work yesterday afternoon made it possible for me to oppose Emmerst. That’s good for every thief in the city—including your Rat Town associates. We can’t let that man take the Maire’s seat.” He reaches forward and slides his fingers under hers, squeezing lightly. “Thank you.”

“And thank you for sending Mink to watch out for me. We don’t make very good enemies.”

His dark eyes meet her gaze. “No. I guess we don’t.”

“Anyway,” Myrrh says, sliding her hand away before he notices that it’s a little shaky, “I need to get back. The problem with Noble isn’t going to solve itself.”

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

Glint stands and looks down at her, offering a hand to help her up. As she rises, he slides a hand behind her back and pulls her close. For a moment, Myrrh thinks he’s going to kiss her, but he pulls her into an embrace, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her body tight against his bare chest.

“I’ll be careful,” she says.

“Goodbye, Myrrh,” he says as he releases her.

Myrrh flees before she loses the will to leave.

Chapter Twelve

IT’S APPROACHING MIDNIGHT in The Queen’s Dice when Rattle steps through the front door. He spots Myrrh right away and strides to her table. Instead of the ruby-tinted glass, he now wears a sphere of polished silver in place of his left eye.

“How would I know you were giving me a safe dose of etch?” Myrrh asks as he sits down.

“I’ll smoke it with you.”

“Isn’t that a waste? I hear etch is rather expensive.”

The corners of his lips pull back, the closest thing she’s seen to a change in his flat expression. “You’ve been asking questions.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

As Rattle inclines his head in assent, one of Sapphire’s serving girls arrives with a glass of water for the man. Apparently, his repeat appearances—Myrrh assumes he showed up last night and received her message about being delayed outside the district—have trained the staff in his preferences.

“Mistress Myrrh?” the girl asks.

“Ale, please.”

As the girl scurries off, Myrrh turns her attention back to the aging rogue. “Given what I learned about etch’s rarity, I’m having a difficult time understanding how you benefit by giving me some.”

“Fair question. Yes, I could sell my stash—it’s not just etch, as I may have hinted before. I might even bring in enough money to take a few years off. But eventually, that coin would run out. My other option is to use what resources I have to help found an empire that will generate funds indefinitely.”

She casts him a skeptical look. “And you’ve decided that should be Ghost syndicate after, what, a week of observing us?”

He huffs in what sounds like amusement. “Of course not. Just as you wouldn’t grant me a seat on your council without getting to know me, I’m using this time to evaluate your organization. You in particular. The other members of your leadership are largely irrelevant.”

“I wouldn’t have asked them onto the council if I didn’t value their opinions.”

“Yet they rarely say anything that disagrees with your statements.”

“Maybe not. But I assume they feel free to.”

He shrugs and lays his hands flat on the table. Scarred knuckles extend beyond his fingerless leather gloves. Regardless of his poise, it’s obvious he’s led a hard life.

“Say I decide to try the etch…is it better to use during the day or at night? And how long does it last?”

“It works equally well in light or darkness. But it can be rather disorienting the first time you try, so I suggest daytime. You’ll need a few free hours.”

“You know where I live,” she says, a statement of fact not a question.

He inclines his head again in agreement.

“Come tomorrow at midday.”

“I’ll see you then.” With that, he stands and leaves the establishment as abruptly as he did after their first meeting. Feeling suddenly adrift, Myrrh searches the room until she spots the serving girl. She’s approaching with Myrrh’s mug of ale.

“Sapphire said I could sleep on the cot in the kitchen tonight,” Myrrh says when the girl sets down her drink. “Can you show me where that is?”

As Myrrh pulls a few coppers from her purse to pay for the ale, the girl ducks a little curtsy and motions for her to follow.

The cot isn’t particularly comfortable, and noise from the gambling hall filters through the walls. But it’s better than getting ambushed again. And by tomorrow night, she should have better tools to start dealing with the situation.

***

Myrrh’s bedroom is the biggest in the safe house, but it still feels small with Rattle leaning against one wall. Piebald is pacing in the corridor outside, clearly worried for her. She doesn’t blame him really; Rattle practically exudes the essence of a killer. She wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone with one of her thieves either.

She pinches the stem of the little brass pipe between two fingers and lowers a candle flame toward the bowl. Inside, pieces of crushed etch leaf start to curl and smolder.

“Take it very slow,” he says. “The effects are quick, and you want to stop as soon as you see the etchings.”

When she inhales, her throat and lungs burn. She clamps her lips over a cough. Many of the city’s thieves smoke tobacco and willow leaf, but she’s always hated the habit.

“Yuck,” she says, grimacing as she exhales.

“Not a smoker, I see. I’ll leave you a small brazier for next time. You’ll just need to put your face over it.”

Rattle takes the pipe and inhales a lungful. He holds his breath for a moment then lets out a cloud of smoke. It’s reassuring that he deliberately took more leaf than her. She won’t go etch-mad from an overdose.

After her second inhalation, the substance begins to take effect. If she squints, she can perceive a faint cloud surrounding Rattle.

“I think it’s working,” she says.

He sucks another breath through the pipe and hands it back. “Once more, but none after that. Even if the effects are light, it’s better than getting too much.”

With a nod, she draws in a last small breath of smoke and holds it.

The room suddenly blooms with the trails of those who’ve been inside it. She blinks, stunned. Walking slowly so as not to trip, Myrrh slips into the hall. She follows it to the stairs and looks down into the entryway and dining room.

Etchings fill the room, a film left on surfaces and a shimmer in the air. But she perceives them with more than her sight. As she focuses on each trail, she feels a buzzing tingle at the base of her skull. A specific taste on the back of her tongue. Some spicy, some bitter, some cloying. The etching is different for everyone. She tiptoes slowly down the stairs and glances at the door to Nab’s bedroom. The fog lingering around the doorknob and oozing from beneath the door reminds her, strangely, of a mouse nest. His residue is faintly musty, but cozy. A thick trail of the same substance leads into the kitchen, collecting around the sweets cupboard.

Rattle follows her as she explores, trailing a cloud that feels to her like a mix of wood smoke and cloves. Now that she knows what to look for, it’s easy to recognize his etching even though dozens of tracks crisscross the room.

“How long does the trail remain?” she asks.

“It fades over the course of about two days.”

She nods. “I understand now why I need to see one of Noble’s people to connect them to their trail.”

“But once you form the association, you’ll always be able to identify their etching.”

She gazes back up the stairs and spots Piebald leaning with arms crossed against the back wall of the corridor. His residue reminds her of canvas tarps and books. Even if she didn’t already know where he sleeps, she’d recognize his room as the second door on the right.

“How much etch can you give me? The search for Noble would be much faster if I had help.”

Rattle shakes his head. “The deal is for you alone. You already mentioned the expense, so I’m sure you understand. I’ll start by giving you enough for three uses. Plus the brazier so you don’t waste any by coughing.”

“And if I haven’t found Noble’s hideout by then?”

“Then I’m not sure this is ripe soil for the empire I’d like to grow. But we could discuss the circumstances and reasons for your failure.”

Myrrh guards her expression carefully, refusing to be baited by his words. “And when do you plan to tell me about the other tools you can offer the syndicate?”

“Eventually. Provided things go well. For now, if you’re satisfied with the substance and clear on how to avoid consuming too much, I have business elsewhere.”

She shrugs and gestures toward the door. “I plan to head out and make the best of this dose anyway.”

With a grunt of acknowledgment, he pulls three packets from his pocket, slides them into a small brass brazier, and presses it into her palm. The paper crinkles as she curls her fingertips into the pot.

Rattle leaves in a trail of clove-scented smoke.

Chapter Thirteen

IT SEEMS UNLIKELY she’ll learn anything about Noble’s movements or those of his crew when she doesn’t know which etchings to look for. Nonetheless, Myrrh leaves the safe house and clambers up the downspout from a rain gutter in an alley a few blocks away. From there, she scampers up a slanted gable to the roof peak and walks it like a Rhemmsfest entertainer on a tightrope.

Part of one of many thieves’ paths that web Rat Town from the river to the Spills, this particular route sticks to the roofs. The Shield Watch hasn’t been much of a problem in the district lately; seems they aren’t interested in dealing with lowlifes without the Maire to force them into it. But considering the riot of sensation flooding her from the etchings and the fact that the trails fill the streets below, the rooftops give her a chance to get used to her new perception without getting overwhelmed.

Besides, she needs a little time alone to think.

Yesterday evening, she helped Glint move closer to gaining power in the city’s government. A thief with a seat on the city council...he’s right in saying that’s good for the city’s underworld. And it’s certainly better if Glint can stop Emmerst from taking control and imposing martial law. Not only would severe policing make the thieves’ work harder but also, the city would eventually choke. For better or for worse, Ostgard needs a bit of chaos. Dockworkers and tavernkeepers depend on the money that comes from the river trade, and a successful river trade depends on bargemen being able to bribe dishonest tariff takers into overlooking certain stacks of cargo.

Of course, if taxes were lower or the city provided services to the lower classes, people could get by with hard work. Honest work. But Emmerst wouldn’t take his reforms that far. Myrrh’s seen enough of the city’s merchants and traders to know they’re all the same. Greedy and ignorant.

So it’s a good thing that Glint may be in a position to stop Merchant Emmerst. Yet there’s no escaping the fact that Glint’s also her rival. And she just handed him what he needs to someday own the entire sixing city.

Maybe it’s not worth worrying about right now. She has bigger concerns with Noble and the mystery killer—if there is a killer and the deaths aren’t just a long string of sixes on fate’s dice.

At the far edge of the roof, a short length of ladder drops off the peak to access a swinging rope bridge stretched over a dark alley. In the rubbish heaps below, one of Rat Town’s truly unfortunates dozes under a cast-off square of rodent-chewed canvas. The woman’s etch-exposed residue pools here and in the dead-end corner where a stack of broken bricks must hide the beggar’s possessions. Incongruously, her trail has the scent and color of violets. When Myrrh focuses on it, the hum at the base of her skull reminds her of the buzzing of bees.

Myrrh balances across the bridge, rough rope sliding beneath her palms while she walks with her toes turned out and the arches of her feet bent over the single cord beneath. The ropes vibrate and shimmy under her weight, the planks that anchor them to the buildings crackling.

She’s never liked this bridge.

On the other side, the path winds across a flat-topped roof where a few Rat Town denizens have pitched tents and knocked together thin-walled shacks where they conduct the sorts of businesses that are too dangerous or illegal to happen at street level. Even in a half-feral district like this.

She smells the pungent odor of hoi resin being smoked in one shack. In another, a purple light burns even at this early hour. The sign of a life-wager in progress. Sometimes, the truly desperate make bets on how long they can survive various forms of deprivation. Air. Water. Food. Sleep. Having their blood removed by the cupful. A few sadistic people, often from the wealthy merchant districts, will pay to witness the suffering.

Myrrh hates this aspect of Rat Town. The black despair that’s always lurking. Sometimes, she wonders if the revelry and debauchery and the too-loud laughter of the prostitutes and their patrons is just a fancy suit pulled over flesh riddled with boils and unhealing sores.

Or maybe it’s just the etch getting to her. The sight of so many trails leading to and from these rooftop shacks where life is cheap.

She hurries past, following the wider track of residue that leads to a plank bridge between this building and the next, a shingled roof that slants to shed the rain. Where there are shingles, that is. Dark holes pock the rooftop, some with ragged edges where an unlucky thief planted a foot too hard.

She moves carefully across, up one side and down the other to perch above a rotting rain gutter.

The path splits here, the left branch leading toward the waterfront, the right into the heart of the district and eventually to the edge of the Spills. She turns left and follows the edge of the roof until she reaches a gap between buildings. Below, a dark corridor separates the rooming house she’s standing atop from a dank tavern that never closes. She wonders who left the etchings that condense into a thick film in front of the tavern’s low door and whether the drinkers are still inside. Most places like that keep a set of rotting mattresses in the back room. Easier to get started the next day.

She leaps, leather boots scraping as she lands on the tavern’s roof. From here, she catches a whiff of the River Ost, the water smelling fresher than most days. The rains a few days back must have washed some of the seeping foulness from the sewers upriver, flushing it down in a tide of stench and leaving a cleaner aftermath.

As she slips closer to the final row of buildings along the water, she realizes why she’s come this way. It wasn’t just a chance to get accustomed to the effects of the etch. Nor did she just need time to think.

Hawk’s time in Craghold stole something from him. Rattle spoke of etch revealing the traces of a person’s energy, and Glint mentioned the ability to see the ghost of someone’s passage. To Myrrh, the residue seems to be the echo of a soul.

Maybe if she uses it to examine Hawk, she’ll find a clue about what happened to him.

***

Myrrh stands in the dimly lit corridor outside Hawk’s second-story room in The Oarsman. Dreading what’s inside, she pats her jacket pockets as if she might find some excuse to turn aside. She feels something hard pressing against her right hip, and her brow furrows as she wiggles fingers into the pocket. That’s right. She still carrying the little metal charm she plucked from the lintel above Cobalt’s door. She forgot to mention that to Glint. It seems unlikely to matter; discovering that Cobalt was a thief without superstitions would have been more surprising than finding evidence of them.

But still, since she hasn’t seen the symbol before, it’s worth mentioning next time she and Glint cross paths.

She sighs. It’s really no use delaying this visit. Already, the effects of the etch are dimming. She lays a hand on the cool metal of the latch and squeezes.

The door swings open, granting a view of Hawk’s austere room. Nab’s trail is all over the place inside, pooling at Hawk’s bedside and clinging to the man—Myrrh had no idea the boy has been visiting. Nab’s essence is joined by traces of residue from the serving girls downstairs, probably left when they’ve changed Hawk’s chamber pot and brought him food.

But Hawk’s etching is scarcely visible. What scraps are there are gray and faded, reminding Myrrh of the impression left behind on underlying parchment when a scribe presses a quill to the topmost sheet of a stack. Strangely, Myrrh has the idea that somewhere, Hawk’s spirit is vibrant, leaving a blazing trail across a shadow landscape.

But not here.

As usual, he’s sitting near the window, staring absently through the gap between curtains. Myrrh tries to force her feet to step into the room, but she just can’t do it.

Today, affected by the etch, she just can’t bear to keep up the façade. Backing away from the door, she pulls it shut with a click.

Myrrh fights panic as she hurries downstairs and through The Oarsman’s common room, dashing across the street to find the low wall at the edge of the waterfront. She crouches before it and presses her forehead to the rough stone. Four barges pass, their crew pulling hard at the oars, before she can breathe normally again.

***

The etch has faded. Surrounded only by what her ordinary senses perceive, Myrrh shuffles back into Rat Town’s maze of streets. At least two hours remain before dusk, two hours where she can likely move about safely, so she begins working a circuit through the area where gambling dens and taverns are as thick as the cockroaches in the establishments’ kitchens.

It’s too early for most to be open, but when she stands at the door and knocks long enough, eventually someone answers. She asks about security and whether Ghost syndicate has provided enough muscle to keep the peace. In that regard, her organization has done well. Aside from the violence in The Queen’s Dice a few nights back, there have been just the usual bar fights and accusations of cheating.

She asks about Noble. Since the fight in Sapphire’s gambling house, he and his glimmer-blind associates have been barred from the district’s gaming halls and taverns. A few of the tavernkeepers report that the former Slivers boss and his lieutenants tried to gain entrance the first night of the ban, but not since.

“If you think you have enough blades on hand to contain a brawl, let them in if they try again. Send a message to the Roost. Tell Rikson to fetch me. It doesn’t matter what time it is.”

Despite skeptical glances, the proprietors agree. By the time dusk approaches, Myrrh arrives at Rikson’s Roost satisfied with her progress. With good fortune, her evening meeting with the Ghost council will proceed smoothly; she wants to be home before full dark.

Chapter Fourteen

FOUR GRIM FACES look up from the circular table in Rikson’s back room. Something’s obviously wrong.

Myrrh stops short before reaching her chair. “What? What is it?”

Toad blinks his watery blue eyes. “Rikson’s wife was badly injured. Yesterday morning.”

Her pulse speeds. The others stare at her as if waiting for an explanation. Or maybe as if to blame her. But why?

As she resumes heading for her chair, there’s a decided chilliness to their stares. Myrrh’s thoughts race. Is it because she hasn’t done more about Noble? Do they think Hetty Rikson’s injuries are related to Cobalt’s death?

“Before we talk more, I just wanted to check: You did get my message last night, right? I was detained in Lower Fringe.”

“We did,” Carver says in a flat voice. The big man seems to take up even more space than usual, perhaps due to the frustration that radiates from him.

Myrrh remains standing, hands gripping the back of her chair. “All right. Out with it. You blame me for her injuries?”

Warrell’s chest swells as he inhales. “It’s not that, Myrrh. We’re angry because we knew what happened by late last night, but we haven’t done anything about it. We can’t agree on how best to retaliate, mostly because we’re used to following your lead.”

She slides out her chair and sits, accidentally knocking a shoulder against the dangling candle lantern and setting it swinging. The light shifts wildly over the walls until Ivy reaches up and stills the lamp.

“Wait…retaliate? Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Myrrh says, her thoughts flashing to an image of Hetty Rikson, a gentle woman with an easy smile. Though the Roost is a customary haunt of cutpurses and schemers, the Riksons are honest people just trying to earn a living. Who would possibly want to harm Hetty?

Toad folds one long-fingered hand over the other. “Mrs. Rikson left yesterday morning with a handcart full of linens to deliver to a laundry near the border of In Betweens. She should have arrived late morning and returned back here in the early afternoon.”

“But she didn’t…?”

He shakes his head. “Yes and no. She arrived at the laundry, but she’d been beaten.”

“Beaten? Really?” Myrrh sits up straight, her chair teetering back with the sudden shift.

“A nasty knock on the head. When we finally talked to the laundress”—Toad swallows what appears to be a lump of regret—“the woman said she helped Hetty put a compress over the gash where her forehead was split open. Hetty was speaking and seemed alert. She said she’d been confronted by gang members from Haven who wanted a toll for passage down the street near the laundry.”

Here, the man pauses to let this sink in. He waits for Myrrh to ask the obvious question.

“This was a Rat Town laundry, right? Hetty didn’t cross into In Betweens, did she?”

“She didn’t set foot outside of Rat Town. Seems Haven has made their first bid for a slice of our turf. We might still be oblivious to the move if they hadn’t tried to extract one of their first tolls from the wife of one of our favorite tavern keepers.”

Myrrh clenches her jaw while tapping a finger on the tabletop. “You said she was speaking and alert. Does that mean she’s not anymore?”

Ivy sighs. “I’ve been sitting with her much of the afternoon. She’s not well, Myrrh. A group of kids found her wandering near the waterfront yesterday evening. Her head had stopped bleeding, but she was muttering and clearly disoriented. We sent a messenger to the laundress, who claimed she sent Hetty off in the early afternoon because she seemed fine and because the woman had to get started on her afternoon washing.”

“When you say ‘not well,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“She hasn’t come back to awareness since we brought her home. If anything, she’s gotten worse. Her eyes don’t respond to light. We’ve been able to dribble water and a bit of tonic suggested by a healer past her lips…” Ivy pauses for a moment then clears her throat. “Other than that, seems we don’t have much choice but to wait and hope.”

Myrrh drags her hands through her hair and puffs her cheeks as she exhales. “That’s all we know about Haven’s moves?”

Ivy nods. “So far.”

Myrrh thinks back to her conversation with Glint weeks ago. He wanted to nominate her as second-in-command, responsible for his organization when he was occupied with his merchant guise. It had become an issue because his leadership hadn’t been able to make decisions without him. Ghost syndicate was supposed to be different. The members were freelancers before she banded them together. The point of having a council was to make sure that there was always someone available to make difficult decisions.

But how would she have felt if they had moved without her. What if she’d returned from Glint’s home to find Ghost syndicate at open war with Haven? She wouldn’t have been pleased with that, either.

“I’m sorry I was away,” she says. “It was important.”

“I’m sure it was,” Ivy says, though she doesn’t sound particularly convinced.

Myrrh sighs. “We’ll start by imposing a percentage donation to the syndicate on all jobs run by its members—they’ll still make more than they did accepting freelance gigs from Slivers. Tomorrow, someone will approach the Shields known to have taken bribes from Slivers. If the Queen of Nines rolls well for us, the extra muscle will be enough to push Haven back without any further conflict. Except when it comes to those who hurt Hetty. That’s personal. We need to figure out which streets she would have taken to reach the laundry. Shouldn’t be hard to find these so-called toll takers.”

“It’s a good plan, Mistress Myrrh,” Carver says.

It’s a strange time for him to call her by the title many of the syndicate members started using in the days after the coup. There’s something in his tone that suggests he wants to say more. She waits for him to speak.

“What is it, Carver?” she finally says.

“What happens if it doesn’t work? We’ll need to make more hard choices. The truth is, I’m honored you asked me to sit on the council, but I worked freelance for a reason. I’m good at making decisions for Carver the thief, not a whole syndicate.”

“Wait, are you quitting?”

He unclasps his enormous hands and turns his palms up as if in surrender. “I’m asking you to take charge. I’m happy to pass on orders to the rest of the syndicate. Whatever you say needs to be done. But I don’t want to be the person deciding what those orders are.”

“And the rest of you?”

Myrrh blinks as she runs her gaze around the table. The others fidget and shrug.

“I just want to go back to plucking kegs of brandy off barges heading for West Fifth,” Ivy says. “After I’m done caring for Hetty, that is.”

“But what about next time I have to be away? I need someone to step in.”

“Maybe you should stick around until we get Rat Town stabilized,” Warrell says with an apologetic shrug.

Even though Myrrh knows she was making most of the decisions the last few weeks, she still feels abandoned. Running a whole syndicate is too much responsibility for her to take on alone.

Sure, Glint does it.

Noble did it.

But didn’t they have some practice first?

Myrrh thinks back to her early conversations with Glint. He came back to Ostgard with a righteous purpose. Wanted to carve out a spot in the city where he grew up. But he didn’t work under another crime lord before founding his organization. He just…started building. Sure, he connected with Hawk and started their partnership, but he would have built his network with or without her former mentor.

Where did he get the courage? Was it just part of him, or did he have the same kinds of doubts she’s feeling now?

The others are staring at her expectantly.

Warrell leans forward to catch her gaze. “You’ve been doing the job since the day we threw Slivers out. Remember, we were sitting at the bar in the front room. Already, people thought of you as their leader. Not me, and not some council.”

“I expected to get Hawk back. I figured he would help us guide the syndicate, so anything I said was what I imagined he would suggest.”

“And when he came back in his current condition, did you stop taking control of these meetings?”

She shrugs. “No, I guess not.”

“We spent the last full day wringing our hands,” Toad says. “And you came up with a plan for action within minutes of hearing what had happened.”

“That’s partly because we’re all here together. I understand that you were waiting for me before.”

Warrell takes a breath before speaking. “What if Ivy were sick in bed today? Would you wait to act on Haven until she joined us?”

Myrrh thumps her fist lightly on the table. Warrell has a point. No, she wouldn’t wait.

“What would the rest of the syndicate think if I started calling myself the boss.”

Ivy snorts. “They’d probably be relieved to get back to the comfortable notion of a kingpin guiding the organization. Most people like to take direction even if they won’t admit it. Takes off some of the pressure.”

“But Ghost syndicate is an affiliation of grubbers.”

“And they know you respect that.”

Myrrh takes a deep breath. Her toe taps agitatedly against the floorboards; she’s running out of arguments.

“I can’t always be in Rat Town. I mean, seriously, what if someone like Warrell”—she casts him a mock glare—“sells me out to a shady group from Lower Fringe. It’s happened before.”

“I’m not saying we won’t try,” Carver says. “But it would go better if you left explicit directions.”

Myrrh groans and props her forehead on her fingertips. “Fine. You can tell yourselves I’m boss of Ghost syndicate. But you aren’t getting out of these evening meetings. I still need people to pass along the orders.”

The others settle into their chairs, looking more at ease than Myrrh remembers seeing them since the ousting of Slivers. Aside from the lines of strain around Ivy’s eyes, no doubt caused by her worry for Hetty Rikson, they already seem more like the carefree thieves she remembers from their grubber days.

If only Myrrh could relax alongside them.

“All right,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Down to business then. Tomorrow we’ll need a small team of skirmishers to deal with the Haven toll-takers. The pay for the gig can be a note of credit against the syndicate coffers—they should fill quickly once we impose a mandatory five percent donation from jobs.”

Toad nods. “I know a few guys who’d be eager for that gig. Fans of Mrs. Rikson’s pot pies.”

“In terms of dealing with Noble, I’ve asked the taverns to start allowing his crew inside if they can handle a scuffle. We need to start tracking down his location, which means we need to set some snares. I’m going to need a few strong fighters to accompany me while I follow his trail. I’ll pay half their wages from my personal stash and we’ll pay the other half from the syndicate vault.”

Warrell looks ready to protest, no doubt uneasy about the idea of her personally chasing after Noble and his people. She fixes him with an unbreaking stare, daring him to object after he just abdicated responsibility.

He presses his lips together and nods. “I’ll gather a squad of our best, Mistress.”

“We’ll run the usual operations at First Docks, watching for cargo marked with family crests from the Fifths. Plus security on the gambling houses. And we’ll need to strengthen our presence near the border with In Betweens. Remind the shops and inns that we’re still in charge. Got it?”

The others nod as they take mental notes.

“One last thing,” Myrrh says. “And this assignment is for you four only. I want to keep a watch out for Rattle to get a better idea about his movements.”

“Rattle?” Carver asks.

“Tall. Missing an eye and wears different replacements for it. Yesterday and today, it was a silver sphere. Before that, red glass. Ivy has seen him.”

The other woman nods. “Looks a bit like death in thief’s leathers.”

“Anything in particular we should watch out for?”

“He claims he wants to be part of our organization. I’m not sure I trust him. I particularly don’t like the fact that he tried to make me feel like we’re auditioning for him.”

“Then why deal with him?” Toad asks.

“Because he has resources that could be a huge asset. Enough that I can’t dismiss him without further investigation.”

“I’ll watch for him” Ivy says.

The others nod in agreement.

“Good. But whatever you do, don’t mention this conversation outside this room.”

“You think he’s dangerous?” Carver asks.

“I know he’s dangerous. I’m just not sure to whom.”

Chapter Fifteen

LACK OF ALONE time and personal space over the next few days tries Myrrh’s patience. Every time she leaves the safe house at night, at least five heavily armed Ghost members accompany her. During the day, she reduces her bodyguard count to two. Paying half their wages for the work, she quickly starts to run low on the coin she stole and stashed before Noble resurfaced.

A few days in, Warrell and Ivy convince her to pay her security detail entirely out of syndicate coffers. That’s less than any other syndicate boss takes and spends from their underling’s efforts, but still it rankles. Myrrh’s been taking care of herself for as long as she can remember. Well, since the orphanage anyway. And she doesn’t feel like a crime boss. More like a pickpocket running a circus.

But no one else can know how inadequate she feels, or everything will fall apart.

She makes a point of frequenting a variety of establishments in the district, avoiding some of her usual haunts to be more visible overall. Noble needs to see her out and about if he’s going to be tempted to show himself.

When it’s been a few days since she was around The Queen’s Dice for Rattle’s midnight appearance, he finally leaves word with Sapphire. He’s heard of a foreign trader lodging in Upper Fringe. Apparently, the foreigner is interested in selling rubies mined by illegal slave labor in the Inner Kingdoms. It’s a ripe target, and Rattle’s hoping to move on it.

Myrrh sends a message to Glint to ask if he has a contact in the Seven Fingers syndicate, the organization that runs Upper Fringe. She hopes that with a good pitch, she can secure permission for an operation in their turf.

She hears back the next day. Unfortunately, relations between Glint’s organization and his neighbors in Upper Fringe are strained. An introduction through him would do her no good. And Myrrh can’t make the trip there herself; it would take the whole day or more to get to Upper Fringe and back, and she can’t leave Rat Town until things are under control.

The next night, she waits in The Queen’s Dice to give Rattle the news herself. He arrives as he has every other time, stepping silently into the gambling hall and approaching her table.

“Myrrh,” he says as he sits.

“You can’t pull the heist as a representative of Ghost syndicate.”

The serving girl hurries over with a water. Myrrh brushes away the girl’s questioning glance. She won’t be here long.

Rattle lays his palms on the table. “Go on.”

“I don’t have a contact in the syndicate that owns the turf. Not yet. You can hit it as a freelancer, either by asking for permission or poaching. But if you do that and you get caught, my syndicate will deny ever knowing you.”

He nods slowly, one eye fixed on her, the stark white orb—polished marble, maybe—in his other socket inscrutable.

“The trader has hefty private security. I could use a partner.”

“You can’t take anyone from Ghost. We can’t be involved.”

“I don’t want to take just anyone. I’m interested in working with their boss.”

The idea of leaving behind her responsibilities for an evening or two is tempting. But she can’t. And she can’t admit the reason to Rattle, either. He needs to think Rat Town is under control and running smoothly. “If I had the time, I would’ve traveled to Upper Fringe and secured permission for an operation. But I’m too busy. Syndicate business.”

“Any progress on Noble?” he asks.

“I’ll let you know when there is,” she says flatly.

Rattle takes a sip from his water, stands, and starts to leave.

“Rattle.”

He turns to look at her.

“We have jobs here. Plenty of criminal work and security operations to be done. If you’re serious about joining the organization…”

“I’ll be back with some rubies. Like you said, I can’t poach this job as a member of Ghost syndicate, so better if I stay freelance for now. We can talk once I return.”

***

It’s been seven days since her council quit. Hetty Rikson woke on day five, but she remembers little, her thoughts are slow, and she can’t stand without falling. The toll-takers near the laundry have been beaten within an inch of their lives. Haven has retreated, its members a menacing presence just over the border with In Betweens, but no longer venturing into Rat Town. For now, the situation there will keep.

Myrrh returns to the safe house early in the evening and knocks five times then twice. Precious, an aging thief with a slow gait but the fingers of an artist, opens the door.

Myrrh dismisses her escort with a nod, and the two burly men that have shadowed her movements today turn and head for the taverns.

She steps through the door and pats Precious on the shoulder. “Seen Nab?”

He shakes his head, and Myrrh sighs. The kid is always out this time of day. They haven’t crossed paths since a day or two after she scolded him for stealing from the bakeries. She could use his annoying teasing right about now. A break from the endless reports on syndicate operations would be refreshing.

Extra armed men and women guard the downstairs rooms of the safe house, and another sentry stands with arms crossed at the end of the upstairs corridor. Myrrh nods to her people as she tromps across to the stairway and slowly trudges up the stairs toward her room.

When she opens the door and yelps, a dozen blades hiss as they leave their sheaths.

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, glaring at Glint. He’s lounging in the single chair at her bedside.

She steps through the door and closes it with a firm click.

“I’m impressed with your security improvements,” Glint says, spinning one of his knives across his fingers.

“You can’t be that impressed, seeing as you got in again.”

He shrugs. “Only because I know your weaknesses. Including your habit of opening your window shutters for a few minutes every morning to let in fresh air. The shutters swing outward. It wasn’t too hard to have one of my associates lean down from the rooftop and press some sticky resin into the latch mechanism.”

“Leaving me exposed to intruders.”

“Which is why I’ve been here since mid-afternoon.”

Myrrh has stepped closer and now stands at the foot of her bed, a few paces from his seat. She takes a whiff of the air near him. “Are you drunk?”

“No. Though I have been waiting a while. I had a glass of port.”

She cocks her head. “Just one?”

“Well, maybe two.”

“How about the one in your hand?” she asks, nodding toward the small goblet he’s balancing on a knee.

“For you?” he suggests, holding it out with a guilty smile.

Myrrh smirks. “Why are you here this time?”

The expression that crosses his face seems so maudlin Myrrh nearly takes a step back.

“Will you sit with me?” he asks, the emotion vanishing as quick as it came.

She runs her eyes pointedly over the room as if to note that there’s only one chair.

He sighs and stands, setting the glass of port on her bedside table and slipping the knife into a hidden pocket. Normally, Myrrh might protest this act of chivalry, but right now she’s just too tired. Relieved, she sinks into the chair. From this vantage, she notices the bottle of port. It’s possible that he brought a partially empty container, but if not, he’s had more than two glasses.

Glint wanders the room, then stops and leans a shoulder against the wall, hands fidgeting. He chews the corner of his lip, and after a moment gestures toward the bed. “May I?”

When she nods, he slips off his boots and flops on top of the quilt. Again, a mournful expression darkens his features.

Something isn’t right.

“Are you okay, Glint?”

“I lost two more people, Myrrh. No explanation. No threats ahead of time. One was found sitting in a darkened booth in a basement tavern. The other never got out of the cot he rented in a Crafter’s District bunkhouse.”

“Did I know them?”

He shakes his head. “I have no answers as to who or what is doing this, and I have to be away in the coming days. Emmerst plans to put a vote before the council declaring my father dead or otherwise gone for good. If it passes, I’ll need every waking moment to secure that official council appointment so I can press for selecting a Maire who won’t ruin the city.”

Myrrh thinks of the responsibility she feels for her syndicate and everyone in Rat Town. She knows Glint views his people the same way. No wonder he’s upset at the thought of abandoning them at a time like this.

“Do you have someone to help run things while you’re away yet?”

“I’m trying to teach Resh. He’s the most levelheaded among my leadership.”

Myrrh nods. The big bald thief was her most stalwart advocate when the others in Glint’s inner circle argued against accepting her.

“I’m so sorry about your people,” she says. “Speaking of the murders, I did remember one other thing.”

She pulls out the trinket from Cobalt’s shack and drops it into his open palm. Glint pinches the metal charm between his thumbs and index fingertips and rotates it to examine it from all sides.

“It was tacked over Cobalt’s door.”

“I’ve never seen this symbol. Or maybe…” He hesitates then shakes his head. “It’s almost as if I should remember it, but I just can’t place it. Probably my imagination.”

Myrrh shrugs. “I’ve definitely never seen it before.”

He lets his hand flop back onto the bed, the charm loosely curled in his fingers.

“Maybe it would be worth checking the scenes where the others were killed,” she says.

Glint sighs and brings his other arm up so his forearm covers his eyes. “I’m tired, Myrrh.”

Myrrh isn’t sure what to say. She’s never seen him like this. She moves closer, uncurls his fingers, and plucks out the charm. The metal is warm from his skin, and it clicks when she sets it on the nightstand.

As she starts to recline into the chair again, he snatches her wrist. With a gentle tug, he pulls her close. She takes an awkward perch on the edge of the bed.

Glint moves the arm off his forehead. His eyes are pained, his brow steepled as he looks at her.

“I don’t know how to stop the deaths. I don’t even know where to start. What if the killer comes for you? I can’t stand the thought of someone finding you dead in this room.”

“My guards go everywhere with me.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not enough. No one sees the killer. We have no notion of his methods.”

“It has to be enough. We can’t do anything else until we have a lead.”

Suddenly, he grabs her arms and draws her closer. She squeaks as she scrabbles a foot forward to keep from falling onto him. Glint pulls harder, threading an arm around her back until her torso is pressed against him. Her spine uncomfortably contorted, Myrrh rotates her hips and gets her legs up on the bed. She tries to push up on hands and knees to put some space between them.

Glint’s arms are steel. Desperate. He clings to her as if she’s the only thing keeping him from falling. As Myrrh finally manages to get an elbow down, pressing her torso away from his chest, Glint’s fingers slide into her hair.

She swallows, sure he intends to pull her head down and kiss her. Her impulse to resist weakens, but then he suddenly shifts, holding her tight as he rolls atop her.

Looking down at her, Glint’s trembling, his breath shallow.

“We could leave,” he says, voice rough. “Sail away together. Leave all this behind.”

“You’re drunk,” she whispers.

His lips touch hers, gentle for a heartbeat, and then crushing. His body shakes as he exhales, hot breath on her cheek.

Myrrh’s belly is on fire, her nose full of the scent of sandalwood. He tastes of the rich oak and deep raspberry notes in the port. Every inch of him presses against her.

Myrrh aches to give in, but he’s not himself. It can’t be like this.

She lays her hands against his cheeks, feels a hint of stubble on her palms. Gently, she raises his head. His teeth graze her lower lip as his mouth leaves hers, leaving her lips cold and wanting.

She can feel his heart thudding. His pupils are so wide they’ve nearly swallowed his irises.

Ever so slowly, the deep vulnerability in his face hardens. Glint’s fingers untangle from her hair. As he first props himself on his elbows, then rolls off her, his expression is achingly melancholy.

Myrrh shivers in the sudden absence of his body.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I lost control.”

“It’s the liquor. It makes you impulsive.”

His eyes pierce as he rolls his head to look at her. “You could have a couple glasses. Forget about your responsibilities for a few hours.”

For a moment, she yearns to do just that. Then she shakes her head. “My council is gone. It’s only me holding Ghost syndicate together now. And I have to be ready to track down Noble the moment he pops up.”

He shakes his head sadly. “So serious and dedicated.” She notices he’s slurring a little bit.

“People will get hurt if I don’t do my job.”

“You really need to take some lessons in hedonism from the city’s other crime bosses.”

She sighs. “Maybe someday.”

He snorts and looks away. “Right.”

She wants to argue that she does know how to relax and have fun and that it’s not always about responsibility and burdens for her. For a moment, she wants to snatch up the glass of port and chug it just to prove her point. It would be nice to let go for a few hours, and a few drinks would provide a good excuse for selfish choices.

But then she thinks of Hetty Rikson and the dull look that still sits in her eyes. As often happens, the image of the adolescent boy who died during her barge heist flashes through her thoughts. Her choices have real consequences, and she can’t pretend otherwise, even for a few hours.

She lays a gentle hand on Glint’s cheek. His eyelids are looking heavy now, and she doubts it will be long before he passes out. For all she knows, he won’t remember much of this tomorrow.

“You shouldn’t travel home alone, especially not in your condition,” she says. “The city’s too dangerous this time of night.”

His words come slowly, mumbled from the edge of sleep. “Are you offering to share your bed?” A half smile curls the corner of his mouth.

“I’m offering one of our spare rooms. And a pitcher of water to help with tomorrow’s headache.”

His eyelids finally sink shut. “Well, a man can always hope.”

With some difficulty, she manages to get him upright. With mostly closed eyes, he shuffles beside her, arm draped over her shoulder. Myrrh pulls the door open and recruits help from the sentry at the end of the hall. To the man’s credit, he asks no questions as they half-carry Glint to an empty room and lay him down.

Myrrh casts a last glance at Glint’s sleeping form before she shuts the door and heads to bed.

He leaves before she wakes.

Chapter Sixteen

LATE AT NIGHT a couple days later, a commotion downstairs rouses Myrrh. She’s on her feet and strapping on her sword belt within moments. Graves, the upstairs sentry for the night, raps on her door.

“We have word that one of the Whites has surfaced. A guy named Hemlock and three goons turned up for drinks at the Oaken Keg. The brewmaster sent his apprentices to tell us.”

Myrrh yanks her door open so they can speak better. “Send word to Warrell. Tell him I need the squad he put together.”

Graves nods and disappears. As Myrrh secures her hair in a tight braid, the downstairs door opens and slams shut, letting her know that someone has hurried off to do her bidding.

She closes the door to her room then pulls open a hidden drawer in the back of her nightstand. The three packets of etch and the brazier are tucked into the far corner. She grabs a packet and the burner, then restores the nightstand to its position against the wall.

Careful not to spill, she taps the crushed leaf into a little pile in the small brass container. As she lowers a candle flame to the herb, she listens for more noise from downstairs, but the safe house residents and guards seem to hold their collective breath. No doubt some want to ask what’s going on, but she sees no benefit in spreading word of her plans. Though she doubts Noble has sympathizers inside Ghost syndicate—they’d have to be pretty stupid not to realize how much better their situation is now than it was under Slivers—there’s no point in taking chances.

As the edges of the dried leaf bits start to smolder, she pulls the candle away and leans down to inhale. Like before, the smoke burns her throat and lungs. But the brazier is gentler, the smoke cooler. She waits for a moment before exhaling and intaking another lungful of the smoke. After three more breaths, etchings seem to spring from the walls and floor, the room suddenly full of the ghosts of others’ passages.

Myrrh quickly fits a tight lid over the burner to snuff the flame, then steps into the hall. Inundated with the sensory deluge from the etchings, she props a shoulder against the doorjamb to gather herself.

Once she no longer feels overwhelmed, she stands tall and strides down the stairs.

Myrrh stops short when she glances at Nab’s room. She feels as if an icy fist has just pummeled her in the gut.

Last time she used etch, the echoes of the boy’s presence were a thick fog around his bedchamber. Now she sees only a hint of his presence. If that. Stomach vaulting into her throat, she races across the floor and throws the door open. At the last instant, terrified she’ll be greeted by his skinny body lying dead upon the sheets, she has to quell the impulse to flee instead of look.

It’s a small relief to see that the room is empty, the bed unmade. But there’s no sign of his trail anywhere within.

Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he’s okay. Or alive. Myrrh’s heart thrashes inside her chest. Why didn’t she pay more attention? She hasn’t seen him in days, and all she thought to do was ask casually now and again if anyone had seen him.

Oh, sixes. If the killer preying on the city’s thieves has snared Nab, she’ll never forgive herself.

“Mistress?” Graves asks. He opens his mouth to continue but then comprehension dawns.

“I’ll send people to search for him right away, Mistress,” he says.

Myrrh closes her eyes to stop the world from spinning, then presses her fingers to her temples.

Her whole soul aches as she speaks her next words. “It will be light in a few hours. We can start searching then. For now, if Noble’s people are out in force, we can’t afford to make ourselves vulnerable.”

Graves shuffles back and forth as if trying to decide whether to try to comfort her. After a moment, he seems to think better of it and clears his throat. “I’ll start organizing for a dawn search then.”

As Myrrh shuffles back into the main room, her eyes drift to the top of Nab’s door frame. Her blood turns frigid.

Tacked to the wood is a charm, a diamond pierced by crossed daggers.

Her knees buckle. Graves just barely manages to catch her before she falls. Black flickers at the edges of her vision while she tries to get herself under control.

“I just need to sit for a moment,” she finally manages to say.

***

Time seems to move in fits and starts while she waits for Warrell and his squad of fighters to arrive. She feels the stares of the brewer’s apprentices and hears the nervous shuffling of her thieves, but she can’t bring herself to care if they’re bothered by her behavior. If they feel she’s unfit to lead because she’s breathless at the thought that Nab might be dead, let them find someone else to bind the syndicate together.

At some point, Piebald slips into the kitchen and returns with a sliced apple. She doesn’t look up when he sets the plate on the end table beside her. A distant part of her knows she needs energy to take on the night’s tasks, and absently, she picks up a slice and takes a bite. The taste doesn’t register. She feels as empty as a used whiskey flask.

The knocks, three groups of three taps, startle the apprentices. Graves strides to the door and lifts the bar. Warrell steps inside wearing a hardened leather jerkin atop a mail tunic. A pair of short swords are sheathed at his hips. Behind him, she spots the shifting shadows of the crew he’s assembled for this job.

Myrrh realizes her second bite of apple is still sitting on her tongue. With a shaky breath, she stands, chews and swallows the fruit. Her cloak is on the hook by the door. She motions to the brewers’ boys, who hurry over.

“You’re safer if you stay here tonight. Take the spare room.”

They share a glance but seem to think better of arguing.

“What can you tell us about Hemlock and his people?” she asks.

The taller of the two boys—the elder, if she were to guess—touches his brow. “They came well after midnight, Mistress. I was sweeping the hearth when they came in. The room got real quiet. Hemlock was obvious by his shining eyes, but the other three were just ordinary thugs.”

He casts a nervous look at the men and women that lurk at the edges of the room, dark eyes shifting, blades loose in their sheaths. Maybe he’s wondering if they took offense at his choice of words.

“No altercations?”

“Pardon, Mistress?” His ears turn red at the tips, no doubt due to shame over not knowing the word.

“They didn’t try to start a fight or anything?”

He shakes his head quickly. “They headed straight to a table in the back corner. Francie was scared to death to go back there and take their orders, but they didn’t hassle her none. Just asked for mugs of ale. That’s when Reginald—he’s the bartender—that’s when he grabbed me and told me to wake Gerran and run here to fetch you. Said we had to go together to be safe.”

“Did you check whether they were still there when you left?” Warrell asks, his low voice rumbling.

The boy taps his fingers against his thumbs then quickly shakes his head. “Sorry, sire. Went straight out the back.”

Warrell claps a hand on his shoulder, causing the boy to take a step to keep his balance. “Don’t worry lad. Just asking so we know what we’re walking into.”

The big man casts a look at Myrrh. “Ready then?”

She nods. The sooner Noble is dealt with, the better. And right now, her dagger needs someone to bite.

Chapter Seventeen

HEMLOCK IS STILL inside.

All the way between the safe house and the Oaken Keg, Myrrh had a sinking feeling that he would have already left and she’d have used up a dose of etch for no reason.

Well, not for no reason. She did discover that Nab is missing and quite possibly dead.

But Hemlock’s still drinking, according to the thief she sent inside to ask. The bartender said to tell her he can’t make sense of it. The Slivers crew isn’t causing trouble, and they aren’t drinking all that fast either. They’re just sitting there like they’re waiting for something.

Maybe they’re waiting for her.

Taking a breath of the cool night air, she checks that her dagger is loose in its sheath. A glance at her squad of protectors shows alert men and women who are ready to defend her no matter the threat. Warrell meets her gaze with a stony stare, then nods.

Including Myrrh, there are eight Ghost members in her crew. She sends two through the door ahead of her then steps into the tavern.

At least a score of candle lanterns spill light through the room. The lamps decorate the tables and hang from chains bolted to the ceiling. There weren’t so many last time Myrrh visited this particular tavern, so either the proprietor has lit them in honor of Hemlock’s appearance, or they’ve been burning extra candles since Noble became a threat. Either way, it’s easy to spot Hemlock among the crowd. He’s sitting with his back to the room, his face turned to the darkest corner in the tavern. A wide-brimmed hat sits low on his head.

Myrrh catches the bartender’s eye as three more of her people enter behind her and fan out. The final two members of her squad remain outside, watching the exits in case Hemlock makes a sudden move.

The bartender swipes a faded blue towel over the bar and gestures toward Hemlock with his chin. He’s obviously nervous; the muscles in his neck look like a barge’s anchor lines under the strain of a strong current. But he’s done well to keep the situation in the room under control. It’s less crowded than usual. No doubt, some patrons decided to head elsewhere after the Slivers crew arrived. But many people have returned to their drinks and conversations.

When Myrrh starts walking toward Hemlock’s table, however, silence ripples outward from her in a wave.

The White’s underlings track her movement, flat expressions betraying nothing. She meets their stares with a mask of her own, forming a mental image of their etchings so she can follow their trails if necessary. When she reaches the table, she circles around until she’s within Hemlock’s sight—putting her back to the wall at the same time. Her guards approach from various positions around the room, stopping when they form a protective wall between the table and the rest of the tavern. Their hands rest lightly on the pommels of their swords and daggers.

“Hemlock,” she says as she sits.

“Myrrh,” he returns.

Aside from a brief introduction the night Myrrh abducted the Maire and left his palace open for Slivers to loot, she hasn’t spoken to the man. The storm drain where they were introduced was nearly pitch black; this is the first time she’s seen his features. She keeps her gaze on his face until she memorizes it, but the real purpose is to make sure she has a fix on his etching.

The residue surrounding him reminds her of wasp nests and the puffball mushrooms that sometimes pop up in the Spills. The buzzing in her skull is the low hum of a dragonfly’s wings. There’s a faint scent of autumn wind about him. None of these perceptions seem to connect to the man himself, no more than Rattle seemed suited to the smell of cloves. But she’s certain she can recognize Hemlock’s trail now.

As for his face, it’s more striking than most thieves’, lacking the scars and permanent scowls of so many of his peers. The glimmer shows deep in his gaze, flashing silver like a cat’s in the night. If she didn’t know he was Noble’s associate, she might have made the mistake of judging him as a man of integrity based on his appearance.

“I hear your boss is offering a bounty on my head,” she says.

Any response he might have offered is delayed when a young woman approaches, worrying at the hem of her apron. She tiptoes close to Myrrh, edging around the men as if to stay out of arm’s reach.

“You must be Francie,” Myrrh says.

The barmaid nods. “Can I get you something, Mistress Myrrh?”

Myrrh rises far enough out of her chair to peer into the men’s mugs. “Could I buy you gentlemen a round?”

Hemlock takes his eyes off her long enough to turn his head toward Francie. He winces as the light from a nearby lantern sneaks under his hat brim. “Please bring Myrrh an ale on my tab. We’ve intruded on her turf. It’s the least I can do.”

His face betrays no emotion as Francie bobs a little curtsy. “And for you, sires?”

Hemlock shakes his head. “Perhaps later.”

The young woman is obviously relieved at the dismissal and hurries off. Myrrh shifts in her seat, checking that her people are still looming and ready to strike. She’s walking a narrow bridge right now, and a bottomless chasm of malice lies on either side.

“There’s no point in denying Noble’s intents toward you,” Hemlock says. “Nor mine. I doubt you can truly understand the depth of my rage without facing the same circumstances. Unlike many criminals, I once enjoyed sunlit afternoons and the glow of a fine chandelier.”

“I could have had you killed as you left Maire’s Quarter that night. Instead, I kept my word and let you walk out untouched. But I couldn’t leave you whole, either. Even glimmer-blind, you’re a threat.”

“You assume much to think an ambush at the exit from Maire’s Quarter would have been successful. Noble is not the trusting sort. We were prepared to be double-crossed. Of course, he obviously underestimated your inventiveness in this regard.”

“Speaking of unsuccessful ambushes, I assume your group was responsible for my abduction attempt a fortnight or so ago.”

“Your marksman surprised us with his stealth and skill.”

His. The man’s use of the male pronoun proves they caught no glimpse of Mink.

“Is that failure the reason we haven’t had any sign of you since?”

Francie returns with Myrrh’s ale and deposits it on the table, whipping her arm back as if the mug turned venomous the moment it shared a table with the Slivers men. She scurries off.

“Just because we haven’t appeared openly doesn’t mean we aren’t watching you. We lost good people to your hidden marksman, and now you move about with much more formidable defenses. That’s why I’m here.”

Myrrh considers taking a drink of her ale but thinks better of it. “You’d like to politely request I reduce the number of armed men and women who guard me? A bold tactic.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Annoyance? Amusement? Myrrh has no idea.

“Noble has a proposal. Here’s the thing: given your increased security, it’s clear we won’t be able to take you without suffering losses. We are prepared for that if needs demand, but our fledgling organization has few good thieves and ruffians as it stands.”

“Again, this sounds as if you’re asking me to reduce my guard.”

“I’m asking for your surrender.”

She snorts. “Even better.”

“You see, despite our smaller numbers, we actually have the advantage. You don’t know when or where we’ll strike. Will we lure you out by abducting honest residents of this slum one by one? Will we strike next time you return home after a midnight meeting with the one-eyed stranger, killing half your men before the others close ranks and drag you to cover? Will we send a pretty young associate to get work as a serving girl for The Oarsman? At this point, I’m not sure your beloved Hawk would fight back if one of the girls laid a blade against his throat. He certainly wouldn’t warn you about a dagger-wielding intruder as you pushed through the door for another of your visits.”

Myrrh keeps her face even as he pauses and leans forward, but her pulse is roaring in her ears.

“However we decide to capture you—or to be honest, straight-out kill you if we must—people you care for will be hurt. Probably killed. Or you can give yourself up. Noble will step back in and reclaim the district. Members of your syndicate will be incorporated into our organization if they choose to remain. No hard feelings—they won’t be punished. Life will just go back to the way it was. With a bit more syndicate take going to the leadership to account for our new hardships.”

Finally, Myrrh lifts her mug and takes a swallow of ale. She’s chilled to know how much they’ve been watching her. But if it were as easy to get to her as he makes it sound, they would have done it by now.

“You will never have Rat Town back,” she says.

Hemlock narrows his silvery eyes. “I’m looking forward to watching you die slowly. We’ll start by removing your eyes, I think.”

“All the more reason for me to reject Noble’s little proposal. I’ve done well avoiding your clutches so far. In fact, the only reason any of you are still walking around is that your crew has been less of a nuisance than I first imagined you might be.”

One of the underlings shifts, moving slightly toward her. Myrrh’s men react instantly, blades fleeing their sheaths. The thug smirks and continues his reach for his mostly empty mug of ale.

“Something’s puzzling me,” she says after the man drinks and returns his mug to the table. “Is your life so bleak now that you no longer care to preserve it? Otherwise why come into my territory with just three”—she cocks her head as she peers at one of the thugs—“cut-rate bullies to protect you?”

None of the thugs rise to the bait, but she spots an angry tic in one’s eyelid.

“Suffice to say I’m not concerned for my safety at this time.”

“I’m not sure if that’s due to arrogance or ignorance, but if you ask nicely, I’ll let you leave tonight without getting hurt. Call it a gesture of good faith. Proof that if you were to walk away from Rat Town in the same peaceable manner, we’ll gladly let you pass the borders unharmed.”

“So I take it you officially refuse the request for surrender?” he says.

“I thought that was obvious.”

Hemlock leans back and tugs his hat brim lower. It’s some sort of signal.

Across the street, the front wall of a building explodes into flame, the sudden flare turning the tavern’s windows into squares of brilliant orange.

One of her guards reaches around the nearest underling and yanks Myrrh away as another goon pulls his hands from beneath the table, knives flashing. Her guards close around her as shouts fill the bar. The front door flies open, and one of her sentries staggers in, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.

“Get her out of here,” he yells.

Myrrh shouts in protest as Warrell’s squad starts dragging her away, their bodies shielding her from Hemlock and his underlings. The floorboards shake as they run for the back room. Through the windows, she glimpses shadows running back and forth before the burning building.

Meanwhile, Hemlock stands in the center of the chaos filling the tavern, hat hiding everything but the cruel smile that twists his lips. She kicks her feet, trying to escape her own men, as he calmly walks through the door and out into the night.

Chapter Eighteen

RUNNING FEET POUND the planks laid over the thick mud in the alley behind the Oaken Keg. From inside the circle of bodies guarding her, Myrrh glimpses frightened eyes, dirty faces, mothers carrying wailing children away on their hips.

Men and women are shouting for buckets and water. Jostled by her guards as they push against the flow of fleeing people, Myrrh tries to break through the wall of bodies. It’s no use. The alley’s narrow, no more than an outdoor hallway. Her defenders are packed around her like cigars in a tin.

When they reach the street, she sees the flames leaping high over Rat Town, licking the bottoms of the low clouds that hang over the district. Already, the burning building is hollow, blackened timbers a skeleton around the roaring fire. Choking black smoke pours from windows in the next building over. People stagger out the doors at street level and scramble out of second-story windows, lowering their bodies with hands clutching the sills until they finally let go and drop to the cobblestones. Most limp and stagger when they rise. Some must crawl away.

A family races past Myrrh’s group, hands clutched tight, the youngest child carrying a rag doll.

Myrrh’s eyes return to the spitting, roaring blaze. A fire like this could destroy the whole district.

Right now, Hemlock doesn’t matter. She can pick up his trail another time. It takes two days for an etching to fade completely.

Her guards start moving again, but Myrrh stops dead as they try to shepherd her toward the safe house.

“We need to organize the syndicate and get them helping with the bucket brigade!” she yells. “Split up now and rouse everyone you can think of.”

Warrell steps to face her, his expression hard. “That’s what Noble wants.”

“If we don’t get this contained, the whole sixing district will burn!”

He crosses his arms. “I’ll send two men to start organizing the syndicate. The rest of us will escort you home.”

“But—”

“No buts. Hemlock admitted that your security has deterred more attempts at your capture. This chaos is the perfect chance to take you down. It’s probably the whole reason they set the blaze.”

One of the other thieves, the sentry whose head was gashed, nods grimly. “They had a plan all along. I caught a woman dressed as a beggar soaking the building’s siding with liquor. When I tried to stop her, two men jumped to me.”

Myrrh tries to shove past Warrell. It’s like trying to push a building onto its side. “I don’t care if they planned this! I can’t just hide while Rat Town burns.”

“If you want to help rebuild what we lose, you will,” Warrell says. His flat voice is intended to shut down arguments. In the time they’ve worked together for Ghost syndicate, this is the most assertive she’s seen him.

Sparks leap higher and higher, setting the underbelly of the clouds aglow. Standing between her and the blaze, Warrell is wreathed in light and smoke, and blocking the heat with his body. A trickle of sweat slips down his cheek.

Unfortunately, the man is right.

Myrrh makes fists of her hands. “We run then. As fast as we can safely move. I want you back helping fight this fire in minutes.”

Warrell nods and taps two of the men on the shoulder. He jabs his thumb toward Rikson’s Roost and the other customary haunts of syndicate members. “Gather as many people as you can,” he says.

As they dash off, the others quickly form up, surrounding Myrrh. Together, they set off at a run for the safe house.

***

The effects of the etch are fading already. Still, enough lingers that she can tell Nab hasn’t returned. She wrenches her eyes from his closed door and turns to Graves and Piebald. Here, sheltered from the outside air, she can smell the stale smoke on her clothing.

“Noble may come at us before dawn. Be ready. And if the blaze turns this way, be prepared to move.”

At the edges of the main room, in the little antechamber they use as a parlor, and in the open door to the kitchen, thieves straighten and blink the drowsiness from their eyes. Graves and Piebald survey the guards as they check their own weapons.

Wearily, Myrrh climbs the stairs.

The window in her room faces south, toward the fire. Rooftops are black teeth silhouetted by the wide glow. The blaze is spreading toward the water but not in the other direction. Maybe the brave people of Rat Town have focused their efforts on the inland aspects, preventing it from eating deeper into the district.

Still, at least three blocks have burned already. She shakes her head, thinking of all those structures people couldn’t afford to build in the first place.

Worse than the lost buildings, though, are the lost lives. Ahead of the blaze, most people have likely fled. But the unfortunate inhabitants of those early buildings, especially the first…not a chance.

Noble and his gang don’t care who gets hurt or killed. Their only concerns are power, revenge, and wealth. Hemlock threatened to harm innocents until she gives up. Clearly he won’t hesitate to make good on that promise. Or to use Hawk to get to her.

She simply can’t wait anymore, searching for Noble’s nest at her leisure. Rooting out his gang has now become Ghost syndicate’s most important task.

She closes her eyes, chest aching. Even more important than finding Nab.

Come to think of it, with all Hemlock’s threats, could he be behind the boy’s disappearance? She shakes her head. Probably not. If it were Hemlock’s and Noble’s doing, the Slivers thief would likely have used that information against her tonight. Besides, the sight of that trinket pegged to Nab’s door frame keeps returning to her mind and bringing with it images of Cobalt’s dead body. Myrrh freelanced for the Slivers syndicate for years without seeing that symbol. There are missing connections in the puzzle.

Myrrh’s head spins as the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten. For a few breaths, it’s all too much. She braces her hands against the wall, worried she might drown beneath the strain.

When the dizziness passes, she closes the window shutters and replaces the bar she had installed after Glint’s antics with the latch. The angry glow from the fire and a faint hint of smoke still press through the crack. She runs a finger along the edge of the gap, fighting a wave of guilt for being locked up safe while people are losing their homes.

Tomorrow, Ghost syndicate will hunt for Nab and Hemlock. Perhaps the worst part of the plan is that she must leave the search for Nab to the others. She’s the only person who can trail Hemlock. None of her people even know how because she’s told no one but Glint about the etch.

That’s another task for tomorrow, choosing a few thieves to trust with that secret. If nothing else, those she chooses will know why she’s abandoning Nab. It seems important that she’s not alone in that knowledge.

Myrrh pulls the room’s chair in front of the window and sits. She leans her head back against the cushion and watches the firelight dance along the crack between the shutters. Time slips past, and eventually, gray predawn light joins the angry glow. Not long after, scattered raindrops patter on the roof overhead.

And then, the skies open. She opens the shutters to watch the deluge smother the fire.

Chapter Nineteen

MYRRH’S BOOTS SCUFF against the cinder-strewn cobblestones as she walks silently through the ruins of another block. Wet ash clings to her boots and splatters her pants up to the knees. It’s still drizzling, the falling mist hazing the view and pulling the smoke and ash from the air. Water gathers in murky pools or—on the few streets that boast gutters—runs toward the Ost.

Where the buildings stood, it’s still too hot to walk. People sit beside the remains of the bunkhouses and tenements where they once lived, waiting for the steam to stop rising. Myrrh doubts they’ll be able to pluck much from the wreckage, but until they know, they can still hope.

Hemlock’s trail was right where she’d hoped to find it outside the Oaken Keg. The tavern survived with just some charred siding and a few holes eaten through the roof shingles. As Myrrh suspected last night, the people of Rat Town focused on the inland edge of the blaze first, figuring that the River Ost would serve as a barrier to the fire’s eastern march.

Hemlock seemed to have come and gone from the tavern by the same route: a right turn outside the door followed by a quick bend toward the river. From there, the etching climbed a wooden ladder tacked to a building. Myrrh followed it across rooftops, down through alleys, and even through a building’s front door and out the back until, suddenly, it crossed a main street and plunged into the still-smoking remains from the blaze. He must have cut in front of the fire’s path. Unfortunately, Myrrh’s only hope is to skirt the hot regions and try to pick up the trail on the other side.

She pauses beside a pair of children who huddle together.

“Are your parents missing?” she asks.

The little girl shrinks into the boy. “Don’t got none.”

“Do you live here?”

“Did. They let us stay in the cellar around back.”

Long ago, Myrrh remembers being asked similar questions. She also remembers the mistress of the orphanage slapping her wrist and telling her she should never admit the truth. Too many people prey on children who have no one to look out for them.

Did these children never learn that lesson? Or has the shock of the fire stolen their smarts?

A fortnight past, she would have sent them to Hetty Rikson for a hot meal and a bed for a while. Now, Myrrh doesn’t know what to offer. Helping them herself would only endanger the pair. Until Noble is dealt with, no one Myrrh brings close is safe.

She touches Warrell on the shoulder. The big man wasn’t paying attention to her conversation; his eyes were fixed on the street ahead, watching for threats. Or perhaps wondering what information the etch brings to her senses. He handled her confession well. Didn’t complain that she’d kept Rattle’s offer to herself. But he’s been more reserved than usual since.

“Where’s the closest orphanage?” she asks.

Warrell shakes his head, seeming to notice the children for the first time. “Last one shut down a couple years back I hear.”

“Can you think of anyone who can take these two in for a while?”

The orphans stare up at her with wide eyes, the boy wrapping an arm protectively around his sister.

Warrell blinks and sucks his teeth while he considers. “Ivy maybe.”

Myrrh nods. Not that the other woman doesn’t already have plenty of responsibility with her own children. She won’t be able to provide for these two for long. But they can’t just remain here in the rain.

What happened to the district’s orphanages to shut them down? Did Slivers stop supporting them? Did they ever lend funds in the first place? Myrrh was kicked out to make room for younger kids when she turned eight, the age when the mistress decided Rat Town urchins could fend for themselves. After that, she didn’t pay much attention to the situation for orphans in the district.

As long as Ghost syndicate has funds coming in from its members, they ought to be able to afford to donate some to a home for Rat Town’s youngest. She can probably explain the charity to the members as a chance to reduce competition from up-and-coming thieves…set them on a path to honest work that won’t interfere with anyone’s scores.

But like so many other things, that’s a problem for later.

She crouches in front of the pair and pulls a small handful of coppers from her coin purse. A bigger sum would just make them a target.

“Do you know where Rikson’s Roost is?” she asks.

The girl seems to have lost her tongue, but the boy nods. Despite the coins in Myrrh’s outstretched palm, he glares at her with wary eyes.

“Take the money,” Myrrh says, sliding her hand closer.

Finally, the girl snatches the coins and tucks them into a fold of her grimy dress.

“Go to Rikson’s Roost and get yourselves a meal.”

“We gotta wait to see if all our stuff burned,” the boy says, chin raised as if to dare her to demean his meager possessions.

Myrrh drops off her heels and takes a cross-legged seat on the filthy street. “I know you probably had some nice things. Worked hard for them too. But this kind of fire doesn’t leave stuff behind. Your sister is cold, and you need a place to sleep for a while. I want you to stay at the Roost until evening. A woman will be there later on. White hair but with a young face. Tell her Myrrh asked her to help you.”

The boy’s hands ball into little fists. “We don’t need no grown-up help. I’ll keep Nellie warm.”

“It’s hard to accept help. I know as well as anyone. But Nellie here could use a bowl of hot lamb stew, don’t you think?”

The girl swallows and nods, quick as a bird taking a drink.

Aside from Warrell, three other thieves are accompanying Myrrh on her search. From the crunch of boots on the cinders, she can tell they’re getting impatient. And she’s pretty sure the boy will see reason, as long as he doesn’t have to admit to accepting charity in front of all these grown men.

She stands and smooths the girl’s tangled hair before starting forward. As she steps away, the girl starts whispering to her brother, no doubt angling to get herself that lamb stew.

The burn scar is about two blocks wide and ten long. As it turned out, the rain stopped the progress before the river had a chance, but it was close. Just a couple more blocks. As Myrrh walks the perimeter, searching through the etchings left by hundreds of Rat Towners over the past couple days, she peers into the ruins as well. The streets that cross through the scar are blackened and nearly as debris-filled as the jumbled char piled over the building foundations. No doubt the mess hides many more etchings, Hemlock’s among them. But unless he died in the blaze, his trail will have to exit the scar somewhere.

Along the water edge of the burn, she covers the distance twice to make sure she’s not missing anything. The first section of Hemlock’s trail headed toward the river, making this the most likely exit. But among dozens of etchings that remind her of everything from blooming roses to unwashed linens, there’s no sign of Hemlock’s residue.

Reluctantly, she heads to the far corner and prepares to turn inland when her breath seizes in her chest.

A half-block north, Nab’s trail crosses the street. His etching is unmistakable, the dusty mouse nest, all straw and husks of grass seed and tight spaces. Unmistakable, but faint. Unlike most of the tangled etchings laid down by people fleeing and fighting the fire, Nab’s is scarcely more than a tingle in her awareness. A limb that’s mostly asleep and will soon be completely numb.

By tonight—or possibly even by noon—the trace will be gone.

Warrell gives a questioning grunt as Myrrh stands and blinks. After this dose, she has just one more opportunity to use the etch. If she abandons her search for Hemlock’s trail, it may fade before she gets another chance to follow it.

But Nab’s will certainly fade. He’s been missing for days, and he’s possibly the target of a mysterious assassin. If she doesn’t follow him now, she may live in regret for the rest of her life.

Hemlock and Noble and their gang won’t leave Rat Town until they’re either dead or they’ve been chased away. Even if this trail fades, Hemlock will probably creep from their den and leave another etching soon.

Nab, on the other hand, may already be gone.

“It’s Nab. He was there yesterday or the day before.” She points toward the trail. After crossing the street, it slips into an alley that heads for the river.

“Why do you say that, Mistress Myrrh?” asks one of her escorts. He’s a young man, early twenties. Moderately handsome but with a frustrating habit of never looking at someone when he speaks. Goes by Otter if she remembers right.

Warrell looks at her expectantly, clearly wondering if she’s going to spill her secret to the other thieves helping her search. In truth, she’s not totally sure why she’s kept her discussions with Rattle from the rest of the syndicate. She told herself she didn’t want Rattle getting too chummy with the other thieves. If they knew he had these so-called resources, they might have lost their natural wariness in their eagerness to acquire some. And since Myrrh still hadn’t made up her mind about the man—still hasn’t, for that matter—she didn’t want her people to form contrary opinions.

But maybe she just wanted some secrets of her own. Maybe they made her feel more qualified to be a crime boss.

Either way, the people with her deserve a little more information.

“Let’s just say I have access to a particular substance that lets me track someone long after they’ve passed.”

The young thief grins, still looking to the side of her face. It’s awfully disconcerting, but quirks aren’t uncommon among grubbers. In many cases, the idiosyncrasies are half the reason they’ve chosen the freelance life. Easier to work alone when you’re peculiar. “I was wondering how you figured on chasing down that Slivers thug. Thought you might be kidding yourself, if you don’t mind me saying, Mistress.”

“I don’t mind you saying, no. But I’d appreciate you keeping the information to yourself.”

He shrugs and shifts his gaze to the other side of her face. Maybe he just likes to look at ears. “Will do.”

“That goes for the rest of you too,” Warrell says, looking like he’s about to cuff someone around the ears to make a point. He turns his attention back to Myrrh. “About the trails, it’s a tough choice.”

She nods, glad he sees the dilemma. As she glances down the street and focuses on Nab’s etching, the phantom sound of little mouse claws scratches at the base of her skull.

Finally, she draws herself up straight. “We have to follow Nab. There’s another threat in the city. Maybe even bigger than Noble, and something I found in Nab’s room makes me think he may know something about it.”

As far as excuses go, it’s a pretty good one.

Chapter Twenty

PROGRESS IS SLOW. Nab’s trail is fainter in some areas, maybe because he was moving fast or had little interest in his surroundings. Between the burned blocks and the waterfront, she has to double back three times to find where she lost the track.

In other places, though, the residue is thicker, pooling where he must’ve stopped to watch a barge slide down the river. There’s a lake of Nab essence outside a waterfront bakery.

The trail heads upriver for about half the length of the Rat Town waterfront. Though the shouts of bargemen reach her ears, and the rain grows heavier again, hissing as it falls on the river and cobblestones, she still hears the clicking of little rodent claws, feels them scratching inside her skull when she’s right atop the etching.

But the sensations are fading, the etch slowly draining from her body. When the trail seems to stop at a ladder that leads down to a section of First Docks, Myrrh thinks she’s reached another thin section and walks on past. Three blocks later, she’s caught no more hints of Nab’s passage.

With a sigh, she turns back for the ladder.

“Myrrh?” Warrell asks.

She shakes her head. “Running out of time. We can talk later.”

The iron rungs of the ladder are cold and slick under her hands, and the dock bounces lightly when she hops down onto it. Wet wood softens her footsteps as she paces back and forth along the platform, searching for traces of Nab’s etching. Warrell climbs down to join her while the other three thieves stand watch up top.

This section of dock is large enough for three barges to tie up, but only two are currently taking advantage of the cleats. From the downriver edge of the platform, an unsteady plank bridge extends to the next dock. Myrrh’s contemplating setting foot on it when a man emerges from the captain’s cabin on the closer of the two barges.

His eyes travel from her to Warrell and then up to the three unsavory-looking men encircling the ladder. He reaches back into his cabin and comes up with a leather belt and sheathed dagger.

“Can I help you?” he asks as he quickly buckles on his weapon. He must know he wouldn’t stand a chance against a band of five trained rogues, but it’s probably a matter of principle for him. Better to do something than simply stand by while being robbed.

Myrrh isn’t in the mood to try to reassure him. “I’m looking for a boy. He’s ten or eleven, but he tries to act older.”

“What did he do? Cheat you at cards?”

She has to give the man credit. He doesn’t cower like most would.

“He’s my…” He’s her what? Adopted kid brother? “I look out for him. Try to keep him out of trouble.”

The captain’s face softens. Reaching into his cabin again, he pulls out an oiled-leather cloak and drapes it over his head and shoulders to keep off the rain.

“Well in that case, I thought I saw a kid talking to Bruno a couple days back.”

“Who’s Bruno?”

The man nods toward the other barge, which she now notices is rather dilapidated. She raises an eyebrow.

“He makes a couple trips a week, ferrying kegs of Rat Town ale upriver to Averton. That’s the nearest town—”

“I know where Averton is.”

He shrugs. “Okay, well, he takes ale to Averton and comes back with the empties plus a heap of rubbish from the Fifths and Maire’s Quarter. Dumps it south of First Bridge then heads back here to tie up and drink for a couple days.”

“He aboard?”

The man climbs over his vessel’s rail. “I assume so.”

He stomps across the dock, drags an oar off the deck of Bruno’s vessel, and uses it to knock on the wall of the cabin. The splintering wood shivers as something, likely the meaty side of a fist, thumps against the inside wall in acknowledgment. After a moment, the door swings open, and a thickly bearded man steps out.

He manages to include everyone in sight with his glare. “What?”

The first captain pushes the oar back over the rail. Bruno watches the paddle clatter to the deck but doesn’t seem bothered by the man using it as a door knocker.

“You were talking to a kid a couple days back, right?” the first captain asks.

Bruno shrugs. “Sure”—he glares at Myrrh’s thieves once again—“but it wasn’t the sort of conversation to concern your type.”

“The lady’s looking for him. Says she takes care of him.”

Bruno hawks and spits over the rail. “Not doing a very good job then, is she?”

Myrrh clasps her hands behind her back to hide her irritation. “What did you talk about?”

“The kid said he wanted a ride up to East Fifth. Said he would pull an oar to earn it, and I felt so sorry for laughing at him that I let him on for free.”

“East Fifth? Why?”

“He was going on about how he has skills but doesn’t get to exercise them and how he thought he might have better prospects elsewhere in the city. Said he planned to look for work starting at the top.”

A wave of relief takes the strength from Myrrh’s legs, and she sags against the masonry of the river channel’s wall. Nab wasn’t kidnapped. He was just annoyed because she tries too hard to protect him. And maybe because she told him he couldn’t steal from local bakeries.

He was alive two days ago, and given the existence of a reasonable explanation for his absence, she doubts he’s met an untimely end since. He’s probably being chased from a wealthy neighborhood or laughed out of a rival syndicate’s favorite tavern right now. The trinket from his doorjamb still worries her, but maybe he’s actually safer away from his bedroom.

Myrrh’s certain Nab won’t find better prospects outside of Rat Town. He’ll be back, probably trying to act like he never left.

And in the meantime…

Now Myrrh’s got to deal with the fact that she just wasted her second dose of etch searching for a runaway kid who doesn’t want to be found.

She’s got one chance left to track down Noble and his crew. If she doesn’t, last night’s fire may seem like a cheery little blaze.

***

When she returns to the safe house, Graves and Piebald have handed off sentry duty to Precious and a woman named Lavender. The group of thieves who live elsewhere but take shifts guarding Myrrh’s residence have rotated out as well, giving up their posts to people who look nearly as weary as Myrrh feels. The smells of smoke and wet ash cling to them, proof that her gang of thieves and ruffians is far different than the Slivers syndicate who apparently didn’t think twice about setting fire to their neighbors’ homes.

“Got a message for you, Mistress,” Precious says.

Unease squirms in her belly. After the last day and night, she doesn’t want any more news.

“It’s from your friend Glint. He says he was officially appointed, whatever that means. Also, he wanted to extend an open invitation for you to visit him at a set of rooms he’s renting in Maire’s Quarter. Three doors away from where you last dined together in the Quarter.” At this point, Precious blushes furiously. “He said he’d love your company for another meal, but if you’re short on time, you could go straight to examining his new sleeping quarters.”

Myrrh has to turn aside to keep the heat in her cheeks from showing. She can’t help but think about how he acted when he was drunk, and how sometimes liquor brings out deeper emotions. He’s a shameless flirt and no stranger to women, but even with all the problems plaguing her and Ghost syndicate, her thoughts keep returning to his maudlin sentimentality, the plea to run away together, and the kiss she cut short. The appointment he spoke of in the message must be his—or rather, Merchant Giller’s—official appointment to the city council. If the wedge pushing them apart is their control of rival syndicates, the council’s vote just drove it deeper.

She sighs. Well, at least the message wasn’t word of another murder.

“I’m going to rest for a couple hours. Can you or your replacement please wake me by noon? I’ve asked some people to meet me at the Roost early this afternoon.”

“Sure thing, Mistress.”

She gives a last look at Nab’s door as she climbs the stairs. Speaking of annoying males, she needs a plan for dealing with the little flea when he returns. Maybe involving leg irons and a stack of reading primers taller than his head.

Chapter Twenty-One

“A WHILE AGO, I asked you four to keep watch for Rattle. I mentioned his interest in Ghost syndicate and said I wanted to know whether he could be trusted. I still don’t know if that’s true.”

Myrrh sits in the back room of the Roost with the former members of her council. In a moment, they will open the door and allow in nearly thirty additional thieves and killers, packing the room with the best brawlers, blademasters, spies, and sneaks the syndicate can field. But first, she wants her closest allies to know everything.

“Rattle gave me access to a substance called etch. I explained the effects to Warrell this morning.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Ivy says. “Let’s you follow phantoms.”

“Sort of. For around two days after someone passes through an area, their trail can be sensed by someone using etch. But only if the tracker knows to connect the particular trail to the person. The reason I met with Hemlock last night was so I could learn to recognize signs of his passage. Obviously, the meeting didn’t go as I hoped.”

Grim expressions harden her friends’ faces at the reminder of last night’s tragedy. Over the course of the day, Abe Rikson has been shifting back and forth between collecting names of missing people and caring for his ailing wife. So far, his list of the missing is nearing forty people long. Maybe some of them will be found over the next days, but it seems likely that most are dead.

Killed by Noble’s crew.

Myrrh has often turned a blind eye to the violence that seethes in the city’s underworld. As a freelance thief, she took jobs where the only damage was to the coffers of merchants and traders who had more wealth than they could spend in dozens of lifetimes, and who’d earned it just as dishonestly as she relieved them of it. She’s seen plenty of terrible damage done, but it has almost always been the poor denizens of Rat Town suffering at the hands of the Shield Watch or the Maire’s personal guard.

As for contract killing or blood debts, she’s steered clear. Even the ousting of the Slivers syndicate, one of the biggest turf acquisitions in the history of Ostgard, was done with almost no injuries on either side.

Today will be different. Noble and his crew killed dozens of innocent people with their fire. At this point, Myrrh feels no hesitation at the thought of offing those murderers.

“Did you really send those whelps to ask me for a room and food?” Ivy asks, startling Myrrh from her thoughts.

Myrrh’s temporarily off-balanced by the question. She assumed the other woman would accept the orphans without question. After a moment, Ivy smirks.

“Thought so,” she says. “And of course I’ll do it. Can’t help but feel sorry for the little fleas, eh?”

Myrrh swallows as she nods. “After today, I hope we can put together some sort of safe squat for the district’s urchins.”

“But seeing as it’s still today, and you clearly called us together for a reason…” Toad prompts.

“Right. I had three doses of etch and I’m down to one. I think I can track Hemlock back to Noble with the final dose, but I need you to be ready. We need to come with enough force that they can’t possibly escape into a new hole.”

“Can you get more etch if you can’t track down Noble today?” Warrell asks. No doubt he’s thinking about her choice to follow Nab’s trail and his part in suggesting it.

“That’s part of why I brought Rattle back into the discussion. Any sightings? Last I heard from him, he was leaving to run a freelance job, likely poached, in Seven Fingers territory. Something about rubies.”

“I tailed him once,” Ivy says. “After he came to The Queen’s Dice looking for you.”

Myrrh raises an eyebrow. “And?”

The other woman shrugs. “Sixing man lost me within four blocks. He’s good. If he’s trustworthy, he’d be quite an asset.”

“And if not, he’d be a formidable enemy,” Myrrh adds. “Anyway, catching Noble was something of a personal challenge given to me by Rattle. Not that I needed the motivation, and not that I appreciate being treated like an apprentice testing for my tradesman’s mark. Regardless, I don’t know if he will give me more etch if I fail. So I don’t intend to fail. It’s simply not an option given what Noble has proved he’s willing to do.”

At her words, Myrrh’s friends sit a little taller.

“Are you ready to come with everything we have?” she asks.

They nod.

“Then bring everyone in. I’ll fill them in on our strategy.”

***

Myrrh sticks tight to Hemlock’s track; ironically, it left the burned area just a few hundred paces from where she broke off her search to follow Nab. Meanwhile, around three dozen of Ghost syndicate’s best members follow behind, sweeping through Rat Town in broad daylight.

Rat Towners—the honest ones—back away at the sight of their scarred faces and armored bodies, the lingering scents of lampblack and weapon oil that trail behind the thieves. True, the humble shopkeepers and tradespeople don’t have any specific reason to fear the precise steps of the footpads, no cause to run from the steely glares of the vigilantes. In fact, many of the townsfolk probably raise drinks and roll dice with syndicate members.

But now, Myrrh’s people are clearly working. Hands hover inches from their blades. Tension coils in their muscles. They move with utter awareness of their surroundings. Each has become something much different than the gambler who lost five silver on a string of sixes last night or the beefy stranger who bought a round for everyone in the tavern because their last heist included some unexpected bolts of Tuvkish silk.

And if honest Rat Towners know that Ghost syndicate is coming for vengeance, she can bet Noble’s heard it too. He still has sympathizers in the district, and even if he didn’t, he could import starving urchins from In Betweens or the Neck and pay them well to stand lookout.

But even if he knows Myrrh’s bearing down on his nest, he can’t do anything about it. Especially now that the morning’s rainstorm has cleared. Noble and his henchmen are Whites. Glimmer-blind. A glimpse of daylight will cripple them with pain. And unlike most of the city, Rat Town has no sewers. The Whites have no escape that avoids the open sky and the bright afternoon sun. If Noble gets desperate, thinks it’s his only chance to survive, he might try to make a blindfolded run for it. Maybe even try to bring a horse into these narrow streets where nails and broken metal are a threat to animals’ hooves and the ruckus often makes them bolt.

But she’s planned for this. If Noble has sentries across the district, Myrrh has more. Every low-level thief in the syndicate has a window to watch through or an alley to defend. If the Slivers boss and his lieutenants try to move, Myrrh’s people will know exactly where they go. They won’t make it out of the district alive.

Hemlock’s etching parallels the River Ost, heading north through alleys and along thieves’ paths behind the row of businesses that front the water. Occasional pools of his residue make her think he paused now and again to watch the fire spread. Did he feel any guilt? Or was he simply gloating over the pain he caused her and the innocent Rat Towners living in the fire’s path?

Past First Docks, where the river’s channel becomes naked stone without wooden platforms or tied-up barges to soften the edges, Hemlock’s trail drops to street level, abandoning the thieves’ path it followed across a series of rooftops. The etching, still reminding her of autumn leaves and fallen wasp nests, turns away from the river and into a small section of the district where dyers stir yards and yards of roughspun cloth in large stinking vats. The stench of the dyes burns Myrrh’s eyes and stings her nose as she hurries forward.

She stops when she spots another trail that matches the first. Fresher. It crosses the etching she’s following half a block ahead. The fact that Hemlock left two etchings in the same area means she’s close. She raises a fist and feels the movement around her cease.

Proceeding according to her plan, syndicate members emerge from nearby alleys and drop from rooftops. They’ve been following in a loose, sweeping line. Close enough to remain in communication, wide enough to quickly fan out now, encircling the area so they can close in from multiple sides.

Wherever Noble is hiding, the defenses will be strong. He’ll have crossbows to strike from range. Maybe even a rooftop ballista.

And like a trapped animal, she can be sure he’ll fight with vicious claws extended.

***

The etch has faded, but that’s okay. She can still envision the fog of Hemlock’s residue lingering around the door of the low-slung building that sits diagonally across the intersection from her perch atop a two-story tailor’s shop. She remembers the other signs too, etchings that circled the area around the building, some climbing atop the flat roof, some pooling in hidden alcoves. Sentries and patrols, no doubt.

But the people who left the trails are gone now. Inside, she assumes, having slipped behind the safety of the building’s walls when Noble’s informants brought word of her advance.

The scene bothers her, and she’s not sure why. Is it because the hideout lacks a high vantage and therefore seems like a bad choice for a former kingpin to choose as his fortress? Is it because the resistance she expected to encounter hasn’t showed up?

Or is it the whispers she heard from the cloth dyers as they swung heavy doors shut over their workshops and shuffled away at Myrrh’s request?

The uncomfortable sensation reminds her of the gut feeling she sometimes got as an eleven-year-old pickpocket scanning the crowd at the Rat Town market. She remembers too well how her instincts once stopped her from slipping fingers into a foreigner’s pocket, how that same man caught the wrist of a boy who wasn’t so cautious. The man’s touch did something that made the boy’s skin turn strange. First the boils, then the blackening. The healer took one look at it and called the Shield Watch. Myrrh never saw the boy again, but when she asked the healer what had happened, the only answer she got was how curses set by Olvv desert dwellers could spread if the cursed person had negative thoughts.

Myrrh thinks the healer was repeating false superstitions.

Anyway, the point is this raid doesn’t feel right. But Hemlock has definitely spent a lot of time in that building, so she doesn’t have much choice but to go in.

The hideout stands on the corner of two narrow streets, giving good lines of sight out windows on those aspects. On the other two faces, narrow aisles separate the building from the adjacent structures. One of the neighboring buildings is a cloth dyer’s shop. For a significant pouch of copper and silver coins, she convinced the proprietors, a pair of sisters, to leave the side doors unlocked when they swung the large panels at the front entrance shut. Myrrh doesn’t want to think about how the fumes are affecting the thieves she sent to hunker in the darkened workshop.

A cloth seller’s shop stands across the other narrow corridor from Noble’s safe house. A few of the etchings she connected with Noble’s crew entered the back door of the shop. Myrrh doesn’t trust the inside of the building as a point for her people to attack from, so she’s placed thieves on the roof.

The rest of her people are arrayed in a wide circle around the hideout. On rooftops, in alleys, and in some cases, standing in plain sight on the street.

She raises a hand, two fingers outstretched, then waves a pair of burly thieves forward. They’re wearing splint mail, hardened leather reinforced with plates of metal. Gorgets and caps of hardened leather cover their heads and necks, but there’s little she can do to protect them from a crossbow through the eye.

She makes the sign of the Queen of Nines in the air before her, hoping for a boon.

The men tromp toward the front door looking more like soldiers than thieves and assassins—in fact, she chose them for this contingency based on their histories of fighting in distant wars. This isn’t how the underworld usually does business. Poison and blackmail are more likely tools than the mace and longsword the men hold in their grips. Syndicate operations, whether heists or turf grabs, almost never happen in broad daylight. But times are strange in the city. The Shield Watch has all but disappeared from Rat Town. In other districts, merchants jockey for power and influence while no one sits atop the heap in the Maire’s palace.

And Ghost syndicate does what it must to remove the final lingering pustule of the Slivers organization.

No crossbow bolts hiss across the street as her men approach the door.

One raises a leather-armored fist and pounds hard on the thick wood. The sound seems to fill the street, breaking a silence Myrrh didn’t realize had fallen.

No answer.

The man bangs on the door again.

Nothing.

Myrrh’s instincts are screaming now, clawing up her backbone and into her skull.

She stands, ready to call for the men to pull back.

A guttural yell comes from the workshop where her thieves are waiting, steeped in the caustic stench of the dyes.

Metal clangs from within, a loud bong. Moments later, vermilion dye spills from beneath the closed front doors of the shop.

Myrrh rushes down the rooftop, feet skidding over the shingles. None of the etchings led from the hideout to the dyer’s. How could Noble’s people have gotten inside?

She glances back toward the hideout. Out front, the former soldiers have already abandoned the door and are rushing toward the workshop and the sound of fellow syndicate members in distress.

That’s when Noble makes his presence known.

Chapter Twenty-Two

ALL DOWN THE dyers’ street, doors roll up and swing open, exposing darkened workshop interiors. Myrrh skids to a stop near the edge of the roof and stares in horror as vats of dye—or what she thought was dye—overturn, spilling pools of something onto earthen floors and cobblestone pavement. Shadows move inside the buildings. Unable to see what’s happening in there, she shouts to her leaders, hoping they have a better view.

In the workshop closest to the hideout, the place where she sent thieves to wait until signaled to descend on the hideout, wisps of sickly yellow mist start to rise from the spilled dye. Squinting, Myrrh can just barely make out a body lying on the floor near the wall. Deeper into the large space, shadows move, a single candle showing a face with a rag tied over nose and mouth. Faint light glints off the handle of a bucket as the person stops, whirls, and tosses the empty container toward the building’s front entrance. Best she can guess, the bucket contained something that, when combined with the dye, caused the yellow mist.

“Get out! Away from the dyers!” she yells.

She runs along the lower edge of the roof, leather boots barely avoiding the brink, and leaps to the adjacent building. Warrell is crouched by a stone chimney, eyes wide with indecision.

“We need to pull people out of that building. Don’t breathe the air.”

Myrrh skids down the roof, hits the rotting rain gutter, and leaps into open space. She lands hard and tucks into a roll. As she comes up, her ankle twinges, a reminder of an injury from another long drop when a different operation went sideways.

As she sprints across the street to reach the workshop, the first crossbow bolt hisses through the air. It whizzes past her face and thunks into the wooden wall of the building behind her.

“Find the archers!” she shouts, pulling her dagger from its sheath and hunching to make a smaller target.

The street turns chaotic as more yellow fog starts rising from the pools of liquid. Ghost members shout as they dash from hidden alleys and leap from roofs. Opposition fighters suddenly materialize, stepping from alcoves and shadows with rags tied over their faces. The sound of metal striking metal echoes off buildings, and she hears a grunt as someone throws off an attacker.

A tendril of the poisonous vapors slips into her nose and mouth and Myrrh’s throat begins to burn. Her vision blurs. Dragging a section of her wool tunic from beneath her leather jerkin, she pulls it over her face and stumbles forward.

Three of her people were waiting for orders in the workshop. She only spots two bodies. Sliding to a stop, she whips her gaze around the cavernous interior, checking to make sure she won’t be jumped before she shoves her dagger back into its sheath and lays fingers on a thief’s pulse point. His heart is beating, but it’s erratic.

She shoves her hands under his arms and tries to drag him upright. No use. The sixing man must weigh twice what she does.

And abruptly, she has help. Black-gloved hands nudge hers aside. She looks up to the sight of Rattle’s one-eyed stare, the empty socket filled with what looks like an obsidian orb. He has a scarf tied over his face.

“Get his feet.” The words are muffled, but clear enough to understand.

Latching onto the unconscious man’s ankles, Myrrh heaves. The body hangs limp between them, head lolling. Rattle follows her lead as they quickly move the man out the side door and into the narrow aisle between buildings. She hates to leave him there unprotected, but there’s little choice if she wants to save the other one.

Dashing back inside, she finds Warrell struggling with the second body. Rattle lays a hand on her shoulder and urges her back out the door as he jogs forward to help the other man.

Outside, shouts pepper the air. Her people are fleeing the noxious yellow cloud, armed fighters on their heels.

The attackers aren’t ordinary Rat Town denizens. They’re certainly not Ostgard thieves. Judging by their weapons and armor and the vicious snarls on their faces, she guesses they’re mercenaries.

After taking control of the territory from him, she didn’t expect Noble to have the resources to hire a private army. But then again, she did give him exclusive looting rights to the Maire’s palace. Sixing pox…

An arrow strikes one of her thieves in the calf, and he stumbles, goes down. Drawing his blade, he just barely manages to catch a descending short sword on the guard. Yelling through gritted teeth, he starts to push the attacker’s sword away, but the mercenary pulls back a fist and prepares to strike.

Myrrh leaps from the space between buildings and lands a kick on the side of the attacker’s knee. His punch misses her thief, striking cracked cobblestones instead. He growls and turns to her. Myrrh scrambles to unsheath her dagger as she backpedals. The blade snags.

The mercenary’s sword comes up.

With an angry shout, her downed thief rolls onto his side and kicks, sweeping the mercenary’s feet. Noble’s fighter goes down onto a knee as Myrrh’s blade finally clears the sheath.

The man’s back is exposed, knobs of his spine pressing against the light leather vest he wears for protection.

Myrrh hesitates for a breath, looking up and down the street and toward the hideout door. There must be fifty hardened fighters on Noble’s side. Almost all mercenaries, by the look of them, and far more accustomed to outright melee than Myrrh’s cadre of smugglers and con men. The Slivers boss is nowhere to be seen.

She can indulge regrets later, if it comes to it. Right now, every enemy she eliminates increases the chance for Ghost syndicate members to survive. She screams and plunges her dagger into the man’s back, striking below his shoulder blade and turning her weapon so it slips between his ribs. His flesh resists then gives with a series of pops as the blade sinks deeper. He lets out a startled gasp then coughs and collapses.

Myrrh has to plant a foot on the man’s back to get enough leverage to free her blade. It comes out bloody. She looks away and starts searching for the next attacker.

“North exit!” someone shouts. “Watch out!”

Myrrh whirls toward the shout and spots a thief frantically jumping and waving from atop the cloth seller’s shop, the building at the rear of the hideout. He’s stabbing his finger toward the gap below.

She scans the street again. The thief who was shot in the calf is on his feet now and limping backward, blade drawn. Two mercenaries are advancing on him.

Sixes on top of sixes. Myrrh glances over her shoulder as Warrell and Rattle shove out the workshop door with the other unconscious man.

“Check behind the building!” she shouts before jumping up beside the injured thief.

A faint breeze has kicked up, and it lifts shreds of yellow fog from the street, swirling them up higher through the canyon between buildings. A few stragglers come staggering from the fog, hacking and gagging. A woman falls to her knees and vomits on the street before crawling forward.

Myrrh’s chest seizes as a mercenary leans from a window and aims a crossbow at the woman. Just as he squeezes the trigger, a throwing knife hurled by another of Myrrh’s people strikes his wrist. The string twangs and the bolt skitters harmlessly off the street beside the woman’s knee. She yelps and manages to reach her feet, struggling forward once more.

Ghost syndicate is almost holding its own. But the small army of mercenaries hasn’t even begun to use their full resources. Farther down the streets and alleys, men and a few women stand with weapons drawn and eyes flashing.

It’s almost as if the current scuffle is just for show. A distraction so that Myrrh’s people don’t realize they’re surrounded, every exit blocked by hardened killers. A trap…?

Her dagger guarding against an attack by the pair of advancing fighters, she looks behind her. The street continues past the intersection where she perched atop the tailor’s and climbs a slight rise. Up top stands a line of five burly men.

Yes. Most definitely a trap.

“Get together!” she yells. “We need a single point of retreat!”

With the noise and the chaos, no one seems to hear her. Desperate, she shoots her gaze toward Warrell and Rattle, only to see them backing away from a squad of fighters wielding scimitars and carrying round shields. Myrrh’s never even seen the style of armor they wear. How far did Noble throw his net to get these people?

A heavy sigh expands Rattle’s chest as he turns to her.

He shakes his head. Myrrh’s heart sinks. If he’s giving up, it’s no stretch to imagine the rest of her thieves will soon follow. But it would be folly to think that Noble would grant them mercy in exchange for surrender. Better to fight to the death if that’s what this comes to.

But then Rattle jabs a gloved hand into the padded coat he wears over his leather jerkin. He pulls out a pouch, shakes some of the contents into his palm, then tosses the pouch to her.

“What’s this?” she shouts.

The thief beside her grunts as he steps forward to deflect one of the mercenary’s blades. Myrrh flinches as the wind from the strike tickles her face.

“Not a good time for conversation,” Rattle yells back.

Myrrh jogs back to gain distance from the pair of mercenaries and tugs at the pouch’s drawstring. Holding her dagger with two fingers, she uses the others to pull the pouch open.

Her eyes widen at the sparkle of gems.

“Try not to waste them,” Rattle shouts.

Understanding comes in a flash. Rattle knows as well as she does that the mercenaries aren’t loyal to Noble. They’re soldiers for hire. And whatever Noble is paying, a pouch of rubies this heavy will surely best it.

In the narrow corridor where Warrell and Rattle are facing off with the foreigners, Myrrh catches the glint of more gems as Rattle holds out his hand in an offering. The soldiers slow.

Rattle tosses one of the gems toward their feet. The lead man leans down and picks up the jewel, bringing it in front of his eyes.

“Half now, the rest once the man who hired you is dead—along with his blind friends.”

Myrrh realizes she’s staring, and meanwhile, her injured thief is frantically trying to parry strikes from two trained soldiers.

She jams her dagger into the sheath and tucks the pouch into a pocket to avoid having the whole treasure stolen. Dashing forward, she fishes out a sizable, glittering handful.

She shouts at the top of her lungs and jumps in front of the injured thief, batting aside a mercenary’s sword strike. The attackers are so stunned at her apparent act of stupidity, they pull up short and stare.

Myrrh lets the gems spill from her fist into an open palm.

The men’s eyes widen.

“Whatever Noble has offered you, I assure we’ll pay more,” she says. “And if you kill him, you can take what he offered you anyway.”

Myrrh then drops to a crouch and sends the rubies skittering across the cobblestones. The stones are so sixing big—as far as gems go—most don’t even fall into the little cracks where cobbles have split. Both mercenaries instantly drop down and start plucking the gems from the street.

“Miser’s breath,” the thief behind her says.

Myrrh nods. This is no sixing joke. She just threw away half a year’s take for an average grubber. But a yelp of pain from one of her people snaps her back to the situation.

“Tell your friends,” she shouts at the mercenaries. “You’ll get the rest once Noble and his crew are dead or captured. I don’t care which.”

Without argument, the men run off and shoulder into the nearest of their comrades, shoving them out of the fight. Hissed words fly across the street, and within minutes, the combat stops.

Myrrh runs around the hideout to see the scimitar-wielders pounding at the door. That answers the question of whether Noble is still inside. He probably sent that squad out just minutes ago, prompting the reaction from her thief on the roof of the cloth seller’s. But clearly, he’s not eager to let them back in.

One of the assailants turns toward her. “Got a battering ram?” he asks in a thickly accented voice.

Relief begins to flow through her. It might take a while to get inside, but there’s no escape from the hideout. Noble is trapped. As good as dead.

All they have to do is wait.

In the meantime, she and Rattle have a lot to talk about.

Chapter Twenty-Three

UNFORTUNATELY, RATTLE HAS vanished as mysteriously as he arrived. Warrell was so busy staring at the pile of rubies the one-eyed thief dropped into his palm with instructions to work with Myrrh, he didn’t pay attention to the man’s departure. As the mercenaries batter down the doors to the hideout, Myrrh walks a circuit around the area, searching for signs of Rattle’s passage.

It’s useless of course. With the kinds of skills he’d need to steal a fortune in gems from another syndicate’s territory, he assuredly knows how to disappear from the site of a chaotic melee without leaving tracks. By the time a representative from the mercenaries reports that the Slivers bosses have been eliminated, the yellow fog has dissipated and she’s turned up nothing. Her shoulders ache with the tension of everything that happened this afternoon.

Carver volunteers to enter the hideout and verify that Noble and his Whites are dead. Myrrh doesn’t argue. As she waits for his return, she pulls out a pouch of rubies. Not the pouch of rubies, but rather a smaller container she filled with a little less than half of what Rattle tossed her.

As Carver steps back out of the hideout’s front door and nods, she tosses the pouch to the mercenaries’ representative. Beside her, Warrell stiffens, clearly realizing that’s not the same leather purse. She fights the urge to nudge him into relaxing. Sure, she will give up the rest if she must. But considering the earlier reactions she saw to the gems, she’s betting this is more than enough to please the hired soldiers.

When the mercenary peers into the pouch, he swallows, clearly shocked at the sum.

“There’s extra payment in there meant to assure you leave Rat Town before dusk. I don’t want any more trouble in my district.”

The man inclines his head. “Perhaps I could leave contact information in the event you need hired swords sometime soon?”

She folds her arms over her chest. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”

With a nod, the man turns on his heel and stalks back to the crowd of mercenaries.

“Come on,” Myrrh whispers, catching Warrell’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before you blow this score.”

The big man huffs. “Trust you to turn an ambush into a windfall of priceless gems…”

***

The injured members of Ghost syndicate have been sent to a healer that Ivy knows. Myrrh’s particularly concerned for the men who fell unconscious from the poison gas, but as she watched them stagger away with the others, they already seemed to be growing more alert. Most of the rest of her underlings have headed off to Rikson’s Roost to celebrate the final victory over the Slivers syndicate.

Myrrh can’t bring herself to celebrate someone’s death, not even Noble’s. Not even after he killed so many innocent people. It’s good that he’s gone though, no longer a threat to Rat Town. As she slips through the door to the safe house, she takes a minute to thank the Queen of Nines. They still haven’t located the third thief from the workshop. Maybe—hopefully—he ran when he realized a trap was closing. Otherwise, though, it seems everyone she brought survived, and with good fortune, there won’t be lingering problems from the poison.

She turns to shut the door behind her and hangs her cloak on the hook beside it. The downstairs is blessedly quiet; though Graves lifted the bar to let her in, he seems to have wandered off.

Myrrh stiffens when door hinges behind her squeal. She turns, stomach tight. When she glimpses Nab’s tangled hair and large eyes, the tension in her chest uncoils, finally releasing her heart to beat normally again.

“You’re back, I see.”

“Yeah, well, I was just exploring for a while. Tep was always telling me I should see the rest of the city.”

Myrrh taps her toe against the wooden floorboards, trying to decide what to say about his absence. Too much scolding will just chase him away.

“So where exactly have you been?”

He crosses the room with what she thinks is supposed to be a swagger. It looks more like he’s trying to dance and doing a poor job of it.

“I guess you could say I’ve been all over. Seeing what…opportunities might be out there for someone like me.”

“Yes, I’m sure there are plenty of people desperate for your skills.”

She isn’t sure he picked up on the sarcasm until he narrows his eyes. “I’ve been learning things, Myrrh. You don’t even know…”

She sighs. “Why don’t you tell me then, oh thief of thieves.”

Nab curls his hands into small fists as he stomps toward her, then stops when he seems to realize that will put him in a position to stare up at her. Instead, he saunters to a chair and flops into it.

“For your information, a friend of yours has been teaching me things.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Who’s that? I thought Glint was busy.”

“The one-eyed guy. Rattle.”

The name stops her short. The man never mentioned interacting with Nab beyond his first questions about Myrrh’s history.

“That’s…interesting. What do you say we find something sweet to eat while we discuss it?”

Nab pouts. “I already looked. Cupboard’s bare.”

She raises a finger in a request for patience. “Hey, Graves?”

The thief steps into the upstairs corridor, clearly having retreated to give her and Nab some privacy.

“Could you please find someone to fetch a few sweet buns from whatever bakery is still open at this hour?”

The man answers with a solemn nod. “Right away, Mistress.”

***

With a sweet bun clutched tight in his hands, Nab leans back in his chair and lifts his feet onto the table. Myrrh takes a deep breath and for once doesn’t scold him. He might be an annoying little grub, but she missed him. Those hours when she thought he was dead were some of the worst of her life.

She gives herself a few minutes to just watch him eat—or maybe devour would be a better term—the first of the sugar-slathered treats. Despite his bravado, fatigue drags at his grubby little face. Between his patched trousers and a tunic that looks to be two parts dirt and one part thread, she can’t imagine anyone took him seriously on his quest for employment. It breaks her heart a little to think that most people probably laughed at him.

Of course, if they did, he’ll never tell her. It just doesn’t work that way between them.

“So…” She leans forward and lifts a pastry from the pile.

Nab stuffs the last third of his current prey into his mouth. Myrrh’s surprised it fits, but somehow, the boy manages to start chewing.

As he reaches for another bun, he does something strange with his fingers. Myrrh can’t quite follow the motion, and she finds herself blinking away a sudden impulse to open the window shutters and peek into the alley behind the safe house. In fact, she’s halfway out of her chair before she stops.

Nab snorts. Somehow, he’s gone from lounging with his feet on the table to sitting flat-footed and staring at her intently. His second sweet bun is already half gone. How did that happen?

“I’ll give you this: you did better than most people.” He tears off another bite of stretchy dough and pops it into his mouth.

Eyes shifting back and forth as if looking for the source of the potential trickery, Myrrh slowly lowers herself back into her chair. “What just happened, Nab?”

“You wanted to hear about my skills. I figured it would be better to show you.”

“What did you do?”

“Rattle calls it misdirection. Kind of a fancy-pants word for making someone forget about you.”

“You did something with your fingers,” she says.

“That’s probably why you’re not over at the window right now looking for the guy that smacked you with the ugly stick.”

As he laughs, she screws her face up. “What?”

“You noticed my fingers, which is probably why you didn’t get fully tricked. But you must not have heard me tell you that the reason you’re so funny looking is that an old man just whacked you with an ugly stick and ran into the alley.”

She shakes her head, blinking. “I didn’t hear you say a sixing thing.”

He widens his eyes in mock offense. “Language, Myrrh.”

Myrrh growls and looks down at the sweet bun which she apparently abandoned on the table as she started to make for the window. She picks it up again and pulls off a bite with her fingers.

“You’re so very funny, Nab. Now will you please explain what’s going on?”

He sighs as if put upon. “Oh, fine. See, there’s this special set of gestures Rattle knows. Well, gestures and ways of talking. You gotta get both right or the trick doesn’t work. So what I did is I made the motion to distract you—it does something to put your thoughts in a certain state. Rattle calls it making you susceptible, but that’s another fancy word that I figure people like us have no business mucking with. Then, you got a pitch your voice just right and make a suggestion about something that might interest your mark. That’s part of the trick, knowing enough about a person to come up with a good suggestion.”

She slips the bite into her mouth and chews while she thinks about what he said. “Are you trying to say you told me to go look for the person responsible for my tragically unattractive face because you thought I would believe that suggestion?

Nab bursts into laughter again. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best distraction. You aren’t that hideous. I mean, to some people, anyway. I think you’d give the Rhemmsfest hags a pretty good contest, myself.”

She glares. “And Rattle taught you this.”

He nods.

“When?”

Nab shrugs. “He comes by when he has time. Sometimes he takes me back to his den so we can practice without people like you bothering us.”

“You know where he sleeps?”

“And you don’t?”

Myrrh props an elbow on the table and rests her head on her hand. Rattle has been here, but only when she’s away. Not only that, he’s been luring Nab out of the house. The gems she held back from the mercenaries are a hard lump against her ribs. Her thief’s intuition is gnawing at her again.

Career criminals, whether they’re smugglers or con artists or thieves or assassins, tend not to be forthcoming. Information is power in the underworld. But with Rattle there are just too many questions. It’s not just his secrecy. It’s the fact that many of his actions just don’t make sense.

“Did Rattle teach you anything else?”

“He’s said he’s going to, but that I should master misdirection first because it just gets harder.”

“Did he tell you what he plans to teach you?”

Mouth full, Nab shakes his head. Myrrh turns the sweet bun over a few times, fiddling while she thinks. Sugar clings to her fingers.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” she says, “do you know what that trinket is that’s tacked to your doorjamb?”

“Yeah.” He takes another bite and starts chewing.

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

“Rattle gave it to me,” Nab says around his mouthful of sweet bun. “He said it’s for protection.”

“Against?”

Nab shrugs. “Beats me.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

MYRRH LEAVES AT dawn, a cloak pulled over her hair. As she sets foot on First Bridge, bound for the east bank of the Ost and a cart ride up to Lower Fringe, birds begin to squawk and circle the fishermen who cast lines from the otherwise silent platforms of First Docks. As obnoxious as the rain has been of late, at least it’s washed the city clean enough that fish are venturing this far downstream without turning belly up from the fetid river water.

For today—and she hopes this only takes a day because she needs answers if she’s going to keep her sanity—Warrell and Ivy are in charge of Ghost syndicate. They don’t know that yet, but as soon as they wake, they’ll find urchin messengers waiting. Myrrh can deal with their protests later.

And anyway, they’re not going to be as upset as Nab, who will wake up from his small dose of nightbark to find himself locked in a room with Sapphire, her deck of cards, and a guard bristling with knives. If Rattle’s the killer and the trinkets are the way he marks his targets, he’ll have a hard time getting to Nab today. If Rattle is innocent, maybe Nab will learn a thing or two about how not to lose at Miser’s Draw. Or at least, he’ll get an idea about how quickly his coin could vanish at a gambling table.

The usual line of horses and carts that forms up in the Yards, ready to ferry bargemen and traders back and forth between the warehouses and the various city districts, hasn’t materialized. Myrrh doesn’t mind. She hasn’t had much time to be alone lately.

After about an hour’s walk along the waterfront, she reaches the border of the Crafter’s District and finally manages to hail a cart driver. He looks down at her with half-lidded eyes, groggy due to the early hour. The shine of a silver coin quickly wakes him, and he jabs a thumb toward the back seat.

The sun has just barely cleared the eastern mountains by the time she climbs out of the cart in Lower Fringe. She flips the man his coin and hurries on. Soon, she stands at Glint’s front door, pounding on the wood with the butt of her dagger.

It takes a good five minutes of knocking before she spies motion. One of the curtains flicks aside but quickly falls back into place.

She knocks harder.

“I’m coming, Mistress Myrrh,” a deep voice calls. “Just have to get my britches on.”

She lowers her dagger as a red-faced Bernard, Glint’s loyal cook, opens the door.

“Apologies, Mistress. I didn’t expect anyone, and I was asleep, you see. I had a late evening entertaining—”

“Who is it, Bernard?”

Myrrh’s shocked to hear a woman’s voice emanating from the kitchen, or possibly, the small bedroom attached to it. The door to Bernard’s kitchen domain opens a crack, and a woman’s gray head peers out.

Though it seems impossible, Bernard flushes and even brighter shade of crimson.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Bernard. I’m looking for Glint.”

Still flustered and dry washing his hands, the man shakes his head. “Sorry, Mistress. He’s been over in Maire’s Quarter for the last few days. I could help you send a letter via courier.”

And what could she possibly say to convey all her thoughts and questions in a letter? That she’s worried Rattle, a man with skills and resources she can’t even begin to fathom, may be their mystery assassin? The problem is, that theory doesn’t quite hold up, particularly given the help—and rubies—he gave her to deal with Noble. In fact, the only possible connection is Nab’s story about Rattle giving him that trinket. Pretty thin evidence to accuse a man of murder. But he did show up around the time she first heard of the killings, and there’s no doubt he has sophisticated tools at his disposal. Likely sophisticated enough to leave bodies with no apparent damage or cause of death.

Plus, he has an extremely unsettling presence.

“Do you expect Glint back anytime soon?” she asks.

Bernard shakes his head sadly. “I’m afraid not, Mistress. Are you sure you don’t need to send a message?”

“No thank you. If I must, I can use a hidden path to access the—”

The big man raises his hands and pats the air to quiet her. “I have an arrangement with the young master. We don’t discuss his clandestine affairs. For my own protection, he says.”

Right. Bernard is no thief. Glint wouldn’t want him involved in any sort of illicit dealings. That includes discussions of the illegal routes into Maire’s Quarter.

“Well, if he arrives unexpectedly, please tell him I have an urgent need to speak to him.”

“Will do, Mistress.” Bernard blinks a few times as if torn between propriety and returning to the guest who stayed overnight. “May I offer you some coffee or a light breakfast?”

She smiles, understanding why Glint is so fond of the man. “No, thank you. Enjoy your morning.”

The door shuts with a heavy click as she trots off toward the only other place where she knows Glint does business. It’s a tenement building not far away, a safe house where she helped bring captives from a raid against Porcelain Hand, and where many of Glint’s people lay their heads at night.

It’s also where, according to Glint, Lavi died.

***

The lines at the sides of Mink’s mouth have deepened in the weeks since Myrrh last saw her. Clearly, the woman’s not happy to be awake at what most underworld denizens would consider an obscene hour. But it’s likely more than that causing the aging assassin stress. The boss of her organization is off in Maire’s Quarter, leaving the rest of the leadership to cope. Meanwhile, they’ve lost three people to a mystery killer.

“It was Nyx who found her,” Mink says as she gestures for Myrrh to enter the room that was Lavi’s bedchamber. “He’s been even more sullen since.”

Myrrh cringes. Nyx was already unpleasant.

The floorboards creak as she steps into the room. The bed has been made, and a stack of women’s clothing leans into one of the corners. An array of eye patches is lined up on top. Unexpectedly, Myrrh feels tears welling. She swallows and brushes them away.

“She was just lying in her bed?”

Mink nods. “Nyx thought she was asleep. Out of the group, he got along with her best. Enough that he threw his shoe at her to wake her only to find she wasn’t going to wake up ever again.”

Myrrh takes a shaky breath and turns to examine the doorjamb. When she spots the charm pegged halfway across the top, it feels like a heavy stone settles onto her chest.

She points at the trinket. “Have you seen this anywhere else?”

Mink cocks a surprised eyebrow. “Huh…no idea where that came from.”

“You remember Nab, I assume.”

“Little rat that thinks he’s big stuff?”

“That’s the one. He said a guy named Rattle gave him one of those charms for protection. The problem is, if they’re supposed to protect people, they’re not working. As far as I know, Ghost syndicate has only lost one person to the killer, but I found a charm just like that one hanging over the door to the room where he died.”

Mink grimaces. “I can check the”—she swallows—“I can look into the scenes where we lost the other four.”

“Wait, four?”

The woman’s lips make a thin line as she nods. “Two since Glint left. I wish we could get over there to talk to him. He says he doesn’t know what to do about this, but we clearly can’t keep doing nothing.”

“You can’t use the thieves’ path? Go under the bridge across the barges?”

Mink casts her a perplexed look which vanishes after a moment. “That’s right. You probably don’t know. We’ve had some problems with the people from Porcelain Hand. Not all of them have been so eager to fall into our hierarchy, especially now that people are dying unexpectedly. A few of them sabotaged and collapsed the sewer tunnel that provided access to the underside of Fourth Bridge. With the Maire’s seat empty, neither the city council nor the upstanding residents of Lower Fringe seem to know who’s supposed to pay to have the tunnel repaired.”

“That’s a problem.”

“For us and for the people whose plumbing is backing up into their homes.”

Myrrh grimaces. “Yuck.”

“Yeah.”

She taps her knuckles against the door frame. “Does Glint even know about the other deaths?”

Mink shakes her head. “We tried to send a message, but the guards watching over the entrances to the Quarter are taking their duties more seriously lately. Or rather, they’re enjoying the opportunity to deny entry to anyone who lacks papers and a sufficient bribe. Unfortunately, the couriers in this district are honest to a flaw. Resh tried to convince one to pay his way across with our funds.” She shrugs. “He refused.”

“What about the Scythe? Can she get across?”

“Glint sent her away to Craghold. Maybe ten days ago. I guess someone recognized her and chased after her looking for information on the Maire. He’ll find a way to bring her back eventually, but not until things have settled.

Myrrh thinks of sending Mink to Bernard to ask about a courier, but then she remembers the cook’s refusal to be dragged into syndicate business. And anyway, this issue is bigger than what would fit in a messenger’s head.

As she reenters the hallway, a knock comes at the ground-floor door. Mink steps around her and heads down the stairs ahead of Myrrh. When she opens the door, Tep, Bernard’s young assistant, stalks in and casts Myrrh a glare. He and Nab could be brothers judging by the similarities in their demeanors.

“Aren’t you the scullion boy?” Mink asks with a confused look on her face.

Tep rolls his eyes. “I am an apprentice chef. Not a scullion and definitely not an errand boy. But Bernard thinks Myrrh might want this back. Seems like she dropped it on the doorstep.”

Myrrh takes an unwitting step back from his outstretched hand and the charm nestled in his palm. Finally, she plucks it from his hand.

“Was it inside or out?” she asks.

“Rolled into the dining room. Why?”

She shakes her head. “Do me a favor, will you, Tep?”

He curls his lip. “Why does everyone seem to think they can order me around?”

“I think it would be best if you, Bernard, and his lady friend took a trip upriver. Might as well get away while Glint is busy, right?”

The kid scoffs, but she can see he’s clearly interested. She plucks a ruby from the pouch tucked into her jacket, prompting Mink to widen her eyes. Tep stares, mouth slack, as she plops it into his hand.

“Maybe we will get away since there’s nobody around to complain about it.” With a last sneer, he turns and bolts, fist clutched tight around the gem.

Myrrh swallows the stone in her throat. Whether the Shield Watch wants to let her pass or not, it’s clearly time to go find Glint. Before he or someone from his household dies unexpectedly.

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE PROPRIETOR OF the dress boutique shrieks when Myrrh steps through the door. Her eyes shoot to the window, clearly searching for the guard she hired in the aftermath of Myrrh’s last robbery.

Unfortunately for her, the guard is currently unconscious in the alley behind the shop. Myrrh’s not much of a brawler, but the man was even worse. And given the bit of nightbark she dribbled on his tongue—the remainder of Nab’s dose and the last of her supply—he won’t be waking up from the knock to the head any time soon.

“I get the sense you remember me,” Myrrh says. “While I thought the color of the last gown you provided was flattering, I was rather scandalized by how much cleavage it displayed. I suspect you would like to provide something more modestly styled this time. Perhaps in blue.”

All color has vanished from the woman’s face. As Myrrh takes another step into the shop, the woman starts to sway. Abruptly, she faints dead away.

Myrrh groans.

How is she supposed to get a proper fit now?

***

Unfortunately, with her attention focused on the neckline and closure, Myrrh didn’t pay nearly enough attention to the cut of the gown’s skirt. In particular, the long slit that runs up her thigh nearly to her hip.

Sixing. Worthless. Fainting. Woman. If she’d just stayed conscious, Myrrh might have even paid for a dress—and the woman’s advice on which garment would best suit her purpose.

But here she is, striding up to Fourth Bridge in a midnight blue sleeve that exposes three-quarters of her thigh with every step. The guards seem torn between reaching for their cudgels and reaching for their belt buckles.

She tilts her chin up, clutches her handbag tight, and sneers. The forwardmost guard, a man with a lantern jaw and what looks to be about three days of stubble stares at her, his mouth half-open.

“I need to get over to see my fiancé. It’s important.” She looks to the side and taps her foot impatiently.

“I—hand over your papers and I’ll see what I can”— he swallows and runs his eyes down her body—“I’ll see what I can do.” The last words are delivered in a tone that hints at what sort of bribes she might offer.

Myrrh curls her lip. “I just arrived from upriver. Do you expect me to travel all the way up to the top of East Fifth to grab your precious paper out of my father’s desk? My fiancé insisted I visit him as soon as I arrived. We have details of our union to finish planning.”

The man gives her a lewd smirk while a pair of guards behind him chuckle. One whispers things that would have her blushing or pulling her dagger if she weren’t pretending to be Merchant Giller’s upper-class bride-to-be. Instead, she strikes them with her most withering expression of disdain. “My intended is newly appointed to the city council. Perhaps I should mention the…delay I’ve been subjected to here.”

The forward guard crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t care if you’re the Maire returned from whatever hole he fell into. You still need papers to cross Fourth Bridge.”

Sixes. This isn’t going very well.

She scans the line of men barring passage across the span. Aside from the guy in front and the pair snickering behind and to his right, there are three more sentries. Two are watching the scene with what seems to be a mix of amusement, concern, and lechery. But the last stares straight ahead. His cheeks are colored with either embarrassment or anger. Either way, he seems her best hope. Myrrh stalks over and steps within reach.

“I remember you,” she bluffs. “You stood watch last time I came through with Merchant Giller.”

He blinks, surprised to be addressed. When she reaches out and runs a finger down his chest, the other men stare.

“I…I don’t recall, Mistress.”

“My fiancé pays well for the pleasure of moving about the city without attracting attention. It’s gotten much worse since his appointment to the council. So many hangers-on scrabbling for power. But it’s okay for you to admit having seen us. I give you permission.”

There’s one thing about years spent as a pickpocket. It makes for deft hands. When she flashes the ruby before slipping it into the pocket of his jerkin, his eyes widen. “For your earlier discretion,” she says in a voice too low for the others to hear.

The next closest guard swallows, clearly imagining other words she might have said.

“I… well, the fact is, I do remember the merchant and this young woman,” the man says. “She had her papers then.”

With a smile, she lays her palm against his chest. One of the other guards wipes his mouth. She hopes he wasn’t actually drooling.

“And I understand you might require a token of Merchant Giller’s appreciation for letting me pass. He’s given me a small allowance for such purposes.”

Of all the things she’s pretending, acting as if she’s a kept woman, beholden to Glint’s charity, rankles worst of all. But her ploy seems to be working. Even the forward guard seems to be softening.

“And anyway,” she says in a conspiratorial tone, “we all know it’s the grovelers and beggars down in Rat Town and the Spills that need to be kept out of the respectable areas of the city. One never knows what that rabble might get up to.”

That seals it. With a heavy sigh, the guard holds out his hand. She counts out six silver coins—one for each man—and drops them into his palm. The last guard practically gloats upon seeing the paltry sum his companions earned.

Heart still thudding, Myrrh nonetheless forces herself to keep a sedate pace as she crosses the bridge. Not that her dress gives her much choice. If she moves any faster, it will probably tear the rest of the way to her hip. For all she knows, she might be arrested for indecency in such a respectable neighborhood.

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE INVITATION FROM Glint said his new sleeping quarters were three doors away from where they last dined in the Quarter. Meaning three mansions down the street from the Maire’s palace. Myrrh feels the eyes of the district’s residents on her while she stands on the doorstep.

The door swings open as she raises her fist to knock.

Glint is shirtless, wearing loose pants with cuffs that brush the tops of his bare feet.

He raises his eyebrow at her dress and the long expanse of her exposed thigh. “I might be partially unclothed, but it’s in the privacy of my own home. You have interesting taste in attire lately.”

She glares. “It wasn’t by choice.”

Glint plants his hands on either side of the door frame, managing to show off his musculature while blocking the way inside. “Oh?”

“Let me in, Glint.”

“I have to admit when I sent you the invitation, I didn’t honestly expect you to accept. Especially dressed so…alluringly.”

She rolls her eyes. “For your information, I didn’t come to see your sleeping quarters. The thieves’ path is blocked as I’m sure you’re aware. I had to use Fourth Bridge to enter the Quarter.”

His eyes are laughing at her. “So you put on the most camouflaging attire you could find and crept across the bridge from shadow to shadow. Right under the guards’ noses, no less. I’m impressed.”

She plants a palm on his bare chest and shoves, sending him staggering back. He laughs as a strand of hair falls over his forehead.

“We have to talk, Glint. It’s important.”

She steps across the threshold. The air inside his entryway is cool and smells of silver polish and antique wood. Oil paintings hang in gilded frames, depicting rolling countryside and flowering trees.

“It is still early, I suppose. No harm in a few drinks and some dinner conversation before we fall into bed together.”

He steps past her, knuckling her lightly on the shoulder.

“I mean it,” she says. “This is serious.”

Glint spins on the balls of his feet. “And in all seriousness”—he holds out his hand—“I have a lot to tell you too.”

She stares at his hand for a moment before slipping hers into it. Glint leads her through the entryway and into a main chamber laden with heavy furniture.

He gestures to a sofa upholstered in rich leather. “You’ll be happy to know I solved your little mystery with the trinkets.”

She stops short. “Wait, what?”

“The charm you said came from your dead thief’s squat—”

“Yes, I know what you mean by the trinkets. You found out they’re from Rattle?”

“Who?”

“Rattle. The man who gave me the etch.”

He drops onto the sofa, his brows drawn together. “Missing an eye…thinks awfully highly of himself?”

She nods as she takes a seat at the other end of the couch. “That’s him. So you already know he’s the killer?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a leap.”

“He has to be—there was a charm in Lavi’s room too. Problem is, I can’t figure out his motives. Why is he in Ostgard to begin with? And why did he help me take out Noble, not to mention give me a fortune in rubies without a second thought?”

“Oh, I know why he’s here—he told me himself. As to the situation with Noble…wait, did you say rubies?”

“He told you? What?”

“And his real name is Evant. This Rattle moniker is clearly part of a persona he’s constructed.”

Myrrh chews her lip for a moment. “I think I could use a glass of wine.”

Glint smiles cunningly as he hops to his feet. “I have a number of lovely vintages. Something I feel a gentleman should never be without.”

“Speaking of indulging, I’m surprised you remember me showing you the trinket.”

A few bottles of wine stand on a buffet table against the wall. Glint picks one up and selects a pair of goblets.

Midpour, he turns and fixes her with a level stare. “I remember everything from my last visit.”

As he turns back to the wine, Myrrh plucks at the midnight-blue fabric that’s trying to slide off her thigh entirely. Somewhere in the recesses of the house, dishes clatter. She wonders, briefly, whether Bernard feels slighted by Glint taking up residence here without bringing his loyal cook.

“Do you remember asking me to run away?” she says as he starts back with the glasses in hand.

“And I remember kissing you. Before you pushed me away, that is.”

His eyes are locked on her face. Myrrh looks away.

“You were drunk. You weren’t yourself.”

“Maybe I was the closest to myself that I’ve been in some time,” he says in a low voice.

Her eyes stay on her lap while she speaks. “Those weren’t decisions to make after too many drinks.”

When Glint reaches her side, he steps very close to hand her the glass. “Maybe not, but who says we always have to be the responsible ones? Aren’t you tired of it?”

She cups the bell of the glass in her hand, staring at the ruby-hued contents.

“I think you should tell me more about Rattle.”

He sighs as he retakes his seat and stretches out a leg on the sofa cushions. “That, my dear Myrrh, is a long story. And a sad one, I suppose. Evant and I were friends once, down in the Port Cities where I built my modest trading venture. Sometimes we simply drank together and talked about the shifting tides of commerce on the Gray Sea. Sometimes we had business arrangements. I’d buy a load of his silk because my ships were heading north where the nobles pay a premium for the cloth. Or he would help me distribute a load of giftwood carvings I finagled out of an unwary seller.”

“So he’s not the career thief he claimed to be?”

“No, that part of his story is true. I just didn’t know it until he swindled me. I got too trusting and didn’t ask for a deposit during one of our transactions, and that was the last I saw of him. Until I tracked him down in a brothel in Tangesh, of course.”

“So what did you do when you found him? Beat him up?”

He smirks. “Surely you know that’s not my style.”

No, she supposes it isn’t. “You decided to match his swindling with one of your own I’m guessing.”

“Evant needed to learn some humility, and I thought I’d be a good teacher.” He laughs quietly and shakes his head. “Remember, I was just nineteen or twenty, and it hadn’t been that long since I lost my mother. I was quick to anger and had far too high an opinion of myself. Things surely would have turned out better if I’d just involved the trade authority. But here we are—no sense in regretting the past.”

“What did you take from him?”

A faint hint of shame darkens his cheeks. “You may have noticed the expensive replacements he wears for the eye he lost.”

“You didn’t…”

“I mentioned I was young. His betrayal cut me deeply because I had few friends to begin with. I was lashing out.”

“As far as I could tell, he’s found suitable successors for the items you stole.”

Glint shrugs. “I’m sure he has. Anyway, after that there was no going back. Over the next couple years, our rivalry reached a point where we spent more effort and coin undermining each other than we did on growing our own businesses. I was as much a pirate as a trader—I suppose in that regard I have Evant to thank for my current choice of profession.”

“You make it sound like you hadn’t seen him in a while. What ended your fight?”

“If the Port Cities hadn’t become such intolerable places to live when people like Emmerst took over their leadership, I probably would have lost everything in the quest to bring him down. Instead, I focused my efforts on one last strike before vanishing from the coast and starting over here. I suspect that final blow is the reason he’s followed me to Ostgard.”

Myrrh glances at him over the top of her glass. “What did you do?”

“Hmm, well…I’d known for a long time where he kept his most prized valuables. Along with the woman he’d taken a deep fancy to. He kept them together in a manor set in the hills above Ishvar. Suffice to say I convinced the woman she had far better prospects elsewhere, and I was apparently so persuasive that she not only left, but also absconded with most of his loot.”

“I probably don’t need to ask what form your persuasion took.”

He smirks as he sips his wine then balances the goblet on his thigh. “I don’t know where you arrived at such a scandalous opinion of me. But for your information, I merely sent a letter asking to meet her. We spoke for a long afternoon in the conservatory of Evant’s beautiful home. I told her the truth about how Evant had befriended me when I’d lost everything only to betray me most callously. Maybe she’d already started to suspect her lover wasn’t everything she’d first imagined. Regardless, she escaped with his treasure two days later.”

“If it was the woman who robbed him, why did he chase you here?”

“Oh, I made sure to let him know I’d put her up to it. I may also have exaggerated the extent of my interactions with her.”

Myrrh sighs. “So he’s here to retaliate.”

“He showed up at my doorstep in Lower Fringe a few days ago. I wasn’t home, but Bernard conveyed a rather long string of threats. That’s when I remembered where I’d seen the symbol from that charm. Evant had dealings with a particular ring of miscreants called the night blades. They follow a trickster god known as Skorry—he’s supposed to grant them the ability to perform thieves’ cantrips or some such nonsense. The diamond and daggers is Skorry’s sign.”

“That doesn’t explain why it’s being planted at the scene of the murders. Rattle gave one of those charms to Nab. There was one near the front door of your place in Lower Fringe. And another in the room where Lavi died.”

Glint takes a sip of wine, his eyes distant while he seems to consider. “Regardless of what I think about Evant, he’s not a heartless killer. Are you sure it’s not a coincidence?”

“I’m not sure about anything. I’ve only checked those few places—Ghost syndicate hasn’t lost anyone else. One of Sapphire’s dealers has been missing for almost a week—I suppose I could have the woman’s home searched. But I’m still trying to understand Rattle’s plan. What threats did he leave with Bernard?”

“He said he intends to own the city so I can watch my hopes crumble. He’s going to swallow the syndicates one by one until every criminal in Ostguard calls him their king. Among other things.”

“So that’s why he wanted a place in Ghost syndicate. He tried to convince me that I was something special—I just had to prove it by dealing with Noble. But really, he probably saw a naïve young thief who wouldn’t recognize she was being manipulated until he’d seized her syndicate from her.”

Myrrh’s stomach turns sour when she realizes Rattle was right. She was naïve.

“Hmm. I suspect his plans for you went beyond taking over Ghost syndicate. As you recall, he’s under the impression I seduced his beloved. I’m guessing he thinks there’s something between us and that’s why he turned up in Rat Town.”

Myrrh curls her lip. “But he’s twice my age.”

“Surely you know men well enough to realize that’s no obstacle in their minds.”

She tugs at her dress again. It keeps riding up.

“So tell me about these rubies,” Glint says.

She pulls the little pouch of gems from her handbag and tosses it over to him. “Noble hired a mercenary army. Rattle gave me about twice this many so I could pay them to double-cross him. I was planning to give the remainder back, but I think I’ve reconsidered.”

Glint peeks into the pouch and lets out a low whistle. “Either he’s taken a stronger fancy to you then he expected, or he really, really doesn’t like me. Or maybe both.”

“Regardless, we have to know for sure whether he’s behind the murders. It terrifies me to think about how close he’s been to Nab—those thieves’ cantrips are real, by the way. Nab used one on me.”

“Oh really?”

“With a twist of his fingers, he sent me chasing after, as he put it, the person who hit me with the ugly stick.”

Glint tilts his head back and laughs. “And you fell for it?”

“I don’t even remember getting up from my chair. It was like the stories you hear about people tricked by fairies.”

“Perhaps I should have a talk with Nab. Straighten him out with regards to your physical attributes.”

“I’m afraid that’s a hopeless quest.”

“Then maybe I could show you what I think of your appearance?” he says in a low voice.

Glint’s tone is teasing, but there’s a darker, more serious edge to it. Myrrh’s heart flutters as he sets his wine aside and slides closer. He plants a knee on the sofa cushions, his other foot on the floor, and leans over her.

Myrrh breathes in his sandalwood scent as she meets his gaze. He runs a hand up her exposed thigh.

She closes her eyes. “I have to get back soon. Nab’s locked in a room with the queen of Rat Town’s gambling industry.”

Glint’s hand slides onto the fabric of her dress and over her hip bone to her side. She can’t help her quick intake of breath. “Plus I have to deal with Rattle. And Mink—”

He presses his lips to hers, cutting off her words. His hand slides higher, fingers finding the grooves between her ribs, thumb just under the curve of her breast. As he sinks down onto her, she feels his desire against her upper thigh.

Oh, sixes. She can’t do this. Not right now.

“Glint,” she says, wriggling higher onto the arm of the sofa. “It’s important. Mink has been trying to get you a message, but with the thieves’ path closed—”

“Mink is a grown up. Eventually, she and Resh have to step up and make decisions,” he says, hand sliding around to her back.

“Glint, two more of your people were killed. That’s what she wanted you to know.”

He blinks then slowly sits up, his fingers trailing over her body and lifting away.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“When?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure exactly. Do you really doubt this could be Evant’s doing?”

He drags a hand through his hair. “I really didn’t think so, but whoever or whatever the killer, it certainly seems to be targeting a disproportionate number of people I care about.”

“We need to figure this out quickly.”

Jaw clenched, Glint nods. He takes a deep breath. “You’re right. Any ideas on how to track Evant down?”

“Some. But he scares me. He said the etch is just one of his many tools. The cantrips are another. When you heard rumors about etch leaf, were there other substances?”

A look of genuine concern darkens his features. “Many. I don’t know whether they all exist, but if they do and he has access…Myrrh, he has to believe you’re unaware of my previous relationship with him. You have to keep up the charade.”

“Which likely includes getting back to Rat Town before he realizes I went looking for you. Problem is, with etch, he can follow my trail.”

“If nothing else, I consider it highly unlikely he could get past the guards and into Maire’s Quarter. He might suspect we met, but he won’t know for sure. We need to get you home quickly and make sure you are overheard expressing frustration over not being able to find me.”

“Do you think that will really work?”

“I think you’ll have to be convincing.”

“And then what?”

“We have to even the odds. You say you can track him down. Does that mean you might have an idea where he keeps his stash?”

She nods slowly. “I think I might.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

IT’S A COUPLE hours past dark, and chaos rules The Queen’s Dice. Even a full day later, patrons are more interested in getting fall-off-your-stool drunk in celebration of Noble’s demise and mourning for victims of the fire than in rolling dice or playing cards. Myrrh’s glad she paid Sapphire a hefty price in rubies to stand watch over Nab. The woman would probably be crying over the lost gambling profits otherwise.

Myrrh edges through the crowd, hood pulled over her hair in hopes no one will recognize her. Behind her, Warrell is not so circumspect. He’s decidedly unhappy about the way she left him in charge, and like a toddler, he pouts by pushing and shoving. Drinkers yelp and their eyes travel upward to decide whether to protest the brute shoving them aside. As soon as they recognize the big man, it dawns on them to take a closer look at the slight figure who just slipped past.

“Oh ho!” someone shouts. “’Tis the Queen of Rat Town finally come to slum with her subjects.”

A cheer goes up, and much to her dismay, ale fountains over the crowd as drunks knock their mugs together. She ducks as spray splatters her cloak.

“Now back off!” Warrell shouts, loyal despite his sulk. “Mistress Myrrh has business to conduct, unlike you worthless louts.”

Of course this brings another cheer and another toast, and Myrrh runs to avoid a second shower. She squeezes into the private high-stakes room where she deposited Nab before dawn, waits for Warrell to duck inside, then slams the door. Nab glares at her with an expression so sullen she can scarcely keep from laughing.

“You had no right,” he snaps.

Myrrh shrugs. “I thought you’d like a chance to practice your new trick. If you can misdirect Sapphire while she’s dealing cards, you could probably walk into an inner-kingdom throne room and make off with the king’s shoes.”

Sapphire turns her back to Nab so the boy won’t see her smirk. Clearly, he tried his new cantrip, and clearly, it failed.

Nab scowls.

“Ah, I see,” Myrrh says. “Well, you’ll just have to keep practicing.”

He crosses skinny arms over his chest and snarls. “I’ll never improve my skills if you lock me up with nannies all the time.”

“Speaking of nannies, Warrell is going to take you back to the safe house, and he’s going to keep you in his sight until I get back.”

“What?” Nab protests

“Now wait,” Warrell adds.

“I’ll explain everything later tonight or tomorrow morning. There’s something I need to deal with, and until then, I don’t know any other way to keep you safe, Nab. And Warrell, you’re the only person I can trust to guard him and the safe house.”

The big man huffs and shoves his thumbs through his belt loops. “Fine. Until tomorrow. Come on, kid.”

When Nab doesn’t immediately rise from his slouched seat, Warrell wraps a huge hand around the boy’s upper arm. Nab starts to protest but then takes a second look at the big man and seems to think better of it. He casts Myrrh his iciest glare as Warrell leads him out the room’s back door.

“I hope he wasn’t too much trouble,” she says to Sapphire once they’re gone.

Sapphire gives an amused smile. “He actually almost caught me with his trick the first time. After that, it was fun to watch him get madder and madder. Like watching a squirrel rage while a crow plunders her nut stash.”

“I expect Rattle will show up at midnight. Can you send him back here? It’s a bit too loud up front for my tastes.”

A sly smirk tugs at Sapphire’s lips. “Speaking of Rattle, I heard he was the source of those rubies. Think he has any more to throw around?”

Myrrh forces a smile. “That’s one of the things I hope to find out. By the way, that dealer who went missing…did you ever hear from her?”

Concern furrows Sapphire’s brow when she shakes her head. “Haven’t heard a thing, and Darcy at the boarding house says her bed’s been empty.”

“You don’t know whether she had any interaction with Rattle, do you?”

“You think he offered her a better gig? Maybe some work warming his bed?”

“Obviously he has coin…enough he could attract a girl desperate to escape Rat Town.” She considers telling Sapphire her greater worry, but she doesn’t want the woman to betray her suspicions to Rattle.

Probably due to years of experience watching card players for tells, Sapphire seems to know that Myrrh is hiding something. Her eyes hold a faintly suspicious glint.

“That’s not really Marian’s style. She’s too independent. Regardless, no, I didn’t see them talking or anything…”

She trails off, perhaps hoping that Myrrh will fill the silence. Instead, Myrrh pulls out a chair and sinks into it, propping a heel on a neighboring seat. “It was just a stray suspicion. You’ll send him in, though, right?”

“As soon as he arrives,” Sapphire says as she lays a hand on the door latch.

Myrrh grimaces at the clamor that intrudes when the woman opens the door.

After it swings shut, she tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and begins to wait.

***

When Rattle steps through the door, Myrrh settles her face into an expression of wary gratitude. As usual, his mood is completely unreadable. He stalks silently to the table and sits.

“I owe you my thanks,” Myrrh says. “Noble surprised us.”

Rattle inclines his head. “He was a wily old crook. You did well, considering.”

“Yet if you hadn’t been there, I would have lost people.”

“Most likely.”

The door cracks open, and a serving girl pokes her head in. Rattle waves her off.

“You’ve been visiting Nab without telling me,” Myrrh says. Part of her agreement with Glint was to act as if nothing has changed. Regardless of this man’s help in the battle against the Slivers boss, she would still defend the boy.

Myrrh can’t be sure, but when Rattle blinks, she thinks she spots a hint of agitation. She needs to be careful here. Treat him like a coiled viper.

“I realize that you feel responsible for the boy, but you’re not his mother. As I believe I mentioned, I’m interested in serving Ghost syndicate as something of a mentor and strategist. I have been instructing Nab in a particular set of tricks.”

“He showed me. Something called misdirection. Where did you learn it?”

She watches keenly, interested to see if there’s any shiftiness in his eyes. Will he tell her the truth about Skorry and the night blades?

“From a group of thieves in the Port Cities.”

“I thought you were freelance.”

He nods. “But I’ve formed acquaintances from time to time. Often, I’ve benefited greatly from the relationship.”

“These tricks…how do they work? Nab nearly had me walking out the door against my will.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Why don’t we get back to discussing my future in your organization.”

Myrrh slides a foot along the floor as she straightens her leg and leans back in her chair. With an elbow propped on the chair arm, she fixes him with a considering stare. Out in the common room, another loud cheer goes up.

“My issue with you instructing Nab is that it shows you don’t respect my authority.”

“I thought the syndicate was run by a council of equals.”

“Not anymore. I make the final decisions now.”

“And if I were to join, and a low-level Ghost member were to ask me to teach them some of my tricks, you’d insist I seek your approval first?”

“This isn’t about any low-level member. It’s about a boy I look out for. You knew about our relationship yet chose to seek him out without my knowledge.”

“You never asked.”

“Because you arranged your meetings with him to keep me ignorant.”

Rattle leans forward and lays his forearms on the table. His foot taps the floorboards, sending little vibrations into Myrrh’s boots. “What if I told you I was trying to protect him. There’s a dangerous…situation happening in Ostgard right now.”

“Which is?”

He shakes his head. “I’m working on filling in some of the details. I swear to you, Myrrh, I’ll bring you everything I find once I have the evidence. But for now, I can only say that it’s a grave threat.”

Myrrh sighs. The argument about Nab has probably dispelled any fears about what she might have learned from Glint—even if he didn’t tell her anything new—and she needs to get to the next part of the plan. “I don’t like secrecy.”

“My apologies. It’s in our nature, though, don’t you agree?”

She shrugs a single shoulder as if reluctant but willing to drop the subject. For now. “I meet with the remaining members of my former council once daily. In a back room at Rikson’s Roost. For now, I’m willing to invite you to those meetings. It’s the best you’ll get in terms of leadership until you provide more assurance of your loyalty.”

Rattle gives a slow nod.

“And,” she continues, “I need something from you tomorrow. It’s a job for someone with, as you say, resources.”

“Go on.”

“An hour after sunrise, one of the city councilmen will be sending a cart of inner-kingdom crystal to the north end of First Docks. I’d like you to retrieve one of the crates.”

“Interesting that a councilman would choose to ship from First Docks…”

“You say interesting. I say opportunity. He’s new, and from what I gather, he’s been spending lavishly on entertainment to curry favor with his peers. Tariffs at First Docks are three-quarters what it costs to ship from the city center.”

“I see. Any reason you wish for a crate of this crystal?”

Myrrh curls her lips into an amused smile. “Blown-glass goblets are rather unrefined for the boss of a syndicate, don’t you think? After my hard work over the last weeks, I think I deserve better glasses and tumblers to enjoy the fine liquors I intend to procure.”

“I see.” He stands and graces her with a slight bow. “I’ll see you at Rikson’s Roost tomorrow evening. You’ll have your crystal then.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

THE RISING SUN breaks through ragged clouds and pierces the thick smog over Smeltertown. As Myrrh and Nab slip through the streets of Rat Town, skirting building walls and remaining in shadow when they can, a few birds swoop in and land on rooftops. They warble and caw, the only residents of the district alive at this unseemly hour of day.

“Rattle’s gonna be mad at me,” Nab whines.

Myrrh stops short and grabs the boy’s arm. “Listen to me. I know you don’t like to hear my opinion on things, but you do respect Glint’s. He’ll repeat the whole story to you later if you want. Maybe we’ll find that Rattle is innocent in all of this, but we have to be sure. Thieves are being murdered. It could be any of us next.”

Nab rolls his eyes. “You already said all that. Anyway, what happens if he finds us going through his stuff?”

“He won’t. Glint has a plan for that.”

The boy sighs and kicks at the cobblestones, still slick from last night’s rain. “You better be right about his.”

He leads off, ducking into an alley that gets progressively narrower and more crooked as it plunges between rows of leaning buildings. Where the corridor dead-ends, he stops, rolls his eyes again, and gestures at what looks like a cellar door.

Despite Rattle’s assurance that he’d hold up Glint’s cart of crystal just a few minutes from now, Myrrh needs to be careful. Creeping close, she listens for sounds from within. She hears nothing and crouches, putting her ear to the splintered wood. Still nothing.

With a careful finger, she rotates the wooden latch around the rusty nail that pegs it to one of the doors. The wood squeals, loud in the narrow confines. Still nothing happens.

When she digs fingertips under the door and pulls, the hatch lifts away with another loud squeak. Beneath, there’s another door, much more solid and fastened with a padlock. Given that it’s locked from the outside, she can put aside her worry that Rattle might still be home. She levers the false hatch all the way open and lets it fall against the building with a hollow bang.

The padlock’s tricky. After a few minutes of working with her lock picks—Nab shuffling in obvious irritation the whole time—she gives up and pulls out a small hacksaw. Rattle will definitely know someone has been here now, but it can’t be helped. She sends Nab to the closest bend in the alley to keep watch and starts sawing at the hasp. After maybe a quarter of an hour, the metal finally parts, and she calls Nab back.

The boy sighs. “He really is going to hate me for this.”

Ignoring him, Myrrh pulls the lock free and drops it on the ground. She grabs a handle that’s bolted to the heavy hardwood and heaves.

A short staircase leads down into darkness and silence. Feeling along the wall, Myrrh locates a lantern. With a quick strike from her flint, she pulls a small flame from the wick then starts down the stairs.

Rattle’s den is not what she expected. The sturdy door is the nicest part of the place. Otherwise, it’s just a bare, subterranean hovel. Only the simple cot, the crooked table and three-legged stool, and the iron-bound leather trunk distinguish it from the root cellar it clearly used to be.

She squints, looking around the room as she descends the short flight of stairs to the floor. Rough planks have been laid underfoot to cover the bare earth, but dust finds its way through the cracks and coats the toes of her boots.

“Are you sure this is the right place, Nab?” she asks.

“Do I look like an idiot who can’t remember his way around Rat Town?”

Shaking her head, Myrrh hurries to the trunk. If Rattle has any more etch or other, more sinister compounds from Haava, they’ll likely be inside. She flips a metal hook out of its housing and raises the lid. Inside are sets of folded clothing and a few promising-looking boxes.

“I knew you kept half the rubies, but I didn’t expect you to come for the rest of my riches. I suppose I can thank my thief’s intuition for the impulse to forget your cart of crystal and return here. Or perhaps it’s the trip you took into Maire’s Quarter yesterday that tipped me off.”

“I told you, Myrrh!” Nab yells as they both whirl.

Somehow, Rattle has descended half the stairs without making so much as a rustle. He stands with hands at his sides, his single eye burning as he stares at her. At either side of his belt, oiled blades are halfway out of their sheaths, the edges shining in the lamplight.

Myrrh frantically casts about for a distraction. “If you were more forthcoming, I wouldn’t have to search your lair for the truth. What are the trinkets you’ve been nailing to people’s doorjambs?”

A strange expression crosses Rattle’s face. For an instant, he stands motionless, and then he raises a hand.

She looks away too late. The moment Rattle makes a peculiar gesture with his fingers followed by an odd humming sound, her body freezes.

Myrrh can’t move.

She can’t speak.

Nab is a blur of color at the edge of her vision, but she can see enough to tell he’s paralyzed as well.

“I haven’t had a chance to teach Nab this cantrip yet,” Rattle says. “It takes rather a lot of training. But he does know the basics of the next one. A brief misdirection is one use of the ability to render a mark suggestible. The power to command takes more practice.”

His hands come up before her face. Rattle begins a gesture.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I’M NOT GOING to kill you,” Rattle says as Myrrh comes back to awareness.

She’s in another dark room, heavy beams overhead, smooth but unpainted planks on the wall. A single candle burns on a small table. There are just two chairs, hers and Rattle’s.

A gag swallows her shout.

“Nab’s fine. I explained the confusion and set him down in front of a dish of baked cinnamon apples.”

She shakes her head, breath searing her nostrils as she pants.

“Seriously, Myrrh. I don’t know what Dominic told you, but I mean you no harm. I quite respect your accomplishments.”

Myrrh strains against her bonds. Her ankles are tied to the chair legs, the rope hard against her flesh, but she can almost get leverage with her toes. The bonds on her wrists are so tight she’s lost feeling in her fingers.

“Oh, wait. You don’t know him as Dominic, do you? Glint. Isn’t that what he goes by now?”

Standing, Rattle stalks across the room, hands clasped behind his back. When he reaches the wall, he turns to face her again. “I didn’t wish to bind you like this. But I believe it’s the only way I will convince you to listen. After your visit to Dominic’s home yesterday, I have no doubt your head has been filled with lies.”

Lacking any other option to express her disgust, Myrrh narrows her eyes at the man.

“Glint told you about our feud. And since he’s ever so charming, he managed to convince you that I’m here to wrest your syndicate from you. Perhaps he told you I’ll rob you of everything you hold dear. Including, no doubt, your virtue.”

The man sighs, shaking his head as he continues pacing. When he’s not looking, Myrrh cranes her neck to try to get more information on where she’s being held. There’s a single door on the wall in front of her. No light leaks from beneath. Behind, there’s the edge of something that might be a shuttered window. She can’t turn her head far enough to see.

Added to the scraping of Rattle’s footfalls against the floorboards, a rhythmic clanging presses through the walls. Are they in Smeltertown? And did he really force her to walk here under her own power? The only people in the area are probably workers half-deaf from the constant din of the ore crushers. Which makes hope of rescue rather thin. If he’s telling the truth about Nab being somewhere nearby, maybe the boy will come to his senses and get help.

Seeming to tire of his pacing, Rattle grabs his chair again, spins it around, and sits facing her with his forearms folded over the chair back. Today, in place of his missing eye, he’s wearing a sphere that’s either green glass or polished emerald.

“I should be honest about one thing, Myrrh. I did follow Dominic here. He…” Rattle runs a hand over his hair, ending with a squeeze of the tail that’s tied at the nape of his neck. “Dominic wounded me. We were friends once, but when I made the mistake of conducting creative business with him, the same sort of maneuver any of the ruthless Port City traders would have made, he took it rather personally. And he struck back in a very personal fashion. Of course, things escalated. Though I kept my attacks to his enterprise, never to his personal dealings, he had no such integrity.”

As Rattle heaves a deep sigh, Myrrh works her right foot against the ropes binding her to the chair. It might be her imagination, but the knot seems a little looser.

“But you don’t really need to hear my side. Not right now, anyway, because there’s a much bigger issue that we must discuss.”

Myrrh makes a sound against her gag as if to show they’re not discussing anything. She’s listening to his power-tripping monologue.

He smirks, an uncustomary display of emotion. “Yes, I’m aware that the conversation is rather one-sided right now. Rest assured, you’ll have your say. Anyway, you mentioned the trinkets. I must say, it took me off guard. Are you also aware there have been a smattering of seemingly inexplicable killings in the city?”

He cocks his head as if waiting.

“A gag doesn’t keep you from nodding, you know.”

Myrrh glares. She’s not going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her do anything at his command.

“Wait”—he abruptly sits up straight—“I thought Nab was being overly dramatic when he mentioned your concern that I was a killer. You don’t really think…?”

She has to give him credit. The man is a good actor. He seems genuinely stunned, blinking slowly as if coming to terms with this new information.

After a moment, he drops his hands to his sides. “It was the trinkets. That’s the reason you mentioned them…. No wonder you were so concerned about my interactions with Nab. You probably saw that I gave him a protection sigil.”

As he speaks, a tiny slice of Myrrh’s mind starts to wonder if there’s a bit of truth to his act. But she keeps her face even as the man presses fingers to his forehead. He takes another deep breath.

“Well, I was going to tell you anyway. I just didn’t think I’d be defending myself as the potential killer. Myrrh, I came because of my rivalry with Glint. I heard through mutual associates that he’d managed to claw his way up to a rather prominent position in Ostgard. After what he did to me, I couldn’t rest easy without striking back.

“That’s why I came. But within just a few days in the city, I realized I had more to do here than exact vengeance on an old rival. Have you ever heard of the trickster god, Skorry?”

Despite herself, Myrrh nods. If nothing else, the longer she keeps him talking, the greater the chance someone will come to her rescue. When Rattle doesn’t try to hold up Glint’s cartload of crystal, Glint will know something went wrong. The question is, will he have any chance of finding her?

“Those protection charms are pleas to Skorry for luck and protection. Nothing more sinister, unless you consider that some people believe the protection infallible. They get cocky. In retrospect, that ought to have given me pause before I gave one to Nab. But he was shadowed—I saw it the first time I met the boy. Short of keeping him within a few paces of me, the charm was the best thing I could do for him.”

Through her gag, Myrrh tries to ask what he means by shadowed. It comes out as a muffled aaagh.

Rattle fixes her with a judging look. “If I take that off so we can converse like normal people, will you swear not to yell? We’re too close to the smelter furnaces and ore crushers for anyone to hear, but I’d rather get this explanation done quickly so we can move forward.”

Myrrh flares her nostrils, but then nods. Rattle leans forward, and with a quick slice of his blade, frees the rag from her head. She spits it out and grimaces.

“What’s shadowed?”

“Marked for death,” he says.

Ice floods Myrrh’s chest. She swallows as he nods, grim.

“My bond with Skorry lets me see the marks, but it tells me nothing about when the Death Cloak will come for those who bear them. You have one as well, Myrrh.”

Myrrh feels sick. She clenches her jaw to avoid gagging.

“I’m sure you intend to explain what a Death Cloak is.”

“I’ve only seen it once before. In the slum in Tangesh. Fortunately, the Tangeshi are more attuned to the spiritual realm than Ostgard citizens. They were able to track down the soulless one and kill the body before the Cloak did too much damage.” He pauses and licks his lips, uncharacteristically seeming to hunt for words. “Let me start that explanation over. Sometimes, due to circumstances I haven’t heard explained, a person’s spirit becomes separated from their body. Sent to a different realm, or so I was told. When that happens, the person becomes a gateway for beings that don’t belong in our world. You know a Death Cloak walks the streets when people simply die with no explanation.”

Myrrh blinks, a black feeling swarming into her gut. “What does a Death Cloak want? How do you stop it?”

“The Death Cloak preys on those the person knew while their soul was still attached to the world. Why? Who knows. As long as the soulless individual is near their friends and family, they’re in danger. And the range of that danger gets wider and wider as the Cloak becomes more familiar with our realm. Eventually, it can sense its prey from across a continent.

“Skorry’s protection charm is meant to deflect some of the Cloak’s attention, but given your interest in the trinkets, I’m guessing you’ve discovered one near the site of a suspicious death. Obviously, they don’t always work.”

Myrrh’s next question is lodged on her tongue. She knows she needs to ask, but she simply can’t bring herself to do it.

Rattle watches her in silence for a while.

“Judging by your expression, I think you might know who this soulless person is.”

She drops her gaze to the floor. “Hawk. My former mentor. We rescued him from a prison cell, and he hasn’t been the same since.”

“Where was he imprisoned, if I might ask?”

“Craghold. In the mountains.”

“Hmm…if you don’t mind me suggesting a theory, the Crags region has a particular form of magic they call the oaths. The Scythe, for instance, was oathbound to serve the family of the former Maire. This is a form of spiritual manipulation, forcing her inner being to follow a vow no matter the circumstances. It’s not a large stretch to imagine that a similar oath-saying could somehow banish a soul entirely.”

“If the Death Cloak only preys on the close associates of someone who has lost their soul, why do you care? You’re not from Ostgard. There’s no Cloak’s mark on you.”

His gaze grows distant for a moment. “That’s something of a private matter. Suffice it to say I owe Skorry a few favors in exchange for some gifts I’ve been granted. Gods are generally not fond of one another, and the Death Cloaks are the spawn of a particularly odious rival of his.”

Under other circumstances, she might ask more questions about that. Despite making the sign of the Queen of Nines fairly often, she hasn’t really put much thought into whether an actual deity is watching. Right now, though, the existence or nonexistence of the gods doesn’t seem to matter much.

Myrrh’s voice is flat when she next speaks. “Please tell me there’s a way to correct this without killing Hawk.”

Rattle taps his fingers on his knees as if nervous. “Maybe, but I don’t—”

The explosion of light and sound comes together, drowning Rattle’s words and tearing a scream from Myrrh’s throat. Shadows pour into the room, overturning the table and its single candle, shaking the floor as they jump through the windows. Something slams into Myrrh’s chair, knocking her over. Her shoulder hits hard, a sudden burst of pain.

Feet pound the floorboards, men and women shouting. And from somewhere, she hears the hiss of an object in flight.

Myrrh looks up just in time to see the throwing knife sink to the hilt in Rattle’s neck. As blood pours over the hilt, he slumps forward against the chair back.

Mink runs over, thin slippers whispering over the floor. She pulls the man’s head back and sinks another knife through his good eye.

“No!” Myrrh’s cry is far, far too late. “No, no, no.” She’s still repeating the word when Glint crouches down and helps right the chair. As someone saws through the ropes binding her wrists, Glint brushes strands of hair from her face.

“I know I promised I wouldn’t tell Mink to follow you anymore,” he says with a reassuring smile. “But I hope you’ll forgive me once again.”

Chapter Thirty

MINK SOON RETURNS with word that Nab is, as Rattle claimed, currently stuffing himself with baked apples in what is apparently the foreman’s office for the nearest smelter. Myrrh doesn’t want the boy to see Rattle’s body. Not that he’s a stranger to death—no one who grew up in Rat Town has that sort of luck. It’s different for someone you know, though. Myrrh sends one of Glint’s people to stand watch over the boy, instructing the thief to escort Nab back to Rat Town when he’s done gorging himself.

After searching Rattle’s body—the man had more pouches sewn into his clothing than any thief Myrrh has ever met—and tucking away nearly a dozen weapons and six bulging pouches, Myrrh pulls Glint aside.

“What’s going on, Myrrh? You don’t seem all that grateful for someone who was just saved from a heartless killer.” Glint smiles, but she can tell it’s a struggle. For the last few minutes, she’s been ignoring Hawk’s lesson about not letting her emotions show. Rattle was going to say something about how she might be able to rid Ostgard of this Death Cloak without killing Hawk. Maybe he even had a suggestion on how they could cure Hawk. At the very least, he might have been able to tell them what the Death Cloak looks like or whether there are any defenses other than the protection sigils.

But Rattle won’t be talking to anyone again.

“Have you ever heard of a Death Cloak?”

“A what?”

She draws a deep breath. “How far are we from the river? I need fresh air.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. A few minutes’ walk. How did he get you to come here anyway? Mink said you followed him here, so she thought you had things under control. But I didn’t trust that. You’re lucky I was able to catch a glimpse of you through the window shutters. Doubly lucky the hinges were weak.”

“Guess the Queen of Nines was looking—listen Glint. I can’t pretend everything’s okay. Yes, thank you for saving me. But the city’s thieves are in just as much danger as they were last night.”

He casts her a skeptical glance. “I guess I better take that walk with you.”

The air outside smells like brimstone underlaid by the sickly-sweet scent of the acids the smelter workers use to process some of the ores. From a distance, Smeltertown always seems to be steeping in a foul cloud of its own smog. From within, it’s the rest of the city that looks hazy. But as Glint promised, they actually aren’t far from the water. On the way to the bank of the Ost, Myrrh tells Glint about the Death Cloak and its gateway. About Hawk, and how the best way to solve the problem is to kill him.

Her eyes tear up and her throat burns. Maybe it’s the foul air. Probably not, though.

“You believe him?” Glint asks when she finishes.

Myrrh nods. “You have to admit it makes sense. Everyone who’s died is a thief or criminal. A lot of them are from your organization—the people you and Hawk recruited together. Plus a grubber in Rat Town and one of Sapphire’s dealers unless she skipped town. He said Nab and I are marked, too.”

“But he could have come up with all those targets himself, killed them to support whatever story he wanted to tell.”

“Except there’s no motive. Maybe it would make sense for him to target people in your organization. But why Cobalt? Why a scattering of people from Haven and Blackfold? One of the first things you said to me when I mentioned my suspicion is that Rattle wasn’t a killer.”

As they pass out of the last aisle between warehouses and onto the wide cobblestone avenue that fronts the River Ost, Glint lets out a low hum of consideration.

“All right, say he was telling the truth. Where does that leave us? I know I can’t just murder Hawk. No way. It would be even harder for you.”

“That’s just what I was talking to Rattle about when Mink killed him. He was going to tell me something…an idea for how we might solve this.”

“Then it’s not hopeless.”

“If you haven’t noticed, Rattle is dead. He won’t be telling us anything now.”

“And Mistress Myrrh, queen of Rat Town and conqueror of Slivers isn’t clever enough to figure it out on her own?”

She can hear the smile in his voice, but she’s not up to his teasing right now. Not after everything that’s happened this morning.

“I don’t know where to start,” she says, then stops. “Actually that’s not true. I did get an idea just now, but I’d need your help with it.”

Glint stops at the low wall at the edge of the river and sits. He pats the top of the mortared stone, offering her a seat beside him. “Naturally, I’ll do everything in my power to help. And speaking of power, I have some interesting news.”

The stone of the wall is cool through Myrrh’s thin wool trousers. Behind her, a captain barks orders as his barge slides toward the passages beneath First Bridge.

“What’s that?”

“Seems there’s a chance I’ll have a whole lot more of it soon…”

Myrrh can’t help but laugh at the irony. “Did someone actually nominate you for the Maire’s seat?”

He smirks. “Indeed. It’s a long shot. But I often do well against difficult odds.”

She huffs, shaking her head. “Well anyway, if someone as important as a candidate for Maire of Ostgard could stoop to help a poor thief from Rat Town, I need to borrow the Scythe and her men.”

“Oh?”

She nods. “It has to be people Hawk had little or no contact with before he…changed. One of the things Rattle told me was that the Death Cloak preys on people who were close to the soulless person, but only when they’re nearby the gateway. I figure, since Hawk doesn’t know the difference right now, we can at least send him away. It’s a temporary measure, because the Cloak’s range grows over time. But it might give me a chance to solve the problem before we have to kill Hawk to save others.”

“I’ll send a pigeon to have her recalled. She’ll be here within the week.”

“In the meantime, maybe you could have members of Porcelain Hand move Hawk to a location outside the city. Or some people you recruited after Hawk disappeared.”

“Of course, Myrrh. I assume you want to send him back to Craghold?”

She thinks for a minute. “Actually, somewhere else would be best. Rattle thought the practice of oath-saying might have something to do with Hawk’s condition. I think I should”—she chews her lip—“visit Craghold again. See what I can learn about your oath magic. Do you mind if I keep pretending to be your fiancée?”

He laughs. “All this pretending…it’s killing me, Myrrh. Do you have any idea how hard”—he coughs—“difficult it was for me to sleep last night? All I could think about was you in that dress. Or out of that dress, perhaps I should say.”

Her cheeks flush. “Fortunately for you, you’ve just become a candidate for Maire. Every eligible young woman in the city will be falling at your feet.”

At her words, an awkward silence falls. Glint twists the sole of his boot against the cobblestones.

“I don’t care about that, but the nomination…hmm. Here’s the thing, Myrrh. I could get by with casual references to my largely absent fiancée when I was aiming for a council seat. I said your family spent most of their time upriver. But the Maire’s title is something else entirely. My match will be scrutinized. The council may even want assurances on a date for the ceremony.”

“If you’re asking me to marry you, I suggest you steal a ring.”

He smiles, brushing her cheek with his knuckle. “I assure you, when I propose to the woman I plan to marry, she will be so stunned by the romance of it she won’t be able to speak. And it won’t be with our backs to the stinking water of the Ost. I’m only saying that I don’t know what to do about the charade we put on for the council. You’re boss of Ghost syndicate, which is a major problem when it comes to the scrutiny I was talking about. And I assume your little crime ring keeps you too busy to come running every time Merchant Giller needs to parade his intended around.”

“Well, please let me know how our engagement proceeds. Speaking of busy, I’m going to have to find someone to train as my second-in-command.”

He smirks. “I hope you don’t become as attracted to this person as I did to the candidate I selected for my organization.”

“I was thinking Ivy. And she’s pretty enough, but not really my type.”

As Glint lays a hand on her thigh, Myrrh’s belly tightens. She sighs and thinks of brushing it away but can’t bring herself to.

“I think I may need to go to the Port Cities,” she says. “After Craghold I mean.”

Glint stiffens. “Why?”

“The night blades. Rattle said his bond with Skorry let him see who was marked by the Death Cloaks. Maybe the night blades or their god can give me more answers. Not to mention, a chance to learn cantrips that can paralyze a person or make them do what I say.”

“I…I don’t know if I can let you go, Myrrh.”

A flash of irritation sends heat through her body. “What do you mean, you won’t let me?”

He quickly shakes his head. “Clearly, that came out wrong. Let me rephrase.”

For a minute, he stares at her, then he cups her cheek with a callused palm. “Of course you don’t need my permission to leave for the Port Cities. But I’m not sure I can watch you sail away—many people that make the voyage don’t return. If you’re so insistent on leaving, I may have to stalk you.”

“That will go over well with the council.”

A conflicted look crosses his face. “I know. It’s a problem. Maybe you’ll consider staying.”

“You know, for someone who claims to like having me around, you’ve caused me a lot of problems. First you dragged me into a power struggle between you, Slivers, and your father. Now this, your old rival turning up and trying to worm his way into my syndicate.”

“But if he hadn’t shown up, we’d still be oblivious to the Death Cloak. And anyway, I just rescued you. The daring hero risking his life for yours…surely you want to stick around after that.”

She snorts. “I suppose it depends on what I find at Craghold. If I can’t figure out how to cure Hawk there, I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Glint stands and offers her his hand. “I suppose running away together is completely out of the question now.”

“Seeing as I have a limited amount of time before I either have to murder Hawk or be killed by the Death Cloak, yes, I suppose it’s not a very good time.”

“But not out of the question someday?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Someday, you’re going to be Maire. That’s a lot to give up.”

“I’m not always known for making rational decisions.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out when someday comes.”

The corner of his mouth draws back. “Just don’t wait too long. Like you said, I’m going to be a hot item once the city’s ladies realize there’s a handsome and eligible bachelor in contention for the Maire’s seat.”

“And how will these lovely girls ever manage to deal with such a humble individual?”

Glint laughs. “You better go start sorting through Rattle’s stuff. Otherwise I’m tempted to have my people steal it from you.”

“You wouldn’t dare. His squat is inside Rat Town borders.”

“Guard your turf, Myrrh. You never know when I’m coming for it.”

With that, he winks and starts sauntering toward Lower Fringe. Myrrh just shakes her head and watches him walk away.

Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for reading Ruler of Scoundrels. 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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Depending on when you read this, Book 3 in this series, Chronicles of a Cutpurse is either coming shortly or available now! Check for Queen of Tricksters on Amazon.

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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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Table of Contents

- 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