Queen of Tricksters Read online




  Table of Contents

  Map of Ostgard

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Queen of Tricksters

  Book Three

  Chronicles of a Cutpurse

  Carrie Summers

  Map of Ostgard

  Chapter One

  WITH HER CLOAK pulled tight, Myrrh hunches over the pommel of her saddle to guard her body from the rain. She keeps her elbows tucked close to her sides, the reins hanging loose from her hand. Unfortunately, her efforts are largely pointless; everything she owns is already soaked. Worse, the rain in the Crags region isn’t the lukewarm spittle that falls in Ostgard but rather a frigid, never-ending shower.

  At least they’re almost done with this sixing pox of a journey. A short ride ahead and hazed by the constant, miserable drizzle, Craghold’s gray walls rise starkly from a cliff top. At intervals along the tops of the walls, fires burn in massive iron baskets. Myrrh shakes her head. What’s the use? The heat from the fires can’t possibly reach more than a few paces in this awful damp, and the guards patrolling the wall don’t seem to linger near the blazes.

  Behind her, Nab looks like a drowned kitten atop his pony. Or at least he did last time she checked. Whenever she glances back at him, he snarls, so she’s largely been ignoring him. With Warrell bringing up the rear of their small party and Glint’s assassin, Mink—disguised as a lady’s maid—riding in front, Myrrh doesn’t have to worry about the boy’s safety. Besides, Noble is dead, and the seething underworld of Ostgard lies a five day’s ride behind them. The biggest danger this close to Craghold seems to be the occasional pinecone thrown by an angry squirrel.

  Provided she solves the problem with the Death Cloak, that is.

  A fortnight: that’s how long she has to track down what happened to Hawk while he was locked in Craghold’s dungeon. Sometime during his imprisonment, his spirit was severed from his body, creating a gateway through which a Death Cloak can enter the world and hunt down Hawk’s friends and acquaintances. To close the portal and banish the Death Cloak, she needs to either murder Hawk—not an option as far as she’s concerned—or return his soul to his body.

  Technically, Myrrh, you had a fortnight, she thinks. Five days have already passed during their journey, and the return trip will take at least four more. Before leaving, she managed to persuade Sapphire, the proprietor of Rat Town’s preeminent gambling hall, to take over the administration of Ghost syndicate. Sapphire’s conditions were unwavering. Fourteen days. Maximum. And each one is costing Myrrh a precious ruby.

  This investigation needs to happen fast.

  That’s just as well, though, since Myrrh doesn’t know how long she has before the Death Cloak finds her and Nab. She bought some time by having Hawk sent far away from Ostgard and the people the Cloak would otherwise hunt. But that won’t stop the Cloak for good.

  Before reaching Craghold, the road passes through Pineshadow, the town that huddles beneath the fortress’s cliff. Low-slung stone buildings squat beneath roofs of thick thatch, tendrils of smoke rising from their chimneys. Most of the homes have slate doorsteps and small gardens out back. A few pigs wallow in the thick mud of their pens.

  A single inn presides over the settlement, its windows cheery with light, a placard outside announcing its name as the Stalwart Pony. The smell of roasting meat makes Myrrh’s stomach growl. As they pass the establishment, the squelching sound made by the hooves of Nab’s pony veers toward the inn’s shingled awning and the promise of food.

  She turns a hard stare on him, then shakes her head.

  “Oh, come on,” he says, swinging the reins in frustration. “Just for a little while? Maybe the rain will stop while we eat.”

  His pony snorts and tosses her head, protesting Nab’s inadvertent tugs against the bit.

  “We’re almost there,” Myrrh says. “And you’re enough of a merchant’s son to avoid such common establishments where possible, right?”

  “But I—”

  “Right?” She raises her voice just a bit.

  “Oh fine.”

  Dejected, Nab nudges his pony back into line. It was his choice to come on this trip, and he agreed to play the part of her little brother. Or rather, the part of Ava’s little brother. Clad in merchant’s finery, a velvet dress that gets incredibly clammy when wet, Myrrh is pretending once again to be Glint’s wealthy fiancée. Mink is playing the part of her lady’s maid, and Warrell, her bodyguard. As long as nobody steals anything—or at least, as long as nobody gets caught—they should weather this stay at Craghold with minimal difficulty.

  Unfortunately, that means reminding Nab over and over about the part he’s supposed to be playing.

  It also means hiding her emotions when she speaks about her engagement to Glint. Back when they were flirting and enjoying one another’s company, it was easy to pretend about the betrothal. But since his recent letter, which informed her of “changes” to their relationship, it’s become much more difficult. Just the thought of his words brings an angry flush to her cheeks, and she closes her eyes to push it away. This isn’t the time to be distracted.

  At the far edge of town, the road turns and cuts through a dark evergreen forest until it reaches the base of Craghold’s escarpment. There, a footpath makes a treacherous switchbacking ascent to the fortress walls. The trail is too narrow to accommodate horses, so they turn to follow the road along the foot of the cliff until a branch cuts up and through a narrow gorge between rock walls. On the rim above, empty guard towers stand like forlorn soldiers. When Glint’s family still lived in Craghold, the towers were likely manned at all times. Now, there’s little within the fortress walls to defend. Just a few tapestries, some silverware, and dust.

  And secrets.

  Though from below, the fortress seems to sit on top of the world, once atop the cliff, a flat bench extends back to a jagged stone ridge that scratches the clouds. Through breaks in the trees, Myrrh glimpses swirls of mist curling through buttresses and spires. Curtains of rain march across the terrain, sweeping down to add to their misery.

  She sighs. Having spent one night in a Craghold bedchamber when she and the Scythe came to free Hawk, she knows the stone walls won’t do much to blunt the damp chill—though curling right on the hearth will help some. And at least there will be a roof over their heads.

  The horses plod along the final stretch of road, trudging through mud mixed with fallen pine needles and small stones. At last, the small party pulls up in front of Craghold. Heavy wooden gates block passage through the wall, and there are no sentries outside. Warrell nudges his mount forward and stands in the stirrups, using his hand to shade his eyes from rain as he cranes his neck to search the top of the wall.

  “Hey! We need someone to open the gate for Mistress Ava!” he shouts.

  No one answers. Myrrh shifts in her saddle and adjusts the fal
l of her cloak over her mount’s hindquarters. Last time she was here, the Scythe simply called her Mistress, mentioning her acquaintance with the young master. The fact that neither of their names was used seemed an artful dodge at the time. Now she wonders whether the inhabitants of the fortress have any idea who this Mistress Ava is supposed to be.

  “Mention I’m Dominic’s fiancée,” she mutters.

  “I don’t suggest you allow Master Dominic’s betrothed to sit in the rain any longer than you already have,” he calls.

  Still, the heavy gate remains closed. Beside it, a small door also provides passage through the wall for foot traffic. Myrrh catches a hint of movement behind a small grate of iron bars that allows fortress guards to peer out. The shadow quickly vanishes.

  Rolling her eyes, she swings a leg over her mount and clambers down from the saddle.

  She stomps over to the door and presses her face to the grate. Beyond, she can see the corner of the keep, part of the kitchens, and the slanted roof of the stables. The inner bailey seems deserted.

  “You should have received a pigeon,” she calls. “Kindly let us in now, and I may be persuaded to forget this delay. Otherwise, I will be forced to inform Master Dominic of the rude treatment I endured.”

  She hears hissed words coming from inside the courtyard. Still, no one moves to answer the call.

  She glances back at her companions. Warrell shrugs, dismounts, and joins her at the door. He pounds on it with a meaty fist. When there’s still no response, he slams his shoulder against the wood, but the door appears to be securely barred on the other side.

  Another flicker of movement catches Myrrh’s eye, this time from atop the wall. She steps back and peers up, the hood of her cloak keeping most of the rain out of her eyes.

  Above, a guard peers over the low stone railing atop the wall. He stares down at her impassively.

  “Well?” she asks.

  He doesn’t respond, not even to shake his head. That’s when she notices the strung short bow clutched in one mail-armored fist.

  Mink bursts into motion, her horse shying as a pair of throwing knives abruptly appear in her hands. The woman sits easily in her shifting saddle, scarcely moving as the horse prances beneath her. She narrows her eyes, taking careful aim at the guard.

  “Wait,” Myrrh says, shooting out an arm to stop her from skewering the man through the throat. “Let’s move back and discuss this.”

  Mink seems hesitant.

  “He could have shot already,” Myrrh whispers as she slips back to her horse. “It’s a threat, nothing more. We came here for a reason, and trying to gain entrance to Craghold by force will only make the task harder. Not to mention it will destroy our disguise.” She glances at Mink’s knives. “If we haven’t already blown that.”

  Mink takes a deep breath as she considers. “Fine,” she mutters. One of the knives vanishes into a fold of her clothing, but the other remains in her grip as she gathers her reins. Clucking to her mount, she wheels the gelding around.

  Myrrh nods as she jabs a foot through the stirrup and swings up to a seat. “I’ll return shortly,” she calls up to the guard. “And no one inside this fortress will be happy when I do.”

  She hisses and widens her eyes at Nab, who is still staring at the gate as if he could open it with the force of his hunger. With a sigh, he slumps his shoulders and thumps his heels against his pony’s ribs.

  “Guess you get your wish,” she mutters. “We’ll see what fine cut of meat they’re roasting in the inn after all.”

  ***

  “So do I pretend to be a snobby merchant kid or not?” Nab asks as they dismount and loop their reins over the hitching rail beneath the inn’s awning. “Because I don’t want to get kicked out before I get something to eat.”

  Myrrh runs a hand down her mare’s neck, squeezing a stream of water from the fur. A meal will be nice, but she’s more concerned about getting under a roof. Evening is quickly approaching. “How about you pretend you haven’t learned how to talk yet? Probably more pleasant for all of us.”

  “Hey!”

  She smirks. “I mean it though. We don’t know what’s going on in Craghold. It’s possible we could receive the same treatment down here if they figure out who we are—or who we’re pretending to be, rather. We should answer as few questions as possible while gathering any information we can.”

  Nabs eyes widen in panic. “You don’t think they’ll refuse to feed us, do you?”

  Myrrh pushes the hood of her cloak off her hair, then shakes her head. “I think we’ll be all right if we don’t make a point of introducing ourselves. We’re simple travelers, okay? If someone asks directly, we’ll say I have family friends in one of the nearby fiefdoms, and I’m on my way to see them. But after a week of riding in the rain, I need a few days to dry out. My father is hoping I’ll catch the eye of a certain young lord, and I certainly won’t make my best impression if I come in sopping wet and grumpy.”

  “Not sure a week is going to undo the fact that you inherited your mother’s looks,” Nab says, lips twitching as he struggles to keep a straight face. “Unless maybe this lord fancies girls that are half-donkey.”

  Warrell steps close to the boy, making as if to rough him up for the comment.

  “It’s okay, Warrell,” Myrrh says. “Nab’s just mad because I said he can’t have any dessert.”

  “Wait, when did you say that?” Nab asks.

  “Just now.” She casts him a sweet smile.

  Warrell chuckles. “I’ll go in and see about a stablehand to help with the mounts.”

  Myrrh nods. “And someone to carry my trunks.”

  Slung over her mount’s hindquarters like panniers, a pair of hard leather cases holds Myrrh’s spare clothing, a couple lockboxes with a hefty sum in coin, and the stash of Haava substances she inherited from the dead rogue, Rattle.

  It was a risk to bring them, but she wasn’t sure what else to do with the collection of vials, packets of dried leaf, and lumps of resin. Just the supply of glimmer Rattle owned would be enough to set a thief up with high-class accommodations for a year, and the packets of etch leaf would do even better. She hasn’t yet identified the other three compounds that were tucked inside Rattle’s ironbound chest, much less what a safe dosage might be. In the case of the little vials filled with translucent crystals, she isn’t even sure how one would go about using them. Regardless, between the Haava compounds and the rubies sewed into the hems of her dress, she’s traveling around with a small fortune.

  She’d planned on having solid stone walls and Craghold’s small guard force to protect her treasure. Now, it seems she’ll have to be even more careful to keep an eye on it.

  Warrell disappears through the pinewood door while Myrrh and the others begin unstrapping their saddlebags. Seeming relieved to be out of the rain, the horses stand with heads down, their breath steaming. After just a few minutes, the big man returns, followed by a pair of adolescent boys wearing oiled-leather ponchos over their clothing.

  “Innkeep says there are three rooms free, Mistress,” he says. “He’s having a fire built to heat water for your bath.”

  A shiver of anticipation crawls across Myrrh’s skin. The thought of actually getting warm almost makes her forget her trunks. She casts the man a grateful look. Warrell might be a Rat Towner through and through, but he’s clearly landed enough gigs in Ostgard’s wealthier districts to learn how the merchant class does things. And the fact that he used their disguise as an excuse to do something nice for her makes her even fonder of the man.

  The taller of the two boys approaches the far end of the railing where Warrell’s horse is hitched. With a few whispered words, he unwraps the reins from the rail and leads the animal toward the side of the building. Before he turns the corner, he pauses and glances back.

  “No oats, I’m afraid, Sire. We have good hay though. No damp or mold in it.”

  “That’ll be fine, lad,” Warre
ll says. “Just make sure they each get groomed down.”

  The boy touches his forehead before tugging his poncho’s hood forward and continuing on.

  Meanwhile, the other lad has Nab’s panniers slung over his shoulder. Propping the door open with his foot, he holds his hand out for Mink’s saddlebags. The assassin scoffs, then seems to remember her disguise. No self-respecting lady’s maid would refuse the offer to have her things carried. Spine rigid, she contorts her face into an approximation of a smile and hands over her bags. At least they don’t clank. If they are as full of knives as Mink’s clothing seems to be, the woman has padded them well.

  When the boy finally reaches for Myrrh’s small trunks, she remains close, following just a pace behind as he steps through the door.

  The inn’s common room is humble but clean with two long trestle tables for the serving of meals. A few patrons sit close to the ends of the tables nearest the crackling hearth, sucking down ale and digging into some sort of stew. Sconced in a heavy iron ring that hangs from the ceiling by a chain, candles flicker and drip wax onto the floor and tables below.

  As the party enters the common room and gathers by the door, the patrons throw them chilly glances, hunching farther over their mugs of ale. Myrrh glances around for the innkeeper, but he seems to have disappeared already, displaying an uncustomary lack of hospitality. But despite the fact that it seems they aren’t very welcome here, they have been given rooms. With nowhere else to go for the night, they’ll have to just ignore the poor reception.

  As the boy makes for the stairs with her luggage, she lays a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” she says. “I’ll have my guardsman take them from here.”

  The boy’s shoulders sag, but he quickly hitches them up in an attempt to hide his disappointment.

  “Wait,” Myrrh says as he starts his escape toward the kitchen. She fishes a pair of copper coins from the small purse hung by its drawstring from her shoulder. “For your trouble.”

  Myrrh sighs when his eyes widen. She’d hoped to warm the mood in the room, but apparently that was too much of a tip. At least she can afford it now, thanks to Rattle’s demise and the small allowance she takes from Ghost syndicate’s coffers.