Mistress of Thieves (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 1) Read online

  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

  Mistress of Thieves

  Book One

  Chronicles of a Cutpurse

  Carrie Summers

  Chapter One

  FROM DOWN IN the Spills, Myrrh can’t see the rest of the city. Especially on a night like this, when rain falls in a constant hiss against decaying shingles and turns muddy footpaths into shin-deep streams. But she feels the vast sprawl of Ostgard lying out there, sodden in the downpour. The hot breath rising from street grates near the waterfront. The panicked shouts of bargemen who tied up too near the Neck, not knowing how storm water turns the River Ost from placid to frothing. Right now, drunks in Rat Town are cursing over dice. Merchants in the West Fifth are trading slave contracts for wine casks.

  And somewhere in the city’s narrow streets, a man lies dying in a pool of his slowly leaking blood. He might have been a father to her in a different life. In a different port. Far from these cursed alleys and stacked-up stilt houses where grubbers like them have to scratch out what they can.

  Hawk was betrayed, and not for the first time. But instead of melting away for a while, he ignored the warnings. The whispers that he spoke too loud for someone of his station, held his head too high. Maybe he’d started to worry about legacy. About leaving behind more than fading memories in those who knew him. Maybe he thought the Queen of Nines owed him a lucky roll or two.

  Turns out, his luck was all used up. Everyone knew Hawk’s dice had come up sixes when the Scythe, a woman wearing the dull-red uniform of the Maire’s personal guard, stalked into his favorite Rat Town tavern and asked for him by name.

  After that, it was just a matter of time before they caught him and dragged him off under dusk’s yellow glow. Gone, just like that.

  Myrrh wishes she’d cobbled together the courage to say something in the days before. Thanked him for everything he’d taught her, even if he always lectured her against letting emotion show.

  The rain seems to beat harder on the slanted roof while she stares out the open door into the dark and the wet. Can’t go back now. Nothing will return the old thief to this squat he sometimes shared with her and Nab. His bedroll, shoved in a heap against the far wall, might fetch a bit or two from a rag seller. Enough for a day’s bread. He left her that plus the dagger, polished ebony handle and the sharpest edge south of Third Bridge.

  She slips a gloved hand to the blade’s hilt.

  Hawk was more than an aging cutpurse who noticed an urchin girl with a talent for slipping fingers into pockets. He was more than a ratty bedroll abandoned in a run-down stilt shack. He was noble in his own way. A good man who deserved better.

  Someone whispered his name in the wrong ears. Myrrh will find out who, and her revenge will be both slow and painful.

  But for now, she owes it to Hawk to pack up her grief and focus on the job ahead. People die, but the living still have to eat. Nab’s still growing, and even if she could suffer an empty stomach for a couple of days, his eyes are too big beneath that mop of hair as it is.

  She slips back into the darkness of the single room and crouches beside Nab’s sleeping form. In the darkness, she can’t see whether the splotches on his face have faded since he fell asleep crying. Maybe. Maybe he’s lost in dreams of better days.

  He’d never let her do this when awake, so she kisses the tips of her fingers and presses them to Nab’s brow.

  “Back later,” she whispers.

  Myrrh steps into the downpour. She’s got work to do tonight.

  ***

  Myrrh hunkers beneath the eaves of the dockmaster’s shack, out of the pounding rain. Though, at this point, she can’t get any wetter. Her feet slide inside the now-slimy leather of her boots, while the black wool of her tunic clings to her body, twice as heavy and steaming as her skin warms it.

  She shivers and squints into the darkness beside the river. Hooded lanterns sputter in the downpour, struggling to push back the night. Down on the water, a bargeman strides his vessel’s deck, hunched against the weather. He tugs on the stern line, crouches to add another hitch to the knot, then retreats to the cabin. Candlelight soon leaks from cracks around the tightly shuttered window.

  “Hey,” a man hisses.

  Myrrh whirls, slapping for her blade, then relaxes as she picks Warrell’s features from the shadows. Nose hooking to the right from last year’s brawl in a dockside tavern. The old scar splitting a dark eyebrow and running white across his weathered cheek. She lowers her hand and turns back toward the water.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d make it after what happened with Hawk,” he says.

  Myrrh shrugs. What else was she going to do? Lose tonight’s reward and gain herself new enemies? She wishes he hadn’t brought up Hawk though. Takes her concentration off the task.

  “Second vessel still the target?” she asks.

  Warrell moves closer, heat from his body warming her shoulder. “Yeah.” He sticks his head past the water streaming off the eaves, then snaps back into the shadows. “No one mentioned landward guards though.”

  Miser’s breath. Myrrh pulls her dagger free of the sheath. Oiled black with only a glint off the razor edge, the blade is as invisible as her thief’s garb in the night’s dark. Still, she really doesn’t want to be in a position where she has to use it. This was supposed to be a quick snatch of a small crate of giftwood carvings, straight off the deck of an anchored barge. Easy.

  She sighs. The presence of extra security is probably why the job got kicked down to a pair of freelancers. First Docks, a mass of wooden platforms fastened to the stone quay by rusted bolts and weather-faded rope, is Slivers territory. By rights, they have claim on all pickings. But like most syndicates in Ostgard, they contract out for many reasons. It’s up to the grubber offered the job to guess why the rightful owners are passing off much of the profits.

  “What do you think?” Warrell asks.

  “Gimme a minute.”

  Myrrh edges around the big man, earning a stream of rainwater down her collar, and rounds the building at the far corner. She slips along the wall, shirt catching on the splintering wood. At the next corner, she peers out, gaining a closer vantage on the unexpected guards. Two men, cloaked against the storm, bracket the ladder that descends to the section of the dock where their target barge is moored.

  The guards stare straight ahead, faces in shadow, hands on short swords at their hips. No slouching or leaning against lampposts. No muttering to each other about the weather. Professionals.

  Sixes.

  She rises onto her toes to try to assess the situation down on the water. The barge is tied close, hiding in the shelter of the stone-built waterfront.
Just the top half of the cabin shows, along with some of the tarp-covered stacks of cargo. With guards on the ladder, they’ll either have to approach across the maze of docks, jumping between platforms, or—sixes, she hates to think about it on a night like this—they’ll have to board the barge from the river.

  Though the darkness hides the current’s power, the pull only hinted at by the oily glint of lantern light off sinister ripples and curls, the Ost in flood is a dangerous beast. Better to take their chances across the docks and hope the extra sentries don’t look down. Of course, that plan doesn’t address the possibility of more security on the barge’s deck.

  As Myrrh shifts backward, one of the guards happens to glance her way. She freezes, pulse hammering. When his motion exposes his face, a chill floods her veins. His eyes lock with hers, drawing forth the silver glint from deep within his gaze.

  Glimmer.

  She sucks in a breath. The substance was supposed to be a myth. Just a rumor. But if he’s using the resin, he can see her as clearly as if she stood in the full glare of the sun.

  She closes her eyes and presses back out of his sight. She hasn’t done anything yet. No need for the guard to come after her. He has no way to know she planned to pluck that delivery of giftwood on behalf of the Slivers syndicate.

  Enough has gone wrong today. Sixes since the sun came up. Best to walk away even if Slivers cuts her out of the running for grubber contracts for a while.

  A hand falls on her shoulder. Warrell.

  “I’m out,” she whispers as she turns back. “Glimmer.”

  The big man shakes his head, lines of regret on his face. Almost as if he’s…apologizing?

  “No. You can’t.” She blinks, unwilling to believe. Five years they’ve known each other. Introduced by Hawk as fellow independents who understand the perils of freelancing but choose freedom over the shackles of a syndicate.

  “Warrell, please.”

  His face hardens.

  Sixes.

  Myrrh drops to a crouch to escape his grip. Her boots slip and scrape against rain-wet cobbles as she tries to scramble away. The dagger’s still in her hand, the edge that Hawk drew over the whetstone again and again now crunching against stone. A kick to her elbow sends her sprawling, the weapon skittering away into the darkness. Warrell’s heavy boot stamps down on her hand. She whines, rolls, and yanks her arm free.

  Silver eyes stare down at her. Myrrh blinks against the pouring rain while the guard lays the tip of his sword against her throat, pressing until the metal pierces skin and a drop of warm blood joins the water streaming off her neck. A whine escapes Myrrh’s throat as she raises her hands in surrender.

  The guard acknowledges Warrell with a curt nod as his partner steps forward to tower over her. The partner reaches into a pocket and pulls out a leather purse. The coins inside scarcely clink as the purse plops into Warrell’s hand. Myrrh’s throat clamps down. Such a small price for her life. Was this what happened to Hawk too? Sold out for the price of a night’s room and board in a midrate flophouse?

  Warrell turns to go without another glance.

  The glimmer-eyed guard waits until the heavy sounds of Warrell’s footsteps are lost within the roar of the rain, then nods to his partner. The other man grabs Myrrh under the armpits and drags her to her feet. Myrrh tries to squirm free, writhing and kicking.

  A fist cuffs her on the temple. She sways, dizzied, as a canvas sack drops over her head.

  ***

  The guards lash her wrists with a stiff cord and slip a gag under the sack and between her lips. Myrrh expects to be loaded onto the barge, locked inside the cabin until the vessel unties and ships out. Instead, the guards grab her by the ankles and armpits, grips so tight they might as well be iron, and start walking. The steady rhythm of their footfalls against stone suggests a trip along the waterfront. If they’d ducked into a Rat Town alley or the strip of land where the low streets of the Spills tongue up against the River Ost, she’d expect to hear the thud of boots against earth or the splash as they wade through muck.

  A strip of flesh above her belly button is exposed to the rain, and the sodden canvas of the sack clings to her face, sucking into her nostrils with each breath. The longer they walk, the wetter the sack gets until Myrrh is sure she’s minutes away from drowning. Just the thought makes her pant with panic, which only sucks more water into her nose. She parts her lips and tries to breathe around the gag. Gets a few sips of precious air, enough to slow her racing pulse.

  But when the sound of the river gets louder, rushing on either side as the men carry her onto a bridge—it has to be First Bridge given the distance they’ve walked—she starts thrashing and flopping like a fish.

  Myrrh knows what happens next. They’ll lash weight to her ankles. Maybe a sandbag or two—those stay put pretty well. Uncaring hands will grab her up, heave her onto the waist-high wall that keeps frightened mule teams from dragging wagons off the bridge. A shove and she’ll fly, her stomach leaping into her throat as the weight of the sandbags flips her feetfirst.

  A body thrown off First Bridge won’t get caught against the pillars of a downstream span. Not like Fifth Bridge or any of the others in between, where islands of rubble strain all manner of unsightly secrets from the Ost. The Maire won’t send a crew to fish out her waterlogged corpse before a delegation arrives from the Inner Kingdoms or the Port Cities. Most likely, the only person who’ll really know she’s gone—not just moved her squat to another district or another city—will be poor Nab. The kid won’t have anyone left to protect him.

  It’s that thought which gives her the strength to kick free. She yanks a foot out of the slimy leather of her boot, twists her body hard, and rams her leg straight, driving her heel into flesh that gives with a grunt and a whoosh of air out of the man’s lungs.

  The guard coughs and loses his grip on her other leg.

  Her heels smack the stones of the bridge, and she spins, turning facedown and forcing the other guard to cross his wrists and lose his grip on her armpit. Her knees crack the ground. Blind, Myrrh plants a foot and charges forward. She sidesteps by instinct, avoiding a collision with the guard who just lost his grip, and her feet slap the ground, thud-smack, thud-smack, as she sprints one-booted down the slope of the arching span.

  The thugs shout in frustration. “Miser’s breath, this one!”

  A weight slams her back as a heavy arm wraps her waist. They go down in a heap, Myrrh’s shoulder scraping against rough stone as her tackler’s bulk lands atop her. The man pins her with a hand between her shoulder blades, then adds a knee in the small of her back. She can’t breathe after the exertion from the run, the panic flooding her body, the weight pressing down and squeezing out the air from her lungs. The sack is too wet, too thick.

  A tear leaks from her eye while purple sparks fringe the edges of her vision. Stars explode in her sight as she sucks in vain at the wet fabric over her nose.

  For a few heartbeats, her limbs begin to tingle, and then there’s an explosion of light. And after, nothing.

  Author’s note: For a printable copy of the map so you don’t have to flip back and forth, go to http://carriesummers.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/Ostgard-map.jpg.

  Chapter Two

  SHE’S NOT DEAD, which is better than Myrrh expected. The fog is slow to clear from her thoughts until a violent shiver racks her body and brings her fully awake. She’s lying on a cold floor, knobs of her spine pressed against a stone wall. The only sound is the splatter of rain through an open window somewhere near.

  She can breathe.

  Thank the Nines, the wet sack is gone, replaced by a rough cloth tied tightly over her eyes. It runs across the tender skin where she took the blow to the temple. Whether that is causing the headache or whether it’s from earlier damage, she can’t be sure.

  Myrrh groans through her gag and tries to sit up. Her wrists are still bound, and she winces as she struggles on a floor that’s smoother than s
he first realized. Her head spins as she gets an elbow tucked under her body, and the smell of wet wool from her clothing stuffs her nose.

  Somewhere near, a chair squeals against stone. Myrrh freezes, and her strength fails. She wrenches her neck, her elbow slipping out from under her, and the weight of her head slams down.

  Footsteps click as someone draws near. They stop just a pace or two away. Close enough that she could reach out her bound wrists and brush the person’s ankles. She smells wood smoke, just a hint, and the warm scent of sandalwood. She wants to draw her knees up to protect her belly but resists. Bad enough she’s lying helpless before the person’s gaze. No need to look more pathetic.

  The person inhales, a breath deep enough that she thinks it fills a man’s lungs. He exhales, humming faintly and confirming her suspicion with the sonorous note. He walks away, footsteps calm and measured. A rubbing sound, perhaps as he spins on the ball of a foot. She twists her wrists until she can run fingertips over the floor. The tiles are flat but not polished like marble. Slate?

  A hinge squeaks, and the sound of the rain is muffled. Metal clicks as he closes the latch on the shutter.

  “I’d have seen to your wet clothing already, were it not highly inappropriate to undress you while you were unawares.” His voice echoes off the walls, suggesting that—aside from the chair—the room is bare of furnishings and rugs.

  Another shiver grips her. Myrrh presses her tongue against the gag, accusations and curses piling up in her throat, but she can’t shove the rag past her teeth.

  “Of course, you can probably understand why you’re still restrained. I needed a chance to speak to you without being kicked in the gut.”

  Again, the footsteps click while he crosses the room. She counts around fifteen paces before he stops and turns again, likely at the other wall. She guesses the door is opposite her but can’t be sure.

  She stiffens at the familiar sound of steel leaving a sheath. Again, the footsteps draw near, and a knee pops as the man crouches near her. The tip of the blade drags along the floor, the high-pitched scraping raising hairs on the back of her neck. He touches her, warm fingertips on her right wrist, then slides the blade under the stiff cord binding her hands.