Page 9 of Heir

“You must think I have dung for brains,” Migva said. “You hid it. If you don’t tell us where, I’ll leave you in pieces all over the bleeding Roost. You’re a filthy foreigner. No one will help you.”

Sirsha glared at Migva through her non-swollen eye. The Roost rat came off as a petty thief, pecking at the crumbs left behind by bigger crooks. Clearly, Sirsha had underestimated the hag. Migva was smarter than anticipated. Nastier, too. Up close, she had that hungry glint that Sirsha knew well. The eyeshine of a predator, of someone who’d learned to hurt and kill out of necessity long ago, and found she enjoyed it.

Not for the first time, Sirsha wished her magic was useful for more than just tracking down jewel thieves.

A scrawny boy stood beside Migva. Last month, he’d tried to sell the gem dealer fake rubies. Sirsha convinced the big man not to kill him.

“You. Boy,” Sirsha said. “I saved your miserable life when you were swindling the gem dealer.”

The boy shifted from foot to foot, dagger shaky in his hand. “Migva, maybe we—”

Migva spun, drawing her blade across the boy’s throat so fast that his blood was soaking into the mud before Sirsha understood what happened. She weighed her life against her savings. Would she enjoy spending years scraping together enough gold to leave the skies-forsaken Empire? No. But would it be better than getting thrown to the crows for their morning meal? Most certainly.

“The money’s in the back bedroom,” Sirsha said. “In a safe behind the painting of the ugly dog. Now that I think about it, the dog looks a bit like you, Migva. Did you ever sit for a painting—”

Sirsha doubled over when Migva leveled a kick at her belly. But even with her face in the muck and a broken rib or two, she smiled at the snickers from Migva’s gang.

“What are you waiting for?” Migva roared at the thief closest to her. “Get in there!” The boy glanced at his dead companion and scurried inside. Half a minute later, he emerged.

Empty-handed.

Migva grabbed Sirsha’s hair and dragged her to the outer wall of the shack, pinning her next to a barrel and a rusted rake. “What game are you playing?”

“No game!” Sirsha gasped. “The gem dealer’s lover must have taken it. I swear that’s where I put it!” Sirsha didn’t bother controlling the shrill fear in her voice. If nothing else, it might keep Migva from decapitating her.

Migva released Sirsha, disgusted. “You’re stupidandpathetic.” She gestured to another of her gang. “Kill her.”

“No—no, please—” Sirsha cowered—rather convincingly, she thought. Until one of Migva’s minions grasped her neck.

At which point Sirsha latched a hand onto the rake and swung it up into the man’s nether regions, relishing the bastard’s howl of rage and pain before spinning the rake into the side of his head. Sirsha shoved him at Migva and darted into the shack, bolting the door behind her. It wouldn’t hold back the gang for long. But it might delay them enough for her to get the hells out of here.

She swept up her boots, her blades, and her pack before diving into the bedroom. The ugly dog painting lay on the floor, and the hidden cabinet gaped open, empty.Ah well.

Sirsha threw herself into the closet, fumbling with a tiny latch on thefloor as the front door splintered open. The latch gave and Sirsha was through, barely managing to close it before Migva’s goons flooded the room. She padded down a narrow tunnel and through a secret door to a back alley. Once outside, Sirsha squelched through the mud, stopping at an alcove a few houses down to look back. Nothing.

She stripped off her socks and shoved the dark red leather boots on. She might get blisters, but skin would grow back. These boots fit like a glove and had carried her hundreds of miles. She wasn’t about to dirty their insides.

As she eased out of the alcove, someone shouted ahead of her.

“There she is!”

Sirsha flung one of her poison-tipped needle blades at the scout and ran, a fading groan telling her she’d hit her mark.

Exits. Exits.Sirsha knew the Roost well—better than most who passed through here. Problem was, Migva lived here too. There were countless less-traveled paths out of the Roost—most of which were incredibly dangerous.

Sirsha knew of one that no sensible person would traverse. She headed for it, flitting from alley to alley, one eye behind her. She thought she saw movement and crouched low in the shadows beside a tavern. When no one emerged, she continued until she reached the eastern outskirts of the settlement.

The Roost was sprawled in a narrow space between two immense rock faces. From afar, the rocks shot straight upward, appearing impassable. Sirsha knew better. She picked past the outlying huts and tents, and made for a fissure in the stone. The opening was just wide enough for her. She pulled on a pair of gloves and began the dangerous climb up.

The rain made it treacherous, and soon she was sweating. As she picked up speed, she heard a scrape from below.

A face peered up at her. Even from a distance, Sirsha recognized Migva’s lupine features, twisted into a snarl.

“Bleeding hells,” Sirsha muttered. She’d like to think that Migva would slip and fall to an unceremonious death. But the girl was like a Jibautian spitting cockroach—mean and strong and impossible to kill. Sirsha looked to the thin slice of sky above, the rain-bloated clouds illuminated by a stroke of lightning. Everything hurt. Her bones felt like shards of glass. But it wasn’t far to go.

Sirsha grimaced as she climbed. Every time she looked over her shoulder, that bony wretch was getting closer. When Sirsha emerged from the fissure onto the cap of the rock face, Migva was a mere twenty feet behind, and Sirsha panted with exhaustion. She clambered forward, squinting in the dark.

The rock ahead sloped down toward the Jutts—land formations that looked as if the earth had grown spikes. Beyond was the Serran Mountain Range. It would be spectacularly foolish to traverse the Jutts in this weather.

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