Gemma stood and paced the room, remembering when she’d been even less than an urchin begging for bits and cutting a purse now and then to get by. One day she’d cut the wrong strings and found herself in the grip of a snapping, pointed-toothed Balklander named Fin who dragged her kicking and hissing to Melnora for judgment. By then, Gemma had spent three years in orphanages and missions until she’d finally set out on her own. At the ripe age of thirteen, she’d thought she had Yigris by the balls. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory despite the thickness in her throat.
“Come here, child,” Melnora had said, crooking her finger.
Gemma had trembled, chewing her lip as big fat tears washed away the grime on her face. “I’m s-sorry, milady,” she’d choked, “I didn’t mean to steal your man’s purse. I just … I was so hungry, and I …” She let out a long, dramatic sob. It was much the same scared-little-girl act that she’d put on for Tollan in the Black Chamber.
Melnora, however, had tipped her head to the side, dark eyes pensive. She’d held out her hand to one of the serving men, who’d plopped a scalding wet rag into her palm, and grabbed Gemma’s chin, clasping tightly as she scrubbed away the filth from her face.
Gemma could still feel the stinging heat of the water and smell the clean scent of chamomile soap.
Melnora had held Gemma at arm’s length, her gaze appraising. Finally, she’d said, “Have you been paying your dues, child?”
Gemma had simply stared, sniveling.
“I thought not. Every thief in this city belongs to me, child.” She’d stared at Gemma, eyes hard. “It seems that you owe me some money.”
Gemma knew noble folk would never let a filthy street rat get away with their precious coin. She dug her fingernails into her palm to bring tears to her eyes and wailed, “Are you going to strap me, mistress?”
Melnora chuckled. “Now, what good would that do anyone? You owe me money, and you need to learn a trade. You’re too old to be begging like an urchin. And if you’ve an inkling to play the helpless victim, you’re going to have to get much, much better than you are now.”
For all of Gemma’s faults, stupidity wasn’t one of them, and she looked Melnora in the eye. “What do you want me to do?”
Minutes later, she’d been put into a warm bath and left to soak until the water turned gray with her filth. Then, Melnora’s maid, Lian, had scrubbed her until she was shiny and pink. She trimmed Gemma’s hair and nails and gave her clean clothes to wear. Then she was led to the dinner table, where Melnora, Fin and several other Guild members were waiting for her.
The table made Gemma’s eyes go wide. Roasted fowl, rare, dripping roast beef, large bowls of potatoes and beans and crusty loaves of bread with butter slathered on. Each Guild member had a large glass of wine poured before them, and as Gemma sat down, Melnora nodded to the attendants, who began to serve the meal. It was only then, as slices of roast beef were being laid upon plates, red juices pooling against the white of whipped potatoes, that Gemma realized she had no plate. Saliva filled her mouth and hot, stinging tears threatened her eyes, but she sat, back straight, chin thrust outward and watched the others eat. A lad of about her own age smiled apologetically, while a second, hard-eyed young man ate his food with relish, grinning wolfishly when their eyes met. The meal was a hell she’d not yet experienced.
When the others had been excused, Melnora looked at her. “You’re not peasant-born. I can tell. Give me your story.”
Gemma had scowled as she told Melnora of her childhood spent in the house of a minor nobleman, Lord Ghantos. When Gemma was seven, Lord Ghantos had died and her mother, who had been his favorite mistress, had tried to make a living as a laundress. But her skills had never been of a domestic sort, and she’d taken ill and died when Gemma was eight. “I can read and do sums and I know when to say ‘isn’t’, and when to say ‘ain’t’, if that’s what you mean, Your Grace.”
Melnora smiled, broadly this time. “And you’ve got a good deal of pride, haven’t you, child? In Under, the queen is addressed as Regency. Any fool can be born to a position of control and claim it is the goddess’s will. Down here, we believe that a ruler must lead.”
Gemma had simply stared at her.
“You’re going to work off the money that you owe the Guild. Six months as my chambermaid. Then we’ll see where your place in Under should be.”
Gemma nodded as if she were consenting to the situation even though she saw no other choice. No amount of time would ever diminish the memory of the smile that Melnora had graced her with as she rang a small bell. A servant entered the room with a plate laden with food, which he placed before Gemma. Hands clenched tightly in her lap, Gemma felt actual drool begin to slip out from between her lips.
“Eat,” Melnora said.
Doing her level best to maintain her dignity, Gemma snatched up a fork and knife and dove in.
“I, too, was born of noble blood yet never had my place among the court,” Melnora said. “That makes us kin, of a sort, you and I. You please me, with your sharp chin and your eyes that see too much. Learn our ways. Find your calling. There are positions within the Guild that can make you a very powerful woman, Gemma.” She leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. “Some say that we’re more powerful than the King of Above, himself.”
Gemma had nearly choked on her roast beef. “I’d like to be as rich as the king!” she said, “With rings on each finger and fat that hangs from his belly like he’s with child.”
“If that is what you wish, and you are willing to work hard, then it can be yours.” Melnora’s eyes danced in the light of the torches that lit the dining room. “But I imagine we will find other things that please you just as well.”
And for five years, they had. When her six months as chambermaid were finished, Melnora had offered her the status of ward heir and had adopted her into her household. Gemma was placed on a three-member team—one thief, one assassin and one paramour—who lived together, planned together and trained together. It was the only team overseen by the queen herself, who made sure they were following Guild laws and not bringing dishonor to Under.
Even then, Devery had been a skilled assassin. At eighteen, he was dead quick, cold as a midwinter outhouse, and sharp as the daggers he doted on. Elam, the fifteen-year-old paramour, was as warm and open as Devery was closed. He welcomed Gemma into their little apartment with a loaf of sweet bread and a hug. And though he was often out meeting patrons, he came home every night and snuggled into bed with her. Elam was the first friend she ever had.
Days and weeks and months and years blended together as the three of them honed their crafts. They spent a great deal of time with Melnora and Fin learning the intricacies of Under and secrets that the rest of the Guild had never been granted access to. Gemma had never wanted for anything, except perhaps sleep, and she had grown to adore Melnora as only an abandoned child could.
And now, though Gemma wanted desperately to throw herself into bed and pull the covers over her head, she knew that Melnora had taught her better than that. The Guild must never be without a leader.
She pulled the rope beside her bed and within seconds Lian entered, her eyes red rimmed. The tight bun that kept her graying locks tied up was slipping, stray curls hung loose around her face.
“Yes, Miss?” Her eyes did not meet Gemma’s, and once more Gemma thought her heart would crack in two.
“I need you to send out the children. Have them spread the word as far as possible. We meet at Guildhall in an hour.”
A quiet sob leaked out from between the maid’s lips. “As you say, Miss … Regency.” It was the change in title that suddenly made Gemma realize how well and truly pricked she was.