فصل 27

27

INEJ

She followed him anyway.

If you ever cared about me at all.

Inej actually snorted as she vaulted over a chimney. It was offensive. She’d had numerous chances to be free of Kaz, and she’d never taken them.

So he wasn’t fit for a normal life. Was she meant to find a kindhearted husband, have his children, then sharpen her knives after they’d gone to sleep? How would she explain the nightmares she still had from the Menagerie? Or the blood on her hands?

She could feel the press of Kaz’s fingers against her skin, feel the bird’s-wing brush of his mouth against her neck, see his dilated eyes. Two of the deadliest people the Barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both of them keeling over. But they’d tried. He’d tried. Maybe they could try again. A foolish wish, the sentimental hope of a girl who hadn’t had the firsts of her life stolen, who hadn’t ever felt Tante Heleen’s lash, who wasn’t covered in wounds and wanted by the law. Kaz would have laughed at her optimism.

She thought of Dunyasha, her shadow. What dreams did she have? A throne, as Matthias had suggested? Another kill offered up to her god? Inej had no doubt she would meet the ivory-and-amber girl again. She wanted to believe she would emerge victorious when that time came, but she could not argue with Dunyasha’s gifts. Maybe she really was a princess, a girl of noble birth trained in the killing arts, destined for greatness like a heroine in a story. Then what did that make Inej? An obstacle in her path? Tribute on the altar of death? A smudge of a Suli acrobat who fights like a common street thug. Or perhaps her Saints had brought Dunyasha to these streets. Who will remember a girl like you, Miss Ghafa? Maybe this was the way Inej would be called to account for the lives she had taken.

Maybe. But not yet. She still had debts to pay.

Inej hissed as she slid down a drainpipe, feeling the bandage around her thigh pull free. She was going to leave a trail of blood over the skyline.

They were drawing closer to the Slat, but she kept to the shadows and made sure there was a good distance between her and Kaz. He had a way of sensing her presence when no one else could. He paused frequently, unaware he was being observed. His leg was troubling him worse than he’d let on. But she would not interfere at the Slat. She could abide by his wishes in that, at least, because he was right: In the Barrel, strength was the only currency that mattered. If Kaz didn’t face this challenge alone, he could lose everything—not just the chance to garner support from the Dregs, but any chance he would ever have to walk the Barrel freely again. She’d often wished to chip away a bit of his arrogance, but she couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Kaz stripped of his pride.

He dodged over the rooftops of Groenstraat, following the route they’d laid out together, and soon enough, the back of the Slat came into view—narrow, leaning lopsided against its neighbors, its shingled gables black with soot.

How many times had she approached the Slat from just this angle? To her, it was the way home. She spotted Kaz’s window on the top floor. She’d spent countless hours perched on that sill, feeding the crows that gathered there, listening to him scheme. Below it, slightly to the left, she spotted the sliver of window that belonged to her own tiny bedroom. It struck her that, whether the auction succeeded or failed, this might be the last time she ever returned to the Slat. She might never see Kaz seated at his desk again or hear the thump of his cane coming up the Slat’s rickety steps, letting her know from its rhythm whether it had been a bad night or a good one.

She watched him crawl awkwardly down from the lip of the roof and pick the lock on his own window. Once he was out of sight, she continued over the steep pitch of the gable to the other side of the Slat. She couldn’t follow the way he’d gone without giving herself away.

On the front of the house, just below the roofline, she found the old metal hook used for hauling up heavy cargo. She grabbed it, ignoring the disgruntled warbling of startled pigeons, and nudged open the window with her foot, wrinkling her nose at the stink of the bird droppings. She slipped inside, moving across the roof beams, and found a place among the shadows. Then she waited, unsure of what to do next. If anyone looked up, they might see her there, perched in the corner like the spider she was, but why would anyone think to?

Below, the entryway buzzed with activity. Apparently the festive mood of that morning’s parade had suffused the day. People came in and out the front door, shouting to one another, laughing and singing. A few Dregs sat on the squeaky wooden staircase, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth. Seeger—one of Per Haskell’s favorite bruisers—kept blowing the same three notes on a tin whistle for all he was worth. A group of rowdies burst through the door and tumbled into the entry, cawing and screeching like fools, stomping the floor, banging into one another like a school of hungry sharks. They carried axe handles studded with rusty nails, cudgels, knives, and guns, and some of them had painted crows’ wings in black across their wild eyes. Behind them, Inej glimpsed a few Dregs who didn’t seem to share the excitement—Anika with her crop of yellow hair, wiry Roeder who Per Haskell had suggested Kaz use as his spider, the bigger bruisers Keeg and Pim. They hung back against the wall, exchanging unhappy looks as the others whooped and postured. They’re Kaz’s best hope for support, she thought. The youngest members of the Dregs, the kids Kaz had brought in and organized, the ones who worked the hardest and took the worst jobs because they were the newest.

But what exactly did Kaz have in mind? Had he entered his office for a reason or simply because it was the easiest point of access from the roof? Did he mean to speak to Per Haskell alone? The entirety of the staircase was exposed to the entryway. Kaz couldn’t even start down it without attracting everyone’s notice, unless he planned to do it in disguise. And how he would negotiate the stairs on his bad leg without anyone recognizing his gait was beyond her.

A cheer went up from the people gathered below. Per Haskell had emerged from his office, gray head moving through the crowd. He was dressed in high flash for the festivities today—crimson-and-silver-checked vest, houndstooth trousers—out and about as the lord of the Dregs, the gang Kaz had built up from practically nothing. With one hand, he was waving around the plumed hat he favored so much, and in the other, he carried a walking stick. Someone had secured a cartoonish papier-mâché crow atop it. It made her sick. Kaz had been better than a son to Haskell. A devious, ruthless, murdering son, but even so.

“Think we’ll land him tonight, old man?” asked Bastian, tapping a nasty-looking cudgel against his leg.

Haskell lifted the walking stick like a scepter. “If anyone’s gonna get that reward, it’s one of my lads! Isn’t that right?”

They cheered.

“Old man.”

Inej’s head snapped up as Kaz’s rock-salt rasp cut through the noise of the crowd, silencing the rowdy chatter. Every eye turned upward.

He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down four flights of rickety wood. She realized he’d stopped to change his coat and it clung to him in perfectly tailored lines. He stood leaning on his cane, hair neatly pushed back from his pale brow, a black glass boy of deadly edges.

The look of surprise on Haskell’s face was nearly comical. Then he started to laugh. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch, Brekker. You have to be the craziest bastard I ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Shouldn’t have come here—unless it’s to turn yourself in like the smart lad I know you to be.”

“I’m through making you money.”

Per Haskell’s face crumpled in rage. “You ignorant little skiv!” he roared. “Waltzing in here like some merch at his manor.”

“You was always acting like you’re better than us, Brekker,” shouted Seeger, still holding the tin whistle, and a few of the other Dregs nodded. Per Haskell clapped his hands in encouragement.

And it was true. Kaz had always kept himself at a remove from everyone. They’d wanted camaraderie, friendship, but he had never agreed to play their game, only his own. Maybe this reckoning was inevitable. Inej knew Kaz hadn’t intended to remain Per Haskell’s lieutenant forever. Their triumph at the Ice Court should have made him king of the Barrel, but Van Eck had robbed him of that. The Dregs didn’t know the extraordinary things he’d achieved in the last few weeks, the prize he’d wrested from the Fjerdans, or the haul that might still be within his grasp. He faced them alone, a boy with few allies, a stranger to most of them, despite his brutal reputation.

“You got no friends here!” shouted Bastian.

Along the wall, Anika and the others bristled. Pim shook his shaggy head and crossed his arms.

Kaz lifted one shoulder in the barest shrug. “I didn’t come looking for friends. And I’m not here for the washed-up cadgers and cowards, or the losers who think the Barrel owes them something for managing to stay alive. I came for the killers. The hard ones. The hungry ones. The people like me. This is my gang,” Kaz said, starting down the stairs, cane thumping against the boards, “and I’m done taking orders.”

“Go get your reward, lads!” Haskell shouted. There was a brief pause, and for a moment, Inej hoped that no one would listen, that they’d simply mutiny against Haskell. Then the floodgates opened. Bastian and Seeger were the first to rush the stairs, eager to get their shot at Dirtyhands.

But Seeger was slow from the whiskey, and by the time they’d reached Kaz on the third flight of stairs, they were out of breath. Kaz’s cane whipped out in two slashing arcs, shattering the bones in Seeger’s arms. Instead of engaging Bastian, he slipped past him, uncannily fast despite his bad leg. Before Bastian could turn, Kaz jabbed his cane into the soft space between Bastian’s thigh and his knee. He crumpled with a strangled cry.

Another of Haskell’s lackeys was already rushing to meet him—a bruiser called Teapot for the way he whistled through his nose when he breathed. A blow from Teapot’s bat glanced off Kaz’s shoulder as he bobbed left. He swung his cane and struck the bruiser directly in the jaw with the full weight of the crow’s head. Inej saw what had to be teeth fly from Teapot’s mouth.

Kaz still had the high ground, but he was outnumbered, and now they came in waves. Varian and Swann rushed the third-floor landing, Red Felix on their heels, Milo and Gorka hovering close behind.

Inej clamped her lips together as Kaz took a hit to his bad leg, faltered, barely righted himself in time to dodge a blow from Varian’s chain. It smashed into the banister inches from Kaz’s head, sending splinters of wood flying. Kaz grabbed the chain and used Varian’s momentum to send him hurtling over the broken banister. The crowd surged backward as he struck the entry floor.

Swann and Red Felix came at Kaz from both sides. Red Felix grabbed Kaz’s coat, yanking him backward. Kaz slipped free like a magician escaping a straitjacket in a show on East Stave.

Swann swung his spiked axe handle wildly, and Kaz slammed the head of his cane into the side of Swann’s face. Even from a distance, Inej saw his cheekbone collapse in a bloody crater.

Red Felix pulled a sap from his pocket and batted hard at Kaz’s right hand. The blow was sloppy, but Kaz’s cane clattered to the floor, rolling down the stairs. Beatle, lean as a ferret and with the face of one too, scampered up the steps and seized it, tossing it to Per Haskell as his cronies gave a cheer. Kaz planted his hands on either side of the banister and jammed his boots into Red Felix’s chest, sending him tumbling backward down the stairs.

Kaz’s cane was gone. He spread his gloved hands wide. Again Inej thought of a magician. Nothing up my sleeves.

Three more Dregs leapt past Red Felix and converged on him—Milo, Gorka, reedy Beatle with his odd little face and oily hair. Inej dared to blink and Milo had Kaz against the wall, raining blows against his ribs and face. Kaz wrenched back his head and butted his forehead into Milo’s with a sickening crunch. Milo took a woozy step, and Kaz pressed the advantage.

But there were too many of them, and Kaz was fighting with his fists alone now, blood pouring down one side of his face, lip split, left eye swelling shut. His movements were slowing.

Gorka hooked an arm around Kaz’s throat. Kaz drove an elbow into Gorka’s stomach and broke free. He lurched forward, and Beatle grabbed his shoulder, slamming his cudgel into Kaz’s gut. Kaz doubled over, spitting blood. Gorka struck the side of Kaz’s head with a thick loop of chain. Inej saw Kaz’s eyes roll up in his head. He swayed. And then he was on the ground. The crowd in the entry roared.

Inej was moving before she thought of it. She couldn’t just watch him die, she wouldn’t. They had him down now, heavy boots kicking and stomping at his body. Her knives were in her hands. She’d kill them all. She’d pile the bodies to the rafters for the stadwatch to find.

But in that moment, through the wide slats in the banister landing, she saw his eyes were open. His gaze found hers. He’d known she was there all along. Of course he had. He always knew how to find her. He gave the barest shake of his bloodied head.

She wanted to scream. To hell with your pride, with the Dregs, with this whole wretched city.

Kaz tried to rise. Beatle kicked him back down. They were laughing now. Gorka raised his leg, balancing his big boot above Kaz’s skull, playing to the crowd. Inej saw Pim turn away; Anika and Keeg were bellowing for someone to stop them. Gorka brought his foot down—and screamed, a high-pitched, bobbling squeal.

Kaz was holding Gorka’s boot, and Gorka’s foot was wrenched to the side at an ugly angle. He hopped on one leg, trying to keep his balance, that strange, shrill wail bleating from his mouth in time with his hops. Milo and Beatle kicked Kaz hard in the ribs, but Kaz didn’t flinch. With a strength Inej couldn’t fathom, Kaz jammed Gorka’s leg upward. The big man shrieked as his knee popped free of its socket. He toppled sideways, blubbering, “My leg! My leg!”

“I recommend a cane,” Kaz said.

But all Inej could see was the knife in Milo’s hands, long and gleaming. It looked like the cleanest thing about him.

“Don’t kill him, you podge!” Haskell bellowed, no doubt still thinking of the reward.

But Milo was apparently beyond listening. He raised the knife and plunged it directly at Kaz’s chest. At the last second, Kaz rolled. The knife sank into the floorboards with a loud thunk. Milo grabbed the knife to pry it free but Kaz was already moving, and Inej saw he had two rusty nails tucked between his fingers like claws—he’d somehow plucked them from one of the axe handles. He shot upward and jabbed the nails into Milo’s throat, embedding them in his windpipe. Milo made a faint, choked whistle before he fell.

Kaz used the banister to haul himself to his feet. Beatle held his hands up, as if forgetting he was still in possession of a cudgel and Kaz was unarmed. Kaz grabbed a fistful of Beatle’s hair, yanked back his head, and cracked it against the banister, the sound like a gunshot, the recoil sharp enough that Beatle’s head bounced off the wood like a rubber ball. He slumped in a ferrety little pile.

Kaz wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing blood over his nose and forehead, and spat. He adjusted his gloves, looked down at Per Haskell from the second-story landing, and smiled. His teeth were red and wet. The crowd was far larger than when the fight had begun. He rolled his shoulders. “Who’s next?” he asked, as if he might have an appointment elsewhere. “Who’s coming?” Inej didn’t know how he could keep his voice so steady. “This is what I do all day long. I fight. When was the last time you saw Per Haskell take a punch? Lead a job? Hell, when was the last time you saw him out of his bed before noon?”

“You think we’re going to applaud because you can take a beating?” Per Haskell sneered. “It don’t make up for the trouble you’ve caused. Bringing the law down on the Barrel, kidnapping a mercher’s son—”

“I told you I had no part in that,” Kaz said.

“Pekka Rollins says otherwise.”

“Good to know you take a Dime Lion’s word over one of your own.”

An uneasy murmur passed through the crowd below like a wind rustling the leaves. Your gang was your family, the bond strong as blood.

“You’re crazy enough to cross a merch, Brekker.”

“Crazy enough,” conceded Kaz. “But not stupid enough.”

Now some of the Dregs were muttering to one another, as if they’d never considered Van Eck might have trumped up the charges. Of course they hadn’t. Van Eck was quality. Why would an upright mercher make such a charge against some canal rat if it wasn’t true? And after all, Kaz had gone to great lengths to prove he was capable of anything.

“You were seen on Goedmedbridge with the mercher’s wife,” insisted Per Haskell.

“His wife, not his son. His wife who is home safe, beside her thieving husband, knitting booties and talking to her birds. Think for a minute, Haskell. What possible use could I have for a merch’s brat?”

“Bribery, ransom—”

“I crossed Van Eck because he crossed me and now he’s using the city’s henchmen and Pekka Rollins and all of you to even the score. It’s that simple.”

“I didn’t ask for this trouble, boy. Didn’t ask for it and don’t want it.”

“You wanted everything else I’ve brought to your door, Haskell. You’d still be running the same penny-poor cons and drinking watered-down whiskey if it wasn’t for me. These walls would be falling down around your head. You’ve taken every bit of money and luck I’ve handed you. You ate up the profits from Fifth Harbor and the Crow Club like it was your due, let me do your fighting and your dirty work.” His gaze tracked slowly over the Dregs below. “You all benefited. You reaped the rewards. But first chance you get, you’re ready to cozy up to Pekka Rollins for the pleasure of fitting me for a noose.” Another uneasy rustle from the onlookers. “But I’m not angry.”

There had to be twenty Dregs looking up at Kaz, all of them armed, and yet Inej could have sworn she sensed their relief. Then she understood—the fight was just the opening act. They knew Kaz was tough. They didn’t need him to prove it. This was about what Kaz needed. To attempt a coup against Per Haskell, he would have had to seek out the Dregs individually, wasting time and risking capture on the streets of the Barrel. Now he had an audience, and Per Haskell had been happy to welcome one and all—a bit of entertainment, the dramatic end of Kaz Brekker, the Humbling of Dirtyhands. But this was no cheap comedy. It was a bloody rite, and Per Haskell had let the congregation gather, never realizing that the real performance had yet to begin. Kaz stood upon his pulpit, wounded, bruised, and ready to preach.

“I’m not angry,” Kaz said again. “Not about that. But you know what makes me mad? What really gets me riled? Seeing a crow taking orders from a Dime Lion. Watching you parade around after Pekka Rollins like it’s something to be proud of. One of the deadliest gangs in the Barrel bending like a bunch of new lilies.”

“Rollins has power, boy,” said Per Haskell. “Resources. Lecture me when you’ve been around a few more years. It’s my job to protect this gang, and that’s what I did. I kept them safe from your recklessness.”

“You think you’re safe because you rolled over for Pekka Rollins? You think he’ll be happy to honor this truce? That he won’t get hungry for what you’ve got? Does that sound like Pekka Rollins to you?”

“Hell no,” said Anika.

“Who do you want standing in that doorway when the lion gets hungry? A crow? Or a washed-up rooster who squawks and struts, then sides with a Dime Lion and some dirty merch against one of his own?”

From above, Inej could see the people nearest Per Haskell leaning slightly away from him now. A few were taking long looks at him, at the feather in his hat, at the walking sticks in his hands—Kaz’s cane that they’d seen wielded with such bloody precision and the fake crow cane Haskell had contrived to mock him.

“In the Barrel, we don’t trade in safety,” Kaz said, the abraded burn of his voice carrying over the crowd. “There’s only strength and weakness. You don’t ask for respect. You earn it.” You don’t ask for forgiveness. You earn it. He’d stolen her line. She almost smiled. “I’m not your friend,” he said. “I’m not your father. I’m not going to offer you whiskey or clap you on the back and call you son. But I’ll keep money in our coffers. I’ll keep our enemies scared enough that they’ll scurry when they see that tattoo on your arm. So who do you want in that doorway when Pekka Rollins comes to call?”

The silence swelled, a tick feeding on the prospect of violence.

“Well?” Per Haskell blustered, thrusting his chest out. “Answer him. You want your rightful leader or some jumped-up cripple who can’t even walk straight?”

“I may not walk straight,” said Kaz. “But at least I don’t run from a fight.”

He started down the steps.

Varian had risen from the floor after his fall. Though he didn’t look entirely steady on his feet, he moved toward the stairs, and Inej had to respect his loyalty to Haskell.

Pim pushed off from the wall and blocked Varian’s path. “You’re through,” he said.

“Get Rollins’ men,” Per Haskell commanded Varian. “Raise the alarm!” But Anika drew a long knife and stepped in front of the entry door.

“You a Dime Lion?” she asked. “Or are you Dregs?”

Slowly, his limp pronounced but his back straight, Kaz made his way down the final flight of stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. When he reached the bottom, the remaining crowd parted.

Haskell’s grizzled face was red with fear and indignation. “You’ll never last, boy. Takes more than what you got to get past Pekka Rollins.”

Kaz snatched his cane from Per Haskell’s hand.

“You have two minutes to get out of my house, old man. This city’s price is blood,” said Kaz, “and I’m happy to pay with yours.”