فصل 32

32

INEJ

Getting into the Church of Barter was no easy task this morning. Due to its position near the Exchange and the Beurscanal, its roof didn’t conjoin any others, and its entrances were already surrounded by guards when Inej arrived. But she was the Wraith; she was made to find the hidden places, the corners and cracks where no one thought to look.

No weapons would be allowed inside the Church of Barter during the auction, so Jesper’s rifle was secured to her back. She waited out of sight until she spotted a group of stadwatch grunts rolling a cart full of lumber toward the church’s huge double doors. Inej assumed they were the makings of some kind of barricade for the stage or the finger naves. She waited until the cart had rolled to a stop, then tucked her hood into her tunic so it would not trail on the ground and slipped beneath the cart. She latched herself onto the axle, her body bare inches above the cobblestones, and let them wheel her directly down the center aisle. Before they reached the altar, she dropped and rolled between the pews, narrowly missing the cart’s wheels.

The floor was cold stone under her belly as she crawled the width of the church, then waited at the end of the aisle and darted behind one of the columns of the western arcade. She moved from column to column, then slipped into the nave that would lead her to the thumb chapels. Once more she dropped into a crawl so that she could use the pews in the nave as cover. She didn’t know where the guards might be patrolling, and she had no desire to be caught simply wandering the church.

She reached the first chapel, then climbed the stairs to the orange chapel above. Its altar was rendered in gold, but built to resemble crates of oranges and other exotic fruits. It framed a DeKappel oil that showed a family of merchants dressed in black, cradled in Ghezen’s hand, hovering over a citrus grove.

She scaled the altar and launched herself up to the chapel’s dome, clinging to it so she was hanging nearly upside down. Once she reached the center of the cupola, she wedged her back against the little dome that crowned the larger dome like a hat. Though she doubted she could be heard here, she waited until the sounds of sawing and hammering from the cathedral began, then positioned her foot in front of one of the slender glass windows that gave light to the chapel and kicked. On the second attempt, the glass fractured, spilling outward. Inej covered her hand with her sleeve to clear away the excess shards and edged out onto the top of the dome. She latched a climbing line to the window and rappelled down the dome’s side to the roof of the nave, where she left Jesper’s rifle. She didn’t want it throwing off her balance.

She was atop Ghezen’s thumb. The morning mist had started to burn away and she could feel the day would be a hot one. She followed the thumb back to the steeply gabled spires of the main cathedral and began to climb once more.

This was the highest part of the church, but the terrain was familiar, and that made for easier going. Of all the rooftops in Ketterdam, the cathedral was Inej’s favorite. She’d had no good reason to learn its contours. There were plenty of other places from which she could have observed the Exchange or the Beurscanal when a job called for it, but she’d always chosen the Church of Barter. Its spires were visible from almost anywhere in Ketterdam, the copper of its rooftop long since turned to green and crisscrossed by spines of metal scrollwork, full of perfect handholds and offering plenty of cover. It was like a strange gray-green fairyland that no one else in the city ever got to see.

The wire walker in her had imagined running a line between its tallest spires. Who would dare to defy death itself? I will. The Kerch would probably consider staging acrobatics atop their cathedral blasphemous. Unless of course she charged admission.

She planted the explosives Kaz had described as their “insurance” in the locations she and Wylan had agreed upon while mapping the cathedral. Only in Kaz’s mind could chaos count for security. The bombs were meant to be noisy but would do little damage. Still, if something went wrong and a distraction was needed, they would be there.

When she was done, she took up her perch in one of the metalwork pockets that overlooked the apse and the vast nave of the cathedral. Here, her view of the proceedings would be obstructed by nothing but a series of wide slats and the mesh screen between them. There were times she came here just to listen to the music from the organ or to hear voices raised in song. High above the city, chords from the pipe organ echoing through the stone, she felt closer to her Saints.

The acoustics were good enough that she could have listened to every word of the sermons if she’d wanted to, but she chose to ignore those parts of the service. Ghezen was not her god, and she had no desire to be lectured on how she might better serve him. She wasn’t fond of Ghezen’s altar either—a graceless, flat lump of rock around which the church had been built. Some called it the First Forge, others the Mortar, but today it would be used as an auction block. It made Inej’s stomach turn. She was supposedly an indenture, brought to Kerch of her own free will. That was what the documents said. They didn’t tell the story of her abduction, her terror in the belly of a slaver ship, the humiliation she’d suffered at Tante Heleen’s hands, or the misery of her existence at the Menagerie. Kerch had been built on trade, but how much of that trade had been the human kind? A minister of Ghezen might stand at that altar and rail against slavery, but how much of this city had been built on taxes from the pleasure houses? How many members of his congregation employed boys and girls who could barely speak Kerch, who scrubbed floors and folded laundry for pennies as they worked to pay off a debt that never seemed to grow smaller?

If Inej got her money, if she got her ship, she might do her part to change all of that. If she survived this day. She imagined all of them—Kaz, Nina, Matthias, Jesper, Wylan, Kuwei, who’d had so little say in the course of his own life—perched side by side on a wire, their balance precarious, their lives tethered together by hope and belief in one another. Pekka would be prowling the church below, and she suspected Dunyasha would be close by. She’d called the ivory-and-amber girl her shadow, but maybe she was a sign as well, a reminder that Inej hadn’t been made for this life. And yet, it was hard not to feel that this city was her home, that Dunyasha was the intruder here.

Now Inej watched the guards doing their last sweep of the church’s ground floor, searching the corners and chapels. She knew they might send a few brave officers up to the roof to search, but there were plenty of places to hide, and if need be, she could simply slip back into the dome of the thumb chapel to wait them out.

The guards set up their posts, and Inej heard the captain giving orders for where the members of the Merchant Council were to be seated on the stage. She spotted the university medik who had been brought in to verify Kuwei’s health and saw a guard wheel a podium into place where the auctioneer would stand. She felt a surge of irritation when she spotted a few Dime Lions walking the aisles with the guards. They puffed out their chests, enjoying their new authority, brandishing the purple stadwatch bands on their arms to one another and laughing. The real stadwatch didn’t look pleased, and Inej could see at least two members of the Merchant Council observing the proceedings with a wary eye. Were they wondering if they’d gotten more than they’d bargained for by allowing a bunch of Barrel thugs to be deputized? Van Eck had started this dance with Rollins, but Inej doubted the king of the Barrel would let him lead for long.

Inej scanned the skyline, all the way to the harbor and the black obelisk towers. Nina had been right about the Council of Tides. It seemed they preferred to stay cloistered in their watchtowers. Though, since their identities were unknown, Inej supposed they could be sitting in the cathedral right now. She looked toward the Barrel, hoping Nina was safe and had not been discovered, that the heavy stadwatch presence at the church would mean easier passage on the streets.

By afternoon, the pews started to fill with curious onlookers—tradesmen in roughspun, jollies and bruisers fresh from the Staves and decked out in their best Barrel flash, flocks of black-clad merchers, some accompanied by their wives, their pale faces bobbing above their white lace collars, heads crowned by braids.

The Fjerdan diplomats came next. They wore silver and white and were bracketed by drüskelle in black uniforms, all gilded hair and golden skin. Their size alone was daunting. Inej assumed that Matthias must know some of these men and boys. He would have served with them. What would it be like for him to see them again, now that he’d been branded a traitor?

The Zemeni delegation followed, empty gun belts at their hips, forced to divest themselves of their weapons at the doors. They were just as tall as the drüskelle, but leaner of build; some bronze like her, others the same deep brown as Jesper, some with heads shorn, others with hair in thick braids and coiled knots. There, tucked between the last two rows of the Zemeni, Inej caught sight of Jesper. For once, he wasn’t the tallest person in a crowd, and with the collar of his waxed cotton duster turned up around his jaw and a hat pulled low over his ears, he was nearly unrecognizable. Or so Inej hoped.

When the Ravkans arrived, the buzz in the room rose to a roar. What did the crowd of tradespeople, merchants, and Barrel rowdies make of this grand international showing?

A man in a teal frock coat led the Ravkan delegation, surrounded by a swarm of Ravkan soldiers in pale blue military dress. This had to be the legendary Sturmhond. He was pure confidence, flanked by Zoya Nazyalensky on one side and Genya Safin on the other, his stride easy and relaxed, as if he were taking a turn about one of his ships. Perhaps she should have met with the Ravkans when she’d had the chance. What might she learn in a month with Sturmhond’s crew?

The Fjerdans rose, and Inej thought a fight might break out as the drüskelle faced down the Ravkan soldiers, but two members of the Merchant Council rushed forward, backed by a troop of stadwatch.

“Kerch is neutral territory,” one of the merchers reminded them, his voice high and nervous. “We are here on matters of business, not of war.”

“Anyone who violates the sanctity of the Church of Barter will not be allowed to bid,” insisted the other, black sleeves flapping.

“Why does your weak king send a filthy pirate to do his bidding?” sneered the Fjerdan ambassador, his words echoing across the cathedral.

“Privateer,” corrected Sturmhond. “I suppose he thought my good looks would give me the advantage. Not a concern where you’re from, I take it?”

“Preening, ridiculous peacock. You stink of Grisha foulness.”

Sturmhond sniffed the air. “I’m amazed you can detect anything over the reek of ice and inbreeding.”

The ambassador turned purple, and one of his companions hastily drew him away.

Inej rolled her eyes. They were worse than a couple of Barrel bosses facing off on the Staves.

Bristling and grumbling, the Fjerdans and Ravkans took their seats on opposite sides of the aisle, and the Kaelish delegation entered with little fanfare. But seconds later everyone was on their feet again when someone shouted, “The Shu!”

All eyes turned to the huge doors of the cathedral as the Shu flowed inside, a tide of red banners marked with the horses and keys, their olive uniforms embellished with gold. Their expressions were stony as they marched up the aisle, then stopped as the Shu ambassador argued angrily that his delegation should be seated at the front of the room and that they were giving the Ravkans and Fjerdans precedence by placing them closer to the stage. Were the Kherguud among them? Inej glanced up at the pale spring sky. She did not like the idea of being plucked from her roost by a winged soldier.

Eventually, Van Eck strode down the aisle from wherever he’d been lurking by the stage and snapped, “If you wished to be seated in the front, you should have forgone the drama of a grand entrance and gotten here on time.”

The Shu and the Kerch went back and forth a while longer until at last, the Shu settled in their seats. The rest of the crowd was crackling with murmurs and speculative glances. Most of them didn’t know what Kuwei was worth or had only heard rumors of the drug known as jurda parem, so they were left to wonder why a Shu boy had drawn such bidders to the table. The few merchers who had seated themselves in the front pews with the intention of placing a bid were exchanging shrugs and shaking their heads in bafflement. Clearly, this was no game for casual players.

The church bells began to chime three bells, just behind those from the Geldrenner clock tower. A hush fell. The Merchant Council gathered on the stage. And then Inej saw every head in the room turn. The great double doors of the church opened and Kuwei Yul-Bo entered, flanked by Kaz and Matthias and an armed stadwatch escort. Matthias wore simple tradesman’s clothes but managed to look like a soldier on parade nevertheless. With his black eye and split lip, Kaz looked even less reputable than usual, despite the sharp lines of his black suit.

The shouting began immediately. It was hard to know who was causing the loudest uproar. The most wanted criminals in the city were striding down the center aisle of the Church of Barter. At the first glimpse of Kaz, the Dime Lions stationed throughout the cathedral started booing. Matthias had instantly been recognized by his drüskelle brethren, who were yelling what Inej presumed were insults at him in Fjerdan.

The sanctity of the auction would protect Kaz and Matthias, but only until the final gavel fell. Even so, neither of them seemed remotely concerned. They walked with backs straight and eyes forward, Kuwei safely wedged between them.

Kuwei was faring less well. The Shu were screaming the same word again and again, sheyao, sheyao, and whatever it meant, with every shout, Kuwei seemed to curl further in on himself.

The city auctioneer approached the raised dais and took his place at the podium next to the altar. It was Jellen Radmakker, one of the investors they had invited to Jesper’s absurd presentation on oil futures. From the investigation she’d done for Kaz, Inej knew that he was scrupulously honest, a devout man with no family except an equally pious sister who spent her days scrubbing the floors of public buildings in service to Ghezen. He was pale, with tufty orange brows and a hunched posture that gave him the look of a giant shrimp.

Inej scanned the undulating spires of the cathedral, the rooftops of the finger naves radiating from Ghezen’s palm. Still no patrol on the roof. It was almost insulting. But maybe Pekka Rollins and Jan Van Eck had something else planned for her.

Radmakker brought his gavel down in three furious swings. “There will be order,” he bellowed. The clamor in the room dulled to a discontented murmur.

Kuwei, Kaz, and Matthias climbed the stage and took their places by the podium, Kaz and Matthias partially blocking the still shaking Kuwei from view.

Radmakker waited for absolute quiet. Only then did he begin to recite the rules of the auction, followed by the terms of Kuwei’s proffered indenture. Inej glanced at Van Eck. What was it like for him to be so close to the prize he’d sought for so long? His expression was smug, eager. He’s already calculating his next move, Inej realized. As long as Ravka did not have the winning bid—and how could they, with their war chest badly depleted—Van Eck would get his wish: the secret of jurda parem unleashed upon the world. The price of jurda would rise to unimaginable heights, and between his secret private holdings and his investments in the jurda consortium run by Johannus Rietveld, he would be rich beyond all dreaming.

Radmakker waved forward a medik from the university, a man with a shiny bald pate. He took Kuwei’s pulse, measured his height, listened to his lungs, examined his tongue and teeth. It was a bizarre spectacle, uncomfortably close to Inej’s memory of being prodded and poked by Tante Heleen on the deck of a slaver ship.

The medik finished and closed up his bag.

“Please make your declaration,” said Radmakker.

“The boy’s health is sound.”

Radmakker turned to Kuwei. “Do you freely consent to abide by the rules of this auction and its outcome?”

If Kuwei replied, Inej couldn’t hear it.

“Speak up, boy.”

Kuwei tried again. “I do.”

“Then let us proceed.” The medik stepped down and Radmakker lifted his gavel once more. “Kuwei Yul-Bo freely gives his consent to these proceedings and hereby offers his service for a fair price as guided by Ghezen’s hand. All bids will be made in kruge. Bidders are instructed to keep silence when not making offers. Any interference in this auction, any bid made in less than good faith will be punished to the fullest extent of Kerch law. The bidding will start at one million kruge.” He paused. “In Ghezen’s name, let the auction commence.”

And then it was happening, a clamor of numbers Inej could barely track, the bids climbing as Radmakker jabbed his gavel at each bidder, repeating the offers in staccato bursts.

“Five million kruge,” the Shu ambassador shouted.

“Five million,” repeated Radmakker. “Do I have six?”

“Six,” the Fjerdans countered.

Radmakker’s bark ricocheted off the cathedral walls like gunfire. Sturmhond waited, letting the Fjerdans and Shu bat numbers back and forth, the Zemeni delegate occasionally upping the price in more cautious increments, trying to slow the bidding’s momentum. The Kaelish sat quietly in their pews, observing the proceedings. Inej wondered how much they knew, and if they were unwilling or simply unable to bid.

People were standing now, unable to keep to their seats. It was a warm day, but the activity in the cathedral seemed to have driven the temperature higher. Inej could see people fanning themselves, and even the members of the Merchant Council, gathered like a jury of magpies, had begun to dab at their brows.

When the bidding hit forty million kruge, Sturmhond finally raised his hand.

“Fifty million kruge,” he said. The Church of Barter fell silent.

Even Radmakker paused, his cool demeanor shaken, before he repeated, “Fifty million kruge from the Ravkan delegation.” The members of the Merchant Council were whispering to one another behind their palms, no doubt thrilled at the commission they were about to earn on Kuwei’s price.

“Do I hear another offer?” Radmakker asked.

The Shu were conferring. The Fjerdans were doing the same, though they seemed to be arguing more than discussing. The Zemeni appeared to be waiting to see what would happen next.

“Sixty million kruge,” the Shu declared.

A counter-raise of ten million. Just as Kaz had anticipated.

The Fjerdans offered next, at sixty million two hundred thousand. You could see it cost their pride something to move in such a small increment, but the Zemeni seemed eager to cool down the bidding too. They bid at sixty million five hundred thousand.

The rhythm of the auction changed, climbing at a slower pace, hovering below sixty-two million until at last that milestone was reached, and the Shu seemed to grow impatient.

“Seventy million kruge,” said the Shu ambassador.

“Eighty million,” called Sturmhond.

“Ninety million.” The Shu weren’t bothering to wait for Radmakker now.

Even from her perch, Inej could see Kuwei’s pale, panic-stricken face. The numbers had gone too high, too fast.

“Ninety-one million,” Sturmhond said in a belated attempt to slow the pace.

As if he’d grown tired of the game, the Shu ambassador stepped forward and roared, “One hundred and ten million kruge.”

“One hundred and ten million kruge from the Shu delegation,” cried Radmakker, his calm obliterated by the sum. “Do I hear another offer?”

The Church of Barter was silent, as if all those assembled had bent their heads in prayer.

Sturmhond gave a jagged-edged laugh and shrugged. “One hundred and twenty million kruge.”

Inej bit her lip so hard she drew blood.

Boom. The massive double doors blew open. A wave of seawater crashed through into the nave, frothing between the pews, then vanishing in a cloud of mist. The crowd’s excited chatter turned to startled cries.

Fifteen figures cloaked in blue filed inside, their robes billowing as if captured by an invisible wind, their faces obscured by mist.

People were calling for their weapons; some were clutching one another and screaming. Inej saw a mercher hunched over, frantically fanning his unconscious wife.

The figures glided up the aisle, their garments moving in slow ripples.

“We are the Council of Tides,” said the blue-cloaked figure in the lead, a female voice, low and commanding. The mist shrouded her face completely, shifting beneath her hood in a continuously changing mask. “This auction is a sham.”

Shocked murmurs rose from the crowd.

Inej heard Radmakker call for order, and then she was dodging left, moving on instinct as she heard a soft whoosh. A tiny, circular blade cut past her, slicing the sleeve of her tunic and pinging off the copper roof.

“That was a warning,” said Dunyasha. She perched on the scrollwork of one of the spires thirty feet from Inej, her ivory hood raised around her face, bright as new snow beneath the afternoon sun. “I will look you in the eye when I send you to your death.”

Inej reached for her knives. Her shadow demanded an answer.