Six of Crows: Part Four

Inej glanced up to where the Ice Court stood like a great white sentinel on a massive cliff overlooking the harbor.

Luckily, the crowds were heavy and motley enough that one more group of foreigners could go unnoticed, and Inej found herself breathing a bit easier.

The gate between the rampant wolves was wrought iron, bearing the symbol of the sacred ash and bordered by a high, spiked fence that circled the Ice Court’s grounds.

Inej handed the book back to Matthias, and as it made the rounds, Inej felt the group’s apprehension rise.

“If procedure hasn’t changed, they’ll do a quick head count at the first checkpoint, then a second count at the next checkpoint, where they’ll search the interior and undercarriage for any contraband.”

“So we have to unlock, unchain, and incapacitate six prisoners, take their places, and somehow get the wagon sealed tight again without the guards or the other prisoners being the wiser?”

With that word, Matthias’ whole demeanor had changed, as if with a single sharp command he’d stepped back into the uniform of a druskelle.

Kaz kept kicking, trying not to think of his brother, of the taut, bloated feel of Jordie’s flesh beneath his hands; he tried not to think of anything but the rhythm of his legs moving through the sea.

He could only hope that the rest of his crew, hooded and burdened by their own anxiety, hadn’t noticed anything strange about his behavior.

The massive gate set into the ring wall was already being lowered closed, and it struck the stones with an ominous series of clanks and groans.

Kaz had expected something old and damp—grim gray stone, battle-hard.

It was a calculated risk, but now Kaz could only wait and hope that laziness and bureaucracy would do the rest.

He scanned the other faces—some were too swollen and distorted in death to identify.

To their right the walkway overlooked a vast glass enclosure, nearly a quarter mile long and tall enough to comfortably fit a trading ship.

Multiple guns in the turret, and that big barrel out in front? Serious firepower.

There were also gravity-fed heavy artillery guns in the enclosure, racks full of rifles, ammunition, and the little black bombs that Ravkans called grenatye.

“And what good are you? A sharpshooter without his guns. You're completely extraneous to this mission.”

He placed his hands on either side of a single bar and concentrated on locating the purest particles of ore.

It carried the black and acrid smell of coal—and something else, a chemical smell, maybe something they added to make the fires burn hotter.

This was where all the refuse from the prisons was disposed of—kitchen leavings, buckets of human filth, the clothing stripped from prisoners, but whatever the Fjerdans had added to the fuel burned hot enough to sear any foulness away.

Nina thought of the violent chaos of Hellgate, bribes changing hands, blood staining the sand, a world away from this sterile place.

Kaz had no weapon, but he’d dropped into a fighting stance, waiting to see if the door would crash open.

The room was empty and devoid of any kind of furniture—no bench, no basin, no bucket.

Not the steady tolling of the hour, but a shrill clamor, high and percussive—a sound of alarm.

And yet, she felt curiously guilty as she slid the supple black leather over her hands, as if she had crept into his rooms without his permission, read his letters, lain down in his bed.

Another hand up, forcing her limbs to cooperate, seeking a rhythm, but finding only an awkward syncopation that left her muscles trembling with every upward gain.

Mad at Kaz for attempting this insane job, furious with herself for agreeing to it.

Inej hated every inch of the Menagerie—the parlor where she and the other girls were forced to coo and bat their lashes at prospective clients, her bedroom that had been made up to look like some farcical version of a Suli caravan, festooned in purple silk and redolent with incense—but Tante Heleen’s salon was the worst.

When she’d finally unlocked the shackles, Heleen had said, “You owe me for a month of lost income. Run again, and I’ll have you thrown in Hellgate for breach of contract.”

Through the din of confusion in her head, Inej thought, They look like stolen stars.

Slavery is illegal in Kerch. Indentures are not. I know this contract is a sham and any thinking judge would, too. Unfortunately, Heleen has many thinking judges in her pocket.

But she’d made the mistake of continuing to trust him, of believing in the legend he’d built around himself. That myth had brought her here to this sweltering darkness, balanced between life and death like the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch.

She forced her muscles to flex, her fingers to seek, and pulled herself up one foot, then another, again and again, murmuring prayers of gratitude to her Saints. Here was the rhythm that had eluded her before, buried in the whispered cadence of their names.

She wanted a storm—thunder, wind, a deluge. She wanted it to crash through Ketterdam’s pleasure houses, lifting roofs and tearing doors off their hinges. She wanted it to raise the seas, take hold of every slaving ship, shatter their masts, and smash their hulls against unforgiving shores. I want to call that storm, she thought.

He did his first stint in jail, and then a second. He quickly earned a reputation for being willing to take any job a man needed done, and the name Dirtyhands soon followed.

He was an unskilled fighter, but a tenacious one.

He found out that the con Hertzoon had run on him and Jordie was a common one.

He’d come to the Barrel to find Hertzoon and punish him, not to join some makeshift family.

Kaz wasn’t a boy any longer; there was no reason Pekka should be able to see the child he’d swindled in his features.

Pekka’s face—Hertzoon’s face—was indelible in Kaz’s mind, carved there by a jagged blade.