J esper felt like his clothes were crawling with fleas. Whenever the crew left Black Veil Island to skulk around the Barrel, they wore the costumes of the Komedie Brute—the capes, veils, masks, and occasionally horns that tourists and locals alike used to disguise their identities while enjoying the pleasures of the Barrel.
But here on the respectable avenues and canals of the university district, Mister Crimson and the Gray Imp would have drawn a lot of stares, so he and Wylan had ditched their costumes as soon as they were clear of the Staves. And if Jesper was honest with himself, he didn’t want to meet his father for the first time in years dressed in a goggle- eyed mask or an orange silk cape or even his usual Barrel flash. He’d dressed as respectably as he could. Wylan had lent him a few kruge for a secondhand tweed jacket and a gloomy gray waistcoat. Jesper didn’t look precisely reputable, but students weren’t supposed to look too prosperous anyway.
Once again he found himself reaching for his revolvers, longing for the cool, familiar feel of their pearl handles beneath his thumbs. That skiv of a lawyer had ordered the floor boss to store them in a safe at the Cumulus. Kaz said they’d get them back in good time, but he doubted Kaz would be so calm and collected if someone had swiped his cane. You’re the one who put them on the table like a nub , Jesper reminded himself. He’d done it for Inej. And if he was honest, he’d done it for Kaz too, to show he was willing to do what it took to make things right. Not that it seemed to matter much.
Well , he consoled himself, it’s not like I could have worn my revolvers on this errand anyway . Students and professors didn’t go from class to class packing powder. Might make for a more interesting school day if they did. Even so, Jesper had hidden a sad lump of a pistol beneath his coat. This was Ketterdam, after all, and it was possible he and Wylan were walking into a trap. That was why Kaz and Matthias were shadowing their steps. He’d seen no sign of either of them, and Jesper supposed that was a good thing, but he was still grateful Wylan had offered to come along. Kaz had only allowed it because Wylan said he needed supplies for his work on the weevil.
They walked past student cafés and booksellers, shop windows crammed with textbooks, ink, and paper. They were less than two miles from the noise and clatter of the Barrel, but it felt like they’d crossed a bridge into another country. Instead of packs of sailors fresh off the boats looking for trouble, or tourists jostling into you from every angle, people stepped aside to let you pass, kept their conversations low. No barkers shouted from storefronts hoping to garner business. The crooked little alleys were full of bookbinders and apothecaries, and the corners were free of the girls and boys who lacked an association with one of the West Stave houses and who had been forced to ply their trade on the street.
Jesper paused below an awning and took a deep breath through his nose.
“What?” asked Wylan.
“It smells so much better here.” Expensive tobacco, morning rain still damp on the cobblestones, blue clouds of hyacinths in the window boxes. No urine, no vomit, no cheap perfume or garbage rot. Even the tang of coal smoke seemed fainter.
“Are you stalling?” Wylan asked.
“No.” Jesper exhaled and sagged a bit. “Maybe a little.” Rotty had taken a message to the hotel where the man claiming to be Jesper’s father was staying, so they could set a time and place to meet. Jesper had wanted to go himself, but if his father really was in Ketterdam, it was possible he was being used as bait. Better to meet in broad daylight, on neutral ground. The university had seemed safest, far away from the dangers of the Barrel or any of Jesper’s usual stomping grounds.
Jesper didn’t know if he wanted his father to be waiting for him at the university or not. It was so much more pleasant to think of facing a fight than the shame of how horribly he’d botched everything, but talking
about that felt like trying to climb a scaffold made of rotting boards. So he said, “I always liked this part of town.”
“My father likes it too. He places a high value on learning.” “Higher than money?”
Wylan shrugged, eyeing a window full of hand-painted globes. “Knowledge isn’t a sign of divine favor. Prosperity is.”
Jesper cast him a swift glance. He still wasn’t used to Wylan’s voice coming out of Kuwei’s mouth. It always left him feeling a little off-kilter, like he’d thought he was reaching for a cup of wine and gotten a mouthful of water instead. “Is your papa really that religious, or is that just an excuse for being a mean son of a bitch when it comes to business?”
“When it comes to anything, really.”
“Particularly thugs and canal rats from the Barrel?”
Wylan shifted the strap of his satchel. “He thinks the Barrel distracts men from work and industry and leads to degeneracy.”
“He may have a point,” said Jesper. He sometimes wondered what might have happened if he’d never gone out with his new friends that night, if he’d never walked into that gambling parlor and taken that first spin at Makker’s Wheel. It was meant to be harmless fun. And for everyone else, it had been. But Jesper’s life had split like a log into two distinct and uneven pieces: the time before he’d stepped up to that wheel and every day since. “The Barrel eats people.”
“Maybe,” Wylan considered. “But business is business. The gambling parlors and brothels meet a demand. They offer employment. They pay taxes.”
“What a good little Barrel boy you’ve become. That’s practically a page out of the bosses’ books.” Every few years some reformer got it into his head to clean up the Barrel and purge Ketterdam of its unsavory reputation. That was when the pamphlets came out, a war of propaganda between the owners of the gambling dens and pleasure houses on one side and the black-suited merch reformers on the other. In the end, it all came down to money. The businesses of East and West Stave turned a serious profit, and the denizens of the Barrel dumped very righteous coin into the city’s tax coffers.
Wylan tugged on the satchel strap again. It had gotten twisted at the top. “I don’t think it’s much different from wagering your fortune on a shipment of silk or jurda . Your odds are just a lot better when you’re
playing the market.”
“You have my attention, merchling.” Better odds were always of interest. “What’s the most your father’s ever lost on a trade?”
“I don’t really know. He stopped talking about those things with me a long time ago.”
Jesper hesitated. Jan Van Eck was three kinds of fool for the way he’d treated his son, but Jesper could admit he was curious about Wylan’s supposed “affliction.” He wanted to know what Wylan saw when he tried to read, why he seemed fine with equations or prices on a menu, but not sentences or signs. Instead he said, “I wonder if proximity to the Barrel makes merchers more uptight. All that black clothing and restraint, meat only twice a week, lager instead of brandy. Maybe they’re making up for all the fun we’re having.”
“Keeping the scales balanced?”
“Sure. I mean, just think of the heights of debauchery we could reach if no one kept this city in check. Champagne for breakfast. Naked orgies on the floor of the Exchange.”
Wylan made a flustered noise that sounded like a bird with a cough and looked anywhere but at Jesper. He was so wonderfully easy to rattle, though Jesper could admit he didn’t think the university district needed a dose of the dirty. He liked it just fine as it was—clean and quiet and smelling of books and flowers.
“You don’t have to come, you know,” Jesper said, because he felt he should. “You have your supplies. You could wait this out safe and snug in a coffeehouse.”
“Is that what you want?”
No. I can’t do this alone. Jesper shrugged. He wasn’t sure how he felt about what Wylan might witness at the university. Jesper had rarely seen his father angry, but how could he fail to be angry now? What explanations could Jesper offer him? He’d lied, put the livelihood his father had worked so hard for into jeopardy. And for what? A steaming pile of nothing.
But Jesper couldn’t bear the thought of facing his father on his own. Inej would have understood. Not that he deserved her sympathy, but there was something steady in her that he knew would recognize and ease his own fears. He’d hoped that Kaz would offer to accompany him. But when they’d split up to approach the university, Kaz had spared him only one dark glance. The message had been clear: You dug this grave.
Go lie in it. Kaz was still punishing him for the ambush that had nearly ended the Ice Court job before it began, and it was going to take more than Jesper sacrificing his revolvers for him to earn his way back into Kaz’s good graces. Did Kaz even have good graces?
Jesper’s heart beat a little harder as they walked beneath the vast stone archway into the courtyard of the Boeksplein. The university wasn’t one building but a series of them, all built around parallel sections of the Boekcanal and joined by Speaker’s Bridge, where people met to debate or drink a friendly pint of lager, depending on the day of the week. But the Boeksplein was the heart of the university—four libraries built around a central courtyard and the Scholar’s Fountain. It had been nearly two years since Jesper had set foot on university grounds. He’d never officially withdrawn from school. He hadn’t even really decided not to attend. He’d simply started spending more and more time on East Stave, until he looked up one day and realized the Barrel had become his home. Even so, in his brief time as a student, he’d fallen in love with the Boeksplein. Jesper had never been a great reader. He loved stories, but he hated sitting still, and the books assigned to him for school seemed designed to make his mind wander. At the Boeksplein, wherever his eyes strayed, there was something to occupy them: leaded windows with stained-glass borders, iron gates worked into figures of books and ships, the central fountain with its bearded scholar, and best of all, the gargoyles—bat-winged grotesques in mortarboard caps, and stone dragons falling asleep over books. He liked to think that whoever had built this place had known not all students were suited to quiet
contemplation.
But as they entered the courtyard, Jesper didn’t look around to savor the stonework or listen to the splashing of the fountain. All his attention focused on the man standing near the eastern wall, gazing up at the stained-glass windows, a crumpled hat clasped in his hands. With a pang, Jesper realized his father had worn his best suit. He’d combed his Kaelish red hair tidily back from his brow. There was gray in it now that hadn’t been there when Jesper left home. Colm Fahey looked like a farmer on his way to church. Totally out of place. Kaz—hell, anyone in the Barrel—would take one look at him and just see a walking, talking target.
Jesper’s throat felt dry-sand parched. “Da,” he croaked.
His father’s head snapped up and Jesper steeled himself for what
might come next—whatever insults or outrage his father hurled at him, he deserved. But he wasn’t prepared for the relieved grin that split his father’s craggy features. Someone might as well have put a bullet right in Jesper’s heart.
“Jes!” his father cried. And then Jesper was crossing the courtyard and his father’s arms were tight around him, hugging him so hard Jesper thought he actually felt his ribs bend. “All Saints, I thought you were dead. They said you weren’t a student here anymore, that you’d just vanished and—I was sure you’d been stuck through by bandits or the like in this Saintsforsaken place.”
“I’m alive, Da,” Jesper gasped. “But if you keep squeezing me like that, I won’t be for long.”
His father laughed and released him, holding him at arm’s length, big hands on Jesper’s shoulders. “I swear you’re a foot taller.”
Jesper ducked his head. “Half a foot. Um, this is Wylan,” he said, switching from Zemeni to Kerch. They’d spoken both at home, his mother’s language and the language of trade. His father’s native Kaelish had been reserved for the rare times Colm sang.
“Nice to meet you. Do you speak Kerch?” his father practically shouted, and Jesper realized it was because Wylan still looked Shu.
“Da ,” he said, cringing in embarrassment. “He speaks Kerch just fine.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister Fahey,” said Wylan. Bless his merch manners.
“And you too, lad. Are you a student as well?” “I … have studied,” said Wylan awkwardly.
Jesper had no idea how to fill the silence that followed. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from this meeting with his father, but a friendly exchange of pleasantries wasn’t it.
Wylan cleared his throat. “Are you hungry, Mister Fahey?” “Starving,” Jesper’s father replied gratefully.
Wylan gave Jesper a poke with his elbow. “Maybe we could take your father to lunch?”
“Lunch,” Jesper said, repeating the word as if he’d just learned it. “Yes, lunch. Who doesn’t like lunch?” Lunch felt like a miracle. They’d eat. They’d talk. Maybe they’d drink. Please let them drink.
“But Jesper, what has been happening? I received a notice from the Gemensbank. The loan is coming due, and you’d given me to believe it
was temporary. And your studies—”
“Da,” Jesper began. “I … the thing is—”
A shot rang out against the walls of the courtyard. Jesper shoved his father behind him as a bullet pinged off the stones at their feet, sending up a cloud of dust. Suddenly, gunfire was echoing across the courtyard. The reverberation made it hard to tell where the shots were coming from.
“What in the name of all that is holy—”
Jesper yanked on his father’s sleeve, pulling him toward the hooded stone shelter of a doorway. He looked to his left, prepared to grab hold of Wylan, but the merchling was already in motion, keeping pace beside Jesper in what passed for a reasonable crouch. Nothing like being shot at a few times to make you a fast learner , Jesper thought as they reached the protective curve of the overhang. He craned his neck to try to see up to the roofline, then flinched back as more shots rang out. Another smattering of gunfire rattled from somewhere above and to the left of them, and Jesper could only hope that meant Matthias and Kaz were returning fire.
“Saints!” his father gasped. “This city is worse than the guidebooks said!”
“Da, it isn’t the city,” Jesper said, pulling the pistol from his coat. “They’re after me. Or after us. Hard to say.”
“Who’s after you?”
Jesper exchanged a glance with Wylan. Jan Van Eck? A rival gang looking to settle a score? Pekka Rollins or someone else Jesper had borrowed money from? “There’s a long list of potential suitors. We need to get out of here before they introduce themselves more personally.”
“Brigands?”
Jesper knew there was a good chance he was about to be riddled with holes, so he tried to restrain his grin. “Something like that.”
He peered around the edge of the door, peeled off two shots, then ducked back when another spate of gunfire exploded.
“Wylan, tell me you’re packing more than pens, ink, and weevil makings.”
“I’ve got two flash bombs and something new I rigged up with a little more, um, wallop.”
“Bombs?” Jesper’s father asked, blinking as if to wake himself from a bad dream.
Jesper shrugged helplessly. “Think of them as science experiments?”
“What kind of numbers are we up against?” asked Wylan.
“Look at you, asking all the right questions. Hard to tell. They’re somewhere on the roof, and the only way out is back through the archway. That’s a lot of courtyard to cross with them firing from high ground. Even if we make it, I’m guessing they’re going to have plenty more thunder waiting for us outside the Boeksplein unless Kaz and Matthias can somehow clear a path.”
“I know another way out,” said Wylan. “But the entrance is on the other side of the courtyard.” He pointed to a door beneath an arch carved with some kind of horned monster gnawing on a pencil.
“The reading room?” Jesper gauged the distance. “All right. On three, you make a break. I’ll cover you. Get my father inside.”
“Jesper—”
“Da, I swear I’ll explain everything, but right now all you need to know is that we’re in a bad situation, and bad situations happen to be my area of expertise.” And it was true. Jesper could feel himself coming alive, the worry that had been dogging his steps since he’d gotten news of his father’s arrival in Ketterdam falling away. He felt free, dangerous, like lightning rolling over the prairie. “Trust me, Da.”
“All right, boy. All right.”
Jesper was pretty sure he could hear an unspoken for now . He saw Wylan brace himself. The merchling was still so new to all this. Hopefully Jesper wouldn’t get everyone killed.
“One, two …” He started firing on three . Leaping into the courtyard, he rolled for cover behind the fountain. He’d gone in blind, but he picked out the shapes on the roof quickly, aiming by instinct, sensing movement and firing before he could think his way clear of a good shot. He didn’t need to kill anyone, he just needed to scare the hell out of them and buy Wylan and his father time.
A bullet struck the fountain’s central statue, the book in the scholar’s hand exploding into fragments of stone. Whatever ammunition they were using, they weren’t messing around.
Jesper reloaded and popped up from behind the fountain, shooting. “All Saints ,” he shouted as pain tore through his shoulder. He really
hated being shot. He shrank back behind the stone lip. He flexed his hand, testing the damage to his arm. Just a scratch, but it hurt like hell, and he was bleeding all over his new tweed jacket. “This is why it doesn’t pay to try to look respectable,” he muttered. Above him, he
could see the silhouettes on the roof moving. Any minute, they were going to circle around the other side of the fountain and he’d be done for. “Jesper!” Wylan’s voice. Damn it. He was supposed to get clear.
“Jesper, at your two o’clock.”
Jesper looked up and something was arcing through the sky. Without thinking, he aimed and fired. The air exploded.
“Get in the water!” Wylan shouted.
Jesper dove into the fountain, and a second later the air sizzled with light. When Jesper poked his soaked head out of the water, he saw that every exposed surface of the courtyard and its gardens was pocked with holes, tendrils of smoke rising from the tiny craters. Whoever was up on the roof was screaming. Just what kind of bomb had Wylan let loose?
He hoped Matthias and Kaz had found cover, but there was no time to stew on it. He bolted for the doorway beneath the pencil-chewing demon. Wylan and his father were waiting inside. They slammed the door shut.
“Help me,” said Jesper. “We need to barricade the entrance.”
The man behind the desk wore gray scholar’s robes. His nostrils were flared so wide in effrontery that Jesper feared being sucked up one of them. “Young man—”
Jesper pointed his gun at the scholar’s chest. “Move.” “Jesper!” his father said.
“Don’t worry, Da. People point guns at each other all the time in Ketterdam. It’s basically a handshake.”
“Is that true?” his father asked as the scholar grudgingly moved aside and they shoved the heavy desk in front of the door.
“Absolutely,” said Wylan. “Certainly not ,” said the scholar.
Jesper waved them on. “Depends on the neighborhood. Let’s go.”
They pelted down the main aisle of the reading room between long tables lit by lamps with curving necks. Students huddled against the wall and under their chairs, probably thinking they were all about to die.
“Nothing to worry about, everyone!” Jesper called. “Just a little target practice in the courtyard.”
“This way,” said Wylan, ushering them through a door covered in elaborate scrollwork.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” said the scholar rushing after them, robes flapping. “Not the rare books room!”
“Do you want to shake hands again?” Jesper asked, then added, “I promise we won’t shoot anything we don’t have to.” He gave his father a gentle shove. “Up the stairs.”
“Jesper?” said a voice from beneath the nearest table.
A pretty blonde girl looked up from where she was crouched on the floor.
“Madeleine?” Jesper said. “Madeleine Michaud?” “You said we’d have breakfast!”
“I had to go to Fjerda.” “Fjerda?”
Jesper headed up the stairs after Wylan, then poked his head back into the reading room. “If I live, I’ll buy you waffles.”
“You don’t have enough money to buy her waffles,” Wylan grumbled. “Be quiet. We’re in a library.”
Jesper had never had cause to enter the rare books room while he was at school. The silence was so deep it was like being underwater. Illuminated manuscripts were displayed in glass cases lit by golden falls of lamplight, and rare maps covered the walls.
A Squaller in a blue kefta stood in the corner, arms raised, but shrank back as they entered.
“Shu!” the Squaller cried when he saw Wylan. “I won’t go with you.
I’ll kill myself first!”
Jesper’s father held up his hands as if gentling a horse. “Easy, lad.” “We’re just passing through,” said Jesper, giving his father another
push.
“Follow me,” said Wylan.
“What is a Squaller doing in the rare books room?” Jesper asked as they raced through the labyrinth of shelves and cases, past the occasional scholar or student crouched against the books in fear.
“Humidity. He keeps the air dry to preserve the manuscripts.” “Nice work if you can get it.”
When they reached the westernmost wall, Wylan stopped in front of a map of Ravka. He looked around to make sure they weren’t being observed, then pressed the symbol marking the capital—Os Alta. The country seemed to tear apart along the seam of the Unsea, revealing a dark gap barely wide enough to squeeze through.
“It leads to the second floor of a printmaker’s shop,” said Wylan as they edged inside. “It was built as a way for professors to get from the
library to their homes without having to deal with angry students.” “Angry?” Jesper’s father said. “Do all the students have guns?” “No, but there’s a long-standing tradition of rioting over grades.”
The map slid closed, leaving them in the dark as they shuffled along sideways.
“Not to be a podge,” Jesper murmured to Wylan, “but I wouldn’t have thought you’d know your way around the rare books room.”
“I used to meet with one of my tutors here, back when my father still thought … The tutor had a lot of interesting stories. And I always liked the maps. Tracing the letters sometimes made it easier to … It’s how I found the passage.”
“You know, Wylan, one of these days I’m going to stop underestimating you.”
There was a brief pause and then, from somewhere up ahead, he heard Wylan say, “Then you’re going to be a lot harder to surprise.”
Jesper grinned, but it didn’t quite feel right. From behind them, he could hear shouting from the rare books room. It had been a close call, he was bleeding from his shoulder, they’d made a grand escape—these were the moments he lived for. He should be buzzing from the excitement of the fight. The thrill was still there, fizzing through his blood, but beside it was a cold, unfamiliar sensation that felt like it was draining the joy from him. All he could think was, Da could have been hurt. He could have died. Jesper was used to people shooting at him. He would have been a little insulted if they’d stopped shooting at him. This was different. His father hadn’t chosen this fight. His only crime had been putting his faith in his son.
That’s the problem with Ketterdam , Jesper thought as they stumbled uncertainly through the dark. Trusting the wrong person can get you killed .
