J esper had never seen Kaz so bloodied and banged up—broken nose, split lip, one eye swollen shut. He was clutching his side in a way that made Jesper think at least one of his ribs was broken, and when he coughed into a handkerchief, Jesper saw blood on the white fabric before Kaz shoved it back into his pocket. His limp was worse than ever, but he was still standing, and Anika and Pim were with him. Apparently, they’d left a heavily armed skeleton crew at the Slat in case Pekka got word of Kaz’s coup and decided to try to make a territory grab.
“All Saints,” Jesper said. “So I guess that went well?” “About as well as expected.”
Matthias shook his head in something between admiration and disbelief. “How many lives do you have, demjin ?”
“One more, I hope.”
Kaz had wriggled out of his coat and managed to yank off his shirt, leaning on the sink in the bathroom.
“For Saints’ sake, let us help you,” said Nina.
Kaz gripped the end of a bandage in his teeth and tore off a piece. “I don’t need your help. Keep working with Colm.”
“What is wrong with him?” Nina grumbled as they went back to the sitting room to drill Colm on his cover story.
“Same thing that’s always wrong with him,” said Jesper. “He’s Kaz Brekker.”
A little more than an hour later, Inej had slipped into the room and
handed Kaz a note. It was late afternoon and the windows of the suite were ablaze with buttery gold light.
“Are they coming?” asked Nina.
Inej nodded. “I gave your letter to the guard at the door, and it did the trick. They brought me directly to two members of the Triumvirate.”
“Who did you meet with?” said Kaz. “Genya Safin and Zoya Nazyalensky.”
Wylan sat forward. “The Tailor? She’s at the embassy?”
Kaz raised a brow. “What an interesting fact to forget to mention, Nina.”
“It wasn’t relevant at the time.”
“Of course it’s relevant!” Wylan said angrily. Jesper was a little surprised. Wylan hadn’t seemed to mind wearing Kuwei’s features at first. He’d almost seemed to welcome the distance it gave him from his father. But that had been before they’d gone to Saint Hilde. And before Jesper had kissed Kuwei.
Nina winced slightly. “Wylan, I thought you were coming to Ravka. You would have been able to meet Genya as soon as we were on the boat.”
“We all know where Nina’s loyalties lie,” said Kaz. “I didn’t tell the Triumvirate about Kuwei.”
A faint smile touched Kaz’s lips. “Like I said.” He turned to Inej. “Did you state our terms?”
“Yes, they’ll be at the hotel baths in an hour. I told them to make sure no one saw them enter.”
“Let’s hope they can handle it,” said Kaz.
“They can run a country,” said Nina. “They can manage a few simple instructions.”
“Is it safe for them on the streets?” asked Wylan.
“They’re probably the only Grisha safe in Ketterdam,” said Kaz. “Even if the Shu are working up the nerve to start hunting again, they aren’t going to start with two highly placed Ravkan dignitaries. Nina, does Genya have the skill to restore Wylan’s features?”
“I don’t know,” said Nina. “She’s called the First Tailor, and she’s certainly the most gifted, but without parem …” She didn’t have to explain. Parem was the only reason Nina had been able to manage Wylan’s miraculous transformation into Kuwei. Still, Genya Safin was a legend. Anything might still be possible.
“Kaz,” Wylan said, twisting the tail of his shirt. “If she’s willing to try
—”
Kaz nodded. “But you’re going to have to be twice as careful until the auction. Your father doesn’t want you showing up to skunk the scam he’s pulling on the Merchant Council and the stadwatch . You’d be smarter waiting—”
“No,” said Wylan. “I’m done being someone else.”
Kaz shrugged, but Jesper had the feeling he was getting exactly what he wanted. At least in this case, it was what Wylan wanted too.
“Won’t there be hotel guests at the baths?” Jesper asked.
“I had them reserve the whole place for Mister Rietveld,” said Nina. “He’s very self-conscious about disrobing in front of others.”
Jesper groaned. “Please don’t talk about my father taking his clothes off.”
“It’s his webbed feet,” said Nina. “So embarrassing.” “Nina and Matthias will stay here,” said Kaz.
“I should be there,” Nina protested.
“Are you Ravkan or a member of this crew?” “I’m both.”
“Exactly. This conversation is going to be tricky enough without you and Matthias there to muddy it up.”
Though they went back and forth for a while, eventually Nina agreed to remain behind if Inej went in her stead.
But Inej only shook her head. “I’d prefer not to.”
“Why?” Nina asked. “Someone needs to hold Kaz accountable.” “And you think I can?”
“We should at least try.”
“I love you, Nina, but the Ravkan government hasn’t treated the Suli very well. I’m not interested in exchanging pleasantries with their leaders.” Jesper had never really considered that, and it was clear from the stricken expression on Nina’s face that she hadn’t either. Inej gave her a tight hug. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll get Colm to order us something decadent.”
“That’s your answer for everything.” “You’re complaining?” Inej asked.
“I’m stating one of the reasons I adore you.”
They went to find Colm, arm in arm, but Nina’s teeth were worrying her lower lip. She had to be used to Matthias criticizing her country, but
Jesper guessed it stung more coming from Inej. He wanted to tell Nina that you could love something and still see its flaws. At least, he hoped that was true, or he was truly cooked.
As they split to prepare for the meeting with the Ravkans, Jesper followed Wylan down the hall.
“Hey.”
Wylan kept going.
Jesper jogged past him and cut off his path, walking backward. “Listen, this thing with Kuwei isn’t a thing.” He tried again. “There is no thing with Kuwei.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m the one who interrupted.” “No, you didn’t! Kuwei was sitting at the piano. It was an
understandable mistake.”
Wylan stopped short. “You thought he was me?” “Yes!” Jesper said. “See? Just a big mis—”
Wylan’s gold eyes flashed. “You really can’t tell us apart?” “I … I mean, usually I can, but—”
“We’re nothing alike,” Wylan said indignantly. “He’s not even that good at science! Half his notebooks are full of doodles. Mostly of you. And those aren’t good either.”
“Really? Doodles of me?”
Wylan rolled his eyes. “Forget it. You can kiss whomever you like, Jesper.”
“And I do. As regularly as possible.” “So what’s the problem?”
“No problem, I just wanted to give you this.”
He placed a tiny oval canvas in Wylan’s hand. “I took it when we were at Saint Hilde. I thought it might come in handy if Genya’s going to try to put you back to your old merchling self.”
Wylan stared down at the canvas. “My mother painted this?” “It was in that room full of her art.”
It was small, unframed, suitable only for a miniature: a portrait of Wylan as a child of around eight years. Wylan curled his fingers over the edge of the painting. “It’s how she remembers me. She never got to see me grow up.” He frowned. “It’s so old. I don’t know if it will be useful.”
“It’s still you,” said Jesper. “Same curls. Same worried little divot between the brows.”
“And you took this just because you thought it might come in handy?”
“I told you, I like your stupid face.”
Wylan ducked his head and slipped the portrait into his pocket. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” Jesper hesitated. “If you’re headed down to the baths, I could come with you. If you wanted.”
Wylan nodded anxiously. “I’d like that.”
Jesper’s newly buoyant mood lasted all the way to the lift, but as they joined Kaz and descended to the hotel’s third floor, his nerves started to jangle. They might be walking into a trap, and Kaz wasn’t exactly in fighting form.
Some part of Jesper hoped that the Ravkans would say no to this mad plan. Then Kaz would be stymied, and even if they all ended up in Hellgate or swinging from the gallows, his father would at least have a chance to escape unharmed. Colm had spent hours with Nina and Kaz trying to learn his role, running through different scenarios, enduring their endless questions and prodding without complaint. Colm wasn’t much of an actor, and he lied about as well as Jesper danced ballet. But Nina would be with him. That had to count for something.
The lift opened and they entered another vast purple-and-white hallway, then followed the sound of running water to a room with a large circular pool at its center, surrounded by a colonnade of arches. Through them, Jesper could see more pools and waterfalls, coves and alcoves, every solid surface decorated in glittering indigo tiles. Now this Jesper could get used to: pools of steaming water, fountains dancing and burbling like guests at a party, piles of thick towels and sweet-smelling soaps. A place like this belonged in the Barrel, where it could be properly appreciated, not in the middle of the financial district.
They’d been told they would be meeting with only two members of the Triumvirate, but three people stood by the pool. Jesper knew the one- eyed girl in the red-and-blue kefta must be Genya Safin, and that meant the shockingly gorgeous girl with the thick fall of ebony hair was Zoya Nazyalensky. They were accompanied by a fox-faced man in his twenties wearing a teal frock coat, brown leather gloves, and an impressive set of Zemeni revolvers slung around his hips. If these people were what Ravka had to offer, maybe Jesper should consider a visit.
“We told the Grisha to come alone,” said Kaz.
“I’m afraid that wasn’t possible,” said the man. “Though Zoya is, of course, a force to be reckoned with, Genya’s extraordinary gifts are ill-
suited to physical confrontation. I, on the other hand, am well suited to all forms of confrontation, though I’m particularly fond of the physical.”
Kaz’s eyes narrowed. “Sturmhond.”
“He knows me!” Sturmhond said delightedly. He nudged Genya with an elbow. “I told you I’m famous.”
Zoya blew out an exasperated breath. “Thank you. He’s going to be twice as insufferable now.”
“Sturmhond has been authorized to negotiate on behalf of the Ravkan throne,” said Genya.
“A pirate?” asked Jesper.
“Privateer,” Sturmhond corrected. “You can’t expect the king to participate in an auction like this himself.”
“Why not?”
“Because he might lose. And it looks very bad when kings lose.” Jesper couldn’t quite believe he was having a conversation with the
Sturmhond. The privateer was a legend. He’d broken countless blockades on behalf of the Ravkans, and there were rumors that … “Do you really have a flying ship?” blurted Jesper.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I have several.” “Take me with you.”
Kaz didn’t look remotely entertained. “The Ravkan king lets you negotiate for him in matters of state?” he asked skeptically.
“Occasionally,” said Sturmhond. “Especially if less than savory personages are involved. You have a reputation, Mister Brekker.”
“So do you.”
“Fair enough. So let’s say we’ve both earned the right to have our names bandied about in the worst circles. The king won’t drag Ravka into one of your schemes blindly. Nina’s note claimed that you have Kuwei Yul-Bo in your possession. I want confirmation of that fact, and I want the details of your plan.”
“All right,” said Kaz. “Let’s talk in the solarium. I’d prefer not to sweat through my suit.” When the rest of them made to follow, Kaz halted and glanced over his shoulder. “Just me and the privateer.”
Zoya tossed her glorious black mane and said, “We are the Triumvirate. We do not take orders from Kerch street rats with dubious haircuts.”
“I can phrase it as a question if it will make your feathers lie flat,” Kaz said.
“You insolent—”
“Zoya,” said Sturmhond smoothly. “Let’s not antagonize our new friends before they’ve even had a chance to cheat us. Lead on, Mister Brekker.”
“Kaz,” Wylan said. “Can’t you—”
“Negotiate for yourself, merchling. It’s time you learned how.” He vanished with Sturmhond back into the corridors.
As their footfalls faded, silence descended. Wylan cleared his throat and the sound bounced around the blue-tiled room like a spring colt let loose in a corral. Genya’s face was bemused.
Zoya crossed her arms. “Well?”
“Ma’am …” Wylan attempted. “Miss Genya—”
Genya smiled, her scars tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, he is
sweet.”
“You always take to the strays,” said Zoya sourly.
“You’re the boy Nina tailored to look like Kuwei,” Genya said. “And you want me to try to undo her work?”
“Yes,” Wylan said, that one word imbued with a whole world of hope. “But I don’t have anything to bargain with.”
Genya rolled her single amber eye. “Why are the Kerch so focused on money?”
“Says the woman with a bankrupt country,” murmured Jesper. “What was that?” snapped Zoya.
“Nothing,” said Jesper. “Just saying Kerch is a morally bankrupt country.”
Zoya looked him up and down as if she was considering tossing him into a pool and boiling him alive. “If you want to waste your time and talent on these wretches, feel free. Saints know there’s room for improvement.”
“Zoya—”
“I’m going to go find a dark room with a deep pool and try to wash some of this country off.”
“Don’t drown,” Genya called as Zoya flounced off, then said conspiratorially, “Maybe she’ll do it just to be contrary.” She gave Wylan an assessing glance. “It would be difficult. If I’d known you before the changes—”
“Here,” Wylan said eagerly. “I have a portrait. It’s old, but—” She took the miniature from him.
“And this,” Wylan said, offering her the poster his father had created promising a reward for his safe return.
“Hmm,” she said. “Let’s find better light.”
They fumbled their way around the facilities, poking their heads into rooms full of mud baths and milk baths, and one heated chamber made entirely of jade. They finally settled in a chilly white room with a tub of odd-smelling clay against one wall, and windows all along the other.
“Find a chair,” said Genya, “and fetch my kit from the main pool area.
It’s heavy. You’ll find it near the towels.” “You brought your kit?” said Wylan.
“The Suli girl suggested it,” said Genya, shooing them off to follow her orders.
“Just as imperious as Zoya,” Jesper grumbled as he and Wylan obliged.
“But with better hearing!” she called after them.
Jesper fetched the box from near the main pool. It was built like a small cabinet, its double doors fastened with an elaborate gold clasp. When they returned to the clay room, Genya gestured for Wylan to sit near the window, where the light was best. She rested her fingers under his chin and tilted his face this way and that.
Jesper set down her kit. “What are you looking for?” he asked. “The seams.”
“Seams?”
“No matter how fine a Tailor’s work, if you look closely, you can see the seams, the place where one thing ends and another begins. I’m looking for signs of the original structure. The portrait does help.”
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” said Wylan.
“Because she might mess up and make you look like a weasel with curls?”
Genya lifted a flame-colored brow. “Maybe a vole.”
“Not funny,” said Wylan. He’d clenched his hands so tightly in his lap his knuckles had become white stars.
“All right,” said Genya. “I can try, but I make no promises. Nina’s work is near flawless. Luckily, so am I.”
Jesper smiled. “You remind me of her.”
“I think you mean she reminds you of me. ”
Genya set to unpacking her kit. It was far more elaborate than the one Jesper had seen Nina use. There were capsules of dye, pots of colored powder, and rows of glass cases filled with what looked like clear gels. “They’re cells,” said Genya. “For a job like this, I need to work with human tissue.”
“Not disgusting at all,” said Jesper.
“It could be worse,” she said. “I once knew a woman who rubbed whale placenta on her face in the hopes of looking younger. To say nothing of what she did with the monkey saliva.”
“Human tissue sounds delightful,” amended Jesper. “That’s what I thought.”
She pushed up her sleeves, and Jesper saw that the scars on her face also traced over her hands and up her arms. He couldn’t imagine what manner of weapon had twisted the tissue in that way.
“You’re staring,” she said without facing him. Jesper jumped, cheeks heating. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. People like to look. Well, not always. When I was first attacked, no one would look at me.”
Jesper had heard she’d been tortured during the Ravkan Civil War, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you made polite conversation about. “Now I don’t know where to look,” he admitted.
“Anywhere you like. Just be quiet so I don’t make a hideous mess of this poor boy.” She laughed at Wylan’s expression of terror. “I’m kidding. But do stay still. This is slow work, and you’ll need to be patient.”
She was right. The work was so slow that Jesper wasn’t sure anything was happening. Genya would place her fingertips beneath Wylan’s eyes or over his lids, then step back and examine what she’d done—which as far as Jesper could see was nothing. Then she’d reach for one of the glass cases or bottles, dab something on her fingertips, touch Wylan’s face again, step back. Jesper’s attention wandered. He circled the room, dipped his finger in the clay, regretted it, went searching for a towel. But when he looked at Wylan from a little more distance, he could see that something had changed.
“It’s working!” he exclaimed.
Genya cast him a cool glance. “Of course it is.”
Periodically, the Tailor would stop and stretch and give Wylan a mirror so that he could consult on what looked right or wrong. An hour
later, Wylan’s irises had gone from gold to blue and the shape of his eyes had changed as well.
“His brow should be narrower,” Jesper said, peering over Genya’s shoulder. “Just a little bit. And his lashes were longer.”
“I didn’t know you were paying attention,” murmured Wylan. Jesper grinned. “I was paying attention.”
“Oh good, he’s blushing,” said Genya. “Excellent for the circulation.” “Do you train Fabrikators at the Little Palace?” asked Wylan.
Jesper scowled. Why did he have to go and start that? “Of course. There’s a school on the palace grounds.” “What if a student were older?” said Wylan, still pushing.
“A Grisha can be taught at any age,” said Genya. “Alina Starkov didn’t discover her power until she was seventeen years old, and she … she was one of the most powerful Grisha who ever lived.” Genya pushed at Wylan’s left nostril. “It’s easier when you’re younger, but so is everything. Children learn languages more easily. They learn mathematics more easily.”
“And they’re unafraid,” said Wylan quietly. “It’s other people who teach them their limits.” Wylan’s eyes met Jesper’s over Genya’s shoulder, and as if he was challenging both Jesper and himself, he said, “I can’t read.” His skin went instantly blotchy, but his voice was steady.
Genya shrugged and said, “That’s because no one took the time to teach you. Many of the peasants in Ravka can’t read.”
“Lots of people took the time to teach me. They tried plenty of strategies too. I’ve had every opportunity. But it’s something I can’t do.”
Jesper could see the anxiety in his face, what it cost him to speak those words. It made him feel like a coward.
“You seem to be getting along well enough,” said Genya. “Aside from your associations with street thugs and sharpshooters.”
Wylan lifted his brows, and Jesper knew he was daring him to speak up, but he remained silent. It’s not a gift. It’s a curse. He walked back to the window, suddenly finding himself deeply interested in the streets below. That’s what killed your mother, do you understand?
Genya alternated between working and having Wylan hold up the mirror to guide her through tweaks and changes. Jesper watched for a while, went upstairs to check on his father, fetched Genya some tea and Wylan a cup of coffee. When he returned to the clay room, he nearly dropped the mugs.
Wylan was sitting in the last of the afternoon light, the real Wylan, the boy he’d first seen in that tannery, the lost prince who had woken in the wrong story.
“Well?” Genya said.
Wylan fiddled nervously with the buttons on his shirt.
“That’s him,” said Jesper. “That’s our fresh-faced runaway merchling.”
Genya stretched and said, “Good, because if I have to spend another minute smelling that clay, I may go mad.” It was clear she was tired, but her face was glowing, her amber eye sparkled. This was the way Grisha looked when they used their power. “It would be best to revisit the work anew in the morning, but I have to get back to the embassy. And by tomorrow, well …” She shrugged.
By tomorrow the auction would be announced and everything would change.
Wylan thanked her and then kept on thanking her until she physically pushed them out the door so that she could go find Zoya.
Jesper and Wylan took the lift back up to the suite in silence. Jesper glanced into the master bedroom and saw his father asleep atop the covers, his chest reverberating with deep snores. A pile of papers was scattered on the bed next to him. Jesper tidied them into a stack—jurda prices, listings of farm acreage outside cities in Novyi Zem.
You don’t have to clean up after us, Da. Someone does.
Back in the sitting room, Wylan was lighting the lamps. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” said Jesper. “But Da’s asleep. I’m not sure we’re allowed to ring for food.” He cocked his head to one side, peering at Wylan. “Did you have her make you better-looking?”
Wylan pinked. “Maybe you forgot how handsome I am.” Jesper raised a brow. “Okay, maybe a little.” He joined Jesper by the window looking out over the city. Dusk was falling and the streetlamps had bloomed in orderly formation along the edges of the canals. Patrols of stadwatch were visible, moving through the streets, and the Staves were alight with color and sound again. How long would they be safe here? Jesper wondered if the Kherguud were tracking Grisha through the city, seeking out the houses of their indentures. The Shu soldiers might be surrounding the embassy even now. Or maybe this hotel. Could they smell a Grisha
fifteen stories up?
Periodically, they could see bursts of fireworks over the Staves. Jesper wasn’t surprised. He understood the Barrel. It was always hungry for more—money, mayhem, violence, lust. It was a glutton, and Pekka Rollins had offered up Kaz and the rest of the crew as a feast.
“I know what you were doing back there,” Jesper said. “You didn’t have to tell her you can’t read.”
Wylan took the miniature of himself from his pocket and propped it on the end table. Young Wylan’s serious blue eyes stared back at them.
“Do you know Kaz was the first person I ever told about … my condition?”
“Of all the people.”
“I know. It felt like I’d choke on the words. I was so afraid he’d sneer at me. Or just laugh. But he didn’t do any of that. Telling Kaz, facing my father, freed something in me. And every time I tell someone new, I feel freer.”
Jesper watched a browboat vanish beneath Zentsbridge. It was nearly empty. “I’m not ashamed of being Grisha.”
Wylan ran his thumb over the edge of the miniature. He wasn’t saying anything, but Jesper could tell he wanted to.
“Go ahead,” Jesper said. “Whatever you’re thinking, just say it.” Wylan looked up at him. His eyes were the clear, unspoiled blue
Jesper remembered—a high mountain lake, an endless Zemeni sky. Genya had done her work well. “I just don’t get it. I’ve spent my whole life hiding the things I can’t do. Why run from the amazing things you can do?”
Jesper gave an irritated shrug. He’d been mad at his father for almost exactly what Wylan was describing, but now he just felt defensive. These were his choices, right or wrong, and they were long since made. “I know who I am, what I’m good at, what I can and can’t do. I’m just … I’m what I am. A great shooter, a bad gambler. Why can’t that be enough?”
“For me? Or for you?”
“Don’t get philosophical on me, merchling.” “Jes, I’ve thought about this—”
“Thought of me? Late at night? What was I wearing?”
“I’ve thought about your powers ,” Wylan said, cheeks flushing pinker. “Has it ever occurred to you that your Grisha ability might be
part of the reason you’re such a good shot?”
“Wylan, you’re cute, but you’re a whole lot of crazy in one little glass.”
“Maybe. But I’ve seen you manipulate metal. I’ve seen you direct it.
What if you don’t miss because you’re directing your bullets too?”
Jesper shook his head. This was ridiculous. He was a good shot because he’d been raised on the frontier, because he understood guns, because his mother had taught him to steady his hand, clear his mind, and to sense his target as much as see it. His mother. A Fabrikator. A Grisha, even if she never used that word. No. That’s not how it works . But what if it was?
He shook off the thought, feeling the need to move ignite over his skin. “Why do you have to say things like that? Why can’t you just let things be easy?”
“Because they’re not easy,” Wylan said in his simple, earnest way. No one in the Barrel talked like that. “You keep pretending everything is okay. You move on to the next fight or the next party. What are you afraid is going to happen if you stop?”
Jesper shrugged again. He adjusted the buttons on his shirt, touched his thumbs to his revolvers. When he felt like this, mad and scattered, it was as if his hands had a life of their own. His whole body itched. He needed to get out of this room.
Wylan laid his hand on Jesper’s shoulder. “Stop.”
Jesper didn’t know if he wanted to jerk away or pull him closer. “Just stop,” Wylan said. “Breathe.”
Wylan’s gaze was steady. Jesper couldn’t look away from that clear- water blue. He forced himself to still, inhaled, exhaled.
“Again,” Wylan said, and when Jesper opened his mouth to take another breath, Wylan leaned forward and kissed him.
Jesper’s mind emptied. He wasn’t thinking of what had happened before or what might happen next. There was only the reality of Wylan’s mouth, the press of his lips, then the fine bones of his neck, the silky feel of his curls as Jesper cupped his nape and drew him nearer. This was the kiss he’d been waiting for. It was a gunshot. It was prairie fire. It was the spin of Makker’s Wheel. Jesper felt the pounding of his heart—or was it Wylan’s?—like a stampede in his chest, and the only thought in his head was a happy, startled, Oh .
Slowly, inevitably, they broke apart.
“Wylan,” Jesper said, looking into the wide blue sky of his eyes, “I really hope we don’t die.”
