T he Council of Tides had arrived in all their splendor, and Jesper couldn’t help but be reminded of the Komedie Brute. What was this whole thing but a play Kaz had staged with that poor sucker Kuwei as the star?
Jesper thought of Wylan, who might finally see justice for his mother, of his own father waiting in the bakery. He was sorry for the fight they’d had. Though Inej had said they’d both be glad to know where they stood, Jesper wasn’t so sure. He loved an all-out brawl, but exchanging harsh words with his father had left a lump in his gut like bad porridge. They’d been not talking about things for so long that actually speaking the truth felt like it had broken some kind of spell—not a curse, but good magic, the kind that kept everyone safe, that might preserve a kingdom under glass. Until an idiot like him came along and used that pretty curio for target practice.
As soon as the Tides were moving up the aisle, Jesper stepped away from the Zemeni delegation and headed toward the church’s thumb. He kept his movements slow and his back to the guards who lined the walls, pretending he was trying to get a better view of the excitement.
When he reached the arch that marked the entrance to the thumb nave, he directed his steps toward the cathedral’s main doors as if to exit.
“Step back, please,” said one of the stadwatch grunts, keeping polite for the foreign visitor even as he stretched his neck to see what was happening with the Council of Tides. “The doors must be kept clear.”
“I am not feeling well,” Jesper said, clutching his stomach, laying on a
bit of a Zemeni accent. “I pray you let me pass.”
“Afraid not, sir.” Sir! Such civility for anyone who wasn’t a Barrel rat. “You don’t understand,” Jesper said. “I must relieve myself urgently .
I had dinner last night at a restaurant … Sten’s Stockpot?” The grunt winced. “Why would you go there?”
“It was in one of the guidebooks.” In fact, it was one of the worst restaurants in Ketterdam, but also one of the cheapest. Since it was open at all hours and so affordable, Sten’s was one of the few things Barrel thugs and stadwatch officers had in common. Every other week, somebody reported some nasty trouble with his gut thanks to Sten and his Saintsforsaken stockpot.
The grunt shook his head and signaled to the stadwatch guards at the arch. One of them trotted over.
“This poor bastard went to Sten’s. If I let him out the front, the captain’s bound to see him. Take him out through the chapel?”
“Why the hell would you eat at Sten’s?” the other guard asked. “My boss doesn’t pay me well,” said Jesper.
“Sounds familiar,” the guard replied, and waved him toward the arch.
Sympathy, camaraderie. I’m going to pretend to be a tourist more often , Jesper thought. I can forgo a few nice waistcoats if the grunts go this easy on me.
As they passed beneath the arch, Jesper noted the spiral staircase built into it. It led to the upper arcade, and from there he’d have a clear view of the stage. They’d promised not to let Kuwei walk into a disaster on his own, and even if the kid was a troublemaker, Jesper wasn’t going to let him down.
Discreetly, Jesper consulted his watch as they made their way toward the chapels at the end of the thumb. At four bells, Inej would be waiting atop the orange chapel’s dome to lower down his rifle.
“Oh,” Jesper groaned, hoping the guard would pick up his pace. “I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”
The guard made a small sound of disgust and lengthened his strides. “What did you order, buddy?”
“The special.”
“Never order the special. They just reheat whatever they had left over from the day before.” They arrived at the chapel and the guard said, “I’ll let you through this door. There’s a coffeehouse across the way.”
“Thanks,” said Jesper, and looped his arm around the guard’s neck,
applying pressure until his body went limp. Jesper slipped the leather strips from around his wrists, secured the guard’s hands behind his back, and stuffed the kerchief from his neck into the guard’s mouth. Then he rolled the body behind the altar. “Sleep well,” Jesper said. He felt bad for the guy. Not bad enough to wake him up and untie him, but still.
He heard a boom from the cathedral and glanced down the length of the nave. Because the thumb of the church was built at a slightly higher level than the cathedral, all he could see were the tops of the heads of the audience’s back rows, but it sounded like the Tides were making quite a ruckus. Jesper checked his watch once more and headed up the stairs.
A hand seized hold of his collar and hurled him backward.
He hit the floor of the chapel hard, the wind knocked completely out of him. His attacker stood at the base of the stairs, looking down at him with golden eyes.
His clothes were different from when Jesper had seen him exit the House of the White Rose on West Stave. Now the Kherguud soldier wore an olive drab uniform over his vast shoulders. His buttons gleamed and his black hair had been pulled back in a tight tail, revealing a neck as thick as a ham. He looked like what he truly was—a weapon.
“Glad you dressed for the occasion,” Jesper gasped, still trying to regain his breath.
The Shu soldier inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and smiled.
Jesper scrambled backward. The soldier followed. Jesper cursed himself for not taking the stadwatch grunt’s gun. The little pistol was no good for distance shooting, but it would have been better than nothing with a giant staring him down.
He leapt to his feet and sprinted back down the nave. If he could make it to the cathedral … he might have some explaining to do. But the Shu soldier wouldn’t attack him in the middle of the auction. Would he?
Jesper wasn’t going to find out. The soldier slammed into him from behind, dragging him to the ground. The cathedral seemed impossibly far away, the clamor from the auction and the Council of Tides a distant echo bouncing off the high stone walls. Action and echo , he thought nonsensically as the soldier flipped him over.
Jesper wriggled like a fish, evading the big man’s grip, grateful he was built like a heron on a strict diet. He was on his feet again, but the soldier was fast despite his size. He flung Jesper against the wall and Jesper released a yelp of pain, wondering if he’d broken a rib. It’s good for you.
Jogs the liver.
He couldn’t think straight with this oaf manhandling him.
Jesper saw the giant’s fist draw back, the gleam of metal on his fingers. They gave him real brass knuckles , he realized in horror. They built them into his hand.
He ducked left just in time. The soldier’s fist struck the wall beside his head with a thunderous crack.
“Slippery,” said the soldier in heavily accented Kerch. Again he inhaled deeply.
He caught my scent , Jesper thought. That day on the Stave. He doesn’t care that he might be found by the stadwatch, he’s been hunting and now he’s found his quarry.
The soldier drew his fist back again. He was going to knock Jesper senseless and then … what? Bash down the chapel door and carry him along the street like a sack of grain? Hand him off to one of his winged companions?
At least I’ll never be able to disappoint anyone again. They would dose him full of parem . Maybe he’d live long enough to make the Shu a new batch of Kherguud.
He dodged right. The soldier’s fist pounded another crater into the church wall.
The giant’s face contorted in rage. He pinned Jesper by the throat and hauled back to strike a final time.
A thousand thoughts jammed into Jesper’s head in a single second: His father’s crumpled hat. The gleam of his pearl-handled revolvers. Inej standing straight as an arrow. I don’t want an apology. Wylan seated at the table in the tomb, gnawing on the edge of his thumb. Any kind of sugar, he said, and then … keep it away from sweat, blood, saliva.
The chemical weevil. Inej had dumped the unused vials on the table in the Ketterdam suite. He’d fidgeted with one when he and his father were arguing. Now Jesper’s fingers fumbled in his pants pocket, hand closing over the glass vial.
“Parem! ” Jesper blurted. It was one of the only Shu words he knew. The soldier paused, fist in midair. He cocked his head to the side.
Always hit where the mark isn’t looking.
Jesper made a show of parting his lips and pretended to shove something between them.
The soldier’s eyes widened and his grip loosened as he tried to tear
Jesper’s hand away. The Kherguud made a sound, maybe a grunt, maybe the beginnings of a protest. It didn’t much matter. With his other hand, Jesper smashed the glass vial into the soldier’s open mouth.
The giant flinched back as glass shards lodged in his lips and spilled over his chin, blood oozing around them. Jesper rubbed his hand furiously against his shirt, hoping he hadn’t nicked his own fingers and let in the weevil. But nothing happened. The soldier didn’t seem anything but angry. He growled and seized Jesper’s shoulders, lifting him off his feet. Oh, Saints , thought Jesper, maybe he’s not going to bother taking me to his pals. He grabbed at the giant’s thick arms, trying to break his hold.
The Kherguud gave Jesper a shake. He coughed, big chest shuddering, and shook Jesper again—a weak, stuttering jiggle.
Then Jesper realized—the soldier wasn’t shaking him, the soldier was just shaking.
A low hiss emerged from the giant’s mouth, the sound of eggs dropped onto a hot skillet. Pink foam bubbled up from his lips, a froth of blood and saliva that dribbled over his chin. Jesper recoiled.
The soldier moaned. His massive hands released Jesper’s shoulders and Jesper edged backward, unable to tear his eyes away from the Kherguud as his body began to convulse, chest heaving. The soldier bent double as a stream of pink bile spewed from his lips, spattering the wall.
“Missed me again,” said Jesper, trying not to gag.
The giant tipped sideways and toppled to the floor, still as a fallen oak. For a moment, Jesper just stared at his enormous body. Then sense returned to him. How much time had he lost? He bolted back toward the
chapels at the end of the thumb nave.
Before he reached the door, Inej emerged, hurrying toward him. He’d missed the meet. She wouldn’t have come after him unless she thought he was in trouble.
“Jesper, where—” “Gun,” he demanded.
Without another word, she unslung it from her shoulder. He snatched it from her, running back toward the cathedral. If he could just make it up to the arcade.
The siren sounded. Too late. He’d never make it in time. He was going to fail them all. What good is a shooter without his guns? What good was Jesper if he couldn’t make the shot? They’d be trapped in this city.
They’d be jailed, probably executed. Kuwei would be sold to the highest bidder. Parem would burn a swath through the world and Grisha would be hunted with even more fervor. In Fjerda, the Wandering Isle, Novyi Zem. The zowa would vanish, pressed into military service, devoured by this curse of a drug.
The siren rose and fell. There were shouts inside the cathedral. People were running for the main doors; soon they’d spill over into the thumb, seeking another way out.
Anyone can shoot, but not everybody can aim. His mother’s voice.
We’re zowa. You and me.
Impossible. He couldn’t even get eyes on Kuwei from here—and no one could shoot around a corner.
But Jesper knew the layout of the cathedral well enough. He knew it was a straight shot up the aisle to where the auction block stood. He could see the second button of Kuwei’s shirt in his mind’s eye.
Impossible.
A bullet had only one trajectory.
But what if that bullet could be guided?
Not everybody can aim.
“Jesper?” said Inej from behind him. He raised his rifle. It was an ordinary firearm, but he’d converted it himself. There was only a single round inside it—nonlethal, a mixture of wax and rubber. If he missed, someone could be hurt badly. But if he didn’t shoot, a lot of people would be hurt. Hell , Jesper thought, maybe if I miss Kuwei, I’ll take out one of Van Eck’s eyes .
He’d worked with gunsmiths, made his own ammunition. He knew his guns better than he knew the rules of Makker’s Wheel. Jesper focused on the bullet, sensed the smallest parts of it. Maybe he was the same. A bullet in a chamber, spending his whole life waiting for the moment when he would have direction.
Anyone can shoot.
“Inej,” he said, “if you have a spare prayer, this would be the time for it.”
He fired.
It was as if time slowed—he felt the kick of the rifle, the unstoppable momentum of the bullet. With all his will, he focused on its wax casing and pulled to the left, the shot still ringing in his ears. He felt the bullet turn, focused on that button, the second button, a little piece of wood, the
threads holding it in place.
It’s not a gift. It’s a curse. But when it came down to it, Jesper’s life had been full of blessings. His father. His mother. Inej. Nina. Matthias leading them across the muddy canal. Kaz—even Kaz, with all his cruelties and failings, had given him a home and a family in the Dregs when Ketterdam might have swallowed him whole. And Wylan. Wylan who had understood before Jesper ever had that the power inside him might be a blessing too.
“What did you just do?” asked Inej.
Maybe nothing. Maybe the impossible. Jesper never could resist long odds.
He shrugged. “The same thing I always do. I took a shot.”
