Inej felt as though she and Kaz had become twin soldiers, marching on, pretending they were fine, hiding their wounds and bruises from the rest of the crew.
It took two more days of travel to reach the cliffs that overlooked Djerholm, but the going was easier as they moved south and towards the coast. The weather warmed, the ground thawed, and she began to see signs of spring. Inej had thought Djerholm would look like Ketterdam –a canvas of black, grey, and brown, tangled streets dense with mist and coalsmoke, ships of every kind in the harbour, pulsing with the rush and bustle of trade. Djerholm’s harbour was crowded with ships, but its tidy streets marched to the water in orderly fashion, and the houses were painted such colours – red, blue, yellow, pink – as if in defiance of the wild white land and the long winters this far north. Even the warehouses by the quay were wrought in cheerful colours. It looked the way she’d imagined cities as a child, everything candy-hued and in its proper place.
Was the Ferolind already waiting at the docks, snug in its berth, flying its Kerch flag and the distinctive orange and green parti-colour of the Haanraadt Bay Company? If the plan went the way Kaz hoped, tomorrow night they would stroll down the Djerholm quay with Bo Yul-Bayur in tow, hop on their ship, and be far out to sea before anyone in Fjerda was the wiser. She preferred not to think of what tomorrow night might look like if the plan went wrong.
Inej glanced up to where the Ice Court stood like a great white sentinel on a massive cliff overlooking the harbour. Matthias had called the cliffs unscalable, and Inej had to admit that they would present a challenge even for the Wraith. They seemed impossibly high, and from a distance, their white lime surface looked clean and bright as ice.
“Cannon,” said Jesper.
Kaz squinted up at the big guns pointed out at the bay. “I’ve broken into banks, warehouses, mansions, museums, vaults, a rare book library, and once the bedchamber of a visiting Kaelish diplomat whose wife had a passion for emeralds. But I’ve never had a cannon shot at me.”
“There’s something to be said for novelty,” offered Jesper.
Inej pressed her lips together. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.” “Those guns are there to stop invading armadas,” Jesper said
confidently. “Good luck hitting a skinny little schooner cutting through the waves bound for fortune and glory.”
“I’ll quote you on that when a cannonball lands in my lap,” said Nina. They slipped easily into the traffic of travellers and traders where the cliff road met the northern road that led to Upper Djerholm. The upper town was a rambling extension of the city below, a sprawling collection of shops, markets, and inns that served the guards and staff who worked at the Ice Court as well as visitors. 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. She’d worried that she and Jesper might be dangerously conspicuous in the Fjerdan capital’s sea of blonds. Maybe the crew from the Shu Han was relying on the jumbled
crowd for cover, too.
Signs of Hringkälla celebrations were everywhere. The shops had created elaborate displays of pepper cookies baked in the shape of wolves, some hanging like ornaments from large, twisting trees, and the bridge spanning the river gorge had been festooned with ribbons in Fjerdan silver. One way into the Ice Court and one way out. Would they cross this bridge as visitors tomorrow?
“What are they?” Wylan asked, pausing in front of a peddler’s cart laden with wreaths made of the same twisting branches and silver ribbons.
“Ash trees,” replied Matthias. “Sacred to Djel.”
“There’s supposed to be one in the middle of the White Island,” said Nina, ignoring the warning look the Fjerdan cast her. “It’s where the
drüskelle gather for the listening ceremony.”
Kaz tapped his walking stick on the ground. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“The ash is sustained by the spirit of Djel,” said Matthias. “It’s where we may best hear his voice.”
Kaz’s eyes flickered. “Not what I asked. Why isn’t it on our plans?” “Because it’s the holiest place in all of Fjerda and not essential to our
mission.”
“I say what’s essential. Anything else you decided to leave out in your great wisdom?”
“The Ice Court is a vast structure,” Matthias said, turning away. “I can’t label every crack and corner.”
“Then let’s hope nothing is lurking in those corners,” Kaz replied. Upper Djerholm had no real centre, but the bulk of its taverns, inns,
and market stalls were clustered around the base of the hill leading to the Ice Court. Kaz steered them seemingly aimlessly through the streets until he found a run-down tavern called the Gestinge.
“Here?” Jesper complained, peering into the dank main room. The whole place stank of garlic and fish.
Kaz just gave a significant glance upwards and said, “Terrace.” “What’s a gestinge?” Inej wondered aloud.
“It means ‘paradise’,” said Matthias. Even he looked skeptical.
Nina helped secure them a table on the tavern’s rooftop terrace. It was mostly empty, the weather still too cold to attract many patrons. Or maybe they’d been scared away by the food – herring in rancid oil, stale black bread, and some kind of butter that looked distinctly mossy.
Jesper looked down at his plate and moaned. “Kaz, if you want me dead, I prefer a bullet to poison.”
Nina scrunched her nose. “When I don’t want to eat, you know there’s a problem.”
“We’re here for the view, not the food.”
From their table, they had a clear, if distant, view of the Ice Court’s outer gate and the first guardhouse. It was built into a white arch formed by two monumental stone wolves on their hind legs, and spanned the road leading up the hill to the Court. Inej and the others watched the traffic come and go through the gates as they picked at their lunches, waiting for a sign of the prison wagons. Inej’s appetite had finally
returned, and she’d been eating as much as possible to build her strength, but the skin atop the soup she’d ordered wasn’t helping.
There was no coffee to be had so they ordered tea and little glasses of clear brännvin that burned going down but helped to keep them warm as a wind picked up, stirring the silvery ribbons tied to the ash boughs lining the street below.
“We’re going to start looking conspicuous soon,” said Nina. “This isn’t the kind of place people like to linger.”
“Maybe they don’t have anyone to take to jail,” suggested Wylan. “There’s always someone to take to jail,” Kaz replied, then bobbed his
chin towards the road. “Look.”
A boxy wagon was rolling to a stop at the guardhouse. Its roof and high sides were covered in black canvas, and it was drawn by four stout horses. The door at the back was heavy iron, bolted and padlocked.
Kaz reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an elaborate cover.
“Are we going to read to each other?” “Just flip it open to the back.”
Jesper opened the book and peered at the last page, puzzled. “So?” “Hold it up so we don’t have to look at your ugly face.”
“My face has character. Besides – oh!” “An excellent read, isn’t it?”
“Who knew I had a taste for literature?”
Jesper passed it to Wylan, who took it tentatively. “What does it say?” “Just look,” said Jesper.
Wylan frowned and held it up, then he grinned. “Where did you get this?”
Matthias had his turn and released a surprised grunt.
“It’s called a backless book,” said Kaz as Inej took the volume from Nina and held it up. The pages were full of ordinary sermons, but the ornate back cover hid two lenses that acted as a long glass. Kaz had told her to keep an eye out for women using similarly made mirrored compacts at the Crow Club. They could read the hand a player was holding from across the room, then signal to a partner at the table.
“Clever,” Inej remarked as she peered through. To the barmaid and the other patrons on the terrace, it looked as if they were handing a book around, discussing some interesting passage. Instead Inej had a close view of the gatehouse and the wagon parked in front of it.
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.
“Four guards,” she noted, just as Matthias had said. Two were stationed on each side of the gatehouse, and one of them was chatting with the driver of the prison wagon, who handed him a packet of documents.
“They’re the first line of defence,” said Matthias. “They’ll check paperwork and confirm identities, flag anyone they think requires closer scrutiny. By this time tomorrow the line going through the gates will be full of Hringkälla guests and backed up all the way to the gorge.”
“By then we’ll be inside,” Kaz said.
“How often do the wagons run?” asked Jesper.
“It depends,” said Matthias. “Usually in the morning. Sometimes in the afternoon. But I can’t imagine they’ll want prisoners arriving at the same time as guests.”
“Then we have to be on the early wagon,” Kaz said.
Inej lifted the backless book again. The wagon driver wore a grey uniform similar to the ones worn by the guards at the gate but absent any sash or decoration. He swung down from his seat and came around to unlock the iron door.
“Saints,” Inej said as the door swung open. Ten prisoners were seated along benches that ran the wagon’s length, their wrists and feet shackled, black sacks over their heads.
Inej handed the book back to Matthias, and as it made the rounds, Inej felt the group’s apprehension rise. Only Kaz seemed unfazed.
“Hooded, chained, and shackled?” said Jesper. “You’re sure we can’t go in as entertainers? I hear Wylan really kills it on the flute.”
“We go in as we are,” said Kaz, “as criminals.”
Nina peered through the lenses of the book. “They’re doing a head count.”
Matthias nodded. “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.”
Nina passed the book to Inej. “The driver is going to notice six more prisoners when he opens the door.”
“If only I’d thought of that,” Kaz said drily. “I can tell you’ve never picked a pocket.”
“And I can tell you’ve never given enough thought to your haircut.” Kaz frowned and ran a self-conscious hand along the side of his head.
“There’s nothing wrong with my haircut that can’t be fixed by four million kruge.”
Jesper cocked his head to one side, grey eyes alight. “We’re going to use a bunk biscuit, aren’t we?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know that word, bunkbiscuit,” said Matthias, running the syllables together.
Nina gave Kaz a sour look. “Neither do I. We’re not as streetwise as you, Dirtyhands.”
“Nor will you ever be,” Kaz said easily. “Remember our friend Mark?” Wylan winced. “Let’s say the mark is a tourist walking through the Barrel. He’s heard it’s a good place to get rolled, so he keeps patting his wallet, making sure it’s there, congratulating himself on just how alert and cautious he’s being. No fool he. Of course every time he pats his back pocket or the front of his coat, what is he doing? He’s telling every thief on the Stave exactly where he keeps his scrub.”
“Saints,” grumbled Nina. “I’ve probably done that.” “Everyone does,” said Inej.
Jesper lifted a brow. “Not everyone.”
“That’s only because you never have anything in your wallet,” Nina shot back.
“Mean.” “Factual.”
“Facts are for the unimaginative,” Jesper said with a dismissive wave. “Now, a bad thief,” continued Kaz, “one who doesn’t know his way around, just makes the grab and tries to run for it. Good way to get pinched by the stadwatch. But a proper thief – like myself – nabs the
wallet and puts something else in its place.” “A biscuit?”
“Bunk biscuit is just a name. It can be a rock, a bar of soap, even an old roll if it’s the right size. A proper thief can tell the weight of a wallet just by the way it changes the hang of a man’s coat. He makes the switch, and the poor mark keeps tapping his pocket, happy as can be. It’s not until he tries to pay for an omelette or lay his stake at a table that he
realises he’s been done for a sucker. By then the thief is somewhere safe, counting up his scrub.”
Wylan shifted unhappily in his chair. “Duping innocent people isn’t something to be proud of.”
“It is if you do it well.” Kaz gave a nod to the prison wagon, now rumbling its way up the road towards the Ice Court and the second checkpoint. “We’re going to be the biscuit.”
“Hold on,” said Nina. “The door locks on the outside. How do we get in and get the door locked again?”
“That’s only a problem if you don’t know a proper thief. Leave the locks to me.”
Jesper stretched out his long legs. “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?”
“That’s right.”
“Any other impossible feats you’d like us to accomplish?”
The barest smile flickered over Kaz’s lips. “I’ll make you a list.”
 |
Proper thievery aside, Inej would have liked a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed, but there would be no comfortable stay at an inn, not if they were going to find their way onto a prison wagon and into the Ice Court before Hringkälla began. There was too much to do.
Nina was sent out to chat up the locals and try to discover the best place to lay their ambush for the wagon. After the horrors of Gestinge’s herring, they’d demanded Kaz provide something edible, and were waiting for Nina in a crowded bakery, nursing hot cups of coffee mixed with chocolate, the wreckage of demolished rolls and cookies spread over their table in little piles of buttery crumbs. Inej noted that Matthias’ mug sat untouched before him, slowly cooling as he stared out the window.
“This must be hard for you,” she said quietly. “To be here but not really be home.”
He looked down at his cup. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do. I haven’t seen my home in a long time.”
Kaz turned away and began chatting with Jesper. He seemed to do that whenever she mentioned going back to Ravka. Of course, Inej couldn’t be certain she’d find her parents there. Suli were travellers. For them, ‘home’ really just meant family.
“Are you worried about Nina being out there?” Inej asked. “No.”
“She’s very good at this, you know. She’s a natural actress.” “I’m aware,” he said grimly. “She can be anything to anyone.” “She’s best when she’s Nina.”
“And who is that?”
“I suspect you know better than any of us.”
He crossed his huge arms. “She’s brave,” he said grudgingly. “And funny.”
“Foolish. Every last thing needn’t be a joke.” “Bold,” Inej said.
“Loud.”
“So why do your eyes keep searching the crowd for her?”
“They do not,” Matthias protested. She had to laugh at the ferocity of his scowl. He drew a finger through a pile of crumbs. “Nina is everything you say. It’s too much.”
“Mmm,” Inej murmured, taking a sip from her mug. “Maybe you’re just not enough.”
Before he could reply, the bell on the bakery door jingled, and Nina sailed inside, cheeks rosy, brown hair in a gorgeous tangle, and declared, “Someone needs to start feeding me sweet rolls immediately.”
For all Matthias’ grumbling, Inej didn’t think she imagined the relief on his face.
|
It had taken Nina less than an hour to discover that most of the prison wagons passed by a roadhouse known as the Warden’s Waystation on the route to the Ice Court. Inej and the others had to trek almost two miles out of Upper Djerholm to locate the tavern. It was too crowded with farmers and local labourers to be useful, so they headed further up the road, and by the time they found a spot with enough cover and a stand of trees large enough to suit their purpose, Inej felt close to collapse. She thanked her Saints for Jesper’s seemingly limitless energy. He cheerfully
volunteered to continue on and be the lookout. When the prison cart rolled by, he’d signal the rest of the crew with a flare, then sprint back to join them.
Nina took a few minutes to tailor Jesper’s forearm, hiding the Dregs’ tattoo and leaving a blotchy patch of skin over it. She would see to Kaz’s tattoos and her own that night. It was possible no one at the prison would recognise Ketterdam gang or brothel markings, but there was no reason to take the chance.
“No mourners,” Jesper called as he loped off into the twilight, long legs eating up the distance easily.
“No funerals,” they replied. Inej sent a real prayer along with him, too. She knew Jesper was well armed and could take care of himself, but between his lanky frame and Zemeni skin, he was just too noticeable for comfort.
They camped in a dry gully bordered by a tangle of shrubs, and took shifts dozing on the hard rock ground and keeping watch. Despite her fatigue, Inej hadn’t thought she would be able to sleep, but the next thing she knew, the sun was high above them, a bright pocket of glare in an overcast sky. It had to be past noon. Nina was beside her with a piece of one of the pepper wolf cookies she’d bought in Upper Djerholm. Inej saw that someone had made a low fire, and the sticky remnants of a block of melted paraffin were visible in its ashes.
“Where are the others?” she asked, looking around the empty gully. “In the road. Kaz said we should let you sleep.”
Inej rubbed her eyes. She supposed it was a concession to her injuries. Maybe she hadn’t hidden her exhaustion well at all. A sudden, crackling snap snap snap from the road had her on her feet with knives drawn in seconds.
“Easy,” Nina said. “It’s just Wylan.”
Jesper must have already raised the signal. Inej took the cookie from Nina and hurried up to where Kaz and Matthias were watching Wylan fuss with something at the base of a thick red fir. Another series of pops sounded, and tiny puffs of white smoke burst from the tree’s trunk where it met the ground. For a moment it looked as if nothing would happen, then the roots loosed themselves from the soil, curling and withering.
“What was that?” asked Inej. “Salt concentrate,” said Nina.
Inej cocked her head to the side. “Is Matthias … praying?”
“Saying a blessing. Fjerdans do it whenever they cut down a tree.” “Every time?”
“The blessings depend on how you intend to use the wood. One for houses, one for bridges.” She paused. “One for kindling.”
It took less than a minute for them to pull the tree down so that its trunk lay blocking the road. With the roots intact, it looked as if it had simply been felled by disease.
“Once the wagon stops, the tree will buy us about fifteen minutes and not much more,” Kaz said. “Move quickly. The prisoners should be hooded, but they’ll be able to hear, so not a word. We can’t afford to arouse suspicion. For all they know, this is a routine stop, and we want to keep it that way.”
As Inej waited in the gully with the others, she considered all the things that might go wrong. The prisoners might not be wearing hoods. The guards might have one of their own in the back of the wagon. And if their crew succeeded? Well, then they’d be captives on their way into the Ice Court. That didn’t seem like a particularly promising outcome, either. Just when she started to wonder if Jesper had been wrong and sent up the flare too early, a prison wagon rumbled into view. It rolled past them, then came to a halt in front of the tree. She could hear the driver cursing
to his companion.
They both slid down from the box seat and made their way over to the tree. For a long minute, they stood there staring at it. The larger guard took off his hat and scratched his belly.
“How lazy can they be?” Kaz muttered.
Finally, they seemed to accept that the tree wasn’t going to move on its own. They strolled back to the wagon to retrieve a heavy coil of rope and unhitched one of the horses to help drag the tree out of the road.
“Be ready,” Kaz said. He skittered over the top of the gully to the back end of the cart. He’d left his walking stick behind in the ditch, and whatever pain he might have been feeling, he disguised it well. He slipped his lockpicks from the lining of his coat and cradled the padlock gently, almost lovingly. In seconds, it sprang open, and he shoved the bolt to the side. He glanced around to where the men were tying ropes around the tree and then opened the door.
Inej tensed, waiting for the signal. It didn’t come. Kaz was just standing there, staring into the wagon.
“What’s happening?” whispered Wylan.
“Maybe they aren’t hooded?” she replied. From the side, she couldn’t see. “I’ll go.” They couldn’t all bunch up around the back of the cart at once.
Inej climbed out of the gully and came up behind Kaz. He was still standing there, perfectly still. She touched his shoulder briefly, and he flinched. Kaz Brekker flinched. What was going on? She couldn’t ask him and risk giving anything away to the listening prisoners. She peered into the wagon.
The prisoners were all cuffed and had black sacks over their heads. But there were considerably more of them than in the wagon they’d seen at the checkpoint. Instead of being seated and chained to the benches at the sides, they were standing, pressed up against one another. Their feet and hands had been shackled, and they all wore iron collars that had been clipped to hooks in the wagon’s roof. Whenever one started to slump or lean too heavily, his or her breath would be cut off. It wasn’t pretty, though they were so tightly packed together it didn’t look like anyone could actually fall and choke.
Inej gave Kaz another little nudge. His face was pale, almost waxen, but at least this time he didn’t just stand there. He pushed himself up into the wagon, his movements jerky and awkward, and began unlocking the prisoners’ collars.
Inej signalled to Matthias, who leaped out of the gully to join them. “What’s happening?” one of the prisoners asked in Ravkan, his voice
frightened.
“Tig!” Matthias growled harshly in Fjerdan. A rustle went through the prisoners in the truck, as if they were all coming to attention. Without meaning to, Inej had straightened her spine, too. With that word, Matthias’ whole demeanour had changed, as if with a single sharp command he’d stepped back into the uniform of a drüskelle. Inej eyed him nervously. She’d started to feel comfortable with Matthias. An easy habit to fall into, but unwise.
Kaz unlocked six sets of hand and foot shackles. One by one, Inej and Matthias unloaded the six prisoners closest to the door. There wasn’t time to consider height or build or even if they’d freed men or women. They led them to the edge of the gully, all while keeping an eye on the progress of the guards on the road. “What’s happening?” one of the captives dared to ask. But another quick “Tig!” from Matthias silenced him.
Once they were out of view, Nina dropped their pulses, sending them into unconsciousness. Only then did Wylan remove the prisoners’ hoods: four men, one of them quite old, a middle-aged woman, and a Shu boy. It definitely wasn’t ideal, but hopefully the guards wouldn’t fret too much over accuracy. After all, how much trouble could a group of chained and shackled convicts be?
Nina injected the prisoners with a sleeping solution to prolong their rest, and Wylan helped roll them into the gully behind the trees.
“Are we just going to leave them there?” Wylan whispered to Inej as they hurried back to the wagon with the prisoners’ hoods in hand.
Inej’s eyes were trained on the guards moving the tree, and she didn’t look at him when she said, “They’ll wake soon enough and make a run for it. They might even get to the coast and freedom. We’re doing them a favour.”
“It doesn’t look like a favour. It looks like leaving them in a ditch.” “Quiet,” she ordered. This wasn’t the time or the place for moral
quibbling. If Wylan didn’t know the difference between being in chains and out of them, he was about to find out.
Inej cupped her hand to her mouth and gave a low, soft bird call. They had four, maybe five minutes left before the guards cleared the road. Thankfully, the guards were raising quite a noise shouting encouragement at the horse and yelling to one another.
Matthias locked Wylan into place first, then Nina. Inej saw him stiffen as Nina lifted her hair to accept the collar, revealing the white curve of her neck. As he fastened it around her throat, Nina met his eyes over her shoulder, and the look they exchanged could have melted miles of northern ice. Matthias moved away hurriedly. Inej almost laughed. So that was all it took to send the drüskelle scurrying and bring the boy back.
Jesper was next, panting from his run back to the crossroads. He winked at her as she placed the sack over his head. They could hear the guards calling back and forth.
Inej locked Matthias’ collar and stood on tiptoe to place the hood on his head. But when she moved to pull Nina’s hood down, the Grisha fluttered her eyes rapidly, bobbing her head towards the wagon door. She still wanted to know how Kaz was going to lock them in.
“Watch,” Inej mouthed.
Kaz signalled to Inej, and she leaped down. She shut the wagon door, fastened the padlock, and slid the bolt home. A second later the opposite side of the door pushed open. Kaz had simply removed the hinges. It was a trick they’d used plenty of times when a lock was too complicated to pick quickly or they wanted to make a theft look like an inside job. Ideal for faking suicides, Kaz had once told her, and she’d never been sure if he was sincere.
Inej took a last look at the road. The men had finished with the tree. The big one was dusting off his hands and slapping the horse’s back. The other was already approaching the front of the wagon. Inej gripped the lip of the door and swung herself up, squeezing inside. Immediately, Kaz started replacing the hinges. Inej shoved a hood over Nina’s surprised face, then took her place beside Jesper.
But even in the dim light, she could tell Kaz was moving too slowly, his gloved fingers clumsier than she’d ever seen them. What was wrong with him? And why had he frozen at the wagon door? Something had made him hesitate, but what?
She heard the ping of metal as Kaz dropped one of the screws. She peered at the wagon floor and kicked it back to him, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart.
Kaz crouched down to replace the second hinge. He was breathing hard. She knew he was working in low light, by touch alone, in those cursed leather gloves he always insisted on wearing, but Inej didn’t think that was why he seemed so agitated. She heard footsteps on the right side of the wagon, one guard shouting to another. Come on, Kaz. She hadn’t taken the time to sweep away their footprints. What if the guard noticed? What if he pulled on the door, and it simply fell off its hinges, revealing Kaz Brekker, unhooded and unchained?
She heard another ping. Kaz cursed once under his breath. Suddenly, the door shook as the guard gave the chained padlock a rattle. Kaz braced his hand against the hinge. The crack of light beneath the door widened. Inej sucked in a breath.
The hinges held.
Another shout in Fjerdan, more footsteps. Then the crack of the reins and the cart surged forward, rumbling over the road. Inej let herself exhale. Her throat had gone completely dry.
Kaz took his place beside her. He shoved a hood over her head, and the musty smell filled her nostrils. He would put his own hood on next,
then lock himself in. Easy enough, a cheap magician’s trick, and Kaz knew them all. His arm pressed along hers from shoulder to elbow as he locked the collar around his neck. Bodies shifted against Inej’s back and side, crowding up against her.
For now they were safe. But despite the rattle of the wagon’s wheels, Inej could tell Kaz’s breathing had got worse – shallow, rapid pants like an animal caught in a trap. It was a sound she’d never thought to hear from him.
It was because she was listening so closely that she knew the exact moment when Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the bastard of the Barrel and the deadliest boy in Ketterdam, fainted.
