Jesper wanted to pace, but he’d staked out this spot on the bench, and he intended to keep it. It felt like little quakes of anxiety and excitement were vibrating under his skin, and Wylan seated next to him drumming frenetically on his kneecaps wasn’t helping him settle. He didn’t think he could handle much more waiting. First the boat, then all that hiking, and now he was stuck in a cell until the guards came by to make their evening head count.
Only his father had understood his restless energy. He’d tried to get Jesper to use it up on the farm, but the work had been too monotonous. University was supposed to be the thing that gave him direction, but instead he’d wandered down a different path. He cringed at what his father would say if he learned his son had died in a Fjerdan prison. Then again, how would he ever know? That was too depressing to dwell on.
How much time had passed? What if they couldn’t even hear the Elderclock in here? The guards were supposed to make the head count at six bells. Then Jesper and the others would have until midnight to get the job done. They hoped. Matthias had only spent three months at the prison. Protocols could have changed. He might have got something wrong. Or maybe the Fjerdan just wants us behind bars before he rats us out.
But Matthias was sitting silently on the far side of the cell near Kaz. Jesper hadn’t been able to miss Kaz’s little skirmish with the Kaelish.
Kaz was usually unshakeable during a job, but now he was on edge, and Jesper didn’t know why. Part of him wanted to ask, though he knew that was the stupid part, the hopeful farmboy who picked the worst possible person to care about, who searched for signs in things that he knew deep down meant nothing – when Kaz chose him for a job, when Kaz played along with one of his jokes. He could have kicked himself. He’d finally seen the infamous Kaz Brekker without a stitch of clothing, and he’d been too worried about ending up on a pike to pay proper attention.
But if Jesper was anxious, Wylan looked as if he might actually throw up.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Wylan whispered. “What good is a lockpick without his picks?”
“Be quiet.”
“And what good are you? A sharpshooter without his guns. You’re completely extraneous to this mission.”
“It’s not a mission; it’s a job.” “Matthias calls it a mission.”
“He’s military, you’re not. And I’m already in jail, so don’t tempt me to commit homicide.”
“You aren’t going to kill me, and I’m not going to pretend everything is okay. We’re stuck in here.”
“You’re definitely better suited to a gilded cage than to a real one.” “I left my father’s house.”
“Yeah, you gave up a life of luxury so you could slum it with us sobs in the Barrel. That doesn’t make you interesting, Wylan, just stupid.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“So tell me,” Jesper said, turning to him. “We have time. What makes a good little merch boy leave home to keep company with criminals?”
“You act like you were born in the Barrel like Kaz, but you’re not even Kerch. You chose this life, too.”
“I like cities.”
“They don’t have cities in Novyi Zem?”
“Not like Ketterdam. Have you ever even been anywhere but home, the Barrel, and fancy embassy dinners?”
Wylan looked away. “Yes.”
“Where? The suburbs for peach season?”
“The races at Caryeva. The Shu oil fields. The jurda farms near Shriftport. Weddle. Elling.”
“Really?”
“My father used to take me everywhere with him.” “Until?”
“Until what?”
“Until. My father took me everywhere until I contracted terrible seasickness, until I vomited at a royal wedding, until I tried to hump the ambassador’s leg.”
“The leg was asking for it.”
Jesper released a bark of laughter. “Finally, a little spine.”
“I have plenty of spine,” Wylan grumbled. “And look where it got—” He was interrupted by a guard’s voice shouting in Fjerdan just as the Elderclock began to chime six bells. At least the Fjerdans were punctual.
The guard spoke again in Shu and then in Kerch. “On your feet.” “Shimkopper,” the guard demanded. They all looked at him blankly.
“The piss bucket,” he tried in Kerch. “Where is … to empty?” He pantomimed.
There were shrugs and confused glances.
The guard’s gloomy sulk made it clear he couldn’t care less. He shoved a bucket of fresh water into the cell and slammed the bars shut.
Jesper pushed to the front and took a big gulp from the cup tied to its handle. Most of it splashed on his shirt. When he handed the cup to Wylan, he made sure it soaked him as well.
“What are you doing?” Wylan protested. “Patience, Wylan. And do try to follow along.”
Jesper hiked up his pants and felt around the thin skin over his ankle. “Tell me what’s happen—”
“Be quiet. I need to concentrate.” It was true. He really didn’t want the pellet buried beneath his skin to open up while it was still inside him. He felt along the thin stitches Nina had placed there. It hurt like hell when he popped them open and slid the pellet out. It was about the size of a raisin and slick with his blood. Nina would be using her powers to split open her own skin right now. Jesper wondered if it hurt any less
than the stitches.
“Pull your shirt up over your mouth,” he told Wylan. “What?”
“Stop being dense. You’re cuter when you’re smart.”
Wylan’s cheeks went pink. He scowled and pulled his collar up.
Jesper reached under the bench where he’d hidden the waste bucket and pulled it out.
“A storm’s coming,” Jesper said loudly in Kerch. He saw Matthias and Kaz draw their collars up. He turned his face away, pulled his shirt over his mouth, and dropped the pellet into the bucket.
There was a sizzling whoosh as a cloud of mist bloomed from the water. In seconds it had blanketed the cells, turning the air a milky green. Wylan’s eyes were panicked above his hiked-up collar. Jesper was tempted to pretend to faint, but he settled for the effect of men toppling
to the ground all around him.
Jesper waited for a count of sixty, then dropped his collar and took a tentative breath. The air still smelled sickly sweet and would leave them woozy for a bit, but the worst of it had dispersed. When the guards came through for the next head count, the prisoners would have bad headaches but not much to tell. And hopefully by then they’d be long gone.
“Was that chloro gas?”
“Definitely cuter when you’re smart. Yes, the pellet’s an enzyme-based casing filled with chloro powder. It’s harmless unless it comes into contact with any amount of ammonia. Which it just did.”
“The urine in the bucket … but what was the point? We’re still stuck in here.”
“Jesper,” Kaz said waving him over to the bars. “The clock is ticking.”
Jesper rolled his shoulders as he approached. This kind of work usually took a lot of time, particularly because he’d never had real training. He placed his hands on either side of a single bar and concentrated on locating the purest particles of ore.
“What is he doing?” asked Matthias. “Performing an ancient Zemeni ritual,” Kaz said. “Really?”
“No.”
A murky haze was forming between Jesper’s hands. Wylan gasped. “Is that iron ore?”
Jesper nodded as he felt sweat break out on his brow. “Can you dissolve the bars?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jesper grunted. “Do you see how thick they are?” In fact, the bar he was working on looked unchanged, but he’d pulled enough iron from it that the cloud between his hands was nearly black.
He bent his fingertips, and the particles spun, whirring into a tightening spiral that grew narrower and denser.
Jesper dropped his hands, and a slender needle fell to the floor with a musical ping.
Wylan snatched it up, holding it so the light gleamed over its dull surface.
“You’re a Fabrikator,” Matthias said grimly. “Just barely.”
“You either are or you aren’t,” said Wylan.
“I am.” He jabbed a finger at Wylan. “And you’re going to keep your mouth shut about it when we get back to Ketterdam.”
“But why would you lie about—”
“I like walking the streets free,” said Jesper. “I like not worrying about being snatched up by a slaver or put to death by some skiv like our friend Helvar here. Besides, I have other skills that bring me more pleasure and profit than this. Lots of other skills.”
Wylan coughed. Flirting with him might actually be more fun than annoying him, but it was a close call.
“Does Nina know you’re Grisha?”
“No and she’s not finding out. I don’t need lectures about joining the Second Army and the glorious Ravkan cause.”
“Do it again,” Kaz interrupted. “And hurry.” Jesper repeated his effort on another bar.
“If this was the plan, what was the point to trying to smuggle in those lockpicks?” Wylan asked.
Kaz folded his arms. “Ever hear about the dying man whose medik told him he’d been miraculously cured? He danced into the street and was trampled to death by a horse. You have to let the mark feel like he’s won. Were the guards studying Matthias and wondering if he looked familiar? Were they looking for trouble when Jesper went into the showers with paraffin sloughing off his arms? No, they were too busy congratulating themselves on catching me. They thought they’d neutralised the threat.”
When Jesper finished, Kaz took the two slender lockpicks between his fingers. It was strange to see him work without his gloves, but in moments, the lock clicked open, and they were free. Once they were out, Kaz used his picks to lock the door behind them.
“You know your assignments,” he whispered. “Wylan and I will get Nina and Inej out. Jesper, you and Matthias—”
“I know, nab as much rope as we can find.” “Be in the basement by the half chime.” They split. The wheels were in motion.
According to Wylan’s plans, the stables were adjacent to the gatehouse courtyard, so they would have to backtrack through the holding area. In theory, this section of the prison was only supposed to be active when prisoners were being processed in or out, but they still had to be careful. It would only take one wayward guard to ruin their plans. The scariest part was traversing the walkway through the glass enclosure, a long, brightly lit stretch that left them completely exposed. There was nothing to do except cross their fingers and make a run for it. Then they headed down the stairs and to the left of the chamber where that poor old Grisha amplifier had tested him. Jesper suppressed a shudder. Even though paraffin on his arms always worked at the gambling dens, his heart had still been hammering as he faced her. She’d been thin as a husk and as empty. That was what happened to Grisha who got found in the wrong place at the wrong time – a life sentence of slavery or worse.
When Jesper pushed open the door to the stables, he felt some small thing inside him relax. The smell of the hay, the shift of animals in their stalls, the nickering of the horses brought back memories of Novyi Zem. In Ketterdam, the canals rendered most coaches and wagons unnecessary. Horses were a luxury, an indulgence to show that you had the space to keep them and the wealth to care for them. He hadn’t realised how much he missed simply being around animals.
But there was no time for nostalgia or to stop and stroke a velvety nose. He strode past the stalls and into the tack room. Matthias hoisted a massive coil of rope over each shoulder. He looked surprised when Jesper managed two as well.
“Grew up on a farm,” Jesper explained. “You don’t look it.”
“Sure, I’m skinny,” he said as they hurried back through the stables, “but I stay drier in the rain.”
“How?”
“Less falls on me.”
“Are all of Kaz’s associates as strange as this crew?” Matthias asked.
“Oh, you should meet the rest of the Dregs. They make us look like Fjerdans.”
They passed through the showers and, instead of continuing to the holding area, turned down a tight flight of stairs and the long dark hall that led to the basement. They were under the main prison now, five storeys of cellblock, prisoners, and guards stacked on top of them.
Jesper had expected the rest of the crew to be collecting demo supplies in the big laundry room already. But all he saw were giant tin tubs, long tables for folding, and clothes left to dry overnight on racks taller than he was.
They found Wylan and Inej in the refuse room. It was smaller than the laundry and stank of garbage. Two big rolling bins full of discarded clothes were pushed against one wall, waiting to be burned. Jesper felt the heat emanating from the incinerator as soon as they entered.
“We have a problem,” Wylan said.
“How bad?” Jesper asked, dumping his coils of rope on the floor.
Inej gestured to a pair of big metal doors set into what looked like a giant chimney that jutted out from the wall and stretched all the way up to the ceiling. “I think they ran the incinerator this afternoon.”
“You said they ran it in the mornings,” he said to Matthias. “They used to.”
When Jesper grabbed the doors’ leather-covered handles and pulled them open, he was hit by a blast of searing air. 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. It wasn’t unpleasant. 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. He leaned in, already beginning to sweat. Far below, he saw the incinerator coals, banked but still pulsing with an angry red glow.
“Wylan, give me a shirt from one of the bins,” Jesper said.
He tore off one of the sleeves and tossed it into the shaft. It fell soundlessly, caught flame mid-air, and had begun to burn away to nothing before it ever had the chance to reach the coals.
He shut the doors and tossed the remnants of the shirt back in the bin. “Well, demo is out,” he said. “We can’t take explosives in there. Can you still make the climb?” he asked Inej.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“What does Kaz say? Where is Kaz? And where’s Nina?”
“Kaz doesn’t know about the incinerator yet,” said Inej. “He and Nina went to search the upper cells.”
Matthias’ glower went dark as a rain-heavy sky ready to split. “Jesper and I were supposed to go with Nina.”
“Kaz didn’t want to wait.”
“We were on time,” said Matthias angrily. “What is he up to?”
Jesper wondered the same thing. “He’s going to limp up and down all those flights of stairs, dodging patrols?”
“I may have tried to point that out to him,” Inej said. “Always surprising, remember?”
“Like a hive of bees. I really hope we’re not all about to get stung.” “Inej,” Wylan called from one of the rolling bins. “These are our
clothes.”
He reached in and, one after the other, pulled out Inej’s little leather slippers.
Her face broke into a dazzling smile. Finally, a bit of luck. Kaz didn’t have his cane. Jesper didn’t have his guns. And Inej didn’t have her knives. But at least she had those magic slippers.
“What do you say, Wraith? Can you make the climb?” “I can.”
Jesper took the shoes from Wylan. “If I didn’t think these might be crawling with disease, I would kiss them and then you.”
