Jesper knew he should be mad at Kaz – for going after Pekka Rollins and blowing their first plan to bits, and for pushing them into deeper danger with this new scheme. But as he and Wylan crept along the drüskelle roof towards the gatehouse, he was too damn happy to be mad. His heart was pounding, and adrenaline crackled through his body in delicious spikes. It was a little like a party he’d once gone to on West Stave. Someone had filled a city fountain with champagne, and it had taken about two seconds for Jesper to dive in with boots off and gullet open. Now it was risk filling up his nose and mouth, making him feel giddy and invincible. He loved it, and he hated himself for loving it. He should be thinking about the job, the money, getting out from under his debt, making sure his father didn’t suffer for his antics. But when Jesper’s mind even brushed up against those thoughts, everything in him recoiled. Trying not to die was the best possible distraction.
Even so, Jesper was more conscious of the sounds they made now that they were away from the crowds and chaos of the embassy. This night belonged to the drüskelle. Hringkälla was their holiday, and they were all safely ensconced on the White Island. This building was probably the safest place for him and Wylan to be at the moment. But the silence here seemed weighted, sinister. There were no willows or
fountains here, as there had been at the embassy. Like the prison, this part of the Ice Court wasn’t intended for public eyes. Jesper caught himself nervously wiggling the baleen wedged between his teeth with his tongue and forced himself to stop before he triggered it. He was fairly sure Wylan would never let him forget a blunder like that.
A large pyramid-shaped skylight looked down on what seemed to be a training room, its floor emblazoned with the drüskelle wolf’s head, the shelves lined with weapons. Through the next glass pyramid, he glimpsed a big dining hall. One wall was taken up by a massive hearth, a wolf’s head carved into the stone above it. The opposite wall was adorned by an enormous banner with no discernible pattern, a patchwork of slender strips of cloth – mostly red and blue, but some purple, too. It took Jesper a moment to understand what he was seeing.
“Saints,” he said, feeling a little sick. “Grisha colours.” Wylan squinted. “The banner?”
“Red for Corporalki. Blue for Etherealki. Purple for Materialki. Those are pieces of the kefta that Grisha wear in battle. They’re trophies.”
“There are so many.”
Hundreds. Thousands. I would have worn purple, Jesper thought, if I’d joined the Second Army. He reached for the fizzy elation that had been bubbling through him moments before. He’d been willing, even eager to risk capture and execution as a thief and hired gun. Why was it worse to think about being hunted as a Grisha?
“Let’s keep moving.”
Just like the prison and the embassy, the gatehouse in the drüskelle sector was built around a courtyard so anyone entering could be observed and fired upon from above. But with the gate out of operation, the courtyard battlements were as deserted as the rest of the building. Here, slabs of sleek black stone were inlaid with the silver wolf’s head, the surfaces lit with eerie blue flame. It was the one part of the Ice Court he’d seen that wasn’t white or grey. Even the gate was some kind of black metal that looked impossibly heavy.
A guard was visible below, leaning against the gatehouse arch, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Only one?” asked Wylan.
“Matthias said four guards for non-operational gates.”
“Maybe Yellow Protocol is working in our favour,” said Wylan. “They could have been sent to the prison sector or—”
“Or maybe there are twelve big Fjerdans keeping warm inside.”
As he and Wylan watched, the guard opened a tin of jurda and shoved a wad of the dried orange blossoms into his mouth. He looked bored and irritated, probably frustrated to be stationed far from the fun of the Hringkälla festivities.
I don’t blame you, Jesper thought. But your life’s about to get a lot more exciting.
At least the guard was wearing an ordinary uniform instead of drüskelle black, Jesper considered, still unable to shake the image of that banner from his mind. His mother was Zemeni, but his father had the Kaelish blood that had given Jesper his grey eyes, and he’d never quite shaken the superstitions of the Wandering Isle. When Jesper had started to show his power, his father had been heartbroken. He’d encouraged Jesper to keep it hidden. “I’m afraid for you,” he’d said. “The world can be cruel to your kind.” But Jesper had always wondered if maybe his father had been a little afraid of him, too.
What if I’d gone to Ravka instead of Kerch? Jesper thought. What if I’d joined the Second Army? Did they even let Fabrikators fight, or were they kept walled up in workshops? Ravka was more stable now, rebuilding. There was no compulsory draft for Grisha. He could go, visit, maybe learn to use his power better, leave the gambling dens of Ketterdam behind. If they succeeded in delivering Bo Yul-Bayur to the Merchant Council, anything might be possible. He gave himself a shake. What was he thinking? He needed a dose of imminent peril to get his head straight.
He rose out of his crouch. “I’m going in.” “What’s the plan?”
“You’ll see.” “Let me help.”
“You can help by shutting up and staying out of the way. Here,” Jesper said as he hooked the rope over the side of the roof, letting it drop down behind a row of stone slabs lining the walkway. “Wait until I’ve immobilised the guards, then lower yourself down.”
“Jesper—”
Jesper took off across the roof, keeping low as he gave the lip overlooking the courtyard a wide berth. He positioned himself on the wall behind the guard.
As noiselessly as he could, he secured another section of rope to the roof and slowly began to rappel down the wall. The guard was almost directly beneath him. Jesper was no Wraith, but if he could just make the drop silently and sneak up behind the guard he could keep things quiet.
He tensed, ready to drop. Another guard strode out of the gatehouse, clapping his hands in the cold and talking loudly, then a third appeared. Jesper froze. He was dangling over three armed guards, halfway down a wall, completely exposed. This was why Kaz did the planning. Sweat broke out on his brow. He couldn’t take three guards at once. And what if there were more in the gatehouse, ready to ring the alarm?
“Wait,” said one of the guards. “Did you hear something?”
Don’t look up. Oh, Saints, don’t look up.
The guards moved in a slow circle, rifles raised. One of them craned his head back, scanning the roof. He began to turn.
A strange, sweet sound pierced the air.
“Skerden Fjerda, kende hjertzeeeeeng, lendten isen en de waaaanden.”
Fjerdan words Jesper didn’t understand crested over the courtyard in a shimmering, perfect tenor that seemed to catch upon the black stone battlements.
Wylan.
The guards whirled, rifles pointed at the walkway that led to the courtyard, seeking the source of the sound.
“Olander?” one called. “Nilson?” said another.
Their guns were raised, but their voices were more bemused and curious than aggressive.
What the hell is he doing?
A silhouette appeared in the walkway arch, lurching left and right. “Skerden Fjerda, kende hjertzeeeeeng,” Wylan sang, doing a
surprisingly convincing impression of a drunk but very talented Fjerdan. The guards burst out laughing, joining in on the song. “Lendten isen
…”
Jesper leaped down. He seized the closest Fjerdan, snapped his neck, and grabbed his rifle. As the next guard turned, Jesper slammed the butt of the rifle into his face with a nasty crunch. The third guard raised his weapon, but Wylan snagged his arms from behind in an awkward hold. The rifle dropped from the guard’s hands, clattering against the stone.
Before he could cry out, Jesper lunged forwards and rammed the butt of his rifle into the guard’s gut, then finished him with two strikes to the jaw.
He reached down and tossed one of the rifles to Wylan. They stood over the guards’ bodies, panting, weapons raised, waiting for more Fjerdan soldiers to flood out of the gatehouse. No one came. Maybe the fourth guard had been pulled away for Yellow Protocol.
“Is that how you shut up and stay out of the way?” Jesper whispered as they dragged the guards’ bodies out of view behind one of the stone slabs.
“Is that how you say thank you?” Wylan retorted. “What the hell was that song?”
“National anthem,” Wylan said smugly. “Schoolroom Fjerdan, remember?”
Jesper shook his head. “I’m impressed. With you and your tutors.”
They liberated two of the guards’ uniforms, leaving their own prison clothes in a tidy bundle, then bound the hands and feet of the guards who still had pulses and gagged them with torn pieces of their prison clothes. Wylan’s uniform was far too big, and Jesper’s sleeves and pants looked ridiculously short, but at least the boots were a reasonable fit.
Wylan gestured to the guards. “Is it safe to leave them, you know—” “Alive? I’m not big on killing unconscious men.”
“We could wake them up.”
“Pretty ruthless, merchling. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“I’d never even seen a dead body before I came to the Barrel,” Wylan admitted.
“It’s not something to be embarrassed about,” Jesper said, surprising himself a little. But he meant it. Wylan needed to learn to take care of himself, but it would be nice if he could do it without getting on friendly terms with death. “Make sure the gags are tight.”
They took the extra precaution of securing the bound guards to the base of a stone slab. The poor nubs would probably be discovered before they managed to get loose.
“Let’s go,” Jesper said, and they crossed the courtyard to the gatehouse. There were doors to the right and left of the arch.
They took the right side, climbing the stairs cautiously. Though Jesper didn’t think anyone would be lying in wait, some guard might be charged with protecting the gate mechanism at all cost. But the room above the
arch was empty, lit only by a lantern set on a low table where a book lay open next to a little pile of whole walnuts and cracked shells. The walls were lined with racks of rifles – very expensive rifles – and Jesper assumed the boxes on the shelves were filled with ammunition. No dust anywhere. Tidy Fjerdans.
Most of the room was taken up by a long winch, handles at each end, thick loops of chain spooled around it. Near each handle, the chains extended in taut spokes through slots in the stone.
Wylan cocked his head to the side. “Huh.” “I don’t like that sound. What’s wrong?”
“I was expecting rope or cables, not steel chains. If we’re going to make sure the Fjerdans can’t get the gate open, we’re going to have to cut through the metal.”
“But then how do we trigger Black Protocol?” “That’s the problem.”
The Elderclock began to sound ten bells.
“I’ll weaken the links,” said Jesper. “Look for a file or anything with an edge.”
Wylan held up the shears from the laundry. “Good enough,” said Jesper. It would have to be.
We have time, he told himself as he focused on the chain. We can still get this done. Jesper hoped the others hadn’t met with any surprises.
Maybe Matthias was wrong about the White Island. Maybe the shears would snap in Wylan’s hands. Maybe Inej would fail. Or Nina. Or Kaz.
Or me. Maybe I’ll fail.
Six people, but a thousand ways this insane plan could go wrong.
