Chapter Text
Excerpts from the letters between Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa, sent by increasingly convoluted methods over a period of slightly less than four years.
To the captain of the Wraith , hidden in the false bottom of a glass of Kaelish whiskey she’s never liked, courtesy of a well-bribed bartender:
The little spiders have been gathering names of bounty hunters. They’re almost as effective as you. Don’t be jealous, Wraith, after all there are four of them and one of you. There could only ever be one of you. The pub in which you’ll find this missive is a common haunt for many of the bounty hunters mid-journey, which I suspect is also what will bring you there. Make friends, and if you can’t do that, there are always the metals of persuasion—gold, silver, steel, and lead. You’re kinder than I, and better for it, so you’ll probably let them choose. If you see Renier Bennik, ask him about the feathers and handcuffs and he should cooperate.
To the head of the Dregs, some months later, delivered by the normal methods because not everything has to be a twelve-part scheme, Kaz:
Renier Bennik looks like a mulberry pie when he’s embarrassed. In other news, we’ve made an alliance with him and his crew, as well as two other bounty hunters whose ships are slower but larger and better-armed.
Also, Specht has a threat to his position as first mate. What she lacks in stature she makes up for in tenacity, and we’ve learned to look in the crow’s nest when we can’t find her. I thought you’d appreciate that. Someone painted a bullseye on the main mast and, after a near-death experience or two, she’s landing knives inside the target now. Eventually, Fionn is going to teach her to shoot. I expect someone we know won’t be pleased about that, though I imagine he can help her with the finer points when we return.
Whether or not she gets a promotion in the crew, I believe she would enjoy being included in your correspondence. Soon enough she’ll be able to read it for herself.
To the captain of the Wraith , written on an apparently blank piece of paper, rolled up inside the lock of a sea chest purchased for her by a mysterious donor:
Apparently being on the Merchant Council still leaves one with enough free time to make invisible ink. Not that I’m complaining. I’m sending the crew of the Bleeding Sunset your way. Their ship-naming skills might be lacking, but their combat makes up for it.
Tell your new crewmate that if she wants to hear from me, she’ll have to be more creative about sending letters than you are, unless you want someone else to suffer the consequences of discovery.
Or perhaps you can dissuade her altogether by telling her of me. She has seen enough of the world that my stories won’t scare her, but neither will they make me a hero in her eyes. She has the hero that she needs. Just as well. She should know the truth. Save your sweet lies for me, Inej. I’m foolish enough to listen.
Wylan needs to fix this ink formula. It’s smudging all over the place.
To Kaz Brekker, some months later, on the back of a shipping label arriving in Fifth Harbor:
Thank you for the ink formula. We’ve been in Novyi Zem, around the southern coast, so I’m sending this while we’re at port for a few days. I remember you complaining about the Ravkan summer; you would never make it here. I haven’t gotten sunburned so far, but Fionn is miserable, and you’d be worse. I miss your complaining. I’d gladly listen if only you were here.
Also, it turns out that Specht can sew. It came in handy when our youngest crew member shot a hole through the sail recently. She’s making bullseyes with the knives now, however.
I have a sense that something is coming, something big, something dangerous. The shadows are about their own business, my father would say. The last few ships we’ve come upon have been more prepared for us than usual. A few days in port are giving my crew time to recover, but the sea is a much bigger battleground than the city, and I can’t so easily discover what people know or how. I can listen in taverns and port towns and interrogate the prisoners we take, but I ask now that you’d be my ears as I once was yours.
Maybe I’m being paranoid and foolish. Maybe I just want to hear from you more often. But better to be paranoid than ill-prepared, especially with the cargo that the Wraith has to protect. I won’t pretend I’m not aware that my enemies know I’m coming. It’s better—better for them to name their nightmares.
And in a larger, sprawling hand (corrections made by the previous author):
Hi da. I can write my name now but Inej the captain says not to. I shot a gun yesterday.
To the captain and first-and-a-half mate of the Wraith, care of Colm Fahey:
I could have told you Specht can sew. He stitched Jesper up after a scuffle or two that went sour. Once he offered to tailor my vests, but he was drunk, so I didn’t completely invert his skull. You will, of course, be moving on from Novyi Zem when you read this, although I hope you made some conversation when you retrieved this missive; I struck a very solemn deal with the aforementioned Mr. Fahey that he would hold this letter for you if it would bring you to visit. It’s too late for warnings, but nonetheless I should note that he was intent on spoiling your youngest crewmate horrendously (as am I).
Speaking of, advice to her from myself: she may need to adjust her stance. There have been other unsolicited suggestions from the younger and far more bothersome of the Faheys, but I advise as one lacking his natural talents, which unfortunately we must assume she is also.
But to you, I say so much and so little, so much less than you deserve to trust your instincts. You hardly need my input or permission to do so, indeed you might be wiser without me, but do what you know best. The fastest way to steal a man’s wallet is the same for prisons and ships. Hit where the mark isn’t looking. Make sure they don’t look at you.
To Kaz Brekker, rolled up around a fountain pen, received after a significant delay that he insists he wasn’t worried about:
We’re stopping briefly by the Wandering Isle, which is where I’m sending this from; I daresay Fionn feels much more at home here. Our youngest crewmate seems to make friends everywhere she goes. The locals all adore her, and now she wants red hair. I don’t quite know how to break the news to her, but then perhaps I won’t. She deserves to keep some false hope; she deserves to be allowed. I wish we could have.
How are things on your battlefront? At first, one lead was uncovering another like a scavenger hunt or like knocking down those stacked tiles the clubs play with, and now it’s more like untangling a net. Every day my sense grows that they know more than I can get out of them. It reminds me of you, sometimes. Perhaps you’ll have better luck.
To the captain and first-and-a-half mate of the Wraith, shortly before the latter’s seventh birthday, hidden under the label of a bag of sweets that also contains a knife:
This was the most convenient mode of delivery, but if there happen to be any celebrations occurring on board that it might be useful for, do with it what you will.
There is a campaign on the Merchant Council’s table to tighten the restrictions on indentures and investigations into their sources, headed by he who is often incorrectly termed the younger Van Eck. Historically, they haven’t had any luck crusading in the Barrel, but perhaps they’ll make more headway with the aid of someone who’s actually been there. If there’s an investigation, it will make things worse for West Stave; they’ve been struggling for years now with a mysterious shortage of supply. Fewer diversions would also mean more pigeons tourists spending their time in taverns and gambling dens, which is probably not something that would be wise to mention to the Council but makes excellent motivation for those gangs who don’t hold much stake in the brothels.
This missive has two recipients. A note to the latter: blades and bullets take training. Past that, just punch till you see blood, and then once more for good measure.
Note: this last was reportedly not communicated to its intended target; however, she was able to later discover the letter and read it for herself.
That’s all the sage life advice I have to give—other than, don’t fall out of the crow’s nest. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.
To Kaz Brekker, a year or so later, tucked into the brim of a truly awful teal bowler hat:
I apologize for taking so long. I had to find the perfect hat. My first-and-a-half mate, as you’ve called her, approved of this one. She’ll be eager to see you wearing it when we return, and for that matter, so will I.
I’m going to keep this short. My suspicions of the slavers forming an alliance are gaining ground. If we return sooner than expected, you’ll know why, and if we don’t…you’ll know why.
If things get truly dangerous, you may find yourself with a new guest. I don’t expect her to be happy about it, but I’d rather she be upset and alive.
On the back of the previous note, written in an uneven scrawl (misspellings omitted for clarity):
I picked out the best hat for you. You need more colors. The captain says I might get to see you soon. Specht says she is scared, but I know she isn’t scared of anything. Wait till you see how tall I am.
To Inej, written in smudged ink and smelling of whiskey, lost somewhere in the True Sea before reaching its recipient:
Went to Jes and Wylan’s tonight. It’s been a while. I was thinking of you, like I’m not always thinking of you, you, you, Inej, you. I close my eyes and it’s you or it’s Jordie or it’s you floating in that damned harbor. I don’t remember how much coffee and whiskey I’ve had or which one I had last, not counting now, and this bottle that’s making a decent paperweight and a better comfort.
A while, too long, same thing really. I left the gloves here when I went like the fool that I am. You make a fool of me. I’ll gladly be a fool for you, but not like this. I haven’t crossed anything out yet, I’m too drunk to draw a straight line. Maybe kvas would be faster, but I’m not going to fall down the stairs looking for some. I’ve fallen too much today. Ever seen a stupid cripple try to walk drunk? Ever seen a wretched husk of a man land hard for you and never want to get up? You have. You’ve seen it every time you meet my eyes. Inej, my piety and my punishment.
I forgot to write what happened. Podge. That’s to me, not you—but you, my wisdom, you knew that. It was all right at first. They sang a duet. It wasn’t bad really, but I didn’t know the song. Jesper gave me a wineglass, touched my hand. It was bad, but I was fine, even if I wasn’t, I was enough. That wasn’t the worst thing. It’s not like I wasn’t thinking about it, about touch, about you, your hair, your eyes, your mouth, your hands, your laugh, your smile. The things that stop me breathing and remind me to start again. Kill me for that smile or kill me with it. Just be here. That’s all. That’s the worst thing.
I don’t even remember what Jesper did after that. Leaned on my shoulder, maybe. Something Jordie used to do. They have the same laugh, head thrown back and eyes shut.
I crossed something out after all. It looks awful, but I can’t look at his name. I can’t shake it out of my head, though maybe that’s just the headache or the fact that I’m so dizzy, but I can’t look at it. You’ll know, my wraith, my keeper of secrets, the secret of my heart.
All these names and I can’t write yours but once. It’s the only prayer I’ll ever make. Inej. Inej, Inej, InejInejInejInejInej. Come back and let me say it to you, say it until my lips are numb, gasp it as you remake me. Let me kiss the salt off your lips. Let me kiss the fear from your mind. Let me kiss you until it kills me. Kill me, and it would be all right. Let me have you. Let me tell you the hundred things I want to do to you. Do what you will with me, my saint, my salvation, my destruction, my rebirth. My darling, my love. I can’t love you, but I can’t do anything else.
If you send Jordan back to me, I’ll take her. I’ll take her home, show her the apple trees and the creek and buy her so many sweets at the bakery that you’ll scowl at me in that glorious way you do—because you’ll be there, too. We’ll be together, we’ll be safe. Just wait to send her back until I’ve pulled myself together.
I can’t believe in gods because of you. You would be a creation worth worshiping if I thought you could be made. But the world isn’t fair as long as I can love you. If there was anyone watching over you, they’d give you a better life, a better man, someone whole. You are too good to be created. I am too broken to be destroyed.
I left. They probably asked questions. I don’t know. I was gone. I was sick from the bodies first and the drink later. But I am sick with love of you, too. The waters can’t kill this fire for you that wants to burn me alive. Come back and let it consume me. Come back and take me for your own. Come back and be mine and sweeten my mouth with the taste of it. Come back and keep me alive.
Jordie wants to have his word with me. He’s been waiting this whole time. Come back and make him go away.