Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.1

Inej

    Inej crouched low on the roof, her eyes on the docks far below.

    She knew she’d have to move closer. It was getting darker and darker, and the person who’d drawn the Wraith’s gaze and wrath had chosen an excellent night to move. A moonless night.

    Inej pressed the handle of Sankta Alina to her forehead, murmuring a prayer, then got to her feet, still keeping low but up enough that she could run lightly to the next roof over.

    She dropped over the edge of the roof and onto a windowsill below her, studying the tip she’d gotten in the dim light from between the curtains.

    Heleen was late.

    By three hours.

    Inej dropped to the street, making her way down to the dock where the woman’s boat was moored.

    Not a large boat. To travel to Hringkälla, the Menagerie had rented a seagoing vessel. This one was a smaller riverboat, used for the occasional floating processions for festival days.

    Inej studied it. The Peacock. How fitting a name. Heleen Van Houden was called the Peacock by anyone who discussed the Menagerie. The riverboat was built similarly to the Menagerie itself; a white painted exterior, the arches around decorated with gilded paint, gold bars on every window.

    A creak of the dock’s boards had her scrambling over the edge of the dock, clinging to the support beams, trembling; but it was simply the dock shifting with the water.

    Inej waited a long moment, then began to climb around and back onto the dock. She slipped one of her largest knives—Sankt Vladimir—from its sheath, using it to observe the reflection of the scene on the dock.

    No one was there.

    Inej returned Vladimir to his sheath, then pulled herself up and onto the dock.

    White fur, blue eyeshadow, red lipstick, and blond hair filled her vision as she was dragged fully onto the dock and to her feet.

    “I have convinced Tante Heleen to stay away—Sankta Inej, you cannot risk yourself in such a way.”

    Irina.

    The thick Fjerdan accent was unmistakable. Inej took several breaths to calm her racing heart. “Calling me a saint is blasphemous.”

    “But you are one.”

    Inej waved her hand dismissively. “Untrue. Irina, I’m trying to catch Tante Heleen in her—“

    “Trying to catch Tante Heleen in what?” Heleen’s haughty voice rang across the docks.

    Inej and Irina froze.

    Irina—beautiful, strong, proud Irina—ducked her head, as though escaping a blow. “Nothing, Tante.”

    Inej pushed Irina aside, placing herself between the girl and the woman. “Tan—Heleen Van Houden, I would like to buy Irina’s indenture.”

    Heleen smiled like a cat. “Developing a taste for Fjerdans, little lynx?” Her voice sliced Inej’s resolve. “Creating a harem, between the disgraced soldier boy and trying to buy mine?”

    Inej lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

    Of course, she knew what Heleen meant.

    Matthias Helvar.

    He’d been on Kaz’s job, springing Yul-Bayur from the Ice Court. Without his providing the plans, they’d have perished at the gate.

    “Well, one can’t hardly blame you.” Heleen stepped closer. “Fjerdans are quite fetching. If you come back in two days, I can sell her to you. I would sell her for what she is worth now, but… she will not be worth that much when we’re done with our… discussion about consorting with my ex-employees.”

    Irina’s fingertips danced across Inej’s shoulder.

    “Don’t let her take me,” Irina whispered. “Please.”

    Inej frowned. “I’ll buy her at a double rate.”

    Heleen shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t spare her tonight. I have clients counting on her presence.”

    Irina let out a whimper.

    “Exactly. They do love those animalistic sounds you make, my wolf.” Heleen looked pleased. “Like a bitch in heat.”

    Inej flicked Sankt Petyr into her hand, charging forward.

    Heleen caught her wrist, twisting it harshly, forcing Inej to drop the knife.

    Irina gasped.

    Heleen leaned in close, forcing Inej to her knee. “Do not ever attack me again, little lynx.”

    Inej opened her mouth to speak, but her breath was too short.

    “Perhaps you’ll wear my silks this very night,” Heleen said softly. “Or, perhaps, instead, I’ll sell you to the highest bidder. Remember Mister Farley?”

    Inej swallowed. She did. Farley was cruel and sadistic. He didn’t much care whose skin was under him, pinched and bruised by his hands. He paid extra to be allowed to do absolutely whatever he wanted to, short of ruining the girls; he was charged extra for every day that the girls he used required rest.

    He had asked to outright buy several of Heleen’s girls multiple times, including Inej.

    Inej brought her other hand sharply upward, sinking her knuckles into the base of Heleen’s jaw. The woman stumbled backward, and Inej picked up her knife, facing Heleen.

    “Run, Irina.” Inej didn’t look up. “To the Dregs’ Slat. Ask for Kaz Brekker and tell him Inej Ghafa sent you.”

    Irina moved past her as Heleen stared.

    Inej rolled her shoulders. “I’ll protect my sisters, Heleen Van Houden.”

    Heleen leered. “But it is not my wolf’s safety that had you fighting back, little lynx.”

    Inej shifted her weight.

    “It was your own.”

    Thirty minutes later, Heleen had been placated with half of Irina’s worth and Inej was one blade lighter. Sankta Vasilka would forgive her.

    Inej dropped onto Kaz’s windowsill, pushing the window open.

    “Hello, Inej.”

    The way his damaged vocal cords shaped her name was like music.

    It felt stolen. Her mind flashed with the two of them, Kaz and Nikolai, shoulder to shoulder on Fifth Harbor’s docks, and she knew that he was not hers; in this life or the next.

    “Kaz,” she said, as a greeting.

    Irina stood next to the door, her face devoid entirely of color.

    Kaz gestured to her. “I instructed her to wait there.”

    Inej stepped to the floor. “You don’t ever have to go back to her,” she said to Irina. “I bought your indenture.”

    Kaz finally looked up from the papers on his desk. “With your pay from the heist?”

    “Don’t worry, I bought a nice waterborne base for the Wraith first. She didn’t ask more than I could afford.” Inej didn’t mention that she hadn’t paid in kruge.

    “Pay with a blade,” Heleen said, her fingertips resting against each other. She knew what the knives meant to Inej. They meant safety, faith, hope in what her life could be.

    Inej lifted the one from her boot.

    “No,” Heleen said. “I want one from near your heart.”

    Inej stared.

    “Or… my wolf receives her client. And her beating. And, perhaps, a sale to Mister Farley.”

    Inej lifted Sankta Vasilka from the sheath just below her left arm, turning her over to Heleen.

    “Irina Wenzel is your problem now,” Heleen said. “Her indenture will be signed over tonight and delivered to your errand boy at the Dregs’ Slat tomorrow.”

    Irina tugged at the fur at her wrists, her fingerless and spotless white gloves having disappeared.

    Inej looked at Kaz. “Do you have a coat she can borrow, to get back to where I can procure other clothes for her?”

    Kaz’s eyes traveled over Irina’s frame.

    The girl was tall, but slender. Inej knew personally that the Fjerdan weighed much more than she looked like, but her weight was in muscle, leaving her with a toned and thin appearance. The white dress she wore hugged every line, accentuating her waist with cutouts along the sides and a peek through front. The white fur topped boots she wore were designed to make her feet appear smaller and daintier than they were.

    The entire outfit made Inej feel ill. Irina had spoken often—to only the other girls, of course; never to Heleen, and never when Heleen was within the golden bars of the Menagerie—of how immodest she felt, how exposed. Fjerdan women, she said, dressed modestly, with long skirts and high collars. Fjerdan men would know their parents first, and then the woman’s personality, and then on Djel’s sanctioned wedding night, the man would see the woman’s body for the first time.

    Kaz looked back at his papers. “My coat will not fit. Ask Jesper.”

    His shoulders tensed, his eyes shutting, his grip on the pen he held causing his knuckles to go white.

    Jesper isn’t here.

    “I mean Nina. One of Helvar’s coats might fit. Or… Muzzen. Ask Muzzen.”

    Inej stepped past Irina, walking down the steps.

    She wasn’t sure why she’d trusted Kaz with Irina’s safety.

    The boy was far from innocent. Inej knew from her own surveillance that Kaz led a double life, between the apartment in the Geldin district and the rooms in the attic of the Slat.

    But he had a certain essence about him. Cynical to the point of atheism and confident to the point of arrogance, but Inej had seen his way around dogs—she’d seen him, on one of the jobs he’d worked, when she was scouting him for the Wraith, stop and pet a pair of dogs. Not just an absentminded fingers-on-the-head, or even a scratch behind the ears, but fully knelt down, in spite of his bad leg, to scrub their bellies and talk quietly to them.

    Even if all he could see of Irina was the Fjerdan wolf girl that Heleen had built… Inej felt that Irina would be safe with him.

    Muzzen was all too glad to help out, but when he asked to see Irina, Inej bared her teeth and raised a blade, and he backed off.

    Inej returned to the attic, coat in hand. Kaz stood, his hands braced against his desk, as Irina looked to Inej.

    “Your friend here tells me that Heleen is sending her indentures to Hellgate prison,” Kaz said impassively.

    Inej nodded, and once she’d handed Muzzen’s coat to Irina, she took the slip of paper containing the tip and placed it on Kaz’s desk. “I received a message that said that Heleen would be taking her girls to Hellgate this evening.”

    Irina’s voice was steadier now. “I sent the tip. Then I heard Heleen talking about what she’d do to you if she caught you again, and I did my best to steer her away from the dock—”

    Kaz sat down in his chair again. “I’ve kept your girl for you, Wraith. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

    Inej nodded. “Come with me, Irina.” She opened the door, and Irina stepped through.

    “Inej.” Kaz’s gaze was still on his papers. Inej turned back to face him. “Tell Rotty and Muzzen I’m sending them with you.”

    Inej lifted her chin. “Someone other than Muzzen. I don’t trust him.”

    Kaz looked up. “You don’t trust my men?”

    Inej shook her head. “Not to leave Irina alone.”

    Kaz studied her, silent, then nodded. “Roeder, Pim, and Rotty.”

    Inej ducked out and closed the door.

1.1

Nikolai

    Nikolai followed the directions on the paper Kaz had given him, losing the First Army men in the crowd on purpose. Kuwei clutched his hand, hostility radiating as he stared at the people and places they passed.

    “Where are we going?” He asked in quiet Shu.

    Nikolai checked the paper again. “You’ll see.” He paused, then ducked into an alley, walking down it with his hand along the wall.

    Kuwei grumbled.

    Nikolai grinned, his hand hitting the handle of a door. “Come on.” He stepped through, then held it open for Kuwei.

    Nikolai tucked the paper away, pushing black curtains out of his way, then walked through another door, finding himself in a dimly lit hallway. He counted door numbers, stepping into dressing room number five.

    A man sat before a mirror directly opposite Nikolai, finishing his lipstick. He met Nikolai’s gaze in the mirror, lifting an eyebrow.

    “Brekker warned me that passage wouldn’t be free.” He finished his lipstick, then turned fully around. “Poppy Cox, pleased to meet you.”

    Nikolai nodded solemnly. “I’m pleased to meet you as well. Mister Brekker said you could hook me up with a man known as the Conductor.”

    Poppy swiveled back to the mirror. “Can’t.”

    Nikolai frowned. “Why not?”

    “He’s dead.” Poppy fanned his lips for the lipstick to dry. “Or, at least, wishes he was.”

    Nikolai furrowed his brow.

    “He got caught trying to assassinate the Sun Summoner at the winter fete.” Poppy eyed him in the mirror. “For a Lantsov, you’re very behind the times.”

     “I’ve spent the last few years in Ketterdam. Of course I’m behind the times. If you have no way to help me cross the Fold, I’ll be on my way.” Nikolai turned back to the door.

    “Wait.” Poppy pulled a slip of paper toward himself, grabbing a pen from a cup beside the mirror and scribbling on the paper. “I’ll be paid handsomely for assisting the Crown, correct?”

    Nikolai nodded. “Of course.”

    “On second thought…” Poppy handed him the paper. “I want nothing to do with the Crown. Run back to your nest, sobachka. Huddle down beside your mother. And watch out for the war to come.” The door shut in Nikolai’s face.

    Kuwei peered up at him. “Now what?”

    Nikolai studied the paper in his hand. Directions south, to Ivets.

    He took Kuwei’s arm, guiding him out of the theater. “Ivets. And, hopefully, a path across the Fold.”

    They arrived in Ivets the next day, and Nikolai led the way through the town to a small house. He knocked on the door.

    It swung open, and the smell of rotting carcasses was overpowering.  A little girl stood on the other side, staring up at Nikolai like he was the most novel thing to happen, then turned around and shouted into the house.

    “Onkle Arken! Visitor!”

    She disappeared into the house, and a heavyset figure approached.

    Nikolai’s eyes widened.

    The man had grey cracks in the skin around his mouth and eyes. His fingers looked as though they’d been dipped in ink and then held up, black lines running up onto his palms and forearms. Dark circles had turned the skin below his eyes purple.

    “How can I help you?”

    Nikolai peered at his paper. “I’m here to see Arken Visser.”

    The man moved to close the door, and Nikolai caught it.

    “Also known as the Conductor.”

    The man tried to force the door closed. “Arken Visser is dead. The Conductor never existed.”

    Kuwei stepped past Nikolai and into the house. “The prince of Ravka could absolve you of crimes, Mister Visser.”

    Arken looked hesitant still.

    Nikolai did his best Kaz impression. “Illegal crossing of the Shadow Fold, smuggling of Grisha and other items, attempted assassination, and murder are steep charges.”

    Arken stepped aside and allowed Nikolai and Kuwei to enter. “Fine. But it’s only because you’re the prince.”

    Nikolai grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

    A while later, Nikolai had introduced himself and Kuwei—“Nhaban”—and told the Conductor of his goal of traversing the Fold, in spite of his parents’ mandate of no one was to cross the Fold. He wasn’t clear on why. News traveled slowly across the True Sea, and no one he’d met had been very ready to provide any information. Everyone in West Ravka had been very tight-lipped.

    The Conductor told them to purchase coal for the journey and then meet him near the Fold.

     When they arrived at the designated place, Arken led them begrudgingly across a field. The entrance of the field held a sign, which read;

    “Danger: active mines underfoot”

    Nikolai watched his step carefully. Some of the mine fields from the old border wars were still active. As nonchalant as Arken seemed to be, Nikolai didn’t entirely trust the soil.

    A large locomotive rested on a set of tracks just outside the Fold. Kuwei looked apprehensive, but if Kaz trusted Arken…

    Nikolai wouldn’t be the one to question him.

    They boarded the train, and Kuwei handed Arken one bag of coal while Nikolai held onto the other.

    “Good, good,” Arken said, feeding some into the firebox and getting the train moving. “Now, stay quiet. We don’t want to attract adverse attention.”

    Nikolai grimaced at the loud clanking of the train. “Tell that to our friend here.”

    Kuwei studied the firebox. “Leave the coal chute open.”

    Arken furrowed his brow. “But the fire could spread—“

    Kuwei looked at him. “It will not.”

    Arken looked at Nikolai. “You’re the boss, Lantsov.”

    Nikolai shrugged. “He has a gift for flames. Leave it open.”

    Arken released his grip on the door. “Here we go.”

    The only light anymore came from the fire in the firebox. Nikolai shut his eyes, focusing on his hearing, listening for the volcra.

    The silence, but for the sounds of the train, was smothering.

    The silence being broken was not comforting.

    Volcra screeched, and Nikolai could hear the wind beneath their wings. Kuwei flinched as a volcra caught hold of the train.

    “Don’t worry,” Arken shouted over the volcra. “I added reinforcement after the last time a volcra tore through the—“

    “Excellent,” Nikolai said.

    Kuwei lifted his hand, pulling the fire from the box. “I’ll fend him off, you keep the train moving,” he said to Arken.

    Arken nodded, feeding more coal into the box.

    Kuwei flung the door open, sending up a flare of fire that knocked the volcra from the roof, then he yanked the door shut. The volcra’s cries grew farther and farther away.

    Arken took the bag of coal from Nikolai. “It’s a good thing you got the correct amount of coal,” he said, pouring more coal into the firebox. “The last group I brought through didn’t have enough to get past the break in the tracks.”

    “Excuse me,” Nikolai stopped him. “Did you say the break in the tracks?”

    “Yes. The tracks are unfinished. But I’ve built the train to be able to run on the sand. As long as we don’t shift the weight, it’ll find the tracks again.”

    Kuwei and Nikolai looked at each other.

    “What happens if a volcra hits us?” Kuwei asked.

    “Well,” Arken said, as the sound outside shifted from metal on metal to metal on sand. “Say a prayer to anything you believe in.”

    Nikolai found himself wishing he’d brought a Squaller to keep a sound barrier between them and the volcra.

    Kuwei pulled another bit of fire from the chute and held it dancing in his palm, his eyes on the roof.

    Nikolai braced his hands on the wall to keep himself steady.

    Arken grinned as the train clattered and clanked back onto the tracks. “Wonderful, wonderful. Just as planned.”

    Nikolai took a breath. “As soon as the Fold is destroyed, Arken Visser, you’ll be remedying the fact that the tracks are unfinished.”

    Arken’s grin faded. “About that—“

    The roof tore open, and a volcra screeched in Nikolai’s face. It caught hold of him, claws tearing through his shirt and cutting into his sides.

    It screamed as flames licked along its skin, and it whirled to face Kuwei, dragging Nikolai in its grip.

    His vision went white as pain arced through him, and then all he could see was darkness.

1.1

Kaz

    Kaz didn’t look up from his book as Wylan walked into the kitchen.

    “Feet off of the table, please, Kaz,” Wylan said, getting out eggs.

    Kaz placed his feet on the floor. “I have news.”

    “It’s eight bells and you’re in my kitchen instead of your own office. Of course you have news. Care for some eggs?”

    “I ate.” Kaz examined the head of his cane. “Where are Nina and Helvar?”

    “Don’t you know everything?” Wylan asked.

    “Not everything, evidently. She wasn’t at the Kooperom.”

    “She always gets waffles.”

    “Exactly.”

    “Maybe they’re sleeping in,” Wylan offered, getting out a pan to fry the eggs in.

    “Perhaps.” Kaz closed his book and set it down.

    Wylan turned to face him.

    Dark circles, darker than Kaz had seen on him since he’d left the Geldstraat the first time. Thinner than when he was working at the tannery and scrimping every penny. Kaz frowned.

    “What?”

    Kaz began to ask when the last time Wylan had slept was when the door swung open.

    “Waffles, please, dear, I didn’t make it to the Kooperom today. Too much to do. Such as Matthias, of course.” Nina sailed into the room, her gaze locking on Kaz. “Oh. You.”

    Kaz gave her a nod. “Nina.”

    Matthias shut the door. “Jesper still asleep?”

    “He should be, after the sleeping draught I gave him last night,” Nina answered. “Those eggs smell heavenly, Wylan.”

    Wylan turned back to the stove.

    Kaz tapped his fingers on his cane. “I’m leaving.”

    Matthias looked at him, and Wylan’s shoulders sagged.

    “Well, don’t let my presence hold you back,” Nina replied airily, hopping up to sit on the counter.

    “I’ve got a job. I’ll be out of town for a while. Don’t know how long, likely a couple of weeks.”

    “Breaking a man out of the Ice Court again?” Matthias asked coldly.

    “If only it were so simple,” Kaz answered. “None of you are on it.”

    “Which means we don’t get any details,” Nina supplied. “Truly, it’s a miracle you’re even telling us you’re leaving.”

    “Jesper will hardly notice. Wylan, if you need help with the company, I’ll get a message to Jordie and—“

    “I’ll handle myself,” Wylan said shortly, grabbing three plates and a mug from the cabinet, reaching for a potted plant in the window. Jurda blossoms.

    Kaz remembered the blossoms’ delivery. Inej had had the idea to make tea infused with jurda, based on something Jesper had mentioned to Wylan about jurda stems containing a calming chemical of some sort that could be turned into a tea. The jurda petals in the tea eased the need for the drug that had put Jesper in his current state, and the milk from the stems calmed him. Something Kaz would be eternally thankful for was Jesper’s resistance to jurda that he’d built, from growing up on the jurda farm.

    Kaz stood up as footsteps overhead proved Jesper had woken up. “I have work to do.”

    The others ignored him. In the weeks since they’d returned to Ketterdam, Kaz hadn’t spent much time around Jesper. Nina’s thoughts that he’d planned all along to give Jesper parem weighed on him. They’d known he wouldn’t stay. He picked up his hat and his book and walked out the door.

    Wylan followed him. “Kaz.”

    “What?” Kaz didn’t stop.

    “Are you going to say goodbye to him?”

    Kaz paused. “It’ll be easier if he doesn’t know I’m gone.”

    “He already thinks he’s the reason Nikolai left. You asked him to walk into a death trap—”

    Kaz turned to face him. “It wasn’t a death trap. We all survived. And we all risked our lives for each other. We all saved each other’s lives.”

    Wylan looked so tired. “What were you doing when Inej climbed the incinerator?”

    Kaz froze.

    Rollins spat blood onto the floor.

    “You’ll return to Ketterdam, Pekka Rollins, and you’ll owe me.” Kaz released his grip on the man, and he fell to the ground. “I’ll leave this cell, and the door will be open.”

    “When I was caught and kicked out of the Ice Court?”

    “I was stopping Jesper from panicking over where you were being held.” Kaz would not mention that he was also panicking.

    “Great. Thanks for that.” Wylan looked angry still. “You didn’t save anyone’s life, only did things that put us in more danger. We went in without a solid plan, it kept changing throughout the heist. Jesper did what he thought you wanted. He told me you said to make a plan to get himself out if anything happened. Trusted him to. This is your fault, Brekker.”

    Kaz stared at him.

    He’s not wrong, a niggling voice in his head said. You did all of that.

    Wylan raised an eyebrow.

    Go talk to him. What harm could it do?

    Kaz heard a small grunt of annoyance as he brushed past Wylan, then continued through the kitchen and into the hallway. Nina looked as though she was very carefully acting as if she hadn’t been listening to every word, and Matthias had a blank stare on his face.

    The mug on the counter.

    Kaz returned to the kitchen, picking up the mug of jurda tea, and walked back upstairs.

    He shoved the door open with his shoulder. “I hope you’re decent, Jesper.”

    “I’m always decent.” Jesper was sprawled across the bed, his ankles tangled in the sheets. Not a single blanket or pillow remained on the bed, they were all over the floor.

    Kaz got the idea that it wasn’t from bedroom exploits the night before.

    He held out the mug. “Wylan’s tea.”

    Jesper sat up and held out his hands for it, twisting the sheets tighter around his ankles. Anchoring himself. “Give him a kiss for me,” he said, taking a sip of the tea.

    “I will not be doing that.”

    Jesper drained half of the mug. “How are things at the university?”

    Kaz adjusted one of his gloves, then spoke quietly. “I haven’t been back.”

    “Oh.”

    Between stress levels and fights with Jordie—he was of the opinion that Jesper was a terrible influence, which was preposterous—and the fact that every time Kaz went anywhere in the University District he felt a strange twisting in his gut, and also the fact that the one time he’d run into Benny elsewhere in the city the boy had asked where Lula and Koja were—implying that Kaz himself was Ivan Gostov—referencing a Ravkan folktale that Nikolai had told Kaz, Jesper, and Benny once, Kaz hadn’t been able to bring himself to return to classes.

    Despite the fact that he wanted to discuss the updates on jurda parem with Professor Raedak.

    “Nina is of the opinion that my plan all along was for you to take jurda parem. That I would have you make gold or something.”

    Jesper’s eyes were on his mug. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that was your plan.”

    “I didn’t ask you to take parem. I have not asked you to do anything.”

    “Yes, you have,” Jesper took another small sip. “You told me to join the Dregs months ago, and all that led to this.”

    “You were going to get yourself killed, digging yourself the holes you were digging. You nearly did get killed.”

    “Well, I’m not dead yet, Kaz. That’s gotta say something.”

    Kaz set his jaw. “I’m…” he trailed off. Not yet ready to tell Jesper he was leaving. “You’re missed,” he said instead. “Around the Slat.”

    Jesper nodded, his eyes still on his mug.

    Kaz ran a hand through his hair. “Something on your mind?”

    Jesper was silent.

    Kaz opened his mouth to speak again.

    “Am I going to make it, Kaz?” The question was quiet, needy, a cry for hope.

    Kaz froze.

    “I’m not a doctor,” Kaz said. Jesper looked at him, anguish clear. “But I would say, most likely yes. You’re a crow. Resilient.”

    Jesper’s eyes went back to his mug, and he took a longer sip.

    “Inej freed another girl from the Menagerie. Ten days ago.”

    “Oh.” Jesper looked up. “Good.”

    “Yul-Bo is off to Ravka. Under a different name.”

    Jesper was silent.

    Kaz opened his mouth, closed it, then took a breath. “The Sun Summoner is missing.”

    “She’s probably off having a good time. I can’t imagine wanting to live in the Little Palace.” Jesper took another sip.

    “I’ve been hired to find her.”

    Jesper looked up. “Really? That sounds exciting. What are we getting out of it?”

    “The payoff isn’t set,” Kaz replied. “I’m going alone. My employer sent a ship to receive me.”

    “Oh.” The hope that had been visible in Jesper’s gaze dwindled. “Have fun, I guess.”

    He looked at the mug again.

    “I never have fun,” Kaz said. Smile. Please, Jesper.

    He didn’t.

    Kaz was beginning to understand Jesper’s constant restlessness.

    “You’re just leaving,” Jesper said, finally. “Without anyone.”

    “Wylan, Nina, and Matthias will still be here. I’ll ask Jordie to check in—“

    “ You will be alone. Because you miss your little prince. I guess you never really cared about the rest of us.” Jesper’s words were biting.

    Kaz’s instinct was to leave.

    Wylan would yell at him.

    Kaz would be furious with himself.

    “I don’t miss him,” Kaz said.

    “Just like you won’t miss me?” Jesper demanded.

    Kaz didn’t say anything.

    “Of course you won’t miss me. Or Wylan. Or Nina, or Matthias, or Inej. You only care about your brother and Nikolai. I was your friend long before Nikolai came along. Ever since then we’ve hardly hung out just the two of us. I’ve helped you through homework assignments and heists, finding places to lie low, lending you money that I didn’t have, so that you could ignore me and recruit the other pretty face. I’ve saved your life multiple times and all you’ve done is put us in danger. You don’t even trust me. Ever since I joined the Dregs everything I’ve done has been for you, but you haven’t even noticed. I don’t know why I was still trying. I just did something to save your ass that might kill me and you just want to leave to get more money and follow your prince. You don’t care about me and you never fucking will, because I’m just the annoying guy with a gambling problem who’s pretty damn good at shooting people you don’t like—“

    “I do care about you.” The words surprised Kaz nearly as much as they surprised Jesper. He hadn’t meant to say them.

    “Do you?” Jesper was still seething, his glare harsh.

    “I came here,” Kaz said. May as well say it all, while momentum is up. “To tell you I was leaving. Instead of leaving you in the dark.” Do not pin this on him. It’s not his fault. Not entirely. “…I began pulling myself away because Nina’s accusation made me realize that your—my—our—“ Words. Speak Kerch, Kaz. “My friendship is tearing you apart. I introduced you to Nikolai, to Nina, to Wylan, people that weren’t Barrel rats that you wouldn’t regret getting close to.”

    Jesper stared at him for a long moment.

    Kaz looked out the window.

    “I’m not finding Alina to chase gold,” Kaz admitted.

    “You’re not?”

    “She’ll destroy the Shadow Fold. Or, at least, control it. At which point Ravka will be united, or at least, at peace.”

    “Ah, yes,” Jesper replied. “Kaz ‘Peace’ Brekker.”

    Kaz’s lip twitched.

    Jesper pretended to wipe away a tear. “You’ve changed so much, Kaz. Off to bring peace after your reign of terror.”

    Kaz frowned.

    Jesper tipped back the last of his tea, then studied the orange residue on the bottom of his mug. “Bring me back some Ravkan biscuits, Kaz.”

    Kaz put his hat back on, adjusting it so that it sat sideways, like Jesper’s often did. “Be here to receive them, and I will.”

    Jesper nodded. “No mourners.”

    “No funerals.” Kaz walked through the door and closed it behind him.

    “Hello, Wylan.”

    Wylan followed him down the steps. “It went well?”

    “By your standards? Exceedingly.”

    Wylan grinned. “Wonderful. There’s eggs and waffles in the kitchen if you want any on your way out.” He went back to Jesper’s room.

    Kaz started to say, again, that he’d already eaten, but Wylan was already gone. Kaz shook his head and finished descending, then left through the front door, rather than go through the kitchen again.

Chapter Text

1.2

Jordie

    Jordie frowned, studying the papers in front of him.

    Maybe Raedak would host.

    He looked up as a knock sounded on his door. Kaz back already?

    “Just a moment!” he called, folding up the papers and tucking them away. Kaz would have unlocked the door.

    He walked to the door, pulling it open. “Mister Van Dillen!”

    Van Dillen smiled. “I see you’re doing well for yourself, Jordan.”

    Jordie nodded. “Well enough. Come in, please. Would you like coffee?”

    “No, thank you,” Van Dillen replied, moving past Jordie and into the apartment. “I heard you had gotten Pekka Rollins locked away.”

    Jordie grinned. “Well, once I provided the—”

    Van Dillen waved his hand, cutting Jordie off. “Details aren’t necessary.”

    Jordie’s grin faded slightly. “Alright.”

    “How is Kaz doing?” Van Dillen asked, touching his hand to a painting Jordie had commissioned of himself and his brother.

    “He’s up at the university at the moment,” Jordie replied, closing the door. “His friends aren’t so good. One of them’s down with a bad bug, and the other’s overseas.”

    “How upsetting,” Van Dillen said idly.

    Jordie usually felt at ease with the man. He’d been the one to take Jordie under his wing, go out on a limb and hire the farm boy on as a legal assistant. Jordie usually trusted him, but something felt off.

    “What business?” Jordie asked.

    Van Dillen sat down in a chair. “Well, as you know, the Barrel bosses do keep order exceedingly well down there. They nearly render Stadwatch useless.”

    Jordie nodded.

    “Wars between the gangs throw that order into chaos. And when, for instance, a councilman goes rogue and decides to hire Barrel thugs for a personal job using government money… things go downhill very quickly.”

    Jordie frowned. “What does this have to do with me, sir?”

    Van Dillen leaned back. “You see, two gangs are at war right now. The Dregs and the Dime Lions. The Dregs have their lieutenant, Kaz Brekker, and their boss, but the Dime Lions… well, they’ve got no one.”

    “What do the gangs’ disputes have to do with Kerch lawmen?”

    “When those lawmen profit from the wellbeing of a Barrel boss—”

     “You mean when those lawmen are paid off by Barrel bosses.”

    “You say tomayto, Rietveld.” Van Dillen shrugged. “All I mean to say is that, if the charges against Rollins were dropped, there would be a lot of very grateful people toward you.”

    Jordie opened the door. “You can leave, sir. I put Rollins away because I am not like you. I won’t be paid off.”

    Van Dillen didn’t budge. “Kaz isn’t at the University right now, Jordan.”

    Jordie paused.

    “He’s on his way. He received a message that Jordan was sick and needed help to even so much as get out of bed.” Van Dillen lifted his chin. “Dime Lions are waiting to collect him.”

    Jordie’s stomach twisted.

    “Unless, of course, I get to the drop point first and tell them to leave him alone. That their boss will be free.”

    Jordie’s mouth went dry.

    “You just have to make a decision.”

1.2

Kaz

    Kaz walked into the attic of the Slat and closed the door behind himself, hanging up his coat and hat.

    “Hello, Inej.”

    “Hello.”

    He turned to his desk, tugging his gloves off. “What business?”

    She stayed on the windowsill. “I’ve made an offer to Heleen for the rest of her indentures.”

    “And?”

    “She declined.”

    “Too bad for them, then.” Kaz sat down in his chair, scooting into his desk and taking out the report Specht had filed on some complaints at Fifth Harbor.

    “I want to take her down for good.”

    That got Kaz’s attention. “You haven’t yet. Why is that?”

    Inej shifted her eyes. “She had Rollins backing her, and so many merchants and government officials are patrons… they pretend not to approve of the brothels and the indentures, but they feed off of the money from the plucked pigeons, and they use those boys and girls all the same.” Her gaze was piercing as it fixed Kaz again. “I want to create a scam that will get the indentures out from under her and catch her in the act of finding more.”

    Kaz looked back at his papers. “So create one.”

    “I’m not as streetwise as you.”

    “That’s a lie and you know it, Wraith.”

    “I didn’t grow up in Ketterdam.”

    “Bloody good for you, then. My answer is no.”

    “Is it because I can’t afford to pay you and your crew forty million kruge?” Inej asked.

    Kaz looked at her. A brow was arched, a mask of superiority.

    A mask.

    No one came knocking on Dirtyhands’s door unless they were truly pleading.

    “I’m leaving, Wraith. I can only provide resources.”

    Her face shifted from superiority to surprise. “What?”

    “I have a job. I’m leaving Ketterdam again.” Kaz pulled a piece of paper toward himself. “Down the canal, toward Black Veil Island, is a gun and ammo shop called the Crow Bar. Some Grisha run it. Ask them for their help. Tell them Kaz Brekker will ship them back to Ravka for helping you.”

    Inej nodded, accepting the paper and leaping onto the windowsill. “Matthias Helvar may call you a demon, Kaz, but I disagree. You are a blessing.”

    She dropped out of the window before Kaz could correct her.

1.2

Nikolai

    Nikolai awoke to see the distraught face of someone he hadn’t seen in a long time.

    “ Madraya?”

    She smiled, though it seemed strained. “Sobachka.”

    Nikolai sat up and winced as it tugged on… he pulled his shirt up. Stitches.

    “We don’t have a proper Healer. They’re not to be trusted, your father says.” She touched her fingers to his skin, angry and red around where the stitches broke it. “I still think we could have found at least one loyal one.”

    Nikolai wrapped his arms around her. “It is good to see you, Madraya.”

    “And you as well,” she replied, gently returning the embrace. “Now. What have you been up to, my daring boy?”

    He grinned. “Chaos, ruining the Lantsov name, attending festivals, the typical.”

    She grimaced. “Sobachka. You should have written that you were going to attend Hringkälla.”

    “Well, if any of you were in attendance, I was intending to surprise you.” Nikolai slid his legs off of the bed. My old room. The paintings of seas and maps hadn’t been removed from the walls, and the ship in a bottle that he’d built rested on his dresser.

    “I would have preferred that you’d written.” She offered her arm, and he accepted.

    “I’m sorry, Madraya. I’d like to see Father and Vasily.”

    “You’ve been away for a long time.” The worry in her voice was endearing.

    “All the more reason.”

    They made further small talk as they traveled through the palace, neither one mentioning the illegal trip across the Fold, or the Inferni Nikolai had traveled with, or the shadow-crossed man who’d delivered him across.

    Just before they entered the throne room, the queen stopped him and adjusted his hair, then his collar, then fixed a rogue button.

    “Perfect,” she whispered.

    Nikolai knew he was far from perfect.

    They entered the throne room, Nikolai keeping an intentional fair distance from his mother. He paused the appropriate distance from the throne, bowing deeply.

    “Prince Nikolai,” the king said.

    Nikolai had not heard an invitation to rise.

    “Moi tsar,” he replied.

    There was a long silence.

    Vasily spoke to break it. “Welcome back, little brother,” he said, superiority dripping from his voice.

    Nikolai smiled. “It is wonderful to be back, Vasya. I’m surprised to find you in Os Alta. I thought you’d be in Caryeva for the races.”

    “I was. My blue roan had an excellent showing. But when I heard you had returned home, I wanted to be here to greet you.”

    “Kind of you to go to the trouble.”

    “The return of a royal prince is no small thing. Even a younger son.”

    His emphasis was clear.

    “We younger sons learn to appreciate what we can get,” Nikolai replied easily.

    The King got slowly to his feet, helped by a footman who scurried to his side and guided him down the steps of the dais. Nikolai frowned. His father was evidently unwell. So much more sickly than Nikolai had seen him six years ago.

    “Come, Nikolai,” he said, holding out his arm. “Come.”

    Nikolai offered his elbow to the king, while his mother clung to his other arm. Vasily followed them from the room.

    Once the door had closed behind them, the king turned to face him. “When I heard that you were attending the Hringkälla, son, I was sure it would be only a matter of time before you returned to us. Have you found yourself a pious Fjerdan wife?”

    Vasily sniffed. “A pious Fjerdan wife. They say he was in the company of a Kerch merch’s child and— and— a Suli acrobat.”

    Nikolai clasped his mother’s hand. “I must tell you all, that is not the most scandalous thing I have been up to.”

    She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Tell us all, sobachka.”

    “Well, I have been apprenticing with craftsmen while I have been in Ketterdam.”

    The king looked confused. “We would have heard—”

    “You would not. I did all under the guise of a man named Sturmhond.”

    “The same Sturmhond which Fjerda is chasing?” the queen asked, clutching his hand tightly.

    “The very one.”

    Vasily looked furious.

    The king pursed his lips. “What have you done, boy?”

    “I’ve—”

    “As though a war with the Grisha were not bad enough,” the queen moaned.

    “Send him away again, Father. The Southern Colonies, perhaps.”

    Nikolai cut them all off. “Alina Starkov is missing. My crew is looking for her. Ravka will be reunited—”

    “Alina Starkov is a wanted criminal,” Vasily said harshly. “She and the Darkling expanded the Shadow Fold to swallow Novokribirsk. Why do you think you had to resort to criminal enterprises to cross the Unsea?”

    Nikolai felt completely out of his element. “I—”

    The queen released his hand. “Don’t send him away, Alexander. He was only doing as he thought was best.”

    “I’ll intercept the whaler,” Nikolai said rashly. “I’ll get the Sun Summoner back from the Darkling. We’ll have her destroy the Fold.”

    The king threw out his hands. “Stop. All of you.”

    Vasily shut his mouth with an audible snap.

    “You will put the Darkling and the Sun Summoner both to death.”

    Nikolai frowned. “Moi tsar—”

    “You will. And you will not return to Os Alta unless you have his kefta and her amplifier on a silver platter.” The king waved him away.

    The queen and Vasily wouldn’t look at either of them.

    Nikolai bowed. “ Da, moi tsar.”

    He left the palace.

    First stop would be Ketterdam.

    If either The Darkling or the Sun Summoner were innocent of their accusations, the Wraith would know, and Kaz would be able to come up with a scheme to save innocent lives.

Chapter Text

1.3

Kaz

    Kaz stepped onto the gangplank up to the ship, then heard a voice call his name. He turned back to see Inej, Nina, Matthias, Wylan, and Jesper.

    Jesper looked tired, like the very time spent walking to the docks had exhausted him, but he had a large grin on his face.

    “We came to say goodbye!” Wylan shouted, keeping Jesper’s arm around his shoulders.

    Kaz let out a breath, making his way back down the docks again. No sense making Jesper walk farther than he had to in his current state.

    “You’re here. You said the word ‘goodbye’. Mission accomplished.”

    Matthias frowned.

    Inej looked at Jesper.

    “Does Jordie know you’re leaving?” Jesper asked, his gaze roaming up toward the city. “Seems to me like he’d have been here already.”

    Kaz set his jaw. “Yes, he knows.” Jordie had been oddly eager to have Kaz leave, when he’d approached his brother to ask him to check in on Wylan periodically. Kaz didn’t mention that Jordie’s check-ins with Wylan would also be Wylan’s check-ins on Jordie. “In fact, he encouraged it.”

    “Is Nikolai on that ship?” Nina asked.

    Kaz shook his head. “He should still be in Ravka. The turnaround for Sturmhond was already quite rapid.”

    “Are you impressed?” she asked incredulously.

    Kaz lifted his shoulders. “Rushing things isn’t always a good quality.”

    “I still think someone should go with you,” Jesper said, his focus still elsewhere.

    “Your opinion is noted,” Kaz replied easily.

    Inej offered her hand to shake. “Make it back, Kaz.”

    Kaz arched a brow, then shook it. “I will.”

    She held onto his hand a bit longer than he’d expected.

    Jesper’s gaze finally settled, though his hands still fidgeted, on Kaz. “Don’t die.”

    “Who could get the better of me?”

    Who could get the better of me, when you are all out of their reach?

    Jesper walked toward him, his hands ceasing their fidgeting. He threw his arms around Kaz, and Kaz tensed, feeling the old hurts; the scar on his palm, his leg—

    Jesper held on, and Kaz forced his muscles to relax, gingerly returning the embrace.

    He didn’t miss the smile on Wylan’s face.

    The horn aboard the whaler blew loud and hard.

    “Time to go,” Kaz said, prying Jesper’s arms off of himself.

    “You’ll be missed, Kaz,” Nina said.

    “Not too much, I hope. I’m no Lantsov,” Kaz said, turning back to the ship.

    He didn’t miss Nina’s quiet “Not yet, anyway.”

    Sturmhond stood at the bow, discussing something with a man with dark hair and a darker kefta. There was only one Grisha, Nina had said, who ever wore black. Kaz made his way forward to join them.

    “Mister Brekker,” the Darkling said, turning. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Including that you attempted to break Bo Yul-Bayur out of Fjerda’s capital.”

    Kaz lifted his chin. “Unfortunately, General, the man was dead.”

    “But you removed someone in his place.”

    Sturmhond looked at Kaz.

    Kaz kept his eyes on the Darkling. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. The man was dead. We did not break him out.”

    The Darkling lifted his eyebrows. “Did you not? Then I suppose Captain Sturmhond here has lied to me.”

    Kaz glanced at Sturmhond. The man looked nervous.

    “I don’t appreciate a crew that lies to me,” the Darkling said.

    “Then make your crew of priests and Saints,” Kaz replied. “Welcome to thieves and pirates—“

    “Privateer,” Sturmhond corrected.

    “We lie. It’s in our job description.”

    The Darkling caught Kaz by the jaw, yanking him forward. “You might lie to your peers, boy, but you will not lie to me. I am the Darkling, General of Ravka’s Second Army. I have hired you. Do not lie to me.”

    Kaz brought his heel down on the Darkling’s foot, then swung his cane in an arc to immobilize the hand the man had held his face with from the shoulder, stepping back.

    The Darkling looked furious, lifting his other hand and slashing out at Kaz, but the Cut he attempted was unfinished and Kaz spun easily out of the way of it, then darted in for a second jab to render both arms useless.

    “Do not speak to me as though I am a dog begging for scraps, General.” Kaz lowered his cane, leaning on it. “I am Dirtyhands. I am the Bastard of the Barrel. You have hired me, knowing what I am. Do not speak to me as though you expected any different.”

    The Darkling fumed, and Kaz felt his heart rate dropping.

    “We won’t need you before Novyi Zem, Dirtyhands. So until then…”

    Kaz’s vision began to fade as his eyes searched for the Corporalnik putting him to sleep.

    “Goodnight.”

    Kaz sank to the ground, and everything went dark.

1.3

Inej

    Once Kaz disappeared onto the whaler, Wylan turned to the others. “Why don’t you all come over for supper?”

    Inej hummed in assent. She could speak to Nina about the Grisha in the lower Barrel.

    She also vaguely remembered Jesper frequenting that place.

    “Do we have prior commitments, love?” Nina asked Matthias.

    He shook his head. “Not that I remember.”

    “We’d love to join you for supper,” Nina told Wylan.

    Wylan led the way back to the Geldstraat, Jesper’s hand in his. “I’ve been looking through my father’s old office.”

    “When Jordan Rietveld drops by, he intends to take a look at some of the documents,” Jesper said. “He’s a lawyer, you know.”

    Nina nodded. “Oh, I know very well that Jordan Rietveld is a lawyer.”

    Matthias gave her an odd look.

    “He’s the one who was working on your case,” Nina answered the unspoken question.

    Inej watched Jesper’s steps slow. “Why don’t we hail a carriage?”

    Wylan nodded.

    “I’m fine,” Jesper protested. “I could walk for hours.”

    “Maybe, but my legs are quite sore, and I would rather not kill them today,” Inej said, lifting her arm.

    A passing carriage slowed to a stop. “May I help you, ma’am?” the driver asked.

    “We’re looking for a ride up to the Geldstraat,” Inej replied. “Van Eck estate.”

    “Well, it’s a good thing second harbor is just where I’m headed. Hop in.”

    Inej swung herself up and into the carriage, offering Wylan, then Jesper a hand up. Matthias lifted a beaming Nina into the carriage, then climbed in himself.

    The driver snapped the reins, and they set off back to the Geldstraat.

    Inej took the slip of paper from her pocket, handing it to Nina. “Do you recognize the place, or the names?”

    Nina studied it. “The Crow Bar. Natalya and Emeriah?”

    Inej nodded.

    Jesper ran a hand down his face. “Why are you looking for them?”

    “I need them for a job,” Inej replied. “Kaz recommended them. They’ll be sent back to Ravka, if they wish, when we’re done.”

    Jesper peered at the slip of paper. “They’ve got a brother. Alexei.”

    Inej nodded. “Kaz mentioned that.”

    Jesper looked up. “Are any of us on this job for you?”

    Inej nodded. “Matthias, Nina, the Inferni, and I are going to break into Hellgate. The Hellshow has changed.”

    “In what way?” Matthias asked.

    “They don’t only face animals,” Inej answered. “It’s the Menagerie.”

    Nina looked like she might be ill. “What?”

    “Tante Heleen and Pekka Rollins have some kind of scheme running. Her girls are being used in the Hellshow as a sort of intermission.”

    “When do we move?” Nina asked, fury lacing her voice.

    “As soon as I’ve spoken to the Grisha at the Crow Bar,” Inej answered. “Will you help me?” She wasn’t only asking Nina. She was also asking Matthias.

    He nodded solemnly.

    “Excellent.”

    Wylan looked like he was still trying to wrap his head around it. “So the prisoners fight the girls? That doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”

    Inej shook her head.

    “No, Wylan,” Jesper said quietly. “They don’t.”

    Wylan frowned. “Then what—“

    “The champions are allowed to have their way with their choice of Ravkan fox, or Zemeni fawn, or a Shu serpent…” Inej answered. “The prisoners use them on the floor of the Hellshow.”

    Matthias shuddered. “In the sand?”

    “From the sound of it.”

    “Sweet Djel,” Matthias swore.

    “It’s a ploy for more money. Pay extra and you get to see the extra show. Heleen and Rollins split the proceeds, and get to know who among those who visit have which tastes.” Inej looked out toward the street, the buildings they passed. “I can’t leave it alone. It’s cruelty. It’s rape. And I won’t stand for it. They call it fair use, because the indenture contracts are signed, but you could not convince me for a moment that all of those girls knew what they were signing up for.”

    The others had fallen silent.

    Nina’s hand touched Inej’s knee. “You’re not alone, Wraith. We’ll fight with you for them.”

    The carriage clattered to a stop, and the driver hopped down. “Here you are, ma’am.” He offered Inej a hand to get down. “I’m just on my way to collect Master Farley. If you need anything else from me, by all means holler, alright?”

    Inej froze.

    Her mind flashed with silks, holding her and keeping her from defending herself against the claws.

    Farley liked role play.

    The lion and the lynx was his favorite.

    Inej shook, her shoulders feeling streaks of raw flesh from where his created claws dug in and raked through her skin, her neck ached from bites, nibbles, her wrists throbbed.

    Arms around her, lifting her down to the street.

    Nina’s voice in the distance, thanking the driver.

    The jingle of coins as Wylan offered the driver some money, the driver’s refusal and offer of a ride to the hospital. “Is she alright?”

    Arms around her again, closing around her, pinning her—

    Inej lashed out, blades in her hands, and red ribbons trailed as Matthias cried out in pain. She hardly touched the ground, fleeing into the house, climbing the steps two at a time, then through a window on the topmost floor and up the wall, onto the roof, onto the top of the chimney.

    Climb, Inej.

    “Yes, Papa,” she whispered, the handles of her knives digging into her palms as her grip remained tight.

    The carriage left.

    Inej paced around the top of the chimney, murmuring prayers to the Saints.

    It was sunset by the time she could slip down the chimney and rejoin the rest of them.

    Matthias’s skin was pink, freshly healed, where Inej’s knives had caught his skin.

    Nina looked determined. “We’re getting those girls out of there, Inej.”

    Inej nodded.

    “What’s the plan?”

1.3

Jordie

    Jordie walked down the halls of the University. According to the person at the front desk, Raedak’s classroom and office were adjacent to each other. Down this hallway, and then…

    Fifth door on the right.

    Jordie knocked, then pushed it open.

    The room was empty, save for chairs set at long tables to face the front of the room, which had a wide desk. The desk held several drawers, and behind it was a chair. In the wall nearby was a door. Raedak’s office.

    Jordie knocked.

    “Come in.”

    He pushed the door open.

    The professor folded a slip of paper. “Mister Rietveld! How wonderful to see you.”

    Jordie shut the door behind himself. “And you as well, Professor. Do you know Kaz’s classmate, Jesper Fahey?”

    Raedak nodded. “I do know him. He and Kaz and the prince are quite close, are they not?”

    “They are. Have you seen Jesper around recently?”

    “I have not.” Raedak shifted back. “I also have not seen Kaz.”

    Jordie stiffened. “You haven’t?”

    “No.”

    “Do you know where Jesper is staying?”

    “I believe Councilman Van Eck extended hospitality to him. The Geldin district is where he lives.”

    Jordie turned to leave. “Kaz was supposed to let you know, Professor, that he’ll be out of town for a few weeks.”

    “I thought he was already out of town for a couple of weeks.”

    This is a nightmare. “He was. And he was back. And he claimed to have been in classes.” Jordie had figured out very easily that Van Dillen had been bluffing when Kaz came to the apartment hours later, not ruffled in the least. He’d told Jordie he’d been hired on for a voyage, and that he wanted a break from the monotony of school. Jordie had readily agreed. This feud between himself and Rollins… if Kaz were out of the country, that would be a worry off of his shoulders.

    He only wished he’d known before he’d signed the papers Van Dillen had brought that Kaz had been in no danger.

    “Tell the Wraith that the first steps to Pekka Rollins’s release from Hellgate have been taken,” Jordie said.

    Raedak frowned. “Why have they been taken?”

    Jordie looked down, silent for a long moment. “They threatened Kaz.”

    Raedak’s face softened. “Then perhaps it is a good thing Kaz will be out of town. Go visit Jesper. I’m sure he could do with some company.”

    Jordie nodded. “I’ll go tomorrow. Thank you, Professor.”

    “You’re welcome.”

    Jordie turned to leave.

    “By the way, Mister Rietveld,” Raedak stopped him. “Your brother not only knows of the Wraith organization, but also has now worked with her.”

    “‘Her’?” ‘She’ could be any one of a number of people. There were a lot of those who worked in secrecy for the Wraith’s cause.

    “Ms. Ghafa herself,” Raedak said.

    Jordie turned to look at him. “Is the job for her? That he’s out of town on?”

    “I don’t know. Jesper might know more.” Raedak reached for one of his books. “Have a good evening, Mister Rietveld.”

    “You too, Professor.” Jordie left.

Chapter Text

2.1

Wylan

    Wylan opened the door. He knew what he looked like; his hair a ruffled mess, his lips felt swollen.

    Jesper was feeling much better.

    Jordan Rietveld stood at the door.

    “My brother asked me to check in while he was out of town. Wylan Van Eck, I presume?” Jordan asked.

    Wylan nodded dumbly. Kaz had said his brother would check in.

    Jesper had talked about Kaz’s brother Jordie. Even asked after him on the docks.

    Wylan hadn’t realized that “Jordie” was Jordan Rietveld.

    Which made Kaz the Kaz Rietveld that Jesper mentioned in periodical passing from University.

    Jordan cleared his throat.

    “Come in!” Wylan said, more cheerfully than he felt. “I’ll ask Jesper to come down—do you drink coffee?”

    Jordan smiled. “I’d love coffee.”

    “Great!” Wylan held the door open so Jordan could step through, then closed it behind him. “My plan had been to tackle my late father’s office today, but with company—”

    “If it would be any help, I can work with you on it,” Jordan offered.

    Wylan considered. “I’ll think about it.” He let Jordan into the sitting room. “I’ll fetch Jesper and start on that coffee.”

    “Thank you kindly,” Jordan said, sitting down on the sofa.

    Wylan left the room, going further down the hall to the room he and Jesper had taken up residence in. “Jesper.”

    Jesper stretched his arms out. “Coming back to bed, sunshine?”

    Wylan shook his head. “Kaz’s brother is here.”

    Jesper dropped his arms and looked to the ceiling. “Saints. I should go play gracious host, shouldn’t I?”

    “Not necessarily. You’re out of classes because you’re ill.”

    “Yes, but I’m better today than I’ve been.”

    Wylan smiled. Jesper had been doing better yesterday, too, which made today twice in a row that he’d had a good day.

    “Fine. Go play gracious host. I’ll get coffee going. And your tea.” Wylan stepped up to the bureau, grabbing a comb from the top and trying to make order of the mess of curls Jesper’s grip had left.

    He was failing miserably.

    Jesper’s slim fingers took the comb from his hands, combing through his hair small sections at a time, and creating small, tight braids out of them. He made six little braids, at different places throughout Wylan’s hair, then combed through the rest with his fingers and then the comb until it was no longer quite so tangled.

    “There,” he whispered, resting his chin on Wylan’s head.

    Wylan felt a blush creep up his neck to his face and moved out from under Jesper’s chin. “Thank you, Jes.”

    “Anything for my sunshine,” Jesper replied, then nodded to the door. “We’re hosts. Let’s behave like we are.”

    Wylan laughed, following him out of the room. They split ways, and Jesper went to the sitting room while Wylan went to get coffee going.

    When he returned to the sitting room, Jesper and Jordan were discussing something animatedly.

    “If the topic of discussion is how to commit the perfect crime, I want your mouth and ears closed, Jes,” Wylan said, handing Jordie the coffee and Jesper his tea.

    Jesper went strangely quiet.

    “Ghezen, Jesper, you were, weren’t you?” Wylan shook his head, looking at Jordan. “Just like your brother. Terrible influence on my—on Jesper.”

    Jordan laughed, sipping his coffee. “What can I say? Runs in the family.”

    Wylan tossed his hands in the air, then paused when the doorbell rang. “Your turn, Jesper.”

    “You’re the man of the house,” Jesper replied. “And I’m entertaining company.”

    “Shouldn’t the man of the house do that?”

    “Not if the man of the house has other business to attend to. Such as the doorbell ringing.”

    Wylan stuck his tongue out, and Jesper laughed, wiggling his ears.

    Annelies—the housekeeper that his father had had on staff, whom Wylan had decided to keep on when he, Jesper, and Kaz reviewed her indenture and found it to be lawful—poked her head in. “A messenger with a note for Jesper Fahey. It was sent to the University, but they forwarded it here.”

    “Who’s it from?” Jesper asked eagerly. Wylan wondered if it was from Nikolai or Kaz.

    “Colm Fahey,” Annelies said, holding it out to Jesper.

    His face went ashen.

    Wylan furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”

    Jesper stared at the envelope. “He doesn’t write.”

    “So?”

    “It’s either very good news, or very bad news.”

    “Assume it’s good news. Open it, Jes.”

    Jesper opened the envelope, slipping a piece of paper out of it, unfolded the message, and read it.

    “Well?” Wylan asked.

    Jesper looked up. “My father’s coming to visit.”

    “Yay?” Wylan was confused. Why is that bad news?

    “Not yay. It’s because the bank’s moved up the collection date.”

    “Which means?”

    “If I don’t pay the loan, they’ll take my da’s farm.” Jesper put the letter down, running a hand through his hair.

    “Would it help if I—”

    “You’re not paying off my debts, Wylan.”

    “Why not? You can’t.”

    Jesper gave him a look. “You’re not here to pay off my debts. Saints know I have too many debts to you already.” He held up the tea.

    “That’s not fair,” Wylan said. “I did that because I wanted to, not because you asked it of me.”

    “Well, I’m not letting you pay off my debts.”

    “What if you worked for him?” Jordan asked.

    “Good idea,” Wylan said. “Personal assistant.”

    Jesper nodded. “That would work.”

    Wylan stepped to the door. “If you’re still up for helping go through my father’s office, Jordan, Jesper and I can get a start on the personal assistant thing.”

    “What if I was a different kind of personal assistant?” Jesper asked suggestively.

    Wylan ignored him, opening the door and walking through it. Jesper and Jordan both followed.

    When they arrived at the doorway, the office was a mess, thanks to their periodical collection of documents they needed. Wylan hadn’t really gone through it yet.

    Jesper walked to the desk, picking up a letter opener and spinning it in his grasp.

    Jordan moved to the painting of Wylan’s grandfather. “Who’s this?”

    “Can’t see the striking family resemblance?” Wylan asked, moving to the desk. “Help me sort through this, Jes.”

    Jesper picked up an envelope and sliced it open. “Everything on the desk is boring.”

    Wylan gestured to the filing cabinet. “Fine. See if you can find something interesting there.”

    Jesper moved that way, and Wylan moved his hands over the desk, looking for familiar seals, images, shapes, anything.

    A movement out of the corner of his eye made Wylan look up. Jordan had swung the painting away from the wall.

    A metal door behind the painting had a lock on it.

    Jordan turned to face him. “Any chance Grandpa Van Eck is hiding some secrets that’ll help?”

    Wylan shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to get Kaz in to pick the lock. I can’t get into it.”

    Jordan studied it as Wylan and Jesper returned to the desk and filing cabinet.

    Wylan heard him tapping on the metal, knocking on it, and rubbing his fingernails along it.

    He looked up, ready to tell Jordan to move on and find something else to do.

    “Why not burn through it?” Jordan asked.

    Jesper laughed. “It’s not wooden, Jordie.”

    “With acid,” Wylan said, moving around the desk. “That’s a good thought. How thick is the metal?”

    “I’d say it’s likely a centimeter. Maybe two.”

    “I’ve got some that’ll work,” Wylan said, moving toward the door. “Stay here.”

    He went back to his and Jesper’s room, into the closet, and removed his satchel. It still had some of the odd explosive and corrosive chemicals in vials that he’d used on jobs for Kaz, though he hadn’t used any of them since the Ice Court.

    He dug through, finding the vial he was looking for, his gloves, and his goggles, and returned to the office. He put his goggles over his eyes, tugged his gloves on, and reached forward, putting a bit of the acid on the lock.

    It hissed, then fell silent as the metal melted. Wylan capped the vial, then tugged the door open.

    “There,” he said, backing up. “Just don’t touch the lock.”

    Jordan reached inside, taking out a sheaf of papers and thumbing through. “Who’s Marya Hendriks?”

    Wylan paused. “My mother.”

    “Saint Hilde?”

    “Her burial site.” Wylan turned back to the desk. “If that’s all that’s there—”

    Jordie furrowed his brow. “The Church of Saint Hilde doesn’t have a graveyard.”

    “How do you know?” Wylan asked.

    “Olendaal is near Lij, where I grew up. I had an aunt who lived at Saint Hilde. It’s a mental asylum.” Jordan’s eyes hadn’t left the paper.

    “You’re too young to go.”

    “You’ll cry and look like a child.”

    “No, Wylan.”

    “She would not want you there.”

    Wylan heard all these reasons and more for why he would not be allowed to attend his mother’s funeral, and finally gave up. His father sent out servants occasionally to Olendaal, to refresh the flowers, he said.

    If the church wasn’t a burial site, but an asylum, was his mother insane? Was that why he hadn’t been allowed to visit?

    “I love you, my little ray of sunshine.”

    Hands ruffled his hair, deft fingers moving alongside his at the piano. Duets, improvisation, flute and piano and her voice.

    Wylan set his flute down for months, the lid of the keys sat closed. Grief struck the household. His father kept his distance.

    Wylan lifted his flute once again, let the songs go up to the heavens so his mother could hear them again.

    He’d been playing the wrong tune.

    “I have to visit her.”

    The words broke the silence, and Jesper turned from the cabinet. “My father’s—”

    “My mother is in a mental hospital, Jesper.”

    “And my father is on his way, expecting me to be here to meet him.”

    “My mother is trapped!”

    “And my father has legal troubles that are my fault!”

    Wylan clutched the edge of the desk. “I’ll go to Olendaal. You stay here and receive your father.”

    Jesper looked strained. “I can’t face him alone, Wylan. Look at what’s become of me. I can hardly climb a set of stairs, I’m broke, I’ve gambled away every bit of money he’s sent—”

    “So get Nina’s help,” Wylan answered. “Matthias. Jordan. You’ve built a safety net of friendship. I’m not the only person in your life. Stop acting as though I am.”

    Jesper looked stricken.

    “Wylan—” Jordan began.

    “I’ll go pack.” Wylan turned and left the room before the look of despair on Jesper’s face could make him turn back.

2.1

Nikolai

    Vasily had told him that he wasn’t to take one of his brother’s prized roans, so Nikolai hadn’t. The horse he’d chosen was a piebald pony with crooked ears, whom the groom had declared to be called Punchline.

    The pony was calm, far from the prettiest horse in the stables, but pretty horses could be reserved for firstborn princes.

    His mother had insisted upon a retinue of First Army guards, though Nikolai knew if Grisha did decide to attack they would be little help. All the same, it was a bit of a relief to have some of those who’d served with him in those two years he’d served in the army.

    Sergeant Pechkin rode up beside him, staying just behind. “It’s good to see you, moi tsarevitch.”

    “‘Sir’ will do, sergeant.” Nikolai turned in his saddle slightly. “I remember you from the Halmhend campaign. Leg must have healed nicely for you to be able to ride again.”

    “Yes, sir,” he replied. “Only bothers me when it rains.”

    Nikolai smiled. “Then I imagine the Fjerdans pray daily for storms. You put quite a few of them out of their misery, if I recall.”

    “I seem to remember you doing the same, sir,” said the sergeant with a grin.

    When they stopped for the evening in a small town west of Poliznaya, Nikolai faced the men who’d followed him. “I intend to cross the Shadow Fold. I do not expect you all to cross with me.”

    Pechkin lifted his chin. “Sir, the orders from—“

    Nikolai held up his hand. “The orders will be worth nothing if we all become volcra food.”

    Several soldiers looked to be relieved. Nikolai turned to Pechkin. “Do we know of any Grisha who have ignored the Darkling’s revolt? Any who stand against him, with Ravka?”

    Pechkin looked hesitant. “I can think of a few who I would trust. But the king—”

    “The king is not here. Where are they?”

    “Well, there are a few Grisha who went into hiding when the Darkling expanded the Unsea. I helped them. Nadia and Adrik Zhabin, and a Fabrikator named Leoni Hilli. A Heartrender named Sergei. A Healer named Maxim. A few Inferni.” Pechkin lowered his voice. “They’ve found sanctuary with Duke Keramsov. I will travel with you to Keramzin.”

    Nikolai considered, then nodded. “Tell the rest of the retinue my father has sent that they may take time off.”

    Pechkin nodded, turning to the rest of the unit as Nikolai rubbed down Punchline. The regiment split, and Pechkin returned to Nikolai’s side.

    “They are all glad not to travel the Fold, sir.”

    Nikolai nodded. “I don’t blame them. We’ll have to turn west southwest in order to swing through Keramzin. You’re sure that’s where the Grisha are?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    They would need those Grisha in order to cross the Shadow Fold. “Then we travel to Keramzin in the morning. I’ll take the first watch, sergeant. Get some sleep.”

    “Danke, moi tsarevitch.”

    They traveled all the next day, then stopped in another village northeast of their destination. By the third day of travel, Nikolai was about ready to see the roof of the duke’s estate.

    They crested a hill, and Pechkin shaded his gaze with his hand. “There she is. Keramzin, home of one of the most generous nobles in Ravka. Or most crafty.”

    Nikolai started his way down the slope. “If he keeps the Grisha from those who would hurt them, they’ll feel indebted to him. If the Darkling advances, he’s got a line of Grisha to defend his retreat.”

    “Thought a lot about what you’d do with a line of Grisha, have you, sir?”

    Nikolai tossed a grin over his shoulder. “If I had a line of Grisha, sergeant, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

    Pechkin chuckled and followed him down toward the village.

    A prince, even a second son, was not the most common of sightings in Keramzin. Men and women poked their heads out of windows, and children raced along with them in such clumps that Nikolai and Pechkin had to slow their horses quite a bit to keep from stepping on them.

    The gates of the estate itself had Keramsov’s orphans lining it like a blanket. The tallest of the boys pulled it open, then offered to take Punchline’s reins. A bold girl offered her hand to Nikolai. He accepted it as he got down off of his horse.

    “See that, sergeant? The duke’s welcome committee is quite extravagant. It is an honor to be served by such lovely hosts.”

    The girl blushed, and the boy puffed out his chest in pride.

    “Bosko, Vanya, go tell the Duke that we have a visit from the tsarevitch,” the boy who’d taken Punchline ordered.

    Two of the other boys broke off from the flock, and Pechkin climbed down from his own horse.

    One of the two boys came scrambling back across the courtyard. “The duke says he wants to see you immediately, moi tsarevitch.” The kid looked ecstatic.

    Nikolai lifted his chin. “Then if you would do me the honor of leading me to him, dear sir, I would be indebted.”

    He grinned. “Follow me, moi tsarevitch.”

    Nikolai nodded his head for Pechkin to follow. “Take care of Punchline for me, please.” He patted Punchline’s nose, speaking to the boy who’d taken his reins.

    The boy nodded solemnly, and Nikolai and Pechkin followed the orphan into the house.

    The halls were beautiful, though quite bare, and having seen the number of children and remembering holes in ceilings, burnt tapestries, and shattered ceramics just from himself, Vasily, and Dominik, Nikolai could figure why. The boy, who announced himself to be called Vanya, led them through hallway after hallway until they reached an ornate door with a clearly complicated locking mechanism. He knocked, and the other boy from the courtyard—whom Nikolai could gather was named Bosko—opened it.

    “Right this way,” he said, allowing Nikolai and Pechkin to pass him, then departed down the hall.

    Duke Keramsov’s office was lavishly decorated, much more so than the halls of the estate. He stood as Nikolai walked in, bowing deeply. “Moi tsarevitch.”

    Nikolai gave him a nod. “Duke Keramsov. I understand you are granting sanctuary to a group of Grisha.”

    The duke paled. “Moi tsarevitch, I—”

    “I am not here to arrest you,” Nikolai said. “Merely to petition these Grisha for their assistance.”

    Vanya stepped forward, and the duke held up his hand. “Moi tsarevitch—”

    “I brought them to you and made the request, your grace,” Pechkin said. “If you cannot trust him, trust me. I will vouch for him.”

    The duke considered, then finally sank into his seat. “Adrik, show them to the rest.”

    Vanya—Adrik?—gave a short bow. “Your grace.” He turned to Nikolai. “Follow me, moi tsarevitch.”

    Nikolai and Pechkin followed him, out of the office and down another hallway. Adrik paused before a hidden door, running his hand over it. It gave way and opened, and Adrik led them through.

    The room beyond was cavernous and well-lit. Pieces of furniture were scattered throughout the room, and on his second glance, Nikolai spotted doors set into the walls.

    A girl who looked remarkably similar to Vanya reclined on one of the couches, keeping a slip of paper aloft over her hand like a balancing game.

    “Nadia,” Vanya said. “Prince Nikolai is here.”

    She bolted to her feet, lifting her hands defensively. “Sergei!”

    Nikolai put his hands in the air. One strong gust, and he would be flush against the wall, perhaps with a concussion or a broken neck. “I am not here to arrest you.”

    Others poked their heads from behind the doors. One dark haired boy in a red kefta with black embroidery stepped into the room, his hands lifted threateningly. “What are you here for, moi tsarevitch?”

    Nikolai could have mentioned that their threats could be construed as treason, but he decided against it. “I am here to request your assistance. Your cooperation with me would end in pardons for abandoning your post within the Little Palace.”

    Nadia and Sergei exchanged a glance.

    “I need Squallers and Inferni to assist in my crossing of the Shadow Fold.”

    Sergei’s gaze hardened. “So that my Grisha can die by your side, moi tsarevitch?”

    Nikolai lifted his shoulders. “Die in a gilded cave, die on the Shadow Fold… what’s the difference, other than easing boredom?”

    Vanya looked fierce. “I’m going.”

    Nadia gasped. “No! You’re staying here, Adrik.”

    Sergei still looked impassive. “I will not send my Grisha to their death, moi tsarevitch.”

    “So ask them. I would not order them to go. But give them a chance to consider their options. Here, they are sitting ducks, waiting for the next Shu raid, the next First Army vengeance.”

    Sergei lifted his hand. “By all means. Harshaw, Marie, Stigg, will you accompany the prince across the Fold?”

    One of the doors opened, and two men walked through. One was tall and rangy, a cat curled around his shoulder, a shock of red hair crowning his head. The other was short and stocky, with nearly white blond hair. He reminded Nikolai of Matthias.

    “I will,” the shorter one replied, and Nikolai’s suspicion was confirmed with his Fjerdan accent.

    The redhead looked to the cat on his shoulder, then nodded. “Oncat says yes.”

    The Fjerdan glowered.

    A girl in a blue kefta, scarlet embroidery showing her status as Inferni, appeared less confident. “I don’t know.”

    Nikolai touched Adrik’s shoulder. “Between this one and the Inferni, that should be enough. Thank you.”

    Nadia dropped her hands. “Adrik, you’re staying here. I’ll go.”

    The girl with scarlet embroidery looked far more confident. “I’ll go, too.”

    Adrik tensed. “I’m going, Nadia.”

    Sergei rubbed his temples. “We’ll all go. Saints know we could use the exercise.”

    Nadia glowered, Adrik looked pleased, and Marie looked afraid.

    “Where are Maxim and Leoni, Sergei?” Pechkin asked.

    “They’ll not go,” Sergei said. “A Healer and a Fabrikator have no place on the Shadow Fold.”

    “Fine,” Nikolai said, ending the argument. “Maxim and Leoni stay here. The rest of you will go. Prepare yourselves to leave. I’ll speak with the duke.”

    He turned to leave the room, and Nadia followed him. “Adrik is staying.”

    Nikolai didn’t turn. “I gave him the option and he chose to go.”

    “Forbid him.”

    “I will not.” Nikolai turned to her. “This country is on the verge of war, Nadia. The sooner we cross the Fold, the better. I need two Squallers.”

    She set her jaw. “You can have one. Me or him.”

    “I’ll take the one who wants to go. You evidently do not. How old is he?”

    “Twelve.”

    “How long has he spent in training at the Little Palace?”

    “Nine years.”

    “Wonderful. Nine years more experience with the wind than I have.” Nikolai softened his tone. “Nadia, I will personally smite any volcra that dare to come near him.”

   “Four years less experience than I have. You’re choosing between him and me, moi tsarevitch.”

    “He wants to go. You do not. I will keep him safe and deliver him home, Nadia.”

    She dipped her chin. “Da, moi tsarevitch.” She turned and walked back to the Grishas’ room. “You will have one Squaller to cross the Unsea with.”

    Nikolai returned to the duke’s office.

    The man had been surprised that the Grisha had agreed, but he appeared glad that some were staying. Nikolai met the Grisha at the gate. Nadia didn’t come to the gate.

    The duke was generous enough to provide them with horses from his own stables. Nikolai surveyed his crew. His otkazats’ya sergeant. Sergei, the Heartrender. Adrik the Squaller. Marie, Harshaw, and Stigg, the Inferni.

    They set off, and the orphans waved until they were out of sight.

    As soon as they were out of earshot of anyone within the town’s borders, Nikolai curved Punchline around to ride in the midst of the crew. “The plan is to ride through the Fold. My compass will keep us traveling due west, and we’ll follow the Obol River through. Even if it’s dry, the gully should be defined enough to follow. It will also be a narrower portion of the Fold than traveling from Kribirsk to Novokribirsk.”

    “I can make an acoustic blanket,” Adrik offered helpfully. “The volcra won’t be able to hear us unless they come very close.”

    Nikolai nodded. “That will be helpful. If the river is dry within the Fold, we’ll cross in the gully. If not, we’ll cross at Ivets, then go north to Os Kervo.”

    Sergei lifted his chin. “All we’re here to do is help you cross the Fold, moi tsarevitch.”

    Nikolai nodded. “And you are welcome to turn back as soon as I am in West Ravka.”

    Sergei looked unconvinced, but the others looked indifferent.

    As they arrived near the Shadow Fold and began to set up camp for the night, Nikolai felt his stomach churn. The last time he’d been inside, he’d nearly been torn to shreds. All he could figure was that Kuwei had fought off the volcra and gotten them to safety.

    Nikolai turned to Pechkin. “Do you know what happened to my friend Nhaban? The Inferni I was traveling with?”

    Pechkin shrugged. “I’m sorry, moi tsarevitch. The king said that for assuring your safety, he would purchase safe travel for Nhaban anywhere he wished to go. So he left.”

    Nikolai nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to the others. “Someone has been following us all day. Defensive positions.”

    They all whirled to face the road, Sergei moving to the front and bracing his hands, while Adrik, Harshaw, Stigg, and Marie bracketed him. Pechkin took the rifle from his back and braced it with his shoulder.

    A girl stepped from behind a large stone, her hands lifted and spread wide. Her kefta was blue, with silver embroidery. Her dark hair was tied back with a deep blue ribbon.

    “Stop my heart, Sergei Beznikov, and I will send you away on a gust directly into the Ice Court.”

    Sergei dropped his hands, as did the Inferni and Adrik.

    Marie raced forward. “Zoya!” She embraced the Squaller.

    Nikolai nodded to Pechkin, who lowered his rifle.

    “I believe introductions are in order. I am Nikolai Lantsov. And you are?”

    The Squaller patted Marie on the back. “Zoya Nazyalensky.”

    Sergei eyed her distrustfully. “How do we know the Darkling isn’t right behind you, ready to swallow us with shadow?”

    Zoya rolled her eyes. “Because he destroyed Novokribirsk. I had family there. I stand with those who stand against him. Also, I have someone to deliver to the prince.”

    Nikolai furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

    “Nhaban. I’m done covering your ass. Time for the prince’s turn.”

    Kuwei’s head popped up from behind the rock. “Hello, Nikolai.”

    Nikolai grinned. One more Inferni wouldn’t be bad odds against volcra. “Thank you, Zoya.”

    “Commander Nazyalensky.”

    “That’s a mouthful.”

    She arched a brow. “And ‘Zoya’ is personal. I prefer a mouthful. I hear you’re in need of Squallers.”

    Adrik lifted his chin. “He has one.”

    Zoya looked him up and down, then looked at Nikolai. “I hear you’re in need of competent Squallers.”

    Adrik glowered.

    Nikolai touched his shoulder. “The more help we have, the better. With only one Squaller, I didn’t want to attempt to take a sandship. What do you think, Commander?”

    She lifted her hand, testing the wind. “To get to a sandship, we’d need to go north to Kribirsk.”

    “So we don’t have time,” Nikolai deduced. “Acoustic blanket, it is.”

    Zoya looked at Adrik. “Have you been able to get an acoustic blanket to work?”

    He turned red. “Adrenaline works wonders, Commander.”

    She scoffed. “I’ll do the acoustic blanket, Lantsov.”

    Nikolai had the niggling suspicion she believed she should be ranked above him.

    By morning, tension between the Grisha had dissipated some. Nikolai suspected that they’d had conversations while he’d been asleep.

    As they prepared to enter the Unsea, though, arguments rose again.

    Who would ride with whom.

    They had nine riders and seven horses.

    Sergei and Marie intended to ride together, but Zoya argued that they would distract each other.

    “Oncat can ride with me,” Harshaw offered gallantly.

    “The Shu can walk.”

    Nikolai was pretty sure that murmur had been started by Marie or Zoya.

    As Sergei and Zoya’s argument rose in volume and Kuwei began to look as though he wished he hadn’t come with her, Nikolai snapped.

    “Zoya and Adrik ride on opposite sides and keep the acoustic blanket up. Harshaw, you and Pechkin share a horse and ride beside Zoya. Sergei and Marie share a saddle and ride beside Adrik. Nhaban, keep between me and Marie. Stigg, stay between me and Harshaw. Happy?” The answer was clearly no, but Nikolai didn’t wait for verbal reply. “Excellent. Let’s move.”

    They climbed into their saddles and set off into the Fold.

    The trip felt so long. Silence, suffocating silence, was broken only by the whispers of Sergei and Marie, the faint flicker of firelight that Nikolai let Kuwei cast on the face of his compass to keep them traveling in the correct direction.

    He’d been correct about the gully being dry, which would save them a good four hours, rather than following the river all the way to Ivets and then turning north.

    The darkness pressed in, almost tangible.

    Nikolai thought he had an idea of what the Darkling’s plan was. Land on the West Ravkan shore, then march into the Fold with the Sun Summoner and use it as a battering ram, taking town after town in Ravka until the king conceded.

    Or, if the Darkling marched through Fjerda first, Nikolai had just handed him the border. Fjerda would be defenseless without their parem-dosed Grisha, which had been the work of Kuwei’s father, Bo Yul-Bayur, which would mean that Fjerda’s military would be either decimated before the Darkling, or the Darkling would fall to Fjerda and they would declare that the Darkling’s attack was an act of war on Ravka’s part.

    Nikolai wasn’t sure Ravka would survive a war with Fjerda.

    Sergei moved his and Marie’s horse to beside Nikolai. “Moi tsarevitch. There are volcra nearby. I can hear their heartbeats. Do we attack?”

    Nikolai inhaled. “Let them be, for now. Can you put them down in the dark?”

    “If I cannot see my target, I can do nothing.”

    Nikolai nodded. “Inferni, be ready to defend us. Do not let any fire flare unless they attack.”

    The silence was deafening.

    Nikolai strained his eyes, trying to catch any glimpse of the edge of the Fold.

    “They’re getting close. Are we near the edge of the Fold, moi tsarevitch?” Sergei asked.

    Nikolai frowned. Based on calculations, they should be.

    “Gallop. Race to the edge of the Unsea. Keep the blanket up as long as you can, Squallers. Three. Two. One.”

    Nikolai dug his heels in, coaxing Punchline into a gallop, and the others did the same with their own horses. They rode fast and hard, racing west.

    It was a relief when they broke through the shadows, just as a volcra screeched toward them. It left the fold for a split second, then howled in agony and returned to the Fold.

    They slowed their horses, turning northwest. Nikolai shifted in his saddle. “Who’s staying with me, and who’s turning back?”

    Kuwei, Pechkin, and Adrik didn’t hesitate to announce their intentions of staying. Zoya wasn’t far behind, though she looked like she’d swallowed a particularly sour lemon to do so.

    Marie and Sergei murmured to each other.

    “We’ll go with you, moi tsarevitch,” Sergei said carefully. “If for no other reason than to protect Adrik from your combined idiocy.”

    Nikolai laughed. “Thank you kindly, Sergei and Marie. Harshaw? Stigg?”

    Harshaw consulted with Oncat, and Stigg looked scornful.

    “As long as Harshaw keeps that hairball away from me, I’ll go with you, moi tsarevitch.”

    Harshaw looked offended. “Oncat will be glad to keep her distance. She also says it would be a good idea for us to go.”

    Nikolai nodded. “Excellent.”

    They continued northwest.

    Ninety minutes later, Nikolai found himself wondering if it would have been better to have some of them stay. Harshaw and Stigg had quit bickering, but Zoya was annoyed with Sergei and Marie’s constant flirting, Pechkin was defending the usefulness of the First Army as more than cannon fodder, and Harshaw and Adrik argued over whether or not Oncat’s opinion was valid.

    Nikolai was relieved when the salt air of Os Kervo seemed to soothe ruffled feathers. He picked up the pace and they matched it, heading toward Os Kervo’s harbor. He doled out vlachki to each Grisha.

    “We’re going to Kerch. You’ll want to get rid of those colorful targets on your backs.”

    They nodded and went to find other clothing to wear.

    By the time they’d all regrouped back at the harbor, they looked like a comical assortment of merchants.

    While they’d been gone, Nikolai had secured passage to Kerch aboard a trading ship. The captain was a quiet man, speaking to no one except his crew. Nikolai didn’t blame him.

    As they set out for Kerch, Nikolai felt a stirring low in his gut.

    He remembered the last time he’d been in Ketterdam.

    Warm leather, pressed against the back of his neck and against his lips.

    A breath against his face.

    A promise.

    “When you come back.”

    He bit his lip, restraining a smile, and enjoyed being back at sea.

Chapter Text

2.2

Kaz

    Kaz came to on a small cot, his head still foggy. He kept his eyes shut, listening for anyone around him. There were no voices.

    Until there was one.

    “You’re awake, Brekker. Your heart is racing.”

    His eyes shot open. Forget stealth. In the room were the Darkling, his grey eyes cold and calculating, and two Corporalki. A redheaded woman and a dark haired man. The dark haired man was the one who’d spoken.

    “What business?” Kaz asked.

    “Back away, Ivan,” the redhead said. “Give the boy some space to breathe.”

    The dark haired man backed away, and Kaz sat up.

    “We’ll land at Shriftport shortly, Brekker. I would assume you are still interested in the reward for the return of my Sun Summoner?” the Darkling asked.

    Kaz eyed Ivan. “I am.”

    “Excellent. Consider the fact that you’ve woken up today to be your down payment. Be on deck in ten minutes.” The Darkling turned to leave, the Corporalki following him.

    Kaz stood. He wanted to whack the man upside the head and knock him cold with his cane, but he kept his voice calm. “General.”

    The Darkling turned back, an eyebrow raised. The only acknowledgement that he’d heard him.

    “I don’t take orders from men who take me captive. Knock me out again and you’ll be stranded in the middle of the ocean.” Kaz paused. “I’ll be there in eleven.”

    The Darkling eyed him. A visible struggle not to cut him down where he stood showed in his eyes.

    Finally, he spoke. “You will not be knocked out again if you keep yourself under control. Be there in fifteen, if you must, the time constraint is half chime. But be there.” The Darkling left the room.

    Kaz lifted a hand to his head. They’d evidently kept him under for a while, given the pulsing pain in his skull. His cane rested against the doorframe. He grabbed it, running his fingers along the familiar crow’s head.

    Even though he’d been the one making a threat, it somehow felt as though the Darkling had gained the upper hand.

    Kaz checked his watch, waiting exactly eleven minutes to travel up onto the deck. The Darkling stood by Sturmhond’s side, and Kaz noted that the man the redhead had called Ivan was watching him like a hawk.

    Sturmhond cleared his throat.

    The Darkling turned, looking surprised. “You’re on time.”

    “You’ll find that I’m very punctual.” And running out of patience.

    “Good. There’s word of them in Cofton. We’ll set out as soon as we’ve docked. You’ll be along, Captain,” he said to Sturmhond.

    Sturmhond looked surprised. “General, I have duties to my crew—”

    “Your crew can handle itself.”

    Kaz knew why the Darkling insisted on Sturmhond going along. Cofton was not near Shriftport, and who in their right mind would want their ride home running off?

    The ship docked, with Sturmhond calling orders to the crew, though Kaz noticed that he didn’t call the orders with all of the authority that a captain would typically have.

    The Darkling led the way down the dock to a waiting carriage.

    The driver was silent, and the entire trip south was spent in a tense quiet.

    By the time they arrived in Cofton, Kaz had figured out how to track the Sun Summoner.

    She’d had to have had some sort of jewels on her. If she’d used her head, she wouldn’t have used them to pay for anything; which would mean she would wear them to transport them. Jewels of a high ranking Grisha’s countenance would have drawn eyes. And if she had used them to pay for things, all they would have to do would be follow the breadcrumbs.

    The Darkling did the interrogating. Kaz was just fine to leave him to it.

    The trail led them to a boardinghouse. Two stories high and could use a fresh coast of paint. The sign in the window advertised hot baths and tick-free beds, in Kerch. Four more scripts were printed, and Kaz would not have been surprised to learn that they not only said the same thing, simply in different languages, but also were dead wrong.

    The porch sagged beneath their steps. The door led into a tavern. The Darkling stepped up to the bar, putting down a gold pin.

    “I’m sure you have one that matches this,” he said in Ravkan.

    The landlord studied it. A Kerch immigrant, from the look of him. He shrugged.

    “If you want to buy space, I accept many forms of payment,” he replied in Kerch.

    The Darkling fumed, turning to Kaz. “Speak in Kerch. Find out what he knows of my Sun Summoner.”

    Kaz stepped up to the bar, leaning on it with an easy smile and speaking in Kerch. “I am Ivanovsky. I have been asked to paint a portrait of a friend of mine, but I have lost her address. Alina is her name. Have you seen her? I can pay handsomely.”

    The man’s beady eyes narrowed as he looked between Kaz and the Darkling. “Why do you and your companion dress as though you are in mourning?”

    “Paint shows up much less easily on black, no? White would be an empty canvas, for colors to scatter across.” Kaz slid the pin the Darkling had dropped closer to the man. “My friend, sir?”

    The man hummed. “Well...”

    A chattering noise drew Kaz’s attention. A creature rose up beside the Darkling, all shadow, clicking, chittering shadow. It loomed twice as tall as a man.

    The landlord hissed a prayer to Ghezen. “Upstairs. Sixth room.”

    The Darkling smiled. “Thank him for his helpfulness, Mister Brekker.” In Kerch.

    The general had been testing Kaz.

    Kaz strode past him, toward the stairs.

    The Darkling and his Grisha followed.

    When they arrived upstairs, it was empty, quiet. The sixth room was bare except for a thin carpet, a bed, a desk with a washbasin, and a rickety chair behind the desk.

    The Darkling sat down in the chair, and Kaz leaned against the window, his fingers dancing over the head of his cane and his eyes on the street below.

    A pair of Ravkan refugees walked down the street, his arm slung across her shoulders. Her cheeks were sallow, thin. Even from here, Kaz could see the dark circles beneath her eyes.

    Like a Grisha who hadn’t used her power in too long.

    Kaz didn’t turn. “They’re on their way, General.”

    The Darkling nodded. “Excellent.”

    Kaz watched them. A woman called out to him, something about being tired of skin and bones, and he turned, looking her up and down, then shook his head.

    Alina smiled, and the washerwoman scowled.

    Alina said something to the tracker, and he tugged her against him, kissing her full on the lips. They then continued toward the boardinghouse.

    Kaz watched them disappear onto the porch and turned back to the interior of the room. He heard their footsteps on the stairs.

    Ivan stepped to the door.

    The door flew open, and Alina cried out, flinging sunlight far and wide. Kaz flinched.

    “Easy now,” Ivan said, catching the tracker and pressing a knife to his throat. “I’d hate to have to gut your friend so soon.”

    Alina dropped her hands, letting the light fade.

    The Darkling spoke. “Take her pistol, and search her for other weapons,” he said, motioning one of his other Grisha forward.

    They removed the pistol from her hip and a dagger from a sheath at her wrist.

    “If you so much as raise your hands, Ivan will end the tracker, Alina.”

    She gave a stiff nod.

    The Grisha released her.

    “How did you find us?” she rasped.

    “You leave a very expensive trail,” the Darkling said, dropping another one of the pins onto the desk. He then rose from the chair. A trepidation filled the room.

    He stepped into the light so she could see him.

    “How are you finding life in hiding, Alina? You don’t look well.”

    “Neither do you,” she replied coldly.

    “A small price to pay,” he said, his lips turning upward in a half smile.

    Kaz realized the tension.

    She had run.

    Not from something in Ravka.

    From him.

    The Darkling took hold of one end of the scarf Alina wore and tugged it free.

    “Back to pretending to be less than you are, I see,” he said. “The sham doesn’t suit you.”

    Bone gleamed at Alina’s throat. A collar? It looked like antlers.

    So it wasn’t a myth.

    Or, it was a very good farce.

    “Thanks for your concern,” she said quietly.

    The Darkling’s fingers trailed over the collar. “It’s mine as much as yours, Alina.”

    She batted his hand away. “Then you shouldn’t have put it around my neck,” she snapped. “What do you want?”

    Kaz watched as she cast a glance to the tracker.

    “I want to thank you,” the Darkling said.

    “Thank me?” She was surprised.

    “For the gift you gave me.”

    Her gaze flicked to the scars that littered his face.

    “No,” he said with a small smile, “not these. But they do make a good reminder.”

    “Of what?” She sounded begrudgingly curious.

    “That all men can be made fools. No, Alina, the gift you’ve given me is so much greater.”

    He turned away.

    Kaz knew what would happen. He was up and on the windowsill at the same time as the Darkling raised his arms, darkness tumbling through the room, and Alina cried, “Now!”

    The tracker drove his elbow into Ivan’s side. At the same moment, she threw her arms up, blinding those in the room. Kaz lashed out with his arm, searching for the sure grip of anyone. Inej, at the top of Hoede’s garden wall. Nikolai, at the bottom of the incinerator.

    The grip that caught him was much worse.

    It was the grip of a thousand insects, scuttling over his skin.

    Through the gloves.

    Dragging him upward.

    Pulling him back onto the windowsill.

    Forcing him to witness as its brother sank its teeth into the Sun Summoner’s shoulder, silencing the light.

    Dragging him along, back to the carriage, propping him between the Sun Summoner slumped over on his shoulder and a Grisha, holding his pulse just high enough to be awake but too low to be active.

    The trip back north to Shriftport was a daze. The sun sank low in the sky, and then rose again, and Kaz was dragged aboard the whaler again. Sturmhond argued with the Darkling.

    Kaz was dragged below, placed in a cot, and he felt his pulse drop lower still, until he drifted into a dark haze of water, white silk, and blond locks that moved just beyond his reach.

2.2

Inej

    Inej stood atop the old tower at Hellgate. The arena below had a giant lizard within, fighting one of the prisoners.

    She slipped down, climbing down the face of the tower’s wall and into the prison.

    She made her way into a hallway, avoiding occupied cells and guards’ patrols until she came to a cell that had only bars, weak bars at that. Unlocking the door and slipping inside was easy.

    Even easier was moving to stand behind Rollins, her blade pressing into his back.

    “Tell me you are in charge here, Pekka Rollins,” she whispered. “That you run the Hellshow.”

    He smiled. “Of course, I do.”

    “Cut ties with Heleen Van Houden, and I will consider leaving you whole.”

    He shook his head. “Dear Wraith, you don’t understand. I do not take orders from you. Now, if you were to decide to kill me where I stand, you’ll face charges of assault on an unarmed man.”

    She set her jaw. “They won’t catch me.”

    “Then they’ll catch someone else. A stocky Fjerdan, a former inmate, seeking revenge on the man who provided monster after monster for him to fight.”

    Her grip slipped. “You would frame an innocent man.” Matthias.

    “No. You would.” He stepped forward, away from her blade. “Now, you listen to me, Wraith.” He leaned against the glass that showed the arena below. “Tell Brekker that I will find him when I am free. And that day approaches quickly.”

    “I am not a carrier pigeon.”

    “I don’t expect you to be.” He tapped his fingers on the glass. “If you want the girls to stay off of the floor, you’ll have to talk to Heleen. In the meantime, dear, I do have a morsel ordered to snack on. If you’d like to stay and join me, you’re welcome to.”

    She slipped the knife back into its sheath, out of the cell and having locked it again before he turned around.

    She was back across to the main island. She left the longboat on the shore to be collected by her crew. She met Emeriah, Nina, and Matthias on the roof of the White Rose as they’d planned.

    They moved over to the Menagerie’s roof in near silence.

    “Everything is set,” Emeriah murmured.

    Inej hadn’t expected her meeting with Rollins to go any differently. The threat to Matthias wasn’t expected, but she hadn’t walked in and assumed that a pinprick of a knife’s blade to his back would make him quit the practices. Merely confirmation of her suspicions and Irina’s testimony.

    She dropped to the window, picking the lock.

    She didn’t have Kaz’s talent for it, but her learned skill would do.

    The window slid open, the bars dislodged easily by Matthias.

    Inej tensed as a purple ribbon brushed against her cheek. One of the ones from the ceiling.

    Nina stood beside the door, listening, her hands outstretched. She shook her head. No one was there.

    Inej stepped carefully over cushions and the floorboards that creaked, to the bed in the center of the back wall of the room.

    The Menagerie’s Suli Lynx lay sprawled, her fingers twitching in her sleep.

    Her eyelids fluttered.

    She was dreaming.

    Inej wondered how long it would have taken Heleen to take those dreams from her.

    Inej leaned as close as she dared, her voice just above a whisper. “We’re here to rescue you.”

    The girl jerked awake, scrambling backward and falling to the ground. She scooted backward to meet the wall, her wide eyes fixed on Inej.

    Inej stepped back, walking around the bed and crouching down.

    The girl looked to be about thirteen.

    Inej felt her heart twist.

    She held out her hand, whispering in Suli.

    “Don’t worry. I am the Wraith.”

    The girl looked back and forth between Inej and her hand, then whispered the word “wraith”.

    “Kila,” she said softly, her hand slipping into Inej’s.

    Inej stood, and Kila tugged on her hand to stand as well.

    Nina pushed the door open.

    Inej took the lead as Nina took Kila’s hand, the both of them following her. Inej led the way down the steps to Heleen’s office.

    The Peacock looked up as Inej stepped in.

    “Little lynx,” she hissed, standing up.

    Nina stepped to Inej’s side, lifting her hands threateningly.

    “This is a warning, Heleen,” Inej said coldly. “The Menagerie girls will not go to Hellgate anymore.”

    “Or what?” Heleen asked, her eyes on Nina.

    “Or the Menagerie will go up in flames.”

    Heleen reached for a knife, then froze.

    Nina’s hands twisted, and Heleen fell, blood trickling from her mouth.

    “She aimed to kill,” was the only explanation Nina offered.

    Inej didn’t need it. She moved to the desk, digging through. “Find the indentures and something with Heleen’s signature. Kila, go tell the other girls they’re free.”

    Kila moved to the door, and Nina searched a file cabinet near the window.

    Nina pulled a drawer out. “Jackpot.”

    Inej snatched a contract from the desk. “Excellent.” She put the contract with Heleen’s signature on the bottom in the drawer. “Get outside. I’ll do a once over and give Emeriah and Matthias the go ahead.”

    Nina nodded, making her way outside. Inej moved quickly through the building, making certain that Kila had gotten everyone out, then climbed back to the roof. “They’re clear. Set it and let’s go.”

    Emeriah nodded, flicking a bit of flint and setting the flame. Inej, Matthias, and Em made their way across the roof, getting to the next building over and watching the flames envelop the Menagerie.

    They made their way back to the street to find Nina and the Menagerie girls.

    Inej took Kila’s hand. “We’ll find you all places to stay,” she said in Kerch. “You will be safe. They will not touch you anymore.”

    Sihru stepped forward. The Shu girl. “Wraith. We are indebted to you.”

    Inej waved her hand. “ Mati en sheva yelu .”*

    Kila’s grip tightened.

    “ Khaj pa ve ,”* she whispered.

    Inej led the girls back to the Wraith. No one would dare touch them there.

    She knew from experience.

Chapter Text

2.3

Jesper

    Jesper’s shoulders shook.

    He’d shut himself into the music room, locked the door, and sat down at the piano, leaning his elbows on the shut lid and buried his face in his hands.

    He was beyond grateful for Alexei and Natalya’s attempts to help him get ready for his father’s visit. From preparing a guest room that Wylan had said Colm could stay in, to making sure they’d have the food in the kitchen, to Natalya’s offer to make something for Colm to be given when he arrived in town.

    It had all been fine.

    Wylan and Jesper hadn’t really spoken since the day in Van Eck’s office. They’d said things in passing, Wylan’s permission for Colm to stay in the guest room, Jesper telling him he could braid Wylan’s hair so it didn’t get mussed too badly by the trip south.

    Stilted conversation about the weather and the new piece Wylan was learning, intending to play it for his mother when he went to Saint Hilde.

    Jesper hated it. He hated it all.

    He wanted to hold Wylan close, tell him they’d both go south to Saint Hilde, ask Wylan to be there when his father arrived.

    But Wylan said that his mother needed to be taken care of, and Jesper understood.

    And Colm needed to know that Jesper intended to pay off the loan.

    The doorknob rattled, and a knock sounded on it.

    Alexei’s voice. “Jes?”

    Jesper curled in further toward the piano, ignoring him.

    “I’m sorry.” Alexei’s voice cracked.

    Jesper shuddered.

    Alexei tugged him in by the lapels. “I hate this color. I think you should get rid of this shirt.” He pressed his lips to Jesper’s.

    The reflexive tugging closer, the memory of what had been.

    The disgust.

    Jesper yanked himself back, fleeing up to the music room.

    He opened the lid, touching the keys. Wishing Wylan were here instead of Alexei and his nosy sister.

    Alexei gave up, and Jesper heard his footsteps retreat.

    Jesper pressed the first key, then began to play. A simple children’s song, a lullaby, that Wylan had been teaching him to play.

    It ended too quickly and on the wrong note.

    He couldn’t remember what came next.

    The front door closed.

    Jesper hit the first note again, playing through, trying to find the next note.

    It ended again, the same wrong note.

    Jesper grit his teeth, starting over.

    The front door closed again.

    Jesper was becoming increasingly frustrated. Why can’t I remember?

    A key turned in the lock on the music room’s door.

    The fourth time Jesper failed at the piece, a pale hand slipped beside his, picking up where he left off. Playing the next note.

    Wylan’s other arm moved over Jesper’s left shoulder, playing lower notes to accompany the melody.

    Jesper leaned back, his head colliding with Wylan’s neck. Wylan kept playing, pressing his lips to Jesper’s temple.

    When the song was over, they stayed that way for a long moment.

    “I thought you’d left already,” Jesper whispered, not wanting to break whatever magic this was.

    “I forgot something,” Wylan replied.

    “You never forget anything.”

    Wylan blushed. “I did this time.”

    “And what did you forget?”

    “I forgot to say goodbye,” Wylan said quietly.

    Jesper spun around, tugging Wylan down into his lap. “Well, the thing is, if you don’t say goodbye, then I know you’ll come back.”

    Wylan buried his face in Jesper’s shoulder. “Then I’ll never say goodbye.”

    Jesper rested his chin atop Wylan’s head. “As proud as I am of these braids, I do prefer your curls, Sunshine.”

    “When I get back, the curls will come back,” Wylan replied, lifting his chin.

    Jesper pressed his lips to Wylan’s.

    There it is.

    The kiss that felt like fireworks, better than the spin of the wheel.

    Familiar and sure as the grip of his revolvers.

    “Then make sure you come back soon.”

    Wylan smiled against his lips. “I’ll do my best.”

2.3

Alina

    The first thing Alina knew was real after the series of dreams—visions?—she’d been plagued with was the rocking of the ship. The creaking of the rigging, the slap of water on the hull.

    She tried to turn over, gasping in pain and jolting upright at a sharp pain in her shoulder.

    She saw a ship’s cabin, and found herself on a narrow bunk, daylight spilling through the sidescuttle.

    Genya sat on the edge of her bed.

    Genya.

    Sweet, caring Genya.

    Dark, betraying Genya.

    Alina’s mind flashed with unsent letters, secrets withheld.

    Genya wore a scarlet kefta, with blue embroidery.

    Traitor.

    She held a cup to Alina’s lips. “Drink.”

    “What is it?” Alina asked warily.

    “Just water.”

    Alina tried to take the cup from her, but found her wrists in irons. She sipped, coughed, then drank greedily.

    “Slowly,” Genya said, smoothing Alina’s hair back, “or you’ll make yourself sick.”

    “How long have I been out?” Alina asked, her gaze traveling to Ivan, who leaned against the doorframe.

    “A little over a week,” Genya said.

    “A week?” Alina shoved to her feet, blood rushing to her head. Genya reached out to steady her.

    She willed the dizziness away, then shook Genya off, stumbling to the sidescuttle and peering through the foggy circle of glass.

    Nothing.

    Nothing but blue sea. No harbor, no coast. Novyi Zem was long gone. She found herself fighting back tears.

    “Where’s Mal?” she asked. When no one answered, she turned around. “Where’s Mal?” she demanded of Ivan.

    “The Darkling wants to see you,” he said. “Are you strong enough to walk, or do I have to carry you?”

    “Give her a minute,” said Genya. “Give her a chance to eat, wash her face at least.”

    “No. Take me to him.”

    Genya frowned.

    “I’m fine,” Alina insisted. Actually, she felt weak and woozy and terrified. But she wasn’t about to lie back down on that bunk, and she needed answers, not food.

    As they left the cabin, they were engulfed in a wall of stench—not the usual ship smells of bilge and fish and bodies that Alina remembered from her voyage aboard the Verrhader to get to Novyi Zem, but something far worse. She gagged and clamped her mouth shut, suddenly glad she hadn’t eaten.

    “What is that?”

    “Blood, bone, rendered blubber,” said Ivan. “You get used to it.”

    “ You get used to it,” retorted Genya, wrinkling her nose.

    They approached a hatch that led to the deck above. Ivan climbed up the ladder, and Alina scrambled hastily after him, eager to be out of the dark bowels of the ship and free of that rotting stench.

    The whaler was lumbering along at full sail, driven forward by three Grisha Squallers who stood by the masts with their arms raised, their blue keftas flapping around their legs.

    The ship’s crew wore roughspun, and many were barefoot, the better to grip the ship’s slippery deck. No uniforms, Alina noted. So they weren’t military.

    As she looked around, she found herself wondering where the boy with the cane was. He’d tried to make a run for it when the Darkling had summoned his creatures.

    When they passed beneath the mizzenmast, Alina saw a pair of Shu sailors perched high above them. From my dream.

    They hung from the rigging like two birds of prey, watching with matching golden eyes.

    So it hadn’t been a dream at all. They’d been in her cabin.

    Ivan led the way to the prow of the ship, where the Darkling was waiting. He stood with his back to them, staring out over the bowsprit to the horizon beyond.

    Genya and Ivan made their bows and left.

    “Where’s Mal?” Alina rasped, her throat still dry.

    The Darkling didn’t turn, but shook his head and said, “You’re predictable, at least.”

    “Sorry to bore you. Where is he?”

    “How do you know he isn’t dead?”

    Alina felt her stomach lurch. “Because I know you,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

    “And if he were? Would you throw yourself into the sea?”

    “Not unless I could take you with me. Where is he?”

    “Look behind you.”

    Alina whirled. Far down the stretch of the main deck, through the tangle of rope and rigging, she could see Mal.

    He was flanked by Corporalki guards, but his gaze was trained on her.

    She stepped forward, and the Darkling seized her arm.

    “No farther,” he said.

    “Let me talk to him,” Alina begged.

    “Not a chance. You two have a bad habit of acting like fools and calling it heroic.”

    The Darkling lifted his hand, and Mal’s guards began to lead him away. “Alina!” he yelled, then grunted as a guard cuffed him across the face.

    “Mal!” she shouted as they dragged him, struggling, belowdecks. “Mal!”

    She yanked her arm from the Darkling’s grip. “If you hurt him—“

    “I’m not going to hurt him,” he said. “At least not while he can be of use to me.”

    “I don’t want him harmed.”

    “He’s safe for now, Alina. But don’t test me. If one of you steps out of line, the other will suffer. I’ve told him the same.”

    Alina shut her eyes, fighting back the hopelessness and fury that she felt. They were right back where they’d started. She nodded once.

    The Darkling shook his head again. “You two make it so easy. I prick him, you bleed.”

    “And you can’t begin to understand that, can you?”

    He reached out and tapped Morozova’s collar, letting his fingers graze the skin of her throat as her power rushed to the surface at his touch.

    “I understand enough,” he said softly.

    “I want to see him,” Alina managed. “Every day. I want to know he’s safe.”

    “Of course. I’m not cruel, Alina. Just cautious.”

    Alina nearly laughed. “Is that why you had one of your monsters bite me?”

    “That’s not why,” he said, his gaze steady. “Does it hurt?”

    “No,” she lied.

    “It will get better,” he said. “But the wound can never be fully healed. Not even by Grisha.”

    “Those creatures—“

    “The nichevo’ya.”

    Nothings. She shuddered, remembering the clicking sounds they made, the gaping holes of their mouths. Her shoulder throbbed. “What are they?”

    “They’re just the beginning,” he murmured, cupping her chin with his hand.

    He left her standing on the foredeck, her skin still alive with the touch of his fingers, her head still swimming with unanswered questions.

    Before she could begin to sort through them, Ivan appeared and began yanking her back across the main deck.

    “Slow down,” she protested, but he just gave another jerk on her sleeve. She lost her footing and pitched forward.

    Her knees banged painfully against the deck, and she barely had time to put up her shackled palms to break her fall. She winced as a splinter dug into her flesh.

    “Move,” Ivan ordered. Alina struggled to her knees. He nudged her with the toe of his boot, and her knee slipped out from beneath her, sending her back to the deck with a loud thud. “I said move.”

    A large hand scooped her up, setting her back on her feet. When Alina turned, she saw the golden eyed pair from the rigging.

    “Are you all right?” the girl asked.

    “This is none of your concern,” Ivan said angrily.

    “She’s Sturmhond’s prisoner,” replied the girl. “She should be treated accordingly.”

    Sturmhond. Alina thought the name was familiar. Was this his ship, then? And his crew? There’d been talk of him aboard the Verrhader. He was a Ravkan privateer and a smuggler, infamous for breaking the Fjerdan blockade and for the fortune he’d made capturing enemy ships.

    Or were those rumors?

    Alina had also heard of a coordinated strike against Fjerda by Sturmhond and the Wraith, at the last Hringkälla.

    And Sturmhond wasn’t flying the double eagle flag.

    “She’s the Darkling’s prisoner,” said Ivan, “and a traitor.”

    “Maybe on land,” the girl shot back.

    Ivan gabbled something in Shu that Alina didn’t understand.

    The giant just laughed. “You speak Shu like a tourist.”

    “And we don’t take orders from you in any language,” the girl added.

    Ivan smirked. “Don’t you?” His hand twitched, and the girl grabbed at her chest, buckling to one knee.

    Before Alina could blink, the giant had a wickedly curved blade in his hand and was lunging at Ivan. Lazily, Ivan flicked his other hand out, and the giant grimaced. Still, he kept coming.

    Ivan froze, then crumpled, as Alina yanked hopelessly at her irons.

    The giant stopped short of slicing the boy with the cane clean in half.

    The boy with the cane cleaned off the head of it.

    “Let’s not forget that Sturmhond’s crew and the Darkling’s Grisha are working together,” the boy said.

    He looked to be younger than Alina.

    The golden eyed girl narrowed her eyes. “You are not required to come to our defense, Brekker.”

    Brekker arched a brow. “Is that how you Shu say ‘thank you’?”

    The giant raised his blade. “I’ll show you how Shu say thank you—”

    Brekker swung his cane, and the blade clattered to the ground.

    “Get back to work,” he said. “I’ll escort her belowdecks.”

    “The Darkling trusts you about as much as he trusts Sturmhond,” the girl said icily.

    “Excellent. A thief trusted like a pirate.” Brekker took hold of Alina’s arm, the leather of his gloves warm against her skin. “I’ll become untrustworthy again after I get paid.”

   The golden eyed pair begrudgingly turned and walked away.

    “Are they related?” Alina asked softly as Brekker moved toward the hatch.

    “Twins,” he said shortly.

    If the boy had tried to run when the Darkling had attacked, there was a chance he wasn’t on the Darkling’s side.

    “Brekker—”

    “Allow me to make a guess. You want my help. You can’t pay me, but your heart is true.”

    Alina blinked.

    “Waste of breath, waste of time. I’m not yours, Summoner. I’m the Darkling’s. For now.”

    She frowned. “But—”

    “Allow me to rephrase. You. Will. Not. Sway. Me. Understand?” He released her arm to pull the hatch up.

    She fell silent. With his help, she made it back to her cabin, where two Grisha guards waited to lock her back inside.

    “The Darkling won’t be happy about Ivan,” she said before he could just walk away.

    “Ivan had it coming.” His gaze was cold. “Your Darkling can do what he wants with his crew and his prisoners, but I will not have gone to all this trouble to find his Sun Summoner—” Alina flinched at the word ‘his’— “just for Ivan the Heartrender to decide she’s not worth a bit of patience.”

    Alina waved her hand, the irons clanking. “Fine. Leave, then.”

    Brekker turned and left without another word.

    When Genya brought Alina’s dinner tray, she found her curled on her bunk, facing the wall.

    “You should eat,” she said.

    “Leave me alone.”

    “Sulking gives you wrinkles.”

    “Well, lying gives you warts,” Alina said sourly.

    Genya laughed, then entered and set down the tray. She crossed to the sidescuttle and glanced at her reflection in the glass. “Maybe I should go blonde,” she said. “Corporalki red clashes horribly with my hair.”

    Alina cast a glance over her shoulder. “You know you could wear baked mud and outshine every girl on two continents.”

    “True,” Genya said with a grin.

    Alina didn’t return her smile.

    Genya sighed and studied the toes of her boots. “I missed you,” she said.

    Alina looked away. She’d missed Genya, too, and she’d felt like a fool for it.

    “Were you ever my friend?” Alina asked.

    Genya sat down on the edge of the bunk. “Would it make a difference?”

    “I like to know just how stupid I’ve been.”

    “I loved being your friend, Alina. But I’m not sorry for what I did.”

    “And what the Darkling did? Are you sorry for that?”

    “I know you think he’s a monster, but he’s trying to do what’s right for Ravka, for all of us.”

    Alina pushed herself up to sitting. “Genya, he created the Fold.”

    “The Black Heretic—”

    “There is no Black Heretic,” Alina said, revealing the truth Baghra—the Darkling’s own mother—had laid out before her months ago, when she’d first convinced Alina to run from him. “He blamed his ancestor for the Fold, but there’s only ever been one Darkling, and all he cares about is power.”

    “That’s impossible. The Darkling has spent his life trying to free Ravka from the Fold.”

    “How can you say that after what he did to Novokribirsk?” The Darkling had used the power of the Unsea to destroy an entire town, a show of strength meant to cow his enemies and mark the start of his rule. And Alina had made it possible.

    “I know there was… an incident.”

    “An incident? He killed hundreds of people, maybe thousands.”

    “And what about the people on the skiff?” she said quietly.

    Alina drew in a sharp breath and looked at the wall. She didn’t want to ask, but she knew she was going to. The question had haunted her over long weeks and miles of ocean. “Were there— were there other survivors?”

    “Besides Ivan and the Darkling?”

    Alina nodded.

    “Two Inferni who helped them escape,” Genya said. “A few soldiers from the First Army made it back, and a Squaller named Nathalia got out, but she died of her injuries a few days later.”

    Alina shut her eyes.

    The Darkling lifted his hands, and the Fold surged forward, over the waiting crowd.

    The screams began.

    People scrambled to get away.

    Alina flung them both, herself and the Darkling, to the ground, leaving the Darkling to the mercy of the volcra.

    She kept Mal beside her and ran.

    She’d sacrificed all those people for Mal’s life, for her own freedom, and in the end they’d died for nothing. Alina and Mal were back in the Darkling’s grasp, and he was more powerful than ever.

    Genya laid her hand over Alina’s. “You did what you had to, Alina.”

    Alina let out a harsh bark of laughter and yanked her hand away. “Is that what the Darkling tells you, Genya? Does that make it easier?”

    “Not really, no.” She looked down at her lap, pleating and unpleating the folds of her kefta. “He freed me, Alina,” she said. “What am I supposed to do? Run back to the palace? Back to the King?” She gave a fierce shake of her head. “No. I made my choice.”

    “What about the other Grisha?” Alina asked. “They can’t all have sided with the Darkling. How many of them stayed in Ravka?”

    Genya stiffened. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about that with you.”

    “Genya—”

    “Eat, Alina. Try to get some rest. We’ll be on the ice soon.”

    The ice. Then they weren’t headed back to Ravka. We must be traveling north.

    Genya stood up and brushed the dust off of her kefta. She might joke about the color, but Alina knew how much it meant to her. It proved she was really a Grisha—protected, favored, a servant no more.

    Aline remembered the mysterious illness that had plagued the King just before the Darkling’s coup. Genya had been one of the few Grisha with access to the royal family. She’d used that access to earn the right to wear red.

    “Genya,” Alina said as she reached the door. “One more question.”

    She paused, her hand on the latch.

    “The letters I wrote to Mal back at the Little Palace. He said he never got them.”

    Genya didn’t turn back, but her shoulders sagged.

    “They were never sent,” she whispered. “The Darkling said you needed to leave your old life behind.”

    She closed the door, and Alina heard the bolt click home.

2.3

Inej

    Inej stood on the docks when the ship pulled in, dropping its anchor. The faces that swarmed the deck were all strange to her, but for one.

    Nikolai talked to a group of people on board, pointing a place out to them on shore, and then turned and practically slid down the gangplank, his face eager.

    He caught Inej’s eye, and the smile faded.

    He walked up to her.

    “You’re the only one?”

    She lifted her shoulders. “You did not tell anyone else you would be here today.”

    His gaze fell.

    When he spoke, his voice was low.

    “I told him.”

    Kaz. “He’s not here.”

    “I noticed.” Nikolai set off east.

    “I mean, he’s not here. Not in Ketterdam at all. He’s on a job. For Ravka.” Inej kept his pace.

    He looked at her. “With Sturmhond?”

    She nodded.

    “Then he didn’t get my letter.” Nikolai continued walking. He paused. “Inej.”

    “Yes?”

    “Was the Darkling on the ship?” Nikolai asked.

    “He was.”

    Nikolai turned around. “To the Slat.”

    Inej furrowed her brow. “Why?”

    “To find out where he’s gone, of course.” Nikolai looked at her. “I’ll explain on the way. Has word reached Ketterdam about the expansion of the Shadow Fold?”

    Inej frowned. “The what?”

    “The Darkling used the Unsea to swallow Novokribirsk. And I sent Sturmhond to get the Sun Summoner back.” Nikolai looked furious.

    “And Kaz.”

    “And Kaz.”

    Inej frowned. “Do you know where they went to find her?”

    “Novyi Zem,” Nikolai said, “but they’re sure to have been there by now. If they had gone back to Ravka, they would have stopped in Ketterdam, or at least passed my ship on their way there. I’m hoping there will be a clue as to where else they’ve gone in Kaz’s office.”

    Inej nodded. That made sense. “But why would they go anywhere other than Ravka?”

    “To build power?” Nikolai offered. “He can’t make another attempt on the throne without more to back him. He may be attempting to collect more Grisha to his side. There were plenty in Ravka who didn’t run to join him as soon as he revolted against the King.”

     “That would take a long time,” Inej said. “Finding the Grisha, earning their trust, and then asking them to join him in a war?”

    “He’s the Darkling,” Nikolai said simply. “And if news of Novokribirsk’s destruction hasn’t left Ravkan shores yet, then—”

    Inej furrowed her brow, interrupting him. “But why hasn’t West Ravka put out guards to arrest him? Why are they not hunting him down?”

    Nikolai looked at her. “I heard plenty of whispers about secession from Ravka. They’re calling West Ravka ‘True Ravka’ and saying that they should not bear the entire country’s debt and war effort.”

    “So what if West Ravka is keeping it quiet on purpose? If they side with the Darkling against King Alexander, then West Ravka will have no choice but to let them. Ravka can’t afford a civil war, with being on the brink of war with Fjerda, just past the border wars with the Shu, and with the Darkling’s attempted coup.”

    “And with the King’s declining health, a divided Ravka would be easy for the Darkling to take.” Nikolai’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We have to get the Sun Summoner from the Darkling. All of Ravka depends upon it.”

    Inej tugged her hood up against the wind. “And, quite possibly, the world.”

    When they arrived at the Slat, rather than let Nikolai knock, Inej led him around to the back of the building. Despite what Per Haskell might like to think, the Slat was far from impenetrable; the wall was an easy climb, and would have been even if Inej had still been only eight years old.

    She led the way up to the roof, then knelt before Kaz’s window, tugging on it. It didn’t give.

    “Care to practice your lockpicking skills, Captain?” she asked Nikolai.

    “I’ll leave it to you, if you wouldn’t mind,” he answered.

    She laughed, tugging a set of proper picks from a pocket at the side of her thigh. “After the Ice Court, I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to invest in some of these.” She pressed her fingers to the window’s lock, slipping the picks inside. “And some practice time.”

    The lock clicked open. She pushed the window open, dropping to the floor, and held it open for Nikolai.

    The room felt empty.

    A spider had begun to weave a web between the warehouse door of the desk and the chair. The hooks beside the door where Inej had seen Kaz’s coat, hat, and cane several times was bare, and the desk itself was devoid of the ledgers and schedules that typically littered it.

    Inej sifted through the papers on the desk. “Why didn’t you go on the ship?”

    “Pardon?” Nikolai looked up from the bureau.

    “Why did you send someone else? Why not go as Sturmhond yourself?”

    Nikolai took a breath. “As fascinating a journey as that trip would have been, the Darkling wished for a whaler. The smell of blubber makes me seasick.”

    Inej looked at him. “Why a whaler?”

    Nikolai furrowed his brow. “I don’t exactly know.”

    “A whaler. To find the Sun Summoner.” Inej knocked her knuckles against the desk, thinking. “Whalers are slow.”

    “I know that.” Nikolai ran his hand through his hair. “So the whaler should buy us time. He’ll have been in Novyi Zem by now, right?”

    “Most likely. You wouldn’t use a whaler unless you were fishing for, well, whales.” Inej looked back down at the desk. “Grisha use amplifiers, right? Does the Darkling have one?”

    “Not that I know of,” Nikolai replied. “They say the Sun Summoner herself wears the antlers of Morozova’s Stag.”

    Inej froze. She wouldn’t have.

    Sankta Alina.

    Sol Koroleva.

    A living Saint. Of course, she could have.

    A picture came to mind. Sankt Ilya in Chains, and the story her grandmother would tell her, about Sankt Ilya’s hunt for power. The creatures that he had killed to bring his vision to life. A trio of powerful creatures. One of the land, one of the sea, and one of the sky.

    The Stag, the Serpent, and the Firebird.

    Inej looked up. “Nikolai.”

    He looked toward her.

    “They’re hunting Rusalye.”

    He shook his head. “A children’s story—”

    “Why else would they take a whaler? She’s a Saint, not a whale.”

    He inhaled deeply. “If they’re hunting the sea whip, they’ll go north. Rusalye’s only ever been spotted along the Bone Road. You’re sure about this?”

    Inej shrugged. “It’s the best lead we’ve got.” She lifted a black envelope with gold embossment. “Second best, maybe?”

    Nikolai grabbed it. “Darkling’s stationary. Kaz Brekker, blah blah blah, intriguing pursuits in Ketterdam, Rumors of your exceptional skills and ingenious strategies… I am extending this invitation for you to accompany me on a venture to Novyi Zem in search of the Sun Summoner, Alina Starkov. So on, so forth… quest to locate Alina. As you well know, the stakes are high, and time is of the essence. ”

    “The stakes aren’t that high in Novyi Zem,” Inej said. “It’s a very peaceful country.”

    “Which further supports your theory about the sea whip.” Nikolai looked up. “I suppose we’re headed north to the Bone Road, Wraith.”

    “I suppose so.” Inej considered. “I’ll collect my crew. Is the Volkvolny in Ravka or here?”

    “Ravka. My crew, including Captain Sturmhond, are on that whaler.” Nikolai looked worried.

    “The Wraith it is.” Inej set the papers on the desk back to rights, then swept away the spiderweb. She stepped back to the window, tugging it open. “Stopping in at the Geldstraat before we leave?”

    Nikolai nodded. “I’d like to stop in with Wylan and Jesper. One thing is for certain, Jesper is not going on the ice with us.”

    “Which means Wylan isn’t either. Nina and Wylan have been keeping him steady.” Inej considered. “We need Grisha. We can’t face the Darkling and Sankta Alina with my knives and your…” she gestured vaguely at him. “Silver tongue?”

    Nikolai lifted his brows. “I’ll have you know I once charmed a tree out of its leaves.”

    “Nonsense.”

    “It was autumn; I can’t take full credit.” He grinned. “But I am quite persuasive. And I do know a few Grisha. A pair of Squallers, a Heartrender, a few Inferni…”

    Inej smiled back. “Maybe we will stand a chance.”

    Nikolai looked back at the paper. “We’ll hit the Geldstraat, visit Jesper and Wylan, then I’ll talk to my Grisha and you can collect your crew?”

    Inej nodded.

Chapter Text

3.1

Nikolai

    Nikolai leaned against the railing, watching Inej’s crew.

    They moved seamlessly, in a dance they’d done time and time again. The newest addition—a Fjerdan girl; whose name, Nikolai believed, was Irina—had even found her place.

    When they’d gotten to the mansion, Jesper had tackled him in a hug. Wylan had been on his way out the door, to visit his mother in Olendaal.

    Nina and Matthias had already been there, intending to stay with Jesper while Wylan was traveling south. Jesper insisted that it was only for social interaction, but Nina’s knowing look said that it would also be to prevent a relapse.

    They’d discussed the situation, the slaughter at Novokribirsk, and Alina’s disappearance, and come to the conclusion that they were taking the correct course of action.

    Nikolai had gone to the Kooperom where he’d sent Zoya, Sergei, and the others and asked them to go north. Sergei had been adamantly against facing the Darkling, until Adrik asked him if he was too afraid.

    Zoya’s agreement to go was met with no challenge. Sergei had fallen silent, and the others had all affirmed that they would go.

    Now, watching Zoya’s gaze follow Inej across the deck, Harshaw’s cat become far more underfoot than she had on the ship to Ketterdam and finally give up, climbing the rigging to sit on the crow’s nest, and Sergei and Stigg nearly setting the ship on fire sparring, Nikolai wasn’t certain how good of an idea this had been.

    “Sergei, keep yourself near the railing; then his flames are directed at the sea,” Nikolai said.

    Sergei set his jaw, giving a terse nod.

    Inej spoke beside Nikolai. “You handle your crew well.”

    Nikolai shrugged. “Get them to follow the little orders, and they’ll follow the big ones. I don’t want him to decide that defeating one of the Darkling’s men is more important than getting himself back on board the Wraith to live another day.”

    Inej looked up at him. “Trying your hand at poetry as well?”

    “I find it’s best to be multifaceted,” Nikolai replied.

    She shook her head, silent.

    He let the silence stretch on.

    “You’ve handled a lot worse than whale blubber,” she finally said.

    “What?”

    “You said that whale blubber made you seasick. You’ve been near a lot worse than whale blubber. Why did you send a fake Sturmhond?”

    “My face is too beautiful to Tailor again.”

    “Speak truth, Lantsov.”

    Nikolai frowned. “I needed to get back to the capital.”

    “Why?”

    “Because I didn’t want my parents to hear through the grapevine,” he said, a bit more sharply than he’d intended.

    She nodded, still calm. “Am I not the only one who knows, then?”

    “A Fjerdan as well. Hanne Brum.”

    “Wonderful.”

    “And my crew.”

    “Does Kaz?” she asked, her gaze piercing.

    He turned to face the sea and changed the subject. “My father said that I cannot return to Ravka’s capital without the Darkling’s kefta and the Sun Summoner’s amplifier.”

    “He won’t part with it easily.”

    Nikolai pressed his lips together. She was right.

    They remained in silence.

    “So,” Inej said. “Your Shu Inferni. He seems familiar.”

    Nikolai smiled ruefully. “Nhaban. I can introduce you, if you like.”

    “We’ve met,” she said.

    Silence again.

    Nikolai dropped his head, then looked at her. “What if he’s decided Kaz isn’t worth the trouble of keeping around?”

    Inej froze.

    “What if he double crosses him like Van Eck tried to? I’ve heard of things the Darkling can do, Inej.”

    She looked up at him and opened her mouth, but Zoya cut her off.

    “If your friend is any good at what the Darkling hired him to do, then he’ll be fine.”

    Nikolai turned his gaze back to the sea. “That’s reassuring.”

    “Kaz is the best in the business,” Inej said confidently.

    “Which business?” Nikolai asked softly. He still wasn’t exactly certain what about Kaz was true anymore.

3.1

Jordie

    Keep your chin up and your ego down, Rietveld, Jordie told himself firmly as he walked down the Zelverstraat.

    He had a meeting with Cornelis Smeet—who, in the wake of Jan Van Eck’s disappearance and then confirmation of death by his son, had kept his business dealings to a minimum—and intended to ask the man for advice on a different case he was working.

    He caught sight of a flash of deep blue within an alley as he passed it and paused, backtracking.

    A strong gust of wind picked him up and nearly threw him into the alley. A second one pinned him up against the wall.

    A man stepped toward him, his robes dark blue. He held one hand up, keeping the wind pinning Jordie, and held a piece of paper in the other.

    “Jordan Rietveld. Brother to Kaz Rietveld, imprisoned Pekka Rollins within Hellgate, and—”

    “That one’s wrong,” Jordie said.

    The squaller looked surprised. “What?”

    The surprise was the moment Jordie needed. He wrenched the squaller’s arm sideways, pulling him in close and pinned his wrists.

    “I said that one was wrong. I didn’t put Rollins in Hellgate. I only pressed charges and provided the evidence.”

    The squaller looked angry. “Close enough. And also a member of the Wraith.”

    Jordie kicked off the wall, slamming the squaller into the wall behind him. “What is the Wraith?”

    The squaller laughed, going completely limp.

    Jordie stepped back in surprise.

    The squaller flung his arms out, and wind pinned Jordie against the wall again. “My information comes from Raedak himself.”

    Jordie’s stomach dropped, more than it had at the realization that he’d fallen for an old trick. The squaller hadn’t gone limp because of anything Jordie had done. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

    “Don’t you?” the squaller asked, advancing toward him. “Allow me to enlighten you, then. He works at the University. Teaches classes. And he has a particularly bright student named Kaz. And he works for the Wraith, which is led by Inej Ghafa.”

    Jordie shook his head, though every word the squaller had said was true. Where had he learned it all?

    “I think you’re bluffing, Jordan. But I am not as well versed in Barrel torture as my boss is.” The squaller pulled a hand back, and Jordie felt the air leave his lungs. No matter how hard he gasped, it wouldn’t return.

    The world faded to darkness.

3.1

Wylan

    Wylan’s knuckles were white with how hard he gripped the railing aboard the browboat that would take him toward Belendt, where he would get off at Olendaal.

    He’d thought he would be fine, that it had been long enough.

    He’d been wrong.

    Jan Van Eck had made it increasingly clear as Wylan got older that there was no place for his son in his household, especially after his marriage to Alys. But he didn’t seem to know what to do with Wylan. He’d taken to making pronouncements about his son, each one more dire than the last.

    You can’t be sent to seminary because you can’t read.

    I can’t apprentice you somewhere because you may reveal yourself to be defective.

    You are like food that spoils to easily. I can’t even put you on a shelf somewhere to keep without making a stink.

    Then, six months ago, Wylan’s father had summoned him to his office. “I’ve secured you a position at the music school in Belendt. A personal secretary has been hired on and will meet you at the school. He will handle any mail or business beyond your capabilities. It is a ridiculous waste of both money and time, but I must accept what is possible where you are concerned.”

    “For how long?” Wylan had asked.

    His father shrugged. “As long as it takes people to forget I had a son. Oh, don’t look at me with that wounded expression, Wylan. I am honest, not cruel. This is best for both of us. You’ll be spared the impossible task of trying to step into the role of a merchant’s son, and I’ll be spared the embarrassment of watching you attempt it.”

    “I will treat you no more harshly than the world will.” That was his father’s refrain. Who else would be so frank with him? Who else loved him enough to tell him the truth? Wylan had happy memories of his father reading him stories—dark tales of forests full of witches and rivers that spoke.

    Jan Van Eck had done his best to care for his son, and if he’d failed, then the defect lay with Wylan. His father might sound cruel, but he wasn’t just protecting himself or the Van Eck empire, he was protecting Wylan as well.

    And everything he said made perfect sense. Wylan could not be trusted with a fortune because he would be too easily swindled. Wylan could not go to university because he’d be the target of mockery.

    This is best for both of us.

    His father’s ire had been unpleasant, but it was his logic that haunted Wylan—that practical, irrefutable voice that spoke in Wylan’s head whenever he thought about attempting something new, or trying to learn to read again.

    It had hurt to be sent away, but Wylan had still been hopeful. A life in Belendt sounded magical to him. He didn’t know much about it other than that it was the second-oldest city in Kerch and located on the shores of the Droombeld River.

    But he’d be far away from his father’s friends and business associates. Van Eck was a common enough name, and that far from Ketterdam, being a Van Eck wouldn’t mean being one of those Van Ecks.

    His father handed him a sealed envelope and a small stack of kruge for travel money.

    “These are your enrollment papers, and enough money to see you to Belendt. Once you’re there, have your secretary see the bursar. An account has been opened in your name. I’ve also arranged for chaperones to travel with you on the browboat.”

    Wylan’s cheeks had flooded red with humiliation. “I can get to Belendt.”

    “You’ve never traveled outside Ketterdam on your own, and this is not the time to start. Miggson and Prior have business to see to for me in Belendt. They’ll escort you there and ensure that you’re successfully situated. Understood?”

    Wylan understood. He was unfit to even board a boat out of the city by himself.

    But things would be different in Belendt. He packed a small suitcase with a change of clothes and the few things he would need before his trunks arrived at the school, along with his favorite pieces of sheet music. If he could read letters as well as he read a tablature, he’d have no problems at all.

    When his father had stopped reading to him, music had given him new stories, ones that unfolded from his fingers, that he could write himself into with every played note. He tucked his flute into his satchel, in case he wanted to practice on the trip.

    His goodbye to Alys had been brief and awkward. She was a nice girl, but that was the whole problem—she was only a few years older than Wylan. He wasn’t sure how his father could walk down the street beside her without shame. But Alys didn’t seem to mind, maybe because around her, his father became the man Wylan remembered from his childhood—kind, generous, patient.

    Even now, Wylan could not name the specific moment when he knew his father had given up on him. The change had been slow.

    Jan Van Eck’s patience had worn quietly away like gold plate over cruder metal, and when it was gone, it was as if his father had become someone else entirely, someone with far less luster.

    “I wanted to say goodbye and wish you well,” Wylan said to Alys. She had been seated in the parlor, her terrier dozing at her feet.

    “Are you going away?” she asked, looking up from her sewing and noticing his bag. Kerch women—even the wealthy ones—didn’t bother with anything as frivolous as embroidery or needlepoint. Ghezen was better served by tasks that benefited the household.

    “I’ll be traveling to the music school at Belendt.”

    “Oh, how wonderful!” Alys had cried. “I miss the country so much. You’ll be so glad of the fresh air, and you’re sure to make excellent friends.” She’d set down her needle and kissed both his cheeks. “Will you come back for the holidays?”

    “Perhaps,” Wylan said, though he knew he wouldn’t. His father wanted him to disappear, so he would disappear.

    “We’ll make gingerbread, then,” Alys said. “You will tell me all your adventures, and soon we’ll have a new friend to play with.” She patted her belly with a happy smile.

    It had taken Wylan a moment to understand what she meant, and then he’d just stood there, clutching his suitcase, nodding his head, smiling mechanically as Alys talked about their holiday plans.

    Alys was pregnant.

    That was why his father was sending him away.

    Jan Van Eck was to have another heir, a proper heir. Wylan had become expendable. He would vanish from the city, take up occupation elsewhere. Time would pass and no one would raise a brow when Alys’s child was groomed to be the head of the Van Eck empire. As long as it takes for people to forget I had a son. That hadn’t been an idle insult.

    Miggson and Prior arrived at eight bells to see Wylan to the boat. No one came to say a last goodbye, and when he’d walked past his father’s office, the door was closed. Wylan refused to knock and plead for a scrap of affection like Alys’s terrier begging for treats.

    His father’s men wore the dark suits favored by merchants and said little to Wylan on the walk over to the dock. They purchased tickets for the Belendt line, and once they were aboard the boat, Miggson had buried his head in a newspaper while Prior leaned back in his seat, hat tilted downward, lids not quite closed.

    Wylan couldn’t be sure if the man was sleeping or staring at him like some kind of drowsy-eyed lizard.

    The boat was nearly empty at that hour. People dozed in the stuffy cabin or ate whatever dinner they’d packed, ham rolls and insulated flasks of coffee balanced on their laps.

    Unable to sleep, Wylan had left the heat of the cabin and walked to the prow of the boat. The winter air was cold and smelled of the slaughterhouses on the outskirts of the city. It turned Wylan’s stomach, but soon the lights would fade and they’d be in the open country.

    He was sorry they hadn’t traveled by day. As he watched the land they passed now, eh watched the windmills keep watch over their fields, the sheep grazing in their pastures. He’d sighed, shivering in his coat, and adjusted the strap of his satchel.

    He should try to rest. Maybe he could wake up early and watch the sunrise.

    When he’d turned, Prior and Miggson were standing behind him.

    “Sorry,” Wylan said. “I—”

    Prior’s hands closed around his throat.

    Wylan gasped—or he tried to; the sound that came from him was barely a croak. He clawed at Prior’s wrists, but the man’s grip was like iron, the pressure relentless. He was big enough that Wylan could feel himself being lifted slightly as Prior pushed him against the railing.

    Prior’s face was dispassionate, nearly bored, and Wylan understood then that he would never reach the school in Belendt. He’d never been meant to. There was no secretary, no account in his name. No one was expecting his arrival.

    The supposed enrollment papers in his pocket might say anything at all. Wylan hadn’t even bothered to try to read them. He was going to disappear, just as his father had always wanted, and he’d hired these men to do the job. His father, who had read him to sleep at night, who’d brought him sweet mallow tea and honeycomb when he’d been sick with lung fever.

    “As long as it takes for people to forget I had a son.”

    His father was going to erase him from the ledger, a mistaken calculation, a cost that could be expunged. The tally would be made right.

    Black spots filled Wylan’s vision. He thought he could hear music.

    “You there! What’s going on?”

    The voice seemed to come from a great distance. Prior’s grip loosened very slightly. Wylan’s toes made contact with the deck of the boat.

    “Nothing at all,” Miggson said, turning to face the stranger. “We just caught this fellow looking through the other passengers’ belongings.”

    Wylan made a choked sound.

    “Shall I… shall I fetch the stadwatch then? There are two officers in the cabin.”

    “We’ve already alerted the captain,” said Miggson. “We’ll be dropping him at the stadwatch post at the next stop.”

    “Well, I’m glad you fellows were being so vigilant.” The man turned to go.

    The boat lurched slightly. Wylan wasn’t going to wait to see what happened next. He shoved against Prior with all his might—then, before he could lose his nerve, he dove over the side of the boat and into the murky canal.

    A hand caught hold of his arm, yanking him backward.

    “Are you out of your mind?”

    Wylan’s gaze was still on the dark waters below.

    “Are you alright, boy?” The woman who’d grabbed him eased her grip.

    Wylan looked at her. She stepped back, looking afraid.

    He could imagine how he looked. Wild eyes, leftover fear drenching him.

    He glanced to the shoreline.

    The next stop would be Olendaal.

    Wylan murmured some semblance of a thank you to her, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was thanking her for. When they pulled up to the dock, he stepped out onto it, then walked toward the waystation and hired a carriage.

    The road leading to Saint Hilde was dirt, and the carriage jounced along over ruts and gaps in the road.

    The carriage drew closer to the church, and Wylan felt his stomach twist tighter and tighter.

    My mother is in there, he thought.

    On the left of the building, he could see an arbor covered with new-blooming wisteria, the sweet scent of the purple blossoms heavy on the spring air. A little past the church’s lawn and to the right, he saw a wrought-iron gate and a fence surrounding a graveyard, a tall stone figure at its center—a woman, Wylan guessed, probably Saint Hilde.

    So Jordan had been wrong. The church did have a graveyard.

    The carriage stopped, and Wylan stepped down. The driver didn’t wait to speak to him before snapping the reins and being off as quickly as possible.

    At that moment, a woman in gray work clothes rounded the corner, pushing a wheelbarrow mounded with earth.

    “Goed morgen,” she called to him. “Can I help you?”

    Wylan rubbed his neck, his braids brushing against his hand. “You can. I’m here to see…” he remembered what Jordan had said. ‘She’s not under the Van Eck name, she’s under Marya Hendriks.’ “Marya Hendriks.”

    Apparently, the woman didn’t notice the quaver in his voice, because her brow cleared and she smiled. Her cheeks were round and rosy. “Of course. But I confess to being surprised. Mister Van Eck has been so generous with us, yet we hear from him so rarely. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

    “Actually, Mister Van Eck has passed,” Wylan said carefully.

    “Ah.” She wiped her hands on her shapeless smock and said, “I’ll take you to her.”

    She headed back toward the entrance, and Wylan followed her. As they made their way up the low stone steps, something cold crawled over Wylan’s spine.

    There were bars on the windows.

    The front parlor was two stories high, its floor set with clean white tiles painted with delicate blue tulips. It looked like no church Wylan had ever seen. The hush in the room was so deep, it felt almost suffocating. A large desk was placed in the corner, and on it was set a vase of the wisteria Wylan had seen outside. He inhaled deeply. The smell was comforting.

    The woman unlocked a large cabinet and sifted through it for a moment, then removed a thick file.

    “Here we are: Marya Hendriks. As you can see, everything is in order. You can have a look while we get her cleaned up. Next time you can avoid a delay if you notify us ahead of your visit.”

    The woman removed a heavy key ring from the cabinet and unlocked one of the pale blue doors that led out of the parlor. Wylan heard her turn the key in the lock from the other side.

    Wylan tapped his fingers on the desk beside the folder, not even bothering to open it. He wouldn’t be able to read it, anyway.

    He was drowning.

    The water was closing in, he was swimming for the side of the canal, a splash behind him told him someone was after him.

    He changed his stroke, making as little noise as possible, and forced himself to think. Instead of heading straight for the side of the canal the way his freezing body longed to, he dove under a nearby market barge and came up on its other side, swimming along with it, using it as cover. The dead weight of his satchel pulled hard at his shoulders, but he couldn’t make himself relinquish it. My things, he thought nonsensically. My flute.

    He dragged himself into the shallows, his strength failing. He was so close.

    His strength gave out, and he sank beneath the surface.

    A splash beside him, nearly on top of him.

    An arm around him, pulling him back to the surface, holding his head above water while his savior stayed underneath, then pulled him onto the riverbank.

    “Wylan?” the voice was surprised. And familiar.

    Wylan’s lungs burned as he heaved the water from them, his throat bruised from Prior’s attempted murder.

    Nikolai’s movements were precise, grabbing his own coat from where he’d placed it and unbuttoning Wylan’s shirt, carefully pulling his arms from the sleeves, even while Wylan spasmed with coughing.

    He wrapped the coat around him, as the coughing subsided and the shivering grew worse.

    The woman returned to the room.

    “We’re ready for you,” she said. “She’s quite docile today. Are you all right?”

    Wylan swallowed, shoving his hair back from his face, more grateful than ever for Jesper’s little braids. “Yes. I’ll see her now, please.”

    They walked past locked doors, some kind of exercise room. From somewhere, he heard moaning. In a wide parlor, two women were playing what looked like a game of ridderspel.

    Wylan was believing more and more that Jordan had been right. His mother wasn’t dead.

    Finally the woman led him to a glassed-in porch that had been located on the west side of the building so it would capture all the warmth of the sun’s setting rays.

    One full wall was composed of windows, and through them the green spill of the hospital’s lawn was visible, the graveyard in the distance. It was a pretty room, the tiled floor spotless. A canvas with the beginnings of a landscape emerging from it leaned on an easel by the window.

    A memory returned to Wylan: his mother standing at an easel in the back garden of the house on Geldstraat, the smell of linseed oil, clean brushes in an empty glass, her thoughtful gaze assessing the lines of the boathouse and the canal beyond.

    “She paints,” Wylan said flatly.

    “All the time,” the woman said cheerily. “Quite the artist is our Marya.”

    A woman sat in a wheeled chair, head dipping as if she was fighting not to doze off, blankets piled up around her narrow shoulders. Her face was lined, her hair a faded amber, shot through with gray.

    The color of my hair, Wylan realized, if it had been left out in the sun to fade. He felt a surge of relief. This woman was far too old to be his mother. But then her chin lifted and her eyes opened. They were a clear, pure hazel, unchanged, undiminished.

    “You have a visitor, Miss Hendriks.”

    His mother’s lips moved, but Wylan couldn’t hear what she said.

    Wylan turned to the woman who’d brought him here. “I can take it from here, Miss..?”

    “Betje,” she said.

    “A wonderful name,” Wylan said, reaching for any of Jesper’s charm. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching us some tea..?”

    The woman nodded. “I’ll be back soon, Miss Hendriks.”

    Wylan’s mother nodded, her sharp gaze cutting through Wylan. The door closed behind Betje.

    His mother lifted her hand, the gesture unsure; it contrasted strongly with her voice, which was solid as a rock. “…Wylan.”

    Wylan had felt unsteady. They’d cut her hair short. He’d tried to picture her younger, in the fine black wool gown of a mercher’s wife, white lace gathered at her collar, her curls thick and vibrant, arranged by a lady’s maid into a nautilus of braids.

    “Hello,” he managed.

    “Sunshine,” she whispered.

    She was not familiar, exactly, but there was something in the way she tilted her head, the way she sat, her spine still straight. As if she was at the piano.

    “My father is gone,” Wylan said, finally. If he’d had Jesper’s or Kaz’s or Nikolai’s way with words, he could have said it better. But he didn’t.

    She hummed. “Is that why you’re here?”

    He hesitated.

    “You don’t have to be here for me, Wylan,” she said, turning back to the window. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

    She didn’t know.

    “My father tried to have me killed.”

    She looked up sharply. “What?”

    Wylan knew he should probably tell her slowly, ease her into it all. But at last, he had his mother, and the truth came spilling out all at once. “He tried to have me killed, and Nikolai saved me, and he sent you away and told me you had died, and I haven’t visited because—” he paused, swallowing back as tears began to form in his eyes. “—because I didn’t know you were here, Mother.”

    She studied him, her eyes wide, then they narrowed.

    She stood, slowly, the blankets slipping from her shoulders and leaving her in only a cotton gown.

    “Where is he?” she asked, her voice dangerous.

    Wylan frowned. “He’s gone. Dead.”

    Her face softened as understanding dawned. “You’re here, because… oh, Wylan.”

    He wasn’t prepared for her hands tugging him close, wrapping around him and holding him against her, clinging to him like he was life itself.

    Wylan found himself returning the embrace easily.

    That was how the woman in the gray smock found them when she returned.

    “Wylan Hendriks, I have been asked to detain you,” she said, and two men in stadwatch purple entered after her. “You see, there’s a—”

    Wylan cut her off. “I am Wylan Van Eck,” he said. “I want my mother’s papers—”

    The stadwatch officers glanced at each other, and Wylan’s gaze moved to them.

    His stomach dropped.

    Miggson took a pistol from its holster. “We have orders, Councilman, and you’ll not stop us again.” He pointed it at Betje’s head, and she froze. “We’re to lock you up until Mister Rollins has you let go. Or killed. Whichever comes first.”

    “Don’t worry,” Prior said smugly. “There’s another Van Eck brat to run the empire.”

    Wylan prayed Rollins wouldn’t find Alys and her music tutor and torment them as well. He released his mother, loosening her grip on him gently and stepping toward Prior and Miggson, even as his mind screamed to run.

    “Good decision,” Miggson said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

3.2

Kaz

    The Darkling hadn’t been happy about Ivan’s concussion.

    Kaz burned with hatred. The man had hired him, knowing full well Dirtyhands’s reputation. Including his reputation for getting the damn job done.

    Kaz was debating saying screw it all and giving the Darkling himself a concussion and tossing him into the sea to freeze to death.

    At the moment, the Summoner and the tracker stood on opposite ends of the ship. The Darkling had had her dragged from her bunk just after dawn.

    The tracker had found something.

    It hadn’t taken Kaz long to figure out that they were not traveling west, back to Ketterdam. The Darkling had other plans. Plans that weren’t spelled out in anything they’d agreed on.

    The ship entered a wide, open stretch of sea and the tracker turned to the Darkling.

    “I think we’re close,” he said.

    “You think?” The Darkling arched a brow.

    The tracker gave a single nod.

    The Darkling considered. Kaz knew what he would decide. If the tracker was stalling, his efforts were doomed to be short-lived and the price would be high.

    Finally, the Darkling nodded to Sturmhond.

    “Trim the sails,” commanded the captain, and the topmen moved to obey.

    Ivan tapped the Darkling’s shoulder and gestured to the southern horizon. “A ship, moi soverenyi.”

    The title of a king. This crew considers him to already be on Ravka’s throne.

    “Are they flying colors?” the Darkling asked Sturmhond.

    “Probably fishermen,” Sturmhond said. “But we’ll keep an eye on her just in case. He signaled to one of his crewmen, who went scurrying up the main royal with a long glass in hand.

    The longboats were prepared, and within minutes they were being lowered over the starboard side, loaded with Sturmhond’s men and bristling with harpoons.

    The Darkling’s Grisha crowded by the rail to view the boats’ progress.

    Kaz stepped to the rear of the ship, watching the other ship’s figure on the horizon grow larger.

    Sturmhond stood beside him and handed him a long glass. “Recognize her, Brekker?”

    Kaz peered through it.

    He did recognize her.

    The sleek, narrow vessel with little sails. Tiny, but flying across the water, almost like a ghost.

    The Wraith.

    Inej had come for him.

3.2

Alina

    Alina looked around. Everyone’s attention was focused on the men in the water, except for Sturmhond and Brekker, who were intently watching the ship on the horizon.

    Only Genya was watching her. Genya hesitated, then deliberately turned and joined the others at the railing.

    Alina stepped toward Mal. They both faced forward, but they were close enough that their shoulders touched.

    “Tell me you’re all right,” he murmured, his voice raw.

    Alina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m fine,” she said softly. “Is it out there?”

    “I don’t know. Maybe. There were times when I was tracking the stag that I thought we were close and… Alina, if I’m wrong—”

    Alina turned, not caring who saw them or what punishment she might receive. The mist was rising off the water now, creeping along the deck. She looked up at him, taking in every detail of his face: the bright blue of his irises, the curve of his lip, the scar that ran the length of his jaw. Behind him, she glimpsed the girl—whose name, she’d learned, was Tamar—scampering up the rigging, a lantern in her hands.

    “None of this is your fault, Mal. None of it.”

    He lowered his head, resting his forehead against hers. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

    They both knew he was powerless to stop it, but the truth of that was too painful, so Alina simply said, “I know.”

    “You’re humoring me,” he said with a hint of a grin.

    “You require a lot of coddling.”

    He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “We’ll find a way out of this, Alina. We always do.”

    Alina rested her ironbound hands against his chest and closed her eyes. They were alone on an icy sea, prisoners of a man who could literally make monsters, and yet somehow she believed. She leaned into him, and for the first time in days, let herself hope.

    A cry rang out: “Two points off the starboard bow!”

    As one, their heads turned, and Alina stilled. Something was moving in the mist, a shimmering, undulating white shape.

    “Saints,” Mal breathed.

    At that moment, the creature’s back breached the waves, its body cutting through the water in a sinuous arch, rainbows sparking off the iridescent scales on its back.

    Rusalye.

    The sea whip was a folk story, a fairy tale, a creature of dreams that lived on the edges of maps. But there could be no doubt, the ice dragon was real, and Mal had found it, just as he’d found the stag.

    It felt wrong to Alina, like everything was happening too quickly, as if they were rushing toward something they didn’t understand.

    A shout from the longboats drew her attention. A man on the boat nearest the sea whip stood, a harpoon in his hand, taking aim. But the dragon’s white tail lashed through the sea, split the waves, and came down with a slap, sending a rolling wall of water up against the boat’s hull. The man with the harpoon sat down hard as the longboat tipped precariously, then righted itself at the last moment.

    Good, Alina thought. Fight them.

    Then the other boat let fly their harpoons.

    The first went wide and splashed harmlessly in the water. The second lodged in the sea whip’s hide.

    It bucked, tail whipping back and forth, then reared up like a snake, hurling its body out of the water. For a moment, it hung suspended in the air: translucent winglike fins, gleaming scales, and wrathful red eyes. Beads of water flew from its mane and its massive jaws opened, revealing a pink tongue and rows of gleaming teeth.

    It came down on the nearest boat with a loud crash of splintering wood.

    The slender craft split in two, and men poured into the sea. The dragon’s maw snapped closed over a sailor’s legs and he vanished, screaming, beneath the waves. With furious strokes, the rest of the crewmen swam through the bloodstained water, making for the remaining longboat, where they were hauled over the side.

    Alina glanced back up to the whaler’s rigging. The tops of the masts were shrouded in mist now, but she could still make out the light of Tamar’s lantern burning steadily atop the main royal.

    Another harpoon found its target and the sea whip began to sing, more lovely than anything Alina had ever heard, a choir of voices lifted in a plaintive, wordless song.

    No, she realized. Not a song.

    The sea whip was crying out, writhing and rolling in the waves as the longboats gave chase, struggling to shake the hooked tips of the harpoons free.

    Fight, Alina pleaded silently. Once he has you, he’ll never let you go.

    But she could already see the dragon slowing, its movements growing sluggish as its cries wavered, mournful now, their music bleak and fading.

    Part of her wished the Darkling would just end it. Why didn’t he? Why not use the Cut on the sea whip and bind me to him as he had done with the stag?

    “Nets!” shouted Sturmhond. But the mist had grown so thick that she couldn’t quite tell where his voice was coming from. She heard a series of thunks from somewhere near the starboard rail.

    “Clear the mist,” ordered the Darkling. “We’re losing the longboat.”

    She heard the Grisha calling to one another and then felt the billow of squaller winds tugging at the hem of her coat.

    The mist refused to lift.

    The squallers called out to one another in frustration.

    A series of thunks sounded, and a howl went up from somewhere, like a wolf baying at the moon.

    The mist lifted all at once. The vessel from the horizon was beside them. People swarmed over the railing.

    Alina was shocked at how many of them she recognized. Sergei. Marie. Zoya.

    Tamar swung down from the rigging. Mal stepped in front of Alina defensively.

    “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

    “I don’t know,” Alina replied. “Something very good, or something very, very bad.”

    They stood back to back, her hands still trapped in irons and his still bound, powerless to defend themselves as the deck erupted into fighting. Pistol shots rang out. The air came alive with Inferni fire.

    Alina was swept off her feet and thrown over a huge shoulder. She lifted her head, struggling against the arm that held her like a steel band, and saw Tamar rushing toward Mal, a knife gleaming in her hands.

    “No!” Alina screamed. “Mal!”

    He put up his hands to defend himself, but all Tamar did was slice through his bonds. “Go!” she shouted, tossing him the knife and taking the twin axes from their slings at her hips.

    Tolya, the larger and male of the Shu twins, clutched Alina tighter as he sprinted over the deck. Tamar and Mal were close behind.

    “What are you doing?” Alina cried.

    “Just run!” Tamar replied, slashing at a Corporalnik who threw himself into her path.

    “I can’t run,” Alina shouted back. “Your idiot brother has me slung over his shoulder like a ham!”

    “Do you want to be rescued or not?”

    Tolya gave a sudden grunt and fell to one knee, losing his grip on Alina. She toppled to the deck and rolled clumsily onto her side. When she looked up, she saw Ivan and a blue-robed Inferni standing over them.

    Ivan’s hand was outstretched. He was crushing Tolya’s heart, and this time, Brekker wasn’t there to stop him.

    The Inferni advanced on Tamar and Mal, flint in hand, arm already moving in an arc of flame.

    Over before it began, Alina thought miserably. But in the next moment, the Inferni stopped and gasped. His flames died on the air.

    “What are you waiting for?” Ivan snarled.

    The Inferni’s only response was a choked hiss. His eyes bulged, and he clawed at his throat.

    “Good trick,” Zoya said as the Inferni sank to the ground. “I know a good trick, too.”

    The next moment, Ivan was sinking, his resolve wavering.

    Tamar held her axes in her right hand, and her left fist was clenched.

    Tolya came up from his knee with a terrifying roar. Ivan clenched his fist, refocusing his efforts. Tolya grimaced, but he didn’t fall. Then the giant’s hand shot out, and Ivan’s face spasmed in pain and bewilderment.

    Alina looked from Tolya to Tamar, realization dawning. They were Grisha. Heartrenders.

    “Do you like that, little man?” Tolya asked as he stalked toward Ivan. Desperately, Ivan cast out another hand. He was shaking, and Alina could see he was struggling for breath.

    Tolya bobbled slightly but kept coming. “Now we learn who has the stronger heart,” he growled.

    He strode slowly forward, like he was walking against a hard wind, his face beaded with sweat, his teeth bared in feral glee.

    Tamar had released her fist.

    The fingers of Tolya’s outstretched hand curled into a fist. Ivan convulsed. His eyes rolled up in his head. A bubble of blood blossomed and burst on his lips. He collapsed onto the deck.

    Dimly, Alina was aware of the chaos raging around her. Tamar was struggling with a Squaller. Two other Grisha had leapt onto Tolya. She heard a gunshot and realized Mal had gotten hold of a pistol. But all she could see was Ivan’s lifeless body.

    He was dead. The Darkling’s right hand. One of the most powerful Heartrenders in the Second Army. He’d survived the Fold and the volcra, and now he was dead.

    A tiny sob drew Alina out of her reverie. Genya stood gazing down at Ivan, her hands over her mouth.

    “Genya—” Alina began.

    “Stop them!” The shout came from across the deck. Alina turned and saw the Darkling grappling with a blond boy. His blue and gold coat billowed behind him as he was backed toward the railing.

    Genya was shaking. She reached into the pocket of her kefta and drew a pistol. Tolya lunged toward her.

    “No!” Alina said, stepping between them. She couldn’t watch him kill Genya.

    The heavy pistol trembled in her hand.

    “Genya,” Alina said quietly. “Are you really going to shoot me?” She looked around wildly, unsure of where to aim. Alina laid a hand on her sleeve. She flinched and turned the barrel on her.

    A crack like thunder rent the air, and Alina knew The Darkling had gotten free. She looked back and saw a wave of darkness swallow first the boy in blue and gold, then move toward them.

    It’s over, Alina thought. We’re done for.

    Then the crunch of bone sounded and the Darkling cried out. The swell of darkness blew away to nothing, and she saw the Darkling clutching his arm, his face contorted in fury and pain.

    Brekker and Sturmhond raced toward Alina.

    “Run!” Sturmhond shouted.

    “Come on, Alina!” Mal cried, reaching for her arm.

    “Genya,” Alina said desperately, “come with us.”

    Her hand was shaking so badly Alina thought the pistol might fly from her grip. Tears spilled over her cheeks.

    “I can’t,” she sobbed brokenly. She lowered her weapon. “Go, Alina,” she said. “Just go.”

    In the next instant, Tolya had tossed Alina over his shoulder again. She beat futilely at his broad back. “No!” she yelled. “Wait!”

    But no one paid her any mind. Tolya took a running leap and vaulted over the railing. She screamed as they plummeted toward the icy water, bracing for the impact.

    Instead, they were scooped up by what could only have been a Squaller wind and deposited on the attacking ship’s deck with a bone-jarring thud. Tamar and Mal followed, Sturmhond and Brekker close behind.

    “Give the signal,” a Suli girl shouted, landing on her feet.

    A piercing whistle blew.

    “How many do we have?” she asked Brekker.

    Brekker frowned, counting as the ship began to move.

    “Squallers, get us moving! Musketeers, lend our people cover!” she ordered.

    The musketeers began firing their rifles down onto the deck of the whaler. As soon as Tolya set her down, Alina rushed to the railing, her gaze searching the deck for the boy who’d been fighting the Darkling.

    The shadows still enveloped him as he writhed. Alina doubted he would survive.

    “Count another one down in your calculations, Brekker,” she said quietly.

    He nodded, still silent.

    “Eight men down,” he said to the Suli girl, moving to Alina’s side. “Four remaining on the whaler—” he fell silent.

    Alina glanced toward him.

    His gloved hand curled over the railing, his grip tightening.

    “Sea whip is secured, Captain!” shouted a Fjerdan girl.

    Brekker let go of the railing, racing back along the deck toward the closest point to the whaler.

    The Suli girl caught hold of his wrist and he whirled, lifting his cane defensively. She flinched.

    “We can’t lose another man, Kaz,” she said softly.

    His gaze was wild. He dropped his cane and wrenched his arm from her grip. “It’s Nikolai.”

3.2

Inej

    Inej froze. “What’s Nikolai?”

    Kaz moved toward the railing, climbing onto it. She grabbed his wrist again. “The Darkling has him,” he said.

    “We’re too far from the whaler,” Inej insisted. “Get down before you kill yourself.”

    A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she tightened her grip. “Please, Kaz.”

    He stayed silent, then finally lowered himself down to the deck as Sankta Alina moved toward them. “I saw the Darkling’s attack. He won’t survive, I don’t think.”

    Kaz caught hold of her throat, his glove catching on the collar. “You didn’t stop him?”

    Inej grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. “What was she supposed to do? Concuss him with irons?”

    Kaz glared at the Sun Saint, then turned his glare to Inej. “Turn back.”

    “No,” Inej replied. As much as it hurt to say, they could not run back to a death trap for the sake of one man.

    Kaz made a strangled noise, then yanked his cane up off of the deck and strode to the bow, as far from Inej and Alina as he could possibly get.

    Inej swallowed and turned to Sankta Alina. “My name is Inej. I am the captain of this ship, and I am commonly known as the Wraith. We have brought the sea whip along.”

    Sankta Alina looked like she might be sick. “Do you have a Fabrikator?”

    Inej looked to her crew. She hadn’t brought one.

    Nikolai hadn’t counted one among his Grisha.

    Her gaze caught on a trio of heads bent together.

    A familiar shade of blonde, a recognizable shape of glasses, and their brother.

    Alexei and his sisters had stowed away.

    Inej nodded. “I do have a Fabrikator.”

    “Bring Rusalye aboard,” the Saint said, moving to a boy’s side. The boy wore plain clothes, and his wrists bore rope burns.

    Inej called orders to her crew, and Nikolai’s squallers helped to lighten the sea whip so that he was able to rest on the deck.

    Inej approached the heaving dragon, slipping a knife from her sheath. Sankta Alina. A narrow blade with a sunburst on the handle. Aptly named, and would provide the beast with the easiest death.

    She knelt and held it out to Alina. “As I understand, it must be you.”

    Sankta Alina eyed her carefully, then accepted the blade and stepped closer to the sea whip.

    She hesitated still.

    Inej dropped her head. “Either way, it will not survive, Sankta.”

    The sea whip gave a wheezing, pitiful sigh, a weak echo of the song Inej had heard as the Wraith had drawn near the whaler.

    The boy spoke. “End it, Alina,” he said hoarsely. “For Saints’ sake.”

    He took the knife from her hand and dropped it to the ground, then took her hands and closed them over the shaft of one of the harpoons. With a clean thrust, they drove it home.

    The sea whip shuddered and went still, its blood pooling on the deck.

    Inej lifted the knife from the deck and pressed the hilt to her forehead, murmuring a prayer over the cursed prince Rusalye.

    Sergei stepped forward, a blade in his hand, and reached for the back of the sea whip’s neck.

    Rusalye. The cursed prince, guardian of the Bone Road. In the stories, he lured lonely maidens onto his back and carried them, laughing, over the waves, until they were too far from shore to cry for help. Then he dove down, dragging them beneath the surface to his underwater palace. The girls wasted away, for there was nothing to eat there but coral and pearls. Rusalye wept and sang his mournful song over their bodies, then returned to the surface to claim another queen.

    The sea whip’s scales were an iridescent white that shimmered with soft rainbows, except for a single strip that began between its large eyes and ran over the ridge of its skull into its soft mane—those were edged in gold.

    Sergei dug the knife in, working the scales free. When he handed them to Alina, there were seven perfect scales, still wet with blood.

    “Let us bow our heads for the men and women lost today,” Inej said. “Good sailors, good soldiers. Let the sea carry them to safe harbor, and may the Saints receive them on a brighter shore.”

    She repeated the Sailor’s Prayer in Suli, then Ravkan, and then listened to Irina take it up in Fjerdan, and a pair of Shu that had surely come from Sturmhond’s crew aboard the whaler repeated it in Shu. For a moment, they all stood on the rocking ship, heads bent.

    Inej realized what she was waiting for.

    She was wishing for Jesper’s murmur in Zemeni, Matthias’s alter of the words and request to Djel to keep them safe, Kaz’s scoff.

    She missed them.

    She lifted her chin. “Saints receive them.”

    “Saints receive them,” the rest of the crew murmured.

    Kaz was silent, a dark sentinel, a figurehead at the bow.

    “We need to move,” Inej said quietly. “The Darkling is weakened, but he has Squallers and, surely, a Fabrikator or two. Let’s not take any chances.” She turned to her first mate. “Wil, give the Squallers a few minutes to rest and get me a damage report, then make sail.”

    “Da, kapitan,” she replied, then hesitated. “Could be people will pay good money for dragon scales, no matter the color.”

    Inej frowned, then gave a terse nod. “Take what you want, then clear the deck and get us moving. You have our coordinates.”

    Inej made sure Kaz could hear her voice across the deck. “I want to see Brekker, Sturmhond, Zoya, Sergei, and Sankta Alina in my cabin. As soon as is possible.” She strode across the deck, pulling the door open and heading belowdecks.

    When she got to her cabin, she sat down at her desk and waited.

    The first through the door was, unsurprisingly, Zoya. Then Sergei. Sturmhond was next, then Sankta Alina and the boy from the deck.

    Inej hadn’t really expected Kaz to listen.

    She wondered if he would ever forgive her for leaving Nikolai.

    “First things first. Sturmhond, it is wonderful to meet you. I am Inej, captain of this ship and also known as the Wraith. Who is the boy, Sankta?”

    The Sun Saint lifted her chin. “Mal. He’ll stay with me.”

    Mal nodded.

    Inej waved her hand. “If you trust him.”

    “What am I doing here? Why did you help me?” Alina demanded.

    “Are you so sure we have?” Sturmhond asked.

    Inej stood up, striding around the desk and walking toward Sturmhond until he hit the wall. “Who are you?”

    He swallowed. “Sturmhond. Captain of the Volkvolny.”

    “Beneath the mask.”

    He looked to the others. Inej was sure they were all quite confused.

    “Privyet, Kapitan.”

    “His second in command.”

    “Da.”

    Inej rubbed a hand over her face. “Fine.”

    “Answer Alina’s question, Privyet,” Mal said, stepping closer. “Why hunt the sea whip if you only meant to turn it over to Alina?”

    Sturmhond lifted his shoulders. “Because that is what I was hired to do.”

    “Is that why you raised a mutiny against the Darkling?” Alina asked. “Because he hired you to do so?”

    “You can’t very well mutiny on your own ship.”

    “Call it what you want,” Sankta Alina said, sounding exasperated. “Just explain yourself.”

    Sturmhond glanced around at them. “As I would have explained to the Darkling had he bothered to ask—which, thankfully, he didn’t—the problem with hiring a man who sells his honor is that you can always be outbid.”

    The Saint gaped at him. “You betrayed the Darkling for money?”

    “‘Betrayed’ seems a strong word. I hardly know the fellow.”

    “You’re mad,” Alina said. “You know what he can do. No prize is worth that.”

    Sturmhond smiled. “That remains to be seen.”

    Inej felt fury claw through her heart into her throat. “Nikolai would have—”

    “The Darkling will hunt you for the rest of your days,” Alina said, speaking over her.

    “Then you and I will have something in common.” Sturmhond seemed to grow more and more confident by the second. “I like to have powerful enemies. Makes me feel important.”

    Mal crossed his arms. “I can’t decide if you’re crazy or stupid.”

    “I have so many good qualities, it can be hard to choose.”

    “Your insolence isn’t half as charming as Nikolai’s, Privyet, and grief has a way of turning people angry,” Inej snarled.

    “If the Darkling was outbid, who hired you?” Alina asked. “Where are you taking us?”

    Inej shook her head. “He’s speaking nonsense, Sankta. We’re going back to Ketterdam. We’ll keep you safe there until we decide what our next step is. I believe Nikolai intended to take you back to Ravka. But he will not be doing that.”

    “The king wants my head on a silver platter, Captain. I don’t think Ravka is the best option right now.”

    “Even to chase the third amplifier?” Inej asked, and the Saint flinched.

    “A third amplifier,” Zoya said in disbelief.

    “You can’t, Alina,” Mal said earnestly.

    Alina pointed at him. “We’ll talk later. And—”

    Sturmhond raised his hand. “I have a question.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a small red book. “Why was the Darkling carrying this around with him? He doesn’t strike me as the religious type.” He tossed the book to Alina.

    She caught it and turned it over. Its gold lettering spelled out Istorii Sanktya.