Archive of Our Own

From the bottom of the stairs, all Jesper can hear is a low displeased murmur. As he climbs the uneven wooden steps it starts to resolve itself into words: “–third time this week! What in Ghezen’s name is going on?”

“I don’t know,” he hears Kaz say, his voice toneless.

Haskell lets out a disgusted little cough. “What do I pay you for, Brekker?”

“I don’t know yet,” Kaz says. Jesper can almost sense the way his eyes have narrowed by the way Haskell clears his throat, the backwards shuffle of his feet. By the time Jesper rounds the last landing and takes the final three steps up, Haskell is leaving the office, straightening his jacket in an attempt to look commanding.

“I expect results soon!” he throws back over his shoulder, and then glares down at Jesper. “Fahey.”

“Sir,” Jesper says, tipping his hat and grinning as Haskell pushes grumpily past him.

In the office, Kaz is behind his desk, fists clenching and unclenching as he works off the irritation Haskell always prompts in him. Jesper doesn’t know why Kaz lets Haskell think he’s in charge still, when it’s Kaz who does all the work and makes all the decisions, but no doubt Kaz has his reasons.

Jesper saunters over to the settee Kaz keeps to nap on and sprawls across it. “What crawled up his arse? Must be serious to make him climb all those stairs.”

“The White Rose was raided last night,” Kaz says.

Jesper sits upright. The White Rose was raided last month, as part of the regular twice yearly farce where the stadwatch pretends to enforce the law, and the rest of Ketterdam pretends they disapprove of the Barrel. It’s far too soon for them to do it again, especially given their laziness and the bribes Haskell pays. Not to mention:

“But the Crow Club was hit at the weekend.”

Kaz nods grimly, which for him is saying something, since grim is his default expression. “And the Crimson Shore last week. It’s not just us; they’ve been going after the Black Tips and the Razor Gulls too.”

“Huh,” Jesper says. He’s not seen any recent broadsides calling for the good folk of Ketterdam to clean out the Barrel, or a new firebrand preacher railing against the Staves. “What’s prompted this sudden outbreak of law and order?”

“Pekka Rollins has done a deal with Jan Van Eck,” Kaz says.

Jesper jolts so far forward he nearly tips his chair over. “That skiv!”

There aren’t many rules in the Barrel. Kill or be killed; eat or be eaten; don’t come crying when you’ve been taken for a ride. But everyone knows the gangs and the Geldstraat don’t dice or deal together; everyone knows the Council keep to their high-level crime and don’t interfere with what goes on below. If word got out about this alliance, Rollins wouldn’t be able to do a dishonest day’s work again. Which makes Jesper wonder why Kaz hasn’t spread word yet.

“You told Haskell you didn’t know what was going on,” he says slowly, remembering.

Across the desk, Kaz’s face is inscrutable as ever. “I only know half of what’s going on,” he says, mouth a thin slash, like the words hurt him. “I know what Rollins is getting out of it, none of his establishments have been raided and right now he’s plucking all the pigeons driven out of our places. I don’t know what’s in it for Van Eck.”

“So? Once the world learns Rollins is trading with a mercher, he’s done. Who cares what the deal is?”

“Me,” Kaz says flatly. His fingers flex in his gloves. Jesper isn’t famed for his wisdom, but he knows when to shut up. It’s personal, with Rollins. Kaz’ll never explain, most likely, but you’d have to be a blind man not to notice it.

“So what’s the play, boss?” he asks, tipping his chair back again, letting his hands rest on his revolvers. “Is Inej out stealing Van Eck’s secrets?”

“No need for that,” Kaz says. “We’ll be able to go straight to the source, by the time today’s through.” He stands, collects his cane, and heads for the door. Jesper, as ever, falls in line behind him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just need to pick up a little something on the way.”

“He means a little someone,” Inej says from where she’s standing by the window, and Jesper whirls round, damn near jumping out of his skin.

“Saints’ sake, Ghafa, warn a man!”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “You should be more observant. Kaz didn’t startle.”

“Kaz isn’t a man, he’s a lizard. His blood runs too cold to react.”

“Kaz is waiting,” Kaz says from the door, voice as chill as Jesper reckons his blood is. “And we’ve got a boat to catch.” He starts to limp down the crooked stairs.

“He loves us really,” Jesper tells Inej. She rolls her eyes and pushes past him. Jesper follows. One of them will explain on the way. Probably. Eventually. And if all else fails, he’ll know what to do when the shooting starts.

***

It’s been a grey, grey day. Ketterdam in winter: dull skies that leach light and warmth out of the world. Nights that fall without stars. The torches along the harbourfront reflect the brown water beneath the boat, and Wylan stares down into it.

He should be happy. He keeps telling himself to be happy. So what if his father has finally said outright what Wylan’s known for years, that he’s ashamed of his son, that he never wants to see him again. So what if Alys will give Jan Van Eck what he’s always wanted, an heir worthy of the name rather than a defective failure. So what if his father doesn’t even trust Wylan’s ability to get on a blessed boat.

“So what,” he whispers, and touches the envelope in his pocket, the rustle a reassurance. Yes, he’s being sent away, but also he’s being sent towards. He might actually find a life he wants to live, away from the chill, quiet mansion on the Geldstraat, where he’s only ever been a disappointment. He looks up at the clouds and breathes out, rolling his shoulders back. Stand up straight, Wylan. Must you hunch over like a sulky child.

Footsteps behind him. He turns to see Prior and Miggson, come to find their charge, and ducks his head. “Sorry,” he says, his first instinct to apologise, always, and tries a smile.

They don’t smile back. They crowd him up against the side of the boat, wood digging into the small of his back. Even then he doesn’t understand, it all happens so fast. He’s still trying to make sense of the cold expressions on their faces when he realises he can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe and there are hands around his neck and he can’t breathe and all he can think is oh. Oh, Ghezen, he’s been so stupid, and there are stars after all, somewhere above him, exploding like fireworks–

The boat rocks, hard, pitching him into Miggson and then back harder into the rail. Cries rise around him. No one is touching him anymore. Miggson and Prior have fallen to the deck, are stumbling to their feet. He can smell smoke.

There’s a loud bang, and the barge lurches again. He doesn’t know what’s going on, his ears are ringing, but one thought is clear in his mind: run.

Before he can question it, he throws himself over the side.

Ketterdam in winter. The icy surface hits him like a gunshot, robbing him of breath once more. There’s fire reflected in the water, shapes moving on the barge. He treads water, barely feeling his legs under him. There’s a hole in the hull, people screaming. The boat is sinking. Why is the boat sinking? What could they have run into, in the middle of the water, on the Belendt line?

He’s still trying to move, but the cold is choking him as much as the hands around his neck did. Adrenaline pushes him a few more strokes but he can’t tell if he’ll win this fight; thinks, don’t worry, father, I’m dead either way…

Something grabs at the back of his coat and suddenly he’s flying, pulled upwards to land in a sodden heap in a small rowboat, the world’s most ungainly fish. He scrabbles away from his rescuer, expecting to feel pain again, his father’s men back to finish the job. Instead there’s a boy with light brown skin and grey eyes, the most handsome face he’s ever seen.

As he casts around, confused, he finds himself looking into a pair of boundless dark eyes, a pale face as cold as canal water. “Wylan Van Eck?” the man asks, his voice like rust, his tone as formal as if they’re being introduced at some banquet. Wylan is too startled to do anything but nod.

The man glances at someone over his shoulder. He turns to see a dark-haired woman, who stares at him unhappily. Her hands move.

The world falls silent. The lights on the water fade to black. And just like that, he’s no one at all.

***

Wylan Van Eck doesn’t look like much, crumpled in the bottom of the boat they took from one of the many jetties on the East Stave. At the prow, Inej stands holding the lamp to light their way. Kaz is sitting in front of her, hands on his cane, face blank. Nina is staring out across the water, towards the sea. Jesper and Raske are rowing.

The explosion was bigger than they’d planned. They’d meant to stall the boat, give them a chance to get on board and find their target, not blow it out of the water. Jesper can tell Raske’s tensed for a dressing down, but it worked out in the end; they landed their prize.

The son of one of the richest men on the Merchant Council, unconscious in a rowboat in the depths of the Barrel, Jesper thinks. Only Kaz.

Van Eck junior is dressed in typical Kerch fashion, all staid black, coat buttoned up tight. The only brightness to him is his hair, red-gold even when wet, curling over his collar. Beneath it his skin looks even paler, almost translucent. Jesper can see the delicate veins in his forehead.

“You’re gawping,” Nina murmurs.

“I’m rowing,” Jesper says.

“I don’t blame you,” she says. “He’s pretty. Not my type, of course.”

Jesper isn’t entirely sure what Nina Zenik’s type is, but he suspects it’s terrifying. He’s very grateful it’s not him.

Kaz clears his throat. Jesper returns to rowing. He can’t help but think this might all be a mistake. When Van Eck senior realises his son is missing – when Kaz plays his cards, whatever that means – the full weight of the stadwatch and the Council will come down on them like the Hand of Ghezen himself.

But Jesper’s just a grunt. He does what he’s told.

They dock in Fifth Harbour, near one of Kaz’s many warehouses. It’s not far past five bells, but they’re far enough away from any activity that Jesper and Raske can haul the merchling’s body along the quay without attracting too much attention. And even if they do, it’s not like anyone’s going to risk offending the Bastard of the Barrel by ever mentioning what they’ve seen.

The warehouse is dark, wind whistling through the poorly constructed wooden walls. Kaz makes his way over to the trapdoor in the middle of the floor and they descend to the slightly warmer basement. Inej hangs up the lamp, revealing a space bare except for a table and two chairs in the middle of the room, set up ready for a meeting like it’s the Merchant Hall. They let Wylan Van Eck fall into one of the chairs. Jesper takes the satchel the kid’s carrying off him, and Raske ties him to the chair round his torso, and then ties his hands together behind his back for good measure.

The satchel’s heavy. Jesper rifles through it, hoping for kruge. There’s a stack of it, damp but still good; a sheaf of music; a scarf; a pouch of something that looks oddly like gunpowder; and a wooden case holding a flute. Jesper looks down at the shiny silver keys and an odd sensation rolls through him. It feels a lot like guilt. Out of nowhere he imagines debt collectors at his father’s farm, Colm Fahey’s despair and disbelief. His father, punished for his wayward son’s mistakes. This boy, Wylan, suffering for Jan Van Eck’s bad decisions.

He closes the flute case and returns it carefully to the satchel.

Kaz has moved to sit in the chair on the other side of the table. He stares at the slumped figure opposite, whose head is lolling on his chest, his drying curls fluffy and golden in the lamplight. “Zenik,” he says, after a long moment. “Wake him up.”

***

The first thing Wylan notices is the smell. Fish and salt and damp. He can hear water lapping not too far distant, and the sound sends a wave of panic through him. For a minute, he can’t remember why.

Then the memories rise up to drown him.

He gasps awake, his body jolting. Every instinct is telling him to run, hide, but when he tries to move there’s rope holding him fast. He blinks and sees a stranger watching him, face blank and still.

The man from the boat, he thinks, trying to reassemble the fragments of the night. Not quite a man, really; he can’t be that much older than Wylan, but his eyes… His eyes are ancient. Unforgiving.

“What,” he says. It hurts to talk. From where his father’s men throttled him. He tries again, swallowing the pain, falling back on the one phrase that’s always appropriate in Ketterdam. “What business?”

The man opposite raises an eyebrow. “None with you,” he says, and Wylan flinches, hearing the contempt in his voice clearly: who would ever have business with such a pathetic creature?

Wylan’s never been a proper mercher, he’s not capable. But he’s still Kerch, and the surreality of the day has made him reckless. “You appear to have kidnapped me,” he points out. “There must be something between us.”

Off to the side, in the shadows, he hears someone exhale. It sounds almost like a giggle.

The man scowls. “My business is with your father. I do apologise for the inconvenience to you.”

Wylan doesn’t believe this man’s ever been sorry for anything a day in his life. He watches as he brings out parchment from his coat pocket; from a drawer in the table he fetches pen and ink. He pushes them all across towards Wylan, who looks down and is briefly relieved when he sees that the paper is blank.

“So what you’re going to do,” the man says, “is write to Jan Van Eck and tell him that unless he cuts ties with Pekka Rollins, Kaz Brekker will have no option but to cut pieces off his only son.”

Kaz Brekker, Wylan thinks. He’s heard rumours. The Bastard of the Barrel, the worst of the worst. He almost laughs. He wonders how many more times he can face death before it sticks.

At a nod from Brekker, someone cuts the rope around his wrists, leaving the ones around his chest. Wylan brings his arms forward, wincing at the ache. He rests them on the table. His right hand is inches away from the pen, the ink.

“Go on, then,” Brekker says, nodding sharply. “You know what to write.”

The bruises around his neck, the ache in his lungs, the fear and confusion, are all echoing through him. He can’t think, can’t bargain, can’t pretend. “I can’t,” he says.

Brekker’s eyes narrow. “This isn’t a game.”

Wylan looks up, meets those pitiless eyes. His ears are ringing, his pulse beating double time. He has no words left in him.

“You might be thinking, ‘I’m innocent, he won’t hurt an innocent’,” Brekker goes on, tongue curling disdainfully around a fake Gelden accent. “You would be mistaken.”

“I didn’t think that,” Wylan says softly. He stares down at the page again. Ridiculous, really, to be as frightened of it as he is. Ridiculous that all his nightmares are about books and paper. He notes, distantly, that his hands have started to shake. No wonder his father wanted him dead.

“Write the letter,” the man opposite him grinds out. Wylan had almost forgotten he was there.

“I can’t,” he says again, stubbornly, the memory of a thousand identical conversations crowding through his brain. You aren’t even trying. Try harder. Are you an imbecile, boy? A six-year-old child can write his own name!

When Brekker moves, he moves faster than Wylan quite sees. All he knows is that his body is pressed hard against the chair, the chair itself rocking with the force of it, the handle of Brekker’s cane digging into the bruised skin at his throat. He chokes, lets out a strangled scream. It hurts, so badly.

“I am not playing,” Brekker hisses. “You don’t need all your fingers to hold a pen. Do not try me.”

Wylan’s eyes swim with tears of pain. His whole body is trembling, with cold, with terror. He’s trapped, by rope, by criminals, by his own stupidity. There’s only one way out that he can see: to tell the truth. And faced with a choice of which failure to reveal, which grievous wound to tear open, he goes with the one that’s still bleeding. “He tried to kill me!”

Everything goes very quiet.

Brekker pulls the cane away, leaning forwards over the table. “What?”

Wylan coughs, his throat raw; it takes several long seconds before he can even form words again. “My father tried to have me killed,” he says. He stares over Brekker’s shoulder, at a form he can’t quite make out in the darkness. “Today. Just now.” He tips his head back. “See these bruises? They’re not from your men.”

“It’s an intriguing tale,” Brekker says, still poised to strike again, but Wylan can hear the crack in his voice now, the doubt. Ghezen, he’s tired.

He keeps on talking.

“I was supposed to be going to music school,” he says. “In Belendt. Instead the moment we were in open water his men tried to strangle me.” He finds himself smiling at his own gullibility, as if the Wylan of this morning is a stranger to him, someone he can pity. “There are papers in my coat pocket. They were meant to be for the school. I expect they’re blank.”

Brekker nods to someone behind him, who comes closer, rifles in his jacket, and pulls out the packet. The Van Eck seal is unbroken, but the papers are soaked through, and Wylan sees he’s right. There’s no ink staining those pages. There never was. He didn’t even check.

Stupid, stupid, he thinks. Although – how do you wake up and decide that today is likely the day your father will kill you? How do you think that, even when you know how much you’re despised? He hangs his head, staring at the table. His mind’s empty of thought again. He just wants to sleep. He wants, briefly, to have never been pulled from the water. At least that would be simple.

Just at the edge of his sight, he watches gloved fingers open the envelope and flick through the wordless papers.

There’s a creak as Brekker shifts back, away from the table. “Rotty,” he says, after a pause. “Cut him loose.”

Wylan looks up. Brekker is hunched over his cane, staring into the distance, lips twitching, as if he has too many thoughts in his head to follow. “What?”

Brekker casts a glance at him, dismissively. “I believe you,” he says. “Which means you have no value to me. You can go.”

The man behind him – Rotty – slices through the ropes; he feels the pressure lift from round his chest.

He has absolutely no idea what to do next.

***

Wylan Van Eck is not what Jesper was expecting.

He’s met mercher kids before of course – at the university, and again in the Barrel, when they head to the Staves for an evening of deliciously dangerous slumming it. He’s grown to despise their careless arrogance, the way they touch and take and assume, like the world was designed for their pleasure and their pleasure alone.

Wylan Van Eck is not arrogant. He’s not weak, either – you don’t look Kaz Brekker in the eye and defy him if you’re weak – but he’s not acting like someone who thinks he’s better than anyone he should happen to meet.

When the ropes are cut from around him, more than anything else, he looks lost.

Kaz is already standing, half turned away, scheming face fully in operation. Inej, hiding in the shadows like the awesomely stealthy marvel that she is, is glancing from Wylan Van Eck to Kaz and back again, like she wants to say something, but isn’t sure what.

“Uh, boss,” Jesper says, and all three of them stare at him: Kaz irritated, Inej curious, Wylan just startled. Leaning against the wall, Nina rolls her eyes at him. Jesper waves his fingers in the air. “You, uh, want me to do anything with the kid?”

If Kaz were the type of man to look confused, he might. Clearly he’s on to the next plan, or possibly through the next seven plans and on to plan eight. “He’s worthless,” he repeats. “Not our problem.” He raises an eyebrow at Wylan. “Why are you still here?”

Wylan swallows. Even in the darkness of the basement, Jesper can see the shadows around his neck where someone tried to strangle him earlier. Man. What a shitty, shitty day. And Jesper thought he had a difficult relationship with his Da. (He didn’t. Doesn’t. But he knows that’s going to change, when his Da finds out the truth about him.)

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Wylan says, quietly, more like he’s realising it himself than reminding them.

Kaz flexes his hands on his cane. “Fresh meat is always welcome in the Barrel,” he says, his voice even but with a heavy undercurrent of threat. “On both sides of the Staves.”

The merchling winces, then nods. He stands and reaches for his satchel, eyes wide and vacant, his hands shaking. He’s in shock, Jesper thinks, which is hardly surprising. He pauses to look down at the papers on the desk and then he shakes his head, suddenly, violently, and stumbles to the stairs, and is gone.

In the corner, Inej shifts. From her, that’s like Jesper putting his hands on his guns.

“What?” Kaz demands. “He saw our faces. He could still go to the stadwatch. He’s lucky I didn’t cut his throat.” He turns his eyes up to the exit, and grins a humourless grin. “Though that might have been doing him a favour.”

Nina scowls, but doesn’t move.

“Fuck you, Kaz,” Jesper says, throws himself up the stairs, and starts jogging towards the Lid.

He doesn’t know why, really. He’s not one to second-guess himself; he does what feels right, and then finds out afterwards if it was stupid. All he knows is, if it were him, he’d want someone to care, just a little.

Wylan hasn’t got far. He’s walking down the quay towards the early evening scrum of the Barrel, head down, clutching his satchel to his chest. He couldn’t look more ripe for the picking if he tried. And then Jesper catches up to him and changes his mind, because the kid is also crying, silently, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

He whirls round when he hears Jesper, though, one hand outstretched. When he sees who it is, he pauses, briefly, then turns and keeps walking.

Jesper matches his pace. “Hey,” he says.

The kid glares. It’d be impressive, if it weren’t for the big blue eyes, the tears.

“Big day, huh,” Jesper says. He doesn’t know what to say; figures he’ll just talk and see what lands. “Nearly get killed, definitely get kidnapped, face off with Dirtyhands. And you met me!”

Maybe he shouldn’t talk.

Wylan sighs and stops. He scrubs his hands over his face. “What do you want.”

“Honestly? Not sure,” Jesper admits. “I just feel like we got off on the wrong foot, due to the kidnapping and all. I’m Jesper. Jesper Fahey. Best sharpshooter and snappiest dresser the Barrel has to offer.” He taps his guns, gives a little bow. “I’m guessing you don’t know many folk this side of Ketterdam. So, uh, if you want someone to show you the ropes…”

He doesn’t know why he’s offering, really. Only that he was clueless and lost once too and while Kaz held out a hand, it wasn’t a gentle one. He feels like Wylan deserves gentle.

Wylan simply looks exhausted. He readjusts his satchel on his shoulder, sagging slightly. “What I really want is to go to sleep and then wake up and find out this day never happened.”

“Well,” Jesper says, grinning, “the first part I can help with.”

***

The Barrel is both exactly what he expected and nothing like he expected.

His father never let him go anywhere unaccompanied, and in recent years had barely let him go anywhere at all, keeping him tied to his desk, his incomprehensible books and interminable lessons. He dreamed sometimes of the freedom he might find beyond the Geldstraat, vague pictures in his mind of crowds, and laughter, and firelight.

The Barrel has crowds and laughter and firelight – more people than he’s ever seen in one place, pushing past and against and into each other, furious and frantic and joyful all at once. The colours are dazzling, the costumes, the masks… He feels strangely conspicuous in his staid black, like a literal blot on the landscape, leeching some of the life away. But what he couldn’t have imagined in a million years is the smell, the noise, the beggars, the barefoot dirty children, the shit on the streets.

But just when he’s settled on disgust, or fear, or aching pity, they’ll turn a corner and catch the smell of frying potatoes, and some hawker will deliver a polished spiel, and an acrobat will be juggling flaming batons, and he’ll feel like a child at carnival, caught in a moment of wild delight.

He can sense people looking at him curiously, occasionally with a dangerous focus, but then their eyes will catch on the man by his side and they’ll turn away. Wylan’s heard of Kaz Brekker; it makes sense that anyone working with him would be treated with some measure of respect.

Jesper Fahey moves through the crowds like he’s swimming, like he’s dancing, like he barely notices anyone else is there. Wylan, buffeted and overwhelmed, occasionally having to take three steps to his one to keep up, can’t help but admire his grace. He’s beautiful. He belongs here. Wylan’s never belonged anywhere.

It could be the worst mistake he’s ever made, following a Dreg through the Barrel to some unknown location. But it’s not like he has any other choice. And he is, mostly, a good judge of character. He’s had to be, to understand which of the tutors or staff might be kind to him, which would look away when his father punished him.

He blinks. Tears come to his eyes again, uselessly. He feels wrung out: still soaking wet, but dry as dust on the inside, barely enough water left to cry. The point is. The point is he thinks he can trust Jesper Fahey, ridiculous as that idea might be on the surface. Jesper came after him, didn’t he? No one’s ever done that for Wylan before.

By the time they leave the Stave and turn into one of the twisting alleys leading deeper into the Barrel, Wylan is thoroughly lost. He couldn’t navigate out of here back to the waterfront and the Geldin district if he wanted to. Instead he tries to remember the turns they take now, down narrower, darker, more crooked paths, so that at least, if he needs to, he’ll know which way to run.

Finally they come to a building half-leaning into its neighbour, soot-dark and damp. There’s a grubby child leaning against the entrance, who nods at Jesper and gives Wylan an contemptuous once-over.

“All right, Andries,” Jesper says easily, and turns to smile at Wylan. “Welcome to the Slat!”

“Why’s it called the Slat?”

“No idea,” Jesper tells him. “Kaz fixed it up. It’s nicer on the inside, promise.” He bows slightly, waves his hand in a flourish. Wylan, shaking his head, walks up the two steps into the lobby.

It’s not nicer on the inside. It looks very much like he’d imagine the headquarters of a Barrel gang to look: dingy and run-down and full of people who look like they’d happily break his arm for a kruge. But it’s warm, and the people staring at him seem relaxed, and anyway, Jesper’s ushering him up the stairs to the second floor, and unlocking a door. He goes in and lights a lamp before turning back to Wylan, hovering in the entrance. “Well? Come on in.”

The room looks like a clothes emporium exploded over it. Or possibly a theatrical costumier. Everywhere he looks he’s dazzled by bright colours, different fabrics, even a feather boa in one corner. It’s overwhelming. He stays where he is.

“Sorry it’s a mess,” Jesper says, his confident grin cracking slightly, and Wylan finds himself stumbling to reassure him:

“Oh, no, I… I didn’t mean… it’s not–” He shakes his head, smiling for the first time in hours. “It’s just a lot.”

“That’s me!” Jesper’s cheer is back in full force. He fidgets for a moment, then hurriedly flings a great heap of clothes and hats and belts and coats on to the floor to reveal a single bed with a patchwork quilt. Wylan stares at it. It looks warm, and comfortable, and he wants nothing more than to crawl into it and pull the quilt up over his head and forget everything about today.

“What are you waiting for, merchling?” Jesper demands. “One bed, as requested.”

Wylan doesn’t know what his face does, then, but it must be something, because Jesper looks stricken suddenly. “To sleep in,” he says, hurriedly, “that’s what you wanted, right?”

On any other day, in any other life, he’d want more. He’s in a room with a beautiful man; that’s how a story might start. But in this life, he only ever gets what he deserves, which is nothing at all. So he simply nods, walks two paces into the room. When he speaks, he barely recognises his own voice. “Do you know what Brekker wants with my father?”

“There’s another gang boss, Pekka Rollins,” Jesper says. “Him and Van Eck have cut a deal. Van Eck arranges for the Stadwatch to go after the clubs that aren’t under Dime Lions protection. But we don’t know what Rollins is doing for him. Why, do you know?”

“No,” Wylan says. He lets himself sit on the bed. It’s a little creaky, but not as bad as he was expecting. “He… he didn’t really trust me with business.”

Jesper opens his mouth like he’s going to ask why, reconsiders, shuts it again. He’s shifting from side to side, twitchy but still graceful. “I’d better get back,” he says instead. “Find out what the plan is. Kaz’ll have a new one by now. There’s clothes. I mean. You can see there’s clothes. You can borrow some. If you want.”

“Thank you,” Wylan says, and he’s so tired he even means it. “Listen, Jesper… When you see Brekker, tell him… Tell him if I can help him against my father, I will.”

“Yeah?” Jesper’s smile widens. “You pitching to become a Dreg?”

“This isn’t where I thought I’d end up when I left home today,” Wylan tells him. “But I guess it’s where I am.” He glances up at Jesper, then looks away before he gets used to looking.

“I’ll let you sleep,” Jesper says softly. At the door, though, he turns back and adds, “It’s not so bad. The Barrel, I mean. Not always. And hey, I’ll watch out for you.”

“Why?” Wylan asks.

Jesper shrugs. “Maybe I like your face,” he says, and winks, and then leaves with a swirl of coat tails.

Wylan stares after him for a long time, nothing in his head but the sound of water. And then, for want of anything better to do, he strips off his damp suit, steals a garish plaid shirt to wear instead, and falls asleep the minute he lies down.

***

Kaz is waiting for him in the lobby, hands on his cane, looking patient, which means someone’s about to feel the sharp edge of his tongue, probably Jesper. Inej, Nina and Rotty are nowhere to be seen.

“Got your little pet mercher safely in his kennel?” he asks.

Jesper glares at him. “Fuck you, Kaz. ‘Fresh meat’s always welcome on both Staves.’ Were you trying to piss us off?”

Kaz’s left eyebrow lifts a fraction.

“Oh sweet holy Saints, you were.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Fucking hell, of course you were. A councilman’s kid here willingly – what an asset, right? I swear, I worry how your mind works sometimes, I really do.”

“I wasn’t sure who’d have the biggest bleeding heart,” Kaz says, turning to go. “I figured it was even odds between you and Zenik, but you’ve always made stupid choices for cute boys.”

“And girls,” Jesper says, automatically. Just as automatically, he moves to follow Kaz out of the door. He could get mad, but it’s Kaz. The day he’s not being manipulated in eighteen different ways, half of which he hasn’t even noticed, is the day he’ll know Kaz is sick, possibly dying. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d pay Van Eck a visit,” Kaz says, and smiles like a wolf.

It’s been a long time since Jesper was in the Geldin district. Probably not since his first month or so at the university, when he was still touring Ketterdam like a tourist, before he became a Barrel native. He’s forgotten how it feels like a different world, one where he will never belong. Though it’s getting late, and the streets are mostly deserted, he can still feel the people passing eye him with disdain.

Kaz doesn’t seem to notice or care, just striding unevenly along the even, swept flagstones of the Geldstraat. Eventually they duck down one of the alleyways separating the merchers’ mansions, the routes for tradesmen to enter and rubbish to leave. Van Eck’s garden has high walls, but there’s a locked gate that takes Kaz ten seconds to get through, and then they’re slipping across moonlit grass. Jesper looks up at the imposing sprawl of the mansion, and pictures Wylan at the threshold of his room. No wonder he looked horrified, if this is what he’s used to.

All of the windows are locked, sensibly, but Kaz takes them round to one side where a small hatch for coal leads into the basement, protected only by a padlock. “Is this how you got in last time?” Jesper whispers, as he lowers himself down on to the floor. “When you stole the DeKappel?”

“No, Inej opened a third floor window and then came down and let me in,” Kaz says, as he makes his way up the stairs to the kitchen. “Much more elegant.” He clearly remembers the layout, though, leading them confidently through kitchen and drawing room, up more stairs to the first floor where presumably Van Eck’s office is to be found.

It’s very quiet, even though it’s not yet ten bells. No servants bustling around. Most of the gas lamps aren’t lit. It makes Jesper uneasy, and Kaz too, he can tell by the way he goes even tenser, poised to run or fight.

By the time they get to the imposing wooden door, its panels inlaid with gilt, Jesper feels like the air itself is heavy and still in his lungs. The house is so dark, oppressive, cheerless, like all the joy and life was sucked out of it years ago. He tries to imagine Wylan here – any child at all, here – and finds that in his imagination Wylan is transformed into a ghost, pale and silent, haunting the halls.

He shivers, and tells himself not to be foolish, touching the pearl handles of his guns for reassurance as Kaz, with typical confidence, throws the door open and enters the study.

The man sitting at the large mahogany desk in the study bears a clear resemblance to Wylan, though without the curls: his copper hair is thinning and combed back neatly. His eyes are a watery shade of blue, his mouth downturned. The lines in his face speak to a lifetime of cruelty and disappointment, his expression a permanent frown. He is admirably calm when confronted with two strangers, simply leaning back in his chair and looking them up and down. “Who in Ghezen’s name are you?” he demands.

“Councilman Van Eck,” Kaz says, strangely formal. “We’ve come from the Barrel. We heard you… lost a valuable piece of property earlier today.”

Van Eck narrows his eyes and waves them in. Lined up in front of him, Jesper can’t help but be reminded of his schooldays, sent to the principal’s office for his most recent misdemeanour. Van Eck doesn’t look like a man to spare the rod.

As comfortable in this office as he is in his own in the Slat, Kaz leans on his cane and meets Van Eck’s eyes. Jesper’s never quite got used to the way the Kerch barter, but for these two it’s clearly as natural as breathing.

“Say I did,” Van Eck says. “Would you be in a position to return it to me?”

“Perhaps,” Kaz says. “I have a better chance than any of the men you’ve sent out to scour the city. And I’m sure you’d hate to let it go for good. It tells a very interesting story about how it got lost.”

The air grows heavier, colder. Van Eck’s face doesn’t change, exactly, but a shiver runs up Jesper’s spine all the same.

“But I’m a businessman,” Kaz continues, watching the man closely. “I don’t care about stories unless they’re worth kruge.”

“I can see you’re a man cast in Ghezen’s image, Mr Brekker,” Van Eck says. Kaz gives no outward sign of discomfort at being identified, but Jesper is close enough to hear the creak of leather as his fists tighten in his gloves, just a fraction, before letting go. “Do you have proof of provenance?”

Kaz shrugs. “A flute,” he says. “An envelope addressed to a music school.”

“I see.” Van Eck reaches for a decanter and glass and pours himself a rum. “You are, perhaps, aware that I have other representation in the Barrel.”

“I know you’re dealing with Pekka Rollins,” Kaz says. “I don’t see why this transaction should interfere with that.”

“Only in the sense you may have competition for the recovery of my property.”

“Then let the best man win.” Kaz extends his hand over the desk; with pursed lips Van Eck takes it, shakes it briefly. “And where would you like your merchandise delivered?”

Silence extends. Van Eck swirls the liquid in his glass. “Ah,” he says. “Well. The trouble is, that piece doesn’t really fit in my collection any more.”

Jesper can hear his blood pounding in his head. This is Wylan’s father. Yes, a mercher, a monster maybe, but still a father. And he’s just told a man he knows to be a killer that he wants his son dead.

He knew Wylan was telling the truth, but it’s one thing hearing it and another seeing it in the dead-eyed face of a man who looks just like him.

Next to him, Kaz shifts his weight from side to side, knocking Jesper’s hip: a warning to keep cool. “I could take care of that problem for you,” he says. “Are you looking for another buyer, or a more permanent solution?”

“I don’t care as long as it’s not on display,” Wylan’s father says about his flesh and blood, about a child who once, maybe, played beneath the desk he’s sitting at with his coffers full and his heart empty. “As long as I never have to be troubled by it again.”

“Five hundred thousand kruge,” Kaz says. Van Eck laughs.

“This kind of property is barely worth a single percent of that in the Barrel.”

“But this is a special piece,” Kaz responds mildly. “There’s competition for it, you said so yourself. Not to mention the risk of… embarrassment, should something go wrong.”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“Three fifty.”

“Done,” Van Eck says. “The deal is the deal. Now get out of my house.”

Kaz makes Jesper stay silent all the way back to the Lid, casting wary glances around him, even as Jesper is boiling with words, with rage, with the urge to return to the Geldstraat and shoot Van Eck dead.

“That motherfucker!” Jesper erupts when they’re safely back on Dregs territory. “Did you hear him! Bartering his son with the Bastard of the Barrel!”

“Mmm,” Kaz says. “Did anyone see you with him, earlier?”

Jesper wrenches his thoughts back to practicality. He should have known Kaz wouldn’t share his finer feelings. “Er, probably. We walked back to the Slat together. So, yeah.”

“Inej,” Kaz says, and Jesper startles as the Wraith materialises next to them, “find out whether it’s just the Dime Lions in on this, or if Van Eck’s put a wide bounty on his son’s head. I doubt Rollins will try and storm the Slat, but enough of them together might risk it.”

Inej hesitates. “You’re not planning on earning the money yourself, are you?” she asks, and Jesper whips around from her to stare at Kaz because he hadn’t even considered that possibility.

Kaz scowls. “No,” he says, though he looks like it pains him to say so. “Van Eck made a deal with Rollins first. I’m not doing anything for him.”

“Good,” Inej says, and vanishes up the side of a building. Jesper and Kaz watch her go, before Jesper replays the conversation in his head and–

“Kaz,” he says slowly, “if Van Eck hadn’t made a deal with Rollins and put himself on your shit list, would you have murdered Wylan?”

Kaz stares at him unblinking. “The deal is the deal.”

“But–” Jesper starts, then stops. He’s not exactly in the strongest position to protest over killing people, and anyway, he said it himself, this is the Bastard of the Barrel he’s talking to. What did he expect?

They start walking back towards the Slat, silent again. It’s past twelve bells by now, but the Staves are still busy. Jesper looks at everyone they pass, assessing the danger, trying to pick out Dime Lions, Razor Gulls, stadwatch. The whole Barrel will be watching out for Wylan, because his father wants him dead.

“Why d’you think he’s doing this?” he asks eventually. “Trying to kill Wylan.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Kaz says shortly. “Merchers aren’t like us. Their motives don’t make sense. You should remember that.”

“What do you mean?”

They’re outside the Slat now, and Kaz draws to a halt, meets Jesper’s eyes. “It’s your bleeding heart,” he says. “Don’t make it my problem.”

“Fucking hell, Kaz!” Jesper says. “Could you try, just for one fraction of a second, to pretend to be human?”

“No profit in that,” Kaz says, and limps ahead of him. “Warn the merchling not to leave the Slat. Get some rest. Then come find me.”

Jesper watches him as he climbs the stairs to his office, presumably to refine whatever version of the scheme he’s on now. He’s never been totally convinced Kaz sleeps.

Wylan does, though. When Jesper gently opens the door to his room, he’s lying on his side, curled up like he’s trying to take up the least amount of room he can. He’s snoring, not loudly, just little huffs of air. Even asleep, he’s frowning, not entirely relaxed, though the lines on his face speak of anxiety rather than contempt, entirely unlike his father.

He looks adorable. Jesper doesn’t want to wake him up. What would he say, anyway? Remember your dad tried to have you killed? Well, he really meant it, and now the whole city’s after you…

No.

He’ll let him rest, he decides. Plenty of time for him to face reality in the morning. In the pile of detritus on his desk he finds a scrap of paper and scribbles out a quick message telling Wylan to stay in the Slat, and leaves it propped up against his satchel where he won’t be able to miss it.

With one last glance at Wylan’s sleeping figure, he leaves the room. He’ll sleep on one of the sofas in the room off the lobby; he’s done it before when he was too drunk to face the stairs. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’ll do. And then, in the morning, Kaz will have a plan, and Jesper will help keep Wylan safe, and that’s…

Oh, fuck, he thinks. That’s all he wants.

Jesper knows he has a bad habit of going all in on a high stakes game. But to fall for a merchling who wouldn’t deign to look at him twice if he hadn’t been driven out of his home and threatened with death must be his most foolish roll of the dice yet.

***

When Wylan wakes, he doesn’t have the luxury of amnesia, of a brief moment of not knowing who he is or where he is or why. He goes from a dream of drowning to slamming upright, hands at his throat, all the events of the previous day falling on him like Ketterdam rain and soaking him to the bone.

He is Wylan Van Eck. His mother’s dead. His father wants him dead. He’s sleeping in a Barrel rat’s bed and he has no one left in this world who cares about him.

After a while he decides that sitting and shaking and crying won’t get him anywhere. It never has before.

The morning is murky and grey through the draughty window, making Jesper’s belongings even more garish in contrast. He gets out of bed, and finds his clothes where he left them, folded over the chair. His trousers are mostly dry, so he puts them on, even though they reek of canal water. He keeps Jesper’s shirt, though; the thought of wearing the starched white shirt with the high collar that dug into his neck while they strangled him…

Stop, he tells himself, firmly. He’s well practised at cutting off a thought, a feeling, before it overwhelms him. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

The mantra that served him well in the Geldstraat has less power here. Things are worse. When he was tending his bruises or staving off hunger pains or trying not to cry over the latest pile of books, he used to tell himself that at least his father wanted to help him, that at least he wasn’t starving in the Barrel, that at least he was safe. And now he knows his father has given up on him, and he might be starving in the Barrel soon enough.

Angrily, he wipes away the tears that threaten to spill again. If he wants to live, he has to have something to offer, and no one will want to barter with a pathetic crybaby. He needs to prove he can look after himself.

He looks around for his satchel. He can’t remember exactly what’s in it, but there was definitely some kruge, and maybe he can sell the other bits and pieces for enough to buy a bed for a few nights. He could pawn his flute, too, though the thought tugs at something tender deep inside, and he decides to make that a last resort.

The chaos in the room makes finding anything hard, but eventually he spies his satchel on the desk. There’s a piece of paper lying next to it, and his heart sinks. He can, just about, recognise the shape of his name, three strokes upwards, one stroke down. It’s a note. Jesper left him a note. And he has absolutely no idea what it says.

In desperation he picks it up and carries it to the window, in case the light will somehow, magically, help, but the black mess of letters remains as muddled and mysterious as it always does. With trembling fingers, he folds it once, twice, three times, shoves it in his trouser pocket, as if he’ll find someone he can ask to read it to him.

It occurs to him that there are likely many people in the Barrel who can’t read, that his stupidity might seem less shameful here, but still, the thought of revealing his weakness to strangers makes his heart lurch painfully. He stands frozen for a long moment. Should he stay here, wait for Jesper to come back? But what sort of idiot mopes around a room when the room’s owner only offered him a bed out of pity? Almost certainly the note is telling him to get lost.

But Jesper said he’d watch out for you, he thinks. He smiled at you. His grin lit up his face, made his grey eyes sparkle, and in this strange new world he seems to live in now, all Wylan wants is to see that again.

He raises a trembling hand to his forehead. He hasn’t eaten in hours; he can’t think straight. He’ll go downstairs, go find some food, and then he’ll decide what to do next.

The Slat is deserted, aside from a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor in the lobby sharpening a knife, and the kid on the door; Andries, he thinks. He clears his throat. “You seen Jesper?” he asks, trying for nonchalance. It comes out as a squeak.

Andries gives him a deeply unimpressed look. “Out with Kaz.”

“Right,” Wylan says, pitching his voice deeper. “Um. Better go find him then.”

Andries’ look, if possible, turns even less impressed. Wylan can feel the heat rise in his cheeks, and he flees through the door before he makes it worse.

In the daylight, without crowds and lamplight to make it sparkle, the Barrel simply looks poor, and old, and sad. As he takes the turns he vaguely remembers back to the main drag, he keeps seeing things he’d rather not, and yet can’t look away from: a dead rat, its flesh crawling with maggots. A gang of children, barefoot, filthy, watching him like the minute he stumbles they’ll eat him alive. It’s terrifying. He doesn’t belong here.

But he no longer belongs anywhere else. So he keeps his head down, and his satchel clutched tight to his chest, and unspools yesterday in his memory until he reaches the canal, where at least there is noise, and people, and food carts. A little bit of glitter to distract from the muck.

He’s weighing up whether to buy fried potatoes or stroopwaffels or both – the minute he smelled the food he realised he was starving – when a hand falls on his shoulder and spins him round.

It’s no one he recognises. A thickset man with a broken nose, ten years older than him and three stone heavier. His grin shows off black and broken teeth. “It’s him,” he announces, to someone Wylan can’t see.

Wylan thinks, shit. He thinks about running. He thinks about begging. He doesn’t have time to do either.

Something hits him very hard on the back of his head and the world goes away.

***

Because he really is a bastard, Kaz prodded Jesper awake before seven bells, and didn’t even let him change his clothes before heading out. As they head back up towards Fifth Harbour, he wonders if Wylan’s still asleep, if he’s read his message yet. He’s hoping by the time he gets back to the Slat he’ll have good news, though he can’t quite figure out what that might be.

Because Kaz also occasionally forgets to be a bastard when Inej is around, though, he’s deigned to let them stop to eat breakfast. Jesper’s halfway through an extremely good pile of fried egg and potatoes when Nina slips into the booth with them.

“Ooh,” she says, “waffles,” and steals a forkful from Inej’s plate.

Jesper, who didn’t order waffles on purpose because Nina always steals them, pulls his plate towards him protectively, just in case.

“What’s the word?” Kaz asks, impatiently. He hasn’t ordered anything; Nina says he lives on plain water and spite.

“The Dime Lions are definitely scouring the city,” Nina says with her mouth full. “I haven’t seen any signs of any other unusual activity though. Looks like Van Eck only confided in Pekka Rollins.”

“The stadwatch patrols are normal,” Inej adds. “I got into the records at the Exchange, and I can’t see that Van Eck’s done anything overtly strange lately, but he did write off the profit from several recent trips. Said the cargo was spoiled in one case, stolen in two others. Which might be true, but might also be a cover to free up some capital.”

“If he’s trading off the books, the Dime Lion businesses would be a good way to launder the proceeds,” Kaz says thoughtfully.

“Due respect, boss, I’m not sure how this helps with Wylan’s problem,” Jesper points out.

Kaz stares at him witheringly. “I’m not trying to solve Wylan’s problem. I’m trying to unseat Pekka Rollins.”

“So we figure out what Van Eck and Rollins are working on together, which is ideally something that will screw both of them over, and leave Van Eck too distracted to keep trying to kill his son?” Jesper asks hopefully, and Kaz rolls his eyes.

“If that’s how you want to think about it,” he says. “Do you have any Dime Lion contacts at the gaming tables who might give something away?”

“They mostly want to break my legs right now,” Jesper says, though he gives a rakish grin as he says it, in case that will help at all.

Inej sighs at him. “Jesper.”

“Hey, maybe they’ll give something away while they’re breaking Jesper’s legs,” Nina says with a cheery smile, and steals some of his potatoes while he’s distracted with outrage.

“Fine,” Kaz says. “Nina, Inej, keep investigating. Jesper, go and keep an eye on Wylan; I’m not letting the Dime Lions earn that reward if I can help it.”

They pay and leave the cafe, splitting up: Inej to spider her way into Dime Lion territory, Nina to see what the secret Grisha network everyone pretends not to know about can tell her. Kaz and Jesper head back towards the Slat.

They haven’t gone five minutes when a hulking form steps out a doorway in front of them, a cosh in one hand. Jesper turns to look behind him and sees five more men blocking the entrance to the alleyway. When he glances upwards, he sees the glint of a rifle poking over the parapet of the roof. Like taking a breath, the next second his guns are in his hands, one pointed ahead of them, one pointed behind.

Kaz leans on his cane and eyes the man with a bored expression. “Eamon,” he says.

“Where’s the mercher brat, Brekker?” Eamon asks. His sneer shows off his gold tooth.

“Do you really think I’d tell you?”

“You might when I destroy your one working leg,” Eamon grins, moving the cosh from hand to hand in what he clearly considers a threatening manner.

Jesper’s fought alongside Kaz so many times he knows the steps like a dance. Can see that Kaz is about to go in low and dirty with his cane, leaving Jesper to put down as many of the men beside him as he can, while ensuring the shooter above can’t touch them. The anticipation makes his blood sing. His fingers tighten on the triggers.

Then, running footsteps distract them. A messy-haired urchin comes up behind Eamon, whispers something, too low to catch. Eamon smirks. “Today’s your lucky day, Brekker,” he says, and before either Jesper or Kaz can make a move the Dime Lions are gone, slipping back into the Barrel shadows they came from.

“What the–” Jesper says.

Kaz swears. “The only reason not to fight the battle is if you’ve already won the war.”

“Wylan.”

“Go,” Kaz says, and Jesper runs, not stopping for breath all the way to the Slat.

Andries is still lurking on the steps. It’s like he never leaves. Jesper’s pretty sure Per Haskell pays him to keep an eye on what Kaz is up to. “Hey, kid,” he says, panting, “you seen the guy I came back with yesterday? The redhead with the cute freckles?”

The kid’s disdain is almost as strong as Kaz’s. “He went looking for you.”

“Fuck,” Jesper says. He races upstairs. Wylan’s made the bed, neatly. The note and his bag are gone. What the hell was the merchling thinking?

By the time he gets downstairs, Kaz is back. He raises an eyebrow; Jesper shakes his head. “Kaz,” he says. “We need to get him back. Not because of Rollins, not because of the reward, not because of anything in your scheme, we just need to. Please.” He can’t even explain the urgency, but it’s there, burning in his brain and blood like fire. “I told Wylan I’d watch out for him. Don’t make me a liar.”

Kaz looks at him for a long, long moment. “He’s an investment,” he says. “He makes an excellent hostage. And I protect my investments.”

“Thank you,” Jesper says, exhaling deep. “Kaz. Thank you.”

“Find Inej,” Kaz says. “Tell her the target’s changed.”

“Boss.” Jesper tips his hat in a salute, and races back out of the Slat. I’m coming, Wylan Van Eck, he thinks. Saints, I really hope you’re not dead…

***

Wylan thinks he might be dead.

How else to explain the fact that he can’t see, can’t move, but somehow, still, he’s moving? He can feel the air against his face, his shoes dragging against the ground, hear the sound of water lapping against walls, nightmarish and relentless.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to translate the strange, painful pressure under each arm and realise he’s being half-carried, half-dragged, over rough cobblestones. He tries to open his eyes, and eventually, a little light comes in, though his vision is vague and blurred and the movement makes him want to vomit.

Not dead, then. Not yet, anyway. He’s sure he remembers that head wounds were dangerous, that sometimes they could kill hours after, and his head hurts enough that death coming would make sense. Might even be a blessing.

The men dragging him drop him without ceremony, and he rolls on to his side and pukes water and bile onto the dirt. There’s nothing else in him.

Someone swears. There’s a jangle of keys and the scrape of a door and then he’s being picked up again by the collar of his shirt and thrust forward over the threshold. He lands on his hands and knees, swaying. The door closes and locks behind him and he’s alone.

For a while he doesn’t move, just blinks and breathes. He feels like he’s on a short fuse, that if he moves his head will explode like one of the devices he makes for fun. But eventually you can get used to anything, even pain, and slowly he tilts back to kneel and look around.

When his eyes clear he can see he’s in a warehouse or workshop of some kind, surrounded by crates and barrels. There’s rope, and boatbuilding tools, and at least one of the barrels is full of pitch. He must be near the docks again.

Under one of the windows – high on the wall and so covered in dirt it barely lets the light in – is a pile of jute sacks. Wylan crawls over to it and collapses. Ridiculously, he realises he’s still wearing his satchel, slung over his neck. He can’t even remember what he packed in it, and to distract himself from the pounding pain in his head opens it to find out. His flute. Some cash. A scarf, in case he got cold on the boat – which makes him laugh, hoarse gulps of laughter almost like choking – and deep inside a packet of gunpowder, left over from some experiment or other. He contemplates it, then shakes his head and tucks it back inside.

Gingerly, eventually, he forces himself up to explore his surroundings. The place is quite full, though all the boxes and crates look like they were stashed in a hurry, the stacks uneven and disordered and in the way. It looks like it was originally designed as a boathouse, with the pitch, the tools, before being commandeered as a storehouse for some reason. There’s even a barrel full of water with a dipper to drink from; it’s stale and dusty and also the best thing he’s ever tasted.

After he drinks his fill, he’s on his third aimless circuit when he notices the thing that’s been staring him in the face all along, his eyes skipping over it because it was so normal as to be almost invisible. Every box and crate is stamped with the Van Eck laurel wreath.

What can that mean? He retreats to the jute sacks to try and think it through. The ache in his head doesn’t help. Him being stupid doesn’t help.

His father said he’d lost cargo recently. A shipwreck, a storm, maybe pirates. He was holding forth about it, ostentatiously, at some drinks event at their house where Wylan had mostly tried to hide in a corner and not talk to anyone. He must have been lying. What did Jesper say? That his father had made a deal with some gang boss. That he’d arranged for the stadwatch to raid properties in the Barrel on their behalf. But then why would he give the gang his merchandise too? Only the Barrel boss is profiting from the deal, which means there’s something he’s missing. His father would never let the balance be so weighted in someone else’s favour.

He’s still trying to puzzle it out when he hears voices outside and freezes, shrinking back into himself as if he could disappear. There’s the sound of the lock disengaging and someone enters, carrying a lantern against the gloom. He’s followed by another man, large and brash, in a bright orange suit that clashes horribly with his reddish hair. The man scours the boathouse with a keen eye until he spots Wylan by the window.

“So you’re what all the fuss is about,” he says, sauntering over.

Several responses rise to Wylan’s lips, but he swallows them all down, well-trained to stay silent, keep out of the way, don’t let anyone see what an imbecile you are. Besides, this man might seem like a character from a book, larger-than-life and cartoonish, but his eyes are cold and unforgiving.

“Doughty,” he calls back over his shoulder, “tell the councilman to come see.”

For a brief, ridiculous, shining moment, Wylan almost lets himself believe that his father has come to take him home. But he’s not a child anymore, and he knows, he knows, that there’s no point in dreaming.

When his father enters, his gaze passes through Wylan like water in a canal. He realises, then, that he hadn’t quite crushed his hope entirely, because he can feel it die now in the perfect emptiness of his father’s eyes.

“Congratulations, Rollins,” his father says, curt, a little sarcastic. “That is indeed my property.”

He sounds the same way he does when he’s scolding one of the maids for a minor spill, like none of this is worth his time, but since no one else seems capable of handling it, he’ll have to deal with it himself.

“What d’you want done with him?” Rollins asks, looking down at him with cool disinterest. He could be just another crate, stamped with the Van Eck laurel.

His father turns away. “That’s no longer any concern of mine.”

Wylan… goes away for a while. Not for long, he doesn’t think, the two men are standing in the same place when he comes back to himself. Just for a few seconds, while the water rose up around him, and he was nothing, nowhere, not real. He breathes in, sharp and deep, feels panic brutal and choking in his chest.

Rollins and his father are still talking, bartering. “–if it makes no odds to you what happens as long as it’s far from here,” Rollins is saying, “I know a Novyi Zem cathouse that would pay a pretty penny for this kind of stock.”

That cuts through the panic; Wylan is on his knees, though he doesn’t remember moving. “Father,” he says, hands outstretched, then desperately, “Papa. Please.” He hasn’t called his father that since his mother died. Since the days when his father would hold him, read to him, lift him in strong arms to show him paintings and jewels and other treasures: the Van Eck legacy.

Now, at last, his father meets his gaze. Wylan is used to seeing disappointment in his face, anger, contempt, even shame. He’s never seen hatred there before, but it’s there now, livid and burning, like it’s been suppressed for years. It’s almost physical, the force of it; he collapses back, still caught in the glare.

As if from a long way away, he hears his father say, “Sacred is Ghezen, and in commerce we see His hand.”

And then he’s turning, leaving, gone. The door swings closed behind him.

Rollins contemplates Wylan for a breath or two. “Merchers,” he says, disdainful. “Think they’re so superior. Got to have the last word.” He paces a step or two around the boathouse. “All this for a few measly jurda farms. Sorry to say, boy, but your pa’s soft in the head.”

Wylan’s shaking, can’t stop it. “P-please,” he says, “please just kill me.”

For a large man, Rollins moves fast; his fist is in Wylan’s shirt, hauling him up so they’re eye to eye. “They’ll like that,” he says, greasy grin spreading on his lips, “the begging.” Then he taps Wylan on the cheek, too gentle to be a slap, like he’s not even worth hitting, and lets him fall.

Wylan lands on his hands and knees again and hangs there, trembling. Rollins says, “you’re all so black and white, you Geldstraat scum. Sacred is Ghezen my arse. Paying someone to do your dirty work, thinking you’re one up on them. He can’t even imagine a man like me doing anything but yessir, nossir, a tug of the hat to you, sir…” He starts to move towards the door. “Can’t even think five steps ahead to realise what a scandal it’d be if Pekka Rollins of the Dime Lions told all of Ketterdam how an upright councilman sold his own son to a whorehouse.”

I’m just a pawn, Wylan thinks to himself vaguely. An heir, a hostage, a bounty, blackmail material. Nothing more.

“So you just sit pretty,” Rollins says, more to himself than to Wylan. “I’ve got big plans.” He gestures at the man by the door. “Take one of them Fjerdan boxes, will you? Might need the firepower. And set a watch outside for Brekker till the boat comes, don’t want the fucking Dregs to get any more ideas.”

The man puts down the lantern, and crosses to heave up one of the crates stacked in the far corner of the warehouse. He follows Rollins out and the door closes again. Wylan can hear voices, instructions. The snick of a lock, the shuffle of feet.

He’s on his own again. Trapped. No hope of rescue; he’s not sure what Rollins meant by Brekker getting ideas, since Brekker made it very clear what Wylan was worth to him.

It’s funny, he thinks. He spent so long being afraid of what would happen if his father finally gave up on him. So long trying to stay quiet, be better, work harder, terrified of the consequences. He could never have imagined this.

It can’t be worse. The worst has happened.

And then, a voice in his head – a voice which sounds strangely like Jesper Fahey – says “doesn’t that mean you’re free?”

Wylan curls up on the dirty floor and lets the thought settle, fizzing in his veins. He’s been so scared of his father for so long. Terrified of the moment his father would write off his investment. And that’s happened, and he’s still here.

He’s still terrified, of course he is, but he’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s in a new world, with new rules. He takes a deep breath, and then another, testing the air in this new world where everything he was afraid of has come to pass, so what’s the point of being afraid anymore?

At some point, probably, he’s going to scream and cry and break, maybe for good. But not yet. For now, he’s going to float in this strange, flat place beyond fear. Because he wants to live. He wants to spit in his father’s face. He wants to see Jesper Fahey smile again. He wants, he wants, he wants. He’s not sure he’s ever let himself want anything before.

He sits up, looks around the boathouse. He’s trying to remember what his father said, when he was complaining about the loss of his cargo. Fine Shu Han silk. Ravkan kvas. The latest Fjerdan firearms.

The crates are labelled, but he can’t read them, and without a crowbar he’s not getting in to any of them. But there must be firearms in that stack in the corner that Rollins’ man took a crate from.

They haven’t even tied him up. They think he’s pathetic, useless, all the words his father has flung at him for years and years.

Rope, he thinks. Pitch. Guns. The lantern, flickering in the breeze coming under the door. Valuable merchandise and men outside to guard it. The gunpowder in his bag.

He’s starting to have a really bad idea.

***

It’s been the longest few hours of Jesper Fahey’s life.

He’s tapped every contact he can think of, even the ones he owes money to, or who’re pissed at him after a night together but no morning. Kaz, he knows, is sitting at the centre of his own web of spies, all reporting back to him at the Slat. But as usual, it’s Inej who has the winning hand.

“Found him,” she says, swinging back into Kaz’s office through the window, startling Jesper so badly he pitches sideways off his chair and lands hard on the floor.

“You’re sure?” he asks, springing back up, and for once both she and Kaz are too focussed on business to mock him.

“There’s an old boathouse in the warehouse district,” she says. “Rollins was seen going in there not that long ago, shortly followed by some mercher all in black who arrived in a boat.”

“It’s our best lead, anyway.” Kaz gets up, reaches for his cane. “Let’s go check it out. Inej, fetch Nina and meet us there, a heartrender is always handy. Jesper, tell Rotty and Pim to bring the bomb stash.”

“Yes, boss,” Jesper says, with a quick salute. He’s always saying they should use demo more; good to see Kaz agreeing with him for once.

They re-convene an hour later at the edge of the warehouse district. It’s the day of rest, so the place isn’t empty – commerce never stops in Ketterdam – but it’s a lot quieter than it might have been. Quiet for a moment, anyway, until suddenly the air is broken by cries, shouts of anger rather than pain.

Inej whirls round, then shins up a nearby building for a better look. Nina grimaces. “Can you smell that?”

He does, then, drifting on the wind: fire, smoke, oily and bitter. “What the hell–”

“It’s burning,” Inej calls, making her way back down the wall. Her eyes are large, full of sorrow. “The boathouse is burning.”

Jesper starts to run. He ignores the shouts around him, he knows what they’re saying makes sense, that he’s being an idiot. He just doesn’t care.

When he rounds the last warehouse into the open square by the sea he comes to a stop, skidding. Ahead of him, a ramshackle building is burning steadily, great black clouds billowing upwards and turning the grey day darker. There are men rushing around it, pointlessly throwing barrels of seawater on to the fire, though it’s clear even from here that this is the kind of fire only the Saints or a storm can bring to an end. As he watches, one of the men attempts to rush in, only to be hauled back by his mates. There’s something in there, then. Something valuable.

A hostage, maybe.

He feels lightheaded. He still doesn’t understand why he cares so much. He only met the kid yesterday. But there was something there. A spark. The feeling of potential he normally only gets when he fires his guns and watches the bullets fly.

It’s too late. Whatever it was is over before it even had a chance to start. But he starts moving again anyway, racing towards the boathouse. And then feels his legs slow, his muscles clench, like the air around him is treacle. His knees buckle. He comes to a halt.

“Nina,” he murmurs, betrayed, and then Inej is there, her hand on his back.

“I’m sorry, Jesper,” she says. “There’s nothing you can do.”

The wind shifts, and the fire seems to burn harder, faster, billowing black smoke pouring out. It feels sticky on his skin, like tar. From the depths of the building, a hundred metres away, he hears, distinctly, a small metallic plink.

Funny, he thinks, that almost sounded like–

To the left someone shouts “get down!”

The warning is so clear and certain that on instinct he falls flat to the ground, Inej beside him. And then there’s a wave of noise, loud beyond imagining, a hundred guns all going off at once. Bullets are flying in all directions, he can sense them, metal shards flying to strike buildings all around them, and it’s as much as he can do in the chaos to push them away from where the two of them are huddled on damp stone.

Afterwards, the roar of the fire feels as quiet as a whisper. His ears are ringing. When he risks glancing upwards, the men, the boathouse, everything is just gone, translated into a multitude of little fires burning all around the square where wood and metal and cloth has been blown by the force of the explosion.

“Ghezen,” someone says. He twists to look, sees Kaz watching, awe in his eyes. Because, deep inside, Jesper knows there’s a part of Kaz that only wants to see things torn down, pulled apart.

Slowly, Jesper stands. There are shapes among the mess, huddled and broken. They used to be people. One of them used to be Wylan.

He should feel something, but between the ringing in his ears and the smell and the glee in Kaz’s face, he just feels numb.

And then he hears running footsteps and there are arms around his waist and curls tickling his nose and a voice saying, “you’re all right, you’re all right, thank Ghezen you’re all right.”

Inej and Nina stand frozen. Jesper’s heart is racing, air caught in his lungs. Kaz says, “Van Eck?” and Jesper thinks it might be the first time he’s heard Kaz sound surprised about anything.

Slowly, carefully, Jesper pushes back the body hugging him and finds himself looking into Wylan’s red-rimmed, water-filled blue eyes. His hair and face are streaked with soot. He has what looks like a wet scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, like a bandit. “You’re alive,” Jesper says, stupidly.

“I’m alive,” Wylan agrees, and then his eyes widen, like he’s only just realised. His legs give way, and Jesper lowers him to the cobbles, unwilling to let him go.

“How the hell did you manage that?” Kaz gestures at the disaster around them, his tone reluctantly impressed.

“Oh. Well. It wasn’t that hard, really. There was a barrel of pitch in there, for caulking I guess.” Wylan lowers the scarf from around his mouth and coughs, deep and wet. His hands are black with tar. “I just soaked a load of ropes with it, like fuses, you know, leading from the barrel to all the other piles of crates. I didn’t know what was in them but I figured the wood would be flammable at least. And then I set the pitch alight with a lantern. Once the men outside smelled the smoke they opened the doors to try and get the merchandise out, but the fire was already spreading pretty fast by then, and I had some gunpowder so I threw that in the barrel and escaped while they were distracted by the explosion.”

There’s a pause while they all stare at him. He frowns, squinting behind him at his handiwork. “I knew there were guns in there but I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so spectacular.”

“Wylan,” Jesper says, carefully, “are you insane.”

“Mr Brekker,” Wylan says, ignoring him completely, “I don’t know if Jesper told you already but if there’s anything I can do to help you against my father, I’m in.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Kaz says. “Can you do more work like that?”

“Like what?”

“Setting things on fire. Making them explode.”

“Um, yes?” Wylan looks confused. “It’s not hard, is it? It’s just chemistry.”

Inej turns her face away to hide her smile.

“Tell that to Raske,” Kaz mutters. He nods at Wylan, sharp and decisive. “Welcome to the Dregs. You can call me Kaz.”

“Sankta Alina,” Nina whispers, loud enough for them all to hear. “I think Kaz just adopted him.”

Kaz scowls, and limps away. “Rotty! Pim! You can stop hiding now. We’re done here.”

“You all right?” Inej asks, and at Jesper’s nod, she gets up too, falling into place behind Kaz, his silent shadow.

“I told you you were gawping,” Nina says happily. She tousles Jesper’s hair and then she’s gone too, leaving him and Wylan. Who’s swaying, little tremors making him shake in Jesper’s hold; reaction setting in as the adrenaline wears off.

“I think I might be a little insane,” Wylan says suddenly. He blinks at Jesper. There are tears in his eyes again, from the smoke, maybe from the shock. “I’m really hungry. And I think I just killed a bunch of people.”

“Yeah,” Jesper says. He’s not sure how that will land, when Wylan recovers enough to think about it. Badly, probably. “Well. The first part I can help with.”

Wylan smiles at him, clearly recognising the echo of what Jesper said just yesterday. Saints, was it only yesterday? “Thanks,” he says, and lets his head fall forward, nestling into the crook of Jesper’s neck like it was made for it.

“You’re welcome,” Jesper tells him. He strokes Wylan’s back till the trembling subsides. “You want to know a secret?” When Wylan nods into his shoulder, he says, “I’m a little bit insane too,” and feels Wylan laugh, and holds him tighter.

Later that afternoon, back at the Slat, someone knocks at Jesper’s door. He can tell it’s Kaz – can sense the metal in his cane – but the knocking is softer than usual. He looks down at Wylan, sleeping again. In the last three hours he’s eaten, thrown up, eaten again, burst into messy tears, then passed out. Jesper found all of it oddly adorable. He’s never felt this way about anyone. It shouldn’t make any sense, given, well, everything, but it does, and he can tell Wylan feels it too: a rightness that exists beyond logic.

He gets up to open the door. “Boss,” he says, keeping his voice low. “You want me?”

“It’s time to see a man about a reward,” Kaz tells him.

Jesper almost laughs. “You’re joking.”

Kaz looks him in the eye. “I never joke about kruge,” he says, and since Jesper has no idea how to answer that, he gets his coat and follows him down the stairs.

Today, the Van Eck mansion has two armed stadwatch officers stationed in front of it, more at strategic points around the neighbourhood. Word of the explosion must have reached him. Clearly he’s uncertain what, if anything, Rollins will do about it. There’s no way they’re going to be able to sneak in, so instead Kaz just walks right up to the officer, and tells him to tell Van Eck Kaz Brekker is there to see him.

The officer accompanies them all the way to the office. It’s daylight, but the room itself feels somehow as dark as if it’s full night. Van Eck is sitting behind his desk again; Kaz and Jesper stand side by side in front of it again. The mercher nods at the stadwatch grunt, who reluctantly leaves, closing the heavy door behind him.

“Did you or Rollins start the fire?” Van Eck asks, straight into business, entirely dry eyed.

“Neither of us,” Kaz tells him, his rasping voice neutral. “My man at the waterfront says it was an accident. A lantern overturned.”

Van Eck nods. His gaze goes distant. Jesper, who heard a garbled account of what Wylan had been threatened with, earlier, wonders if he’s picturing another possibility: where his son chose that death over the future his father had sold him to. If he is, it doesn’t trigger any remorse. “So why are you here? You can’t think I owe you anything.”

“Not on yesterday’s deal,” Kaz says. “But I’d wager you’d rather your council colleagues didn’t get wind of exactly what happened to your son.”

“You’ve no proof,” Van Eck snaps, his face flushed with rage. “And no one would believe a Barrel rat like you.”

“They don’t need to believe me,” Kaz says. “They just need to wonder if it’s true. Reputations have fallen for less.”

The two men stare at each other for long enough that Jesper twitches, uneasy at how alike they look. Van Eck is a bastard, but so is Kaz Brekker, and while he trusts Kaz he also knows that there’s not much he wouldn’t do. The difference between them is measured in inches, not miles. But the inches still matter.

“Fifty thousand kruge,” Van Eck says eventually.

“A hundred thousand,” Kaz says. “I fancy buying a DeKappel. There’s a new one on the market, I hear.”

Van Eck goes so red Jesper half expects him to drop dead in front of him, but then he snaps, “the deal is the deal.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a stack of cash, counting it slowly enough to be an insult before he pushes it across the polished desk. Kaz vanishes it into his coat.

“Just so you know,” Kaz says, “in case Rollins tries something similar… The Geldin district and the Barrel aren’t meant to deal together. If word got out he’d had the stadwatch set on his competition, he’d be finished. We fight our own fights.”

This, Jesper realises, is the real reason they came. The warning. Kaz doesn’t want Van Eck and Rollins to keep working together, but he doesn’t want anyone to know they ever did. It’s always the same, when it comes to Rollins. Personal. Kaz won’t let anyone else interfere with his vendetta. Jesper wonders if he’ll ever find out why.

“I appreciate the knowledge,” Van Eck says after a moment, sitting back and loosening his tie. “You’re a bold man, Mr Brekker. How would you like to earn some real money?”

Kaz takes a breath. Only Jesper knows him well enough to register his surprise. “I’m listening,” he says.

***

This time when Wylan wakes up, there’s no note, but he doesn’t need one. Jesper told him to stay, so he will.

It’s all happened so fast. Quick as a fire. Two days ago he was miserable in a luxurious mansion. Now he’s in the Barrel, and he’s not happy, not yet, but he can see the shape happiness makes, and for the first time in years he dares to believe it can fit into his life.

Jesper says Kaz was impressed by his demo work. Jesper says whatever happens, he has a home with the Dregs, that the Dregs watch out for each other, that once you’re in, you’re in. Jesper says the Barrel is cruel, and dangerous, and unfair, but full of life, too. He says you can live there. That he will help Wylan live there.

Wylan hasn’t trusted anything for a long time, but he trusts Jesper. He came looking for him when he had no reason to, held him later while he choked out what Rollins had planned for him, while he cried for the men he’d killed horribly.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, a surprised smile on his lips, when Jesper says, “knock knock!” and enters the room. “How you doing, sunshine?”

Wylan blushes at the endearment. Jesper looks delighted.

“Fine,” he says. “Where were you?”

“Went back to the Geldstraat,” Jesper says. “Kaz blackmailed your father into paying him a hundred thousand kruge not to tell anyone he tried to have you killed. And there’s something else, I’ll tell you later.”

“All right,” Wylan says. He doesn’t want to think about his father, if he can help it. Not now.

Jesper comes to sit on the bed. “Hey, Wylan,” he says. “This morning… why did you leave? Didn’t you see my message?”

Ah, Ghezen. Wylan should’ve known it would all come crashing down sooner or later. He’d just hoped it would be later. He hoped he’d have time to convince them he was worth something more than his greatest shame. He’ll have to explain – he’s a terrible liar – and then he’ll see the look on Jesper’s face, the contempt he’s so used to, and it will all be over, before it’s even had a chance to start.

His panic must be evident because Jesper looks panicked too. “You don’t have to tell me!” he says.

But he does. Whatever this is, it has to be real or it can’t be anything at all. “I can’t read,” he says, his voice almost steady, and keeps his eyes on Jesper, no matter how much he wants to look away.

Jesper grins, and then stops grinning when it registers Wylan’s not joking. “What?” He sounds surprised. Not angry, not yet. That will come next.

“I can’t read,” Wylan says again, and this time he can’t help himself; he lowers his eyes and plucks at the quilt. “I’ve never been able to. Ghezen knows I’ve tried. The letters just never make sense.” He plays a quick arpeggio on the bed to calm himself down. “My father tried too. He really did, for years, every method he could find.” Medicine that made him nauseous. Different teachers. Pain, hunger, punishments, promises… It made no difference. He was broken beyond repair. He looks up again. “I know how he must seem to you, now. But he really did try to help me.”

Jesper looks lost. He comes to sit down on the bed, takes Wylan’s hand. His long fingers tap out a fast rhythm against his palm, like he can’t be still, even sitting. “Wylan,” he says. “Are you seriously telling me your father did all this because you can’t read?”

Wylan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t understand why that’s a question. “I’m a Van Eck,” he says eventually. “I was meant to inherit the business. I couldn’t do that. How can you be a mercher if you can’t read a contract? It wasn’t his fault, Jesper. I mean, it was, at the end it was, I’m not saying I think it’s all right, what he did. But he had to disinherit me. What other choice did he have?”

Jesper just stares at him for a while. Then he says, “have you still got the note?”

“What?”

“The note, the one I left. Have you still got it?”

“Um.” Derailed, relieved at least that Jesper doesn’t seem upset at the revelation of his idiocy, he reaches into his pocket. “Yes, I– I think so. Here.”

He hands the paper to Jesper, who takes it, unfolds it, clears his throat. “Dear Wylan,” he reads.

“Jesper–” Wylan says, uncertainly. He doesn’t think he can bear it if Jesper makes fun of him.

“Rollins and the Dime Lions are after you. You need to stay in the Slat. Back soon.” He looks up. He doesn’t look pitying, or amused, or angry. “PS,” he says, “I promise I don’t go round kidnapping cute boys, as a general rule, but I’m really happy I kidnapped you. Has anyone ever told you how cute your freckles are?”

“Jesper!” Wylan says. He’s started blushing again. “It doesn’t say that.”

“It absolutely does,” Jesper says. He puts on an affected reading voice again. “When all this is over, would you like to go out for waffles with me? Sincerely yours, Jesper Fahey.”

Wylan laughs, unable to help himself. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, please.”

Jesper grins back at him, his delight infectious, and then he says, more seriously, “that’s what he could’ve done, Wylan. He could’ve read you the contracts. Not hate you, or hurt you, and call it helping. He could’ve actually helped you.”

It’s too much for him to take in, right then. He tucks the thought away to examine later. Jesper sighs. “I know you don’t believe me,” he says. “I’ll keep saying it, though. Wylan. I don’t care that you can’t read. No one will care. Kaz can’t walk properly and he’s the scariest person I’ve ever met. You’re amazing. You blew up a whole building, you rescued yourself all on your own. And if you need to read something, I can read it to you.”

Wylan surges forward, and he takes Jesper’s face in his hands, and he kisses him, and kisses him, and it’s perfect, it’s like something slotting into place, like solving an equation, like a harmony, like an explosion.

When at last they separate, Jesper looks dazed, and Wylan knows he feels it too. “Saints–”

Someone clears their throat outside the door. “Your heartbeats are going crazy!” a cheery voice announces. “Should I come in? Are you all right?”

“Fuck off, Zenik!” Fahey yells. He’s grinning at Wylan, wide and uncontrolled.

“Can’t!” the voice calls back. “Kaz sent me to get you. Something about a plan, and thirty million kruge?”

“Oh, right,” Jesper says. “Kaz is scheming again.” He leans in, brushes his lips against Wylan’s cheek. “To be continued, merchling. I can’t wait to see if that blush goes all the way down.”

Wylan blushes harder.

Upstairs in Kaz’s office, they find Kaz sitting behind a desk, a Suli girl perched on the window sill, a dark-haired woman leaning against the wall. Wylan recognises them both vaguely from the boat; it seems a lifetime ago. “Inej Ghafa, our Spider,” Jesper says, nodding to the girl by the window. “Nina Zenik, Heartrender, pain in the arse.”

“Pleasure,” Nina says primly, her face alight with mischief. Inej inclines her head, smiling at him warmly.

“What business, Kaz?” she asks.

“Van Eck offered us thirty million kruge to break into the Ice Court and rescue a Shu Han scientist,” Kaz says. “The man developed a new drug, called jurda parem. It amplifies a Grisha’s power a hundredfold, at least. But it’s highly addictive and incredibly dangerous. The Council wants to stop the knowledge spreading. If any state gets it, the consequences could be serious.”

Nina looks horrified. “If it’s addictive… any Grisha who takes it would essentially be a slave.”

“And anyone with an army of those Grisha unstoppable,” Inej murmurs.

“I was talking about the consequences to trade,” Kaz says dryly.

“Did you say jurda parem?” Wylan asks, suddenly. He’s remembering a snatch of conversation, inexplicable at the time.

“It’s developed from jurda, I believe,” Kaz says. “Your point?”

Wylan starts pacing. “Ghezen’s hand,” he says. “Rollins… Rollins said my father was doing all this for a few measly jurda farms. He’s buying up the harvest.”

“That’s not on the trade books,” Inej says sharply.

“No.” Wylan’s thoughts are almost moving too fast for him to follow. “He pretended he’d lost cargo, but it was hidden in the boathouse they kept me in. He’d’ve claimed on the insurance and given the stock to Rollins. They must have been selling it on, giving him a percentage. Clean money, untraceable, that he could use to buy the land without anyone knowing.”

“But Rollins got greedy,” Kaz finishes. “He made Van Eck use his influence to raid our businesses, and exposed the deal. And here we are.” He waves a hand. He looks like he’s thinking very hard indeed.

“He doesn’t want to save the scientist and stop the drug,” Wylan says. “He wants to control it. Profit from the supply.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Nina says. “A drug like this… it can’t get out, Kaz. It just can’t.”

“And anyway,” Inej says, “he’s lying to you. I don’t trust him.”

“Thirty million kruge,” Jesper says mournfully. “I only just heard about it and it’s already gone.” Then he leans down to whisper into Wylan’s ear: “See that? That’s Kaz’s scheming face. You’ll get to know the look.”

Kaz claps his hands together. “New plan,” he says. “We do it anyway. This scientist’s about to be the most valuable property on the open market. We’ll rescue him and trade him to the highest bidder.”

“You’ll start a war,” Nina says furiously. “You’ll condemn hundreds of Grisha to slavery.”

“I’ll need someone who knows the Ice Court. Like, say, a druskelle,” Kaz says, which Wylan doesn’t understand, but it means something to Nina. She goes pale.

“Oh, you bastard, Kaz Brekker,” she spits.

“That’s what they call me.” Kaz smiles without mirth. “Someone’s going to profit from this. Might as well be us. Wylan.”

“Um, yes?” Wylan says. He’s not sure what he makes of what’s going on, but if there’s a way to ruin his father somewhere in this scheme, he’s going to take it.

“Have you been to the Ice Court?”

“Once,” he admits. “A long time ago.”

“Get working on a map,” Kaz says. “I want everything you can remember, for when we go.”

“I’m coming?” Wylan is startled. He looks to Jesper, who shrugs and grins.

“Probably best for you to get out of Ketterdam for a while. And it might help to have a Van Eck along for the ride,” Kaz tells him.

“You know my father doesn’t care what happens to me,” Wylan says, confused. “He thinks I’m dead now.”

“I’m aware.” Kaz looks at him steadily. “You were passable at hostage, at best. I’m hoping you’re better at demo.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Oh, I see. Um. I’ll try?”

“You’ll be amazing,” Jesper whispers into his ear. “You’re a Dreg, now, and the Dregs are the best.”

Wylan breathes. Nina and Inej and Kaz are still bickering. Jesper’s holding his hand, reassuring and warm. The icy canal water is receding, and will keep receding, because as strange as it seems, he thinks he might belong here, with the Dregs. With Jesper.

He’s looking forward to finding out.