Crooked Kingdom: Book 2 (Six of Crows)

by Bardugo, Leigh

  Wylan felt his chin lift, that simmering, stubborn feeling overtaking him. “I need to do this. I’ve never been to my mother’s grave. I’m not leaving Kerch without saying goodbye.”

  “Trust me, you care more than she does.”

  “How can you say that? Don’t you remember your mother and father at all?”

  “My mother is Ketterdam. She birthed me in the harbor. And my father is profit. I honor him daily. Be back by nightfall or don’t come back at all. Either of you. I need crew, not sentimental nubs.” Kaz handed Wylan the travel money. “Make sure you buy the tickets. I don’t want Jesper wandering off to take a spin at Makker’s Wheel.”

  “This song is getting old,” muttered Jesper.

  “Then learn a new refrain.”

  Jesper had just shaken his head, but Wylan could tell Kaz’s barbs still stung. Now Wylan looked at Jesper leaning back on the railing, eyes shut, profile turned to the weak spring sun.

  “Don’t you think we should be more cautious?” Wylan asked, his own face buried in the collar of his coat. They’d barely dodged two stadwatch as they’d boarded.

  “We’re already out of the city. Relax.”

  Wylan glanced over his shoulder. “I thought they might search the boat.”

  Jesper opened one eye and said, “And hold up traffic? Van Eck’s already making trouble at the harbors. If he jams up the browboats, there’ll be a riot.”

  “Why?”

  “Look around. The farms need laborers. The plants need workers. The Kerch will only abide so much inconvenience for a rich man’s son, especially when there’s money to be made.”

  Wylan tried to make himself relax and unbuttoned the roughspun coat Kaz had obtained for him. “Where does he get all the clothes and uniforms from anyway? Does he just have a giant closet somewhere?”

  “Come here.”

  Warily, Wylan sidled closer. Jesper reached for his collar and flipped it, giving it a tug so Wylan could twist around and just make out a blue ribbon pinned there.

  “This is how actors mark their costumes,” Jesper said. “This one belonged to … Josep Kikkert. Oh, he’s not bad. I saw him in The Madman Takes a Bride .”

  “Costumes?”

  Jesper flipped the collar back, and as he did, his fingers brushed against the nape of Wylan’s neck. “Yup. Kaz cut a secret entrance into the wardrobe rooms of the Stadlied opera house years ago. That’s where he gets a lot of what he needs and where he stashes the rest. Means he can never be caught with a fake stadwatch uniform or house livery in a raid.”

  Wylan supposed it made sense. He watched the sunlight flashing off the water for a while, then focused on the railing and said, “Thanks for coming with me today.”

  “Kaz wasn’t going to let you go by yourself. Besides, I owe you. You came with me to meet my dad at the university, and you stepped in when he started getting inquisitive.”

  “I don’t like lying.”

  Jesper turned around, balancing his elbows on the railing and gazing out at the grassy banks that sloped down to the canal. “So why did you do it?”

  Wylan didn’t really know why he’d made up that crazy story about luring Jesper into a bad investment. He hadn’t even been totally sure what he was going to say when he opened his mouth. He just couldn’t stand to see Jesper—confident, smiling Jesper—with that lost look on his face, or the terrible mix of hope and fear in Colm Fahey’s gaze as he waited for an answer from his son. It reminded Wylan too much of the way his own father had looked at him, back when he’d still believed Wylan could be cured or fixed. He didn’t want to see the expression in Jesper’s father’s eyes change from worry to anguish to anger.

  Wylan shrugged. “I’m making a habit of rescuing you. For exercise.”

  Jesper released a guff aw that had Wylan looking frantically over his shoulder again, afraid of drawing attention.

  But Jesper’s mirth was short-lived. He shifted his position at the rail, scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck, fiddled with the brim of his hat. He was always in motion, like a lanky piece of clockwork that ran on invisible energy. Except clocks were simple. Wylan could only guess at Jesper’s workings.

  At last Jesper said, “I should have gone to see him today.”

  Wylan knew he was talking about Colm. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I have no idea what to say to him.”

  “Is the truth out of the question?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather avoid it.”

  Wylan looked back at the water. He’d started to think of Jesper as fearless, but maybe being brave didn’t mean being unafraid. “You can’t run from this forever.”

  “Watch me.”

  Another farmhouse slid by, little more than a white shape in the early morning mist, lilies and tulips stippling the fields before it in fractured constellations. Maybe Jesper could keep running. If Kaz kept coming along with miracle scores, maybe Jesper could always stay one step ahead.

  “I wish I’d brought flowers for her,” Wylan said. “Something.”

  “We can pick some on the way,” said Jesper, and Wylan knew he was seizing the change in subject with both hands. “Do you remember her much?”

  Wylan shook his head. “I remember her curls. They were the most beautiful reddish gold.”

  “Same as yours,” said Jesper. “Before.”

  Wylan felt his cheeks pink for no good reason. Jesper was just stating a fact, after all.

  He cleared his throat. “She liked art and music. I think I remember sitting at the piano bench with her. But it might have been a nanny.” Wylan lifted his shoulders. “One day she was sick and going to the country so her lungs could recover, and then she was gone.”

  “What about the funeral?”

  “My father told me she’d been buried at the hospital. That was all. We just stopped talking about her. He said it didn’t pay to dwell on the past. I don’t know. I think he really loved her. They fought all the time, sometimes about me, but I remember them laughing a lot together too.”

  “I have trouble imagining your father laughing, even smiling. Unless he’s rubbing his hands together and cackling over a pile of gold.”

  “He isn’t evil.”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  “No, he destroyed our ship. Killing me would have been an added benefit.” That wasn’t entirely true, of course. Jesper wasn’t the only one trying to keep a step ahead of his demons.

  “Oh, then you’re absolutely right,” said Jesper. “Not evil at all. I’m sure he also had good reasons for not letting you grieve for your mother.”

  Wylan tugged at a thread unraveling from the sleeve of his coat. “It wasn’t all his fault. My father seemed sad most of the time. And far away. That was around the same time he realized I wasn’t … what he’d hoped for.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight, maybe? I’d gotten really good at hiding it.”

  “How?”

  A faint smile touched Wylan’s lips. “He would read to me or I’d ask one of the nannies to, and I’d memorize whatever they said. I even knew when to pause and turn the pages.”

  “How much could you remember?”

  “A lot. I sort of set the words to music in my head like songs. I still do it sometimes. I’ll just claim I can’t read someone’s writing and get them to read the words aloud, set it all to a melody. I can hold it in my head until I need it.”

  “Don’t suppose you could apply that skill to card counting.”

  “Probably. But I’m not going to.”

  “Misspent gifts.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  Jesper scowled. “Let’s enjoy the scenery.”

  There wasn’t much to look at yet. Wylan realized how tired he felt. He wasn’t used to this life of fear, moving from one moment of worry to the next.

  He thought about telling Jesper how it had all started. Would it be a relief to have the whole shameful story out in the open? Maybe. But some part of him wante
d Jesper and the others to keep believing that he’d left his father’s house intending to set up in the Barrel, that he’d chosen this life.

  As Wylan got older, Jan Van Eck had made it increasingly clear that there was no place for his son in his house hold, especially after his marriage to Alys. But he didn’t seem to know what to do with Wylan. He took 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 too 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 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 her parlor, her terrier dozing at her feet.

  “Are you going away?” she asked, looking up from her sewing and noticing his bag. She was hemming curtains. 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’ child was groomed to be the head of the Van Eck empire. As long as it takes 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’ 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 slaughter-houses 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 weren’t traveling by day. He would have liked to see the windmills keeping watch over their fields, the sheep grazing in their pastures. He 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 turned, Prior and Miggson were standing behind him.

  “Sorry,” Wylan said. “I—” And then Prior’s hands were tight 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 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,” said Miggson, 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.

  He swam with every bit of speed he could muster. He was still dizzy and his throat ached badly. To his shock, he heard another splash and knew one of the men had dived in after him. If Wylan showed up somewhere still breathing, Miggson and Prior probably wouldn’t get paid.