Six of Crows

by Leigh Bardugo

  That’s Mama! Inej had cried.

  Yes, Mama loves wild geraniums because no other flower has quite the same color, and she claims that when she snaps the stem and puts a sprig behind her ear, the whole world smells like summer. Many boys will bring you flowers. But someday you’ll meet a boy who will learn your favorite flower, your favorite song, your favorite sweet. And even if he is too poor to give you any of them, it won’t matter because he will have taken the time to know you as no one else does. Only that boy earns your heart.

  That felt like a hundred years ago. Her father had been wrong. There had been no boys to bring her flowers, only men with stacks of kruge and purses full of coin. Would she ever see her father again? Hear her mother singing, listen to her uncle’s silly stories? I’m not sure I have a heart to give anymore, Papa.

  The problem was that Inej was no longer certain what she was aiming for. When she’d been little, it had been easy—a smile from her father, the tightrope raised another foot, orange cakes wrapped in white paper. Then it had been getting free of Tante Heleen and the Menagerie, and after that, surviving each day, getting a little stronger with every morning. Now she didn’t know what she wanted.

  Just this minute, I’ll settle for an apology, she decided. And I won’t board the boat without one. Even if Kaz isn’t sorry, he can pretend. He at least owes me his best imitation of a human being.

  If she hadn’t been running late, she would have looped around West Stave or simply traveled over the rooftops—that was the Ketterdam she loved, empty and quiet, high above the crowds, a moonlit mountain range of gabled peaks and off-kilter chimneys. But tonight she was short on time. Kaz had sent her scouring the shops for two lumps of paraffin at the last minute. He wouldn’t even tell her what they were for or why they were so necessary. And snow goggles? She’d had to visit three different outfitters to acquire them. She was so tired she didn’t entirely trust herself to make the climb over the gables, not after two nights without sleep and a day spent wrangling supplies for their trek to the Ice Court.

  She supposed she was daring herself, too.

  She never walked West Stave alone. With the Dregs at her side, she could stroll by the Menagerie without a glance toward the golden bars on the windows. But tonight, her heart was pounding, and she could hear the roar of blood in her ears as the gilded facade came into view. The Menagerie had been built to look like a tiered cage, its first two stories left open but for the widely spaced golden bars. It was also known as the House of Exotics. If you had a taste for a Shu girl or a Fjerdan giant, a redhead from the Wandering Isle, a dark-skinned Zemeni, the Menagerie was your destination. Each girl was known by her animal name—leopard, mare, fox, raven, ermine, fawn, snake. Suli seers wore the jackal mask when they plied their trade and looked into a person’s fate. But what man would want to bed a jackal? So the Suli girl—and the Menagerie always stocked a Suli girl—was known as the lynx. Clients didn’t come looking for the girls themselves, just brown Suli skin, the fire of Kaelish hair, the tilt of golden Shu eyes. The animals remained the same, though the girls came and went.

  Inej glimpsed peacock feathers in the parlor, and her heart stuttered. It was just a bit of decoration, part of a lavish flower arrangement, but the panic inside her didn’t care. It rose up, clutching at her breath. People crowded in on all sides, men in masks, women in veils—or maybe they were men in veils and women in masks. It was impossible to tell. The horns of the Imp. The goggling eyes of the Madman, the sad face of the Scarab Queen wrought in black and gold. Artists loved to paint scenes of West Stave, the boys and girls who worked the brothels, the pleasure seekers dressed as characters of the Komedie Brute. But there was no beauty here, no real merriment or joy, just transactions, people seeking escape or some colorful oblivion, some dream of decadence that they could wake from whenever they wished.

  Inej forced herself to look at the Menagerie as she passed.

  It’s just a place, she told herself. Just another house. How would Kaz see it? Where are the entrances and exits? How do the locks work? Which windows are unbarred? How many guards are posted, and which ones look alert? Just a house full of locks to pick, safes to crack, pigeons to dupe. And she was the predator now, not Heleen in her peacock feathers, not any man who walked these streets.

  As soon as she was out of sight of the Menagerie, the tight feeling in her chest and throat began to ease. She’d done it. She’d walked alone on West Stave, right in front of the House of Exotics. Whatever was waiting for her in Fjerda, she could face it.

  A hand hooked around her forearm and yanked her off her feet.

  Inej regained her balance quickly. She spun on her heel and tried to pull away, but the grip was too strong.

  “Hello, little lynx.”

  Inej hissed in a breath and tore her arm free. Tante Heleen. That was what her girls knew to call Heleen Van Houden or risk the back of her hand. To the rest of the Barrel she was the Peacock, though Inej had always thought she looked less like a bird than a preening cat. Her hair was a thick and luscious gold, her eyes hazel and slightly feline. Her tall, sinuous frame was draped in vibrant blue silk, the plunging neckline accented with iridescent feathers that tickled the signature diamond choker glittering at her neck.

  Inej turned to run, but her path was blocked by a huge bruiser, his blue velvet coat stretched tight across his big shoulders. Cobbet, Heleen’s favorite enforcer.

  “Oh, no you don’t, little lynx.”

  Inej’s vision blurred. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped again.

  “That’s not my name,” Inej managed to gasp out.

  “Stubborn thing.”

  Heleen grabbed hold of Inej’s tunic.

  Move, her mind screamed, but she couldn’t. Her muscles had locked up; a high whine of terror filled her head.

  Heleen ran a single manicured talon along her cheek. “Lynx is your only name,” Heleen crooned. “You’re still pretty enough to fetch a good price. Getting hard around the eyes though—too much time spent with that little thug Brekker.”

  A humiliating sound emerged from Inej’s throat, a choked wheeze.

  “I know what you are, lynx. I know what you’re worth down to the cent. Cobbet, maybe we should take her home now.”

  Black crowded into Inej’s vision. “You wouldn’t dare. The Dregs—”

  “I can bide my time, little lynx. You’ll wear my silks again, I promise.” She released Inej. “Enjoy your night,” she said with a smile, then snapped open her blue fan and whirled away into the crowd, Cobbet trailing after her.

  Inej stood frozen, shaking. Then she dove into the crowd, eager to disappear. She wanted to break into a run, but she just kept moving steadily, pushing toward the harbor. As she walked, she released the triggers on the sheaths at her forearms, feeling the grips of her daggers slide into her palms. Sankt Petyr, renowned for his bravery, on the right; the slender, bone-handled blade she’d named for Sankta Alina on the left. She recited the names of her other knives, too. Sankta Marya and Sankta Anastasia strapped to her thighs. Sankt Vladimir hidden in her boot, and Sankta Lizabeta snug at her belt, the blade etched in a pattern of roses. Protect me, protect me. She had to believe her Saints saw and understood the things she did to survive.

  What was wrong with her? She was the Wraith. She had nothing to fear from Tante Heleen any longer. Per Haskell had bought out her indenture. He’d freed her. She wasn’t a slave; she was a valued member of the Dregs, a thief of secrets, the best in the Barrel.

  She hurried past the light and music of the Lid, and finally the Ketterdam harbors came into view, the sights and sounds of the Barrel fading as she neared the water. There were no crowds to bump against her here, no cloying perfumes or wild masks. She took a long, deep breath. From this vantage she could just see the top of one of the Tidemaker towers, where lights always burned. The thick obelisks of black stone were manned day and night by a select group of Grisha who kept the tides permanently high over the land bridge that otherwise would have connected
Kerch to Shu Han. Even Kaz had never been able to learn the identities of the Council of Tides, where they lived, or how their loyalty to Kerch had been guaranteed. They watched the harbors, too, and if a signal went up from the harbormaster or a dockworker, they’d alter the tides and keep anyone from heading out to sea. But on this night, there would be no signal. The right bribes had been paid to the right officials, and their ship should be ready to sail.

  Inej broke into a jog, heading for the loading docks at Fifth Harbor. She was very late—she wasn’t looking forward to Kaz’s disapproving frown when she made it to the pier.

  She was glad for the peace of the docks, but they seemed almost too still after the noise and chaos of the Barrel. Here, the rows of crates and cargo containers were stacked high on either side of her—three, sometimes four, on top of one another. They made this part of the docks feel like a labyrinth. A cold sweat broke out at the base of her spine. The run-in with Tante Heleen had left her shaken, and the heft of the daggers in her hands wasn’t enough to soothe her rattled nerves. She knew she should get used to carrying a pistol, but the weight threw off her balance, and guns could jam or lock in a bad moment. Little lynx. Her blades were reliable. And they made her feel like she’d been born with proper claws.

  A light mist was rising off the water, and through it, Inej saw Kaz and the others waiting near the pier. They all wore the nondescript clothes of sailors—roughspun trousers, boots, thick wool coats and hats. Even Kaz had foregone his immaculately cut suit in favor of a bulky wool coat. The thick sheaf of his dark hair was combed back, the sides trimmed short as always. He looked like a dockworker, or a boy setting sail on his first adventure. It was almost as if she were peering through a lens at some other, more pleasant reality.

  Behind them, she saw the little schooner Kaz had commandeered, Ferolind written in bold script on its side. It would fly the purple Kerch fishes and the colorful flag of the Haanraadt Bay Company. To anyone in Fjerda or on the True Sea, they would simply look like Kerch trappers heading north for skins and furs. Inej quickened her pace. If she hadn’t been running late, they probably would have been aboard or even on their way out of the harbor already.

  They would keep a minimal crew, all former sailors who had made their way into the ranks of the Dregs through one misfortune or another. Through the mists, she made a quick count of the waiting group. The number was off. They’d brought on four additional members of the Dregs to help sail the schooner since none of them really knew their way around the rigging, but she didn’t see any of them. Maybe they’re already on board? But even as she had the thought, her boot landed on something soft, and she stumbled.

  She looked down. In the dim glow of the harbor gaslights, she saw Dirix, one of the Dregs who’d been meant to make the journey with them. There was a knife in his abdomen, and his eyes were glassy.

  “Kaz!” she shouted.

  But it was too late. The schooner exploded, knocking Inej off her feet and showering the docks in flame.

  11

  JESPER

  Jesper always felt better when people were shooting at him. It wasn’t that he liked the idea of dying (in fact, that potential outcome was a definite drawback), but if he was worrying about staying alive, he couldn’t be thinking about anything else. That sound—the swift, shocking report of gunfire—called the scattered, irascible, permanently seeking part of his mind into focus like nothing else. It was better than being at the tables and waiting for the flop, better than standing at Makker’s Wheel and seeing his number come up. He’d discovered it in his first fight on the Zemeni frontier. His father had been sweating, trembling, barely able to load his rifle. But Jesper had found his calling.

  Now he braced his arms on the top of the crate where he’d taken cover and let loose with both barrels. His weapons were Zemeni-made revolvers that could fire six shots in rapid succession, unmatched by anything in Ketterdam. He felt them getting hot in his hands.

  Kaz had warned them to anticipate competition, other teams bent on gaining the prize at any cost, but this was early in the job for things to be going so badly. They were surrounded, at least one man down, a burning ship at their backs. They’d lost their transportation to Fjerda, and if the shots raining down on them were any indication, they were seriously outnumbered. He supposed it could have been worse; they could have been on the boat when it exploded.

  Jesper crouched down to reload and couldn’t quite believe the sight that met his eyes. Wylan Van Eck was actually curled up on the dock, his soft mercher’s hands thrown over his head. Jesper heaved a sigh, lay down a few shots for cover, and lunged out from behind the sweet security of his crate. He seized Wylan by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back to shelter.

  Jesper gave him a little shake. “Pull it together, kid.”

  “Not a kid,” Wylan mumbled, batting Jesper’s hands away.

  “Fine, you’re an elder statesman. Do you know how to shoot?”

  Wylan nodded slowly. “Skeet.”

  Jesper rolled his eyes. He snagged the rifle from his back and shoved it into Wylan’s chest. “Great. This is just like shooting clay pigeons, but they make a different sound when you hit one.”

  Jesper whirled, revolvers raised, as a shape sprang into his peripheral vision, but it was just Kaz.

  “Head east to the next dock, board at berth twenty-two,” Kaz said.

  “What’s at berth twenty-two?”

  “The real Ferolind.”

  “But—”

  “The boat that blew was a decoy.”

  “You knew?”

  “No, I took precautions. It’s what I do, Jesper.”

  “You could have told us we—”

  “That would defeat the purpose of a decoy. Get moving.” Kaz glanced at Wylan, who stood there cradling the rifle like an infant. “And make sure he gets to the ship in one piece.”

  Jesper watched Kaz vanish back into the shadows, cane in one hand, pistol in the other. Even on one good leg, he was eerily spry.

  Then Jesper gave Wylan another jostle. “Let’s go.”

  “Go?”

  “Didn’t you hear what Kaz said? We need to make it to berth twenty-two.”

  Wylan nodded dumbly. His eyes were dazed and wide enough to drink from.

  “Just stay behind me and try not to get killed. Ready?”

  Wylan shook his head.

  “Then forget I asked.” He placed Wylan’s hand on the rifle’s grip. “Come on.”

  Jesper laid down another series of shots, sketching a wild formation he hoped would disguise their location. One revolver empty, he lunged away from the crate and into the shadows. He half expected Wylan wouldn’t follow, but he could hear the merchling behind him, breathing hard, a low whistle in his lungs as they pounded toward the next stack of barrels.

  Jesper hissed as a bullet whizzed by his cheek, close enough to leave a burn.

  They threw themselves behind the barrels. From this vantage point, he saw Nina wedged into a space between two stacks of crates. She had her arms raised, and as one of their attackers moved into view, she clenched her fist. The boy crumpled to the ground, clutching his chest. She was at a disadvantage in this maze, though. Heartrenders needed to see their targets to bring them down.

  Helvar was beside her with his back to the crate, his hands bound. A reasonable precaution, but the Fjerdan was valuable, and Jesper had a moment to wonder why Kaz had left him in such straits before he saw Nina produce a knife from her sleeve and slash through Helvar’s bonds. She slapped a pistol into his hands. “Defend yourself,” she said with a growl, and then returned her focus to the fight.

  Not smart, Jesper thought. Do not turn your back on an angry Fjerdan. Helvar looked like he was seriously considering shooting her. Jesper lifted his revolver, prepared to bring the giant down. Then Helvar was standing next to Nina, aiming into the maze of crates beyond. Just like that they were fighting side by side. Had Kaz left Matthias bound with Nina deliberately? Jesper could never tell how
much of what Kaz got away with was smarts and planning and how much was dumb luck.

  He gave a sharp whistle. Nina glanced over her shoulder, and her gaze found Jesper’s. He flashed two fingers, twice, and she gave a quick nod. Had she known berth twenty-two was their real destination? Had Inej? Kaz was at it again, playing with information, keeping one or all of them blind and guessing. Jesper hated it, but he couldn’t argue with the fact that they still had a way to get to Fjerda. If they lived to board the second schooner.

  He signaled to Wylan, and they continued to make their way past the boats and ships moored along the dock, keeping as low as possible.

  “There!” he heard a voice shout from somewhere behind him. They’d been spotted.

  “Damn it,” Jesper said. “Run!”

  They pounded down the dock. There, at berth twenty-two, was a trim-looking schooner with Ferolind written on its side. It was almost eerie how much it looked like the other boat. No lanterns had been lit aboard it, but as he and Wylan bolted up the ramp, two sailors emerged.

  “You’re the first ones here,” said Rotty.

  “Let’s hope we’re not the last. Are you armed?”

  He nodded. “Brekker told us to stay hidden until—”

  “This is until,” Jesper said pointing to the men storming toward them on the dock and snatching his rifle back from Wylan. “I need to get to high ground. Keep them back and distracted as long as you can.”

  “Jesper—” began Wylan.

  “No one gets past you. If they take down this schooner, we’re done for.” The men gunning for them didn’t just care about keeping the Dregs from leaving the harbor. They wanted them dead.

  Jesper fired at the two men leading the charge down the dock. One fell and the other rolled left and took cover behind the bowsprit of a fishing boat. Jesper squeezed off three more shots, then sprinted up the mast.

  Below he could hear more gunfire erupt. Ten feet up, twenty, boots catching in the rigging. He should have stopped to take them off. He was two feet from the crow’s nest when he felt a hot blade of pain sear through the flesh of his thigh. His foot slipped and for a moment he dangled above the distant deck with nothing but his slippery palms clinging to the ropes. He forced his legs to work and sought purchase with the toes of his boots. His right leg was nearly worthless from the gunshot, and he had to pull himself up the last few feet with his arms trembling and his heart pounding in his ears. Every one of his senses felt like it was on fire. Definitely better than a winning streak at the tables.