The boy next to them was Shu, but he looked far too young to be the scientist they’d all been so desperate to get their hands on. Besides, Brekker would never bring such a prize to the Emerald Palace. And then, of course, Rollins knew Jesper Fahey. The sharpshooter had run up an astonishing amount of debt at nearly every gambling den on East Stave. His loose talk had put Rollins wise to the knowledge that Brekker was sending a team to Fjerda. A little digging and a lot of bribes had yielded the where and when of their departure—intelligence that had proved faulty. Brekker had been one step ahead of the him and the Dime Lions. The little canal rat had managed to make it to the Ice Court after all.
It was a good thing, too. If not for Kaz Brekker, Rollins would still be sitting in a cell in that damned Fjerdan prison waiting for another round of torture—or maybe looking down from a pike atop the ringwall.
When Brekker had picked the lock on his prison cell door, Rollins hadn’t known if he was about to be rescued or assassinated. He’d heard plenty about Kaz Brekker since he’d risen to prominence in the Dregs—that sorry outfit Per Haskell called a gang—and he’d seen him around the Barrel a few times. The boy had come from nowhere and been a slew of trouble since. But he was still just a lieutenant, not a general, a terrier nipping at Rollins’ ankles.
“Hello, Brekker,” Rollins had said. “Come to gloat?”
“Not exactly. You know me?”
Rollins had shrugged. “Sure, you’re the little skiv who keeps stealing my customers.”
The look that passed over the boy’s face then had taken Rollins aback. It was hatred—pure, black, long simmering. What have I ever done to this little pissant? But in seconds the look was gone, and Rollins wondered if he’d imagined it altogether.
“What do you want, Brekker?”
The boy had stood there, something bleak and mad in his gaze. “I want to do you a favor.”
Rollins noted Brekker’s bare feet and prison clothes, the hands shorn of his legendary black gloves—a ridiculous affectation. “You don’t look like you’re in a position to do anyone favors, kid.”
“I’m going to leave this door unlocked. You’re not stupid enough to go after Bo Yul-Bayur without a crew to back you. Wait for your moment and get out.”
“Why the hell would you help me?”
“You weren’t meant to die here.”
Somehow it sounded like a curse.
“I owe you, Brekker,” Rollins had said as the boy exited his cell, hardly believing his luck.
Brekker had glanced back at him, his dark eyes like caverns. “Don’t worry, Rollins. You’ll pay.”
And apparently the boy had come to collect. He stood in the middle of Rollins’ opulent office looking like a dark blot of ink, his face grim, his hands resting on a crow-handled walking stick. Rollins wasn’t surprised to see him, exactly. Word had it that the exchange between Brekker and Van Eck had gone sour and that Van Eck had eyes on the Slat and the rest of Kaz Brekker’s haunts. But Van Eck wasn’t watching the Emerald Palace. He had no reason to. Rollins wasn’t even sure the merch knew he had made it back from Fjerda alive.
When Brekker finished explaining the bare bones of the situation, Rollins shrugged and said, “You got double-crossed. You want my advice, give Kuwei to Van Eck and be done with it.”
“I’m not here for advice.”
“The merchers like the taxes we pay. They let the occasional bank heist or house break slide, but they expect us to stay here in the Barrel and leave them to their business. You go to war with Van Eck, and all that changes.”
“Van Eck’s gone rogue. If the Merchant Council knew—”
“And who’s going to tell them? A canal rat from the worst slum in the Barrel? Don’t kid yourself, Brekker. Cut your losses and live to fight another day.”
“I fight every day. You’re telling me you’d just walk away?”
“Look, you want to shoot yourself in the foot—the good foot—I’m happy to watch you do it. But I’m not going to ally with you. Not against a merch. No one will. You’re not courting a little gang war, Brekker. You’ll have the stadwatch, the Kerch army, and its navy arrayed against you. They’ll burn the Slat to the ground with the old man in it, and they’ll take Fifth Harbor back, too.”
“I don’t expect you to fight beside me, Rollins.”
“Then what do you want? It’s yours. Within reason.”
“I need to get a message to the Ravkan capital. Fast.”
Rollins shrugged. “Easy enough.”
“And I need money.”
“Shocking. How much?”
“Two hundred thousand kruge.”
Rollins nearly choked on his laughter. “Anything else, Brekker? The Lantsov Emerald? A dragon who craps rainbows?”
“You have the money to spare, Rollins. And I saved your life.”
“Then you should have negotiated back in that cell. I’m not a bank, Brekker. And even if I were, given your current situation, I’d say you’re a pretty poor credit risk.”
“I don’t want a loan.”
“You want me to give you two hundred thousand kruge? And what do I get for this generous gesture?”
Brekker’s jaw set. “My shares in the Crow Club and Fifth Harbor.”
Rollins sat up straighter. “You’d sell your stake?”
“Yes. And for another hundred thousand I’ll throw in an original DeKappel.”
Rollins leaned back and pressed his fingers together. “It’s not enough, you know. Not to go to war with the Merchant Council.”
“It is for this crew.”
“This crew?” Rollins said with a snort. “I can’t believe you sorry lot were the ones to successfully raid the Ice Court.”
“Believe it.”
“Van Eck is going to put you in the ground.”
“Others have tried. Somehow I keep coming back from the dead.”
“I respect your drive, kid. And I understand. You want your money; you want the Wraith back; you want a bit of Van Eck’s hide—”
“No,” said Brekker, his voice part rasp, part growl. “When I come for Van Eck, I won’t just take what’s mine. I’ll carve his life hollow. I’ll burn his name from the ledger. There will be nothing left.”
Pekka Rollins couldn’t count the threats he’d heard, the men he’d killed, or the men he’d seen die, but the look in Brekker’s eye still sent a chill slithering up his spine. Some wrathful thing in this boy was begging to get loose, and Rollins didn’t want to be around when it slipped its leash.
“Open the safe, Doughty.”
Rollins doled out the cash to Brekker, then had him write out a transfer order for his shares in the Crow Club and the gold mine that was Fifth Harbor. When he held out his hand to shake on the deal, Brekker’s grip was knuckle-crushing.
“You don’t remember me at all, do you?” the boy asked.
“Should I?”
“Not just yet.” That black thing flickered behind Brekker’s eyes.
“The deal is the deal,” said Rollins, eager to be done with this strange lot.
“The deal is the deal.”
When they’d gone, Rollins peered through the big glass window that overlooked the gambling floor of the Emerald Palace.
“An unexpectedly profitable end to the day, Doughty.”
Doughty grunted agreement, surveying the action taking place at the tables below—dice, cards, Makker’s Wheel, fortunes won and lost, and a delicious slice of all of it came to Rollins.
“What’s with those gloves he wears?” the bruiser asked.
“A bit of theater, I suspect. Who knows? Who cares?”
Rollins watched Brekker and his crew moving through the crowded gambling hall. They opened the doors to the street, and for a brief moment, they were silhouetted against the lamplight in their masks and capes—a cripple trailed by a bunch of kids in costumes. Some gang. Brekker was a wily thief and tough enough, Pekka supposed, inventive, too. But unlike those poor stooges at the Ice Court, Van Eck
would be ready for Brekker. The boy was going into a real battle. He didn’t stand a chance.
Rollins reached for his watch. It had to be about time for the dealers to change shifts, and he liked to supervise them himself.
“Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed a second later.
“What is it, boss?”
Rollins held up his watch chain. A turnip was hanging from the fob where his diamond-studded timepiece should have been. “That little bastard—” Then a thought came to him. He reached for his wallet. It was gone. So was his tie pin, the Kaelish coin pendant he wore for luck, and the gold buckles on his shoes. Rollins wondered if he should check the fillings in his teeth.
“He picked your pocket?” Doughty asked incredulously.
No one got one over on Pekka Rollins. No one dared. But Brekker had, and Rollins wondered if that was just the beginning.
“Doughty,” he said, “I think we’d best say a prayer for Jan Van Eck.”
“You think Brekker can best him?”
“It’s a long shot, but if he’s not careful, I think that merch might walk himself right onto the gallows and let Brekker tighten the noose.” Rollins sighed. “We better hope Van Eck kills that boy.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I’ll have to.”
Rollins straightened the knot of his pinless tie and headed down to the casino floor. The problem of Kaz Brekker could wait to be solved another day. Right now there was money to be made.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have a degenerative condition called osteonecrosis. This basically translates to “bone death,” which sounds kind of gothy and romantic, but actually means that every step I take is painful and that I sometimes need to walk with a cane. It’s no coincidence I chose to create a protagonist struggling with similar symptoms, and I often felt that Kaz and I were limping along this road together. We wouldn’t have made it to “The End” without a lot of wonderful people.
All the love to my crew of outcasts and troublemakers: Michi, Rachael, Sarah, Robyn, Josh, and especially Morgan, who gave this book its name and helped me finish it. Many thanks also to Jimmy, who dragged me off to Santa Barbara and smashed my writer’s block just by being wonderful.
Bless Noa Wheeler for helping me solve this particular puzzle and for staying patient when I get prickly and bring out the whiteboard. I am deeply grateful to Jean Feiwel, Laura Godwin, Jon Yaged, Molly Brouillette, Elizabeth Fithian, Rich Deas, April Ward, Caitlin Sweeny, and the countless people at Henry Holt and Macmillan Children’s who have helped bring the Grisha world to life and who let me continue to explore it with readers. Joanna Volpe at New Leaf: “Stalwart and true” should definitely be on your résumé. I can face just about any challenge knowing you have my back. Thanks also to Pouya “he was a young” Shahbazian, Kathleen Ortiz, Danielle Barthel, Jaida Temperly, and Jess Dallow. And a big thank-you to Team Grisha in the UK: Fiona Kennedy, Jenny Glencross, and the wonderful crew at Orion—most especially Nina Douglas, who is an extraordinary publicist, an excellent traveling companion, and a born Ravenclaw. Thank you to the readers, librarians, booksellers, BookTubers, and bloggers who celebrate stories all over the world.
Any good heist requires talented specialists, and I’ve been aided by the best:
Steven Klein offered invaluable expertise on how beginners learn magic and pointed me to the work of Eric Mead and Apollo Robbins, gentleman thief. Angela DePace did her best to help me find a real way to knock out a room full of prisoners, but the chloropellet ended up being a work of pure fabrikation. (Don’t try it at home.) Richard Wheeler advised me on how government buildings and high-security facilities actually keep out ne’er-do-wells. Emily Stein walked me through knife wounds and introduced me to the beautiful phrase “apex of the heart.” Conlang king David Peterson tried to nudge me in the right direction and let me be very stubborn about straats. And Hedwig Aerts, my dear friend and Soberumi, thank you for helping me mangle Dutch more thoughtfully.
Marie Lu, Amie Kaufman, Robin LaFevers, Jessica Brody, and Gretchen McNeil keep me laughing and put up with so much whining. Thanks also to Robin Wasserman, Holly Black, Sarah Rees Brennan, Kelly Link, and Cassandra Clare for plot advice, margaritas, and foisting Teen Wolf upon me. I will never be the same. Anna Carey can be blamed for the Fjerdan guard’s nosebleed. Send her your complaints.
Christine, Sam, Emily, and Ryan, I am so lucky to call you family. And dearest Lulu, you have failed your city. Thank you for weathering my moods and caring about my little band of thugs.
Many books helped Ketterdam, the Barrel, and my team of crows take shape, but the most essential titles were Sarah Wise’s The Blackest Streets: The Life and Death of a Victorian Slum; The Coffee Trader by David Liss; Amsterdam: A History of the World’s Most Liberal City by Russell Shorto; Criminal Slang: The Vernacular of the Underworld Lingo by Vincent J. Monteleone; David Maurer’s The Big Con: The Story of the Confidence Man; and Stealing Rembrandts: The Untold Stories of Notorious Art Heists by Anthony M. Amore and Tom Mashberg.
One more thing: This book wanted to be revised to the sounds of the Black Keys, the Clash, and the Pixies, but it was born in a drafty old schoolhouse with In a Time Lapse playing on a continuous loop, and a bat flapping around the eaves. Many thanks to composer Ludovico Einaudi. And the bat.
For my grandfather:
Tell me some lies.
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SHADOW AND BONE. Text copyright © 2012 by Leigh Bardugo.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bardugo, Leigh.
Shadow and bone / Leigh Bardugo.
p. cm
Summary: Orphaned by the Border Wars, Alina Starkov is taken from obscurity and her only friend, Mal, to become the protégée of the mysterious Darkling, who trains her to join the magical elite in the belief that she is the Sun Summoner, who can destroy the monsters of the Fold.
ISBN 978-1-250-02743-6
[1. Fantasy. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Ability—Fiction. 4. Monsters—Fiction. 5. Orphans—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B25024Sh 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011034012
Originally published in the United States by Henry Holt and Company
First Square Fish Edition: May 2013
Book designed by April Ward
Square Fish logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
BEFORE
THE SERVANTS CALLED them malenchki, little ghosts, because they were the smallest and the youngest, and because they haunted the Duke’s house like giggling phantoms, darting in and out of rooms, hiding in cupboards to eavesdrop, sneaking into the kitchen to steal the last of the summer peaches.
The boy and the girl had arrived within weeks of each other, two more orphans of the border wars, dirty-faced refugees plucked from the rubble of distant towns and brought to the Duke’s estate to learn to read and write, and to learn a trade. The boy was short and stocky, shy but always smiling. The girl was different, and she knew it.
Huddled in the kitchen cupboard, listening to the grown-ups gossip, she heard the Duke’s housekeeper, Ana Kuya, say, “She’s an ugly little thing. No child should look like that. Pale and sour, like a glass of milk that’s turned.”
“And so skinny!” the cook replied. “Never finishes her supper.”
Crouched beside the girl, the boy turned to her and whispered, “Why don’t you eat?”
“Because everything she cooks tastes li
ke mud.”
“Tastes fine to me.”
“You’ll eat anything.”
They bent their ears back to the crack in the cupboard doors.
A moment later the boy whispered, “I don’t think you’re ugly.”
“Shhhh!” the girl hissed. But hidden by the deep shadows of the cupboard, she smiled.
* * *
IN THE SUMMER, they endured long hours of chores followed by even longer hours of lessons in stifling classrooms. When the heat was at its worst, they escaped into the woods to hunt for birds’ nests or swim in the muddy little creek, or they would lie for hours in their meadow, watching the sun pass slowly overhead, speculating on where they would build their dairy farm and whether they would have two white cows or three. In the winter, the Duke left for his city house in Os Alta, and as the days grew shorter and colder, the teachers grew lax in their duties, preferring to sit by the fire and play cards or drink kvas. Bored and trapped indoors, the older children doled out more frequent beatings. So the boy and the girl hid in the disused rooms of the estate, putting on plays for the mice and trying to keep warm.
On the day the Grisha Examiners came, the boy and the girl were perched in the window seat of a dusty upstairs bedroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mail coach. Instead, they saw a sleigh, a troika pulled by three black horses, pass through the white stone gates onto the estate. They watched its silent progress through the snow to the Duke’s front door.
Three figures emerged in elegant fur hats and heavy wool kefta: one in crimson, one in darkest blue, and one in vibrant purple.
“Grisha!” the girl whispered.
“Quick!” said the boy.
In an instant, they had shaken off their shoes and were running silently down the hall, slipping through the empty music room and darting behind a column in the gallery that overlooked the sitting room where Ana Kuya liked to receive guests.
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