Chapter Text
Kaz Brekker
A full moon rose high above the streets of the Barrel, bathing its winding alleyways and ramshackle buildings in a pale rose-hued glow. Pausing on the threshold of the Slat, Kaz cast a backwards glance over his shoulder, his eyes drawn to the distant silhouette of the Church of Barter. He knew that somewhere to the east of its spires, Inej would be dining with her parents, safely ensconced within the walls of the Van Eck estate. He tried to imagine himself alongside them, surrounded by servants and all of the signs of Ghezen’s supposed favor, but found that he couldn’t fit himself in the picture.
When Kaz had watched Inej’s parents fall to their knees, pulling her into their embrace, he had felt an unfamiliar itch in the space behind his nose. He had never known his own mother, just her ghost—the smooth stone of her grave marker, a chest of folded dresses gathering dust in the attic, a quilted baby blanket that had never been finished. And whenever he remembered his father, he also remembered the plough. He saw his father’s blood, blossoming across the field like poppies. And then there was Jordie, always Jordie, staring at him from beneath the waves.
When Inej’s mother had kissed her daughter’s forehead, he had swallowed heavily, grabbing his cane with shaking hands and slipping out of the sitting room and into the night.
No, he did not deserve such comfort, he thought as he dragged his aching leg up the four flights of stairs to his room in the attic of the Slat. By the time he reached the shell of his former office, he felt as though his knee might give out beneath him. Resting his cane against his desk, he pulled out the wooden chair and let his gaze wander to the window. In the moon’s soft light, he could just make out the distant smudge of harbor beyond, where The Wraith waited to carry Inej away from Ketterdam.
Staring at the empty windowsill, he thought that perhaps people didn’t understand what it meant to be truly haunted—to see the faded imprint of a soul in the hollow spaces that they left behind. Inej may have been alive and well just miles to the east, but her absence haunted him all the same.
Closing his eyes, Kaz remembered that night three weeks ago, when he had found himself standing between Inej’s knees in the lavish white-and-gold bathroom of the suite at the Geldrenner Hotel. He had been almost feverish with desire, mesmerized by the delicate fan of her dark eyelashes against her cheeks. He remembered sliding two fingers beneath her bandages, his eyes tracing the graceful shell of her ear as he bent close—oh so close—before snipping the fabric with the shears. He remembered watching the flutter of her pulse and marveling at the gleaming curve of her neck, luminous in the lamplight, before pressing his lips, just once, against her warm, brown skin. But then the waters had risen, threatening to drown him once more—a harsh reminder of reality.
He would be lucky to survive the night.
And so he had snarled at her, every bit the wounded beast, brutal and bloodthirsty, desperate to drive her away from the cruelty of Ketterdam—from him—before disappearing into the night to face down Per Haskell. But even before he had made it across the Beurscanal, he had felt her following, sticking to him as stubbornly as a stickeljack as he drew nearer to the Slat. He had ignored the persistent itch of her gaze on the back of his neck as he wielded his delicate lock-picks, flashes of silver between his fingertips, before slipping silently into his attic office. And when he had emerged onto the stairwell, leaning on his cane with the casual confidence of a costumed player in the Komedie Brute, he had felt the full weight of her eyes, watching from the rafters.
And then the bloodbath began.
At first, it had been child’s play—by and large, the gang’s oldest bruisers were washed up, lazy. Kaz had torn through them, buoyed by the coppery taste of blood coating his tongue as he beat back wave after wave of Haskell’s brawlers. But then Gorka’s thick loop of chain had made contact with his temple, and his vision went white. Then he was on the ground, doubled over as Beatle’s boots found a home in his belly, again and again and again, and he had heard Jordie’s voice—
You’ve cheated death one too many times, little brother.
In those brief seconds, he’d contemplated giving up, letting go, wandering away from his body and walking south until he stood on the outskirts of a sleepy village near Lij. It would be easy, so very easy, to close his eyes, to simply give in.
But then he had seen movement in the rafters—Inej, her expression murderous, knives glinting in her hands. The sight of her, as dangerous as an angel of vengeance, had sent a wave of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had met her eyes, shaking his head once. Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he’d prepared to fight once more.
Now, he opened his eyes again, kneading the painful muscles beneath his knee with his knuckles, frowning as he fought to ground himself in the present once more. He had just managed to loosen one of the knots in his calf when he felt the air around him shift. He looked up as Inej climbed through the attic window, her eyes narrowed.
“You left,” she accused, cutting him off before he could open his mouth.
“An astute observation,” he retorted, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone. And yet, improbably, Inej’s expression seemed to soften, as though she had read something in his response that he had not intended.
“Why?” she asked as she perched once more on the windowsill, drawing her knees against her chest.
Kaz was keenly aware that she was studying him, searching his face for the cracks in his armor. He took a deep breath. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled off his gloves, flexing his long, pale fingers in the flickering lamplight. From across the room, Inej watched him, her sun-chapped lips slightly parted. As he set his gloves on the desk behind him, he wondered not for the first time whether or not her lips were as soft as they looked.
“I thought it would have been obvious by now that I’m hardly the domestic type,” he said after a moment, “and your father has made it perfectly clear that he distrusts me.”
To his surprise, Inej’s expression only softened further, and he was struck abruptly by just how much she looked like her mother. It was something about the gentle arch of her cupid’s bow, the way it smoothed out when her lips were pressed together, each corner pulling downwards in concern.
“Kaz, a few hours ago, my father thought you had kidnapped me from the shores of Ravka,” she said. “When he last saw me, I was little more than a child. Give him time to get used to the idea of you.”
Kaz frowned, kneading his hands into the tender flesh of his leg once more.
“And what if he never gets used to the idea of me?” he muttered. He scowled then, aware that he sounded almost petulant. But if she called him out on it, he would blame it on the throbbing ache radiating from his kneecap.
But Inej only rolled her eyes, muttering shevrati under her breath and clicking her tongue against her teeth in dismissal. She reached beneath the collar of her shirt, grabbing a necklace that had been hidden within her quilted vest and pulling it over her head.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked, holding it up to the moonlight.
Kaz studied it, his eyes lingering on her delicate fingertips before traveling along the braided cord of colorful scraps of ribbon. At the base of the necklace, Kaz could just make out a delicately embroidered bauble, which seemed to depict a veritable dragon’s hoard of jewels, stitched in vibrantly dyed thread. Kaz lifted a brow.
“An arts and crafts project?”
Inej sniffed, her nostrils flaring, but she pressed on regardless.
“It’s a prayer necklace,” she said. “Even after I was stolen from the shores of Os Kervo, my mother stitched it as a token of her faith. Even when she had no reason to believe that I was still alive, that she would ever find me again, she still paid homage to Sankta Margaretha.”
She unfolded her legs, slipping off the windowsill. Kaz felt his breath hitch as she walked towards him, hands outstretched, before kneeling before him. She met his eyes, a silent question, before he nodded once. His heartbeat felt wild, erratic, as she reached forward and pressed the token into his bare palms. As her fingers brushed against his, the waters of the harbor lapped at his ankles, and he swallowed down bile from the back of his throat before she drew away, watching him carefully from beneath her dark eyelashes. As he felt the soft fabric beneath his fingertips, she spoke — her voice a lifeline, tethering him to the present.
“Sankta Margaretha was a Kerch Saint, you know,” she said, “once she realized that an evil lurked in the waters of Ketterdam, she vowed to protect its children—and though she couldn’t save all of them—and though many were lost to the waters—she never stopped fighting.”
Her words were like an echo—we never stop fighting.
“Since this morning,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking about that story—and about the children of Ketterdam. I’ve been thinking about Wylan, whose father abandoned him on the streets to die. I’ve been thinking about Nina and Matthias, child soldiers from opposite sides of a never-ending war, adrift in a foreign country. I’ve been thinking about Jesper, too frightened, too angry, to embrace who he’s meant to be. I’ve been thinking about me, painted with false spots and chained in a gilded cage along the West Stave—”
She hesitated then.
“Go on,” he rasped.
“And I—I’ve been thinking about you, birthed from the Harbor.”
Kaz’s hands clenched around the fabric talisman.
“Sankta Margaretha couldn’t save every child,” Inej pressed on, “No one could, not even a saint. But I like to think she’s watched over us all the same, protecting our paths, giving us safe passage through the city — when she could.”
Kaz looked up at her then.
“A pretty thought,” he muttered, “but just a story.”
Inej shrugged.
“Maybe,” she conceded. “But it’s yours all the same.”
With a soft smile, she gestured down towards the braided token in his hand.
“Mama and Papa—they asked me to give it to you as a small token of thanks. And to protect you, even when I’m far from these shores.”
Kaz’s hands clenched once more.
“Why?” he asked.
Inej’s head tilted as she regarded him.
“Do you know what Sankta Margaretha is the patron saint of?”
Kaz scoffed, lifting a single brow.
“Right, a silly question for a Kerch heathen,” she mocked, but her tone was light. She lifted herself to her feet once more, moving towards the window. When she turned back towards him, her silhouette was framed in the gentle moonlight, and Kaz thought she looked like a Saint herself.
“Sankta Margaretha is the Patron Saint of Lost Children—and the Patron Saint of Thieves.”
As she swung her leg over the windowsill, Kaz realized that he was still clenching the token in his grip. He opened his mouth to speak, but Inej called back to him first, her voice ringing out from where she was perched on the ledge, poised to take flight across the city.
“I expect to see you tomorrow at the Kooperom at eleven bells,” she declared. “By now you really ought to know black coffee alone isn’t sufficient to sustain life. You look like you could use a skillet of eggs, Kaz, and my parents are buying.”
It took him a moment to register the invitation, and then, embarrassingly, he found himself sputtering like a fool.
“S—surely they don’t want my company—I don’t even speak Suli.”
Inej smirked.
“Perhaps it’s about time you learned.”
And then she vanished into the night, a distant shadow, flitting across the rooftops on crow’s wings.
For a long time, Kaz studied the hole left by her absence, absentmindedly rubbing the prayer token between his thumbs. He imagined the sun rising across Ketterdam, a new day dawning as he wound through the streets towards the Kooperom. He imagined the way Inej would smile when she saw him, standing to guide him to her parents’ table. He imagined the way her mother would dote on him, shoving heaping servings of food on his plate as though convinced he must be starving. And he imagined her father’s approving gaze, warm and recognizable, reminding him of something had he lost long ago outside a farmhouse in the south of Kerch.
Before he went to bed, he looped the token around his neck. And in the morning, when he buttoned up his starched white dress shirt, he knew it was hidden there, this small piece of Inej, resting on the flesh above his heart.
Pulling on his fine wool coat, he grabbed his cane and stepped triumphantly out into the day.