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There was a distinct smell to the Barrel, Wylan had decided. It was dirt upon dust, grime that continued to build and could never be scrubbed away. One that took up too much space, overcrowding your lungs the same way tourists crowded the streets of Ketterdam. Pigeons, he reminded himself, ridiculous as the name may seem. That’s what every Barrel rat worth their salt called them, and Wylan had to start thinking of them that way. As birds in a cage, waiting to be plucked. If he didn’t skin them, someone else would.
Not that the nickname made scamming them any easier. They were people, like him. Strangers to the East Stave, simply trying to be someone different. Was that not what he was too? Or was the fundamental difference between them and him just too big to ignore? They were here of their own accord, free to come and go as they pleased. Wylan was a runaway, but he couldn’t run further than the Barrel without kruge to line his pockets.
Scamming the pigeons it is.
The pay was substantially better than his original job, he had to admit (albeit grudgingly). After just two jobs and a handful of hastily crafted explosives, Wylan was able to afford his rent and the occasional cup of coffee. That didn’t make Kaz Brekker’s summons any less intimidating however, and any time Wylan stood before a member of the Dregs he reconsidered pitching himself into the harbor.
It was usually Jesper that called on him, all lanky limbs and a smile too wide for a place so gruesome. He was constantly in motion, always shuffling Wylan’s papers and nosing through his sketches. Wylan learned quickly that whenever Jesper was around he could kiss his hopes of punctuality goodbye. Luckily, Kaz seemed to have a soft spot for the gunslinger, as soft of a spot one could have with a reputation like his. Wylan just counted his blessings anytime Kaz didn’t slit his throat for being late.
Sometimes Inej came to fetch him. The first time she somersaulted through his fourth floor window, Wylan had passed out. Insane, the whole lot of them, he remembered thinking as Inej left by tumbling over the edge of the sill despite Wylan’s insistence she take the stairs. (He had exited by way of the perfectly stable stairwell, of course. He wasn’t mad.)
And when Kaz Brekker himself showed up at Wylan’s door, Wylan prayed to any saint that he would live to see another day.
Wylan predicted that, if Kaz didn’t have his menacing cane in hand at all times, he could be as silent and inconspicuous as the Wraith if desired. The familiar thunk of Kaz’s gait was the only warning of death’s approach Wylan ever received. And while he was still breathing for now, the Barrel newcomer was convinced that, when death finally did call on him, it would sound eerily like Kaz Brekker’s cane. Maybe that's death now, he considered as the striking of cane against rotting wood echoed through the hall beyond his paper thin walls.
Kaz invited himself into Wylan’s shabby sleeping space, the lock giving way to the lockpicks in seconds, as if even his door were afraid to cross the Bastard of the Barrel.
“I don’t know why you bother.”
Wylan had yet to grow accustomed to Kaz’s grating voice. They were almost the same age, but even Kaz’s soundwaves had an edge, cutting through his vocal cords to remind any listener he could end their life with just one word.
“To keep out anyone who left their lockpicks at home, I suppose,” Wylan said. It was a futile defense, but the lock gave him enough space to breath. Without it, Wylan was sure he would never sleep.
Kaz just shut the door, moving to stand in the center of the room. Wylan felt himself shrinking into his pillow, pulling up his knees onto the creaking bed. Kaz always made him feel small, like he needed to fold in on himself to give the gloved boy more space.
“I have a job for you,” Kaz said without preamble. Always a man on a mission.
“What business?” It was a popular phrase, one Wylan knew well. While he couldn’t read the language of trade, he had spent enough time traipsing behind his father to understand how those in Ketterdam operated. The longer he spent in the Barrel, the more glaring the similarities between the gangs and the merchants became. Perhaps they operated by a different moral code, but they all spoke the same tongue.
Kaz leaned on his cane. Wylan had learned early on not to bother offering him a seat, not that he even had a seat to offer. And the idea of sharing his bed with Kaz Brekker sent a shiver down his spine, so Kaz stayed on his feet. “I need you to make twenty flash bombs.”
Wylan reached for his sketchbook and pen. This deceptive routine had become second nature. After Jesper once insisted Wylan couldn’t possibly remember everything without writing it down, Wylan had made a show of taking notes anytime the Dregs came to him with a job. They were meaningless, of course. Scribbles on a page he would never consult again. But Wylan didn’t need Kaz Brekker to know his secrets. This city leaks, he had heard Inej say once. It was how she got her hands on so much dirt. The last thing he needed was for Inej to have dirt on him, too.
Turning Kaz's voice into a melody was the challenge. It was far more effective to imagine the beak of Kaz's cane at Wylan's throat, a threat to his memory that Kaz was sure to follow through with if Wylan ever forgot anything.
“That’s it?” He asked, already suspicious. Kaz didn’t have a habit of showing up himself unless he was desperate.
Kaz nodded once. “They need to pack a punch. I want them bright enough to ward off the dark.”
Wylan paused his fake scribbling at that. Ward off the dark? Any light will do that. “Darkness is just an absence of light, Kaz. Any form of light can get rid of-”
“I don’t need a science lesson, Wylan. I need twenty flash bombs that could seriously blind someone. Do I need to be clearer?” Kaz’s stare was cold, cutting. Wylan hiked up his sketchbook, convinced the other boy’s gaze could pierce through the pages and catch his affliction.
He swallowed. “Twenty blinding flash bombs, coming right up.”
“Good,” Kaz said, already turning to leave. He was at the door, one foot over the threshold, when those eyes found Wylan again. “Oh, and I need them in three hours.”
“Three hours? But that’s-” But Kaz Brekker was already gone, his trademark cane thump fading as quickly as it came. “Impossible!” Wylan shouted after him, but he knew it didn’t matter. Kaz had given him an assignment and if he didn’t deliver on time, Dirtyhands would return in his place.
What am I doing here? Wylan asked himself yet again as he grabbed for his hidden box of explosives and demo material. Even worse, he couldn’t say how he had even gotten here. How had he wound up haphazardly rigging explosives for the toughest criminal in Ketterdam with less than a day of warning? And who were said explosives meant for this time?
I want them bright enough to ward off the dark.
Kaz’s request was strange. Wylan couldn’t tuck his words neatly away in his mind. They tugged at him, demanding an explanation, one that Wylan didn’t have. They seemed ominous, as if the dark was a monster waiting to be slain. The Bastard of the Barrel doesn’t fear any monsters.
Wylan wanted to know more. Wanted to know what darkness could drive Kaz Brekker to his door on such short notice. But the tolling of a bell from the depths of Ketterdam put a pin in his curiosity. He was on the clock, and Wylan apparently needed to create a flash bomb with the power of the sun.
Okay, Kaz. The sun is what you’re gonna get.
...
When he left Ketterdam, Kaz Brekker never imagined he would come face to face with the Dark General himself. He considered a few volcra, several Grisha, and one startled Sun Summoner in his planning, but never a Shadow Summoner. In hindsight, he should have anticipated this. Of course he would come after the target, riding to rescue her despite her obvious desire to escape his captivity.
Still, as he stared down the growing swirl of darkness heading his direction, Kaz wished he had commissioned Raske instead of Wylan. The merchant kid turned Barrel rat was only passable at demo. His explosives were effective as distractions, not much else. But Raske was back in Ketterdam, and Kaz Brekker was at the mercy of Wylan Van Eck’s hurried flash bombs. Kaz suddenly wished he had given the boy an extra hour.
“You should have stayed in Ketterdam, Mister Brekker,” the General hissed. Kaz could already see his arms moving, shadows extinguishing any light in the vicinity.
Kaz’s own fingers curled around one of Wylan’s flash bombs. He only registered that they were small. Much too small to light up this darkness. Kaz Brekker was as good as dead, and it was all because he trusted a pretty rich boy with his life.
Alright, Wylan. Let’s see what you can do.
The general thrust his arms forward and the darkness dove for Kaz, prepared to swallow him whole. In one last effort to remain in this miserable world, Kaz Brekker slammed Wylan’s flash bomb to the ground at his feet.
The light was searing, hot on his eyelids as Kaz attempted to block it out. The attempt was futile, backs of his eyes erupting in white as the bomb went off. Kaz threw himself into the alley off to his right, stumbling blindly as he shook his head, trying to regain his vision. The world came back into focus and Kaz ran, hustling awkwardly through the crowd of locals. He could just make out the sharp crack of concrete hitting stone. Wylan’s bomb had dismantled part of a building.
Ward off the dark indeed.
Perhaps Wylan Van Eck had a use other than leverage after all.