Chapter Text
The first thing Kaz did after landing wrong on his right leg was get up again and run. He was propelled three whole steps forward by adrenaline and shock, before crumpling back to the ground, almost cracking his skull on the cobblestones. He had been fourteen, well on his way up the ranks of Per Haskell’s Dregs.
The heist had been a success. The director had been suggestible enough between the petrol splattered on the floor and a lit match in Kaz’s gloved fingers. His options were either hand over all the cash in the coffers or lose both the cash and the asset to the fire. It was easy calculation, and the banker had no trouble picking the correct answer. Once they had the kruge stowed snugly in their pack, Kaz flicked the match to the floor. As the banker and his employees scuttled around trying to save everything they had built from going up in flames, Kaz and his crew had already been well on their way across the few neighbouring roofs. Kaz could have taken them all out, but he wanted them to suffer. Losing everything by a simple turn of event was exactly what Jakob Hertzoon’s accomplices deserved.
Look at those flames, Jordie. Aren’t they pretty? I lit them up just like they did at Reaper’s Barge. A cremation fuelled with blood money. Kaz had been too drunk on victory and too busy talking to Jordie that when he leapt off the roof to dive into a narrow alley, he missed his landing. His crew thought that he had simply tripped and left him behind, caught up in the victory that Kaz had won for them, the pack of robbed kruge held high above their heads.
Only Keeg stopped and turned around to look at Kaz, waiting for him to get back up and follow. He was one of the first people Kaz had brought into the Dregs. Kaz had found him kicked out of a bar for bootlegging and told him to come looking for Per Haskell at the Slat. Keeg had only a year or two and a dozen of pounds on Kaz, but when he saw that Kaz wouldn’t pick himself up after a minute, he didn’t waste time to grab Kaz by the arms and hauled him up over his shoulders. Kaz struggled against the touch, but promptly passed out from the pain. Keeg managed to lug him all the way back to the Slat, unconscious.
The days after Kaz woke up from the injury marked the beginning of the pain that would dog him for the rest of his life. Kaz had plain shattered his right tibia. It was a nasty break and the tiniest movement made the injury known to the rest of his body. He laid in his cot in the corner of one of the Dregs’ sleeping halls, trying to keep as still as possible as his body trembled uncontrollably in agony. An old drunk who fancied himself the medik of the Barrel had come in and locked his leg in an ugly cage of plaster, which at least that kept it from moving around. It was small mercy that Kaz had been too out of it to be aware of someone actively touching his body, arranging him this and that way.
People tried to bother Kaz about it at first, but after failing to get a reaction out of him, they quickly left him to himself. In truth, Kaz was too steeped in torment to spare any mind to the external world. Day after day, he just laid there in his thin shirt, soaked-through with the sweat from the pain.
It’s all in your head, son. The pain is only as real as you allow it to be. His father had said when Kaz sprained his thumb working a tool on the farm. During the first few days, Kaz just laid there, repeating the words over and over to himself. It’s all in your head. It’s not real. You’re not allowed to feel the pain; it means you are weak. But Da’s words had long lost their magic ever since Da left him and Jordie behind. In the first few days after he had broken his leg, Kaz laid shivering on his skinny, filthy mattress, using all the tricks he had learned to fool himself into thinking that he was not in pain.
If Kaz was anything, it was highly pain-tolerant. He didn't know if it was a blessing or a curse with a life like his. However, on the third day, his injury had gotten to the point that Kaz was losing the feeling in his limbs and the touch with the world. His leg had taken on a life of its own, becoming a monster that had sunken its claws into his very skin and sucked all the life out of him.
The bottle of whiskey had been sitting by his bedside since he had first opened his eyes to this new world of torment. It was some cheap, crude thing that only kruge-less sailors called for and that Per Haskell wouldn’t think twice about sparing. Kaz’s eyes fell on the bottle that had been waiting there like a patient visitor. It was this or the white jurda that people took to forget about the real world. There was no white jurda around, and Kaz wouldn’t have been able to afford it anyway, so he grabbed the bottle and knocked it back until he could no longer hold his breath. It burned all the way to his empty stomach, making his nose and ears clogged and for a moment he thought he might just vomit. However, the moment passed, and the warmth soon spread all over his body. It didn’t relieve the throb in his leg, but it took away the sharp edges. His mind was engulfed by the haze of alcohol, that he could no longer fixate on the pain. It was an escape, but a blessed one. Kaz would have long gone insane if he hadn’t taken that first swig of the liquor.
In the week that followed, Kaz subsisted on alcohol. He knew it was a weakness and told himself that he would stop after the next swig. But every time the pain in his leg flared up, he found himself reaching for the bottle again. Someone had kept a steady stream of those coming, and Kaz always woke up to the presence of the bottle by his bed.
But in moments of clarity, which had grown far and few in between, Kaz found himself sitting up in his bed and thinking about his life from now. He had been swindled out of his money, lost Jordie, and survived the plague. Hadn’t he been through enough? He had sustained enough injury in the fourteen years of his life to know that this kind of wound didn’t heal without leaving its mark. Why did he have to lose the use of a leg on top of that too, and because of something so inconsequential like falling off a roof? The crippled of the Barrel, was that what he had now been reduced to? He was going to get his revenge on Jakob Hertzoon, but how could he accomplish that with one good leg? His thoughts kept coming back to the question of whether fifty thousand kruge split five ways was worth a lifetime of disability. Was the righteousness of vengeance?
The pain kept him awake night and day and invited morbid thoughts. In moments of extreme vulnerability, Kaz found himself considering getting a Grisha healer to restore his leg. He didn’t have enough to pay for it, but if it would take away the pain and give him his life back, he would sell himself away on indenture. Hell, he would even become a slave just to not have to feel like his body was being split in half again. But those thoughts only visited him when his leg burned with fresh pain, as if he had just broken it mere hours ago, and he would drown himself in the alcohol and plot on different ways to get back at Jakob Hertzoon to chase them away. It’s all in your head. You’re not weak.
In truth, Kaz was at his weakest and he knew it. During the first week, he couldn’t sit up on his own because of the crippling pain. His injury drained him of his energy, and refused him rest. He couldn’t eat for the longest time because of the constant pain. Kaz had despised himself for it, but no matter how tenaciously he kept repeating to himself that it was all in your head, his body’s reaction to the agony was as physical as it came.
And then there was Fink. Fink was a forty something freeloader and as lanky and knobbly as a dead tree. People who failed at life and found themselves on the streets like Fink were plenty in the Barrel. Fink never pulled his weight around the gang and could only be forced on a raid or a heist only at the threat of being thrown out on the streets. The Dregs only kept him around because at least he kept the Slat clean — as clean as a rundown, leaky hole-in-the-wall in the Barrel could be — and did some simple maintenance. He was the victim of their teasing and bullying, and was just enough of a loser to let them to push him around without putting up a fight.
Kaz always found Fink hovering by his bed whenever he opened his eyes in the first few days following his fall. It was Fink who helped Kaz to the bathroom when he couldn’t get up on his own, and despite Kaz’s aversion to proximity, he had been able to more or less tolerate Fink’s presence. It was also Fink who brought up the watery soup from the kitchen and stayed to make sure that Kaz managed to swallow some of it down.
“I don’t need your help,” Kaz had snapped at Fink. He hated being treated like an invalid. But Fink only shrugged and came back again with the bowl of soup at the next mealtime.
After a week into Kaz’s new life with a bad leg, Fink came in with a pair of crutches made from pieces of old wood stuck together by a couple of nails. He had put them together himself from the junks lying around the Slat. In the haze of drunken anger, Kaz grabbed one of the sticks and swung it at Fink. It clashed clumsily into Fink’s elbow and he let out a yelp, but that wasn’t enough to drive him away.
“You need something for support if you want to walk again,” Fink had said when he tried to get Kaz to try out the crutches. But Kaz didn’t need any support. The very idea disgusted him. He was no longer the little farm boy who had needed his older brother to pull him up by the hand whenever he tripped and fell. He would try and retry until he could get up on his own, because this was his life now. Out of sheer spite, Kaz proceeded to attempt his first trip to the bathroom on his own, makeshift crutches flung to the opposite side of the sleeping hall. He had braced his arms against the wall and managed to lift himself up, biting the inside of his cheek against the excruciating burning in his leg. He successfully managed three whole shaky steps in the direction of the door before he fell against the wall, almost fainting from the pain.
“You need to drink less if you want to get back on your feet,” Fink had said. But the counsel only served to fan the flames of Kaz’s rage. Kaz had tried and tried to stop himself from reaching for the bottle, but the promise of sweet respite was a temptation he found impossible to resist. “And you’re a weak and useless little skiv. Save the pity for yourself,” Kaz had lashed out. Until now, none of Kaz’s insults had had any effect on Fink, but those specific words seemed to have hurt Fink’s feelings. “That’s what you’re afraid of, ain’t it? Being weak and useless like stinky old Fink,” Fink had left him with those words. He didn’t return, and Kaz went without his meal that evening.
But Fink’s words had held more truth in them than Kaz allowed himself to admit. He had been frightened of becoming weak and useless with his broken leg. And having Fink, the weakest of the weak, taking care of him only served to mess him up further. He was determined to show Fink that Kaz Brekker didn’t need aid to get back up, that a single broken leg was not enough stop him. He spent the rest of that night trying to get back on his feet, pushing himself just a little further, until he finally managed to endure the pain and stand up on one leg, cast lifted off of the floor to avoid aggravating the wound. Holding his breath, Kaz pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning on, and made his way to the middle of the hall, cold sweat drenching his brows and back. There, still trembling and exhausted from the simple effort, Kaz eventually lost his footing and the floor came up to meet his body in all its unforgiving solidity. He positively passed out for a few minutes from the impact.
When Kaz finally came to, he was sprawled out in the middle of the floor. The others were still out for the night’s job, sparing Kaz the shame of having witnesses to his fall. His leg was throbbing as if he had just landed wrong from that roof, his head reeling from too much alcohol and an empty stomach. Kaz cursed everything and anything that had brought about this event, from Jordie’s naivety, Jakob Hertzoon, to the Ketterdam life. He repeated it’s all in your head over and over to himself as he tried to push himself up and make his way back to his cot, but even his own body failed him and he slumped back to the floor, curling up in pain.
Kaz didn’t know if minutes or hours had passed, but when he could no longer bear how pathetic he had become, he began to crawl, using his arms to pull his body towards the corner where his cot was. Halfway through the hall, his gloved hand landed on some long sticks that were in the way. He soon realized that they were the crutches that Fink had made, randomly discarded in his fit of anger earlier. Kaz’s fingers instinctively wrapped around the handles. He tentatively planted the end of one stick against the floor, then the other, and used them to push himself up. With much huffing and panting, Kaz eventually managed to get vertical again.
The crutches had been poorly put together. The surface of the old wood was covered in splinters, the nails barely held the pieces together and threatened to fall apart every time Kaz applied his weight. Plus, the props were simply too tall for Kaz’s height. But despite the misgivings, Kaz found that he secretly preferred the crude stuff over proper canes. These rough and unbalanced sticks were enough. He navigated the sleeping hall and finally made it back to his cot with the help of the thing.
Accessories, Kaz thought. These are accessories and not support. They're only temporary and perfectly unnecessary.
Kaz couldn’t wait to show Fink. It wasn’t to show him that he could stand on his own like he had originally planned, but that he had been able to stay upright nonetheless. Kaz hated a change of plan, but he'd allow it as an exception.
Fink didn’t return the next morning, nor in the evening. Kaz learned from the people sharing the same sleeping hall that the man had been killed last night, a bullet through the skull, when the Dregs clashed with Razorgulls on some territory dispute.
So that was all Fink amounted to: just another fodder to the fire, just one more kill count in the gang war. Fink probably just stood in the crossfire, useless with a gun, an easy target for the Razorgulls to pick off. His existence had been meaningless and his death unseen by Kaz. But it was this good for nothing who had put together these sloppy crutches. It was thanks to stinky old Fink that Kaz had been able to stand up on his own for the first time after his injury. Fink might have been just another pathetic prey that was devoured by the fat monster that was Ketterdam, but he had left behind the pair of sticks under Kaz’s arms.
That evening, he hobbled along the two blocks separating the Slat and the Crow Club, leaning heavily on his crutches. He found the floor boss and demanded to be put in to deal at the tables. Kaz was done lying around. Now that he was able to stay on his feet, he was going to get going.
If anything came out of the few long weeks it took his leg to heal, it was that Kaz Brekker had made a legend of himself in the gambling hall. Unsuspecting pigeons and seasoned members of other gangs alike poured into the Crow Club for a spot at Dirtyhands’ table. Kaz’s control of the deck was unrivalled, and the skills he displayed when shuffling and dealing the cards was beyond any masters. But what really drew the people in was the deadly thrill that the one's fortune could turn simply at the flip open of a single card. The half second before the face of a card was revealed by Dirtyhands' gloved fingers had the whole house holding their breath. Kaz dealt out epic wins and life-destroying losses, controlling the players as much as the game.The Crow Club raked in tall stakes like never before as gamblers sat for hours at the card tables, unable to resist taking up the next hand, raising their bets even higher and higher. Kaz made millionaires of filthy sailors and beggars of tycoons overnight. If the pigeons knew their life’s fortunes were just something for Kaz to manipulate, they still clambered in and trampled all over one another just for a spot at Kaz’s game. Even more pigeons came to observe, spending thoughtless kruge at the bar and on the women. Kaz had made a spectacle of the Crow Club, and people came to see men made kings and slaves in a round of cards.
Day and night, Kaz sat at the table, gloved fingers shuffling, stacking, and dealing the cards without a pause. He had long been banned from each of the gambling halls on the Staves, so the Crow Club was the only place that would let him near the floor. Kaz had worked the card table before, but a young boy dealing cards just put the gamblers off, so the floor bosses had always assigned him out of stage. However, he had turned fifteen when he was confined to bed, and while fifteen was plenty young, he was old enough to be in business by Ketterdam's standard. So here he was, hard at filling the Crow Club to the doors with enough pigeons to sink a mercher’s ship.
The pain was still there, a constant ache that sometimes dulled to an imperceptible twinge, sometimes flared up like an enraged wild animal. But Kaz had stayed away from the whiskey. He couldn’t work the deck with a cloudy head. Instead, being on the floor and fingering the cards kept his mind off his leg. It kept him focused in the way that alcohol couldn’t, and sometimes Kaz could almost forget about the injury. But whenever he as much as stretched out his arms to rake in the pot, his muscles would pull, his wound would make itself known again, and the pain would spring up on him like predator on a hunt.
It was during those weeks that Kaz met Jesper. Zemini, tall, probably with enough money in his pockets to get by. He appeared to be the same age as Kaz too, judging from his open expression. Dealers remembered the face of their players, and Kaz had already picked him out at the Crow Club on several nights. When Jesper managed to secure a spot at Kaz’s table, Kaz’s first thought was, typical tourist. But this tourist had accumulated a good amount of debt in the few days that he had been at the Crow Club and spoke good enough Kerch. Kaz dealt out a hand of Three Man Bramble. The round was made up of the Zemini and two other local shopkeepers who came to spend some kruge at the end of a long business day. Kaz only realized that the Zemini boy had been watching his face when he finished dealing out the hand. Their eyes met, and the dark boy turned his gaze back to his cards self-consciously.
The game proceeded smoothly. Kaz was building up a nice streak for the Zemini, while giving the two locals good enough hands to keep them engaged and hopeful. The boy’s grey eyes met Kaz’s again, and he motioned in the direction of the floor, “What happened to your leg?” It was the first time someone straightly asked him that question. For a moment, Kaz was at a loss, then his instincts kicked in and he had to hold himself back from glaring at the boy. Kaz thought about ignoring the Zemini’s question, but that might drive him away, and that wouldn’t do for something that Kaz had planned for the gambler tonight. In the end, he just went with a shrug. A dealer was not required to speak to the players, and Kaz usually went through the night in complete silence, after all.
After another harmless round, Kaz judged that it was about time to deal the boy a winning hand. The hand that would pay enough to clear out his debt. The Zemini’s eyes never left Kaz’s gloved hands as he skilfully worked the deck. When Kaz finished putting cards in front of his pigeons, the two local shopkeepers unhesitatingly placed a moderate bet, probably eager to cut their losses and go home to sleep it off. Kaz looked at the boy, waiting. The boy stared at him, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chips. Kaz raised an eyebrow in wordless inquiry, a clear issue of challenge, and the Zemini started visibly. He held Kaz’s gaze, a grin splitting his face as he pushed all of his chips forward and called, “All in.”
The locals left the table, but the Zemini stayed. He beamed and happily piled the chips he had won in tall stacks. The boy still didn’t abandon his attempt to get Kaz to talk, “I’ve watched you all these nights, but I’ve never heard you say a word. I keep wondering what you really sound like?” This time, Kaz shot him a warning glare. The Zemini was seriously coming on to him. Kaz’s first thought was, I don’t waste my breath on annoying pigeons, and you just made my point, but that could prove to be too offhanded. He thought about a more neutral, Dealers at the Crow Club don’t make small talk with the players, but the boy might take that as an invitation to conversation. In the end, Kaz just went with another shrug. It wouldn’t do to break the habit now.
Two boisterous Fjerdan tourists took the vacated spots and the game kicked off again. Kaz quickly raised the stakes, dealing out equally strong hands, keeping the pigeons betting taller and taller. The Zemini was completely absorbed in the game now, and the Fjerdan called for more drinks. The three players looked at one another, trying figure out the odds. Who would win, who would lose? But as they said, the house always won. Despite the big wagers, Kaz ended the round with a small win for the Zemini and small loses for the other two. Once the cards were opened on the table, they all grunted, the frustration from the unsatisfying game clear on their face. The round had made everyone expect to win big, not set them back right where they had started. No real gamblers stopped after this kind of game: they went in even bigger. And that was precisely what Kaz had intended.
The next round opened with tall enough stakes that sent the crowd murmuring. Kaz gave the two Fjerdan a winning round each. When it was the Zemini’s turn, the boy’s gaze was locked on Kaz. If the boy hadn’t been sure before, he had to already realize by now that his fortune was being dictated by Kaz. He stared at Kaz as if he was trying to make out the map of his chance. Kaz only raised a single eyebrow. It had never been a gamble between the boy and the Fjerdan, but between him and Kaz. The Zemini pushed all of his chips forward again, “All in.” For the first time, Kaz allowed the corner of his lips to quirk up. It sent a buzz among the crowd, the people whispering among themselves that the devil has smiled.
The cards were flipped, and the Zemini lost all of his winnings and then some. The winning Fjerdan hooted and shouted. He and his friend got to their feet and clapped each other on the shoulders, bellowing in their language amid the cheer of the crowd. The Zemini looked incredulously at the chips that had just traded hands on the table, then turned his gaze back on Kaz.
“You’re out of credit, Jesper Fahey.” Kaz spoke up for the first time. He had played the boy to put him back at the amount he had owed and a little bit more. Just enough debt to zero out his credit. The Zemini froze for a second, before recovering instantly. He answered Kaz with an unperturbed smile, as if his added debt was just an ordinary occurrence, “I didn’t expect you to sound like that. Or to know my name.” He even seemed flattered.
Kaz got up from the table with his crutches and beckoned for the boy to follow. Jerl took his place at the card table and new players sat down, eager to flirt with chance themselves. Kaz led him to the storage room, where even more bottles of liquor and cleaning supplies were kept. The Zemini took a look around curiously. He seemed to be in constant motion.
“You are to report to Per Haskell tomorrow morning. From now on, you’re working for the Dregs to pay off your debt,” Kaz said.
“Not to you?” The boy asked.
“I’ll be the one giving orders, but Haskell’s the boss.” The Zemini just shrugged at the arrangement.
“You baited me. And now I owe more kruge than I can pay off.”
Kaz said flatly, eyes hard as he stared the boy down, “I might have pulled a good card or two out of your hand, Fahey, but we both know that you’ll end up with more debt than you can possibly pay off sooner than later anyway.”
They both knew that Kaz was right.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I heard that you’re good in a fight.”
The Zemini’s hand went to the handles of the guns strapped to his waist, “I’m fabulous in a fight.”
“Then you’ll fight.”
The Zemini’s eyes meaningfully found Kaz’s leg, and Kaz had to bite his tongue to keep himself from breaking the boy’s neck with the stick in his hand. The Zemini, however, seemed clueless about Kaz’s simmering outrage as he asked, “You want me to keep you safe?”
Kaz did take a swing at the Zemini this time. He let go of the stick in his right hand, threw his weight forward, and his gloved fist connected with the boy’s jaw, hard. But not as hard as Kaz would have liked. He lost his balance but managed to grab onto the nearby shelf in the last minute, saving himself from an ungraceful fall. His leg exploded with pain, and he was breathing heavily.
“Ow, that hurts! Hey, are you alright?” The Zemini cradled his tender jaw and reached out as if to help steady Kaz. Kaz slapped his hand away harshly.
“I don’t need you to fight for me, or keep me safe. I just need you to fight.”
The boy looked at Kaz, perplexed and uncertain. Finally he nodded, “Okay.” He didn’t attempt to touch Kaz again.
“Now go,” Kaz rasped. The Zemini boy bent down to pick up Kaz’s discarded crutch and leaned it against the shelf, within Kaz’s reach. He cast another glance at Kaz, before turning and disappearing back into the gambling hall.