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Old Man Jenkins had seen many customers come and go in his forty years of running his cafe near the harbour.
Plenty of little girls who would spend their meagre pocket money on cookies or little cakes drizzled with honey. Plenty of women who came in with pregnancy cravings for warmed milk with vanilla and sugar.
Jenkins remembered them all. He knew each of his customers by name and he was proud of the fact that he never forgot a face.
He remembered seeing a young man, hardly old enough to call himself a teenager, running into the store. He dragged a smaller boy behind him.
They always ordered one hot chocolate to share. Every day, like clockwork.
They were new to Ketterdam, Jenkins could tell. They were too cheerful and innocent to be Barrel boys and dressed too dirty to be the sons of a rich merchant. No, Jenkins knew farm boys when he saw them and these boys certainly were.
One day, the older boy seemed happier than usual. His brother didn’t seem quite as enthused, but his eyes shone with pride when he looked up at him, so Jenkins didn’t assume anything was going on. That day, they ordered two hot chocolates. One each.
“What’s your name, boy?” He had asked.
The older boy stood up straighter, chin held proudly. “Jordan Rietveld, sir. I’m going to be a merchant and Kazzie is going to go back to school.”
Kazzie had dark, curious eyes that peered over Jenkins’s counter. “I’m almost nine.”
“And growing up into a strapping young man I see,” Jenkins lied. Both of the boys were skin and bones, but their faces hadn’t lost the healthy glow of the countryside yet. Jordan looked tired, but happy. The city hadn’t won yet.
When he handed over the coins, Jenkins shook his head. “This one’s on the house.”
“Thanks mister!” Jordan said. He grabbed Kazzie’s hand and pulled him out, saying something about a farm.
And then they disappeared.
Jenkins prayed they hadn’t fallen victim to the plague (his wife had and he’d been devastated), but Ketterdam was not a place that fostered hope. No, in his heart, Jenkins knew the boys were dead.
But like he’d said before, Peter Jenkins never forgot a face. Not even if that face came back scarred and serious and dangerous.
It was five minutes after opening when he walked through the door and for a moment, Jenkins didn’t recognize him.
Kazzie had grown up a bit since the last time he’d seen him. He was a bit taller, a lot skinnier, and a lot more dangerous looking. His face was dotted with pox scars and he couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but there was a haunted look in his eyes that suggested he was much older.
Jordan was no where to be seen.
“Hello,” Jenkins said. “Nice to see you again.”
The boy scowled. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” His voice was much scrachier than it had been a mere two years before.
He was lying, Jenkins could tell. His gloved hands clenched at his side, a tell.
“I believe we have,” he said. “Where’s your brother gone?”
Kazzie growled at that and a younger man might have been scared. But Old Man Jenkins had seen plenty of mob bosses come and go in his life, and he wasn’t scared in the slightest.
“One hot chocolate,” he said. “Coming right up.”
“I didn’t order that.”
Jenkins hummed, heating up the milk. “Do you remember me, Kazzie?”
The boy’s arm twitched. “It’s Kaz. Kaz Brekker.”
“Right, then, Mr. Brekker,” Jenkins said, mixing in the chopped pieces of chocolate with shaking hands. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, I remember you,” Kaz Brekker admitted. “I remember everyone.”
“Then you and I have something in common.”
The boy cracked the barest hint of a smile as he took the ceramic cup. “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.”
He sat in the corner of the shop and sipped his hot chocolate in silence as the city came to life.
Jenkins got busy and when he looked back over, the boy was gone, leaving only an empty mug and a handful of coins in his wake.
Jenkins only ever saw Kaz Brekker on the third day of January, at six bells. One year, the kid showed up with a limp and a cane and Jenkins fought the urge to fuss over him. He knew it wouldn’t be appreciated.
He’d heard rumours of Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel.
He has no soul.
His mother is Ketterdam and his father is profit.
Demon.
Bastard.
Jenkins knew better. Kaz Brekker was just a boy who’d gone through something horrible much too young, just a kid alone in a cruel city. He was a boy who liked his hot chocolate extra sweet, who practiced card tricks while he drank, and who always left too much money behind.
Kaz always came alone, always so early that no one would catch him and he was always gone before anyone could question him.
One day, though, exactly ten years from the first time Kaz had entered the shop for the first time, Kaz brought a tall, skinny Zemini boy and a tiny Suli girl with him. And, for once, Kaz Brekker was smiling.
“This is a cute little place,” the girl said.
“Yeah,” the Zemini man said. “Doesn’t really seem like your kinda scene though, Kazzie.”
Kazzie. Kaz didn’t even bat an eye, just flipped the other boy off and strolled up to the counter.
“Hello, Kaz,” Jenkins said.
“Hi, Mr. Jenkins,” Kaz said. “My usual.”
“Of course,” he said. “And for the two of you?”
“I’ll have a chamomile tea with honey, please,” the girl said, her fingers ghosting over Kaz’s.
“And I’ll get a caramel coffee with cream,” the boy added. “Thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
It was unusual to have so many customers so early in the morning, but none of them ordered anything too difficult, so Jenkins kept an eye on the teenagers.
The girl stayed at the counter to get the drinks, but Kaz and the other boy were sitting at Kaz’s table.
“How long has he been coming here?” The girl asked.
“Ten years,” Jenkins said. “Used to come with his brother, Jordan.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m Inej, by the way. That’s Jesper, sitting with Kaz.”
“Call me Jenkins,” he replied. “Everyone else does.”
“Okay,” Inej said, picking up the cups. “Thank you, Jenkins.”
No, Jenkins thought, watching Kaz laugh at something Jesper said, his ungloved hand gripping Inej’s. Thank you for protecting him when the rest of us couldn’t.