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Chapter Text

In all her life Inej can only recall getting sick, well and truly sick, five times. Twice as a child she remembers being confined to bed with her little brother while her Papa fretted over them and her Mama conjured powerful medicines from simple roots and herbs. Then once in the hold of a slave ship, a fever and nausea had overtaken her so powerfully she was almost sure she’d die at sea. There were times she wished she had. For the sickness she experienced at the Menagerie was a thousand times worse. Twice she fell ill there, not yet accustomed to the cold wet island winters, but she was given no respite from Heleen or the accursed guests.

Inej’s body is strong though. A survivor to her core. No petty illness would destroy her will to live.

Since joining the Dregs, and taking up residence in the Slat, Inej has been blessedly free of disease. She thanks the Saints but she can also thank the rather tight ship that Kaz Brekker runs. They call him Dirtyhands, but she’s noticed that he’s actually quite tidy. As tidy as one can be in the Barrel where a layer of soot and briny sea air coats every available surface.The Slat is no manor, it’s not even on par with the cheaply decked out clubs lining the pleasure district. But it is warm, free of any visible vermin or mites, and beautifully dry.

In her early days she observed curiously from the rafters as members of the Dregs took turns cleaning their living space.

“Boss’s orders.” They’d grumble as they took their time cleaning the floors or emptying trash bins.

But she had met Per Haskell, the graying old drunk playing with toys in his room. She figures he could care less about how dusty it gets in the slums he rents out to his men. So, she gathers, it’s Kaz who gives the true orders around here. Not surprising, though not entirely expected either. Kaz doesn’t look like a typical Barrel boss, doesn’t act much like one either aside from his mile wide vicious streak. More often than not his demeanor is reserved, ice cold where other men would be boiling hot.

Despite her reservations she finds herself drawn to him, this strange twisted Bastard of the Barrel. It has been three months since he purchased her indenture, enough time for her to assess who it is she’s dealing with. The concentrated essence of this wretched city on this strange island, made to take a human form. The form of a demon, of a trickster, a Crow, of a boy about her age with a limp and lead lined cane.

The stories about him are endless, each more outlandish than the last. He’s a fae, superstitious sailors whisper around their tables, come up out the water to sow seeds of chaos and evil. Old crones on their stoops claim he was born straight from the sewers, no mother to speak of. Even new blood, people around her own age, have silly tales of impossible heists and bets won at improbable odds. She thought perhaps in joining his crew she might gain some clarity, or at least the ability to divine truth from fantasy. No such luck. If anything the Dregs only clouded the picture more. It was clear that Brekker’s renown benefited their entire outfit, and they were more than happy to grease the wheels a bit to keep his legend running.

The only stories she truly trusts come from Kaz’s right hand man, his sharpshooter Jesper Fahey. The Zemeni boy still worships Kaz, in his own way. She can hear it in the forgiving slant of his stories and the tired but fond way he talks about their mutual ‘friend’. Jesper may be a dupe at card games, but he’s no blind fool. He sees Kaz Brekker for what he is and stays close anyways.

She suspects that they both harbor the same mad instinct to scratch at his hard and jagged shell in the hopes that there is a pearl hidden beneath. Though Jesper has been scratching a lot longer than she has, he’s about as close as anyone can claim to be with Kaz, and still there is no give. She begins to believe Kaz is just Kaz, through and through. He has never been anything but direct and honest with her. He is what he proves himself to be and she will give him nothing more than that.

In her short time in his service he has proven himself to be pragmatic, tactical, and ruthless. He doesn’t flinch at the sound of bones snapping, nor would he hesitate to snap some himself. When he teaches Inej how to fight with knives he shows her places to cut that cause the most pain, the longest lasting damage, the most blood loss. Every way a body can be sliced, he knows them all and expects her to as well.

The reality of what he expects her to do with this knowledge does not set in truly until he gives her the order to use it.

“I thought I was only a spider.” She hisses at his back from her perch on the window sill. “Your secret collector.”

“You are.” He answers coolly over his shoulder. “And a talented one at that. But I named you Wraith for a reason.”

“So I’m to be your assassin now?”

“If that’s what you’d like to call it.” He stamps a document he’s been working on at his makeshift desk and moves swiftly on to the next. “Though I’d say your role hasn’t changed at all, you’ll just finally be stepping into it in full.”

“Damn you Kaz.” She grits her teeth and looks away from him, into the dingy sky overlooking Ketterdam. Storms are brewing all around. “You’ve never asked this of me before.”

“I’ve never needed it before. But this job doesn’t work without you and your sankts.”

He’s referring to her knives, but she knows what he thinks of her faith, and she doesn’t appreciate the derision. She hears his chair scraping and knows he’s turned to look at her. He always does that once she looks away she’s noticed.

“What about Jesper?” She whips back to meet his gaze, brows furrowed and eyes glaring. “He’s done things like this plenty of times I’m sure it won’t matter nearly as much to him.”

“I didn’t choose Jesper,” he answers maddeningly calmly, “because he lacks what you dear Inej have in spades, subtlety. I don’t just need this old sop dead. I’d do it myself if that were the case. We need this done quietly, so nobody finds him until well after the plan’s played out in full.”

“But Kaz I…I’ve never…” Not even when she’d wanted to more than anything, not even with knives in her hand and helpless men at her feet. Please don’t make me do this, she wants to beg. But she bites her tongue, adamant that those words never cross her lips again.

“It’s not so hard once it’s over.” And if he were a different person, if they were having a different conversation, she would almost call his tone comforting, gentle. “Think of the write off you’ll get from Per Haskell. Jobs like this pay a lot higher than break-ins or stake outs. Trust me, you’ll shave off a good chunk of your indenture in one night.”

“Trust you?” She laughs in his face and doesn’t miss the flinch when a drop of spit hits his cheek. It both confuses and satisfies her. “Sankt Petyr give me strength! You sit there and tell me to think of the money I could earn in exchange for a man’s life!”

Like the reflection of the sky obscuring watery depths she sees the gentle Kaz disappear, if he was ever truly there. Dirtyhands leans back in his chair. How can she argue to someone so faithless her reasons not to take a life? When she has seen first hand the value life holds in comparison to money for him.

“In exchange for the peace of my own soul.” She stresses finally, hoping against hope that he will defer to her self-interest if anything. “These things cannot be bought and sold Kaz.”

“Oh but they can Inej, and they are. Rather frequently in fact. And if they aren’t being sold they're being stolen. It’s time for you to decide which side of the exchange you want to be on.”

It is a losing exchange, Inej thinks bitterly, impossible to walk away a winner.

“Is the decision truly mine? Where would refusal land me?” Out on the streets, in a watery grave, or back in the Menagerie?

“I can’t really say. Nowhere better than where you are now, that's for sure. I don’t know how much choice has to do with anything in the Barrel. Best to make due with the options available.”

With the options you make available you mean? Again she holds her tongue, fighting with Kaz is like shouting at a mountain. Satisfying perhaps but generally useless and occasionally deadly. She communicates her contempt with a final withering glare before launching in one swift motion out the window and off the landing. She knows her way around the Barrel blind by now so she is safe to look back in time to see him watching her leave.

***
As much of a struggle as it is to bring herself there, it is laughably easy breaking into the mark’s house. Seven long hours of prayer and deliberation did nothing to help clear her path. No matter how she looks at it she cannot change the facts of her situation. She is an indenture, by Kerch and international law she is bound to this land until her debt is paid. If she were to shirk this job, to run from it even, perhaps stow away on a ship to Ravka, she would be hunted til the day she died. Wherever she went the shadow of Ketterdam would follow waiting to bind her at the ankles and drag her back. But to take the job, to fulfill Kaz’s dark plans, is to sacrifice a rare part of herself still left unscathed by all the horror and debauchery of this island.

As she creeps through the servant’s passage of this gaudy elaborate estate, built and bought on the backs of slaves, all her thoughts seem to wash away. Each step forward is a wave pulling doubt and fear out to sea. She opens the door to the mark’s bedroom and finds him as Kaz said she would, asleep in a drunken stupor. Only, there is the complication of an indentured girl in his bed. Inej recognizes the faux silk kefta even in the dark, one of Tantee Heleen’s Ravkan girls.

The girl startles, waking the instant the servant’s door creaks open. Though Inej is but a shadow, her wide charcoal lined eyes track the Suli acrobat across the room. Inej raises empty hands to signal that she is not a threat, the last thing she wants is for this girl to scream. But she seems to have no inclination to make any sound at all. Her dark eyes flick from Inej to the sleeping man then back. With slow quiet steps Inej draws closer.

“Leave now.” She whispers, so low it almost isn’t a sound. “I will tell no one you were here.”

Already pinning her silks back into place the girl falters. “He hasn’t paid me yet. I need- I cannot return empty handed.”

Inej understands, madam's are unforgiving. “Take whatever you want on the way out. He will not be coming after you to reclaim it.”

The girl stares at Inej, mouth opening and closing around words neither of them know how to say. Inej doesn’t recognize her from the Menagerie, she hopes the same is true for the girl. Nothing more passes between them. She gathers her things as quietly as she can, much too loudly for Inej’s tastes, and flees as fast as her restrictive skirts will allow. And still this old man sleeps, oblivious to the danger looming over him.

Because that’s what she is right? Dangerous. The Barrel’s own Wraith, here to collect what is owed. Kaz had said as much. But what water does his word hold?

She’d been too furious to stick around and learn why this man’s death was so intrinsic to his plan’s success. Now she wishes she knew. Because try as she might she cannot drown out all the parts of her that object to this action. Loudest among them is the part that speaks with her father’s voice.

“Careful Inej.” It says. “There is no net to catch you this time.”

“I know.” She mutters to herself, unsheathing Sankt Petyr.

The blade catches the moonlight and despite the tremor in her chest it remains steady and even glinting against his hairy neck. Finally, the man’s stirs, groggy eyes blinking open. Before he sees the knife at his throat he only sees a pretty girl in his bed. He smiles, the toothy disgusting gloat she has received from too many men and lives only long enough to regret looking at her that way.

***
There is a party happening at the Crow Club, a victory celebration. As is tradition when a Barrel gang scrapes by with another scheme. The raucous uproar is noticeable even in the busy streets.

Inej feels no desire to join in. She doesn’t even report to the club's offices like she’s supposed to after a job. Just the thought of looking at Kaz’s shrewd pinched face turns her stomach. She could just as easily report to Per Haskell directly but that would take a toll all the same; as she would have to admit aloud what she has done.

So like a child hiding some silly injury she slinks away somewhere private, at present her room in the Slat. It’s a small dingy shoebox, loud and prone to shaking dust loose through the floorboards. But she has a window that leads right to the roof. And a lock, though she’d be a fool to think it’d stop anyone worth their salt in the Barrel. Still it is her’s, in a way. It is where she can be alone, to sleep, to pray, to lick her wounds. In a place like Ketterdam that matters more than she would have ever thought possible.

It has started to rain, she lingers for a moment before climbing through the window. She opens her sticky red hands, palms to the sky catching the little droplets. For the thousandth time that night she says a prayer of repentance, and sends the man’s soul to the Sankts.

Then she stumbles inside, suddenly dazed by the quiet of her room. No one is at the Slat tonight, they’ve all gathered at the club, merry despite or perhaps even because of the bloodshed. Inej shivers, her legs wobble and she has to steady herself with a hand on the wall. Despite the rain her touch leaves a red smear against the stained tan walls.

All at once her stomach turns and it’s purely out of instinct that she turns and vomits out the window. The rain washes the discolored fluid off the slope of the roof, and the hair that escaped from her coil clings to her damp face. She retches again but her stomach is empty, then she rests her forehead against the cool metal of the windowsill. She feels as if she’s been thrown out to sea in a barrel in the middle of a storm. Her center has disappeared, and though she is perfectly still she feels out of balance. When she opens her eyes they are much heavier than they were before and her arm feels like lead when she raises it to wipe her chin clean.

Her mind is blank, emptied along with her stomach. It takes no thought at all to drop into a crouch and haul her tired body to bed, for she couldn’t possibly stand with how her legs are shaking.

Once she’s finally dragged herself into bed she simply curls up like she once had in the bed she shared with her family. Her tired arm senselessly reaches out for her little brother. He should be right there, tucked under her chin. And beside her, where is the warmth of her mother? Why can’t she hear Papa’s loud snoring that he always denies in the morning?

She is both shivering and sweating now. Even with her eyes open she can’t orient to her surroundings. Everything is swimming in murky water.

“I’m falling, Papa.” She croaks. Her voice is not her own, not a voice her father would recognize. Please catch me, she begs like a prayer. In the world she lost he would be right there, arms stretched wide, more trustworthy than any net. But no one answers, Sankts or fathers.

And perhaps to fill the silence, or perhaps because it is the last thing she has left to give tonight, Inej begins to sob. They ripple through her body like tidal waves sapping what little energy she had left. It all flows out through tears into her already damp hair. But it’s not enough, like trying to squeeze through a too tight hole with no give, and whatever is trying to get out of her remains trapped inside swirling in her chest and limbs and mind.

There’s no telling how long she carried on like that. Tired as she is, she is trained for endurance, whatever she is doing she can do it for a good long while. Eventually it does become tiring though, and her sobs sputter out into gasping inhales and shuddering exhales. Through the patter of the rain, the pounding of her pulse in her ears, and her own weak sniffling Inej hears one last thing before she slips into unconsciousness. A gait she would know anywhere by now, quick yet stuttered, punctuated by a heavy metal thud.

Her door is always locked, she only ever uses the window. But through the delirium and exhaustion she panics at the thought that Kaz doesn’t need a key, that he might be on his way to her right now to collect a report. Another part of her wonders at the thought of him coming to her right now, when she feels so desperately unmoored. Would he be capable of pulling her back to shore? Would she allow it?

Her questions are futile it turns out, because as quickly as he approached he passed, headed straight for his room on the top floor.

“May the Sankts forgive what can be forgiven.” She says aloud to no one.

Chapter Text

Whoever said a little party never killed nobody has clearly never visited Ketterdam. That’s the first clear thought that passes through Jesper’s head as he scrapes himself off a booth seat in the Crow Club. He’d fallen asleep face down and his skin stuck to the vinyl seat when he sat up. Rubbing the sting from his cheek he looks around the room. It’s early morning, the sunrise just barely filtering through dust tinted windows. A few other people are stirring and rising but for the most part everyone stays where they’d passed out the night before.

Already he can feel the hangover taking effect. His pulse feels like it’s being played with by a Heartrender and his mouth tastes foul and dry. But it’s the grumbling in his stomach that actually spurs him into motion. He can see the cook asleep on the bar so he figures there’s no hope of a continental breakfast at the club this morning. Kaz won’t be happy about that, they don’t generate much revenue from the Crow club’s menu but anything is always better than nothing.

Stumbling behind the bar in search of water Jesper looks around to see if Kaz is there at all. Unsurprisingly he isn’t, the boss doesn’t really do parties. Sure he’ll show up at the start, maybe even have a drink or two and make a toast, but he’s always gone before things get too rowdy.

The sound of running water rouses a few more of the Dregs from their stupors. Jesper guzzles the full glass down, splashing a significant amount onto himself in the process. Sankts, how much did he drink last night? He tries to recall but it all gets a bit blurry after the first round of cards. He chuckles ruefully, if the cards don’t love him on good nights they certainly aren’t any kinder when he’s pissed drunk. He’ll have to talk with the bookkeepers, see how much more debt he’s accrued in one hedonistic night.

It’s all too easy in the Barrel to let one night get the better of you. That’s all Jesper’s done since that day he left University really. Though he could be much worse off, that’s for sure. He has his debts, but he is in control of how he pays them; he’s no one’s indentured servant.

With uncoordinated steps he makes his way out into the street headed for the Slat. The best way to cure a hangover in his experience is with a change of clothes and a classic Barrel style breakfast; three hard fried eggs, two hefty sausages, and whatever grain the establishment provides. Despite his overbearing debt Jesper always keeps enough coin in his pocket for a few decent meals, a tip he took from Kaz.

But before he can worry about which establishment he’ll be dining at there's the matter of his atrocious appearance. Kaz may think differently but looks do carry some value in Ketterdam, if people see you as a slovenly drunk they’ll treat you like one too. For some that may mean turning up their noses and crossing the street, for others it means pulling him into an alley and shaking him down for all he’s got. And so what if Jesper’s also a bit vain. It’s not a crime to look good, though the Stadwatch sure acts like it is.

Hungover, and yet still somehow a bit drunk, as he is, it takes Jesper twice as long to make the short walk. Despite the sun peaking through the clouds it’s a chilly morning. The wind picks up and with his wet shirt and vest Jesper is shivering before he reaches the Slat. What he wouldn’t give for a hot jurda brew at this moment.

It’s a bit eerie to see the Slat as empty as it is. Last night was a real rager, Kaz’s plan had gone off without a hitch for once and they were all the wealthier for it. Apparently he and the rest of the Dregs all have the same first instinct when they’re flush with cash; do what it’s good for and spend it on a good time. Da had been tight, he found his people in the city. Though certainly not the people his Da probably hoped he’d find.

He makes his way through the nearly empty parlor and up the stairs to his room. Somewhere a few floors above his head he hears Kaz moving about. Probably already been up for hours with a job waiting for Jesper as soon as he sees him. It can wait til after he’s freshened up a bit.

His wet clothes are off before he’s even shut the door and his pants right after. He changes into fresh underclothes then picks out his outfit for the day, a lovely pair of deep purple slacks, a dark green vest with neon green pinstripe, a black shirt with his favorite subtle floral motif, and a blood red checkered jacket. His hair is a whole other beast to tackle, he has to tease and pick at it long enough that his arms ache before he’s satisfied. There’s a basin of fresh water on his dresser from the day before, he wets his hands and presses them to his face. Grounding himself for a minute in the cool press of his palms against his flushed cheeks.

The way life moves in the Barrel it’s all too easy to get swept up in it. Nothing like on the farm, where each day passed calmly into the next, always the same chores to do and the same people to talk to. The bustle and chaos was what he loved about the city when he first arrived, and he loves it still. It’s just that sometimes in all the noise and excitement he forgets how much he also loved sitting alone in the fields, only the sound of rushing winds and his own breathing.

Nothing in Ketterdam is ever quiet like that. If you keep your ears open there’s always someone to hear. Right now there’s Kaz thumping away above him, and passersby on the street outside his window. He’s gotten good enough, or bad enough depending on your perspective, to tell the pigeons apart by sound alone. There’s a couple congregated just outside the building. They’re sounding awfully chipper, cooing about good hands and better luck. Won’t stay that way for long, he smirks.

Despite all the effort put into his hair he still plucks a hat from his wardrobe, slightly brighter purple than his pants with yellow accents. A few more Dregs have stumbled home behind him. He opens his door to Rotty, doubled over in the hall clutching a hand to his belly.

“Careful now. If you’re gonna hurl make it to a bin or it’ll leak right through the floor and the boss’ll have your head.”

Rotty nods, pudgy face beaded with sweat, and Jesper frowns. No surly comeback means he’s really feeling it.

“Alright, come on.” He huffs taking the bigger man by the arm. If he were at full strength it wouldn’t take much work to get Rotty on his feet and moving again, but Jesper’s definitely misfiring on a few cylinders because lugging the poor fool three feet to his room has him winded, leaning against the door frame.

“Look,” he points to the pitcher on Rotty’s nightstand, “if that’s water drink lots of it. And if you’re gonna puke,” he kicks a bin across the room, it skids to a stop just beside Rotty’s bed, “do it in there. I’ll be back to check on you in a few.”

He’s not sure how much of that the big man actually got, he’d practically collasped as soon as he reached the bed. Jesper sighs, pinching his brow to stave off the headache he can feel forming. Back in the parlor he’s about six steps from the door when a familiar gravelly voice calls his name.

“Jesper!”

With a heavy sigh he resigns himself to a headache for the next half hour at least.

“What!?” He answers from the foot of the stairs. Kaz is standing in his doorway, arms crossed expectantly. Then he just turns and walks further into his room.

“Damn bastard.” Jesper mutters to himself as he begins the climb. “Can’t wait forty sankts forsaken minutes for me to have breakfast. Noooo, I need Jesper right now, it’s important business. Much more important than food!”

He feels a chill on his way up the stairs and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. There’s never any damn comfort around here.

“Shut the door behind you.” Kaz orders as soon as Jesper’s in the room.

“Good morning to you too.” He closes the door with a click and a pointed look. Kaz rolls his eyes.

“It’s nearly noon.”

“And therefore, still morning.” He flashes a winning Fahey smile.

“We’ve got a late start on the day.” Kaz steamrolls, sullen as ever. “Have the rest of the Dregs managed to scrape themselves off the club’s floor as well?”

“A few.” Jesper shrugs. “Though even if they all manage to get up I doubt you’ll get a full day's work out of anybody. It was an absolute madhouse last night. I mean I’m surprised nobody died.”

“People did die last night.” Kaz raises an eyebrow at him, which always manages to remind Jesper exactly what line of business he’s involved in. “That’s why you all threw a party. Not the most inconspicuous move.”

“But definitely the most fun one.” He takes a seat in front of the desk he and Kaz threw together years ago.

“Are you having fun now?” Kaz drops a book onto the desk more loudly than necessary and Jesper winces.

“Always with you Kazzie.” He smiles again but it’s not his happy farm boy smile at all, in his head he calls it his Kaz smile actually.

“Don’t call me that.” Kaz snaps predictably, and then somewhat unpredictably he says. “Have you seen Inej today?”

“No, not that I can think of.” Jesper tries to really think, because with Inej sometimes seeing her means catching a shadow move or a braid flicker past your window. “Course that doesn’t mean that she’s not around. That is sort of what we pay her for.”

“What I pay her for.” You mean Per Haskell, Jesper thinks to interrupt, but Kaz talks faster, “She didn’t check in last night, after the job.”

“You think she’s in trouble?” He perks up, suddenly alert. Why hadn’t Kaz said anything until now? “Maybe she got pinched!”

“No.” Kaz raises a placating hand. “She made it back to the Slat I know that much.”

“So, what?” He crosses his arms, suddenly skeptical. It’s no secret that Inej was unhappy with her assignment last night. “You think she’s avoiding you?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Kaz scoffs, but he looks away too. “Inej may be our spider but she doesn’t hide.”

“Then what is it? You seem…worried, boss.”

“It was a risk, sending her to take care of Cullens.” Kaz stares out the window, the hand on his cane tightens. “I knew that when I drew up the plans.”

“And?”

He can’t for the life of him discern what Kaz expects of him here. He and Inej are hardly close. Of course he respects her skills and he’s enjoyed working with her the few times they have. But by the nature of her role in the group she doesn’t mingle much. It’s even rarer to see her at a party than Kaz.

“And now,” Kaz turns on him and Jesper is reminded distinctly of a fisher cat. “I’m trying to assess the damage while you lot are all flaunting the rewards.”

“Right,” he chooses to ignore the jab and actually try and think about the issue at hand, “well if by ‘assessing the damage’ you mean you want to check on Inej and make sure she’s alright then just say that. Though if you haven’t seen her I’m guessing she’s not in the mood to be checked on. Might have better luck just giving it time. Let her come out of whatever nook she’s found when she’s good and ready to.”

“She’s not hiding Jesper, and she’s not in some nook. She’s down in her room.” Now Jesper raises an eyebrow. “I heard her come in last night.”

“And it’s not possible that she slipped back out without you noticing?” Inej is the patron sankt of disappearing acts.

“It’s not. Inej doesn’t use her door, and she hasn’t climbed out her window yet either.”

“Do you keep tabs on all of us like that?” He prods, because he really never has seen Kaz take this kind of interest in someone before. And he’s seen Kaz take all kinds of interests.

“Of course I do. That’s my job.”

“You don’t have a real job Kaz.” Jesper huffs a laugh. “You’re a criminal, you do what you want.”

“I’m a businessman, Jesper.” Kaz straightens his jacket, joking back. “And businessmen keep tabs on their employees.”

“Whatever you want to tell yourself. Look, if you want to see Inej so badly and you know exactly where she is, why am I here hm? Why not just go talk to her yourself.”

“I’ve got other business to handle.” He suddenly busies himself with the books and papers he’s laid out to prove his point. “I can’t be checking in on every Crow with a few ruffled feathers or I’d never have time to score us jobs like the one you all went mad for last night. You’re the people person,” he shoos Jesper away, “so go do your people thing.”

“Saints Kaz.” Jesper chuckles, shaking his head. “Sometimes I don’t know if it’s funny or sad how piss poor your social skills are.”

“I don’t need to win any popularity contests!” Kaz snaps banging an open palm against the desk. Touchy this morning isn’t he? “I need my crew to do their jobs, and I need you to help make sure that happens.”

“Aw you need my help. I’m charmed Kaz, really.” He rises to his feet and mock bows. “And since you’ve been so wonderfully nice as usual I will give you my help. See? Wouldn’t it be nice to hear something like that for a change?”

“It wouldn’t.” Kaz glowers. “Now go see to the Wraith. And make sure Sigmund's getting the club running for the day after that. I won’t take a full day's loss, even if everyone drank themselves sick.”

“Aye aye cap’n.” He does a lazy two finger salute as he saunters towards the door. “Private Fahey requesting dismissal.”

Kaz scoffs. “Don’t be a jackass Jesper. And get something to eat before you keel over. You look seasick!”

I love you too you rat bastard, Jesper thinks as he trounces down the stairs leaving Kaz’s door open behind him. Not the assignment he’d anticipated receiving to be honest. There’s no job Kaz won’t do, and by extension almost no job he hasn’t done. They just usually aren't so…managerial. When he reaches Inej’s door he feels a cool draft through the cracks. Is it her that’s been making this stairway so damn chilly?

“Inej?” He knocks twice. “You in there?”

No answer. He holds an ear to the door. There’s rushing wind, gulls cawing in the distance, and for a moment rustling sheets.

“Inee-e-ej.” He sing-songs. “You’re sure sleeping in late today. You okay in there?” He speaks a bit louder this time.

Still nothing. Jesper drops into a crouch and peeks through the crack under the door. He can’t see much, just the feet of her bed, her wardrobe to the right and bright sunlight spilling across bare floor boards.

“Alright,” he straightens back up, “I’m gonna open the door.”

The handle doesn’t give when he wiggles it, should've figured she’d keep it locked. He slips two pieces of thin metal from his jacket lining and sets to work picking the lock. He’s nowhere near as fast as Kaz or even Inej, and it would be much more efficient for him to use his zowa to simply command the lock open. But he tells himself he needs the practice.

When the door finally clicks open he finds the knob is practically rusted solid from disuse. For this he does use just a touch of power. The hinges are rusty too and they creak shrill and ear splitting as he slowly opens the door.

“Inej.” Now he whispers, feeling suddenly ashamed at having forced her door open without a second thought.

What real business of his is it if she wants to sleep in or take the day off? After what she had to do last night he wouldn’t blame her. Taking a life for the first time is rough, no matter what. Jesper remembers his first kill that wasn’t a farm animal. A raider from the Wandering Isle who’d managed to corner his father in a fight. Jesper pushed a pitchfork through the back of his neck then promptly burst into hysterics. He wonders which knife Inej used to do the job last night.

He looks at her now, and what he sees concerns him. She is curled up in bed, sheets pulled haphazardly up to her chin. Her hood is still on so he assumes she’s wearing her whole Wraith get up under there. Which, who knows, maybe she wears it to bed every night. But what actually worries him is the ashen tone of her skin, her lips are pale and a thin sheen of sweat coats her face.

“Inej, Sankts.” Again with no second thoughts he crosses the narrow room in one stride. A hand to her forehead confirms what he already suspected, she’s burning up. At his touch she finally stirs, fighting her way out of deep sleep to see who lays hands on her.

“Baba?” Her thin voice croaks.

Jesper gasps and draws his hand away. Though her eyes are open she does not see him, the fever has overpowered her mind as well. It feels wrong somehow to be here like this. So near to the Wraith without her knowledge, like they’re cards in a mis-shuffled deck. It feels invasive. He can’t imagine she’d ever want him to see her like this, weakened and delirious.

“Mene yaram.” She continues to mumble in Suli, her eyes slipping shut again. “Na…na bezhnago.”

“Okay.” Jesper whispers, unsure of how to proceed.

He looks around the room and notices the wide open window. With two quick steps he reaches the window and latches it shut. Already the room is less chilly without the draft of morning wind. It was raining hard all last night so the floor near the window is dark and wet. Still he notices a smear of blood there as well as a scuffed handprint on the wall. Panic spikes in his gut and he rushes back to Inej’s bedside.

Before he can follow through with his first impulse and tear the sheets off to inspect her for injuries he pauses. It just doesn’t feel right. As long as he’s known her Inej has been a beacon of self-control in a dense fog of indulgence and inebriation. He’s never seen her slip, literally or metaphorically. She keeps her own counsel, stitches her own wounds.

The job last night was supposed to be, if anything, safe. Cullens was born wealthy, like his father before him, and he had no sense of the lengths others might go to to covet his wealth. Hence his absolute lack of personal security. Aside from border patrol he kept his vast estate completely unguarded. Betting your life on the deference of those less wealthy than you is a poor wager to make in Ketterdam. A fool like Cullens should’ve been no real problem for Inej to handle, aside from the ethical one. So how had she wound up in such a state?

He can’t just leave her here as she is right? For Saint’s sake she’d slept with the window open last night during early spring in Ketterdam. She could be injured and pneumonic! Through the pollution of a hangover and the incomputable strangeness of the situation Jesper registers that Inej needs help right now.

With two light hands on her shoulders he urges her to lie on her back.

“Inej?” He gives her a light shake. It might be better for her to be awake, certainly easier to gauge her state of mind. “Inej are you with me?”

The Suli girl stirs, eyes opening but never fully. She mumbles but he can’t discern even the shape of the words.

“I’m going to get help alright. You’ve got a fever but you haven’t bled through any sheets. So I’m gonna hope that’s not your blood over there and go get you some water or uh medicine or…shit. I’ll be back.”

He relocks her door behind him, carried by a frantic momentum down the stairs and through the street. The Dreg’s infirmary, if that’s what you could call it, is on the second floor of the Crow Club. There’d probably be something useful there, he reasons. About halfway up the club’s stairs he realizes he’s nervously tapping his revolvers. Still groggy, hungry, and now panicked he shoulders his way into the infirmary. Only to be disappointed to find that he can’t decipher the labels on most of the bottles. Nothing just says what it does or what it is, it’s all overly long complicated medical words, possibly not even in Kerch.

With a frustrated sigh he concedes that the issue is slightly out of his purview. It might be time to consult someone with more expertise in matters of health and wellness. And for many reasons he lacks confidence that the Dreg’s resident medical officer will be up to the job, seeing as he’s more accustomed to plugging up bullet holes and sewing shut gashes. And he’s probably too busy managing the symptoms of his own hangover to be of any use.

That Jesper leaves only one option, the Heartrender who joined up not even a year ago. Jesper likes Nina well enough, but there’s something about those Ravkan Grisha. Even his mother, who’d taken great pride in her zowa, had expressed wariness of their regime, and the fever with which they believed in themselves.

Given that she’s close to his age Jesper also assumes Nina won’t be of much help. What with the war and all that, he doubts her brief training took much time to focus on medicine rather than murder. But she’s the only option not currently heaving their guts up, or liable to turn them into the Stadwatch.

So, after swiping a few stale rolls from the club on the way Jesper sets out to fetch the Heartrender.