Chapter Text
The True Sea is restless, rippling and churning in the unpredictable wind. The slate-grey surface is a simmering soup of foaming whitecaps disappearing as quickly as they form, giving the whole seascape an air of anxious indecision. For weeks, Inej has tried to decipher the moods of the deep waters surrounding them. Today they are opaque, refusing to yield any mysteries below, or a favourable wind direction. Their squaller – Nadia – is constantly forced to change the air pressure in response to unexpected gusts. Above the ship, the sky is a dome of frosted glass, with no way to distinguish which way is forward and which is back, so Mal keeps one eye on his compass at all times.
The first slaver ship they intercepted was headed for Novyi Zem. Its cargo was a group of young Ravkans chained and huddled together beneath the deck, squinting and shielding their eyes when Inej opened the hatch. As they fed and comforted the newly freed prisoners, Inej had felt a savage thrill of triumph. Though she kissed her token as the ship ploughed through the blood trails and broken bodies of the slaver ship’s crew, the sense of a tragedy averted pushed any feelings of guilt aside. This had felt like a pure and righteous cause.
Now, the novelty has worn off and the shiny mirror of an untroubled sea is cracking to reveal a distorted reflection. The happy reunions still warm her heart and makes her long feverishly for her own family, but every moment of grateful tears has its own shadow, where a terrible fate thwarted opens new avenues of pain and uncertainty.
“I don’t know where to go,” sniffs a scrawny girl of about 13, eyes red-rimmed as she picks a scab on her knee. “Ma and pa are gone, and my brother talked of running to Ketterdam anyway, so I’d say he’s left already. There is no food or work at home. The old ones keep saying it will take years for Ravka to recover, even with the fold gone and the new king in charge. So what am I to do?”
“They took me when I applied to join the crew,” mutters the pale, hollow-cheeked boy next to her, his narrow shoulders bunched up to his ears. “It’s not that I like what they do, but it’s money. Anything is better than starving.”
Inej doesn’t know how to handle these stories that aren’t her own. She tries to be kind, to dissuade them from betting their lives against hopeless odds in Ketterdam, but finds herself stopping at dire warnings and predictions – an old crone spouting doomsday prophecies from her porch. Because the true horrors are still locked away beneath her neatly tied vest, held in by the straps securing the knives to her body. Her parting words for Kaz were as much a reflection of her own limitations as his. How will you have me? Without armour, or not at all.
What if he had shed his gloves and stretched out his hand like his image in the hallucination. May I? Would she have granted permission – breathlessly, eagerly – or would she have frozen and faded away, a pliable doll with a heart encased in ice?
There is no easy answer and it had felt like a relief to leave – to turn her mind to the hunt for slavers and the search for her brother. Surrounded by people who don’t know her well, she can almost pretend that memories of life in the Menagerie are fragments of a nightmare – a mirage created by the lingering effects of the same poison that conjured the impossible illusion of Kaz’s lips brushing hers. Here, disconnected from all reminders, she has been able to push any unsettling thoughts aside. The calming rhythm of the rolling waves and repetitive daily chores are restful and remind her of life in the caravan – every journey an adventure, every day a journey. But lately, she has sensed the haunting spectre of a reckoning intruding, and no matter how hard she concentrates on cleaning a fish or repairing a net, it refuses to leave her alone. Like a wraith moving soundlessly through solid walls – a whisp of smoke drifting through the black of night – it has come to find her and demand that she faces her own truth.
Inej’s thoughts are interrupted by a low whistle from Mal, and she is relieved to see the unmistakable shape of land inserting itself like a dark jagged edge between the sky and the sea. A short while and a few well-practiced preparations later, they arrive at the western shore of Ravka. As they release yet another group of lost children from their shackles into a future unknown, Inej prays it will be better than the one they were heading towards. She is disappointed, but not surprised, to see the boy and girl she spoke to, already eyeing the ships preparing to leave the port that evening.
Too drained to set sail immediately they retreat as a group to the small but comfortable rooms in their usual ramshackle tavern – permanently reserved for them by order of the King. As Inej closes and bolts the door behind her, her eyes fall immediately upon the rickety nightstand, where a letter is waiting for her – or Amina, as she is known by the innkeeper. Heart leaping, she thinks of all the possibilities. A clue about her family’s whereabouts? A new threat to her freedom, her indenture renewed? If not that, then … Suppressing a flare of hope and the fleeting image of a gloved hand gripping a pen, she holds the envelope up to the light and recognises the handwriting. Her heart sinks, and with bated breath she prepares for bad news from Ketterdam. She unfolds the letter with trembling fingers, hastily skimming its content as fast as she can without losing comprehension.
Dear friend,
It has been lonely without your kindness and soothing presence.
Rest assured that we are all well. Or, in the case of Waffles, as well as he can be in any given circumstance. I could perhaps find it in me to forgive his rudeness given what I know of heartsickness, but he really didn’t need an excuse to be more infuriating. Somehow his good deeds (or rather, those of his deeds that accidentally have good consequences) cannot fully compensate for the abrasive personality.
I suppose I should be grateful. He did fulfill the promise you made me when we first met, and now my heart is both lighter and heavier at once. My love is much changed – angry and deeply wounded – broken by a hellish life. But he is alive, his heartbeat as steady as ever.
While I despair for him, Waffles seems to think that all my broken warrior needs is to spend some time away and feel useful. The plan is to take us all on an outing, with the anticipation that a bit of crisp sea air will dissolve all the pain and change the world. As you know, no amount of persuasion can alter the course of that man’s mind once it is set, and I must confess I do recognise the healing properties of travelling, no matter the perils one might encounter on such a journey.
I won’t lie though. I think we could have done with your navigational skills, but when I suggested as much, I received nothing but a snarl in response.
If I don’t hear from you before we leave, I will just say how very grateful I am for you.
Safe travels my friend, may all the Saints bless your path.
Yours ever, Rosie White
Nina. Inej traces the words and wipes a lone tear clinging to her lashes. Releasing a huff of relief that nothing seems to be amiss, she reads the letter again. This time, she feels the stirrings of unease and – Saints help her – anticipation. They are heading out on a heist. A job so big Kaz thought it worth freeing Matthias from Hellgate and put him to good use. Life-changing enough to leave Ketterdam not long after returning with Nikolai’s money, and dangerous enough for Nina to send a plea for help – or a farewell. They need me, she thinks. But then, why isn’t Kaz the one writing? Does he not want to interfere with her freedom, or has he replaced her with another spider already? It shouldn’t bother her, but it does.
Pacing the creaking floorboards, she comes to a stop in front of a gilded full-length mirror, its ornate leaf pattern reminding her of the faux-luxurious furnishings in the Menagerie parlour. Her first instinct is to shy away, to throw a blanket over the blank glass and avoid her own gaze, but something roots her to the spot. Taking a good look at herself for the first time in years, she runs her hands along the lithe waist, following the slight curve of her narrow hips. A brown-skinned young woman looks back, her stance alert, long black lashes framing a pair of dark watchful eyes.
Her parents had used mirrors sometimes, to check their posture, adjust their grips, teaching her what perfect balance looks and feels like. Straighten up meja, like this. She had felt like a powerful and fine-tuned instrument – crossing voids with perfect poise, each muscle obeying her every command. And then she was taken, her body shaped and bent to someone else’s will until she no longer recognised its connection to her own mind. It is mine now, she thinks fiercely. It belongs to me again.
Carefully Inej sheds her clothes, leaving only the unbuttoned blouse and undergarments in place. Her skin is no longer flawless, far from the burnished caramel Tante Heleen would flaunt and leave exposed for her customers. Like satin. Now, the patches of smooth bronze are interspersed with poorly healed cuts, pink burns and the plucky skin where she had removed all traces of the peacock tattoo. Edging forward slightly, she can just make out the faint outlines of the bite marks marring her breasts and she raises a tentative hand, tracing the almost-invisible scars.
She shudders involuntarily, and then becomes aware of a faint buzzing growing louder, like the hum from a beehive. Her hand seeks the knife on her hip, but it’s too late. The swarm descends on her in an onslaught of vivid impressions – frantic grunting in her ear, laboured puffs of rank breath slapping her in the face, sweat dripping from a flushed meaty neck into her hair – and it winds her like a well-aimed jab to the sternum. Panting, she falls to the floor, gasping for air, her tears streaming silently down her face. She tries to call for help, but her lips won’t shape the words, and with her mouth gaping in a silent scream, she curls up and hugs her knees while shaking violently. The sight of her own trembling hands transports her back to the bustling market in Behz Ju, where she’d dragged Kaz aside as his white fingers gripped the cane and he turned away from her in shame. Don’t be ashamed, she thinks as she coughs and retches. You have nothing to be ashamed of.
She is unsure how long she sits there, paralysed with fear and revulsion, but when Inej is finally able to lift her head, she meets the wild gaze of a caged animal released into a world it no longer knows. There is nowhere she can climb or sail to hide from this, she realises. Even if she punishes every customer, procurer and merchant who profits from their trade – even if she gets her fairy tale family reunion – she will forever spend her nights sharpening her blades, waiting for the past to intrude.
Dragging herself up, she walks over to a white porcelain wash basin and scoops up some water, letting the cool droplets run down her face to wash away the salt of sea winds and hot tears. Somewhere out there is the family she lost, dead or alive, and she has vowed never to give up looking. But now, the family she found is calling, and as her breathing returns to normal she aches for them. Nina’s warmth and unapologetic honesty, Jesper’s contagious energy, Wylan’s defiant strength even as his voice cracks with fear – right now she wants it all. And Saints help her, she longs for an evening wiled away feeding crows on an attic windowsill, with Kaz perfecting another plan behind her – his presence a soothing caress on the cheek, the gentle barbs at her Suli proverbs a soft kiss brushing her knuckles.
The decision is made. The next morning, Inej crams her belongings into a sturdy pack and prepares to board the packet boat to Ketterdam, her thoughts drifting to the letter burning in her breast pocket. Heartsickness, Nina had said. The memory of naked fear in Kaz’s face as he choked on his words – I want … you – blends with the recollection of his face, peacefully resting in her hand for that split second before he woke fully from his induced sleep. Hope is dangerous, she had said. Now she doesn’t care. She will quite happily let hope cloud her judgment once more if it means keeping her friends safe.
“This is sudden,” Tolya says over breakfast, but something about his tone makes her suspect that he has guessed where her thoughts wander when the nights are still and the ocean empty. He can probably read the pounding of her heart as easily as the poetry he so loves to recite.
“It is,” Inej agrees. “But I know that Nina wouldn’t risk making contact if it wasn’t necessary. I could not forgive myself if I didn’t offer my help and something happened to them. I’d rather us fight and die side by side, than live knowing I did nothing to prevent it.”
Tamar crosses her arms and tilts her head, her lips curled in a sad smile.
“Fate calls you”, she says simply.
Inej bends her head, grateful for a belief shared, even as she is called to the most Saints-forsaken of places.
“Where I am going there are precious few who put store in fate or its plans. I was asked once … “. Her breath hitches slightly, and she clears her throat. “…if I thought it was fate that stuck me in a pleasure house or if that part was just bad luck. I was angry at the time because I wanted so badly to believe that there was a higher meaning to my suffering.”
She has never once discussed how and why she ended up in Ketterdam with any of her crewmates, and nobody has asked. They would know of course; would have seen the tattoo before she hacked it off, or deduced it from her hatred of slavers and what she has shared about her brother. Even so, exposing the wound makes her feel vulnerable and there is a familiar invisible hand tugging her sleeve, begging her to go numb like she used to. She grabs the edge of the table firmly, digging her nails into the grooves of the veined wooden surface, welcoming the sharp pain of a splinter piercing her skin.
”Fate is neither kind nor cruel, and we don’t have to take every path it presents,” Tolya shrugs, compassion flooding his eyes. “That doesn’t make it any less real to those of us who put our faith in it.”
“I had a little girl’s notion of fate,” Inej sighs. “I kept waiting for it to intervene, until I was handed a knife and told to fight my way out.”
“May the Saints bless the pathfinder,” Tamar exclaims. “That is the kind of gift all girls should treasure.”
“He will accept no such blessing I’m afraid,” Inej smiles. “But I do thank the Saints every day for … my friends.”
The twins cast her an identical knowing look and she blushes.
“Heartrenders,” she mutters and turns away, willing the traitor in her chest to settle. “That particular foolishness isn’t the reason I am returning.”
As she bids the crew a fond farewell and settles her elbows on the railing, she knows her words to be true. Her concern is for all her friends, and there is little point in dwelling on the soft curve of those lips, or the cut-glass angles of that face, if she cannot even bear to see herself unclothed without keeling over.
She stays on deck, letting the salt-saturated wind sting her cheeks, until she spots the first dim lights of Ketterdam gleaming like lecherous eyes through the fog. She isn’t sure what she had expected, but the hazy outline of the Kerch capital fills her with a curious mixture of dread and nostalgia. The decision that seemed so easy in the safety of the tavern is now tinged with hesitation. Swirling in her head are all the things she wants to say – and all the things she wants to hear – but most of all she fears being too late.
As soon as she steps onto the quay, Inej pulls up her hood and zigzags swiftly through the milling crowd, keeping her eyes and ears open for news worth bringing back to the Slat. She is quietly pleased to hear more than one eager voice expressing a wish to see the new Crow’s Club and starts moving faster. She is already eyeing one of her favourite scaling points when the ground suddenly shakes and the air reverberates with the unmistakable sound of an explosion, originating from somewhere near Fifth Harbour. Before her mind has articulated the thought, she is sprinting towards the billowing cloud of smoke rising in the sky, and by the time she can make out the burning wreckage of a small ship she is slightly out of breath.
Through thick smoke and roaring flames, she immediately spots the familiar flowing figure of Nina, her arms raised and crossed as she unleashes her power. Cuffed to Nina is a lumbering giant with shaved blond hair who is firing a heavy-looking pistol at anyone approaching. Further afield she watches people crumpling to the ground in time with gun shots fired at exact intervals from a schooner anchored in one of the berths further away. She only knows one person with such unerring aim and immediately starts heading towards the muzzle flash, blending in with the shadows cast by the warehouses. Soundlessly, she slits the throat of one man after the other, her progress steady and stealthy in the flickering light from the fire.
Just as she contemplates how to cross the short stretch of open ground, another blast rocks the harbour and a blinding bright light turns the world white. Momentarily disoriented, Inej staggers towards the stacked containers awaiting loading, but before her fingers can find a secure grip, a strong hand yanks her back by the hair and she grunts as a she takes a vicious punch to her stomach. Without delay she lashes out with her dagger, spins out of the hold, and starts climbing as fast as she can manage, ignoring the jeers and taunts from below. Only when she reaches the third crate does she realise that her limbs are sluggish, her movements lacking precision. Clutching her side, Inej looks down and gasps as bright red blood spills onto her hand. Panting, she drags herself up onto the highest crate and lays down on her back, facing the darkening sky where she can see the outlines of a mast. So close to the waiting ship. But the blood is flowing too fast, too freely, and she knows she won’t make it. This is where she dies, alone.
They don’t know I am here, she thinks sadly. They won’t know that I came, or how much I care for them.
The sound of hard boots on metal tells her that someone is approaching, using brute force rather than nimble skill to climb – her attackers have come to finish the job. Sending one last prayer to the Saints she slides out the knife she’s always carried for this occasion and pushes the tip through the gap between her shirt buttons. “Forgive me,” she whispers. But when she is about to thrust upwards, her wrist is caught by a gloved hand.
“Not tonight Inej,” he rasps, twisting the knife out of her hand.
She is only vaguely aware of being lifted into his arms, but when Kaz hits the ground hard and breaks into a limping run she is rattled awake. Gripping his shirt, she tries to speak, but there is too much to say and not enough time.
“I’m sorry,” she slurs. “I know you tried.”
“This is not the time for apologies or final goodbyes,” he growls. “For once Inej, don’t vanish. Fight it.”
“You have no manners,” she mumbles. “What happened to please?”
He clutches her tighter to his chest and picks up the pace.
“Please don’t die”, he says. “Stay with me. Pray if you have to.”
The world goes dark.