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Saints, he hates Ketterdam’s stinking canals.
There's a lot he loves about this city, for all its sins. Hell, because of its sins, really. The lights and chaos of West Stave enthrall him, even though he thinks little of the type who frequent pleasure houses. The seedy taverns, tucked in expected dark corners, the coffeehouses, both reputable and not.
And the gambling dens, of course.
Jesper Fahey knows he loves Ketterdam’s gambling dens far, far too much, but he can't seem to stay away. (And to tell the truth, he doesn't really want to, he likes the way a spin of Makker's Wheel and a few good hands at Three Man Bramble make him feel). Knows he should find some painfully dull, honest work to pay off his debts, go back to school. (He can't remember the last time he went to class.) Or even just admit defeat and go back home.
Swallows. He can't. The look on Da's face…no. I'll find another way.
But oh yes, he loves the vices and the (few) virtues of Ketterdam. Likes the cooler weather, the clouds. He misses the sunshine and open skies of Novyi Zem, of course he does, but a change in scenery is a pleasant change. Sometimes the sun reminds him too much of his Ma, of the smell of jurda on her hands in the summer, of her doing his hair.
Yes, the Ketterdam weather was a pleasant change, sometimes.
But the fucking, saintsforsaken canals , on the other hand…
He waits until the bruisers leave, laughing and shoving at each other in victory (what victory, was it really? They didn't get anything more than five kruge off of him, and they didn't stick around to make sure he was dead), to drag himself from the canal. Jesper grimaced. Not only was he soaked, he reeked of urine. He wishes Ketterdam’s drunks would stick to pissing in the alleys, but he supposes he might as well wish for a million kruge while he was at it. Probably equally likely results. Hell, the million kruge is probably more likely than stopping Ketterdam’s numerous drunks from pissing where they wished.
He should know. He had been one of those drunks three days ago.
Still, he glares at the canal. Easier to be angry at a canal than at himself for deciding that keeping to one of the more tourist-friendly routes was the perfect way to avoid Harley's Pointers' enforcers. For having racked up so much debt that enforcers were bothering with chasing him down.
Jesper rests a hand on one of his guns. More than one person had suggested he sell them; they wouldn't get rid of all his debt, but it would buy him time, a chance at a winning hand that would make all of this go away.
No. They were hers first. I can't lose them.
He looks around warily, and when he doesn’t see anyone, he slips into an empty alley. Jesper thinks he could probably make it back to his apartment; it wasn't in the Barrel, but close enough. He winds through the endless alleys of the Barrel, dodging several. One has a body ( of course , he thinks, it’s fucking Ketterdam); the other two have people taking their pleasures. Whether they were couples or worker and client, he doesn’t know, nor does he care to linger long enough to find out. He enjoys a good tumble, but not out in the open like this, and he’s not much of a voyeur either. His clothes are stuck against his skin, and his hat is gone, lost somewhere in the Saints damned canal. He wants to be at his apartment, to wash up, then slip into sleep.
Saints Jesper, only fifteen and starting to sound like an old man already. What's next, talking about the good old days and making model ships? Drinking beer that’s been watered down so much it won’t come anywhere close to getting you drunk? Get your shit together.
The last admonishment sounds enough like Da that he stops to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. What would Da say? No, don’t think about that, or you’ll break down right here in this alley, and it’s only slightly cleaner than the canal. He sighs, and continues on down the alley, and turns down an alley nicknamed Kerkstraat. The more optimistic stories suggested that there used to be a small church dedicated to the Saints in the alley. The darker ones gave lurid descriptions of all the men who’d begged the Saints and Ghezen and all the deities to spare them from their inevitable bloody end. He snorts; all of Ketterdam’s alleys are soaked in blood; this one isn’t special.
He should learn to keep his thoughts quiet until he’s out of trouble, because of fucking course he finds himself slammed to the ground the instant the thought crosses his mind. Jesper decides to add the alleys of Ketterdam to his list of things he hates. The canals are highest on the list still, but alleys are officially right below “stepping in cow manure” now. He didn’t say it was the most rational of lists, but hey. It’s his, and the alleys are interesting during the daytime (and when he isn’t getting jumped).
Oof
He tries to gasp in air, but the punch to his stomach makes the task more difficult than it should be. The bruiser hits him again, clearly irritated for some reason. “I asked you if you know who me and my friend here are, are you going to answer me, or am I going to have to hit you a third time?”
Oh. He hadn’t even heard the man ask the question. Not that he could answer it anyway; the two didn’t seem familiar. They could be any number of gang enforcers; he’s racked up debt in nearly every gambling hall on East Stave. Jesper can honestly only rule out two gangs who wouldn’t be attempting to collect money from him. The Gatebreakers, who lost all their gambling dens in the last gang skirmish, and the Dregs. He isn’t quite sure how many of the stories about Dirtyhands were true, but he had decided to stay out of the Crow Club for now. He didn’t really want to find out if the person Ketterdam had nicknamed “Bastard of the Barrel'' really did have claws under those gloves.
Not that he’s ever seen the man in person, for all that he’s heard about the gloves and the cane and how he’s always dressed in black, like the demon he is. Jesper hears some mutters about living under a bridge, which he thinks might be a call back to one of the Saints. He can’t be sure; Da doesn’t talk about Ravkan Saints, and his ma’s people—his people—didn’t limit themselves to the Saints.
He’s taken on a couple jobs with the gangs, mostly those that involve intimidating any Ketterdam denizens from getting between the gangs and their very valuable (and very illegal) shipments. He’s only had to use his revolvers a handful of times, and so far, he hasn’t had to hit anyone or get involved in any of the endless territory wars and squabbles between the gangs. Just warning shots, to make people think twice about coming any closer. Scared off one of the few honest Staadwatch in the process, and oh, he doesn’t want to think too closely about what his smug pleasure in that means.
It’s garnered more attention than he wants; freelancing for Ketterdam’s endless gangs is one thing, joining one of them is another. There’s no going back after joining up, not really. And he’d be bound to one gang, and all of their skirmishes ( doesn’t like the idea of that kind of commitment, likes it even less than knowing he’d have to kill, and how fucked up is that?), and just…let him find a way out of this.
The bruisers exchange glances; the taller one, who has a smushed-looking face, shakes his head and says, “Boss wants his money, Kinley. I know you're itching for a fight after what happened with Marie, but—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Kinley slams Jesper’s head into the wall. He thinks dazedly that he must have been minding Smush Face’s words a little, because it didn’t seem to be that hard of an impact. That, or he’s in serious trouble.
Jesper tries to speak. “Look, give me three days, I’ll have the money, I swear. Just let me go back home, sleep the alcohol and the beating off, and I’ll be right as rain and able to earn the money.”
Both men laugh, a raucous sound that echoes off the alley walls. “No you won't, Fahey. Even if you take on one of the big jobs with the gangs, you’ll gamble it all away. And everyone knows you don’t have the taste for the big jobs.”
They’re right; the big jobs are all tricky heists, are extra help in gang skirmishes, are assassinations. He doesn’t want to do any of that. Especially without protection, and unless he joins a gang, he doesn’t have any. And even with whispers of his talent as a sharpshooter gracing Ketterdam’s filthy alleys and stinking canals, he still has mountains of debt. Any gang he joined would assume partial responsibility for that debt, and he doubts most of them would be willing. Even though gangs operated under the table, they were so fucking Kerch it hurt. He’d have to prove himself with one of those jobs he doesn’t have the stomach for to join up with his debt. And there’s still no guarantee any of them would take him even still.
Kinley gives an awful grin. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you yet. Boss might take a finger for it, since he’s still hoping to get some of the money you owe him back. But I doubt you’ll be crawling out of this alley tonight.”
The bruiser moves forward, and Jesper can’t help but close his eyes.
An awful thud, then another, echoes through the alleyway, but he feels no pain.
“Do you like this stinking alleyway so much that you plan to stay?” The speaker’s voice is low and rough, and reminds him of a shovel scraping against rock. Jesper cautiously opens his eyes and sees a boy of roughly fifteen. He’s dressed in all black, like a stuffy mercher, has a scar intersecting his lip on the right side of his face, and carries a crow’s head cane.
Suddenly, Jesper finds it hard to swallow. He chokes out, “What do you want with me , Dirtyhands?” He’s been so careful to not rack up any debts at any of the gambling halls owned by the Dregs, just to avoid this man—boy. He’s only Jesper’s age, maybe younger. But there’s a certain coldness about him that Jesper can’t even fathom. What happened to this guy, to cause that look in his eyes , he wonders dazedly. Unwillingly, another thought pops into Jesper’s head; Dirtyhands is gorgeous.
Jesper pushes the thought aside as rapidly as it pops into his head. Try to stay alive, Fahey, drool over Ketterdam’s most notorious gangster outside of Pekka fucking Rollins himself later. The boy raises an eyebrow, as if he knows what Jesper is thinking. His face burns. Dirtyhands merely says, “Let’s go somewhere a tad emptier. I’d rather not go through the trouble of incapacitating anyone else this evening, if you please.” Polite words, but it was clearly an order.
Jesper follows Dirtyhands through Ketterdam’s winding alleys and streets for fifteen minutes before they come to an abrupt halt between a ramshackle tailor’s shop and the liquor store he had been warned to stay away from by a well-meaning, if prissy, classmate. He hadn’t liked that classmate, had considered him a buzz-kill, but now Jesper wishes he had listened. He tries to avoid putting his hands on his guns, knowing that would be perceived as a threat, so he rocks back and forth instead while waiting for Dirtyhands to explain what he wants from him.
“Do you know who I am?” asked Dirtyhands.
Jesper feels his mouth twitch at the cliche question, but sobers up quickly. Dirtyhands may be a boy, but if even half the rumors were true, he was one of the deadliest people in Ketterdam. He would be wise to avoid angering him just yet.
“Yes,” Jesper states, “your reputation precedes you, as I’m sure you know.” Before he can stop himself, he adds,” Now what do you want with me ?”
Jesper isn’t always wise.
Dirtyhands looks almost pleased, for a brief second, before schooling his features into the same flat expression he’d worn since rescuing Jesper in that alley. He almost snorts. Maybe Dirtyhands is human after all.
“I’m a lieutenant for the Dregs, just got promoted—I assume you’re familiar with Ketterdam’s various gangs, since you’ve managed to avoid every establishment we happen to own?”
Jesper can’t help but consider how many rumors about this kid have to be true if he’s already a lieutenant; he knows from his freelancing with other gangs that most lieutenants have at least five years on him, usually more. Dirtyhands is no older than him, possibly younger.
He finds his voice, “As I said, your reputation precedes you. I like having all my fingers.” Jesper tries to keep his voice and demeanor casual, but he has to keep his eyes focused on the wall above Dirtyhands’ head to pull it off. The boy is intimidating, for all that he hasn’t made a single threat, and the sharp line of his jaw leads Jesper’s mind down a dangerous path.
Stop it, Jesper, he scolds himself. There are plenty of attractive boys and girls in Ketterdam, you don’t need to lust after this one .
Dirtyhands laughs. The sound of it leans towards being condescending, but it's so unexpected that it sends Jesper’s heart racing.
“Do you even know my name, or do you just know me as Dirtyhands?” he asks, a flicker of amusement on his sharp, narrow face. Jesper narrows his eyes, “Why does it matter? Want to tell your life story before you turn me into the Dime Lions?” Seems—”
Jesper finds himself backed up against the freezing alley wall, the crow’s head of Dirtyhands’ cane pressed under his chin.
Dirtyhands’ eyes blaze with anger, but his tone remains cordial, as though he’s simply remarking on the weather.
“The Dime Lions will never see any help from me or any member of the Dregs as long as I’m still breathing. No matter what reward is offered.”
Jesper files that reaction in the back of his mind, and decides to push his luck. “Okay, then what are you planning on doing with me, if not giving me to Rollins for the bounty money, Dirtyhands ?” he adds with as much of a sneer as he can manage with a cane at his throat and his back against a wall. “Gonna keep me pressed up against this disgusting wall all night, or are you going to just tell me what you fucking want? Because I have a few ideas about what we could be doing instead,” he smirks, keeping his tone light and suggestive.
Flirting with Dirtyhands is dangerous, but he hasn’t shied away from danger since setting foot in this city of debauchery. He doesn’t plan on stopping now, when the boy hasn’t tried to murder him yet.
Dirtyhands rolls his eyes, but he lowers his cane and backs away slightly. He gives a long-suffering sigh that seems discordant with his age, and states, “I’m offering you a job. Come work for the Dregs, and only the Dregs, and I—we, can keep you out of most of the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into. At least until you start earning money from jobs, and can start paying back your debts. Formally, you’d be working for Per Haskell—that’s my boss—but informally, you answer to me.”
Jesper’s jaw drops. “You have to be fucking kidding me, Dirtyhands! Haven’t you gotten the memo? All I’ve been offered from anyone else is an indenture, and you want me to believe that this offer has no strings attached?” He doesn’t know why he’s arguing, or why tears are stinging in his eyes. He doesn’t want to join a gang, and even if the offer doesn’t require an indenture, he’ll still be bound. But something about this feels like a lifeline, and he’s scared and shaking at the thought it might be real.
“Kaz,” Dirtyhands says.
Jesper blinks, “Pardon?”
“My name is Kaz Brekker. As much as I enjoy hearing the epithets this city has conjured for me, I feel like it’s more appropriate for you to use my actual name if we’re going to be working together,” the boy drawls. “Also, the offer has strings, they just don’t include an indenture.”
Jesper forces his trembling body to still, and asks, “What are the strings?”
Kaz starts listing them off, “You’ll live at the Slat; your university district apartment is too far from the Barrel—”
“Aww, you’ve been stalking me! Do you have a crush you’d like to admit now, before we make any deals?” Jesper says, an easy smirk on his face. Flirting with Kaz Brekker is even more fun than when he only knew him as Dirtyhands.
Kaz glares, “Do you want to know what is required of you or should I save my breath by throwing you in the canal?”
Jesper just leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and grins. “No, please go on” he says.
Kaz lets out a huff, “Right. So, you’ll live at the Slat. You will report to whatever jobs either I or Per Haskell require from you. You will make payments toward all of your debts each month; the Dregs will take on the minimum payments for this month and only this month. You will do what is asked of you on these jobs, including shooting to kill, if necessary. Keep your current reputation as the best sharpshooter in Ketterdam intact, and murder may prove to be an infrequent job requirement.” He says the last part, the part about murder being infrequent, slowly, as if he wants to give Jesper a chance to let it sink in.
Jesper blinks, “I’m considered the best sharpshooter in this city?” he manages to say.
Kaz rolls his eyes again, making him look like the teenager he is instead of Ketterdam’s deadliest boy. “Yes,” he says, “or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I would’ve let Pekka’s thugs leave you in that alley and cheerfully walked myself home.”
“Damn,” is all Jesper says to that.
“I didn’t get the nickname ‘Dirtyhands’ for my sweet temperament, Fahey,” Kaz states flatly.
Jesper is the one rolling his eyes now, “I can tell that much. So, I have to move in with the gang, I have to be available for jobs whenever, pay my debts once I’m earning money, and murder is included in my job duties. Any other requirements?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice breaks a little. This isn’t what Da would want for him. It isn’t what Ma would want for you either, a little voice says. But he’s running out of options, and this is looking like the best offer he’s gotten, even with the murder.
He guesses he always knew this path would end in death. He just always assumed that it was guaranteed to be his own.
Kaz shrugs, “Once you prove yourself to the gang, you’ll be required to get the tattoo. There’s expectations around the Slat, but those are less important, and half the gang ignores them anyway. So, are you accepting my offer or should I let Pekka’s bruisers track you down again?”
Jesper sighs dramatically, “You know, it was all sounding pretty good until the tattoo requirement…” Kaz’s glare could freeze over Zemeni jurda fields in an instance. “On second thought, I’ve always wanted a tattoo. I’m in.”
The words are heavy, but they feel right. If he has to join a gang, has to disappoint his Da, has to accept this is his life, this at least feels like an anchor. The bitter, cold, impossible boy making this offer probably doesn’t intend to save Jesper, but he does all the same. He gives him a chance, and Jesper grasps at it.
Kaz smirks, “Excellent. We’ll pick up your things tomorrow; the Slat is closer. Be up by nine bells; your first job is tomorrow night.”
Jesper snorts, “Already working me to death boss?” he teases, and is rewarded with the tiniest smile from Kaz.
Kaz drawls, “I was thinking you might want a chance to get back at the Harley’s Pointer enforcers from earlier tonight; tomorrow’s job will allow you that opportunity.”
Jesper lets a slow smile bloom on his face. He thinks that he’d like that very much.
“Can I at least sleep until ten bells?”
“No, Jesper.”
“Fine. But if I have to be up at nine bells, we’re eating breakfast at the Kooperom.”
Kaz eyes Jesper, then says, “Fine. But I’m only paying for one order of whatever you eat. Anything else and you’re buying.”
“The deal is the deal,” Jesper says, grinning widely.
“The deal is the deal.”
Saints, he loves Ketterdam.