Chapter Text
The farm is almost too quiet at this time of the day.
Sunset blooms on the horizon, painting the sky with an amber glow on a summer evening—an invitation for the cicadas and crickets around the farmhouse to dutifully begin their nightly serenades. All the windows are open, allowing the cool air, along with the smell of flowers and grass, to permeate the interior as he waits for her arrival.
The evening is quiet, as expected in this part of town. The farmhouses are far apart from one another, in contrast to the buildings crowded together in the Barrel, and it’s a welcome change of scenery—having space is a luxury that not many in Ketterdam have the pleasure of experiencing. Space is the one thing people do have in the south.
It's a far cry from what Kaz had grown accustomed to after so many years in Ketterdam: a place where he found peace and quiet during his childhood that now, in his thirties, seems like a distant dream compared to the combination of noises, smells, and sights that only the Barrel could offer.
But that is no longer a problem. Lately, he has relished in the sight of the fields more than expected, as well as the calm and anonymity that only this part of Kerch can offer him. For once, it is nice not to be recognized as Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel, and the many other names people have come up with over the years for him.
Here he is just a Rietveld, a husband and a father, and that brings him all the peace and quiet he needs.
“Da! Da!” A squeak comes from the other room. Of course, the peace and quiet he has found in the country have nothing to do with the little girl who shares too much of her mother’s looks and her father’s wit. But he will always welcome the disturbance of the silence when it comes from her.
He walks back to the kitchen where his four-year-old daughter sits alone, focused on one of her drawings, almost too similar to the way he focuses on his paperwork.
“I finished it!” Mahala announces, dropping the crayons and waving the piece of paper, trying to get Kaz’s attention— as if she has anything but. “Look!”
She waits for him to make his way back to his chair and rest his cane on the back of the chair. As soon as his eyes land on the paper, Mahala starts babbling about it, mentioning which crayons she used and pointing to the colorful lines that make up her creation before actually handing him the paper for a closer inspection with his carefully crafted eye.
“Very good,” he says, accepting it from her tiny hands. Kaz knows he’s a good judge of character after years of observing people and trying to discern their true colors. It’s not an easy skill to acquire — Jesper, for example, had an uncanny talent for missing it — but it took Kaz only a short time to understand people’s intentions, talents, desires, and eventually, their secrets.
It’s because of this that Kaz recognized early on how smart his daughter was. It wasn’t fatherly bias, as he overheard Jesper mutter under his breath when Inej made a comment about it. Fatherhood had done little to nothing to change his ways. What was the point of highlighting a quality in someone, especially his daughter, if it wasn’t true? Who would benefit from that? Certainly not her.
But Mahala is smart in ways that some adults could never be. It’s easy to notice, if people pay close enough attention, and he does. Just like her mother, their child is observant of the smallest details — the way she seemed to focus when Inej spoke to her as a baby, as if she could understand every word in both Suli and in Kerch; how she paid attention to their movements, pulling herself up and attempting to mimic Inej’s acrobatics tricks as best as she could with her round toddler legs; or even when her eyes remained fixed on Kaz’s hands, closely following them to figure out how a coin mysteriously vanished from her father’s hands and reappeared out of her ear. It wouldn’t be long before she knew.
He studies the drawing — a page covered in colorful doodles, filling it completely, done in such a way Kaz can’t quite grasp what it is meant to represent, which is unfortunate for him since he is expected to show some kind of reaction.
“You should do another one” he says instead, putting down the drawing and handing her a new paper. “Something to give to your mother when she comes back.”
“I’ll draw Mama her ship,” she says, reaching for a deep blue crayon. “Do you think we’ll go home with it? I want to search for monsters with the sailors. Last time, we saw a seadragon!”
“I remember. But I think we’ll come back the same way we came here. Not everyone loves spending all their time at sea like you do.”
Mahala sighs, disappointed, but continues focusing on her drawing.
“It’s not fair,” she complains, pouting. “Mama gets to go all the time and I don’t.”
“I’m sure she’ll take you to see Nani and Baba soon.”
That seems to cheer her up. Inej had mentioned in one of her letters that her mother had asked about their granddaughter and when she would bring her to the caravan. It had been over a year since her parents had seen Mahala, when they visited Ketterdam for an entire month and stayed in the room across the hall from them. Mrs. Ghafa had started the discussion about bringing Mahala back to Ravka with them, wishing to introduce her to their community, let her play with other children who looked like her, and teach her everything they had once taught Inej when she was her age.
Kaz didn’t hate the idea. He and Inej had talked a few times about showing her someplace other than Ketterdam and the farm, and Inej longed to give a part of her own childhood to Mahala, full of music and an environment so different from what Kerch is known for. The idea of the caravan was, for Mahala, nothing but a story so far.
But she had been too little then, and neither Kaz or Inej wanted to risk traveling with a two year old alone, so vulnerable to the world as new parents who only wanted to protect their child from any harm.
“Are you coming too? You can watch me walk the wire with Nani. She says she’ll teach me!”
Kaz raises his brow, surprised at the information. That’s another thing that fatherhood has absolutely not changed in him: self-preservation. Inej had learned how to walk the wire from a young age — how to balance on it, how to put on a show for a captivated audience, how to fall and how to get up. Kaz had watched her perform with her parents multiple times ever since she had gone back, and seeing her up there, feet touching the air so lightly, almost like she was walking on a cloud, full of life, happiness, and freedom… It was moments like that he kept believing in magic.
But Inej had been born into that life, of moving around constantly, with artists, singers, performers, entertainers, and it was only natural for her to walk the same path her people did with just as much ease.
Mahala wasn’t as lucky. She had only known the ground ever since she was born — the entertainment Ketterdam offered was far from what the Suli provided. Everything was done for a purpose, for a profit and not for fun or tradition. The first time she had seen an entire performance by her relatives was when they visited Inej’s family for the first time after Mahala had been born, a year ago.
Barely three years old, she was awestruck with everything. The colorful scenery, the kindness of the people surrounding them, the children, and how almost no one seemed to stay on the ground for very long. He remembered the first time she had seen Inej perform with the caravan— the costumes, the movements that seemed almost impossible for someone to make ten feet above the ground, the beauty that was Inej Ghafa in her element, without a care or a worry. Just a performer, a Ghafa.
But Mahala was also a Rietveld. And Rietvelds weren’t as lucky as Ghafas. They fell, they got hurt and broken. Four years old was far too young for any of it.
“We’ll see. Work needs to be done.”
“You have to come,” she says, exasperated, almost like the thought of him not joining her and Inej in Ravka is unimaginable.
“Do I?” he asks, amused.
“Yes! You need to watch me do it like Mama. And if I fall, you need to be there to catch me.”
Kaz tries not to wince at the thought of his daughter falling. Logically, there would be a net and she wouldn’t start her training ( when she started, because it’d definitely not be at this age) up in the air. She needed to learn balance and how to control her own body before moving off the ground. She needed to learn first how to walk a straight line before even stepping her foot on a wire in the first place. She needed to learn how to fall, how to protect herself, before anything even started.
He doesn’t say that to her. It’d be far too cruel to do it and soon it would be the time to put her to bed. Kaz had learned a long time ago not to risk a possible meltdown at that time of night.
Besides, he surely would be the first one to catch her if she ever fell.
“What will be in it for me, then?” he asks instead, as if considering her proposition. As if he would choose to deny her anything of the sort. “You get what you want: the opportunity to walk the high wire and have me there to support you. But what do I get in return?”
In highsight, that is not good parenting. Inej would’ve probably scowled at him for wanting to make deals with his own daughter, especially concerning her own safety, as if Mahala needed to believe she had to bargain for Kaz’s presence in her life. As if he needed something in return for keeping her safe and loved. Never something for nothing. But, even though, in truth, he would be there with her whenever she needed help or just being there so she would feel safe taking nothing in return, well, he was still Kaz Brekker, and what kind of father would he be if he didn't start to show her early on how the real world works? How Kerch works?
She is still his daughter, and it’s never too early to learn how to make deals.
Mahala seems to think for a moment, searching for something that might pique his interest. At last, she smiles.
“I’ll sneak extra chocolate in your pockets when Mama isn’t looking. It’ll be our secret.”
She’s been practicing sneaking around him and Inej, to become a shadow just like her mother. It’s been working so far with Wylan and Jesper, but just like he knows when Inej is there without looking or hearing a sound, he also knows when Mahala has just entered a room.
And he can get the chocolates and any sweets they keep in the house anytime he wants.
“Well, then,” Kaz says, a satisfied smirk appearing on his lips. “The deal is the deal.”
The next hour or two is spent relatively in content silence between Kaz and Mahala, a rarity that he is more than happy to take advantage of. As much as he enjoys spending time with his daughter, whenever Inej is away on her journeys, it is a bit of a challenge to handle every aspect of his life meticulously. Between overseeing the operations in his clubs, doing the numbers for his investments and gambling halls, raising a child, handling the missteps of his crew and other gang business, Kaz often finds he has his hands full.
Over the years, he had chosen Anika as his second and had spent a considerable part of his time training her to take over the Dregs if necessary, when the time came. Kaz wasn’t naive like Per Haskell, to believe he would be the head of a gang well into his old age, growing dumb and lazy with time, benefiting himself before the gang and getting away with it. As much as the Dregs had grown to become the strongest gang in the Barrel, and Kaz its King, that wasn’t the life he intended for himself in the long run.
It had been seventeen years since his rise as the head of the Dregs, overtaking Per Haskell and Pekka Rollins, becoming the leader of the Dregs. He had bled for them, fought for them, fought with them, invested his time, his money, a good portion of his life to earn the Dregs’ success and the respect they held now. By the time Mahala first came into the world, he was content and happy to slow down as much as he allowed himself to, still not ready to give up what he had fought so hard for, but letting Anika conquer her space between them.
But even so, the administrative duties are still his responsibilities, ones he was glad (and insistent) to take. Kaz sits at the kitchen table, across from his daughter, writing down the numbers for the Silver Six from the past month in his ledger, before turning his attention to the Crow Club numbers. He knew it had been a good month — springtime is usually the best time of year for profit: the tulips are in full bloom, the country is rather more pleasant than usual for those looking to see the festivals and the beauty Ketterdan can offer for those few months a year, and Kaz always took full advantage of the large flow of tourists to raise his prices and push harder on targeting fat pigeons who had no business stepping foot in that part of town. Far from him to stop them.
He had managed to finish the first quarter when a tiny hand reaches for the top of his paper, not pulling it, just resting as she stands in her chair, leaning closer to inspect the contents of her father’s writing. His curious little crow, with her big, deep brown eyes so attentive, almost demanding to know everything going on within her reach.
Kaz watches her for a moment, waiting for her next move. Of course, she has no idea what the content of his work is, but one might think she is more than aware of exactly what he is doing and is now trying to figure out how to help from the way her eyes are focused on it.
“Are you writing to Mama?” she asks, moving her eyes to meet his. “Is it a love letter?”
Kaz blinks, the question catching him by surprise. “A what?”
“A love letter to Mama,” she repeats. “Can I read it?”
“I don’t write love letters. And you can’t read.”
“Yes, you do! Mama read it to me. You said you missed her laugh,” she teases, giggling the way little girls do. It’s nothing similar to the way Inej laughs, or even the way he does, which he isn’t sure what that might even sound like, but it makes his heart swell in his chest every time it happens nonetheless. “You love her.”
At that, his face softens and Kaz has no other option other than reveal the entire truth, one that she is more than aware of. “Very much.”
“You have to write that she’s the prettiest girl in the world and that she has the best kisses and gives the best hugs.”
“As much as all that is true, this isn’t a letter to your mother, I’m afraid. This is work.”
Slowly, her eyebrows draw together in a familiar frown she inherited from Kaz. “But we’re on vacation! Mama is coming home from her work too, you’re not supposed to do that.”
“Unfortunately the world doesn’t stop just because we’re on vacation. Things need to be done, messes need to be fixed.”
“Fine,” she says after a moment, reaching for the blue crayon, drawing what he assumes is the waves under the ship. “Maybe I can write to Uncle Jes, then.”
The mention of Jesper is so abrupt and unrelated to the topic of conversation that Kaz takes a second to make sure he has heard it right.
“What for?” he asks, watching his daughter’s face across the table, completely ignoring the fact that she cannot, in fact, write yet. “You saw him before we left to come here.”
“I know,” she says. “I just want him to fix something. So it’s business too.”
He looks at her carefully now, trying to pinpoint if she’s trying to mock him in her childlike way, or if she’s actually being serious, one of those moments where children start mimicking their parents' actions because they think that’s how things should be done in the first place.
(He had heard that last one from Inej’s mother a few years ago, as she reprimanded both her daughter and himself for keeping dangerous weapons within one year-old Mahala’s reach. What are you trying to do? Raise a little thief of your own? You two need to be careful, children pick up on everything parents do.
Unfortunate choice of words, yes, but not a concern.)
In the end, he finds no trace of mockery or even too much seriousness about it. It’s merely a statement, a reasoning behind her words just so she can participate in the conversation with him. Perhaps there had been too much quiet in the room after all. He closes his ledger.
“Are you into business now, then?”
“Yes, I am,'' she says, proudly. “And I have meetings and plans and business things to do, just like you do, but with Uncle Jes.”
“Jesper doesn’t do business. You’d have better luck with Wylan or myself, perhaps.”
She shakes her head, her hair dancing with the motion. “Uncle Wy can’t help me with this. It has to be Uncle Jes because he’s the only one who can fix it.”
“Well, that’s hardly the right person to ask to fix something,” he says with a smile as his daughter giggles. “What’s this business you’re so concerned about that Jesper, of all people, is the only one who can help?”
“My bedroom door. It’s broken. Uncle Jesper can use his powers to fix it.”
Kaz frowns, looking up the stairs as if he could see what was wrong with the door. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss a few hours ago when he got Mahala up from her nap.
“What exactly is broken?”
“The door. There’s a lot of little marks on each side of it, like when Mama practices with her knives on the trees outside. Oh!” This time she actually looks at him, excitedly. “Do you think that she came home early and did that to surprise us?”
It takes him a moment to figure out what she’s describing but soon enough realization hits him.
When Kaz bought back his farm years ago, the property sat there unused, unvisited, uncared for for an entire year. The purchase had been an impulse, a stupid thing to do given who he was, what he had and who he was trying to become in Ketterdam. He had used the last of his coin for it for the sense of getting some of his childhood back.
With time, Kaz hired people to take care of it — the house needed cleaning as much as the land, equipment was bought, crop rotations were planned and put into action, and livestock had been acquired. Soon enough it became another long-term investment that earned him extra money, all under a false enough name. All without having to step foot back in the place that raised him for nine years of his life.
The first time he went back was, of course, with Inej by his side. At first, it was mere curiosity that led them there — Inej had asked about his life before Ketterdam and Kaz found himself at a loss for words to that question. Different from explaining about his family, a subject that his brain made a point to torment him with, he couldn’t remember much past the last year of his life there.
That was the purpose of coming back, to remember and to show her what it had been like being a farm boy from the south whose only worry in the world was the chores that needed to be completed. Once they arrived at the house, it seemed like everything came back all at once.
The mornings with Jordie and their Da, eating porridge and getting ready to go to school or to help around the farm. The boys were mainly instructed to feed the animals in the barn and keep the house clean while their Da worked in the fields. Their visits to town to get supplies, Jordie teaching him how to climb a tree, being tucked in at night, every night, by his family.
Kaz hadn’t allowed any changes in the restoration of the house. A good cleaning and fixing of any broken windows was more than enough for him, considering no one was occupying the place. But there was a small part of him that hoped to preserve what lasted from his childhood.
Even now, not much has changed. Some furniture was updated and Inej had been excited to bring more color into the rooms, which he didn’t mind, but she hadn’t touched anything that was too permanent for him.
Such as his childhood bedroom and the marks that were made by his father with his old rusted pocket knife.
Mahala’s current bedroom.
“It’s not broken, darling. Those were made to mark how tall I was when I was growing up,” he explains, running a bare hand down his daughter’s crow-feather-black hair. Like Inej, she usually liked to braid it, always so eager to match her mother’s appearance, but he had taken advantage of the warm evening to leave it down till it was fully dry. “Remember when I told you I lived here when I was a child? That’s where I used to sleep.”
She blinks at him, mouth open, with an expression that clearly states she did not remember that at all. “Who slept in your room then?”
“My parents. We used to live here a long time ago.”
“And you used to be little? Little like me?”
“I did.” Kaz nods, amused, his lips turning up slightly at the corners.
“And you slept in my room?”
“It was mine first,” he points out. “Maybe we can do the same for you, to mark how tall you are.”
“I want to do it right next to yours! So we can see if I was just as tall as you were.”
“Alright.” He glances back to the stairs that lead to their rooms. “Now?”
“No, we have to wait till Mama comes home so she can see it too. Can we wait for her? Please? Please?”
“Yes, darling,” he says, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “We can wait for when your mother arrives.”
***
The evening goes by uneventfully. After both finishing with their paperwork — Kaz finally finishing analyzing the club’s monthly ledgers, with a good margin of profit, and Mahala proudly displaying two new drawings: her mother’s ship in all its glory with its purple, yellow and orange woodwork, and another one that he assumed was her family, standing in front of their farm, holding hands with each other — they eat dinner and make plans of what they’re going to do the next day when Inej returns.
(“Do you think Mama will let me climb a tree with her to pick plums? I already chose one right on top for me to go get.”)
Later that night, they are all situated in her bedroom, Kaz searching for her night clothes in the bag he refused to unpack earlier in the day while Mahala puts away her gift for her mother to find in the morning.
“Alright,” he says, turning around to help her get settled for the night. “Let’s—”
But the words die on his lips as he finds Mahala standing next to the doorframe, looking attentively at it.
He observes her for a moment. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did (and as it does to this day) how much she reminds him of his young self. Her curiosity and determination to understand every single thing that crosses her path are, sometimes, too close to home. Kaz knew she wouldn’t forget about the marks on her door frame and that sooner or later, more questions would come his way about his past in this house, but he had hoped to have Inej by his side in case his emotions and, maybe, demons, got the best of him in her presence.
Kaz was the demon of far too many people, but he would never want to hurt or scare his daughter, no matter how unintentional it might be.
“Maha,” he calls, voice unaltered. “Come dress for bed.”
She walks away from the door without complaining, and remains quiet as Kaz helps her undress and change, but he can see she’s somewhat deep in thought, as much as a four year old can be.
(Inej calls it her scheming face. Kaz pointedly ignores it.)
When he’s done, she walks back to the door, looking at it with the utmost interest, and Kaz waits. She’ll share whatever her conclusion is when she’s ready.
“Why don’t they go all the way to the top? You're so tall.”
“I moved out when I was very young. I couldn’t keep track of my height anymore after that.”
“Why?”
Because I lost my family and my house and had to go away. Because, for many years after that, coming back was too painful.
He thinks of Inej and his daughter, how they are alive and well. It helps.
“It was a long trip from Ketterdam,” he answers instead. It’s hard, even now, to talk about it. It’s even harder to be faced with the realization that all the reasons he had for not coming back after buying the house back when he was fifteen were excuses of a weaker man.
“There’s two different ones here. Why?” Mahala asks again, her tiny fingers running over the marks on the other side of the doorframe. Kaz’s eyes linger at the gesture, focusing on his daughter’s voice and movements to keep himself from drowning.
“The first set is mine,” he starts, taking a deep breath. He hasn’t told her about Jordie yet and isn’t planning on doing it now either. “The other ones were from… a friend of mine.”
It’s not a lie, if Kaz thinks about it. Jordie wasn’t just his brother, he was his friend, his favorite person in the world. Even after all the anger and sadness and resentment he had felt towards his brother over the years, his love for Jordie would always overcome it all.
Moving on from his grief over Jordie’s death had been a long, painful process. Over two decades later, Kaz had still felt the need to put on his gloves when the thoughts and dreams that haunted him with images of his brother’s corpse became too much. What might’ve frustrated him once, the unavoidable setbacks his mind tricked him into, had then come as an understanding that healing wasn’t a linear process and things like these were bound to happen from time to time.
But after Mahala came into the picture, things changed. He and Inej had extensive conversations about it, trying to come up with a plan or multiple ones to handle their traumas if and when they became too much in the presence of their child. She was too small to fully grasp the idea of what had happened to them, what they went through, who they were and what consequences that entailed.
Mahala doesn’t know many things about her parents’ life outside of being her parents, just like most children. She knows that sometimes they sleep in different beds because of the nightmares that haunt their sleep and that her mother sometimes feels sad for days after coming back from one of her journeys. She knows to always reach for Kaz’s clothes when she wants to get his attention and that he likes to wear special gloves to bathe her. She knows none of it is because of her or something she did. But not the reasons behind it.
It’s for the best. What child needs to know what their parents had gone through to be who they were today? All she needs is a support system, people who love her and do everything to keep her safe and happy. That is more than enough.
But it also became harder to explain simple things such as the marks on the other side of the doorframe. Who did they belong to? Mahala didn’t know who Jordie was or even about his existence. That was another thing they had decided to explain to her when she was older— where was his family? Why did they only visited Inej’s parents and never Kaz’s?
“Oh,” she simply says, as if processing the words. “Was it your best friend?”
He pauses, absorbing the question. It’s a simple question and one that he immediately knows the answer to, because of course Jordie was his best friend, how could he not be? But up until that second, Kaz had never considered putting that feeling into words. Being brothers was enough for him for so long, and perhaps the main reason why he had fought so hard to get revenge, but as much as blood tied him to Jordie, it was the fact that they liked one another that made everything that much more painful.
“Yes,” he answers. “He was.”
She looks up at him, with her innocent and observant brown eyes, and Kaz wonders what she’s seeing right now in him. “What about now?”
“What about now?”
“Who is your best friend?”
The answer leaves his mouth without any thought or hesitation. He thinks of the person he loves the most, trusts the most, whom he couldn't live without anymore. The person he misses dearly. “Your mother.”
That seems to be the wrong answer, because it makes Mahala frown. “She can’t be your best friend! You’re already married, it’s not fair if she’s your best friend too!”
He raises his brow, glad he had satisfied her curiosity about his past enough for the change of subject. “I’m not sure I agree.”
“I do, it’s the rules,” she says, not bothering to try to explain to him what these rules are and where they come from. “Pick someone else.”
Kaz rolls his eyes. He could argue, tell her about how many things could be more than what they were supposed to be, her parents are the living proof of it. Inej is a Suli acrobat, a daughter, a spy, a Captain, a wife and a mother. Kaz is a farm boy, a Barrel rat, a murderer, a leader, a husband and a father. Everyone and everything isn’t just one thing, but he finds no need to point that out. His daughter's stubborn need to always be right is also something she inherited from him and he knows when to save his breath.
“Fine,” he concedes. “If it can’t be her, then I guess you’re my best friend.”
Technically, that’s not an option either, according to The Rules he knows nothing about, but the answer seems to please her well enough that she doesn’t even consider rebutting his choice this time.
“Good. Then we can mark our heights on the other side of the door frame together! And Mama too, because one day I’ll be as tall as she is.”
“Alright,” he nods and looks pointendly at her bed again. This time, with her request accepted, she seems to give in, climbing up into her bed and under the covers. “We can do it tomorrow, with your mother.”
“I miss her,” she sighs deeply, looking up at him. Mahala has been used to Inej’s journeys, lasting from a couple of weeks to a couple of months, and having Kaz solely to herself since she was one and half years old. It was harder in the beginning when no amount of logic was enough to explain where had Inej gone to and when — or if, because there was always the if — she was coming back.
Kaz being the most physically present parental figure in her life didn’t seem right to him at first. He isn’t warm or affectionate. He has problems with touching and a child required constant care and attention he wasn’t used to giving. And even if all that wasn’t enough, well, he isn’t Inej.
It took him a while to see it wasn’t a matter of who is a better parent or who would be a better choice to look after Mahala, but that she would always have someone who loved her and was willing to do anything to protect her.
“I do too,” he confesses, sitting down next to her. She smiles, curling up into his side without touching, her big brown sleepy eyes staring up at him, fighting hard not to close. “You didn’t tell me who your best friend is.”
“It’s Mama,” she yawns. It’s almost hilarious, if he thinks about it, how she answers in the same easy, without-a-thought way he did moments ago. It warms his heart, though, as her answer also confirms what he always knew: Inej is and always has been the heart wherever she goes.
“Well, she’s your mother. I believe the same rule that applied to me, applies to you.”
“No,” she says with the surety she directly inherited from him. “Mama was mine first.”