Chapter Text
There’s a saying among Ravkans, banded around among the tourists - when Kerch freezes over. The saying goes that Kerch doesn’t have true seasons, that the island remains damp, mild, and miserable all year long. It’s partly true, Kaz supposes, no one comes or stays for the weather, but the tourists are wrong on one count. Kerch does have seasons. It has brisk, short winters and even brisker and shorter summers with endless springs and autumns in between. And, as it happens, also has bitter winter air that you stand and freeze in when a certain sharp-shooter is late picking you up.
Kaz glares at his watch, at the minute hand firmly marking ten minutes since Jesper was meant to come and collect him from the soon-to-be crime scene when the merch decides to look a little too hard at the painting on his wall that’s been replaced with a fake. Another gust of icy air shoves its way past Kaz, flinging up the hem of his coat. He shivers, frowns and shivers some more, wishing he had brought his cane as the ache in his leg intensifies momentarily.
Eleven minutes-
An explosion shatters the night and Kaz barely keeps himself from wincing at the sudden blaze of fire and smoke rising in the heart of the financial district - it only increases the unease creeping across his skin as Kaz turns sharply on his heel and stalks away from the almost blinding light. That explosion is a desperate last resort by Wylan, a distraction and a warning all at once for Kaz to get the hell out . With Jesper apparently missing, it’s clear that something has gone very, very wrong with the heist and Kaz isn’t about to stick around to find out what, not with the weight of the stolen DeKappel heavy under his coat.
It’s in times like this that Kaz feels Inej’s absence like a physical ache in his chest, misses the reassuring weight of her eyes on him as she slips from shadow to shadow. Misses how even when his schemes go disastrously wrong, Kaz can trust his Wraith to pick up the pieces without faltering.
Though no sooner has the feeling come on, Kaz is furiously shrugging it off. He has far more pressing matters to deal with than behaving like a lovesick teenager to a girl who is currently in the middle of the ocean. The distinctive rattle of twin Zemeni pistols undercuts the faint roar of whatever fire Wylan had started - Kaz swears under his breath, moving faster even as the bitter wind bites into his cheeks.
Something about this situation feels noticeably off, and after a second of considering it, Kaz knows exactly why. No one in Ketterdam would dare disrupt the Dregs, not to mention Dirtyhands, on a night like this. The Stadwatch was paid off, the Black Tips were too spineless, and Pekka Rollins had turned into a soft old man. It was a joke really, how easy this job had gone, so Kaz supposes he has no one to blame but himself that he’d gotten… careless. Not caring who saw him as he left the merch’s house.
Well, it’s all coming back to bite him now.
And then everything seems to happen at once.
Behind him, a voice, low, rough and distinctly from the Barrel: “Hey.”
The fight lasts exactly three seconds. Kaz turns, one hand already on the revolver hidden in his coat as something heavy slams across the back of his head. White stars explode across his vision and suddenly Kaz is on the floor, blood dripping into his eyes and the DeKappel flung out in front of him. The world spins and whirls around him as hands grab his arms and haul him up.
Idiots.
Kaz gives himself a single second to reorient himself through the pain, fingers still clamped around the cold steel of his revolver, deep in his coat. With how his vision is blurring dangerously, he somehow still retains enough sense to yank it out and squeeze the trigger.
The chaos is immediate. Fresh pain blooms across Kaz’s side as the revolver jumps back in his hand, slamming into his ribs, the gunshot almost deafening. To his left, warm blood splatters across his face. There’s a beat of silence, and then - a raw, animalistic scream tears through the air. Sloppy, Kaz berates himself, no matter how unsteady he feels, that shot should have killed. This time, Kaz sets his jaw, other hand already going for the knife in his boot as one of his captors slumps, still screaming, grip loosening -
Another powerful blow to the head sends Kaz reeling again, this time more from the skin that grazes him than the pain, but it’s still enough to daze him further. Kaz has the vaguest sensation of movement, hands rifling through his coat and pockets before he slams back into his body to find shackles on his wrists and ankles. The carriage he suddenly finds himself in rumbles ominously as Kaz tries to straighten, head horribly pounding and willing his vision to stop flickering, but he takes control of his breathing and attempts to master himself.
There’s a man sitting opposite him and panic is not an option. He’s been in far worse situations than this, Kaz can deal with a kidnapping. Saints, he has dealt with kidnappings before. This is nothing new, nothing to panic over, and yet that doesn’t stop that creeping feeling of unease. Something’s not adding up and that knowledge eats away at him.
Instead, Kaz levels his gaze at the man before him, noting his distinctly Ravkan clothing, rat-like features, and how his dark eyes shift away from Kaz uncomfortably. Not a Kerch native then, or he’d know to be more careful.
“What business?” Kaz asks, voice low and deliberately calm. The man startles and makes a show of ignoring him. “I assume your reason for grabbing me is something worth my time.” Even as he speaks, Kaz is counting the turns that the carriage makes, testing the locks binding his limbs. The metal is tight and freezing, but while his pistol and knife are no longer on him, the lock picks in his sleeves very much are. His gloved fingers trace the familiar indentation of a Hall’s safe lock and Kaz almost smiles.
The man’s gaze still doesn’t reach him, “You should stay silent.”
“And you should know better than to grab me. But here we are.”
“Shut up. ”
Kaz rolls his shoulders, mentally taking stock of his injuries - his side burns, head still swimming, but he’s fought with far worse odds before and won. This will be no different.
“Tell me,” he says, “what is a Ravkan doing so far from home?”
The man’s face shifts, anger breaking out, “I told you to shut it!”
The shackles drop from his wrists and in one swift motion, Kaz lunges forward as fast as his bound ankles will let him and slams the man against the wall. He’s unsteady and weak, but his hands still find the Ravkan’s throat with ease, the pulse racing under his fingers.
“I do not negotiate in chains,” he snarls, leaning in closer, almost too close as the man’s rancid breath brushes his face. “Tell me why I’m here, or this miserable carriage will be your grave.” He neglects to tell the man that he’s going to kill him regardless, but by the way his face pales, Kaz knows the words have the desired effect.
“You’re-”
Even if Kaz had missed the soft hissing sound, the harsh chemical stench that fills the carriage is unmissable and he clamps his mouth shut. His captor doesn’t have the same luck, eyes rolling back into his head and slumping against Kaz after a couple of seconds of hyperventilating and Kaz jumps back in disgust at the contact. They’re trying to drug him now? And in such a complex way, his captors must have finally stopped underestimating him.
Kaz allows himself a single second to collect his thoughts and calm down . Panicking now will only make things worse - already his lungs are beginning to burn.
Get it together Brekker, just think .
The lock on his ankles is flimsy and Kaz makes quick work of it, the familiar motions slowing his heart a little. Next, the carriage door. His movements feel mechanical, detached, as Kaz examines it. There’s no lock, it’s barred from the outside, but the hinges gleam in the dull light. Kaz wastes no time in unscrewing them, even as his fingers feel clumsy and awkward. If it’s from the head wound or the drug, Kaz can’t tell, but he knows he won’t last long, not with the burning in his lungs growing almost unbearable.
The first hinge clatters to the floor and now with black spots dancing in his vision, Kaz slams his shoulder into the wood, hearing it splinter as he repeats the action again. With a groaning sound the wood gives way, sending Kaz sprawling to the hard ground outside. Rocks scrape against his skin, but Kaz doesn’t care, too busy with gasping in lungfuls of air. The air still carries that faint tinge of chemicals and Kaz is still far more unsteady than he’d like, but he slowly pushes himself to his feet, bad leg protesting.
In front of him, the carriage stops, but that’s hardly surprising considering he just smashed his way out and Kaz balls his hands into fists. Considering he doesn’t even know how many people are involved in this, the fact that he’s going to have to fight his way out is far less than ideal, but it’s not like he has a myriad of other options.
Another man slowly climbs down from the front of the carriage, pistol pointed with deadly precision at Kaz’s heart. Kaz doesn’t so much as blink. If they wanted him dead, he’d likely already be face up in Reaper’s Barge.
“Get back in the carriage, Brekker.” Unlike those who grabbed him, this man’s accent is Ravkan, and Kaz files that information away for later.
“So you do know who I am.”
“I’m not asking again.”
“Well that’s funny because I’m not getting back in your goddamned carriage.”
The man cocks the gun and Kaz just gives him a horrible smile.
“Let’s not pretend. You’re not going to shoot me, so put it down. It’s embarrassing for both of us.”
“Who says I’m not going to shoot?”
“Because you’ve gone through a lot of trouble to keep me breathing. And you know who I am. If you pull that trigger, you’ll be hunted down until there’s nowhere left to run. Fucked won’t even begin to describe what will happen to you when my wraith tracks you down.”
That last bit is a bluff, Kaz knows Inej won't reach Ketterdam for another two weeks, but he figures there’s no harm in reminding this skiv exactly how dangerous his allies are. And then, slowly, a similar grin begins to creep across the man’s face at the exact same time that Kaz realises that he’s horribly misjudged the situation.
“Don’t you get it Brekker? That’s the point. You’re bait .”
And then there’s a gunshot, an explosion of agony in his left leg, and then nothing at all.
~*~
Kaz’s head hurts.
That’s the first thing he’s fully aware of. His head hurts and he’s thirsty. Other sensations gradually become clearer as he struggles into wakefulness, the stinging of cuts across his arms, a burning in his ribcage as he breathes and a near unbearable ache in his knee. There’s something decidedly wrong about that last one though, and after a moment of consideration, Kaz knows exactly why. It’s not his bad leg that’s paining him.
Kaz forces his eyes open, shoving away the wave of panic as he does so. It’s surprisingly difficult to get his eyes to focus, but when they do, Kaz sets his jaw. He’s been laid out in a filthy cot in an equally filthy room, the bare wooden walls covered in what looks uncomfortably like scratches. There’s a large metal door in the corner and even from here Kaz can see that there’s no key hole, but little else - nothing that could even be remotely used as a weapon. And beneath all of this, the floor sways gently.
He’s on a boat.
Damn it.
He could be anywhere, Saints, he could be half way to Ravka by now, and his reputation is probably going down the drain back in Ketterdam - Kaz can already imagine the rumours. He has no idea how long he’s been gone, but the sunlight struggling through the tiny porthole means that it’s been at least a day. His enemies will already be capitalising on his absence and Kaz knows exactly how it will look.
It looks like he’s turned tail and ran. Exactly like Pekka Rollins.
It’s an effort to steady his breathing and ignore any anger and anxiety, but Kaz manages it and deliberately turns his attention to his aching knee. His good leg. And if those bastards have managed to injure his other one too, then, well, Kaz is going to enjoy taking his revenge.
But no, the skin where the bullet had hit is tender and aching, but whole and Kaz’s mouth twists into a frown. So they’d gotten a Grisha healer on him then. That was interesting, though not particularly good. It only means they need him alive and functioning, and Kaz is not about to sit around with baited breath to find out for what.
He jumps up, ignoring the pain in his legs as he stalks over to the door, slamming his fists into it. It doesn’t so much as shift, but Kaz wasn’t really expecting it to, not as he hits it again for good measure. At the muffled sound of startled movement from outside, he turns back to his cot and lowers himself down to wait. They know he’s awake, and the longer they leave him, the longer he’ll have to finesse his revenge.
It barely seems ten minutes before the door is shoved open with so much unnecessary force that Kaz can’t quite stop the muscle from jumping in his jaw.
“Have a nice nap there, you filthy fucking rat?”
Kaz’s response is a flat stare. There are two of them, sailors, Ravkan, neither with weapons drawn. Fools.
“The infamous Kaz Brekker,” the second mocks, “you’ve caused us a lot of trouble, you know, breaking out of the carriage like a damned wild animal.”
“Apologies for ruining your travel plans.”
The man’s lip curl’s pulling at the scar slashed across it. “You’re so goddamned smug.”
Kaz inclines his head, eyes noting the gleaming sixgun slung from his waist.
“Enjoy your stay, Brekker, it’s going to be a long time before you see the sun again.” With a laugh the two retreat from the room, slamming the door behind them once again.
Do not panic, Brekker. If they wanted you dead, you’d be chained to the ocean floor right now. Get it together.
The pale splash of sunlight from the porthole creeps across the floor as Kaz quietly sorts through all the information he has. It’s a frustratingly meagre amount, but he’s worked with far less in far worse situations. The most glaringly obvious fact is that his captors are Ravkan. Both the accents, the clothing, and the distinct lack of gang tattoos are an irritating complication. While Kaz prides himself on knowing exactly who comes and goes in Ketterdam, the ships and their crews have always been a blind spot, too many and too frequent to accurately keep accounts of, despite his best efforts. This has just proven that blind spots are something that Kaz cannot afford, not when he has no idea who’s taken him
The second and far more worrying thing is the last words that were spoken to Kaz before he passed out. You’re bait. And it’s true, Inej will come to him, just as he would come to her. And that thought is, to put it frankly, terrifying. Another weakness, another blind spot that he has failed to account for. No wonder Pekka Rollins got complacent enough to let Kaz near his son, power has made Kaz careless.
And that carelessness might just get Inej killed.