Chapter Text
Hermand Forst was a few hundred kruge in the hole and desperate.
He’d come to the Crow Club to blow off some steam; his bitch of a wife had been nagging at him all day and he could only handle so much of her shrill voice before he stormed out of their dingy hole-in-the-wall of a place, slamming the door behind him.
In truth, Forst could never handle his wife for long. He spent more time at the Crow Club than he did his own home. He did contract work for multiple gangs in the Barrel, but he liked the Crow Club for its dark, smokey atmosphere and lack of tourists.
Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. Forst had walked away with heavy pockets the first time he’d bet at the Crow Club, and, though he wouldn’t admit it, his winnings had caused him to develop a superstition that this club was luckier than the Emerald Palace or Kaelish Prince.
In the weeks since, Forst had slowly lost all the kruge he’d won that first night, but until tonight he’d never lost so much money in one sitting.
One more hand, he told himself, you can turn your luck around.
A server came around, placing two shots of vodka on the table. Forst downed them in quick succession, grimacing in an attempt to hide the wince that followed. He cracked his knuckles, ready to win back what was his—
The Crow Club’s ambient noise of hushed chatter and dice rolling and chips moving fell to a deadly silence.
Forst’s brows furrowed as he followed the gaze of other patrons towards the club’s entrance; his eyes settled on a boy he’d never seen before.
The kid was no older than twenty, he had dark skin and grey eyes that shifted nervously from patron to patron, like he’d only just now realized he walked into the lion’s den. He wore garish Barrel flash and no visible weapons— Forst guessed the kid hadn’t been jumped or robbed yet. If the hungry looks from other patrons were anything to go by, the kid would experience his first mugging by the end of the night.
A university kid, Forst assumed. Like so many others he’d been lured in by the bright colored buildings and flashing lights of the East Stave, itching to try his luck at the tables and spend his daddy’s money on chips and booze. He’d gotten lost, probably, and ended up in the wrong side of the Barrel. Or maybe he thought he was smart by going to the Crow Club and avoiding a tourist trap like Club Cumulus.
If Club Cumulus trapped tourists, the Crow Club cornered tourists on a dark street corner, stabbing them and taking all their money.
Forst almost felt bad for the kid— almost. No quicker way to learn about the rules of the Barrel than to be thrown around in a dark gambling hall, robbed blind by the tables and pickpockets alike.
The kid’s eyes darted around the room, likely trying to pinpoint the table he deemed safest. In the Crow Club, when every patron was a shadowed face from one wanted poster or another, Forst couldn’t imagine any of them looked too inviting.
His gaze settled on Forst’s table in the back corner. He pressed his lips together, deciding, and, with a heavy rise and fall of his shoulders, started to walk in Forst’s direction.
As he approached the boy attempted some sort of charismatic smile; it fell flat on account of the stares pointed in their direction and the heavy silence surrounding them.
“Gentlemen,” the boy greeted, tipping his hat. “This an open table?”
His Kerch was casual, but Forst didn’t miss the Zemeni accent.
Forst sent him a considering look. The stack of kruge the boy proceeded to take out of his jacket pocket was thick.
Forst waited a beat, unable to help the cruel grin creeping up his face. He had a feeling his luck was about to improve.
All eyes shifted to Forst as he slammed his fist on the table, All eyes shifted to Forst as he slammed his fist on the table, getting up with a huff as the wooden chair legs screeched on the floor.
The kid had won it all.
It was a coincidence, in the first round, when the kid had predicted what numbers would show up on the dice. Then it happened again. And again. Forst could only watch, slack-jawed as he sat and watched his pile of chips dwindle into nothing.
The kid seemed just as shocked as he was, always with the wide eyes and the sheepish expression as he took Forst’s chips. People started to take notice, of course, and it wasn't long until a significant crowd had gathered to watch the kid's incredible luck in action. Through his quickly-narrowing tunnel vision Forst could hear the exchange of kruge behind him.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Forst was supposed to teach the kid a lesson while robbing him blind. Instead, the kid was grinning as other patrons slapped him on the back, paper bills hanging out of every pocket.
Forst’s kruge.
He ignored the peace-offering hand the kid extended his way and stomped over to the bar, adding the price of four shots to the incredible debt he’d already accrued that night.
Damn Saint’s forsaken foreigner thinking he can just walk in here and steal my—
An idea formed in Forst’s head.
The kid had no weapons. The kid had his money. The kid needed to be taught a lesson.
Forst felt the familiar weight of his knife in his left breast pocket, the comfortable heft of the gun holstered on his right hip.
Forst was getting his money back.
Following the kid was almost too easy.
His Barrel flash and heavy pockets stood out in the dark streets of the Barrel, attracting thieves such as Forst like a beacon in the night.
Forst had wanted to kill him right there in the Crow Club, but Forst had heard stories of what Dirtyhands did to those who caused a scene in his club— even his debt wasn’t worth the punishments Kaz Brekker liked to dole out.
As expected, the kid stayed on the main roads as he made his way in the loose direction of the University District. All Forst needed to do was wait for the neon plaid of the boy’s suit to turn down a quiet street, a place where no one would notice a body until Forst was far away. Forst kept a white-knuckled grip on the knife in his right hand; he’d need to kill the boy quickly and silently, and when they were this close to the University District, the sound of a gun could alert the Stadwatch.
Perhaps, if he’d been less drunk, Forst would’ve been suspicious of how quiet the streets of the East Stave were that night. Perhaps, if he’d been less focused on his mark, Forst would’ve found it strange that he was following the kid down a dead-end alley.
Unfortunately for Forst, he was in too many shots to count, his judgement clouded by rage.
Forst rounded the corner of the alley he’d seen the kid walk down, only to be met by a brick wall and the silhouette of the kid, his back turned to Forst. It was at this point he realized something was wrong— the kid’s posture had changed into something straighter, more assured. He had his hands straight down by his hips, fingers dancing in some sort of rhythmic pattern.
The alley was silent. There was no breeze.
“Couldn’t just walk away?” The kid asked, head still facing the alley wall in front of him. His voice echoed off the brick walls, his words assaulting Forst from every angle.
The kid had known Forst was following him. The kid’s Zemeni accent was gone.
This complicated things. Forst gritted his teeth, exchanging his knife for the revolver at his side. The gun was not a silent weapon, but it killed a hell of a lot faster than a knife.
“Sorry, kid,” Forst said, cocking his gun, “but this is the Barrel. It’s kill or be killed.”
The kid cocked his head to the side at Forst’s words.
At the same time, Forst pulled the trigger.
There was something satisfying about the recoil of a gun as the bullet shot out of it— like a physical reminder that what Forst was doing was powerful. That he was powerful. Through the years, Forst had found that the anger he felt towards people could usually be resolved by seeing a bullet tear through their body, bringing them down to the ground.
Except—
Except the kid didn’t fall.
The bullet shot out and—
It stopped. A few inches before connecting with the lower part of the kid’s back— Forst had been aiming for a headshot, but alcohol messed with his precision— the bullet stopped. It floated there for a moment, glinting metal suspended in the air.
The kid finally turned around.
He was— different. This was not the sheepish university student that had wandered into the Crow Club; this was a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Soft grey eyes suddenly reminded Forst of the biting metal of a gun and the man’s once-naive smile was now a sharp, knowing grin. His teeth were so white that they glowed in the dim moonlight.
The kid— the man— the danger in front of Forst grinned as he glanced down at the floating bullet. Gingerly, he plucked it from the air, dancing it around his fingers.
Forst could feel his heartbeat racing, his eyes growing wide. Desperate, he pulled the trigger of his gun once more, watching in slow motion as, before the bullet could exit the chamber, the boy twitched his fingers and the barrel of his gun crumpled.
Quality steel bent out of shape like it was paper.
“What—” Forst started, looking from his gun to the witch in horror. He dropped his crumpled gun, hands shaking. “You’re—”
“You know,” The man’s head was tilted downwards, steel eyes finding Forst from beneath shadow. “You really should’ve just walked away. Being in debt is better than being dead.”
Forst found himself frozen as he watched the witch procure a revolver from a holster that had been hidden underneath his coat.
The last thing he ever saw was the barrel of the witch’s gun.
***
Kaz Brekker had bigger things to worry about than a kid pulling cons at his club.
There was the issue of his dead informants, for one. In the past month he’d had two informants go missing while on a job for him, only to be found dead in a back alley of the Barrel with clean cuts across their throats. Kaz would chalk it up to coincidence, if he was oblivious, but two of his best informants killed in the same way in the same month was too rare a coincidence to be blamed on simple Barrel muggings.
It was a problem with a two-step solution: first, find the mole. His spies had been good, they couldn’t have been caught by coincidence alone. Someone within the Dregs knew where these two were going to be and sold their information.
Second, find whoever was paying the mole. The first informant had been sent to look into Emerald Palace records, while the other had been overseeing a jurda shipment made to the Razorgulls. The discrepancy in target suggested that the killings weren’t made in retaliation to either job in specific— whoever killed his informants just wanted to see the Dregs suffer.
It was almost funny that someone thought killing a few spies could keep Kaz Brekker in the dark.
He was Dirtyhands, Bastard of the Barrel. He had eyes in every shadow of Ketterdam.
He was leaning on the railing of the second floor of the Crow Club, taking a break from drawing up plans for revenge in his office to oversee the club, when he saw a kid in the most garish example of Barrel flash he’d ever seen. The guy was about his age, but his nervous expression made him look younger, his tall stature shortened by the hunch in his shoulders.
Normally, Kaz would think nothing of it. Normally, Kaz would be happy at the sight of another pigeon ready to fork over his money.
But as the guy walked over to the table in the back corner of the club, eyes locked on the dice, Kaz remembered a conversation he’d overheard at the bar earlier that week:
“Was five minutes late to my shift and Rollins had my head— he’s been in a shit mood all week,” said one of their regulars, a middle-aged drunk who bounced for the Emerald Palace but came to the Crow Club for the cheaper booze.
“He’s always in a shit mood, ain’t he?” Questioned his friend before taking a large swig of his ale.
“No, he’s in rare form this week,” The bouncer’s words slurred slightly. “Some Zemeni kid came in and won ‘bout half his week’s profits.”
“Dealers didn’t step in?”
“They couldn’t. They was all dice games, all luck. The kid never even played before, just always guessed the right numbers. Pekka was furious, but there wasn’t nothin’ he could do about it.”
The friend hummed. “Beginner’s luck, then. Rollins’ll survive, he’s got enough kruge to buy half of Ketterdam.”
Kaz had thought nothing of it, at the time. A small smile had pulled at his lips, maybe, at the bad luck that had befallen Rollins, but amidst the recent strikes against his club, he couldn’t afford to worry about issues that didn’t directly concern the Crow Cub.
But that was before he watched the newcomer, the Zemeni boy dressed in plaid, step nervously into his club. His body language suggested he was nervous, but even from the second-floor balcony Kaz could see something else in his eyes. His plaid overcoat was oversized, but Kaz could still make out the faint bumps in the fabric by his waist.
The apparent newcomer intrigued Kaz. He kept watching.
The trick to sleight-of-hand is redirecting the mark’s attention.
Kaz knew this because before he was Dirtyhands, before he was the Bastard of the Barrel, before he was even a member of the Dregs, Kaz was just a thief. Kaz was picking pockets before he’d reached double digits, conning tourists before he’d hit puberty.
The Crow Club was notoriously impossible to cheat in because Kaz Brekker knew, and had utilized, every trick in the book. Kaz knew when to look at the opposite hand or behind the fingers, knew how to cheat and win every card game offered at the Crow Club.
It was his sixth sense for cons that made the Zemeni boy’s winning streak even more confusing.
Logically, Kaz knew something was wrong because a win streak like the boy’s was statistically impossible. Every round, without fail, the dice rolled in his favor. It was a dice game, for Saint’s sake, there was no way to cheat that didn’t require physical manipulation of the dice. Kaz watched his hands but besides the occasionally drumming on the table, he didn’t move the table or touch the dice. Kaz supposed the dice could be manipulated by a Durast or Squallor, but they checked for Grisha at the door.
How?
The question caused Kaz’s hands, hidden under black gloves, to grip the head of his cane with white knuckles. It was frustrating— it was the first trick he hadn't immediately understood in years. It was… impressive, to find someone who had an original con.
It was dangerous.
All thoughts of the Crows’ mole were forgotten and redirected onto the newcomer. Kaz Brekker was determined to learn his trick by the end of the night— no one got away with cheating at the Crow Club besides him.
Hermand Forst’s decision to follow the Zemeni out of the club complicated Kaz’s plan to follow the boy himself.
Kaz’s original plan, after watching the kid like a hawk all night and unable to find any sort of tell, had been to tail him out of the club. Once the kid thought he was alone he might meet with a street informant, or maybe he would lead Kaz to a rival club employing him. Despite the kid’s garish clothing Kaz knew there was more under the neon plaid than a simple tourist.
And then Forst just had to go sticking his nose into things.
Kaz was not particularly fond of Hermand Forst— he was a wife-beating drunk, the worst sort of Barrel scum— but he was also a gambler so deep in his addiction that there seemed to be no line he wouldn’t cross to keep playing. Forst’s paychecks went right into the club’s pockets, and then some. He was a coward and a lowlife and despite his anger issues, he’d never posed any threat to the Crow Club, so Kaz let him keep playing.
Except. Kaz watched as a terrible idea dawned in Forst’s mind, so drunk that his face betrayed the homicidal look in his eyes as he watched the Zemeni walk out of the club, flush with kruge. Despite his annoyance with the kid, Kaz didn’t want him dead until he learned his secrets. He couldn’t have Forst killing the kid— at least not before he got his own answers.
About a minute after the kid left, Forst followed through the front door. Kaz, who knew more about tailing someone without being caught, left out the back.
There were two shots fired in the alley that night.
Normally, Stadwatch would’ve been alerted to gunshots this close to the University District, but coverage in this particular area was quite thin that night. It had been hard to pull that many strings in such short of a notice, but Kaz was the puppeteer of the Barrel— pulling strings was his specialty.
He watched as Hermand’s body fell to the ground with a thud, skull cracking on the hard cobblestone. At this angle, Kaz could now see the bullet hole in his face, placed perfectly in the center of his forehead.
At the other end of the alley, the Zemeni kid smiled to himself, blowing at the smoke coming from the gun’s barrel and turning the revolver once around his finger before shoving it back into the holster at his waist. He took a few, slow steps towards Forst’s body and Kaz slunk further into the shadows, careful to stay out of his line of sight. The kid, now stood over Forst’s head, extended an arm, palm facing the ground. Kaz watched as the bullet that had been lodged in Forst’s brain shot back out of the hole it had entered through, shooting towards the kid’s outstretched palm like a magnet. The kid grabbed it with the flick of his hand.
Kaz blinked. He felt as close to blindsided as he had been in a long time— he didn’t enjoy the feeling. The kid was a Durast, that much he was certain of, but how he got past the Crow Club’s security, well. Kaz was going to have a nice chat with his bouncer when he got back to the club.
But.
As much as he was frustrated with himself for not figuring out the kid’s trick sooner, the more he was… intrigued. Kaz had seen Durasts in action before, but usually they relied on large hand motions and a speed that made them easy to best in a fight. This kid barely needed to lift a finger to stop a bullet and bend steel.
The kid stepped over Forst’s body and left the alley, hands in his pockets and whistling as he walked down the street.
This kid… powerful was an understatement.
Kaz walked back to the Crow Club— he had a new plan to make.