“The deal is the deal,” she said in Kerch, the language of trade, a tongue that belonged to neither of them.
“The deal is the deal,” he replied.
Matthias swung his pick and brought it down in a hard arc, a kind of declaration. She hefted her pick and did the same. Without another word, they returned to the work of the grave, falling into a determined rhythm.
Kaz was right about one thing at least. She and Matthias had finally found something to agree on.
PART FOUR
THE TRICK TO FALLING
21
INEJ
Inej felt like she and Kaz had become twin soldiers, marching on, pretending they were fine, hiding their wounds and bruises from the rest of the crew.
It took two more days of travel to reach the cliffs that overlooked Djerholm, but the going was easier as they moved south and toward the coast. The weather warmed, the ground thawed, and she began to see signs of spring. Inej had thought Djerholm would look like Ketterdam—a canvas of black, gray, and brown, tangled streets dense with mist and coal smoke, ships of every kind in the harbor, pulsing with the rush and bustle of trade. Djerholm’s harbor was crowded with ships, but its tidy streets marched to the water in orderly fashion, and the houses were painted such colors—red, blue, yellow, pink—as if in defiance of the wild white land and the long winters this far north. Even the warehouses by the quay were wrought in cheerful colors. It looked the way she’d imagined cities as a child, everything candy-hued and in its proper place.
Was the Ferolind already waiting at the docks, snug in its berth, flying its Kerch flag and the distinctive orange and green parti-color of the Haanraadt Bay Company? If the plan went the way Kaz hoped, tomorrow night they would stroll down the Djerholm quay with Bo Yul-Bayur in tow, hop on their ship, and be far out to sea before anyone in Fjerda was the wiser. She preferred not to think of what tomorrow night might look like if the plan went wrong.
Inej glanced up to where the Ice Court stood like a great white sentinel on a massive cliff overlooking the harbor. Matthias had called the cliffs unscalable, and Inej had to admit that they would present a challenge even for the Wraith. They seemed impossibly high, and from a distance, their white lime surface looked clean and bright as ice.
“Cannon,” said Jesper.
Kaz squinted up at the big guns pointed out at the bay. “I’ve broken into banks, warehouses, mansions, museums, vaults, a rare book library, and once the bedchamber of a visiting Kaelish diplomat whose wife had a passion for emeralds. But I’ve never had a cannon shot at me.”
“There’s something to be said for novelty,” offered Jesper.
Inej pressed her lips together. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
“Those guns are there to stop invading armadas,” Jesper said confidently. “Good luck hitting a skinny little schooner cutting through the waves bound for fortune and glory.”
“I’ll quote you on that when a cannonball lands in my lap,” said Nina.
They slipped easily into the traffic of travelers and traders where the cliff road met the northern road that led to Upper Djerholm. The upper town was a rambling extension of the city below, a sprawling collection of shops, markets, and inns that served the guards and staff who worked at the Ice Court as well as visitors. Luckily, the crowds were heavy and motley enough that one more group of foreigners could go unnoticed, and Inej found herself breathing a bit easier. She’d worried that she and Jesper might be dangerously conspicuous in the Fjerdan capital’s sea of blonds. Maybe the crew from the Shu Han was relying on the jumbled crowd for cover, too.
Signs of Hringkälla celebrations were everywhere. The shops had created elaborate displays of pepper cookies baked in the shape of wolves, some hanging like ornaments from large, twisting trees, and the bridge spanning the river gorge had been festooned with ribbons in Fjerdan silver. One way into the Ice Court and one way out. Would they cross this bridge as victors tomorrow?
“What are they?” Wylan asked, pausing in front of a peddler’s cart laden with wreaths made of the same twisting branches and silver ribbons.
“Ash trees,” replied Matthias. “Sacred to Djel.”
“There’s supposed to be one in the middle of the White Island,” said Nina, ignoring the warning look the Fjerdan cast her. “It’s where the drüskelle gather for the listening ceremony.”
Kaz tapped his walking stick on the ground. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“The ash is sustained by the spirit of Djel,” said Matthias. “It’s where we may best hear his voice.”
Kaz’s eyes flickered. “Not what I asked. Why isn’t it on our plans?”
“Because it’s the holiest place in all of Fjerda and not essential to our mission.”
“I say what’s essential. Anything else you decided to leave out in your great wisdom?”
“The Ice Court is a vast structure,” Matthias said, turning away. “I can’t label every crack and corner.”
“Then let’s hope nothing is lurking in those corners,” Kaz replied.
Upper Djerholm had no real center, but the bulk of its taverns, inns, and market stalls were clustered around the base of the hill leading to the Ice Court. Kaz steered them seemingly aimlessly through the streets until he found a run-down tavern called the Gestinge.
“Here?” Jesper complained, peering into the dank main room. The whole place stank of garlic and fish.
Kaz just gave a significant glance upward and said, “Terrace.”
“What’s a gestinge?” Inej wondered aloud.
“It means ‘paradise,’” said Matthias. Even he looked skeptical.
Nina helped secure them a table on the tavern’s rooftop terrace. It was mostly empty, the weather still too cold to attract many patrons. Or maybe they’d been scared away by the food—herring in rancid oil, stale black bread, and some kind of butter that looked distinctly mossy.
Jesper looked down at his plate and moaned. “Kaz, if you want me dead, I prefer a bullet to poison.”
Nina scrunched her nose. “When I don’t want to eat, you know there’s a problem.”
“We’re here for the view, not the food.”
From their table, they had a clear, if distant, view of the Ice Court’s outer gate and the first guardhouse. It was built into a white arch formed by two monumental stone wolves on their hind legs, and spanned the road leading up the hill to the Court. Inej and the others watched the traffic come and go through the gates as they picked at their lunches, waiting for a sign of the prison wagons. Inej’s appetite had finally returned, and she’d been eating as much as possible to build her strength, but the skin atop the soup she’d ordered wasn’t helping.
There was no coffee to be had so they ordered tea and little glasses of clear brännvin that burned going down but helped to keep them warm as a wind picked up, stirring the silvery ribbons tied to the ash boughs lining the street below.
“We’re going to start looking conspicuous soon,” said Nina. “This isn’t the kind of place people like to linger.”
“Maybe they don’t have anyone to take to jail,” suggested Wylan.
“There’s always someone to take to jail,” Kaz replied, then bobbed his chin toward the road. “Look.”
A boxy wagon was rolling to a stop at the guardhouse. Its roof and high sides were covered in black canvas, and it was drawn by four stout horses. The door at the back was heavy iron, bolted and padlocked.
Kaz reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an elaborate cover.
“Are we going to read to each other?”
“Just flip it open to the back.”
Jesper opened the book and peered at the last page, puzzled. “So?”
“Hold it up so we don’t have to look at your ugly face.”
“My face has character. Besides—oh!”
“An excellent read, isn’t it?”
“Who knew I had a taste for literature?”
r /> Jesper passed it to Wylan, who took it tentatively. “What does it say?”
“Just look,” said Jesper.
Wylan frowned and held it up, then he grinned. “Where did you get this?”
Matthias had his turn and released a surprised grunt.
“It’s called a backless book,” said Kaz as Inej took the volume from Nina and held it up. The pages were full of ordinary sermons, but the ornate back cover hid two lenses that acted as a long glass. Kaz had told her to keep an eye out for women using similarly made mirrored compacts at the Crow Club. They could read the hand a player was holding from across the room, then signal to a partner at the table.
“Clever,” Inej remarked as she peered through. To the barmaid and the other patrons on the terrace, it looked like they were handing a book around, discussing some interesting passage. Instead Inej had a close view of the gatehouse and the wagon parked in front of it.
The gate between the rampant wolves was wrought iron, bearing the symbol of the sacred ash and bordered by a high, spiked fence that circled the Ice Court’s grounds.
“Four guards,” she noted, just as Matthias had said. Two were stationed on each side of the gatehouse, and one of them was chatting with the driver of the prison wagon, who handed him a packet of documents.
“They’re the first line of defense,” said Matthias. “They’ll check paperwork and confirm identities, flag anyone they think requires closer scrutiny. By this time tomorrow the line going through the gates will be full of Hringkälla guests and backed up all the way to the gorge.”
“By then we’ll be inside,” Kaz said.
“How often do the wagons run?” asked Jesper.
“It depends,” said Matthias. “Usually in the morning. Sometimes in the afternoon. But I can’t imagine they’ll want prisoners arriving at the same time as guests.”
“Then we have to be on the early wagon,” Kaz said.
Inej lifted the backless book again. The wagon driver wore a gray uniform similar to the ones worn by the guards at the gate but absent any sash or decoration. He swung down from his seat and came around to unlock the iron door.
“Saints,” Inej said as the door swung open. Ten prisoners were seated along benches that ran the wagon’s length, their wrists and feet shackled, black sacks over their heads.
Inej handed the book back to Matthias, and as it made the rounds, Inej felt the group’s apprehension rise. Only Kaz seemed unfazed.
“Hooded, chained, and shackled?” said Jesper. “You’re sure we can’t go in as entertainers? I hear Wylan really kills it on the flute.”
“We go in as we are,” said Kaz, “as criminals.”
Nina peered through the lenses of the book. “They’re doing a head count.”
Matthias nodded. “If procedure hasn’t changed, they’ll do a quick head count at the first checkpoint, then a second count at the next checkpoint, where they’ll search the interior and undercarriage for any contraband.”
Nina passed the book to Inej. “The driver is going to notice six more prisoners when he opens the door.”
“If only I’d thought of that,” Kaz said drily. “I can tell you’ve never picked a pocket.”
“And I can tell you’ve never given enough thought to your haircut.”
Kaz frowned and ran a self-conscious hand along the side of his head. “There’s nothing wrong with my haircut that can’t be fixed by four million kruge.”
Jesper cocked his head to one side, gray eyes alight. “We’re going to use a bunk biscuit, aren’t we?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know that word, bunkbiscuit,” said Matthias, running the syllables together.
Nina gave Kaz a sour look. “Neither do I. We’re not as streetwise as you, Dirtyhands.”
“Nor will you ever be,” Kaz said easily. “Remember our friend Mark?” Wylan winced. “Let’s say the mark is a tourist walking through the Barrel. He’s heard it’s a good place to get rolled, so he keeps patting his wallet, making sure it’s there, congratulating himself on just how alert and cautious he’s being. No fool he. Of course every time he pats his back pocket or the front of his coat, what is he doing? He’s telling every thief on the Stave exactly where he keeps his scrub.”
“Saints,” grumbled Nina. “I’ve probably done that.”
“Everyone does,” said Inej.
Jesper lifted a brow. “Not everyone.”
“That’s only because you never have anything in your wallet,” Nina shot back.
“Mean.”
“Factual.”
“Facts are for the unimaginative,” Jesper said with a dismissive wave.
“Now, a bad thief,” continued Kaz, “one who doesn’t know his way around, just makes the grab and tries to run for it. Good way to get pinched by the stadwatch. But a proper thief—like myself—nabs the wallet and puts something else in its place.”
“A biscuit?”
“Bunk biscuit is just a name. It can be a rock, a bar of soap, even an old roll if it’s the right size. A proper thief can tell the weight of a wallet just by the way it changes the hang of a man’s coat. He makes the switch, and the poor mark keeps tapping his pocket, happy as can be. It’s not until he tries to pay for an omelet or lay his stake at a table that he realizes he’s been done for a sucker. By then the thief is someplace safe, counting up his scrub.”
Wylan shifted unhappily in his chair. “Duping innocent people isn’t something to be proud of.”
“It is if you do it well.” Kaz gave a nod to the prison wagon, now rumbling its way up the road toward the Ice Court and the second checkpoint. “We’re going to be the biscuit.”
“Hold on,” said Nina. “The door locks on the outside. How do we get in and get the door locked again?”
“That’s only a problem if you don’t know a proper thief. Leave the locks to me.”
Jesper stretched out his long legs. “So we have to unlock, unchain, and incapacitate six prisoners, take their places, and somehow get the wagon sealed tight again without the guards or the other prisoners being the wiser?”
“That’s right.”
“Any other impossible feats you’d like us to accomplish?”
The barest smile flickered over Kaz’s lips. “I’ll make you a list.”
* * *
Proper thievery aside, Inej would have liked a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed, but there would be no comfortable stay at an inn, not if they were going to find their way onto a prison wagon and into the Ice Court before Hringkälla began. There was too much to do.
Nina was sent out to chat up the locals and try to discover the best place to lay their ambush for the wagon. After the horrors of Gestinge’s herring, they’d demanded Kaz provide something edible, and were waiting for Nina in a crowded bakery, nursing hot cups of coffee mixed with chocolate, the wreckage of demolished rolls and cookies spread out over their table in little piles of buttery crumbs. Inej noted that Matthias’ mug sat untouched before him, slowly cooling as he stared out the window.
“This must be hard for you,” she said quietly. “To be here but not really be home.”
He looked down at his cup. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do. I haven’t seen my home in a long time.”
Kaz turned away and began chatting with Jesper. He seemed to do that whenever she mentioned going back to Ravka. Of course, Inej couldn’t be certain she’d find her parents there. Suli were travelers. For them, “home” really just meant family.
“Are you worried about Nina being out there?” Inej asked.
“No.”
“She’s very good at this, you know. She’s a natural actress.”
“I’m aware,” he said grimly. “She can be anything to anyone.”
“She’s best when she’s Nina.”
“And who is that?”
“I suspect you know better than any of us.”
He crossed his huge arms. “She’s brave,” he said grudgingly.
/>
“And funny.”
“Foolish. Every last thing needn’t be a joke.”
“Bold,” Inej said.
“Loud.”
“So why do your eyes keep searching the crowd for her?”
“They do not,” Matthias protested. She had to laugh at the ferocity of his scowl. He drew a finger through a pile of crumbs. “Nina is everything you say. It’s too much.”
“Mmm,” Inej murmured, taking a sip from her mug. “Maybe you’re just not enough.”
Before he could reply, the bell on the bakery door jingled, and Nina sailed inside, cheeks rosy, brown hair in a gorgeous tangle, and declared, “Someone needs to start feeding me sweet rolls immediately.”
For all Matthias’ grumbling, Inej didn’t think she imagined the relief on his face.
* * *
It had taken Nina less than an hour to discover that most of the prison wagons passed by a roadhouse known as the Warden’s Waystation on the route to the Ice Court. Inej and the others had to trek almost two miles out of Upper Djerholm to locate the tavern. It was too crowded with farmers and local laborers to be useful, so they headed farther up the road, and by the time they found a spot with enough cover and a stand of trees large enough to suit their purpose, Inej felt close to collapse. She thanked her Saints for Jesper’s seemingly limitless energy. He cheerfully volunteered to continue on and be the lookout. When the prison cart rolled by, he’d signal the rest of the crew with a flare, then sprint back to join them.
Nina took a few minutes to tailor Jesper’s forearm, hiding the Dregs’ tattoo and leaving a blotchy patch of skin over it. She would see to Kaz’s tattoos and her own that night. It was possible no one at the prison would recognize Ketterdam gang or brothel markings, but there was no reason to take the chance.
“No mourners,” Jesper called as he loped off into the twilight, long legs eating up the distance easily.
“No funerals,” they replied. Inej sent a real prayer along with him, too. She knew Jesper was well armed and could take care of himself, but between his lanky frame and Zemeni skin, he was just too noticeable for comfort.