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“My mother is Ketterdam. She birthed me in the harbor. And my father is profit. I honor him daily.
He didn’t want to see the expression in Jesper’s father’s eyes change from worry to anguish to anger.
Maybe he could wake up early and watch the sunrise.
“Yeah. She taught me to shoot.”
The color of my hair, Wylan realized, if it had been left out in the sun to fade.
They’re the enemy, said a voice in his head, and he wasn’t sure if it was Commander Brum’s or his own.
“You aren’t a flower, you’re every blossom in the wood blooming at once. You are a tidal wave. You’re a stampede. You are overwhelming.”
“I flirt with the women too.”
Trass had been the creature of his heart.
“No mourners.” “No funerals,” Wylan said quietly.
“I can hear you, Fahey,” Matthias grumbled. “Good. I’d hate to have to shout.”
Zowa. It simply meant “blessed.” That was the word Jesper’s mother used instead of Grisha.
“She was a queen, Jes,” he said. “She was our queen.”
No mourners, no funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.
Inej’s mother had told her that gifted wire walkers were descended from the People of the Air, that they’d once had wings, and that in the right light, those wings could still be glimpsed on the humans to whom they showed favor.
Would she have told you if she was afraid? Is that something you’ve ever shown sympathy for?
Yes, thought Kaz without hesitation. There’s one person I would trust. One person I know would never use my weaknesses against me.
“You’re not weak because you can’t read. You’re weak because you’re afraid of people seeing your weakness. You’re letting shame decide who you are. Help me with the painting.”
Unnatural, a voice clamored in his head. No, thought Matthias, miraculous.
“I am Dunyasha, the White Blade, trained by the Sages of Ahmrat Jen, the greatest assassin of this age.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Kaz. “I don’t hold a grudge. I cradle it. I coddle it. I feed it fine cuts of meat and send it to the best schools. I nurture my grudges, Rollins.”
They crashed through to the first floor in a cloud of plaster and dust, right onto a dinner table that collapsed beneath their weight.
To hell with revenge, to hell with his schemes. If Rollins had done something to Inej, Kaz would paint East Stave with his entrails.
All Wylan wanted to do was stand as close as he possibly could to him and know that he was safe.
But they were his first friends, his only friends, and Wylan knew that even if he’d had his pick of a thousand companions, these would have been the people he chose.
“You’re better than waffles, Matthias Helvar.” A small smile curled the Fjerdan’s lips. “Let’s not say things we don’t mean, my love.”
“What do you think my forgiveness looks like, Jordie?” “Who the hell is Jordie?”
“Is that—?” asked Wylan. “Scheming face?” said Jesper. Matthias nodded. “Definitely.”
“Mati en sheva yelu. This action will have no echo. It means we won’t repeat the same mistakes, that we won’t continue to do harm.”
“She claims she has Lantsov blood and that she’s a contender for the Ravkan throne.”
Matthias wondered if it was better that they couldn’t be sure who was responsible. That way no one had to bear the guilt or the blame.
He fears for her, Matthias thought, and he does not like it. For once, he could sympathize with the demjin.
Johannus Rietveld.” “Who the hell is that?” asked Nina. “He’s a farmer from a town near Lij. His family’s been there for years. He has holdings in Kerch and in Novyi Zem.”
“This is the city I bled for. And if Ketterdam has taught me anything, it’s that you can always bleed a little more.”
“It’s done.” He’d liquidated every asset he had, used the last of the savings he’d accrued, every ill-gotten cent.
They looked like dead animals.
But she would never know what it was like for him to see Nina pull her close, watch Jesper loop his arm through hers, what it was to stand in doorways and against walls and know he could never draw nearer.
She looked slightly affronted at that. “And what’s yours?” Kaz thought of the moment on Vellgeluk that had nearly cost him everything.
He knew exactly what he intended to leave behind when he was gone. Damage.
She followed him anyway.
Two of the deadliest people the Barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both of them keeling over.
She’d often wished to chip away a bit of his arrogance, but she couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Kaz stripped of his pride.
I came for the killers. The hard ones. The hungry ones. The people like me. This is my gang,”
But in that moment, through the wide slats in the banister landing, she saw his eyes were open. His gaze found hers. He’d known she was there all along. Of course he had. He always knew how to find her.
“I recommend a cane,” Kaz said.
“Who do you want standing in that doorway when the lion gets hungry? A crow? Or a washed-up rooster who squawks and struts, then sides with a Dime Lion and some dirty merch against one of his own?”
“You have two minutes to get out of my house, old man. This city’s price is blood,” said Kaz, “and I’m happy to pay with yours.”
“I told you, I like your stupid face.”
They were accompanied by a fox-faced man in his twenties wearing a teal frock coat, brown leather gloves, and an impressive set of Zemeni revolvers slung around his hips.
“He knows me!” Sturmhond said delightedly. He nudged Genya with an elbow. “I told you I’m famous.”
