Chapter Text
Kaz Brekker does not like to be disturbed.
It’s common knowledge. If there’s light seeping beneath the shut door on the top level of the Slat and you want to keep all ten of your fingers, you turn tail and leave. Dirtyhands is afoot, they say on the ground floor, whispering into their drinks. Dirtyhands’ll break your digits if you so much as knock.
It’s a truth that’s lightly fabricated, but that’s the way Kaz likes his truths. Stretched to appropriate lengths—because he loathes to be disturbed, but no fingers have been broken yet.
However, on a chilly evening, the rain steady but not raucous enough to close his window, an unfortunate soul raps their knuckles hard against his door. It makes his hand still, fingers puckered around the cold metal of his pen. He waits. The knock comes again, this time quicker, more fervent.
He scowls and throws down his pen, letting it roll across the dark wood of his desk. He pulls himself up, wincing as his leg aches and threatens to give out beneath him. Damn this disagreeable cold.
He leans heavily on his cane as he approaches his door, cracking it open. Emil—one of the newer members of the Dregs, a garishly Fjerdan man with more brawn than brain if he’s interrupting Kaz at twelve bells—stands in the dim hallway, shifting from foot to foot. He’s nervous. Good. He has every right to be.
Kaz says, “I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Sorry, boss.” Emil grimaces. Stretched across his forehead is a thin layer of sweat. His lips shine, as if they’d been licked over and over. It gives Kaz pause. “If it wasn’t urgent, I wouldn’t come knocking.”
Kaz clenches his jaw. Curiosity settles in his bones, has him tugging open the door. “Enter. Be quick about it.”
Emil steps into the room, eyes flicking around at the warm wood and fine decor, the fire roaring in the hearth. He wrings his hands.
Kaz settles back into his chair, lacing his gloved fingers together. “What business?”
Emil startles. Kaz’s eyebrows lower, eyes squinting. “No business. Just—uh, just some news.”
He stops at that, resuming his nervous fidgeting, and Kaz’s patience evaporates. He thumps his cane hard against the floor and watches Emil jump. “Spit it out.”
“The ship,” Emil blurts, eyes wide. “The ship you bought. It was plundered.”
The rotation of the word halts. Plundered. Kaz sits still and silent in his chair, expression neutral as his mind clips along, conjuring images and questions and theories. His heart thumps to the rhythm of her name—Inej, Inej, Inej.
“The Wraith?” He keeps his voice flat.
“Yes, sir. The very same.”
Carefully, Kaz leans back in his chair. His chest feels tight. “Who’s your informant?”
“A Fjerdan man named Hjalmar. He lives off the coast, just north of Djerholm. Said he saw the two ships, then the smoke. The attacker had a red sail, the name Askold written along the side.”
“A Ravkan ship,” Kaz murmurs. Anger rises, pulse thrumming in his ears. It must have been a Grisha ship, then. The only thing that could possibly plunder The Wraith. “Did they make it out?”
“Yes. Hjalmar said he saw it sail away.”
“And The Wraith?”
Emil’s face is ashen. “N-Nothing but flames, boss.”
Kaz controls his expression, but he’s at the mercy of his mind. He can picture it clearly—the ship, broken in two and sinking into the icy blue, flames licking the wood and incinerating the sail. He thinks of Inej, of—
He clamps down hard on the terror burning in his throat before it gags him. Later, he urges himself. He breathes. He compartmentalizes. He asks, “any survivors?”
“He couldn’t tell. He was too far out.”
“And who is Hjalmar to you?”
“A friend, boss. We grew up in Fjerda together.” Emil swallows, throat bobbing. “His word is good.”
Kaz nods slowly. In front of him lay outcomes, so tangible he almost sees them floating in the air. Next steps, options. Revenge. “Do you have the correspondence you’ve received from him?”
Emil bobs his head in a frantic nod. “Yes, boss.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws an envelope. Kaz holds one gloved hand aloft, and Emil slides the paper into his palm. Kaz flips the envelope open and pulls out the letter.
Half of it is pointless platitudes, Hjalmar asking about life and business. If Ghezen has been kind to Emil. Then, it changes.
You told me to keep an eye out for ships, Hjalmar writes. Well, a day ago, a Kerch ship and a Ravkan ship got into it just off the coast. The Wraith against the Askold. It was no contest. Within an hour, the Wraith was nothing more than splintered wood and flames. I saw a few floating after it went down, but I lost them in the smoke. Nothing survives long in these waters, anyway.
Kaz tastes bile. He keeps reading.
The Askold got out, though it looked pretty bad. Probably will recover in Djerholm before heading back south.
I do hope you’re taking care of yourself. I still cannot believe you stayed in Ketterdam—after growing up there, I couldn’t leave fast enough. You’re a stronger man than—
Kaz lowers the letter. He feels sick—truly, terribly sick.
“I wish it were better news,” Emil says, soft. Kaz looks up to see Emil peering at him with sorrow in his eyes. It makes him abruptly furious.
“I don’t need your pity,” Kaz spits. “One million kruge is currently floating in Fjerda’s shit bucket. Someone’s going to pay for this.” His control is slipping—he can feel the water rising, the bodies beneath his hands. “Get out of my sight.”
Emil can’t seem to get away fast enough. He bobs his head. “Yes, boss.”
As the door shuts with a click, Kaz grips the edge of his desk hard. He can picture it all—the ship, in ruins. Inej in the water, floating on her back, her clothes fanned around her. Her eyes are open, but she does not see blustery day turn to bitter night. She does not see her lovely skin become swollen with salt and rot, become malleable and break off of her in soggy clumps.
A wet retch escapes Kaz’s lips. He rockets to his feet and limps across the room, cane forgotten. He leans over his empty washbasin, mouth open, saliva dripping from his lips. All it takes is another image of Inej as a bloated corpse for his dinner to make a startling reappearance.
He hates this flaw of his, this weakness he can’t fight. Because now that he’s thinking of it, he can’t stop, and it hits him like the unforgiving surf, walloping him with wave after wave of putrid image. Inej in various stages of decay, the skin of her face peeling away and revealing stark bone beneath. Inej’s corpse reaching the Fjerdan shores, bumping up against the rocks, just like Jordie against the docks of Fifth Harbor.
He dissolves into painful dry heaves, fingers tight against the porcelain basin. He thinks of skin beneath his hands, swollen and cold. His back bows with the force of the subsequent retch, raw throat screaming for relief, black splotches creeping in from the edges of his vision. His knees wobble. No, Kaz thinks, Don’t pass out.
He wheezes around tight lungs as his legs give way, sending him sprawling to the floor. On all fours, he tries to tug air into his unforgiving lungs, blunt fingernails digging into the wooden boards beneath him. He thinks of frigid water and rot. His vision darkens again, flickering like a dying candle, but he’s able to stay conscious by force of will. He stares at one of the nails imbedded in the floor and thinks of nothing but it, the curvature of the metal and the smoothness of the head. His mind attempts to stray, but he refuses to let it.
He pulls himself up when his breathing is no longer labored, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and spitting into the basin. The silence of the room is eerie—faintly, Kaz can hear footsteps and the clomping of hooves on the cobblestone street below. He can hear the rain, pattering on the roof. The whistle of the wind.
He looks to the window, still ajar, blowing the curtains side to side. It’s open just enough for someone small and slender to sneak through.
It’s a habit he can’t break, even after she’s been gone at sea for so long. Leaving the window unlocked or open, letting her know that he’s available to her, only to her. His throat tightens—she’ll never climb through the window again.
With a swear, he crosses the room and slams it shut. The panes rattle. The silence is now complete; he hears nothing but his own harsh breaths, the pulsing of blood in his ears. It’s loud. Deafening.
He digs through the drawers of his desk for the bottle of Ravkan vodka he keeps on hand. He finds it tucked beneath a stack of paper and takes a swig, lets the burn travel down his throat to start a fire in his chest. He grits his teeth, but takes another drink.
He sits heavily in his chair and withdraws a sheet of paper, clutching his pen between two shaking fingers. Then, he writes—in detail, in length—about possible plots for his revenge. His mind is strikingly, shockingly clear. It’s all laid out in front of him, all possible ways to make every member of the Askold pay for what they did. He observes every angle. He considers every variable.
Eventually, when the sky is the slightest bit lighter and the bottle significantly so, he lets himself stop. The room grows too warm as he relaxes against the back of his chair, bottle cradled to his chest like a sleeping babe. His thoughts grow slow, syrupy, and he feels good, like his moment of panic and weakness was a daydream, ages ago. Soon, when the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon, he forgets about grief and revenge entirely. His head lulls against his shoulder, eyelids drooping, and he thinks of Inej—Inej in the gray dawn, Inej with her black hair falling around her shoulders, Inej with her head tilted back in a laugh. Eyes sparkling like the sun off the True Sea. Gaze only for him.
#
Kaz wakes when golden sunlight cuts across his face like a blade. He startles, wrenching his neck from the uncomfortable position he fell asleep in. Pain shoots from his temple to his carotid artery, and he groans low in his throat. His mouth tastes like astringent alcohol and sour bile.
He breathes deep, pushing clammy hands through his hair. He feels truly wretched, and for a beautiful moment, he doesn’t remember why.
Then, he does, and has to shove his head between his legs to fight the lightheadedness that comes with it.
The Wraith, plundered and sunken. Nothing but broken woods and flames, according to Emil’s contact. And it’s unfair—utterly so—because she told him she’d be coming back in a few weeks for a visit. She told him she sunk two more slaver ships, told him how the captain begged for his life before she took it from him. No mercy for people who sell people; even her Saints understood that. He smiled when he read the letter and ran his thumb over her signature, tracing the delicate lines and loops that made it hers. Perhaps if he focused hard enough, he could feel her hand through the paper alone, could feel dry heat and soft skin. Touch without touch.
He will never touch her again, he realizes as he sits up. Her fingers will never lace with his, and he will never feel the terrifying thrill of her skin against his again.
It angers him. His jaw clenches as he stands on unsteady legs, head pounding like a war drum. He’s furious; shaking with it. How dare they take her away from him?
He rips off his shirt and lets it fall into a lump on the ground, hands already rifling through his dresser for a clean one. He pulls it on and struggles with the buttons, fingers trembling with rage, and follows it with a vest and heavy overcoat. He shoves Hjalmar’s letter into his pocket, puts on his hat and palms his cane, gloved fingers tight against the crow’s head.
He wrenches open his door and clunks down the stairs, so furious he’s shaking with it. The meager crowd parts to make room for Dirtyhands, servers and patrons giving him wary looks as he passes. He wonders what he looks like, if he appears half as unhinged as he feels.
He steps outside into the sun. His eyes against the light, a zing of pain lacing through his temples at the brightness. He’s unsure of what time it is, how long he slept for, as people mull about around him.
A caw reaches his ears. He glances up and there four crows sit, perched on the gabled roof aside his office window. One cocks its head at him, as if curious.
Kaz grips his cane tighter and utters a swear beneath his breath. Then, he walks.