He still went by Kaz, as he always had, but he stole the name Brekker off a piece of machinery he’d seen on the docks. Rietveld, his family name, was abandoned, cut away like a rotten limb. It was a country name, his last tie to Jordie and his father and the boy he’d been. But he didn’t want Jakob Hertzoon to see him coming.
He found out that the con Hertzoon had run on him and Jordie was a common one. The coffeehouse and the house on Zelverstraat had been nothing more than stage sets, used to fleece fools from the country. Filip with his mechanical dogs had been the roper, used to draw Jordie in, while Margit, Saskia, and the clerks at the trade office had all been shills in on the scam. Even one of the bank officers had to have been in on it, passing information to Hertzoon about their customers and tipping him off to newcomers from the country opening accounts. Hertzoon had probably been running the con on multiple marks at once. Jordie’s little fortune wasn’t enough to justify such a set-up.
But the cruelest discovery was Kaz’s gift for cards. It might have made him and Jordie rich. Once he learned a game, it took him mere hours to master it, and then he simply couldn’t be beaten. He could remember every hand that had been played, each bet that was made. He could keep track of the deal for up to five decks. And if there was something he couldn’t recall, he made up for it by cheating.
He’d never lost his love for sleight of hand, and he graduated from palming coins to cards, cups, wallets, and watches. A good magician wasn’t much different from a proper thief. Before long, he was banned from play in every gambling hall on East Stave.
In each place he went, in each bar and flophouse and brothel and squat, he asked after Jakob Hertzoon, but if anyone knew the name, they refused to admit it.
Then, one day, Kaz was crossing a bridge over East Stave when he saw a man with florid cheeks
and tufty sideburns entering a gin shop. He wasn’t wearing staid mercher black any longer, but garish striped trousers and a maroon paisley vest. His velvet coat was bottle green.
Kaz pushed through the crowd, mind buzzing, heart racing, unsure of what he meant to do, but at the door to the shop, a giant bruiser in a bowler hat stopped him with one meaty hand.
“Shop’s closed.”
“I can see it’s open.” Kaz’s voice sounded wrong to him – reedy, unfamiliar.
“You’ll have to wait.”
“I need to see Jakob Hertzoon.”
“Who?”
Kaz felt like he was about to climb out of his skin. He pointed through the window. “Jakob fucking Hertzoon. I want to talk to him.”
The bruiser had looked at Kaz as if he were deranged. “Get your head straight, lad,” he’d said.
“That ain’t no Hertzoon. That’s Pekka Rollins. Want to get anywhere in the Barrel, you’d best learn his name.”
Kaz knew Pekka Rollins’ name. Everyone did. He’d just never seen the man.
At that moment, Rollins turned towards the window. Kaz waited for acknowledgement – a smirk, a sneer, some spark of recognition. But Rollins’ eyes passed right over him. One more mark. One more cull. Why would he remember?
Kaz had been courted by any number of gangs who liked his way with his fists and the cards. He’d always said no. He’d come to the Barrel to find Hertzoon and punish him, not to join some makeshift family. But learning that his real target was Pekka Rollins changed everything. That night, he lay awake on the floor of the squat he’d holed up in and thought of what he wanted, of what would finally make things right for Jordie. Pekka Rollins had taken everything from Kaz. If Kaz intended to do the same to Rollins, he would need to become his equal and then his better, and he couldn’t do it alone. He needed a gang, and not just any gang, but one that needed him. The next day he’d walked into the Slat and asked Per Haskell if he could use another soldier. He’d known even then, though: he’d start as a grunt, but the Dregs would become his army.
Had all of those steps brought him here tonight? To these dark corridors? It was hardly the vengeance he’d dreamed of.
The rows of cells stretched on and on, infinite, impossible. There was no way he would find Rollins in time. But it was only impossible until it wasn’t, until he sighted that big frame, that florid face through the grate in an iron door. It was only impossible until he was standing in front of Pekka Rollins’ cell.
He was on his side, sleeping. Someone had given him a bad beating. Kaz watched the rise and fall of his chest.
How many times had Kaz seen Pekka since that first glimpse in the gin shop? Never once had there been a flicker of recognition. Kaz wasn’t a boy any longer; there was no reason Pekka should be able to see the child he’d swindled in his features. But it made him furious every time their paths had crossed. It wasn’t right. Pekka’s face – Hertzoon’s face – was indelible in Kaz’s mind, carved there by a jagged blade.