“You’re mad.”
“Do you know the secret to gambling, Helvar?” Kaz brought his good foot down on the butt of the fallen soldier ’s rifle. The gun flipped up. Kaz had it in his hands and pointed at Matthias in the space of a breath. He’d never been in any danger at all. “Cheat. Now let’s clean up and get those uniforms on. We have a party to go to.”
“One day you’ll run out of tricks, demjin.”
“You’d better hope it’s not today.”
We’ll see what this night brings, Matthias thought as he bent to the task. Trickery is not my native tongue, but I may learn to speak it yet.
NINE BELLS AND QUARTER CHIME
Jesper knew he should be mad at Kaz – for going after Pekka Rollins and blowing their first plan to bits, and for pushing them into deeper danger with this new scheme. But as he and Wylan crept along the drüskelle roof towards the gatehouse, he was too damn happy to be mad. His heart was pounding, and adrenaline crackled through his body in delicious spikes. It was a little like a party he’d once gone to on West Stave. Someone had filled a city fountain with champagne, and it had taken about two seconds for Jesper to dive in with boots off and gullet open. Now it was risk filling up his nose and mouth, making him feel giddy and invincible. He loved it, and he hated himself for loving it. He should be thinking about the job, the money, getting out from under his debt, making sure his father didn’t suffer for his antics. But when Jesper ’s mind even brushed up against those thoughts, everything in him recoiled. Trying not to die was the best possible distraction.
Even so, Jesper was more conscious of the sounds they made now that they were away from the
crowds and chaos of the embassy. This night belonged to the drüskelle. Hringk?lla was their holiday, and they were all safely ensconced on the White Island. This building was probably the safest place for him and Wylan to be at the moment. But the silence here seemed weighted, sinister. There were no willows or fountains here, as there had been at the embassy. Like the prison, this part of the Ice Court wasn’t intended for public eyes. Jesper caught himself nervously wiggling the baleen wedged between his teeth with his tongue and forced himself to stop before he triggered it. He was fairly sure Wylan would never let him forget a blunder like that.
A large pyramid-shaped skylight looked down on what seemed to be a training room, its floor emblazoned with the drüskelle wolf’s head, the shelves lined with weapons. Through the next glass pyramid, he glimpsed a big dining hall. One wall was taken up by a massive hearth, a wolf’s head carved into the stone above it. The opposite wall was adorned by an enormous banner with no discernible pattern, a patchwork of slender strips of cloth – mostly red and blue, but some purple, too.
It took Jesper a moment to understand what he was seeing.
“Saints,” he said, feeling a little sick. “Grisha colours.”
Wylan squinted. “The banner?”
“Red for Corporalki. Blue for Etherealki. Purple for Materialki. Those are pieces of the kefta that Grisha wear in battle. They’re trophies.”
“There are so many.”
Hundreds. Thousands. I would have worn purple, Jesper thought, if I’d joined the Second Army. He reached for the fizzy elation that had been bubbling through him moments before. He’d been willing, even eager to risk capture and execution as a thief and hired gun. Why was it worse to think about being hunted as a Grisha?
“Let’s keep moving.”
Just like the prison and the embassy, the gatehouse in the drüskelle sector was built around a courtyard so anyone entering could be observed and fired upon from above. But with the gate out of operation, the courtyard battlements were as deserted as the rest of the building. Here, slabs of sleek black stone were inlaid with the silver wolf’s head, the surfaces lit with eerie blue flame. It was the one part of the Ice Court he’d seen that wasn’t white or grey. Even the gate was some kind of black metal that looked impossibly heavy.
A guard was visible below, leaning against the gatehouse arch, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Only one?” asked Wylan.
“Matthias said four guards for non-operational gates.”
“Maybe Yellow Protocol is working in our favour,” said Wylan. “They could have been sent to the prison sector or—”
“Or maybe there are twelve big Fjerdans keeping warm inside.”
As he and Wylan watched, the guard opened a tin of jurda and shoved a wad of the dried orange blossoms into his mouth. He looked bored and irritated, probably frustrated to be stationed far from the fun of the Hringk?lla festivities.