“Too much to drink,” said Nina airily.
She slipped quickly down the stairs and into the crowd, moving steadily towards where a group of soldiers garbed in silver-and-white military dress surrounded a portly man with a luxuriant moustache. If the constellation of medals on his chest was any indication, he had to be a general or close to it. Should she target him directly? She needed someone of high-enough rank to have access to privileged information – someone drunk enough to make ill-considered decisions, but not so drunk that he couldn’t take her where she needed to go. By the ruddy look of the general’s cheeks and the way he was swaying on his feet, he looked as if he might be too far gone to do anything but take a nap facedown in a potted plant.
Nina could feel the minutes ticking down. It was time to make her bid. She nabbed a glass of champagne then moved carefully around the circle. As a soldier separated from the group, she took a step backwards, directly into his path. He slammed into her. He was light enough on his feet that it wasn’t much of a hit, but she gave a sharp cry and lurched forwards, spilling her champagne.
Instantly, several strong arms reached out to brace her fall.
“You clod,” said the general. “You nearly knocked her from her feet.”
And on the first try, Nina thought to herself. Never mind. I am an excellent spy.
The poor soldier ’s cheeks were bright red. “Apologies, miss.”
“I’m sorry,” she said in Kerch, feigning confusion and keeping to the language of the Menagerie.
“I don’t speak Fjerdan.”
“Deep apologies,” he attempted in Kerch. Then made a valiant attempt at Kaelish, “Much sorry.”
“Oh no, it was my fault entirely,” Nina said breathlessly.
“Ahlgren, stop slaughtering her language and fetch her a fresh glass of champagne.” The soldier bowed and hurried off. “Are you quite all right? Shall I find you a seat?” the general asked in excellent Kerch.
“He just startled me,” Nina said with a smile, leaning on the general’s arm.
“I think it might be best to get you off your feet.”
Nina restrained an arch of her brow. I just bet. But first I need to find out what you know.
“And miss the party?”
“You look pale. Some rest in one of the upper rooms will help.”
Saints, he doesn’t waste any time, does he? Before Nina could insist that she was perfectly well but might like to take a turn on the terrace, a warm voice said, “Really, General Eklund, the best way to garner a woman’s goodwill is not to tell her she looks sickly.”
The general scowled, his moustache bristling, but then he seemed to snap to attention.
“So true, so true,” he laughed nervously.
Nina turned, and the floor seemed to drop from beneath her feet. No, she thought, her heart stuttering in panic. It can’t be. He drowned. He’s supposed to be at the bottom of the ocean.
But if Jarl Brum was dead, he made a very lively corpse.
TEN BELLS AND HALF CHIME
Jesper’s clothes were covered in tiny slivers and shavings of steel. His stolen uniform was soaked with sweat, his arms ached, and the headache that had burrowed into his left temple felt as if it was setting up permanent residence there. For nearly a half hour, he had been focusing on a single link in the chain that ran from the left end of the winch into one of the slots in the stone wall, using his power to weaken the metal as Wylan sawed away at it with the laundry shears. At first they’d been cautious, worried they’d snap the link and disable the gate before it was time to raise it, but the steel was stronger than either of them had anticipated, and their progress was frustratingly slow. When the three-quarters chime rang, Jesper ’s panic took over.
“Let’s just raise the gate,” he said with a frustrated growl. “We sound Black Protocol, and then shoot at the winch until it gives up.”
Wylan flipped his curls from his forehead and spared him a quick glance. Jesper could see the blood on his hands where blisters had formed and then burst as he hacked away at the link. “You really love guns so much?”
Jesper shrugged. “I don’t love killing people.”
“Then what is it about them?”
Jesper refocused on the link. “I don’t know. The sound. The way the world narrows to just you and the target. I worked with a gunsmith in Novyi Zem who knew I was a Fabrikator. We came up with some crazy stuff.”
“For killing people.”
“You build bombs, merchling. Spare me your judgement.”
“My name is Wylan. And you’re right. I don’t have any business criticising you.”
“Don’t start doing that.”
“What?”
“Agreeing with me,” said Jesper. “Sure path to destruction.”
“I don’t like the idea of killing people, either. I don’t even like chemistry.”
“What do you like?”
“Music. Numbers. Equations. They’re not like words. They … they don’t get mixed up.”