She never walked West Stave alone. With the Dregs at her side, she could stroll by the Menagerie without a glance towards the golden bars on the windows. But tonight, her heart was pounding, and she could hear the roar of blood in her ears as the gilded fa?ade came into view. The Menagerie had been built to look like a tiered cage, its first two storeys left open but for the widely spaced golden bars. It was also known as the House of Exotics. If you had a taste for a Shu girl or a Fjerdan giant, a redhead from the Wandering Isle, a dark-skinned Zemeni, the Menagerie was your destination. Each girl was known by her animal name – leopard, mare, fox, raven, ermine, fawn, snake. Suli seers wore the jackal mask when they plied their trade and looked into a person’s fate. But what man would want to bed a jackal? So the Suli girl – and the Menagerie always stocked a Suli girl – was known as the lynx. Clients didn’t come looking for the girls themselves, just brown Suli skin, the fire of Kaelish hair, the tilt of golden Shu eyes. The animals remained the same, though the girls came and went.
Inej glimpsed peacock feathers in the parlour, and her heart stuttered. It was just a bit of decoration, part of a lavish flower arrangement, but the panic inside her didn’t care. It rose up, clutching at her breath. People crowded in on all sides, men in masks, women in veils – or maybe they were men in veils and women in masks. It was impossible to tell. The horns of the Imp. The goggling eyes of the Madman, the sad face of the Scarab Queen wrought in black and gold. Artists loved to paint scenes of West Stave, the boys and girls who worked the brothels, the pleasure seekers dressed as characters of the Komedie Brute. But there was no beauty here, no real merriment or joy, just transactions, people seeking escape or some colourful oblivion, some dream of decadence that they could wake from whenever they wished.
Inej forced herself to look at the Menagerie as she passed.
It’s just a place, she told herself. Just another house. How would Kaz see it? Where are the entrances and exits? How do the locks work? Which windows are unbarred? How many guards are
posted, and which ones look alert? Just a house full of locks to pick, safes to crack, pigeons to dupe.
And she was the predator now, not Heleen in her peacock feathers, not any man who walked these streets.
As soon as she was out of sight of the Menagerie, the tight feeling in her chest and throat began to ease. She’d done it. She’d walked alone on West Stave, right in front of the House of Exotics.
Whatever was waiting for her in Fjerda, she could face it.
A hand hooked around her forearm and yanked her off her feet.
Inej regained her balance quickly. She spun on her heel and tried to pull away, but the grip was too strong.
“Hello, little lynx.”
Inej hissed in a breath and tore her arm free. Tante Heleen. That was what her girls knew to call Heleen Van Houden or risk the back of her hand. To the rest of the Barrel she was the Peacock, though Inej had always thought she looked less like a bird than a preening cat. Her hair was a thick and luscious gold, her eyes hazel and slightly feline. Her tall, sinuous frame was draped in vibrant blue silk, the plunging neckline accented with iridescent feathers that tickled the signature diamond choker glittering at her neck.
Inej turned to run, but her path was blocked by a huge bruiser, his blue velvet coat stretched tight across his big shoulders. Cobbet, Heleen’s favourite enforcer.
“Oh, no you don’t, little lynx.”
Inej’s vision blurred. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped again.
“That’s not my name,” Inej managed to gasp out.
“Stubborn thing.”
Heleen grabbed hold of Inej’s tunic.
Move, her mind screamed, but she couldn’t. Her muscles had locked up; a high whine of terror filled her head.
Heleen ran a single manicured talon along her cheek. “Lynx is your only name,” Heleen crooned.
“You’re still pretty enough to fetch a good price. Getting hard around the eyes though – too much time spent with that little thug Brekker.”
A humiliating sound emerged from Inej’s throat, a choked wheeze.
“I know what you are, lynx. I know what you’re worth down to the cent. Cobbet, maybe we should take her home now.”
Black crowded into Inej’s vision. “You wouldn’t dare. The Dregs—”
“I can bide my time, little lynx. You’ll wear my silks again, I promise.” She released Inej. “Enjoy your night,” she said with a smile, then snapped open her blue fan and whirled away into the crowd, Cobbet trailing after her.
Inej stood frozen, shaking. Then she dove into the crowd, eager to disappear. She wanted to break into a run, but she just kept moving steadily, pushing towards the harbour. As she walked, she released the triggers on the sheaths at her forearms, feeling the grips of her daggers slide into her palms.
Sankt Petyr, renowned for his bravery, on the right; the slender, bone-handled blade she’d named for Sankta Alina on the left. She recited the names of her other knives, too. Sankta Marya and Sankta Anastasia strapped to her thighs. Sankt Vladimir hidden in her boot, and Sankta Lizabeta snug at her belt, the blade etched in a pattern of roses. Protect me, protect me. She had to believe her Saints saw and understood the things she did to survive.