“We are of one mind in this,” said Matthias. “Bo Yul-Bayur will not leave the Ice Court alive.”
“The deal is the deal,” she said in Kerch, the language of trade, a tongue that belonged to neither of them.
“The deal is the deal,” he replied.
Matthias swung his pick and brought it down in a hard arc, a kind of declaration. She hefted her pick and did the same. Without another word, they returned to the work of the grave, falling into a determined rhythm.
Kaz was right about one thing at least. She and Matthias had finally found something to agree on.
PART 4
THE TRICK TO FALLING
Inej felt as though she and Kaz had become twin soldiers, marching on, pretending they were fine, hiding their wounds and bruises from the rest of the crew.
It took two more days of travel to reach the cliffs that overlooked Djerholm, but the going was easier as they moved south and towards the coast. The weather warmed, the ground thawed, and she began to see signs of spring. Inej had thought Djerholm would look like Ketterdam – a canvas of black, grey, and brown, tangled streets dense with mist and coalsmoke, ships of every kind in the harbour, pulsing with the rush and bustle of trade. Djerholm’s harbour was crowded with ships, but its tidy streets marched to the water in orderly fashion, and the houses were painted such colours – red, blue, yellow, pink – as if in defiance of the wild white land and the long winters this far north. Even the warehouses by the quay were wrought in cheerful colours. It looked the way she’d imagined cities as a child, everything candy-hued and in its proper place.
Was the Ferolind already waiting at the docks, snug in its berth, flying its Kerch flag and the distinctive orange and green parti-colour of the Haanraadt Bay Company? If the plan went the way Kaz hoped, tomorrow night they would stroll down the Djerholm quay with Bo Yul-Bayur in tow, hop on their ship, and be far out to sea before anyone in Fjerda was the wiser. She preferred not to think of what tomorrow night might look like if the plan went wrong.
Inej glanced up to where the Ice Court stood like a great white sentinel on a massive cliff overlooking the harbour. Matthias had called the cliffs unscalable, and Inej had to admit that they would present a challenge even for the Wraith. They seemed impossibly high, and from a distance, their white lime surface looked clean and bright as ice.
“Cannon,” said Jesper.
Kaz squinted up at the big guns pointed out at the bay. “I’ve broken into banks, warehouses, mansions, museums, vaults, a rare book library, and once the bedchamber of a visiting Kaelish diplomat whose wife had a passion for emeralds. But I’ve never had a cannon shot at me.”
“There’s something to be said for novelty,” offered Jesper.
Inej pressed her lips together. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
“Those guns are there to stop invading armadas,” Jesper said confidently. “Good luck hitting a skinny little schooner cutting through the waves bound for fortune and glory.”
“I’ll quote you on that when a cannonball lands in my lap,” said Nina.
They slipped easily into the traffic of travellers and traders where the cliff road met the northern road that led to Upper Djerholm. The upper town was a rambling extension of the city below, a sprawling collection of shops, markets, and inns that served the guards and staff who worked at the Ice Court as well as visitors. Luckily, the crowds were heavy and motley enough that one more group of foreigners could go unnoticed, and Inej found herself breathing a bit easier. She’d worried that she and Jesper might be dangerously conspicuous in the Fjerdan capital’s sea of blonds. Maybe the crew from the Shu Han was relying on the jumbled crowd for cover, too.
Signs of Hringk?lla celebrations were everywhere. The shops had created elaborate displays of pepper cookies baked in the shape of wolves, some hanging like ornaments from large, twisting trees, and the bridge spanning the river gorge had been festooned with ribbons in Fjerdan silver. One way into the Ice Court and one way out. Would they cross this bridge as visitors tomorrow?
“What are they?” Wylan asked, pausing in front of a peddler ’s cart laden with wreaths made of the same twisting branches and silver ribbons.
“Ash trees,” replied Matthias. “Sacred to Djel.”
“There’s supposed to be one in the middle of the White Island,” said Nina, ignoring the warning look the Fjerdan cast her. “It’s where the drüskelle gather for the listening ceremony.”
Kaz tapped his walking stick on the ground. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“The ash is sustained by the spirit of Djel,” said Matthias. “It’s where we may best hear his voice.”
Kaz’s eyes flickered. “Not what I asked. Why isn’t it on our plans?”
“Because it’s the holiest place in all of Fjerda and not essential to our mission.”