Inej raised a brow and slowly wiped the blood of kings on her trousers.
Dunyasha snarled and launched herself at Inej, slashing and jabbing with one arm, the other pressed to her wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. She’d obviously been trained to fight with just one hand. But she’s never had to fight with an injury , Inej realized. Maybe the monks skipped that lesson. And now that she was wounded, her tell was even more obvious.
They had neared the tip of the church’s main spine. The scrollwork was loose in places here, and Inej adjusted her footing accordingly, dodging Dunyasha’s onslaught easily now, bobbing right and left, taking small victories, a cut here, a jab there. It was a war of attrition, and the mercenary was losing blood quickly.
“You’re better than I thought,” Dunyasha panted, surprising Inej with the admission. Her eyes were dull with pain; the hand at her sternum was slick and red. Still, her posture was erect, her balance steady as they stood mere feet from each other, perched on the high metal spine.
“Thank you,” Inej said. The words felt false in her mouth.
“There is no shame in meeting a worthy opponent. It means there is more to learn, a welcome reminder to pursue humility.” The girl lowered her head, sheathed her knife. She placed a fist over her heart in salute.
Inej waited, guard up. Could the girl mean it? This wasn’t the way you ended a fight in the Barrel, but the mercenary clearly followed her own code. Inej did not want to be forced to kill her, no matter how soulless she seemed.
“I have learned humility,” Dunyasha said, head bowed. “And now you will learn that some are meant to serve. And some are meant to rule.”
Dunyasha’s face snapped up. She unfurled her palm and released a sharp gust of air.
Inej saw a cloud of red dust and recoiled from it, but it was too late. Her eyes were burning. What was it? It didn’t matter. She was blind. She heard the sound of a blade being drawn and felt the slash of a knife. She bobbled backward along the spine, fighting to keep her footing.
Tears streamed down her face as she tried to wipe the dust from her eyes. Dunyasha was nothing but a blurry shape in front of her. Inej held her blade straight out, trying to create distance between them, and felt the mercenary’s knife cut across her forearm. The blade slid from Inej’s fingers and clattered to the rooftop. Sankta Alina, protect me.
But perhaps the Saints had chosen Dunyasha as their vessel. Despite Inej’s prayers and penance, maybe judgment had come at last.
I am not sorry , she realized. She had chosen to live freely as a killer rather than die quietly as a slave, and she could not regret that. She would go to her Saints with a ready spirit and hope they would receive her.
The next slice cut across her knuckles. Inej took another step backward, but she knew she was running out of room. Dunyasha was going to drive her right over the edge.
“I told you, Wraith. I am fearless. My blood flows with the strength of every queen and conqueror who came before me.”
Inej’s foot caught the edge of one of the metal scrolls, and then she understood. She didn’t have her opponent’s training or education or fine white clothes. She would never be as ruthless and she could not wish to be. But she knew this city inside out. It was the source of her suffering and the proving ground for her strength. Like it or not, Ketterdam—brutal, dirty, hopeless Ketterdam—had become her home. And she would defend it. She knew its rooftops the way she knew the squeaky stairs of the Slat, the way she knew the cobblestones and alleys of the Stave. She knew every inch of this city like a map of her heart.
“The girl who knows no fear,” Inej panted as the mercenary’s shape wobbled before her.
Dunyasha bowed. “Goodbye, Wraith.”
“Then learn fear now before you die.” Inej stepped aside, balancing on one foot as Dunyasha’s boot came down on the loose piece of scrollwork.
If the mercenary had not been bleeding, she might have taken better heed of the terrain. If she had not been so eager, she might have righted herself.
Instead, she slipped, tipped forward. Inej saw Dunyasha through the blur of her tears. She hung for a moment, silhouetted against the sky, toes seeking purchase, arms outstretched with nothing to grasp, a dancer poised to leap, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. Even now, in this last moment, she looked like a girl from a story, destined for greatness. She was a queen without mercy, a figure carved in ivory and amber.
Dunyasha fell silently, disciplined to the last.
Inej peered cautiously over the side of the roof. Far below, people were screaming. The mercenary’s body lay like a white blossom in a spreading field of red.
“May you make more than misery in your next life,” Inej murmured.
She needed to move. The siren still hadn’t sounded, but Inej knew she was late. Jesper would be waiting. She sprinted across the cathedral’s rooftop, back over Ghezen’s thumb to the chapel. She grabbed the climbing line and Jesper’s rifle from where she’d lodged it between two pieces of scrollwork. As she scaled the dome and ducked her head into the orange chapel, she could only pray she was not too late. But Jesper was nowhere to be found.
Inej craned her neck, searching the empty chapel.
She needed to locate Jesper. Kuwei Yul-Bo had to die tonight.
T he Council of Tides had arrived in all their splendor, and Jesper couldn’t help but be reminded of the Komedie Brute. What was this whole thing but a play Kaz had staged with that poor sucker Kuwei as the star?
Jesper thought of Wylan, who might finally see justice for his mother, of his own father waiting in the bakery. He was sorry for the fight they’d had. Though Inej had said they’d both be glad to know where they stood, Jesper wasn’t so sure. He loved an all-out brawl, but exchanging harsh words with his father had left a lump in his gut like bad porridge. They’d been not talking about things for so long that actually speaking the truth felt like it had broken some kind of spell—not a curse, but good magic, the kind that kept everyone safe, that might preserve a kingdom under glass. Until an idiot like him came along and used that pretty curio for target practice.
As soon as the Tides were moving up the aisle, Jesper stepped away from the Zemeni delegation and headed toward the church’s thumb. He kept his movements slow and his back to the guards who lined the walls, pretending he was trying to get a better view of the excitement.
When he reached the arch that marked the entrance to the thumb nave, he directed his steps toward the cathedral’s main doors as if to exit.
“Step back, please,” said one of the stadwatch grunts, keeping polite for the foreign visitor even as he stretched his neck to see what was happening with the Council of Tides. “The doors must be kept clear.”
“I am not feeling well,” Jesper said, clutching his stomach, laying on a bit of a Zemeni accent. “I pray you let me pass.”
“Afraid not, sir.” Sir! Such civility for anyone who wasn’t a Barrel rat.
“You don’t understand,” Jesper said. “I must relieve myself urgently . I had dinner last night at a restaurant … Sten’s Stockpot?”
The grunt winced. “Why would you go there?”
“It was in one of the guidebooks.” In fact, it was one of the worst restaurants in Ketterdam, but also one of the cheapest. Since it was open at all hours and so affordable, Sten’s was one of the few things Barrel thugs and stadwatch officers had in common. Every other week, somebody reported some nasty trouble with his gut thanks to Sten and his Saintsforsaken stockpot.
The grunt shook his head and signaled to the stadwatch guards at the arch. One of them trotted over.
“This poor bastard went to Sten’s. If I let him out the front, the captain’s bound to see him. Take him out through the chapel?”
“Why the hell would you eat at Sten’s?” the other guard asked.
“My boss doesn’t pay me well,” said Jesper.