“Maybe. But I’ve seen you manipulate metal. I’ve seen you direct it. What if you don’t miss because you’re directing your bullets too?”
Jesper shook his head. This was ridiculous. He was a good shot because he’d been raised on the frontier, because he understood guns, because his mother had taught him to steady his hand, clear his mind, and to sense his target as much as see it. His mother. A Fabrikator. A Grisha, even if she never used that word. No. That’s not how it works . But what if it was?
He shook off the thought, feeling the need to move ignite over his skin. “Why do you have to say things like that? Why can’t you just let things be easy?”
“Because they’re not easy,” Wylan said in his simple, earnest way. No one in the Barrel talked like that. “You keep pretending everything is okay. You move on to the next fight or the next party. What are you afraid is going to happen if you stop?”
Jesper shrugged again. He adjusted the buttons on his shirt, touched his thumbs to his revolvers. When he felt like this, mad and scattered, it was as if his hands had a life of their own. His whole body itched. He needed to get out of this room.
Wylan laid his hand on Jesper’s shoulder. “Stop.”
Jesper didn’t know if he wanted to jerk away or pull him closer.
“Just stop,” Wylan said. “Breathe.”
Wylan’s gaze was steady. Jesper couldn’t look away from that clear-water blue. He forced himself to still, inhaled, exhaled.
“Again,” Wylan said, and when Jesper opened his mouth to take another breath, Wylan leaned forward and kissed him.
Jesper’s mind emptied. He wasn’t thinking of what had happened before or what might happen next. There was only the reality of Wylan’s mouth, the press of his lips, then the fine bones of his neck, the silky feel of his curls as Jesper cupped his nape and drew him nearer. This was the kiss he’d been waiting for. It was a gunshot. It was prairie fire. It was the spin of Makker’s Wheel. Jesper felt the pounding of his heart—or was it Wylan’s?—like a stampede in his chest, and the only thought in his head was a happy, startled, Oh .
Slowly, inevitably, they broke apart.
“Wylan,” Jesper said, looking into the wide blue sky of his eyes, “I really hope we don’t die.”
N ina was furious to learn that Genya had tailored not only Wylan but Kaz as well, and she hadn’t gotten to watch.
He’d let the Tailor set his nose, reduce the swelling on his eye so that he could actually see, and deal with some of the worst damage he’d taken to his body. But that was all he’d permitted.
“Why?” said Nina. “She could have—”
“She didn’t know when to stop,” said Kaz.
Nina had a sudden suspicion that Genya had offered to heal Kaz’s bad leg. “Well, you look like the worst kind of Barrel thug,” Nina complained. “You should have at least let her clean up the rest of your bruising.”
“I am the worst kind of Barrel thug. And if I don’t look like I just trounced ten of the best toughs Per Haskell had to offer, then no one’s going to believe I did. Now let’s get to work. You can’t throw a party if nobody gets the invitation.”
Nina was not looking forward to this particular party, but the next morning, the announcement went in all the daily broadsheets, stuck to the columns at the east and west entries of the Exchange, and tacked to the front door of the Stadhall.
They’d kept it simple:
Kuwei Yul-Bo, son of Bo Yul-Bayur, Chief Chemist of Bhez Ju, makes available his service and will offer his indenture as the market and the hand of Ghezen commands. Those wishing to bid are invited to participate in a free and fair auction in compliance with the laws of Kerch, the rule of the Merchant Council, and the supervision of the Council of Tides at the Church of Barter in four days’ time. Parties will convene at noon. Sacred is Ghezen and in commerce we see His hand.
The city had already been in an uproar over the curfews, barricades, and blockades. Now gossip raced through the coffeehouses and taverns, changing and taking on new force from the salons of the Geldstraat all the way to the slums of the Barrel. According to Kaz’s new Dregs troops, people were eager for any kind of information on the mysterious Kuwei Yul-Bo, and his auction was already being linked to the bizarre attack on West Stave that had nearly leveled two pleasure houses and left reports of flying men in its wake. Inej staked out the Shu Embassy herself and returned with word that messengers had been coming and going all morning and that she’d seen the ambassador himself storm down to the docks to demand the Council of Tides release one of their dry-docked ships.
“He wants to send for a Fabrikator so they can make gold,” said Jesper.
“Pity the harbors are locked down,” said Kaz.
The doors to the Stadhall were closed to the public, and the Merchant Council was said to be in an emergency meeting to determine whether they would sanction the auction. This was the test: Would they support the laws of the city, or—given what they at least suspected about Kuwei—would they falter and find some way to deny his rights?
At the top of the clock tower, Nina waited with the others, watching the eastern entrance to the Exchange. At noon, a man in mercher black approached the arch with a stack of documents. A horde of people descended on him, tearing the flyers from his hands.
“Poor little Karl Dryden,” said Kaz. Apparently, he was the most junior member of the Council, so he’d been stuck with this job.
Moments later, Inej burst through the door of the suite clutching a flyer. Incredible. Nina had been staring straight at the crowd around Dryden and had never glimpsed her.
“They’ve validated the auction,” she said, and handed the paper to Kaz, who passed it around the group.
All the flyer said was: In accordance with the laws of Kerch, the Merchant Council of Ketterdam agrees to act as representatives to Kuwei Yul-Bo in the legal auction of his indenture. Sacred is Ghezen and in commerce we see His hand.
Jesper blew out a long breath and looked at his father, dutifully studying commodities reports and the script Nina and Kaz had prepared for him. “My luck they said yes.”
Inej laid a hand on his arm. “It’s not too late to change course.”
“It is,” said Jesper. “It was too late a long time ago.”
Nina said nothing. She liked Colm. She cared about Jesper. But this auction was the best chance they had of getting Kuwei to Ravka and saving Grisha lives.
“The merchers are perfect marks,” said Kaz. “They’re rich and they’re smart. That makes them easy to dupe.”
“Why?” asked Wylan.
“Rich men want to believe they deserve every penny they’ve got, so they forget what they owe to chance. Smart men are always looking for loopholes. They want an opportunity to game the system.”
“So who’s the hardest mark to swindle?” asked Nina.
“The toughest mark is an honest one,” said Kaz. “Thankfully, they’re always in short supply.” He tapped the glass of the clock face, gesturing to Karl Dryden, who was still standing by the Exchange, fanning himself with his hat now that the crowd had dispersed. “Dryden inherited his fortune from his father. Since then, he’s been too timid an investor to substantially add to his wealth. He’s desperate for a chance to prove himself to the other members of the Merchant Council. We’re going to give him one.”
“What else do we know about him?” asked Nina.
Kaz almost smiled. “We know he’s represented by our good friend and dog lover, Cornelis Smeet.”