Page 66 of Six of Crows (Dregs 1)
“What the hell was that song?”
“National anthem,” Wylan said smugly. “Schoolroom Fjerdan, remember?”
Jesper shook his head. “I’m impressed. With you and your tutors.”
They liberated two of the guards’ uniforms, leaving their own prison clothes in a tidy bundle, then bound the hands and feet of the guards who still had pulses and gagged them with torn pieces of their prison clothes. Wylan’s uniform was far too big, and Jesper’s sleeves and pants looked ridiculously short, but at least the boots were a reasonable fit.
Wylan gestured to the guards. “Is it safe to leave them, you know—”
“Alive? I’m not big on killing unconscious men.”
“We could wake them up.”
“Pretty ruthless, merchling. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“I’d never even seen a dead body before I came to the Barrel,” Wylan admitted.
“It’s not something to be embarrassed about,” Jesper said, surprising himself a little. But he meant it. Wylan needed to learn to take care of himself, but it would be nice if he could do it without getting on friendly terms with death. “Make sure the gags are tight.”
They took the extra precaution of securing the bound guards to the base of a stone slab. The poor nubs would probably be discovered before they managed to get loose.
“Let’s go,” Jesper said, and they crossed the courtyard to the gatehouse. There were doors to the right and left of the arch.
They took the right side, climbing the stairs cautiously. Though Jesper didn’t think anyone would be lying in wait, some guard might be charged with protecting the gate mechanism at all cost. But the room above the arch was empty, lit only by a lantern set on a low table where a book lay open next to a little pile of whole walnuts and cracked shells. The walls were lined with racks of rifles—very expensive rifles—and Jesper assumed the boxes on the shelves were filled with ammunition. No dust anywhere. Tidy Fjerdans.
Most of the room was taken up by a long winch, handles at each end, thick loops of chain spooled around it. Near each handle, the chains extended in taut spokes through slots in the stone.
Wylan cocked his head to the side. “Huh.”
“I don’t like that sound. What’s wrong?”
“I was expecting rope or cables, not steel chains. If we’re going to make sure the Fjerdans can’t get the gate open, we’re going to have to cut through the metal.”
“But then how do we trigger Black Protocol?”
“That’s the problem.”
The Elderclock began to sound ten bells.
“I’ll weaken the links,” said Jesper. “Look for a file or anything with an edge.”
Wylan held up the shears from the laundry.
“Good enough,” said Jesper. It would have to be.
We have time, he told himself as he focused on the chain. We can still get this done. Jesper hoped the others hadn’t met with any surprises.
Maybe Matthias was wrong about the White Island. Maybe the shears would snap in Wylan’s hands. Maybe Inej would fail. Or Nina. Or Kaz.
Or me. Maybe I’ll fail.
Six people, but a thousand ways this insane plan could go wrong.
31
NINA
NINE BELLS AND HALF CHIME
Nina dared one more glance over her shoulder, watching the guards drag Inej away. She’s smart, deadly. Inej can take care of herself.
The thought brought Nina little comfort, but she had to keep moving. She and Inej had clearly been together, and she wanted to be gone before the guard who had stopped Inej extended his suspicions to her. Besides, there was nothing she could do for Inej now, not without giving herself away and ruining everything. She ducked through the hordes of partygoers and shucked off the conspicuous horsehair cloak, letting it trail behind her, then allowing it to drop and be trampled by the crowd. Her costume would still turn heads, but at least now she didn’t have to worry about a big red topknot giving away her location.
The glass bridge rose before her in a gleaming arc, shimmering in the blue flames of the lanterns on its spires. All around her people laughed and clung to one another as they climbed higher above the ice moat, its surface shining below, a near-perfect mirror. The effect was disconcerting, dizzying; her too-tight beaded slippers seemed to float in midair. The people beside her looked as if they were walking on nothing at all.
Again she had the unpleasant understanding that this place must have been built by Fabrikator craft in some distant past. Fjerdans claimed the construction of the Ice Court was the work of a god or of Sënj Egmond, one of the Saints they claimed had Fjerdan blood. But in Ravka, people had begun to rethink the miracles of the Saints. Had they been true miracles or simply the work of talented Grisha? Was this bridge a gift from Djel? An ancient product of slave labor? Or had the Ice Court been built in a time before Grisha had come to be viewed as monsters by the Fjerdans?
At the highest point of the arch, she got her first real view of the White Island and the inner ring. From a distance, she’d seen the island was protected by another wall. But from this vantage point she saw the wall had been crafted in the shape of a leviathan, a giant ice dragon circling the island and swallowing its own tail. She shivered. Wolves, dragons, what was next? In Ravkan stories, monsters waited to be woken by the call of heroes. Well, she thought, we’re certainly not heroes. Let’s hope this one stays asleep.
The descent on the bridge was even more dizzying, and Nina was relieved when her feet struck solid white marble once more. White cherry trees and silvery buttonwood hedges lined the marble walkway, and security on this side of the bridge seemed decidedly more relaxed. The guards who stood at attention wore elaborate white uniforms accented with silver fur and less than intimidating silver lace. But Nina remembered what Matthias had said: As you moved deeper into the rings, security actually tightened—it just became less visible. She looked at the partygoers moving with her up the slippery stairs and through the cleft between the dragon’s tail and mouth. How many were truly guests, noblemen, entertainers? And how many were Fjerdan soldiers or drüskelle in disguise?
They passed through an open stone court and the palace doors into a vaulted entry several stories high. The palace was made of the same clean, white, unadorned stone as the Ice Court walls, and the whole place felt as if it had been hollowed out of a glacier. Nina couldn’t tell if it was nerves, imagination, or if the place really was cold, but her skin puckered with gooseflesh, and she had to fight to keep her teeth from chattering.
She entered a vast circular ballroom packed with people dancing and drinking beneath a glistening pack of wolves hewn from ice. There had to be at least thirty massive sculptures of running, leaping beasts, their flanks gleaming slickly in the silvery light, jaws open, their slowly melting muzzles dripping occasionally onto the crowd below. Music from an unseen orchestra was barely audible over the gabble of conversation.
The Elderclock began to chime ten bells. It had taken her too long to get across that stupid glass bridge. She needed a better view of the room. As she headed for a swooping white stone staircase, she caught sight of two familiar figures in the shadows of a nearby alcove. Kaz and Matthias. They’d made it. And they were in drüskelle uniforms. Nina suppressed a shiver. Seeing Matthias in those colors settled a different kind of cold into her bones. What had he thought when he put it on? She let her eyes meet his briefly, but his gaze was unreadable. Still, seeing Kaz beside him gave her some comfort. She wasn’t alone, and they were still on schedule.
She didn’t risk so much as a nod of acknowledgment, but continued up the stairs to the balcony on the second floor where she could get a better look at the flow of the crowd. It was a trick she’d learned in school from Zoya Nazyalensky. There were patterns in the way people moved, the way they clustered around power. They thought they were drifting, milling aimlessly, but really they were being drawn toward people of status. Not surprisingly, there was a large concentration eddying around the Fj
erdan queen and her attendants. Strange, Nina thought, observing their white gowns. In Ravka, white was a servant’s color. But that crown wasn’t anything to sniff at—twisting spines of diamonds that looked like branches glowing with new frost.
The royals were too well-protected to be of use to her, but not far away she saw another whirl of activity around a group in military dress. If anyone knew Yul-Bayur’s location on the island, it would be someone highly ranked in Fjerda’s military.
“Nice view, isn’t it?”
Nina nearly jumped as a man sidled up beside her. Some spy she made. She hadn’t even noticed him approaching.
He grinned at her and placed a hand at the small of her back. “You know, there are rooms here set aside for a little fun. And you look like more than a little fun.” His hand slid lower.
Nina plunged his heart rate, and he dropped like a stone, conking his head on the banister. He’d wake up in about ten minutes with a bad headache and possibly a minor concussion.
“Is he all right?” asked a passing couple.
“Too much to drink,” said Nina airily.
She slipped quickly down the stairs and into the crowd, moving steadily toward where a group of soldiers garbed in silver-and-white military dress surrounded a portly man with a luxuriant mustache. 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 like 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 backward, 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 forward, 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.
