Page 44 of Six of Crows (Dregs 1)
Three weeks she’d traveled with Matthias after the shipwreck. They hadn’t had a compass, hadn’t known where they were going. They hadn’t even known where on the northern shore they’d washed up. They’d spent long days slogging through the snow, freezing nights in whatever rudimentary shelter they could assemble or in the deserted huts of whaling camps when they were lucky enough to come across them. They’d eaten roasted seaweed and whatever grasses or tubers they could find. When they’d found a stash of dried reindeer meat at the bottom of a travel pack in one of the camps, it had been like some kind of miracle. They’d gnawed on it in mute bliss, feeling nearly drunk on its flavor.
After the first night, they’d slept in all the dry clothes and blankets they could find but on opposite sides of the fire. If they didn’t have wood or kindling, they curled against one another, barely touching, but by morning, they’d be pressed together, breathing in tandem, cocooned in muzzy sleep, a single crescent moon.
Every morning he complained that she was impossible to wake.
“It’s like trying to raise a corpse.”
“The dead request five more minutes,” she would say, and bury her head in the furs.
He’d stomp around, packing their few things as loudly as possible, grumbling to himself. “Lazy, ridiculous, selfish…” until she finally roused herself and set about preparing for the day.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” she asked him on one of their endless days trekking through the snow, hoping to find some sign of civilization.
“Sleep,” he said. “Bathe. Pray for my lost friends.”
“Oh yes, the other thugs and killers. How did you become a drüskelle, anyway?”
“Your friends slaughtered my family in a Grisha raid,” he’d said coldly. “Brum took me in and gave me something to fight for.”
Nina hadn’t wanted to believe that, but she knew it was possible. Battles happened, innocent lives were lost in the cross fire. It was equally disturbing to think of that monster Brum as some kind of father figure.
It didn’t seem right to argue or to apologize, so she said the first thing that popped into her head.
“Jer molle pe oonet. Enel mörd je nej afva trohem verret.” I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath.
Matthias had stared at her in shock. “That’s the drüskelle oath to Fjerda. How do you know those words?”
“I tried to learn as much about Fjerda as I could.”
“Why?”
She’d wavered, then said, “So I wouldn’t fear you.”
“You don’t seem afraid.”
“Are you afraid of me?” she’d asked.
“No,” he’d said, and he’d sounded almost surprised. He’d claimed before that he didn’t fear her. This time she believed him. She tried to remind herself that wasn’t a good thing.
They’d walked on for a while, and then he’d asked, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do?”
“Eat.”
“Eat what?”
“Everything. Stuffed cabbage, potato dumplings, black currant cakes, blini with lemon zest. I can’t wait to see Zoya’s face when I come walking into the Little Palace.”
“Zoya Nazyalensky?”
Nina had stopped short. “You know her?”
“We all know of her. She’s a powerful witch.”
It had hit her then: For the drüskelle, Zoya was a little like Jarl Brum—cruel, inhuman, the thing that waited in the dark with death in her hands. Zoya was this boy’s monster. The thought left her uneasy.
“How did you get out of the cages?”
Nina blinked. “What?”
“On the ship. You were bound and in cages.”
“The water cup. The handle broke and the lip was jagged beneath. We used it to cut through our bonds. Once our hands were free…” Nina trailed off awkwardly.
Matthias’ brow lowered. “You were planning to attack us.”
“We were going to make our move that night.”
“But then the storm hit.”
“Yes.”
A Squaller and a Fabrikator had smashed a hole right through the deck, and they’d swum free. But had any of them survived the icy waters? Had they managed to make their way to land? She shivered. If they hadn’t discovered the cup’s secret, she would have drowned in a cage.
“What do drüskelle eat?” she asked, picking up her pace. “Other than Grisha babies?”
“We don’t eat babies!”
“Dolphin blubber? Reindeer hooves?”
She saw his mouth twist and wondered if he was nauseous or if maybe, possibly, he was trying not to laugh.
“We eat a lot of fish. Herring. Salt cod. And yes, reindeer, but not the hooves.”
“How about cake?”
“What about it?”
“I’m very keen on cake. I’m wondering if we can find some common ground.”
He shrugged.
“Oh, come on, drüskelle,” she said. They still hadn’t exchanged names, and she wasn’t sure they should. Eventually, if they survived, they would reach a town or village. She didn’t know what would happen then, but the less he knew about her the better, in any case. “You’re not giving up Fjerdan government secrets. I just want to know why you don’t like cake.”
“I do like cake, but we’re not permitted sweets.”
“Anyone? Or just drüskelle?”
“Drüskelle. It’s considered an indulgence. Like alcohol or—”
“Girls?”
His cheeks reddened, and he trudged forward. It was just so easy to make him uncomfortable.
“If you’re not allowed sugar or alcohol, you’d probably really love pomdrakon.”
He hadn’t taken the bait at first, just walked on, but finally the quiet proved too much for him. “What’s pomdrakon?”
“Dragonbowl,” Nina said eagerly. “First you soak raisins in brandy, and then you turn off the lights and set them on fire.”
“Why?”
“To make it hard to grab them.”
“What do you do once you have them?”
“You eat them.”
“Don’t they burn your tongue?”
“Sure but—”
“Then why would you—”
“Because it’s fun, dummy. You know, ‘fun’? There’s a word for it in Fjerdan so you must be familiar with the term.”
“I have plenty of fun.”
“All right, what do you do for fun?”
And that was the way they went on, sniping at each other, just like that first night in the water, keeping each other alive, refusing to acknowledge that they were growing weaker, that if they didn’t find a real town soon, they weren’t going to last much longer. There were days when their hunger and the glare off the northern ice had them moving in circles, backtracking, faltering over their own steps, but they never spoke of it, never said the word lost, as if they both knew that would somehow be admitting defeat.
“Why don’t Fjerdans let girls fight?” she asked him one night as they’d lain curled beneath a lean-to, the cold palpable through the skins they’d laid on the ground.
“They don’t want to fight.”
“How do you know? Have you ever asked one?”
“Fjerdan women are to be venerated, protected.”
“That’s probably a wise policy.”
He’d known her well enough by then to be surprised. “It is?”
“Think how embarrassing it would be for you when you got trounced by a Fjerdan girl.”
He snorted.
“I’d love to see you get beaten by a girl,” she said happily.
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Well, I guess I won’t get to see it. I’ll just get to live the moment when I knock you on your ass.”
This time he did laugh, a proper laugh that she could feel through her back.
“Saints, Fjerdan, I didn’t know you could laugh. Careful now, take it slow.”
“I enjoy your arrogance, drüsje.”
Now she laughed. “That may be the worst compliment I’ve received.”
“Do you never doubt yourself?”
“All the time,” she’d said as she slid into sleep. “I just don’t show it.”
