Page 67 of Six of Crows (Dregs 1)
“Ahlgren, stop slaughtering her language and fetch her a fresh glass of champagne.” The soldier bowed and hurried off. “Are you quite all right? Shall I find you a seat?” the general asked in excellent Kerch.
“He just startled me,” Nina said with a smile, leaning on the general’s arm.
“I think it might be best to get you off your feet.”
Nina restrained an arch of her brow. I just bet. But first I need to find out what you know.
“And miss the party?”
“You look pale. Some rest in one of the upper rooms will help.”
Saints, he doesn’t waste any time, does he? Before Nina could insist that she was perfectly well but might like to take a turn on the terrace, a warm voice said, “Really, General Eklund, the best way to garner a woman’s goodwill is not to tell her she looks sickly.”
The general scowled, his mustache bristling, but then he seemed to snap to attention.
“So true, so true,” he laughed nervously.
Nina turned, and the floor seemed to drop from beneath her feet. No, she thought, her heart stuttering in panic. It can’t be. He drowned. He’s supposed to be at the bottom of the ocean.
But if Jarl Brum was dead, he made a very lively corpse.
32
JESPER
TEN BELLS AND HALF CHIME
Jesper’s clothes were covered in tiny slivers and shavings of steel. His stolen uniform was soaked with sweat, his arms ached, and the headache that had burrowed into his left temple felt like it was setting up permanent residence there. For nearly a half hour, he had been focusing on a single link in the chain that ran from the left end of the winch into one of the slots in the stone wall, using his power to weaken the metal as Wylan sawed away at it with the laundry shears. At first they’d been cautious, worried they’d snap the link and disable the gate before it was time to raise it, but the steel was stronger than either of them had anticipated, and their progress was frustratingly slow. When the three-quarters chime rang, Jesper’s panic took over.
“Let’s just raise the gate,” he said with a frustrated growl. “We sound Black Protocol, and then shoot at the winch until it gives up.”
Wylan flipped his curls from his forehead and spared him a quick glance. Jesper could see the blood on his hands where blisters had formed and then burst as he hacked away at the link. “You really love guns so much?”
Jesper shrugged. “I don’t love killing people.”
“Then what is it about them?”
Jesper refocused on the link. “I don’t know. The sound. The way the world narrows to just you and the target. I worked with a gunsmith in Novyi Zem who knew I was a Fabrikator. We came up with some crazy stuff.”
“For killing people.”
“You build bombs, merchling. Spare me your judgment.”
“My name is Wylan. And you’re right. I don’t have any business criticizing you.”
“Don’t start doing that.”
“What?”
“Agreeing with me,” said Jesper. “Sure path to destruction.”
“I don’t like the idea of killing people, either. I don’t even like chemistry.”
“What do you like?”
“Music. Numbers. Equations. They’re not like words. They … they don’t get mixed up.”
“If only you could talk to girls in equations.”
There was a long silence, and then, eyes trained on the notch they’d created in the link, Wylan said, “Just girls?”
Jesper restrained a grin. “No. Not just girls.” It really was a shame they were all probably going to die tonight. Then the Elderclock began to toll eleven bells. His eyes met Wylan’s. They were out of time.
Jesper leapt to his feet, trying to dust some of the metal bits from his face and shirt. Would the chain hold long enough? Too long? They’d just have to find out. “Get in position.”
Wylan took his spot at the right handle of the winch, and Jesper grabbed the handle on the left.
“Prepared to hear the sound of certain doom?” he asked.
“You’ve never heard my father mad.”
“That sense of humor is getting progressively more Barrel appropriate. If we survive, I’ll teach you to swear. On my count,” said Jesper. “Let’s let the Ice Court know the Dregs have come to call.”
He counted down from three, and they began to turn the winch, carefully matching each other’s pace, eyes on the weakened link. Jesper had expected some thunderous noise, but except for a few creaks and clanks, the machinery was silent.
Slowly, the ringwall gate began to rise. Five inches. Ten inches.
Maybe nothing will happen, thought Jesper. Maybe Matthias was lying, or all this stuff about Black Protocol is a fake to keep people from even trying to open the gates.
Then the bells of the Elderclock rang out, loud and panicked, high and demanding, an escalating tide of echoes, climbing one on top of another, booming over the White Island, the ice moat, the wall. The bells of Black Protocol had begun to sound. There was no turning back now. They released the handles of the winch in unison, letting the gate thunder down, but still the link didn’t give.
“Come on,” Jesper said, coaxing the stubborn metal. A better Fabrikator probably could hav
e made quick work of it. A Fabrikator on parem probably could have turned the chain into a set of steak knives and had time for a cup of coffee. But Jesper was neither of those things, and he’d run out of finesse. He grabbed hold of the chain, hanging from it, using all his weight to try to put pressure on the link. Wylan did the same, and for a moment they hung, pulling on the chain like a couple of crazed squirrels who hadn’t mastered climbing. Any minute now guards would be storming into the courtyard, and they’d have to leave off this insanity to defend themselves. The gate would still be operational. They’d have failed.
“Maybe you should try singing at it,” Jesper said hopelessly.
And then, with a final shiver of protest, the link snapped.
Jesper and Wylan fell to the floor as the chain zipped through their hands, one end vanishing through the slot, the other sending the winch handles spinning.
“We did it!” Jesper shouted over the din of the bells, caught somewhere between excitement and terror. “I’ll cover you. Deal with the winch!”
Jesper picked up his rifle, braced himself at a slit in the stone wall overlooking the courtyard, and prepared for all hell to break loose.
33
INEJ
TEN BELLS AND HALF CHIME
“Just how long are we going to be kept waiting?” a man in wine-colored velvet asked. The guards ignored him, but the other guests clustered by the entry with Inej grumbled their frustration. “I came here at great expense,” he continued, “and it was not so I could spend all my time hovering by the front door.”
The guard closest to them recited in a bored monotone, “The men at the checkpoint are dealing with other guests. As soon as they’re free, you’ll be taken back through the ringwall and detained at the checkpoint until your identification can be cleared.”
“Detained,” said the man in velvet. “Like criminals!”
Inej had heard variations on the same exchange for the better part of an hour. She glanced out at the courtyard that led to the embassy’s ringwall gate. If she was going to make this plan work, she had to be smart, stay calm. Except this wasn’t quite the plan, and she definitely didn’t feel calm. The certainty and optimism she’d felt only a short while ago had all but evaporated. She waited as the minutes ticked by, eyes scanning the crowd. But when the three-quarters chime sounded, she knew she could wait no longer. She had to act now.
