Page 70 of Crooked Kingdom (Dregs 2)
On the front of the house, just below the roofline, she found the old metal hook used for hauling up heavy cargo. She grabbed it, ignoring the disgruntled warbling of startled pigeons, and nudged open the window with her foot, wrinkling her nose at the stink of the bird droppings. She slipped inside, moving across the roof beams, and found a place among the shadows. Then she waited, unsure of what to do next. If anyone looked up, they might see her there, perched in the corner like the spider she was, but why would anyone think to?
Below, the entryway buzzed with activity. Apparently the festive mood of that morning’s parade had suffused the day. People came in and out the front door, shouting to one another, laughing and singing. A few Dregs sat on the squeaky wooden staircase, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth. Seeger—one of Per Haskell’s favorite bruisers—kept blowing the same three notes on a tin whistle for all he was worth. A group of rowdies burst through the door and tumbled into the entry, cawing and screeching like fools, stomping the floor, banging into one another like a school of hungry sharks. They carried axe handles studded with rusty nails, cudgels, knives, and guns, and some of them had painted crows’ wings in black across their wild eyes. Behind them, Inej glimpsed a few Dregs who didn’t seem to share the excitement—Anika with her crop of yellow hair, wiry Roeder who Per Haskell had suggested Kaz use as his spider, the bigger bruisers Keeg and Pim. They hung back against the wall, exchanging unhappy looks as the others whooped and postured. They’re Kaz’s best hope for support, she thought. The youngest members of the Dregs, the kids Kaz had brought in and organized, the ones who worked the hardest and took the worst jobs because they were the newest.
But what exactly did Kaz have in mind? Had he entered his office for a reason or simply because it was the easiest point of access from the roof? Did he mean to speak to Per Haskell alone? The entirety of the staircase was exposed to the entryway. Kaz couldn’t even start down it without attracting everyone’s notice, unless he planned to do it in disguise. And how he would negotiate the stairs on his bad leg without anyone recognizing his gait was beyond her.
A cheer went up from the people gathered below. Per Haskell had emerged from his office, gray head moving through the crowd. He was dressed in high flash for the festivities today—crimson-and-silver-checked vest, houndstooth trousers—out and about as the lord of the Dregs, the gang Kaz had built up from practically nothing. With one hand, he was waving around the plumed hat he favored so much, and in the other, he carried a walking stick. Someone had secured a cartoonish papier-mâché crow atop it. It made her sick. Kaz had been better than a son to Haskell. A devious, ruthless, murdering son, but even so.
“Think we’ll land him tonight, old man?” asked Bastian, tapping a nasty-looking cudgel against his leg.
Haskell lifted the walking stick like a scepter. “If anyone’s gonna get that reward, it’s one of my lads! Isn’t that right?”
They cheered.
“Old man.”
Inej’s head snapped up as Kaz’s rock-salt rasp cut through the noise of the crowd, silencing the rowdy chatter. Every eye turned upward.
He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down four flights of rickety wood. She realized he’d stopped to change his coat and it clung to him in perfectly tailored lines. He stood leaning on his cane, hair neatly pushed back from his pale brow, a black glass boy of deadly edges.
The look of surprise on Haskell’s face was nearly comical. Then he started to laugh. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch, Brekker. You have to be the craziest bastard I ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Shouldn’t have come here—unless it’s to turn yourself in like the smart lad I know you to be.”
“I’m through making you money.”
Per Haskell’s face crumpled in rage. “You ignorant little skiv!” he roared. “Waltzing in here like some merch at his manor.”
“You was always acting like you’re better than us, Brekker,” shouted Seeger, still holding the tin whistle, and a few of the other Dregs nodded. Per Haskell clapped his hands in encouragement.
And it was true. Kaz had always kept himself at a remove from everyone. They’d wanted camaraderie, friendship, but he had never agreed to play their game, only his own. Maybe this reckoning was inevitable. Inej knew Kaz hadn’t intended to remain Per Haskell’s lieutenant forever. Their triumph at the Ice Court should have made him king of the Barrel, but Van Eck had robbed him of that. The Dregs didn’t know the extraordinary things he’d achieved in the last few weeks, the prize he’d wrested from the Fjerdans, or the haul that might still be within his grasp. He faced them alone, a boy with few allies, a stranger to most of them, despite his brutal reputation.
“You got no friends here!” shouted Bastian.
Along the wall, Anika and the others bristled. Pim shook his shaggy head and crossed his arms.
Kaz lifted one shoulder in the barest shrug. “I didn’t come looking for friends. And I’m not here for the washed-up cadgers and cowards, or the losers who think the Barrel owes them something for managing to stay alive. I came for the killers. The hard ones. The hungry ones. The people like me. This is my gang,” Kaz said, starting down the stairs, cane thumping against the boards, “and I’m done taking orders.”
“Go get your reward, lads!” Haskell shouted. There was a brief pause, and for a moment, Inej hoped that no one would listen, that they’d simply mutiny against Haskell. Then the floodgates opened. Bastian and Seeger were the first to rush the stairs, eager to get their shot at Dirtyhands.
But Seeger was slow from the whiskey, and by the time they’d reached Kaz on the third flight of stairs, they were out of breath. Kaz’s cane whipped out in two slashing arcs, shattering the bones in Seeger’s arms. Instead of engaging Bastian, he slipped past him, uncannily fast despite his bad leg. Before Bastian could turn, Kaz jabbed his cane into the soft space between Bastian’s thigh and his knee. He crumpled with a strangled cry.
Another of Haskell’s lackeys was already rushing to meet him—a bruiser called Teapot for the way he whistled through his nose when he breathed. A blow from Teapot’s bat glanced off Kaz’s shoulder as he bobbed left. He swung his cane and struck the bruiser directly in the jaw with the full weight of the crow’s head. Inej saw what had to be teeth fly from Teapot’s mouth.
Kaz still had the high ground, but he was outnumbered, and now they came in waves. Varian and Swann rushed the third-floor landing, Red Felix on their heels, Milo and Gorka hovering close behind.
Inej clamped her lips together as Kaz took a hit to his bad leg, faltered, barely righted himself in time to dodge a blow from Varian’s chain. It smashed into the banister inches from Kaz’s head, sending splinters of wood flying. Kaz grabbed the chain and used Varian’s momentum to send him hurtling over the broken banister. The crowd surged backward as he struck the entry floor.
Swann and Red Felix came at Kaz from both sides. Red Felix grabbed Kaz’s coat, yanking him backward. Kaz slipped free like a magician escaping a straitjacket in a show on East Stave.
Swann swung his spiked axe handle wildly, and Kaz slammed the head of his cane into the side of Swann’s face. Even from a distance, Inej saw his cheekbone collapse in a bloody crater.
Red Felix pulled a sap from his pocket and batted hard at Kaz’s right hand. The blow was sloppy, but Kaz’s cane clattered to the floor, rolling down the stairs. Beatle, lean as a ferret and with the face of one too, scampered up the steps and seized it, tossing it to Per Haskell as his cronies gave a cheer. Kaz planted his hands on either side of the banister and jammed his boots into Red Felix’s chest, sending him tumbling backward down the stairs.
Kaz’s cane was gone. He spread his gloved hands wide. Again Inej thought of a magician. Nothing up my sleeves.
Three more Dregs leapt past Red Felix and converged on him—Milo, Gorka, reedy Beatle with his odd little face and oily hair. Inej dared to blink and Milo had Kaz against the wall, raining blows against his ribs
and face. Kaz wrenched back his head and butted his forehead into Milo’s with a sickening crunch. Milo took a woozy step, and Kaz pressed the advantage.
But there were too many of them, and Kaz was fighting with his fists alone now, blood pouring down one side of his face, lip split, left eye swelling shut. His movements were slowing.
Gorka hooked an arm around Kaz’s throat. Kaz drove an elbow into Gorka’s stomach and broke free. He lurched forward, and Beatle grabbed his shoulder, slamming his cudgel into Kaz’s gut. Kaz doubled over, spitting blood. Gorka struck the side of Kaz’s head with a thick loop of chain. Inej saw Kaz’s eyes roll up in his head. He swayed. And then he was on the ground. The crowd in the entry roared.
Inej was moving before she thought of it. She couldn’t just watch him die, she wouldn’t. They had him down now, heavy boots kicking and stomping at his body. Her knives were in her hands. She’d kill them all. She’d pile the bodies to the rafters for the stadwatch to find.
But in that moment, through the wide slats in the banister landing, she saw his eyes were open. His gaze found hers. He’d known she was there all along. Of course he had. He always knew how to find her. He gave the barest shake of his bloodied head.
She wanted to scream. To hell with your pride, with the Dregs, with this whole wretched city.
Kaz tried to rise. Beatle kicked him back down. They were laughing now. Gorka raised his leg, balancing his big boot above Kaz’s skull, playing to the crowd. Inej saw Pim turn away; Anika and Keeg were bellowing for someone to stop them. Gorka brought his foot down—and screamed, a high-pitched, bobbling squeal.
Kaz was holding Gorka’s boot, and Gorka’s foot was wrenched to the side at an ugly angle. He hopped on one leg, trying to keep his balance, that strange, shrill wail bleating from his mouth in time with his hops. Milo and Beatle kicked Kaz hard in the ribs, but Kaz didn’t flinch. With a strength Inej couldn’t fathom, Kaz jammed Gorka’s leg upward. The big man shrieked as his knee popped free of its socket. He toppled sideways, blubbering, “My leg! My leg!”
“I recommend a cane,” Kaz said.
But all Inej could see was the knife in Milo’s hands, long and gleaming. It looked like the cleanest thing about him.
