Page 82 of Crooked Kingdom (Dregs 2)
Now Inej watched the guards doing their last sweep of the church’s ground floor, searching the corners and chapels. She knew they might send a few brave officers up to the roof to search, but there were plenty of places to hide, and if need be, she could simply slip back into the dome of the thumb chapel to wait them out.
The guards set up their posts, and Inej heard the captain giving orders for where the members of the Merchant Council were to be seated on the stage. She spotted the university medik who had been brought in to verify Kuwei’s health and saw a guard wheel a podium into place where the auctioneer would stand. She felt a surge of irritation when she spotted a few Dime Lions walking the aisles with the guards. They puffed out their chests, enjoying their new authority, brandishing the purple stadwatch bands on their arms to one another and laughing. The real stadwatch didn’t look pleased, and Inej could see at least two members of the Merchant Council observing the proceedings with a wary eye. Were they wondering if they’d gotten more than they’d bargained for by allowing a bunch of Barrel thugs to be deputized? Van Eck had started this dance with Rollins, but Inej doubted the king of the Barrel would let him lead for long.
Inej scanned the skyline, all the way to the harbor and the black obelisk towers. Nina had been right about the Council of Tides. It seemed they preferred to stay cloistered in their watchtowers. Though, since their identities were unknown, Inej supposed they could be sitting in the cathedral right now. She looked toward the Barrel, hoping Nina was safe and had not been discovered, that the heavy stadwatch presence at the church would mean easier passage on the streets.
By afternoon, the pews started to fill with curious onlookers—tradesmen in roughspun, jollies and bruisers fresh from the Staves and decked out in their best Barrel flash, flocks of black-clad merchers, some accompanied by their wives, their pale faces bobbing above their white lace collars, heads crowned by braids.
The Fjerdan diplomats came next. They wore silver and white and were bracketed by drüskelle in black uniforms, all gilded hair and golden skin. Their size alone was daunting. Inej assumed that Matthias must know some of these men and boys. He would have served with them. What would it be like for him to see them again, now that he’d been branded a traitor?
The Zemeni delegation followed, empty gun belts at their hips, forced to divest themselves of their weapons at the doors. They were just as tall as the drüskelle, but leaner of build; some bronze like her, others the same deep brown as Jesper, some with heads shorn, others with hair in thick braids and coiled knots. There, tucked between the last two rows of the Zemeni, Inej caught sight of Jesper. For once, he wasn’t the tallest person in a crowd, and with the collar of his waxed cotton duster turned up around his jaw and a hat pulled low over his ears, he was nearly unrecognizable. Or so Inej hoped.
When the Ravkans arrived, the buzz in the room rose to a roar. What did the crowd of tradespeople, merchants, and Barrel rowdies make of this grand international showing?
A man in a teal frock coat led the Ravkan delegation, surrounded by a swarm of Ravkan soldiers in pale blue military dress. This had to be the legendary Sturmhond. He was pure confidence, flanked by Zoya Nazyalensky on one side and Genya Safin on the other, his stride easy and relaxed, as if he were taking a turn about one of his ships. Perhaps she should have met with the Ravkans when she’d had the chance. What might she learn in a month with Sturmhond’s crew?
The Fjerdans rose, and Inej thought a fight might break out as the drüskelle faced down the Ravkan soldiers, but two members of the Merchant Council rushed forward, backed by a troop of stadwatch.
“Kerch is neutral territory,” one of the merchers reminded them, his voice high and nervous. “We are here on matters of business, not of war.”
“Anyone who violates the sanctity of the Church of Barter will not be allowed to bid,” insisted the other, black sleeves flapping.
“Why does your weak king send a filthy pirate to do his bidding?” sneered the Fjerdan ambassador, his words echoing across the cathedral.
“Privateer,” corrected Sturmhond. “I suppose he thought my good looks would give me the advantage. Not a concern where you’re from, I take it?”
“Preening, ridiculous peacock. You stink of Grisha foulness.”
Sturmhond sniffed the air. “I’m amazed you can detect anything over the reek of ice and inbreeding.”
The ambassador turned purple, and one of his companions hastily drew him away.
Inej rolled her eyes. They were worse than a couple of Barrel bosses facing off on the Staves.
Bristling and grumbling, the Fjerdans and Ravkans took their seats on opposite sides of the aisle, and the Kaelish delegation entered with little fanfare. But seconds later everyone was on their feet again when someone shouted, “The Shu!”
All eyes turned to the huge doors of the cathedral as the Shu flowed inside, a tide of red banners marked with the horses and keys, their olive uniforms embellished with gold. Their expressions were stony as they marched up the aisle, then stopped as the Shu ambassador argued angrily that his delegation should be seated at the front of the room and that they were giving the Ravkans and Fjerdans precedence by placing them closer to the stage. Were the Kherguud among them? Inej glanced up at the pale spring sky. She did not like the idea of being plucked from her roost by a winged soldier.
Eventually, Van Eck strode down the aisle from wherever he’d been lurking by the stage and snapped, “If you wished to be seated in the front, you should have forgone the drama of a grand entrance and gotten here on time.”
The Shu and the Kerch went back and forth a while longer until at last, the Shu settled in their seats. The rest of the crowd was crackling with murmurs and speculative glances. Most of them didn’t know what Kuwei was worth or had only heard rumors of the drug known as jurda parem, so they were left to wonder why a Shu boy had drawn such bidders to the table. The few merchers who had seated themselves in the front pews with the intention of placing a bid were exchanging shrugs and shaking their heads in bafflement. Clearly, this was no game for casual players.
The church bells began to chime three bells, just behind those from the Geldrenner clock tower. A hush fell. The Merchant Council gathered on the stage. And then Inej saw every head in the room turn. The great double doors of the church opened and Kuwei Yul-Bo entered, flanked by Kaz and Matthias and an armed stadwatch escort. Matthias wore simple tradesman’s clothes but managed to look like a soldier on parade nevertheless. With his black eye and split lip, Kaz looked even less reputable than usual, despite the sharp lines of his black suit.
The shouting began immediately. It was hard to know who was causing the loudest uproar. The most wanted criminals in the city were striding down the center aisle of the Church of Barter. At the first glimpse of Kaz, the Dime Lions stationed throughout the cathedral started booing. Matthias had instantly been recognized by his drüskelle brethren, who were yelling what Inej presumed were insults at him in Fjerdan.
The sanctity of the auction would protect Kaz and Matthias, but only until the final gavel fell. Even so, neither of them seemed remotely concerned. They walked with backs straight and eyes forward, Kuwei safely wedged between them.
Kuwei was faring less well. The Shu were screaming the same word again and again, sheyao, sheyao, and whatever it meant, with every shout, Kuwei seemed to curl further in on himself.
The city auctioneer approached the raised dais and took his place at the podium next to the altar. It was Jellen Radmakker, one of the investors they had invited to Jesper’s absurd presentation on oil futures. From the investigation she’d done for Kaz, Inej knew that he was scrupulously honest, a devout man with no family except an equally pious sister who spent her days scrubbing the floors of public buildings in service to Ghezen. He was pale, with tufty orange brows and a hunched posture that gave him the look of a giant shrimp.
Inej scanned the undulating spires of the cathedral, the rooftops of the finger naves radiating from Ghezen’s palm. Sti
ll no patrol on the roof. It was almost insulting. But maybe Pekka Rollins and Jan Van Eck had something else planned for her.
Radmakker brought his gavel down in three furious swings. “There will be order,” he bellowed. The clamor in the room dulled to a discontented murmur.
Kuwei, Kaz, and Matthias climbed the stage and took their places by the podium, Kaz and Matthias partially blocking the still shaking Kuwei from view.
Radmakker waited for absolute quiet. Only then did he begin to recite the rules of the auction, followed by the terms of Kuwei’s proffered indenture. Inej glanced at Van Eck. What was it like for him to be so close to the prize he’d sought for so long? His expression was smug, eager. He’s already calculating his next move, Inej realized. As long as Ravka did not have the winning bid—and how could they, with their war chest badly depleted—Van Eck would get his wish: the secret of jurda parem unleashed upon the world. The price of jurda would rise to unimaginable heights, and between his secret private holdings and his investments in the jurda consortium run by Johannus Rietveld, he would be rich beyond all dreaming.
Radmakker waved forward a medik from the university, a man with a shiny bald pate. He took Kuwei’s pulse, measured his height, listened to his lungs, examined his tongue and teeth. It was a bizarre spectacle, uncomfortably close to Inej’s memory of being prodded and poked by Tante Heleen on the deck of a slaver ship.
The medik finished and closed up his bag.
“Please make your declaration,” said Radmakker.
“The boy’s health is sound.”
Radmakker turned to Kuwei. “Do you freely consent to abide by the rules of this auction and its outcome?”
If Kuwei replied, Inej couldn’t hear it.
“Speak up, boy.”
Kuwei tried again. “I do.”
“Then let us proceed.” The medik stepped down and Radmakker lifted his gavel once more. “Kuwei Yul-Bo freely gives his consent to these proceedings and hereby offers his service for a fair price as guided by Ghezen’s hand. All bids will be made in kruge. Bidders are instructed to keep silence when not making offers. Any interference in this auction, any bid made in less than good faith will be punished to the fullest extent of Kerch law. The bidding will start at one million kruge.” He paused. “In Ghezen’s name, let the auction commence.”
And then it was happening, a clamor of numbers Inej could barely track, the bids climbing as Radmakker jabbed his gavel at each bidder, repeating the offers in staccato bursts.
“Five million kruge,” the Shu ambassador shouted.
“Five million,” repeated Radmakker. “Do I have six?”
“Six,” the Fjerdans countered.
