𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

38

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B L A C K P R O T O C O L
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"...THE DREGS HAVE COME TO call," Jesper said. He counted down from three, and he and Wylan began to turn the winch, carefully matching each other's pace, eyes on the weakened link that refused to give up despite Jesper's exhaustive efforts, Wylan's bloodied and blistered hands.

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.

Just as Jesper was beginning to think Black Protocol wasn't real, a scare tactic at best, 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. 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 have 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. Feta had always told him to practice more, to have fun with it so it wouldn't seem like a chore.

He'd told her he didn't find it fun.

Jesper 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. 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."

"That's right, you prefer the flute. Feta can sing—"

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.

•    •    •

Inej smelled her perfume — lilies, rich and creamy, a dense golden smell. She wanted to gag. Heleen Van Houden, owner and proprietor of the Menagerie, the House of Exotics, where the world was yours for a price, was pushing her way through the crowd.

Hadn't she said Tante Heleen loved to make an entrance?

Inej stood perfectly still as Heleen clawed through her ruse in front of everyone, but not even she could vanish with nowhere to go.

The people around them turned to stare.

"How dare you come here under the auspices of my House? The house that clothed you and fed you? And where is Adjala?"

Inej opened her mouth, but panic rose up, tightening her throat, choking the words before they could come out. Her tongue felt useless, numb. Once more, she was looking into the eyes of the woman who had beaten her, threatened her, bought her once, and then sold her again and again.