Better The Devil You Know (Zoya Nazyalensky)

Thirteen

The irony of their plan never once escapes Ileska as she and the crows find themselves waiting to gain admittance into the Little Palace. After all, it had been with a group of travelling performers, back in the days before security tightened and such groups were only welcomed at festivities, that she had made her escape from this exact building several years prior. Back then, she had vowed never to return, to never use the name Anastajia again. One out of two isn't so bad. It was in times like these, times when Ileska mentally shrinks back down to the years of her first decade and becomes a scrawny little orphan once more, that remind her of why she did what she did. Why she slaughtered, bartered, stole; kidnapped, blackmailed and threatened. Now was not the time for such reminisces, though.

Marko produces his writ for the Palace guards to verify, childish grin faltering at the unimpressed exchange of glances between those on duty.

"This invitation gains you access into the palace grounds. It does not give you the privilege to speak to your betters without first being spoken to. It does not allow you to carry weapons, and it does not permit you to soil your country's reputation." The idea that Ravka - on either side - had a reputation not already soiled beyond belief, made it easy for Ileska to produce an amiable smile upon her lips as she was submitted for inspection. It felt hollow being without her knives and pistols; those weapons were an extension of every limb, as much one of her organs as her heart. Handing them over to Kaz to smuggle in that morning had been tragic indeed: "if you lose them or damage them in any way, Bastard, just remember that I don't need hardware to carve your eyes up." To his credit, the older boy had only rolled said eyes at her, once again regretting her ever being born.

Cleared of illicit goods, the troupe was allowed past; Dirtyhands sneaking through with (what the Panther had to admit was), a very clever piece of subterfuge.

"The good old bait and switch." Jesper smiles happily, kissing his babies as his boss retrieves them within the shelter of their waggon.

Concentration painted clear as day across his face, the leader of the crows slips back into familiar territory.

"Panther, have any of your grusha told you anything else about the winter féte?  Anything at all they told you has the potential to be valuable."

"Careful Kaz," Inej murmurs, "that almost sounded like a compliment." He ignores her.

"I've told you all that they told me." Not that they needed to tell me at all. His face resembles that of one of the gargoyles Ravkan nobles love to decorate their Dachas with, and he prompts her with fierce eyebrows. "But, the performance will most likely be held in the ballroom; apparently, the centrepiece of the room was a crystal chandelabra. If I was being tactical (if I was the darkling), then it would be an ideal way to showcase a sun saint."

"Anything else?"

Oh I'll show you something else Brekker if you don't shut up. But, the girl manages to tamp down her anger; she is a professional, and some shimkopper of a worm wasn't going to change that. Not on her watch.

"We have the schematics, Brekker, and we have a plan. Do I have to do everything for you. Are you scared, is that it?" Images of Djel's vengeful frosts - all biting teeth and gnawing hunger - are what allow the teenager to retain some semblance of calm.

"I don't need to be scared, I need to be prepared." The barrel brat's anger comes out in dogged growls, saliva practically dripping from his angular chin.

Ileska cannot stand the carriage any longer, with its gaudy decor and compressed dimensions. As she opens the door though, the she-devil turns back, her expression completely serious, and deliberates her reply. "I don't care how reckless you are, Kaz, or how brave - whatever you want to call it - underestimating the Darkling will get us all killed."

Presence removed from the rest of the company, she leaves them to ponder in silence quite how much Ileska Vieder knows about the general of the second army. And, perhaps more importantly, how she came about this information.

Kaz Rietveld does exactly that, thin fingers drumming along the ornate spine of his walking stick to create a sickly, wooden metronome. He doesn't trust Arken. Well, that went without saying; he trusted no one, not even himself sometimes. Yet (if his weighty suspicions were true), if their plan worked and the conductor did fall into the sticky web of the black general; he would not be telling the grisha anything he did not already know. 

"How much of her life before Ketterdam do you know about Inej?" The boss was aware of the close relationship the two girls shared (what qualified as 'close' for an emotionally guarded assassin anyway), would even admit in the darkest depths of the morning to be jealous of it.  If anyone knew about Panther's background, then it would be the loyal wraith, whose job it was not just to wrest secrets from people, but also hoard them like they were her own.

His spy pauses, elegant eyebrows cresting to a question mark: "it's not my place to say."

Oh, how dirtyhands wished that the Suli girl - his acrobat, his spider - felt safe enough to speak freely around him. The problem was one of both his own making and his own unravelling. In the space where soft sentiments should lie, metal instead coats his reply.

"I am your boss Inej, not the Panther. Me. You answer to me."

"Kaz." You knew the Bastard was pushing it when even Jesper attempted to reproach him. "You know what Ileska would do if Inej broke her trust - friendship only holds so much currency with her."

"If I may?" Though it is posed as a question, it is clear that Vissen is prepared to give his two coins with or without consent.  "Sometimes the refugees I smuggle pay the rest of their debt in information - news from the little Palace is scarce and censored after all. They whispered of a Fjerdan girl that the Darkling had lost several years ago. They could not say what she looked like or why she was so important: only that he looked for her still."

Kaz fills in the unspoken gap. "Let me guess, these whispers began soon after the murder of the Fjerdan ambassador."

The conductor nods, face as pleased as the cat who got his metaphorical cream. Inej eyes him in disdain, though even she can not deny the thrum of electricity that threads through her bones at the mention of who her friend could have been. Could. For the child that Ileska had been - whoever they were - was irretrievably gone, that was evident.

"She knows more than she's letting on," Kaz decides.

But Jesper - clumsy, fierce Jesper - gives him cause to stop in his tracks. "Are you sure you want to know what she knows, Boss? Ileska is how she is for a reason, same as you. Whatever haunts her, do you really want it to haunt you too?"