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W H A T I F
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I WOULD HAVE WORN PURPLE, Jesper thought, if I'd joined the Second Army. Feta would have worn blue.
Hundreds, thousands of slender strips of kefta cloth — mostly red and blue, but some purple, too — made up an enormous banner with no discernible pattern, a patchwork of terror on proud display in one of the rooms Jesper and Wylan looked upon.
He reached for the fizzy elation that had been bubbling through him moments before, as the adrenaline of the job had crackled through his body in delicious spikes. For as much as he undeniably loved his work, and undeniably hated himself for loving it, Jesper knew it would be his honor and pleasure to risk capture and execution as a thief and hired gun. Why was it worse to think about being hunted as a Grisha?
Because we can't help that, the Feta that permanently lived in his ear chirped. They'd had this conversation before, away from Nina's dutiful ears. As inevitable as your shooting and my spotlight feel, we still worked for it. And there are people out there who would kill us without need for our names and titles. She had shaken her head. I want to earn my death. Much better to die as the Siren, don't you agree?
Jesper had deflected with, Personally, I would love to die as the Siren.
But he'd understood exactly what Feta meant. It was likely that that day was responsible for their unspoken deal to not tell Nina they were Grisha.
"Let's keep moving," Jesper heard himself say.
Just like the prison and the embassy, the gatehouse in the druskelle sector was built around a courtyard so anyone entering could be observed and fired upon from above. But with the gate out of operation, the courtyard battlements were as deserted as the rest of the building. Here, slabs of sleek black stone were inlaid with the silver wolf's head, the surfaces lit with eerie blue flame. It was the one part of the Ice Court Jesper had seen that wasn't white or gray. Even the gate was some kind of black metal that looked impossibly heavy.
A guard was visible below, leaning against the gatehouse arch, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
"Only one?" asked Wylan.
"Matthias said four guards for non-operational gates."
"Maybe Yellow Protocol is working in our favor," said Wylan. "They could have been sent to the prison sector or—"
"Or maybe there are twelve big Fjerdans keeping warm inside."
As they watched the guard chew a wad of jurda, Jesper found himself spiraling back to the gruesome banner, ricocheting from one what if to another. What if Jesper's father had been afraid of him, not just for him? He'd encouraged Jesper to keep his powers hidden, after all.
What if I'd gone to Ravka instead of Kerch? What if I'd joined the Second Army?
Did they even let Fabrikators fight, or were they kept walled up in workshops, reserved for making weapons?
Ravka was more stable now, rebuilding. There was no compulsory draft for Grisha, no matter how much pressure there was to fight. He could go, visit, maybe learn to use his power better, leave the gambling dens of Ketterdam behind. Maybe learn to use his power in the wild, unorthodox ways Feta specialized in. If they succeeded in delivering Bo Yul-Bayur to the Merchant Council, anything might be possible.
Jesper gave himself a shake.
What was he thinking? He needed a dose of imminent peril to get his head straight.
He rose out of his crouch. "I'm going in."
"What's the plan?"
"You'll see."
"Let me help."
"You can help by shutting up and staying out of the way. Here," Jesper said as he hooked the rope over the side of the roof, letting it drop down behind a row of stone slabs lining the walkway. "Wait until I've immobilized the guards, then lower yourself down."
"Jesper—"
Jesper knew he was being irrational but he couldn't stand to sit around and think any longer. He was a man of action, after all.
At least if he got into one of these restless, reckless moods with Feta, she was someone he didn't mind having alongside him, pacing him. At least if Feta sang her disapproval, she was still singing it; a gilded way of guiding him. But getting like this in front of Wylan was embarrassing, even if the merchling couldn't read his thoughts. Regardless, there was work to be done.
Jesper took off across the roof, keeping low as he gave the lip overlooking the courtyard a wide berth. He positioned himself on the wall behind the guard.
As noiselessly as he could, he secured another section of rope to the roof and slowly began to rappel down the wall. The guard was almost directly beneath him. Jesper was no Wraith, but if he could just make the drop silently and sneak up behind the guard he could keep things quiet.
He tensed, ready to drop. Another guard strode out of the gatehouse, clapping his hands in the cold and talking loudly, then a third appeared. Jesper froze. He was dangling over three armed guards, halfway down a wall, completely exposed. This was why Kaz did the planning. This was why Feta was always there to cover his ass. Sweat broke out on his brow. He couldn't take three guards at once. And what if there were more in the gatehouse, ready to ring the alarm?
"Wait," said one of the guards. "Did you hear something?"
Don't look up. Oh, Saints, don't look up.
The guards moved in a slow circle, rifles raised. One of them craned his head back, scanning the roof. He began to turn.
A strange, sweet sound pierced the air.
"Skerden Fjerda, kende hjertzeeeeeeng, lendten isen en de waaaaaanden."
Fjerdan words Jesper didn't understand crested over the courtyard in a shimmering, perfect tenor that seemed to catch upon the black stone battlements.
Huh, Feta was right. Wylan's pretty good without his flute, too.
The guards whirled, rifles pointed at the walkway that led to the courtyard, seeking the source of the sound.
"Olander?" one called.
"Nilson?" said another.
Their guns were raised, but their voices were more bemused and curious than aggressive.
What the hell is he doing?
A silhouette appeared in the walkway arch, lurching left and right.
"Skerden Fjerda, kende hjertzeeeeeng," Wylan sang, doing a surprisingly convincing impression of a drunk but very talented Fjerdan.
The guards burst out laughing, joining in on the song. "Lendten isen..."
Jesper leapt down. He seized the closest Fjerdan, snapped his neck, and grabbed his rifle. As the next guard turned, Jesper slammed the butt of the rifle into his face with a nasty crunch. The third guard raised his weapon, but Wylan snagged his arms from behind in an awkward hold. The rifle dropped from the guard's hands, clattering against the stone. Before he could cry out, Jesper lunged forward and rammed the butt of his rifle into the guard's gut, then finished him with two strikes to the jaw.
He reached down and tossed one of the rifles to Wylan. They stood over the guards' bodies, panting, weapons raised, waiting for more Fjerdan soldiers to flood out of the gatehouse. No one came. Maybe the fourth guard had been pulled away for Yellow Protocol.
"Is that how you shut up and stay out of the way?" Jesper whispered as they dragged the guards' bodies out of view behind one of the stone slabs.
"Is that how you say thank you?" Wylan retorted.
"What the hell was that song?"
"National anthem," Wylan said smugly. "Schoolroom Fjerdan, remember?"
Jesper shook his head. "I'm impressed. With you and your tutors. Your singing could use some work though." Wylan scoffed but when he looked to Jesper, he found a smirk waiting for him. "You're no Siren, even if you're pretty good."
"If we don't die, we'll duet on the Staves."
They liberated two of the guards' uniforms, leaving their own prison clothes in a tidy bundle, then bound the hands and feet of the guards who still had pulses and gagged them with torn pieces of their prison clothes. Wylan's uniform was far too big, and Jesper's sleeves and pants looked ridiculously short, but at least the boots were a reasonable fit.
Wylan gestured to the guards. "Is it safe to leave them, you know—"
"Alive? I'm not big on killing unconscious men."
"We could wake them up."
It took a great effort for Jesper not to bust out laughing. "Pretty ruthless, merchling. Have you ever killed anyone?"
"I'd never even seen a dead body before I came to the Barrel," Wylan admitted. He remembered it well. He and Feta had been out for a walk and they'd glimpsed a decaying lump down one of the alleyways. Feta hadn't rushed him past it, she'd let Wylan take it in with a shudder and a green tint to his skin. He understood why she hadn't thrown a hand over his eyes, and a part of him appreciated the ugly truth of it all, but it didn't make the memory any less sickening.
"It's not something to be embarrassed about," Jesper said, surprising himself a little. But he meant it. Wylan needed to learn to take care of himself, but it would be nice if he could do it without getting on friendly terms with death. "Make sure the gags are tight."
They took the extra precaution of securing the bound guards to the base of a stone slab. The poor nubs would probably be discovered before they managed to get loose.
"Let's go," Jesper said, and they crossed the courtyard to the gatehouse. There were doors to the right and left of the arch.
They took the right side, climbing the stairs cautiously. Though Jesper didn't think anyone would be lying in wait, some guard might be charged with protecting the gate mechanism at all cost. But the room above the arch was empty, lit only by a lantern set on a low table where a book lay open next to a little pile of whole walnuts and cracked shells. The walls were lined with racks of rifles — very expensive rifles — and Jesper assumed the boxes on the shelves were filled with ammunition. No dust anywhere. Tidy Fjerdans.
And yet Feta's room is never this clean.
Most of the room was taken up by a long winch, handles at each end, thick loops of chain spooled around it. Near each handle, the chains extended in taut spokes through slots in the stone.
Wylan cocked his head to the side. "Huh."
"I don't like that sound. What's wrong."
"I was expecting rope or cables, not steel chains. If we're going to make sure the Fjerdans can't get the gate open, we're going to have to cut through the metal."
"But then how do we trigger Black Protocol?"
"That's the problem."
The Elderclock began to sound ten bells.
"I'll weaken the links," said Jesper. "Look for a file or anything with an edge."
Wylan held up the shears from the laundry.
"Good enough," said Jesper. It would have to be.
We have time, Jesper told himself as he focused on the chain. We can still get this done. Jesper hoped the others hadn't met with any surprises.
Maybe Matthias was wrong about the White Island. Maybe the shears would snap in Wylan's hands. Maybe Inej would fail. Or Nina. Or Feta. Or Kaz.
Or me. Maybe I'll fail.
Seven people, but a thousand ways this insane plan could go wrong.