Crooked Kingdom (50 page)

“Not disgusting at all,” said Jesper.

“It could be worse,” she said. “I once knew a woman who rubbed whale placenta on her face in the hopes of looking younger. To say nothing of what she did with the monkey saliva.”

“Human tissue sounds delightful,” amended Jesper.

“That's what I thought.”

She pushed up her sleeves, and Jesper saw that the scars on her face also traced over her hands and up her arms. He couldn't imagine what manner of weapon had twisted the tissue in that way.

“You're staring,” she said without facing him.

Jesper jumped, cheeks heating. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. People like to look. Well, not always. When I was first attacked, no one would look at me.”

Jesper had heard she'd been tortured during the Ravkan Civil War, but that wasn't the kind of thing you made polite conversation about. “Now I don't know where to look,” he admitted.

“Anywhere you like. Just be quiet so I don't make a hideous mess of this poor boy.” She laughed at Wylan's expression of terror. “I'm kidding. But do stay still. This is slow work, and you'll need to be patient.”

She was right. The work was so slow that Jesper wasn't sure anything was happening. Genya would place her fingertips beneath Wylan's eyes or over his lids, then step back and examine what she'd done—which as far as Jesper could see was nothing. Then she'd reach for one of the glass cases or bottles, dab something on her fingertips, touch Wylan's face again, step back. Jesper's attention wandered. He circled the room, dipped his finger in the clay, regretted it, went searching for a towel. But when he looked at Wylan from a little more distance, he could see that something had changed.

“It's working!” he exclaimed.

Genya cast him a cool glance. “Of course it is.”

Periodically, the Tailor would stop and stretch and give Wylan a mirror so that he could consult on what looked right or wrong. An hour later, Wylan's irises had gone from gold to blue and the shape of his eyes had changed as well.

“His brow should be narrower,” Jesper said, peering over Genya's shoulder. “Just a little bit. And his lashes were longer.”

“I didn't know you were paying attention,” murmured Wylan.

Jesper grinned. “I was paying attention.”

“Oh good, he's blushing,” said Genya. “Excellent for the circulation.”

“Do you train Fabrikators at the Little Palace?” asked Wylan.

Jesper scowled. Why did he have to go and start that?

“Of course. There's a school on the palace grounds.”

“What if a student were older?” said Wylan, still pushing.

“A Grisha can be taught at any age,” said Genya. “Alina Starkov didn't discover her power until she was seventeen years old, and she … she was one of the most powerful Grisha who ever lived.” Genya pushed at Wylan's left nostril. “It's easier when you're younger, but so is everything. Children learn languages more easily. They learn mathematics more easily.”

“And they're unafraid,” said Wylan quietly. “It's other people who teach them their limits.” Wylan's eyes met Jesper's over Genya's shoulder, and as if he was challenging both Jesper and himself, he said, “I can't read.” His skin went instantly blotchy, but his voice was steady.

Genya shrugged and said, “That's because no one took the time to teach you. Many of the peasants in Ravka can't read.”

“Lots of people took the time to teach me. They tried plenty of strategies too. I've had every opportunity. But it's something I can't do.”

Jesper could see the anxiety in his face, what it cost him to speak those words. It made him feel like a coward.

“You seem to be getting along well enough,” said Genya. “Aside from your associations with street thugs and sharpshooters.”

Wylan lifted his brows, and Jesper knew he was daring him to speak up, but he remained silent.
It's not a gift. It's a curse.
He walked back to the window, suddenly finding himself deeply interested in the streets below.
That's what killed your mother, do you understand?

Genya alternated between working and having Wylan hold up the mirror to guide her through tweaks and changes. Jesper watched for a while, went upstairs to check on his father, fetched Genya some tea and Wylan a cup of coffee. When he returned to the clay room, he nearly dropped the mugs.

Wylan
was sitting in the last of the afternoon light, the real Wylan, the boy he'd first seen in that tannery, the lost prince who had woken in the wrong story.

“Well?” Genya said.

Wylan fiddled nervously with the buttons on his shirt.

“That's him,” said Jesper. “That's our fresh-faced runaway merchling.”

Genya stretched and said, “Good, because if I have to spend another minute smelling that clay, I may go mad.” It was clear she was tired, but her face was glowing, her amber eye sparkled. This was the way Grisha looked when they used their power. “It would be best to revisit the work anew in the morning, but I have to get back to the embassy. And by tomorrow, well…” She shrugged.

By tomorrow the auction would be announced and everything would change.

Wylan thanked her and then kept on thanking her until she physically pushed them out the door so that she could go find Zoya.

Jesper and Wylan took the lift back up to the suite in silence. Jesper glanced into the master bedroom and saw his father asleep atop the covers, his chest reverberating with deep snores. A pile of papers was scattered on the bed next to him. Jesper tidied them into a stack—
jurda
prices, listings of farm acreage outside cities in Novyi Zem.

You don't have to clean up after us, Da.

Someone does.

Back in the sitting room, Wylan was lighting the lamps. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” said Jesper. “But Da's asleep. I'm not sure we're allowed to ring for food.” He cocked his head to one side, peering at Wylan. “Did you have her make you better-looking?”

Wylan pinked. “Maybe you forgot how handsome I am.” Jesper raised a brow. “Okay, maybe a little.” He joined Jesper by the window looking out over the city. Dusk was falling and the streetlamps had bloomed in orderly formation along the edges of the canals. Patrols of
stadwatch
were visible, moving through the streets, and the Staves were alight with color and sound again. How long would they be safe here? Jesper wondered if the Kherguud were tracking Grisha through the city, seeking out the houses of their indentures. The Shu soldiers might be surrounding the embassy even now. Or maybe this hotel. Could they smell a Grisha fifteen stories up?

Periodically, they could see bursts of fireworks over the Staves. Jesper wasn't surprised. He understood the Barrel. It was always hungry for more—money, mayhem, violence, lust. It was a glutton, and Pekka Rollins had offered up Kaz and the rest of the crew as a feast.

“I know what you were doing back there,” Jesper said. “You didn't have to tell her you can't read.”

Wylan took the miniature of himself from his pocket and propped it on the end table. Young Wylan's serious blue eyes stared back at them.

“Do you know Kaz was the first person I ever told about … my condition?”

“Of all the people.”

“I know. It felt like I'd choke on the words. I was so afraid he'd sneer at me. Or just laugh. But he didn't do any of that. Telling Kaz, facing my father, freed something in me. And every time I tell someone new, I feel freer.”

Jesper watched a browboat vanish beneath Zentsbridge. It was nearly empty. “I'm not ashamed of being Grisha.”

Wylan ran his thumb over the edge of the miniature. He wasn't saying anything, but Jesper could tell he wanted to.

“Go ahead,” Jesper said. “Whatever you're thinking, just say it.”

Wylan looked up at him. His eyes were the clear, unspoiled blue Jesper remembered—a high mountain lake, an endless Zemeni sky. Genya had done her work well. “I just don't get it. I've spent my whole life hiding the things I can't do. Why run from the amazing things you
can
do?”

Jesper gave an irritated shrug. He'd been mad at his father for almost exactly what Wylan was describing, but now he just felt defensive. These were his choices, right or wrong, and they were long since made. “I know who I am, what I'm good at, what I can and can't do. I'm just … I'm what I am. A great shooter, a bad gambler. Why can't that be enough?”

“For me? Or for you?”

“Don't get philosophical on me, merchling.”

“Jes, I've thought about this—”

“Thought of me? Late at night? What was I wearing?”

“I've thought about your
powers
,” Wylan said, cheeks flushing pinker. “Has it ever occurred to you that your Grisha ability might be part of the reason you're such a good shot?”

“Wylan, you're cute, but you're a whole lot of crazy in one little glass.”

“Maybe. But I've seen you manipulate metal. I've seen you direct it. What if you don't miss because you're directing your bullets too?”

Jesper shook his head. This was ridiculous. He was a good shot because he'd been raised on the frontier, because he understood guns, because his mother had taught him to steady his hand, clear his mind, and to sense his target as much as see it. His mother. A Fabrikator. A Grisha, even if she never used that word.
No. That's not how it works
. But what if it was?

He shook off the thought, feeling the need to move ignite over his skin. “Why do you have to say things like that? Why can't you just let things be easy?”

“Because they're
not
easy,” Wylan said in his simple, earnest way. No one in the Barrel talked like that. “You keep pretending everything is okay. You move on to the next fight or the next party. What are you afraid is going to happen if you stop?”

Jesper shrugged again. He adjusted the buttons on his shirt, touched his thumbs to his revolvers. When he felt like this, mad and scattered, it was as if his hands had a life of their own. His whole body itched. He needed to get out of this room.

Wylan laid his hand on Jesper's shoulder. “Stop.”

Jesper didn't know if he wanted to jerk away or pull him closer.

“Just stop,” Wylan said. “Breathe.”

Wylan's gaze was steady. Jesper couldn't look away from that clear-water blue. He forced himself to still, inhaled, exhaled.

“Again,” Wylan said, and when Jesper opened his mouth to take another breath, Wylan leaned forward and kissed him.

Jesper's mind emptied. He wasn't thinking of what had happened before or what might happen next. There was only the reality of Wylan's mouth, the press of his lips, then the fine bones of his neck, the silky feel of his curls as Jesper cupped his nape and drew him nearer. This was the kiss he'd been waiting for. It was a gunshot. It was prairie fire. It was the spin of Makker's Wheel. Jesper felt the pounding of his heart—or was it Wylan's?—like a stampede in his chest, and the only thought in his head was a happy, startled,
Oh
.

Slowly, inevitably, they broke apart.

“Wylan,” Jesper said, looking into the wide blue sky of his eyes, “I really hope we don't die.”

 

29

N
INA

Nina was furious to learn that Genya had tailored not only Wylan but Kaz as well, and she hadn't gotten to watch.

He'd let the Tailor set his nose, reduce the swelling on his eye so that he could actually see, and deal with some of the worst damage he'd taken to his body. But that was all he'd permitted.

“Why?” said Nina. “She could have—”

“She didn't know when to stop,” said Kaz.

Nina had a sudden suspicion that Genya had offered to heal Kaz's bad leg. “Well, you look like the worst kind of Barrel thug,” Nina complained. “You should have at least let her clean up the rest of your bruising.”

“I am the worst kind of Barrel thug. And if I don't look like I just trounced ten of the best toughs Per Haskell had to offer, then no one's going to believe I did. Now let's get to work. You can't throw a party if nobody gets the invitation.”

Nina was not looking forward to this particular party, but the next morning, the announcement went in all the daily broadsheets, stuck to the columns at the east and west entries of the Exchange, and tacked to the front door of the Stadhall.

They'd kept it simple:

Kuwei Yul-Bo, son of Bo Yul-Bayur, Chief Chemist of Bhez Ju, makes available his service and will offer his indenture as the market and the hand of Ghezen commands. Those wishing to bid are invited to participate in a free and fair auction in compliance with the laws of Kerch, the rule of the Merchant Council, and the supervision of the Council of Tides at the Church of Barter in four days' time. Parties will convene at noon. Sacred is Ghezen and in commerce we see His hand.

The city had already been in an uproar over the curfews, barricades, and blockades. Now gossip raced through the coffeehouses and taverns, changing and taking on new force from the salons of the Geldstraat all the way to the slums of the Barrel. According to Kaz's new Dregs troops, people were eager for any kind of information on the mysterious Kuwei Yul-Bo, and his auction was already being linked to the bizarre attack on West Stave that had nearly leveled two pleasure houses and left reports of flying men in its wake. Inej staked out the Shu Embassy herself and returned with word that messengers had been coming and going all morning and that she'd seen the ambassador himself storm down to the docks to demand the Council of Tides release one of their dry-docked ships.

“He wants to send for a Fabrikator so they can make gold,” said Jesper.