Crooked Kingdom (58 page)

Nina kept her head lowered, her hood up. Though she had been the cause of it all, and though she knew the plague was pure fiction, she still found her heart racing, carried into a gallop by the hysteria bubbling up around her. People were crying, shoving and shouting, arguing over space on the browboats. It was chaos. Chaos of her making.

I did this
, she thought wonderingly.
I commanded those corpses, those bits of bone, those dying cells.
What did that make her? If any Grisha had ever had such a power, she'd never heard of it. What would the other Grisha think of her? Her fellow Corporalki, the Heartrenders and Healers?
We are tied to the power of creation itself, the making at the heart of the world.
Maybe she should feel ashamed, maybe even frightened. But she hadn't been made for shame.

Perhaps Djel extinguished one light and lit another.
Nina didn't care if it was Djel or the Saints or a brigade of fire-breathing kittens; as she hurried east, she realized that, for the first time in ages, she felt strong. Her breath came easy, the ache in her muscles had dimmed. She was ravenous. The craving for
parem
felt distant, like a memory of real hunger.

Nina had grieved for her loss of power, for the connection she'd felt to the living world. She'd resented this shadow gift. It had seemed like a sham, a punishment. But just as surely as life connected everything, so did death. It was that endless, fast-running river. She'd dipped her fingers into its current, held the eddy of its power in her hand. She was the Queen of Mourning, and in its depths, she would never drown.

 

35

I
NEJ

Inej saw the snap of Dunyasha's hand and heard a sound like a wingbeat, then felt something bounce off her shoulder. She caught the silver star before it could fall to the roof. Inej had come prepared this time. Jesper had helped her sew some of the padding from one of the hotel suite's mattresses into her tunic and vest. Years on the farm darning shirts and socks had made him surprisingly handy with a needle, and she was not going to play pincushion for the White Blade again.

Inej leapt forward, speeding toward her opponent, sure-footed on this roof she'd spent so very many hours on. She hurled the star back at Dunyasha. The girl dodged it easily.

“My own blades would not betray me so,” she chided, as if scolding a small child.

But Inej hadn't needed to hit her, merely distract her. She flicked her hand as if she was throwing another blade, and as Dunyasha followed the movement, Inej rebounded off the metal spine to her right, letting the ricochet carry her past her opponent. She crouched low, knives in hand, and slashed open the mercenary's calf.

Inej was up again in moments, bouncing backward over one of the scrollwork spines of the church, keeping her eyes on Dunyasha. But the girl just laughed.

“Your spirit brings me pleasure, Wraith. I can't remember the last time anyone drew first blood on me.”

Dunyasha leapt onto the scrollwork spine, and now they faced each other, both with blades at the ready. The mercenary lunged deeply, slashing out, but this time, Inej did not let herself follow the instincts she had fought so hard to learn on the streets of Ketterdam. Instead, she responded as an acrobat would. When the swing was coming at you, you didn't try to avoid it; you went to meet it.

Inej ducked close into Dunyasha's reach, as if they were partners in a dance, using the motion of her opponent's attack to knock her off balance. Again Inej struck out with her blade, slicing open the girl's other calf.

This time Dunyasha hissed.

Better than a laugh
, thought Inej.

The mercenary whirled, a compact movement, spinning on her toes like a dagger on its point. If she felt any pain, she did not show it. Her hands held two curved blades now, moving in sinuous rhythm as she stalked Inej along the metal spine.

Inej knew she could not move into these blades.
So break the rhythm
, she told herself. She let Dunyasha pursue her, giving up ground, skittering backward along the spine until she saw the shadow of a tall finial behind her. She feinted right, encouraging her opponent to lunge forward. Instead of checking the feint and keeping her balance, Inej continued to let herself fall to the right. In the same movement, she sheathed her blades and seized hold of the finial with one hand, swinging her body around to the other side. Now the finial was between them. Dunyasha grunted in frustration as her blades clanged against metal.

Inej leapt from scroll to scroll, racing over the roof to the thickest of the metal spines, following it up the humped back of the cathedral. It was like walking on the fin of some great sea creature.

Dunyasha followed and Inej had to respect that her movements were just as smooth and graceful with two bleeding calves. “Are you going to run all the way back to the caravan, Wraith? You know it's only a matter of time before this ends and justice is done.”

“Justice?”

“You are a murderer and a thief. I was chosen to rid this world of people like you. A criminal may pay my wages, but I have never taken an innocent life.”

That word sounded a discordant note inside Inej. Was she innocent? She regretted the lives she'd taken, but she would take them again to save her own life, the lives of her friends. She'd stolen. She'd helped Kaz blackmail good men and bad. Could she say the choices she'd made were the only choices put before her?

Dunyasha approached, the flame of her hair bright against the blue sky, her skin nearly the same ivory as the fine clothes she wore. Somewhere far below their feet, the auction continued in the cathedral, its participants unaware of the battle being waged above. Here, the sun shone bright as a freshly minted coin, wind rushed over the spines and spires of the rooftop in a low moan.
Innocence.
Innocence was a luxury, and Inej did not believe her Saints demanded it.

She drew her knives once more.
Sankt Vladimir, Sankta Alina, protect me.

“They're charming,” Dunyasha said, and pulled two long, straight blades from the sheaths at her waist. “I will give my new knife a handle from your shinbone. It will be your honor to serve me in death.”

“I will never serve you,” said Inej.

Dunyasha lunged.

Inej stayed close, using every opportunity to keep inside the mercenary's guard and deny her the advantage of her longer reach. She was stronger than she'd been when they'd faced each other on the wire, well rested, well fed. But she was still a girl trained on the streets, not in the towers of some Shu monastery.

Inej's first mistake was a slow recoil. She paid for it in a deep slash to her left bicep. It cut through the padding and made it hard to keep a good grip on the blade in her left hand. Her second error was putting too much force into an upward jab. She leaned in too far and felt Dunyasha's knife skim her ribs. A shallow cut that time, but it had been a close thing.

She ignored the pain and focused on her opponent, remembering what Kaz had told her.
Find her tells. Everyone has them.
But Dunyasha's movements seemed unpredictable. She was equally comfortable with her left and right hands, she favored neither foot, and waited until the last moment to strike, giving no early indication of her intent. She was extraordinary.

“Growing weary, Wraith?”

Inej said nothing, conserving her energy. Though Dunyasha's breathing seemed clear and even, Inej could feel herself dragging slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give the mercenary the advantage. Then she saw it—the slightest hitch of Dunyasha's chest, followed by a lunge. A hitch, then another lunge. The tell was in her breathing. She took in a deep breath before an attack.

There.
Inej dodged left, struck quickly, a rapid jab of her blade to Dunyasha's side.
There
. Inej attacked again, and blood flowered on Dunyasha's arm.

Inej drew back, waited as the girl advanced. The mercenary liked to hide her direct assaults with other movement, the whirl of her blades, an unnecessary flourish. It made her hard to read, but
there
. The quick burst of breath. Inej sank low and swept her left leg wide, knocking the mercenary off balance. This was her chance. Inej shot to her feet, using her upward momentum and Dunyasha's descent to shove her blade under the leather guard protecting the girl's sternum.

Inej felt blood on her hand as she wrenched the knife free and Dunyasha released a shocked grunt. The girl stared at her now, clutching her chest with one hand. Her eyes narrowed. There was still no fear there, only a hard, bright resentment, as if Inej had ruined an important party.

“The blood you spill is the blood of kings,” seethed Dunyasha. “You are not fit for such a gift.”

Inej almost felt sorry for her. Dunyasha really believed she was the Lantsov heir, and maybe she was. But wasn't that what every girl dreamed? That she'd wake and find herself a princess? Or blessed with magical powers and a grand destiny? Maybe there were people who lived those lives. Maybe this girl was one of them.
But what about the rest of us?
What about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls?
We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. We learn to wring magic from the ordinary.
That was how you survived when you weren't chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. When the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway.

Inej raised a brow and slowly wiped the blood of kings on her trousers.

Dunyasha snarled and launched herself at Inej, slashing and jabbing with one arm, the other pressed to her wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. She'd obviously been trained to fight with just one hand.
But she's never had to fight with an injury
, Inej realized.
Maybe the monks skipped that lesson.
And now that she was wounded, her tell was even more obvious.

They had neared the tip of the church's main spine. The scrollwork was loose in places here, and Inej adjusted her footing accordingly, dodging Dunyasha's onslaught easily now, bobbing right and left, taking small victories, a cut here, a jab there. It was a war of attrition, and the mercenary was losing blood quickly.

“You're better than I thought,” Dunyasha panted, surprising Inej with the admission. Her eyes were dull with pain; the hand at her sternum was slick and red. Still, her posture was erect, her balance steady as they stood mere feet from each other, perched on the high metal spine.

“Thank you,” Inej said. The words felt false in her mouth.

“There is no shame in meeting a worthy opponent. It means there is more to learn, a welcome reminder to pursue humility.” The girl lowered her head, sheathed her knife. She placed a fist over her heart in salute.

Inej waited, guard up. Could the girl mean it? This wasn't the way you ended a fight in the Barrel, but the mercenary clearly followed her own code. Inej did not want to be forced to kill her, no matter how soulless she seemed.

“I have learned humility,” Dunyasha said, head bowed. “And now you will learn that some are meant to serve. And some are meant to rule.”

Dunyasha's face snapped up. She unfurled her palm and released a sharp gust of air.

Inej saw a cloud of red dust and recoiled from it, but it was too late. Her eyes were burning. What was it? It didn't matter. She was blind. She heard the sound of a blade being drawn and felt the slash of a knife. She bobbled backward along the spine, fighting to keep her footing.

Tears streamed down her face as she tried to wipe the dust from her eyes. Dunyasha was nothing but a blurry shape in front of her. Inej held her blade straight out, trying to create distance between them, and felt the mercenary's knife cut across her forearm. The blade slid from Inej's fingers and clattered to the rooftop.
Sankta Alina, protect me.

But perhaps the Saints had chosen Dunyasha as their vessel. Despite Inej's prayers and penance, maybe judgment had come at last.

I am not sorry
, she realized. She had chosen to live freely as a killer rather than die quietly as a slave, and she could not regret that. She would go to her Saints with a ready spirit and hope they would receive her.

The next slice cut across her knuckles. Inej took another step backward, but she knew she was running out of room. Dunyasha was going to drive her right over the edge.

“I told you, Wraith. I am fearless. My blood flows with the strength of every queen and conqueror who came before me.”

Inej's foot caught the edge of one of the metal scrolls, and then she understood. She didn't have her opponent's training or education or fine white clothes. She would never be as ruthless and she could not wish to be. But she knew this city inside out. It was the source of her suffering and the proving ground for her strength. Like it or not, Ketterdam—brutal, dirty, hopeless Ketterdam—had become her home. And she would defend it. She knew its rooftops the way she knew the squeaky stairs of the Slat, the way she knew the cobblestones and alleys of the Stave. She knew every inch of this city like a map of her heart.

“The girl who knows no fear,” Inej panted as the mercenary's shape wobbled before her.

Dunyasha bowed. “Goodbye, Wraith.”

“Then learn fear now before you die.” Inej stepped aside, balancing on one foot as Dunyasha's boot came down on the loose piece of scrollwork.

If the mercenary had not been bleeding, she might have taken better heed of the terrain. If she had not been so eager, she might have righted herself.

Instead, she slipped, tipped forward. Inej saw Dunyasha through the blur of her tears. She hung for a moment, silhouetted against the sky, toes seeking purchase, arms outstretched with nothing to grasp, a dancer poised to leap, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. Even now, in this last moment, she looked like a girl from a story, destined for greatness. She was a queen without mercy, a figure carved in ivory and amber.