Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo
When Colm had finished, the last notes drifting up into the cherry tree’s branches, Jesper said, “Was Ma a witch?”
Colm laid a freckled hand on his son’s shoulder and drew him close. “She was a queen, Jes,” he said. “She was our queen.”
Jesper had made dinner for them that night, burnt biscuits and watery soup, but his father ate every bite and read to him from his Kaelish book of Saints until the lights burned low and the pain in Jesper’s heart eased enough for him to sleep. And that was the way it had been from then on, the two of them, looking after each other, working the fields, bundling and drying jurda in the summers, trying to make the farm pay. Why hadn’t it been enough?
But even as Jesper had the thought, he knew it could never be enough. He could never go back to that life. He hadn’t been built for it. Maybe if his mother had lived, she would have taught him to channel his restlessness. Maybe she would have shown him how to use his power instead of hiding it. Maybe he’d have gone to Ravka to be a soldier for the crown. Or maybe he would have ended up right here anyway.
He wiped the stain of the jurda from his fingertips and placed the lid back on the tin.
“The Zemeni don’t just use the blossoms,” he said. “I remember my mother soaking jurda stalks in goat’s milk. She gave it to me when I’d been out in the fields.”
“Why?” asked Matthias.
“To counteract the effects of inhaling jurda pollen all day. It’s too much for a child’s system, and no one wanted me more excitable than I already was.”
“The stalks?” repeated Kuwei. “Most people just dispose of them.”
“The stalks have a balm in them. The Zemeni drain it for ointments. They rub it on babies’ gums and nostrils when they’re burning jurda.” Jesper’s fingers drummed on the tin, a thought forming in his mind. Could the secret to the antidote for jurda parem be the jurda plant itself? He wasn’t a chemist; he didn’t think like Wylan, and he hadn’t been trained as a Fabrikator. But he was his mother’s son. “What if there’s a version of the balm that would counteract the effects of jurda parem? There still wouldn’t be a way to admin—”
That was when the window shattered. Jesper had his guns drawn in less than a breath, as Matthias shoved Kuwei down and shouldered his rifle. They edged to the wall and Jesper peeked outside through the smashed stained glass. In the shadows of the cemetery he saw lanterns raised, shifting shapes that had to be people—a lot of people.
“Unless the ghosts just got a lot more lively,” Jesper said, “it looks like we have company.”
PART FOUR
THE UNEXPECTED VISITOR
17
INEJ
At night, the warehouse district felt like it had shed its skin and taken on a new form. The shantytowns at its eastern edges crackled with life, while the streets of the district itself became a no-man’s-land, occupied only by guards at their posts and stadwatch grunts walking their beats.
Inej and Nina moored their boat in the wide central canal that ran up the center of the district and made their way down the silent quay, keeping close to the warehouses and away from the streetlamps that lined the water’s edge. They passed barges loaded with lumber and vast troughs piled high with coal. Every so often, they’d glimpse men working by lantern light, hefting barrels of rum or bales of cotton. Such valued cargo could not be left unattended overnight. When they had almost reached Sweet Reef, they saw two men unloading something from a large wagon parked by the side of the canal, lit by a single blue-tinged lamp.
“Corpselight,” whispered Inej, and Nina shuddered. Bonelights, made from the crushed skeletons of deep-sea fishes, glowed green. But the corpselights burned some other fuel, a blue warning that allowed people to identify the flatboats of the bodymen, whose cargo was the dead.
“What are the bodymen doing in the warehouse district?”
“People don’t like to see corpses on the streets or canals. The warehouse district is nearly deserted at night, so this is where they bring the bodies. Once the sun goes down, the bodymen collect the dead and bring them here. They work in shifts, neighborhood by neighborhood. They’ll be gone by dawn, and so will their cargo.” Out to the Reaper’s Barge for burning.
“Why don’t they just build a real cemetery?” Nina said.
“No room. I know there was some talk of reopening Black Veil a long time ago, but that all stopped when the Queen’s Lady Plague struck. People are too afraid of contagion. If your family can afford it, they send you to a cemetery or graveyard outside Ketterdam. And if they can’t…”
“No mourners,” Nina said grimly.
No mourners, no funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.
Inej took the lead as they approached Sweet Reef. The silos themselves were daunting, vast as sentinel gods, monuments to industry emblazoned with the Van Eck red laurel. Soon everyone would know what that emblem stood for—cowardice and deceit. The circular cluster of Van Eck’s silos was surrounded by a high metal fence.
“Razor wire,” Nina noted.
“It won’t be a problem.” It had been invented to keep livestock in their pens. It would present no challenge for the Wraith.
They took up a watch beside the sturdy red-brick wall of a warehouse and held their position, confirming that the guards’ routine hadn’t changed. Just as Kaz had said, the guards took almost twelve minutes exactly to circle the fence that surrounded the silos. When the patrols were on the eastern side of the perimeter, Inej would have roughly six minutes to cross the wire. Once they passed to the west side, it would be too easy for them to spot her on the wire between the silos, but she’d be almost impossible to see on the roof. During those six minutes, Inej would deal with depositing the weevil in the silo hatch and then detach the line. If it took her longer than six minutes, she’d simply have to wait for the guards to come back around. She’d be unable to see them, but Nina had a powerful bonelight in hand. She would signal Inej with a brief flash of green light when she was clear to make the crossing.
“Ten silos,” Inej said. “Nine crossings.”
“They’re a lot taller up close,” said Nina. “Are you ready for this?”
Inej couldn’t deny they were intimidating. “No matter the height of the mountain, the climbing is the same.”
“That’s not technically true. You need ropes, picks—”
“Don’t be a Matthias.”
Nina covered her mouth in horror. “I’m going to eat twice as much cake to make up for it.”
Inej nodded wisely. “Sound policy.”
The patrol was setting out from the guardhouse again.
“Inej,” Nina said haltingly, “you should know, my power hasn’t been the same since the parem. If we get into a scuffle—”
“No scuffles tonight. We pass through like ghosts.” She gave Nina’s shoulders a squeeze. “And I know no fiercer warrior, powers or not.”
“But—”
“Nina, the guards.”
The patrol had disappeared from view. If they didn’t act now, they would have to wait for the next cycle, and it would put them behind schedule.
“On it,” Nina said, and strode toward the guardhouse.
In the few steps it took her to cross the space from their warehouse lookout to the pool of lamplight bathing the guardhouse, Nina’s whole demeanor changed. Inej couldn’t quite explain it, but her steps grew more tentative, her shoulders drooped slightly. She almost seemed to shrink. She was no longer a trained Grisha, but a young, nervous immigrant hoping for a shred of kindness.
“Please to excuse?” Nina said in a ridiculously thick Ravkan accent.
The guard held his weapon at the ready but didn’t look particularly concerned. “You shouldn’t be here at night.”
Nina murmured something, looking up at him with big green eyes. Inej had no idea s
“What was that?” said the guard, stepping closer.
Inej made her move. She lit the long fuse on the low-grade flash bomb Wylan had given them, then loped for the fence, keeping well away from that pool of light, climbing silently. She was almost directly behind the guard and Nina, then above them. She could hear their voices as she slipped easily between the coils of razor wire.
“I come for job, yes?” Nina said. “To make sugar.”
“We don’t make it here, just store it. You’ll want to go to one of the processing plants.”
“But I need job. I … I…”
“Oh, hey now, don’t cry. There, there.”
Inej restrained a snort and dropped soundlessly to the ground on the other side of the fence. Through it, she could see the sandbags Kaz had mentioned stacked against the back wall of the guardhouse, and the corner of what must be the net he’d planned for her to use.
“Your … uh … your fella looking for work too?” the guard was asking.
“I have no … how you say? Fella?”
The gate beside the guardhouse didn’t lock from the inside, so Inej pushed it open, leaving it just barely ajar for Nina, and hurried to the shadows at the base of the nearest silo.
She heard Nina say her goodbyes and walk off in the direction opposite their lookout. Then Inej waited. The minutes passed, and just as she became convinced the bomb was defective, a loud pop sounded and a bright flash of light crackled from the warehouse they’d used to spy on the guards. The guard emerged again, rifle raised, and took a few paces toward the warehouse.
“Hello?” he shouted.
Nina slipped from the shadows behind him and was inside the gate in a matter of moments. She closed it securely and headed for the second silo, disappearing into the dark. From there, she would be able to signal Inej as the guards made their rounds.
The guard returned to his post, walking backward in case some threat still waited in the warehouses beyond. Finally, he turned and gave the gate a shake to make sure it was locked, then headed inside the guardhouse.
Inej waited for the signal from Nina, then scampered up the rungs welded to the side of the silo. One story, two stories, ten. At the carnival, her uncle would have kept the audience entertained during her ascent. No trick like this has ever been attempted before, and certainly never by one so young! Above you, behold the terrifying high wire. A spotlight would come on, lighting the wire so that it looked like the frailest skein of cobweb strung across the tent. Gentlemen, take your lady’s hand in yours. See how slender her fingers are? Now imagine if you will, trying to walk across something so slender, so fragile as that! Who would dare such a thing? Who would dare to defy death itself?
Then Inej would stand at the top of the pole and, hands on hips, shout, “I will!”
And the crowd would gasp.
But wait, no, this can’t be right, her uncle would say, a little girl?
At this point, the crowd would always go wild. Women would swoon. Sometimes one of the men would try to stop the show.
There was no crowd tonight, only the wind, the cold metal beneath her fingers, the bright face of the moon.
Inej reached the top of the silo and looked out over the city below. Ketterdam gleamed with golden light, lanterns moving slowly across the canals, candles left burning in windows, shops and taverns still shining bright for the evening’s business. She could make out the glittering spangle of the Lid, the colorful lanterns and showy cascade bulbs of the Staves. In just a few short days, Van Eck’s fortunes would be ruined and she would be free of her contract with Per Haskell. Free. To live as she wished. To seek forgiveness for her sins. To pursue her purpose. Would she miss this place? This crowded mess of a city she’d come to know so well, that had somehow become her home? She felt certain she would. So tonight, she would perform for her city, for the citizens of Ketterdam, even if they did not know to applaud.
Though it took a bit of muscle, she managed to loosen the wheel of the silo hatch and wrench it open. She reached into her pocket and took out the capped vial of the chemical weevil. Following Wylan’s instructions, she gave it a firm shake, then spilled the contents into the silo. A low hiss filled the air, and as she watched, the sugar moved as if something was alive beneath its surface. She shivered. She’d heard of workers dying in silos, getting caught inside when the grain or corn or sugar gave way beneath their feet, being slowly suffocated to death. She closed the hatch and sealed it tight.
Then she reached down to the first rung of the metal ladder and attached the magnetized clamp Wylan had given her. It certainly felt like a solid grip. With the press of a button, two magnetized guide wires sprang free and attached to the silo with a soft clang. She removed a crossbow and a heavy coil of wire from her pack, then looped one end of the wire through the clamp, secured it tightly, and attached the guide wires. The other end was fastened to a magnetized clamp loaded into the crossbow. She released the trigger. The first shot went astray, and she had to wind the wire back. The second shot hooked to the wrong rung. But the third shot latched properly in place on the next silo. She twisted the clamp until the tension in the line felt right. They’d used similar gear before, but never on a distance so wide or a climb so high. It didn’t matter. The distance, the danger would be transformed upon the wire, and she would be transformed too. On the high wire, she was beholden to no one, a creature without past or present, suspended between earth and sky.
It was time. You could learn the swings, but you had to be born to the wire.
Inej’s mother had told her that gifted wire walkers were descended from the People of the Air, that they’d once had wings, and that in the right light, those wings could still be glimpsed on the humans to whom they showed favor. After that, Inej was perpetually twisting this way and that in front of mirrors and checking her shadow, ignoring the laughter of her cousins, to see if perhaps her own wings might be showing.
When her father grew tired of her pestering him every day, he allowed her to begin her education on the low ropes, barefoot, so that she could get a feel for walking forward and backward, keeping her center balanced. She’d been bored senseless, but she’d dutifully gone through the exercises each day, testing her strength, trying the feel of leather shoes that would allow her to grip the stiffer, less friendly wire. If her father got distracted, she would flip into a handstand so that when he turned back to her, she was traversing the rope on her hands. He agreed to raise the rope a few inches, let her try a proper wire, and at each level, Inej mastered one skill after another—cartwheels, flips, keeping a pitcher of water perched on her head. She familiarized herself with the slender, flexible pole that would allow her to keep her balance at greater heights.
One afternoon her uncle and cousins had been setting up a new act. Hanzi was going to push Asha across the wire in a wheelbarrow. The day was hot and they’d decided to take a break for lunch and go for a swim in the river. Alone in the quiet camp, Inej scaled one of the platform rigs they’d erected, making sure her back was to the sun so that she’d have a clear view of the wire.
That high up, the world became a reflection of itself, its shapes stunted, its shadows elongated, familiar in its forms but somehow untrustworthy, and as Inej placed her slippered foot on the wire, she’d felt a sudden moment of doubt. Though this was the same width of wire she’d walked for weeks without fear, it seemed far thinner now, as if in this mirror world, the wire obeyed different rules. When fear arrives, something is about to happen.
Inej breathed deeply, tucked her hips beneath her navel, and took her first steps on the air. Beneath her the grass was an undulating sea. She felt her weight shift, listed left, felt the pull of the earth, gravity ready to unite her with her shadow far below.
Her muscles flexed, she bent her knees, the moment passed, and then there was only her and the wire. She was already halfway across when she realized she was being watched. She let her vision expand, but kept her focus. Inej w
Once she’d climbed down, her mother had spent the better part of an hour alternating between hugging her and shrieking at her. Her father had been stern, but she hadn’t missed the pride in his gaze or the grudging admiration in her cousins’ eyes.
When one of them had taken her aside later and said, “How do you walk so fearlessly?” she’d simply shrugged and said, “It’s just walking.”
But that wasn’t true. It was better than walking. When others walked the wire, they fought it—the wind, the height, the distance. When Inej was on the high wire, it became her world. She could feel its tilt and pull. It was a planet and she was its moon. There was a simplicity to it that she never felt on the swings, where she was carried away by momentum. She loved the stillness she could find on the wire, and it was something no one else understood.
She had fallen only once, and she still blamed it on the net. They’d strung it up because Hanzi was adding a unicycle to his act. One moment Inej was walking and the next she was falling. She barely had time to register it before she hit the net—and bounced right out of it onto the ground. Inej felt somewhat startled to discover how very hard the earth was, that it would not soften or bend for her. She broke two ribs and had a lump on her head the size of a fat goose egg.
“It’s good that it’s so large,” her father murmured over it. “That means the blood is not inside her brain.”