“Was this your idea or your master’s?”
“Why does it matter?” Bajan asked. There was an urgency in his voice that pricked at Inej’s defenses. When fear arrives, something is about to happen. But was he afraid of Van Eck or afraid for her? “You can walk away from the Dregs and Per Haskell and that horrid Kaz Brekker free and clear. Van Eck could give you transport to Ravka, money to travel.”
An offer or a threat? Could Van Eck have found her mother and father? The Suli were not easy to track, and they would be wary of strangers asking questions. But what if Van Eck had sent men claiming to have knowledge of a lost girl? A girl who had vanished one chilly dawn as if the tide had reached up to the shore to claim her?
“What does Van Eck know about my family?” she asked, anger rising.
“He knows you’re far from home. He knows the terms of your indenture with the Menagerie.”
“Then he knows I was a slave. Will he have Tante Heleen arrested?”
“I … don’t think—”
“Of course not. Van Eck doesn’t care that I was bought and sold like a bolt of cotton. He’s just looking for leverage.”
But what Bajan asked next took Inej by surprise. “Did your mother make skillet bread?”
She frowned. “Of course.” It was a Suli staple. Inej could have made skillet bread in her sleep.
“With rosemary?”
“Dill, when we had it.” She knew what Bajan was doing, trying to make her think of home. But she was so hungry and the memory was so strong that her stomach growled anyway. She could see her mother damping the fire, see her flipping the bread with quick pinches of her fingers, smell the dough cooking over the ashes.
“Your friends are not coming,” said Bajan. “It is time to think of your own survival. You could be home with your family by summer’s end. Van Eck can help you if you let him.”
Every alarm inside Inej had sounded danger. The play was too obvious. Beneath Bajan’s charm, his dark eyes, his easy promises, there was fear. And yet amid the clamor of suspicion, she could hear the soft chiming of another bell, the sound of What if? What if she let herself be comforted, gave up the pretense of being beyond the things she’d lost? What if she simply let Van Eck put her on a ship, send her home? She could taste the skillet bread, warm from the pan, see her mother’s dark braid twined with ribbons, strands of silk the color of ripe persimmons.
But Inej knew better than that. She’d learned from the best. Better terrible truths than kind lies. Kaz had never offered her happiness, and she didn’t trust the men promising to serve it up to her now. Her suffering had not been for nothing. Her Saints had brought her to Ketterdam for a reason—a ship to hunt slavers, a mission to give meaning to all she’d been through. She would not betray that purpose or her friends for some dream of the past.
Inej hissed at Bajan, an animal sound that made him flinch backward. “Tell your master to honor his old deals before he starts making new ones,” she said. “Now leave me alone.”
Bajan had scurried away like the well-dressed rat he was, but Inej knew it was time to go. Bajan’s new insistence could mean nothing good for her. I have to get out of this trap , she’d thought, before this creature lures me with memories and sympathy. Maybe Kaz and the others were coming for her, but she didn’t intend to wait around and see.
Once Bajan and the guards had left, she’d slipped the shard of broken bowl from where she’d hidden it beneath the ropes around her ankles and set to work. Weak and wobbly as she’d felt when Bajan had arrived with that heavenly smelling bowl of mush, she’d only pretended to swoon so that she could deliberately knock her tray off the table. If Van Eck had really done his research, he would have warned Bajan that the Wraith did not fall. Certainly not in a clumsy heap on the floor where she could easily tuck a sharp piece of crockery between her bonds.
After what seemed like a lifetime of sawing and scraping and bloodying her fingertips on the shard’s edge, she’d finally severed her ropes and freed her hands, then untied her ankles and felt her way to the vent. Bajan and the guards wouldn’t be back until morning. That gave her the whole night to escape this place and get as far away as she possibly could.
The passage was a miserably tight fit, the air inside musty with smells she couldn’t quite identify, the dark so complete she might as well have kept her blindfold on. She had no idea where the vent might lead. It could run for a few more feet or for half a mile. She needed to be gone by morning or they’d find the grating that covered the vent loosened on its hinges and know exactly where she was.
Good luck getting me out , she thought grimly. She doubted any of Van Eck’s guards could squeeze inside the air shaft. They’d have to find some kitchen boy and grease him down with lard.
She inched forward. How far had she gone? Every time she took a deep breath, it felt like the air shaft was tightening around her ribs. For all she knew, she could be atop a building. She might pop her head out the other side only to find a busy Ketterdam street far below. Inej could contend with that. But if the shaft just ended? If it was walled up on the other side? She’d have to squirm backward the entire distance and hope to refasten her ropes so that her captors wouldn’t know what she’d done. Impossible. There could be no dead ends tonight.
Faster , she told herself, sweat beading on her brow. It was hard not to imagine the building compressing around her, its walls squeezing the breath from her lungs. She couldn’t make a real plan until she reached the end of this tunnel, until she knew just how far she’d have to go to evade Van Eck’s men.
Then she felt it, the barest gust of air brushing against her damp forehead. She whispered a quick prayer of thanks. There must be some kind of opening up ahead. She sniffed, searching for a hint of coal smoke or the wet green fields of a country town. Cautiously, she wiggled forward until her fingers made contact with the slats of the vent. There was no light trickling through, which she supposed was a good thing. The room she was about to drop into must be unoccupied. Saints, what if she was in Van Eck’s mansion? What if she was about to land on a sleeping merch? She listened for some human sound—snores, deep breathing. Nothing.
She wished for her knives, for the comforting weight of them in her palms. Did Van Eck still have them in his possession? Had he sold them off? Tossed them into the sea? She named the blades anyway—Petyr, Marya, Anastasia, Lizabeta, Sankt Vladimir, Sankta Alina —and found courage in each whispered word. Then she jiggled the vent and gave it a hard shove. It flew open, but instead of swinging on its hinges, it came completely loose. She tried to grab it, but it slid past her fingertips and clattered to the floor.
Inej waited, heart pounding. A minute passed in silence. Another. No one came. The room was empty. Maybe the whole building was empty. Van Eck wouldn’t have left her unguarded, so his men must be stationed outside. If that was the case, she knew slipping past them would present little challenge. And at least now she knew roughly how far away the floor was.
There was no graceful way to accomplish what came next. She slid down headfirst, gripping the wall. Then, when she was more than halfway out and her body began to tip, she let momentum carry her forward, curling into a ball and tucking her arms over her head to protect her skull and neck as she fell.
The impact was fairly painless. The floor was hard concrete like the floor of her cell, but she rolled as she struck and came up against what seemed to be the back of something solid. She pulled herself to her feet, hands exploring whatever she’d banged into. It was upholstered in velvet. As she moved along, she felt another identical object next to it. Seats , she realized. I’m in a theater.