“I’m a creature of habit.”
“Lucky for you, I am, too.” He hesitated long enough to say, “You don’t want us with you? Geels’
boys are gonna be riled after that.”
“Let them come,” Kaz said, and turned down Nemstraat without another word. If you couldn’t walk by yourself through Ketterdam after dark, then you might as well just hang a sign that read ‘soft’
around your neck and lie down for a beating.
He could feel the Dregs’ eyes on his back as he headed over the bridge. He didn’t need to hear their whispers to know what they would say. They wanted to drink with him, hear him explain how he’d known Big Bolliger had gone over to the Black Tips, listen to him describe the look in Geels’ eyes when he’d dropped his pistol. But they’d never get it from Kaz, and if they didn’t like it, they could find another crew to run with.
No matter what they thought of him, they’d walk a little taller tonight. It was why they stayed, why they gave their best approximation of loyalty for him. When he’d officially become a member of the Dregs, he’d been twelve and the gang had been a laughing stock, street kids and washed-up cadgers running shell games and penny-poor cons out of a run-down house in the worst part of the Barrel. But he hadn’t needed a great gang, just one he could make great – one that needed him.
Now they had their own territory, their own gambling hall, and that run-down house had become
the Slat, a dry, warm place to get a hot meal or hole up when you were wounded. Now the Dregs were feared. Kaz had given them that. He didn’t owe them small talk on top of it.
Besides, Jesper would smoothe it all over. A few drinks in and a few hands up and the sharpshooter ’s good nature would return. He held a grudge about as well as he held his liquor, and he had a gift for making Kaz’s victories sound like they belonged to everyone.
As Kaz headed down one of the little canals that would take him past Fifth Harbour, he realised he felt – Saints, he almost felt hopeful. Maybe he should see a medik. The Black Tips had been nipping at his heels for weeks, and now he’d forced them to play their hand. His leg wasn’t too bad either, despite the winter chill. The ache was always there, but tonight it was just a dull throb. Still, a part of him wondered if the parlay was some sort of test Per Haskell had set for him. Haskell was perfectly capable of convincing himself that he was the genius making the Dregs prosper, especially if one of his cronies was whispering in his ear. That idea didn’t sit easy, but Kaz could worry about Per Haskell tomorrow. For now, he’d make sure everything was running on schedule at the harbour and then head home to the Slat for some much-needed sleep.
He knew Inej was shadowing him. She’d been with him all the way from the Exchange. He didn’t
call out to her. She would make herself visible when she was good and ready. Usually he liked the quiet; in fact, he would have happily sewn most people’s lips shut. But when she wanted to, Inej had a way of making you feel her silence. It tugged at your edges.
Kaz managed to endure it all the way past the iron railings of Zentzbridge, the grating covered in little bits of rope tied in elaborate knots, sailors’ prayers for safe return from sea. Superstitious rot.
Finally he gave in and said, “Spit it out already, Wraith.”
Her voice came from the dark. “You didn’t send anyone to Burstraat.”
“Why would I?”
“If Geels doesn’t get there in time—”
“No one’s setting fires at Nineteen Burstraat.”
“I heard the siren …”
“A happy accident. I take inspiration where I find it.”
“You were bluffing, then. She was never in danger.”
Kaz shrugged, unwilling to give her an answer. Inej was always trying to wring little bits of decency from him. “When everyone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.”
“Why did you even agree to the meet if you knew it was a set-up?” She was somewhere to the right of him, moving without a sound. He’d heard other members of the gang say she moved like a cat, but he suspected cats would sit attentively at her feet to learn her methods.
“I’d call the night a success,” he said. “Wouldn’t you?”
“You were nearly killed. So was Jesper.”
“Geels emptied the Black Tips’ coffers paying useless bribes. We’ve outed a traitor, re-established our claim on Fifth Harbour, and I don’t have a scratch on me. It was a good night.”
“How long have you known about Big Bolliger?”
“Weeks. We’re going to be short-staffed. That reminds me, let Rojakke go.”
“Why? There’s no one like him at the tables.”
“Lots of sobs know their way around a deck of cards. Rojakke is a little too quick. He’s skimming.”
“He’s a good dealer, and he has a family to provide for. You could give him a warning, take a finger.”