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1. Matthias
“What are you staring at?” Kaz asked. Matthias shook his head, looking away.
“Nothing,” He said. In truth, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. The dog sitting at Kaz’s feet was staring up at Kaz like he held the secrets of the universe, and Kaz was stroking his head absently.
The dog had been found by Jesper months ago. It had been small, half its current size, with ribs and hips poking out as a sure sign of starvation. Since bringing him to the house, with great protests from Wylan and the house staff, the canine had been a source of chaos. He grew fast, and ran even faster, unaware of the great weight he carried. He’d barrel around corners, knocking over vases or tracking mud across white furniture.
Jesper and Wylan had no clue how to train a dog, and, contrary to popular belief, neither did Matthias. His experience with Trassel hadn’t been training, it had been companionship. His great wolf did not need to be taught how to behave; he was his own beast. So Verek had been allowed to reign chaos, speeding through the halls in a way befitting the Kerch name. Yet, before him, he was witnessing this crazy hound sit silently and patiently at the Bastard of the Barrel’s feet.
“What?” Kaz said sharply, looking up from his papers.
“I just didn’t realize you were good with dogs.” Kaz shrugged and returned to his work with no explanation. When he stopped petting Verek to make a note, the dog whined pitifully.
“Hush,” Kaz admonished. The dog listened. His hand returned, and the dog thumped his tail in the carpeted floor. Matthias kept staring. “I once had to sneak into the dog kennels to steal some prize male breeder. Smartest way in was to learn to train them properly. Helps that dogs love me.”
“So…you know how to train dogs?”
“Yes. Within reason. I’m not exactly equipped to train them to sniff out bombs, but they can be well behaved enough with a bit of work from me.”
“Why didn’t you say you could train Verek?” At the sound of his name, the dog’s ears perked, but he only glared at Matthias as if he interrupted something sacred.
“Nobody asked, and I’m not the type to volunteer my services. Especially without guarantee of payment.”
“Why would you learn how to train dogs just to steal one?”
“I’ll do just about anything for a job, Helvar.”
2. Nina
She didn’t know how she ended up at the Slat. She simply followed her nose, the strangely heavenly scent wafting through the cloudy window. One minute she was venturing through the crowded streets of Ketterdam, the next she was standing in the messy, molded kitchen of the slanted stack of rooms the Dregs called home. The gang rarely used this space, she knew. It was more of a place for keeping food until it became too far gone to eat. Sometimes she would wander in and there would be fresh loaves of bread, the occasional half-eaten bowl of stew, and one time a precious, mouth-watering chocolate cake she shamelessly stole a piece from. More often than not, however, the room was crowded with rats that skittered away when she made her presence known.
Still a rat, she supposed as she stared at the back of the most fearsome man in the Barrel. Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the most ruthless man she had ever seen, was standing before the stove, stirring a steaming pot of something.
“Out with it, Zenik.” Kaz said abruptly, not bothering to turn and look her in the eye. “What business?”
She wasn’t surprised he knew she was there. He could probably sense a fly on the wall, his Barrel instincts toned. She was surprised that he just continued his task.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” She said, stepping up next to him and peeking inside the pot. “I thought you crouched behind crates nibbling moldy garbage.”
His lips quirked, the barest hint of a smile. “A man should know how to cook. You never know when you need to slip some poison in an enemy’s dessert, or make a pigeon feel comfortable before he gets duped.”
“That’s it, then? This is about schemes?”
“Everything is about schemes.” He said curtly, tasting the stew and adding a pinch of salt. She grabbed a spoon and took a taste. Her heart nearly stopped. It was delicious.
“I find it hard to believe you learned how to cook like this just to poison some poor skiv.” She leaned against the counter, attempted to make him look her in the eye, but his gaze stayed focused on the stew. He added some spices, stirred some more, then placed a lid atop the pot. “How long until I can steal myself a bowl?”
“This isn’t for sharing, Zenik.” He collected various measuring cups and knives and dumped them in the sink for some Dreg grunt to bother with later.
“What is it for, then?” He stayed silent for a bit, looking out the thin, stained window to the street.
“It’s for a job.”
Something in her made her doubt that. I wonder, she thought, if this makes him think of home. If he ever had one of those.
3. Wylan
Wylan stood, mouth agape, in the doorway of the conservatory. He had intended to come up here for some much needed quiet, maybe to even play some flute. Jesper had been getting antsy since his father had sent him a letter requesting a visit, and his constant energy was starting to grate on him. When he opened the heavy, sound-proof door, though, he was greeted with the sight of Kaz Brekker sitting at the piano aside Marya, fingers jumping across the keys like his hands were born for music, not trickery.
“You hear that? If you play like this, the song sounds more morose. Mozota wrote it to be sad, but when his wife told him she was expecting, he found himself playing at a faster pace, and it became a song for celebration.” This shocked Wylan even more. Kaz not only knew how to play, he also knew the history of one of the best pianoforte players Kerch had ever seen.
“Wylan loved this song as a boy,” Marya said, smile forming. Kaz’s own lips quirked.
The strange relationship that had developed between Kaz and Marya was a surprise to everyone. Nobody expected Kaz to develop a bond with Wylan’s poor, abandoned mother. But when she had first been brought back to Ketterdam, she had looked him in the eye and decided this was a boy who needed mothering. And, oddly enough, Kaz seemed to agree. He allowed as much coddling as anybody could give him, the occasional box of food given as he took his leave, an admonishment when he showed at the mansion with a bullet lodged in his arm, even a pat on the cheek and ruffle of his hair as she left for bed. Perhaps the Bastard of the Barrel was more starved for affection than he allowed himself to show.
Despite this, watching Kaz teach Marya more intricate sheets of music like it was his job was almost too much for Wylan. He slowly approached the piano, part of him nervous to break the near-jovial mood surrounding the pair.
“Wylan, dear!” Marya grabbed his arm and pulled him to sit on the bench beside her. “Your friend here was just showing me the moods of Mozota’s greatest hits. Did you know he wrote Stanza #5 for his sister after she died?”
“I did not,” Wylan leaned to peer at Kaz’s face. It was closed off as usual, but he thought he saw the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears. “How do you know that, Kaz?”
Kaz merely shrugged, “I had to learn my way around a pianoforte once. For a job. A mercher enjoyed dining at the Cerulian Cord, particularly the music room. Best way in was to know how to play.”
“So…you learned the stories?”
“Knowing the story of tune helps you play it,” He said simply.
“Yes,” Wylan said, “I suppose that’s true.”
4. Jesper
“If you don’t stop pacing, I swear I’ll break your legs and leave you here to crawl your way to the estate.” Kaz glared at him before returning to his ledgers.
“But I’m bored. Wylan’s with his mother in the country, Inej is at sea, Nina and Matthias are off frolicking in Ravka. You’ve managed to put a ban on my entering any gambling house in the Barrel, too.” Jesper plopped down on Kaz’s bed, propping his legs on the rickety nightstand that looked like it had been left in an alley to die.
“That’s your own fault, Jes. It’s not my problem you have no friends.”
“I have friends! They’re just all gone right now. Except for you.” Kaz shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, maybe not you.” He grumbled.
Kaz shook his head and made a note in the corner of his paper, shuffling some around. Jesper laid back and stared at the ceiling. There really wasn’t anything to do. Ketterdam’s excitement tended to die down this time of year, leaving the Barrel thugs to search for something to pass the time, and usually landing on turf wars and trips to the pleasure houses on the West Stave. Jesper had no interest in pleasure houses, and the Dregs’ territory was being held firmly in line, so he was left with nothing to do but suffer.
His eyes drifted around the room and landed on Kaz once again. His pen was moving more fiercely, now, making strange, short strokes as he read over some document or other. He didn’t even seem to be aware of what he was doing, simply doodling on a blank piece of parchment like Jesper did in his longer classes at the University.
Interesting, he thought, sitting up, doesn’t seem the doodling type.
Jesper stood and slowly roved about the room, attempting to appear casual. He picked up random objects, bullet casings and a torn shirt seemingly waiting for repair. He made his way to Kaz’s makeshift desk and leaned against it, the furniture leaning precariously against his weight. He carefully peeked over Kaz’s hand and saw it.
“Saints, Kaz,” He breathed. The picture wasn’t just a doodle, it was a full on piece of artwork, one achieved with barely a glance from the artist himself. It seemed Kaz would return to it on occasion, some of the ink having that faded look of neglect.
“What, Jesper?” Kaz looked up from his ledger and put down his pen.
“I didn’t know you could draw.” Jesper stared at the piece, the long lines of a familiar ship, the spots of sun on the water beneath The Wraith seeming to ripple with waves frozen in time. “Especially not like that. How long have you been working on that?”
“On and off,” Kaz said after a moment, eyes fixing on his art. “One time I had to forge a DeKappel sketch. Got paid to replace the original. Apparently the poor merch didn’t deserve to keep it, and the job paid good money.”
“You got paid to forge a DeKappel and now you can just draw like this?” Jesper was incredulous. This wasn’t for anyone but himself, maybe even for Inej. He had a hard time believing this bit of ink on paper was simply a result of an old job.
“You’d be surprised the amount of skills I’ve had to learn for a job, Fahey.” Kaz shook his head, flicking his wrist dismissively. “Go find some poor sap to play with. I don’t need you breathing over my shoulder.”
Jesper did just that, but he couldn’t wait for Wylan to return. He had some juicy gossip to share.
5. Inej
Inej was perched at the window of Kaz’s room, watching his rhythmic movements in shock. She knew he could sew, had given him her own torn pieces of clothing to patch up after a job. But she had no idea he knew how to embroider. His gloved hands were tugging the needle through the dense fabric, creating what would be a flower on the cuff of a woman’s jacket.
“Can I help you, Inej?” Kaz said simply, eyes not shifting from his work. He plunged the needle back through, the stem forming in a line of green thread.
“Why do you know how to do that?” She stepped from the ledge and made her way closer. It seemed he was halfway through the sleeve, roses and lilies blooming from the emerald green velvet.
“Sew?” Kaz’s brow arched, “You know as well as I how often I need to stitch together a bullet tear on a shirt or seal a wound.”
“No,” Inej shook her head, fingers brushing the silky thread, “Not sew. Emroider. Why would you possibly need to embroider anything?”
He shrugged, nudging her hand away gently to continue his task. He didn’t seemed inclined to answer, so Inej simply sat on his desk and watched. They sat in silence, flowers slowly appearing around the cuff before he moved to the next. She picked up the sleeve, inspecting the stitches. It was flawless, professional, even.
“Kaz, seriously. Why would you need to know how to embroider?”
“I took up several odd jobs to survive, Inej. Most earned me a reputation. Some earned me a night on a cot of a laundry room and a meal.”
“Why this, though? I mean, you could have just patched clothes. Why learn something so intricate?” Inej inquired, watching him start on a rose, brows pinched in concentration.
“The lady said I had dainty hands. Perfect for work like this. Besides, a skill this fine for a job is a small price to pay for safety.”
1. Kaz
Anika’s friend was two seconds away from being banned from the Slat. A small, long-buried part of him felt bad. It wasn’t her fault she had gotten pregnant, let alone that her wriggling little infant seemed bent on making everyone around her miserable. But there was only so long Kaz could stand the incessant, piercing cries of the two-week-old. Since Anika had brought the teen and her baby to live in her room, after begging Kaz to allow it, the Slat hadn’t had a moment’s peace.
Annoyed, Kaz abandoned his ledgers to stomp downstairs to Anika’s room. He threw the door open, but was stopped short when he saw the room empty of anyone but the baby. Perhaps they both needed a minute, perhaps they intended to allow the thing to wear itself out. No matter the reason, it was still crying at the top of its lungs and making his headache worse by the minute.
Quietly, he approached the drawer filled with blankets and peered down at the red-faced infant, eyes puffy and fat tears rolling down its cheeks. The baby stared right back at him, brows furrowed. Carefully, so carefully, he bent down and picked up the little bundle. It took a second to get it situated, with the wriggling and the awkwardness of something so new and precious in his arms. But, after a moment, it calmed. The cries slowed, replaced by small whimpers and grunts that pulled on heartstrings he didn’t want to admit were there. When it seemed to have fallen asleep, he bent to place her back in her makeshift bedding, but her cries broke out once more.
“Shh…” He said, bouncing the thing in the way he had seen women do as they warned their older children to steer clear of the streets. “It’s…fine. Yeah. It’s fine.”
He sat gingerly on the unmade bed, stretching out his leg and rocking the baby as gently as he could. Saints forbid any rival gang member see him like this. Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, Bastard of the Barrel, coddling an infant like he was born to do so. His reputation would never recover. Eventually, the thing curled closer to him, burying its face against his vest, one hand clutching the hem like it was scared he would leave.
Too late, Kaz realized his mistake. He had left Anika’s door open. He noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he looked, he saw his small crew of five crows staring at him through the doorway, mouths open in shock.
“Kaz Brek—”
“Not a word,” He interrupted Nina, “I will make all of you suffer if this ever gets out.”
It was an empty threat, they all knew it. And, even if it were real, the gangs of the Barrel wouldn’t believe the story without evidence.
“Who knew the Bastard of the Barrel had a heart?” Jesper joked.
Kaz threw a knife at him.