Six of Crows (36 page)

“Maybe they don’t have anyone to take to jail,” suggested Wylan.

“There’s always someone to take to jail,” Kaz replied, then bobbed his chin towards the road.

“Look.”

A boxy wagon was rolling to a stop at the guardhouse. Its roof and high sides were covered in black canvas, and it was drawn by four stout horses. The door at the back was heavy iron, bolted and padlocked.

Kaz reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an elaborate cover.

“Are we going to read to each other?”

“Just flip it open to the back.”

Jesper opened the book and peered at the last page, puzzled. “So?”

“Hold it up so we don’t have to look at your ugly face.”

“My face has character. Besides – oh!”

“An excellent read, isn’t it?”

“Who knew I had a taste for literature?”

Jesper passed it to Wylan, who took it tentatively. “What does it say?”

“Just look,” said Jesper.

Wylan frowned and held it up, then he grinned. “Where did you get this?”

Matthias had his turn and released a surprised grunt.

“It’s called a backless book,” said Kaz as Inej took the volume from Nina and held it up. The pages were full of ordinary sermons, but the ornate back cover hid two lenses that acted as a long glass. Kaz had told her to keep an eye out for women using similarly made mirrored compacts at the Crow Club.

They could read the hand a player was holding from across the room, then signal to a partner at the table.

“Clever,” Inej remarked as she peered through. To the barmaid and the other patrons on the terrace, it looked as if they were handing a book around, discussing some interesting passage. Instead Inej had a close view of the gatehouse and the wagon parked in front of it.

The gate between the rampant wolves was wrought iron, bearing the symbol of the sacred ash and bordered by a high, spiked fence that circled the Ice Court’s grounds.

“Four guards,” she noted, just as Matthias had said. Two were stationed on each side of the gatehouse, and one of them was chatting with the driver of the prison wagon, who handed him a packet of documents.

“They’re the first line of defence,” said Matthias. “They’ll check paperwork and confirm identities, flag anyone they think requires closer scrutiny. By this time tomorrow the line going through the gates will be full of Hringkälla guests and backed up all the way to the gorge.”

“By then we’ll be inside,” Kaz said.

“How often do the wagons run?” asked Jesper.

“It depends,” said Matthias. “Usually in the morning. Sometimes in the afternoon. But I can’t imagine they’ll want prisoners arriving at the same time as guests.”

“Then we have to be on the early wagon,” Kaz said.

Inej lifted the backless book again. The wagon driver wore a grey uniform similar to the ones worn by the guards at the gate but absent any sash or decoration. He swung down from his seat and came around to unlock the iron door.

“Saints,” Inej said as the door swung open. Ten prisoners were seated along benches that ran the wagon’s length, their wrists and feet shackled, black sacks over their heads.

Inej handed the book back to Matthias, and as it made the rounds, Inej felt the group’s apprehension rise. Only Kaz seemed unfazed.

“Hooded, chained, and shackled?” said Jesper. “You’re sure we can’t go in as entertainers? I hear Wylan really kills it on the flute.”

“We go in as we are,” said Kaz, “as criminals.”

Nina peered through the lenses of the book. “They’re doing a head count.”

Matthias nodded. “If procedure hasn’t changed, they’ll do a quick head count at the first checkpoint, then a second count at the next checkpoint, where they’ll search the interior and undercarriage for any contraband.”

Nina passed the book to Inej. “The driver is going to notice six more prisoners when he opens the door.”

“If only I’d thought of that,” Kaz said drily. “I can tell you’ve never picked a pocket.”

“And I can tell you’ve never given enough thought to your haircut.”

Kaz frowned and ran a self-conscious hand along the side of his head. “There’s nothing wrong with my haircut that can’t be fixed by four million
kruge
.”

Jesper cocked his head to one side, grey eyes alight. “We’re going to use a bunk biscuit, aren’t we?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t know that word,
bunkbiscuit
,” said Matthias, running the syllables together.

Nina gave Kaz a sour look. “Neither do I. We’re not as streetwise as you, Dirtyhands.”

“Nor will you ever be,” Kaz said easily. “Remember our friend Mark?” Wylan winced. “Let’s say

the mark is a tourist walking through the Barrel. He’s heard it’s a good place to get rolled, so he keeps patting his wallet, making sure it’s there, congratulating himself on just how alert and cautious he’s being. No fool he. Of course every time he pats his back pocket or the front of his coat, what is he doing? He’s telling every thief on the Stave exactly where he keeps his scrub.”

“Saints,” grumbled Nina. “I’ve probably done that.”

“Everyone does,” said Inej.

Jesper lifted a brow. “Not everyone.”

“That’s only because you never have anything
in
your wallet,” Nina shot back.

“Mean.”

“Factual.”

“Facts are for the unimaginative,” Jesper said with a dismissive wave.

“Now, a bad thief,” continued Kaz, “one who doesn’t know his way around, just makes the grab and tries to run for it. Good way to get pinched by the
stadwatch
. But a proper thief – like myself –

nabs the wallet and puts something else in its place.”

“A biscuit?”

“Bunk biscuit is just a name. It can be a rock, a bar of soap, even an old roll if it’s the right size. A proper thief can tell the weight of a wallet just by the way it changes the hang of a man’s coat. He makes the switch, and the poor mark keeps tapping his pocket, happy as can be. It’s not until he tries to pay for an omelette or lay his stake at a table that he realises he’s been done for a sucker. By then the thief is somewhere safe, counting up his scrub.”

Wylan shifted unhappily in his chair. “Duping innocent people isn’t something to be proud of.”

“It is if you do it well.” Kaz gave a nod to the prison wagon, now rumbling its way up the road towards the Ice Court and the second checkpoint. “We’re going to be the biscuit.”

“Hold on,” said Nina. “The door locks on the outside. How do we get in and get the door locked again?”

“That’s only a problem if you don’t know a proper thief. Leave the locks to me.”

Jesper stretched out his long legs. “So we have to unlock, unchain, and incapacitate six prisoners, take their places, and somehow get the wagon sealed tight again without the guards or the other prisoners being the wiser?”

“That’s right.”

“Any other impossible feats you’d like us to accomplish?”

The barest smile flickered over Kaz’s lips. “I’ll make you a list.”

Proper thievery aside, Inej would have liked a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed, but there would be no comfortable stay at an inn, not if they were going to find their way onto a prison wagon and into the Ice Court before Hringkälla began. There was too much to do.

Nina was sent out to chat up the locals and try to discover the best place to lay their ambush for the wagon. After the horrors of Gestinge’s herring, they’d demanded Kaz provide something edible, and were waiting for Nina in a crowded bakery, nursing hot cups of coffee mixed with chocolate, the wreckage of demolished rolls and cookies spread over their table in little piles of buttery crumbs. Inej noted that Matthias’ mug sat untouched before him, slowly cooling as he stared out the window.

“This must be hard for you,” she said quietly. “To be here but not really be home.”

He looked down at his cup. “You have no idea.”

“I think I do. I haven’t seen my home in a long time.”

Kaz turned away and began chatting with Jesper. He seemed to do that whenever she mentioned going back to Ravka. Of course, Inej couldn’t be certain she’d find her parents there. Suli were travellers. For them, ‘home’ really just meant family.

“Are you worried about Nina being out there?” Inej asked.

“No.”

“She’s very good at this, you know. She’s a natural actress.”

“I’m aware,” he said grimly. “She can be anything to anyone.”

“She’s best when she’s Nina.”

“And who is that?”

“I suspect you know better than any of us.”

He crossed his huge arms. “She’s brave,” he said grudgingly.

“And funny.”

“Foolish. Every last thing needn’t be a joke.”

“Bold,” Inej said.

“Loud.”

“So why do your eyes keep searching the crowd for her?”

“They do
not
,” Matthias protested. She had to laugh at the ferocity of his scowl. He drew a finger through a pile of crumbs. “Nina is everything you say. It’s too much.”

“Mmm,” Inej murmured, taking a sip from her mug. “Maybe you’re just not enough.”

Before he could reply, the bell on the bakery door jingled, and Nina sailed inside, cheeks rosy, brown hair in a gorgeous tangle, and declared, “Someone needs to start feeding me sweet rolls immediately.”

For all Matthias’ grumbling, Inej didn’t think she imagined the relief on his face.

It had taken Nina less than an hour to discover that most of the prison wagons passed by a roadhouse known as the Warden’s Waystation on the route to the Ice Court. Inej and the others had to trek almost two miles out of Upper Djerholm to locate the tavern. It was too crowded with farmers and local labourers to be useful, so they headed further up the road, and by the time they found a spot with enough cover and a stand of trees large enough to suit their purpose, Inej felt close to collapse. She thanked her Saints for Jesper ’s seemingly limitless energy. He cheerfully volunteered to continue on and be the lookout. When the prison cart rolled by, he’d signal the rest of the crew with a flare, then sprint back to join them.

Nina took a few minutes to tailor Jesper ’s forearm, hiding the Dregs’ tattoo and leaving a blotchy patch of skin over it. She would see to Kaz’s tattoos and her own that night. It was possible no one at the prison would recognise Ketterdam gang or brothel markings, but there was no reason to take the chance.

“No mourners,” Jesper called as he loped off into the twilight, long legs eating up the distance easily.

“No funerals,” they replied. Inej sent a real prayer along with him, too. She knew Jesper was well armed and could take care of himself, but between his lanky frame and Zemeni skin, he was just too noticeable for comfort.

They camped in a dry gully bordered by a tangle of shrubs, and took shifts dozing on the hard rock ground and keeping watch. Despite her fatigue, Inej hadn’t thought she would be able to sleep, but the next thing she knew, the sun was high above them, a bright pocket of glare in an overcast sky.

It had to be past noon. Nina was beside her with a piece of one of the pepper wolf cookies she’d bought in Upper Djerholm. Inej saw that someone had made a low fire, and the sticky remnants of a block of melted paraffin were visible in its ashes.

“Where are the others?” she asked, looking around the empty gully.

“In the road. Kaz said we should let you sleep.”

Inej rubbed her eyes. She supposed it was a concession to her injuries. Maybe she hadn’t hidden her exhaustion well at all. A sudden, crackling
snap snap snap
from the road had her on her feet with knives drawn in seconds.

“Easy,” Nina said. “It’s just Wylan.”

Jesper must have already raised the signal. Inej took the cookie from Nina and hurried up to where Kaz and Matthias were watching Wylan fuss with something at the base of a thick red fir. Another series of pops sounded, and tiny puffs of white smoke burst from the tree’s trunk where it met the ground. For a moment it looked as if nothing would happen, then the roots loosed themselves from the soil, curling and withering.