[ kaz brekker’s relentless search for a saint has yielded only pale imitations. after assessing a fabrikator old enough to be his grandmother (who claimed general kirigan stole her youth) and a heartrender with the right build, dyed hair, and a passable accent (who slowed his pulse just to accentuate her offer of a healing kiss, for the right price), he had begun to wonder if this scheme was too outlandish, even for him. as if his list of requirements — including a journey across the shadow fold, a con to dupe an entire country, a girl capable of sainthood, and an impossible escape — wasn't enough of a tip in that direction. for a collection of jewels from ravka's treasury, valued at twenty million kruge, it seems a straightforward thing, if only one has a plan.
the wraith wants no part in it beyond sharing whispers, sacrilegious as his scheme aspires to be, which unbalances kaz more than he’ll admit. jesper has been game enough to bed one false saint and vet countless others, at least. ultimately, the promising lookalikes comprise a tidemaker who cracked within an hour of his shark-eyed scrutiny and the heartrender, who hadn’t appreciated his blatant disinterest in her services. you’ll have to apologise if we pick her, and i’ll have to be there to support you, of course had been jesper’s lilting conclusion. in truth, neither girl is good enough. he needs a one-of-a-kind fake. the opera’s con-artist is their last hope. surely she can act, if nothing else.
steeled for disappointment, kaz slips backstage at the ketterdam opera house through a hidden entrance, curiously omitted from the historic house’s floorplan after its restoration five years prior by an architect known to gamble at the crow club. silent as a spectre, he partakes in a moment’s observation. from the back, the cascade of alya's nightshade hair looks more saintly than her gleaming crown.
when she rounds on him, his breath catches in his throat. after weeks spent memorising the smudgy lines of the crown’s wanted poster and acquiring multiple accounts of sankta alina’s presentation at the winter fête, kaz could paint the sun summoner on the backs of his eyelids. the best thieves are artists of a kind, aren’t they? imaginative, daring, adroit, dexterous. as he watches her shuffle the deck, his hand flexes atop his cane.
he allows his boots to scrape once against the tiled floor of her dressing room, gaudier than her fellow singing birds’ tapestried cages. lifting his cane — an act which might frighten common lions and gulls — he knocks up the brim of his hat with the glinting topper to reveal his angular face. the lamplight swings across it like a rising flame as he bows just so, head aloft. his blue eyes, stark against the macabre white of his skin and layered blacks of his attire, flit from her fair features to the jewelled pin in her hand, sharpening the arch of his brows. all the right details, arranged impeccably, tied off with boldness. she could do. ]
I took my sacrament in the river of the dead long ago, [ in a drawling ravkan accent. ] moi sankta. [ as if he’s an ageless, lifeless thing. according to the rumours that run along every canal, distorted as sound over water, he is. demon, monster, bastard. anything but a boy. his (perhaps surprisingly) light tread carries him along the wall, gaze mapping the valuables decorating the space. a gloved finger runs along a shining frame and comes away brushed gold. cheap. the work of the set department, no doubt, not the hand that forged a dekappel oil. ]
If I knew anything of a DeKappel forgery, I’d notify the gallant stadwatch. Long may they shield us from harm. [ a withering glance over his shoulder, seeking her face. with all the unfeeling neutrality typical of his rock-salt rasp, he adds. ] Fakes dilute the market — and our fine city’s unshakable voorhent. [ integrity, essential to its continued industry and prosperity. only a faint spark of life in his blues tells of a joke. ]
But if you’ve found your artist’s wages wanting — [ he pauses, turning to face her fully, a blight against the gold-white wall. first, his focus drops to her wrists, checking for a tattoo that signifies the claim of another gang. then, his mouth hooks higher on one side. ] — we may yet have holy business to discuss.
[ since he worships at the church of barter, as all respectable merchants do. once the offer has been slid across the space between them, his eyes never leave her. a healer and a pretender had fear shaking their every movement by this point. his reputation precedes him, after all. and to work with a crow is to make an enemy of every other gang in ketterdam, including pekka rollins' fearsome lions, who've taken a liking to snapping up grisha. since the sun summoner's return, demand has been high for deserters and potential assets both. a vile, volatile market. better to break the damn thing than be snared in its swinging scales. ]
an act wrapped in a fake inside a forgery
the wraith wants no part in it beyond sharing whispers, sacrilegious as his scheme aspires to be, which unbalances kaz more than he’ll admit. jesper has been game enough to bed one false saint and vet countless others, at least. ultimately, the promising lookalikes comprise a tidemaker who cracked within an hour of his shark-eyed scrutiny and the heartrender, who hadn’t appreciated his blatant disinterest in her services. you’ll have to apologise if we pick her, and i’ll have to be there to support you, of course had been jesper’s lilting conclusion. in truth, neither girl is good enough. he needs a one-of-a-kind fake. the opera’s con-artist is their last hope. surely she can act, if nothing else.
steeled for disappointment, kaz slips backstage at the ketterdam opera house through a hidden entrance, curiously omitted from the historic house’s floorplan after its restoration five years prior by an architect known to gamble at the crow club. silent as a spectre, he partakes in a moment’s observation. from the back, the cascade of alya's nightshade hair looks more saintly than her gleaming crown.
when she rounds on him, his breath catches in his throat. after weeks spent memorising the smudgy lines of the crown’s wanted poster and acquiring multiple accounts of sankta alina’s presentation at the winter fête, kaz could paint the sun summoner on the backs of his eyelids. the best thieves are artists of a kind, aren’t they? imaginative, daring, adroit, dexterous. as he watches her shuffle the deck, his hand flexes atop his cane.
he allows his boots to scrape once against the tiled floor of her dressing room, gaudier than her fellow singing birds’ tapestried cages. lifting his cane — an act which might frighten common lions and gulls — he knocks up the brim of his hat with the glinting topper to reveal his angular face. the lamplight swings across it like a rising flame as he bows just so, head aloft. his blue eyes, stark against the macabre white of his skin and layered blacks of his attire, flit from her fair features to the jewelled pin in her hand, sharpening the arch of his brows. all the right details, arranged impeccably, tied off with boldness. she could do. ]
I took my sacrament in the river of the dead long ago, [ in a drawling ravkan accent. ] moi sankta. [ as if he’s an ageless, lifeless thing. according to the rumours that run along every canal, distorted as sound over water, he is. demon, monster, bastard. anything but a boy. his (perhaps surprisingly) light tread carries him along the wall, gaze mapping the valuables decorating the space. a gloved finger runs along a shining frame and comes away brushed gold. cheap. the work of the set department, no doubt, not the hand that forged a dekappel oil. ]
If I knew anything of a DeKappel forgery, I’d notify the gallant stadwatch. Long may they shield us from harm. [ a withering glance over his shoulder, seeking her face. with all the unfeeling neutrality typical of his rock-salt rasp, he adds. ] Fakes dilute the market — and our fine city’s unshakable voorhent. [ integrity, essential to its continued industry and prosperity. only a faint spark of life in his blues tells of a joke. ]
But if you’ve found your artist’s wages wanting — [ he pauses, turning to face her fully, a blight against the gold-white wall. first, his focus drops to her wrists, checking for a tattoo that signifies the claim of another gang. then, his mouth hooks higher on one side. ] — we may yet have holy business to discuss.
[ since he worships at the church of barter, as all respectable merchants do. once the offer has been slid across the space between them, his eyes never leave her. a healer and a pretender had fear shaking their every movement by this point. his reputation precedes him, after all. and to work with a crow is to make an enemy of every other gang in ketterdam, including pekka rollins' fearsome lions, who've taken a liking to snapping up grisha. since the sun summoner's return, demand has been high for deserters and potential assets both. a vile, volatile market. better to break the damn thing than be snared in its swinging scales. ]