[ understandably, neither zoya nor nikolai are inclined to keep him informed after his magician’s exit. with no more relics to steal and, hopefully, no more demons to tend. the ill-paying ravkan work ends with the same suddenness that it began.
until the drawings arrive, that is. intricate things, made lovely by cleverness and a lingering affection for the hand that drew them. intention unclear. a threat seems unlikely, though he considers it all the same. a rebuke for having left before his promised tour is more probable. that theory splinters under the weight of their constancy and detail, however. the laboratory, the submarines, the grisha. kaz fails to understand them beyond their literal interpretation, just like he failed to understand nikolai. ‘course he keeps them all, anyway, secure beneath the false bottom of the drawer by his bed and topped with the half-written letter stolen from nikolai’s room. in return, kaz sends three pieces of correspondence back to nikolai with the crow and cup seal: the floorplan of a museum that he recently relieved of another painting, the schematics for a new lock it took him a thrilling amount of time to crack, and a design that wylan can’t quite perfect with a letter in jesper’s hand explaining the trouble. kaz is only mentioned in the postscript. PS — It’s very rude to read your friends’ correspondence, Kaz. Tip-toeing to peak over their tall, handsome shoulders is especially dastardly. This is why we give Inej all the tawdry material.
daylight dwindles in ketterdam, though you wouldn’t know it in the crow club, as moody and windowless as ever. not much better outside, in fairness, with grey clouds overhead and snow flurries melting into the salt canals. not long after sturmhond sets foot in the harbour, word zips through the dregs’ contacts until the electric shock of his arrival singes kaz himself. oh. he knew a ravkan ship was headed to kerch yesterday, but he’d refused the possibility of a visitation from this particular ghost. best not to ensnare himself in hope, after all. if the whispers are to be believed, nikolai's people have heard his story’s most gruesome chapters and chosen to accept it. no need for kaz brekker to involve himself.
the crowd downstairs sounds rowdier than it ought for this hour. his dregs will mind the floor, if there’s unwelcome trouble. and if it’s welcome? the snick of the lock draws his focus, and he meets nikolai’s eyes the moment he flings open the door. still as a statue apart from the slow arch of his brows, kaz sits at his desk, pen in hand. dressed far too smartly to be retired for the evening. beneath both his dinner jacket and overcoat, draped across his shoulders for warmth, his shirt and bow-tie bisect him with a burst of white. either because of that or the warm candlelight on his desk, he looks a shade less pale than usual. his hair remains slicked back tight enough to suggest he’s yet to attend the party, not recovering after it.
the dekappel landscape rises behind him. a farm in the shadow of a hill on one side, thick trees on the other. orange sky above it all, like a warning. another artwork has joined it since, a seascape at sunrise, hanging on the exterior wall where a window might be in any other building. no seat for nikolai to take on the other side of his desk, so as not to invite people to stay any longer than necessary — but there is a comfortable looking armchair in the back corner, books stacked atop its cushion, that jesper alone dares to clear without regard for his belongings. as with all of kaz’s residences, temporary or otherwise, he keeps the room tidy (files organised in deep drawers under lock and key). more understated than the gaudy make of the rest of the crow club because it’s for him, not the patrons.
his heart judders in his chest, and his shoulders lift in the barest tell of tension before he smooths them out. a nighttime apparition, no, it’s too early for that. it’s never sturmhond he sees besides, just nikolai. fuck. ]
If you don’t know what time it is, you can’t tell how much time has passed. [ his mouth moves without thought to steer it, voice abrading his throat. ] Perhaps you haven’t been here long at all. You’ve time for another round, a bigger bet, a chance to risk more to win back what you’ve lost already.
[ he waves a bare hand, inviting nikolai inside for the sake of pretending this was planned. a crow emblazoned cuff link catches the light as he does. he’s dressed as himself, not in a disguise.
if nikolai comes closer, he’ll find kaz’s desk to be minimalist, not devoid of personal affects. books on business theory and the new age of engineering are well-read, if not dog-eared, the neat scratching of the day’s accounts ongoing beneath his hand, a personalised deck of cards that must be suli handiwork on one side and a pair of sleek, black dress gloves resting in a clean fold on the other. in the back corner, a fat wire bird overlooks the whole of his affairs. ]
[ curiosity lifts his tone, ] Are you her delivery boy, Sturmhond? [ unless nikolai wanted to come — to see you? please. ]
chef's kiss
until the drawings arrive, that is. intricate things, made lovely by cleverness and a lingering affection for the hand that drew them. intention unclear. a threat seems unlikely, though he considers it all the same. a rebuke for having left before his promised tour is more probable. that theory splinters under the weight of their constancy and detail, however. the laboratory, the submarines, the grisha. kaz fails to understand them beyond their literal interpretation, just like he failed to understand nikolai. ‘course he keeps them all, anyway, secure beneath the false bottom of the drawer by his bed and topped with the half-written letter stolen from nikolai’s room. in return, kaz sends three pieces of correspondence back to nikolai with the crow and cup seal: the floorplan of a museum that he recently relieved of another painting, the schematics for a new lock it took him a thrilling amount of time to crack, and a design that wylan can’t quite perfect with a letter in jesper’s hand explaining the trouble. kaz is only mentioned in the postscript. PS — It’s very rude to read your friends’ correspondence, Kaz. Tip-toeing to peak over their tall, handsome shoulders is especially dastardly. This is why we give Inej all the tawdry material.
daylight dwindles in ketterdam, though you wouldn’t know it in the crow club, as moody and windowless as ever. not much better outside, in fairness, with grey clouds overhead and snow flurries melting into the salt canals. not long after sturmhond sets foot in the harbour, word zips through the dregs’ contacts until the electric shock of his arrival singes kaz himself. oh. he knew a ravkan ship was headed to kerch yesterday, but he’d refused the possibility of a visitation from this particular ghost. best not to ensnare himself in hope, after all. if the whispers are to be believed, nikolai's people have heard his story’s most gruesome chapters and chosen to accept it. no need for kaz brekker to involve himself.
the crowd downstairs sounds rowdier than it ought for this hour. his dregs will mind the floor, if there’s unwelcome trouble. and if it’s welcome? the snick of the lock draws his focus, and he meets nikolai’s eyes the moment he flings open the door. still as a statue apart from the slow arch of his brows, kaz sits at his desk, pen in hand. dressed far too smartly to be retired for the evening. beneath both his dinner jacket and overcoat, draped across his shoulders for warmth, his shirt and bow-tie bisect him with a burst of white. either because of that or the warm candlelight on his desk, he looks a shade less pale than usual. his hair remains slicked back tight enough to suggest he’s yet to attend the party, not recovering after it.
the dekappel landscape rises behind him. a farm in the shadow of a hill on one side, thick trees on the other. orange sky above it all, like a warning. another artwork has joined it since, a seascape at sunrise, hanging on the exterior wall where a window might be in any other building. no seat for nikolai to take on the other side of his desk, so as not to invite people to stay any longer than necessary — but there is a comfortable looking armchair in the back corner, books stacked atop its cushion, that jesper alone dares to clear without regard for his belongings. as with all of kaz’s residences, temporary or otherwise, he keeps the room tidy (files organised in deep drawers under lock and key). more understated than the gaudy make of the rest of the crow club because it’s for him, not the patrons.
his heart judders in his chest, and his shoulders lift in the barest tell of tension before he smooths them out. a nighttime apparition, no, it’s too early for that. it’s never sturmhond he sees besides, just nikolai. fuck. ]
If you don’t know what time it is, you can’t tell how much time has passed. [ his mouth moves without thought to steer it, voice abrading his throat. ] Perhaps you haven’t been here long at all. You’ve time for another round, a bigger bet, a chance to risk more to win back what you’ve lost already.
[ he waves a bare hand, inviting nikolai inside for the sake of pretending this was planned. a crow emblazoned cuff link catches the light as he does. he’s dressed as himself, not in a disguise.
if nikolai comes closer, he’ll find kaz’s desk to be minimalist, not devoid of personal affects. books on business theory and the new age of engineering are well-read, if not dog-eared, the neat scratching of the day’s accounts ongoing beneath his hand, a personalised deck of cards that must be suli handiwork on one side and a pair of sleek, black dress gloves resting in a clean fold on the other. in the back corner, a fat wire bird overlooks the whole of his affairs. ]
[ curiosity lifts his tone, ] Are you her delivery boy, Sturmhond? [ unless nikolai wanted to come — to see you? please. ]