Nina also appreciated the attention Kaz had paid to Colm’s appearance. He was still dressed as a farmer, but Kaz had made a few subtle improvements—a finer coat, polished boots, a silver tie pin set with a small chunk of raw amethyst. These were the signs of prosperity that the merchers would notice and appreciate—nothing too gaudy or loud, nothing that might provoke suspicion. Merchers were like most men; they wanted to believe they were the ones doing the courting.
As for Nina, Genya had offered up a glorious red kefta from her collection and they’d pulled out the embroidery, altering it from blue to black. She and Genya were hardly the same size, but they’d managed to let out the seams and sew in a few extra panels. It had felt strange to wear a proper kefta after so long. The one Nina had worn at the House of the White Rose had been a costume, cheap finery meant to impress their clientele. This was the real thing, worn by soldiers of the Second Army, made of raw silk dyed in a red only a Fabrikator could create. Did she even have a right to wear such a thing now?
When Matthias had seen her, he’d frozen in the doorway of the suite, his blue eyes shocked. They’d stood there in silence until he’d finally said, “You look very beautiful.”
“You mean I look like the enemy.”
“Both of those things have always been true.” Then he’d simply offered her his arm.
Nina had been nervous about Colm taking the lead role in this charade. He was most definitely an amateur, and during their first few meetings with bankers and consultants, he’d looked nearly as green as his pea soup. But with every passing hour, his confidence had grown, and Nina had begun to feel the stirrings of hope.
And yet, no member of the Merchant Council had come to see Johannus Rietveld. Maybe Dryden had never seen the trace of the fake document or had decided not to act on it. Or maybe Kaz had just overestimated his greed.
Then, only forty-eight hours before the auction, Johannus Rietveld received a note from Karl Dryden announcing that he would call on Mister Rietveld that day and hoped to discuss matters of business that might be profitable to them both. Jesper tried to calm his father’s nerves while Kaz dispatched instructions to Anika and Pim. If they wanted to hook Dryden, they’d need to make sure other, bigger fish were interested in the bait. Nina and Colm had gone through their morning meetings in the dining room as usual, and she’d done her best to try to calm him.
At eleven bells, she spotted two men in staid mercher black entering the dining room. They didn’t pause to ask the host where to find Johannus Rietveld, but walked directly to his table—a sure sign they’d been watching him and gathering information.
“They’re here,” she whispered to Colm, then instantly regretted it when he sat up straighter and started to turn in his seat.
She grabbed his hand. “Look at me,” she said. “Ask me about the weather.”
“Why the weather?” he said, sweat beading on his brow.
“Well, you could ask me about the latest fashion in footwear if you prefer. I’m just trying to get you to act natural.” She was attempting to steady her own heart rate—something she used to be able to do without ridiculous attempts at deep breathing—because she’d recognized the man with Dryden. It was Jan Van Eck.
The men approached the table, then removed their hats.
“Mister Rietveld?”
“Yes?” Colm squeaked. Not an auspicious beginning. Nina gave him the gentlest kick she could manage beneath the table. He coughed. “What business, gentlemen?”
During their preparations, Kaz had insisted that Nina learn all the Merchant Council’s house colors and symbols, and Nina recognized their tie pins—a golden wheat sheaf bound with a blue enamel ribbon for the Dryden family, and the red laurel for Van Eck. Even without the pin, she would have recognized Jan Van Eck’s resemblance to Wylan. She eyed his receding hairline. Poor Wylan might have to invest in a good tonic.
Dryden cleared his throat importantly. “I am Karl Dryden, and this is the esteemed Jan Van Eck.”
“Mister Dryden!” Colm said, his surprise a bit overblown. “I received your note. Unfortunately, my day is fully booked.”
“I wonder if we might secure just a few minutes of conversation?”
“We have no wish to waste your time, Mister Rietveld,” said Van Eck with a surprisingly charming smile. “Or ours.”
“Very well,” Jesper’s father said, projecting reluctance rather convincingly. “Please join us.”
“Thank you,” Van Eck said with another smile. “We understand you represent a consortium of jurda farmers.”
Colm looked around as if concerned that someone might overhear. “It’s possible I do. How do you come by this information?”
“I’m afraid that’s not within my power to disclose.”
“He’s hiding something,” said Nina.
Dryden and Van Eck frowned in unison.
“I learned from the captain of the ship you traveled on,” said Van Eck.
“He’s lying,” said Nina.
“How could you possibly know that?” Dryden asked irritably.
“I am Grisha,” Nina said with a dramatic wave. “No secret is beyond my grasp.” She might as well enjoy herself.
Dryden’s lower lip disappeared as he sucked on it nervously, and Van Eck said grudgingly, “It’s possible some sensitive information may have made its way into our hands through Cornelis Smeet’s office.”
“I see,” said Colm, looking very grim indeed.
Nina wanted to applaud. Now the merchers were on the defensive.
“We are interested in the possibility of adding to your list of investors,” said Van Eck.
“I don’t need more investors.”
“How can that be?” asked Dryden. “You’ve been in the city less than a week.”
“The climate has changed somehow. I don’t completely understand it, but there’s been a run on jurda.”
Now Van Eck leaned forward, eyes slightly narrowed. “That is interesting, Mister Rietveld. How is it that you appeared in Ketterdam at such a fortuitous time? Why choose now to start a jurda consortium?”
So much for the defensive. But Kaz had prepared Colm for this.
“If you must know, a few months ago, someone began buying up jurda farms surrounding Cofton, but no one could discover his identity. Some of us realized something must be brewing, so we chose not to sell to him, and instead started our own enterprise.”
“An unknown buyer?” asked Dryden curiously. Van Eck looked a bit ill.
“Yes,” said Nina. “Mister Rietveld and his partners had no success in learning who he might be. But perhaps you gentlemen might have better luck. There’s talk that he’s Kerch.”
Van Eck sank back in his seat. His pale skin had acquired a clammy sheen. The power at the table had shifted once again. The last thing Van Eck wanted was anyone looking into who had been buying up those jurda fields. Nina gave Colm another gentle nudge. The less interested they seemed in the Council’s money, the more eager the Council members would be to give it up.
“Actually,” continued Colm, “if you suss him out, you might be able to go in on his scheme instead. He may still be seeking investors.”
“No,” said Van Eck a bit too sharply. “After all, you are here now and able to represent our interests. Why waste time and effort in pointless sleuthing? Each man has the right to seek profit where he finds it.”
“All the same,” said Dryden. “It’s possible this investor knew something about the situation with the Shu—”
Van Eck cast Dryden a warning look; he clearly didn’t want Council business spread around so casually. The younger merch shut his mouth with a snap.
But then Van Eck pressed his fingers together and said, “It’s certainly worth gathering all the information we can. I will take it upon myself to investigate this other buyer.”
“Then perhaps we needn’t move quite so soon,” said Dryden.
Timid indeed, thought Nina. She glimpsed Anika’s signal from across the lobby.
“Mister Rietveld, your next appointment?” She cast a meaningful glance at the lobby, where Rotty—looking marvelously dapper in mercher black—led a group of men through the entry and past the dining room.
Van Eck and Dryden exchanged a glance at the sight of Jellen Radmakker, one of the wealthiest investors in all of Kerch, walking through the lobby. In fact, as soon as Dryden’s note had arrived requesting a meeting, several investors had been invited to a presentation on Zemeni oil futures that had nothing to do with the fictional Johannus Rietveld. Of course, Van Eck and Dryden didn’t know that. The important thing was they believed they might lose their opportunity to invest. Nina was almost sorry she wouldn’t get a chance to hear Jesper hold forth on the resources market for an hour.
Nina gave Colm another kick under the table.
“Well,” he said hurriedly. “I must be on my way, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure—”
“What’s the stake price?” asked Dryden.
“I’m afraid at this late date, I couldn’t really take on more—”
“What if we came in together?” Van Eck said.
“Together?”
“The Merchant Council believes jurda prices may change soon. Until recently, our hands were bound by our roles as public servants. But the upcoming auction has freed us to pursue new investments.”
“Is that legal?” Colm asked, his brow furrowing with every appearance of deepest concern.
“Absolutely. We are prohibited from influencing the outcome of the auction, but an investment in your fund is well within the law and could be mutually beneficial to us both.”
“I see how the fund may benefit you, but—”
“You’ve been courting separate investors. What if the Merchant Council became your lead investors? What if this became our fund exclusively? The Council represents thirteen of the oldest and most established families in Kerch, with thriving businesses and plenty of capital. The farmers in your consortium could have no better partners.”
“I … I don’t know,” said Colm. “That’s certainly appealing, but I would need serious security if we were to expose ourselves to risk in this way. If the Council were to back out, we’d lose all our investors at once.”
Dryden bristled. “No member of the Merchant Council would violate a contract. We’ll enter into it with our own seals and have it witnessed by the judge of your choosing.”
Nina could almost see the wheels turning in Van Eck’s mind. No doubt there had been farmers who refused to sell in Novyi Zem. Now he had the chance to control not only the jurda fields he’d purchased, but a good chunk of those he’d failed to acquire as well. Nina also wondered if, given the money the search for his son was costing the city, he was feeling pressure to bring the Council a good opportunity.
“Give us forty-eight hours to—” began Van Eck.
Colm’s expression was apologetic. “I’m afraid I must finish my business here by tomorrow night. I’ve already booked passage.”
“The harbors are closed,” said Van Eck. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Jesper’s father directed a cold gray glare at Van Eck that raised the hair on Nina’s arms. “I feel distinctly bullied, Mister Van Eck, and I don’t like it.”
For a moment Van Eck held his gaze. Then his greed got the better of him.
“Twenty-four hours, then,” said Van Eck.
Colm pretended to hesitate. “Twenty-four hours. But I make no promises. I must do what’s best for the consortium.”
“Of course,” Van Eck said as they rose and shook hands. “We only ask that you make no final decision until we’ve had a chance to make our case for taking over the fund. I think you’ll find our offer very generous.”
Colm glanced in the direction that Radmakker had gone. “I suppose I can do that. Good day, gentlemen.”
As Nina turned to follow him out of the dining room, Van Eck said, “Miss Zenik.”
“Yes?”
“I hear you worked out of the House of the White Rose.” His lip curled slightly, as if even saying the name of a brothel constituted debauchery.
“I did.”
“I’d heard the Heartrender there occasionally works with Kaz Brekker.”
“I’ve done jobs for Brekker before,” Nina conceded easily. Best to go on the offense. She took Van Eck’s hand in hers, delighted at the way his whole body seemed to recoil. “But please believe me, if I had any idea where he’s taken your son, I would tell the authorities.”
Van Eck stiffened. Clearly he hadn’t intended to take the conversation in that direction. “I … thank you.”
“I can’t imagine the anguish you must be going through. How did Brekker even lay hands on the boy?” Nina continued. “I would have thought your security—”
“Wylan wasn’t at home.”
“No?”
“He was studying music in Belendt.”
“And what do his teachers have to say about the abduction?”
“I…” Van Eck looked uneasily at Dryden. “They are flummoxed as well.”
“Perhaps he fell in with bad company?”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope he didn’t cross Kaz Brekker,” Nina said with a shudder.
“Wylan wouldn’t—”
“Of course not,” said Nina as she shook out the cuffs of her kefta and prepared to exit the dining room. “Only a fool would.”
30
KAZ
Nina was tired, Kaz could see it. They all were. Even he’d had no choice but to rest after the fight. His body had stopped listening to him. He’d passed an invisible limit and simply shut down. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t dream. One moment he was resting in the suite’s smallest bedroom, on his back, running through the particulars of the plan, and the next he was waking in the dark, panicked, unsure of where he was or how he’d gotten there.
When he reached to turn up the lamp, he felt a sharp twinge of pain. It had been excruciating to endure Genya’s faint touches when she’d seen to his injuries, but maybe he should have let the Tailor heal him just a little bit more. He still had a long night ahead of him, and the auction scheme was unlike anything he’d attempted.
In his time with the Dregs, Kaz had seen and heard plenty, but his conversation with Sturmhond in the solarium had topped it all.
They had talked through the details of the auction, what they would need from Genya, how Kaz predicted the betting would go and in what increments. Kaz wanted Sturmhond to enter the fray at fifty million and suspected the Shu would counter by raising ten million or more. Kaz needed to know the Ravkans were committed. Once the auction was announced, it would have to proceed. There could be no backward step.
The privateer was wary, pressing for knowledge on how they’d been hired on for the Ice Court job, as well as how they’d managed to find and liberate Kuwei. Kaz gave him enough information to convince the privateer that Kuwei was in fact Bo Yul-Bayur’s son. But he had no interest in divulging the mechanics of their schemes or the true talents of his crew. For all Kaz knew, Sturmhond might have something he wanted to steal one day.
At last, Sturmhond straightened the lapels of his teal frock coat and said, “Well, Brekker, it’s obvious you only deal in half-truths and outright lies, so you’re clearly the man for the job.”
“There’s just one thing,” said Kaz, studying the privateer’s broken nose and ruddy hair. “Before we join hands and jump off a cliff together, I want to know exactly who I’m running with.”
Sturmhond lifted a brow. “We haven’t been on a road trip or exchanged clothes, but I think our introductions were civilized enough.”
“Who are you really, privateer?”
“Is this an existential question?”
“No proper thief talks the way you do.”
“How narrow-minded of you.”
“I know the look of a rich man’s son, and I don’t believe a king would send an ordinary privateer to handle business this sensitive.”
“Ordinar
y,” scoffed Sturmhond. “Are you so schooled in politics?”
“I know my way around a deal. Who are you? We get the truth or my crew walks.”
“Are you so sure that would be possible, Brekker? I know your plans now. I’m accompanied by two of the world’s most legendary Grisha, and I’m not too bad in a fight either.”
“And I’m the canal rat who brought Kuwei Yul-Bo out of the Ice Court alive. Let me know how you like your chances.” His crew didn’t have clothes or titles to rival the Ravkans, but Kaz knew where he’d put his money if he had any left.
Sturmhond clasped his hands behind his back, and Kaz saw the barest shift in his demeanor. His eyes lost their bemused gleam and took on a surprising weight. No ordinary privateer at all.
“Let us say,” said Sturmhond, gaze trained on the Ketterdam street below, “hypothetically, of course, that the Ravkan king has intelligence networks that reach deep within Kerch, Fjerda, and the Shu Han, and that he knows exactly how important Kuwei Yul-Bo could be to the future of his country. Let us say that king would trust no one to negotiate such matters but himself, but that he also knows just how dangerous it is to travel under his own name when his country is in turmoil, when he has no heir and the Lantsov succession is in no way secured.”
“So hypothetically,” Kaz said, “you might be addressed as Your Highness.”
“And a variety of more colorful names. Hypothetically.” The privateer cast him an assessing glance. “Just how did you know I wasn’t who I claimed to be, Mister Brekker?”
Kaz shrugged. “You speak Kerch like a native—a rich native. You don’t talk like someone who came up with sailors and street thugs.”
The privateer turned slightly, giving Kaz his full attention. His ease was gone, and now he looked like a man who might command armies. “Mister Brekker,” he said. “Kaz, if I may? I am in a vulnerable position. I am a king ruling a country with an empty treasury, facing enemies on all sides. There are also forces within my country that might seize any absence as an opportunity to make their own bid for power.”
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