Work Text:
Kaz was distracted when he returned from West Stave.
When Jesper had spotted him sitting alone in the darkest corner of the Crow Club, the potential dangers offered up by the opportunity to be with Kaz Brekker alone had overpowered the pull of the tables, and he’d bounded over.
“Kaz! You’re back early. Tante Heleen not have any good information this week?”
Kaz hadn’t returned his greeting, which had been a slight blow, but he’d also not told Jesper to get lost, which was a win. Instead, he continued to scan the crowd methodically; from the front door, to the bar, to the tables, up the stairs to the walkways used by staff, down the back stairs, and back to the door. Again. Again. He was looking for someone, and Jesper’s blood sang with the millions of potential outcomes that came from Kaz Brekker lying in wait for something.
But something else was different. Kaz, usually grim and pale and perfectly dressed, had the barest suggestion of agitation about him; he was impatient, perched on the edge of the bench, drumming his fingers on the crows head of his cane. Jesper wondered what could have happened at West Stave to cause it, and found he didn’t like many of the potential scenarios. Many of them, in fact, made him want to shoot something.
Jesper knew that Kaz had an agreement with the famous Heleen Van Houden, Queen of the West Stave, for information, but he didn’t know the terms of it, and now he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The other Dregs said Kaz never got with Heleen’s girls– never got with anyone– but a lot of people said a lot of things about Kaz, and only Kaz himself knew what was true. It had been a little more than a year since Jesper had joined the Dregs, and he had to confess he was still more susceptible to the mythology that surrounded Dirtyhands than he should be. But Jesper liked the way Kaz held his cards so close to his chest. He liked the hard line of his jaw, the cruel shape of his mouth, liked his long fingers even in their ubiquitous black leather, liked the steady rhythm of his cane on the floor above Jesper’s room in the Slat as he paced his attic office. Jesper liked his silences, liked his quick mind, liked the careful calculating gleam in his dark eyes that could snap savage without warning. Kaz was Dirtyhands, was the Bastard of the Barrel, was neither, was nothing they said, was everything they said. He was many things, and Jesper liked that; there was always more to guess at, more to gamble on. Kaz was risk embodied – and embodied in a handsome boy’s body at that. It was like he’d been created to destroy Jesper, and Jesper was a willing target. He was a fox willingly leaping into a hunter’s trap because it liked the gleam of its metal teeth in the moonlight.
“Brekker! Jesper!”
Per Haskell dropped himself down at their table, teetering unsteadily, drooping eyes bloodshot, thinning grey hair sticking in every direction. He’d been drinking for a while already, clearly, and Jesper fought not to gag at the reek of whiskey as Haskell leant closer to clap him on the shoulder.
“Hey, boss…” he managed.
Haskell didn’t try to touch Kaz. Nobody did. It had been one of the first things Jesper had been warned about when he’d joined: don’t touch Brekker. He’ll break your fingers if you’re lucky. Your jaw if you’re not. Nobody had offered any explanation, and it wasn’t as if anything about Kaz invited a big hug, but Jesper had always wondered what had happened in the past for it to be such an immediate word of warning to new recruits.
“Haskell,” Kaz said immediately, “I have a proposal for you.”
So he’d been waiting for the boss, had he?
Haskell sighed, swirling his glass.
“Always work, work, work, with you, boy. It’s been a good month! Relax! I’ve money rolling in from the Crow Club, more every day!”
Thanks to Kaz, not to you, old man, Jesper thought, and when he caught Kaz’s eye, it was clear he was thinking the same. But Kaz didn’t protest. He played a careful game with Haskell, manipulating him to his intents while letting the old codger think he was still calling the shots, and he was excellent at it. It made Jesper worry, a little, sometimes; now he was never sure how much of what he did was done because he wanted to, and how much was done because Kaz wanted him to. Or maybe they were the same thing, he thought, eyeing the sharp edges of Kaz’s profile in the dull lamplight.
Kaz was pressing on with his original intent.
“I’ve found someone I want the gang to take on. She’ll be a huge asset for us.”
“Then bring her in, boy, you don’t need to run every new recruit past me so intently,” Haskell said benignly, but Jesper could see him preening at the deference.
“I would, sir, but she’s indentured. It needs paying off. And now, you have the money to do it.”
Clever. Kaz had timed this well; Haskell would be eager to use his new money to throw his weight around, showcase the growing might of the Dregs.
“Who would we be paying off?”
Kaz’s jaw flexed minutely.
“Heleen Van Houden.”
Jesper’s jaw dropped, and Haskell choked on his drink.
“ Tante Heleen ?” he repeated, dabbing at the whiskey spills down his grubby waistcoat. “Are you mad? That’ll bleed us dry! You’re not the first to take a fancy to a West Stave girl and beg for her indenture, Brekker, but I am surprised it’s coming from you–”
“It’s not like that,” Kaz snapped, with a sudden spike in ferocity. Jesper found himself quite relieved. He himself never went to the West Stave; the workers were usually poor sobs plucked from the streets or stolen by slavers from all over the world, far from home, tricked into their contracts. Besides, he was more than capable of finding someone to flirt with without having to spend money he didn’t have. But he hadn’t been entirely sure where Kaz drew his moral boundaries. He wasn’t even sure he had moral boundaries. Maybe he’d torn up the lines altogether and used them as garrote wires.
Jesper saw Kaz deliberately drop his shoulders, forcing himself back into the civility he’d opened with. “She’d be valuable to our crew. She’ll be our new spider.”
That made Jesper raise an eyebrow. Their best old spider – their spy, their collector of information– had been Valter, and he’d fallen from the roof of the Exchange and broken his neck last month. They’d felt his loss; every move was more of a gamble without the information good spiders provided. And Kaz loved to deal in secrets, blackmail, shame. It was how he’d brought Jesper in, after all, wasn’t it? Jesper remembered what he’d told himself when he’d agreed to join. You can make the money back. Da won’t ever know. Manipulation was Kaz’s ace, and playing that card was much harder when his hand was so sparse. And Kaz’s success was Haskell’s drink money. It was in both of their interests to find a new one, and a good one.
“A West Stave girl, a new spider?” Haskell snorted. “Some pretty face with fine bones who can cozen some trade secrets out of a drunken merch doesn’t a spider make, boy.”
“She’ll be more than a spider,” Kaz said, “I can see it. She’s Suli, small, impeccable posture. I’d wager her family are acrobats or performers of some sort–”
“ Performers aren’t known for their subtlety–”
“I didn’t hear her, Haskell. ” Kaz said, and his voice had taken on a new tone, more animated than his usual scrape of stone on stone. This was flint against steel, striking sparks that leapt off his tongue. It took Jesper a moment to realise what he was hearing was excitement. “She was wearing one of the ridiculous costumes they wear there. Glaring purple, painted spots, bells on her ankles. But I had no idea she was near me until she spoke. I didn’t see her . I see everything . But not her. If I couldn’t see her, Haskell, who else would be able to?”
Jesper, for a brief second, wondered if Kaz’s voice had sparked like this when he’d told the Dregs about him. He indulged the fancy; imagined Kaz describing him to Haskell in his burnt rasp. A Zemeni kid, university student deep in debt with most of the gambling houses, but one hell of a shot and good in a fight.
Not bad looking, either–
Alright, maybe that was a little far. Jesper grimaced, blinded back to reality by the unrealistic saturation of his daydream, to see Haskell eying Kaz silently.
“How old is she?” he asked at last.
“Maybe fifteen.”
Jesper couldn’t contain a hiss in through his teeth. Even Haskell looked slightly pained. Sure, Jesper wasn’t much older, and neither was Kaz, but at least they had their freedom.
This girl did not. Yet.
“She’ll be expensive,” Haskell said.
“Yes.”
“Has she ever been in a fight?”
“I doubt it.”
“She’ll have to be taught everything.”
“Let me handle that.”
“If she’s as good as you say, it'd be hard to catch her if she skips out on her contract.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
There was a long pause. Haskell leant back, pretending to consider, but Kaz had sold him. If Dirtyhands was willing to take a gamble, the odds were good, and Jesper could see the eager gleam in his eyes. Kaz’s posture was taut, his own gaze glittering, hands folded expectantly on the head of his cane.
Finally, Haskell sighed and nodded.
“Fine. Bring her in.”
Kaz smiled. It was the kind of smile you’d expect from a wolf who’d discovered its keeper had left the lock off the cage door.
“But it’s on your head, Brekker, if it goes wrong!” Haskell declared as he stood. “Entirely yours! If she crosses us, you’re paying the debt out of your own wages!”
“Of course, sir.”
“Kaz, if you didn’t hear her… she approached you?” Jesper asked as Haskell lurched off into the crowds of the Crow Club. Kaz nodded.
That was brave. Even a Suli girl trapped in the bars of the Menagerie couldn’t have missed the legend of Dirtyhands. Or maybe she was just desperate.
“What did she say?” Jesper pressed.
“She said she could help me,” Kaz said, jamming his hat onto his head and standing. Jesper rushed after him as they headed for the door.
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing,” Kaz said, wrenching the door open and forging out into the rain. “I already knew everything I needed to.”
The next day, Jesper clattered down the stairs of the Slat to find Kaz standing in the entryway, a slight figure hovering slightly behind him.
“Aha!” Jesper said. “Is this our new spider?”
Kaz nodded once, drawing to the side, forcing the girl to face Jesper straight on. Jesper took her in with interest. She was small, as Kaz had said, a tiny scrap of a girl with brown skin and long black hair that had been severely braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, shrinking her frame even further. She was wearing an ill-fitting ensemble of shirt, coat and aggressively belted trousers, clearly scavenged by Kaz from the Slat to replace her Menagerie costume.
Jesper’s first thought was that she wouldn’t last a week. His second look made him reconsider that a little. She was frightened, that much was obvious, but her back was straight and her chin was up, dark eyes roving around ceaselessly, taking in everything, including him.
“Jesper, this is Inej Ghafa,” Kaz said. “Inej, this is Jesper Fahey, sharpshooter and chronic gambler. Jesper, take her out to buy clothes and whatever else she needs, then take her up to Valter’s old room.”
He handed Inej a stack of kruge .
“Use this, but don’t give him any of it. And if he tries to steer you into any gambling halls, steer him out.”
Jesper made some half-hearted noise of protest, but Kaz ignored him, already halfway out the door. Soon, he was gone.
The two stared at each other for a moment. Inej clutched the kruge uncertainly. She didn't speak.
Jesper broke the silence.
“What’s that?” He asked, nodding to the knife strapped to her belt. “Heleen making her girls fight for sport now?”
Inej glanced at it.
“Kaz gave it to me,” she said. Her voice was soft and low and mistrustful. Jesper snorted.
“Probably his idea of a housewarming present. But it’s more than worth having, around here.”
He loped down the last few stairs and opened the door with a flourish.
“Shall we walk, Miss Ghafa?”
Inej proved herself useful quickly. Maybe a little too useful, if Jesper was honest. She was just as good at disappearing as Kaz had promised, and it transpired that she’d trained on the high wire from childhood; she had no fear of heights, which was made apparent one evening when she slipped through Kaz’s open attic window– a sheer drop to the street below, or so Jesper had thought. He’d screamed like a scandalised old woman when he’d first seen her leap between buildings, which had torn a rare bark of laughter from Kaz. He, on the other hand, watched her calmly, confidently, seemingly just as sure in her ability as she was.
A nickname began to emerge from the shadows alongside her; the Wraith. Kaz had coined it, spread it through his usual mysterious means, pleased with the threat it implied. But Inej’s neat eyebrows had creased in distaste when she’d heard it.
“It sounds like I’ve died,” she complained. Kaz had spread his hands.
“People don’t waste bullets or blows on corpses and ghosts. Think of it as lowering the odds of getting stabbed.”
She’d rolled her eyes. But she didn’t realise, Jesper knew, how… unusual the attention Kaz was bestowing on her was. Sure, most of the kids Kaz brought in had already cut their teeth on the streets of the Barrel, could fight in some way or another, knew their way around. Inej, whilst she had her talents and nobody could doubt her mental fortitude in surviving the Menagerie, had not. She had to memorise street names, locations, political alliances, the names of the Merchant Council and the Barrel Bosses that others had known their whole lives. She had to learn to fistfight, use the knife Kaz had given her and multiple others besides, plus various other weapons. Tying knots, learning Barrel slang, even reading Kerch; she could speak it, but nobody at the Menagerie had bothered to teach her to read it. And Kaz taught her to do it all himself. And he didn’t even get that annoyed at her. Probably because she was almost as meticulous and careful as Kaz himself, and learnt fast, and didn’t make dumb jokes or stupid mistakes like Jesper would have done. Kaz even taught her to pick locks, his own pet talent. Inej never took to it like she had to most of the other things they taught her to do, but he hadn’t taught Jesper to pick locks. He hadn’t made up a cool nickname for Jesper .
It was probably all pragmatic; of course it was. Kaz was pragmatism to the bone. If asked, Kaz would certainly point out how Haskell had placed the responsibility of Inej’s success in the Dregs solely on his shoulders, and so it was in his interests to make sure she was properly trained and prepared. But Jesper was not pragmatic, and seeing Kaz bestow even the faintest scraps of approval upon Inej whilst he continued to berate and lambast Jesper sent crackling waves of ill-advised jealousy through his stomach. He found himself almost wishing Kaz had revealed a West Stave lover that day in the Crow Club instead. That was only physical. This was personal .
Inej was small, quiet and diligent. Jesper was tall, loud and careless. Inej was disciplined and prepared. Jesper was a gambler, both literally and metaphorically. She was the perfect asset to Kaz’s plans. Jesper was a hindrance to be accommodated more often than he was a help. And he couldn’t help but let his resentment slip occasionally.
One evening in the Crow Club, after Kaz and Pim had finished explaining to Inej how to spot cheaters at the tables, Kaz passed by a tipsy Jesper at the bar on his way out.
“Ooooh, you never gave me so much help, Kaz, when you first fished my ass out the canal,” Jesper grinned, spinning around on one of the squeaky bar stools so that Kaz was only a sullen monochrome blur. “What makes Miss Ghafa so special?”
The action was childish, but helped Jesper hide the spark of real resentment he was afraid Kaz might catch in his eyes if he looked him in the face. It was nice and easy to hold a grudge against Kaz.
But maybe Kaz caught it anyway. His answer was terse.
“Inej didn’t ask to be here. I brought her in because I thought she would be useful, so it’s my job to make her useful. You skipped into the Barrel like you were visiting your granny’s farm on Ghezen’s Day and didn’t have the sense to run while you could. That makes you responsible for your own education.”
By the time Jesper had ground his spinning stool to a stop indignantly, determined to argue with some modicum of dignity, Kaz was gone.
But he wasn’t alone.
“Do you know any Fabrikators?”
The last word sounded like a shot in his head, and Jesper was wheeling around with one of his guns cocked before he realised who had spoken.
“Ghezen, Inej!” He faked a laugh, lowering the gun, trying to soothe his frayed nerves. “We’re not all Kaz, you know…didn’t hear you at all…”
Inej had flinched and lifted her hands when he’d turned on her, and put them down cautiously, dark eyes wide and worried.
“I’m sorry. But you don’t usually draw on me...”
Jesper shrugged apologetically.
“Sorry. Long day.”
She looked askance at him, but she had no reason to suspect him. Or did she? She was the Wraith, now, after all.
“Do you?” she asked again.
“Do I what?”
“Know any Fabrikators?”
“Oh… well, there’s the guy who did Kaz’s cane. He’s a bit pricey, though. Why?”
“I wanted to get some proper shoes made. It’s hard to climb in boots, and too cold for bare feet…” But she was staring off after Kaz curiously.
“What happened to his leg?” she asked. “He said something about an injury during a job.”
Aha! Something I know and you don’t, Wraith , Jesper thought, too triumphantly.
“It was before my time," he admitted, "but he came off a roof during a bank heist and shattered it. It was set wrong. Not fixable, apparently. Gives him the most trouble when it’s cold.”
Inej frowned.
“Not fixable? Surely a powerful enough Healer–”
“Don’t question Kaz, Wraith,” Jesper said airily. “That’s one vault of secrets you’re never cracking.”
“And the gloves?”
Jesper shrugged.
“That one… nobody knows. Choose your favourite rumour, I guess. Whatever it is, he must have something to hide.”
“Don’t we all?” Inej muttered.
“Don’t we all indeed?” Jesper sighed. Then something occurred to him.
“You know not to touch him, right? Like at all? Did someone warn you? He usually breaks bones when people try.”
“Nobody told me,” Inej said, “But I could tell he doesn’t like people being close.”
“How?” Jesper couldn’t help but ask, annoyed that she’d ticked yet another box on the Appeasing Kaz list so easily. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“It’s not your job to notice.” Inej said simply. Unfortunately, Jesper couldn’t argue with that.
For all his little jealousies, Inej was an interesting person for Jesper to dissect Kaz with. While she’d quickly assimilated into Kaz’s little court of closest allies, her one failing – or what Kaz probably saw as a failing, at any rate – was her adamant morality. Inej was obstinately pious, naming her knives after her Saints, praying for forgiveness for the myriad sins they committed constantly, and bearing Kaz and the other Dreg’s barbed comments and jokes (and Jesper’s stupid questions) with impressive fortitude. Jesper knew it irritated Kaz, who clearly didn’t appreciate someone with a moral compass raising her eyebrows at his more heinous deeds, but Inej was stubborn in her faith. Jesper had asked her one evening about the mockery, about if it upset her, and she’d shrugged.
“ Shevrati ,” she’d said, “Know-nothings. But of course they would be. They believe in a different God. It’s just devotion elsewhere.”
“Kaz doesn’t believe in any God. He scorns all religions equally.”
“Kaz scorns everything equally,” Inej said, “But everyone has a god. We’re just yet to find Kaz’s.”
“It’s kruge ,” Jesper said, scraping the edges of his hutspot bowl.
Inej shook her head thoughtfully.
“I think…that’s a means to an end for him. He’s chasing something bigger.”
Jesper looked at her in surprise.
“What do you think he’s chasing?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, “But I’m not sure I want to see what happens when he catches it.”
But perhaps kruge ruled them all more than they realised. Kaz, Jesper and Inej were returning from the docks one evening when Inej halted to stare at the window of a butcher’s shop.
“... Tattoo Removal?” she read out tentatively. She was still learning to read Kerch, and occasionally there’d be words she didn’t know. Jesper had thought the unfamiliarity had been what caught her gaze, but Kaz seemingly knew better. He slowed, and turned to watch her shrewdly.
“Of a sort,” he said slowly. “They just hack at the skin. Doubt they clean the knives.”
Inej glanced at the door. Her hand had drifted to the sleeve where the Menagerie tattoo was. Kaz tracked the movement.
“Even if they don’t give you sepsis or hit an important blood vessel, it’ll heal to look like a mountain range,” he added.
“Save a few week’s pay and there are other places you can get it done,” Jesper said more placatingly. But that little crease had appeared again in Inej’s brow, one that Jesper was starting to recognise meant revolt.
“I have more important things to spend the money on than keeping my skin pretty,” she’d said, then squared her shoulders and marched into the shop.
“Oh my god,” Jesper said, “Kaz, your biggest asset’s about to die.”
Kaz didn’t reply, but even he looked a little surprised. They hovered foolishly on the step for a few moments, then followed her into the dank, reeking little store, where the butcher was handing Inej a generous slug of whiskey. Her sleeve was rolled up, her forearm already exposed on the counter. Suddenly the peacock tattoo looked bigger, darker, than Jesper remembered. Had it always been so close to that bunch of veins in her wrist? Had her arm always been so thin, had the feather always taken up that much room? It had to be half her forearm, surely…
“It’s nowhere near half, you podge,” Kaz said. Jesper hadn’t realised he’d said that out loud, and laughed nervously, but Inej had no such qualms. She downed the whiskey in one, her back straight, her hands steady, and stayed statuesque as the butcher produced a wicked blade.
“It’ll only take a moment,” he said, with a glance at them. Jesper thought one last attempt was in order.
“Are you sure–”
“Yes.” Inej said.
Jesper flinched as the blade first came down, looked away, tried to ignore the eventual monotonous drip-drip-drip as her blood overwhelmed the counter, tried to ignore the awful hot-metal smell. But Inej did not flinch. Her head was up, jaw set, and she was looking at Kaz steadily, a hint of challenge in her face. He was looking back at her, and Jesper saw it again; that little flash of approval–
No, it was more than that. This was esteem. Inej Ghafa had made a great conquest; Kaz Brekker’s respect.
And she’d damn well earnt it, Jesper thought.
Ironically, the very next day was when Raske came to offer Inej the gang tattoo.
“Everyone’s got it,” he told her, busily setting out needles and ink on the table, “Proves your loyalty…so you can’t run off to any other gang so easy…”
Inej said nothing, but pressed her lips together so tightly they began to go white. Jesper cleared his throat.
“Maybe wait a few days–”
“She doesn’t have to take it,” Kaz said from behind them.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
“...Everyone has to take it.” Raske said.
“Yes. But Inej doesn’t.”`
Raske raised an eyebrow. The thought was clear, and it slipped guiltily across Jesper’s mind too, unbidden. Exception.
“...Why?”
“Because if she decides she’s not so fond of us and goes to pay another visit to the butcher to hack off some more arm, she might not get so lucky. And my investment is rather a waste if she bleeds out on a shop floor because he hit an artery,” Kaz said coolly.
Raske stared at Inej with more than a little surprise.
"You went to one of them butchers?"
She ignored him. There was a brief silence.
“Besides,” Jesper said brightly, “The whole point is that nobody sees the Wraith, right? So if people are getting close enough to look at her forearm, they’ve got much bigger problems than what gang she’s with, and they’ll probably be dead before they can tell anyone, anyway.”
There was a little burst of laughter from Raske, and Inej relaxed a little. Kaz looked at him, and there was a flash of something that was almost approval in his eyes. Jesper felt a little proud flare of achievement. He had dissolved the tension, strengthened Inej’s mythology, and provided a vaguely acceptable reason to get her out of it. Was this how Kaz felt all the time when he outsmarted people? No wonder he was so arrogant, really.
“I would have gotten it,” Inej said quietly, as Raske stomped off with the needle. “I don’t mind.”
It was a lie; a brave one, but an obvious one. She wasn’t a good liar. Yet, Jesper reflected, a little sadly. It would come.
Kaz shook his head.
“When you can say that and mean it, by all means. But until then… I won’t be the one to mark you again.”
He produced a small bottle from his coat pocket and tossed it to her. Jesper recognised it; iodine.
“For your arm.”
Both Inej and Jesper stared at him, speechless, as he turned away from them and started up the stairs. An exemption from the rules and some medical supplies. From anyone else, it would have been a pittance. From Kaz, it was shockingly generous.
“Does he let people dodge the tattoo often?” Inej asked, determinedly casual.
“Never,” Jesper said.
“Oh.”
Inej fiddled with the bottle and looked rather flustered. Jesper didn’t blame her. Good Ghezen above, if Kaz had directed that little line of events at him, he’d probably have swooned.
In a way, it was oddly comforting, seeing someone else come under the spell of Kaz Brekker. Shared lapses in judgement. Maybe Inej wasn’t so perfect, after all.
Jesper nudged her with his shoulder.
“He’s right, you know. You’re not our property, you’re our crew. We’re comrades in arms, now, Inej…”
She smiled at him, and Jesper realised with something of a shock, it was the first time he’d seen her smile since she’d arrived. It was fleeting, but sweet and genuine, not one of Kaz's animal sneers or sardonic grins. It spoke of a kinder life, once. Jesper thought of her contract, the money she'd refused to spend yesterday. Hopefully she'd see that life again.
“Comrades in arms? We sound like soldiers. Who are we fighting against?”
Jesper shrugged, taking her arm and promenading them across the floorboards like a rich mercher couple in their art gallery. Instead of stopping to admire a DeKappel, however, they peered out the grubby window onto the bustling street.
“Let’s see. The Dime Lions? The Razorgulls? The Black Tips? The Merchant Council? Heleen Van Houden? Debt? Kaz on a bad day?”
“That sounds rather like the whole city.”
“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” Jesper grinned, “But I sense a winning streak for us up ahead, Wraith!”
Inej smiled again.
“So I can anticipate a complete disaster in the next few hours, then?”
Jesper squawked and protested in mock affront, but he meant it. His luck was notoriously bad, his choices poor, but now Inej shared in his fate, debts (and his questionable taste?), she made his odds a little more favourable.
“You’ll be my good luck, Inej!” he declared. “As long as we're together, we’ll do just fine.”