Crooked Kingdom (The Six of Crows Duology #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,146

Gorka struck the side of Kaz’s head with a thick loop of chain. Inej saw Kaz’s eyes roll up in his head. He swayed. And then he was on the ground. The crowd in the entry roared.

Inej was moving before she thought of it. She couldn’t just watch him die, she wouldn’t. They had him down now, heavy boots kicking and stomping at his body. Her knives were in her hands. She’d kill them all. She’d pile the bodies to the rafters for the stadwatch to find.

But in that moment, through the wide slats in the banister landing, she saw his eyes were open. His gaze found hers. He’d known she was there all along. Of course he had. He always knew how to find her. He gave the barest shake of his bloodied head.

She wanted to scream. To hell with your pride, with the Dregs, with this whole wretched city.

Kaz tried to rise. Beatle kicked him back down. They were laughing now. Gorka raised his leg, balancing his big boot above Kaz’s skull, playing to the crowd. Inej saw Pim turn away; Anika and Keeg were bellowing for someone to stop them. Gorka brought his foot down—and screamed, a high-pitched, bobbling squeal.

Kaz was holding Gorka’s boot, and Gorka’s foot was wrenched to the side at an ugly angle. He hopped on one leg, trying to keep his balance, that strange, shrill wail bleating from his mouth in time with his hops. Milo and Beatle kicked Kaz hard in the ribs, but Kaz didn’t flinch. With a strength Inej couldn’t fathom, Kaz jammed Gorka’s leg upward. The big man shrieked as his knee popped free of its socket. He toppled sideways, blubbering, “My leg! My leg!”

“I recommend a cane,” Kaz said.

But all Inej could see was the knife in Milo’s hands, long and gleaming. It looked like the cleanest thing about him.

“Don’t kill him, you podge!” Haskell bellowed, no doubt still thinking of the reward.

But Milo was apparently beyond listening. He raised the knife and plunged it directly at Kaz’s chest. At the last second, Kaz rolled. The knife sank into the floorboards with a loud thunk . Milo grabbed the knife to pry it free but Kaz was already moving, and Inej saw he had two rusty nails tucked between his fingers like claws—he’d somehow plucked them from one of the axe handles. He shot upward and jabbed the nails into Milo’s throat, embedding them in his windpipe. Milo made a faint, choked whistle before he fell.

Kaz used the banister to haul himself to his feet. Beatle held his hands up, as if forgetting he was still in possession of a cudgel and Kaz was unarmed. Kaz grabbed a fistful of Beatle’s hair, yanked back his head, and cracked it against the banister, the sound like a gunshot, the recoil sharp enough that Beatle’s head bounced off the wood like a rubber ball. He slumped in a ferrety little pile.

Kaz wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing blood over his nose and forehead, and spat. He adjusted his gloves, looked down at Per Haskell from the second-story landing, and smiled. His teeth were red and wet. The crowd was far larger than when the fight had begun. He rolled his shoulders. “Who’s next?” he asked, as if he might have an appointment elsewhere. “Who’s coming?” Inej didn’t know how he could keep his voice so steady. “This is what I do all day long. I fight. When was the last time you saw Per Haskell take a punch? Lead a job? Hell, when was the last time you saw him out of his bed before noon?”

“You think we’re going to applaud because you can take a beating?” Per Haskell sneered. “It don’t make up for the trouble you’ve caused. Bringing the law down on the Barrel, kidnapping a mercher’s son—”

“I told you I had no part in that,” Kaz said.

“Pekka Rollins says otherwise.”

“Good to know you take a Dime Lion’s word over one of your own.”

An uneasy murmur passed through the crowd below like a wind rustling the leaves. Your gang was your family, the bond strong as blood.

“You’re crazy enough to cross a merch, Brekker.”

“Crazy enough,” conceded Kaz. “But not stupid enough.”

Now some of the Dregs were muttering to one another, as if they’d never considered Van Eck might have trumped up the charges. Of course they hadn’t. Van Eck was quality. Why would an upright mercher make such a charge against some canal rat if it wasn’t