Crooked Kingdom (The Six of Crows Duology #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,162

deftly than he could barehanded. The gloves held back the waters, kept him from drowning when memories of that night threatened to drag him under. When he pulled them on, it felt like he was arming himself, and they were better than a knife or a gun. Until he met Imogen.

He’d been fourteen, not yet Per Haskell’s lieutenant but making a name for himself with every fight and swindle. Imogen was new to the Barrel, a year older than he was. She’d run with a crew in Zierfoort, small-time rackets that she claimed had left her bored. Since she’d arrived in Ketterdam, she’d been hanging around the Staves, picking up small jobs, trying to find her way into one of the Barrel gangs. When Kaz had first seen her, she’d been breaking a bottle over the head of a Razorgull who’d gotten too handsy. Then she’d cropped up again when Per Haskell had him running book on the spring prize fights. She had freckles and a gap between her front teeth, and she could hold her own in a brawl.

One night, when they were standing by the empty ring counting up the day’s haul, she’d touched her hand to the sleeve of his coat, and when he looked up, she’d smiled slowly, close-lipped, so he couldn’t see the gap in her teeth.

Later, lying on his lumpy mattress in the room he shared at the Slat, Kaz had stared up at the leaky ceiling and thought of the way Imogen had smiled at him, the way her trousers sat low on her hips. She had a sidle when she walked, as if she approached everything from a little bit of an angle. He liked it. He liked her.

There was no mystery to bodies in the Barrel. Space was tight and people took their pleasures where they found them. The other boys in the Dregs talked constantly about their conquests. Kaz said nothing. Fortunately, he said nothing about almost everything, so he had consistency working in his favor. But he knew what he was expected to say, the things he was supposed to want. He did want those things, in moments, in flashes—a girl crossing the street in a cobalt dress that slid from her shoulder, a dancer moving like flames in a show on East Stave, Imogen laughing like he’d told the funniest joke in the world when he hadn’t said much at all.

He’d flexed his hands in his gloves, listening to his roommates snore. I can best this , he told himself. He was stronger than this sickness, stronger than the pull of the water. When he’d needed to learn the workings of a gambling hall, he’d done it. When he’d decided to educate himself on finance, he’d mastered that too. Kaz thought of Imogen’s slow, closed-mouth smile and made a decision. He would conquer this weakness the way he’d conquered everything in his path.

He’d started small, with gestures no one would notice. A game of Three Man Bramble dealt with gloves off. A night spent with them tucked under his pillow. Then, when Per Haskell sent him and Teapot to lay a little hurt on a two-bit brawler named Beni who owed him cash, Kaz had waited until they’d had him in the alley, and when Teapot told Kaz to hold Beni’s arms, he’d slipped off his gloves, just as a test, something easy.

As soon as he made contact with Beni’s wrists, a rush of revulsion overtook him. But he was prepared and endured it, ignoring the icy sweat that broke over him as he hooked Beni’s elbows behind his back. Kaz forced himself to brace Beni’s body against his while Teapot reeled off the terms of his loan with Per Haskell, punctuating each sentence with a punch to Beni’s face or gut.

I’m all right , Kaz told himself. I’m handling this. Then the waters rose.

This time the wave was as tall as the spires on the Church of Barter; it seized him and dragged him down, a weight that he could not escape. He had Jordie in his arms, his brother’s rotting fish-belly body clutched against him. Kaz shoved him away, gasping for breath.

The next thing he knew, he was leaning against a brick wall. Teapot was yelling at him as Beni fled. The sky was gray above him, and the stink of the alley filled his nostrils, the ash and vegetable smell of garbage, the ripe tang of old urine.

“What the hell was that, Brekker?” screamed Teapot,