Crooked Kingdom (The Six of Crows Duology #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,74

the boats heading to the morning markets near the Stadhall. The Ravkan embassy was at the edge of the government sector, tucked into a wide bend in the canal that backed on a broad thoroughfare. The thoroughfare had once been a marsh but had been filled in and bricked over by a builder who had intended to use the site for a large hotel and parade ground. He had run out of funds before construction could start. Now it was home to a teeming marketplace of wooden stalls and rolling carts that appeared every morning and vanished every evening when the stadwatch patrolled. It was where refugees and visitors, new immigrants and old expatriates came to find familiar faces and customs. The few cafés nearby served pelmeni and salted herring, and old men sat at the outdoor tables, sipping kvas and reading their Ravkan news sheets, weeks out of date.

When Nina had first been stranded in Ketterdam, she’d thought of seeking sanctuary at the embassy, but she was afraid that she’d be sent back home to where she was supposed to be serving in the Second Army. How could she possibly explain that she couldn’t return to Ravka until she’d freed a Fjerdan drüskelle she’d helped to imprison on false charges? After that, she’d rarely visited Little Ravka. It was just too painful to walk these streets that were so much like home and so unlike home at the same time.

Still, when she glimpsed the golden Lantsov double eagle flying on its pale blue field, her heart leapt like a horse clearing a jump. The market reminded her of Os Kervo, the bustling town that had served as capital to West Ravka before the unification—the embroidered shawls and gleaming samovars, the scent of fresh lamb being cooked on a spit, the woven wool hats, and battered tin icons glinting in the early morning sun. If she ignored the narrow Kerch buildings with their gabled roofs, she could almost pretend she was home. A dangerous illusion. There was no safety to be had on these streets.

Homesick as she was, as Nina and Matthias passed peddlers and merchants, some small, shameful thing inside her cringed at how old-fashioned everything looked. Even the people, clinging to traditional Ravkan dress, looked like relics of another time, objects salvaged from the pages of a folktale. Had the year she’d spent in Ketterdam done this to her? Somehow changed the way she saw her own people and customs? She didn’t want to believe that.

As Nina emerged from her thoughts, she realized that she and Matthias were attracting some very unfriendly glances. No doubt there was quite a bit of prejudice against Fjerdans among Ravkans, but this was something different. Then she glanced up at Matthias and sighed. His expression was troubled, and when he looked troubled, he looked terrifying. The fact that he was built like the tank they’d driven out of the Ice Court didn’t help either.

“Matthias,” she murmured in Fjerdan, giving his arm what she hoped was a friendly, siblinglike nudge, “must you glower at everything?”

“I’m not glowering.”

“We’re Fjerdans in the Ravkan sector. We already stand out. Let’s not give everyone another reason to think you’re about to lay siege to the market. We need to get this task done without drawing unwanted attention. Think of yourself as a spy.”

His frown deepened. “Such work is beneath an honest soldier.”

“Then pretend to be an actor.” He made a disgusted sound. “Have you ever even been to the theater?”

“There are plays every season in Djerholm.”

“Let me guess, sober affairs that last several hours and tell epic tales of the heroes of yore.”

“They’re actually very entertaining. But I’ve never seen an actor who knows how to properly hold his sword.”

Nina snorted a laugh.

“What?” Matthias said, perplexed.

“Nothing. Really. Nothing.” She’d educate Matthias on innuendo another time. Or maybe she wouldn’t. He was so much more fun when he was completely oblivious.

“What are those?” he asked, gesturing to one of the vendors’ blankets. It was laden with tidy rows of what looked like sticks and chips of rock.

“Bones,” she said. “Fingers, knuckles, vertebrae, broken bits of wrists. Saints’ bones. For protection.”

Matthias recoiled. “Ravkans carry around human bones?”

“You talk to trees. It’s superstition.”

“Are they really meant to come from Saints?”

She shrugged. “They’re bones sifted from graveyards and battlegrounds. There are plenty of those in Ravka. If people want to believe they’re carrying Sankt Egmond’s elbow or Sankta Alina’s pinky toe—”

“Who decided Alina Starkov was a Saint anyway?” Matthias said grumpily.