slipped easily into the traffic of travelers and traders where the cliff road met the northern road that led to Upper Djerholm. The upper town was a rambling extension of the city below, a sprawling collection of shops, markets, and inns that served the guards and staff who worked at the Ice Court as well as visitors. Luckily, the crowds were heavy and motley enough that one more group of foreigners could go unnoticed, and Inej found herself breathing a bit easier. She’d worried that she and Jesper might be dangerously conspicuous in the Fjerdan capital’s sea of blonds. Maybe the crew from the Shu Han was relying on the jumbled crowd for cover, too.
Signs of Hringkälla celebrations were everywhere. The shops had created elaborate displays of pepper cookies baked in the shape of wolves, some hanging like ornaments from large, twisting trees, and the bridge spanning the river gorge had been festooned with ribbons in Fjerdan silver. One way into the Ice Court and one way out. Would they cross this bridge as victors tomorrow?
“What are they?” Wylan asked, pausing in front of a peddler’s cart laden with wreaths made of the same twisting branches and silver ribbons.
“Ash trees,” replied Matthias. “Sacred to Djel.”
“There’s supposed to be one in the middle of the White Island,” said Nina, ignoring the warning look the Fjerdan cast her. “It’s where the drüskelle gather for the listening ceremony.”
Kaz tapped his walking stick on the ground. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“The ash is sustained by the spirit of Djel,” said Matthias. “It’s where we may best hear his voice.”
Kaz’s eyes flickered. “Not what I asked. Why isn’t it on our plans?”
“Because it’s the holiest place in all of Fjerda and not essential to our mission.”
“I say what’s essential. Anything else you decided to leave out in your great wisdom?”
“The Ice Court is a vast structure,” Matthias said, turning away. “I can’t label every crack and corner.”
“Then let’s hope nothing is lurking in those corners,” Kaz replied.
Upper Djerholm had no real center, but the bulk of its taverns, inns, and market stalls were clustered around the base of the hill leading to the Ice Court. Kaz steered them seemingly aimlessly through the streets until he found a run-down tavern called the Gestinge.
“Here?” Jesper complained, peering into the dank main room. The whole place stank of garlic and fish.
Kaz just gave a significant glance upward and said, “Terrace.”
“What’s a gestinge?” Inej wondered aloud.
“It means ‘paradise,’” said Matthias. Even he looked skeptical.
Nina helped secure them a table on the tavern’s rooftop terrace. It was mostly empty, the weather still too cold to attract many patrons. Or maybe they’d been scared away by the food—herring in rancid oil, stale black bread, and some kind of butter that looked distinctly mossy.
Jesper looked down at his plate and moaned. “Kaz, if you want me dead, I prefer a bullet to poison.”
Nina scrunched her nose. “When I don’t want to eat, you know there’s a problem.”
“We’re here for the view, not the food.”
From their table, they had a clear, if distant, view of the Ice Court’s outer gate and the first guardhouse. It was built into a white arch formed by two monumental stone wolves on their hind legs, and spanned the road leading up the hill to the Court. Inej and the others watched the traffic come and go through the gates as they picked at their lunches, waiting for a sign of the prison wagons. Inej’s appetite had finally returned, and she’d been eating as much as possible to build her strength, but the skin atop the soup she’d ordered wasn’t helping.
There was no coffee to be had so they ordered tea and little glasses of clear brännvin that burned going down but helped to keep them warm as a wind picked up, stirring the silvery ribbons tied to the ash boughs lining the street below.
“We’re going to start looking conspicuous soon,” said Nina. “This isn’t the kind of place people like to linger.”
“Maybe they don’t have anyone to take to jail,” suggested Wylan.
“There’s always someone to take to jail,” Kaz replied, then bobbed his chin toward the road. “Look.”
A boxy wagon was rolling to a stop at the guardhouse. Its roof and high sides were covered in black canvas, and it was drawn by four stout horses. The door at the back was heavy iron, bolted and padlocked.
Kaz reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an