Six of Crows (Six of Crows #1)(56)

“What does the dog look like?”

The others roared with laughter as they headed above. The golden one who’d likened her to an animal was the last to go, and just as he was about to step into the passage, she said in crisp, perfect Fjerdan, “What crimes?”

He stilled, and when he’d looked back at her, his blue eyes had been bright with hate. She refused to flinch.

“How do you come to speak my language? Did you serve on Ravka’s northern border?”

“I’m Kaelish,” she lied, “and I can speak any language.”

“More witchcraft.”

“If by witchcraft, you mean the arcane practice of reading. Your commander said we’d be tried for our crimes. I want you to tell me just what crime I’ve committed.”

“You’ll be tried for espionage and crimes against the people.”

“We are not criminals,” said a Fabrikator in halting Fjerdan from his place on the floor. He’d been there the longest and was too weak to rise. “We are ordinary people – farmers, teachers.”

Not me, Nina thought grimly. I’m a soldier.

“You’ll have a trial,” said the drüskelle. “You’ll be treated more fairly than your kind deserve.”

“How many Grisha are ever found innocent?” Nina asked.

The Fabrikator groaned. “Don’t provoke him. You will not sway his mind.”

But she gripped the bars with her bound hands and said, “How many? How many have you sent to

the pyre?”

He turned his back on her.

“Wait!”

He ignored her.

“Wait! Please! Just … just some fresh water. Would you treat your dogs like this?”

He paused, his hand on the door. “I shouldn’t have said that. Dogs know loyalty, at least. Fidelity to the pack. It is an insult to the dog to call you one.”

I’m going to feed you to a pack of hungry hounds, Nina thought. But all she said was, “Water.

Please.”

He vanished into the passage. She heard him climb the ladder, and the hatch closed with a loud bang.

“Don’t waste your breath on him,” the Fabrikator counselled. “He will show you no kindness.”

But a short while later the drüskelle returned with a tin cup and a bucket of clean water. He’d set it down inside the cell and slammed the bars shut without a word. Nina helped the Fabrikator drink, then gulped down a cup herself. Her hands were shaking so badly, half of it sloshed down her blouse. The Fjerdan turned away, and with pleasure, Nina saw she’d embarrassed him.

“I’d kill for a bath,” she taunted. “You could wash me.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he growled, already stalking towards the door.

He hadn’t returned, and they’d gone without fresh water for the next three days. But when the storm hit, that tin cup had saved her life.

Nina’s chin dipped, and she jerked awake. Had she nodded off?

Matthias was standing in the passage outside the cabin. He filled the doorway, far too tall to be comfortable belowdecks. How long had he been watching her? Quickly, Nina checked Inej’s pulse and breathing, relieved to find that she seemed to be stable for now.

“Was I sleeping?” she asked.

“Dozing.”

She stretched, trying to blink away her exhaustion. “But not snoring?” He said nothing, just watched her with those ice chip eyes. “They let you have a razor?”

His shackled hands went to his freshly shaved jaw. “Jesper did it.” Jesper must have seen to Matthias’ hair, too. The tufts of blond that had grown raggedly from his scalp had been trimmed down. It was still too short, bare golden fuzz over skin that showed cuts and bruises from his last fight in Hellgate.

He must be happy to be free of the beard, though, Nina thought. Until a drüskelle had accomplished a mission on his own and been granted officer status, he was required to remain clean-shaven. If Matthias had brought Nina to face trial at the Ice Court, he would have been granted that permission.

He would have worn the silver wolf’s head that marked an officer of the drüskelle. It made her sick to think of it. Congratulations on your recent advancement to murderer of rank.  The thought helped remind her just who she was dealing with. She sat up straighter, chin lifting.

“Hje marden, Matthias?” she asked.

“Don’t,” he said.

“You’d prefer I spoke Kerch?”

“I don’t want to hear my language from your mouth.” His eyes flicked to her lips, and she felt an unwelcome flush.

With vindictive pleasure, she said in Fjerdan, “But you always liked the way I spoke your tongue.

You said it sounded pure.” It was true. He’d loved her accent – the vowels of a princess, courtesy of her teachers at the Little Palace.

“Don’t press me, Nina,” he said. Matthias’ Kerch was ugly, brutal, the guttural accent of thieves and murderers that he’d met in prison. “That pardon is a dream that’s hard to hold on to. The memory of your pulse fading beneath my fingers is far easier to bring to mind.”

“Try me,” she said, her anger flaring. She was sick of his threats. “My hands aren’t pinned now, Helvar.” She curled her fingertips, and Matthias gasped as his heart began to race.