Six of Crows (Six of Crows #1)(72)

“Do you think Yul-Bayur will be in the palace?”

“There are guard barracks on the White Island. What if he’s in the barracks?”

Jesper and Wylan debated which kinds of explosives might be assembled from the prison laundry

supplies and if they could get their hands on some gunpowder in the embassy sector. Nina tried to help Inej estimate what her pace would have to be to scale the incinerator shaft with enough time to secure the rope and get the others to the top.

They drilled each other constantly on the architecture and procedures of the Court, the layout of the ringwall’s three gatehouses, each built around a courtyard.

“First checkpoint?”

“Four guards.”

“Second checkpoint?”

“Eight guards.”

“Ringwall gates?”

“Four when the gate is nonoperational.”

They were like a maddening chorus of crows, squawking in Matthias’ ear: Traitor, traitor, traitor.

“Yellow Protocol?” asked Kaz.

“Sector disturbance,” said Inej.

“Red Protocol?”

“Sector breach.”

“Black Protocol?”

“We’re all doomed?” said Jesper.

“That about covers it,” Matthias said, pulling his hood tighter and trudging ahead. They’d even made him imitate the different patterns of the bells. A necessity, but he’d felt like a fool chanting,

“Bing bong bing bing bong. No, wait, bing bing bong bing bing.”



“When I’m rich,” Jesper said behind him. “I’m going somewhere I never have to see snow again.

What about you, Wylan?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“I think you should buy a golden piano—”

“Flute.”

“And play concerts on a pleasure barge. You can park it in the canal right outside your father ’s house.”

“Nina can sing,” Inej put in.

“We’ll duet,” Nina amended. “Your father will have to move.”

She did have a terrible singing voice. He hated that he knew that, but he couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder. Nina’s hood had fallen back, and the thick waves of her hair had escaped her collar.

Why do I keep doing that?  he thought in a rush of frustration. It had happened aboard the ship, too.

He’d tell himself to ignore her, and the next thing he knew his eyes would be seeking her out.

But it was foolish to pretend that she wasn’t in his mind. He and Nina had walked this same territory together. If his calculations were right, they’d washed up only a few miles from where the Ferolind had put into shore. It had started with a storm, and in a way, that storm had never ended. Nina had blown into his life with the wind and rain and set his world spinning. He’d been off balance ever since.

The storm had come out of nowhere, tossing the ship like a toy on the waves. The sea had played along until it had tired of the game, and dragged their boat under in a tangle of rope and sail and screaming men.

Matthias remembered the darkness of the water, the terrible cold, the silence of the deep. The next thing he knew, he was spitting up salt water, gasping for breath. Someone had an arm around his chest, and they were moving through the water. The cold was unbearable, yet somehow he was bearing it.

“Wake up, you miserable lump of muscle.” Clean Fjerdan, pure, spoken like a noble. He turned his head and was shocked to see that the young witch they’d captured on the southern coast of the Wandering Isle had hold of him and was muttering to herself in Ravkan. He’d known she wasn’t really Kaelish. Somehow she’d got free of her bonds and the cages. Every part of him went into a panic, and if he’d been less shocked or numb, he would have struggled.

“Move,” she told him in Fjerdan, panting. “Saints, what do they feed you? You weigh about as much as a haycart.”

She was struggling badly, swimming for both of them. She’d saved his life. Why?

He shifted in her arms, kicking his legs to help drive them forward. To his surprise, he heard her give a low sob. “Thank the Saints,” she said. “Swim, you giant oaf.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, and he could hear the terror in her voice.

He kicked away from her.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t let go!”

But he shoved hard, breaking her hold. The moment he left her arms, the cold rushed in. The pain was sharp and sudden, and his limbs went sluggish. She’d been using her sick magic to keep him warm. He reached for her in the dark.

“Drüsje? ” he called, ashamed of the fear in his voice. It was the Fjerdan word for witch, but he had no name for her.





“Drüskelle! ” she shouted, and then he felt his fingers brush against hers in the black water. He grabbed hold and drew her to him. Her body didn’t feel warm exactly, but as soon as they made contact, the pain in his own limbs receded. He was gripped by gratitude and revulsion.

“We have to find land,” she gasped. “I can’t swim and keep both of our hearts beating.”

“I’ll swim,” he said. “You … I’ll swim.” He clasped her back to his chest, his arm looped under hers and across her body, the way she’d been holding him only moments ago, as if she were drowning. And she was, they both were, or they would be soon if they didn’t freeze to death first.