𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

05

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N E W H A T
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"...WORD MIGHT HAVE GOTTEN OUT—"

"You think I'd let that happen?" Feta arrived just in time to hear Per Haskell's cranky old crowing through the door to his office. She aligned her spine with the doorpost, angling her ear towards the door whilst keeping an eye on the end of the hallway, where any of the Dregs could round the corner, cheerily call out, and blow her eavesdropping endeavor.

She knew of Inej's secret vent that looked directly into Per Haskell's office — a fruitless resort outside of spying on meetings, unless one wanted to watch the big bad boss of the Dregs tinker with a toy ship until he passed out and spilled lager down his front. Undoubtedly, it was the more secure space to eavesdrop: less noise, less exposure. But Feta was in the business of the obvious. Let her stand outside Haskell's door. Who here would blame her for being curious?

There was a harsh surge of shrieking laughter from the foyer, but Feta thought she'd made out Kaz saying: "This place is like anything else in Ketterdam. It leaks." Feta snickered.

"I don't like it, boy. Big Bolliger was my soldier, not yours."

"Of course," Kaz replied coolly. But this was a lie, and everyone knew it.

The Dregs had been nothing more than Haskell's graying, rusty collection of con-men and crooks who may have been great in another time, another fantasy. They had been nothing more than a laughingstock that had been herded to the lamest, most decrepit stretch of the Barrel. If not for Kaz, according to the embellished tale of the Dregs' up and coming secret weapon, how he steered them towards greatness and saved Haskell's ass, the Barrel probably would have eaten them alive by now.

So Feta had heard, Kaz had done onto the Dregs what he'd done to the Slat: laid a new foundation. He weeded out those weaker than him and rose through the ranks, cementing the gang with him at the center, surrounded by his new blood. Young and too unafraid for their own good. Similar to what Feta had been called when she'd extended her dignified performance act to include Kaz's dirty work.

"Nothing about performing is dignified," Kaz had scoffed.

Feta had laughed abruptly. "It's about giving the audience what they want, telling them what they want to hear." Her grin had struck him like lightning. "Our lies are only different in how we tell them."

But no matter what Kaz thought of her street act, Feta knew she was the kind of unafraid that Kaz needed. He thought she was foolish, sure, too unafraid of the city to know what was good for her, perhaps, but she was willing to help, and that she'd been working for them for the better or worse part of three years meant something.

Because believe it or not, Feta thought the gangs of the Barrel were terrible, and she'd been astonished to hear admirers of Dirtyhands in the bars and taverns praise his youth, his drive, his ruthlessness. But she understood this was the way of things, this was how things got done. If you wanted something done right, join a gang and get them to do it.

Feta tilted her head away from Per Haskell's door for a moment as Anika, still scurrying around in her haste to leave for the Crow Club, undoubtedly per Kaz's instructions, spotted her from down the hall. Feta threw a finger to her lips and winked. Anika had nodded with a sly smile, pretended to lock her lips at the corners. Everyone wanted to have a secret with Feta Cadner, a set of knowing smiles exchanged in passing; everyone wanted to keep a secret for the Siren, lest she sing theirs.

When Feta tuned back in, all she heard was Haskell inquiring, "Are we to be very rich?"

"Rich as Saints in crowns of gold," Kaz responded, a gilded edge to his voice.