Kaz Brekker Imagines

Someone's Brother, Someone's Sister

It is surprisingly easy to enter the home of the Dregs. The building affectionately referred to as the Slat looms on the horizon; oil lamps shine in its crooked windows like gap teeth, and the stones and brick of the exterior are unwashed and dark with soot. All who pass by it do so with great unease, tugging coat lapels over mouths lest the devil get in on a stray word that wasn't a prayer for salvation.

You would think it would be some kind of impenetrable fortress, but you walk right in. There are guards loitering by the door, relaxed in the knowledge that someone who wanted to be here would have tried to kill them already, and any intruder who wasn't trying to start a fight would lose their money if not their life when they tried to leave again. People don't just bother the Dregs. You beat them or you die trying. There is no peaceful coexistence.

The wooden boards creak under your feet, but no one casts you longer than a fleeting glance before moving on to better, brighter things. It would be a stupid idea to come here unless you were invited. Maybe that's why it's so easy for you to navigate up to the top floor, taking the staircase level by level until the stitch in your side tells you that you've reached the summit.

Kaz Brekker is not expecting you. Not officially, anyway. Still, for someone who supposedly has no idea you're coming, he looks rather unsurprised when you enter his office after knocking once on his door. You think you see a flash of black at his window, but when you double take, it's gone. Kaz does not acknowledge the shadow's absence any more than he points out your presence.

Instead, he tilts his head back, knocking a wave of raven-black hair from his cold gaze. "Can I help you?"

It's a pleasant thing to say. Were it not for the fact that he's eyeing you like you're a lamb before the slaughter, you'd almost believe that he genuinely does want to help you. However, this is, of course, the Barrel, and no one would go out on a limb for anyone unless they had an idea of a pound of flesh they could extract for themselves.

"I have a younger sister," you begin.

Kaz cuts you off irritably before you can progress much further than that. He waves a gloved hand, annoyed already, which isn't a good sign. "Everybody does. Do you know how many people beg me for jobs every day? There are scores of brothers with mouths to feed in this city. If I wanted to help someone's sick mother or dying cousin, I would run a hospital, not a gang. Get a better excuse or get out."

You fold your arms across your chest. "Fine. I know someone working in Pekka Rollins' office. Is that better?"

Kaz lifts one shoulder. "I have spies already."

"Not this one," you tell him. "My sister works in Pekka's buildings every day. Cleaning, polishing, that sort of thing. Who knows the kinds of papers she might see? Or the people feeding him information? No one suspects the help."

"I don't need you to tell me the importance of spies in the shadows," Kaz scoffs, but he's less dismissive than before. Good. You need this to work, even if it's a sob story he's both heard and told time and time again.

"Is that why you sent some of your men to follow my sister and I?" You ask slowly.

Dirtyhands doesn't smile. Kaz might, though. When the corners of his lips twitch upwards, you're not sure if it's a declaration of his good humor or just an indication of a wolf ready to feast on blood and gore, but either way, it's better than the barren stare.

"Why would I send my own Dregs after a maid and her sister?" He questions you.

You meet his gaze coolly. "Because you were already looking at us as a potential source of information. I'm here to accept your job."