Our Fractured Souls | Kaz Brekker

[04]

4

Kaz

If you couldn't walk by yourself through Ketterdam after dark, then you might as well just hang a sign that read 'soft' around your neck and lie down for a beating.

Kaz could feel the Dregs eyes on his back as he headed over the bridge. He didn't need to hear their whispers to know what they would say.

They wanted to drink with him, hear him explain how he'd known Big Bolliger had gone over to the Black Tips, listen to him describe the look in Geels' eyes when he dropped his pistol.

But they'd never get it from Kaz, and if they didn't like it, they could find another crew to run with.

No matter what they thought of him, they'd walk a little taller tonight. It was why they stayed, why they gave their best approximation of loyalty to him.

When he'd officially become a member of the Dregs, he'd been twelve and the gang had been a laughing stock, street kids and washed up cadgers running shell games and penny-poor cons out of a rundown house in the worst part of the Barrel.

But he hadn't needed a great gang, just one he could make great - one that needed him.

Now they had their own territory, their own gambling hall, and that rundown house had become the Slat, refurbished and a dry, warm place to get a hot meal, or hole up when you were wounded.

Now the Dregs were feared.

Kaz had given them that.

He didn't owe them small talk on top of it.

Besides, Jesper would smooth it over. A few drinks in, and a few hands up, and the sharpshooter's good nature would return.

He held a grudge about as well as he held his liquor, and he had an uncanny gift for making Kaz's victories sound like they belonged to everyone.

As Kaz headed down one of the little canals that would take him past Fifth Harbour, he realised - Saints, he almost felt hopeful.

Maybe he should see a medik.

Or force Viktorya to read him one of her favourite novels again.

The Black Tips had been nipping at his heels for weeks, and now he'd forced them to play their hand.

His leg wasn't too bad either, despite the winter chill.

The ache was always there, but tonight it was just a dull throb.

Still, some part of him wondered if the parley was some sort of test Per Haskell had set for him.

Haskell was perfectly capable of convincing himself that he was the genius making the Dregs prosper, especially if one of his cronies was whispering in his ear.

That idea didn't sit easy, but Kaz could worry about the old man tomorrow. For now, he'd make sure everything was running on schedule at the harbour and then head home to the Slat for some much needed sleep.

He stopped at the thought and almost sighed.

Not sleep right away. Viktorya was still hellbent on talking to him once he was back.

She'd made her displeasure with him explicitly clear following Jesper's confrontation.

Kaz knew she was angry. And he knew why.

Viktorya was an amazing spy, assassin, and thief. And more importantly, Kaz's closest and almost only friend among the Dregs. Or at least the only one he might openly call a friend.