They took care of the Transfer of Authority after breakfast, and as far as reading went, it was light work. Jesper read the same words he'd read in the asylum, the words Wylan had recited in the Church of Barter. There was more, of course. Details. Worship. Ghezen and his works and so on—as far as gods went, Jesper thought, Ghezen was a dull one. At least Djel had a magic tree. He might not believe the Saints were more than powerful zowa, but they had some good stories behind them!
There was a letter along with the legal papers from Jellen Radmakker. He sent his best wishes after the unpleasantness—"You merch types aren't prone to overstatement"—and requesting that a time be set for him to visit.
"What do you think he wants?"
"That's all it says."
Wylan nodded thoughtfully. "In the Church, he seemed genuinely bothered by my father's behavior. Maybe he just felt an obligation to speak on behalf of the Council?"
"Maybe," Jesper said. He didn't know. "We used to visit in Novyi Zem when someone lost a loved one. Paying respects." It was traditional to bring food, but since Jesper did the cooking at home and didn't have much of a hand for it, he and Colm were likelier to bring sympathy and flowers. "Maybe the same applies to imprisonment?"
"I don't love him."
"When Radmakker visits, don't use that as your opening line."
"We'll invite him to visit in three days' time," Wylan decided with a veneer of determination on his face not quite veiling his uncertainty. "That should give my mother time to settle in without seeming irresponsible."
Jesper answered the implied question, "That sounds good, Wy."
Wylan dictated the letter haltingly. Jesper read it back, and they made changes before finalizing it. And there it was: Wylan and Jesper had written a piece of official correspondence together, and Radmakker was invited to visit the Van Eck mansion in three days. The mansion with the hole in the dining room ceiling. The one inhabited by a wayward son and his inexplicable friends, soon to be joined by a woman returned from the dead.
"It's official," Jesper said, "I'm your secretary."
"Did I agree to that?"
"Yes."
"I don't remember agreeing to that."
"I'll tell you what I'd tell anyone else, speaking as Mister Van Eck's secretary, this is the official word…"
Jesper didn't need to finish the sentence because Wylan was snickering too much.
Only when he was done laughing did Jesper tell him, grinning, "You're a proper mercher now, beautiful."
He was so cute when he blushed.
"Do you inherit his seat on the Merchant Council?" Jesper asked.
"I'm not of age. They'll appoint someone to serve in my stead. They could hold a vote of no confidence but it's unlikely, at least unless I run the empire into the ground."
Ghezen would frown on that.
Jesper signed Wylan's name and set the letter aside, giving the ink a moment to dry. In the meantime he fiddled with a stick of sealing wax. Merchants, it seemed, did not simply send a piece of paper. Probably wise.
"They'll be watching. The Council is always watching their peers, but at my age, they might expect failure, some might hope for it. Dryden in particular—Kaz was right that he hasn't made good. If I fail, he looks more successful; if I succeed, he looks worse."
"Aren't their children your friends?"
Wylan gave him a look. Usually Jesper would like those blue eyes trained on him for several long seconds, but this time it felt like being looked at across a great chasm and he wasn't sure why.
Then Wylan cleared his throat.
"My father wanted to protect me from anyone learning about—to protect the family, really. Any brothers or sisters or children I had would have been hurt by the damage to our reputation. A merchant family's reputation—"
Ghezen, Djel, and all the Saints save him from a lecture on a merchant family's reputation.
"You weren't allowed to have friends?"
"Well… you must have been a lonely child, too," Wylan reasoned, "growing up on a farm. How many children lived near you?"
"Half a dozen I saw regularly," Jesper replied. His da made a point of getting Jesper off the farm often enough, especially after they lost his mother. No, it wasn't every day, but Colm knew a child needed more company than just his father. He saw to it Jesper had a chance to be a kid. The more he heard about Jan Van Eck, the more fiercely Jesper missed Colm.
Jesper had imagined before what a merchant's life was like. On some fronts, he hadn't been wrong. The beds were soft and the food was good, and he had woken up that morning to find his boots had been cleaned. When he was small, he couldn't have imagined a place like Wylan's office. It was lavish beyond his wildest imaginings. He also hadn't imagined the pettiness of merchants and their concerns for reputations. He might have known some stuck-up types back home, but no one who hoped someone else's farm would fail so theirs looked better.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come to Olendaal?"
Wylan nodded, looking considerably less than sure.
"I have the authority to make this decision," he told himself as much as Jesper—but Jesper understood. He could charm most people, maybe not into taking broad strokes against their self-interest the way Nina could, but well enough. Wylan was earnest, with a pure heart and the guile of a trout. He needed to learn to deal for himself. What better first round than one he had not only the means but the right to win?
If only that didn't leave Jesper with a bundle of free time on his hands.
Keeping horses in Ketterdam was impractical. They weren't needed. Keeping such creatures was purely a matter of ego and status.
Naturally, Jan Van Eck kept several.
Jesper stepped into Van Eck's stable and took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of straw blocking the scent of eternal damp. Ketterdam had excitement and energy Jesper liked to throw himself into, but this was more like home. He had lasted all of a heartbeat at university. The only places he had lived were the Barrel and his father's farm. If he was going to manage to avoid his… vices… something that rang of familiar domesticity helped him believe he just might manage it.
"Good afternoon," he told one of the horses in a croon usually reserved for his revolvers. "Oh, look at you…"
Of course nothing Jan Van Eck owned would look like a working horse.
Rather—nothing Jan Van Eck had chosen would look like a working horse. Wylan owned them now.
This animal looked like a fancy mercher horse, his mane and tail groomed. His coat had been brushed recently, though he had clearly rolled in the straw since then. Jesper ran a hand along the horse's side, chattering as he did—he knew better than to get sneaky around a horse. He was bruised enough from the Kherguud. No need to take a hoof to the leg just for fun.
"You're tall for a horse," Jesper observed, "do the other horses tell you that? I understand your suffering. They don't see how inherently glorious we tall types are. There's so much more of us to love…" His voice trailed off as he noticed something beneath his fingers.
"You seem delightful," he said, less humor in it, just words as he brushed off a patch of hair.
"You're a very pretty horse."
He traced a thin scar with one fingertip.
"Don't repeat that to Wylan, now," Jesper continued, recovering his humor. "Any of it! Especially the part about you being a pretty horse. Double especially the part about tall types being better. We are, but a small type wouldn't understand. Yeah, you'll keep that between us. Good boy. Good horse."
Following a hunch, he repeated the same routine with the other horses. They were all similarly groomed, all with similar chestnut coats. It was almost like livery, the way Van Eck had chosen his horses to look like parts of a set. Jesper supposed there was aesthetic appeal to it. If you liked boring.
"Who's that in here?"
Jesper was half-hidden behind a horse when the call rang out. He took a few steps to reveal himself.
The man standing in the doorway wouldn't have looked out of place in the Barrel, Jesper thought. He had a kempt but still dirtied appearance—a man who did his reasonable best, but worked with horses and could only be expected so much cleanness. There was a shrewdness in his eyes, though. A hardness.
"You're one of Mister Wylan's friends."
"Jesper Fahey," he supplied. "And you're the hostler."
He nodded. "Ja. It's time to put them out," he added, indicating the horses.
"Allow me to help! I grew up on a farm," Jesper explained. He knew his way around horses. As they took the horses out to their paddock, Jesper struck up a conversation: "Have you worked here long?"
"Nearly twenty years I've worked for Mister Van Eck."
"He's a good boss?"
"He's a fair man. You do what he asks of you, he'll do right by you."
"It's a shame what happened to him."
The hostler gave Jesper a surprised look, then slowly he nodded. "It is."
Jesper glanced around before he continued, "Wylan is my friend, but he never struck me as much of a businessman."
The hostler hesitated a moment, then said, "Not for me to say."
"Go on," Jesper goaded, grinning. "I mean—a flautist."
"Well—this whole business is going to blow over. All will be set to rights in a matter of weeks, just wait and see if it isn't."
Jesper nodded. Seemed reasonable, unless you knew that Kaz Brekker did not leave loose ends.
Free time did not agree with Jesper. Neither did the hostler, though he didn't know it, and he found a reason to excuse himself soon enough.
Inej and Wylan were both out, which left Jesper to rattle around on his own.
He returned to the office with the hole in the floor. Just for fun, he stuck his head through the hole and peered around upside-down at the dining room. It was all very nice. These were the sorts of rooms a thief would want to pick up and make off with, roll up an entire room and stick it in your pocket.
Then Jesper turned his attention to the desk. He supposed he might as well get started here. He hadn't the faintest of clues what the Van Eck empire really was or encompassed other than quite a lot. He really hadn't the faintest of clues what a merchant was supposed to do all day. (Probably not what Kaz Brekker's preferred gunslinger liked to do all day, which was sleep. The world was a good deal more exciting once the sun had set.) If he was going to help Wylan, though, he needed to learn.
Van Eck hadn't skimped on the chair. Sitting on this thing made Jesper feel like he was pretending to be a king rather than a merchant. He bounced. Very comfortable chair.
Taking a sheaf of papers from a desk drawer, Jesper remembered again seeing the dishes his father had tidied up, remembered what he said about cleaning up after the rowdy group. That wasn't who Jesper wanted to be anymore, someone who made messes and left other people to clean them up. At least not entirely—technically having servants was a good thing, right? It kept more people working! Industriousness! Ghezen would approve! Smaller domestic messes maybe were okay to create, but the larger ones, those Jesper meant to avoid.
Jesper tapped his fingers on the desk, making a valiant attempt at understanding what he saw. The basic concepts he grasped. Its significance… perhaps not so much. The report covered the weather for the past month in the Southern Colonies—precipitation, humidity, temperature.
Maybe this wasn't the best approach.
Jesper could read the words. Making sense of them was Wylan's job.
He nearly vaulted over the desk when he heard something about Wylan from downstairs—a massive hole in the floor did wonders for acoustics. Jesper managed to tuck the papers back into the drawer they had come from. Making use of the accidental passageway, he swung himself from this floor to the next, landed rolling, and recovered his feet. The move left some of his sore places whimpering, but it had been fun.
He could tell himself all he wanted that he was just grateful for a break from the weather, and that he knew Wylan would be with his mother and need to focus his attention there. A part of Jesper knew the truth: he was out of his depth, his hands were getting restless, and Wylan was what was left that made sense.
When he walked through the front door, Jesper felt his expression shift from hopeful to lost, matching the misery on Wylan's face. Something had gone terribly wrong. Van Eck had Marya killed. It seemed the sort of thing he would do.
"Wy?"
"Sh… she had a bad day," Wylan said. He had been crying. It was in the red rimming his eyes and his rough-edged voice.
Jesper nodded.
She had a bad day.
Wylan shook his head and came back with a weak smile: "What about you? How was your first day as a mercher?"
"Honestly? Boring. Not much flash to the lifestyle, is there?"
Wylan shook his head again. "There's not," he acknowledged, "but it has its advantages. Just wait until the markets open again."
"I met your horses."
"That's strange to think about. My horses."
"Do you know how to ride?"
"Of course I do."
Jesper thought about Wylan's shooting—he had known how to handle a weapon, in an impractical, recreational fashion. He imagined that was how Wylan knew how to ride.
"Met the hostler, too.
There was a moment, then, "Oh."
Jesper had fallen into step beside Wylan, and realized now they were heading out toward the garden on the canal. "Where are we going?"
"The boathouse."
"You know what boathouses are good for?"
"Storing boats?"
"Yes. Storing boats. This is my 'storing boats' face and my 'storing boats' tone."
Jesper genuinely hadn't a clue what Wylan wanted in the boathouse—he guessed it was not what he had been implying. Pity. Maybe another time.
The boathouse was plain, but tidy, with a sense of damp on even the dry walls. The doors were locked up for the night, the gondel floating in its berth. The boathouse was practical, with bits and pieces Jesper didn't recognize but supposed were useful in maintaining boats, everything in its place.
"It must be nice to own a boat."
"I own a fleet. It's strange."
"And horses."
"And horses," Wylan agreed.
"This would be a nice place to—"
Inej melted out of the shadows.
Jesper startled and was mildly frustrated to note that Wylan didn't.
"We thought it was a reasonable cover," Wylan explained.
"For?"
"Inej?"
"I looked for a contact today, a fabrikator."
Jesper crossed his arms. "You should have told me."
He knew he needed to address this. He had accepted—told himself he had accepted—that he was a fabrikator, that denying it only did him harm. He knew he needed to make a plan. In the back of his mind, he appreciated his friends helping him. In the front of his mind, he resented his friends springing this on him.
"I meant to," Wylan said, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "It wasn't supposed to be a secret. Inej and I only talked about this earlier and then there was the… emergency… with Alys's birds." Traveling with birds was more complicated than they had expected. Or possibly traveling with Alys. "We weren't going behind your back."
Jesper wanted to stay frustrated, but the earnest look on Wylan's face was undeniable. He relented: "How did it go, Inej?"
"She's gone. I checked others I know and they've all gone to ground after the Kherguud and with rumors about parem. It's going to be a challenge finding someone to help you with being Grisha—"
"Zowa," Jesper interrupted. He accepted that he was a fabrikator, but he was zowa, as his mother had been.
"Zowa," Inej amended.
He imagined the Wraith knew of several zowa who had been hiding out in Ketterdam. It was a sensible place to disappear—bustling, with a promise of anonymity. But then, with that anonymity came the men and women who dealt in secrets.
"Why are we talking about this in the boathouse? The servants will think we're—oh."
Right. Because nothing made better gossip than a tryst. If anyone reached any conclusions, it would be that Jesper and Wylan were sneaking off to have a good time. Inej's presence was a non-factor. No one would know she had been there. In the longer term they would need a better cover, but it would do, for now.
"The only zowa I know are indentured," Wylan said. "It wouldn't be—I'm their… I hold their contracts."
Now Inej was the one frowning. "You what?"
"It's part of the household, part of my inheritance."
"Release them from the contracts," she said. "Help them out of the city."
"I'll talk to them—"
"They can't be honest with you. You own their lives. They're property to you."
"How can you say that?"
"You haven't said anything to them yet, not even thought about them until it might impact Jesper. You called them your inheritance."
"I called the contracts my inheritance. Not all indentures are exploitative," he said defensively. "Grisha are vulnerable to all sorts of dangers and allying themselves with merchant houses offers a degree of protection—"
"Is that what your father taught you?"
The sting hit home. Wylan lowered his head.
"Enough, Inej," Jesper said, stepping between them. Indentures were a part of life in Ketterdam. They could debate the harms and merits of the system another time, but Jesper didn't want to see Inej or Wylan hurt. Hurt more, anyway.
"She's right," Wylan muttered.
"Hey, we came here to talk about me," Jesper objected. "Remember? Me?"
"You're right, too," Wylan said. "We wanted to talk to you about options for finding a tutor or another way for you to start learning what you're capable of. Finding fabrikators wasn't the easiest thing to start with in Ketterdam. With knowledge of parem, it's—it'll take time. And we should have included you from the beginning."
"Well, I for one feel this was a very productive talk," Jesper said.
"Jes, please think about it."
Jesper nodded. Then he reached over and tugged Wylan's shirt askew.
"What—"
"Alibi," he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat.
"Oh. That's a good idea."
"Been known to have those from time to time," Jesper said. He would have mussed Wylan's hair, but those silky curls were a mix of permanently mussed and utterly unmussable. "Oh, and you'd better go first."
Wylan nodded, accepting this like it was an instruction on a job.
As he headed out, Jesper said, "That's not about the alibi, I want to look at your bottom when you walk away."
Wylan froze. Jesper could just make out the tops of his ears turning pink.
"Flushed and breathless," Jesper said. "Perfect."
"It… was about the alibi?"