Crooked Kingdom (27 page)

And everything he said made perfect sense. Wylan could not be trusted with a fortune because he would be too easily swindled. Wylan could not go to university because he'd be the target of mockery.
This is best for both of us.
His father's ire had been unpleasant, but it was his logic that haunted Wylan—that practical, irrefutable voice that spoke in Wylan's head whenever he thought about attempting something new, or trying to learn to read again.

It had hurt to be sent away, but Wylan had still been hopeful. A life in Belendt sounded magical to him. He didn't know much about it other than that it was the second-oldest city in Kerch and located on the shores of the Droombeld River. But he'd be far away from his father's friends and business associates. Van Eck was a common enough name, and that far from Ketterdam, being a Van Eck wouldn't mean being one of
those
Van Ecks.

His father handed him a sealed envelope and a small stack of
kruge
for travel money. “These are your enrollment papers, and enough money to see you to Belendt. Once you're there, have your secretary see the bursar. An account has been opened in your name. I've also arranged for chaperones to travel with you on the browboat.”

Wylan's cheeks had flooded red with humiliation. “I can get to Belendt.”

“You've never traveled outside Ketterdam on your own, and this is not the time to start. Miggson and Prior have business to see to for me in Belendt. They'll escort you there and ensure that you're successfully situated. Understood?”

Wylan understood. He was unfit to even board a boat out of the city by himself.

But things would be different in Belendt. He packed a small suitcase with a change of clothes and the few things he would need before his trunks arrived at the school, along with his favorite pieces of sheet music. If he could read letters as well as he read a tablature, he'd have no problems at all. When his father had stopped reading to him, music had given him new stories, ones that unfolded from his fingers, that he could write himself into with every played note. He tucked his flute into his satchel, in case he wanted to practice on the trip.

His goodbye to Alys had been brief and awkward. She was a nice girl, but that was the whole problem—she was only a few years older than Wylan. He wasn't sure how his father could walk down the street beside her without shame. But Alys didn't seem to mind, maybe because around her, his father became the man Wylan remembered from his childhood—kind, generous, patient.

Even now, Wylan could not name the specific moment when he knew his father had given up on him. The change had been slow. Jan Van Eck's patience had worn quietly away like gold plate over cruder metal, and when it was gone, it was as if his father had become someone else entirely, someone with far less luster.

“I wanted to say goodbye and wish you well,” Wylan said to Alys. She had been seated in her parlor, her terrier dozing at her feet.

“Are you going away?” she asked, looking up from her sewing and noticing his bag. She was hemming curtains. Kerch women—even the wealthy ones—didn't bother with anything as frivolous as embroidery or needlepoint. Ghezen was better served by tasks that benefited the household.

“I'll be traveling to the music school at Belendt.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Alys had cried. “I miss the country so much. You'll be so glad of the fresh air, and you're sure to make excellent friends.” She'd set down her needle and kissed both his cheeks. “Will you come back for the holidays?”

“Perhaps,” Wylan said, though he knew he wouldn't. His father wanted him to disappear, so he would disappear.

“We'll make gingerbread then,” Alys said. “You will tell me all your adventures, and soon we'll have a new friend to play with.” She patted her belly with a happy smile.

It had taken Wylan a moment to understand what she meant, and then he'd just stood there, clutching his suitcase, nodding his head, smiling mechanically as Alys talked about their holiday plans. Alys was pregnant. That was why his father was sending him away. Jan Van Eck was to have another heir, a proper heir. Wylan had become expendable. He would vanish from the city, take up occupation elsewhere. Time would pass and no one would raise a brow when Alys' child was groomed to be the head of the Van Eck empire.
As long as it takes people to forget I had a son.
That hadn't been an idle insult.

Miggson and Prior arrived at eight bells to see Wylan to the boat. No one came to say a last goodbye, and when he'd walked past his father's office, the door was closed. Wylan refused to knock and plead for a scrap of affection like Alys' terrier begging for treats.

His father's men wore the dark suits favored by merchants and said little to Wylan on the walk over to the dock. They purchased tickets for the Belendt line, and once they were aboard the boat, Miggson had buried his head in a newspaper while Prior leaned back in his seat, hat tilted downward, lids not quite closed. Wylan couldn't be sure if the man was sleeping or staring at him like some kind of drowsy-eyed lizard.

The boat was nearly empty at that hour. People dozed in the stuffy cabin or ate whatever dinner they'd packed, ham rolls and insulated flasks of coffee balanced on their laps.

Unable to sleep, Wylan had left the heat of the cabin and walked to the prow of the boat. The winter air was cold and smelled of the slaughterhouses on the outskirts of the city. It turned Wylan's stomach, but soon the lights would fade and they'd be in the open country. He was sorry they weren't traveling by day. He would have liked to see the windmills keeping watch over their fields, the sheep grazing in their pastures. He sighed, shivering in his coat, and adjusted the strap of his satchel. He should try to rest. Maybe he could wake up early and watch the sunrise.

When he turned, Prior and Miggson were standing behind him.

“Sorry,” Wylan said. “I—” And then Prior's hands were tight around his throat.

Wylan gasped—or he tried to; the sound that came from him was barely a croak. He clawed at Prior's wrists, but the man's grip was like iron, the pressure relentless. He was big enough that Wylan could feel himself being lifted slightly as Prior pushed him against the railing.

Prior's face was dispassionate, nearly bored, and Wylan understood then that he would never reach the school in Belendt. He'd never been meant to. There was no secretary. No account in his name. No one was expecting his arrival. The supposed enrollment papers in his pocket might say anything at all. Wylan hadn't even bothered to try to read them. He was going to disappear, just as his father had always wanted, and he'd hired these men to do the job. His father who had read him to sleep at night, who'd brought him sweet mallow tea and honeycomb when he'd been sick with lung fever.
As long as it takes people to forget I had a son.
His father was going to erase him from the ledger, a mistaken calculation, a cost that could be expunged. The tally would be made right.

Black spots filled Wylan's vision. He thought he could hear music.

“You there! What's going on?”

The voice seemed to come from a great distance. Prior's grip loosened very slightly. Wylan's toes made contact with the deck of the boat.

“Nothing at all,” said Miggson, turning to face the stranger. “We just caught this fellow looking through the other passengers' belongings.”

Wylan made a choked sound.

“Shall I … shall I fetch the
stadwatch
then? There are two officers in the cabin.”

“We've already alerted the captain,” said Miggson. “We'll be dropping him at the
stadwatch
post at the next stop.”

“Well, I'm glad you fellows were being so vigilant.” The man turned to go.

The boat lurched slightly. Wylan wasn't going to wait to see what happened next. He shoved against Prior with all his might—then, before he could lose his nerve, he dove over the side of the boat and into the murky canal.

He swam with every bit of speed he could muster. He was still dizzy and his throat ached badly. To his shock, he heard another splash and knew one of the men had dived in after him. If Wylan showed up somewhere still breathing, Miggson and Prior probably wouldn't get paid.

He changed his stroke, making as little noise as possible, and forced himself to think. Instead of heading straight to the side of the canal the way his freezing body longed to, he dove under a nearby market barge and came up on its other side, swimming along with it, using it as cover. The dead weight of his satchel pulled hard at his shoulders, but he couldn't make himself relinquish it.
My things
, he thought nonsensically,
my flute
. He didn't stop, not even when his breathing grew ragged and his limbs started to turn numb. He forced himself to drive onward, to put as much distance as he could between himself and his father's thugs.

But eventually, his strength started to give out and he realized he was doing more thrashing than swimming. If he didn't get to shore, he would drown. He paddled toward the shadows of a bridge and dragged himself from the canal, then huddled, soaked and shaking in the icy cold. His bruised throat scraped each time he swallowed, and he was terrified that every splash he heard was Prior coming to finish the job.

He needed to make some kind of plan, but it was hard to form whole thoughts. He checked his trouser pockets. He still had the
kruge
his father had given him tucked safely away. Though the cash was wet through, it was perfectly good for spending. But where was Wylan supposed to go? He didn't have enough money to get out of the city, and if his father sent men looking for him, he'd be easily tracked. He needed to get somewhere safe, someplace his father wouldn't think to look. His limbs felt weighted with lead, the cold giving way to fatigue. He was afraid that if he let himself close his eyes, he wouldn't have the will to open them again.

In the end, he'd simply started walking. He wandered north through the city, away from the slaughterhouses, past a quiet residential area where lesser tradesmen lived, then onward, the streets becoming more crooked and more narrow, until the houses seemed to crowd in on him. Despite the late hour, there were lights in every window and shop front. Music spilled out of run-down cafés, and he glimpsed bodies pressed up against each other in the alleys.

“Someone dunk you, lad?” called an old man with a shortage of teeth from a stoop.

“I'll give him a good dunking!” crowed a woman leaning on the stairs.

He was in the Barrel. Wylan had lived his whole life in Ketterdam, but he'd never come here. He'd never been allowed to. He'd never
wanted
to. His father called it a “filthy den of vice and blasphemy” and “the shame of the city.” Wylan knew it was a warren of dark streets and hidden passages. A place where locals donned costumes and performed unseemly acts, where foreigners crowded the thoroughfares seeking vile entertainments, where people came and went like tides. The perfect place to disappear.

And it had been—until the day the first of his father's letters had arrived.

*   *   *

With a start, Wylan realized Jesper was pulling at his sleeve. “This is our stop, merchling. Look lively.”

Wylan hurried after him. They disembarked at the empty dock at Olendaal and walked up the embankment to a sleepy village road.

Jesper looked around. “This place reminds me of home. Fields as far as the eye can see, quiet broken by nothing but the hum of bees, fresh air.” He shuddered. “Disgusting.”

As they walked, Jesper helped him gather wildflowers from the side of the road. By the time they'd made it to the main street, he had a respectable little bunch.

“I guess we need to find a way to the quarry?” Jesper said.

Wylan coughed. “No we don't, just a general store.”

“But you told Kaz the mineral—”

“It's present in all kinds of paints and enamels. I wanted to make sure I had a reason to go to Olendaal.”

“Wylan Van Eck, you lied to
Kaz Brekker
.” Jesper clutched a hand to his chest. “And you got away with it! Do you give lessons?”

Wylan felt ridiculously pleased—until he thought about Kaz finding out. Then he felt a little like the first time he'd tried brandy and ended up spewing his dinner all over his own shoes.

They located a general store halfway up the main street, and it took them only a few moments to purchase what they needed. On the way out, a man loading up a wagon exchanged a wave with them. “You boys looking for work?” he asked skeptically. “Neither of you looks up to a full day in the field.”

“You'd be surprised,” said Jesper. “We signed on to do some work out near Saint Hilde.”

Wylan waited, nervous, but the man just nodded. “You doing repairs at the hospital?”

“Yup,” Jesper said easily.

“Your friend there don't talk much.”

“Shu,” said Jesper with a shrug.

The older man gave some kind of grunt in agreement and said, “Hop on in. I'm going out to the quarry. I can take you to the gates. What are the flowers for?”

“He has a sweetheart out near Saint Hilde.”

“Some sweetheart.”

“I'll say. He has terrible taste in women.”

Wylan considered shoving Jesper off the wagon.

The dirt road was bordered on each side by what looked like barley and wheat fields, the flat expanses of land dotted occasionally by barns and windmills. The wagon kept up a fast clip.
A little too fast
, Wylan thought as they jounced over a deep rut. He hissed in a breath.

“Rains,” said the farmer. “No one's got around to laying sand yet.”

“That's okay,” said Jesper with a wince as the wagon hit another bone-rattling divot in the ground. “I don't really need my spleen in one piece.”