Kaz crossed the Financial District at a brisk pace, ignoring the few street vendors still calling out to him from the canals and the promising glint of jewels from behind shop windows. He was out looking for something to buy, yes, but not from the likes of these well-to-do shopkeepers. They were too outwardly honest to even dream of selling what he needed. Not that they weren't thieves too, of course – nearly all of them were some sort of petty con-man, judging by the cheap quality of their wares and the decidedly not cheap prices they were selling for. But these weren't the right thieves that Kaz needed. No, those thieves could only be found in the Barrel.

The air was damp and muggy. It tasted of burnt static. Kaz guessed a storm was blowing down from the Wandering Isle towards Ketterdam. He wondered when it would break. A light rain dampened his coat. He smelt it when he crossed into the Barrel; smoke and piss and the awful flowery perfume used by whorehouses and the richer residents instead of washing.

He pulled his hat lower as he walked, picking up his pace. Raven might not be a threat anymore but the Mask and his Lost certainly were, especially because he was walking the Barrel alone. It was a little foolhardy, Kaz had to admit, but he wasn't going to ask any of the others to come with him. He was the Bastard of the Barrel. He didn't need a nursemaid. Besides, it was late, and though he hadn't seen Jesper and Wylan he'd certainly heard them. In fact, they'd woken him up. He hadn't been able to stand listening to their muffled moans a minute longer, so he'd gone out to buy the supplies needed to put his plan into action.

Kaz turned a sharp left. There was the final shop on his list. The other things he'd needed he'd bought from the vendors back in the Financial District; three coils of hemp rope, sticking paper, a box of matches and some wax. But this shop only sold thief's tools; lockpicks, eel-skins, pepper powder, neddies and anything stolen that might sell. Kaz had to duck through the door on his way in. Under the wary eye of the shopkeeper, he scanned the shelves until he found the lockpicks he wanted and bought two sets, then hurried back out.

Once outside, he checked the street for any passer-bys, then after finding it all clear lifted a loose brick in the wall of the shop and took the letters hidden there. He riffled through them. Specht had done a good job in forging them. The flowing calligraphy looked identical to that of the real scribe's.

Lockpicks bought, shopping finished, Kaz set off back down the street. He didn't take any of his usual shortcuts this time, sticking to the main streets. The alleys that branched off were lost to shadows after a few paces. He kept well clear. He wasn't scared of the dark, but he feared the things that lurked in it.

The lockpicks in his pocket reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Wylan a few months ago. Neither of them had been in a good state. Inej was gone, had been gone for two and a half years, and the Van Eck finances were running very low. He'd walked in on Wylan crying softly in the kitchen. "Get up," he'd said, and Wylan had looked at him with disgust.

"Have you ever heard of something called empathy?"

"Crying doesn't solve anything. You want to feel better, you fix your problems."

"Don't you think I would have already if I knew how?"

Kaz had sat down next to him. "I might be able to help."

"I'm stuck in the middle," Wylan had said. "I'm half a mercher, half a thief and awful at being either."

Kaz had gone silent for a long moment. "Look," he had said eventually, "I can't help you at being a mercher. But I'm a pretty damn good thief. What do you want to learn?"

"Anything," Wylan had said helplessly. "Anything that'll help me actually contribute to the team."

Kaz had reached over and tapped Wylan's hand. "You see these?" he'd said. "These are lockpick's fingers. You play piano, don't you? That's perfect. You've got the strength and dexterity. All you need now is to learn."

"Are you... D'you think you could..."

"Yes, Wylan," Kaz had said exasperatedly, "I am offering to teach you how to pick locks."

"I don't want to waste your time, though."

"Then we'll make a deal. I teach you lockpicking, you teach me... something that I haven't thought of yet."

"Well," Wylan had said shyly, "If playing the piano makes you good at picking locks, then surely picking locks would make you good at playing the piano?"

"You want to teach me, the Barrel of the Bastard, how to play the piano."

"Why not?"

He wasn't good at playing the piano. Not at first. Even now, he struggled with nearly everything Wylan tried to teach him. It was enjoyable, though he wouldn't admit that to anyone else. It made him forget about the Suli girl halfway across the True Sea, and the aching longing he felt for her. But Wylan was actually good at lockpicking. And he got better.

Kaz shook his head, dispelling the memories. He had to concentrate. The Barrel wasn't a good place to tune out. And there was a fog building. Tendrils of thick grey mist coiled sluggishly around houses and licked at Kaz's feet. Clouds rose from the canals, and soon all that could be seen of the rows of crooked buildings were hulking black silhouettes. Kaz flicked the safety off his gun and started to limp quicker. His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow.

Movement.

Something in the fog, flurries of cloud billowing in its wake. Kaz turned in a slow circle, looking. A flash of dark hair. The glint of a knife.

"Raven," he said.

She stepped through the fog. Her eyes were wide, darting from Kaz to the roiling clouds. She grabbed him so tight it hurt, face taut with panic. "Go. Run."

"Wha–"

"Mister Brekker," said a horribly familiar voice. "How good of you to join me. And look, you even brought my little bird back. Very thoughtful."

Kaz didn't waste words. He pointed his gun into the fog. Raven stepped closer to him, her own blades drawn. The Mask emerged from the mist, and Kaz pulled the trigger.

Or tried to.

His muscles froze. He couldn't move, a puppet suspended on strings. He knew this feeling. "Heartrender," he gasped, then his jaw snapped shut. Unable to talk, unable to move, barely able to breathe, Kaz waited, trapped, as the Mask approached him.

A knife at his throat, metal cool and threatening against his fluttering pulse. Raven met his gaze, eyes unreadable. "Don't move," she said.

"There's no chance of that," the Mask said. Beside him, a red-robed woman stood silently, hands raised, and next to her stood a muscled thug. "You can step away, Raven. Even the best escape artist can't break out of a Heartrender's hold." He made a gesture. "Release his mouth. I want to hear what he has to say."

The force keeping his jaw locked loosened. Kaz sent the Mask his most hate-filled glare, struggling in vain against the invisible bonds that gripped his muscles. "I thought you'd wait for a little before our next encounter. It's the way villains usually play it, and you're nothing if not a cliché."

"But you wound me, Mister Brekker! I find that the villains in the stories are awfully lenient in the way they attempt – and fail – to get their revenge. Always giving the heroes the chance to recover. Always procrastinating until the hero's friends can save them, never doing any lasting damage. So naïve." He sighed rather mournfully. "I am considered intelligent, but I cannot comprehend why you did not take my offer when I first gave you the opportunity, instead deciding to trick me. What I am going to do to you is merely business, an eye for an eye. I am not a villain."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Kaz spat, his veins taut on his neck as he strained to free himself. "I don't play fair. You should have realised that before you placed your bets."

"I know," agreed the Mask, "but what you did went beyond fair and unfair. You changed the very rules of the game we played."

"I'm assuming you don't want answers."

"Your assumption is correct." The Mask clasped his hands behind his back in a military fashion – perhaps he's a war veteran? – and he vaguely reminded Kaz of a general inspecting his troops. He began circling Kaz's frozen figure, a shark cruising slowly around his prey. Kaz refused to let it unnerve him. "Such a shame, really."

"What's a shame – your mother dying painfully in the whorehouse she works in? Oh, wait, that's not a shame, is it?"

"Brave words, Mister Brekker, but foolish ones. Your games are over now. No more sleight of hand. No more finessing of locks." The Mask stopped circling and leaned into Kaz's face, a shark still but a shark that has the tang of blood in its nostrils and the hunger in its eyes. "Now tell me, Mister Brekker," he crooned, "how can you keep your city when you have none of the skills that make you so formidable?"

Very real fear began to finger-walk its way down his spine. "You can't unteach me anything. It's not possible. You must be more of a stupid skiv than you look – though Ghezen knows how you managed that."

"Ah, now, Mister Brekker, I see you're beginning to put this down to me, when really it was your foolish actions that got you into this mess. This is nothing personal. Just a little reminder of my power – a warning for the damned to change their ways."

"I'm too far down the road to hell for any change to matter."

"Then even demons must feel fear, for I can see that you are scared."

"You sadistic bastard," Kaz snarled. "Tell me whatever the hell you're going to do to me."

"I'm going to ensure you never trick me – or anyone, for that matter – again." He smiled cruelly, and the antlered mask on his face made his shadow monstrous indeed. "I think you'll find that's checkmate, Mister Brekker."

The Mask pulled something from his pocket. A syringe, sharp and filled with a deep violet liquid. The Heartrender made a gesture and Kaz's hand turned until it was palm up. Kaz barely felt the prick as the Mask plunged the syringe into his wrist, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, nor did he feel anything as the purple liquid was injected into him.

"Are you scared now?" the Mask asked.

Go to hell, Kaz wanted to say, but instead he said "Yes."

Oh. Oh, Ghezen.

"You've realised then, haven't you?"

"Yes," Kaz said again, involuntarily.

The Mask laughed. "Try lying to me again, Brekker. Go on."

Kaz stayed silent.

"Very well. What is your real name?"

No! Kaz strained to resist the compulsion. It was like running uphill through sand. "Kaz..." He snapped his mouth shut. Don't, don't don't don't –

"Impressive. I'll ask one more time. What is your real name?"

"Kaz Rietveld," he said in a rush, then closed his eyes in shame.

"Good!" the Mask said delightedly. Raven looked between him and the Heartrender. Her face was torn. Please, help, Kaz thought desperately. Please. But she didn't move. "You know what Thorn does, I trust. Which means that you also know that there's no antidote. Next time, think twice about lying to a liar. We always twist your lies into a truth that suits us." He beckoned to Raven. "Meet me at the Silver Sun, little bird. We will have words about your little disappearance later."

Frozen, Kaz watched as the Mask walked back into the side-alley he had come from. Raven shot Kaz one last look before scaling the wall of a building and vanishing into the fog. The hulking man waiting behind the Heartrender now stepped forwards, advancing towards Kaz like a wolf coming in to deal the final blow. No other men were needed to hold him in position, for the Heartrender that had been keeping him in place remained still, a silent sentinel in red robes.

It was only then that Kaz saw the heavy steel mallet.

Just before leaving, the Mask turned back. The shadows behind him seemed to tug hungrily at his clothes, eager servants beckoning their master. The white bone of his antlered mask stood starkly against the thick blackness, his grey eyes hard quartz and his black hair blending in with the darkness behind him, pale skin aglow and the lines of his face sharp and angular. He seemed suddenly both far too young and far too old – the high lines of his cheekbones and smoothness of his skin making him look too youthful to be so cruel, but the cold grey of his eyes betraying an age seemingly far beyond that of any man, their flinty depths suddenly unfathomably ancient. He'd spent so much time spent weathering the raging wind that he'd become the storm. In the twisting mist, his mask was a bone crown – the hollow promise of an empty kingdom for a king of nothing more than shadow.

When he spoke, it was to the man with the mallet. His voice held no hint of remorse, sharp and merciless as sword-iron.

"Break his fingers."

A/N
w h o o p s
I hid a little typo in there. Shout-out to whoever finds it.
Love you guys ❤️