THE BEEKOF HOUSE WAS BATHED IN PURE SUNLIGHT. The heavy Ketterdam fog was rarely absent in the cold mornings, but today blocks of warm, bright gold shone down on the cobblestone paths and sparkling canals. A stray cat stretched in the beams, yawning with a curled pink tongue. The Beekof house was a modest but wealthy building, three floors high, with a rooftop garden and smooth limestone walls.

Herschel delighted in the pure irony of the sunniest morning in Ketterdam history being the morn' of his uncle's death. Mourn, more like, though Herschel didn't feel grieved, and merely thought it for the sake of the pun. Instead, he was thinking. Considering. Scheming, if you would.

Jellen Radmakker clapped a frail hand on Herschel's shoulder, and he steered Herschel up the front stairs, and through the door. It was strange: he had walked these steps a hundred times as a kid, dropped off by busy parents on his wealthy uncles' doorstep.

Radmakker led him up the stairs, past the kitchen, where stadwatch surrounded a shaky looking maid wrapped in a blanket. His voice was low and moist in Herschel's ear. "I'm sorry, my boy, truly sorry. Odon was a valued member of the Council, as sure as he was a faithful uncle to you."

That was funny, to Herschel at least, who knew that Odon was only a good uncle when he wanted something from either Herschel himself or Lars, Herschel's father. Everything, and he meant everything, was a means to an end in the Beekof family. When you came from nothing, you paid in everything to succeed. Such was the way of Ketterdam, and therefore the way of the Beekofs.

They passed through Odon's richly wallpapered halls, heading for the bedroom, Herschel assumed. He wondered if his uncles were naked, dead in vulnerable sleep. Then he wondered if that was a disgusting thing to think, and if he should feel shocked, or guilty, or even sad. But emotion was impractical now. It was better that he stayed closed off, and got the job done. Odon would disapprove of his feelings getting in the way.

"Are you missing many classes at the University?" Radmakker asked, his orange tufted hair wafting at their speed.

"Only one," Herschel responded, running his hand along the silk wallpaper, as he had done in his childhood. "Introduction to Economy. It's a prerequisite, but I've known everything I need since childhood."

Radmakker took the statement as sentiment: it wasn't. It was merely fact. "Ahh, yes. Odon was a fantastic teacher. He could've been a professor, if he chose."

But people saw what they wanted to see, Herschel knew that much about humans. So he nodded, peering at the thick carpet underfoot. Several footsteps had left their imprint, but he could see the vague, trampled outline of a small, dainty footprint. A woman, most likely, or a young child. Perhaps the maid had come this way, discovered the bodies, and was now recovering from shock. Herschel wondered if the murder was really that bad, or if the maid was just sensitive.

Herschel and Radmakker shouldered their way through the swarming stadwatch.

"Brace yourself, son," Radmakker murmured, and directed his attention past the crammed-together shoulders of purple uniforms.

Blood soaked the carpet and sheets of the bed, so dark that it could've been paint. The covers were violently tumbled, tangled in the legs of Orjet, Odon's husband, who lay on the floor. Thick blood crusted his nose and eyes, like wax curling at the corners. His limbs looked dehydrated, and his body had a papery quality that was unnatural to the core.

What was to gain from killing Orjet? He was a harmless actor (though that might be an oxymoron, if you considered it long enough). He was kind, if Herschel thought such a thing existed in Ketterdam, and he'd never crossed anyone who was powerful enough to kill.

With Odon, though, the motive was powerful, if not obvious. A seat on the Merchant Council came with a target on your back. It could be anyone. A shortchanged businessman who got his legs cut from beneath him. A jilted rival who just missed the seat. An idealistic greenhorn who thought he deserved a spot at any cost. Even a Councilman himself, wanting to eliminate someone who didn't agree. And Odon had been powerful, but not likable. It ran in the Beekof family, apparently. There were many faceless candidates in sinful Ketterdam that could've hated Odon Beekof enough to kill him.

Herschel couldn't say he was surprised. After all, wasn't the seat what he wanted, too? Now it was clear, decades before he thought it would be, and his hands were clean. The Council table looked closer than ever, thanks to his uncle's untimely demise.

Speaking of the dead man... "Where--" Herschel began, turning.

Radmakker's face stopped him. His face was fishbelly pale, with a tired look of exhausted fear in his rheumy eyes. His finger, shaking, pointed upwards.

Slowly, Herschel tipped his head upwards.

Herschel hadn't noticed the drip of blood from above, the terrorized gazes of the Council fixed upward. He had been looking down, at Orjet, at the puddles of blood drying in the thick carpet. He looked up, and wished he hadn't.

Odon Beekof had been melded to the chandelier that illuminated the room. Somehow, his skin had grown over the rods of iron, flesh welded with metal. Ridges of decorative curlicues rose under his skin, raised bumps in the exact pattern of roses and skulls. What Odon had once thought of as tasteful was now a sardonic joke. Black metal split from Odon's skin, like deer antlers along his arms and ribs, candles spluttering at the ends. The corpse looked like it was melting, sagging into the arms of the chandelier. The faint smell of burning flesh wafted through Herschel's nose.

What caught his attention were the bowls. He stared at them. Clean, white ceramic bowls lined the window sill, the borders of the room, and trickled out into the hallway. They were filled with a viscous red liquid, like little blood moons in their own milky white skies. Herschel had missed them, so lost in thoughts of the Council and his uncles.

"What are they?" He pointed to the bowls.

Radmakker looked grim. "We don't know."

"What?"

The stadwatch startled at his tone, turning to Herschel. He ignored them. They had no right to judge. They had stood here, gawking like gawp-mouthed tourists watching the Komedie Brute for the first time, instead of asking the right questions.

"We think it's a religious tradition, though either Ravkan or Kaelish we're not sure," Radmakker quickly added, his voice hushed. "My hunch is Ravkan, of course, all things considered--"

"And what things are those?"

Radmakker glanced at the stadwatch, then placed a hand on Herschel's shoulder, squeezing. The old man had a grip, Herschel had to give him that. Radmakker steered him around.

"Not quite yet, my boy," Radmakker said into his ear, leading him from the room. At his signal, the stadwatch resumed their swarm over it, scouring the evidence. A sketch artist was drawing the details of flaps of skin sealed over candelabras--

Herschel turned to look at Radmakker. "I don't understand why you've brought me here." That was almost a lie. Herschel had his suspicions: a seat offer, a chance to stabilize what was becoming a rapidly off-kilter government. The Council needed more hands to hold Ketterdam steady. And Herschel was just the man.

Radmakker gave him a very kind, stupefying smile. He looked idiotic. "You will. Come this way."

They made their way down the lush stairs, past golden picture frames and sleek oil paintings hanging on the silk patterned walls. It was easy to forget the horrors above in the luxury below. They entered the dimly lit dining hall, where eight elderly men in straight-cut coats and sharp dark lines gathered, holding glasses of bloody red wine. It looked like an oil painting, a depiction of the modern-day priests of Ghezen, merchants and shareholders.

Herschel gave them a performative blink of uncertainty. This was what they wanted: a fresh-faced, innocent, excitable pup to do the dirty work and call it status. That's what he would give them, until his seat was secured. He wrung his hands. "The Merchant Council. Is this customary?"

"Nothing about this is customary," Hiram Schneck said tiredly, setting his glass down on the glossy oak table. Herschel remembered the wooden duck Schneck had given him when he was little, the constant dinner parties Schneck hosted and the Beekofs attended. He gave Herschel a bracing smile. "Herschel, it's good to see you. Unfortunately this is not under good circumstances."

He gestured to the seat next to him. Herschel wove through the Merchant Council, feeling the heat of their stares as he brushed against their chests, smelling the whiff of wine breath and too-strong cologne. He held his breath secretly, sealing his lips shut.

He took his seat at Schneck's right, acting skittish, but internally gloating. His seat on the Council was secured, he knew from this moment. Their eyes tracked him too hungrily for them to be in a state of mourning. They had moved past Odon's death as quickly as he, which was all the more proof that he belonged. They wanted stability from him, and they were willing to give everything to get it. He wanted power from them, and he was willing to do anything to receive it.

Herschel had already won.

As Schneck studied Herschel, he was surprised to see real remorse in the old man's watery, red-lined eyes. Herschel wasn't sure what he thought when he imagined the Merchant Council in mourning. They seemed perpetually somber, perpetually grim, but over money not people. Seeing Schneck like this, realizing that he must've cried over his slaughtered brother in arms, put a tick in Herschel's brow. Sadness had no seat at the Council.

"I'm sure you've heard it a thousand times today, but I am so sorry," Schneck said softly, clasping Herschel's shoulder. "Odon was a great man."

Herschel nodded, lowering his eyes and thinking of pollen. Maybe it would make his eyes itch. Play the game, Herschel, play it until you win. "Thank you, sir."

"You saw the blood?" Schneck asked, voice low. The Merchants had fallen silent, nine of them staring at Herschel with desperation. "The dishes?"

"I saw them. Why?"

"And you've heard the rumors," Schneck pressed.

"The Crimson Lady," Herschel said with a jolt. "That's her? Her mark?"

Schneck looked grim. "She has never dared to strike at the Council before."

The thought hadn't even crossed Herschel's mind. The Karmozinj Dame felt far away, something that happened to the gangs of the Barrel, the backwater businesses of the Lid. Not a murder in the polished, well-oiled streets of upper Ketterdam. Not to his uncle, who played Makker's Wheel with his little nephews and nieces and liked to pat his hounds aggressively, lovingly on the rump. A part of him didn't believe it.

"She's getting bolder," Natan Boreg said, leaning across the table. "Angrier. Some say she's a vengeful spirit, some say she's a saint. We know what she really is."

"What?" Herschel glanced up.

"A dog that needs to be put down," Boreg's youthful face went cold. "She's single-handedly strangled our income, and our tax base is shrinking. The rich are fleeing to the country, and taking their businesses with them. She is destroying Ketterdam, from inside out. We are rotting."

"It would be beneficial to the city, not to mention our government, if we were to bury this... problem," Radmakker said delicately.

"We need someone to get their hands dirty, so to speak," Van Toor gave him a half-cocked grin.

The Merchant Council looked at him, and Herschel was suddenly reminded of a treeful of vultures he had once seen on the road to Lij. Hungry, murderous, still as statues, with balding heads and warty necks. Herschel's skin crawled. Schneck's red-rimmed eyes had lost their film of mourning.

He knew what they wanted him to do, and it pissed him off. They wanted him to be the dirty hand who took down their problem in the dead of night, and who could be vanished without a trace. They wanted a ghost, and if that didn't work, they wanted a scapegoat. They wanted someone eager to please, eager to dance on their string, and happy to take the blame with a smile on their face should things go south. They wanted a sycophant, a tool, not an heir.

But if they paid enough, Herschel might just be happy to agree.

"What's in it for me?" he asked.

The Merchant Council smiled in synchrony. The bait had been taken; he just couldn't tell who was the fish and who was the fisher.

Schneck leaned over, murmuring into his ear with wine-sour breath. Herschel felt the hot gust race across his cheek. "A seat at this table."

Not the literal table. The Table. A seat on the Council. Hook, line, sinker.

Herschel straightened. It would take a fool to say no, for two reasons. One, a seat on the Merchant Council was a seat with the most untouchable figures in the city. Stadwatch, investigators, even the Council of Tides, nothing could threaten him seriously enough to take him down. Not like with his father. A seat on the Council was eternal forgiveness for any crimes, any mistakes. A seat on the Council was power, ultimate and complete.

(Not to mention the money, too. First pick of the best stocks, and full coffers.)

The second reason was that the Council wasn't giving him an option. This information was sensitive. Their money hadn't stretched far enough in the legal ways, so they were turning to the shameful corners of their coffers. It was an admission of weakness. Herschel would have to be an idiot if he thought they would let him walk away free after hearing this. At best, he'd be paid off with a bribe and sent to the countryside. At worst, he would be thrown in Hellgate for a crime he did not commit. And he knew the Council wasn't an award given to the morally righteous.

The Council was real power. And if he did this one job for them, that money and power would be his.

"I'll do it."

Their relief was palpable, a rush about the room like a cool breeze. Hungers satiated, they were less like vultures and more like hawks; well-fed, sleek, but still carnivorous.

"I'll need a crew," he continued. "And I need money for resources, incentives, the like."

"We have the cash," Schneck said calmly. "You get the crew. We recommend our friends from the Barrel. They'll do anything for a price."

As expected. They would not even offer one stadwatch to his cause. It was too risky to involve the law, and even lowly grunts like the stadwatch were less expendable than Barrel rats.

"What price is that?" For me and for them. But mostly for me. If he could slice this right, he could work with a skeleton crew. Save more money for himself, perhaps shortchange a few if the timing was right.

Schneck smiled knowingly. "Twenty million kruge."

Twenty million kruge. Between a crew of four or five, that was more than enough to start a new life, or buy wealth, or unleash power. And for Herschel, that was enough to build an empire for himself. A seat on the Council and a handful-million kruge. His father's reputation would be squelched underfoot after Herschel's rise.

"Fine," he said, and his voice was cold as a vulture. "The deal is the deal."

Schneck took his hand. "The deal is the deal."

"Wasn't so hard, right?" Radmakker smiled jovially at Herschel as they walked out. "All it takes are a little dirty hands."

Herschel returned the smile, his eyes cold and bright. "Right. Just a few dirty hands."

RIKEY SLID TWO PAPERS ACROSS THE BEDSHEETS, gesturing for Emmeline and Oskar to pick them up. He lounged back on Emmeline's bed, as if watching a particularly good chess move unfold. Emmeline reached for the little squares, noting her dirt-spotted fingers. One was a photograph, backside-up, black and shiny like a beetle carcass. The other was a folded slip of paper.

Emmeline took the paper in her grimy hands, but as she started to unwrap the crisp, white folds, Rikey reached out and stopped her. His long, pale fingers were cold on her brown skin.

"Not quite yet, kiddo," he said, smiling, but his golden eyes were serious. The sight sent a brief shiver down her back. The only other time she had seen a serious Rikey was when he was pulling out a man's intestines, inch by inch, from a small slit in his belly.

Emmeline forced her fingers to still, sinking down into Oskar's bed with a twitchy expression. She focused her attention on her hands, spotted in dirt. Mikal kept giving her scullery maid jobs, and the stains never quite washed out. She needed more lye soap.

Oskar asked the question. "What is it?"

"A mark," Rikey replied.

Emmeline didn't have to imagine a dramatic gasp. She and Oskar both took a breath in, quickly, sharply, sucked through their teeth like a whipping gale.

Rikey nodded. "Yes, a real job. You little shits don't have to look so surprised."

She and Oskar exchanged looks. Every Razorgull and their dead aunt knew to look surprised when the Razorgull twins were given a real job. They'd even become something of a saying, a toss-off among the gang: Oi, who asked what you have to say? Dunno, tell the twins!

Tell the twins to find out. Tell the twins to go there. Tell the twins to burp the baby, to feed the cat, to ask the Merchant Council for a million kruge. Make the twins scrape shit out of pots and clean pig sties! Emmeline boiled with the indignation, heat rising to her cheeks. They had become a joke, among their gang, within their own family. It was infuriating.

That's why a real job made her draw breath.

"A real job," Oskar breathed. "Like, a real one."

"No, I want you to go chase firebirds around Novyi Zem. Yes, it's a real job, you dimwit," Rikey chuckled, cuffing Oskar on the ear. Oskar swatted him away, grinning.

"But firebirds are real," Emmeline said.

Rikey shot her a glare. "Smartass."

She gave him a little bow, braids and beads jangling in her face.

"So what is it, then?" Oskar pressed. "A lift? A heist? A kidnapping?"

"Even better," Rikey said, leaning back into Emmeline's tiny wire bedframe, a slow molasses smile spreading across his face. He looked languid, liquid, in the setting sun. His gold eyes caught the light, and Rikey Wes looked more devilish than Emmeline thought possible. "Flip that photograph over."

She turned it, pressing the black-and-white into the cotton sheets. It was a boy, neck-up, close enough that Emmeline could see the texture of his skin. Oil-black eyes gleamed back at her, dark light catching in the curls of the portrait's hair. The boy in the photo had a strong, aquiline nose, firmly set lips, and a thick woolen collar.

"A mercher," Emmeline noted.

"Good," Rikey approved. "Not totally stupid after all."

She gave him a warning glare. He laughed and nudged her.

"Who is he?" Emmeline resisted giving him a smile. Rikey was too good-natured. It made her forget what a threat he was. What a secret he knew.

"Herschel Beekof," Rikey said, folding his fingers, as if he were praying. Emmeline knew all too well that the only prayer Rikey ever did was to money and to Mikal Pak, the 'Gull's leader. "He's the mark."

"And what do you want us to take?" Oskar asked. Emmeline could already see his wheels turning, that dogged find-a-way instinct kicking in.

"It's not what I want you to take," Rikey grinned. "It's what I want you to give."

That snagged Emmeline's attention. This was no ordinary hit. This was something special. She gave Oskar a half-glance, and she could already see him preening inside. Oskar loved Rikey, saw him as the big brother he never got to have. Emmeline regarded Rikey with much more caution. She knew the wolf that lurked inside that sheep.

"What do you want us to give?" Oskar's questions grew more eager with every word, brown eyes widening with excitement. Emmeline leaned in, across the tiny gap between her and Oskar's beds.

Rikey dragged a pointer finger across his pink bottom lip, as if savoring a particularly delicious sauce. "Information."

"About?" Emmeline asked the question this time.

Rikey's golden eyes darted to the slip of paper in her hands.

Slowly, she unfolded it.

There, in heavy Kerch strokes, written so firmly into the paper it looked as if it would bleed, were two words.

Karmozinj Dame.

Emmeline's stomach clenched, and she was suddenly aware of how heavy her brow had become. She was scowling. Anyone but this bitch. She wanted to spit, to sprinkle salt, to do anything to ward off this demon woman. The Crimson Lady, destroyer of family.

"About her," Rikey said, his voice like the quiet stirring of a violin before a concert. "Information, and only that. I forbid you from engaging."

Emmeline's cheek twitched at that. Rikey wouldn't know how badly Emmeline's blood howled for revenge. He couldn't know: his only loyalties were to Mikal and to kruge. Everyone was the same in Ketterdam, everyone except Jimmix and Rotha, who had been different until they had died.

Were they so different, though? a little voice whispered in her ear. She shook her head, gritting her teeth. They had been different. They weren't like Rikey, who'd drown a baby for cash, or Mikal, who sold people's bodies like doughnuts. Jimmix and Rotha had been funny, and kind. They wrapped Emmeline's hair in braids. Rotha had taught her where to find the best Suli perfumes, and Jimmix showed her how to work a knife.

"Hear that, kiddo?" Rikey snapped his fingers. Emmeline glared. "Do. Not. Engage."

Emmeline met his golden eyes, willing pure heat to pour from hers and scorch him. It didn't work. She looked away first, the lie already building on her tongue.

"I won't."

Rikey bought it. He leaned back, intensity sloughing off him like mud in a shower. "Good. Get the information, anything you can in a twenty-four hour period. Get it to Beekof, and get out. That's all I want."

"And the pay?" Emmeline said curtly.

"Fifty kruge," he replied. "And a tip, if Beekof is feeling nice."

Fifty kruge. It was a laughable amount. Enough to cover a week's worth of rent, provided Mikal didn't bump the prices higher because of "inflation". If the job had only meant the money, Emmeline would have dragged Oskar out of their own room in a heartbeat. Tangling with the Crimson Lady wasn't worth a cent.

But it wasn't just the money they'd get. It was a reputation. If they could do this simple task, pull it off without a hitch, they would prove their trustworthiness. The twins could be a little more than a joke, just a bit. And that would lead to another job, and another, until Emmeline and Oskar were something more than a cheap shot at a laugh.

"Sixty," Oskar said. "The Crimson Lady isn't another gang. She's a murderer. If word gets out that we're digging up information, we're not just going to get a slap on the wrist--"

He continued to justify his haggle. Emmeline drowned him out. She hated when he talked like this, like a mobster, like someone ten years older than his mere fifteen-ish. He leaned so easily into their lack of an age, like it was a solid wall. But Emmeline feared one day he would lean too hard, and their missing pasts would crumble, and he'd tip into the well of nothing.

"Emmeline's being real quiet there," Rikey cut over Oskar's rant. "Whatcha thinking, kiddo?"

Thinking I'd like to slap that smug, Shu face of yours, Emmeline smiled at him. "Nothing. I agree with Oskar. I want at least a little more money if you want us to risk our lives."

"Indirectly," Rikey tacked on. "Risking your lives indirectly. Which is what happens if you live in Ketterdam, so really, I shouldn't pay a little more anything for you doing a bunch of nothing."

Emmeline and Oskar exchanged looks. They really couldn't turn this job down. Rikey could easily turn to another greenhorn, a fresh-faced idiot who'd joined the Gulls for a laugh, and then they'd be overstepped by yet another faithless feck.

"Fine," Oskar stuck out a hand. "We'll do it."

Rikey took it, grinning like a saint. "Perfect. I knew you would." He turned to her, so pleased, a fat cat full on cream.

"Well, kiddo? Feeling good?"

Emmeline looked at the slip of paper, the Crimson Lady's name bleeding black ink into white. Don't engage, she thought.

Emmeline smiled, slow as molasses. "Fantastic," she said.

The Crimson Lady crumpled in her fist, between the smudges on her dirty hands.