OSKAR SWAGGERED UP TO THE BAR, bracing his arm against the sticky countertop, nodding at the barkeep. Low orange light filled the room with a smokey amber glow, reflecting off the smokey amber drinks pooled in a cluttered array of cups and pints. Ceramic plates held unappealing, flaky pastries and mouldy fruit. The barkeep, a large, red-faced man with a slick of black hair over his lumpy head, was polishing cups across the counter from Oskar.

"Povish," Oskar said cooly, inclining his chin at the rotund man. "A glass of kvas."

Povish leaned over the bar. He smiled amicably, and twisted his grimy towel in half. A wash of filthy grey water gushed from the rag, and onto Oskar's pants and shoes.

"Ain't it past your bedtime, little one?" Povish cackled and whipped out the damp towel. A loud sound cracked by Oskar's ear. He jumped, then scowled.

"Aww, he wet 'is pants!" a soggy-looking man cackled, pointing to the water stains soaking his legs.

The bar's patrons burst into laughter, clinking glasses. Oskar glared.

"Very funny, I've never heard that one before," he rolled his eyes. "Just give me a drink, Pov."

"Can't," Povish said with an insincerely sincere face. He pointed to a wooden sign with Kerch, Ravkan, Zemeni, and Shu dangling in a happy, diverse stack of swinging boards. We don't sell to Oskar! it read.

Kidding. It said Underage, don't want yer wage. Or something to that extent, Oskar could barely read. Emmeline was the one who'd bothered going to Dame Rykov's lessons in their run-down tenement building: Oskar preferred to wreak havoc on the Black Tips kids. But the gist of the sign was clear: bug off, Oskar.

"I'm not a kid," Oskar sneered, slamming his hand on the bar. "And I'm on a job. It'd do you good to piss off and let me--"

Povish cocked his head. "Kick 'im."

In a second, Oskar found himself ass-down in the street, blinded by the morning light, gawking up at the swinging tavern sign. The Boot, it read.

Some Saint was pissing themself laughing at him, he just knew it.

Oskar picked himself up, muttering about plagues and curses, and dusted off his pants. He picked up a rock from the gravelly road and chucked it at the tavern door. The rock bounced off the door and clocked him in the gut. Oskar hunched over with an oof.

He picked up the rock again, and this time angled it for the window, arm cocking back.

"I wouldn't try it," a creaky, friendly voice advised in a bright Kaelish accent. Oskar looked down.

A crackly old man sat a few metres away, jangling his tin cup in greeting. His left leg was shrivelled, and an equally deteriorated cane was propped at his side. He had coarse white hair and a toothy grin.

Oskar sighed. "It's probably not a good idea to sabotage your own bar, huh."

"This here bar belong to yae?" the old man barked a laugh.

"No, no. But it belongs to my gang," Oskar said, proudly rolling up his sleeve. The five gull tattoo glistened darkly on his brown skin. "The Razorgulls."

The old man nodded. "A good bunch. Always have a coin tae spare for me."

Oskar rubbed the stinging patch of skin on his stomach. "They're a good family, when they aren't kicking you out of bars or sending you on goose chases."

"You on a goose chase, laddie?"

"Yeah. Information abo--" Oskar said, then quickly stopped himself. "Just information. Keeping an eye out in the streets. Seen anything weird lately?"

"Now that yae mention it," the old man sighed, thumping his bad leg with a grimace. "I seen that Red Woman everyone's been talking about."

Oskar wanted to pat himself on the back and buy himself a good lunch. Casually, he asked, "You mean the Crimson Lady?"

"Aye, that's the one." The old man nodded grimly. "I was the first tae see her, methinks."

"Do tell," Oskar said eagerly, plopping himself onto the street besides the man.

The old man gave him a sly wink, and rattled his cup. "Now, a geezer can't tell all his stories, can he? What'll he be worth without 'em?"

"Slick, old man," Oskar fished a five-kruge slip from his pocket and let it flutter into the cup. He would have to forgo lunch today, but it was worth it. He gave the man a smile. "So?"

The old man chuckled, good-natured, and set his shoulders back. He let out a weary, full-bodied sigh, gearing up to tell his tale.

"Listen here, boy."

The Old Man's Tale

A few weeks ago, mebbe it was a month o' two, I was wandering these here docks. Fourth Harbor, methinks, though I might be wrong. My decks were a bit flooded, if yae get my drift.

Aye, well, I was wandering by moonlight like I did in me youth. Stumbled upon a wee fisher boat, just arriving from Ravka. 'Twas flying nae flag, but I'd know a Ravkan make when I see it. Served in Ravka for the civil war, on behalf o' my cousin. She's a fey-folk, what yae call Grisha. Ain't right, what they did tae the fey.

Anyway, I thought to holler, ask how the fish were bitin', when I saw a man in a hood. Never a good sign, a man in a hood. He rose from the ship, stealthy-like, and had a girl on his arm. Called her Lady. They prayed, and he gave her a blessin' o' some sort, then set back tae sea. Not a true fisher boat, then, 'cause I saw no nets as it pulled away.

The Lady stood on the docks fer a good while, mebbe ten minutes, just lookin' up at the moon. Talkin' to herself, methinks. She was real pretty, for a girlie, with all this black hair. Skin like the moon, too. She looked right pale, but she had the yellow Shu eyes.

Now, I was fitting to approach her, ask if she be all right, when she turns and draws up a hood of her own, over her head. She drifts away, and I see her turn a corner. I go on my way, take a piss on the docks, when I hear a mighty scream! Later I find it was some sailor caught with his pants down tae his ankles, accosting a maid-girl. Said his body was something terrible, stuck up on a pig hook.

I ain't seen much o' her in these parts now. She frequents some other area o' Ketterdam, but I don't like sleepin' out in the streets 'cause o' her. I stay at any place'll take me, which takes a lot out o' my pride, I'll tell yae.

An' that's it. I hate that damned Lady: ain't nae lady if she's going around killin' folk. Aye, some gang ought to do something about her! What's a gang for, hm? Well, that's enough chatter from me, unless you got more purple fish.

Oskar grinned. "Not today. Maybe next time."

The old man winked. "Nae problem, boy. Stop by any time."

As he walked along the strip of the canal, Oskar considered his mistakes. It was something Hester told him to work on. Reflection, she called it. Emmeline had joked that he already worked on his reflection enough: Oskar spent so much time in front of a mirror he couldn't tell his left from right. Oskar had cuffed her on the ear and chased her through the Jam Tart House.

What had he done wrong? Well, he mulled as he wandered into the nicer parts of Ketterdam, maybe it wasn't a good idea to gather intel for the Razorgulls from the Razorgulls. He doubted idiots like Povish even knew what the Crimson Lady was, let alone valuable knowledge about her. For another, he probably should be more proactive. Waiting around for information to land in his lap was not how great men became great. He needed to be a man of action, a fighter. Someone out in the streets, getting his fists dirty, and his name dirtier. He needed--

Oskar smacked into a broad, purple-clad chest.

Slowly, he looked up.

"Ah ha," he laughed weakly. "Hello."

The stadwatch glared down at him. "Barrel scum. Check him."

Oskar yelped as the stadwatch pounced.

THE FIRST THING EMMELINE DID WAS LOOK FOR A NEWSPAPER.

She exited the Jam Tart House, tugging the scarf around her head lower. A newspaper stand was typically hard to find in the Barrel: most of its inhabitants were foreigners or illiterate. There were small papers in Kerch-foreign dialects that were hand-printed in dark basements, but rarely did they publish fast enough to be relevant. Many were re-hashing the war in Ravka, some were literary publications. But there was a solid publishing company, The Ketterdam Press, nearby the Lid, so she clambered her way through the city.

It was eerily empty, compared to most Ketterdam mornings. At first, Emmeline didn't notice the lack of bustle and bump, but it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't dodged slow-footed tourists in a while. And once she had noticed, she couldn't look away. The streets felt naked, stripped bare of stamping feet and rustling clothes. There were no shouts of accented Kerch, no screams of children running loose in the street, not even the typical mugging or two in a dark alley.

Ketterdam felt like the dried bones of a long-dead beast, like the massive gaps between rib cages bleaching in the sun. Her beloved city was parched, bled dry by the Karmozinj Dame. It made anger flare up in her veins, hot and itching, a growl in her chest.

The newspaper stand was around the corner. Emmeline turned, with a hand in her pocket, pretending to reach for money while she perused the stacks. The stand runner gave her a cautionary smile. Her scarf did its job of hiding her hair, which she hadn't had a chance to polish up, but her skin was clean enough to pass as a middle-class girl. Emmeline fingered a soft newspaper sheet, glancing to the side. A flock of pigeons pecked at the ground next to a puddle of canal water, probably sloshed up from a rowdy gondel paddler.

Emmeline snapped her fingers under her sleeve. The water splashed out to the sides, whipping the pigeons' feathers. They squawked and shrieked, careening upward. Newspapers blew everywhere, like paper birds themselves, gusted by pigeon wings. In the chaos, Emmeline crumpled a paper into her pocket, and hurried away.

She turned the corner again, looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't caught, and smacked into a stranger. Instinctively, Emmeline reached out and caught the girl, holding her elbows steady. She was blonde and broad-shouldered, a classical Fjerdan build.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry," the girl blurted, fumbling over her own feet, brushing Emmeline off with trembling hands. "Pardon me, vis is my fault, I--"

Emmeline grabbed her hands. "Hey. It's okay."

Now that the girl had stopped flurrying about, Emmeline could see her faded, tattered clothes and a sour-milk coloured apron. She had clear blue eyes, but they were widened in fear, her pupils blown out. Tangles of weak blond strands quivered around her face. Her pale hands shook in Emmeline's grasp. On her wrist, a black triangle crowned with feathers in a laurel wreath burned in black. The Blackbeaks, a gang started by some Razorgull, in an attempt to branch out their power. Their unknown, unloved sister-gang.

Instantly, a protective feeling filled Emmeline's chest. She looked around, her eyes landing on a mostly clean stoop. "Here, sit. Are you okay?"

The girl sat too hard, her knees weak. "I- It vas terrible, so bloody-"

Emmeline squeezed her hands, and tried to recall what Jimmix would do when Rotha was panicking. Hold her, somehow, with steady pressure. He'd make her breathe, focus her thoughts. Where are you, what's that on your shoe, did you eat waffles today? Mundane, simple questions that didn't bring up whatever horror was rocking through Rotha's mind.

Emmeline held the girl's shaking hands. "Breathe. What's your name?"

"Ylsa," the girl said, her voice high and pitchy.

"Ylsa. That's pretty," Emmeline smiled encouragingly. "Breathe, Ylsa."

They took some deep, shuddery breaths together. When Ylsa's hands stopped trembling, and her pupils were less blown-out, Emmeline gently broached the topic.

"What happened, Ylsa? Are you okay?"

The girl shuddered, but swallowed, and reigned in her terror. She was strong: all women left alone in a big city are. "You von't believe me if I tell you."

Emmeline shrugged. "You have no reason to lie."

Ylsa's eyes filled with tears, and her shoulders slumped, like a weight had sloughed off them. "I clean rooms for the Night Mare."

An anonymous hotel, where its residents are smuggled from rooms and wear ominous black masks to conceal their identities. Mostly used by politicians trying to have an illicit night on the West Stave, its reputation was both infamous and weighty in the Barrel. Only Ketterdam locals knew of it, and even then, it was mostly Barrel-rat knowledge and a wealthy man's secret.

"How'd you end up there? No, nevermind, let's not go into it," Emmeline cut herself off. "What did you see?"

Ylsa shut her eyes, mewling a little. "Blood. Much blood. All in the sink, it vas terrible. And the- the wall-"

"The wall?"

Her eyes opened, blue and runny. "They are going to kill the Scarab Queen!" She burst into sobs, burying her face in her hands.

Emmeline was thoroughly confused. "The Scarab Queen?"

Ylsa nodded through a hiccup. "Y-yes, the beautiful voman. She is the Scarab Queen." She dug into her pocket, and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The edges had spots of red, as if parts of another drawing. Ylsa passed it to her.

She looked familiar to Emmeline. Pretty, elegant, with a sloping nose and wide-set eyes. A classic Kerch, by the shade of the black and white print, with sweeping dark hair and gleaming pearls. The bottom of the clipping had a few letters sliced in half, but Emmeline could make out an A and what was possibly a D in capital letters.

Ylsa sobbed. "They are going to kill her!"

"Who? Who is they?" Emmeline asked, squeezing Ylsa's shoulders. "How do you know?"

The girl shrugged, panicky. "They had a map, a theatre was marked. And many pictures, of the same voman. Some newspapers I did not know. And show dates, circled in red. But the blood, oh Djel, the blood! It vas everywhere!" Her lip trembled. "I don't know who they vere, but they left this."

Ylsa reached into her threadbare pocket, and withdrew a glimmering brooch. It was a heavy black oval, cut into a geometric shine. Onyx, Emmeline assumed, though she had never seen onyx quite so large or shiny. Steeling it was a silver frame, hammered into the pattern of dove's wings. A mercher's brooch, though she wasn't sure which.

Emmeline stared at it. "May I draw a picture of that?"

Ylsa looked puzzled through her tears, but nodded. "Y-yes. I vas going to sell it. Vat do you think?"

"That's a really good idea," Emmeline agreed, flipping her newspaper over. She fished a charcoal pencil stub from her pocket and began to sketch, shading in the blackness of the onyx. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Ylsa admitted. "Much better. Thank you. But I need-"

"To go," Emmeline finished for her. Secretly she was relieved; small talk had never been Emmeline's strong suit. That was all Oskar. "I understand. Be safe, Ylsa. Your gang can help you, they're your family."

Ylsa's eyes filled again. "Thank you, thank you!" She hurried off, her too-short skirts brushing the top of her calves.

Emmeline looked down at the clipping Ylsa gave her. The Scarab Queen stared back. It couldn't be hard to find who she was, most theatres had the names and pictures of their cast in a little glass-covered plaque outside the door. She just had to wander the West Stave's nicer parts.

As she stood, the door behind her opened. A woman with a stroller smiled as she carried her covered bassinet, then the detachable wheels down the stairs.

"The baby's sleeping," the woman whispered, putting a finger to her lips. Emmeline smiled. It was nice to have a pleasant conversation, especially when there was nobody around. The streets felt more unforgiving than ever, so a kind mother's smile felt warmer than the sun.

"Oh, wait," Emmeline realised, holding up her paper. "Do you know who this is?"

The mother leaned in, then smiled. "Of course! That's Anouk Claassen. She's an actress on Komedie Brute now."

Emmeline nodded. "Playing the Scarab Queen. That's right. Thank you so much!"

The mother smiled, shaking her stroller gently. "No problem, sweetheart."

Emmeline scampered off, her heart racing. Rikey had thought he was assigning them a child's errand. Gather intel, don't engage.

Little did he know, he just gave Emmeline and Oskar a murder plot. One that she could prevent, and thereby save the darling actress of Ketterdam.

Emmeline adjusted her skirt and settled her scarf around her hair. Things were changing, she could feel it in the air, in the weight of the newspaper in her pocket. Things would never be the same. Emmeline smiled in the reflection of the canal, and marched off, ready to tell an actress about the looming threat on her life.

OSKAR STRUGGLING, FIGHTING AGAINST THE STADWATCH WITH A GROWL. Which was really to no avail, because the stadwatch may be idiots, but they were paid idiots, and therefore they could do the job of shaking down a fifteen-year old decently well. Plus, there were two of them, so Oskar didn't have a chance.

"Let- go- of- me!" Oskar squirmed, the stadwatch holding him down against the rough brick wall. "I'm innocent! I'm just a kid!"

The other stadwatch snorted. "You think that means anything in Ketterdam, much less where your kind are from?"

Oskar sneered. "What do you want?"

They ignored him. Oskar was getting ignored a lot recently. Was it something he did?

"Pat him down," the older officer grunted. The younger one enthusiastically complied, patting Oskar down and going through his pockets with vigour. Oskar felt bruises forming.

"He doesn't have it," the younger one reported, after dumping out Oskar's key, spare bits of international coins, and chunks of cow bones he'd saved for the stray dogs he might run into.

"Have what?" Oskar whined. "Can you at least let up on me a little?"

The stadwatch let him off the wall. They gave him cold stares, then turned and walked away.

"That's it? No goodbye? No sorry? No morning-after coffee?" he called after them. They, sadly, ignored him. Oskar frowned, looking down the street. Where were these cops coming from, so hostile? They were looking for something: presumably, something stolen.

Oskar ventured back up the way the stadwatch came, curious.

Gleaming, proud mercher's houses loomed over him with their shiny windows and oil-black iron gates. Up ahead, a crowd clustered around one of the townhouses. Oskar edged closer, shuffling on tiptoes to see over the heads and hats.

A townhouse was blocked off by purple stadwatch ribbons. A few officers stood at the gate, holding people off, while ten more swarmed the yard and windows. Inside, Oskar could see glimpses of purple uniforms. The whole place was swarming with cops. A crime.

"What's going on?" he whispered, leaning towards the man next to him.

"A murder," he whispered back, excitedly. "They think it's the Crimson Lady. Apparently, they can't figure out how she got in. Also someone took their family brooch. Pretty black shiny thing. They're blaming the maid, but we all know that's not true whatsoever."

So that's why he was being searched. A stolen brooch, a murdered merch. Oskar felt like he was in one of those sensation stories they published in newspapers. "Who got murdered?"

The man