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If Holst ever gets Kaz Brekker alone, he’s going to slap him with own gloves and challenge him to a duel.
He makes a brutal cut through the wood he’s whittling, and his knife lops the top quarter right off, sending it scattering and bouncing over the ship’s deck. He scowls and thunks his knife into the sturdy wood of the ship’s rail instead.
At this time of night, the world is so silent it feels as though the Wraith has sailed into a vacuum. In the middle of the True Sea, too far for the seabirds to reach and with no winds to stir the waters below them, he sometimes fears that they’ve travelled to another world, suspended in space and time. The only noise is the creak of the mast above him, the occasional groan of the decks like the ship itself is taking a breath.
That, and the quiet thuds coming from behind Captain Ghafa’s closed quarters.
He glowers at the glass pane set into the door, the only real source of light in these early hours of the morning. There’s a lantern in the crow’s nest, but his gaze keeps wandering back to the door and the butter yellow light that spills across the deck in watery waves, diffracted by the obscuring frosted glass.
The problem with Kaz Brekker, Holst thinks, and takes another aggressive chunk of wood from his stick, is that he has no idea what the real world is like.
He’d first heard of Brekker when he’d travelled from the Wandering Isles to Novyi Zem in search of work and travel, looking for the adventure he’d been missing after too many years working his father’s grain mill outside of Leflin. The name had been whispered in a bar in Shriftport; “Viezehanden,” a Kerchman had been saying to a table of attentive Zemini sailors. Dirtyhands, it meant. “They say he ain’t quite right in the head, not since he made the pact with the devil. S’why ain’t nobody seen his hands, see. They say there ain’t nothing left but bones under those gloves, that he let the devil eat his flesh for power.”
Only days later, he’d met Captain Ghafa when she docked in the Eames Harbour to restock. He’d been struck by her beauty. Under the Zemini sun, her skin glowed bronze. She was a small woman but she walked with poise and purpose, and he’d not been able to keep his eyes off her. He liked that she kept her dark hair long, the only proper way for an unwed woman to wear it.
The women back home had always been enamoured by his silky blonde hair and swarthy charm, and Captain Ghafa was no different; all it had taken was a flash of his rugged grin and she’d been happy to sign him on to her ship as the chef, to fill a new vacancy. Not quite as exciting as he’d imagined when he’d left home, but he reasoned he could work his way up the ladder with his sword fighting prowess.
She’d looked into his eyes and he’d found himself lost in their warm depths. Very different from the tell-tale grey of the Isles; something new to try out. Her mission had something to do with slaving, which he didn’t have particularly strong opinions on one way or another, but he’d nodded as she talked because it meant he could spend more time watching the play of sunlight through her hair. She’d said, “Some people call us pirates, Mr Holst. But we’re fighting for freedom. Is that something you can handle?”
In the days leading up to their departure from Shriftport, he’d learned she had a reputation of her own. People called her the Sankta of the Seas. She was the scourge of slavers the world over, the most pure and virtuous symbol of faith and goodness since Sankta Alina’s sacrifice in the Unsea.
It had never even crossed his mind that the Sankta of the Seas could be associated with Ketterdam’s Bastard of the Barrel until they’d docked in Kerch for the first time.
Now, he hears a quiet thud behind the door to the captain’s quarters, and then a muffled rasping sound that he thinks might be Kaz Brekker’s laugh. It’s an ugly sound, dirty and broken just like the rest of him. Captain Ghafa has a laugh that sounds like a nightingale’s song. Holst’s own laugh is impressive and booming in a way that used to make the ladies in Leflin swoon, and he thinks it complements Inej’s laugh far better than whatever that scratchy mess is.
Thinking about what they might be doing behind those closed doors makes his stomach turn. It’s not right that he should have her. His darkness leaks into her golden light like an oil spill. It’s foul, how he controls her.
Holst is quite certain that Captain Ghafa would never sink so low as to love Kaz Brekker. Which means that he has to be manipulating her.
From Shriftport, the Wraith headed straight for Ketterdam. Over the week-long trip, Holst had made a point of getting to know the beautiful captain and had found her to be every inch the saint that people described her. She was kind and patient, always calm, wise beyond her years. She was dryly witty in a way that less intelligent people missed, but Holst caught every one of her jokes. Her eyes were brighter than the stars.
She was, in short, flawless.
And Holst didn’t miss the interested glances she shot his way every now and then, lashes low. In only a week, they’d both found someone they connected to on a level deeper than physical, the level of souls. He was already imagining how she’d look in the Isle’s traditional wedding garb.
But then, as they’d swept in towards Ketterdam’s Fifth Harbour on the seventh day of sailing, he heard First Mate Specht snort as he stared through a spyglass and called across the ship, “Your sweetheart’s already waiting for you, Captain.”
It felt as though he’d been thrown overboard into the icy waters. He’d twisted to stare at the Captain uncomprehendingly and had seen the furious flush race across her face as she’d snatched the spyglass from Specht’s hands to see for herself. The betrayal had bubbled hot and resentful in his gut.
And what about what we have? he wanted to protest.
A silhouette had emerged through Ketterdam’s ever-present smog: dressed in a black overcoat, hat perched on his head, cane in hand. He was a solitary figure standing at the end of Berth 22 where the Wraith was headed, unmoving as he watched them come in. The dockworkers carved a wide berth of space around him as they went about their work, preparing to help secure the ship.
Captain Ghafa was leaning over the railing like there was a physical pull between herself and this - this - man. Her sweetheart. He could barely think the words. Holst stood beside her hoping to catch her attention, but she didn’t glance at him; her eyes were locked forward, drinking in the sight of the man with greedy hunger.
As soon as they came to a stop, bumping into the dock with a thud that rolled through the ship in a gentle wave, the captain launched herself over the railings and dropped to the solid ground, landing on both feet and one hand before her with all the grace of a cat. Holst put a hand to his heart; she could have hurt herself pulling a stunt like that.
The man had waited motionless as she’d approached him, and Holst realised that most of the crew were watching this reunion with interest. A couple of them were nudging each other with knowing grins. He’d felt the bitter jealousy writhe in his gut. He wanted to scream, to cry, to demand why the captain would deliberately play with his feelings if she were spoken for. No good woman tempted men like she did when they had already been claimed.
The pair were too far away to hear any words being exchanged, though Holst saw the man’s lips move. Captain Ghafa reached up to remove his hat from his dark hair, tapping him on the head with it teasingly.
Then the man put a hand on Captain Ghafa’s cheek and Holst realised - he was wearing black leather gloves. And hadn’t those Kerch sailors back in Shriftport said something about a cane?
He’d felt thunderstruck.
Of course. Of course it all made sense. Somehow, the legendary Dirtyhands himself had lured the Captain into his grasp with his trickery and his violence. Holst had half-believed that Dirtyhands was nothing more than a nightmare story devised to scare kids into an early bedtime, but there he was, as real as anything. She was trapped.
And all those looks… she’d been reaching out begging Holst to free her. It was perfect. All he had to do was be with her alone so they could talk freely, and he could hear of how Dirtyhands had wound her into his foul web. He could devise a plan to get her away. And as they would talk late into the night, the candles flickering low, Captain Ghafa would say she’d never met a man who made her feel the way he did. She would put a hand on his neck and lean in close…
Naturally, he’d been rankled when he’d heard Dirtyhands was joining them aboard their voyage to Ravka.
There’s a quiet moan from behind the Captain’s doors and the rage burns thick in his blood. How dare he touch her? She doesn’t even know how Holst would worship her. He would do anything to provide for her.
Right now he viewed Kaz Brekker’s presence as an advantage in this war they’d engaged in. Because Kaz Brekker had been watching him, sizing him up. Clearly, he saw Holst for the threat he was.
Another moan, slightly louder. Holst stabs his knife back into the railing.
The truth is, Dirtyhands isn’t half as scary as people make him out to be. He’s nothing but a boy, barely more than twenty and one. He’s a skinny, gaunt child with a bad haircut and not enough colour in his wardrobe. And yes, perhaps his glare is rather chilling, and Holst can admit that his rasping voice adds a satisfying level of drama to every word that he utters, but it’s all a smokeshow. Holst doesn’t think he’s ever spent any significant amount of time outside of Ketterdam. He doesn’t have a clue how the real world works, has never had to handle anything of any actual significance.
Holst is quite sure every story he’s heard about this boy has been fabricated. He can’t even walk, for Saint’s sake.
He almost feels sorry for Brekker. When Holst decides to confront him, forces him to admit how he’d managed to control a woman with the keen intelligence of Captain Ghafa, whatever blackmail he has on her… it will be a masterclass in humiliation.
It’s not as though Brekker and Captain Ghafa even do a good job of pretending they like each other! Holst has spent a lot of time watching them over the past week on the ocean, seething, burning with the indignance of having to watch the woman he loves go through something so - so degrading.
That’s the word for it. It’s degrading.
They barely talk. They don’t smile at each other. They squabble like seagulls. And though they are often in the same space because Brekker can’t seem to leave her alone, it’s as though they are repelled from one another like the same poles of a magnet, because they do not ever, ever touch.
Holst glowers at the Captain’s door. They don’t touch in public.
He supposes even captives can feel attraction for their captor. He’ll forgive her for that.
The door creaks open and Captain Ghafa slips through, slipping the last button of her shirt into place. She’s grinning at the deck, biting her lip between her teeth. When she catches sight of Holst, she jolts, then smiles at him sheepishly. “Mr Holst,” she says. “I hope your watch hasn’t been too boring?”
The residual jealousy has turned blunt and heavy, like a club. He manages a tight smile.
Captain Ghafa’s hair is valiantly clinging to its braid, but chunks of dark locks have pulled free all around the crown of her head to frame her flushed face. She’s barefoot, only in her socks. It’s not fair that he could make her look like that.
She runs a hand over her hair and nods at him without saying anything else, which she can’t of course because Kaz Brekker appears right behind her like her vengeful ghost. He’s fully dressed, right down to those idiotic leather gloves.
He doesn’t smile at Holst or say hello, which Holst is perfectly fine with. Holst glares, and Brekker raises an eyebrow.
Sometimes the way Brekker looks at him makes his skin crawl as though ants are marching underneath, because it feels as though he knows. Knows that Holst loves Captain Ghafa. Knows that Holst has caught on to his devilish trickery. Knows that Holst would do anything to save her from this cage he’s caught her in.
The two of them disappear down the stairs to where the little kitchen mess is located, and Holst lets them go because now is not the time. He’ll confront Brekker one day - preferably in public, with a large crowd to witness his heroism - but not now.
For now, he watches them go and looks forward to the inevitable day when Captain Ghafa begs him to save her. Until then, he can wait.