The heist & the key

[Nesrin Aziz]

Nesrin gave every carefree indication that she’d left the details entirely in Jaxen’s clever hands, but in reality she’d been far from idle. She was perfectly willing to let him do all the hard work, and claim all the accolades he wanted for it too, but she was her own best contingency. By now she knew this place like the back of her hand, though not because she’d ever been here in person. There was a limit to what the dreaming place could reveal though; layout, design, but not the knowledge she craved. Ephemera morphed and changed moment to moment there, more maddening than enlightening. Though the most interesting piece of intel she’d uncovered in her preparations had not been found there at all.

She was nondescript in appearance today. Gone was the sleek, shadow-enshrined creature of Kallisti. No make-up, hair natural. The hood of her coat was drawn up, a few inky curls spilling free and already frosted with drifting snow, and her scarf was pulled close, just a pair of thick-lashed eyes and the freckle-dusted bridge of her nose visible. Even her hands were clad in lined leather gloves. A subzero rooftop terrace with a hot jacuzzi to dip into was one thing, but Moscow in the dead winter was frankly miserable. It was only the thrill of anticipation glittering her gaze with interest, rather than simply letting herself hunch against the frigid temperatures.

Getting into the Sanctuary wasn’t the problem. Like many places of worship, its atmosphere of divine reverence protected as much as any real security measure. People didn’t normally stray where it felt forbidden, especially when an actual god might strike them down. Getting into the vaults was something different, though.

But that’s what Jaxen was for.


As they walked her eyes wandered over the grandiose spectacle of the plaza. The Monument itself had been impressive even before it had been commandeered to its new narrative, and Nesrin could appreciate the audacity of the effort, but the statues and plaques they passed amused her for a whole other reason. She wasn’t looking at a would-be-god, or a leader or men, or even the individual who’d united half the world under his banner. She was considering the most absurd kind of inheritance, especially for a girl half-raised in a brothel.

Brandon had told her answers were in the hands of fate. But the only hands Nesrin trusted were her own.

The Brotherhood would be circling the Hall of Stars like vultures looking for fresh meat. And not that Nesrin lacked a saint’s patience, but being waylaid by the faithful would be yawn-worthy at best. She slipped an arm through Jaxen’s with all the comfortable familiarity of a matching puzzle piece. The rules didn’t apply through such thick winter layers. And it was only passing enough to ask a question.

“Skip the queues?”

They could cut through the gardens. There were several doors used by novitiates discreetly tucked away if you knew where to look. But it was phrased as a curious question, not a suggestion. She’d plied Wicked for information the moment she’d left him in Kallisti, and like usual, Wicked was only too eager to oblige her whims. Not that he needed much pushing to share what he knew. Primarily she’d wanted to know if Jaxen really was as good as thought he was – and apparently he was. Or at least, if Jaxen said he could do it, he’d find a way according to Wicked. So whatever her usual predilections, she would leave the decision to him, curious to see what he would do.