Nikolai had sometimes wondered if it was in his nature to be restless, in Zoya’s nature to be ruthless, and in Ravka’s nature to be forever at war beneath the Lantsov banner. Was that part of what drew him to this life as king? He longed for peace for his country, but did some part of him fear it as well? Who was he without someone to oppose him? Without a problem to solve?

“I promised you that future.” He wished he’d been able to make that dream come true for both of them. “I didn’t deliver.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she clipped out, haughty and imperious as a queen. But she didn’t look at him when she said, “You gave Ravka a chance. You gave me a country I could fight for. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Gratitude. Was that what he wanted from her? Nevertheless, Nikolai found he was pleased. He cleared his throat. “I believe we’ve arrived.”

The crew lowered the gangway, and Nikolai and Zoya strode up the Fifth Harbor dock.

Zoya planted her hands on her hips, surveying the tangle of people and cargo around them. “Of course Brekker couldn’t be bothered to meet us.”

“Best not to announce our association on the Ketterdam docks.” It would have been safer and simpler to send a delegation on the crown’s behalf, but Brekker had ignored every message until Nikolai had penned the letter himself. He and Zoya had worked with the young thief before. They weren’t friends or even trusted associates, but they had a better shot of winning Kaz Brekker’s help than strangers.

“You are a king.”

“Not while I wear this coat.”

“Even with a pelican on your head, you’d still be the king of Ravka, and it wouldn’t kill that Barrel rat to show a bit of respect.” They plunged into the crowds of tourists and sailors on the quay. “I loathe this city.”

“It’s lively,” he said, switching to Kerch.

“If by lively you mean a rat-infested, coal-dust-covered lump of human misery,” she replied in kind, her accent heavy. “And I don’t like their language either.”

“I like the bustle. You can feel the prosperity of this place; I want Ravka to have a piece of this—trade, industry. Our country shouldn’t always have to be the beggar at the door.”

Zoya’s face was thoughtful as they turned onto East Stave, both sides of the canal lined with gambling dens, some grand and some squalid. Each facade was more garish than the last, meant to entice tourists looking for fun. Barkers shouted from every doorway, promising the biggest pots and the liveliest play.

“You don’t agree,” he said with some surprise.