The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  Blimey was asleep mere minutes after Ashes finished the story, but Ashes, despite the exhaustion in his bones, lay awake for an hour or more. Iames’s warning circled his brain over and over. Don’t count on the Tithe . . . If the Lass is your best hope, you’re better off in the sewers.

  Ashes had to prove him wrong. He and Blimey couldn’t fall in with a crew; it would only be a matter of time before Mr. Ragged found out Blimey was still alive, and came for both of them. They needed to get out of Burroughside permanently, sometime before the winter air froze them to death or the Fortress fell to pieces or Saintly came calling . . .

  Sleep crept up on him slowly, burying him in a half-awake limbo where his worries melted together.

  It was Taxing Day, and everyone he begged from was the bear-faced Denizen, who beat him for his money. But Ashes had nothing, so the man killed him and threw his body in the sewers, and the sewer-beasts tore his corpse to bits.

  His remains seeped into the river. Ragged found them, only Ragged was Saintly, because Saintly killed Ragged just like he killed Mari, and now he ruled Burroughside. Blimey had snuck out to look for magic princesses, but he found Saintly instead, and now Blimey was screaming—

  Ashes could do nothing but watch.

  IT was three hours past dawn, and, gradually, Yson was waking. Its first yawns and stretches were the Denizens who did not belong to it, who stumbled drunkenly toward their homes. Many were hungover; all were poorer than they had been last night. Victims of Yson’s Invisible Tax: the punishment for entering Yson’s borders with more money than sense.

  Not long after them came the Ysonne, who did belong, and they came full of smiles and charm. They gave no sign they had drunk last night, or indeed that they had ever touched drink. They laughed easily, and their eyes were sharp.

  Ashes stood near a street corner a mile south of the Savoir Theatre, waiting. When the streets were filled, he sat on the corner and produced three cards from his coat, setting them facedown on the street.

  There was almost a palpable shift in the air as the Denizens noticed him. Ysonne could smell games of chance at fifty paces. They were doubly attuned to games that favored them—and gambling against a dirty runtling dressed in a tattered, man-sized coat favored them by a long way. Ysonne cheated at cards before they could walk.

  He waited until there was a crowd before he looked up, wary for passing coppers or overzealous priests. He saw only Denizens: three well-to-do women, intrigued but not eager, whispering to one another. A dark-haired, shabby man with narrowed eyes, holding himself away from the rest of the group—clearly uninterested. A husband and wife, Ivory-blooded, removed from the crowd even though they were standing in it.

  Come on, now. Who wants to give me some money?

  At last one met his eyes: a bespectacled gentleman with a shrewd look about him and expensive clothes. Ashes nodded toward the cards before him.

  “You looks like a most estute individual, milord,” Ashes said brightly, mangling his speech with a Lyonshire-Low accent. “Care to play a bit?”

  “I don’t,” said the man, though Ashes saw a gleam in his eye.

  “Oh, c’mon now, sir. Don’t you be a spoilsport. The people want to see a good show, don’t they? Here.” Ashes dropped a coin on the ground, a shiny copper ha’penny. “I’ll make it interesting.”

  The man let out a harsh laugh, turning to leave.

  “You coward, then, sir?” Ashes smiled as the gentleman glared.

  “I ought to call for an officer,” he snapped.

  “Ah, but where’s the fun in that, sir? C’mon. Just a couple games.”

  The small crowd looked expectantly at the man, who swore softly and sat in front of Ashes. He dug in a pocket and pulled out a half-crescent note.

  “My buy-in,” he said.

  Ashes grinned. “Right generous of you, milord. You familiar?” He gathered up all three of the cards in one hand and displayed them. “Face a’ Cunning, Marvels, Kindness. I’m going to mix ’em up, fast as ennything, and likely I’ll try to confuse you some with me swift fingers and clever banter. Your job, milord, is you find Her Ladyship.” He tapped one finger on the Face of Kindness, a minimalist portrait of a woman who was neither old nor young and wore a crown of twining leaves. The other two Faces were black.

  “I know the game,” the man snapped. “Begin your little ruse, child. I have better things to do.”

  Ashes smiled. He bobbed his head as he separated the cards: the two black in his left hand, the Face of Kindness in his right. He bent forward and began the shuffle. “D’you know, sir, ’bout the story of the barber and the magwitch?” Ashes’s hands moved with calm deliberation, as if dancing to slow music. “If’n you don’t mind, I’m going to tell it so’s to entertain me crowd here.” His hands moved swifter now. He threw a Cheater’s Toss, mostly to honor the man’s expectations. “Once upon a time, not so terrible far from here, there’s a barber. Kindly sort of bloke, just the nicest chap you ever did meet.” He bit his cheek; he was playing up the accent too much. “Quick as a fox with his razors, too. No sooner you set down, fwip, you’re all shaved up, and not a cut to be seen. Him and his razors, they were unioned, like. He kept ’em shiny and bright, and he always spoke about ’em like his own sons and daughters. Ah, sir, if you’d just point out for us where Her Ladyship is?”

  The man tapped one card disdainfully. Ashes flipped it, revealing the laughing portrait of the Face of Cunning.

  “Shame, sir,” Ashes said, snatching up the first half-crescent. “Double or naught?”

  The man slammed down another half-crescent and bent forward, peering suspiciously at Ashes’s hands. Ashes tried not to smile too broadly as he began swapping cards.

  Anywhere but Yson, Ashes would have needed a partner to play this particular game. Enticing a mark took careful work; they needed to feel confident the game was straight, or at the very least that they were clever enough to swindle a swindler.

  In Yson, everyone thought he could swindle a swindler. The danger was that they were usually right.

  “So this barber,” Ashes continued, “one day, he sees a witch coming down his way. Only he doesn’t do the usual things we do—there’s no swearing, ’cos he weren’t that type of man, and anyway this was back before everybody was scared of witches. No, our barber, right away he gets out his biggest smile and he welcomes her to his little shop. ‘My lady!’ he says, ‘Why, it’s such a pleasure to be making your acquaintance!’ Ah, speaking of, sir . . . ?”

  The man pointed, and Ashes flipped over a card. This, too, was the Face of Cunning. The man yanked out another half-crescent and smashed it against the street before Ashes could say anything.

  “Again.”

  “Your wish, sir. Anyway, this witch, she says, ‘Oh, sir, you’ve got to help me! It’s my boy, me only son, and he’s got something a-stickin’ on his face!’ That’ll be a beard, sir, in case you didn’t know. Dun’t look as yours has come in just yet. No shame, sir, some folk got too much woman in ’em.” This drew an uncomfortable laugh from the onlookers; the man himself was too focused to notice.

  “Anyways, her witchiness goes on, ‘If you get that horrid thing off his face, I’ll repay you whatever way I can. If you wishes, I’ll even bring your razors to life.’ Now, that barber had never heard such a generous offer in his life, and so he follows missus witch to her home. He finds the— Ah, sir?”

  The man flipped the card himself and let out a triumphant crowing sound. “Ha! There she is! Her Ladyship, the Face of Kindness!”

  “It’s a fair cop, sir,” Ashes said, not quite succeeding in keeping the doubt from flickering across his face. His Tosses had been clean, but the Ysonne man had spotted Her Ladyship anyway. “Care to try again? I’ve still got one of your notes.”

  “I bet both,” the man said, grinning savagely at Ashes as he pulled out one more half-crescent. “And this as well.”

  “As you say, sir.” That was odd. The man didn’t need more of a buy-in—
<
br />   “One other thing,” the man said, holding up a finger. “You lose, and I’ll have the pleasure of handing you to the police.”

  Ashes swallowed, then delivered his most winning smile. “Your wish, sir.”

  His heart crashed against his chest as he picked up the cards. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to focus. Quick and fearless.

  “So, our brave barber, he finds the witch-lady’s son all convalessin’ and such in his bed, and he pulls out his razors to go and slice up his beard. Only, see, soon as he comes close up on the boy he realizes something ain’t right. For starters, it’s no beard on his face. And for seconders, laddie looks sick to death. His face is the color of spoilt milk, and he’s got eyes wide as me fist, and they’re iron-gray all the way through.

  “ ‘This ain’t a beard,’ says the barber.

  “ ‘No,’ says the witch. ‘He’s a deathly enchantment on him. You must take it off.’ So he pulls out his first razor, his best one, and he sets to working.” Ashes swept up the cards and threw a Cheater’s Toss; then another one, and another, and another. “He puts his blade up against the lad’s ear, and he wiggles round, trying to find where the enchantment starts, but nothing doing. He tries again at the boy’s forehead, still nothing. Last of all he goes to the neck.

  “ ‘This is dangerous,’ he says to the witch. ‘If I slip . . .’

  “And Her Ladyship says, ‘Then he will die, and so will you. Don’t slip.’ So he makes the first cut.”

  Ashes stopped, glancing around. The crowd had nearly doubled in size. The man across from him was staring fixedly at the cards, fingers curled to fists. One eye twitched, just a little. “Your turn, sir. Where’s the Lady?”

  “I’m thinking,” said the man. “Finish your story.”

  “Story’s all finished, sir,” Ashes said. “Nothing more to it.”

  “It’s a buggery story, then. There’s no proper ending.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. Found her yet?”

  “Bah!” The man pointed. “She’s under there. Show me her face.”

  Ashes’s stomach dropped. Instinctively he glanced around, seeking exits. The man saw him looking, and tensed, preparing to grab him. There was nothing for it. Ashes turned the card over—and felt, as he did so, something liquid run down his arm.

  The awestruck expression of the Face of Marvels looked back at him. Ashes’s eyes widened, but he recovered almost instantly.

  “Shame, sir,” he said coolly. “The Faces favor me today, looks like.”

  “Hmph,” said the man, staggering to his feet. “You’re a clever blighter, boy. I could have sworn . . . gah.” He fixed Ashes in a steady glare. “Take your money, then, beggar.”

  Ashes smiled nervously and swept up the coins as the man left. Not a moment later, Ashes jumped to his feet as well.

  “What a ’garious individual he is,” Ashes said, searching for a break in the crowd. He darted toward the first one he saw. “Thankee, folks, for being such a grand audience. You’re credits to your kind, and all that. S’been a pleasure to entertain.”

  He ducked away. He didn’t know Yson half as well as he knew Burroughside or Lyonshire, but it wouldn’t take too much effort to make himself lost here.

  When he felt sure no one had followed him, he huddled against a wall, pulled the cards out, and swore. All three of them were black: two bore the Face of Marvels.

  “What the hell are you doing in there?” Ashes muttered.

  He rubbed his thumb against them, trying to understand the trick. But there was no difference, except that one of the Marvels looked strangely blurred. He scratched it with a fingernail and shook it like it was wet, but nothing changed.

  He murmured another curse, and just then the Face of Marvels dissipated, like water thrown against a furnace. The Face of Kindness reappeared beneath his fingertips.

  “Furies and Kindness,” he said aloud, and threw the card on the ground as quickly as if it had caught fire.

  A Glamour—an illusion, the arcane work of an Artificer. Somebody had put magic on his cards.

  It made him distinctly uncomfortable, not just because he knew for certain now that he’d mucked the trick. Some illusionist had interfered with his cards. But why?

  His instinct screamed at him to quit Yson for the day, perhaps try to convince Mr. Ragged that begging had been slim and throw himself on what little mercy the man had—but no. He needed more. He couldn’t risk losing Ragged’s protection; it was the only thing keeping Saintly away. He had to keep going, and he had to be perfect this time.

  There won’t be another second chance, he thought.

  Well, then, he wouldn’t slip.

  Some three hours before sunset, Ashes’s pockets were heavier by four crescents and eight—enough for Ragged’s tax, and food for him and Blimey besides. He’d earned a pair of bruises on his ribcage to match his reddened neck but, apart from that, fared quite well.

  Altogether he felt more comfortable with Yson. It was tricky and conniving, but it favored the clever. And it was big enough to get lost in for a while. So long as he kept a wary eye out for past marks, he could do well for himself for a while. And after that, if Lyonshire was still too dangerous, he could try his hand in Ubärsid, or the Boreas Gutters. His safe places were thinning far too fast.

  Still, he and Blimey were safe for tonight. That would do.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sense that someone was watching him. He tensed, and found the watcher almost immediately, sitting on a bench not far from him. A youngish man with an open face and wide eyes, which were trained on Ashes. He looked vaguely familiar.

  “Evening,” the man said, tilting his head. “You’re that card player. I saw you, earlier.” He grinned. “You made a gentleman very angry.”

  “Lots of folks get angry at Find the Lady,” Ashes said warily. He kept his distance. The man could be some sort of trap—someone to slow him while another fetched the coppers. He didn’t intend to be caught off his guard.

  “You’re quite good,” the man said. His smile widened in what Ashes guessed was supposed to be a disarming way. “Care to play me?”

  Ashes took a step back. “Don’t particular care to, sir, I’m afraid,” he said. “Places to be, and what—”

  “I can make it worth your while,” the man said, producing a thick gold coin from his pocket.

  Ashes sucked in an involuntary breath. He’d not seen a true crown in person before. It was worth everything he had in his pocket five times over.

  Trap.

  “Beat me,” said the man, “and it’s yours. And if you lose, then nothing. We go our own ways.”

  Definitely a trap. Get along.

  But they were still in the open. Ashes could dash off at the first sign of trouble. And if he won, he and Blimey could eat like kings for weeks, and have enough left over to pay Mr. Ragged’s tax for a good while. Enough time for Ashes’s face to fade out of Lyonshire’s collective memory, perhaps, or for him to search out new ways to impress the Lass at New Year’s . . .

  “D’you know, goodly gentleman-sir,” he said carefully, slipping back into his routine, “I reckon it’d be criminal of me to deny a man wanting to see some magic at work. We’ll need to be quick, though. Owing as I’ve some things left to do today.” He glanced significantly at the sky.

  “Best of three games, then,” said the man, eyeing Ashes sharply. “I’ll not take long.”

  “Deal.”

  Ashes slid the three cards out of his pocket and sat before the bench. He showed them to the man all at once. “You know the game, sir?”

  The man’s grin was unnervingly calm as he nodded. Ashes resisted the fluttering sense of danger in his belly and began.

  “Did you ever hear the story, milord, about the magwitch and the—?”

  “I have,” the man said. “I watched you tell it several hours ago. Tell me, what were the barber’s razors made of?”

  “Metal, milord, I’d assume,” Ashes said, flash
ing a smile to hide his growing unease. “Probably steel.”

  “Somehow I doubt it,” the man replied, rubbing his chin. “What’s your name?”

  Ashes Tossed, throwing Cunning instead of Kindness. “Francis,” he lied smoothly.

  “Odd name for a street magician.”

  “Odd-name-for-a-street-magician is me surname, sir.”

  “Well, my name is Jacob Rehl.” The man wasn’t watching the cards. His eyes were on Ashes.

  “S’a pleasure, sir.” Ashes stopped rearranging the cards. Something here was very wrong. “Where’s Her Ladyship?”

  Jacob looked at the cards as though he were surprised they were there and pointed carelessly to the card on his left. “Is she there?”

  Ashes gave an uneasy grin as he flipped over the Face of Marvels. “Apologies, sir. Looks as though—looks as though the Faces favor me today.”

  “For the moment,” Jacob said with another lazy smile. Ashes shivered as he gathered the cards, threw out a Cheater’s Toss, and began again. “I have a question for you, Francis Odd. Earlier today you swindled a man who would have had you carted off to prison. Probably beaten you senseless, too. Why keep playing?”

  Ashes shook his head a little, trying to clear out the fog within it. “The bloke in the spectacles? ’Cos I could win.” He swept the cards again, threw a Cheater’s Toss and, just because he knew he could, a perfect Cacklewitch, swapping all three cards in a single motion. Even if the man had been watching Ashes’s fingers, he would have no way to know where Kindness had gone.

  “You like winning. Being the best.”

  “Dun’t everybody, sir?”

  “Did you think of the risk?”

  “Don’t tend to.”

  “You shouldn’t have won,” the man said softly. “I was watching your cards. He picked the Face of Kindness and you made it not the Face of Kindness. How?”

  Ashes forced a laugh and shrugged. “Just a bit of presty-dation, goodly gentleman-sir. Legerdemain to you folks out here.”