Sundown had come and leached the color from Teranis. Everything was silhouettes. Ashes thought of the Ravagers, felt his heart slam against his chest. They wouldn’t come out for some time, but—were those footsteps he heard?
Then came wild whoops, shouts, garbled words. Not Ravagers: they sounded young. Other Burroughsiders, out this close to dark?
No time to worry about it. He hurried to the alley where he’d hidden the coin and dropped to his knees, scrabbling in the dirt. He shifted several stones, felt muck between his fingers. The shadows in the alleyway had deepened; he couldn’t see nearly well enough.
His heart stuck in his throat. He hadn’t buried it this deep—had he missed it? Had someone stolen it?
His breath caught just as he felt something cool brush his finger. He yanked the coin out of the mud and leapt to his feet, dashed from the alley—
Something crashed into him and wrapped arms around his neck and bore him to the ground. He landed hard on the street. Breath burst out of him. Instinctually he scrabbled in the muck for something to fight with. His fingers wrapped around a heavy broken stone and he rolled to his feet. Quick and fearless, he thought. He had to hit first or it was over, he’d never win in a fair fight—
He saw his opponent and froze: it was a girl, slender and wide-eyed, crouched against the opposite wall. She had deathly pale skin and a horrid wound in her belly, which she was trying and failing to stopper with her hand. Bright lines of red seeped between her fingers every moment.
“Furies and Kindness,” Ashes muttered, and dropped the rock.
The girl’s eyes fixed on him. She said, “Please . . .”
More shouts behind him. The girl shuddered, and without thinking any further Ashes pulled her into the alley.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a low voice. “What happened?”
The girl gave him a withering look. “Got shot,” she said curtly. “Please. Need your help.”
“Why? Who are you?”
“No’n important,” she snarled. “Please.”
“What—?”
More shouts. Ashes let her rest against the wall and peeked around the corner. He could see three older boys approaching, carefully checking corners and hideaways as they moved. It was too dim, and they were too far away, for him to make out their features, but even at this distance he recognized Saintly’s prowling walk.
“Ragged’s,” the girl said, nodding toward the mouth of the alley. “They’re after me.”
“Furies and Kindness,” he said.
“Got to—catch my breath,” she said. “Need help.”
Ashes peeked around the corner again. Saintly’s group had swollen to six boys now.
“Please,” the girl said.
“I don’t think—”
“I can repay you,” the girl said, wincing. “Please. Please.”
“I—”
“I work with Bonnie the Lass,” the girl said.
Ashes blinked. He regretted it immediately—no self-respecting card player let their surprise show, and now the girl could see what the words meant to him. Work with the Lass—not for. If she was the sort of person who could think of the Beggar Queen of Teranis as an equal, helping her would be more than worth his time. If there was a chance she was telling the truth, he didn’t dare pass it up.
He pulled his coat off. “Take that,” he said. “Get as far back as you can and cover up your face. Go.”
She disappeared in the darkness behind the alley. Ashes watched her go, then took out the gold coin, kissed it, and got on his knees.
He heard footsteps approaching, and loudly scrabbled in the dirt, then stood quickly and brushed himself off. He turned just as Saintly came around the corner, eyes dark. Ashes clutched the coin tightly and hid it behind his back.
“Ashes,” Saintly said, smiling darkly. “What might you be doing down that alleyway just now, I wonder.”
“No business of yours, Saintly,” Ashes said.
“Blubbing, were you?” Saintly sneered. “Weeping over the Fool? Scared that he won’t protect you now he’s rotting on Ragged’s fence?”
Rage boiled fierce and hot in Ashes’s chest. “Make sure you mention how proud you are to Rafe,” Ashes said. “I’ll bet he comes up with all manner of inventive ways to get around Ragged’s fondness for you.”
“He can try,” Saintly said. “You’re looking rather, aha, nervous, Ashes. Something you’re hiding from me?”
Ashes didn’t twitch—it would have been too obvious—but he did let his grip around the coin tighten. “What’re you doing out here anyway?”
“Looking for somebody, mate,” Saintly said calmly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a pair of Broken Boys checking an alley across the street. “Ragged’s got work he needs done.”
“Perhaps you ought get to it, then,” Ashes said.
Saintly drew his knife. “I’m getting to it just fine,” he said. “Tell me. Somebody come by this way? Bleeding out her belly? She’d stick in your memory, I reckon.”
“Nobody here for you, Saintly,” Ashes said.
Saintly met his eyes and grinned. “You’re lying to me.” Saintly took a slow step forward. “I suspect Ragged wouldn’t be fussed if I had to kill you. In the, aha, course of my duty, you see.”
“I don’t—”
Saintly grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall, pressing the knife against Ashes’s neck. Ashes yelped as Jacob’s coin flew from his hand, landing heavily in the mud.
Saintly glanced at it and grinned. “Aww, Ashes,” he said. “There’s a handy secret.”
“Oi—”
“This’ll buy me all manner of pleasant things,” Saintly said, picking up the coin without taking his eyes off Ashes. “Bet this buys something lovely and warm from the Silken.”
“Saintly!” someone called.
Saintly winked at Ashes and twirled the knife. “Enjoy your night, Ashes. I look forward to the next time we see each other.” He gave a wide smile full of satisfaction, and he left.
Ashes ground his teeth convincingly until Saintly had gone. He checked the street, and it was empty. “You can come out now.”
The girl’s face emerged from the darkness deep in the alley. She had gotten even paler. Ashes hurried to her and helped her stand.
“Thanks,” she said, offering him his coat back.
“Keep it,” Ashes said. He helped her toward the street. “We got to find shelter for you before dark.”
She shook her head. “Need to be back tonight,” she said. “Can you get me to the Boreas border?”
“Eh,” he said, feeling his stomach jump. He’d have to doss in one of the hideaway holes rather than return to the Fortress; Blimey would worry, but it wouldn’t be the first time Ashes had been gone all night.
“So you really work for the Lass,” Ashes said.
“Don’t bandy it about,” she said. “But yes.”
“Why’s Ragged got his boys after you?”
The girl’s mouth drew into a thin line.
“C’mon, then,” Ashes said. “Least you can do, now I’m out a gold crown saving your life.”
“It’s not saved yet,” she muttered.
“Don’t talk like that.” Ashes kept his voice firm and confident. The worst thing the girl could do now was give up. “You’ve made it this long, haven’t you? Wound like that would’ve killed you by now if it meant to.”
The girl grimaced. “How fortunate am I to have been saved by a honest-to-Faces doctor. Which of the colleges took you on so young?”
“Ha bloody ha,” Ashes said. “Keep on making jokes, miss. That’ll do you fine.”
They walked on a little farther, and finally the girl said, “I was trying to steal from Mr. Ragged. Got in under the fence, there’s a weak spot beneath the bars. I climbed up to his room.”
“What were you trying to steal?”
“His Glamour.” The girl shuddered.
Ashes’s eyes widened. “Mr. Ragged ha
s—?”
“That’s all I’m saying on it,” she said sharply. “And I’ll thank you not to ask me any more. You’re more than repaid for your coin.”
Ashes frowned, but decided not to press her for more detail. “I heard you scream.”
“Trap,” she said. “Should’ve known better.”
“Why’s Bonnie want it?”
Her jaw clenched. “Who was the boy?”
“Saintly Francis,” Ashes replied. “A more dangerous bastard you’re not like to meet.”
The girl laughed low in her throat. “I’ve met a lot.”
“Not like Saintly, you haven’t,” Ashes said.
Darkness had claimed the streets by the time they reached the border of Boreas. “Will you be all right from here?” Ashes asked.
“I know my way about,” she said, taking her arm off Ashes’s shoulders and wincing as she put her weight on her leg. Ashes couldn’t be certain, but it seemed that some of her color had come back since they’d been walking. That was good. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ashes said, and paused. “Er—well, actually, do mention it. To the Lass, if you can. Might come a night I show up on your doorstep begging for help.”
The girl smiled weakly. “Take care.”
She limped into the Boreas fog, disappearing in mere moments. Ashes watched her go, feeling vaguely worried. She seemed well enough, but how far could she get without anyone to help her? He felt he ought to have taken her all the way to the Lass’s hideout, but knew the girl wouldn’t have let him come.
He didn’t have time to worry over her anyway. There were police in Boreas who’d be only too pleased to throw him in the Basty for daring to walk about after dark without an iron name. He turned and made swiftly for the bolthole in Lowrens Street.
He reached it just as the howls began. The entrance to the hole was smaller than he remembered, barely large enough for him to fit, and the space within was so cramped he’d have to hug his knees all night long.
Ashes mulled the girl’s words as he crawled inside the bolthole. Did she really work for Bonnie the Lass, or had it just been a ploy to get his help? He couldn’t help but admire the strategy in that. Burroughsiders’ love for Bonnie bordered on worship. Very few would have neglected an opportunity to help one of the Lass’s agents.
But even if she did serve Bonnie, would the girl feel any duty to return Ashes’s favor? He’d saved her life, but gratitude was unreliable. He had no bargaining power, no leverage.
If the girl had been lying about who she worked for, or—worse—felt no loyalty to him, and he and Blimey arrived to beg shelter from the Lass, what would happen? Would Bonnie kill them? Dismiss them? Tie them up and send them back to Ragged?
Ashes couldn’t stand the thought of wagering Blimey’s freedom on the honesty and goodwill of an admitted thief. No, he needed a trump card . . .
The Ravager howls began outside, but Ashes could hardly hear them. An idea had burgeoned in his head, something audacious and absurd. He needed a trump card—and apparently one was lying around in Mr. Ragged’s bedroom, just waiting to be stolen.
THE closest thing Burroughside had to a holiday was Bruisemaker Eve, though it differed significantly from Ivorish holidays. Firstly, it occurred more often: each month, an hour before sundown on New Moon’s Night. Instead of commemoration, its primary purpose was to pit two combatants—occasionally lone fighters, but more usually crews—against one another in brutal, but rarely lethal, combat. Thus, rather than the exchange of tokens, terms, and trinkets of affection, it involved the pounding of skulls against stones, knuckles against teeth, and knees against groins.
It was universally agreed that this holiday fit Burroughside the way a knife fits a wound.
Sixteen boys stood in the bloodstained courtyard of Ragged House. Eight belonged to John Flint’s Kidney-Punchers, a crew of thugs who cornered people in alleys and broke bones until money fell out; the rest came from Charle Find-alone’s Hangmen, wiry second-story boys who specialized in picking window-locks, slithering down chimneys, and scaling buildings. Their profession favored the small; the tallest of Charle’s fighters wasn’t eye-level with even one of the Kidney-Punchers.
Outside Ragged’s vicious fence, Burroughside had gathered in force: the spectacle of Bruisemaker Eve drew them irresistibly. Something about seeing teeth punched in—occasionally, if you were lucky, teeth belonging to someone who’d bullied, spat on, or stolen from you—struck a deep chord in the Burroughsider heart. Many had been victim to Flint’s Kidney-Punchers once or twice; they jeered boisterously, though very few were bold enough to fling more than uncouth names.
Behind Ragged House, dressed in the darkest clothes he could find, Ashes crept toward the back of the fence. His step was quick and quiet, though the Bruisemaker audience would have buried the sound even if he had shouted. Dirt and mud were smeared on his cheeks, darkening his skin enough that he wouldn’t stand out in the twilight.
Ragged’s fence looked just as imposing in the back as it had in the front. The wire and poisoned needles twined at the top. The bars were too close together even for Ashes to squeeze through. Fortunately, if the girl had been telling the truth, Ashes wouldn’t have to worry about either of those details. He was more concerned with the ground.
The crowd outside the courtyard roared, presumably in response to Mr. Ragged stepping onto the porch. This, like the spitting and the jeering, was traditional; no one dared stay silent when Mr. Ragged arrived. Ashes tensed at the explosion of sound, but kept searching. The gap had to be here somewhere.
The crowd quieted as Ragged addressed them. Ashes couldn’t hear his words, but he knew the thrust of what was said. “I keep you safe from the police and Denizens and the Gleaming Law, because I’m just so bloody kind. And all I ask in return is a few of your coins to make certain the place still runs, and all the right bribes get to all the right places. Remember that, will you? My tax may hurt, but it’s only here to help you.”
“So long as I doesn’t get too bored,” Ashes thought bitterly.
He kept searching for the weak spot under the fence. He had reasoned, after he returned to the Fortress that morning, that the girl’s entry point had to be here in the back; Carapace would have seen her sneaking in if she’d gone through the front yard. He recognized there was a possibility that Mr. Ragged’s servants had found the gap and repaired it since last night, and if they had, he was right back where he started. But it had only been a day; Ashes had to hope that wasn’t enough time to find the breach and fix it. There were, after all, so many places it could be—which, of course, might be just as much a problem for him as it had been for Ragged.
The ground shifted beneath his feet. He bent and tested the ground; one of the stones was loose, just enough to give him a few extra inches of space.
He shifted the stone and lay on his back, squirming beneath the poles. They dug into his stomach, doubtless leaving bruises behind, but their ends were neither sharp nor tipped with poison, and for that he was grateful. He wriggled halfway through, and with a great push he slithered inside. He stayed crouched as he pulled the broken stone back to its former resting place, then sprinted to the side of the house and flattened himself against it. He heard no cries of alarm or recognition, only assorted shouts from the Bruisemaker Eve contestants.
Ashes breathed deeply, willing his heart not to pound too hard. He wouldn’t be capable of much at all if he couldn’t think straight.
The girl had said she’d climbed to Ragged’s room, hadn’t she? Ashes looked up and his gut twisted. Mr. Ragged’s bedroom was on the second floor, near the back. Now that he looked, he could just see a series of bricks jutting out of the corner of the house, forming tenuous handholds. The path ended several feet away from a window—enough to jump, but not easily.
Quick and fearless, he thought, and leapt for the first brick. His fingers grasped at it, catching it just enough for him to swing another hand on. He pressed his feet against the wall and
scrambled upward, catching the next handhold with his full palm. By the third handhold he had a feeling for the motion he needed, and swung quickly, boosting himself with his momentum.
He tried to time his movement with the roar of the crowd, figuring they’d be less likely to spot him if they were focused on Charle and Flint. It sounded as if the Hangmen were giving at least as much as they got. Good—the longer they could make a fight of it, the more time Ashes had to—
His fingers missed the last brick.
He clutched his previous handhold tightly just in time, and found himself dangling from it with his stomach in his throat. It took him several hasty breaths before he found enough composure to place his off-hand on the wall and force his body into a better position. Heartbeat still thudding in the sides of his head, he waited.
The crowd had gone strangely quiet. Had he taken too long? Bruisemaker fights rarely lasted more than fifteen minutes. Desperately, he lunged for the last handhold, getting a firm grip just as he heard a Burroughsider’s voice around the corner: “Take him, Charle!”
This was followed by a brief silence, and then a roar—of indignation or pride, Ashes couldn’t tell.
He gulped a deep breath, knowing he had precious little time. The gap between him and the windowsill made his head spin: it looked to be nearly three feet. Not an intimidating gap—unless you were two stories up.
Quick and fearless, he reminded himself again, and jumped.
The empty air welcomed him. For a moment—it seemed long enough for him to take a breath—he seemed to hang there, supported by nothing, as if his body had forgotten how to fall.
The windowsill reared up in front of him. One hand snatched at it clumsily and missed—
His other hand latched on like the jaws of a predator. He swung from the sill madly, bashed his knee against the wall, and then got his second hand on the sill. He forced his torso onto the ledge, and heard Ragged’s voice coming from the courtyard, announcing the winner.
Move!
He pressed a flat palm against the window, expecting it to be latched. Instead, it swung open with just the slightest creak. A noxious stink struck his nose, and he had to force himself not to jerk backward. He reached inside the window and tugged himself forward, forcing his belly over the ledge. A moment later, he spilled face-first onto the floor.
The Facefaker's Game Page 6