The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “Not— Well, no,” Ashes said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer you, lad,” Jacob said. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Although . . .”

  “Although what?”

  The Artificer looked at Ashes with the skeptical, curious look of someone appraising goods at a market. Ashes felt very small, being looked at like that. Small and young and foolish.

  Then the man walked to the bookcase on the opposite wall and plunged a hand through one of the books as if it weren’t there—which, Ashes reminded himself, it wasn’t.

  Jacob pulled something from the hidden space behind the books; he turned around holding a small box made of glass or, rather, something that was almost glass. It was frosty blue, and webbed with thin, lightning-white veins. There were no seams, no lid or hinges, and it was hollow. Inside was a viscous silver fluid.

  Jacob brought it to the table, and as it came closer Ashes could see that the liquid within was unlike anything he knew. It moved, constantly and of its own will: expanding and shifting like a cloud of smog without losing its glossy, smooth texture. With each shift, it assumed a new, vaguely familiar shape. One moment it had the face of a woman; then it became a horse and carriage; then the prow of a ship cresting a wave. For the barest fraction of a second, it was Ashes’s own face.

  Jacob set the box on the table, and the instant he removed his hand from the glass, the liquid collapsed onto the bottom of the box. It was perfectly still.

  Jacob sat and folded his hands together, eyeing the box warily. “This box was made at least two and a half centuries ago,” he said. “It may be twice as old as that. There are not more than fifty like it in the wide world. If you break it, or damage it, or in any way cause it harm, your hands are forfeit. Do you understand me?”

  Ashes gulped. He nodded.

  “Put your hand on top,” the Artificer commanded. “Gently.”

  Ashes set his palm on the glass. He shivered at the touch; it was much colder than he expected. The silver fluid remained pooled at the bottom, placid except for a single ripple that bloomed in the center.

  “Now close your eyes.”

  Ashes hesitated. The Artificer looked at him.

  “I’ve no intent to harm you,” Jacob said. “And your sight wouldn’t keep you safer, even if that were the case.”

  Ashes closed his eyes. It made him feel fidgety and nervous, but he forced himself to stay still.

  “Good. Hmm . . . are you an orphan, Francis Odd? Do you remember your parents?” Jacob asked.

  Ashes cracked one eye. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Answer the question. And close both eyes.”

  “Don’t remember them.”

  “Shame. Emotional connections make it easier.”

  “What?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “What?” Ashes said again.

  “Your home. Where you sleep. Where is it?”

  “Burroughside.”

  “But what does it look like?”

  “No business of yours!”

  Jacob laughed. “Very well. Leave that, then. Tell me something about you, Francis Odd.”

  “I’m starting to think you’re off your rook. That count?”

  “You give new meaning to the term ornery,” Jacob said drily.

  Ashes thought that sounded like the kind of word Blimey would say, and just as he thought it the glass box sent a current of lightning through his fingers. He snatched back his hand and opened his eyes to see the silver fluid pressed against the top of the box. The liquid fell back down almost immediately, but not before Ashes glimpsed the shape it had taken: Blimey’s face.

  “Ah,” Jacob said. “How intriguing.”

  “What was that?”

  “Evidence. Rather compelling evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  The Artificer did not reply except to look at Ashes. His expression had taken on the opaque blankness experienced card sharps wore when they played each other, when a bluff could be as incriminating as a tell.

  “What’s it mean?” Ashes asked again.

  The Artificer didn’t even look as if he’d heard the question. “What’s your name, lad?” he asked softly. The man’s voice had gone strangely flat, the vocal equivalent of his unreadable face. “Don’t lie to me. Pretend the answer to this question is important.”

  Ashes swallowed. He sensed danger, but he couldn’t be sure just what kind, or why it had come now. “Ashes. Sir.”

  Jacob’s eyes widened, a momentary crack in his mask. “My gods. You’re rasa.”

  Ashes nodded. “Been in the city three years, or near it. No memory of before that, not even the name I had.”

  “Why Ashes?”

  “I was coated in coal and dust and such, when they found me,” he said. “From the factories.”

  “By my blood and bone,” the man said. “Well . . . Ashes . . . one good turn deserves another. You may call me Candlestick Jack.” He stood again, looking faintly perturbed. “I think we could reach an arrangement.”

  Then he walked through the solid wall behind him.

  Ashes blinked, and then, reminding himself what the man was, followed.

  YOU’RE not wrong that I’m in the market for certain . . . extralegal services,” Jacob—Candlestick Jack—said as Ashes passed through the false wall onto a stairway leading down. “Of the breaking, entering, deceiving, and swindling variety. And there’s a very good chance I could make use of you in those, if you’re as clever as I take you to be.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Jack plucked a key from his pocket and slid it inside a lock that looked far too small to fit it. Even more Glamours; the man took his hidden staircase seriously.

  “Why?” Ashes asked. “Two minutes ago you didn’t want nothing to do with me.”

  “They have been two very enlightening minutes,” Jack said as he opened the door.

  The room beyond gave an impression of great space that was nevertheless filled to the brim. Tall shelves lined the walls, every inch covered with an assortment of knickknacks: multitudes of rings, necklaces, hats, ruffs, scarves, folded capes and robes and jackets, ribbons, large keys, small keys, wood-carvings, pocket-watches, woven baskets, playing cards, bricks, bird feathers, alchemist’s bottles, dreamcatcher jars, bright metal gears, and one flintlock pistol. Every item had a neatly written label, though written in some opaque code. Ashes was struck with the impression that he’d stumbled into the largest magpie’s nest in the world.

  Two tables stood in the center of the room, each covered with curious metal tools and bulging ledgers. The only other furniture was a cabinet at the end of the room, and, in the corner, a grandfather clock big enough for Ashes to sleep inside.

  “What do you think?”

  Jack was watching his face, evaluating his reaction. “There’s a lot of stuff in here,” Ashes admitted.

  “Anchors,” Jack said, walking toward the tables. “At least, that’s what any half-decent Artificer would call them. To the uninitiated, everything is Glamours.”

  “Eh?”

  “Anchors,” Jack said, and then recited: “Solid objects with the capacity to retain a construct for a period of time. As opposed to Glamours, which haven’t existed for centuries.”

  Ashes frowned. “I don’t—”

  “I know you don’t,” Jack said. He plucked one of the ledgers from its pile and began leafing through it absently. “But you will, very soon.”

  Ashes nodded, distracted by a delicate, expensive-looking vase. A piece of him—a rapidly shrinking piece—wondered how many of these Anchors he could steal, and whether he’d be paid well for it.

  “Sir—” he began, but Jack made a cutting motion with one hand.

  “No more of that,” Jack said. “No ‘sir’ or ‘milord’ or ‘goodly gentleman.’ I’m Jack, and you’re Ashes. Let’s have a bit of honesty between liars, eh? Down here, certainly.”

  “I still don’t under
stand what’s going on,” Ashes admitted.

  “I should think you’d understand rather quickly, sharp boy like you,” Jack said. He let out a soft “Aha!” and snapped the ledger shut, then whirled toward one of the shelves. “I take it you’ve already realized that every one of these items is, in one way or another, magical?”

  “All of them?”

  “Every single one,” Jack said. “Some have been done under contract. Some for practice or personal enjoyment. Still others are there in anticipation of when I may need them. Then, of course, comes my apprentice’s handiwork, which is . . . voluminous, all things considered.” He selected one of the items on a high shelf and turned around, bringing it back to the table. “Any given one costs close to ten crowns to make.”

  Ashes’s eyes widened without his permission. Ten crowns was an almost unthinkable sum. More money than he’d collect in a good year of begging and thieving. And everything in this room was worth that much . . .

  “Delightful,” Jack said. “You can be shocked. That’s good—you ought to understand how much money is around you right now. Because if you work for me, and work well, I can make you wealthy enough that you would scorn the very thought of pinching my Anchors. Do you understand?”

  Ashes nodded.

  “Good. The next thing you should know is that I don’t intend to give you easy work.” Jack slid the item he’d gotten off the shelf across the table. It was a pocket-watch, polished to a high sheen. “Open it,” Jack commanded.

  Ashes clicked the clasp. The watch-face within was gorgeously made, constructed of silver and pure white stone. An image sprang from it as the cover moved aside: a woman, no taller than Ashes’s thumb, with her hands held over her head in a graceful arch. She stood on tiptoe, one leg outstretched in a balletic pose. The miniature dancer wore a slender purple dress and an expression of concentration. She traveled slowly around the center of the watch-face, revolving on one foot as she did. The detail was astounding. Her hair, dark as a raven wing, had strands that floated away from the rest. Her nose was small in proportion to her face, and turned up just a little. He could even distinguish her dark eyelashes.

  “My apprentice brought me this,” Jack said, “as an application to study here. Synder. You’ll meet her. She’s smarter than you.”

  “It’s pretty,” Ashes said skeptically. “What’s it got to do with me?”

  Jack’s eyes gleamed as he snapped the watch shut and strode to the wall opposite from where they’d entered. He banged on the wall with one fist. “William!” he shouted. “I know you’re awake.”

  “Never,” came a reedy voice, “has such knowledge been so brazenly leveraged as blackmail.”

  “Pull your face out of the sink and come meet our newest woebegone,” Jack commanded, and returned to the table.

  A wooden panel in the wall slid to one side. The man who ducked through it was tall, narrow-shouldered, with his mouth turned down in a faint grimace. “It boggles the mind to think how little consideration you give to simple hygiene.”

  Ashes peered at the newcomer with unabashed rudeness. The man had a papery face, devoid of all color, as if it had been permanently drained of blood. His hair, too, was pure white, and hung to his shoulders. Strangely, though, he looked quite young. Apart from his coloring he seemed no older than Jack. He wore a crisp, well-tailored suit, blue as a moonlit night.

  “You can get back to them in a bit,” Jack replied. “I figured now would be a good time for you to meet the new fool in our fold.”

  Ashes shot him a look, but Jack’s gaze was fixed on the pale man. Ashes looked at him, too, and found blank blue eyes staring at him.

  “He is canted?” William asked.

  “Quite,” Jack said. “I’d venture he’s a Stitcher, though it’s early to tell.”

  William lifted an eyebrow; the motion looked awkward and ungainly on his face, like a heavyset man trying to dance. “You summoned me from my ablutions to inflict a student on me, Weaver? Have I offended you recently? Or am I paying for some past sin?”

  “Be nice, Will.”

  The man placed a hand in front of Ashes; it looked so mechanical that Ashes took fully three seconds to realize it was a handshake. “I surmise it is considered to be a pleasure, child. I am William, called the Wisp.”

  “Ashes,” the boy replied. The man’s hand was cool and smooth. It reminded Ashes powerfully of metal, or old, worn wood.

  William looked at Jack. “Satisfied?” the pale man asked, and Jack nodded. William said, “I shall take my leave, then,” turned sharply around, and returned from where he’d come. Jack chuckled as the man left.

  “What just happened?” Ashes asked.

  “I thought it would be good to get the shock out of the way as quickly as possible.”

  “He did seem . . . very strange,” Ashes said.

  “Hmm? Oh! Ha! No, sorry, for him.” Jack grinned. “I suppose it’s shocking for you as well. So that’s good.”

  “He’s an Artificer?”

  “Canted from his first breath,” Jack said proudly. “Just, it seems, as you are.” He gave Ashes a calculating look, one the boy couldn’t decipher.

  “What are you on about?” Ashes demanded. “What’s canted? And why’m I down here? What’s going on?”

  “So many questions,” Jack said, his eyes shining. “Canted is an old word, from back before the Queens took over Teranis.” Jack met his eyes. “It means ‘gifted.’ You are down here, my odd young rasa, because you are an Artificer. Tip to top.”

  Ashes frowned. “That can’t be right. I’ve never done any of those things you said—pulling light, and that.”

  “Some Artificers don’t manifest for a long while,” Jack said, waving a hand. “And maybe being rasa delayed your development a bit. The important thing is, you have it. You’re made of the same stuff as the folk who built this city, Ashes. The ones who forged every brick and building out of nothing but their thoughts and their magic. Just as I am. Just as Will and Synder and Juliana are.” He held up his hand and dragged his finger through the air. The lamplight spooled around it, leaving behind a jagged shadow, like a tiny rip in the world. “In sum, Ashes, it means I’ll take you on. Courier, thief, cardsharp—I’ll find some use for someone of your abilities. And I’ll do you one better: I’ll teach you to use that cant of yours. Stick with me, lad, and I’ll make you into someone this city will fear.” Jack grinned widely. “If you’ll have us, of course. Will’s scared students off before.”

  If Ashes had not spent three years learning to keep his face blank, he might have shouted. “I—I think . . .”

  “I should mention as well that I’m willing to reimburse you for living arrangements,” Jack said carefully. “Five lumin a week should keep you safe from the cold.” He thrust out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  Even Ashes’s blank face couldn’t withstand it. He grinned and shook the Artificer’s hand once, firmly. “Eh. I think we do.”

  IT was perhaps an hour before dawn; the eastern sky was blushing light blue, the fog on the streets receding. Ashes had crossed into Burroughside nearly twenty minutes ago, and heard no howls yet, but that hardly made him feel safe as he hurried toward the Fortress. Older Burroughsiders would swear blind that if you needed to move through the district at night, New Moon’s was best for it: the Ravagers roamed only in ones and twos, rather than packs. Still, even a single Ravager would be more than enough against Ashes in his current state. So he kept a sharp eye, trying not to let his mind wander.

  Half an hour’s cautious travel got him safely to the Fortress. The witch-healing’s side effects, compounded now by exhaustion, nearly prevented him from grasping the bottom rung of the ladder. Even when he had hold of it, climbing to the top left him with a stitch in his side. Dull fire seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside his legs.

  Ashes had barely twisted the doorknob before it was wrenched from his hands. Blimey stood on the other side, face flooded with relief. “Ashes!” he exclaime
d.

  “Morning,” Ashes said. He didn’t bother to hide his grin.

  “You’re alive! Where’ve you been?”

  “Time for questions later, mate,” Ashes said. “Just now, we got to move.”

  Blimey stared at him, confused, and Ashes took him by the shoulders.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” he swore. “Soon as we’re safe. We’ve got to get somewhere else fast.”

  “Why’re we not safe?”

  “You trust me, Blimey?” Ashes asked. The boy nodded without a moment’s hesitation. “Then wrap your face up. We’re leaving.”

  Blimey’s bed quickly shrank as they repurposed the rags into a makeshift mask; Ashes had no intention of letting Blimey’s face be seen even in passing. In mere minutes, Blimey’s features were entirely obscured except his mismatched eyes; even the strange shape of his head was mostly hidden. His ears still looked lumpy.

  “Come on, then,” Ashes ordered, but Blimey didn’t follow. He turned to his collection of books.

  “Blimey,” Ashes said wearily, “no.”

  “I need them.” Blimey’s voice trembled, and so did he.

  “We can’t carry those down.” Ashes tried to be firm, though he hated himself for doing it. “It’ll take too much time, and we got to get there fast. Before sunup.”

  “Are the Ravagers out there?”

  “Neh. I checked. Not a one I’ve seen.”

  Blimey shook again, looking fit to have a seizure. Ashes’s gut twisted. He hated to separate Blimey from all his books. It was all the worse for the fact that he had no reason to leave except a suspicion that Saintly might seek him out here. He and Blimey weren’t in explicit danger, not yet, but they would be certainly safer elsewhere.

  Ashes sighed. “Blimey, look. I know you hate to leave them, but we can’t stick around here. You can pick one, all right? But you got to do it now. We got to go.”

  Blimey let out a small noise, one Ashes hated to hear, and pulled the tome of new words out of the pile, along with a slim volume Ashes didn’t recognize. Ashes eyed them both skeptically as Blimey produced a long strip of cloth and fashioned it into a makeshift sack around his books.