The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “That looks heavy.”

  “I can’t leave it,” Blimey said. He sounded steady now. Firm.

  “It’ll slow us down.”

  “I’ll not leave it!”

  Ashes could talk him out of it, but not quickly, and they couldn’t afford to lose the dark. “All right. Come on.”

  “You’re properly mad, boy,” Batty Annie said only a moment after she opened her door.

  “Miss,” Ashes said, “please. I promise we’ll be worth your trouble.”

  “You know what time it is, facefaker?”

  “Arse-off o’clock?”

  “Precisely that,” Annie said. “Exactly bloody that.”

  “Miss, you know I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t an emergency,” Ashes said. Her hand was still on the doorknob, prepared to shut the door in his face. “Please. We need someplace to hide, and you’re the best I’ve got. I can pay.”

  She jerked her head at Blimey’s mask. “What’s under there?”

  Ashes nodded to Blimey, who peeled the cloth upward so Annie could see his face. “Hello, miss,” he said, clear but quiet.

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed; Ashes saw the brief spark of recognition, though Annie dimmed it quickly. She grabbed Ashes by the collar and yanked him forward, so that they were nearly nose to nose. Ashes controlled himself before he let his nose wrinkle. “This is what you bring to my door? At five o’clock in the Furied morning?”

  “You’re the only one I can trust, Annie,” Ashes whispered. “No lies. No faking. If Ragged knew he was here, he’d burn Burroughside down to get at him.”

  “That supposed to compel me to let him houseroom?”

  “Yes,” Ashes said nervously. “Who else’d take someone in just to thumb their nose at Ragged?”

  Annie let his collar go and took a step back. There was a bright, frightening light in her look. “You look like you ought to be dead.”

  “Ought to be. It didn’t take.” He held up five lumin, Jack’s down payment on his services. “How’ll this serve?”

  The witchy woman stared at him a moment longer before taking the coin from him. “Follow on.”

  She led them briskly inside, through a densely packed sitting room and a small kitchen. “You can stay in the room at the bottom. Meals are twice daily, dawn and dusk. You miss them, you find your own.” At the end of the hall, she opened a creaking door to a staircase leading down. Blimey glanced at Ashes, then walked quietly into the dark. Ashes paused at the top.

  “You found a place for Jennie Trembly yet?” he asked the woman.

  “Yes,” she said. “And no, I’ll not tell you where, owing as it’s none of your damned business, boy.”

  “I don’t need to know. But thank you.”

  “Hold just a moment,” she said, snatching his wrist. “Mind me. You’re not wrong I enjoy tweaking Ragged’s corset. But nor’m I stupid. Seems to me you and your ward’ve got some semblance of targets on your backs, and I don’t intend to burn for you. Come Festivale, you’re gone from here.”

  The new year—only four months away. Ashes put on a charming smile. “Come, now, miss—”

  “Gone. From. Here. You heard all those words, facefaker? They made sense to you?”

  Ashes gritted his teeth and nodded.

  “Good. Keep yourself to yourself and we’ll get on famous.” She left with a swish of her dress.

  The room at the bottom of the stairs was small and dank, lit only by a single candle in an alcove. There was a single bed in the corner, and a shoddy desk, on which Blimey had already placed his two books. Blimey himself sat on the bed, looking pensively at the wall.

  Ashes eyed the space. “We’ll have to share the bed,” he said. “I don’t expect I’ll use that desk much, that’s yours. That’s probably the water closet down—”

  He stopped when he saw Blimey’s face.

  “What’re you on about?” Ashes asked.

  “Do we gotta stay here?”

  “No other place,” Ashes said firmly. “Batty Annie’ll take care of us, Blimes. She’s scary and she’s strange, but we’ll be safe. That’s sure.”

  “Safe from what?” Blimey’s voice cracked on the last word. His fingers were shaking. “What’s going on, Ashes? First you’re appearing out of nowhere after you’re gone all night. And then we got to leave the Fortress, and leave all the books behind, and now we’re— What are we doing? Why’re we here?”

  Ashes hesitated. How much could he tell Blimey? His friend was smart, certainly, but fragile, too. Ashes would not inflict nightmares on him. It was bad enough that Ashes dreamed of Saintly’s knife every night.

  “You just have to trust me,” Ashes said. “There’s—there’s just been some trouble, is all. I figured we ought to lay low a span.”

  “Is it Ragged?” Blimey asked softly.

  “Yes,” Ashes said, before he could think better of it.

  “He took my pardon back,” Blimey said. “Didn’t he? He decided he wants me dead again.”

  The conclusion struck Ashes out of nowhere, but he hid his shock. Where had Blimey come up with that idea?

  “I knew he wouldn’t leave us,” Blimey admitted. “We were lucky he let us be as long as he did.”

  “I guess we were,” Ashes said slowly. “How come you knew?”

  “I just did,” Blimey said. He seemed to shrink into himself then, retreating behind some wall in his mind. Ashes decided not to press him.

  “It’s not all bad,” Ashes said. “We won’t stay here forever. And—I met someone while I were out. An Artificer as wants me to work for him.”

  Blimey’s eyes went wide as wheel hubs. “You speaking true?”

  “Eh. I had to convince him some.”

  “What’s he want you for?”

  “Dunno yet. Sneak-thieving, probably. Says he’ll make me rich. And . . .” He paused. He almost wanted not to tell Blimey; what if it was a dream? “And he says he’ll teach me how to do what he does. Make Glamours.”

  Something shifted in Blimey’s expression, almost unnoticeable. His eyes were hungry.

  “You telling me truly?”

  “I am,” Ashes said. “Come a day when I’ll make Glamours for both of us and we’ll walk out of this place like real Ivories, all right? But meantime, we got to stay here. I know it’s not where you want to be, but it’s where you’re safe. That’s what matters right now.”

  Blimey looked around the room. He bunched up the blanket in his fists. “I don’t . . . I don’t have any books.”

  “I’ll bring you some, mate,” Ashes said. “We just got to stay safe a while. Till there’s nobody coming for us.”

  THE carriage was pulled by four horses, each so dark it blended into the murk of the Teranis evening. They were massive beasts, glossy and beautiful, impressive even if an observer knew nothing about horses. Striking, that was the word. The carriage they pulled was striking, too, painted midnight black with silvery accents on its sides. It eased forward on wheels that made no noise, except for a soft whisper as they traversed the cobbles.

  It was an extravagant mode of travel, the sort of carriage someone would buy to send a message. I’m richer than you. Just look at my horses.

  Its owner sat within, a corpulent man dressed in fine silk and velvet. He wore a goatee, the sort only seen on people with enough money and pride to avoid honest friends. He was balding at the top, but one would never know it: he wore a gold earring specifically meant to make his head look lushly decorated. The ring in his pocket, when he put it on, would transform him even further, making him slender and sleek. He did not wear it in the private confines of his carriage; letting one’s Weaving malfunction in public was quite gauche, and he could not afford to be wasteful.

  He jerked upright as the carriage stopped. After a moment of waiting, he banged at the front of the carriage.

  “Henri!” he shouted. “Why aren’t we moving?”

  He heard a thunk, as of something heavy landing on top of his carriage. A ch
ill ran through him, but he was prepared for this. He slid his ring on, and opened the door.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, deciding to take charge of the situation at once. He had built his illusory body to be immediately imposing: the shoulders were broad, the arms rippling with muscle. Its sole use was discouraging a real fight, which he was profoundly unlikely to win.

  Five young men dressed in dark colors surrounded his carriage. They looked at him placidly, and did not reply. None of them seemed concerned that an obvious warrior had just exited the carriage.

  “I will not ask again,” the Artificer snarled, coloring his voice with as much confidence and fury as he could manage.

  “Shouldn’t be expecting you to, goodly sir,” said a young voice from above him. The Artificer jumped and looked up.

  Henri, his driver, fell off the roof of the carriage in two pieces, body and head.

  “Best of eventides, milord,” said the young voice, and a slender boy appeared just next to him. Handsome, he was, with knife-sharp eyes.

  “I know your face,” the Artificer said in shock. “You’re—one of Ragged’s boys, aren’t you?”

  “One of them.”

  “What are you doing here? I was just on my way to meet—” The Artificer looked around, feeling that cold wash of fear in his belly again. “Why did you kill Henri?”

  “Seems to be some corporate espionage going on, sir,” the boy said innocently. “Mr. Ragged’s a little unsatisfied with how you treat your customers.”

  “What? I don’t understand—”

  “You’ll have to forgive me, sir, if I’m not jumping at the chance to trust a man who don’t wear his own face.” The boy gestured, beckoning the other five forward. “Mr. Ragged, aha, sends his best.”

  My old friend,

  I hope sincerely that you still test my letters for hidden Artifice, the way we used to. Otherwise I fear you’ll not see this, and reply a recounting of your holiday which, forgive me, I do not presently crave.

  I daren’t write to you of precisely the circumstances which have led to this letter, for though our methods may seem secure, I have come to fear they are not. The potential consequences of such a breach are worrying enough that I must write circumspectly.

  You will recall the nature of my hobbies, I trust, as well as the need for secrecy that surrounds them. The mere fact of this mention, no doubt, reveals the core of my predicament: I fear someone has discovered them—or, at the very least, set himself on the path to discover them. This alone would make me wary, but it is not all . . .

  I am penny-dreadfuling, aren’t I? Then I shall dispense with these cryptic hints and arrive at the point.

  On my most recent excursion I encountered a boy, not older than fourteen, whom I had met only once before under unusual circumstances (which I shall detail in a later correspondence or when next we meet; I am confident you will find them as intriguing as I have). I took him immediately for a spy, but upon interrogation he seemed harmless, if frighteningly ambitious (he refused to leave when I released him because he wanted to pursue a position in the company—the audacity! I almost hired him for that alone). I have since revised my opinion; he cannot be harmless. He is canted.

  You may mock me for a paranoid fool—Will has already made good on the opportunity—but the boy’s arrival, combined with his determination to work for me and his natural affinity for such work, is far too convenient for my taste. Were I to lay a trap for myself, it would look terribly similar to this.

  Meantime I have taken him on as student and larcener-for-hire. If indeed he has been sent to gather information about me, at least I shall gather information about him and his potential masters.

  And before you chide me, no I do not intend him to find out anything of substance and yes I am being careful—or is the nature of this letter not evidence enough?

  Ever your student,

  Candlestick Jack

  “Ever your student”? I’m coming home at once.

  PART 2

  * * *

  Embers

  THE sun rose fierce and red over Teranis. Slate-gray clouds, thick with the promise of rain, hung heavy over the city. In less than an hour, the sun would slip behind them, not to be seen until tomorrow; but for now it hung between clouds and horizon, like a lamp visible through a cracked door.

  Candlestick Jack stood under the eave of a building on Redchapel Street, staring eastward. He was half a foot shorter than he had been yesterday, with blond hair, a beard, and wire-rimmed spectacles, but Ashes recognized him immediately. Something about the man stayed constant no matter what face he wore. It wasn’t anything Ashes could articulate, not the color or shape of his eyes, or the way he stood, or even the way he moved. But it was there.

  “Good morning, lad,” the Artificer said as Ashes approached. “I hope you slept well. I need you sharp today.”

  Ashes stifled a yawn. “Did m’best, sir.” He stretched his arms as stealthily as he could. “What’re we doing out so early?”

  “Embracing the brisk morning air,” Jack said brightly. “Dawn is the only decent time of day in this city. Dusk is pretty, but sunrise is a kept promise. We went to sleep, and the world went on spinning.”

  Ashes rubbed his face. “Poetry this soon in the day, sir? Seems a bit . . . er, keen.”

  “I’ve told you there’s no need for that.” Jack looked at him sternly. “I’m not sir to you. That sort of courtesy is just an elaborate lie, and I’ll have no lies between us liars.”

  “If you say so. Jack.”

  “Better,” the Artificer said, starting into a brisk walk. “Though it’s unwise to bandy our real names about when we wear false faces. For the morning, I’ll be . . . mm, Richard. You’ll be Francis. Fair enough?”

  Ashes squirmed. “Mite tired of that name.”

  “Roger, then.”

  Ashes nodded. “We really just out for early-morning air?”

  “Is that not reason enough?” Jack smirked. “There are certain opportunities that come about at this time of day, and this time only. I think we should exploit them.”

  Ashes frowned, confused, but Jack went on too quickly. “Dawn and dusk, Roger. Those times belong to us. Enough light for us to use. Not enough to be caught out in our deceit. Tell me everything you know about Artificers.”

  Ashes faltered, off-balance at the suddenness of the question. “Erm—they— Sorry, we make illusions. Glamours. And they can look like anything but they take a long while to make—or I thought they did.”

  “Why do we make illusions?”

  “You can sell them,” Ashes said. “Ivories’ll pay to look pretty.”

  “Why else?”

  “Spies. Assassins. Thieves.”

  “Oh? It seems dangerous to sell illusions to such blatant criminals.”

  Ashes looked at him in confusion, but Jack’s face was impassive. “So you don’t sell to those folk?”

  “Oh, we do,” Jack said. “We just do it cautiously. What else do you know?”

  “You said our ancestors built the city,” Ashes said. “With their magic.”

  “And they did,” Jack confirmed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave your history lessons to Will, though. Anything else?”

  “You stick your Glamours in clothes,” Ashes concluded. “Hats and rings and things.”

  “Well, you are not utterly misinformed,” Jack replied. “I’ll have to do precious little unteaching. We’ll begin with your vocabulary. You and I and my company are Artificers. You will not call us Fishers. We are also, very definitively, not Glamourists.”

  “Don’t we make Glamours?” Ashes asked.

  “That would be something,” Jack said, a note of regret in his voice. “But Glamour hasn’t been done in this city in ages, I’m afraid. The Vanishers are dead and buried. People still call constructs ‘Glamours’ because they’re idiots.”

  “What—?”

  Jack waved a hand. “It’s not a matter to spend time on just now.
You can read up on it, if you like. For now, we focus on more practical matters.”

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, then dragged his fingers through the air. Thin ribbons of light curled around them, leaving shadowy gashes behind. These did not last long; even as Ashes watched, the light around began to seep into the rips, like water flowing into a ravine.

  “Canted Artificers come in two kinds. Breeds, if you want to think of it that way. Weavers and Stitchers. I am a Weaver.”

  He curled his fingers around the light, then opened them to reveal a delicate white bird in his palm. It was perfectly still: it did not breathe or blink or twitch. Ashes watched it hungrily, fascinated.

  “Weavers can manipulate light like clay,” he said. “Most famously, we make faces, but it’s not all we can do.” He flicked his fingers, dispelling the image into trails of light that re-formed around his hand, making his skin seem luminous. “It’s the most visibly impressive magic, and the most taxing. Gilders practice for decades before they can Weave worth half a damn.”

  “Gilders?” Ashes asked.

  “The men and women who imitate our magic,” Jack said. “Anyone can learn to use Artifice if they have the right tools and the mental fortitude it takes to chew bread and walk at the same time. But it takes years, and even the best Gilder can’t do what a canted Artificer can. For instance.” He snapped his fingers. Thirty feet away, a small sunburst of white light erupted over the street. Ashes’s eyes filled with spots, and he had to blink furiously before they faded.

  “Raw light belongs to true Weavers,” Jack said. “We can gather it, shape it, hold it together with our will. Gilders can’t, and Stitchers can only do it with great difficulty.”

  He produced a glass phial from his jacket. The substance inside was colorless, but split the light like a prism. It cast a seven-colored shadow on the road.

  “This is aether,” Jack said. “The most valuable substance in the world, if you’re an Artificer.”