Don’t be an idiot, he told himself. If he turned around now, he would only do something stupid, and both the guards were big enough to turn him inside out. Blimey would be stuck in Batty Annie’s basement forever. He kept walking.
That damn girl! He should have known she was lying about working for the Lass. It had been clever of her to manipulate him that way, but the thought gave him no comfort. He’d been played for a fool. Did the Lass even know Ragged had a Glamour? Perhaps he ought to sell it to Jack for whatever profit it could bring—except that wouldn’t really help, not in the long run. No matter where he and Blimey ran, no matter what faces they put on, they would always be living under Ragged’s shadow unless someone removed him. Bonnie had the power to do it; she only needed a reason, and an advantage. If Ragged was so desperate to keep his Glamour a secret, Ashes would bet anything that Bonnie could put the information to good use.
Ashes turned the corner toward Burroughside, and he was so lost in his thoughts he nearly crashed into the man walking the other way. Ashes sidestepped just in time, barely brushing the man’s long coat. Nevertheless, it earned him a scowl.
“Insolent creature!” the man snapped. “Watch where you step!”
“Watch where—” Ashes stopped when he saw the man’s face. “Er—I mean, I’m sorry, sir.”
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, sir,” Ashes said. “Nothing at all.”
The fellow sneered at him, flicked his cloak, and stalked imperiously into the night. Ashes stared after him, feeling a sudden rush of curiosity: what, exactly, was Elleander Bloom doing in the bleak end of Boreas, and why was he wearing the illusory face Ashes had seen that morning?
He thought of returning to Annie’s, but discarded the thought. His pulse thundered in his head. He could use a bit of distraction.
Ashes followed Bloom at a safe distance, sticking to the darkness and keeping low to the ground, using the fog as a layer of cover. Bloom, for his part, checked over his shoulder every few moments, as if he could sense Ashes’s presence, but he was always obvious about it. Ashes evaded his glances every time.
They entered deeper into Boreas Gutters, a neighborhood Ashes had walked but never really explored. It resembled Burroughside in many ways, though it was better put-together, and every so often Ashes would catch the lamps of the police rather than Ravager howls. The roads grew narrow and restrictive, the buildings looked more and more run-down, and Bloom kept on walking. Finally, he stopped, checked over both shoulders once more, and stepped cautiously into a hushed little building with boarded-up windows and dull light visible through the cracks.
Ashes waited several seconds before he darted toward the building. He crouched beneath the window first, listening intently for voices. He heard nothing and no one. He tried to peek through the boards, but could see nothing but the wall. He grasped the handle of the door.
Reckless, he thought, and turned it anyway.
The room beyond was almost entirely empty, except for a wavering candle in the corner and a thin-faced man sitting beside it. He stared at Ashes impassively.
“Hullo,” Ashes said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You police?”
“They turned me down,” Ashes said reflexively. “I intimidated the other recruits too much, on account of my size.”
The man chuckled. It was a throaty, hoarse noise. “Go on down, then,” he said, tilting his head at the floor. Ashes followed his gaze, but saw nothing except blank wooden slats.
“First time, eh?” the man said. “Don’t be nervous. If you need to learn they’ll teach you. Go on down,” he said again.
Ashes stepped carefully into the center of the room. His foot sank deeply into the floor before it struck something solid. Ashes took another step, and found the next stair. He sank into the floor up to his knees.
The man grinned at him toothily, which was impressive, given that several of his teeth were gone. “Never gets old,” he said.
When Ashes’s head passed through the illusory floor, he let out an involuntary gasp; the entire world had gone totally dark. For a moment, he was back in the sewers, surrounded by the chitterings and hisses of the beasts below—but he shook his head and forced himself to breathe. He reached the bottom of the staircase and groped blindly until he found a doorknob, and turned it with relief.
The smoke struck his nose instantly, and struck his eyes shortly after that. He coughed, shoved his face into his elbow, and looked around. The room was surprisingly large—as big as Jack’s dining room—and filled with beds and cushioned chairs. Nearly a dozen people were scattered throughout; those on the beds looked to be sleeping, while others muttered quietly to each other. Several had pipes in their hands. An opium den.
Ashes spotted Bloom and quickly lost himself among a group of dreamy-eyed smokers. The Artificer was sitting across from someone, a rickety-looking old man with a humped shoulder and fraying, wispy hair. Ashes edged closer to them, trying to catch their conversation.
“. . . a rather diseased sense of humor, Selmanhov,” Bloom was saying.
“Better a sick one than none at all, sir,” replied the old man. His voice was coarse, as tatty as his clothing, and faintly familiar. “It keeps life interesting.”
“How much do you have?”
“Six drachms,” said the old man. “Selling for a pretty penny, too, eh. My boys suffered dear for this take.”
“Funny you should mention your boys,” Bloom said, his voice dropping to a low and threatening growl. “I think I must have run into one this very morning.”
“I don’t take your meaning,” Selmanhov said.
“Then you are far more foolish than I thought,” Bloom snapped. “You stole from me!”
“I have done no such thing!”
“Lies. I left my home this morning with two laden Anchors and a phial full of aether, and found all of it mysteriously absent before noon. Curious, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps you are just absentminded,” Selmanhov suggested.
“Do not take me for an idiot. Return what is mine, and we may continue our business together. Fail to do so . . .” Bloom tried to let the threat hang in the air.
“I did not steal from you,” Selmanhov insisted. “Not I, nor any of mine.”
“Do not—”
“I am not some filthy pickpocket!” The man was visibly angry now; a vein pulsed on his temple, and his voice had become tight and strained. His Errasan accent thickened. “My boys and I are not so stupid. Steal from Artificers in broad daylight? Idiocy! Folly! We may just as wisely dance naked before the Guild!”
“Perhaps,” Bloom said. “And perhaps, Selmanhov, you ought to consider that preying on your customers leaves you naked before the Guild as well.”
“Do not tell me my business,” the old man snapped. “If the Guild discovers me, it discovers you, Elleander. And I am far more adept at disappearing. Now, have you come to do business, or are we to sit here arguing until dawn about who pisses farthest?”
Bloom scowled. “Very well. I will take the six. How much?”
“Seventy-five,” Selmanhov said flatly.
“The poppies have melted your mind. A full phial is fifty.”
“A full phial comes from the Guild.” Selmanhov’s grin was full of satisfaction and pride. “And the Guild does not give lightly, does it, especially if you are foolish enough to lose their gifts? My boys risk their necks for every drop. I risk my fingers to sell it. Seventy-five.”
“Sixty.”
“Seventy-five, boy. Do not play this game with me.”
Bloom’s scowl deepened. He produced a small purse, and even at a distance Ashes could hear the heavy clink it made falling into Selmanhov’s hand. The old man tested the weight of the purse for a moment, opened the bag, and bit into one of the coins. He seemed satisfied.
“A pleasure, Elleander,” he said. He counted out five crowns from the bag and gave them back to Bloom. “A discount, in exchange for your infor
mation. If someone is stealing from my customers, I will put a stop to it. You may rely on it.”
Bloom clenched his jaw and took the coins, standing brusquely. “See that you do,” he said imperiously, and left the room.
Ashes waited before following him out, not wanting to be caught tailing the man. Selmanhov, too, waited as Bloom left the room. After some time, the old man picked up a short wooden cane and got laboriously to his feet. He stumbled toward the door, and something about his movement struck Ashes strangely. He seemed terribly familiar, but Ashes couldn’t place him. He’d never known anyone from the Erras, and the only gray-hair he knew was Ben Roamer. Had he seen Selmanhov somewhere before?
Ashes watched the man closely, determined to understand why he felt so familiar. He took a step closer, trying to peer through the murk and smoke.
Selmanhov reached the door and cast an errant look back at the room, looking faintly suspicious. Ashes ducked closer to the wall and buried himself in the darkness; the old man peered a few moments longer and left.
Ashes’s heart pounded. He did know Selmanhov. He had been difficult to recognize through the makeup and the false hair, but the man underneath was, unmistakably, Candlestick Jack.
WILLIAM’S workroom reeked with a familiar burning, empty stink; Ashes could smell it all the way down the hall. He felt woozy before he reached the doorway.
“You may enter,” William said. He was bent intently over the metal table, back turned to the door. Gleaming silver tools, neatly arranged on a black mat, sat to his left. Whatever was in front of him gave off a faint light, like a shrouded lamp.
Ashes stepped inside the surgery, pinching his nose to keep the smell under control. “Jack left a note,” he said. “He said to find you.”
“I deduced the same from your presence,” William said, voice muffled slightly from a mask hanging over his face. “Ergo, your pronouncement is a waste of time, ergo, you should not have said it.”
Well, Ashes thought. Won’t this be fun.
The Wisp turned to face him. The mask covered his nose and mouth with a dark metal snout; wide, clouded-glass lenses made his eyes look bulbous and strange. Something like iron gleamed on the rims. William pulled the snout down so that his mouth was no longer encumbered before he spoke.
“I will not waste time,” the Wisp said crisply. “Not on the vagaries of Ivorish courtesy. Not on pretending I am glad to have you as a student. We are both mortal. Sleep alone will rob us of a quarter of our lives. I see no reason to fritter away our shrinking span on something as insipid as liking each other, particularly in the service of what is sure to be a thoroughly abortive attempt at education. Am I understood?”
Ashes paused, taking a moment to understand the man’s phrasing. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“I will not repeat myself. If your attention lapses, my time will not be lost reeducating you.”
Ashes didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes, sir.”
“Approach the table.” Ashes did so.
As Ashes came closer, he saw that someone was lying on the table—and realized just as quickly that it wasn’t someone: it was the illusory woman in the ball gown, the construct he had stolen from Elleander Bloom yesterday. The woman was headless; her face was on the other side of the room, floating serenely above a wooden ball. Ashes suppressed a shiver.
William didn’t notice Ashes’s discomfort, or if he did it didn’t bother him. “Reconstitution is the prime skill of a Stitcher,” William intoned. “Weavers are wasteful personalities, as a rule. They use more than they need. Stitchers may recover what has been lost, or renew what has faded. We are not glorified, admired, or sought after. We are crucial.”
Ashes nodded. “Right. How come you took the head off?”
William stared at him. After a moment, he blinked, shook himself a little, and said, “Your syntax is abominable.”
“Eh?”
“Grammar,” William said, “is a fundamental aspect of communication. If you must speak, do so clearly and succinctly.”
Ashes’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.
“Jacob requested that I separate the face from the construct,” William said. “In case it is of use later. The rest is to be reduced to its components, that it may be used now.”
“So we’re regathering the aether from it?”
“Reconstituting,” William replied. He pointed toward a cabinet. “You will find your equipment in there.”
The cabinet was filled with arcane-looking tools set in orderly rows. Ashes recognized some from Jack’s tour yesterday, but there were many new items as well: crystal bowls stacked inside each other, tongs made of silver, and something that looked like a naked telescope made of a dozen monocles of sequential size. These he ignored, scanning the cabinet quickly to locate one of the strange masks.
He found one on the bottom shelf and put it on. Even cinched as tightly as it could go, it was still loose around his skull, and he had to hold it in place with one hand to keep it from sliding down his nose. The mouthpiece turned his breathing whirry, and the lenses made everything look warped. The brightest light in the room came from the construct, a wavering luster of gold that seemed to speckle the man’s masked face.
Ashes approached William’s table again, looking intently at the figure lying there. The woman’s shape hadn’t changed, but he could now see the threads of light that composed it. Most threads were singularly colored, but he spotted several silvery lines that seemed to shift through the spectrum. Aether.
“Inspect the construct,” William commanded. “What do you notice?”
“There’s a lot of aether in it,” Ashes said. “I can’t tell how much, though.”
“Seven drachms,” William confirmed. “Or so I would estimate. Nearly a full phial’s worth. What else?”
“It’s hollow,” Ashes observed. With the mask on, he could see through the voluminous dress to the nothing beneath. It fascinated him; to the naked eye, the construct had looked so lifelike.
“Anything further?”
Ashes shook his head.
“Then we shall begin our task. Grasp the aether.”
Ashes blanched, then nodded. He pressed one hand against the construct, pressing his fingers against the lines until he felt resistance. They were thin, incredibly fragile, but there. He could touch them . . .
He grasped, but the lines turned wispy as he did, resisting his attempt to shape them. He looked at William, who stared back impassively. “Do not seize it,” the Wisp said. “We are not Weavers. We do not grope.”
Ashes tried again, moving his hand slowly. The light slid over his skin, tickled his fingertips, but he couldn’t make it change.
“Bah,” William said. “You think like a Weaver, brash and gaudy. Wasteful.”
Ashes felt his muscles clench. “How’m I supposed to think?”
“Invisibly,” William said. “The best Stitchery is unnoticeable.”
Ashes bit back a retort. He dipped his hand in the light again and closed his eyes. He relaxed.
The threads pulsed beneath his touch, like miniature veins. He could feel the way they twined and twisted. He hooked his finger around one thread and pulled it back with deliberate slowness. The thread went taut, and then limp, as it broke away from the rest of the construct, coming free into Ashes’s hands.
“Face of Cunning,” he swore. “I did it!”
William slid a glass jar across the table. “Adequately done. It belongs in that apparatus there.”
William’s total disinterest couldn’t dull Ashes’s triumph. I’m doing real magic, he thought, stunned. He was canted. One person in a thousand. Not just a clever gutter-rat, not one of Ragged’s playthings. There was power in him, something brilliant and unique. Real magic.
William was staring at him. He looked quizzical, though it was difficult to tell past the cloudy eyepieces embedded in the man’s mask. Ashes realized with a start that he hadn’t responded yet.
“Thanks, sir,” he said.
; “There is no need for gratitude,” William said. “I am simply making note of a situation. You are not utterly talentless.” The Wisp moved briskly back to the construct. “Do not gawk. We have more yet to do.”
They worked for what felt like hours, William plucking strings of aether out of the dress with the ease of long practice, and Ashes tugging them carefully, almost fearfully, out of their sockets. Every line of aether released a wisp of light as it was removed, as if letting out a long-held breath.
Ashes felt sweat beading on his forehead before they were halfway finished. By the time they had reconstituted all the remaining aether, Ashes’s fingers were sore, and there was a persistent ache in his forehead. The false dress lay flat on the table, deflated. Feathery threads of light eked out of it from every edge.
William pulled his mask off. The Wisp did not look even a little tired; he was simply blank.
“You may ask questions of me now,” William said. “If you must.”
“Dun’t think I have any,” Ashes admitted, rubbing his head. “Er—well, actually, there was something Jack said yesterday, about my magic. That I needed to be tuned, or learn how to dance, or—something.”
William inclined his head. “The Weaver speaks in metaphor because he cannot stand to state his point outright,” he said. “Artificers come in two sorts—”
“Right, eh, I know that,” Ashes said. “I was just going to say I didn’t need any tuning to Stitch. So by the seems I’m a—a real Stitcher.”
William’s head tilted. “I beg your pardon?”
“A real Stitcher. Right?”
“Not that,” the Wisp said. “ ‘By the seams’?”
“You not familiar? It means ‘by the looks of things.’ ”
“I am quite familiar, child,” William said. “I have studied your Ivorish language at greater length and with greater dedication than the vast majority of your scholars. But you misuse the term.”
“I don’t,” Ashes said, bristling. “People say that all the time.”
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