The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “Do you know how to play, Blimey? I can teach you, if you don’t.”

  Blimey swallowed. “You’re a— You’re a Glamourist.”

  Synder gave him a shy smile. “More or less. Still just a journeyman, though. I only have my practicing license.”

  “You’re magic,” Blimey breathed, and turned to Ashes. “Did you see? She’s magic!”

  “Ashes has it, too,” Synder said.

  “Sure,” Blimey said, “but he’s never done something like that.”

  “Well, he’s still learning.” Synder beckoned Blimey to sit across from her. “Come on, then. Want to learn the game of kings?”

  Blimey nodded enthusiastically.

  “All right,” Synder began. “We’ll start from the outside in. This here is Tower, then Iron Knight, then Artificer, then Queen . . .”

  They left nearly two hours later. Blimey bid them farewell cheerfully, failing to hide an eagerness to return to his new game. Synder had beaten him soundly three matches in a row, but each had been harder-fought than the last. Blimey stopped asking questions about what he was and wasn’t allowed to do halfway through the first game, and by the end of the last he’d been matching Synder move for move. He would have won, too, were it not for Synder’s clever gambit in the last few turns.

  Synder warned him the pieces wouldn’t last forever. The board would disappear whenever he folded up the handkerchief, but since the pieces didn’t truly fit anywhere, they wouldn’t stop glowing. No construct could keep its form forever; they would disappear eventually.

  Blimey had nodded dutifully at her advice, but it was clear he didn’t care much how long they lasted. What mattered was the game itself. Even when he didn’t have the board out, Blimey would be playing in his head, imagining moves and strategies and traps. The illusions would be obsolete long before they faded away.

  Finally, they found themselves on the road once more, headed north to Lyonshire and the shop. Synder walked confidently, immune to any worry of followers or malcontents. Ashes mimicked her walk, exuding the easy confidence of an Ivory who was both young and powerful, but he kept his eyes moving. He spotted no one keeping eyes on them, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want to have to deal with a tail.

  A block away from Annie’s, Synder stopped abruptly and fixed him in a smoldering glare. “All right. Spill it. Why are you sulking?”

  Ashes stared back. “I’m not.”

  “You are. I once sulked for three full months, I know what it looks like, and you’re doing it. Why?”

  Ashes looked around once again, evaluating if they were being watched, and let out a breath. “I feel like I keep getting deeper in debt with you, Syn.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Look, you don’t know him, but I do. You giving him that set—that was incredible, what you did. He’s going to have something to take his mind off things, and I can’t tell you how great that is for someone with so much to think about. He’s got something to do now, something that’ll keep getting more interesting for him.” He frowned, struggling for words. “Thanks.”

  Synder smiled. “It’s no problem for me, really. I was happy to do it.”

  “You spent a lot of aether on that.”

  She tilted her head. “So? We’re hardly short of the stuff.”

  Ashes looked the street up and down again. “Right. Anyway. I’m not sulking, just so’s you’re aware. It’s just I haven’t had to say thanks to someone so much before. You’re a really decent person, Syn.” He smiled awkwardly before shaking his head a little. “Right. We ought to get heading back.” He stepped, and his foot hit a loose stone, sending him crashing into Synder. The girl let out a shocked gasp and grabbed his shoulder—and Ashes’s nimble fingers slid inside her pocket and plucked out her aether, stowing it within his sleeve.

  “Damn!” he muttered. “Sorry, Syn. It’s that bloody witch-healing—you’d think my legs would’ve got their balance back by now.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, helping him stand straight. “Witch-healing is useful, but hardly kind.”

  “You can say that again.” The false face blushed furiously, but only because Ashes had made it do so.

  She didn’t even feel it. Are all Ivories this easy to pickpocket?

  It was almost ridiculous how easy they were to distract. All he had to do was stumble, and he could pull things out of any pocket they cared to use.

  “Come on,” she said. “You can use my arm to stand, if you need it.” She grinned. “You’d have to be walking on your own before we get back to the shop, though. If Juliana saw a man leaning on a woman for help she might actually die.”

  Ashes grinned. “Neh, I can walk on my own.”

  She’s an incredibly decent person, some part of him said. He tried to quash the voice, but it kept going. Making that chess set for Blimey. Helping you out. Keeping your secrets.

  Looks like you’re a bastard.

  Ashes looked over his shoulder. “Oh, Syn,” he said, bending quickly. “I think you dropped this.” He let the phial fall into his palm, then held it out to her.

  Synder let out a shocked gasp. “Oh! Thanks.” She stowed it back inside her construct, deeply perturbed. “Good thing you saw it. Goodness, can you imagine if someone picked this up?” She shuddered. “I’d have Hollowed someone.”

  Ashes blinked. That would not have been his first thought. That would not have been his twenty-first thought. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Lucky.”

  Synder noticed something behind him. “Um.” She pointed, not very subtly, and motioned for Ashes to stand up. “Ashes. Who’s that?”

  Don’t use that name here! He turned, half expecting Saintly to be standing behind him.

  “Furies and Kindness. Ben Roamer?”

  The old madman was slumped against a wall, barely standing. His hair was even dirtier and mangier than the last time Ashes had seen him, nearly a month ago.

  “’Lo,” the old man said, looking at Ashes through a thicket of his coarse hair. “Who’re . . . ?”

  Roamer choked on his words and stumbled, going to his knees. His beard sank into the Burroughside muck.

  “What the hell’s gone on with you?” Ashes dropped to his knees, taking Roamer’s face in his hands. The man’s eyelids were swollen to nearly twice their usual size, and bruised deep purple. His skin was littered with small cuts, and Ashes caught the powerful stench of piss on him.

  “Who is this?” Synder asked. “Do you know him?” She’d come closer, though Ashes doubted she’d stoop in this mire while she was wearing those nice Ivorish petticoats—

  Synder’s face was suddenly level with his. Ashes revised his opinion.

  “Ben,” he said, looking the man in the face. “Benjamin Roamer. You listening to me? You here?”

  The old man met Ashes’s gaze. There was no recognition there—no, of course there wouldn’t be. Ashes yanked the ring off his finger. “You recognize me, Roamer?”

  “Eshes.” Ben’s voice sounded like a creaking door. “You’re sposa be dead, I thought.”

  “Can’t nobody kill me, Ben,” Ashes said. “I’m slippery as smoke.”

  Roamer laughed—thickly, wetly. There was some manner of fluid in his lungs.

  “We ought to get him to hospital,” Synder suggested.

  “No!” Ben snapped. “No ’spittles!”

  “Ben’s afraid of them,” Ashes said in a hushed voice. “Always figured they’d kill him if they got hands on him. He’s got no iron name anyway, they wouldn’t take him.”

  Synder’s face was stricken. “What do we do?”

  Ashes looked over the man. “He won’t die from these,” he said. “You have any money on you?”

  “A little—”

  “Anything over a crescent will do,” Ashes said, and looked Ben in the eye again. “Ben Roamer, you listen to me right now. You’re going to tell me which of Ragged’s folks did this to you, and then you’re going to take my money, you’re going to find a dosser, all right? There’
s one on Regency Street. Rest for a week. Don’t go walking about none, all right?”

  Ben nodded weakly. “Figure I kin do that.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Ashes, what does that matter—”

  “Quiet, Syn.”

  Ben’s eyes were wild and fearful, but Ashes wouldn’t let him look away. “Broken Boys,” he said at last.

  Ashes nodded sharply. “Good. On with you, now.”

  The old fellow staggered from the alleyway, clutching the coin tightly in his fist. Ashes stared after him, mind racing, blood hot.

  “What was that all about?”

  Ashes hesitated. “There was something I’ve been waiting for,” he said at last. “But now I don’t think it’s going to come.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing, Syn,” he said. “Let’s get back.”

  THE workshop was empty. That was a stroke of luck.

  Ashes strode inside, looking around nervously despite himself. Jack and William would be out for another hour or so, preparing in some form or another for the heist at Edgecombe House. Synder had gone home to her parents, and Juliana was upstairs. Ashes was alone.

  Still, he couldn’t keep himself calm. Somehow, this felt as perilous as picking a copper’s pocket.

  He moved swiftly to the cabinet at the end of the room. He let out a breath. Stay calm, he told himself. Just get it done.

  He pulled a lock pick from his pocket, knelt, and set to work. Jack was no slouch in security; the lock was well made. Twice, Ashes got the catch nearly undone, only to be betrayed by his shaking fingers. The third time, he closed his eyes and bit his tongue. Focus.

  The catch sprang. He eased the cabinet door open.

  The cabinet was full of strange and interesting objects, most of which seemed to be unique Anchors: a sword hilt with no sword, a thin gold coronet, a silver watch with a broken face. He ignored these in favor of the phials of liquid light on the top shelf.

  Heart still pounding feverishly against his chest, Ashes snatched three of the phials and stowed them in the pockets of his cloak. A quiet voice in the back of his head protested, but he had no other choice. He needed these, and he needed them now.

  He was about to slam the cabinet shut when he saw the bottom shelf, and caught his breath. The shelf was entirely lined with phials of aether—it had to be nearly fifty in total. A fortune. Ten fortunes.

  A stair creaked behind him. Quick as winking, Ashes closed the cabinet and clicked the lock, then dashed toward one of the shelves and snatched a random Anchor off of it. He held it close to his face, as if he were inspecting it.

  “Oh! Ashes. You’re here late.”

  Ashes looked up, feigning surprise. “Evening, Jack,” he said.

  “Inspecting the merchandise?” Jack asked. “You won’t learn much from that. One of my earlier projects. Not my best work.”

  Ashes looked at the Anchor again, finally registering what he was holding. It was a tricorn hat, old and tatty. “What’s inside?”

  “A face,” Jack said, smiling wickedly. “Not a very pleasant one, mind. Rather ghoulish, in fact.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Very,” Jack said, walking forward and taking the hat from Ashes. “I had an acquaintance some years ago who had a fondness for these. I swapped this out for his when he wasn’t looking, and . . .” Jack set the hat on his head, and his face transformed into a grotesque parody of human features. The skin was yellowed, the eyes red and veiny, the nose overlarge and cocked to one side. Ashes burst out laughing.

  “Not very mature of me, I’m afraid,” Jack said, not sounding particularly regretful. He set the hat back on the shelf. “I’d have thought you’d be on your way home by now. Are you staying for supper?”

  “Just got distracted, is all,” Ashes said smoothly. “You’re right, though, I ought to be on my way.” He made to step past the Weaver, but Jack matched his move, blocking him.

  “You certain you’re all right?” Jack asked. “You look flushed.”

  “Eh,” Ashes said. “I’m fine.”

  Jack’s eyebrows bent inward. “You don’t need to stay here?”

  “I got nothing to fear out there, Jack,” Ashes said.

  The sun was low, the clouds dark. There was light, but not much of it, in the neighborhood near Barrister’s coffee house. Jack would have noted that it was just bright enough to Weave, but, perhaps, not enough for just anyone to spot an illusion.

  Ashes stood in the shadows not a hundred feet away from the coffee house, wearing the shadow-bound cloak. Its Woven darkness hid him well here in the twilight; no one looked twice at him.

  He could see four Broken Boys inside Barrister’s. He recognized them, by sight if not by name; brutes Saintly favored for his dirtier work. More than likely they’d been there for Ben’s beating, even participated in it. Of Saintly himself there was no sign. Perhaps that was best; Ashes didn’t intend to be recognizable, or even recognizably human, but if there was anyone who could mark Ashes by his voice alone, it would be Saintly.

  The four Boys looked quite pleased with themselves. Barrister had brought them food and beer in abundance, though Ashes had not seen them give him a thin copper penny. Every other customer in the building was giving them a wide berth, no doubt leery of attracting their attention.

  Ashes pulled the cloak tighter around himself and checked the stones hidden in his pockets. Artifice pulsed within them, faint and thready.

  He tensed as he heard the door to Barrister’s open. The Boys stepped out, chattering amongst themselves. Ashes set his jaw. He’d guessed right: they were coming this way. They would pass by him in a moment. He dug a wooden ring out of his pocket and slipped it on. Synder’s voice echoed in his head: It’s actually quite good, if you were trying to make a gargoyle.

  “What a rush,” said one of them. “D’you hear him whine when Tom kicked him?” The Boy pitched his voice into a stuttering croak. “ ‘Oh, no, no, please, don’t ’urt me, ent done nothin’—’ ”

  All four of them laughed; the storyteller laughed loudest. They were mere steps away now.

  “Buggery little bastard,” said another.

  “Teach him to bother us.”

  “Saintly’s right,” said the first. “High time we started teaching these buggers proper respect.”

  Ashes let out a breath and stepped into the light, letting the vast cloak billow around him. He focused fiercely on an image of William the Wisp, and when he spoke, it was in the man’s precise, unforgiving tone.

  “Not that this isn’t scintillating conversation, gents,” he said, pulling a stone out of his pocket, “but I do believe we’ve business to attend to.”

  “The hell—?”

  Ashes threw the rock to the ground and pulled the cloak against his eyes.

  There was no sound, but it felt as if there should have been. A sun-bright flash lit up the street, burning Ashes’s eyes even through the thick cloth. Without wasting a moment, he stepped away from the Broken Boys. All four were reeling, hands pressed against their faces.

  “I do hope we haven’t got off on the wrong foot,” he said, stomping on the toes of his nearest opponent. The Boy let out a sudden yelp and snatched out to grab Ashes, but missed by several feet. “I think it’s very important for you gentlemen to hear what I have to say.” He smashed an open hand against another one’s ear, hard enough to send the boy stumbling. Sensing the other two readying behind him, he whirled away, wanting more distance. He’d have much less of an advantage if anyone managed to get hold of him.

  “Who the hell’re—?”

  “I’m Burroughside’s vengeance, little Broken Boy, and I’m your worst bloody nightmare.”

  One of the Boys pulled out a vicious-looking knife and began to advance. He was blinking furiously, but clearly had enough of his sight back to be a threat.

  Ashes swallowed, but his voice didn’t waver. “That’s rather small,” he said. “Not the first time you’ve hea
rd that, though, I expect.”

  The Boy grunted and slashed wildly. Ashes stepped back, and just as quick the Boy lunged forward. Off-balance, Ashes was forced to twist, throwing the cloak in front of his body to protect himself. The knife slid into the folds. Ashes grabbed the edge of the cloak and pulled it tight, wrapping the knife inside the cloth. The Boy jerked, but Ashes had the knife by the hilt.

  “You seem to have lost your sticker,” Ashes said.

  “Didn’t need it much,” the Boy replied, and punched Ashes in the gut.

  The breath whooshed out of Ashes. Another punch struck him in the ribs. He yelped.

  “Not so brilliant now, are you?” The Boy snatched Ashes’s hood and threw it back.

  A warped, twisted face stared back at him, grinning like a demon.

  “No, it’s just the opposite,” Ashes admitted cheerily, worming another stone out of a pocket. “I’m quite bright.”

  The stone struck the ground, producing another flash of fierce light. Ashes squeezed his eyes tightly shut and twisted away, though the light still struck him like a slap to the face. He hadn’t expected them to be nearly so powerful.

  The flash had taken three of the Boys by surprise, but the fourth—the angry one with the knife—had expected it. He approached Ashes slowly, as if his head was still spinning and the only thing keeping him on his feet was sheer force of will.

  “You’ve got some fight to you,” Ashes said, trying to exude that confidence again. “I’ve got to give you that.”

  “You a demon?” The Boy spit and made the sign of the Faces over his chest. “Or something?”

  “Something,” Ashes said. “Something you’ve not seen nor heard about.”

  The Boy smirked, but it was fragile; Ashes’s monstrous face was getting to him. “Eh? And what’d that be?”