The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “I’m the vengeance Burroughside’s been dreaming of since Hiram Ragged sat his arse on our home,” Ashes said fiercely. “I’m the one that’ll bring balance on the scales. That’ll have an answer from Ragged for all the blood he’s spilled, and all the blood he’s let spill.” Ashes took a step forward. There was fury in his belly. “I’m what’ll stand between bastards like you,” he spat, “and folks like Ben Roamer.” He could see the fear in the Boy’s eyes now, see it creeping up on him from within. “I’m slippery as smoke and angry as the gods, boy, and I don’t mean to let you leave without some marks on you.”

  The Broken Boy’s eyes were wide. Ashes took another step forward.

  “You can tell Saintly that I’m coming for him next,” Ashes said. “Him, and Ragged, and any else that’ll dare beat on them who’s weaker.” He was only a few feet away from the Boy now. There was movement behind him, the others recovering from their dizzy spells.

  The Boy saw Ashes’s eyes flick, and his knife came up.

  “Bloody hell,” Ashes said, stepping back from the blade and flinging a stone at the Broken Boy’s face. The Boy yanked himself away, eyes screwed up tight—

  He tripped on a twisted cobblestone and fell hard, striking his head against the street.

  “I didn’t put bombs in all of them,” Ashes said, turning away. The three others were back up, advancing cautiously, their arms up to shield from other blasts of light.

  Ashes held his hands up. “That was the last of them, I’m afraid,” he called, backing away. The Boys didn’t let their arms down.

  “Ah, well. Worth a shot.”

  Ashes dropped his hands and he threw the last three Anchored stones in quick succession, striking one of the boys in the neck and another in the fork of his legs. The last stone struck the street, inches away from his target’s feet.

  Three suns burst out of their cages simultaneously, and all went quiet.

  Ashes’s vision came back spottily, filled mostly with white. He seemed to be on all fours, and he didn’t hear the Broken Boys anywhere. He blinked several times, hoping like hell that no one found him here, monstrous-faced and nearly blind.

  He stood, shakily. His ears weren’t ringing, but they certainly should have been.

  The knife-wielder was on his back only a few feet away, groaning. He would be up in only a few minutes. Ashes glanced at the other three; they’d be up even sooner.

  “I’m going to tell you something, Broken Boy,” Ashes said softly, getting close enough for the Boy to hear him. “I could take your knife right now and skin you with it. Nobody’d stop me. Don’t reckon I’d enjoy it, but I could try real hard.” He paused, letting the Boy understand. “But I don’t reckon I’m going to do that. Seems to me you’re afraid, and that’s good. You’ll tell others how frighted they ought to be of me.” Ashes felt the rage pounding in his head again, and something else, too. Something he’d only brushed against in the last four weeks, something he hadn’t quite grasped until now. “But I think it’s important you pay for what you done, too. Savvy?”

  He pressed four fingers to the boy’s temple. “This won’t hurt a bit,” he said, and drew his fingers diagonally along the boy’s face. Bright red gashes appeared in the wake of his touch, as if he’d torn the boy’s face apart. The Broken Boy shuddered, but didn’t wail or groan or give any sign that Ashes had harmed him; the wounds were only Stitchery.

  Moments later his work was done. Four livid scars stretched across the boy’s face, twisting the skin. One crossed his eye, and Ashes knew without needing to check that when the Boy opened it, it would look utterly white.

  William would be proud, he noted absently as he Anchored the image to the boy’s eyebrows.

  “I’m going to leave, now,” Ashes said. “You make sure you tell Saintly for me, will you? Somebody’s coming for him and Ragged both. Somebody powerful. Somebody mad.”

  My friend,

  I have adopted a new strategy, one you may well consider foolish. I have let the boy into my confidence.

  Before you scold me, allow me to offer my evidence.

  The boy has been following me. He is well trained; he managed to catch me during a transaction with one of the Gilders who so generously subsidize my research. I’ll admit this was sloppy—I should have anticipated such a maneuver. The error remains, and I am left to deal with its consequences.

  Except there have been no consequences.

  If the boy served one of the Gilders, I would by now have been blackmailed. If he served the Guild Council, I would be dead. Neither event has come to pass. In fact, he has ceased following me altogether, as if the first discovery was all he needed. My business continues unmolested, and there are no indications that this may change.

  You may say I am being unreasonably optimistic, but in truth I fear that my new recruit aims for a prize far more valuable than merely my head.

  Recognizing this, I have ceased hiding all but my most dangerous secrets; if indeed he has been sent as an agent of an enemy, he has enough rope to hang me with, and it seems foolish to hoard the final inches. What truly matters is teasing out his aims—what exactly has this boy been sent to find?

  I hope, for entirely selfish reasons, that your journey is a smooth one. We must speak in person, and soon.

  Jack

  PART 3

  * * *

  Smoke

  THE night was starless and murky, and the creature scuttling through Burroughside fit into it perfectly. Small and infernal it was, with a face of poisonous green and eyes that gleamed red, and skin like the skin of an insect. Its teeth, sharp and many, were filed into points, and its ears were long and narrow, like a bat’s. Its arms were longer than they ought to have been, with an out-of-place joint beneath the elbow, and ended in spindly fingers like spider legs. It wore something dark along its body, something which appeared to be cloth but, if seen closer, certainly could not be. It blended too smoothly in the darkness. If it were to step beneath the light (and it would not, for it knew better), one might see the truth: this demon wore sewn-together shadow.

  Altogether, Ashes felt rather proud of his costume. Perhaps he was no good at making pretty faces, but he didn’t want pretty. He wanted horrific.

  Two streets from Ragged House, he turned southward, and circled the Beggar Lord’s lair to come at it from the south. Three months ago, before he’d fallen in with the Rehl Company, this would have been more than a little stupid. Even Ravagers avoided Saintly’s territory.

  One of Saintly’s scouts would see him, no doubt, but no reason to leave it to chance. “Ragged!” he screeched, in the hoarsest voice he could manage. “Ragged!” He snatched up a piece of rubble from the street and flung it at a wall. It produced a thunderous crack, and Ashes followed it with another screeching cry of “Ragged!”

  That would do.

  Ashes moved to the shadow of an alleyway and unwound the cloth strips around his head, arms, and legs, stowing them in the pack he carried. He felt the demon disappear, like a feathery weight being lifted from him. His true clothing was visible now: pants with no holes, a jacket that looked almost new. It was too clean to belong in Burroughside, but it was dark enough not to attract attention and covered up his skin. The added stealth was not nearly as valuable as the pockets: two on the inside of the jacket breast, two on the outside near his waist, and one on each hip. Each contained at least one Anchor. Including the Anchors in the pack he carried, he held perhaps one hundred crowns’ worth of magic on his person.

  With the demon-face gone, Ashes pulled up the hood of his shadow-bound cloak. Juliana’s Weaving enveloped him in darkness. To anyone walking by, the alley would look empty.

  He stood perfectly still. He did not have to wait long before he heard hurried footsteps. Saintly’s boys were not a patient group.

  Ashes knew the two Boys who came around the corner, though not well. Tom Wesel was nearly as small as Ashes, with a beady look to him. The other Boy, Reynard Bullface, was as brutish as the name
suggested.

  “Do you see it?” Tom muttered.

  “Neh,” said Bullface. “Nothing in here.”

  “It’s a dead end,” Tom said. “It can’t have escaped.”

  “I ain’t stupid, Tommy,” said Bullface, cracking his knuckles.

  Ashes stepped nearer, keeping his back pressed against the wall. He was nearly level with them now. Neither of them seemed to notice the floating blue cloak at their side.

  “Well,” Tom said. “Go on.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause whoever he is, he’s in there somewhere, and it ain’t gonna be me what finds him.”

  “You sure it ain’t ’cause they said it was a demon?”

  Ashes smiled. He could hear the light tremble in Reynard’s voice. Thank you, Face of Cunning, for superstitious folk.

  “I’m sure it ain’t,” Tom replied. He was a better liar than Reynard, but there was still a faint quaver to him. “And even if it is, better you against it than me.”

  “You’re a yellow little bastard, Tom.”

  “And you’re a big dumb ox what can punch through a demon’s face in one go. Which of us you think ought to be going in to look for it?”

  There was a knife on Tom’s belt—or, more accurately, a strip of steel with rough edges and leather wrapped around one end. Ashes didn’t like the look of it; better that Tom not have it, just in case. He reached out, trying to keep silent.

  “Seems like a stupid idea. We could just wait for the thing.”

  “See, Bullface, that’s why I’m the stupid one and you’re the smart one.” Tom slapped his own cheek and let out a sharp noise. “Oh, wait! You’re the stupid one and I’m in charge. Go look into it.”

  Ashes’s fingers could just reach the hilt . . .

  Bullface growled, but obeyed. The large boy tromped into the dark. “Nothing here, Tommy.”

  “Keep looking. It’s probably just some Ravager what fell in paint.” Tom crossed his arms. “Or you’re just too stupid to see it,” he muttered, too low for Reynard to hear. He did not twitch as the knife lifted free of his belt. Ashes stepped, enshrouded, near the middle of the alley, just between Tom and Bullface.

  “I’m telling you, ain’t nothing here!”

  “Where,” Ashes whispered, making his voice raspy as a serpent’s hiss. “Where.”

  “You hear that?” Tom asked. Terror flickered across his face, just the shadow of it. “Bullface! You hear that?”

  “Didn’t hear nothing.”

  “You’re too damn—”

  “Where,” Ashes rasped again, louder this time. “Where is Ragged?”

  “I heard it, Tom!” Ashes was just close enough to distinguish Bullface’s features. Bullface was frightened. Good.

  “Mr. Smoke has come for him.”

  “Show yourself!” Reynard demanded, putting up his fists. “Come out and fight, piss-face! I got something for you.”

  Ashes stepped behind Bullface and crouched, bringing out the knife. He slashed Bullface’s side with it and threw himself against the wall just as the boy screamed.

  “It cut me!” he shouted. “It cut me with its teeths!” He swung out madly with his fists, too high to hit Ashes even if he had been standing closer.

  Ashes circled the brute. “You are small, Reynard. Small and foolish.”

  “It’s talking to me, Tom!” Ashes could smell the boy’s sweat. Fear-sweat, sharp and acrid. “It knows my name!”

  “You’re failing Ragged.” Bullface punched at the noise again, but in the close space, Ashes’s voice came from everywhere at once. “You know what Ragged does to those that fail him, don’t you? What happened to John Flint on Bruisemaker Eve?”

  “Tom!”

  “Just kill it, Bullface!” Tom was standing at the edge of the alleyway now, clutching the side of the building.

  “You cannot kill me, Reynard.” Ashes said. “You cannot even touch me.”

  “Shut it, you!” Bullface whirled, trying and failing to find something he could punch.

  “You will fail him, Reynard. And he will punish you for it. He’ll do more than just carve his name on you, Bullface. He’ll make you . . . his.”

  Reynard howled and struck out. His fist slammed against the wall—too close for Ashes’s comfort. Time to terrify him. He dug one hand in the chest pocket of his jacket and slipped on the ring within. A construct settled on his face and he yanked the hood of the cloak back.

  “You’re mine, Reynard!” Ashes snapped, just as Bullface turned around. The boy let out a keening sound, whirled, and sprinted away. Tom was already gone.

  Ashes slipped the ring off, and Ragged’s face evaporated. Binding Ragged’s old face to a new Anchor had been relatively simple. He hadn’t managed the switch perfectly; the colors were harsher and the lines sharper than they ought to be. Even so, he was proud of it, even dared to think that William wouldn’t be totally disapproving, if he ever saw it.

  No proper vendetta exists without a spy network, and so Ashes had set to make one as quickly as he could. There was no shortage of gutter-rats who hated Ragged, and most of them had the skills necessary to trail after him without being seen. The critical factor was raw audacity. Not many people had the stones to follow after the Beggar Lord, even when they were being paid for it, and Ashes refused to hire a tail whose courage fluctuated with the size of his wallet.

  Having set his standards high, Ashes had expected to spend weeks searching for a good shadow. He had found Jasin on the second day, and promptly stopped looking.

  Jasin was maybe nine years old, and even smaller than her peers. She was quick on her feet, she listened well, and she learned things with frightening speed. More importantly, she hated Ragged nearly as much as Ashes did. If Mr. Smoke hadn’t entered the world, Jasin might well have started a little war of her own, given enough time.

  Ashes had tasked her with following the Beggar Lord anytime he left Ragged House, and with spreading news about Mr. Smoke to the younger children and the crippled beggars. Anyone who needed to know Ragged wouldn’t last forever. Jasin had taken to the task with a will. For the last two months, Jasin had kept watch over Ragged’s habits.

  She knew that when Ragged had fruit delivered, he was entertaining a guest. She knew that he sent mail by one postman, but that a second one came at dusk every month, and if Ragged gave him a letter, he would be gone the next night. And because Jasin knew these things, so did Mr. Smoke.

  Ashes reached Ragged House without meeting another soul. He smiled despite himself. Apparently Tom and Bullface weren’t the only Broken Boys afraid of Mr. Smoke. Still, it wouldn’t do to dawdle. He had work to do.

  There were no lights on in Ragged House. Ashes approached it warily all the same. Jasin claimed that Ragged and Carapace were both out for the evening, off on business somewhere in Boreas. Ashes didn’t doubt she was right, but it would pay to be cautious.

  He wore Ragged’s face as he approached the house. The gate swung open at his touch. He walked through the bloodstained courtyard to the door and grasped the doorknob. It jiggled, but refused to turn.

  Unsurprising. He produced a lock pick from his pocket and knelt before the door. The catch sprang in moments.

  Now you’re in it.

  Quelling the instinct to run, he walked into Ragged House.

  The house was dark and quiet, but he didn’t dare trust that impression. Ragged wouldn’t have announced the fact that the house was unoccupied—ruling over cutpurses and thieves for a decade had turned him from a cautious man to a paranoid one—but he would be just the sort to leave some nasty little trap, or a loyal watcher, to keep his home secure. So Ashes walked softly, and kept Ragged’s face on.

  At the best of times, Ragged House had a certain eeriness to it. Ashes half suspected that Ragged cultivated that, intending to unnerve anyone who set foot inside his home. This was Ragged’s place of power. Anyone visiting was at an automatic disadvantage, even when it was inhabited.

  In the dark, and in
the silence, it went beyond eerie to genuinely unnerving. Ashes could almost feel the air crawling along his skin, recognizing him as an invader. Go back, it commanded. You are not welcome here.

  He ignored it as best he could. He was well past superstition these days. Still, a little light wouldn’t go amiss. He slipped a phial of liquid light out of a pocket, flicked the lip open, and covered the opening with his finger to feed it a tiny amount of his magic. The light inside the phial roiled, and a moment later turned bright enough to light his path.

  “Ragged,” he whispered in his demon-voice. No sense trying for total stealth; if he could spook whoever was left behind, his job would be that much easier.

  He kept walking, noticing no sounds or signs of life. Perhaps Ragged really had left the place empty for the evening. Ashes felt a thrill; he would only get this chance once, he suspected. Best to make the most of it.

  He left the hallway to enter one of Ragged’s sitting rooms. He took the place in at a glance: a bookcase along one wall, a cushioned chair in the corner, and two of those weird portraits Ragged favored on the opposing walls. He slung the pack off his shoulder, wondering what items would be best for his purposes. What sort of books would Ragged read often . . . ?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the frantic sound of footsteps coming from the courtyard.

  Bugger and damn.

  Quick as winking, he dimmed his makeshift lamp and stowed it with his pack behind the bookcase. Next moment he’d flicked the room’s lamp on, snatched a book off the shelf, and settled himself into the massive chair. He sank into it deeply, as if the cushions were trying to swallow him whole.

  He heard the door slam open, and feet sprinting down the hallway. A moment later, Saintly burst into the sitting room, looking sweaty and panicked. Ashes, wearing Ragged’s face, looked up slowly.

  “Francis,” he said, dropping his voice to a low, gravelly register.

  Saintly’s head twisted toward him. “My Lord,” he muttered, bowing swiftly. “There’s something out there, milord. A— My boys say it’s a demon. Screaming for you.”