Faces, he really looks scared, Ashes thought. This was quite an opportunity. What kind of confusion could he sow here? What story would fit? He could make Ragged seem fearful, or vulnerable, or weak . . . making the Beggar Lord look vulnerable to Saintly Francis was not a chance to pass up.
“I am aware of it,” Ashes said slowly. “It’s name is Smoke. It comes for me, on occasion.”
“I think it aims to kill you.”
“It would do so, if it could,” Ashes said. “I am too sly for it.” But he let his voice shake, just a little. Just enough that Saintly would notice.
Saintly’s eyes flickered to the sides of the room. “Is it here, milord? Now?”
Ashes shook his head. “Even if it were, you would be of no use to me, boy. You cannot kill it. Your steel and fists would be insufficient even if you could see it.”
“What is it, sir? Tom and Bullface looked fit to piss themselves. One of ’em did.”
“A vengeful spirit,” Ashes said, arranging his face into something dark and eerie. “The echoes of those I have killed, come back to haunt me.”
“Is there a way to stop it?”
“If there were a way to stop it, Francis,” Ashes said in dark tones, “do you not think I may have availed myself of those paths? Do you imply that I am stupid?”
Saintly’s face paled. “No, Lord.”
“There is nothing to be done except wait for its time to pass,” Ashes said. “It can only come to me when the moon permits. But . . . this is the first time it has dared walk through Burroughside.” He tipped the wine back, making sure to let Saintly see his hands tremble. “It is growing stronger, I fear.”
“My Lord,” Saintly said, taking a step closer, “there must be something I can do. You have my loyalty.”
You were always a good liar, Saints. Ashes almost believed him.
“It fears nothing,” Ashes said, feeling the shade of an idea cross his mind. “But it loathes the scent of gold. The treasures I keep prevent its laying hands on me. So long as I possess them, I am not in peril.” Ashes let the thought hang in the air, unvoiced. If you were to steal it, Saintly . . .
“My boys’ll keep some round,” Saintly said, nodding sharply. “There anything else? Anything, my Lord.”
“You repeat those words as though they mean something,” Ashes said, injecting a low growl in his tone. “You cannot kill it, Francis. Conventional methods will not work: it does not bleed. It cannot be struck, burned, drowned, impaled, crushed, or captured.” Ashes readjusted himself, moving slowly, to give the impression of a frail creature. “But I have other tasks for you, Francis. Something of the highest order of secrecy.”
Saintly’s eyes flickered. “Whatever you ask of me, Lord.”
“It must stay between us,” Ashes said. “When I have told you of it, do not speak of it again. And do not assign it to one of your small-minded creatures. I mean this task for you, and you alone.” Ashes fixed Saintly in his gaze, mimicking Ragged’s dead-eyed stare. “I have heard talk, in my ways, of a . . . hidden artifact. Something old, something powerful. Something I could use in further plans. Something even Bonnie the Lass would fear.” He nodded to Saintly delicately. “It is a dangerous thing. I cannot send someone to fetch it for me whom I do not trust.”
Ashes imagined he could see Saintly understanding the implications. It’s valuable. Powerful. And, perhaps, if Saintly took it for himself . . .
Saintly’s mouth pressed into a curious line. “Why not Carapace?”
Ashes leaned back, trying to capture the way that Ragged luxuriated. “He is wrong for this task. I need someone loyal and canny.”
Saintly grinned dangerously. “Where can I find it?”
“The sewers,” Ashes replied, maintaining a perfectly deadpan expression. “I am near certain it has been hidden somewhere beneath Bells Street, near the border of Lyonshire and Yson.”
Saintly’s face went pale. “It’s powerful?” he asked. “Won’t others be looking for it?”
“Not if we move swiftly,” Ashes said. “And if we refrain from speaking on it henceforth. So far I have discouraged any from seeking it, but if any were to suspect I am not keeping to my word . . .”
“Right,” Saintly said, nodding and tapping his nose. “Right, milord. I think I have the right of you. You want me to start now?”
“Stay here only long enough to appoint a leader in your absence, and then begin your search.” Ashes wondered idly what path Saintly would choose there. If he picked someone canny and fierce, his own power was in danger . . . and if he picked someone weak, the Broken Boys would be hamstrung. Either way it would harm Ragged’s power. “You will know the thing when you see it. Find it for me, and you will be appropriately rewarded. And Saintly . . .” Ashes dropped his voice a little further, making it smoky and fearsome. “If you should speak of it again, understand it will be the last use of your tongue.”
Saintly bowed and grinned. “Of course, sir.”
“See to it, then.”
Saintly whirled around and swept through the door. Ashes made a mental note to stow something down there. Next week, perhaps. It’d be a shame to let Saintly succeed too quickly.
He waited until he heard Saintly shut the door, and then waited another minute. Then another. When he felt certain he would no longer be interrupted, he exchanged the ring for his shadow-bound cloak, retrieved his pack, and set to creeping about Ragged House once more.
It boggled him to think that he had been here barely three months ago. The boy who had hidden in Ragged’s closet felt so far away—he had been scared, desperate, powerless.
He had changed. Ashes wasn’t cowering anymore. He was an Artificer’s apprentice. He could wear a face as easily as a hat, be invisible when he needed to be. Ragged should fear him.
He stopped at one of the portraits of the old, sour-faced men. Grinning, he took a tiny pebble from his pack, held it in an open palm, and touched the painting with his free hand. His eyes closed, and he let out a breath. A close observer might have noticed something faint and ghostly seep out of the stone, snake along Ashes’s body, and settle on the portrait. But the only close observers were made of oils and canvas, and they saw nothing.
From time to time, as he walked through the house, he would repeat the process, taking something small out of his pack and transferring its Artifice to something in the house. Books, mirrors, table legs, armrests, silverware. Anything Ragged might touch personally, or breathe on, or be close to.
William would have called his constructs evanescent; nothing held them together but their Anchors. At a touch, the Anchor would release a fragile image, one that would vanish in an instant. They were rather costly to make for someone who could not manipulate raw light—Ashes had used up nearly six phials of aether-laced light. Jack would chide him, no doubt, when he discovered how much Ashes had used up for “practice.”
It would be worth it, at any rate. He wasn’t skilled enough to key the Anchors to Ragged specifically; they would release their illusions whenever a living person came close enough. Some would be wasted on Carapace, but Ragged would see dozens.
He’d started by crafting images of Ragged’s death. Hanged, shot, stabbed, beaten, trampled by a horse, cut open, hobbled, beheaded, torn into dozens of pieces. It had taken him a long time to run out of ways to imagine Ragged’s corpse. When he did, he made faces the Beggar Lord would recognize: Iames the Fool, broken and destroyed. Mari, lifeless under Saintly’s wild knife. And Bonnie the Lass, living and furious. Her face was contorted, one hand outstretched. He liked to think she looked prepared to demand Ragged’s death.
If Ashes was clever, and quite lucky, Ragged would still be finding these for weeks. Seeing his own death, seeing deaths he’d caused. If everything went reasonably well, Ragged would not sleep soundly after this week. If Ragged did not already see his victims in dreams, he would soon.
Ashes made his way upstairs. He had never visited this portion of Ragged House before, save the night he�
��d stolen Ragged’s face. He would have expected it to be larger, perhaps grander. That was Ragged, though. People would see the first floor, so it had to be extraordinary. The only ones who saw the upstairs were him, Carapace, and—
He cut off that line of thought and made directly for Ragged’s bedroom.
He held Tom’s knife in one hand, ready to strike if anyone stood guard at the door. But he found no one within. Smiling, he set to work. He bound images to Ragged’s bedroom with wild abandon, glorying in the thought of Ragged’s reaction. He bound illusions to the mirror, the shaving razors, several of Ragged’s jackets and vests and watches and spectacles . . .
In fifteen minutes, he had exhausted nearly all of his Anchors and all the obvious places to hide them. He looked around for something else to use, and spotted Ragged’s bedside table. He recalled his last visit here, and felt a wicked smile play across his face.
Three more images of Ragged found their home in the magazines. Ashes entertained the thought of Stitching some of the pictures to resemble Ragged, but transferring two dozen constructs had him hovering on the edge of exhaustion.
He shut the drawer roughly, and heard something clunk inside it. He paused. There had been nothing but the magazines inside that drawer, he was sure of it. Had he dropped one of the pebbles inside?
He opened it again to make sure, holding his Artificer’s lamp over the drawer to inspect it. He saw none of his erstwhile Anchors inside.
Something tickled at the back of his mind. He tried the third drawer, and found it locked as it had been before.
Any sensible housebreaker would pick the lock immediately, sensing important things hidden in the third drawer. Really, the first rule of robbing an unfamiliar place was to find the thing with the biggest, sturdiest lock and break it open. Nine times out of ten it held the most expensive items in the house.
But Ragged’s mind was a strange, twisting, profoundly cautious thing. It had to be. He ruled a district of petty thieves and marauders. His direct superiors were Bonnie the Lass and the Ivorish magistrates: he was surrounded by thieves, above and below and beside. If he had anything valuable, it would not be hidden behind locks . . .
Ashes scooped the magazines out of the drawer and set them carefully on the bed. Half expecting someone to burst through the door or for something venomous to snap at his hand, he explored the drawer with his fingers, searching for incongruities, for something out of place—
Ah.
He lifted the false panel from the bottom of the drawer and held his lamp closer, feeling deeply satisfied. Of course Ragged would keep valuables here. The locked drawer would have some sort of trap, no doubt.
Something sparkled at the bottom of the drawer. A ring, made of pure and perfect glass.
Ashes snatched it out of the drawer before he could think better of it. He turned it in the light, and caught its reflections dancing along the wall. He ran his fingers along the edges, feeling for the telltale energy of Artifice inside, and thought, just for a moment, that he felt something thrum within.
How could Ragged have one of these? He was powerful, certainly. He had authority over a full district, as the High Ivories did in Lyonshire, Boreas, Yson, and Ubärsid. But he was a mere Denizen. There was nothing Ivory in him, not in his bones. He dressed like one and spoke like one and pranced about pretending he had their blood, but the man was as mundane as the soles of his shoes. Had he stolen this? He had more than enough thieves at his disposal, even for something as audacious as robbing an Ivory Lord . . .
Another possibility pricked the edges of his mind. He pulled off his ring, not wanting to pollute the glass ring’s construct. Then, with an odd sense of reverence, Ashes slid the ring over his finger and looked in the mirror.
And he laughed.
There ought to have been a brilliant face staring back at him. There ought to have been the subtle weight of a light-mask settled on his features. But the face looking back at him had none of those things: it was only his face, wearing a wild grin.
“Oh, Ragged,” he muttered. “You pathetic old weasel.”
Not a magic ring. There was no Artifice in it. It was only a mimicry, an affectation. Something for Ragged to put on when he wanted to feel important. Not to be worn outside his rooms, perhaps . . . not where anyone could see him wearing glass and looking just as plain as anyone. It was like the magazines, like his hat, like his house. Oh, Faces.
Wanting is weakness.
Hiram Ragged wanted to be Ivory. He wanted it so bad he kept a meaningless trinket hidden in the safest part of his house, so he could wear it in private, with no one knowing. Ashes hadn’t realized just how deep that wanting went till now. Ragged wanted this. He ached for it in his bones.
Ashes almost laughed. There was no opportunity to gloat, though, not here. Not while he was still standing in Ragged’s house. Ragged could kill him here, no matter how weak his wanting made him.
He slid the ring off. Part of him ached to steal it, just to make Ragged that much more afraid . . . but no, it wouldn’t do. Better to be a ghost tonight, and let Ragged worry over his sanity these coming weeks. It was not the time for thieving.
He set the ring beneath the secret panel, and replaced the magazines just where they had been. And then he left, quick and quiet as a shadow.
ARE you sure you want to do that, Ashes?”
Ashes stared at the board. It had gone rather fuzzy and slanted. He found, now that he thought about it, that he wasn’t sure which color he was playing. White or black?
“I think I am,” he said.
“It’s just that if you do that then I’ll have you in check in two moves,” Blimey said.
“I think I’m not,” Ashes said, setting the Queen back down. He studied the board with what he hoped was an intent look, then picked up his Tower and shifted it to the right. “How’s that?”
Blimey smiled ruefully. “You’ve earned yourself a stay of execution. It’d take me three moves now.”
“Anything that’d buy me more than five?”
“Not at the moment,” Blimey said. His eyes danced.
Ashes blinked wearily. “So . . . d’you reckon I ought to play it out, or’d you prefer I fold?”
“You can’t fold,” Blimey said reflexively. “You only fold in card games. In chess it’s conceding.”
“How do you even know that?”
“I think you should play it out,” Blimey said, staring pointedly at the board.
“Is that ’cause I have a chance of winning, or ’cause your winning won’t be as satisfying if I show my belly?”
“I would say both, but your record would make a liar of me,” Blimey said, his wicked smirk twisting features that hardly needed more twisting. Beside him, on a sheet of paper they’d cribbed from a book Blimey had lost interest in, was the record of wins and losses. To his credit, Ashes had won four games. Four games was not bad. It looked rather less impressive against Blimey’s thirty-seven.
Ashes blew out a breath and moved his Tower, trying to push through his wearied thoughts to get a better look at the present. It was hard to do; he’d gotten fewer than three hours of sleep last night. If it had been the only such night, he likely would have been just fine. He was, however, swiftly approaching the eighth night running on little or no sleep. Even a gutter-rat in the prime of his youth couldn’t go forever.
Last night had been particularly difficult. He’d spent it binding Stitched messages to the walls of Barrister’s coffee house and the surrounding environment. Nearly every beggar, borrower, and thief in Burroughside got their coffee and sundries from Barrister; putting messages there guaranteed they’d be seen. He’d Anchored them at his own eye level, where the younger ones would be sure to see them. Only a few could read, but they’d pass along the message quickly enough: Ragged’s Going Up In Smoke.
Partly it was a threat. Saintly’s boys would see it, for certain, and the word would spread from there. But he hoped it would do more. Faces knew the kids in Burroughside
needed a bit of hope. The thought of someone working to take Ragged down would be a bright one to many of them. They needed to know there were things Ragged feared. That he was only a man.
Blimey was staring at him. Ashes looked at the board again, vision swimming. “Is it my turn?”
“Eh.”
He moved his Tower again. Blimey captured it with businesslike efficiency. The game lasted a scant three minutes longer, and half that time was Ashes staring at the black and white squares like someone undead.
“You all right, Ashes?” Blimey asked. “You seem . . . really tired.”
Ashes had told Blimey nothing about Mr. Smoke. It would only have made the boy worry: thieving and begging were easy, but waging a secret war against Mr. Ragged was something else entirely. Blimey would know better than to try to stop Ashes, but it would eat away at the edges of his mind all the same. Ashes had no intention of letting that happen.
“Just waking up, still, is all,” Ashes said. Blimey gave him a flat look, one that said with eloquence and perfect silence, Still waking up at eleven in the morning?
“Maybe you ought to sleep a bit,” Blimey said. “Your boss’s going to have you do something tonight, eh?”
Ashes nodded, slumping against the wall. A nap would be excellent; in fewer than eight hours he’d be helping Jack rob an Ivory Lord. He could use a bit of sleep before doing the impossible . . .
“Neh,” he said bullishly, shaking his head to wake himself up. “I have to meet up with them in an hour anyway, to get ready. Want to play again?”
Blimey gave him a concerned look. “Are you really up to it? You could sleep if you wanted. I can wake you up.”
Ashes eyed his bedroll on the floor. Faces, it was tempting. “You sure?”
“Eh,” Blimey said, giving a brave smile. “Probably best that way. I have better games with myself.”
Ashes lay down, stretching out as languidly as a cat. “How’s that, now?”
Blimey folded up Synder’s chess set with great care and set it under the bed. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Don’t need the board anymore,” he said, more than a hint of pride in his voice. He tapped his temple. “I do it all in my head now, when I’m bored. Pretend I’m two people and play against myself. I usually win.” His smile was big and delighted and would, perhaps, have looked charming on someone else. Smiling made Blimey look like a gargoyle preparing to eat someone.
The Facefaker's Game Page 23