The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  Ashes pulled his seeing-stone out of a hidden pocket. As Jack had said, the wall was false; the optic revealed a small door. There was a strange little hole in the corner as well, half as tall as Ashes. A trash chute of some kind, perhaps?

  “Come along, lad,” Jack said, moving away from the illusion-clad wall to the exit. “Time’s wasting. Let’s nab that ring, shall we?”

  They entered a short hallway, which opened into a great bedroom. As they approached, Jack motioned for Ashes to wait, and buried his hand in a pocket. A moment later his face and clothing darkened, blending into the blackness around. A shadow-bound construct of some kind, and an impressive one, too. Ashes heard the Weaver’s quiet footsteps, but could barely see him as he slipped inside Lord Edgecombe’s bedroom.

  Thirty seconds passed, then sixty. Nervousness started worming inside Ashes’s belly. Were there guards inside? Edgecombe couldn’t be that paranoid, could he? If they were Knights of Iron—

  Ashes took one step forward, breath coming short, and just then Jack reappeared in the threshold.

  “Just us in this cozy little space,” he said. “Come along, lad. Another pair of eyes would do us good.”

  Jack lit up an Artificer’s lamp as Ashes stepped inside. At this point, Ashes fancied himself pretty much immune to Ivorish opulence; he’d seen so much of it in the last few months, and more just in the last night. Even so, Edgecombe’s bedroom made him want to stop and marvel. The bed alone was large enough for three or four people to sleep in it comfortably.

  “Stones, lad,” Jack said, lifting one to his face. Ashes did likewise, and they began their search.

  Fifteen minutes later, after fruitlessly investigating every likely- and unlikely-looking cabinet, drawer, nook, and cubby, Jack scoffed and pocketed his optic. “We’re not getting much of anywhere, lad. Time to get along.”

  Ashes looked up from the clothes he was rifling through. “We haven’t searched everything yet.”

  “We’ve searched everything that matters,” Jack replied. “No Ivory in Teranis would hide his only other glass ring in the pocket of a suit anyway. Know your enemy, lad. Ivories are like peacocks. Edgecombe couldn’t bear to hide his magical ring anywhere mundane, and there’s not a single Weaving in this whole damn room. Come along.”

  “Ja—”

  Jack motioned sharply, cutting Ashes off. “No names, my young friend, not even when we’re alone. Walls have ears.”

  “But what if it is here?”

  “Then Edgecombe can keep it,” Jack said. “He’s outfoxed me.”

  Ashes followed Jack to the door, then paused. He took one final look around the room, his optic over one eye.

  “Lad, we’ve got to—”

  “Wait just a minute,” Ashes said, darting to a stretch of wall just to the right of the vanity where Lord Edgecombe got dressed every morning. He reached above his head—just about where Edgecombe’s eye level would be, he guessed—and closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against the grain of the wood.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shh!”

  There. Just a tiny flaw in the wood. Not worth noticing for most folk, but if you looked at it just right, it almost looked like a button. Ashes pressed it, and felt a square of the wood slide inward. There was a moment of increased pressure from the false wood, as if its back were pressed against a tiny spring. A moment later, the hidden drawer glided outward, just above Ashes’s head.

  “What in all the rotted hells?” Jack was standing next to him, watching in fascination. “How’d you figure that, my lad?”

  “An Ivory couldn’t bear to hide something valuable in a mundane space,” Ashes said. “And, if I was Lord Edgecombe, I’d want to be able to check on my extra ring every day. I’d want to make sure it’s there.”

  “Clever,” the Weaver said, leaning forward to look inside the drawer. There was a sound like perfume being sprayed, and Jack recoiled like he’d been bitten.

  “Jack!”

  “Furies and hell!” Jack’s eyes were screwed tightly shut. He pressed a hand against them, as if trying hard to concentrate. “Keep names to yourself!”

  “Sorry. What happened?”

  “Damn thing sprayed in my face,” Jack said. “Gah! Furies, that burns!” He reached a hand out. “Get me to water. This is misery itself.”

  Ashes led the man to Edgecombe’s sink in the adjoining bathroom, where Jack proceeded to splash water onto his face for nearly a minute. The Weaver’s face was drenched when he finally stood straight, blinking furiously.

  “Furied damn,” he muttered.

  “That was a very weird trap,” Ashes mused.

  “You’re not wrong,” Jack said. “My gods. I’ll bet my eyes are red as a demon’s. I’ll need you to Stitch me up a bit, before we go back out to the party. You can handle that?”

  Ashes nodded.

  “Brilliant,” Jack said. Out of nowhere, he broke into a wild grin. “Let’s give that little drawer a more thorough once-over, eh? All in all, I feel that could have gone much worse. I’d have bet on Edgecombe to devise something a little more sinister than spraying me with perfume.”

  “It’s not poison?” Ashes asked.

  “None that I’ve any familiarity with,” Jack said as they reentered the main room. “You’d think someone with Lord Edgecombe’s money might put more effort toward protecting his . . .” He looked inside the hidden drawer and said, “Ah. Well. Bugger and damn.”

  “What?”

  “Looks as though the jury’s still out on whether Lord Edgecombe would divert more resources to protect his glass ring,” Jack said grimly, motioning for Ashes to come closer. “As the little perfume-trap was not, in fact, guarding it.” Jack pushed the drawer back into the wall with a disgusted noise. “Furies blast it all!”

  Ashes’s heart sank. “Damn.”

  Jack patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself, lad. It was very good thinking. Turns out that Lord Edgecombe considers his taste in cologne to be very privileged information, that’s all. Any other drawers like this one in here, do you think?”

  Ashes shook his head. “If he’s using it for that, he’s not using one for his ring.”

  “Fair point. Let’s be on our way, then.”

  They left by the same hall they’d come in, moving silently. Ashes refused to let himself hang his head. Jack had been right; it had been a good thought. He reassured himself that in any other self-respecting Ivory’s stronghold, it would have been a stroke of genius. It seemed Edgecombe was simply more concerned with personal hygiene than he’d anticipated.

  They came again to Edgecombe’s comfortable sitting room, and made swiftly for the door. Jack grabbed the handle, twisted it, and then swore softly.

  “What is it?” Ashes asked.

  “Locked,” Jack said. “That’s . . . rather odd.”

  Ashes heard something low and rumbling behind them. He turned.

  At the far end of the room were three vicious-looking hounds, half as tall as Ashes. Their teeth were bared, slaver dribbling down from their lips, steel-gray hackles raised. They faced the door. Their muscular bodies were coiled, prepared to pounce.

  “Jack . . .”

  “Bugger,” the Weaver said, yanking a handful of light to him. “Cover your—”

  Ashes shook his head and pointed at the beasts’ eyes—or rather, at the dark holes where their eyes ought to have been. The hounds were blind.

  Jack swore softly and released the light. “If we’re quiet . . .” he muttered. The hounds’ ears twitched, and one growled again, low enough that it seemed to rumble inside Ashes’s chest as well.

  Ashes took a soft step to the left, careful to make no noise at all. The hounds inched forward, and Jack moved to the right, gesturing toward the secret door. Ashes nodded, heart in his chest, and took another step. The hounds’ noses twitched again, and they turned toward Jack almost as one.

  Jack met Ashes’s eyes as they realized, together, just why Lord Edgecombe had hidde
n a bottle of potent perfume where there should have been something valuable.

  “Run!” Jack snapped, just as the hounds leapt forward. The Weaver jumped to one side, barely dodging two of them. The third crashed against his chest, knocking both of them against the wall. Jack and the animal cried out. The Weaver got to his feet first, got a solid kick into the beast’s side, and dodged backward, only to find his back pressing against a wall. Two of the hounds edged forward, wary but vengeful.

  “Get out!” Jack snapped. “They’ll still be hungry when they’re finished with me, I expect—gah!”

  One of the hounds had dashed forward and leapt toward the sound of Jack’s voice. The Weaver’s reflexes were good, however, and the animal found itself with teeth lodged in the man’s arm. Jack swore loudly as the second hound surged forward, getting its teeth into Jack’s calf.

  “Ashes—!”

  “No names, sir,” Ashes said as he snatched two bottles of Dorois brandy off the shelf. He sprinted forward. He swung with one bottle, striking the hound on Jack’s leg; the animal yelped and fell backward, dazed. Jack screamed as the hound on his arm ripped and worried at it. Ashes swung the second bottle with all his might, striking the beast in the ribs. Glass shattered. The hound yelped and released Jack’s arm.

  An instant later, Ashes’s nostrils filled with a potent, vile stink, strong enough to singe his nose hairs. All three hounds yelped and moaned piteously. He looked to Jack, and found the Weaver on his feet already. Ashes sucked in a breath. He could see bone poking through the mangled, red flesh. The Weaver limped toward him, and jerked his head at the hidden door in the wall.

  “I think that perhaps we ought to skip the rest of the party,” he said.

  KEEP quiet,” Jack said.

  “What’d you think I was doing?”

  Candlestick Jack grunted, but made no further reply as he and Ashes crept through the gardens of House Edgecombe. Grunts, in fact, were nearly all that Jack felt capable of making. Every step sent fire up his leg. He had spent years developing the focus he needed for Weaving, and it took every ounce of his mental strength not to cry out in agony every time his foot struck the ground.

  This’ll need witch-healing, Jack thought grimly. Tonight, if I don’t want to explain toothmarks to the Guild . . .

  “Lean on me,” Ashes said.

  “Damn fool thing to do, lad,” Jack muttered. “We’ll only end up on the ground.”

  “I’m stronger’n I look,” Ashes replied, taking the Artificer’s undamaged arm and setting it along his shoulders. The boy wasn’t lying. With an effort, he held Jack upright, and they hobbled toward the edge of the estate with all the grace and coordination of a four-legged gargoyle.

  “Buggery thing to have happened,” Ashes opined as they walked. “What kind of Ivory keeps hounds for guards?”

  “One who’s worried about thieves who account for Iron Knights, I suspect,” Jack said. “That was quite good thinking, though. The brandy.”

  “Figured it’d bother them at least as much as it bothers me,” Ashes said. “It was lucky, really.”

  “Not at all,” Jack said, biting back a gasp. “Quite clever. You saved my life.”

  “Don’t go soft on me,” Ashes said, smiling at him. “Just makes us even. Almost.”

  Who is this boy? Every time Jack thought he’d solved him, Ashes did something unexpected. It made no sense. He followed Jack into the sewers, tailed him to clandestine meetings, spent long hours scurrying around Burroughside to no discernible purpose—surely he had to be a spy. Surely.

  Then why was he so loyal? Why did Jack feel such a powerful confidence that Ashes, whatever else might be said of him, would never think of betraying the company?

  He didn’t dare trust his intuition. Not with this boy, not if his guess was right.

  “You falling asleep, Jack?” Ashes asked. “Only you haven’t cracked wise for near a minute. You’re breathing, eh?”

  “Breathing, lad,” Jack said with a soft laugh.

  Mercifully, they reached the edge of the garden without incident. Jack was glad of the respite. He had no confidence in his ability to outrun or outfox a guard just now. Hidden deep beneath the foliage was a tiny entrance, presumably for the gardener to come and go as he pleased. It had no locks. Ashes and Jack hobbled through it to a Lyonshire thoroughfare not far from Harrod Park.

  “We’ll get a carriage,” Ashes said.

  “Not on your life,” Jack replied immediately.

  “You can barely walk!”

  “I’ll manage,” Jack said. “We just have to get back to the shop. I can send for a witch from there. Being seen by a cabbie is the very last thing I’d like to do just now.”

  Ashes grimaced but didn’t argue. Good lad, Jack thought. Unless you’re not.

  The walk to Redchapel Street was easier than Jack had expected. Rather, Jack found that when they finally stopped, he had no memory of the intervening time. It was blotted out, erased. His head felt weirdly empty, as if he’d been smoking opium.

  “Come on,” Ashes ordered, dragging Jack to the back of the shop. “Caution first, Jack, remember?”

  “Of course,” Jack said blearily. Had he blacked out? Or . . .

  Ashes tripped the switch of the hidden door in the back and pulled Jack into the shop with grim determination. Jack found that he could not look away from the boy.

  He had to speak with Tuln. Tuln would help him think about this matter clearly.

  “Sit,” Ashes ordered as they passed through the false door to the dining room. Jack obeyed wordlessly. “I’m going to get some bandages from William’s surgery,” the boy said. “Don’t move.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jack protested. “There’s a witch—”

  “And while we’re waiting for her, I’ve no mind to let you get blood all over her Ladyship’s chairs,” Ashes said, sprinting through the door.

  Jack waited, and while he waited, he thought.

  He may be true. He may be as loyal as he seems. He may be exactly what we need . . .

  The wiser voice, the one that always warned him when he had been too reckless or gone too far, disagreed. This is all a ploy. He cannot possibly be what he seems.

  The thing that bothered him most deeply was that Ashes had more than enough information to see Jack hanged, if that was his goal. But the boy didn’t seem concerned with Jack’s misdemeanors. And if he was a plant for the Ivory Lords, and had betrayed them to Edgecombe, why would he save Jack from the hounds?

  Too many conflicting stories. Too many possible conclusions. And Jack didn’t dare trust what his gut told him.

  Ashes returned with his arms full of bandages. Jack cringed to think of how annoyed Will would be, but Ashes seemed to have no concern for that. He began wrapping them around Jack’s arm.

  “Pull it tighter,” Jack advised. Ashes obeyed, intent on the work.

  Ashes couldn’t be a spy for the Guild. It seemed he was not a spy for Lord Edgecombe and his cabal of intriguers. That left only a handful of possibilities, all of them frightening, and in every one of them Jack’s next move was clear. In for a penny, in for a crown.

  “Ashes . . .” Jack said slowly. “I do want to thank you. I’d be very dead if it weren’t for you.”

  Ashes shrugged. “Can’t learn Artifice from you if you’re dead, Jack.”

  “Still,” the Weaver said thoughtfully. “It was appreciated, lad. I try to overvalue it when someone saves my life. Keeps people inclined to do it more often.”

  “You saved mine. We’re even.”

  “Very well. But you ought to know—the next time I give you an order, I expect you to follow it.” He paused. “Obedience counts for a lot, when you’re a member of my company.”

  Ashes looked at him, eyes wide. “What’re you saying?”

  “Nothing definite yet, lad. I wouldn’t consider it a formal job offer. More like . . . probation. I’ve only known you a handful of months, so it’s not as if I’d throw the doors wide for you, but
. . .” He shrugged with his good arm. “You’re still much too eager to gamble when you don’t hold the cards. You still want to be clever when you ought to be smart. But folk can grow out of their flaws. There’s a chance I could use someone of your talents on a more permanent basis.”

  Ashes caught his smile before it got out of hand. Jack stifled a laugh. The boy was so determined to hide himself.

  “I’d have to think about it,” he said.

  “Of course, of course,” Jack replied. “Sleep on it all you want.”

  The front door banged open. Jack and Ashes exchanged a worried look.

  “Police?” Ashes whispered.

  “I don’t—”

  “Jack!” came Juliana’s voice. Jack relaxed.

  “In the dining room, love,” he called out.

  Juliana and Synder appeared in the doorway a moment later. They were both short of breath, though it showed more in Synder. Juliana had already managed to collect herself. The composure shattered when she saw Jack’s arm.

  “What happened?” she demanded, sweeping forward. Ashes darted out of her way as she advanced on Jack. “Who did this?”

  “A run-in with some mangy animals, love, nothing serious,” Jack said. “What are you doing here so early? Why’d you leave the party?”

  Synder gave him a confused look. “It’s nearly midnight,” she said. “We left with the crowd.”

  “Is it already?” Jack looked at the clock. “By the Faces. Right, then.” He shifted in his seat and couldn’t keep a pained scowl off his face. “What news do you have for me?” he demanded. “Do you have what we came for?”

  Juliana and Synder exchanged a worried glance. “There were Iron Knights guarding the door,” Synder said.

  “And you—”

  “We got around them,” Juliana replied. “There was another way in.”

  Confusion flickered across Ashes’s face. “And?” Jack pressed, eager to move on before Ashes asked the question on his mind.

  “And there was nothing inside the room,” Synder finished. “We looked all over, seeing-stones and everything. Nothing.”