The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “There might’ve been some clever ones,” Ashes said. “There was one that was Artificed to look like the hidden panel behind it, so even through an optic—”

  “Juliana would’ve found it,” Jack and Synder said together.

  “Synder, take Ashes and send for a witch,” Juliana commanded. “I must tend to my husband.”

  Synder pulled Ashes into the hall. Juliana picked up the bandages on the table.

  “No gauze?” she asked.

  “He’s not a very experienced medic,” Jack said.

  “You found nothing?”

  “Mad hounds and some truly pungent brandy,” Jack said, wincing as his wife began to wrap the bandages around his leg. “Ashes saved my life.”

  “Such loyalty,” Juliana said gently.

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “In any case,” he said. “You found nothing. Ashes and I found nothing. And Will—”

  “My timing, as ever, appears to be impeccable.” William entered at the back of the room.

  “You’d better have some good news for me, Will,” Jack said. “I am in no mood for your wit, either. What’d you hear?”

  William sat across from him. “I bring a mixture of good and bad news,” he said. “The Lyonshire police have no evidence pointing to our company. There remain no indications that the Ivories have discovered our endeavors.”

  “Barring the mad hounds and the distinct absence of anything worth stealing, you mean.”

  Will inclined his head. “Barring those. But it seems that, as yet, you are not betrayed. Not by the boy, nor by your conflicting contacts.”

  “It bothers me to know that you haven’t gotten to the bad news yet,” Jack said.

  “A message went out from Edgecombe House after you left,” Will said. “It passed through quite discreet channels. I had to be quite cautious to catch a glimpse of it.”

  “And?”

  “It seems that someone accomplished your goal first,” Will said. “Lord Edgecombe has issued a warrant for the thief who stole his heir’s glass ring.”

  “Which means—” Jack paused. “Damn. Which means we planned for three months, snuck inside an Ivory Lord’s house, and I got my leg damn near ripped off for nothing.” Jack let out a breath. “Shit.”

  THE night after Lord Edgecombe’s ball, Southern Boreas lay in a deep dark, and even deeper fog. Light shone from the windows of the Court of the Lass. The mist gave them solidity, turning them from bright, distant stars into beams. You could almost reach out and grab them.

  Within the warehouse, the Lass sat at her high table, surrounded by her counselors. Most looked dangerous, and those who did not were the deadliest of all. Her guards stood at the doors, armed and watchful. Her gun sat comfortably in her hand, even while she ate her supper. It fit her grip flawlessly.

  Something small and glittering rolled along the floor. One of the guards spotted it, and cried out. He was not fast enough. The glass marble struck the leg of a chair, and the room exploded in a brilliant white flash.

  Moments later, when everyone realized they had not, in fact, died, the room erupted into an organized panic. The big man seated at the edge of the table leapt to his feet, drawing a gun with the quickness of a serpent. No fewer than three of the Lass’s personal bodyguards had short, wickedly sharp knives in their hands, poised to be thrown at the first obvious target. The guards at the door had both drawn their pistols and were shouting madly, orders like, “Get down, miss!” and “Stay where you are!”

  There were only two people in the room who did not betray any sort of shock or anxiety. One was the cloaked man who had appeared in the center of the room, drenched in unnatural shadow. The other was Bonnie the Lass. Her gun had been trained on his heart for the last several seconds, well before any of her subjects had recovered enough to make certain their limbs were in the correct places.

  “Am I expecting you?” Bonnie gestured eloquently with her gun. Her subjects had recovered entirely. Any of the twenty people in the room could shoot the man dead in a blinking, even if he blinded them again. All it would take was a word from the Lass, and he would look, suddenly, like a sieve.

  “I sent no word, ma’am,” the man admitted. “But I don’t think I’m unexpected.”

  “Smoke.”

  “The same, miss.” The cloaked man swept his hood back, and the unnatural darkness surrounding him evaporated—no, it was drawn back, buried within the cloak. The face it revealed was young, perhaps twenty years old, and hard-eyed.

  Ashes swallowed, but not noticeably, as he looked at the Lass’s supper guests. He recognized a few, but only dimly: folk Bonnie had brought along to Burroughside when she collected her Tithe. Thugs, they looked like, but the Lass wouldn’t take someone just because they could make someone eat his own teeth. There was a sly look to them, too. He would need to step very carefully.

  “You’ll see I brought no weapons,” he said, sweeping the cloak back.

  “That some manner of joke?” The man at the end of the table lifted an eyebrow. “You’re an Artificer.”

  “You’ve got my word, then,” Ashes said smoothly. “Which is worth a good deal more.”

  The large man let out a barking laugh, and swallowed it swiftly when Bonnie gave him a withering glance. She turned to Ashes.

  “I don’t have much trust for them as can’t show their own faces,” she said darkly. “Where’s your iron?”

  “My wearing iron wouldn’t be worth much to you, miss,” Ashes said honestly. “I’m here to do business.”

  “I’ll do business with no one as wears a false face,” Bonnie said firmly.

  Ashes laughed. “That’s a lie—”

  Five pistols clicked. The big man at the end of the table eyed Ashes furiously. “Have a care what you say, small man.”

  “You’ve done business with Hiram Ragged, miss.” Ashes met her eyes, wondering if even she had known. “And he’s been faking his face for years now. But if it means so much to you . . .” Ashes slipped a thin bar of wood out of his pocket. The Stitching he’d put on it earlier made it gleam darkly, like iron. He pressed it against his face and held it there, meeting Bonnie’s eyes. “Satisfied?”

  “Just what is it you’re here to discuss?”

  “The bastard you’ve let rule Burroughside,” Ashes replied firmly. “And what we can do about it.”

  The Lass lifted an eyebrow. It was the first time he’d seen her look surprised. “Do I look the sort of person to have a duty to Burroughside?”

  “Not a matter of what you owe,” Ashes said. “It’s about what you’re already doing.”

  Bonnie looked at her lieutenants, as if searching for some manner of signal. “And what might that be?”

  “Losing money,” Ashes said. “And being played for a fool while you’re at it.” Bonnie’s look darkened, but Ashes plunged ahead. “Hiram Ragged owes you a Tithe every year. Any ten Burroughsiders you choose, isn’t it? He’s been cheating you. Probably been cheating you for years. Crewleaders who’d serve you well are slaughtered before year’s end. And that’s not everything.” Ashes slipped an envelope out of his cloak: a souvenir from his last trip to Ragged House. “Seems he’s been writing letters to police. Mentioning little details about where your poppies come and go. Enough details to put a strain on your purse.”

  “How am I to know that’s not a fake?”

  “I’ve got an honest face, don’t I?”

  Bonnie looked over his shoulder. “Take him,” she said.

  Ashes spun, palming one of the glass marbles to aid his escape. He could distract the two guards, easily—

  There were five of them. One struck him on the head, the marble fell from his hand, and everything went white before it went black.

  Water splashed against his face. He gasped and sputtered, and heard someone say, “I recognize him. Asked after some redheaded girl—”

  Bonnie said, “Leave us.”

  This raised a number of softly spoken protests, all of which went silent at once.


  “What manner of untried girl do you take me for?” Bonnie snapped. “Go.”

  When the world came back into focus, he found himself in a dimly lit room. Bonnie sat across from him, holding her pistol as casually as ever.

  “Morning,” he muttered, more drowsily than he felt. His hands weren’t bound, nor were his feet. That had been foolish of them. Now there was nothing between him and escape but . . . ah. Nothing but Bonnie the Lass. The absence of restraints was an insult, not an oversight.

  “Not nearly,” Bonnie said drily. “You’ve been asleep an hour, if that. My men were very gentle.”

  A line of water crawled down his face. Soaked as he was, he couldn’t feel the weight of his construct against his skin, but he still wore its Anchor. Had Bonnie burned it away with iron while he’d been asleep? Probably it wouldn’t matter; the Lass had him good and true, regardless what face he was wearing. “We’ve got some different opinions on that word, miss.”

  “You did not deserve gentle,” the Lass went on. “They could have killed you. They have done as much for people who enter my house, unwelcome and unannounced.”

  “I wasn’t quite unannounced.”

  Bonnie gave him a deadly look. “You did a very stupid thing. As you can tell, no doubt.”

  “What makes you think this isn’t right where I want to be?”

  “You have no weapons,” Bonnie said reasonably. “My men have your Artificing tools and your Anchors. Even if you are canted, there is not enough light in this room for you to blind me, dazzle me, or distract me. And you are weak.”

  “But very charming,” Ashes added.

  “You have no power here, boy,” Bonnie said. “I want you to be clear on that point, so you don’t try anything stupid. I quite like this floor. I’d hate to soil it with your innards.”

  Ashes swallowed. In most things, he had learned, there was a winning move: some gambit or scheme he could use to wriggle his way out of whatever he’d gotten into. But in some rare cases—those when a copper had you, or an Ivory had decided you were worth the time he’d spend ruining you—the only winning move was to lose.

  “Understood, miss.”

  “If we’re to do any sort of business, you and I, you should be aware that it will be almost entirely one-sided. I am a queen. You are a bandit, and a prisoner.” She inclined her head, as if to say Understand?

  “Yes, miss.”

  “You came here some time ago,” she said. “Asking about a girl. Describe her for me.” The Lass resumed her casual, calm posture, but Ashes heard something in her voice. Something more invested than meager curiosity.

  “She had red hair,” he said immediately. “Fiery, like, not that dull coppery nonsense you see on an Ysonne Ivory. It was really red. And she had bright eyes. A little taller than me, maybe, but not by much. She had freckles, too.” Ashes frowned, grasping at the details. He’d met the girl well before Jack had taught him how to remember faces accurately. “I can’t remember how many, or where. I think she had them, though.”

  “How and when did you meet her?”

  “Four months ago, near. In Burroughside, ma’am. She was running from the Broken Boys, only she’d gotten shot. Right here.” Ashes pressed his finger against his abdomen, imagining as he did the pain the girl would have experienced. Belly wounds were fearsome things. A slow, agonizing death if you couldn’t get to help. “I helped her get away.”

  “Why?”

  “Frustrating the Boys is its own reward, miss,” Ashes said honestly. “And she said she worked for you. I thought it couldn’t hurt to do a favor for someone with important friends. I got her to Boreas.” He swallowed. “I hoped she would make it.”

  “She did not,” the Lass mused, looking away.

  Ashes figured this would be a very good time for him to stay quiet.

  “Adrianne was a dear friend,” Bonnie mused. “Not one of my lieutenants, not publicly. Someone in my position needs agents who are not obvious. She was very . . . eager to please.”

  “You didn’t send her to Ragged,” Ashes realized aloud. “She went on her own.”

  “I thought the police had found her,” Bonnie admitted. “It is a common hazard, in our work. I assumed she had taken residence somewhere under the Lethe.” Her voice had a forced kind of flatness. She had to be cynical about this, to keep from being inconsolable. “And you say she was stealing from Ragged.”

  “Trying to,” Ashes said. “They got her before she could. She was trying to steal his face for you.” Then, sensing an opportunity, he said, “Ragged killed her, miss.”

  “Don’t speak to me that way,” Bonnie snapped. “Don’t you dare try to manipulate me, facechanger.” She gestured with her gun once more. “Remember you have no power here. No authority. No leverage.”

  “I’ve got something,” Ashes said. “I’ve got Hiram Ragged’s face.”

  “I have no need of Ragged’s false face,” Bonnie said.

  Damn. Why did Adrianne want it, then? “Then I’m offering my services. I can help you hurt Ragged. He killed Adrianne—”

  “Quiet, boy.”

  Ashes shut his mouth so fast he bit his tongue. Bonnie’s eyebrows had drawn together in a sharp peak. Her eyes bored into him.

  “I can’t trust a word from you,” Bonnie said. “You’re set against Ragged. Who’s to say you didn’t find my—that you didn’t kill Adrianne, to put words into her mouth she couldn’t refute?”

  “You said yourself she’s not known to work with you,” Ashes said quickly. “She was your ghost. Someone that could do things for you without being noticed.”

  “Ghosts have been noticed before.”

  “Ghosts that work for the Queen of Thieves?”

  Bonnie’s jaw worked. “Still. It’s terribly convenient for you. Someone I trust telling me, from beyond the grave, that I ought to help you in your mad little vendetta.” She stared at him fiercely. “Convenient enough to make me look at you sideways.”

  “Maybe,” Ashes allowed. “But it’s the truth.”

  Bonnie was deep in thought. Her look was distant. The pistol was still trained on Ashes, her finger tight against the trigger.

  “You’ve brought me intriguing news,” Bonnie said slowly. “Certainly I’d be a fool to ignore you. But I’d be a fool to take you at your word, too.”

  Ashes nodded. Suspicion was a required skill for important folk in Teranis. And also folk who wanted to see their next sunrise.

  “I won’t aid you against Ragged,” she said heavily. “But neither will I oppose you. If you’re telling me the truth, it would be a shame to kill someone who was kind to my friend. If you are lying . . . well, I can respect someone who recognizes my authority. And I would weep not at all if Hiram Ragged passed from my world.” She stood, letting her pistol point away from Ashes. He let out a heavier breath than he’d expected. “I will be alert for signs of betrayal. From Ragged, and from you.” The delicate stress she put on alert said more alert than usual.

  Which had to be pretty damn alert, in Ashes’s humble opinion.

  THE moon was high when Ashes left Bonnie’s lair. The Ravagers were roaming, letting out their hunting cries, but Ashes felt no need to run back to Batty Annie’s.

  That fact made him smile. A handful of months ago he would have sprinted this stretch, heart in his throat, wondering if he would see another sunrise. Tonight, he was near invisible in his shadow-bound cloak. If they came near, his Artificer’s lamp could scare them off. And if that still didn’t suffice, he was a far quicker hand at Stitching now. Close enough to bite him was close enough to get blinded or worse at his hands.

  It was intoxicating.

  It had been a good month. An excellent month. His visit to Bonnie had gone well—not as well as it could have, perhaps, but he had walked away from it. Very few people managed to do that after entering the Thief Queen’s own house, false-faced and uninvited. And he’d put a hole in the peace between Ragged and the Lass. As soon as Bonnie reckoned there was
a real problem in Burroughside, Ragged would have hell to pay.

  The real question was how to force Ragged into betraying himself. What would Bonnie consider evidence of treason? Not Ragged’s face—why had Adrianne wanted it in the first place? Why didn’t Bonnie want it now?

  Perhaps the specific details didn’t matter so much. Ragged was keeping all sorts of secrets, and he’d have a much harder time keeping them quiet if Mr. Smoke was taking up all of his thoughts. Bonnie would find something before the end of the year, and he and Blimey would be free of Ragged’s influence forever.

  A good month. A very good month indeed.

  He entered Annie’s house by the back door. The house was as utterly quiet as ever, lacking even the hushed scurryings of illicit vermin. Annie even scared rats away.

  Blimey was awake and reading by the lamp when Ashes entered their room at the bottom of the stairs. Ashes pulled his cloak off and rolled it into a bundle, waiting for Blimey to pull himself out of the book of his own accord. Interrupting him while he read would do more harm than good anyway. Even if Blimey looked away from the text, he’d be effectively useless until he could return to it.

  Besides that, Ashes wasn’t eager to talk to Blimey. Things had been odd since their argument a week ago. It wasn’t anything objectively noticeable; all their actions were the same. They played chess occasionally, and Blimey told Ashes about the new words and ideas he’d read in Batty Annie’s books, and often Blimey smuggled away food from Annie’s table, in case Ashes hadn’t eaten while he was out. The difference was quiet and slippery, difficult to tie down with words.

  Blimey didn’t laugh as easily. He chewed his thoughts more carefully before he spoke them. Sometimes he looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t figure out how to do it, and so said something else instead. He was like someone who’d gotten too close to the fire, and now kept his distance and a wary eye, afraid of burning himself again.

  He would get over it eventually, Ashes was sure. Blimey was good at enduring things, so long as he had his books. It was difficult just now, certainly. But Blimey would survive. That was all that mattered.