The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “What of it?”

  “A pair of nights ago, I saw Ragged reduce a whole crowd of children to screams and tears,” Ashes said. “Burroughside children, mind. Tougher blighters have not been born. He made them all weep, and he didn’t even move.” Ashes shrugged. “I know what you Ivories do to people. I know that whatever it is, you keep it tied up in your rings. Your face’s not shining and I’m not presently bowing, sir, on account of how you’re not wearing your ring.” Ashes gestured aimlessly. “More pertinent, sir, is the fact that Ragged’s got a whole damn legion of housebreakers, lock-pickers, chimney-climbers, and window-slippers. If there’s anybody could mount an operation to pilfer your little trinket, sir, it’s him. He’s been wanting to replace his toy with the real thing for a while, I reckon.”

  Edgecombe stared at him, blank-faced. Again, Ashes returned the look. The Ivory broke their stare first.

  “Ah, me,” he said. “Did you know the gods favor the Ivories? It’s a very significant point of doctrine in some of the churches. Guards!”

  Ashes leapt to his feet as two men walked through the door. They could have been brothers: both were hairless and blank-faced, their mouths set in identical grim lines. Their eyes were as white as the moon. Iron Knights.

  “Take him,” Edgecombe said wearily. Ashes dashed toward the secret exit, but he hardly moved more than a foot before a hand grasped his wrist. The grip was iron-hard; Ashes cried out as he felt his shoulder strain. The Knight who had caught him didn’t let him move an inch. He stank of something like old milk.

  “What’s going on?” Ashes demanded. “What’re you doing? We agreed!”

  Edgecombe tutted softly. “Why on earth would I honor a bargain with a terrorist?”

  “I can help you!” Ashes said. “I know Ragged, I can get the ring back for you, I don’t even want it—”

  “I don’t think you’ll be procuring the ring for me, boy,” Edgecombe said, moving to the wine rack and reaching through the bottles. He pulled a dark-colored knife from the shadows. “I daresay your vendetta against Hiram is finished as well.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Silence him.” Another hand, cold and solid as stone, clamped around his mouth. Edgecombe moved closer and brought the knife close to Ashes’s face. Ashes felt the construct around him quiver; the blade was solid iron. “It was very dangerous of you to come here tonight, Mr. Smoke. I can only assume you were desperate, now that Hiram has so thoroughly removed that ugly friend of yours.”

  Ashes’s eyes widened. Blimey? Blimey, oh gods—

  “I confess, you had me genuinely worried,” Edgecombe continued, pressing the knife’s edge against Ashes’s forehead. The construct started dissipating, revealing Ashes’s face. The Lord flicked the blade across Ashes’s scalp, opening a line of fire on his skin. “Hiram told me he had taken all but one of the children who saw him use the ring. That wouldn’t do. Where would we find you? How would we keep you silent?” He laughed softly. “Hiram knew better. He said you wouldn’t wait to throw yourself against the next trap you could find. I will have to congratulate him. He was so reckless as a boy. It does a father proud to see him improving.”

  PART 4

  * * *

  Flame

  IMMOBILIZE him,” the Harcourt Lord commanded. “Not permanently. Hiram would be discouraged if I took away his fun.”

  The hand covering his mouth moved, just long enough for Ashes to gasp out, “You’re his fa—ugh—”

  A single strike beneath his ribcage drove the breath out of him, so forcefully he thought for a moment his lungs had collapsed entirely. Another blow followed, this to the back of his neck, and he crumpled like paper. Edgecombe’s guards were absurdly strong; each punch hurt like another bullet wound.

  “A little more thoroughly,” Edgecombe commanded. Ashes felt something strike his leg, but his mind had retreated somewhere away from his body, ensconcing itself away from the pain. He heard, rather than felt, the solid thump of the guard’s boot against the bone of his leg. Mercifully, he heard nothing snap—although what would it matter if his leg broke now anyway?

  “Send for a squadron of four guards,” Edgecombe said. “Have them escort him to one of the lower rooms. And rouse one of the messengers. Hiram will be delighted to hear this, and I’d hate to deny him something he’d so enjoy.”

  The Ivory Lord left. Ashes, curled in a heap on the stone floor, was just dimly aware of the sound of footsteps, of a door opening and closing, and then voices, slurred and incomprehensible. Ashes didn’t have the strength, physically or mentally, to keep up with whatever was happening outside of his head. The thoughts within were too loud. All-consuming.

  Blimey’s dead. Ragged is the son of an Ivory Lord. Blimey is dead. They’ve got me, they’re going to take me downstairs and then when Ragged gets here he’ll kill me himself and Blimey is dead. All the Motleys are either dead or captured, and that’s all my fault, and Blimey is dead. Ragged killed him.

  Ashes was on his feet now, being shoved out the door and down the hall. His vision swam, nothing made sense, they were giving him orders but he couldn’t hear them, much less understand them—

  Blimey is dead and that’s my fault.

  They were on cold stone steps now. Ashes felt something warm and wet trickling down his cheek. Blood, no doubt, from the Ivory Lord’s knife. Ashes stumbled down them drunkenly.

  Ragged killed him and that’s my fault.

  The hallway was lit by expensive-looking lamps, powered by some kind of Artifice. Ashes looked at them, dully, and blinked as the light they produced suddenly went out.

  The Motleys are doomed and that’s my fault, too. I should’ve been more careful, should’ve thought further ahead. I never should have involved the Motleys, of course I shouldn’t have, I knew it was stupid. I should have told Jasin she’d made a mistake, and just left. Should’ve been smarter, should’ve been better. If I hadn’t been such a fool . . .

  Muttered curses all around him. “What’s on with the lights?”

  “What in Furies?”

  “Someone go get a torch—”

  “Gentlemen.”

  The voice was soft, confident. A deep and reassuring voice, laced with power.

  “Who’s there?!”

  I should’ve been better.

  “I have a friend who’s very fond of riddles,” the voice said. “He’s not here at the moment, but I think he’d appreciate this one. When is the single most dangerous man in the room even more dangerous?”

  “Who the ruddy hell—?”

  “When there are several of him.”

  The lights came back on, and Ashes looked up. All five guardsmen now wore the face of Candlestick Jack.

  To their credit, they did not immediately panic. Two of them pulled out clubs, and another went for a gun. The lights flickered again, and one of the men staggered backward, clutching his eyes.

  “He got me!” the man cried. “The bastard got me!” He pointed wildly. “There! I saw him!”

  “Take the boy back!” the one with the pistol said, leveling it at the end of the hallway. The two with clubs arranged themselves back to back. The fourth pulled Ashes away from the group, back toward Lord Edgecombe’s room, and tripped when the one on the ground lunged forward and caught him by the heel.

  “You gentlemen aren’t very good at counting, are you?” the guard said. The lights went out once more, and Ashes heard several sharp, wet smacks of fist against yielding flesh. At least two people were shouting, before one of them shouted, “Quiet!”

  Silence came after that, and then a guttural “Argh!”

  Some base instinct, unaffected by the roil in Ashes’s head, took command of his legs and pushed him down the hallway, as far from the action as he could get. When the lights came back on, the three armed guards stood only a few feet from each other, all poised to fight and wary as cats. Two men were on the ground, unconscious, both wearing Jack’s face.

  The gun-wielder recovered first, staggeri
ng backward and aiming the pistol at each of his comrades in turn.

  “Names!” he snapped. “Say your names! And you bloody well be convincing!”

  “Reid—”

  “Wesson—”

  “Good enough,” the leader said. “Where’d the lad go?”

  “Wait, what’s your name?”

  “Wrong question,” the man said. He flicked his wrist, and blindingly bright light streamed from his fingers to the man’s face. The guard clutched his eyes, while the other lunged at Jack. The Weaver aimed the pistol at him, hesitated, and then stepped adroitly aside as the guard passed him. He smashed the pistol against the man’s temple, and the guard fell in an instant doze.

  The blinded guard had fallen to the floor, helplessly rubbing his eyes. Jack approached him calmly, dissipating the illusion over his face with a wave of his hand.

  “Know anything interesting you want to tell me?” he asked. “Anything you’d count on to save your life?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Very good, then.” Jack smashed the gun against his head, and the man fell asleep. The Weaver straightened, grimacing. “You’ll all be having very nasty headaches in the morning, I’d wager. Pity you don’t have better taste in employment.” He held out an open palm, and the illusions of his face streamed away from the guards, gathering over his hand. Jack held the makeshift lamp toward the end of the hallway. “Lad? Are you all right?”

  Ashes trudged out of the darkness, peering at Jack bewilderedly.

  Blimey’s dead and it’s my fault, my fault, my bloody, bloody fault.

  “Come here, lad,” Jack said, bending so he was on Ashes’s eye level. “We must be getting on.”

  Ashes approached Jack with the skittish caution of an alley cat. The Weaver looked him in the eye, steady and calm, and held out a hand. “Come on, then, lad. We haven’t very much time before someone comes down here.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Followed you,” Jack said simply. “I’ve gotten rather good at it.”

  “You—did you hear—?” Ashes trembled, and even though he screamed at himself inwardly for being a cowardly, stupid little child, he couldn’t stop himself. “He killed Blimey.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Ashes,” Jack said earnestly, “but we must get away. Come along.”

  Ashes took the Weaver’s hand, and followed him out as quickly as he could.

  The hallways rushed past. Ashes clutched tightly to Jack’s hand, fearing that if he let go, he would never find his way out. The Weaver, who had memorized Edgecombe’s halls just as well as Ashes had, led them unerringly toward the servants’ entrance, and then out into the cold, wet Teranis night.

  “Breathe deeply, lad,” Jack said. “Keep moving. Don’t stop.”

  Ashes stumbled along behind him, insensate except for the knowledge that he had to keep moving and Blimey was—

  STOP IT.

  He had to get control of himself. He had to be stronger. It didn’t matter if Blimey was—was— It didn’t matter right now, he had to focus again, had to keep his head.

  “Just keep breathing, Ashes,” Jack said. “Don’t you dare pass out on me. It’s been a while since I carried you out of those damned sewers. I’ve gotten old and you’ve gotten fat ever since you started eating Juliana’s cooking.” Jack glanced at him. “What, no laugh? Not even an aggrieved grin?”

  Blimey is—

  He stopped the thought, bundled it up in rags, and shoved it to the back of his mind. There was no time for that right now. He had to survive. He had to get out of here and plan his next move. He had to—he had to—

  “This should do just fine,” Jack said. They had stopped under the eave of some ancient, dusty church. Jack slumped against the wall and took several long breaths. “Are you hurt, lad? There’s a witch down the way—”

  “No,” Ashes said, though as he did he was acutely aware of the purpled bruises that were decorating his hip and his ribs and the back of his neck. A witch-healing would only make him clumsy and sluggish and thickheaded, and he couldn’t afford that just now. Swiftly, he took a mental tally of his injuries, trying to guess how quickly he could move.

  Blimey is dead.

  “Very well,” Jack said, wary. “Though I think it would be wi— Ashes, where the hell are you going?”

  The boy did not respond except to run even faster toward Burroughside.

  ANNIE!” Ashes shouted, banging a fist against her door. “Annie!”

  He heard Jack’s voice behind him, calling his name, and paid the man no mind. He was not important just now.

  “Annie!” He smashed a closed fist against the door again and again and again. There was no sound from within. “Open this bloody door!”

  There was no answer on the other side. He felt a dull heat in his knuckles, knew that they had split open. He couldn’t feel it.

  He thrashed wildly, unsure what he was thinking, and felt Jack catch his wrists. Without thinking he whirled on the man.

  “She’s not here!” he cried in panic. “She’s always there!”

  “Breathe, boy. We need to think—”

  “We need to get in there!”

  Jack looked him in the eye. Ashes couldn’t have said what the man saw there, but it convinced him in the space of a breath.

  “Stand back.”

  Ashes obeyed, and the Weaver kicked the door at the handle. The thing creaked and moaned, but did not give way.

  “Damn,” he said. “Stay back another minute or so, Ashes. I can get past, I just need you to be quiet for a moment. Understand?”

  Ashes nodded, and he stood away from Jack as he bent and began to pick the lock. Ashes’s stomach twisted and tied itself in knots over and over again, there was a frenzy in his head. He had gone mad, a little.

  “Breathe deeply, lad,” Jack said. “I need you to do that for me. I can’t focus if I’m worried you’re going to pass out over there.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Help me understand, lad,” Jack said. “Talk slowly. Pretend I’m dumb.”

  “Edgecombe is Ragged’s father!”

  “I sussed that,” Jack said calmly. “What’s got you so worked up now, though? Talk me through it.”

  Ashes stared at him, his panic cramping up. How could Jack not understand?

  “I need to find Blimey,” Ashes said.

  “Friend of yours, I take it?”

  Jack didn’t know. Of course Jack didn’t know. Ashes had been keeping Blimey a secret because . . . because . . .

  Why couldn’t he think straight? He needed to find Blimey. Everything else was insignificant. Blimey mattered. Nothing else had that distinction.

  “Yes,” Ashes admitted.

  “Can you tell me—?”

  “No, Jack, I bloody well can’t tell you,” Ashes said, feeling the same ruthless survival instinct taking over his brain. Anger superseded panic, just for a moment. “Can’t tell you much of anything, can I? I’m just a game to you. A mark.”

  The Weaver paused and looked at Ashes, dour-faced. “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough,” Ashes said.

  “All of it, then?” The Weaver pressed the lock-pick carefully forward, generating a soft click inside the mechanism. “You need to understand, I had good reasons—”

  Ashes had no interest in hearing them. He slipped past the man, through the door, straight to the stairs. He took the stairs downward three at a time, and burst through the door to the cellar room—

  The room was empty. Blimey was gone.

  He heard Jack come down the stairs, but didn’t turn as the man entered the room.

  “Make sure you keep breathing,” the Weaver said, stepping past Ashes to get a better look at the place. He took the room in at a glance. “Your friend lived down here?”

  “Yes,” Ashes said shortly. He was leaning against the doorframe; he was suddenly unsure if he’d be able to stand without it. “He wasn’t a spy for anybody,
either, just in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Ashes, you need—”

  “Go away, Jack.”

  Jack paused, frowned. He moved away from Ashes, toward the bed. “Not ready to do that just yet, I’m afraid.” He lifted the thin blanket, revealing a set of knickknacks that glimmered faintly with degraded Artifice. “Hmm. I’ll need to have a little chat with Synder about keeping secrets, too.”

  “No lies among liars, right?” Ashes said bitterly.

  “No lies among liars,” Jack said softly. He scanned the room with an air of calm concern, then looked at Ashes. “I—”

  “Shut up, Jack.” Ashes met the man’s eyes, and tried to access the anger that lay buried underneath his grief and his guilt. “You can stop pretending to be some sort of bloody father figure for me now, all right? Your game’s up. I heard all about how you’re trying to make me—make me feel like I belong, eh? You can stop lying to me now, too.”

  “It wasn’t all an act, lad,” Jack said. “You think I’d have come if it was? You think I’d have followed you to Lord Edgecombe’s home, hoping that you had some other reason to visit than telling your boss your cover was working brilliantly, and you had the stupid Rehl Company all sewed up?”

  “I was never a spy,” Ashes said.

  “I’ve more or less figured that part out by this point,” Jack admitted. “Shame it took me so long. It’s been a real pain tiptoeing around you every moment.”

  “Serves you right,” Ashes said. He set his back against the frame and slid to the floor, hanging his head between his knees. He felt—not exhausted, not spent. Hollowed. Like someone had dug around in his chest and removed parts of it with a spoon.

  “Serves us both right, I imagine.” Jack blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. You understand what it’s like to live a second life as a fugitive. Everyone is suspect. Everything is a trap.”

  “Can you stop for a moment?” Ashes demanded. “Just for a moment, could this not be about you? My friend is dead. Ragged didn’t even need his stupid father to tell him who I am—he had me figured two nights ago. Everything I’ve been working for in Burroughside is gone.” He laughed harshly. “Up in bloody smoke.”