The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “They’re not my folk, and no, it wasn’t. You can’t lie to a liar, Francis Odd.”

  “Mister Rehl,” Ashes said, looking him in the eye, “that’s all I ever do. Where’s the Lady?”

  “Under the left.” Jacob didn’t even look down.

  “Wrong,” Ashes said. “Marvels.”

  “Prove it.”

  Ashes flipped over the card, and felt something brush against his skin.

  The Face of Kindness stared up from the card, red as flame. Ashes looked from the card to the man, and to the card again. It was a perfect representation, but Ashes had kept track of the cards. Hadn’t he?

  “You’re cheating,” Ashes said. “Somehow. You’re cheating.”

  “Prove it.” Jacob’s eyes were bright.

  “Look. Here’s the real Face of—” But it was the Face of Marvels, awestruck and beatific, that looked back at him when he turned the card over.

  Ashes stared at the man, eyes narrowed. “How are you doing this?”

  “Me? I’m not doing anything. Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown Cacklewitch. Notoriously difficult trick, that one. Are you sure you didn’t simply muck it?”

  His jaw bulged. “You’re doing something to it, ain’t you? You’re a— You’re some kind of Glamourist. A Fisher.”

  “So what if I am?” Jacob fixed him in a cool stare. “The crown is still at stake. You may walk away, or you may try one final time. I’m not even going to call the police if I lose.”

  “Course you won’t. You can’t lose.” Ashes snatched up his cards and leapt to his feet. “I don’t got to stick around for this. You think it’s fun just mucking with me, well, bugger off. I’ve places to be.”

  Jacob didn’t stand. He met Ashes’s eyes. “Very well. Yes, I’m an Artificer. Yes, I cheated. Play one more. I’ll conjure nothing on your cards.”

  “Swear to it.”

  “By my face and on my name,” the man said immediately, “I, Jacob Rehl, shall conjure no image, effect no magic, and cause no change to occur on, within, or to any of the items you hold, by any power available to me. Should I break my word, may all misfortune and calamity fall upon me and mine. May I ache with untold pains. May I fail in all my endeavors. May my flesh rot on my bones and my spirit wander eternal.” He finished by blowing out a long breath, then looking at Ashes. “Good enough? Your cards have their faces back.”

  Ashes still didn’t trust him, but he had only lost a few minutes. He still had time, and he could still have that coin. “Good enough.” He held the cards out. “You ready?”

  “Exceptionally,” Jacob said. “But be warned, lad. I am a better liar than you.”

  Ashes didn’t respond except to throw the first card down. Jacob’s eyes were fixed now on Ashes’s hands, which were swift and unerring. After a day’s worth of practice, his fingers knew the dance intimately. He kept his mind bent on the Face of Kindness, imagining that she was faceup, staring at him. So long as he could see her like this, he would never lose her.

  He glanced at Jacob’s eyes. They were following the Face of Kindness, too.

  He knows the game, Ashes thought. He’s keeping track and he’s not even trying.

  Ashes increased his speed, shifting cards as fast as he could without losing control. They seemed to blur, though he could still see Kindness, watching him like a worried mother.

  Ashes stole a look at Jacob once again. The man’s eyes hadn’t left Kindness.

  Bugger that, Ashes decided. So the man knew the game—what of it? It wasn’t just about the tricks.

  Ashes’s hands sped up. He threw the cards recklessly, barely keeping them from flying out of his hands. They were nearly a blur between his fingers. For several moments he kept track of the Face of Kindness, until the motions were too fast even for him. When finally he stopped shuffling, he could not have found Her Ladyship any better than someone else could have.

  He looked at Jacob Rehl and felt his heart beating faster.

  “Where’s the Lady?”

  Jacob pointed. Ashes took the card by its corner and flipped it up. He let out a long, relieved breath.

  “Cunning,” Jacob muttered. “How about that.”

  “Sorry, milord,” Ashes said. “Looks like the Faces favor me today.” He glanced skyward. “And I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to have the time for. Mr. Rehl, it has been a real pleasure taking your money.” He snatched up the coin. “This even real?”

  “Oh, it’s quite real,” Jacob said. He gave Ashes a strange look, curious and calculating. “You did . . . very well.”

  “Uh-huh. G’bye, Mr. Rehl.”

  Jacob nodded, and Ashes felt the man’s eyes watching as he left.

  DEEP in Burroughside was a house.

  This was unusual. Burroughside did not have houses; mostly, Burroughside had ruins. The few buildings still standing were creaky, riddled with holes, on the verge of falling over or falling in; they were filled with rats and desperate people. This house had no rats, and it consumed desperate people like food.

  It had only one door, made of a dark and heavy iron, which one approached by way of three stone steps. Beyond this was a rough courtyard that had rocks rather than grass, and the rocks were discolored by old blood, souvenirs of the public fights that happened in the yard every month. Further on was a high fence, which surrounded the house. At the top of the fence were barbed wires, and thorny vines, and needles that glistened when the light wormed far enough inward to find them. These were tipped with a cruel poison, the sort that set fire to the bones and turned the guts to ice on its way to making the heart burst.

  Inside, the house was well appointed, with lush carpets and new-looking furniture. The chairs could swallow a grown man whole. None of the paint was allowed to peel or chip, and along the central hallway of the house were numerous portraits of dour-looking old men. Apart from their embittered expressions, they had nothing in common.

  The right sort of people would see it for what it was: a crude but passable imitation of an Ivory manor. The iron door, the style of furniture, the strange artwork in the hall, even the high fence—these were the hallmarks of Teranis’s ruling class. The house was far too small, of course, and the fence too obviously patchwork. But the resemblance was there all the same: this was an Ivorish house, but made of castoffs and rubbish.

  They would notice something else, if they stayed long enough: something quite different from the homes they were used to, something they couldn’t quite articulate until they left. In every room—nearly hidden by the paint, nearly covered by the carpet—sunken into the skin of the house, was a perpetual, barely noticeable hint of smoke.

  This was Ragged House.

  No one could enter Ragged House without permission. This was what Mr. Ragged wanted Burroughside to believe, and because they believed it, it was true.

  The girl on the roof did not believe it, and so it was not true.

  The bell on Ragged House’s fence made a shrill and ugly sound when Ashes rang it. He had a strong suspicion Ragged wanted it to do just that. Ashes couldn’t imagine what sort of craftsman specialized in bells that made people want to tear their ears off, but Ragged had certainly found him.

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot while he waited. No one else was around, but the Broken Boys roosted just around the corner from Ragged House. If they passed by while he was just standing here . . . he rang it again, louder this time.

  The door opened, and Carapace, Ragged’s butler, proceeded from it. Proceeding was how Carapace moved. He did not walk, or run, or stumble. He moved like a priest, with grand, slow steps. Carapace was a deliberate man. From his tightly trimmed eyebrows to his polished cuff links to his perfectly bald head, each detail seemed the result of a decision that had taken hours. Even his overlong nose and pale gray eyes seemed to have been selected consciously.

  The only thing that didn’t seem to be under Carapace’s control was his scent. Ashes always caught a whiff of something spoiled in the man’s breath,
like old milk.

  Carapace opened the gate wide. Ashes held out a bundle of money notes—his entire take for the day, save the golden coin he’d won from Jacob the liar. That was hidden carefully away, buried in the dirt underneath a loose stone in an alleyway, for fear that other Burroughsiders would be desperate enough to rob him. It wasn’t unheard of; people got desperate on Taxing Day. “My tax for the week.”

  The butler didn’t look at the money. “Milord wishes to see you.”

  Ashes was too experienced a card player to let his surprise show through on his face, but his heart juddered against his ribs. What could Ragged want with him? If he had found out about Blimey—but no, he couldn’t have found out about Blimey. Even so, Ashes’s skin was crawling the way it did when a copper walked by.

  “It’s getting dark, Carapace, and I’ve places to—”

  He didn’t even glimpse Carapace’s spindly arm moving, but somehow Ashes’s wrist was caught in the man’s hand. The grip was viselike, fingers digging down to the bone.

  Furies. “What’s he need me for?” Ashes said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “I am not privy to his reasons,” Carapace said.

  Ashes frowned, not at all comforted, but he had no other move. He stepped inside the gate.

  Carapace led him wordlessly into the house. Ashes had been within it only once before, less than a year ago. He remembered bits and pieces: the Bärsi carpets, the eerie men staring at him out of their portrait prisons, the smell of smoke. He wondered if Ragged had tried to root it out and failed, or if he kept it that way to unnerve everyone who entered.

  Carapace opened the great oaken door to Mr. Ragged’s office. Ashes hesitated, just for a moment, wrestling down an instinct to sprint away. Everything in him was screaming that he mustn’t enter that room. But Carapace’s eye was trained on him, and he had seen how quick the man was. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

  The first thing he noticed was the soft sound beneath his feet. He looked down, confused, and saw that the floor was covered in faded yellow newspaper. The second thing he noticed was that he was not Mr. Ragged’s only guest—Iames the Fool sat before Mr. Ragged’s great oaken desk. Saintly stood to one side of him, looking like a guilty cat. The look alone would have been enough to make Ashes nervous, if he were not already.

  Last of all he saw Mr. Ragged.

  The Beggar Lord had a potent and not at all pleasant reputation; visitors often expected someone ancient and scarred, with a grizzled beard and three missing teeth and a chin that curled slightly upward. But Mr. Ragged looked unremarkable. No older than thirty, with chestnut-colored hair and dark eyes, he could have been fresh from one of the Boreas colleges, or from an apprenticeship with some Lyonshire merchant. His suit was pressed and his silk top hat, which he wore even when indoors, always looked new.

  Carapace bowed as they entered, grabbing Ashes by the shoulder to make him do likewise. Ashes found himself distinctly aware of how exposed his neck was, and swallowed. But if Ragged planned to kill him, he wouldn’t need Ashes to present his neck.

  “You may go, Carapace,” Ragged said. His voice did not quite fit his looks. Too raw, too coarse and throaty. Like every word pained him. “Shut the door.”

  Ashes straightened; his insides were crawling. Why had Mr. Ragged called in Saintly and the Fool? It couldn’t be anything good. Saintly’s eyes were filled with smug satisfaction.

  Mr. Ragged gestured Ashes to the chair beside Iames. “Do sit,” he said. It was not a request, and Ashes obeyed, keeping his questions to himself and his face carefully still.

  “Francis has told me an interesting story,” Mr. Ragged said. “About the pair of you.”

  Ashes and Iames exchanged a look. Iames said, “We’ve done nothing wrong, sir.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” Mr. Ragged said. “No, I am not searching for blame. I am interested in facts—context, perhaps. I understand there was something of a disagreement between you and Francis, Ashes?”

  Ashes didn’t let his nervousness show. “Something of one.”

  “And Iames came to your aid, I understand,” Mr. Ragged said evenly. “Helping to enforce my laws. Maintaining the peace. Would you say you are allies? Friends?”

  Ashes and Iames exchanged another bewildered look.

  “All due respect, sir,” Ashes said, “but why’re we here?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Sure,” Iames said. Mr. Ragged looked at Ashes, who nodded.

  “Francis has brought an opportunity to my attention,” Mr. Ragged said. “I’ve— You see, I have found myself becoming somewhat bored with Burroughside lately. There’s very little excitement in it, you see, compared to when I took it over. And Francis has given me an idea.” Ragged inclined his head in Saintly’s direction. “Try not to make a mess.”

  A mess?

  Ashes heard a sickening, metallic sound, and he turned. Saintly stood behind Iames, and his expression was horrid—gleeful and cruel. Iames’s face had gone rigid, and Ashes wondered why until he saw the raw gash opening under Iames’s chin, and the wet, red blade in Saintly’s hand.

  Iames fell forward out of the chair, landing with a thunk on the floor.

  Ashes stared. He heard, as if from far away, the sound of Iames’s blood gurgling in his throat, and thought that he must go to him, and try to stop the bleeding. That was what he ought to do. But he couldn’t move.

  Iames’s blood spread across the newspapers, staining the yellowed pages red.

  An image flickered behind Ashes’s eyes, just for a moment: Mari’s still, cold body on the ground, her face frozen permanently in shock. Ashes’s breath caught.

  The blood reached Ashes’s feet. He couldn’t move. Iames’s body shook all over, and then he was still.

  “Terribly foul business,” Mr. Ragged said. “Leave us, Francis. Send Carapace in to clean this up.”

  “Of course, milord,” Saintly said. He leered at Ashes as he left, his eyes dancing as if he’d just played a particularly clever joke.

  Ashes’s mind felt viscous, as if he were thinking through wet clay. His tongue was heavy and awkward. He could focus on nothing but the red pool spreading across the floor. It occurred to him that Mr. Ragged cared very much about his carpets, to have covered them for this . . .

  After some time, he heard Mr. Ragged’s voice saying, “Listen.”

  Ashes looked up. There was a red veneer over his vision. He kept seeing Mari staring at him, eyes wide, blood trickling down her forehead. Iames’s body was gone, though the blood still soaked the papers.

  “Are you paying attention?” Mr. Ragged asked. Ashes nodded. “Good. Listen carefully to me, boy. You have my permission to seek justice.”

  Ashes stared at him. He didn’t speak.

  “Are you understanding, Ashes? You may kill Francis.”

  “Why?”

  “He has killed your friend,” Mr. Ragged said, giving him a patient look. “Not for the first time, either, if I understand correctly. I am giving you permission to punish him for it.”

  “Iames paid his tax,” Ashes said numbly.

  “Immaterial, at this stage,” Mr. Ragged said. “He was more valuable to me this way.” He tapped his fingers together, thoughtful. “My father bred dogs, you know, as guard animals. Savage creatures if you know how to train them. And you must keep them savage. Make them fight, make them kill to eat. Or they become worse than useless.”

  Ashes saw it, then: the pieces fit together rather neatly. Mr. Ragged hadn’t brought him here as a punishment or to remind him who was in charge—not primarily, anyway. Mr. Ragged had wanted him to watch Saintly kill Iames. Would you say you are allies? Friends?

  “You want me to fight him,” Ashes said. “As—what, a training exercise? Keep his teeth sharp?”

  “I would prefer you think of it as an opportunity to impress me,” Mr. Ragged said. “I have dozens of whoresons living here. Perhaps hundreds. Some of them could kill Francis. None of th
em can frighten him.” He nodded respectfully toward Ashes. “You do. That interests me.”

  “What if I don’t want to do it?”

  Mr. Ragged smiled in what was probably supposed to be a charming, indulgent way. It looked predatory. “Francis will be receiving a similar liberty in three days. By that point, I suspect it will no longer be your decision.”

  Ashes ground his teeth together. “You’re a rank bastard,” he said.

  Mr. Ragged’s smile vanished and his eyes went perilously dark. “Show proper respect, boy, or I will rip your tongue out and feed it to you.” The dark expression passed as quickly as it had come. Mr. Ragged leaned back. “You may leave, now.”

  Just then there was a loud thump upstairs, followed by a high, agonized scream. Mr. Ragged’s eyes darted upward. His face shifted almost imperceptibly, just enough to reveal an expression of shock and uncertainty.

  The scream cut off. There was a sound of shattering glass, and Ragged looked, briefly, frightened. Ashes memorized the look; the sight of Mr. Ragged afraid would keep him warm for weeks.

  “Leave, boy,” Mr. Ragged commanded. He rose imperiously and strode out the door without another word.

  Ashes obeyed without a second thought. He was out of the office quickly as anything; his head was already spinning with fear and dashed-together plans. He had three days—probably not even that; he couldn’t count on Mr. Ragged’s word.

  He and Blimey needed to be out of Burroughside by morning.

  They could doss somewhere in Boreas, maybe a cheap Ysonne inn if the innkeeper cared more about the weight of Ashes’s coin than the absence of his iron name. That solution wouldn’t last more than a pair of weeks even if they were terribly lucky, but what choice did he have? The Lass didn’t take any Burroughsiders but for her Tithe, and that was months away. Far, far too long—he had been a fool to think he could count on surviving until then.

  He was halfway to the gate when he heard Ragged scream something, but he was in too much of a hurry to feel curious. Something like a thunder-crack erupted behind him as he slipped out the gate. He ran.