The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  Judging by the smell, he’d fallen into Ragged’s lavatory; someone must have forgotten to lock the window while airing the place out. Ashes plugged his nose, pulled the window shut behind him, and made swiftly for the door.

  The lavatory connected to a larger, lightless room. He could see the silhouettes of a large, opulent bed, a table beside it, and a wardrobe. To one side was a vanity with a full-body mirror; to the other, a tall dresser. His bare feet squished against a thick carpet. Prickles ran across his skin.

  He was standing in Hiram Ragged’s bedroom.

  He gritted his teeth. No time to stop and gawk. Ragged would end the festivities in minutes and return here shortly thereafter. Ashes needed to move.

  Glamours were always in clothing, as far as he’d heard, so he made for the wardrobe first. It was large enough to swallow Ashes whole, and when he opened it, his heart sank. There were a dozen different suits inside, and more shoes than Ashes had time to count. He ran his fingers over the fabric anyway, trying to feel for—what, some sort of tingle? He swore under his breath.

  He abandoned the wardrobe and sprinted to the bedside table. The first of its four drawers contained a set of spectacles and many differently colored pocket-watches, none of which seemed particularly magical. The second had a magazine displaying well-dressed Ivorish men in a variety of fashionable outfits. The third was locked, and the fourth filled entirely with paper, each sheet covered in tiny, neatly scribed print.

  His heart was thudding terribly fast now. He needed more time.

  He jerked at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Quick as winking, he shut the drawer he’d been riffling through and darted inside the wardrobe. He buried himself in the suit jackets and trousers, then pulled the door nearly closed, taking care not to lock himself inside.

  Through the crack in the door, Ashes saw light spill in from the hall. Ragged entered, cackling madly.

  “Oh, John, John, John. Aren’t you in trouble.”

  “He cheated!” John Flint protested. His voice trembled.

  “Oh, but he cheated cleverly, my boy, very cleverly indeed. And that’s what matters in the end, isn’t it? Now, undo those.”

  “Mr. Ragged, please—”

  “Don’t argue with me, boy,” Ragged snarled. “These were always the rules.”

  “He . . . No, he cheated . . .” Flint was almost sobbing now.

  “Don’t weep, John. This won’t hurt a bit.”

  Ashes forced himself to wait an hour. He counted the seconds. After that, he forced himself to wait another hour. He had no fear of falling asleep; his blood seemed to be pounding hard enough to break through his skin. He wondered if his heartbeat could be heard outside the wardrobe, and if Ragged knew he was in there and was waiting just outside, sipping tea and smiling.

  When he couldn’t bear it any longer, he eased the wardrobe door open. The room was blacker than tar, but his eyes were used to it by now. He could just discern Ragged’s form sprawled on the bed, motionless. Carapace had come and removed John Flint a long while ago. Mr. Ragged fell asleep only a few minutes later.

  And, Ashes noticed, he had not removed his hat until he got into bed.

  Ragged had multitudes of suits and shoes and accessories. But there were no hats in the wardrobe, or anywhere Ashes had seen. It seemed more than a little strange that a man who was never seen without his hat would only own one.

  Ashes crept closer, the carpet muffling his cautious footfalls. Ragged had set his hat on the bedside table, mere inches away from his reach. It was far too dark for Ashes to see Mr. Ragged’s face, but he knew with a cold certainty that it had changed. Noiselessly, he grasped the hat and backed away.

  He turned to the vanity and set the hat on his head. Something soft and gossamer-light fell against the skin of his cheeks, like he had walked through a spiderweb. His eyes were just sharp enough to see, even through the dark, that his appearance in the mirror was changed.

  He was wearing Mr. Ragged’s face. The thought made him want to be sick.

  Ashes turned to the sleeping man, and curiosity welled up in him. What did Mr. Ragged really look like?

  He took a step toward the bed. As if in answer, Ragged snorted, fidgeting uneasily in his sleep. Ashes’s heart smashed against his throat. Not the time to satisfy his curiosity. Time to be somewhere different.

  He shivered once again as he approached the door. He stood before it and paused—half out of instinctive caution and half, perhaps, to prove to himself he wasn’t scared.

  The door opened.

  “My Lord?”

  A tall man in black and white servant’s clothing. A stink vaguely reminiscent of sour milk, a sense of unease.

  Furies.

  Carapace.

  ASHES froze. His heart stamped against his chest mercilessly, as if trying to escape his body. Carapace stood just an arm’s-span away from him, shoes brightly gleaming, pants pressed—Furies, did he ever sleep? A tray of varied foods, some sort of late-night snack, rested in his gloved hands.

  He couldn’t see Carapace’s face; instinct had grabbed his neck and forced him not to look upward, screaming that Carapace would recognize him, forgetting entirely that his face was different.

  “My Lor—?”

  Movement came all at once, erupting out of his gut and surging through him. There was no involvement from his mind; better to leave the thinking part out of this.

  He struck the tray of food from the bottom with his fist and fruits and little meats exploded off the platter and something like a pained cry broke out of Carapace’s mouth. This was because Ashes’s knee had landed squarely between Carapace’s legs. Carapace lurched to one side and gasped and Ashes didn’t wait another moment. He ran.

  Mr. Ragged’s frenzied voice behind him. “Get him!”

  Ashes’s feet struck the stairs. He bounded down them, taking three at a time and jumping the last five, scrambling to his feet—

  He slammed against the front door of Ragged House, scrabbled at the doorknob, while Ragged’s voice rose in pitch and volume. “Thief! Don’t let him get away!”

  The knob twisted. Carapace’s heavy footsteps on the stairs as Ashes slammed his shoulder against the door—

  The courtyard opened up before him and he slammed the door shut and ran wildly. He heard voices behind him, unintelligible, furious.

  He crashed against the gate and it swung open and he burst onto the street without slowing a bit. He clutched the silk hat to his head to keep it from falling.

  He did not look back but he heard Ragged screaming.

  “You can’t outrun them!”

  The corner came up fast and he took it without slowing at all and his feet went out from under him. He caught himself on one hand and got his balance and took off once again.

  Ashes ran flat-out for several minutes before he glanced back. He saw no one behind him. He slowed, sucking down air that burned his throat, and ducked behind a corner and checked again. Still no one.

  He’d lost them! Carapace and whoever else Ragged had sent out had been too slow. Ashes would get away free and clear.

  A howl split the night air, and was answered by three others, and all at once Ashes realized that no one had been sent after him. Ravagers.

  He had never been outdoors this late. It had to be nearly midnight. Every Ravager in Burroughside would be awake, and hungry—and they would have heard Ragged’s screaming, and smelled the scent of Ashes’s sweat and fear . . .

  Could he hide somewhere? No Burroughsider would open the door for him this late, but he knew a bolthole a mile and a half to the north. The question was how many Ravagers stood between him and safety.

  No time to wonder. He turned north, and just then a Ravager loped into view at the end of the street.

  Ashes froze, but not quickly enough: the Ravager’s eyes landed on him and the creature’s face split in a grotesque parody of a smile. Slaver dripped from its mouth. Its teeth were discolored but sharp as knives.

  Th
e Ravager stood perfectly still. Ashes quivered. It had not stopped out of fear or caution. It was waiting for him to run. It wanted to chase.

  Ashes had a lead of nearly thirty feet. Ravagers were inhumanly fast, but that distance had to be significant. His blood was singing with adrenaline—he could run the mile and a half without slowing once, terrified as he was. He just needed to catch his breath.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned. Another Ravager stood at the intersection, between him and freedom. The second Ravager’s eyes flicked between the prey and the competition. It let out a low, primal sound from deep in its chest.

  Ashes tensed. His exit was blocked off, but the Ravagers weren’t part of the same pack. They would fight each other first. If it gave him just a few moments . . .

  The Ravagers keened and dashed forward.

  Ashes faced the nearer one and bent at the knees. The creature was impossibly fast—in a breath it had closed the distance between them. Ashes threw himself to the side, but the Ravager reacted immediately, shifting its direction without visible effort. It crashed into his chest and tackled him to the ground—Ashes felt his leg twist violently to one side, sending a shock of pain from his knee to his hip. He cried out in agony, which only encouraged the Ravager; it let out a wild snarl and sank its teeth into his shoulder and tore out a mouthful of flesh. It reared its head in triumph, spraying hot blood over Ashes’s face.

  The second Ravager reached them just then and struck Ashes’s attacker with the force of a careening carriage. Both monsters fell in a heap to one side, screeching and growling. They struck at each other with their hands crooked like claws, rending skin with each strike.

  Ashes rolled to the side and tried to get to his feet, and screamed as his leg gave out beneath him. He fell hard on his belly and looked at the leg. Not broken, but twisted enough that he didn’t dare run on it. He needed something else, he looked around desperately—

  There was a sewer drain just a few feet from him.

  Suicide. He knew it was suicide. The creatures beneath the streets could kill him just as easily as the Ravagers could.

  He looked back. The Ravagers were still tangled together, snarling and screeching, but one would win eventually. And Ashes didn’t have a chance at outrunning it.

  He gritted his teeth and snatched Mr. Ragged’s hat off the road and crawled toward the hole as fast as his twisted leg would permit. When he reached it he turned on his belly and let his feet slide through the hole first, wondering as he did whether something would bite off his bottom half before he made it through.

  There wasn’t time to wonder. One of the Ravagers had trapped the other underneath it, and as Ashes watched it struck a merciless blow to its foe’s temple. The other Ravager stopped moving immediately.

  Furies.

  The victorious Ravager keened in satisfaction and looked around for its prize—for Ashes. It found him in a moment, and lunged—just as Ashes gave himself a final push and slid through the gap into the sewer.

  The drop couldn’t have been more than three feet, but he landed hard enough to send a spike of pain up his twisted leg. He collapsed just as the Ravager’s hand shot through the opening and passed through the air over Ashes’s head, nearly catching him by the hair. The Ravager snapped and howled in rage, but it was far too large to fit through the gap. It screeched one final time and then pulled its hand out, apparently defeated.

  Ashes, meanwhile, reoriented himself to put the sewer wall to his back as quickly as he could. He stared up at the drain as the Ravager stamped its feet furiously above him. When, finally, the creature finished its tantrum, Ashes counted off a full minute before forcing himself to his feet.

  Would the Ravager wait for him to come back up? They weren’t known for their cleverness, but it didn’t take a great deal of strategic skill to wait where prey disappeared. But the alternative . . .

  Ashes had heard dozens of stories about the things that lived in the sewers. Serpents with the faces of men on the backs of their flat heads, and enormous lions with flaming breath, and man-shaped hollows in the world that could swallow you up just by touching you. The details changed, except for this: there were monsters under the streets of Teranis, and they knew the scent of blood.

  He didn’t dare try to climb out the sewer drain; the Ravager might have gone, but if any of its kin wandered by, Ashes would be dead for certain. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to pull himself out anyway. And the stories were—were just stories.

  Weren’t they?

  Ashes walked. He held Mr. Ragged’s hat in one hand, and kept the other pressed against the tunnel’s curved wall to keep weight off his twisted leg. He followed the trickling path of the water, which would flow unerringly toward the Lethe; if he could only get there, everything would be all right.

  Time had passed. Ashes couldn’t have guessed how much. An hour? Two? Was it dawn above him? However long it had been, he had not encountered anything monstrous or bloodthirsty, and he counted that a blessing. Still, he found that as the minutes crawled by, he didn’t grow more confident.

  The darkness didn’t help. It was darker beneath the street than any darkness Ashes had ever known. It muffled his ears and made his skin prickle; the dark had weight. Even if there had been light, it would have shattered, like a sliver of glass beneath a boot.

  And there were sounds. Skittering, hissing things. They sounded like rats, sometimes, a multitude of them. Other times they sounded like serpents in the water, or like footsteps and a whispered impression of music.

  He was being a fool. A silly, naive little boy frightened of the dark. But he couldn’t even pretend to be fearless here. His belly was tense. His fingers quivered.

  There was an eddy in the water at his feet, and he bent to check the bottom of the whirlpool. His fingers brushed against something heavy. He tugged it out of the water, felt over its edges, and frowned. Too smooth to be a bit of broken brick, and he could feel an odd, finger-sized hole in the middle. But it fit well in his palm, and felt heavy enough to hurt someone if he swung it well. Absently, he clutched it.

  There really could be anything down here, he thought. Something could be standing right in front of him and he would never see it. Sewer-beasts could smell blood, and fear, but Ashes was drowned in the darkness, and he could smell nothing but the cloying stink, and he heard nothing but—

  There!

  He spun and smashed the heavy thing in his fist against the ground. Instead of striking water or stone, it hit something soft and fleshy. He swung again, and the creature squealed as it died.

  Fur underneath his fingers. A rat. Not even a very big one.

  He wobbled to his feet, shaking all over. He still heard movement. It seemed louder now. And he heard . . . footsteps?

  The faint strains of someone singing reached his ears. He recognized the melody in an instant—or he thought he did, for he realized just as quickly that he couldn’t remember any words, or where he had heard the music before. The voice sounded human. Almost.

  Ashes shuddered and turned away, moving down another tunnel. The music did not follow him, but it took a long time to fade away.

  Wonder if I’m going mad.

  How unfair it would be to come so close. Stealing a Glamour from the governor of Burroughside was a damn high accomplishment, wasn’t it? He could’ve brought it to the Lass, moved to Boreas, forgotten about Saintly and Ragged forever. He’d come so close.

  Don’t think like that, he told himself. He wasn’t mad yet. Just spooked, and who could blame him? He couldn’t see, and there were horrid singing things down here, and who was talking?

  He blinked and the voice stopped. Him. He’d been muttering to himself without noticing.

  “I got to get out of here,” he said, knowing that he’d said it aloud. He wouldn’t lose his mind down here. Not this way.

  He stopped and tapped his shoe against the floor. There was no splash; he’d lost the stream.

  “Damn,” he said, and something beh
ind him hissed.

  Faces, Blimey, I hope you make it out all right.

  Sharp teeth struck him once, and again, and the dark swallowed up his screams.

  THE place where Ashes woke did not smell like Burroughside, or the sewer, or anything else he knew. It smelled sharp, and the smell burned, a kind of aggressive, acidic emptiness that forced its way up his nostrils and set fires on the edges of his brain.

  The last thing he remembered was teeth—terrible, curved knives, longer than his fingers—sinking into the flesh of his leg, his belly, his shoulder. He’d realized death was coming when the venom reached his bloodstream and his veins caught fire. After that everything was a blur of pain and confusion, and a final burst of bright light.

  Now Ashes felt wrung out, but his head was shockingly clear. No more stink of the sewer, no more cloud of pain. The wounds where the creature had bitten him were gone, and even the raw bruises around his neck no longer throbbed. All of that pain was gone, erased completely.

  He drew the quite sensible conclusion that he had died.

  This air that stank of emptiness, then, was where the Faces kept the newly dead. He’d heard a Facepainter Priest once say that after death, the Faces—all nine, or thirteen, or one hundred seventeen, or however many of them there were—would evaluate you, and if you had honored them, they took you with them into the afterlife.

  I’m fair buggered, then, Ashes thought, with more calmness than he would have expected. The Face of Marvels and the rest of the pious ones would never have him: he didn’t really belong to Teranis, after all. Kindness only took women, and Prudence wouldn’t so much as spit on Ashes. His best hope would have been the Face of Cunning, but that was only a faint chance now. Cunning didn’t tolerate those who died of their own stupidity, and what had Ashes done if not that? He had hidden in the wardrobe rather than running for the window: a stroke of spectacular idiocy. He had earned this death.