Would the Faces leave him here, then? Ashes hadn’t stayed to hear the specifics of damnation. What would the Faces condemn someone to? Eternal boredom? Utter emotionlessness?
His thoughts were interrupted by a detail, something that didn’t fit if he really was dead. Why was his back so cold?
His eyes opened. He was in a small room, lying on a table of polished stone, or something equally smooth. There was a harsh white light directly above him, too bright and unwavering to be a candle or a lamp. He sat up and saw to his left a shelf filled with strange metal instruments and glass jars full of clear liquid. To his right he saw a door.
His head spun as he swung his legs off the table, and when his bare feet touched the floor he shivered; the stone was freezing cold. He stood—or he tried to. Immediately his head spun and his legs went numb, forcing him to sit back down. Everything below his waist felt prickly and cold; something had gone quite wrong with his legs.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” he said aloud. He still sounded like himself; that was some comfort. But his legs seemed to be conducting a mutiny, and his sense of balance was gone entirely. And—how had he not realized earlier?—his clothes were gone; he was wearing a simple white shift. Ragged’s hat and the stone he’d picked up in the sewer had vanished as well.
He set his feet against the floor again, testing his weight slowly. He seemed to have flimsy stilts attached to his waist instead of legs; his knees were rubbery and functionless. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled to the door and tested the knob. It swung open at his touch, revealing a narrow, dimly lit hallway.
He walked toward the source of the light as stealthily as he could, keeping a hand against the wall to support his weight. More strength returned to his limbs with every step. By the time the hall turned its corner, his footfalls were nearly noiseless.
The light was coming from an expansive sitting room. Ashes froze at the entrance, eyeing the inside. Lush carpet, a grand bookcase on one wall, and three lamps that he could see from here. The sharp nothing-smell was gone, replaced by an amalgam of dust and books and cologne.
Denizen, he thought immediately. Maybe Ivory, even. The thought made him shiver. He wasn’t dead—he was trapped in some Denizen’s home, nearly naked, with jelly instead of legs and no idea how he’d gotten here.
His head throbbed in time with his pulse. What was going on?
A voice came from the side of the room that Ashes couldn’t see. “You ought to come in, I imagine. You’ll get very little done out there.”
Ashes hesitated. He was helpless and confused in someone’s home; he couldn’t afford to be incautious. But whoever was speaking had saved him from the sewer. Whatever else was going on, Ashes felt sure about that much.
He hobbled around the corner. His eyes went wide.
Directly across from him was a window that filled most of the wall. Teranis lay beyond it, pulsing with the fog-swamped light of a thousand streetlamps, looking as if the stars had spilled over the brim of the sky and dripped into the city. In the distance was a fiery red glow, a self-contained sunrise in the wrong side of the sky. Even farther away, intermittent strokes of lightning streaked along the horizon, too low to be a storm. Finally, his eyes found the Silver Tower—the center of Teranis, home of the Kindly Ones. It gleamed in the dark, a great sliver of carved moonlight.
Ashes did not realize there was a man standing at the window until the fellow turned around. His clothing was that of a high-ranking Denizen: a silk shirt with more buttons than could possibly be useful, a tapered suit jacket that ended sharply at his waist, and shoes bright as mirrors. He wore a beard on his hawkish face, and his eyes were a fierce, burning green.
Ashes peered at the man for a moment, puzzled. Recognition struck him—he knew the fellow. The Denizen’s face had changed since they’d met in Yson, but Ashes knew in his gut that the man standing across from him was the Artificer, Jacob Rehl.
His recognition must have shown in his eyes. The man tilted his head. “There’s an interesting development,” he muttered. “Good evening, Francis Odd.”
Ashes eyed the man warily. Had his legs felt more awake, they would have tingled with the instinct to run. “Hullo.”
Jacob gestured to a chair. “You may sit, if you like. I doubt you’re much for standing just now.”
For a moment, Ashes thought of standing just to be contrary. But his legs were tired, and it wasn’t as if sitting would put him more under the Artificer’s power. He had no advantages here, no leverage. So he stumbled to the chair and fell into it, exaggerating the effort it took. Getting the Artificer to underestimate him would be something, at least.
Jacob took the chair opposite and busied himself for a moment with his jacket. When he looked up, the false face was gone; his beard had vanished, and his eyes were simple brown. This new man looked profoundly unremarkable, like a farm boy who’d grown up without realizing it. Another illusion? Or the Artificer’s true face?
The Artificer fixed Ashes in an even stare. “Listen to me very carefully, lad,” he said. “I think you’ve already sussed that you’re in a certain amount of danger. You’re in my home, relieved of your effects. No one knows where you are, and even if they did, I deeply doubt they would be in a position to help you. You’re tired, probably hungry, and not particularly imposing in a physical sense. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“That I’m small,” Ashes guessed.
“That one of us is in command here. And it isn’t you.”
Ashes ground his teeth. “Did you drug me?”
Confusion flickered across the Artificer’s features, then vanished as quickly as it had come. “Ah,” he said. “Doubly curious.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Nothing of importance to you, I’m afraid,” the Artificer said, and he waved a hand. Instantly, the room, the floor, and the Artificer himself vanished, replaced by impenetrable darkness. Ashes jumped and let out a frightened cry before he realized he was gripping the arms of the chair. It hadn’t disappeared; the Artificer had blinded him.
The veil of darkness dissipated a moment later, revealing the Artificer lounging comfortably. But his eyes were hard.
“I haven’t drugged you,” he said. “I trust you understand why I wouldn’t need to.”
Ashes swallowed and nodded.
“Good lad,” the Artificer said. He leaned forward, looking suddenly amicable. “Now, I see no reason we can’t both be professional about this. Continue understanding your position and we’ll be jolly pals.” The smile he gave was brittle as sugar-glass. “Now. Why were you following me?”
Ashes blinked. “I—erm—”
The Artificer held up a hand before Ashes could continue. “I hope you won’t feel any need to lie to me,” he said. “What loyalty you might have given your employer is, surely, diminished by his willingness to fling you into the sewers.”
“Nobody sent me,” Ashes said. The Artificer’s eyes flashed fierce red and the light in the room seemed to warp around the Artificer’s body. Ashes shivered. He knew the display was engineered—entirely fake. But that did not make it less frightening.
“A valiant effort, Francis,” he said. “You may tell me the truth now. Mind, if I like your story, I might even let you leave this place.”
Ashes paused, thinking furiously. He hadn’t been sent by anyone. Why was the Artificer so convinced otherwise?
He’s got enemies, Ashes realized. The sort of enemies who would send a tail after him. But why would it matter if someone followed Jacob into the sewers? It wasn’t illegal, just stupid. Why would the Artificer care if someone had seen him down there?
And then Ashes realized that he was focused on the wrong thing. Why didn’t matter at all. What mattered was the Artificer wanted something, and he thought Ashes had it.
Ashes could work with that.
He met the Artificer’s eyes timidly and admitted, “I dunno who he was. He never let me see his face.”
Jaco
b leaned forward, intrigued. “You’re certain it was a man?”
“Sounded that way,” Ashes said. “His voice was all— It was gravelly, like. And throaty.”
Jacob frowned. “Easy enough to fake. How did he keep his face hidden from you?”
Ashes’s mind raced, but his mouth was faster. “Magic,” he said. “He— There was always a sort of cloak over his face. Like shadows.” He cursed inwardly; hiding your face in woven shadow was storybook nonsense. If anyone was likely to know that, it was an Artificer! But the man’s eyes betrayed no confusion or skepticism. Perhaps it was not nonsense to this sort of man.
“And how long have you worked for him?”
“Only since the day I met you,” Ashes said immediately. “He caught me after I left Yson. Said he needed somebody small and clever and he could pay me whatever I wanted. He never mentioned I’d be going in the sewer.”
The Artificer rested his chin on one hand, staring at Ashes calmly. He didn’t interrupt, so Ashes continued with a grimace, “He wouldn’t even let me bring a light with me. Said I’d be motivated to follow you if I knew I wouldn’t survive otherwise.”
“And how were you to get in contact with him afterward?”
“He said I had to watch for something, and I’d know what I was looking for when I saw it. And if I saw it, I should go sit in Harrod Park tomorrow and wait for him to find me. And—and he said, erm, that if I betrayed him, or tried to lie so I could get his money, then I’d wish I’d never woken in this city.”
Jacob made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. “What a pleasant fellow.”
Ashes nodded timidly and shrank back into his seat, hiding his satisfaction. Harrod Park! That had been a cunning stroke. If the Artificer wanted to tempt his enemy into the open, he would send Ashes to the park and watch for his enemy—and Ashes would slip easily into the crowd, never to be bothered with Jacob Rehl again.
“And what of this?”
Ashes looked up. The Artificer was holding a glass-smooth stone smaller than his palm. The hole in the center jogged Ashes’s memory.
“What about it?” he asked.
The Artificer’s eyes glinted. “Where did you find it?”
Ashes hesitated. Why would the stone matter to this man? “In a water trap. Thought it might be handy in a fight.”
“You needed something to fight with?”
“I lost your light,” Ashes said, more smoothly this time. “I was following too far behind and I got turned about, and I wanted something I could fight with.”
“Against aetherlings?” His tone was familiar: the same he’d had when he asked why Ashes kept playing cards against the surly man.
“If that’s what you want to call them.”
The Artificer leaned back in his seat and stared at Ashes. Ashes stared back, keeping his face neutral. Eventually, the Artificer sighed heavily and said, “Bollocks.”
“What?”
“Bollocks,” Jacob said again. “Tell me, did you go into the sewer on some asinine dare? Or did you simply fall through a grate and strike your head?”
“I—” Ashes paused. “You don’t believe me?”
“About your mysterious employer whose face is wreathed in shadow? No. Stunningly, I am not convinced by your fairy tale.”
“It’s true! Every word of it! Come with me to Harrod Park if you don’t believe me!”
“I don’t think we need to go quite that far.” Jacob pocketed the stone and tapped his cheek thoughtfully. “I don’t find your story of a mysterious employer particularly compelling—but, fortune of yours, I am having the most damnably difficult time believing that you are a spy.”
Ashes froze halfway through another protestation. “Why?”
“Because someone clever enough to beat me at cards is not likely to be an idiot,” Jacob said. “And following me into the sewers for a dodgy employer is an idiotic thing to do. What were you really doing down there?”
“I told you,” Ashes said. “Nobody sent me.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly convinced of that,” Jacob replied. “But what drove you down there?”
“I was hiding. From Ravagers.”
Jacob let out a single, sharp laugh. “Honest enough, by the seems. You’re just the right sort of reckless to try escaping anoma in the bloody sewers. That I can believe.”
Ashes grinned weakly, unsure of what to do next. The Artificer had changed his mood as suddenly and completely as he had changed his face. Gone was the threatening, dangerous man; someone charming, almost jovial, sat in his chair now. Somehow, the shift didn’t make Ashes any less nervous.
“Ah, me,” Jacob said. He sank back into his chair, mouth twisted in a wry grin. “No need to look so glum, lad. The fact that you’re not a spy is exceptionally good news.”
“Good news for who?”
“Both of us. It means we’re not enemies. It also means I didn’t wake a witch in the middle of the night for the sake of a traitor, which puts me in rather a buoyant mood.”
Ashes stared at him, confused. “You took me to a witch?”
“I would’ve taken you to my surgeon and saved myself the expense, but there was more venom in you than blood, and there’s naught for that but magic,” Jacob said. “The crone’s fees are extortionate, but I couldn’t afford to lose your information if you were sent to follow me.”
Ashes held in his awe. Witch-favors were mind-bogglingly expensive; even some of the Ivory Lords couldn’t afford them. This Artificer had a secret, and he was willing to pay piles of money just to protect against the possibility that someone had found it out. What’s he hiding?
“Your legs were the worst of it,” Jacob went on. “And the witch couldn’t quite make the magic behave, not knowing your true name. Still. Better than the alternative, eh?” The Artificer stood. “Your effects are in the next room. I’d recommend burning the lot, but that’ll be your choice, ultimately. The blood’ll probably wash out.”
Ashes blinked. “You—you’re letting me go?”
“I’ve no reason to delay you,” Jacob said. “Quite frankly, I’ve other things to be getting on with.” He gave a wan smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to blindfold you on the way out. Somehow, I doubt it’s in my best interest to let you know exactly where I live.”
Ashes hesitated. The Artificer would let him get away, free and clear. He could get back to Blimey, and they could find Bonnie the Lass and get out of Burroughside for good.
But he couldn’t leave, not yet. Not when such an opportunity had fallen directly into his lap.
The most important part of any grift was getting marks to buy in. The more money they committed, the more determined they became to win it all back—to keep playing even though they were doomed to lose. In truth, most cons were won with the first gambled coin. Getting the rest was a formality.
And Jacob Rehl had wagered hugely on Ashes. First a crown, now a witch-favor. No one wanted to take a loss on a gamble like that.
“Probably it isn’t,” Ashes said slowly. “But it’s not in your best interest to let me leave, either.”
The Artificer raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Seems to me you’re in a bind,” Ashes said. “Whatever you were doing in the sewer, it’s not the sort of thing you want getting found out. And you’ve been doing it a while, or you wouldn’t be so worried that someone had sent a tail after you. I bet there’re even folk who’d pay a lot of money to find out what it is.”
Jacob’s eyes darkened and the light around him shuddered, just a little. “You threatening me, lad? In my own home?”
“No, sir,” Ashes said. “I want a job.”
The Artificer laughed. “Wanting is weakness, lad,” he said. “You think I’m in need of a courier?”
Ashes bristled. “No,” he said. “Not a courier. But you need somebody who can go places. Someone clever and small and hard to notice. Someone who wouldn’t be tied back to you, if he got seen.”
Jacob eyed him; Ashes couldn’t tell if
he was amused or intrigued. “And you think you could be of use to me in that regard.”
“I figure so, sir.”
“I admire your self-esteem,” Jacob said drily. “But you can’t be older than—what, fourteen?”
“All that means is folk underestimate me,” Ashes said. “Means I can go places you can’t without being noticed. And you know I’m clever.”
Jacob grinned wryly. “I don’t hire people for their ability to beat me at cards.”
“That’s not all I got, sir. You know who Hiram Ragged is?” Ashes asked. “Governor of Burroughside? Rank bastard, got a big fence?”
“I know of him,” the man said. “Unsavory fellow.”
Ashes drew himself up, assuming a mask of bold confidence. “I broke into his house not five hours ago. Got out free as anything, too.”
“To arrive ignominiously in the sewers,” Jacob pointed out.
“So I’d be loyal. You saved my life. I wouldn’t throw you over. I owe you.”
Jacob chuckled again. “It’s not quite so simple,” he said. “I don’t employ people simply for their cleverness, or their loyalty.”
“So what do you employ them for?”
Jacob held out his hand. The air around him became dull, and a searingly bright sphere, no bigger than a thumbnail, erupted over his hand. It hurt to look at. Jacob clicked his fingers, and the light vanished.
“What do you think?” the Artificer asked softly.
Ashes watched the display with barely contained awe. Spots swam in front of his eyes. The man had created a miniature sun in a single breath—he hadn’t even strained. Weren’t Glamours supposed to take time? That was what Ashes had always heard.
“That’s— Well, anybody can learn Artifice,” Ashes protested. “I know letters. I could learn things.”
“Anyone can learn Artifice,” Jacob said. His voice lowered, becoming almost reverent. “But it’s a rare gift, exceedingly rare, to be an Artificer. And I’ve no use for an agent without the cant. Have you ever snatched raw light from the air? Made your face look like someone else? Willed the world to be different, and been obeyed?”
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