“What’s it do?”
“It makes the Artificer’s trade possible,” Jack said. “Even a strong Weaver can’t hold an illusion together for very long—an hour, perhaps, if he had no other concerns. Adding aether to a finished construct lets it retain a shape for days on end. You can distill it with light as well, to make liquid light—as good as the real thing, but more malleable. With the right equipment and a decent supply of liquid light, anyone could be an Artificer. Magic made easy.”
An errant thought slipped through Ashes’s head. Jack must have anticipated it, because he glanced at Ashes and said plainly, “One phial of this is worth near fifty crowns. But only if you can find the right buyer and, forgive me, you certainly can’t.”
Ashes bristled. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I’m sure,” Jack said, “but that’s neither here nor there. The fact is that ninety-nine out of a hundred black market aether dealers are, in fact, spies for the Guild of Artificers. No one outside the Guild is legally allowed to sell aether. It’s how they keep Artificers under control—our magic is limited by our aether supply. They’re very . . . determined where it comes to illegal aether selling. They might feel generous, and only take your fingers, eyes, and tongue—they call it hobbling. Or they won’t feel generous, and they’ll kill you.”
Ashes shuddered. “Right, then.”
“No one outside the Guild is allowed to practice Artifice, either,” Jack said. “Bear that in mind if you ever feel an urge to show off your gifts.”
“What would they—?”
“Fingers. Eyes. Tongue. They feel no need to be diverse in their punishments.”
“I can keep a secret.”
“Good,” Jack said. “Weavers live by three rules, Roger. Rule the first: never touch pure aether with your bare skin. It’s poison. Try not to breathe too much either.” Jack’s mouth made a grim line. “If it gets inside you, it’ll burrow into your brain and hollow it out. Your body would survive. The rest of you wouldn’t. Understood?”
Ashes nodded, feeling a chill creep down his back.
“Rule the second: every face you make must be original. Never make something that looks like someone else’s true face.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s legally considered Impersonating a Denizen, and the Guild polices it,” Jack said. “Fingers, eyes, tongue. Sense a pattern?”
Ashes fingers tingled. Who knew Artifice was so dangerous? Clever Tyru never had to bother with Guilds. “What’s the third rule?”
“Bloody don’t bloody touch bloody aether,” Jack said. “Remember that one, and you’ll do just fine. I’m required to tell you Impersonating is illegal and not worth your effort, but aether’s the real peril in our line of work. The Guild is an obstacle.”
Something about the way he said it made Ashes peer at him curiously, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. “The other sort of Artifice is Stitching.”
“That’s what I do?” Ashes guessed.
“Near as I can tell,” Jack said. “You and Will. We’ll have to test you to be certain.”
“How—?”
“All in good time, all in good time,” Jack said. “Stitching is . . . difficult to explain. Will would say it’s a subtle art. It’ll be easier just to show you.”
Jack checked over his shoulder and, seeing no one, pinched Ashes’s nose and pulled. Ashes’s nose followed him, growing instantly a foot longer.
“What in Furies?” Ashes asked, pressing his fingers against his new nose; but it was insubstantial as air, and his fingers passed right through it.
“Relax,” Jack said, pulling the nose even further. It shook as it lengthened, then, all at once, it vanished. There were no trails of light this time. “Illusionist, remember?”
“That’s Stitching?” Ashes frowned. “I don’t understand.”
In answer, Jack waved a hand and plucked an illusory glove, fully formed, from the air. “If I put on a glove,” he said, “it covers my skin—but there’s a gap. An ant, say, could burrow between skin and silk and see that my hand is not, in fact, made of cloth. However.” Jack released the glove, letting it float to the ground, dissolving into threads of light as it did. The Artificer rubbed his hands together, and then displayed his palms: they were chalky white and smooth. “Such a problem does not exist if I paint my hands instead. You understand? Weavers put masks on the world. Stitchers treat it like a canvas.”
Ashes peered at Jack’s hands, confused. “How come you can do it, though? You’re a Weaver.”
“Any Weaver can Stitch,” Jack said. “And any Stitcher can Weave. Not naturally, of course. Your magic needs to be tuned first.”
Ashes gave him an eloquently blank stare. Jack laughed.
“You’ve not learned to dance, have you?” he asked. Ashes shook his head. “You’ll have quite a lot to look forward to when my wife finds that out. Then you’ll understand—you can’t really learn to dance unless someone dances with you. Your body learns it faster than your mind. It’s the same with Artifice. Your magic knows how to two-step already. It can’t waltz unless someone takes it waltzing.”
“You’re married?”
“Not half as monstrous as I seemed at first, am I?” Jack grinned. “Returning to the important subject, Stitching is about coaxing images into a different shape.” He pointed at Ashes’s face. “Your body knows its own shape very well. But a Stitcher can convince it to look different. Not too different, or your shape bounces back. The stronger the Stitcher, the greater the changes he can manage. Will, for instance, could make your skin a different color, or change the shape of your eyes, or make you look taller.” Jack smirked. “I, being a Weaver, could make you look like a damn sparrow.”
Ashes frowned. “Dun’t sound too useful,” he mused. “What’s the point? If Weaving can do the same thing?”
Jack’s eyes shone. “Stitching can do quite a number of things that Weaving can’t. For one, a Stitcher can make changes to a construct even after it’s solid. No one ever gets a construct perfect on the first try—something will be indistinct, or the wrong color, or blurred. That’s when you need a Stitcher.”
Jack checked around the corner before he stepped onto the next street, a row of shop fronts that would be bustling in an hour or two but was sparsely inhabited just now. Ashes scanned the early-morning crowd, habitually checking for things to steal. He searched, too, for the person Jack was following—for they were following someone. Jack’s glance around the corner had tipped him off.
“The other duty of the Stitcher,” Jack continued, as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary, “is reconstitution, which is a showy word for collecting the aether out of decaying constructs. Useful skill if you’re short of the stuff.”
“But . . . that’s all?” Ashes asked. He kept the disappointment out of his voice. Mostly.
“Don’t be too crestfallen, lad,” Jack said. “It’s still magic. And Stitching is the only kind of Artifice that can really hide you.”
Ashes frowned. “How’s that?”
“It’s—” Jack paused as they crossed onto Oldtown Lane, one of Lyonshire’s longest-standing thoroughfares. This street was busier than the last; already, nearly a dozen people milled around, setting up stalls and calling out old, crude jokes to one another. One industrious cart salesman had started peddling fresh fruits. There was even a fine horse-drawn carriage, with the purple-and-scarlet sigil of Lord Edgecombe painted across its doors.
“Hold the thought, lad. Hold this, too.” Jack dug a silver ring out of his vest pocket and passed it to Ashes. He tilted his head forward, and Ashes followed his gaze to a man some fifty feet ahead of them. He had the straight back and outthrust chest of someone wealthy and powerful; the effect was only enhanced by the texture of his expensive suit, the gleam of his shoes, and the cut of his hair. He had money to waste.
“Elleander Bloom. A Guild Artificer. You might call him a rival of mine,” Jack muttered. “He has a pocket, just here, which he think
s is a secret.” Jack gave Ashes a significant look. “Keep on him. Don’t be obvious—wait for the right moment.” So saying, he ducked down a side street, and was gone.
Ashes frowned. Mari had always insisted on her crew knowing the plan before they tried anything. She’d had contingencies for her contingencies—not that it had done her much good, in the end. Jack seemed to enjoy the thought of his student making up the plan as he went along.
Well, if all Jack’s half-baked plans came with magic included, Ashes wouldn’t complain. He slipped the ring on, and felt the gossamer-light weight of a new face fall over his skin. He grinned wildly and hurried through the crowd to get close to Elleander Bloom.
Bloom had stopped at the fruit seller’s cart. Ashes stopped on the opposite side of the street and pretended to look through a shopwindow, keeping his ears pricked for a signal of Jack’s “right moment.” He couldn’t help but notice the details of his new face in the glass; he looked cleaner and better-groomed than he could remember being, with curly dark hair and bright eyes. He looked practically Ivorish.
“Fine fruits, sir,” the seller said behind him. “Picked fresh just this morning.”
Bloom said something Ashes couldn’t quite make out; he turned and repositioned himself a little closer.
“It’s a fine choice, sir,” the seller said.
In the window, Ashes saw Bloom begin to walk away, and the seller staring after the man in confusion.
“Sir? You forgot to pay . . .” The man’s voice trailed off as Bloom turned to look at him.
“Today,” Bloom said, in a slithery, self-satisfied voice, “you may tell your customers that a Guild-licensed Artificer approved of your apples.” He adjusted his coat. “I rather think I have overpaid.”
The fruit seller had gone pale. “Sir, I—”
“Certainly you would rather have that kindness,” Bloom went on flatly, “than receive my displeasure.”
The fruit seller wrung his hands, then dropped a little half bow with his head. “Of course not, sir.”
“Good day to you, then,” said Elleander Bloom. “I will—”
Ashes caught a tiny flare out of the corner of his eye. A moment later came the crack of hooves against cobbles, and a high whinnying scream. He turned and saw the carriage behind him, far too close, and its horse rearing on two legs.
“Out of the way, sir!” Ashes cried, throwing himself into Bloom. The Artificer stumbled and fell, graceless and cursing. His apple tumbled out of his hand.
“Idiot boy!” the man shouted, just as the horse’s hooves came whistling to the ground. One landed on Bloom’s apple like the hammer of a god; the fruit burst in a spray of white mush.
“Don’t stop moving now, sir!” Ashes said, clambering to his feet and dashing out of the animal’s way. Bloom, wisely, did likewise.
People were screaming. Someone, crying hysterically for the police, dashed past Ashes, and he heard another voice crying for help from the Faces. Ashes shut his mouth and backed away from the chaos; Burroughsiders who stood too close to disaster tended to get blamed for it, and imprisoned or beaten shortly thereafter. Even his new face couldn’t overpower the instinct.
“What the devil—?” A heavy-faced copper came sprinting onto the street. He wore Edgecombe’s colors on his shoulder and a heavy club on his hip. “Everyone calm down! Whoa, there!” The man hurried to the horse, holding up both hands to calm it.
“Officer!” cried Bloom. Ashes turned, and saw Bloom pointing at him imperiously. “Arrest this vagabond!”
The policeman laid his hands on the horse before he turned to Mr. Bloom. “Sorry, sir?”
“He assaulted me!”
“I saved your life, you tosser!” Ashes snapped.
Bloom’s face turned so red it was nearly purple. “Do you hear this vagrant? Do your duty, captain!”
The policeman glanced at Ashes, looking half confused and half apologetic. Something in the back of Ashes’s head noted this as fundamentally wrong, and then went silent.
“Best move quickly, officer,” Bloom said in dark tones. He looked fit to burst a vein. “Were I to find you still standing here in a moment, rather than taking this ruffian to his due reward, I should think I would be exquisitely displeased.”
He’s really rubbish at threats, Ashes thought. The policeman laid a firm hand on Ashes’s shoulder; Ashes wrestled down his instinct to run and put on a contrite face.
Satisfied, Bloom turned to the carriage. “And who owns this beast?” he demanded, gesturing wildly at the horse. The animal in question, which had calmed while Bloom raved, was licking oats off his driver’s hand. “I fashion Glamour for Lord Tyr himself! I will see your entrails spread across the—”
Bloom’s mouth snapped shut as he saw the seal across the door of the carriage. The fury vanished from his face, and without another word he spun around and left. He plunged a hand inside his pocket as he did so, and his appearance transformed, the wealthy, straight-backed man replaced by a humble Denizen in clothing just respectable enough to be out in public. Even the constructed face was deathly pale. Ashes raised an eyebrow. Apparently Lord Edgecombe didn’t only frighten Burroughsiders.
The policeman led him peaceably down a side street, saying nothing. Ashes followed his lead until they were well out of the crowd.
“Handy trick, that,” Ashes noted absently when no one else was in earshot.
The copper smirked and undid his collar. The heavyset face dissolved, and Candlestick Jack emerged from underneath it.
“Just how illegal is it for you to impersonate a copper?” Ashes asked.
“That depends,” Jack said. “A specific officer? It’d likely cost me my fingers. Wearing a construct that just happens to be the same color as a police uniform, however—probably the Guild would only fine me. Somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy crowns.”
“Furies.”
“Fairly steep, even for Artificers,” Jack admitted. “It would have been quite a deterrent to me, when I was younger.”
Ashes frowned. “Where do you get so much money?”
Jack held up a hand. “That, I’m afraid, is not information I share too readily. You’re only a free lance, lad, not one of my company. What did you pilfer from our esteemed gentleman’s pocket? I do hope it was worth our time.”
Ashes pulled two gold rings from his pocket. “Just these. I figure they’re Anchors.” He rubbed them both with his thumb. There was something buzzing on the inside of the metal, he felt sure of it.
Jack took one and looked around, checking for possible witnesses. “Count of three, then? Three.” He slipped the ring on. Ashes did likewise, swapping his silver ring for the gold one.
They looked at each other, and Ashes burst out laughing.
Jack’s new face frowned. “Stop your nonsense. How do I look?”
“Gorgeous, boss,” Ashes said, putting a hand over his mouth.
Jack—who, currently, looked remarkably like a well-bred, cold-eyed Ivory Lady in a ball gown—glanced in a darkened shopwindow and frowned. “Intriguing.” He slid the ring off, looking at it with a calculating expression. “Quite intriguing.”
Ashes tried to look at himself, but couldn’t see the illusion that lay over him. “What am I?”
“A cheeky little imp. But your construct seems to be my dancing partner.” Jack rubbed his chin. “One wonders just who this was for.” He pocketed the ring and held out his hand.
Ashes lifted an eyebrow. “Something you need?”
“Ha very ha,” Jack said drily. “That construct’s much more use to me than it is to you, lad. Hand it over.”
“I’m just a free lance,” Ashes said flatly. “Way I figure it, this little trinket is mine. You can keep that one, ’cause of you knew where the mark kept his stuff, but—”
“You’ve got about two seconds to give up your new habit of being an arse,” Jack said. “I’ll have Will reconstitute those. You get an even cut of the aether we pull out of it—which will, by the wa
y, be substantial. You can stuff quite a lot of Artifice into gold.”
Ashes pressed his lips together, and handed Jack the ring.
“Good lad,” the Artificer said. “We ought to be moving along. Your lessons aren’t over just yet.” He glanced at the sky. “Don’t bother putting that construct on again. It looks fit to rain.”
“Eh?”
“Running water,” Jack said, pointing at the sky. “Makes active constructs malfunction. ‘River, rain, and iron cold,’ as the songs go. We don’t have to worry about the sewers up here, thick as these streets are, but rainstorms are more than enough to muck up a perfectly nice face.”
Ashes nodded halfheartedly. His face was carefully composed into a look of sullen anger. It was one he wore often when he wanted to avoid attention, one that belonged on a gutter-rat who’d been put in his place by the powerful, clever Denizen.
More to the point, one that didn’t indicate that there had been a phial of pure aether in Elleander Bloom’s pocket. There could be a tidy profit on it, if Ashes found the right buyer.
He was, after all, just a free lance.
THE shop was not markedly different from the others on Redchapel Street; it stood three stories high, and its brick face was clean and well tended. The two upper floors protruded beyond the boundary of the first floor by two or three feet, forming small nooks with walls that were mostly windows so that someone could sit within and see the whole of the street at a glance. A sign hung above the door, decorated with an insignia like a lit candle and the words:
REHL CO.
ILLUSIONS AND MARVELS
REASONABLY PRICED
GUILD-CERTIFIED
“Posh,” Ashes commented.
“Your good opinion means ever so much,” Jack replied, glancing anxiously at the darkening sky. “Come along, Roger, you won’t be using that door while you work here.”
Jack led him around the back of the shop, to a studiously blank stretch of wall. There, he showed Ashes the secret lever concealed at the bottom, which he could trip with his foot if he moved it just right, and which caused a slight squeaking noise to come from the wall. Jack frowned, then walked through the wall.
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