“Where’re you taking me now? This isn’t the way back to the shop.”
“Someplace familiar,” Jack said, waving a hand carelessly. “You’ll see soon enough.” Ashes snorted, which made Jack laugh. “You sound a bit like Will when you do that.”
“You make everybody sound like Will eventually,” Ashes retorted.
“There’s a disturbing thought,” Jack said. “I think if I made people be like Will, I might be sad. He’s not a particularly happy man.”
“He’s not a particularly anything man,” Ashes said, but Jack shook his head.
“There are depths to Will that you’ve not seen, lad.”
“If you say so,” Ashes said, glancing around. They had left the posh neighborhoods of West Lyonshire behind. Ashes prided himself on knowing his way around the city, but it was far more difficult in the dark. Fog had swallowed up all his landmarks, leaving behind only the islands of streetlamp light. Here in the dark, all the distinguishing features of the city were erased: there were no signs over shops, no street names, no passersby to tell him what sort of road he’d found himself on. It unnerved him.
Jack said, “Tell me about the Ravagers, lad.”
Ashes bristled. “What is it you want to know?”
“Anything, really,” Jack said. “The police keep them out of the civilized districts, and I’ve not been to Burroughside in a dog’s age. What are they like?”
“Terrifying,” Ashes said. “You’ve seen cats, right?”
Jack nodded. “Ivories keep them as pets sometimes.”
“And they’re nice-looking, eh? You seen alley-cats? Patchy fur. Scratched up. Half a tail.”
Jack nodded again.
“Wild cats’ll keep themselves to themselves, but they’ll fight if they need, if things get skittery. They’re fierce, and they’re cunning.”
Jack glanced at him. “So Ravagers are like wild cats?”
Ashes shook his head. “I’m like a wild cat, Jack. A Ravager’s what would happen if you took an alley-cat and skinned it, starved it, and drove it mad. They just want to . . . ruin things. They’ll rip at you, if they can catch you, or at their own if they need.” He breathed. “Or they tear at themselves, if there’s nothing else they can find. They . . . just hate.”
“They fear, too,” Jack mused.
Ashes scoffed. “They avoid coppers like everybody else. But they’d fight one, no question. An animal’ll run if it knows you could kill it. A Ravager wouldn’t.” Ashes shook himself, feeling suddenly skittish. “Why’re you asking?”
“Idle curiosity,” the man said.
Ashes looked askance at the man, but knew he wouldn’t catch a hint to what he was thinking. Jack’s face was a mask even without Artifice.
“I trust you won’t tell our geniuses how I’ve been cheating,” Jack said offhand.
“So long as you don’t tell them how I won,” Ashes said. “I know you know.”
The Weaver chuckled. “You’ve got to get better at Cacklewitching. You fumble the cards at the very end, just a little.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Ashes said.
He felt the street’s texture change beneath his feet. He couldn’t quite place it at first—wearing shoes rendered his feet nearly insensate—until he heard the squelching sound.
“Jack,” he said softly. “Why the hell are we here?”
“I told you already,” Jack said. “Object lesson. And the object in question can’t be found anywhere else in Teranis.”
Ashes’s stomach opened up wide. “What?”
In answer, Jack let out a loud, wild scream. It sounded almost like—almost like the screech that answered him, somewhere off to the south.
Ashes snatched Jack’s wrist. “What the Furied hell are you doing?”
Jack shook the boy’s hand off and let out another wild cry. “Teaching,” he said.
Ashes’s mind raced. He could dash back to Lyonshire, but if one of the creatures saw him running, it would chase him for sure. And he couldn’t leave Jack; the man had clearly lost his mind.
“We have to go, Jack!” Ashes grabbed his teacher’s hand and tried to tug the man behind him. “We can still find somewhere to hide—”
“Why would we hide?” Jack met his eyes. He was perfectly lucid, perfectly calm. “We’re Artificers, my young friend.”
Ashes could hear the footsteps now, pounding toward them from everywhere. He could feel his heart in his throat. Could they hide? There had to be someplace safe. But if Jack wouldn’t come with him—
Save yourself.
But his feet seemed bound to the street. He couldn’t move. He could only watch as Jack stared up the street, and the first Ravagers came into view.
Two at first. Male and female, only distinguishable by the breadth of their shoulders. Then he saw three behind them, and another after those, the pack leader, burly and misshapen, and hands like claws.
“Jack!”
The man pulled something out of his coat, and the world became bright as the heart of a fire—
The next thing Ashes saw was flames surging from Jack’s hand—not a single, small flame but a roaring, seething monster, many-headed and huge. It was soundless, but Ashes felt he could hear it crackling in his head, eager to blister flesh from bone.
The flames rushed against the Ravagers and struck two in the face, another in the gut, two more across their chests. Ashes had a fraction of a moment to think how silly it was to attack someone with illusory fire—and then the Ravagers started keening, and turned and ran away, clutching at themselves as if in terrible pain.
Two more leapt at Jack. The Artificer flung a shaft of light at them. It transformed into a barbed vine, and wrapped itself around their faces. There was no blood, but the creatures grasped at their eyes as if expecting something to pour out. They fell together in a tangle, the vine twining around their legs and arms and bellies.
Those Jack had struck with the illusions screeched and whined, sending a chill down Ashes’s back. They sounded so terribly human, when they were in pain.
Seven Ravagers lay on the ground, crippled, but the rest of the pack advanced fearlessly. Jack gestured, ripping the image of a sword out of the air. He swept it effortlessly through a pair of Ravagers as they neared him. The ghostly sword passed through them, leaving no evidence of its passage except their pained cries and the looks of terror in their faces.
“Close your eyes,” Jack snapped, and Ashes was too stunned to disobey. The burst of light that followed was so bright he felt its burn through his eyelids. Spots danced in his vision.
The screams died off gradually. Ashes heard the sound of many feet, running away at speed.
“Can I look?”
“You may.”
What few Ravagers remained were on the ground. One or two writhed intermittently, still agonized by their phantom wounds. Ashes stared in abject disbelief.
“What did you do?”
“There will be no lasting damage.”
“But—how?”
“Ravagers are . . . unique,” Jack said. “Whatever it is that lets us disbelieve what we see, Ravagers do not have it. To them, there is no difference between what is seen and what is.”
“You knew that already?”
Jack shrugged. Ashes noticed he was carrying a glass phial full of liquid light, which he had stoppered with one finger. The light within was witch-skin green, making everything around it look sickly and diseased.
He turned his attention to the Ravagers wriggling on the ground. They looked less terrifying now. Almost pitiful.
“You are half right, lad,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Certainly there’s a time for prestidigitation, for cleverness. There are advantages to being cunning. But never forget.” He held the Artifice-light high, forming a great viridian circle around himself and Ashes and the groaning Ravagers. “Don’t forget where your blood comes from, Ashes. Don’t you dare.”
SIT up straight,” Juliana said, not unkindly. “Everyone takes n
ote of your posture, whether they realize it or no. We ought to start with that, I suppose. The first rule of being Ivorish: everyone is evaluating you, always.”
Ashes swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Robbing an Ivory Lord was a fool’s errand. Any Lord rich enough to steal from was rich enough to have a practical battalion of guards, servants, and police on retainer. Their iron locks were heavy and thick, almost impossible to bypass quickly. Their houses were infested with servants, all of whom knew each other by name and face and voice.
All of these details became insignificant, though, when a Lord opened his doors to invaders. In twenty years, House Edgecombe had produced only two heirs: one had died in the cradle, the other in a boating accident. Lady Edgecombe’s pregnancy was cause for the greatest celebration the House had put on in decades. In three months, the Harcourt Lord would be welcoming hundreds of eligible, well-connected guests into his home, and the Rehl Company would be there—along with Ashes, who for the night would be Roger Dawkins, the progeny of Jack’s estranged and folly-prone sister.
The son of a disgraced family member wouldn’t need to seem incredibly Ivorish. But he would need to be far more Ivorish than Ashes was now, which meant even more lessons. Diction. Etiquette. Politics. Which houses were allied, which were subtly opposed, which were angling to establish themselves better in the endless parade of who’s-in-charge-now. Altogether, Jack had promised, it would give Ashes an academy headache second only to the difficulty in learning to Weave.
“Denizen children start their lessons in decorum at age three,” Juliana continued. “You are starting your education late, but we cannot afford to be lax. You will need to be convincing in this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He had gotten used to her flawless speech by now. It sounded, sometimes, almost too precise to be real: like she was reading everything off a script held in her head. It seemed almost that Juliana didn’t have conversations so much as leave pauses in her prepared speeches.
Juliana favored him with a slight smile. “I assume you have had no prior training in etiquette, presentation, or diction.”
Ashes’s thoughts darted to Blimey. “Just what I could pick up from folks, ma’am. But I’m a quick learner.”
“You will have to be.” She surveyed him with a cool glance. The stillness of her face reminded him of William, though subtly different. William’s emotions, when they happened, were quiet and small. Juliana was different. Everything she said, or did, or thought—all of it was under her control. Her feelings could have been as powerful as a storming sea, but Ashes only ever saw them through clouded glass. “And Jack has told me you can read?”
Ashes grinned apologetically. “Not as quick learning that way, ma’am.”
She sighed delicately—How does she do that?—and nodded. “I expected as much. Not to worry. We will conduct your education largely by way of example and oral teaching, I suppose. Sit up straight.” She procured a massive book from her shelf and opened it on the table. No cloud of dust rose from the newly exposed pages, but it looked like there should have been one nonetheless. He could smell how old it was.
“Everyone is evaluating you,” Juliana said, almost absently.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ashes said. “You said that already.”
“I want to make sure you understand it,” Juliana said, eyes flicking over the dry pages of her book. “Even when you think no one is watching, behave as though everyone were. A moment of inattention can have vast repercussions.”
“Is that true for regular Ivories? Or just me?”
“It’s true for the regular Ivories as well.” Juliana’s eyes still hadn’t left the text. Her mouth quirked downward, and she closed the book, swapping it for another. “All the families seek leverage over each other. The children need to be as impenetrable as their parents, or they risk staining the familial honor. Ivories are very proud. They move with precise steps. Everything must be done in proper order and with proper permissions and by the proper people. Every Ivory prays to the Face of Prudence foremost.” Her fingers danced over the bindings of the other books, never resting on any of them longer than a moment. “But most of all, these proper people never, ever, ever betray what they are thinking.”
Ashes looked at the woman’s fine-featured face. Never let them know what you’re thinking. That sounds about right.
“For Ivories, propriety is everything.” She smiled faintly. “Do you remember what Jack said about glass rings?”
Ashes nodded. “About them being Artifice,” he said. “Is it—it’s propriety, for them to look that way?”
Juliana shook her head. “You’re thinking about it like they do,” she said. “The rings are laden, certainly. But it’s not just that. Ivories are creatures of tradition. Of expectation. No Ivory has ever been seen without his glass ring, and that is why no Ivory will be seen without his ring.”
Ashes peered at her. She laughed softly and waved a hand. “You will see, I think. You are a better listener than they are.” She took a breath. “Politeness is next to serenity. There are many rules to Ivorish etiquette, but they all circle around respecting the hierarchy. If you can master that, you will be more than prepared for an Ivorish ball.”
Ashes nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. Polite and calm were not the first words someone might use to describe him.
“Most people will judge your mastery of etiquette by two things,” Juliana said. “Presentation first—how well you are dressed, how you carry yourself, how you sit. After that it will be your diction: your vocabulary, your enunciation, your syntax. You must speak like one of us.”
Ashes nodded. The idea, at least, was familiar to him. Looking and talking right were the foundation of every con.
“We will start with your speech. Your appearance we can change with Artifice and better dress.” Her mouth quirked again, a flickering expression of distaste. No, not an expression—a communication. If Juliana hadn’t wanted him to know she was annoyed, he would not have known. “I’m afraid your demeanor will take some time. Much of it is simply the practice of keeping one’s face closed. The rest is memorizing rules.” She let out another breath, this one sounding agitated. “Copious rules.”
Ashes smiled. “I can talk with the best of folks, ma’am.”
“You are certainly quick to speak,” Juliana allowed, favoring him with another glance. “Jack has told me you have a deft touch with accents. That will serve you well, I think. We will start with vowels.”
Nearly four hours later, Juliana let out a breath.
“I think it may be time for a respite,” she said.
“Please, ma’am,” Ashes said. “Yes, that’d be excellent.”
His head was spinning. He’d never known how many ways there were to pronounce any given word, and even his gift for mimicry hadn’t satisfied Juliana. They had slogged through the differences between ah, ay, ae, ai, ao, au, and half a dozen other phonetic combinations. Four hours of one single letter. He thought he might explode.
It was all the worse for the fact that he wasn’t really doing anything. It was all just practice, practice, practice. How did Ivories survive something so dreary? Their irritable idiosyncrasies made sense now. Anyone would become a maniac growing up under this sort of regime.
Juliana led him upstairs and brought bread and meat and cheese to the table, along with a bottle of brandy. Not nearly as lavish as the food he’d seen last night for supper, but even this was extravagant in comparison to how he used to eat.
Juliana set a glass of the brandy before him and nodded to it. “Drink.”
Ashes looked at her, suddenly suspicious. Had she put something in it? No—that would be silly. He took the glass.
“Hold it like this,” Juliana said, demonstrating with her own. Ashes mirrored her, feeling self-conscious. “Only a sip at a time.”
Ashes tipped the drink back. The alcohol brushed his lips, touched his tongue—
“Bugger all and brand me with a poker!” he cried, holding
the wine as far away from him as possible. “It’s fire!” The instinct to gag rose up, but he stopped at a look from Juliana.
“This is some of Yson’s finest brandy,” she said calmly. “From the distillery in Dorois. Only the Ivories and their relatives ever drink it. It is too expensive for any else.”
“Don’t waste too much on me,” Ashes said, pushing the glass away.
“You need to drink it.” Her eyes were trained on him, iron-hard. “And you will not react. If you cannot guard your face, you will draw attention, and that could be fatal. Entering a Lord’s manor without an iron name could be the last mistake you’re fortunate enough to make.”
Ashes looked at the brandy. It didn’t look like it was made of fire. Still, it made him anxious just thinking of letting it touch his lips again. He could smell it now, as acrid and acidic as William’s cleaning supplies. It smelled faintly of cinnamon.
“I know it isn’t pleasant,” Juliana said. “But it may save your life one day.”
Ashes didn’t scowl, but he came close. He grabbed the glass and gestured to Juliana. “To fooling whoever believes me.”
The Lady smiled and raised her own glass. “To fooling everyone else.”
He tipped the brandy into his mouth and let it rest there for a moment, dreading the imminent sensation of flames in his throat. He kept his face perfectly still and gulped. He twitched, and his eyes watered and he wanted to spit all of it out. He resisted every instinct, and felt his ears grow hot.
“Good,” Juliana said. “Good. That will do for now.”
Ashes sucked in a breath and stuffed a fruit into his mouth. Juliana raised an eyebrow, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“We will need to work on your table manners,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He opened his mouth wide, hoping air might cool it. “Furies, that’s a sharp thing.”
Juliana’s face instantly went cold and imperious. “I shall thank you not to reference the Queens in such a manner, Ashes,” she said sharply.
The Facefaker's Game Page 18
