Ashes drew back. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I won’t do it again.”
“See that you do not,” Juliana said.
Ashes grasped for a change of subject. “Do Ivories really like that stuff?”
Juliana’s icy demeanor evaporated in a blink. “Not at all,” she said calmly. “Many of the Lords keep Dorois brandy just to challenge everyone else to keep their composure at supper. It’s a sort of game for them.”
“Do they get used to it?”
“Never,” Juliana said. “In twenty years it’s gotten no better.”
Ashes looked at her curiously. “How Ivorish are you, ma’am?”
“Quite,” said the Lady. “I am two generations removed from Lord Raeben in East Lyonshire. My father is his nephew.”
Ashes nodded. “So that’s why you’re the one teaching me how to be Ivorish?”
“Something like that. Jack would teach you, but he’s far too busy, and he never needed to know Ivory etiquette very well anyway.”
Ashes sipped at the brandy again, trying and failing to keep his face from betraying the pain. “How long you been married?”
“Eleven years,” she said, looking faraway. “We married at sea.”
Ashes’s eyes widened. “You’ve been out to sea?”
Juliana nodded. “Jack was a sailor before he took up Artifice. He heard one of his old crewmates had gotten made captain of his own ship, and he convinced the man to let us use it for a time.” She bent her head and smiled, as though what she recalled were still private to her. “It took me by surprise. I’d barely known him three months, but—well. I felt like I’d known him forever.”
Three months? I wonder what the Face of Prudence had to say about that. “How’d you meet him?”
Juliana’s eyebrows tilted toward each other, but only for a moment. “That is . . . a complicated story.”
Ashes sensed a boundary, and decided not to press it. “So Jack was a sailor?”
Juliana nodded. “He worked for a . . . private merchant, shipping goods up the River Lethe and across the ocean. He speaks of it only rarely. Part of him misses it, I think. He loves Teranis too much to leave it, but, if he could . . . he would sail to the end of the world just to see what’s out there. He wants to go where no one’s ever gone before. Simple things bore him very quickly.”
An image of Jack surrounded by green light and agonized Ravagers appeared in Ashes’s mind. “He’s an odd bloke,” Ashes said. “I always get a feeling like he’s not telling me something.”
The Lady gave him an amused expression. “It’s his way. Can you blame him? Robbing Ivories is hardly a safe career, nor one with much trust to spare. It’s a testament to how fond of you he is that he’s told you anything at all.”
“Seems exhausting,” Ashes said. “I could’ve turned him in already, if I were that sort. I owe him, though. Twice over.”
“Even so,” Juliana said. “Continue being trustworthy. He’ll open up eventually. He’s slow to trust. Surely you understand that.”
Ashes nodded, staring at his plate.
“Oh, and now you’re glum,” Juliana said. “We can’t be having that. Follow me.”
She led him to a room on the second floor that he hadn’t seen during Jack’s tour. It was spacious, with windows large enough to let in the sunlight at any time of the day. It pleased Ashes to think that he’d noticed that detail; he would have missed it three weeks ago.
“Jack insisted I have a solarium,” Juliana said as they entered. “I had one when I was younger, in my family’s home. It was always my favorite place.”
The back of the room was filled with canvases. Several were blank, but more had paintings, done with realistic proportions and beautiful lighting. There was one painting of an old cathedral, one of a great ship, one of an Ivorish family with pale eyes and austere, gorgeous faces. He saw a portrait of Candlestick Jack, younger and intense, nestled behind a sketch of the Silver Tower.
“I’ve been tending to this as a sort of side project since you came to us,” Juliana said, moving toward the wardrobe. “I expect it might be useful, given what Jack’s grooming you for.”
She produced a small cloak, dark blue as the deep night. Ashes could tell at once that it was tailored to exactly his size.
“Do put it on,” she said.
Ashes obeyed, letting the Lady settle the cloak on his shoulders. It rested comfortably against his back. It was gently cool where it touched his skin, but the fabric was thick. It would keep him warm on cold nights, certainly, and even serve to keep him hidden if it was dark, and he stood very still.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It’s beautiful, ma’am,” Ashes said, running his fingers along the cloth. He thought he could feel something, a sort of vibration in the cloak, something familiar . . . “This is Weaving,” he realized aloud. “What’d you put in it?”
Juliana smiled at his eagerness. “Pull up your hood.”
Ashes obeyed, and felt the construct settle against his skin. His vision was not impeded—that was a difficult thing to do, he’d learned, unless you were very skilled or very careful—but he sensed that whatever was on his skin, it was not bright.
Juliana helpfully held a mirror out to him, letting him see his face. The sight made him smile wildly. The illusion lying over his face was one of near-total darkness. Not utter blackness—flat black was near as obvious as light clothing except in the deepest night—but dark enough to blend in with the shadows if they were long enough. It was almost gray.
“This is amazing,” Ashes said in awe.
“I’m glad you like it,” Juliana said. “It’s yours, if you’ll have it. Just something to keep you safe.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, bowing. The cloak caught his bow and billowed, though not so dramatically as he would have liked. “I’ll treasure it.”
“You had best do so,” Juliana said. She stepped closer and lifted his chin so he was looking in her face. For a moment, it seemed the veil she held around herself faltered, and he could see pain behind her eyes. Was the Lady about to cry?
The look vanished, and the refined, calm Ivory woman was standing before him once again. “It suits you,” she said. “I’m delighted to see how well it fits.” Her eyes darted away from him for a moment. “We’ll continue your lesson tomorrow,” she said. “Perhaps it’s best you get some fresh air.”
ASHES walked through Lyonshire’s merchant district wearing his Ivorish face and clean, proper Denizen clothes. He had adopted an expression to fit his Ivorish skin tone and posh clothing, and he walked with his hands out of his pockets, straight-backed and proud. It all made him uncomfortable and slow, but no one was leering at him suspiciously, and you couldn’t overestimate the value of that.
It was strange how little notice he attracted—off-putting, even. Artifice wasn’t a secret from the wide world. Everybody in Teranis knew that anyone with enough money could look however they wanted. Why did anyone trust what they saw? As long as there were Artificers, how could you know the beggar in front of you wasn’t one of the Ladies? How could you know your friends were truly your friends, or your wife really your wife?
Maybe people just couldn’t talk themselves out of believing what they saw. Artifice was more subtle than some coat of paint. It could be convincing even when you knew it was false. And, as Jack had said, the mind was a lazy instrument.
The glass shop front of a bookstore caught Ashes’s eye. He hadn’t set foot inside one in years; the first time he’d been daring enough to try, he’d lasted a grand total of thirty seconds before the shopkeeper threw him unceremoniously onto the streets. Gutter-rats were not welcome in shops; they cluttered up the atmosphere, scared off real customers, and only aimed to steal things.
He glanced at his face in the glass, and he smiled. Not a gutter-rat. Not as far as they knew, anyway.
A bell chimed over his head as he stepped inside. The shop within was inordinately full of books: thick,
thin, tall, short, old, and new, and everything in between.
The man behind the counter, a large fellow with drooping jowls and a trimmed mustache, looked up at the sound of the door chime. Instantly, he became the picture of a delighted salesman: his face broke into a large grin and he clapped his hands together. The change in his attitude took Ashes by surprise. In the space of a moment he transformed from being simply fat to being jolly.
“Good afternoon, young master,” he said. “What brings you to my humble place of business?”
For a moment, Ashes’s mind felt gummed up. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and he was wearing unfamiliar clothes and a face that wasn’t his and, true to form, he meant to steal something here. The man ought to be grabbing him by the neck and forcing him out the door.
Then, all at once, his mouth started moving.
“Goodly evening,” he said, forgoing Juliana’s diction lessons for the instinctive command of the Lyonshire Denizen accent. “I’m looking for a book for my brother. It’s his birthday tonight and I’ve gone and forgotten to get him something.”
“Not a problem, sir!” the merchant said brightly. “What do you think your brother might be interested in?”
“He likes anything with words in,” Ashes said. Wait—that was wrong grammar, wasn’t it? Damn!
The shopkeeper hardly seemed to notice. “Well, I’ve got all manner of books with words in,” he said, his grin growing even more. “How old might your brother be, if I may ask?”
Ashes bit his lip. “Coming up on thirteen, provided I’ve remembered properly.” He manufactured an embarrassed smile. “As you’ve already guessed, I’m not so good with remembering things. My father never lets me forget it. Gods provide that I get into the priesthood, because if I end up taking over Da’s shop, it might well ruin the whole family name.”
The bookseller laughed. He had a huge, hearty laugh. “Well, if he’s that age and he’s fond of books, I believe I might have just the thing for him.” He toddled around the counter, humming to himself as he approached the shelves. He ran his fingers over the spines lovingly, finally stopping on one. He took hardly a moment pulling it off the shelf before continuing down the shelf, picking more and more. He returned to the counter after a minute, bearing four large books.
“Dreamcatcher’s Spire, The Knotted City, Inandelia, and Oeurmand’s Fables,” the man said, showing him each cover successively. “That last is probably best of the lot. The largest collection of fairy tales you’ll find this side of the Vastness. Most of them your little brother’ll know by heart already, although he’ll love the illustrations if he’s any sort of taste.” He flipped open the cover, revealing a colorful sketch of an armored knight stabbing the heart of a many-headed beast. It was breathtakingly detailed. “The Moonsword Knight and the Beast of Trant. At risk of being a traditional salesman, young master, you will not find a prettier book.”
Ashes’s eyes widened. “How much for it?”
“A steal at twelve lumin,” the man replied. “Were I a true businessman, it would be twenty, but I confess I’m just a book lover. I’ll admit it’s hardly a book I’d feel comfortable selling to someone very young. But if your brother is thirteen and asking for books instead of something inane like a horse or a short sword or a Glamour to make him look like Alavar Sunheart, I reckon he’d be ready for something like this.”
Ashes’s gut twisted. It was a beautiful book; Blimey would adore it. If anything could make up for putting Blimey in Batty Annie’s basement, it would be this. But he didn’t have nearly the money, and something about the way the bookseller caressed the pages made him reluctant to try stealing it.
It probably isn’t worth that much, he thought desperately. Probably isn’t worth half that much. He’s just doing his salesman bit, like all the merchants. He doesn’t just want me to buy the book. He wants me to fall in love with it.
Even so, it felt wrong. At least when he cheated arrogant Denizens at cards, they’d have the decency to try killing him for it. This fellow didn’t have a clue.
If I didn’t look Ivorish, he’d be trying to pulp me, Ashes thought. He’s just a merchant like all the rest.
“I’ll take it,” he said aloud, then patted his side and adopted a stricken look. “Oh, Faces. I think I’ve forgotten my purse.” He put a palm to his forehead. “Ah, of all the luck. I told you, didn’t I? My brain’s a thrice-cursed sieve. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time, sir. I’ll just be on my way.”
The bookseller’s face fell. “Ah! But you could return to your home, could you not? I can hold it for you here, until you return with the money.”
Ashes moved for the door, shaking his head. “I couldn’t do that. I’m— It’s too far, and I haven’t a carriage. I doubt I’d get back in time. I’ll get him something else, I suppose. Apologies for bothering you.”
“Perhaps credit?” The bookseller held out the book. “A book lover should not go without his birthday present. Take the book today, and pay me for it tomorrow.”
Ashes halted, looking longingly at the book. Blimey would love it . . . and Ashes was training to be an Artificer, after all. He would earn the money at some point, surely, and it wasn’t as if he had any other expenses. He could get the money back to the man sometime in the future. It wasn’t stealing, just . . . borrowing.
“Do you know why I sell books, young master?” The bookseller eyed him, as if waiting for a response. “They’re one of very few things you can sell that isn’t a commodity. I’m not selling food or dyes or clothes.” He leaned forward and said, in conspiratorial tones, “I can’t sell the same book twice, do you know? Books are too magical. They’re meant for people.” He tapped the book on the counter. “I see the way you look at this. You know that book’s meant to go to your brother. You know how he’ll love it and how he’ll keep it to the end of his days, and pass it on to his son when he’s old enough, who’ll pass it on to his son when he’s old enough. And by then the pages’ll be torn and the ink’ll have faded, but the book’s even more magic then.” The man proffered it to Ashes, almost like an offering. “Take it, young master. Pay me back for it tomorrow. I promise my store won’t flounder and die for twelve overdue lumin.”
Ashes took the book as reverently as he could. The bookseller smiled again. “You’re good for it, I’m sure. Go on, now. You wouldn’t want to be late.”
On a sudden instinct, Ashes bowed his head to the man. “You’re a real sort of gentleman, sir. I’ll get you the money. You’ve got my word to it.” And he meant it.
He left the shop with the book in hand, and got all of twenty feet when someone grabbed his arm.
Furies! He froze, immediately cataloguing escape routes and calculating how quick he could move. His legs had betrayed him too much recently to be trustworthy, but the book could slow them down—
“I suppose you think that was terribly clever of you.” Synder was trying to sound grown-up, but even Artifice couldn’t change her voice. She was wearing a new face, one that made her look about five years older and turned her hair platinum blonde. Her eyes hadn’t changed.
“Afternoon, Syn,” he muttered. “Something wrong?”
“You know exactly what’s wrong,” she whispered. “You should be ashamed, Ashes.”
Ashes glared at her. “Why’re you following me?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She leaned close and whispered harshly, “You stole that book!”
“Did not,” Ashes whispered back. “I’m going to pay him back for it. I promised.”
“You can’t just take things from people!” The light around Synder’s face turned dark, as though she’d just been obscured by a small cloud.
She just gathered light without meaning to, Ashes thought, looking at the shadows around her hands. He couldn’t help but be impressed. “I didn’t! He knows I have it. And he said I could pay him back for it later!”
The girl blinked. “A Lyonshire merchant just let you have something? On credit?”
&nbs
p; “That’s just what he said! On credit!”
“You’re not lying to me?” She stared him in the eye, as if doing so would clue her in to his truthfulness.
“I swear it.” Ashes held up his hands.
The terrible look around her passed, and the darkness with it. Sunlight struck her face again. She brushed a hair out of her eyes, still glaring at Ashes.
“Fine,” she muttered. Her eyes flicked to the book. “Are you going to pay the man back?”
“Eventually.” Ashes returned the gaze she shot at him. She sighed and rubbed her temple.
“That’s not right, Ashes.”
“Roger,” he corrected. “I’m Roger out here.”
“Whatever. You can’t just take something and say you’ll pay for it eventually. It’s wrong. Why are you even taking it anyway?”
Ashes took another step back. “It’s not any of your business.”
Synder placed both hands on her hips. “Well, it is now.” Her jaw was set. Gathered light formed a subtle halo around her face, making her look like an avenging angel.
Furies. “I’m going to resell it,” he lied smoothly. “Make a bit of a turn off what it gives me, pay back the bookseller what I owe. You happy?”
Synder lifted an eyebrow. “Is that the best lie you can come up with?”
Ashes bristled. “It’s not—”
“I wonder what Jack would think,” she said slowly, “knowing that you’re still a petty thief.”
She stared at him flatly. Ashes ground his teeth together. The girl waited another moment, and then turned and began walking back toward the shop. She didn’t look back. Either honest, or a far better bluffer than he’d thought. He swore colorfully under his breath.
“Okay, wait.”
The girl stopped and tilted her head toward him.
“You have to promise,” Ashes said, “that you won’t tell anybody. No one ever, all right? It’s the biggest secret I’ve ever kept. And if you tell then somebody could die, honest to Faces. You can’t tell ever.”
Synder faced him with a serious look. “I can keep a secret.”
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