“Good.” He exhaled, slowly, trying to keep his heartbeat down. “Okay. Follow me and I’ll talk while we’re going. Half a moment.”
Ashes faced a wall and slipped off his ring, then dug his seeing-stone from his pocket and scanned the street furtively. None of the passersby looked any different, nor had they been paying attention to the boy whose face had just changed.
It had been foolish to leave the shop without looking behind him for someone wearing Artifice; he would have to be more careful in the future. Until he learned how to detect Artifice on his own, he’d need to consider the possibility of tails who could change their faces at a moment’s notice.
Satisfied, he stowed the optic and swapped his face once more. “Come on, then.”
“What was that all about?”
“Don’t want anybody following us,” Ashes said. “Especially not somebody wearing new faces all the time. I told you, this secret’s important.”
Synder nodded solemnly. Ashes started down the street, beckoning her to follow him.
“I got the book for a friend,” he muttered, keeping his voice as low as he could. “Somebody from Burroughside.”
“Why’s that some big secret?”
“Because he’s supposed to be dead,” Ashes said.
Synder looked at him with concern. Ashes rubbed his forehead.
“Right,” he said. “Look. A year ago, I lived with a crew, leader by the name of Mari. She was . . . decent. But that’s not really a good thing in Burroughside. And we found this rasa wandering about. Had scars and bruises all over. Called himself Blimey. Mari thought we ought to take him in. Keep him safe. She did that sometimes.”
Ashes’s fists clenched. Even now the memory made his heart pound. “Anyway, we did. She was going to make him part of the crew, teach him to cheat cards or work with the pickpockets or something. Only . . . one of Mari’s seconds was Saintly. He’s a vicious bastard now, but back then he wasn’t so bad. I didn’t think he was, anyway.” He blew out a breath. “Saintly—I don’t know how, but he found out Ragged was looking for someone that sounded like Blimey.”
“Who’s Ragged?”
“Mr. Ragged,” Ashes said. “You don’t know who—? No, course you wouldn’t. Mr. Ragged’s the—I dunno, the governor of Burroughside. None of the Ivories want to touch it, owing to how it’s full of criminals and the like—”
“Well, they’re not allowed to,” Synder said.
“Eh?”
“Something in the city compact,” Synder said, shrugging. “No Ivory’s allowed to rule another district unless a majority from every neighboring district permits it. They can’t even appoint somebody without approval. It’s all very bureaucratic.”
Ashes noted bureaucratic as some kind of synonym for stupid and moved on. “Anyway, Saintly found out Ragged wanted Blimey dead. Way he saw it, that meant Mari was hiding a fugitive. Breaking Ragged’s law. So he killed her. He would’ve killed Blimey, too, if I hadn’t got him out of there. Then I . . .”
Ashes took a breath. The memories burned in his brain. They were still so very, very vivid.
“There’s a coroner down Finch Street. He’d got a dead kid that week, no name, no family, and he was about Blimey’s size. I made it look like him, and I convinced everybody that was his body.”
“I thought you didn’t know how to use Artifice?”
“I didn’t,” Ashes said. “I just made sure the face wasn’t nothing somebody’d recognize.” He kept himself from shaking, but only just. The dead boy had been cold as winter’s gut, and the blood had all congealed too much to spurt out. Even so, it had covered Ashes’s hands and his clothes and the knife he’d used. He’d kept it near a sewer vent, where it was muggy and hot, so the blood would look wet. Ragged had been too disgusted by the rot-stench to look closely. That had been Ashes’s salvation. He wondered now if, perhaps, he had Stitched it, just a little. Just enough.
Synder took a moment to understand exactly what he was implying. He could tell when the words clicked, because she swallowed. “Oh.”
“That boy was already dead,” Ashes said, keeping his voice level. “He’d been dead a while, and nobody knew about him. And I made sure he got a decent burial, too, ’cause he deserved it. He saved somebody else’s life.”
Synder nodded, though he could tell she was still horrified. “How long ago did you say this was?”
“Near a year now. I kept Blimey hid away, but I didn’t want him going out of his mind. So I bring him books. He knows all sorts of Ivory words and things.”
The girl’s head cocked to one side and her face wrinkled in confusion. “Why not just bring him to the shop?”
“No!” Ashes’s chest went tight. He took a deep breath. “No. I can’t do that.”
“Why ever not?”
“I just can’t!” Ashes blew air out his nose. “I’m not gonna do that to him.”
“Do what?”
“Stick him with anybody!” Ashes rounded on her, teeth clenched. “There’s nobody I can trust but me, all right? I like Jack and all, and the rest of your crew. But I don’t trust anybody with Blimey’s life. Nobody but me, understand?”
Synder took a step back. “Okay. Right. Sorry I asked.”
“Nobody else but me has any business in his life,” Ashes snapped. “Soon as I’ve got the means, I’m going to put him where Ragged’ll never touch him again.”
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll keep it to myself, Ashes.”
“Roger,” he corrected sharply. “And you’re not making a good case for how you can keep secrets.”
Synder blushed furiously. “Right. Roger. Sorry.” She looked away, trying to hide the red in her cheeks. “Lead on, then.”
THEY halted down the street from Batty Annie’s while Ashes examined the area. He didn’t bother with the optic; it was better to keep his false face on while he was here, and he couldn’t look through the stone without damaging the construct. Besides, if Ragged’s boys had Artifice on their side, he might well be doomed already anyway.
He spotted no watchers outside Annie’s. Thanking the Face of Cunning, and whatever other Faces must have started watching over him to grant this unparalleled run of luck, he took Synder’s hand.
“From here to that doorway,” he said, “we’re a pair of Denizen teenagers who’ve gone to see a witch because, wouldn’t you know it, you’ve missed your moon’s blood and if your father finds out then we’re both as rats in a cat’s den. Got me?”
Synder’s lip twitched and she nodded. “Got it.”
He handed her the book. “Any chance you can hide this in your petticoats somewhere?” The girl only smiled and vanished the book somewhere inside her construct. Faces, but she was good at this.
He led her forward, pulling on the identity of someone frightened for much more proper reasons than he was. He moved with an obviously unpracticed furtiveness, looking indiscreetly over both shoulders as he crossed the road.
He knocked on Batty Annie’s door three times. The old door creaked open some moments later, and Batty Annie’s face appeared behind the wood grain.
“Grandmother,” Synder said, and her voice became, all at once, the perfect imitation of a proper young lady. “We’re so desperately sorry to be bothering you. May we come in? It’s deplorably urgent.”
Annie eyed her skeptically, then looked at Ashes. The skeptical look intensified.
“I know your scent,” Annie snarled, eyeing Ashes with profound distaste. “Wearing another—?”
“Please, grandmother,” Ashes said sharply, slipping into an accent to match Synder. “It really is an errand of the utmost urgency. May we come in?”
Annie scowled and stepped aside. The moment the door closed, Ashes slipped off the ring.
“Sorry to be showing on your doorway with a false face, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I figured I ought to be extra careful.”
The old woman fidgeted, looking annoyed. “Who’s this one?” She looked intensely at Synder. “
Discard that Glamour, girl-child, before I yank it off you.”
Synder undid the thin scarf on her neck, and a moment later became half a foot shorter and a quarter as graceful and proper. She didn’t take her eyes off Annie; Synder looked to be somewhere between fascination and wariness. “Do I know—?”
“Probably not,” Annie replied sharply, giving Synder a cold look. “Carry on with you, then.”
Ashes halted Synder at the steps to his room.
“Got to warn you before we go down.” He looked her full in the face, intent on communicating how important this was. “Blimey don’t look like most folk. He’s got bruises and cuts and he weren’t all that pretty to start with. You call him names, you leave. You get some horrified ‘how could something like that happen if the gods really are good’ expression, you leave. You call any attention to it, except that he mentions it, you leave, understand?”
She nodded.
“More’n likely he’ll be skittish,” Ashes went on. “He doesn’t meet a lot of new people. So just stay calm and don’t give him any reason to fright.”
“I understand, Ashes. Calm down. I’ll be gentle as a lady mouse, all right? Is that what you’re looking for?”
“It’ll serve.”
He opened the door to the basement. The room beyond was lit by only two candles, casting faint and unreliable light on a well-appointed bed, an old desk with a thin stack of paper on it, and Blimey, sitting on the mattress with his book of words before him. His lips were moving silently as he read, noiselessly tasting every word as his eyes slipped over them.
“Blimes?”
The boy jerked away from his book and twisted. Joy filled his lumpy face. “You’re back early. Tired of grand larceny yet?”
“Don’t get smart with me, nonsenser. I’ve been off slaying dragons.”
Blimey’s eyes slipped past Ashes to the girl behind him. Ashes tensed, expecting Blimey to shrink back onto his bed. His friend was full of surprises, though: at the sight of Synder, Blimey slid off the bed, padded forward, took Synder’s hand, and gave a deep bow.
“G-good evening,” he said. “It is my—my pleasure to welcome a lady of your esteemed quality to my unworthy home.”
Synder looked shocked, but she recovered quickly. “I am blessed to visit so esteemed a home.” The words were mechanical, a reflex: something Ivorish? Blimey’s greeting must have had more to it than Ashes realized.
“My name is Nathaniel,” Blimey said, still bowed. Ashes drew in a shallow breath; Blimey had never told him a birth name. Rasa remembered that much sometimes, but not often. Which are you, Blimey? A rasa pretending to be a Denizen? Or the other way round? “B-but you can call me Blimey, if you like. That’s what most people say when they see me.”
Synder grinned shyly, dipping a belated curtsy. “I’m Synder. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nathaniel.”
Blimey straightened and pulled at the bottom of his shirt. He was wearing different clothes than he used to—had Annie found him new things? It looked as though he’d bathed recently, too.
“You’re looking fit to be a princeling, mate,” Ashes said.
Blimey’s face went sunset-colored. “You’re one to talk,” he replied. “Since when’d you start wearing this fine stuff?”
“All part of the plan.” He tipped Blimey a confident look, but doubted his friend even saw it. His eyes lingered on Synder. No surprise there; Blimey hadn’t seen a girl in years, except for Mari. Judging by how he looked at Synder, Blimey was already layering every story he’d ever read about knights and fine ladies and noble heroes wedding princesses onto her; in his eyes she became King Cathar’s wife and Lady Innevra and the Maiden of Gleaming, all rolled into one. And wearing trousers.
“I got you something, Blimes,” Ashes said, holding up the book. If there was anything that could distract Blimey from the sudden intrusion of a girl, it would be a book. Even so, Blimey seemed reluctant to look away from Synder long enough to register what Ashes was carrying. His breath caught.
“Maker’s love,” Blimey whispered. “It’s beautiful, Ashes.” He held out his hands, taking the book reverently and setting it on the desk. He opened it the way a priest would open a holy text, his fingers lingering on the pages but only touching their edges, rather than dirtying the text with his fingerprints.
“Told you I’d bring you more books,” Ashes said. “That’s just the first, too.”
Synder met Ashes’s eyes, a warning in her gaze. She’d be watching over his shoulder now, whatever he did, and she was particularly squeamish about stealing. Inconvenient, but hardly a problem. He’d find a way around her eventually.
“How’s things today?” Ashes asked. “You got one of Annie’s books?”
“Good,” Blimey said unconvincingly. “No, she, um . . . I finished the last history she gave me pretty quickly. She told me she’d get me a different one by week’s end.”
“Best that she does,” Ashes said. “You’re not bored waiting for her?”
“A . . . A little.”
“I know a good cure for boredom,” Synder said. She looked to Ashes as if asking permission to keep talking. “Do you know any good games, Blimey?”
Blimey closed the book with religious caution and faced Synder. He nodded. “I know some games, from a long while ago. And Ashes showed me a card game a few times, something he’d use to get Ivory money.”
Synder shot Ashes an accusatory glance before turning back to Blimey. “You strike me as the sort of person who would quite enjoy chess. You heard of chess, Blimey?”
Ashes shook his head, but Blimey nodded enthusiastically. “Course I’ve heard of it!” he said. “It’s the game Clever Tyru used to stop Gavin Brokenhand from going to war with—with someone, I can’t remember if it was the Ladies or Rykar of the Steel. It’s a sort of war game, isn’t it?”
Synder nodded. “Sort of a war game, except with no killing. I need thirty-two pebbles, or bits of string, or any kind of useless bit of junk you can find. But it’s got to be exactly thirty-two, all right?”
Blimey nodded and dove under his bed without further comment. Synder smiled, then turned to Ashes. “Got anything I can use?” Ashes shook his head. “Better start looking, then.”
Five minutes later, Synder counted out thirty-two knickknacks and bits of litter, all collected from corners, pockets, and the drawers of the desk. When she had gathered them all, she separated them into two groups of sixteen, and pulled out a phial of aether.
Ashes caught his breath. Did natural Weavers just carry those things around all the time? It was such a cavalier way of doing things. Anybody could snatch it out of your pocket and you wouldn’t even know it.
Synder looked around the room with a critical eye, chewing her bottom lip. “There’s not much light in here. These might be a little dim.” So saying, she stretched out a hand and gestured like she was coaxing a foal toward her. Ashes could just see a thin thread of light forming near her hand. The room grew dull as the thread thickened, pulsing larger with every passing moment. Synder gathered it all to herself unhurriedly, with a look of calm concentration.
Blimey’s jaw had fallen open. Ashes, for his part, was deeply impressed. The light swarmed to her touch, eager to be molded; not a drop slipped away. Her focus must have been perfect. This was the genius Jack had talked about: a fourteen-year-old Ivorish girl who tugged on light as though it were real, who didn’t let one strand diminish from her touch.
Both candles were being siphoned into Synder’s grip now, plunging the room into ever-steadier darkness. The flames looked as tall and strong as ever. The only difference was a dullness, a sort of gray pallor falling over the fire.
Synder let out a satisfied breath and tugged sharply on the threads of light. What was left of them coiled into her hands, and though the operation was perfectly silent Ashes could almost hear the lines snap. The room became just a little brighter, and as the moments passed the light increased—as if the candles were gathering their strength bac
k.
The girl sat with a pool of pale golden light in her open hands. It was so bright it hurt to look at, but somehow didn’t illuminate anything but itself. Synder’s face, so close to the gathered light, was no brighter than any other part of the room.
Wordlessly, she began to spin the light into miniature shapes, all of them cylindrical. She made eight identical constructs, each putting off a faint golden glow, and inserted a drop of aether in them before binding them to eight of the bits of junk at her feet. Another eight followed, pulsing faint silver, then eight golden figures with differing features, and their twins in silver.
Last of all, she pulled her handkerchief out of a pocket. It was a work of proper textile art—Ashes couldn’t help but notice it was the sort a ragman would pay good money for. Shaking it out with one hand, she directed the light onto it with the other. The light fell in a pattern, alternating squares of light and dark—formed dark, like Juliana’s cloak, not simply an absence of light but a yawning blackness set against the cloth. When she had formed the final space, she let the cloth drift to the ground, pulled it tight at the corners, and pressed her open palm against it. The construct went taut as she tipped a drop of aether onto the cloth. A faint sound came from it, like fat sizzling over fire, and when it passed she let her hand up. Finally satisfied, she sat back, letting out a long breath.
Thirty-three laden Anchors lay before her; the forming and binding had taken maybe five minutes. The pool of light in her lap had dwindled to nearly nothing, and her aether phial was half empty, but she wore a proud smile.
“There,” she said. “Not even that bad, I’d wager.” She glanced at the light still pulsing in her lap, and dipped one hand in. It obeyed her like sluggish water, slipping out of her hand in large, dripping trails. She let out a long breath, and the gathered light seeped away. Simultaneously, everything in the room became brighter—brighter than before she’d started working? Ashes couldn’t tell. Maybe it only looked that way because of how dim she’d made it.
Blimey was sitting on the bed, staring at Synder with an unabashedly worshipful expression. Ashes held his admiration in better, but it was only slightly less than Blimey’s. Blimey was only amazed at meeting an Artificer; he had no idea the level of skill he’d just witnessed. Ashes was educated enough to recognize that he’d just watched Synder produce a work of art, worth a minor fortune, in the dingy basement of a Burroughside madwoman. And she’d done it with rocks.
The Facefaker's Game Page 20
