The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  “You outnumber him and his boys twenty to one. You’re small but you’re fierce, and of course you are. You’re the gutter-rats, the Motleys, the strays and outcasts. Every scrap of bread you’ve ever tasted, you fought for. Mr. Ragged, though? He wears a face he didn’t earn, in a house he can’t defend, in a district that won’t have him any longer!”

  It was the moment to cheer, and everyone in the room caught their cue. A shout went up from them.

  “Ragged’s afraid of you!” Ashes shouted above the din. “And he damn well should be!”

  They screamed again, louder this time. Ashes raised his fist, and felt something twinge in the back of his head. Something was wrong, someone was behaving weirdly, a hand that had gone up but stopped at shoulder level, and something was pointed at him—

  No time to think—

  Ashes jerked away reflexively, but the platform was too small. His foot struck empty air. He stumbled backward.

  The gunshot cut through the shouting, and turned the cheering into screams.

  Ashes’s head spun. His ears rang. A line of fire seared along his shoulder.

  Someone was shouting. Many someones were shouting. Screaming, in fact—chaotic, terrorized screams. So loud and disorganized he could hardly think.

  “They killed him! He’s dead!”

  “Mr. Smoke!”

  Have I died?

  He decided he was probably not dead. He had been here before, in a fuzzy stasis between awake and permanently asleep, and it was not death. Not quite.

  The pieces came together swiftly, but not without effort. Someone shot me. I fell back. They think I’ve died, and nobody’s bothered to check yet . . .

  It was at this point that he got a very audacious idea. A manipulative, cunning, truly bastard-born idea. He thought briefly of the Burroughsiders screaming on the other side of the stage, and how they trusted him. Then he thought about what Jack would say if he ever found out about this: Good thing you didn’t hesitate.

  He put his hand over his heart and grasped for his magic. He wouldn’t need much; just a little would do. It would be more theatrical like that anyway.

  There was a bullet wound high on his shoulder. The shot had practically grazed him. That made twice he’d gotten inordinately lucky against a gunman in a single night. Someone was looking out for him. He prayed to the Face of Cunning for strength as he put his fingers over the wound and made one final Stitching. This one would have to last. His magic was more exhausted than his body. For good measure, he spread some of the blood around on his shirt, just over his heart.

  His focus slackened, and the screams filled his head once again. He stood.

  The noises stopped.

  “Where is he?” Ashes demanded. “Did we catch him?”

  The crowd parted, revealing a burly, familiar boy. Ashes approached him, and heard the whispers start up as he passed. Everyone within ten feet of him could see the ghastly bullet hole in his chest. If they looked closely, they would see the hole slowly shrinking. Any canted Artificer would spot the magic in a moment; weak Stitchings couldn’t hold for long. The subject’s true image would reassert itself. But there were no Artificers in the crowd. After tonight, everyone in Burroughside would hear about Mr. Smoke, the man who disregarded a bullet through the heart.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Because I can’t keep calling you Righty.

  “I’m telling you nothing,” he spat.

  Ashes had to admire his pluck. He’d left Reynard and the Ysonne behind to creep into enemy territory and kill Mr. Smoke. Even surrounded by enemies, he refused to back down. It was a pity he belonged so wholly to Ragged.

  “You followed me?” Ashes watched Righty’s face, but there was no flicker of weakness in him. “No. Course not. You keep your ear to the ground, eh? Heard about it all on your own, and figured you’d be Mr. Ragged’s new best friend. Saintly wouldn’t have looked on you too kindly for that, my friend.”

  “Bugger off!”

  “Tie him up,” Ashes commanded. The illusory bullet wound in his chest was gone entirely. Only a little blood remained. “Wouldn’t do to have him running ahead of us.”

  Slippery Rafe gave him a questioning look. “Ahead of us?”

  “Ahead of us,” Ashes said heavily. “I figure it’s time we paid Mr. Ragged a visit, mates. Don’t you?”

  IT was past midnight in Burroughside, and a small army of children who had never before set foot outside after dark were surging down the street. There was a demon at their head, and he carried a bar of sickly green light in one hand, illuminating their way. Grim and silent they were, and some were shivering. Winter had begun creeping into Teranis, and the grasp of the fog had grown colder.

  There was a pit in Ashes’s stomach. His legs deeply wanted to shake, but he would not let them. There were thirty people behind him, most of them children. To them, he was Mr. Smoke. Mr. Smoke was never afraid. Mr. Smoke could not be killed. Mr. Smoke was the one who would take Ragged down.

  It did not matter that Ashes was doing his best to keep from pissing himself. In this, as in Artifice, all that mattered was what people thought was true. He glanced over his shoulder to check on the children behind him. On his command, they walked in a tight formation, keeping the smallest of them in the center. No doubt some of them thought the group would serve as protection from the Ravagers. There were others who thought it was Mr. Smoke’s presence keeping the monsters at bay. They were nearer to the truth; he kept them in a tight circle because the light from his lamp only extended so far.

  Slippery Rafe came up beside him. “What exactly are we going to do with Mr. Ragged, sir? When we’ve caught him?”

  Ashes let out a breath. It was encouraging to hear the Motley leader express his faith so casually. Ashes had been thinking in terms of if.

  “I’m not ready to spread that information about just yet,” Ashes said, pretending he was Candlestick Jack. The Weaver had a knack for seeming totally sure of himself no matter what was going on. Part of it was that Jack never admitted that he didn’t know what to do. There were never any unanswerable questions; only answers Jack hadn’t chosen to share with the wide world yet. “Rest assured I’ve got plans for him.”

  Bonnie the Lass would certainly suffice to get rid of Ragged. She might execute him or imprison him, depending on whether she’d decided he was a traitor, but she certainly wouldn’t let him keep Burroughside when he’d been so thoroughly rejected by its population. A coward couldn’t control the district.

  “We going to kill him?” Rafe asked in a low voice.

  Ashes blinked. “No,” he said quickly. “Definitely not that.”

  Rafe eyed him, suspicious. “You don’t have to lie to me, sir. I’ve been the crew’s leader a while. They might be green, but I’m not.”

  “We won’t kill him,” Ashes said, trying to make his voice firm. “I’ll tell you that honest. We kill him, the Ivories’ll come down on Burroughside like you’ve never seen. They’ll kill us outright, no question.”

  That, and Ashes could still remember the sticky feeling of blood on his hands. The Lass might kill Ragged. Ashes certainly wouldn’t. Nor would the children behind him. Ashes couldn’t permit that.

  They were two streets away from Ragged House now. Ashes could almost feel the children shaking. He stopped and turned around, holding the sickly green light over his head.

  “I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said, knowing they would believe it. His voice thrummed with confidence, with power and strength. “You’ve no reason to be. Ragged fears you, just like he ought to, and he won’t see us coming. We’re going to capture him, tonight, and take him where he won’t harm us or ours ever again. You can trust to that, eh?” He met as many eyes as he could in a quick scan, willing them to believe in him. He needed them to be confident, assured. If Ragged didn’t come along willingly, they’d need to force him, and Ashes didn’t know how little it would take for the police to fall on them like a sack of stones. Everything would be well if
Ragged came willingly, and their best shot at that was to convince him he had thirty-some desperate, hungry Burroughsiders standing at his door, prepared to do whatever it took to remove him.

  It would work, though. It had to work. Ragged had no protections save Carapace and his alliances. Neither of those would save him here, in the dead of night . . .

  Ashes stopped. It would be good to check.

  He gave the Artificer’s lamp to Rafe and slipped his cloak on. “Hold on to that for me,” he commanded. “And don’t any of you move. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Rafe looked at him oddly, but a moment later Ashes was swathed in darkness. The Motley blinked.

  Ashes came around the corner noiselessly. Ragged House loomed before him, surrounded by the ruthless, bloodthirsty fence. His eyes drifted to the gate. Under his breath he said, “Bollocks.”

  He appeared in the midst of his army a moment later, face grim.

  “What’s on?” Rafe asked.

  “Broken Boys,” Ashes told them in a low voice. “Half a dozen. And they’ve got pistols.”

  He heard two or three stifled cries of alarm. “I understand you’re frightened,” he told them. “I’ve been on the other end of the Boys and their fists.” At this, Rafe gave him another odd look. Idiot, Ashes chastised himself, but kept going. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to turn back just now. You all know bullets don’t bother me overmuch, but they’d mean a hell of a lot to you. If you want to go back, I won’t stop you.”

  The children stared back at him, plainly frightened.

  “Can you protect us?”

  “Can’t promise it,” he said. “But you have my word I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

  Jasin scoffed. “Don’t be daft, you all,” she said fiercely. “You know who you’re looking at? This is Mr. Smoke. We go in with him, we’ll all be just fine.”

  Ashes gave her a sharp look. “I can’t promise that,” he said.

  “You have got some sort of plan, though?” she challenged.

  “Some sort.”

  He looked out at the children, held their gaze for a moment. None of them wavered, and he smiled broadly.

  “All right, then.”

  Ten minutes later, Ashes came within sight of Ragged House. The hood of his cloak was down and he held the Artificer-light high. Jasin and Rafe walked beside him, while he resisted the impulse to keep looking at them anxiously. He had not wanted anyone with him for this part; both had flatly refused to obey him. The plan functioned better with two or three people than only with one, Jasin argued. Ashes could have convinced Rafe, if the Motley had argued alone, but Jasin had enough fire for both of them. Ashes hated to admit it, but she’d probably been right. With his Artifice exhausted, he needed every diversion he could get his hands on. And Rafe and Jasin were more than competent in their way. So long as they kept their heads, everything would go well.

  Even so, Ashes couldn’t banish the knots tying in his belly.

  “Remember,” he muttered. “Hit the ground straightaway.”

  “We’ll remember,” Jasin whispered back.

  “They’re not trained, I don’t think,” Ashes continued. “There’s gonna be bullets everywhere. Get to shelter quick as you can. Behind a wall or something.”

  “We got it, sir,” Rafe said. “Not to worry. It’ll all be over before you know it.”

  “You there!”

  The Broken Boys had their guns up, though Ashes noted that they looked just as awkward and untrained as Reynard’s miniature gang had been. Ashes stopped and held up his hands, motioning for Jasin and Rafe to do the same. They were nearly fifty feet away from Ragged House and the Broken Boys—too far to close quickly. If it came to gunshots, there would be no contest.

  “Don’t none of you move,” said one who stood at the center; Ashes recognized the voice of Tom Wesel. His pistol was aimed at Mr. Smoke. “Not a one, else we’ll put you out like lights.”

  “What’re you doing here?” another one demanded.

  Slippery Rafe took one bold step forward and stopped as two guns swiveled to point at his heart. “Sir?” he asked.

  “I’d recommend that we become very, very obedient, Rafe,” Ashes said steadily. “Best strategy when you’re staring down an iron barrel, in my experience.”

  “Who the hell’re you?” one of the Boys asked.

  “No one of any particular importance,” Ashes said, in the tones of someone who is of very particular importance.

  “Best tell us,” Tom Wesel said coolly, “else I think I’ll start putting holes in you.”

  Jasin let out a harsh, barking laugh. “You don’t know who’s looking at you?” she snapped. “You’d think even somebody stupid as the Broken Boys ought to recognize Mr. Smoke!”

  Ashes saw two quickly cover up looks of shock and fear, but the others held steady. The guns bolstered their courage.

  “He dies just as easy as anyone, you put a bullet to him,” one said.

  “Shows what you know—”

  “Jasin,” Ashes said, grabbing the girl by the shoulder. “Stay quiet.”

  “What’re you doing here, then?”

  Ashes gave the Broken Boy a look of profoundest disbelief. “You really asking that?”

  But Ashes didn’t wait for the Boy to reply before he pulled Candlestick Jack’s confidence over himself.

  “I’m Mr. bloody Smoke,” he said. “I’ve been all over Burroughside telling you what I’m going to do for the last month. You’ve not been paying attention?” He let out a theatrical laugh. “Oh, bollocks, you’re stupid. All right, then. I’m here to sack Ragged House, incapacitate Carapace, and drag Ragged out of Burroughside by whatever body part seems most available at the time. What the hell did you think I was doing here?”

  Two of the Broken Boys exchanged frightened looks, but Ashes had no intention of letting them get their feet under them. “That was the plan, leastwise. I admit that finding you and your adorable little crutches here puts a bit of a kink in my plans, so maybe I’ll just be on my way.”

  That got to them. “You bloody well won’t!” one said.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Ashes said smoothly. “This isn’t something to get upset over. Seems to me this is the sort of disagreement we could solve if we all performed some judicious pretending and forgetting. I’ll say that we seem to have gotten lost on our way somewhere, and you don’t have to shoot anyone tonight. The plan’s bloody foolproof.”

  “That so,” Tom Wesel said flatly.

  “No reason it has to come to any sort of unpleasantness, gentlemen,” Ashes said. “We can all be very civil about this.”

  “Sir?” Jasin demanded in a hoarse whisper, just loud enough it would carry to the Broken Boys. “What are you doing? Their guns don’t mean anything to you.”

  “They mean a hell of a lot to you, though,” Ashes said back. “That’s enough for right now, Jasin.” Ashes turned back to the Broken Boys, and realized Saintly was unaccounted for. The thought made him feel more than a little anxious.

  “Now, then, Tom—”

  “No!” the boy snapped. “Don’t talk. Don’t you say a damn word to me. Everything you say’s poison, eh? I seen what you did to Reynard, too. You speak another thing to me or any of my boys, I’ll shoot your head off, eh? Then I’ll shoot whoever else I get to, if you take too long to lay still.”

  Ashes searched the boy’s eyes. They were deadly cold, and serious as stone. He nodded wordlessly.

  Faces, let them all be ready, Ashes thought.

  “Sir?” Slippery Rafe asked, looking at Mr. Smoke.

  Ashes did not answer, except to let the Artificer’s lamp go out.

  “Down!” he roared, as the Broken Boys shouted in alarm, and the bullets started flying. He rolled to one side, bumping against Rafe, and then surged forward with his belly against the ground. Bullets whizzed over him. One struck the street only a few inches from his hands. Ashes cried out, but kept moving. He had to keep moving.

/>   “Don’t shoot, stupid!” Wesel snapped. “You’ll waste all your shot! Don’t shoo—”

  Then came further cries of alarm, and savage noises from the Broken Boys—and from the swollen ranks of Mr. Smoke’s Motleys. Ashes, hidden behind the corner of a building, had no hope at seeing everything. But he could hear the battle shouts coming from all sides. Six against thirty was no real fight, even when the thirty were mostly young and small. Those who couldn’t make their punches felt would make up for it with their teeth and their stature, from which they struck the most tender of targets.

  It was ended in a few moments, punctuated with short, frustrated shouts. Ashes stood, not wanting to be seen cowering behind a wall when the Motleys told him everything was safe.

  “We got ’em!”

  Ashes came out from hiding, but didn’t light his lamp until he was in the middle of the street. Three of the young Motleys were holding guns they had taken from the Broken Boys, who were currently on the ground, moaning and cussing.

  “They threw away some of the guns,” one of the Motleys said apologetically. “So that we couldn’t have them.” He looked profoundly irritated.

  “Wouldn’t fuss about it much,” Ashes said. “The fewer guns around Burroughside, the better. Anyone hurt?”

  The boy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ell and Maisie got punched in the teef. There’s maybe three of us got knocked out. Everybody else is good.”

  Ashes grimaced, but this news was far better than it might’ve been. “We have anything to tie them up with?”

  The Motleys exchanged thoughtful glances, but no one volunteered a solution. Ashes made a note of that: it would be good to have some rope handy next time.

  Next time. Gods, I hope not. Better to end Ragged’s time as governor of Burroughside right here. Tonight. There would be no next time.

  “You three,” Ashes said, indicating those who had procured a weapon. “You stay here with the Boys. Keep your aim steady, stay a few feet back. If they move, shoot them somewhere painful.” He suppressed a shudder. Guns were a street fighter’s worst nightmare. In crews, you could fight to decide who was in charge, and you took whatever dirty advantage you could get, and in the end you both walked (or limped, or crawled) away. Guns evened the playing field, at the expense of putting both fighters on the edge of a cliff. “Some of you stay with them. Don’t let them get those guns back.”