He forced himself out of the sitting room chair and made for the laboratory. They would be expecting him.
Past that false wall next to the fireplace, into the peaceful, quiet space where he’d worked for the last ten years. He let his eyes linger on some of his favorite projects, but not too long. He had an appointment.
In the back of the room was a magnificent old grandfather clock. It was a masterwork of carving, made of dark, rich wood with a heavy golden pendulum swinging eternally back and forth. Jack was not a man of rigid routine, but he maintained this clock with a fervor that bordered on the religious. The first thing he did every morning was wind the springs in the back, to keep the pendulum swinging.
Jack pulled away the panel on the side, revealing an intricate system of gears. He hummed an old sailing song to himself as he slipped a thin metal rod into the mechanism, forcing the pendulum to stop. He reached deep inside it and plucked out a gear of dull, aged gold.
A space beside the clock, which had previously been a blank stretch of wall, became the opening to a tunnel. Jack smiled despite himself. He was world-weary and cynical, certainly, but even he hadn’t yet grown used to this. The passage was hidden in a manner that no Artificer would ever duplicate, and no seeing-stone or Iron Knight could pierce. He’d used it for a decade and he couldn’t take it for granted.
He knocked heavily, three times, on the side of the tunnel, and then sat on the bench.
“He’ll be up in a minute,” Jack called absently.
The illusion that separated the workshop from the Wisp’s study parted. The pale man entered with his customary dourness and sat opposite Jack.
“Has your pupil recovered?”
“As much my student as yours, Will,” Jack said.
Will made a soft noise low in his throat, one Jack had learned long ago meant dismissal. “He is not of my folk, Weaver.”
“Hardly one of mine, either,” Jack mused. “Ergo, we have equal claim to him. It’s not as if he’s the worst student you’ve ever had.”
“Mmm.” It was as noncommittal a sound as Will had ever made.
“Talking about poor students, are we?”
The man who came from the tunnel was clean-shaven from the bottom of his neck to the top of his head, and was not as small as he looked.
“Evening, Tuln,” Jack said.
“I’ve had poor students. I have stories that would make your hair curl,” Tuln said mischievously. He winked at Jack. “Not yours, of course, since you star in most of them. But I’d wager I can make the pale one chuckle a bit.”
“You manage that and I will give you every last ounce of aether I have in this shop,” Jack said. “Every drop.”
“There’s an audacious bet.”
“You don’t understand who you’re dealing with,” Jack said.
Will gave them both a blank look. “I assume this passes for being very clever,” he said.
“Exceedingly,” Jack said. “Can I get you anything, Tuln?”
The older man waved a hand as he sat. “Nothing tonight. Rude of me—I imagine you haven’t stopped celebrating since the ball, have you? The whole city’s buzzing about your escapade.”
Jack and Will shared an uneasy glance. “We have bad news,” Jack said.
“It would appear we were not the only ones interested in Lord Edgecombe’s artifact,” Will said.
“Someone else stole it?” Tuln asked, incredulous. “Out from under you?”
Jack’s jaw clenched at the thought. “That, or something subtler,” he said. “I used a pair of informants on this. Both were wrong. One led me into a trap. I’ll admit it’s possible someone else saw Edgecombe’s party as an opportunity. The other possibility I see here is that someone anticipated my visit. Edgecombe wanted me there—either to capture me, or as an opportunity to tell the Queens his glass ring has been stolen.”
Tuln nodded thoughtfully. “Giving him a fourth, is that it?”
Will’s mouth drew into a thinner line than usual. “There is no question that House Edgecombe longs to gather more glass. And it would be quite a cunning ploy, if such things were not a matter of public record.”
“High-interest public record, too,” Jack added. “The sort of thing everyone would notice very quickly.”
Tuln’s brow furrowed. “Making it quite an ineffective scheme.”
“Or quite an effective one,” Jack said, “with a goal we can’t discern just yet. I don’t particularly like either idea.”
“The Weaver leaves one line of reasoning untouched,” Will noted. Jack shot him a disapproving glance, but Tuln was clearly intrigued.
“What might that be, Jack?”
“There’s also the possibility we were sabotaged from the inside,” Jack muttered.
Tuln’s eyes narrowed. “The boy?”
“The boy,” Jack said heavily.
“You’re playing your hand very recklessly here, Jack,” Tuln chided. “If you are so suspicious, why keep him?”
“He’s useful,” Jack said. “And damn if he isn’t clever. I’d rather have ten of him than any hundred Guild graduates. Two hundred. He’s fierce.”
“But not trustworthy?”
“I’m not sure,” Jack admitted. “He’s far too convenient. He’s compulsively secretive. He doesn’t trust me a whit.”
“Is that why you had me delivering that impromptu history lesson?” Tuln shook his head sadly. “Still manipulating your students, Jack . . .”
“If I didn’t, everything would take much longer and be much harder.”
“There’s so much to be said for traditional teaching methods. There’s no subterfuge, for one. Nor stolen handkerchiefs.”
“You haven’t met this boy, Tuln. He sees traps everywhere. If I told him about the Artisans, he’d start to think I’m setting him up somehow.”
Tuln’s eyebrows dipped down harshly. “So to keep him from feeling manipulated, you are, in fact, manipulating him.”
“It’s complicated, Tuln.” Jack ground his teeth together. “He sees through glass.”
Tuln’s eyes widened. He leaned forward hungrily. “You’re certain?”
“We think so,” Jack said.
“It is the soundest explanation,” Will said. “The boy is no canted Stitcher. Nor is he a Weaver. What comes naturally to either cant, he achieves only with great effort and at great cost. It is possible he simply lacks the focus necessary to master the magic—”
Jack laughed once, harshly.
“Though we find that unlikely,” Will finished.
“He saw an Ivory Lord for the first time at Lord Edgecombe’s ball,” Jack said. “He asked me afterward why we were all so enraptured. He didn’t understand.”
Tuln’s eyes were wide and bright. “That is . . . suggestive.”
“It’s not all, either. I’ve been following him a while now,” Jack said. “Two nights ago he beat the stuffing out of a little gang of rough-and-tumbles, all on his own. And when he had them on the ground, he started punishing them. Stitching their faces to look like they’d been burned half to death. Except they started screaming when he did it. As if it were real.”
Tuln put a hand to his chin. “Odd. Very odd.”
“Bloody exceptional, is what it is,” Jack said. “I’ve been suspicious since before he walked through our door. What’s like an Artificer, but not quite, Tuln? That’s your favorite question, if I remember right.”
“These things are not conclusive,” Tuln warned. “Not in themselves.”
“I’m aware. I meant to confirm it when we robbed Edgecombe, but the opportunity got away from us.”
“But you’re convinced it’s true?”
“I’m convinced it’s possible,” Jack said. “I’m playing cautious at the moment.”
“And you also think he may be a spy.”
“I think he has to be,” Jack said. “Like I said, it’s far too bloody convenient. What’re the odds, you think, that we would find a canted Artificer with no previous
loyalties tangling him up? No debts to High Lords, no family, no record that he exists at all. A ghost with everything I could possibly want.”
“A trap laid around treasure,” Tuln concluded.
“Exactly so,” Jack said. “He might be a gods-blessed coincidence, clever and fierce and, most noticeably, canted in ways we haven’t seen before. He might be exactly what I’ve been looking for. Or, on the other and incredibly more likely hand, he’s a trap. Whoever set us up with him is twice as clever as me and playing a game deeper than I can tell.”
“Thus the surveillance.”
“Thus the surveillance,” Jack said. “Most of his free time he spends on some personal vendetta against Governor Ragged, down in Burroughside, which is good. It doesn’t leave him much room to do anything else. But—”
“Perhaps it is a smokescreen,” Tuln said thoughtfully.
Jack laughed softly to himself. “Yes. A smokescreen. Appropriate.” He rubbed his face, exhausted. “Thing is, even if he is a spy, there’s more than a slim chance we can sway him to join us.”
Tuln looked at him incredulously. “That seems uncharacteristically optimistic of you, Jacob. Have you been drinking?” He turned to Will. “Has he been drinking?”
“It’s not optimism,” Jack said. “You haven’t seen the way he looks at us, Tuln. At supper, or when we sit to talk at the table. Whatever this boy is, we’re the closest thing to family he’s seen in a long time . . . Maybe our mastermind is clever, but not wise. Ashes’s skills—whatever we may think them to be—are not nearly as important, I think, as his loyalties.”
“. . . are not nearly as important, I think, as his loyalties.”
Jack continued to speak, but Ashes could no longer hear him. He stepped away from the false wall where he had been listening for the past quarter of an hour, and clutched his head, and resisted the urge to scream.
No lies between liars, Ashes. Don’t play me for a fool, Ashes. My company functions on trust, Ashes.
Jack hadn’t trusted him. Jack had never trusted him. To him, Ashes was a spy, just someone to be manipulated into doing and thinking things so Jack would benefit. Ashes had been played.
Still manipulating your students, Jack . . .
He sees traps everywhere.
Jack had been playing him ever since they met in Yson. Everything he’d done—every supper, every bloody card game, even that damn heist in Edgecombe’s mansion—it had all been calculated. A scheme to win Ashes’s trust from the “mastermind” Jack imagined pulling Ashes’s strings. It had all been fake. Had he ordered Juliana to give him the cloak, too? Had Synder followed Ashes to Batty Annie’s under Jack’s command?
Ashes clutched the back of the chair, feeling abruptly queasy. Even their argument had been staged, hadn’t it? Ashes had felt like a traitor, just like Jack wanted. He’d thought the lock on the aether cabinet sprang too easily . . .
Faces, he’d been such a fool.
Whatever this boy is, we’re the closest thing to family he’s seen in a long time.
Bloody right, they’d been. Ashes had been looking for someone to be a new Mari. He’d wanted a family so bad it made him stupid. Jack had seen that. He’d seen it and exploited it. No hesitation, no mercy. Wanting is weakness indeed.
Ashes walked briskly out of the room and down the hall. His head was spinning. He could hardly think. He’d been so foolish.
He flung open the door to the staircase and nearly crashed into the person coming up the steps. He paused. Synder.
“Oh! Ashes!” she said. “I—”
“No,” Ashes said harshly. “Don’t you dare say another word to me.”
Synder recoiled from him. “I didn’t—”
“Haven’t you said enough?” he snapped. “Get out of my way.”
“Ashes, I have something—” She brandished a bit of paper, but Ashes couldn’t find it in him to care what she was saying.
“I don’t want to hear it.” He stepped sharply around her and hurried down the stairs.
Ashes flung the door open and burst onto the street, breathing hard. He could hardly think straight, but one thing was sure. This would be the last time he ever left the Rehl Company Shop. Jack wanted him to play into his hands? Jack could stuff it. Ashes wouldn’t be coming back. His education was finished. He was done learning from Jack; he had everything he needed now.
Get yourself an investor, boy.
Lord Horatio Edgecombe, arbiter of Lyonscourt, Minister of Harcourt, came out of his room in the middle of the night for a drink. His face did not gleam, and his eyes did not shine, but he was recognizable instantly. Even without the luster covering his face, he looked crafted. The work of an artist.
It was more than a little gratifying to see the man’s eyes widen as he turned away from his wine to find Mr. Smoke sitting in his chair.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
“Good to know,” Ashes said. He wore the appropriate-for-meetings face, rather than the demon, tonight. He would prefer to gain Edgecombe’s trust quickly, and for that he needed to look adult, confident, and not monstrous. “I’d sort of wondered if Ivories knew those words.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Edgecombe rose to his full, imposing height. “I should warn you that I have guards standing just outside the door.”
“Does that threat work, typically?” Ashes tilted his head. “Think about it. If they’re outside the door, they’ll come as soon as you scream. Thing is, if someone’s breaking into your house to do you harm, how much good is that going to do you? You’d already be dead, sir.”
The Ivory peered at him. “They’re very swift. Are you here to kill me?”
“Not much for me to gain by that, sir,” Ashes said honestly. “There’s a few things I’d like you to do for me.”
Edgecombe still looked like a started cat, ready to tear away at the first sign of danger. “That’s a no, then?”
“I’m called Mr. Smoke,” Ashes said calmly. “And I’m more your friend than I’m your foe.”
The Lord scoffed. “I’ve heard those words before. You’re looking for a favor.”
“In a manner of speaking, sir.” Ashes smiled winningly. “It’s more that I think we can be of service to each other.”
The Lord approached the table, eyes fixed on Ashes. “I don’t typically negotiate with people who break into my home.”
“I don’t typically break into homes, sir. Desperate times.” Ashes shrugged. “If I’d shown up on your doorstep, your chamberlain or whoever else you’ve got on the door would’ve got rid of me without even hearing what I have to say. And that’d be a loss for you, sir. I thought I’d go right to the one in charge of the operations.”
Edgecombe sat. Good, Ashes thought. He’s curious, at least.
“Well?” Edgecombe said impatiently. “I’m a busy man. What is it you’d like to tell me?”
“I’ve found out where your glass ring is, sir,” Ashes said.
Edgecombe smiled. Ashes couldn’t tell if it was dangerous or simply frightening. “I cannot help but notice that you did not say that you have it with you, and are prepared to bargain for me to have it back.”
“Quite correct, sir. Didn’t say that.”
“You intend to sell me the information, then. Very well. How much would you like? Money is hardly an obstacle.”
Ashes spread his hands gregariously. “Now, that’s hardly much of a deal, sir, is it? You give me all the money I could ever want just in exchange for, what, maybe a sentence’s worth of information? You’re not a dab hand at buying things, are you, sir?”
“Typically I command that things be done and then wait,” Edgecombe said. “I could, for instance, shout for my guard and wring the information out of you. It’s a messy process, though. Not good for one’s reputation in the informant community.”
“Very wise of you, sir, very wise.” Ashes searched the man’s face, trying to read him the way he used to read card players. “Here’s what I’m proposing, s
ir. The man what’s got your ring is a bit of a cunning bastard. Makes it difficult to pick his pockets, you understand. And I’d not be doing my duty to the city if I set an Ivory to do his own muck-digging.”
“I’m honored,” Edgecombe said drily.
“What I’m proposing, sir, is that you give me a modest bit of cash. Maybe you let me—maybe, say, borrow a few of your little guards. I go, I storm the place, I bring you back your ring all nice and cleanly.”
Edgecombe gave him a flat stare. “You cannot possibly think I am that stupid.”
“Not stupid, sir,” Ashes said with a grin. “Efficient. I’m the one knows who’s got your ring. I would dearly like to kick his teeth in myself, hence my willingness to do your dirtier work.”
“And then steal my ring yourself,” Edgecombe said. “Using my money.”
“Got to be honest, sir, I’ve not the littlest interest in taking your ring,” Ashes said. “Send along somebody to keep me company and make sure I don’t bugger off with the thing, if you like. All I care about is getting to take the bastard down myself.”
Edgecombe stared at him for several quiet seconds. Ashes stared back. Neither blinked.
“I think I may be persuaded,” Edgecombe said finally. “But I demand you tell me who the thief is beforehand. And how you know.”
Ashes smiled. “I reckon that’s easy enough. Shake on it, sir? Gentleman’s agreement?”
“You are no gentleman,” Edgecombe said, extending his hand.
“Keep good company, though,” Ashes said, shaking Edgecombe’s hand firmly.
Edgecombe’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Who is it, then?”
“Hiram Ragged, sir,” Ashes said. “Governor of Burroughside and all-around horrid human being. I’ve been known to throw that term around, though, human being. Might be a bit too generous.”
Edgecombe’s eyes narrowed. “And how have you reached this conclusion?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard, sir, about the little tiff Mr. Ragged and I have going on at the moment? It’s given me cause to inspect his quarters on a few occasions. Mr. Ragged’s more than a little obsessed with your folk, sir. Keeps a little glass ring hid in his room, which I reckon he wears sometimes when he wants to feel important.”
The Facefaker's Game Page 34
