Jack glanced at him, then returned to his investigation of the room. “You’re certain he was taken? He’s not just out for—?”
“Blimey wouldn’t leave this place,” Ashes said. “He wanted to. He couldn’t. And I wouldn’t let him.”
“I’ll assume you have your reasons for that,” Jack said.
“Annie should be here, too,” Ashes said. “That’s way out of place. She’s never gone from here.”
Jack made a noncommittal noise in his throat and turned to face Ashes. He didn’t say anything.
“You done making jokes, then?” Ashes asked.
“I was under the impression you’re not in the mood.”
“I’m not.”
Jack crossed his arms. “This your plan, lad? Sit in the doorway feeling sorry for yourself?”
“That’s about the aim at the moment, yeah,” Ashes said.
“Hmph,” Jack said. “I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight. I wouldn’t have guessed you were the type to turn pathetic when you lost.”
“Go to hell,” Ashes said. “Swallow a brick on your way.”
“You disagree?” the Weaver challenged. “Is this, perhaps, the first move in a grand scheme? Oh—you’re formulating some daring master plan, but it helps you to weep about things while you do it? Lubricates the engine, as it were?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“I’m a pragmatist, Ashes, and right now you are being distinctly useless, which I’m not particularly accustomed to seeing.”
“Leave me alone! I don’t want you here!”
“Perhaps not,” Jack said. “But you certainly need me here, on account of how deeply you’re in need of a swift kick in the ass.”
Ashes surged to his feet, clenching his fists. “My friend is dead!” he said, nearly shouting. “Ragged knows who I am. I’ve burned two bloody months trying to help Burroughside, and I have mucked every portion of that. Now leave me alone!”
The lights shivered, taking Ashes aback. Had that been him? Or was Jack far more involved in this argument than he looked?
“And all of that is a convincing case for just giving up now, is it?” Jack demanded. “Furies. Edgecombe was much cleverer than I thought.”
Ashes looked at him, confused.
“Seems he managed to throw me off,” the man went on. “I was looking for my apprentice. You might’ve seen him, before Edgecombe put his face on you? About your size, only ornery? And with a noticeable will to live?”
“Stop being such an ass!”
“You first, boy!” Jack snapped, and the light in the room seemed to warp again. “Your friend’s gone. Your enemy knows your name. So bloody what? The boy I’ve been teaching wouldn’t fall down and weep about how badly he’s failed. The thief who conned me in Yson, the one who got threatened with the police and kept on playing, would not be doing this. Gods—if this is who you’ve been underneath, I’m ashamed. I was so worried I had someone dangerous studying under my roof, and all along you were this. I shouldn’t have been so fussed.”
Ashes set his jaw. “Stop. I did my best.”
“Horseshit,” Jack said. “Your best? Ragged’s been grinding your face in the dirt as long as you can remember, and now he takes your friend, and this is what you do? This is your best? No.” Jack advanced on him, eyes burning. “I won’t hear it. He hurts you, you hurt him back. You owe your friend that.”
Ashes punched him in the jaw. Jack flinched backward, swore colorfully, and rubbed his face.
“Feel any better?” the man asked.
“You’d be stunned.”
“Glad to see you’re still capable of getting angry.”
“Hitting you is easy,” Ashes said. “Hitting Ragged isn’t. You saw what he did to us in the courtyard.”
“I didn’t, actually,” Jack admitted. “My view was a little impeded. I figured it out once you mentioned it to Edgecombe.”
“Ragged’s got nothing to fear from me,” Ashes said miserably. “Not so long as he has that ring with him.”
Jack blinked, surprised. When Ashes offered no further comment, he said, “So figure out how to get it away from him. Force him into a bad move. Make him look the other way. Stop pretending you’re not good at this.”
Ashes hesitated. “There’s no point,” he said. “Blimey’s dead. Bringing Ragged down wouldn’t bring him back.”
Jack lifted an eyebrow. “You’re wrong on that count, lad. This kid—Blimey—he’s smart, eh? You’re certainly not the one reading”—he glanced at one of the book covers—“The Fall of the . . . Ymrani Hegemon, so unless you’ve got some other roommate you’re not telling me about . . . ?”
Ashes shook his head.
“Then he was smart enough to get taken as a hostage rather than make a fight of it with whoever came to bundle him up,” Jack said. “There’s no sign of a struggle here.”
“There wouldn’t be,” Ashes said reflexively. “Blimey’s helpless in a fight.”
“They didn’t have much reason to rough him up, then,” Jack said. “And Edgecombe said Ragged expected you on his door any day now. That’s either him expecting you to be very stupid, or . . .”
“Or he’s got something he knows I’ll bust through doors to get back,” Ashes said softly. “Blimey.”
“Just so.” Jack tapped his cheek, thoughtful. “Which means your best move is to regroup. Set a trap, make a plan. Ragged and Edgecombe know who you are, maybe, but they don’t know a bloody thing about me or the Rehl Company. You can lie low with us, get prepared—”
“No,” Ashes said. “Absolutely not.”
Jack sighed. “I am sorry I’ve been manipulating you, Ashes.”
“It’s not that,” Ashes said, meeting his eyes. “That’s not even— That’s not important right now. What’s important is that if you’re right, then Blimey is at Ragged House right now. And Edgecombe sent a runner—”
“Saying that he had Mr. Smoke in his basement,” Jack said. “You think he’d leave him unguarded?”
Ashes shook his head. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Ragged might not have left yet,” Jack said doubtfully.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ashes said. “I don’t have time to wait. If there’s even a chance.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Best not waste time, then.”
“Good-bye, Jack,” Ashes said, moving for the door.
“The hell are you talking about, lad?” Jack asked, following him. “You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you?”
IT was the Witches’ Hour, just before dawn when the darkness was thick and grasping. Fog had uncoiled all throughout the city, like a relaxed predator stretching its legs. Clouds had swarmed the moon, wrapped their wispy fingers around it, and strangled it to nothing. The strongest light came from lamps, and even that was scattered, distended by the mist.
Two Artificers approached Ragged House, and when the Broken Boys standing outside noticed them, the oldest Artificer made a swift, ruthless motion with one hand, like he was flinging something at them. Three of the Boys yelped, and grasped their eyes. The rest lifted their guns, preparing to aim them. By the time they had lifted their hands, two more were struck blind.
“Stop!” said one of the Boys.
“They’re not very well trained,” said Candlestick Jack. “I’d guess not one in eight of their bullets would even hit us.”
“Just takes one bullet to ruin your whole day, Jack.”
“Very salient point. Gentlemen?”
“If you so much as twitch your little finger—” said one of the Boys.
“Did you think that was necessary?” Jack plunged his hands in his pockets. “That’s adorable.”
The lights shining from Ragged House warped and bent. Threads broke away from it, twisting and wringing themselves until they turned black as pitch. The ribbons of darkness streamed toward the Broken Boys and lashed to their heads. The two Artificers stepped smartly away from where they’d stood, just as a chorus of gun
shots rang out, and a set of bullets streaked near their last positions.
“Best stop now,” Ashes warned.
“Blind as you are, I expect you’re more likely to hit a friend than us,” said Jack. “Drop the guns.”
Two of the Broken Boys ignored the suggestion, preferring instead to take one more shot. Ashes got close enough to one to grab his wrist and strike him in the elbow before his finger clenched the trigger. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to break the Broken Boy’s arm, but it would keep him occupied. A few feet away, the other Boy sent a bullet into the wall of a building before Jack snatched the pistol out of his hand.
“Now, then,” Jack said. “It seems we’ve established which of our groups is more threatening.”
“We’re onto you!” one said brazenly. “We know you can’t blind us forever!”
“Well, no. Not without considerable trouble on my part,” Jack said absently. “And a significant mess as well. I’ve no fondness for the practice. Guns on the ground, please.”
The Boys obeyed.
“Now,” Jack said. “I think it’s only sporting if I let you know that in a few minutes, a whole horde of tiny, angry children—what’re they called, the Motleys?—they’ll be pouring out those gates, and I suspect they’re going to be powerfully annoyed with Mr. Ragged, along with anybody who happens to be his affiliate.”
“So you’d best be getting along,” Ashes added. “Your chances are dead even at the best of times. Blind, weaponless—well, they could take you all for whatever they wanted, couldn’t they? So you all just shamble off to the right—that’s in the direction of the hand you piss with, by the way, for those of you who was slow to catch on—and make yourselves content hiding in some gutters, savvy?”
“There’s Ravagers out there!”
“What a shame. Jack, is that gate unlocked?”
“The Motleys will be in the cellar,” Ashes said. “He wouldn’t be able to fit them anywhere else, and it’s where he keeps anyone clever enough to charm a lock.”
“We go there first?”
“They’ll be helpful,” Ashes said. “They might know where he’s keeping Blimey, and they can warn us if Ragged starts back.”
“Lead on, young master.”
Ashes nearly sprinted through the house, not bothering to check around corners. He knew its layout nearly as well as he knew Edgecombe’s manse, after all his raids.
I’m coming, Blimey. Just be all right.
He crashed against the cellar door wildly and checked the knob. “Locked,” he said to Jack. It was a good sign; Ragged wouldn’t bother to keep it locked if no one was down there.
“Can you spring it?”
“Do the priests shit in the river?”
Jack thought for a moment. “Yes?”
“Half a moment.”
The bolt was heavy and well made—bought with Lord Edgecombe’s money, no doubt. Ashes worked at it for nearly a minute before it clicked open.
“Impressive lock,” Jack said. “Twenty seconds over your normal time.”
Ashes straightened. “See if there’s anybody in these other rooms,” he said. “You see anything that looks important . . .”
“I’ll get imaginative,” Jack said, tilting his head in a shallow bow. “Your show, lad.”
Ashes smiled grimly and raced down, pulling one of Jack’s spare lamps out of his pocket as he reached the end of the stairs. The ghostly light illuminated a large, dank room, previously lightless, with spiders crawling along the walls and the chittering of unseen rats coming from the corner. The floor was decorated with sleeping Motleys. Ashes learned everything he needed to know with a glance and a brief, abortive sniff. Most of the children had livid, multicolored bruises along their faces and shoulders. The stench was tremendous, even after a pair of days; there was abundant evidence that Ragged didn’t particularly care what his prisoners used for a privy.
“Motleys,” he said, trying to sound confident, trying to bury the thoughts that reminded him just how they’d ended up here. “Motleys. Wake up.”
Some of them stirred reluctantly, but were too tired to get up. One or two of them looked at the stairs. He recognized them only vaguely; they looked horrid.
Two days, he thought, aghast. Two days under Ragged, and this is what happens to them. I ought to die.
“Who’re you?”
Ashes blinked. Didn’t they recognize Mr. Sm— No, of course not; his Mr. Smoke face had been dissolved in Edgecombe’s parlor. There was nothing left of it but flecks of light.
“Name’s Ashes,” he said. “Mr. Smoke sent me.”
“Ashes?”
Slippery Rafe crawled into view. Ashes caught his breath. The Motley leader’s face was a mess of cuts and welts. One eye was swollen entirely shut. On the other side of his head, where his left ear ought to have been, there was only a bloody stump.
“What’re you doing here?” Rafe asked. His voice was scratchy and dry, entirely drained of the strength it had had. Ashes’s stomach churned.
“I’m here to get you lot out,” he said.
Rafe’s one open eye landed on him heavily. “To do what, exactly?”
Ashes stopped. “You won’t be here,” he said. “I can get you away from Ragged.”
“So he can capture us again?” Rafe demanded. “So he can be even angrier at us? The hell do you think you are?”
“Mr. Smoke sent—”
“Mr. Smoke can shove a pistol up his arse, for all we care,” Rafe snapped. “He’s the one got us into this in the first place! Saying we could take Ragged out, saying we could make Burroughside better. It’s his fault we’re in this mess. All of it is his fault.”
“He’s right,” one of the Motleys said. “Mr. Smoke did this to us.”
“That’s right. It’s him what led us up a chimbly and left when the fire lit.”
“Bastard.”
“Turncoat.”
“Him’s the one that let Ragged take little Jasin!”
Ashes jerked toward the last voice. “Jasin? Where’s she?”
“Ragged took her up to his study, didn’t he?” the Motley shouted back. “After he took Rafe up there yesterday. Killed her, like as not. We’ve not seen her since we’ve been here.”
Ashes felt a powerful need to be sick. “I need to find her, then.” He looked out among the Motleys. The horrid, hollow feeling had returned to his chest. “I’m sorry for what Mr. Smoke did to you,” he said. “Gods, I’m— I know he’s sorry, too.”
“Sorry enough to send someone else in his place,” someone cried.
“Sorry enough he abandoned us the second Ragged came out,” said another.
“Led us right into a trap,” Rafe said viciously. “Filthy son-of-a-whore, Mr. Smoke is. No wonder he sent you, instead of coming himself. Probably smart enough to know what we’d do to him, if we saw him.” He looked around at his beaten, helpless crew. “You’re a decent sort, Ashes, but take it from me: get away from the bastard quick as you can. If you see Smoke again, let him know from me just how bloody thankful we are that he bothered to remember us.”
Ashes’s cheeks burned. “I’ll— I’ll let him know,” he muttered. “Make sure you get out quick. There are some Broken Boys out in front of the yard, but you—you can probably take them, if you’re quick.”
“Eh,” Rafe said. “Motleys! To me!”
The crew of thieves surged up the stairs behind Ashes, whose eyes were stinging fiercely. They poured out from the cellar door just behind him and made swiftly for the exit. Rafe slapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly, and he was gone.
He found Jack in Ragged’s office, watching in satisfaction as a stack of papers burned on the desk. He turned as Ashes entered, and his expression softened immediately.
“Everything all right, lad?”
Turncoat. His fault we’re in here. Filthy son-of-a-whore. “All’s well so far,” Ashes lied, smooth as ever. “You brought matches?”
“Matches are for mortals,” Jack sai
d with a smirk. “I think I’ve gotten most of Ragged’s more important documents. And I got a little larcenous with some of his personal correspondence.” Jack patted his side. “Your Beggar Lord has several dirty secrets of the sort policemen find deeply intriguing.”
“Good,” Ashes said. “We ought to move—Blimey’s got to be upstairs. And there’s another one with him, too, I think.”
They moved briskly to the staircase, just as the last of the Motleys limped out the front door. Ashes stared after them for a long moment, heart wrenching. Rafe and his crew would never forgive him, but that was . . . fair. He deserved that. He deserved much worse.
“No time for dallying, lad,” Jack said. “We’re for it once Ragged figures out you’re not at dear old Dad’s.”
Ashes nodded and followed the man to the upstairs hallway. The old men in the portraits glared down at them, as if they knew the Artificers shouldn’t have been there.
“Creepy,” Jack muttered.
Ashes grimaced and nodded. A familiar scent tickled his nose. He paused, frowned. Something like sour milk—
“I do not recall inviting you into milord’s home.”
Carapace stood at the midpoint of the hallway, standing perturbingly still. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, just as a butler ought to be.
His eyes were fixed on Ashes, and they were dark and pitiless and wild.
“We’re not much for invitations,” Jack said.
Carapace’s gaze shifted to the Weaver. For a moment, he looked puzzled. “I recognize the gamin,” he said. “Who are you, sir?”
Jack straightened his back and tilted his head just so, a subtle shift like the ones he had taught Ashes to use. The man appeared, suddenly, more heroic and dashing, brazen and impressive.
“I think you’d know me as Mr. Smoke,” he said.
“Oh,” Carapace said. “Of course.”
There was a rush of air as Carapace moved; in a bare heartbeat, he was standing in front of them, his serene face contorted in rage, his lips drawn back to reveal his teeth, his eyes open so wide Ashes could see the veins running through them. He drew his hand back to strike Jack—
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