The mid-morning sun cast a fresh light on the city. Church law required at least one day off a week to allow the faithful to attend services. Rumor had it that an ancient pope had passed it into law to ensure all the faithful were able to donate at least once a week, ensuring a steady revenue stream for the church, but the days of the church having the manpower to keep tabs on all the faithful were long behind them. So the Faceless Man, having survived his first week as Martin, took advantage of the day to walk around in the light of day for the first time since his reawakening. As a scared faceless man, he had been forced to keep to the shadows and hide himself under a hood. Now he savored the chance to walk around the city unhindered and feel the warm light of the sun on his borrowed face.

  In his hand was a list from Boudica of things he needed to pick up at the market and in his pocket was a purse, which, while not heavy, was at least filled with his week’s wages. Since he had turned down all invitations to go drinking this week, his purse was probably fuller than the real Martin’s had been through an honest week’s work. He might have had the occasional lucky run of the dice, but from his research, it seemed Martin had lost more than he had won. Sly’s face last night suddenly came back to him. He had needed a partner for cards that evening and seemed hurt that Martin was still fobbing him off. He was running out of time to use his lingering illness as an excuse. Sooner or later, he would need to decide how he was going to play that—total sobriety, or a return to old habits.

  His mind turned over the pros and cons of each as his body wound its way through the crooked streets toward the market. Before long, he slowed as he felt the presence of one of the city’s more infamous landmarks—Blackstone alley. The alley itself wasn’t much to look at; there were thousands of them scattered around the capital, but the wooden barrier that stretched up several feet and the signs bearing the symbols of both the Queen and the Holy Church forbidding entrance were far more rare.

  The story went that centuries ago church inquisitors had chased a cosmic follower into the alley. Rather than surrender to face a church tribunal, the fugitive had invoked some secret cosmic art to cause his spirit to implode, killing himself and all the inquisitors in the vicinity. The spiritual suicide caused no physical damage to the surrounding buildings, but had left a taint so powerful that centuries of experts from both the church and the secular world had paraded by over the years attempting to purify the area, to no result. In the end, officials had no choice but to barricade off the area and fish out the occasional fool who didn’t believe the danger of cosmic infection. It was said that just a few moments in the pressure of the alley was enough to drive a man utterly insane. Those fools they fished out were more akin to vegetables than men by the time they were rescued.

  Jacques had taken him past the alley in one of his tours of the city and warned him in no uncertain terms to stay out of it. The alley represented to the Faceless Man one of the darker outcomes of the oath he walked, and a reminder of the long-standing aftereffects his choices could lead to. His mind started to wonder about the lingering effects in the alley where he had killed Martin, but with a shake of his head and a few deep breaths, he moved on.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  Refocused, he continued on his way to the market. He soon passed the church that served this section of the city. He wasn’t quite sure of the district, but he believed the location of his house placed him in a diocese serviced by this church. The church was located along one of the offshoots of the river and stood as a white symbol of protection to those of the Creator’s flock seeking protection. It was nearly time for the mid-morning service and those faithful who had the day off were making their way inside. A young man in a deacon’s robes stood by the front gate, greeting many of the faithful by name as they arrived. Martin made eye contact with him and was greeted with a smile. He gave a polite nod and continued on his way, having no intention of testing the True God’s powers of observation by entering a church in his current state.

  When he arrived at the market, the large square was filled with stalls packed with merchants hawking their wares and buyers looking for the lowest prices. Martin took another look at the list in his hand. Other than a few food items, it was mostly wool, string, and things Boudica needed for her knitting. Martin decided to start with those goods. He peered through the market. His senses, heightened by his pact with the Faceless God, took it all in, the cacophony slowly giving way to a clearer image of the market and its layout.

  It was then, amidst the chaos, that he felt the faintest brush against his side, a whisper of movement that would have gone unnoticed by most. But Martin, forever changed by his encounter with the cosmic and the training he had been receiving, reacted with a swiftness that belied the appearance of an over-the-hill dockworker. His hand shot out, grasping a small, wiry wrist with unerring accuracy.

  The would-be thief was a boy no more than fifteen or so, with a head of messy, golden hair and wide, innocent eyes that immediately widened in surprise. The street orphan found himself suddenly caught in a grip that, while not unkind, was unyielding.

  “Oi, let go, mister!” he protested, his voice raised as if to draw the sympathy of the crowd. Martin squeezed once hard before relaxing back to his previous strength.

  “Keep your voice down, boy. There’s no reason we can’t settle this civilly.”

  Seeing his choice of victim wasn’t going to be shocked into letting go, the boy switched tactics, his initial shock giving way to a charming grin. It had been a while since Martin had seen a child smile, and something about it struck him in a way he wasn’t expecting.

  “Sorry, sir. I was just admiring the craftsmanship of your coat, I was.”

  “Is that so?” Martin asked, his tone more amused than angry. “And here I thought you were admiring the contents of my pockets.”

  The boy’s grin widened, unabashed. “Well, you can’t blame a lad for trying, can you? Times are tough, and a fella’s got to eat.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “I suppose I can’t. A city watchman, however... Is the punishment for thievery still death?”

  The boy squirmed again. “I’m not quite up to date on the latest… I can’t really read to tell you the truth…” He did his best to look bashful.

  Legally, theft was still punishable by death, but in the case of minors, it was usually commuted to hard labor or in extreme cases, the loss of a hand.

  After a moment of enjoying the performance, Martin released the boy’s wrist. “Times are tough indeed.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single coin. Boudica would murder him if he found out what he was doing, but he justified it to himself by reasoning that it was a pittance compared to what the real Martin would usually spend on booze. “Here. Buy yourself some bread. But keep your hands to yourself in the future. Not everyone will be as understanding as me.”

  The boy pulled his hand back, gently rubbing his wrist where Martin had squeezed it. A mixture of suspicion and gratitude warred on his face for a moment before he reached out to take the coin, pulling it back quickly to himself. With a sleight of hand so smooth that Martin almost missed it, the coin disappeared into a breast pocket.

  The boy took a step back and bowed. “Thank you, mister! Honest. I hope I find a way to repay you someday.”

  The boy darted off into the crowd. Martin watched him go, threading through shoppers before darting right behind a stall and out of sight. A small smile played on Martin’s lips.

  “You’re too kind. Martin would have kicked that boy face-first into the mud.”

  The Faceless Man froze, the smile immediately disappearing from his face. Slowly, he turned toward the source of that voice and saw a short man standing before him. He wore simple clothes and had the air of a merchant about him. The Faceless Man was sure he had never seen him before.

  The man seemed to recognize the confusion on his face. “What, you don’t recognize me? I’m hurt.”

  “My apologies, I’ve been quite ill from the drink recently and my memories have gotten a bit… Would you remind me?”

  The man made a beckoning motion with his index finger for the Faceless Man to move closer. He warily did so, allowing the man to lean in and whisper in his ear.

  “I’ve never broken an oath in my entire life, and I swear one day you’ll learn to recognize a brother.”

  “Jacques,” the Faceless Man exclaimed, pulling back. He suddenly realized he perhaps shouldn’t have said the name out loud and glanced around to see if he had any unwanted attention on them. The crowd rushed on unabated, with no one paying any heed to the reunion of two friends in the street.

  “Well met, Martin,” the man who was Jacques replied. “Come with me, it’s time we caught up.”

  Martin followed Jacques to a small restaurant just off the market square. It was quiet and dimly lit, with walls thick enough to protect any conversation. Over a cheap meal of mutton and bread, and just a glass of wine, Martin reported the events of the past week.

  “Nightmares and fevers, hmmm,” Jacques said, taking a sip of his wine.

  “You didn’t warn me that was part of the process.”

  “It’s not.”

  “What? What do you mean it’s not?”

  “I mean that taking a life shouldn’t invoke such a powerful reaction. The whole thing should have been finished in that alleyway.” Jacques sat back and smiled. “You might be the worst faceless I’ve ever trained.”

  “I’ll try to remember that…” Martin took a bite of his mutton as he tried to think. Jacques remained silent to allow him to work through it. When he finished chewing, he let out a small sigh in defeat. “So tell me, why am I so bad at this?”

  “For those who follow in the footsteps of the cosmic, the most important thing to hold on to is your idea of self, doubly so for us faceless who spend so much time in the mask of another. You are who you are. You are also Martin. You must find a way to reconcile yourself to that.”

  “So I let him in myself?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The Faceless Man sat back to think it through. It should have been done in the alley, but he somehow wasn’t strong enough to finish the job there. He still let himself think he was just borrowing Martin’s skin. By not fully embracing the new identity of Martin, he had left the door open for Martin to crawl back into his psyche. Martin died physically in that alleyway, but the real murder, the mental one, was done in that bed, in full view of his wife.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” the Faceless Man finally said.

  “Not in here, you’re not. Not after I treated you to a nice meal.”

  “You’ve never treated me to a nice meal.”

  “You’ve never earned it, but you took your first steps this week, and that earns you a meal. Don’t waste it.”

  “Thank you, Jacques,” Martin replied.

  “You’re welcome. Now let’s speak of the future.”

  Now that the Faceless Man was Martin, he had a much better idea of his routine and when he could spare time to return to the Faceless Chapel to continue his training. For now, he would continue integrating into Martin’s life. He would need to make a few small course corrections to lead him into better contact with Bartholomew Crane, and uncover what connection the dockyard owner had to his former life.

  The two parted ways in front of the restaurant and Martin completed his shopping without any further incidents. He arrived home on time, with everything ordered, much to Boudica’s surprise. He had weighed the idea of purposefully forgetting something, thinking it would be more in line with Martin’s character, but ultimately decided against it. He regretted not following his gut.

  “How much did ye drink today, love?” Boudica asked, pulling close to smell his breath.

  The contact was the closest they had since Martin had recovered. He stammered when he tried to respond.

  “J-just a glass of wine with lunch, I swear. It’s been a week…” Boudica’s eyes softened.

  “You are actually trying, aren’t you?” she asked in surprise.

  “I, I am. Honest, I am.”

  “Alright. A glass a week seems a fair compromise. I wouldn’t want the withdrawal to kill you after all the work I put in keeping you alive. Sit yourself down, love. I’ll get started on supper.”

  Martin sat down at the table and noticed an opened letter.