Their local spot was fairly dead as Martin entered that night. Tuesdays were typically a slow day. Martin would not usually be out on a night like this, but tonight, Sly had finally invited him to join him on a trip to a place he’d been interested in for a long time—the night market of Alderbridge.

  The night market was well known; everyone knew that was where you went to buy and sell stolen goods, but not everyone knew where it would be held. The location changed regularly, and only those in the know were told of where the next one would take place. Sly had been accused of being a thief since he had started working at the Landing, but no one had ever caught him in the act or with the goods, so Sly had walked a fine balancing act, owning his reputation as a master thief with pride, while at the same time protesting his innocence loudly and sincerely to anyone who would listen. His quiet comment to Martin that he knew where the next night market would be held and that he even had an errand there was the closest to an admission of guilt Martin had ever heard from him. Once Martin knew he was going, it took only a little badgering to procure himself an invite to tag along, at the low price of a couple of rounds of drinks to be stood at the night of Sly’s choosing.

  And so Martin found himself nursing a beer at the bar, his excitement like that of a child waiting for the morning to receive his New Year’s present. He wondered where the market might be held and what manner of goods he might find there. He had some money in his pocket, but he and Boudica were hardly well-equipped in terms of savings, and it would be hard to explain if he spent what he had on any major purchases.

  A sudden crash interrupted his reverie. Martin looked over to see that a man had fallen off his barstool. His beer had spilled on the counter, and drops of it were flowing off the table to fall on his head. Martin recognized him as Nathan Gascoigne, a lamplighter Sly had pointed out to him some time ago. At that point, he had been drunk and shouting at the bartender. Judging by how unceremoniously he had been thrown out on that occasion, Martin had figured he had been permanently barred from the pub at that point, but it seemed the bartender had a soft spot for him.

  “Ah fer fucks sake, Nate,” came the bartender’s cry. “Pick yourself up.”

  Gascoigne seemed reluctant or unable to regain his feet, so Martin went over to help him up. As Gascoigne rose unsteadily to his feet and leaned once more against the bar, he fixed Martin in his gaze. His hand reached over to bring his empty beer glass to his mouth again, and realizing it was empty, he instead used it to gesture towards Martin.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Martin.”

  The two shook hands. Despite his inebriation, Gascoigne’s grip was strong and steady.

  “You. You are sympathetic,” he said. “Not many people are sympathetic, but I can tell you are.”

  “I’ve had a few problems of my own.”

  “Well, I will certainly drink to that. Moe, another round for me and my friend.”

  The bartender gave Gascoigne a look of disbelief, but said nothing as he watched the lamplighter pull out a couple of coins and slide them across the bar. The coins quickly vanished and were soon replaced with fresh pints for both of them.

  Glasses clinked, and the cool beer slid down Martin’s throat, washing away the bitter taste of the day. It was times like these that the Faceless Man felt like he understood why the real Martin had become so dependent on booze. It just made things better. He shook his head to clear the line of thought. Jacques had warned him there would be times the original character might try to slip through. Ever since that first night, the original Martin had been silent. If he was still there, the Faceless Man often felt like he was nothing left but whispers. The Faceless Man, now Martin, tried to refocus on what Gascoigne was saying.

  “…my daughter doesn’t show me any respect. When I was a boy, I absolutely idolized my father. He taught me everything I know about lamp-lighting and Alderbridge, but my daughter? No respect at all. This morning, I got home after a shift of snuffing. She told me most people have to wait until they go to bed to see nightmares; she was the only one she knew who got to see one when she first woke up.”

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  Martin took a drink to keep himself from laughing. “That’s too bad,” he finally said, “how old’s your daughter?”

  “She’s 15. Been two years since me wife passed, but it feels like we’ve both aged 20.”

  “My condolences. Must be hard to raise a child on your own.”

  “I get help from me neighbors, thankfully, and she’s a good girl, she is, she just doesn’t get a chance to see me at work, when I’m at my best y’know. It’s hard to come home after a night on the streets in the wind and cold and just not have the energy to do nothing but enjoy a hot meal and get some shut-eye.”

  “Must be tough.”

  There was no clock in the bar, but Martin was fairly certain he had heard the one mounted across the street faintly chime out the time ages ago. He glanced at the door to see if Sly had somehow snuck in. Gascoigne, eyes absorbed in his beer, didn’t notice.

  “Do you have any children, Martin?”

  “No, I’m afraid the creator hasn’t seen fit to bless us with a child.”

  “Shame. You’d be a good dad. I can tell. You’re sympathetic after all.”

  “My thanks.”

  Gascoigne took a large drink of his beer, downing half of it in a single go.

  “At least you're married, that’s the key to happiness, having a wife. As long as you’ve got her, you’ve got a chance.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find someone again,” Martin said amiably, crinkling his nose slightly at the burp that came from Gascogine.

  “Oh, I’ve tried, believe me. It’s hard to move on, but we’ve got to, you know. I was talking to this seamstress, who I thought was interested. I invited her to come take a walk with me under the lanterns. She said Sure, as long as I blow them out first!”

  Even the bartender, hovering nearby pretending to wipe down some dubiously clean glasses, let out a snort at that one. Martin once again smiled into his glass. Both of his lives surely must have had some similar experiences, but one was lost to time, and the other was never his to begin with. He almost wished he could ask Boudica about how they met, but he was certain that would only lead to exposing himself as a phony.

  Gascoigne finished the rest of his beer in a large gulp, slamming the glass back to the bar.

  “One more, please, Moe.”

  The bartender rolled his eyes, but served Gascoigne again with a simple “last one.” Gascogine muttered something inaudible in response and held up his glass to knock against Martin’s again. Martin took a sip as Gascoigne looked to finish the beer in record time. Martin imagined even the original Martin would hardly be Gascoigne’s match.

  “Are you working tonight, Gascoigne?”

  “Call me Nate. All me friends do, but aye, I’ll walk the same route me dad did all those years ago.”

  “Sure, Nate. It’s good to hear you’re continuing on in your father’s footsteps. I’m sure he’d be proud... Are you... Are you sure you should be having so much to drink before work?”

  “Nonsense. My old man could ignite a lamp in three seconds. His route was three and a half miles, it was, and he’d do every single lantern in three seconds. If I’m half the man he was, I can do me whole route tipsy and not even crack a pane.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You see, it’s all a matter of technique. You need to do something to the point where you can do it effortlessly. Rain or shine, in the heat o’ summer or the icy bite o’ winter. Sober,” he paused here to finish his glass, “or pissed.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Martin took a hearty drink of his own glass and set it down on the table. Gascoigne beamed at him.

  “You’re truly sympathetic. I’d love to continue this, but I’m afraid I must be on my way. Duty calls.”

  Gascoigne shook Martin’s hand again and waved goodbye to the bartender before picking up his pole and lamp, where they were leaning against the wall, and stumbling off into the night. Sly arrived a few minutes later, a linen-wrapped parcel in his hand. He took a look at the collection of glasses in front of Martin and eyed him inquisitively.

  “Trying to find your courage?”

  Martin shook his head.

  “You just missed Gascoigne in rare form tonight.”

  Sly let out an "ah" and nodded in understanding.

  “That man’s lucky he can walk his route, let alone avoid breaking any of those lanterns, but come now, we’re late.”

  “We?”

  “Right, right. Don’t be petty. I’m late. I needed to meet a friend about an object.” He held up the parcel and gave it a little wave.

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Of course you do, but it’s probably best you don’t.”

  Martin finished the last of his beer and followed Sly out into the night.