A few nights later, Martin was again out after work. This time, though, he was alone and stone sober, on his way to the chapel of the Faceless God for more training with Jacques. The talk of a few nights ago still echoed in his head as he thought of a way to pursue the connection between Crane and Vicar Corvus.

  Things at home were still tense. Neither he nor Boudica had said anything to continue their argument from the previous week. Between her husband and her brother, Boudica had numerous things to worry about. Martin often found her paused in her knitting, gazing out the window as if events far away had captured her notice. The fate of Brannloch weighed in Martin’s mind as well, and he had added it to the things to consult Jacques about tonight.

  Martin made quick progress through the city. Despite the severity of the murdered orphan, he was just one orphan in a big city and did little to slow the pace of evening life. The streets were not crowded, but far from barren as people rushed home from work, or to do some shopping or errands before the shops closed. As Martin passed by a bakery, its remaining bread on sale before they closed for the day, he spotted a familiar head of golden hair. The boy was sitting on the steps, a newspaper spread across his knees. The boy’s brow furrowed in concentration; his lips moving silently as he traced the words with a finger. Martin approached softly, as if approaching a skittish animal. The boy, lost in a world of his own, didn’t notice until Martin was close enough to read the article.

  “Finding the news of Admiral Rooke interesting?” Martin asked.

  The boy looked up, startled. A flash of recognition crossed his face as he recognized the man he had tried to pickpocket the other day. “Oh, it’s you, sir. You should be ashamed of sneaking up on a boy like that.”

  “Sneaking up on the boy who told me he can’t read a lick?”

  “Well, that wasn’t entirely true,” the boy replied sheepishly, “I’ve just finished a whole sentence, I have. Something about the Admiral wanting to trade with the Gearholt Domino.”

  “That’s the Gearholt Dominion,” Martin corrected, “and from the looks of it, he’s interested in their newly discovered gold mine.”

  “Ah, you spoiled the good part,” the boy sighed dramatically. Martin sat beside him.

  “Are boys your age usually interested in that sort of politics?”

  “Not at all. I’m the best reader of my lot, you see, and if I can really learn to read then…” the boy trailed off, suddenly embarrassed to be confessing to a stranger.

  “Then you’ll what?” Martin prompted gently.

  “I have some old papers I… inherited. If I learn how to read them, I might be able to find a way out for me and my mates. There’s some secret in there that could make us rich, so rich we can move to a mansion far away from here and never have to worry about our next meal or running from the coppers. We’ll have a maid each who makes us those fish egg dishes that cost more than a house.”

  Martin laughed softly.

  “What’s so amusing?” the boy challenged, rolling up the newspaper in mock outrage.

  “Buried treasure and roe? Lofty goals for a street urchin.” Martin remarked. “Do you really think those ancient secrets will be your key to riches?”

  His eyes sparkled with determination. “I do, sir. This city’s old. Far older than most people really think about. It’s got to be hiding more than its fair share of riches.”

  “What’s your name, kid?” Martin asked.

  The boy hesitated a moment before replying.

  “Will,” he said proudly, puffing his chest slightly as if the name itself were a badge of honor.

  “Will,” Martin repeated. “It’s a good name. I’m Martin.” He held out his hand to the boy. Will graced him with another wary look, as if suspicious that he was going to forcibly extract the coin he had previously given him. Of course, Martin had no plans to do so, and the two shook hands. Will had a strong grip for his age, and Martin could feel his hands were rough from use, far rougher than the hands of a boy that age should be. Before he could think twice about it, an offer rose to Martin’s lips.

  “Well, Will. Now that we’re properly acquainted, what would you say if I told you I could teach you to read? Would you be interested?”

  ‘Would I!” In his excitement, Will forgot his previous wariness. He soon remembered his reasons for being like that and shrank back again. He had learned the hard way that if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. “But why help me, sir?”

  “You remind me of someone I once knew. Someone I wasn’t able to be there for when she needed it.” Martin replied. His voice was tinged with a hint of regret as he thought of his daughter. He quickly shook it off to avoid frightening Will. “Besides, I’ve long been interested in the history of the capital myself. Perhaps together we can find something extraordinary.”

  Will hesitated one final time. A part of him was screaming to take up the offer immediately, but was being held back by the part of him that had learned too many hard lessons on the streets to consider the lessons of a classroom. Finally, however, that curious side of him won out.

  “Sir. Martin, I’d be honored if you could teach me.”

  “With pleasure. I’ve got a previous appointment tonight, but we could start on Sunday. Say around the time the mid-afternoon service finishes.”

  “I’ve got quite the busy schedule myself, but it just so happens I’m free then.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “What a stroke of luck,” Martin responded. “Where should we meet?”

  “Do you know the Park of the Daughter, just off the Queen’s Market?”

  “Of it. I can’t say I’ve been there myself.”

  “It’s not too big nor too crowded. There are plenty of benches we can use. And places to hide should it come to that.” Will said with a laugh.

  “Sounds perfect,” Martin replied. “I can’t imagine who we need to hide from, but bring a newspaper or two and we’ll get started then.”

  Before Will could explain who he thought might require hiding from, the door to the bakery opened and a female voice called out. “Will, are you still there?”

  Martin and Will both looked up to see a woman standing on the steps looking down on them. “You best not be lingering out here too late. There’s talk of evil men doing unspeakable things under the cover of night.

  “I’ll be careful, Mrs. Alder,” Will reassured her. He wanted to stay out and get started on his first lesson tonight, but he was a sharp lad and had his connections in the city. He knew the boy who had just been murdered was not much different from himself. One didn’t get to survive in the streets of Alderbridge by making a target out of themselves.

  He turned to Martin. “Until Sunday then, Martin.” With a final wave to Mrs. Alder, he stuck the newspaper under his arm and ran off into the night.

  “Martin, is it?” The woman turned her attention to him.

  “It is. Thank you for the warning, ma’am.” Martin replied respectfully.

  “You’re Boudica’s husband, aren’t you?”

  “I, yes, that’s right. Have we met?”

  “Not that you’d remember, but your wife’s been buying bread from my husband for years. She’s had some things to say about you… and some things have been so visible they need not be said.”

  Martin averted his eyes uncomfortably. “I’m working on it, ma’am.”

  Mrs Alder scrutinized Martin a moment longer, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “Keep an eye on that one,” she said, gesturing with a nod of her head to the last traces of the boy running off into the night. “If I find out any ill befalls him, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I don’t doubt it, ma'am,” Martin said with a grin. “Thank you again for the warning, and for the bread all these years.”

  “My best to Boudica,” she replied, turning back to the door to start closing up shop.

  A short time later, Martin found himself on the hard ground, thrown there yet again by Jacques. After they had finished their regular combat, Jacques’ lesson turned to mysticism. After confirming that the true Martin had been silent since those first few days, Jacques began to lecture about progression as a Faceless Man. The Faceless Dagger and the ability to assume the first mask were the gifts given to all of the Faceless God’s chosen ones. The Faceless boys that served as servants here in the chapel were those not yet having been bestowed with his blessing.

  Once the initial blessing was received, one could improve their ability to maintain their disguise through practice. Over time, as he lived as Martin, his body would adjust, making space for future disguises. In addition to that, the Faceless God would gift additional power to those who had rendered great service to him. This usually took the form of completing missions assigned by the God, contributing usual information or resources, or slaying servants of other Cosmics. However, the Faceless God, while perhaps the strongest of the Cosmics in terms of adaptability and survivability, was not well regarded for his combat strength. This left just one way for faceless men to become stronger.

  Jacques held up the first two fingers of his right hand in a V shape. After a moment, a sudden spark jumped from one finger to the other. Martin cursed in surprise. The spark reappeared and became suspended between the two fingers.

  “How on earth did you do that?”

  “A gift. From an old friend from the circus.”

  Jacques brought his fingers down into a fist and the spark vanished, only to be replaced by Jacques’ faceless dagger. His dagger was different from Martin’s—longer and thinner, and perfectly balanced, as if designed to be thrown.

  “As you know, by stabbing a person with the faceless dagger, we can assume their form. Their memories and abilities, however, are left behind, unless they do not wish for them to be.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes. A willing sacrifice, one that wants you to assume their identity, will give up not only their form but their power. In this way, we can gain the abilities of other cosmics and skills that can take an entire lifetime to master.”

  “But how do you convince someone to give up their life to you like that?”

  “Well, that is the true secret to power right there,” Jacques said with a laugh. “There are many ways. Coercion and blackmail, rhetoric and bribery, love, to name a few.”

  For the remaining time in their session, Jacques lectured about some of the ways faceless men had claimed the powers of other Cosmics. The Faceless Man did his best to remember them all. He was still far away from being able to use any of them—after all, he could still only maintain a single mask for now—but he knew that someday his quest would require more than the simple strength of his two hands.

  When Jacques’ lecture was over, the Faceless Man broached the topic of Connach’s letter. Jacques listened silently until Martin had finished recounting the story, asking just a few questions when Martin skipped over details either unwittingly or due to lack of information. Jacques turned it over in silence for a moment until finally saying, “That meteor… is likely a harbinger of some cosmic entity seeking entrance into this world. I know not which cosmic it might be, but judging from what you’ve told me, it’s succeeded.”

  “Is there a chance to save the village?”

  “If the church acted right away to contain the spread, maybe, or if another cosmic stepped in, perhaps.”

  “Would the Faceless God act?”

  “The Faceless God acts through us. Are you going to hack at a vanished meteor with your knife?”

  “No, of course not, but…”

  “There are no buts,” Jacques cut in. “Your pact with the Faceless God offers you some protection, but it is not a panacea. To thrust yourself blindly into the midst of another Cosmic’s influence is to bring nothing but despair upon yourself.”

  “But if there’s a chance to stop it, to save a whole village of innocents, shouldn’t we take it?”

  Jacques regarded him for a long moment, looking at the Faceless Man as if he were a rebellious child he didn’t quite know what to do with. “You lack the strength to properly protect yourself here in the capital. That’s the purpose of these sessions. If you went after the meteor, regardless of the nobleness of your intentions, you could very well end up as just another body for the church to burn. There’s one thing you can do to help, and that’s to help your wife in convincing her brother to leave town as quickly as possible, before it’s too late.”

  “But—”

  “I said no buts. Now tell me, you said you had a potential lead on the church connection to Crane.”

  Martin reluctantly accepted the change of subject and quickly reported what he had seen and heard.

  “Hmm, I know of Corvus. They say a man does not easily free himself from the sort of path he walked. For him to be involved in smuggling, even after becoming a Vicar is surprising, if in the realm of possibility. So what’s your plan?”

  “For now, it’s time for Martin to rejoin the church, I think.”

  “So it would seem.”