Faces (25 page)

Mara stopped working. She'd forgotten that. She pulled her tongue back into her mouth and blinked away sudden tears. Then she picked up her scraper and bent over her work again.

By the time she had finished the wax Mask, covered it with clay, and put the mold into the kiln, Herella had been long asleep. Mara straightened her aching back. She had no idea how late it was. She turned down the lamps, went out into the shop, found the stairs and the room at the top of them, undressed, and was asleep within seconds of laying her head on the pillow.

···

The next day they went to get the silver.

“The foreman's name is Ginther,” Herella said as they climbed the road to the mine, paved, like the road she had seen running along the cliff face, in crushed white stone. Mara had told Whiteblaze to stay put, and the last she'd seen of him, he was contentedly snoozing in a patch of sunlight in Herella's courtyard. “Ginther was sweet on me once, I think. Married now, and three near-grown children—all of whose Masks I have made—but I should be able to talk him into giving us what we need. Some of the other foremen, it might have been harder. There aren't a lot of Gifted in Silverthorne except for the Watchers, so there's a bit of superstitious wariness.”

Mara remembered how even Keltan had reacted when she had first used magic in his presence to repair Kirika's torn cloak in the cavern they had passed through on the way to the Secret City. “I've encountered that myself.”

“You,” Herella went on, “just stick to the story you told Watcher Tranik. Same story, mind: last thing we need is Ginther and Tranik comparing notes and something not adding up. Tranik is sharper than you'd expect a Watcher in the back of nowhere to be. Maybe because what we mine is valuable to the Autarch. But don't speak at all unless Ginther asks you a direct question.”

They were approaching the top of the road, and a kind of guardhouse, a little hut that stood outside the gate through the fence surrounding the mine buildings. One window in the hut faced their direction; the other was at right angles to them. Both were unshuttered, and inside the hut Mara could see the shadowed figure of a man, bent over.

The morning shift had entered an hour before and the night shift was long departed, so they had the road to themselves. They went up to the guardhouse. The man inside, who wore a plain gray mask marked on the cheeks with the crossed hammer and chisel of a miner inlaid in silver (naturally), looked up as they approached.

“Maskmaker,” he said. “What brings you to the mine?”

“Hello, Shanks,” Herella said briskly. “I need to see Foreman Ginther. Is he in his office?”

The miner nodded and got up. “I'll take you—”

“No need,” Herella said. “I know the way.”

The miner nodded again, and shifted his gaze to Mara. “And who's this?” he said. She couldn't see his expression, but she heard the leer in his voice.

“Ranch girl, in to make Masking plans,” Herella said. “How's your wife, Shanks?”

Shanks looked away from Mara. “Fine,” he mumbled. “She's fine.” He sat down. “Go on in,” he said without looking at them again.

“Thank you,” Herella said. She led Mara through the gate in the fence, a simple wooden construction maybe six feet high—nothing on the scale of the stockade around the magic mine.
Well
, she thought,
they don't have to worry about their workers escaping.

The smelter loomed ahead of them, smoke rising from it, and behind it, the waterfall cascaded down the cliff face. The wheezing sound grew louder. “What
is
that noise?” she said. “It sounds like the building is breathing.”

Herella laughed. “Suppose it is, in a way. Although a human making that sound wouldn't be long for this world . . . it's bellows. They're driven by the waterfall back there. Keeping the fires hot enough to smelt the ore.”

“Are we going in there?”

Herella shook her head. “Shanks said Ginther's in his office. It's in one of the outbuildings—that one, over there.” “Over there” was a modest one-story structure made of stone, with a slate roof. Herella led the way to it and stuck her head in the open door. “Ginther?”

“Herella!” boomed a voice. Herella stepped back, and a giant of a man with lots of bushy white hair showing beneath his Mask and no hair at all on the brown leathery pate above it appeared in the doorway. “What an unexpected delight! What brings you to the mine?” He glanced at Mara. “And who's your young friend?” Unlike Shanks, there was nothing salacious in his tone.

“I'm short of silver, Ginther,” Herella said. “I was hoping you could help.” She indicated Mara. “This is Frina. She's from a new ranch family a few miles away. She's staying with me while we plan her Mask. Her folks want something a bit special for her.”

“Hello, Frina,” Ginther said. But she saw his lips curving into a frown behind the Mask and tensed for a moment, afraid he was going to challenge her story. Instead, though, he looked back at Herella. “Short? Did you not get your usual shipment just a couple of weeks ago? It's in the ledger—”

“I got it,” Herella said. “But I need more.”

Ginther scratched his chin beneath the beard. “Bit irregular,” he said. “Can't you wait until your next shipment?”

Herella shook her head. “I'm afraid not.” She lowered her voice. “Ginther, can I be honest? I've been experimenting with silver-copper alloys to get different colors for decoration, and I overdid it. I used up all my silver and some of the alloys are too dark to be good for anything. And now I've got an . . . important client who desperately wants silver—a lot of silver—for his daughter's Mask.”

“Headman Larmic?”

“You know I can't tell you that,” Herella said.

Ginther laughed. “I think you just did.” He scratched his chin again. “How much do you need?”

“An ingot should do it,” Herella said.

Ginther's eyes widened behind his Mask. Then he laughed. “You're joking.”

“No,” Herella said. “This . . . client . . . wants something really special.”

Ginther shook his head. “Can't be done, Herella. You've got an allowance of silver. You've already had it for this month. I can advance you next month's, but then you'll have to wait until the regular shipment for the month after that. And you only get a quarter of an ingot per shipment anyway. You know every ounce is accounted for. Are you trying to get me in trouble with the Watchers?”

“Ginther,” Herella said, a hint of pleading in her voice. “Please. For me?”

Ginther sighed. “Herella, you know I'd do anything for you if I could . . . but this is impossible. I'll give you next month's allotment, but no more.”

That's not enough
, Mara thought. Anger swelled in her.
And I have no time for this.

And then, without even realizing she was about to do it, she found herself reaching inside Ginther, into his soulprint, the magic bound to his mind. She could see the flow of his thoughts. A touch of magic there, a touch there . . . she withdrew, and took a deep breath.

That had felt
good
.

Ginther had sucked in air as if startled. For a moment he stood still, then he let the breath out in a
whoosh
and said, “What am I thinking? Of course you can have an ingot, Herella. For you, anything.” He jerked a thumb back toward the interior of his office. “There's a shipment waiting in the lockup. I'll just pull an ingot out of that. They won't even notice there's one missing until it gets to Tamita. Plenty of time for me to come up with a story to cover the oversight. You two just wait here.” He disappeared inside.

Mara turned toward Herella . . . and reeled back as the Maskmaker's hand lashed out and slapped her face so hard it made her ears ring. She raised her own hand to her stinging cheek as anger roared up inside her again. She barely restrained herself from reaching inside the old woman as she had Ginther.
How dare she . . . !

“What was that for?” she snarled.

“I saw what you did,” Herella said in a furious whisper. “I don't know how you did it, but I could see it being done . . . the flash of magic, the way Ginther just froze for a minute . . . you manipulated him. You used magic on his mind.”

“So what if I did?” Mara said. “Your womanly wiles clearly weren't up to the task.”

Even as she said it, she recoiled in horror from what she was saying. And what she had just done.
This isn't me,
she wailed inwardly.
It doesn't even sound like me. It sounds like . . .

No!

But she couldn't deny it.

She sounded like the Lady of Pain and Fire. And what she had just done, the way she had manipulated Ginther's mind . . . that was pure Lady.

Have I used so much magic I'm becoming like her?
she thought.
Or . . . ?

A nastier thought struck her.

Or when the Lady died, and all that magic poured out of her, poured through me, when her soulprint hit me like a hurricane . . . did it change me? Did it change me into someone more like her? The sudden anger . . . the rush to use magic even when it's not necessary, even when it's wrong . . . I wasn't like that . . . before.

Maybe every soulprint I've encountered has changed me a little
.
Maybe mostly it's too faint for me to notice. But the Lady was so powerful . . . and so full of magic when I killed her. . . .

“Herella,” she gasped out, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That wasn't . . . I'm not . . . that wasn't me.”

“Then who was it?” Herella snarled.

Mara swallowed and looked down at the ground.

Ginther returned and handed Herella a leather satchel. “Brought my lunch in that,” he said. “Bring it back sometime, will you? Can't have you walking out of the mine with a silver ingot in plain sight.” He chuckled. “Even Shanks would notice something like that.”

“Thank you,” Herella said tightly.

“Any time, Herella, any time,” Ginther said. He gave them both a friendly wave and went back into the office.

“Will he get in trouble?” Mara said in a small voice as she trailed Herella back to the mine gate.

“Stealing silver from a shipment for Tamita?” Herella said. “He could be executed. So could I.” She shot Mara a still-angry look. “You'd better succeed, Mara Holdfast. Because if you fail, if you don't overthrow the Autarch, you won't be the only one who pays the price. And you'd better start thinking long and hard about when and where and how you use that cursed Gift of yours.” She turned away and didn't speak to Mara again during the walk back to her workshop.

I've been thinking about nothing else
, Mara thought,
and yet I keep finding ways to misuse it. No matter how hard I try, I end up hurting people.

But then she hardened her resolve, pushing aside the guilt. Because Herella was right about one thing. The only way to redeem herself for past and future mistakes was to succeed: to cast down the Autarch and the entire evil system of Masks that he had created. If she could do that, then nothing else she had done or would do would matter in the slightest.

Yet even in those thoughts, she heard an echo of the Lady of Pain and Fire.

T
WO DAYS LATER,
Mara carried her saddlebags containing the three new Masks out into the street and slung them over her horse's back. Whiteblaze sat watching her, tongue lolling.

The making of the silver Mask had gone smoothly enough, thanks to her magic allowing her to cool and polish the metal in far less time than it would have taken her father. The Mask looked exactly like the Child Guard Masks she had seen day in and day out at the Palace during her time there, minus the delicate carving, which she couldn't begin to recreate until she had Greff's Mask in front of her for comparison.

Despite the heat of the molten silver, the Maskmaking process had been a chilly one. Herella had become distant, doing what she had agreed to do but speaking little otherwise. Mara had tried to apologize again for what she had done to Ginther, had even tried to explain her fears about the Lady's influence on her, but Herella would not listen.

“I don't want to know anything more about it,” she snapped. “If the Watchers come calling, it is better if I don't.”

“At least your Mask won't give you away,” Mara pointed out. “You have me to thank for that.”

“I do,” Herella said. “And I do thank you.” She was unMasked in the privacy of her own home, and so Mara could clearly see the anger on the Maskmaker's face as she confronted her. “I thank you,” she said, “but I will
never
trust you. Nor anyone else with your monstrous Gift. I accept that only someone with your power can hope to throw down the Autarch, but if not for that, I would say the Autarch was in the right when he exiled the Lady.”

After that, Mara had given up trying to mend things with the Maskmaker. And now, with all three Masks finished, it was time to rejoin the unMasked Army.

The sun had barely risen high enough to lift the darkness, and still had not cleared the towering Eastern Range, and Mara's and Whiteblaze's and the horse's breath made white clouds in the chill air as she mounted. She had said farewell to Herella inside. Herella had not responded.

By starting so early, Mara had hoped to elude Watcher Tranik and his “kind” offer of an escort back to her ranch. But he must have expected her departure; as she reined the horse around, she heard the sound of other horses riding toward her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Tranik and two other mounted Watchers approaching from the barracks at the end of the street.

She resisted the urge to flee. There was no need to risk an alarm. She waited as Tranik and the other two rode up to her. “I told you, child,” Tranik said reprovingly, “that I would send an escort with you. You know it is not safe. The supply wagon is overdue, and we fear it has fallen prey to bandits. We would not want the same to happen to someone as young and pretty as you. I thought you would be leaving this morning and have been waiting for you.”

Silently, Mara swore. But out loud all she said was, “I didn't want to trouble you, Watcher Tranik. I really
can
look after myself. Especially with Whiteblaze, here.” She indicated the wolf.

“I wouldn't feel right if anything untoward were to befall you,” Tranik said. “Cornil and Morden will keep you safe. And make sure your family are safe, too.”

“Thank you,” Mara said, because what else could she say? Short of trying to use her magic again as she had on Ginther—and she wasn't at all sure she could do that to three men simultaneously, particularly Watchers who might have their own measure of the Gift, even if she weren't still horrified by the ease with which she had done it
once
—there was nothing she could do to stop the Watchers from accompanying her, whether she wanted them to or not.

Tranik nodded. “Have a safe journey, then,” he said.

“Thank you,” Mara said again, and rode toward the edge of town, the two Watchers trailing in her wake and Whiteblaze ranging ahead.

She expected the Watchers to keep grim silence behind her as they rode, but in fact the moment they were out of Silverthorne they began chatting with each other. From their voices they sounded quite young, and they clearly had known each other a long time. Neither of them was from Silverthorne—it would have surprised Mara if they had been. From what she knew of Watcher practice, only in Tamita were you likely to find Watchers native to the community they watched. Throughout the rest of the country, the standard procedure was to post Watchers who had grown up elsewhere.

As they continued talking, though, she realized that the young Watchers were both from the same part of Aygrima: the salt marshes of the south, as far from Tamita in that direction as the northern range of mountains was in the opposite one. And it was
that
which drew her into conversation with them, for her mother had grown up in the south, and had told stories of pushing a long shallow punt through the winding channels; of vast flocks of seabirds lifting as one from the water, the morning sun shining on their wings, the air filled with their plaintive calls; of wading bare-legged in the rice fields while fish nibbled her toes; of paddocks filled with water buffalo whose milk put that of northern cows to shame and whose meat had more flavor.

Mara's father had told her that her mother had gone south again after the failure of her Masking. She wondered if she were still there. She hoped so, because the farther she was from the Autarch the safer she would be.

But she had never met anyone else who had grown up in the south. Hearing the two young Watchers talk about it made her feel closer to her mother; and so, almost without realizing it, she began to chat with them, until they were riding three abreast and laughing like old friends.

Of course, Mara had to tell lie after lie, spinning a convoluted tale about her imaginary father and mother and brothers, how they had left Tamita after that frightening day when an enormous hole had been blown in the city wall by magic and several Watchers had died. “Father had a bakery near where it happened,” Mara said. “He said there was trouble coming and we should be far away from Tamita when it arrived. And so he sold the bakery and used the money to buy the ranch. And here we are.”

“I heard about that,” Cornil said. “I thought it was mostly made up. Nobody could blow a hole in the Tamita wall by himself. It would take a dozen Gifted Engineers.”

“Probably some Gifted criminal escaped through some old forgotten gate and the story's been growing ever since,” Morden said. “Anyway, the Watchers will have him by now.”

“It was real,” Mara insisted. “I saw the hole myself. And it wasn't a ‘him.' I heard it was a girl.” She was beginning to enjoy this. “Daughter of the Master Maskmaker, if you can believe it. They say she blew the head right off of Stanik and killed a lot more Watchers as she escaped. And by the time we left, they hadn't brought her back. Or at least they hadn't hanged her yet. We lived not far from Traitors' Gate. I would have noticed.” She didn't have to work hard to summon a shudder.

“Hmm,” Morden said thoughtfully. “I
had
heard a lot of Watchers were sent up north somewhere, way over west by the coast,” he gestured vaguely in that direction, “and I wondered why. Nobody was saying anything.”

“I thought Watchers would always know what other Watchers were doing,” Mara said, and that was almost truthful.

Cornil snorted. “Not bloody likely. The senior Watchers use the mushroom approach when it comes to us lowlifes.”

“Mushroom approach?”

“They keep us in the dark and feed us bullshit,” Morden said, then ducked his head. “Sorry, lass.”

“I'm a farm girl,” Mara said, laughing
and
lying. “I know all about bullshit.”

The young Watchers laughed in turn. Then Cornil pointed ahead. “Crossroads in the trail,” he said. “That's where we turn south, right? That other road just takes us into forest and rocks for miles and miles until you get to the Autarch's prison mine.”

Mara felt her momentary good spirits drain away like water from a pricked bladder, because she could not turn south. The unMasked Army waited to the west.

I'll have to use magic on them
, she thought. And wished she were more horrified than excited by the notion—but it wouldn't have been true to say so, because it had felt good to use her magic on Ginther, and she knew it would feel good to use it on these two, as well.

And what does that say about what I'm becoming? Or how strong the Lady's influence still is?

She pushed the thought away.
It's about time I stopped second-guessing myself
, she thought angrily.
It's time I pushed away the guilt. I don't care if that's the Lady's influence on me or not. It's me now. However I became what I am, I am what I am.

She glanced at Whiteblaze, wondering if she needed his magic.
Probably not
, she thought. She hadn't needed it to influence Ginther. She turned her head to Cornil, reached out to feel the magic inside him—

And then he said, “What's with your wolf?” and she released her perception of him and turned her head toward Whiteblaze. He had stopped in the middle of the crossroad, and was staring into the thick trees into which the westward-bound branch of the road disappeared. He barked once.

Mara heard the whisper of steel on leather and turned to see Cornil drawing his blade. “He's seen some—” the Watcher began.

With a meaty “thunk” his chest sprouted a feathered shaft. He looked down at it, started to reach for it, then toppled sideways from the saddle, hitting the ground with a dull, crunching thud atop the sword that had dropped from his lifeless fingers.

“Bandits!” Morden shouted. “We have to—”

A second bolt took him in the throat, ending his words in a dying gurgle. In a spray of blood, he, too, thudded to the ground.

Despite the shock of sudden violence, Mara managed to take the magic released by the Watchers through her amulet, to avoid being slammed by their unfiltered soulprints. She readied herself to use it to defend herself against whomever came out of the woods . . . and then relaxed, though her body still thrummed with magic, as Keltan and Hyram appeared, each holding a crossbow. She felt a surge of anger at the brutal, unnecessary killing of the young men she had been joking with just moments before, but she forced it down. “Strip them,” she said coldly to Keltan and Hyram “We need their uniforms.”

Only when the two young Watchers lay pale and bloody on the road, naked but for their drawers, did she finally release the magic within her. The bodies vanished. White dust blew away in a gust of wind, spreading all that remained of the two young Watchers across the road they had ridden to their deaths.

And only
then
did she turn toward Keltan and Hyram and let her anger free. “You didn't have to kill them,” she snarled. “I was about to use magic. They would have given me their uniforms and ridden away unharmed, with no memory of what happened.”

“They were Watchers,” Hyram said coldly.

She turned her glare on Keltan. He looked down at the ground, refusing to meet her eyes. “He's right,” he said gruffly. “They were Watchers. Two fewer Watchers puts us that much closer to the day when there aren't any of them.”

“They had names,” Mara said. “Cornil. Morden. They grew up in the south, like my mother. They were sent out here to protect me.”

“They were Watchers,” Hyram repeated. Unlike Keltan, he had continued to glare at her. “I don't get you. I saw what you did on the beach. I saw what you did at the cave of magic. And I saw what you did at the magic mine. You've killed more Watchers than anyone else in the unMasked Army.” His voice grew bitter. “And caused more deaths among the unMasked Army—many of them my friends—than the Watchers have. So why are you suddenly squeamish?”

“Because I have a heart,” she snapped.

Hyram snorted. “You
pretend
to have one,” he said. “Maybe you should stop pretending. Now that the Lady of Pain and Fire is dead, you're the biggest mass killer in Aygrima. So don't lecture me about not sparing the life of one stinking Watcher.” He turned his back on her and strode away. “Father is waiting,” he called without looking back. “Let's get moving.”

Mara fought down the fury that wanted her to take magic from Whiteblaze and crush the insolent youth where he stood. White-faced and trembling, she turned to Keltan. “Do you feel the same?”

“About the Watchers, yes,” Keltan said steadily. “But about you . . . no.” His eyes met hers, and her anger melted in that gaze. “Your power is terrifying. But underneath it all is still the girl I fell in love with. Your heart is still where it always was, Mara.” He suddenly licked his lips nervously and turned away. “Our horses are just inside the wood. If we get moving, we can make it back to the unMasked Army before dark.” He walked off.