“His assassination of Admiral Rooke.”

  Jacques’ words hung in the air. Martin forced himself to take a slow drink, feigning calm. The revelation that Aelar had masqueraded as the maid Rosaline to assassinate one of the leading Admirals of the Eldamris empire was a shock for him. He had no personal stake in the life of the admiral. Even if the real Martin, as a former Navy man, should likely have some strong opinions about the admiralty, he was not the real Martin. However, Admiral Rooke had an overwhelmingly positive reputation among the common people as a gentleman and a voice for peace, a true outlier in his profession. He knew it was naive to think of the Faceless God as a wholly benevolent master, but the open assassination of a public figure was an action he hadn’t expected.

  “Why?” he asked after swallowing down the rum, his voice firm despite the uncertainty that plagued him.

  “Hmm, you’re taking that rather well,” Jacques said, “perhaps you do have some potential as a Faceless.” Jacques took another drink of his own before continuing. “The simple truth is I don’t know. I can make some guesses, but even those I would prefer to keep to myself.” Seeing the look on Martin’s face, Jacques continued. “Martin, not all truths are meant to be pursued. We Faceless are the ones who fit into the role that the times dictate. When we play the hero, we might in fact have to act for evil, and when we play the villain, we might sometimes work for good. We are merely players in this grand play, and it does no good to pry into the details and reasons of what our master orders.”

  “So I should just accept that things are being done through us that I can’t understand,” Martin asked, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice, “That I should just trust blindly?”

  “Martin,” Jacques said, putting his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Not blindly. But with confidence that our cause requires sacrifice, and the reasons for those sacrifices are not always clear to us. Not all truths need to be pursued. Some knowledge bears a weight that even the strongest shoulders cannot bear. Is the death of a politician really what you need to bury yourself in now?”

  Martin could still feel the fingers of unease grasping at his heart. He closed his eyes and brought Elisia into his mind. Jacques softly removed his hand and gave Martin a moment to breathe.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  Although he knew he was being fobbed off, Martin also knew Jacques was right. He sought strength to get revenge for his murdered family. Prying into his master’s secrets was no way to achieve that strength. There were enough answers he was already seeking—the connection between Bartholomew Crane and Vicar Corvus, the connection to his family’s death, and now the origins of this ancient letter. He would start with those. Once he had those answers, if the Faceless God were truly a deity he could not continue to serve under, well, then he would cross that bridge when he came to it. If he needed a way out, then it would help to have a few trump cards of his own before then.

  After a couple of breaths, he opened his eyes to see not only Jacques looking at him, but also Aelar had joined them at some point, looking at Martin with a slightly pitying expression. He leaned against the door, looking thinner than he had the last time Martin had seen him.

  “I understand," Martin said. "I apologize for my frustration. Of course, I'll follow our lord’s instructions.”

  Jacques gave a nod at that, recognizing that it was as much as he could hope for given the circumstances. He glanced over to Aelar to see if he had anything to add.

  “Our work…” Aelar began, hesitating as he searched for the right words. “Our work, although a small piece of a much larger puzzle, sometimes calls on us to do difficult things. Things that will change the world. It is not a burden that we take up lightly. Whether or not I had a hand in the admiral’s death, the act was one thread in a far larger design, one that serves the greater purposes of our god.”

  “You’re just repeating what I said less eloquently,” Jacques cut in with a laugh.

  Aelar smiled. “So I am. You were always the Faceless with the most agile tongue, if only your daggers were as agile.”

  “They're agile enough to teach you a lesson. Should I write a sonnet on your back?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Martin let out his own laugh at that, feeling the tension of the moment slip away. “Aelar, if you're feeling up to it, I had a few questions about the breathing technique you taught me.”

  Martin stayed for a while longer, getting corrections in his stances and gazes for the breathing technique. Aelar seemed fatigued that night, with a lingering cough he couldn't shake, but his eye was as accurate as always. He could quickly diagnose each problem Martin had encountered, and even a few he hadn’t noticed. They spoke of other things after, Martin resisting the urge to ask about Aelar's transformation in Rosaline and his brief life at the Admiral's compound.

  Martin made his way home slowly that night, feeling he would be sore the next day from the thrashing he received from Jacques and the corrections he had received from Aelar. His progress was further slowed by the heavy presence of soldiers throughout the city. What they hoped to find by marching about, Martin couldn’t guess, but their presence caused him to stop frequently to allow them to pass.

  The assassination was all Boudica wanted to talk about when he got home. In a rare move, she asked Martin to hand over one of his newspapers and help her read through some of the articles. She was literate, but rarely chose to indulge in reading and found some of the terminology difficult to parse on her own. She got through one tough passage on her own and looked up at her husband, a smile on her face for a moment before she realized just what she had done and returned immediately to her usual stony expression. Martin held back a compliment and simply put his hand softly on her shoulder for a gentle squeeze of support. It was a rare moment of intimacy for the two. He just wished it had been brought about by happier circumstances.

  The next day, the Queen announced a public funeral for Admiral Rooke to be held at Alderbridge Cathedral, where he would lie in state for the next week. Realizing that the Cathedral would be so inundated with mourners for the next week that it would be impossible to find any useful intelligence about the cathedral architect, he could only hold off on visiting for now.

  When he met Will for his regular reading lesson a few days later, he shared the intelligence he had gained about the church historian, and the two made plans to visit the cathedral after the funeral before diving into their lesson. Martin had collected a few more newspapers, and they all held different theories about the admiral’s death. Based on the breadth of articles, little else seemed to happen of note that week, although Martin couldn’t help but notice a small article about the death of a young mudlark who had been found dead near a pumping station, his liver and several strips of flesh removed. It seemed the battalions of soldiers roaming the streets had done nothing to restrict the Grey Man.

  They put that article aside and read through the various theories the papers had come up with. The conservative Alderbridge Times made the bold claim that the hit had been ordered by the Empire’s enemies on the continent, listing the names of several Admirals of other nations that held grudges against the late Admiral. The more liberal Voice of Reason pointed the finger at the hawks in the Imperial Admiralty. The Admiralty had responded by promising a swift and thorough investigation of their ranks. The Voice made little effort to hide its scepticism as to the effectiveness of such an investigation. The City Crier, a newspaper marketed more toward the working class, ignored the geopolitical angle entirely and proposed a lurid love affair between the elderly admiral and his young maidservant. The Rooke’s had responded in fury and were pursuing a libel suit against anyone who propagated such a claim. A few of the less reputable papers even put forth theories of Cosmic involvement. To Martin’s shock, one of them even posited the influence of the Faceless God.

  Martin had Will read through each of the articles and summarize them before asking Will what he thought. He always looked forward to hearing Will’s take on the articles they read. Even if it was wrong, it was often entertaining, and he often had a surprising insight into things that affected life in Alderbridge.

  “One of my boys knows the girlfriend of a chimney sweep who was childhood friends with the maid they said did it. If she were a Faceless, she was committed. She’s got a history back to childhood.”

  “Do you believe in what the papers say about Faceless? People actually taking on the appearance of another?”

  “It’s a big world, Martin. You told me that yourself. Why would I think that’s impossible? With some of the stories I’ve heard, taking on the form of another is less surprising than what they used to do with excrement in New Portsmouth.”

  “What did they do with excrement in… Nevermind.”

  “Did you see a Faceless man ever? You know, in your travels?” Will asked.

  “My travels? You have a way of making the service sound far grander than it is.” Martin paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “I can’t say I’ve seen a Faceless before, but some of the things I’ve seen have certainly shown me there’s more to life than just the everyday we experience.”

  “Maybe we’ll find some of those secrets in this hidden library,” Will said, excitement returning to his voice.

  “Be careful what you wish for. But regardless of whether it was supernatural or not, why do you think someone wanted the Admiral dead?”

  “Boy Martin, that’s well beyond me. I just hope things calm down soon. All the soldiers marching all over the place make it hard for a man to nick a bit of bread.”