As evening descended on Alderbridge, a man made his way through the streets. He was called Martin, and it amazed him that most of the time he could even think of himself as Martin, but inside he was a Faceless Man. Hours before, he had dared to sit on a church pew, dressed in the skin of a man he had killed, pretending to be one of the True God’s faithful children. Deep down, he knew he served a far different master, and it was to his house he now found himself on the way to. He had spent most of the afternoon at the park, lost in thought, and finally, he made up his mind to seek guidance on questions far beyond his current self.

  The Chapel of the Faceless God’s hidden door yielded to his touch, and he found himself in the familiar entranceway. Wandering over to the mirrors, he took a good look at himself, his real self, with all the disguise of Martin stripped away. The face that stared back at him was a far cry from the former sailor who had stared back at him in the church bathroom just a few hours before. “What a mess,” he muttered to himself.

  A Faceless servant appeared at the doorway and brought him deeper into the building, soon arriving at the room in which he usually met with Jacques. His mentor was there, reading through a stack of reports on the deck. His face was scrunched in concentration, but upon seeing Martin standing at the doorway, he relaxed and let a familiar smile return to his face. “Ah, the prodigal son returns,” he said, gesturing for Martin to take a seat beside him. “Have you come seeking wisdom, or perhaps just the edge of a knife?”

  “Your wisdom tonight, please, Jacques,” he replied, taking his seat. He quickly outlined his experience while waiting for confession, including the strange woman in white who had walked past. Jacques listened attentively, asking occasional questions about the design of the booths or the reactions of the others around him. He might have imagined it, but Martin could have sworn he saw a flash of recognition across Jacques’ face as he described the woman he had seen.

  “Hmm,” he said when Martin had finished his story. “You really are the worst Faceless I’ve ever trained.”

  “Not exactly what I was hoping to hear there, Jacques.”

  “Confessionals are one of the Church’s most famous tools; sacred spaces completely protected from all external and cosmic influence, where the penitent can be alone with a priest and the True Creator and receive absolution for all manner of sins. Almost sounds too good to be true. Do you think they really offer the protection promised?”

  “Yeah, of course. Don’t they?”

  “Of course, some of them do. The ones in the major churches used by the wealthy and the powerful, but that level of protection doesn’t come cheap and requires constant maintenance to keep its strength. The strength of the church is not what it used to be. I’m skeptical that a local parish confessional frequented by Martin the dockworker has anything more than a scant level of protection. Nothing that should be able to disrupt your disguise, especially now that you’ve been Martin for so long.”

  “Then the cause of my panic must have been that woman.”

  Jacques made a noncommittal noise. “It could be, but again, why would a being capable of causing such a reaction be in a church like that?”

  “We’re thinking of me as Martin the dockworker, but that’s not the identity that brought me to the church. Whoever I really am, or was, had some connection to Crane, who has some connection to Corvus. There must be something going on at that church.”

  Jacques smiled slightly.

  “There you go with your delusions of grandeur again, but I think you’re on the right track. Hold off on any more confessions for now, and I’ll send a few of the boys over to check the confessionals out. Keep up your regular church attendance so as not to draw any more suspicion to yourself.”

  “Okay, but if it’s neither the woman nor the confessional, what caused that reaction?”

  “You’ve been Martin for a while now, and only Martin. Take care not to lose track of who you really are underneath. Find some time each day to let your disguise drop and be whoever you really are for a few minutes.”

  “Whoever I really am?”

  “I suppose that’s kind of hard with your…memory problems. What I’m getting at is that you are developing as a Faceless man. You’ve slain two servants of other Cosmics now, which has earned you a fair amount of merit with our lord. You’re not far off from being able to sustain another mask. Once you have a third identity, it could help you reestablish the balance you desperately need, or…”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Or…?”

  “It could cause a complete and total collapse.”

  “Great. I feel better already.”

  “Don’t despair. What you’re going through is nothing that countless faceless men have gone through over the centuries.”

  “Do they usually make it through?”

  “The good ones do. The bad ones, well, it’s better left unsaid what happens to them.”

  The two spoke of a few other matters. Jacques hadn’t received any new intelligence regarding Margaret Gascoigne and wasn’t expecting anything right away. Jacques ended their conversation with a final reminder.“By the way, be sure to see Aelar before you leave. He mentioned that he was about ready to send for you. He’s in the training room down the hall.”

  Martin thanked Jacques for his guidance and made his way over to the training room. Inside, he found Aelar, shirtless, posed with his arms spread wide and his legs bent. With a powerful exhale, he straightened his legs and brought his arms down to the floor, pushing off with his legs and into a handstand. His breath was full and steady, not forced, but moving with a power that Martin could hear from the doorway.

  He decided not to interrupt Aelar and took a seat by the door, observing him perform the routine. After a few minutes, Aelar lowered himself into a cross-legged seated position, and Martin could hear his breathing gradually slow and soften, until it seemed like he wasn’t breathing at all. For a minute there was silence, and then for two, nearly a full ten minutes they sat there, Aelar completely motionless, and Martin still but for the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  Finally, Aelar opened his eyes. “You’re more patient than I gave you credit for,” he said with a smile. “But if you’ve come already for the mission, maybe not.”

  “I was here to consult with Jacques about another matter. He sent me your way. What was that routine you were doing?”

  “An ancient routine from the East, some say with Cosmic influence, but it works to strengthen your inner and outer self. I can teach you the beginner sequence if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Sure, but not tonight.” Aelar stood up and made his way to his belongings. He slipped on a necklace—what looked to be a heavy metal coin on a thick chain— as well as his shirt and various knives and tools. “I need to meet a woman.” He said as he gestured for Martin to follow him. Aelar led the way out of the training room and down the hall to the small bedroom he had been provided while he stayed in Alderbridge.

  Once inside, he pulled out a small drawing of a woman. Her hair was long, and rather than tied back in a bun or ponytail, it fell straight down and was held together by an elaborate pattern of strings. Her face was beautiful, but the artist had managed to capture a coldness in her eyes that Martin felt could pierce him even through the paper.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “She is.” Martin couldn’t help but agree.

  “Her name is Seraphine. She’s a servant of the Weaver God.”

  “The Weaver God?” Martin asked, looking up from the picture.

  “Not one of the more widely known cosmics, to be sure. The Weaver God prefers to stay out of the spotlight; his servants spend their time predicting the future, not shaping it, or so they claim. My… target has some protections of the cosmic variety. It’s exceedingly hard for me to get over those protections by brute force, so I need to consult with someone with the power of prophecy to find a better opening.”

  Martin showed his surprise on his face. He had grown accustomed to Cosmics, or so he had thought, but the idea of prophecy seemed like something beyond their ability. “I thought prophecy was something reserved only for the True Creator?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Church doctrine.”

  “Oh, right,” Aelar said with a laugh. “The True Creator is undoubtedly powerful, or else he wouldn’t have been able to keep the cosmics at bay for as long as he has, even through death seemingly. However, he has no monopoly on otherworldly powers. Several of the cosmics lay claim to abilities in the realm of prophecy and foresight. The Weaver God happens to be one of the more approachable ones.”

  “I see. How do we find Seraphine?”

  “She sits at a table at a bar called the Black Dog most nights. She practices cartomancy and hands out advice to housewives and drunks, mostly, but her true work is in trading information.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough to find then. What do you need from me?”

  “An extra set of eyes. I can deal with Seraphine, but if it’s that easy for me to find her, it’s that easy for everyone to find her. I don’t know who else may be watching the Black Dog, so I want someone I can trust there to keep a lookout for anything unexpected.”

  “Do you think there will be anything unexpected?”

  “With the Weaver God, there will always be something unexpected. And with Cosmics in general, you should always be prepared for the unexpected, just as a law.”

  Martin nodded in agreement. His own experiences with the servant of the Beautiful Goddess had taught him that painful lesson.

  “Last question then. When do we leave?”

  “Since you’re here, it must be an opportune moment. We leave now.”