Rogue's Gambit - Chapter 8

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“Here, put this on your nose,” Ambrose said as Kaila joined him in his workshop upstairs, where he was ostensibly going to use his Gift to disguise her as Eliza. “It’ll help with the smell.”

Instead, the man held out a wooden peg to her.

“Ahhh, what smell?” she asked, suddenly doubtful. “I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought,” he said, cutting her off. “We do not have time for your questions, girl. Any minute now, the Magisterium is going to notice your little friend is missing and send out a search party. If you really want to fix your mistake, you are going to shut up and put this on your nose.”

Kaila glared at the man. She didn’t like anyone speaking to her like that—least of all a man dressed in a suit fine enough to make even the king feel underdressed. But his words left no leeway for argument, so she took the peg and did as he ordered.

The tailor spent the next few minutes bustling about the workshop. She watched with curiosity as he mixed liquids and various jars and muttered to himself about chemicals and meddling children. The smell must have been terrible, but she noticed Ambrose had a pair of far more comfortable looking nose plugs for himself.

She didn’t complain. At the very least, it was fascinating to watch him work. Was all this really needed for one weaving? She hadn’t realised there would be so many steps. For her power, all she’d ever needed was a piece of agimet. But this was something else entirely.

Finally, his concoction ready, Ambrose waved for her to lay her head back in a metal sink. She had even more misgivings about this instruction, but a glare from the tailor was enough to silence any other offending questions.

When he turned on a tap and poured water over her head, however, it was almost too much. The running water itself wasn’t so strange—by now she’d encountered it many times in Tah’raus. Another miracle produced by the stolen agimet. Of course, those like herself who lived in halfway houses and abandoned factories didn’t enjoy such luxuries, but more than a few of the manors she and Theron had burgled—and the Falkenrath mansion itself—did.

That he wanted to do something with the foul chemicals and her hair, however, had Kaila ready to demand an explanation. Unfortunately, she had to swallow the words or drown, as the tailor diverted a stream of water over her face. She was still gasping and choking when he turned off the tap and returned with his strange concoction.

“You will want to keep very still for this next part.”

Before Kaila could object, he gathered a handful of her hair and applied a brushful of the gelatinous paste. She froze, eying the concoction warily from the corner of her eyes as Ambrose smeared it generously on her long locks. By the time he was finished, she could detect the acrid scent of burning, even with the peg on her nose.

“What exactly is that stuff?” she asked, her heart beginning to pound as she futilely tried to get a better look at her hair.

“Don’t move,” Ambrose repeated. “The chemical will burn if it touches your skin. I had to use the quick and nasty stuff, since this is a rush job. Sorry.”

He didn’t look sorry at all, however. He was already gathering fresh supplies for some other concoction. Glaring at his back, Kaila wished Theron could have joined them. Quintin had ducked out to check for signs the Sanctum might know Eliza was missing. Hopefully he would be back soon with good news.

Theron was downstairs with Eliza.

Her stomach churned. Just thinking about the girl manifested a confusing mess of emotion. So many horrible things had passed between them, yet if what Eliza said was true, they were the only ones left from their village. The only ones who remembered…

She blinked quickly as Ambrose returned, struggling to keep the tears from falling. Absorbed in his work, the tailor didn’t seem to notice. She waited patiently as he washed the gel from her hair with fresh water. Only as he offered her a towel did Kaila notice the water draining from the tub.

It was black.

A chill crept over her skin. Her hands went to her hair, grasping a raven-black lock and pulling it in front of her face to see.

But her hair wasn’t black anymore—it was blonde.

“What did you do!” she gasped, half-rising from her chair and swinging on Ambrose. Rage drained her face of blood. Kaila wasn’t exactly vain about her looks and there was nothing particularly special about her hair. Most of the villagers in Elgoss had the same shade of black—although it was rarer in Tah’raus, where most were brown, blonde, or auburn. But…her father had black hair.

Ambrose didn’t care about any of that though. He wore the same impassive look he always favoured, lips pursed tight, studying her.

“It will grow out,” he said simply, though his tone carried a note of judgement. “Now, would you like to sit down so we can continue?”

In the end, she acquiesced. What else could she do? The deed was done, and from the collection of chemicals and instruments Ambrose had prepared, the job was far from finished. In fact, the tailor was already puttering around with his equipment, readying his next method of torture. She suspected he was enjoying her suffering.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at weaving,” she muttered as she resumed her seat.

“I’m not just good, girl,” Ambrose replied with a scowl. “I’m the best.”

Kaila raised an eyebrow. Was that vanity? The comment had clearly struck a nerve—it gave her an idea.

She snorted. “The best wouldn’t need all these…props.”

“Only amateurs rely solely on their Gift.”

Before she could get another word in, he grabbed a handful of her hair and took to it with a brush, yanking and wrenching at the knots without so much as a ration chip of mercy for her squeals. Kaila was forced to grit her teeth through the torment. By the time he finished, tears of pain were watering in her eyes, but she was ready with her next question.

“I think I get it,” she said slyly, “this is in case your magic fails.”

“No,” Ambrose growled, brandishing a pair of scissors. “It’s so the magic doesn’t fail.”

Moving behind her, he went to work on her long locks. Eliza had grown out her hair somewhat since arriving in Tah’raus—but it still barely reached her shoulders. Kaila’s was almost to her waist.

“So your Gift only works if I look like the person you’re copying?” she muttered, more to distract herself than anything else at this point. “What good is that?”

Snip-snip.

“Crafting the perfect illusion is a process.” Even with her back to him, Kaila could tell the tailor was speaking through his teeth. “It has to be done the right way—like prepping a house to be painted.”

Snip-snip.

“Ah what?” Kaila grated, trying not to notice the long strands of hair gathering around her feet.

“First,” Ambrose continued as if he couldn’t hear her distress, “you sand back the wood. Then you dust it down. That way when you start with your primer, you don’t get any bubbles or imperfections in the paint.”

Snip-snip.

“Primer?” Kaila gasped.

“So the following coats stick. You can have one, two, sometimes even three coats of paint. Always sanding and dusting in between. Do it right, and the job will last a decade or two. Take shortcuts, and you’ll be redoing the entire job within a year.”

Snip-snip.

Would he leave her with anything?

“What does any of this have to do with Elysian magic?”

Lips pursed, Ambrose stepped back from her to appraise his work. Kaila didn’t dare ask for a mirror.

“For my weaving to succeed without me around to constantly repair its imperfections,” Ambrose said at last, “the target needs to be as similar as possible to the illusion.” He nodded to himself a final time. “Yes, almost done now.”

“So all this,” Kaila murmured as Ambrose wandered into the back of his workshop. “It’s preparation to make the final illusion…stick?”

“Exactly.” Returning with one of the agimet furnaces the nobility used to heat their chambers, Ambrose set it in front of her. This device looked to have been modified to hold several iron rods, which Ambrose now carefully removed with a gloved hand. “Now don’t move—”

“Or something terrible will happen to me,” Kaila snapped. “I get it.” Clenching her jaw, she held his gaze, challenging him to reprimand her again.

Ambrose just grunted and set about his business. Taking a handful of her hair, he wrapped it around one of the heated rods. Despite her blustery words, feeling the heat of the burning iron so close to her scalp was almost too much. But Kaila Dwyn had faced Wardens and Elysian assassins; she would survive this as well.

Leaving the irons in her hair, Ambrose moved onto her face, starting with a light brush of makeup, before moving onto more delicate matters. Kaila barely dared breathe as he traced a pencil across her eyelashes, the tip coming far too close to her eyes for her liking. But at least this part didn’t involve any horrible chemicals, burning or cutting, so she held her tongue as he finished, and then removed the heated rods from her hair.

Stepping back, he studied her with those cold eyes for several long minutes, until Kaila couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

“Well?” she asked, exasperated. “Am I good enough for your magic to work?”

“See for yourself,” Ambrose replied.

The tailor rummaged amongst his things, coming up with a hand mirror. Kaila took it with hesitant fingers, trepidation fluttering in her chest to see what he’d done…

The breath caught in her throat as she found a stranger staring back at her. Her once-wild hair had been tamed, transformed into blonde curls. The makeup was subtle, yet her skin seemed softer, her lips fuller, her cheeks a delicate flush of pink instead of the dirt and grime of her recent appearance. She could have been mistaken for Eliza’s sister, though they were both only children.

“Well?” Ambrose asked. Unless she was mistaken, there was a touch of pride in his voice.

“I take back everything I said,” she murmured. “Do I even need the weaving?

The elderly tailor snorted. “We still need to fix your eyes.”

Kaila’s stomach tightened. “How…”

Ambrose was already revealing a small leather case from the drawer of his desk. “Here,” he said, handing it to her, “these should do the trick.”

Kaila arched an eyebrow as she accepted the offering. Popping open the case, she found a tiny vial of water with a strange pair of glass lenses floating inside. “What are they?”

“Coloured contact lenses. They’ll change your eyes to hazel.” He hesitated. “They’ll also help to hide minor uses of your Gift, though I would recommend against using it inside the Sanctum. Given you’re a Mover, I don’t have high expectations you’ll listen to that advice.”

Kaila eyed the lenses warily. “How do they work?”

“Another invention curtesy of the Magisterium and their obsession with agimet,” Ambrose replied. “Someone figured out how to concentrate the atar from a crystal into a beam fine enough to cut glass. They were designed for vision correction, but with a little added colouring, we’ve adopted them for our own uses.”

“You put these in your eyes?”

“Would you rather have a Warden notice they’re the wrong colour?”

“No, I suppose not,” Kaila muttered.

Following Ambrose’s instructions—and a great, great deal of cursing—she managed to get them in.

“Trickster’s balls,” she gasped, blinking rapidly. “I feel like my eyes are on fire.”

“Did I not mention that part?”

“No!” She could have sworn the man was smiling, though it was difficult to tell through the tears.

“You’ll get used to them. Though make sure you remove them every few hours and place them back in the water. And definitely do not sleep with them—otherwise they could blind you.”

“Are they really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” she muttered, struggling to hold her temper. The things burned. “So what now? Are we ready for this illusion?”

The tailor grunted. “As ready as we’re going to get on such short notice.”

Returning one final time to his desk, he removed a silver bangle from the drawer. It shone with the light of a dozen agimet crystals, each finely cut and polished so as to stay in their settings. Her skin crawled as he opened the clasp and placed it around her wrist.

“One of the crystals is uncut,” he explained. “It’s encased in polished glass to disguise it, but you should be able to feel the difference with your Gift.” He hesitated. “Your Warden’s ability, will you be able to use it through the glass?”

Kaila nodded. She and Theron had conducted a few experiments with her power when they’d first arrived in Tah’raus. So long as the crystal was on her person, she should be able to direct the power of the nexus into the agimet, charging it almost instantly.

“Good,” Ambrose grunted. “Your appearance is now similar enough to Eliza’s that the weaving should last the twelve hours under normal circumstances, but if you encounter a Warden in that black armour, you will have to use your other ability. I would recommend avoiding them as much as possible.”

“No need to tell me twice,” Kaila agreed. “When will you do the weaving?”

“It’s already done,” Ambrose replied, holding up a mirror.

Kaila’s face grew cold as she stared into the eyes of her old rival. Eliza Wrenn. She had already changed into the girl’s clothing, but while she could feel it hanging loose in some places, and too tight in others, in the mirror it now appeared to fit her perfectly. And her face…if before they could have been sisters, now there would be no telling one from the other.

“Ambrose…” she breathed, hardly able to believe her eyes.

“Told you, didn’t I?” There was no mistaking the pleasure in his voice this time. “Been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, girl. How do you think I got where I am now?”

The words resurfaced some of Kaila’s earlier doubts. They might not speak about it, but they all knew this plan was a long shot. Even ignoring the fact half their hopes were pinned on what was pretty much myth and legend about the Aegis at this point, the idea they could fool the Magisterium long enough to reach the throne…it was ludicrous if you paused more than one second to think about it.

So what did a man like Ambrose Braider get from a job like this?

“Ambrose,” she said quietly, “why are you doing this?”

The tailor had just begun to pack away his equipment, but he paused at the question, glancing up from his desk. “Why do you ask?”

“You have everything,” she said softly. “Why would you risk it all on a fairy tale?”

“That depends on what you mean by everything.”

She frowned. “You have wealth and power,” she said. “The nobility accept you—Trickster’s own hand, you’re practically one of them, the way they talk about you. The way they act around you.”

The tailor’s expression did not alter, but she sensed something from him, like the distant blasting of a trumpet.

“If you believe that, girl,” he said at last, “then you are even more naïve than I thought.”

“What—”

“Enough,” he snapped, eyes flashing with a hint of atar. “Instead of questioning my motives, how about you concentrate on your own task. For all our sakes. If you can’t replace that girl in the Magisterium, we’re all as like to end up swinging in Soul Square, remember?”

Swallowing the lump that had appeared in her throat, Kaila nodded.

“Good,” the tailor grunted. “Now, why don’t you go and find out if Theron has convinced your friend to part with her collar.”

So saying, he went to the bookcase and selected a book with a red spine. As he pulled it, the shelving swung outwards, revealing the hidden staircase which led to the basement. She shuffled past as he waved for her to descend, still struggling with his words. The tailor wasn’t a persona for Ambrose the way it was with Theron, a stolen face and borrowed riches. The fruits of his success were all around them, the workshop, the fine clothes, even the way the Falkenrath servant had bowed and scraped before him. And yet his anger when she’d questioned him…

“Ambrose,” she said, glancing back from the darkness of the passageway. “Did you really used to paint houses?”

The tailor still stood in the entrance, glaring down at her. “What do you think?”

“I…I don’t know what to think.”

He grunted and held up his hands. “Do these look like they’re used to hard labour?”

Kaila swallowed. His skin was soft and pale, without so much as a callous. “No…”

“No,” he agreed. “A client told me the story once. I thought it an appropriate metaphor for my work. Now get moving, the sun will be up in a few hours. If we don’t have that collar, my weaving won’t get you past the front gate.”

Become a paid subscriber to access early chapters of this series, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you. You can find my other books on my website.

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