A Debt To Faceless Men-Part I (Rated MA/Strong Language)

The Busty Gal sailed steadfast on a sheet of turquoise glass, her ours breaking the still surface with timed and rhythmic splashes. She was a sturdy cog, as strong as she was ugly, who had braved the worse of what the Narrow Sea could throw at her. Her patchwork sails were limp, but the rowers pushed her onwards, slipping through the seas as swift as any wind might urge her. The wooden wench that graced the bow stared unblinking at the world beyond, quietly watching the horizon for ship breaker bay and the harbor where she might rest her weary hull. Her belly was full of spices and wines, dates and figs and dried peppers, crates of smoked fish, mussels drowned in olive oils, and crabs enough to leave even the drowned god bloated. She smelled of some exotic shore, not quite sweet though not near fowl, but rather a potent mix of salt and herb, heavy incense and sweat.

Timmon the Talker didn't care much for the ship's particular perfume, though he was growing more accustomed to it as time passed; time spent mostly above deck, though the captain was kind enough to offer him a cramped, though not entirely uncomfortable cabin below. By day he would pace from bow to stern, listening to the crew swap tales and rumors from across the sea or arguing over which inn had the best meat pies, or which brothel provided the choicest whores. Each man, it would seem, had his own unique taste when it came to such. The pot-bellied cook, with his toothless grin, shaggy graying beard and milky, squinting eyes preferred his woman as lumpy and questionable as his pies. “Them skinny ones not worth a piss, less to start a fire when ya rub two together.” He would say with a spit flinging laugh. “ Only the big ones can please a man with my appetite. Aye, one's with the hard faces, well fed bellies and tits as big as the busty gals. Them the ones worth a good coin, fuck a man so good he'd think to pay her twice.”

The Pretty Lad was a boy of six and ten who served as the captain's cabin boy, though he well learned as far as the crew went; one of the few on-board who could read if not yet write. He had a youthful face, baby smooth skin and thick lashes over chestnut colored eyes that matched his flowing mane. On longer voyages the crew would often jest of how, with the right dress and a flower or two to tie in his hair, he could make as fine and pretty a company as any woman, hence his derisive monicker. Most boys graced with his pleasant appearance would have their pick of pretty girls from anywhere in the seven kingdoms and beyond, but he was shy and timid lad, with blushing cheeks and sweating palms the moment one even mentioned bedding a woman. The boy had a lover's heart no doubt, but a life at sea would soon enough change that; leaving him with as many crabs feasting on his loins as the Busty Gal had within her hold, and a bastard in every port that he should land in.

When the men weren't regaling each other with tales of sexual conquests, they would gamble. A time or two Timmon would join them, each time walking away with a purse full of coins and the curses of sore losers. Learners luck they called it, though Timmon knew that the true secret to gambling was to never acknowledge what you have to gain, and never care for what you could lose. Games of dice were entertaining enough, though he preferred the greater challenge of crevasse; a game where skill and intellect beat luck every time. Pretty Lad made for a decent enough opponent, if not an easily predictable one. His moves were bold, hasty and ill planned, but with each game he grew more cautious. Unlike most, Pretty Lad learned from his mistakes, and was careful never to make them again. A smart lad indeed.

By night, Timmon would set himself upon the back of the Busty Gals figurehead, washing down meager meals of sour red grapes and smoked eel with a tart wine. When he finished, he would lay back and watch the stars drift in the skies above him; hypnotized by the harmony of the oars splashes, the chill of the night air and steady bobbing of the ship as it made its way through the inky dark. As soothing as the sea nights may have been, they did not come without their ghosts. Memories of days long past, people long-lost, men he used to be and names he used to live by. He abandon his real name when he entered the temple of black and white, along with a life that he tried in vain to forget. That was not my life, he would remind himself, I am no one, I am a faceless man with no life but that which the many face god wills me.

“That is a lie.” The priest of the temple would say each time his memories betrayed him during his years of training as a faceless man.“You are Alyx Rivers, the thief, the liar. An outlaw, a murderer and a hanged man left to die. Do you deny it.”

“ I wore his face, I do not deny this. But Alyx Rivers died within the temple of black and white, Though some would say he was dead before then; left to swing from the end of a rope for the crows to pluck out his eyes and the ants to nibble away his flesh.”

The priest would cup his hands, the hood of his robe covering most of his face, though Timmon could feel his eyes raise inquisitively beneath it. “Some would say he earned such a death.”

“Some would. Though only the many faced god can rightfully judge who is deserving of the gift. The opinions of men very too greatly to be trusted.”

“Your eyes reveal your lies. They do nothing to hide the rage within them; the look of a wronged and bitter man beneath your flesh, thirsting for justice, screaming for retribution.”

The priest spoke the truth of it. Timmon struggled to contain that raging man trying desperately to show himself. Each time the man would rise within he toiled to beat him back; stuffing him into the recesses of his thoughts, letting any remnant of emotion fade from his face the same as memories from his mind. And then he would lie.

“Were Alyx Rivers alive he would have longed for such things, that is true. But dead men can long for nothing but life. A faceless man longs for nothing but to serve. Valar dohaeris.”

“Valar morghulis” the priest would reply, and the cycle would continue.

Over time at the temple of black and white, among the dead and dying, where the watchful eye's of Weeping Woman and the Moon-pale maiden, the Merlin king and the Wayfarer would look down on him with solemn marble faces, smoke and dull light dancing in their gaze, the memories slowly faded. Memories of his years before Braavos when he wore the face of Alyx Rivers, stealing and cheating and lying with his name. He could hardly recall what that face had looked like, what the voice had sounded like, how old or young the body or how fine or course the hair, and had no need or desire to do so. All those things were replaced with knowledge that would serve him better than the memories of a dead man. He learned the many tongues of the free cities, mastering their accents and dialects to speak as well as any native. He served with seasoned sell swords who taught him to fight with sword and ax and dirk. He learned to walk as softly as a cat and as swiftly as a mouse, and move through the darkness as easily and quietly as both. He could use potions and herbs to heal most wounds better than any measter, and poisons to rival even those of Dorne. He learned to don new faces as easily as one would don a helm, and most important to his craft, he learned the fine art of death. Any man could kill, but only a faceless man could perfect the delicate details of it. No other man killed as clean, strike with such precision, or vanished with as much grace and inscrutability as the shadow of death itself.

One evening not so long ago, the hooded priest came to him as he supped alone by candlelight. Timmon had honed his hearing to such a sharpness that he could hear a rat move in an adjoining room, but could never hear the priests movements until he was already upon him.

“Who are you?” the priest asked softly.

Timmon swallowed a mouthful of bean and bacon soup, placed his spoon into the bowl and laid his palms calmly on the table. “I am who I need be.”

“and who is that?”

“Anyone and no one.”

The old man placed his hand on Timmon’s shoulder, though he was not Timmon then. He wore a face not as pretty as Timmon’s, frightening in comparison. This particular face was scarred and leathery, with thick purple bags under the eyes, one black the other pale and blind as a cave trout’s. His nose was bulbous and crooked, red and riddled with bust veins, with a set of wormy lips beneath, as chapped and chewed as a man to long under a desert sun, hiding a few brown and broken teeth. what hair he had was gray and thin and greasy, doing little to nothing in hiding the spotted scalp beneath. His body looked frail and hunched beneath his beggars rags, but he was as strong and spry as any man who looked not half his age. Cougher, the sailors would call him, when he’d slowly cane himself about the docks and causeways, hacking into his phlegm coated handkerchief, asking for a coin of kindness for a broken old man. Some would fling him a penny or two, making sure to keep their distance. The young and drunk ones would often kick his cane from beneath him, laughing and mocking him as he fumbled for it on his hands and knees. Others simply paid him no mind at all, less to shoot him a glance of disgust or pity, or cover their mouths and noses to keep from breathing whatever diseases he may spread. The Cougher reeked of death and sickness, a feeble creature, half blind and deaf, though saw and heard more secrets and plots then any fly in Braavos.

“Tell me,” the priest said in half a whisper, “In your many days surely you have crossed many a man and learned of many a name. No doubt, you have heard of the young thief by the name of Alyx Rivers. A thief and a murderer some say, if rumors can be trusted. Do you know of him?”

The Cougher, nodded solemnly. “Aye, I knew of him, a shamed fool with a face too plain to recall. They hung him from a withered tree, and left him on a wooded road to choke and die and rot, So they say. Only him of many faces knows for sure.”

“You lie.”

“Old men tell tales. Some are only half-truths, others woven from dim memories. That was the tale of Alyx Rivers, or what I have learned and can recall of it. If the story is a lie, I would not know. Rivers existed a lifetime ago, and no one will remember the truth of it. Heard of him aye, but this old man never met him. If rumors be true he never will, as he is dead and gone and the world is better ridden of him.”

“Then it is clear that you truly have learned much in your years, old man.”

The priest moved to take a seat across the table. The face beneath his hood seemed to morph and contort from the shadows cast by the fluttering candle between them. “There is a cog,” the priest began, “set to sail westward to a port in Ship Breaker Bay. Its captain is a cautious man, weary of strangers, though his love of coin can lower his guard and sway him more often than not. A compelling man with coin to spare might persuade this captain to book himself passage on such a ship. Once in the west, this man will find a woman to greet him with a letter. This man must have the look of a nobleman, a sharp intellect and versed in the ways of sword and shield and honor. Do you know such a man?”

“I do. He has not seen the west in many years, but he has not yet forgotten the lands. He is much younger and more handsome than I, but clever and well read in the histories of the seven kingdoms and its many houses. I trust this man would serve well.”

A smile parted the priests lips in agreement. He was well past eight and eighty but his mouth still held all its teeth, all evenly aligned and white as pearl. “I will leave you to your meal then my old friend, the hour is late but I am sure you have much to do. When you find this man, tell him the many faced god will be pleased with his devotion, as am I. Valar morghulis.”

“Valar dohaeris” The Cougher replied, as the old priest left him to his soup and silence.