The Bands of Mourning

5

Watching the passing scenes, Wax was immediately struck by how populated the land was south of Elendel.

It was easy to forget how many people lived in cities other than the capital. The railway rolled along beside a river wide enough to swallow whole towns up in the Roughs. Villages, towns, and even cities sprinkled the route, so common that the train barely went five minutes without passing another one. Between the towns, orchards stretched into the distance. Fields of wheat bowed and danced. Everything was green and vibrant, refreshed on evenings when the mists came out.

Wax turned from the window and dug into the package Ranette had sent him. Inside, in a fitted, plush-lined case, was a large double-barreled shotgun. Beside it, in their own indentations, were three spheres each wrapped with a thin cord.

The spheres and cords he’d expected. The shotgun was a treat.

Rust and Ruin, the shells for this thing were almost as wide as a man’s wrist. It was like a cannon. He held one up as the train slowed into a station. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but windows in the town were bright with electricity.

Electric lights. He lowered the shell, studying them. The outer cities had electricity?

Of course they do, idiot, he immediately thought to himself. Why wouldn’t they? He’d fallen into the same trap he’d once mocked others for. He’d started to assume that anything important, trendy, or exciting happened inside Elendel. That sort of attitude had annoyed him when he’d lived in the Roughs.

The train yielded a handful of passengers and picked up fewer, which surprised Wax, considering the crowded platform. Were they waiting for another train? He leaned to the side to get a better look out the window. No … the people were clumped together, listening to one of their number shout something Wax couldn’t hear. As he strained to read a sign one of the people carried, someone threw an egg and it splatted right beside his window.

He pulled back. The train started up again, having waited only a fraction of the time it normally did at a stop. As it eased out of the station, more eggs flew toward it. Wax finally got a good look at the sign. END ELENDEL OPPRESSION!

Oppression? He frowned, leaning as the train turned a bend, letting him watch the crowd of people on the platform. A few hopped onto the tracks and shook fists.

“Steris?” he asked, packing away Ranette’s box. “Have you paid attention to the outer cities situation?”

No reply came. He glanced toward his fiancée, who still sat across the compartment from him, huddled in her seat with a blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t appear to have noticed the stop or the eggs; her face was stuck so far into her book that snapping it closed would have caught her nose.

Landre, the lady’s maid, had gone to ready Steris’s bed, and Wayne was doing who knows what. So the two of them were alone in the room.

“Steris?”

No reply. Wax cocked his head, trying to read the spine and make out what had her so fascinated, but she’d wrapped the volume in a cloth cover. He inched to the side, and saw that her eyes were wide as she read. She turned the page quickly.

Wax frowned, rising and leaning across to get a view of one of the pages. Steris saw him, jumped, and snapped the book closed. “Oh!” she said. “Did you say something?”

“What are you reading?”

“History of New Seran,” Steris said, tucking the book under her arm.

“You looked shocked as you read.”

“Well, I don’t know if you realize it, but the name Seran has a very disturbing history. What did you want to ask me?”

Wax settled back. “I saw a crowd on the train platform. They seemed angry about Elendel.”

“Oh, hum, yes. Let’s see. Outer cities … political situation.” She seemed to need a moment to compose herself. What had she read in that history that was so disconcerting? “Well, I’m not surprised to hear of it. They aren’t happy, for obvious reasons.”

“You mean the taxation issues? They’re that upset?” He looked out the window, but they were too far away now for him to make out the crowd. “We only tax them a little, to maintain infrastructure and government.”

“Well, they would argue that they don’t need our government, as they have their own city administrations. Waxillium, many in the Basin feel that Elendel is trying to act as if our governor were some kind of emperor – something that was supposed to have ended when the Lord Mistborn stepped down after his century of rule.”

“But our taxes don’t pay Governor Aradel,” Wax said. “They pay for things like constables to police the docks and the maintenance of the railway lines.”

“Technically that is correct,” Steris said. “But then all goods are also taxed when they enter Elendel using the very railway lines and rivers we maintain. Have you noticed that there are almost no railway lines traveling directly from city to city outside of Elendel? Other than the interchange at Doriel, everyone wishing to go from one outer city to another must go toward Elendel. Want to ship something from Elmsdel to Rashekin? Have to pass through Elendel. Want to sell metals in Tathingdwel? Have to pass through Elendel.”

“A hub system makes perfect sense,” Wax said.

“And it also lets us tax practically all goods shipped throughout the entire Basin,” Steris said. “By outer cities arguments, that means we’re taxing them twice. First by our levies to maintain the railway lines, then a second time by making them pass everything through us. They’ve lobbied for years to get some direct lines running around the Basin in a loop, and have always been denied.”

“Huh,” Wax said, settling back.

“The rivers are just as bad,” Steris said. “We don’t control where they were placed, of course. But they do all flow toward Elendel, so we control water traffic. There are roadways between towns, but they’re horribly inefficient compared to water or rail travel, so Elendel tariffs basically set prices around the Basin. We can be certain that any goods produced in the city are never undercut, and can provide incentives for things we don’t produce to be sold at a discount in the city.”

Wax nodded slowly. He’d had an inkling, and had heard about the outer cities’ complaints. But he’d always read Elendel broadsheets on the matter; to hear it spelled out so directly by Steris made him marvel at his own shortsightedness.

“I should have paid more attention. Perhaps I should talk to Aradel about this.”

“Well, there are reasons Elendel does as it has.” Steris set her book aside and stood to get down a piece of luggage. Wax eyed the book, noting that she’d marked her page. He reached toward it, but a sudden jerk by the train sent Steris sitting back down with a thump, and she set her suitcase on the book. “Lord Waxillium?”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“Well, the governor and Senate are trying to maintain a single unified nation in the Basin, rather than letting it fracture into a bunch of city-states. They’re using the economics to push the outer cities to accept centralized rule in exchange for lowered tariffs. Even Aradel, as a moderate liberal, has accepted that this is good for the Basin as a whole. Of course, the noble houses don’t care so much about unity as reaping the benefits of a stranglehold on trade.”

“And I assume I’ve benefited from these policies?”

“Benefited?” Steris said. “You practically thrive on them, Lord Waxillium. Your textiles and metalworks would be undercut dramatically without these tariffs. You’ve voted for maintaining them twice and for raising them once.”

“I … have?”

“Well, I have,” Steris said. “You did tell me to see to your house’s interests in voting at–”

“Yes, I know,” Wax said, sighing.

The train rocked on its tracks, rhythmic thumps sounding from below. Wax turned back to the window, but they weren’t passing a town at the moment, and everything was growing dark. No mist tonight.

“Is something wrong, Lord Waxillium?” Steris asked. “Whenever we speak of politics or house finances, you grow distant.”

“It’s because I’m a child sometimes, Steris,” Wax said. “Please, continue your instruction. These are things I need to learn. Don’t let my foolishness discourage you.”

Steris leaned forward and rested her hand on his arm. “These last six months have been difficult. You can be excused for letting your attention toward politics lapse.”

He continued looking out the window. Following Lessie’s first death, he’d lost himself. He’d determined not to react that way again, and had thrown his attention into working with the constables. Anything to keep him occupied, and to prevent him from lapsing into the same melancholy inactivity that had struck him when he’d first lost her.

“I’ve still been a fool. And maybe there’s more. Steris, I’ve never had a mind for politics, even when I was trying to do my duty. It might be beyond me.”

“In our months together, I’ve come to see you as a fiercely intelligent person. The puzzles I’ve seen you solve, the answers I’ve seen you tease out … Why, they’re nothing short of remarkable. You are most certainly capable of caring for your house. Begging your pardon, I’d say it is not your mind, but what you mind, that is the issue.”

Wax smiled, looking toward her. “Steris, you’re a delight. How could anyone ever think you dull?”

“But I am dull.”

“Nonsense.”

“And when I asked you to help me review my list of preparations for the trip?”

That list had been twenty-seven pages long. “I still can’t believe you got all those things into our bags.”

“All of–” Steris blinked. “Lord Waxillium, I didn’t bring all of those things.”

“But you made a list.”

“To think of everything we might need. I feel better when something goes wrong if I’ve contemplated that it might. At least this way, if we run into something we’ve forgotten, I can feel good knowing I figured we might need it.”

“But if you didn’t bring all of that stuff, then what is in all those boxes? I saw Herve struggling to lug a few of them up to the train.”

“Oh,” Steris said, opening the suitcase she’d gotten down. “Why, our house finances, of course.”

Indeed, inside was a large stack of ledgers.

“This trip was unplanned,” Steris explained, “and I have to prepare an accountability report for the banks by next month. House Ladrian has recovered for the most part from your uncle’s spending – but we need to maintain strict books in order to convince lenders we’re solvent, so they will be willing to work with us.”

“We have accountants, Steris,” Wax said.

“Yes, this is their work,” she said. “I need to check it over – you can’t simply turn in someone else’s work without making certain the work was done properly. Besides, they’re off three clips in this quarter’s financials.”

“Three clips?” Wax said. “Out of how much money?”

“Five million.”

“They’re off three hundredths of a boxing,” Wax said, “out of five million. I’d say that’s not bad.”

“Well, it’s within the thresholds the banks demand,” Steris said, “but it’s still sloppy! These financials are how we represent ourselves to the world, Lord Waxillium. If you want to overcome the impression people have of House Ladrian and its indulgences, you must agree that we have a responsibility to present ourselves– You’re doing it again.”

Wax started, sitting up straighter. “Excuse me.”

“Distant look in your eyes,” Steris noted. “Aren’t you the one who is always talking about the responsibility men have to uphold the law?”

“Different thing entirely.”

“But your responsibility to your house–”

“–is why I’m here, Steris,” Wax said. “Why I came back in the first place. I recognize it. I acknowledge it.”

“You just don’t like it.”

“A man doesn’t have to like his duty. He just has to do it.”

She clasped her hands in her lap, studying him. “Here, let me show you something.” She rose, reaching for another suitcase on the rack above her seat.

Wax took her moment of distraction as a chance to slip the book she’d been reading out from its hiding place. He flipped forward to the page she’d marked, curious to discover exactly what about New Seran had captivated her so.

He was completely shocked, then, when the page didn’t contain a historical description, but instead anatomy sketches. Along with long descriptions explaining … human reproduction?

The room grew very still. Wax glanced up to find Steris staring at him with a look of horror on her face. She went beet red and dropped to her seat, covering her face with her hands and groaning loudly.

“Um…” Wax said. “I guess … hm…”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Steris said.

“I didn’t mean to pry, Steris. You were just acting so odd, and so fascinated by what was in the book–”

She groaned again.

Wax sat, awkward in the shaking train car, searching for words. “So … you don’t have any … experience in these matters, I assume.”

“I keep asking for details,” Steris said, slumping back into her seat and leaning her head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. “But nobody will tell me anything. ‘You’ll figure it out,’ they say with a wink and a grin. ‘The body knows what to do.’ But what if mine doesn’t? What if I do it wrong?”

“You could have asked me.”

“Because that wouldn’t be embarrassing,” Steris said, closing her eyes. “I know the basics; I’m not an idiot. But I need to provide an heir. It’s vital. How am I supposed to do this properly if I don’t have any information? I tried to interview some prostitutes about it–”

“Wait. You did?”

“Yes. A trio of very nice young ladies; met them for tea, but they clammed up the moment they discovered who I was – they even got strangely protective, and wouldn’t give me any details either. I get the impression they thought I was cute. What about being a spinster could possibly be cute? Do you realize I’m almost thirty?”

“One foot in the grave, obviously,” Wax said.

“It’s easy to joke when you’re a man,” she snapped. “You’re not on a deadline to provide something useful to this arrangement.”

“You’re worth more than your ability to bear children, Steris.”

“That’s right. There’s my money too.”

“And all I am to this arrangement is a title,” Wax said. “It goes both ways.”

Steris settled back, breathing in and out through her teeth for a few moments. Finally she cracked one eye. “You can shoot things too.”

“What every proper lady needs in a man.”

“Murdering is very traditional. Goes all the way back.”

Wax smiled. “Actually, if you want to be strictly traditional – going back to the Imperial Pair – it was the lady in the relationship who did the murdering.”

“Either way, I apologize for my tirade. It was completely uncalled for. I shall endeavor to be firmer with myself following our union.”

“Don’t be silly,” Wax said. “I like seeing moments like this from you.”

“You like it when ladies are in distress?”

“I like it when you show me something new. It’s good to remember that people have different sides.”

“Well,” she said, taking the book, “I can continue my research at another point. Our wedding has been delayed, after all.”

This was to be the night, he realized. Our first night of marriage. He’d known, of course, but thinking about it made him feel … what? Relieved? Sad? Both?

“If it eases your mind,” Wax said as she tucked the book into her suitcase, “we won’t need to be … involved with any real frequency, particularly once a child is provided. I don’t imagine your research will be necessary for more than a dozen or so occasions.”

As he said it she wilted, shoulders slumping, head bowing. She was still facing away from him, digging in her suitcase, but he spotted it immediately.

Damn. That had been a stupid thing to say, hadn’t it? If Lessie had been here, she’d have stomped on his toe for that one. He felt sick, then cleared his throat. “That was injudicious of me, Steris. I’m sorry.”

“The truth should never be the wrong thing to say, Lord Waxillium,” she said, straightening and looking toward him, composed once again. “This is exactly as our arrangement was to be, as I know full well. I did write the contract.”

Wax crossed the train car, then sat next to her, resting his hand on hers. “I don’t like this talk from you. Or from me. It’s become a habit for us to pretend this relationship is nothing more than titles and money. But Steris, when Lessie died…” He choked off, then took a deep breath before continuing. “Everyone wanted to talk to me. Speak at me. Blather about how they knew what I was feeling. But you just let me weep. Which was what I needed more than anything. Thank you.”

She met his eyes, then squeezed his hand.

“What we are together,” Wax said to her, “and what we make of our future need not be spelled out by a piece of paper.” Or, well, a large stack of them. “The contract need not set our bounds.”

“Pardon. But I thought that was exactly the purpose of a contract. To define and set bounds.”

“And the purpose of life is to push our bounds,” Wax said, “to shatter them, escape them.”

“An odd position,” Steris said, cocking her head, “for a lawman.”

“Not at all,” Wax said. He thought for a moment, then crossed to his side of the chamber again and dug into Ranette’s box, getting out one of the metal spheres wound with a long cord. “Do you recognize this?”

“I noticed you looking at it earlier.”

Wax nodded. “Third version of her hook device, like the one we used to climb ZoBell Tower. Watch.”

He burned steel and Pushed on the sphere. It leaped from his fingers, streaking toward the bar on the luggage rack, trailing the cord behind – which he held in his hand. As the sphere reached the rack, Wax Pushed on a specific thin blue line revealed by his Allomantic senses. It pointed to a latch hidden inside the sphere, like the one inside Vindication that turned off the safety.

A hidden set of hooks deployed from the sphere. He tugged the cord, and was pleased to find that it locked into place, catching on the luggage rack.

Way more handy than the other designs, Wax thought, impressed. He Pushed on the switch a second time, and the mechanism disengaged, retracting the hooks with a snap. The ball fell to the couch beside Steris, and Wax pulled it into his hand by the cord.

“Clever,” Steris said. “And this relates to the conversation how?”

Wax Pushed on the sphere again, but this time didn’t engage the mechanism. Instead he held the cord tight, giving the sphere about three feet of line. It jerked to a stop in midair, hovering. He kept Pushing, upward and away from him at an angle – but also held the cord, and that kept the sphere from falling.

“People,” Wax said, “are like cords, Steris. We snake out, striking this way and that, always looking for something new. That’s human nature, to discover what is hidden. There’s so much we can do, so many places we can go.” He shifted in his seat, changing his center of gravity, which caused the sphere to rotate upward on its tether.

“But if there aren’t any boundaries,” he said, “we’d get tangled up. Imagine a thousand of these cords, zipping through the room. The law is there to keep us from ruining everyone else’s ability to explore. Without law, there’s no freedom. That’s why I am what I am.”

“And the hunt?” Steris asked, genuinely curious. “That doesn’t interest you?”

“Sure it does,” Wax said, smiling. “That’s part of the discovery, part of the search. Find who did it. Find the secrets, the answers.”

There was, of course, another part – the part Miles had forced Wax to admit. There was a certain perverse anger that lawmen directed at those who broke the law, almost a jealousy. How dare these people escape? How dare they go the places nobody else was allowed to?

He let the sphere drop, and Steris picked it up, looking it over with a meticulous eye. “You talk about answers, secrets, and the search. Why is it you hate politics so much?”

“Well, it might be because sitting in a stuffy room and listening to people complain is the opposite of discovery.”

“No!” Steris said. “Every meeting is a mystery, Lord Waxillium. What are their motives? What quiet lies are they telling, and what truths can you discover?” She tossed his sphere back to him, then took her suitcase and set it on the small cocktail table in the center of the cabin. “House finances are the same.”

“House finances,” he said, flatly.

“Yes!” Steris said. She fished in the suitcase, getting out a ledger. “See, look.” She flipped it open and pointed at an account.

He looked at the page, then up at her. Such excitement, he thought. But … ledgers?

“Three clips,” he said. “The tables are different by three clips. I’m sorry, Steris, it’s a meaningless amount. I don’t see–”

“It’s not meaningless,” she said, scooting over to sit beside him. “Don’t you see? The answer is here somewhere, in this book. Aren’t you even curious? The mystery of where they went?” She nodded to him, excited.

“Well, I suppose you could show me how to look,” he said. He dreaded the idea, but then, she looked so happy.

“Here,” she said, handing him a ledger, then fishing out another. “Look at goods received. Compare the dates and the payouts to the ledger! I’m going to study maintenance.”

He glanced toward the window in their door, half expecting Wayne to be out there in the hallway, snickering himself senseless at the prank. But Wayne was not there. This was no prank. Steris grabbed her own ledgers and attacked them with as much ferocity as a hungry man might a good steak.

Wax sighed, sat back, and started looking through the numbers.

ALLOMANCER JAK presents

Nicki Savage, Paranatural Detective in…

The Constructs of Antiquity

When a thief steals a large map of New Seran, Ms. Savage is on the case. The map’s secret pocket contains her father’s parting gift to her, the location of a tribe of metal beings – the kalkis – lost creations of the Lord Ruler. Currently the only one keeping our daring debutante from the secrets of the Unknown Constructs of Antiquity is the magical burglar she calls the Haunted Man!

Part Two

“The Ghasty Gondola!”

I arrived just as the gondola doors slammed shut and the whole conveyance lurched away. Behind the glass doors, the haunted man smiled, the green glow of his devices lighting him from below.

I ran alongside the car, matching pace with it while at the same time digging out my trusty little bottle of chromium for a quick swig. Warmth rose from my stomach to my throat, and so did my confidence.

As the car slid away from the dock, I leapt into the air.

(Continued below the fold!)

Broken Gondola Strands Passengers

An unidentified disturbance halted the Zinc Line yesterday evening about sunset, according to the New Seran Transportation Authority. The NSTA carried passengers home the old-fashioned way, on donkeys and rickshaws down the switchbacks. We see this as proof for the need of a back-up emergency transport system.

(Continued on back.)

Drink to the Health of Elendel!

BILMING’S NE…

‘AMUSE’ ELENDE…

A week ago, Bilming’s Lord Mayor Bastien Severington stood at the city’s impressive harbor and greeted high-ranking officials and noblepersons of the Elendel Senate. Like the peaceable tortoise – symbol of Bilming’s great city – Governor Severington’s gracious invitation to Elendel’s elite has been seen as a gesture of friendship and unity.

More impressive than the harbor are the rows of ships docked there. Most are the usual familiar clippers and cargo ships but among them float metal beasts like sharks among turtles. These are the warships developed by Lord Mayor Severington and the late Dr. Florin Malin, predecessor to the Basin’s current Minister of Science and Technology.

“Each ship carries eight 12-inch twin guns with each turret having a range of sixteen miles,” said Severington. “Other improvements include reinforced armor hulls, electrical rangefinders, and a top speed of 24 miles an hour. We call them Pewternauts.”

But some members of Elendel’s delegation were not impressed.

“What an amusing display of toys,” said Senator Inis Julien. “Why do we need warships? The Basin is alone on land and on the seas. From whom do we need protection?”

(Continued on back.)

NOW PLAYING!

at the Uptown Trio Theater

THE DEN OF THE SURVIVOR!

A crew of freedom fighters

RISE UP AGAINST OPRESSION

and

OVERTHROW A CORRUPT GOV’T

The Ghasty Gondola!

The monks of Baz-Kor had trained me well, their practiced moves designed to gel a leecher close enough to touch another Allomancer and drain them of their reserves. But it was the ballet lessons that enabled my jump from the platform onto the

6

Marasi stopped on the image of the monster.

It was evening; people chatted softly around her in the dining car, and the train rolled around a picturesque bend, but for a moment she was transfixed by that image. A sketch of violent, rough lines that somehow conveyed a terrible dread. Most of the pages in the stack VenDell had delivered contained transcripts of questions answered – or, more often, not answered – by the wounded kandra.

This was different. A wild sketch using two colors of pencil to depict a terrible visage. A burning red face, a distorted mouth, horns and spikes streaking out along the rim. But black eyes, drawn like voids on the red skin. It looked like a childhood terror ripped right out of a nightmare.

The bottom of the page had a caption.

Yesterday.

The next page was an interview.

Spikes. Marasi pulled her purse from under the table, digging into it as the couple at the table behind her laughed loudly, calling for more wine. Marasi pushed aside the two-shot pistol she had tucked inside and took out a thin book, a copy of the one that Ironeyes had given to Waxillium.

Inside it she found the description she wanted, words written by the Lord Mistborn, Lestibournes.

It was so odd to read the Lord Mistborn’s words and have them sound so casual. This was the Survivor of the Flames, the governor who had ruled mankind in benevolence for a century, guiding them on the difficult path to rebuild civilization. He sounded so normal. He even admitted in one section to having Breeze, Counselor of Gods, write most of his speeches for him. So all of the famous words, quotes, and inscriptions attributed to the Lord Mistborn were fabrications.

Not that he was a fool. No, the book was full of insight. Disturbing insight. The Lord Mistborn advocated gathering the Metalborn who were elderly or terminally ill, then asking them to sacrifice themselves to make these … spikes, which could in turn be used to create individuals of great power.

He made a good argument in the book. It wouldn’t have been so disturbing if it had been easy to dismiss.

She studied the descriptions of Hemalurgic experiments in the book, trying to ignore the loud couple behind her. Could this drawing be of a new kind of Hemalurgic monster, like those Wax had encountered under Elendel? Designed by the Set, or perhaps the result of a failed experiment? Or was this instead related to the continually ephemeral Trell, the god with an unknown metal?

She eventually put them aside and focused on her primary task. How to find ReLuur’s spike? He’d been wounded in some kind of explosion that had ripped off part of his body, and he’d been forced to flee, leaving the flesh – and the spike – behind.

Kandra flesh remained in its humanlike state once cut free of the body, so those cleaning up after the explosion would have simply disposed of it, right? She needed to see if they’d created some kind of mass grave for people killed in that explosion. Of course, if the Set knew what to look for in a kandra’s corpse, they might have recovered the spike. The pictures – and the possibility they were experimenting with Hemalurgy – made that more plausible. So that was another potential lead. And …

And was that Wayne’s voice? Marasi turned to look at the laughing couple behind her. Sure enough, Wayne had joined them, and was chatting amicably with the drunk pair, who wore fine evening attire. Wayne, as usual, was in Roughs trousers and suspenders, duster hung on the peg beside the table.

He saw Marasi and grinned, drinking a cup of the couple’s wine before bidding them farewell. The train hit a sharp bump, causing plates to rattle on tables as Wayne slid into the seat across from Marasi, his face full of grin.

“Mooching wine?” Marasi asked.

“Nah,” he said. “They’re drinking bubbly. Can barely stand the stuff. I’m mooching accents. Those folks, they’re from New Seran. Gotta get a feel for how people talk there.”

“Ah. You do realize it’s proper to remove your hat indoors, correct?”

“Sure do.” He tipped his hat at her, then leaned back in his chair and somehow got his booted feet up on the small table. “What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.

“The dining car?” Marasi asked. “I just wanted a place to spread out.”

“Wax rented us out an entire train car, woman,” Wayne said, pointing at a passing waiter, then pointing at his mouth and making a tipping motion. “We’ve got like six rooms or somethin’ all to ourselves.”

“Maybe I simply wanted to be around people.”

“And we ain’t people?”

“That is subject to some dispute in your case.”

He grinned, then winked at her as the waiter finally stepped over.

“You wanted–” the waiter began.

“Liquor,” Wayne said.

“Would you care to be a little more specific, sir?”

“Lots of liquor.”

The waiter sighed, then glanced at Marasi, and she shook her head. “Nothing for me.”

He moved off to obey. “No bubbly!” Wayne shouted after him, earning him more than one glare from the car’s other occupants. He then turned to eye Marasi. “So? Gonna answer my question? What’re you hidin’ from, Marasi?”

She sat for a moment, feeling the rhythmic rattle of the train’s motion. “Does it ever bother you to be in his shadow, Wayne?”

“Who? Wax? I mean, he’s been putting on weight, but he’s not that fat yet, is he?” He grinned, though that faded when she didn’t smile back. And, in an uncharacteristic moment of solemnity, he slid his boots off the table and rested one elbow on it instead, leaning toward her.

“Nah,” he said after some thought. “Nah, it doesn’t. But I don’t care much if people look at me or not. Sometimes my life is easier if they ain’t looking at me, ya know? I like listening.” He eyed her. “You’re sore that he thought you couldn’t do this on your own?”

“No,” she said. “But … I don’t know, Wayne. I studied law in the first place – studied famous lawkeepers – because I wanted to become something others thought I couldn’t. I got the job at the precinct, and thought I’d accomplished something, but Aradel later admitted he was first interested in hiring me because he wanted someone who could get close to, and keep an eye on, Waxillium.

“We both know the kandra wanted him on this mission, and they arranged the meeting with me to try to hook him. At the precinct, when I accomplish something, everyone assumes I had Waxillium’s help. Sometimes it’s like I’m no more than an appendage.”

“You’re not that at all, Marasi,” Wayne said. “You’re important. You help out a lot. Plus you smell nice, and not all bloody and stuff.”

“Great. I have no idea what you just said.”

“Appendages don’t smell nice,” Wayne said. “And they’re kinda gross. I cut one outta a fellow once.”

“You mean an appendix?”

“Sure.” He hesitated. “So…”

“Not the same thing.”

“Right. Thought you was makin’ a metaphor, since people don’t need one of those and all.”

Marasi sighed, leaning back and rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Why was she discussing this with Wayne again?

“I understand,” he said. “I know what you’re feeling, Mara. Wax … he’s kind of overwhelming, eh?”

“It’s hard to fault him,” Marasi said. “He’s effective, and I don’t think he even knows that he’s being overbearing. He fixes things – why should I be upset about that? Rusts, Wayne, I studied his life, admiring what he did. I should feel lucky to be part of it. And I do, mostly.”

Wayne nodded. “But you want to be your own person.”

“Exactly!”

“Nobody’s forcing you to stay with us,” Wayne noted. “As I recall, Wax spent a lot of effort at first trying to keep you from always gettin’ involved.”

“I know, I know. I just … Well, this once I was thinking for a time that I might be able to do something important on my own.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “It’s stupid, I know, but it still feels frustrating. We’ll do all this work, find that spike, and get back to the kandra – then they’ll thank Waxillium.”

Wayne nodded thoughtfully. “I knew this fellow once,” he said, leaning back again, feet on the table, “who thought it would be a good idea to take people huntin’. City folk, you know? Who ain’t never seen an animal larger than a rat what ate too much? Out in the Roughs, we got lions. Fierce things, with lotsa teeth an–”

“I know what a lion is, Wayne.”

“Right. Well, Chip – that’s his name – he got some broadsheets printed up, but borrowed some notes from his girl in order to do it. And so she thought she should get a piece of the money once he got people to pay for this trip. Well, the first money came in, and they got in a fight and she ended up stabbing him right in his holster, if you know what I mean. So he stumbles out into the street all bleedin’, and that’s where the constables found him and told him you can’t be killin’ no lions. There’s a law about it, see, as they’re some kind of noble natural treasure, or some such.

“Anyway, they took Chip and stuffed him in jail, where they slammed the bars – by accident – on his rusting fingers. Broke his hand up right good, and he can’t bend the tips of his fingers no more.”

His drink arrived – a bottle of whiskey and a small cup. He took it, telling the waiter to charge Waxillium, then poured some and settled back.

“Is that the end?” Marasi asked.

“What?” Wayne said. “You want more to happen to the poor fellow? Right sadistic of you, Marasi. Right sadistic.”

“I didn’t mean…” She took a deep breath. “Did that have any relevance to the situation I’m in?”

“Not really,” Wayne said, taking a drink, then removing a little wooden box from his pocket and getting out a ball of gum. “But I tell ya, Chip, he has it really bad. Whenever I’m thinkin’ my life is miserable, I remember him, and tell myself, ‘Well, Wayne. At least you ain’t a broke, dickless feller what can’t even pick his own nose properly.’ And I feels better.”

He winked at her, popped the gum in his mouth, then slipped away from the table. He waved to MeLaan, who was wearing a fine lace gown and oversized hat. A normal woman would have needed quite the corset to pull off the outfit, but the kandra had probably just sculpted her body to fit. Which was horribly unfair.

Marasi stared at the notes. Wayne had left her feeling confused, which was not unusual, but perhaps there was wisdom in what he said. She dug back into the research, but it wasn’t too long before she started to droop. It was getting late, the sun having fully set outside, and they wouldn’t arrive for another few hours. So she packed up the stack of pages inside their large folder.

As she did, something slipped out of the folder. Marasi frowned, holding it up. A small cloth pouch. Opening it revealed a small Pathian earring and a note.

She yawned, tucking it away, and pushed out of the dining car. The private car Waxillium had hired for them was two cars back, at the tail end of the train. She held tight to the sheets as she stepped onto the open-air platform between cars, wind whipping at her. A short railman stood here, and eyed her as she crossed to the next car. He didn’t say anything this time, though last time he’d tried to encourage her not to move between cars, insisting that he’d bring her food if she wished.

The next car over was first-class, with a row of private rooms on one side. Marasi passed electric lights glowing on the walls as she crossed the car. Last time she’d been on a train, those had been gas, with bright, steady mantles. She liked progress, but these seemed much less reliable – they’d waver when the train slowed, for example.

She crossed to the final car, then passed her own room and walked toward the room where Waxillium and Steris had taken dinner, to check on them. Both were still there, surprisingly. Waxillium she had expected, but late nights were not Steris’s thing.

Marasi slid open the door, peeking in. “Waxillium?”

The man knelt on the floor, his seat covered in ledgers and sheets of paper. Eyes intent on one of them, he held up his hand toward her in a quieting gesture as she started to ask what he was doing.

Marasi frowned. Why–

“Aha!” Waxillium proclaimed, standing up. “I found it!”

“What?” Steris said. “Where?”

“Tips.”

“I looked in tips.”

“One of the dockworkers turned the request in late,” Waxillium said, grabbing a sheet and spinning it toward Steris. “He tipped a dock boy four clips to run a message for him, and asked for reimbursement. Dockmaster gave it to him, and filed a note, but he wrote the four like a three and the accountants recorded it that way.”

Steris looked it over with wide eyes. “You bastard,” she said, causing Marasi to blink. She’d never heard language like that from Steris. “How did you figure this out?”

Waxillium grinned, folding his arms. “Wayne would say it’s because I’m brilliant.”

“Wayne has the mental capacity of a fruit fly,” Steris said. “In comparison to him, anyone is brilliant. I…” She trailed off, noticing Marasi for the first time. She blinked, and her expression became more reserved. “Marasi. Welcome. Would you like to sit?”

“On what?” Marasi asked. Every surface was covered in ledgers and pages. “The luggage rack? Are those house finances?”

“I found a lost clip,” Waxillium said. “The last one, I should add, which gives me two for the evening, while Steris found one.”

Marasi stared at Steris, who started clearing a place for her to sit. She looked to Waxillium, who stood beaming with the sheet in his hand, looking it over again as if it were some lost metal he’d rescued from a labyrinth.

“A lost clip,” Marasi said. “Great. Maybe you can find something in these.” She held up the pages VenDell had given her. “I’m heading to bed for a few hours.”

“Hmm?” Waxillium said. “Oh, sure. Thanks.” He set down the page with some reluctance, taking the folder.

“Be sure to look at the drawings of monsters,” Marasi said, yawning. “Oh, and this was in there.” She tossed him the pouch with the earring and walked back into the hallway.

She walked toward her room, feeling the train slow once more. Another town? Or were there sheep crossing the tracks again? They were supposed to be getting into the part of the route that was the prettiest. Too bad it would be so dark out.

She walked back to her door, first of those in their car, and glanced out the front window toward the rest of the train, which she was surprised to see moving off into the distance. She gaped for a moment, and then the door at the other end of the car burst open.

The man standing on the platform beyond leveled a gun down the corridor and fired.

7

“Well, I think you showed a real talent for this, Lord Waxillium, as I believe I suggested–”

Wax stopped listening to Steris.

Train slowing.

Chugging sounds retreating.

Door opening.

Wax burned steel.

Steris continued talking, and he nodded absently, part of him going through the motions as the rest of him came alert. He heard a click and Pushed to his left and held it, Pushing to the right against the frame of the train car to keep himself from moving.

As the bullet passed in the hallway outside, his Push – already in place – slammed it sideways into the wall.

Go. His Push had shoved open the door. He dropped the earring – damn that VenDell – and Pushed to the right, on the train car’s metal window frame. This launched him out to the left, streaking into the hallway. He rammed into the wall where he’d Pushed the bullet, Vindication in hand, and drilled the surprised man at the end of the hallway in the forehead.

Marasi clipped off a scream. Steris stuck her head out into the hallway, wide-eyed. Not the smartest move, but she’d rarely been in gunfights.

“Thanks,” Marasi said.

He nodded curtly. “Get your sister behind some cover.” He slipped past her and stepped out onto the small platform between train cars – only, their car had been unhooked and left to drift. A group of three shocked-looking men on horses rode alongside the slowing car.

Horses? Wax thought. Really?

By the starlight – which was bright tonight, with no clouds and the Red Rip low on the horizon – he could see they wore vests over their shirts and sturdy trousers. A larger crowd of them galloped alongside the train ahead. This wasn’t a specific attack on just his car, but a full-blown armed robbery.

That meant he had to be quick.

He shoved on the platform beneath him and decreased his weight. The three robbers nearby started firing, but Wax’s Push flung him into the air above their shots and his decreased weight meant that the wind resistance pushed him backward, onto the train car. He landed, increased his weight, and picked one man off his horse.

The remaining bandits took off forward, kicking their horses and chasing after the others, yelling, “Allomancer! Allomancer!”

Blast, Wax thought, dropping one of the men as the other dodged his horse into a stand of trees. He was out of pistol range in a moment, and would soon catch his fellows.

Wax dropped onto the platform and rushed down the hallway. The room he’d shared with Steris was empty, but he spotted quivering blue lines in the one next door. Marasi had wisely piled everyone into the servants’ compartment.

“Robbery,” Wax said as he threw open the door, startling the servants, Marasi, and Steris. Most of them sat on the floor, though Marasi was by the window, peeking out. And Steris was on the built-in seat, remarkably composed.

“Robbers?” Steris asked. “Really, Lord Waxillium, must you bring your hobbies with you everywhere we go?”

“They’re going after the rest of the train,” Wax said, pointing. “The first thieves must have recognized this car as a private one, probably lush with riches to plunder, and so they uncoupled it. But something is wrong.”

“Other than people trying to kill us?” Marasi asked.

“No,” Steris said, “in my experience, that’s quite normal.”

“What’s wrong,” Wax said, “is that they’re riding horses.”

The others stared at him.

“Horseback train robberies,” Wax said, “are something out of the story magazines. Nobody actually does that. What good does it do to board a moving train, risking your life, when you can just stop the vehicle like the Vanishers did?”

“So our bad guys…” Marasi said.

“New to this,” Wax said. “Or they’ve been reading too much cheap fiction. Either way, they’re still going to be dangerous. I can’t risk leaving you here, in case they come back for you. So keep your heads down and hang on.”

“Hang on?” Herve said. “Why–”

Wax ducked back out into the hallway and ran to the back end of the car. After checking out the doorway, he jumped onto the tracks behind the private car, which was finally rolling to a stop. Then he tapped his metalminds and increased his weight.

A lot.

The gravel sank under his feet as his body became increasingly heavy. He gritted his teeth, flared his metal, and Pushed.

The car lurched in place as if another train had crashed into it. His Push sent it rattling along the tracks, and Wax let out his breath. His muscles didn’t hurt, but he felt as if he’d slammed into a wall.

He released his metalmind, returning his weight to normal, and Pushed on the rails to pull himself out of the gravel. He almost lost a boot in the process.

He Pushed against the tracks once more, sending himself chasing after the moving car. Not nearly fast enough, he thought as he dropped to the ground and increased his weight again. The car rocked as he shoved it, then he hopped and followed, repeating the process three more times to get it up to speed. Then finally he Pushed himself all the way up to it, jamming his shoulder against the back wall and using Allomancy on the tracks behind to sustain and increase the momentum.

Ground passed behind in a blur, rows and rows of wooden ties, the steel rails with a continuous stream of metal lines that pointed toward Wax’s chest. He groaned, and moved so his back was toward the wall. Still, the Pushing threatened to crush him, as he couldn’t increase his weight here much or risk ripping up the tracks.

They shot past a group of horses with a few youths guarding them – the bandits’ extra mounts. Wax raised Vindication and fired a few shots into the air, but the horses were too well trained to spook at the sound.

He redoubled his Push as he thought he heard gunfire ahead of him. A moment later, his car slammed into the train proper. Wax let go, dropping to the platform, his back aching. The couplers had engaged, however, and the car remained attached to the rest of the train.

He peeked into the car, then ducked in, passing the room where the others were hiding. In his own compartment, he dropped Vindication into her holster, then yanked his gun case off the top rack.

“Waxillium?” Marasi said, slipping into the room.

“You seen Wayne?” Wax asked.

“He was in the dining car a little bit ago.”

“He’ll be fighting already. If you see him, let him know I’m going to hit the front of the train, then sweep backward.” Wax snapped one Sterrion closed, now loaded, then reached for the second.

“Got it,” Marasi said. She hesitated. “You’re worried.”

“No masks.”

“No…”

“Robbers wear masks,” Wax said. He clicked the second Sterrion closed, then buckled on his gunbelt. Vindication, after a reload, went back into his shoulder holster.

“And men who don’t wear masks?”

“They don’t care if they’re seen.” He looked over and met her eyes. “They’re already outlaws, and don’t have anything to lose. Men like that kill easily. What’s more, it’s obvious to me that they’ve never tried a train robbery before. Either they are very, very desperate – or someone put them up to this.”

She paled. “You don’t think the attack is a coincidence.”

“If it is, I’ll eat Wayne’s hat.” He eyed the shotgun Ranette had given him, then tied on his thigh holster and slipped it in. Then he hung two of her cord-and-sphere contraptions from his gunbelt. Finally, he reached up and took a rifle bag off the top shelf and tossed it to Marasi.

“Watch Steris,” he said. “See if you can find Wayne; check on the next car or two, but don’t worry about advancing farther if you meet resistance. Just hold your ground and protect these people.”

“Right.”

He moved toward the hallway, but as soon as he stepped out a hail of gunfire drove him back again. He cursed. All it would take was one aluminum bullet – which he couldn’t Push on – and he’d be dead.

He took a deep breath, then glanced out quickly while Pushing, and counted four bandits on the rear platform of the next car forward.

They fired again. He ducked back and watched the blue lines of bullets as they flew, taking chunks of wood paneling off the wall and splintering his doorframe. It didn’t appear that any of the bullets were aluminum.

“Distraction?” Marasi asked.

“Yes, please,” Wax said, increasing his weight and Pushing on the window frame, launching it out of the side of the car and against a passing tree. “Fire a few times as I leave, then give me a count of twenty, followed by a distraction.”

“Will do.”

Wax threw himself out the window. Immediately he fired Vindication downward, burying a bullet in the ground and giving him something to Push on to launch himself upward. Marasi fired a few quick shots inside, and hopefully the robbers would assume his shot had been inside as well.

Soaring high, wind whipping at his hair and suit coat, he shot a second bullet into the ground, but farther out, and used it to nudge himself to the right – placing him above the train.

He didn’t let himself touch down, instead using a Push on the nails in the train roof to keep flying forward. He soared over his own car and the one the robbers were in, finally landing on the dining car, which was third from the back.

As he turned to face the rear, his mental count hit twenty. A second later, he heard a spray of gunfire coming from Marasi. That was his mark; Wax dropped between the dining car and the robbers’ car.

He fell practically on top of one of the robbers, who was backing out of the second car from the end – which he hadn’t expected. Wax leveled his gun, but the surprised man punched him in the gut.

Wax grunted, increasing his weight. The platform beneath him strained, but when he shoved the robber with his shoulder, it sent the man tumbling toward the tracks. The robber had kindly left the door open for him, and he had a clean shot at the backs of his fellows at the far end, who were focused on Marasi in the last train car beyond.

Wax didn’t shoot; he just Pushed on the metal they were carrying. The men flipped off the rear platform, dropping into the space between cars. One caught the railing. Wax shot him in the arm, then turned, leveling his gun toward the dining car.

People cringed inside, hiding under tables, whimpering. Rusts … Without bandanas or identifying marks to watch for, he’d have trouble spotting the bandits. He set up his steel bubble, a faint Push away from himself in all directions that excluded his own weapons. It was far from perfect – he’d been shot several times while using it – but it did help.

He turned and strode into the second car from the back, the one the robbers had been using, checking for hostiles at each door, his steel bubble rattling doorknobs. First-class passengers were hiding here, and none appeared hurt.

In Wax’s car, Marasi ducked out of the room, carrying one of Wax’s favorite hats. She shrugged apologetically at its numerous holes.

“If I find Wayne, I’ll send him to you,” he told her, reaching to his gunbelt for a metal vial. He came up with wet fingers, and his belt clinked with broken glass.

Damn. The robber who’d slugged him had broken his vials. He hurriedly hopped over the space between cars, entering their private car again. “I need metal,” he explained at Marasi’s inquisitive look.

He stepped up to his room, then hesitated as a hand stuck out of the next room down, holding a small vial.

“Steris?” he said, walking to her. She was still sitting on the plush train bench – though her face was paler than before. “Steel flakes in suspension,” she said, wiggling the vial.

“Since when have you carried one of these?” Wax asked, taking it from her.

“Since about six months ago. I put one into my purse in case you might need it.” She raised her other hand, displaying two more. “I carry the other two because I’m neurotic.”

He grinned, taking all three. He downed the first one, then nearly choked. “What the hell is in this?”

“Other than steel?” Steris asked. “Cod-liver oil.”

He looked at her, gaping.

“Whiskey is bad for you, Lord Waxillium. A wife must look out for her husband’s health.”

He sighed and drank one more, then tucked the last into his gunbelt. “Stay safe. I’m going to scout the train.” He left and threw himself out the end door, Pushing on the tracks and launching himself in a high arc upward.

The land spread before him, bathed in starlight. The southern end of the Basin, approaching the Seran mountain range, was far more varied in geography than the northern portion. Here, hills rolled across the land, which slowly increased in elevation.

The Seran River cut a strikingly straight path through the hills, often having carved out gorges and canyons. The train line stayed up higher, hugging the tops of hillsides, though its path required it to cut two or three times across the river on large latticework bridges.

The train consisted of eight passenger cars, several cargo cars, and a dining car. He let himself drop, focusing on a specific car near the front where gunshots sounded. As he landed just behind that car, someone stumbled out onto the platform, holding his face.

Armed bank guard, he thought, noting the man’s uniform. The train was bringing a payroll shipment inside a courier car disguised as if carrying a more mundane cargo. What was that scent in the air? Formaldehyde? The guard was gasping, and soon another stumbled out after him.

Both fell a moment later to gunfire from inside the courier car. Wax dropped down onto the platform beside the fallen men, checking on them. One was still moving; Wax knelt and moved the man’s hand to cover the hole in his shoulder. “Press hard,” he said over the sounds of the thumping track. “I’ll be back for you.”

The man nodded weakly. Wax took a deep breath and stepped into the courier car, where his eyes immediately started burning. Men moved inside, wearing strange masks and working at a large safe in the center. Half a dozen dead guards lay strewn across the floor of the car.

Wax started shooting, flooring several of the robbers, then Pushed himself out again, then upward as the others took cover and started firing back. He landed on the car behind the courier car, holstered Vindication – who was out of bullets – and brought out a Sterrion.

He prepared to drop down to try picking off more robbers, but an explosion inside the courier car interrupted him. It was a small blast, as explosions went, but it still left Wax’s ears ringing. He winced and dropped to the platform, noticing figures moving in the smoke, stooping beside the safe, removing its contents. Others started firing at him.

He ducked to the side, then Pushed the door to the courier car closed, blocking the gunfire with the reinforced metal door. He grabbed the wounded guard under the arms and pulled him backward over the small gap between platforms and into the passenger car behind. This was another car with private compartments, though second-class, where those rooms had been filled with larger groups.

It was currently empty; the passengers, hearing the gunfire in the next car, had fled down the train. He checked each room anyway. Afterward, he propped the wounded man against the wall inside one of the rooms and tied a handkerchief around the wound, pulling it tight.

“The money…” the guard said.

“They’ve got the money,” Wax replied. “Stopping them isn’t worth risking any more lives.”

“But…”

“I got a good look at several of them,” Wax said, “and hopefully so did you. We’ll give descriptions, chase them down, set a trap on our terms. Besides, if they leave now, there might be time to help a few of your friends in there.”

The guard nodded weakly. “Couldn’t stop them. They threw bottles through the windows.… And then the doors ripped off. Steel doors, Pushed into the room, twisted off their hinges like they were paper…”

Wax felt a chill. So the bandits had Metalborn too. Wax peeked around the wall back toward the courier car, and found the door he’d closed open again. A thin man stood on the platform, wearing a long coat and supporting himself on a cane. He gestured, speaking urgently and motioning for another bandit to lumber toward Wax’s car – a hulking brute who had to be almost seven feet tall.

Wonderful. “Get in here,” Wax said to the guard, pulling open the luggage compartment in the room’s floor. “Keep your head down.”

The guard crawled into the compartment, which was cramped and shallow, but large enough for a person, even with a few pieces of luggage in it. Wax pulled out both Sterrions, crouching in the doorway of the private room. The train continued to rock, going around a bend. The thing hadn’t stopped. Did the engineer not know about the attack, or was he hoping to get to the next town?

Rusts, the courier car changed all of Wax’s assessments. Maybe this wasn’t about him. But why not simply stop the train and raid it in the wilderness? Too many questions, and no time to answer them. He had a bandit to kill. He’d have to jump out and surprise the brute, bring him down quick. If he was the Metalborn, surprise would be–

Something bounced down the hallway and came to a rest on the floor beside Wax, just outside the doorway in which he crouched. A small metal cube. He jumped back, fearing an explosive, but nothing happened. What had that been?

And then he realized with a deep, bone-chilling horror that he was no longer burning metal. There was nothing inside of him to burn.

His steel reserves had – somehow – vanished.

Marasi fired three shots with the rifle, driving the bandits in the next car back under cover. Impressive, she thought, absently handing the weapon to Steris for reloading. She’d always used a target rifle before. You took one shot at a time with those, cocking between, but Waxillium’s rifle had a wheel full of cartridges that turned on its own, like a revolver.

Steris handed back the gun, and Marasi took aim again, waiting for any bandit bits to peek out. She hid just inside the door to the servants’ compartment, and the bandits hadn’t made any serious attempts at advancing on her position.

Someone said something beside her. Marasi glanced into the room, where Drewton was speaking. Marasi pulled out one of her wax earplugs.

“What?” she asked.

“Are those earplugs?” the valet asked.

“What do they look like?” she said, then sighted down the rifle and fired a shot.

Drewton shoved his hands over his ears. Indeed, in the small chamber, the shot was loud enough that she was annoyed he’d made her remove her earplug.

“You carry them with you?” Drewton asked.

“Steris does.” Apparently. Marasi had been a little surprised when Steris had pulled out a pair for herself, then – an unconcerned look on her face – handed a pair to Marasi.

“So you expected this to happen?”

“More or less,” Marasi said, watching for movement from the bandits.

He seemed aghast. “This sort of thing happens often?”

“Would you say it happens often, Steris?” Marasi asked.

“Hmm?” Steris said, removing an earplug. “What was that?”

Marasi fired a shot, then looked up. Think I winged that one. “The valet wants to know if this sort of thing happens often to us.”

“You more than me,” Steris said conversationally. “But when Lord Waxillium is around, things do tend to pop up.”

“Things?” Drewton said. “Pop up? This is a rusting train robbery!”

Steris regarded the valet with a cool expression. “Didn’t you inquire about your prospective master before entering Lord Waxillium’s employ?”

“Well, I mean, I knew he had an interest in the constabulary. Like some lords have an interest in the symphony, or in civic matters. It seemed odd, but not ungentlemanly. I mean, it’s not as if he was involved in the theater.”

They’ve gone quiet over there, Marasi thought, nervously tapping one finger against the rifle barrel. Were they going to try to cross over onto the top of her car again? One of the holes in the ceiling still dripped blood from the previous attempt.

To the side, Steris clicked her tongue disapprovingly at Drewton’s words. He hadn’t done his homework, which was a dreadful sin in Steris’s eyes. Little could be worse than entering a situation without being thorough.

“Is … is he going to come back?” Drewton asked.

“Once he’s finished,” Steris said.

“Finished with what?”

“Killing the rest of them, hopefully,” she said.

Marasi found herself surprised at Steris’s bloodthirst. Of course, the woman hadn’t been quite the same since her kidnapping eighteen months back. It wasn’t that Steris acted traumatized – but she’d changed.

“They aren’t trying to get to us anymore,” Drewton said. “Did they retreat?”

“Maybe,” Marasi said. Probably not.

“Should we go look?” Drewton asked.

“We?”

“Well, you.” He tugged at his collar. “Gunfights. I had not actually expected gunfights. Aren’t the servants usually left out of such extravagances?”

“Most of the time,” Marasi said.

“Except when the house blew up,” Steris added.

“Except then.”

“And … you know,” Steris said.

“Best not to mention it.”

“Mention what?” Drewton asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marasi said, glaring at Steris. Honestly. If the man couldn’t do a little research before taking a job–

“Wait,” Drewton said, frowning. “What exactly happened to Lord Ladrian’s previous valet?”

Motion in the hallway again. Marasi snapped her rifle up, ready to fire. However, the person who moved out into the hallway wasn’t one of the bandits, but an older woman in a fine traveling dress. A bandit walked behind her, gun to her head.

Marasi shot him right in the forehead.

She gaped, shocked at herself, and almost dropped the gun. Fortunately the remaining bandit – seeing that the ploy hadn’t worked – ran out of the car, fleeing toward the front of the train.

Rusts! Marasi felt sweat trickle down her temple. She’d fired so quickly, without even thinking. The poor hostage stood there, blood from the dead man all over her. Marasi knew what that felt like. Yes, she did.

Beside her, Drewton let out a few oaths that would have made Harmony blush. “What were you thinking?” he demanded of her. “You could have hit the woman.”

“Statistics … Statistics say…” Marasi took a deep breath. “Shut up.”

“Huh?”

“Shut up.” She stood, holding the gun in nervous hands, and made her way into the next car.

The woman had found her husband – alive, fortunately – and was crying in his arms. Marasi stood over the bandit corpse, then looked back out at the roof of her car, where another one lay. She hated this part. A year and a half working with Waxillium hadn’t made killing any easier. It was unnerving, and it was such a waste! If you had to shoot a man, society had already failed.

Marasi steeled herself and did a quick check of the rooms of the first-class car, determining that the bandits had well and truly retreated. One of the first-class passengers claimed to have experience with a gun, and she handed him the rifle and set him watching to be certain no bandits returned.

From there she went to the dining car, checking on the passengers, calming them. Gunshots came from farther up the train. Waxillium was doing his job. His effective, brutal job. The next car up – fourth from the end – was a second-class car, with packed rooms. She checked on the people here too.

Between the two cars, she found four people who had been shot. One was dead, another seriously wounded, so Marasi went to see if Steris had, by chance, brought any bandages or medical equipment. The chances were slim, but this was Steris. Who knew what she had planned for?

Marasi passed Drewton, who sat morosely on a seat in one of the first-class cabins, obviously wondering how an expert cravat-tier had ended up in the middle of a virtual war zone. Steris, however, wasn’t in the servants’ compartment. Nor was she in the one she had been sharing with Waxillium.

Increasingly frantic, Marasi searched through the first-class rooms. No Steris. Finally, she thought to ask the man she’d posted on guard.

“Her?” he said. “Yes, miss. She went by here a few minutes ago, moving up the train. Should I have stopped her? She seemed very determined about something.”

Marasi groaned. Steris must have slipped past while she was checking in the rooms of the second-class car. Frustrated, she took her rifle back and chased after her sister.

Wax’s metal reserves were gone.

Wax knelt, completely stunned. This was impossible. How in Harmony’s name?

He twisted, discovering that the enormous bandit had stepped into this car. Doors rattled around the man, shaking as if someone were trying violently to get out. Wax ducked into the hallway and lifted his gun, but it was flipped from his fingers by a Push. Immediately after, Wax himself was shoved backward by his gunbelts. He slammed into the opposite wall of the car, right next to the closed door leading toward the back of the train.

He groaned in pain. How? How had they…?

He shook his head, then heaved against the wall, using his breakaway buckles to rip free of his gunbelts. He dropped to the floor, leaving his guns and the metal vial stuck to the wall as the brute loped toward him.

Wax dodged under the man’s first swing and delivered a punch right into the man’s side. It felt like punching a steel wall. He danced backward, but rusts, it had been years since he’d gotten into a real fistfight – and he was slower than he’d once been. The giant’s next right hook caught him as he tried to jab for the face.

His vision flashed, and his cheek erupted in pain. The blow shoved him into the side wall. Rusts! Where was Wayne? The brute came in again, and Wax dodged to the side, barely, and managed to connect with the man’s face. Once, twice, three quick jabs.

The brute smiled. Doors still rattled around him – he was a Coinshot, obviously, Pushing out with a bubble like the one Wax used. It even pressed a little on the metalminds Wax wore on his upper arms, which were resistant to Allomancy.

This man could have ended the fight at any moment by grabbing a bit of metal and shooting it. He preferred the hand-to-hand fight. Indeed, the man raised his fists and nodded to Wax, still grinning, inviting him to come in for another round.

To hell with that.

Wax turned and slammed his shoulder against a door into an empty second-class compartment and made for the window.

“Hey!” the man said behind him. “Hey!”

Wax leaped at the window and increased his weight. He hit the window shoulder-first, arms covering his face, and smashed through – then barely managed to catch the bottom window frame as he fell outside.

Fingers dripping blood from the broken glass, he pulled himself up, stood on the windowsill, and scaled the outside of the train, finally heaving himself onto the roof. Wind rushed around him, and he was shocked to see that he wasn’t alone up here. Ahead about four cars, a group of armed men pressed toward the front of the train, bearing something large and seemingly heavy. What in the name of the lost metal was that?

“Hey!” the large bandit said again as he climbed the side of the car.

Wax sighed, then kicked the man in the face as he tried to pull himself onto the top. The man growled. Wax kicked him again, then stomped on one of his hands. The man glared at Wax, then dropped back down to the window and climbed inside.

You can beat anybody, Wayne always said, so long as you don’t let them fight back properly.

Wax moved to the center of the train car. He felt he should be chasing down those men up ahead. But he was unarmed now, and the Coinshot below was bound to pester him.

You have what you wanted, he thought at the robbers. Why are you still fighting?

The brute’s head appeared a moment later, peeking over the lip of the car’s roof, near the rear platform, which had a ladder. Wax rushed him, preparing to kick again, but the brute climbed up too quickly. He was holding something.

One of Wax’s gunbelts. Damn.

The man grinned, stepping onto the rooftop, pulling Ranette’s enormous shotgun out and dropping the gunbelt. Beneath them, the train shot out of the forest and rolled toward an open bridge rising hundreds of feet above the river below.

The brute raised the shotgun as if to fire from the hip.

Excellent.

Wax dove for the rooftop as the brute pulled the trigger, and the massive kick Ranette had built into the gun took him entirely by surprise. The weapon ripped out of his fingers, jerking backward and falling down between the cars. The man howled, cradling his hand.

Wax tackled him in the chest. The man grunted, stumbling backward, but caught himself before he toppled off the train. Wax didn’t care.

He was after the gunbelt, which had fallen at the man’s feet. He snatched it with fingers still wet with blood. It held Ranette’s two cord devices, along with a single, glorious metal vial.

Wax yanked it out, tucking the gunbelt into his waistband. However, the vial lurched in his fingers. He snatched it, holding on tightly, but the brute’s Push sent him backward across the train’s roof in a skid. He slipped and fell to his knees, catching the side of the train.

The Coinshot kept Pushing. Wax clung to the rooftop with his left hand, but his right arm – which held the metal vial – strained in its socket. The brute smiled and started walking forward. Each step closer let him Push harder.

Wax gritted his teeth. The cuts on his fingers were superficial, though they stung like hell and the blood made his grip slippery. He struggled, trying to pull the vial toward his mouth, but failed.

Ranette’s sphere devices. They hung from the gunbelt tucked into his waist. Could he use those? How? Beneath him, the train started across the bridge.

The thug advanced on Wax, rolling his shoulder and trying to make a fist despite his broken thumb. Behind the man something moved on the ladder. A head coming up? Wayne!

No. He saw the tip of a gun wave as the person climbed. Wayne wouldn’t have a gun. Marasi?

Steris appeared at the lip of the roof, wind blowing her hair wildly. She looked from the huge robber to Wax, then seemed to gasp – though the wind was too loud for Wax to hear it. She scrambled up and set herself, crouching on one knee, holding Ranette’s shotgun.

Oh no.

“Steris!” he shouted.

The brute spun, noticing her as she set the gun at her shoulder, wide-eyed, dress rippling against her body in the wind.

She pulled the trigger. Unsurprisingly, the shot went wild, but it did manage to clip the brute in the arm, spraying blood. The man grunted, releasing his Push on Wax.

Unfortunately, the enormous kick of that gun – intended to be used to fight Allomancers – hurled Steris backward.

And right off the side of the train.

8

Wax leaped off the side of the train and raised the vial to his mouth.

Steris toppled below, falling toward the river. He ripped the cork free with his teeth and turned over in the air, sucking down the contents of the vial. Cod-liver oil and metal flakes washed into his mouth. Swallowing took a precious moment.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Power.

Wax shouted, flaring steel and Pushing on the tracks up above. He shot downward in a blur, slamming into Steris, grabbed her, and Pushed on the shotgun that toppled beneath her.

It hit the water.

They slowed immediately. Water viscosity being what it was, you could Push off something sinking. A second later, the shotgun hit the bottom of the churning river, and that left the two of them hanging about two feet above the water’s surface. A faint, solitary blue line led from Wax to the shotgun.

Steris breathed in short, frantic gasps. She clung to him, blinked, then looked down at the river.

“What is wrong with that gun!” she said.

“It’s meant for me to shoot,” Wax said, “when my weight is increased to counteract the kick.” He looked up toward the disappearing train. It had crossed the river, but now would have to slow and chug its way down some switchbacks on a hill on the other side, coming out of the highlands to head on toward New Seran.

“Hold this,” he told Steris, handing her his gunbelt and removing the two spheres. “What were you thinking? I told you to stay back in the other car.”

“As a point of fact,” she said, “you did not. You told me to stay safe.”

“So?”

“So, it has been my experience that the safest place in a gunfight is near you, Lord Waxillium.”

He grunted. “Hold your breath.”

“What? Why should I–”

She yelped as he Pushed on the steel bridge supports nearby, plunging them down into the river. Ice-cold water surrounded them as Wax kept Pushing, plunging downward until he reached his gun – easily located by its blue line – settled into the muck on the bottom. Ears throbbing from the pressure, he snatched the gun, replacing it with one of Ranette’s sphere devices, then Pushed.

They popped back out of the river, trailing water, and Wax Pushed them as high as his anchor would allow and handed Steris the shotgun to hold. From there, he Pushed off one of the support beams below – launching them upward and to the side. A Push on one from the other direction sent them bounding upward the other way, and he was able to work them toward the top of the bridge.

The angle of these Pushes had sent them out away from the tracks, unfortunately. When they soared up past the bridge, he needed to sling Ranette’s other sphere device out – getting it into a small gap between bridge struts. He engaged the hooks, so that the Push from below, combined with the taut cord in his hand, swung him and Steris in an arc.

He landed on the tracks, a soggy Steris in one arm, cord in the other. He could imagine Ranette’s grin as he told her how well the thing had worked. He disengaged the hooks and yanked the device back into his hand, though he had to wind the cord manually.

Steris’s teeth chattered audibly, and he glanced at her as he finished winding, expecting to see her frightened and miserable. Instead, despite being dripping wet, she had a stupid grin on her face, eyes alight with excitement.

Wax couldn’t help smiling himself as he stowed Ranette’s sphere and tied on his gunbelt, then shoved his shotgun into the holster. “Remember, you’re not supposed to find things like that fun, Steris. You’re supposed to be boring. I have it on good authority from this woman I know.”

“A tone-deaf man,” Steris said, “can still enjoy a good choir – even if he could never participate.”

“Not buying the act, my dear,” Wax said. “Not any longer. You just climbed on top of a moving train car and shot a bandit, rescuing your fiancé.”

“It behooves a woman,” she said, “to show an interest in her husband’s hobbies. Though I suppose I should be outraged, as this is the second dunking you’ve given me in a very short period of time, Lord Waxillium.”

“I thought you said the first one wasn’t my fault.”

“Yes, but this was twice as cold. So it evens out.”

He smiled. “You want to wait here, or join me?”

“Um … join you?”

He nodded to the left. Far below, the train hit the end of its switchbacks down the hillside, leveling out to approach the final bend before heading southward. Her eyes opened wider, then she grabbed him in a tight grip.

“When we land,” he said, “keep your head down and find a place to hide.”

“Got it.”

He took a deep breath, then launched them high in a powerful arc through the night air. They sailed across the river, coming down like a bird of prey toward the front of the train.

Wax slowed himself and Steris with a careful Push on the engine, setting down atop the coal tender. Inside the cab right in front of them, a bandit held a gun to the engineer’s head. Wax let go of Steris, then spun around and pumped the shotgun – popping the expended shells into the air – and Pushed on the shells, sending them through the back of the engine cab and right into the bandit’s head. He dropped, falling on the engine controls.

Wax was nearly thrown off as the train lurched, slowing down. He spun, grabbing Steris by the arm. To his right, the startled engineer grabbed the lever, smoothing out the deceleration. Holding Steris to him, Wax leaped with a short Push into the open rear of the engine, where they landed beside the engineer and the dead bandit.

“What are they doing?” he asked, dropping Steris, then kneeling and taking the dead bandit’s pistol.

“They have some device,” the engineer said, frantic, pointing. “They’re installing it between the coal tender and the first car. Shot my fireman when he tried to defend me, the bastards!”

“Where’s the next town?”

“Ironstand! We’re getting close. Few more minutes.”

“Get us there as quickly as you can, and call for some surgeons and the local constables the moment we arrive.”

The man nodded frantically. Wax closed his eyes and took a deep breath to orient himself.

The final push. Here we go.

Halfway through the train, Marasi had reason to curse Waxillium Ladrian. Well, another reason. She added it to the list.

Though she was supposed to be finding Steris, she spent most of her time being mobbed by worried passengers who needed soothing. Apparently the bandits had quickly worked their way through the second- and third-class cars, shaking people down for what little money they had. The people were terrified, upset, and looking for anyone with a hint of authority to comfort them.

Marasi did her best, settling them onto benches, checking to see if any more people were seriously wounded. She helped bandage a young man who had stood up to a bandit, and now bore a shot in the side as a result. He might make it.

Passengers had seen Steris come through here. Marasi tried to contain her worry and peeked into the next car in the line. It was deserted save for one passenger standing calmly at the far end, cane in hand, blocking the passage.

Marasi checked the various rooms as she entered, rifle held at the ready, but spotted no bandits. This was the last car before the cargo cars – which, oddly, were at the front of this train. This car’s interior showed its share of bullet holes in the woodwork, suggesting Waxillium had been here.

“Sir?” Marasi asked, hastening to the lone man. He was slender, and younger than she’d expected him to be from behind, considering how his posture slumped, and how he relied upon the cane to keep him upright. “Sir, it’s not safe for you here. You should move to the rear cars.”

He turned toward her with raised eyebrows. “I am always inclined to obey the wishes of a pretty woman,” he said. She could see that he kept one hand stiff at his side, fingers closed as if clutching something. “But what of you, miss? Is there no danger to you?”

“I can care for myself,” Marasi said, noting that the next car in line was crowded with corpses. She felt sick.

“Indeed!” the man said. “You look quite capable. Quite capable indeed.” He leaned in. “Are you more than you appear, perhaps? A Metalborn?”

Marasi frowned at the odd question. She’d taken a dose of cadmium, of course – for all the good it would do. Her Allomancy was generally something to laugh at; she could slow down time in a bubble around herself, which meant speeding it up for everyone else.

A wonderful power if you were bored and waiting for the play to start. But it wasn’t of so much use in combat, where you’d be left frozen in place while your enemies could escape, or just set themselves up to shoot you when the bubble dropped. True, she could make the bubble fairly large, so she could catch others inside of it – but that would still leave her trapped, and likely with hostiles.

The man smiled at her, then abruptly raised his hand, the one that appeared to be clutching something. Marasi started to react, bringing her rifle up. But at that moment, the train unexpectedly lurched, slowing as if someone had leaned on the brake. The man cursed, stumbling and slamming into the wall before falling to the floor. Marasi caught herself, but dropped the rifle.

She looked at the man, who regarded her with wide eyes before maladroitly stumbling to his feet – one of his legs didn’t work right – and hastening out of the train car onto the platform, slamming the door behind him.

Marasi stared after him, confused. She’d assumed he was pulling a gun on her, but that hadn’t been the case at all. The object had been far too small. She reached for her gun, and beside it on the floor she was surprised to find a small metal cube with bizarre symbols on it.

Gunfire sounded ahead. Marasi tucked the curiosity away and shouldered her rifle, determined to find Waxillium and, hopefully, her stupid sister.

Eyes closed, Wax felt the metal burning. That fire, comfortable and familiar. Metal was his soul. Compared to it, the chill of the river was no more than a raindrop on a bonfire.

He felt the gun in his fingers. A bandit’s gun, unfamiliar to him, yet he knew it – knew it by the lines pointing at its barrel, trigger, levers, the bullets inside. Five shots left. He could see them even with his eyes closed.

Go.

He opened his eyes and leaped out of the engine, Pushing himself forward in a rush. He passed over the coal tender, then burst into the first cargo car – laden with mail in heaping sacks – and passed through in a tempest. He skidded out onto its rear platform and Pushed to either side, launching two bandit guards upward and outward, one in each direction.

The train ran up beside the river here. Trees blurred past on the left, water on the right. Wax launched himself upward, onto the top of the second cargo car, noting the bandits with their device here. Another, larger group had gathered on top of the next car, the one they’d robbed.

Wax fired with cold precision, killing the three bandits. He stepped up to the “device” the engineer had mentioned, which was nothing more than a large case of dynamite and a trigger linked to a clock. Wax ripped the detonator off, tossed it aside, then Pushed the entire box away to be sure. It plunged into the river.

Something Pushed his gun out of his hand. He spun, finding the large bandit from before lumbering toward him across the roof. He’d left the larger group of bandits on the next rooftop over.

You again, Wax thought with a growl, dropping his gunbelt, but resting his foot on it to keep it from blowing away. The man came running toward Wax. With the brute very close, Wax knelt and yanked out Ranette’s sphere device.

The bandit Pushed on that, of course – causing the sphere to leap backward to the side. Wax kept a firm hold on the cord, wrapping it with a yank around the bandit’s leg.

The bandit stared down in confusion.

Wax Pushed, shoving the sphere into a batch of trees, engaging its hooks. “I believe this is your stop.”

The large man suddenly flew off the train, yanked by the cord – which was now hooked to a tree. Wax picked up his gunbelt and advanced on the larger group of bandits, wind whipping around him on the rooftop.

He was facing down at least a dozen of them – and he had no weapon. Fortunately, the group was busy throwing one of their members off the train.

Wax blinked in surprise. But that was indeed what they were doing – they tossed one of the bandits overboard. It was the man with the cane, who hit the water beside the train with a splash. A group of the others started to follow suit, leaping into the river. One spotted Wax, pointing. Six remaining bandits leveled weapons.

Then froze.

Wax hesitated, the wind at his back. The men didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Wax hopped across to the next car, then took a cork from his pocket – from one of his vials – and tossed it toward the men.

It hit some invisible barrier and froze there, hanging in the air. Wax grinned, then dropped down between the cars and pushed into the one the men were standing on. There he found Marasi standing atop a bunch of suitcases, her shoulders pressed against the train’s ceiling just below the men so she could engage a speed bubble and freeze them all in place.

9

Wax had never shot a doctor before, but he did like trying out new experiences. Perhaps today would be the day.

“I’m fine,” he growled as the woman dabbed with cotton at the wound on his face, where the massive brute had punched him. His lip had split.

“I’ll decide that,” she said.

Nearby, the Ironstand constables marched four befuddled bandits along the train platform, which was flooded with light from a few tall arc lamps. Wax sat on a bench near where the other surgeons were attending to the wounded. Farther back, in the shadows of the night, a tarp covered the bodies they’d retrieved. There were far too many of those.

“It looks worse than it is,” Wax said.

“You had blood all over your face, my lord.”

“I wiped my forehead with a bloody hand.” She had wrapped that hand with gauze already, but had agreed that the cuts were superficial.

Finally she stepped back and sighed, nodding. Wax stood up, grabbing his damp suit coat and striding toward the train. He saw Marasi peering out of the front. She shook her head.

No sign of Wayne or MeLaan.

The lump inside Wax’s stomach grew two sizes. Wayne’ll be fine, he told himself. He can heal from practically anything. But there were ways to kill a Bloodmaker. A shot to the back of the head. Prolonged suffocation. Basically, anything that would have forced Wayne to keep healing until his Feruchemical storages ran out.

And, of course, there was the other thing. The strange effect that had somehow stolen Wax’s Allomantic powers. If that worked on Feruchemy too …

Wax strode onto the train, stepping past Marasi without saying a word, and started his own search. The train was dark, now that it had stopped – and the only lights came from the platform outside. There wasn’t much to see by.

“Lord Waxillium?” Constable Matieu said, sticking his head in between two of the cars. The spindly man had a ready smile, which fell off his face as Wax bustled past.

“Busy,” Wax said, entering the next car.

Blue lines let him see sources of metal even in the darkness. Wayne would be carrying metal vials and his bracers. Look for faint sources of metal, hidden behind something. Perhaps … perhaps they’d just knocked him out and stuffed him somewhere.

“Um…” the constable said from behind. “I was wondering if any of your other servants will be needing, um, emotional support.”

Wax frowned, looking out the window to where Drewton was sitting, surrounded by no fewer than three nurses. He accepted a cup of tea from one while he complained about his ordeal. Wax could hear it even inside the train car.

“No,” Wax said. “Thank you.”

Matieu followed him through the train. He was the local captain, though from what Wax gathered, this town was small enough that his “big cases” usually were on the order of who had been stealing Mrs. Hutchen’s milk off her doorstep. He was glad to have found surgeons. Most of them probably worked half their time on cows, but it was better than nothing.

Not a few younger officers stood on the platform. They’d put away their stupid autograph books, fortunately, though they seemed deflated that their captain wouldn’t let them pester Wax.

Where? Wax thought, feeling more and more sick. Marasi arrived a moment later with an oil lamp, her light illuminating the train car for him as he poked through a cargo room full of mail bags.

He won’t be in here, Wax thought. This was forward of the car that had been secretly carrying the payroll shipment. Wayne wouldn’t have been able to cross through that one; they’d have had it blocked off even before the bandits arrived. Still, he wanted to be careful. He searched this one, then waved to Marasi and picked his way through the wreckage of the car that had been robbed.

Matieu tagged along. “I have to say, Lord Waxillium, that we’re very lucky you were aboard. The Nightstreet Gang has been growing bolder and bolder, but I never thought they’d try something like this!”

“So this is an established gang?” Marasi said.

“Oh, sure,” Matieu said. “Everyone in the area knows about the Nightstreets, though mostly they hit cities closer to the Roughs. We figure it’s slim pickings out past the mountains, so they have begun to venture inward. But this! A full-on train robbery? And stealing Erikell payroll? That’s daring. Those folks make weapons, you know.”

“They had at least one Allomancer with them,” Wax said, leading the way through the empty courier car, which still smelled faintly of formaldehyde.

“I hadn’t heard that,” Matieu said. “Even luckier you were along!”

“I didn’t stop them from getting away, or from stealing the payroll.”

“You killed or captured a good half of them, my lord. The ones we’ve got, they’ll give us a lead on the others.” He hesitated. “We’ll have to put together a posse, my lord. They’ll be making for the Roughs. Sure could use your help.”

Wax swept this room, focusing on the blue lines. “And the man with the limp?”

“My lord?”

“He seemed to be in charge of them,” Wax said. “A man in a fine suit who walked with a cane. About six feet tall, with a narrow face and dark hair. Who is he?”

“I don’t know that one, my lord. Donny is the leader.”

“Big guy?” Wax asked. “Neck like a stump?”

“No, my lord. Donny is little and feisty. Evilest rusting kig you’ve ever seen.”

Kig. It was slang for a koloss-blooded person. Wax hadn’t seen anyone among the bandits with the proper skin color for that. “Thank you, Captain,” Wax said.

The man seemed to recognize it as a dismissal, but he hesitated. “And can we count on your help, my lord? When we chase down Donny and his gang?”

“I’ll … let you know.”

Matieu saluted, which was completely inappropriate – Wax wasn’t part of this jurisdiction – and retreated. Wax continued searching, pulling open a luggage compartment beneath the first passenger car. The metal lines leading into it only pointed at a few pieces of baggage.

“Waxillium,” Marasi said, “you can’t help with their hunt. We have a job already.”

“Might be related.”

“Might not be,” she said. “You heard him, Waxillium. These guys are a known criminal element.”

“Who happened to rob the very train we were on.”

“But at the same time seemed utterly shocked by the presence of an Allomancer gunman in the last car. Instead of tossing dynamite at us and riddling the coach with bullets, they sent a couple men to rob what they assumed would be easy pickings.”

Wax chewed on that, then checked another luggage compartment, bracing himself as he did so. No bodies. He let out a breath.

“I can’t think about this right now,” he said.

She nodded in understanding. They checked the other compartments, and he didn’t see any suspicious lines, so they moved on. Crossing the space between cars, he spotted Steris watching him. She sat alone on a bench with a blanket around her shoulders, holding a cup of something that steamed. She seemed perfectly calm.

He continued on. Losing friends was part of a lawman’s life; it had happened to him more times than he wanted to count. But after what had happened back in the city six months ago … well, he wasn’t sure what losing Wayne would do to him. He steeled himself, moved to the next car, and opened the first of its luggage compartments, then froze.

Faint steel lines coming from another place in this train car. They were moving.

Wax rushed toward them. Marasi followed, suddenly alert, her lamp held high. The lines were coming from the floor inside one of the rooms. Only no luggage was on its racks, and no litter was on its floor. It was a private compartment that hadn’t been rented out for the trip.

Wax entered and ripped open the luggage compartment in the floor. Wayne blinked up at him. The younger man had mussed hair, and his shirt was unbuttoned, but he wasn’t in any bonds that Wax could see. He didn’t seem to have been harmed at all. In fact …

Wax crouched down, Marasi’s light revealing what had been hidden to him by the overhang of the luggage compartment. MeLaan, shirt completely off, was in the compartment too. She sat up, entirely unashamed of her nudity.

“We’ve stopped!” she said. “Are we there already?”

“Well how was I supposed to know we’d get rusting attacked?” Wayne exclaimed, now properly clothed, though his hair was still a mess.

Wax sat listening with half an ear. The train officials had opened a room in the station for them to use. He knew he should be angry, but he was mostly just relieved.

“Because we are us,” Marasi said, arms folded. “Because we’re on our way to a dangerous situation. I don’t know. You could at least have told us what you were doing.” She hesitated. “And by the way, what do you think you were doing?”

Wayne bowed his head where he sat before her. MeLaan leaned against the wall near the door. She was looking toward the ceiling, as if trying to feign innocence.

“Movin’ on,” Wayne said, pointing at Marasi. “Like you told me to.”

“That wasn’t moving on! That was ‘Running on at full speed.’ It was ‘Shooting on forward like a bullet,’ Wayne.”

“I don’t like doin’ stuff halfway,” he said solemnly, hand over his heart. “It’s been a long time since I had me a good neckin’ on account of my diligent monogamous idealization of a beauteous but unavailable–”

“And how,” Marasi interrupted, “did you not hear the fight? There was gunfire, Wayne. Practically on top of you.”

“Well, see,” he said, growing red, “we was real busy. And we were down next to the tracks, which made a lot of noise. We’d wanted a place what was private-like, you know, and…” He shrugged.

“Bah!” Marasi said. “Do you realize how worried Waxillium was?”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Wax said, seated with his feet up on the next bench.

“Oh, and you approve of this behavior?” Marasi asked, turning on him.

“Heavens, no,” Wax said. “If I approved of half the things Wayne does, Harmony would probably strike me dead on the spot. But he’s alive, and we’re alive, and we can’t blame him for getting distracted during what we assumed would be a simple ride.”

Marasi eyed him, then sighed and walked back out onto the platform, passing MeLaan without a glance.

Wayne stood and wandered over to him, pulling his box of gum from his pocket and tapping it against his palm to settle the powder inside. “These thieves, did one of them happen to shoot her when you weren’t lookin’? ’Cuz she’s sure gotten stiff all of a sudden.”

“She was just worried about you,” Wax said. “I’ll talk to her after she’s cooled down.”

MeLaan left her position by the door. “Was there anything strange about the attack?”

“Plenty of things,” Wax said, standing and stretching. Rusts. Was he really getting too old for all this, as Lessie always joked with him? He usually felt exhilarated after a fight.

It’s the deaths, he thought. Only one passenger had died, an older man. But they’d lost half a dozen payroll guards, not to mention the many wounded.

“One of the bandits,” he said to MeLaan, “he did something that dampened my Allomancy.”

“A Leecher?” she asked.

Wax shook his head. “He didn’t touch me.”

Leechers who burned chromium could blank another Allomancer’s metals – but it required touch. “It did feel the same. My steel was there one moment, then gone the next. But MeLaan, there was some kind of device involved. A little metal cube.”

“Wait,” a voice said. Marasi appeared in the doorway. “A cube?”

All three of them looked at her, and she blushed in the harsh electric light. “What?”

“You stalked away,” Wayne pointed, “indigenously.”

“And now I’m stalking back in,” Marasi said, striding toward Wax and fishing in her pocket. “I can be indigen – indignant in here just as easily.” She pulled her hand out, holding a small metal cube.

The same cube he’d seen before his steel was drained. Wax plucked it from her palm. “Where’d you get this?”

“The guy with the cane dropped it,” Marasi said. “He moved as if to pull a gun on me, and raised this.”

Wax turned it toward MeLaan, and she shook her head.

“That’s a real strange gun,” Wayne noted.

“Is there anything in that lore VenDell talked about,” Wax said, “that mentions a device that negates Allomancy?”

“Nothing I’ve heard,” MeLaan said.

“I mean,” Wayne said, “it ain’t even got a barrel.”

“But you said you don’t pay attention to the research, MeLaan,” Marasi said, taking the cube back.

“That’s true.”

“And if they could shoot the rusting thing,” Wayne added, “the bullet would be small as a flea.”

Marasi sighed. “Wayne, can’t you ever let a joke die?”

“Hon, that joke started dead,” he said. “I’m just givin’ it a proper burial.”

“We need another train south,” Marasi said, turning to the others.

“These bandits might have information,” Wayne said. “Chasin’ them down could be useful. ’Sides, I didn’t get to stomp none of them, on account of some untimely snogging.”

“At least it was good snogging,” MeLaan added. Then, to Marasi’s glare, she added, “What? It was. Poor guy hadn’t had a proper snog in years. Had a lot of pent-up energy.”

“You’re not even human,” Marasi said. “You should be ashamed. Not to mention that you’re six hundred years old.”

“I’m young at heart. Really – I copied this one off a sixteen-year-old that I ate a few months back.”

The room grew very still.

“Oh … was that gauche?” MeLaan said, wincing. “That was gauche, wasn’t it? She didn’t taste very good, if that’s anything to you. Hardly rotten at all. And … I should stop talking about this. New Seran? Are we going, or staying to chase bandits?”

“Going,” Wax said, which earned a nod from Marasi. “If this is connected, we’ll run into them later. If it’s not, then I’ll see what I can do to help once we’ve dealt with my uncle.”

“And how’re we going to get to New Seran?” Wayne said. “Doesn’t look like our train will be leaving anytime soon.”

“Freight train,” Wax said, checking the wall lists. “Coming through in an hour. They’re going to move our train onto the repair track, so we can flag that one down for a ride. It won’t be comfortable, but it will get us there by morning. Go gather your luggage. Hopefully there aren’t too many holes in it.”

Wayne and MeLaan obeyed, walking out side by side. Maybe there was actually something there between them. If anything, Wayne didn’t seem the least bit put out by being reminded just how alien, and just how old, MeLaan was.

Then again, Wayne wasn’t known for his taste in women. Or, well, his taste at all, really. Wax glanced at Marasi, who had remained behind. She held up the little cube, turning it over in her fingers, inspecting the intricate carvings it bore on its various faces.

“Can I get VenDell’s notes back from you?” she said. “Maybe there’s something in them about this thing.”

“More convinced this wasn’t a random train robbery?”

“Maybe a little,” Marasi said. “You should talk to my sister.”

“She seemed perfectly calm when I checked on her earlier.”

“Of course she’s calm,” Marasi said. “She’s Steris. But she’s also doing needlework.”

“… And that’s bad?”

“Steris only does needlework when she has an overwhelming desire to appear normal,” Marasi said. “She read somewhere that it’s an appropriate hobby for a woman of means. She hates it to death, but won’t tell a soul. Trust me. If needlework is involved, she’s upset. I could talk to her, but she’s never listened to me. She didn’t even know about me until we were teenagers. Besides, you’ll need to get used to this.”

She strode from the room, and Wax – oddly – found himself smiling. Whatever else could be said, Marasi had come a long way since he’d first met her.

He took his jacket off the hook on the wall and slipped it on, then walked back into the night. Marasi was calling for the stationmaster, probably to arrange their passage on the cargo train. Wax strolled along the tracks, passing cold electric lights, until he reached the bench where Steris worked on her needlepoint.

He settled down beside her. “Marasi says you’re having a tough time of it.”

Steris paused her needlepoint. “You’re a very straightforward man, Lord Waxillium.”

“Can be.”

“But as we both know, it’s all an act. You were raised among Elendel’s elite. You had tutors and diction coaches. In your youth, you spent your time at parties and balls.”

“And then I spent twenty years in the Roughs,” Wax said. “The winds out there can weather the strongest granite. Are you surprised they can do the same to a man?”

She turned to him, head cocked to the side.

Wax sighed and leaned back, stretching his legs out, ankles crossed. “Have you ever been somewhere you didn’t fit in? A place where everyone else seems to get it immediately? They know what to do. They know what to say. But rusts, you have to work to untangle it all?”

“That describes my entire life,” Steris said softly.

He put his arm around her, and let her rest her head on his shoulder. “Well, that was how those parties were for me. Social situations were a chore. Everyone laughing, and me just standing there, stressed out of my mind and trying to figure out the right thing to do. I didn’t smile a lot back then. Guess I still don’t. I’d escape the parties when I could, find my way to a quiet balcony.”

“And do what? Read?”

Wax chuckled. “No. I don’t mind a book now and then, but Wayne is the real reader.”

Steris raised her head, looking surprised.

“I’m serious,” Wax said. “Granted, he likes ones with pictures now and then, but he does read. Often out loud. You should hear him do the voices to himself. Me … I’d just find a balcony that looked out over the city somewhere, and I’d stare. Listen.” He smiled. “When I was a boy, more than a few people thought I was slow because I’d sit there staring out a window.”

“Then you found your way to the Roughs.”

“I was so glad to be away from Elendel and its phoniness. You call me blunt. Well, that’s the man I want to be. That’s the man I admire. Perhaps I’m only acting like him, but it’s a sincere act. Hang me, but it is.”

Steris sat quietly for a few moments, head on his shoulder, and Wax stared out into the night. A nice night, all things considered.

“You’re wrong,” she noted, sounding drowsy. “You do smile. Most often when you’re flying on lines of steel. It’s the only time I think … I think I see … pure joy in you.…”

He looked down at her, but she’d apparently dozed off, judging by the way she was breathing. He settled back, thinking about what she’d said, until the cargo train finally pulled into the station.

Does Harmony Have a Metal?

The First Age philosopher Galabris Menthon meant this rhetorically, but even the Lord Mistborn thought on this when he famously said, "Having the has Sazed a metal?"

From councils to pubs, the question is still debated. But now, breakthroughs in science have brought us closer to an answer.

(Continued on back.)

FARTHING MANSION HIT!

An act of vandalism and thievery has the city’s elite on edge. Late last night, someone broke into Farthing Mansion, stole some items, and vandalised the wall with a reverse gold symbol.

Lady Farthing is offering a reward for the return of her jewelry. Please report all information to the Uptown Precinct.

(Continued on back.)

The mark of the vandal

WORKERS UNITE!

ENORMOUS

MASS MEETING TONIGHT at 7th HOUR

AT THE

Crossing of Embel & 5th

STAND UP TO

UNFAIR TAXES LOW WAGES

SOOTHER’S CHOICE

CHEWING GUM

Stick it to the ’Del and Buy Local!

Soother’s Choice is the ONLY Choice

part could have avoided this whole debacle, and you wouldn’t be hanging fifty feet above death from the threads of a poorly-rendered map. Climb in. Let's come to an agreement.”

He reached up as if to take my offer, but something in his hand flashed in the light of the stars. Instinctively, I burnt metal, releasing one hand to touch the device.

It was an everyday hunting knife.

“Politeness,” he said with a grumble. “That’s not how

10

Wax started awake to the sound of distant explosions.

He immediately scrambled to his feet, reaching for his metals, bleary-eyed and disoriented. Where was he? Crew cabin of the cargo train. It was large, with some stiff couches in the back for the engineers to catch a nap while their train was waiting to be unloaded. Steris was asleep on one, wrapped in his jacket. Wayne dozed in the corner, hat over his face.

They’d left the servants behind for now; they would come along on the next passenger train. MeLaan had chosen to ride in the back with their luggage – she had wanted to look through her bundles of bones to pick the right body for the night.

Wax downed metals and whipped out Vindication, stumbling forward toward the sounds – which, now fully awake, he wasn’t certain were explosions at all. A continuous rumble, like an earthquake, off in the distance. He stepped out into the cab proper of the engine car. This was a newer machine, one of the oil-driven ones, with no need for a coal tender.

Marasi stood near the front with the engineer, a tall fellow with bright eyes and forearms like pistons.

That rumbling … Wax frowned, lowering his gun as Marasi glanced at him. The sky was bright blue; morning had arrived. He stepped into the cabin, and could see that ahead, New Seran rose before them. The city spread across a series of enormous, flat-topped stone terraces. There were at least a dozen of them, and each was split by multiple streams, which crossed them and then dropped off the edge down to the next terrace. The sound wasn’t an earthquake or explosion, but that of waterfalls.

In places, the drop was just a little ripple – a fall of some five feet or so. But in others, majestic waterfalls plunged fifty feet or more before pounding onto the next stone platform. It looked like a man-made effect, for the various split streams and waterfalls eventually ran back together into the river, which flowed away from the city toward distant Elendel.

Wax slid Vindication into her holster, though it took two tries because he was so mesmerized by the waterfalls. Indeed, the whole city. Buildings sprouted between the rivers, and vibrant green vines draped the cliffs like nature’s own tresses. Beyond, the Seran mountains rose, lofty and whited at the tops.

Marasi grinned, leaning out of the cab to get a better look up at the heights of the city. The engineer stood by his levers, valves, and cranks trying to act casual, though he was obviously watching Wax and Marasi for their reactions.

“I often think,” the man eventually said, “that Harmony was showing off a little when He made this place.”

“I had no idea this was here,” Wax said, stepping up beside Marasi. Behind him, Wayne yawned and stumbled to his feet.

“Yeah, well,” the engineer said, “people from Elendel often forget there’s a whole country out here. No offense, my lord. There’s a lot of Elendel to take in, so it makes sense you’d get a little blinded by it.”

“You’re from New Seran?” Marasi asked.

“Born and raised, Captain Colms.”

“Then you can tell us where to find our hotel, perhaps?” Marasi asked. “The Copper Gate?”

“Oh, that’s a nice one,” the engineer said, pointing. “Top terrace, in the waterman district. Look for the big statue of the Lord Mistborn. It’s not two blocks from there.”

“How close can you get us?” Marasi asked.

“Not close at all, I’m afraid,” the engineer said. “We’re not a passenger train, and even those can only go to the middle tiers. We’ll be down at the bottom. It’ll take you a few hours to ride the gondolas up. There are ramps too, if you’d prefer a carriage, but they take longer – and the gondolas have a better view.”

Gondolas would have been wonderful, Wax thought, if most of them had had more than a few hours of sleep. With the reception tonight, they’d need to be rested and ready to go.

“Shortcut?” he asked Marasi.

“You realize I’m wearing a skirt.”

“I do. What happened to that fancy new constable uniform with the trousers?”

“Packed away. Not everyone likes wearing uniforms when we don’t have to, Waxillium.”

“Well, you can wait and take the gondolas,” Wax said. “Think of me resting peacefully in a soft hotel bed while you blink bleary eyes and droop against–”

“All right, fine,” Marasi said, stepping up to him. “Just stay away from crowds.”

Wax grabbed her around the waist. “I’ll be back for the rest of you,” he told Wayne, who nodded. “Engineer, have our things sent to the Copper Gate, if you please.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Wax slid open the side of the cab, took another drink of metal flakes – recovered from the stash in his luggage – then pulled Marasi tight, burned steel, and leaped. A flared Push sent them soaring away from the train, which was slowing as it approached the buildings clustered around the base of New Seran.

They dropped toward these, but a shot from Vindication as they neared the ground gave him something to bounce off of. He sent them upward, past the lower tiers, using metal he found there to keep them aloft.

The homes here were much smaller than those in Elendel. Quaint, even. In Elendel, you could rarely afford to waste space on a single dwelling – even in the slums, towering apartments were the norm. There was a kind of eternal shift going on, where sections of town would fall into disrepair over time, filling with the poor while those able to afford something new moved to other sections. It was fascinating to him that, if you looked at old maps, what were now slums had once been considered prime real estate.

He saw few apartment buildings and only three skyscrapers, confined to a small commercial district on the top terrace. Though the terraces constrained the city’s boundaries, they looked large enough to hold the population. Lots of parks and small streams, none deep enough to be navigable like Elendel’s canals.

He stayed to the rooftops, rather than the streets, for Marasi’s sake – though she didn’t have much trouble with her skirt. She’d tucked it around her legs before they started, and the generally upward motion kept it from flaring.

Wax threw the two of them in great leaping arcs over residential areas until they reached the next cliff face, where he found a gondola and used it as an anchor to shoot them up the fifty feet or so toward the top tier of the terraces. He exulted in the moment, the freedom, the beauty of it. There was a majesty about soaring alongside a churning waterfall, with sparkling pools and lush gardens spreading out beneath.

They topped the cliff face, and Wax landed them softly alongside the falls. Marasi let out a held breath as he set her down; he could tell from the tension of her grip that she hadn’t enjoyed the flight as much as he had. Steelpushing wasn’t natural to her, nor were the heights – she backed away from the cliff as soon as she was free.

“Going to go get the others?” she asked.

“Let’s find the hotel first,” Wax said, pointing the way toward a statue he’d spotted upon landing. He could still make out the green patina of the statue’s head over the tops of the nearby homes. He started in that direction.

Marasi joined him, and they entered a street with a fair amount of foot traffic, papergirls and boys hawking broadsheets at every corner. Fewer horses or carriages than in Elendel – almost none, though he did see a fair number of pedicabs. That made sense, with the layout of the city. He found it interesting that the gondola system wasn’t only for getting between terraces; there were also lines crossing the sky above them carting people from one section of this terrace to another.

“Like a shark among minnows,” Marasi mumbled.

“What’s that?” Wax asked.

“Look at how people swerve around you,” Marasi said. “Lord Cimines once did a study comparing constables to sharks, showing how the people in a crowded walkway responded exactly the same way as animals do to a predator moving nearby.”

He hadn’t noticed, but she was right. People gave him a wide berth – though not because they guessed he was a constable. It was the mistcoat duster, the weapons, and perhaps his height. Everyone seemed a little shorter down here, and he saw over the crowd by several inches.

In Elendel, his clothing had been abnormal – but so was everyone’s. That city was a mishmash, like an old barrel full of spent cartridges. All different calibers represented.

Here, the people wore lighter clothing than in Elendel. Pastel dresses for the ladies, striped white suits and boater hats for the men. Compared to them, he was a bullet hole in a stained-glass window.

“Never been good at blending in anyway,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Marasi said. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you need Wayne tonight?”

“At the party?” Wax asked, amused. “I have trouble imagining a situation where he doesn’t end up drunk in the punch bowl.”

“Then I’ll borrow him,” Marasi said. “I want to check the graveyards for ReLuur’s spike.”

Wax grunted. “That will be dirty work.”

“Which is why I asked for Wayne.”

“Noted. What do you think the chances are you’ll find the thing buried in a grave?”

Marasi shrugged. “I figure we’ll start with the most obvious and easiest method.”

“Grave robbing is the easiest method?”

“It is with proper preparation,” Marasi said. “I don’t intend to do the digging, after all.…”

Wax stopped listening.

The chatter of the crowd faded as he froze in place, staring at a broadsheet held up by a papergirl on a nearby corner. That symbol, the jagged reverse mah … he knew that symbol all too well. He left Marasi midsentence, pushing through the crowd to the girl and snatching the paper.

That symbol. Impossible. FARTHING MANSION HIT, the headline read. He fished out a few clips for the girl. “Farthing Mansion? Where is it?”

“Just up Blossom Way,” the girl said, pointing with her chin and making the coins in his palm disappear.

“Come on,” he said, interrupting Marasi as she started saying something.

People did make way for him, which was convenient. He could have taken to the sky, but he found the mansion without difficulty, partially because of the people crowded outside and pointing. The symbol was painted in red, exactly like the one he’d known back in the Roughs, but this time it marred the wall of a fine, three-story stone mansion instead of a stagecoach.

“Waxillium, for the love of sanity,” Marasi said, catching up to him. “What has gotten into you?”

He pointed at the symbol.

“I recognize that,” Marasi said. “Why would I recognize that?”

“You read the accounts of my time in the Roughs,” Wax said. “It’s in there – that’s the symbol of Ape Manton, one of my old nemeses.”

“Ape Manton!” Marasi said. “Didn’t he–”

“Yes,” Wax said, remembering the nights of torture. “He hunts Allomancers.”

But why would he be here? Wax had put him away, and not just in some minor village. He’d been locked up in True Madil, biggest town in the Northern Roughs, with a jail like a vise. How in Harmony’s True Name had he gotten all the way down to New Seran?

Robbery wouldn’t be the end of Manton’s activities here. He always had a motive behind the thefts, a goal. I have to figure out what he took, and why he–

No.

No, not right now. “Let’s get to the hotel,” Wax said, ripping himself away from the sight of that red symbol.

“Rusts,” Marasi said, hurrying after him. “Could he be involved somehow?”

“With the Set? Not a chance. He hates Allomancers.”

“Enemy of my enemy…”

“Not the Ape,” Wax said. “He wouldn’t take the hand of a Metalborn trying to save him from slipping to his death.”

“So…”

“So he’s not part of this,” Wax said. “We ignore him. I’m here for my uncle.”

Marasi nodded, but seemed disturbed. They passed a Lurcher juggler, dropping balls and tugging them back up into the air – along with the occasional object from among the amused crowd of watchers. A waste of Allomantic abilities. And all these people. Suffocating. He had hoped that in leaving Elendel, he would escape crowded streets. He nearly pulled out his gun and fired a shot to clear them all away.

“Wax…” Marasi said, taking his arm.

“What.”

“What? Rusts, your stare could nail a person’s head to the wall right now!”

“I’m fine,” he said, pulling his arm away from her.

“This vendetta against your uncle is–”

“It’s not a vendetta.” Wax picked up his pace, striding through the crowd, mistcoat tassels flaring behind him. “You know what he’s doing.”

“No, and neither do you,” Marasi said.

“He’s breeding Allomancers,” Wax said. “Maybe Feruchemists. I don’t need to know his exact plan to know how bad that is. What if he’s making an army of Thugs and Coinshots? Twinborn. Compounders.”

“That might be true,” Marasi admitted. “But you aren’t chasing him because of any of that, are you? He beat you. In the Hundredlives case, Mister Suit got the best of you. Now you’re going to win the war where you lost the battle.”

He stopped in place, turning on her. “How petty do you think I am?”

“Considering what I just told you,” she said, “I’d say I consider you precisely that petty. It’s not wrong to be angry at Suit, Waxillium. He’s holding your sister. But rusts, please don’t let it cloud your judgment.”

He took a deep breath, then gestured toward the mansion up the street. “You want me to go chasing after the Ape instead?”

“No,” Marasi said, then blushed. “I agree that we need to stay focused on getting back the spike.”

“You’re here for the spike, Marasi,” Wax said. “I’m here to find Suit.” He nodded down the street, toward a discreet hotel sign, barely visible on the front of a building. “You go check us in. I’m going to fetch the others.”

“With this suite and the others, you’ll basically have the entire top floor to yourselves.” The hotel owner – who insisted upon being called Aunt Gin – beamed as she said it.

Wayne yawned, rubbing his eyes as he poked through the lavish room’s bar. “Great. Lovely. Can I have your hat?”

“My … hat?” The elderly woman looked up at the oversized hat. The sides drooped magnificently, and the thing was festooned with flowers. Like, oodles of them. Silk, he figured, but they were really good replicas.

“You have a lady friend?” Aunt Gin asked. “You wish to give her the hat?”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “I need to wear it next time I’m an old lady.”

“The next time you what?” Aunt Gin grew pale, but that was probably on account of the fact that Wax went stomping by, wearing his full rusting mistcoat. That man never could figure out how to blend in.

“Do these windows open?” Wax asked, pointing toward the penthouse suite’s enormous bay windows. He stepped up onto one of the sofas and shoved on the window.

“Well, they used to open,” Aunt Gin said. “But they rattled in the breezes, so we painted them shut and sealed the latches. Never could stand the thought of someone–”

Wax shoved one of them open, breaking off the latch and making a sharp cracking sound as the paint outside was ripped, perhaps some of the wood splintering.

“Lord Ladrian!” Aunt Gin said with a gasp.

“I’ll pay for the repairs,” Wax said, hopping off the couch. “I need that to open in case I have to jump out.”

“Jump–”

“Aha!” Wayne said, pulling open the bar’s bottom cabinet.

“Alcohol?” Marasi asked, walking by.

“Peanuts,” Wayne said, spitting out his gum and then popping a handful of nuts into his mouth. “I ain’t had nothin’ to eat since I swiped that fruit in Steris’s luggage.”

“What are you babbling about?” Steris asked from the couch, where she was writing in her notebook.

“I left you one of my shoes in trade,” Wayne said, then dug in his duster’s pocket, pulling out the other shoe. “Speaking of that, Gin, will you swap me your hat for this one?”

“Your shoe?” Aunt Gin asked, turning back toward him, then jumping as Wax forced open another window.

“Sure,” Wayne said. “They’re both clothes, right?”

“What would I do with a man’s shoe?”

“Wear it next time you gotta be a fellow,” Wayne said. “You’ve got the perfect face for it. Good shoulders, too.”

“Well, I–”

“Please ignore him,” Steris said, rising and walking over. “Here, I’ve prepared for you a list of possible scenarios that might transpire during our residence here.”

“Steris…” Wax said, forcing open the third and final window.

“What?” she demanded. “I will not have the staff unprepared. Their safety is our concern.”

“Fire?” Aunt Gin asked, reading the list. “Shoot-outs. Robbery. Hostage situations. Explosions?”

“That one is completely unfair,” Wax said. “You’ve been listening to Wayne.”

“Things do explode around you, mate,” Wayne said, munching peanuts. Nice bit of salt on these.

“He’s right, unfortunately,” Steris said. “I’ve accounted for seventeen explosions involving you. That’s a huge statistical anomaly, even considering your profession.”

“You’re kidding. Seventeen?”

“Afraid so.”

“Huh.” He had the decency to look proud of it, at least.

“A pastry shop once blew up while we was in it,” Wayne said, leaning in to Aunt Gin. “Dynamite in a cake. Big mess.” He held out some peanuts toward her. “How about I throw in these peanuts with the shoe?”

“Those are my peanuts! From this very room!”

“But they’re worth more now,” Wayne said. “On account of my being real hungry.”

“I told you to ignore him,” Steris said, tapping on the notebook she’d handed Aunt Gin. “Look, you only read the table of contents. The rest of the pages contain explanations of the possible scenarios I’ve outlined, and suggested responses to them. I’ve sorted the list by potential for property damage.”

Wax leaped into the center of the room, then thrust his hand forward. The door quivered.

“What … what is he doing?” Aunt Gin asked.

“Checking to see where the best places in the room are for slamming the door with his mind,” Wayne said. “In case someone bursts in on us.”

“Just read the notebook, all right?” Steris requested in a pleasant tone.

Aunt Gin looked toward her, seeming bewildered. “Are these things … threats?”

“No, of course not!” Steris said. “I only want you to be prepared.”

“She’s thorough,” Wayne said.

“I like to be thorough.”

“Usually that means if you ask her to kill a fly, she’ll burn down the house just to be extra sure it gets done.”

“Wayne,” Steris said, “you’re needlessly making the lady concerned.”

“Flooding from a diverted waterfall,” Aunt Gin said, reading from the book again. “Koloss attack. Cattle stampede through the lobby?”

“That one is highly unlikely,” Steris said, “but it never hurts to be prepared!”

“But–”

The door to the adjoining suite slammed open. “Hello, humans,” MeLaan said, stepping into the doorway wearing nothing more than a tight pair of shorts and a cloth wrapped around her chest. “I need to put on something appropriate for tonight. What do you think? Large breasts? Small breasts? Extra-large breasts?”

Everybody in the room paused, then turned toward her.

“What?” MeLaan said. “Picking a proper bust size is vital to a lady’s evening preparations!”

Silence.

“That’s … kind of an improper question, MeLaan,” Steris finally said.

“You’re just jealous because you can’t take yours off to go for a run,” MeLaan said. “Hey, where is that bellboy with my things? I swear, if he drops my bags and cracks any of my skulls, there will be fury in this room!” She stalked away.

“Did she say skulls?” Aunt Gin said.

The door slammed.

“Aha!” Wax said, lowering his hand. “There it is.”

Marasi approached and wrapped her arm around the elderly lady’s shoulders, leading her away. “Don’t worry. It won’t be nearly as bad as they make it seem. Likely nothing will happen to you or your hotel.”

“Other than Wax rippin’ your windows apart,” Wayne noted.

“Other than that,” Marasi said, giving him a glare.

“Young lady,” Aunt Gin said under her breath, “you need to get away from these people.”

“They’re fine,” Marasi said, reaching the door. “We’ve just had a long night.”

Aunt Gin nodded hesitantly.

“Good,” Marasi said. “Now, when you get down below, would you please send someone to the trade bureau for me? Have them collect the names of each and every person who works at the local graveyards.”

“Graveyards?”

“It’s vitally important,” Marasi said, then pushed the woman out and shut the door.

“Graveyards?” MeLaan said, sticking her head into the room. She was now completely bald. “Reminds me. Would you order me something to eat? A nice hunk of aged meat.”

“Rotting, you mean,” Wax said.

“Nothing like the odor of a nice flank after a day in the sun,” MeLaan said, ducking back into her room as a knock came at the other door. “Ah! My bags. Excellent. What? No, of course there aren’t corpses in these. Why would I need bones with the flesh still on them? Thank you. Bye.”

Wayne popped the last of the peanuts into his mouth. “I dunno about you all, but I’m gonna find a place to snore for a few hours.”

“Sleeping arrangements, Waxillium?” Marasi asked.

“You and Steris in the suite across the hall,” Wax said, “Wayne and I in here. MeLaan gets her own room. She probably wants to, um…”

“Melt?” Marasi offered.

“… on her own.”

“I’m good, really,” MeLaan called from the next room. A second later she opened the door again. She wore the same bones and build, but this time she was completely bare-chested.

It wasn’t a woman’s chest.

“I solved the problem,” MeLaan said. “I’ll go as a fellow. That will probably be more covert anyway. Just have to choose the right bones.”

Wayne cocked his head. She’d sculpted her face too, giving herself masculine features. Steris’s eyes were bulging. At least that was worth seeing.

“You’re…” Steris said. “You’ll become a…”

“A man?” MeLaan asked. “Yeah. It’ll look better when I’ve decided on the right body. Need to settle on a voice, too.” She looked around the room. “Um, is this a problem?”

Everyone looked at Wayne for some reason. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe he should have given his shoes to her.

“You don’t mind?” Steris demanded of him.

“It’s still her.”

“But she looks like a man!”

“So does the lady what runs this house,” Wayne said, “but she has kids, so someone still decided to take her an–”

“It will do, MeLaan,” Wax said, resting a hand on Steris’s arm. “Assuming you can get into the party.”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, spinning around. “I will get in, and be ready to give you support. But this is your play, Ladrian, not mine. You’re the detective; I’m just around for the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby.”

She closed the door. Wayne shook his head. Now that, that’s a situation a man don’t rightly encounter all that often.… Well, he’d found occasion to be an old lady now and then, so it made sense to him. It was probably good for a woman to be a fellow once in a while, if only to offer some perspective. Easier to piss too. Couldn’t discount that.

“She assumes,” Wax said, “that our detective style isn’t normally the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby type.”

“To be fair,” Wayne said, “it’s usually a more shooty-shooty, whacky-whacky type.”

Marasi rubbed her forehead. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because we’re tired,” Wax said. “Get some sleep, everyone. Wayne, you’re going to go with Marasi tonight and dig up some graves.” He took a deep breath. “And I, unfortunately, am going to a party.”

11

Wearing a formal cravat and jacket reminded Wax of the year after he’d left the Village. A year when his uncle had gleefully wrapped him in the packaging of a young nobleman and presented him to the city’s elite, feeling he’d won some kind of war when Wax was expelled from Terris society.

Wax had moved back in with his parents, of course. But it had been his uncle who had overseen his education, grooming him specifically as heir to the house. After that time in the Village, Wax’s life had grown to be less and less about his immediate family – he’d barely seen his parents during that year, despite living with them.

That was when his uncle’s grip had really started to strangle him. Wax tapped his fingers on the armrest of his carriage, remembering those parties. How much were his memories of them colored by his uncle’s presence?

The carriage eventually pulled up before a resplendent mansion with stained-glass windows and limelights burning outside. A classical style of lighting, though the interior had little in common with the ancient keeps of lore it was meant to evoke – as he well knew from the floor plans he’d memorized earlier today, while the others were sleeping.

This mansion was more sprawling than imposing, with a multipeaked roof design, like the profile of a mountain range. A line of carriages waited to pull through the coach portico and drop off their occupants.

“You’re nervous,” Steris said, laying her hand on his arm. She wore white lace gloves, and her dress – which she’d fretted over for at least an hour – was one of the filmy and gauzy ones that the most fashionable ladies in Elendel were wearing this year. The skirt was more full and cloudlike than the more traditional gowns Steris usually favored.

He’d been surprised when she’d chosen it. Most of her wardrobe, especially on this trip, was chosen for utility. Why wear this now?

“I’m not nervous,” Wax said, “I’m contemplative.”

“Shall we go over the plan?”

“What plan?” Wax said.

ReLuur, in his ravings, had directed them toward this party of Kelesina Shores, who was a lady of some prestige in New Seran – and who he implied was connected to all this. She was their best lead, though ReLuur’s notebook had also listed five other families he thought were of interest.

The problem was, none of those notes mentioned why they were of interest – or what it was ReLuur thought they knew. Why would a group of lords and ladies of the outer cities elite have anything to do with an ancient archaeological relic? True, some noblemen liked to consider themselves “gentlemen adventurers.” But those types mostly sat around smoking cigars and talking. At least that fop Jak actually left his rusting house.

Time wore on, as carriages moved up the drive with all the speed of a line of cows on a hot day. Finally, Wax kicked open his door. “Let’s walk.”

“Oh dear,” Steris said with a sigh. “Again?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t plan for this.”

“I did. But this line isn’t that long, Lord Waxillium. Don’t you think this time maybe we should wait?”

“I can see the rusting front doors,” Wax said, pointing. “We can walk to them in thirty seconds. Or we can sit here and wait as pompous people waddle out of their seats and fuss with their scarves.”

“I see the night is starting off on the right foot,” Steris said. Wax hopped down, ignoring the footman’s offered hand. He waved the man back, and helped Steris from the vehicle himself. “Go ahead and park,” he called to the coachman. “We’ll call for you when we’re done.” He hesitated. “If you hear gunshots, go back to the hotel. We’ll make our own way.”

The coachman started, but nodded. Wax held his arm out for Steris, and the two strolled along the path into the mansion grounds, passing carriages full of people who seemed to be trying to glare at them without actually looking in their direction.

“I’ve prepared a list for you,” Steris said.

“I’m so surprised.”

“Now, no complaining, Waxillium. It will help. I’ve put the list in this little book,” Steris said, producing a palm-sized notebook, “for ease of reference. Each page contains a conversation opener, indexed to the people it will likely work best upon. The numbers below list ways you could segue the conversation into useful areas and perhaps figure out what our targets are up to, and what their connection is to the Bands of Mourning.”

“I’m not socially incompetent, Steris,” Wax said. “I can make small talk.”

“I know that,” Steris said, “but I’d rather avoid an incident like the Cett party.…”

“Which Cett party?”

“The one where you head-butted someone.”

He cocked his head. “Oh, right. That smarmy little man with the ridiculous mustache.”

“Lord Westweather Cett,” Steris said. “Heir to the house fortune.”

“Right, right…” Wax said. “Stupid Cetts. In my defense, he did call me out. Demanding to duel a Coinshot. I probably saved his life.”

“By breaking his nose.” She held up her hand. “I am not requesting justifications or explanations, Lord Waxillium. I merely thought I’d do what I could to help.”

He grumbled, but took the book, flipping through it by lamplight as they walked across the grounds. At the back of the book were descriptions of the various people likely to be at the party. He’d memorized some descriptions VenDell had sent, but this list was far more extensive.

As usual, Steris had done her research. He smiled, tucking the book into his jacket pocket. Where had she found the time? They continued up the path, though Wax froze as he heard rustling in the shrubbery nearby. He burned steel instantly, noticing some moving points of metal, and his hand went to the pistol under his jacket.

A dirty face peered out and grinned. The eyes were milky white. “Clips for the poor, good sir,” the beggar said, stretching out a hand and exposing long, unkempt fingernails and a ragged shirt.

Wax kept his hand on his weapon, studying the man.

Steris cocked her head. “Are you wearing cologne, beggar?”

Wax nodded as he too smelled it, faintly.

The beggar started, as if surprised, then grinned. “It’s got a good kick to it, my lady.”

“You’ve been drinking cologne?” Steris asked. “Well, that can’t be healthy.”

“You should be away from here, beggar,” Wax said, eyeing the cluster of attendants and coachmen closer to the building’s entrance. “These are private grounds.”

“Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my good lord…” He pushed his hand forward farther, eyes staring sightlessly.

Wax dug in his pocket. “Here.” He tossed the man a banknote. “Get off the grounds and find yourself a proper drink.”

“A generous lord indeed!” the beggar said, dropping to his knees and fishing for the banknote. “But too much! Far too much!”

Wax took Steris’s arm again, walking her toward the imposing front doors.

“My lord!” the beggar screeched. “Your change!”

He saw the blue line moving and reacted immediately, spinning and catching the coin, which had been hurled with exacting accuracy at his head. So, not blind after all. Wax snorted, pocketing the coin as a passing groundsman saw the beggar and shouted, “Not you again!”

The beggar cackled and disappeared back into the shrubs.

“What was that about?” Steris asked.

“Damned if I know,” Wax said. “Shall we?”

They proceeded down the row of waiting carriages, and though the line had sped up during their stroll, they still reached the front doors before they otherwise would have. Wax tipped his head toward a large woman who barely fit through the door of her carriage, then strode up the steps with Steris on his arm.

He presented his card at the door, though they would know to watch for him. This was no simple reception; this was about politics. There would probably be only one official speech – that of the host to the attendees – but everyone knew why they were here. To mingle, share ideas, and likely be invited to donate to one of many causes reflecting outer cities interests.

Wax passed the doorkeeper, who cleared his throat and pointed toward an alcove in the side of the entryway. There, servants were taking hats, coats, and shawls.

“We’ve nothing to check,” Wax said, “thank you.”

The man took Wax’s arm gently as he tried to proceed. “The lady of the house has asked that all attendees be unburdened of items of a vulgar nature, my lord. For the safety of all parties attending.”

Wax blinked, then finally got it. “We have to check weapons? You’re kidding.”

The tall man said nothing.

“I don’t think he’s the joking type,” Steris noted.

“You realize,” Wax said, “that I’m a Coinshot. I could kill a dozen people with your cufflinks.”

“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” the doorkeeper said. “If you please, Lord Ladrian, there are to be no exceptions. Do we need to call the house Lurcher to make certain you are being honest with us?”

“No,” Wax said, pulling his arm free. “But if something goes wrong tonight, you’re going to wish we’d never had this conversation.” He walked with Steris to the counter where white-gloved servants were taking hats in exchange for tickets. He reluctantly took Vindication from the holster under his arm and set her on the counter.

“Is that all, my lord?” the woman there asked.

He hesitated, then sighed and knelt, pulling his backup gun – a tiny two-shotter – from the holster on his calf. He dropped it onto the counter.

“Might we have a look in the lady’s purse?” the servant asked.

Steris submitted.

“You realize,” Wax said, “that I’m a deputized constable. If anyone should be armed, it’s me.”

The servants said nothing, though they seemed embarrassed as they handed back Steris’s purse and gave Wax a ticket for his weapons.

“Let’s go,” he said, pocketing the pasteboard and trying – unsuccessfully – to hide his annoyance. Together they approached the ballroom.

Wayne liked how banks worked. They had style. Many people, they’d keep their money out of sight, hidden under beds and some such. What was the fun of that? But a bank … a bank was a target. Building a place like this, then stuffing it full of cash, was like climbing atop a hill and daring anyone who approached to try to knock you off.

He figured that must be the point. The sport of it. Why else would they put so much valuable stuff together in one place? It was supposed to be a message, proof to the little people that some folks were so rich, they could use their money to build a house for their money and still have enough money left to fill that house.

Robbing such a place was suicide. So all that potential thieves could do was stand outside and salivate, thinking of the stuff inside. Really, a bank was like a giant sign erected to say “rust off” to everyone who passed by.

Which was magnificent.

He and Marasi stopped on the long flight of steps up to the front, which was set with stained-glass windows and banners, after the classical cantonesque style of architecture. Marasi wanted to come here before the graveyards. Something about the bank records leading them to the right location.

“All right, see,” Wayne said, “I’ve got it figured out. I’m gonna be a rich fellow. Made loads off of the sweat and blood o’ lesser men. Only I won’t say it like that, ’cuz I’ll be in character, you see.”

“Is that so?” Marasi said, starting up the steps.

“Yup,” Wayne said, joining her. “Even brought me fancy hat.” He held up a top hat and spun it on his finger.

“That hat belongs to Waxillium.”

“No it don’t,” Wayne said, putting it on. “I gave ’im a rat for it.”

“A … rat?”

“Minus the tail,” Wayne said. “On account of this hat bein’ kinda dusty when I took it. Anyway, I’ll be the rich fellow. You be my younger brother’s daughter.”

“I’m not young enough to be your niece,” Marasi said. “At least not one who…” She trailed off as Wayne scrunched his face up good, emphasizing wrinkles, and brought out his fake mustache. “… Right,” she added. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“Now, my dear,” Wayne said, “while I am distracting the employees of this fine establishment with a depository request, you shall steal into their records room and acquaint yourself with the requisite information. It shouldn’t test your skills, as I shall regale them with descriptions of my wealth and prestige, which should draw the attention of most who are still working at this late hour.”

“Wonderful,” Marasi said.

“As an aside, my dear,” Wayne added, “I am not fond at all of your dalliance with that farmhand upon our estate. He is far beneath you in stature, and your indiscretion will surely besmirch our good name.”

“Oh please.”

“Plus he has warts,” Wayne added as they reached the top of the steps. “And is prone to extreme bouts of flatulence. And–”

“Are you going to talk about this the entire time?”

“Of course! The bank’s employees need to know how I toil with the next generation and its woefully inadequate ability to make decisions my generation found simple and obvious.”

“Grand,” Marasi said, pushing through the bank’s broad glass doors.

A banker immediately rushed up to them. “I’m sorry. We’re very near closing.”

“My good man!” Wayne began. “I’m certain you can make time for the investment opportunity you will soon find present in–”

“We’re from the Elendel Constabulary,” Marasi interrupted, taking out her engraved credential plate and holding it up. “Captain Marasi Colms. I’d like to look over some of your deposit records. Shouldn’t take but a few minutes, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Wayne floundered, then gaped at her as the banker – a squat, swarthy man who had a gut like a cannonball and a head to match – took her certification and looked it over. That … that was cheating!

“What records do you need?” the banker asked guardedly.

“Do any of these people have accounts with you?” Marasi asked, proffering a paper.

“I suppose I can check…” the banker said. He sighed and walked farther into the building to where a clerk sat going over ledgers. He slid through a door behind the desk, and Wayne could hear him muttering to himself in the room beyond.

“Now I’ve gotta say,” Wayne said, pulling off the top hat, “that was the worst example of actin’ I’ve ever seen. Who would believe that the rich uncle has a constable for a niece, anyway?”

“There’s no need to lie when the truth will work just as well, Wayne.”

“No need … Of course there’s need! Why, what happens when we have to thump some people, then run off with their ledgers? They’re gonna know it was us, and Wax’ll have to pay a big heap of compensatory fines.”

“Fortunately, we’re not going to be thumping anyone.”

“But–”

“No thumping.”

Wayne sighed. Fat lot of fun this was going to be.

“I’ll have you know that we take the privacy of our patrons very seriously,” the banker explained, hand protectively on the ledgers he’d retrieved from the records room. They sat in his office now, and he had a little desk plaque that named him MR. ERIOLA. Neither of the others seemed to grasp why Wayne snickered when he read that.

“I understand,” Marasi said, “but I have a healthy suspicion one of these men is a criminal. Certainly you don’t want to abet their activities.”

“I don’t want to violate their trust in me either,” the banker said. “What makes you so certain these men are criminals? Do you have any proof?”

“The proof,” Marasi said, “will be in the numbers.” She leaned forward. “Do you know how many crimes can be proven by looking at statistics?”

“Considering the question, I’m going to assume it’s a nontrivial number,” the banker said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands on his ample belly.

“Er, yes,” Marasi said. “Most crimes can be traced to either passion or wealth. Where wealth is involved, numbers come into play – and where numbers come into play, forensic accounting gives us answers.”

The banker didn’t seem convinced – but then, in Wayne’s estimation, he didn’t seem completely human either. He was at least part dolphin. The man continued plying Marasi with questions, obviously stalling for some reason. That made Wayne uncomfortable. Usually when people stalled like that, it was so their mates could have time to arrive and administer a proper beating.

He bided his time playing with objects on the banker’s desk, trying to build a tower of them, but he kept his eyes on the door. If someone did arrive to attack them, he’d have to toss Marasi out the window to get away.

A moment later the door swung open. Wayne grabbed for Marasi, his other hand going for one of his dueling canes, but it was only the clerk from outside. She bustled over to the banker – so Wayne didn’t feel a bit guilty admiring her bustle, so to speak – and handed him a half sheet of paper.

“What’s that?” Marasi asked as the woman left.

“Telegram,” Wayne guessed, relaxing. “Checkin’ up on us, are you?”

The banker hesitated, then turned the paper around. It contained a description of Wayne and Marasi, followed by the words, They are indeed constables under my command. Please afford them every courtesy and liberty in your establishment – though do keep an eye on the short man, and check your till after he leaves.

“Here, now,” Wayne said. “That’s right unfair. Those things cost a clip every five words to send, they do. Old Reddi wasted good money libelin’ me.”

“Technically, it’s defamation,” Marasi said.

“Yup,” Wayne said, “manure, through and through.”

“Defamation, Wayne, not … Oh, never mind.” She met the eyes of the banker. “Are you satisfied?”

“I suppose,” he said, then slid the ledgers over to her.

“Numbers,” Marasi said, digging in her purse for a moment. She brought out a small book and tapped it with one finger. “This contains a list of the common wages for workers in the cemetery business, by the job they do.” She pulled open the ledgers. “Now, looking at the deposits by our men in question, we can find patterns. Who is putting more money in the bank than their payroll would reasonably account for?”

“Surely this isn’t enough to convict a man,” the banker said.

“We’re not looking to convict,” Marasi said, looking through the first ledger. “I just need a little direction.…”

In the minutes that followed, Wayne got his tower to balance with six separate items, including the stapler, which left him feeling rather proud. Eventually, Marasi tapped on one of the ledgers.

“Well?” the banker asked. “Did you find your culprit?”

“Yes,” Marasi said, sounding disturbed. “All of them.”

“… All of them.”

“Every rotten one,” Marasi said. “No pun intended.” She took a deep breath, then slapped the ledger closed. “I guess I could have picked one at random, Mister Eriola. But still, it is good to know.”

“To know what?”

“That they’re all crooked,” she said, and started fishing in her purse again. “I should have guessed. Most corpses are buried with something valuable, if only the clothing. No use letting that all rot away.”

The banker paled. “They’re selling the clothing off the dead people.”

“That,” Marasi said, slipping a small bottle of Syles brandy out of her purse and setting it on the table, “and perhaps any jewelry or other personal effects buried with the bodies.”

“Hey,” Wayne said. “I’m right dry in the throat, I am. That would sure hit me well, like a morning piss after a nine-pinter the night afore.”

“That’s horrible!” the banker said.

“Yes,” Marasi said, “but if you think about it, not too horrifying. The only crimes being perpetrated here are against the dead, and their legal rights are questionable.”

Wayne fished in his pocket a moment, then brought out a silver letter opener. Where did he get that? He set it on the table and took the drink, downing it in one shot.

“Thank you for your time, Mister Eriola,” Marasi continued, taking the letter opener and sliding it toward the banker. “You’ve been very helpful.”

The banker looked at the letter opener with a start, then checked his desk drawer. “Hey, that’s mine,” he said, reaching into the desk and pulling out something that looked like a piece of cord. “Is this … a rat’s tail?”

“Longest I ever seen,” Wayne said. “Quite a prize. Lucky man, you are.”

“How in the world did you…” The banker looked from Wayne to Marasi, then rubbed his head. “Are we finished here?”

“Yes,” Marasi said, standing. “Let’s go, Wayne.”

“Off to make an arrest?” the banker said, dropping the tail into the wastebasket, which was a crime in and of itself. The thing was almost two hands long!

“Arrest?” Marasi asked. “Nonsense, Mister Eriola. We aren’t here to arrest anyone.”

“Then what was the point of all that?”

“Why,” Marasi said, “I had to know whom to employ, of course. Come along, Wayne.”

12

So little had changed since Wax’s youth. Oh, the people at this party wore slightly different clothing: formal waistcoats had grown stouter, and hemlines had risen to midcalf while necklines had plunged, with mere bits of gauze draping across the neck and down the shoulders.

The people, though, were the same. They weighed him, calculating his worth, hiding daggers behind ready smiles. He met their condescending nods, and didn’t miss his guns as much as he would have thought. Those were not the right weapons for this fight.

“I used to be so nervous at these things,” Wax said softly to Steris. “When I was a kid. That was when I still cared about their opinions, I guess. Before I learned how much power over a situation you gain when you decide that you don’t care what others think of you.”

Steris eyed a couple of passing ladies in their completely laceless gowns. “I’m not certain I agree. How you are perceived is important. For example, I’m regretting my choice of gown. I was shooting for fashionable, but fashion is different down here. I’m not in style; I’m avant-garde.”

“I like it,” Wax said. “It stands out.”

“So does a pimple,” Steris said. “Why don’t you get us some drinks, and I’ll take stock of the room and figure out where our targets are?”

Wax nodded in agreement. The grand ballroom was carpeted and adorned with golden chandeliers – though their candleholders glowed with electric lights. The ceiling wasn’t terribly high, but the walls were colorfully decorated with false archways that each held a mural. Classical pieces, like the Ascendant Warrior rising above a flock of ravens – the typical depiction of the Lord Ruler’s wraiths, of whom only Death himself remained.

Though nobody approached him, they also didn’t avoid him. If anything they remained determinedly in his path, refusing to budge – then acted like they hadn’t noticed him as he wove around them. He was from Elendel, their political enemy, and in not moving they made a statement.

Rusts, he hated these games.

The bar covered almost the entire length of the far wall, and was serviced by at least two dozen bartenders, so as to make absolutely certain none of the very important guests had to wait. He ordered wine for Steris and a simple gin and tonic for himself, which got him a raised eyebrow. Apparently that wasn’t fancy enough. Should have ordered straight-up whiskey.

He turned and scanned the room as the bartender prepared the drinks. Soft music by a harpist helped cover the many conversations. It made him uncomfortable to admit that some of the casual discussions in a room like this could do more to affect the lives of the Basin’s people than putting any criminal – no matter how vile – in prison.

Marasi is always talking about things like that, he thought. How the lawkeeping of the future will be about statistics, not shotguns. He tried to imagine a world where murders were prevented by careful civic planning, and found himself unable to see it. People would always kill.

Still, sometimes it was hard not to feel like the one chandelier in the room that still required candles.

“Your order, my lord,” the bartender said, setting the drinks down on fancy cloth napkins, each embroidered with the date of the party. Those would be for the attendees to take as keepsakes.

Wax fished a coin from his pocket for a tip and slid it to the bartender. He grabbed his drinks to head back to Steris, but the bartender cleared his throat. The man held up the coin, and it was not a fivespin as Wax had meant to give him. In fact, it was unlike any coin Wax had ever seen.

“Was this a mistake, my lord?” the man asked. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I’d hate to take something that looks like a memento.”

The symbols on that coin … Wax thought, stepping back to the bar. They’re the same ones as on the walls in the pictures ReLuur took. He nearly overturned the wineglass of another guest in his haste to grab the coin back. He absently shoved the bartender another tip and held up the coin.

Those were the same symbols, or very similar. And it had a face on the back, that of a man looking straight outward, one eye pierced by a spike. The large coin was made of two different metals, an outside ring and an inner one.

The coin certainly didn’t seem old. Was it new, or merely well-preserved? Rust and Ruin … how had this gotten into his pocket?

The beggar tossed it to me, Wax thought. But where had he gotten it? Were there more of these in circulation?

Troubled, he struck out to find Steris. As he walked, he passed Lady Kelesina, the party’s hostess and the woman who was his eventual target. The older woman stood resplendent in a gown of black and silver, holding miniature court before a group of people asking after one of her civic projects.

Wax listened in for a moment, but didn’t want to confront the woman yet. He eventually located Steris standing beside a tall, thin table near the corner. There weren’t any chairs in the ballroom. No dancing either, though there was a dance floor raised an inch or two in the center of the chamber.

Wax set the coin on the table and slid it to Steris.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“The coin that the beggar threw at me. Those symbols look similar to the ones in the pictures ReLuur took.”

Steris pursed her lips, then turned the coin over and looked at the other side. “A face with one eye spiked through. Does it mean something?”

“No idea,” Wax said. “I’m more interested in how that beggar got it – and why he threw it at me. It has to be a relic ReLuur found at that temple. Could he have lost it, or traded it to someone, in the city?”

He tapped the table with one finger, certain now that beggar had been something more than he pretended. He was equally certain that if he went hunting now, he’d find that the man had vanished.

Eventually, Wax pocketed the coin. “We have to hope that the answers are in this room somewhere. Assuming Kelesina really is involved.”

“Then it’s time get to work.”

“I passed her back there. Shall we?”

“Not yet. See that couple over there? The man has on a maroon waistcoat.”

Wax followed her nod. The couple she indicated were young, well-dressed, and smug. Great.

“That is Lord Gave Entrone,” Steris said. “Your houses have had some minor business dealings – he’s in textiles – which should give you an opening to speak with him.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Wax said. “I courted a cousin of his once. It went poorly.”

“Well, he’s also on the list your mad kandra made in his notebook, so he might know something. He’s young, dynamic, and well-regarded – but not terribly important, so he’ll work nicely as a first try.”

“Right,” Wax said, eyeing Entrone, who had drawn a crowd of several more young women as he told a story that involved lots of gesturing. He took a deep breath. “You want to take the lead?”

“It should be you.”

“You sure? I can’t help feeling I’d be better put to use with Marasi and Wayne, digging in graves – while you are comfortable here. You’re good at these things, Steris. You really are – and don’t give me any more of your rhetoric about being ‘boring.’”

Her expression grew distant. “In this case, it’s not that I’m boring, it’s more that … I’m off. I’ve learned to fake being normal, but lists of prepared comments and jokes can only take me so far. People can sense that I’m not being authentic – that I don’t like the things they like or think the way they do. Sometimes it amazes me that people like Wayne, or even those kandra, can be so startlingly human when I feel so alien.”

He wished he could figure out how to keep her from saying things like that. He didn’t know the right words; every time he tried to argue the point, it only seemed to make her withdraw.

Steris held out an arm to him. He took it, and together they crossed the room toward Lord Gave and the small crowd he had drawn. Wax had worried about how to break into the conversation, but as soon as he neared, the people talking to Gave stepped back and made room for him. His reputation and status preceded him, apparently.

“Why, Lord Waxillium!” Gave said with a knowing smile. “I was delighted when I heard that you were going to attend our little gathering! I’ve wanted to meet you for years.”

Wax nodded to him, then to his date and a couple he’d been chatting with. Those two didn’t retreat.

“How are you finding New Seran, my lord?” one of the ladies asked him.

“Seems mighty inconvenient to get around,” Wax said. “Nice otherwise, though.”

They laughed at that, as if he’d said something humorous. He frowned. What had he missed?

“I’m afraid,” Gave said, “you won’t find much to interest you here. New Seran is a quiet city.”

“Oh, but what are you saying, Lord Gave!” the other young man said. “Don’t misrepresent our town. The nightlife here is fantastic, Lord Waxillium! And the symphony has been given a citation of excellence by two of your previous governors.”

“Yes,” Gave said, “but there aren’t many shoot-outs.”

The others gave him blank stares.

“I was a lawman,” Wax told them, “in the Roughs.”

“A…” one of the ladies said. “You oversaw a city’s constable precinct?”

“No, he was a real lawman,” Gave said. “The ‘ride a horse and shoot bandits’ type. You should read the accounts – they’re all the rage in the Elendel broadsheets.”

The three others regarded him with bemused expressions. “How … unique,” one of the ladies finally said.

“The accounts are exaggerated,” Steris said quickly. “Lord Waxillium has only been directly responsible for the deaths of around a hundred people. Unless you include those who died of infection after he shot them – I’m still not sure how to count those.”

“It was a difficult life,” Wax said, looking toward Gave, who smiled behind his cup of wine, eyes twinkling. For a man like him, Wax and Steris were obviously good sport. “But that is behind me now. Lord Gave, I wanted to thank you for our years of mutually profitable trade.”

“Oh, don’t bring business into it, Lord Waxillium!” Gave said, with a tip of his wine. “This is a party.”

The others laughed. Again, Wax had no idea why.

Damn, he thought, looking between them. I am rusty. He’d complained, dragged his feet, but he hadn’t expected to be this clumsy.

Focus. Gave knew something about the Bands of Mourning, or at least ReLuur had thought he did.

“Do you have any hobbies, Lord Gave?” Wax asked, earning an eager nod from Steris at the comment.

“Nothing of real note,” Gave said.

“He loves archaeology!” his date said at the same time though. He gave her a dry look.

“Archaeology!” Wax said. “That’s hardly unnotable, Lord Gave.”

“He loves relics!” the lady said. “Spends hours at the auction house, snatching up anything he–”

“I like history,” Gave interjected. “Artwork from times past inspires me. But you, dear, are making me sound too much like one of those gentlemen adventurers.” He sneered at the term. “I’m sure you saw the type up in the Roughs, Lord Waxillium. Men who’d spent their lives in society, but suddenly decided to go off seeking some kind of thrill or another where they don’t belong.”

Steris stiffened. Wax met the man’s gaze levelly. The insult, veiled though it was, was similar to those he’d suffered in Elendel society.

“Better they try something new,” Wax said, “as opposed to wasting their lives in the same old activities.”

“My Lord Waxillium!” Gave said. “Disappointing one’s family is hardly original! People have been doing it since the days of the Last Emperor.”

Wax made a fist at his side. He was accustomed to insults, but this one still got under his skin. Perhaps it was because he was on edge, or perhaps it was because of his worry about his sister.

He pushed down his anger, Steris squeezing his arm, and tried another tactic. “Is your cousin well?”

“Valette? Most certainly. We are all pleased with her new marriage. I’m sorry your relationship didn’t work out, but the man who courted her after you was dreadful. When titles are part of a union, it’s always unpleasant to see what crawls out from the mists looking for a bone.”

He didn’t look at Steris as he said it. He didn’t need to. That sly smile, so self-satisfied as he sipped his wine.

“You rat,” Wax growled. “You rusting, spineless rat.” He reached for his gun, which – fortunately – wasn’t there.

The other three young nobles looked to him, shocked. Gave grinned in a cocky way before adopting an expression of outrage. “Excuse me,” he said, turning his date by the arm and striding away. The others scuttled after.

Wax sighed, lowering his arm, still angry. “He did that deliberately,” he muttered. “Didn’t he? He wanted an excuse to leave the conversation, so he insulted me. When that didn’t work, he flung one at you, knowing I’d overreact.”

“Hmmm…” Steris said. “Yes, you have the right of it.” Steris nodded. Other people nearby made conversation, but they left an open space around Wax and Steris.

“I’m sorry,” Wax said. “I let him get to me.”

“That’s why we tried him first,” Steris said. “Good practice. And we did learn something. The archaeology comment prodded too close to something he didn’t want to discuss. He turned to veiled insults to distract us.”

Wax took a deep breath, shoving away his annoyance at this entire situation. “What now? Do we try another one?”

“No,” Steris said, thoughtful. “We don’t want our targets to know that we’re approaching them specifically. If you interact with unaffiliated people in between, our pattern will be more difficult to spot.”

“Right,” Wax said, looking through the busy hall as the harpist retreated and a full band, with brass – something you’d never see at a party in Elendel – began setting up instruments in her place.

He and Steris sipped drinks as the music started. Though it was slow enough to encourage dancing with a partner, there was a pep to it Wax hadn’t expected. He found he quite liked it. It seemed to be able to beat out his frustration, turn it to something more excited instead.

“Why don’t you go there next?” Steris said, nodding toward a distinguished older woman with her grey hair in a bun. “That’s Lady Felise Demoux, accompanied by her nephew. You’ve had business dealings with her; she’s exactly the sort of person you’d be expected to seek out. I’ll refill our drinks.”

“Get me a seltzer,” Wax said. “I’ll need my mind clear for this.”

Steris nodded, moving off through the crowd as people made way for dancing in the center of the room. Wax approached Lady Demoux and introduced himself with a card given to her nephew, then requested a dance, which was accepted.

Small talk. He could do small talk. What is wrong with you, Wax? he thought at himself as he accompanied Lady Demoux to the dance floor. You can interrogate a criminal without trouble. Why do you dread simple conversation?

Part of him wanted to dismiss it as mere laziness. But that was his response to everything he didn’t want to do – an excuse. What was it really? Why was he so reluctant?

It’s because these are their rules. If I play by them, I accept their games. It felt like he was accepting their collar.

He turned to raise his hand to the side for Lady Demoux to take. However, as he did, a different woman slid into place and grasped his hand, towing him into the dancing and away from the perimeter. He was so surprised that he let it happen.

“Excuse me?” Wax said.

“No excuses necessary,” the woman said, “I won’t take but a moment of your time.” She looked to be Terris, judging by her dark skin – though hers was darker than most he’d seen. Her hair was in tight braids, streaked with grey, and her face bore full, luscious lips. She took the lead in the dance, causing him to stumble.

“You realize,” she said, “that you are a very rare specimen. Crasher: a Coinshot and a Skimmer.”

“Neither are that rare,” Wax said, “in terms of Metalborn.”

“Ah, but any Twinborn combination is rare indeed. Mistings are one in a thousand; most Ferrings even more unusual, and their bloodlines constrained. To arrive at any specific combination of two is highly improbable. You are one of only three Crashers ever born, Lord Waxillium.”

“What, really?”

“I cannot, of course, be one hundred percent certain of that figure. Infant mortality on Scadrial is not as bad as some regions, but still shockingly high. Tell me, have you ever tried increasing your weight while in midair?”

“Who are you?” Wax said, stepping into the dance and seizing back control, twisting her to his right.

“Nobody important,” she said.

“Did my uncle send you?”

“I have little interest in your local politics, Lord Waxillium,” she replied. “If you would kindly answer my questions, I will let you be.”

He turned with her to the music. They danced more quickly than he was accustomed to, though the steps were familiar. The constant intrusion of those brass instruments drove the song, made his steps seem to spring. Why had he mentioned his uncle? Sloppy.

“I’ve increased my weight while moving,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t do anything – all things fall at the same speed, regardless of how heavy they are.”

“Yes, the uniformity of gravitation,” the woman said. “That’s not what I’m curious about. What if you’re soaring through the air on a Steelpush and you suddenly make yourself heavier. What happens?”

“I slow down – I’m so much heavier that it’s harder to Push myself forward.”

“Ahh…” the woman said softly. “So it is true.”

“What?”

“Conservation of momentum,” she said. “Lord Waxillium, when you store weight, are you storing mass, or are you changing the planet’s ability to recognize you as something to attract? Is there a difference? Your answer gives me a clue. If you slow when you become heavier midflight, then that is not likely due to you having trouble Pushing, but due to the laws of physics.”

She stepped back from him in the middle of the dance, releasing his hands and sidestepping another couple, who gave them a glare for interfering with the flow of the dance. She produced a card and handed it toward him. “Please experiment with this further and send me word. Thank you. Now, if I can just figure out why there’s no redshift involved in speed bubbles…”

With that she wandered off the floor, leaving him befuddled in the middle of the dancing. Suddenly conscious of how many stares he was drawing, he lifted his chin and sauntered off the dance floor, where he found Lady Demoux and apologized to her profusely for the interruption. She allowed him to have the next dance, which passed without incident, save for Wax having to hear a protracted description of Lady Demoux’s prize-winning hounds.

Once done, he tried to find the strange woman with the braids, even going so far as to approach the doorkeeper and ask after her. The card had an address in Elendel, but no name.

The doorman claimed he hadn’t admitted anyone by that description, which left Wax even more troubled. His uncle was trying to breed Allomancers. A woman asking after the specifics of Allomantic powers couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

He did pass MeLaan. Square-chinned, standing over six feet tall, her masculine body bulged with muscles beneath her tuxedo, and she’d drawn a gaggle of interested young ladies. She winked at Wax as he passed, but he gave her no response.

Steris had a drink waiting for him at the table, where she was flipping through pages of her notebook and mumbling. As Wax neared, he noticed a young man approach and try to engage her in conversation, but she dismissed him with a wiggle of her fingers, not even looking up. The man, deflated, drifted away.

Wax stepped up to the table. “Not interested in dancing?”

“What would be the point?” she said.

“Well, I’m going out and dancing, so maybe you could too.”

“You are lord of your house,” Steris said absently, still reading. “You have political and economic obligations. Anyone who would want to do the same with me is simply trying to get to you, something for which I have no time.”

“Either that,” Wax said, “or he thought you were pretty.”

Steris looked up from her notes and cocked her head, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “I’m engaged.”

“We’re new here,” Wax said, “largely unknown save to those who pay attention to Elendel politics. The lad probably didn’t know who you were.”

Steris blinked very pointedly. She actually seemed troubled by the idea that someone unknown might find her attractive. Wax smiled, reaching for the cup she’d set out for him. “What is this?”

“Soda water,” she said.

He held it up to the light. “It’s yellow.”

“All the rage here, apparently,” Steris said. “With lemon flavoring.”

Wax took a drink, then nearly choked.

“What?” Steris asked, alarmed. “Poison?”

“Sugar,” Wax said. “About seven cups of it.”

Steris took a sip, then pulled back. “How odd. It’s like champagne, only … not.”

Wax shook his head. What was wrong with people in this city?

“I’ve decided upon our next target,” Steris said, pointing toward a man across the room leaning against the archway near some tanks of exotic fish. In his thirties, he wore his jacket unbuttoned with a kind of purposeful sloppiness. Occasionally, someone else would approach and talk to him for a short time, then move back out into the crowd.

“They’re reporting to him?” Wax asked.

“Devlin Airs,” Steris said with a nod. “Informant. You’ll find his sort at any party. He’s either one of the least important people in the room or one of the most important, depending upon the secrets you’re interested in discovering. He was also on ReLuur’s list.”

Wax studied the man for a time, and when he looked back toward Steris, half of his fizzy yellow drink was gone. She looked innocently in the other direction.

“Probably best,” she said, “if you approach him alone. His type doesn’t like an audience.”

“All right,” Wax said, taking a deep breath.

“You can do this, Lord Waxillium.”

He nodded.

“I mean it,” Steris said, resting her hand on his. “Lord Waxillium, this is exactly what you’ve been doing for the last twenty years, in the Roughs.”

“I could shoot people there, Steris.”

“Could you really? Is that how you solved things? You couldn’t get answers, so you shot somebody?”

“Well, I’d usually just punch them.”

She gave him a raised eyebrow.

“To be honest, no, I didn’t have to shoot – or punch – all that often. But the rules were different. Hell, I could make the rules, if I needed to.”

“Same goes here,” Steris said. “These people know things that you need to know. You need to either trick them or trade with them. As you’ve always done.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Thank you. Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll pull a knife on you, and you’ll get an excuse to punch him anyway.”

“Don’t get my hopes up,” he said, then gave her a nod, and walked across the room.

The gates to the Seran New District Cemetery were topped with a crouching statue of the Survivor, scarred arms spread wide and gripping the metalwork arch on either side. Marasi felt dwarfed by the statue’s looming intensity – brass cloak tassels spreading out in a radial flare behind him, his metallic face glaring down at those who entered. A spear through his back pierced the front of his chest, the polished tip emerging to hang a foot below the center of the arch.

When she and Wayne passed beneath it, Marasi felt as if it should drip blood upon her. She shivered, but didn’t slow her step. She refused to be intimidated by the Survivor’s glare. She’d been raised Survivorist, so the gruesome imagery associated with the religion was familiar to her.

It was just that every time she saw a depiction of the Survivor, his posture seemed so demanding. It was like he wanted people to recognize the contradiction in his religion. He commanded that people survive, yet the death imagery associated with him was a cruel reminder that they’d eventually fail in that task. Survivorism therefore was not about winning, but about lasting as long as you could before you lost.

The Survivor himself, of course, broke the rules. He always had. Doctrine explained he was not dead, but surviving – and planning to return in their time of greatest need. But if the end of the world hadn’t been enough to get him to return in his glory, then what could possibly do so?

They wound through the graveyard, seeking the caretaker’s building. Evening had fallen, and the mists had decided to come out tonight. She tried not to take that as any kind of sign, but it did make the place look extra creepy. Gravestones and statues were shadowed in the churning mists. Some nights, she saw the mists as playful. Tonight their unpredictable motions seemed more a crowd of shifting spirits, watching her and Wayne, angered at their intrusion.

Wayne started whistling. That sent another shiver up Marasi’s spine. Fortunately, the gravekeeper’s building was now only a short distance up the path – she could see its lights creating a bubble of yellow in the mists.

She stuck close to Wayne, not because she felt more comfortable having him beside her. “Our target is a man named Dechamp,” she said. “Should be the night gravekeeper, and one of those whose ledger entries show regular upticks in income. He’s grave robbing for sure. In fact, this cemetery showed the highest frequency of that, and the ledgers listed it as the place the city pays to take care of unidentified bodies. I’m reasonably certain the kandra’s remains ended up here; we just need to find this man and get him to dig for us.”

Wayne nodded.

“This won’t be like with the banker,” Marasi said. “Who was reluctant, but ultimately helpful.”

“Really?” Wayne said. “Because I thought he was kind of a tit.…”

“Focus, Wayne. We’ll have to use the full weight of the law here, to push this man. I suspect we’ll have to offer clemency to get him to help us.”

“Wait, wait,” Wayne said, stopping on the path, tendrils of mist curling around his brow, “you’re gonna flash your goods at him too?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t phrase it that way.”

“Now, listen,” Wayne said softly, “you were right ’bout the banker. You did damn good work in there, Marasi, and I’m not too proud to admit it. But authority works different out here in the world of regular men. You bring out your credentials with this fellow, and I guarantee he’s gonna react like a rabbit. Find the nearest hole, hunker down, not say a word.”

“Good interrogation techniques–”

“Ain’t worth beans if you’re in a hurry,” Wayne said, “which we are. I’m puttin’ my foot down.” He hesitated. “’Sides, I already lifted your credentials.”

“You…” Marasi started, then rummaged through her purse and discovered that the small, engraved plate that held her constable’s credentials was gone, replaced with an empty bottle of Syles brandy. “Oh please. This isn’t worth nearly the same as those credentials.”

“I know I gave you a good deal,” Wayne said. “’Cuz yours is only a bit of useless metal – which is about what it’d be worth here, in this cemetery.”

“You will give the credentials back after we’re done.”

“Sure. If you fill that bottle in trade.”

“But you said–”

“Convenience fee,” Wayne said, then looked up the path toward the gravekeeper’s building. He took his top hat off and stomped on it.

Marasi stepped back, hand to her breast, as Wayne ground the hat beneath his heel, then brought it up and twisted it the other way. Finally, after inspecting it critically, he pulled a knife off his metalbelt and cut a hole in the hat’s side. He tossed aside his duster and cut off one of the straps of his suspenders.

When the top hat went back on his head, he looked shockingly like a vagrant. Of course, he was always one step from that, but it was still surprising how much of a difference two little changes could make. He spun the knife in his hand and inspected Marasi with a critical eye. The sun had set completely, but with the light of the city diffusing through the mists, it could actually be brighter on a night like this than on one without any mist.

“What?” Marasi said, uncomfortable.

“You look too fancy,” Wayne said.

Marasi glanced down at herself. She wore a simple, sky-blue day dress, hem at midcalf, laced up the sleeves and neck. “This is pretty ordinary, Wayne.”

“Not for what we’ll be doin’.”

“I can be your employer or something.”

“Men like this don’t open up none if there’s someone respectable about.” He spun the knife in his hand, then reached for her chest.

“Wayne!” she said.

“Don’t be so stiff. You want this done right, right?”

She sighed. “Don’t get too frisky.”

“Sooner get frisky with a lion, Mara. That I would.”

He cut the opaque lace window out of her bodice, leaving her with a plunging neckline. Her sleeves went next, shortened by a good foot to above the elbow. He took the lace there and tied it like a ribbon around her dress right beneath her breasts, then pulled the laces on the back of the dress more tightly. That lifted and thrust her upper chest outward in a decidedly scandalous way.

From there, he made a few choice slits on the skirt before rubbing dirt on the bottom parts. He stepped back, tapping his cheek thoughtfully, and nodded.

Marasi looked down, inspecting his handiwork, and was actually impressed. Beyond enhancing the bust, he’d cut along seams, pulling out threads, and the effect wasn’t so much ruined as used.

“Everyone looks at the chest first,” Wayne said, “even women, which is kinda strange, but that’s the way it is. Like this, nobody will care that the dirt looks too fresh and the rest of the dress ain’t aged properly.”

“Wayne, I’m shocked,” she said. “You’re an excellent seamstress.”

“Clothes is fun to play with. Ain’t no reason that can’t be manly.” His eyes lingered on her chest.

“Wayne.”

“Sorry, sorry. Just gettin’ into character, you know.” He waved for her to follow, and they headed up the path. As they did, Marasi realized something.

She wasn’t blushing.

Well, that’s a first, she thought, growing strangely confident.

“Try not to open your mouth much,” Wayne advised as they approached the hut. “On account of you normally soundin’ way too smart.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He snapped a branch off a tree they passed, spun it around his finger, then held it down before himself like a gnarled cane. Together they approached the glowing building: a small, thatched structure that had a few weathered mistwraith statues sticking up from its mossy yard. The statues – made in the form of skeletons with skin pulled tight across the skulls – were traditionally thought to ward away the real things, as mistwraiths could be very territorial. Marasi suspected the creatures could tell the difference between real and stone members of their species – but of course, scientists claimed that the mistwraiths hadn’t even survived the Catacendre in the first place. So the question was probably moot.

A greasy little man with a blond ponytail whistled to himself beside the hut, sharpening his shovel with a whetstone. Who sharpens a shovel? Marasi thought as Wayne presented himself, chest thrust out, improvised cane before him as if he were some grand attendee at a ball.

“And are you,” Wayne said, “bein’ the one called Dezchamp?”

“Dechamp,” the man said, looking up lazily. “Now, now. Did I leave that gate open again? I am supposed to be closin’ the thing each night. I’ll have to be askin’ you to leave this premises, sir.”

“I’ll make my way out, then,” Wayne said, pointing with his cane-stick, yet not moving. “But afore I go, I would like to make you aware of a special business proposition regardin’ you and me.”

Wayne had exaggerated his accent to the point that Marasi had to pay strict attention to make out what he was saying. Beyond that, there was a more staccato sense to it. More stressed syllables, more of a rhythm to the sentences. It was, she realized, very similar to the accent the gravekeeper was using.

“I’m a honest man, I am,” Dechamp said, drawing his whetstone along his shovel. “I don’t have no business I needs to discuss, particularly not at a time of night like this one here.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of your honesty,” Wayne said, rolling back on his heels, hands on his cane before him. “Heard it spoken of from one street to the next. Everyone’s talkin’ ’bout your honesty, Dechamp. It’s a right keen topic of interest.”

“If everyone’s sayin’ so much,” Dechamp replied, “then you’ll know I already got plenty of people with whom to share my honesty. I’m … gainfully contracted.”

“That don’t matter none for our business.”

“I do think it might.”

“See, it won’t,” Wayne said, “on account of my needin’ only one special little item, that nobody else would find of interest.”

Dechamp looked Wayne up and down. Then he eyed Marasi, and his eyes lingered as Wayne had said they would. Finally Dechamp smiled and stood, calling into the hut. “Boy? Boy!”

A child scrambled out into the mists, bleary-eyed and wearing a dirty smock and trousers. “Sir?”

“Go and kindly do a round of the yard,” Dechamp said. “Make sure we ain’t disturbed.”

The boy grew wide-eyed, then nodded and scampered off into the mists. Dechamp rested his shovel on his shoulder, pocketing the whetstone. “Now, what can I be callin’ you, good sir?”

“Mister Coins will do,” Wayne said. “And I’ll be callin’ you Mister Smart Man, for the decision you just made right here and now.”

He was changing his accent. It was subtle, but Marasi could tell he’d shifted it faintly.

“Nothing is set as of yet,” Dechamp said. “I just like to give that boy some exercise now and then. Keeps his health.”

“Of course,” Wayne said. “And I understand completely that nothing has been promised. But I tell you, this thing I want, ain’t nobody else goin’ to give you a clip for it.”

“If that’s so, then why are you so keen for it?”

“Sentimental value,” Wayne said. “It belonged to a friend, and it was really hard for him to part with it.”

Marasi snorted in surprise at that one, drawing Dechamp’s attention.

“Are you the friend?”

“I don’t speak skaa,” she said in the ancient Terris language. “Could you perhaps talk in Terris, please?”

Wayne winked at her. “No use, Dechamp. I can’t get her to speak proper, no matter how much I try. But she’s fine to look at, ain’t she?”

He nodded slowly. “Iffen this item be under my watchful care, where might it be found?”

“There was a right tragic incident in town a few weeks back,” Wayne said. “Explosives. People dead. I hear they brought the pieces to you.”

“Bilmy runs the day shift,” Dechamp said. “He brought ’em in. The ones what weren’t claimed, the city put in a nice little grave. They was mostly beggars and whores.”

“And right undeservin’ of death,” Wayne said, taking off his hat and putting it over his breast. “Let’s go see them.”

“You want to go tonight?”

“Iffen it ain’t too much a sweat.”

“Not much sweat, Mister Coins,” Dechamp said, “but your name had better match your intentions.”

Wayne promptly got out a few banknotes and waved them. Dechamp snatched them, sniffed them for some reason, then shoved them in his pocket. “Well, those ain’t coins, but they’ll do. Come on, then.”

He took out an oil lantern, then led them into the mists.

“You changed your accent,” Marasi whispered to Wayne as they followed a short distance behind.

“Aged it back a tad,” Wayne explained softly. “Used the accent of a generation past.”

“There’s a difference?”

He looked shocked. “Of course there is, woman. Made me sound older, like his parents. More authority.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe she’d even asked.

Dechamp’s lantern reflected off the mists as they walked, and that actually made it harder to see in the night, but he’d probably need it when digging. It did little to dispel the eeriness of gravestones broken by the occasional twisted mistwraith image. She understood, logically, why the tradition would have grown up. If there was one place you wanted to keep scavengers away from, it would be the graveyard. Except that the place had its own set of human scavengers, so the statues weren’t working.

“Now,” Dechamp said, and Wayne caught up to listen, “I’ll have you know that I am an honest man.”

“Of course,” Wayne said.

“But I’m also a thrifty man.”

“Ain’t we all,” Wayne said. “I never buys the fancy beer, even when it’s last call and the bartender halves it to empty the barrel.”

“You’re a man after my own heart, then,” Dechamp said. “Thrifty. What’s the good of lettin’ things rot and waste away, I says. The Survivor, he didn’t waste nothing useful.”

“Except noblemen,” Wayne said. “Wasted a fair number o’ them.”

“Wasn’t a waste,” Dechamp said, chuckling. “That there was weapons testing. Gotta make sure your knives is workin’.”

“Indeed,” Wayne said. “Why, sometimes the sharp ends on mine need lotsa testin’. To make sure they don’t break down in the middle of a good killin’.”

They shared a laugh, and Marasi shook her head. Wayne was in his element – he could talk about stabbing rich people all day long. Never mind that he himself was wealthier, now, than most of Elendel.

She didn’t much care to listen to them as they continued to laugh and joke, but unfortunately she also didn’t want to get too far away in this darkness. Yes, the mists were supposed to belong to the Survivor, but rusts, every second tombstone looked like a figure stumbling toward her in the night.

Eventually the gravekeeper led them to a freshly filled grave tucked away behind a few larger mausoleums. It was unmarked save for the sign of the spear, carved in stone and set into the dirt. Nearby, a few other new graves – these open – awaited corpses.

“You might want to grab a seat,” Dechamp said, hefting his shovel. “This’ll go fast, since the grave is upturned, but not that fast. And you might tell the lady to watch the other way. There’s no tellin’ what bits I might toss up.”

“Grab a seat…” Wayne said, looking around at the field of tombstones. “Where, my good man?”

“Anywhere,” Dechamp said, starting to dig. “They don’t care none. That’s the motto of the gravekeeper, you know. Just remember, they don’t care none.…”

And he set to it.

13

I have to accept their rules, Wax thought, crossing the room to the informant. They’re different, no matter what Steris says. But I do know them.

He’d decided to stay in the Basin and do what he could here. He’d seen the dangers on the streets of Elendel, and had worked to fight them. But those were a lesser wound – it was like patching the cut while the rot festered up the arm.

Chasing down the Set’s lesser minions … they probably wanted him doing those things. If he was going to protect the people, he was going to have to gun for more important targets. That meant keeping his temper, and it meant dancing and playing nice. It meant doing all the things his parents, and even his uncle, had tried to teach him.

Wax stopped near the alcove the informant, Devlin, occupied. The man was watching the nearby fish tank, which stood beneath a depiction of Tindwyl, Mother of Terris, perched on the walls during her last stand against the darkness. In the tank, tiny octopuses moved across the glass.

After a moment’s waiting, the informant nodded toward him. Wax approached and rested his arm against the glass of the tank beside Devlin, a short, handsome man with a hint of hair on his upper lip and chin.

“I expected you to be arrogant,” Devlin noted.

“What makes you think that I’m not?”

“You waited,” Devlin said.

“An arrogant man can still be polite,” Wax said.

Devlin smiled. “I suppose he can be, Lord Waxillium.” One of the little octopuses seized a passing fish in its tentacles and dropped from the side of the tank, holding the squirming fish and pulling it up toward its beak.

“They don’t feed them,” Devlin noted, “for a week or so before a party. They like the show they provide.”

“Brutal,” Wax said.

“Lady Kelesina imagines herself the predator,” he said, “and we all her fish, invited in to swim and perhaps be consumed.” Devlin smiled. “Of course, she doesn’t see that she’s in a cage as well.”

“You know something about that cage?” Wax asked.

“It’s the cage we’re all in, Lord Waxillium! This Basin that Harmony created for us. So perfect, so lush. Nobody leaves.”

“I did.”

“To the Roughs,” Devlin said, dismissive. “What’s beyond them, Waxillium? Beyond the deserts? Across the seas? Nobody cares.”

“I’ve heard it asked before.”

“And has anyone put up the money to find the answers?”

Wax shook his head.

“People can ask questions,” Devlin said, “but where there is no money, there are no answers.”

Wax found himself chuckling, to which Devlin responded with a modest nod. He had developed a subtle way of explaining that he needed to be paid to give information. Oddly, despite the immediate – and somewhat crass – demand, Wax found himself more comfortable here than he’d been with Lord Gave.

Wax fished in his pocket and held out the strange coin. “Money,” he said. “I have an interest in money.”

Devlin took it, then cocked an eyebrow.

“If someone could tell me how this could be spent,” Wax noted, “I would be enriched. Really, we all would be.”

Devlin turned it over in his fingers. “Though I’ve never seen the exact image on this one, coins like these have been moving with some regularity through black-market antiquities auctions. I’ve been baffled as to why. There is no reason to keep them secret, and it would not be illegal to sell them in the open.” He flipped the coin back to Wax.

He caught it with surprise.

“You didn’t expect me to answer so frankly,” Devlin said. “Why do people so often ask questions when they’re not expecting answers?”

“Do you know anything else?” Wax asked.

“Gave bought a few,” Devlin said, “then immediately stopped, and the pieces he purchased are no longer on display in his home.”

Wax nodded thoughtfully and dug into his pocket for some money to offer the informant.

“Not here,” Devlin said, rolling his eyes. “One hundred. Send a note of transfer to your bank and have them move it to my account.”

“You’d trust me?” Wax asked.

“Lord Waxillium, it’s my job to know whom to trust.”

“It will be done, then. Assuming you have a little more for me.”

“Whatever is being covered up,” Devlin said, looking back toward the fish tank, “a good quarter of the nobility in the city is embroiled in it. First I was curious; now I’m terrified. It involves a massive building project to the northeast of here.”

“What kind of building project?” Wax asked.

“No way of knowing,” Devlin said. “Some farmers have seen it. Claimed Allomancers were involved. News died before it got here. Quashed. Smothered. Everything’s been strange in New Seran lately. A murderer from the Roughs showing up, attacking the homes of rich Metalborn, then you come to a party…”

“This project to the northeast,” Wax said. “Allomancers?”

“I don’t have anything more on it,” Devlin said, then tapped the fish tank, trying to frighten one of the little octopuses.

“What about the explosion a few weeks back?” Wax asked. “The one in the city?”

“An attack by this murderer from the Roughs, they say.”

“Do you believe them?”

“It didn’t kill any Metalborn,” Devlin said.

None that you know of, Wax thought. Where did Hemalurgy fit into all of this?

Devlin stood and nodded to Wax, extending a hand as if in farewell.

“That’s it?” Wax asked.

“Yes.”

“Steep price for so little,” Wax said, taking the hand.

Devlin leaned in, speaking softly, “Then let me give you a bit more. What you’re involved in is dangerous, more than you can imagine. Get out. That’s what I’m doing.”

“I can’t,” Wax said as Devlin pulled back.

“I know you, lawman,” Devlin said. “And I can tell you, the group you chase, you don’t need to worry about them. They won’t be a danger for decades, perhaps centuries. You’re ignoring the bigger threat.”

“Which is?” Wax asked.

“The rest of the people in this room,” Devlin said, “the ones not involved in your little conspiracy – the ones who care only about how their cities are being treated.”

“Pardon,” Wax said, “but they don’t seem like nearly the same level of danger to me.”

“Then you aren’t paying attention,” Devlin said. “Personally, I’m curious to find out how many lives the Basin’s first civil war claims. Good day, Lord Ladrian.” He walked away, snapping his fingers as he passed a few people. One of them scuttled off to follow him.

Wax found himself growling softly. First that woman during the dancing, now this fellow. Wax felt like he was being jerked around on the end of someone’s string. What had he even found out? Confirmation that artifacts were being sold? So someone else had found the place that ReLuur had evanotyped?

A building project, Wax thought. Allomancers.

Civil war.

Feeling cold, Wax moved back through the crowd. He rounded a group of people, noting that Steris was gone from their table – though she’d finished his cup of sweetened soda water before leaving. He turned and started through the crowd, looking for her.

That, by chance, brought him unexpectedly face-to-face with a statuesque woman with her hair in a bun and a ring on each finger. “Why, Lord Waxillium,” Kelesina said, waving for her companions to withdraw, leaving her alone with Wax. “I was hoping to get a chance to speak with you.”

He felt an immediate spike of panic – which he shot in the head and dumped in a lake. He would not be intimidated by one of Suit’s lackies, no matter how wealthy or influential. “Lady Shores,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it rather than kissing it. He might not be in the Roughs, but he didn’t intend to take his eyes off his enemy.

“I hope you’ve been enjoying the party,” she said. “The main address is about a half hour away; you might find it of note. We’ve invited the mayor of Bilming himself to speak. I’ll be certain to get you a transcript to bring back to your peasant governor, so that you needn’t worry about memorizing the details.”

“That’s very courteous of you.”

“I–” she began.

Rusts, he was tired of letting someone else steer his conversation tonight.

“Have you seen Lord Gave?” Wax interrupted. “I insulted him by accident earlier. I wish to make amends.”

“Gave?” Kelesina said. “Don’t mind him, Waxillium. He’s hardly worth the bother.”

“Still,” Wax said. “I feel like I’m wearing blocks of concrete on my feet and trying to dance! Every step I take, I smash somebody’s toes. Rusts, I’d hoped that people down here wouldn’t be as touchy as they are in Elendel.”

She smiled. The words seemed to put her at ease, as if she were getting from him exactly what she expected.

Use that, Wax told himself. But how? This woman had decades’ worth of experience moving in social circles. Steris could opine all she wanted about his virtues, but he’d spent years doing target practice instead of attending parties. How could he expect to match these people at their own game?

“I’m sorry to see you didn’t bring your associate,” Kelesina said.

“Wayne?” Wax asked, genuinely incredulous.

“Yes. I’ve had letters regarding him from friends in Elendel. He seems so colorful!”

“That’s one way to put it,” Wax said. “Pardon, Lady Kelesina, but I’d sooner bring my horse to a party. It’s better behaved.”

She laughed. “You are a charmer, Lord Waxillium.”

This woman was guilty as sin, and he knew it. He could feel it. He did the next part by instinct. He pulled the coin from his pocket and held it up.

“Maybe you can answer something for me,” he said, and realized he’d started to let a Roughs accent slip into his voice. Thanks for that, Wayne. “I was given this outside, by mistake I think. I asked some folks in here about it, and some of them got so pale in the face, I’d have thought they’d been shot.”

Kelesina froze.

“Now personally,” Wax said, flipping it over, “I think it has to do with those rumors of what’s happenin’ out northeast. Big dig in the ground, I’ll bet? Well, I figure this must be from that. Relic from the old days. Mighty interesting, eh?”

“Don’t be taken in by those rumors, Lord Waxillium,” she said. “After stories circulated, people began coining things like those in the city to sell to the gullible.”

“Is that so?” Wax said, trying to sound disappointed. “That’s a shame. It sounded really interesting to me.” He pocketed the coin as the band started another song. “Care for a dance?”

“Actually,” she said, “I promised the next one already. Can I find you later, Lord Waxillium?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, then gave her a nod as she withdrew. He stepped back to his table, watching her move pointedly through the crowd with frightened motions.

“Was that Lady Kelesina?” Steris said, joining him, holding another cup of the sweetened yellow drink.

“Yup,” Wax said.

“I wasn’t planning to talk to her until after the speech,” Steris said, huffing. “You’ve thrown off my entire timeline.”

“Sorry.”

“It will have to do. What did you discover from her?”

“Nothing,” Wax said, still watching Lady Kelesina as she met with some men in suits nearby. She kept her face calm, but the curt way she motioned … yes, she sure was agitated. “I told her what I’d discovered.”

“You what?”

“I tipped her off that I was on to them,” Wax said, “though I tried to act stupid. I don’t know if she bought that part. Wayne’s far better than I am at it. He’s a natural, you see.”

“You’ve ruined it then?”

“Maybe,” Wax said. “But then, if this were the Roughs and I were confronting a criminal – but had no evidence – this is what I’d do. Let it slip that I was suspicious of them, then watch where they go.”

Lady Kelesina stalked from the hall, leaving one of the other men to give apologies. Wax could almost hear them. The lady has a matter of some urgency to take care of at the moment. She will return shortly.

Steris followed his gaze.

“Ten notes says she’s gone to contact Suit,” Wax said, “and let him know that I’m on to them.”

“Ah,” Steris said.

He nodded. “I figured I couldn’t outtalk her, no matter how hard I tried. But she’s not used to being chased by the law. She will make simple mistakes, ones that even a rookie stagecoach robber would never make.”

“We’ll need to follow her somehow.”

“That would be the plan,” Wax said, drumming his fingers on the table. “I may have to start a fight and get thrown out.”

“Lord Waxillium!” Steris said, then started fishing in her purse.

“I’m sorry. I’m having trouble thinking of something else.” It was a weak plan though. Getting thrown out would likely alert Kelesina. “We need a distraction, an excuse to leave. Something believable, but not too disconcerting … What is that?”

Steris had removed a small vial of something from her purse. “Syrup of ipecac and saltroot,” she said. “To induce vomiting.”

He blinked in shock. “But why…”

“I had assumed they might try to poison us,” Steris said. “Though I considered it only a small possibility, it’s best to be prepared.” She laughed uncomfortably.

Then she downed the whole thing.

Wax reached for her arm, but too late. He watched in horror as she stoppered the empty vial and tucked it into her purse. “You might want to get out of the splash radius, so to speak.”

“But … Steris!” he said. “You’ll end up humiliating yourself.”

She closed her eyes. “Dear Lord Waxillium. Earlier, you spoke of the power of not caring about what others thought of you. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you see,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling, “I’m trying to practice that skill.”

She proceeded to vomit all over the table.

The digging continued, and Marasi passed the time reading inscriptions on gravestones. Wayne, for his part, had settled down on a grave with his back to the stone, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As she passed to check on the progress, she found him rummaging in his pocket. A moment later, he pulled a sandwich out and started eating. When he saw Marasi staring at him, he held it toward her, wagging it to see if she wanted a bite.

Feeling sick, she turned away from him and sought out more grave inscriptions. This was obviously the poorer section of the yard; plots were close together, and the markers were small and simple. The mist wove between them, curling around her as she knelt beside a stone, wiped off the moss, and read the memorial left for the child buried here. Eliza Marin. 308–310. Ascend and be free.

The steady sound of the gravedigger’s shovel accompanied her as she moved between the graves. Soon she was too far from the light to make out the inscriptions. She sighed, turning, and found someone standing in the mists nearby.

She practically jumped out of her shoes, but the shifting mists – and the figure’s too-steady posture – soon revealed this to be a statue. Marasi approached, frowning. Who had paid for a statue to be placed in the paupers’ section of the graveyard? It was old, having sunken a foot or so on the right side as the ground shifted, tipping the statue askew. It was also masterly, an extraordinary figure cut of gorgeous black marble standing some eight feet tall and resplendent in a sweeping mistcloak.

Marasi rounded it, and was not surprised to find a feminine figure with short hair and a petite, heart-shaped face. The Ascendant Warrior was here, settled among the graves of the impoverished and the forgotten. Unlike Kelsier’s statue, which had loomed over those who passed beneath his gaze, this one seemed about to take flight, one leg raised, eyes toward the sky.

“For years, I wanted to be you,” Marasi whispered. “Every girl does, I suppose. Who wouldn’t, after hearing the stories?” She’d even gone so far as to join the ladies’ target club because she figured if she couldn’t Push bits of metal around, a gun was the closest she could get.

“Were you ever insecure?” Marasi asked. “Or did you always know what to do? Did you get jealous? Frightened? Angry?”

If Vin had been an ordinary person at any point, the stories and songs had forgotten. They proclaimed her the Ascendant Warrior, the woman who had slain the Lord Ruler. A Mistborn and a legend who had carried the world itself upon her arms while Harmony prepared for divinity. She’d been able to kill with a glare, tease out secrets nobody else knew, and fight off armies of enraged koloss all on her own.

Extraordinary in every way. It was probably a good thing, or the world wouldn’t have survived the War of Ash. But rusts … she left a hell of a reputation for the rest of them to try to live up to.

Marasi turned from the statue and crossed the springy ground back to Wayne and Dechamp. As she approached, the gravedigger climbed out and stuck his shovel into the earth, digging a flask from his pack and taking a protracted swig.

Marasi peeked into the grave. He had made good time – the earth had been dug out of the hole four feet deep.

“Wanna share that with a fellow?” Wayne asked Dechamp, standing.

Dechamp shook his head, screwing the lid back on his flask. “My gramps always said, never share your booze with a man who ain’t shared his with you.”

“But that way, nobody’d share their booze with anybody!”

“No,” Dechamp said. “It just means I get twice as much.” He rested his hand on his shovel, looking into the grave. Without the steady rhythm of his work, the graveyard was silent.

They had to be close to the bodies now. The next part would be unpleasant – sorting through the corpses for one that was in pieces, then checking that to see if it contained a spike. Her stomach churned at the thought. Wayne took another bite of his sandwich, hesitated, and cocked his head.

Then he grabbed Marasi under the arm and heaved, flipping her into the grave. The impact knocked the breath out of her.

Gunfire sounded above a moment later.

14

Marasi gasped as Wayne slid into the shallow grave, flopping down square on top of her. It knocked the wind out of her again.

Wayne grunted, and the gunshots stopped a moment later. Still trying to recover, Marasi stared up at the black sky and swirling mist. It took her a moment to realize that the mist was frozen in place.

“Speed bubble?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Wayne said, then groaned, twisting to the side and putting his back to the earthen wall so he wasn’t lying directly on her. His shoulder glistened with something wet.

“You’ve been hit.”

“Three times,” Wayne said, then winced as he turned his leg. “No, four.” He sighed, then took a bite of his sandwich.

“So…”

“Give me a sec,” he said.

She twisted in the grave and peeked up over the earthen lip. Nearby, Dechamp fell slowly – as if through molasses – toward the ground, blood spraying from several gunshot wounds, droplets hanging in the air. A vanishing muzzle flash from the darkness revealed the origin of the gunfire: a group of figures on the path, shadowed and nearly invisible. Bullets zipped through the mist, leaving trails.

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“They made the crickets stop,” Wayne said. “Dechamp musta sold us out. I’d bet Wax’s hat that he sent that boy to fetch these fellows.”

“The Set was here first,” Marasi said, her stomach sinking.

“Yeah.” Wayne poked at one of the holes in his shirt, wiggling it around to check that the wound had healed. With his other hand, he stuffed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, then joined her in peeking up over the lip of the grave. Above, a lethargically moving bullet hit the invisible edge of Wayne’s speed bubble. In an eyeblink, it zipped across the air – barely a foot over Marasi’s head – before hitting the other side, where it slowed down again.

She cringed belatedly. Anytime something entered a speed bubble, it was refracted, changing trajectory. While it was unlikely one would get bounced so radically that it would point downward toward them, it was possible. Beyond that, Wayne’s bendalloy burned extremely quickly. He’d have to drop the bubble before too long.

“Plan?” Marasi asked.

“Not dyin’.”

“Anything more detailed than that?”

“Not dyin’ … today?”

She gave him a pointed look. Another pair of bullets zipped overhead while, outside the speed bubble, Dechamp’s body hit the ground.

“We’ve gotta get close to them,” Wayne said, slipping one of his dueling canes out from the loop on his belt.

“That’s going to be hard,” Marasi said. “I think they’re scared of you.”

“Yeah?” Wayne asked, sounding encouraged. “You really think?”

“They’re unloading enough ammunition to take down a small army,” Marasi said, ducking as a bullet entered the speed bubble, “and they opened fire even though Dechamp was caught in the barrage. While I doubt he meant much to them, it indicates they were scared enough that they didn’t dare waste a moment to wait for him to climb back into the grave.”

Wayne nodded slowly, grinning. “How ’bout that. I gots me a reputation. I wonder…”

Marasi glanced behind them. This grave was near several others that had been left open earlier, waiting for occupants. “Can you get your speed bubble big enough to include one of those other graves from in here?”

He followed her gaze, then rubbed his chin. “The closest one maybe, if I drop this bubble and move to the back of this grave before makin’ another.” He couldn’t move a bubble once it was in place, and couldn’t leave its confines without it dissipating.

“So we have to get them to come check on our corpses,” Marasi said. “Which might be hard, if they’re really that scared of you.”

“Nah,” Wayne said, “might actually be easy.”

“How–”

“Runnin’ outta time,” Wayne said. “You still got that little popgun in your purse?”

She pulled out the small pistol. “It has terrible range,” she said, “and only two shots.”

“Don’t matter none,” Wayne said. “Once I drop this, fire it at the fellows. Then be ready to move.”

She nodded.

“Here we go,” Wayne said.

The bubble dropped.

Mists leaped back into motion, swirling above, and the sudden sound of gunfire pervaded the graveyard. Dechamp twitched, and he gasped, eyes going glassy in the lanternlight. Marasi waited until the assailants stopped shooting, the cracks of their guns echoing in the night. Then she leveled her little gun and squeezed off two shots toward the shadows.

She ducked back down, uncertain what that was supposed to have accomplished. “You realize we’re now trapped and unarmed, Wayne.”

“Yup,” he said. “But if those fellows are really bothered by my fearsome reputation…”

“What?” Marasi asked, glancing toward him as he peeked over the edge. A few cracks sounded as the dark figures fired back, but it wasn’t as frantic as before. What was …

“There!” Wayne said, leaping toward the back of the grave and then popping up a speed bubble. “Ha! They came prepared, they did. Good men.”

Marasi risked peeking up again. She came almost face-to-face with a spinning piece of dynamite frozen in the air, the wick spraying sparks and smoke that mixed with the mists. She yelped, scrambling back. It was almost to the speed bubble.

“Across we go,” Wayne said, taking off his top hat and tossing it out of their grave toward the next one. He scrambled after it. Marasi joined him, staying low and hoping that the attackers wouldn’t notice. Wayne’s speed bubble would make them blurs to the eyes of the men, but it was dark and the mists would help obscure things.

She slid across and down into the other grave, which was deeper than the first. Wayne nodded to her, then dropped the bubble.

Marasi pressed her back to the side of the grave, squeezed her eyes shut, plugged her ears, and counted in her head. She only reached two before an explosion shook the ground and dropped a wave of dirt into their grave. Rusts! People must have heard that halfway across the city.

She glanced at Wayne, who took out his other dueling cane and twirled one in each hand. She heard footsteps scraping outside, and imagined the shadowy attackers cautiously creeping up to check on people they’d supposedly killed.

Can you beat them on your own? Marasi half whispered, half mouthed at Wayne.

He grinned and mouthed back, Does a guy wif no hands got itchy balls? He grabbed the side of the grave and hauled himself out. The mists above froze a moment later as Marasi was caught in a speed bubble – Wayne, putting one up and trapping half the men nearby in it with him.

She was accustomed, by now, to the sound of wood on a man’s skull, but it still made her wince. The speed bubble dropped as someone managed to get a shot off, but more groaning and cursing followed.

A short time later Wayne appeared at the top of the grave, backlit by the flickering lantern in the mists. He shoved his dueling canes into their loops, then knelt and held out his hand.

Marasi reached up to accept his help from the grave.

“Actually,” Wayne said, not taking her hand, “I was hopin’ you’d hand me my hat.”

“We’ll send for your carriage, Lord Waxillium,” said the assistant house steward. “We’re terribly sorry about the unfortunate occasion of your lady’s distress. You’re certain she ate nothing here that might disagree with her?”

“She had only drinks,” Wax said, “and few of those at that.”

The cook relaxed visibly. She towed one of the maids away by the arm as soon as she saw that Wax had noticed her. He stood in the doorway of a guest chamber, and behind him Steris lay on the bed, eyes closed.

The assistant steward – an aged Terriswoman in the proper robes – clicked her tongue softly, looking over her shoulder toward the vanishing cook and maid. Despite her displeasure, Wax could tell that she too was relieved to hear that the food at the party couldn’t be blamed. No need for the other guests to worry.

A piercing voice echoed down the hallway. Someone – a man with a high-pitched tone – was announcing the reception’s speaker. Wax could hear easily; the introducer was assisted by electric amplifiers. It seemed the Tarcsel girl’s devices had spread even to New Seran. The assistant steward took an unconscious step back toward the ballroom.

“Feel free to go,” Wax told her. “We’ll wait here for a half hour or so to be certain my lady is well rested, and by then our carriage will certainly be waiting.”

“If you’re certain.…”

“I am,” Wax said. “Just see to it that we’re not disturbed. Miss Harms grows most discomforted by noises when she’s ill.”

The steward bowed and retreated down the hallway toward the ballroom. Wax clicked the door closed, then approached the bed where Steris lay. She cracked an eye open, then glanced at the door to be sure it was closed.

“How do you feel?” Wax asked.

“Nauseated,” Steris said, half propping herself on one elbow. “That was a tad hasty on my part, wasn’t it?”

“Haste was appreciated,” Wax said, checking the wall clock. “I’ll give it a few minutes to make sure the hall is clear, then duck out. I’m not certain how long Kelesina will be away, but I’ll need to move quickly to learn anything.”

Steris nodded. “Do you think they might have her here? Your sister, I mean.”

“Unlikely,” Wax said. “But anything is possible. I’ll settle for a lead of any sort.”

“What’s she like?”

“She seemed like your average full-of-herself noblewoman. Certain that–”

“Not Lady Kelesina, Waxillium. Your sister.”

“I…” Wax swallowed, checking the clock. “I haven’t seen her in decades, Steris.”

“But you work so eagerly to rescue her.”

He sighed, settling down beside Steris. “She was always the bold one, when we were kids. I was careful, earnest, trying so hard to figure out what to do. And Telsin … she seemed to have it all in hand. Until I left the Village and she stayed.”

“More Terris than you, then.”

“Maybe. I always thought she hated the place, considering how often she found excuses to escape. Then she stayed.” He shook his head. “I never knew her, Steris. Not as I should have. I was too focused on myself. I can’t help feeling that I failed everyone – Mother, Father, Telsin herself – by not remaining close to her when I was out in the Roughs. And I’m failing them again by leaving her under my uncle’s control.”

Steris, still lying on the bed, squeezed his hand.

“I’ll find her,” Wax said. “I’ll make it right. I ran to the Roughs, thinking I didn’t need any of them. But as the years pass, Steris, I find I want less and less to be alone. I can’t explain it, I guess. She’s my family. My only family.”

Outside, a new voice started talking. Introduction done, Lord Severington had begun his speech. Wax glanced at the clock, then stood. “All right. I need to go and explore while everyone else is distracted by the speech.”

Steris nodded, then swung her feet over the side of the bed and took a deep breath.

“You should wait here,” Wax said. “This could be dangerous.”

“Have you forgotten what I said last night?” she asked.

“The safest place to be is most certainly not near me, Steris,” Wax said.

“Regardless, you may need to escape quickly. There won’t be time to come back for me. And if you’re spotted, someone will wonder why you are alone – but if we’re together, we can say we were just leaving, and were looking for the way to our carriage.”

Those were good arguments. He reluctantly nodded, motioning for her to follow. She did so with alacrity, waiting beside the door as he opened it and peeked out. He could hear Lord Severington’s voice even better.

“… time to show those in Elendel that their tyranny is not only unjust, it is against the will of the Survivor, who died in the name of freedom.…”

The hallway was empty. Wax stepped out, Steris at his side. “Try not to look like you’re sneaking,” he suggested softly.

She nodded, and together they moved down a long hallway set with brass gas lamps that had been converted to electricity. According to the mansion layout he had memorized, the ballroom and these small guest quarters were in their own wing to the east. If they moved west along this hallway, took this corner …

They passed under an archway into the mansion’s central atrium, where a stream ran through the center of the mansion – diverted from one of the waterfalls, then cascading down a set of arranged rocks covered in chimes. Only a few lights glowed on the walls, giving the atrium a dusklike feeling.

“That humidity must be awful for the mansion’s woodwork,” Steris noted. “What practical reason could they have to run a river through the middle of their house?”

“I’m sure the reasons aren’t practical at all,” Wax said. Nearby, a maid passed in from another doorway. She saw him and froze.

Wax glared at her, standing up straight, putting as much nobleman sneer into his expression as he could muster. The young woman didn’t challenge them, but ducked her head and scuttled away, carrying her stack of linens.

They picked their way through the dim atrium. Above, broad glass windows would have given a view of the sky – but instead mist spun and swirled. Wax raised his fingers in greeting toward the distant mists, but stopped himself.

Harmony watched through those mists. Harmony the impotent, Harmony the meaningless. He set his jaw and turned away from the windows, leading Steris along a path in the indoor garden, which was set with small rocks and plants. From his maps, he guessed that Kelesina would be up on the second floor somewhere. As they followed the path northward, walking along the stream, he spotted a second-floor balcony.

“Honestly,” Steris muttered, “how can they even know if the water is sanitary? A river running through their gardens wasn’t enough? It has to go through the house itself?”

Wax smiled, studying that balcony. “I’m going to scout ahead up there. Speak loudly if someone confronts you. That will warn me, and I’ll sneak back.”

“Very well,” Steris said.

He dug in his pocket for a few coins, feeling old-fashioned as he burned steel and prepared to jump.

“Do you want something more substantial?” Steris asked.

He glanced at her, then down at her purse. “They searched your purse.”

“That they did,” she said, then took the hem of her skirt, lifting it up to the side and revealing a small handgun strapped to her thigh. “I worried they’d do something like that. So I made other plans.”

Wax grinned. “I could get used to having you around, Steris.”

She blushed in the dim light. “I might, uh, need your help getting the thing off.”

He knelt down, realizing that she’d used approximately seven rolls of tape to strap the gun in place. Also, being Steris, she’d worn shorts under the dress – in case she had to do what she was doing. Two pairs, judging by the bit of cloth he saw peeking out from under the top one.

Wax set to work extricating the gun. “I see you didn’t want this coming off accidentally.”

“I kept imagining it falling out and firing,” Steris said, “mid-dance.”

Wax grunted, working at her thigh beneath her dress. “You realize that if this were a play, this is exactly the point where someone would walk in on us.”

“Lord Waxillium!” Steris said. “What kind of theater have you been attending?”

“The kind you find in the Roughs,” Wax said, yanking the gun free. It proved to be one of his Riotings, a .22 six-shot he kept in his gun case but rarely used. It would do. He stood up, letting Steris settle her skirt back down. “Nice work.”

“I tried a shotgun first,” she said, blushing. “You should have seen me try to walk with one of those on my leg!”

“Stay out of sight, if you can,” he told her, then dropped a coin and launched himself toward the upper balcony.

Marasi stepped into the gravekeeper’s shack, clicking the door closed behind her. Wayne looked up from breaking the legs off a chair.

“Is that necessary?” Marasi asked.

“Dunno,” he said, snapping off another one. “It’s fun, though. How are our toughs?”

Marasi glanced out the window toward where a group of the local constables were carting away the last of the thugs. It turned out that setting off dynamite in the middle of the city was a fine way to get the attention of the authorities.

“They don’t know anything,” she said. “Hired muscle, paid and sent to do the hit. The ones who hired them mentioned your name, which turns out to have been a mistake.”

“I’m famous,” Wayne said happily, snapping another leg off. The hut had been thoroughly ransacked, drawers ripped out, cushions slit, furniture in shambles. Wayne looked at the chair leg he’d broken, apparently checking to see if it was hollow, then tossed it over his shoulder.

“We can try to follow the payments to those men,” Marasi continued, “but I suspect that Suit was too careful for this to be traced. And there’s no sign of the runner boy.”

Wayne grunted, stomping on the floor in one section, then taking a few steps and stomping again.

“The police brought an Allomancer,” Marasi continued. “And there’s no metal in that grave, so if the spike was ever there, it isn’t now.” She sighed, leaning back against the wall. “Rust and Ruin … I hope Waxillium is having more luck than we are.”

Wayne kicked a hole in the floor with the heel of his boot. Marasi perked up, then walked over as he fished around in a compartment he’d found.

“Aha!” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” Marasi asked.

Wayne brought out a bottle. “Dechamp’s hidden booze stash.”

“That’s all?”

“All? It’s great! A fellow like that hides his booze well. Too many other workers around to swipe the stuff.”

“So we’re at a dead end.”

“Well, there’s an account book on the desk there that I found under a false bottom in the drawer,” Wayne noted, taking a swig of the dark liquid he’d found. “Lists everybody what paid the people here for a grave robbin’ in the last few years.”

Marasi started. “When did you find that?”

“First,” Wayne said. “Hardly had to search for it. The booze though, that they hid well. Good priorities, these folks.”

Marasi stepped over some stuffing from one of the sofas and picked up the ledger. It didn’t belong to Dechamp, but to the graveyard as a whole. It listed plots, what had been found in them, and to whom it had been sold.

It’s so the boss of the place can keep track of what they’ve sold and what they haven’t, Marasi thought. And to keep track of his minions, to be certain they didn’t get any ideas about making their own side business of grave robbing.

Next to an entry from a few days back was a note from the manager. If anyone comes looking to investigate this plot, send to me immediately.

Marasi closed the book, then fished from her pocket the paper that listed workers at the graveyard. “Come on,” she said to Wayne. “We have one more stop to make tonight.”

green glow of his devices lighting him from below.

I ran alongside the car, matching pace with it while

…

my confidence.

As the car slid away from the dock, I leapt into the air.

(Continued below the fold!)

Broken Gondola Strands Passengers

An unidentified disturbance halted the Zinc Line yesterday evening about sunset, according to the New Seran Transportation Authority. The NSTA carried passengers home the old-fashioned way, on donkeys and rickshaws down the switchbacks. We see this as proof for the need of a back-up emergency transport system.

(Continued on back.)

Drink to the Health of Elendel!

Brand Whiskey has been grown and distilled exclusively in the Outer Cities. It’s not sold in Elendel, so it never passes through the Lion’s Den and is therefore never taxed. It tastes better than anything Central, and because it’s made local, you can rest easy knowing that your coin hasn’t lined any tyrant’s pocket. Long live brand.

Looking for Adventure?

Basin Bill is looking for YOU!

Hundreds of cities were lost at the Final Ascension. Magical Artifacts, Riches, and Fame can be yours! Apply in person at Basin Bill’s Old Time Pub & Playhouse.

Do Your Metal Tools Speak to You?

Hello

Your neighbors probably don't want to hear about it. But WE do! Visit 27 Ralen Place. Ask for K or N. Bring the talking metal with you.

THE RAVAGING LION OF ELENDEL

turret having a range of sixteen miles,” said Severington. “Other improvements include reinforced armor hulls,

…

on land and on the seas. From whom do we need protection?”

(Continued on back.)

NOW PLAYING!

at the Uptown Trio Theater

THE DEN OF THE SURVIVOR!

A crew of freedom fighters

RISE UP AGAINST OPRESSION

and

OVERTHROW A CORRUPT GOV’T

Potential Allomancers Needed to Test New Metal Alloys – latest scientific breakthrough has created an ENTIRELY SAFE method of discovering new Allomantic abilities. Unlock your latent potential! Apply at Tenement 1447, Crate District, around the corner from Meprisable’s Animal Rendering.

Write Scientific Fantasies! B. Sablerfils, playwright of A Hero for All Ages, shows you how! Inquire at the University of New Seran.

The Ghasty Gondola!

The monks of Baz-Kor had trained me well, their practiced moves designed to get a leecher close enough to touch another Allomancer and drain them of their reserves. But it was the ballet lessons that enabled my jump from the platform onto the moving gondola.

I landed on the small ridge surrounding the bottom of the car and managed a firm grip on the outer door handles. I was safe for the moment, but the ridge I'd landed on was only a few inches wide. If I didn't find a way inside the gondola soon, strength would fail, dropping me almost a hundred feet to the city below, where rooftops glowed in the failing sun like boxings in an open purse.

Ethereal light emanated from inside the car, casting the haunted man’s shadow against the windows. Each burst showed him striving to ready some arcane device, presumably to provide his escape.

From my satchel, I retrieved the device I had stolen from him when last we grappled. Covered in strange symbols and weirdly warm to the touch, it was much heavier than it appeared, and I had no clue how to operate it.

But ignorance is no match for invention. I slammed the rod of metal into the door glass, shattering it.

An uncanny explosion answered me, and my Baz-Kor reflexes pulled me abruptly to the side as a bolt howled past. It was neither an arrow nor a bullet, but a blast of pure energy shaped like a ghost. Its entirely too-human scream made the hairs on my neck stand on end, and the frame of the broken door rusted and crumbled in the wake of its passing. What manner of man could harness the powers of the dead? If the energy had enveloped me as well, would I also have disintegrated in an instant? I breathed deep and rushed into the car.

Strange mechanical devices littered the floor, and above

15

Templeton Fig smoothed the feathers of his dead white crow. He knew for a fact that this animal was an authentic albino, not some knockoff crafted by an opportunist who had heard of his collection. By now, he had seen enough dead animals bleached white to spot a fake.

He had stuffed this bird himself, prize of his collection, and set it looking over its shoulder with a small strip of rabbit skin in its beak. Such a magnificent creature. People always found it striking, as its coloring was the opposite of what they expected. Things like cats and dogs sometimes had white coloring naturally, and so his albino specimens of those weren’t as spectacular.

He replaced the glass dome over the crow, then stepped back and clasped his hands, looking at the white animals in a row. Frozen in death. Perfection. Only … the suckling boar. Had it been moved to the side? The housekeeper had better not have decided to dust his collection again.

He stepped up, twisting the glass jar that held the boar. Behind him, fire crackled in his hearth, though it wasn’t particularly cold outside. He even had the window open. He liked the contrast – warmth from the fire, a cool breeze from outside. As he was trying to get the boar just right, the door to his study creaked.

“Templeton?” a quiet voice asked, peeking in. Destra had bags under her eyes, hair frazzled. Her nightgown seemed to have swallowed her. The woman had lost more weight. Soon she would be positively skeletal. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Later,” he said, looking back to his boar. There.

“When later?”

“Later.”

She winced at his tone and pulled the door closed behind her. The woman should know better than to disturb him. Sleep. How could he sleep until he knew what had happened at the graveyard? One did not disappoint the men with whom he had been dealing. They asked for something to be done, and you saw it done.

He would know soon. He stepped forward, moving his albino squirrel to the end of the line. Did it look better that way? He reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow, then moved the squirrel back. No, that wasn’t right either. Then how was he to–

His fire stopped crackling.

Templeton’s breath caught. He turned slowly in place, fishing in his vest pocket for his handkerchief. The fire was still there, but it was motionless. Trell’s soul! What could have frozen the flames?

Something thumped on his door. Templeton backed away, fingers clawing at his pocket, still seeking that handkerchief. The door thumped again, and his back hit the shelf where he kept his collection. He tried to whisper an inquiry, but he was having trouble breathing.

The door burst open and the gravedigger Dechamp – eyes staring sightlessly, blood covering his shirt – fell into the room.

Templeton screamed then, scuttling away from the door, and put his back to the far wall of his small den. His fingers found the windowsill, gripping it for strength as he stared at the corpse lying in the doorway.

Something tapped on his window.

Templeton squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look. Frozen fire. A body on his floor. He was dreaming. It was a nightmare. It wasn’t possible.…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He found his handkerchief finally and clutched it, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Templeton.” The rasping voice drifted in through the window.

Templeton turned slowly and faced the window. He opened his eyes.

Death stood outside.

Cloaked in black, Death’s face was hidden beneath the hood – but two metal spikes protruded from the cowl, catching the firelight on their heads.

“I’m dead,” Templeton whispered.

“No,” Death whispered. “You can die when I say. Not before.”

“Oh, Harmony.”

“You are not His,” Death whispered, standing in the darkness outside. “You are mine.”

“What do you want from me? Please!” Templeton slumped to his knees. He forced himself to glance back toward Dechamp. Would that body rise? Would it come for him?

“You have something of mine, Templeton,” Death whispered. “A spike.” He raised his arms, letting the cloak shift back and expose white skin. A spike was stuck through one arm. The other arm was bare, save for a bloody hole.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Templeton screamed. “They insisted! I don’t have it!”

“Where.”

“Sent by courier!” Templeton said. “To Dulsing! I don’t know more. Oh, please. Please! They demanded I recover the spike for them. I didn’t know it was yours! It was just a rusting piece of metal. I’m innocent! I’m…”

He trailed off, realizing that the fire had started crackling again. He blinked, focusing again on the window. It was empty. A … a dream after all? He turned and found Dechamp’s corpse still leaking blood on the floor.

Templeton whimpered and huddled down. He was honestly relieved when the constables burst into the room a short time later.

Wayne shucked the awful, heavy cloak and held up his arm, healing his wounds. Not much left in his metalmind. He was going to have to be sparing after this. Those bullet wounds earlier had taken a lot out of him.

“You didn’t need to actually cut holes in your arm, Wayne,” Marasi said, joining him in the garden – he’d trampled some very nice petunias to get to the window.

“Course I did,” Wayne replied, wiping away the blood. “You’ve gotta be authentic.” He scratched at his head, and shifted the wires that held two half spikes hovering in front of his eyes.

“Take that thing off,” Marasi said. “It looks ridiculous.”

“He didn’t think so,” Wayne said. Inside the house, the constables dragged Templeton Fig away. The information in the ledger Wayne had found should be enough to see him well and truly incarcerated. Poor chap. He didn’t really do anything wrong. You can’t steal from a person that’s already dead. But then, people were strange about their stuff. Wayne had given up on trying to figure out all their little rules.

He’d send the fellow some fruit in prison. Might make him feel better. “How was the accent?” he asked.

“Worked well enough.”

“I wasn’t sure how Death ’imself would sound, you know? I figured all important-like, like Wax when he’s tellin’ me to take my feet off the furniture. Mixed with some real old-soundin’ tones, like a grandfather’s grandfather. And grindy, like a man what is choking to death.”

“In fact,” Marasi said, “he’s quite articulate, and not at all ‘grindy.’ And the accent is strange – not like anything I’ve heard before.”

Wayne grunted, taking off his head spikes. “Can you do it for me?”

“What? The accent?”

Wayne nodded eagerly.

“No. Not a chance.”

“Well, next time you meet that guy, tell ’im he’s gotta come talk to me. I need to hear what he sounds like.”

“What does it matter?”

“I gotta hear,” Wayne said. “For next time.”

“Next time? How often do you expect you’ll be imitating Death?”

Wayne shrugged. “This is the fourth so far. So you never can tell.” He took the last swig of Dechamp’s brandy, then slung his cloak over his shoulder and started through the mists back toward the road.

“Dulsing,” Marasi said.

“You know it?”

“It’s a little farming settlement,” Marasi said. “Maybe fifty miles northeast of New Seran. I read about it in my textbooks – there was a landmark water rights case there – but it’s isolated and tiny, barely worth anyone’s time. What in the world does the Set want with it?”

“Maybe they like their tomatoes real fresh,” Wayne said. “I know I do.”

Marasi grew silent, obviously deep in thought, worried for some reason. Wayne left her to it, digging out his tin of gum, tapping it, then flipping it open and selecting one of the soft, powder-covered balls to chew. So far as he was concerned, this had been a bang-up night. Dynamite, a nice brawl, free brandy, and getting to scare the piss out of someone.

It was the simple things that made his life worth living.

Wax had little luck with the first set of rooms he scouted. Though they supposedly belonged to Kelesina, they proved to be empty. He was tempted to ransack them for information, but decided that would take too long – and would be too incriminating at the moment. Being discovered lost in a hallway was excusable; being discovered going through a lady’s desk drawers was another thing entirely.

He prowled back to the atrium and checked on Steris, gave her a wave, then continued down another hallway. This one bordered the outer wall and had windows open to the mists, which streamed in with their own miniature waterfalls. Likely some servant had the duty to close those windows on a misty night, but had gotten distracted by the party.

He listened at a set of doors, and heard nothing other than a voice drifting in from the window – the voice of Lord Severington, still plowing through his speech in the ballroom. With the amplification devices, Wax could make out a word here and there.

“… suffer the rule … new Lord Ruler?… improper taxation … era must end…”

I will have to give that more attention, Wax thought, prowling through the hallway toward the next set of rooms. Severington was mayor of Bilming, the port city west of Elendel. It was the only major one in the Basin besides Elendel itself – and was an industrial powerhouse. If conflict did come, they’d be spearheading it.

They’re spearheading it now, Wax realized as more words drifted up to him.

He continued down the hallway, listening at the next set of doors. He was about to turn away, when he heard a voice. There was someone inside. Wax crouched down, ear to the door, wishing he had a Tineye along to listen for him. That voice …

That was his uncle.

Wax pressed his ear up against the door, heedless of how he’d look to someone entering the hallway. Rusts … he couldn’t make out much. A half word here and there. But it was Edwarn. Another voice spoke, and that was almost certainly Kelesina.

The gap under the door was dark. Wax put his hand to his pocket and the handgun secreted there, then turned the door’s knob and eased it open. Beyond was some kind of study, completely dark but for the thin strip of light under the door on the far side. Wax slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and scuttled through the room – stifling a curse as he smacked his arm on an end table. Heart thumping, he put his back to the wall beside the other door.

“Never mind that,” his uncle was saying. His voice was muffled, as if he were speaking through a cloth or a mask or something. “Why have you interrupted me? You know the importance of my work.”

“Waxillium knows about the project,” Kelesina said. “And he’s found one of the coins. He’s acting stupid, but he knows.”

“The diversions?”

“He’s not biting.”

“You’re not trying hard enough then,” Suit said. “Kidnap one of his friends and leave a letter, purportedly from one of his old enemies. Challenge his wits, draw him into an investigation. Waxillium cannot resist a personal grudge. It will work.”

“The train robbery didn’t,” Kelesina said. “What of that, Suit? We wasted vital resources, important connections I had spent years cultivating, on that attack. You promised that if we attacked while he was on board, he wouldn’t be able to resist investigating. Yet he ignored it. Left Ironstand that same night.”

Wax felt a chill as a whole set of assumptions shifted within him. The train robbery … had it been a distraction, intended to draw his attention away from pursuing the Set?

“Recovering the device,” Suit said, “was worth the risk.”

“You mean the device Irich immediately lost?” Kelesina demanded. “That one shouldn’t be trusted with important missions. He’s too eager. You should have let me recover the item once Waxillium was off the train.”

“There was a good chance he’d take the bait,” Edwarn said. “I know my nephew; he’s probably still itching to go after those bandits. If he’s at your party instead, then you aren’t doing your duty properly. I haven’t time to hold your hand on this, Kelesina. I need to be off to the second site.”

Wax frowned. The train hadn’t been just a distraction, it seemed. But the words left him with a deeper sense of worry. He’d chased half a dozen leads during the last year, anticipating that he was close on the heels of his uncle. How many of those had been plants? And how many of his other cases had been intentional distractions? And Ape Manton? Was he really even in New Seran? Likely not.

Edwarn spoke a truth. He knew Wax well. Too well, for a man he’d barely seen in the last twenty years.

“Well,” Suit said, “you have your chance now to recover the device, as you promised you could. How is that going?”

“It wasn’t in the things he checked at the party,” Kelesina said. “We snuck a spy among the hotel staff, and she will search for it in his rooms. I’m telling you, Irich–”

“Irich was punished,” Suit said. Why did his voice sound so much smaller than Kelesina’s? “That is all you need know. Recover it for me, and other mistakes might be forgiven. It is only a matter of time before they accidentally use Allomancy near it.”

“And then will we see this ‘miracle’ you keep promising, Suit?” she demanded. “A few more speeches like this one, and Severington will have the entirety of the Basin whipped into a frenzy. Completely ignoring that Elendel has us outmanned and outgunned.”

“Patience!” Suit said, sounding amused.

“You try to be patient. They’re bleeding us dry. You promised to crush that city, provide an army, and–”

“Patience,” Suit repeated softly. “Stop Waxillium. That is your part of the bargain now. Keep him in the city; keep him distracted.”

“That’s not going to work, Suit,” Kelesina said. “He knows too much already. That damn shapeshifter must have told him–”

“You let it escape?”

Kelesina was silent.

“I thought,” Suit said, voice growing cold, “that you had disposed of the creature. You presented its spike to me, claiming the other had been destroyed.”

“We … may have assumed too quickly.”

“I see,” Suit said.

The two did not speak for a protracted moment. Wax raised his gun beside his head, sweat trickling down his brow in the dark room. He toyed with breaking in right then. He had evidence on Kelesina in the form of the wounded kandra and his own testimony. Several people died in that blast. Murder.

But did he have enough against Edwarn? Would his uncle just slip away again? Rusts, an army? They spoke of destroying Elendel. Dared he wait? If he took her and Suit right now, she might break, testify against him–

Footsteps.

They came from the hallway outside. As they approached the door, he made a snap decision, dropping a coin – it wasn’t the special one, he had that in a different pocket – and Pushing.

Light from the hallway poured into the room as the door opened, revealing the steward from before. She crossed the room in a rush, and blessedly didn’t turn on the room’s lights – instead walking straight to the doorway that Wax had been listening at.

She didn’t look up and see Wax pressed to the ceiling above her, Pushing against a coin she walked right over in her haste to knock on the door. Kelesina called for her to enter.

“My lady,” the steward said in an urgent tone. “Burl sent me word while watching the party for Allomancers. He sensed someone using metals in this direction.”

“Where is Waxillium?”

“His fiancée was sick,” the steward said. “We brought her to a guest room to recover.”

“Curious,” Uncle Edwarn said. “And where is he now?”

Wax dropped to the floor with a thump, leveling his gun at the people inside the room. “He’s right here.”

The steward spun, gasping. Kelesina rose from her seat, eyes wide. And Uncle Edwarn …

Uncle Edwarn wasn’t in the room. The only thing there was a boxy device on the table in front of Kelesina.

16

“Why, Waxillium!” the box said, projecting his uncle’s voice. “So good to hear your dulcet tones. I presume your entrance was properly dramatic?”

“It’s a telegraph for voices,” Wax said, stepping forward. He kept his gun on Kelesina, who backed up to the wall of the small room. She’d gone completely pale.

“Something like that,” Edwarn said, his voice sounding small. The electric mechanism didn’t reproduce it exactly. “How is Lady Harms? I hope her ailment was nothing too distressing.”

“She’s fine,” Wax snapped, “no thanks to the fact that you tried to have us all killed on that train.”

“Now, now,” Edwarn said. “That wasn’t the point. Why, killing you was an afterthought. Tell me, did you look into the casualties on the train? One passenger killed, I believe. Who was he?”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Wax said.

“Yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying. In fact, I’ve found that telling you the truth is a far better method in general. You should look into the dead man. You’ll be impressed by what you find.”

No. Stay focused. “Where are you?” Wax demanded.

“Away,” Suit said, “on matters of great import. I do apologize for not being able to meet you in person. I offer up Lady Kelesina as a measure of my condolences.”

“Kelesina can go to hell,” Wax said, grabbing the box and lifting it, nearly yanking the wires in the back from the wall. “Where is my sister!”

“So many impatient people in the world,” Edwarn’s voice said. “You really should have focused on your own city, Nephew, and kept your attention on the little crimes fed to you. I’ve tried being reasonable. I fear I’m going to have to do something drastic. Something that will be certain to divert you.”

Wax felt cold. “What are you going to do, Suit?”

“It’s not about what I’m going to do, Nephew. It’s about what I’m doing.”

Wax glanced toward Kelesina, who had been reaching for the pocket of her dress. She raised her hands, frightened, right as something enormous smashed into Wax. He stumbled against the table, overturning it.

Wax blinked in shock. The steward! She’d grown to incredible strength, arms bulging beneath her robes, neck thick as a man’s thigh. Wax cursed, raising his gun, which the steward immediately slapped from his hand.

His wrist screamed in pain and he winced, Pushing on the nails in the wall to throw himself in a roll across the floor away from the steward. He came up fishing in his pocket for coins, but the steward wasn’t focused on him. She grabbed Wax’s gun off the floor, then turned toward Kelesina, who screamed.

Oh no …

The shot left his ears ringing. Kelesina fell limp to the floor, blood dribbling from the hole in her forehead.

“He killed her!” a voice screamed from the doorway outside. Wax spun to find the maid he’d seen earlier standing there, hands to her face. “Lord Ladrian killed our lady!” The woman ran away screaming the words over and over, although she’d obviously had a clear view of the room.

“You bastard!” Wax shouted toward the box.

“Now, now,” the box said. “That’s patently false, Waxillium. You have a very clear understanding of my parentage.”

The steward walked over to Kelesina, fishing at something on Kelesina’s body. Then, for some reason, the steward shot the dead woman again.

Either way, this gave Wax a chance to seize the box, which had fallen from the table near him.

“You’d better be careful, Nephew,” the box said. “I’ve told them to kill you if they can. In this case, a dead scapegoat will work as well as a living one.”

Wax roared, ripping the box free of the wall and Pushing it out the doorway, into the next room. He brought his hand up and Pushed back on the gun in the steward’s hand as she tried to aim it at him.

She cursed in Terris. Wax turned and scrambled from the smaller room into the one beyond, where he’d first hidden from the steward. He kicked the door shut to give himself some cover, then Pushed on his coin from before and leaped over a couch, soaring through the room. He scooped up the box communication device and skidded out into the hallway.

Half a dozen men in black coats and white gloves were advancing down the hallway toward him. They froze in place, then leveled their weapons.

Rusts!

Wax Pushed on the frames of the windows and reentered the room as the men opened fire. The inner door into the room that had held the telegraph opened, and Wax Allomantically shoved it back, cracking it into the steward’s face.

Another way out. Servants’ corridors? Blue lines pointed all around him and he looked for one out of place … there! He Pushed on it, opening a hidden door in the wall which led into a small passage, lit with dangling lightbulbs, that servants used. Still carting the telegraph box, he leaped through it as men piled into the sitting room behind him.

The weaving maze of passages let him keep ahead of them, though he did have to spend a coin taking one of them out as they got too close. That drove the others back, but notably, he couldn’t sense any metal on their bodies. Aluminum weapons. This was one of Suit’s kill squads, likely contacted and sent into action the moment Kelesina had telegraphed him.

Wax burst out of the passageways into a room that he hoped would let him circle back toward the atrium. If they’d found Steris …

He dashed through a conservatory, lit by several dim electric lights and lined with maps on the walls, and entered one of the hallways he’d explored earlier. Excellent. He charged toward the central atrium, but as soon as he reached the balcony’s stairway down, something leaped from the shadows and blindsided him.

The Terriswoman, face bleeding from where the slammed door had broken her nose, growled and grabbed him around the neck. He Pushed a coin up at her, but it didn’t have time to gain momentum. It hit her in the chest, then stayed there as he Pushed on it, trying to push her off. He strained, his vision growing dark, until a fist punched the Terriswoman across the face.

She let go, stumbling back and shaking. Wax gasped for breath, looking up at MeLaan looming over him.

“Rusts!” she said with a deep bass voice. “You did start without me.”

The Terriswoman came charging in again, and Wax rolled to the side, fishing for coins. He brought up his last three in a handful as the steward punched MeLaan across the face. Something cracked audibly, and Wax hesitated as the steward stumbled back, clutching her mangled hand, the knuckles apparently shattered, the thumb ripped almost free.

MeLaan grinned. Her face had split where she’d been struck, revealing a gleaming metal skull underneath. “You really should be careful what you punch.”

The Terriswoman lurched to her feet, and MeLaan casually grabbed her own left forearm in her right hand and ripped it off, revealing a long, thin metal blade attached to the arm at the stump. As the Terriswoman came for her, MeLaan thrust the weapon through the woman’s chest. The steward gasped and collapsed to her knees, then deflated like a punctured wineskin.

“Harmony, I love this body,” MeLaan said, glancing toward Wax with a goofy grin on her face. “How did I ever consider wearing another?”

“Is that whole thing aluminum?” Wax asked.

“Yup!”

“It must be worth a fortune,” Wax said, standing and putting his back to the wall. The balcony was in front of him, the hallway he’d come down to his left. The kill squad would be following soon.

“Conveniently, I’ve had a few hundred years to save up,” MeLaan said. “It–”

Wax pulled her to cover beside the wall with him; she was actually lighter than he had anticipated, considering that she had metal bones.

“What?” she asked softly.

Wax raised a coin, listening for footfalls. On the balcony before him, the Terriswoman twitched. When he heard the footstep he increased his weight a fraction, then spun around the corner and grabbed the first man’s gun in one hand, twisting it toward the floor. It fired ineffectively, and Wax pressed his other hand against the man’s chest and Pushed on the coin there.

Man and coin went flying back down the hallway toward his fellows, who leaped to the side. Wax was left with the aluminum gun, which he flipped in the air and caught, squeezing off four shots. The first pulled a little left, hitting the enemy in the arm, but he was able to place the next shots right in their chests.

All three dropped. The fourth man groaned from the floor where Wax had Pushed him.

“Damn,” MeLaan said.

“Says the woman who just ripped half her arm off.”

“It goes back on,” MeLaan said, picking up her forearm, which she slid back over the blade. Blood dribbled from where she’d broken the skin. “See? Good as new.”

Wax snorted, tucking the stolen aluminum gun into his waistband. “You can get out on your own?”

She nodded. “Want me to recover the guns you checked?”

“Can you?”

“Probably.”

“That would be wonderful.” Wax walked to the Terriswoman and checked to see that she was dead, then fished in her pockets until he came up with the gun she’d used to kill Kelesina. There was something else in her pocket as well. A metal bracelet of pure gold.

The Terriswoman took this off Kelesina, Wax thought, turning it over in his fingers as he remembered the moment earlier, when the murderer had knelt beside Kelesina’s body.

He burned steel, and his hunch proved correct. While he could sense the bracelet, the line was much thinner than it should have been. This was a metalmind, and one heavily Invested with healing power.

“Was Kelesina Terris?”

“How should I know?” MeLaan asked.

He pocketed the bracelet and grabbed the box telegraph device – which he wanted to send to Elendel for inspection – and tossed it to MeLaan. “Bring that, if you don’t mind, and meet us at the hotel. Be ready to leave the city. I doubt we’re staying the night.”

“And you were so certain we’d be out of here without a fight.”

“I never said that. I said it wouldn’t get so bad that I needed Wayne. And it didn’t.”

“A semantic technicality.”

“I’m a nobleman. Might as well learn something from my peers.” He saluted her with the small gun, then dropped off the balcony and used a coin to slow himself. “Steris?”

She crawled from a nearby shrub. “How did it go?”

“Poorly,” Wax said, looking up toward the ceiling, then removing his dinner jacket. “I may have accidentally let them implicate us in Lady Kelesina’s murder.”

“Bother,” Steris said.

“Their evidence will depend on whether they can trace the bullets back to me,” Wax said, “and whether they recover any of my prints from the area. Either way, they’ll be producing fake witnesses to try to make it look like I came down here specifically to assassinate Kelesina. Grab on.”

Steris grabbed him with, he noted, no small amount of eagerness. She really did enjoy this part. He took the bullets from his .22 and held them in one hand, then launched off the coin below to shoot them toward the ceiling. He flung the bullets toward the skylights and Pushed them in a spray to weaken a window, then raised his arm – wrapped in his jacket – over his head and crashed them through the glass and out into the swirling mists.

They landed on the roof as Wax got his bearings. Out in the mists, he felt better almost immediately, and his hand – which had been smarting where the Terriswoman smacked his gun away – stopped throbbing.

“Did you learn anything useful?” Steris asked.

“Not sure,” Wax said. “Most of what I overheard was about a rebellion against Elendel. I know Edwarn is heading somewhere important. He called it the second site? And he said something about what I think is that little cube Marasi found.”

He pulled her tight again, then sent them in a Push upward through the mists in the direction of their hotel. She held to him tightly, but watched the lights of the city beneath with awe.

“He had Kelesina murdered,” Wax said. “I should have seen it. Should have anticipated.”

“At least,” Steris said over the sound of the passing wind, “the mists are out. They’ll have trouble tracking us.”

“You did well tonight, Steris. Very well. Thank you.”

“It was engaging,” she said as he dropped them onto a rooftop. Her smile, which she let out readily, warmed him. She was proof that, despite his dislike of the politics in the Basin, it had good people. Genuine people. Strikingly, he had been forced to realize something almost exactly like that about the Roughs after first moving there.

She was gorgeous. Like an uncut emerald sitting in the middle of a pile of fakes cut to sparkle, but really just glass. Her enthusiasm balanced, somewhat, his concern over what had happened. Missing Suit. Being implicated. Lessie would say …

No. He didn’t need to think of Lessie right now. He smiled back at Steris, then pulled her tighter and Pushed, launching them straight up. Higher, up away from this district. The city’s taller buildings were visible only as lines of lights in the night, pointing upward through the mists. He launched up off a rooftop, then passed a shaking gondola, moving by electricity and carrying a group of gawking passengers. It rocked as Wax launched them sideways from it toward the skyscrapers.

Two were near enough one another, and with a quick series of furious Pushes, he was able to throw himself and Steris up through the swirling mists in a succession of arcs, first one way, then the other. He crested the tops and Pushed off one, sending them up a little farther. He had hoped that with the elevation of this highest terrace of the city–

Yes. They burst from the mists into a realm seen by very few. The Ascendant’s Field, Coinshots called it: the top of the mists at night. White stretched in all directions, churning like an ocean’s surface, bathed in starlight.

Steris gasped, and Wax managed to hold them in place by Pushing against the tips of the two skyscrapers below. Without a third, he wasn’t certain how long he could balance, but for the moment they remained steady.

“So beautiful…” Steris said, clinging to him.

“Thank you again,” Wax said to her. “I still can’t believe you snuck a gun into the party.”

“It’s only appropriate,” Steris said, “that you would make a smuggler out of me.”

“Just as you try to make a gentleman out of me.”

“You’re already a gentleman,” Steris said.

Wax looked down at her as she held to him while trying to stare in every direction at once. He suddenly found something burning in him, like a metal. A protectiveness for this woman in his arms, so full of logic and yet so full of wonder at the same time. And a powerful affection.

So he let himself kiss her. She was surprised by it, but melted into the embrace. They started to drift sideways and arc downward as he lost his balance on his anchors, but he held on to the kiss, letting them slip back down into the churning mists.

Wayne put his feet up on the table in their hotel suite, a new book open in front of him. He’d picked it up earlier, when poking through the city.

“You oughtta read this thing, Mara,” he called to Marasi, who paced back and forth behind his couch. “Strangest thing you ever heard. These blokes, they build this ship, right? Only it’s meant to go up. Uses a big explosion or some such to send it to the stars. These other blokes steal it, right, and there’s seven of them, all convicts. They go lookin’ for plunder, but end up on this star what has no–”

“How can you read?” Marasi asked, still pacing.

“Well, I’m not right sure,” Wayne said. “By all accounts, I should be dumber than a sack full o’ noodles.”

“I mean, aren’t you nervous?” Marasi asked.

“Why should I be?”

“Something could go wrong.”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “I’m not along. Wax can only get into so much trouble without me to–”

Something hit the window, causing Marasi to jump. Wayne turned to see Wax clinging to one of the windowsills, Steris tucked under one arm like a sack of potatoes – well, a sack of potatoes that had a very nice rack, anyway. Wax pulled open the window, set Steris inside, then swung in himself.

Wayne popped a peanut into his mouth. “How’d it go?”

“Eh,” Wax said. He had lost his dinner jacket somewhere, and blood – hopefully not his own – covered one arm of his shirt. His cravat drooped, half tied.

“We figured out where Suit and his people are likely holed up,” Wayne said as Marasi ran over to check on her sister, who looked flustered, but alive and such.

“You’re kidding,” Wax said.

“Nope,” Wayne said, then grinned and popped a peanut. “What’d you find?”

“Clues about Marasi’s cube,” Wax said, pulling off his cravat. “And something about a building project, and a potential army. Suit’s timetable seems to be more advanced than I’d thought.”

“Cheery,” Wayne said. “So…”

Wax sighed, then pulled out his billfold and tossed a note at Wayne. “You win.”

“You had a bet?” Marasi demanded.

“Friendly wager,” Wayne said, making the note disappear. “Can I bring these peanuts when we go?”

“Go?” Marasi said, standing up.

Wayne thumbed toward Wax, who had pulled out his travel bag. “We’re leaving. Marasi, Steris, I’d suggest packing lightly. You have about fifteen minutes.”

“I’m already packed,” Steris said, standing up.

“I–” Marasi looked from him to her, seeming baffled. “What did you do at that party?”

“Hopefully,” Wax said, “not start a war. But I can’t say for certain.”

Marasi groaned. “You let him do this,” she accused Steris.

Steris blushed. Wayne always found that expression odd from her, seeing as how she had the emotions of a rock and all.

What followed was an energetic bout of motion as Wax and Marasi both ran to pack things. Wayne sidled up to Steris and popped a peanut in his mouth. “You got that preparin’-your-bags-early thing from me, didn’t you?”

“I … Well, yes, actually.”

“What will you trade me for it, then?” Wayne said. “Gotta have a good trade when you take stuff.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steris said.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of them piled into a carriage driven by MeLaan in her male body. A bedraggled Aunt Gin stood on the doorstep of her hotel watching them. She held a wad of cash in her hand – a wad that included the money Wayne had won off Wax. He’d left it as a tip on account of him putting his boots up on the furniture.

A furiously loud set of bells sounded in the distance, and it drew closer. “Is that the constables?” Aunt Gin asked, sounding horrified.

“Afraid so,” Wax said, pulling the door closed.

The carriage lurched into motion, and Steris leaned out the window, waving farewell to the poor innkeeper.

“Framed for murder!” Steris called to her. “It’s on page seventeen of the list I gave you! Try not to let them harass our servants too much when they arrive!”

A few hours later, Wax stepped up to a cliff in the darkness and let the mists enfold him.

He missed darkness. It was never dark in the city, not as it had been in the Roughs. Electric lights were only exacerbating the issue. Everything glowing, casting away the darkness – and with it, stillness. Silence. Solitude.

A man found himself when he was alone. You only had one person to chat with, one person to blame. He fished in his mistcoat pocket and was surprised to find a cigar. He thought he was out of these, good stout Tingmars brought down from Weathering.

He cut this one with his belt knife, then lit it with a match. He savored it, drawing in the smoke, holding it, then puffing it out to churn in the mists. A little bit of him to mix with Harmony. May He choke on it.

At his side, he turned a little metal spike over in his fingers. The earring VenDell had sent.

It was nearly identical to the one he’d used to kill Lessie.

Eventually, footsteps on pine needles signaled someone approaching. He pulled on his cigar, giving a warm glow to the mists and revealing MeLaan’s face. Her feminine one. She’d finished changing, and was doing up the buttons on her shirt as she joined him.

“You going to get some sleep?” she asked softly.

“Maybe.”

“Last I checked,” she said, “humans still need it. Once in a while.”

Wax pulled on his cigar, then blew out into the mists again.

“Suit wants you to go back to Elendel, I figure,” MeLaan said. “He’s trying to set it up so that you’ll have no choice, so far as you see it.”

“We’re in a bad spot, MeLaan,” Wax said. “The emissary that Aradel sends to a political rally ends up murdering the host? If the outer cities weren’t tense before, they will be now. At the very best, it will be a huge political embarrassment. At the worst, I’ve started a war.”

Wind blew, rustling pine branches he couldn’t see. He couldn’t even see MeLaan; clouds must have rolled in, blocking the starlight. Sweet, enveloping darkness.

“If there is war,” she said, “Suit will have started it. Not you.”

“I might be able to prevent it,” Wax said. “Governor Aradel needs to know, MeLaan. If the outer cities are going to claim assassination – use it as the brand to start a bonfire – I can’t just vanish. I have to get to Elendel. That way, I can claim I knew the New Seran justice system was corrupt, and so I fled to safety. I can make my case in the broadsheets before news spreads; I can convince Aradel I didn’t kill the woman. If I do anything else, it will look like I’m hiding.”

“Like I said,” MeLaan said. “He’s set it up so that you have no choice – so far as you see it.”

“You see it differently?”

“I’ve been a lot of people, Ladrian. Seen through a lot of eyes. There’s always another perspective, if you look hard enough.”

He pulled on his cigar and held the smoke a long moment before letting it out in a slow dribble. MeLaan crept away. Did her kind need sleep? She’d implied they didn’t, but he couldn’t say for certain.

Alone with his cigar, he tried to sort through what he wanted to do. Go back to Elendel, as forced upon him by Suit’s minions, or chase after the mystery – as forced upon him by Harmony’s minions. He rolled the earring in his fingers, and confronted the hatred simmering inside of him.

He’d never hated God before. After Lessie’s supposed death the first time, he hadn’t blamed Harmony. Rusts, even after Bleeder had raised the question of why Harmony hadn’t helped, Wax hadn’t responded with hatred.

But now … yes, that hatred was there. You could take knocks, out in the Roughs. You lost friends. You sometimes had to kill a man you didn’t want to kill. But one thing you never did: You never betrayed a companion. Friends were too rare a privilege out in those wilds, where everything seemed to want you dead.

By hiding the truth from him, Harmony had stabbed him square in the back. Wax could forgive a lot of things. He wasn’t sure this was one of them.

His cigar eventually ran out. His questions lingered. By the time he hiked back toward their campsite, the mist was retreating for the night. He fed the horses – six of them, purchased at the New Seran bottom terrace shipping yards, along with a full-sized stagecoach used to do runs to the Southern Roughs.

They’d narrowly escaped New Seran. Galloping their carriage, they’d managed to descend the ramps before the police, but only after Wax had been forced to bring down a gondola line.

The police hadn’t given chase after that, as if realizing they didn’t have the resources to hunt someone like Waxillium Dawnshot, at least not without a lot of backup. Wax still wanted to be moving. Though he was tired to the bones, he couldn’t let himself – or anyone else – rest long. Just in case.

As the others groggily piled into the vehicle, MeLaan took the reins from him and climbed up to the driver’s seat. Wayne hopped into the spotter’s seat beside her, and she gave him a grin.

“Where to, boss?” she asked, turning to Wax. “Back home?”

“No,” Wax said. “We ride to Dulsing, the place Wayne and Marasi located.” The direction of the building project.

“You found another perspective, I see,” MeLaan said.

“Not yet,” Wax said softly, climbing into the stagecoach. “But let’s see if Harmony dares try to give me one.”