The Lost Metal

20

Marasi got a few hours of sleep, nestled in the front seat of the truck as her convoy rolled toward Bilming. Fortunately they’d been able to recruit drivers from the constabulary night watch, so they were used to the hours. Hers wasn’t the talkative type. The woman wore her jacket with the collar up, a cap on her head to shadow her face. The team had been told to maintain their disguises even while driving.

When Marasi had dozed off, they’d been traveling through the bleak darkness beyond Elendel. When she blinked awake, the sun was rising and they were passing the Bilming suburbs. Marasi had never been to the city, though it was only a few hours by train along the coast, but she had a good grasp on the politics of why this city was so important.

As traffic into the capital had grown overwhelming, Bilming had become an essential port and dockyard. Its seaside nature let it trade with other coastal towns, ignoring Elendel’s railway monopoly. In addition, Bilming was a chief port for trade with the Southern Continent — where much commerce was being handled by traditional ocean shipping, not airship.

The discovery of those new lands had brought wealth into Bilming. And wealth meant power. Many in Elendel thought they had let the people of Bilming grow too independent — and in recent years, it had become the one city in the Basin that could legitimately rival Elendel.

Many in the capital spoke of Bilming snidely, pretending it was a rural outpost of half-educated sailors and drunken dockworkers. Marasi knew better. This wasn’t a rural backwater; Bilming was a metropolis in the making.

She passed neatly laid-out suburbs — but even more swaths of land that had been set aside to eventually be filled. Many developments were mid-construction, houses being built, each in a different style, no two roofs matching one another. No two doorways in the same place. Yet there was a strange symmetry to it. One she couldn’t quite pin down.

It was the same downtown, which — though still distant — she could see had half-finished pillars of skyscrapers growing up like the mythical spires of Kredik Shaw. A dominant building at the direct center was furthest along. It had to be a good seventy or eighty stories high, rivaling the tallest buildings in Elendel.

Each of the buildings — particularly the one at the center — had a strange aesthetic that mixed the feel of a fortress with modern sleek lines and steel finishings. As they drove closer, the roadway passed under a large elevated railway that ran in a circle around the city. Some sections were unfinished, but big swaths of it were already in operation.

Everything had a metallic feel to it, like burnished steel, enhanced by the skeletons of buildings rising up, their girders exposed. The finished buildings had metal roofs or siding — not always polished, and often with a patina. The overall effect gave the great variety of building shapes a cohesive theme.

She was impressed. Even half-finished, this was a city with a plan. The design screamed of industry, forward thinking, and accomplishment. They passed numerous billboards proclaiming the virtues of self-reliance and sovereignty. You didn’t have to read far between the lines to see the tone those were setting. Independence from Elendel.

“You ever notice,” her driver said, “how kids always draw houses the same way?”

Marasi frowned, glancing at her. The woman’s voice was on the deeper side, but Marasi couldn’t make out much about her. Marasi had chosen her truck at random, picking one that had boxes in the back, not constables — hoping that would help her sleep.

“I can’t say that I’ve noticed,” Marasi said.

“It’s strange,” the driver continued. “You can imagine the shape, of course. Square box. Triangular roof. Door right in the center. Two windows. Often a chimney, even though fewer and fewer homes have those these days. What house actually looks like that? Almost none. So why do kids draw them?”

“I guess it’s easy,” Marasi said.

“Perhaps,” her driver said. “Or maybe they’re not drawing a house. They’re drawing someone else’s picture of a house. What they’ve seen others make. An icon. A symbol.”

Marasi narrowed her eyes. “That’s an interesting observation, Constable … what was your name?”

“I go by Moonlight,” the woman said. “We like code names. It’s one of our things.”

“I … have never heard that word before.”

“You wouldn’t have, since you have no moon here.” The woman leaned back and stretched out her arm on the top of the steering wheel, causing her sleeve to inch back and reveal a red tattoo on her forearm, above the wrist. The same symbol that had been on the card left for her.

Slowly, cautiously, Marasi reached for the pistol in the holster under her arm.

“You won’t need that,” the woman said, her eyes still on the road. They’d been forced to slow considerably now that they were approaching the center of the city. Who would have guessed that an Outer City would have so much traffic?

“Where’s the constable who should have been driving this truck?” Marasi asked. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” the woman said. “She’s fine. But I find it amusing that’s the first thing you ask. I mean, I understand — but maybe get your priorities straight, Marasi.”

Marasi kept her fingers lightly on the grip of the handgun, but didn’t draw it. “Was it you in the cavern? The person wearing a white mask?”

“It was black,” the woman said, passing that little test. “Yes. That was me.”

“And … are you human?”

“One hundred percent,” the woman said. “I’m not a local though.” She pulled off her cap, revealing straight black hair in a ponytail and uncommon features. A shape to the eyes Marasi had never seen, prominent cheekbones.

“Are you from the Southern Continent?” Marasi asked.

“No.” Moonlight nodded to the city outside. “I’ve always hated Bilming. I should like the thought they put into design, yet the underlying message disturbs me. They’re trying hard to make each building individual, but the way it comes together is too deliberate. It makes the artistry feel hollow.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because of Trell’s influence, obviously.”

Marasi leaned forward. “Tell me. Please.”

Moonlight glanced at her for the first time. Such self-assured eyes, with a cocked half smile on her lips. This was a woman who had put herself at the very center of a group of constables and didn’t seem the slightest bit worried.

“So hungry,” Moonlight said. “We don’t always share answers with outsiders, Marasi.”

“I could have you arrested and interrogated.”

“On what charges?”

“Interfering with constable business.”

“Interfering? How? I was instructed to drive this truck.”

“Don’t play coy,” Marasi said. “You’re impersonating a constable — plus it’s against the law to withhold information vital to an investigation.”

The woman smiled, turning her eyes back to the road. “Strange how similar cops are, regardless of the planet.”

Regardless of the planet. Rust and Ruin …

Marasi had known that there were other planets out there, of course. The kandra talked about it. But … rusts. It was still hard to accept.

They pulled to a halt as some traffic worked its way into the street ahead of them. As they did, a beggar came to Marasi’s window. Per the notebook’s instructions, Marasi unlatched the window and folded it down, then handed the beggar a few boxings. The dirty man slipped her a piece of paper.

“Can you get to Biggle Way?” Marasi asked, reading the note.

“Yeah,” Moonlight said, turning them down the next street. “That’s in the industrial district.”

Marasi’s truck pulled into the lead and the convoy followed her, all ten keeping in a tight double line. At the next corner, Wayne’s truck came up beside them. She could make him out talking the ear off his driver — who turned out to be Hoid, Wax’s coachman. How had he gotten involved in the sting?

“Can’t tell these days,” Moonlight said, “if I’m keeping watch on him, or if he’s keeping watch on me. Realistically, we’re both just keeping watch on the same third parties…”

“What. Hoid?” Marasi asked. “He’s been in Wax’s employ for years. He’s an odd fellow, but…”

In the next truck, Hoid glanced at them — past Marasi — and nodded to Moonlight.

Damn. What in the world? How much of her time had she wasted on bank robberies or protection rackets, when this was going on?

Whatever this was.

“Has it ever struck you,” Moonlight said, “how art is so destructive?”

“Art?” Marasi said, frowning. “Destructive?”

“Each new movement consumes the one that came before,” Moonlight said, starting them forward as the traffic began to creep into motion again. “Chops it up and feeds on the corpse. Takes the bones, but drapes new skin on them. Each new piece of art is in some way a parody of what has come before.”

“You sound like an artist yourself.”

“I have certain talents,” she said. “My experiences have given me an interest in the quirks of the artistic world — and its … values, you might say. Tell me. Let’s say you had one of only sixteen extremely rare pieces of art by the same artist. What would you do to ensure yours becomes the most valuable?”

“If I play along,” Marasi said, “will you tell me about Trell?”

“I’m trying to, right now.”

Marasi frowned, considering. “I have one of sixteen pieces of art … and I must ensure mine is the most valuable?”

“Yup.”

“I’d try to create an air of mystique around it,” Marasi said. “I wouldn’t show it off. I’d let the other fifteen become common by comparison — and the value of mine would increase as people shared the story. There is one more. One no one has seen.”

“Clever,” Moonlight said. “I’m impressed.”

“And what would you do?” Marasi said.

“Steal the other fifteen,” Moonlight said. “Then I’d be able to manipulate the market however I wanted.”

“Ruthless.”

“Not as ruthless as other options. These pieces of art exist, Marasi, and your planet’s god holds two of them.”

“Ruin and Preservation.”

“Indeed. That makes Harmony the most valuable — the most Invested — being in the cosmere. One of the other sixteen decided the best way to improve his stock was to try to destroy all the others. He managed it in a few cases.”

“And … is that Trell?”

Moonlight shook her head. “No, his name is Odium. Trell — Autonomy — had a different idea. You see these buildings? These houses? All pieces of a larger art installation. The grand creation is impressive, but it’s not yours. This kind of pattern, and those straight lines, those reflective panels … that’s from a Taldain movement known as brutalism.

“That’s part of what I hate about Autonomy. She claims she wants everyone to be individual. Gives them each a little house that is distinctive from the others, but only in a way that fits her plan, her desires. It’s fake individualism. A corporate uniqueness. Like an advertisement telling people to go their own way, be their own person — by buying this product like everyone else.”

Marasi struggled to parse all of this. But what she understood reinforced what she had suspected. A being from another planet was leading this city, and had plans for the people of Marasi’s world.

“What is Trell’s goal, then?” Marasi asked. “If he doesn’t want to destroy the other gods?”

“Trell is trying to edge out the others,” Moonlight said. “She — he, they, it varies — doesn’t like engaging other gods directly. We call them Shards, by the way. Autonomy is trying to outcompete the others by filling the cosmere with versions of herself. Crowd out the competition, so to speak. Like an extremely invasive plant moving into another ecosystem and strangling the local varieties.”

Marasi frowned. “I … think I understand.”

“Conversations about Autonomy can be confusing,” Moonlight said, her eyes on the road. “Trellism is the remnants of an ancient religion on your world, originally founded by Autonomy long, long ago. A seed for when she decided to move in. Now, that time has come. Autonomy is looking for someone on this planet to fully take up that role, that identity.”

“Wait, take up that role?”

“She wants to leave a god behind on this planet,” Moonlight explained. “Someone who bears some of her power, who sees to her interests, and is — in many ways — a piece of her soul. She does this all around the cosmere. Some worlds have entire pantheons that are all versions of her, each of which has a distinct personality and identity.”

“So … she’s role-playing? With herself?”

“Yes,” Moonlight said. “But Autonomy’s Investiture has a life of its own, and so each version of her becomes its own thing over time. Sometimes they aren’t a person but only power. Other times, if the situation needs more oversight, she picks someone to elevate.”

“So…” Marasi said, “she’s going to take our world by setting up a rival god and forcing Harmony out?”

“Basically,” Moonlight said. “Your planet is a primary target for her, Marasi. Two Shards in residence, held by one person, frightens her. You had gunpowder weapons and electricity before any planet in the cosmere aside from her core homeworld. She sees you getting stronger, learning more and more. Getting close to real secrets. It makes you the biggest threat in the cosmere, at least to her.”

“I don’t see how this could defeat Harmony though.”

“I don’t either, honestly,” Moonlight said. “I’m not sure any human can understand the full plan. But she knows Harmony has trouble acting, and so she has seen an opportunity.”

Marasi sat back, breathing out, her hand slipping from her gun. Answers. Actual answers. She’d been searching for so long, hit so many dead ends. To finally get an explanation felt … wonderful.

“So Autonomy is looking for an avatar,” Marasi said.

“She’s likely found one. A woman named Telsin.”

“Wax’s sister?” Damn.

“Granted, there’s rivalry among the ranks,” Moonlight said. “There always is, with Autonomy. So Telsin will have to prove she’s the strongest, the best. And, since creativity and individualism are Autonomy’s stated intents, she’ll reward grit, success, vision.”

Moonlight nodded to the half-finished buildings they were passing. “This city is an example of that, all designed by one gifted architect Telsin promoted five years ago. His work is meant to impress Autonomy … but the individual homeowners? They don’t get to design anything. They get a manufactured ‘individual’ house.”

“Seems like a raw deal,” Marasi said.

“Depends on what you want,” Moonlight said. “Living under her can be safe if you keep your head down, don’t stray into the dangerous regions where she demands that you test yourself. Autonomy is brutal, but also generous. If you impress her, you rise through her ranks. Even if you go against what you’re told, and you are successful, you are rewarded.”

“And if you fail?”

“It doesn’t go well for you,” Moonlight said. Her eyes grew distant. “She sickens me. But I do understand her … I think. It’s taken a while.”

Marasi sat back in her seat, thoughtful. Answers, finally. But at the same time … how much could she trust this woman? Was any of this true?

“Why explain this to me now?” Marasi asked.

“Because you’ve impressed my organization,” Moonlight said. “We who defend Scadrial have to move very carefully; there are forces in this world — Harmony included — that might crush us, if we take the wrong step.”

That gave Marasi pause. If they didn’t work for Harmony, who did they work for?

Moonlight led the truck caravan off the highway at last, passing through the outskirts of the city on the northern edge.

“It’s so … fabricated,” Moonlight said. “Look at that sign. You see it?”

“The billboard?” Marasi said, glancing at the large posted drawing of a stylized version of Bilming, with light rising behind it. PRIDE IN PROGRESS, it said. OUTER CITIES SELF-RELIANCE MOVEMENT.

“Those are all over the city,” Moonlight said. “Nights! The same exact piece of art, a hundred times over. Art that can be reproduced … is it really art at all?”

“Of course it is,” Marasi said. “Why would it stop being art just because it’s replicated?”

“It’s crass.”

“Said like an elitist,” Marasi said. “If you truly were interested in the beauty of the art — instead of some tangential sense of control — you’d want everyone to be able to experience it. The more the better.”

“Well argued,” Moonlight said. “I’ll admit that my distaste for Autonomy might taint my opinion.”

They led the convoy onto Biggle Way, then drove slowly in a single-file line. Eventually someone fell into step alongside Marasi’s truck, wearing a red jacket as the notebook said. She unlatched the window again.

“Ahead, across the Grand Motorway,” he said. “Third building on the right.”

She nodded and put the window back up. At the end of the street, they reached the Grand Motorway — a vast six-lane highway. Marasi had never seen a street so wide. “Are there really so many cars these days that such a thing is necessary?”

“They’re planning,” Moonlight said, “for a much larger city in the future.”

Well, they might not need that many lanes yet, but there was still plenty of traffic on the Grand Motorway. They had to wait for traffic to slow and give them a chance to cross. Ahead she could see a line of large warehouses — the third one’s cargo door was open. That was it, their drop-off.

“Are you going to interfere?” Marasi asked. “With our operation?”

“No,” Moonlight said. “You have my word.”

“Can I talk to you afterward?” Marasi asked.

“Yes,” Moonlight said. “But Marasi, I can only say so much to an outsider. For now I’m just here to watch.”

At a lull in the traffic, Moonlight pulled across — though the other nine trucks had to wait their turn.

“And what if bullets start flying?” Marasi asked. “You’re going to sit here and watch?”

“I’m not a constable, as you pointed out,” Moonlight said. “So yes. Consider me an external admirer of your work. Interested in the quirks of those who follow the law — and their … value.”

She smiled in a knowing way, then pulled into the cavernous warehouse. As soon as all ten trucks arrived, the sting could begin.

21

Wayne nodded as the trucks ahead waited to cross the highway. “Well then, Hoid,” he said to the coachman, “that’s all I know about how to pickle vegetables.”

“… Thank you?” Hoid said.

“’S all right,” Wayne said. “I’m a bastion of useful information, I am.”

The truck ahead of them pulled forward, crossing the vast motorway filled with sixteens upon sixteens of cars. Hoid moved their truck up, next in line.

“Can I have my harmonica back now?” Hoid asked.

Wayne fished in his pocket and brought it out. “I traded you fair for this!”

“You did nothing of the sort.”

“I did!” Wayne said. “The trade is in the glove box. You’re always too watchy for me to slip things in your pocket. How’d you get so good at that, anyways? You’re a rusting coachman.”

“Practice,” Hoid said solemnly. “A very great amount of practice.” He opened the glove box, and a bright white creature with a long, hairless tail peeked out. “Wayne. A live rat?”

“I call him Sir Squeekins,” Wayne said. “I wasn’t gonna bring him, but he snuck into my pocket, he did. So I figure, ‘That’s the seventeenth time you’ve let him escape his cage, Wayne. Better give him to someone responsible.’”

“You are a uniquely bizarre individual,” Hoid said, smiling as the rat crawled up his arm. “But … trade accepted, I guess?”

“Great, great,” Wayne replied. “He likes strawberries and booze, but don’t give him none of the booze, ’cuz he’s a rat.”

“Noted.”

They waited at the edge of the wide roadway. And Wayne, he’d had this feeling all day today. Something was happening. Something important.

“You ever feel,” Wayne said, “like you wish life was like the stories?”

“What do you mean?” Hoid asked.

“There’s always a good ending in those stories. The ones my ma used to tell … they meant something. People, they were worth something.”

“I think we live stories every day,” Hoid replied. “Ones that we will remember, and tell, and shape like clay to be what we need them to be.”

“The last story my ma told me,” Wayne said, “was about a lawman. Funny, huh? That I’d end up becoming one. Except he was a hero. And I’m … well, I’m me.”

“You do yourself a disservice, Master Wayne,” Hoid said softly.

“Can’t be no hero if you were a villain, Hoid.”

“But in most of the stories, it is the villain who knows the hero best.”

Wayne chewed on that, watching the flow of cars on the road ahead. And … found himself imagining that roadway as a river. Because a part of him wished that what Hoid said could be true.

Then he waited some more.

And some more.

Damn. Someone really ought to come up with a way to make it so cars that wanted to cross had a better chance. Maybe you could hire someone to stand at the corner and fire a gun in the air when too many cars were blocking the way, and frighten them to move faster? Anyway, that zooming of cars … that road could be a wide river. Yeah, a river of stone and steel. Faster than any other river in the world.

He smiled, remembering a calm, beautiful voice that had kept his world solid for so long.

Yeah, there’s a bandit to be chased, he thought. But it’s still wrong. Where’s the hero? He should be here, but he stayed behind.

In a lull, Hoid gunned the truck and they scooted across — earning only three honks from cars that had to slow. Pretty good, considering. You could cross even the fastest river, full of the worst kinds of rocks, if you were in a bigger rock yourself. No need to fly, like Jak had in the story. This wasn’t cheating. It was just a smarter way, it was.

Followed by the last of their convoy, they pulled into the dim warehouse lit by some unlatched windows up along the tops of the walls. Why put the windows up there, where nobody could see outta them?

Oh, right. Illegal stuff. Yeah, that made sense.

“Thanks for the ride, Hoid,” Wayne said, pulling out his gangster hat — a worn wool cap traded off one of the thugs they’d caught. “You might wanna keep your head down if this next part gets shooty. Hope it won’t though.”

“Understood, Master Wayne,” Hoid said. “Best of luck.”

Wayne nodded, and it was time to become someone else. He scrunched up his face, squinting like Franis did — that was the guy he’d gotten the hat off of. A fellow Wayne’s height and age, but more weathered. By time, by smokes, by the things he’d done. Wayne already wore a wig to change his hair color, along with a bit of rubber on his chin to square it out, and some makeup to sink his eyes. With the hat, he was Franis — missing only one thing.

He climbed out and swaggered. Franis sure knew how to swagger.

VenDell — wearing the Cycle’s body, a man named Granks — met him outside the truck. The others waited quietly. All those dirty conners in the trucks would jump out only when they had someone important to catch. Someone more than a bunch of useless, low-level cretins.

Not that Franis was a cretin. He just needed work, you know? You started by taking a job at the docks, but work there grew tight. And the schedules were so bad. Then you heard your friend Vin had a job with someone who paid better, and all you had to do was move some boxes. Who could get into trouble for moving boxes? Even if you did have to keep a gun on you at all times, and be ready to shoot.

He swaggered in beside VenDell in his fancy suit and fancier body. “It’s uncanny,” the kandra said, “how you do that. You imitate a person nearly as well as one of my kin.”

“Just gotta find someone what looks a little like you,” Wayne said, “and make up the difference. Also, stay in character.”

“Right, right,” the kandra said. He wasn’t half bad — considering what a fussy little thing he normally was. He wore Granks’s body well. A gangster who had proven himself enough to be elevated. Given a title and some authority, while the rest of them were basically hired hands.

They crossed the vast chamber toward two fellows who emerged from the perimeter. Indeed, a lot of fellows began moving in. A good forty armed men. A local gang. That was … more people than the constables had.

We’ll have surprise though, Wayne thought. And the trucks were armored, offering cover. It should be fine, with Wayne and Marasi — not to mention a Faceless Immortal — on their side. MeLaan was quite the fighter; VenDell should be handy in a scrap too.

The two fellows that stepped up to meet with them wore work clothing: suspenders, trousers, buttoned shirts. Not good enough. They needed at least a Suit — the rank that Granks would report to — and preferably a Sequence, or even a fully promoted Series. There were only a couple of those in the Set at a time though. And one leader. The Key.

Wayne/Franis didn’t want any of those important jobs. He wasn’t interested in wearing the fancy clothing and drawing the gunfire. Pay him his wages and let him pretend he wasn’t doing nothing wrong.

“Cycle,” said the stouter of the two men, nodding. He would probably be a fellow named Dip, according to the interrogations. Or … maybe he was one named Embrier.

Whoever he was, he glanced at Franis, but didn’t say anything to him directly. “You can leave the trucks,” he told VenDell. “Gather your men in the two vans outside and head home. Your success has been noted.”

“Fine,” VenDell grumbled — using a pretty good version of Granks’s accent. “But I need to talk to the Sequence. There’s an issue.”

“The radio line isn’t good enough?” maybe-Dip said, glancing at his companion.

“I have reason to believe the radios are compromised,” VenDell said. “The Sequence is here, isn’t he?”

That was Wayne’s suggestion. The leader types, they always hung around and watched. Didn’t trust good, honest(ish) thieves like Franis to do their job right. So yeah, a higher-level member of the Set would be here. Somewhere. Sure as Franis wasn’t Franis right now, but was somebody kind of close — as close as someone could get, unless he could wear Franis’s bones, which was cheatin’ and that was that.

Anyway. Important negotiations. Life or death. Surrounded by forty armed men. Better pay attention.

“I will convey your message to the Sequence,” maybe-Dip said.

“That won’t be good enough,” VenDell said. “There is a problem. A very large problem.”

The two thugs looked at one another. Damn … they were suspicious.

Wayne glanced at the people at the perimeter, who would need only one offhand comment to start shooting. So he made a quick decision. The fellow wouldn’t be the one named Dip. Because who would put a guy named Dip in charge of anything?

“Hey, Embrier,” he said, using a slightly modified version of his own accent — dockworker, but overlaid with the kind of sniveling accent these thugs had all adopted. People what worked together, they started to pick up one another’s ways of speaking. “Can we talk a spell?”

The stout man glanced at him, then nodded. “Yeah, Franis?”

Wayne waved him over, and they slipped to the side. VenDell started up a conversation with the other man, going over the inventory they’d been able to “acquire.”

“What’s up, Franis?” the thug said quietly, then thumbed over his shoulder. “The Cycle never cares about things like this. Just does what he’s told.”

“Brain like wet concrete,” Wayne agreed softly. “Can you believe he’s the one what got chosen?”

“I can believe it,” Embrier said. “He never questions. Unlike you.”

“Hey,” Wayne said, “I only question when my paycheck is coming.”

“Don’t we all,” Embrier said, then shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been getting some sun.”

Damn. The makeup hadn’t been light enough. Could he get the man to ask after his father? Wayne had some good info from the real Franis on his father. “You know. Heavy work. Like Dad always said — best work is the kind you do with your arms and back.”

“Yeah, but don’t you live in a cavern?”

“I don’t live in the rusting cavern,” Wayne said. “What, you think I stay down there in the dark?”

Embrier grunted. “How’s your sister?”

Sister? Aw, rusts. Wayne glanced at Embrier. That smile.

“You stay away from my damn sister,” Wayne said.

“Just askin’,” Embrier said, raising his hands. “Ruin. No need to come out swinging.”

“Look,” Wayne said softly, “Cycle isn’t acting strange — he’s worried. Saw some lady conner sniffing around our base. Dark hair. You know the one?”

The man cursed under his breath. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I just rusting did. But Cycle wants to report it. Thinks he’ll get … you-know-who’s attention. For spotting a conner what we know is likely to be around. Rusting idiot.”

But Embrier had gone a little pale at the implication that the Cycle wanted to draw Trell’s attention. Best to … ease away from that. Wayne threw his arm around the fellow’s shoulder and walked them back toward the others.

“’Sides,” he said to Embrier. “You can forget my sister. I’ve met this woman, she’d be great for you.”

“Really?” Embrier asked.

“Sure. She thought Yulip was handsome.”

“Yulip? The koloss-blooded who looks like a frog?”

“Same one,” Wayne said, rejoining the others.

Embrier shook his head. “Insanity.” He nodded to VenDell. “I’ll go get the Sequence. You can start your men unloading.”

VenDell turned, waving for the process to begin. Hopefully Marasi would keep her head down, like Wayne had told her. She was too damn obvious, that one. Needed to learn how to scrunch her face up and become someone she wasn’t, once in a while. Really helped with the self-loathing.

Still shouldn’t have crossed the river without the hero, Wayne thought as the two thugs jogged to the rear of the room and opened a door.

“Seriously,” VenDell asked Wayne, “how do you do that? You don’t even have their bones.”

“Gotta have fewer sticks up your posterior, VenDell,” Wayne said. “Yank one or two out, and you’ll see.”

“It’s patently unfair,” he said. “A mortal should not be able to stand beside one of the Bearers of the Contract and seem a fair match to their skill in imitation.”

“Aw, jealousy,” Wayne said. He breathed it in. “Smells like cherry blossoms. Also, stop breakin’ character, ya sod.”

Finally, two figures in nicer clothing stepped from a darkened room at the back of the warehouse. Perfect. That was what they’d wanted. Hopefully the waiting constables could–

Suddenly, the outer doors slammed open and figures in brown began flooding in, pointing guns at the thugs. “Drop your weapons!” a voice shouted. “This is a sting!”

“It’s the heat!” Wayne said, slipping his gun out of his holster.

VenDell grabbed his arm.

“Oh yeah,” Wayne said, letting his arm be lowered. “Right, right. I forget sometimes…”

But these weren’t their people. What the hell? All around, the thugs were turning — but nobody fired, because more and more figures in brown were pouring in. At least a hundred constables. Wearing …

… the shield and tortoise, symbol of Bilming. These were local constables.

Marasi’s sting had just been stung.

22

Marasi groaned and sat up in her seat, pulling off the hat she’d used to obscure her face.

Bilming city constables. Wonderful. She glanced at Moonlight, who shrugged.

“I had no idea,” Moonlight said.

Marasi sighed. At least the locals knew to surround the Sequence and his flunky — a pack of at least twenty constables were holding weapons on him. They might not know about the Set, but they understood things like smuggling and gangsters. The rest of the newly arrived constables were rounding up thugs who had wisely decided not to shoot, as they were far outnumbered. They reluctantly dropped their weapons.

Marasi kicked open her door and hopped down. Immediately, several of the advancing constables turned weapons on her. She sighed and raised her hands. “I’m Elendel Constabulary!” she shouted at them. “Special Detective Marasi Colms!”

“What’s this?” a voice demanded. A tall woman with short blonde hair — wearing a Bilming uniform — pushed through the constables. Marasi thought she knew the woman.

“Captain Blantach?” Marasi said. “We met at the intercity training event last year.”

The woman looked Marasi up and down, then groaned. Nearby, some of Marasi’s people were hesitantly climbing out of the backs of trucks — showing their credentials.

Captain Blantach put her palm to her forehead. “You’re kidding me,” she said. “You’re running a sting inside my city?”

“I have jurisdiction in the entire Basin,” Marasi said, fishing for the paperwork. “Constable-General Reddi authorized it under the oversight of the governor.”

“You claim jurisdiction in the entire Basin!” Blantach said, waving the authorizations away. “Rusting Elenders. Of course you would pull an operation in my city and not even send word.”

Marasi felt a little bad for the woman. Still, the Set had the Outer Cities under its thumb. Sending advance word to the local constables would have been far too risky; there were almost certainly Set agents within Blantach’s organization.

Though … the fact that the constables were here seemed to disprove that theory.

“You’re going to need to turn them over to us,” Marasi said, waving at the gangsters.

“Like hell we are,” Blantach said, folding her arms across her uniform jacket, stiff and buttoned tight.

“This is part of a much bigger network,” Marasi said.

“Then we’ll discover that during interrogation.”

Marasi sighed, but took a deep breath. “Blantach,” she said, “do we have to fight this fight?”

The taller woman eyed her, but said nothing.

“The politicians don’t get along,” Marasi said, “but that’s their business. Our business is protecting the cities — all of them. Just a couple of conners with our hands full. Let’s work together rather than squabble.”

“Perhaps I can agree to that … if we do it on my terms.”

“This thing I’m hunting,” Marasi said, “it goes deep. Dangerously deep. And it has little tendrils of mist wrapping around all parts of society. Your city’s leaders are almost certainly compromised.”

“You said this wasn’t about politics.”

“I said we shouldn’t worry about how divisive the politicians are being,” Marasi said. “But everything touches on politics these days. The group I’m pursuing are deliberately stoking war between Elendel and the Outer Cities.

“If we get close to them, there are elements in both governments who are going to try to stop us. Which is why I couldn’t warn you we were coming. I apologize for that, but most in my own government don’t know about this operation.”

Blantach waved away an aide who came trotting up, perhaps to deliver a count of enemies taken captive, and continued to regard Marasi. This situation was a bit like a political negotiation — but Marasi had an advantage over Steris and Wax. You never really could tell what senators wanted. But fellow constables?

You didn’t take up this job for glory — or at least you didn’t stay in this job for glory. Anyone who wanted glory quickly moved on to judgeships or attorney positions, promoted away from actual detective work as soon as possible. But Blantach was a career constable. She’d been in her job longer than Reddi.

“You’re making me worried, Colms,” Blantach said.

“How hard was this operation to organize?” Marasi asked. “Were those in your own government — higher members of the constabulary — working against you?”

“That’s how everything is.” Blantach shrugged. “You know red tape. It…” She trailed off, frowning. “There might have been a tad more on this mission.”

“So why didn’t they quash it entirely?” Marasi whispered. “Why’d they let you continue?”

“I was determined.”

That wasn’t it. If the Set had known about this mission, and had been intent on quashing it, they would have.

The weapons were being smuggled here to arm the forces in Bilming anyway, Marasi realized. So it’s fine if the government seizes them. They’ll still go where they need to. The Set had to run a delicate operation. They might be in control of Bilming, but most people didn’t know that. So why tip their hand and prevent a raid, when all the Set needed to do was make sure the seized goods went to the right places in the city?

And what of the Sequence? Marasi glanced at the pile of constables surrounding him. He’d been bound, but maintained an air of confidence. He had a refined look, a stylish suit. Thick eyebrows and prominent lips. Her guess was that he had been aware of the sting and was playing along, knowing he’d be released later.

Then he saw Marasi. And he cocked his head, frowning. He stepped closer and had to be restrained by the constables — as if he’d forgotten about them. He stared at her, confused.

A moment later he smiled a broad, even excited smile. He flexed, then stretched his neck.

Rusts. What was she missing?

Oh hell. What better way to spark further controversy in the Basin than to suddenly find a bunch of Elendel constables interfering in local business? Particularly if …

“Blantach,” Marasi said, grabbing her arm, “we have to sedate that man.”

“What? Sedate him? Why?”

“Aren’t you ready for Metalborn?” Marasi said.

“There aren’t any Metalborn in this group,” Blantach said. “I have it on good authority from—”

The Sequence chose that moment to let out an Allomantic Push of incredible strength.

23

Marasi wore a breakaway gunbelt with metal pouches, so the Push didn’t do more than strip away her equipment. The Bilming constables weren’t so well prepared. They were tossed back by their own guns, handcuffs, and other accoutrements of their profession.

Blantach screamed as she was knocked off her feet, but she was lucky to suffer only a minor fall — many were tossed dozens of feet. Trucks rocked, and two even overturned. The doors at the sides of the building were blown free. Windows cracked and people cried out as guns were shoved across the floor and hit the walls — except for a few unaffected weapons that lay on the ground. Apparently some of the enemy had been given aluminum guns.

The Sequence casually scooped one of these up, now standing at the epicenter of a blast of power unlike any Marasi had experienced from an ordinary Coinshot. She stepped back, awed. That had been something like … like from the old stories. Like Harmony had recorded in the histories, detailing the power available to the Ascendant Warrior.

It was a horrible sign. Because Marasi realized why the Sequence was smiling. While he’d likely been planning to go along with his arrest, now that he’d found a chance to implicate Elendel in a scandal, he would want to cause as many casualties as possible.

While the others were recovering, Marasi dove for one of the aluminum guns. But the Sequence took aim and fired directly in front of her, driving her — still unarmed — into cover behind an overturned truck. The Allomantic Push had stopped for now, fortunately.

You’ve read about this, she thought. It’s one of the ancient powers available only to Mistborn.

It was called duralumin, an arcane metal. Using it, an Allomancer could burn their entire metal reserve at once. Like detonating a keg of gunpowder instead of a single bullet, it released an enormous burst of Allomantic energy. At least … that was what she remembered. It hadn’t been relevant in centuries, because no one could have two Allomantic powers at once.

Unless you had Hemalurgic spikes.

A figure in a wool cap and wig scrambled up beside her a moment later. Wayne was followed by VenDell in the broad-chested Cycle’s body. A second later Wayne’s speed bubble gave the three of them some breathing room.

“They were ready for us!” Wayne said. “They knew we was going to pull this sting!”

“No,” Marasi said. “They knew about Blantach and her constables, but I think they didn’t mind being captured. My guess is they were going to go along with that sting, and slip out of jail later.”

“So what changed?” he asked.

“The Sequence just realized we’re here from Elendel,” Marasi said, “and decided to use our presence to create an incident — constables dead — and blame it on Elendel interference in a Bilming operation.”

It was still merely a guess. The facts were clear though. The moment he saw Marasi, a man who had been about to go quietly had decided to fight. Which put everyone in danger.

She glanced out from behind the truck, now that she didn’t have to worry about getting shot. The Sequence was casually pointing his gun toward Captain Blantach, who was climbing to her feet. At the perimeter of the room, constables and gangsters alike were picking themselves up off the ground, disoriented. Those who had recovered first were frozen in the act of scrambling for weapons.

“What’s the plan?” Wayne asked.

“You distract that Sequence,” Marasi said to him. “I’ll organize our constables. The Set’s forces seem surprised by that too — look at the shock on their faces. I really think they planned to be captured, then released by corrupt judges or prosecutors. We still have a chance to turn this around, if we can take advantage of their disorientation.”

“This is not the plan!” VenDell said, peeking past her.

“Plans last until someone starts shootin’, mate,” Wayne said.

“So unruly,” VenDell muttered. “All these beautiful bones are going to get crushed.”

“Not if we can stop it,” Marasi said. “Help Wayne with that Sequence and take down any armed enemies you see. Be careful of our drivers — they’re out of uniform but all wearing white shoes.”

“Um…” VenDell said. “My. Hmm … When you say, ‘take down,’ what precisely do you mean, Miss Colms?”

“Kill?” Marasi said. “Shoot? Maim? Eat? I’m not picky, VenDell.”

“Ah, yes, er,” he said. “You see, I am not much of a fighter. I’m a connoisseur. A good planner. A bearer of deep and important thoughts.”

She glared at him.

“I follow the First Contract, Miss Colms,” he said. “Like almost all kandra. I cannot kill, or even hurt, a living creature. Particularly not a human being.”

“MeLaan never had that trouble,” Wayne said.

“MeLaan is a miscreant!” VenDell said. “Why do you think she was assigned to you? Only she and TenSoon are capable fighters; the rest of us abhor it! I should, er, get away. And plan. Yes, plan how to respond.”

Marasi glanced at Wayne, who was rolling his eyes.

“You’re basically indestructible, right?” she said to VenDell. “Like MeLaan?”

“Well, technically. But you see, I—”

“Then get out there,” Marasi said, “and draw some fire. Also, if you can manage it, toss me one of those aluminum guns.”

“Very well,” he said with a deep sigh. “This is the last time I let Harmony convince me—”

He broke off as a short woman rounded the back of the truck, somehow moving at their speed — and then she stepped into their speed bubble.

The stout woman wore a bowler hat and held a dueling cane in one hand. “’Ello, lovelies,” she said. “What’re we doin’? Havin’ a meetin’? I like meetin’ new folks. Killin’ them breaks the monotony.” She grinned, then leaped for Marasi.

It was such an incongruous experience — no one had ever violated one of Wayne’s bubbles — that Marasi reacted with embarrassing slowness. Wayne wasn’t so inhibited. He grabbed the woman by the arm as she swung, preventing the dueling cane from connecting with Marasi’s head.

All three of them fell in a jumble. Wayne ended up with the dueling cane, but the woman scrambled away. She became a blur for a second as she hit the edge of the speed bubble — and then she was crossing the room at normal human speed. A moment later she froze in place, moving sluggishly.

“Damn!” Wayne said. “Another Slider!”

Of course. Someone with Wayne’s same power — she could create her own speed bubbles. When she’d moved quickly for a moment, it was because her speed bubble had overlapped with Wayne’s, doubling her speed for a split second. But she’d been forced to drop her bubble to keep moving through the room, as Sliders had to take brief breaks in using their powers.

“Wayne,” Marasi said, “new plan. I’m going to try to grab my Allomantic grenades. They broke free during that blast earlier. You need to stop the strange version of yourself.”

“What?” he demanded. “Because she’s a Slider, she’s a strange version of me?”

“I agree,” VenDell said. “Wayne is already incredibly strange — so a strange version of him would be normal.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Marasi snapped. “Wayne, deal with the Slider. VenDell, distract the Coinshot. Ready?”

“Ready,” Wayne said.

“Not ready!” VenDell said.

“Drop the bubble!” Marasi said, already leaping forward.

Wayne complied, and the sound of the room hit her in a cacophony. Men scrambling for weapons and starting to fire. Screams and shouts of pain. Constables trying to organize themselves — a dozen different voices giving conflicting orders.

Marasi tackled Captain Blantach — who had barely reached her feet — pushing her behind another of the trucks. The Sequence’s shots hit the floor, tossing up chips of concrete, barely missing the woman.

Blantach scrambled to her feet in surprise, then nodded in thanks to Marasi, who already had her back to the truck. It was the one she’d ridden into the building — but Moonlight was nowhere to be seen.

Wayne tackled the Slider a moment later. VenDell hopped out from behind the fallen truck and began waving his hands. “Look at me! Defenseless! And a traitor! Ha! I’m going to tell the constables everything!”

He took a shot straight to the head.

“Rusts!” Captain Blantach shouted, finally putting it all together. “They have an Allomancer!”

Marasi sighed. “Can you organize a resistance, Captain!” she shouted over the increasing din. “The weapons at the top of each box in these trucks are real, and all of the vehicles are plated to provide cover!”

“Right, then,” Blantach said, turning and waving toward the eastern wall of the room. “Constables! To me! We—”

The truck they were hiding behind lurched. Marasi barely leaped away in time as a second powerful Steelpush shook the room. The warehouse walls rattled, wood breaking and nails ripping free. Men and women who had found weapons were again shoved backward.

And the truck Marasi had been using for cover was thrown away like it had been drop-kicked. It crashed out onto the street, tumbling end over end, spilling boxes that shattered into weapons. Rusts!

It narrowly missed Blantach, who had already been on the move toward the snarl of constables and thugs. Many of them had been knocked to the ground.

Now that Marasi’s cover was gone, she saw the Sequence shake an aluminum flask, then unscrew it and take a drink. More metals, Marasi realized. If she remembered correctly, every time the Sequence used duralumin he would need to restore his reserves.

As the Sequence finished drinking, a figure with a bullet hole in the forehead tackled him. VenDell was, at the very least, trying.

“Organize the constables!” Marasi shouted to Blantach, then ran for the gaping open front of the warehouse. Somewhere in the debris was her metals belt — with her grenades. Those had to be her best chance at stopping a superpowered Allomancer.

On her way, she passed an incredible sight: Wayne and the other Slider fighting.

Wayne leaped toward the Slider in a sudden burst of speed — but dropped his bubble in midair. She tossed hers up, catching them both, and the two became a blur of swinging dueling canes and frantic motion. The speed bubble dropped and they split apart, rounding each other — before speeding up and clashing again, so fast that Marasi couldn’t even make out their blurs.

Rusts. Stay focused, Marasi thought. She dodged out of the front of the warehouse and scanned the debris — ignoring the sorry truck that lay upside down nearby, one tire spinning.

There, she thought, leaping to grab her metals belt, which was peeking from beneath a broken box. She yanked it out and fished inside a pouch, but the latch had broken open and two of the grenades had spilled free. She only had one.

A floppy body flew past and slammed into the overturned truck. It slumped and hit the ground, then rolled a mangled face toward her on a broken neck. “I have been defeated,” VenDell said, words slurred by the broken jaw. “I am billing you for these bones.”

“Don’t be a baby,” she said, and immediately started burning cadmium. The box buzzed in her fingers, charging up.

She dashed into the room to find that Blantach had gathered a group of constables — both Marasi’s and her own — behind the cover of several overturned trucks. Many of the gangsters were grouped at the rear of the chamber near the Sequence. They were arming themselves with weapons from the back rooms, it seemed, and others were pulling out riot shields.

Wayne and his foe were still blurs. The Sequence had risen into the air, hovering on a Steelpush. Bullets bent around him, striking the wall, unable to hit directly. Rusts. If he could do that, he was far more experienced with his powers than the Cycle Marasi had fought. At least he couldn’t do those mega-Pushes without harming his own people.

Marasi dashed in, low, and crouched up against one of the overturned trucks. She set the timer on her grenade and watched for a moment when the Sequence was turned. Hopefully he’d rely upon his powers to deflect bullets, and wouldn’t see her grenade.

Unfortunately, the Sequence glanced in her direction as she hurled the grenade. He barely managed to Push it away, and it detonated near the far wall, not catching anyone. He caught her eye from up there, then shot a coin her direction. She barely ducked under cover in time. Rusts. He could move this truck at any moment.

No, she thought. He’d need an anchor as heavy. That was why the Sequence had been doing those powerful, all-direction Pushes. He could Push with equal force in every direction and stabilize himself. He couldn’t move a specific truck unless he could Push backward against something equally heavy.

That was little comfort when a count of her people showed many bleeding as they hid behind cover. Several were down, immobile. Plus, their enemy was regrouping … it gave her a bad feeling. What kind of gangsters tried to outgun the constables?

The kind who are heavily armed, Marasi thought. And think they can win. We shouldn’t be fighting. Not this way.

Gunshots echoed in the room, and bullets banged on metal and stone.

“We have to retreat,” she said. She signaled to Kellen, one of her lieutenants. “We need to set up covering fire and organize a retreat! We’re out through that opening.”

“Retreat?” Kellen said, sliding closer. “But the enemy!”

“We’re officers of the law,” Marasi said, “not soldiers. I’m not going to perpetuate a full-on battle in the middle of a city! Mission is a bust. Time to get out.”

Kellen thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right,” the woman said. “What do you want from me?”

“Gather the others and help the wounded. I’ll coordinate with the Bilming group, then set up a distraction. Which truck has the real explosives?”

“Number six!”

“Wayne’s? Who decided that?”

“Ruin, apparently,” Kellen said. “Hadn’t thought about it myself.”

They broke. Marasi slipped her handgun from the holster on her metals belt, then dodged across the open space to truck number six, where Blantach was taking shelter. Remarkably it hadn’t been toppled, though Marasi didn’t think trying to drive out would be wise. Not when the Sequence had the power to overturn vehicles.

“We’re going to retreat,” Marasi said to Blantach. “You with us?”

“Rusts yes,” Blantach said. “I feel like I opened a picnic basket and found a nest of hornets. Who are these people?”

“They’re the ones trying to undermine our civilization,” Marasi said. She slapped the truck. “We have explosives inside this one. I’m going to toss some at the enemy to cover our retreat.”

“Give me a minute,” Blantach said. “I’ll get my people ready to join you. We have wounded.”

“So do we,” Marasi said. “Hopefully the explosion will give us enough time.”

Marasi took a deep breath, then pulled open the door of the truck and scrambled inside. There she was able to open the panel between the cab and the cargo area and slip into the back. It was dark in here, but she knew the box with the explosives would be at the rear — ready to show off on delivery.

She located a few conventional grenades by touch inside the box. And what she hoped was a firebomb, which would be clay and liquid, immune to Pushes.

Worries chased her as she squeezed back into the cab, then ducked low, counting on the plating in the passenger door to protect her from gunfire. The more she considered it, the worse she liked their position.

If we run, he’ll do another of those powerful all-out Pushes, she thought. We’ll be ducking out the doors while trucks roll over us.

But what else could she do? She slipped out of the truck with her explosives. Kellen and Blantach nodded to her, ready for the retreat. The warehouse was alive with gunfire, but on their side it was only a few constables keeping the enemy distracted while the rest helped the wounded.

Time for–

The Sequence dropped from the air, landing directly in the middle of the four trucks they were using as cover. Then he Pushed — two trucks on each side — shoving the vehicles out of the way with an incredible Steelpush.

In an instant, their cover was gone. The collection of beleaguered constables found themselves completely exposed, hauling the wounded to their feet. At the other end of the room, the gangsters had built a little fortification out of sandbags — and now one of them snapped a large multi-barrel rotating machine gun onto a tripod. Military grade, liquid cooled and chain fed, with bullets longer than a person’s palm. Those had been developed in case of a Malwish invasion, and were illegal to smuggle out of Elendel.

The full extent of how outgunned they were struck Marasi right then. The room fell strangely silent, though she thought she heard glass shatter somewhere. A part of her mind registered the sound, but she focused on that machine gun. She stood at the head of the constables, staring directly at the barrel. Realizing what was about to happen.

She’d brought barely armed police to a battlefield.

The machine gun started up with a ripping percussive sound, and spat a concentrated stream of bullets straight at Marasi and the others.

Then those bullets stopped in the air.

Then immediately went soaring backward toward the enemy fortification, hitting sandbags and shields and making the gangsters cry out in surprise. The machine gun cut off, and the warehouse fell silent for a moment. Unnerved, Marasi glanced over her shoulder — to find Waxillium Ladrian standing just behind her, mistcoat tassels flaring as he turned and aimed a pistol right over her shoulder. He fired with a single crack of gunpowder.

The shot drilled straight through the viewfinder on the machine gun and sent the man who had been firing it to the ground, a bullet through the eye.

“Sorry I’m late,” Wax announced to the crowd. “Had to wait for gunfire to lead me to you. Shall we carry on, then?”

24

Fighting someone in a fair way was completely unfair, Wayne decided. He connected with his dueling cane — which made a nice resonant crack against the cheater’s skull. She went down, but rolled and was back up in a second, grinning as the wound on her head healed — a little trickle of blood running down her now-pristine skin.

Of course they’d given her the ability to heal. Marvelous. Just rusting marvelous.

She became a blur, and he barely erected his own speed bubble in time to catch sight of her to the left. He crossed his canes to block her strike. Then he started swinging.

He pummeled her on one side as she did the same to him on the other side. Rusting Ruin and rusting hell! That smarted. And it made about as much sense as drinking the expensive whiskey once you were already drunk. Both of them backed off, wincing — but tapping their metalminds to heal.

“Harmony’s holy missing bits, woman,” he said, shaking his bruised arm. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” she said. “You’re … yoer…”

“Stop trying to get my accent!” Wayne snapped.

“Can you say ‘my’ again?” she asked, tossing her dueling cane up in a little spin and catching it.

Rusting.

Cheating.

Woman!

Wayne had gotten his powers the fair way. By being born with them through pure luck. She’d gone and stolen hers from other folks. That was absolutely cheating. Everybody knew there was things you could take and things you couldn’t. Wax’s unused pocket watch? Fair game. The watch Lessie had given him? Off-limits.

People’s souls? Way off-limits.

The two circled one another, ignoring the rest of the chaos in the room. He did stop time as something hit near him — a bullet scraping the side of a truck — and he saw the sparks drop in slow motion. But Marasi and the conners would have to deal with the blokes with guns. Wayne had a very-much-not-at-all-clone-of-him to deal with.

She was grinning as he launched forward, swinging. Yes, she could heal if he hit her, but a person could only heal so many times before running out of stored health. He had to keep hitting and hope she ran out before he did.

She dodged away this time.

“Oi!” Wayne said. “Stand still.”

“Oi…” she replied. “Oiiii…”

“Stop that!”

She danced back, smiling. “I’ve been waiting for this for years,” she said — her accent fading away. “Planning, preparing. I was built for you, Wayne. Aren’t you honored? I was made to kill you!”

“Ah! Do you hafta be weird too?”

“Once I kill you, I will wear your hat and carry your scent. It’s all I’m lacking.”

He stopped in place as she grinned at him. So. Rusting. Weird. She then turned, and her face fell. “What’s he doing here?”

Wayne edged over to see what she had. And … rusts, finally. The hero had arrived. Wax stood there like Ruin himself, tassels swirling around him, protecting the constables and firing wantonly into the enemy ranks.

The cheater was as good as defeated, now that Wax was here. All was right in the world.

Course, Wax was busy at the moment, and would need help. So Wayne bull-rushed the cheater, rammed his elbow into her gut — and felt something sharp in her arm when he did. Her metalminds maybe? Or the spike? Well then. Now that Wax was here, they could do a Two-Faced Special. Except with only Wayne, because Wax needed to shoot some folks.

When the cheater tried to throw Wayne off, he twisted and let her lurch into position. Then he reached around from behind her, took his dueling cane in two hands, and pulled it up under her chin. With a grunt, she began battering at him, but that only threw her off balance.

In a moment Wayne had her on the ground, one knee against her back, dueling cane pulled up and choking her. He’d been in this situation himself, and it was not fun — feeling your metalminds bleed dry as you were forced to heal from suffocation.

She struggled in a frenzy. The world around them slowed and sped up in spurts as she panic-activated her powers. But for all her skill with the canes, she’d skipped basic wrestling techniques. Someone who knew what they were doing could have thrown him.

He shook his head, disappointed. “You can’t skip wrestling holds, mate,” he told her. “If you want to brawl properly, you’ve got to know how to win on the ground.”

She responded with grunts, which was much better than before. He was lucky Wax had shown up. Wayne had been up against the wall before the hero arrived.

A figure in fine clothing dropped beside them. “Getruda,” he said to the woman, “I’m disappointed in you.” Then he pointed a gun at Wayne’s head.

Right, then. Wayne let go and ducked away. He dodged into a roll — because who doesn’t like a nice finishing roll — and came out of it with a speed bubble in place, sheltering him and Marasi, who had been seeing to one of the wounded.

“Hey,” he said, puffing. “Things are looking up, eh?”

“We should still pull out,” Marasi said. “This isn’t what we’re trained for.”

“Shame to leave when we’re winning though,” Wayne said. He nodded behind him. The Sequence was pointing toward the way out — mid-order — and the cheater was on her feet, running in that direction.

“Are we?” Marasi said. She looked down at Mathingdaw — the wounded constable — who had her eyes shut tight, grimacing from the pain of a bullet hole in her leg.

“If Wax deals with that Coinshot we are,” Wayne said. The enemy ranks were in chaos as their men tried to hide.

“They have at least a few aluminum bullets,” Marasi said, pointing to the side. Indeed some bullets — moving ever so slowly through the air — were ignoring Wax’s Pushes.

“Why so few though?” Wayne said. “Miles Hundredlives had tons of aluminum equipment.”

“This group planned to be caught today,” she said. “I’m convinced of it. They were going to let Blantach’s constables take them, rather than raise suspicion by stopping the investigation.”

“That’s a leap in logic,” Wayne said. “But you’re often right about this sorta thing. They wouldn’t want much aluminum to be taken. Departments have a habit of meltin’ it down for the money.”

Wayne glanced toward Wax, who stood out in front. Frozen as he pointed with three fingers at a passing bullet. He seemed to be … guiding it to the side.

Nah. That was a bit much, even for Wax.

“My gut says,” Wayne replied, “that if we hold out this lot will scatter. See, they already got a newsworthy incident by fightin’ us, and there’s not much more to gain. But we have wounded, and it’d be tough to pull out.”

Marasi nodded. “All right then. We hold position. So long as Wax chases off that Coinshot.”

“Dropping the bubble.”

“Go.”

He dropped it. Wax continued his spin, and rusts … the bullet he’d been pointing at seemed to go straight for one of the gangsters trying to sneak up on the constables’ position.

“Wax!” Marasi shouted. “We can handle these. But I need that Coinshot dealt with!”

Wax glanced at her, then nodded and fired at the Coinshot, who dodged into the air. The man launched straight up and smashed through the ceiling out into the city.

Wax followed, soaring through a broken skylight.

As the two vanished, the cheater ran out the front doors. The smarter gangsters realized what was up and ducked out any way they could. Wayne leaped out in front to draw fire, and Marasi scrambled to the side of the room. He wondered why until her grenade froze a small group of enemies.

The rest of this was cleanup; the real fight had moved to the sky. Wait, Wayne thought. He put up a speed bubble so two nearby wounded could crawl into the back of a truck for shelter. Did anyone warn Wax that the Coinshot can do those crazy super-Pushes?

Hmm. Well, Wayne supposed his friend would figure it out soon enough.

25

Wax darted into the air and felt a sudden moment of disconnect. He’d flown through Elendel so often that he expected to see its sights. This city — with its round layout, elevated train, and huge warships in the port — was disorienting. He had been here before, and knew about the strange design of the buildings, no two the same. But from up here, he could see they were arranged in an artistic pattern. Too orderly, too perfect, too balanced. Like a child’s model of a city.

The enemy Coinshot bounded away toward the perimeter of the city, and Wax gave chase with a few Steelpushes. His opponent was talented, maybe even a true Coinshot, augmented by Hemalurgy. He expertly Pushed off the buildings they passed, when newer Coinshots always looked for anchors — like cars — directly beneath them, and forgot about those behind.

Still, Wax managed to gain on the man by anticipating where he would Push. Wax raised Vindication. He didn’t want to kill the Coinshot — they needed answers — but perhaps a hit in the leg or arm would–

The man suddenly blasted into the air. The car below crumpled as if it had been stomped flat, and Wax winced for the poor people inside. The Coinshot launched high into the sky, swift as a bullet, difficult to track against the blinding sun.

Wax landed in a scramble on a nearby rooftop. Rusting hell. That had been …

Duralumin. Damn. It had only been a matter of time before he faced an enemy with this strength, but he’d merely read of those powers. Never faced them. This threw out Wax’s every understanding of how to duel with another Coinshot. How did you fight someone who could launch himself a mile into the air with a single Push?

Same way you fight anyone, Wax thought. With skill and wit.

If Wax’s memory was right, the man would need to drink a new vial each time he used the power. Wax made his way to another rooftop, where he’d stowed his pack before joining the fight. Here he grabbed an extra pouch of aluminum bullets and dropped the Steel Survivor, as it was loaded with conventional rounds. He raised Vindication, fully aluminum herself, and loaded with aluminum cartridges. The only other metals he had on him were the vials Harmony had sent, inside his belt sheath, which was also lined with aluminum.

He’ll try to take me from above, Wax thought, scanning the sky. Sure enough, gunfire came from up there. The enemy had an aluminum weapon too, but Wax was able to leap over the side of the building to dodge. As he fell, he Pushed in through an upper window, landing in an apartment.

The room was empty. So if Wax could slide over to a window in another room, he could maybe trap the enemy by–

The entire apartment wall caved in, torn to pieces by the metal girders beneath the stonework. A wave of debris crashed into Wax and pushed him back against the far wall. He groaned, rubble tumbling around him, and caught sight of motion through the newly ripped-open wall.

The Coinshot bounded up, holding an aluminum flask for restoring metals, gun in his other hand. He’d caused a similar amount of destruction in the building across the street, which he’d used as an anchor for his terrible Push. A flask was clever; assuming he had it well saturated with his metals, he could take a swig each time he used duralumin.

Wax ducked behind some rubble as the man fired, the stone popping with sprays of white dust as bullets hit. Debris crunched underfoot and streamed off Wax’s body as he took a few unaimed shots to drive the enemy away. It worked, but Ruin.

Wax shoved through the debris on shaky feet, stepping out into the hallway of the apartment building. He hid here for a moment, lightly burning steel to reveal sources of metal around him so he could judge the size of the rooms in the surrounding apartments. He quietly reloaded — and slipped a metal vial from his belt to quickly restore his reserves.

As aluminum had dropped in price — from extravagant to merely expensive — people had started to use it more and more. Like the sheath on Wax’s belt. But that flask his enemy held, that was better. Wax’s vials would be briefly vulnerable as he pulled them out to drink, whereas–

A bullet drilled through the wood of the wall and nearly hit Wax in the head. He dropped down, cursing, and waved away the confused bystanders who had begun peeking out of their apartments. Another bullet followed, again nearly hitting him. The Coinshot was firing them from outside, and Pushing them through the wood. But how was he seeing Wax? He should be invisible in here …

Idiot, Wax thought, extinguishing his steel. The enemy must have a spike that let him use bronze to sense when someone was using Allomancy nearby. Wax ducked a little farther along the hallway, and no more bullets came in through the wall. Perhaps the Coinshot would think him dead?

Assuming he’s a natural Coinshot — which might be the case, given his skill — he’s got one spike for bronze and one for duralumin. At least. A human body could hold up to three spikes without exposing it to Harmony’s influence and direct control. But Marasi claimed the enemy had found a way to bypass that limit somehow. Perhaps it was Harmony’s blindness.

People continued filling the hallway behind, despite Wax’s urgings. Many gathered around the broken apartment, gawking. Too many civilians. Wax couldn’t stay here. He reached the end of the hallway, opened the window with a solid kick, slipped out, and dropped — using his Feruchemy to decrease his weight so he wouldn’t hit too hard.

Immediately, the enemy Coinshot appeared on a nearby roof and began shooting.

Wax scrambled around a corner and stopped filling his metalmind — which these days he wore embedded deep in his skin. A change he’d made, with the help of surgeons, after the events surrounding the Bands of Mourning. A person’s body acted like aluminum, protecting things like metalminds from interference.

Then again, the stories said that with enough power, an Allomancer could ignore that. The Ascendant Warrior had done it. Rusts. At any rate, the man had appeared soon after Wax tapped a metalmind. He’d seen Wax’s Feruchemy with his bronze, something only the very rarest of practitioners could do. How skilled was this man?

If he’s watching for me to activate my abilities, Wax thought, let’s use that.

He moved around the back of the building and found a drainage grate beside the street. Wax gave it a single flared Push, popping him up in the air, but immediately cut off to soar upward by momentum. As most Coinshots would sustain long Pushes as they flew, this single short one might make it appear that Wax was still on the ground.

The Push threw Wax up a good twenty feet, where he grabbed the side of the building just below the roof and clung to a stonework formation. He hung there, still hoping to take his opponent alive.

Feet scraped the rooftop above, and a shadow shifted. With a deep breath, Wax Pushed himself upward so he sprang up right in front of his enemy. A quick Push behind sent Wax slamming into the man, bringing them both down in a heap on the rooftop.

Using the element of surprise, Wax — kneeling on top of his enemy — punched the man’s wrist to make him drop his pistol. Then he grabbed the fellow by the vest and raised his fist. By sticking close, he wouldn’t have to worry about potential speed bubbles — and Wax had no Pushable metal on his person. It was possible the fellow had pewter for strength. A few punches across the face should be enough to determine that.

Wax pulled his enemy up and began laying into him. And damn, maybe he was excited to be fighting again, but the blows didn’t seem to hurt Wax’s knuckles as much as they once had.

The enemy scrambled for his gun in a panic, but Wax kept punching. There was a certain disorientation that struck the first time a fellow got punched, particularly in the head. It was a kind of disbelief, a stunned irreconcilability. Wax remembered his first time — the way his mind couldn’t bridge its past experiences with its new painful, fist-to-face existence. The man’s panic rose, and Wax realized his miscalculation a second later — as the enemy unleashed an explosive Steelpush downward, against the nails and iron rods in the rooftop.

Wax and the Coinshot were flung upward in a roar of wind and a sudden burst of g-forces. Wax managed to hang on to the Coinshot for the first part of the ride. But before they reached the peak of their ascent, the man put his hand to Wax’s face, and Wax felt a sudden coldness.

His metal reserve vanished.

The Coinshot had another power. He was a Leecher, with the ability to drain other people’s Allomancy. He smiled, meeting Wax’s eyes — and Wax scrambled to grab a vial from the pouch on his metals belt. The Coinshot then grabbed Wax’s metals belt in one hand and kicked the two of them apart. The belt, made to break away if someone Pushed on the metals inside, ripped free, and since Wax had his hand in it, the open latch meant the vials were flung out into the air.

But Wax had managed to grab one vial. His steel gone, a hundred feet in the air, he raised the vial to his lips — but only got the briefest taste of the liquid inside before the vial exploded. A shot from the enemy toward Wax’s face barely missed — but hit the vial, shattering it.

Wax immediately increased his weight, and the strange way that affected his momentum meant his upward speed slowed to a crawl. The next shot passed through the air right over his head. A second after he crested his rise and started falling, he switched to filling his metalmind to instantly boost his downward speed — but made sure not to get so light that wind resistance would counteract that. More shots passed over his head as the Coinshot had trouble predicting his motion. Wax fell in a tumble, and despite the mayhem — despite the way his guts were in a knot and his mind dizzy from the sudden ejection — he realized one thing.

Without metals, he was dead. If he couldn’t change his trajectory, the next bullets would strike him as the Coinshot adjusted his aim. Falling slowly wasn’t enough. He reached for metals inside of him, and managed to find the faintest bit of steel from the sip. He used it to shove himself in the air, Pushing on the spire of a building, dodging the next shots from above.

Then it was gone. Nothing but rushing wind. Then he looked up and saw one of his vials tumbling downward, and he momentarily increased his weight once again to slow his fall and draw even with the vial. He stretched out his arm, reaching for it, but it was inches away, just beyond his fingertips …

Snap. The vial fell into his palm. Wax spun in the air, downing half the vial. Like a burst of light, his steelsight returned. He passed between buildings as he fell and Pushed himself, haphazardly, to the side. Bullets from above ripped through the air around him a moment later — the ground approaching at a frightening pace. At the last moment Wax threw the half-full vial beneath him and Pushed.

The vial hit the ground and exploded, but the metal inside was enough of an anchor. He slowed and hit the ground in a skid, mistcoat tassels flying around him. His heart thundering, he ripped his gun from its holster and pointed upward.

But the sky was empty. The man had decided to cut his losses and flee.

Wax had landed in a city square with decorative paving stones and a few impressive statues — designed in a strange chunky and blockish art style. His drop had drawn … well, more than a little attention. It seemed he had interrupted a dedication ceremony for a new building, for a journalist was there with an evanotype stand for taking pictures.

One flash of light later, and Wax had the sinking realization that he would be top-of-the-fold news in the afternoon broadsheets. Delightful. He stood up, calming himself, and took cover beneath an awning just in case. Then, as he was considering what to do next, a sleek black car rolled up and Hoid the coachman, of all people, popped out — wearing a chauffeur’s cap and white gloves. What was he doing here?

“Your carriage, sir,” Hoid said, gesturing.

“How on Scadrial did you find me?” Wax asked.

Hoid cocked an eyebrow at the gathering crowd. “Pardon, Lord Ladrian, but you do create quite a spectacle. It’s not terribly difficult to track you.”

Well, that was fair. As the crowd started chattering, Wax could see the appeal of slipping into the car and driving off. But the others were still fighting for their lives.

“Thanks, Hoid,” he said. “But Wayne and Marasi need me.” He launched into the air, drawing even more attention — and a second flash of light from the evanotype machine.

26

Marasi reluctantly agreed to let the local constables handle cleaning up the site — though she’d managed to retrieve two of her Allomantic grenades — and imprisoning the Set members they’d managed to capture. She disliked the idea, as it would possibly mean the captives ended up in the Set’s hands. But there wasn’t much she could do about that at the moment. Her wounded officers were a more pressing concern.

Beyond that … well, the moment Blantach and her people had arrived, the entire mission had become a huge mess. Which was how — three hours after rolling into Bilming — she found herself with Wayne, VenDell, and Wax in a room of the Bilming Constabulary headquarters. She’d seen to her people in the hospital, and was sitting with the casualty report.

Two dead constables. Rusts, it hurt to read their names. This was a disaster.

For now though, she tried to keep her mind on their predicament. “So you’re saying,” she said, “that Harmony is blind?”

Wax nodded, his eyes distant as he stood nearby, staring at the wall. “He said he’d send us what help he could. But he was frightened, Marasi. Legitimately frightened. And given what Steris and I uncovered … I worry our enemies are close to a weapon. Dangerously close.”

He glanced at her, then fell silent. They didn’t want to say too much, in case they were being observed. No one was at the door, but they could listen in on this little room in other ways. Wan yellow walls and a free-hanging light bulb gave the place an intentionally bleak air. She bet they used it for interrogations.

The Bilming officers hadn’t locked the door — they wouldn’t dare — but Wax and the others had been forced to surrender their weapons. And when they’d been dropped off in here, the implication had been clear: Don’t try anything.

Though they had been given four chairs, only Marasi sat — at the back of the room. Wax paced in front of the door. VenDell sat on the floor by the wall, looking exhausted. He’d stitched up his bones, holding them in place with sinew, making the features lumpy and unnatural. Like a ceramic sculpture that had been dropped, then glued back together with the pieces misaligned.

Wayne was, of course, napping.

On the floor, hat over his eyes, rolled-up jacket under his head as a pillow. Rusting man. She wished it were so easy for her. With two dead, she felt her confidence crumbling. Cali Hatthew had been a constable for only two years — and had begged to come on this mission. That blood was on Marasi’s hands. She thought she’d planned well, but …

Wax walked over and squatted down. “Hey,” he said, “you all right?”

She shook her head, tapping the casualty report. “The two people who knew anything useful escaped, and I lost two good constables. At least a dozen others have serious wounds, and I caused a potential intercity incident. Oh, and the Set will have all their people released, just for an extra kick to the shins.”

He winced. “Marasi, we’re fighting some of the craftiest and most powerful people in the world. We are going to be outmaneuvered now and then. You did well, keeping everyone as safe as possible.”

“We’d be dead if you hadn’t arrived.”

“But I did. You’re not a killer, Marasi. Not by trade. Your job is to investigate, plan, and enforce the law.”

“And your job?” she asked.

He stood up. “I’m Harmony’s sword, Marasi. Recently taken off the weapon rack, the dust blown free. Regardless of what happened today, we need to keep working. Because something big is happening in this city. Something extremely dangerous. You lost two good people today — but they died trying to prevent the deaths of millions.”

She nodded, rubbing her temples to try to banish her headache. If he and Steris were right … if the enemy was trying to sneak a bomb into Elendel …

“All right,” she said, trying to focus. “We need leads. What do we do now that the Sequence escaped? Where do we look?”

“Working on that,” he said. “The man I fought was spiked. So was the Cycle you killed, as was the woman Wayne fought. Each of those spikes requires the death of a Metalborn.”

“The kidnappings?” Marasi asked, her stomach turning.

Over the last ten years, the Set’s primary activity — the one that had first drawn Wax and Marasi’s attention — had been a series of kidnappings of women with strong Allomantic genetic lines. Research over the last few years had proven they weren’t alone. Others, both men and women, had been vanishing — mostly from the Roughs, where such disappearances weren’t reported. Always Metalborn, or with Metalborn in their family lines.

Wax and Marasi’s worries about why had been disturbing. Now, to find members of the Set with access to so many powers …

“We tried following the kidnappings, Wax,” she said. “Dead ends, every one. Are we sure that Harmony didn’t see anything about this? Maybe before he was blinded?”

“He can be cryptic, even to us,” VenDell said softly from where he sat by the wall. He glanced up at them, his broken face moving strangely. “But I don’t think he knows where those people went. When we were hunting for them, we wondered why Harmony didn’t feed us more information. Why he didn’t look into the secret parts of the world and tell us. I think he’s been unable to see details for some time. But he’s been … concealing his disability from us.”

The kandra sighed, suddenly looking tired — his skin going transparent and faintly green. “And … there’s more, Waxillium. He tries to hide it, but I think … something is wrong with Harmony. I see a dark shadow behind him.”

“What good is it having God on your side,” Marasi said, folding her arms, “if he doesn’t do anything to help?”

“He did do something to help,” Wax replied. “He sent us. A lesson he keeps trying to teach me.”

“I will contact him,” VenDell said, “and request further aid. But Waxillium is right … Constable Colms, we are his attempt to do something.”

Wax turned to the side, his expression again distant. He hadn’t told her everything that had happened to him years ago. She thought maybe Wax had died for a moment. Before she’d found him broken in that cold, forgotten shrine. He’d met with Harmony.

Now Wax talked like this sometimes. With an authority regarding religious matters that she hadn’t heard from priests.

The door opened, and Captain Blantach walked in. She’d changed to a clean uniform, and had obviously run a comb through her short blonde hair, but she still appeared frazzled. Perhaps because of the man who walked in behind her.

Oh hell, Marasi thought. She brought the mayor.

27

Wax sighed. This had just become a political matter rather than a jurisdictional one. Granted, the entire day had been heading that direction like a galloping stagecoach with no driver. He glanced at Marasi, who nodded. He should take the lead here.

He stepped forward to meet the lord mayor of Bilming, Lord Gave Entrone. A man that Wax had encountered on several occasions now — each more repulsive than the last. And that was saying something, since at their first interaction Entrone had insulted Steris to her face.

Gave had come up in the world, outgrowing his hometown of New Seran. Two years ago he’d landed in Bilming — at the very center of Outer Cities politics — and had somehow proven himself to be the exact sort of person they wanted “standing up” to tyrannical Elendel.

Today he was dressed in formal wear, and even checked his cufflinks as they entered — no doubt to show off the sparkling diamonds set into the wood. Slicked-back black hair, a chin you could use to cut the tops off tin cans. And, of course, his characteristic smug smile.

Lord mayor of Bilming was an important position — probably the most important one outside of Elendel. Which meant Wax had to be careful not to insult him. This would be a delicate conversation.

“Oi!” Wayne said, sitting up. “Hey, Wax! Somebody done sewn a sack of dicks together and made a person! It’s even walking!”

The room fell silent. Then VenDell snickered.

“Are you going to apologize for that, Ladrian?” Gave asked.

“Oh!” Wayne said, heaving himself to his feet. “It’s Gave Entrone. Sorry, Lord Mayor! I mistook you for something else. Though the resemblance, it’s downright uncanny, it is.”

“Wayne?” Wax said.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Please stop helping.”

“Got it.”

Wax’s and Entrone’s eyes locked. Wax was certain the man had ties to the Set. A partial explanation for his exceptional rise through Outer Cities politics.

“So, here we are,” Gave said, rubbing his hands together. “Waxillium Ladrian. The great lawman of the Roughs. Involved in an illegal operation in my city!”

“We have jurisdiction here!” Marasi said. “By the code—”

“Code seventeen of the United Justice Act?” Gave said. “We repealed that, you recall? Three months ago.”

“You can’t repeal it,” Wax said. “You don’t have the authority.”

“We don’t have authority?” Entrone said. “To have a say in the policing of our own city? Why, that is an arrogant thing to assert, wouldn’t you say, Captain Blantach?”

“It’s technically true, Lord Mayor,” she replied.

“Technically,” he said, “one of those dirty maskers from the South could pass a law saying they have ‘jurisdiction’ here. But what right would they have?” He had walked a circuit of the room and halted in front of Wax. “They aren’t one of our kind.”

“I see what you’re doing, Entrone,” Wax said softly.

“Do you?” he whispered, getting close enough that Wax could smell the mint on his breath. “Do you truly appreciate how delicious this is? You worked so hard to prevent that stupid bill from passing — and yet here you are, in my hands. By our laws you’re a criminal, in violation of a dozen different codes. Your only fallback is to ignore our authority — the very thing you have spent months arguing that we deserve. I have you, Ladrian. You’re mine.”

“The governor will never stand for this,” Marasi said.

Obviously, that was what Entrone wanted. He wanted Wax to go crawling back to Elendel for a pardon. And the Supremacy Bill? Well, by insisting Elendel had authority to override local authority, Wax would prove himself a hypocrite. That would give more fuel to the war between Elendel and the Outer Cities. Exactly what this man wanted.

Entrone smiled. Showing no teeth. Just two smug lips that would look so much better split and bloodied. Wax restrained himself with effort.

Ruin, I hate this man, he thought.

“Perhaps,” VenDell said, standing up, “you might be willing to listen to a … higher authority, Lord Mayor.” The kandra made his skin turn fully transparent, showing the bones underneath — the skull behind his face, cracked and stuck together with sinew. It was an eerie sight, particularly since VenDell chose to leave the eyeballs normal — and they seemed to float in the jelly that his face had become.

“Ah!” Entrone said. “One of the puppets! Look how it tries to frighten us, Captain Blantach!”

“Er, yes,” VenDell said. “I’m an emissary and representative of Harmony.”

“I’m not Pathian,” Gave said, with a wave of his hand. “Why should I care?”

“About God?” VenDell asked.

“Not my god,” Gave replied. “My god is industry, progress, and the indomitability of the human soul. Not some priest who managed to slurp up some juice left by a long-dead entity. Oh! Look, Captain Blantach! It pretends to be shocked by my words!”

“He doesn’t pretend,” Wax said. “VenDell is a person like any of us. Merely a little more … malleable.”

“Oh, Ladrian,” Entrone said, then had the audacity to pat Wax on the arm. “So easily fooled. Kandra are animals. Puppets. Why, they aren’t even really alive. They’re mistwraiths pretending to be people, and I fail to see how I’m to be intimidated by a talking piece of slime that…”

He trailed off as he noticed that Wayne, subtly, had edged up close to him.

“… a piece of slime,” Gave continued, “that … er…”

“Keep goin’,” Wayne said, his eyes alarmingly wide. “Keep insultin’ my friends. Do it.”

Entrone backed away, looking thoroughly unnerved. “You have one hour,” he said to Wax, “until I formally announce we’re pressing charges. Either break out of here — and perhaps shoot some officers of the law — or call your governor and beg for his help. I’m having a radio box delivered to you.”

He retreated in a rush, trying to watch Wayne at the same time. He ended up leaving Blantach behind.

“What a knob,” Wayne said, dropping the creepy wide-eyed act.

“I … apologize,” Blantach said. “I’m afraid I had no choice but to call him.”

“It’s fine, Blantach,” Marasi said. “But you must understand. You can’t throw us in prison — not without risking the fate of the entire Basin. Please listen.”

“I’ll see if I can … work something out.” Blantach glanced over her shoulder and into the constabulary office. “But this is out of my hands now, Colms. Next time, contact us before you run an operation in our city.”

She withdrew, shutting the door — which had a small viewing window at the top. A moment later a guard delivered a radio box, then lingered outside to keep an eye on them.

Wax sighed, turning to the others. He wasn’t about to trust a radio delivered into his hands by an enemy.

VenDell’s skin had returned to normal shades. The kandra hesitated, then glanced at Wayne. “Did you mean what you said? Am I actually … your friend?”

“Sure,” Wayne said. “I mean, you’re the stuck-up one that we make fun of, but every crew needs one of those.” He pointed at Wax, then Marasi, then VenDell. “Mine has three. Five if you include Steris, since she counts fer two. But you can never have too many.”

“I … see,” VenDell said, scratching the side of his head.

“Point is,” Wayne continued, “we can make fun of you because we like you. That’s how it works. Anybody else does it, and we ram a dueling cane up a part of them that I can’t mention, ’cuz I’m working on my language.”

“You are?” Marasi said.

“Yup. Ranette keeps sayin’ I need to watch what I say, ’cuz there might be children around. Which is real strange, don’t you think? Children are the ones who won’t understand what I’m sayin’ anyway. So why care if they hear?”

Wax turned to the door, his mind racing, trying to think of a way out of the current situation — but a part of him realized it was no use. He could walk out of here and ignore Entrone. But that would add another piece of wood to the fire — stoking civil war. Beyond that, could he continue to investigate in the city without being hounded by constables at every step?

How does the bomb factor into this? Wax thought. The talk of ashfalls. My sister. What is really going on?

He might have a way to find answers. He felt inside his belt, which he’d recovered and refilled from his ammo stash — the large duffel he’d brought and hidden on top of a building. In his belt pouch, alongside the metal vials, he felt the earring Harmony had given him.

And the other one. Made of trellium.

Damn it. He was going to have to at least try. He pulled the trellium earring out and slipped it into his ear.

He felt a jolt and a disconnect, like the coach he was riding in had hit a bump. Different from when he talked to Harmony. Then he felt drawn toward something powerful. A vibration ran through him, forceful, violent. He gasped, the room fuzzing around him.

Immediately, a familiar voice pierced his mind like a spike to the brain.

Faster. I need this to work.

Telsin. He was hearing his sister speak. He thought he could sense some of her surroundings. She was outside … no echo of a room.

Our time runs thin, she continued. The backup delivery device is too obvious. Too easy to stop. I need the primary working. I need— The voice hesitated. I sense something, she said, then stepped to the side.

Her voice grew louder, focused on him. Out with it. You fought my brother. I know that part already. It … Wait.

Waxillium? Is that you? Ah … It is. I can sense you. Found yourself a trellium earring, did you? Clever. Your idea, or was it that god of yours?

“Hello, Telsin,” he whispered. No use trying to lie. She could feel him, as clearly as he felt her. He tried to summon some familial emotion. But right now, he felt only haunted by that voice. It was an echo from a long-lost time. A time he’d left behind, but which wouldn’t leave him.

So, you’re in Bilming. She sounded amused. Your arrival made a characteristic amount of noise. Good to see that nothing changes. You never could make anything useful of yourself unless you also made a huge mess for me.

“Telsin,” he said softly, “what are you doing?”

What needs to be done, Brother. As always.

“I…”

What could he say? All of his objections felt hollow. “You’ll get millions killed”? Six years ago, she’d been willing to let her own people die to achieve her goals. She wouldn’t care about the people of Elendel. “You’ll betray our people”? She’d been willing to betray him. “You’re playing with forces beyond your control.” That was the sort of thing she liked, always dancing closer to the flame.

What did he hope to accomplish? He should have thought this through. He knew better than to walk into the enemy’s den without a plan.

Ah, Wax, Telsin said in his mind. Still pretending, aren’t you? Telling yourself that you’re the hero? Where was that hero when our family needed him? Off playing in the Roughs. Running from real responsibility.

I’ll tell you what I’m doing. What needs to be done. This world, and everyone on it, is doomed. Unless I intervene. The same way I had to step up and lead after you ran off. You aren’t the hero, Waxillium. You never were. You ran away, like a child who can’t stand the rules of the—

He pulled the earring out, breathing heavily.

Rusts. All these years later, and she could still get to him. That had been a terrible idea.

At least, he thought, I know she’s actually what Harmony said. Some kind of avatar for the enemy. And she’s tense, urgent. She’s on a deadline. She’s worried. Because I’m here in the city.

He considered what she’d been saying, about a “primary delivery device” and a “backup.”

He looked around the room, but the others didn’t seem to have noticed what he’d done. They were lost in their own thoughts or problems. All but VenDell, who watched him keenly.

Wax wiped his brow with his hand. “You … mentioned help, from Harmony?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“It’s close.” VenDell turned, glancing at the door. “Oh. Rather, I should say it’s here. See for yourself.”

Frowning, Wax stepped up to the door and peered through the observation window. The guard was staring toward the front doors of the building.

Where Death had arrived.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

Once again I must object to your continued allowance of ads from Soonie Industries, manufacturers of the “Soonie Pup,” who have also ignored my numerous letters regarding their historically egregious depictions of the Ascendant Warrior’s companion as a Terris wolfhound, when scholars have repeatedly demonstrated that modern dog breeds were not yet established in the Days of Ash, and that the Ascendant Warrior’s Guardian was not a wolfhound, but in actuality a wolf dog.

Grudgingly Yours,

Professor Olin Tober

University of Elendel

GUEST EDITORIAL

by Gemmes Millis, Interim Editor

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We see them in every unsown field and vacant lot. Vagrants and layabouts, some of them even our own children, congregating in gangs and “playing” the game of Death himself: noseball. These “players” should be going to school or working in factories! Instead, their mal-aimed balls hit unsuspecting motorists and create road debris. The mayor banned this miscreance months ago, yet the conners don’t enforce it. R*st and R*in, some of them even join in! Come to a Rally Against Noseball next Steelday afternoon in Tabret’s Park, adjacent to the city center, and join a Cause Worth Fighting For!

VISIT THE BANDS OF MOURNING TEMPLE SITE!

Basin Bill Tours now travels to the locale of Dawnshot’s famous showdown. Daily re-enactments starring Trevva Cett-Venture and Penelope Portreau. (Additional hot springs day trip packages now available!)

THESE ARE NOT COINS!

They are dangerous Malwish talismans that must be turned in to the authorities for proper disposal. Keep yourself and your loved ones safe from nefarious Malwish witchcraft. Contact N & N at #42 Sixteenth Street for a generous REWARD.

The Man Who Electrifed Time!

The new novel by Bilmingborn working man Schrib Welfor. Available now in all fine bookshops!

HELP WANTED∼Bendalloy Misting cook for new “quick eats” café. Will pay top boxing plus bonuses and bendalloy stipend for off-work recreation. Great hours! One day off a week plus two days off for Survivorday or Harmontide each year. Apply in person at Kevron’s on the corner of 2nd & Nellis.

FOOD DELIVERY∼Order ahead for on-time meal delivery day or night, rain or mist, from any open food establishment. Our trained Steelrunners avoid traffic by knowing all the highways, byways, and throughways. Submit orders to Vema at Steel Kitchen by noon for next-day service.

WEATHER∼Chance of fog at Lighthouse Point. Break in thunderstorms, but low mist conditions for two weeks or more. High: 26 Low: 17

ELARIEL YEARLY

Spring Salon

Come to our flagship store in the City to see our Terris-inspired designs by up-and-comer Idkwyl Elariel.

OPENS BRASSDAY!

DRINK! DELICIOUS CHOC-O-TONIC

PUT A SPARKLE IN YOUR EYE!

CHOC-O-TONIC

Are you skeptical of other sparkle tonics and their alleged “secret formulas”? Searching for a sparkle tonic with flavor you can identify without hiring a chemist? Search no longer! We flavor our sparkle tonic with only the finest imported Malwish beans, roasted and condensed into an invigorating beverage. Ask for it by name!

Flight of the Ornisaur

Though I desperately wanted to peek, my regard for my longtime companions compelled me to honor their request, even though the sound of their merging was like an octopus kissing a giant slug. For ten minutes.

When I was allowed again to look, the beast before me resembled a featherless version of the paintings of ornisaurs we’d seen at the quarry, with long thin bones and batlike wings. On either side of the creature’s head, where it would normally have had eyes, was KeSun’s face on the right and Tabaar’s on the left.

“You’re absolutely beautiful!” I said, clapping my hands.

“You are an odd one, Miss Sauvage,” said the beast from Tabaar’s mouth.

They picked me up in a claw and launched from the cliff, the skin of their wings snapping into place like an umbrella canopy.

Below us, the tops of more stone outcroppings materialized against a gradual, soft mist that made it impossible to see where the mists ended and the outcroppings began.

I scanned for signs of Vila. If I were her, I would wait to attack until we entered the mist, so I directed Tabaar-KeSun toward it as I slipped my snake-shaped metal knuckles over my left hand. In my right, I held my umbrella at ready.

We entered the mist, and just as I predicted, Vila’s form emerged, arcing toward us until we collided.

“Where’s the key!” Vila said.

“Far away from here by now,” I replied with a smile.

Vila growled, showing her teeth. What followed was a frenzy of punches and kicks while she tried to hold on to the ornisaur leg. That was to my advantage, though, as Tabaar-KeSun’s claw grasped me just tightly enough that I could fight without falling into the abyss.

I beat Vila a few times with the end of my closed parasol, and then, when I had her distracted, I landed a punch with the metal knuckles. As the gold snake met Vila’s cheek, I burned chromium

28

Wax had never seen Death himself, though Marasi had met the creature once. Known as Ironeyes, the ancient Inquisitor had weighty spikes through his eyes, the points jutting out the back of his skull. One of his eye sockets had been crushed during a fight, as recorded in the Words of Founding that Harmony — Sazed — had left. Wax could make out the scars, intermingled with faded tattoos, outlining the eye sockets.

Death wore voluminous black robes and had ghostly skin — looking ill. The hands jutting from his sleeves were so lean they appeared skeletal. Wax had grown accustomed to speaking with beings out of myth; the kandra, even TenSoon, were practically mundane to him these days. But he still felt an unsettling disquiet at seeing Ironeyes. This being was said to escort the souls of the dead to the Beyond.

The entire room outside — filled with desks, constables, and underlings — had grown silent. No one dared turn a page of paperwork; they all stared at that figure silhouetted against the brazen sunlight behind. Something emanated from him. A dread that crushed the soul like a hand around yesterday’s broadsheet. A …

No, Wax thought. I do not fear this. I’ve stared down death already.

Strangely, the sensation of dread evaporated from him. Had that been … emotional Allomancy? It was difficult to recognize in the throes of it, but it appeared obvious in hindsight. Yet this time it didn’t affect Wax as it did everyone else, including Marasi, judging by how pale her face had gone.

Wax took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and strode out past the guard. Wax walked through the center of the room and met up with Ironeyes, who was uncommonly tall. As Wax had always imagined, actually.

“Sword,” Death said, focusing spikes upon him. “We need to speak.”

Wax gestured into the room with the others, and Death walked past the stunned constables, though one — bearing the shoulder patch of a Seeker — managed to pull out a gun. Not a move Wax would have advised. All Death did was wave absently and Pull the gun across the room to catch it. Then, making it hover between his hands — an incredible feat, the difficulty of which few non-Allomancers would grasp — he flexed. And the gun’s barrel crunched.

Wax froze. Hell. He’d never seen someone do that with their powers before. How would you even accomplish it?

Push on the near end, Pull on the far end, he thought. But damn, the power involved …

The gun dropped to the floor, and as Wax and Death reached the door, they saw that Entrone and Blantach had stepped out of an office, their eyes wide.

“Ah,” Ironeyes said, focusing on the lord mayor. “Gave. I never cared much for the members of House Entrone I knew during my mortality.”

“I…” Entrone said. “This is my prisoner. Who…”

“I require privacy,” Ironeyes said. “You will return to these mortals their weapons. Once our conference is finished, you will impede their investigation in this city no further.”

“I’m not of your religion…”

“Death is not a religion,” Ironeyes said. “It is a fact.”

“But—”

“How would you like to die, mortal?” Ironeyes asked, stepping closer, robes billowing around him. “And when? Quietly? In the night, of a failing heart? Drowning, on one of your new ships as it sinks? Here? Right now? Crushed by the weight of your own stupidity?”

Entrone licked his lips, then whispered, “As you demand, Ironeyes, it shall be done.” It appeared that he could indeed be superstitious without being religious.

Wax walked into the room, and Ironeyes swept in after. “Wayne,” Death said softly, closing the door, “kindly watch the door to make certain we are not observed or listened to.”

“Uh, sure,” Wayne said, scrambling over to the door and its window. “They’re all just standin’ out there. ’Cept the few that have fainted. Neat.” He glanced at Ironeyes. “That accent of yours … real old, real interesting … I actually kinda got it right.”

Death sank down into a chair and seemed to age suddenly. Wrinkles sank from the corners of his eyes, crossing his face, and his jowls sagged. He sighed loudly, tipping his metal eyes toward the ceiling. “Lord Ruler,” he muttered. “That was a performance, wasn’t it? And to think that I was the reasonable one in the crew.”

Marasi and Wax shared a glance.

“Ironeyes?” Marasi asked. “Are you … well?”

“No,” he said. “I run low on atium, and so age finally emerges from the shadows. It has always stalked me. Now it senses the kill. I was here in Bilming, seeking answers. They try to re-create the metal, and I thought maybe…”

“If you run out…” Marasi said, “… you die?”

He nodded. “I was going to let it happen. I have lived so much, far longer than my due. But I helped destroy this world — unwillingly, yes, but my weakness led to much sorrow. I swore I would help. And so, I struggle yet to live…”

Rusts. Death took a deep breath, and the lines on his face retreated — then regrew when he exhaled. It looked like he was vacillating between decades of age with each breath.

“Trell wants to own this planet,” Death whispered. “So your time dwindles, as does mine.” He studied Wax with those inscrutable not-eyes. “I’ve grown too weak to continue hunting those who would destroy this land. My display earlier will get you out of this room, perhaps convince the local constables to leave you alone, but that … might be all I can offer.”

Wax knelt beside the aging demigod, a thought striking him. “You were in the city, hunting for atium. Why?”

“Because someone here is trying to split harmonium,” he explained. “And create the metal again. Though making lerasium would be far more dangerous…”

“Do you know what happens?” Marasi asked. “When someone tries to split harmonium?”

Death shook his head.

“An explosion,” Wax said. “A big explosion. It’s what we’re trying to stop. Do you have any leads?”

“One, perhaps,” Death said, thoughtful. “A man vanished two weeks ago. I only just ran across his name: Tobal Copper. He made some kind of legal disturbance that mentioned splitting harmonium in the months before he disappeared. Finding out what happened to him would have been my next step.”

Wax nodded. A lead — a slim one, but still somewhere to start. The way his sister talked … it made him feel an increasing urgency.

“Ironeyes?” Marasi asked, stepping over.

“You may call me Marsh,” he said softly. “It … feels good to hear that name. To remember what I used to be.”

“Marsh,” she said. “How did you crush that gun?”

“Duralumin,” he said absently, “and a lot of practice. Listen, child. Harmony is growing increasingly indecisive. He denies it, but I see it. That gives Autonomy — Trell, the god of the outworlders — a chance to move in. She seeks to eliminate us from the stage of galactic politics before we even step onto it, and her followers are already armed with Hemalurgy. You studied the book I gave you?”

“Yes,” she said. “And Waxillium practically memorized it.” Wax nodded in agreement.

“Your enemy,” Death said softly, “has learned how to circumvent one of the most important limitations to Hemalurgy: her agents bear too many spikes. That should open them to Harmony’s influence, but it doesn’t. Either Harmony is too weak to exploit what they’ve done, or they’ve found a way to use Trell’s own metal to offset the weakness.

“This is extremely dangerous. So far, I do not believe they’ve learned the secret to Compounding via Hemalurgy. Identity contamination prevents it; that is our only saving grace. If they could do that … or, Lord Ruler … if they get atium, or lerasium…”

“So … what do we do?” Wayne asked from the door.

“What we’ve always done,” Marsh said. “Survive.” He looked to Wax again. “The people of Bilming think they are accomplishing so much, building this navy of theirs to threaten Elendel. It is all part of Trell’s plan somehow. Be warned. Be careful. She steers them. I’ve been … dull of mind lately, as I try to fight off what is happening to me.”

“We’ll stop them,” Marasi said. “I promise it, Marsh.”

Wayne waved to them. A moment later, an attendant arrived with their weapons and equipment. She then withdrew to let them rearm.

“Marsh,” Marasi said, slipping a small handgun into her shoulder bag, “have you ever seen a symbol like this?” She quickly sketched three interlocking diamonds in her notepad. They reminded Wax of something. Some architectural designs from around Elendel?

Yes, he thought. Near the Field of Rebirth. Actually, it resembled the three-petal shape of a Marewill flower.

“This is my brother’s symbol,” Marsh said. “He does what he thinks is best. As has always been the case with him. He … is not the best at self-reflection, but he does want to protect Scadrial. His agents will align with your interests.”

“I think I saw through his eyes,” Wax said. “Once, years ago. Is he still alive? The Survivor?”

“Alive?” Marsh asked. “It depends, I suppose, on your definition. He’s close to alive. How is that?”

“You mean … he’s a ghost?” Wayne asked.

“After a fashion,” Marsh replied. “He’s less alive than I am, but perhaps more than other ghosts? It’s hard to say. Three of us remain from that original crew. After all this time. Only three. Legs to a tripod, balancing one another. And without one … I do not know what would happen.”

Wax didn’t know what to make of that. Still, it felt good to strap his guns back on, and they had a lead now. A name and, it appeared, permission to leave this office without being chased. He’d take it, even if Death himself was …

“I will stay here,” VenDell said as they gathered at the door. “I will ensure that Lord Ironeyes is cared for, and look after the constables in the hospital. I … do not think I will be of further value to your investigation.”

“As you wish,” Wax said.

“Just remember what you know, Lord Ladrian,” VenDell said. “What you said earlier. Harmony puts people where they need to be, but then they must act. It is his way.”

Wax nodded. “Wayne, Marasi — are you ready?”

“I am,” Marasi said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

They looked to Wayne, who put his hands on his hips. “Did either of you know that ghosts was real?”

“Does it matter?” Marasi asked.

“Does it matter if ghosts are real?” Wayne said. “I think it matters, Marasi. I think it rusting does!”

“I’m told it is better to refer to them as Cognitive Shadows,” Marsh mumbled.

“Wayne,” Wax said, “can we please focus?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, sliding his dueling canes into their loops on his belt. “Seems unfair to grouse at a man for getting discombobulated by definitive proof of an afterlife. Dark gods. Death himself dyin’. Rusting ghosts. Guess we gotta keep goin’, but after this, I don’t wanna see anyone complainin’ when I’ve traded for someone’s favorite shoes or whatnot. Hear me?”

Together they marched out through the quiet constabulary office and into the sunlight.

29

Right, Marasi thought, trying to pull her emotions together. Conversation with Death. Just another everyday conversation with Death himself …

She couldn’t blame Wayne for feeling out of sorts. But they had to stay focused. Unfortunately, she and the others hadn’t even reached the bottom of the constabulary office steps before someone came running down after them. Flushed from exertion — and perhaps stress — Blantach looked a great deal less sure of herself now than she had earlier.

Marasi stepped forward to meet Blantach. “Yes?”

“He’s going to send people after you,” she said. “As soon as he gets over the shock of what happened in there with … you-know-who. I know Lord Entrone. He takes a great deal of pride in how ‘modern’ and ‘forward thinking’ he is. He’ll decide you tricked him, and will send constables to arrest you.”

Wax groaned softly, stepping up behind them. “We don’t have time to dodge patrols.”

“Look,” Blantach said, “I … have no idea what’s going on in this city. I thought I did. Until…” She glanced at the office building and shivered. “I had my illusions shattered quite violently. Something dangerous is going on here.”

“More than dangerous, Blantach,” Marasi said. “Catastrophic.”

“Right. Right,” Blantach said. “Was that really … you know…?”

“Yes,” Marasi said. “I’ve met him before.”

“Rusts…” Blantach took a deep breath and turned to face them again. “I think I can keep Entrone off your back if you let me send an officer with you.”

“Out of the question,” Wax said.

Blantach stepped closer and met his eyes. “Listen. This is my city. I don’t know what — or who — you’re afraid of, but I’m not part of it. I want to help, and this is the only thing I can think of. If you have a Bilming officer with you, I can persuade Entrone I’ve got someone watching you.”

She turned, gesturing, and a figure came scrambling down the steps, nearly tripping at the end. The slender woman pushed her overly large spectacles up on her face, but that nearly made her drop the three ledgers she was trying to carry. Shoulder-length black hair fell around her face as she struggled to keep the ledgers in hand. She pushed it back and grinned sheepishly — through lips with bright red lipstick.

It was Moonlight.

“She says she knows you,” Blantach said, “and that you might be willing to trust her? Kim is one of our researchers — she’s not a field agent, but she knows her way around Bilming and can help you work in the city.”

Moonlight … “Kim” … thrust out her hand to shake — which almost caused her to drop her ledgers again. She scrambled to catch them.

“She looks fun,” Wayne said.

“You’re just imagining tying her shoelaces together,” Wax said, his arms folded. “Marasi, do you know this person?”

“I … do,” Marasi said.

“From where?” he asked.

Sharing the truth with Blantach didn’t seem like a good idea. “We worked on a project together a while ago — she came to Elendel to further some research she was doing.”

Wax narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to decide if that made Kim more or less suspicious. Marasi, though, felt maybe she could trust the woman. A little. After all, Marsh had said that people with the interlocking diamond tattoos would be on their side.

Moonlight saluted Wax. “I promise to be of use, sir, and not get in your way.” She grimaced. “Except maybe by accident.”

“I think we should bring her,” Marasi said.

Wax nodded. “You’re on the team then, Kim. Let’s see if you can be of use. A man named Tobal Copper vanished in this city recently. I want to track down where he lived and interrogate anyone who might have known him.”

“Oh!” Moonlight said. “I don’t have that kind of information on me, of course. I just carry around the city maps and details! But I can get you into the records office! We should be able to find answers there.”

“Which will let them know what we’re doing,” Wax said. “The Set is sure to have agents in such an important place.”

“I doubt there’s another way to get this information,” Marasi said. “We’ll just have to move quickly, to stay ahead of them.”

“Agreed,” Wax said after a moment’s thought. “Lead on, Kim. Captain Blantach, anything you could do to keep the lord mayor off our backs would be most appreciated.”

* * *

The Bilming City Records and Research Building was a huge improvement over the similar offices in Elendel. Marasi had been forced to spend many an hour in closets, searching through thick ledgers of names or broadsheet archives.

This building, however, was a sleek silvery structure, each side more window than wall. Blantach led them inside herself, and a flash of her constable’s credentials got them assigned a flock of junior researchers before she bade the group farewell.

In minutes, Marasi and the others were sitting in comfortable chairs in a glass-walled meeting room, sipping tea while waiting for the results. All but Wax, who paced like a caged animal.

Well, Marasi might have preferred some of Allik’s hot chocolate, but this certainly beat spending bleary-eyed hours sorting through old records on her own. The break gave her a moment to jot down a letter to Allik — saying not to worry if he heard of casualties via the broadsheets.

She paused. Then she added that he should take a short trip to the countryside to visit her father, and stay out of Elendel for the day. Just in case.

She stepped out to send the message — she’d seen a radio station on the way to the archive. As she walked down the too-white hallway, Moonlight emerged from a side passage. Hadn’t she gone to the restroom? Marasi glanced over her shoulder and saw that the meeting room where she’d left Wax and Wayne was out of sight.

“Good,” Moonlight said softly. “I was hoping you’d take the cue and slip out to meet me.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Marasi said. “We should go explain who you are to the others — there’s no reason to keep it a secret.”

“I’d prefer not to,” Moonlight said lightly. “I’m not here for them. I’m here for you.”

“I thought you couldn’t interfere?”

“Not without orders,” Moonlight said. “I’ve received some: I can help, but I’m not to reveal myself to the other two. My mentor is worried about their connections to Harmony.”

Marasi stopped in the hallway, which was empty save for them. “I’m not going to lie to my companions, Moonlight.”

“You already have.”

“Only to avoid revealing you to Blantach,” Marasi said.

“And do you assume those two tell you everything about their lives?” Moonlight said. “Every little detail?”

“The important ones.”

“What did Waxillium and Harmony discuss when he died?”

“That’s … not important.”

“Seems to me that it is.” Moonlight stepped around Marasi to stand right in front of her. Not really blocking her way, but making certain Marasi met her eyes. “Do you want answers? We have those. Do you want to protect Scadrial? That’s our main purpose. But we can’t move in the open. That invites our enemies to strike — beings like Trell are too powerful and Harmony is too indecisive. What’s he doing to help?”

“He sent us,” Marasi said.

“He tossed you into the line of fire and said, ‘Good luck!’ It’s not his fault — my mentor speaks of him quite fondly. But the reality of your planet’s situation is dire, and so we must move in the shadows. And our secrets must be maintained — known only by those who have proven themselves.”

“Wax is the single most ‘proven’ man alive.”

“We’re not interested in him,” Moonlight said. “We’re interested in you. Doesn’t it excite you, to know things that he doesn’t — things almost no one else does? The secrets of the cosmere itself?”

“I don’t need to keep secrets from others to feel special.”

Moonlight smiled. “I believe you. How interesting. Well, for now I’m demanding you keep my secret. That’s the cost of my aid. I have met Autonomy; I know how she operates. You need me. But if you tell anyone about me, I’ll leave.”

“That’s your play? Extortion?”

“Extortion?” Moonlight said. “It’s just a deal. I have agency, Marasi. I don’t have to help you. I have a lead now — I can probably find my way to this Tobal Copper’s place on my own long before you.” She shrugged. “Waxillium trusts you. He’ll understand when you explain why you couldn’t tell him.”

She stepped aside and continued down the hallway, her mannerisms changing as she reached the meeting room door. She became jumpy and excited, and — after first pushing on it and blushing when it didn’t budge — pulled it open.

Marasi continued on her way, uncertain. There was something about how Moonlight talked … Chasing petty thugs, or even mobsters with dangerous intentions, had once thrilled Marasi. But the more she learned of the world and the forces moving in it, the less satisfied she was.

Long ago, she’d explained to Wax her philosophy on becoming a constable. She’d envisioned making the entire city safer — not by chasing criminals, but by changing the way people and neighborhoods saw themselves. Lock a man in prison, and you might stop him from committing crimes. Teach a man to respect himself and his community, and you stopped everyone he might have taught, recruited, or bullied.

She didn’t want to focus on individuals. She wanted to change the world. At least, that was how she’d thought when she’d first dreamed of becoming a constable. Had she let the day-to-day grind of the job turn her into something else?

By the time she returned from sending Allik the message, the research team had already arrived with answers — and was spreading out relevant broadsheets and city records for Wax. Marasi stepped up beside him — Moonlight sat primly in the corner with a disarming grin on her face. Wayne was pretending to nap, but he had one eye cracked, watching Moonlight.

Don’t overdo the act, Moonlight, Marasi thought with satisfaction. He’ll catch you.

“Tobal Copper,” one of the researchers was saying, pointing at a listing. “Age fifty-three. A chemist, specializing in rubber and manufacturing. Worked for Basin Tires, making … well, tires.”

“He lost his job,” another explained, “about five years ago for … erratic behavior.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Marasi said, surveying the papers set out on the long table.

“Well,” the lead researcher said — a Terriswoman with curly hair and a V pattern on her shirt. “We pulled most of this information from a lawsuit he filed against his former employer. Seems that they … um … ‘refused to listen to his vital discoveries about the impending end of the world.’”

Wax and Marasi shared a look.

“Go on,” Wax said.

“There’s not a lot to tell, unfortunately,” the researcher said. “The lawsuit was dismissed before reaching even the first stage of trial. In this, he mentions pamphlets he’d created, but that’s not the sort of record we archive. Instead we have his legal case, his apartment lease, and one police blotter record of an arrest.”

“For disturbing the peace,” the junior researcher said. “He was banging on the doors in his apartment complex, yelling that ‘They’ve almost split harmonium, and when they do, it’s going to destroy us all.’”

“We’ll leave you with the information,” the lead researcher said, patting the papers on the desk. “And we’ll keep searching — but I doubt we’ll turn up anything else. We keep careful track of the names of anyone arrested, for cross-referencing, and these were the only three hits.”

“One more thing, if you don’t mind,” Marasi said as they prepared to leave. “Can you find any reports of food shipments vanishing? Particularly nonperishable items?”

“Oh, that’s been happening steadily for two years now,” the lead researcher said. “Captain Blantach has us watching for such reports, as she finds it baffling. Why would the city’s criminal underground be so interested in canned beans?”

“Why indeed,” Marasi said, lifting up a sheet from the lawsuit documents. Where Copper had claimed, Someone is building shelters against a cataclysm, maintained by inexplicable technology. The city government is in on it, and so were my employers! They fired me because I got too close to the truth. You have to listen. They’re splitting harmonium, and once they do, they’ll make bombs to turn us into turtles.

That … last part seemed a little far-fetched.

The researchers vanished out the door, leaving Marasi and Wax to read over the three documents in turn. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a lot to go on. The blotter said that after Tobal Copper had calmed, they’d released him. He had not reoffended.

The last sheet gave an address in an area the researcher said was expensive. Marasi supposed a head chemist would be paid well.

“They probably killed him,” Wax said softly, “once the hubbub died down — so it wouldn’t look too suspicious.”

“Possibly,” Marasi said. “But it’s equally likely they grabbed him to make him work on their projects.”

“Death said he vanished two weeks ago,” Wax said. “This trail might be cold already.”

“But it’s the best one we have,” Marasi said.

“Agreed. Kim, do you know where this apartment address is located?”

30

The apartment building didn’t look much like a plateau.

Wayne stood with the others, hands on his hips, staring up at the thing. It was too shiny, with too many windows — like a big bottle of something expensive. Buildings shouldn’t look like that; they should look like bricks. And have alleys that smelled of what came out of a fellow after he’d had a bottle of something too expensive.

Most of all, he’d expected a plateau.

No, wait, he realized. There’s a canyon next. That’s how the story goes. We gotta find that first.

Comforted, he followed Marasi, Wax, and that Kim woman who tried too hard to be fiddly. The foyer had a doorman and everything. This place was fancy. Maybe Wayne should buy a building like that. A doorman sure would be helpful in carrying him up to his flat after he’d had too many bottles of something expensive.

Or, well, more often he had bottles of something cheap as piss. Just because he was secretly rich and posh didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate terrible booze anymore. He merely had to call it “retro” or “authentic” or something.

The doorman sent for the building manager, who turned out to be a man shaped kind of like a brick — so that was a nice nod to proper building protocol. Marasi and Wax explained they needed to investigate the missing man’s apartment, while Wayne took a long walk around the foyer with its enormous paintings of people dancing. They wore suits and dresses, their legs stretched really long, their backs all straight, as if they were made of rulers and not flesh.

Was this the canyon from the story? Ma had said it was beautiful. But no. This didn’t work. No self-respecting canyon would have pictures of dancing folks on the walls.

And why did he assume this would be like the story? Well, because he’d thought of it, he supposed. Once you had a thought, you had to keep ahold of it. That was how things was.

The building manager listened to Wax and Marasi’s explanations, squinted at Kim’s credentials, then grunted. He pointed the way to the elevator, and they all squeezed in.

Wayne didn’t much like elevators. It wasn’t just being trapped in a little box, or not knowin’ how it worked and needin’ to rely upon an operator. It wasn’t that you could smell everyone a little too much when pressed together, or couldn’t see where you were going, which ruined the experience of going up high.

Wait. No, it probably was that last one. Elevators were like a carnival ride designed by an overprotective parent who didn’t want you getting scared or actually having any fun. He’d had more faith in them when they’d been moved by people, not electricity. Folks were overly trusting of this strange power what leaked from sockets in the walls. After all, Wayne was a primary investor in the technology, and that should have been a big red flag for everyone.

On the twenty-second floor, at the end of a long hallway, the building manager used a set of keys to open a door into a large apartment. He gestured for them to enter, with a grunt.

“Anyone else been in here?” Wax asked.

“No,” the manager said.

“He’s been gone for two weeks,” Wax said. “And nobody came looking? No constables? No family?”

The manager shook his head, grunted, then left them — apparently wanting nothing to do with constables.

“Wonder what his problem is,” Marasi said, shutting the door behind them.

“Dunno,” Wayne said. “But whatever he has, at least it seems noncommunicative.”

Wax walked to the center of the room. One wall had narrow floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, with steel girders between. The wall to its right was filled with bookshelves. There was a stylish sitting area to the left, with a smart yellow rug and black furniture. Everything was exceptionally neat, though keeping your place clean was probably easy when you was either dead or vanished.

“So,” Marasi said, “they grabbed him or killed him. Then left this apartment alone and visibly pristine. Trap?”

“Trap,” Wax said, with a nod. “Give me a minute to use Allomancy to scan about.”

Turned out it’s really tough to make an explosive trap without some metal, even using modern clay explosives. They found three tripwires and one pressure plate, each hooked to a doozy of a grenade. The Set evidently didn’t care about a little collateral damage.

“So, whoever you’re chasing,” Kim said, wringing her hands nervously, “they got here before us. Rusts. I didn’t know what I was in for…”

“They were undoubtedly behind Copper’s disappearance,” Wax said. “Be careful, everyone. There might be a trap we missed. Kim, would you encourage anyone in the neighboring apartments to leave for the next hour?”

She left to do so, and the rest of them set to some familiar work: going over a scene for clues. Kim returned a short time later while Wayne was inspecting the writing desk near the bookshelves. She knelt down beside him, looking up at the bottom as he knocked for secret compartments.

“Um…” she said, still acting uncertain, “I did as you asked. But … why are we bothering to search? Your enemy has been over this place thoroughly.”

“Sure,” Wayne said. “I can even prove it. See these little drill holes? You make those to be extra sure there’s no secret compartments, but only if you want to leave the furniture in one piece. Which is less fun … but sometimes there are good reasons. Like if you want the room to look normal to a bunch of constables when they visit, so they’ll be more likely to get themselves exploded.”

“So what is there to learn?”

“Well, you see, this is a kind of fight,” Wayne said. “A back-and-forth. A dance. They set those traps in case someone dangerous got wind of the Set. You don’t need to blow up ordinary constables. Just the extraordinary kind.”

“Like you?”

“Hell no,” Wayne said, then pointed to Marasi, searching through books, then to Wax, knocking against the far wall and listening for compartments. “You see those two? They represent the best of two worlds. Wax, now, he’s instinct. He’s lived a lot, been shot at a lot. He didn’t have the schooling to be a constable — he spent his school years learning from Terris scholars about old things people wrote a long time ago.

“But Marasi, she’s knowledge. She’s spent her life studying how to do this sort of nonsense. Sometimes I think she must have read more books on being a constable than have ever actually been written. She talks of crime patterns, preventing chains of poverty, and smart things what make you think maybe being a constable is about math.

“Put the two of them together, and you’ve got both. Instinct and knowledge. Practice and application. The enemy, they looked this place over, sure. They had first crack at it. But they left bombs. That whispers that they’re worried they missed something. And so the dance, the fight. Can we find what they didn’t?”

“Curious,” she said. “And what do you add to the team?”

“Comic relief.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Maybe a little whimsy,” he said. “Improvisation. Vision.”

“You have a broad imagination, then?”

“There are broads in my imagination almost all the time.”

That provoked a smile. Seemed like a nice enough person, when she wasn’t pretending. Course, she was probably a traitor of some sort. Shame about that.

“Hey, Wax,” Wayne said. “Look at this.”

Wax joined him a moment later, inspecting the bottom envelope in a stack from the desk drawer.

“What’s that?” Kim asked.

“When you use a fountain pen,” Wayne said, “you gotta wait for it to dry. But sometimes you’re inna hurry, or you’re worried, so you put it away and put something on toppa it. Like this stack of envelopes. Then the ink makes an imprint on the bottom.”

“Smudged,” Wax said, holding up the envelope. “But maybe legible. This part here, it’s underlined. Does that look like a set of numbers to you?”

“A seven?” Wayne asked, pointing at one. The next were too smudged to read. “Then a dash and a thirteen.”

“Maybe a combination,” Kim said softly, crowding them to see the number. “There are big stacks of lockers at the larger train stations that use numbers like this, where you can pay to store things.”

Wax nodded slowly. “Marasi, what have you found?”

“I think these books have all been replaced,” she said. “He seems like the type who reads a lot, but these are all brand new. I’d guess the Set took every book in the place, just in case, and refilled the bookshelves with red herrings.”

“This looks like the original furniture though,” Wax said, and demonstrated moving a chair back so it bumped the wall, right where the paint had been scraped away by repeatedly being hit like that. “It’s old. Worn. The carpet too. The room appears neat and orderly, because the Set cleaned it up after they did their search — but it was likely a mess before they arrived.”

“I think the fellow is dead,” Wayne said, tapping the wall and breaking away some putty. “Bullet hole. Probably shot the poor doof in the back while he was sitting here.”

“Too specific a conclusion to draw from so little evidence,” Marasi said, joining him. She pulled out a little brush and fiddled in the hole, eventually pulling out some flakes of something and putting them in a vial.

“Blood?” Wayne guessed.

“Yes,” she admitted. “And what might be a sliver of bone. They must have cleaned the blood off the desk, but removed only the bullet from the hole.” She ran her fingers over the wood. “It’s worn down. He used this desk a lot. Or bought an old one to begin with. Hard to say.”

Wax walked over and handed Wayne a leather cap, like painters wore.

“Found it on the bedpost,” Wax said. “What do you think? Have we given you enough to work with?”

“Maybe…” Wayne said, slipping on the hat. He walked to the center of the room, then stared out a window, putting it all together. Trying to imagine the man who had lived here, trying to extrapolate from what they knew of him.

“He was respected at first,” Wayne said. “A good scientist. But then he found things, heard other things, learned more. He was a chemist, right?”

“For a tire company,” Marasi said.

“A front, most likely,” Wax said. “He said his employers were making a bomb. I’d bet his chemistry work involved investigating weapon systems and explosives for the Bilming government.”

“Yeah…” Wayne said, his eyes closed. “He realized they were looking to make a bomb, and heard about splitting harmonium. And he was maybe already a little eccentric. He tried to save the city … But he was an odd fellow, and nobody listened…”

Eyes closed, he spread his arms out and turned around slowly, smelling the place — and imagining it. Stacked old dishes in the corner. He could still smell them. Frantic nights … reading … thinking …

“They didn’t listen,” Wayne said. “And when they locked him up, he learned he couldn’t use the normal justice system to stop the disaster.”

“So what did he do?” Kim asked. “You think the people who killed him were scared that they missed something. That implies he knew something they didn’t want leaked. Where did he stash it?”

“He didn’t,” Wayne whispered. “That’s not what this fellow would do. You see, the Set … they’re going to be wrong about him. Just like Kim is.”

“How?” Marasi asked softly from somewhere to his right.

“The Set,” Wayne said, “they hold on to knowledge. They strangle it, Marasi. But a fellow like this, he might be a little unhinged, but he wants people to know what he knows. He ain’t going to lock his ideas up in some train station. He’ll share them. If the government won’t listen, then…”

He opened his eyes and met Wax’s. “… he’ll do whatever he can to get the information out.”

“Kim,” Wax said, thoughtful, “which local broadsheet has the worst reputation? The type that publishes whatever nonsense it can get its hands on? Particularly if it’s frightening, or a little off-kilter?”

“There are at least seven of those,” she replied.

“Which one syndicates the writings of that fool Jak?”

“The Sentinel of Truth,” she said. “I … kind of love those…” She seemed embarrassed, but she needn’t be. Those were good stories. Super dumb, of course, but sometimes you needed cheap storytelling with your cheap booze. Didn’t make no sense to read literature while drinking outta a paper sack.

“Sentinel of Truth…” Wax said. “Do you know the address of their offices?”

“I can look it up,” Kim said, digging out one of her volumes of city addresses.

Wayne took off the hat and held it lightly. The poor fellow, Tobal Copper, was dead. He hadn’t let the Set push him around or force him to work for them. They’d come here to learn what he knew about them and their plans, and they hadn’t left him alive. But maybe he’d told someone. Someone the Set hadn’t been able to find — because letting go of information, to them, would be inconceivable.

“I’ve got it,” Kim said. “Publishing offices of the Sentinel can be found at…” She looked up. “Seventh Street. Office 42–13. Nights! The same numbers you found on the bottom of the envelope.”

Wax squeezed him on the arm. “Nice work, Wayne.”

He shrugged. “It’s easy enough when you have a lot to work with.”

“That was a lot?” Kim asked, curious.

“Sure,” Wayne said, tucking the hat away. “A man’s whole life.”

31

Steris took a long, deep breath. It was the sort of thing she’d read about for calming nerves. She’d seen Marasi do it during stressful situations. Did it work? Steris wasn’t certain. But the act was very normal, wasn’t it?

She took another deep breath in case she’d done it wrong, letting it out slowly. Then she stepped into the Senate’s main assembly hall to be assaulted by noise and chaos. The two were so often partners.

Senators shouted across the chamber at each other. Aides fluttered about, delivering afternoon broadsheets and private reports to their senators. She’d been able to acquire a few of these — not actual broadsheets from Bilming, but local reprints or summaries received via telegraph. Emergency editions were common with big stories, each paper rushing to capitalize.

They wouldn’t be the most accurate stories. But they could certainly start fires. She glanced at a few as she walked past.

CONSTABLES DEAD! BOTCHED ELENDEL OPERATION LEADS TO BILMING TRAGEDY!

SECRET ELENDEL CONSTABLE FORCE UNDERMINES LOCAL POLICING EFFORTS!

EARLY ACT OF WAR PLACES ELENDEL FORCES IN DIRECT OPPOSITION TO BILMING LAW ENFORCEMENT! SHOTS FIRED! SEVENTEEN DEAD!

The spins were different, but the flavors were similar. Waxillium had drawn attention as usual, and she had no doubt that most of the casualties were members of the Set. That wasn’t a nuance for headlines. Still, she had sent her children out of the city with Kath. She prayed to the Survivor that they were safe in their grandfather’s estate to the south.

For now, Steris pushed through the cacophony, steeling herself against the fluttering of pages, the tumult of words, and made her way to the vice governor’s seat. There Steris delivered the proper authorization form for her to take her husband’s position in the Senate.

Adawathwyn said nothing about the dire letter Steris had sent earlier, detailing the threat to the city. Why? Did they dismiss her that easily?

People never wanted to listen to Steris. They preferred to nod along and think about other things. She made her way to Wax’s seat — her seat. Wax was correct; standing for House Ladrian was her right. Indeed, it was one of the main reasons they’d initially explored a union. Her fortune; his authority. Together they could do great things.

If she could keep her nerve. Yes, she’d taken his spot before, but never for something so vital. So, she stood at the small desk, surrounded by chaos. She’d prepared for this. She’d written down what it would be like. She’d even taken two deep breaths. Yes, her heart thundered in her chest, insisting she was nervous, but what did her heart know? It had spent years insisting she’d never fall in love, and it had been so very wrong. Her heart was no expert in what she couldn’t do. It only knew what she had and hadn’t done.

As she’d hoped, people noticed her there, standing silently, and some of the arguments dropped off. This allowed Adawathwyn to shout for quiet in the room — and finally be heard. Her forceful tone, unusual for a Terriswoman, brought order at last. Like a teakettle moved from the burner, senators stopped boiling, but remained hot — settling in their seats and muttering softly.

“The governor,” Adawathwyn said, “requests an explanation from the acting senator of House Ladrian.”

Every eye in the room turned to Steris. Well, she was accustomed to that. People did tend to stare at her. Or glare. Or glower. It depended on how wrong they were, and what level of annoyed they were at hearing her point it out.

“My husband,” she said to the room, “has been called back to his duties as a lawman because of a particularly dangerous situation in Bilming. His operation was fully approved by the constables-general, under the authority of the governor himself. Your Grace, everything my husband has done has been strictly legal and documented.”

“Sometimes,” the governor said, “it doesn’t matter if the permissions are in place and the documents prepared. An act can still be improper.”

What? How dare he! That was the very definition of proper! Steris forced down her anger. Some people … just thought that way.

She covertly glanced at her note card. She had determined, after deliberating all morning, that she’d need to get the governor into a small-group setting. She didn’t want to panic the city, and didn’t yet know how urgent the timing was.

She still needed to get a plan in place for evacuating the city. Always plan for the worst. So: get the governor into a more private conversation. In the proper circumstances, he could authorize an evacuation of the city without a Senate vote.

“Your Grace,” she said to the governor, “Constable-General Reddi has information of relevance about my husband’s mission. I sent him reports with details of my fears this morning. We are facing a far larger issue, even, than the growing intercity aggression. I therefore move that a select council be formed to deal with the emergency in an immediate and timely manner.”

A Governor’s Select Council would be a small commission — in this case made up of a handful of senators and at least one constable-general — with a limited remit. In the past, they had been used for smaller-scale matters, such as addressing traffic needs in the city hub. But a select council was a potent tool, allowing a concentration of power in a few specific individuals. She was shocked it hadn’t been used for an emergency before now; a thorough reading of the law made the application obvious.

“Wait,” the governor asked, “is that … allowed? I thought those committees were for choosing flowers at grand openings and the like.”

The vice governor grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down, where they conversed in quiet, hissing tones — eventually calling over a legal clerk. Several others in the room did likewise.

The governor stood up. “This seems an excellent suggestion,” he said, sounding surprised. “Motion to vote on creating a select council on this matter with Bilming?” He pointedly looked toward a few senators in the room — including Lord Darlin Cett, a man with slicked-back, thinning hair.

The Cetts were among the more powerful faction leaders in this incarnation of the government, and the look seemed to say, “You’ll be included in this council if you vote for it.” It was a shrewd move for the governor, which likely meant he hadn’t come up with it himself.

For once, the Senate vote gave Steris the result she’d been hoping for. A select council was to be formed at the governor’s discretion, granted authority for twenty-four hours to deal with the crisis at Bilming.

“Lord Cett,” the governor said, “Lady Hammondess, and Lady Gardre. Please join me and Adawathwyn in the governor’s chambers to strategize until Constable-General Reddi arrives. The rest of the Senate is adjourned.”

Steris hesitated. He hadn’t called on her. Was … that an oversight? Was it implied that she’d join him, or …

Or was he leaving her out?

Oh, rusts. How could she have missed such a natural possibility? She called for a select council, but then wasn’t included in it? She should have seen that coming.

She put her hand to her head, feeling hot and ashamed of herself. The woman who was ready for everything, blindsided by such an obvious move.

As she tried to control her nausea, someone stood up at the back of the chamber — from the observation seats. A figure in a sharp wooden mask painted with red lines. “Your Grace,” the Malwish ambassador said, “I should very much like to observe the workings of this council.”

“Um, Admiral Daal?” the governor said. “This is a matter of internal Basin affairs.”

“Yes, which is exactly why I want to observe,” the ambassador said. “I can learn much about a people by how they react to a crisis. I have a pleasure craft, of a personal ownership, docked in the city. Perhaps you would find it useful to borrow, my lord governor? To observe the Basin.”

The governor blinked. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure the wisdom of a battle-hardened admiral would be of great use to our council. Come on, then.”

Oh, rusts. Had he really taken such an obvious bribe? In public? The action cut through Steris’s shame, and she glanced toward Adawathwyn. The vice governor had her palm to her face. She’d have to work hard to spin that exchange. But, well, one of the problems with having a pushover like Varlance as governor was that others were fully capable of pushing too.

You can push, Steris thought at herself. You have to try.

Ignoring her instincts — which wanted her to sit down and write out how she could have foreseen this situation — Steris hopped out of her seat and ran to the floor, shoving unceremoniously between a pair of senators to reach the governor.

“Your Grace,” she said. “I believe I can offer relevant insight to this council.”

“Oh!” he said, glancing toward her. “Lady Ladrian?” He then looked to the side, where Adawathwyn shook her head sharply. “Alas,” the governor said, turning back to Steris, “I feel the council is already crowded. It was wonderful of you to make the suggestion though.”

“Your Grace,” she said. “There is a dire threat to the city. You need to hear me out.”

The governor hesitated.

“She sent a letter about this earlier in the morning, Your Honor,” Adawathwyn said. “Some nonsense about a bomb capable of destroying Elendel.”

“What is this?” he said, turning toward his vice governor.

“It’s true,” Steris said. “You didn’t even give it to him?”

“Your house has a history of inflating problems,” Adawathwyn said. “Remember the time your husband claimed that voting against his workers’ rights act would cause an uproar in the city? Or when he insisted the Roughs would form its own country if we continued our tariff plans?”

“This time it’s different,” Steris said. “He … has confirmation from Harmony.”

“I see,” Adawathwyn said. “And if Harmony himself were going to speak to someone, would he not speak to the governor?”

“Has your husband seen a bomb?” the governor asked. “Does he have proof to back up your claims?”

“He’s gathering evidence now,” Steris said.

“Then,” the governor said, “why not return to us when you have that proof?”

“Because I need to be in that council with you—”

“Lady Ladrian,” he said, softer, “surely you see that this is an important, tense situation. This is not a place for a woman who has been a sitting senator for less than an hour.” He smiled. “Indeed, this situation is going to require delicacy and tact, not…”

Not whatever it is you are, the unfinished sentence seemed to imply. He nodded to her, then joined the others at the door to the governor’s chambers.

Steris was left alone in the center of the floor. Humiliated. She … well, she’d have to make another plan. Yes, plan how to deal with this situation. She could take the rest of the day …

No. She couldn’t afford to spend time planning. She had to get into that room.

And in the moment, she thought of one way she might be able to accomplish it.

32

The Sentinel of Truth broadsheet offices didn’t fit Bilming. Unlike the sleek, modern designs, its building looked like a shack. An older wooden structure, only one story, with a peaked roof, bulging walls, and small windows.

“One of the old buildings,” Kim explained, “from when this section of town held a lot of fishing shacks. The push to start knocking everything down and build anew came five years ago, but there are structures like this sprinkled throughout the city.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s been in operation lately,” Wax said, noting the padlock on the door, the dark interior. “Is it still publishing?”

“Releases have been sporadic lately,” Kim said. “I had to wait six weeks to read the end of the ‘Survivor’s Last Testament’ arc of Jak’s explorations.”

Rusting idiot man, Wax thought. Ever since the discovery of the “Sovereign” who had ruled and helped the people of the Southern lands, Survivor fervor had been at a high point. Sightings all over the city, particularly on misty nights.

Jak, of course, had capitalized on this and had spent years “discovering” Survivor artifacts in his adventures. It wouldn’t be half as bad if the fool didn’t mention Wax now and then.

They knocked at a side door, and when they got no reply they tried the door and found it locked. So Wax wrapped a coat tassel around his fist and prepared to smash in the window.

“Wax?” Marasi said. “What are you doing?”

“Beginning an investigation.”

“Let’s wait a few minutes,” she said. “See if the owner returns.”

He stopped, his fist a few inches from the glass. “We have a writ of investigation. We can break in.”

“If it’s an emergency,” she said. “And if we’ve tried other options. This is a private citizen’s property, and we have no reason to believe the Set is here. And unlike the apartment earlier, we have no reason to believe a crime has been committed.”

“Let me do it,” Wayne said, walking up to the window. “You can all say you tried to stop me, but I done pulled a Wayne. They’ll let you off.”

“It’s not about what we can get away with, Wayne,” Marasi said, putting her hand to her face. “It’s about proper procedure. You can’t just smash into any place you want to — the world is changing. People have rights. It makes our job harder, but it makes the world better.”

Wax frowned, lowering his hand.

“We can afford to wait a few minutes,” Marasi said. “If we’re right, we want whoever owns this place to work with us — and breaking in might turn them against us. If we’re wrong, then we’ll have ransacked someone’s place of business for nothing.” She glanced at the sun. “It’s lunchtime. The owner might be out — they are still putting out papers, after all, so we have reason to think they’ll show up for work eventually.”

Wax reluctantly backed down. He expected Wayne to complain, but the shorter man just shrugged and jogged over to a street corner food stand to get something to eat. Marasi and Kim settled down on a bench beside a small nearby park, leaving Wax to put his back to a well-groomed tree set into a little piece of earth with a low fence around it.

Moments like this made him feel old. Not just of body, but of mind. He seemed to represent something that was dying. The lone lawman. And … well, it was hard to mourn. Because intellectually, he agreed with Marasi. He’d voted for legal restrictions on constable authority. Society needed robust checks on everyone’s power. Even his. Especially his.

But at the same time, that made the world seem too big to fix. Out in the Roughs he could beat in a door and talk — or sometimes shoot — sense into anyone who needed it. It had made him feel like he could solve basically any problem.

But that had been a false impression of control, hadn’t it? Acknowledging that made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t that the world was growing more complicated. It was that he was letting himself see it had always been complicated.

A minute later, Wax heard something. He swore it came from the building. He narrowed his eyes, burning steel, tracking the blue lines around him to a few moving near the top of the building. An attic? He raised a hand to the others, then slipped out Vindication. Someone was up there. He was certain of it. Had they simply not heard the calls earlier?

He dropped a bullet casing and launched off it, then landed carefully on the roof near where the shingles sloped past a small attic window, shuttered closed. Quiet though he’d tried to be, the metal lines moved sharply right as he landed — then they stilled. Mostly. They were quivering.

He narrowed his eyes at the window. One of the shutter corners was broken, letting whoever was inside peek out. He could see a metal line leading right to the hole. A part of him felt cold, because that metal was almost certainly a gun pointed at him. Shingles rattled under his feet as he engaged his steel bubble — the subtle Push he’d learned to use to deflect bullets. It made the nails in the rooftop vibrate as they tried to escape the field.

Vibrating, he thought, like that line ahead of me. That’s a gun in the hands of someone who is trembling.

He wasn’t facing a Set assassin. Carefully, he raised his gun to the side, pointed away from the window.

“I’m a constable,” he said loudly. “I’m here to help.”

Silence. Then finally a voice. Feminine, husky. “You’re here to kill me. Like you killed Tobal.”

“No,” Wax said. “I promise it.” He stepped forward. “I’m looking for the people who killed him. If I were here for another reason, I’d have shot instead of spoken.”

More silence. Long enough to unnerve him, until finally the shutters swung open, revealing a short woman. She had frizzy grey-black hair and a disheveled appearance — a waistcoat buttoned with a few holes skipped, a long skirt that was rumpled as if it spent most of its life in a heap in a corner. She had dark bags under her eyes and a wan appearance, as if she’d been heavier once but had lost weight, like a couch missing some of its stuffing.

“You…” she said, lowering a rifle. “Are you … Dawnshot?”

“That’s me,” he said, relaxing.

She brightened. “You’re Jak’s friend!”

Jak’s friend? Just because that idiot brought up Wax’s name once in a while? He opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it.

“I … know of him,” Wax said. “Look, something is happening in this city. Something very dangerous. I followed the trail to Tobal’s apartment, then here. Please. Did he give you something? Tell you something?”

She leaned out, suspiciously scanning the streets. “Meet me below, at the back.” She pulled the shutters closed, and he joined Marasi and Kim at the back doors as they rattled, numerous locks and chains being undone.

Finally, she pulled the door open. “I don’t normally talk to conners. Ever.”

“’S good advice,” Wayne mumbled through a mouthful of something. He walked up beside Wax and took another bite of what appeared to be grease and maybe some bits of meat wrapped in what might have been bread. Or a very large crepe?

“But since you’re friends of Jak…” she said.

“Sure are,” Wayne said, slapping Wax on the shoulder. “Jak and Wax here adventured together out in the Roughs!”

“I guess, then,” she said, gesturing for them to enter, “you’re not that kind of constable. You’re the other kind.”

“Yup,” Wayne said. “We’re the kind what don’t like uniforms and shoots people when they try to make us sign paperwork.” He took another bite of his wrap.

“What even is that?” Wax asked as Marasi and Kim entered.

“He called it ‘chouta.’ It’s good.”

“It looks disgusting.”

“Aw, mate. With street food, that’s how you know it’s good.”

The building inside was musty and dark, and had numerous trash bins by the door — as if the woman hadn’t dared leave to empty them. She watched Wax, rifle in hand — though not raised — as if certain he’d turn on her at any moment.

“Is … Jak in the city?” she asked. “Available to help?”

“I … um…” Wax said. “No. He’s on … an adventure.”

“Don’t suppose you can send for him?” she sounded hopeful.

“Afraid not.”

She frowned, eyeing him.

“Oh, don’t mind Dawnshot,” Wayne said, nudging Wax. “He gets coy about Jak sometimes.” He leaned toward the woman. “Honestly, he’s a little jealous.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” she said, then sighed and began doing up the locks on the door. “Has he ever let you hold the Spear of the Red Sun?”

Wayne looked at Wax, who gritted his teeth. “No,” he forced himself to say. “It’s too powerful. Jak says I might accidentally awaken some … zombies if I’m allowed to touch it.”

The woman nodded, locks secured, then waved for them to follow her into the building.

“Good,” Wayne whispered to Wax. “But the spear wasn’t used for zombies. They was on the Island of Death, with Nicki.”

“How do you know?” Wax hissed to him.

“I read every one,” Wayne said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You…”

“I thought you couldn’t read,” Marasi said, brushing past them and following the woman.

“Oh, I can read,” Wayne said. “But I’m dumb, see, so I can only read things what are dumb too.”

The woman led them through a corridor crowded with books — stacks of them, taking up almost every available space. In the next room were a large printing press, some buckets of ink, and boxes of lead type scattered about. Her picture on the wall, hanging askew and showing her in younger years, was captioned MARAGA DULCET, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.

“So,” she said, running a hand through her disheveled hair, “you know who killed Tobal? Was it those people with the golden hair living on the east side? They’re some kind of fairy creature; I know it.”

“Actually,” Marasi said, “we think it was a secretive group plotting to start up the Ashmounts again — and we worry they’re working to create bombs of incredible power.”

Maraga nodded. “So you do know.”

That was a test, Wax realized.

Maraga opened a doorway that revealed a set of old steps. “Well then. Follow me.”

She led the way down and Wax followed, waving for Marasi and Kim to stay back a few feet. The air smelled of old potatoes, spiders, and forgotten jars of something that might have once been preserves. Maraga flipped a switch at the bottom, powering a set of electric lights swinging on wires.

Covering the walls of the musty basement room were sheets of metal, scratched in detail — filled with words and diagrams, letters and pictures all cramped up together.

“Figured we’d write it all in metal,” Maraga said. “Just in case.”

33

Eyes wide with wonder, Marasi walked around the basement. It seemed to have once been used for storage, judging by the piles of old equipment and stacked throw mats. This had all been pushed away from the walls to make room for the metal sheets.

The Words of Founding mentioned metal plates, and Marasi had imagined large, thick sheets with the words chiseled in bold, powerful letters. Instead, Maraga had scratched sheets of tin with a pen, often scribbling out sentences and lines she got wrong. A lot of it was organized as lists. It had a frenzied air to it, but not like — say — the ravings of a madman. More like …

Notes, Marasi thought. A journalist’s shorthand notes, connecting ideas and building a story.

Maraga slumped down on the bottom step, seeming exhausted. “I … didn’t believe him at first,” she whispered. “Tobal. Thought he was another crackpot. But they usually have a good story to tell, something my readers want to hear.

“Then he started to bring me evidence. Information he stole from his employers. I think he was sneaking back in, grabbing ledgers, scraps, whatever he could find … Never would let me help. He didn’t want me to get too involved.” She looked up at the walls. “As if this weren’t already enough to get me killed…”

Marasi walked closer to offer comfort, but the woman flinched. There was a … fatalistic air about her. The air of a woman who had thrown the dice and was waiting to see how the numbers came up.

“How long?” Wax asked, inspecting one of the plates.

“Almost four years,” Maraga whispered. “Like I said, I didn’t believe him at first. But I’ve always been interested in the stories that slip through the cracks. The ones other papers ignore because they seem too sensational, or too lowbrow.”

“Lies, you mean,” Wax said. “You print lies.”

“We prefer ‘whimsical what-ifs.’ Intriguing stories that would be fascinating if they were true.”

“So…” Wax said, “lies.”

“Our patrons understand what they’re buying, Lord Ladrian,” Maraga said, lifting her chin. “You know. You’re friends with Jak himself. It’s all about being larger than life, bigger than reality! Our patrons know we stretch to find the more interesting tidbits, the ‘might’s and the ‘could-be’s of the world.”

He shook his head, obviously unconvinced.

Maraga sniffed. “I did my journeymanship at the Times, top paper in the city. Totally respectable. The amount they fudged, slanted, or outright fabricated would scandalize you. At least I’m honest about it. Besides, I don’t print lies. I print human-interest stories — the tales of people who are ignored by the larger media. Exciting stories, by adventuring celebrities. Cartoons, pictures of funny-shaped vegetables…”

“How funny?” Wayne said from across the room.

“Depends on your sense of humor,” Maraga replied.

“Crass. With a light seasoning of vulgarity.”

“Second box on the left,” she said. “Next to your foot.”

Wayne located the appropriate box, which was filled with sketches. In seconds he was snickering to himself.

“Anyway,” Maraga continued, “the more Tobal brought, and the more I pieced together, the more terrified I became. This … was a story. A real story. Not a whimsical tale about bug men or the dangers of electricity. This … this could get people killed. Could get me killed.”

She looked up at them, then continued. “Once I believed, we worked for many months, putting all of this together. I started to see things he didn’t. Tobal wasn’t … completely credible. He jumped to conclusions. But he wasn’t wrong, not at the heart of the story. And he hadn’t made it up.

“He told me that one day he wouldn’t show up to our nightly conversation. He said, when that happened, I should run. Take everything to the authorities. But the authorities are involved, so … what then? Who to tell? And then, two weeks ago, he didn’t show up. One night. Two. Three … And I knew. I knew. They’d found him.”

“I’m sorry,” Marasi said.

“Could he still be alive?” Maraga asked. “Might they have just … taken him?”

“It’s possible,” Marasi said. “But … we don’t think it’s likely.”

Maraga nodded, looking down at her feet. Then she closed her eyes and seemed to be waiting. For what?

For the dice to land, Marasi realized. She doesn’t trust us. She’s waiting to see if we shoot.

Marasi looked around the room and noticed that Wayne — despite pretending to look at the pictures — was actually watching Moonlight, one hand resting lazily on his dueling cane. Likely with his metals ready, just in case she tried something. Even Wax was watching her from the corner of his eye.

“This is brilliant,” Moonlight said instead, staring at one of the walls. “Are these … trajectory estimations?”

Marasi joined her beside one set of sketches in tin, which depicted looping arcs. Moonlight was right; it looked like measurements with different estimates of how far a shot could reach.

Maraga stood up, seeming to take strength from the question. “That’s right,” she said. “Those numbers are the distances the Bilming military claim their new guns can fire. They love to send releases to the local broadsheets, extolling their grand navy. It’s mostly bravado. They imply they could shell Elendel from twenty miles away, but that’s a lie. The guns are much shorter range than that.”

“And this?” Marasi asked, pointing at another set of trajectories.

“Poor Tobal’s job was to research chemical propellants,” Maraga replied. At their confused stares, she continued. “These people, they’re trying to develop self-propelled shells. Weapons that could fire themselves and fly miles. Or even hundreds of miles. Before hitting and detonating.”

Rusts, Marasi thought, her eyes widening. She walked through the room, taking in each of the eight large plates on the walls. She identified one having to do with the “subway” systems of the city, a large interconnected cavern complex that was being “surveyed” to determine where to place train lines. But the truth, according to Maraga’s notes, was entirely different — the surveys were seeking caverns that could offer stable underground living conditions.

They’re preparing bunkers, Marasi thought. That’s what the supplies are for — they’re stocking up for a cataclysm, perhaps?

Just as people had sought refuge in caverns during the last days before the world ended. Before Harmony’s Ascension and the remaking of the land.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Wax said, joining her. “Harmony says my sister is trying to prove she can rule this planet. If she blows it up, what does that prove? Why build bunkers? Does she honestly think that saving a fragment of us and annihilating the rest would prove her competence?”

“I don’t know,” Marasi admitted, then pointed at another plate. “This talks about ashfalls. The days of ash and destruction allowed the Lord Ruler to secure near-universal power, at least in the North. So maybe Telsin thinks that would work again?”

“You should read the next plate over,” Maraga said.

Together they stepped to the side, reading what appeared to be a list of names. “Dupon Melstrom…” Wax read. “Vennis Hasting … Mari Hammondess … These are some of the most powerful senators in Elendel.”

“They’re in on it,” Maraga said.

“What?” Marasi said, spinning. “All of them?”

Maraga dug in a cabinet and came out with a piece of paper. She handed it to Marasi, who showed it to Wax. A letter from Vennis Hasting, talking about the creation of a bomb of incredible power. It was dated almost a year ago, and implicated many of the names on the wall.

Marasi frowned. That … that seemed impossible. This many people in their own government knew? Could the Set have its fingers wrapped that tightly around the Basin? She looked at Wax.

“I know some of these people,” he said. “Vennis is a rat, of course — but Lady Yomen is a good friend. As close a senator as I trust. This doesn’t add up, Marasi. None of this adds up.”

“Maybe that’s why the Senate is so confident,” she said, “that they can bully the Outer Cities.”

“I know these people,” Wax said. “They wouldn’t keep a secret like this; they couldn’t. Everything they’ve done so far has been about posturing for power. The Supremacy Bill, the tariffs, the ‘hard line’ they’re taking with the South … If Vennis knew about a bomb, he’d be advocating for strategic tests to prove how powerful it is.”

“They could all be in the Set,” Marasi said softly.

His expression darkened. He took the letter, staring at it, and she knew what he was thinking: if the Set’s tendrils ran this deep — even into the hearts of his friends among the senators …

“No,” he said. “There’s something very strange here, Marasi. If my sister had all of these people following her dictates, she would already rule the Basin. We’re missing a big piece of this.”

Moonlight walked up to them, nodding toward another of the plates. “You’re talking about a bomb? Well, it seems they have one — look at this.”

Marasi and Wax walked over, finding another plate with a list of underground disturbances. It was labeled with the words “Underground weapon tests, tracked using seismograph.”

“They’ve developed an underground base beneath the city,” Maraga said. “It’s where they hide. Lord Mayor Entrone is involved, is probably even one of their leaders. Some of the caverns seem to be weapons testing locations, but others are bunkers they’re preparing for some reason and using as a headquarters.”

“They stopped the tests recently,” Moonlight said. “Wonder why?”

“Well…” Maraga said. “They know it works. I mean, they’re well past their go date.”

“Go date?” Marasi asked, feeling cold.

“Stolen internal memos,” Maraga said, pointing to a plate. “Don’t know how he got them. Listing target dates for project completion. The weapon was supposed to be detonated two weeks ago.” Maraga slumped back down onto the steps. “They killed him the day before that. I thought for sure the end would come soon after …

“I…” She buried her head in her hands. “I know I should have published this. I’m a coward. In the end, I’m a coward. I’ve been hunkered up here, waiting for the ash to fall, haven’t I? Rusts. I was convinced no one would listen … Convinced it was too late…”

“What is done, or not done, is past,” Wax said, firm. “We have the information now. And there’s still time to stop this.”

“Wax,” Marasi hissed, taking his arm. “They have a bomb, and are planning — as far as we can determine — to detonate it in Elendel. They would have done it already, if they could figure out how to get it into the city.”

Maraga nodded. “Their self-propelled weapon — the rocket, they call it — is having difficulties. Fuel might be the problem. It’s what Tobal was working on for them before he realized what they were planning…” She stood up and steeled herself. “I need to show you one more thing.” She hurried to some boxes and dug through them as Moonlight unabashedly took rubbings of the plates.

Maraga dug out an evanotype photo. “The crowning jewel,” she said softly. “My best piece of evidence. The above-the-fold photo for the story I’ll never actually write…”

Marasi took it, frowning at Wax, who joined her. It depicted an ashen landscape. In color.

Marasi gasped softly, looking at the stark orange sky, the floating ash, the remnants of a ruined city in the distance. That looked … kind of like Elendel, though the ash was heaped so high, obscuring all but the tops of the smoldering, broken buildings and jagged destroyed walls.

“How…” Marasi said. “How can you have a picture of the end of the world?”

“They didn’t have evanotypes in the Survivor’s day,” Wax said, looking closely. “The colors are remarkable. Did someone take an old photo and paint onto it?”

“I don’t know,” Maraga said. “But it seems like a picture of … of what is going to happen. After he found this, Tobal started to get really scared. He barely stayed during our last visits. I think he mostly just huddled in his rooms until they got him. Like … like I’ve been doing.”

The basement fell silent, even Wayne sensing the mood and covering up any snickering at his funny pictures. Marasi felt a mounting horror at the sight of that picture. She’d heard Wax talk about a bomb, knew what the enemy was trying to build. Laying it out in stark depiction, however, changed it from abstract to concrete.

This was what they wanted to do. Wipe out everything she loved. Leave rubble and ash in its place. These were bigger stakes by far than any investigation she’d ever done. And the implications of it left her disquieted on a profound level.

She turned around, looking at the plates reflecting the calm electric light. Something ancient. Something new. Just like the picture Wax handed back to her.

A door opened upstairs.

The locks had been fastened, but that didn’t stop whoever had arrived. Wayne scrambled to his feet, hands going to his dueling canes as a single set of footsteps crossed the wooden floor up above.

Wax slid a gun from its holster and positioned himself to watch the steps. A figure descended onto the stairs. A woman with dark hair and a rugged build that seemed in conflict with her small nose and prim lips. She wore a suit: slacks, buttoned white shirt, jacket and cravat.

Telsin. Wax’s sister, leader of the Set. She wasn’t armed, at least not in a way that Marasi could make out. And she didn’t seem to mind that Wax had a gun pointed at her head while Wayne backed away, muttering.

“An address,” Telsin said. “The number on the back of the envelope was a rusting address? Do you know how many hours we wasted tearing into lockers at train stations?”

34

Marasi immediately reached for an Allomantic grenade, charging one silently in her pocket. Wax edged forward, gun on his sister. Wayne had scrambled back from the steps and was muttering to himself, hopping from one foot to the other. He looked around as if he expected enemies to come bursting in through the walls.

Last time they’d seen Telsin, she had betrayed them to the Set. She’d nearly gotten Wax killed, and in return Wayne had fired a shotgun blast at her chest. The first time he’d fired a gun in … well, Marasi didn’t know how long.

Telsin had healed, however, vanishing from the bloodied snows where Wayne had left her. She was a Hemalurgist, with at least the power of a Bloodmaker — like Wayne. She had shown hints of two other powers, but it was possible the members of the Set switched out their spikes to gain different Metallic Arts. Regardless, she apparently had enough abilities now that she didn’t seem the least bit concerned about facing them alone. Rusts.

“This is marvelous,” Telsin said, glancing around the basement. “Remarkable how many of our secrets he managed to sneak out, considering. Who would have thought our greatest danger wasn’t armies, constables, or even you, Waxillium? It was a miserable, bald old chemist.”

“Tobal was a good man!” Maraga said, and ducked behind Wax as Telsin looked toward her.

“Oh, you can lower the gun, Waxillium,” Telsin said, settling down on the steps. “The idiot over there will tell you how effective shooting me was.”

“Felt good,” Wayne said. “Does it need to do more than that? Here, Wax. Hand me a gun. I’ll have at it a few more times.”

Wax didn’t move, and Telsin rolled her eyes. They all stood there, Marasi’s grenade vibrating softly in her fingers as it absorbed her power. What now? They were being played, obviously. But how? Would the Set’s leader come to see them as a simple distraction?

“Tell us what the Set is planning,” Marasi said.

“No,” Telsin replied.

“Oh,” Wayne said, perking up. “Does this mean I can make her talk? On a scale of one to broken, how much do you fancy your kneecaps, Telsin?”

“I’ll heal in seconds, Wayne,” Telsin said.

“Not if we yank out the spikes,” Wayne snapped.

“Which would kill me,” Telsin said. “I’m sure that will give you so much information.”

“Well,” Wayne said, “breaking some pieces off you will still hurt, Telsin. I know a thing or two about that part.”

“Actually,” she said, “it won’t hurt. Did you know that a Feruchemist can store their pain in a metalmind? Oh, and you won’t be able to remove mine from me. We’ve learned better how to hide those. So torture me if you want, Wayne. I’ll find it boring, but nothing more.”

She met his gaze with confidence. Wayne glanced toward Marasi, concerned, shying away. Like a puppy whose chew toy had bitten it back.

Marasi was more worried about Wax. He’d frozen in place, gun out and pointed at Telsin, arm straight. Expression … grim. Telsin was his last close living relative, and she’d played him for a fool. Six years ago, he’d dedicated a great deal of emotional and physical effort to rescuing her from the evil forces he’d thought had taken her. Only to find she’d been working with them all along.

Now, she’d thrown her lot in with a god planning to destroy the world.

“Why are you here, Telsin?” Wax asked.

“To warn you, Waxillium,” Telsin said from across the room. “Your next actions will be of the utmost importance. You have two days to solve this problem. Only two precious days.”

Wax cursed softly, leaning down beside Marasi and Wayne. “Speed bubble,” he hissed.

Wayne threw one up and slowed the world around them. It would also prevent Telsin from hearing, or at least understanding, what they were saying.

“What’s she playin’ at, Wax?” Wayne said. “She should look more threatened. I shot her. Me. First time in years. And she don’t even look like she cared.”

“Wayne,” Marasi said, “it’s not like you gave her your virginity.”

“No it’s not!” he said. “I give that away all the time. This was special.”

Marasi glanced at Wax. “You all right?”

“I will be,” he said softly, staring at his sister — frozen in time. “It’s … painful. Like an old injury aching again. Because it never healed right.”

“Why did she say two days?” Marasi asked. “Wax, she’s trying to wrong-foot us.”

“I agree,” he said. “She’s trying to get us to believe we have more time than we do. One of her games.” He narrowed his eyes. “Her being here says something she may not realize, though. That she’s desperate. She knows she has to stop us.”

“But she’s not afraid of us,” Marasi said.

“Not physically,” Wax said. “She’s not afraid of being captured or killed by us. Harmony said … well, she’s — at least in a small way — part god. Autonomy has Invested her with some sort of power and authority, made her the avatar of Trell on this planet. For now. Until she fails.”

“Wait,” Wayne said. “Who is Trell and who is Autonomy and who is that on the steps?”

“That on the steps,” Wax said, “is my sister. A woman representing the god Autonomy. Using the title of Trell — an ancient god from this world.”

“Right…” Wayne said. “And all three are utter knobs?”

“Utter knobs,” Wax agreed.

Marasi followed their gaze back toward Telsin, looking so proud and confident. As she watched, Marasi could swear that Telsin’s eyes began to glow a soft red. The faintest of light. It was gone a moment later.

“Rusts,” she whispered. “This feels like it’s way above our pay scale, Wax.”

“There’s no one else,” he said. “But like I said, if she’s here, she’s worried about us. She wanted to go through with her plan weeks ago, but is having problems getting her technology to work. Now here we are, sniffing about, finding things they couldn’t track down. My gut says she’s here because she wants an opportunity to mess with my mind. Nudge me the wrong direction. Risky of her, but smart.”

They all fell silent, but Marasi had that same sense of cold dread from earlier. Magnified. The Set’s plan, the danger Autonomy posed … Marasi glanced down; she was still holding the picture Maraga had dug out. Ash falling from the sky, burying cities that had been destroyed.

“What do we do?” Wayne asked.

“Let me think,” Wax said. “How much bendalloy do you have? Are we wasting it?”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “I’ve got plenty.”

“He’s been saving it,” Marasi said, “and learning to be responsible with his finances and his use of metals.”

Wax glanced at him. “Who’d you take the money from?”

“Someone worthless,” Wayne said.

“Remind me to check my bank accounts,” Wax said, “if there are any banks left after all of this. For now, the most urgent matter is the bomb. They have it ready, but can’t deliver it. So we need to find whatever device they’re setting up to launch the thing, then stop it.”

“Maraga says the Set is using the bunkers under the city as a kind of base,” Marasi said. “If we can sneak in, maybe we can find the mechanism. Or at least learn its location.”

“Hard to sneak anywhere,” Wayne said, nodding toward Telsin, “with some kind of demigod thing watchin’ you.”

Wax thought for a moment. “I need to confront Telsin, deal with her, maybe try to get information out of her. I want to find that bomb and stop it. I might be able to sort the lies from the truth. But I do agree, trying to get into their base could be valuable. Not sure how we’d manage it though.”

Marasi glanced at Moonlight, frozen outside the speed bubble. What did she make of all this? Did she have answers?

Maybe Marasi should tell Wax. Only … would that break Moonlight’s frail trust in her? The woman could easily vanish again, as she’d done after the fight at the warehouse.

So many secrets. Marasi had become a constable in part to reveal secrets — and here, in working with Moonlight, she had a chance. At something bigger. Something more important. Secrets beyond secrets. She needed more time to pry information out of Moonlight.

“Wax,” she said, “we should split up.”

He met her eyes. “Two teams,” he said. “You find a way into the caverns. I deal with Telsin and follow any leads I get from her.”

“Exactly,” Marasi said. “I think Kim is trustworthy. She and I had a chance to chat when we were at the archive, and she knows a lot about the city. With her help, I might be able to locate an entrance to the caverns. In there are secrets, maybe the location of the bomb. But an infiltration like that will take time. Maybe too much time.”

“So Wayne and I take a direct route,” Wax said. “We interrogate Telsin and locate the bomb that way.”

“She’ll play with your mind, mate,” Wayne said.

“I know. But she’s my sister. I … I need to do this.” Wax took a deep breath. “If I’m right, she’ll have to give me bits of truth along with her lies. If we can play the game better than she does, it might lead us to the weapon.”

“Right,” Marasi said. “Whatever you find, send to Steris and Captain Reddi via radio. I’ll do the same. That way, we can consolidate our information and leave notes for one another.”

Wax nodded, but seemed reluctant.

“You worry local radio operators might be compromised?” Marasi said.

“It’s possible,” he said. “But I don’t know of a better way. I’m going to send something to Steris as soon as we leave here.”

“Will you write to Allik too?” she asked. “Remind him I asked him to leave the city? It’s selfish of me, but…”

“It’s all right,” Wax said. “It’s not selfish to want to save those you love.” He paused. “I don’t know if we’ll have a chance to meet up again before the day is done. So if you don’t hear from me, Marasi, know that I trust your judgment. If you have a chance to stop the bomb, do so. Whatever the cost.”

“Same for you,” she said. “All right. Let’s split.” Wax nodded to Wayne, who dropped the speed bubble.

And just like that, Marasi had put herself in a position to interrogate Moonlight freely. She would share what she found with Wax. And he would understand. She felt she should have been embarrassed for keeping this from him, but in truth she was excited.

Wax walked over to Telsin. “You and I need to talk,” he said to her.

“Agreed,” she said, starting up the steps.

Wax moved to follow, pausing briefly to say something to Maraga. Before Wayne joined him, he took Marasi by the arm. “Hey,” he said softly. “Be careful with that Kim character. I think she’s fakin’ about somethin’.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Marasi said. “I think she knows more than she’s saying, but I don’t think she’s working for the enemy.”

“Right,” he said. “Hey, you take care of yourself.”

“You too, Wayne.”

“Don’t I always?”

He said it as if in jest, but there was something to his voice. “You all right?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Just feels off, you know? After six years together, I’ve gotta let you march away alone. Without my keen observations on life and the world to keep you on your toes.”

She smiled, then raised her fist for him to tap with his own. “I’m glad you walked out of the stories and into my life. I’d rather have a friend than a legend.”

“Same.”

“Wayne, no one is calling me a legend.”

“They will,” he said with a wink. “You take care. We’ll see you later tonight.” He slipped an old bowler hat off a rack near the center of the room. He put it on and left a stapler tied with a ribbon hanging in its place. Where had he found that?

Wax and Wayne disappeared up the steps behind Telsin, leaving Marasi alone with Moonlight, Maraga, and the whole cosmere’s worth of secrets.