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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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?” 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,
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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
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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
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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. 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
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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
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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
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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.
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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. 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
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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
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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. 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,
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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
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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
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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.
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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 ENFORCE NOSEBALL BAN! 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
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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-Ke-Sun 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 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,
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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,
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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
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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’
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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. 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.
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“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
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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
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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
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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?” Marasi studied the footprints in the dust. They appeared to be a few weeks old, as they’d gathered dust themselves. She walked over to Wayne, who was inspecting the path farther down into the depths: an arduous-looking tunnel with a steep decline. He glanced at her. “If they’re slippin’ in and out of the city fast,” he said, “they musta found a different way out of here. They aren’t makin’ this hike regularly.” “Agreed,” she said. “We should be stealthy anyway, in case they posted lookouts.” In response, he turned his lantern down and whispered, “You want to continue without backup?” “For now. We want to scout and see what we find. I don’t want to mobilize everyone for a dead end.” Together, the two of them struck forward through the tunnel. The difficulty of the path and its apparent lack of traffic encouraged her. If the enemy was down here but used a different route, then taking this path meant she and Wayne were less likely to be discovered. They took the decline carefully. Rusts … thank goodness she had trousers on. If she was going to slip and break her skull, she could at least do it with dignity. Or as much dignity as a woman could manage after hiking through sewage for an hour. She distracted herself by imagining that these caverns must be as old as the Ascendant Warrior—or even older. These tunnels had slumbered through the destruction of the world, through the Catacendre, through the rise and fall of the Final Empire. Had the stones they walked past broken loose from the ceiling during the days of the Ashmounts? She couldn’t help wondering if they would stumble across the mythical Survivor’s Cradle—the Pits of Hathsin—though she knew that was foolish. Wax said he had been to them, and had found no magical metals of lore. They eventually hit a particularly deep shaft down; it was essentially vertical, though with a lot of obstructions and
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clefts in the stone to climb on. Wayne brightened their lantern again, looking doubtful. “We sure they came this way?” he asked in a whisper. “Who else would have made the footprints?” “Footprints?” “In the dust? And near the opening, they were crusted over with sewage from boots? Seriously, Wayne, you can be remarkably oblivious for a detective.” “You and Wax are detectives,” he said. “Not me.” “What are you then?” “Bullet stopper,” he said. “Skull knocker. Guy who occasionally gets exploded.” “We’ll be doing nothing like that today,” Marasi whispered. “We will peek in, see if I’m right, then get out for clearance and support.” “Guess we’ll be comin’ back up this way then,” he said with a sigh, then dug the climbing rope out of his canvas backpack. He found a sturdy rock formation to tie it around, then tossed the other side down into the darkness. He started down first, then Marasi followed, rifle slung across her back. The descent proved easier than she’d feared, as the rope had knots in it. Still, her arms were soon burning. “So,” Wayne said softly, dangling below, keeping pace with her instead of going on ahead, “wanna hear my list of ways how women break the laws of physics?” “Depends,” Marasi said. “How misogynistic is it? Can you give me a number on some kind of scale?” “Uh … thirteen?” “Out of what?” “Seventeen?” “What kind of insane scale is that?” she whispered, halting atop a boulder and glancing down at him. “Why in the world would you pick seventeen? Why not, at least, sixteen?” “I don’t know! You’re the one what asked me for a scale. Look, this is good. Women. Break the laws of physics. I’ve been thinkin’ on this forever. Couple days at least. You’ll like it.” “I’m sure.” “Way one,” he said, sliding to the next outcropping. “When they take off clothes, they get hotter. Strange, eh? Normal folks, they get colder when they take off—” “Normal folks?” she repeated, following him. “By normal, you mean men?” “Uh … I guess.” “So half the world is not normal? Women are not normal?” “It sounds a little silly when you say it like that.” “You think?” “Look, I just wanted to point out something interesting. Useful observationalizing ’bout the nature of the cosmere and the relationship between the genders.” “I think you thought of something that amused you, and wanted an excuse to say it.” She landed on the little platform next to him, and below she could finally see the bottom. They were roughly halfway. He met her eyes. “So … uh … fourteen then?” he said. “Outta seventeen.” “And rising. It’s not even true, Wayne. Plenty of men get hotter when they take off clothing. Depends on the man.” He grinned. “What about Allik?” “With Allik, it’s more the mask.” “He raises the rusting thing so often, makes you wonder why he wears it in the first place.” “Moving the mask is like … emphasis to the Malwish. It’s not wrong to let people see under the
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mask, though they pretend it’s taboo—and maybe it was once upon a time. Now they like the way they can use it to express themselves.” He swung over the side and continued down. She gave him a little space, then followed. “So…” he said. “Want to hear number two?” “Actually … I kind of do.” “Ha! I thought so. Wax would have said no.” “Wax had years to get accustomed to the depths of your depravity, Wayne. To me, it’s still remarkable how you manage to dig yourself deeper each and every time.” “Fair enough. Number two: Ask a woman how much she weighs. Then lift her. She’ll have increased in weight. Feruchemists, every one.” “Wayne, that joke is so tired, it slept through breakfast.” “What. Really?” “Absolutely. My father was making stupid cracks about women lying about their weight when I was a child.” “Damn. Old blustering Harms made that joke?” He looked up at her with wide eyes. “Oh, hell, Marasi. Am I getting old? Was that an old man joke?” “I have no comment.” “Damn conners and their damn tight lips.” He reached the bottom and dropped off the rope softly, with a rustle of cloth and boots on stone, then held the rope steady for her. She climbed the rest of the way to join him. “So, what’s number three on the list?” “I don’t got one yet.” “It’s a list of two items, one of which was dumb?” “Two of which was dumb,” he said sullenly. “One was apparently also geriatric. Same jokes as Lord Harms. I’m losing my edge, I am.” He met her eyes, then grinned. “Does this mean I get to be the grumpy old one in the partnership? You can be the young spunky one what swears all the time and makes bad life decisions.” She grinned. “Do I get a lucky hat?” “Only if you treat it well,” he said, his hand over his heart, “and take it off before somethin’ unlucky happens, as to not break its lucky streak.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, eyeing the tunnel that extended onward from the bottom of the shaft. “But let’s cut the chatter—as much as I love learning whatever has metastasized in your brain lately, we can’t afford to be overheard.” He dimmed the lantern again and they continued along the tunnel. People at the constabulary offices gave her sympathetic looks on occasion for putting up with Wayne—but the truth was, he could be a really good constable when he wanted to. And he usually did want to. Case in point, at her request he kept his mouth closed and concentrated on the job. Wayne could lack decorum, and could be painfully un-self-aware at times, but he was a good partner. Even excellent. So long as you got past his bubble—not his Allomantic one, but his personal one. Wayne was a fort of a man, with outer walls and defenses. If you were one of the lucky few he let in, you had a friend for life. One who’d stand with
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you against literal gods. We’re going to find you, Trell, Marasi thought, creeping forward. She’d first heard that name uttered by a dying man, years ago—and she was increasingly certain Trell was a god of vast power like Harmony. You can’t hide forever. Not if you want to keep influencing the world. Wayne grabbed her arm, stopping her without a word. Then he pointed at a tiny light shining far along the tunnel ahead. They crept the final distance, then peeked around the corner and were rewarded by the exact sight she’d been hoping for: a pair of men in vests and hats only a few feet away, playing cards on an overturned box. A small lamp flickered on their improvised table. Marasi nodded backward. She and Wayne crept away again, far enough to not be heard whispering. She looked to him in the darkness, wondering at his advice. Should they poke forward further, or was this enough of a confirmation to go get backup? “Tragic,” Wayne whispered. “What?” “Poor sod’s got a great hand,” Wayne whispered. “One in a million. And he’s playin’ against his broke buddy on guard duty? Rusting waste of a full-on Survivor’s suite…” Marasi rolled her eyes, then pointed to a small darkened side tunnel splitting off the main one. “Let’s see where this goes.” Behind them, a cursed exclamation echoed in the tunnels; sounded like the fellow with the good hand had just revealed it. This smaller tunnel wound around to the right of the guard post, and they soon saw why it wasn’t guarded; it hit a kind of dead end. Though some light did spill through a two-foot-wide hole in the rocks there. They sidled up to it, then peeked through into a midsized cavern—roughly as big as a dock warehouse—full of men and women boxing goods or lounging on improvised furniture. The hole appeared to be part of the natural rock formations; dripping water from the ceiling had covered the wall with odd protrusions and knobs, covering up what might once have been a larger opening. Marasi and Wayne were maybe fifteen feet up. She let out a long breath and surveyed the operation. It was here. Months of work. Months of promising Reddi her leads were good. Months of connecting theft records, witness accounts, and money trails. And here it was. A large-scale smuggling base set up directly underneath the city, funded by—best she could guess—a mix of Outer Cities interests and the Set. It was actually here. By Harmony’s True Name … she’d done it. Wayne looked to her with a wide smile on his face, then nudged her in the shoulder. “Nice,” he whispered. “Real nice.” “Thanks,” she whispered. “When you tell the constable-general about this,” he said, “leave out the part where I whined because of the sewage.” “And the bad jokes?” “Nah. Leave those in. You gotta give people what they expect, or they won’t believe your lies when you tell them.” Marasi took in the sight. Thirty-seven people, counting the two guards, all armed. Even the menial
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workers wore holsters. Judging by the leads she’d been tracing, those boxes would be full of military supplies—with a frightening number of explosive components. The gang had tried to cover their tracks by making some more mundane thefts as well, but she was confident she knew what was really happening here. Elendel had been squeezing the Outer Cities by refusing to let certain items—including weapons—be shipped out of Elendel, which was a central hub for all the train lines. This group was acting like an ordinary gang with their shakedowns and the like, but she was almost a hundred percent certain their purpose was to funnel weapons toward Bilming, current capital of Outer Cities interests. She didn’t like the Outer Cities being forced to work this way—but these gang members had killed innocent people on the streets. Plus, they were likely collaborating with some kind of evil god bent on the subjugation or destruction of the world. “Right, then,” Wayne whispered, pointing. “See that fellow near the back in the nice outfit? He’s a Set member for certain. Maybe the new Cycle.” Marasi nodded. Cycle was the lowest level of real officer in the Set. They were local bosses that operated gangs of hired muscle. Miles Hundredlives had been a Cycle, reporting to the Suit above him. This man was dressed in an upscale way—visibly more decorated than the others in the cavern. He was also lean, muscular, and tall. As a Cycle, he might be Metalborn. So they’d best not underestimate him in a fight. “You plug that fellow in the head with a nice rifle shot,” Wayne said, “and I bet the entire group will fold to us.” “That isn’t how things work in the real world, Wayne,” Marasi whispered. “Sure it is,” Wayne said. “If that’s the guy payin’ them, those other sods got no reason to keep fightin’.” “Even if you were right—and I sincerely doubt you are—that’s not how we’re going to do this. Confirmation, coordination, backup, and proper authorization. Remember?” “I try not to,” he grumbled. “Can’t we do this one my way? I got nothin’ against some blokes just doin’ their jobs, but I’d hate to hike through all that muck again, then return here and find this lot gone. Let’s bring ’em in now.” “No,” she said. “Your way involves too much chaos.” “That’s a bad thing because…” “Well, there’s the whole officers of the law thing.” “Right, right,” he said, then checked in his coat to reveal a shiny badge. It wasn’t something they used in the city, preferring their paper credentials. “Is that … Wax’s old badge from the Roughs?” she asked. “He traded it to me.” “For?” “Half a meat-’n’-ale bun.” Wayne grinned. “He’ll find it eventually. They get real hard to ignore.” She shook her head, waving him back down the tunnel. They had to keep their lantern darkened though—and that made it difficult to see. So despite being careful, as they returned to the main tunnel they surprised a guard who had stepped that direction to relieve himself. He
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glanced at them in the darkness, then shouted. Wayne had him down and knocked out half a second later, but cries of alarm sounded from the direction of the main cavern. Still standing atop the body, Wayne looked to her and grinned again. “My way it is!” 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
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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
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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
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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
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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.” 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
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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
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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
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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.
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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. 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
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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
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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?”
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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.” 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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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?” 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,”
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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
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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
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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
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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. Wax nodded to Wayne, and together they dashed out of the newspaper building—Wax pulling Telsin behind him—and into the cover between two nearby apartment buildings. Telsin sighed as they stopped, then straightened her suit jacket. “Was that necessary?” Wax gestured, and Wayne scrambled farther along the alleyway to scout the area. “There are no snipers,” Telsin said. “You aren’t surrounded. It’s just me.” Wax ignored her, absently clicking the chambers on Vindication one at a time. Watching the sky, because each time he looked at her he felt pain. Betrayal. He’d told Marasi he could handle Telsin. But now he questioned that. When had he ever gotten the better of her? She’d always made a fool of him. This is what you came here to do, he told himself. This is why you put the coat back on. Because you know she has to be dealt with somehow. “What if I towed you to Elendel,” he said, “and threw you in prison. Would you just go along with it?” “Of course not,” she said. “I came to talk. To persuade you.” “Of what?” She met his eyes. “To run, Wax. Return to the Roughs. Take your wife, your children, and leave. You have time. Step away and let me do what needs to be done. I’d rather you lived.” “Where was that inclination six years ago?” he asked. “On that mountaintop?” She sighed, as if at his childishness, then leaned against the wall of the alley. “I didn’t want to shoot you, Wax. I didn’t expect you to show up and undermine our plans, and I had to do what was required in the moment. “Wax, I know you. I know you’re overwhelmed by this. It’s too big for you; it can’t be solved by barreling in, revolver in hand. Go back to a place where you can accomplish something relevant. This next part will be messy, but it’s the only way to save our
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planet.” “You expect me to believe that you are interested in the safety of the planet? That you are being altruistic?” “Hardly,” she said, her arms folded. “I live here, Wax. If the Basin goes, I go. If you can trust in one thing, trust in my sense of self-preservation. Elendel has to be destroyed. Or else.” “Or else Autonomy destroys the entire Basin?” “She has an army,” Telsin said, looking away. “Men of gold and red … waiting for me to fail. Breathing over my proverbial shoulder. Our best hope is for me to prove I can rule this planet for her—and I need to remove the leadership of Elendel before I can do that.” She focused on him. “We’ll be better off with her guiding us. Harmony is useless, as you’ve undoubtedly learned by now. We need someone stronger.” “Someone who by coincidence,” he said, “wants you to represent her.” “It is a job that needs to be done.” “I’d rather it be done by practically anyone but you.” “You don’t get to make that decision.” Telsin looked up toward the sky. “Once I’m fully Invested—once I’m a Sliver of Autonomy—you’ll see. I’ll rebuild the Basin. Make it as modern and efficient as Bilming. You realize that Harmony has crippled us? Life is too easy in the Basin, too lush. There’s no conflict or strife, so we don’t innovate, don’t grow. That’s what Autonomy has taught me.” Wax, feeling cold, stepped toward her. “So the solution is to annihilate Elendel? Nearly half our entire population?” She continued staring at the sky. “Telsin,” he said, “this insane plan won’t work. The South will invade the moment we’re perceived as weak. The Outer Cities will rebel in horror at what you’ve done. I know the mayors of those cities. They’re frustrated, but they’re not monsters. “By destroying Elendel, you’d throw us into chaos. And yes, you’ll have strife. But it will end us, as surely as if Autonomy had attacked. This won’t give you what you want. Autonomy is playing you. Have you considered that? Maybe she wants you to destroy the Basin so she doesn’t have to bother.” Again, Telsin didn’t look at him. And rusts, he felt like he’d put together another piece. Harmony had talked about Autonomy and the way she pushed people to survive, to prove themselves. A destroyed city might seem like a ruthless enough move to accomplish that, which was why Telsin was pursuing it. But what about the letter indicating the involvement of Elendel senators? he thought. This is wrong. I’m making guesses based on incomplete information. “Come on,” Telsin said, turning to climb up a fire escape. “I hate the smell of alleys.” Wax raised the gun at her and chambered a hazekiller round. An aluminum bullet with a secondary explosive that would blast after it lodged into her—a brutal shell capable of ripping off limbs. Ranette had designed it for him after he’d discovered the Bands of Mourning and had expressed interest in ways to forcibly remove spikes from bodies. Telsin continued up
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the fire escape, indifferent. She paused at the first landing and glanced at Wax. “Come on.” Then she kept climbing. Rusts. Wax raised Vindication beside his head, then dropped a bullet with the other hand and used it to launch himself up past Telsin onto the roof. She joined him a short time later, and they both looked out over the city. “Life really would have been far simpler,” she said, “if you’d stayed in the Roughs, Wax.” “Then you and Edwarn shouldn’t have vanished.” “We had to go into hiding,” she said. “Did Harmony tell you what happened to our parents?” “It was … an accident…” “It was agents of Harmony, trying to get to me. Did Harmony ever admit that to you?” She strolled past him. “No, I expect not, based on your expression.” Don’t let her play you, Wax. Get information. “I know your bomb’s delivery mechanism doesn’t work, Telsin. I am going to track it down and stop it. Maybe you should be the one planning to hide in the Roughs. Better, maybe you should be asking me for help. If Autonomy has an army ready to strike, then we should be figuring out how to fight it together.” Telsin stopped at the edge of the building, elbows on the stone railing, contemplative. “It’s pretty, don’t you think? A city of the future. All symmetrical, like a perfect face. A beauty without blemish.” “Telsin,” Wax said, stepping up to her. “Oh, stop with the gritty constable growl, Wax,” she said. “You see this city? Six years under my direction, and it’s doing far better than Elendel. You have to admit we’ve been too sheltered. The Malwish are beyond us, and you haven’t even seen what other planets are capable of doing. We’re so far behind. We’re vulnerable.” “I don’t see how blowing up the capital is going to change that, Telsin.” “Because you’ve always lacked vision, Wax,” she said. “When something truly expansive lies before you, instead of comprehending it, you run.” Wax kept his distance. “Why did you come to see me, Telsin?” he asked. “What is this really about?” “Sibling affection?” she said. Then smiled as he gave her a flat glance in response. “I simply want you gone. Out of the equation. You interfering is bad. Even when you inevitably fail.” Her brother showing up to ruin things is bad, he thought. Telsin glanced away again, but he sensed a tension in her posture. She was legitimately worried that her plans wouldn’t come together—that Autonomy would simply send in her armies. Can’t have your own family ruining your masterful plans. It makes you look bad in front of the dark god deciding whether or not to destroy you. “You can’t actually think,” he said, “that you can bully me into leaving a case.” “I suppose not,” she said softly. “But I wanted to try.” Yeah, she’s worried. Telsin knew him, but he knew her equally well. Perhaps Harmony was right in suggesting Wax talk to her. The sharpened sword cut cleanest, and Wax had spent
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a lifetime sharpening this particular blade. “Do you remember back in the Village,” he said to her, “when you wanted your own room?” “Father always said it was appropriate for us,” she said, “because of our lineage. We shouldn’t have to share.” “You planted stolen cash on your own cousin to achieve it. And even that wasn’t your end goal—you wanted to live alone so that you could sneak out. Everything is a power play for you.” “Because I’m willing to step up,” she said. “And take charge. Like I took over our house when our parents died. Like I’m taking over this planet. It will happen, Wax. I’m merely sad that I’ll have to cut through you to accomplish it.” Wax met her gaze. And he realized something profound. He couldn’t see anything familial in this person. Familiar, yes. But whatever he had loved was long gone, ripped out and replaced with expansions of the parts of her he’d always hated. “Last chance, Wax,” she said, holding his eyes. “Go back to the Roughs. With Elendel gone, those people out there are going to need someone to help guide and protect them. You can be that person. This is too big for you. You know it is.” Wax opened his mouth to object. To explain that yes, he had run once. He’d been overwhelmed by politics, society, expectations. He’d wanted adventure, dreamed of it in the Roughs—but more, he’d wanted a place where one man could make an easy difference. Where things felt simpler. He cut himself off, realizing something crucial. She was wrong about him. He’d changed. He’d become someone new, someone who had grown beyond his fears. But she didn’t realize it. She didn’t know about Lessie. Didn’t understand the depth of his friendship with Wayne. Didn’t know of his love for Steris, the reason he’d taken Harmony’s offer to return from death and try again. She didn’t know him. But she thought she did. Rusts. For the first time in his life, he had an advantage over her. Telsin, by marinating in her own ambitions for years, had become an extreme version of the woman he knew. She’d continued on exactly the path he’d worried about since her youth. But he’d deviated. He’d grown. He’d changed. “I might not be able to fix things in Elendel,” he found himself saying. “I might not grasp everything that’s happening with you and Autonomy. But stopping a bomb is something I can solve. Something I will solve.” She sighed, seeing only the dogged lawman. Her little brother and his fantasies. “You have no idea…” she whispered, looking away. “You can’t stop this, Wax. Even if you did find the bomb, there are redundancies upon redundancies to make sure that Autonomy gets what she wants. We need to prove ourselves. And I’m going to do that.” Redundancies. What did she mean by that? It didn’t sound like the army Autonomy was supposedly sending. Were there other, internal pressures? Rivals? He took a guess. “Gave Entrone,” he said, “is trying to overtake you.
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Seize your position.” “Entrone is a coward,” she said. “He won’t move against me. Wax, you’re not half as smart as you think you are.” He might not see it all, true—but if Entrone was a coward, then maybe Wax was interrogating the wrong person. He doubted he could break Telsin. But clearly there was someone else who knew these plans. So, I get Entrone to break, he thought. “You ever stand up someplace high,” Telsin said, “and feel the irresistible urge to throw yourself off?” “No,” Wax said, frowning. “If I want to, I jump. If I don’t, I don’t.” “The curse of Steelpushing,” she said, staring out over the city. “You can’t feel it. The call to do something dramatic, drastic, impressive.” “The urge to kill yourself on a whim?” Wax asked, baffled. “The opportunity to be afraid,” she whispered. “To do something thrilling and new. You know, I resisted getting the spikes for Steelpushing and Ironpulling? I didn’t want to lose my nervousness around heights. Then I found new fears, new challenges, new ambitions.” Wax nodded slowly. That was his Telsin. The woman who always pushed recklessly for more. More power. But also more experiences. More novelty. More control over others. “There’s an entire cosmere out there,” she said to him. “Few ever see or know it. But I have a chance to. A real chance. I’m not going to let you take that from me. I’m telling you, Wax, I’m not going to pull my punches. I’ll do whatever it takes.” “And I’ll stop you. Whatever it takes.” “Ever the moralist,” she said, glancing at him. “Standing so tall, pretending you see so high, when in reality you can barely grasp the problems you’re trying to fix. I’ve already solved them. Do you want to hear of Trell? Autonomy? What it means to be her avatar?” A part of him did. But if she wanted to tell him about it … if she was offering … Rusts, then she was stalling. She was desperate, trying to buy as much time as she could. That piece clicked into place. She was talking to him because she had to keep him distracted. The trick wasn’t to realize that she was stalling, it was to recognize that as long as he let her tease him with information, she held all the cards. There was only one way to win this particular game. And that was to leave the table. “She’s going to destroy us?” he said, strolling across the top of the roof behind her. “Unless I prove to her that we’re worth saving,” she explained, turning to survey the city. As before, she didn’t seem to care that she had her back to him. “Autonomy is … odd. She respects those who are bold, strong, able to survive on their own. But she also wants them to obey her. I suppose that is the irony of godhood. Half the time, being ‘autonomous’ means following her plan. And there’s no Whimsy to her—that’s a different god. “Autonomy is rugged individualism filtered
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through the lens of a god who thinks she knows best. And in that context, individualism is a virtue best applied to finding ways to carry out the plans she has outlined. You get to be individual in your chosen path to do what she says…” Wax missed the next part, as he had quietly slipped over the side of the roof. With luck, she’d keep right on talking, giving him time to get away. Marasi and Moonlight hurriedly finished up in the basement—Moonlight grabbing a last few rubbings of the wall plates and tucking them away in her case. Together they then climbed to the main floor, where they found the grey-haired editor Maraga standing in the center of a cluttered room, holding an overstuffed travel bag and looking frazzled. “On his way out,” she said to Marasi, “Dawnshot told me to go to family in the countryside. But all of my family is either here or in Elendel. Should I … go to them?” “Probably not wise,” Marasi said. Any family in Bilming would be easily tracked down by the Set, and Elendel … well, it had a massive bomb pointed at it. That thought filled Marasi with worry. But she needed to focus on preventing the disaster. She had to leave helping Elendel to her sister. “Moonlight,” Marasi said, “surely there’s a place in the city you could send Maraga? A place of safety for someone who did us such great service?” Moonlight considered for a moment. She wasn’t the type to rush into things, it seemed. Careful. Calculating. Finally she slipped a small card from her sleeve, marked with the interlocking diamond symbol. “Do you know the Knightbridge district?” “Yes,” Maraga said, hesitantly taking the card. “Go to Thirty-Third and Finete, house number one eighty-seven. Knock, show them this, and tell them Moonlight said you could ask for asylum as recompense for services rendered. They’ll take you in. Even the Set will have trouble assaulting that place.” “Thank you,” the woman said, clutching the card to her chest. “I’ll send someone to collect your research,” Moonlight said. “Though I have the plates all copied. You need to go. Quickly.” “I’m going to fetch my sister too,” Maraga said. “Please?” “If you must,” Moonlight said. “But be warned, since the Set knows we’re here, each moment you waste endangers your life.” Maraga rushed to the door. She paused to look over what she was leaving, then steeled herself and hurried out. “What about us?” Moonlight asked. “We need to determine a likely entry point to the underground caverns,” Marasi said. “Do you have maps of enemy movements? Lists of places you think might be owned by the Set?” “Not on me,” Moonlight said. “Perhaps we could return to the records office and do some research.” “I think I have a better idea,” Marasi said, leading the way out the front door. “Riskier, but hopefully faster.” “I’m intrigued,” Moonlight said, joining her as they walked to a busier street where—with some effort—Marasi managed to flag down a cab. She found
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it amazing how quickly coachmen had made the swap between horse-drawn carriages and motorcabs. They settled in the rear of the motorcar, and the cabbie—a woman with dark hair in a ponytail—glanced back at them. “Where to?” “Knightbridge district,” Marasi said. “Thirty-Third and Finete.” The cabbie nodded, pulling out into the flow of traffic and taking them westward. “Clever,” Moonlight said to Marasi. “I’m going to have to watch myself around you. But what makes you think our safehouse will have the maps you want?” “You found me in the caverns beneath Elendel,” Marasi said. “Plus, a moment ago you implied such maps existed—you didn’t have them ‘on you.’ Ergo, I assumed this was a good path forward. Your people will have the information we need.” “They might not let you in,” Moonlight said. “What then? You’ll have wasted time.” “Wasted time,” Marasi snapped. “Wasted time?” She glanced toward the cabbie, uncertain what she should say. “Darkwater, dear,” Moonlight said to the cabbie, “give us a little privacy.” “Sure thing, Moonlight,” the cabbie said, shutting the window separating the front of the car from the back. Marasi gaped. Then she looked at Moonlight, who shrugged. “Moonlight,” Marasi said, focusing her thoughts, “what kind of game do you think we’re playing? Didn’t you say your entire purpose was protecting this planet? Now you imply you’d keep me locked out of your safehouse, and the vital information it contains?” Moonlight settled in her seat, thoughtful. “My organization,” she eventually said, “was created to protect and advance the needs of the planet Scadrial. It’s not my homeland, but I am committed to seeing it remain stable. There are terrible forces moving in the cosmere; my people are going to need allies.” “So why are you so resistant to helping me?” “To be honest,” Moonlight said, “I’m worried we’re being played. Autonomy is adept at misdirection, at false leads and confusing shadows of half-truths. Restarting the ashfalls? That seems … outrageous. Impossible even for her. Something is off about all this. A shade too red to be natural.” “So help me find the truth, Moonlight,” Marasi said. “Stop toying with me.” “I’m not toying with you,” Moonlight said. “This is an audition.” Marasi blinked. What? “Until a little while ago,” Moonlight continued, “I assumed we had months to unravel the Set’s plan.” She tapped her armrest with a fingernail, then looked at her bag, where the rubbings she’d taken were peeking out. During their short time working together, Marasi had started to see Moonlight as all-knowing—someone mysterious, alien. But that concern in her eyes, the way she was fighting uncertainty … that was all too human. “I’ll let you into the safehouse,” Moonlight finally said. “And deal with the ramifications later, if this proves to all be another of Autonomy’s shadow games. But I’m not sure I can give you everything you want. “We don’t have the caverns in the city mapped, but we do watch their agents.” She patted her bag, and the rubbings. “This lists coordinates of the explosions. So if we compare where
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the blasts have been happening with the places where Set agents appear and vanish…” “… We might be able to find a way into their testing facility,” Marasi said. “I did something similar to locate that cavern under Elendel.” “I remember when all this started to hit me,” Moonlight said softly. “When my world expanded, and my personal squabbles—even the ones that influenced the fates of empires—suddenly became so small. You’re doing remarkably well.” “My life,” Marasi said, “has mostly been expanses of quiet humdrum punctuated by sudden explosions—usually literal ones—of activity. I’m used to working under pressure.” “And dealing with gods?” Moonlight said. “Fighting their influence?” “Well, we have one on our own side, after all.” “Kind of,” Moonlight said. “Harmony isn’t terribly reliable these days. At least not in the ways my mentor would prefer. It’s less like having a god on your side—and more like having a powerful referee who only sometimes pays attention to your fight.” “Or an observer,” Marasi said, “who you’re sure could do more to help, but doesn’t for some baffling reason.” “Yes, like…” Moonlight narrowed her eyes. “Point made. Here, we’re approaching the safehouse. Hopefully the Survivor hasn’t returned unexpectedly. My mentor isn’t always reasonable when it comes to people he sees as Harmony’s agents, and might respond … poorly.” Wayne had read a real interesting book once about a fellow what went back in time. It had happened because he’d turned on too many electric switches at once. That was ridiculous, but the book had been written when electricity had been new—so it was forgivable. People had thought some funny stuff about electricity back then. Wayne himself had tried to fill a bucket with it once. He found himself thinking of that story as he scoured the nearby alleys for signs of the Set’s agents. See, the book had been all about how changing the past was this dangerous thing. The fellow in it had broken some branches off a tree, and when he’d returned to the future, his father had liked eating butter on his sandwiches instead of mayo. Also, sapient lions had ruled the city. Wayne had thought there was something … off about the story. When he’d mentioned it to friends, Nod had told him of another one with the same idea, where a fellow was sent back in time through the intricacies of indoor plumbing and an unfortunately large flush. And he had changed things by eating a bagel, then returned to discover that everybody spoke backward and no one wore shirts anymore. This book had been better than the first one on account of it having more cussing—plus the no-shirts part being universally applied and very descriptively relayed—but still, Wayne found the idea uncomfortable. He traded a beggar—unbeknownst to the fellow—a stack of cash for a dirty handkerchief; Wayne liked it on account of it havin’ a little bunny sewn in the corner. He was starting to figure out why those stories bothered him. They had this sense that changing the future was frightening and dangerous. But didn’t
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people change it every day? Wayne wondered regarding the choices people made. Rushing through their lives eating bagels, breaking twigs. Each of them changing the future. Shouldn’t they all … worry about that a little more? Worry how they were changing the future right now, rather than writing books about people doing it in the past? Even if they couldn’t know some things, there was a lot they could anticipate. They might not make that future have talking lions or whatnot—but they might make it have angrier, sadder people. Maybe stories about fellows quietly making the world better were just too dull. Sounded boring, actually. Maybe if the people in them wore no shirts … A hand wrapped around Wayne’s mouth from behind. He almost killed the fellow—but it smelled like Wax, so … Yup, it was Wax. The man eased Wayne back into an alleyway, then pulled him down beside some rubbish as someone passed on the street. Telsin, searching around, annoyed. After she was gone, Wax removed his hand. “You let her go?” Wayne whispered. “Call me crazy—” “You’re crazy.” “—but it feels more like I escaped.” Wax nodded his head in the other direction and they snuck away. “I have to say,” Wayne muttered, “that there are better methods of gettin’ my attention. You’re not supposed to take friends captive, Wax, unless it involves a safeword and stretchy ropes.” “Stretchy ropes?” “More fun if you can move a little,” Wayne said. “I got to test them, since I had to be the one getting tied up. You know, on account of the fact that my girlfriend could turn into a puddle of jelly on command. Kind of undermines the point of bondage.” Wax groaned softly as they slipped out onto the street. “I did not need to know any of that, Wayne. Could you maybe avoid being crass on the missions Harmony specifically sent us on?” “Hey now,” Wayne said. “That’s not crass. MeLaan is a divine being. Chosen by Harmony. I figure, dating her was basically like going to church, you know?” “And the stretchy ropes?” “A, uh, metaphor for us all being bound by God’s will?” They shared a look, then Wax actually grinned as he shook his head. Good. Guy was too uptight these days, what with parenthood, bein’ a senator, and having to save the whole damn city now and then. Hoid pulled up in the car to get them, per Wayne’s earlier request—but Telsin was still lurking around. So Wax and Wayne slipped out another way and entered a busy street of bustling people. Full of Bilming idiots what had no idea how difficult they was making life. Though he supposed that was too much of a generalization. There were plenty of people in Bilming that weren’t idiots—they came from out of town to gawk at all the idiots. “Did you get a lead out of Telsin?” Wayne asked as they blended into the crowd. “Maybe,” Wax said. “Well, I’ve definitely got a lead.” “You do? Thank Harmony.” “Yup. There’s a shining good pub
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three streets over. Two different bums swore by it.” Wayne earned a real good glare out of that one. Made him feel all proud of himself. Smiles, then glares, then smiles, then glares. They pulled at a person like taffy, keeping them limber. “I had to get away from Telsin,” Wax said. “I’m sure she was stalling, trying to keep me occupied.” “Seems like she’s worried we can stop her.” “Agreed. Which is encouraging. But I won’t get anything useful from her. Not in time. We need someone else to interrogate, and she gave me a lead: I think the lord mayor deserves a visit.” “Here now,” Wayne said. “Now that’s an idea.” They stopped on the street, people giving them a wide berth. The folks here seemed to dress with a lot more variety than in Elendel, but nobody wore guns. Wax stood out like a big ol’ wart on a fellow’s face. The type that you really wanted to pop to see what oozed out. “We don’t exactly blend in, do we?” Wax said. “Mate, you’re wearing a rusting mistcoat.” “They’re comfy.” “They draw attention.” “You like attention!” “Depends on who’s looking.” He eyed Wax. “Never have figured out how to go up stairs in one of those things without tripping over my own feet.” “I’ve never had any trouble.” Figured. Mistcoats appeared like a regular piece of clothing, but Wayne was sure they was secretly something else. Made of mist or such—and since Harmony liked Wax, the coat didn’t trip him. Wasn’t fair that God liked Wax better. Wayne didn’t mean to blaspheme when he got drunk, it just slipped out. And really, if the blasphemy leaked out, didn’t that mean he was more pious afterward? That was why he got drunk so often. That, and absolutely no other reason. The two of them moved to the side of the street, in the mouth of an alleyway, to plan. Wax glared right smartly at anyone who gawked, sending them on their way. “So,” Wax said, “we should choose our next course soon. Because if I somehow actually managed to lose the Set when slipping away from Telsin, they’ll surely spot us before too long.” “’Cuz you stand out like pink shoes on a pallbearer.” “’Cuz I stand out like pink shoes on a pallbearer.” “I like the idea of shakin’ down Entrone,” Wayne said. “On principle, at least. But I worry about how much attention that would draw. So maybe we don’t need to interrogate him specifically. After all, we do know where he lives.” Wayne pointed across the city, up the road, to the silvery-white building sitting at the end. It wasn’t the highest building in town. The central spire, dominating the very middle of the city, was the highest by a lot. And they were even adding to it at the top, it seemed, with new construction. Still, there was a certain majesty about the mayor’s mansion. The kind that said, “Oi, mate! Don’t use words like ‘oi, mate’ ’round here.” “Entrone,” Wayne said, “is obviously involved
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in all this. He’s the type to have secrets written down somewhere, maybe give us a lead on where that bomb is being kept. He’s probably got a safe or something full of answers.” “You just said shaking him down would create another incident,” Wax said, his hands on his hips, holstered guns jutting out and making basically everybody nearby nervous. “Now you’re suggesting we ransack his mansion?” “I’m suggesting,” Wayne said, giving it a nice upper-class, Fifth Octant, old-money accent, “that once we have completed our radio communication, we give the esteemed lord mayor an evening turn-down service with mints on his pillow, folded towels in the shape of a monkey, and a light despoiling of his intimate affairs. Done with only the most delicate attention, mind you. A courteous looting. An … upper-class plundering.” “Is that so?” Wax said. Wayne leaned in. “I mean, we’ll still break all his stuff and steal his secrets. I just won’t fart on his chair before we go. You know. To keep things classy.” Wax took a deep breath. “Well, I suppose that does walk the line between accosting the man himself and doing something that has a good chance of success. Let’s do it.” Wayne grinned. “But I’ll do the ransacking,” Wax said. “You handle the distraction.” Steris threw open the door to the governor’s chamber, where he was holding his private council on what to do about Bilming. Then held that door open for Constable-General Reddi. He’d been invited to the meeting along with his staff. Today that included two other people: Constable Gorglen as record keeper. And Steris. The governor sat at the head of the meeting table. Adawathwyn immediately glared at Steris through dark brown eyes. The three senators—Lord Cett, Lady Hammondess, and Lady Gardre—were in attendance, as well as Ambassador Daal, his expression unreadable behind his bloodred mask. The shorter man hadn’t taken a seat at the table, but instead stood by the wall, his posture prim and sharp. “Ah, finally,” the governor said, looking up from the broadsheets. “Reddi. You … Wait. What is she doing here?” “Lady Ladrian?” Reddi said. “Subject matter expert, on my payroll.” As of fifteen minutes ago, at least. Steris had insisted he actually pay her, and she clutched the single coin in her fist as she shut the door behind Reddi. Then she stepped forward and sat down at the table beside him. “Did she tell you,” the governor said, “that I specifically excluded her from this council?” “Yes, she did,” Reddi replied. “And frankly, Your Grace, I thought that an unwise move. She’s the wife of the man who alerted us to this crisis. When Lady Ladrian approached me and explained why I should employ her, I realized she’d undoubtedly have information this council needs.” The vice governor folded her arms on the table, scowling. But the governor … he nodded. Steris always hesitated to read too much into people’s expressions, but now she wondered. Was there a rift between these two? She’d always assumed Varlance was entirely in Adawathwyn’s pocket.
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But then, no person ever fit comfortably in a pocket. “Very well,” the governor said. “I’m afraid we started without you. As the information has come in and we’ve gauged the feelings of Outer Cities governments, we’ve come to see that our path is inevitable. It looks like war.” “War?” Reddi said. “It’s the necessary course of action,” Lady Hammondess said. She had a small gap between her front teeth, of the sort men often described as cute—as if it were the reason for her beauty rather than her flawless skin, delicate features, and long lashes. Curious, how minor flaws became cute when their bearer also happened to be conventionally attractive. “The Outer Cities are building up for war.” “Warships in Bilming,” Lord Cett agreed. He was a striking man, if you liked the smooth and well-dressed sort. Steris wondered how much work it took to keep one’s rough edges so contained behind powders and soft clothing. “Railroad blockades to the south. Recruitment flyers in the Roughs, offering jobs for ‘security forces.’” “Which is why,” Constable Reddi said, “we need to work so hard to soothe the situation and reconcile!” “Better,” Lady Hammondess said, “we should strike first. We’ve been ignoring the warning signs for too long. If we don’t move soon, we will not be able to win.” Steris glanced at Lady Gardre, the third of the nobles in the room. The plump woman was much less of a war hawk than the others, far more reasonable. But even she nodded, reluctantly. And it did make sense. Every day that Elendel dithered gave the other cities time to build power. Elendel had the advantage of infrastructure, manufacturing, and coordination. But that wouldn’t remain an edge for long. Striking first made sense if you thought war was inevitable. But it wasn’t. It didn’t have to be. This was the enemy’s plan. She was increasingly certain that saber-rattling in the Outer Cities was a cover for whatever weapon was being prepared in Bilming. Reddi began sputtering. “War with what army? Elendel has barely ten thousand troops, and that’s counting our navy protecting shipping to the South!” “We have conscription plans in place,” Adawathwyn said smoothly. “And we have a very capably trained constabulary.” Reddi seemed horrified by that statement. Steris had something to add, but she hesitated. Was this the part where she spoke? She could rarely figure that out. “My people,” Reddi said, “are not soldiers.” “Pardon, constable,” Lord Cett said, leaning across the table. “But no one is a soldier until they’re trained to be.” “We’re needed,” Reddi explained. “Law—” “We’ll be under martial law,” the governor explained. “Policing crime in the city will get a lot easier with curfews. You can put excess constables into the military force.” Maybe this was the part where she should speak. Steris opened her mouth and made a noise to that effect, but they kept talking straight over her. “I won’t stand for this!” Reddi said, throwing himself—paradoxically—to his feet. “This is not the oath my constables swore!” “You don’t get to choose, constable,”
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the governor said. “I hold your commission, and that of every constable in this city. They ultimately answer to me.” “We can quit, Varlance,” Reddi said, leaning forward, his hands on the table. “You can’t force us to fight.” “I—” Steris started. “Actually,” Adawathwyn said lightly, “that’s precisely what a draft is, Constable Reddi.” “I would—” Steris tried again. “Yeah?” Reddi snapped. “And who exactly is going to lock us up?” “Everyone shut up and listen!” Steris snapped. “Or I will barf on the table to get your attention!” The entire room stared at her. “I’ll do it,” she warned. “I keep medication in my handbag to produce the effect. You’d be surprised at how often the option is relevant.” Well, now she had their attention. “If we are worried about war,” she said, “we should immediately begin an evacuation of the city.” “No good,” Cett said. “If there is war, we need workers to facilitate industry—and to ramp up production of munitions.” Rusts. That was the correct answer. She’d hoped he wouldn’t have thought that far forward. She glanced at the silent Malwish ambassador. What did he think of all of this? Had he anticipated it? She had always kept her focus on members of the Set in the Basin. But who was to say there weren’t members among the Malwish as well? Rusts. “War is not the answer,” she said, turning back to the group. “It serves our enemies, not us. Look, I made a list here, to prove the logic of what I say. I’m increasingly convinced that the leaders of the Outer Cities want us to be passing legislation that restricts and insults them. They want us interfering. “They have built gunships and militaries, but they have not attacked. They caught Waxillium in their midst, shooting up a warehouse, but what haven’t they done? They haven’t expelled our constables or officials from the city. They’ve shouted about it, they’ve drawn up editorials. But they haven’t attacked. Why not?” “Because they need us to do it,” Reddi said. “They need us to give them a reason to go to war.” “The common people of the Basin don’t want to fight,” Steris said. “Certainly not against Elendel—where they undoubtedly have family.” “Or because they don’t think they can win,” Lord Cett said. Steris looked down at her notes. “That’s … unfortunately a real possibility.” “Why is that unfortunate?” Reddi asked. “Because,” Steris said, “if they know they can’t defeat us in open war they might do something desperate. Like unleash a weapon of cataclysmic relevance.” “Returning to your real point,” Adawathwyn said. “This bomb you keep harping on.” But Governor Varlance was watching her. He was listening. “My husband,” Steris said, “is in Bilming investigating it as we speak. He produced a terribly dangerous explosion in our laboratory, using rare materials we know the enemy has. We have traced a set of test explosions in caverns underneath Bilming. Something is happening.” She met the governor’s eyes. “And if our fears about a bomb are true,” she said softly, “then the
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posturing—manipulating us into the position of a bully and tyrant who needs to be resisted—might be intended to give the leaders of the Outer Cities a justification. A way to explain why they had to take such extreme measures. Like destroying us all.” The room quieted, but then Lady Gardre shook her head. “Are we really entertaining these fancies? Doomsday weapons? The real politics of the situation aren’t enough?” She, Steris realized, looking at the quiet woman, must be the member of the Set. She’d assumed there would be at least one moving among the political elite of Elendel. For a while she’d worried it was the governor or Adawathwyn, but they were both too obvious. The Set liked to move beneath layers of obscurity. The governor was far too prominent, and Adawathwyn too actively working for things the Set wanted. She was a decoy; she likely assumed she was the mastermind of her own designs. In actuality, she was just another puppet. Encouraged, but left clean so that her eventual downfall wouldn’t lead to real conspirators. Who included, smartly, the woman who was seen as the most reasonable. The most rational. Steris felt far more comfortable upon identifying her. It was like … finding a snake in your intimates drawer. Yes, it was alarming. But at least you could close the drawer and know where it was. But how to steer the conversation in defiance of that woman? Ah. Perhaps that? She turned to the constables. “This might be the right time to reveal yourself,” she said. “Huh?” Reddi asked. “Not you, Constable-General,” she said, looking past him toward the lanky Constable Gorglen—the younger man with a long neck and freckles. So unassuming. He met her eyes. “How did you know?” he asked in a grinding, rough voice that didn’t match his frame. “Process of elimination,” she said. “We were promised help, and MeLaan said there were multiple kandra among the constables, but gave only one name. Plus, you walk awkwardly when you have to use a two-legged body.” “Damn,” Gorglen—TenSoon—said. “But I suppose you’re right about the timing.” He stood up before the room of surprised people and made his skin transparent. “Harmony would like me to impress upon you the importance of our current debate—and to confirm what Lady Ladrian is saying. The Set is real. They are planning to annihilate Elendel.” The governor gasped. Adawathwyn drew back. Reddi gaped, then spun on Steris. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I wasn’t a hundred percent certain until earlier today,” Steris admitted. “I actually wondered if you were also kandra, Reddi. I decided against it, as I don’t think Harmony likes his kandra impersonating important officials. Except that once. Well, and that other time. But those were exceptions.” She flipped open one of her notebooks. “I’ve been tracking who might have been replaced for weeks now. See? Kandra attendant to the constable-general. Second most likely placement in the city for one of the Immortals.” “And the first?” Adawathwyn asked. “You,” Steris said, flipping back a page. “But I was working with
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outdated information. A kandra in your place would take far more care not to be an utterly worthless piece of slime.” She made a notation. The room was quiet. “Oh, did I say something awkward again? I do make that mistake sometimes, don’t I?” Reddi slumped back into his seat. “I can’t believe this…” “It was all but inevitable that they would be among your staff, Constable-General Reddi,” Steris said. “No,” he said. “It’s not that he’s kandra. It’s that … rusts, Wayne was right…” “I am TenSoon,” the kandra said to the room, eliciting another series of gasps. He growled softly. “I hate it when people do that. Harmony is worried. And so you should be worried. Especially as Harmony is … unable to see certain things lately. We are working blind.” “What can blind a god?” the governor asked. “Another god,” Steris mumbled. “So what do we do?” Reddi asked. “We can’t go to war, not if that’s what they want. But—” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. There were no attendants in the room, just senators and the like, so Reddi answered it himself: revealing a young woman, a radio technician by her uniform, holding a folded piece of paper. “What is it?” Reddi demanded. “Communication from Dawnshot,” she said, “for Lady Ladrian. I … um … thought it was worth interrupting you, even though the people outside said—” “You did the right thing,” Reddi said, taking it. The poor woman was pale and trembling. “You read it?” Steris asked. “I had to transcribe it for you,” she said. “That’s how it works…” Reddi handed Steris the letter, and she unfolded it. The opening words, bold and dominant, leaped off the page. Bomb is confirmed real, and already fabricated. City-destroying capacity. Enemy is trying to find a way to deliver it to Elendel. It’s time to evacuate the city. Marasi stood before an unassuming townhome, one in a long row of structures along the street, each a different color with a slightly different building shape. Each lawn held a different variety of tree. Bilming ideal: mass-produced individuality. Marasi hesitated on the threshold. Ruin. Was she ready to meet the Survivor himself? A man she had been taught since childhood to worship, a man who had transcended even the grave. Who had briefly held the mantle of Preservation before releasing it to the Ascendant Warrior. And who had then protected the people of the Southern Continent for years after the world was remade. Moonlight was confident that her mentor really was him. So how would it feel to meet him? You’ve chatted with Death, Marasi thought. Is this so different? Judging by her nerves: Yes. Yes it was. Moonlight touched her finger to a piece of metal on the door, and the thing unlocked. “Identity lock,” she noted, then pushed open the door. The small foyer inside was all hardwood and polish, and there were no paintings or other ornamentations of note. Moonlight headed to the left, into a large room with thick drapes covering the windows.
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The walls were lined with maps, illuminated by electric lights. Moonlight slid her bag onto a table by the far wall, where a woman in her twenties—somewhat plump, with a stark blonde bob—was peering at a paper covered in strange writing. She had a small terrier in her lap. “Moonlight,” the woman said after a glance. “You have to read this. Travel to Bjendal has been completely upset. That’s four primary systems we can’t visit without extreme danger, if you count Roshar. I’ve said it for years: The perpendicularities are no longer viable. They never were good for mass transportation or commerce, no matter how hard those fools on Nalthis try. We need a different…” The woman trailed off, then turned in her seat, perhaps hearing Marasi stepping into the room. “Hey! You brought a local!” “Marasi, meet Codenames,” Moonlight said. “Codenames, meet Marasi. We’re working on a mission together.” “Wow,” Codenames said, thrusting the sheet of paper at Moonlight, then hopping to her feet, the small dog under her arm. “You must trust her.” “Hardly.” “You brought her to the safehouse!” “She forced me.” “No one forces you to do anything,” Codenames said, then bounced over and thrust her free hand toward Marasi. “Hi! I’m Codenames Are Stupid. Long story.” The woman had a faint accent, wholly unlike that of Allik or anyone Marasi had met from the Southern Continent. That, plus the way she’d spoken of “locals,” indicated … another traveler? The presence of an accent indicated she might not be as good at languages as Moonlight was, maybe? Marasi shook her hand. “Is … um … the Survivor here?” “Kell?” Codenames said. “Nah. Haven’t seen him in a week or so.” She spun toward Moonlight. “What do you think of the report? Worrisome, right?” Moonlight held the paper pinched between two fingers. “Codenames,” she said, “what language is this even in?” “Thaylen,” Codenames said. “Oh! It’s a fascinating one, Moonlight. You should learn it! Look how the letters interlock in—” “I’ll stick to using Connection tricks for languages, thank you,” Moonlight said, spreading out the rubbings she’d taken. “That’s cheating.” “Another word for a clever shortcut,” Moonlight said. “Is TwinSoul here? I think we’re going to need some mathematics.” “Lily and I will go and grab him,” Codenames said, carrying her dog and slipping away into the back rooms. Marasi had watched the exchange with bafflement, but rather than focus on what she didn’t understand, she turned her attention to something she did. One of the maps was of Scadrial—the entire world. A more detailed map than she’d ever seen, far more extensive than the official surveys—it even included the dark parts of the unexplored islands and landmasses to the south. If that was Scadrial, then what were these other maps? Rusts. How many worlds were out there? There’s always another secret, she thought, remembering her catechism as a child studying the life of the Survivor. A short time later, Codenames walked back into the room with an elderly man. He looked … well, ancient, judging by the long
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powder-white mustache and the liver-spotted skin, which was a deep tan. He wore a formal suit in the Bilming fashion, so … maybe he was from her land? But he also had a short beard with mustaches—a style she’d never seen a man wear in Elendel. Though he stood tall, not the least bit bowed by age, he did seem a little unsteady on his feet—since he gripped the doorframe as he stepped through it. “Ah,” he said, pressing his palms together. “A guest! Welcome to our home, honored guest. Let me get you something to drink.” “TwinSoul,” Moonlight said, “we are on a deadline to—” “Deadlines are no excuse for rudeness,” TwinSoul said. “I am TwinSoul, and you are…?” “Marasi,” she said. “Lady Marasi!” he said. “Excellent.” He immediately turned toward what Marasi assumed was the kitchen. “How do you take your tea?” “Um … mint tea, if you have it. With lemon?” “Excellent!” he said again. He soon returned with a plate bearing a cup and an array of nuts and fruits. “Please enjoy.” She felt guilty making someone so old wait on her—but at the same time there was a certain forcefulness to how he offered the refreshment. It reminded her of her aunt, who would be far more offended if you didn’t accept a drink. So Marasi took the cup and a handful of nuts. “Now,” TwinSoul said. “What have you brought me, Moonlight? Curious, curious.” He stepped over to the table and surveyed the rubbings—stretching out his hands and resting them on the table. Marasi stepped up, curious. There was something odd about his hands that she hadn’t noticed earlier: a line of crystal. Embedded in the skin, running along the outsides of his fingers and wrists—almost like a seam on a glove. It was pinkish-red, like rose quartz. The man leaned down, and she saw lines of similar crystal appear from beneath his collar, growing up the sides of his neck and temples. Crossing his skin like little rivers of liquid. As she watched with amazement, these tendrils expanded from his temples, forming spectacles. Completely made of crystal, the lens parts more transparent than the rest. A second set of lenses, smaller, formed in front of the others—giving him extra magnification. “How…” Marasi said, glancing at Moonlight. “How does he do that?” “I fear,” TwinSoul said, pulling tight one of the rubbings, “that such information is not lightly shared with an outsider, even an honored guest. I must trust that Moonlight thinks this is acceptable for you to see, but I apologize. I will not explain without leave from our leader.” “It’s an emergency,” Moonlight said, lounging against a bookshelf with her arms folded. “I had to risk bringing her in.” She glanced at Marasi, and seemed to be hiding a smile at Marasi’s visible wonder. She’s not as worried about my visit as she implied, Marasi thought. She sees this as an opportunity to intrigue me. It was working. TwinSoul arranged the various rubbings, then raised an index finger. Two lines of crystal grew up
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the outsides of that finger and formed into a nib, like a fountain pen. He absently unscrewed a small jar of ink, then began taking notes. “What is the emergency, Moonlight?” he asked. “Autonomy is moving on a much faster timetable than we believed,” she explained. “One of these charts lists explosions—once assumed to be due to railway construction. We’re hoping you could correlate that with the hotspots of enemy activity we’ve been monitoring, to find a likely entry point to the caverns.” “Ah yes,” TwinSoul said. “Silajana says he would be happy to aid in this. Kaise, would you fetch the appropriate binder?” “Sure thing,” Codenames said, bounding off to do as she was asked. With Marasi’s help, Moonlight pulled over a long table and arranged some of the rubbings on it. They left the circular table at the center of the room empty for now, though Marasi couldn’t guess why. As TwinSoul took notes, he absently created a cup from the same rose-colored stone, then filled it from a water jug at the side of the room. When he was finished drinking, he set the cup on a plate—and the stone disintegrated into fine powder, which then eventually vanished. A short time later, he made a thin knife blade on one finger and cut out a specific section of the rubbing. When Codenames returned a short time later, TwinSoul was settled at the table—on a crystal chair he had created. Marasi fidgeted and checked the wall clock. They’d spent almost half an hour here so far. She didn’t know how tight their deadline was, but given what they’d discovered, waiting was unnerving. “Hmmm…” TwinSoul said, scribbling some more notes with his finger pen. As he wrote, a line of crystal grew off his other hand and reached the cut-out section of the rubbing. There it formed a little frame around the flimsy square of paper. A pole grew up behind it, hanging it like a picture for better inspection. TwinSoul peered at it through his improvised spectacles, playing with his long mustaches. “I wish my brother were here,” Codenames said from a seat nearby. “He’d do this math easily…” She looked forlorn as she said it. “The problem is not merely one of mathematics,” TwinSoul said. He stood and walked away from the little workstation, leaving the framed piece of paper behind—and this time the stone didn’t disintegrate. He filled himself a much larger cup of water, then stepped up to the circular table and rested one hand on it while drinking. A crystal city grew up from the table. It started at his hand, then spread out—like frost forming on steel. His crystal reminded Marasi of a darker version of the pink saltstone Steris had once purchased for decorating the kitchen. Buildings sprouted from it, streets formed as troughs—in minutes a complete replica of the city adorned the table, the circular elevated train tracks of the partially finished high-speed rail growing in last of all. Marasi’s breath caught, then she looked at the old man, who was smiling in
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a self-satisfied way. He appeared to enjoy the showmanship. Perhaps if she hadn’t been here, he’d have pulled out a mundane map. But this was oh so much more impressive. “It’s called an aether,” Moonlight said, walking up behind her. “An ancient entity predating the creation of your world. TwinSoul can grow it, manipulate it. Would you like to know more?” “Yes,” Marasi whispered. Moonlight smiled. “And you shall. Once you join us.” Marasi breathed out softly, then reached out to touch the tip of one of the buildings—which felt solid beneath her fingers, more sturdy than she’d expected. The aether was mostly smooth, with tiny pits here and there. “I have three likely options for you,” TwinSoul said. “I’ve marked them in deeper-colored roseite.” He pointed toward one building, a little pointer stick—the kind professors used for gesturing at chalkboards—growing between his fingers. The building indicated was indeed a deeper red. It was the central spire of the city, right at the heart of Bilming, rising high above the surrounding structures. Straight along the sides, then tapering sharply toward the unfinished upper floors. “Independence Tower,” TwinSoul said. “This is no surprise—we’ve known that the agents of Autonomy have been using this as their base for years.” “And there were explosions underneath?” Marasi asked. “The detonations happened farther to the east,” TwinSoul said. “But I doubt that the entrance to those caverns will be right in the center of the detonations, for obvious reasons. Independence Tower is a central hub of activity for our esteemed antagonists, and I’d bet it has an entrance to the caverns.” “But it will be heavily guarded,” Marasi said. “What are the other two options?” “This office building here, my lady,” he said, pointing to a smaller structure in the city grid. She nodded. “Note, though, I’m not a lady. I work for a living.” “It is merely a distinction of respect, Lady Marasi,” he said. “From among my people. It … translates oddly into your language. Regardless, this office building—the Dulouis Building—is both a hotbed of Set activity and at the perimeter of one of the locations with tremors. I consider it the most likely option.” He pointed back at the tall structure. “As you noted, Independence Tower is highly defended—a veritable fortification, a castle in the middle of the city. Breaching it has proven beyond even the arts of the Survivor himself.” “Not for lack of trying,” Codenames added. “Their security system can spot ghosts. He hasn’t figured out a way to circumvent that.” “And the final location?” Marasi asked. “It seems of less import,” TwinSoul said, pointing at a structure on the perimeter of the city, beneath a section of train track. “An old tire factory.” “Tires?” Moonlight said, stepping up beside Marasi. “Like where Tobal Copper worked?” “TwinSoul, would I be correct to assume that factory is owned by Basin Tires?” Marasi asked. “Indeed,” TwinSoul said. “You appear to have information beyond mine, my lady.” “That company is involved,” Marasi said. “Did your agents notice anything odd about the factory?” Codenames flipped through
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one of their files. “Uh … let’s see … Curious. The woman we had watching this location says it’s mostly shut down, because very little is ever shipped out of it.” “But things are shipped in?” Marasi said, growing excited. “Maybe an oddly large number of deliveries, given that the factory barely seems to be doing anything?” “Yes,” Codenames said. “Our agent didn’t put that together, but yes. From the shipping manifests here … Why are they taking in so much, if they’re not making anything?” “Because those aren’t supplies for the factory,” Moonlight said, meeting Marasi’s eyes. “They’re stockpiles of food and arms for the cavern underneath. This is our incursion point.” “I agree,” Marasi said. “There has to be an entrance to the caverns there, and maybe it will be less guarded than the central spire. We strike here.” “We can get there quickly by rail,” Moonlight said. “The section leading from here to there is finished and running.” “Wait,” TwinSoul said. “How urgent is this threat?” “We have reason to believe,” Marasi said, “that the Set has developed a bomb capable of wiping out Elendel. Harmony is blinded, and we know the Set have been developing a device capable of delivering their bomb from a great distance.” “They have a dark god breathing down their necks,” Moonlight added. “Demanding results. They were supposed to put their plan into motion weeks ago. And with Marasi and her friends getting close … well, they have every incentive to launch that bomb the moment they can. It could happen at any time.” “By the first aether…” he whispered, glancing at Codenames, whose eyes had gone wide. “Moonlight. We should contact the master.” “You’re right,” Moonlight said. “I hate delaying, but … Codenames, is your special friend nearby?” “Upstairs,” she said, scrambling out of the room. “I’ll go grab him.” “The master?” Marasi said. “You mean…” “Yes,” Moonlight said. “It’s time to talk to Kelsier.” There was no way for Marasi and Wayne to escape using the difficult route they’d taken to get here—not with the entire gang on their tails. Beyond that, she wanted to capture that Cycle, who would certainly vanish after this. Unfortunately all of this meant Wayne was right. So much for protocol. It was time to do this his way. They burst into the main tunnel, where the other guard had his gun pointed toward them. Wayne tossed up a speed bubble, giving him and Marasi time to step aside and flank the guard. Once the speed bubble dropped, the gangster fired into now-open space. Wayne was on him a moment later, laying into him with dueling canes. Marasi left him to it, instead picking her spot. Beyond the card table was a wide tunnel presumably leading into the main warehouse cavern. She went to one knee and raised her rifle, sighting, calming herself, waiting … She fired the moment someone appeared from that direction. Only her training on the range prevented her from immediately trying to cycle the bolt on her gun. This was a new semiautomatic
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Bastion rifle, and so she kept it shouldered and downed the next person who stumbled over the falling body. Those behind called a warning, and no one dared come barreling in after that. Wayne wiped his brow, leaving an unconscious gangster on the floor. “You got the magic boxes?” “They’re not magic, Wayne,” Marasi said. “Malwish technology is just different but—” “Magic boxes from your boyfriend. How many?” “I have three Allomantic grenades,” she said. “All of the new design. And two flash-bangs. Wax charged one of the grenades for me before we left.” “Nifty,” Wayne said. “Got a plan?” “You hold the tunnel. I’ll go back to that overlook and toss some Allomantic grenades to catch groups of enemies, then cover you as you move in. Once you’re out of the line of fire, I’ll follow.” “Good as done!” Wayne said, and they split, him heading toward the two people she’d dropped. There he picked up one of their handguns and fired it a bunch of times into the main chamber—not to hit, but to make those beyond take cover. His hand wobbled a little, and he tossed the weapon aside as soon as it was empty, but it was excellent progress. Not that he needed to be more deadly, she supposed. She left him, rounding to the overlook, which made a decent sniper spot. She picked out several groups of gangsters behind nearby boxes, watching as Wayne fired a second gun. Marasi carefully took a small metal box from the pouch on her belt. All her life she had suffered disappointment and even dismissal because of her useless Allomantic talent. She could slow time around herself, which was … well, not much use. It essentially froze her to the perspective of everyone around her—removing her from a fight, giving the advantage to her enemies. She’d found occasional uses for it, but mostly she’d internalized the presumed truth that her abilities were weak. Then she’d met Allik. His people revered all Metalborn, Allomancers and Feruchemists alike. Though he’d been in awe of Wax and his flashy powers, Allik had been equally impressed with her abilities. She had one of the most useful Allomantic skills, he claimed. That had been difficult to accept, but the upshot was that if you had access to a little specialized technology, you could turn the world on its head. Perhaps an inch and a half across, the Allomantic grenade hummed as she burned cadmium—and it absorbed her energy. She wasn’t swallowed by a bubble of slowness; with these new designs, all the power went into the box. She’d charged it earlier, but that had been hours ago and she wanted to top it off. Then, judging the distance carefully, she tossed it toward a group of enemies who had gathered behind some boxes for cover. Her months of practice paid off; she managed to land the device right in the center of the gangsters, who—focused on Wayne—barely noticed it rolling among them. The grenade used ettmetal, which was tightly regulated by the Malwish, so she didn’t
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blame the gangsters for not knowing what to do; even among the Malwish these were rare. If the men had heard of the devices—and they might have, since the Set was known to employ them—they had likely never seen one. A second later, a bubble of slowed time popped up around the device, trapping about ten of the men and women. She quickly topped off, then threw, the second of her three grenades—this one aimed at a group of enemies farther along. Her aim was true, and she ensnared another eight. Calls of “Metalborn!” echoed through the cavern as the rest of the gangsters noticed that over half their number were frozen. Those would move in turgid slow motion as they tried to escape the bubble—but the ten-minute charge on the grenade would run out before they managed it. She unslung her rifle and laid down covering fire—even picking off two of those remaining—as Wayne slipped into the main chamber. He moved in a blur of speed for a moment, then popped out of his speed bubble and leaped over a cleft in the rock. It took a bit between uses for him to recover his talents and put up another bubble, but she swore that time was shrinking. He avoided the trapped people; she and he would deal with them later. For now he took advantage of the confusion to get in close to a couple of enemies. They noticed him, but he became a blur again—then came in from above, dueling canes held high. Their shouts of pain distracted the others, which let Marasi pick off two more. Then she dashed back around to the main tunnel. Here she glanced into the warehouse cavern, then ran in a low crouch—careful to avoid the faintly shimmering perimeter bubbles of the grenades. She knew all too well how it felt to be surrounded by that molasses air while everything around you moved like lightning. Marasi found her own cover near some packing equipment, and as the remaining gangsters reoriented, gunfire began pounding the stone and metal around her. As a girl, she’d read all about Wax’s exploits in the Roughs—and the more she practiced her trade, the more inaccuracies she spotted. Sure, the stories mentioned gunfire. But they usually left out how loud it was when bullets struck. With them pelting the equipment around her, it sounded like she’d given little Max a set of drumsticks and let him loose in a kitchenware shop. A second later the sounds slowed—like a phonograph playing at a fraction of normal power. The air shimmered near her, and Wayne slumped up against the equipment, a grin on his face—and a bloody wound on his shoulder. “Sloppy,” she said, nodding to the wound. “Hey now,” he said. “Any fellow can accidentally get shot now and then. ’Specially if he’s runnin’ around with a pair of sticks in a room with lotsa guns.” “How much bendalloy do you have left?” “Plenty.” “You sure?” “Yup.” “Wayne, I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re actually saving it, being frugal
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like I asked.” He shrugged like it was nothing, but she was legitimately proud of him. He received an allotment from the department, and during the early days of their partnership he’d always run out on missions. She’d been planning to talk to Captain Reddi about increasing the allotment, until she’d discovered that Wayne used his bendalloy for all kinds of non-combat, non-detective work. Playing pranks, changing costumes to delight children, the occasional casual thievery … It was good to see him doing better. “How many idiots left?” he asked. “Eleven,” she said. “That’s higher than I can count.” “Unless you’re doing shots in a drinking contest,” Marasi said. “Damn right,” he said. Together they peeked out from around the equipment—which was for nailing lids to crates. Wayne immediately yanked her back under cover. A bullet moving in slow motion hit the perimeter of the speed bubble, then zipped through the air above them in a flash before hitting the other side and slowing again. Bullets behaved erratically when they hit speed bubbles, and you could never tell which way they’d turn when entering one. “Guy in the suit is escaping out the back,” Wayne said. “You want to grab him, or do you want to stay here and fight the rest of them?” She bit her lip, considering. “We’ll have to split up,” she said. “You’re better with groups. You think you can handle this lot?” “Aren’t most of these boxes full of stuff what goes boom?” “Yes…” “Sounds like fun to be had!” “You should have another eight minutes or so on the grenades.” “Great,” he said. “I’ll see if I can take those sods alive. I can grab them one at a time from their slowness bubbles, using my bubbles to counteract. See, I’ve been practicing, been gettin’ good at making mine bigger and smaller. Should be able to walk to the edge of one of your bubbles, put up mine in a way to overlap one person, then pull them out.” “Wayne!” she said. “That’s amazing. Have you told Wax? It’s really hard to control the size of your bubbles like that.” He shrugged. “You ready?” She retrieved the flash-bangs from her pouch and handed one to him. Then she pulled the pin on the other to light the fuse. “Ready,” she said. Even if he had “plenty,” bendalloy was rare and expensive. They needed to be careful with it. Wayne dropped the bubble, and she tossed the flash-bang. After it detonated, they scrambled out on opposite sides of the machine. Wayne went for the last group of gangsters while she dashed after the Cycle, who vanished through a reinforced metal door at the rear of the cavern. She reached it a moment later and picked the lock fairly easily. She spared a glance for Wayne—who was quickly being surrounded by enemies. He’d found cover behind a box marked EXPLOSIVES. He winked at her, then pulled the pin on his flash-bang and dropped it inside. Delightful. Hopefully he knew what he was doing. Wayne’s healing abilities were extraordinary—but
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it was still possible for him to take so much damage he couldn’t heal. Any blast that separated his metalminds from the bulk of his body would leave Wayne dead, just like the Lord Ruler when he’d lost the Bands of Mourning centuries before. Well, she couldn’t monitor Wayne all the time. And she most certainly couldn’t survive an explosion of … well, of any size. She slipped through the door and pulled it closed with a loud thump. The entire cavern complex shook a few moments later, but she focused on her task: heading into the dark cavern tunnel after the Cycle, who—among everyone in the cavern—was most likely to have answers for her. Codenames’s “friend” turned out to be a glowing sphere of light the size of a child’s head—though perfectly symmetrical and marked at the center with an arcane symbol. It floated over to Marasi, then bobbed in the air and spoke with a soft masculine voice. She didn’t understand the strange words. “Was that … some kind of spell?” she whispered to Moonlight. “He said he was pleased to meet you,” Codenames said. “And complimented your hair.” “Oh,” Marasi said, transfixed by the glowing orb. Nothing held it up; it simply floated, shimmering with a pure white glow, tinged with mother-of-pearl. Codenames spoke to the sphere in the same language, and it bobbed again, then began to shift and change. It melded into the shape of a person’s head—a man with strong, angular features. She was shocked to find that most of the paintings and statues of the Survivor were accurate. Except for the spike through his right eye—a feature that was replicated in the light, same as the rest of his head and hair. “I’m not surprised to hear from you,” he said. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” “Maybe?” Codenames said. “Honestly, we’re not certain, Kell. But TwinSoul said we should contact you.” “Is he there?” Kelsier asked. “Present, my lord,” TwinSoul said, bowing his head to the reproduction of the man’s face—though Kelsier didn’t seem to be able to see him. “Also present is Moonlight, and … a visitor. One Marasi Colms.” The Survivor’s image cocked an eyebrow at that. “Marasi Colms. We’ve been watching you.” Marasi stammered. This man was the center of her religion—she’d prayed to him as a child. And while she wasn’t as observant as Steris, it was still … daunting to meet him. He didn’t express anger that she was there. Another indication that Moonlight had been playing up that aspect, perhaps to make Marasi feel she was getting away with something. “Report?” Kelsier asked. “Dawnshot is in Bilming,” Moonlight said, “and thinks the Set is moving soon. Within the day.” “Harmony is blinded, Lord Survivor,” Marasi said, piping up. “He admitted it to Wax. He can’t see anything, but … sir … he’s frightened.” “Damn,” Kelsier said. “I’m twelve hours away, moving quickly via airship.” “That … may not be soon enough, Kell,” Moonlight said. “My lord,” TwinSoul said, “Moonlight has recovered some disturbing intel. It appears that the Set has
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discovered the relationship between harmonium and trellium. Beyond that, they’ve been experimenting with long-range delivery devices. They’re prepared to do something stupid.” “Not so much stupid as desperate,” Kelsier said. “They know that Autonomy has declared this entire planet anathema. The Set is fighting for survival the only way they know how: by trying to destroy Elendel, to prove to Autonomy they can rule the planet. I thought we had more time though. Why now?” “No idea,” Moonlight said. “But there’s talk of a new ashfall. I’ve never heard that before. Plus, we have a photo here of a destroyed city. Maybe … they tried it out somewhere else, and photographed the results? At any rate, it implies something more than bombing Elendel.” “There have always been two plans,” Codenames said. “Autonomy wants to do something catastrophic to the entire planet—the ashfalls could be their plan for that. But the Set is hoping to prove it can dominate the Basin, and that the more extreme measure isn’t needed. Like cutting off a finger to prevent the infection from spreading.” The room fell silent, Marasi feeling overwhelmed. They spoke of the end of a planet, her planet, as if it were something that they’d known was a possibility for some time. But then again, she was literally in a conversation with the Survivor … so … “Sir,” she said. “Um, Lord Kelsier? I believe they are close to launching this bomb. I intend to stop them, but I’m just one woman. I wouldn’t mind help. Anything you can offer.” “I don’t have the luxury of holding back,” Kelsier said more softly. “I shouldn’t have left for the South. I thought Saze would stop it before it got this far … We need to do what he cannot. Miss Colms, you have our help. Codenames, how many full Ghostblood agents do we have in Bilming?” “Um…” Codenames said. “Only us three. Everyone else is in Elendel or on assignment elsewhere in the field.” “How quickly can we get the Elendel agents to Bilming?” Kelsier asked. “Not quickly enough,” Moonlight said. “They’re all embedded, so we’d have to use dead drops. We could have them roused by early evening, maybe late afternoon, but they would still be several hours away in Elendel.” “Send them to my sister,” Marasi said. “She’s trying to facilitate an evacuation via the Elendel government.” Kelsier sniffed softly. He didn’t seem to have much respect for the Elendel government. “Codenames, you take Dae-oh and see to it. I doubt the field team needs a philologist for this mission. Also alert our members around the Basin. Shri Prasanva, I hate to pull you from your quiet evenings of scholarship, but I fear we’re going to need your help.” The elderly TwinSoul stood up straight, then bowed to the floating head. “We are eager to serve, my lord. Silajana sends his regards, and wishes he could send more of his aetherbound to aid in your fight.” “I appreciate the sentiment,” Kelsier said. “You and Moonlight are to assist Miss Colms. In fact, I
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think it is time to do something drastic. Take the stores of purified Dor. The Command is ‘Respect.’ Authorize the other cells to access theirs as well, and pass the Command to them.” Codenames gasped. Marasi had no idea what purified Dor was, but even Moonlight seemed impressed. “Do what you can,” Kelsier said. “I will try to accelerate my arrival, but the truth is that I don’t know how much I can do. I’m traveling over water, and so can’t go much faster than I currently am. Dropping things to Steelpush off doesn’t do much with an ocean underneath you.” “We will stop this, my lord,” TwinSoul said. “Whatever is happening, we will interrupt it. You shall arrive back in Elendel to find a pristine and welcoming city.” “I’ll settle for the normal dirty, grouchy city, TwinSoul,” Kelsier said. “Go. I’ll see if I can shake Harmony out of his stupor. At least he sent Dawnshot; that convinces me the threat is real. Anything that makes Saze take action these days is to be considered significant.” The face melted back into the sphere, and the communication was over. The three immediately burst into motion, going in separate directions. Marasi decided to stick with Moonlight, who rushed to a different room—which required opening another mystical lock. Inside was an armory that would have made Ranette delirious with glee. Guns on the walls, vials of metals in racks, glass knives and dueling canes. A large chain-fed machine gun and some explosives. Moonlight ignored it all, rushing straight for a safe in the corner. It had no combination or locking mechanism that Marasi could see, though as she peered over Moonlight’s shoulder the woman put her hand on the front and said, “Respect me.” Some mechanism inside clicked, and the door opened. “Another … what was it … Identity lock?” Marasi asked. “No, this is even more secure,” Moonlight said. “It’s a lock that is Awake, and can tell from your Intent if you’ve been given a passcode or if you’ve stolen it.” A lock … that was awake? As in alive? Inside were only three items: a trio of identical glowing jars, big enough that you’d have trouble carrying them in one hand. The glow was similar to the sphere that had followed Codenames, but more intense. Each jar outshone the room’s electric lights. Moonlight took one, the light shining on her face, and turned it over. Awed. “What is it?” Marasi whispered. “Concentrated Investiture,” Moonlight said. “Unkeyed from any Identity. This is an energy source that can power things like your Metallic Arts.” “Those are powered by the gods.” “Exactly,” Moonlight said. “This power comes from a god’s corpse. Two of them actually, intermingled. It’s exceptionally difficult to recover. The things that you could do with this … well, that I could do with this. You’d only be able to use it as a hyperefficient replacement for your metals. You don’t know how good you have it here on Scadrial, being able to power your abilities with something so common.” “And your
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abilities?” Marasi asked. “What are they powered by?” Moonlight smiled. She hadn’t admitted to any abilities, but so far Marasi had seen a man who could create objects from crystal, a woman with a pet … sphere … and Moonlight, who seemed fairly high in their organization. So what was she capable of doing? Moonlight packed the three jars in a rucksack, wrapped in some cushioning, then filled it with other supplies, including a few explosives. She threw the sack over her shoulder and took a few guns from the wall. Marasi, with permission, helped herself to a fine-looking rifle—along with an innocent-looking case to carry it in—and some aluminum ammunition. They had it in plenitude here. “Electrolysis,” Moonlight noted. “Aluminum is actually pretty easy to make, once you know the process.” “Wait,” Marasi said, hurrying to join her as they left the room, “you can make aluminum with electrolysis?” “Yeah,” Moonlight said. “We’ve been using it to fund our operations for almost two decades now. I’d bet half the aluminum in the Basin came from us originally.” “And you’re casually letting me in on the secret?” “It’s a free sample,” Moonlight said. “Besides, Dean—he’s our chemist back in Elendel—is convinced you’ll find the secret soon, and the value will plummet. Dean thinks aluminum will soon be cheaper than tin.” Cheaper than tin? Preservation! If every criminal could afford bullets to kill Allomancers, and every citizen could keep a band of aluminum in their hat to prevent emotional Allomancy, it … Well, it would change the world. “All of this,” Moonlight said, “is merely the surface, Marasi.” “Why me?” Marasi asked. “Why not Wax?” “He’s spoken for,” Moonlight said. “Besides, Kelsier prefers people like us. The discarded, the ignored. And Wax is a little … brazen. People watch him. Track him. Pay attention to him. Not our style, for all that Kell likes to be the center of attention.” “Plus, I suppose,” Marasi said with some thought, “having access to a high-ranking constable is useful.” “There’s also your uncommon connection to the Malwish,” Moonlight said. “Allik?” Marasi said, amused. “He’s wonderful—don’t get me wrong—but I think you’d find him to be a little less … well-connected than you’re assuming.” Rusts. She hoped he’d gotten out of the city. Her gut said that he would go if she asked. There was a certain practicality to Allik that she loved—he was wonderfully, beautifully genuine. In her line of work, she met so many who made her question the nature of humanity. But then she’d go home and find all the reminders in the world of the best that people could be. And somehow, he was all hers. Back in the main room, the model of the city had started to crumble. It didn’t disintegrate as quickly as the cup had; something made the stone linger sometimes but immediately vanish other times. The chair, for example, still seemed fully sturdy. Moonlight waved for Marasi to follow her out into the foyer. Here, TwinSoul walked down the steps, gripping the banister tightly for support, wearing a
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backpack that she thought—from the way it moved, and from the hose draped over his shoulder—might be filled entirely with water. He’d changed outfits, and now wore some kind of loose-fitting uniform with a bright yellow sash around his waist. He’d strapped on a sword—a slightly curved one in an ornate golden sheath. As he reached the ground floor, he nodded to Moonlight. “Codenames is going to send some messages,” he said, “and so can wait for that other woman you sent to reach safety here. I think it is time for the three of us to be about the job. You retrieved the Dor?” Moonlight tapped her rucksack. “Excellent,” he said, turning to Marasi. “I have been commanded to follow your lead, my lady. With Silajana’s blessing and yours, we strike forward. If there is danger, I vow that I shall fight to protect you.” “This … could be dangerous,” Marasi said, glancing at his ornate sword, noting how unstable on his feet he was. “I’m sure we could use your help, TwinSoul, but … I don’t know that you should be doing any fighting. Perhaps we two could strike ahead, and call for you when we need your specialized skills?” “I promise I will not slow you down, my lady,” he said. “I have been tasked with aiding you by the Survivor himself.” He said it with calm respect, but his posture and attitude whispered something else. I’m going with you, young woman. Best not to argue the point any further. Right, then. Marasi glanced at Moonlight, who nodded to her. Despite their knowledge and experience, this was Marasi’s mission. She was in charge. Good. “Where’s the nearest train station?” she asked. “We need to get to that factory as quickly as possible.” It was late afternoon by the time Wax got into position at the lord mayor’s mansion, the Silver House. Though nightfall was hours away, he hoped—as he did every day—that the mists would come tonight. It felt like forever since he’d been out in them. Not only did they seem to come less often these days, he also had less occasion to go out at night. The mists felt like a friend from his youth that he still knew but rarely talked to. He’d been at this all day, having left Elendel a few hours before dawn, but fatigue felt distant regardless. As four fifteen hit, Wax burst into motion. Wayne should have his distraction going in full, which gave Wax the opportunity to bolt across the springy grass to the mayor’s mansion. He dropped a bullet and Pushed up to the second floor. There, he grabbed the outer windowsill and gave a quick Push to the mechanism inside, which should undo the latch … The window rattled, but didn’t unlatch. Drat. It had a full lock, one a Push couldn’t undo. All right. He increased his weight manyfold, and a quick Push cracked the window and bent the lock, letting him force the window open and pull himself inside. His boots thumped down on a carpeted
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floor. The place was messy, but not cluttered. Piles of papers occupied the desk and the nearby tables. A small bar held a collection of spirits, half the tops off, the other half put haphazardly back on the wrong bottle. Books lined a shelf, some put in spine first, others reversed, and a good third of them slumped to the side because the ones at the far end had been removed, leaving the whole thing to slouch like sleepy guards on watch duty. It was in many ways the opposite of Copper’s flat. That had been sterile, pristine. This was lived in. It had the air of a place full of secrets—because a man as important as Gave would employ a fleet of maids and servants to keep things tidy. Except in this room. Wax didn’t have a lot to go on. But the lord mayor was involved in whatever the Set was planning—and involvement on that level would leave traces. A bomb somewhere in this city was pointed at Elendel, and this room held the clues that would lead him to it. But where? Wax sorted quickly through the pages on the desk. Wayne was probably doing Grandma’s Been at the Vodka, his favorite ploy for drawing attention but not gunfire. Unfortunately, the Set would be on the lookout for his tricks. They’d created a Metalborn designed specifically to face Wayne. They would know about his propensity for disguises. The papers didn’t give him much. Some shipping manifests to a factory on the outskirts of town. A stack of broadsheets with editorials circled that were critical of Gave. And another, newer stack of them with no such problems. He opened the desk, and there found a curious number of letters from noblemen and noblewomen in Elendel. Wax recognized several of the names, including Vennis Hasting—one of the more powerful senators. He scanned a letter from him, and it touched on nothing incriminating. Though it mentioned trade negotiations, most of it was pleasantries. Frowning, Wax fished in his coat pocket and brought out another letter, the extremely incriminating one—also from Vennis Hasting—that Maraga had given him. He was missing pieces here. When had they moved from pleasantries to discussing the destruction of the world? For now, he stuffed both letters into his pocket. Gave and Vennis were colluding, but he had already known that. He needed a lead on where to find the bomb. Fortunately, after a little more hunting he struck gold. Gave Entrone’s calendar. People usually made certain to hide the most important documents and information. They’d lock up their plans and schemes, but often forgot simple things like calendars. To a trained detective, knowing where you’d been—and where you planned to be—could be incriminating. Back in the Roughs, he’d often had to piece a person’s schedule together through interviews and interrogations. But in a modern city, people tended to write it down for him. The desk calendar was the wide and flat type that displayed an entire month, one day to a box. Previous months had been folded back
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behind, and were covered in notations in two hands: A sloppier one that, from the letters, Wax assumed was Gave’s. And a neater hand that likely belonged to a secretary. Lots of visits to something called the lab, Wax thought. With tight scheduling between meetings here at the mansion. So the lab is close, or he has some direct method of getting to it … Another spot listed trajectory and distance tests, and that was surrounded by several empty days. So he’d needed to travel some way for that. Curious. Where could they have launched delivery devices a long distance without drawing attention? Wax looked up as he heard some muffled shouts. Wayne’s distraction was working. He kept searching, scanning for anything suspicious, and something struck him a moment later. There were no appointments after today. A coldness spread through Wax as he looked at the last appointment, in Gave’s own hand. It simply said, They arrive. Rusts. What did that mean? There wasn’t the time for analysis, so he ripped off the sheets—even though that would reveal he’d been here—and moved on. Confident he’d learned what he could from the desk, he tried an old Coinshot’s trick: burning steel. Little blue lines spread from his chest toward viable sources of metal. Most of these were faint, indicating nails in the walls and furniture. Light fixtures, doorknobs, even unseen wires for electricity. More and more, their lives were surrounded by metal—glints of it facilitating everything from the incandescent bulb to the nib in the pen on the desk. He knew some people felt that the day of the Metalborn was over, that modern advances would equalize all people and diminish the advantages of Allomancer and Feruchemist. Yet he had trained himself—with practice—to put out the lights in a room by distorting the wires in the walls. His versatility improved with each new discovery. And as more metal outlined their lives, he was able to see more and more details of rooms. He spotted no hidden chambers in the desk, but he did locate the room’s safe. Hidden not behind a picture or a bookshelf, but in the floor under a couch—which was a more common spot than the other two, despite popular lore. Wax set to it quickly. For all his levity, Wayne would be in serious danger during this distraction. Wax didn’t want to leave him too long—indeed, Wax heard more cries and shouts as he shoved the couch aside. They were getting louder. The enemy might already be on to him. The safe had an Allomantic lock. No visible keyhole or combination. It would be opened with Pushes if he was lucky, Pulls if he was unlucky. Wax squinted, judging the metal lines. There was the giant blue one leading to the safe itself, of course. Many Allomancers would stop with that, never realizing that if you peered closer—if you let the lines start to drift and separate … One giant line became many smaller ones, all connecting him to the various mechanisms inside. Pins you could Push in a
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specific order to unlock the thing. He got to work as the shouts outside grew more urgent. These kinds of locks were secure against most people, and even most Allomancers. But there was a weakness. Wax carefully, subtly Pushed each pin in turn, wiggling them until he found the one that activated a tumbler. That would be the first. He nudged it and was rewarded when it locked into place. He was in luck—this was a mechanism meant for one who could Push, not Pull. He should be able to open it, though even many Coinshots would have trouble with something this subtle. First tumbler in place, he wiggled each remaining pin to find the second. Easy. He quickly located the third, Pushed it, and— And the lock reset. Wax froze, a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. What had he done wrong? He forced himself, despite the growing noise outside, to go through it again. Again, the lock reset after he Pushed the third pin. He pounded the floor in frustration until the answer struck him. This wasn’t a lock designed for someone who could Push or Pull. It was designed for someone who could do both. The third pin required a Pull. In short, it was a lock designed for a Mistborn to open. Or in this case, someone using Hemalurgy to cheat. Which meant he was out of luck. He’d never get this open, not unless he could rip it out and do his Pushes from both sides … He didn’t have time for that. And there was something more going on outside. Shouts. Alarms, and … And was that smoke he smelled? Rusts. Wax did a quick scan of the room for anything else he could investigate. There wasn’t … Wait. That pattern of metal in the floor. Wooden boards in regular straight rows, nailed down in lines. Except for one square of nails underneath the rug. Trapdoor, he thought, and shoved the rug aside, feeling about until he located the hidden latch. Entrone had the spikes to make him an Allomancer and was quite enamored with his powers, judging by that safe. But he didn’t have the experience of someone who’d grown up with their powers. A seasoned Coinshot could pick out that pattern of nails in the same way a square of new paint on an old wall would stand out. The trapdoor led to a very narrow shaft with a wooden ladder. Probably between two walls on the first floor, down into a basement. As smoke began to stream in around the door and he heard shouts for a fire brigade—along with feet thumping along the hallway outside—Wax decided to abandon the safe. He slipped onto the ladder, then pulled the trapdoor closed behind him. Hoping that wherever this led, it would point him in the right direction. It was odd for Marasi to feel such urgency while sitting and waiting. The elevated train of Bilming lived up to its reputation. The group of them sat in a private compartment, speeding around the city,
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bypassing traffic congestion. The train stopped frequently, but each time it did, it bolted back into motion with a jarring acceleration. It felt almost like she was a Coinshot, each burst of speed from the train a fresh Push launching them ever closer to their destination. She’d read of the Ascendant Warrior’s Flight of Destiny in the Words of Founding, when she’d returned to Luthadel at the last minute to save Harmony. In the stories, Vin had traveled a miraculous distance in mere hours. Now, Marasi likely traveled at that same speed. In cushioned comfort, with a cool breeze piped in from outside. They carried weapons hidden in cases or sacks, and Marasi still wore the simple trousers and shirt she’d donned for her sting. Moonlight was dressed as a Bilming constable, and TwinSoul had shrouded himself in a local fisherman’s raincloak. She’d initially worried that his suit and colorful sash would stand out, but he clearly knew how to be inconspicuous. “For this to work,” Marasi said to them, “I need to understand our resources. That means, Moonlight, I really need to know what you’re capable of.” “Art criticism,” she said. “Fighting, if needed. Wisecracks when appropriate.” “I meant any extraordinary abilities,” Marasi said. “Her wisecracks are extraordinary,” TwinSoul said, his eyes twinkling. “Why, they’re so remarkable that I quite often can’t see which part of them is supposed to be wise.” Moonlight, in turn, rolled her eyes. “I have three soulstamps on me at the moment: two universal stamps, one Essence Mark. It takes time and preparation to create more—time we don’t have—so we’ll have to rely on these ones. I can use each stamp multiple times, but no use will last long, since they weren’t … Right, you have no idea what I’m talking about.” “Moonlight,” TwinSoul explained, “has stamps that rewrite the nature of the objects she encounters. One makes a doorway appear where none previously existed. The second repairs a broken or worn object, to make it look new. Is that correct?” Moonlight nodded. “It’s something I’m practicing still—stamps that will work on any object, I mean. Requires Invested ink, on this planet, but we’ve got the process mostly working.” “So you can make a door appear,” Marasi said. “And you can make an object that was broken become new? How many times?” “As often as I want,” Moonlight said. “But only for a limited period in each case.” “Wow,” Marasi whispered. “That’s … magic?” “Is Allomancy magic?” Moonlight asked. “Of course not,” Marasi said. “Neither is this,” Moonlight said. “To repair something, I merely rewrite the past, making the object think it was well-maintained or never broke. Like I said, universal stamps are a new technology. I don’t have them working perfectly yet, but they’ll do for now.” It felt magical to Marasi regardless. Allomancy was one thing—it made perfect sense to be able to use metal to Push on other pieces of metal. But rewriting the past of an object? How was that not magical? “You said you have three stamps,” Marasi said. “What’s the
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third?” “It’s for emergencies.” Moonlight shifted in her seat. “The other two work on nonliving objects only. This one changes a person—me, specifically—in dramatic ways. I avoid using it if possible.” Marasi glanced at TwinSoul, who shook his head in a “leave it alone” sort of way. Well, all right. She hated going into a potential fight without knowing what her options and advantages were, but at least she’d learned something. The train slowed at a stop, causing them all to lean in their seats at the change in momentum. People piled into the corridor between compartments outside, waiting to flood out into the station. “And you, TwinSoul?” Marasi asked. “Is there a limit to the things you can make?” “Alas,” he said, nudging his backpack, which was on the floor, “there are indeed serious limits. I can only maintain roseite objects under certain fields of Investiture. Some planets have those naturally, but yours does not, so my roseite creations—outside of our safehouse—must be touching me, or they will disintegrate. It also requires water, drawn from my body, to fuel the creations. “Beyond that, my ability to form objects is limited by my personal skill and understanding. I cannot make you a gun, for example. The mechanics are beyond this old mind, and the intricacies too fine. Simple tools are the extent of my abilities, though Silajana has bonded some more talented than I in that regard.” “Sil-ah-janah,” Marasi said, trying to form the unfamiliar sounds. “That is your … god?” “Both less and more than a god,” he explained. “Silajana is one of the primal aethers. They predate Adonalsium, you know, and exist outside of his power.” “They predate the Shattering,” Moonlight said. “That doesn’t mean they predate Adonalsium.” “To my people, this is a sacred tenet,” he said to Marasi, ignoring Moonlight. “The primal aethers grant some people a bud of their core.” He raised his right hand, revealing a transparent web of stone embedded in his palm, and let light from the window shine through as he held it up before the glass. She could see the bones inside, and it seemed the crystal had somehow entirely replaced his flesh and muscles in that spot. “This bud connects me to Silajana,” he continued, “and through him to all of his other aetherbound. He is the core, and we his web. He is eternal, and we his mortal agents in the cosmere.” That was … a lot to take in. But Marasi supposed that all that mattered was that he was willing to help. “Thank you for joining our fight,” she said. “I’m glad that Silajana could spare you.” “There is little else for us now,” he said, looking out the window. “Until we can return home…” “I’m willing to go with you, Pras,” Moonlight said. “If you want to try.” “The forces in my homeland are too strong, too deadly,” he said. “Silajana says we must remain in exile. He will decide when and if we are to return. He would not risk another extermination.” The train bolted forward
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again, causing them all to lean the other direction in their seats. Only three more stops until they arrived. “Moonlight, can your door stamp help us get into the enemy base?” Marasi asked. “It will depend on the building materials,” she said. “This stamp pretends the people who constructed the place installed a door. It’ll be touch and go for it to work on things like natural rock.” “Then we can sneak into the factory from any direction,” Marasi said, “and then find the way down into the caverns.” “They’ve been moving a lot of supplies,” Moonlight said. “Large crates of equipment and food. So I doubt we’re looking for some hidden stairwell.” “You’re right,” Marasi agreed. “There will likely be a freight elevator in the main loading bay. Good assumption.” “We could attempt,” TwinSoul said, “to pretend to be members of their organization, making a delivery. Perhaps we could hijack a supply truck on the way?” “Tried that,” Marasi said. “It was kind of a mess. I’d rather be more stealthy.” “I agree,” Moonlight said. “I suggest we scout the location, find an empty room at the rear, and create a door. They’ll have their security focused on entry points, which we can avoid. From there we make our way to the cargo docks and locate the elevator.” A reasonable enough plan. Though Marasi’s anxiety increased the closer they came to their destination. Soon the train lurched to a stop, and the three of them piled off. She worried the long case she was carrying—with her borrowed rifle hidden inside—would draw attention, but no one gave her so much as a second glance. Perhaps they thought it was some kind of musical instrument. More likely, they didn’t care. Neither of Marasi’s companions were of a Scadrian ethnicity, but Moonlight kept a hat on to shade her eyes. She was shorter than most from Marasi’s world, but there was no telling if that was a trait of her people, or an individual body shape. TwinSoul, in contrast, was tall and lanky. His darker skin tone stood out on the street, but most would just assume he had Terris blood—that people’s colorations varied far more than those of people with old Central Dominance heritage, like Marasi. Plus, there was a lot of variety in dress in this city. People seemed to eschew the dark browns and blacks that were more common in Elendel. Vibrant colors, often clashing, were part of the style here. With other oddities too. In the train station alone, they passed a costumed mascot trying to hand out flyers for a furniture store, a couple of masked Malwish tourists, and a koloss-blooded woman in a suit. Outside the station, atop the platform with steps leading to the streets below, they spotted their target in the near distance: an old brown-brick factory with a mottled sign out front. Even this futuristic city had less-desirable sections of town; many were hidden away beneath the tracks. Marasi had hoped to find the building quiet, since the Ghostblood spy’s records had indicated infrequent supply
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drops in recent weeks. Today, unfortunately, the building was buzzing with activity—some half a dozen trucks loading up and pulling out through a large bay door at the side of the structure. “Well,” Moonlight said, “little doubt where the loading bay is. We’ll probably find the elevator in there.” “Inside the bay,” TwinSoul said, “that is currently full of enemy forces?” “Yeah…” “What if,” Marasi said, “we came into the elevator from the back? You can make a door in any wall, right? What if we made one into the elevator from behind?” “That’s possible,” Moonlight said. “Though I’m not comfortable with how busy it looks. We were hoping to slip in during a quiet moment.” Marasi agreed—though as she considered it, she realized that had been naive of them. The Set knew that they were in Bilming and actively trying to stop them … Marasi hesitated as she watched several of the trucks roar away from the factory, heading toward the hill with the government offices. Then she found herself smiling. “They’re worried about Wax,” she said. “They’re marshalling troops, gathering resources … I’ll bet they’re sending it all to deal with him.” “Maybe,” Moonlight said. “Trust me,” Marasi said. “Where Wax goes, fireworks follow. The Set is worried about him—and they likely know exactly where he is. Flying through the air does tend to make him conspicuous.” “If you’re correct, my lady,” TwinSoul said, “then they might not be expecting our incursion here. Their eyes may be diverted toward Dawnshot.” More trucks pulled away, and TwinSoul pointed toward the northern side of the city, where a giant plume of dark smoke was rising. “That’s the mayor’s mansion. Perhaps Dawnshot is being … extra difficult?” “I’ll take it,” Marasi said, leading the way down the steps. “Let’s strike while everyone is distracted.” Everyone in the room—including the kandra—gathered around Steris to read the letter Wax had sent. Perhaps they didn’t trust her to deliver the information out loud, or perhaps they needed to see it with their own eyes. Bomb is confirmed real, and already fabricated. City-destroying capacity. Enemy is trying to find a way to deliver it to Elendel. It’s time to evacuate the city. They know I’m after them. I hope that my presence won’t cause them to do anything rash. Investigation suggests attempts to deliver by train or road failed and they seek alternative, perhaps some kind of self-propelled artillery shell. Regardless, I suggest you close off all routes into Elendel as a precaution. There is conflict among the Set. Some want to destroy Elendel, others maybe the entire Basin by restarting the Ashmounts, judging by a strange photograph we’ve found. I may be able to exploit the schism between them. Either way, my primary objective is neutralizing the bomb’s delivery mechanism. Get as many people out as you can, as quickly as possible, in case I fail. I love you. Waxillium Adawathwyn immediately ordered the young radio operator sequestered—along with anyone who might have heard the communication. Everyone else in the room slumped into chairs at the
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table, and several looked to TenSoon. “We should believe Dawnshot,” he said. “Harmony has long thought the enemy was working on something like this. The deadline is … far more urgent than we realized. Rusts. We need to take this very seriously.” “I am forced to agree,” Adawathwyn—of all people—said. “I don’t much like Ladrian, but … this news, with a kandra confirming it … My lord governor, it seems we have a gun to our heads.” The governor leaned forward on the table, grim. Finally, Steris thought, releasing a held breath. They are giving this the attention it deserves. Maybe now she could get something done. “Time is of the essence,” the governor said, looking around the table at the three senators and his vice governor. “If there really is a bomb … we have to move fast.” “Agreed,” Lord Cett said. “How quickly can we get out of the city?” “That depends,” the governor said. “Ambassador Daal? Can I take that airship ride now?” “So long as the streets aren’t packed,” Adawathwyn said, “we can theoretically be out of the city via motorcade in under an hour.” “Will that be quickly enough?” Lady Hammondess said. “What is the destructive radius of this weapon, kandra? How far away do we have to get to be safe?” “I’ll send for our families,” the governor said. “We have to do this quietly though, to not inspire a mass panic.” Steris closed her eyes, feeling sick. On one hand, she understood their emotions. After all, she had sent her children away immediately. At the same time … Rusts. They were all going to run, weren’t they? She met Constable Reddi’s eyes. He’d slumped in his chair, looking numb. Sworn to protect the people of the city, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing but sit here and dread what was coming. She didn’t have to do that. She’d dreaded it already. That was the purpose of her lists. She realized, with shock, that her method was actually working. She didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t feel anxious. She could function. She had to evacuate the city. Steris pulled out one of her thickest notebooks, thumping it down on the table. As everyone else started calling for aides to prepare their escapes, she gathered her thoughts and flipped through her notes. She had seven detailed evacuation plans for the city. Which was best in this situation? After a few minutes though, the governor ordered the door shut again and all aides temporarily expelled. The room’s anxious occupants turned toward him. “Um,” he said, “Adawathwyn has a suggestion.” She had composed herself quickly and now stood up in her immaculate Terris robes, hands out invitingly. “The situation is indeed dire. But I have realized we have a solution … upon our arms, so to speak. Lord Waxillium says that there is likely some kind of device that will launch the bomb all the way to our city. But we have Metalborn at our disposal. The greatest wealth of them in all the Basin. “We should gather
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Coinshots and station them to Push this weapon away. We can position them atop our highest structures, to watch for the weapon’s arrival—or, better, keep people on call in Bilming, watching. They’ll be able to tell us when it has launched.” “Pardon me, Adawathwyn,” Steris said. “Have you ever been in a situation where modern weapons fire is discharged? Have you seen the speed at which it moves? Trust me. If this weapon is launched, when it reaches Elendel, it will impact too quickly for an Allomancer to stop.” The vice governor wilted for a second, then her eyes widened. “What if,” she said, “we had an Allomancer with access to all the abilities and powers of the Lord Ruler?” Several in the room gasped. Daal stood up straight, his masked eyes fixated on Adawathwyn. “It’s an emergency,” she said. “A true emergency. The entire city is in danger! We need someone who can think the thoughts of a thousand people, someone who can move planets and raise mountains. We need … the Bands of Mourning.” Bother. First off, the Bands didn’t work that way. They gave a person supercharged metallic abilities—yes—but they didn’t contain “all the powers of the Lord Ruler.” Unfortunately, the mythology surrounding them and Wax’s use of them had only grown over the years. That said, Steris had considered using the Bands—they often factored into her calculations. A powerful relic created by the Survivor—or maybe the Lord Ruler—which granted vast Metalborn powers to the holder wasn’t the sort of thing one ignored. “We can’t use the Bands,” Steris said. “The people of Elendel made a promise. The foundation of a treaty.” Behind them, Admiral Daal—so quiet through most of the meeting—approached the table. “The Bands of Mourning,” he said, “were entrusted to the Faceless Immortals, under the strict understanding that the Bands would never be employed by your people.” Technically, the Bands weren’t to be employed unless the Malwish attacked Elendel. That had been the actual deal, a way of making certain that Malwish aggression didn’t go too far. “Surely, Ambassador,” Adawathwyn said, “you can see our need for self-preservation. You wouldn’t deny us the means, in this dire emergency, to protect ourselves from this calamity?” “Surely,” Ambassador Daal said, “you understand that any action by those in the Basin using this sacred relic—however dire the situation—must be seen as an act of aggression against my people. You don’t think we’ve suffered catastrophes that we wish we could have used the Bands to stop? We could have been using them to save lives these past six years! But our agreement was that they were too powerful for anyone to use.” The room fell silent. He’s playing some kind of game here, Steris thought. She couldn’t fathom what. “We…” the governor said, licking his lips. “We should fetch them. If an Allomancer with enhanced speed of thought could Push away this bomb before it lands, that gives us a chance.” “They don’t have as much power as you think,” Steris said. “They can’t accomplish that.” “Actually,” TenSoon said, “there’s
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a possibility.” “What?” Steris asked. “There are … things about the interactions of the powers you don’t know,” he said. “I have only hints. I think it might be possible … to send the bomb away using the Bands. But the deal we made…” “Holy One,” the governor said, “what would Harmony say, should it come down to our survival as a city or betraying the Malwish trust. What are his wishes?” TenSoon stood quietly for a moment, then spoke with a growling voice. “I will fetch the Bands.” and leeched her steel reserves. “Give me the compass,” I said, “and we’ll leave you at the next outcropping.” Vila peered over her shoulder at the approaching stone where the Haunted Man waited. She glanced at me, her eyes wide, no doubt realizing that without any steel, she couldn’t Coinshot away. She was trapped. In her surprise, she forgot to hold onto anything but the compass. I had not planned on that. “No!” I screamed, immediately dropping my parasol and reaching for Vila. I serendipitously caught her by the lace of her frilly coat. “You saved me?” she asked. “Don’t you want me to fall?” “Harmony no,” I said. She clocked me in the face with the compass, which honestly was a bad move on her part. I instinctively let go of her. As Vila fell, I keeled forward, trying to catch her again, but serendipity is a fickle thing, and my hand missed hers by a hair. Horrified, I watched the mists swallow her. The sudden shifting of my weight, however, threw me from the claw. Suddenly weightless, I feared this might be the end. Then I felt air pushed by large wings. A claw snatched me and dropped me on the outcropping next to the Haunted Man. I slid to a stop just shy of the edge, my custom Miele Jedon boots sending pebbles clacking over the side. Bless those shoes and their fashionable yet grippy soles. (You can get a pair at Ardenne’s on 9th. They’re custom, yes, but drop my name, and the clerks there will be keen to help.) Heart thumping, my breath coming in gasps, I searched the top of the outcropping. “The compass…we should scour the cliffs!” Tabaar-KeSun landed and opened their other claw. The compass rolled out, and I snatched it up. Before I could thank them, the Haunted Man took my hand and stared at me with intense, desperate eyes. Given his usual scowl, this new expression was as foreign on him as cheap perfume would be on me. “My dearest Nicelle,” he said, gifting me a rare smile. “What is it?” I asked, inspecting myself for wounds. Though I’d lost a few buttons from my blouse, at least I hadn’t lost the whole shirt, which always happened to Jak at this point in his stories. “I’m fine. I promise.” “You almost fell,” he said, cupping my cheek in one of his large, rough hands. Heat boiled up from my heart, and I couldn’t help but smile back. How far we had come from
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our first meeting! “You silly man. You’ll never get rid of me that easily,” I said. “It’s you and me exploring the cosmere together forever. Just like we promised.” I let him pull me close, his familiar scent of hellfire and cedar filling me. With the knuckle of his finger, he lifted my chin so that I looked into his stormy eyes. Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to? By Harmony, yes. In that moment, I realized I’d wanted this for the last six years, every time he’d appeared and (inevitably) upended my life. “Nicelle…” he said, his voice low and breathy. “Yes?” I rolled up onto my toes and leaned into him. “I am so very sorry.” He lifted the Compass of Spirits, inserted the aluminum key, and turned it. The little rings spun until they flowed with ethereal light, which inverted in on itself with a giant pop I felt in my soul more than heard with my ears. I fell forward onto my knees, the Haunted Man’s presence no longer there to hold me up, though the afterimage of him activating the device hung in the air for a moment until it puffed away like smoke from a burnt match. He had done it. He’d finally entered the ghostly dimension. And he’d done it without me. He’d bloody betrayed me. Rusting used me. I will spare you the ugly details of my following tantrum, though I did yell some of the delicious curses I’d learned in my time with him. At the end of my fit, my immaculate makeup was smeared, my hat and its raven feathers lay in tatters, and Tabaar and KeSun were suddenly there in their human forms. “He’s gone!” I shouted. “Along with the only way to finish the job, and now we’re stuck a thousand miles from home in the space between continents!” I thought he’d cared for me. He knew a betrayal like this would hurt me, and he’d done it anyway. Rust and Ruin, I hope he arrived too late to save the world. He and his bloody employer could burn for all I cared. “He’s lucky I can’t follow him.” I clenched my fist around the metal knuckles until the edges bit into my palm. The two Faceless Immortals shared a glance before KeSun nodded as if deciding something. Then Tabaar spoke. “Actually,” he said. “There is another way.” A note from Handerwym: It’s been two weeks since Nicelle’s last letter. (You know how intermittent her correspondence can be.) I can only assume she succeeded in entering the ghostly realm and, Harmony willing, we’ll soon know the end of her adventure. — Continued next week? — NICKI SAVAGE is sponsored by TOBE’S ACCURATE SOONIE PUP Trade in a historically erroneous Soonie Pup and get a brand new Professor Tober’s Accurate Soonie Pup for a mere fivespin! Patented Pocket! Marasi led the others toward their target. It proved easy to sneak around underneath the train tracks; the buildings down here in this urban twilight were cramped, the streets
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narrow. Almost like the stories of the old Luthadel slums. Crowded tenements were crammed up beside factories, refineries, and warehouses. All in the shadow of the tracks—a symbol of progress and unity upon which stormed past every few minutes a tooth-rattling reminder: Wasn’t it so nice to live in such a modern city? With a beacon of advancement like the high-speed rail? It cast such a progressive shadow. She was all for progress in general, but far too often it seemed to stratify society rather than unite it. A high-speed rail was good, but could it be afforded by those who would most benefit? Nice apartments were great, but if they drove those who couldn’t live in them to darkness under the tracks, then that made some lives worse while making others better. She’d been forced to confront this herself as she sought for reform. Good intentions had to be coupled with a realistic look at the effects of your actions. It was entirely too easy to make things worse while trying to make them better. Is that why I’ve focused more on the detective side of my job over the years? she wondered. I was going to change things. But the day-to-day work is so demanding, and the big problems are just so big … Thoughts for another time. The three of them crept ever closer to the tire factory, using the back alleys. TwinSoul made good on his promise, keeping up—though they didn’t have to move quickly, and there was always a wall for him to rest his hand against to keep his balance. Marasi still worried about bringing an octogenarian to what might soon be a battle zone, but bit her tongue on the matter. As they drew close—only one street away—Moonlight halted the group. Marasi was curious what had prompted the stop, until she noticed a bulbous black motorcar with tinted windows pulling up to the factory. The lord mayor of Bilming climbed out—accompanied by several tough-looking bodyguards. Entrone hurried through the bay doors, shouting at the few remaining trucks there and waving for them to get moving. Marasi was almost certain she heard the name “Dawnshot” among his shouts. He soon vanished into the structure. “Well,” Marasi whispered, “he’s agitated.” “Probably doesn’t appreciate his home being burned down,” TwinSoul whispered. Marasi nodded. “Come on. His arrival seems to confirm that we’ve found the right location.” They took the long way around, briefly dipping out of the shade cast by the railway before diving back in, swimming through shadows until they reached the back wall of the factory. Here they slunk along until they found an old window, boarded up. Marasi had hoped to be able to peek through and find an empty room, but it was boarded up on the other side as well. “Hmmm,” TwinSoul said, resting his aged, bony hand on the bricks. Crystals grew from his palm, creeping along the surface and between boards. “Yes, they really should have sealed this with pitch…” “What do you see?” Moonlight whispered. “I don’t see anything,” he
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said. “But Silajana? Well, he senses a small room cluttered with shelves and small objects. No one is inside, and the wall to the right of the window bears no shelving.” He broke his hand free, leaving a crust of crystals on the wall—which began disintegrating, dropping to dust that in turn burned away into rose-colored mist. Moonlight dug in her rucksack—briefly exposing the glowing jars within—and took out something made of leather. Like a very large billfold, or a toolbelt, it unclipped to reveal three stone stamps. She selected one, dampened it with some odd glowing red ink, then raised it. “Be ready to move,” she said, then pressed it to the wall. The stamp head, remarkably, sank half an inch or so into the brick. When Moonlight pulled it back—trailing red mist—it left a glowing red stamp imprinted into the wall, marked by intricate designs and patterns. The wall then began to shift. The bricks groaned softly, then popped and ground as they pulled to the sides—suddenly fluid—and a door emerged in the wall. Like … like someone had unzipped the stones to reveal it underneath. In seconds the structure had rearranged—many bricks simply vanishing—to create a worn old wooden door with peeling yellow paint. Moonlight yanked it open and gestured for them to enter. Marasi ducked in first, stepping over some buckets of paint that had been piled against the wall. TwinSoul followed, then finally Moonlight. They crowded into a small chamber, lit by a single red electric bulb. Why were there so many washbasins on the counter, and all of these jugs of liquid? Was this a storage room for cleaning supplies? That didn’t explain the red light bulb, which was so dim it barely did anything. Behind them, the doorway vanished—as if being consumed by the bricks on the sides. “That is the most unnatural thing I’ve ever seen,” Marasi whispered. “You literally have a friend who can fly,” Moonlight said. “And?” Marasi said, unzipping her rifle from its case. TwinSoul threw off his coat, exposing his suit and yellow sash, then rested a hand on his sword. Marasi listened at the door, and was joined by Moonlight. When they heard nothing from the next room over, Marasi eased the door open and found a pitch-black chamber beyond. They slipped through it, passing a strangely large number of what appeared to be chairs. Yes, in rows. What in the world? At the far reaches of the room, Marasi fumbled in the darkness, searching for a door. Her hands instead brushed what felt like a series of light switches. Since the room was clearly empty, she flipped one of the light switches. However, it wasn’t the kind of light she’d been anticipating. A streak of illumination burst from one wall and shone onto the other, projecting a brilliant image. An image of a crumbling city, with ash falling from the sky. Then the image started moving. Marasi stared at the moving image, depicting a city in full color—though those colors were mostly muted dark greys and blacks against
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the brilliant red sky. Ash drifted from above, sprinkling the smoldering ruins. A loud mechanical sound came from the room emitting the light. “By the first aether,” TwinSoul said, stepping up beside her and resting his hand on the back of a nearby chair for support. “What is it? A window into the future?” “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Moonlight said from the far wall, nearest the image. She hesitantly lifted her hand into the stream of light—and displaced the image, leaving a shadow of her hand on the wall. Fortunately, Marasi had experienced something like this once before. VenDell had shown them a way of projecting evanotype images onto a wall using light. Those had been static, and in black and white. But he’d said something then that had stuck with her: Harmony implies that if we find this wondrous, it will really burn our metals when the images start moving. It appeared the Set had figured out that secret. And they’d found a way to create moving images of another place, using cameras? This room did have the feel of a small playhouse theater, only without the stage. But … was this landscape of piling ash and broken cities the future, or the past? It resembled Elendel, by the architecture, but there was so much rubble she couldn’t tell for certain. “Here, look at this,” Moonlight called from the far side of the room, where she’d opened another door. TwinSoul and Marasi joined Moonlight in a room with a different kind of decor. An enormous table dominated it, with a tiny replica of a city on it. It was like the model that TwinSoul had created, but made out of painted wood and plaster—broken and ruined, the buildings fallen as if in some disaster. It was Elendel; she could see that from the layout. So, not only had someone seen the future, they’d built a model of what was going to happen? Moonlight peeked into some boxes, then pulled out a handful of fine ash from one, which she let trail through her fingers. Other shelves held tiny props—miniature versions of people lying like corpses. Dead horses made of painted plaster. Broken buildings, ruined motorcars, some large red-painted sheets with depictions of clouds and a blazing sun … And evanotype cameras, set up to look across the table from down low. Seeing that, it all snapped together for her. “It’s a fake,” she whispered with relief. “They didn’t travel to the future or the past. They created a model of a fallen Elendel … then used these machines to craft pictures of a future that hasn’t happened. Even that picture we found earlier … it’s a fake. A photo of this model. They’ve been deliberately constructing a hoax to make people think the world is going to end.” “No,” Moonlight said. “They’ve been constructing a hoax to make people think it has already ended. But who are they planning to show it to, and why?” “If there are answers,” Marasi said, “we’ll find them below.” She nodded the other
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direction, out through the theater room toward the larger doors on the wall near the projecting device. They peeked out to find a hallway lit with caged industrial lights. The place felt eerily empty, considering the earlier activity. Moonlight went out first. Marasi joined her, and they found a set of doors at the end of the hallway. These doors had windows at the top, so they could observe the loading dock beyond. A group of armed men and women patrolled here. TwinSoul crouched beside Marasi, then let a tiny—practically invisible—line of crystals sneak under the door. “Ah,” he said. “You see that large wall that juts out to our left, just inside the room? That’s our industrial elevator as you had anticipated, my lady.” Marasi could make out the section of wall he indicated—but the front of the elevator would be facing away from them. They’d never sneak through the open cargo bay without being spotted. Fortunately, they didn’t need to. They moved through the hallway to the appropriate location—a blank wall, beyond which should be the elevator. “All right,” Marasi whispered. Moonlight created another door, then pulled it open, revealing a deep, dark shaft leading down. The elevator must be below, likely having carried the lord mayor and his bodyguards into the depths. Now what? “Allow me,” TwinSoul said, stepping through the door and steadying himself by grabbing a small box just inside, standing with one foot on a narrow ledge, the other dangling over the void. Marasi reached to steady him, but before she could the door vanished, the wall stretching back into place. Moonlight hastily stamped again, then pulled open the door. They found TwinSoul hanging from a ladder constructed of roseite stone. He took a long drink from his backpack full of water and smiled. “Shall we?” he asked. “What if someone calls the elevator back up?” Marasi asked. “It’s an industrial elevator,” Moonlight said. “Look how wide this shaft is, how thick the cables are. It will move slowly. Worst case, we can climb on top and ride it up. There’s enough space above us here that we won’t be crushed.” Marasi nodded, and TwinSoul began climbing down, new rungs forming beneath him as he did so. Marasi stepped onto the ladder, testing its strength. TwinSoul was, it turned out, exceptionally handy to have along. She climbed down a little to let Moonlight on too. The doorway vanished again, but Moonlight cracked open her rucksack to let some light leak out, painting the shaft with a pale white glow. They started descending toward the caverns. And, hopefully, answers. Wax climbed down the hidden passage in the mayor’s mansion. Yes, it did seem to be squeezed between two walls; he’d climbed far enough to pass the first floor and reach the basement. Here his ladder emerged into a small room with iron walls and ceiling. It had supplies on the shelves: dry rations, jugs of water. Looked like some kind of small emergency bunker. Not intended for long-term occupancy, but a safe bolt-hole in case of …
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what? Riots in the streets? Or something more nefarious, like an accidental weapon detonation? Chilled, Wax inspected the room and found scrapes on the floor indicating a hidden door on one wall. He opened it without much difficulty—though it was made of thick reinforced metal—and found a path into the storm drain. Light peeked in through the grates above, and the scent—though unpleasant—wasn’t terrible. Not a true sewer, just a place for washing rainwater out of the streets and toward the ocean. And a nice emergency exit from the mayor’s mansion, he thought, noting numerous footprints in the sludge and dried muddy ones in the concrete tunnel up ahead. A little farther along, he found a small motorized cart, open roofed, perfect to drive in these tight confines. The wheels were covered in sludge, and there were numerous tire tracks in the mud beyond. There were no keys in the cart, and though supposedly there was a way to start one without them, that was a feat of thievery he’d never studied. Instead Wax pulled the folded-up calendar from his coat pocket and noted again the numerous appointments at the “lab.” Back and forth, sometimes a couple of times a day. If Wax had been visiting a secret installation that frequently, he would most certainly have wanted a covert way to travel. Wax started into the tunnel on foot, but then phantoms from long ago rose around him. For the briefest moment, he wasn’t in a drainage sewer in the most modern city of the Basin. He was in a dirty mine adit, haunted by twisted “artwork” made by a terrible mind. Golden light sifting down from above. A meeting with destiny. Someone else moves us. A deep breath and a moment of peace banished the phantoms. They’d be with him forever, but they didn’t haunt him any longer. They were more like echoes than ghosts. Reminders of the man he’d been, the life he’d led, and the people he’d loved. They were remembered, but today he had work to do. He found a service ladder to the street above, and climbed up to go find Wayne. Hopefully he wasn’t on fire. Blessedly, he found Wayne alive and only slightly singed, waiting at the prearranged rally point. A bar, because of course it was. Wayne had picked the spot. Wax slid into the seat beside his friend, and Wayne passed him a shot of whiskey, which Wax downed with a hiss of satisfaction. They left money on the counter, then slipped out the back. “You find anythin’?” Wayne asked as they reached the end of the alley behind the bar. “Some writings that might be relevant,” Wax said. “Calendar. Letters. More importantly, a secret tunnel—hopefully leading somewhere useful.” “Nice,” Wayne said. “What happened to you?” “Eh,” Wayne said. “Nothin’ that interesting.” Wax looked at him, then at the burn marks on his trousers. “Couldn’t do Grandma’s Been at the Vodka,” Wayne explained. “Couldn’t find a wig in time. So I did Flaming Bunny instead.” “Flaming Bunny,” Wax said flatly. “Please tell me
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you didn’t set a rabbit on fire, Wayne.” “Of course not. I couldn’t find a damn wig in time; where would I find a rabbit?” “Good, I—” “You use a cat for Flaming Bunny. And those are all over the dang place.” “Wayne. You set a cat on fire?” “Hell, no! What do you think I am? A sadist?” Wax relaxed a little. “You throw the cat out a window,” Wayne explained. “Oh, Harmony…” Wax said. “Why?” “To save it from the flames, of course!” Wayne shook his head as Wax led him toward the storm drain. “That’s the plan. You start a big fire, then go around screaming and throw a cat out the window. People believe you and think you’re saving pets.” “Then…” “Then you shout that someone has to save the bunny,” he said. “You lead everyone in to knock on the doors and get folks outta the place, and everybody gets all crazy and distracted helpin’ you.” Wax stopped on the street, gawking at the Silver House with everyone else. It was now almost fully ablaze, a terrible plume of smoke rising from it, like the Deepness itself. “You did say,” Wayne noted, “that following an egregious diplomatic incident, we might as well have some fun.” “That is not what I said.” Wax sighed. “What?” Wayne said. “You still on about that cat thing?” “You really threw it out a window?” “What would you have done? Leave it to burn? I hadda rescue the thing.” “Rescue the cat. From a fire you made. A cat that you kidnapped expressly for that purpose.” Wayne grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I hucked him at a tree real good. Cats always land in trees, so long as you throw them hard enough.” “Why … why would you think that?” “Dunno,” Wayne said as Wax started them moving again. “Must have learned it in school.” “Did you … go to school?” “As a kid? Nah. But I burned one down once, before I even developed Flaming Bunny. Maybe the cat thing was on the board or something in there.” “Wait. When did you burn down a school?” “West’s Haven?” Wayne said. “Nine years back. It was an evil damn school.” Wax hesitated at the mouth of the alley with the access ladder, thinking. West’s Haven … Oh, right. That had been an evil damn school. “Fine,” Wax said, pulling open the hatch to the storm drain. “Let’s keep moving.” Wayne climbed down. At the bottom, he grunted. “What?” Wax said, joining him. “Don’t tell Marasi ’bout this,” he said. “I told her you ain’t never taken me into a sewer. Least this one doesn’t stink…” He squinted. “Actually, kinda looks like a narrow canyon, with all those lights coming in the top…” “Why would you say that?” Wax said. “No reason.” They both turned around as the bells of the fire brigade sounded from above. “So…” Wayne said. “Calendar and letters, was it?” Wax nodded. “Gave has been visiting a place called the lab, though he also left for two weeks for some
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kind of trajectory test a couple months ago. Disguised as a vacation.” “Huh,” Wayne said, pointing ahead. “And the lab is this way, you think?” “Seems likely,” Wax said. He dug in his pocket a moment, then passed the calendar to Wayne. Who whistled softly. “No appointments after today?” “I noticed that too.” “‘They arrive’…” Wayne said, reading. Wax nodded, giving Wayne a moment with the calendar pages while he pulled out the letters. The light wasn’t great down here, but he could make out enough in the sunlight coming through the grates. Reading the two letters again, one extremely incriminating, the other full of pleasantries. What … Oh, rusts. “Wayne,” he said, holding up the incriminating letter they’d gotten from the newspaper editor. “This is a forgery.” “What? Really?” Wayne took it. “How do you know?” “Before all this started,” Wax said, “I spent a good amount of time on an operation that implicated Vennis Hasting—who supposedly wrote that letter—in a scandal. I proved that he had been bribing other senators. In order to make our case, Steris and I authenticated letters we’d acquired from him. Rusts. I visited three separate handwriting analysts, and they talked specifically about the distinctive turn of Vennis’s strokes. Which aren’t right in this one.” He felt his eyes widen. “That’s what it means … that’s what she’s doing…” “Mate,” Wayne said. “You’ve gotta be more clear. ’Cuz I sure ain’t following.” “My sister,” Wax explained. “She needs a way to seize control of the Basin, and prove to Autonomy she can rule here. I’ve been wondering how blowing up Elendel achieves that.” “It would remove a whole lot of barriers.” “Yes, but surely the other cities would never follow someone who committed such an atrocity.” Wax held up the fake letter. “Unless Telsin could claim she didn’t blow up Elendel. Unless she had proof—in the form of forged letters—that the senators inside Elendel were the ones developing the bomb. With the right evidence, she could make it look like they mistakenly blew themselves up.” “Oooh, that’s devious,” Wayne said. “She can ‘recover’ some of the details of that weapon too, so Bilming will ‘reluctantly’ have access to the technology to protect the Basin from the Malwish. Hell … that would work. Remove Elendel. Unite the Basin. Achieve dominance on the planet.” A piece locked into place. Even Gave’s letters—the real ones from Vennis Hasting—made sense now. They’d needed handwriting samples, hence the cordial letters between mayor and senator. “And the lack of appointments after today?” Wayne asked. “Seems like our deadline’s even tighter than we feared.” “We need to find this lab,” Wax said, starting along the storm drain again. “And hope the bomb is there.” Wayne nodded, joining him. Gave had scheduled fifteen minutes on either side of his appointments for travel to the lab—so it wouldn’t be too far. As they walked, Wax found himself increasingly worried. About what Telsin was doing. About the implications of it all. So he was a little relieved when Wayne broke the silence. “Sooooo…” Wayne said. “When
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you were in the mayor’s office … did you notice if he had a nice desk?” “He had a rather nice one,” Wax said. “Why?” “Did you…” He nodded back in the direction of the Silver House. “You know…” “Fart in his chair?” “Yup.” “Wayne. Of course I didn’t.” They walked a little farther through the muck, finding a place where kids had obviously snuck down, judging by the graffiti painted on the walls: giant sweeping Terris patterns of V’s. “Okay,” Wax finally said, unable to let it go despite trying quite forcefully, “why would you even think that I would do that to his chair? You explicitly said not to, and beyond that … what the hell? Who does that?” “Nobody, nobody,” Wayne said. “It’s good you didn’t. Gotta stay classy, you know. ’Specially in times like this. Very serious. Bombs threatening cities. Likely detonation today. No time for frivolity.” He paused. “But…” Wayne continued, “if I’d been there, and seen that fancy chair … Well, I like those chairs, you know? The type that leans all the way back, and is all leather, and firm enough for support, but not so firm that it’s uncomfortable. You know? “And I’d think, ‘Damn, that’s a fancy chair.’ And I’d wonder … would the old backyard mistmaker sound different? What if I released a little concentrated essence of Wayne into those perfect leather contours? Would it feel different? Would my cheeks—” “That’s enough. Please.” “Oh, right. Okay.” They continued on a little farther, but something about his words … Wax again tried to put it out of his mind, but … “Wayne,” he finally said, closing his eyes, feeling angry at himself for continuing the conversation. “I have a chair just like that back in my study in the penthouse.” “That you do,” Wayne said solemnly. “You do indeed.” Oh hell. “Wayne. Did you—” “Wax, the whole city is in danger, you know? You need to stop letting your attention drift, mate. First that fixation on me maybe setting government buildings on fire—only twice, mind you, which isn’t a pattern, just a coincidence. Now this fascination with what comes outta my backside. Can’t we keep focused on important things?” “Yeah, I suppose.” “Like this art,” Wayne said, admiring some graffiti. “Ma was right. This place is beautiful.” “Ma?” Wax said. “Do I want to know what you’re talking about this time?” “This just reminds me of an old story with a canyon,” Wayne said, joining him as they continued. “A story my ma told me. Last one she gave me. So I remember it well, you know?” “No,” Wax said. “How is this tunnel a canyon?” “It just is,” Wayne said softly, looking up as they passed under another grate, sunlight crossing his face in a checkerboard pattern. “Been thinking about it since earlier today. It’s inevitable, you know?” “I don’t,” Wax said. “I really don’t, Wayne.” “Well it just is,” he said. “Even if you don’t know it. You’re the hero, Wax, and you got a mission. Barm. The nastiest monster what
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ever lived. You’re gonna stop him…” He hesitated. “Watch out. Might be some snakes in this canyon.” “It’s a storm drain,” Wax said, “and I’ve never seen a snake in the city.” “Yeah, they’re damn good at sneaking,” Wayne said. “Speaking of snakes: the Set, they’ll know that was us with the mansion.” “Undoubtedly,” Wax said. “They might push into the mayor’s study to recover sensitive documents. I couldn’t replace the rug above the trapdoor—so they’ll know I found the tunnel.” “Ah, great.” “Great?” “You’re supposed to find a bad guy in the canyon,” Wayne explained. “If the story is going to go right, at least.” “Wayne,” Wax said. “We’re not in a canyon in your mother’s story. We’re in a storm drain in Bilming, trying to find and stop an explosive device. We—” He was interrupted by a gunshot just ahead, echoing in the narrow tunnel—and a bullet hit the concrete near Wax’s head with a pop, blasting out a chip. They both immediately ducked to the sides, getting low, and saw shadows moving in the tunnel ahead, just around a bend. Wax picked out two figures crouching beside the curve of the tunnel—the Coinshot he’d fought earlier, and a shorter woman wearing a bowler hat. “Hey,” Wayne said. “Will you look at that. Bad guys and snakes. Both at the same time.” Marasi’s team neared the bottom of the elevator shaft without incident, carefully using TwinSoul’s roseite ladder. Red-pink dust crumbled around her as she slowed her climb, the little motes often evaporating in the air below her. Marasi probably had a dusting of them in her hair—smoldering there, like simmering ashes without the heat. They found the large service elevator settled snug on the bottom of the shaft. TwinSoul expanded his ladder to the sides so all three of them could climb down beside one another. Then Marasi tested the roof of the elevator with her toe. Solid, sturdy metal. She lowered her weight onto it carefully, and it didn’t even bow. She nodded to the others, who joined her. “Now what?” Moonlight whispered. “Service hatch,” Marasi said, locating one set into the other corner. She eased it open. The front doors of the elevator were open, though she couldn’t see much more from this angle. She waved TwinSoul over. “Can you see if there is anyone watching below?” A small line of roseite provided answers. “Silajana sees two guards,” TwinSoul whispered. “A man and a woman, armed with rifles. They are opposite the open elevator door, near a natural stone wall. It appears that we have indeed arrived at a series of tunnels and caverns. “The guards do not seem observant, and are currently looking at one another rather than the elevator. Should I try to send them to the aethers, their souls left to ruminate on their poor choices in this particular life?” “She wants to remain quiet, TwinSoul,” Moonlight said. “That might be overkill.” “I can handle this,” Marasi whispered. “Though it would help if you could lower me through that hole a little, TwinSoul, so
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