The serving woman shook her head, sitting with her arms wrapped around herself. They’d finally managed to get down from the top floor, following the panicked exodus by the rich types. The governor was surrounded by a bubble of guards over to Wayne’s left, and a set of strong electric lanterns illuminated the misty night.
The green in front of the skyscraper felt right empty, now that so many people had left. He figured that would soon change, when Marasi returned with some more constables. She’d run off to fetch them, and give a report. That meant Wayne was the sole officer of lawkeepin’ in the vicinity. A frightening thought.
“I’ve got one more question for you,” Wayne said to the woman.
“Yes, officer?” she asked.
“Where’d you get those shoes?”
The woman blinked, then looked down. “Um … My shoes?”
“Yeah, your shoes,” Wayne said. “Look plenty comfortable, they do. Can never have too many pairs of black pumps. They go with rusting everything.”
She looked back at him. “You’re a man.”
“Sure am,” Wayne said. “Checked last time I pissed. The shoes?”
“Rousseau’s,” she said. “Third Octant, on Yomen Street.” She paused. “They were on sale last week.”
“Damn!” Wayne said. “That’s beautiful. Thanks. You’re free to go.”
She gave him that look that people seemed to give only to Wayne, the one he hadn’t quite figured. Ah well. He wrote down the name of the shop. If he had to wear those awful pumps from his disguise box one more time, he’d probably go insane.
He popped a ball of gum into his mouth and wandered over toward the pile of guards, going over his notes. That server up above, he thought, tapping his pad with his pencil, was not the kandra. Wayne had talked to a dozen of the staff. All knew the fellow and said he hadn’t been acting strange at all. But none of them liked him. He was a screwup, and none were surprised that he’d turned out to be rotten.
An amateur might think that picking the new guy made for a good disguise, but this Bleeder, she could be anyone. Why would she pick the low man on the list, someone who had only joined the staff a few weeks back? Sure, being new would give you an excuse to not know people’s names, but by reports, this fellow hadn’t forgotten anyone’s name tonight. And picking a habitual klutz with a bad reputation would just lead to everyone watching over your shoulder. A terrible choice for an imitator.
That guy had been some other kind of mole. He shook his head.
“Where’s Drim?” he asked the guards. “I wanna show him what I’ve got.”
The guard leaned over, looking at Wayne’s notepad. “All that’s on there is a bunch of scribbles.”
“It’s for show,” Wayne said. “Makes people talk more if they think you’re writin’ stuff down. Dunno why. I sure wouldn’t want anyone rememberin’ the slag I say.…” He hesitated, then shoved aside the guard, looking into the middle of the pile. Drim wasn’t there, and neither was the governor.
“What’d you do with him!” Wayne said, turning on the others. A smug group of bastards, they were.
“It was best everyone thought he was still here,” the guard said. “In truth, he and Drim headed to a secure location ages ago. If we fooled you, then hopefully we fooled the assassin.”
“Fooled … I’m supposed to be protectin’ the guy!”
“Well, you’re doing a rusting good job of that, mate, ain’tcha,” the guard said, then smirked.
So Wayne did the only reasonable thing. He spat out his gum, then decked the fellow.
*
Wax rarely appreciated the city as much as he did when he needed to get somewhere quickly.
To the eyes of a man burning steel, Elendel was alight and full of motion, even while shadowed by darkness and mist. Metal. In some ways, that was the true mark of mankind. Man tamed the stones, the bones of the earth below. Man tamed the fire, that ephemeral, consuming soul of life. And combining the two, he drew forth the marrow of the rocks themselves, then made molten tools.
Wax passed among the skyscrapers like a whisper, the motion drying his clothing. He became just another current in the mists, and moving with him in radial spokes was a majestic network of blue lines—like a million outstretched fingers pointing the way to anchors he could use along his path. When even a galloping horse was too slow, Wax had steel. It burned in him, returning to the fire that gave it shape.
From it he drew power. Sometimes that wasn’t enough.