Wayne nodded, ducking back out. Wax instead walked to the escape route and pulled open the door. He lit a candle and stepped up the slope, cautious, hand on his gun. What did undermining the governor, inciting a riot against the Pathians, and Wax’s own “freedom” have to do with one another? What was he missing?
He didn’t find Bleeder in the tunnel, though halfway up it he found her red cloak. She’d tossed it, bloodied, to the side. There, scrawled on the wall, was a crude picture shaped like a man, drawn with a fingernail into the wood.
Dabs of dried blood marked the figure’s eyes, and another marked its mouth. The words scrawled beneath in blood gave Wax a chill.
I rip out his tongue to stop the lies.
I stab out his eyes to hide from his gaze.
You will be free.
17
About a half hour after Bleeder’s attack, Wayne walked into the governor’s fancy washroom. Only in his head it wasn’t the washroom. He just knew to call it that here.
You see, Wayne had figured out the code.
Rich folks, they had this code. All of them knew it, and they used it like a new language to weed out everyone who didn’t belong.
Regular folk, they called something after what it was.
You’d say, “What’s that, Kell?”
And they’d say, “That? That there’s the crapper.”
And you’d reply, “What do you do with it?”
And they’d say, “Well, Wayne, that’s where you put your crap.”
It made sense. But rich folk, they had a different word for the crapper. They’d call it a “commode” or a “washroom.” That way, when someone asked for the crapper, they knew it was a person they needed to oppress.
Wayne did his business and spat his gum into the bowl before flushing. It felt good to be wearing his own hat again, dueling canes at his waist. He’d spent a good hour or two wearing the clothing and false face of a guard for Innate. Horribly uncomfortable, that.
He wiped his sniffly nose and washed his hands, drying them on towels embroidered with Innate’s name. He was that worried people would run off with his towels? Well, the joke was on him. Wayne was perfectly happy to wipe up dirt with the governor’s name. He tucked the towel into his pocket, and left in trade a few mints he’d taken from the bar.
He wandered out from there, peeking into the room where the governor was holding a meeting with all kinds of important folks, the type who called the crapper “the facilities.”
You know, he thought, maybe I have it wrong. Maybe it’s not code. Maybe they’re just so familiar with what comes out of their arses, normal words aren’t specific enough. Like how the Terris language had seven different words for iron.
He nodded to himself. A new theory. Wax was gonna love this one. Wayne passed into the room with the couches, where the guards had been gunned down. Wax stood inside with an envelope, into which he dropped something small and metallic. He sealed it, then handed it to a young messenger from the governor’s staff.
“Deliver it quickly,” Wax said. “Pound on the door. Wake her up if you have to—and don’t get scared off if she cusses at you or threatens to shoot you. She won’t actually hurt you.”
The young man nodded, though he’d gone pale.
“Tell her it’s urgent,” Wax said, holding up his finger. “Don’t let her toss it aside and read it in the morning. You stay there until she’s read what I wrote, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good lad. Off with you.”
The youth ran out. Wayne strolled over to Wax, passing the open door down to the saferoom. The bodies around it had been removed, though the blood remained.
“Ranette?” Wayne asked hopefully.
Wax nodded. “I thought of something that might help.”
“I coulda delivered that, you know.…”
“You, she would shoot,” Wax said.
“Only ’cuz she likes me,” Wayne said, smiling. He’d have welcomed an excuse to go see Ranette. This night was getting darker and darker, it seemed.
“Wayne…” Wax said. “You know she doesn’t actually like you.”
“You always say that, but you’re just not seein’ the truth, Wax.”
“She tries to kill you.”
“To keep me alive,” Wayne said. “She knows I live a dangerous life. So, keepin’ me on my toes is the best way to make sure I stick around. Anyway, was that Marasi I saw in there with the governor and his important folk?”
Wax nodded. “She and MeLaan arrived a short time back. Aradel wants to declare martial law.”
“And you don’t?” Wayne asked, taking a seat on one of the nice couches that didn’t have much blood splattered on it. Important people were meeting nearby. He suspected he knew what would come next, and he intended to wait around for it.
Wax stood for a moment, then shook his head. “Bleeder set this all up, Wayne. She’s been pushing us toward this. ‘I rip out his tongue … I stab out his eyes…’”
“Now, I’m as for dismemberment as the next fellow,” Wayne said, “but that’s a mite violent for this time of day.”
“Bleeder wrote it on the wall down below. A poem of some sort. It doesn’t feel finished to me.”
“She nailed that priest through the eyes,” Wayne noted.