فصل 17

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.

“And ripped out Winsting’s tongue,” Wax said. He fished in his pocket and brought something out, tossing it to Wayne.

“What’s this?” Wayne asked, turning it over in his fingers. It was a piece of painted wood.

“Remains of the Marksman’s mask. Bleeder was wearing it.”

“You think she was him all along?” Wayne asked.

“Maybe,” Wax said. “It would have served her purpose, riling up the people of the slums, reminding them how rich the houses are. By bringing him down, I put myself at odds with the common people.” “I hate to say it, mate,” Wayne said, “but you ain’t exactly beloved of them anyway.” “I’m a hero from the Roughs,” Wax said.

“You’re a conner,” Wayne said. “And a house lord, mate. Not to mention the fact that you can, yunno, fly. You can’t treat this like Weathering. You can’t convince a fellow you’re on his side by slapping him in jail overnight, then playing cards with him until he sees you as a regular chap.” Wax sighed. “You’re right, of course.”

“Usually am.”

“Except that time on Lessie’s birthday.”

“You always have to bring that up, don’t you?” Wayne leaned back, tipping his hat down over his eyes. “Honest mistake.” “You put dynamite in the oven, Wayne.”

“Gotta hide a gift where nobody’ll look for it.”

“I need to piece this together,” Wax said, starting to pace. “Sketch it out. Write it down. We’re missing something very important.” Wayne nodded, but was hardly listening. Wax would figure it out. Wayne just needed to get some shuteye, while the getting was still good enough for … He heard a door click open. He threw back his hat and was on his feet a second later, scrambling for the door. Wax cursed, pulling out one of his guns, following as Wayne dashed into the hallway and intercepted the servant with a plate full of little party foods.

“Aha!” Wayne said. “Thought you could slip by me, didja!”

The kitchen maid looked horrified as Wayne gathered up three of each of the treats. Wax stopped in the doorway, then lowered his gun. “Oh, for Harmony’s sake.” “Harmony can get his own,” Wayne said, popping a little cake in his mouth. As he turned back to Wax, the maid scuttled away, heading for the meeting.

It was exactly what Wayne had been waiting for. Important folk meeting together always meant snacks. Or canapés, if you knew the code. Wayne popped one in his mouth—candied bacon wrapped around a walnut.

“How is it?” Wax asked.

“Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.” “I did not need to hear that,” Wax said, slipping his gun back into its holster. “I’m going to need to go back out there, see if I can figure out Bleeder’s plan. That leaves you here to protect the governor again.” Wayne nodded. “I’ll do what I can, but that’s a tall order, mate.” “I’ve arranged for some help,” Wax said, leading the way over to the ladies’ crapper. He knocked on the door.

“Still changing!” MeLaan’s voice came from inside.

“How long?” Wax said.

The door cracked, and a woman’s face peeked out that looked completely unlike MeLaan’s. “Not long,” she said in MeLaan’s voice. “This lady’s hair was a real pain.” She shut the door.

“I recognize that face,” Wayne said, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

“One of the guards,” Wax said. “That got shot a little earlier.” “Oh right.” Wayne had a sinking feeling. “Wasn’t she one of the ones I tried to save?” “Died shortly thereafter,” Wax said. “MeLaan will keep the arm in a sling—that was where the shot hit first, before penetrating into the woman’s lung. We’ll keep her on the governor’s guard staff, and hopefully Bleeder will be so busy looking for you and me that she’ll miss MeLaan.” “I hope you appreciate this,” the kandra’s voice came from inside the crapper. “I hate being short. As a side note, this lady tasted awful. Far too lean and tough.” The door cracked, revealing the face again. “Next time, choose a body that’s been sitting around awhile, would you? Nice and aged is the best flavor for…” She trailed off, looking from Wayne to Wax, noticing their expressions. “Oh right,” she said. “Mortals. I’d forgotten how squeamish you can be.” “Please,” Wax said, sounding pained, “show some respect for the dead woman. It’s already difficult to let you use her corpse like this.” MeLaan rolled her eyes—rusts, it was strange to see her behave just like before, but in an entirely different body. “It’s either me or the worms, kids. Don’t you think she’d be happy to go out all at once, munched down in half an hour, rather than sitting there and melting into the ground over the course of—” “Too much description, MeLaan,” Wax said, his voice strained.

“Fine, fine. I’m almost ready; just have to get the clothing on. How is the hair?” “Good,” Wayne said. “I think you forgot an eyebrow though.”

MeLaan felt at her face. “Hell,” she said. “This is what you get by forcing me to work so quickly.” She ducked back into the room.

“Speaking of quickly,” Wax said through the door, “is this about what I can expect with Bleeder? A half hour to change bodies?” Wayne nodded. That would be useful to know.

“No, unfortunately,” MeLaan’s voice said from inside, muffled. It was still the same voice as she’d had in her other body. Was she going to change that? “Paalm is old-generation, very practiced. I don’t think anybody is as good as TenSoon, mind you, but Paalm will be fast—particularly swapping into a body she’s used before. I’ve known early-generationers who can change bodies in under ten minutes, and that’s going in blind.” “Isn’t that tough?” Wayne called. “Like … I once hadda eat twenty sausages for a bet. Won five notes, but spent an hour on the ground moaning like a fellow on the pot tryin’ to force a mango through his delicate doughnut, if you catch my meaning.” Wax groaned softly, but a short time later MeLaan opened the door again, and was this time clothed in a black suit like the other guards. She was also smiling. “You’re cute,” she noted to Wayne. “How’s my eyebrow?” “Uh, good.” Cute? “But I’m taken.”

“In answer to your question,” MeLaan said, “it is hard, but not for the reason you’re implying. We can force-feed and expel excess, which makes doing the transformation near a drain like in here convenient. The tough part is memorizing the muscle patterns as you digest them. That and getting the hair right. You people are practically drowning in the stuff. Fortunately, for a quick change like this, I can ignore the hair under the clothing.” “So … wait,” Wayne said, rubbing his chin. “You’re saying we might be able to check if a person is a kandra by…” “… Seeing if they put leg and arm hair on?” MeLaan asked. “That might actually work, but only if the kandra had to change fast.” “Arm hair,” Wayne said. “Right. I was thinkin’ of arm hair.” “That is the most difficult part to get right on short notice,” MeLaan said. “We can’t make hair, so we’ve got to use your own, and place each strand in a pore. Arms and legs have thousands of the things. What a pain. Far worse than a mass on the head or whatnot.” “MeLaan,” Wax said, digging in his coat pocket and bringing something out. “Do you recognize this?” “I don’t have a lot to go on, chief, but I’d say it’s an empty glass vial.” “Take it inside and turn off the lights,” Wax said, tossing her the vial as Wayne stepped forward, trying to get a look. That stuff seemed interesting.

MeLaan withdrew, then shoved open the door a second later. She grabbed Wax by the mistcoat, somehow still imposing despite the fact that she was now shorter than either of them. “Where did you get this?” “Bottom of Bleeder’s robes,” Wax said. “The ones she was wearing to imitate a priest.” “This is perchwither,” MeLaan said. “It’s a bioluminescent fungus. It grows in only one place.” “Where?” Wax asked.

“The kandra Homeland.”

Wax looked deflated. “Oh. So that’s where we’d expect her to be going, right?” “No,” MeLaan said. “The kandra are no longer trapped there. We move in society—we have homes, lives. If we want to meet up with others of our kind, we catch them at the pub. The Homeland is a monument. A holy site. A place of relics. The fact that she’s been there recently, wearing the body of someone she killed…” MeLaan shivered visibly, letting go of Wax. “It’s nauseating.” “I should check it out,” Wax said. “She might be staying down there.” MeLaan folded her arms, looking him over. “Harmony says it’s okay,” she said. “You can get in through the tombs; look for the sign of atium and use your other eyes. We don’t use that entrance very often, but it’s probably easiest for you. Just don’t break anything, lawman.” “I’ll do my best,” Wax said, turning as a footman peeked in from the hallway, then approached with a small silver tray bearing a card.

“Lord Ladrian?” said the footman, holding out the tray. “Your coach has arrived.” “Coach?” Wayne asked. On a hunt, Wax was usually in full-on “fly through the city like a rusting vulture” mode. Why would he need a coach?

Wax picked up the card on the tray, then nodded and took a deep breath. “Thank you.” He turned to Wayne and MeLaan. “Keep the governor alive. I’ll send word if I discover anything.” “So what’s in the coach?” Wayne asked.

“I sent a note soon after I got here to the mansion,” Wax said. “There’s one person in this city who might have an inkling of what Bleeder is up to.” Wax’s face took on a grim cast.

Ah, of course, Wayne thought. He patted Wax on the shoulder. This wouldn’t be a pleasant meeting.

“Who?” MeLaan asked, looking from Wayne back to Wax. “What are you talking about?” “Have you ever heard,” Wax said, “of a group called the Set?” * * *

Wax found his uncle waiting comfortably inside the coach. No bodyguards. The coachman didn’t even ask for Wax’s weapons as he stopped at the door. Contacting his uncle had been easy; the appointment book had listed a few of Edwarn’s safe-deposit boxes, kept under false names. After posting watch on one for a few weeks, Wax had found a letter inside, suggesting he try something else.

He’d left his own letter. After that, one had appeared for him. They never said anything useful, and Wax had driven himself crazy trying to find out how they were being placed. But Edwarn seemed to know the moment a new one from Wax arrived.

Wax took a deep breath, then climbed into the coach. Edwarn was a stocky man distinguished by a short, precisely trimmed beard, a beautifully tailored suit, and a cravat so narrow and thin, it lay flat like a bowtie loosened at the end of a long night. Edwarn’s hands rested easily on the ornate head of a cane, and his face bore a wide smile.

“Nephew!” he said as Wax settled into his seat. “You can’t imagine my joy upon receiving your note, and with a promise that you wouldn’t try to arrest me. So quaint! I came immediately; I feel like we’ve been too distant lately.” “Distant? You tried to have me killed.”

“And you’ve tried to return the favor!” Edwarn said, knocking with his cane on the roof to get the coach moving. “Yet here we sit, both alive and well. I see no reason why we can’t be amiable. We are rivals, yes, but also still family.” “You’re a criminal, Uncle,” Wax said. “Considering the things you’ve done, I don’t feel much familial empathy.” Edwarn sighed, slipping his pipe from his pocket. “Can’t you at least try to be pleasant?” “I’ll try.” Truth was, Wax wanted information from this man. Antagonizing him would not be smart.

They rolled on silently for a while as Edwarn lit the pipe, and Wax tried to organize his thoughts. How to approach this?

“Dangerous night,” Edwarn noted, nodding out the window as they passed a group of men and women holding aloft lanterns and torches while listening to a woman standing on a stack of boxes. She shouted into the mists angry words that Wax couldn’t quite make out. Rusts, that group was close to the governor’s mansion. He hoped that Innate and the constables could get this under control.

“I wonder,” Edwarn said, puffing on his pipe, “if that night long ago felt the same as this one—the night when the Survivor’s Gambit played out. The fall of a regime. The start of a new world.” “You can’t possibly think this is equivalent,” Wax said. “The Lord Ruler’s reign was one of terror and oppression. These people are upset, yes, but it’s a far different world now.” “Different?” Edwarn said, letting smoke roll from his mouth as he spoke. “Perhaps. But human emotions are the same. It seems that no matter how nice the box is, put a man inside it and he will buck. Fight. Rail.” “And you claim to be on the side of the common man,” Wax said dryly.

“Hardly. I want power. Wealth. Influence. Just like the people in the Survivor’s crew, actually.” “They were heroes.”

“And thieves.”

“They were what they had to be.”

“And Kelsier himself?” Edwarn said. “In the years before his grand gambit? What of the Ascendant Warrior, living on the street, scamming noblemen and priests for a living? Have you read the Words of Founding, Nephew? The Historica speaks frankly about their ambitions. The Survivor didn’t just want to overthrow the Lord Ruler; he wanted to steal the empire’s riches. He wanted to rule the world that came about upon the Lord Ruler’s fall. He wanted power. Influence. Wealth.” “I’m not going down this road, Uncle,” Wax said.

“Have you ever wondered,” Edwarn mused, ignoring Wax’s objection, “if you’d get along with them? If you’d lived back then, what would you have seen? A bunch of miscreants? Lawbreakers? Would you have trussed up the Ascendant Warrior and tossed her in a cell? The law is not something holy, son. It’s just a reflection of the ideals of those lucky enough to be in charge.” “I don’t know any constables,” Wax said, “who think the law is perfect or the courts infallible. But they’re the best damn things we have right now, and I’m not going to entertain for a second the idea that you’re some kind of secret seeker of justice. You’re as rotten as they come, Uncle.” “So pleasant,” Edwarn said. “And this is what I get for responding to your invitation? Insults and vitriol. And one wonders why our house is considered a laughingstock these days. I’m told they invite you to parties just to see you strut.” “I sent to you,” Wax said through clenched teeth, “because I think we might have a common enemy. I know you want to rule this city. Well, I need you to see reason. I’ve spoken with the creature. If we don’t stop her, there might not be a city to rule.” Edwarn didn’t respond, holding his pipe and looking through the coach’s glass window at the curling mists in the darkness just outside.

“What do you know?” Wax asked, almost a plea. “I’m certain the Set has been watching events with interest. Your attempt to kill me earlier—tell me that was just a strike of opportunity. Tell me you aren’t working with her. She’ll see it all burn, Uncle. Help me bring her down.” Edwarn mused silently awhile, enjoying his pipe. “Do you realize what your overzealous campaign against us has accomplished, Nephew?” he finally asked. “Half the city’s elements are too frightened to work with the Set, for fear that you’ll show up on their doorstep and shoot their mothers. The money you’ve seized hasn’t ruined us, but it has made some of our members very, very upset.” “Good,” Wax said.

“You say that because you’re ignorant,” Edwarn spat. “Among the members of the Set, I am conservative. I speak against brashness, against violence. The more you shove, however, the weaker my influence becomes, and stronger grow the voices clamoring for change. At any cost.” “Oh, Harmony,” Wax whispered. “You are working with her.”

“It’s more like we’re riding the storm,” Edwarn said. “Personally, I’d love to see you bring this creature down. It might topple some of my rivals, give me a chance to propose something audacious of my own to the Set. But I’m not going to help you, Nephew. Perhaps this is what needs to be.” “How can you do this?” Wax asked. “You’re going to watch it all burn?” “Ashes are excellent fertilizer,” Edwarn said.

“Unless they pile so high they smother everything.”

Edwarn drew his lips to a tight line. “You are shortsighted and self-righteous. You were ever so, even during your youth. But still I love you, Nephew. I consider it a sign of that love that I haven’t actually had you killed. I keep hoping you’ll see we are not your enemy. We are the thieves and miscreants of this day who will someday be hailed as heroes. The men and women who will change the world because … what was it you said?… this is what we need to be in order to survive.” “And my sister?” Wax said. “Is holding her captive part of what you need to do to survive?” “Yes, actually,” Edwarn said, meeting his eyes. “Because I don’t doubt that someday I’m going to need to use her against you. Kill me, and your sister is as good as dead, Waxillium.” He knocked again on the ceiling beneath the driver. The carriage slowed to a stop.

“Run along now,” Edwarn said. “Go be the toy soldier and pretend you wouldn’t have murdered the Survivor’s entire crew, if you’d lived under the Lord Ruler. Try to pretend you went out into the Roughs to find justice, and not because you realized life in this city was just too damn hard for you.” They sat in the quiet, immobile coach. Wax held himself steady, though Edwarn’s eyes flicked toward Wax’s shoulder holster, as if he was expecting Wax to draw. He could. He could shoot this man right here and now—he’d broken promises before, and to far better men than his uncle.

Kill me, and your sister is as good as dead.…

Wax kicked the door open. “I’m going to go deal with this kandra, but know that I won’t forget you, Uncle. One day you’re going to find me standing behind you with a gun to your head, and you’ll have the sudden, horrible realization that there’s nothing left that can protect you.” “I look forward to it!” Edwarn said. “If that day doesn’t come before next summer, you should join me for Mareweather dinner. We’ll have stuffed pig in your honor.” Wax growled softly, but stepped from the coach and slammed the door.