After finishing The Lost Metal, I decided to mark down all my favorite Wayne moments from the series to collect them. Obviously, all copyrights for this page go to the fantastic Brandon Sanderson and his publishers. Do buy his books and enjoy them. Alloy of Law CHAPTER ONE Of course, Wayne also claimed to have once stolen a horse that belched in perfect musical notes, so one learned to take what he said with a pinch of copper. CHAPTER TWO He looked at the clock, then pocketed it and set a small bottle of whiskey on the mantel in its place. "Now, that's right suspicious behavior, innit?" Wayne said, scrawling something on his notepad. "Dodging questions, acting all anxious. What are you hiding, sir?" "Railway car left Elendel four days ago and arrived in Weathering with the entire contents of a single car empty. Now, I hear that you recently lost two shipments of your own to these 'Vanishers.' I've come to question you. Right suspicious, as I said." "Suspicious ... Wayne, I lost two shipments. I'm the one who got robbed! Why would that make me a suspect?" "How am I to know how your devious, criminal genius mind works, mate?" "How's your health?" "Suitable." "So is Waxillium," Wayne added. They all turned to him. "You know," he said. "He's wearing a suit, and all. Suitable. Ahem. Is that mahogany?" "Perhaps we can dispense with empty prattle. We all know the nature of this meeting." "We do?" Wayne asked. "I suggest that you never ask her to pass the milk," Wayne added under his breath, so only Waxillium could hear. "As she seems likely to throw a cow at you, just to be certain the job is done thoroughly." "Those are very nice bookshelves," Wayne said. "Wish I had shelves like those." "Oh, I think the quiet one's kinda cute," Wayne said, his accent back in place. "The tall one is insane, though. Rust on my arms, but she is." "Your duties used to involve saving folks," Wayne said, "not marrying 'em." "If you were going to become a different person, couldn't you have chosen one without such an ugly face?" "What is that?" "Bullet. You shoot folks with 'em. Hopefully bad ones - or at least ones what owes you a bar or two." "Why, he's downright boring! Unbelievably, comically, nonsensically boring. You could squeeze more excitement out of a beggar waiting in line at the soup kitchen on rat meat day." "I think this meeting was wonderful," Wayne said as he stood. "You're just what my nephew needs, Lady Steris! A firm hand. None of this rabble-rousing he's been used to." "Nice bunch," Wayne said. "I now see what you're doing. With a wife and in-laws like those, you'll feel quite at home here - just like the jailhouse and its occupants back in Weathering!" CHAPTER THREE Wayne had always mocked him when he'd sketched out crimes to help him think. But it worked, though he frequently had to put up with Wayne's playful additions of little stick-figure bandits or mistwraiths rampaging across the otherwise neat and orderly sketchwork and notes. As he wrote he hesitated, then added a couple of stick-figure bandits at the top, drawn in Wayne's sloppy style. Crazy though it was, he felt better having them there. CHAPTER FOUR "What are you up to, Wayne?" "One seventy, thank you," Wayne said under his breath. "I've been lifting weights and eating steak." "I'm not very good at being shy, am I?" "I wasn't aware it was something that required practice." "I try all the time," Wayne said, sitting down at the table and taking the baguette out of his basket. He took a healthy bite. "Nobody gives me any credit for it. 'S because I'm misunderstood, I tell you." "There are stories 'bout us?" Wayne asked. "Yes. Many." "Damn." He sounded impressed. "Do we get royalties for them or something? If we do, I want Wax's share, seeing as to how I did all the stuff they say he did. Plus he's already rich and all." "I wonder if any of the other fine ladies in this establishment have heard of my outrageously heroic and masculine exploits..." "He does that a lot," Wayne said. "Apologizing. I think it's one of his personal failings. I try to help him out by being damn near perfect, but so far, that hasn't been enough." "Now, if you were studying buffoonery and idiotic behavior," Wayne added, "that is something we're experts on." "Wax only eats people on the weekend." "I told you what it was about," Wayne said. "You didn't accidentally eat my note, did you?" CHAPTER FIVE "We never needed to do stuff like that," Wayne said, eyeing the thieves as they leveled guns at the partygoers, silencing them. "Seein' as to how if we witness a crime, the guys doing it are usually dead by the end." He shot Waxillium a glare. "He took my lucky hat, Wax," Wayne growled. "As soon as I drop the bubble," Wayne said, "this place is going to erupt like an ammunition store in a volcano." "Perfect as Preserves," Wayne said, turning and putting his back to Waxillium's. "You wanna know why I really came to find you?" "Why?" "I thought of you happy in a comfy bed, resting and relaxing, spending the rest of your life sipping tea and reading papers while people bring you food and maids rub your toes and stuff." "And?" "And I just couldn't leave you to a fate like that." Wayne shivered. "I'm too good a friend to let a mate of mine die in such a terrible situation." "Comfortable?" "No," Wayne said. "Boring." He shivered again. CHAPTER SIX "You didn't grab the hat for me?" Wayne asked, sounding offended. "I was a little busy being shot at." "Busy? Aw, mate. It doesn't take any effort at all to get shot at. I think you're just makin' excuses on account of being jealous of my lucky hat." "Wayne," Waxillium said, fingering the long, narrow cartridges, "you realize these are rifle rounds?" "So?" "So they won't fit a revolver." "They won't? Why not?" "Because." "Kind of a dumb way to make bullets, innit?" He seemed baffled. Of course, most things about guns baffled Wayne, who was generally better off throwing a gun at someone than trying to fire it at them. "So, Wax," Wayne butted in. "Where did you say that bloke was who had my hat?" "I told you that he got away after I shot him." "I was hoping he'd dropped my hat, you know. Getting shot makes people drop stuff?" Waxillium sighed. "He still had it on when he left, I'm afraid." Wayne started cursing. "Wayne," Marasi said. "It's only a hat." "Only a hat?" he asked, aghast. "Wayne's a little attached to that hat," Waxillium said. "He thinks it's lucky." "It is lucky. I ain't never died while wearing that hat." "Nah." Wayne said. "You plugged them right good, you did. The one near me left brains all over the door!" "Oh dear." Marasi grew pale. "I never expected..." "It's what happens when you shoot someone," Wayne pointed out. "At least, usually someone has the good sense to get dead when you go to all the trouble to shoot them. Unless you miss anything vital. That bloke what took my hat?" "Where are you staying?" "Not sure yet," Wayne said. "I found this house where the folks who lives there is away, but I think they might be back tonight. Left 'em some bread as a thanks." Waxillium sighed. *I should have guessed.* "I'll give you a room, assuming you promise not to steal too much." "What? I never steal, mate. Stealing's bad." He ran a hand through his hair and grinned. "Might need to trade you for a hat to wear till I get my other one back, though. Do you need any bread?" CHAPTER EIGHT Wayne strode up the steps into the Fourth Octant constabulary precinct offices. His ears felt way too hot. Why was it that conners wore such uncomfortable hats? Maybe that was why they were so grouchy all the time - walking about the city, picking on respectable folk. Even after just a few weeks in Elendel, Wayne knew that was basically what constables did. Bad hats. A bad hat could make a man right disagreeable, and that was the truth. Wayne blew out his mustaches. "We sat at the same table at the chairman's dinner last spring!" He was feeling pretty good about this accent. It was a mixture of seventh-son lord and foreman of an ironworks, with just a hint of canal captain. Speaking with it felt like he'd stuffed cotton in half of his mouth and had borrowed the voice from an angry dog. "Bah," Wayne said. "You just need to be firm with them! No coddling." "You're looking too eager. That'll make 'em suspicious. Damn it all. You're gonna have to spit on me again." The man hesitated. "Do it!" He spat. "Ruination!" Wayne bellowed, swapping back to the constable accent. He pounded the table. "I'll tear your ears off, boy, if you do that again." The bandit looked at him. "Er ... should I?" *Ah, good. Got the right neighborhood.* "Like hell," Wayne hissed. "I really will rip yer ears off if you do." "You'll talk, or I'll have your toes!" Wayne yelled back. "I believe that the scones have arrived. Excellent! At least this trip won't be a complete waste." CHAPTER NINE "How long have you been out there?" Wayne's head poked around the corner, wearing a constable's hat. "Oh, a little while. Seemed like you two were having some kind of 'smart people' moment. Didn't want to interfere." "Wise of you. Your stupidity can be infectious." "Don't use your fancy words 'round me, son." "Did you succeed?" Waxillium asked, standing up, then reaching down to help Marasi to her feet. "Sure did - I got some scones." Wayne grinned. "And the dirty conners even paid for them." "Wayne?" "Yes?" "We're dirty conners." "Not no more," he said proudly. "We're independent citizens with a mind toward civic duty. And eating the scones of dirty conners." "How did you do this?" "Whiskey and magic," Wayne said. "You can show your appreciation with a big fat nugget of a rare and expensive metal," Wayne said. Wayne walked over, glancing at the apparatus set up on the desk. "I'm not sure if I want to touch any of this, mate. I'm rather fond of all of my fingers." "It's not going to explode, Wayne," he said dryly. "You said that-" "It happened once," Waxillium said. "Do you know how bloody annoying it is to regrow fingers, Wax?" "If it's on par with your complaining, then it's likely appalling indeed." Wayne whistled. "Wonderful show, Wax. Usually I wait to call someone a bastard until the second date." He eyed Marasi. "Third if she's pretty." "Huh," Wayne said thoughtfully. "Tea's poisoned." Wayne's eyes fluttered open. "Poison. I hate poison. Worse than losin' a finger, I tell you." "Aw, hell," Wayne said, rolling over to look at the explosion in progress. "I warned you. I said things are always blowing up around you." The man's back was crusted with blood and burned skin, but it had been lifted and raised as scabs, new skin forming underneath. "Is it bad?" Wayne asked, eyes still closed. "You'll pull through." "I meant the duster." "Oh. Well ... you're gonna need a really big patch this time." "I told you," Wayne said. "Innocent things are always exploding around you, Wax." CHAPTER TEN "Waxillium Dawnshot?" Wayne asked, cracking an eye. He sniffled softly and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. She blushed. "Sorry. But it's what the reports call him." "That's what they should call me," Wayne said. "I'm the one who likes a good shot of whiskey in the morning." "'Morning' to you is well past noon, Wayne," Waxillium said. "I doubt you've ever seen the dawn." "That's right unfair. See it all the time, when I stay up too late..." "I once saw him try to shoot someone three paces away. He ended up hitting the wall behind himself." "'S not my fault." Wayne grumbled. "Bullets are devious buggers. They shouldn't be allowed to bounce. Metal don't bounce, and that's true as titanium." "Two tripwires," Waxillium said, "rigged with explosives. Nothing else dangerous we could find. Other than Wayne's body odor." "That's the smell of *incredibleness*," Wayne called from inside. "He was honest," Wayne said. "I got a sense for that sort of thing." He sneezed. "You believed that Lessie really was a dancer, the first time we met her," Waxillium said, rising. "That's different. She was a woman. Good at lying, they are. The God Beyond made'm that way." "Oh, Wax has always been solemn," Wayne said, wiping his nose with his handkerchief. "But when he's at his best, there's a smirk underneath. C'mon." "He is dead, young lady," an aged, distinguished voice said from the darkness. "I am sorry for your loss." Her heart just about stopped. "Yes," the voice continued, "he was simply too handsome, too clever, and too immensely remarkable in all aspects of his existence to allow to live." Someone pushed open a window, letting in light and revealing Wayne's face. "I'm afraid it took a hundred men to bring him down, and he killed all but one. His last words were, 'Tell Wax ... that he's a total git ... and he still owes me five notes.'" "I was to be hanged over in Far Dorest, by the lawkeeper there." "Wrongfully, I assume?" "Depends on your definition of that particular word and all," Wayne said. "I shot a man. Innocent one." "Was it an accident?" "Yeah," Wayne said. "I only meant to rob him." "You were a criminal?" "Not a very capable one," Wayne said from inside the cupboard. "I've always had a problem not taking things. I just grab stuff, you know? And then it's there, in my fingers. Anyway, I was getting good at it, and I had some friends ... they convinced me that I should go a little farther. Really take hold of my destiny, they said. Start going for coin, get into robbing with guns and the like. So I tried it out. Left a man dead. Father of three." "I didn't really know what I was doing, and I panicked. I think maybe I wanted to be caught. Never wanted to shoot that bloke. Just wanted his purse, you know? Old Deadfinger caught me easy. He didn't even have to beat a confession out of me." Wayne was quiet for a moment. "I cried the whole time. I was sixteen. Just a kid." "Still don't know why Wax saved me. I shoulda hanged, you know. Killed a good man. He wasn't even rich. He was a bookkeeper. Did charity work for anyone who needed it - wills drawn up, letters read. Every week, he transcribed letters for the mine workers who couldn't write, so they could send them home to their families in the city. Found out a lot about him in the trial, you see. Got to see his kids crying. And his wife..." Wayne reached into his pocket, then unfolded something. A sheet of paper. "Got a letter from them a few months back." "They write you letters?" Marasi said. "Sure. I send them half of what I make. Keeps the kids fed, you know. Figure it makes sense, seein' as to how I killed their daddy. One went to university." He hesitated. "They still hate me. Write me the letters to let me know they haven't forgiven me, that no money will bring back their daddy. They're right. But they do take the money, so that's something." "Wayne..." Marasi said. "I'm so sorry." "Yeah. Me too. Some mistakes, though, you can't fix by being sorry. Can't fix them, no matter what you do. Guns and me, we haven't gotten along ever since. My hand starts shaking when I hold one, wobbling about like a damn fish dumped on the docks. Ain't that the funniest thing? Like my hand thinks by itself." "See now," Wayne said. "We're having a heart-to-heart, here. Don't go stomping in and making a mess of things." "There's some nudie pictures too," Wayne noted, pointing at the cupboard. "They're so faded you can barely make out the good parts, though." He hesitated. "The ladies ain't wearing any guns, so you probably wouldn't be interested anyway." CHAPTER ELEVEN "It's the first law of the Roughs," Wayne said. "The more alone you are, the more you need a man you can trust at your side." "Odd," Wayne said, "I usually find the safest places in life are everywhere but near Wax. Have I mentioned the likelihood of explosions?" "Lord Waxillium ... this kind of private investigation is technically illegal - at least insofar as we have important facts that the constables don't. We are required to bring what we know to the authorities." "Don't get him thinking!" Wayne said. "I was just starting to get him to stop saying stuff like that!" A merchant came down the train aisle, selling pretzels, and Wayne all but leaped out of his chair to get one. CHAPTER TWELVE He looked up to the carriage man, tossing him a coin. "We'll need you to wait a spell, mate. I trust it won't be a problem." The carriage man looked at the coin and raised an eyebrow. "No problem at all, mate." "That's quite the hat," Wayne said. The carriage man wore a round cap of stiff felt, conical, but with a flat top and a feather on it. "We all wear 'em," he said. "Mark of Gavil's Carriages, you see." "Huh. Wanna trade?" "What? Trade hats?" "Sure," Wayne said, tossing up his flimsy knit cap. The man caught it. "I'm not sure..." "I'll throw in a pretzel," Wayne said, fishing it out of his pocket. Out here, things were just ... nice. A little too nice. Made his shoulders itch. This was the kind of place where a man would work in the field during the day, then go home and sit on his porch, drinking lemonade and petting his dog. Men died of boredom in places like that. "That hat looks ridiculous." "Fortunately, I can change hats," Wayne said in the pretzel-guy accent, "while you, sir, are stuck with that face." "You two sound a lot like siblings," Marasi said, watching curiously. "Do you realize that?" "So long as I'm the handsome one," Wayne said. "I needed to lose that hat," Wayne admitted. "Otherwise, it would have been blown up in the explosion, see? It was lucky it got stolen. It could have ended up like my duster." "You're a very unique individual, Wayne." "Technically, we all are," he said. Then he hesitated. "Except for twins, I guess." "Oh, Harmony!" Wayne laughed. "It's not anythin' like that, mate. Don't worry. You're pretty enough, particularly through the coppers, if you know what I mean." "The coppers?" Sure. Word with a lot of curves, like you. You have a pretty accent too, and some nice bounce to you in the cloud area." "Dare I ask what that is?" "The white, puffy things that float high above the fruitful land where the seeds are planted." She blushed even further. "Wayne! That might be the most crude thing anyone has ever said to me." "I strives for excellence, mate. I strives for excellence. But don't worry - like I said, you're right nice, but you ain't got enough punch for me. I like women what could take my face clean off with a good roundhouse." "Multiply zero by a thousand, and you still get zero." He hesitated. "You do?" "Er, yes," she said. "It's basic mathematics." "I thought we were talking about Allomancy. When did it become about mathematics?" CHAPTER THIRTEEN "University rules, set by Harmony himself, dictate a broad education." "Yeah, I know they have to take girls," Wayne said. "Eh," Wayne said, "I spent months training with dueling canes on dummies before beating up my first real person. It's pretty much the same thing." "Getting hit's not really that impressive," Wayne noted. "It don't take much skill to get shot. It's avoiding the bullets that's tough." "He's fine." Wayne said, holding the door open for them. "I got quite near my entire rusted back blown off earlier, if you'll kindly recall, and I didn't hear nearly an ounce of the sympathy you're showin' him." "Keep moving, slowboy. Rusts! A man gets shot, and he thinks he can take all afternoon. Let's move!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN "The ways of Wayne are mysterious and incomprehensible," Wayne said. "What he giveth, he can draw back unto himself. And lo, let it be written and pondered." Wayne strolled forward. "He's trying to overthrow the city or something, dearie. For some reason, he thinks the best way to do that is by robbin' folks and blowing up mansions." "Don't call me dearie." "Sure thing, honey." CHAPTER SIXTEEN Everyone was standing up so tall. That gave Wayne - back bent with age - no hope of seeing what the fuss was about. "No thought for a poor elderly woman," Wayne grumbled. "Sorry, ma'am," one of them finally said, making way for him. *Now, there's a nice boy,* Wayne thought, patting his arm and hobbling forward. "Oh, I'm missing my tea!" Wayne exclaimed, then turned and began hobbling back through the crowd. "There he is," Wayne said. "He's a dull-minded lout, sir. His father left him the position, but you could hit his steel against flint all night and not get a spark, if you know what I mean." Why did every woman he met try to shoot him? Just because he could heal from it. That was like drinking a man's beer just because he could order more. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "Waxillium is in that train car!" "Yeah. You ever notice how often he gets to be the one who rides in comfort, while I have to do things like gallop or walk all the time? Not very fair." She slung the rifle on her shoulder, hurrying down the hill. "You know, when I was reading the reports, I never imagined that you'd complain this much." "Now, that's not fair. I'll have you know that I pride myself on my cheery, optimistic attitude." She stopped, looking back at him, raising an eyebrow. "You pride yourself on it?" He raised a hand to his chest, adopting a tone that sounded almost priestly. "Yes, but pride is bad, you know. I've been trying to be more humble lately. Hurry up, hurry up. We're gonna lose them. You want Wax to be cornered and alone? Gosh, woman." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "Oh yeah? Look up, muffin-brains." "Thanks. And ... muffin-brains?" "Tryin' out better insults," Wayne said climbing to his feet. "You like the new duster?" "Is that what took you so long? Please tell me you didn't go shopping while I was fighting for my life." "Had to take out three gits what was guarding the entrance up above," Wayne said, spinning his dueling canes. "One of them had this fine garment upon his person." He hesitated. "I'm a little late 'cause I was trying to figure a way to beat him up without ruining the coat." "Great." "Had Marasi shoot 'im in the foot," Wayne said, grinning. "You ready to do this thing? I'll try to take our friend with the koloss blood there." "Be careful," Waxillium said. "He's a Pewterarm." "Charming. Y'always do introduce me to the most lovely of folks, Wax. Marasi's going to cover us from above, keep the gunmen pinned down. Can you handle the Coinshot?" "If I can't, it's time to retire." "Oh. Is that what we're calling 'getting shot' these days? I'll remember that. Ready?" *Well, this is going to hell faster than bendalloy burns.* CHAPTER NINETEEN "Aw, biscuits," Wayne said. "Did you have to hit him in the head? That was my lucky hat he was wearin'." "Grab my hat if you get the chance," Wayne said, scrambling away as Wax shot Miles in the face again. CHAPTER TWENTY Wayne passed him, tipping his lucky hat - which was bloodied on one side - and grinning as he approached Waxillium and Marasi. "Here," Wayne said, covertly handing something wrapped in a handkerchief to Waxillium. It was unexpectedly heavy. "Got you another of those guns." Waxillium sighed. "Don't worry," Wayne said, "I traded a real nice scarf for it." "And where did you get the scarf?" "Off one of the dead blokes you shot," Wayne said. "So it wasn't stealin'. He ain't gonna need it, after all." He seemed quite proud of himself. "Don't try," Waxillium said. "Logic doesn't work on Wayne." "I bought a ward against it off a traveling fortune-teller," Wayne explained. "It lets me add two 'n' two and get a pickle." Wayne wandered over to where some constables were eating morning sandwiches. They regarded him with suspicion, but - by experience - Waxillium knew that Wayne would soon have them laughing and asking him to join them. *Does he even understand what he does?* Waxillium wondered as Wayne launched into an explanation of the fight for the constables. *Or does he just do it all by instinct?* EPILOGUE Wayne was reading a small novel that he'd picked out of someone's pocket on their train ride out to the estates. He'd left an aluminum bullet in its place, worth easily a hundred times the price of the book. Ironically, the person who found it would probably throw it away, never realizing its value. "It's a pretty good book," Wayne said, flipping a page. "You should try it. It's about bunnies. They talk. Damnedest thing ever." Waxillium didn't reply. "So, was it your uncle?" Wayne asked. "Yes." "Crud. I owe you a fiver, then." "The bet was for twenty." "Yeah, but you owe me fifteen." "I do?" "Sure, for that bet I made that you'd end up helpin' me with the Vanishers." Waxillium frowned, looking at his friend. "I don't remember that bet." "You weren't there when we made it." "I wasn't there?" "Yeah." "Wayne, you can't make bets with people when they aren't there." "I can," Wayne said, tucking the book into his pocket and standing, "if they shoulda been there. And you shoulda, Wax." "You know," Wayne said, "I always wondered what it would be like to come here, find civilization and all that. I didn't realize." "Realize what?" Waxillium asked. "That this was really the rough part of the world," Wayne said. "That we had it easy, out past the mountains." Waxillium found himself nodding. "You can be very wise sometimes, Wayne." "It's onnacount of my thinkin', mate," Wayne said, tapping his head, increasing the thickness of his accent. "It's what I do wif my brain. Somma the time, at least." "And the rest of the time?" "The rest of the time, I don't do so much thinkin'. 'Cuz if I did, I'd go runnin' back to where things is simple. You see?" "I see. And we do have to stay, Wayne. I have work to do here." "Then we'll see it done," Wayne said. "Just like always." "My uncle's pocket book." Waxillium said. "Filled with appointments and notes." Wayne whistled softly. "How'd you take it? Shoulder bump?" "Table sweep," Waxillium said. "Nice. Glad to know I've taught you somethin' useful during our years together. What did you trade for it?" "A threat," Waxillium said, looking back toward Elendel. "And a promise." Shadows of Self PROLOGUE "Aw," the kid said, hopping down from his own horse. "You didn't catch your spur on the stirrup and trip." "That happened once," Waxillium said. "Yeah, but it was super funny." "And don't steal anything." The kid - round-faced and seventeen, with barely a hint of stubble on his face despite weeks of trying - nodded with a solemn expression. "I promise I won't swipe nothin' of yours, Wax." CHAPTER TWO A moment later, the door to the study burst open and Wayne all but tumbled in. Darriance - the house butler - stood apologetically just behind him. Wiry and of medium height, Wayne had a round clean-shaven face and - as usual - wore his old Roughs clothing, though Steris had pointedly supplied him with new clothing on at least three occasions. "Wayne, you could try the doorbell sometime," Wax said. "Nah, that warns the butler," Wayne said. "Which is kind of the point." "Beady little buggers," Wayne said, shutting the door on Darriance. "Can't trust them. Look, Wax. We've got to go! The Marksman has made his move!" Wayne glanced toward Steris. "Ello, Crazy," he said, nodding to her. CHAPTER THREE "I need you to stay behind as we go into those slums," Wayne said, determined to impress solemnity into his voice. "It's not that I don't want your help. I do. It's just going to be too dangerous for you. You need to stay where I know you're safe. No arguments. I'm sorry." "Wayne," Was said, walking past. "Stop talking to your hat and get over here." Wayne sighed, patting his hat and then forcing himself to put it down and leave it in the motorcar. Wax was a right good fellow, but there were a lot of things he didn't understand. Women for one. Hats for another. When Wayne borrowed coins off folks, he got yelled at. He did forget to ask sometimes, but he always offered a good trade. As they penetrated deeper into the Breakouts, Wayne lagged behind the other two. *Need a good hat...* he thought. The hat was important. So he listened for some coughing. *Ah...* He found the chap nestled up beside a doorway, a ratty blanket draped over his knees. You could always find his type in a slum. Old, clinging to life like a man on a ledge, his lungs half full with various unsavory fluids. The old man hacked into a glove-wrapped hand as Wayne settled down on the steps beside him. "What, now," the man said. "Who are you?" "What, now," Wayne repeated. "Who are you?" "I'm nobody," the man said, then spat to the side. "Dirty outer. I ain't done nothing." "I'm nobody," Wayne repeated, taking his flask from the pocket of his duster. "Dirty outer. I ain't done nothing." Good accent, that was. Real mumbly, a classic vintage, wrapped in a blanket of history. Closing his eyes and listening, Wayne thought he could imagine what people sounded like years ago. He held out the flask of whiskey. "You trying to poison me?" the man asked. He clipped off words, left out half the sounds. "You trying to poison me?" Wayne repeated, working his jaw as if his mouth were full of bits of rock he kept trying to chew. Some northern fields mix in this one, for sure. He opened his eyes and tipped the whiskey at the man, who smelled it, then took a sip. Then a swig. Then a gulp. "So," the man asked, "you an idiot? I've a son that's an idiot. The real kind, that was born that way. Well, you seem all right anyway." "Well, you seem all right anyway," Wayne said, standing up. He reached over to take the man's old cotton cap off his head, then gestured toward the whiskey flask. "In trade?" the man asked. "Boy, you are an idiot." Wayne pulled on the cap. "Could you say another word that starts with 'h' for me?" "Huh?" "Rusting wonderful," Wayne said. The clothing was worn, patched in a few places. He wouldn't trade it for the world. Took years to get clothing that looked right. Used, lived-in. Be slow to trust a man with clothing that was too new. You didn't get to wear new, clean clothing by doing honest work. Wayne was certain. If he were wrong, he'd eat his hat. Well, one of Wax's hats at least. Ratting out a friend: completely off-limits. Extorting a friend: well, that was just good business sense. "You took ... Wayne, that's a person at your feet! Rusts! He's bleeding!" "Sure is," Wayne said. "Not my fault at all, that. I did knock 'im upside the head though." "But Wayne needs space to try his methods-" "- onnacount of my being SO incredible," Wayne added. "- so I did my best to find Marks on my own-" "- onnacount of him being unable to accept that I'm better at this sorta thing than he is-" "- in case Wayne failed." "Which never happens." Wayne grinned and took a bite of his apple, hopping off his steps to walk beside Waxillium. "Except that one time. And that other one time. But those don't matter, onnacount of my getting hit to the head enough times that I can't remember them." "Well," Marasi said to Wayne, "you could at least tell me what you did. Perhaps I could learn from your methods." "Nah," Wayne said. "Won't work for you. You're too pretty. In an unpretty sort of way to me, mind you. Let's not go around that tree again." "Wayne, sometimes you completely baffle me." "Only sometimes?" Waxillium asked. "I can't give her all I got, mate," Wayne said, thumbs behind his suspenders. "Gotta save some for everyone else. I dole it out with no respect for privilege, class, sex, or mental capacity. I'm a rusting saint, I am." CHAPTER FOUR She noticed Wayne pocketing a small, decorative cigar box they passed - Citizen Magistrates brand - replacing it with a bruised apple. She'd have to see that he swapped the cigar box back at some point. Wayne wandered over to Marasi and Aradel. He took a swig from a silver flask engraved with someone else's initials. Marasi pointedly did not ask him which of the dead he'd taken it from. CHAPTER FIVE He was tempted to call it the worst day of his life, but that would certainly be an exaggeration. The worst day of his life would be the one when he died. Every man had to die. He'd always found it odd that so many died when they were old, as logic said that was the point in their lives when they'd had the most practice not dying. He appreciated the room, though he really only stayed because of the free food. Well, that and because of Wax. The man needed company to keep him from going more strange. Wayne wandered down a carpeted corridor that smelled of polished wood and servants who had too much time. Give Wayne nice, cramped quarters, and he'd be happier. That way he'd feel like a king, with so much stuff it crowded him. He hesitated outside the door to Wax's study. What was that sitting on the stand beside the doorway? A new candelabra, pure gold, with a white lace doily underneath. Exactly what Wayne needed. He fished in his pocket. Rich people didn't make sense at all. That candelabra was probably worth a fortune, and Wax just left it lying around. Wayne fished in his other pocket, looking for something good to trade, and came out with a pocket watch. Ah, that, he thought, shaking it and hearing the pieces rattle inside. How long since this thing actually told time? He picked up the candelabra, pocketed the doily underneath, then put the candelabra back in place with the pocket watch hanging from it. Seemed like a fair trade. Been needing a new handkerchief, he thought, blowing his nose into it, then pushed open the door and wandered in. "Rusts, man, you make it hard to loaf about properly." "I don't see what my insomnia has to do with your laziness, Wayne." "Makes me look bad, 'sall," Wayne said, looking over Wax's shoulder. "Proper loafing requires company. One man lying about is being idle; two men lying about is a lunch break." Wayne didn't know a lot about guns, seeing as how he couldn't try to use one without his arm doing an impersonation of a carriage on a bumpy road, but Wax was probably right. Wayne moved down to start sketching some stick figures of topless women in the center of the picture, but Wax stepped over and plucked the pencil from his fingers. "Get everyone in the room shootin' at each other. See? It's like how, to start a bar fight, you throw a bottle at some fellow and then turn to the person next to you and cry out, 'Hey, why'd you throw that bottle at that nice fellow? Rusts, he looks big. And now he's comin' for you, and-'" "Yup. I'm a genius." "You just recognized this because the killer was making others do his work for him, which is an expertise of yours." "As I said. Genius." "Well, you know," Wayne said. "It's like I often say..." "Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won't know what you're planning to do to it?" "No, not that one." "Until you know it ain't true, treat every woman like she has an older brother what is stronger than you are?" "No, not ... Wait, I said that?" "Yes," Wax said, turning back to his notes. "It was a very chivalrous moment for you." "Rusts. I should really write these things down." "I believe that is another thing you often say." Wax made a notation. "Unfortunately, you'd first have to learn how to write." "Now, that's unfair," Wayne said, walking over to Wax's desk and poking around in its drawers. "I can write - I know four whole letters, and one's not even in my name!" "If you're going to have to do something awful, stop by Wax's room and trade for some of his rum first." "Wanna piece of advice?" "From you? Probably not. But please feel free." "You should stop by Wax's room before you go," Wayne said, trailing out toward the door, "and pinch some of his rum." "The rum you just pocketed?" Wayne hesitated, then took the rum out of his pocket. "Ah, mate. Sorry. Tough for you." He shook his head. Poor fellow. When he was properly smashed, he could take a punch or two to the face and not even feel it. There was a kind of invincibility to that. A stupid kind, but Wayne wasn't a picky man. The etched letters over the top proclaimed, in High Imperial, WASING THE ALWAYS OF WANTING OF KNOWING. Deep words. He'd heard them interpreted as, "The eternal desire of a hungry soul is knowledge." When Wayne's soul was hungry he settled for scones, but this place was full of smart kids, and they were a strange sort. Well, after the nature of any great hero from the stories, he was going to do his best to avoid this particular trial. Were they afraid all their knowledge would leak out, like water from a swimmer's ears? They'd bricked up the broken part he'd used last time. And the tree he'd climbed that other time had been cut down. Drat on them for that. He decided to follow another great tradition of heroes facing trials. He went looking for a way to cheat. Wayne eyed the lad, but decided to try it. He chewed for a moment. "Good flavor," he said, then swallowed. Dims laughed. "You don't swallow it, Wayne. You just chew!" "What's the funna that?" "There won't be trouble now, will there?" Wayne asked. "I thought you said you wasn't no conner today!" "I ain't." Wayne said, slipping - by instinct - into a dialect more like that of Dims. "I'm askin' as a friend, Dims." "You bring that money you owe me?" "I owe you money?" Wayne asked. "From cards?" Dims said. "Two weeks back? Rusts, Wayne, are you drunk? It ain't even noon yet!" "I ain't drunk," Wayne said, sniffling. "I'm investigatin' alternative states of sobriety." Wayne adjusted his spectacles, watching them go. He shook his head. Ruffians, trying to get into the university! Scandalous. He walked in through the gates, wearing a bow tie and carrying a load of books. Wayne ditched the books inside the square, then walked past a fountain with a statue of a lady who wasn't properly clothed - he idled only a short time - and made his way toward Pashadon Hall, the girls' dormitory. The building looked an awful lot like a prison: three stories of small windows, stonework architecture, and iron grates that seemed to say "Stay away, boys, if you value your nether parts." She was a fixture of the university, or so Wayne had been told. Perhaps she had come with the chandeliers and sofas. She liked to consider herself a part of Elendel upper society, and she kind of was. In the same way that the blocks of granite that made up the steps to the governor's mansion were a part of civic government. "I thought I told you not to come back." "I thought I ignored you." "Are you drunk?" She sniffed at his breath. "No," Wayne said. "If I were drunk, you wouldn't look nearly so ugly." They made a big fuss about keeping the young women and young men separated around here, which Wayne found odd. With all of these smart people around, wouldn't one of them have realized what boys and girls was supposed to do together? Wayne sat down, but couldn't keep his feet from tapping. He'd been stripped of weapons, bribes, and even his own hat. He was practically naked. CHAPTER SIX "I'd give those lads second chances if I could," Wax said. "Maybe they've had their moments of doubt, regret. But the ones we shoot, we don't find them unarmed, hiding, willing to be brought in. We find them killing. And if I'd found you in the process of armed robbery all those years ago, I'd have shot you too." "You're not lying, are you?" "Of course not. I'd have shot you right in the head, Wayne." "You're a good friend," Wayne said. "Thanks, Wax." "You're the only person I know that I can cheer up by promising to kill him." "You didn't promise to kill me," Wayne said, pulling on his socks. "You promised to have killed me. That there be the present perfect tense." "Your grasp of the language is startling," Wax said, "considering how you so frequently brutalize it" "Ain't nobody what knows the cow better than the butcher, Wax." Wayne would occasionally toss on some Terris robes, mimic their accents, then sneak in to live among them for a few days. He'd eventually get into trouble for saying something crude to one of the young women, but he wouldn't get thrown out. He'd baffle them, as he did most people, until he got bored and wandered away. "I wish you'd leave Steris alone. She's not nearly so bad as you make her sound." "That's the same thing you said about that horse you bought - you remember, the one who only bit *me*?" "You got the address?" Wax asked. "Of course I did." Wayne looked offended, shoving his hands in the pockets of his duster. "Got me a new pocket watch too." He held up one made of pure gold, with opaline workings on the face. Wax sighed. After a short trip back to the jeweler to return the watch - Wayne claimed he figured it had been for trade, since it had been sitting out on the counter with naught but a little box of glass around it - they made their way up the road to the Bournton District. "Someday I'd like to live in a fancy place like this," Wayne said wistfully. "Wayne, you live in a mansion." "It ain't fancy. It's *opulent*. Big difference." "Which is?" "Mostly it involves which kinds of glasses you drink out of and what kind of art you hang." Wayne looked offended. "You need to know these things now, Wax, being filthy rich and all." "Nice door," Wayne said softly. "Good wood." He kicked it open. "Think of yourself as a sheltered Terriswoman in her forties," Wayne said. "Old enough to have missed the chance to be a wild youth, and starting to wish you'd done something more daring." "And she left again," Wayne said, "on account of the Village being so dull as to bore the sense out of a scribe." "She wanted more, so she bought a whole mess of different kinds of spirits to try them all out. She liked port best, by the way." "Makes sense," Wax said. "Now we find her with increasingly liberal dresses, showing more skin, spending most evenings out. Give her a few more months, and she'd have turned into a right proper girl to have a good time with." "What did you find in the stiff's pockets?" Wax hesitated. "You didn't rifle through the pockets?" Wayne asked, aghast. "Wax, you're terrible grave robber!" CHAPTER SEVEN "I saw Tan's body. You shot him square in the head. That bloke was deader than a stuffed lion in a hunting lodge." "New equipment has arrived for you from Miss Ranette. She asked if you'd be willing to test it." "Aw, Ruin!" Wayne said. "I missed her? What did she leave for me?" "She ... said I was to slap you," Darriance admitted. "Aw. She does care. See that, Wax, she cares!" Wax nodded absently as Wayne tried to force Darriance to slap him across the rear - which he doubted was what Ranette had intended. "Sir," Darriance said, turning away from Wayne's proffered posterior. "You still need private time for that thinkin' of yours?" Wayne asked. "Yes." "Never touch the stuff myself," Wayne said. "Causes headaches." CHAPTER NINE He popped it into his mouth and thought about what a rusted fool his friend was. Obviously, Wax persisted with this whole engagement-to-Steris mess because he missed Lessie so much. So Wax had chosen a marriage that demanded no emotional investment. That was easy to see as the bottom of your own glass at a pub with watered-down ale, that was. Marasi acted amazed that he had a suit, matched by a fancy bowler on his head and a dark green cravat. Why wouldn't he have a costume like this? He had beggar costumes, constable costumes, and old lady costumes. A fellow needed to be able to blend with his surroundings. In the Roughs, that meant having some pale brown cowhand's costume. In the city, that meant having a fancy twit costume. "Here now," Wayne cut in. "We're important people. Don't you see how fancy my cravat is?" "Damn. I saved his life, the bastard." "Marasi!" Wayne said, grinning. "You're startin' to talk normal-like." "What's the worst that could come of it?" "We get caught," she said, still walking with him around the speed bubble. "We get thrown in prison, prosecuted for conspiracy, embarrass Waxillium." "Now that," Wayne said, striding back to where he'd been standing when he'd sped up time, "is the best damn argument for trying this that anyone could make." "Not guns," Wayne said with a grin. "A different kind of weapon. *Math*." Wayne sauntered about the party, his tiny dining plate stacked with food as high as he could get it. Why did they always use such tiny plates at fancy parties? To keep people from eating too much? Rusts. Rich folk didn't make sense. They gave away the most expensive booze in the city, then worried about people eating all of the little sausages? Wayne was a rebel. He refused to play by their rules, yes he did. He quickly laid out a battle plan. The ladies with the little sausages came out from behind the east bar, while the west bar was preparing the salmon crackers. Tiny sandwiches to the north, and desserts of various sorts to the south. If he made a round of the penthouse room in exactly thirteen minutes, he could hit each station just as the servants were entering with fresh platters. They were starting to give him glares. A fellow knew he was doing his job right when he got those kinds of glares. Hanlanaze was far thicker at the waist than Wayne was too. That was great. You could hide all kinds of stuff in padding like that. "I still can't believe you had all of this in the carriage," Marasi whispered, then she stole one of his sausages. Right off his plate. Outrageous! "My dear woman," Wayne said, scratching his head, where he wore a colorful Terris cap, a proud emblem of Hanlanaze's lineage. "Being a qualified academic depends, before anything else, upon suitable preparation. I would no sooner leave my home without appropriate equipment for every eventuality than I would work in my lab without proper safety precautions!" "It's the voice that truly makes the disguise, you know," Marasi said. "How do you do it?" "Our accents are clothing for our thoughts, my dear," Wayne said. "Without them, everything we say would be stripped bare, and we might as well be screaming at one another. Oh look. The dessert lady has chocolate pastries again! I do find those irresistible." "What in Harmony's wrists is he talking about?" Wayne hissed. "Oh dear," Marasi said. "You realize the chaos this might cause in their field?" "Yup," Wayne said, taking his plate of food back. "It will be good for them. It'll stop them from sittin' around and thinkin' so much." "Wayne, they're scientists. Isn't that their *job*?" "Hell if I know," Wayne said, stuffing a little sausage in his mouth. "But rusts, if it is, that would explain *so much*." CHAPTER TEN Wayne turned as the sausage lady passed. He intended to reach for another handful. Instead he got slapped. He blinked, at first assuming that the servers had finally gotten tired of him outthinking them. But the slapper hadn't been one of them. It was a child. He fixed his stare on the young girl as Marasi hurried back to his side. Why, this child couldn't be more than fifteen. And she'd *slapped* him!" "You," the girl said, "are a monster." "I-" "Remmingtel Tarcsel!" the girl said. "Do you think anyone in this party has heard that name before?" "Well-" "No, they haven't. I've asked. They all stand here using my father's incandescent lights - which he toiled for years to create - and nobody knows his name. Do you know why, Mister Hanlanaze?" "I suspect I don't-" "Because you stole his designs, and with them his life. My father died clipless, destitute and depressed, because of men like you. You aren't a scientist, Mister Hanlanaze, whatever you claim. You're not an inventor. You're a thief." "That part's right. I-" Wayne, wearing a false beard and swearing like a canal worker with a headache, flailed about as five security guards held him. CHAPTER TWELVE "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?" 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..." So Wayne did the only reasonable thing. He spat out his gum, then decked the fellow. Steris left ZoBell Tower to find Wayne sitting across the street from a huddle of bruised and obviously angry men. Wayne was eating a sandwich. "Oh, Wayne," she said, looking from the hostile, wounded men and back to him. "Those are the governor's guards. He's going to need them tonight." "'S not my fault," Wayne said. "They was bein' unaccommodating." He took a bite of his sandwich. "You could do the noble thing, Steris. Give up on the whole marriage. Let him loose to find someone he actually likes." "And my family's investment in him and his house?" "Well, I know this here is revolutionary words, Steris, but you can loan a chap money without him havin' to jump you in appreciation, if you know my meanin'." "Do you hate me because of what I represent, Wayne? The responsibilities that called him back?" "I don't hate you," Wayne said. "I find you repulsive. That there is an important distinction, it is." CHAPTER THIRTEEN Wayne didn't consider himself to be a particularly religious man. He figured that Harmony didn't pay much attention to fellows like him, for the same reason a master painter didn't often wonder what his mom had done with the pictures he'd given her as a toddler. That said, Wayne did like to visit the temple of the common man now and then. It made him feel better and forget his problems for a spell. Wayne tipped his hat to the man and chanted the proper invocation to gain admittance. "Hello, Blue. How watery's the beer today?" "Don't make trouble at the pub tonight, Wayne," the man intoned in response. "My temper is really short." "Temper?" Wayne said, passing him. "That's a funny name for it, mate, but if the ladies like you givin' silly names to your body parts, I ain't gonna say nothin'." Ritual introductions finished, Wayne stepped into the temple proper. Yes, the temple was a place of contemplation, but it should also be a place of joy. Where were the hymns, sung in a holy slur? Where was the laughter, the joyful noise of celebration? *Not good*, he thought as he settled onto one of the pews-in this case a rough, circular table with scriptures carved into it, like *Mic is a total git* and *The sausages is rubbish*. He'd always liked that one. It brought up real theological implications, it did. If the food they ate was trash, were they ultimately trash? Were they all nothing in the end? Or should one instead see even trash as something to be elevated, as it had been created by the God Beyond like everything else? He reached out and plucked the cup from the next man's hands and gave it a sniff. Plain rum. What fun was that? He reached over to bear-fur and plucked his drink from his fingers as well, and gave it a sniff. Both men turned toward him as he downed the rest of his water, then mixed their drinks together in his cup. He gave it a squeeze of his lemon and a pinch of sugar from behind the altar, then added some ice, placed a coaster on top, and shook like his life depended on it. Which it might, since the fellow with rugs on his arms had just stood up and cracked his knuckles. Before he could start pounding, Wayne spun a cup toward each man and settled back in thought. The cups settled into place, and the altar fell silent. Hesitant, the men reached out and tried their drinks. Suspenders tried his first. "Wow," the man said. "What did you do?" Wayne didn't reply, tapping the table with one finger as hairy-arms tried his drink and nodded appreciatively. Living among the fancy folk had taught Wayne a few things. Fancy folk couldn't ever do anything the ordinary way. Sometimes he thought they acted strange just so they wouldn't be like regular folk. But they did know how to get drunk. He'd give them that. "You did well here tonight. When I first arrived, I felt like the place was going to burst from all the anger. You might have stopped a riot." "It's just one pub," Wayne said, shaking her hand, then settling back in his chair. "One outta hundreds. If a riot is brewin', I can't stop it with some girly drinks." "True, I suppose." "What I need to do," Wayne said, "is get the whole city drunk." "Or, you know, advocate workers' rights to bring down working hours, improve conditions, and meet a base minimum of pay." "Yeah, yeah," Wayne said. "That too. But if I could get everybody drunk, think how much happier this city would be." "So long as you get me drunk first, I'd be fine with it." She held out her cup to him. "Top a lady off, will you?" Wayne frowned. "Now, this ain't right. You're some kinda demigod or something. Shouldn't you be moralizin' at me?" "Lo, behold," MeLaan said, wiggling her cup, "bring an offering to your deity in the form of one blue sunset, extra gin. And ye shall be blessed." "I think I can do that," Wayne said. "Bloody hell, maybe I am religious after all." He then downed his own beer and belched back at MeLaan, easily twice as long and loud. "How do you do that?" MeLaan asked. "Years of trainin' and practice," Wayne said. "I've been alive for well over half a millennium," MeLaan said. "I am certain I have more practice than you." "You don't have the will, though," Wayne said, wagging his finger. "You gotta want it." He downed the rest of his mug and let out a protracted belch. "Cheating," Wayne said. "Just using what Father gave me," MeLaan said. "Don't tell me you wouldn't belch out of other body parts if you could." "Well," Wayne said, "now that you mention it, I can make a real interestin' sound wif-" Wax cleared his throat. "Not to defer a conversation about which parts of Wayne's body can and can't make noise, but I have to admit that you aren't what I expected, Your Grace." "Great." Wax said. He glanced at Wayne. "You look concerned." "Me?" Wayne said, placing a fourth level onto his tower. "Sorry. Tryin' to think of how to get everyone in the city drunk." "Wax," Wayne interrupted, balancing his sixth story of beer-mat coasters. "Check your pulse, mate." Wax took a deep breath. "Sorry," he said. "What was that," Marasi said, wagging her pencil from Wayne to Wax. "Pulse?" "Sometimes," Wayne said, "Wax forgets he's a person and starts thinkin' he's a rock instead." "It's Wayne speak," Wax said, grabbing some coasters and starting another tower. "For times when he thinks I should be a little more empathetic." "You can be single-minded, mate." "Says the man who once collected eighty different kinds of beer bottles." "Yeah," Wayne said, smiling fondly. "Did that mostly to annoy you, I did." "You're kidding." He shook his head. "Started to hate all those rusting bottles, but each morning you'd curse when you tripped over a new box o' them, and it was just so melodious ... " "Murderous rampage," Wayne said softly. "It's always the quiet ones. Well, and the psychopathic ones. That too." "Sure, all right," Wayne said. "It wasn't like I was planning to, you know, sleep tonight or anythin'." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 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. *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*. "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." "Now, I'm as for dismemberment as the next fellow," Wayne said, "but that's a mite violent for this time of day." "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." 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. "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." "You're cute," she noted to Wayne. "How's my eyebrow?" "Uh, good." Cute? "But I'm taken." "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." CHAPTER NINETEEN As much as Wayne appreciated all the fancy treats the governor was providing, he had to admit he wasn't entirely sympathetic to the man's plight. After all, the whole point of having someone in charge - like the governor - was about makin' sure people knew which fellow to kill. That was why they had elections, wasn't it? Innate got to be in charge and order everybody about, but when the assassins got bored, they didn't go whack the guy what sold fish on the street corner. They went for the guy in charge. You had to take the good with the bad, you did. On one hand, you got fancy sweets any time of day. On the other hand, you might find murderers in your loo. That was the breaks. "Yeah," Wayne said. "He probably just wants to get me in trouble." "What?" MeLaan sounded amused. "By getting himself killed?" "Sure," Wayne said. "The idiot forbade me from goin' to his fancy party earlier, then ditched me afterwise. He's got it in for me. He's gonna get himself killed, and leave me to explain it to Wax. 'Sorry, mate. I let your pet politician get ripped in half.' And Wax'll scowl at me real good, even though 's not my fault." "That really wasn't my fault. I had myself a dehabilitating injury when that happened." "De..." "Yeah," Wayne said, "made me cuss and drink like a bugger." "It's better if I have a hat," Wayne said. "A ... hat." "Sure," Wayne said. "Hats is a disguise for your brain. Helps you think like the person what wore it last. You wanna know a guy? Put on his hat." "Has anyone ever told you that you're surprisingly wise?" MeLaan asked. "All the bloody time." "They're idiots. You're not wise, you're playing them. You're doing this on purpose." She grinned. "I love it." Wayne tipped his hat forward, smiling and leaning back again. "I'm not lying 'bout the hats though. They do help." "You actually sound like you want to die." "Someday," Wayne said. "Huh. Maybe I should get into politics." She cocked her head at him. "You're wasted as a human." "Nah." Wayne said. "I've barely had a few mouthfuls today." He reached in his pocket and checked his flask. "Well, maybe a wee more than that." "No, I meant-" He grinned at her, and she cut off, then grinned back. He tipped his hat to her, then closed his eyes and continued listening. "Dunno," Wayne said. "You think I understand how my brain works?" "I'd say there's a logical fallacy in that statement," Ranette said. "Maybe two." "So, uh, want to go get a drink?" he said. "You know, when the city is safe. Or maybe before it's safe? I don't mind none if the pub's a little on fire while we drink." "What better time to finally profess your long-requited love for a certain handsome fellow what don't mind none if you smell like the inside of a barrel of sulfur?" She gave him the glare again. He grinned. But then she didn't shoot him. Or even punch him. Damn. This was *bad*. CHAPTER TWENTY The mists didn't get too close to the fires, though the smoke made a good imitator in the night. Like a beggar dressed up so nice, you only knew him for what he was when you got close enough to catch a proper whiff. He leaned back away from the flames and settled the cigar between his teeth. It was a fancy type, from the governor's own hidden stash. Wayne took a long puff before remembering that he hated the rusting things. Ah well. He hadn't traded anything good for it. Just one of Wax's forks. "They do each other favors," the man bellowed. "They suck us dry, then gather to throw lavish parties!" *I've been to those parties*, Wayne thought. *Good sandwiches*. Listening to this speech, he was half inclined to string himself up, which was really disturbing, since he was generally suicidal only in the mornings. Religion worried him. It could ask men to do things they'd otherwise never do. Well, maybe religion was good for something other than fancy clothes and weird hats. If that priest defused this group, Wayne would buy him a drink, he would. And buying drinks for priests was great, because they usually wouldn't drink theirs, so you got two for yourself. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE "There he goes, boys!" Wayne yelled, pointing into the darkness. "I saw that dirty conner right ahead. You go that way, I'll head around the other way, and we'll trap 'im between us, we will!" Not bad fellows, for all the fact that they had the combined wits of a brick. The accent was wrong. Just *slightly* wrong, but in a profound way. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The pile of bones on the floor of the little shack proved that at least one person was having a worse night than Wayne was. He nudged the pile with his toe, then grimaced at his wounded leg. Rusting inconvenient, that was. He had to grab the wall for support. He looked toward Marasi. "I can't decide," he said, "if the governor already bein' dead means we did a really terrible job, or a really good one." "How," Marasi replied, kneeling beside the corpse, "could you see this as anything other than terrible?" "Well, see, we weren't the ones what was in charge of keepin' him alive when he died." Wayne shrugged. "Guess anytime I find a corpse and it ain't my fault they're dead, I feel a little relieved." "The governor is dead." Marasi whispered. "Yeah," Wayne said, "havin' your skeleton removed tends to do that to a guy." "What does it mean?" Marasi said, looking out the side of the shack, in the direction they'd seen Wax escape. "Well, it means he won't be makin' it to his tap-dancing lessons this-" "Wayne?" "Yeah?" "Shut it." "Yes, ma'am." Wayne didn't say anything. He could shut it. Damn right he could shut it, when he needed to. Even if there was jokes that practically begged to be said. "I'd just always assumed ... you know ... that humans tasted wonderful." "Nope," MeLaan said. "You're really woundin' my self-esteem," Wayne said. "Maybe I'm different. Wanna gnaw on my arm a bit? It'll grow right back, least once we find out what that monster did with my metalminds..." EPILOGUE "Hey, mate," Wayne said, settling down on the footstool by Wax's feet. "Wanna hear how I'm a rusting genius?" "Shoot," Wax whispered. Wayne leaned forward, spread his hands before himself dramatically. "I'm gonna get everybody drunk." "See, I got this plan," Wayne said, tapping his head. "People in this town, they got issues. The folks what work in the factories think havin' more time to themselves is gonna fix their woes, but they gotta do something with that time. I've got an idea. It'll fix it all." "Harmony, Wayne," Wax said. "You're not going to poison the city, are you?" "Nah," Wayne said. "Not their bodies, at least." He grinned. "You watch. This will work. It's gonna be amazing." "It'll pass, mate," he said. "My pa once said to me, 'Son, keep a stiff upper lip.' So if things get bad, you bash your face against a wall till your lip bleeds, and you'll feel better. Works for me. Least I think it does. Can't right remember, on account of too many head wounds." "I know you, don't I?" Wayne said. "Daughter of Remmingtel Tarcsel? The guy what invented the incandescent lightbulb?" The girl's jaw dropped. "You know him?" She seized Wayne by the arms. "You know about my father?" "Sure do!" Wayne said. "He was robbed, I gotta say. Genius. Word is, you're just as smart. That device you whipped up for making speeches sure is nice." "Electricity," the girl said. "And I'm going to be the first to use it." "Huh." Wayne said. "Need some money?" Bands of Mourning CHAPTER ONE "Oi," Wayne said, hustling up beside him. "A good plan that one was, eh?" "It was the same plan you always have," Wax said. "The one where I get to be the decoy." "Ain't my fault people like to shoot at you, mate," Wayne said as they reached the coach. "You should be happy; you're usin' your talents, like me granners always said a man should do." "I'd rather not have 'shootability' be my talent." "Well, you gotta use what you have," Wayne said, leaning against the side of the carriage as Cob the coachman opened the door for Wax. "Same reason I always have bits of rat in my stew." Wax looked into the carriage, with its fine cushions and rich upholstery, but didn't climb in. "You gonna be all right?" Wayne asked. "Of course I am," Wax said. "This is my second marriage. I'm an old hand at the practice by now." Wayne grinned. "Oh, is that how it works? 'Cuz in my experience, marryin' is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein' alive." "Wayne, that was almost profound." "Damn. I was aimin' for insightful." Wax stood still, looking into the carriage. The coachman cleared his throat, still standing and holding the door open for him. "Right pretty noose, that is," Wayne noted. "Don't be melodramatic," Wax said, leaning to climb in. CHAPTER TWO "I've seen crisper lettuce in the garbage heap!" he was saying to a cringing delivery boy. "And you call these grapes? These are so overripe, they're practically fermenting! And - oh, 'ello, Marasi." He said the last line in his normal, jovial voice. The delivery boy scrambled away. "What are you doing?" Marasi asked. "Makin' soup," Wayne said, holding up a wooden spoon to show her. Nearby, several of the assistant cooks stopped in place, looking at him with shocked expressions. "Out with you!" he said to them in the chef's voice. "I must have time to prepare! Shoo, shoo, go!" They scampered away, leaving him grinning. "You do realize the wedding breakfast is canceled," Marasi said, leaning back against a table. "Sure do." "So why ..." She trailed off as he stuffed an entire tart in his mouth and grinned. "Hadda make sure they didn't welch on their promif an' not make anyfing to eat," he said around chewing, crumbs cascading from his lips. "We paid for this stuff. Well, Wax did. 'Sides, wedding being canceled is no reason not to celebrate, right?" Marasi groaned, closing her eyes. "Someone could have been hurt, Wayne." "Now, that ain't right at all. Someone was hurt. That fat fellow what has no hair." She massaged her temples. "You realize I'm a constable now, Wayne. I can't turn a blind eye toward wanton property damage." "Ah, 's not so bad," Wayne said, still rummaging. "Wax'll pay for it." "The lads got a little carried away. 'See that the church is flooded,' I told them. Meant for the priest to open the place in the morning and find his plumbing had gotten a little case of the 'being all busted up and leaking all over the rusting place.' But the lads, they got a little excited is all." "'The lads'?" "Just some friends." "Saboteurs." "Nah," Wayne said. "You think they could pronounce that?" "Wayne..." "I slapped 'em around already, Marasi," Wayne said. "Promise I did." "He's going to figure it out," Marasi said. "What will you do then?" "Nah, you're wrong," Wayne said, finally coming out of the cupboard with a large glass jug. "Wax has a blind spot for things like this. In the back of his noggin, he'll be relieved that I stopped the wedding. He'll figure it was me, deep in his subcontinence, and will pay for the damages - no matter what the assessor says. And he won't say anything, won't even investigate. Watch." "Gruesome," Wayne said in an approving tone, then took another swig of sherry. "Wayne, haven't you ever read any religious texts?" "Sure I have." "Really?" "Yeah, lots of the things I read have religious texts in them. 'Damn.' 'Hell.' 'Flatulent, arse-licking git.'" She gave him a flat stare. "That last one is in the Testimony of Hammond. Promise. Least, all the letters are." "Here now," he continued, "that's what you've gotta do. Be like the Lady Mistborn. Get your murderin' on, see. Don't back down. He should be yours, and you gotta let people know." "My ... murderin' on?" "Sure." "Against my sister." "You could be polite about it," Wayne said. "Like, give her the first stab or whatnot." "No, thank you." "It doesn't have to be *real* murderin', Marasi," Wayne said, hopping off the counter. "It can be figurative and all. But you should *fight*. Don't let him marry her." "Moved on ..." he said. "Rusted nuts! You can *do* that?" "Certainly." "Huh. You think ... I should ... you know ... Ranette ..." "Wayne, if ever someone should have taken a hint, it was you. Yes. Move on. Really." "Oh, I took the hint," he said, taking a swig of sherry. "Just can't remember which jacket I left it in." He looked down at the jug. "You sure?" "She has a girlfriend, Wayne." "'S only a phase," he mumbled. "One what lasted fifteen years..." "If you're here to persuade me to persuade him," Wayne said, "you should know that he doesn't ever listen to me unless he's pretty drunk at the time." He downed the wine. "'S probably why he's lived so long." CHAPTER THREE "He's always full of himself," Wayne said, cracking a walnut. "Mostly on account of him eatin' his own fingernails. I seen him do it." It was a picture, similar to an evanotype - only on the wall and quite large. It displayed the Field of Rebirth in the center of Elendel, where the tombs of Vin and Elend Venture were to be found. He'd never seen anything like that image. It seemed to have been created entirely by light. Marasi gasped. Wayne threw a walnut at it. "What?" he said as the others glared at him. "Wanted to see if it was real." He hesitated, then threw another walnut. The room fell silent. A walnut bounced off VenDell's head. He immediately turned to glare at Wayne. "Sorry," Wayne said. "Just had trouble believing someone could be so melodramatic, so I figured you might not be real. Hadda check, ya know?" CHAPTER FOUR Two hours after the strange meeting, Wayne puttered through Wax's mansion, peeking behind pictures, lifting up vases. Where did he keep the *good* stuff? It had always seemed funny to Wayne how rich folk got to decide what was valuable. He inspected a picture frame that was likely pure gold. Why did anyone care about this shiny stuff? Gold could do some fun things with Feruchemy, but it was pure rubbish when it came to Allomancy. Well, rich folk liked it. So they paid a lot for it, and that made it valuable. No other reason. How did they decide what was valuable? Did they all just gather together, sit around in their suits and gowns, and say, "Oi. Let's start eatin' fish eggs, and make the stuff real expensive. That'll rust their brains, it will." Then they'd have a nice round of rich folks' laughter and throw some servants off the top of a building to see what kind of splats they'd make when they hit. Wayne put the picture back. He refused to play by rich people's rules. He'd decide for himself what something was worth. And that frame was ugly. Didn't help none that Steris's cousins, who were depicted in the evanotype it held, looked like fish. Did people what got killed in a flood expect an apology from God? God did as God wished. You simply hoped to not get on His worse side. Kinda like the bouncer at the club with the pretty sister. Rusts. Those two were as awkward as a man suddenly splitting his cheeks in church. Wayne shook his head, picking up one of the vases in the entryway. Good pottery, with a nice swirly-dirly pattern. Maybe that would do for his offering. Someone knocked on the door, and Wayne put the vase back. It didn't feel right. He took one of the flowers though, and traded it for an extra sock from his back pocket. Huh. He had a silverware set in his other pocket. From the wedding breakfast? Yeah, that was right. They'd put out a place setting for him, had his name and everything. That meant the silverware had been his. He put the fork, knife, and spoon back in his pocket and tucked the flower behind his ear, then walked to the door, reaching it right before that butler did. He gave the man a glare - it was only a matter of time before he cracked and tried to kill them all - then pulled open the door. "Wax," he complained, pointing, "the immortal bloke is being creepy again." Wayne glanced at Wax's liquor cabinet. Maybe something in there would work for what he needed for his offering. "Wait," Wayne said, turning away from the liquor cabinet. "You can turn into anything? Like a bunny?" "Very small animals are extremely difficult, as we need a certain mass to hold our cognitive functions and-" "Bunny," Wayne said. "Can you be a *bunny*." "If absolutely necessary." "So *that's* what that damn book was about." "I'm always packed and ready to go, mate. Never can tell when a misunderstandin' will crop up." Leave them to their discussing and their arguing and their creepy immortal bunnies. He had things that needed to be done. Well, one thing at least. Wayne had a *quest*. No better ideas came to him. This area was too fancy, with mansions and gardens and men clipping hedges. The streets didn't even stink of horse dung. It was hard to think in a place like this, everyone knew the *best* thinking happened in alleyways and slums. Places where the brain had to be alert, even panicked - where the bugger knew that if it didn't perk up and get some geniusing done, you were likely to get yourself stabbed, and then where would it be? Holding your brain hostage against your own stupidity - *that* was how to get stuff done. "Yes, yes, fine," Wayne said. *Dirty thief*, he thought. *Trying to cheat an upstanding citizen, and a house lord at that, merely because he acted a little distracted? What was this world coming to? When his grandfather Ladrian had been house lord, men had known how to be respectful. Why, a boatman in those days would have dunked himself in the canal before taking a wuzing more than he was due!* "If you don't mind me asking, my lord," the boatman said. "And I mean no offense ... but your clothing." "Yes?" Wayne asked, straightening his Roughs coat. "Is something wrong with it?" "Wrong with it?" Wayne said, stuffing his accent so full of noble indignation it was practically bleeding. "Wrong with it? Man, do you not follow fashion?" "I-" "Thomton Delacour himself designed these clothes!" Wayne said. "Northern outlands inspiration. It's the height, I tell you! The height. A Coinshot couldn't get higher!" "Sorry. Sorry, my lord. I said I didn't want to offend!" "You can't just say 'don't be offended' and then say something offensive, man! That's not how it works." Wayne settled back, arms folded. "Three large," the man said. Wayne got his potatoes, took the man's money, then hesitated. "Actually," Wayne said, holding up a note, "do you have change? We got too many large bills." "I suppose," the man said, digging in his nice eelskin wallet. "Great, here's a twenty." "I've got two fives and ten ones," the man said, putting them down. Thanks." Wayne took them, then hesitated. "Actually, I've got plenty of ones. Could I get that ten I saw in your wallet?" "Fine." Wayne gave him a handful of coins and took the ten. "Hey," the man said, "there are only seven here." "Whoops!" Wayne said. "What are you doing, Wayne?" Old Dent said. "There's more change in the box under there." "Really?" Wayne glanced. "Rusts. Okay, how about you just give me my twenty back?" He counted the man back thirteen and poured the coins and bills into his hand. The man sighed, and gave Wayne the twenty. "Can I just get some sauce for my chips?" "Sure, sure," Wayne said, squeezing some sauce onto the pouches, beside the potatoes. "That's a nice wallet. Whaddaya want for it?" The man hesitated, looking at his wallet. "I'll give you this," Wayne said, plucking the flower off his ear and holding it out with a banknote worth ten. The man shrugged and handed over the empty wallet, taking the bill and stuffing it in his pocket. He threw the flower away. "Idiot," the man said, marching off with his potatoes. Wayne tossed the wallet up and caught it again. "Did you shortchange that man, Wayne?" Old Dent asked. "What's that?" "You got him to give you fifty, and you gave him back forty." "What?" Wayne said, stuffing the wallet in his back pocket. "You know I can't count that high, Dent. 'Sides, gave him ten extra at the end." "For his wallet." "Nah," Wayne said. "The flower was for the wallet. The bill was 'cuz I somehow ended up with an extra ten completely on accident, very innocent-like." That wallet was nice. His god would like that. Everyone needed wallets, right? He got it out and opened and closed it repeatedly, until he noticed that one side was worn. Rusts. He'd been cheated! This wouldn't work at all for an offering. "Here's the thing," he said to one of the urchins, a girl not seven. He settled down on his haunches. "I ain't travailed enough." "... Sir?" the girl asked. "In the old stories of quests, you gotta *travail*. That's like traveling, but with an *ailment* stapled on. Headaches and the like; maybe a sore backside too." "Can ... can I have a coin, sir?" "Ain't got no coins," Wayne said, thinking. "Damn. In the stories they always tip the urchins, don't they? Lets ya know they're the heroes and such. Hold here for a sec." He stood up and burst into the bakery, real heroic-like. A woman behind the counter was just pulling a rack of meat buns out of the oven. Wayne slammed his fork down onto the plain wooden countertop, leaving it flourished there like a rusting legendary sword. "How many buns'll you give me for this?" he asked. The baker frowned, looking at him, then taking the fork. She turned it over in her fingers. "Mister," she said, "this is *silver*." "So ... how many?" Wayne asked. "A bunch." "A bunch'll do, fair merchant." A moment later he emerged from the bakery holding three large paper sacks filled with a dozen buns each. He dropped a handful of change the baker had insisted on giving him into the urchins' hands, then held up a finger as their jaws dropped. "You," he said, "must earn this." "How, sir?" "Take these," he said, dropping the sacks. "Go give the stuff inside away." "To who?" the girl asked. "Anyone who needs them," Wayne said. "But see here, now. Don't eat more than four yourselves, all right?" "*Four*?" the girl said. "All for me?" "Well, five, but you bargain hard. Little cheat." "Here now," the man said. "What's this?" He squinted. "A spoon?" "Merchants are apparently desperate for the things!" Wayne called. "They'll give you half a hunnerd meat buns for one, with change to boot." Wayne smiled, then kicked himself in a smooth skid along the edge of the canal, which was slippery with a coating of slime. He managed to go a good ten feet before losing his balance and slipping. Which, of course, plunged him right into the canal. Coughing, he pulled himself up onto the side. Well, maybe this would count as a travail. If not, it was probably poetry, considering what he'd done to Wax this morning. "So I'm writing down the registry numbers of each one," the man said. "And we'll track down the owners and charge them a fine." Wayne whistled softly. "That's evil." "Nonsense," the man said. "It's the law." "So you're a conner?" "Fine enforcement officer," the man said. "Spent most of my time inspecting kitchens before last month. This is a lot more productive, I'll tell you. It-" "That's great," Wayne said. "Whaddaya want for the book?" The man regarded him. "It's not for trade." "I've got this here nice wallet," Wayne said, holding it up, water dripping out the side. "Recently cleaned." "Move along, sir," the man said. "I am not-" "How 'bout this?" Wayne said, yanking out the knife. The man jumped back in alarm, dropping his notebook. Wayne snatched it, dropping the knife. "Great trade. Thanks. Bye." He took off at a dash. "Hey!" the man shouted, chasing after him. "Hey!" "No tradebacks!" Wayne shouted, hand on his wet hat, running for all he was worth. "Come back here!" Wayne dashed out onto the main street along the canal, passing a couple of old men sitting on a tenement's steps near the entrance to the slums. "That's Edip's boy," one of them said. "Always gettin' himself into trouble, that one is." The man got hit in the face by a meat bun a second later. Wayne ignored that, holding his hat to his head and running all-out. The conner was a determined one. Followed Wayne a good ten streets before slowing, then stopping, hands on his knees. Wayne grinned and ducked around one last corner before slamming his back against the bricks of a building, beside a window. He was pretty winded himself. *He'll probably file a report*, Wayne thought. *Hope the fine they make Wax pay ain't too large*. He ought to find something to bring back as an apology. Maybe Wax needed a wallet. Ranette was a jealous god, known for shooting people - for her, it was practically a governmental mandate. If the constables didn't find a few corpses on her doorstep every week, they'd start to wonder if she wasn't feeling well. "It's just a gift, Ranette." "A notebook?" she asked, flipping the pages. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged. "Writin' book," he said. "You're always writin' stuff down, thinkin' about things. Figured if there's one thing you could always use more of, it's a writin' book. All those ideas you have must get pretty crowded up there. Makes sense you'd need places to store them." "Why's it damp?" "Sorry," he said. "Forgot and stuck it in my pocket for a moment. But I got it right back out. I fought ten constables for that, I'll have you know." She flipped through it, eyes narrowed in suspicion, until she reached the last page. "What's this?" She held it up close and read the words he'd scrawled on the back page. "'Thank you and goodbye?' What's wrong with you?" "Nothin's wrong," Wayne said. "I just figured it was time." "You're leaving?" "For a little, but that's not what the words mean. I'm sure we'll see each other again. Perhaps frequently and such. I'll see you ... but I won't be seein' you again. See?" He smiled, let go, and turned to leave. One step into it, though, he hesitated, then shifted his weight to his other foot and leaned toward her again. "Marasi says you're courtin' another girl." "... I am." Wayne nodded. "Now, I don't want to go wrong, seein' as I'm being so gentlemanly and grown-up and the like. But you can't blame a man for gettin' ideas when hearing something such as that. So ... I don't suppose that there's a chance for the three of us to-" "Wayne." "I don't mind none if she's fat, Ranette. I likes a girl what has something to hold on to." "Wayne." He looked back at her, noting the storm in her expression. "Right," he said. "Right. Okay. Yeah. I don't suppose, when we're lookin' fondly on this conversationalizing and our memorable farewell, we could both just forget I said that last part?" Feeling a spring in his step, he made his way to the nearest busy intersection and tossed the empty wallet into the gutter. It wasn't long before a carriage-for-hire pulled up, and its coachman glanced to the side, saw the wallet, and scrambled down to grab it. Dashing out from an alley, Wayne beat the man to it, diving for the wallet and rolling on the ground. "It's mine!" he said. "I seen it first!" "Nonsense," the coachman said, swatting Wayne with his horse reed. "I dropped it, you ruffian. It's mine!" "Oh, is that so?" Wayne said. "How much is innit?" "I need not answer to you." Wayne grinned, holding up the wallet. "I tells you what. You can have it and everything that's inside. But you take me to the Fourth Octant west train station." The coachman eyed him, then held out his hand. "Makin' an offering to a beautiful god," Wayne said, looking up toward the building's high ceiling. "Why do you suppose they made this place so big? Ain't like the trains ever come in here, eh?" "Wayne?" Steris asked, wrinkling her nose. "Are you drunk?" He put a bit of a slur into his speech. "Course not. Why ... why'd I be drunk at this hour?" He looked at her lazily. "You're insufferable," she said, waving to her lady's maid. "I can't believe you risked being late for a little liquor." "Wasn't a little," Wayne said. CHAPTER SIX "You do realize it's proper to remove your hat indoors, correct?" "Sure do." He tipped his hat at her, then leaned back in his chair and somehow got his booted feet up on the small table. "What're *you* doin' in here?" he asked. "The dining car?" Marasi asked. "I just wanted a place to spread out." "Wax rented us out an entire *train car*, woman," Wayne said, pointing at a passing waiter, then pointing at his mouth and making a tipping motion. "We've got like six rooms or somethin' all to ourselves." "Maybe I simply wanted to be around people." "And we ain't people?" "That is subject to some dispute in your case." He grinned, then winked at her as the waiter finally stepped over. "You wanted-" the waiter began. "Liquor," Wayne said. "Would you care to be a little more specific, sir?" "*Lots* of liquor." "Does it ever bother you to be in his shadow, Wayne?" "Who? Wax? I mean, he's been putting on weight, but he's not *that* fat yet, is he?" He grinned, though that faded when she didn't smile back. And, in an uncharacteristic moment of solemnity, he slid his boots off the table and rested one elbow on it instead, leaning toward her. "Nah," he said after some thought. "Nah, it doesn't. But I don't care much if people look at me or not. Sometimes my life is easier if they *ain't* looking at me, ya know? I like listening." "Appendages don't smell nice," Wayne said. "And they're kinda gross. I cut one outta a fellow once." "You mean an appendix?" "Sure." He hesitated. "So ..." "Not the same thing." "Right. Thought you was makin' a metaphor, since people don't need one of those and all." Wayne nodded thoughtfully. "I knew this fellow once," he said, leaning back again, feet on the table, "who thought it would be a good idea to take people huntin'. City folk, you know? Who ain't never seen an animal larger than a rat what ate too much? Out in the Roughs, we got lions. Fierce things, with lotsa teeth an-" "I know what a lion is, Wayne." "Right. Well, Chip - that's his name - he got some broadsheets printed up, but borrowed some notes from his girl in order to do it. And so she thought she should get a piece of the money once he got people to pay for this trip. Well, the first money came in, and they got in a fight and she ended up stabbing him right in his holster, if you know what I mean. So he stumbles out into the street all bleedin', and that's where the constables found him and told him you can't be killin' no lions. There's a law about it, see, as they're some kind of noble natural treasure, or some such. "Anyway, they took Chip and stuffed him in jail, where they slammed the bars - by accident - on his rusting fingers. Broke his hand up right good, and he can't bend the tips of his fingers no more." His drink arrived - a bottle of whiskey and a small cup. He took it, telling the waiter to charge Waxillium, then poured some and settled back. "Is that the end?" Marasi asked. "What?" Wayne said. "You want *more* to happen to the poor fellow? Right sadistic of you, Marasi. Right sadistic." "I didn't mean ..." She took a deep breath. "Did that have any relevance to the situation I'm in?" "Not really," Wayne said, taking a drink, then removing a little wooden box from his pocket and getting out a ball of gum. "But I tell ya, Chip, he has it *really* bad. Whenever I'm thinkin' my life is miserable, I remember him, and tell myself, 'Well, Wayne. At least you ain't a broke, dickless feller what can't even pick his own nose properly.' And I feels better." CHAPTER NINE "Movin' on," Wayne said, pointing at Marasi. "Like you told me to." "That wasn't moving on! That was 'Running on at full speed.' It was 'Shooting on forward like a bullet,' Wayne." "I don't like doin' stuff halfway," he said solemnly, hand over his heart. "It's been a long time since I had me a good neckin' on account of my diligent monogamous idealization of a beauteous but unavailable-" "And how," Marasi interrupted, "did you not hear the fight? There was gunfire, Wayne. Practically on top of you." "Well, see," he said, growing red, "we was real busy. And we were down next to the tracks, which made a lot of noise. We'd wanted a place what was private-like, you know, and..." He shrugged. "If I approved of half the things Wayne does, Harmony would probably strike me dead on the spot." "These thieves, did one of them happen to shoot her when you weren't lookin'? 'Cuz she's sure gotten stiff all of a sudden." "You stalked away," Wayne pointed, "indigenously." The same cube he'd seen before his steel was drained. Wax plucked it from her palm. "Where'd you get this?" "The guy with the cane dropped it," Marasi said. "He moved as if to pull a gun on me, and raised this." Wax turned it toward MeLaan, and she shook her head. "That's a real strange gun," Wayne noted. "Is there anything in that lore VenDell talked about," Wax said, "that mentions a device that negates Allomancy?" "Nothing I've heard," MeLaan said. "I mean," Wayne said, "it ain't even got a barrel." "But you said you don't pay attention to the research, MeLaan," Marasi said, taking the cube back. "That's true." "And if they could shoot the rusting thing," Wayne added, "the bullet would be small as a flea." Marasi sighed. "Wayne, can't you ever let a joke die?" "Hon, that joke started dead," he said. "I'm just givin' it a proper burial." "These bandits might have information," Wayne said. "Chasin' them down could be useful. 'Sides, I didn't get to stomp none of them, on account of some untimely snogging." "At least it was good snogging," MeLaan added. Then, to Marasi's glare, she added, "What? It was. Poor guy hadn't had a proper snog in years. Had a lot of pent-up energy." Wax chuckled. "No. I don't mind a book now and then, but Wayne is the real reader." Steris raised her head, looking surprised. "I'm serious," Wax said. "Granted, he likes ones with pictures now and then, but he does read. Often out loud. You should hear him do the voices to himself." CHAPTER TEN "Great. Lovely. Can I have your hat?" "My ... hat?" The elderly woman looked up at the oversized hat. The sides drooped magnificently, and the thing was *festooned* with flowers. Like, oodles of them. Silk, he figured, but they were really good replicas. "You have a lady friend?" Aunt Gin asked. "You wish to give her the hat?" "Nah," Wayne said. "I need to wear it next time I'm an old lady." "I left you one of my shoes in trade," Wayne said, then dug in his duster's pocket, pulling out the other shoe. "Speaking of that, Gin, will you swap me your hat for this one?" "What would I do with a man's shoe?" "Wear it next time you gotta be a fellow," Wayne said. "You've got the perfect face for it. Good shoulders, too." "A pastry shop once blew up while we was in it," Wayne said, leaning in to Aunt Gin. "Dynamite in a cake. Big mess." He held out some peanuts toward her. "How about I throw in these peanuts with the shoe?" "Those are *my* peanuts! From this very room!" "But they're worth more now," Wayne said. "On account of my being *real* hungry." "I dunno about you all, but *I'm* gonna find a place to snore for a few hours." "A man?" MeLaan asked. "Yeah. It'll look better when I've decided on the right body. Need to settle on a voice, too." She looked around the room. "Um, is this a problem?" Everyone looked at Wayne for some reason. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe he should have given his shoes to *her*. "You don't *mind*?" Steris demanded of him. "It's still her." "But she looks like a man!" "So does the lady what runs this house," Wayne said, "but she has kids, so someone still decided to take her an-" Wayne shook his head. *Now that, that's a situation a man don't rightly encounter all that often...* Well, he'd found occasion to be an old lady now and then, so it made sense to him. It was probably good for a woman to be a fellow once in a while, if only to offer some perspective. Easier to piss too. Couldn't discount that. "She assumes," Wax said, "that our detective style isn't *normally* the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby type." "To be fair," Wayne said, "it's usually a more shooty-shooty, whacky-whacky type." CHAPTER ELEVEN Wayne liked how banks worked. They had *style*. Many people, they'd keep their money out of sight, hidden under beds and some such. What was the fun of that? But a bank ... a bank was a target. Building a place like this, then stuffing it full of cash, was like climbing atop a hill and daring anyone who approached to try to knock you off. He figured that must be the point. The sport of it. Why else would they put so much valuable stuff together in one place? It was supposed to be a message, proof to the little people that some folks were so rich, they could use their money to build a house for their money and still have enough money left to fill that house. "All right, see," Wayne said, "I've got it figured out. I'm gonna be a rich fellow. Made loads off of the sweat and blood o' lesser men. Only I won't say it like that, 'cuz I'll be in *character*, you see." "Even brought me fancy hat." He held up a top hat and spun it on his finger. "That hat belongs to Waxillium." "No it don't," Wayne said, putting it on. "I gave 'im a rat for it." "A ... rat?" "Minus the tail," Wayne said. "On account of this hat bein' kinda dusty when I took it." "Now, my dear," Wayne said, "while I am distracting the employees of this fine establishment with a depository request, you shall steal into their records room and acquaint yourself with the requisite information. It shouldn't test your skills, as I shall regale them with descriptions of my wealth and prestige, which should draw the attention of most who are still working at this late hour." "Wonderful," Marasi said. "As an aside, my dear," Wayne added, "I am not fond at all of your dalliance with that farmhand upon our estate. He is far beneath you in stature, and your indiscretion will surely besmirch our good name." "Oh please." "Plus he has warts," Wayne added as they reached the top of the steps. "And is prone to extreme bouts of flatulence. And-" "Are you going to talk about this the entire time?" "Of course! The bank's employees need to know how I toil with the next generation and its woefully inadequate ability to make decisions *my* generation found simple and obvious." "Now I've gotta say," Wayne said, pulling off the top hat, "that was the *worst* example of actin' I've ever seen. Who would believe that the rich uncle has a *constable* for a niece, anyway?" "There's no need to lie when the truth will work just as well, Wayne." "No need ... Of *course* there's need! Why, what happens when we have to thump some people, then run off with their ledgers? They're gonna *know* it was us, and Wax'll have to pay a big heap of compensatory fines." "Fortunately, we're not going to be thumping anyone." "But-" "No thumping." Wayne sighed. Fat lot of fun this was going to be. The banker didn't seem convinced - but then, in Wayne's estimation, he didn't seem completely human either. He was at least part dolphin. It was only the clerk from outside. She bustled over to the banker - so Wayne didn't feel a bit guilty admiring her bustle, so to speak - and handed him a half sheet of paper. The banker hesitated, then turned the paper around. It contained a description of Wayne and Marasi, followed by the words, *They are indeed constables under my command. Please afford them every courtesy and liberty in your establishment - though do keep an eye on the short man, and check your till after he leaves.* "Here, now," Wayne said. "That's right unfair. Those things cost a clip every five words to send, they do. Old Reddi wasted good money libelin' me." "Technically, it's defamation," Marasi said. "Yup," Wayne said, "manure, through and through." In the minutes that followed, Wayne got his tower to balance with six separate items, *including* the stapler, which left him feeling rather proud. "Hey," Wayne said. "I'm right dry in the throat, I am. That would sure hit me well, like a morning piss after a nine-pinter the night afore." The banker looked at the letter opener with a start, then checked his desk drawer. "Hey, that's *mine*," he said, reaching into the desk and pulling out something that looked like a piece of cord. "Is this ... a rat's tail?" "Longest I ever seen," Wayne said. "Quite a prize. Lucky man, you are." CHAPTER TWELVE "This won't be like with the banker," Marasi said. "Who was reluctant, but ultimately helpful." "Really?" Wayne said. "Because I thought he was kind of a tit..." "Focus, Wayne. We'll have to use the full weight of the law here, to push this man. I suspect we'll have to offer clemency to get him to help us." "Wait, wait," Wayne said, stopping on the path, tendrils of mist curling around his brow, "you're gonna flash your goods at him *too*?" "I really wish you wouldn't phrase it that way." "Now, listen," Wayne said softly, "you were right 'bout the banker. You did damn good work in there, Marasi, and I'm not too proud to admit it. But authority works different out here in the world of regular men. You bring out your credentials with this fellow, and I guarantee he's gonna react like a rabbit. Find the nearest hole, hunker down, not say a word." "Good interrogation techniques-" "Ain't worth beans if you're in a hurry," Wayne said, "which we are. I'm puttin' my foot down." He hesitated. "'Sides, I already lifted your credentials." "You..." Marasi started, then rummaged through her purse and discovered that the small, engraved plate that held her constable's credentials was gone, replaced with an empty bottle of Syles brandy. "Oh please. This isn't worth *nearly* the same as those credentials." "I know I gave you a good deal," Wayne said. "'Cuz yours is only a bit of useless metal - which is about what it'd be worth here, in this cemetery." "You *will* give the credentials back after we're done." "Sure. If you fill that bottle in trade." "But you said-" "Convenience fee." She sighed. "Don't get too frisky." "Sooner get frisky with a lion, Mara. That I would." "Wayne, I'm shocked," she said. "You're an *excellent* seamstress." "Clothes is fun to play with. Ain't no reason that can't be manly." His eyes lingered on her chest. "Wayne." "Sorry, sorry. Just gettin' into character, you know." "Mister Coins will do," Wayne said. "And I'll be callin' you Mister Smart Man, for the decision you just made right here and now." "I never buys the fancy beer, even when it's last call and the bartender halves it to empty the barrel." CHAPTER THIRTEEN Wayne, for his part, had settled down on a grave with his back to the stone, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As she passed to check on the progress, she found him rummaging in his pocket. A moment later, he pulled a *sandwich* out and started eating. When he saw Marasi staring at him, he held it toward her, wagging it to see if she wanted a bite. CHAPTER FOURTEEN "You've been hit." "Three times," Wayne said, then winced as he turned his leg. "No, four." He sighed, then took a bite of his sandwich. "Plan?" Marasi asked. "Not dyin'." "Anything more detailed than that?" "Not dyin' ... today?" *Can you beat them on your own?* Marasi half whispered, half mouthed at Wayne. He grinned and mouthed back, *Does a guy wif no hands got itchy balls?* A short time later Wayne appeared at the top of the grave, backlit by the flickering lantern in the mists. He shoved his dueling canes into their loops, then knelt and held out his hand. Marasi reached up to accept his help from the grave. "Actually," Wayne said, not taking her hand, "I was hopin' you'd hand me my hat." Wayne kicked a hole in the floor with the heel of his boot. Marasi perked up, then walked over as he fished around in a compartment he'd found. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "What is it?" Marasi asked. Wayne brought out a bottle. "Dechamp's hidden booze stash." "That's all?" "All? It's great! A fellow like that hides his booze well. Too many other workers around to swipe the stuff." "So we're at a dead end." "Well, there's an account book on the desk there that I found under a false bottom in the drawer," Wayne noted, taking a swig of the dark liquid he'd found. "Lists everybody what paid the people here for a grave robbin' in the last few years." Marasi started. "When did you find that?" "First," Wayne said. "Hardly had to search for it. The booze though, that they hid well. Good priorities, these folks." CHAPTER FIFTEEN "You didn't need to *actually* cut holes in your arm, Wayne," Marasi said, joining him in the garden - he'd trampled some very nice petunias to get to the window. "Course I did," Wayne replied, wiping away the blood. "You've gotta be *authentic*." "I wasn't sure how Death 'imself would sound, you know? I figured all important-like, like Wax when he's tellin' me to take my feet off the furniture. Mixed with some real old-soundin' tones, like a grandfather's grandfather. And grindy, like a man what is choking to death." "Well, next time you meet that guy, tell 'im he's gotta come talk to me. I need to hear what he sounds like." "What does it matter?" "I gotta hear," Wayne said. "For next time." "Next time? How often do you expect you'll be imitating Death?" Wayne shrugged. "This is the fourth so far. So you never can tell." "Maybe they like their tomatoes real fresh," Wayne said. "I know I do." CHAPTER SIXTEEN "You oughtta read this thing, Mara," he called to Marasi, who paced back and forth behind his couch. "Strangest thing you ever heard. These blokes, they build this ship, right? Only it's meant to go *up*. Uses a big explosion or some such to send it to the stars. These other blokes steal it, right, and there's seven of them, all convicts. They go lookin' for plunder, but end up on this star what has no-" "How can you read?" Marasi asked, still pacing. "Well, I'm not right sure," Wayne said. "By all accounts, I should be dumber than a sack full o' noodles." Wayne sidled up to Steris and popped a peanut in his mouth. "You got that preparin'-your-bags-early thing from me, didn't you?" "I ... Well, yes, actually." "What will you trade me for it, then?" Wayne said. "Gotta have a good trade when you take stuff." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "Not gonna work," Wayne said. "They had a Seeker back at the party; you think they won't have one here? The moment one of us burns a metal, we'll draw a hundred of Suit's goons to welcome us with a handshake and a friendly bit of murderin'." "We don't like killin' folks," Wayne said. "At least, unless they start shootin' at us. They're just chaps what are doing their job." He looked to Marasi, as if for support. "Don't look at me," Marasi said. "I'm reeling from watching *you* trying to take the moral high ground." "Focus, Wayne," Wax said. "How are we going to get in? Shall we try a Fat Belt?" "Nah," Wayne said, "too loud. I think we should do Spoiled Tomato." "Dangerous," Wax said, shaking his head. "I'd have to do the placement just right, between the lit perimeter and the shadowed part near the walls." "You can do it. You make shots like that all the time. Plus, we got this shiny new metalmind, full o' health waitin' to be slurped up." "A mistake could ruin the whole infiltration, healing power or no," Wax said. "I think we should do Duck Under Clouds instead." "You kiddin'?" Wayne said. "Didn't you get shot last time we tried that?" "Kinda," Wax admitted. MeLaan stared at them, baffled. "Duck under Clouds?" "They get like this," Marasi said, patting her on the shoulder. "Best not to listen too closely." "Tube Run," Wayne said. "No glue." "Banefielder?" "Too dark." "Blackwatch Doublestomp." Wax hesitated. "... The hell is that?" "Just made it up," Wayne said, grinning. "It's a nifty code name though, eh?" "Not bad," Wax admitted. "And what type of plan is it?" "Same as Spoiled Tomato," Wayne said. Marasi gasped. "Spoiled Tomato?" she asked. "Yeah," Wax said. "Apparently it makes a mess sometimes when he lands." *To rust with that Wax*, Wayne thought as he plummeted toward the ground, his hat blowing off. *Tossin' a gun to a fellow without even warnin' him. Why, that's just-* He hit. Now, there was a trick to falling to your death. Bodies hitting the ground were *loud*. Louder than anyone ever expected. He mitigated this by hitting feet-first - his legs both snapped immediately - then twisted onto his side, breaking his shoulder, but dampening some of the sound by rolling with the impact. He tapped his fancy new metalmind right before his head smacked the ground, dazing him. He ended up in a crumpled, broken heap beside a pile of rocks. *Of course* Wax would have sent him into a pile of rocks. As his vision cleared, he tried to glance at his legs, but he couldn't move. Couldn't feel anything, actually, which was quite pleasant. It was always nice when you snapped the spine - helped with the pain. Not that the pain went *completely* away, mind you. But he and pain were old friends what shared a handshake and a beer now and then. Didn't much like one another, but they had a working relationship. Sensation - and agony - flooded back into him as his metalmind healed his spine, focusing on the worst wounds first. He drew in a deep breath. A snapped spine could suffocate a man. People didn't know that. Or, well, the ones who *did* know had suffocated already. He felt good. Renewed, like he always did after a big healing. Felt like he could do something impossible, run up a mountain, or eat the entire boar and chips plate at Findley's all on his own. He crept off through the shadows, about important business. Fortunately, he found his hat almost immediately, near another rock pile. That done, he moved on to less important matters, like making an opportunity to help the others sneak in. Time to think like a guard. It was hard, as he didn't have a guard's hat. He settled into the shadows and listened as a pair of them passed on patrol, digesting their accents like a nice snack of pretzel sticks with mustard. After about fifteen minutes of watching, he picked out a likely candidate and kept pace as the man did his rounds, though Wayne stayed in the shadow. The lanky fellow had a face like a rabbit, but was tall enough he could probably have picked all the walnuts he wanted without needing a stepladder. *Here I am*, Wayne thought, *in the middle of nowhere! Guarding a big old barn. This isn't what I signed up for. I haven't seen my daughter in eight months. Eight months! She's probably talking by now. Rusts. This life.* He wiggled between them, getting a good elbow into Marasi's midriff - which earned him a glare, as if she didn't know that proper crowd-wiggling protocol involved getting friendly with one another's extremities. It was a boat. Of course, the common word "boat" didn't do the thing justice. Wayne stared at the massive construction, searching for a better description. One that would capture the majesty, the incredible scale, of the thing he was seeing. "That's a *damn big boat*," he finally whispered. Much better. "You brought your purse," Wayne said, "on a darin' infiltration?" CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The man yanked out his canteen, which was of sturdy, stiff leather, worked to the shape of a small bottle. He took a swig and offered it to Wax, who accepted it and downed a drink. He coughed softly. "Apple juice?" "Good for the body," Wayne said, tucking the canteen away. "I was not expecting that." "Gotta keep the stomach guessin', mate," Wayne said. "Or it'll grow complacent and all." "Gettin' old," Wayne said with a grin, passing him and starting up the next ladder. "Don't be dense," Wax said, grabbing the ladder below him and climbing. "I'm trying to pace myself. What if we reach the top and have to fight?" "You can throw your wooden teeth at 'em," Wayne said from above. "Do some cane waggin' as well. I'm sure you're cross about stayin' up so late." "I should deck you right in your grin," he grumbled as he joined the still-smiling Wayne on the catwalk. "But you'd just heal." "Nah," Wayne said. "I'd fall over and groan. Considerin' your age, it's more important to make you feel you've accomplished somethin' in a day." "The board was weak." "Sure, sure," Wayne said. "It's okay, mate. Most folks put on a little weight as they hit their twilight years. 'S natural and all." "If I shot you," Wax said, "nobody would blame me. They'd probably just say, 'Wow. You lasted that long? I'd have shot him years ago.' Then they'd buy me a pint." "Now, that hurts, it does," Wayne said. "Wayne?" he hissed. "Are you up there?" A moment later, the engineer's unconscious face appeared over the side of the catwalk, eyes closed. "Of course he's up here," Wayne said from up above, imitating the voice of the unfortunate engineer and wiggling the head like a puppet's. "You just tossed that bloke up here, mate! You've forgotten already? Memory loss. You must be gettin' *real* old." "Did he look anxious about somethin' to you?" Wayne asked. "Yeah," Wax said, lowering the spyglass. "What did those two women *do* in there?" "Maybe they-" "I don't want to hear your guess," Wax said. "Really." "Fair enough." "Whoa, *whoa*, mate," Wayne said, grabbing his arm. "I'm all for charging in recklessly and whatnot, but don't you think it would be best to talk this through? You know, before we get all 'Let's shoot this place up.'" "She's *here*, Wayne," he said. "This is why I came." He felt cold. "She'll know things about our uncle. She's the key. I'm going in after her." "All right, all right," Wayne said. "But Wax, doesn't it strike you as worryish that *I'm* havin' to be the voice of reason here?" Wax looked down at his friend. "It probably should." "Yeah, I'll say. Look, I've got an idea." "How bad an idea is it?" "Compared to burnin' Allomancy, going in shooting, and inevitably drawing the attention of all those guards, not to mention the Set's kill squads? I'd say compared to that, it's a pretty *damn* good idea." "Tell me." "Well, see," Wayne said, sticking his gum to one of the catwalk's support beams, "we've got this *very* nice engineer's outfit over there on the unconscious fellow, and ever since that party half a year back, I been workin' on my smart-person talk..." CHAPTER NINETEEN He ... he was a scientist. No, no, an engineer. He was a working man. Learned enough, but not some fancy professor who was paid to stand all day and talk. He built things, and he hated being in this place, with all its guns. He encouraged life, and the soldiers were the opposite of that. They, they ... *No*, he thought again, raising hands to the sides of his head. Wrong, wrong, wrong! *Shape up, Wayne. This was your plan. You've gotta make it work.* What was wrong? He ... He was a ... He stopped. Then reached into the pocket of his vest and took out a charcoal pencil. He held it up, inspecting it, before slipping it behind his ear. He let out a long sigh. He was an engineer. He stepped up to the guard. "The lattice supports of the apricity are completely liminal!" The man blinked at him. "Don't just stand there!" Wayne said, waving toward the walls of the warehouse. "Can't you see that the forebode malefactors are starting to bow? We could have a full-blown bannock on our hands at any minute!" "We've got a serious problem," Wayne said. "I've been checking the integrity of the structure, and the caronals are completely nepheligenous out there! We are about to have a full-blown case of ximelolagnia if somebody doesn't do something." "We've got to hold it up while I ratchet the saprostomous underlays!" A soft thump from behind indicated that Wax had dealt with the guard at the door. Normally Wayne would feel left out, since he didn't get to do any hitting. This time though, Wayne got to make a bunch of idiots stand with their hands pressed against some wood, thinking they were keeping the ship from tipping over. So it evened out. CHAPTER TWENTY "Damn," Wayne said, eyeing the bullets. He tossed over his canteen. Wax took a drink, judging distances and feeling the surreal sensation of standing calmly in a maelstrom of gunfire, sipping apple juice. Wayne looked up just in time to snatch the thing from the air, then looked down at it with surprise. When the first bullet curved away from him, Wayne grinned instead, then let out a whoop and flung it at the men in front of him. The thing rolled among them, tossing weapons aside with its power. Wax sighed, landing on the top of the ship. Of *course* he'd throw it. He had a *crossbow bolt* sticking from his leg. "Well, that was fun," Wayne said, plopping down and taking a deep breath. "Ain't been whooped so bad since the last time I played cards with Ranette." "Great," Wayne said. "At least now we can die in relaxed positions." CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Wayne was awakened quite rough-like, in a manner unbefitting his grand dreams, in which he was king of the dogs. Had a crown shaped like a bowl and everything. He blinked his eyes, feeling nice and warm, and got hit with a blast of air. Drowsy, he remembered he was flying in some kind of rusting *airship* with a fellow what had no face. And that was almost as good as that dog thing. That let him look down at a long line of people - lit by lanterns - trudging through what appeared to be waist-high snow. Poor sods. He held on with one hand and took out his box of gum, shaking it. Only one ball left. Damn. Well, at least it had plenty of powder on it. That would help perk him up, it would. He reached into his holster and took out one of his guns. He gave the rusting things names, but Wayne could never keep them straight. It was one of the ones with the long tubey thing on the front what spat bits of metal at the bad guys. Wayne nodded. Reliable chap, that Wax. Steady. The same on a good day and a bad. Wayne moved to retreat into the ship's interior, but as he scrambled over the seats, he somehow got tangled a little with Telsin and, in the process, kicked one of the packs out the opening. Wayne stared down, aghast, as it fell and actually *hit* one of the men on the head. "What did you do?" Telsin demanded. Wayne winced. "What did Wayne do now?" Marasi asked, a sense of resignation in her voice. "He kicked that pack out right on top of them," Telsin said. "'S not my fault," he said. "Wax woke me up too soon. Put me off balance." "Hold on to something," the pilot fellow said. "Or make sure you're strapped in. I'm going to land." So Wayne grabbed the man's arm. "Something *else*." Wayne grabbed the chair's back, and good thing he did, since the ship pitched to the side as it came down. The landing wasn't too bad, assuming you liked getting shaken about and then having your face smacked into the wall. That light cascaded down, white and calm, upon a rusting *castle* in the middle of the mountains. A bleak stone fortress, cut of the same stone as the field. It looked to be only one story, hunkered down against the wind, but it glowed in the starlight like the spirit of some ancient building from anteverdant days. Wayne breathed out slowly, his breath making white mist before him. "Nice," he said, nodding. "Nice." The folks that built this, they had *style*. Figures. A woman would have to change outfits for this. Can't infiltrate a remote, ancient temple without properly accessorizing. Wayne ran his hand through his hair, then had a moment of panic. His *hat*! He scrambled back toward the ship, looking around frantically, but then spotted it peeking from a snowdrift nearby, having fallen free as they landed. He picked it up with a sigh of relief. Wayne hurried his step and fell in beside that pilot fellow with the mask. "You know," Wayne said, "I'm an Allomancer too." The man said nothing. "I figured you'd want to know," Wayne said, "since it seems like this is your religion and all. In case you wanted someone else to worship." Again no reply. "I'm a Slider," Wayne said. "Speed bubbles, you know? Those fancy titles would work for me just fine, I think. Handsome One. Smart One. Um ... Guy wif the Great Hat." The only sound was that of their footfalls and the gusting wind. "Now, see," Wayne said, "this is unfair. Wax doesn't want you to worship him, right? But you *gotta* have someone to worship. It's human nature. It's ingratiated in us. So, I'm willin' to be accommodatin' and let you-" "He can't understand you, Wayne," Marasi said, marching past. "He's swapped metalminds to keep himself warm." Wayne stopped in place as they all hiked onward. "Well, when he gets his brain back, someone tell him I'm a god, all right?" "Your sister," Wayne said to Wax, "is kinda..." "Severe?" Marasi said. "I was gonna say bonkers," Wayne admitted. "Though I'm not sure if it's the good kinda bonkers or the bad kind, as of yet, as I haven't had time to give it the proper evaluatin'." "She's been through a lot," Wax said, eyes ahead. "We'll get her home and give her some physicians to talk to. She'll mend." Wayne nodded. "Course, she won't fit in wif us anymore if she does." They continued, and that fortress, rusts it was impressive. Made of broad stone blocks, the type that some poor fellow probably broke his back lugging about, it had steps out front leading up to an enormous statue. At first he was surprised, as all the way out here seemed an odd place for a sculpture - but then, the ones back in Elendel had been shat on by about a million birds, so perhaps this was the *best* place to keep your statue. "Um, well, this place is abandoned, right? So none of the stuff in it belongs to anyone." "Well, I'm sure a lot of people would *claim* it," MeLaan said. "But ownership would be tough to prove." "So..." "So I'd say don't touch anything anyway," MeLaan said. "Oh. Right." She smiled at him, then continued on in through the open doorway behind the statue. It was big, gaping, like a fellow's mouth after you kick 'im right in the canteen. He looked back at the statue, then poked at the spearhead with his toe. Then he hit it with his heel. Then he hit with a rock. Finally, he twisted it a few times. It fell right off, clanging to the stone beneath. It had been practically *hanging* free. And Wax was wrong, only the head was of metal—the oversized spear was wood. *Aluminum, you say?* Wayne thought with a smile. Now, he didn't care much for what rich folks said was worth money. Unless it was, by itself, worth more than a house. Little Sophi Tarcsel, the inventor, did need more funds. "Wayne, what the hell is that?" "It fell right off," Wayne said, clutching the spearhead, which was cold to the touch, even through the handkerchief. The tip was peeking out on one side. "I didn't even look at it, Wax. Musta been loosened by the wind. See, it has a hole on the bottom for screwing off and-" "Don't touch anything," Wax said, pointing at him. "Else." MeLaan gave him a look. "You shut up," Wayne said to her. "Didn't say a word, Wayne." "You *implied* one. That's worse." The skin there, at the sides of the mask, seemed to have melded with the wood—though that might be because everything in here was as cold as a spinster's bedroom. "If I lose a spike, you'd better be ready to stick it right back in. And I was serious - this is going to be *awful* for my clothing." "You could do it without," Wayne said hopefully. She thought for a moment, then shrugged, reaching to grab her top. "I'll buy you new clothing, MeLaan," Wax said, interrupting her. "We don't want to make poor Allik fall over dead." "Actually," Allik said, "I don't think I'd mind." "Good man," Wayne said. "Knew I liked you." The man nodded, then put back down his mask. Made sense why he wore one now. Wayne couldn't grow a proper beard either, but at least he had the sense to shave. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR "You bein' careful with that?" Wayne asked, nodding toward the spike. "You don't want to prick yourself and turn into a kandra." "I'm pretty sure that's not how it works," Marasi said, tucking it back into her purse. "Never can tell," Wayne said. "I think I should carry it. Just in case." "You'd swap it for the first trinket we passed, Wayne." "No I wouldn't." He paused. "Why? You see somethin' good back there?" "I was lookin' at you two," Wayne said, contemplative as he regarded the snowy landscape outside rather than her, "and wondering. Do sisters ever really get sexy with one another for a fellow to watch, or does that only happen in pub songs?" "How close?" Wax asked, speeding up. "Close, close," Wayne said. "Like, on our doorstep and demandin' rent money close." CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN "Find Steris and Marasi," Wax croaked. "Help them escape." "Wax," he said, shaking his head. "No. No. I can't do this without you." "Yes you can. Fight." "Not that part," Wayne said. "The rest of it. Livin'. We ... we'll get you out of this." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then looked at the stone on top of Wax, then down at the blood pooling beneath. Then he sat back, running his hands through his hair, eyes wide, as if in shock. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Wax stilled. Wayne let the hand fall limp. He wanted to just sit here. Stare at nothing like those fellows in rows nearby, the ones that weren't crushed. Sit and become nothing. All his life, only one man had believed in him. Only one man had forgiven him, had encouraged him. The rest of this damned race could burn away and become ash, for all Wayne cared. He hated them all. But ... what would Wax say? *He left me, the bastard*, Wayne thought, wiping his eyes. In that moment, he hated Wax too. But then, Wayne loved him more than the hatred. He growled, and stumbled to his feet. He had no weapons; he'd dropped his dueling canes above. He stared at Wax's body, then knelt and felt along the man's leg. He got ahold of something and yanked it free. The shotgun. Wayne's hands immediately started shaking. "You stop that," he hissed at them. "We're done with that." CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Something *banged* behind her. She blinked at the sudden spray of redness on the snow all around her. Flakes of it. Her blood. "You killed one of my friends today," a ragged voice said from behind. "I'm not going to let you take a second." She fell to her knees before the craft, then turned her head. Wayne stood behind her in the snow, his face haggard, holding a shotgun. "You..." Telsin whispered. "You can't ... guns..." "Yeah," Wayne said, cocking the shotgun. "About that." He lowered the barrel to her face and fired. A loud gunshot from quite nearby. She swiveled her head, searching for the source. A second one sounded. A moment later, Wayne emerged through the snowstorm, head down, expression shadowed. He carried a shotgun on his shoulder, and clutched not one, but *three* small metal spikes in his other hand. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE "Wax, you *gotta* see this!" Wax tipped his head back, bleary-eyed. These bunks were not particularly pleasant, but at least the airship flew in a calm, smooth manner. That was nice, as the skimmer had always felt as if it were one gust of wind away from plowing nose-first into a hillside. Wayne hung halfway out of the room's large window. "That window opens?" Wax asked, surprised. "Any window opens," Wayne said, "if you push hard enough. Look, you've *gotta* see this." Wax sighed, climbing up and leaning out of the window beside Wayne. Beneath them, Elendel spread out as a vast sea of lights. "Like rivers of fire," Wayne mumbled. "Look how it follows patterns. Rich areas more lit, roads all in lines. Beautiful." Wax grunted. "That's all you can say, mate?" "Wayne, I see this basically every night." "Now, that there, that ain't fair. You should feel guilty." "For being a Coinshot?" "For cheatin' at life, Wax." "How about I feel appreciative instead?" "Suppose that'll do." "Is life ever fair?" "It has been to me," Wayne said. "More than fair, I reckon. Considering what I deserve." "Do you want to talk about it?" Wax asked. "What?" "You used a gun, Wayne." "Bah, that was a shotgun. Barely counts." Wax rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. Wayne shrugged. "Guess my body figured, "What the hell?'" "I thought it meant you'd forgiven yourself." "Nah," Wayne said. "I was just real mad at your sister." "You knew, didn't you?" Wax asked, frowning. "That she'd heal?" "Well, I didn't wanna kill someone in cold blood-" "That's good, I suppose." "-but there weren't no fire around to light her with first." "Wayne..." The shorter man sighed. "I saw the metalminds peekin' outta her sleeves. Figured, if you're gonna give yourself one power from a Feruchemist, you'd wanna be able to heal. I ain't gonna kill your sister, mate. But I didn't mind makin' her jump a bit, and I needed MeLaan's spikes." Wayne's gaze grew distant. "Shoulda stayed there, I suppose. To stop her from runnin', you know? But I wasn't of sound mind, so to speak. I thought you were *dead*, mate. Really thought it. And I kept thinkin' to myself, Would Wax kill her for real? Or would he give her another chance, like he gave me?' So I let her be. I stayed my hand, 'cuz it was the last thing I could do for you. Does that make sense?" "Going to go fetch your woman?" Wayne said. "She's gonna have a hard time adjustin' to life back here, away from her native habitat of the frozen, icy, desolate wastes up-" "Wayne," Wax interrupted, soft but firm. "Hum?" "Enough." "I was just-" "*Enough*." Wayne stopped with his mouth open, then licked his lips and nodded. "Right, then. See you up above in a few, mate?" The Lost Metal PROLOGUE Wayne knew about beds. Other kids in Tinweight Settlement had them. A bed sounded much better than a mat on the ground - especially one he had to share with his ma when the nights were cold, because they didn't have any coal. Plus there were monsters under beds. Yeah, he'd heard stories of mistwraiths. They'd hide unner your bed and steal the faces of people you knew. Which made beds soft and squishy on top, with someone underneath you could talk to. Sounded like rustin' heaven. Other kids were scared of mistwraiths, but Wayne figured they just didn't know how to negotiate properly. He could make friends with something what lived unner a bed. You just had to give it something it wanted, like someone else to eat. Anyway, no bed for him. And no proper chairs. They had a table, built by Uncle Gregr. Back before he got crushed by a billion rocks in a landslide and mushed into a pulp what couldn't hit people no more. Wayne kicked the table sometimes, in case Gregr's spirit was watching and was fond of it. Rusts knew there was nothing else in this one-window home Uncle Gregr had cared about. Best Wayne had was a stool, so he sat on that and played with his cards - dealing hands and hiding cards up his sleeve - as he waited. This was a nervous time of day. Every evening he feared she wouldn't come home. Not because she didn't love him. Ma was a burst of sweet spring flowers in a sewage pit of a world. But because one day Pa hadn't come home. One day Uncle Gregr - Wayne kicked the table - hadn't come home. So Ma ... *Don't think about it*, Wayne thought, bungling his shuffle and spilling cards over the table and floor. *And don't look. Not until you see the light.* He could feel the mine out there; nobody wanted to live nexta it, so Wayne and his ma did. He thought of something else, on purpose. The pile of laundry by the wall that he'd finished washing earlier. That had been Ma's old job what didn't pay well enough. Now he did it while she pushed minecarts. Wayne didn't mind the work. Got to try on all the different clothes - whether they were from old gramps or young women - and pretend to be them. His ma had caught him a few times and grown angry. Her exasperation still baffled him. Why *wouldn't* you try them all on? That's what clothes was for. It wasn't nothing weird. Besides, sometimes folks left stuff in their pockets. Like decks of cards. He fumbled the shuffle again, and as he gathered the cards up he did *not* look out the window, even though he could feel the mine. That gaping artery, like the hole in someone's neck, red from the inside and spurting out light like blood and fire. His ma had to go dig at the beast's insides, searchin' for metals, then escape its anger. You could only get lucky so many times. Then he spotted it. Light. With relief, he glanced out the window and saw someone walking along the path, holding up a lantern to illuminate her way. Wayne scrambled to hide the cards under the mat, then lay on top, feigning sleep when the door opened. She'd have seen his light go out of course, but she appreciated the effort he put into pretending. She settled on the stool, and Wayne cracked an eye. His ma wore trousers and a buttoned shirt, her hair up, her clothing and face smudged. She sat staring at the flame in the lantern, watching it flicker and dance, and her face seemed more hollow than it had been before. Like someone was taking a pickaxe to her cheeks. *That mine's eatin' her away*, he thought. *It hasn't gobbled her up like it did Pa, but it's gnawing on her.* Ma blinked, then fixated on something else. A card he'd left on the table. Aw, hell. She picked it up, then looked right at him. He didn't pretend to be asleep no more. She'd dump water on him. "Wayne," she said, "where did you get these cards?" "Don't remember." "Wayne..." "Found 'em," he said. She held out her hand, and he reluctantly pulled the deck out and handed it over. She tucked the card she'd found into the box. Damn. She'd spend a day searching Tinweight for whoever had "lost" them. Well, he wouldn't have her losing more sleep on account of him. "Tark Vestingdow," Wayne mumbled. "They was inna pocket of his overalls." "Thank you," she said softly. "Ma, I've *gotta* learn cards. That way I can earn a good livin' and care for us." "A good living?" she asked. "With cards?" "Don't worry," he said quickly. "I'll cheat! Can't make a livin' if you don't win, see." She sighed, rubbing her temples. Wayne glanced at the cards in their stack. "Tark," he said. "He's Terris. Like Pa was." "Yes." "Terris people always do what they're told. So what's wrong with me?" "Nothing's wrong with you, love," she said. "You just haven't got a good parent to guide you." "Ma," he said, scrambling off the mat to take her arm. "Don't talk like that. You're a *great* ma." She hugged him to her side, but he could feel her tension. "Wayne," she asked, "did you take Demmy's pocketknife?" "He talked?" Wayne said. "Rust that rustin' bastard!" "Wayne! Don't swear like that." "Rust that rusting bastard!" he said in a railworker's accent instead. He grinned at her innocently, and was rewarded with a smile she couldn't hide. Silly voices always made her happy. Pa had been good at them, but Wayne was better. Particularly now that Pa was dead and couldn't say them no more. But then her smile faded. "You can't take things what don't belong to you, Wayne. That's somethin' thieves do." "I don't wanna be a thief," Wayne said softly, putting the pocketknife on the table beside the cards. "I want to be a good boy. It just ... happens." She hugged him closer. "You *are* a good boy. You've *always* been a good boy." When she said it, he believed it. "Do you want a story, love?" she asked. "I'm too old for stories," he lied, desperately wishing she'd tell one anyway. "I'm *eleven*. One more year and I can drink at the tavern." "What? Who told you that!" "Dug." "Dug is *nine*." "Dug knows stuff." "*Dug* is *nine*." "So you're sayin' I'll have to snitch booze for him next year, 'cuz he can't get it himself yet?" He met her eyes, then started snickering. He helped her get dinner - cold oatmeal with some beans in it. At least it wasn't *only* beans. Then he snuggled into his blankets on the mat, pretending he was a child again to listen. It was easy to feign that. He still had the clothes after all. "This is the tale," she said, "of Blatant Barm, the Unwashed Bandit." "Oooh.." Wayne said. "A *new* one?" His mother leaned forward, wagging her spoon toward him as she spoke. "He was the worst of them all, Wayne. Baddest, meanest, *stinkiest* bandit. He never bathed." "Cuz it takes too much work to get properly dirty?" "No, because he ... Wait, it's *work* to get dirty?" "Gotta roll around in it, you see." "Why in Harmony's name would you do that?" "To think like the ground," Wayne said. "To..." She smiled. "Oh, Wayne. You're so precious." "Thanks," he said. "Why ain't you told me of this Blatant Barm before? If he was so bad wouldn't he be the first one you told stories about?" "You were too young," she said, sitting back. "And the story too frightening." Ooooh ... This was going to be a *good* one. Wayne bounced up and down. "Who got 'im? Was it a lawman?" "It was Allomancer Jak." "Him?" Wayne said with a groan. "I thought you liked him." Well, all the kids did. Jak was new and interesting, and had been solving all kinds of tough crimes this last year. Least according to Dug. "But Jak always brings the bad guys in," Wayne complained. "He never shoots a single one." "Not this time," Ma said, digging into her oatmeal. "He knew Blatant Barm was the worst. Killer to the core. Even Barm's sidekicks - Gud the Killer and Noways Joe - were *ten* times worse than any other bandit that ever walked the Roughs." "Ten *times*?" Wayne said. "Yup." "That's a lot! Almost double!" His ma frowned for a moment, but then leaned forward again. "They'd robbed the payroll. Taking not just the money from the fat men in Elendel, but the wages of the common folk." "Bastards!" Wayne said. "Wayne!" "Fine! Regular old turds then!" Again she hesitated. "Do you ... know what the word 'bastard' means?" "It's a bad turd, the kind you get when you've *really* got to go, but you hold it in too long." "You know that because..." "Dug told me." "Of course he did. Well, Jak, he wouldn't stand for stealing from the common folk of the Roughs. Being a bandit is one thing, but everyone knows you take the money what goes *toward* the city. "Unfortunately, Blatant Barm, he knew the area real well. So he rode off into the most difficult land in the Roughs - and he left one of his two sidekicks to guard each of the key spots along the way. Fortunately, Jak was the bravest of men. And the strongest." "If he was the bravest and strongest," Wayne said, "why was he a lawman? He could be a bandit, and nobody could stop him!" "What's harder, love?" she asked. "Doing what's right or doing what's wrong?" "Doing what's right." "So who gets stronger?" Ma asked. "The fellow what does the easy thing, or what does the hard thing?" Huh. He nodded. Yeah. Yeah, he could see that. She moved the lantern closer to her face, making it shine as she spoke. "Jak's first test was the River Human, the vast waterway marking the border with what had once been koloss lands. The waters moved at the speed of a train; it was the fastest river in the whole world - and it was full of rocks. Gud the Killer had set up there, across the river, to watch for lawmen. He had such a good eye and steady hand that he could shoot a fly off a man at three hundred paces." "Why'd you want to do that?" Wayne asked. "Better to shoot 'im right *in* the fly. That's gotta hurt something bad." "Not that kind of fly, love," Ma said. "So what did Jak do?" Wayne asked. "Did he sneak up? Not very lawman-like to sneak. I don't think they do that. I'll bet he didn't sneak." "Well..." Ma said. Wayne clutched his blanket, waiting. "Jak was a *better* shot," she whispered. "When Gud the Killer sighted on him, Jak shot him first - clean across the river." "How'd Gud die?" Wayne whispered. "By bullet, love." "Through the eye?" Wayne said. "Suppose." "And so Gud lined up a shot and Jak did likewise - but Jak shot first, hitting Gud *straight* through the sights into the eye! Right, Ma!" "Yup." "And his head exploded," Wayne said, "like a fruit - the crunchy kind, the shell all *tough* but it's gooey inside. Is that how it happened?" "Absolutely." "Dang, Ma," Wayne said. "That's gruesome. You sure you should be tellin' me this story?" "Should I stop?" "Hell no! How'd Jak get across the water?" "He flew," Ma said. She set her bowl aside, oatmeal finished, and gave a flourish with both hands. "Using his Allomantic powers. Jak can fly, and talk to birds, and eat rocks." "Wow. Eat *rocks*?" "Yup. And so he flew over that river. But the next challenge was even worse. The Canyon of Death." "Ooooh..." Wayne said. "Bet that place was pretty." "Why do you say that?" "'Cuz nobody's going to visit a place called 'Canyon of Death' unless it's pretty. But somebody visited it, 'cuz we know the name. So it must be pretty." "Beautiful," Ma said. "A canyon carved through the middle of a bunch of crumbling rock spires - the broken peaks streaked with colors, like they was painted that way. But the place was as deadly as it was beautiful." "Yeah," Wayne said. "Figures." "Jak couldn't fly over this one, for the second of the bandits hid in the canyon. Noways Joe. He was a master of pistols, and could also fly, and turn into a dragon, and eat rocks. If Jak tried to sneak past, Joe would shoot him from behind." "That's the smart way to shoot someone," Wayne said. "On account of them not bein' able to shoot back." "True," Ma said. "So Jak didn't let that happen. He had to go into the canyon - but it was *filled* with *snakes*." "Bloody hell!" "Wayne..." "Regular old boring hell, then! How many snakes?" "A million snakes." "Bloody hell!" "But Jak, he was smart," Ma said. "So he'd thought to bring some snake food." "A million bits of snake food?" "Nah, only one," she said. "But he got the snakes to fight over it, so they mostly killed each other. And the one what was left was the strongest, naturally." "Naturally." "So Jak talked it into biting Noways Joe." "And so Joe turned purple!" Wayne said. "And bled out his ears! And his bones melted, so the melty bone juice leaked out of his nose! And he collapsed into a puddle of deflated skin, all while hissing and blubbering 'cuz his teeth was melting!" "Exactly." "Dang, Ma. You tell the *best* stories." "It gets better," she said softly, leaning down on the stool, their lantern burning low. "Because the ending has a surprise." "What surprise?" "Once Jak was through the canyon - what now smelled like dead snakes and melted bones - he spotted the final challenge: the Lone Mesa. A giant plateau in the center of an otherwise flat plain." "That's not much of a challenge," Wayne said. "He could fly to the top." "Well he tried to," she whispered. "But the mesa was Blatant Barm." "*WHAT?*" "That's right," Ma said. "Barm had joined up with the koloss - the ones that change into big monsters, not the normal ones like old Mrs. Nock. And *they* showed him how to turn into a monster of humongous size. So when Jak tried to land on it, the mesa done gobbled him up." Wayne gasped. "And then," he said, "it mashed him beneath its teeth, crushing his bones like-" "No," Ma said. "It tried to swallow him. But Jak, he wasn't only smart and a good shot. He was something else." "What?" "A big damn pain in the ass." "Ma! That's swearin'." "It's okay in stories," Ma said. "Listen, Jak was a pain. He was always going about doing good. Helping people. Making life tough for bad people. Asking questions. He knew exactly how to ruin a bandit's day. "So as he was swallowed, Jak stretched out his arms and legs, then pushed - making himself a *lump* in Blatant Barm's throat, so the monster couldn't breathe. Monsters like that needs lotsa air, you know. And so, Allomancer Jak done *choked* Barm from the inside. Then, when the monster was dead on the ground, Jak sauntered out down its tongue - like it was some fancy mat set outside a carriage for a rich man." *Whoa.* "That's a *good* story, Ma." She smiled. "Ma," he said. "Is the story ... about the mine?" "Well," she said, "I suppose we all gotta walk into the beast's mouth now and then. So ... maybe, I guess." "You're like the lawman then." "Anyone can be," she said, blowing out the lantern. "Even me?" "Especially you." She kissed him on the forehead. "You are whatever you want to be, Wayne. You're the wind. You're the stars. You are all endless things." It was a poem she liked. He liked it too. Because when she said it, he *believed* her. How could he not? Ma didn't lie. So, he snuggled deeper into his blankets and let himself drift off. A lot was wrong in the world, but a few things were right. And as long as she was around, stories meant something. They was real. Until the next day, when there was another collapse at the mine. That night, his ma didn't come home. CHAPTER ONE "Nothing's wrong with my rusting mood," he said. "It's precisely the mood you're supposed to have when your partner forces you to stick your frontside into a buncha stuff that comes out of your backside." "And last week?" she asked. "When we were investigating a *perfume shop*?" "Rusting perfumers," Wayne said, his eyes narrowing. "Never can tell what they're hiding with those fancy smells. You can't trust a man what doesn't smell like a man should." "Sweat and booze?" "Sweat and *cheap* booze." "Wayne, how can you complain about someone putting on airs? You put on a different personality every time you change hats." "Does my smell change?" "I suppose not." "Argument won. There are literally no holes in it whatsoever. Conversation over." They shared a look. "I should get me some perfumes, eh?" Wayne said. "Someone might spot my disguises if I *always* smell like sweat and cheap booze." "Ain't got no boots," he said. "Wax stole them." "Wax stole your boots. Really." "Well, they're in his closet," Wayne said. "Instead of three pairs of his poshest shoes. Which somehow ended up in my closet, completely by happenstance." "I think MeLaan is going to break up with me," Wayne said softly. "That's why maybe I've been uncharacteristically downbeat in my general disposition as of late." "What makes you think she's going to do that?" "On account of her tellin' me, 'Wayne, I'm probably going to break up with you in a few weeks.'" "Well, that's polite of her." "I think she's got a new job from the big guy," Wayne said. "But it ain't right, how slow it's goin'. 'S not the proper way to break up with a fellow." "And what *is* the proper way?" "Throw something at his head," Wayne said. "Sell his stuff. Tell his mates he's a knob." "I asked Jammi Walls what she thought I should do - You know her? She's at the tavern most nights." "I know her," Marasi said. "She's a woman of ... ill repute." "What?" Wayne said. "Who's been saying that? Jammi has a *great* reputation. Of all the whores on the block, she gives the best-" "I do not need to hear the next part. Thank you." "Ill repute," he said, chuckling. "I'm gonna tell Jammi you said that, Marasi. She worked *hard* for her reputation. Gets to charge four times what anyone else does! III repute indeed." "And I'm not quite forty," Wayne said. "More like sixteen if you take account of my spry youthful physique." "Gorglen doesn't count?" "Nope. He's not human. I gots papers what prove he's a giraffe in disguise." "You did this sort of thing back in the Roughs?" "Well, the Roughs variety of it," Wayne said. "Usually involved holdin' some bloke's face down in the trough until he remembered whose old prospectin' claim he'd been filchin', but it's the same principle. With more swearin'." "I need a knife to get through this," she said. "You can use my razor-sharp wit." "Alas, Wayne, you aren't the type of tool I need at the moment." "Ha!" he said. "I like that one." CHAPTER THREE "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." "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." "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." "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." 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 you against *literal* gods. "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..." "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." "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'." "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." 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!" CHAPTER FOUR "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." 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... "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. "Aren't most of these boxes full of stuff what goes boom?" "Yes..." "Sounds like fun to be had!" 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 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. CHAPTER EIGHT Wayne squatted in the center of it all, his clothes ripped, playing cards with a whole group of tied-up gangsters. He had their cards laid out on the floor in front of them - though their hands were tied behind their backs. "You sure you want to lead with that one, mate?" Wayne asked, nodding at the card one of the men had tapped with his toe. "It's the high card," the fellow said. "Yeah, but are you *sure*," Wayne said, eyeing his own hand. "Um... I think so." "Damn," Wayne said, laying down his hand. "I play three eights on the back of the nines. You win." "But..." another of the men said, "you know our hands ... Why would you play it that way?" "Gotta pretend I can't see your cards, friends," Wayne said. "Otherwise, where's the sport in it? Cheatin's one thing, but if I can just *see* what you're going to do, then .. well, might as well be playin' with myself. And there are much funner ways to do that." "So, uh," Wayne said, "*damn*. Did you turn to cannibalism or something?" Marasi looked down at her uniform, which was covered in blood. "Cannibalism? *That's* where your mind went?" "One sees a lady covered in blood," Wayne said, "and it goes to a natural place: wonderin' if maybe she feasts on the livers of the people what she defeated. Not that I'm judging." "Not judging?" Marasi said. "Wayne, that's *absolutely* something you *should* judge someone for." "Right. Shame on you, then." Wayne whistled softly. "We should celebrate. You save any liver for me?" She gave him a flat stare, at which he just grinned. "We don't eat people," she said to the captives. "He's just joking." "Aw, Marasi," Wayne said. "I've been workin' on my reputation with these blokes." "Your corpse is still out there, dead as when you deadified him." CHAPTER TEN He showed her the drawing, which proved to be a crude sketch of Constable Gorglen as a giraffe hiding in a constable's uniform. It said *Approved by Expert Types* at the bottom. One might have thought he'd look silly in a serving woman's apron and cap, but - with the fake breasts - he wore it well. Wayne could never be accused of poor fashion sense. Just poor taste. CHAPTER ELEVEN "Wayne. Could you *sometime* remember to brush your feet off before you track mud in? This isn't the Roughs." "Be glad it's just mud," he said. "We been through the bowels of the earth today, Steris, and it was full o' stuff what's normally in bowels." "A perfectly awful description," she said. "Oh, stop complainin' at me," he said, hopping from one foot to the other. "She's more a fan of liver," Wayne said, and earned a glare. "Speaking of meat," Wax said, "did you leave a meat bun in the pocket of my *mistcoat*?" "Uh..." Wayne said. "It was ... um..." "You realize I'll have to get that thing laundered," Wax said. "And you're going to pay." "Hey," Wayne said. "You don't got no proof I did that." Wax gave him a flat stare. "You can't convict me on a hunch," Wayne said, folding his arms. "I know my rights. Marasi's always quoting them to people once we finish beating them up. I get a trial by my peers, I do." "Sorry, mate," he said. "I gots an *appointment*." "You're not going to get into trouble, are you?" "The reverse," Wayne proclaimed, then checked his pocket watch. Which was one of Wax's. "Actually, I gotta get moving. I don't wanna get shot for arriving late." CHAPTER TWELVE Wayne sometimes pretended he was a hero. Some rusting old figure from the stories, off on some nonsense quest about slaying a monster or traveling to Death's domain. Lately it was hard to wear that hat. Especially when the truth stared him in the face every time he looked in a mirror. He'd made a whole career out of pretending. People just thought it was a talent. They never asked what he was hiding from. "Never had my heart broke before. So I ain't got no experience." She winced. "Wayne..." "Sorry," he said. "You gotta do your thing. I know that. A fellow doesn't date an immortal agent of God himself without suspectin' that one day he'll take second place to the fellow what glows." Wayne frowned. "Does he glow?" "I get so attached, I wind up with all sorts of things what don't belong to me." Still, he held his tongue. Sometimes you just had to stand there and get shot. "You," she said, squeezing his hand one last time, "were a *really* good lay, Wayne." "Really?" "Really. To be honest, you were the best I've known." "You're seven hundred years old," he said. "And *I* was the best?" She nodded. Well now, that was something. Something indeed. "Thanks," he said. "That was sweet of you to tell me. It ... helps." He wasn't wearing a hat, which meant he had to just be himself. The true him, the one that knew this pain. They'd ridden together on many a dusty path. This pain had been his invisible friend since childhood. The pain of knowing what he really was. The pain of being worthless. CHAPTER FOURTEEN He'd mostly recovered from the meeting with MeLaan. In fact, he figured he'd handled it quite well. No*thing* was broken, no*body* was broken but him, and he'd only needed three shots of whiskey to get moving after. Plus, he'd realized what his day was going to be. It was a rusting funeral. You could take quests and flush them away. He was having a funeral today, and that was that. He had worn his nice jacket and a matching hat, all fancy and proper. He even had a flower in the lapel, which he'd *paid* for. With actual money. Fancy is as fancy does. Did dead people think funerals were celebrations? Initiation parties? Reverse birthdays? Not a lot of upscale cafés used mannequins, but this place was special. Kind of like how a kid who ate mud was special. Wayne was an accommodating kind of person, he was. "Your hat, sir?" the man said, and Wayne handed it over, then swiped the bell off the stand. "Um, sir?" the greeter asked, looking at the bell. "You'll get it back when you return my hat," Wayne said. "A man gots to have insurance." "Uh..." "Where's my table? It's got two pretty women at it, and one of them's nice, but the other probably threatened to shoot you when she was bein' seated." You didn't go to a funeral in chaps unless you rode there on a horse. Or unless you were old Three-Tooth Dag, who liked that sort of thing. Ranette was Ranette: curvaceous - though he wasn't supposed to talk about it - and wearing slacks. Jaxy was in a fine white dress, with short white-blonde hair in very tight curls, accented by diamond barrettes. She liked sparkles. He didn't blame her. Far too few sparkles in life. Adults was supposed to be able to wear what they wanted, so why did so few choose sparkles? "Wayne?" Jaxy asked. "You all right?" "Mumble mumble," he said into the tablecloth. "Mumble." "Don't humor him," Ranette said. "Yes, humor him," Wayne grumbled. "He needs it right now." "What happened?" Jaxy asked. "I am officially dumped," he said. "And my whiskey is wearing off. Stupid body. Metabolizing and neutralizing poisons as if I didn't dump 'em in there on purpose." He looked up. "You think I could cut out my liver and stay drunk forever?" "You'll live, Wayne. I've seen you get through worse." "When?" "That one time you *literally* got a cannonball through the stomach." He looked up. "Oh yeah. That was something else." Jaxy had gone pale. "Did it hurt?" "Not as much as you'd think," he said. "Like, yeah, I got torn in half. But I think my body was just kinda confused, you know? Not every day you're in two pieces." "Vodka," Wayne said to her. "Worst you got. Closer to piss it tastes, the better." "Wayne," Ranette said, "this is an upscale restaurant." "Right," he said. "Putta olive in it or somethin'." "Who thought a Roughs-themed restaurant was a good idea? Like, to be authentic you'd have to have only stew on the menu. Then when people ordered it, you'd be out of stew and just give them beans." "Can we talk more about me?" Wayne said. "Because I'm still over here feeling like what's left of the grapes after the wine's been made." "Look, here's your alcohol." "Thanks, Ranette," he said, accepting it. "You really know how to make a fellow feel better." "To be honest," she said, "I'm proud of you, Wayne. How you're handling this. It's relatively mature." "This is mature?" he asked, then downed the vodka. "*Relatively*." "Suppose you gotta be an adult to get booze," Wayne admitted. "You're a good friend, Jaxy. Even if you have terrible taste in women." "Hey!" Ranette said. "*You* chased me for the better part of fifteen years." "Yeah? And how's my taste, on average?" "I..." Ranette said. "Damn. Stop aiming for the vital bits, Wayne. This is supposed to be a friendly meal." "What if," Ranette said to him, "you *didn't* see her this month?" "I've gotta," Wayne said. "Why?" "It's my punishment." "Says who?" "The cosmere," Wayne said. "I took her daddy from her, Ranette. I gotta remember. What I am. I gotta look her in the eyes and let her know I ain't forgotten." Wax and Marasi, they were great at the investigating part. But they needed someone like Wayne who really *knew* the people who lived in the dirt - and counted themselves lucky, because at least it wasn't mud. Currently. He traded the bell for his hat back, and only took one of the fellow's cufflinks in the exchange - a fair trade for them keeping his hat over some stupid bell that barely even worked. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Call and Son and Daughters Accounting and Estate might not have *looked* like a mortuary, but Wayne was absolutely certain it was one. Because you'd have to be dead to enjoy working in such a place. Tall Boring Guy and Short Boring Guy sat him down and started embalming him right away. Not with the good stuff either. He'd have taken basically any kind of drink, but no, they had to use ink. "How much money have I got?" he asked, sullen. "Over twenty million at this point." Well, damn. "I told you," he said, "to give it to people what don't have any houses!" "Yes, and your affordable housing project was wildly successful," Short Boring Guy said, perking up and reaching for a ledger. "How you anticipated the impending subsidies is quite a stroke of-" "And that girl?" Wayne said. "With the plugs in the walls?" "You guys," Wayne said, "really need to get girlfriends or somethin'." "Oh, we both are dating, Master Wayne," Short Boring Guy said. "Garisel is quite popular, I must say. And you have no idea how wild lady accountants can be! Why, the other night-" "Shut it," Wayne grumbled. "Don't rub it in." Well, no use resisting. A man couldn't run from his own funeral. Mostly because his legs don't work when he's dead. "Fine. Give me one of those damn hats." They looked at one another, but Wayne waved impatiently, so Tall Boring Guy finally took his bowler from the peg by the door and handed it over. Wayne pulled it on, and his death was right and truly accomplished. Rust him all the way down to the bones. He eyed the ledgers, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of his chin. But that wasn't enough, so he absently took Short Boring Guy's spectacles from the man's vest pocket, then tucked them into his own pocket. Still not enough. "Kindly fetch me," he said, some honey tea with some lemon on the side and one tiny sprig of mint. Not too much, mind you, but enough to add some perk. You understand, don't you, Garisel? Good man, good man." Yes, yes. Numbers. That was plenty of numbers, all right. Of the high sort, which accountants like him liked to see. Hardly any red to the ledger. Yes, hmm. Not enough honey in this tea. There was no denying what the ledgers said. Wayne *was* dead. And in his place lived a fellow who was fancy. No, who was downright *opulent*. He unfolded something from his inside pocket - a flyer recruiting boys for a local noseball league. "We shall give these chaps funding for equipment and will build for them a location in which to enjoy their engagements." "Sir?" Short Boring Guy asked. "Why?" "We'll include seating," Wayne explained, "and allow everyone to watch. See, right now everyone wants someone to yell at. And we, my friends, shall provide it for them. We shall create a large-scale noseball league, with a team from each octant. I've thought, gentlemen, for some time that the city needs a way to become drunken in a proper and controlled manner." "We're gonna get a bunch of chaps to beat on one another," Wayne said in a lower-class accent. "Playin' for teams representin' the octants, so everyone can pick their favorite and hate all the other teams. In a right proper way." "Ah!" Short Boring Guy said. People these days, and their lowborn vernacular. Why, he suspected this pair didn't even know how to properly burnish a golden toilet! For fear! "Monetization of the rivalries - and the personal coding of interest - will be a seminal part of this activity..." "That *is* my favorite part of *most* activities," Wayne noted. "Nah," Wayne said, "put your worst ones on it. They'll know more about loafing - the rapscallions - which shall serve me better in this particular situation. Now, let us discuss the beating of servants and how it's not really so bad for them." Rusts, this hat. He pulled it off and wiped his brow. Stupid money and stupid rich hats. "Do you ... actually want us to investigate using more corporal punishment on, um, some of your staff?" "Nah," Wayne said. "Bein' in the army stinks." "I need you to set up a delivery for me. Some money to be paid to a young woman and her family. Um, every month. She has her own kid now, and needs the cash on time. It's a meeting I'm supposed to do in person, but I'm ... getting so busy. Yes, too busy, you see..." "Many of our clients have similar needs, Master Wayne," Short Boring Guy said. "Give us the address and we'll see it is handled with discretion." Why'd they say it that way? Well, regardless, Jaxy had been right. If he was going to be dead, he could at least be the polite kind what didn't try to crawl out of the forest and eat you during thunderstorms. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "Yup, glad to be back," he muttered. "Bein' the fifth in a room is what every feller wants, yes indeed." He stomped over to the small serving table and poured a cup of tea—then left the cup on the table and settled down in an easy chair with the *entire teapot*. "What?" he said to everyone's stares. "It's almost gone, an' I like the spigot part. Fun to drink outta." The room fell silent, aside from Wayne slurping his tea through the nozzle of the teapot. Marasi thought she saw him adding something from his flask to it, and she tried not to let that make her nauseous. Who spiked *tea*? "I'll go do some more listenin' to those fellows in prison," Wayne said. "VenDell, you want to come with? Maybe I could give you tips on your accent?" "Master Wayne," he said, "I am an immortal kandra with *hundreds* of years' experience doing impersonations." "And you always sound snide and upper class," Wayne said, "in every body I've seen you use. So ... want some tips or not, mate?" CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Wayne nodded as the trucks ahead waited to cross the highway. "Well then, Hoid," he said to the coachman, "that's all I know about how to pickle vegetables." "... Thank you?" Hoid said. "'S all right," Wayne said. "I'm a bastion of useful information, I am." "I call him Sir Squeekins," Wayne said. "I wasn't gonna bring him, but he snuck into my pocket, he did. So I figure, 'That's the seventeenth time you've let him escape his cage, Wayne. Better give him to someone responsible.'" "He likes strawberries and booze, but don't give him none of the booze, 'cuz he's a rat." "The last story my ma told me," Wayne said, "was about a lawman. Funny, huh? That I'd end up becoming one. Except he was a hero. And I'm ... well, I'm me." "You do yourself a disservice, Master Wayne," Hoid said softly. "Can't be no hero if you were a villain, Hoid." "But in most of the stories, it is the villain who knows the hero best." Damn. Someone really ought to come up with a way to make it so cars that wanted to cross had a better chance. Maybe you could hire someone to stand at the corner and fire a gun in the air when too many cars were blocking the way, and frighten them to move faster? Anyway, that zooming of cars ... that road could be a wide river. Yeah, a river of stone and steel. Faster than any other river in the world. You started by taking a job at the docks, but work there grew tight. And the schedules were so bad. Then you heard your friend Vin had a job with someone who paid better, and all you had to do was move some boxes. Who could get into trouble for moving boxes? Even if you did have to keep a gun on you at all times, and be ready to shoot. Wayne/Franis didn't want any of those important jobs. He wasn't interested in wearing the fancy clothing and drawing the gunfire. Pay him his wages and let him pretend he wasn't doing nothing wrong. "Gotta have fewer sticks up your posterior, VenDell," Wayne said. "Yank one or two out, and you'll see." Suddenly, the outer doors slammed open and figures in brown began flooding in, pointing guns at the thugs. "Drop your weapons!" a voice shouted. "This is a sting!" "It's the heat!" Wayne said, slipping his gun out of his holster. VenDell grabbed his arm. "Oh yeah," Wayne said, letting his arm be lowered. "Right, right. I forget sometimes..." CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE "Plans last until someone starts shootin', mate," Wayne said. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Fighting someone in a fair way was completely unfair, Wayne decided. Of course they'd given her the ability to heal. Marvelous. Just rusting marvelous. 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. "Harmony's holy missing bits, 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. 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." CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 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." 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*." The kandra hesitated, then glanced at Wayne. "Did you mean what you said? Am I actually ... your friend?" "Sure," Wayne said. "I mean, you're the stuck-up one that we make fun of, but every crew needs one of those." He pointed at Wax, then Marasi, then VenDell. "Mine has three. Five if you include Steris, since she counts fer two. But you can never have too many." "I ... see," VenDell said, scratching the side of his head. "Point is," Wayne continued, "*we* can make fun of you because we like you. That's how it works. Anybody else does it, and we ram a dueling cane up a part of them that I can't mention, 'cuz I'm working on my language." "You are?" Marasi said "Yup. Ranette keeps sayin' I need to watch what I say, 'cuz there might be children around. Which is real strange, don't you think? Children are the ones who won't understand what I'm sayin' anyway. So why care if *they* hear?" CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 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!" "Seems unfair to grouse at a man for getting discombobulated by definitive proof of an afterlife. Dark gods. Death himself dyin'. Rusting ghosts. Guess we gotta keep goin', but after this, I don't wanna see anyone complainin' when I've traded for someone's favorite shoes or whatnot. Hear me?" CHAPTER THIRTY 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. 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. Wayne didn't much like elevators. It wasn't just being trapped in a little box, or not knowin' how it worked and needin' to rely upon an operator. It wasn't that you could smell everyone a little too much when pressed together, or couldn't see where you were going, which ruined the experience of going up high. Wait. No, it probably *was* that last one. Elevators were like a carnival ride designed by an overprotective parent who didn't want you getting scared or actually having any fun. He'd had more faith in them when they'd been moved by people, not electricity. Folks were overly trusting of this strange power what leaked from sockets in the walls. After all, Wayne was a primary investor in the technology, and that should have been a big red flag for everyone. Everything was exceptionally neat, though keeping your place clean was probably easy when you was either dead or vanished. "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." Sometimes you needed cheap storytelling with your cheap booze. Didn't make no sense to read literature while drinking outta a paper sack. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO "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." "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." "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." "Oh, I can read," Wayne said. "But I'm dumb, see, so I can only read things what are dumb too." CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE "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. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR "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." "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?" "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*." "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?" 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. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 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 people change it every day? 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... "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?" "Well, I've *definitely* got a lead." "You do? Thank Harmony." "Yup. There's a *shining* good pub 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. 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. "'Cuz you stand out like pink shoes on a pallbearer." 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." "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." CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Wayne was probably doing Grandma's Been at the Vodka, his favorite ploy for drawing attention but not gunfire. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX "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 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. "Sooooo..." Wayne said. "When 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?" CHAPTER FORTY-NINE He stepped in front of Wax, who was ducking backward around the corner. Too slow, but fortunately the next shots from the enemy hit Wayne, making him grunt. Bullets *really* hurt. He supposed that was the point, but some other wounds were so big that your body kinda freaked out and decided not to hurt, least at first. Like it was saying, "Whoa. This is gonna suck *hard*. Better take a deep breath." "Hate doin' this sober," not-him said. "Maybe we should grab a pint, then have at this again in a right proper state of mind." "Nah," Wayne said, "I drink with bastards, liars, and fools. But I draw the line at someone like me." "Rusts, I feel old. I'm not supposed to feel old. I'm the spry one!" Wax settled down next to him on a dry part of the concrete. "You're thirty-nine, Wayne. It catches up to you." "You infected me, you did," Wayne grumbled. "I never felt old when I was workin' with Marasi!" "I infected you," Wax said, "with *being old*?" "Damn right." "That's ludicrous even for you." "No it ain't. You done started to think yourself old, and it drilled into my head too." Wayne tapped at his skull. "Ideas is infectious, Wax. More than diseases." CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE "I ain't had a bottle of Logshine in years." The man actually teared up. "You ... Rusts, mate. You really do care about me, don't you?" "I think it's time," he said to Wayne, "that we take a bit of a breather." "Can we afford to?" "I need to dig through what I found," Wax said. "And if we keep running into fights exhausted, we'll get ourselves killed. I think we can spare a half hour or so. Sound good?" "Good?" Wayne said. "It sounds *rusting amazing*." CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT Wayne watched as Wax held the bottles over his head, then Pushed the caps off with a quick flip of Allomancy. Handy, that. When God had been designin' Allomancy, had he considered that Coinshots would make good bottle openers? Wax held one out to Wayne, who wiped his runny nose on his handkerchief, then took the bottle. He sighed, his head pounding, his body aching. Damn, he hated storing health. Made you feel like the stuff a fellow found between his toes after wearin' his shoes too long. He lounged back against the support running alongside the front of the billboard. They'd flown up here, naturally, because Coinshots liked being in the sky. Plus, Wax liked bein' blatant. And what was more blatant than havin' a beer in front of the city's stupid propaganda poster? The thing had a ledge in the front, so sitting was comfortable enough. This was presumably for the workers to erect the image: a nauseating picture of a fellow looking toward the sky, with lines of light spreading out behind him. INDEPENDENCE THROUGH SHARED STRUGGLE, it said. Wayne could have eaten the beer bottle wrapper and dumped a load the next day that made more sense than that. Then Wayne tipped his head back and drank, welcoming the strong taste. Hoppy, bitter. Like a good beer should be. Out in the Roughs they knew that. Why clean it all up, make it taste like somethin' other than it was? City beers ... they were for people that didn't actually like beer. "Remember that time," Wayne said, "when you went to take the tops offa the bottles, but I'd smacked the beers on the table first, so they squirted out all over your head?" "Which time?" Wax said. "Heh," Wayne said. "That joke never gets old." "Because it was ancient the first time you tried it." Wayne grinned. "I was thinkin' of the first time, after you caught Icy Ben Oldson. You know, when Blinker was your deputy?" "I remember." "Can't believe you worked with that guy," Wayne said, taking another drink. "He couldn't shoot worth a bean." "He had other skills," Wax said. "You can't shoot worth a bean either, it should be noted." "I'm good at pretendin' to be things I ain't, you know? I eventually put together how to feign bein' a person who was worth somethin'. It's a good lie. Still manage to believe it." He took a drink. "Mosta the time." "I'll be fine. Just gotta put on the hat..." "You've been feeling worse lately, haven't you?" Wax asked. Annoying, perceptive fellow. "This isn't only about MeLaan." Wayne shrugged, his eyes still closed. "Out with it," Wax said. "I gave you a beer. You owe me an answer - those are the rules." Ruin that man. He knew the rules. "You don't know what's in my brain, Wax. Maybe I *am* corrupt, through and through. You know how I am when I get in a brawl. Maybe I'm doin' all this to get a chance to fight and kill folks. Because I *like* it." "Nope," Wax said. He finished off his beer, then held the bottle out, dangling between two fingers. "I don't buy it, Wayne. I know you. And I *respect* you. Admire you. There are times I wish I could be as good a man as you are." Wayne sat up, squinting at him. "Wait. You're serious?" "Damn right." "Mate, I burned down a building today. And not one what you're supposed to burn down, like a school. A big important building." "Yeah, and what did you do with that fire?" Wax asked. "Did you light it and run?" Wayne shrugged. "No, you got everyone out," Wax said. "You specifically led a group of people knocking on doors to make sure everyone escaped. You lit the fire because you needed to, but then you made sure that..." He hesitated, double-checked his bottle was empty, then looked at Wayne with a frown. "Wayne. Schools aren't *meant* to be burned down. Just because we did it once doesn't mean it's all right." "No, see," Wayne said, finishing off his own beer, "I figured it out. Schools *is* meant to be burned down. Imagine you was a kid, and you woke up and found the school was plumb gone? Well damn, that'd be the best rusting day ever!" Wax sighed. "I figure," Wayne continued, "that's why the city keeps building more schools. Have you seen how many there are these days? The government is saving them up, in case they need to make some kids happy. Then they'll burn 'em down." Wax eyed him. So Wayne smiled and winked, letting him know that this might have been an exaggerated-story-type thing. Wax leaned back. "I can't tell with you sometimes..." "That's the problem though, ain't it?" Wayne said. "Because I do terrible stuff! Ranette told me that Durkel girl - apparently, visiting her is the *worst* thing I coulda been doin'. I've been making her life awful all these years even without knowing it!" "And you care?" Wax asked. "Course I do!" Wax inclined his head toward him. "Proof. You're a good person." "Fat lot of good it does when I still mess everything up, mate. I still grab stuff sometimes, even when it's not my friend's and I ain't joking. I don't think about it until later. And I realize, maybe that fellow *liked* his cigar box." "You mess up a lot less than you fix, Wayne. You can't deny it. You are a *good man*." Then, digging further into his own duffel, he found a sandwich. "Hot damn," he said, unwrapping it. Pastrami? Hot *double* damn. "Good thing you ignored me and stayed with that woman. She's quite a catch." Wax gave him a flat look. "I was wrong about her, all right?" Wayne said, digging out a second sandwich and tossing it to Wax. "I'm wrong about people a lot. Maybe even myself." "Wayne," Wax said, "do you remember how this started? This new life, after the Roughs? I'd given up after Lessie's death. You came to me in Elendel, and *you* pulled me out, Wayne. I was content to sit around, stewing in my own self-reflection. Then you showed up and grabbed me. Told me there were train cars being robbed mysteriously. Set me on the path chasing Trell..." "I suppose," Wayne said. "Doesn't mean I'm the hero." "Nonsense." Wax glanced at him. "This is who you are. No amount of complaining, no phantom guilt, no whispering lying voice that says otherwise is going to change that. 'You're meant to be helping people,' Wayne. 'It's what you do.'" Wayne cocked his head. "Was that ... a quote or somethin'?" "It's what you said to me seven years ago. When people needed me, but I was too afraid to pick up a gun." "You *remember* that?" Wayne said. "The exact things I said?" "Of course I do. Those words changed my life." Wayne let out a howl of laughter. "Damn, Wax. I just *say things*! You're not supposed to actually pay *attention* to them!" "It was meaningful!" "Ha. Listening to *me*. Might as well write the stuff I say on a plaque or something. "You're meant to be helping people. Also, remember - ain't no fellow who regretted giving it one extra shake, but you can bet every guy has regretted giving one too few."" CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE "Aw..." Wayne said, dropping off his back. "We was supposed to go smashing through that glass! All dramatic-like!" "The Ascendant Warrior did it," Wayne grumbled. "When?" "Right before killin' the Lord Ruler." "Since when have you known that sort of thing?" "It's in a little kids' book that Max and I read sometimes," he said. "Right about my level." Wax tried the door in the wall to the left of the large windows, but it was locked. "Assassinating the Lord Ruler?" Wax asked. "Isn't that a little violent for a children's book?" "Mate," Wayne said, "it ain't *violence* if it's *religion*. Don't you know anythin'?" "Those are *soldiers*, mate. I came down here to the Basin all those years ago 'cuz of a cute little case involvin' train cars what got robbed in a funny way. How in Ruin's own name did I end up getting mixed up with dark gods, armies, bombs destroyin' cities, and ... and *ghosts*, Wax. We still ain't talked about the *ghosts*." A moment later, Wayne sauntered into the now-darker room and tossed Wax his mistcoat. "Sorry for the bullet holes." "A few holes won't..." Wax said, then noticed—in the weak light of the room's flickering ceiling light—that there had to be at *least* sixteen holes in it, even in some of the tassels. "How did you not get shot?" "By not bein' where the bullets was," Wayne said. CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE "There's a door to your right. I don't know where it goes, but at least it ain't in here. In a moment, Dawnshot and I, we're gonna come out killin'. If you stay and fight, maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe we'll kill you, and you won't hafta spend the rest of your days feeling crushed on account of what you've done this night. Shootin' lawmen, then hearin' about an entire city bein' destroyed - full of kids, and families, and men what just wanna live like you do. "But maybe you won't get lucky. Maybe you'll actually pull that trigger and hit one of us. And if you do, it's gonna be bad. Worse than bad. It will follow you your whole damn life." He paused. "Anyway, I just wanted to say my piece. I hope there's one that listened. When we come out, if you got your gun holstered and you're makin' for that escape route in the chaos ... well, we ain't gonna aim for you first." CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE "You know," Wayne said, "you're too handsome to be a copy of Wax. You oughta get a scar or something." Wayne grunted. "You know, Stinky - can I call you Stinky? - I can respect what you're doin'. Gettin' into a man's head to figure out how to beat him? That's good strategy. But..." The man Leeched away Wayne's bendalloy, then shoved Wayne off and started punching, his face turning red with anger. Wayne dodged the blows, then leaped forward and grabbed him yet again. "But weren't you worried?" Wayne continued. "About contamination? Wax, you see, *isn't* a complete waste of a person. While you obviously are. So by pretendin' to be him, you might have *accidentally* ended up doin' something useful." The man growled, shoving Wayne aside, then fired a few shots. Wayne took one of those - ouch - but managed another hit of bendalloy. That was the key. People expected a man like him to run out of such an expensive metal. But the fellow didn't know. He wasn't merely fighting Wayne the amiable miscreant. He was fighting Wayne Terrisborn, filthy rich snob with way, way too much money to burn. "You annoying little *prick*," the man snapped. "Oh, mate," Wayne said. "You sweet mama's baby." He pulled in closer. "You ain't even *begun* to learn how annoying I can be." Wayne *did* get a glimpse of the apparatus set up on the rooftop though, among the construction. It included a long, sleek weapon that looked an awful lot like ... well, a sausage. And sausages looked like a fellow's knob. Well, if the fellow was going to fight dirty, Wayne could do the same. Granted, Wayne would fight dirty *anyway*, but he felt better about it in moments like this. "Mate," Wayne said, "fightin' you is rustin' hard." "Likewise," Wax said. "It's *fun* though," Wayne noted. "He's *real* annoyed." "Well," Wax said, "I'll admit I've often wanted an excuse to shoot someone short, with an exaggerated accent, wearing a bowler hat." Wayne eyed him. "It's the oddest thing," Wax said. "Can't rightly say what causes it. Instinct, I guess." "I wear a coachman's hat," Wayne grumbled, shaking his hand - which had handcuff on it. "It's *different*." Resigned, not-Wax raised a hand to begin grappling Wayne. Who hit him square in the face with a dueling cane instead, smashing his nose. The man cursed and backed up, bloodied. "Yeah," Wayne said, "that's better. Not so pretty anymore." "You did everything you could to learn to fight Wax," Wayne said, "but you didn't train to defeat me. That says you've been too single-minded. You should pick up a hobby or somethin'!" "I suggest," Wayne called up to him, "taking up pickpocketing. It's rusting useful!" And with that, Wayne tossed the man's aluminum flask full of metals away into the darkness. Not-Wax reached for Wayne as the two of them plummeted, his eyes bloodshot and enraged. But fallin', it happened fast. Faster and faster, the more you did it. Wayne had always wondered why that was. "Hey!" Wayne shouted. "When you meet Death-" They crashed through the skylight, then slammed to the floor with a crunch. All went black. A few minutes later, Wayne blinked open his eyes and groaned. The healing he'd stored had been enough. Barely. He rolled over and looked at the Coinshot's crumpled, broken body. "Aw, man," he muttered. "We dropped too fast. I didn't get to say my awesome line." "When you see Death," Wayne said, kicking the corpse in the side, "tell him he owes me fifty clips." CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE A sailor reached for her gun, and Wax for his own. But before either of them could draw, Wayne flung a handful of bullets into the air and Pushed them to streak through the air, dropping the woman. "Ruuusts," Wayne said. "Is that what it's always been like for you? That was so easy!" Wayne eyed him. "Gotta be honest, almost ruins your reputation, mate. If people knew how easy bein' a Coinshot was, they'd all stop talkin' about how great you are." "You'll blow up the entire ship!" "Then mate," Wayne said with a drawl, "I suggest you find a way to not be on the ship anymore. Real fast." Wayne let go. The nervous fellow glanced from Wax to Wayne, then - with a sense of panic - threw himself off the ship into the churning waters below, taking his lantern with him and leaving the two of them in darkness. "Damn," Wayne said. "I meant for him to find a lifeboat or somethin'." CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE *Wait*, Harmony said to them. *This could work. I have a way. Wax, I gave you a vial with a red cork.* "I have it," Wax said, fishing in his sheath of metal vials. He frowned, and came out with ... a handkerchief. "Barely used," Wayne said. "Wayne..." Wayne grinned and handed Wax his rifle, then fished in his pocket. "I thought it needed to be somewhere safe. So I made a nice little trade." "Wayne," Wax said,"... setting off the smaller explosions would kill everyone in that room. An ettmetal blast like that isn't something you survive, even if you had full metalminds." 'Ah," Wayne said as the ship hit a wave, water spraying up along the side. "I'd figured out that part. I just needed to know if the idea worked. And I needed to confirm one other thing." "Which is?" Wax said. "That the plan doesn't need you, mate," Wayne said, and he Pushed. Shoving Wax - via the barrel of the rifle he was holding - outward off the ship and through the mists. Wayne felt real proud of that Push. He did it like Wax did, crouching down first to give it a little lift. His friend gave him a look of outrage ... and maybe regret ... as he vanished into the misty darkness over the waters. "Land safely, mate," Wayne whispered. "And survive." *How much bendalloy do you have left?* He fished a pouch out of his pocket. *Hmm. Maybe enough to-* Wayne fished another pouch out of his other pocket. *Okay, and—* And the pouch in his sock. Uncomfortable, but handy. *Wayne, how many pouches do you have?* "Seventeen," he said. "I'm a fancy rich guy now. Will that be enough?" *Oh, Wayne. Yes. I think it will.* "That's kind of depressing," Wayne said, turning to Harmony. "Really, *I'm* the best you could do? Ain't you God?" Harmony's eyes softened. "Wayne. You aren't the best I could do. *You're the best there is.* And no being, neither god nor mortal, could have wished for more than one such as you." Wayne wanted to reject that. But damn, if God was sayin' it ... maybe ... maybe Wax was right? About Wayne? Damn. Had Wax been right *all along*? A one percent chance at survival. ... And a ninety-nine percent chance it failed. Meaning a whole ton of people got vaporized. Damn. What a day to leave his lucky hat behind. "There's this family what doesn't have a daddy because of me," Wayne said, stepping forward. "You'll take care of them?" "Of course." "Will Wax survive this?" "Normally, no person could," Harmony said. "Considering explosions in water are exceptionally dangerous. Fortunately, this one will be channeled mostly upward - and Wax has pewter now. So long as he burns the metals in those other vials I gave him, he should survive the blast. I will ... do what I can to help Preserve him. But Wayne, there is nothing I can do for you. This blast will be too big." Wayne nodded, then hesitated, looking toward Harmony. "Will this ... earn me forgiveness?" "Oh, Wayne," Harmony said. "You've heard this from Wax. You have to hear it from me too, I think. You can't do this for forgiveness. You need *no* forgiveness, not anymore." And ... he was right. Wayne wasn't doing this for forgiveness, or out of shame, or out of a need to prove himself. He *wasn't* the man he'd been when Wax pulled him out of his hiding place. He was someone different. "Wayne," Harmony asked, "do you know who you are?" "Yeah, I know who I am," Wayne said. "I'm the *God. Damn. HERO.*" He paused. "Sorry." "Right, then," Wayne said. "I'm gonna need your hat." "My ... hat?" "Gotta sculpt a speed bubble just right," Wayne said, "and put everything I have into the Push. Burn so much bendalloy in one moment, it practically melts me from the inside-slow time so much, even *electric signals* get dull." "I don't wear a hat." "You're God. Improvise somethin'." Harmony paused, then touched Wayne on the head. He felt it start to glow, as if something had been settled there. Earrings too. He felt earrings like a proper Terrisman wore. Something he'd maybe always been, just in secret. It wasn't nothin' magical. But when he wore someone's hat, he thought he could understand them. And who was better to understand than God himself? "Good," Wayne said, adopting the proper accent. Old-fashioned, but Terris. Like Harmony. He dropped his speed bubble and gathered his power. "Hold on to your robes, my dear friend. This is going to be unlike anything you have seen before, I think." Today he Pushed harder than any person in history. He Pushed like a god, on account of wearing Sazed's own hat. On account of that strange metal, and on account of Wayne bein' the hero. Damn, how fast was he moving? And he'd thought he was getting slow because of old age. Heh. He let out a breath and dropped the canteen. He'd been gobbled up, it was true. But when that happened, you strangled the monster from the inside. His crystalline speed bubble shattered. And all became red light and blossoms of fire. CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR Wayne floated. Floated someplace high. Damn. Was that the planet itself* beneath him? It *was* a sphere, as everyone said. He'd always hoped maybe it would be, like, doughnut shaped or something. To throw the smart folks for a loop. Felt kinda strange to be all the way up here, in the darkness. He leaned forward and felt a disorientation, like he should be falling. He was woozy, unsteady. Huh. Who'd have thought being dead would be so much like being drunk? He could write a whole damn book of scripture about that, he could. "Hey, God," Wayne said. "How's ... um .. creation? Time and space? Reality? You know, things?" "Good," Harmony replied. "Because of you." "Now wait," Wayne said. "I ain't gonna be a *ghost*, am I?" "No. You were Invested when you died, so you will persist a short time, but will soon join the Beyond." "Good, good." "You don't find that idea concerning?" "Hell no," Wayne said. "I *already* done gone and died. That was the part that I worried would hurt." He gaped down at the planet below. "It's so *big*." "Yes, Wayne," Harmony said. "I realize that a person might become intimidated, seeing all this. Recognizing the vastness of what they've lived upon. It is a lot to take in, I think. It can make a person feel small, insignificant, and-" Wayne grinned. "And I saved the whole damn thing!" "I can see pieces moving in the cosmere. Aligning. Pointed at us. We are not free of their influence. But we have ... time, now. Time to prepare. Thanks to you, Wayne." "Me," Wayne said. "I saved the *whole damn world*. I ... I'm probably the best constable who ever rusting lived!" "I... suppose..." Harmony said, "that Vin, Elend, and the others weren't constables..." "Wax ain't never saved the whole world. And most of the others in the octant constabulary? They couldn't save a coupon for free beer, even when I gave it to them. Stupid kandra giraffe man. Wayne, the best conner in the whole damn world ... Ha! Eat that, Reddi. Eat it with hot sauce and *cry*!" "Before you go," Harmony said, "is there anything you would like to know? I'm not truly omniscient, but my knowledge far surpasses that of mortals. Some have a final question for me before they go. Have you such a request, Wayne?" Huh. Any question? That was a hard one. He pondered a moment. "So," he said, "before she left, MeLaan told me that I was the best lay she ever had, and I was wondering-" "Wayne," God interrupted, "what is it Ranette always says to you?" "Try dodging this?" "The other thing." "Don't ruin the moment by bein' all skeevy?" "Yes, that one." "Right, right," Wayne said, nodding. "Good point. Good point. You're smart, maybe even as smart as Ranette. Suppose that makes sense and all." He continued to think, though that stretching sensation ... it was getting stronger. What could he ask? What ... "I'm gonna assume Wax and them will be fine," Wayne said. "You already promised that. So I ain't going to waste a question on them. And you can't trick me into doing so. You'll take care of them. I know you will." "To the best of my ability," Harmony said. "Good. Then tell me this, God," Wayne said, pointing at him. "Was that the *biggest damn explosion* a person ever made?" Harmony raised an eyebrow. "*That's* your last question? Your final request of God before you pass into eternity?" "Hell yes! Figure now that I'm dead, I'll get the other answers right soon. You ain't going to trick me into asking a useless question. So tell me. Was it?" Harmony smiled. "Ah, Wayne. suppose that most other things that could rival it - like the detonations of the Ashmounts - would be categorized as acts of God. Therefore, I declare that it is. Yes, Wayne. You exploded yourself in the biggest *damn* explosion a person has ever made in the history of our planet." "Make sure Steris knows," Wayne said, grinning. "She's always complainin' about my exploding things. This time I saved her hide by doin' it. Plus, I made the explosion *smaller*. That's gonna break her brain. I made it smaller, and it was still the biggest one what ever was." He felt himself really going now. So, he held out a hand to God. Who, smiling, shook it. "I knew you'd glow," Wayne said, with a wink. With that, Wayne stretched into another place, into another time. He stretched into the wind. And into the stars. And all endless things. STERIS "I have a Wayne quote for the moment." "A what?" "I figured," she said, "it would be a way of remembering him. To keep a few appropriate lines handy. Is that ... morbid? That's morbid, isn't it? I'm sorry." "No," he said. "I mean, it might be, but he'd approve." She grinned. "'Oi,'" she said. "'Here you carried a girl all that way, mate, and you didn't grab 'er butt, even a little?'" "Thank you," Wax whispered. "For being you." "It's the only thing I am good at," she said. "Other than throwing cows at people." Wax frowned. "That is something Wayne said on occasion," she said. ALLRIANDRE "We represent the estate of Master Wayne Terrisborn of 662 Inkling Lane." "Oh," she said, feeling relieved. "Him. Wait. Did he finally get smart and decide to stop insisting that I meet him in person?" "Indeed he did," the taller man said, setting his bowler hat on the counter. "Miss Allriandre," the shorter man said, "you are the primary beneficiary of Master Wayne's estate." "What's that amount to?" she asked. "Three balls of gum and an unpaid bar tab?" "Currently," the tall one said, "it's twenty million boxings - liquid - along with majority stake ownerships in several important holdings, equating to at least another hundred." The room fell silent save for Ruri's sniffling, which the girl solved by wiping her nose on Allriandre's jumpsuit. Allriandre barely noticed. "Did you say ... *a hundred and twenty million*?" she whispered. "Give or take, depending on the market," the taller man said. "He invested wisely - in a brilliant way, actually, against most conventional wisdom - using a considerable amount of aluminum as collateral. Turns out electricity, fabrication, and power were the place to be six years ago." "By my estimation, you have become the fourth-richest person in the city." He looked up. "There are a few holdbacks, mind you. Accounts that Master Wayne set aside for other things. But that equates to less than five hundred thousand in total. Everything else ... well, it's yours." She sank down into the chair. The short man pushed over a note. Handwritten, stained with something. "He wanted you to have this." It simply said, *Sorry.* "What are the holdbacks for?" Allriandre asked. "Not that I'm complaining. I'm merely curious." The two shared a look. "Various things," the shorter man said. "Each one of an ... individual nature." RANETTE "Some nice men showed up," Jaxy explained, "with a sum from Wayne. After ... you know. They said I was supposed to do something nice for you, but - the instructions said clearly - 'Not in a skeevy way.' He suggested a renovation to the shop." Ranette couldn't help smiling at that. She had been surprised by how much she'd missed Wayne. Once he had learned - shockingly, people *could* learn - how to not be slime, they'd actually become friends. Of course, he'd gone out in the most incredible explosion ever. So she hadn't felt *that* bad. If you had to die, then hell, that was the way. "He left a note," Jaxy said, handing it to her. *Hey*, it said. In crayon. *These two fellows in suits told me 1 gotta write this and make decisions about this stuff, just in case. Apparently they think my job is "high risk." I told them that if they wanted their jobs to become high risk, they should try pushin' me harder to do stupid stuff.* *But... I guess, if you're readin' this, I'm done and gone. Buried. Maybe burned. Maybe I got eaten. I dunno. Whatever happened, I hope it's Marasi's fault, because she's always tellin' me I'm gonna get her into trouble and it would be nice if that hat were on her head instead.* *Anyway ... I want to say thanks. For not throwin' the Wayne out with the Wayne, ya know? Enjoy the gift. Build something real awesome.* "Damn," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "I really do miss that little miscreant." Jaxy smiled, leaning into her, holding to her arm. "Ranette. That was almost *kind*." "I mean it. I miss him." She smiled. "Wasn't ever a person I've known who was more fun to shoot." WAXILLIUM The most difficult thing about commissioning Wayne's statue had been deciding which hat it should be wearing. In the end, the answer had been obvious. They had to make it changeable. So it was that Wax and Steris stood before a remarkably accurate bronze depiction of Wayne wearing a removable bronze version of his lucky hat. He was larger than life-size, smiling slyly, with an outstretched hand. Likely so that he could pick your pocket with the other, but most people would think he was offering help. They figured they'd replace the hat once a year. The statues of the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor were just far enough away that if Wayne's had been alive, he could have hit them on the backs of their heads with an occasional thrown pebble. That seemed appropriate. Steris knelt down to read the inscription. "'You're meant to be helping people', she read, then noticed a second, smaller inscription plaque at the bottom, near the base. Wax winced as she read this one too. "'Ain't no fellow who regretted giving it one extra shake,'" she read, "'but you can bet every guy has regretted giving one too few.' I can't believe you used that quote." "The lower plaque can be removed," Wax said quickly. "We'll change it up now and then too. But ... well, that quote *was* something he explicitly asked for." She stood up and shook her head, but he could tell she was already thinking this would be a good place to put some of the more choice quotes she'd recorded. Marasi stepped up to the statue, wearing Wayne's actual lucky hat. Wayne had left it to her. A last-minute addition to the will, they'd been told. At first, Wax had thought *he* hadn't been left anything specific. Then certain items had started ... showing up. He held up the latest one for Marasi to see. "A desiccated frog?" Marasi asked. "Taxidermied," Wax said. "Was in my coat pocket this morning. Along with a note apologizing. Apparently the instructions had been for a *live* frog, but they hadn't quite been able to bring themselves to do it." "You ever find out who he paid to do this?" Marasi asked, taking the frog by one leg. "I assume it's the men who handle his estate," Wax said, "from how polite and apologetic the notes are. I haven't had the heart to confront them about it." "You should just let it keep happening," Steris said. He frowned as she stepped up to him. "You don't think it's gross? Last time was half a sandwich." "It is obviously gross," she said. "But.. well, it shows remarkable planning on Wayne's part. It's the sort of thing we should encourage." "He's dead," Marasi pointed out. "It's the sort of thing we should respect, then," Steris said. Marasi eyed the frog. "They say that in gift-giving, it's the thought that counts. So ... um ... how do we interpret this?" Wax sighed. "I'm sure they'll run out of items on his list soon enough." Both women stared at him. "Did you *know* Wayne?" Marasi asked. "When in his life did he *ever* let a joke die?" It was ... a fair point. And from what they'd learned about Wayne's remarkable finances, he'd had the money to keep this joke going for a long, long time. And, well, things like the frog were aggravating. And endearing. Both at once. Just like Wayne had been.