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Waxillium thought quickly, then did what came most naturally. He struck a dramatic pose in the rubble, one foot up, Granite Joe dead beside him, both bodyguards felled. Dust from the broken ceiling still sprinkled down, illuminated in sunlight pouring through a window above.
The tall, compact tenements cast dark shadows even in the afternoon. As if this were the place dusk came for a drink and a chat before sauntering out for its evening duty.
Ratting out a friend: completely off-limits. Extorting a friend: well, that was just good business sense.
“But he was a politician. Politician slime is different from regular slime.”
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.
“Proper loafing requires company. One man lying about is being idle; two men lying about is a lunch break.”
“Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won’t know what you’re planning to do to it?”
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.”
“Looks like we’re going to need a new prime suspect, Wax,” Wayne said. “This one downright refuses to not be dead already.”
You had to adapt. Move. Change. That was good, but it could also threaten identity, connection, and sense of purpose. The governor’s guards studied the crowd with hostility, muttering about miscreants, as if seeing the crowd as barely contained malefactors who were looking for any excuse to riot and loot. To the contrary, these people wanted something stable, something that would let them sustain their communities or forge new ones. Rioting was rarely caused by greed, but frequently by frustration and hopelessness.
“You still need private time for that thinkin’ of yours?” Wayne asked. “Yes.” “Never touch the stuff myself,” Wayne said. “Causes headaches. Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?”
he
Very well. I am Harmony, the Hero of Ages, once called Sazed. At the end of one world, I took upon myself the powers of protection and destruction, and in so doing became the caretaker of the world to come. I am here, Waxillium, to tell you that you are not insane.
Owning things of value is secondary to creating things of value where none once existed.”
The plaque read: ATIUM, THE LOST METAL.
Waxillium had seen some odd things in his life. He’d visited koloss camps in the Roughs, even been invited to join their numbers. He’d met and spoken with God himself and had received a personal gift from Death. That did not prepare him for the sight of a pretty young woman’s chest turning nearly transparent, one of the breasts splitting and offering up the hilt of a small handgun.
“Murderous rampage,” Wayne said softly. “It’s always the quiet ones. Well, and the psychopathic ones. That too.”
I’d have thought you’d find this natural, seeing as your God is basically a hermaphrodite at this point. Both good and evil, Ruin and Preservation, light and dark, male and female. Et cetera et cetera.”
“The interesting thing about people is that while they might seem unique, they actually play into broad patterns.
“How is it?” Wax asked. “Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.”
The law is not something holy, son. It’s simply a reflection of the ideals of those lucky enough to be in charge.”
Others contained depictions of the rebuilding of the world, or other relics such as a replica of both Harmony’s Bands and the Bands of Mourning.
“Harmony made sure it spread here,” TenSoon’s voice said from above. “He wanted to make certain that no person was ever trapped in darkness in this place again.”
“The governor is dead,” Marasi whispered. “Yeah,” Wayne said, “havin’ your skeleton removed tends to do that to a guy.”
