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He bled from a shoulder wound, his face hidden by the black-and-white mask.
“Let’s hear a story,” Marasi said. “About where this … man of hours might be staying. The location of dusk, if you will. Here in these tenements.”
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.
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.
“Proper loafing requires company. One man lying about is being idle; two men lying about is a lunch break.”
“You just recognized this because the killer was making others do his work for him, which is an expertise of yours.”
“Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won’t know what you’re planning to do to it?”
“Until you know it ain’t true, treat every woman like she has an older brother what is stronger than you are?”
“If you’re going to have to do something awful, stop by Wax’s room and trade for some of his rum first.”
“Why is this wet? Were you sucking on it?”
Besides, Wayne had left a real nice-looking leaf he’d found in exchange. Rusting beautiful, that leaf was.
With all of these smart people around, wouldn’t one of them have realized what boys and girls was supposed to do together?
Memories grabbed Wax by his collar and shoved him face-first up against his past.
“The one you seek is named Idashwy. And she is not a man.” “Steelrunner?” “Yes. She is not a killer.”
“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.”
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.
Someone else moves us, lawman.
There are … beings in this world who are neither human nor koloss. Something related to both. You call them the Faceless Immortals.
I would forcibly control her if I could, but one spike does not pierce the soul sufficiently for me to get in.
Do be less harsh with Marasi Colms. You aren’t my only agent in the affairs of men; I worked quite hard to maneuver Marasi into a position where she could do good in this city. It is taxing to have you continue to dismiss her because her admiration makes you uncomfortable.
Owning things of value is secondary to creating things of value where none once existed.”
“You are like a lion. Most days you’re only partially present, with me. Lounging, half asleep. You do what you must, you fulfill the needs of the house, but you don’t thrive. Then the prey appears. You wake. The burst of speed, the fury and power; the pounding, pulsing, rush of the hunt. This is the real you, Waxillium Ladrian.”
“I’m proficient at it.” “I believe that’s what I said.” “There is a distinction,” Steris said with a shake of her head. “In this room there are true masters of social interaction. I am not one of them. I studied social norms, researched them, and now I execute them. Another woman might have sailed through that conversation and left him happy, but distracted. I had to use blunt force, so to speak.”
“I know you enjoy witty conversation,” she said, “so I prepared earlier, writing myself a list of things I could say that you would find engaging.”
“I like to be thorough,” she said. “Though admittedly, sometimes I can be so thorough that I end up needing to plan how to best make my plans. My life ends up feeling like a beautiful ship in dry dock, built with eighteen rudders pointing in different directions to be extra certain that a steering mechanism is in place.” She hesitated, then blushed again. “Yes. That quip was on my list.”
“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.”
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.
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.
If a riot is brewin’, I can’t stop it with some girly drinks.”
“What I need to do,” Wayne said, “is get the whole city drunk.”
“Wax,” Wayne interrupted, balancing his sixth story of beer-mat coasters. “Check your pulse, mate.”
“Sometimes,” Wayne said, “Wax forgets he’s a person and starts thinkin’ he’s a rock instead.”
