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January 13 - July 14, 2019
Maybe it’s time for you to retire, old man.” “Lessie, I’m three months older than you are.” “Those are a long three months.”
The “agreement” turned out to be a large document, at least twenty pages long. Steris handed one copy to Waxillium and one to her father, and retained another for herself. Lord Harms coughed into his hand. “I suggested she write down her thoughts,” he said. “And … well, my daughter is a very thorough woman.” “I can see that,” Waxillium said. “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.”
“But tell me. Don’t you even want to know? Doesn’t it itch at you?” “No.” That wasn’t completely true. Wayne snorted. “I’d believe you if you could say that without your eye twitching, mate.”
Eight hours later, Waxillium stood at an upper window of his mansion. He watched the last broken fragments of a dying day.
You did not ask for this, I understand. But the mark of a great man is one who knows when to set aside the important things in order to accomplish the vital ones.”
Steris had called the Path a simple religion. Perhaps it was. There was only one basic tenet: Do more good than harm. There were other aspects—the belief that all truth was important, the requirement to give more than one took.
“I once shot the tail off a dog by mistake,” Waxillium said idly. “It’s kind of a funny story.” “Shooting dogs is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” Steris said. “I know. Particularly since I was aiming for its balls.” Marasi just about spat her soup across the table.
“As soon as I drop the bubble,” Wayne said, “this place is going to erupt like an ammunition store in a volcano.”
“You owe me a pint for lying to me, by the way.” “Lying?” “You said you hadn’t brought a gun.” “I didn’t bring a gun,” Waxillium said, reaching to the small of his back and sliding a second pistol out.
Harmony protect us from small-minded men with too much power.
“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.”
“You realize I spent all night coming to those conclusions? You just reached them in all of … what? Ten minutes?” She sniffed. “I had some modest help from you.” “It might be said that I had modest help from myself, technically.” “The voices whispering to you as a result of sleep deprivation do not count, my lord.”
“The fact that most people are decent does not make their decency any less valuable to society.”
“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.”
“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.”
“‘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.…”
“You’re not helping, Wayne,” Waxillium said calmly. He was sure Ranette wouldn’t shoot. Well, reasonably sure. Maybe. “Oh, you actually want me to help?” Wayne said. “Right. You still have that aluminum gun I gave you?” “Tucked in the small of my back,” Waxillium said. “Without any bullets.” “Hey, Ranette!” Wayne called. “I’ve got a neat gun you can have!” She hesitated. “Wait,” Waxillium said, “I wanted that—” “Don’t be a baby,” Wayne said to him.
“Actually,” he said, “we came here because we needed someplace safe to think for a few hours.” “Your mansion isn’t safe?” “My butler failed to poison me, then tried to shoot me, then set off an explosive in my study.”
“You can make sense of this?” “For the most part. Except Wayne’s doodles.” “They … appear to be pictures of you. Unflatteringly ugly ones.” “That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,” Waxillium said. “Everyone knows I’m irreparably handsome.”
“People murdered every day,” Miles repeated, “and what was it that brought you out of your ‘retirement’? When I shot an old, would-be aristocratic wolfhound in the head. Did you ever stop to think of all the other people being killed in the streets? The beggars, the whores, the orphans? Dead because of lack of food, or because they were in the wrong place, or because they tried something stupid.” “You’re trying to invoke the Survivor’s mandate,” Wax whispered. “But it won’t work, Miles. This isn’t the Final Empire of legend. A rich man can’t kill a poor one just because he feels like it. We’ve
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“The greatest of men can be taken down by the simplest of things. A lowly bullet can end the life of the most powerful, most capable, most secure of men.”
“You’ll be brought down by something even more lowly.” “Which is?” he asked, amused, voice growing closer. “Me,” Marasi replied. Miles laughed. “I’d like to see…” He trailed off. Waxillium cracked his eyes, looking down the length of the tunnel toward the broken ceiling where the building had stood. Light flooded that pit from above, growing brighter at a remarkable rate. “Who have you brought?” Miles asked, sounding unimpressed. “They won’t arrive quickly enough.” He paused. Waxillium rolled his head to the side and saw the sudden horror in Miles’s face. He had seen it, finally: a shimmering
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It seemed that he saw himself as immortal. Even standing up there—his metalminds removed, a dozen rifles cocked and pointed toward him—he didn’t seem to believe he would die. The human mind was very clever at tricking itself, at keeping the despair of inevitability at bay. She’d known that look in Miles’s eyes. Every man had it, when young. And every man eventually saw it as a lie.
The rifles went to shoulders. Perhaps now Miles would finally recognize that lie himself. As the guns fired, Marasi found that she was satisfied. And that disturbed her greatly.
“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.”
“You’re after the bounty on Joe,” she said. “Sure am. You too?” She nodded. “Split it?” Waxillium said. She sighed, but lowered her rifle. “Fine. The one who shoots him gets a double portion though.” “I was planning to bring him in alive.…” “Good. Gives me a better chance of killing him first.”
A pretty woman on his arm and a sharp suit did little to clean up a man like Dowser. Winsting wrinkled his nose. Most everyone in the room was a despicable piece of trash, but the others had the decency not to look like it.
I figure I should write one of these things, the small book read. To tell my side. Not the side the historians will tell for me. I doubt they’ll get it right. I don’t know that I’d like them to anyhow.
“The Boris brothers,” Steris continued. “They’re acquaintances of yours, aren’t they?” “I shot their father,” Wax said, not looking up. “Twice.” I couldn’t let it die, the book read. It’s not right. Hemalurgy is good now, I figure. Saze is both sides now, right? Ruin isn’t around anymore. “Are they likely to try to kill you?” Steris asked. “Boris Junior swore to drink my blood,” Wax said. “Boris the Third—and yes, he’s the brother of Boris Junior; don’t ask—swore to … what was it? Eat my toes? He’s not a clever man.”
“I’m certain there are better choices for invitations than people who want me dead,” Wax said. “I hear family members are traditional.” “As a point of fact,” Steris said, “I believe your remaining family members actually do want you dead.”
“I have known you for an entire year now, Lord Waxillium,” Steris said. “I can accept you for who you are, but I am under no illusions. Something will happen at our wedding. A villain will burst in, guns firing. Or we’ll discover explosives in the altar. Or Father Bin will inexplicably turn out to be an old enemy and attempt to murder you instead of performing the ceremony. It will happen. I’m merely trying to prepare for it.” “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Wax asked, smiling. “You’re actually thinking of inviting one of my enemies so you can plan for a disruption.” “I’ve sorted them by threat
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“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,” Wax said, walking past. “Stop talking to your hat and get over here.”
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.
Ratting out a friend: completely off-limits. Extorting a friend: well, that was just good business sense.
Waxillium gently pushed her aside; she hadn’t seen him approach. He knelt down, checking Marks’s wound. Waxillium then looked up at Wayne and nodded, the two sharing an expression they often exchanged. The closest Marasi had been able to figure, it meant something between “Nice work” and “You’re a total git; I wanted to do that.”
Wayne tugged on his lucky hat. It was a coachman’s hat—something like a wide-brimmed bowler, only one that didn’t have three ounces of fancy shoved up its backside.
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.
Might die today though, he thought, looping on his belt and slipping his dueling canes into their straps, then wiping his nose again. Can’t be certain yet. Every man had to die.
“Proper loafing requires company. One man lying about is being idle; two men lying about is a lunch break.”
“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.”
“I thought I told you not to come back.” “I thought I ignored you.”
“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?” “Roseweather had good taste.
Wax moved over, gun out, and glanced around the corner into the kitchen. It was just large enough for one person to lie down in. He knew this because of the bloody corpse stretched out on the floor,
Being unkillable, so long as one had some healing power stored up, could do strange things to a person’s sense of self-preservation. Of course, Wayne had probably been drunk at the time. That also tended to do strange things to a person’s sense of self-preservation.
Owning things of value is secondary to creating things of value where none once existed.”
One of the large warehouse doors fell outward with a crash, revealing a dozen men. Wax felt a sweeping wave of relief. He hadn’t lost his quarry—he’d simply been led into a trap! Wait.
Drim wasn’t there, and neither was the governor. “What’d you do with him!” Wayne said, turning on the others. A smug group of bastards, they were. “It was best everyone thought he was still here,” the guard said. “In truth, he and Drim headed to a secure location ages ago. If we fooled you, then hopefully we fooled the assassin.” “Fooled … I’m supposed to be protectin’ the guy!” “Well, you’re doing a rusting good job of that, mate, ain’tcha,” the guard said, then smirked. So Wayne did the only reasonable thing. He spat out his gum, then decked the fellow.
“Something needs to change in this city. I ain’t out of work like those fellows at the steel mill, but Harmony…” “Sixteen-hour shifts. I leave before my little girl gets up, and she’s in bed before I get back. See her once a week, I do.” “We work and die so we can give it all up to the same people. They own the building we live in. Ain’t that the scam? Work for them all day, then give it all back at night for the privilege of bein’ able to survive another day to keep workin’.”
“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.”
