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“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.”

“I suppose…” Wax said, standing up. “Have you ever met a woman named Idashwy? A Feruchemist.”

“Steelrunner?”

Wax nodded.

“Never met her,” Wayne said. “They keep kicking me out of the Village when I visit. Right unneighborly.”

So far as Wax knew, that wasn’t true. 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.

“Let’s see what we can find,” Wax said, waving down a canal gondola.

*   *   *

“Five notes, for one basket of apples! That’s robbery!”

Marasi hesitated on the street. She’d driven the motorcar up to the Hub for the governor’s speech, then parked it with the coachmen who took pay to watch and refuel motors, intending to walk the rest of the way on foot. The Hub could be a busy place.

That led her here, near this small street market with people selling fruit. With disbelief, she saw that one vendor was—indeed—selling apples at five notes a basket. Those shouldn’t cost more than half a boxing per basket, at most. She’d seen them for a handful of clips.

“I could get these at Elend’s stand for a fraction of the price!” the customer said.

“Well, why don’t you go see if he has any left?” the cart owner said, nonplussed. The customer stormed off, leaving the cart owner with her sign proudly proclaiming the ridiculous price. Marasi frowned, then glanced down the row of stands, barrels, and carts.

Suspiciously low quantities, all ’round. She walked up to the cart owner with the high prices; the woman stood up stiffly, braids shaking, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her apron. “Officer,” she said.

“Five is on the high side, wouldn’t you say?” Marasi asked, picking up an apple. “Unless these are infused with atium.”

“Am I doing anything wrong?” the woman asked.

“You have the right to set your prices,” Marasi said. “One simply wonders what you seem to know that nobody else does.”

The woman didn’t respond.

“Shipment coming late?” Marasi asked. “Apple harvest gone bad?”

The woman sighed. “Not apples, officer. Grain shipments out of the east. Simply not coming. Floods did them in.”

“A little early to be speculating on food prices, don’t you think?”

“Pardon, officer, but do you know how much food this city eats? We’re one shipment away from starvation, we are.”

Marasi glanced down the row again. Food was moving quickly, most of it—from what she could see—being sold to the same group of people. Speculators grabbing up the fruits and sacks of grain. The city wasn’t as close to starvation as the cart owner claimed—there were storages that could be released—but bad news moved faster than calm winds. And there was a good chance this woman was right, that she’d be able to sell her apples at a premium until things calmed down in a few days.

Marasi shook her head, setting down the apple and continuing toward the Hub. There was always a press here, people on the promenade, vehicles on the streets trying to force their way into the ring around the Hub. More people today, crowds drawn by the speech causing traffic clots in the regular bustle. Marasi could barely make out the giant statues of the Ascendant Warrior and her husband in the Field of Rebirth peeking out over the throng.

Marasi walked up to join another group of constables who had just arrived, on Aradel’s orders, their carriages lagging behind her motorcar. Together they wended their way through the streets on foot toward the executive mansion. The governor preferred to address people from its steps, a few streets up into the Second Octant from the Hub.

They soon reached the large square before the mansion. Moving here was more difficult, but fortunately the constables from this octant were already in attendance—and they had roped off various areas near the front and sides of the square. In one, dignitaries and noblemen sat on bleachers to hear the address. In another, the Second Octant constables clustered and watched the crowd for pickpockets from the steps up into the National Archives. Other constables moved through the crowd, officers readily identifiable by the blue plumes on their hats.

Marasi and Lieutenant Javies, who had command of the field team, made their way toward the National Archives, where their colleagues from the Second Octant let them pass. A mustachioed older constable was directing things here, his helm—under his arm—bearing the double plume of a captain. When he saw Marasi, Javies, and the team, the man lit up.