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I made a mistake with you, I now see. I still make many. Does that ruin your faith, Waxillium? Does it worry you that your God is fallible?

“You never claimed to be infallible, so far as I remember.”

No. I did not.

Wax felt a warmth, a fire, as if the inside of the carriage were heating to incredible temperatures.

I loathe suffering, Waxillium. I hate that people like Bleeder must be allowed to do what they do. I cannot stop them. You can. I beg you to do so.

“I will try.”

Good. Oh, and Waxillium?

“Yes, Lord?”

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.

Wax swallowed. “Yes, Lord.”

I will send you help.

The voice vanished. The temperature returned to normal. Wax leaned back, sweating, feeling drained.

A rapping came at his window. Hesitant, Wax pulled aside the shade. Wayne’s face hung there, upside down, his hand holding his hat onto his head. “You done talking to yourself, Wax?” he asked.

“I … Yes, I am.”

“I heard voices in my head once too, you know.”

“You did?”

“Sure. Gave me a fright. I banged my head against the wall until I went unconscious. Never heard them again! Ha. Showed ’em good, I did. If rats move in, best thing to do is to burn the nest and send ’em packing.”

“And the nest … was your head.”

“Yup.”

The sad thing was, Wayne probably wasn’t lying. 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.

“Well, anyway,” Wayne said. “We’re almost to the precinct headquarters. Time to go back to being dirty conners. At least they’ll probably have scones inside.”

*   *   *

Marasi stood in the precinct station with arms folded, partially to hide the fact that her hands were still trembling. That was unfair. She’d been in firefights numerous times now. She should be accustomed to this … but still, after the jolt of it all wore off—the moment of thrill and action—she occasionally found herself feeling drained. Surely she’d get past it eventually.

“He was wearing these, sir,” Reddi said, placing a pair of bracers onto the table with a thump. “No other metal on his body save for the gun and a pocketful of rounds. We’ve called in the First Octant precinct’s Leecher to make sure he doesn’t have any metal swallowed, but we can’t be certain until she arrives.”

Aradel picked up one of the bracers, turning it over in his hands. The dim room was a kind of balcony, overlooking the interrogation chamber below, where the assassin Marasi had stopped sat slumped in a chair. His name was Rian; no house, though they’d located his family. He was tied with ropes to a large stone behind his chair. No metal in the room, to make it safe to stow Coinshots or Lurchers. Stone floor, walls made of thick wood joined with wooden pegs. Almost primitive in feel. The balcony had glass walls, letting them look down upon him without being heard.

“So he’s Metalborn,” said Lieutenant Caberel, the only other person in the room. The stout woman picked up the other bracer. “Why didn’t he use his abilities in the assassination? If he killed Winsting with Feruchemical speed, like old Waxillium Dawnshot says, he should have done the same today.”

“Maybe he didn’t kill Winsting,” Aradel said. “The attacks could be unrelated.”

“He fits the profile though, sir,” Reddi said. “Winsting’s bodyguards probably would have trusted a member of the governor’s personal guard. He could have talked his way past them and done the deed.”

“Hard to imagine Winsting’s guards letting even someone like that in alone with their charge, Captain,” Aradel said. “After a firefight where others were being killed? They’d be tense. Suspicious.”

Down below, the suspect began rocking back and forth on his seat. The vents that would allow them to listen in on him were closed, but she had a sense that he was muttering to himself again.

“So, we just ask him,” Caberel said.

“Again?” Reddi said. “You heard before. All he does is mumble.”

“Then encourage him,” Caberel said. “You’re pretty good at that, Reddi.”

“I suppose his face could use a few new bruises,” Reddi said.