“I…” He sighed. “Harmony diddirectly orderme to be about this. Ugh. Field work is sodistasteful.But I suppose I can’t say no.”
Marasi glanced at Wax, who had settled back on the couch, thoughtful. Holding the envelope that Harmony had sent him.
“All right then,” she said. “Let’s get to it.”
19
Three days later, Wax stood in his penthouse study, looking west toward Bilming. There was no mist tonight. Seemed like weeks since he’dseen any.
Preparations had gone well for Marasi’s sting. The notebook had clear instructions on how to deliver the goods. Using intel from interrogations, Marasi had located the very trucks the captives had been planning to use. She had the exact outfits of the captives, and VenDell was playing the role of their leader. Wayne, in one of his finest disguises, was at his side to help sell the role. Even the boxes of goods were real.
They would leave sometime tonight. Wax wouldn’t go to see them off, of course. He could be conspicuous, and Marasi had taken every conceivable step to make sure the enemy didn’t spot the subterfuge.
They’ll be safe,he told himself.Their disguises are excellent, and she’s extremely capable.
This was the Basin, not some wayward town in the Roughs. Marasi had access to the finest constables in the city, along with resources in abundance. She didn’t need an old Coinshot with an unloaded pistol who still felt the ache of having foolishly exploded his laboratory a few days ago.
Still, Wax lingered, looking through the wide picture windows of his small penthouse study. It had been exciting, these last years, watching the city grow electrified. He had evanotypes of the process, taken everyfew months from this high perspective. A grid of lights and streets, homes glowing with the calm light of progress, each adding another shimmering star to the Elendel constellation. Would the lights spread so far that eventually there wouldn’t be any darkness at all?
Steris slipped over, then handed him a cup of tea. “With willow powder,” she whispered. “For your aches.”
“You think of everything,” he said, taking a sip. “How are the kids?”
“Sleeping,” she said. “We should be fine to go back to work.”
Together they walked back into the living room, where practically every surface had been commandeered to hold stacks of broadsheets. Theycouldhave hired researchers to pick through it all, but why give someone else the fun?
And itwasfun. Not of the sort that Wax would once have enjoyed, but fun was as much about the company as the activity. They settled down together on the floor—all of the seats had papers on them—and continued reading. Searching for any mentions of explosions in cities across the Basin.
To pass the time, they also looked for anything amusing.
“‘Pickled Pachyderm Plays Piano,’” Steris said, holding one up. “Why do they always pick ‘pachyderm’ for these alliterative sentences?”
“Because it’s a funny word?” Wax said, with a smile. “What’s it pickled in?”
“Apparently it was sitting in a small swimming pool,” Steris said. “I think that’s a stretch.”
He held up his own headline. “‘Child Eats Tar. Mother Feeds Rat As Antidote.’”
“Oh, thatcan’tbe real,” she said, taking the broadsheet from him. But it was a real story—and in a reputable paper as well. Turned out even the most highbrow of sources weren’t above using a zinger to move copies on a slow news day. She grinned, setting it on her stack of amusing headlines.
For their true hunt, Steris had a system—because of course she did. They read only headlines at first, quickly skimming sheets for certain words in bold or large print. Anything that looked promising went into its own pile. But you didn’t read the story, not yet. You’dwant to read all of those together, to compare one against another and further winnow.
They were almost done with the most recent batch of broadsheets, delivered today. Wax enjoyed it, mostly for the time with his wife—though he seemed to still be suffering the aftereffects of the explosion. Hisvision kept behaving oddly, distorting at times for just a second or two. And his mind kept playing tricks on him, making him think he glimpsed blue Allomantic lines without burning metals.
He set aside worries over his health, and certainly didnotsay anything. He didn’t want to concern Steris. He’dsurvived explosions before. His hand still ached from the mine detonation back in Dust’s Beach…
“Here’s one,” Steris said, showing him a serious headline. “Explosion at a railway station.”
Wax rubbed his chin as he read. “Sounds like a boiler malfunction. Not terribly suspicious.”
“Perhaps it’s covering something up?”
He shook his head. Seemed like an odd place to be running metallurgic experiments. Too many people nearby—but then again,he’ddone his experiments in the basement of a mansion. So who knew?
Steris set it in the “maybe” pile, while he moved his current broadsheet—an account of a fire that was pretty obviously a lightning strike—into the “unlikely” pile. None of these felt right to him, which should have made him happy. Perhaps their enemieshadn’tdiscovered the explosive interaction between harmonium and trellium.
Unfortunately, this sort of investigation could be frustrating for just that reason. He didn’twantto find proof, because it would confirm his fears. Yet if they turned up nothing, they’dnever know if it was because no proof existed, or because they had missed it.