Nearby, Drim stood up straight, glancing at him.

“Curious,” Innate said. “But you’re known for jumping at shadows, are you not?”

“Every lawman follows a bum lead on occasion.”

“I believe you’ll find Lord Waxillium to be right far more often than he is wrong, my lord,” Steris said. “If he warns of danger, I would listen.”

“I will,” Innate said.

“I want to meet with you,” Wax said, “so we can discuss important matters. Tomorrow at the latest. You need to hear what we’re dealing with.”

“I will schedule it.” From Innate, that was a promise. Wax would have his meeting. “Lady Harms, might I ask after your cousin? I’ve yet to thank her for what she did today, even if the man’s aim was off, and I would have been safe anyway.”

“Marasi is well,” Steris said. “She should be coming up here tonight to—”

Look at them.

The thought forced its way into Wax’s head. Steris and the governor continued to speak, but he froze.

They dress in painted sequins. They drink wine. They laugh, and smile, and play, and dance, and eat, and quietly kill. All part of Harmony’s plan. All actors on a stage. That’s what you are too, Waxillium Ladrian. It’s what all men are.

A chill moved over Wax, like ants running across his skin. The thoughts in his head were a voice, like Harmony’s, but rasping and crude. Brutal. A terrible whisper.

Wax was still wearing his earring. Bleeder had found out how to communicate with someone wearing a Hemalurgic spike.

The murderer was in his head.

10

Wayne turned as the sausage lady passed. He intended to reach for another handful. Instead he got slapped.

He blinked, at first assuming that the servers had finally gotten tired of him outthinking them. But the slapper hadn’t been one of them. It was a child. He fixed his stare on the young girl as Marasi hurried back to his side. Why, this child couldn’t be more than fifteen. And she’d slapped him!

“You,” the girl said, “are a monster.”

“I—”

“Remmingtel Tarcsel!” the girl said. “Do you think anyone in this party has heard that name before?”

“Well—”

“No, they haven’t. I’ve asked. They all stand here using my father’s incandescent lights—which he toiled for years to create—and nobody knows his name. Do you know why, Mister Hanlanaze?”

“I suspect I don’t—”

“Because you stole his designs, and with them his life. My father died clipless, destitute and depressed, because of men like you. You aren’t a scientist, Mister Hanlanaze, whatever you claim. You’re not an inventor. You’re a thief.”

“That part’s right. I—”