“Where are you?” Wax asked loudly.

Close, Bleeder said. Watching. You, and the governor. I will need to kill him, you know.

“Can we talk?” Wax asked a little softer.

Isn’t that what we’re doing?

Wax turned, walking in the night. Either Bleeder would have to follow—which might let him catch motions in the mists—or he’d get far enough away that she couldn’t hear to reply to him, which would tell him which direction to search in.

“Are you going to try to kill me?” Wax asked.

What good would it do to kill you?

“So you want games.”

No. Bleeder sounded resigned. No games.

“What, then?” Wax asked. “Why bother with all of this showmanship?”

I’ll free them. Every one of them. I’ll take this people, and I’ll open their eyes.

“How?”

What are you, Waxillium? Bleeder asked.

“A lawman,” Wax said immediately.

That’s the coat you’re wearing right now, but it’s not who you are. I know. God knows I’ve seen the truth in you.

“Tell me, then,” Wax said, still walking through the mists.

I don’t think I can. I might be able to show you.

Bleeder didn’t seem to have trouble hearing, though Wax had softened his voice. Allomancy? Or did she just have the ability to make ears that worked better than human ones? He kept searching. Perhaps one of those dark windows in the government building nearby? Wax headed that way. “Is that why you’re targeting the governor, then?” he asked. “You want to bring him down, free the people from the government’s oppression?”

You know he’s just another pawn.

“I don’t know that.”

I wasn’t talking to you that time, Waxillium.

He hesitated in the mists. The office building loomed before him, the windows a hundred hollow eyes. Most of those windows were closed—a common practice at night. No need to invite the mists in. Religion could say what it wished, and people believed, mostly. But the mists still made them uncomfortable.

There, Wax thought, picking out an open window on the second floor.

Very good, Bleeder said, and Wax saw something shift just inside the window, ambient light barely sufficient to let him discern it. Ever the detective.

“I’m not much of one, actually,” Wax said. “In the Roughs, you solve fewer cases with investigation than with a good pair of guns.”

That’s a fun lie, Bleeder said. Do you tell that one at parties to youths who’ve read too many stories about the Roughs? They don’t like hearing about interrogating family members of a man gone bad? Tracking down gunsmiths to see who fixed an outlaw’s rifle? Digging through an old campfire after days spent on the road?

“How do you know about things like that?” Wax asked.

I do my homework. It’s a kandra thing, which I assume MeLaan explained. Whatever you claim, you’re a good investigator. Maybe an excellent one. Even if you are, by definition, a dog chasing its own tail.

Wax walked right up to the base of the building, the mist thinning between him and Bleeder, who skulked just inside the window about ten feet up. Her face, though enveloped by the shadows, seemed wrong to Wax. Shaped oddly.