“You mortals,” MeLaan said, waving toward the door, “can be surprisingly cavalier with your limited life spans.”

“Yeah,” Wayne said. “He probably just wants to get me in trouble.”

“What?” MeLaan sounded amused. “By getting himself killed?”

“Sure,” Wayne said. “The idiot forbade me from goin’ to his fancy party earlier, then ditched me afterwise. He’s got it in for me. He’s gonna get himself killed, and leave me to explain it to Wax. ‘Sorry, mate. I let your pet politician get ripped in half.’ And Wax’ll scowl at me real good, even though ’s not my fault.”

MeLaan sat down across from him and grinned. “Is that what happened to his horse?”

“Why you gotta bring that up again?” Wayne asked, wriggling down to get comfortable and tipping his hat over his eyes. “That really wasn’t my fault. I had myself a dehabilitating injury when that happened.”

“De…”

“Yeah,” Wayne said, “made me cuss and drink like a bugger.” He settled back, listening, eyes closed. Servants moved through the building. Messengers went over their routes. Important types discussed their opinions just a room over.

They all talked. Everyone had to talk. People couldn’t just think something, they had to explain it. Wayne was the same. He was people, after all.

This murderer, this kandra, she was people too. She had talked to Wax. She had to talk.

Wax would probably catch her. He did things like that, impossible things that nobody thought he could. But just in case he didn’t, Wayne listened. You could tell a lot about people from the way they talked. You saw their past, their upbringing, their aspirations—all in the words they used. And this kandra… sooner or later she’d slip up and use the wrong word. A word that would be obvious, like a fellow drinking milk in the middle of a rowdy tavern.

He didn’t hear anything right off, though oddly he did notice MeLaan whispering to herself. As he listened, she modulated her voice, making it deeper—though still feminine. She repeated a few words to herself.

“She woulda been a twofie,” Wayne noted, eyes still closed.

“Hm?” MeLaan said.

“Your bones,” Wayne said. “Woman you’re wearin’ right now. Twofie. Second Octant. Raised on the outskirts.”

“And how do you know that?” MeLaan asked.

“Heard her curse as I was helpin’ her,” Wayne said, feeling a stab of regret. The woman had just been doing her job, trying to keep someone from being killed.

She’s still doing her job though, he thought, cracking an eye and looking at MeLaan. Her bones are, at least. Given the choice, if he died while trying to do something important, he’d rather that his bones get up and see it done right. Hell, with some kandra friends, he could be annoying Steris well into the afterlife.

“Like this?” MeLaan said. “Second Octant, touch of agave farmer?”

“Nice,” Wayne said. “Draw out the end of your sentences, pitch them lower. Get some real twofie into that voice.”

“Is this better?”