They talked and celebrated, led by Lord Harms, who laughed and exclaimed about his minor part in it all. A disaster averted. A new governor—the first ever who was not of noble blood. Even the Lord Mistborn, long ago, had been part nobleman. The Last Emperor had been full-blooded, and the Survivor half nobleman. All great people, everyone agreed, to be lauded.

But Claude Aradel had none of the same lineage. Not a drop of noble blood in him. Those at the party congratulated one another for being so progressive as to speak favorably of one who was common-born.

Wax stared into the fire, fingering at the stubble on his chin. He spoke when it was required of him, but mostly they allowed him his peace. He was wrung out, Steris told them. Fatigued by the terrible things he’d seen. She diverted them from him when she could, telling them—when they inevitably asked—that she and he had decided to delay the wedding so Wax could take a short vacation to recuperate.

Partway through the event, Wayne sauntered over on crutches. He couldn’t heal without storing up more health—and he couldn’t do that while healing from his wound, or it would defeat the purpose. For now, he had to deal with the fragility of the body, just like a normal person.

We’re all so fragile, when you consider it, Wax thought. One little thing goes wrong, and we break.

“Hey, mate,” Wayne said, settling down on the footstool by Wax’s feet. “Wanna hear how I’m a rusting genius?”

“Shoot,” Wax whispered.

Wayne leaned forward, spread his hands before himself dramatically. “I’m gonna get everybody drunk.”

The crowd continued its chatter. Mostly constables. Some political allies of Wax’s. He’d chosen to do business with the more reputable people in the city, so Aradel’s culling of the lords hadn’t hit his house. It was considered an enormous political victory.

“See, I got this plan,” Wayne said, tapping his head. “People in this town, they got issues. The folks what work in the factories think havin’ more time to themselves is gonna fix their woes, but they gotta do something with that time. I’ve got an idea. It’ll fix it all.”

“Harmony, Wayne,” Wax said. “You’re not going to poison the city, are you?”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “Not their bodies, at least.” He grinned. “You watch. This will work. It’s gonna be amazing.” He rose, and stumbled, almost falling. He looked at his leg in surprise, as if he’d forgotten about the wound. Then he shook his head, grabbing his crutch and getting to his feet.

Once standing he hesitated, then leaned down. “It’ll pass, mate,” he said. “My pa once said to me, ‘Son, keep a stiff upper lip.’ So if things get bad, you bash your face against a wall till your lip bleeds, and you’ll feel better. Works for me. Least I think it does. Can’t right remember, on account of too many head wounds.”

He grinned. Wax kept staring into the flames. Wayne’s face fell.