“I’d rather not stay. Please, whatever you’re doing, I want to help.”

He picked something up off the desk; a small box of bullets. “I can’t figure you out, Marasi Colms.”

“You’ve solved some of the most troubling crimes the Roughs have ever known, Lord Waxillium. I doubt I’m nearly as mysterious.”

“Your father is very well off,” Waxillium said. “From what I know of him, I’m certain he would have provided you with a comfortable endowment for the rest of your life. Instead, you attend university—choosing one of the most difficult programs of study offered.”

“You left a position of considerable comfort yourself,” she said, “choosing to live away from convenience and modernity.”

“I did.”

She selected one of the bullets out of the box, holding it up, looking it over. She couldn’t see anything distinctive about it. “Have you ever felt you were useless, Lord Waxillium?”

“Yes.”

“It’s difficult to imagine that of someone as accomplished as yourself.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “accomplishment and perception can work independently.”

“True. Well, my lord, I have spent most of my life being politely told I was useless. Useless to my father because of my birth; useless as an Allomancer; useless to Steris, as I was an embarrassment. Sometimes, accomplishment can temper perception. Or so I hope.”

He nodded. “I have something for you to do. It will be dangerous.”

She dropped the bullet into the box. “To be of use in even a single burst of flame and sound is worth more than a lifetime of achieving nothing.”

He met her eyes, judging her sincerity.

“You have a plan?” she asked.

“There isn’t much time for a plan. This is more of a hunch with scaffolding.” He held up the box of bullets, speaking more loudly. “Ranette, what are these?”

“Hazekiller rounds.”

“Hazekiller?” Marasi asked.

“It’s an ancient term,” Waxillium said. “For an ordinary person trained to fight Allomancers.”

“I’m working on ammunition for use against each basic type of Allomancer,” Ranette said absently. She’d unscrewed the grip of the pistol and was pulling it apart. “Those are Coinshot rounds. Ceramic tips. When they Push on the bullet as it flies toward them, they’ll yank off the metal portion at the back, but the ceramic should keep flying straight and hit them. Could be better than aluminum rounds—those, the Allomancer can’t sense at all, so he knows to take cover rather than relying on Pushes. These they’ll sense and assume they can beat—right up until they’re on the floor bleeding.”

Wayne whistled softly.

“Ruin, Ranette!” Waxillium said. “I’ve never been so glad we’re on the same side.” He hesitated. “Or, at least, that you’re on your own special side that we don’t happen to run afoul of too often.”

“What are you going to do with them?” Marasi asked.

“Do?” Ranette asked.

“Are you going to sell them?” Marasi said. “Patent the idea and license them?”

“If I did that, then everybody would have them!” Ranette shook her head, looking sick. “Half the people in the city would be here, bothering me.”