The Path was to study them, learn from their moral codes. A few rules were central. Do not seek lust without commitment. See the strengths in all flaws. Pray and meditate fifteen minutes a day. And don’t waste time worshipping Harmony. Doing good was the worship.

Waxillium had been converted to the Path soon after leaving Elendel. He was still convinced that the woman he’d met on that train ride must have been one of the Faceless Immortals, the hands of Harmony. She’d given him his earring; every Pathian wore one while praying.

The problem was, it was hard for Waxillium to feel like he was doing anything useful. Luncheons and ledgers, contracts and negotiations. He knew, logically, that all of it was important. But those, even his vote on the Senate, were all abstractions. No match for seeing a murderer jailed or a kidnapped child rescued. In his youth, he’d lived in the City—the world’s center of culture, science, and progress—for two decades, but he hadn’t found himself until he’d left it and wandered the dusty, infertile lands out beyond the mountains.

Use your talents, something seemed to whisper inside of him. You’ll figure it out.

That made him smile ruefully. He couldn’t help wondering why, if Harmony really was listening, he didn’t give more specific answers. Often, all Waxillium got from prayer was a sense of encouragement. Keep going. It’s not as difficult as you feel it is. Don’t give up.

He sighed, just closing his eyes, losing himself in thought. Other religions had their ceremonies and their meetings. Not the Pathians. In a way, its very simplicity made the Path much harder to follow. It left interpretation up to one’s own conscience.

After meditating for a time, he couldn’t help feeling that Harmony wanted him to study the Vanishers and to be a good house lord. Were the two mutually exclusive? Tillaume thought they were.

Waxillium glanced back at the stack of broadsheets and the easel with the drawing pad on it. He reached into his pocket, taking out the bullet Wayne had left.

And against his will, he saw in his mind’s eye Lessie, head jerking back, blood spraying into the air. Blood covering her beautiful brown hair. Blood on the floor, on the walls, on the murderer who had been standing behind her. But that murderer hadn’t been the one to shoot her.

Oh, Harmony, he thought, raising a hand to his head and slowly sitting down, back to the wall. It really is about her, isn’t it? I can’t do that again. Not again.

He dropped the round, pulled off his earring. He stood, walked over, cleaned up the broadsheets, and closed the drawing pad. Nobody had been hurt by the Vanishers yet. They were robbing people, but they weren’t harming them. There wasn’t even proof that the hostages were in danger. Likely they’d be returned after ransom demands were met.

Waxillium sat down to work on his house’s ledgers instead. He let them draw his attention well into the night.