“Do you want something more substantial?” Steris asked.

He glanced at her, then down at her purse. “They searched your purse.”

“That they did,” she said, then took the hem of her skirt, lifting it up to the side and revealing a small handgun strapped to her thigh. “I worried they’d do something like that. So I made other plans.”

Wax grinned. “I could get used to having you around, Steris.”

She blushed in the dim light. “I might, uh, need your help getting the thing off.”

He knelt down, realizing that she’d used approximately seven rolls of tape to strap the gun in place. Also, being Steris, she’d worn shorts under the dress—in case she had to do what she was doing. Two pairs, judging by the bit of cloth he saw peeking out from under the top one.

Wax set to work extricating the gun. “I see you didn’t want this coming off accidentally.”

“I kept imagining it falling out and firing,” Steris said, “mid-dance.”

Wax grunted, working at her thigh beneath her dress. “You realize that if this were a play, this is exactly the point where someone would walk in on us.”

“Lord Waxillium!” Steris said. “What kind of theater have you been attending?”

“The kind you find in the Roughs,” Wax said, yanking the gun free. It proved to be one of his Riotings, a .22 six-shot he kept in his gun case but rarely used. It would do. He stood up, letting Steris settle her skirt back down. “Nice work.”

“I tried a shotgun first,” she said, blushing. “You should have seen me try to walk with one of those on my leg!”

“Stay out of sight, if you can,” he told her, then dropped a coin and launched himself toward the upper balcony.

Marasi stepped into the gravekeeper’s shack, clicking the door closed behind her. Wayne looked up from breaking the legs off a chair.

“Is that necessary?” Marasi asked.

“Dunno,” he said, snapping off another one. “It’s fun, though. How are our toughs?”

Marasi glanced out the window toward where a group of the local constables were carting away the last of the thugs. It turned out that setting off dynamite in the middle of the city was a fine way to get the attention of the authorities.

“They don’t know anything,” she said. “Hired muscle, paid and sent to do the hit. The ones who hired them mentioned your name, which turns out to have been a mistake.”

“I’m famous,” Wayne said happily, snapping another leg off. The hut had been thoroughly ransacked, drawers ripped out, cushions slit, furniture in shambles. Wayne looked at the chair leg he’d broken, apparently checking to see if it was hollow, then tossed it over his shoulder.

“We can try to follow the payments to those men,” Marasi continued, “but I suspect that Suit was too careful for this to be traced. And there’s no sign of the runner boy.”

Wayne grunted, stomping on the floor in one section, then taking a few steps and stomping again.