“Who have you brought?” Miles asked, sounding unimpressed. “They won’t arrive quickly enough.” He paused. Waxillium rolled his head to the side and saw the sudden horror in Miles’s face. He had seen it, finally: a shimmering border nearby, a slight difference in the air. Like the distortion caused by heat rising from a hot street.

A speed bubble.

Miles spun on Marasi. Then he ran for the bubble’s border, away from the light. Trying to escape.

The light at the other end of the tunnel became bright, and a group of blurs moved down it, so quickly it was impossible to distinguish what was causing them.

Marasi dropped her bubble. The sunlight of full day streamed in from the distant pit, and filling the tunnel—right outside where the bubble had been—was a force of over a hundred constables in uniform. Wayne stood at their head, grinning, wearing a constable’s uniform and hat, a false mustache on his face.

“Get ’im, boys!” he said, pointing.

They moved in with clubs, not bothering with guns. Miles screamed in denial, trying to dodge past the first few, then punching at the group that laid hands on him. He wasn’t fast enough, and there were far too many of them. In minutes, they had him held down against the ground and were wrapping ropes around his arms.

Waxillium sat up with care, one eye swelling closed, lip bleeding, side aching. Marasi knelt beside him, anxious.

“You shouldn’t have confronted him,” Waxillium said, tasting blood. “If he’d knocked you out, that would have been the end of it.”

“Oh, hush,” she said. “You aren’t the only one who can take risks.”

The backup plan had been straightforward, if difficult. It had begun with eliminating all of Miles’s lackeys. Even one of them, left alive, could have noticed what the speed bubble meant and shot Waxillium and Marasi from the outside. There wouldn’t have been anything they could have done to prevent it.

But if the lackeys were gone, and if Miles could be distracted long enough while the bubble was up, Wayne could go to gather a large force to surround Miles while he was helpless. He’d never have let it happen if he’d suspected. But within the speed bubble …

“No!” Miles screamed. “Unhand me. I defy your oppression!”

“You are a fool,” Waxillium said to him, then spat blood to the side. “You let yourself get isolated and distracted, Miles. You forgot the first rule of the Roughs.”

Miles screamed, one of the constables pulling a gag over his mouth as he was tied tightly.

“The more alone you are,” Waxillium said softly, “the more important it is to have someone you can rely upon.”

20

“The constable-general has decided not to charge your associate for impersonating an officer of the law,” Reddi said.

Waxillium dabbed at his lip with the handkerchief. He sat in the precinct office nearest the Vanisher lair. He felt like slag, with broken ribs and half his body wrapped in bandages. He’d have scars from this.

“The constable-general,” Marasi said, voice hard, “should be glad for Lord Waxillium’s aid—in fact, he should have begged for Lord Waxillium’s help all along.” She sat beside him on the bench, hovering protectively.

“He actually does seem glad,” Reddi said. Now that Waxillium paid closer attention, he noticed how the constable kept glancing through the precinct room toward Brettin, the constable-general. Reddi’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips turning down. He was baffled by his superior’s calm reaction to events.

Waxillium was too exhausted at the moment to bother with the anomaly. In fact, it was nice to hear of something happening in his favor.

Reddi was called over by one of the other constables, and he left. Marasi laid a hand on Waxillium’s good arm. He could practically feel her concern for him physically in the way she hesitated, the way her brow wrinkled.

“You did well,” Waxillium said. “Miles was your catch, Lady Marasi.”

“I’m not the one who had to be beaten bloody.”

“Wounds heal,” Waxillium said, “even on an old horse like me. Watching him attack me and doing nothing … I’ll bet that was excruciating. I don’t think I could have stood it, if our places had been reversed.”

“You’d have done it. You’re like that. You’re every bit the man I thought you might be, yet somehow more real at the same time.” She looked at him, eyes wide, lips pursed. As if she wanted to say more. He could read her intent in those eyes.

“This isn’t going to work, Lady Marasi,” he said gently. “I’m thankful for your aid. Very thankful. But the thing you wish between us is not viable. I’m sorry.”

Not unexpectedly, she blushed. “Of course. I wasn’t implying such a thing.” She forced a laugh. “Why would you think—I mean, it’s silly!”

“I apologize, then,” he said. Though, of course, they both knew what the exchange had meant. He felt a deep regret. If I were ten years younger …

It wasn’t the age per se. It was what those years had done to him. When you watched a woman you loved die by your own gunshot, when you saw an old colleague and respected lawkeeper turn bad, it did things to you. Ripped you up inside. And those wounds, they didn’t heal nearly as easily as the bodily ones.

This woman was young, full of life. She didn’t deserve someone who was basically all scars wrapped up in a thick skin of sun-dried leather.

Eventually, Constable-General Brettin walked over to them. He was as stiff-backed as before, constable’s hat carried under his arm. “Lord Waxillium,” he said in a monotone.

“Constable-General.”

“For your efforts today, I have requested that the Senate give you a citywide deputized forbearance.”

Waxillium blinked in surprise.

“If you are not aware,” Brettin continued, “this would give you powers of investigation and arrest, as if you were a member of the constabulary, sufficient to authorize actions such as those of last night.”

“That is … very considerate of you,” Waxillium said.

“It is one of the only ways to excuse your actions without drawing embarrassment down upon the precinct. I have backdated the request, and if we are in luck, nobody will realize you were working alone this past night. Also, I do not wish for you to feel that you need to work alone. This city could use your expertise.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Waxillium said, “that’s quite a change from your previous stance.”

“I have had occasion to change my mind,” Brettin said. “You should know that I will soon be retiring. A new constable-general will be appointed in my position, but he will be required to accept the Senate’s mandate regarding you, should this motion be accepted.”

“I…” Waxillium was uncertain how to reply. “Thank you.”

“It’s for the good of the City. Of course, note that if you abuse this privilege, it will undoubtedly be revoked.” Brettin nodded awkwardly and withdrew.

Waxillium scratched at his chin, watching the man. Something decidedly odd was going on there. He was almost like a different person. Wayne passed him, tipping his lucky hat—which was bloodied on one side—and grinning as he approached Waxillium and Marasi.

“Here,” Wayne said, covertly handing something wrapped in a handkerchief to Waxillium. It was unexpectedly heavy. “Got you another of those guns.”

Waxillium sighed.

“Don’t worry,” Wayne said, “I traded a real nice scarf for it.”

“And where did you get the scarf?”

“Off one of the dead blokes you shot,” Wayne said. “So it wasn’t stealin’. He ain’t gonna need it, after all.” He seemed quite proud of himself.

Waxillium tucked the gun into his empty holster. The other holster held Vindication. Marasi had searched through the hideout after Miles was taken and had recovered it for him. That was good. It would have been sad to survive this night, only to have Ranette kill him.

“So,” Marasi said, “you traded a dead man’s scarf for another dead man’s gun. But … the gun itself belonged to someone dead, so by the same logic—”

“Don’t try,” Waxillium said. “Logic doesn’t work on Wayne.”

“I bought a ward against it off a traveling fortune-teller,” Wayne explained. “It lets me add two ’n’ two and get a pickle.”

“I … have no response to that,” Marasi said.

“Technically that was a response,” Wayne said.

“Looks like they fished that gunsmith outta the canal for you, Wax, and he’s alive. Not real happy, but alive.”

“Has anyone found anything regarding the other women who were kidnapped?” Waxillium asked.

Wayne glanced at Marasi, who shook her head. “Nothing. Maybe Miles will know where they are.”

If he’ll talk, Waxillium thought. Miles had stopped feeling pain long ago. Waxillium wasn’t certain how anyone would go about interrogating him.

Waxillium felt that by not rescuing the other women, he had failed in large measure. He’d vowed to get Steris back, and he had. But a greater evil had been done.

He sighed as the door to the captain’s office opened, and Steris stepped out. A pair of senior constables had taken her statement, after taking that of Waxillium and Wayne. The two constables waved for Marasi next, and she went, glancing over her shoulder at Waxillium. He’d told her to be frank and straightforward with them, and to not hide anything he or Wayne had done. Though, if she could, she was to obscure Ranette’s role.

Wayne wandered over to where some constables were eating morning sandwiches. They regarded him with suspicion, but—by experience—Waxillium knew that Wayne would soon have them laughing and asking him to join them. Does he even understand what he does? Waxillium wondered as Wayne launched into an explanation of the fight for the constables. Or does he just do it all by instinct?

Waxillium watched for a moment before realizing that Steris had approached him. She sat down in the chair directly across from him, maintaining good posture. She had fixed her hair, and while her dress was rumpled from her day of captivity, she looked relatively composed.

“Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I find it necessary to offer you my thanks.”

“I hope the necessity isn’t too onerous,” Waxillium said with a grunt.

“Only in that it comes … is required … after an onerous captivity. You should know that I was not touched indecently by my captors. I remain pure.”

“Rust and Ruin, Steris! I’m glad, but I didn’t need to know that.”

“You did,” she said, face impassive. “Assuming you still wish to proceed with our nuptials.”

“It wouldn’t matter either way. Besides, I thought we weren’t to that point yet. We haven’t even announced that we are seeing one another.”

“Yes, though I believe we can now amend our previous timetable. You see, a dramatic rescue such as you have effected will be expected to create an outpouring of my emotions. What once might have been a scandal will instead be viewed as romantic. We could plausibly announce an engagement next week and have it be accepted in high society without concern or comment.”