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Wayne was awakened quite rough-like, in a manner unbefitting his grand dreams, in which he was king of the dogs. Had a crown shaped like a bowl and everything. He blinked his eyes, feeling nice and warm, and got hit with a blast of air. Drowsy, he remembered he was flying in some kind of rusting airship with a fellow what had no face. And that was almost as good as that dog thing. “Can you bring us down closer?” Telsin asked. “If I do,” the masked guy said, “they’ll hear us, even with Wilg’s fans on low speed. We need to pass over those people below, but I will keep us very high.” Rusts! Wax’s sister hung half out of the machine’s open side, looking down, though Wayne could barely make her out with the light so low. He hadn’t figured that Telsin would be the adventurous type, what with Wax being all calm and careful most of the time. Yet there she was, doing her best imitation of a pub sign flapping in the wind. He nodded in appreciation, then untied his little belt thing, and got up to look at what she was seeing. He stepped over their packs, which had toppled from the neat stack Steris had made, then leaned out next to Telsin. That let him look down at a long line of people—lit by lanterns—trudging through what appeared to be waist-high snow. Poor sods. Wax stepped up to the other opening, looking down with his spyglass. Wayne couldn’t see much, himself. He held on with one hand and took out his box of gum, shaking it. Only one ball left. Damn. Well, at least it had plenty of powder on it. That would help perk him up, it would. “Do you see him?” Telsin asked. “I think so,” Wax said. “Wait. Yes, that’s him. I’ll bet they left on their expedition the moment they got word of what happened with us at the warehouse.” He reached into his holster and took out one of his guns. He gave the rusting things names, but Wayne could never keep them straight. It was one of the ones with the long tubey thing on the front what spat bits of metal at the bad guys. “Let me do it,” Telsin said, voice passionate. Wayne hesitated, ball of gum halfway to his mouth. That was quite the bloodthirst this woman had. “You can’t make a shot like this,” Wax said. “Not sure if I can either.” “Let me try,” Telsin begged. “I don’t care what it takes. I want him dead. Another will take his place, but I want him dead.” Wax sighted for a long moment, and everyone in the ship seemed to hold their breath. Finally, Wax lowered his gun. “No,” he said. “Your testimony in court will do more against the Set than killing a man for no reason other than vengeance. And I’d rather have him to interrogate anyway.” He holstered the gun. Wayne nodded. Reliable chap, that Wax. Steady. The same on a good day
and a bad. Wayne moved to retreat into the ship’s interior, but as he scrambled over the seats, he somehow got tangled a little with Telsin and, in the process, kicked one of the packs out the opening. Wayne stared down, aghast, as it fell and actually hit one of the men on the head. “What did you do?” Telsin demanded. Wayne winced. “What did Wayne do now?” Marasi asked, a sense of resignation in her voice. “He kicked that pack out right on top of them,” Telsin said. “’S not my fault,” he said. “Wax woke me up too soon. Put me off balance.” He looked back at the ship’s other occupants. Wax sighed, moving up beside the pilot. Steris and MeLaan sat on the back bench, out of the way—MeLaan lounging in a rather attractive way, Steris bent over a large notebook. Taking notes? What was wrong with that woman? Down below, the men in the snow held their lanterns high and scanned the sky, seeming confused. “Move us away,” Wax said to the masked pilot, pointing. “Go the direction they’re hiking.” “Yes, Decisive One,” the pilot fellow said, and the fans at the sides of the thing grew louder. “Hold on, everyone.” The ship shifted. Not quickly, but it did start moving again. Neat trick that had been, staying in place while flying. Birds couldn’t do that, just Coinshots. Wayne moved forward, sidling past Marasi to get a good look out the front of the ship. “Wind is picking up,” the pilot mentioned. “Might be a storm, as if things weren’t cold enough already.” “There,” Wax said, pointing. “What was that?” “I’ll bring us around,” the pilot fellow said, swinging the ship, which rocked precariously. Another gust of wind brought flakes of snow in through the openings in the ship’s walls. “That’s it,” Wax said, peering through the curtain of snow. “Harmony’s Rings … it’s really here.” “I don’t see anything,” Wayne said, squinting. “Hold on to something,” the pilot fellow said. “Or make sure you’re strapped in. I’m going to land.” So Wayne grabbed the man’s arm. “Something else.” Wayne grabbed the chair’s back, and good thing he did, since the ship pitched to the side as it came down. The landing wasn’t too bad, assuming you liked getting shaken about and then having your face smacked into the wall. Wayne blinked, finding himself in blackness. A moment later MeLaan managed to relight her lantern and hold it up, showing that the ship had settled halfway on its side, one of the fan wings—which could fold up so the thing could fit in the larger ship—having bent up on its hinges, with a big heap of snow pushed in through the hole in the ship’s side. “Is that how it usually goes?” Wax asked, standing up shakily on the sloping floor. “Landing is difficult,” the pilot fellow admitted. “Technically,” Marasi said from the back, “it’s not. It’s probably the easiest thing to do with a flying ship, assuming you’re not picky.” Wayne snorted, climbing across the ship to
the side that was pointed upward, and hopped out. The snow crunched when he dropped into it. He hadn’t expected that—the only snow he’d seen had been the occasional flurry up in the Roughs, and it never got anywhere near this deep. Why would it crunch? The stuff was made of water, not cereal flakes. He stumbled out of the high pile of snow onto a windswept rocky portion of ground. Snow pelted him like grains of sand, but it didn’t seem to be coming from the sky, just getting blown in from the side. He shivered and tapped more warmth. The clouds happened to roll out of the way, releasing starlight like a bouncer stepping back and letting folks into the night’s most exclusive club. That light cascaded down, white and calm, upon a rusting castle in the middle of the mountains. A bleak stone fortress, cut of the same stone as the field. It looked to be only one story, hunkered down against the wind, but it glowed in the starlight like the spirit of some ancient building from anteverdant days. Wayne breathed out slowly, his breath making white mist before him. “Nice,” he said, nodding. “Nice.” The folks that built this, they had style. Marasi clambered out of the ship, wearing Wax’s mistcoat for some reason, and almost fell face-first in the snow. She stood on top of the white fluff, a gust of wind almost knocking her over again, until suddenly she sank down into it farther with a crunch. She’d finally remembered to stop filling her weight metalmind. Easy mistake to make, if you weren’t accustomed to being a Feruchemist. She pushed through the snow and joined Wayne, wiping melted snow from her brow. She looked to be doing well, considering that she’d been shot. “Suit and his people aren’t far off,” she said. “And they know we’re here, now.” “Then we find the Bands first,” Wax said from behind them. It was seriously unfair how he glided up out of the machine, then soared on a quick jump to land next to them, no stumbling in that snow. Seriously. Why had Harmony made the stuff? Didn’t seem to serve much of a purpose. “Everyone grab your things. Allik, remove the grenade from the ship, just in case.” They all hurried to obey, Marasi climbing back in the machine, then joining Steris in handing the packs out. Allik emerged, wearing that mask of his still, and stood on the side of his ship, staring at the fortress and shaking his head. He then turned and patted his ship, like it was some kind of puppy, until Steris appeared and chased him away for some reason. A few moments later Marasi climbed out, wearing a dress instead of her uniform, but with trousers on underneath. She tossed Wax his mistcoat. Figures. A woman would have to change outfits for this. Can’t infiltrate a remote, ancient temple without properly accessorizing. Wayne ran his hand through his hair, then had a moment of panic. His hat! He scrambled back toward
the ship, looking around frantically, but then spotted it peeking from a snowdrift nearby, having fallen free as they landed. He picked it up with a sigh of relief. “Everyone back,” Wax said, steadying himself with a stable footing, the wind blowing his mistcoat tassels back and whipping them about. The others moved away from the ship, and Wax grunted, Pushing. The ship skidded back softly into the snow, piling it up in a wave. Wax Pushed until the thing was completely buried. “Nice,” Wayne said. “Let’s hope one of their Coinshots or a Lurcher doesn’t spot it beneath the snow,” Wax said, turning toward the temple and shouldering his shotgun. “Come on, let’s get out of this wind.” They picked up the packs and started across the stone field toward the fortress. Steris had found another lantern somewhere, and lit it. Wayne hurried his step and fell in beside that pilot fellow with the mask. “You know,” Wayne said, “I’m an Allomancer too.” The man said nothing. “I figured you’d want to know,” Wayne said, “since it seems like this is your religion and all. In case you wanted someone else to worship.” Again no reply. “I’m a Slider,” Wayne said. “Speed bubbles, you know? Those fancy titles would work for me just fine, I think. Handsome One. Smart One. Um … Guy wif the Great Hat.” The only sound was that of their footfalls and the gusting wind. “Now, see,” Wayne said, “this is unfair. Wax doesn’t want you to worship him, right? But you gotta have someone to worship. It’s human nature. It’s ingratiated in us. So, I’m willin’ to be accommodatin’ and let you—” “He can’t understand you, Wayne,” Marasi said, marching past. “He’s swapped metalminds to keep himself warm.” Wayne stopped in place as they all hiked onward. “Well, when he gets his brain back, someone tell him I’m a god, all right?” “Will do,” Wax called from up ahead. Wayne sighed, moving to catch up, but then stopped. What was that off to the side? He shouldered his pack and hiked over, ignoring Marasi’s call that he turn back. There was something there, near the cliffs. A hulking shape bigger than a house, the exposed bits covered in frost. Wax strode over, squinting against the wind, and grunted. “Another ship,” he said. “The one that the Hunters sent.” “The who?” “Group of people from Allik’s region,” Wax said. “They came here to destroy the place. Fortunately, it seems they didn’t succeed.” He turned to go, but Wayne nudged him, nodding toward a hand sticking from one of the snowbanks. Looking more closely, he was able to pick out a dozen corpses, perhaps more, lying there in this icy place, frozen for all time. Wax nodded, then they hiked back toward the others. Marasi and Steris had waited, along with the masked man—who had crossed half the distance to the new ship, then stopped, staring at it. Telsin had strode on ahead, MeLaan tailing her. He quickly joined the rest of them as they followed after Telsin
and MeLaan. “Your sister,” Wayne said to Wax, “is kinda…” “Severe?” Marasi said. “I was gonna say bonkers,” Wayne admitted. “Though I’m not sure if it’s the good kinda bonkers or the bad kind, as of yet, as I haven’t had time to give it the proper evaluatin’.” “She’s been through a lot,” Wax said, eyes ahead. “We’ll get her home and give her some physicians to talk to. She’ll mend.” Wayne nodded. “Course, she won’t fit in wif us anymore if she does.” They continued, and that fortress, rusts it was impressive. Made of broad stone blocks, the type that some poor fellow probably broke his back lugging about, it had steps out front leading up to an enormous statue. At first he was surprised, as all the way out here seemed an odd place for a sculpture—but then, the ones back in Elendel had been shat on by about a million birds, so perhaps this was the best place to keep your statue. The group of them made their way up the steps, fighting the wind. The medallion meant the wind wasn’t cold enough to chill his nethers, but it was still annoying. At the top of the steps they had to walk around that statue, which was in the shape of a fellow in a long coat holding a spear to his side, its tip resting on the stones. Wayne scratched his face, stepping back and craning his neck. “What’s wrong with his eye?” Wayne asked, pointing. Marasi stepped up beside him, squinting in the darkness. “A spike,” she said softly. “Like on that coin of Waxillium’s.” Yup, that was it. One spike, jutting through his right eye. Wayne rounded the statue, which had snow piled about its base. “One spiked eye,” Wax said, thoughtful. “This place was built by the Lord Ruler. Why would he have them make a statue of him with one eye spiked through?” “He carries a spear,” Marasi said. “For the one that he used to kill the Survivor?” “A metal spear,” Wax noted. “But no lines. Aluminum. Looks like some on his belt too. Expensive.” Marasi nodded. “The Lord Ruler was run through with three spears, by the Lord Mistborn’s testimony. ‘Once stabbed by a beggar, for the poverty he brought. Once stabbed by a worker, for the slavery he enforced. Last stabbed by a prince, for the lords he corrupted.’ The spears didn’t hurt him.” “Come on,” Telsin called from inside the building, where she’d been joined by Steris. Wax and the masked fellow moved off, but Wayne kept looking up at the statue. “So I’ve been thinkin’,” Wayne said as MeLaan passed him. “Yeah?” she asked, glancing at him. Rusts. Wax might think it weird, considering she was like a billion years old or something, but it seemed like even longer since a woman had looked at him like that. It wasn’t a lusty look or anything like that, it was … what was the word … Fond. Yup, that would do. “Wayne?” she asked. “Oh, right. Um, well, this place
is abandoned, right? So none of the stuff in it belongs to anyone.” “Well, I’m sure a lot of people would claim it,” MeLaan said. “But ownership would be tough to prove.” “So…” “So I’d say don’t touch anything anyway,” MeLaan said. “Oh. Right.” She smiled at him, then continued on in through the open doorway behind the statue. It was big, gaping, like a fellow’s mouth after you kick ’im right in the canteen. He looked back at the statue, then poked at the spearhead with his toe. Then he hit it with his heel. Then he hit with a rock. Finally, he twisted it a few times. It fell right off, clanging to the stone beneath. It had been practically hanging free. And Wax was wrong, only the head was of metal—the oversized spear was wood. Aluminum, you say? Wayne thought with a smile. Now, he didn’t care much for what rich folks said was worth money. Unless it was, by itself, worth more than a house. Little Sophi Tarcsel, the inventor, did need more funds. He wrapped the big spearhead, which was as large as his palm, with a handkerchief to keep it from freezing his fingers off, and started whistling as he jogged after the others. As he passed, he noticed that there once had been gates on this doorway, big ones, but they lay in frozen splinters. The others had gathered inside, where the temple had some kind of entryway. It had murals on either side, just like the ones that the strange kandra chap had shown back in Wax’s mansion. Wayne stepped up to one, beside Wax, who was inspecting it. Yup. Same mural. One depicting a pair of bracers on a pedestal, the other—across the way—depicting the Lord Ruler wearing them. “We’ve found the place for certain, then,” Wax said. “The statue was enough evidence, but this seals it. ReLuur was here.” Together they left the entryway, stepping through its only door into a long, dark hallway. What were those lumps ahead? MeLaan and Steris held their lanterns higher, though nobody seemed to have any inclination to be the first one to proceed. The masked fellow, though, he was muttering something in funny-talk. He seemed to be following something with his eyes. A metal pattern on the wall? He stepped to the side, and dug the little grenade from his pocket. He did something, opening its side, then used tweezers to extract what looked like a small nugget of metal. He shoved it into a cavity in the wall, then pulled down a lever. Wayne heard what he thought was distant humming, then a series of small blue lights started glowing on the walls. As was appropriate to match the atmosphere of this rusting place, they were creepier than Steris in the morning. There were no bulbs or anything rational like that, just sections of the walls that seemed to be made of translucent glass that glowed in a downright gloomy way. It was enough to light up the lumps on the floor. Bodies. A
right disturbing number of them, lying in awkward positions. And those pools around them … frozen blood. Wayne whistled softly. “They really went far to give this place a creepy look.” “Those bodies weren’t here originally,” Wax said dryly. “I think they must be— Wayne, what the hell is that?” “It fell right off,” Wayne said, clutching the spearhead, which was cold to the touch, even through the handkerchief. The tip was peeking out on one side. “I didn’t even look at it, Wax. Musta been loosened by the wind. See, it has a hole on the bottom for screwing off and—” “Don’t touch anything,” Wax said, pointing at him. “Else.” MeLaan gave him a look. “You shut up,” Wayne said to her. “Didn’t say a word, Wayne.” “You implied one. That’s worse.” Wax sighed, looking at the pilot fellow, who was inspecting some carvings on the wall. “Allik?” Wax said, then tapped the medallion he’d tied to his wrist. The masked man sighed, but swapped out one of his medallions for the other. He immediately shivered. “I have now been to hell,” he said. “These mountains will rise all the way there for certain.” “You think hell is in the sky?” Steris asked, standing close to Wax, practically clinging to him. “Of course it is,” Allik said. “Dig down deep enough in the ground, and things get warm. Hell must be the other way. What did you want of me, Great Metallic Destroyer?” Wax sighed. “Bodies,” he said, nodding down the hallway. “Traps?” “Yes,” Allik said. “The ones who built this place were charged with protecting the Sovereign’s weapon. They knew others would eventually follow, and so the builders were bound to make it difficult, knowing that they could not remain to guard in person. Not in this place of ice and death. But…” “What?” Wax said. “Those masks,” Allik said. “The masks of Hunters?” Wax asked. Allik looked at him, shocked. “How did you recognize them?” “I didn’t,” Wax said, walking forward carefully. Wayne joined him, as did MeLaan. Wax waved for Marasi, Steris, and Telsin to remain back, though he gestured for Allik to join them. Together, the four of them walked to the first set of corpses. Wax knelt down beside the pool of frozen blood. The closest fellow had died miserably, with a spike through his chest. Wayne could see the trap now, the tip of it still jutting from the wall. The poor fellow’s mates must have tried to pull him free of the spike, but then had gotten caught in traps themselves. The masks were different from Allik’s, that was for sure. Made of wood with bits of glass stuck to them, each in a different, odd pattern. And these ones showed the mouth, covering the top half the face, then running down the sides. The skin there, at the sides of the mask, seemed to have melded with the wood—though that might be because everything in here was as cold as a spinster’s bedroom. Wax nudged the mask. “You said the Hunters came to
destroy this place.” “Yes,” Allik said. “Well, I think they either lied to you, or changed their minds.” Wax nodded toward the busted doors, then down the hallway, littered with bodies. “The lure of the Bands was too powerful for these fellows. I’d guess the dead ones we found near the ship were the ones determined to go through with blowing up the whole place. Got betrayed, but then these betrayers in turn fell to the traps. The ones who returned home; what happened to them? Vanished?” “Yes,” Allik said, cocking his head. He raised his mask, revealing a wonderfully silly mustache and beard, then regarded Wax with awed eyes. “They went back to the Hunters. Then … gone. Returned to their families, it was said.” “Executed,” Wax said, rising. “It was discovered they helped murder the rest of their crew, then tried to steal the Bands. They turned back because of the traps killing too many of their fellows, took a skimmer because it was all they could man, and returned with a made-up story of a blizzard. They were going to gather another crew and try again. Their superiors caught them first.” Allik seemed befuddled. “How … how did you figure that—” “He does this all the time,” Wayne said. “Best not to encourage him.” “Just a theory,” Wax said. “One supported by the evidence though. Steris, Telsin. I want you to stay behind while—” “I’m going with you,” Telsin snapped. She walked forward, cold as the dead blokes on the floor. “I won’t be shoved aside, Waxillium. I won’t be left for our uncle to catch up to us and take me again.” Wax sighed, looking toward Steris and Marasi. “I’ll stay,” Steris said. “Someone needs to watch the entrance for Suit and his people.” Wax nodded, glancing at Wayne. “You keep an eye on her.” Then he looked to Marasi. “You keep an eye on him. We’ll come get you if we find anything.” Marasi nodded. Wayne sighed. “You intend to go forward?” Allik said, standing up, eyes bulging. “O Great Impetuous One, far be it from me—a lowly pilot—to question your ridiculous intentions, but … seriously? Didn’t you see the corpses?” “I saw them,” Wax said. “MeLaan?” “On it,” she said, striding forward. “Great One,” Allik said, “I cannot but think they have traps designed to kill your kind. If they thought of all this, they will have prepared for one such as you.” “Yes,” Wax said. “That spike was all wood.” Allik grew more frantic. “Then why would you—” MeLaan stepped on a pressure plate, causing a spear to launch out of one of the many small holes in the wall. It moved jarringly fast, piercing right through MeLaan’s torso, coming out the other side. She sighed, looking down. “This is going to absolutely ruin my wardrobe.” Allik gawked, then lifted his hand as if to raise his mask, only it was already up. He fumbled, unable to take his eyes off MeLaan, who yanked the spear out with a casual gesture. “Traps,” Wax said, “are
somewhat less threatening when you have an immortal along.” “Unless they have explosives,” MeLaan said. “If I lose a spike, you’d better be ready to stick it right back in. And I was serious—this is going to be awful for my clothing.” “You could do it without,” Wayne said hopefully. She thought for a moment, then shrugged, reaching to grab her top. “I’ll buy you new clothing, MeLaan,” Wax said, interrupting her. “We don’t want to make poor Allik fall over dead.” “Actually,” Allik said, “I don’t think I’d mind.” “Good man,” Wayne said. “Knew I liked you.” “Ignore them,” Wax said. “Wayne, help guard the door. Allik, I need you with me, in case something is written in your language.” The man nodded, then put back down his mask. Made sense why he wore one now. Wayne couldn’t grow a proper beard either, but at least he had the sense to shave. MeLaan strolled down the hallway. “Telsin, stay behind me,” Wax said, “and step exactly where I step. Same for you, Allik.” They left Wayne and the two ladies behind. Ahead, a large spiked log swung out of a hidden compartment and crushed MeLaan against the wall. She shook it off like a champ, stumbling on down the hallway while her leg re-formed. “You know,” Wayne said, looking toward Steris and Marasi, “she might be even better at the Blackwatch Doublestomp than I am.” 24 Marasi settled in beside Wayne and Steris, watching the approach to the temple. Distant lanternlight showed Suit’s group. But they were getting closer. What would they do if the man got here? Fight? For how long? Eventually their medallions would run out of heat, and they had almost nothing in the way of supplies. They’d simply have to count on Waxillium finding the Bands quickly; then they could escape on the skimmer and be away before Suit could do anything. The idea of that infuriating man stuck up here in the snows—having slogged miles and miles to find an empty temple—appealed to her. At the very least, imagining his reaction distracted her from her own annoyance. Sit here, Marasi. Stay out of trouble. Babysit Wayne. She knew that wasn’t what he meant, but it was still galling. Rather than sit and simmer in her own petulance, Marasi dug in her purse, pulling out the little spike that belonged to ReLuur. Such a small thing, and so clean—a shining sliver of … pewter, was it? Staring at it in the light of Steris’s lantern, she wished she didn’t know its history. A person had been killed to make this, their soul ripped apart so a piece could be used to make a kandra. Even though it had been done long ago, to someone who would have been centuries dead by now anyway, she felt as if there should be blood beneath her fingers, making the spike slippery. It should not be so clean. Yet, she thought, where would mankind be without the kandra, acting as Harmony’s hands—guiding and protecting us? Such good to come of something
so awful. Indeed, according to the Historica, without the work the kandra had done through the ages collecting atium, mankind would likely have been destroyed. The Lord Ruler is the same, Marasi thought. He was a monster. He created this spike by killing someone. And yet he somehow managed to get to Allik’s people and save their entire civilization. Waxillium sought justice. He had an open heart—he’d spared Wayne’s life all those years ago, after all—but in the end, he sought to uphold the law. That was shortsighted. Marasi wanted to create a world where law enforcement wouldn’t be needed. Was that why she was so annoyed with him lately? “You bein’ careful with that?” Wayne asked, nodding toward the spike. “You don’t want to prick yourself and turn into a kandra.” “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Marasi said, tucking it back into her purse. “Never can tell,” Wayne said. “I think I should carry it. Just in case.” “You’d swap it for the first trinket we passed, Wayne.” “No I wouldn’t.” He paused. “Why? You see somethin’ good back there?” Marasi rose and walked to Steris, who had settled primly on a stone shelf along the wall of the temple’s vestibule. She sat in a ladylike posture, knees forward, back straight, writing carefully on a notebook by lanternlight. “Steris?” Marasi asked. The woman looked up and blinked. “Ah. Marasi. Perhaps you can help me with a topic. How useless am I?” “Excuse me?” “Useless,” Steris said, holding her notebook. Not her little pocket one; her larger one, full-sized, which she’d brought in her pack. She used it for brainstorming lists. Today, she’d been writing on the back of it. “I’ve been trying to quantify it, for reference purposes,” Steris said. “I am under no illusions as to my position in this group. I am the baggage, the accident. The person who needs to be left with the horses, or sent to stay away from traps. If Lord Waxillium could have sequestered me somewhere safe along the way and left me, he certainly would have.” Marasi sighed, slumping down on the shelf beside her sister. Was this actually something the two of them could relate on? “I know how you feel,” she said. “I spent the first year around him feeling unwelcome, as if Waxillium considered me some little puppy nipping at his heels. And now, when he finally does seem to have accepted me, he treats me as merely a tool to be used or put back on the shelf as required.” Steris cocked her head at Marasi. “I think you mistake me.” Of course I do, Marasi thought with resignation. “How?” “I did not mean to say I minded being treated this way,” Steris said. “I was merely stating facts. I am quite useless on this expedition, and I think that is only fair, considering my personal life experience. However, if I wish to improve, I need to know how far I have to go. Here.” She turned her notebook to show Marasi the back, where she’d
been writing. Why use the back? Either way, she’d drawn a small graph with points plotted on it. Usefulness was listed on one axis, and it had names up the other. Rusts—she’d assigned a number to everyone’s level of worth on the mission. Waxillium was a hundred, as was MeLaan. Wayne was a seventy-five. Marasi was an eighty-three. She hadn’t expected that. “I would say that ten is the threshold below which one’s uselessness outweighs the little one does add to the project. I’m thinking I might be a seven, as there are instances where it is better to have me along, though they are few. What do you think?” “Steris,” Marasi said, pushing the notebook aside. “Why do you care about being useful here in the first place?” “Well, why do you?” “Because this is who I am,” Marasi said. “Who I want to be. But not you—you’re perfectly happy sitting in a parlor digging through ledgers. Yet here you are, on the top of a mountain in a blizzard, waiting for a gunfight.” Steris pursed her lips. “I assumed,” she eventually said, “that I would be of help to Lord Waxillium at the party, and I was. It was my original understanding that this would be primarily a political enterprise.” Of course. So analytical in everything. Marasi settled back, glancing out the doorway at those approaching lights. Wayne, fortunately, was watching carefully. He acted the fool sometimes, but he took his duties seriously. “And then,” Steris said softly, “perhaps I came along because of the way it feels.…” Marasi looked sharply back at her sister. “Like the whole world has been upended,” Steris said, looking toward the ceiling. “Like the laws of nature and man no longer hold sway. They’re suddenly flexible, like a string given slack. We’re the spheres.… I love the idea that I can break out of it all—the expectations, the way I’m regarded, the way I regard myself—and soar. “I saw it in his eyes, first. That hunger, that fire. And then I found it in myself. He’s a flame, Waxillium is, and fire can be shared. When I’m out here, when I’m with him, I burn, Marasi. It’s wonderful.” Marasi’s jaw dropped, and she gawked at her sister. Had those words left Steris’s mouth? Careful, monotonous, boring Steris? She glanced toward Marasi and blushed. “You actually love him, don’t you?” Marasi asked. “Well, love is a strong emotion, one that requires careful deliberation to—” “Steris.” “Yes.” She looked down at her notebook. “It’s foolish, isn’t it?” “Of course it is,” Marasi said. “Love is always a foolish emotion. That’s what makes it work.” She found herself reaching over and pulling Steris into a hug with one arm. “I’m happy for you, Steris.” “And you?” Steris asked. “When will you find someone to make you happy?” “It’s not about finding someone, Steris. Not for me.” But what was it about? She gave Steris another hug and, distracted by her own jumble of thoughts, went to check on Wayne. “What’cha thinkin’ about?” Wayne asked as she joined
him beside the outer doorway. “I just had my long-held assumptions about someone shattered in a brief moment. I’m wondering if every person I pass has similar depths, and if there’s any way to avoid the mistake of judging them so shallowly that I’m rocked when they show their true complexity. You?” “I was lookin’ at you two,” Wayne said, contemplative as he regarded the snowy landscape outside rather than her, “and wondering. Do sisters ever really get sexy with one another for a fellow to watch, or does that only happen in pub songs?” Marasi let out a long breath. “Thank you for restoring my ability to trust my judgment, Wayne.” “Anytime.” “Those lights are still distant,” Marasi said. “You think they got trapped in the snows?” Wayne shook his head. Marasi frowned, noting his posture—seeming relaxed, but he’d gotten out one of his dueling canes and rested it across his knees. “What?” she asked. “I figure,” Wayne said, “that if I knew I’d been spotted, the best way to sneak up would be to leave my lights behind and make it seem like I’m goin’ slowly.” Marasi looked again. She ignored the lights this time, scanning a nearer darkness full of shifting snow. And there, almost to the windswept patch of rock before the temple, she caught movement. Shadows in the shadows. “Time to call for Waxillium?” Marasi asked. “I think…” He trailed off, and Marasi pulled her rifle up, nervous. “What?” she asked. Wayne pointed to an approaching shadow. It bore a little flag, crossed with an X. The symbol for parley. * * * Wax pulled on the rope, helping MeLaan climb from the pit. She crawled over the edge, then flopped down. She’d been right about her clothing—it was ragged, pierced in several dozen places, her left trouser leg ripped completely at the thigh. She’d compacted her body, somehow. Most of her fatty curves had become taut muscles instead, and she’d taken off her hair, storing it in the pack Allik carried, leaving her bald. Wax knelt beside her, glancing down the hallway with its spikes, pits, poison darts, and other strange mechanisms. The entire temple seemed to be one long passage, intended to be as hard to move through as possible. Something about this is wrong, Wax thought. But what? MeLaan stirred on the ground. “Rest a moment,” Wax said, hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know if we have a moment, Ladrian,” she said, sitting up and accepting a canteen of water from the nervous Allik. Telsin stood nearby with arms folded, obviously annoyed at how long this was taking. She kept glancing over her shoulder, as if at any moment she expected to find Suit there to take her again. “How are your bones?” Wax asked MeLaan. She held up her left arm—or tried to. It had snapped at the middle of the humerus, and the rest of her arm dangled. Wax breathed out. “You’re sure that doesn’t hurt?” “Turned off the nerves that cause pain,” she said. “A trick we’ve learned over the
last centuries. And since my bones are crystal, they can’t feel.” She grimaced as the arm straightened, the break seeming to heal. But it hadn’t, Wax knew—she couldn’t make bone, or heal it. “Another patch?” She nodded. She had stretched ligament along the sides of the break to hold it tight. She’d done that with many of her bones already. MeLaan moved to rise. “We can find another way,” Wax said, standing. “Break in through one of the walls up ahead, or the roof maybe.” “And how long will that take?” “Depends on how much we care about what’s inside.” “And wouldn’t it be silly to come all this way, then ruin the Bands of Mourning because of our impatience?” Wax looked down the hallway. They were most of the way through it, so he put off pushing her further. He could see a door ahead. “You might not have to do much more anyway,” Wax said. “I think I have the pattern figured out.” “What pattern?” MeLaan asked. “Pressure plate under the second stone to your right,” Wax said. “Shoots darts.” She glanced at him, then stepped forward and tapped it with her toe. Darts spat from the wall, passed before her, and bounced against the opposite wall. “Next one is two stones ahead,” Wax said. “There’s a hint of a metal line leading underneath it. So far, those have been wall traps.” Another toe press. A portion of the wall opened, dropping a very large spiked log. “Nice,” MeLaan said. “Last one should be a pit trap,” Wax said, joining her in walking around the fallen log. “Check your rope. The stones those are under are raised slightly.” She tugged on it, using her right hand because the fingers of her left had been crushed. The crystal had broken beyond repair, and she now walked with the hand permanently shut, splinters of bones fused together by tendons. “I hate the pit ones,” she said. “They just keep going down. Makes me afraid of what might be at the bottom.” She stepped on the section of floor he indicated, and Wax held tightly to his side of the rope, which was tied about his waist. But instead of a pit trap, the ceiling opened, dropping a block of something. MeLaan jumped back, and the block of strangely colored ice banged to the stones beneath. It was wet, its surface oddly oily-looking. “What in Harmony’s Rings—” MeLaan said, squatting to inspect the ice. “Acid, maybe?” Wax said. “It looks like whatever they stored up there was a liquid, but it separated over time, and half froze.” MeLaan stared at it a long time. “What?” Wax asked. “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “So that’s it?” “Best as I can tell.” Together, they stepped up before the end of the hallway, at a door made of stone. But there was no handle. The rest of the wall was thick stone as well. There were some markings carved into the door, if indeed that was what it was. Circles, with symbols in them, inlaid
in silver. Wax looked to Allik. “I don’t recognize any of those,” the pilot said after swapping his metalminds. “If they’re writing, it’s not a language I understand.” “What do you want to do?” MeLaan asked. “Let’s get the others,” Wax said, thoughtful. “More brains to solve this will be helpful, and Marasi might recognize those from ReLuur’s notes.” They started back, letting MeLaan go first again—though Wax kept his eyes open for any indicators of traps. It was still slow going, as she wanted to be careful they’d caught everything. Telsin fell in beside Wax, glancing once over her shoulder at the door, arms wrapped around herself, though with the medallion she couldn’t be cold. Allik trailed behind them, wearing his warming medallion. “Do you ever wonder, Waxillium,” Telsin said softly, “how you got where you are?” “Sometimes, I suppose,” he said. “Though I figure I can trace it. I don’t always like it, but it makes sense, if I stop and think it through.” “I can’t do the same,” she said. “I remember being a child, and assuming the world belonged to me. That I’d be able to seize it when I grew older, accomplish my dreams, become something great. Yet as I’ve aged, I feel like less and less is under my control. I can’t help thinking it shouldn’t be that way. How could I have been so in control as a youth, yet often feel so helpless as an adult?” “That’s our uncle’s fault,” Wax said. “For keeping you captive.” “Yes, and no. Wax, I’m an adult—with greying hair and over half my life behind me. Shouldn’t I have a clue as to what this is all about?” She shook her head. “That’s not Edwarn’s fault. What have we done, Waxillium? We’re alone. Our parents are dead. We’re the adults now, yet where are our children? What’s our legacy? What have we accomplished? Don’t you ever feel like you never actually grew up? That everyone else did, but you’re secretly faking?” No, he didn’t feel that way. But he grunted in agreement anyway—it was good to hear her show a side of herself other than feverish hatred of Suit and his people. “Is that why you’re so keen to come here?” Wax asked. “You think that what we find in there will accomplish something?” “At least it will help society,” Telsin said. “Unless it destroys society.” “Pushing society forward is no destruction. Even if, in doing so, it leaves us behind.” She withdrew into herself again. He couldn’t blame her, after her ordeal. He wished there had been time to go back to Elendel, see her situated in someplace warm and safe, before flying back here. They retraced their steps, passing the traps they’d already set off. Fallen blocks of stone from the ceiling, darts and spears from the walls, even a stone wall that had dropped to block them, though MeLaan had kept it from falling all the way by slamming a large rock underneath. Wax had been able to wiggle into the space and Push a
few coins upward to lift it farther, then they propped it up with rocks in the tracks at the sides. They still had to stoop to go underneath. They did find two more traps, which they set off as well. Wax found himself increasingly dissatisfied. So much work, he thought, noting again the wall section that had fallen in to release scythes that cut the air. That trap had gotten entangled on itself, and so hadn’t endangered them at all—but the ingenuity required to put it together was marvelous. “Allik,” he said, prompting the short man to swap back to his Connection medallion. “Why would your people build such an obvious resting place for the Bands? Why make this temple, which proclaims that something precious is inside, then go to the effort of making all these traps? Why not just hide the Bands someplace unassuming, like a cave?” “They are a challenge, like I said, Thoughtful One,” Allik said. “And it was not my people who did this, not specifically. The original priests who crafted this place were of no people currently living among us.” “Yes,” Wax said, “and you told me the Sovereign left his weapon here with orders to protect it because he was going to return for it. Right?” “That is the legend.” “These traps don’t make sense, then,” Wax said, waving back down the hallway. “Wouldn’t they have been worried for your king’s safety?” “Simple traps could not affect him, Unobservant Master,” Allik said with a laugh. A nervous laugh. He’d glanced at MeLaan again. “The traps are a declaration, and a challenge.” They walked on, but still Wax felt unsatisfied. Allik’s explanations made a sort of sense—as much sense as building the temple up in the mountains. It was everything Wax would have expected from such a place, down to the smallest details. Perhaps that was the problem. “Wax!” Wayne’s head poked into the corridor before them. They were almost back to the front entryway. “Wax, there you are. Your uncle, mate. He’s here.” “How close?” Wax asked, speeding up. “Close, close,” Wayne said. “Like, on our doorstep and demandin’ rent money close.” He’d hoped to have the Bands before that happened. “We’ll need to try to collapse the entryway,” Wax said as he reached Wayne. “Or maybe this hallway. Seal them out while we finish in here.” “We could do that,” Wayne said. “Or…” “Or what?” Wax asked, stopping in place. “We’ve got him captured,” Wayne said, thumbing over his shoulder. “Marasi has a gun to his rusting head.” Captured? “Impossible.” “Yeah,” Wayne said, sounding troubled. “He walked right up to us, carrying a flag. Says he wants to talk. To you.” 25 Wax passed from the temple’s vestibule onto the landing outside. Edwarn Ladrian, his uncle, stood at the top of the steps, just beneath the statue of the Lord Ruler. Wax was accustomed to seeing this man in a sensible suit, surrounded by luxury—so it was somehow both strange and satisfying at the same time to find Edwarn in a thick coat, hood up,
fur brushing cheeks red with the cold. His beard was stuck with snow, and he smiled at Wax, gloved hands resting atop an ivory walking stick. Marasi knelt in the doorway, her rifle trained directly on him. Edwarn stood alone, though his people—at least a hundred, perhaps more—were setting up tents and dumping supplies in piles on the stone approach. “Waxillium!” Edwarn said. “Speaking out here in the cold would prove unpleasant. Might I join you and yours inside?” Wax studied the man. What trick was he planning? Edwarn would never place himself solely in Wax’s power, would he? “You can put the gun down,” Wax said to Marasi. “Thank you.” She rose, hesitant. Wax nodded to Edwarn, who cheerily walked through the doorway. Edwarn was a stout man, plump and round-faced. As Wax stepped into the doorway after him, Edwarn pulled off his gloves and put down his hood, revealing a head of hair that was more silver than black. He removed his parka; beneath it he wore stout trousers, suspenders, and a thick white shirt. However, as he folded the parka over his arm, his cheeks returned to a normal color and he stopped shivering. “You do know what the medallions do,” Wax said. “Certainly,” Edwarn said. “But their reserves of heat are not eternal, and we don’t know how to refill them. We had to reserve their use for those who were suffering greatly from the cold during our trip.” He glanced toward Allik, who had moved up beside Marasi, taking her arm in one hand and staring death at Edwarn. Telsin, Wax thought, seeking the woman out. If she shot their uncle as she had that man in the warehouse … She stood all the way across the vestibule, just outside of it, in the hallway with the traps. Wayne had wisely sauntered over and stood nearby, back to the doorway. He nodded lazily to Wax. He was watching her. “I see you stole one of my savages,” Edwarn said, gesturing at Allik. “He taught you to use the medallions? Both heat and weightlessness?” Wax pursed his lips and didn’t reply. “No need to act stupid, Nephew,” Edwarn said. “We could judge their nature from the type of metals involved, of course. It is a pity we didn’t discover the smaller flying machines hidden in the large one. That would have made my trip so much easier.” “Why did you come here, Uncle?” Wax demanded, stepping out of the doorway and casually putting his back to the wall, in case there was a sharpshooter outside. He noticed, impressed, that Marasi had done the same. “Why did I come? For the same reason as you, Nephew. To find a weapon.” “I meant,” Wax said, “why did you come in here, to be taken by me. You’re giving yourself up?” “Giving myself— Nephew, I came to negotiate.” “I have no need to negotiate,” Wax said. “I have you now. You’re under arrest for treason, murder, and kidnapping. Allik will stand witness against you.” “The savage?” Edwarn said, amused. “I also
have—” Edwarn rapped his cane on the stones. It was banded in metal. Foolish; Wax could use that against him. “No need, no need,” Edwarn said. “I am not in your custody, Nephew. Stop entertaining this fantastical delusion that you can achieve anything by harassing me. Even if you were to somehow drag me back to Elendel and throw me in a cage, I’d be released in days.” “We’ll see,” Wax said. He raised Vindication, pointing it right at Edwarn’s head. “Run. Give me an excuse, Uncle. I dare you.” “So dramatic,” Edwarn said. “Did they teach you that in the Roughs, then?” He shook his head. “Have you looked outside? I have twenty Allomancers and Feruchemists here, son. All well trained, and all ready to kill. You’re in my custody, if anything.” Wax cocked Vindication. “Lucky that I’ve got you, then.” “I am not so important to the Set as all that,” Edwarn said with a smile. “Don’t think they wouldn’t shoot through me to get to you. But it won’t come to that. You won’t use me as a hostage. What would there be for you to gain? We’ve already dug out your little flying ship. You aren’t getting out of here alive. Not unless I order it.” Wax clenched his jaw as Edwarn walked to the side of the entryway and settled down on a stone shelf there. He fished in his pocket and brought out a pipe, then nodded in greeting toward Steris, who had been seated on the shelf but immediately moved away. “Could I borrow that lantern?” Edwarn asked. Steris held out the lantern. He stuck a lighting stick into it, then used that in turn to light his pipe. He puffed at it a few times, then leaned back, smiling pleasantly. “So?” “What do you want from me?” Wax said. “To accompany you,” Edwarn said. He nodded toward the hallway beyond. “Our interrogation of the savages—now that we’ve been able to force them to speak properly—indicates that there is a hallway full of traps beyond here. And…” Edwarn hesitated. “Ahh, so you’ve been through the traps, have you? Then you know about the door?” “How do you know this?” Allik said, stepping forward, fists clenched. Marasi put a warning hand on his shoulder, holding him back. “What have you done to my crewmates?” “You’ve made yours talk too, I see,” Edwarn said. “A pity the Lord Ruler gave his fantastic knowledge to them, don’t you think? Barely men. They must hide their—” “How do you know?” Allik continued, speaking more loudly. “About the hallway? About the door?” “Your captain knew many things you did not, I believe,” Suit said. “Did she tell you about the group of Hunters she carried as subcaptain in her youth? How she got them drinking, and listened to their secrets? They were planning to return here, she said, for the prize.” “My captain,” Allik said, voice strained. “She lives?” Suit smiled, puffing on his pipe, then turned to Wax. “I can get you through the door. I have the key,
passed from the lips of a dying priest, to a doomed Hunter, to an airship captain, and now at last to me.” He spread his hands, smoking pipe in one. “You’re trying to trick me,” Wax said, narrowing his eyes. “Of course I am,” Suit said. “The question is, can you best me? Without an accommodation, we are at an impasse. My men outside can’t get in here. It’s too fortified a position, and we can’t risk explosives lest we damage the prize. You, however, can’t get out. You can’t get the Bands without my help, but you can’t pass my army of Allomancers either. You’ll starve in here.” Wax ground his teeth. Rusts, he hated this man. Edwarn … Suit … he was the infection that ate at the wounds of noble society. Spreading his disease. Bringing fever. He was the very definition of the games Wax hated. “Waxillium,” Telsin said from the doorway. “Don’t trust him. He’ll trick you. He’ll win. He always wins.” “We’ll try it your way, Uncle,” Wax said reluctantly. “I’ll let you open the door, but then you must return here.” Edwarn sniffed. “I get to go inside, past the door, and see what is there. Otherwise, you will get no help from me.” “You’ll be under guard. I’ll have a gun to your head.” “I have no objection to this.” He puffed on his pipe, held the smoke in his mouth, then let it out between the teeth of his smile. Wax gave his uncle a thorough frisk. He had no Allomantically reactive metal on his body save for that on his cane, but he didn’t have any aluminum either. At least not in a large enough concentration to be dangerous. “You first,” Wax said, waving his gun toward the doorway. He ignored Telsin’s glare. Wayne stood up and held her to the side as Edwarn sauntered through, trailing pipe smoke. Marasi fell in beside Wax as he followed, gripping her rifle with white knuckles. Allik, Steris, and MeLaan came next. Wayne and Telsin took the rear, keeping Wax’s sister as far from Uncle Edwarn as possible. “You sure about this?” Marasi asked as they passed rubble, strewn spears, and darts. Wax didn’t answer. He thought furiously about what his uncle could be planning. What had Wax missed? He had several theories by the time they reached the door. Edwarn stood before it, looking the symbols up and down. “Push on that one,” he said, pointing toward one of the engraved circles. “With Allomancy.” Wax cleared everyone back save Wayne. The shorter man nodded, wearing the bracelet that would let him heal great amounts, speed bubble at the ready in case somehow Edwarn planned the activation of the door to be a trap. Wax Pushed. Something clicked. “Now there,” Edwarn said, pointing. “The one with the triangular shape.” Click. “Finally this one,” Edwarn said, tapping one with the back of his hand. “That’s it?” Wax said. “Get them wrong and the thing freezes shut, I’m told,” Edwarn said idly. “It has a clockwork timer. Won’t
be ready again for ten years. You could spend a lifetime guessing, and still have only a small chance of opening it.” He looked at Wax and smiled. “Apparently these symbols spell out something the Lord Ruler would have understood.” Wax glanced back at Allik, who shook his head, baffled. “They really make no sense to me.” Wax turned around, held his breath, and Pushed on the final symbol. It clicked. Then, with a deep scrape of stone on metal, the entire thing slid to the side, opening a path. Edwarn stepped toward it, but Wax leveled his gun, causing the man to hesitate. “I’ll have you know,” Edwarn said, “that I worked a very long time to find what was in this place. It seems unfitting that another should pass that door before me.” “Tough,” Wax said, grabbing Telsin’s shoulder as she tried to slip by him and enter. “MeLaan?” “Right,” the kandra said. Rusts, she limped as she passed through the door. One of her legs was longer than the other, because of the breaks. She said she didn’t feel pain, but if she chose to lie to him, he’d never know. She stepped into the other room, which had a soft blue glow coming from it. More of those glass lights in the walls. “Nothing hit me on the way in,” she said from within. “Want me to walk around a bit?” “Just around the doorway area,” Wax called to her, gun still held on Edwarn. “Make sure it’s safe for us.” They waited a tense few moments. No traps activated in the other room that he could hear. “How can you wait?” Telsin asked. “Knowing what could be back there? A wonder beyond understanding.” “It isn’t going anywhere.” “You never want to know what’s beyond the door,” Telsin whispered. “You never did chase the horizon. Where is your curiosity?” “It’s alive and well. The things I’m curious about are simply different from the ones you find exciting.” “All clear,” MeLaan said from the other room. Wax nodded for the others to go first, everyone but him and Edwarn. “Stay near the door,” he told them. Once they were inside, he stepped closer to his uncle. “Threatening,” Edwarn said, looking him up and down. “You separated us from the others, Waxillium. Planning a little intimidation?” “I care for the people in that room,” Wax said softly. “I suspect more than a monster like you can ever know.” “You think me emotionless?” Edwarn said, his voice stern. “I tried to spare your life, Waxillium. I argued before the Set on your behalf. There was a time when I loved you like a son.” Wax raised Vindication again. “When we’re done with this,” Wax said, “you’re going to give me names. The others in the Set. I’m going to drag you back to Elendel, and there you’ll talk.” “And you’d brutalize me to get those names, no doubt,” Edwarn said. “I follow the law.” “Which can be changed—or bent—to suit your needs. You call me a monster; you hate me because
I seek rule. And yet you serve those who do the very same things as I. Your senate? It strangles the life from children with its economic policies.” Edwarn stepped forward, a motion which put the barrel of Wax’s gun right at his temple. “The longer you live, Waxillium, the more you’ll know I am right. The difference between good and evil men is not found in the acts they are willing to commit—but merely in what name they are willing to commit them in.” “Waxillium?” Marasi appeared at the stone doorway. “You’ll want to see this.” Wax ground his teeth together and felt his eye twitching. He pulled the gun away from his uncle’s head and waved it toward the door. Edwarn sauntered in, pipe trailing smoke. Wax followed, and entered the solitary room at the center of the fortresslike temple. The dais here was the one depicted in the mural at the temple’s entrance. It rose from the center of the room, gilded and slender, with steps leading up to it. On it was a small square pedestal topped with red velvet and a golden rack suitable for the display of a precious relic. A soft white light, not blue like those at the sides of the room, shone from above the dais and illuminated the whole thing. The whole empty thing. Shattered glass lay on the floor of the dais. Wax could pick out corners; it was the remains of a glass box that had once topped the pedestal, enshrouding what had lain there. The room was quiet and still, frost on the floor in places, dust disturbed by the opening of the stone door floating in the air. There were no other doors or openings in the walls. “Gone,” Wax whispered. “Someone beat us here.” 26 “Why’s everyone looking at me?” Wayne said. “Natural reaction,” Marasi said. She held a gun on Edwarn, as did MeLaan. Wax carefully picked his way across the floor. Looks like a throne room, he thought absently. The others started to follow, and he held them back with an upraised hand. “Stay in this center row walking toward the dais,” he ordered them, not looking. “There’s a pit trap on either side, and that slightly depressed square over there? It’ll drop a sharpened blade from the ceiling.” “How does he know that?” Steris asked. She clutched her notebook, within which she made lists. “Wax has a natural affinity for things what kill people,” Wayne said. “You’re all still lookin’ at me. Rusts, you think I somehow got in here and lifted the rusting thing?” “No,” Marasi admitted. “But someone did. ReLuur the kandra?” “No,” Wax said, crouching and picking among the pieces of glass on the steps leading up to the pedestal. “These have been here a long time, judging by the dust.” There was no way the kandra had gone down that corridor outside. Too many traps were left, and all the ones that had been sprung had bodies near them. It was likely that the kandra had snapped his pictures and
wisely returned home to gather more of his kind and mount a proper expedition. Kandra were immortal; he wouldn’t be hasty in trying to get in here. He’d have planned to take years studying the temple and extracting its secrets. Who, then? Telsin passed him, stepping to the dais. Glass crunched under her feet, and Wax glanced up to see her staring at the empty pedestal, aghast. “How?” she murmured. MeLaan shook her head. “What would you do, if you’d secretly stolen the thing? Leave the place gaping open to let everyone know, or reset the traps and sneak away?” No, Wax thought. Reset the traps? Unlikely. He glanced at his uncle, who stood with pipe in hand, staring at the dais with bristling anger. He was surprised by this. Or was that an act? Was this all a setup, after taking the Bands, to throw Wax off? Wax brushed the dust from a piece of glass, then dropped it and selected a larger chunk, one of the corner pieces. Wax eyed it critically, then took another piece and set it alongside. “This is a disappointment,” Edwarn said. He seemed genuinely troubled. This wasn’t him, Wax thought, stretching out one of his mistcoat tassels and using it judge the length of the shard of glass. No, this goes back way further than that.… He stood up, the arguments of the others becoming a distant buzz to him as he regarded the supposed resting place of the Bands of Mourning. A small velvet-topped pedestal, frozen in time. “I guess that is that,” Edwarn said. “Time for this to end, then.” Wax spun, whipping out his gun. He pointed it not at Edwarn, but at his sister. She stared him down, hand at her pocket. Then she slowly removed a gun. Where had she gotten that? He couldn’t sense it. Aluminum. “Telsin,” Wax said, voice hoarse. Edwarn wouldn’t have come in here without a mole. She made the most sense. But rusts. “I’m sorry, Waxillium,” she said. “Don’t do this.” He hesitated. Too long. She raised the gun. He fired. She did the same. His shot swerved away from her, Pushed by Allomancy. But her shot—aluminum—took him just below the neck. * * * Marasi moved before she had time to think. Her rifle already in position, she shot at Suit. Whatever was happening, having him dead couldn’t hurt. Unfortunately, her bullet veered as well, missing Edwarn. Then her weapon flew backward from her hands. Suit smiled at her with infuriating unconcern. At the pedestal, Waxillium stumbled back. He’d been hit right where the collarbone met his neck. He tried to remain on his feet, but Telsin shot him a second time, in the abdomen. Waxillium collapsed, rolled down the steps to the base of the dais, and groaned. Edwarn was an Allomancer. Telsin was in the Set. Again, Marasi reacted before she knew what she was doing. Wayne leaped for Suit, but Suit took a hit from the dueling canes without flinching, then used his own cane—which was banded in metal—and Pushed it
against Wayne. Wayne was flung toward Marasi, canes clattering to the floor. He grunted, hitting the ground as Marasi tried to leap for Suit. Perhaps if she caught just him in a bubble with her, Wayne could— Her metal reserves were gone. Wayne stumbled up behind her, looking similarly confused. Telsin had tossed something between the two of them. A small metal cube. Another Allomantic grenade. She was an Allomancer too. She tossed a bag of something to Suit. Coins. Wayne recovered from his surprise, leaping toward Edwarn again. But the man Pushed a handful of coins. Wayne cursed, flinching in midair as the coins ripped through his body. Marasi watched in horror, and nearby someone screamed. Shock. No. She wouldn’t let herself be stunned. She hurled herself at Suit, though he casually shoved her aside. She briefly caught hold of his shirt as she fell, but then her fingers slipped. Her head knocked against the stones as she hit. Dazed, she was able to see Waxillium stumble to his feet. He lurched, bleeding, as Telsin fired again. Then he charged: but not for the doorway, or for Suit. He scrambled toward the side of the room, away from everything. The only thing in that direction was a corner, surely trapping him— The floor dropped, plunging Waxillium into the pit. Nearby, Wayne climbed to his feet. “Keep him down!” Suit shouted, launching coins at Wayne. Telsin, atop the dais, fired on Wayne. She wasn’t a terribly good shot, but between her and Edwarn, they managed to hit several times. That didn’t drop him, not with the gold metalmind. He made a rude gesture and ran out the door, healing from the wounds almost as soon as he was hit. Suit growled as Telsin’s weapon clicked, out of bullets. Marasi tried to grab Suit by the legs and maybe trip him, but he kicked her in the chest. She grunted, breath knocked out of her, and Suit put his foot against her throat. “Wayne!” Suit yelled. “Come back or I’ll kill the others!” No reply. Wayne, it seemed, had taken the chance to escape down the hallway outside. Good. He wasn’t abandoning them; he had correctly realized that their chances were best if he escaped. “I’ll do it!” Suit yelled. “I’ll kill her!” “You think he cares about that?” Telsin asked. “Honestly, I can’t tell with that one,” Suit said. He waited a moment to see if Wayne replied, then sighed, taking his foot off Marasi’s neck. Dazed, still having trouble breathing, she took stock of the situation. MeLaan was writhing on the floor. When had that happened? Allik and Steris stood frozen with wide eyes. This had all taken place in a flash. A few years back, Marasi would have been like those two, stunned and confused. She was impressed, on one level, that she’d been able to react as quickly as she had. Her growth hadn’t been enough. Edwarn picked up her rifle, sighting it on her. “Over you go,” he said, gesturing with the gun for Marasi to crawl to
Steris and Allik so he could cover them all at once. She considered trying something, but what? Her metal reserves were gone, and the import of what had just transpired was settling upon her. Waxillium was maybe bleeding to death at the bottom of that pit. Wayne had escaped, but had no bendalloy. MeLaan was down. She might have to do something about this herself. “Please,” Allik said, frantically grabbing Marasi by the arm as she joined the other two. “Please.” He was panicked, but she couldn’t blame him. He’d seen Waxillium—the man he worshipped—fall, and was once again in Suit’s hands. Steris narrowed her eyes at Telsin. Waxillium had seen the truth, but too slowly. He hadn’t searched her, and he’d hesitated instead of firing. For all his cleverness, Waxillium had a hole in his judgment regarding Suit and Telsin. He always had. Not that you did any better, Marasi thought. Telsin walked calmly down the steps, holding her handgun before herself. “That was bungled.” “Bungled?” Edwarn said. “I thought it went well.” “I let Waxillium escape.” “You shot him thrice,” Edwarn said. “He’s as good as dead.” “And you’re going to trust that?” Telsin asked. Edwarn sighed. “No.” Telsin nodded, her expression calm as she slid a knife from her pocket, then knelt and plunged it into MeLaan. Steris cried out, stepping toward them. “What did you do to her?” Marasi asked. They didn’t answer, but Marasi suspected the truth. There were liquids that, when injected into kandra, immobilized them and made them start to lose their shapes. It was temporary, but Marasi could only guess that while she had been focused on Suit, Telsin had somehow used one of those on MeLaan. With her arms twisted, her legs broken, the kandra’s skeleton hadn’t been in any shape for her to fight. Telsin worked for a gruesome moment and came out with a spike. She tucked it into her pocket, then kept working. Suit walked over to Marasi, and through his ripped shirt Marasi caught a glint of metal peeking between two of his ribs. Not a large spike like the one Ironeyes had. Something more subtle. They hadn’t just been experimenting with Hemalurgy—they’d used spikes to grant themselves powers. Telsin finally got the second spike out of poor MeLaan and pocketed it. The kandra melted, a mess of greenish-brown flesh and muscles without anything to cling to—oozing out of her clothing, leaving her bones and her skull of green crystal to gaze vacantly at the ceiling. Telsin pointed toward the pit Waxillium had fallen into. “Chase him down.” “Me?” Suit said. “Surely we can wait for—” “No waiting,” Telsin said. “You know him best. You hunt him down. He is still alive. I’ve met rocks less durable than my brother.” Suit sighed again, but nodded this time, swapping guns with Telsin so he’d have the aluminum pistol, then reloading it. He walked toward the pit. Marasi glanced at Telsin, who watched MeLaan’s remains but held the rifle at the ready. Should Marasi charge her? Suit obeyed her. She wasn’t
simply a member of the Set; she outranked Waxillium’s uncle. And she was obviously an Allomancer; the way she’d used the Allomantic grenade proved that. Suit climbed down, using a rope. Shortly after that, Marasi heard footsteps outside, and soon an array of soldiers in uniforms like those from the warehouse piled in. “The short one,” Telsin said, urgent. “Wayne. Did you pass him?” “Sir?” one of the soldiers asked. “No, we haven’t seen him.” “Damn,” Telsin said. “Where did that rat get to? I need as many men as we can get scouring that hallway and the plain outside. He’s extremely dangerous, particularly if he has another vial of bendalloy.” Marasi turned to Steris, who was still dazed, eyes wide, still looking at the hole where Waxillium had fallen. Allik held Marasi’s arm, his eyes visible behind his mask. “I’ll get us out of this,” she whispered to them. Somehow. 27 He’ll tell on us.… You know he will. Wax rolled onto his back, staring upward. Darkness. The pit had twisted during the fall—he remembered ramming into one of its curves—and deposited him here. Rusts … how could his vision swim when he couldn’t see anything? He fumbled at his gunbelt and came up with a vial, which he managed to down, replenishing his metal reserves. You coming? Of course you’re not. You never want to risk trouble. No. He could see something. A lone candle in a black room. He blinked his eyes, but it was gone. A vision of the past. A memory … Light in a dark room. Set there to distract … That was what the dais up above had been. The Bands had never been there. The people who had built the place left the broken glass, the empty rack, the dais and the pedestal—all as a ruse. But they’d made a mistake. The glass box they’d broken had been too large to fit on the pedestal. Candle in a dark room … Wax thought. That meant the Bands were somewhere else. He blinked, and thought—as his eyes adjusted—he actually could pick out light. He wasn’t in a narrow pit. That hole had dumped him out somewhere. He heaved himself over in a twist, coming to his knees, and felt at his gut. Blood there. A bad hit, all the way through, judging by the wetness he felt trickling down the back of his thigh. He’d taken a shot to the leg too, but that didn’t matter. He’d broken that leg in his fall anyway. The shot near his neck was the worst. He knew this without even touching it, knew it by the way his body worked—by the way pieces of him were growing numb, the way certain muscles didn’t respond right. That light. A soft blue. Not a candle, but one of the built-in lights of the building. He crawled toward the light, dragging his broken leg, scraping on stone, sweat streaming down the sides of his face and mixing with the blood he spilled to the ground. “Harmony,” he whispered. “Harmony.” No reply.
Now he prayed? What of his hatred? For a time, that light was everything to him. An hour could have passed as he crawled, or perhaps it had been only a minute. As he neared, he saw sentries in the darkness. People sitting arrayed before the light, casting long shadows into the depths of the room. The ceiling was low, barely taller than a man could stand. That was why … why the people had to sit.… Focus! he thought at himself, flaring his metal. The sentries had metal on them. And … yes, one other faint line, pointing toward a spot on the floor up ahead. Another trap. The flared metal seemed to bring him clarity, helping him push back the muddled sensation. Blood loss. He was fading quickly. Still, a shade more alert, he saw those sentries for what they were. Corpses. Seated, somehow, draped in warm clothing. He passed the first row of them and looked in on frozen faces, shriveled with the passing of time but remarkably well preserved. Each held a mask in its lap. They sat in four concentric rings, looking at the light up ahead. Here, the ones who had built this place had died. Then how … how had word of the key to the door been passed on.… Wax crawled among the huddled dead, frozen despite their warm clothing. He could imagine them seated here, waiting for the end, as the heat in their metalminds dwindled. The cold, creeping in as night does after sunset, a final, consuming darkness. And ahead, another pedestal. Smaller, carved of white rock. A simple light glowing on its top revealed a set of metal bracers. No fancy trimmings here, just the silent reverence of the dead. Something sounded behind him, a scrape of boots on stone; then a light flooded the room from there. “Waxillium?” Edwarn’s voice called. Wax huddled down. “I know you’re here, son,” Edwarn said. “That’s quite the trail of blood you’re leaving. This is over, as you must realize.” He’s an Allomancer now, Wax thought, remembering what Edwarn had done to Marasi’s gun. The man carried a pistol, the aluminum one that Telsin had used. Telsin … How long had she been working with them? He hated that he’d guessed, hated that his first instinct—even if he’d been right—had been to pull a gun on his only sibling. It just made too much sense. She’d caused Wayne to knock the backpack out the door. She’d killed the brute in the warehouse, when he’d been about to speak—potentially addressing her, outing her as a member of the Set. Suit wouldn’t … wouldn’t have come into the temple with them unless he had the upper hand.… He needed to stay focused. Edwarn was approaching. Wax was tempted to Push a bullet toward the man, but held himself back. Edwarn raised the light, illuminating the vast emptiness and looking slowly around himself. He didn’t seem to have spotted Wax, and the bodies all had some metal on them, so Edwarn’s steelsight wouldn’t reveal Wax. But the
blood trail would soon betray him. Still, Wax waited. He bowed himself, huddling down in the line of figures, imitating their stooped postures. Have to get those bracers … He’d get shot before he could reach them. If he could even make it that distance without passing out. “I did try to protect you,” Suit said. “What did you do to my sister?” Wax demanded, his voice echoing in the darkness. Suit smiled, walking forward, scanning the bodies. If he could draw the man closer … “I didn’t do anything to her,” Suit said. “Son, she recruited me.” “Lies,” Wax hissed. “The old world is dying, Waxillium!” Edwarn said. “I told you that a new one will soon be born, a world where men like you don’t belong.” “I can find my place in a world of airships.” “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Suit said. “I’m talking about the secrets, Waxillium. The world where constables exist only to make people feel secure. It will be a world of shadows, of hidden government. The shift is already happening. Those who rule these days are not the men who smile at crowds and make speeches.” Edwarn moved around a corpse, then followed Wax’s blood trail with his eyes. Only a few more steps. “The day of kings has passed,” Edwarn said. “The day of mighty men to be worshiped has gone, and with its passing goes the right of Allomancers to power. No more will their gifts hinge on the whims of fate. Instead, the powers will come to those who deserve them. Who can use them.” He raised his foot to step, then hesitated, looking down. He grinned, moving his foot backward and making Wax’s heart fall. “Trying to goad me into stepping onto the trap? Such a brash plan, Waxillium.” He glanced upward. “Looks like it’s rigged to drop this entire section of ceiling. You’d be caught in it too.” Edwarn turned and looked right at where Wax was sitting, trying to hide among the corpses. Wax raised his head. “It would have been worth the cost.” He still had his shotgun, but doubted he had the strength to use it. Instead, kneeling, he held out a single bloodied hand, clutching a bullet in it. “Shall we see how good you are, Uncle?” A duel. Perhaps he could win a duel. Edwarn regarded him, then shook his head. “I think not.” He stepped on the pressure plate, triggering the trap. * * * Telsin marched Marasi and the others out of the temple. And, once they were outside, Telsin reached to Marasi’s arm and ripped free the medallion there. Marasi gasped, clutching her purse as the cold descended upon her like a swarm of insects, nipping at every bit of exposed skin. Her dress suddenly seemed flimsy, useless. She might as well have been naked. Telsin repeated the process for Steris, then reached for Allik’s arm. “Please,” Marasi said. “He—” Telsin grabbed the medallion. Allik tried to pull away, but one of the guards cuffed him across the face, cracking his
mask and sending him to the snowy ground. The guard reached down, ripping off the medallion. Allik gasped loudly, huddling on the cold stone. Beyond them, the field was a flurry of activity. Tents flapped in the wind, and men scurried around the fallen Hunter airship. A group of people in masks were being marched across the field to a particularly large tent—so, Allik’s crewmates were still alive. One man with a red uniform beneath his thick coat hiked up the steps. “Lady Sequence,” he said to Telsin as he reached the top. “We’ve located what we think must be the weapon.” “The Bands?” Marasi asked. Telsin looked at her drolly. “The Bands were a possibility. An engaging one, yes, and I will not deny my disappointment. Irich will be particularly displeased. But we didn’t come here for them.” The airship, Marasi realized, looking toward it. Bearing a bomb intended to destroy the temple. A bomb that had never been used. Men moved about the large airship, investigating it. This was what Suit and the others had come for. Marasi stepped forward, but one of the guards grabbed her while another dug in her purse to check for anything dangerous. Another batted Steris’s notebook from her fingers, then began to frisk Steris none too gently. “The ship is in good repair despite the elements, Sequence,” the soldier told Telsin as Marasi watched helplessly. “It didn’t crash as the other one did.” “Excellent,” Telsin said. “Let’s see if that thing has any of the powering metal left in it.” She started down the steps, her warming medallion letting her ignore the freezing cold. She seemed like a spirit in her sleek, airy gown beside men in full winter gear. She hesitated, looking back at Marasi and the others. “Search them thoroughly,” she informed the men. “I sensed faint metal from the older woman, but it’s gone now. Her notebook must have metal bindings. I don’t believe that they have any aluminum guns—besides the one that Waxillium had. Either way, keep watch on them. They’re insurance against the short one, who is still out here somewhere.” * * * The roof fell in on them. Wax shouted, diving toward the pedestal and the two simple bracers. Suit took a different tack; he Pushed himself back away from the bracers, out of the path of the stones. Rock hit Wax like a fist slamming him to the ground. Bones crunched inside of him. He gasped, but got a mouthful of dust. He knew how bad it was when the pain faded. As the dust settled, he found he couldn’t move any part of his body. A weight rested on his back, pinning him with his head to the side. One of his hands hung within his view, the fingers mangled. He couldn’t feel them. Nothing. Just his face. Enough to feel the tears of pain and failure on his cheeks. Steel. He tried burning it. He felt a few wisps of it inside of him, a warmth that became the only thing he could sense.
Rubble shifted nearby, and rocks clattered. A second later Suit appeared, a cut in his arm resealing. He dusted himself off and glanced at Wax. “The trouble with Hemalurgy is in its limitations,” he said. “If you kill a man and steal his Metallic abilities, the resulting gift to you is weakened. Did you know that? What’s more, if you spike yourself too much, you become subject to Harmony’s … interference. Indeed, by the stories, you might open yourself to the interference of any idiot Soother or Rioter with enough talent.” He shook his head. “I am limited to three boons, even if we have discovered how to make someone else be weak, while we gain the benefit.” He glanced toward the bracers. “But if there is a way to gain more powers, and not be subject to Harmony … now that would be something. I see why Telsin was so eager.” He left Wax, passing the frozen corpses of the dead masked ones, bits of them sticking from beneath fallen rocks. Crushed. Some even looked to have shattered. Suit stepped up to the pedestal. “Behold me, Waxillium. Today, I become a god.” Wax tried to cry out, but his lungs wouldn’t hold enough air. He tried to heave himself free, but his body no longer worked. He was dying. Though steel burned fitfully inside of him, he was dying. No. He was already dead. His body just hadn’t quite realized it yet. Suit held the Bands. Wax twisted his head as best he could, pinned as he was, to see it. The bearded man smiled broadly, waiting. Nothing happened. Suit strained, his face darkening. Then he turned the bracers around, looking them over. He put them on. Still, nothing happened. “Drained,” he said with disgust. “After all this, we find them empty of attributes. What a waste.” He sighed, then walked over to Wax, sliding the aluminum gun from his pocket. “I have no doubt that Irich’s scientists will be able to puzzle out how the Bands were made. Take that thought with you into the eternities, Waxillium. Be sure to shake Ironeyes’s hand for me. I intend to never meet him.” He pressed the gun against Wax’s head. And then something slammed into Suit. The man cried out, and a scuffle followed, along with the gun discharging. Suit cursing. Feet on stone. A second later, Wayne scrambled into view. He knelt beside Wax and looked him over, seeming horrified. “Wayne,” Wax croaked. “How…?” “Ah, ’s nothing,” his partner said. “Slipped out and fell down another of those holes. That one ended in spikes, I’m afraid. But I was able to heal up and climb out, once the soldiers had passed, then slip into this pit. You picked a better hole to fall in than I did, for sure.” “Suit…” “He ran,” Wayne said. “Didn’t want to face me himself, not with me healing. Right cowardly, that one.…” He trailed off, looking down at Wax’s body, pinned by the rock. “I—” “Find Steris and Marasi,” Wax croaked. “Help them escape.” “Wax,”
he said, shaking his head. “No. No. I can’t do this without you.” “Yes you can. Fight.” “Not that part,” Wayne said. “The rest of it. Livin’. We … we’ll get you out of this.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then looked at the stone on top of Wax, then down at the blood pooling beneath. Then he sat back, running his hands through his hair, eyes wide, as if in shock. Wax tried to urge him on, but his lips wouldn’t move. Not enough strength. * * * Marasi huddled on the cold ground with Steris and Allik, surrounded by armed men who searched their possessions. It was still night out here, but sunrise had to be close. Waxillium would have found a way out of this. Stop comparing yourself to him, she thought. Is it any wonder you stand in his shadow, when that’s all you can see yourself doing? She needed to solve this. A dozen plans ran through her head, all stupid. The guard nearby still had her purse. ReLuur’s spike, it might be in there. Since it was Hemalurgically Invested, it might not have registered to the eyes of an Allomancer looking for metals on her. The guard dumped the purse out, spilling the contents onto the cold stone. No spike. Instead, among her notebooks and handkerchiefs tumbled a palm-sized wedge of metal. The aluminum spearhead from the statue? Wayne, I’m going to … She gritted her teeth. When had he swapped her for the spike? That man! “I searched that purse already,” another guard noted. “No weapons.” “Well then, what’s this?” the first guard said, picking up the wedge-shaped piece of aluminum. The second guard snorted. “You’re welcome to try to kill someone with that if you want. It’s dull.” Marasi wilted, feeling stupid. Even if she had the spike, what would she do? She couldn’t overpower armed guards. Then what could she do? Someone fell through the sky and thumped to the ground nearby. She perked up, thinking it must be Waxillium. Instead it was Suit, clothing ripped and dusty, carrying a gun. The guards saluted, the one with her purse dropping it and the metal wedge. One of her glass makeup jars rolled away. Poor Allik huddled beside Steris. He’d stopped shivering, and his skin was turning blue. Steris met her eyes, and looked resigned. Suit strode past. He looked far more intimidating dropping through the air using Allomantic abilities than he had bundled up for the weather and standing on the steps of the temple. “Is my brother dead?” Telsin demanded, turning from her group of engineers nearby. “Yes,” Suit said. “Though I encountered the short one.” “You killed him?” “Left him distracted,” Suit said. “I thought you’d want to see what I found.” He held up something that gleamed in the powerful lights the crew had set up. Two silvery bracers, each as long as a forearm. “There was a hidden chamber down there, Sequence. And my, what a secret it contained.” Telsin shoved between her scientists
and scrambled up to Suit. She took the bracers, awed. “They don’t work,” Suit noted. “What do you mean?” “They’re out of attributes, I think. Their reserves gone.” “But they grant Allomancy too,” Telsin said, putting them on and waving toward one of the guards, who tossed her a vial of metals. She downed it, eager. “Well?” Suit asked. “Nothing.” A decoy, Marasi thought. Like the glass case and the empty pedestal … yes, that had been one too. She could see now why Waxillium had been doing his measuring. Waxillium. He couldn’t really be … No. What could she do? Not fight. But think. These Bands were a decoy. A second layer of falsehood to confuse intruders. So where were the real ones? * * * Candles in a dark room. They’re another decoy, Wax thought, mind muddled. Those bracers were too perfect, just like the stories. They were left to fool us. Like the symbols of Wax’s old adversary, painted on the door of a mansion. Meant to distract. Delay. This place was made for the Lord Ruler, Wax thought. Those traps … those traps are stupid. What if one did catch him? The whole thing has to be a decoy. So what? There was another temple out there? Maybe they had hidden it in a cave? He could barely see anymore. Wayne held his hand, tears streaming down his face. Everything was fading. The cold … coming … like darkness … No, Wax thought, it wouldn’t be somewhere else. He’d need to be able to find it. He’d recognize it.… It was. It was here! Wax gasped, and tried to form the words, eyes wide. Wayne gripped his hand, knuckles white. He couldn’t feel it. The darkness arrived, and Wax died. 28 Wax stilled. Wayne let the hand fall limp. He wanted to just sit here. Stare at nothing like those fellows in rows nearby, the ones that weren’t crushed. Sit and become nothing. All his life, only one man had believed in him. Only one man had forgiven him, had encouraged him. The rest of this damned race could burn away and become ash, for all Wayne cared. He hated them all. But … what would Wax say? He left me, the bastard, Wayne thought, wiping his eyes. In that moment, he hated Wax too. But then, Wayne loved him more than the hatred. He growled, and stumbled to his feet. He had no weapons; he’d dropped his dueling canes above. He stared at Wax’s body, then knelt and felt along the man’s leg. He got ahold of something and yanked it free. The shotgun. Wayne’s hands immediately started shaking. “You stop that,” he hissed at them. “We’re done with that.” He cocked the shotgun, then went looking for a way out of this tomb. * * * The whole temple is a decoy, Marasi thought, trembling in the cold. So where are the actual Bands? The place was built for the Lord Ruler, who would supposedly return to claim his weapon. Where would you put that weapon?
He’d know what it looked like, Marasi thought. He built it. We think it was in the shape of bracers, but it didn’t have to be. Could be anything. That would be smart, if you were making a weapon. These metalminds, you had to know what they did before they worked. You could protect yourself, so only someone who knew what to look for could use your weapon. And in that case, the people who built the temple could have left the weapon where the returning Lord Ruler would see it, but everyone else would pass right by, digging farther into the temple to encounter traps, pits, and decoys—all designed to either kill them or convince them that they’d successfully robbed the place. Where did you put the weapon? On the doorstep, under the sign of the Sovereign himself, in his very own hand. Marasi turned, frantic, searching out the oversized spearhead. It lay right beside her, where the guard had dropped it. Waxillium had called it aluminum because he couldn’t sense it, but he hadn’t looked closely enough. If he had, he’d have seen it was made of different interwoven metals, wavy, like the folds forged into the blade of a sword. He couldn’t Push on it, not because it was aluminum. But because it was a metalmind, stored with more power than any they’d ever seen. * * * Around Wax, everything became misty and indistinct. The cavern, the rocks, the ground itself—all just mist. He could stand on it somehow. Harmony stepped up beside Wax in the misty darkness. They fell in beside one another, walking as was natural for men to do. God looked much as Wax had always imagined Him. Tall, peaceful, hands laced before Himself. Face like a long oval, serene and human, though He towed behind Him a cloak of timelessness. Wax could see it, trailing after. Storms and winds, clouds and rain, deserts and forests, all reflected somehow in this creature’s wake. His robe was the Terris V pattern, where each V was not a color, but an age. A strata of time, like those of a deep rock uncovered. “They say,” Wax said softly, “that You come to all people when they die.” “It is a duty I consider to be among my most sacred,” Harmony said. “Even with other pressing matters, I find time to take this walk.” He had a quiet voice, familiar to Wax. Like that of a forgotten friend. “I’m dead then.” “Yes,” Harmony said. “Your body, mind, and soul have separated. Soon one will return to the earth, another to the cosmere, and the third … Even I do not know.” Wax continued walking. The shadowy cavern vanished, and Wax had a feeling of blurring. Mists became darkness, and all he could see was a distant light, like the sun below the horizon. “If You can take time to walk with us,” Wax said, bitter, “why not come a little earlier? Why not stop the walk before it must begin?” “Should I prevent all hardship, Waxillium?” “I know
where this is going,” Wax said. “I know what You’re going to say. You value choice. Everyone theorizes about it. But You can help. You’ve done it before, in placing me where I needed to go. You intervene. So why not intervene more? Prevent children from being killed. Make certain that constables arrive in time to stop deaths. You don’t have to take away choice, but You could do more. I know You could.” He left the last part unsaid. You could have saved her. Or at least told me what I was doing. Harmony nodded. It felt bizarre to be demanding things, but rusts … if this was the end, Wax wanted a few answers. “What is it to be God, Waxillium?” Harmony asked. “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.” “It is not one I ever thought I’d have to answer either,” Harmony said. “But obviously, it has been forced upon me. You would have me intervene and stop the murders of innocents. I could do this. I have considered it. If I were to stop every one, what then? Do I stop maimings as well?” “Of course,” Wax said. “And where do I hold back, Waxillium? Do I prevent all wounds, or do I prevent only those caused by evil people? Do I stop a man from falling asleep so that he will not tip a candle and burn down his house? Do I stop all harm that could ever befall a person?” “Maybe.” “And once nobody is ever hurt,” Harmony said, “will people be satisfied? Will they not pray to me and ask for more? Will some people still curse and spit at the sound of my name because they are poor, while another is rich? Should I mitigate this, make everyone the same, Waxillium?” “I won’t be caught in this trap,” Wax said. “You’re the God, not me. You can find a line where You prevent the worst. You can find a line where You’re stopping the worst that is reasonable, while still letting us live our lives.” The light ahead suddenly rolled outward, and Wax found that they’d been rounding a planet. They stood high above it, and had stepped from darkness into sunlight, which let Wax see the world below, bathed in a calm, cool light. Beyond that hung a haze of red. All around, pressing in upon the world. He could feel it choking him, a miasma of dread and destruction. “Perhaps,” Harmony said softly, “I have already done just as you suggest. You do not see it, because the worst never reaches you.” “What is it?” Wax asked, trying to take in that vast redness. It beat inward, but he could see something, a thin strip of light—like a bubble around the world—stopping it. “A representation,” Harmony said. “A crude one, perhaps.” He looked to Wax and smiled, like a father at a wide-eyed child. “We’re not done with our conversation,” Wax said. “You let her die. You let me kill her.” “And how long,” Harmony asked softly, “must you hate
yourself for that?” Wax clenched his jaw, but couldn’t force down the trembling that took him. He lived it again, holding her as she died. Knowing he’d killed her. That hatred seethed inside of him. Hatred for Harmony. Hatred for the world. And yes. Hatred for himself. “Why?” Wax asked. “Because you demanded it of me.” “No I didn’t!” “Yes. A part of you did. An eventuality I can see, one of many possible Waxilliums, all you—yet not set. Know yourself, Waxillium. Would you have had another kill her? Someone she didn’t know?” “No,” he whispered. “Would you have had her live on, a slave in her mind? Corrupted by that cursed spike that would forever leave her scarred, even if replaced?” “No.” He was crying. “And if you had known,” Harmony said, holding his eyes, “that you’d never have been able to pull that trigger unless your eyes were veiled? If you’d realized what knowledge of the truth would do to you—stilling your hand and trapping her in an endless prison of madness—what would you have asked of me?” “Don’t tell me,” Wax whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. The silence seemed to stretch until eternity. “I am sorry,” Harmony said with a gentle voice, “for your pain. I am sorry for what you did, what we had to do. But I am not sorry for making you do what had to be done.” Wax opened his eyes. “And when I hold back, staying my hand from protecting those below,” Harmony said, “I must do it out of trust in what people can do on their own.” He glanced toward the red haze. “And because I have other problems to occupy me.” “You didn’t tell me what it was,” Wax said. “That is because I do not know.” “That … frightens me.” Harmony looked to him. “It should.” Down below, a tiny spark flickered on one of the landmasses. Wax blinked. He’d seen it, despite the incredible distance. “What was that?” he asked. Harmony smiled. “Trust.” * * * Marasi clutched the spearhead in two hands. And tapped everything. Power flooded into her, lighting her up like an inferno. Snow hung motionless in the air. She stood up and reached to the belt of one of her captors, removing one of his vials of metal. She took them all, several from each guard, and drank them. She was tapping a metalmind, letting her move at a speed so fast that when she lifted her hand, she could briefly see the pocket of vacuum left behind. She smiled. Then she burned her metals. All of them. In that one transcendent moment, she felt herself change, expand. She felt the Lord Ruler’s own power, stored in the Bands of Mourning—the spearhead clutched in her fingers—surge through her, and she felt she would burst. It was as if an ocean of light had suddenly been pumped into her arteries and veins. Blue lines exploded from her, first pointing at metals, then multiplying, changing, transforming. She saw through it all, everything in blue. There were no
people or objects, just energy coalesced. The metals shone brilliantly, as if they were holes into someplace different. Concentrated essence, providing a pathway to power. She was using the reserves with startling quickness. She slowed her speed, and for some reason the people beside her jumped, holding their ears. She cocked her head, then PUSHED. The Push flung the guards a good fifty feet. That left her facing Suit and Telsin, who regarded her with horrified expressions. They were glowing energy to her, but she recognized them. They had spikes inside of them. Convenient. Those spikes resisted Pushes, but not enough to bother Marasi now. She lifted a hand and flung both of them away by the very metals they’d used to pierce themselves. All around, guards grabbed guns and turned on her. She swept them backward, then lifted herself off the ground, Pushing on the trace minerals in the stone beneath her. She hung there, and was surprised to see something spinning around her. Mist? Where was it coming from? Me, she realized. She hovered in the sky, flush with power. In that moment, she was the Ascendant Warrior. She held the fullness of what Waxillium had barely tasted his whole life. She could be him, eclipse him. She could bring justice to entire peoples. Holding it all within her, having it and measuring it, she finally admitted the truth to herself. This isn’t what I want. She would not let her childhood dreams hold sway over her any longer. She smiled, then threw herself through the air in a Push toward the temple. * * * Steris watched her sister fly away. “Unexpected,” she said. And here she assumed she’d been prepared for anything. Marasi starting to glow, throwing people around with Allomancy as if they were dolls, then streaking away and leaving a trail of mist … well, that hadn’t been on the list. It hadn’t even made the appendix. She looked down at poor Allik, so cold he’d stopped shivering. “I shall have to enlarge my projections of what is plausible during activities such as this, don’t you think?” He mumbled something in his language. “Foralate men!” He waved his hand in a gesture. “Forsalvin!” “Telling me to flee without you?” Steris said, walking over and retrieving her notebook. “Yes, running while they are all confused would be wise, but I don’t plan to leave yet.” She opened the notebook, which she’d hollowed out with Wax’s knife in the rear of the skimmer, while Marasi was talking with Allik up front and the others slept. “Did you know that when I evaluated everyone’s usefulness on this expedition, I gave myself a seven out of a hundred? Not very high, yes, but I couldn’t reasonably give myself the lowest mark possible. I do have my uses.” She turned the large notebook, showing an extra medallion from the skimmer’s emergency store settled protectively into the gouged-out section she’d made. She smiled at Allik, pulled it free, and pressed it into his hand. He let out a long, relieved sigh, and
the blown snow that had stuck to his face melted away. Nearby, soldiers were regaining their feet and shouting to one another. “And now,” Steris said, “I think your earlier suggestion has merit.” * * * “Now what?” Wax asked Harmony. “I fade off into nothing?” “I don’t believe it’s nothing,” God said. “There is something beyond. Though perhaps my belief is merely my own desire wishing it to be so.” “You are not encouraging me. Aren’t You omnipotent?” “Hardly,” Harmony said, smiling. “But I believe that parts of me could be.” “That doesn’t make any sense.” “It won’t until I make it do so,” Harmony said, extending His hands to either side. “In answer to your question, however, you don’t fade just yet. Though soon. Right now, you make a choice.” Wax looked from one of the deity’s hands to the other. “Does everyone get this choice?” “Their choices are different.” He proffered His hands to Wax, as if offering them for him to take. “I don’t see the choice.” “My right hand,” Harmony said, “is freedom. You can feel it, I think.” And he could. Soaring, released from all bonds, riding upon lines of blue light. Adventure into the unknown, seeking only the fulfillment of his own curiosity. It was glorious. It was what he’d always wanted, and its lure thrummed through him. Freedom. Wax gasped. “What … what is the other one?” Harmony held up His left hand, and Wax heard something. A voice? “Wax?” it said. Yes, a frantic voice. Feminine. “Wax, you have to know what it does. It will heal you, Wax. Waxillium! Please…” “That hand,” Wax said, looking at it. “That hand is duty, isn’t it?” “No, Waxillium,” Harmony said gently. “Although that is how you’ve seen it. Duty or freedom. Burden or adventure. You were always the one who made the right choice, when others played. And so you resent it.” “No I don’t,” Wax said. Harmony smiled. The understanding in His face was infuriating. “This hand,” Harmony said, “is not duty. It is but a different adventure.” “Wax…” the voice said from below, choked with emotion. It belonged to Marasi. “You have to tap the metalmind.” Wax reached toward the left hand, and Harmony—shockingly—pulled it away. “Are you certain?” “I have to.” “Do you?” “I have to. It’s who I am.” “Then perhaps,” Harmony said, “you should stop hating that, my son.” He extended the hand. Wax hesitated. “Tell me one thing first.” “If it is within my means.” “Did she come here? When she passed?” Harmony smiled. “She asked me to look after you.” Wax seized the left hand with his own. He was immediately pulled toward something, like air being sucked through a hole. Warmth bathed him; then it became a fire. Pulling breath into his lungs, he screamed, heaving, throwing the boulder off. It clattered to the side, and he found himself in the low-roofed chamber beneath the temple. Such strength! He hadn’t thrown that rock with muscles, but with steel. His body reknit even as he launched himself to
his feet by Pushing on tiny traces of metal in the ground beneath him. He landed and looked down at his left hand. The one that had been dangling, broken, before his face as he died. Clutched in it was an oversized spearhead crafted from sixteen different metals melded together. He looked up from it and toward Marasi, who regarded him with tearstained eyes, but a broad smile. “You found it,” Wax said. She nodded eagerly. “Just took a little old-fashioned detective work.” “You saved me,” Wax said. Rust and Ruin … such power. He felt as if he could level cities or build them up anew. “Suit and your sister are outside,” Marasi said. “I left the others there. I don’t— Well, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I was thinking too much. Here.” She handed him a vial of metals. Wax took it, then held up the Bands. “You could have done this yourself.” “No,” Marasi said. “I couldn’t have.” “But—” “I couldn’t have,” Marasi said. “It just … isn’t me.” She shrugged. “Does that make sense?” “Surprisingly, yes.” He flexed his hand around the Bands. “Go,” Marasi said. “Do what you do best, Waxillium Ladrian.” “Which is what? Break things?” “Break things,” Marasi said, “with style.” He grinned, then downed the vial of metals. 29 “Waxillium’s followers have the Bands!” Suit whispered to himself as he crossed the dark, stony field. Snow had begun falling—a bitter, icy snow, nothing like the soft flakes he’d occasionally seen in the eastern Basin. “It is a crisis. They will be coming for us. We must move up our timetables!” He chewed on the words, mulling them over as he pulled his coat tight. Warming device notwithstanding, that wind was annoying. Would they buy his argument? No, not dire enough. “Waxillium and his people have the Bands!” he whispered to himself. “This will undoubtedly let the kandra devise the means of creating metalminds anyone can use. We must move up our timetables and seize Elendel now, or we will find ourselves technologically outmatched!” Yes. Yes, that was the idea. Even the most careful of the Series would be distressed by the prospect of being technologically outmaneuvered. This would convince them to give him the leeway he desired. Anything could be an advantage. He’d wanted the Bands for himself, but in lieu of that, he’d find something else. Suit always found the advantage. He passed soldiers scurrying about and unloading weapons on the frozen plain of rock. They’d planned for a potential fight here, as he’d worried he might encounter more of the masked savages. “Sir!” one of the men called. “Orders?” He gestured toward the sky. “If anyone other than the Sequence drops from the air or approaches your position, shoot them. Then keep shooting, even after they are down.” “Yes, sir!” the soldier said, waving to a group of his men. He turned toward an empty rack, then paused. “My rifle? Who took my rifle!” Suit continued on past, tossing the fake Bands of Mourning into the snow and leaving the troops
to—hopefully—slow down Waxillium’s minions. He eagerly marched aboard the new airship. Now this device, this was an advantage. The Bands could serve one man, make a deity out of him. A fleet of ships like this could deify an entire army. The wooden hallway inside had gaslights set into lamps with austere metal housings. It was all distinctly plainer than the ship that had crashed in Dulsing—the wood here was unornamented, unpolished. The other ship had felt decorated like a den. This one, a warehouse. Probably cheaper to build this way, he thought, nodding his head in approval. Footsteps clattered above as men charged through one of the corridors on another deck, and Suit brushed the snow from his arms as a technician ran up to him, bearing the red uniform of the Set’s Hidden Guard. “My lord,” the man said, proffering one of the medallions. “You’ll need this.” Suit took it and rolled up his sleeve to strap it to his upper arm. “Is this ship operational?” The man’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir! The machinery is operational, sheltered as it was from the weather. Sir … it’s amazing. You can feel the energy pulsing off that metal. We did have to send men out to unclog the fans—a few of the Coinshots helped—and we have them moving now. Fed is down below, priming the weight-changing machinery with her Feruchemy, to lighten the ship. That should be the last step!” “Then lift us off,” Suit said, walking toward where he assumed the bridge would be found. “My lord Suit?” the man called after him. “Aren’t we waiting for the Sequence?” He hesitated only briefly. Where had she gotten to? Another advantage? he thought. He could stand being Sequence. “She will join us aloft if she can,” he said. “Our priority is to get this ship, and its secrets, to a secure location.” As the technician saluted and ran to obey, Suit filled his medallion, becoming lighter. So much easier than getting his spikes had been. It was hard not to feel that their experiments in Hemalurgy had been a waste, a dead end. The ship quivered, and the fans started up with a much louder sound than he had expected. Before he reached the bridge, the thing rocked, and he heard ice cracking above the sound of the fans. He leaned over to a porthole, looking out as the ground retreated. It worked. Immediately, implications flooded his mind. Travel. Shipping. Warfare. New regions could be settled. New types of buildings and docks would be needed. It would all flow through him. He suppressed a smile—best to celebrate after he was safely away—but he could not stop the heady sensation. The Set had been planning for events a century or more away, putting careful plots into motion at his suggestion. He was proud of those, but truth be told, he’d rather they rule in his lifetime. And with this, he could do so. * * * Jordis huddled in the tent, watching her crew die. It had been long coming, this death.
The last ember of the fire, refusing to give up its spark. During the terrible march through the dead rain, her people had been given tiny sips of warmth from a metalmind. Enough to barely keep them alive, like plants locked in a dark shed for most of the day. But now, in this place, the cold was too pervasive—and the hardships of the march too devastating. She crawled among her crew and whispered encouragement, though she could no longer feel her fingers or toes. Most of the men and women of the ship couldn’t even nod. A few had started removing their clothing, complaining of heat. Chillfever had struck them. Not long now. The maskless devils seemed to know this; they’d posted only a single guard at the tent. Her people could have snuck away out the back, perhaps. But what would they sneak toward? Death outside in the winds rather than death inside here? How do the maskless survive it? she wondered. They must be devils indeed, born of the frost itself, to be so capable of withstanding the cold. Jordis knelt beside Petrine, the enginemaster and eldest of her crew. How had the woman survived so long? She was by no means feeble, but she was past her sixth decade. Petrine lifted her hand and gripped Jordis’s arm—though her wrinkled eyes were shadowed by the mask, Jordis needed no gesture or expression to know Petrine’s emotions. “Do we attack?” Petrine asked. “For what purpose?” “We could die by their weapons instead of the cold.” Wise, those words. Perhaps they could— A loud thump came from outside the tent. Jordis found her feet, surprisingly, though most of the others remained huddling where they lay. The front of the tent burst open and a man with a familiar—but broken—mask appeared there. Impossible. Was the chillfever striking her too? The man raised his mask and displayed a bearded, youthful face. “I am sorry to have come in unannounced,” Allik said. “But I bear gifts, as is traditional for visiting someone’s house unannounced, yes?” He held up a gloved fist, which clutched a bundle of medallions by their cords. Jordis looked from the medallions to young Allik, then back. For once she didn’t even care about how free he was with raising his mask. She stumbled to him, seizing one of them, unable to believe. The wonderful warmth ran through her, like a sunrise within. She sighed in relief, her mind clearing. It was him. “How?” she whispered. “I,” Allik proclaimed, “have made friends with some of the devils.” He gestured to the side and a female maskless one almost toppled in, wearing one of the long dresses that were popular here, carrying an armful of rifles. She said something in her language, dropping the guns to the floor of the tent and dusting off her hands. “I think she wants us to start shooting the other ones,” Allik said as Jordis quickly grabbed the other medallions and began distributing them to the most severely afflicted of her people. “I, for one, am
more than happy to oblige.” Petrine continued the distribution as Jordis armed herself with one of the guns. Though the warmth was wonderful, she still felt weak, and she didn’t want to look in her boots to see if her toes had frostbite. “I don’t know that we will put up much of a fight.” “Better than no fight at all, yes, Captain?” Allik asked. “This is true,” Jordis admitted, and made a sign of respect, touching her right shoulder with her left hand, then lowering her hand to touch her wrist. “You did well. Almost I forgive you for your terrible dancing.” She turned to Petrine. “Arm the men and women with these weapons. Let’s kill as many of the devils as we can.” * * * Wax ripped from the temple in a burst of might and Allomancy. He spun above the building, rocks flung by his explosive exit tumbling in the air around him, trailing mist. Below, a storm of gunfire broke out on the previously quiet mountainside, though they weren’t firing at him. Above it, an airship lumbered through the sky, fans whirring powerfully on its two pontoons. It was awesome to behold, but the ship was obviously not spry. It moved with the ponderous motions of something very large, and very heavy—even with the weight reduction granted by the medallions. Wax was tempted to crush the ship. Push the nails from their mountings, rip the thing apart in a storm of destruction, dumping Suit and his traitorous sister to the frozen ground below. He almost did it. But … rusts. He wasn’t an executioner. He was a lawman. He’d rather die than betray that. Well, die again. He dropped, then used the trace metals in the stonework of the temple as an anchor to send himself soaring across the ground in a swoop. A few of the soldiers below took halfhearted shots at him, but most seemed engrossed in a gunfight with a group of people in masks who had taken up a position behind a rocky shelf. Steris, Allik, Wax thought, identifying them. Good. He landed among the soldiers and flung them aside. He grabbed an aluminum pistol from one of their racks, loaded it, then waved to the masked people before hurling himself into the sky after the airship. He was strong. Incredibly strong. The Bands, still clutched in his left hand, somehow gave him not just Allomancy, but ancient Allomancy. The potency of those who had lived long ago, during the time of the Lord Ruler. Perhaps even more. Was that possible? What did you create? he wondered. And how long will it last? His resources were diminishing. Not merely the metals inside of him, but the reserves stored inside the Bands. Stores that changed his level of Investiture. He should have held back, he knew—reserved it for study, or for use in a future emergency—but rusts it was intoxicating. He reached the airship easily, despite only having a few shell casings to Push upon below. He soared up and landed on the ship’s
nose, then smashed his hand through one of the windows to the bridge, any cuts healing immediately. Inside, Suit sat alone. There was no sign of pilots, technicians, or servants. Just a wide, half-oval deck, not even carpeted, and Suit in a chair. Wax climbed in and raised the aluminum pistol. His boots thumped on the wood. He did a quick scan. People in the hallway outside, he thought. And a bit of metal in Suit’s mouth. The old coin-in-the-mouth trick, a way to hide metal from an Allomancer. Anything inside the body was very hard to sense. Unless you were bearing the very powers of creation, that is. “And so,” Suit said, lighting his pipe, “our confrontation comes at long last.” “Not much of a confrontation,” Wax said, still alight with power. “I could destroy you a hundred different ways right now, Uncle.” “I don’t doubt that you could,” Suit said, shaking out his match, then puffing on the pipe. Trying to hide the coin. Talking around a pipe let him have a reason to sound odd. “And here I can only destroy you one way.” Wax leveled his pistol. Suit looked right at it and smiled. “Do you know why I’ve always beaten you, Nephew?” “You haven’t beaten me,” Wax said. “You’ve refused to fight. That is an entirely different thing.” “But sometimes the only way to win is to refuse to fight.” Wax strode forward, wary of traps. He thought faster, moved faster than normal. The blue lines spread from him as a brilliant web, seeking sources of metal smaller—and farther away—than he could normally sense. At times this seemed to flicker, and for a moment he saw the radiance inside of each person and thing. It felt as if he might be able to move those too. An awed voice in the back of his mind whispered, They’re all the same. Metal, minds, men, all the same substance.… “What have you done, Uncle?” Wax asked softly. “And here I must answer my own question,” Edwarn said, shaking his head and standing. “I beat you, Waxillium, not because of preparation—though it is extensive. I beat you not because of wit or strength of arm, but because of a unique ability of mine. Creativity.” “You’re going to bludgeon me with paintings?” “Always quick with a wry comment!” Suit said. “Bravo.” “What have you done?” “I armed the bomb,” Suit said. “It is set to explode in mere moments. Unless I stop it.” “Let it explode,” Wax said, holding up the Bands—metallic strata weaving across the triangular chunk of metal. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive it.” “And those below?” Suit asked. “Your friends? My captives? From the sounds of it, they’re fighting quite vigorously for their freedom. How sad it will be to see them vaporized by an explosion I’ve been told should be enough to destroy a large city all on its—” Wax increased the speed of his thoughts, tapping zinc. He sorted through a dozen scenarios. Find the explosives and Push them away? How far could he get them?
Would Suit detonate the bomb before he could arrive? His speed of body was nearly tapped out—Marasi must have used that in getting to him—so yes, Suit would have time, though would he actually do it? Would he blow himself up, along with this ship, to defeat Wax? If this were an ordinary criminal, Wax would have bet strongly against it. Unfortunately, Suit and the Set in general had demonstrated a level of fanaticism he had not expected. Like the way Miles had acted as he was executed. These people were not just thugs and thieves; they were political reformers, slaves to an ideal. What else? What else could Wax do? He discarded scenario after scenario. Get Marasi and the others to safety: too slow. Shoot Suit now: the man could heal himself, and Wax might not have time to get to the bomb and remove it before the blast happened anyway. Push the ship upward? He wouldn’t be able to do that fast enough; unless he Pushed slowly, he’d rip the vessel apart. “—own,” Suit said. “What do you want?” Wax demanded. “I’m not going to let you go.” “You don’t need to,” Suit said. “I have little doubt that you’d chase me across the world, Waxillium. I might be creative, but you … you are tenacious.” “What, then?” “You drop the Bands out the window,” Suit said. “I order the bomb disarmed. Then we face one another as men, without unnatural advantages.” “You think I’d trust you?” “You don’t need to,” Suit said. “Just give me your word you’ll do it.” “Done,” Wax said. “Disarm the device!” Suit shouted toward the door. He strolled to the front of the ship and spoke into a tube there. “Disarm it and stand down.” Feet thumped away from the door. Wax could actually watch them go—not by their metals, but by the signature their souls made. In moments, he could see nobody there, or hiding anywhere around the bridge. A voice soon echoed up through the tube. The tin Wax burned let him hear. “Done, my lord.” A pause. “Thank Trell for that.” The voice sounded relieved. Suit turned to Wax. “There is a tradition in the Roughs, is there not? Two men, a dusty road, guns on their hips. Man against man. One lives. The other dies. A dispute settled.” He patted the sidearm at his hip. “I can’t give you a dusty road, but perhaps we can squint and pretend that the frost is playing that role.” Wax drew his lips to a line. Edwarn looked entirely sincere. “Don’t make me do this, Uncle.” “Why?” Suit said. “I know you’ve been itching for this exact opportunity! You have an aluminum gun, I see. The same as mine. No Steelpushing to interfere. Just two men and their sidearms.” “Uncle…” “You’ve dreamed of it, son. The chance to shoot me, no questions asked, and not be running afoul of the law. Besides, to the law I’m already dead! Your conscience can rest. I won’t give in, and I’m armed. The only way to
stop me is to shoot me. Let’s do it.” Wax fingered the Bands of Mourning, and felt himself smiling. “You don’t understand at all, do you?” “Oh, I do. I’ve seen it in you! The hidden hunger of the lawman, wishing to be cut free so he can kill. It’s what defines you and your type.” “No,” Wax said. He unhooked the holster from his leg, the one that had held his shotgun, and slipped the Bands into its leather pouch. His remaining bullets and metal vials followed, leaving him with no metals, save the aluminum gun. “Perhaps I have felt hidden hunger,” Wax said. “But it isn’t what defines me.” “Oh, and what does?” Wax tossed the leather holding the Bands out the broken window, then slipped his gun into his side holster. “I’ll show you.” * * * Telsin scrambled in the snow, climbing through it, frantic. Suit was an idiot. She’d always known this, but today made it manifest. Flying away in the ship? That was the first place they’d go to chase him. He was as good as dead. Today was a disaster. An unparalleled disaster. Waxillium knew of her subterfuge. The Set was exposed. Their plans were crumbling. Something had to be salvageable. She stumbled to a small clearing in the snow, near the temple entrance, where her people had deposited the skimmer that she and Waxillium had ridden in on. Still functional, hopefully. She knew how it worked—she’d watched carefully during their trip. All she needed to do was— Something banged behind her. She blinked at the sudden spray of redness on the snow all around her. Flakes of it. Her blood. “You killed one of my friends today,” a ragged voice said from behind. “I’m not going to let you take a second.” She fell to her knees before the craft, then turned her head. Wayne stood behind her in the snow, his face haggard, holding a shotgun. “You…” Telsin whispered. “You can’t … guns…” “Yeah,” Wayne said, cocking the shotgun. “About that.” He lowered the barrel to her face and fired. * * * Marasi climbed the previously hidden steps back into the room with the broken glass and the ornate pedestal. She didn’t know what had opened this hidden path, but she was glad for it. Ever blunt, Waxillium had simply ripped himself a hole out of the catacombs, going straight up through the stone—half this chamber had collapsed as a result—but following his route would have been an arduous climb. The power was gone. She’d handed it over to Waxillium, but instead of feeling deflated, she felt … peaceful. Hers was the serenity of a woman who’d lain stretched out on a perfect summer day, feeling the sun as it slowly sank. Yes, the light was gone now, but oh what a joy it had been. Poor MeLaan was still here, and her form had started to incorporate the bones, slowly assembling them in a strange configuration. With no spikes, she’d become a mistwraith. Marasi knelt beside her, but wasn’t certain what
comfort she could offer. At the very least, MeLaan seemed to still be alive. Marasi rose, then hurried down the hallway with the traps, reaching the entryway with the murals. Outside, a war was going on, hundreds of gunshots echoing in the cold, snow-filled night. She was surprised to see that the people in masks seemed to be winning. The soldiers had been pushed back to the edge of the stone field, their backs to a series of gulfs and cliffs. They had nowhere to retreat, and many of their number lay dead or wounded. She thought she saw Waxillium’s influence in the way some of those bodies lay, as if tossed through the air to land crumpled. Marasi nodded in satisfaction. Let him do the job he came to do. She still had one of her own to finish. She strode out of the temple, down the steps past the statue of the Lord Ruler holding what now, with the spearhead removed, appeared to be only a staff. Now where would she find— A loud gunshot from quite nearby. She swiveled her head, searching for the source. A second one sounded. A moment later, Wayne emerged through the snowstorm, head down, expression shadowed. He carried a shotgun on his shoulder, and clutched not one, but three small metal spikes in his other hand. * * * Wax stood quietly on the bridge of the ship, waiting for his uncle to move. This didn’t work the way it did in the stories. You didn’t outdraw a man; couldn’t happen, not without Feruchemical speed. If you waited for him to start moving, you would be too slow. He’d tried it with blanks on the fastest men he knew. The man who drew first got the first shot. That was that. Suit drew. Wax Pushed on the metal window frame behind him. He crossed the distance between them in a blur, even as Suit fired. The bullet hit Wax in the shoulder, but Wax collided with the surprised Suit, knocking them both to the floor of the bridge. Suit grabbed his arm. Wax’s metal reserves vanished. “Aha!” Suit said. “I made myself a Leecher! I can drain the metals from anyone who touches me, Waxillium. You’re dead. No Bands. No Allomancy. I win.” Wax grunted, clinging tight to Suit as they rolled. “You forget,” he said. “I’m not surprised. You’ve always hated it. I’m a Terrisman, Uncle.” He increased his weight manyfold. He tapped everything he had in his arm bracer, hundreds of hours spent being lighter than he should have been. He brought it all out in one moment of desperation. The airship lurched. And then the floor shattered. Wax clung to Suit as they fell, holding him tight, though one hand was weakening from the gunshot. They crashed through two levels of the ship—Suit’s body, which tapped healing, bearing the brunt of the damage—before smashing out the bottom, battered, bleeding, and thrashed by splintered wood. Suit looked horrified. “You fool! You—” Wax spun them in the air, pointing Suit downward as they
plummeted. Snow-filled air was a roaring wind around them, flakes streaking past. Suit screamed. And then he Pushed. Suit dropped the coin from his mouth and used his Allomancy to Push it downward in a straight shot. It hit the approaching ground and slowed the two of them with a lurch. Wax decreased his weight just enough that Suit’s Push was sufficient to keep them alive. They crashed into the snow, some distance from the plateau with the temple. Wax recovered first. He lurched to his feet and pulled Suit up by one hand, the two of them standing alone in a field of white. Suit looked up at him, dazed by the fall and the impact. “The definition of a lawman, Uncle, is easy,” Wax said, feeling blood from a dozen cuts trickle down his face. He lifted Suit by the front of his clothing, bringing him close. “He’s the man who takes the bullet so nobody else has to.” With that, Wax decked him across the face and dropped him to the snow, unconscious. * * * MeLaan swam in a sea of terror. Terror within her own mind; a piece of her knowing this was not right. This being ruled by instinct, this craven set of impulses. But this was what she did. Food. She needed food. No. First a place to hide. From the trembling sounds. Hide away, find a crack. She continued building a body that would let her walk. Flee. So cold. She didn’t understand coldness. It wasn’t a thing that should be. And she couldn’t taste dirt, just stone. Stone everywhere. Frozen stone. She felt like screaming. Something was missing. Not food. Not a place to hide, but … something. Something was horribly, horribly, horribly wrong. An object dropped on her. It was cold, but not stone. This wasn’t food. She enfolded it and intended to spit it away, but then something happened. Something wonderful. She gobbled up the second one as it was dropped, and began to undulate, frantic. It came back. Memory. Knowledge. Rationality. Self. She exulted in it, ignoring the little holes that were now poked in her memory. She remembered most of the trip here, but something had happened in the room with the Bands.… No, the Bands hadn’t been there, and … She formed eyes first, and she knew what she would see when she opened them. She’d already tasted him on the air, and knew his flavor. “Welcome back,” Wayne said, grinning. “I think we won.” 30 Marasi accepted the canteen from Allik. It steamed from the top although it was only lukewarm to the touch. She sat on the steps up to the temple, swathed in about forty blankets. She’d surrendered her medallion to one of the Malwish people until more could be secured from the airship. And its recovery was an interesting sight to say the least. Waxillium stood on the rocky section before the plateau, heaving with two hands and Pulling on nothing visible. Up ahead, the rogue airship slowly sank through the snow-filled sky, drawn
toward Waxillium on an invisible tether. “Will it break apart?” Allik asked. She looked at him with surprise, then down at his language medallion. “Warm choc and a blanket will do me for a minute,” he said, settling down and pulling his blanket around him. “Others are in greater need, yah? The ship. Will it break?” Marasi looked up toward it. She could imagine Suit’s people aboard, trying desperately to make the engines work harder, the fans blow more powerfully. It sank anyway. Waxillium Ladrian—bearing the Bands of Mourning and supremely annoyed—was like a force of nature. She smiled and sipped her drink. “Rusts!” she said, looking at it. “What is this?” It was sweet, thick, warm, chocolaty, and wonderful. “Choc,” he said. “Sometimes it is a man’s only succor in this frozen, lonely world, yah?” “You drink chocolate?” “Sure. Don’t you?” She never had. Plus, this was far sweeter than the chocolate she was used to. Not bitter at all. She took a long, soothing draught. “Allik, this is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced. And I just held the powers of creation themselves.” He smiled. “I don’t think your ship is in danger,” Marasi said. “He’s Pulling on it evenly, and slowly. He’s a careful man, Waxillium is.” “Careful? It seems to me he is very proficient at breaking things. That doesn’t sound particularly careful, yah?” “Well,” Marasi said, sipping her drink, “he does it with amazing precision.” Indeed, it wasn’t long before the airship settled down onto the rocks, still in one piece. Waxillium held it in place, then raised the Bands of Mourning in one hand, winds, snows, and even traces of mist swirling around him. The fans slowly powered down. A short time later, soldiers exited with hands up. Wayne and MeLaan scurried up to them, gathering weapons while Allik’s people boarded the ship to secure it and search for anyone lurking inside. Marasi waited through it all, sipping her melted chocolate and thinking. ReLuur’s spike lay safely wrapped in a handkerchief, tucked into her pocket. In her mind’s eye, she saw Wayne again as he had been, trudging through the snow, gun to his shoulder, a pattern of frozen blood flaking his skin. Alongside this image was the glee with which Waxillium had launched into the sky to chase down his uncle. There was a darkness to these men that the stories hadn’t conveyed. Marasi was glad for it, but she had stepped to that ledge, then turned back. Proud though she was of having fulfilled her mission for the kandra, she had decided that things would be different for her in the future. She was all right with that. It was what she had chosen. “Frosts,” Allik said after some time. “We’d better go do something, yah?” She looked up from her now-empty canteen of chocolate to follow Allik’s gesture. The Malwish airship crew had returned from their inspection, and the enemy soldiers had been led away—to be safely locked in the ship’s brig, Marasi believed. Suit was still where Waxillium had put him:
tied to the top of the Lord Ruler’s spear, feet dangling. He’d been gagged, he’d had his metalminds removed, and Waxillium had used Allomancy to leech away his metals. And this still seemed like it might not be cautious enough. He still had his spikes, as they weren’t sure how to remove them without killing him. He shouldn’t be able to do anything without metals, but she couldn’t help being worried. Steris had joined Waxillium on the field, and he’d put his arm around her shoulders. Marasi smiled. Now that was an image she’d never thought she’d find comforting. But they would do well together. Unfortunately, trouble approached Waxillium and Steris in the form of Allik’s captain and some of her airmen. The two groups faced one another, MeLaan and Wayne falling in beside Waxillium—Wayne casually carrying that shotgun, MeLaan standing a good two inches taller than anyone else, arms folded, her posture unyielding. Right. “Let’s go,” Marasi said to Allik. Allik’s captain, Jordis, wore one of the translation medallions—and she didn’t flinch before the gust of wind that accompanied Marasi as she arrived. “We thank you for your help,” Jordis was saying, her voice touched by the same accent Allik had. “But our appreciation does not allow us to ignore thievery. We expect that our property will be returned.” “I don’t see any of your property here,” Waxillium replied coldly. “I see only an artifact we recovered. Well, that and my airship.” “Your—” Jordis sputtered. She stepped forward. “Since crashing in your lands, my crew has been incarcerated, tortured, and murdered. You seem to be itching for a war, Allomancer.” Drat. Marasi had been hoping she’d share Allik’s reverence for Waxillium. Indeed, much of the crew seemed nervous about him, but the captain obviously didn’t mean to back down. “If there is to be war,” Waxillium said, “giving you a powerful weapon does not seem the method to save my people. I cannot help what Suit and his people did to you—they are outlaws, and what they did was deplorable. I will see them brought to justice.” “And yet you steal from us.” “Do you deny,” Waxillium asked, “that this temple was empty upon my arrival? Do you deny that this airship was from nation other than your own? I cannot steal what was not owned, Captain. By right of salvage, I claim this relic and that ship. You may—” Marasi was about to step between them when, curiously, Steris spoke up, interrupting Wax. “Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I think it prudent to let them take the ship.” “What? Like hell I’m going to—” “Waxillium,” Steris said softly. “They’re tired, miserable, and a long way from home. How do you suggest, otherwise, that they are to return to those they love? Is that justice?” His lips tightened. “The Set has one of these ships to study, Steris.” “Then,” Steris said, looking to Jordis, “we will beg—in return for the generosity of this gift—that the Malwish people open trade with us. I suspect we can purchase ships from them more quickly than
the Set can build their own.” Marasi nodded. Not bad, Steris. “If they’ll sell,” Waxillium said. “I think that they will,” Steris said, looking to Jordis. “Because the good captain will persuade them that access to our Allomancers is worth relinquishing a technological monopoly.” “That’s true,” Marasi said, stepping up to the rest, Allik with her. “We’re rare among you, aren’t we?” “We?” Allik asked as the captain looked to her. “I’m an Allomancer too,” she said, amused. “You didn’t see me charging the cube device back in the warehouse?” “I was … a little distracted.…” he said, sounding woozy. “Oh dear. Um. Great One.” Marasi sighed, looking to Jordis. “I can promise you nothing,” the captain said to Steris, sounding reluctant. “The Malwish are but one of many. Another nation among us may see you up here as weak and decide to strike.” “Then,” Steris said, “you might want to inform them that the Bands of Mourning are here, ready to punish those who attack.” Jordis hissed. Marasi couldn’t see her features behind the mask, but the hand swipe she made did not look pleased. “Impossible. You give me the lesser prize to distract me from the greater, yah? We will not give you the Sovereign’s weapon.” “You’re not giving it to us,” Steris said. She looked to MeLaan, who watched with crossed arms. “Allik. Your people have stories of creatures like her, do you not?” “Tell the others,” Marasi said to Allik. “Please.” He removed his medallion and launched into a furious explanation in his language, waving his hands, then gesturing at MeLaan. She cocked an eyebrow, then made her skin translucent—displaying a skeleton that was so cracked and mangled, Marasi was left momentarily stunned. How was MeLaan still standing? The captain took this in. “We,” Steris said, “will give the Bands to the immortal kandra. They are wise and impartial, tasked with serving all people. They will promise not to let us use the Bands unless we are attacked by your kind.” There was no way to tell what Captain Jordis thought, her expression hidden behind that mask. When she did speak, she made a few curt gestures—but those could be faked far more easily than facial expressions, Marasi figured. What did one make of a society where everyone hid their true feelings behind a mask, only letting out calculated reactions? “This is an unpleasant accommodation,” Jordis said. “It means I will limp back to my people, half my crew dead and my ship exchanged for one decades out of date.” “True,” Steris continued at Waxillium’s side—he merely stood there with arms folded, looming, as he was so good at doing. “But Captain, you will return with something more valuable than an old relic or even your fallen ship. You’ll have new trading partners in a land brimming with Metalborn. Has it been mentioned that my lord Waxillium holds an important seat in our government? That he has a dramatic influence over trade, tariffs, and taxation? Those among your people who secure favorable treaties with us could become very
rich indeed.” Jordis regarded them, then folded her arms, facing Waxillium directly. “It is still unpleasant.” Jordis was much shorter, but she managed to loom pretty well herself. In fact, Marasi got the distinct impression that the woman wanted to shout at them, attack in a rage, seek retribution for what had been done to her and hers. Anything but just simply trade. Perhaps some emotions were too strong to be hidden even by a mask. Jordis finally nodded. “Very well. Let it be done. But I will not leave without a draft agreement—a promise of intentions, if nothing else.” Marasi breathed a sigh of relief, shooting Steris a nod of appreciation. Still, she did not miss the stiffness in Jordis’s posture as she and Waxillium shook hands. The Basin had not made a friend this day. Hopefully some last-minute scrambling had prevented them from making an enemy. “I have one further request,” Waxillium said to her. “What?” Jordis asked, suspicious. “Nothing terrible or costly,” Waxillium said. “Honestly, I’d just like a ride.” * * * The Southerners agreed, fortunately. They didn’t particularly want to carry a brigful of enemy soldiers all the way south. Wax had to make it very clear they couldn’t keep Suit himself, and the captain relented with minimal argument. She seemed to realize that her best chance of seeing justice done to all of those who had brutalized her crew lay in letting Wax do some thorough interrogations. He kept his relationship to the man quiet. As the Malwish crew prepared the ship for travel, Wax stood before the statue of the Lord Ruler, with that single spike in his eye. He’d checked the belt, which was aluminum. No kind of charge. If there had ever been two bracers, he had to assume they’d been made into this one spearhead. Marasi passed behind him. “I’m going to go check our skimmer for supplies we might have left behind.” Wax nodded. I held your power, he thought toward the statue, if only a tiny bit of it. Rusts … I think I understand. He’d given the Bands to MeLaan, and she had made them vanish into her flesh. He was glad to know that they were effectively out of his reach. Too much power. He raised his finger in farewell to the Lord Ruler, then jogged off after Marasi. “Aradel and the Senate won’t like this deal,” Wax noted as he reached her. “Particularly the part about us giving away the Bands.” “I know,” Marasi said. “As long as I can tell him it wasn’t my idea.” She glanced at him. “You don’t seem too broken up about losing the Bands.” “I’m not,” he admitted. “I was worried, honestly. The Bands are drained, mostly, but we could probably recharge them by compounding. The power they offer is something…” “… Sublime and devastating at once?” Marasi asked. “Dangerous because of what it could do in the wrong hands, yet somehow more dangerous in your own?” “Yes.” They shared something in that moment, swept by winds. Something they’d touched, something—hopefully—only
they would know. They turned together without a word, seeking the skimmer. Jordis would want to load it on the ship, but first there was a corpse Wax needed to see. He didn’t blame Wayne for what he’d done to Telsin. Yes, taking her to Elendel for justice—and interrogation—would have been better. And yes, he found that he’d rather have pulled the trigger himself. Harmony was right about that. But either way, Telsin was dealt with. That meant— Blood on the snow. No skimmer. More importantly, no body. Marasi froze in place as they drew near, but Wax approached the empty patch of ground. She had slipped away, again. He found he was not surprised, though he was impressed. She’d gotten the skimmer aloft and away during the fighting, escaping during the chaos. Wayne should have known she might be able to heal herself, Wax thought, going down on one knee beside the eerie pattern of blood drops that seemed to outline a body. “It’s not done, then,” Marasi said. Wax brushed the drops of blood, frozen to the ground. He’d spent the last eighteen months trying to save this woman. And when he finally had, she’d killed him. “It’s not done,” he said. “But in some ways, that’s better.” “Because your sister isn’t dead?” He turned toward Marasi. It seemed that despite hours in this frozen place, the cold had only just reached inside of him. “No,” he said. “Because now I have someone to hunt.” 31 “Wax, you gotta see this!” Wax tipped his head back, bleary-eyed. These bunks were not particularly pleasant, but at least the airship flew in a calm, smooth manner. That was nice, as the skimmer had always felt as if it were one gust of wind away from plowing nose-first into a hillside. Wayne hung halfway out of the room’s large window. “That window opens?” Wax asked, surprised. “Any window opens,” Wayne said, “if you push hard enough. Look, you’ve gotta see this.” Wax sighed, climbing up and leaning out of the window beside Wayne. Beneath them, Elendel spread out as a vast sea of lights. “Like rivers of fire,” Wayne mumbled. “Look how it follows patterns. Rich areas more lit, roads all in lines. Beautiful.” Wax grunted. “That’s all you can say, mate?” “Wayne, I see this basically every night.” “Now, that there, that ain’t fair. You should feel guilty.” “For being a Coinshot?” “For cheatin’ at life, Wax.” “How about I feel appreciative instead?” “Suppose that’ll do.” Wax settled down on his bunk, then pulled on his boots, doing the laces. He ached like a man beaten senseless. He wished he could blame the strain of the last few days, but he’d held the Bands of Mourning and had been healed completely. That meant these aches came merely from sleeping a few hours on this bunk. Rusts. He was getting old. Upon considering that, however, he found that mortality didn’t frighten him as it once had. “We should get up to the bridge,” he suggested, standing. It had been a full day since
they’d left the mountains. They’d stopped at a town to telegraph ahead at Wax’s insistence, then waited until the next night to fly the rest of the way. He had had no intention of bringing a massive flying warship anywhere near the city without at least giving warning first. Jordis had been amenable, once he’d promised her supplies for their trip home in repayment. Marasi worried about the captain, he knew, but he had looked into the woman’s eyes behind the mask. She was a soldier, a killer, despite her claims of hers being a simple trading vessel. She knew. Wax had held the Bands. He could have swept the Malwish away and stolen their ship without a second thought. Instead, he’d given in to Steris’s compromise. Strong words notwithstanding, Jordis realized she’d gotten more out of this deal than she had any reason to expect. Wayne joined him outside their room, and they stepped aside as a few wearied airmen passed. He couldn’t see their faces, but could read a world of emotions from their hunched backs and subdued speech. “They’ve been broken,” Wayne whispered, looking over his shoulder as the airmen continued on. “Ain’t fair what happened to these folks, Wax.” “Is life ever fair?” “It has been to me,” Wayne said. “More than fair, I reckon. Considering what I deserve.” “Do you want to talk about it?” Wax asked. “What?” “You used a gun, Wayne.” “Bah, that was a shotgun. Barely counts.” Wax rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Wayne shrugged. “Guess my body figured, ‘What the hell?’” “I thought it meant you’d forgiven yourself.” “Nah,” Wayne said. “I was just real mad at your sister.” “You knew, didn’t you?” Wax asked, frowning. “That she’d heal?” “Well, I didn’t wanna kill someone in cold blood—” “That’s good, I suppose.” “—but there weren’t no fire around to light her with first.” “Wayne…” The shorter man sighed. “I saw the metalminds peekin’ outta her sleeves. Figured, if you’re gonna give yourself one power from a Feruchemist, you’d wanna be able to heal. I ain’t gonna kill your sister, mate. But I didn’t mind makin’ her jump a bit, and I needed MeLaan’s spikes.” Wayne’s gaze grew distant. “Shoulda stayed there, I suppose. To stop her from runnin’, you know? But I wasn’t of sound mind, so to speak. I thought you were dead, mate. Really thought it. And I kept thinkin’ to myself, ‘Would Wax kill her for real? Or would he give her another chance, like he gave me?’ So I let her be. I stayed my hand, ’cuz it was the last thing I could do for you. Does that make sense?” Wax squeezed Wayne’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re learning.” It felt disingenuous to say that when inside, in truth, he wished Wayne had stripped off her metalminds and left her a frozen corpse. Wayne grinned. Wax nodded in the direction the airmen had gone. “I’ll meet you up there.” “Going to go fetch your woman?” Wayne said. “She’s gonna have a hard time adjustin’ to
life back here, away from her native habitat of the frozen, icy, desolate wastes up—” “Wayne,” Wax interrupted, soft but firm. “Hum?” “Enough.” “I was just—” “Enough.” Wayne stopped with his mouth open, then licked his lips and nodded. “Right, then. See you up above in a few, mate?” “We’ll be right along.” Wayne scampered off toward the bridge. Wax trailed through the hallway, heading down several doors to the room Steris and Marasi had been sharing. He raised his hand to knock, but it was cracked, so he peeked in. Steris lay on a bunk, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping softly. There was no sign of Marasi; she’d mentioned wanting to watch the approach to the city from the bridge. He hesitated at the door, watching her sleep. He almost left; she’d been through so much these last few days. She had to be exhausted. Once they reached Elendel, they’d still have to unload the prisoners and bring the supplies on board—it could be hours before the ship had to leave. She could sleep a little longer, couldn’t she? The door creaked as he leaned against it, and Steris started awake. Her eyes found him immediately. Then she smiled, relaxing, and huddled up against her pillow. She was wearing a travel dress under the blanket. Wax stepped into the room and took a seat on the bunk across from Steris; there was so little space in this room that his knees touched her bunk after he sat. And these were the rooms the airmen considered large. He leaned forward, taking Steris’s hand in his. She squeezed it, eyes closed once more, and they sat there. Still. Everyone else could wait a few minutes. “Thank you,” Wax said softly. “For what?” she said. “Coming with me.” “I didn’t do much.” “You were extremely helpful at the party,” Wax said. “And your negotiations with the Malwish … Steris, that was incredible.” “Perhaps,” she said. “But I still feel that I was basically luggage for most of the trip.” He shrugged. “Steris, I think we’re all like that. Shuffled from place to place by duty, or society, or God Himself. It seems like we’re just along for the ride, even in our own lives. But once in a while, we do face a choice. A real one. We may not be able to choose what happens to us, or where we’ll stop, but we point ourselves in a direction.” He squeezed her hand. “You pointed yourself toward me.” “Well,” she said, smiling, “being near you is generally the safest place.…” He cupped her face with his hand, all callused and rough. Another adventure. Eventually, an airman came looking for them, and Wax reluctantly stood, helping Steris up. Then they walked—arm in arm—through the hallways of the ship and up to the bridge, where the others waited. Here, Wax was able to appreciate what Wayne had seen. With the panoramic view from the bridge, the city really was gorgeous at night. Is this a sight that will become commonplace? Wax thought as Steris squeezed his
arm, grinning at the sight. This airship technology was new, but not many years had passed since he’d seen his first motorcar on the road. Marasi had been directing Captain Jordis through the city. Wax couldn’t read anything in the captain’s posture, or those of her crew. Were they impressed by the size of the city and the height of the skyscrapers? Or were these things commonplace in the South? They approached Ahlstrom Tower, and Wax could only imagine the stories this would prompt in the broadsheets the next morning. Good. He hated subterfuge; let the people of Elendel know, to a man, that the world had just become a much larger place. Ahlstrom Tower, in which Wax had an ownership interest, had a flat top. The captain had assured him that she could land her ship “on a nail, so long as the head is smooth enough.” True to her word, they set it down. “You’re certain you don’t want to stay?” Marasi asked Jordis. “Visit our city, find out what we’re actually like?” “No. Thank you.” The words sounded forced, to Wax. But who was to say, with the accent muddying things? “We will take your offer of supplies and be away tonight.” Time to debark. Together—the others filing after—Wax and Steris made their way through the halls again. “It almost feels,” Steris said softly, “like this entire experience was a dream. I need to write it all down quickly, lest it fade.” Wax found himself nodding as he thought of his meeting with Harmony. The hallway led to a junction where the wall had opened and a long docking bridge had been settled in place, leading down to the rooftop. Below, Wax picked out several figures craning their necks to look at the ship. Governor Aradel had come in person. Allik stood at the door, and he lifted his mask as Wax approached. No bow or nod, just the mask lift. Among this people, perhaps that was the same thing—as behind him, the other airmen did the same. “Mighty One,” Allik said to Wax. “May your next fire be known to you.” “And you, Allik.” “Oh, it is,” he said with a grin. “For my next fire is home, yah?” He looked to Marasi, and then reached up and removed his mask—the broken one, which he had glued. He held it out with two hands, which caused a few gasps behind him. “Please,” Allik said. The word had more accent to it than the way he’d been speaking before. The captain, who had not lifted her mask to Wax, grew stiff at the gesture. Marasi hesitated, then accepted the mask. “Thank you.” “Thank you, Miss Marasi,” Allik said. “For life.” He took a flat, unornamented mask from his waist and pulled it on by the leather strap. It was really nothing more than a curved piece of wood with holes for the eyes. “I look forward to my homecoming, but my next fire after that may be here again. I plan to take you up on your offer to
visit this city.” “So long as you bring some more choc,” Marasi said, “you can visit any time you like.” Wax smiled, and then the five of them relinquished their weight medallion metalminds to the captain, a formality they’d been instructed was customary. Jordis had already presented Wax with one of each, translation and heat-storing, as a gift for him to keep. Wayne had likely stolen another set, though Wax intended to wait until they were off the ship to ask. Wax led them down the gangway, Steris on his arm. “Seriously, Waxillium,” Marasi said, walking up beside them. “You need to import that chocolate of theirs. I don’t know what they put in it, but it’s amazing. You think the airships are going to be big? Wait until you taste this stuff.” “Hey,” Wayne said, pulling up on his other side, but then twisting his neck to look at the people in the ship behind them. “Marasi, I think that pilot fellow fancies you.” “Thank you,” Marasi said, “for lending us your brilliant powers of observation, Wayne.” “That could be useful politically,” Steris noted. “Please,” Marasi said. “He’s practically a child compared to me. And don’t you snicker.” “I wouldn’t dare,” Wax said, eyes ahead. He didn’t miss how reverently Marasi carried the mask, however. Ahead, a group of the governor’s aides and guards clustered together in a protective bubble, as if they could stave off the weirdness before them—and what it represented—through collective body heat. Aradel himself stood apart, as if he’d pushed out of the group. Wax strolled up to him, Steris on his arm, and waited. “Damn,” Aradel finally said. “I did warn you,” Wax replied. Aradel shook his head in awe, eyes wide. “Well, maybe this will distract everyone from the disaster you all started in New Seran.” “Bad?” Steris asked. Aradel grunted. “Senate’s had my balls over the fire for two days straight, screaming about war and irresponsible leadership. As if I ever had any influence over you people.” He started, finally ripping his gaze from the airship, and coughed—as if realizing what he’d just said, and whom he’d said it to. Wax smiled. Aradel was blunt, but usually displayed more tact than this. You couldn’t go far as a constable without some understanding of how to deal with people’s egos. “Apologies, Lady Harms,” he said. “Ladrian, I need to hear what happened in New Seran. The honest truth of it, from your own mouth.” “You’ll have it,” Wax promised. “Tomorrow.” “But—” “Governor,” Wax said. “I appreciate your position, but you have no idea what we’ve been through these last few days. My people need rest. Tomorrow. Please.” Aradel grunted. “Fine.” “Did you prepare the thing I requested?” Wax asked. “It’s below,” Aradel said, turning back toward the airship. “In the penthouse.” The governor took a deep breath, looking at that enormous airship again. Constable-General Reddi had led a group of constables up to accept the transfer of prisoners. Wax could now see that the ship had landed only half on the building. One fan spun
lazily, keeping the ship in place. Likely done that way on purpose, he thought of the landing, as a message. The crew wants to remind us that while we might get this technology soon, we’ll still be many years behind them in its use. “I think we’ll be fine,” Wax said to Aradel. “If the outer cities had thoughts about attacking us, I suspect this might stall them. Spread the knowledge that an airship flew through central Elendel and let me off—then left peaceably.” “We have initial treaties in place, Your Honor,” Steris added. “Favorable to us for trade. That should give the hawks pause, and could buy us time to smooth things over.” “Yes, perhaps,” Aradel said. “It’s going to be a tough metal for the Senate to swallow though, Ladrian. Not the airship itself, but the fact that I’m—apparently—just going to let it fly off.” He hesitated. “I haven’t told them what you said about the other item.” “Bands of Mourning?” Wax said. Aradel nodded, too politic to say what Wax was certain he was thinking. What have you gone and done to me this time, Ladrian? “MeLaan?” Wax asked. “Would you mind taking over here?” “Sure,” she said, striding toward them. She wore an outfit borrowed from the Southlanders, a man’s breeches and boots that went up to midcalf. She rested an arm on the governor’s shoulder. “Holy One,” Aradel said, his voice strained but reverent. He eyed Wax. “You realize precisely how unfair it is to deal with you, when you can fall back on heavenly messengers to talk you out of trouble?” “That’s nothing,” Wax said, guiding Steris toward the steps down. “Ask me sometime about the conversation I had with God the last time I died.” “That was vicious,” Steris said as they reached the steps. “Nonsense,” Wax said. “He’s a politician now. He needs practice being thrown off balance in conversations. Helps him prepare for debates and such.” She eyed him. “I’ll be better,” he promised, holding the door open for her. Marasi moved to join them, but Wayne caught her by the arm and shook his head. “Better?” Steris asked from the stairwell. “So this means no more complaining about parties.” “Of course I’ll gripe,” Wax said, following her into the stairwell, leaving the others behind. “It’s a defining character feature. But I’ll try and confine the worst of it to you and Wayne.” “And I,” Steris said, “shall promise to be properly amazed by your exploits saving everyone from everything.” She smiled at him. “And to always carry a few vials of metal with me, just in case. By the way, where are we going?” He grinned, guiding her down to the top floor of the skyscraper, a regal penthouse that—currently—was unoccupied, the tenants having moved to Elmsdel for an extended holiday. Seated in a chair in the hall outside the apartment proper was a tired-looking man in the garb of a Survivorist priest, his formal mistcloak—really more of a shawl—worn over robes adorned with stitching up the sleeves representing scars. Steris looked
to Wax, curious. “I was wondering, Steris,” Wax said, “if you’d be willing to be my bride.” “I’ve already agreed—” “Yes, but last time I asked with an expectation of a contract,” Wax said. “It was the lord of a house asking a woman of means for a union. Well, that request stands, and thank you. But I’m asking again. It’s important to me. “Will you be my bride? I want to be married to you. Right now, before the Survivor and that priest. Not because words on a paper say we have to, but because we want to.” He took her by the hand, and spoke more softly. “I’m painfully tired of being alone, Steris. It’s time I admitted that. And you … well, you’re incredible. You truly are.” Steris started sniffling. She pulled her hand free of his and wiped her eyes. “Is that … good crying or bad?” Wax asked. All these years dealing with women, and he still couldn’t tell the difference sometimes. “Well, this wasn’t on any of my lists, you see.” “Ah.” He felt his heart lurch. “And,” she continued, “I can’t remember a time when I missed something for one of my lists, only to have it be so wonderful.” She nodded, red-nosed and sniffly. “And it is. Thank you, Lord Waxillium.” She paused. “But tonight! So soon? Don’t the others deserve to attend a wedding?” “They did attend one,” Wax said. “It’s not our fault there wasn’t a marriage at the end. So … what do you think? I mean, if you’re tired from the trip, don’t let me pressure you. I just thought—” In response, she kissed him. EPILOGUE Marasi found it invigorating to work by candlelight. Perhaps it was the primordial danger of it. Electric lights felt safe, contained, harnessed—but an open flame, well, that was something raw. Alive. A little spark of fury which, if released, could destroy her and everything she worked on. She worked with a lot of such sparks these days. Spread on her desk in the octant constabulary headquarters were notes, files, interviews. She’d been present for most of them over the last two weeks, advising Constable-General Reddi. The two of them worked so closely these days, it was sometimes hard to remember how difficult he’d been to her during her early days in the constabulary. Though Suit himself hadn’t broken, many of his men had talked. They knew just enough to be infuriating. They’d been recruited from among the dissident young men of the outer cities—their ears stuffed with stories of the Survivor and his fight against imperial rule. They’d been trained in cities like Rashekin and Bilming, far from central rule. In closed compounds that were much more extensive than anyone had known. Aradel and the others had focused on these details. Troops, timetables, technology—like the long-distance speaking device Waxillium had stolen from Lady Kelesina’s mansion. They geared up for war, all the while talking peace. They were scared, and legitimately so. Decades of not-so-benign neglect had created this snarl. Hopefully it could still be
peacefully untangled. Marasi left that to politicians. She cut through the jingoism, the rhetoric, and turned her attention to something else. Stories among the men of something unusual, beyond the rumors of airships and new Allomantic metals. She held up one sheet covered in notes. Half mentions, admissions made with sideways glances, always spoken of in whispers. Tales of men with red eyes who visited in the night. She added the stories to her files of research about Trell, the ancient god that people were somehow worshipping again. A god that had crafted spikes to corrupt the kandra Paalm, and whose name was on the lips of many of the prisoners. She’d spent months researching, and so far felt like she knew nothing. But she would find answers, one way or another. * * * Suit’s captors thought to shock him with the austerity of his quarters. A common cell in the prison’s nethers, with a bucket for facilities and one blanket on the bed. A tired, pointless tactic. As if he’d known only rose petals and feather beds in his life; as if he’d never slept on a stone slab. Well, they would see. Anything could be an advantage. In this case, it was a chance to prove himself. He would not break, and they would see. So it was that he wasn’t at all surprised when, after two weeks of captivity, the door to the corridor outside his cell clicked open one night and a stranger stalked in. Male this time, with a ragged beard and wild hair. A beggar stolen off the street, Suit guessed. You could tell them by the way they walked. Never a stroll, never leisurely. Always fast, determined. Purposeful. Of course, the softly glowing red eyes were another sign. So far as Suit had been able to determine, Waxillium and his fools had no knowledge of these creatures. They didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. The Set had Faceless Immortals of its own. Suit stood, pulling down the sleeves of his prisoner’s jumpsuit and swiping the wrinkles from his shoulders. “Two weeks is longer than I expected.” “Our timeline is not yours.” “I was not complaining,” Suit said. “Merely observing. I am perfectly willing to wait upon Trell’s pleasure.” “Are you?” the Immortal asked. “It is our understanding that you push for an acceleration.” “I was merely stating my perspective,” Suit said. “So that a proper discourse can be engaged.” The creature studied him through the bars. “You didn’t break or spill secrets.” “I did not.” “We are impressed.” “Thank you.” Advantage. Even two weeks in prison can be used to prove a point. “The timeline will be accelerated, as you have requested,” the Immortal said. “Excellent!” The creature reached into its pocket and removed a device like a small package wrapped in wires. One of Irich’s early attempts at creating an explosive device from the metal that powered the airships. It had proven ineffective, barely more explosive than dynamite, when they needed something that could end cities. “What is that?” Suit asked, growing nervous. “Our accelerated
pace will no longer require the Set to have its full hierarchy.” “But you need us!” Suit said. “To rule, to manage civilization on—” “No longer. Recent advances have made civilization here too dangerous. Allowing it to continue risks further advances we cannot control, and so we have decided to remove life on this sphere instead. Thank you for your service; it has been accepted. You will be allowed to serve in another Realm.” “But—” The creature engaged the explosive device, blowing itself—and Suit—to oblivion. * * * Wax started awake. Had that been an explosion? He looked around the quiet bedroom suite of the tower penthouse. Steris curled up on the bed next to him, perfectly still in her sleep, though she held lightly to his arm. She often did that, as if afraid to let go and risk all this ending. Looking at her there in the starlight, he was shocked by the deep affection he felt for her. His surprise didn’t concern him. He could remember many a morning waking next to Lessie, feeling that same surprise. Amazement at his good fortune, astonishment at the depth of his own emotion. He gently lifted her hand away, then pulled the sheet up around her before slipping from the bed and strolling bare-chested across the room toward the balcony. They’d stayed here in the penthouse through the honeymoon, rather than returning to the mansion. It felt like a good way to have a new beginning, and Wax was starting to think he might like to relocate here more permanently. He was a new person for what seemed like the hundredth time in his life, and this was a new age. This was no longer an era of quiet mansions and smoking-room conversations; it was an era of bold skyscrapers and vibrant downtown politics. The mists were out, curling around outside, though the skyscraper was tall enough he thought he could see stars and the Red Rip through that mist. He moved to push open the doors and step out onto the balcony, but paused, noticing his dressing table, upon which Drewton had set out a row of objects. The valet had gone through Wax’s things, from his pockets and from his possessions recovered from the hotel in New Seran. Drewton probably wanted to know which should be kept, and which disposed of. Wax smiled, brushing his fingers over the wrinkled cravat he’d worn to the party with Steris. He remembered tossing it to the ground as he changed to trousers and mistcoat in his room, prior to their quick escape from the city. Drewton had laid it out, along with a napkin from the party, monogrammed, and even a bottle cap he’d swiped in case he needed something to Push on. But Drewton had set it out on its own little cloth as if it might be the most important thing in the world. Wax shook his head, resting a hand on the door out to the balcony. Then he froze and looked back at the table. It was right there.
The coin he’d been given by the beggar, shining in the faint starlight. Drewton must have found it in his pocket. Wax reached out, hesitated a moment, and then slipped it from the table before stepping out into the mist. Could it be? he wondered, holding up the coin. Two different metals. One was silvery. Could that be nicrosil? The other was copper. A Feruchemical metal. Though the pattern printed on the face wasn’t the same, and the coin itself was smaller, this didn’t look all that different from one of the Southerner medallions. As soon as he thought of it—as soon as he knew what it might do—the metalmind started working, and he found a store within him, a reserve he could tap. Wax gasped. They called them copperminds. A very special kind of Feruchemical storage. One that stored memories. He tapped it. Immediately, Wax was in a different place. A barren land, with no one in sight and only dust blowing around him. It was a difficult perspective to experience, for only half of the viewer’s eyesight was normal. The other was all in blue, lines everywhere. The vision of a man spiked through the eye. The figure crossed those desolate reaches, passing half-tended crops left to die and rattle in the wind. Ahead lay a town—or the remnants of one. He heard his own boots on the dirty rock, the wind blowing, and felt cold. He continued on into the town, passing foundations marked by old, burned-out fires. Somehow, he knew that the inhabitants here—as in other villages and towns he’d passed—had torn down their own walls for firewood, in desperation to survive. Bodies lay in the street, stripped. Their clothing had been taken for burning after they’d frozen in what most men would consider only mildly cold weather. Ahead stood a bunkerlike stone dwelling. Long and narrow, it reminded him of something—not something Wax knew, but a memory in the mind of the man storing this experience. A memory of something long ago that flickered in his consciousness, then was lost in a moment. The traveler continued, stepping up to the doorway, which was open. They’d burned the door. Inside, a mass of people huddled together for warmth, wrapped uselessly in blankets. No fires left. They’d burned even their masks. The traveler moved among them, drawing some concern, though most people stared with dull eyes. Awaiting death. He found the leaders near the center, the elders, aged and wearing cloth masks on their faces—the only things they had left. One ancient woman looked up at him and lifted her mask. He saw her normally in one world, and outlined in blue in another. The traveler reached out and took the woman by the shoulder, kneeled down, and whispered a single word. Wax came out of that memory with a shock, dropping the coin, startled and stepping back. The coin plinged against the balcony and settled to a stop near his feet. That arm … That arm. Lined with a network of scars layered atop one another, as if
made by scraping the skin time and time again. The haunting word he’d spoken echoed in Wax’s mind. “Survive.” POSTSCRIPT Marasi, Wax, and Wayne will return in The Lost Metal, the epic finale of Mistborn: Era Two. I plan to release this after Oathbringer, the third volume of the Stormlight Archive, which I’m hard at work writing at this moment. To tide you over until Oathbringer, I have just released a special digital-only novella that is intended to be read after The Bands of Mourning, though it takes place during the events of the original Mistborn Trilogy. Ten years in the making, Mistborn: Secret History might answer a few of your questions. There’s always another secret. BRANDON SANDERSON January 2016 ARS ARCANUM METALS QUICK REFERENCE CHART LIST OF METALS ALUMINUM: A Mistborn who burns aluminum instantly metabolizes all of his or her metals without giving any other effect, wiping all Allomantic reserves. Mistings who can burn aluminum are called Aluminum Gnats due to the ineffectiveness of this ability by itself. Trueself Ferrings can store their spiritual sense of identity in an aluminum metalmind. This is an art rarely spoken of outside of Terris communities, and even among them it is not yet well understood. Aluminum itself and a few of its alloys are Allomantically inert; they cannot be Pushed or Pulled and can be used to shield an individual from emotional Allomancy. BENDALLOY: Slider Mistings burn bendalloy to compress time in a bubble around themselves, making it pass more quickly within the bubble. This causes events outside the bubble to move at a glacial pace from the point of view of the Slider. Subsumer Ferrings can store nutrition and calories in a bendalloy metalmind; they can eat large amounts of food during active storage without feeling full or gaining weight, and then can go without the need to eat while tapping the metalmind. A separate bendalloy metalmind can be used to similarly regulate fluids intake. BRASS: Soother Mistings burn brass to Soothe (dampen) the emotions of nearby individuals. This can be directed at a single individual or directed across a general area, and the Soother can focus on specific emotions. Firesoul Ferrings can store warmth in a brass metalmind, cooling themselves off while actively storing. They can tap the metalmind at a later time to warm themselves. BRONZE: Seeker Mistings burn bronze to “hear” pulses given off by other Allomancers who are burning metals. Different metals produce different pulses. Sentry Ferrings can store wakefulness in a bronze metalmind, making themselves drowsy while actively storing. They can tap the metalmind at a later time to reduce drowsiness or to heighten their awareness. CADMIUM: Pulser Mistings burn cadmium to stretch time in a bubble around themselves, making it pass more slowly inside the bubble. This causes events outside the bubble to move at blurring speed from the point of view of the Pulser. Gasper Ferrings can store breath inside a cadmium metalmind; during active storage they must hyperventilate in order for their bodies to get enough air. The breath can be retrieved at a
later time, eliminating or reducing the need to breathe using the lungs while tapping the metalmind. They can also highly oxygenate their blood. CHROMIUM: Leecher Mistings who burn chromium while touching another Allomancer will wipe that Allomancer’s metal reserves. Spinner Ferrings can store fortune in a chromium metalmind, making themselves unlucky during active storage, and can tap it at a later time to increase their luck. COPPER: Coppercloud Mistings (a.k.a. Smokers) burn copper to create an invisible cloud around themselves, which hides nearby Allomancers from being detected by a Seeker and which shields the Smoker from the effects of emotional Allomancy. Archivist Ferrings can store memories in a copper metalmind (coppermind); the memory is gone from their head while in storage, and can be retrieved with perfect recall at a later time. DURALUMIN: A Mistborn who burns duralumin instantly burns away any other metals being burned at the time, releasing an enormous burst of those metals’ power. Mistings who can burn Duralumin are called Duralumin Gnats due to the ineffectiveness of this ability by itself. Connecter Ferrings can store spiritual connection in a duralumin metalmind, reducing other people’s awareness and friendship with them during active storage, and can tap it at a later time in order to speedily form trust relationships with others. ELECTRUM: Oracle Mistings burn electrum to see a vision of possible paths their future could take. This is usually limited to a few seconds. Pinnacle Ferrings can store determination in an electrum metalmind, entering a depressed state during active storage, and can tap it at a later time to enter a manic phase. GOLD: Augur Mistings burn gold to see a vision of a past self or how they would have turned out having made different choices in the past. Bloodmaker Ferrings can store health in a gold metalmind, reducing their health while actively storing, and can tap it at a later time in order to heal quickly or to heal beyond the body’s usual abilities. IRON: Lurcher Mistings who burn iron can Pull on nearby sources of metal. Pulls must be directly toward the Lurcher’s center of gravity. Skimmer Ferrings can store physical weight in an iron metalmind, reducing their effective weight while actively storing, and can tap it at a later time to increase their effective weight. NICROSIL: Nicroburst Mistings who burn nicrosil while touching another Allomancer will instantly burn away any metals being burned by that Allomancer, releasing an enormous (and perhaps unexpected) burst of those metals’ power within that Allomancer. Soulbearer Ferrings can store Investiture in a nicrosil metalmind. This is a power that very few know anything about; indeed, I’m certain the people of Terris don’t truly know what they are doing when they use these powers. PEWTER: Pewterarm Mistings (a.k.a. Thugs) burn pewter to increase their physical strength, speed, and durability, also enhancing their bodies’ ability to heal. Brute Ferrings can store physical strength in a pewter metalmind, reducing their strength while actively storing, and can tap it at a later time to increase their strength. STEEL: Coinshot Mistings who burn steel can
Push on nearby sources of metal. Pushes must be directly away from the Coinshot’s center of gravity. Steelrunner Ferrings can store physical speed in a steel metalmind, slowing them while actively storing, and can tap it at a later time to increase their speed. TIN: Tineye Mistings who burn tin increase the sensitivity of their five senses. All are increased at the same time. Windwhisperer Ferrings can store the sensitivity of one of the five senses into a tin metalmind; a different tin metalmind must be used for each sense. While storing, their sensitivity in that sense is reduced, and when the metalmind is tapped that sense is enhanced. ZINC: Rioter Mistings burn zinc to Riot (enflame) the emotions of nearby individuals. This can be directed at a single individual or directed across a general area, and the Rioter can focus on specific emotions. Sparker Ferrings can store mental speed in a zinc metalmind, dulling their ability to think and reason while actively storing, and can tap it at a later time to think and reason more quickly. ON THE THREE METALLIC ARTS On Scadrial, there are three prime manifestations of Investiture. Locally these are spoken of as the “Metallic Arts,” though there are other names for them. Allomancy is the most common of the three. It is end-positive, according to my terminology—meaning that the practitioner draws in power from an external source. The body then filters it into various forms. (The actual outlet of the power is not chosen by the practitioner, but instead is hardwritten into their Spiritweb.) The key to drawing this power comes in the form of various types of metals, with specific compositions being required. Though the metal is consumed in the process, the power itself doesn’t actually come from the metal. The metal is a catalyst, you might say, that begins an Investiture and keeps it running. In truth, this isn’t much different from the form-based Investitures one finds on Sel, where specific shape is the key—here, however, the interactions are more limited. Still, one cannot deny the raw power of Allomancy. It is instinctive and intuitive for the practitioner, as opposed to requiring a great deal of study and exactness, as one finds in the form-based Investitures of Sel. Allomancy is brutal, raw, and powerful. There are sixteen base metals that work, though two others—named the “God Metals” locally—can be used in alloy to craft an entirely different set of sixteen each. As these God Metals are no longer commonly available, however, the other metals are not in wide use. Feruchemy is still widely known and used at this point on Scadrial. Indeed, you might say that it is more present today than it has been in many eras past, when it was confined to distant Terris or hidden from sight by the Keepers. Feruchemy is an end-neutral art, meaning that power is neither gained nor lost. The art also requires metal as a focus, but instead of being consumed, the metal acts as a medium by which abilities within the practitioner are shuttled through
time. Invest that metal on one day, withdraw the power on another day. It is a well-rounded art, with some feelers in the Physical, some in the Cognitive, and even some in the Spiritual. The last powers are under heavy experimentation by the Terris community, and aren’t spoken of to outsiders. It should be noted that the interbreeding of the Feruchemists with the general population has diluted the power in some ways. It is now common for people to be born with access to only one of the sixteen Feruchemical abilities. It is hypothesized that if one could make metalminds out of alloys with the God Metals, other abilities could be discovered. Hemalurgy is widely unknown in the modern world of Scadrial. Its secrets were kept close by those who survived their world’s rebirth, and the only known practitioners of it now are the kandra, who (for the most part) serve Harmony. Hemalurgy is an end-negative art. Some power is lost in the practice of it. Though many throughout history have maligned it as an “evil” art, none of the Investitures are actually evil. At its core, Hemalurgy deals with removing abilities—or attributes—from one person and bestowing them on another. It is primarily concerned with things of the Spiritual Realm, and is of the greatest interest to me. If one of these three arts is of great import to the cosmere, it is this one. I think there are many possibilities for its use. COMBINATIONS It is possible on Scadrial to be born with ability to access both Allomancy and Feruchemy. This has been of specific interest to me lately, as the mixing of different types of Investiture has curious effects. One needs look only at what has happened on Roshar to find this manifested—two powers, combined, often have an almost chemical reaction. Instead of getting out exactly what you put in, you get something new. On Scadrial, someone with one Allomantic power and one Feruchemical power is called “Twinborn.” The effects here are more subtle than they are when mixing Surges on Roshar, but I am convinced that each unique combination also creates something distinctive. Not just two powers, you could say, but two powers … and an effect. This demands further study. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Brandon Sanderson grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He lives in Utah with his wife and children and teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University. He is the author of such bestsellers as the Mistborn® trilogy and its sequels, The Alloy of Law and Shadows of Self; the Stormlight Archive novels The Way of Kings and Words of Radiance; and other novels, including The Rithmatist and Steelheart. In 2013, he won a Hugo Award for Best Novella for The Emperor’s Soul, set in the world of his acclaimed first novel, Elantris. Additionally, he was chosen to complete Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time® sequence. For behind-the-scenes information on all of Brandon Sanderson’s books, visit brandonsanderson.com. Or sign up for email updates here. BY BRANDON SANDERSON FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE The Way of Kings Words
of Radiance THE MISTBORN SAGA The Original Trilogy Mistborn The Well of Ascension The Hero of Ages The Wax and Wayne Series The Alloy of Law Shadows of Self The Bands of Mourning Warbreaker Elantris The Rithmatist ALCATRAZ VS. THE EVIL LIBRARIANS Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians* The Scrivener’s Bones* The Knights of Crystallia* The Shattered Lens* The Dark Talent** revised editions forthcoming *forthcoming Thank you for buying this Tom Doherty Associates ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. CONTENTS Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Map of Elendel Basin Map of New Seran PROLOGUE PART ONE Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 PART TWO Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 PART THREE Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 BROADSHEET: The New Ascendancy Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 EPILOGUE POSTSCRIPT ARS ARCANUM 1. Metals Quick Reference Chart 2. List of Metals 3. On the Three Metallic Arts About the Author By Brandon Sanderson from Tom Doherty Associates Copyright This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. THE BANDS OF MOURNING Copyright © 2016 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC All rights reserved. Cover art by Chris McGrath Interior illustrations by Isaac Stewart and Ben McSweeney Edited by Moshe Feder A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor-forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. ISBN 978-0-7653-7857-6 (hardcover) ISBN 978-0-7653-8779-0 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to right availability) ISBN 978-0-7653-8601-4 (limited edition) ISBN 978-1-4668-6267-8 (e-book) e-ISBN 9781466862678 Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com. First U.S. Edition: January 2016 First International Edition: January 2016 Begin Reading Table of Contents About the Author Copyright Page Thank you for buying this Tom Doherty Associates ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read
it on one of your personal devices. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy. FOR BEN OLSEN Who keeps putting up with a bunch of crazy writers as friends, And finds time to make our books better all the while. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This book comes out in the year that will mark the tenth anniversary of the Mistborn series. Considering all the other things I’ve been doing, it seems like six books in ten years is a grand accomplishment! I can still remember the early months, writing the trilogy furiously, trying to craft something that would really show off what I can do as a writer. Mistborn has become one of my hallmark series, and I hope that you find this volume a worthy entry in the canon. As always, this book involved the efforts of a great number of people. There’s the excellent art by Ben McSweeney and Isaac Stewarϯ—maps and icons by Isaac, with all the broadsheet art done by Ben. Both also helped a great deal on the text of the broadsheet, and Isaac himself wrote the Nicki Savage piece for it—since the idea was to have Jak hiring out his work now, we wanted to give that a different voice. I think it turned out great! The cover art was done by Chris McGrath in the US, and by Sam Green for the UK edition. Both are longtime artists on this series, and their art keeps getting better. Editorial was done by Moshe Feder at Tor, with Simon Spanton shepherding the project over at Gollancz in the UK. Agents on the project included Eddie Schneider, Sam Morgan, Krystyna Lopez, Christa Atkinson, and Tae Keller at Jabberwocky in the US, all overseen by the amazing Joshua Bilmes. In the UK you can thank John Berlyne of the Zeno Agency, an all-around awesome guy who worked hard for many years to finally break my books into the UK. At Tor Books, I’d also like to thank Tom Doherty, Linda Quinton, Marco Palmieri, Karl Gold, Diana Pho, Nathan Weaver, and Rafal Gibek. Copyediting was done by Terry McGarry. The audiobook narrator is Michael Kramer, my personal favorite narrator—and one I know I’m probably making blush right now, as he has to read this line to you all who are listening. At Macmillan Audio, I’d like to thank Robert Allen, Samantha Edelson, and Mitali Dave. Continuity, all-around editing feedback, and countless other jobs were done by the Immaculate Peter Ahlstrom. Also working here on my team are Kara Stewart, Karen Ahlstrom, and Adam Horne. And, of course, my lovely wife, Emily. We leaned extra hard on my beta readers for this one, as the book didn’t have the chance to go through writing group. That team is: Peter Ahlstrom, Alice Arneson, Gary Singer, Eric James Stone, Brian T. Hill, Kristina Kugler, Kim Garrett, Bob Kluttz, Jakob Remick, Karen Ahlstrom, Kalyani Poluri, Ben “wooo this book is dedicated to me, look how important
I am” Olsen, Lyndsey Luther, Samuel Lund, Bao Pham, Aubree Pham, Megan Kanne, Jory Phillips, Trae Cooper, Christi Jacobsen, Eric Lake, and Isaac Stewarϯ. (For those wondering, Ben was a founding member of my original writing group with Dan Wells and Peter Ahlstrom. A computer person by trade, and the only one of us in that original group who had no aspirations toward working in publishing, he’s been a valued reader and friend for many years. He also introduced me to the Fallout series, so there’s that as well.) Community proofreaders included most of the above plus: Kerry Wilcox, David Behrens, Ian McNatt, Sarah Fletcher, Matt Wiens, and Joe Dowswell. Well, that was a mouthful! These folks are wonderful, and if you compare my early books to my later ones, I think you’ll find that the assistance of these people has been invaluable in not only slaying typos but also helping me tighten narratives. Finally, though, I’d like to thank you readers for sticking with me these ten years, and being willing to accept the strange ideas I throw at you. Mistborn is not quite halfway through the evolution I have planned for it. I can’t wait for you to see what is coming your way, and this book is where some of that finally starts to be revealed. Enjoy! PROLOGUE “Telsin!” Waxillium hissed as he crept out of the training hut. Glancing back, Telsin winced and crouched lower. At sixteen, Waxillium’s sister was one year older than he was. Her long dark hair framed a button nose and prim lips, and colorful V shapes ran up the front of her traditional Terris robes. Those always seemed to fit her in a way his never did. On Telsin, they were elegant. Waxillium felt like he was wearing a sack. “Go away, Asinthew,” she said, inching around the side of the hut. “You’re going to miss evening recitation.” “They won’t notice I’m gone. They never check.” Inside the hut, Master Tellingdwar droned on about proper Terris attitudes. Submission, meekness, and what they called “respectful dignity.” He was speaking to the younger students; the older ones, like Waxillium and his sister, were supposed to be meditating. Telsin scrambled away, moving through the forested area of Elendel referred to simply as the Village. Waxillium fretted, then hurried after his sister. “You’re going to get into trouble,” he said once he caught up. He followed her around the trunk of an enormous oak tree. “You’re going to get me into trouble.” “So?” she said. “What is it with you and rules anyway?” “Nothing,” he said. “I just—” She stalked off into the forest. He sighed and trailed after her, and eventually they met up with three other Terris youths: two girls and a tall boy. Kwashim, one of the girls, looked Waxillium up and down. She was dark-skinned and slender. “You brought him?” “He followed me,” Telsin said. Waxillium smiled at Kwashim hopefully, then at Idashwy, the other girl. She had wide-set eyes and was his own age. And Harmony … she was gorgeous. She noticed
his attention on her and blinked a few times, then glanced away, a demure smile on her lips. “He’ll tell on us,” Kwashim said, drawing his attention away from the other girl. “You know he will.” “I won’t,” Waxillium snapped. Kwashim gave Waxillium a glare. “You might miss evening class. Who’ll answer all the questions? It will be rusting quiet in the classroom with nobody to fawn over the teacher.” Forch, the tall boy, stood just inside the shadows. Waxillium didn’t look at Forch, didn’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t know, right? He can’t know. Forch was the oldest of them, but rarely said much. He was Twinborn, like Waxillium. Not that either of them used their Allomancy much these days. In the Village, it was their Terris side—their Feruchemy—that was lauded. The fact that both he and Forch were Coinshots didn’t matter to the Terris. “Let’s go,” Telsin said. “No more arguing. We probably don’t have much time. If my brother wants to tag along, then fine.” They followed her beneath the canopy, feet crackling on leaves. With this much foliage, you could easily forget you were in the middle of an enormous city. The sounds of shouting men and iron-shod hooves on cobbles were distant, and you couldn’t see or smell the smoke in here. The Terris worked hard to keep their section of the city tranquil, quiet, peaceful. Waxillium should have loved it here. The group of five youths soon approached the Synod’s Lodge, where the ranking Terris elders had their offices. Telsin waved for the group of them to wait while she hurried up to a particular window to listen. Waxillium found himself looking about, anxious. Evening was approaching, the forest growing dim, but anyone could walk along and find them. Don’t worry so much, he told himself. He needed to join in their antics like his sister did. Then they’d see him as one of them. Right? Sweat trickled down the sides of his face. Nearby, Kwashim leaned against a tree, completely unconcerned, a smirk growing on her lips as she noticed how nervous he was. Forch stood in the shadows, not crouching, but rusts—he could have been one of the trees, for all the emotion he showed. Waxillium glanced at Idashwy, with her large eyes, and she blushed, looking away. Telsin snuck back to them. “She’s in there.” “That’s our grandmother’s office,” Waxillium said. “Of course it is,” Telsin said. “And she got called into her office for an emergency. Right, Idashwy?” The quiet girl nodded. “I saw Elder Vwafendal running past my meditation room.” Kwashim grinned. “So she won’t be watching.” “Watching what?” Waxillium asked. “The Tin Gate,” Kwashim said. “We can get out into the city. This is going to be even easier than usual!” “Usual?” Waxillium said, looking in horror from Kwashim to his sister. “You’ve done this before?” “Sure,” Telsin said. “Hard to get a good drink in the Village. Great pubs two streets over though.” “You’re an outsider,” Forch said to him as he stepped up. He spoke slowly, deliberately, as
if each word required separate consideration. “Why should you care if we leave? Look, you’re shaking. What are you afraid of? You lived most of your life out there.” You’re an outsider, they said. Why was his sister always able to worm her way into any group? Why did he always have to stand on the outside? “I’m not shaking,” Waxillium said to Forch. “I just don’t want to get into trouble.” “He’s going to turn us in,” Kwashim said. “I’m not.” Not for this anyway, Waxillium thought. “Let’s go,” Telsin said, leading the pack through the forest to the Tin Gate, which was a fancy name for something that was really just another street—though granted, it had a stone archway etched with ancient Terris symbols for the sixteen metals. Beyond it lay a different world. Glowing gas lamps marching along streets, newsboys trudging home for the night with unsold broadsheets tucked under their arms. Workers heading to the rowdy pubs for a drink. He’d never really known that world; he’d grown up in a lavish mansion stuffed with fine clothes, caviar, and wine. Something about that simple life called to him. Perhaps he’d find it there. The thing he’d never found. The thing everyone else seemed to have, but he couldn’t even put a name to. The other four youths scuttled out, passing the building with shadowed windows where Waxillium and Telsin’s grandmother would usually be sitting and reading this time of night. The Terris didn’t employ guards at the entrances to their domain, but they did watch. Waxillium didn’t leave, not yet. He looked down, pulling back the sleeves of his robe to expose the metalmind bracers he wore there. “You coming?” Telsin called to him. He didn’t respond. “Of course you’re not. You never want to risk trouble.” She led Forch and Kwashim away. Surprisingly though, Idashwy lingered. The quiet girl looked back at him questioningly. I can do this, Waxillium thought. It’s nothing big. His sister’s taunt ringing in his ears, he forced himself forward and joined Idashwy. He felt sick, but he fell in beside her, enjoying her shy smile. “So, what was the emergency?” he asked Idashwy. “Huh?” “The emergency that called Grandmother away?” Idashwy shrugged, pulling off her Terris robe, briefly shocking him until he saw that she wore a conventional skirt and blouse underneath. She tossed the robe into the bushes. “I don’t know much. I saw your grandmother running to the Synod Lodge, and overheard Tathed asking about it. Some kind of crisis. We were planning to slip out tonight, so I figured, you know, this would be a good time.” “But the emergency…” Waxillium said, looking over his shoulder. “Something about a constable captain coming to question her,” Idashwy said. A constable? “Let’s go, Asinthew,” she said, taking his hand. “Your grandmother is likely to make short work of the outsider. She could be on her way here already!” He’d frozen in place. Idashwy looked at him. Those lively brown eyes made it hard for him to think. “Come on,” she urged.
“Sneaking out is hardly even an infraction. Didn’t you live out here for fourteen years?” Rusts. “I need to go,” he said, turning back to run toward the forest. Idashwy stood in place as he left her. Waxillium entered the woods, sprinting for the Synod Lodge. You know she’s going to think you’re a coward now, part of him observed. They all will. Waxillium skidded to the ground outside his grandmother’s office window, heart thumping. He pressed against the wall, and yes, he could hear something through the open window. “We police ourselves, constable,” Grandmother Vwafendal said from inside. “You know this.” Waxillium dared to push himself up, peeking in the window to see Grandmother seated at her desk, a picture of Terris rectitude, with her hair in a braid and her robes immaculate. The man standing across the desk from her held his constable’s hat under his arm as a sign of respect. He was an older man with drooping mustaches, and the insignia on his breast marked him as a captain and a detective. High rank. Important. Yes! Waxillium thought, fiddling in his pocket for his notes. “The Terris police themselves,” the constable said, “because they rarely need policing.” “They don’t need it now.” “My informant—” “So now you have an informant?” Grandmother asked. “I thought it was an anonymous tip.” “Anonymous, yes,” the constable said, laying a sheet of paper on the desk. “But I consider this more than just a ‘tip.’” Waxillium’s grandmother picked up the sheet. Waxillium knew what it said. He’d sent it, along with a letter, to the constables in the first place. A shirt that smells of smoke, hanging behind his door. Muddied boots that match the size of the prints left outside the burned building. Flasks of oil in the chest beneath his bed. The list contained a dozen clues pointing to Forch as the one who’d burned the dining lodge to the ground earlier in the month. It thrilled Waxillium to see that the constables had taken his findings seriously. “Disturbing,” Grandmother said, “but I don’t see anything on this list that gives you the right to intrude upon our domain, Captain.” The constable leaned down to rest his hands on the edge of her desk, confronting her. “You weren’t so quick to reject our help when we sent a fire brigade to extinguish that blaze.” “I will always accept help saving lives,” Grandmother said. “But I need no help in locking them away. Thank you.” “Is it because this Forch is Twinborn? Are you frightened of his powers?” She gave him a scornful look. “Elder,” he said, taking a deep breath. “You have a criminal among you—” “If we do,” she said, “we will deal with the individual ourselves. I have visited the houses of sorrow and destruction you outsiders call prisons, Captain. I will not see one of my own immured there based on hearsay and anonymous fancies sent via post.” The constable breathed out and stood up straight again. He set something new down on the desk with a
snap. Waxillium squinted to see, but the constable was covering the object with his hand. “Do you know much about arson, Elder?” the constable asked softly. “It’s often what we call a companion crime. You find it used to cover a burglary, to perpetrate fraud, or as an act of initial aggression. In a case like this, the fire is commonly just a harbinger. At best you have a firebug who is waiting to burn again. At worst … well, something bigger is coming, Elder. Something you’ll all regret.” Grandmother drew her lips to a line. The constable removed his hand, revealing what he’d put on the desk. A bullet. “What is this?” Grandmother said. “A reminder.” Grandmother slapped it off the table, sending it snapping against the wall near where Waxillium hid. He jumped back and crouched lower, heart pounding. “Do not bring your instruments of death into this place,” Grandmother hissed. Waxillium got back to the window in time to see the constable settling his hat on his head. “When that boy burns something again,” he said softly, “send for me. Hopefully it won’t be too late. Good evening.” He left without a further word. Waxillium huddled against the side of the building, worried the constable would look back and see him. It didn’t happen. The man marched out along the path, disappearing into the evening shadows. But Grandmother … she hadn’t believed. Couldn’t she see? Forch had committed a crime. They were just going to leave him alone? Why— “Asinthew,” Grandmother said, using Waxillium’s Terris name as she always did. “Would you please join me?” He felt an immediate spike of alarm, followed by shame. He stood up. “How did you know?” he said through the window. “Reflection on my mirror, child,” she said, holding a cup of tea in both hands, not looking toward him. “Obey. If you please.” Sullenly, he trudged around the building and through the front doors of the wooden lodge. The whole place smelled of the wood stain he’d recently helped apply. He still had the stuff under his fingernails. He stepped into the room and shut the door. “Why did you—” “Please sit down, Asinthew,” she said softly. He walked to the desk, but didn’t take the guest seat. He remained standing, right where the constable had. “Your handwriting,” Grandmother said, brushing at the paper the constable had left. “Did I not tell you that the matter of Forch was under control?” “You say a lot of things, Grandmother. I believe when I see proof.” Vwafendal leaned forward, steam rising from the cup in her hands. “Oh, Asinthew,” she said. “I thought you were determined to fit in here.” “I am.” “Then why are you listening at my window instead of doing evening meditations?” He looked away, blushing. “The Terris way is about order, child,” Grandmother said. “We have rules for a reason.” “And burning down buildings isn’t against the rules?” “Of course it is,” Grandmother said. “But Forch is not your responsibility. We’ve spoken to him. He’s penitent. His crime was that
of a misguided youth who spends too much time alone. I’ve asked some of the others to befriend him. He will do penance for his crime, in our way. Would you rather see him rot in prison?” Waxillium hesitated, then sighed, dropping into the chair before his grandmother’s desk. “I want to find out what is right,” he whispered, “and do it. Why is that so hard?” Grandmother frowned. “It’s easy to discover what is right and wrong, child. I will admit that always choosing to follow what you know you should do is—” “No,” Waxillium said. Then he winced. It wasn’t wise to interrupt Grandmother V. She never yelled, but her disapproval could be sensed as surely as an imminent thunderstorm. He continued more softly. “No, Grandmother. Finding out what’s right isn’t easy.” “It is written in our ways. It is taught every day in your lessons.” “That’s one voice,” Waxillium said, “one philosophy. There are so many.…” Grandmother reached across the desk and put her hand on his. Her skin was warm from holding the teacup. “Ah, Asinthew,” she said. “I understand how hard it must be for you. A child of two worlds.” Two worlds, he thought immediately, but no home. “But you must heed what you are taught,” Grandmother continued. “You promised me you would obey our rules while you were here.” “I’ve been trying.” “I know. I hear good reports from Tellingdwar and your other instructors. They say you learn the material better than anyone—that it’s as if you’ve lived here all your life! I’m proud of your effort.” “The other kids don’t accept me. I’ve tried to do as you say—to be more Terris than anyone, to prove my blood to them. But the kids … I’ll never be one of them, Grandmother.” “‘Never’ is a word youths often use,” Grandmother said, sipping her tea, “but rarely understand. Let the rules become your guide. In them, you will find peace. If some are resentful because of your zeal, let them be. Eventually, through meditation, they will make peace with such emotions.” “Could you … maybe order a few of the others to befriend me?” he found himself asking, ashamed of how weak it sounded to say the words. “Like you did with Forch?” “I will see,” Grandmother said. “Now, off with you. I will not report this indiscretion, Asinthew, but please promise me you will set aside this obsession with Forch and leave the punishment of others to the Synod.” Waxillium moved to stand up, and his foot slipped on something. He reached down. The bullet. “Asinthew?” Grandmother asked. He trapped the bullet in his fist as he straightened, then hurried out the door. * * * “Metal is your life,” Tellingdwar said from the front of the hut, moving into the final parts of the evening recitation. Waxillium knelt in meditation, listening to the words. Around him, rows of peaceful Terris were similarly bowed in reverence, offering praise to Preservation, the ancient god of their faith. “Metal is your soul,” Tellingdwar said. So much was
perfect in this quiet world. Why did Waxillium sometimes feel like he was dragging dirt in solely by being here? That they were all part of one big white canvas, and he a smudge at the bottom? “You preserve us,” Tellingdwar said, “and so we will be yours.” A bullet, Waxillium thought, the bit of metal still clenched in his palm. Why did he leave a bullet as a reminder? What does it mean? It seemed an odd symbol. Recitation complete, the youths, children, and adults alike rose and stretched. There was some jovial interaction, but curfew had nearly arrived, which meant that the younger set had to be on their way to their homes—or in Waxillium’s case, the dormitories. He remained kneeling anyway. Tellingdwar started gathering up the mats people had used for kneeling. He kept his head shaved; his robes were bright yellows and oranges. Arms laden with mats, he paused as he noticed Waxillium hadn’t left with the others. “Asinthew? Are you well?” Waxillium nodded tiredly, climbing to his feet, legs numb from kneeling so long. He plodded toward the exit, where he paused. “Tellingdwar?” “Yes, Asinthew?” “Has there ever been a violent crime in the Village?” The short steward froze, his grip tightening on the load of mats. “What makes you ask?” “Curiosity.” “You needn’t worry. That was long ago.” “What was long ago?” Tellingdwar retrieved the remaining mats, moving more quickly than before. Perhaps someone else would have avoided the question, but Tellingdwar was as candid as they came. A classic Terris virtue—in his eyes, avoiding a question would be as bad as lying. “I’m not surprised they’re still whispering about it,” Tellingdwar said. “Fifteen years can’t wash away that blood, I suppose. The rumors are wrong, however. Only one person was killed. A woman, by her husband’s hand. Both Terris.” He hesitated. “I knew them.” “How did he kill her?” “Must you know this?” “Well, the rumors…” Tellingdwar sighed. “A gun. An outsider weapon. We don’t know where he got it.” Tellingdwar shook his head, dropping the mats into a stack at the side of the room. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. Men are the same everywhere, Asinthew. You must remember this. Do not think yourself better than another because you wear the robe.” Trust Tellingdwar to turn any conversation into a lesson. Waxillium nodded to him and slipped out into the night. The sky rumbled above, foretelling rain, but there was no mist yet. Men are the same everywhere, Asinthew.… What was the purpose, then, of everything they taught in here? If it couldn’t prevent men from acting like monsters? He reached the boys’ dorm, which was quiet. It was just after curfew, and Waxillium had to bow his head to the dormmaster in apology before rushing down the hallway and into his room on the ground floor. Waxillium’s father had insisted he be given a room to himself, because of his noble heritage. That had only served to set him apart from the others. He shucked off his robe and threw open his
wardrobe. His old clothing hung there. Rain began to patter against his window as he threw on some trousers and a buttoning shirt, which he found more comfortable than those rusting robes. He trimmed his lamp and sat back on his cot, opening a book for some evening reading. Outside, the sky rumbled like an empty stomach. Waxillium tried to read for a few minutes, then tossed the book aside—nearly knocking over his lamp—and threw himself to his feet. He walked to the window, watching the water stream down. It fell in patches and columns, because of the thick canopy of leaves. He reached over and extinguished the lamp. He stared at the rain, thoughts tumbling in his head. He’d have to make a decision soon. The agreement between his grandmother and his parents required Waxillium to spend one year in the Village, and only a month of that remained. After that, it would be his choice whether to stay or to leave. What awaited him outside? White tablecloths, posturing people with nasal accents, and politics. What awaited him here? Quiet rooms, meditation, and boredom. A life he detested or a life of mind-numbing repetition. Day after day after day … and … Was that someone moving through the trees? Waxillium perked up, pressing against the cool glass. That was someone trudging through the wet forest, a shadowed figure with a familiar height and posture, stooped and carrying a sack over his shoulder. Forch glanced toward the dormitory, but then continued on into the night. So they were back. That was faster than he’d expected. What was Telsin’s plan for getting into the dorms? Slip in through the windows, then claim they’d come home before curfew and the dormmaster just hadn’t seen them? Waxillium waited, wondering if he’d spot the three girls as well, but saw nothing. Only Forch, disappearing into the shadows. Where was he going? Another fire, Waxillium thought immediately. But Forch wouldn’t do it in this rain, would he? Waxillium glanced at the clock ticking quietly on his wall. An hour after curfew. He hadn’t realized he’d spent so much time staring at the rain. Forch is not my problem, he told himself firmly. He walked back to lie on his bed, but soon found himself pacing instead. Listening to the rain, anxious, unable to stop his body from moving. Curfew … Let the rules become your guide. In them find peace. He stopped beside the window. Then he pushed it open and leaped out, bare feet sinking into the wet, rubbery ground. He scrambled forward, streams of water spraying across his head, trickling down the back of his shirt. Which way had Forch gone? He took his best guess, passing enormous trees like hewn monoliths, the rush of rain and streaming water drowning out all else. A boot print in the mud near a tree trunk hinted he was on the right track, but he had to lean down low to see it. Rusts! It was getting dark out here. Where next? Waxillium turned about. There, he thought.
Storage hall. An old dormitory, now unoccupied, where the Terris kept extra furniture and rugs. That would be a perfect target for arson, right? Plenty of stuff inside to burn, and nobody would expect it in this rain. But Grandmother spoke to him, Waxillium thought, scrambling through the rain, feet cold as he kicked up fallen leaves and moss. They’ll know it was him. Didn’t he care? Was he trying to get into trouble? Waxillium stepped up to the old dormitory, a three-story mass of blackness in the already dark night, showers of water streaming off its eaves. Waxillium tested the door, and it was unlocked of course—this was the Village. He slipped inside. There. A pool of water on the floor. Someone had entered here recently. He followed in a crouch, touching the footprints one after another, until he reached the stairwell. Up one flight, then another. What was up here? He reached the top floor and saw a light ahead. Waxillium crept through a hallway with a rug down the center, approaching what turned out to be a flickering candle set on a table in a small room cluttered with furniture and with dark, heavy drapes on the walls. Waxillium stepped up to the candle. It shivered, frail and alone. Why had Forch left it here? What was— Something heavy smashed across Waxillium’s back. He gasped in pain, thrown forward by the blow, stumbling into a pair of chairs stacked atop one another. Boots thumped on the floor behind him. Waxillium managed to throw himself to the side, rolling to the floor as Forch smashed an old wooden post into the chairs, cracking them. Waxillium scrambled to his feet, his shoulders throbbing. Forch turned toward him, face all in shadow. Waxillium backed away. “Forch! It’s all right. I just want to talk.” He winced as his back hit the wall. “You don’t have to—” Forch came at him swinging. Waxillium yelped and ducked into the hallway. “Help!” he shouted as Forch followed him. “Help!” Waxillium had meant to scramble toward the stairs, but he’d gotten turned around. Instead he was running away from them. He slammed his shoulder against the door at the end of the hallway. That would lead to the upper meeting room, if the dormitory here had the same layout as his own. And maybe another set of steps? Waxillium pushed through the door and into a brighter room. Old tables stacked atop one another surrounded an open space at the center, like an audience and a stage. There, in the middle and lit by a dozen candles, a young boy of maybe five lay tied to a wooden plank that stretched between two tables. His shirt had been cut off and lay on the floor. His cries were muffled by a gag, and he struggled weakly against his bonds. Waxillium stumbled to a halt, taking in the boy, the line of gleaming knives set out on a table nearby, the trails of blood from cuts on the boy’s chest. “Oh, hell,” Waxillium whispered. Forch entered behind
him, then closed the door with a click. “Oh, hell,” Waxillium said, turning, wide-eyed. “Forch, what is wrong with you?” “Don’t know,” the young man said softly. “I’ve just got to see what’s inside. You know?” “You went with the girls,” Waxillium said, “so you’d have an alibi. If your room is found empty, you’ll say you were with them. A lesser infraction to hide your true crime. Rusts! My sister and the others don’t know that you slipped back, do they? They’re out there drunk, and they won’t even remember that you were gone. They’ll swear you were—” Waxillium cut off as Forch looked up, eyes reflecting candlelight, face expressionless. He held up a handful of nails. That’s right. Forch is a— Waxillium shouted, throwing himself toward a pile of furniture as nails zipped from Forch’s hand, Pushed by his Allomancy. They hit like hail, snapping against wooden tables, chair legs, and the floor. A sudden pain struck Wax in the arm as he scuttled backward. He cried out, grabbing his arm as he got behind cover. One of the nails had ripped off a chunk of his flesh near the elbow. Metal. He needed metal. It had been months since he’d burned steel. Grandmother wanted him to embrace his Terris side. He raised his arms, and found them bare. His bracers … In your room, idiot, Waxillium thought. He fished in his trouser pocket. He always used to keep … A pouch of metal flakes. He dug it out as he scrambled away from Forch, who threw aside tables and chairs to get to him. In the background, the captive child whimpered. Waxillium’s fingers trembled as he tried to get the packet of metal flakes open, but it suddenly leaped from his fingers and shot across the room. He spun on Forch, desperate, just in time to see the man slide a metal bar off a table and toss it. Waxillium tried to duck. Too slow. The Steelpushed bar slammed against his chest, throwing him backward. Forch grunted, stumbling. He wasn’t practiced with his Allomancy, and hadn’t properly braced himself. His Push threw him backward as much as it tossed Waxillium. Still, Waxillium hit the wall with a grunt, and he felt something crack inside of him. He gasped, his vision blackening as he dropped to his knees. The room wavered. The pouch. Get the pouch! He searched the floor around him, frantic, barely able to think. He needed that metal! His fingers, bloodied, brushed it. Eager, he snatched the pouch and pulled open the cloth top. He tipped back his head to dump the flakes in. A shadow thundered over to him and kicked him in the stomach. The broken bone inside of Waxillium gave, and he screamed, having gotten barely a pinch of metal into his mouth. Forch slapped the pouch out of his hand, scattering the flakes, then picked him up. The youth looked bulkier than he should have. Tapping a metalmind. A frenzied part of Waxillium’s brain tried to Push on the man’s bracers, but Feruchemical
metalminds were infamously difficult to affect with Allomancy. His Push wasn’t strong enough. Forch shoved Waxillium out the open window, dangling him by his neck. Rain washed over Waxillium, and he struggled for breath. “Please … Forch…” Forch dropped him. Waxillium fell with the rain. Three stories down, through the branches of a maple tree, scattering wet leaves. Steel burned to life inside of him, spraying blue lines from his chest to nearby sources of metal. All above, none below. Nothing to Push on to save himself. Except one bit in his trouser pocket. Waxillium Pushed on it, desperate, as he tumbled in the air. It shot through his pocket, down along his leg, cutting a line in the side of his foot before being propelled down into the ground by his weight. Waxillium jerked in the air, slowing as soon as the bit of metal hit the ground. He crashed onto the sodden pathway feet-first, pain jolting up his legs. He fell back to the ground, and found himself dazed but alive. His Push had saved him. Rain fell on his face. He waited, but Forch didn’t come down to finish him off. The youth had slammed the shutters, perhaps worried someone would see the light of his candles. Every part of Waxillium ached. Shoulders from the first blow, legs from the fall, chest from the bar—how many ribs had he broken? He lay there in the rain, coughing, before finally rolling over to find the bit of metal that had saved his life. He found it easily by following its Allomantic line, and dug in the mud, pulling out something and holding it up. The constable’s bullet. Rain washed his hand, cleansing the metal. He didn’t even remember stuffing it into his pocket. In a case like this, the fire is often just a harbinger.… He should go get help. But that boy above was already bleeding. The knives were out. Something bigger is coming, Elder. Something you’ll all regret. Suddenly Waxillium hated Forch. This place was perfect, serene. Beautiful. Darkness shouldn’t exist here. If Waxillium was a smudge on the white canvas, this man was a pit of pure blackness. Waxillium shouted, climbing to his feet and throwing himself through the back door and into the old building. He climbed two flights in a haze of stumbling pain before slamming open the door into the meeting room. Forch stood above the weeping child, a bloody knife in his hand. He turned his head slowly, showing Waxillium one eye, half of his face. Waxillium threw the single bullet up between them, its casing glittering in candlelight, then Pushed with everything he had. Forch turned and Pushed back. The reaction was immediate. The bullet stopped in midair, inches from Forch’s face. Both men were thrown backward, but Forch caught himself on a group of tables, staying steady. Waxillium was slammed against the wall beside the doorway. Forch smiled, and his muscles swelled, strength drawn from his metalmind. He pulled his bar from the table of knives and threw it at Waxillium,
who cried out, Pushing against it to stop it from smashing him. He wasn’t strong enough. Forch continued to Push, and Waxillium had so little steel. The bar slipped forward in the air, pressing against Waxillium’s chest, pushing him against the wall. Time froze. One bullet hanging just before Forch, their main fight over the bar which—bit by bit—crushed Waxillium. His chest flared in pain, and a scream slipped from his lips. He was going to die here. I just want to do what is right. Why is that so hard? Forch stepped forward, grinning. Waxillium’s eyes fixed on that bullet, glittering golden. He couldn’t breathe. But that bullet … Metal is your life. A bullet. Three parts metal. The tip. Metal is your soul. The casing. You preserve us … And the knob at the back. The spot the hammer would hit. In that moment, to Waxillium’s eyes, they split into three lines, three parts. He took them all in at once. And then, as the bar crushed him, he let go of two bits. And shoved on that knob at the back. The bullet exploded. The casing flipped backward into the air, Pushed by Forch’s Allomancy, while the bullet itself zipped forward, untouched, before drilling into Forch’s skull. Waxillium dropped to the ground, the bar propelled away. He collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath, rainwater streaming from his face to the wooden floor. In a daze, he heard voices below. People finally responding to the shouts, then the sound of gunfire. He forced himself to his feet and limped through the room, ignoring the voices of Terrismen and women who climbed the steps. He reached the child and ripped off the bonds, freeing him. Instead of running in fear, however, the little boy grabbed Waxillium’s leg and held on tight, weeping. People poured into the room. Waxillium leaned down, picking up the bullet casing off the wet floor, then stood up straight and faced them. Tellingdwar. His grandmother. The elders. He registered their horror, and knew in that moment they would hate him because he had brought violence into their village. Hate him because he had been right. He stood beside Forch’s corpse and closed one hand around the bullet casing, resting his other on the head of the trembling child. “I will find my own way,” he whispered. TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER The hideout door slammed against the other wall, shedding a burst of dust. A wall of mist fell in around the man who had kicked it open, outlining his silhouette: a mistcoat, tassels flaring from motion, a combat shotgun held up to the side. “Fire!” Migs cried. The lads unloaded. Eight men, armed to their teeth, fired at the shadowy figure from behind their barricade inside the old pub. Bullets swarmed like insects, but parted around this man in the long coat. They pelted the wall, drilling holes in the door and splintering the doorframe. They cut trails through the encroaching mist, but the lawman, all black in the gloom, didn’t so much as flinch. Migs fired
shot after shot, despairing. He emptied one pistol, then a second, then shouldered his rifle and fired as quickly as he could cock it. How had they gotten here? Rusts, how had this happened? It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this. “It’s useless!” one of the lads cried. “He’s gonna kill us all, Migs!” “Why’re you just standin’ there?” Migs shouted at the lawman. “Be at it already!” He fired twice more. “What’s wrong with you?” “Maybe he’s distracting us,” one of the lads said, “so his pal can sneak up behind us.” “Hey, that’s…” Migs hesitated, looking toward the one who had spoken. Round face. Simple, round coachman’s hat, like a bowler, but flatter on top. Who was that man again? He counted his crew. Nine? The lad next to Migs smiled, tipped his hat, then decked him in the face. It was over blurringly quick. The fellow in the coachman’s cap laid out Slink and Guillian in an eyeblink. Then suddenly he was closer to the two on the far side, slapping them down with a pair of dueling canes. As Migs turned—fumbling for the gun he’d dropped—the lawman leaped over the barricade with tassels flying and kicked Drawers in the chin. The lawman spun, leveling his shotgun at the men on the other side. They dropped their guns. Migs knelt, sweating, beside an overturned table. He waited for the gunshots. They didn’t come. “Ready for you, Captain!” the lawman shouted. A pile of constables rushed through the doorway, disturbing the mists. Outside, morning light was starting to dispel those anyway. Rusts. Had they really holed up in here all night? The lawman swung his gun down toward Migs. “You might want to drop that gun, friend,” he said in a conversational tone. Migs hesitated. “Just shoot me, lawman. I’m in too deep.” “You shot two constables,” the man said, finger on the trigger. “But they’ll live, son. You won’t hang, if I have my way. Drop the gun.” They’d called those same words before, from outside. This time, Migs found himself believing them. “Why?” he asked. “You coulda killed us all without breaking a sweat. Why?” “Because,” the lawman said, “frankly, you’re not worth killing.” He smiled in a friendly-type way. “I’ve got enough on my conscience already. Drop the gun. We’ll get this sorted out.” Migs dropped the gun and stood, then waved down Drawers, who was climbing up with his gun in hand. The man reluctantly dropped his weapon too. The lawman turned, cresting the barricade with an Allomantic leap, and slammed his shortened shotgun into a holster on his leg. The younger man in the coachman’s hat joined him, whistling softly. He appeared to have swiped Guillian’s favorite knife; the ivory hilt was sticking out of his pocket. “They’re yours, Captain,” the lawman said. “Not staying for the booking, Wax?” the constable captain asked, turning. “Unfortunately, no,” the lawman said. “I have to get to a wedding.” “Whose?” “Mine, I’m afraid.” “You came on a raid the morning of your wedding?” the captain asked. The
lawman, Waxillium Ladrian, stopped in the doorway. “In my defense, it wasn’t my idea.” He nodded one more time to the assembled constables and gang members, then strode out into the mists. PART ONE 1 Waxillium Ladrian hurried down the steps outside the bar-turned-hideout, passing constables in brown who bustled this way and that. The mists were already evaporating, dawn heralding the end of their vigil. He checked his arm, where a bullet had ripped a sizable hole through the cuff of his shirt and out the side of his jacket. He’d felt that one pass. “Oi,” Wayne said, hustling up beside him. “A good plan that one was, eh?” “It was the same plan you always have,” Wax said. “The one where I get to be the decoy.” “Ain’t my fault people like to shoot at you, mate,” Wayne said as they reached the coach. “You should be happy; you’re usin’ your talents, like me granners always said a man should do.” “I’d rather not have ‘shootability’ be my talent.” “Well, you gotta use what you have,” Wayne said, leaning against the side of the carriage as Cob the coachman opened the door for Wax. “Same reason I always have bits of rat in my stew.” Wax looked into the carriage, with its fine cushions and rich upholstery, but didn’t climb in. “You gonna be all right?” Wayne asked. “Of course I am,” Wax said. “This is my second marriage. I’m an old hand at the practice by now.” Wayne grinned. “Oh, is that how it works? ’Cuz in my experience, marryin’ is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein’ alive.” “Wayne, that was almost profound.” “Damn. I was aimin’ for insightful.” Wax stood still, looking into the carriage. The coachman cleared his throat, still standing and holding the door open for him. “Right pretty noose, that is,” Wayne noted. “Don’t be melodramatic,” Wax said, leaning to climb in. “Lord Ladrian!” a voice called from behind. Wax glanced over his shoulder, noting a tall man in a dark brown suit and bow tie pushing between a pair of constables. “Lord Ladrian,” the man said, “could I have a moment, please?” “Take them all,” Wax said. “But do it without me.” “But—” “I’ll meet you there,” Wax said, nodding to Wayne. He dropped a spent bullet shell, then Pushed himself into the air. Why waste time on a carriage? Steel at a comfortable burn inside his stomach, he shoved on a nearby electric streetlight—still shining, though morning had arrived—and soared higher into the air. Elendel spread before him, a soot-stained marvel of a city, leaking smoke from a hundred thousand different homes and factories. Wax shoved off the steel frame of a half-finished building nearby, then sent himself in a series of leaping bounds across the Fourth Octant. He passed over a field of carriages for hire, rows of vehicles waiting quietly in ranks, early morning workers looking up at him as he passed. One pointed; perhaps the mistcoat had drawn
his attention. Coinshot couriers weren’t an uncommon sight in Elendel, and men soaring through the air were rarely a point of interest. A few more leaps took him over a series of warehouses in huddled rows. Wax thrilled in each jump. It was amazing how this could still feel so wonderful to him. The breeze in his face, the little moment of weightlessness when he hung at the very top of an arc. All too soon, however, both gravity and duty reasserted themselves. He left the industrial district and crossed finer roadways, paved with pitch and gravel to create a smoother surface than cobbles for all those blasted motorcars. He spotted the Survivorist church easily, with its large glass and steel dome. Back in Weathering a simple wooden chapel had been sufficient, but that wasn’t nearly grand enough for Elendel. The design was to allow those who worshipped full view of the mists at night. Wax figured if they wanted to see the mists, they’d do better just stepping outside. But perhaps he was being cynical. After all, the dome—which was made of segments of glass between steel supports, making it look like the sections of an orange—was able to open inward and let the mist pour down for special occasions. He landed on a rooftop water tower across from the church. Perhaps when it had been built, the church’s dome had been tall enough to overshadow the surrounding buildings. It would have provided a nice profile. Now, buildings were rising taller and taller, and the church was dwarfed by its surroundings. Wayne would find a metaphor in that. Probably a crude one. He perched on the water tower, looming over the church. So he was here, finally. He felt his eye begin to twitch, and an ache rose within him. I think I loved you even on that day. So ridiculous, but so earnest.… Six months ago, he’d pulled the trigger. He could still hear the gunshot. Standing up, he pulled himself together. He’d healed this wound once. He could do so again. And if that left his heart crusted with scar tissue, then perhaps that was what he needed. He leaped off the water tower, then slowed by dropping and Pushing on a shell casing. He hit the street and strode past a long line of carriages. Guests were already in attendance—Survivorist tenets called for weddings either very early in the morning or late at night. Wax nodded to several people he passed, and couldn’t help slipping his shotgun out of its holster and resting it on his shoulder as he hopped up the steps and shoved the door open before him with a Steelpush. Steris paced in the foyer, wearing a sleek white dress that had been chosen because the magazines said it was fashionable. With her hair braided and her makeup done by a professional for the occasion, she was actually quite pretty. He smiled when he saw her. His stress, his nervousness, melted away a little. Steris looked up as soon as he entered, then hurried to
his side. “And?” “I didn’t get killed,” he said, “so there’s that.” She glanced at the clock. “You’re late,” she said, “but not very late.” “I’m … sorry?” She’d insisted he go on the raid. She’d planned for it, in fact. Such was life with Steris. “I’m sure you did your best,” Steris said, taking his arm. She was warm, and even trembling. Steris might be reserved, but unlike what some assumed, she wasn’t emotionless. “The raid?” she asked. “Went well. No casualties.” He walked with her to a side chamber, where Drewton—his valet—waited beside a table spread with Wax’s white wedding suit. “You realize that by going on a raid on the morning of my wedding, I’ll only reinforce this image that society has of me.” “Which image?” “That of a ruffian,” he said, taking off his mistcoat and handing it to Drewton. “A barely civilized lout from the Roughs who curses in church and goes to parties armed.” She glanced at his shotgun, which he’d tossed onto the sofa. “You enjoy playing with people’s perceptions of you, don’t you? You seek to make them uncomfortable, so they’ll be off balance.” “It’s one of the simple joys I have left, Steris.” He smiled as Drewton unbuttoned his waistcoat. Then he pulled off both that and his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. “I see I’m included in those you try to make uncomfortable,” Steris said. “I work with what I have,” Wax said. “Which is why you always have bits of rat in your stew?” Wax hesitated in handing his clothing to Drewton. “He said that to you too?” “Yes. I’m increasingly convinced he tries the lines out on me.” She folded her arms. “The little mongrel.” “Not going to leave as I change?” Wax asked, amused. “We’re to be married in less than an hour, Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I think I can stand to see you bare-chested. As a side note, you’re the Pathian. Prudishness is part of your belief system, not mine. I’ve read of Kelsier. From what I’ve studied, I doubt he’d care if—” Wax undid the wooden buttons on his trousers. Steris blushed, before turning around and finally putting her back to him. She continued speaking a moment later, sounding flustered. “Well, at least you agreed to a proper ceremony.” Wax smiled, settling down in his undershorts and letting Drewton give his face a quick shave. Steris remained in place, listening. Finally, as Drewton was wiping the cream from Wax’s face, she asked, “You have the pendants?” “Gave them to Wayne.” “You … What?” “I thought you wanted some disturbances at the wedding,” Wax said, standing and taking the new set of trousers from Drewton. He slipped them on. He hadn’t worn white much since returning from the Roughs. It was harder to keep clean out there, which had made it worth wearing. “I figured this would work.” “I wanted planned disturbances, Lord Waxillium,” Steris snapped. “It’s not upsetting if it’s understood, prepared for, and controlled. Wayne is rather the opposite of those things, wouldn’t you say?” Wax
did up his buttons and Drewton took his shirt off the hanger nearby. Steris turned around immediately upon hearing the sound, arms still folded, and didn’t miss a beat—refusing to acknowledge that she’d been embarrassed. “I’m glad I had copies made.” “You made copies of our wedding pendants?” “Yes.” She chewed her lip a moment. “Six sets.” “Six?” “The other four didn’t arrive in time.” Wax grinned, doing up the buttons on his shirt, then letting his valet handle the cuffs. “You’re one of a kind, Steris.” “Technically, so is Wayne—and actually so was Ruin, for that matter. If you consider it, that’s not much of a compliment.” Wax strapped on suspenders, then let Drewton fuss with his collar. “I don’t get it, Steris,” he said, standing stiffly as the valet worked. “You prepare so thoroughly for things to go wrong—like you know and expect that life is unpredictable.” “Yes, and?” “And life is unpredictable. So the only thing you do by preparing for disturbances is ensure that something else is going to go wrong.” “That’s a rather fatalistic viewpoint.” “Living in the Roughs does that to a fellow.” He eyed her, standing resplendent in her dress, arms crossed, tapping her left arm with her right index finger. “I just … feel better when I try,” Steris finally said. “It’s like, if everything goes wrong, at least I tried. Does that make any sense?” “As a matter of fact, I think it does.” Drewton stepped back, satisfied. The suit came with a very nice black cravat and vest. Traditional, which Wax preferred. Bow ties were for salesmen. He slid on the jacket, tails brushing the backs of his legs. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he strapped on his gunbelt and slid Vindication into her holster. He’d worn a gun to his last wedding, so why not this one? Steris nodded in approval. Shoes went last. A new pair. They’d be hideously uncomfortable. “Are we late enough yet?” he asked Steris. She checked the clock in the corner. “I planned for us to go in two minutes from now.” “Ah, delightful,” he said, taking her arm. “That means we can be spontaneous and arrive early. Well, late-early.” She clung to his arm, letting him steer her down the side chamber toward the entrance to the dome, and the church proper. Drewton followed behind. “Are you … certain you wish to proceed?” Steris asked, stopping him before they entered the walkway to the dome. “Having second thoughts?” “Absolutely not,” Steris said immediately. “This union is quite beneficial to my house and status.” She took Wax’s left hand in both of hers. “But Lord Waxillium,” she said softly, “I don’t want you to feel trapped, particularly after what happened to you earlier this year. If you wish to back out, I will accept it as your will.” The way she clutched his hand as she said those words sent a very different message. But she didn’t seem to notice. Looking at her, Wax found himself wondering. When he’d first agreed to the marriage, he’d done
so out of duty to his house. Now, he felt his emotions shifting. The way she’d been there for him these last months as he’d grieved … The way she looked at him right now … Rust and Ruin. He was actually fond of Steris. It wasn’t love, but he doubted he would love again. This would do. “No, Steris,” he said. “I would not back out. That … wouldn’t be fair to your house, and the money you have spent.” “The money doesn’t—” “It’s all right,” Wax said, giving her hand a little squeeze. “I have recovered enough from my ordeal. I’m strong enough to do this.” Steris opened her mouth to reply, but a knock at the door heralded Marasi sticking her head in to check on them. With dark hair and softer, rounder features than Steris, Marasi wore bright red lipstick and a progressive lady’s attire—a pleated skirt, with a tight buttoned jacket. “Finally,” she said. “Crowd is getting fidgety. Wax, there’s a man here wanting to see you. I’ve been trying to send him away, but … well…” She came into the room and held the door open, revealing the same slender man in the brown suit and bow tie from before, standing with the ash girls in the antechamber that led to the dome proper. “You,” Wax said. “How did you get here before Wayne?” “I don’t believe your friend is coming,” the man said. He stepped in beside Marasi and nodded to her, then closed the doors, shutting out the ash girls. He turned and tossed Wax a wadded-up ball of paper. When Wax caught it, it clinked. Unfolding it revealed the two wedding pendants. Scrawled on the paper were the words: Gonna go get smashed till I can’t piss straight. Happy weddings ’n stuff. “Such beautiful imagery,” Steris observed, taking Wax’s wedding pendant in a white-gloved hand as Marasi looked over his shoulder to read the note. “At least he didn’t forget these.” “Thank you,” Wax said to the man in brown, “but as you can see, I’m quite busy getting married. Whatever you need from me can—” The man’s face turned translucent, displaying the bones of his skull and spine beneath. Steris stiffened. “Holy One,” she whispered. “Holy pain,” Wax said. “Tell Harmony to get someone else this time. I’m busy.” “Tell … Harmony…” Steris mumbled, her eyes wide. “Unfortunately, this is part of the problem,” the man in brown said, his skin returning to normal. “Harmony has been distracted as of late.” “How can God be distracted?” Marasi asked. “We’re not sure, but it has us worried. I need you, Waxillium Ladrian. I have a job you’ll find of interest. I realize you’re off to the ceremony, but afterward, if I could have a moment of your time…” “No,” Wax said. “But—” “No.” Wax pulled Steris by the arm, shoving open the doors, striding past Marasi, leaving the kandra. It had been six months since those creatures had manipulated him, played him, and lied to him. The result? A dead woman in his
arms. Bastards. “Was that really one of the Faceless Immortals?” Steris said, looking over her shoulder. “Yes, and for obvious reasons I want nothing to do with them.” “Peace,” she said, holding his arm. “Do you need a moment?” “No.” “You’re sure?” Wax stopped in place. She waited, and he breathed in and out, banishing from his mind that awful, awful scene when he’d knelt on a bridge alone, holding Lessie. A woman he realized he’d never actually known. “I’m all right,” he said to Steris through clenched teeth. “But God should have known not to come for me. Particularly not today.” “Your life is … decidedly odd, Lord Waxillium.” “I know,” he said, moving again, stepping with her beside the last door before they entered the dome. “Ready?” “Yes, thank you.” Was she … teary-eyed? It was an expression of emotion he’d never seen from her. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “Forgive me. It’s just … more wonderful than I’d imagined.” They pushed open the doors, revealing the glistening dome, sunlight streaming through it and upon the waiting crowd. Acquaintances. Distant family members. Seamstresses and forgeworkers from his house. Wax sought out Wayne, and was surprised when he didn’t find the man, despite the note. He was the only real family Wax had. The ash girls scampered out, sprinkling small handfuls of ash on the carpeted walkway that ringed the perimeter of the dome. Wax and Steris started forward in a stately walk, presenting themselves for those in attendance. There was no music at a Survivorist ceremony, but a few crackling braziers with green leaves on top let smoke trail upward to represent the mist. Smoke ascends while ash falls, he thought, remembering the priest’s words from his youth, back when he’d attended Survivorist ceremonies. They walked all the way around the crowd. At least Steris’s family had made a decent showing, her father included—the red-faced man gave Waxillium an enthusiastic fist-raise as they passed. Wax found himself smiling. This was what Lessie had wanted. They’d joked time and time again about their simple Pathian ceremony, finalized on horseback to escape a mob. She said that someday, she’d make him do it proper. Sparkling crystal. A hushed crowd. Footsteps on scrunching carpet dappled with grey ash. His smile widened, and he looked to the side. But of course, the wrong woman was there. He almost stumbled. Idiot man, he thought. Focus. This day was important to Steris; the least he could do was not ruin it. Or rather, not ruin it in a way she hadn’t expected. Whatever that meant. Unfortunately, as they walked the remaining distance around the rotunda, his discomfort increased. He felt nauseous. Sweaty. Sick, like the feeling he had gotten the few times he had been forced to run from a killer and leave innocents in danger. It all forced him, finally, to acknowledge a difficult fact. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t Steris, it wasn’t the setting. He just wasn’t ready for this. This marriage meant letting go of Lessie. But he was
trapped, and he had to be strong. He set his jaw and stepped with Steris onto the dais, where the priest stood between two stands topped with crystal vases of Marewill flowers. The ceremony was drawn from ancient Larsta beliefs, from Harmony’s Beliefs Reborn, a volume in the Words of Founding. The priest spoke the words, but Wax couldn’t listen. All was numbness to him, teeth clenched, eyes straight ahead, muscles tense. They’d found a priest murdered in this very church. Killed by Lessie as she went mad. Couldn’t they have done something for her, instead of setting him on the hunt? Couldn’t they have told him? Strength. He would not flee. He would not be a coward. He held Steris’s hands, but couldn’t look at her. Instead, he turned his face upward to look out the glass dome toward the sky. Most of it was crowded out by the buildings. Skyscrapers on two sides, windows glistening in the morning sun. That water tower certainly did block the view, though as he watched, it shifted.… Shifted? Wax watched in horror as the legs under the enormous metal cylinder bent, as if to kneel, ponderously tipping their burden on its side. The top of the thing sheared off, spilling tons of water in a foaming wave. He yanked Steris to him, arm firmly around her waist, then ripped off the second button down on his waistcoat and dropped it. He Pushed against this single metal button, launching himself and Steris away from the dais as the priest yelped in surprise. Water crashed against the dome, which strained for the briefest of seconds before a section of it snapped open, hinges giving way inward to the water. 2 “Are you certain you’re all right, my lord?” Wax asked, helping Lord Drapen, constable-general of the Sixth Octant, down the steps toward his carriage. Water trickled beside them in little streams, joining a small river in the gutters. “Ruined my best pistol, you realize,” Drapen said. “I’ll have to send the thing to be cleaned and oiled!” “Bill me the expense, my lord,” Wax said, ignoring the fact that a good pistol would hardly be ruined by a little—or, well, a lot of—water. Wax turned the aging gentleman over to his coachman, sharing a resigned look, before turning and climbing back up the steps into the church. The carpet squished when he stepped on it. Or maybe that was his shoes. He passed the priest bickering with the Erikell insurance assessor—come to do an initial report for when the church demanded payment on their policy—and entered the main dome. The one open section of glass still swung on its hinges up above, and the tipped water tower—its legs on the other side had kept it from crashing down completely—still blocked out much of the sky. He passed overturned benches, discarded Marewill petals, and general refuse. Water dripped, the room’s only sound other than the echoing voice of the priest. Wax squished his way up to the dais. Steris sat on its edge, wet dress plastered to
her body, strands of hair that had escaped from her wedding braids sticking to the sides of her face. She sat with arms crossed on her knees, staring at the floor. Wax sat down next to her. “So, next time a flood is dumped on our heads, I’ll try to remember that jumping upward is a bad idea.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and squeezed it out. “You tried to get us backward too. It merely wasn’t fast enough, Lord Waxillium.” He grunted. “Looks like simple structural failure. If it was instead some kind of assassination attempt … well, it was an incompetent one. There wasn’t enough water in there to be truly dangerous. The worst injury was to Lord Steming, who fell and knocked his head when scrambling off his seat.” “No more than an accident then,” Steris said. She flopped backward onto the dais, the carpet letting out a soft squish. “I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault.” She sighed. “Do you ever wonder if perhaps the cosmere is out to overwhelm you, Lord Waxillium?” “The cosmere? You mean Harmony?” “No, not Him,” Steris said. “Just cosmic chance rolling the dice anytime I pass, and always hitting all ones. There seems to be a poetry to it all.” She closed her eyes. “Of course the wedding would fall apart. Several tons of water falling through the roof? Why wouldn’t I have seen that? It’s so utterly outlandish it had to happen. At least the priest didn’t get murdered this time.” “Steris,” Wax said, resting a hand on her arm. “We’ll fix this. It will be all right.” She opened her eyes, looking toward him. “Thank you, Lord Waxillium.” “For what, exactly?” he asked. “For being nice. For being willing to subject yourself to, well, me. I understand that it is not a pleasant concept.” “Steris…” “Do not think me self-deprecating, Lord Waxillium,” she said, sitting up and taking a deep breath, “and please do not assume I’m being morose. I am what I am, and I accept it. But I am under no illusions as to how my company is regarded. Thank you. For not making me feel as others have.” He hesitated. How did one respond to something like that? “It’s not as you say, Steris. I think you’re delightful.” “And the fact that you were gritting your teeth as the ceremony started, hands gripping as tightly as a man dangling for his life from the side of a bridge?” “I…” “Are you saddened at the fact that our wedding is delayed? Can you truly say it, and be honest as a lawman, Lord Waxillium?” Damn. He floundered. He knew a few simple words could defuse or sidestep the question, but he couldn’t find them, despite searching for what was an awkwardly long time—until saying anything would have sounded condescending. “Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “I’ll just have to try something to relax me next time we attempt this.” “I doubt going to the ceremony drunk would be productive.” “I didn’t say I’d drink. Perhaps some Terris meditation beforehand.”
She eyed him. “You’re still willing to move forward?” “Of course.” As long as it didn’t have to be today. “I assume you have a backup dress?” “Two,” she admitted, letting him help her to her feet. “And I did reserve another date for a wedding two months from now. Different church—in case this one exploded.” He grunted. “You sound like Wayne.” “Well, things do tend to explode around you, Lord Waxillium.” She looked up at the dome. “Considering that, getting drenched must be rather novel.” * * * Marasi trailed around the outside of the flooded church, hands clasped behind her back, notebook a familiar weight in her jacket pocket. A few constables—all corporals—stood about looking as if they were in charge. That sort of thing was important in a crisis; statistics showed that if a uniformed authority figure was nearby, people were less likely to panic. Of course, there was also a smaller percentage who were more likely to panic if an authority figure was nearby. Because people were people, and if there was one thing you could count on, it was that some of them would be weird. Or rather that all of them would be weird when circumstances happened to align with their own individual brand of insanity. That said, today she hunted a very special kind of insane. She’d tried the nearby pubs first, but that was too obvious. Next she checked the gutters, one soup kitchen, and—against her better judgment—a purveyor of “novelties.” No luck, though her backside did get three separate compliments, so there was that. Finally, running out of ideas, she went to check if he’d decided to steal the forks from the wedding breakfast. There, in a dining hall across the street from the church, she found Wayne in the kitchens wearing a white jacket and a chef’s hat. He was scolding several assistant cooks as they furiously decorated tarts with fruit glaze. Marasi leaned against the doorway and watched, tapping her notebook with her pencil. Wayne sounded utterly unlike himself, instead using a sharp, nasal voice with an accent she couldn’t quite place. Easterner, perhaps? Some of the outer cities there had thick accents. The assistant cooks didn’t question him. They jumped at what he said, bearing his condemnation as he tasted a chilled soup and swore at their incompetence. If he noticed Marasi, he didn’t show it, instead wiping his hands on a cloth and demanding to see the produce the delivery boys had brought that morning. Eventually, Marasi strolled into the kitchen, dodging a short assistant chef bearing a pot almost as big as she was, and stepped up to Wayne. “I’ve seen crisper lettuce in the garbage heap!” he was saying to a cringing delivery boy. “And you call these grapes? These are so overripe, they’re practically fermenting! And—oh, ’ello, Marasi.” He said the last line in his normal, jovial voice. The delivery boy scrambled away. “What are you doing?” Marasi asked. “Makin’ soup,” Wayne said, holding up a wooden spoon to show her. Nearby, several of the assistant
cooks stopped in place, looking at him with shocked expressions. “Out with you!” he said to them in the chef’s voice. “I must have time to prepare! Shoo, shoo, go!” They scampered away, leaving him grinning. “You do realize the wedding breakfast is canceled,” Marasi said, leaning back against a table. “Sure do.” “So why…” She trailed off as he stuffed an entire tart in his mouth and grinned. “Hadda make sure they didn’t welch on their promif an’ not make anyfing to eat,” he said around chewing, crumbs cascading from his lips. “We paid for this stuff. Well, Wax did. ’Sides, wedding being canceled is no reason not to celebrate, right?” “Depends on what you’re celebrating,” Marasi said, flipping open her notebook. “Bolts securing the water tower in place were definitely loosened. Road below was conspicuously empty, some ruffians—from another octant entirely, I might add—having stopped traffic by starting a fistfight in the middle of the rusting street.” Wayne grunted, searching in a cupboard. “Hate that little notebook of yours sometimes.” Marasi groaned, closing her eyes. “Someone could have been hurt, Wayne.” “Now, that ain’t right at all. Someone was hurt. That fat fellow what has no hair.” She massaged her temples. “You realize I’m a constable now, Wayne. I can’t turn a blind eye toward wanton property damage.” “Ah, ’s not so bad,” Wayne said, still rummaging. “Wax’ll pay for it.” “And if someone had been hurt? Seriously, I mean?” Wayne kept searching. “The lads got a little carried away. ‘See that the church is flooded,’ I told them. Meant for the priest to open the place in the morning and find his plumbing had gotten a little case of the ‘being all busted up and leaking all over the rusting place.’ But the lads, they got a little excited is all.” “The ‘lads’?” “Just some friends.” “Saboteurs.” “Nah,” Wayne said. “You think they could pronounce that?” “Wayne…” “I slapped ’em around already, Marasi,” Wayne said. “Promise I did.” “He’s going to figure it out,” Marasi said. “What will you do then?” “Nah, you’re wrong,” Wayne said, finally coming out of the cupboard with a large glass jug. “Wax has a blind spot for things like this. In the back of his noggin, he’ll be relieved that I stopped the wedding. He’ll figure it was me, deep in his subcontinence, and will pay for the damages—no matter what the assessor says. And he won’t say anything, won’t even investigate. Watch.” “I don’t know.…” Wayne hopped up onto the kitchen counter, then patted the spot beside him. She regarded him for a moment, then sighed and settled onto the counter there. He offered her the jug. “That’s cooking sherry, Wayne.” “Yeah,” he said, “pubs don’t serve anything this hour but beer. A fellow has to get creative.” “I’m sure we could find some wine around—” He took a swig. “Never mind,” Marasi said. He lowered the jug and pulled off his chef’s hat, tossing it onto the counter. “What’re you so uptight for today, anyway? I figured you’d be whooping for
joy and runnin’ around the street pickin’ flowers and stuff. He’s not marrying her. Not yet, anyway. You still got a chance.” “I don’t want a chance, Wayne. He’s made his decision.” “Now, what kinda talk is that?” he demanded. “You’ve given up? Is that how the Ascendant Warrior was? Huh?” “No, in fact,” Marasi said. “She walked up to the man she wanted, slapped the book out of his hand, and kissed him.” “See, there’s how it is!” “Though the Ascendant Warrior also went on and murdered the woman Elend was planning to marry.” “What, really?” “Yeah.” “Gruesome,” Wayne said in an approving tone, then took another swig of sherry. “That’s not the half of it,” Marasi said, leaning back on the counter, hands behind her. “You want gruesome? She also supposedly ripped out the Lord Ruler’s insides. I’ve seen it depicted in several illuminated manuscripts.” “Kind of graphic for a religious-type story.” “Actually, they’re all like that. I think they have to put in lots of exciting bits to make people read the rest.” “Huh.” He seemed disbelieving. “Wayne, haven’t you ever read any religious texts?” “Sure I have.” “Really?” “Yeah, lots of the things I read have religious texts in them. ‘Damn.’ ‘Hell.’ ‘Flatulent, arse-licking git.’” She gave him a flat stare. “That last one is in the Testimony of Hammond. Promise. Least, all the letters are.” Another swig. Wayne could outdrink anyone she knew. Of course, that was mostly because he could tap his metalmind, heal himself, and burn away the alcohol’s effects in an eyeblink—then start over. “Here now,” he continued, “that’s what you’ve gotta do. Be like the Lady Mistborn. Get your murderin’ on, see. Don’t back down. He should be yours, and you gotta let people know.” “My … murderin’ on?” “Sure.” “Against my sister.” “You could be polite about it,” Wayne said. “Like, give her the first stab or whatnot.” “No, thank you.” “It doesn’t have to be real murderin’, Marasi,” Wayne said, hopping off the counter. “It can be figurative and all. But you should fight. Don’t let him marry her.” Marasi leaned her head back, looking up at the set of ladles swinging above the counter. “I’m not the Ascendant Warrior, Wayne,” she said. “And I don’t particularly care to be. I don’t want someone I have to convince, someone I have to rope into submission. That sort of thing is for the courtroom, not the bedroom.” “Now, see, I think some people would say—” “Careful.” “—that’s a right enlightened way to think of things.” He took a swig of sherry. “I’m not some tortured, abandoned creature, Wayne,” Marasi said, finding herself smiling at her distorted reflection in a ladle. “I’m not sitting around pining and dreaming for someone else to decide if I should be happy. There’s nothing there. Whether that’s due to actual lack of affection on his part, or more to stubbornness, I don’t care. I’ve moved on.” She looked down, meeting Wayne’s eyes. He cocked his head. “Huh. You’re serious, aren’t you?” “Damn right.” “Moved on…” he said.
“Rusted nuts! You can do that?” “Certainly.” “Huh. You think … I should … you know … Ranette…” “Wayne, if ever someone should have taken a hint, it was you. Yes. Move on. Really.” “Oh, I took the hint,” he said, taking a swig of sherry. “Just can’t remember which jacket I left it in.” He looked down at the jug. “You sure?” “She has a girlfriend, Wayne.” “’S only a phase,” he mumbled. “One what lasted fifteen years.…” He set the jug down, then sighed and reached into the cupboard from before, taking out a bottle of wine. “Oh, for Preservation’s sake,” Marasi said. “That was in there all along?” “Tastes better iffen you drink something what tastes like dishwater first,” Wayne said, then pulled the cork out with his teeth, which was kind of impressive, she had to admit. He poured her a cup, then one for himself. “To moving on?” he asked. “Sure. To moving on.” She raised her cup, and saw reflected in the wine someone standing behind her. She gasped, spinning, reaching for her purse. Wayne just raised his cup to the newcomer, who rounded the counter with a slow step. It was the man in the brown suit and bow tie. No, not the man. The kandra. “If you’re here to persuade me to persuade him,” Wayne said, “you should know that he doesn’t ever listen to me unless he’s pretty drunk at the time.” He downed the wine. “’S probably why he’s lived so long.” “Actually,” the kandra said, “I’m not here for you.” He turned to Marasi, then tipped his head. “My first choice for this endeavor has rejected my request. I hope you don’t take offense at being my second.” Marasi found her heart thumping quickly. “What do you want?” The kandra smiled broadly. “Tell me, Miss Colms. What do you know about the nature of Investiture and Identity?” 3 Wax, at least, had a change of clothing that wasn’t wet—the suit he had worn on the raid. So he was pleasantly dry as his carriage pulled up to Ladrian Mansion. Steris had returned to her father’s house to recover. Wax put aside his broadsheet and waited for Cob, the new coachman, to hop down and yank open the carriage door. There was a frantic eagerness to the little man’s motions, as if he knew that Wax only used a coach for propriety’s sake. Leaping home on lines of steel would have been far faster, but just as a lord couldn’t walk everywhere, Steelpushing around town too much in the daytime when not chasing criminals made members of his house uncomfortable. It simply wasn’t what a house lord did. Wax nodded to Cob and handed him the broadsheet. Cob grinned; he loved the things. “Take the rest of the day off,” Wax told him. “I know you were looking forward to the wedding festivities.” Cob’s grin widened, then he bobbed his head and climbed back onto the coach to see it, and the horses, cared for before leaving. He’d likely spend the day
at the races. Wax sighed, climbing the steps to the mansion. It was one of the finest in the city—luxurious with carved stonework and deep hardwood, with tasteful marble accents. That didn’t stop it from being a prison. It was just a very nice one. Wax didn’t enter. Instead, he stood on the steps for a while before turning around and sitting on them. Closing his eyes, he let it all settle on him. He was good at hiding his scars. He’d been shot almost a dozen times now, a few of those wounds quite bad. Out in the Roughs, he’d learned to pick himself up and keep on going, no matter what happened. At the same time, it felt like things back then had been simple. Not always easy, but simple. And some scars continued to ache. Seemed to get worse with time. He rose with a groan, leg stiff, and continued up the steps. Nobody opened the door for him or took his coat as he entered. He maintained a small staff in the house, but only what he considered necessary. Too many servants, and they’d hover and worry when he did anything on his own. It was as if the idea of him being capable drove them into feeling vestigial.… Wax frowned, then slipped Vindication from his hip holster and raised her beside his head. He couldn’t say, precisely, what had set him off. Footsteps up above, when he’d given the housekeepers the day off. A cup on a side table with a bit of wine in the bottom. He flicked a little vial from his belt and downed the contents: steel flakes suspended in whiskey. The metal burned a familiar warmth inside of him, radiating from his stomach, and blue lines sprang into existence around him. They moved with him as he crept forward, as if he were tied with a thousand tiny threads. He leaped and Pushed on the inlays in the marble floor, soaring up alongside the stairs to the second-story viewing balcony above the grand entryway. He slipped easily over the banister, landing with gun at the ready. The door to his study quivered, then opened. Wax tiptoed forward. “Just a moment, I—” The man in the light brown suit froze as he found Wax’s gun pressed against his temple. “You,” Wax said. “I’m quite fond of this skull,” the kandra remarked. “It’s sixth-century anteverdant, the head of a metal merchant from Urteau whose grave was shifted and protected as a side effect of Harmony’s rebuilding. An antique, if you will. If you make a hole in it, I’ll be rather put out.” “I told you I wasn’t interested,” Wax growled. “Yes. I took that to heart, Lord Ladrian.” “Then why are you here?” “Because I was invited,” the kandra said. He reached up and grasped the barrel of Wax’s gun between two fingers, then pushed it gently to the side. “We needed a place to converse. Your associate suggested it, as—I’m told—the servants are away.” “My associate?” At that point, he heard laughter from
ahead. “Wayne.” He eyed the kandra, then sighed and slipped his gun into its holster. “Which one are you? TenSoon, is that you?” “Me?” the kandra asked, laughing. “TenSoon? What, do you hear me panting?” He chuckled, gesturing for Wax to enter his own study, as if he were doing Wax some grand courtesy. “I am VenDell, of the Sixth. Pleased to meet you, Lord Ladrian. If you must shoot me, please do it in the left leg, as I’ve no particular fondness for those bones.” “I’m not going to shoot you,” Wax said, shoving past the kandra and entering the room. The blinds had been drawn and the thick curtains left to droop down, plunging the room into almost complete darkness, save for two small new electric lamps. Why the closed curtains? Was the kandra that concerned about being seen? Wayne lounged in Wax’s easy chair, feet up on the cocktail table, helping himself to a bowl of walnuts. A woman stretched out in a similar posture in the companion chair, wearing tight trousers and a loose blouse, eyes closed as she leaned back in the chair, hands behind her head. She wore a different body from last time Wax had seen her, but the posture—and the height—gave him good clues that this was MeLaan. Marasi was inspecting some odd equipment set up on a pedestal at the back of the room. It was a box with small lenses on the front. She stood up straight as soon as she saw him, and—being Marasi—blushed deeply. “Sorry about this,” she said. “We were going to go to my flat to talk, but Wayne insisted.…” “Needed some nuts,” Wayne said around a mouthful of walnuts. “When you invited me to stay here, you did say to make myself at home, mate.” “I’m still unclear as to why you needed a place to talk,” Wax said. “I said I wasn’t going to help.” “Quite so,” VenDell said from the doorway. “As you were unavailable, of necessity I turned to other options. Lady Colms has been so kind as to listen to my proposition.” “Marasi?” Wax asked. “You went to Marasi?” “What?” VenDell asked. “That’s surprising to you? She was instrumental in the defeat of Miles Hundredlives. Not to mention her help during the riots Paalm instigated.” Wax looked at the kandra. “You’re trying to get to me through another route, aren’t you?” “Look who’s full of himself,” MeLaan said from her chair. “He’s always full of himself,” Wayne said, cracking a walnut. “Mostly on account of him eatin’ his own fingernails. I seen him do it.” “Is it so ridiculous,” Marasi said, “that they’d actually want my help?” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” Wax said, turning to her. “Then what way did you mean it?” Wax sighed. “I don’t know, Marasi. It’s been a long day. I got shot at, got a water tower dumped on my head, and had my wedding fall apart. Now Wayne is dropping broken walnut shells all over my chair. Honestly, I think I just need
a drink.” He walked toward the bar at the back of the room. Marasi eyed him, and as he passed, she muttered, “Will you get me one too? Because this is all making me go a little crazy.” He smiled, digging out some single-malt whiskey, pouring for himself and for Marasi. VenDell disappeared out the door, but returned a few minutes later with some piece of equipment that he hooked to the strange device. He ran a wire from the device to one of the wall lamps, pulling out the bulb and screwing in the end of the wire instead. Leaving would feel childish, so Wax leaned against the wall and sipped his whiskey, saying nothing as VenDell turned on his machine. An image appeared on the wall. Wax froze. It was a picture, similar to an evanotype—only on the wall and quite large. It displayed the Field of Rebirth in the center of Elendel, where the tombs of Vin and Elend Venture were to be found. He’d never seen anything like that image. It seemed to have been created entirely by light. Marasi gasped. Wayne threw a walnut at it. “What?” he said as the others glared at him. “Wanted to see if it was real.” He hesitated, then threw another walnut. The nut made a shadow on the image where it moved between the device and the wall. So it was light. “Image projector,” VenDell said. “They call it an evanoscope. By next year these will be commonplace, I should think.” He paused. “Harmony implies that if we find this wondrous, it will really burn our metals when the images start moving.” “Moving?” Wax said, stepping forward. “How would they do that?” “We don’t know,” MeLaan said with a grimace. “He accidentally let it slip, but won’t say anything more.” “How does God,” Marasi asked, still staring at the image, “accidentally let something slip?” “As I said,” VenDell said, “He has been distracted lately. We’ve tried to tease out more regarding moving images, but so far no luck. He’s often like this—says it’s vital that we discover things on our own.” “Like a chick breaking out of its shell,” MeLaan said. “He says that if we don’t struggle and learn on our own, we won’t be strong enough to survive what is coming.” She left the words hanging in the room, and Wax shared a look with Marasi. “Well…” Marasi said slowly, “that’s ominous. Has He said anything more about Trell?” Wax folded his arms. Trell. It was a god from the old records, long before the Catacendre—indeed, long before the Lord Ruler. Harmony had memorized this religion, with many others, during his days as a mortal. Marasi had an obsession with the god, and one that was not unwarranted. Wax wasn’t certain whether her claim was true or not that the worship of Trell was involved in what had happened to Lessie, but the spikes they’d discovered … they didn’t seem to have been made of any metal known to man. The kandra had confiscated those. Wax had been
so deep in his sorrows that by the time he’d started to recover, they’d already been taken. “No,” VenDell said. “And I have no update on the spikes, if that’s what you’re wondering. But this task I have for you, Miss Colms, might provide insight. Suffice it to say, we’re worried about the possible intrusion of another god upon this domain.” “Hey,” MeLaan said, “what’s a girl gotta do to get some of that whiskey?” “Sister,” VenDell said, twisting something on his machine, making the image brighter, “you are a representative of Harmony and His enlightenment.” “Yup,” MeLaan said, “and I’m a tragically sober one.” Wax brought her a glass, and she grinned at him in thanks. “Chivalry,” she said, raising it. “Manipulation,” VenDell said. “Miss Colms, I spoke to you earlier of Investiture and Identity. I promised you an explanation. Here.” He flipped something on his machine, changing the image on the wall to a list of Feruchemical metals, their attributes, and their natures. It wasn’t the pretty, artistic rendition that Wax often saw in popular lore—it was far less fancy, but much more detailed. “The basic physical abilities of Feruchemy are well understood,” VenDell said, walking forward and using a long reed to point at a section of the projected chart. “Terris tradition and heritage has explored them for at least fifteen hundred years. Harmony left detailed explanations in the Words of Founding. “Likewise, the abilities in the so-called mental quadrant of the chart have been outlined and discussed, tested and defined. Our understanding doesn’t reach as far here—we don’t know why memories stored in a metalmind degrade the way they do when removed, or why tapping mental speed tends to make one hungry, of all things—but still, we have a great deal of experience in this area.” He paused, and circled his pointer around a group of metals and abilities at the bottom: Fortune, Investiture, Identity, and Connection. Wax leaned forward. They’d spoken of these during his year living in the Village, but only as part of the catechisms of Feruchemy and Terris belief. None of those specified what the powers actually did. They were considered beyond understanding, like God, or time. “Chromium,” VenDell said, “nicrosil, aluminum, duralumin. These aren’t metals that most ancients knew. Only in recent times have modern metallurgical processes allowed them to become commonplace.” “Commonplace?” Wayne said. “With a single aluminum bullet, mate, I could buy you an outfit that don’t look so stupid and have money left over for a nice hat or two.” “Be that as it may,” VenDell said, “compared to the amount of aluminum in the world before the Catacendre, the metal is now common. Bauxite refining, modern chemical processes, these have given us access to metals on a level that was never before possible. Why, the Last Obligator’s autobiography explains that early aluminum was harvested from the inside of the Ashmounts!” Wax stepped forward along the cone of light emanating from the machine. “So what do they do?” “Research is ongoing,” VenDell said. “Ferrings with these abilities are very, very
rare—and it is only in the last few decades that we’ve had access to enough of these metals to begin experimenting. Rebuilding society has been a … wearisome process.” “You were alive before,” Marasi said. “In the days of the Ascendant Warrior.” VenDell turned, raising his eyebrows. “Indeed, though I never met her. Only TenSoon did.” “What was life like?” Marasi asked. “Hard,” VenDell said. “It was … hard.” “There are holes in our memories,” MeLaan added softly. “From when our spikes were removed. It took a piece out of us. There are things we’ll never get back.” Wax took a drink. There was a weight that came from speaking to the kandra, in realizing that most of them had already been alive for hundreds of years when the World of Ash had ended. These were ancient beings. Perhaps Wax should not be surprised by their presumption. To them, he—indeed, everyone else alive—was little more than a child. “Identity,” VenDell said, slapping his reed against the wall, casting a shadow on the image. “Lord Ladrian, could another Feruchemist use your metalminds?” “Of course not,” Wax said. “Everyone knows that.” “Why?” “Well … because. They’re mine.” Feruchemy was simple, elegant. Fill your metalmind with an attribute for an hour—like Wax’s weight, or Wayne’s health and healing—and you could draw out an hour’s worth of that attribute later on. Alternatively, you could draw out a burst of power that was extremely intense but lasted only a moment. “The raw power of both Allomancy and Feruchemy,” VenDell said, “is something we call Investiture. This is very important, as in Feruchemy, an individual’s Investiture is keyed specifically to them. To what we call Identity.” “You’ve made me curious,” Wax said, looking at the wall as VenDell leisurely walked back to his machine. “How does it know? My metalminds … do they recognize me?” “After a fashion,” VenDell said, changing the image to one of a Feruchemist tapping strength. The woman’s muscles had grown to several times their normal size as she lifted a horse above her head. “Each man or woman has a Spiritual aspect, a piece of themselves that exists in another Realm entirely. You might call it your soul. Your Investiture is keyed to your soul—indeed, it might be a part of your soul, much as your blood is a part of your body.” “So if a person could store their Identity,” Marasi said, “as Waxillium does with his weight…” “They’d be without it for a time,” VenDell said. “A blank slate, so to speak.” “So they could use anyone’s metalmind?” Marasi asked. “Possibly,” VenDell said. He cycled through pictures of several more Feruchemists using their abilities before coming to rest on an image of a set of bracers. Simple metal bands, like wide bracelets, meant to be worn on the upper arms beneath clothing. It was impossible to tell the type of metal without color, but they had ancient Terris markings engraved on them. “Some have been experimenting with your idea,” VenDell said, “and early results are promising. However, having a Feruchemist who
can use anyone’s metalminds is intriguing, but not particularly life-changing. Our society is strewn with individuals who have extraordinary abilities—this would simply be one more variety. No, what interests me is the opposite, Miss Colms. What if a Feruchemist were to divest himself of all Identity, then fill another metalmind with an attribute. Say, strength. What would it do?” “Create an unkeyed metalmind?” Marasi asked. “One that another Feruchemist could access?” “Possibly,” VenDell said. “Or is there another possibility? Most people living right now have at least some Feruchemist blood in them. Could it be that such a metalmind as I describe, one that is keyed to no single individual, might be usable by anyone?” Understanding settled on Wax like a slowly burned metal. From the chair beside the image device, Wayne whistled slowly. “Anyone could be a Feruchemist,” Wax said. VenDell nodded. “Investiture—the innate ability to burn metals or tap metalminds—is also one of the things Feruchemy can store. Lord Waxillium … these are arts we are only beginning to comprehend. But the secrets they contain could change the world. “In the ancient days, the Last Emperor discovered a metal that transformed him into a Mistborn. A metal anyone could burn, it is said. This whispers of a hidden possibility, something lesser, but still incredible. What if one could somehow manipulate Identity and Investiture to create a set of bracers which imparted Feruchemical or Allomantic ability upon the person wearing them? One could make any person a Mistborn, or a Feruchemist, or both at once.” The room fell silent. A walnut bounced off VenDell’s head. He immediately turned to glare at Wayne. “Sorry,” Wayne said. “Just had trouble believing someone could be so melodramatic, so I figured you might not be real. Hadda check, ya know?” VenDell rubbed his forehead, breathing out sharply in annoyance. “This is all fascinating,” Wax admitted. “But unfortunately, it’s also impossible.” “And why is that?” VenDell asked. “You don’t even know how, or if, this would work,” Wax said, waving toward the screen. “And even if you could figure it out, you’d need a Full Feruchemist. Someone with at least two Feruchemical powers, as they’d need to be able to store their Identity in a metalmind along with another Feruchemical attribute. Rusts! To do what you proposed a moment ago, and create Allomancers too, you’d basically need someone who was already both Mistborn and Full Feruchemist.” “This is true,” VenDell said. “And how long has it been since a Full Feruchemist was born?” “A very, very long time,” VenDell said. “But, being born a Feruchemist isn’t the only way to make this happen.” Wax hesitated, then shared a look with Marasi. She nodded, and he strode across the room to pull back the wooden panel hiding his wall safe. He did the combination and removed the book that Ironeyes had sent him. He turned, raising it. “Hemalurgy? Harmony hates it. I’ve read what the Lord Mistborn had to say on the topic.” “Yes,” VenDell said. “Hemalurgy is … problematic.” “In part because we wouldn’t exist without
it,” MeLaan said. “That’s not a particularly fun thing to know—that people had to be murdered in order to bring you to sapience.” “Creating new spikes is a horrid practice,” VenDell agreed. “We have no intentions of doing such a thing to experiment with Identity. Instead, we’re waiting. A Full Feruchemist is bound to be born among mankind eventually—particularly with the Terris elite working so hard to preserve and condense their bloodlines. Unfortunately, our … restraint will not be shared by everyone. There are those who are growing very close to understanding how all this works.” My uncle, Wax thought, looking down at the book in his fingers. So far as he could tell, Edwarn—the man known as Mister Suit—was trying to breed Allomancers. What would he do with Hemalurgy, if he knew about it? “We need to stay ahead of those who might use this for ill purposes,” VenDell said. “We need to experiment and determine how these Identity-free metalminds would work.” “Doing so will be dangerous,” Wax said. “Mixing the powers is incredibly dangerous.” “Says the Twinborn,” MeLaan said. “I’m safe,” Wax said, glancing at her. “My powers don’t compound—they’re from different metals.” “They may not compound,” VenDell said, “but they’re still fascinating, Lord Waxillium. Any mixing of Allomancy and Feruchemy has unanticipated effects.” “What is it about you,” Wax said, “that makes me want to punch you, even when you’re saying something helpful?” “None of us have been able to figure it out,” MeLaan said, waving for Wayne to toss her a walnut. “One of the cosmere’s great mysteries.” “Now, now, Lord Ladrian,” VenDell said, holding up his hands. “Is that the way to speak to someone who bears your ancestor’s hands?” “His … hands?” Wax said. “Are you speaking metaphorically?” “Ah, no,” VenDell said. “Breeze did say I could have them after he died. Excellent metacarpals. I bring them out for special occasions.” Wax stood still for a moment, holding the book in his hand, trying to digest what the kandra had just said. His ancestor, the first Lord Ladrian, Counselor of Gods … had given this creature his hands. In a way, Wax had shaken hands with Breeze’s corpse. He stared at his glass, surprised to find it empty, and poured some more whiskey. “This has been a very enlightening lesson,” Marasi said. “But pardon, Your Holiness, you still haven’t explained what you need from me.” VenDell changed the picture to one of an illustration. A man with long dark hair and a bare chest, wearing a cloak that extended behind him into eternity. His arms, crossed before him, were wrapped with intricate bracers in a fanciful design. Wax recognized the iconography, if not the specific image. Rashek. The First Emperor. The Lord Ruler. “What do you know of the Bands of Mourning, Miss Colms?” VenDell asked. “The Lord Ruler’s metalminds,” Marasi said with a shrug. “Relics from mythology, like the Lady Mistborn’s knives, or the Lance of the Fountains.” “There are four individuals,” VenDell said, “who, to our knowledge, have held the power of Ascension. Rashek,
the Survivor, the Ascendant Warrior, and Lord Harmony Himself. Harmony’s Ascension granted Him a precise and in-depth knowledge of the Metallic Arts. It stands to reason that the Lord Ruler gained the same information. He understood Identity as a Feruchemical ability, and knew the hidden metals. Indeed, he gave aluminum to his Inquisitors.” VenDell flipped the image to a more detailed illustration of those arms wrapped in bands of metal. “Curiously, nobody knows exactly what happened to the Bands of Mourning. Back when the Lord Ruler fell, TenSoon had not yet joined the Ascendant Warrior, and though he swears he heard them mentioned, the holes in his memory prevent him from saying how or when. “The mythology surrounding the Bands is quite extensive. You can find myths about them dating back to before the Catacendre, and you can find someone telling new ones in a pub around the corner, invented on the spot for your amusement. But a theme runs through them all—if you held the Lord Ruler’s bracers, you supposedly gained his powers.” “That’s just fancy,” Wax said. “It’s a natural thing to wish for, to make stories about. It doesn’t mean anything.” “Doesn’t it?” VenDell asked. “Lore says the Bands have the very power that science has only now determined is plausible to assemble?” “Coincidence,” Wax said. “And just because he might have created something doesn’t mean he did, and just because you think Identity works like you say, doesn’t mean you’re right. Besides, the Bands would have been destroyed when Harmony remade the world. And that’s not even considering that it would be foolish for the Lord Ruler to create weapons someone else could use against him.” VenDell clicked his machine. The image changed to another evanotype, this one of a mural on a wall. It depicted a room with a central dais in the shape of a truncated pyramid. Set upon a pedestal on the dais was a pair of bracers made of delicate, curling metal, shaped in spirals. Only a mural. But it did seem like it was depicting the Bands of Mourning. “What is that?” Marasi asked. “One of our brothers,” MeLaan said, sitting up in her chair, “a kandra named ReLuur, took this image.” “The Bands of Mourning fascinated him,” VenDell said. “ReLuur spent the last two centuries chasing them. He recently returned to Elendel bearing an evanotype camera in his pack and these pictures.” VenDell clicked to the next image, a picture of a large metal plate set into a wall and inscribed with a strange script. Wax narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that language.” “Nobody does,” VenDell said. “It’s completely alien to us, unrelated to any Terris, Imperial, or other root. Even the old languages in Harmony’s records bear no resemblance to this script.” Wax felt a chill as the images continued. Another shot of the strange language. A statue that resembled the Lord Ruler, bearing a long spear. This appeared to be covered in frost. Another shot of the mural, more detailed, which depicted bracers with many different metals twining together.
Not bracers for a Ferring like Wax, but bracers for a Full Feruchemist. Only a mural, yes. But it was compelling. “ReLuur believed in the Bands,” VenDell said. “He claims to have seen them, though his camera bore no image of the actual relics. I’m inclined to trust his words.” VenDell showed another image, of a different mural. It depicted a man standing atop a peak, hands raised above him and a glowing spear hovering there, just beyond his touch. A corpse slumped at his feet. Wax went forward, walking into the stream of light until he was standing right in front of the image, looking up at the portion he wasn’t blocking. The face of the man in the mosaic had eyes upturned and lips parted as if in awe at what he held. He wore the bracers on his arms. Wax turned around, but standing in the stream of light he couldn’t see anything in the room. “You mean to tell me your brother, this ReLuur, actually found the Bands of Mourning?” “He found something,” VenDell said. “Where?” “He doesn’t know,” VenDell said softly. Wax stepped out of the light, frowning. He looked from VenDell to MeLaan. “What?” he asked them. “He’s missing a spike,” MeLaan said. “Best we could determine, he was accosted before he could return here from the mountains near the Southern Roughs.” “We can’t get any straight answers out of him,” VenDell said. “A kandra with a missing spike … well, they aren’t quite sane any longer. As you well know.” Wax shivered, a pit of emptiness shifting inside him. “Yes.” “So, Miss Colms,” VenDell said, stepping away from his machine. “This is where you come in. ReLuur was … is … one of our finest. Of the Third Generation, he is an explorer, an expert at bodies, and a genius. Losing him would be a great blow to us.” “We can’t reproduce,” MeLaan said. “Our numbers are set. The Thirds like ReLuur … they’re our parents, our exemplars. Our leaders. He is precious.” “We would like you to recover his spike,” VenDell said. “From whoever took it. This will restore his sanity, and hopefully his memories.” “The longer he goes without it, the bigger the holes will be,” MeLaan said. “So perhaps you can understand our urgency,” VenDell said. “And why I found it prudent to interrupt Lord Ladrian, even on what was obviously an important day. When ReLuur returned to us, he was missing an entire arm and half his chest. Though he will not—or cannot—speak of where he got these pictures, he is able to recall being attacked in New Seran. We believe someone ambushed him there, on his return, and stole the artifacts he had discovered.” “They have his spike,” MeLaan said, voice tense. “It’s still there. It has to be.” “Wait, wait,” Marasi said. “Why not give him another spike? You’ve got enough of them lying around to make earrings, like the one you gave Waxillium.” The two kandra looked at her as if she were mad, but Wax couldn’t see
why. He thought the question was an excellent one. “You are misunderstanding the nature of these spikes,” VenDell all but sputtered. “First, we do not have kandra Blessings ‘lying around.’ The earrings you mention are crafted from old Inquisitor spikes, and have barely any potency to them. One might have been good enough for Lord Waxillium’s little stunt six months ago, but they would hardly be enough to restore a kandra.” “Yeah,” MeLaan said. “If that worked, we’d have already used all those spikes to make new children. We can’t; a kandra Blessing must be created very specifically.” “We did try something akin to what you suggest,” VenDell admitted. “TenSoon … relinquished one of his own spikes to give our fallen brother a few moments of lucidity. It was very painful for TenSoon, and—unfortunately—accomplished nothing. ReLuur only screamed, begging for his spike. He spat out TenSoon’s a moment later. Trying to use someone else’s spikes when you don’t have your own already can provoke radical changes in personality, memory, and temperament.” “Lessie,” Wax said, voice hoarse. “She … she changed spikes frequently.” “And each was a spike created specifically for her,” VenDell said. “Not one that had been used by another kandra. And besides, would you call her particularly stable, Lord Waxillium? You must trust us on this; we have done what we can. Here, at least. “MeLaan will be traveling to New Seran to investigate and retrieve ReLuur’s missing spike. Miss Colms, we would like you to join her and help recover our brother’s mind. We can intervene with your superiors in the constable precinct, and make certain you are assigned field duty working for the government in a clandestine fashion. If you can restore ReLuur’s spike, we will be able to find answers.” VenDell eyed Wax. “This will not be a wild hunt for some impossible artifact. All we want is our friend back. Of course, any clues you can discover regarding where he went on his quest, and where he got these pictures, would be appreciated. There are some people of interest in New Seran, nobility that ReLuur is fixated upon for reasons we can’t get out of him.” Wax studied the last image for a time longer. It was tempting. Mystical artifacts were all well and good, but someone attacking—and nearly killing—one of the Faceless Immortals? That was interesting. “I’ll go,” Marasi said from behind him. “I’ll do it. But … I wouldn’t mind help. Waxillium?” A part of him longed to go. Escape the parties and the dances, the political engagements and business meetings. The kandra would know that; Harmony would know that. Anger simmered deep within him at the thought. He’d hunted Lessie, and they hadn’t told him. “This sounds like the perfect challenge for your skills, Marasi,” he found himself saying. “I doubt you need me. You are perfectly capable, and I feel a fool for having implied otherwise, even accidentally. If you do want company, however, perhaps Wayne would be willing to provide some extra protection. I’m afraid that I, however, must—” The image
on the wall flickered to a shot of a city with grand waterfalls. New Seran? He’d never been there. The streets were overgrown with foliage, and people promenaded about in clothing of striped brown suits and soft white dresses. “Ah, I forgot,” VenDell said. “There was one other image in ReLuur’s belongings. We discovered it last, as the others were packed carefully away to await development. We suspect this image was taken in New Seran, just before the attack.” “And why should I care?” Wax said. “It…” He trailed off, feeling an icy shock as he recognized someone in the picture. He stepped back into the stream of light, pressing his hand against the white wall, trying—fruitlessly—to feel the image. “Impossible.” She stood between two men who held to her arms tightly, as if pulling her forward against her will. Keeping her prisoner even in broad daylight. She had glanced over her shoulder toward the camera as the evanotype was taken. It must be one of the new models he’d been hearing about, that didn’t require the subject to stand still for the image to set. The woman was in her forties, lean but solid, with long dark hair framing a face that—despite their years apart—Wax knew very, very well. Telsin. His sister. 4 Two hours after the strange meeting, Wayne puttered through Wax’s mansion, peeking behind pictures, lifting up vases. Where did he keep the good stuff? “It is her, Steris,” Wax was saying in the ground-floor sitting room not far away. “And that man with his back turned, holding her by the arm, that could be my uncle. They’re involved in this. I have to go.” It had always seemed funny to Wayne how rich folk got to decide what was valuable. He inspected a picture frame that was likely pure gold. Why did anyone care about this shiny stuff? Gold could do some fun things with Feruchemy, but it was pure rubbish when it came to Allomancy. Well, rich folk liked it. So they paid a lot for it, and that made it valuable. No other reason. How did they decide what was valuable? Did they all just gather together, sit around in their suits and gowns, and say, “Oi. Let’s start eatin’ fish eggs, and make the stuff real expensive. That’ll rust their brains, it will.” Then they’d have a nice round of rich folks’ laughter and throw some servants off the top of a building to see what kind of splats they’d make when they hit. Wayne put the picture back. He refused to play by rich people’s rules. He’d decide for himself what something was worth. And that frame was ugly. Didn’t help none that Steris’s cousins, who were depicted in the evanotype it held, looked like fish. “Then you should most certainly go, Lord Waxillium,” Steris said. “Why the concern? We can make arrangements to postpone other duties.” “It’s infuriating, Steris!” Even from out in the hall, Wayne could hear the I’m pacing in his tone. “Not a word of apology, from them or Harmony

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