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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
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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
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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.”
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“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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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 Sixteen years ago, sitting in
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a dim booth at a local steakhouse, I first pitched to my wife an audacious idea I’d been developing: taking an epic fantasy world, and then expanding it through different eras into the future. I’d seen mashups of fantasy and science fiction before, and I’d seen epic fantasy inch toward industrial technology. But I’d never seen an author develop a world in quite this way—giving an expansive view of a planet moving into the future, using the lore of earlier book series as the foundation of religion and myth. It was a gamble. Readers tend to like their genres well delineated. Here, I was pitching something that broke apart those genre lines in ways that historically did not sell well. Yet I was convinced that the larger-scale project (the vision of a planet and its magic throughout various eras) was worth the risk. That brings us here, to the final book of Era Two of Mistborn and my grand experiment with genre. Whether I’ve been successful or not so far is up to you, the reader. But I can say this: I certainly wouldn’t have gotten where I am without the help of a large number of people. I know these acknowledgments are a bit of a blur of names, but I’m so grateful to each and every one of them. These are the people who, when I come up with some new audacious plan, don’t roll their eyes—they instead roll up their sleeves and make it happen. For this book, Joshua Bilmes did his usual excellent job as my agent. On his team, Susan Velazquez and Christina Zobel were also a great deal of help, managing all the different overseas contracts and subagents. Speaking of across the pond, I had some extra-special help from Gillian Redfearn on this book—she’s my UK editor, and took the lead on this book performing the line edit work that often is shouldered by the US publisher. She did a fantastic job, and I’m lucky to have her help. In addition, I’d like to thank Emad Akhtar and Brendan Durkin at Gollancz in the UK, as well as my UK agents, John Berlyne and Stevie Finegan at the Zeno Agency. Over in the US, Devi Pillai was the lead editor on this project, offering her excellent editorial eye for story and character as she always does. Also at Tor, I’d like to thank Molly McGhee, Tessa Villanueva, Lucille Rettino, Eileen Lawrence, Alexis Saarela, Heather Saunders, Rafal Gibek, Felipe Cruz, Amelie Littell, and Hayley Jozwiak. The copyeditor was our longtime collaborator in that field, Terry McGarry. As for the audiobook, the irreplaceable Michael Kramer is once again giving voice to my characters and making me sound good. I appreciate you, Michael. Thank you for all you do. At Macmillian Audio, I’d like to thank Steve Wagner, Samantha Edelson, and Drew Kilman. Increasingly these days, my books take a ton of extra work in the art department. So we’ll give these gunslingers their own section—even though some of them could overlap with other sections. For instance, Peter Lutjen
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is Tor’s art director, and deserves a hearty thanks. Chris McGrath did our jacket illustration. My internal art director at Dragonsteel is ᛁᛉᚲ—the artist formerly known as Isaac Stewart. He did the maps, symbols, and a lot of the work (including the writing) on the broadsheets. Keep an eye out for books by ᛁᛉᚲ in the future. (Yes, I did just make up that whole symbol thing. I can do that. I have a literary license.) Our good friend and longtime collaborator Ben McSweeney did most of the art you find in the broadsheets. Rachael Lynn Buchanan was our art assistant, and Jennifer Neal provided some additional help in creating the broadsheets. In my company, Dragonsteel, our in-house Editorial department is headed by the Insatiable Peter Ahlstrom, with Karen Ahlstrom running continuity and various additional editorial help being provided by Betsey Ahlstrom. And Kristy S. Gilbert has just come on as our Production Editor. Dragonsteel’s Fulfillment and Events team is headed by Kara Stewart, and that team includes Christi Jacobsen, Lex Willhite, Kellyn Neumann, Mem Grange, Michael Bateman, Joy Allen, Katy Ives, Richard Rubert, Sean VanBuskirk, Isabel Chrisman, Tori Mecham, Ally Reep, Jacob Chrisman, Alex Lyon, and Owen Knowlton. Our in-house Publicity and Marketing team is headed by Adam Horne, with Jeremy Palmer as our marketing director. Our Operations team is headed by Mat “My name is actually Matt with two T’s” Hatch, with Jane Horne, Emma Tan-Stoker, Kathleen Dorsey Sanderson, Makena Saluone, and Hazel Cummings. And, of course, my wonderful wife, Emily Sanderson, is our COO at Dragonsteel. And is the cutest person on this list. Less cute, but still very helpful, are the members of the writing group. On this book they include: Kaylynn ZoBell, Peter Ahlstrom, Karen Ahlstrom, Alan Layton, Eric James Stone, Darci Stone, Kathleen Dorsey Sanderson, Emily Sanderson, and Ben “Rick Stranger” Olsen. Also, of course, there is Ethan Skarstedt—to whom this book is dedicated. The real-life inspiration for Skar from Bridge Four, Ethan has been helping me get my soldiering and gunplay right for some twenty years now. Many thanks, Ethan, for helping me pretend I know what I’m talking about. Mi’chelle Walker created our beta reader feedback database, which was super useful. The beta readers included Trae Cooper, Tim Challener, Ted Herman, Suzanne Musin, Sumejja Muratagić-Tadić, Paige Phillips, Shannon Nelson, Sean VanBuskirk, Ross Newberry, Rosemary Williams, Richard Fife, Rahul Pantula, Poonam Desai, Philip Vorwaller, Paige Vest, Mi’chelle Walker, Megan Kanne, Matt Wiens, Mark Axies Lindberg, Marnie Peterson, Lyndsey Luther, Linnea Lindstrom, Lauren McCaffrey, Kendra Wilson, Kendra Alexander, Kellyn Neumann, Kalyani Poluri, Joy Allen, Joshua Harkey, Jory “Chief Chicken Head Scratcher” Phillips, Jessie Lake, Jessica Ashcraft, Jennifer Neal, Ian McNatt, Chris “Gunner” McGrath, Gary Singer, Frankie Jerome, Evgeni “Argent” Kirilov, Erika Kuta Marler, Eric Lake, Drew McCaffrey, Deana Covel Whitney, David Fallon, David Behrens, Darci Cole, Craig Hanks, Christina Goodman, Christopher Cottingham, Chana Oshira Block, Brian T. Hill, Brandon Cole, Lingting “Botanica” Xu, Bob Kluttz, Ben Marrow, Becca Reppert, Bao Pham, Anthony Acker, Alyx Hoge, Alice Arneson, Alexis Horizon, Aaron Biggs, Joe Deardeuff, Rob West, and
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Jayden King. Gamma readers included many of the above, plus Sam Baskin, Glen Vogelaar, Dale Wiens, Billy Todd, Ari Kufer, Matthew Sorensen, Ram Shoham, Eliyahu Berelowitz Levin, and Aaron Ford. We got some detailed help from a particular group on this book, people who I have asked to keep an eye on my magic systems and offer feedback on where I might need more explanations or might be in danger of contradicting myself. We’re calling them our Magic System Continuity team, but I’m officially dubbing them Arcanists going forward. They are Joshua Harkey, Eric Lake, Evgeni Kirilov, David Behrens, Ian McNatt, and Ben Marrow. I would like to extend a special thanks to my good friends Kalyani and Rahul, longtime beta readers, who have been encouraging me for years to look into Indian mythology and lore for inspiration for fantasy storytelling. They provided excellent consultation in this book on a certain character who the three of us worked on together to try to expand the Cosmere a little bit in this direction. Thank you to everyone on this list. And, of course, to the readers. Mistborn has been a strange journey these last sixteen years, and I feel it’s about to get even stranger—as well as (with a little luck) even more incredible. BY BRANDON SANDERSON® THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE® The Way of Kings Words of Radiance Edgedancer (novella) Oathbringer Dawnshard (novella) Rhythm of War THE MISTBORN® SAGA THE ORIGINAL TRILOGY Mistborn The Well of Ascension The Hero of Ages Mistborn: Secret History (novella) THE WAX AND WAYNE SERIES The Alloy of Law Shadows of Self The Bands of Mourning The Lost Metal Elantris Warbreaker Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere® Collection ALCATRAZ VS. THE EVIL LIBRARIANS Also, Legion: The Many Lives of Stephen Leeds Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians The Scrivener’s Bones The Knights of Crystallia The Shattered Lens The Dark Talent WITH JANCI PATTERSON Bastille vs. the Evil Librarians THE RECKONERS® Steelheart Firefight Calamity SKYWARD Skyward Starsight Cytonic WITH JANCI PATTERSON Skyward Flight: The Collection The Rithmatist FIVE DAYS AFTER DETONATION Allriandre climbed the steps one at a time. Feet like lead. Legs like slag. Back bowed, as if weighed by bars of steel. Her ashen clothing bore a few new marks from the forges, which threw sparks when she passed. Her job didn’t involve working those—she sorted bits of metal for melting down. When she arrived at her small flat—on the seventh floor, in a building with no elevator—she could already hear Miss Coussaint yelling. Despite her exhaustion, Allriandre picked up her pace. She hurried to the door and threw it open, to where her daughter, Ruri—three years old and still small for her age—huddled in her blankets. Terrified again. “Why would you think toothpaste was for drawing?” Miss Coussaint shouted. She was a woman with a hierarchy of chins, the last—most swollen—one lording over the others like a terrible regent. She glanced up as Allriandre entered, then held up the toothpaste jar. “Did you see what she did this time?” “I’m sorry,” Allriandre said, exhausted, but she scooped up Ruri as
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she came running into her arms to escape. “Thank you for watching her.” Coussaint looked her up and down, noting the dirty face, scraggly hair, burned clothing. “Rent?” she demanded. “It’s been three days.” “He’s never been late with a payment before.” Wayne, the man who’d murdered her father. “I’m sure he’ll show up soon.” “I need to do some renovations,” Coussaint said. “Maybe when he comes, you can—” “Thank you, Miss Coussaint,” Allriandre said, stepping aside so the woman could leave. “For watching her. It is an enormous help.” The woman huffed, but squeezed out of the room and went clomping down the steps. Allriandre pulled her daughter close, and thought for a moment about her choices. About how the best schooling in the city didn’t mean much when you were in debt to the wrong people. About how something you loved so much—like the girl she held to now—could also be a reminder of one of the greatest mistakes you’d ever made. She was exhausted, but she plopped Ruri down, and together the two of them painted with toothpaste on the wall until the girl was laughing again. Until Ruri understood that mistakes could sometimes turn into amazing, wonderful, cherished things. With the right perspective. A knock came at the door. Allriandre froze, then quickly wiped her hands on a rag. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Rusts, she barely knew anyone. All of her university friends had gone on to marriages, office jobs, and nights spent socializing. Her family still lived out in the Roughs, and she’d made sure they didn’t know what had happened to her. Because they had their own problems. She opened the door hesitantly and saw two men in suits outside— one tall, one short. Her stomach immediately dropped. Were these Bleaker’s new collection men? They usually showed up a week after she received her monthly payment. “Miss Allriandre?” the shorter of the men asked. “I am Mister Call, and this is Mister Daring, of Call and Son and Daughters Accounting and Estate. Might we come in? We have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.” “I don’t have the money yet,” she said quickly. “I can’t pay you until I do. There’s nothing in here for you to take.” The two shared a glance, then the shorter man gestured again. She reluctantly let them in. “If you,” she whispered, “hurt my daughter…” “We are not who you appear to think we are,” the taller man said with a cheerful air, looking at the toothpaste-covered wall, then the ragged furnishings. “We represent the estate of Master Wayne Terrisborn of 662 Inkling Lane.” “Oh,” she said, feeling relieved. “Him. Wait. Did he finally get smart and decide to stop insisting that I meet him in person?” “Indeed he did,” the taller man said, setting his bowler hat on the counter. She winced, noticing the mushed-up apple Ruri had dropped there. The little girl came and climbed into her arms. Strangers made her nervous. “Why are you late?” Allriandre asked. “His payments always come on the
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first of the month.” The taller one coughed. “You haven’t heard? You … don’t read the broadsheets?” “Do I look like I have time for broadsheets?” she asked. “If you have my payment, that’s great. I could use it. But I really need some sleep. So…” “Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “Master Wayne passed last week. It was quite spectacular—he was the one who detonated the bomb. Did you hear about that?” She’d heard rumblings of it at the forges. Not his part in it. But the whole flood and, and the evacuations … and … Wait. “He’s dead?” she asked. They nodded. Rusts. How did she feel about that? Happy? The man who had killed her father was finally dead. She should be overjoyed, shouldn’t she? Instead she felt confused. A little angry still, yes. That would never leave her. A hint of relief. But mostly … sorry. Sorry for how it had all turned out. Sorry that wounds long dulled sent a pang through her now and then. Sorry for mistakes. Mistakes didn’t always turn into something better, not by a long mile. But she could understand now how they happened. Even the big ones. The taller man set a large folder onto the room’s only table. “Shall we?” he asked. “Shall we what?” she replied. “Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “you are the primary beneficiary of Master Wayne’s estate.” “What’s that amount to?” she asked. “Three balls of gum and an unpaid bar tab?” “Currently,” the tall one said, “it’s twenty million boxings—liquid—along with majority stake ownerships in several important holdings, equating to at least another hundred.” The room fell silent save for Ruri’s sniffling, which the girl solved by wiping her nose on Allriandre’s jumpsuit. Allriandre barely noticed. “Did you say … a hundred and twenty million?” she whispered. “Give or take, depending on the market,” the taller man said. “He invested wisely—in a brilliant way, actually, against most conventional wisdom—using a considerable amount of aluminum as collateral. Turns out electricity, fabrication, and power were the place to be six years ago.” The shorter man pulled over a chair for her. “Please,” he said softly. “Sit down. We have some things to go over.” “A hundred and twenty million,” she repeated, her eyes wide, barely able to think. Her debts—from her failed art studio—equated to barely ten thousand. “Yes,” the taller man said, setting out some papers. “By my estimation, you have become the fourth-richest person in the city.” He looked up. “There are a few holdbacks, mind you. Accounts that Master Wayne set aside for other things. But that equates to less than five hundred thousand in total. Everything else … well, it’s yours.” She sank down into the chair. The short man pushed over a note. Handwritten, stained with something. “He wanted you to have this.” It simply said, Sorry. As if that could explain all of this. Overwhelmed, she took the note, then held it close to her chest. With money, she could bring her family to Elendel. Resolve their problems. Build the
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life for them all that she’d promised when they’d put everything into sending her to the city. Ruri grabbed at the card, getting toothpaste on it. “What are the holdbacks for?” Allriandre asked. “Not that I’m complaining. I’m merely curious.” The two shared a look. “Various things,” the shorter man said. “Each one of an … individual nature.” METAL ALLOMANTIC POWER FERUCHEMICAL POWER HEMALURGY Iron Pulls on Nearby Metal Stores Physical Weight Steals Strength Steel Pushes on Nearby Metal Stores Physical Speed Steals Physical Allomancy Tin Increases Senses Stores Senses Steals Senses Pewter Increases Physical Abilities Stores Physical Strength Steals Physical Feruchemy Zinc Riots Emotions Stores Mental Speed Steals Emotional Fortitude Brass Soothes Emotions Stores Warmth Steals Cognitive Feruchemy Copper Hides Allomantic Pulses Stores Memories Steals Mental Fortitude Bronze Reveals Allomantic Pulses Stores Wakefulness Steals Mental Allomancy Cadmium Slows Down Time Stores Breath Steals Temporal Allomancy Bendalloy Speeds Up Time Stores Energy Steals Spiritual Feruchemy Gold See Your Own Past Stores Health Steals Hybrid Feruchemy Electrum See Your Own Future Stores Determination Steals Enhancement Allomancy Chromium Destroys Target’s Allomantic Reserves Stores Fortune Might Steal Destiny Nicrosil Enhances Target’s Next Metal Burned Stores Investiture Steals Investiture Aluminum Destroys Your Allomantic Reserves Stores Identity Removes All Powers Duralumin Enhances the Next Metal Burned Stores Connection Steals Connection & Identity METAL ALLOMANTIC POWER FERUCHEMICAL POWER HEMALURGY Atium See Other People’s Futures Stores Youth Steals Any Power Lerasium Bestows All Allomantic Abilities Unknown Steals All Abilities Harmonium Unknown Unknown Unknown Trellium Unknown Unknown Unknown External metals have been italicized. Pushing metals have been bolded. ALUMINUM: A Mistborn who burns aluminum instantly metabolizes all of their 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 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 fluid intake. BRASS: Soother Mistings burn brass to Soothe (dampen) the emotions of nearby individuals. This can be directed at a single individual or 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
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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. Connector 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
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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 acuity of their five senses. All are increased at the same time. Windwhisperer Ferrings can store the acuity of one of the five senses into a tin metalmind; a different tin metalmind must be used for each sense. While storing, their acuity 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 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 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
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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, 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 metalminds could be made from alloys with the God Metals, other abilities could be discovered. Hemalurgy is less widely known 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—a few scattered koloss clans, and the Set. Hemalurgy is an end-negative art. Some power is lost in the practice of it. Though many through 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 importance to the cosmere, it is this one. I think there are numerous possibilities for its use. 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 need 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. Something odd is happening with the nature of spikes and Hemalurgy on Scadrial,
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of particular note to any arcanists who study the nature of Intent and Connection. I have, after lengthy questing, obtained an interview with Marsh, the one known as Ironeyes on Scadrial. (As a side note, it is curious how news of his nature is spreading to other worlds. Is this natural rumormongering, or something more supernatural?) I can confirm, as best as it can be attested, that he is fully capable of Compounding to expand his life. He speaks of things of the past, like Hemalurgic decay and the toll that holding so many spikes takes upon the body. Inquisitors during his day slept for many hours; the Words of Founding say this was due to the need for storing health, but Marsh indicates there may be more subtlety to it than first understood. I’d postulate that it was in part a side effect of the incredible burden placed upon their souls by the nature of their horrific transformations. Modern souls, however, seem to simply reject spikes of this magnitude. Further research is required, but I believe that this has something to do with the nature of Ruin’s subservience to Preservation in the current dual vessel known as Harmony. The level of corruption of a soul that was possible in ancient days is no longer viable; if too many spikes are added, souls stop gaining powers. Marsh doesn’t think this is a conscious decision on Harmony’s part. Indeed, I think this is beyond the conscious abilities of even a Shard. Instead, I believe this is the nature of souls (read: the Invested portion of a person’s nature) and their balance with the cosmere. In the ancient days, Ruin was pushing hard on the fabric of Scadrial, leaking into spirit- webs through any method possible. Causing souls to decay faster, to accept more spikes than they should have been able to, and leaving the resulting person burdened beyond what was reasonable. At any rate, the end result is a limit on the number of spikes a person can hold without external intervention. And, most key, Compounding seems beyond the abilities of any Hemalurgist created in this more modern era. The secret to cracking why this is, and how to circumvent it, could be of utmost importance to those watching Hemalurgy and its (presumed) danger to the cosmere as a whole. TWENTY-NINE YEARS LATER Marasi had never been in a sewer before, but it was exactly as awful as she’d imagined. The stench was incredible, of course. But worse was the way her booted feet would occasionally slip for a heart-stopping moment, threatening to plunge her down into the “mud” underneath. At least she’d had the foresight to wear a uniform with trousers today, along with knee-high leather work boots. But there was no protection from the scent, the feel, or—unfortunately—the sound of it. When she took a step—map in one hand, rifle in the other—each boot would pull free with a squelch of mythical proportions. It would have been the worst sound ever, if not overmatched by Wayne’s complaining. “Wax never brought me
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into a rusting sewer,” he muttered, raising the lantern. “Are there sewers in the Roughs?” “Well, no,” he admitted. “Pastures smell almost as bad, and he did make me march through those. But Marasi, they didn’t have spiders.” “They probably did,” she said, angling the map toward his lantern. “You just couldn’t see them.” “Suppose,” he grumbled. “But it’s worse when you can see the webs. Also there’s, you know, the literal sewage.” Marasi nodded to a side tunnel and they started in that direction. “Do you want to talk about it?” “What?” he demanded. “Your mood.” “Nothing’s wrong with my rusting mood,” he said. “It’s precisely the mood you’re supposed to have when your partner forces you to stick your frontside into a buncha stuff that comes out of your backside.” “And last week?” she asked. “When we were investigating a perfume shop?” “Rusting perfumers,” Wayne said, his eyes narrowing. “Never can tell what they’re hiding with those fancy smells. You can’t trust a man what doesn’t smell like a man should.” “Sweat and booze?” “Sweat and cheap booze.” “Wayne, how can you complain about someone putting on airs? You put on a different personality every time you change hats.” “Does my smell change?” “I suppose not.” “Argument won. There are literally no holes in it whatsoever. Conversation over.” They shared a look. “I should get me some perfumes, eh?” Wayne said. “Someone might spot my disguises if I always smell like sweat and cheap booze.” “You’re hopeless.” “What’s hopeless,” he said, “is my poor shoes.” “Could have worn boots like I suggested.” “Ain’t got no boots,” he said. “Wax stole them.” “Wax stole your boots. Really.” “Well, they’re in his closet,” Wayne said. “Instead of three pairs of his poshest shoes. Which somehow ended up in my closet, completely by happenstance.” He glanced at her. “It was a fair trade. I liked those boots.” Marasi smiled. They’d been working together for almost six years now, since Wax’s retirement following the discovery of the Bands of Mourning. Wayne was an official constable, not some barely-within-the-law deputized citizen. He even wore a uniform once in a while. And— —and Marasi’s boot slipped again. Rusting hell. If she fell, he would never stop laughing. But this did seem the best way. Construction on the citywide underground train tunnels was ongoing, and two days ago a demolitions man had filed a curious report. He didn’t want to blast the next section, as seismic readings indicated they were near an unmapped cavern. This area underneath the city of Elendel was peppered with ancient caves. And it was the same region where a local group of gang enforcers kept vanishing and reappearing. As if they had a hidden entrance into an unknown, unseen lair. She consulted the map, marked with the construction notes—and older annotations indicating a nearby oddity that the sewer builders had found years ago, but which had never been properly investigated. “I think MeLaan is going to break up with me,” Wayne said softly. “That’s why maybe I’ve been uncharacteristically downbeat in my
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general disposition as of late.” “What makes you think she’s going to do that?” “On account of her tellin’ me, ‘Wayne, I’m probably going to break up with you in a few weeks.’” “Well, that’s polite of her.” “I think she’s got a new job from the big guy,” Wayne said. “But it ain’t right, how slow it’s goin’. ’S not the proper way to break up with a fellow.” “And what is the proper way?” “Throw something at his head,” Wayne said. “Sell his stuff. Tell his mates he’s a knob.” “You have had some interesting relationships.” “Nah, just mostly bad ones,” he said. “I asked Jammi Walls what she thought I should do— You know her? She’s at the tavern most nights.” “I know her,” Marasi said. “She’s a woman of … ill repute.” “What?” Wayne said. “Who’s been saying that? Jammi has a great repu- tation. Of all the whores on the block, she gives the best—” “I do not need to hear the next part. Thank you.” “Ill repute,” he said, chuckling. “I’m gonna tell Jammi you said that, Marasi. She worked hard for her reputation. Gets to charge four times what anyone else does! Ill repute indeed.” “And what did she say?” “She said MeLaan wanted me to try harder in the relationship,” Wayne said. “But I think in this case Jammi was wrong. Because MeLaan don’t play games. When she says things, she means them. So it’s … you know…” “I’m sorry, Wayne,” Marasi said, tucking the map under her arm and resting her hand on his shoulder. “I knew it couldn’t last,” he said. “Rustin’ knew it, you know? She’s like, what, a thousand years old?” “Roughly two-thirds that,” Marasi said. “And I’m not quite forty,” Wayne said. “More like sixteen if you take account of my spry youthful physique.” “And your sense of humor.” “Damn right,” he said, then sighed. “Things have been … tough lately. With Wax gettin’ all fancy and MeLaan being gone for months at a time. Feel like nobody wants me around. Maybe I belong in a sewer, you know?” “You don’t,” she said. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.” “Only partner.” “Only? Gorglen doesn’t count?” “Nope. He’s not human. I gots papers what prove he’s a giraffe in disguise.” Then he smiled. “But … thanks for askin’. Thanks for carin’.” She nodded, then led the way onward. When she’d imagined her life as a top detective and lawwoman, she hadn’t envisioned this. At least the smell was getting better—or she was getting used to it. It was extremely gratifying to find, at the exact spot marked on the map, an old metal door set into the sewer wall. Wayne held up the lantern, and one didn’t need a keen detective’s eye to see the door had been used recently. Silvery scrapes on one side of the frame, the handle rubbed clean of the pervasive filth and cobwebs. The people who had built the sewers had discovered it, and highlighted it as a site of potential historical significance. But
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the note had been lost due to bureaucratic nonsense. “Nice,” Wayne said, leaning in beside her. “Some first-rate detectivin’, Marasi. How many old surveys did you have to read to find this?” “Too many,” she said. “People would be surprised how much of my time is spent in the documents library.” “They leave the research outta the stories.” “You did this sort of thing back in the Roughs?” “Well, the Roughs variety of it,” Wayne said. “Usually involved holdin’ some bloke’s face down in the trough until he remembered whose old prospectin’ claim he’d been filchin’, but it’s the same principle. With more swearin’.” She handed him her rifle and investigated the door. He didn’t like her to make a big deal out of it, but he could hold guns these days without his hands shaking. She’d never seen him fire one, but he said he could if he needed to. The door was shut tight and had no lock on this side. But it seemed the people she was hunting had found it closed too—there were a bunch of marks along one edge. There was enough room to slip something between door and frame. “I need a knife to get through this,” she said. “You can use my razor-sharp wit.” “Alas, Wayne, you aren’t the type of tool I need at the moment.” “Ha!” he said. “I like that one.” He handed her a knife from his backpack where they kept supplies like rope, and extra metals in case they faced Metalborn. This kind of gang shouldn’t have an Allomancer—they were your basic “shake down shopkeepers for protection money” types. Yet she had reports that made her wary, and she was increasingly sure this group was funded by the Set. Years later, and she was still hunting answers to questions that had plagued her from the very start of her career as a lawwoman. The group known as the Set, once run by Wax’s Uncle Edwarn, then revealed to involve his sister, Telsin, as well. A group that followed, or worshipped, or somehow furthered the machinations of a dark figure known as Trell. A god, she thought. From ancient times. If she caught the right people, she might finally get the answers. But she perpetually fell short. The closest she’d gotten to answers had been six years ago, but then everyone they’d captured—including Wax’s uncle—had been killed in an explosion. Leaving her to chase at shadows again, and the rest of Elendel’s elite fully committed to ignoring the threat. Without evidence, she and Wax had been unable to prove that the Set even existed beyond Edwarn’s lackeys. Using the knife, she managed to undo the bar holding the door closed from the other side. The bar swung free with a soft clang, and she eased the door open to reveal a rough-hewn tunnel leading downward. One of the many that dotted this region, dating back to the ancient days before the Catacendre. To the time of myths and heroes, ashfalls and tyrants. Together she and Wayne slipped inside, leaving the door
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as they’d found it. They dimmed their lantern as a precaution, then started into the depths. Marasi felt about a thousand times better when she arrived at the Fourth Octant Constabulary headquarters, showered and cleaned up, wearing her preferred uniform of a vest and jacket over a calf-length skirt. As a special detective, she technically wasn’t required to be in uniform, but she usually wore one anyway. The uniform was a symbol. It meant she represented something bigger than herself: the people of the Basin and the good of all. The uniform comforted those who saw her—at least those who were happy to have a constable around. And if it gave warning to those who were up to something, then that was part of the reason for the law. As she entered, younger constables in the main headquarters room lowered their reports and conversations hushed, all eyes turning to Marasi. Then came the applause. Rusts, that always felt so weird. You weren’t supposed to be applauded by your coworkers, were you? More than one new constable—most of them women—watched her with wide eyes as she passed. Marasi knew that she had specifically inspired both Wilhelmette and Gemdwyn to join up last year. That left her conflicted. On one hand, she’d rather the broadsheets stop writing stories about her. On the other hand, if it was inspiring other women … Either way, she was glad to stride into the back rooms, passing the offices of the higher-ranked constables. Even a few of these called out congratulations. She stopped and chatted with a few, asking after their own investigations. Though she just wanted to be on with her work, this was important too. You never knew when you’d need another constable’s expertise. Besides. It was good to have friends among her peers. Finally. Eventually she neared Reddi’s office. She passed Constable Gorglen on his way out—the tall man’s head almost brushed the ceiling. He nodded to her and made way, and she found Reddi inside the large rear office, frowning at his desk. His drooping mustaches had greyed in recent years, and she knew the uniform of the constable-general weighed on him. He was more politician than officer these days, spending half his time in meetings with the city leaders. “Constable Colms,” he said, scratching his chin. “Can you make any sense of this?” He showed her the drawing, which proved to be a crude sketch of Constable Gorglen as a giraffe hiding in a constable’s uniform. It said Approved by Expert Types at the bottom. “I’ll talk to Wayne,” she promised. Reddi sighed, then slipped the paper into a very large folder on the corner of his desk—the one where he kept complaints about Wayne. Reddi had evidently stopped returning it to the cabinet. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Sorry?” he asked. “Rusts, constable. Sorry? How many people did you two bring in today? At any rate, don’t apologize for him—I’ve got a feeling if you weren’t keeping Constable Wayne in check, this folder would be ten times as thick.” She smiled. “He
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does do best when channeled toward … productive activities.” Reddi grunted, picking up another folder. “Don’t tell him this, but his imitation of me is amusing. Though you should know, those two men with the bowler hats were looking for him again.” “Any idea who they are?” she asked. “Some accounting firm, probably their collections department,” Reddi said. “It … seems Wayne owes money to some important people this time, Marasi. The kind of people that even I can’t dissuade.” “I’ll figure it out,” she said with a sigh. Harmony’s Bands … she hoped Wayne hadn’t stolen something truly valuable. “I’ll leave that to you then.” Reddi rapped the folder with his knuckles. “The governor has been breathing down my neck asking for evidence the Outer Cities were siphoning off weapons, and you provided it. Thank you, Marasi. Really.” “I hope to deliver even more, sir,” she said. “I have a notebook from their leader, and it has some interesting shipping manifest information.” She pulled the book out, then held it open to show him. “We’ll want to make copies, get it through research and code cracking in case I’ve missed something, but I’ve already read some curious things.” She tapped a list near the front. “This,” she said, “is a series of tests the Cycle was overseeing to determine what can be shipped into Elendel without being stopped by customs or raising red flags with inspection agents.” “Wait,” Reddi said. “Into Elendel?” “Exactly,” Marasi said. “It’s not illegal to ship things into Elendel,” he said. “This group was breaking the law by smuggling things out.” “Which is why this is so intriguing,” she said. “The shipping list is all very mundane, too. Foodstuffs, lumber … but they’ve noted which ones were inspected, which package sizes were suspicious, all of that.” “I find this … vaguely unnerving,” he said. “I don’t have any idea what it means, and that’s even worse.” “I’m going to dig into it,” Marasi promised. “For now, I’ll get some of these other pages copied by the scribes. They’ll give you hard evidence that the explosives and weapons we found today were going to be smuggled to Bilming. That shipment was leaving the city, as have many others.” She hesitated. “I’ve had an idea.” “Go on…” “I’ll need authorization to work outside the city for a while … and if possible, we need to keep this news from the press for a few days. That means quieting the other constables. I know it will be hard, but it will help me chase down the people these men were going to supply.” “What are you planning?” “According to this book, someone in Bilming is expecting a shipment soon. Weapons, explosives, and … food.” “That matches what we found in the cavern,” Reddi said, looking at the initial reports. “Lots of food.” That was curious. Why would they be smuggling dried foods to the Outer Cities? Were these soldier or sailor rations? “Regardless,” Marasi said, “the Set tends to run silent in times like this. I didn’t see any radio
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equipment down there—they were deep enough that a signal couldn’t get out anyway. So our enemies probably don’t know their team has fallen. Which means…” “… We could send in the shipment,” Reddi said. “And perhaps capture the people who are behind all of this.” “Or at least move one step farther up the chain.” “They’d be expecting to meet with one of their own,” Reddi said, rubbing his chin. “We couldn’t maintain the subterfuge for long.” “Well, sir,” Marasi said, “we do have the Cycle’s corpse.” “There are a lot of people who don’t believe in this shadowy organization you’re chasing, Colms,” he said. “You know that, right?” “What do you believe, sir?” “All those people we interviewed six years ago were certainly up to something,” he said. “I’m still not a hundred percent sure it wasn’t merely an Outer Cities plot—and the idea of some kind of evil god doesn’t sit well with me. But honestly, I’ve learned not to bet against you.” “You do have to admit,” Marasi said, “at the very least, that Waxillium’s uncle was involved in some kind of paramilitary group.” “Yes,” Reddi said, “and someone assassinated him in prison—along with the others who followed him. If you say that was the Set, I believe you. But I need you to be aware—the governor and his people want our official focus to be on the Outer Cities and the threat they present to Elendel supremacy, not on some secret society that might be pulling their strings.” “Understood, sir,” she said. “But I think this could accomplish both goals. Most of the people we caught were common street thugs—not actual Set members. I’ll bet the only one down there who had any real contact with the Set was the man who had this book. It mandates radio silence from inside the city, to not be overheard, in the days leading up to a drop-off—so no one in Bilming is expecting to hear from him. I believe we can surprise them. Particularly since we have that corpse.” “Wait,” Reddi said, “how does a corpse help us?” “I figured I’d ask Harmony to lend us a kandra to imitate the dead man for the operation. Wayne could be a generic lackey, speaking with a Bilming accent, to help shore up the subterfuge.” “Oh. Um. Right.” Reddi got uncomfortable when she implied she was close with Harmony—and doing so was a little cheeky on her part, since she’d never met him herself. She knew Death far better than she knew God. Regardless, Reddi didn’t like being involved with the kandra—Faceless Immortals had made him uncomfortable ever since the business with Bleeder. He’d probably prefer she did her thing and didn’t mention how. But, well, she wanted everything to be on the up-and-up. The department deserved to know how she got her results—she didn’t accomplish them without things like Malwish tech on loan from Allik, or access to Faceless Immortals. She’d originally hoped that by making all this clear, her reputation would drop to more reasonable levels. She’d been wrong. Still,
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that had its advantages. “My reform suggestions?” Marasi asked. “About how we police slums, and the proper training of constables? How is that going?” “The other constables-general have agreed to the articles,” he said. “All but Jamms, but I think after today he’ll listen. Just need to get the governor to sign off on the ideas.” He narrowed his eyes. “I like this shipment plan of yours. Get me a detailed proposal.” “Will do, sir. We’ll need to move quickly.” “You will have the full support of the department,” Reddi said. “The governor is going to be so pleased with today’s results that I can all but guarantee you extra funding if your operation requires it. I’ll wait for that proposal, but in the meantime I’ll have some people get to work on replacing the supplies that were destroyed today.” “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking a deep, satisfied breath. “Something wrong, constable?” he asked. “No, sir,” she said. “Just … appreciating the path I’ve walked, and where it’s led me.” “Appreciate it on your own time, constable!” She eyed him, and he returned a rare grin. “It’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to say,” he explained. “The governor likes it when I’m gruff. Fits his expectations better, I suppose. Oh, before I forget. Constable Matieu says you had something specific you wanted to show me? Something that’s not in the reports. Was that the book?” “That and a little more, sir,” she said, taking the spikes from her shoulder bag. “I want you to turn these three in to the scientists at the university.” She held up the thinner fourth one. “I’m going to keep this one for a bit though.” “Ruin…” Reddi whispered. “Is that … atium?” “No, though it’s nearly as mythical. We think it’s trellium, a metal from offworld.” He eyed her. Talk of other worlds didn’t sit right with him either, and she suspected he’d never fully accepted what she said about Trell. “Isn’t that the stuff they used to blow up the prison?” Reddi asked. “I don’t know if I believe that story,” Marasi said. “There’s no proof Wax’s uncle had any of this on him.” “Still,” Reddi said, “be careful with that. If it’s half as bad as ettmetal…” “I’ll be careful,” she said. “I plan to deliver it to Lord Ladrian for study.” Reddi grunted. “I thought he was retired.” “Depends,” Marasi said, tucking the trellium spike back into her shoulder bag. “For this, you should consider him on the case.” “Well, I never revoked his constable privileges.” Reddi wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Just try to keep him from … causing any incidents. When he’s involved, things tend to get … unsettling.” “I’ll do what I can, sir.” “He doesn’t have any other hidden apocalyptic family members or half-sane wives with mystical powers, does he?” “If any show up, I’ll have him file a report. And maybe move confrontations with them to next quarter, for budgetary reasons.” Reddi smiled. “I’m glad you’re out there, Colms. Not just for my career. I’m
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glad there’s someone rational around, to … you know, balance the insanity. Go. Chase your mysteries, and let me know what you need.” She nodded, feeling a deep satisfaction as she left his office and walked back down the hallway. She had achieved so much—both in life and in this case. She had done it; she’d arrived. And is this all? She tucked that annoying thought away and hurried to the commissary, where she grabbed a sandwich and began stuffing it down. She didn’t have long until her meeting with Wax. Still, Marasi was only halfway done when the cleaning lady came to take her tray. “Actually, I still have half,” Marasi said, holding up the rest of her sandwich. “Thanks,” the lady said, taking the sandwich from Marasi’s hand and taking a bite. “I was hungry.” “Wayne,” Marasi said with a sigh, looking closer at his face. “What are you doing?” “Hidin’ from those bean counters.” “The two men with the suits and bowlers?” Marasi said. “They bothered Captain Reddi about you again, Wayne. Who do you owe money to this time?” “None of your business,” he said around another bite of her sandwich. One might have thought he’d look silly in a serving woman’s apron and cap, but—with the fake breasts—he wore it well. Wayne could never be accused of poor fashion sense. Just poor taste. “I think it is my business,” Marasi said. “No, it ain’t,” Wayne said. “I’ll make sure they don’t bother old Reddi no more. You contacted Wax?” “I sent him a note. Meeting at three o’clock.” “Then why are we wasting time playin’ dress-up?” Wayne said. “We got work to do!” Wax landed at the front doors to Ladrian Mansion, his ancestral home. Steris let go of his waist—as always, she’d clung to him with a death grip while flying, but had worn a gleeful grin the entire time. They walked up the steps, and Wax undid the locks with a few Steelpushes in a specific sequence, causing the door to swing open before them. Others could use a set of keys, but few occupied the place any longer. The staff had moved to the tower along with Wax and Steris. These days the place had a single tenant, who stayed there off and on. Wax called out, “It’s just us, Allik!” Aside from giving the Malwish man a place to stay, the mansion had—over the years—undergone a small transformation. Space in the Ahlstrom Tower penthouse was tight, so Wax and Steris kept their projects and hobbies here. Upstairs, Steris had three rooms for her ledgers, notebooks, and catalogues—which she liked to look through in her spare time. The things she thought they’d need—delivered these days via mail order—might have overwhelmed a lesser household. However, having repeatedly benefited from her preparations, Wax didn’t feel he had reason to object. Steris went to the washroom to fix her hair after the flight, but Wax paused next to the door, where a pair of long Roughs dusters hung on the wall. One was white, and the other—his
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old one—was sliced into two layers of thick ribbons. A mistcoat. Each coat had a Roughs hat on a peg above it. It wasn’t quite a shrine. Because one of the people it represented wasn’t dead; he’d just moved on to a different kind of adventure. Still, Wax paused, kissed his fingertips, then pressed them to the wood beneath Lessie’s hat. Again, it wasn’t quite a ritual. It was merely something he did. A moment later, a masked head popped out above the banister on the second level. “Oh, hi!” Allik said. His current mask was bright red, with flakes of yellow paint radiating from the center. It always made him look eager, like his face was sweating sunlight. Then he raised it, and his toothy grin beamed even more brightly. For all his short, spindly figure and somewhat embarrassing beard, Allik was a force to be reckoned with. At least when it came to his pastries. “A new batch is almost done!” he called to Wax. “O Hungry One!” “Don’t start that again, Allik,” Wax snapped. “And I didn’t come here because I’m hungry.” “But you’ll still eat, yah?” “Yah,” Wax admitted. “Great!” He slammed his mask back down and disappeared into his room on the second floor, where he kept the fireplace running overtime. He’d had an oven installed as well, because the Malwish could never have too much heat. He was technically a “junior goodwill ambassador” to the Basin, a title he’d earned two years ago by being willing to take up semipermanent residence in Elendel. Wax had been glad to see it. Allik had been fooling no one with his constant “coincidental” trips up here to see Marasi. Besides. His pastries were … well, they were really good. Marasi and Wayne were apparently running late, so Wax went to brew some tea while Steris fetched “a few” of her ledgers from upstairs. She came wobbling back balancing some two dozen of them, then plopped down on a couch in the sitting room. Wax gave her a cup of tea, then—frowning—went looking for the source of an odd smell. He’d just found half an old meat bun in the pocket of his mistcoat when a dog came trotting in through the front door. A large grey- and-white short-haired animal that almost reached Wax’s waist. “Hey,” it said with a feminine voice. “Did you bring Max?” “No,” Wax said. “I wanted to run some experiments, and you know how those get.” “Explody?” the dog—MeLaan—asked. “Well, damn. I kept this body on for no good reason.” “Do you actually like playing fetch?” Wax asked, disposing of the moldy meat bun. “From what I can gather, most of you hate nonhuman bodies.” “Yeah, they’re demeaning,” MeLaan said, settling down on her haunches. “Except a body … influences you. It’s hard to explain to mortals. Think of it like an outfit. If you’re dressed up all fancy in a glittering gown, you want to dance and twirl. If you’re wearing trousers with an axe over your shoulder, well, you’re going to want to
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smash something. I only put bodies like this on when a mission requires it. But once I’ve got it on…” She shrugged, a gesture that looked distinctly odd in the dog’s body. “But no fetch for me today. I’ll go change.” She wandered off toward the room where Wax let her store her other bodies: bones, hair, nails. Most of the bones weren’t real, fortunately. She much preferred what the kandra called True Bodies, made of stone, crystal, or metal. He had joined Steris in the sitting room and was halfway through the latest broadsheet—a boy delivered some each day for Allik—when he heard Marasi and Wayne tromp into the foyer. Loud as a freight train, those two could be. He shook his head, sipping his tea. “In here!” Steris called, and Wayne burst in a moment later. “Wayne. Could you sometime remember to brush your feet off before you track mud in? This isn’t the Roughs.” “Be glad it’s just mud,” he said. “We been through the bowels of the earth today, Steris, and it was full o’ stuff what’s normally in bowels.” “A perfectly awful description,” she said. “Oh, stop complainin’ at me,” he said, hopping from one foot to the other. “We got news. We got news!” Marasi strode up and pulled something long and thin from her pouch. A single delicate spike, like a long nail with a needle point. The otherwise silvery metal had reddish patches to it, especially visible when it caught the light. Wax breathed in sharply. “You got one. How?” “Remember that lead in the sewers I told you about?” Marasi said. “Found a member of the Set there, augmented with Hemalurgy, heading up a gang of ruffians.” “Fortunately,” Wayne said, “he didn’t have any use for the spike once Marasi was finished with him.” “Technically, he did still have a use for it,” she said. “Which is why I had to remove it. Wax, he had four spikes. Isn’t that supposed to give Harmony control over a person?” “Supposedly,” he said. That had been the whole issue with Lessie. Though the numbers varied by species, the principle was the same: spike yourself too many times, and Harmony could control you. It was an exploit to Hemalurgy that went back to the ancient days, when Ruin had directly controlled the Inquisitors, like Death himself. But lately, Marasi had begun to encounter members of the Set with too many powers. Wax hadn’t believed at first, but if she’d confirmed it … “The limitation has been circumvented somehow,” Wax said, inspecting the trellium spike. “Perhaps it has to do with the placement of this spike, as a linchpin?” “Wax,” Marasi said, “this group was packing supplies for Bilming. Weapons and field rations.” He shared a look with Steris. Rusts … the Outer Cities apparently thought war was inevitable. And with the vote today, it very well might be. Still, to have another trellium spike after all these years … It reminded him of what had happened to Lessie, but he forced himself to hold it anyway.
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This wasn’t from her body. They didn’t know if her strange trellium spikes had influenced her madness. The kandra all said the spikes hadn’t been to blame, but something had turned her against Harmony, sent her down a paranoid path. Something had taken the woman he loved and turned her into Bleeder. He refused to accept that she’d been fully in control of herself. Those old pains were dead and buried these days, so he was able to pick up the spike and inspect it. This metal was a manifestation—presumably—of the body of a god. Much like harmonium, also called ettmetal. What could he learn from this new sample? The door swung open, revealing MeLaan wearing stylish blue trousers and a buttoned shirt. She’d been going for an androgynous look these days, with very short blonde hair and almost no hint of breasts. For her friends, she often maintained relatively similar features. This face, for example, looked like her—just thinner, less overtly feminine. As usual she had picked a tall, limber body—this one was at least six foot four. She was toweling off her hair—she liked to wash it after putting on a new body, to better style it and make sure she’d got the grain right. “Hey!” she said, seeing the spike in Wax’s fingers. “Is that what I think it is?” “Yup,” Wayne said. “Marasi turned some bloke into hamburger to get it.” “Nice!” MeLaan said. “I did not turn anyone into hamburger,” Marasi said. “She’s more a fan of liver,” Wayne said, and earned a glare. “Speaking of meat,” Wax said, “did you leave a meat bun in the pocket of my mistcoat?” “Uh…” Wayne said. “It was … um…” “You realize I’ll have to get that thing laundered,” Wax said. “And you’re going to pay.” “Hey,” Wayne said. “You don’t got no proof I did that.” Wax gave him a flat stare. “You can’t convict me on a hunch,” Wayne said, folding his arms. “I know my rights. Marasi’s always quoting them to people once we finish beating them up. I get a trial by my peers, I do.” “Yes,” Steris said, “but where would we find so many slugs on short notice?” Wayne spun toward her, then—after just a brief pause—grinned widely. Those two were getting along better these days, which Wax enjoyed seeing. For now, he kept inspecting the spike. What were its properties? Could it be melted? Could it … He paused, then reached to his back pocket. There, nearly forgotten, was the envelope he’d found on his desk earlier. He opened it again and slid out the iron earring, a traditional accoutrement of the Pathian religion—and a means of communing with Harmony. Piercing your body with metal was a way to connect to God and give him some measure of influence over you. He read the note again: You’ll need to make a second, once the proper metal arrives. Rusts. Why would Harmony tell him to make a second earring, presumably out of Trell’s metal? There was no explanation in the envelope, of course.
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Harmony knew Wax far too well. A mystery was a better way to get his attention than an explanation. Damn him. He tucked that envelope away again. “Nice work,” he said to Marasi. “Very nice work.” “Thank you,” she said. “We should have a chance at some more members of the Set soon. I’m planning a sting.” She turned toward MeLaan, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded. For someone who spent her life in subterfuge—imitating others and doing missions for God himself—she certainly did like to stand out. Today she had left her cheeks faintly transparent to allow the emerald of her skeleton to show through. “I could use your help, MeLaan,” Marasi said. “I have a corpse that needs to get up and walk around—just long enough to trick the Set.” MeLaan grimaced. “I would love to, but … I’ve got a thing…” “We could work around your schedule,” Marasi said. “That might be hard,” MeLaan said. “Since it’s kind of on another planet…” “Another planet?” Marasi said. “Well, maybe between planets?” MeLaan said. “I’m not entirely sure. Harmony wants some of us to strike out, begin exploring, learning about the cosmere. It’s become evident that the cosmere knows about us.” She nodded toward the spike pinched between Wax’s fingers. “What’s it like?” Marasi asked MeLaan, with a certain … hunger in her eyes. “Traveling out there. How … do you even do it?” “It’s difficult,” she said. “Both to get to the other side—which is an inversion of the real world—and to travel while there. I’ll be leaving soon, I’m afraid, but finding out what’s happening with the Set is a priority for Harmony. I’ll ask him to get you one of us to help on your mission, Marasi.” Wax glanced at Wayne. MeLaan was leaving. Soon? He’d have to corner his friend and ask how he felt about that. At that moment however, Allik burst through the door bearing a tray full of steaming pastries. “Aha!” he said, mask up to show off his grin. “A full room. Who wants cinnamon puffs with hot chocolate for dipping! You are obviously planning to save the world again, with those concerned faces. This is an action that requires much choc, yah?” Wax smiled, enjoying Allik’s enthusiasm. He’d bounced back from the tragedy of losing so many friends to the Set years ago—tortured for information about airships. People are elastic, Wax thought. We can keep reshaping ourselves. And if we’re not quite the same as before, well, that’s good. It means we can grow. Allik handed Marasi a mug of hot chocolate—almost comically large—with a wink. She took his hand and smiled, squeezing it. Four years of flirting and two years of formal dating, and those two still acted like schoolkids sometimes. Wax knew more about it than he really cared to, because Steris tended to take notes, then ask if she should be acting in equally ridiculous ways. “There’s one other thing, Wax,” Marasi said. “I took a notebook from the Cycle I killed today. What do you make
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of this page?” She handed it over and Wax settled back in his seat, Steris peeking over his shoulder as he read through dated entries in the notebook. “Looks like…” he said. “Annotated shipping records, into Elendel? ‘Box one yard square, stamped with foodstuff labels, inspected four out of six times. Larger crate with warning labels, inspected and quarantined. Crate, two yards across, detained every time…’” Steris frowned. “It looks like they’re recording what gets inspected when shipped into the city.” “Which is odd, right?” Marasi said. “It’s not hard to get shipments into Elendel. Only outgoing shipments are taxed for using our railway stations. That’s the entire problem; the Outer Cities are tired of paying us to ship their goods to one another.” “Right,” Wax said. “Why is the Set so interested in what they can get into the city?” “Maybe they’re planning to supply a rebel force inside it?” Steris said. “But the whole point of their smuggling operation,” Marasi said, “is to get weapons out of Elendel. They don’t have any trouble giving weapons to the people inside Elendel.” They sat in silence, considering. Wax glanced at Steris, who shook her head. No thoughts at the moment. Finally, he returned the book to Marasi. As Allik continued distributing pastries, Wax went over to Wayne, who had uncharacteristically passed up a mug of chocolate. Allik handed it to Wax instead. “Hey,” Wax said to Wayne. “How much health do you have stored up? I might need your help with some experiments today.” “Sorry, mate,” he said. “I gots an appointment.” “You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?” “The reverse,” Wayne proclaimed, then checked his pocket watch. Which was one of Wax’s. “Actually, I gotta get moving. I don’t wanna get shot for arriving late.” “A moment, Wayne?” MeLaan said. “I really—” he began. “It’s important. Very important.” Wayne wilted, then nodded, his eyes sorrowful. Wax gripped his shoulder, as if to impart some strength. This had been coming. MeLaan was a wanderer. Wayne and MeLaan left, and Wax tried to focus on the wonderful gift Marasi had brought him. A whole trellium spike. “I,” he said, “am going to need my goggles.” Wayne sometimes pretended he was a hero. Some rusting old figure from the stories, off on some nonsense quest about slaying a monster or traveling to Death’s domain. Lately it was hard to wear that hat. Especially when the truth stared him in the face every time he looked in a mirror. He’d made a whole career out of pretending. People just thought it was a talent. They never asked what he was hiding from. Today, he’d have given almost anything to be someone else. MeLaan, wearing that fetching body—they were all fetching, honestly—led him through the entry hall to a small private sitting room on the other side. He made a swipe for his lucky hat, hanging on the wall outside the room, as they passed. But he missed it. Inside, she sat him down in an overstuffed chair that made him feel like a
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child. Didn’t help that she was as tall as Wax was, in that body. Then she took his hand and crouched down, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry, Wayne,” she said softly. “I need to leave you. Today. It’s over. I tried to prepare you for this … but it was probably more painful to string it out, wasn’t it?” “Dunno,” he said. “Never had my heart broke before. So I ain’t got no experience.” She winced. “Wayne…” “Sorry,” he said. “You gotta do your thing. I know that. A fellow doesn’t date an immortal agent of God himself without suspectin’ that one day he’ll take second place to the fellow what glows.” Wayne frowned. “Does he glow?” “I thought,” she said, squeezing his hand, “that there would be fewer attachments with you.” “Where’d you get that idea?” he asked. “I get so attached, I wind up with all sorts of things what don’t belong to me.” She grimaced. “Was it … nothing to you, then?” he asked. “Six years?” “It wasn’t nothing,” she said. “Just … not what it was to you. I know I should have expected that. TenSoon warned me, Ulaam warned me. Mortals see time differently. They told me. I’m sorry, Wayne.” “You ain’t gotta apologize for somethin’ you don’t feel, MeLaan,” Wayne said. “It ain’t your fault.” It’s mine. “I … asked for this mission,” she admitted. “Because I realized I was leading you on, and I knew the longer it went, the more painful it would be to break off. That’s why I can’t stay and help. I’ve got to go now. Before I lose my nerve.” “Would that … be so bad?” “Yes,” she said. “Because it’s a lie, Wayne. I’d be staying because I didn’t want to hurt you. Not because I actually wanted to stay.” He shouldn’t want her to stay in those circumstances. But he did. Damn him, he did. Still, he held his tongue. Sometimes you just had to stand there and get shot. “It is an exciting mission,” she said. “I get to cross the misted unknown, the dark vastness that Harmony calls ‘Shadesmar.’ I’ll be the first kandra to go out there long-term, with an official mission. “I get to explore the cosmere, Wayne. I get to go and see everything there is—worlds we can only imagine. I get to help those who need it—not one or two people, but entire peoples.” He nodded dully. She stood, then leaned in to kiss him. He wanted to pull away, but … well, he would have regretted that. One long, last kiss, as could be delivered only by someone with a tongue that didn’t confine itself to normal bounds of physiology. “I did want to tell you something important,” she whispered as she pulled away. “Something meaningful.” “Yeah?” “You,” she said, squeezing his hand one last time, “were a really good lay, Wayne.” “Really?” “Really. To be honest, you were the best I’ve known.” “You’re seven hundred years old,” he said. “And I was the best?” She nodded. Well now, that was
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something. Something indeed. “Thanks,” he said. “That was sweet of you to tell me. It … helps.” “I thought it might,” she said. “Goodbye, Wayne.” She let go of his hand and walked out. Knowing her, she’d send someone to box up the rest of her bodies. She’d picked the emerald today because it was one of her favorites—she’d probably take it and the aluminum one on her mission and leave the rest. He sat staring at the door for a long time. He wasn’t wearing a hat, which meant he had to just be himself. The true him, the one that knew this pain. They’d ridden together on many a dusty path. This pain had been his invisible friend since childhood. The pain of knowing what he really was. The pain of being worthless. Wax led the way down to the basement, feet thumping on steps behind him as he was followed by Steris and Marasi. While the upper floors of the mansion were dedicated to Steris’s hobbies and the various needs of his friends, the basement belonged to Wax. And he’d made some modifications. He’d begun pursuing metallurgy in the Roughs, where the mining towns often had equipment to test metal purities and the like. He’d been surprised at how useful the hobby had turned out to be. For example, few criminals realized you could track their suppliers by testing bullet casings. In Elendel, he’d expanded his curiosity tenfold. A basement full of metal samples, acids and solvents, burners, microscopes, and even a room with a forge and an anvil. It all reminded him of the Roughs in a good way. Of Lessie laughing when he made a breakthrough. Of evenings spent folding metal like he was some ancient warrior making a knife meant to kill a god—rather than a novice trying to make a dining implement. Lately, he’d found electrolysis and plating fascinating, and his new electricity-powered spectrometer was absolutely brilliant. Together with the graphs representing the spectroscopic colors of various elements, it let him identify practically anything. How would trellium react to that? Or to his acids, or to the magnets? The questions energized him. It was a kind of excitement he’d lost during his middle years. It was too pure. He hadn’t been able to feel excitement about something so simple and enriching at a time when his life had been falling apart. He strapped on his goggles. Steris followed, putting on her own, then got out her clipboard. She handed him an apron, and he relented—he was wearing one of his nicer vests, though he’d tossed the cravat aside somewhere. Her own apron was more enveloping and thick, almost a flak jacket. He’d only recently persuaded her that maybe she didn’t need two pairs of goggles at once; she could just order an extra-thick pair. They set up at one of the tables, where Wax inserted the spike into a clamp to hold it steady. Marasi stopped in the doorway, then grinned. “You two,” she said, “are adorable.” Wax shared a look with Steris. “I don’t
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believe I’ve been called adorable since I was Max’s age.” “She should get her eyesight checked,” Steris said. “Marasi, dear? I have goggles with corrective lenses, arranged in the drawers to your right.” “I’m fine,” Marasi said, stepping in. Steris clicked her tongue and pointed at the sign just above the doorway. GOGGLES REQUIRED. It had an asterisk and a scrawled handwritten note below—in crayon—that said, “’Cept Wayne.” “It’s a good rule,” Wax said. “You know how things happen around us.” “Things?” Marasi said, selecting a pair of goggles. “You mean explosions?” “Not just explosions,” Steris said. “Acid spills. Fires. Accidental weapon discharges. Though I suppose that one is technically a subset of explosion. How’s the hardness?” “Hard,” Wax said as he tested the spike with various substances. “Scratched by diamond, but barely marks corundum. Just above a nine.” “Noted,” she said. “It’s brittle too,” Wax said, carefully chiseling. “Not like harmonium at all, which is nearly as pliable as gold. Would you get one of the burners going?” Steris lit a gas nozzle. Wax got a chip of trellium off and brought it over in a tungsten alloy bowl, then set it under the flame and watched carefully. The chip soon heated to white-hot, but did not liquefy. “Melting point is extremely high,” he said. “Over twenty-five hundred degrees.” “Similar to harmonium,” Steris said. “Try the electric melter?” He nodded. The melter ran a powerful electric current through the metal in order to heat it beyond what the burner could manage. He’d had some luck with harmonium using this process. Unfortunately, although the little bit of trellium again turned white-hot, it wouldn’t even bend or stretch. “Rusts,” Wax said softly, using tinted goggles to stare at the glowing bit of metal. “This stuff is hard.” How was he going to make an earring out of it? Was he actually considering that? At the thought, he realized he didn’t know the envelope was from Him. Anyone could drop off something like that. He should talk to Harmony before doing anything foolish. “TenSoon says that the metals are the bodies of divinities,” Steris said. “So-called God Metals were the source of the mists back in antever- dant days.” “So why weren’t everyone’s lungs burned?” Wax said. “If I can heat this to over three thousand degrees without it liquefying, then it must be extremely hot when vaporized.” “Perhaps,” Steris said, “these metals—unlike common ones—don’t change states based on temperature, but on other factors.” Wax nodded in thought. Marasi leaned down beside the table, looking at the spike. “It’s full of power,” she said. “It’s a Hemalurgic spike, so it’s…” “‘Invested’ is the term the kandra use,” Wax said. “It has taken a part of a person’s soul, through Hemalurgy, and stored it. Like a kind of … battery for life energy.” Marasi shivered visibly. “It’s kind of like a corpse, then?” “A murder weapon, at least,” Steris agreed, turning off the burner. “Wax,” Marasi said, sounding reluctant, “when I was pulling this out of the Cycle, he started ranting. The way Miles did
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when he died.” Wax looked up from his experiment. “What did he say?” “He talked about men of gold and red,” Marasi said. “Like Miles. And then … he talked about starting the ashfalls again, as in the Catacendre. Restoring the days of darkness and ash.” “Impossible,” Wax said. “The land just isn’t set up that way anymore. The Ashmounts are either nonexistent or stilled. There isn’t the tectonic activity to cause another ashfall.” “Are you sure?” Marasi asked. He hesitated, then shook his head. “When Harmony showed me Trell’s influence enveloping our planet, even he seemed baffled. Our world, and our god, are basically three and a half centuries old. There are things out there that are far, far more ancient. Far, far more crafty.” The lab fell silent, save for the hum of the electric current machine, which Wax flipped off. “So we catch up,” Steris said, rapping her pencil against the clipboard. “What’s next?” Admittedly, she did look adorable in her oversized goggles and military-caliber vest over her tea gown. He also noticed his cravat sticking out of the pocket of her dress. “Spectroscopy,” Wax said in response to her question. “Let’s burn some flakes.” “Wait,” Marasi said. “You couldn’t get it to melt—how are you going to burn it?” He took a file to the clamped spike, catching the shavings on a piece of thick cardstock. “Most metals will burn, Marasi, if you can get the pieces small enough and can apply enough oxygen. We’ve managed it with harmonium, even though we couldn’t melt it fully.” “That’s … strange, isn’t it?” she asked. “Indeed,” Wax said. “But we are, as has been noted, talking about the bodies of gods.” He set up the spectroscope and managed to burn some flakes, using the oxygen line, to take some readings. Then he heated a piece again to get it to emit light waves and took readings on that. The machine made a pen move on a piece of paper, like a seismograph—only here, the highs and lows represented frequencies of light. Those patterns of light corresponded to different elements. In this case, strangely, he got a straight-across line—a full spectrum. Though at the end of the spectrum, in the red, the machine tried to send the line higher than the maximum. Which shouldn’t have been possible, for all that he’d seen it once before. He unscrewed the pin holding the arm in place on the paper and reran the machine. Again a full spectrum at maximum—into the red, where the pin on the arm swung out and off the paper with a jerk. Wax breathed out. “Seems proof it’s a God Metal.” “Indeed,” Steris said, scribbling notes in the darkness. “Someone tell the dumb conner what’s happening,” Marasi said. “How is this proof of anything?” “It’s complicated,” Wax said. “Each element has a kind of signature, represented by the wavelengths it releases when heated. It’s basically a way to identify elements and compounds. Like using fingerprints to identify a person.” “And this metal,” Steris said, “somehow projects a full spectrum,
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as if it were made of pure white light. But it also has something strange happening in the red, as if it has a light beyond what the machine can calculate or read.” “I’ve only seen something like this once before,” Wax said. “From harmonium?” Marasi guessed. “Yes.” He tapped the table, then shook his head. “In dealing with these metals, so many things seem to break the laws of physics. I feel like I’m experimenting with something dangerously beyond our understanding.” “Should we move to the safe box?” Steris asked. “Probably wise,” Wax said. “Particularly since the next step is to put some of these shavings into acids.” The “safe box” was Steris’s name for the small reinforced box they’d built into the back wall. Three feet square and three feet deep, it was made out of aluminum and steel, with a large safe-like door on the front. That door had a small plate of very thick glass at the top, so you could look in. This contraption could take a grenade without trouble, and had handled an ettmetal-water explosion before. Harmonium—ettmetal—was highly unstable. You needed to keep it in oil, as it tended to react even to the air. Since they couldn’t know how trellium would respond to his acids, Wax set everything up inside the box, then latched it closed. From there, he could use some thin arms on gears inside to tip a little bit of trellium into each of the ten flasks of acid—and two flasks of a base. Harmonium wasn’t affected by acids, but maybe this metal would be. Anything to give him more of a foothold, help him understand. As he worked, Marasi walked over to the wall where Steris and he had pinned ideas, experiments, and thoughts regarding harmonium. Rusts … the oldest of those were over five years old now. Wax found it depressing to realize how little progress they’d made. “All of this,” Marasi said, reading the notes. “I don’t think I’ve looked at it closely before … You’re trying to split it.” She spun toward him. “You’ve been trying to divide harmonium into its base metals? You’re trying to create atium!” He looked back into his viewer, continuing to dump flakes into the acid. “Not just atium…” Marasi said. “Lerasium too? That’s the metal that … It created Mistborn! It’s explained in the records left by Harmony. Allomancy entered the world because the Lord Ruler gave lerasium to some of his followers, who burned it and were changed. Those first mythical Mistborn—they held incredible power. You’re trying to replicate that.” “No,” Wax said. “I’m trying to see if it can be replicated.” “All these years,” Marasi said, “and you never told me why you kept needing ettmetal? I thought you were trying to figure out how to make airships, like everyone else!” “We’ve barely made any progress,” Wax said, finishing with the acids and turning away from the safe box. “But Marasi, don’t you see? The Set is devoted to restoring the ancient powers to people—they’ll use eugenics, Hemalurgy, anything. So
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if it’s possible to make lerasium again, we need to know about it.” “You still could have told me,” she said. “I wanted to have something useful to show first,” Wax said. He walked over to join her, passing Steris, who was fiddling with the trellium spike. Beside Marasi, he looked up at the wall of pinned ideas again. Remembered how thrilling it had been when first working on harmonium. Getting some trellium to play with had awakened that again. But now, staring at this board, he remembered the rest of the experience. The slow, steady realization that he wasn’t going to crack this particular puzzle. He’d worked on enough hopeless cases to realize when one was growing cold. He was a hobbyist, not an expert. He’d shared his notes with the people at the university, and they’d thanked him—but had plainly already made the same observations. If a breakthrough with ettmetal was going to happen, it would come from those dedicated scientists working to build Elendel its own airships, Allomantic grenades, and Feruchemical medallions. He would probably have to turn the trellium spike over to them. He’d have his fun for a few days, but this was too important to keep from the real experts. “Waxillium?” Steris said from behind. “You should come look at this.” “What?” he asked, turning. “The trellium spike,” she said, “is reacting to the harmonium.” Wayne ducked into the alley just in time. Those two fellows with the bowler hats passed by on the sidewalk a moment later. Wayne crouched there, heart pounding, and counted to a hundred before letting himself relax. Close call. He’d mostly recovered from the meeting with MeLaan. In fact, he figured he’d handled it quite well. Nothing was broken, nobody was broken but him, and he’d only needed three shots of whiskey to get moving after. Plus, he’d realized what his day was going to be. It was a rusting funeral. You could take quests and flush them away. He was having a funeral today, and that was that. He had worn his nice jacket and a matching hat, all fancy and proper. He even had a flower in the lapel, which he’d paid for. With actual money. Fancy is as fancy does. He rejoined the procession on the street outside. Yes, they all seemed to know it was a funeral day, they did. So many heads down rather than looking up at the sun. So many dull faces, like they were the dead, still up and moving because … well, in the city, there were jobs to do. Did dead people think funerals were celebrations? Initiation parties? Reverse birthdays? He kept his head down, acting like a member of the masses on the sidewalk. This city, it just had so many people. Floods of them on the streets in this part of the octant, the financial district, all in their funeral finest. It should have been easy for anyone to fit in since there was basically every sort of person you might want to meet. But somehow the financial district
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mashed people up into a similar ball of cravats and heels. You could almost not notice that some were Terris and others were koloss-blooded. Hard to miss that rusting airship dominating the sky, but keeping your head down helped. Maybe today’s funeral was for the city itself. Or at least its naiveté. The Drunken Spur was on Feder Way, right on the corner of Seventy-Third. You couldn’t miss it, what with the swinging wooden sign outside and the mannequins in Roughs gear in the window. Not a lot of upscale cafés used mannequins, but this place was special. Kind of like how a kid who ate mud was special. But Jaxy liked it, so one made accommodations. Wayne was an accommodating kind of person, he was. He stepped inside and tried not to cringe too hard at what the serving staff was wearing. Roughs hats. Bright red shirts. Chaps? Oh, Ruin. He was going to gag. At least the greeter at the host’s stand was in a proper suit. “Your hat, sir?” the man said, and Wayne handed it over, then swiped the bell off the stand. “Um, sir?” the greeter asked, looking at the bell. “You’ll get it back when you return my hat,” Wayne said. “A man gots to have insurance.” “Uh…” “Where’s my table? It’s got two pretty women at it, and one of them’s nice, but the other probably threatened to shoot you when she was bein’ seated.” The host pointed. Ah, there they were. Wayne nodded and stalked that direction. Rusting terrible attire for them to all wear on a day like this. You didn’t go to a funeral in chaps unless you rode there on a horse. Or unless you were old Three-Tooth Dag, who liked that sort of thing. Ranette was Ranette: curvaceous—though he wasn’t supposed to talk about it—and wearing slacks. Jaxy was in a fine white dress, with short white-blonde hair in very tight curls, accented by diamond barrettes. She liked sparkles. He didn’t blame her. Far too few sparkles in life. Adults was supposed to be able to wear what they wanted, so why did so few choose sparkles? He sat down with Ranette and Jaxy, then thumped his forehead down on the table, making the silverware rattle. “Oh, delightful,” Ranette said in a dry voice. “Drama.” “Wayne?” Jaxy asked. “You all right?” “Mumble mumble,” he said into the tablecloth. “Mumble.” “Don’t humor him,” Ranette said. “Yes, humor him,” Wayne grumbled. “He needs it right now.” “What happened?” Jaxy asked. “I am officially dumped,” he said. “And my whiskey is wearing off. Stupid body. Metabolizing and neutralizing poisons as if I didn’t dump ’em in there on purpose.” He looked up. “You think I could cut out my liver and stay drunk forever?” “I’ll humor him on that one,” Ranette said. “I’m sorry, Wayne,” Jaxy said, patting him on the hand. “’S all right,” he said. “At least you dressed up fer the funeral.” “The…?” Jaxy asked. “Ignore him,” Ranette said. But then she softened her voice. “Hey. You’ll live, Wayne. I’ve
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seen you get through worse.” “When?” “That one time you literally got a cannonball through the stomach.” He looked up. “Oh yeah. That was something else.” Jaxy had gone pale. “Did it hurt?” “Not as much as you’d think,” he said. “Like, yeah, I got torn in half. But I think my body was just kinda confused, you know? Not every day you’re in two pieces.” “Fortunately,” Ranette said, “his metalminds were on the piece with his head. Otherwise…” He forced himself to sit up, then sighed and put the bell on the table, then rang it. Then rang it again. Seriously, what was the point of these things if people didn’t pay attention? The third ring finally got a server to step over. “Vodka,” Wayne said to her. “Worst you got. Closer to piss it tastes, the better.” “Wayne,” Ranette said, “this is an upscale restaurant.” “Right,” he said. “Putta olive in it or somethin’.” “Was that even our server?” Jaxy asked as the woman moved off. “I try not to look too closely,” Ranette said. “Given the awful outfits.” “I hear you,” Wayne said. “Who thought a Roughs-themed restaurant was a good idea? Like, to be authentic you’d have to have only stew on the menu. Then when people ordered it, you’d be out of stew and just give them beans.” “I like it,” Jaxy said. “It’s amusing.” “It’s insulting,” Ranette said. “Can we talk more about me?” Wayne said. “Because I’m still over here feeling like what’s left of the grapes after the wine’s been made.” “Poor dear,” Jaxy said. “You’re too good to him, Jax,” Ranette said. “He’s one of your oldest friends.” “Only because he can’t die.” “Ranette…” Jaxy said. “Fine,” Ranette said, then put her hand on Wayne’s shoulder. “You’re strong, Wayne. You can get through this.” She took the glass from the tray when the server came back, and handed it to him. “Look, here’s your alcohol.” “Thanks, Ranette,” he said, accepting it. “You really know how to make a fellow feel better.” “To be honest,” she said, “I’m proud of you, Wayne. How you’re handling this. It’s relatively mature.” “This is mature?” he asked, then downed the vodka. “Relatively.” “Suppose you gotta be an adult to get booze,” Wayne admitted. “But … it’s just…” He sighed and sat back. “I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone who understood what it was like to have to be another person most of the time. And she did. She did, Ranette.” “You’ll … uh, find someone else?” Ranette said. “Someone better? That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? Even if it’s probably not true, since I doubt there are many people who are better than a Faceless Immortal. And—” “Oh, Ranette,” Jaxy said, shaking her head. “What?” she said. “I don’t do comforting, all right?” “Wayne,” Jaxy said, “it will hurt. That’s okay. Pain is just your body and your mind acknowledging that this is awful.” “Thanks,” he mumbled. “You’re a good friend, Jaxy. Even if you have terrible taste in women.” “Hey!” Ranette said. “You chased
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me for the better part of fifteen years.” “Yeah? And how’s my taste, on average?” “I…” Ranette said. “Damn. Stop aiming for the vital bits, Wayne. This is supposed to be a friendly meal.” “Sorry,” he said, then put his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands. They still hadn’t seen their actual server, which made sense. This was a seriously fancy place; you could tell by their contempt for their customers. “I meant it though, about being proud of you,” Ranette told him. “You’ve grown, Wayne. A lot. We’ve been going to dinner for years now, and you haven’t hit on me once.” “I promised. Besides, you’re taken. I ain’t a poacher.” He slumped back in his seat. “This wouldn’t be so bad if that day weren’t coming up.” “The day…” Ranette said. “When you have to deliver payment to that girl?” Wayne nodded. “Allriandre,” he said. “She and her sisters don’t have a daddy because of me.” His day of trials was the worst day of the month, where he had to go face her. And admit what he’d done: murdering her daddy over twenty years ago. You know you aren’t forgiven. I know. You will never be forgiven. I … I know. Ranette leaned forward, tapping on the saltshaker with her fingernail. It was in the shape of a Roughs-style boot. So fancy that the awful decor somehow wrapped around to being tasteful. “What if,” Ranette said to him, “you didn’t see her this month?” “I’ve gotta,” Wayne said. “Why?” “It’s my punishment.” “Says who?” “The cosmere,” Wayne said. “I took her daddy from her, Ranette. I gotta remember. What I am. I gotta look her in the eyes and let her know I ain’t forgotten.” The two women shared a look. “Wayne,” Jaxy said, “I’ve … wanted to talk to you about that. The way you treat that girl. I realize today might not be the best day…” “Nah,” he said. “Hit me, Jaxy. I’m mostly numb already. It’s a good day to get punched.” “Why do you insist,” Jaxy said, “on seeing her in person?” “So she can punish me.” “Does she want to punish you?” “She seems to enjoy it when it happens.” “Does she? Does she really, Wayne? Because the way you tell it, sounds like she asks you not to come see her.” “Because she’s bein’ too nice,” Wayne explained. “But I don’t deserve anyone bein’ nice to me.” “I told you, Jax,” Ranette said. “He’s got the self-awareness of a half-eaten sandwich.” Wayne frowned. What was she on about? “I’ve never met anyone,” Jaxy said, “who can get inside the heads of other people as well as Wayne can. He’ll understand.” “He gets in their heads when it suits him,” Ranette said. “Not when it means seeing things he doesn’t want to see.” Wayne looked away. Ranette said a lot of mean things, but they weren’t … well, they weren’t actually mean. He joked, and she joked. And sure, sometimes there was an edge of truth to it, but that’s
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what friends was about. Making you look a little silly when you were together, so that you didn’t look really stupid when you were apart. But the way she said that last bit … it stung. He understood people, didn’t he? Wax and Marasi, they were great at the investigating part. But they needed someone like Wayne who really knew the people who lived in the dirt—and counted themselves lucky, because at least it wasn’t mud. Currently. “Wayne,” Jaxy said, “what do you imagine that girl wants? Can you think like her? Does she really want you to come remind her of her pain each month?” “I … I want her to be happy. And beating up a fellow like me who made her unhappy … well, that’s the best way.” “Is it?” Jaxy asked softly. “Or is it about you? Doing some kind of penance? Wayne, each time you ignore what that girl asks of you, you take a little joy from her and turn it into your own suffering.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You can see it,” Jaxy said, patting his hand. “I know you can.” “I’ve lost my appetite,” he said, shoving back from the table and stalking off through the restaurant. From behind, Ranette’s voice chased him. “I told you. He might not be as bad as I pretend, Jax. But he’s not as good as you want to pretend either.” He traded the bell for his hat back, and only took one of the fellow’s cufflinks in the exchange—a fair trade for them keeping his hat over some stupid bell that barely even worked. Outside, unfortunately, he all but collided with two men in bowler hats and vests. Rust and Ruin! They’d found him. “Sir,” the taller of the two bean counters said, “we need to talk about your finances.” “Whataboutem?” Wayne said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You have far too much money,” the shorter one said. “Please, sir. We have to talk about your investment strategy! Your current lack of diversification is a crime.” Well, to ashes with him, then. This day had actually found a way to get worse. He let them shove him into their hearse of a car, off to the mortuary. Or, well, the accounting firm that kept track of his wealth. Same difference. In either case Wayne, as everybody knew him, was dead. The trellium was moving. Steris had been getting out a harmonium sample for study in conjunction with the trellium spike. And the trellium did not seem to like it. Wax moved the small bead of harmonium—suspended in a vial of oil—toward the trellium. It again rolled away. “Curious,” Wax said. Then, on a hunch, he burned a little steel inside of him. The trellium spike rolled away from him again. “I didn’t Push,” he said. “It responded to me burning steel.” “That’s a result!” Steris said, scribbling furiously. “Wax, that’s actually useful.” And … yes, it was, wasn’t it? A way to test if someone was burning their metals? Seekers could do that, but having
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a mechanical way to accomplish it … “Oh!” Marasi said. “I should have mentioned. That spike had a similar reaction to the other spikes I harvested.” “It’s like Allomancy,” Steris said. “Like the trellium spike is using Allomancy to Push.” “No,” Wax said. “It’s more like magnetism. The trellium spike responds to other sources of Investiture in the way one magnet responds to another one.” “It wants to stay apart from them,” Steris said. “More like it has the same charge,” Wax said. “I doubt that it ‘wants’ anything.” Though, as this was part of a god, who knew? Particularly since, so far as he was aware, other Invested items with a similar charge didn’t repel one another. A little experimenting showed him that the two metals—harmonium and trellium—repelled each other with increasing strength the more he tried to push them together. Again, like magnets. The response to harmonium was stronger than the response to him burning his metals. Wax consulted a large chart on the wall; it displayed an extrapolation from a notebook that Death had given Marasi. Once upon a time, that event had been one of the most surreal Wax had ever heard described. These days it seemed almost commonplace. The book detailed how to use Hemalurgy. He’d studied the notes in depth, and had created a chart of all the points on the body where spikes could be placed. A detailed list of the ways they worked, requiring linchpin spikes to coordinate and keep the network functioning. The Set was experimenting further with Hemalurgy. And his sister, Telsin, was out there somewhere, high up in the leadership of the Set. Seven years ago, he’d thought she’d been kidnapped … but he should have seen. Telsin’s incredible ambition fit perfectly with the Set’s goals. It had led her to spiking herself. Pinning pieces of souls to her own. It nauseated him to think of the people murdered for that purpose—to realize what Telsin and the Set were doing. In his fingers, he held not only a relic from a long-forgotten god; he held a tattered symbol of his sister’s rejected humanity. Rusts. He really was going to have to talk to Harmony, wasn’t he? As little as Wax liked it, he was a part of this. He needed to finish what he’d begun all those years ago, when he’d fled Elendel—leaving his house to the machinations of his sister and uncle. Footsteps on the stairs announced Allik, arriving with refreshments. Wax wasn’t certain if the former airman did that so assiduously because he thought of this mansion as his home and wanted to entertain, or if he just enjoyed having people around to try his baking. Nevertheless, the sight of him—mask up, grinning widely and bearing two plates of chocolate biscuits—did lighten Wax’s mood. “You are being careful,” Allik said to Wax, “never to put too much ettmetal in one place, yah?” “I don’t think I have enough to worry about.” “Still, always good to remember,” Allik said. “One of the basic rules of handling it.” They had all
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kinds of odd rules about the metal, and Wax had trouble separating the superstitions from the science. Supposedly, you couldn’t put a large concentration of ettmetal in one place, otherwise it caused strange reactions—though Allik didn’t know specifics. The perky Southerner marched up to Marasi with his offerings and held them out. “Oh!” Marasi said, snatching a biscuit. “My favorite.” Wax took one too. He was accustomed to biscuits that could block a bullet in a pinch. It was the Basin way. Yet these were moist, even gooey. It was odd, but not unwelcome. Marasi in particular seemed to be infatuated by the way Allik put sweetened chocolate in everything. “They’re best when warm,” she said, munching as Allik sat across from her. Wax had wiped off that lab table, hadn’t he? “You know, you look more handsome when I’m eating choc. How curious.” “You just say that,” Allik replied, “because you want me to make more.” “Of course that’s why I say it,” she replied, seizing a second biscuit. Wax sat back on his stool, enjoying his biscuit, thinking about the metals laid out on the table in front of him. Harmonium and trellium. They repelled each other. More and more violently, the closer together they were … I wonder … He gathered up the materials and was setting up a new experiment in the safe box as another set of footsteps started down the steps. This made them all pause. Wax carefully slipped some bullets from his pouch, ready to Push them. Though when the door opened, it revealed a prim man in a brown suit. He had stark blond hair—perfectly styled—and spectacles with wire frames. The type of person whose entire bearing screamed, “I fact-check people’s jokes.” “VenDell?” Wax guessed, putting his bullets away. The kandra was wearing a new body, but the creature’s air was distinctive. “Indeed, Lord Ladrian,” VenDell said, entering the room and undoing his satchel. “You’ll forgive me for letting myself in.” He set a piece of paper on the table beside Marasi. “This is for you, Miss Colms.” “What is it?” she asked, wiping her fingers on a napkin that Steris materialized as if from nowhere. “A note recovered from the site of your engagement with the Set,” VenDell said. “LeeMar recovered it before the other investigating constables could notice it.” “Wait,” Marasi said. “You have kandra among the constables I don’t know about?” “Several,” VenDell said. “Who?” “Cassileux, for one. LeeMar took over her life about sixteen months ago, after the real woman died in that raid on the Nomad Gang.” Marasi’s jaw dropped. “But … Cassileux and I had lunch last week!” “Yes, she keeps an eye on you,” VenDell said. “She didn’t tell me!” “Should she have?” he asked absently, then sniffed at the biscuits that Allik offered him. “How horrible.” “Aw,” Allik said, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve told you, Master Allik,” VenDell said. “I am a carrion feeder, and strictly carnivorous. These … creations … would not suit me. But if you are interested, I’ve been considering putting up good
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money for one of your masks.” “What?” Allik said, hand going to his mask, which was still up on the top of his head. “My mask?” “There has been discussion among the kandra lately,” he said, “about your masks. Many of us think they are as integral to your natures as hair or nails—virtually a part of your skeleton. As such, I have decided to start collecting them for future bodies. Do you have any for sale?” “Uh…” Allik said. “You’re an odd man, yah?” “I’m not a man at all,” VenDell said. “I’ll leave you with an offer; let me know if you’d entertain some negotiations. I would only require the mask after your death, of course. If you persist in spending time with this group of people, that might not be far off.” He walked toward Wax next, then held out his hand. “May I see it, please?” Wax sighed, then turned to the safe box where he’d been setting up his experiment. He took out the trellium spike and presented it to VenDell, who held it up toward the light. “I thought you couldn’t touch those,” Steris said from the table beside Marasi. “You are mistaken, Lady Ladrian,” VenDell said. “This is not a kandra’s spike, so touching it is not taboo.” “I’m not going to let you take this one,” Wax warned. “It needs to be studied.” “Unfortunately,” VenDell said, “I have no intention of recovering it, so we won’t get to see if you could actually prevent me or not.” “You don’t want it,” Wax said, “because it’s not a kandra spike? Unlike the ones that belonged to Lessie, which you stole from us.” “You gave those up willingly.” “I was not in an emotional state to do anything willingly,” Wax said. “I still want to know how much that metal—trellium—had to do with what happened to her.” “The way Paalm … acted was a direct result of her decision to remove one of her spikes,” VenDell said. “The trellium spikes may have exacerbated her ailment, but were not the root cause.” “Harmony implied otherwise to me.” VenDell turned the spike over in his fingers and didn’t reply. Instead he nodded toward the safe box. “What are you doing here?” “Electric current to soften some harmonium,” Wax said, pointing at the equipment he’d set up: a system to deliver a powerful current through a tiny nugget of harmonium held at the center, coated in oil to prevent it from corroding. “That’s the closest we ever came to dividing it.” “It cannot be divided,” VenDell said. “Not so long as Harmony remains Harmony. I’ve explained this.” Steris trailed over with her clipboard, and they shared a look. It was true; harmonium wasn’t actually an alloy. Yet Harmony held both Ruin and Preservation—so somehow this metal was both atium and lerasium, blended in a way that defied ordinary scientific explanation. It seemed reasonable there would be a way to split it. Yet, acids for selective dissolution had failed. Different heating methods to get the components to self-separate while fluid
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had failed. Electrolysis had failed. A dozen other ideas had failed as well. There was a reason he’d lost momentum on the project. But of all they’d tried, electric currents seemed to have come the closest. He activated the machine, and didn’t bother closing the front of the safe box. He’d run this experiment often enough that he was comfortable doing it in the open. The tiny bit of harmonium heated up. Marasi and Allik walked over, watching it glow with a powerful internal light. Then Wax activated the other component of the machine—which pulled the nugget apart. Harmonium was pliable, more so when heated. When softened like this, it seemed to react differently to the air—no longer as volatile. As if … as if it were becoming something else. This specialized machine continued to deliver electric current through the grips at the sides—but now those moved apart and stretched the metal. If he continued, he could divide it cleanly, making two pieces of harmonium. That itself wasn’t remarkable. But the machine was set to pull only a few sixteenths of an inch, then stop. The result was two globs of harmonium at the sides, with a narrower stringy bit between. “What is this supposed to do?” VenDell asked. “Watch,” Wax said. With his tinted goggles, it was probably easier to see—but after a few moments the metals started to rearrange. The glob of harmonium on the left side began to glow a blue-white. The one on the right adopted a stranger air, growing silvery and reflective. It almost seemed liquid, like mercury—the surface incredibly smooth. “Is that…?” Marasi asked. “No,” Wax said. “If you cut it in half right now, when the metals cool you’ll just have two bits of harmonium. Yet in this state, the metals almost separate. You can see the left bit taking on aspects of lerasium. The bead on the right … that’s how atium was described.” “It always looks like it wants to divide,” Steris said. “That it’s arranging itself to do so.” “Ruin and Preservation,” Marasi whispered. “Atium and lerasium.” “I think that’s the reason harmonium is so unstable,” Wax explained. “Harmony has trouble acting, right? He’s mentioned it before: his two aspects work against one another, leaving him indecisive, impotent.” “He’s merely in equilibrium,” VenDell said. “Equal parts the need to protect and the need to let things decay.” “Well,” Wax said, “I’m increasingly certain we face a god who isn’t hindered by that kind of equilibrium. I was skeptical at first, but Marasi convinced me.” “Trell is dangerous, VenDell,” Marasi said, squinting against the bright light. “We have to do something. We can’t wait for Harmony.” “Almost I am persuaded,” VenDell said. “What did you think of the note?” “It’s confusing,” Marasi said. “And vague.” Wax shot her a glance. “I’ll explain,” she promised. “But first … are we going further with this?” She nodded toward the safe box they were all crowded around. “Well,” Wax said, taking the trellium spike back from VenDell, “we noticed that this metal repels all forms of
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Investiture—and it repels harmonium even harder. I thought … what if I stretched a nugget apart like this, then used trellium to try to split it? Might that repel the two sides harder, and actually separate out some atium and lerasium?” He looked to the others in turn. “What … are the chances that blows things up?” Allik asked. “Considering harmonium is involved?” Steris said. “I’d say it’s incredibly likely. But worth a try.” “That’s why we have the safe box, right?” Wax said. “Plus, that’s a very small bit of harmonium. How much energy could one piece of metal contain?” The words hung in the air. “So…” Allik said. “I think we should all go next door and be very far away when he does this, yah?” “Yah,” Marasi agreed. Wax took a deep breath, then nodded. “I’ll rig a timer,” he said. “This basement is reinforced with enough concrete to pave a highway, so we should be fine upstairs.” “We could make the kandra do it,” Marasi said. “They’re basically indestructible.” “Basically,” VenDell said, “is infinitely distant from ‘completely,’ Miss Colms. I have been instructed to help you with your little infiltration—I believe you have a corpse for me?—not to risk my life trying to accomplish the impossible.” “Timer it is,” Wax said. “I’ll get a tiny sliver of trellium,” Steris said, “so we don’t have to use the entire spike.” “Good idea,” Wax said. He should be able to repurpose his hydraulic punch … It took a good half hour to set the whole thing up. All the while, Wax wondered. What if he did split harmonium? He’d have two metals, the bodies of gods, each capable of incredible things from ancient lore, like manipulating time or creating beings with mythological Mistborn abilities. What if he had that power? What would that change about him? Nothing, he thought to himself. I’ve held that power. And when I had it, I used it to save my friends. He finished the calibrations, leaving a machine on a timer set for five minutes. Once the time was up, it would press the tiny trellium shard forward into the center of the heated and stretched harmonium bead. He closed the safe box tight, and together they all fled up the stairs and secured the thick metal door at the top. And then … Wax realized five minutes had probably been excessive. “So…” he said as he pulled out his watch, “what about that note?” “It was in one of the boxes in the cavern,” VenDell explained. “One of the few that weren’t destroyed in the explosions.” “During the mission earlier,” Marasi said, “I spotted a masked figure in dark clothing. I had a slowness bubble up at the time, and she approached as a blur. I got barely a glance at her before she left, but I think this must be from her.” She turned the paper toward Wax, showing a simple message. We are watching, Marasi, it read. And we are impressed. It had a small symbol at the bottom, with three
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interlocking diamonds. It looked vaguely familiar to Wax, though he didn’t think he’d ever seen the symbol before. More, the pattern reminded him of something. “You ever seen this?” Wax asked VenDell. “Uh…” he said, “that is a question I’m forbidden to answer. My apologies, Lord Ladrian.” “Forbidden?” Steris asked. “By whom?” “Harmony himself, Lady Ladrian,” VenDell said. For the first time that Wax could remember, the creature looked uncomfortable. “I suggest you speak to him directly.” “Great,” Marasi said. “Nice to know we’re working for the defense of the planet itself while God is acting like a child with a secret crush.” “False gods are like that,” Allik said, and earned glares from all around the room. He just shrugged. They all fell silent. Why, Wax thought, does a few minutes feel like forever when you’re waiting? “So,” VenDell said. “Your bones, Lord Ladrian. Have you reconsidered—” “Not for sale.” “But—” “Not for sale.” “Ah well, then,” VenDell said. “Can’t blame a person for inquiring. Such a fine skeleton, and for it to go to waste…” A sudden blast shook the entire building. Chandeliers rattled, the window to Wax’s right cracked, and he heard dishes fall somewhere in the kitchen. “Rusts,” Marasi said. “They probably felt that in the next octant over. You … think the safe box held?” “One way to find out,” Wax said, walking toward the door to the basement. “At least,” Allik said to the others, “we planned for it this time, yah?” “Always plan for an explosion around Wax,” Steris said. “It saves a ton of effort.” Wax pulled the door open, then started down the steps. Call and Son and Daughters Accounting and Estate might not have looked like a mortuary, but Wayne was absolutely certain it was one. Because you’d have to be dead to enjoy working in such a place. Tall Boring Guy and Short Boring Guy sat him down and started embalming him right away. Not with the good stuff either. He’d have taken basically any kind of drink, but no, they had to use ink. They dried his body out good first though. “Your investments,” Tall Boring Guy said, “are too high-risk, Master Wayne. We recommend a more balanced portfolio.” “How much money have I got?” he asked, sullen. “Over twenty million at this point.” Well, damn. “I told you,” he said, “to give it to people what don’t have any houses!” “Yes, and your affordable housing project was wildly successful,” Short Boring Guy said, perking up and reaching for a ledger. “How you anticipated the impending subsidies is quite a stroke of—” “And that girl?” Wayne said. “With the plugs in the walls?” Tall Boring Guy smiled. “The revolutionary electric devices developed by Miss Tarcsel are at the forefront of your financial empire, Master Wayne! Profits are astronomical.” “Your real estate investments were wise,” Short Boring Guy said, “but we need to liquidate some of your ownership in Tarcsel Electric and invest in other, newer companies, to provide a buffer against competition—which is beginning to pop up now that the
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initial patents are lapsing.” “You guys,” Wayne said, “really need to get girlfriends or somethin’.” “Oh, we both are dating, Master Wayne,” Short Boring Guy said. “Garisel is quite popular, I must say. And you have no idea how wild lady accountants can be! Why, the other night—” “Shut it,” Wayne grumbled. “Don’t rub it in.” Well, no use resisting. A man couldn’t run from his own funeral. Mostly because his legs don’t work when he’s dead. “Fine. Give me one of those damn hats.” They looked at one another, but Wayne waved impatiently, so Tall Boring Guy finally took his bowler from the peg by the door and handed it over. Wayne pulled it on, and his death was right and truly accomplished. Rust him all the way down to the bones. He eyed the ledgers, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of his chin. But that wasn’t enough, so he absently took Short Boring Guy’s spectacles from the man’s vest pocket, then tucked them into his own pocket. Still not enough. “Kindly fetch me,” he said, “some honey tea with some lemon on the side and one tiny sprig of mint. Not too much, mind you, but enough to add some perk. You understand, don’t you, Garisel? Good man, good man.” Soon he had it in hand while he surveyed the ledgers. They gave his last name as “Terrisborn,” since he had no proper family name. He kept reading. Yes, yes. Numbers. That was plenty of numbers, all right. Of the high sort, which accountants like him liked to see. Hardly any red to the ledger. Yes, hmm. Not enough honey in this tea. There was no denying what the ledgers said. Wayne was dead. And in his place lived a fellow who was fancy. No, who was downright opulent. “You at least,” he said, “have my bendalloy?” An aide fetched an enormous sack of it. Enough to buy two or three cars, if he’d wanted. “Right, then,” Wayne said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You see this here?” He unfolded something from his inside pocket—a flyer recruiting boys for a local noseball league. “We shall give these chaps funding for equipment and will build for them a location in which to enjoy their engagements.” “Sir?” Short Boring Guy asked. “Why?” “We’ll include seating,” Wayne explained, “and allow everyone to watch. See, right now everyone wants someone to yell at. And we, my friends, shall provide it for them. We shall create a large-scale noseball league, with a team from each octant. I’ve thought, gentlemen, for some time that the city needs a way to become drunken in a proper and controlled manner.” “I don’t understand, sir,” Tall Boring Guy said. “A bar exists for a reason,” Wayne said. “It is a controlled environment in which to drink. People are going to seek to partake in spirits, you see, and it is better for society that we plan for this. “Currently, the octants are tense. The people are angry. The Outer Cities, why, they are riotous! We must allow
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rage to be experienced in a similar way to drunkenness—with a controlled outlet, with someone for everyone to dislike.” They looked at him blankly. “We’re gonna get a bunch of chaps to beat on one another,” Wayne said in a lower-class accent. “Playin’ for teams representin’ the octants, so everyone can pick their favorite and hate all the other teams. In a right proper way.” “Ah!” Short Boring Guy said. People these days, and their lowborn vernacular. Why, he suspected this pair didn’t even know how to properly burnish a golden toilet! For fear! “Yes…” Tall Boring Guy said. “I see. So, like the local clubs, but on a citywide scale.” “People love their local teams,” Wayne explained. “We can do something good with that.” “Building arenas of the proper size will be expensive,” Short Boring Guy said. “Even for you.” “We could charge people a bit to get in the door, then,” Wayne said. “Everyone enjoys something more when they have a monetary stake in it.” “Yes…” Tall Boring Guy said. “Yes, this is interesting. Monetization of the rivalries—and the personal coding of interest—will be a seminal part of this activity…” “That is my favorite part of most activities,” Wayne noted. Tall Boring Guy nodded. “This is excellent. We shall put our best people on it.” “Nah,” Wayne said, “put your worst ones on it. They’ll know more about loafing—the rapscallions—which shall serve me better in this particular situation. Now, let us discuss the beating of servants and how it’s not really so bad for them.” Rusts, this hat. He pulled it off and wiped his brow. Stupid money and stupid rich hats. This one even had aluminum foil on the inside to protect from emotional Allomancy. Well, surely this idea with the noseball would finally bankrupt him. It was, after all, his very worst idea—and he was an absolute idiot. He spun the hat on his finger and thought about it. What if Wax—or worse, Marasi—figured out he was rich? He’d never hear the rusting end of it. Tall Boring Guy tugged at his collar. “Do you … actually want us to investigate using more corporal punishment on, um, some of your staff?” “Nah,” Wayne said. “Bein’ in the army stinks.” “Sir,” Short Boring Guy said, “what about the provisions in your trust? We’d like to talk about the more unusual ones you’ve made.” “Nope. Next.” “Your current housing situation—” “Nope. Next.” “Have you yet confirmed with Waxillium that he understands he signed away likeness rights to you in that deal—” “Nope. Next.” “Your fleet of cars?” Those he liked. “What about them?” “There’s a new Victori,” Short Boring Guy said, getting out a picture of it. It had no top. Like, so you could drive and spit into the wind, if you wanted. “Damn, that’s nice,” Wayne said. “Get me one.” “Absolutely, sir,” Short Boring Guy said. “How many shares in the company shall we buy?” Wayne narrowed his eyes at him. “I see what you’re doing.” They looked at him innocently. “No more than a five percent stake,”
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Wayne said, “and once these guys what play noseball get famous, have them drive the cars around so they get more popular and whatnot. Oh, and let’s call it something other than noseball. Maybe change the long runner positions to let those two be Metalborn. Same with the goalie. That’ll make things more interesting.” “As you wish, Master Wayne.” He spun the hat on his finger. I’ve never met anyone who can get inside the heads of other people as well as Wayne can. He could even get inside the heads of accountants. Could he get inside the head of a girl who hated him? To start, he had to remember what he’d done. He deserved that hurt. Did she? He closed his eyes, thinking what it must be like to see him come slinking in each month. That man. That horrible man. Couldn’t he just let her move on? He’ll understand … What if he didn’t want to? Damn. Too late. “Hey, Call,” he said, opening his eyes and looking to Short Boring Guy. “I need you to set up a delivery for me. Some money to be paid to a young woman and her family. Um, every month. She has her own kid now, and needs the cash on time. It’s a meeting I’m supposed to do in person, but I’m … getting so busy. Yes, too busy, you see…” “Many of our clients have similar needs, Master Wayne,” Short Boring Guy said. “Give us the address and we’ll see it is handled with discretion.” Why’d they say it that way? Well, regardless, Jaxy had been right. If he was going to be dead, he could at least be the polite kind what didn’t try to crawl out of the forest and eat you during thunderstorms. Even corpses needed standards. Steris had been doing a good job lately, she thought, of understanding other people. Once, she’d assumed they had the same worries she did, but hid their anxiety extremely well. As she’d grown older, she’d come to understand something more incredible. They just didn’t feel that anxiety. They didn’t have a constant, hovering worry in the back of their brain, whispering they’d forgotten something important. They didn’t spend hours thinking about the mistakes they’d made, and how they could have planned better. They lived in a perpetual state between blessed contentment and frightening ignorance. Then she’d grown even older. She’d married Waxillium. She’d made friends—real ones—and had come to see more clearly. Everyone saw the world differently, and the Survivor had made people to complement one another. Metal and alloy. A Push for every Pull. The others responded to the explosion below with a strange excitement and eagerness, practically racing one another to the door. But what if the steps were destabilized? Steris had a whole list of protocols to follow if there was an explosion in the lab—she’d spent three nights developing it. She loved them. And so she wanted to cry out a warning, hold them back safe, forbid them from risking themselves. She also knew how extreme
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she got sometimes. That was the biggest revelation of recent years—helped by discussions with the women of her book group. Some of her preparations went beyond helpful. Understanding that line was vital to understanding herself. And she had to admit, today the others showed some wisdom. They let VenDell go first, at her suggestion, since a fall wouldn’t hurt him. Wax went next, since he could more or less fly if the steps collapsed. They hesitated at the bottom of the stairs—in case anything further was going to blow—before they opened the reinforced door. “Wait!” Steris said, then dug in her handbag. “Masks.” She distributed the cloth masks to everyone, even Allik, since a wooden one wouldn’t filter the air for him. They took the masks absently, or maybe even with a bit of an eye roll. All except Wax, who smiled at her as he put his on. He liked her preparations. He found it endearing. But beyond that, he appreciated it. He thought she was useful, not persnickety. “Anything on your watch list for explosions?” he asked. She felt warm as she dug out her book of home emergencies. Yes, she knew she could be extreme. At the same time, making these was therapeutic. Her fears eased once she wrote them down. If she’d thought of something, catalogued it and considered it, then it stopped having power over her—she had power over it. “Acids on the floor,” she noted. “Those could mix to produce poisonous fumes. Glass shards. Secondary explosions—particularly from exposed harmonium. Those are my big fears.” He considered. “Marasi,” he said as she pushed open the door, “I was testing with hydrochloric and hypochlorous acids.” “Which means?” “Chlorine gas,” he said. VenDell grabbed Marasi’s arm. Kandra had a thing about acids. To Steris’s surprise, they listened to her. Since the powerful ventilators installed in the basement weren’t working, they let her fetch a room fan and set it up. Then they all returned up the steps and stood outside the mansion to allow the place to ventilate. When they went back down, everyone wore their masks without complaint and let her test the air with a kit. From there, they were careful where they stepped as they inspected the room. The door to the safe box had taken a little jaunt across the room, and was now embedded deep into the thick concrete of the far wall. The steel of the box itself had been mangled beyond repair. And the rest of the room … Well, it appeared that she’d have to put in an order for a new spectroscope. And a centrifuge. And some more flasks. And … um … new walls … She resisted her urge to begin sweeping the glass to avert the hazard of stepping on it. Instead she stuck near to Waxillium. He might discover something interesting. “Rusts,” he said, walking over to the remnants of the safe box. “This thing survived harmonium detonations of up to three ounces. I used less than a tenth of that in this experiment.” He reached for
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the top of what remained of the box. Steris wagged a glove in front of him. “Right,” he said, slipping it on, then feeling around the top of the broken steel box. His hand came away dusted with some black shavings—a fine metal powder. VenDell walked up beside them. Marasi was inspecting the safe box’s door, while Allik had fetched a broom from above and was sweeping up the glass. Steris had already liked him, of course, primarily because of how he treated her sister. But in that moment, her estimation of him went up another notch. “We need to test these shavings,” Wax said. “But … I don’t think this is either atium or lerasium. It looks like remnants of iron from the equipment.” Steris gathered them in some specimen pouches anyway. Waxillium leaned into the broken box on the wall, then used a small file from his pocket to harvest something smoldering inside. “Harmonium,” he said as Steris dug out an extra vial of oil for him to put it into. “Plastered across the back of the box. I … think the experiment failed. It didn’t divide.” “Actually,” VenDell said, “I think you managed something far, far more dangerous.” He took out a little notebook. “How much harmonium did you use in here? A few grams?” “Around half a gram.” “This explosive force…” VenDell said. “This level of destruction … from such a small sample. It’s possible, but only if…” “What?” Wax said. “This explosion was not caused by the division of the metals,” VenDell said. “This level of energy release could happen only if some of the Investiture or the matter itself was transformed into energy.” He seemed to notice their confusion, so he continued. “I believe I’ve lectured you at length about the nature of Investiture. It is a particular study of mine. Along with my foremost expertise on skulls…” “Not for sale,” Wax reminded him. “Mine is,” Steris said. Both looked at her. “Why would I need it when I’m dead?” she asked. “Seems much better to have the money now.” “As I always say,” VenDell replied. “Your impermanence is outlived by the beautiful internal shells you create—like sand medallions from the ocean, so are the bones of the human being. A lasting testimony of your presence on Scadrial. We shall discuss the terms of your sale at a later date, Lady Ladrian. “For now, let me be brief. Everything in the cosmere is made up of one of three essences. The first is matter: the physical substances around you. Formed of axi, the smallest possible thing we know.” “There are things that … aren’t matter?” Steris asked. “Of course,” he said. “There’s energy.” He waved to the ceiling, where two of the room’s recessed and reinforced lights were still working. “Electricity, heat, light … Your kind has been harnessing it quite well lately. Good for you. Very modern.” “And the third?” Wax asked. “Investiture,” VenDell said. “The essence of the gods. Everything has an Invested component, normally inaccessible without certain abilities. When you burn metals, Lord
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Ladrian, you pull Investiture directly from the Spiritual Realm and use it to do work. Much like energy does work in those lights. But here is the key idea: Investiture, matter, and energy are all the same, fundamentally.” “I … felt that, once,” Waxillium said, expression distant. “When I held the Bands. That all things were one substance.” “Indeed!” VenDell replied. “And states can change from one to the other. Energy can become Investiture. This is the soul of Feruchemy. Investiture can become matter. That is where harmonium comes from. And matter can become energy.” “And an example of that is…” Steris said. VenDell nodded to the destroyed room. “We just witnessed it, I believe. There is an incredible amount of energy trapped inside matter. You managed to release some of it—only a small amount of what you put in that box, but still. If you found a way to release its full potential … Well, Harmony says the destructive power of it frightens him. Deeply.” “It should,” Waxillium said. “Because this was easy to accomplish. Far too easy.” “Well,” VenDell said, “it does require two very rare substances. And a great deal of energy, correct?” “A great deal,” he admitted. “For so small a sample. It would take quite a bit of electricity to scale this up. But the destructive potential…” “Agreed.” VenDell’s skin had gone … not just pale, but actually translucent. “I … should report this. If you don’t mind, I’ll be upstairs communing with Harmony. Excuse me.” Waxillium shot Steris a look. “Worst case?” he asked. She considered. What was the worst thing that could happen? It seemed obvious to her. “What if the Set already knows about this?” she asked. “Marasi said the dying man mentioned returning ash to the Basin. Maybe they plan to use bombs?” Wax nodded, grim. He’d considered the same thing. “If the Set has discovered this interaction,” she said, “then it was likely by accident—or through an experiment like ours. There might be a record of it.” “We could search for unexplained explosions in the Outer Cities,” Wax said. “Smart. Ashes … What if an explosive like this were placed in one of the old Ashmounts? Could they be restarted?” “That sounds appropriately terrifying,” Steris said, feeling a deep nausea. How had she never considered that possibility? Looked like she had some planning to worry about. But first things first. “I’ll order broadsheets from the Outer Cities from the library and have them delivered to the penthouse. We can start there.” Wax nodded. “With Marasi’s authority, you should be able to access the constabulary records too.” It was an excellent suggestion. Steris walked to the back of the room, passing Allik—who had found some remnants of his biscuits splattered on the wall—and stepped up to Marasi. It had been … pleasant spending more time with her lately. Their childhood hadn’t always encouraged sisterly affection. Their father—who was now retired to a country estate—had been embarrassed by Marasi’s illegitimate status. Steris had always worried Marasi would see it as a flaw in herself
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rather than in their father. Marasi seemed lost in thought, though what she found fascinating about the broken door was beyond Steris. However, she stayed quiet, not wishing to interrupt. Silence didn’t bother Steris. It was a purely neutral experience. “The world is changing so fast,” Marasi finally whispered. “I’m barely accustomed to electric lights, let alone the airships. Then there’s this god … from another world. Now an explosive, a pinch of which can destroy a room…” “I’m worried too,” Steris said. “I wish recent events had been possible to anticipate.” “Makes me wonder,” Marasi said, “why I’m spending my time on murder cases and basic crimes. I realize they are important … but there are people out there, Steris, who know about it all. Who are making moves that change the fates of planets. They have no oversight, so far as I can tell. They’re probably happy to see us chasing down ordinary criminals and leaving them alone.” “That’s why you hunt the Set,” Steris said, nodding. “Why you’ve devoted so much to them, when most in the precinct think you’re going a little overboard.” Marasi chuckled. “Runs in the family, I guess.” Steris smiled, then felt foolish, as Marasi wouldn’t be able to see it behind her face mask. Before Steris could say something, however, Waxillium blew himself up. It was a much smaller detonation, fortunately, but it was forceful enough to throw him back and drop him to the ground. Steris ran over, worried—and found him dazed, but relatively unharmed. He took her arm as he sat up, shaking his head, his nice vest—a Versuli, no less—ripped and charred. The apron she’d provided had protected it somewhat. He brushed himself off. Though he didn’t like to admit it, he was getting older. Being exploded when you were twenty was far different from being exploded when you were fifty. “So,” he said to her, “you mentioned something about secondary explosions?” “It was on my list,” she whispered. “It’s all right,” he said, patting her hand. “I feel fine. I just did something stupid. I was gathering that harmonium plastered against the back of the safe box. It’s too valuable to leave, and it must have reacted to the air or some liquid left from an earlier experiment—” He sneezed, then smiled at her reassuringly. His mask was nowhere to be seen; it must have blown free in the explosion. She hid her worry for him. Upon marrying Waxillium Ladrian, there was one thing she had vowed to herself: She wouldn’t stop fretting about him, but she would not prevent him from being the person he wanted to be. Each time he decided on an investigation, it terrified her. She did not let that control how she treated him. She would not be an obstacle. She loved him too much for that. Instead she did her best to be part of his world. It was far less frightening to be shot at than to sit at home wondering if he was being shot at. It was to her eternal gratification
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that he, in turn, tried to be part of her world. Taking more interest in politics. Spending time with her doing the finances. They fit together, better than she’d ever dreamed they would. And she still felt warm every time they touched. “Let’s get some tea,” Wax said, climbing to his feet with her help, “and talk this over.” Marasi settled into the couch, her ears ringing from the second explosion. Allik sat beside her, mask down—he tended to lower it when he chewed gum, as he was doing now. Chewing visibly was a cultural taboo for him. Odd. If there was one thing it should be normal to lift a mask for, it was eating. Still, she wrapped her arm around his and let him rest his head on her shoulder. Rusts, it was nice to have him around full-time these days. The early years of their relationship had been sixteen different varieties of frustrating. While they waited for VenDell to finish his report to Harmony, Wax talked about meeting the airship—and the new ambassador. She felt Allik grow tense at the description. “This is Daal the Primary,” he explained to the rest of them. “He … is very well respected by the Hosts.” “I could tell he was important politically,” Wax said. “No, Wax,” Marasi said. “Respected by the Hosts means he was successful in war.” “So his arrival is a threat,” Steris said, nestled against Wax with her notebook out, shoes off, her stockinged feet up to the side in a posture that actually seemed relaxed. She’s changed so much, Marasi thought. She could remember a time when Steris wouldn’t have dared take her shoes off in company. She’d have sat with perfect posture, trying to ensure she was holding her tea and saucer level. Marasi had always loved her sister, even when resentment or forced distance had interfered, but she’d never considered Steris pleasant. Not until these recent years. Part of that had been Steris changing, but another part had been realizing that she and Steris had always felt the same burdens—that sense of entrapment. “I wouldn’t say it’s a threat, Steris,” Allik said. “Not specifically. But if it is true, and the Consortium has finally been achieved—the five nations agreeing to put a common face northward—then this is … a symbol? They send you their best. They want you to know it.” “Their best,” Wax said, “and most stern, I assume? He is certainly more unyielding than his predecessor.” “Yes, Adjective Waxillium,” Allik said, nodding. “They want you to know that they will not be bullied.” “He said,” Wax told them, “that one of his goals was to bring the Bands of Mourning back to his people. Is that still a sore issue?” “You have no idea,” Allik said. “Us agreeing to leave the Bands here, it’s like … like we left you with the body of our dead father, yah? A body that is also a powerful weapon. Nobody liked that decision. “Sending him here, having him say he’ll get the Bands back … this is
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a symbol, yah? A statement? They have been too lax with your people, and wish to indicate this laxness will end.” He shifted in place, then lifted his mask. “Sorry.” “You didn’t choose this, Allik.” “No,” he said. “But I didn’t not choose it.” “Dear, yes you did.” Marasi squeezed his arm. “You don’t have to take responsibility for everything.” He smiled at her, then put his mask down. Footsteps announced what she thought was VenDell returning, but then Wayne burst into the sitting room instead. “Hey!” he said. “You all got blowed up, and you didn’t wait for me?” “Waxillium got blowed up,” Steris said. “The rest of us merely witnessed it. I think he did it on purpose to annoy you.” “I’m rusting sure,” Wayne said, narrowing his eyes at Wax. “You okay, mate?” “My ears are ringing,” Wax said, “and I’ve been reminded—quite profoundly—that I’m at least two decades past prime exploding age. But I should be fine.” “Glad you’re back, Wayne,” Marasi said, leaning forward. “Because we need to plan.” “Yup, glad to be back,” he muttered. “Bein’ the fifth in a room is what every feller wants, yes indeed.” He stomped over to the small serving table and poured a cup of tea—then left the cup on the table and settled down in an easy chair with the entire teapot. “What?” he said to everyone’s stares. “It’s almost gone, an’ I like the spigot part. Fun to drink outta.” He demonstrated, which made Steris put her hand to her face. Marasi sighed, but didn’t say anything. If he was sitting then he was less likely to steal something. She did check her pocketbook just in case. “All right,” she said to the group. “I have the bones of a plan—imitating the Cycle to lead a local gang with a delivery scheduled to Bilming.” Wax leaned forward. “Are we sure that interrogating the current captives won’t be enough?” “They seemed like local flunkies,” Marasi said. “Who will barely know anything,” Wax agreed. “So you’ll want some constables on your sting, ready to capture any Metalborn.” “I keep telling Reddi we need a specialist team,” Marasi said. “A squad just for dealing with Metalborn. He keeps resisting. I think … he considers us that squad.” As those words hung in the air, VenDell finally strode in, shaking his head. “I have,” he said, “been re-ordered to avail myself to you, with much urgency, in your current plans.” “What did he say?” Marasi asked. “Does he know anything about the explosion?” “Harmony is … worried.” VenDell paused. “Trellium has a repulsing effect on other forms of Investiture. Merely touching it to harmonium is dangerous—but doing as you did, heating and stretching the harmonium first, created what he called ‘an Invested matter-energy transference.’ That’s … very bad.” “Did the news surprise him?” Wax asked. “Did Harmony seem shocked we were able to do this? Or did he expect it?” “I couldn’t tell,” VenDell said. “He only said what I’ve relayed. More than that … well, Harmony can be difficult to read.
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I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. Did he send you a note, Lord Waxillium?” “Yes,” Wax said. “I think he implied that I should make an earring out of trellium.” “Whatever for?” Marasi said, frowning. “I don’t know,” Wax replied. “I think he’s trying to get me interested, since I’ve ignored his last couple of invitations to commune with him.” “This time it’s different, Waxillium,” VenDell said softly. “This time … Harmony is frightened.” The room fell silent, aside from Wayne slurping his tea through the nozzle of the teapot. Marasi thought she saw him adding something from his flask to it, and she tried not to let that make her nauseous. Who spiked tea? He’s hurting, she thought. The breakup is final. Rusts, despite everything else going on, she decided to find time to take him out to that noodle place he loved. Bring along a few of the other constables that he liked; remind him he had friends. “My sting needs to happen soon,” she said to the room. “The book says the next shipment to Bilming is to go out in three days, and I want to be ready.” “It’s a good plan, Marasi,” Wax said. “Steris and I have something we can work on while you’re planning.” “Talking to Harmony?” she asked. “Maybe,” he said, seeming distant. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to respond to him yet.” Curiously, he didn’t indicate he wanted to be part of her mission. She’d have let him in, but she couldn’t quite get a handle on Wax these days. The way he’d hung those Roughs coats in the entryway had an air of finality, like a shrine to his old life. That said, when his deputized status had come up for renewal last year, he’d asked Reddi to maintain his position. Wax glanced at Steris, who was leaning against him as she scribbled notes. “We thought of something earlier,” he said to Marasi. “It’s vital that we know if the Set has discovered the explosive potential of mixing harmonium and trellium. We’re going to do research to see what we can find.” “Sounds good,” Marasi said, nodding. Well, that confirmed it. A few years ago, she might have been happy to hear he was staying out of her investigation, but she’d quashed that feeling. She was proud of not letting his shadow—long though it was—blot out her accomplishments. Besides, she’d had her chance to become the hero in Wax’s place—she’d held the Bands of Mourning herself before turning them over to Wax. That simply wasn’t who she was. So today, she was sad to hear he wouldn’t join her. Even worried, as she realized she’d assumed he would be there on this one. If she actually had a chance at high-level members of the Set … well, this could finally break the case open. And lead to answers. But … she couldn’t force him. Shouldn’t force him. If he wasn’t feeling as spry as he once had, then who was she to object? “I’ll go do some more
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listenin’ to those fellows in prison,” Wayne said. “VenDell, you want to come with? Maybe I could give you tips on your accent?” “Master Wayne,” he said, “I am an immortal kandra with hundreds of years’ experience doing impersonations.” “And you always sound snide and upper class,” Wayne said, “in every body I’ve seen you use. So … want some tips or not, mate?” “I…” He sighed. “Harmony did directly order me to be about this. Ugh. Field work is so distasteful. But I suppose I can’t say no.” Marasi glanced at Wax, who had settled back on the couch, thoughtful. Holding the envelope that Harmony had sent him. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s get to it.” Three days later, Wax stood in his penthouse study, looking west toward Bilming. There was no mist tonight. Seemed like weeks since he’d seen any. Preparations had gone well for Marasi’s sting. The notebook had clear instructions on how to deliver the goods. Using intel from interrogations, Marasi had located the very trucks the captives had been planning to use. She had the exact outfits of the captives, and VenDell was playing the role of their leader. Wayne, in one of his finest disguises, was at his side to help sell the role. Even the boxes of goods were real. They would leave sometime tonight. Wax wouldn’t go to see them off, of course. He could be conspicuous, and Marasi had taken every conceivable step to make sure the enemy didn’t spot the subterfuge. They’ll be safe, he told himself. Their disguises are excellent, and she’s extremely capable. This was the Basin, not some wayward town in the Roughs. Marasi had access to the finest constables in the city, along with resources in abundance. She didn’t need an old Coinshot with an unloaded pistol who still felt the ache of having foolishly exploded his laboratory a few days ago. Still, Wax lingered, looking through the wide picture windows of his small penthouse study. It had been exciting, these last years, watching the city grow electrified. He had evanotypes of the process, taken every few months from this high perspective. A grid of lights and streets, homes glowing with the calm light of progress, each adding another shimmering star to the Elendel constellation. Would the lights spread so far that eventually there wouldn’t be any darkness at all? Steris slipped over, then handed him a cup of tea. “With willow powder,” she whispered. “For your aches.” “You think of everything,” he said, taking a sip. “How are the kids?” “Sleeping,” she said. “We should be fine to go back to work.” Together they walked back into the living room, where practically every surface had been commandeered to hold stacks of broadsheets. They could have hired researchers to pick through it all, but why give someone else the fun? And it was fun. Not of the sort that Wax would once have enjoyed, but fun was as much about the company as the activity. They settled down together on the floor—all of the seats had papers
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on them—and continued reading. Searching for any mentions of explosions in cities across the Basin. To pass the time, they also looked for anything amusing. “‘Pickled Pachyderm Plays Piano,’” Steris said, holding one up. “Why do they always pick ‘pachyderm’ for these alliterative sentences?” “Because it’s a funny word?” Wax said, with a smile. “What’s it pickled in?” “Apparently it was sitting in a small swimming pool,” Steris said. “I think that’s a stretch.” He held up his own headline. “‘Child Eats Tar. Mother Feeds Rat As Antidote.’” “Oh, that can’t be real,” she said, taking the broadsheet from him. But it was a real story—and in a reputable paper as well. Turned out even the most highbrow of sources weren’t above using a zinger to move copies on a slow news day. She grinned, setting it on her stack of amusing headlines. For their true hunt, Steris had a system—because of course she did. They read only headlines at first, quickly skimming sheets for certain words in bold or large print. Anything that looked promising went into its own pile. But you didn’t read the story, not yet. You’d want to read all of those together, to compare one against another and further winnow. They were almost done with the most recent batch of broadsheets, delivered today. Wax enjoyed it, mostly for the time with his wife—though he seemed to still be suffering the aftereffects of the explosion. His vision kept behaving oddly, distorting at times for just a second or two. And his mind kept playing tricks on him, making him think he glimpsed blue Allomantic lines without burning metals. He set aside worries over his health, and certainly did not say anything. He didn’t want to concern Steris. He’d survived explosions before. His hand still ached from the mine detonation back in Dust’s Beach … “Here’s one,” Steris said, showing him a serious headline. “Explosion at a railway station.” Wax rubbed his chin as he read. “Sounds like a boiler malfunction. Not terribly suspicious.” “Perhaps it’s covering something up?” He shook his head. Seemed like an odd place to be running metallurgic experiments. Too many people nearby—but then again, he’d done his experiments in the basement of a mansion. So who knew? Steris set it in the “maybe” pile, while he moved his current broadsheet—an account of a fire that was pretty obviously a lightning strike—into the “unlikely” pile. None of these felt right to him, which should have made him happy. Perhaps their enemies hadn’t discovered the explosive interaction between harmonium and trellium. Unfortunately, this sort of investigation could be frustrating for just that reason. He didn’t want to find proof, because it would confirm his fears. Yet if they turned up nothing, they’d never know if it was because no proof existed, or because they had missed it. “‘Snake Sneaks Snoring Snails’?” Steris said, showing him one from her amusing pile. “I have to admire them for committing to the gimmick.” “Do snakes eat snails?” he asked. “This one did, apparently.” She smiled, and Preservation, he loved
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that smile. He found himself wishing this hunt were for lower stakes. Ashes falling again, he thought, shivering. He’d often imagined what it would have been like to live in the mythical days before the Catacendre. When the Ascendant Warrior and Wax’s own distant ancestor, the Counselor of Gods, had walked the land. When people had moved through stories like the sun behind clouds on a mostly overcast day. In those days, the world had been dying. Ash had been its skin, flaking off as it disintegrated … He sighed, rubbing his eyes—seeing those odd flashes of blue. Fortunately, the tea was beginning to work and his headache was at last retreating. “Wax?” Steris asked softly. “Do you wish you’d gone with Marasi and Wayne?” “They’ll be fine,” he said. “They don’t need me.” “That isn’t what I asked, love,” she said softly. He thought for a moment. Then shook his head. “I don’t, Steris. I genuinely don’t. I realized it the other day. I’m … past that stage of my life. I really feel like I’m done.” Except for one thing. The fact that his sister was involved. Still out there. Dangerous. Most families had skeletons in the closet. And most of those were sensible enough to stay dead. His might be threatening the entire Basin. Ash falling again … But he did feel done. Ready to move on. So, he showed Steris an account of a series of broken windows in the city of Demoux. It seemed to be the result of a small twister—a smaller cousin to the more terrifying ones that struck the Roughs. But maybe it was an indication of a sharp pressure change, like an explosion? They put it in the “unlikely” pile. Unfortunately, after an hour of this, they neared the end of the stacks with no solid leads. Just a lot of very unlikely possibilities. Steris watched him as she moved another broadsheet to the unlikely pile. He knew what she was thinking, but she didn’t prod him. “There is one thing,” he admitted to her. “My sister. I should be the one to deal with her. But I have important work to do here in Elendel. Besides, I’m not that man anymore.” “Do you have to be that man or this man?” she asked. “I have to make choices. Everyone does.” “And what about when you initially came back to Elendel?” she asked. “When you decided to hang up your guns the first time?” “This is different,” he explained. “Back then I was running from myself. I stopped running six years ago, in the mountains, Steris. This is what I want. This is who I want to be. I’m happy here.” She leaned into him, a steady warmth at his side. “So long as you know,” she whispered, “that you don’t have to be one or the other. You don’t have to see yourself as two men, Wax, with two different lives. Those men are the same person. And he’s the one I love.” He thought on that, considering those days when he’d
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come back to Elendel—determined to put his past in the Roughs behind him. Because it was what he thought he should do. And … well, because a part of him had been broken. A gouge that had eventually been ripped back open by Lessie’s return. Lying near death on a frozen mountaintop to the south had changed his perspective. When he’d returned to Elendel, he’d been able to live again. Growing, changing. And yet … did that mean the past him was no longer him? Were the inner rings in a tree less a part of it just because they were no longer exposed to the air? “I’m worried about them,” he admitted to Steris. “And … I’m worried about the safety of the Basin. I don’t want to act like I don’t trust Marasi and Wayne. But…” He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope with the earring. Which he still hadn’t used. “Last year, when VenDell offered me a mission, it didn’t have the same urgency. The same disquiet about it. I’m afraid that whatever is happening now has grown too big to ignore. Too dangerous to be stopped by detective work or police intervention, no matter how competent.” “Another god,” Steris whispered. He took out a second envelope. “I had this made,” he said, shaking something out of it. Another earring. With a red tinge to the metal. It was nothing more than a stud, with the only trellium portion the bar in the middle, as the metal couldn’t be melted to be forged. “When I gave the trellium spike to the university for study,” he explained, “I asked them to fabricate this for me. Because Harmony suggested I’d need it.” “Do you believe what Marasi said? About another ashfall? The return of those … dark days?” “I don’t know,” he said. “But VenDell says Harmony is afraid. And that has me terrified.” Steris tapped her finger on the stack of broadsheets in her lap. “Let’s identify our worst-case scenario. Consider: What’s the worst thing you can imagine, in regards to our current hunt?” “My worst fear?” he said, thinking. “It’s that we’re years behind. That the Set has known about this interaction between harmonium and trellium for a great deal longer than we assume—maybe since that first Malwish airship crashed here. My fear is that the Set is not beginning a plan. My fear is that we’re in the end stages of said plan.” “Is there anything we could search for to prove this?” Steris asked. Wax stood up, surveying the room full of broadsheets, each stack from a different city. “Rusts,” he said. “We shouldn’t be searching for accidental explosions. We should be searching for proof of intentional ones. And we’re looking at too recent a batch of papers—if it happened, it could be five or six years old by now.” He paused. “They’d want to test. It wouldn’t be one explosion long ago. It would be a series of them … hidden somehow … because if they have this weapon, they’ll want to develop
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it. Improve it.” “How?” Steris asked. “Should we search for records of harmonium busts?” “I doubt that would show up in the broadsheets,” Wax said, turning around the room. “The Set is good at hiding its resource movement, especially of contraband. Marasi’s investigation proves that.” So what? Was there any way to find what he wanted? Evidence of tests … of explosions they’d keep hidden … “Earthquakes,” Wax whispered. “What was that?” “Earthquakes,” he said, kneeling beside Steris. “They would test explosions underground, in the caverns. Where they’d be contained and hidden. But they can’t fool the seismographs.” They dug into the headlines again—but this time with a different set of criteria. And admittedly, Wax broke format a little, peeking at the contents of the stories rather than just looking for headlines. Steris poked him in the side if he spent too long doing this, but he was curious. And excited. The answers had to be in here somewhere. The search took a solid three hours of work. But as midnight passed, Wax found it. A series of articles from an Elendel broadsheet about something happening in Bilming. “A subway?” Steris asked, frowning. “Reports,” Wax explained, “of odd earthquakes in the city, starting years ago. Officials quickly explained that Bilming had decided to build a subterranean rail line like Elendel.” “That could be valid,” Steris said, reading another broadsheet expanding on the story. “We used explosives to blast away rock and build the subway.” “But why would Bilming need a subway? They have that elevated rail they’re so proud of. They love showing it off. Plus, these explosions have been going for four and a half years—and they don’t have a single subway line up and running.” “Suspicious,” Steris said, scanning the next article. “Very suspicious. A new initiative started seven months ago … Reports of buildings being rattled by large-scale detonations … They were detected all the way here in Elendel.” “They’re calling it a financial scandal, with construction companies leeching away funds. But it’s obviously more.” Steris nodded vigorously. The broadsheet that had uncovered this wasn’t the most reputable source—it was the latest one to carry that fool Jak’s outlandish stories—but there was something here, as confirmed by several other broadsheets, now that they knew what they were looking for. Rusts, he thought. The Set were testing beneath populated areas? Why? Was that just where they could find the cavern space? This might be even bigger than he’d feared. Hadn’t Bilming been building a navy? Yes. Other articles talked about it. Ostensibly, the Bilming shipyards were creating a defense force for the Basin, in case of attack from the South. But they’d started before the arrival of the first Malwish airships—and they certainly liked to show off the capabilities of their guns. Supposedly these ships were under Elendel’s control. No one actually believed that though. “Wax…” Steris said. “That list of shipments in Marasi’s book. Where they were checking to see how tight customs was. How hard it would be to smuggle something into Elendel…” A chill washed through Wax.
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What would they want to smuggle into Elendel? A bomb. “It looked like they were checking different cargo sizes,” he said. “And how likely they were to be inspected when brought in via train or truck.” “And how big would this bomb be?” Steris said. “Theoretically.” “It’s the generator that would be big,” Wax explained. “If it works according to the mechanics we discovered, then they’d need a great deal of power. More than the simple lines to homes can carry, or even the lines to industrial locations. They’d likely have to build a very large housing for the device.” “Which explains why they were checking which sizes arouse suspicion and which don’t. Wax, if you’re right, then the broadsheets indicate they’ve been testing this for more than four years. Successfully. They might have the bomb already. They’re just…” “… looking for a way to get it into the city.” Rusts. He looked to the side table, and the envelopes. Then, finally, he slipped the first earring out—the one Harmony had sent him. It had been six years. He’d grown increasingly reticent to have anything to do with Harmony. He no longer hated God, but still … He looked to Steris, who nodded. So he put the earring in. And was suddenly in another place. Floating, seeing the entire world before him, and the dark vastness beyond. He spent a moment disoriented, though his feet felt like they were on solid ground. It was unnerving. This didn’t normally happen when he used an earring. But he had been here once before. On that frozen mountaintop. Harmony stood in the distance. A serene figure in traditional Terris robes. Kindly eyes. Hesitant at first, Wax walked across the invisible floor toward Harmony. If he let his eyes unfocus, Harmony seemed as vast as the cosmere—two sweeping wings. One white, one black. Spinning together in the middle, the edges extending to infinity. At the heart of it was that figure. Terris. Head shaved smooth. Rounded features, with an elongated face. The face of a legend, standing with hands clasped behind his back. Looking worried. “Last time I was here,” Wax noted, “I was dead.” “Dying,” Harmony said. “On the very cusp of death. Sometimes I think that’s where I reside. Always there, like a coin balanced on edge … a gulf on either side…” “Where is the redness I saw last time?” Wax asked, nodding to the planet. Six years ago a red haze had been coming over the planet, as if to swallow it. “Did you drive it off?” “No,” Harmony said softly. “It Invested the planet. Invested … me. What you saw was a shroud, Waxillium. I responded too slowly. It is … a failing that grows more dangerous in me. By the time I realized what was happening, that shroud had come over me. It doesn’t hurt, it merely dampens my ability to see.” “You mean…” “I don’t know what’s happening,” Harmony said softly, staring down at the planet. “What is Trell doing? What are they planning? They put that haze up
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as a kind of smoke screen. When I attacked it, the haze infected my ability to see the future. Temporarily. I will be rid of it in a few years. That’s nothing on the timescale of gods. And yet…” “And yet, the danger is right now.” “Yes,” Harmony said. “Like a nearsighted person, I can see the danger now that it has come very close.” He hesitated, then looked to Wax. “I can see you, hear you. We are Connected. And so, I know what you’ve discovered. I thought I had more time. I realize only now that I have been moving too slowly. Yet again, too slowly…” Wax considered that, gave it due weight. These weren’t matters or concepts one took lightly. God blinded. All of them years behind the enemy. A bomb being developed and a search for a way into the heart of his city. One question rose to the surface. An old lawman’s adage. If you wanted to stop a man, you needed to know what he wanted. Who he was. “Harmony,” he said, “who is Trell?” “Trell is the god Autonomy,” Harmony replied. “What we call a Shard of Adonalsium. Autonomy carries power like my own, a dangerous force for manipulating the very nature of reality and existence. Though Autonomy is held by a woman named Bavadin, her many different faces—or avatars—act with independence. Trell, a male god from the ancient records, can be considered one of these.” Wax blinked. “You were not expecting so straightforward an answer?” Harmony asked. “I’ve not always gotten them in the past.” “I’m trying to do better.” That was … somehow as unnerving as hearing that Harmony had been blinded. God should not have to get better. “You rarely get to speak to Autonomy herself,” Harmony continued. “As I’ve come to find, she speaks through avatars. Sometimes pieces of herself that she’s allowed to gain a semblance of self-awareness, sometimes through chosen people she has given a portion of her power. “Autonomy decided to destroy our world, as it is a dangerous threat to her. But I believe she has been persuaded to let it persist, so long as it can be … controlled. Autonomy offered me an ultimatum last year, as my blinding was taking effect and when she assumed I would be the most desperate. She demanded I give this world to her, then move to another. “I rejected the demand—and one of the last things I saw was the person Autonomy has chosen. The same one who persuaded her that this world had value, and who presented a plan for its domination.” “My sister?” Harmony nodded. “The leader of the Set. Invested by Autonomy. Avatar of a god on this world.” Wax exhaled softly. Telsin. Thinking of her brought an immediate stab of betrayal. He remembered exactly how it had felt to realize, in one terrible moment, that she would shoot him. Despite his love, his attempts to help her, she’d been working against him all along. That pain was acute, despite the years. And he realized that
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he hadn’t left everything about his past behind. A thread lingered, a raw nerve exposed to the air. Thinking of Telsin with the power of a deity in her hands … Rusts. She’d spent her youth manipulating people. Getting her way. Telsin always got her way. It had been bad enough when she’d been able to persuade the adults she was sweet, obedient, and perfect—all the while sneaking out with her friends. It had become dangerous when she’d begun playing much higher-stakes games with the city’s elite. And it had become deadly when she’d discovered the Set and started shaping world politics. What would she do with this? “You’re only now telling me?” Wax demanded. “I contacted you a year ago,” Harmony said, “when I was first blinded. You … still did not want to speak with me. And I was trying to respect that.” Damn. “But Wax,” Harmony said softly, “it is time again. I need a sword.” A sword. That was what he’d been when he’d killed Lessie the second time. Cleaning up God’s mess. Executing his rogue kandra driven mad by lack of spikes. “I know you’ve changed,” Harmony said. “I heard you earlier. I know you’re happy. I know you want nothing more to do with my works.” “But my sister,” Wax said, “has the power of a god. Rusts. Marasi and Wayne—does she know what they’re planning with this sting? Are my friends in danger?” “I wish I could say,” Harmony replied. “So far as I know, the enemy knows nothing of their plan. But … I’m blind, and your sister is extremely dangerous. Wax, I have tried to handle this in other ways. I have failed. And so, I come back to the one weapon I’ve always been able to rely upon.” Wax took a deep breath. “Tell me what you know.” “Are you agreeing?” “First tell me what you know. About my sister’s plans, about this god. Anything relevant.” “I’ve shared most of it,” Harmony said. “You should know, perhaps, that each of these powers—these Shards—has what we call an Intent. A driving motivation. I bear two: one driving me to preserve and protect, the other driving me to destroy. “Autonomy is driven to divide off from the rest of us, go her own way. She pushes her followers to prove themselves, and she rewards those who are bold, who survive against the odds. She respects big plans and big accomplishments. I presume this is why your sister has persuaded Autonomy not to destroy our planet outright. Or at least to delay doing so.” “Telsin is still planning something catastrophic,” Wax said. “She’s trying to destroy Elendel. But what does that get her? The other cities will revolt against such a terrible act of destruction; she can’t think they’ll follow her if she kills so many.” “She’s desperate,” Harmony said. “Your sister has set up in Bilming. You’ll find her there, building a new empire. She must know that her god is still eager to wage war on our people and annihilate them. So, she
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is trying what she can. If Telsin destroys Elendel, she can try to take control of the Basin and prove to Trell that she is capable of ruling this planet. I do not know if this is her true motive, but it is what seems most likely.” Harmony glanced to him. “I’m sorry. I had not realized she would go this far.” Wax looked away, but it was difficult to blame Harmony. Wax himself had been blind to Telsin for years—and he didn’t have the excuse of a divine shroud. He’d always assumed that he of all people knew the real her. Until he’d found himself just another pawn in her games, shown a false face. Made to feel an idiot. Why had he thought she would play everyone except him? Because a part of him had loved his sister. Right up until the moment when she’d pulled the trigger and he’d known the truth. Family was nothing to her but a powerful cord with which to bind and manipulate. “If what you have discovered is true,” Harmony said, “we might not have much time for me to free myself from my shroud. Autonomy mobilizes an army from offworld to invade and destroy everyone on this planet. Telsin moves to circumvent that. Both plans are catastrophic to us, and both are in motion.” Damn. Wax took a deep breath. “You had me make a second earring. That’s what finally convinced me to talk to you. Why?” “I hoped that would work,” Harmony said, a hint of a smile on his lips. “A good mystery is the best invitation.” “And? What do I do with it?” “When Vin, the Ascendant Warrior, was resisting Ruin, she didn’t realize that the little earring she wore linked her to him. It let him get inside her head, speak with her. Connect to her.” He nodded to Wax’s earring. “With a trellium spike, you will be Connected to Trell’s avatar—much as you now are to me. She will be able to sense you, and you her.” “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Wax said, shaking his head. “Whenever the two of us meet, she gets the better of me. I shouldn’t try to play her games.” Harmony smiled. A faint smile, from one too burdened to be eager about the emotion. He actually seemed to do it on purpose, with effort. “As you wish. It is a tool for you to use. I’ve lost games over and over against Autonomy, but I still have help I can send you. Some do not realize I was behind their mobilization. Yet I did not know the urgency of our task. I did not know their bomb might be ready. I am caught flat-footed. That was their goal, I think. So I must ask. Will you be my sword again, Waxillium?” “It is absolutely necessary?” “That depends,” he said, “on how you feel about the prospect of your sister taking my place as this planet’s steward.” “That’s … actually a possibility?” “Yes.” “Damn.” “Disrupt Telsin’s plan, and Autonomy
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will abandon her. That is our best bet.” “And the army Autonomy is bringing?” “We will have to hope we have time to stop them after your sister’s plan is subverted.” It didn’t sound like much of a strategy. He looked to Harmony, and saw something different this time. Not the vastness of the powers, or even the figure of legend. But a man. Thrust into a war that none of them had been ready for, playing catch-up to learn powers that others had presumably spent millennia mastering. He’s doing his best, Wax thought. And struggling to avoid being crushed by the opposing powers he holds. He needs help, and I’m all there is. When Wax had run to the Roughs, it had been to escape—but he’d stayed because people needed him. He’d found peace in Elendel. He wouldn’t return to the field because he wanted it or needed it. This time, he would go because he was needed. “Final time?” Wax said. “I promise,” Harmony said. “Final time.” “All right,” Wax said, and felt a weight settle onto him. “I’ll stop Telsin. But you’re going to have to deal with this Autonomy.” “Buy me time,” Harmony said. “Time to recover. Time to build greater alliances in the years to come, so we can face her as a unified planet.” “I still don’t know how bombing Elendel gets Telsin what she wants,” he said. “It’s too extreme. She’s more rational than that. She’s got to be planning to threaten us with it until we bend. Maybe she intends to … I don’t know, detonate one in an Ashmount to cow us?” “Perhaps. I do not know her ultimate plan. I’m sorry.” A mystery then. With terrible stakes. Wax met Harmony’s eyes. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?” “Many things,” Harmony admitted. “Will any of them hurt, like what happened with Lessie?” “Not on purpose,” Harmony said. “But I cannot promise you will survive this. Or that if you do, it will be without pain. I can’t promise much these days.” Wax made a fist. “Do you trust me, Waxillium?” God asked. “No,” Wax said honestly. “But I trust her less. I’ve already said that I’ll help. But I’m not only a sword, Harmony. I’m a lawman too. I’ll find out what Telsin is doing. I’ll answer the questions you cannot. I’ll stop her that way.” “Thank you.” In a heartbeat, Wax was back in his penthouse. He’d never left, not physically. Steris knelt beside him, worried. “He’s been blinded,” Wax said to her. “He didn’t realize how urgent the problem was, and he’s asked me to help. To intervene, and stop my sister.” He took her by the arm. “I’m sorry. I need to go. I know you’ll worry about me.” “Of course I will,” she said. “But do you think I won’t worry if you stay? If you’re right about all of this…” She stood up. “It’s not me or them, Wax. It’s not politics or Allomancy. It’s not me or Lessie. It’s never been either/or. That part of your
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life isn’t over merely because you didn’t need it for a while. You need it now. We all do.” He stood up beside her. “I’ll need to fetch my coat and my guns from the mansion.” “I have them here,” she said, moving some stacks of broadsheets to uncover a cleaner’s bag—from which she removed his mistcoat. “I should have guessed that you’d have it laundered,” he said. “Thank you for—” There was a knock at the front door. They exchanged a look. Who was coming by at this hour of night, when even the servants had been dismissed? Wax walked to check, and outside—in the small hallway that led to the elevator foyer—he found a wrapped package. He closed the door and showed the package to Steris. When unwrapped, it revealed a row of sixteen vials with—it appeared—a solution of alcohol and metal flakes inside. The last had a red-painted cork and a note. Use the others instead of your normal vials. Use the last in an emergency only. Wax took these solemnly. Then, from the locked cabinet by the wall, he removed his strongbox—and from that two fully aluminum pistols, among Ranette’s finest creations. Vindication II and the Steel Survivor. The first was a powerful, large-caliber gun designed to hold hazekiller rounds in two extra chambers. Those rounds were oversized, the bullets designed with a secondary explosion for dealing with Hemalurgists. Ranette had come up with them to forcibly eject a spike from a person’s body at close range. The second gun was a sleek mid-caliber pistol with an extra-long barrel for firing precision rounds. He generally loaded it with ordinary bullets that could be Pushed. They slid into holsters that up until recently had held his unloaded guns. There was more in the box too. A gun bag, two feet long, holding something extra special, in several pieces that could be assembled. Ranette’s most deadly design. He hesitated as he put a hand on it. Inside was a weapon not for a lawman, but for a soldier. Intent on destruction. He put it back in the gun box. He wasn’t going to need that. He was a lawman. Steris bustled over with his large shoulder bag, extra wide and made of thick leather, for supplies. She packed his ammunition and extra metal vials—and, knowing her, a lunch—as he hurriedly gathered a few other things he thought he might need from the study. This included a belt with a pouch lined in aluminum, for holding metal vials. He could clip it closed, and the glass vials inside would be untouchable to enemy Allomancers. Into this he loaded half of the vials Harmony had sent. When he returned, she held out his mistcoat for him. He took it in a two-handed grip. “Steris,” he said, “the Senate … I can’t be in two places at once. Can you talk to the governor? This is a bad time for me to leave, with the new ambassador here. Hell … it might not be bad to prepare the governor for the worst, explaining
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about the potential for a bomb.” “I don’t know if he will listen,” Steris said. “The senators and the governor don’t even listen to you—they’ll outright ignore me.” “Still, we should try.” “We … could appoint someone to represent the house…” “Steris,” he said, “I stepped up to lead the house because of your dreams of what we could do. Your wonderful dreams. You saw in me someone who could do what needed to be done, and you were right.” He took her gently by the shoulder. “I see in you the same person. A better one. I’ve been working on your ideas these last years. Your genius. You can lead as well as I can. Better, even.” “I’m not good with people,” she whispered. “I’ll ruin it. I’ve thought, and I’ve planned, and I always reach the same conclusion. I can’t be trusted with something this important; we need someone more suitable.” “What if I think otherwise?” Wax said. “What if I think you’re absolutely the best person to represent our house? War is building—and it’s going to get worse if I do uncover a conspiracy in Bilming. We need someone to stop the hotheads. Someone meticulous, who has considered all the possibilities.” “I … I don’t know. If I can do it.” “I believe in you, Steris. I will appoint someone else if you want. But I think you can do it best.” She met his eyes. Then, hesitantly, she nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “If you really think this is best, then I will try. I am bad with people, but you are good with them. So it stands to reason that perhaps you are right. About me.” She squeezed his arms. “Go. I will see to the Senate. Somehow.” He kissed her, still holding the mistcoat in one hand, wrapping his other arm around her. As he did, a small pair of hands gripped him and Steris around the legs. “Max!” Steris said, breaking the embrace and looking down. “Why aren’t you in bed?” “Because I’m in here,” he said. She lifted him up as Wax stepped back and threw on his coat, then slung his heavy ammunition bag over his shoulder. “You need to go fight monsters now?” Max asked. “If I can find them,” Wax said. “You can,” Max said. “You’re the best detector that ever lived. Uncle Wayne told me. He said you can find any treasure there ever was to be found.” “I’ve already found the best treasures, Max,” Wax said, turning—mistcoat tassels rustling in that old familiar way. Like whispers speaking an ancient tongue. “Now I just have to keep them safe.” He threw open the balcony doors and launched out into the sky toward the city of Bilming. Stars both above and beneath—with a highway lined in light pointing the way forward. BELOVED EDITOR STILL MISSING It’s been eight days since our editor’s husband and children tearfully pled for her safe return. Since then, our reporters have combed the city, pestered the mayor, and followed each lead you dear readers have submitted.
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Until further notice, and barring any urgent information, our daily updates will run on the back. Please continue sending tips to our offices on the corner of 109th and Stratten Way. Vif! SPARKLE TONIC BEWARE! COPYCATS CLAIM TO HAVE FOUND THE SECRET FORMULA But these unscrupulous imitators only seek access to your pocketbook and will try to fool you into drinking less than the best. If your druggist says something else is “good enough,” tell them: “I KNOW THE DIF GIVE ME VIF” (Paid for by the Vif Sparkle Co.) TUNNEL TREMORS STOP … FOR NOW A sign the city is ready to abandon its underground rail? It’s every Bilminger’s favorite gripe: when will construction crews finish the underground rail line? Initiated over four years ago with a bloated budget that rusts the metals of every Bilming taxpayer, the subway was to provide relief to the city’s traffic problems. While little progress has been seen on the underground rail, in the same amount of time, the Bilming Transportation Authority has added more lines to the raised rail and more lanes to the highways. At this point, do we really need an underground railway, especially when its construction coincides with the small earthquakes that rattle our nerves every few months? More coverage on back: Owner of Soothing Parlor Grateful for Public Agitation ALLOMANCER JAK SETTLES WITH SIDEKICK Allomancer Jak has reached a settlement with his former sidekick, Handerwym Terrisborn, who claims the famous media mogul skimmed Terrisborn’s stakes in the company to invest in new media ventures, like the flash-in-the-pan evanoplays of several years ago. While Jak’s adventures will continue in The Sentinel of Truth, “Handerwym Presents” will now be exclusive to our broadsheet in Bilming. “This was my intention all along,” said Jak to a crowd of eager fans, “to train dear Handerwym in the ways of greatness and then cut the apron strings, push him from the nest, and watch him sink or swim. Besides, now that I don’t have to pay him, I can focus my time and money on writing my memoirs and exploring promising new forms of storytelling. Let me tell you what’s next: vizbooks—they’re stories you can read even if you don’t know your letters!” When asked for comment, Terrisborn just closed his eyes and sighed. More details on back: Why the judge let Jak keep the tiger “Cravat?” Steris said, reading from the list. “Tied and pinned,” Wax said, pulling it tight. “Shoes?” “Polished.” “First piece of evidence?” Wax flipped a silvery medallion in the air, then caught it. “Second piece of evidence?” Steris asked, making a mark on her list. He pulled a small folded stack of papers from his pocket. “Right here.” “Third piece of evidence?” Wax checked another pocket, then paused, looking around the small office—his senator’s chamber in the House of Proceedings. Had he left them … “On the desk back home,” he said, smacking his head. “I brought a spare,” Steris said, digging in her bag. Wax grinned. “Of course you did.” “Two, actually,” Steris said, handing over a sheet of
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paper, which he tucked away. Then she consulted her list again. Little Maxillium stepped up beside his mother, looking very serious as he scanned his own list of scribbles. At five years old he knew his letters, but preferred to make up his own. “Dog picture,” Max said, as if reading from his list. “I might need one of those,” Wax said. “Quite useful.” Max solemnly presented it, then said, “Cat picture.” “Need one of those too.” “I’m bad at cats,” Max said, handing him another sheet. “So it looks like a squirrel.” Wax hugged his son, then put the sheets away reverently with the others. The boy’s sister—Tindwyl, as Steris liked traditional names—babbled in the corner, where Kath, the governess, was watching her. Finally, Steris handed him his pistols one at a time. Long-barreled and weighty, they had been designed by Ranette to look menacing—but they had two safeties and were unloaded. It had been a while since he’d needed to shoot anyone, but he continued to make good use of his reputation as the “Lawman Senator of the Roughs.” City folk, particularly politicians, were intimidated by small arms. They preferred to kill people with more modern weapons, like poverty and despair. “Is a kiss for my wife on that list?” Wax asked. “Actually, no,” she said, surprised. “A rare oversight,” he said, then gave her a lingering kiss. “You should be the one going out there today, Steris. You did more preparation than I.” “You’re the house lord.” “I could appoint you as a representative to speak for us.” “Please, no,” she said. “You know how I am with people.” “You’re good with the right people.” “And are politicians ever right about anything?” “I hope so,” he said, straightening his suit coat and turning toward the door. “Since I am one.” He pushed out of his chambers and walked down to the Senate floor. Steris would watch from her seat in the observation balcony—by now, everyone knew how particular she was about getting the same one. As Wax stepped into the vast chamber—which buzzed with activity as senators returned from the short recess—he didn’t go to his seat. Over the last few days, senators had debated the current bill, and his was the last speech in line. He had secured this spot with many promises and much trading, as he hoped it would give his arguments the advantage, give him the best chance to avert a terrible decision. He stood to one side of the speakers’ platform and waited for everyone to sit, his thumb hooked into his gunbelt, looming. You learned to put on a good loom in the Roughs when interrogating prisoners—and he was still shocked by how many of those skills worked here. Governor Varlance didn’t look at him. Instead the man adjusted his cravat, then checked his face powder—ghostly pale skin was fashionable these days, for some arcane reason. Then he laid out his medals on the desk, one at a time. Rusts, I miss Aradel, Wax thought. It had been novel to have a competent
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governor. Like … eating hotel food and finding it wasn’t awful, or spending time with Wayne and then discovering you still had a pocket watch. However, the governor’s job was the type that chewed up the good people but let the bad ones float blissfully along. Aradel had stepped down two years back. And it had made sense to choose a military man as the next governor, considering the tensions with the Southern Continent. Many people among the newly discovered countries there—with their airships and strange masks—were upset about how things had gone down six years ago. Specifically, that the Elendel Basin had kept the Bands of Mourning. Right now, Elendel faced two primary problems. The first was the people on the Southern Continent, the foremost nation of which was known as the Malwish. They made constant noise about how small and weak the Basin was. Aggressive, militaristic posturing. Varlance had been a hedge against that, though Wax did question where he had earned all those medals. So far as Wax knew, the newly formed army hadn’t seen any actual engagements. The second problem was far closer to home. It was the parts of the Basin that were outside the capital, the people in what were collectively known as the Outer Cities. For years, maybe decades, tensions had been building between the city of Elendel and everyone else. It was bad enough to be facing threats from another continent. But to Wax, that was a more distant danger. The immediate one, the one that gave him the most stress, was the prospect of a civil war among his own people. He and Steris had been working for years to prevent that. Varlance finally nodded to his vice governor, a Terriswoman. She had curly dark hair and a traditional robe; Wax thought he’d known her in the Village, but it could have been her sister, and he’d never come up with a good way to ask. Regardless, it looked respectable to have a Terris person on staff. Most governors appointed one to a high position in their cabinet—almost as if the Terris were another medal to display. Adawathwyn stood up and announced to the room, “The governor recognizes the senator from House Ladrian.” Though he’d been waiting for this, Wax took his time sauntering up onto the podium, which was lit from above by a massive electric spotlight. He made a slow rotation, inspecting the circular chamber. One side held the elected officials: senators who were voted into office to represent a guild, profession, or historical group. The other held the lords: senators who held their positions by benefit of birth. “This bill,” Wax declared to the room, loud and firm, his voice echoing, “is a fantastically stupid idea.” Once, earlier in his political career, talking so bluntly had earned him ire. Now he caught multiple members of the Senate smiling. They expected this from him—even appreciated it. They knew how many problems there were in the Basin and were glad someone among them was willing to call them out. “Tensions with the
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Malwish are at an all-time high,” Wax said. “This is a time for the Basin to unite, not a time to drive wedges between our cities!” “This is about uniting!” another voice called. The dockworkers’ senator, Melstrom. He was mostly a puppet for Hasting and Erikell, nobles who had consistently been a painful spike in Wax’s side. “We need a single leader for the whole Basin. Officially!” “Agreed,” Wax said. “But how is elevating the Elendel governor— a position no one outside the city can vote on—going to unite people?” “It will give them someone to look toward. A strong, capable leader.” And that, Wax thought, glancing at Varlance, is a capable leader? We’re lucky he pays attention in these meetings rather than going over his publicity schedule. Varlance had, so far in the first two years of his tenure, rededicated seventeen parks in the city. He liked the flowers. Wax kept to the plan, getting out his medallion and flipping it into the air. “Six years ago,” he said, “I had a little adventure. You all know about it. Finding a wrecked Malwish airship, and thwarting a plot by the Outer Cities to use its secrets against Elendel. I stopped that. I brought the Bands of Mourning back to be stored safely.” “And almost started a war,” someone muttered in the reaches of the room. “You’d prefer I let the plot go forward?” Wax called back. When no response came, he flipped the medallion up and caught it again. It was one of the weight-affecting medallions the Malwish used to make their ships light enough to fly. “I dare anyone in this room to question my loyalty to Elendel. We can have a nice little duel. I’ll even let you shoot first.” Silence. He’d earned that. A lot of the people in this room didn’t like him, but they did respect him. And they knew he wasn’t an agent for the Outer Cities. He flipped the medallion and then Pushed it higher, all the way up toward the ceiling high above. It came streaking down again, glimmering in the light. As he snatched it, he glanced at Admiral Jonnes, current ambassador from the Malwish nation. She sat in a special place on the Senate floor, where visiting mayors from Outer Cities were given seats. None had come to this proceeding. A visible sign of their anger. This bill, if approved, would elevate the Elendel governor above all Outer Cities mayors—allowing him or her to intervene in local disputes. To the point of removing a mayor and calling a special election, approving candidates. While Wax agreed that a central ruler would be an important step for uniting the Basin, this bill was an outright insult to all of their people living outside the capital. “I know our position,” Wax said, turning the medallion over in his fingers, “better than anyone. You want to make a show of force to the Malwish. Prove that we can make our own cities bend to our rules. So you introduce this bill. “But this underlines why
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everyone outside Elendel is so frustrated with us! The revolutionaries in the other cities wouldn’t have gotten so far without the support of their people. If the average person living outside Elendel weren’t so damned angry about our trade policies and general arrogance, we wouldn’t be in this position. “This bill isn’t going to placate them! It’s not a ‘show of force.’ It’s specifically designed to outrage the people. If we pass this law, we’re demanding civil war.” He let that sink in. The others were so determined to appear strong to external enemies. But if left unchecked, they’d strong-arm themselves right into war over internal disputes. The Malwish problems were real, but not as immediate. Civil war, though, would be devastating. The worst part was, someone was pushing for it in secret. Wax was certain the Set was again interfering in Elendel politics. His … sister was involved. He wasn’t certain why they wanted a civil war, but they’d been trying for years now. And if he let this proceed, playing into the hands of their real enemies, both the elite around him now and the revolutionaries in the cities outside would have cause to mourn. Wax pulled out the stack of papers in his left pocket. He tucked the dog and cat pictures at the back, then held the rest up to the room. “I have sixty letters from politicians in the Outer Cities here. They represent a large faction who don’t want conflict. These are reasonable people. They are willing—eager—to work with Elendel. But they are also frightened about what their people will do if we continue to impose tyrannical, imperial policies on them. “I propose that we vote down this bill and work on something better. Something that actually promotes peace and unity. A national assembly, with representation for each Outer City—and an elected supreme official elevated by that body.” He’d expected boos, and he got a few. But most of the chamber fell silent, watching him hold those letters aloft. They were afraid of letting power leave the capital. Afraid that Outer Cities politics would change their culture. They were cowards. Maybe he was too, because the idea of the Set pulling strings terrified him. Who among those looking at him now were secretly their agents? Rusts, he didn’t even understand their motives. They wanted war—as a way to gain power, certainly. But there was more. They followed orders from something known as Trell. Wax turned around slowly, still holding the letters, and felt a little spike of alarm as he turned his back on Melstrom. He’s going to shoot, Wax thought. “With all due respect, Lord Ladrian,” Melstrom said. “You are a new parent, and obviously don’t understand how to raise a child. You don’t give in to their demands; you hold firm, knowing that your decisions are best for them. They will eventually see reason. As a father is to a son, Elendel is to the Outer Cities.” Right in the back, Wax thought, turning around. He didn’t respond immediately. You wanted to aim return
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fire carefully. He’d made these arguments before—mostly in private—to many of the senators in this room. He was making headway, but he needed more time. With these letters, he could return to each senator, the ones on the fence, and share the words. The ideas. Persuade. His gut said that if the vote happened today, the bill would pass. So, he hadn’t come here to repeat his arguments. He’d come with a bullet loaded in the chamber, ready to fire. He folded up the letters and tucked them snugly into his pocket. Then he took the smaller stack—two sheets—from his other pocket. The ones that Steris had brought spares of in case he forgot. She’d probably made copies of the other stack too. And seven other things she knew he wouldn’t need—but it made her feel better to have them in her bag just in case. Rusts, that woman was delightful. Wax held up the sheets and made a show of getting just the right light to read. “‘Dear Melstrom,’” he read out loud, “‘we are pleased by your willingness to see reason and continue to enforce Elendel trade superiority in the Basin. This is a wise choice. We will deliver half a percent of our shipping revenues for the next three years in exchange for your personal support of this bill. From Houses Hasting and Erikell.’” The room erupted into chaos. Wax settled in, hooking his finger into his gunbelt, waiting for the cries of outrage to run their course. He met Melstrom’s eyes as the man sank back into his seat. The rusting idiot had just learned an important lesson: Don’t leave a paper trail detailing your corruption when your political opponent is a trained detective. Idiot. As the shouts finally died down, Wax spoke again, louder this time. “I demand we hold impropriety hearings to investigate Senator Melstrom’s apparent sale of his vote in blatant violation of anti-corruption laws.” “And by so doing,” the governor said, “delay the Elendel Supremacy Bill vote?” “How could we vote on it,” Wax said, “if we aren’t sure the votes are being cast in good faith?” More outrage. Wax weathered it as the governor consulted with his vice governor. She was a smart one. Anything Varlance accomplished that didn’t involve cutting a ribbon or kissing a baby was probably her doing. As the chamber calmed, the governor looked to Wax. “I trust you have proof of this letter’s authenticity, Ladrian.” “I have affidavits from three separate handwriting experts to prove it’s not a forgery,” Wax said. “And you’ll find my wife’s detailed account of the letter’s acquisition exhaustive and unimpugnable.” “Then I suggest impropriety hearings follow,” the governor said. “After the vote on the Supremacy Bill.” “But—” Wax said. “We will,” the governor interrupted, “require Melstrom, Hasting, and Erikell to sit out the vote. Assuring that the vote is not corrupted.” Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Before he could counter that, the vice governor slammed her gavel. “Votes in favor of continuing?” Most of the hands on the Senate floor went up. For a
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simple vote like this, a more straw poll method would do—unless the vote turned out to be very close. It wasn’t. The real vote, on the bill, would proceed. “Have you any more explosions to detonate, Ladrian?” the governor said. “Or can we get on with this?” “No more explosions, Your Honor,” Wax said with a sigh. “They were my old partner’s specialty anyway. Instead, I have a final plea to the chamber.” His maneuver had failed. Now he had one last card to play. A request not from Waxillium Ladrian. But one from Dawnshot, the lawman. “You all know me,” he said, turning around in a circle, meeting their eyes. “I’m a simple man from the Roughs. I don’t do politics right, but I do understand angry people and the hard lives of working women and men. “If we’re going to take the role of parent, we should treat our children well. Give them a chance to speak for themselves. If we keep pretending they’re toddlers, they’re merely going to start ignoring us—at best. You want to send a message? Send the message that we care and are willing to listen.” He took his seat finally, next to Yancey Yaceczko, a good-natured and patient fellow—and one of the senators who’d actually listened to Wax. “Good show, Wax,” the man whispered, leaning in. “Good show indeed. It’s always a pleasure.” Yancey would vote with him. In fact, a decent number of the nobles empathized with Wax. While a lot of the things Marasi had been saying recently made Wax uncomfortable about his hereditary position, in this instance the lords might turn out to be slightly less corrupt than their counterparts. The elected senators had to retain their seats, and voting for this bill was likely to improve the lives of their constituents. That was the problem. According to the latest census, more people now lived outside the city than inside it. Most of the laws dated back to when there had been one city and a bunch of farming villages. Now that those villages had grown up into cities, their people wanted a stronger voice in Basin politics. Elendel was no longer a scrappy settlement rebuilding after an apocalypse. They were a nation; even the Roughs were changing, growing, being modernized. Rusts, with all the land in the Roughs, he could imagine a time when more people lived there than in the Basin proper. They needed to enfranchise those people, not ignore them. He still had hope. He and Steris and their allies had worked for months to erode support for the bill. Innumerable dinners, parties, and even—as he’d started doing for some of the city’s elite—some training on the shooting range. All in the name of changing the world. One vote at a time. The governor called for the vote, and Lady Mi’chelle Yomen cast the first one—against the bill. As it proceeded, Wax sat, as anxious as he’d ever been before a confrontation with a bandit group. Rusts … this was somehow worse. Each vote was the crack of a
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bullet. Lady Faula and Senator Vindel. How will they break? And Maraya? Was she persuaded, or … Two of them voted for the bill, along with multiple others that he’d been uncertain about. Wax felt a sinking feeling, worse than being shot, as the vote proceeded—and eventually landed at 122 for, 118 against. The bill passed. His stomach fell further. If Wax was going to stop a civil war, he’d need to find another way. THE TWO SEASONS MAREWILL 19, 348 Vol. 32, No. 247 Kyndlip Ternavyl, Editor and Proprietor BILMING “No Two Seasons Are Alike,” an Originators Proverb 5 clips Handerwym Presents NICKI SAVAGE and The COMPASS of Spirits In my last letter, the Haunted Man, my two Faceless Immortal companions, and I saw the Coinshot Vila Mecant grab the Compass of Spirits and throw herself off a stone outcropping into the mists. The aluminum key that activated it, however, was still with me. Knowing Vila would be back, I entrusted the key to the Haunted Man, who used his hellguns to launch himself to another outcropping, leaving me to convince my faceless friends I had a plan… Which, of course, I did. Chapter 8: “Flight of the Ornisaur” KeSun rolled her eyes. “Exactly how do you expect to follow Vila and lure her out?” “The aluminum bones we lifted from the ornisaur quarry,” I said, patting Tabaar’s giant backpack. He groaned deep within his corpulent body. “Oh no…” “You are incredible at imitation,” I said encouragingly. “Remember when you were Human the koloss in A Hero for All Ages? You were masterful! You can do this!” “He can’t,” said KeSun, folding her arms. “Not without me. I’m the one with experience impersonating birds.” Turning to Tabaar, she said, “If you are willing to yield some control to me, then we can carry Miss Sauvage across this abyss.” “But the rest of my collection…” he said, the bag of bones shifting on his back. “We’ll return for them,” said KeSun, with a compassion in her voice she reserved only for Tabaar. “I promise.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Will you kindly look away?” she asked. “We’d rather you not see us when we…” “…merge,” said Tabaar. What followed was one of the strangest things I’ve ever encountered, stranger even than the Beast of Belmon Couture or that time when I was Allomancer Jak’s assistant. (Continued below the fold!) The Two Seasons would like to retract our dear editor Kyndlip Ternavyl’s comments of two weeks ago, prior to her disappearance, when she compared our beloved mayor to “an irascible boar; no smarter, less attractive, and unable to keep from rolling around in every mire he comes across.” ELENDEL SUPREMACY BILL THREATENS BASIN UNITY UNITY OR DIVISION? PROGRESS OR PERNICIOUSNESS? In a matter of days, Elendel’s Senate will vote on what Bilming’s top political mind, Professor Garven Munz, has called “the most monumental change to our government structure since the Words of Founding.” Days of speeches, debates, and posturing are planned leading up to the vote, and the eyes of the Outer
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Cities are focused on the so-called Lawman Senator of the Roughs, whose recent visits north of the Basin have solidified his stance with which many Outer City dwellers concur: Representation Before Supremacy. Governor Varlance and his cronies vehemently oppose this tack, their views summed up in Vice Governor Adawathwyn’s bold opening remarks that “We’ll need a strong, experienced leader when war comes to us from our masked Southern friends.” Admiral Jonnes of the Malwish Nation looked visibly shaken and did not return after the Senate’s following recess. When Varlance was asked if he too thought the Basin might be headed toward war with the Malwish, he merely patted his chest where he’d conspicuously hung his military medals. (Continued on back.) Marasi got a few hours of sleep, nestled in the front seat of the truck as her convoy rolled toward Bilming. Fortunately they’d been able to recruit drivers from the constabulary night watch, so they were used to the hours. Hers wasn’t the talkative type. The woman wore her jacket with the collar up, a cap on her head to shadow her face. The team had been told to maintain their disguises even while driving. When Marasi had dozed off, they’d been traveling through the bleak darkness beyond Elendel. When she blinked awake, the sun was rising and they were passing the Bilming suburbs. Marasi had never been to the city, though it was only a few hours by train along the coast, but she had a good grasp on the politics of why this city was so important. As traffic into the capital had grown overwhelming, Bilming had become an essential port and dockyard. Its seaside nature let it trade with other coastal towns, ignoring Elendel’s railway monopoly. In addition, Bilming was a chief port for trade with the Southern Continent—where much commerce was being handled by traditional ocean shipping, not airship. The discovery of those new lands had brought wealth into Bilming. And wealth meant power. Many in Elendel thought they had let the people of Bilming grow too independent—and in recent years, it had become the one city in the Basin that could legitimately rival Elendel. Many in the capital spoke of Bilming snidely, pretending it was a rural outpost of half-educated sailors and drunken dockworkers. Marasi knew better. This wasn’t a rural backwater; Bilming was a metropolis in the making. She passed neatly laid-out suburbs—but even more swaths of land that had been set aside to eventually be filled. Many developments were mid-construction, houses being built, each in a different style, no two roofs matching one another. No two doorways in the same place. Yet there was a strange symmetry to it. One she couldn’t quite pin down. It was the same downtown, which—though still distant—she could see had half-finished pillars of skyscrapers growing up like the mythical spires of Kredik Shaw. A dominant building at the direct center was furthest along. It had to be a good seventy or eighty stories high, rivaling the tallest buildings in Elendel. Each of the buildings—particularly the one at the center—had
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a strange aesthetic that mixed the feel of a fortress with modern sleek lines and steel finishings. As they drove closer, the roadway passed under a large elevated railway that ran in a circle around the city. Some sections were unfinished, but big swaths of it were already in operation. Everything had a metallic feel to it, like burnished steel, enhanced by the skeletons of buildings rising up, their girders exposed. The finished buildings had metal roofs or siding—not always polished, and often with a patina. The overall effect gave the great variety of building shapes a cohesive theme. She was impressed. Even half-finished, this was a city with a plan. The design screamed of industry, forward thinking, and accomplishment. They passed numerous billboards proclaiming the virtues of self-reliance and sovereignty. You didn’t have to read far between the lines to see the tone those were setting. Independence from Elendel. “You ever notice,” her driver said, “how kids always draw houses the same way?” Marasi frowned, glancing at her. The woman’s voice was on the deeper side, but Marasi couldn’t make out much about her. Marasi had chosen her truck at random, picking one that had boxes in the back, not constables—hoping that would help her sleep. “I can’t say that I’ve noticed,” Marasi said. “It’s strange,” the driver continued. “You can imagine the shape, of course. Square box. Triangular roof. Door right in the center. Two windows. Often a chimney, even though fewer and fewer homes have those these days. What house actually looks like that? Almost none. So why do kids draw them?” “I guess it’s easy,” Marasi said. “Perhaps,” her driver said. “Or maybe they’re not drawing a house. They’re drawing someone else’s picture of a house. What they’ve seen others make. An icon. A symbol.” Marasi narrowed her eyes. “That’s an interesting observation, Constable … what was your name?” “I go by Moonlight,” the woman said. “We like code names. It’s one of our things.” “I … have never heard that word before.” “You wouldn’t have, since you have no moon here.” The woman leaned back and stretched out her arm on the top of the steering wheel, causing her sleeve to inch back and reveal a red tattoo on her forearm, above the wrist. The same symbol that had been on the card left for her. Slowly, cautiously, Marasi reached for the pistol in the holster under her arm. “You won’t need that,” the woman said, her eyes still on the road. They’d been forced to slow considerably now that they were approaching the center of the city. Who would have guessed that an Outer City would have so much traffic? “Where’s the constable who should have been driving this truck?” Marasi asked. “What did you do to her?” “Nothing,” the woman said. “She’s fine. But I find it amusing that’s the first thing you ask. I mean, I understand—but maybe get your priorities straight, Marasi.” Marasi kept her fingers lightly on the grip of the handgun, but didn’t draw it. “Was it you in the cavern?
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The person wearing a white mask?” “It was black,” the woman said, passing that little test. “Yes. That was me.” “And … are you human?” “One hundred percent,” the woman said. “I’m not a local though.” She pulled off her cap, revealing straight black hair in a ponytail and uncommon features. A shape to the eyes Marasi had never seen, prominent cheekbones. “Are you from the Southern Continent?” Marasi asked. “No.” Moonlight nodded to the city outside. “I’ve always hated Bilming. I should like the thought they put into design, yet the underlying message disturbs me. They’re trying hard to make each building individual, but the way it comes together is too deliberate. It makes the artistry feel hollow.” “And why do you think that is?” “Because of Trell’s influence, obviously.” Marasi leaned forward. “Tell me. Please.” Moonlight glanced at her for the first time. Such self-assured eyes, with a cocked half smile on her lips. This was a woman who had put herself at the very center of a group of constables and didn’t seem the slightest bit worried. “So hungry,” Moonlight said. “We don’t always share answers with outsiders, Marasi.” “I could have you arrested and interrogated.” “On what charges?” “Interfering with constable business.” “Interfering? How? I was instructed to drive this truck.” “Don’t play coy,” Marasi said. “You’re impersonating a constable—plus it’s against the law to withhold information vital to an investigation.” The woman smiled, turning her eyes back to the road. “Strange how similar cops are, regardless of the planet.” Regardless of the planet. Rust and Ruin … Marasi had known that there were other planets out there, of course. The kandra talked about it. But … rusts. It was still hard to accept. They pulled to a halt as some traffic worked its way into the street ahead of them. As they did, a beggar came to Marasi’s window. Per the notebook’s instructions, Marasi unlatched the window and folded it down, then handed the beggar a few boxings. The dirty man slipped her a piece of paper. “Can you get to Biggle Way?” Marasi asked, reading the note. “Yeah,” Moonlight said, turning them down the next street. “That’s in the industrial district.” Marasi’s truck pulled into the lead and the convoy followed her, all ten keeping in a tight double line. At the next corner, Wayne’s truck came up beside them. She could make him out talking the ear off his driver—who turned out to be Hoid, Wax’s coachman. How had he gotten involved in the sting? “Can’t tell these days,” Moonlight said, “if I’m keeping watch on him, or if he’s keeping watch on me. Realistically, we’re both just keeping watch on the same third parties…” “What. Hoid?” Marasi asked. “He’s been in Wax’s employ for years. He’s an odd fellow, but…” In the next truck, Hoid glanced at them—past Marasi—and nodded to Moonlight. Damn. What in the world? How much of her time had she wasted on bank robberies or protection rackets, when this was going on? Whatever this was. “Has it ever struck you,”
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Moonlight said, “how art is so destructive?” “Art?” Marasi said, frowning. “Destructive?” “Each new movement consumes the one that came before,” Moonlight said, starting them forward as the traffic began to creep into motion again. “Chops it up and feeds on the corpse. Takes the bones, but drapes new skin on them. Each new piece of art is in some way a parody of what has come before.” “You sound like an artist yourself.” “I have certain talents,” she said. “My experiences have given me an interest in the quirks of the artistic world—and its … values, you might say. Tell me. Let’s say you had one of only sixteen extremely rare pieces of art by the same artist. What would you do to ensure yours becomes the most valuable?” “If I play along,” Marasi said, “will you tell me about Trell?” “I’m trying to, right now.” Marasi frowned, considering. “I have one of sixteen pieces of art … and I must ensure mine is the most valuable?” “Yup.” “I’d try to create an air of mystique around it,” Marasi said. “I wouldn’t show it off. I’d let the other fifteen become common by comparison—and the value of mine would increase as people shared the story. There is one more. One no one has seen.” “Clever,” Moonlight said. “I’m impressed.” “And what would you do?” Marasi said. “Steal the other fifteen,” Moonlight said. “Then I’d be able to manipulate the market however I wanted.” “Ruthless.” “Not as ruthless as other options. These pieces of art exist, Marasi, and your planet’s god holds two of them.” “Ruin and Preservation.” “Indeed. That makes Harmony the most valuable—the most Invested—being in the cosmere. One of the other sixteen decided the best way to improve his stock was to try to destroy all the others. He managed it in a few cases.” “And … is that Trell?” Moonlight shook her head. “No, his name is Odium. Trell—Autonomy—had a different idea. You see these buildings? These houses? All pieces of a larger art installation. The grand creation is impressive, but it’s not yours. This kind of pattern, and those straight lines, those reflective panels … that’s from a Taldain movement known as brutalism. “That’s part of what I hate about Autonomy. She claims she wants everyone to be individual. Gives them each a little house that is distinctive from the others, but only in a way that fits her plan, her desires. It’s fake individualism. A corporate uniqueness. Like an advertisement telling people to go their own way, be their own person—by buying this product like everyone else.” Marasi struggled to parse all of this. But what she understood reinforced what she had suspected. A being from another planet was leading this city, and had plans for the people of Marasi’s world. “What is Trell’s goal, then?” Marasi asked. “If he doesn’t want to destroy the other gods?” “Trell is trying to edge out the others,” Moonlight said. “She—he, they, it varies—doesn’t like engaging other gods directly. We call them Shards, by the way. Autonomy is trying
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to outcompete the others by filling the cosmere with versions of herself. Crowd out the competition, so to speak. Like an extremely invasive plant moving into another ecosystem and strangling the local varieties.” Marasi frowned. “I … think I understand.” “Conversations about Autonomy can be confusing,” Moonlight said, her eyes on the road. “Trellism is the remnants of an ancient religion on your world, originally founded by Autonomy long, long ago. A seed for when she decided to move in. Now, that time has come. Autonomy is looking for someone on this planet to fully take up that role, that identity.” “Wait, take up that role?” “She wants to leave a god behind on this planet,” Moonlight explained. “Someone who bears some of her power, who sees to her interests, and is—in many ways—a piece of her soul. She does this all around the cosmere. Some worlds have entire pantheons that are all versions of her, each of which has a distinct personality and identity.” “So … she’s role-playing? With herself?” “Yes,” Moonlight said. “But Autonomy’s Investiture has a life of its own, and so each version of her becomes its own thing over time. Sometimes they aren’t a person but only power. Other times, if the situation needs more oversight, she picks someone to elevate.” “So…” Marasi said, “she’s going to take our world by setting up a rival god and forcing Harmony out?” “Basically,” Moonlight said. “Your planet is a primary target for her, Marasi. Two Shards in residence, held by one person, frightens her. You had gunpowder weapons and electricity before any planet in the cosmere aside from her core homeworld. She sees you getting stronger, learning more and more. Getting close to real secrets. It makes you the biggest threat in the cosmere, at least to her.” “I don’t see how this could defeat Harmony though.” “I don’t either, honestly,” Moonlight said. “I’m not sure any human can understand the full plan. But she knows Harmony has trouble acting, and so she has seen an opportunity.” Marasi sat back, breathing out, her hand slipping from her gun. Answers. Actual answers. She’d been searching for so long, hit so many dead ends. To finally get an explanation felt … wonderful. “So Autonomy is looking for an avatar,” Marasi said. “She’s likely found one. A woman named Telsin.” “Wax’s sister?” Damn. “Granted, there’s rivalry among the ranks,” Moonlight said. “There always is, with Autonomy. So Telsin will have to prove she’s the strongest, the best. And, since creativity and individualism are Autonomy’s stated intents, she’ll reward grit, success, vision.” Moonlight nodded to the half-finished buildings they were passing. “This city is an example of that, all designed by one gifted architect Telsin promoted five years ago. His work is meant to impress Autonomy … but the individual homeowners? They don’t get to design anything. They get a manufactured ‘individual’ house.” “Seems like a raw deal,” Marasi said. “Depends on what you want,” Moonlight said. “Living under her can be safe if you keep your head down, don’t stray into the
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dangerous regions where she demands that you test yourself. Autonomy is brutal, but also generous. If you impress her, you rise through her ranks. Even if you go against what you’re told, and you are successful, you are rewarded.” “And if you fail?” “It doesn’t go well for you,” Moonlight said. Her eyes grew distant. “She sickens me. But I do understand her … I think. It’s taken a while.” Marasi sat back in her seat, thoughtful. Answers, finally. But at the same time … how much could she trust this woman? Was any of this true? “Why explain this to me now?” Marasi asked. “Because you’ve impressed my organization,” Moonlight said. “We who defend Scadrial have to move very carefully; there are forces in this world—Harmony included—that might crush us, if we take the wrong step.” That gave Marasi pause. If they didn’t work for Harmony, who did they work for? Moonlight led the truck caravan off the highway at last, passing through the outskirts of the city on the northern edge. “It’s so … fabricated,” Moonlight said. “Look at that sign. You see it?” “The billboard?” Marasi said, glancing at the large posted drawing of a stylized version of Bilming, with light rising behind it. PRIDE IN PROGRESS, it said. OUTER CITIES SELF-RELIANCE MOVEMENT. “Those are all over the city,” Moonlight said. “Nights! The same exact piece of art, a hundred times over. Art that can be reproduced … is it really art at all?” “Of course it is,” Marasi said. “Why would it stop being art just because it’s replicated?” “It’s crass.” “Said like an elitist,” Marasi said. “If you truly were interested in the beauty of the art—instead of some tangential sense of control—you’d want everyone to be able to experience it. The more the better.” “Well argued,” Moonlight said. “I’ll admit that my distaste for Autonomy might taint my opinion.” They led the convoy onto Biggle Way, then drove slowly in a single-file line. Eventually someone fell into step alongside Marasi’s truck, wearing a red jacket as the notebook said. She unlatched the window again. “Ahead, across the Grand Motorway,” he said. “Third building on the right.” She nodded and put the window back up. At the end of the street, they reached the Grand Motorway—a vast six-lane highway. Marasi had never seen a street so wide. “Are there really so many cars these days that such a thing is necessary?” “They’re planning,” Moonlight said, “for a much larger city in the future.” Well, they might not need that many lanes yet, but there was still plenty of traffic on the Grand Motorway. They had to wait for traffic to slow and give them a chance to cross. Ahead she could see a line of large warehouses—the third one’s cargo door was open. That was it, their drop-off. “Are you going to interfere?” Marasi asked. “With our operation?” “No,” Moonlight said. “You have my word.” “Can I talk to you afterward?” Marasi asked. “Yes,” Moonlight said. “But Marasi, I can only say so much to an outsider.
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For now I’m just here to watch.” At a lull in the traffic, Moonlight pulled across—though the other nine trucks had to wait their turn. “And what if bullets start flying?” Marasi asked. “You’re going to sit here and watch?” “I’m not a constable, as you pointed out,” Moonlight said. “So yes. Consider me an external admirer of your work. Interested in the quirks of those who follow the law—and their … value.” She smiled in a knowing way, then pulled into the cavernous warehouse. As soon as all ten trucks arrived, the sting could begin. Wayne nodded as the trucks ahead waited to cross the highway. “Well then, Hoid,” he said to the coachman, “that’s all I know about how to pickle vegetables.” “… Thank you?” Hoid said. “’S all right,” Wayne said. “I’m a bastion of useful information, I am.” The truck ahead of them pulled forward, crossing the vast motorway filled with sixteens upon sixteens of cars. Hoid moved their truck up, next in line. “Can I have my harmonica back now?” Hoid asked. Wayne fished in his pocket and brought it out. “I traded you fair for this!” “You did nothing of the sort.” “I did!” Wayne said. “The trade is in the glove box. You’re always too watchy for me to slip things in your pocket. How’d you get so good at that, anyways? You’re a rusting coachman.” “Practice,” Hoid said solemnly. “A very great amount of practice.” He opened the glove box, and a bright white creature with a long, hairless tail peeked out. “Wayne. A live rat?” “I call him Sir Squeekins,” Wayne said. “I wasn’t gonna bring him, but he snuck into my pocket, he did. So I figure, ‘That’s the seventeenth time you’ve let him escape his cage, Wayne. Better give him to someone responsible.’” “You are a uniquely bizarre individual,” Hoid said, smiling as the rat crawled up his arm. “But … trade accepted, I guess?” “Great, great,” Wayne replied. “He likes strawberries and booze, but don’t give him none of the booze, ’cuz he’s a rat.” “Noted.” They waited at the edge of the wide roadway. And Wayne, he’d had this feeling all day today. Something was happening. Something important. “You ever feel,” Wayne said, “like you wish life was like the stories?” “What do you mean?” Hoid asked. “There’s always a good ending in those stories. The ones my ma used to tell … they meant something. People, they were worth something.” “I think we live stories every day,” Hoid replied. “Ones that we will remember, and tell, and shape like clay to be what we need them to be.” “The last story my ma told me,” Wayne said, “was about a lawman. Funny, huh? That I’d end up becoming one. Except he was a hero. And I’m … well, I’m me.” “You do yourself a disservice, Master Wayne,” Hoid said softly. “Can’t be no hero if you were a villain, Hoid.” “But in most of the stories, it is the villain who knows the hero best.” Wayne chewed on
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that, watching the flow of cars on the road ahead. And … found himself imagining that roadway as a river. Because a part of him wished that what Hoid said could be true. Then he waited some more. And some more. Damn. Someone really ought to come up with a way to make it so cars that wanted to cross had a better chance. Maybe you could hire someone to stand at the corner and fire a gun in the air when too many cars were blocking the way, and frighten them to move faster? Anyway, that zooming of cars … that road could be a wide river. Yeah, a river of stone and steel. Faster than any other river in the world. He smiled, remembering a calm, beautiful voice that had kept his world solid for so long. Yeah, there’s a bandit to be chased, he thought. But it’s still wrong. Where’s the hero? He should be here, but he stayed behind. In a lull, Hoid gunned the truck and they scooted across—earning only three honks from cars that had to slow. Pretty good, considering. You could cross even the fastest river, full of the worst kinds of rocks, if you were in a bigger rock yourself. No need to fly, like Jak had in the story. This wasn’t cheating. It was just a smarter way, it was. Followed by the last of their convoy, they pulled into the dim warehouse lit by some unlatched windows up along the tops of the walls. Why put the windows up there, where nobody could see outta them? Oh, right. Illegal stuff. Yeah, that made sense. “Thanks for the ride, Hoid,” Wayne said, pulling out his gangster hat—a worn wool cap traded off one of the thugs they’d caught. “You might wanna keep your head down if this next part gets shooty. Hope it won’t though.” “Understood, Master Wayne,” Hoid said. “Best of luck.” Wayne nodded, and it was time to become someone else. He scrunched up his face, squinting like Franis did—that was the guy he’d gotten the hat off of. A fellow Wayne’s height and age, but more weathered. By time, by smokes, by the things he’d done. Wayne already wore a wig to change his hair color, along with a bit of rubber on his chin to square it out, and some makeup to sink his eyes. With the hat, he was Franis—missing only one thing. He climbed out and swaggered. Franis sure knew how to swagger. VenDell—wearing the Cycle’s body, a man named Granks—met him outside the truck. The others waited quietly. All those dirty conners in the trucks would jump out only when they had someone important to catch. Someone more than a bunch of useless, low-level cretins. Not that Franis was a cretin. He just needed work, you know? You started by taking a job at the docks, but work there grew tight. And the schedules were so bad. Then you heard your friend Vin had a job with someone who paid better, and all you had to
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do was move some boxes. Who could get into trouble for moving boxes? Even if you did have to keep a gun on you at all times, and be ready to shoot. He swaggered in beside VenDell in his fancy suit and fancier body. “It’s uncanny,” the kandra said, “how you do that. You imitate a person nearly as well as one of my kin.” “Just gotta find someone what looks a little like you,” Wayne said, “and make up the difference. Also, stay in character.” “Right, right,” the kandra said. He wasn’t half bad—considering what a fussy little thing he normally was. He wore Granks’s body well. A gangster who had proven himself enough to be elevated. Given a title and some authority, while the rest of them were basically hired hands. They crossed the vast chamber toward two fellows who emerged from the perimeter. Indeed, a lot of fellows began moving in. A good forty armed men. A local gang. That was … more people than the constables had. We’ll have surprise though, Wayne thought. And the trucks were armored, offering cover. It should be fine, with Wayne and Marasi—not to mention a Faceless Immortal—on their side. MeLaan was quite the fighter; VenDell should be handy in a scrap too. The two fellows that stepped up to meet with them wore work clothing: suspenders, trousers, buttoned shirts. Not good enough. They needed at least a Suit—the rank that Granks would report to—and preferably a Sequence, or even a fully promoted Series. There were only a couple of those in the Set at a time though. And one leader. The Key. Wayne/Franis didn’t want any of those important jobs. He wasn’t interested in wearing the fancy clothing and drawing the gunfire. Pay him his wages and let him pretend he wasn’t doing nothing wrong. “Cycle,” said the stouter of the two men, nodding. He would probably be a fellow named Dip, according to the interrogations. Or … maybe he was one named Embrier. Whoever he was, he glanced at Franis, but didn’t say anything to him directly. “You can leave the trucks,” he told VenDell. “Gather your men in the two vans outside and head home. Your success has been noted.” “Fine,” VenDell grumbled—using a pretty good version of Granks’s accent. “But I need to talk to the Sequence. There’s an issue.” “The radio line isn’t good enough?” maybe-Dip said, glancing at his companion. “I have reason to believe the radios are compromised,” VenDell said. “The Sequence is here, isn’t he?” That was Wayne’s suggestion. The leader types, they always hung around and watched. Didn’t trust good, honest(ish) thieves like Franis to do their job right. So yeah, a higher-level member of the Set would be here. Somewhere. Sure as Franis wasn’t Franis right now, but was somebody kind of close—as close as someone could get, unless he could wear Franis’s bones, which was cheatin’ and that was that. Anyway. Important negotiations. Life or death. Surrounded by forty armed men. Better pay attention. “I will convey your message to the Sequence,”
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maybe-Dip said. “That won’t be good enough,” VenDell said. “There is a problem. A very large problem.” The two thugs looked at one another. Damn … they were suspicious. Wayne glanced at the people at the perimeter, who would need only one offhand comment to start shooting. So he made a quick decision. The fellow wouldn’t be the one named Dip. Because who would put a guy named Dip in charge of anything? “Hey, Embrier,” he said, using a slightly modified version of his own accent—dockworker, but overlaid with the kind of sniveling accent these thugs had all adopted. People what worked together, they started to pick up one another’s ways of speaking. “Can we talk a spell?” The stout man glanced at him, then nodded. “Yeah, Franis?” Wayne waved him over, and they slipped to the side. VenDell started up a conversation with the other man, going over the inventory they’d been able to “acquire.” “What’s up, Franis?” the thug said quietly, then thumbed over his shoulder. “The Cycle never cares about things like this. Just does what he’s told.” “Brain like wet concrete,” Wayne agreed softly. “Can you believe he’s the one what got chosen?” “I can believe it,” Embrier said. “He never questions. Unlike you.” “Hey,” Wayne said, “I only question when my paycheck is coming.” “Don’t we all,” Embrier said, then shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been getting some sun.” Damn. The makeup hadn’t been light enough. Could he get the man to ask after his father? Wayne had some good info from the real Franis on his father. “You know. Heavy work. Like Dad always said—best work is the kind you do with your arms and back.” “Yeah, but don’t you live in a cavern?” “I don’t live in the rusting cavern,” Wayne said. “What, you think I stay down there in the dark?” Embrier grunted. “How’s your sister?” Sister? Aw, rusts. Wayne glanced at Embrier. That smile. “You stay away from my damn sister,” Wayne said. “Just askin’,” Embrier said, raising his hands. “Ruin. No need to come out swinging.” “Look,” Wayne said softly, “Cycle isn’t acting strange—he’s worried. Saw some lady conner sniffing around our base. Dark hair. You know the one?” The man cursed under his breath. “Why didn’t you say so?” “I just rusting did. But Cycle wants to report it. Thinks he’ll get … you-know-who’s attention. For spotting a conner what we know is likely to be around. Rusting idiot.” But Embrier had gone a little pale at the implication that the Cycle wanted to draw Trell’s attention. Best to … ease away from that. Wayne threw his arm around the fellow’s shoulder and walked them back toward the others. “’Sides,” he said to Embrier. “You can forget my sister. I’ve met this woman, she’d be great for you.” “Really?” Embrier asked. “Sure. She thought Yulip was handsome.” “Yulip? The koloss-blooded who looks like a frog?” “Same one,” Wayne said, rejoining the others. Embrier shook his head. “Insanity.” He nodded to VenDell. “I’ll go get the Sequence. You can start your
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men unloading.” VenDell turned, waving for the process to begin. Hopefully Marasi would keep her head down, like Wayne had told her. She was too damn obvious, that one. Needed to learn how to scrunch her face up and become someone she wasn’t, once in a while. Really helped with the self-loathing. Still shouldn’t have crossed the river without the hero, Wayne thought as the two thugs jogged to the rear of the room and opened a door. “Seriously,” VenDell asked Wayne, “how do you do that? You don’t even have their bones.” “Gotta have fewer sticks up your posterior, VenDell,” Wayne said. “Yank one or two out, and you’ll see.” “It’s patently unfair,” he said. “A mortal should not be able to stand beside one of the Bearers of the Contract and seem a fair match to their skill in imitation.” “Aw, jealousy,” Wayne said. He breathed it in. “Smells like cherry blossoms. Also, stop breakin’ character, ya sod.” Finally, two figures in nicer clothing stepped from a darkened room at the back of the warehouse. Perfect. That was what they’d wanted. Hopefully the waiting constables could— Suddenly, the outer doors slammed open and figures in brown began flooding in, pointing guns at the thugs. “Drop your weapons!” a voice shouted. “This is a sting!” “It’s the heat!” Wayne said, slipping his gun out of his holster. VenDell grabbed his arm. “Oh yeah,” Wayne said, letting his arm be lowered. “Right, right. I forget sometimes…” But these weren’t their people. What the hell? All around, the thugs were turning—but nobody fired, because more and more figures in brown were pouring in. At least a hundred constables. Wearing … … the shield and tortoise, symbol of Bilming. These were local constables. Marasi’s sting had just been stung. Marasi groaned and sat up in her seat, pulling off the hat she’d used to obscure her face. Bilming city constables. Wonderful. She glanced at Moonlight, who shrugged. “I had no idea,” Moonlight said. Marasi sighed. At least the locals knew to surround the Sequence and his flunky—a pack of at least twenty constables were holding weapons on him. They might not know about the Set, but they understood things like smuggling and gangsters. The rest of the newly arrived constables were rounding up thugs who had wisely decided not to shoot, as they were far outnumbered. They reluctantly dropped their weapons. Marasi kicked open her door and hopped down. Immediately, several of the advancing constables turned weapons on her. She sighed and raised her hands. “I’m Elendel Constabulary!” she shouted at them. “Special Detective Marasi Colms!” “What’s this?” a voice demanded. A tall woman with short blonde hair—wearing a Bilming uniform—pushed through the constables. Marasi thought she knew the woman. “Captain Blantach?” Marasi said. “We met at the intercity training event last year.” The woman looked Marasi up and down, then groaned. Nearby, some of Marasi’s people were hesitantly climbing out of the backs of trucks—showing their credentials. Captain Blantach put her palm to her forehead. “You’re kidding me,” she said. “You’re running a
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sting inside my city?” “I have jurisdiction in the entire Basin,” Marasi said, fishing for the paperwork. “Constable-General Reddi authorized it under the oversight of the governor.” “You claim jurisdiction in the entire Basin!” Blantach said, waving the authorizations away. “Rusting Elenders. Of course you would pull an operation in my city and not even send word.” Marasi felt a little bad for the woman. Still, the Set had the Outer Cities under its thumb. Sending advance word to the local constables would have been far too risky; there were almost certainly Set agents within Blantach’s organization. Though … the fact that the constables were here seemed to disprove that theory. “You’re going to need to turn them over to us,” Marasi said, waving at the gangsters. “Like hell we are,” Blantach said, folding her arms across her uniform jacket, stiff and buttoned tight. “This is part of a much bigger network,” Marasi said. “Then we’ll discover that during interrogation.” Marasi sighed, but took a deep breath. “Blantach,” she said, “do we have to fight this fight?” The taller woman eyed her, but said nothing. “The politicians don’t get along,” Marasi said, “but that’s their business. Our business is protecting the cities—all of them. Just a couple of conners with our hands full. Let’s work together rather than squabble.” “Perhaps I can agree to that … if we do it on my terms.” “This thing I’m hunting,” Marasi said, “it goes deep. Dangerously deep. And it has little tendrils of mist wrapping around all parts of society. Your city’s leaders are almost certainly compromised.” “You said this wasn’t about politics.” “I said we shouldn’t worry about how divisive the politicians are being,” Marasi said. “But everything touches on politics these days. The group I’m pursuing are deliberately stoking war between Elendel and the Outer Cities. “If we get close to them, there are elements in both governments who are going to try to stop us. Which is why I couldn’t warn you we were coming. I apologize for that, but most in my own government don’t know about this operation.” Blantach waved away an aide who came trotting up, perhaps to deliver a count of enemies taken captive, and continued to regard Marasi. This situation was a bit like a political negotiation—but Marasi had an advantage over Steris and Wax. You never really could tell what senators wanted. But fellow constables? You didn’t take up this job for glory—or at least you didn’t stay in this job for glory. Anyone who wanted glory quickly moved on to judgeships or attorney positions, promoted away from actual detective work as soon as possible. But Blantach was a career constable. She’d been in her job longer than Reddi. “You’re making me worried, Colms,” Blantach said. “How hard was this operation to organize?” Marasi asked. “Were those in your own government—higher members of the constabulary—working against you?” “That’s how everything is.” Blantach shrugged. “You know red tape. It…” She trailed off, frowning. “There might have been a tad more on this mission.” “So why didn’t they
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quash it entirely?” Marasi whispered. “Why’d they let you continue?” “I was determined.” That wasn’t it. If the Set had known about this mission, and had been intent on quashing it, they would have. The weapons were being smuggled here to arm the forces in Bilming anyway, Marasi realized. So it’s fine if the government seizes them. They’ll still go where they need to. The Set had to run a delicate operation. They might be in control of Bilming, but most people didn’t know that. So why tip their hand and prevent a raid, when all the Set needed to do was make sure the seized goods went to the right places in the city? And what of the Sequence? Marasi glanced at the pile of constables surrounding him. He’d been bound, but maintained an air of confidence. He had a refined look, a stylish suit. Thick eyebrows and prominent lips. Her guess was that he had been aware of the sting and was playing along, knowing he’d be released later. Then he saw Marasi. And he cocked his head, frowning. He stepped closer and had to be restrained by the constables—as if he’d forgotten about them. He stared at her, confused. A moment later he smiled a broad, even excited smile. He flexed, then stretched his neck. Rusts. What was she missing? Oh hell. What better way to spark further controversy in the Basin than to suddenly find a bunch of Elendel constables interfering in local business? Particularly if … “Blantach,” Marasi said, grabbing her arm, “we have to sedate that man.” “What? Sedate him? Why?” “Aren’t you ready for Metalborn?” Marasi said. “There aren’t any Metalborn in this group,” Blantach said. “I have it on good authority from—” The Sequence chose that moment to let out an Allomantic Push of incredible strength. Marasi wore a breakaway gunbelt with metal pouches, so the Push didn’t do more than strip away her equipment. The Bilming constables weren’t so well prepared. They were tossed back by their own guns, handcuffs, and other accoutrements of their profession. Blantach screamed as she was knocked off her feet, but she was lucky to suffer only a minor fall—many were tossed dozens of feet. Trucks rocked, and two even overturned. The doors at the sides of the building were blown free. Windows cracked and people cried out as guns were shoved across the floor and hit the walls—except for a few unaffected weapons that lay on the ground. Apparently some of the enemy had been given aluminum guns. The Sequence casually scooped one of these up, now standing at the epicenter of a blast of power unlike any Marasi had experienced from an ordinary Coinshot. She stepped back, awed. That had been something like … like from the old stories. Like Harmony had recorded in the histories, detailing the power available to the Ascendant Warrior. It was a horrible sign. Because Marasi realized why the Sequence was smiling. While he’d likely been planning to go along with his arrest, now that he’d found a chance to implicate
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Elendel in a scandal, he would want to cause as many casualties as possible. While the others were recovering, Marasi dove for one of the aluminum guns. But the Sequence took aim and fired directly in front of her, driving her—still unarmed—into cover behind an overturned truck. The Allomantic Push had stopped for now, fortunately. You’ve read about this, she thought. It’s one of the ancient powers available only to Mistborn. It was called duralumin, an arcane metal. Using it, an Allomancer could burn their entire metal reserve at once. Like detonating a keg of gunpowder instead of a single bullet, it released an enormous burst of Allomantic energy. At least … that was what she remembered. It hadn’t been relevant in centuries, because no one could have two Allomantic powers at once. Unless you had Hemalurgic spikes. A figure in a wool cap and wig scrambled up beside her a moment later. Wayne was followed by VenDell in the broad-chested Cycle’s body. A second later Wayne’s speed bubble gave the three of them some breathing room. “They were ready for us!” Wayne said. “They knew we was going to pull this sting!” “No,” Marasi said. “They knew about Blantach and her constables, but I think they didn’t mind being captured. My guess is they were going to go along with that sting, and slip out of jail later.” “So what changed?” he asked. “The Sequence just realized we’re here from Elendel,” Marasi said, “and decided to use our presence to create an incident—constables dead—and blame it on Elendel interference in a Bilming operation.” It was still merely a guess. The facts were clear though. The moment he saw Marasi, a man who had been about to go quietly had decided to fight. Which put everyone in danger. She glanced out from behind the truck, now that she didn’t have to worry about getting shot. The Sequence was casually pointing his gun toward Captain Blantach, who was climbing to her feet. At the perimeter of the room, constables and gangsters alike were picking themselves up off the ground, disoriented. Those who had recovered first were frozen in the act of scrambling for weapons. “What’s the plan?” Wayne asked. “You distract that Sequence,” Marasi said to him. “I’ll organize our constables. The Set’s forces seem surprised by that too—look at the shock on their faces. I really think they planned to be captured, then released by corrupt judges or prosecutors. We still have a chance to turn this around, if we can take advantage of their disorientation.” “This is not the plan!” VenDell said, peeking past her. “Plans last until someone starts shootin’, mate,” Wayne said. “So unruly,” VenDell muttered. “All these beautiful bones are going to get crushed.” “Not if we can stop it,” Marasi said. “Help Wayne with that Sequence and take down any armed enemies you see. Be careful of our drivers—they’re out of uniform but all wearing white shoes.” “Um…” VenDell said. “My. Hmm … When you say, ‘take down,’ what precisely do you mean, Miss Colms?” “Kill?” Marasi
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