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Investiture on the desk nearby. He’d settled here, just within reach of it—but knew he’d be watched at first. He hoped his slumped posture, his tired features, his lack of vibrance would put them at ease. He couldn’t steal it yet. Not quite yet. “Report, sir,” a voice said halfway across the room. “That ship in orbit earlier? Night Brigade.” Another voice, cursing softly. “Why are they here?” “No idea. Shall we…ask?” “No, don’t reveal us. Hopefully their purpose is unrelated.” Tensely Nomad waited, wondering if they’d put it together. He listened for the telltale sounds of people turning toward him, of someone making the connection. Mysterious Rosharan mercenary. Night Brigade in orbit. Nothing. Nomad wasn’t surprised; the Night Brigade didn’t like people to know why he was important. The Dawnshard was a weapon too valuable to sell. If you knew about it, you either hunted it yourself—or you ran far, far away. When are you going to go for that power source? the hero asks. “Not yet. Soon.” “Hey!” a voice said from another part of the room. “That Rosharan was right—this is interesting. We should have been watching.” He let his eyes flutter open. A worker sipping tea had turned on one of the large wall screens, displaying an overhead view of the landscape outside. So they did have a satellite system in place? Or perhaps drones? The view zoomed in on the Beaconite ships flying for the shadow with all they had. Which wasn’t much. Two gunships down, the last two trying—awkwardly—to dogfight. “Are those ship-to-ship guns?” a woman asked. “When did they discover those? I thought we were withholding that technology until later.” Nomad stood up, entranced. Maybe…maybe they… One gunship went down. Another pilot—maybe Zeal—dead. And the rest…even from the distant perspective, he saw Charred dropping from approaching enemy ships onto the transports. He couldn’t hear the ultimatum, but he wasn’t surprised when the surviving ships executed a landing. Surrender. The people of Beacon had, at long last, given up. It was a death sentence. But what choice did they have? He stumbled against a desk, realizing he’d been walking forward unconsciously, hands making fists. Was this really who he was? The man who ran away? Was that what he’d been trained to be? Was that who he wanted to be? He couldn’t help it. He whispered the words, the old words of his oaths. Nothing happened. He slunk back to his wall, where he dropped to sit, then huddled down, cheek to the floor. Exhausted. Wait, Auxiliary said. Wait. I thought that would work. I thought…if you wanted it back… “You wanted a revelation in light.” Nomad squeezed his eyes shut. Well, yes. Why… “Consequences,” he whispered. “I walked away from my oaths. I made the decision. And now…now there are consequences.” Why, though? You’ve never told me why you walked away after leaving Roshar. After all we’d been through together. You abandoned all you’d followed. Why would you do that? Was it time? Time for the deepest, hardest truth—the answer that felt like teeth on
pavement to acknowledge? “I don’t know,” he said. Liar. “Not this time,” Nomad whispered. “I don’t know, Auxiliary. I just…did it. I can’t explain my mindset. I can’t justify it. I disavowed my oaths. It’s the choice I made. But I didn’t have a reason.” You have to. Everything has a reason. Here was why he’d never tried to explain. For all his apparent humanity, Auxiliary was a creature of Investiture. Immortal. Slow to change. Nomad huddled down further, pulling into a ball against the cold steel as he heard others in the room discussing the Cinder King’s capture of the rogue city. He heard them noting how ominous it must feel to have an entire city descend upon you. Union had arrived. Nomad… Sigzil. I don’t understand. “Humans,” Nomad whispered, “are…inconsistent sometimes. We do what we feel. We can’t explain it. I look back on the choice I made, and it feels entirely unlike me. But I did it; I made the choice. In the heat of a moment. “It doesn’t matter if it’s what I wanted to do or what—logically—I should have done. The consequences stand. This…this is who I am.” He couldn’t go back. He had to move forward. Keep going. He’d gotten so good at staying ahead, at moving, at…at running. Why, then, was he in the exact same place? He put his hands to his skull, digging his fingers into the skin. How could he run so hard and never get anywhere? The journey was supposed to be the important part, wasn’t it? Why, then, was he so miserable? Part of him wanted to burst out of this place and go looking for the Beaconites, but what good was that? He couldn’t make a home for them, a safe place. And if he got caught by the Night Brigade, it could mean the deaths of millions. He had no answers. He didn’t know his destination. Maybe that was why he was so lost. Hard to be anything else if you didn’t know where you were going. It wasn’t a revelation in light. More, one in tears. The room had fallen silent. He forcibly ripped himself away from his self-loathing, looking up long enough to see why. The Scadrians had mostly turned to watch the screen with the Beaconites, where the Charred were retreating toward Union—the massive city hovering in the near distance. At first, hope sparked—but like an ember from a fire released into the cold, hungry night, that hope died immediately. The Charred had taken the sunhearts from Beacon’s ships. They were leaving the people alone in the growing grass. Lit by too much light. The sun, never resting, was close to rising again. The Cinder King was going to leave the entire town’s worth of people as offerings. Nearly one hundred and thirty-five souls. The brutality of it was minimal on the grand scale; Nomad had just been thinking of the deaths of millions, the fall of planets. Yet there was a terrible personal cruelty to this event. Even the Scadrians picked up on it,
every single one of them staring at the screen in silence. The postures of the Beaconites, falling to their knees in sorrow and terror. The abject abandonment of Union cruising away, leaving them behind, deaf to their pleas. The Cinder King certainly had learned his lessons in tyranny well. Granted, that wasn’t the sort of thing humans needed mentoring in. Too many of them could intuit how to be terrible all on their own. He’d been there himself. Soon the screen had drawn the attention of everyone in the room except the most focused workers. An opportunity. The glowing Investiture Cell was right within Nomad’s reach. He stood up, and nobody glanced his way. He could take it and be gone in a moment. He didn’t. He…he couldn’t. Are…we going to do anything? the knight asks his faithful squire. “Yes,” Nomad said. “We’re going to watch and witness.” The words drew the attention of a nearby scientist—a woman with a ponytail who had been too interested in her work on a pair of sunhearts to be distracted by the screen. But she found him interesting enough, apparently. “Who were you talking to?” the woman asked him, narrowing her eyes. “I thought you said you were unoathed. Do you have a spren?” Damnation. He’d grown careless. These people could see the signs he hadn’t needed to hide from the Beaconites. “Just an old habit,” he said. “It’s nothing. What are you doing there? Are you transferring Investiture between two different sunhearts?” “Yes!” she said, sitting back, displaying the age-old joy of a scientist who was pleased to find someone who actually cared about her work. “We recharged this one earlier. We’re studying how much we can stuff into a single sunheart.” Recharged. “You recharged a sunheart?” he asked, numb. “Well, of course. Using that sunlight.” “The people have tried that,” he said. “They told me. Leaving out a used sunheart doesn’t do anything…” He stood up straighter. “Wait. It has to do with the strange current of this world, doesn’t it? The way the core of the planet draws Investiture and heat from the sun? Sucking it down, like it’s creating an electric circuit?” “Yes!” the woman said, looking at him more closely. “How did you know? That took us months to figure out.” “The sunhearts don’t recharge normally…” he said. “But the ground melts. People go aflame. Anything trapped between the sun and the core is like…like interference between two opposite electric poles.” He looked upward at the lights in the ceiling. Modern ones, but reminiscent of those from long ago. “An incandescent bulb,” he whispered. “I thought of it earlier. It glows when current passes through the filament—but not because the filament is good at conducting. Rather the opposite. That filament resists and loses energy as heat and light. Radiating it. That’s what makes a light bulb work. “Normal sunhearts…the Investiture just passes through them, doesn’t it? That’s why nothing happens if you leave a used one buried. But when they’re formed in the first place, it’s because a soul is
resisting—causing the Investiture there to flare. Like the light of a light bulb. That’s what captures all that power and leaves behind a sunheart.” The woman folded her arms on the table. “Yes,” she said. “Have you been intercepting our communications? Is that why you know this?” “How do you do it?” he asked, ignoring her question. “How do you recharge them? Wait. You put something else into them, something to be burned away by the sunlight? That temporarily blocks the circuit—or offers resistance to it.” “Some heat from a local works,” she said, studying him. “We have a few captives. They prime the sunhearts with a little of their heat, then we leave the sunhearts out. It works. Use some special Investiture instead, and you get a corrupted cinderheart to make the Charred.” Storms, that made sense. It was a simple answer to recharging the sunhearts, but one that would take either happenstance or a deep understanding of Investiture to try. No wonder the people of Canticle had never discovered it. “Are you an arcanist?” the woman asked, her frown deepening. “Nothing so grand,” he said, staring at her powerfully glowing sunheart, charged far beyond its regular capacity. “You realize this solves most of their problems, right?” “Making Charred?” “No, the first part! If the people out on the surface knew, they could recharge their power sources endlessly. No more sacrifices. Just a little bleeding of their warmth to prime depleted sunhearts, then bury them and return to find them glowing again!” The researcher shrugged. “I suppose.” “Storms!” Nomad said, hand to his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell them?” “Why would we reveal such a useful secret?” He had to do something. He had to tell them. The air broke around him—the fragments of his ancient armor trying to push into reality again. Some from his first oaths, some from his second. Either way, it was the absolute wrong time for them to be doing that. “Oathed after all…” the woman said, noting the shards. “Arcanist… Rosharan… Dark skin…” Her eyes went wide. Damnation. Nomad lunged for the Investiture Cell, but she snatched it off the table and backed away, raising a hand and tapping the metal device on her glove. Instead he snatched the sunheart she’d been working on, the one they’d overcharged. Fortunately he didn’t have any metal on him, so— He was thrown violently backward, Pushed by something at his waist. His metal belt buckle. Right. He slammed into the wall. “We have a problem!” the researcher shouted to the rest of the room. “I’ve read about this man! He’s why the Night Brigade is here! Rusts, there’s a bounty on his head big enough to buy a small planet.” The other Scadrians spun, looking away from the sad sight of the Beaconites—who had gathered in a huddle amid their fallen and powerless ships—as the sunrise loomed. Nomad ripped off his belt before it could be used against him again, then he summoned Auxiliary in his flashiest form: the enormous, six-and-a-half-foot Blade, wavy, with ornamentation near the hilt.
Most people had never seen a Shardblade in person, but they’d heard the stories. Even a group like this—who could have overwhelmed him with their technology—froze at the sight of it. “I’m leaving,” he told them, voice harsh. “You get to choose. You can stand in my way. Or you can continue to breathe.” “Leaving?” one of the Scadrian leaders said. “It’s less than five minutes to sunrise, idiot.” Five minutes from us? Auxiliary said. Then the Beaconites have a good fifteen before it reaches them, as they flew a short distance before being downed. We can work with that. Nomad backed up to the elevator, enormous sword in one hand, sunheart in the other. “Operate it,” he said to them. Nobody moved. “Operate it,” he said, “or I will cut my way out.” “You’d destroy the integrity of the hull!” a woman cried. “We’d be killed by the—” “Then don’t make me do it!” Storms. What was he doing? He didn’t have an explanation. That’s how people were sometimes. The door to the elevator opened. He stepped inside, dismissing Auxiliary—as in this shape, he was big enough to be awkward. The elevator worked, though, and the Scadrians didn’t try anything. It spit him out onto a landscape that had changed dramatically in the minutes since he’d left, an entire forest of spindly trees growing up from the mud. Nomad—Zellion—looked through them toward the building sunlight. Storms. They’d said under five minutes, but he doubted he had that long. He turned and started running. It’s what he did. It had always been enough before. This time, he’d rounded the entire planet, but found himself where he’d begun. Sunlight rising. He felt it on his back. The trees around him started wilting. Withering. You can’t outrun it, Auxiliary said. Was that…soft nuance to his voice? It had been years since Zellion had heard that. Even you can’t outrun that light. He kept trying, sunheart clutched to his chest. Zellion, Auxiliary said, you’ll need to fly to reach them. “I can’t!” he shouted. “I…I can’t, Aux. I’ve tried.” The sunlight grew more oppressive. Trees darkened, smoldering. Zellion kept running. You’re a better man than you pretend to be, Auxiliary said. Even still. Even broken as you are. “I’m just a fool. A callous fool.” We both know that isn’t true. Because the smart thing to do, the callous thing, would have been to attack Beacon the moment you got to it. Steal their sunhearts, leave their ships stranded. You didn’t do that. No. He hadn’t. Because whatever he said, he was still a man, not a monster. Zellion. My friend. You’re worth saving. He started crying as he ran. When you reach them, Auxiliary said, make sure they know the secret. Make sure you save them, Zellion. “But—” Listen to me. Just listen. I can give you a little burst of power, like we discussed. “No! I’ll use the power from this sunheart.” And will that make you fly again? No, it wouldn’t. Because it wasn’t power he lacked. It was something else. I
will make you what you were. For a short time. I am the leftover strength of oaths sworn. I am the truth you once knew. Take it again, for the briefest time, and soar. He felt warmth begin to spread through him. It was a different kind of Investiture…drawn from the remnant of Auxiliary’s soul. I will burn away only myself, Auxiliary said. My personality. That should leave you with my body, the weapon, to still use. This is my destination, but not yours. “You can’t do this, Aux. Please.” You don’t get to decide. I know about consequences. I understand that you betrayed your oaths. But here’s the thing, Zellion. Here’s what you never have understood. I also swore to be better than I was. I became a Knight Radiant. I spoke the words. And whatever you did, I never betrayed my oaths. You protect those people, Zellion. I’ve carried you as far as I can. You’ll have to find the rest of the way on your own. An awesome, familiar power welled up inside him. As the sun finally broke the horizon—causing the forest to burst into flame—armor formed around Zellion. And his eyes came alight. ELEGY WALKED AFTER the Cinder King as he stepped to the edge of Union, flying in an imperious way above the landscape, watching over the fallen people of Beacon. Several men in white coats dragged Rebeke over as well. She was the only person of Beacon other than Elegy that the Charred had recovered. Elegy hadn’t initially been certain why he’d picked Rebeke to spare. Now, however, she could feel his emotions, and she understood. He boiled with satisfaction. With the thrill of having such power over so many people. His cinderheart glowed fiercely beneath his shirt, and he smiled with unbridled glee at the horror in Rebeke’s expression. She fell to her knees at the side of the flying city, looking down at the huddled remnants of Beacon, gathered on the ground. Fewer than one hundred and thirty-five souls, surrounding the ruins of their once proud, rebellious town. Yes, that was it. He was happy to have a deliberate kind of power over Elegy’s family line, and its last living member. In the distance, the sun rose. Light moved across the land as a sheet of flame. Elegy stood with six other Charred. She was too new to understanding people to know for certain, but she thought that maybe she’d fooled the Cinder King. When the Beaconites had decided to surrender, she’d made a good show of lashing out at them too—in full sight of the other Charred who came to secure the place. They’d delivered her up to the Cinder King, who had touched her cinderheart with his fingers and spoken some words. That hadn’t done anything, but she’d pretended it had. She’d calmed, because she could still feel what he wanted of her, even if she didn’t have to do it. She’d felt his pleasure at her immediate obedience, and she now stood quietly—as if completely under his control. They hadn’t
searched her. Why would they? So they didn’t know about the sliver of a sunheart that Zellion had given her. She wouldn’t, it turned out, need it for herself. Rebeke knelt at the edge of the city, shaking. Elegy continued to find her weakness curious. Before being taken as a Charred, had Elegy been similarly fragile? Though she would not say it aloud, she was glad for what had been done to her. For the strength she now had. “Please,” Rebeke said, turning a tear-streaked face toward the Cinder King. “There’s no need to do this. They can serve you well, great king.” “They will serve me,” he said, oozing with self-satisfaction. “Your people will be the flames that carry my ships to conquer and unite even the farthest corridors. Once the other towns know the price of rebellion—once my people spread word of an entire city fallen to the sun—all will shrink and cower before me.” He nodded, speaking as if only to himself. “This is how I will unify the world.” Rebeke slumped. Then curiously something changed about her posture. The Cinder King wasn’t watching, but Elegy saw it. Saw the younger woman’s hands ball to fists, her chin rise. She was going to attack him, wasn’t she? Elegy nodded in approval. Though the act would be futile, it was bold. A better way to die. Strangely, instead of attacking, Rebeke spoke. “How did you know?” she asked. Confusion from the Cinder King—Elegy could feel it. “Know?” he asked. “Know that I’d been leading Beacon all this time,” she said. Then she pointed down to the rest of her people. The three old women knelt in the center of the group, deep in prayer before the advancing sunlight. “How did you know those three were puppets, used to distract you? After you took Elegy, we knew we needed to hide what I was. Yet you’ve obviously seen through the ruse.” “Yes, well,” the Cinder King said. “It was obvious.” A lie? Why did he care to lie? He doesn’t want to be seen as ignorant, Elegy realized. How curious. But why was Rebeke lying? What was she hoping to accomplish? Now he’d be more likely to kill her, not less. Rebeke stood up and turned away from the people to meet his eyes. “You’ve made your point, Cinder King,” she said. “You have me, and you know what I am. I have bent before you. Collect the others, and I will tell them that I serve you.” He paused, cocking his head. “What’s better?” Rebeke asked. “The world knowing you can kill a city? Please—anyone could take the sunhearts from a group of straggling ships with no warriors. But if the world knew that even your greatest detractor—the leader who sought to overthrow you—eventually realized her power was nothing compared to yours… If they knew even she agreed to follow you, then nobody else would ever rebel.” What was this ruse? Rebeke was no leader; she was weak and soft. Wasn’t she? Yet the Cinder King believed Rebeke’s lies. Elegy
could feel it. And…and Elegy found that she believed them a little herself. “No,” the Cinder King said. “Then kill me!” Rebeke said, stepping forward. “Bring the others here and make them watch me die! Think of the power you’ll feel, holding my throat in your hands, crushing the life from me as my people watch. Is that not the ultimate show of strength? Why kill them when you can make them suffer?” Elegy gasped, and then immediately hoped she hadn’t betrayed herself. She couldn’t help it, however, watching Rebeke—short, completely without strength of arm, face streaked with tears—confront the Cinder King and trick him. Yes, Elegy could feel how seductive he found the thought of killing her in front of the Beaconites. Rebeke, safest of them all at the moment, sought to give away her life for the others. She could not fight the Cinder King, but somehow she was close to defeating him. If he rescued the others and killed Rebeke… Shades. Elegy had been wrong. This wasn’t weakness. In this realization, Elegy felt a strange calmness. Something that forced back her desire to rend and move and kill and fight. This was strength. Rebeke was stronger than Elegy was. The moment held, with the sunlight advancing—slowly but inevitably across the landscape—and Rebeke didn’t break. She didn’t look back. She committed to her gambit. Until, at last, the Cinder King smiled. “You almost,” he said to her, “persuaded me. But I can see pain in your eyes. You hurt so terribly to know they’re going to die. I will not be swayed by you. To do so would give you power over me.” Then she went for him, hands going for his eyes—but one of the Charred caught her before she’d taken a single step. Rebeke struggled, ranting, screaming. Her ploy collapsing. Her frustration boiling out. Still, it had been a valiant effort. A soldier on a losing battlefield using the only weapon she had left: her life. “You shouldn’t have told me,” the Cinder King said, “that you were their leader. I was planning to keep you as a trophy. Now that I know you’ve been leading the dissenters against me…well, I think you’ll make a fine Charred. First, you can watch them die.” He stepped closer to her as she struggled in the grip of the Charred. “This is true power. The power over life and death. The…” He paused. He squinted toward the advancing sunlight. Elegy followed his gaze, and even his Charred—as always, sensing his emotions—turned to look. The moment caught Rebeke too, who was allowed to twist and search the horizon. What had he seen? The sunlight was close to the Beaconites—and as it advanced, it set aflame the plants and even the sky: a wave of destruction, fire, and light. Moving slowly by the scale of ships, but still faster than a person could run. The Beaconites should have tried anyway. Instead they huddled together, not wanting to leave stragglers and the young—wanting to die as one, not as a field of running individuals.
In that moment, Elegy could see the strength in that too. Together, they watched the advancing flames. A sky of red and orange, a brilliant death. The fire undulated. The sheet of light rippled and changed. Then a figure, high in the sky, exploded from the light, trailing fragments of fire and smoke, glowing like metal being forged. A living ember of light. Somehow, he’d lived through the inferno. Indeed, the very fire in the sky seemed to arrange itself behind him into the shape of some symbol Elegy did not know. Roughly triangular, point down, with wings extending outward on either side. “It’s him,” Rebeke whispered. AS ZELLION EMERGED from the dawn, he found himself whole and unburned. The suit of armor, designed to maintain temperature and life support for the person it protected, had been able to withstand even the sunlight’s terrible heat. That gave him hope as he directed his flight toward the patch of huddled people who were perilously close to the advancing dawn. He soared, and part of him enjoyed this moment out of his former life, when he’d been a man who had deserved the skies. But today’s cost weighed him down, no matter how high he soared. “Aux,” he whispered. “It worked.” There was no response. His companion all these years, the one who had started this journey with him, was dead. Well and truly gone. All Zellion had was Aux’s corpse—in the form of a tool and a weapon. Storms, how that crushed him inside. Zellion’s failure was sealed now. Yet, for a moment, he was someone else. Someone who would do everything he could to respect his friend’s dying command. Defend those people. He landed in an explosion of dirt, hitting with the force of a small meteor, and felt the power that Aux had given him run out. As he’d been warned, only a tiny bit had remained. Barely enough to contain Aux’s personality. Dreams, ideas, and honor. Burned away in a moment. Zellion summoned Aux’s body as a shield, and that still worked, as hoped. He jogged through the middle of the crowd of awed people, and dismissed his helm—revealing his face to the chilly open air. Still, he knew—despite his armor being relatively sleek compared to some—he’d look like a hulking monster. They made way for him as he stomped to their perimeter. “Is Solemnity Divine still here?” he shouted, stopping at the edge of the group, sweat trickling down his neck as he glanced at the sunlight. It was storming close—again. “Zellion?” Solemnity Divine asked, breaking from the crowd. “It’s true? You’re—” “Shave off a sliver of that,” he said, tossing her the sunheart he’d taken from the Scadrians. “Then get it installed in the Dawnchaser and give the rest back to me. Soon.” “Zellion?” Contemplation said, pushing forward, her black dyed locks spilling across her shoulders. “Is that a sunheart? We can fly to safety!” He shook his head. “You fancy trying to get all these people on ships in the next minute or two? And even if
you do, then what? The Cinder King will just stop them again. You’re far too vulnerable.” “Then what?” she demanded. “If it pleases you, tell us your plan!” Solemnity Divine tossed back the rest of the sunheart, then went running to install the sliver as asked. Zellion slotted the sunheart into a place he’d made on the back of the shield. Please work, he thought. Please let this be enough. Please. Power surged through the shield. Zellion planted it into the ground, then gave the command. It started to grow, expanding into a dome. Not transparent this time, as that would defeat the purpose. A large piece of metal, reflective on the outside. When he’d encased himself in this in the maelstrom, he’d been protected from the bulk of the heat. In this form, Auxiliary’s corpse should be able to provide some of the same protections as his armor. “What…” Contemplation stepped closer to him as the dome continued to grow. “Could it always do this?” “No,” he said, then tapped the sunheart embedded into it. “It needs Investiture on a grand scale. This is a superpowered sunheart, recharged by the people inside the Refuge.” She stared at it, then at him. “You can recharge them?” she whispered. “How?” “There’s very little time. You know the invocation that takes heat and puts it into a sunheart?” “Bold one on the threshold of death, take into your sunheart my heat, that I may bless those who still live,” she said. “It’s a prayer.” “Yes,” he said. “Fill a sunheart with some of your heat as a seed, then leave it in the sun. It will respond like a person’s soul, burned away in a flash of power—and that will recharge the sunheart.” “This means… This changes everything.” “Take it to everyone, Contemplation,” he said. “Tell them this truth and change the world.” “So simple…” she said. “How did we never see it?” “Many of the greatest technological advances are simple at their core,” Zellion said. The shield began to grow to cover the ground, forcing everyone to step up onto it, to protect them from the impending magma below. Storms, he hoped it wouldn’t be so violent that they were tossed about and harmed. There wasn’t much he could do about that right now. He watched the dome near completion, bringing darkness upon them, save for a hole at the far end. He’d leave through that, then seal it. “We will survive this,” Contemplation whispered. “Thank you. I knew you would come back.” “That’s odd,” he said, “because I didn’t.” “Adonalsium did,” she replied. “I prayed to him for this to happen.” He grimaced, and Contemplation regarded him, their faces visible by the light of the nearby sunheart. His armor was glowing too, though not in either of its customary shades of blue. Instead it glowed with the light of embers—the sunlight might have damaged it, because little flecks of red-orange light continued to burn all across it—and when he moved, he trailed smoke. “I’ve noticed your expression when we mention Adonalsium.” “Contemplation,”
he said. “I don’t mean to be contrary, but Adonalsium? He—” “He’s dead?” she asked. “Yes, we know. Did you think we had no idea of the story? The Shattering? The Shards?” “I…yes. So I assumed. Since you still talk about him and…well, you know, pray.” “Our faith,” she said, “is that this is all part of some plan. It’s not about everything happening the way we want—but trusting that it is happening the way someone wants.” “I find that a little naive.” “And yet,” the old woman said, “here you are. Saving us.” “That was because of Auxiliary,” he said. “My shield here, who gave up his last vestige of life so I could come to you in time.” “And what was Auxiliary?” “My spren. A…quantum of power, Investiture, come to life.” “And where did that being come from?” From…a Shard of Adonalsium. Storms. Well, a part of him still believed in Yaezir and the emperor, despite all that had happened. He told himself that he’d never seen them as infallible, and that was the difference that kept him from being a blind zealot compared to many religious people he met. But then, that might just be rationalization. He nodded to Contemplation as the dome’s floor finished near his exit. “They took Rebeke,” Contemplation said. “And Elegy.” “I’ll see what I can do.” “Thank you,” Contemplation said. “I know you don’t want the title I tried to give you. But today you came to us when we needed it most. By choice. Thank you, Zellion. Sunlit Man.” “It is time to start moving forward again,” he said, standing up straight. “Teach everyone how to recharge sunhearts. Make sure the news spreads.” “We will,” she said. “Unless the Cinder King stops us.” “Oh, don’t worry,” Zellion said. “I’ll deal with him.” He took off running for the ship as Solemnity Divine flew it over for him. A few moments later, he zipped out—leaving the dome sealed behind him, hoping it would maintain life support inside—and flew toward Union. Sunlight enveloped the dome, respecting Auxiliary’s last wish as he literally became the wall that held back destruction from the Beaconites. There was nothing else Zellion could do for them directly, but they did still need him. Not for salvation, but for something he knew far more intimately. Killing. ELEGY HELPED AS the Charred pulled the weapon into place. A large gun, taken from one of the Beaconite ships for the Cinder King’s engineers to study. Instead they now settled the huge weapon down on the rim of his floating city, and a few engineers buzzed about, powering it with a sunheart. The Cinder King barked in annoyance at them as he climbed up beside the weapon, taking a control device from a nearby official. The engineers were mostly worried about recoil, and had piled a great deal of cushioning behind the weapon—which was wedged against a wall. From the way they spoke, Elegy was hoping she’d get to see the Cinder King thrown overboard as it shook. Perhaps he would get mashed beneath
it, which would be amusing. Sadly the gun fired without difficulty—delivering a ball of glowing energy into the distant dome. It bounced off, but it proved that the system worked. He had them move it to point at Zellion’s approaching ship. Elegy felt a surge of excitement. She’d hoped for something like this. She shot Rebeke, held captive by a nearby Charred, a grin. Rebeke, in turn, seemed shocked. Had she believed Elegy’s fakery too? That gave her even more of a thrill. This next part would be extra fun. Before the Cinder King could fire his weapon at Zellion, Elegy attacked. Not him, but the other Charred. She started with the one holding Rebeke. Slipping the little fragment of sunheart from her waistband, Elegy lunged and pressed it against the cinderheart of the nearby Charred, then spoke Zellion’s incantation. Immediately the Charred dropped Rebeke, and his cinderheart’s color lightened. He stumbled back, gasping, his link to the Cinder King disrupted. Elegy pulled Rebeke away as that Charred—suddenly allowed to do whatever he wanted—chose the next Charred in line and immediately attacked. Elegy grinned wider and freed a second Charred, then leaped back as that woman went into a frenzy and started laying about with her cudgel. Elegy only had time to free one more before the Cinder King realized what she was doing. “Treason most foul!” he shouted, shoving aside a freed Charred who tried to attack him. “What is this? How…” Then he focused again on Zellion’s ship. Cursing, the Cinder King fired—but he’d hesitated just long enough. The shots hit behind the Dawnchaser, which maintained a steady pace toward Union. It was remarkable, she thought, what that little vessel had survived. “Kill that one!” he shouted, pointing at Elegy. The three remaining Charred went for her, but the three she had loosed were causing chaos, attacking officials and civilians who had gathered to watch. The Cinder King was forced to pull two Charred away from attacking Elegy to protect himself. Others came running to the scene, and soon she struggled gloriously against four opponents. She lost track of Rebeke in the chaos, and was forced backward toward the edge of the city as she defended herself. She did…fine. The others had a frenzy that she understood, but she’d been learning to think, and that served her well. She backed away strategically and put the large gun between herself and the others. As they scrambled around it, she was able to spring up and climb over it, dropping down so she could briefly engage one of the Charred alone. She broke his leg with her cudgel, then was fiddling with her sunheart fragment when a voice called out from behind her. “You are able to think for yourself?” the Cinder King asked. “Do you remember? Does it hurt if you hear this?” Rebeke screamed. Elegy looked to see Rebeke in his grip—his bare hand on her neck, leeching away her heat. Strangely it did hurt Elegy—and anger her—to see that. Rebeke was…someone that should be protected. Elegy howled, but then
was tackled from behind by one of the other Charred, her sunheart fragment slipping from her fingers and bouncing away. “Yes, it does hurt you, doesn’t it?” the Cinder King said. “Curious. Well, perhaps it will hurt even more for you to know what I’m going to do to her. I’ll make her into one of you, take away her mind and her soul, and replace it with devotion to me alone. When you next meet her, she will try to kill you. Does that hurt, Elegy?” Elegy howled in frustration, losing control, battering at the Charred that had her pinned down. Then another one arrived and slammed his cudgel into her head. She withstood the pain, though, keeping her attention on Rebeke—whom the Cinder King released and pushed into the arms of an official. Rebeke sagged, most of her heat drained. Another official whispered something urgent to the Cinder King, and he looked out toward the approaching Zellion. “We’ll need to go back to the old plan for dealing with him,” the Cinder King said. “Is it still ready?” “Yes, my lord.” “Good. Faith, go to the command center and put the city into lockdown—no ships leaving. I don’t want him slipping out of my grip. The rest of you, with me.” Elegy threw aside the Charred holding her, then caught the cudgel as another tried to pound her head. She even kicked at the leg of a third one as he arrived to help. But she saw at least a dozen more running up the street toward them, summoned to the will of their master. He walked off at a brisk pace, joined by his officials in white, who pulled a weakened Rebeke after them. They left Elegy to die. But they didn’t realize. She could plan now. She had begun to care. She wouldn’t just fight until she was killed. So she broke free from the grips of those coming for her. And she ran. She ran with full strength of limb and determination. Away from the Charred. Behind, they howled in frustration at her escape. Though part of her longed to engage them, to fight and claw and batter and kill, she ran instead. Farther along the rim of the city until she was able to vault herself up and grab the top of the roof of one of the smaller buildings. A frightened woman closed the window as Elegy reached the roof, then turned and leaped over the street to the next ship. Below, Charred clambered over one another to try to reach her. But, not working together, they hampered one another’s efforts. Elegy moved back the way she’d come, bounding from rooftop to rooftop until she’d returned to where she’d started. Here, she hopped down and grabbed her sunheart fragment off the ground. Then she ran over two streets to a specific point she’d spied earlier: an open portion of steel deck with no buildings nearby. Approaching Charred from all directions forced her against the edge. She backed to the very lip, growling softly, staring them
down. Then she felt the city shake as something impacted it from below. A moment later, a figure sprang over the side—a figure in smoldering armor, trailing smoke. He landed in front of her, metal feet sparking on the metal street. Then he stood up tall, even more intimidating in the armor than he’d been without it. “You all right?” he asked her, his voice projected somehow out of the armor. He glanced at her, and the slit at the front glowed a deep red-orange, the color of coals—or sunhearts. The suit seemed simultaneously archaic and modern. It was sleek, with no gaps at the joints that she could see. Yet it was also a reminder of a different time, when soldiers had gone to war encased like this. “Yeah,” she said, breathing heavily. “I planned. I saw you flying toward this spot. I planned, Zellion.” “Good.” “They took Rebeke that way,” she said, pointing past the gathered Charred, who had retreated at his appearance. “Was the Cinder King with them?” “Yes.” “Then that’s the way I’m going,” he said. “Do you have your weapon?” “No,” he said. “It’s keeping the people of Beacon alive right now—and summoning it would mean instant death to them.” “Then we’re both unarmed,” she said. “I wouldn’t say that,” he told her as the Charred started to move in. “I’ll assume none of you have seen Shardplate in action before. Stand back and enjoy this next part. I’ll make us a path.” He stomped forward, armor clanging against the deck, and met the first Charred head-on, swinging in a powerful uppercut. The Charred—still accustomed to powering through hits—didn’t bother to dodge. So Zellion’s punch connected and tossed the Charred like a doll over the nearby ships to land somewhere in the distance. He spun and seized another, tossing her into several others coming his way. He moved like a demolition machine, using the Charred as weapons against one another. In an incredible sequence of destruction, he threw them, stomped them, broke them. Unlike before, however, the Cinder King wasn’t there to be frightened. So they kept coming. Elegy watched in awe, then noticed the cracks appearing in Zellion’s armor. He was a terrible force, with strength like a machine, but he couldn’t stop them all. They got in occasional hits with cudgels or machetes—and those blows left cracks in the armor, like it was made of glass. Shaking free of her awe, Elegy ran forward and began to cleanse the wounded Charred’s cinderhearts, one at a time. They, once freed, tried to kill her. But she ducked away, leaving them to attack other Charred instead, increasing the chaos. In an explosion of light, part of the strange armor actually burst beneath a hit, spraying sparks and glowing metal chunks. It was one of the shoulder pieces, but Zellion kept fighting, breaking bones, and tossing Charred until—at last—the street fell still. Not silent—no, there were too many moans and screams from frustrated, wounded Charred for that. But the supply of attackers was depleted, like a gun running
out of energy. Zellion slumped forward, and she could hear him breathing deeply from within his helmet. Then his armor began to disintegrate, vaporizing to smoke, leaving him—in seconds—exposed. He struggled to his feet and picked up a fallen machete. “Can you bring it back?” Elegy asked, approaching him on a deck slick with blood. “I don’t know,” he said. “Not soon, I suspect. I’m…not sure how the relationship stands between me and my armor. But it felt good to bear it again.” He looked around at the destruction he’d wrought. “Poor souls. Taken and forced into this.” “They enjoyed it,” she promised. “You gave them a fight like they’ve never known. Besides, some escaped.” She pointed to the ones she’d freed, who had made their way down side alleys, looking for fights with common civilians. Maybe…she should not be happy about that. Yes, she could see from his frown that perhaps…that was a bad thing. “We need to find the Cinder King,” he said. “I know where they’ll take Rebeke,” she said. “He wants to make her into a Charred. I was born in that very place.” Zellion nodded, following her lead as they moved through the city, which had grown quiet as the people hid. Near the center of Union was their Reliquary, where the Chorus was kept. Beside it was the Hall of Burning, where the Cinder King made his Charred. Together, she and Zellion burst out into the open ground surrounding these two buildings. And there was the Cinder King. Standing off to the right, partway down a wide street, hands on hips. Waiting. “I’ll handle him,” Zellion said, hefting his machete. “You go rescue your sister.” “I want to fight,” she snapped. “I know. But is that what you need?” “They’re different?” “Yes,” he said, nodding to the Cinder King, who waved him forward. “He’s planning something. A trap. Can you outthink him?” “No,” she admitted. “But I can push through the trap, whatever it is! I can kill him.” “Can you, Elegy?” Zellion met her eyes. “Should you?” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Right now, you need to give up that fight to save your sister instead. That’s what your people need. That’s the path you need to be on.” She didn’t feel his words. But she…she believed them anyway. She nodded. “Go,” he said. “When you rescue Rebeke, tell her something for me. There is a way to recharge sunhearts. Put some heat in an empty one and leave it out in the sun, and when you come back around, it will be renewed. The days of sacrifices are done. The Beaconites know, but I want as many to hear as possible. They deserve this truth.” “I will.” “Oh, and Elegy? Thank you.” “For what?” “For giving me someone worthy to fight alongside,” he said, turning toward the Cinder King. “I think that helped me remember which path I need to be on.” With that, they parted toward their separate destinies. “WHAT DO YOU think, Aux?” Zellion said, walking calmly toward the Cinder
King. “Do you spot snipers?” No response. Damnation. It hurt anew when he remembered. He stopped within shouting distance of the Cinder King, feeling strangely exposed without his armor. A short time back in it, and already he felt reliant? “I’m here to give you that fight you offered!” Zellion called to the man. “Do you still want it?” “Indeed!” the Cinder King shouted back. “Hand to hand. You and me. No interference by others! Isn’t that a tradition among your people? A trial of honor, one on one?” It was more of an Alethi thing actually, not an Azish one. His people preferred to settle differences with extended court battles and flowery legal speeches. But that distinction was irrelevant, because he doubted the Cinder King intended to play fair—no matter what he said. So Zellion was ready for the snipers even without Auxiliary to spot them. He dodged toward the wall of a building as the shots hit behind him. Not Invested shots, though. They’d switched to regular slug throwers? Why? He neared the wall he intended to use as cover, but a dozen officers in white coats broke through nearby windows and doors, then opened fire at him with pellets that hurt, but didn’t pierce. They battered him, weakened him, as Charred surrounded him and came in swinging with clubs. Zellion struggled, pushed, fought back—until one of them wrapped something around his wrist. Ice flooded his veins. His heat leeched away. He wavered, but didn’t fall—because the bracer shut off a second later. They hadn’t wanted to knock him out, just leave him weakened. They affixed something else on his leg. The Charred retreated, and the officers vanished. Zellion stumbled, barely able to stand upright. Then an announcement rang through the city. “People of Union!” The Cinder King’s voice. Recorded previously? “You have heard of this offworlder, the one some are whispering is the Sunlit Man. He is here. I offer you a chance to watch him. See him fall.” The Cinder King walked slowly up to Zellion. Security cameras ringed the area, all tracking the Cinder King’s every movement, filming as he dramatically unlocked the bracer on Zellion’s wrist, took it off, then held it up, showing everyone that he’d freed his enemy. He tossed the bracer aside, then kicked away Zellion’s fallen machete. “Now then,” the Cinder King said, raising his fists. “That duel of honor. You and me. Shall we?” Zellion shook himself, attempting to recover his strength. Maybe this would actually be fair. He raised his fists, but found them sluggish. In fact, his entire body felt heavy, like he was tied with weights. He could barely get his fists into a fighting stance. “What have you done to me?” he growled. “A gift from our friends in the hidden ship,” the Cinder King said. “The freezing bracers are fine, but they tend to knock out my subjects—and sometimes I want them alert. Just…a little bit disadvantaged.” “A little bit?” Zellion growled, shifting his stance, though even that took an uncomfortable amount of effort. “It’s one
of those Scadrian weight devices, isn’t it? That’s what you locked onto my ankle?” He’d seen people wear them on low-gravity planets to move more naturally. Here, though, it had been turned up an extreme amount—making his entire body think it was working under three or four times the standard gravity. The Cinder King smiled, then punched Zellion in the face. He tried to get his fists up to block, but was too slow, and then took a shot right in the gut. He stumbled back. “Coward,” Zellion growled. “There is no cowardice in victory,” the Cinder King said, striding forward. Zellion got one good punch against the man, splitting his lip. Which healed immediately. Storms, how Invested was he? Zellion came in again, but too slow, too sluggish. The Cinder King decked him across the face, sending him tumbling to the ground. Zellion took a kick in the stomach, then barely managed to roll away from the next. He stumbled to his feet, straining, struggling. “This is power,” the Cinder King whispered, stepping closer to him, pulling off his gloves to expose his bare fists. A bad idea in a regular fight, as you were likely to do as much damage to your hands as you did to your enemy, but the Cinder King’s Investiture would heal him from those surface wounds. “This is what it means to be strong.” “Then why hide what you’re doing from your people?” Zellion hissed. “You want to be able to beat me, but you don’t want them to know how? That’s not strength. It’s fabrication.” “The condemned man always sees unfairness in the world around him,” the Cinder King said, punching him again. Damnation. That hurt. Blood began to flow from Zellion’s nose as he stumbled back farther along the street. He didn’t have Auxiliary to count his Investiture for him any longer, but he could feel it waning, fluttering. His endurance running out, his strength beginning to fail. “In reality,” the Cinder King said, “all I’m doing is using my advantages like you use yours.” He laughed, punching Zellion in the stomach. “Come on, now. Let’s make a good show of it, Sunlit. People will want to see you die with flair!” He advanced, relentless, driving Zellion back. Once again, straight toward the rising sun. ELEGY REMEMBERED THIS place. The unornamented metal steps to the lower level of the ship that made up the heart of Union. She remembered her footsteps on that metal; the sound echoed like the distant workings of some terrible machine. That’s what…that’s what she’d become. A machine. A thing, not a person. Bereft of choice, personality, and soul. All had supposedly been burned away, leaving the Cinder King with his perfect killer. But she remembered. Old memories. Not just when she’d been led from this place as a newborn Charred. But before. Just…those sounds. The footsteps. She remembered descending. Terrified. And she remembered…light? She found a door at the bottom of the steps, left ajar by people entering in haste, dragging Rebeke behind them. How did they feel?
Knowing some offworlder monster in a suit of strange armor was assaulting their city—and Charred were going wild—yet being ordered to go execute a captive? Elegy pushed the door open the rest of the way, and the light was as she remembered it. Hundreds of sunhearts set into slots on the walls. The city’s reserve. A mausoleum. Full of souls taken by the sun. And one Charred guard. The man growled and charged at her as soon as she entered. Elegy blocked his swinging cudgel with her forearm and stared him in the eyes. For once, she didn’t feel frantic. She felt haunted. Remembering those lights, being towed down this hallway, knowing everything she’d been—everyone she’d loved, everything she’d accomplished—would soon be burned out of her. Like a disease to be killed off by the coming fever. She tossed the Charred to the side, which shook the wall and rattled the sunhearts. As he struggled to his feet, she took him down with a swift punch to the throat, leaving him gasping through his own blood. A second Charred burst in through the door, but again, she felt calm as she stepped aside, grabbing his arm and using his own momentum to slam him into the wall. He dropped. She remembered. Just the pain, though, and terror. She didn’t remember what she’d loved, known, or believed. She only remembered knowing she’d lose it. That seemed a worse cruelty, to be left with the panic and pain, but not the original pieces of herself that had evoked such emotion. She pushed forward through the corridor lined with souls. She stepped over the body of the first Charred and burst into the chamber where new Charred were made. Along the wall, a line of frightened people waited. New subjects to transform into Charred, to fight those she had freed, perhaps. Only three officials worked to prepare them, and they were being sloppy in their haste. For example, they strapped Rebeke into place without disrobing her. That meant that as they engaged the machine, a spear tipped with a burning cinderheart descending to touch Rebeke’s chest, it set her shirt aflame. Elegy remembered screaming when it had happened to her. Rebeke looked to the side, toward Elegy, eyes wide with terror—and the light in them started to fade. No. No, not that. Not to her. Elegy screamed again, in tune with her scream in the past, and both moments resonated as one. She leaped across the room, grabbing the machinery and ripping the spear from its place. She pulled at Rebeke’s bonds, breaking her free, and hauled the younger woman off the table. But the cinderheart had implanted. Rebeke’s skin turned ashen, darkening before the fire—which flared brighter and brighter. No, no, no, no! Elegy scrambled, feeling at her waist. Where had she slipped that sliver of sunheart? Rebeke was trembling, eyes unfocusing, a wail leaving her lips. Elegy could feel it. The terrible fire at her core. Consuming everything, the moment stretching like heated metal, as loves vanished, hopes evaporated, memories became ash… Shouting
something raw—a word unformed—Elegy pulled her sister close and felt Rebeke’s warmth against her hollow of a chest. Where her self had been destroyed. She clung to Rebeke and whispered the words. “Bold one on the threshold of death, give my cinderheart your heat, that you may remember and bless those who still live.” Their cinderhearts couldn’t touch, not with Elegy’s sunken so far into her core. She felt something anyway, a violent warmth coming into her from Rebeke. Through their skin, moving from one vessel to another. That heat burned away the last memories Elegy had—mostly of pain, but also of this room, of those echoes of footsteps on metal. The final remnants of her old self died. But when she pulled away, she found that the cinderheart had stopped sinking into Rebeke’s chest. Instead it had embedded into her like a gemstone into a piece of jewelry—leaving her with a burst of ashen skin around it, creeping up her neck. Her breasts were whole, however, and her chest cavity had not sunken in or been burned away. Rebeke blinked, then breathed in, her eyes focusing on Elegy. “E…Elegy?” “Yes,” Elegy said, shocked to feel tears on her cheeks. What was this feeling? It was nearly as overwhelming as the desire to kill. “You stopped it,” Rebeke said. “I’m still me. I remember…Elegy! You saved me. You’re holding me, looking at me like… You remember me, don’t you?” “Yes,” Elegy lied. Because it was the right thing to say, the right thing for her to be. “I…do not remember, but I feel. Some things. From before.” “The rest might return too!” It wouldn’t. Elegy was confident of that. She’d just given away what little had remained. Still, she had stopped Rebeke from being taken. That was enough. She settled her sister, then checked on the officials in the room, who had pressed themselves against the wall. One was reaching for a gun on the counter. Elegy met his gaze and shook her head. He backed away, hands up. There were still those two Charred in the hallway, though. She had crushed the throat of one of them, but the second would still be dangerous. She checked on them, but found them standing in the corridor outside, eyes distant. As if dazed. “Elegy,” Rebeke said, “I can feel them. The Charred. Why can I feel them?” “The cinderhearts link us,” she said, “through the Cinder King. The process didn’t complete with you, but perhaps you gained some of that link. Can you hear his thoughts?” “No. But Elegy, how does the Cinder King control the others?” “Through his cinderheart,” she said. “One that—” Elegy turned toward Rebeke and the glowing cinderheart embedded into her skin. “One that didn’t consume him like it did us.” She knelt, eager. “Can you control them?” Rebeke frowned. “I…I’m trying.” The Charred in the hallway looked toward her, heads cocked. But didn’t move. “I’m trying to make those two come into the room and sit down,” Rebeke explained. “But something is blocking me.” “The Cinder King.” Rebeke
nodded. “He’s stronger than I am, Elegy. But I think…I think the other Charred will ignore me—or at least not attack me. What should we do?” “All I know is how to break things,” Elegy said. “You’ll have to make the difficult decisions.” Rebeke grimaced at that, looking overwhelmed. “Rebeke,” Elegy said. “Zellion is fighting the Cinder King. Before we separated, he asked me to tell you something. He said…there is a way to recharge sunhearts, so people don’t need to die to make more. The Beaconites know about it. He said the more people who know, the better.” Rebeke’s frown deepened. Then she took a deep breath and stood up with Elegy’s help. “We need to get to Union’s command center.” ZELLION ROLLED ACROSS the deck of Union, face bloody, ribs screaming. The Cinder King had bullied and beaten him all the way back to where he’d started—across the bloodied mess where he’d killed many Charred, to the edge of Union. He forced himself to his feet once again. But storms, he hadn’t landed a second punch. He couldn’t fight back. How could he beat this man if he couldn’t fight… Couldn’t fight back? The absurdity of it struck him, and he found himself laughing—even though it sent a spike of agony through his chest. The Cinder King paused, frowning. “Don’t mind me,” Zellion said, struggling to lift a hand to wipe his eyes—but failing, letting it flop back to his side. “I just realized something. I’ve been training to beat you this entire time.” “This is what ‘beating me’ looks like?” the Cinder King said, gesturing. Zellion shrugged. His Torment, the stupid curse… It couldn’t have been preparing him for this, could it? He discarded the thought as ridiculous. The Torment wasn’t alive; it didn’t plan. It was a coincidence that he found himself in this spot, after being forced to engage enemies time and time again without being able to fight. Storms. He had to get off this planet, or everything would start looking like part of some nebulous, deific plan. He nodded to the Cinder King, who came in to punch him again. This time, Zellion didn’t try to block or dodge. He fell into the swing, grunting as it connected, but then grabbed the Cinder King by his clothing. “Grappling,” the man said, trying to pry free Zellion’s fingers. “The coward’s art.” “I know a few people who’d be seriously offended by that,” Zellion said. Then held on tighter. His body was severely weighed down, but his finger strength had been unaffected, and so he managed to keep hold of the tyrant’s clothing as the man spun them around, working to get free. The Cinder King eventually pushed his bare hand against Zellion’s face and muttered something. Heat began to flow from Zellion to the Cinder King, who—despite performing the maneuver purposefully—seemed shocked. “Wait. Why does that work now?” “Because for some reason,” Zellion said, “people still have faith in me. Thank you for turning us around.” The Cinder King met his eyes, then Zellion heaved toward
him and let his weight topple them both backward. He wasn’t in control. He just fell, using essentially the same maneuver he’d pulled on Elegy in the arena during their initial clash. It worked just as well now as it had then. The Cinder King could struggle all he wanted, but he had made Zellion into a deadweight, four times as heavy as a man. You didn’t simply shove that aside. Their momentum sent them both tumbling off the ship. A brief fall followed, and then they hit the soft earth. Zellion saw pain. It flashed across his vision with vibrant, garish colors as his already broken body was subjected to another terrible blow. Fortunately he broke his fall on the Cinder King. “Idiot,” the man said, shoving Zellion to the side. “What do you think you’ve done? Gotten me muddy?” Zellion didn’t have the breath to respond. Instead—arduous though the effort was—he stood up. Then raised his fists. “You know,” the Cinder King said, “I expected this to be a better show.” He decked Zellion again, sending him to the mud. And with effort, he got up. “You should be a better fighter,” the Cinder King said, tripping him, then kicking him in the broken ribs. Zellion gasped, then—slowly—got up. “This is almost painfully anticlimactic,” the Cinder King said, attacking again. Zellion took the blow. Then got up. And hoped it would be enough. MOST TOWNS AND cities on Canticle had a central command—where the whole community could be steered when locked together—but not all of them had the restrictions Union did. Rebeke explained to Elegy as they arrived: People weren’t free on Union. They couldn’t unlock their ships without permission. The door into the command bridge was guarded by five Charred…who simply let Elegy and Rebeke pass. It felt wrong to have them behind her—Elegy almost engaged them on principle, but refrained. Inside the main command room, they found a group of men and women in white coats in front of an array of monitors with security footage, watching Zellion and the Cinder King fight on a screen. The two had fallen to the grass and mud, and the camera was zoomed in, tracking their movements. At Elegy and Rebeke’s entrance, several of the people reached for guns. Elegy moved to attack, but Rebeke took her arm. “We can’t fight them all.” Elegy could absolutely fight them all. She just probably wouldn’t win. “You’re from Beacon,” one of the officers said. “You’re the sister of…” He focused on Elegy, then paled. “Of her.” “I’ve brought her to you,” Rebeke said. “To speak and persuade you.” Wait. What? “Rebeke,” Elegy said, taking the younger woman by the arm and whispering. “I can’t do that.” “You said you were remembering,” Rebeke said, with what she probably thought was an encouraging smile. “Dig deep. You’re still in there, Elegy.” Shades. “No. I’m not, Rebeke. I’m really not.” “Then…” “You need to do it,” Elegy said. “Say what I cannot.” Rebeke turned to the others in the room, who were regarding them with confusion—but
with guns still raised at the ready. “We’re not going to hurt you,” Rebeke said. “We’re not going to attack you. I just want you to listen.” She nodded toward the monitor they’d been watching. “Did the offworlder knock them down, off the city?” The room was silent for a moment, then one woman—sitting at a control station—nodded. “He’s trying to show you,” Rebeke said, “that the Cinder King is weak.” She paused then, cocking her head. Because Zellion was not giving a good showing in the fight. He kept getting knocked down. What had happened to his skill? “The Cinder King is cheating, isn’t he?” Rebeke asked. Again, the room was silent. Elegy would almost rather have gone the “fight them all and probably die” route. This silence was annoying. “Yes,” a different operator finally said. “He usually does something like this. Makes it seem like he’s unstoppable.” “He fights Charred sometimes,” another said. “But they’re always weakened first.” “Thinks nobody knows,” another added. “But we all do. I mean, it’s obvious.” “This is your chance,” Rebeke said, stepping forward. Then she stepped back again, raising her hands as their grips tightened on their weapons. “Look! He’s off the ship, and the sun is rising. All we need to do is fly. Leave him behind.” “His Charred will kill us!” one of the operators said. “The Charred who didn’t stop us from coming in here?” Rebeke said. “Things are changing. Everything is changing. Listen. We have learned how to recharge sunhearts.” “What?” one of the men with a gun said, lowering it. “You lie.” “No,” she said. “No more sacrifices. No more lotteries. No more immolating our parents.” Tears leaked down her cheeks as she stepped forward again, this time uncaring of the reaction. “I left my mother for the sun. I watched my sister be taken, and my brother die to the Cinder King’s own weapon. Haven’t we sacrificed enough?” “He’s too strong!” one of the women said. Rebeke waved to the monitor, where the Cinder King was forced to keep knocking Zellion down. “Does he look strong?” Silence. This time, though, Elegy found herself thoughtful. She watched Zellion stand up again. She’d been wrong about Rebeke’s strength. Had she been wrong here too? Yes. Because if the Cinder King couldn’t break a man that he’d handicapped and beaten to a pulp, then what strength could he possibly pretend to possess? There was so much to learn. “I know,” Rebeke said, “what it’s like to feel powerless. I know you’ve felt it, watching what he’s done to the city, to people you love. You’ve cowered before him because there was no other option. “But today you have a choice. Steer us away. Leave him.” Rebeke paused, then parted the remnants of her shirt, revealing her exposed cinderheart—and the skin burned around it. A hush fell over the room. “I,” Rebeke said, “am the Sunlit One. I control the Charred now, and I have come to bring you freedom. I offer this, but do not demand. I will not force you
because the world is changing. Today we make choices. Please.” Weapons lowered. People exchanged looks. Then finally the woman who had spoken first stood up. “Shades, I’ll do it.” She took the controls at the front of the room, and nobody stopped her. With that, Union abandoned its king. Leaving him in the mud. And it was so gratifying to see his expression, filmed, as he watched it happen. The people in the room settled down, seeming shocked by what they’d done—or allowed to be done. But one problem remained. Elegy took Rebeke by the arm and steered her to the side, speaking softly. “What of Zellion?” “Shades,” she said, turning to the room. “We need to send a ship to rescue the offworlder.” “Send a ship?” one of them asked. “Sunlit, the city is on lockdown by the Cinder King’s order—we can’t undo it. For one hour, no ships may leave, no matter what.” “The Cinder King is paranoid,” another said. “Only he can unlock it. Until the time is up.” “Guess he never thought we’d fly the whole thing off without him…” a woman added. Rebeke turned. “We need to get the ship Zellion flew in on…” She trailed off as she saw it in the background on the monitor. The Dawnchaser lay in a smoldering heap. It had served them well, been through the great maelstrom and back. But it would never fly again. Particularly not with the sunlight advancing, relentless. Dangerously close to the two struggling men—mere specks now that the city was moving away at full speed. “Farewell, killer,” Elegy said, holding Rebeke as she wept. “And thank you, in turn, for giving me someone to fight with. Not merely someone to fight beside.” THE CINDER KING jogged after the city a short distance, but even with his Investiture, he would never be able to catch up to it. Nor could he outrun the sun. Zellion knew. He had tried. He grinned as the man turned back, wild-eyed, light from the horizon reflecting on his face. “You,” the Cinder King said, stalking to him, “will summon that armor again and give it to me.” “Can’t,” Zellion said, exhausted. The Cinder King growled, prowling forward, seizing Zellion by the sides of his head. “Then I will kill you.” “You’ll die in turn.” “No,” the Cinder King said. “I read that book. I know about your tool, your weapon. The Shardblade? I know that if you die, it will be left at your side. To be claimed.” He pointed. “You left a shield around those people. What happens when I kill you? It vanishes, doesn’t it?” Zellion gritted his teeth. Yes. If he died, his weapon would appear by his side. Unbonded. “I will take it and protect myself,” the Cinder King said, draining Zellion’s heat. A deep coldness crept through Zellion, like frost growing on his bones. He gasped. “And then,” the Cinder King said, “when the city returns, they will see me for what I am. Immortal.” Such freezing cold, it made his heart shudder. “I will
flay those who betrayed me,” the Cinder King whispered. “None will ever stand against me again. Not while I wield the beautiful sword of the offworlder. I will unify everyone. A single, glorious city, ruled by one man.” Zellion felt that chill growing, and everything becoming as frost. And yet… He hadn’t made an oath to protect those people. But he’d promised Auxiliary. In the moment, that word was far, far stronger. Zellion dug deep inside and found a spark that—long ago—had driven him to take to the skies. It wasn’t redemption, but it might have been remembrance. Auxiliary had told him to go on. And storm it, he would. He grabbed the Cinder King’s wrists, whispering, “Bold one on the threshold of death, give me your heat, that it may bless those who still deserve it.” “A prayer to the dead?” the man said with a chuckle. “No,” Zellion said. “To the dying.” He met the man’s eyes. Then pulled the heat from him. The Cinder King gasped, trying to yank free. Sunlight broke nearby, and Zellion could hear the coming flames. Plants writhed around them before starting to brown. “Stop!” the Cinder King said. Heat flooded Zellion as he, now a child of Canticle—but Tormented with the strange ability to feed on Investiture—claimed this man’s power in a rush. The Cinder King had been gathering it for so long, taking the heat from others without fear of retribution, that it had built up inside of him. Making his eyes glow. Burdening his soul with the belief that because he could take whatever he wanted, he was great. “STOP!” the man screamed, eyes wide. “You know the problem,” Zellion said, “with ruling by tyranny? There’s always someone stronger.” The Cinder King struggled frantically, but the glow inside him went out. His eyes became normal, just a common dull hazel. The cinderheart at his chest dimmed, and Zellion found himself bursting with energy. He missed deeply the opportunity to hear Auxiliary’s voice telling him one final time his current Investiture threshold. But he didn’t need it. One hundred percent Skip capacity achieved, and likely exceeded. “Enjoy your first sunrise,” Zellion whispered. “It will be the best one you see in your entire life.” Light and fire washed over them, and the Charred ex-king burst into flame, his skin shriveling and becoming ash, his very eyes hissing steam and bursting. In that moment, Zellion activated his Torment, using the huge store of power the Cinder King had prepared for him. Skipping away from the planet, out into the cosmere. Continuing his journey. ELEGY DROPPED FROM the ship and ran across the dark, muddy ground. Rebeke followed more reservedly, steering a small hover-platform. Only one rotation, and already she was acting with so much decorum, one might think she’d been born to leadership. They found the sunken pit the scouts had reported. A large hole in the ground, with several feet of mud at the bottom. Within it, waving excitedly, were the people of Beacon. Some waded in the mud, while the young had
been placed on top of the powerless ships. They’d survived. An entire half rotation in the sun, and they’d survived. Elegy stood there, grinning, practicing her normal emotions—then leaped to Rebeke’s platform as it descended. She got her sister muddy, but who cared? Mud happened all the time. The Beaconites got out of the way of the engine on the bottom of the platform, which sent pungent steam up from boiling mud as it landed. Several other ships lowered ropes for the stronger to climb, but this platform was for the elderly. Three women were soon helped up. Muddy, exhausted, the Greater Good had withstood their ordeal. They looked to Rebeke, who had found a dress she could wear that was cut low to reveal her cinderheart and scarred skin. Compassion understood first. “Sunlit…Woman?” “Sunlit One,” Rebeke said softly. “The Cinder King?” Confidence asked. “Dead,” Rebeke said. “We hope to recover his sunheart and use it to power Union for a while. It feels appropriate.” “You need to hear,” Contemplation said, smiling a wan smile as the platform lifted off to take them to Union to recover. “There is a way to recharge sunhearts.” Rebeke nodded. “He told us. Before he…left.” The three women looked to her. The word lingered. They didn’t know for certain. Might not ever know for certain. Had he somehow survived, or had the sun taken him? But Elegy’s heart—which she was training to feel joy—wanted to believe. The dome had stayed up for the day, protecting the Beaconites, before vanishing and leaving only a pit of mud. She had an instinct that said when they recovered the Cinder King’s sunheart—the last one that would ever need to be made—it would be alone there in the soil. “We have work to do,” Rebeke said softly as they rose into the sky. “We’ve already had some communication with people from other corridors—one group even sent a delegation. But we need to reach them all and tell them what we’ve found. We give this information away freely, as it was given freely to us. We stop the sacrifices.” “As you wish, Sunlit,” Contemplation said. “No,” she said, smiling. “Not as I wish. You are our rulers.” “But—” Confidence gestured to the cinderheart in Rebeke’s chest. “This lets me control the Charred,” Rebeke said. “But we’re trying to wake them up slowly, to teach them. And I won’t see any more of them made. We’ll use them for protection, so long as they choose. But I will not be another tyrant. I will be…a symbol, Confidence. A beacon. Nothing more.” She smiled, looking to Elegy. “As my sister taught us.” Elegy still hoped she’d get to fight now and then. But if not…well, she was just going to have to find new emotions and activities to enjoy. And as they rose into the sky, she found that—instead of sounding boring—it felt like an adventure. STAFF SERGEANT TRUTH-IS-WAITING withdrew from his conference with the people of the floating city. He slouched as he walked, certain these people would be intimidated by military
discipline. He didn’t want them to remember him. He was on tenuous enough ground, pretending to be from a town in another “corridor” come for explanations. He slipped into the ship he’d stolen from the first town they’d visited. Inside, other members of the Night Brigade watched the door with hands on weapons. They stood down as he nodded to them, then he slipped into the cab. The Admiral waited here. They had an admiral, despite being an army. It was their way. Tall, with short black hair and a full military uniform, she stood facing away from him, her hands stiff at her sides. The Admiral was…not the kind to rest. He didn’t think he’d ever walked in during a mission and found her sitting. “Report,” she said quietly, resting a hand on her Continuity Chain—the silver, whiplike weapon rolled up and hung at her hip. “He was here,” Truth-Is-Waiting said. “They talk about it freely. He reportedly died about a day back, local time. Fighting the king of this place.” “Died?” the Admiral said, her back still to him. “Reportedly. Shall we pry for information the, uh, more painful way?” “You think they have any useful answers to give?” “Frankly, sir? No.” She tapped her foot in thought. “I did find something fun,” he said. “Scadrian ship, embedded here. Doing ‘science.’ They had him and didn’t report it to us—or even send an amiable greeting. Rude, don’t you think?” She turned to him, eyes glittering, a rare smile turning up the corners of her lips. “Very rude.” “Maybe,” he said, “we should pay them a visit and see what they know.” He shrugged. “Besides. Folks here are our cousins. Feels wrong to slag them for being in the wrong place.” “Being in the wrong place,” she said, “is the main reason people get slagged, Truth.” He shrugged again. “We’ll proceed with the Scadrians,” the Admiral said. “They will have recordings. We’ll find those far more reliable than accounts from a bunch of backwater peasants anyway. I have a feeling he’s one step ahead of us again. How does he do it?” “Figure he’s just rightly scared.” She didn’t reply. But as he left, two shades—with glowing red eyes, bearing the uniforms they’d been wearing when they’d died—joined him from the corners of the room. The Admiral needed no vocal command for them, and their movement meant she obviously wanted to be alone. Not even accompanied by the dead. She did not like hearing that their prey had slipped away again. Truth hustled to the main chamber. It was best she remain alone during a time like this. ZELLION SAT ON the beach, listening to the water roll across the sand, feeling…strange to be out in the sun. Just a normal one, but still. He kept feeling like he should be hiding. He had a good sense of time, but it was stressful to sit there, waiting. Marking the passing of counted heartbeats with scratches in the sand. Until he was reasonably certain that, back on Canticle, the Beaconites would be
out of the sunlight and into the darkness. If he waited too long, they’d suffocate. So he had to use his best guess and summon the weapon back when he thought it was safe. It appeared in his hand as a sword, and he used it to—at long last—cut that stupid weight-increasing band off his leg. He stretched, feeling freed from a thousand pounds. And yet, another weight replaced it—one upon his soul. “Did I get the timing right?” he asked. “Did I just burn them alive or did I set them free? Did they get crushed by dirt above? Did Elegy save Rebeke?” Silence. Auxiliary was dead. Worse than dead, burned away entirely—nothing remaining in the Cognitive Realm. This sword was now a corpse, one truly separated from the soul that had inhabited it. No voice interrupted his musings to act as a replacement for his withered conscience. He was completely alone. He’d likely never know what happened to Rebeke, Elegy, the Greater Good, and all the other Beaconites. Because he couldn’t afford to look backward, didn’t dare bring the forces that chased him anywhere near people he cared about. If he ever returned there, they’d know the place meant something to him. Everyone he’d ever spoken to there would become a target. He had to hope that, since he’d only been there a short time, nobody would realize how deeply he’d come to care for the planet and its people. In the distance, he spotted another boat. They passed this way often, though he saw no other land in the area. Just this atoll he’d appeared on—and it had been a few inches under water during the recent tide change. It lacked even a single tree. He groaned softly, climbing to his feet, then formed Aux into a mirrored shield and used it to catch the sunlight. In minutes, the ship had turned his way. The people crewing it turned out to be Sho Del of all things. He hadn’t known there were any enclaves of them off Yolen. Their small ship arrived, and he waded out to meet it. It was time to start running again. THE END THIS IS THE ONLY one of the Kickstarter books I wrote while knowing what might end up happening with them. Let me explain. I wrote Tress on a whim, as a gift for my wife. The experience was so much fun that I wanted to try something again, and I had extra time because of COVID-19. I started toying with other stories—and I landed on Frugal Wizard. I wrote it, kind of, for myself. A way to prove I could keep going with the momentum I’d built working on Tress. A way to do something new, and different, for me. Yumi was another gift for my wife. I’d written a story in Tress based on a prompt she suggested, but with Yumi, I really wanted to drill down and write a story for her—something I thought she would love. And when I was finished, I had three books, and the “Year
of Sanderson” idea started to bud in my mind. I thought that four books, one per quarter, would be the best way to go about that. It felt right. I wanted another book. And I wanted to write a book for you. The other secret projects were experimental uses of voice. They either weren’t Cosmere or had only tangential connections to the Cosmere. I love them all, and I’m absolutely proud of them. This isn’t to indicate otherwise. But I knew if I was going to do the Year of Sanderson, I also wanted one book that was more “mainline” Cosmere, dealing with a character I’d planned to be vital to future events, and building up Cosmere lore, not just on side planets, but in an important way. And so this book is a gift for you. As Tress and Yumi are gifts for Emily, I designed this for everyone who has been following my journey through all these years. It’s still an experiment; I wanted, in this case, to write an epic fantasy with a more breakneck pace. I also wanted to play with some genre tropes I hadn’t used before. (Same as the other secret projects.) In this, my guide was old westerns and their modernized versions, like the Mad Max films—stories about the wanderer who gets embroiled in a local problem and then is forced to move on after helping the people there. Sigzil’s story has been building in my mind for quite some time now. My fifth (unpublished) book is called The Sixth Incarnation of Pandora. (Maybe my worst title, I know. I never managed to find the right name for it.) It’s about an immortal warrior named Zellion, who has lived too long and lost connection to the world around him because he’s lost connection to people. My online handle for many a game over the years has been Zellion—mostly because it’s a name people don’t often take. In addition, the first Cosmere story I can ever remember writing was about Hoid traveling to a new planet, investigating the magic, and determining if the people there would be good candidates to join an ongoing conflict of a nature that might be too spoilerific to mention here. I never finished that story, written sometime in the ’90s, but the idea stayed with me—of someone hopping between worlds in the Cosmere, getting stranded, and being forced to learn the magic to escape. I connected both of these ideas to Sig while writing the Stormlight Archive. I built out his story in my mind—the apprentice to Hoid who was given a Dawnshard for a short time, and now has to live with an unexpected kind of immortality. I was never satisfied with Hoid as the one warping to new worlds and figuring out the magic, as it didn’t fit the right tone for him. I wanted something dynamic, with a chase going on, which would interfere with the things I planned for Hoid to do. (For a short time, Shai was going to be the one bouncing between worlds, though
without the Dawnshard connection that I’d flagged for Sigzil.) Regardless, that’s probably more information than you needed! The relevant point is that in late 2021 I realized that I finally had the chance to write Zellion’s story. I chose it as the last secret project, as a thank-you to all of you, but also a way to explore a character I’d been meaning to write about for quite some time. This book marks a kind of event for me, as it’s my fiftieth novel. Something I find very cool, as it ties back to my fifth novel, written all those years ago. I can’t promise I’ll do any more stories directly about Sig, but he’s relevant for the future of the Cosmere, so he will return. I truly hope you’ve enjoyed my experimentation with my style and the types of narratives within the Cosmere. This is one of my last chances to talk to many of you about the wonderful event that was the Kickstarter, so let me take an extra moment to tell you why I dedicated this book to you, the fans. I sincerely believe that books don’t live until they’re read. While I think I’d write even if nobody was reading—it’s who I am—I thrive because I know the stories are being brought to life by all of you. In this, stories are a special kind of art, particularly ones written down. Each of you imagines this book, and its characters, a little differently—each of you puts your own stamp on it, making it yours. I don’t think a story is quite finished until that has happened to it—until the dream in my head has become a reality (even if briefly) in yours. And so this book is yours, as are all of them once you read them. Thank you so much for bringing life to my work, and to the Cosmere. Brandon Sanderson ABOUT THE AUTHOR BRANDON SANDERSON grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He lives in Utah with his wife and children and teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University. In addition to completing Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time, he is the author of such bestsellers as the Mistborn saga, Warbreaker‚ the Stormlight Archive series beginning with The Way of Kings, The Rithmatist, the Skyward series, the Reckoners series beginning with Steelheart, and the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series. He won the Hugo Award for The Emperor’s Soul, a novella set in the world of his acclaimed first novel‚ Elantris. For behind-the-scenes information on all his books, visit brandonsanderson.com. ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATORS ERNANDA SOUZA is an illustrator from Brazil, working in games, books, comics, and films. Her work consists of drawing powerful characters with magical and fantastic aesthetics, and adding her own personal taste in colors. She’s worked with clients such as Perception Studio, Wizards of the Coast, Hit Point Press, Marvel Comics/Lucasfilm, and BOOM! Studios. See more of her work at ernandasouza.com. NABETSE ZITRO is a self-taught illustrator from Paraguay. He loves storytelling and capturing the look and feel of traditional drawing in his digital
works. He admires artists like Norman Rockwell and Gil Elvgren. He works as a freelance illustrator, doing comics and illustrations for books, board games, and video games. See more of his work at nabetsezitro.com. KUDRIAKEN is an illustrator who focuses on drawing fantasy. Since her early childhood, she’s been fascinated by fantasy worlds created by different authors, and this passion defined her professional pursuits. She takes inspiration from history, mythology, and the great people around her. See more of her work on Instagram @kudriaken or at kudriaken.carrd.co. ALSO BY BRANDON SANDERSON WORLDS OF THE COSMERE® * items with an asterisk are contained in Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere Collection. SEL Elantris The Emperor’s Soul * The Hope of Elantris * SCADRIALThe Mistborn® Saga The Eleventh Metal * The Original Trilogy Mistborn: The Final Empire The Well of Ascension The Hero of Ages Mistborn: Secret History * The Wax and Wayne Series The Alloy of Law Shadows of Self The Bands of Mourning The Lost Metal Allomancer Jak and the Pits of Eltania * NALTHIS Warbreaker TALDAIN White Sand THRENODY Shadows for Silence in the Forests of Hell * FIRST OF THE SUN Sixth of the Dusk * ROSHARThe Stormlight Archive® The Way of Kings Words of Radiance Oathbringer Rhythm of War Novellas Edgedancer * Dawnshard LUMAR Tress of the Emerald Sea KOMASHI Yumi and the Nightmare Painter CANTICLE The Sunlit Man THE CYTOVERSE Defending Elysium Skyward Skyward Starsight Cytonic Skyward Flight, with Janci Patterson Sunreach ReDawn Evershore OTHER NON-COSMERE The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook for Surviving Medieval England The Rithmatist Legion: The Many Lives of Stephen Leeds The Reckoners® Steelheart Mitosis: A Reckoners Story Firefight Calamity The Evil Librarians 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 Short Stories I Hate Dragons Dreamer Novellas Firstborn Perfect State Snapshot Children of the Nameless with Mary Robinette Kowal The Original with Dan Wells Dark One: Forgotten Graphic Novels Dark One The Wheel of Time®, with Robert Jordan The Gathering Storm Towers of Midnight A Memory of Light 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 SUNLIT MAN Copyright © 2023 by Dragonsteel, LLC Illustrations by Ernanda Souza, Nabetse Zitro, and kudriaken Copyright © 2023 by Dragonsteel, LLC All rights reserved. Edited by Moshe Feder and Jennie Stevens Ebook design by Kristy S. Gilbert A Dragonsteel Book Published by Dragonsteel, LLC American Fork, UT BrandonSanderson.com Brandon Sanderson®, The Stormlight Archive®, Mistborn®, Cosmere®, Reckoners®, Dragonsteel Entertainment®, and the Dragonsteel logo are registered trademarks of Dragonsteel, LLC. ISBN 978-1-938570-41-4 First Edition: October 2023 Table of Contents Print Page List ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I first pitched the idea of later-era Mistborn novels to my editor back in 2006, I believe. It had long been my plan for Scadrial, the planet these books take place upon. I wanted to move away from the idea of fantasy worlds as static places, where millennia would pass
and technology would never change. The plan then was for a second epic trilogy set in an urban era, and a third trilogy set in a futuristic era—with Allomancy, Feruchemy, and Hemalurgy being the common threads that tied them together. This book isn’t part of that second trilogy. It’s a side deviation, something exciting that grew quite unexpectedly out of my planning for where the world would go. The point of telling you all of this, however, is to explain that it would be impossible to list all of the people who have helped me along the years. Instead, the best I can do is list some of the wonderful people who helped me with this specific book. Alpha readers included, as always, my agent, Joshua Bilmes, and my editor, Moshe Feder. This book is dedicated to Joshua, actually. Professionally, he’s believed in my work longer than anyone outside my writing group. He has been a wonderful resource and a good friend. Other alphas were my writing group: Ethan Skarstedt, Dan Wells, Alan & Jeanette Layton, Kaylynn ZoBell, Karen Ahlstrom, Ben & Danielle Olsen, Jordan Sanderson (kind of), and Kathleen Dorsey. Finally, of course, there’s the Inseparable Peter Ahlstrom, my assistant and friend, who does all kinds of important things for my writing and doesn’t get nearly enough thanks for it. At Tor Books, thanks go to Irene Gallo, Justin Golenbock, Terry McGarry, and many others I couldn’t possibly name—everyone from Tom Doherty to the sales force. Thank you all for your excellent work. Once again, I feel the need to give a special thanks to Paul Stevens, who goes above and beyond what I could reasonably expect to give aid and explanations. Beta readers included Jeff Creer and Dominique Nolan. A special thanks to Dom for being a resource in regards to weaponry and guns. If you ever need anything shot properly, he’s the one to call. Note the lovely cover by Chris McGrath, whom I asked for specifically because of his work on the Mistborn paperback covers. Both Ben McSweeney and Isaac Stewart returned to provide interior art for this book, as their work on The Way of Kings was just plain awesome. They’ve continued in their awesomeness. Ben also provided equally awesome illustrations for the recently released Mistborn RPG from Crafty Games. Check it out at crafty-games.com, especially if you’re interested in Kelsier’s origin story. Last of all I’d like to once again thank Emily, my wonderful wife, for h1er support, commentary, and love. CONTENTS Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments Maps Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue ARS Arcanum Tor Books by Brandon Sanderson Copyright PROLOGUE Wax crept along the ragged fence in a crouch, his boots scraping the dry ground. He held his Sterrion 36 up by his head, the long, silvery barrel dusted with red clay. The revolver was nothing fancy to
look at, though the six-shot cylinder was machined with such care in the steel-alloy frame that there was no play in its movement. There was no gleam to the metal or exotic material on the grip. But it fit his hand like it was meant to be there. The waist-high fence was flimsy, the wood grayed with time, held together with fraying lengths of rope. It smelled of age. Even the worms had given up on this wood long ago. Wax peeked up over the knotted boards, scanning the empty town. Blue lines hovered in his vision, extending from his chest to point at nearby sources of metal, a result of his Allomancy. Burning steel did that; it let him see the location of sources of metal, then Push against them if he wanted. His weight against the weight of the item. If it was heavier, he was pushed back. If he was heavier, it was pushed forward. In this case, however, he didn’t Push. He just watched the lines to see if any of the metal was moving. None of it was. Nails holding together buildings, spent shell casings lying scattered in the dust, or horseshoes piled at the silent smithy—all were as motionless as the old hand pump planted in the ground to his right. Wary, he too remained still. Steel continued to burn comfortably in his stomach, and so—as a precaution—he gently Pushed outward from himself in all directions. It was a trick he’d mastered a few years back; he didn’t Push on any specific metal objects, but created a kind of defensive bubble around himself. Any metal that came streaking in his direction would be thrown slightly off course. It was far from foolproof; he could still get hit. But shots would go wild, not striking where they were aimed. It had saved his life on a couple of occasions. He wasn’t even certain how he did it; Allomancy was often an instinctive thing for him. Somehow he even managed to exempt the metal he carried, and didn’t Push his own gun from his hands. That done, he continued along the fence—still watching the metal lines to make sure nobody was sneaking up on him. Feltrel had once been a prosperous town. That had been twenty years back. Then a clan of koloss had taken up residence nearby. Things hadn’t gone well. Today, the dead town seemed completely empty, though he knew it wasn’t so. Wax had come here hunting a psychopath. And he wasn’t the only one. He grabbed the top of the fence and hopped over, feet grinding red clay. Crouching low, he ran in a squat over to the side of the old blacksmith’s forge. His clothing was terribly dusty, but well tailored: a fine suit, a silver cravat at the neck, twinkling cuff links on the sleeves of his fine white shirt. He had cultivated a look that appeared out of place, as if he were planning to attend a fine ball back in Elendel rather than scrambling through a dead town in the
Roughs hunting a murderer. Completing the ensemble, he wore a bowler hat on his head to keep off the sun. A sound; someone stepped on a board across the street, making it creak. It was so faint, he almost missed it. Wax reacted immediately, flaring the steel that burned inside his stomach. He Pushed on a group of nails in the wall beside him just as the crack of a gunshot split the air. His sudden Push caused the wall to rattle, the old rusty nails straining in their places. His Push shoved him to the side, and he rolled across the g1round. A blue line appeared for an eyeblink—the bullet, which hit the ground where he had been a moment before. As he came up from his roll, a second shot followed. This one came close, but bent just a hair out of the way as it neared him. Deflected by his steel bubble, the bullet zipped past his ear. Another inch to the right, and he’d have gotten it in the forehead—steel bubble or no. Breathing calmly, he raised his Sterrion and sighted on the balcony of the old hotel across the street, where the shot had come from. The balcony was fronted by the hotel’s sign, capable of hiding a gunman. Wax fired, then Pushed on the bullet, slamming it forward with extra thrust to make it faster and more penetrating. He wasn’t using typical lead or copper-jacketed lead bullets; he needed something stronger. The large-caliber steel-jacketed bullet hit the balcony, and his extra power caused it to puncture the wood and hit the man behind. The blue line leading to the man’s gun quivered as he fell. Wax stood up slowly, brushing the dust from his clothing. At that moment another shot cracked in the air. He cursed, reflexively Pushing against the nails again, though his instincts told him he’d be too late. By the time he heard a shot, it was too late for Pushing to help. This time he was thrown to the ground. That force had to go somewhere, and if the nails couldn’t move, he had to. He grunted as he hit and raised his revolver, dust sticking to the sweat on his hand. He searched frantically for the one who’d fired at him. They’d missed. Perhaps the steel bubble had— A body rolled off the top of the blacksmith’s shop and thumped down to the ground with a puff of red dust. Wax blinked, then raised his gun to chest level and moved over behind the fence again, crouching down for cover. He kept an eye on the blue Allomantic lines. They could warn him if someone got close, but only if the person was carrying or wearing metal. The body that had fallen beside the building didn’t have a single line pointing to it. However, another set of quivering lines pointed to something moving along the back of the forge. Wax leveled his gun, taking aim as a figure ducked around the side of the building and ran toward him. The woman
wore a white duster, reddened at the bottom. She kept her dark hair pulled back in a tail, and wore trousers and a wide belt, with thick boots on her feet. She had a squarish face. A strong face, with lips that often rose slightly at the right side in a half smile. Wax heaved a sigh of relief and lowered his gun. “Lessie.” “You knock yourself to the ground again?” she asked as she reached the cover of the fence beside him. “You’ve got more dust on your face than Miles has scowls. Maybe it’s time for you to retire, old man.” “Lessie, I’m three months older than you are.” “Those are a long three months.” She peeked up over the fence. “Seen anyone else?” “I dropped a man up on the balcony,” Wax said. “I couldn’t see if it was Bloody Tan or not.” “It wasn’t,” she said. “He wouldn’t have tried to shoot you from so far away.” Wax nodded. Tan liked things personal. Up close. The psychopath lamented when he had to use a gun, and he rarely shot someone without being able to see the fear in their eyes. Lessie scanned the 1quiet town, then glanced at him, ready to move. Her eyes flickered downward for a moment. Toward his shirt pocket. Wax followed her gaze. A letter was peeking out of his pocket, delivered earlier that day. It was from the grand city of Elendel, and was addressed to Lord Waxillium Ladrian. A name Wax hadn’t used in years. A name that felt wrong to him now. He tucked the letter farther into his pocket. Lessie thought it implied more than it did. The city didn’t hold anything for him now, and House Ladrian would get along without him. He really should have burned that letter. Wax nodded toward the fallen man beside the wall to distract her from the letter. “Your work?” “He had a bow,” she said. “Stone arrowheads. Almost had you from above.” “Thanks.” She shrugged, eyes glittering in satisfaction. Those eyes now had lines at the sides of them, weathered by the Roughs’ harsh sunlight. There had been a time when she and Wax had kept a tally of who had saved the other most often. They’d both lost track years ago. “Cover me,” Wax said softly. “With what?” she asked. “Paint? Kisses? You’re already covered with dust.” Wax raised an eyebrow at her. “Sorry,” she said, grimacing. “I’ve been playing cards too much with Wayne lately.” He snorted and ran in a crouch to the fallen corpse and rolled it over. The man had been a cruel-faced fellow with several days of stubble on his cheeks; the bullet wound bled out his right side. I think I recognize him, Wax thought to himself as he went through the man’s pockets and came out with a drop of red glass, colored like blood. He hurried back to the fence. “Well?” Lessie asked. “Donal’s crew,” Wax said, holding up the drop of glass. “Bastards,” Lessie said. “They couldn’t just leave us to it,
could they?” “You did shoot his son, Lessie.” “And you shot his brother.” “Mine was self-defense.” “Mine was too,” she said. “That kid was annoying. Besides, he survived.” “Missing a toe.” “You don’t need ten,” she said. “I have a cousin with four. She does just fine.” She raised her revolver, scanning the empty town. “Of course, she does look kind of ridiculous. Cover me.” “With what?” She just grinned and ducked out from behind the cover, scrambling across the ground toward the smithy. Harmony, Wax thought with a smile, I love that woman. He watched for more gunmen, but Lessie reached the building without any further shots being fired. Wax nodded to her, then dashed across the street toward the hotel. He ducked inside, checking the corners for foes. The taproom was empty, so he took cover beside the doorway, waving toward Lessie. She ran down to the next building on her side of the street and checked it out. Donal’s crew. Yes, Wax had shot his brother—the ma1n had been robbing a railway car at the time. From what he understood, though, Donal hadn’t ever cared for his brother. No, the only thing that riled Donal was losing money, which was probably why he was here. He’d put a price on Bloody Tan’s head for stealing a shipment of his bendalloy. Donal probably hadn’t expected Wax to come hunting Tan the same day he did, but his men had standing orders to shoot Wax or Lessie if seen. Wax was half tempted to leave the dead town and let Donal and Tan have at it. The thought of it made his eye twitch, though. He’d promised to bring Tan in. That was that. Lessie waved from the inside of her building, then pointed toward the back. She was going to go out in that direction and creep along behind the next set of buildings. Wax nodded, then made a curt gesture. He’d try to hook up with Wayne and Barl, who had gone to check the other side of the town. Lessie vanished, and Wax picked his way through the old hotel toward a side door. He passed old, dirty nests made by both rats and men. The town picked up miscreants the way a dog picked up fleas. He even passed a place where it looked like some wayfarer had made a small firepit on a sheet of metal with a ring of rocks. It was a wonder the fool hadn’t burned the entire building to the ground. Wax eased open the side door and stepped into an alleyway between the hotel and the store beside it. The gunshots earlier would have been heard, and someone might come looking. Best to stay out of sight. Wax edged around the back of the store, stepping quietly across the red clay ground. The hillside here was overgrown with weeds except for the entrance to an old cold cellar. Wax wound around it, then paused, eyeing the wood-framed pit. Maybe … He knelt beside the opening, peering down. There had been a
ladder here once, but it had rotted away—the remnants were visible below in a pile of old splinters. The air smelled musty and wet … with a hint of smoke. Someone had been burning a torch down there. Wax dropped a bullet into the hole, then leaped in, gun out. As he fell, he filled his iron metalmind, decreasing his weight. He was Twinborn—a Feruchemist as well as an Allomancer. His Allomantic power was Steelpushing, and his Feruchemical power, called Skimming, was the ability to grow heavier or lighter. It was a powerful combination of talents. He Pushed against the round below him, slowing his fall so that he landed softly. He returned his weight to normal—or, well, normal for him. He often went about at three-quarters of his unadjusted weight, making himself lighter on his feet, quicker to react. He crept through the darkness. It had been a long, difficult road, finding where Bloody Tan was hiding. In the end, the fact that Feltrel had suddenly emptied of other bandits, wanderers, and unfortunates had been a major clue. Wax stepped softly, working his way deeper into the cellar. The scent of smoke was stronger here, and though the light was fading, he made out a firepit beside the earthen wall. That and a ladder that could be moved into place at the entrance. That gave him pause. It indicated that whoever was making their hideout in the cellar—it could be Tan, or it could be someone else entirely—was still down here. Unless there was another way out. Wax crept forward a little farther, squinting in the dark. There was light ahead. Wax cocked his gun softly, then drew a little vial out of his mistcoat and pulled the cork w1ith his teeth. He downed the whiskey and steel in one shot, restoring his reserves. He flared his steel. Yes … there was metal ahead of him, down the tunnel. How long was this cellar? He had assumed it would be small, but the reinforcing wood timbers indicated something deeper, longer. More like a mine adit. He crept forward, focused on those metal lines. Someone would have to aim a gun if they saw him, and the metal would quiver, giving him a chance to Push the weapon out of their hands. Nothing moved. He slid forward, smelling musty damp soil, fungus, potatoes left to bud. He approached a trembling light, but could hear nothing. The metal lines did not move. Finally, he got close enough to make out a lamp hanging by a hook on a wooden beam near the wall. Something else hung at the center of the tunnel. A body? Hanged? Wax cursed softly and hurried forward, wary of a trap. It was a corpse, but it left him baffled. At first glance, it seemed years old. The eyes were gone from the skull, the skin pulled back against the bone. It didn’t stink, and wasn’t bloated. He thought he recognized it. Geormin, the coachman who brought mail into Weathering from the more distant villages around the area. That
was his uniform, at least, and it seemed like his hair. He’d been one of Tan’s first victims, the disappearance that sent Wax hunting. That had only been two months back. He’s been mummified, Wax thought. Prepared and dried like leather. He felt revolted—he’d gone drinking with Geormin on occasion, and though the man cheated at cards, he’d been an amiable enough fellow. The hanging wasn’t an ordinary one, either. Wires had been used to prop up Geormin’s arms so they were out to the sides, his head cocked, his mouth pried open. Wax turned away from the gruesome sight, his eye twitching. Careful, he told himself. Don’t let him anger you. Keep focused. He would be back to cut Geormin down. Right now, he couldn’t afford to make the noise. At least he knew he was on the right track. This was certainly Bloody Tan’s lair. There was another patch of light in the distance. How long was this tunnel? He approached the pool of light, and here found another corpse, this one hung on the wall sideways. Annarel, a visiting geologist who had vanished soon after Geormin. Poor woman. She’d been dried in the same manner, body spiked to the wall in a very specific pose, as if she were on her knees inspecting a pile of rocks. Another pool of light drew him onward. Clearly this wasn’t a cellar—it was probably some kind of smuggling tunnel left over from the days when Feltrel had been a booming town. Tan hadn’t built this, not with those aged wooden supports. Wax passed another six corpses, each lit by its own glowing lantern, each arranged in some kind of pose. One sat in a chair, another strung up as if flying, a few stuck to the wall. The later ones were more fresh, the last one recently killed. Wax didn’t recognize the slender man, who hung with hand to his head in a salute. Rust and Ruin, Wax thought. This isn’t Bloody Tan’s lair … it’s his gallery. Sickened, Wax made his way to the next pool of light. This one was different. Brighter. As he approached, he realized that he was seeing sunlight streaming down from a square cut in the ceiling. The tunnel led up to it, probably to a former trapdoor that had rotted or broken away. The ground sloped in a gradual slant up to the hole. Wax crawled up 1the slope, then cautiously poked his head out. He’d come up in a building, though the roof was gone. The brick walls were mostly intact, and there were four altars in the front, just to Wax’s left. An old chapel to the Survivor. It seemed empty. Wax crawled out of the hole, his Sterrion at the side of his head, coat marred by dirt from below. The clean, dry air smelled good to him. “Each life is a performance,” a voice said, echoing in the ruined church. Wax immediately ducked to the side, rolling up to an altar. “But we are not the performers,” the voice continued. “We
are the puppets.” “Tan,” Wax said. “Come out.” “I have seen God, lawkeeper,” Tan whispered. Where was he? “I have seen Death himself, with the nails in his eyes. I have seen the Survivor, who is life.” Wax scanned the small chapel. It was cluttered with broken benches and fallen statues. He rounded the side of the altar, judging the sound to come from the back of the room. “Other men wonder,” Tan’s voice said, “but I know. I know I’m a puppet. We all are. Did you like my show? I worked so hard to build it.” Wax continued along the building’s right wall, his boots leaving a trail in the dust. He breathed shallowly, a line of sweat creeping down his right temple. His eye was twitching. He saw corpses on the walls in his mind’s eye. “Many men never get a chance to create true art,” Tan said. “And the best performances are those which can never be reproduced. Months, years, spent preparing. Everything placed right. But at the end of the day, the rotting will begin. I couldn’t truly mummify them; I hadn’t the time or resources. I could only preserve them long enough to prepare for this one show. Tomorrow, it will be ruined. You were the only one to see it. Only you. I figure … we’re all just puppets … you see…” The voice was coming from the back of the room, near some rubble that was blocking Wax’s view. “Someone else moves us,” Tan said. Wax ducked around the side of the rubble, raising his Sterrion. Tan stood there, holding Lessie in front of him, her mouth gagged, her eyes wide. Wax froze in place, gun raised. Lessie was bleeding from her leg and her arm. She’d been shot, and her face was growing pale. She’d lost blood. That was how Tan had been able to overpower her. Wax grew still. He didn’t feel anxiety. He couldn’t afford to; it might make him shake, and shaking might make him miss. He could see Tan’s face behind Lessie; the man held a garrote around her neck. Tan was a slender, fine-fingered man. He’d been a mortician. Black hair, thinning, worn greased back. A nice suit that now shone with blood. “Someone else moves us, lawman,” Tan said softly. Lessie met Wax’s eyes. They both knew what to do in this situation. Last time, he’d been the one captured. People always tried to use them against each other. In Lessie’s opinion, that wasn’t a disadvantage. She’d have explained that if Tan hadn’t known the two of them were a couple, he’d have killed her right off. Instead, he’d kidnapped her. That gave them a chance to get out. Wax sighted down the barrel of his S1terrion. He drew in the trigger until he balanced the weight of the sear right on the edge of firing, and Lessie blinked. One. Two. Three. Wax fired. In the same instant, Tan yanked Lessie to the right. The shot broke the air, echoing against clay bricks. Lessie’s head jerked back
as Wax’s bullet took her just above the right eye. Blood sprayed against the clay wall beside her. She crumpled. Wax stood, frozen, horrified. No … that isn’t the way … it can’t … “The best performances,” Tan said, smiling and looking down at Lessie’s figure, “are those that can only be performed once.” Wax shot him in the head. 1 Five months later, Wax walked through the decorated rooms of a large, lively party, passing men in dark suits with tailcoats and women in colorful dresses with narrow waists and lots of folds through long pleated skirts. They called him “Lord Waxillium” or “Lord Ladrian” when they spoke to him. He nodded to each, but avoided being drawn into conversation. He deliberately made his way to one of the back rooms of the party, where dazzling electric lights—the talk of the city—produced a steady, too-even light to ward off the evening’s gloom. Outside the windows, he could see mist tickling the glass. Defying decorum, Wax pushed his way through the room’s enormous glass double doors and stepped out onto the mansion’s grand balcony. There, finally, he felt like he could breathe again. He closed his eyes, taking the air in and out, feeling the faint wetness of the mists on the skin of his face. Buildings are so … suffocating here in the city, he thought. Have I simply forgotten about that, or did I not notice it when I was younger? He opened his eyes, and rested his hands on the balcony railing to look out over Elendel. It was the grandest city in all the world, a metropolis designed by Harmony himself. The place of Wax’s youth. A place that hadn’t been his home for twenty years. Though it had been five months since Lessie’s death, he could still hear the gunshot, see the blood sprayed on the bricks. He had left the Roughs, moved back to the city, answering the desperate summons to do his duty to his house at his uncle’s passing. Five months and a world away, and he could still hear that gunshot. Crisp, clean, like the sky cracking. Behind him, he could hear musical laughter coming from the warmth of the room. Cett Mansion was a grand place, full of expensive woods, soft carpets, and sparkling chandeliers. No one joined him on the balcony. From this vantage, he had a perfect view of the lights down Demoux Promenade. A double row of bright electric lamps with a steady, blazing whiteness. They glowed like bubbles along the wide boulevard, which was flanked by the even wider canal, the still and quiet waters reflecting the light. An evening railway engine called a greeting as it chugged through the distant center of the city, hemming the mists with darker smoke. Down Demoux Promenade, Wax had a good view of both the Ironspine Building and Tekiel Tower, one on eith1er side of the canal. Both were unfinished, but their steelwork lattices already rose high into the sky. Mind-numbingly high. The architects continued to release updated reports of how
high they intended to go, each one trying to outdo the other. Rumors he’d heard at this very party, credible ones, claimed that both would eventually top out at over fifty stories. Nobody knew which would end up proving the taller, though friendly wagers were common. Wax breathed in the mists. Out in the Roughs, Cett Mansion—which was three stories high—would have been as tall as a building got. Here, it felt dwarfed. The world had gone and changed on him during his years out of the city. It had grown up, inventing lights that needed no fire to glow and buildings that threatened to rise higher than the mists themselves. Looking down that wide street at the edge of the Fifth Octant, Wax suddenly felt very, very old. “Lord Waxillium?” a voice asked from behind. He turned to find an older woman, Lady Aving Cett, peeking out the door at him. Her gray hair was up in a bun and she wore rubies at her neck. “By Harmony, my good man. You’ll take a chill out here! Come, there are some people you will wish to meet.” “I’ll be along presently, my lady,” Wax said. “I’m just getting a little air.” Lady Cett frowned, but retreated. She didn’t know what to make of him; none of them did. Some saw him as a mysterious scion of the Ladrian family, associated with strange stories of the realms beyond the mountains. The rest assumed him to be an uncultured, rural buffoon. He figured he was probably both. He’d been on show all night. He was supposed to be looking for a wife, and pretty much everyone knew it. House Ladrian was insolvent following his uncle’s imprudent management, and the easiest path to solvency was marriage. Unfortunately, his uncle had also managed to offend three-quarters of the city’s upper crust. Wax leaned forward on the balcony, the Sterrion revolvers under his arms jabbing his sides. With their long barrels, they weren’t meant to be carried in underarm holsters. They had been awkward all night. He should be getting back to the party to chat and try to repair House Ladrian’s reputation. But the thought of that crowded room, so hot, so close, sweltering, making it difficult to breathe.… Giving himself no time to reconsider, he swung off over the side of the balcony and began falling three stories toward the ground. He burned steel, then dropped a spent bullet casing slightly behind himself and Pushed against it; his weight sent it speeding down to the earth faster than he fell. As always, thanks to his Feruchemy, he was lighter than he should have been. He hardly knew anymore what it felt like to go around at his full weight. When the casing hit the ground, he Pushed against it and sent himself horizontally in a leap over the garden wall. With one hand on its stone top, he vaulted out of the garden, then reduced his weight to a fraction of normal as he fell down the other side. He landed softly. Ah, good,
he thought, crouching down and peering through the mists. The coachmen’s yard. The vehicles everyone had used to get there were arranged here in neat rows, the coachmen themselves chatting in a few cozy rooms that spilled orange light into the mists. No electric lights here; just good, warmth-giving hearths. He walked among the carriages until he found his own, then open1ed the trunk strapped to the back. Off came his gentleman’s fine dinner coat. Instead he threw on his mistcoat, a long, enveloping garment like a duster with a thick collar and cuffed sleeves. He slipped a shotgun into its pocket on the inside, then buckled on his gun belt and moved the Sterrions into the holsters at his hips. Ah, he thought. Much better. He really needed to stop carrying the Sterrions and get some more practical weapons for concealment. Unfortunately, he’d never found anything as good as Ranette’s work. Hadn’t she moved to the city, though? Perhaps he could look her up and talk her into making him something. Assuming she didn’t shoot him on sight. A few moments later, he was running through the city, the mistcoat light upon his back. He left it open at the front, revealing his black shirt and gentleman’s trousers. The ankle-length mistcoat had been divided into strips from just above the waist, the tassels streaming behind him with a faint rustle. He dropped a bullet casing and launched himself high into the air, landing atop the building across the street from the mansion. He glanced back at it, the windows ablaze in the evening dark. What kind of rumors was he going to start, vanishing from the balcony like that? Well, they already knew he was Twinborn—that was a matter of public record. His disappearance wasn’t going to do much to help patch his family’s reputation. For the moment, he didn’t care. He’d spent almost every evening since his return to the city at one social function or another, and they hadn’t had a misty night in weeks. He needed the mists. This was who he was. Wax dashed across the rooftop and leaped off, moving toward Demoux Promenade. Just before hitting the ground, he flipped a spent casing down and Pushed on it, slowing his descent. He landed in a patch of decorative shrubs that caught his coat tassels and made a rustling noise. Damn. Nobody planted decorative shrubs out in the Roughs. He pulled himself free, wincing at the noise. A few weeks in the city, and he was already getting rusty? He shook his head and Pushed himself into the air again, moving out over the wide boulevard and parallel canal. He angled his flight so he crested that and landed on one of the new electric lamps. There was one nice thing about a modern city like this; it had a lot of metal. He smiled, then flared his steel and Pushed off the top of the streetlamp, sending himself in a wide arc through the air. Mist streamed past him, swirling as the wind rushed against his
face. It was thrilling. A man never truly felt free until he’d thrown off gravity’s chains and sought the sky. As he crested his arc, he Pushed against another streetlight, throwing himself farther forward. The long row of metal poles was like his own personal railway line. He bounded onward, his antics drawing attention from those in passing carriages, both horse-drawn and horseless. He smiled. Coinshots like himself were relatively rare, but Elendel was a major city with an enormous population. He wouldn’t be the first man these people had seen bounding by metal through the city. Coinshots often acted as high-speed couriers in Elendel. The city’s size still astonished him. Millions lived here, maybe as many as five million. Nobody had a sure count across all of its wards—they were called octants, and as one might expect, there were eight of them. Millions; he couldn’t picture that, though he’d grown up here. Before he’d left Weathering, he’d been starting to think it was getting too big, but there couldn’t have been ten thousand people in the town. He landed atop a lamp directly in front of the massive Ironspine Building. He craned his neck, looking up through the mists at the towering structure. The unfinished top was lost in the darkness. Could he climb something so high? He couldn’t Pull on metals, only Push—he wasn’t some mythological Mistborn from the old stories, like the Survivor or the Ascendant Warrior. One Allomantic power, one Feruchemical power, that was all a man could have. In fact, having just one was a rare privilege—being Twinborn like Wax was truly exceptional. Wayne claimed to have memorized the names of all of the different possible combinations of Twinborn. Of course, Wayne also claimed to have once stolen a horse that belched in perfect musical notes, so one learned to take what he said with a pinch of copper. Wax honestly didn’t pay attention to all of the definitions and names for Twinborn; he was called a Crasher, the mix of a Coinshot and a Skimmer. He rarely bothered to think of himself that way. He began to fill his metalminds—the iron bracers he wore on his upper arms—draining himself of more weight, making himself even lighter. That weight would be stored away for future use. Then, ignoring the more cautious part of his mind, he flared his steel and Pushed. He shot upward. The wind became a roar, and the lamp was a good anchor—lots of metal, firmly attached to the ground—capable of pushing him quite high. He’d angled slightly, and the building’s stories became a blur in front of him. He landed about twenty stories up, just as his Push on the lamp was reaching its limit. This portion of the building had been finished already, the exterior made of a molded material that imitated worked stone. Ceramics, he’d heard. It was a common practice for tall buildings, where the lower levels would be actual stone, but the higher reaches would use something lighter. He grabbed hold of an outcropping. He wasn’t so light that
the wind could push him away—not with his metalminds on his forearms and the weapons he wore. His lighter body did make it easier to hold himself in place. Mist swirled beneath him. It seemed almost playful. He looked upward, deciding his next step. His steel revealed lines of blue to nearby sources of metal, many of which were the structure’s frame. Pushing on any of them would send him away from the building. There, he thought, noting a decent-sized ledge about five feet up. He climbed up the side of the building, gloved fingers sure on the complexly ornamented surface. A Coinshot quickly learned not to fear heights. He hoisted himself up onto the ledge, then dropped a bullet casing, stopping it with his booted foot. He looked upward, judging his trajectory. He drew a vial from his belt, then uncorked it and downed the liquid and steel shavings inside it. He hissed through his teeth as the whiskey burned his throat. Good stuff, from Stagin’s still. Damn, I’m going to miss that when my stock runs out, he thought, tucking the vial away. Most Allomancers didn’t use whiskey in their metal vials. Most Allomancers were missing out on a perfect opportunity. He smiled as his internal steel reserves were restored; then he flared the metal and launched himself. He flew up into the night sky. Unfortunately, the Ironspine was built in set-back ti1ers, the upper stories growing progressively narrower as you went higher. That meant that even though he Pushed himself directly up, he was soon soaring in open darkness, mists around him, the building’s side a good ten feet away. Wax reached into his coat and removed his short-barreled shotgun from the long, sleevelike pocket inside. He turned—pointing it outward—braced it against his side, and fired. He was light enough that the kick flung him toward the building. The boom of the blast echoed below, but he had spray shot in the shells, too small and light to hurt anyone when it fell dispersed from such a height. He slammed into the wall of the tower five stories above where he’d been, and grabbed hold of a spikelike protrusion. The decoration up here really was marvelous. Who did they think would be looking at it? He shook his head. Architects were curious types. Not practical at all, like a good gunsmith. Wax climbed to another shelf and jumped upward again. The next jump was enough to get him to the open steelwork lattice of the unfinished upper floors. He strolled across a girder, then shimmied up a vertical member—his reduced weight making it easy—and climbed atop the very tallest of the beams jutting from the top of the building. The height was dizzying. Even with the mists obscuring the landscape, he could see the double row of lights illuminating the street below. Other lights glowed more softly across the town, like the floating candles of a seafarer’s ocean burial. Only the absence of lights allowed him to pick out the various parks and the bay far to the west.
Once, this city had felt like home. That was before he’d spent twenty years living out in the dust, where the law was sometimes a distant memory and people considered carriages a frivolity. What would Lessie have thought of one of these horseless contraptions, with the thin wheels meant for driving on a city’s fine paved streets? Vehicles that ran on oil and grease, not hay and horseshoes? He turned about on his perch. It was difficult to judge locations in the dark and the mists, but he did have the advantage of a youth spent in this section of the city. Things had changed, but not that much. He judged the direction, checked his steel reserves, then launched himself out into the darkness. He shot outward in a grand arc above the city, flying for a good half a minute on the Push off those enormous girders. The skyscraper became a shadowed silhouette behind him, then vanished. Eventually, his impetus ran out, and he dropped back through the mists. He let himself fall, quiet. When the lights grew close—and he could see that nobody was below him—he pointed his shotgun at the ground and pulled the trigger. The jolt punched him upward for a moment, slowing his descent. He Pushed off the birdshot in the ground to slow him further; he landed easily in a soft crouch. He noticed with dissatisfaction that he’d all but ruined some good paving stones with the shot. Harmony! he thought. This place really was going to take some getting used to. I’m like a horse blundering through a narrow marketplace, he thought, hooking his shotgun back under his coat. I need to learn more finesse. Out in the Roughs, he’d been considered a refined gentleman. Here, if he didn’t watch himself, he’d soon prove himself to be the uncultured brute that most of the nobility already assumed that he was. It— Gunfire. Wax responded immediately. He Pushed himself sideways off an 1iron gate, then ducked in a roll. He came up and reached for a Sterrion with his right hand, his left steadying the shotgun in its sleeve in his coat. He peered into the night. Had his thoughtless shotgun blasts drawn the attention of the local constables? The guns fired again, and he frowned. No. Those are too distant. Something’s happening. This actually gave him a thrill. He leaped into the air and down the street, Pushing off that same gate to get height. He landed atop a building; this area was filled with three- and four-story apartment structures that had narrow alleyways between. How could people live without any space around them? He’d have gone mad. He crossed a few buildings—it was handy that the rooftops were flat—and then stopped to listen. His heart beat excitedly, and he realized he’d been hoping for something like this. It was why he’d been driven to leave the party, to seek out the skyscraper and climb it, to run through the mists. Back in Weathering, as the town grew larger, he’d often patrolled at night, watching
for trouble. He fingered his Sterrion as another shot was fired, closer this time. He judged his distance, then dropped a bullet casing and Pushed himself into the air. He’d restored his weight to three-quarters and left it there. You needed some weight on you to fight effectively. The mists swirled and spun, teasing him. One could never tell which nights would bring out the mists; they didn’t conform to normal weather patterns. A night could be humid and chill, and yet not a wisp of mists would appear. Another night could begin dry as brittle leaves, but the mists would consume it. They were thin this night, and so visibility was still good. Another crack broke the silence. There, Wax thought. Steel burning with a comfortable warmth within him, he leaped over another street in a flurry of mistcoat tassels, spinning mist, and calling wind. He landed softly, then raised his gun in front of him as he ran in a crouch across the roof. He reached the edge and looked down. Just below him, someone had taken refuge behind a pile of boxes near the mouth of an alley. In the dark, misty night, Wax couldn’t make out many details, but the person was armed with a rifle resting on a box. The barrel was pointed toward a group of people down the street who wore the distinctive domed hats of city constables. Wax Pushed out lightly from himself in all directions, setting up his steel bubble. A latch on a trapdoor at his feet rattled as his Allomancy affected it. He peered down at the man firing upon the constables. It would be good to do something of actual value in this city, rather than just standing around chatting with the overdressed and the overprivileged. He dropped a bullet casing, and his Allomancy pressed it down onto the rooftop beneath him. He Pushed more forcefully on it, launching himself up and through the swirling mists. He decreased his weight dramatically and pushed on a window latch as he fell, positioning himself so he landed right in the middle of the alleyway. With his steel, he could see lines pointing toward four different figures in front of him. Even as he landed—the men muttering curses and spinning toward him—he raised his Sterrion and sighted on the first of the street thugs. The man had a patchy beard and eyes as dark as the night itself. Wax heard a woman whimpering. He froze, hand steady, but unable to move. The memories, so carefully dammed up in his head, crashed through and flooded his m1ind. Lessie, held with a garrote around her neck. A single shot. Blood on the redbrick walls. The street thug jerked his rifle toward Wax and fired. The steel bubble barely deflected it, and the bullet tugged through the fabric of Wax’s coat, just missing his ribs. He tried to fire, but that whimpering … Oh, Harmony, he thought, appalled at himself. He pointed his gun downward and fired into the ground, then Pushed on the bullet and
threw himself backward, up out of the alleyway. Bullets pierced the mists all around him. Steel bubble or not, he should have fallen to one of them. It was pure luck that saved his life as he landed on another roof and rolled to a stop, prone, protected from the gunfire by a parapet wall. Wax gasped for breath, hand on his revolver. Idiot, he thought to himself. Fool. He’d never frozen in combat before, even when he’d been green. Never. This, however, was the first time he’d tried to shoot someone since the disaster in the ruined church. He wanted to duck away in shame, but he gritted his teeth and crawled forward to the edge of the roof. The men were still down there. He could see them better now, gathering and preparing to make a run for it. They probably wanted nothing to do with an Allomancer. He aimed at the apparent leader. However, before Wax could fire, the man fell to gunfire from the constables. In moments, the alleyway swarmed with men in uniforms. Wax raised his Sterrion beside his head, breathing deeply. I could have fired that time, he told himself. It was just that one moment where I froze. It wouldn’t have happened again. He told himself this several times as the constables pulled the malefactors out of the alley one at a time. There was no woman. The whimpering he’d heard had been a gang member who’d taken a bullet before Wax arrived. The man was still groaning in pain as they took him away. The constables hadn’t seen Wax. He turned and disappeared into the night. * * * A short time later, Wax arrived at Ladrian Mansion. His residence in the city, his ancestral home. He didn’t feel like he belonged there, but he used it anyway. The stately home lacked expansive grounds, though it did have four elegant stories, with balconies and a nice patio garden out back. Wax dropped a coin and bounded over the front fence, landing atop the gatehouse. My carriage is back, he noticed. Not surprising. They were getting used to him; he wasn’t certain whether to be pleased by that or ashamed of it. He Pushed off the gates—which rattled at the weight—and landed on a fourth-story balcony. Coinshots had to learn precision, unlike their cousin Allomancers, Ironpullers—also known as Lurchers. Those would just pick a target and Pull themselves toward it, but they usually had to grind up the side of a building, making noise. Coinshots had to be delicate, careful, accurate. The window was unlatched; he’d left it that way. He didn’t fancy dealing with people at the moment; his abortive confrontation with the criminals had rattled him. He slipped into the darkened room, then padded across it and listened at the door. No sounds in the hallway. He opened the door silently, then moved out. The hallway was dark, and he was no Tineye, capable of enhancing his senses. He felt hi1s way with each step, being careful not to trip on the edge
of a rug or bump into a pedestal. His rooms were at the end of the hallway. He reached for the brass knob with gloved fingers. Excellent. He carefully pushed the door open, stepping into his bedroom. Now he just had to— A door opened on the other side of his room, letting in bright yellow light. Wax froze in place, though his hand quickly reached into his coat for one of his Sterrions. An aging man stood in the doorway, holding a large candelabrum. He wore a tidy black uniform and white gloves. He raised an eyebrow at Wax. “High Lord Ladrian,” he said, “I see that you’ve returned.” “Um…” Wax said, sheepishly removing his hand from inside his coat. “Your bath is drawn, my lord.” “I didn’t ask for a bath.” “Yes, but considering your night’s … entertainments, I thought it prudent to prepare one for you.” The butler sniffed. “Gunpowder?” “Er, yes.” “I trust my lord didn’t shoot anyone too important.” No, Wax thought. No, I couldn’t. Tillaume stood there, stiff, disapproving. He didn’t say the words he was undoubtedly thinking: that Wax’s disappearance from the party had caused a minor scandal, that it would be even more difficult to procure a proper bride now. He didn’t say that he was disappointed. He didn’t say these things because he was, after all, a proper lord’s servant. Besides, he could say them all with a glance anyway. “Shall I draft a letter of apology to Lady Cett, my lord? I believe she will expect it, considering that you sent one to Lord Stanton.” “Yes, that would be well,” Wax said. He lowered his fingers to his belt, feeling the metal vials there, the revolver at each hip, the weight of the shotgun strapped inside his coat. What am I doing? I’m acting like a fool. He suddenly felt exceedingly childish. Leaving a party to go patrolling through the city, looking for trouble? What was wrong with him? He felt as if he’d been trying to recapture something. A part of the person he’d been before Lessie’s death. He had known, deep down, that he might have trouble shooting now and had wanted to prove otherwise. He’d failed that test. “My lord,” Tillaume said, stepping closer. “May I speak … boldly, for a moment?” “You may.” “The city has a large number of constables,” Tillaume said. “And they are quite capable in their jobs. Our house, however, has but one high lord. Thousands depend on you, sir.” Tillaume nodded his head in respect, then moved to begin lighting some candles in the bedroom. The butler’s words were true. House Ladrian was one of the most powerful in the city, at least historically. In the city’s government, Wax represented the interests of all of the people his house employed. True, they’d also have a representative based on votes in their guild, but it was Wax they depended on most. His house was nearly bankrupt—rich in potential, in holdings, and in workers, but poor in cash and con1nections because of his uncle’s foolishness.
If Wax didn’t do something to change that, it could mean jobs lost, poverty, and collapse as other houses pounced on his holdings and seized them for debts not paid. Wax ran his thumbs along his Sterrions. The constables handled those street toughs just fine, he admitted to himself. They didn’t need me. This city doesn’t need me, not like Weathering did. He was trying to cling to what he had been. He wasn’t that person any longer. He couldn’t be. But people did need him for something else. “Tillaume,” Wax said. The butler looked back from the candles. The mansion didn’t have electric lights yet, though workmen were coming to install them soon. Something his uncle had paid for before dying, money Wax couldn’t recover now. “Yes, my lord?” Tillaume asked. Wax hesitated, then slowly pulled his shotgun from its place inside his coat and set it into the trunk beside his bed, placing it beside a companion he’d left there earlier. He took off his mistcoat, wrapping the thick material over his arm. He held the coat reverently for a moment, then placed it in the trunk. His Sterrion revolvers followed. They weren’t his only guns, but they represented his life in the Roughs. He closed the lid of the trunk on his old life. “Take this, Tillaume,” Wax said. “Put it somewhere.” “Yes, my lord,” Tillaume said. “I shall have it ready for you, should you need it again.” “I won’t be needing it,” Wax said. He had given himself one last night with the mists. A thrilling climb up the tower, an evening spent with the darkness. He chose to focus on that—rather than his failure with the toughs—as his night’s accomplishment. One final dance. “Take it, Tillaume,” Wax said, turning away from the trunk. “Put it somewhere safe, but put it away. For good.” “Yes, my lord,” the butler said softly. He sounded approving. And that, Wax thought, is that. He then walked into the washroom. Wax the lawkeeper was gone. It was time to be Lord Waxillium Ladrian, Sixteenth High Lord of House Ladrian, residing in the Fourth Octant of Elendel City. 2 SIX MONTHS LATER “How’s my cravat?” Waxillium asked, studying himself in the mirror, turning to the side and tugging at the silver necktie again. “Impeccable as always, my lord,” Tillaume said. The butler stood with hands clasped behind his back, a tray with steaming tea sitting beside him on the serving stand. Waxillium hadn’t asked for tea, but Tillaume had brought it anyway. Tillaume had a thing about tea. “Are you certain?” Waxillium asked, tugging at the cravat again. “Indeed, my lord.” He hesitated. “I’ll admit, my lord, that I’ve been curious about this for months. You are the first high lord I’ve ever waited upon who can tie a decent cravat. I’d grown quite accustomed to providing that as1sistance.” “You learn to do things on your own, when you live out in the Roughs.” “With all due respect, my lord,” Tillaume said, his normally monotone voice betraying a hint of curiosity, “I
wouldn’t have thought that one would need to learn that skill in the Roughs. I wasn’t aware that the denizens of those lands had the slightest concern for matters of fashion and decorum.” “They don’t,” Waxillium said with a smile, giving one final adjustment to the cravat. “That’s part of why I always did. Dressing like a city gentleman had an odd effect on the people out there. Some immediately respected me, others immediately underestimated me. It worked for me in both cases. And, I might add, it was unspeakably satisfying to see the looks on the faces of criminals when they were hauled in by someone they had assumed to be a city dandy.” “I can imagine, my lord.” “I did it for myself too,” Waxillium said more softly, regarding himself in the mirror. Silver cravat, green satin vest. Emerald cuff links. Black coat and trousers, stiff through the sleeves and legs. One steel button on his vest among the wooden ones, an old tradition of his. “The clothing was a reminder, Tillaume. The land around me may have been wild, but I didn’t need to be.” Waxillium took a silver pocket square off his dressing stand, deftly folded it in the proper style, and slipped it into his breast pocket. A sudden chiming rang through the mansion. “Rust and Ruin,” Waxillium cursed, checking his pocket watch. “They’re early.” “Lord Harms is known for his punctuality, my lord.” “Wonderful. Well, let’s get this over with.” Waxillium strode out into the hallway, boots gliding on the green velvet-cut rug. The mansion had changed little during his two-decade absence. Even after six months of living here, it still didn’t feel like it was his. The faint smell of his uncle’s pipe smoke still lingered, and the decor was marked by a fondness for deep dark woods and heavy stone sculpture. Despite modern tastes, there were almost no portraits or paintings. As Waxillium knew, many of those had been valuable, and had been sold before his uncle’s death. Tillaume walked alongside him, hands clasped behind his back. “My lord sounds as though he considers this day’s duty to be a chore.” “Is it that obvious?” Waxillium grimaced. What did it say about him that he’d rather face down a nest of outlaws—outgunned and outmanned—than meet with Lord Harms and his daughter? A plump, matronly woman waited at the end of the hallway, wearing a black dress and a white apron. “Oh, Lord Ladrian,” she said with fondness. “Your mother would be so pleased to see this day!” “Nothing has been decided yet, Miss Grimes,” Waxillium said as the woman joined the two of them, walking along the balustrade of the second-floor gallery. “She did so hope that you’d marry a fine lady someday,” Miss Grimes said. “You should have heard how she worried, all those years.” Waxillium tried to ignore the way those words twisted at his heart. He hadn’t heard how his mother worried. He’d hardly ever taken time to write his parents or his sister, and had only visited that one time,
just after the railway reached Weathering. Well, he was making go1od on his obligations now. Six months of work, and he was finally getting his feet under him and pulling House Ladrian—along with its many forgeworkers and seamstresses—from the brink of financial collapse. The last step came today. Waxillium reached the top of the staircase, then hesitated. “No,” he said, “I mustn’t rush in. Need to give them time to make themselves comfortable.” “That is—” Tillaume began, but Waxillium cut him off by turning the other way and marching back along the balustrade. “Miss Grimes,” Waxillium said, “are there other matters that will need my attention today?” “You wish to hear of them now?” she asked, frowning as she bustled to keep up. “Anything to keep my mind occupied, dear woman,” Waxillium said. Rust and Ruin … he was so nervous that he caught himself reaching inside his jacket to finger the grip of his Immerling 44-S. It was a fine weapon; not as good as one of Ranette’s make, but a proper, and small, sidearm for a gentleman. He’d decided he would be a lord, and not a lawman, but that didn’t mean he was going to go about unarmed. That … well, that would just be plain insane. “There is one matter,” Miss Grimes said, grimacing. She was the Ladrian house steward, and had been for the last twenty years. “We lost another shipment of steel last night.” Waxillium froze on the walkway. “What? Again!” “Unfortunately, my lord.” “Damn it. I’m starting to think the thieves are targeting only us.” “It’s only our second shipment,” she said. “House Tekiel has lost five shipments so far.” “What are the details?” he asked. “The disappearance. Where did it happen?” “Well—” “No, don’t tell me,” he said, raising a hand. “I can’t afford to be distracted.” Miss Grimes gave him a flat look, since that was probably why she’d avoided telling him about it before his meeting with Lord Harms. Waxillium rested a hand on the railing, and felt his left eye twitch. Someone was out there, running an organized, highly efficient operation stealing the contents of entire railcars. They were being called the Vanishers. Perhaps he could poke around a little and … No, he told himself sternly. It is not my duty. Not anymore. He would go to the proper authorities, perhaps hire some guards or personal investigators. He would not go chasing bandits himself. “I’m sure the constables will find those responsible and bring them to justice,” Waxillium said with some difficulty. “Do you think that’s long enough to make Lord Harms wait? I think that’s long enough. It hasn’t been too long, has it?” Waxillium turned and walked back the way he’d come. Tillaume rolled his eyes as he passed. Waxillium reached the stairs. A young man in a green Ladrian vest and a white shirt was climbing them. “Lord Ladrian!” Kip said. “Post has arrived.” “Any parcels?” “No, my lord,” the boy said, handing over a signet-sealed letter as Waxillium passed. “Only this. Looked important.” “An invitation to
the Yomen-Ostlin wedding di1nner,” Miss Grimes guessed. “Might be a good place to have your first public appearance with Miss Harms.” “The details haven’t been decided!” Waxillium protested as they stopped at the bottom of the staircase. “I’ve barely broached the topic with Lord Harms, yet you practically have us married. It’s entirely possible that they will upend this entire matter, like what happened with Lady Entrone.” “It will go well, young master,” Miss Grimes said. She reached up, adjusting the silk square in his pocket. “I’ve got a Soother’s sense for these matters.” “You do realize I’m forty-two years old? ‘Young master’ doesn’t exactly fit any longer.” She patted his cheek. Miss Grimes considered any unmarried man to be a child—which was terribly unfair, considering that she had never married. He refrained from speaking to her about Lessie; most of his family back in the city hadn’t known about her. “Right, then,” Waxillium said, turning and striding toward the sitting room. “Into the maw of the beast I go.” Limmi, head of the ground-floor staff, waited by the doorway. She raised her hand as Waxillium approached, as if to speak, but he slid the dinner-party invitation between two of her fingers. “Have an affirmative response drafted to this, if you would, Limmi,” he said. “Indicate I’ll be dining with Miss Harms and her father, but hold the letter until I’m done with my conference here. I’ll let you know whether to send it or not.” “Yes, my lord, but—” “It’s all right,” he said, pushing the door open. “I mustn’t keep the…” Lord Harms and his daughter were not in the sitting room. Instead, Waxillium found a lanky man with a round, sharp-chinned face. He was about thirty years of age, and had a few days of stubble on the chin and cheeks. He wore a wide-brimmed Roughs-style hat, the sides curving up slightly, and had on a leather duster. He was playing with one of the palm-sized upright clocks on the mantel. “’Ello Wax,” the man said brightly. He held up the clock. “Can I trade you for this?” Waxillium swiftly pulled the door shut behind him. “Wayne? What are you doing here?” “Looking at your stuff, mate,” Wayne said. He held up the clock appraisingly. “Worth what, three or four bars? I’ve got a bottle of good whiskey that might be worth the same.” “You have to get out of here!” Waxillium said. “You’re supposed to be in Weathering. Who’s watching the place?” “Barl.” “Barl! He’s a miscreant.” “So am I.” “Yes, but you’re the miscreant I chose to do the job. You could have at least sent for Miles.” “Miles?” Wayne said. “Mate, Miles is a right horrible human being. He’d rather shoot a man than bother actually finding out if the bloke was guilty or not.” “Miles keeps his town clean,” Waxillium said. “And he’s saved my life a couple of times. This is beside the point. I told you to watch over Weathering.” Wayne tipped his hat to Waxillium. “True, Wax, but you ain’1t a lawkeeper
no longer. And me, I’ve got important stuff to be about.” He looked at the clock, then pocketed it and set a small bottle of whiskey on the mantel in its place. “Now, sir, I’ll need to be asking you a few questions.” He pulled a small notepad and pencil from inside his duster. “Where were you last night at around midnight?” “What does that—” Waxillium was interrupted by chimes sounding at the door again. “Rust and Ruin! These are high-class people, Wayne. I’ve spent months persuading them that I’m not a ruffian. I need you out of here.” Waxillium walked forward, trying to usher his friend toward the far exit. “Now, that’s right suspicious behavior, innit?” Wayne said, scrawling something on his notepad. “Dodging questions, acting all anxious. What are you hiding, sir?” “Wayne,” Waxillium said, grabbing the other man’s arm. “Part of me is appreciative that you’d come all this way to aggravate me, and I am glad to see you. But now is not the time.” Wayne grinned. “You assume I’m here for you. Don’t you think that’s a pinch arrogant?” “What else would you be here for?” “Shipment of foodstuffs,” Wayne said. “Railway car left Elendel four days ago and arrived in Weathering with the entire contents of a single car empty. Now, I hear that you recently lost two shipments of your own to these ‘Vanishers.’ I’ve come to question you. Right suspicious, as I said.” “Suspicious … Wayne, I lost two shipments. I’m the one who got robbed! Why would that make me a suspect?” “How am I to know how your devious, criminal genius mind works, mate?” Footsteps sounded outside the room. Waxillium glanced at the door, then back at Wayne. “Right now, my criminal genius mind is wondering if I can stuff your corpse anywhere that wouldn’t be too obvious.” Wayne grinned, stepping back. The door opened. Waxillium spun, looking as Limmi sheepishly held the door open. A corpulent man in a very fine suit stood there, holding a dark wooden cane. He had mustaches that drooped all the way down to his thick neck, and his waistcoat framed a deep red cravat. “… saying it doesn’t matter whom he’s seeing!” Lord Harms said. “He’ll want to speak with me! We had an appointment, and…” Lord Harms paused, realizing the door was open. “Ah!” He strode into the room. He was followed by a stern-looking woman with golden hair fixed into a tight bun—his daughter, Steris—and a younger woman who Waxillium didn’t recognize. “Lord Ladrian,” Harms said, “I find it very unbefitting to be made to wait. And who is this that you’re meeting with in my stead?” Waxillium sighed. “It’s my old—” “Uncle!” Wayne said, stepping forward, voice altered to sound gruff and lose all of its rural accent. “I’m his uncle Maksil. Popped in unexpectedly this morning, my dear man.” Waxillium raised an eyebrow as Wayne stepped forward. He’d removed his hat and duster, and had plastered his upper lip with a realistic-looking fake mustache with a bit of gray in it.
He was scrunching his face up just slightly to produce a fe1w extra wrinkles at the eyes. It was a good disguise, making him look like he might be a few years older than Waxillium, rather than ten years younger. Waxillium glanced over his shoulder. The duster sat folded on the floor beside one of the couches, hat atop it, a pair of dueling canes lying crossed beside the pile. Waxillium hadn’t even noticed the swap—of course, Wayne had naturally done it while inside a speed bubble. Wayne was a Slider, a bendalloy Allomancer, capable of creating a bubble of compressed time around himself. He often used the power to change costumes. He was also Twinborn, like Waxillium, though his Feruchemical ability—healing quickly from wounds—wasn’t so useful outside of combat. Still, the two made for a very potent combination. “Uncle, you say?” Lord Harms asked, taking Wayne’s hand and shaking it. “On the mother’s side!” Wayne said. “Not the Ladrian side, of course. Otherwise I’d be running this place, eh?” He sounded nothing like himself, but that was Wayne’s specialty. He said that three-quarters of a disguise was in the accent and voice. “I’ve wanted for a long time to come check up on the lad. He’s had something of a rough-and-tumble past, you know. He needs a firm hand to make certain he doesn’t return to such unpleasant ways.” “I’ve often thought the very same thing!” Lord Harms said. “I assume we’re given leave to sit, Lord Ladrian?” “Yes, of course,” Waxillium said, covertly glaring at Wayne. Really? that glare said. We’re doing this? Wayne just shrugged. Then he turned and took Steris’s hand and bowed his head politely. “And who is this lovely creature?” “My daughter, Steris.” Harms sat. “Lord Ladrian? You didn’t tell your uncle of our arrival?” “I was so surprised by his appearance,” Waxillium said, “that I did not have an opportunity.” He took Steris’s hand and bowed his head to her as well. She looked him up and down with a critical gaze, and then her eyes flicked toward the duster and hat in the corner. Her lips turned down. Doubtless she assumed they were his. “This is my cousin Marasi,” Steris said, nodding to the woman behind her. Marasi was dark-haired and large-eyed, with bright red lips. She looked down demurely as soon as Waxillium turned to her. “She has spent most of her life in the Outer Estates and is rather timid, so please don’t upset her.” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Waxillium said. He waited until the women were seated beside Lord Harms, then sat on the smaller sofa facing them, and facing the doorway. There was another exit from the room, but he’d discovered that there was a squeaky floorboard leading to it, which was ideal. This way, someone couldn’t sneak up on him. Lawman or lord, he didn’t fancy getting shot in the back. Wayne primly settled himself in a chair directly to Waxillium’s right. They all stared at one another for an extended moment. Wayne yawned. “Well,” Waxillium said. “Perhaps
I should begin by asking after your health.” “Perhaps you should,” Steris replied. “Er. Yes. How’s your health?” “Suitable.” “So is Waxillium,” Wayne added. They all turned to him. “You know,” he said. “He’s wearing a suit, and all. Suitable. Ahem. Is that mahogany?” “This?” Lord Harms said, holding up his cane. “Indeed. It’s a family heirloom.” “My lord Waxillium,” Steris cut in, voice stern. She did not seem to enjoy small talk. “Perhaps we can dispense with empty prattle. We all know the nature of this meeting.” “We do?” Wayne asked. “Yes,” Steris said, voice cool. “Lord Waxillium. You are in the position of having an unfortunate reputation. Your uncle, may he rest with the Hero, tarnished the Ladrian name with his social reclusiveness, occasional reckless forays into politics, and blatant adventurism. You have come from the Roughs, lending no small additional measure of poor reputation to the house, particularly considering your insulting actions to various houses during your first few weeks in town. Above all this, your house is nearly destitute. “We, however, are in a desperate circumstance of our own. Our financial status is excellent, but our name is unknown in the highest of society. My father has no male heir upon which to bestow his family name, and so a union between our houses makes perfect sense.” “How very logical of you, my dear,” Wayne said, the upper-class accent rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born with it. “Indeed,” she said, still watching Waxillium. She reached into her satchel. “Your letters and conversations with my father have been enough to persuade us of your serious intent, and during these last few months in the city your public comportment has proven more promisingly sober than your initial boorishness. So I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement that I think will suit our needs.” “An … agreement?” Waxillium asked. “Oh, I’m so eager to see it,” Wayne added. He reached into his pocket absently and got out something that Waxillium couldn’t quite discern. The “agreement” turned out to be a large document, at least twenty pages long. Steris handed one copy to Waxillium and one to her father, and retained another for herself. Lord Harms coughed into his hand. “I suggested she write down her thoughts,” he said. “And … well, my daughter is a very thorough woman.” “I can see that,” Waxillium said. “I suggest that you never ask her to pass the milk,” Wayne added under his breath, so only Waxillium could hear. “As she seems likely to throw a cow at you, just to be certain the job is done thoroughly.” “The document is in several parts,” Steris said. “The first is an outline of our courtship phase, wherein we make obvious—but not too speedy—progress toward engagement. We take just long enough for society to begin associating us as a couple. The engagement mustn’t be so quick as to seem a scandal, but cannot come too slowly either. Eight months should, by my estimates, fulfill our purposes.” “I see,” Waxillium said, flipping
through the pages. Tillaume entered, bringing a tray of tea and cakes, and deposited it on a serving table beside Wayne. Waxillium shook his head, closing the contract. “Doesn’t this seem a little … stiff to you?” “Stiff?” “I mean, shouldn’t there be room for romance?” “There is,” Steris said. “Page thirteen. Upon marriage, there shall be no more than three conjugal encounters per week and no fewer than one until a suitable heir is provided. After that, the same numbers apply to a two-week span.” “Ah, of course,” Waxillium said. “Page thirteen.” He glanced at Wayne. Was that a bullet the other man had taken from his pocket? Wayne was rolling it between his fingers. “If that is not enough to satisfy your needs,” Steris added, “the next page details proper mistress protocols.” “Wait,” Waxillium said, looking away from Wayne. “Your document allows mistresses?” “Of course,” Steris said. “They are a simple fact of life, and so it’s better to account for them than to ignore them. In the document, you will find requirements for your potential mistresses along with the means by which discretion will be maintained.” “I see,” Waxillium said. “Of course,” Steris continued, “I will follow the same guidelines.” “You plan to take a mistress, my lady?” Wayne asked, perking up. “I would be allowed my own dalliances,” she said. “Usually the coachman is the object of choice. I would abstain until heirs were produced, of course. There mustn’t be any confusion about lineage.” “Of course,” Waxillium said. “It’s in the contract,” she said. “Page fifteen.” “I don’t doubt that it is.” Lord Harms coughed into his hand again. Marasi, Steris’s cousin, maintained a blank expression, though she looked down at her feet during the conversation. Why had she been brought? “Daughter,” Lord Harms said, “perhaps we should move the conversation to less personal topics for a span.” “Very well,” Steris said. “There are a few things I wanted to know. Are you a religious man, Lord Ladrian?” “I follow the Path,” Waxillium said. “Hmmm,” she said, tapping her fingers against her contract. “Well, that’s a safe choice, if somewhat dull. I, for one, have never understood why people would follow a religion whose god specifically prohibits worshipping him.” “It’s complicated.” “So Pathians like to say. With the same breath as you try to explain how simple your religion is.” “That’s complicated too,” Waxillium said. “A simple kind of complicated, though. You’re a Survivorist, I assume?” “I am.” Delightful, Waxillium thought. Well, Survivorists weren’t too bad. Some of them, at least. He stood up. Wayne was still playing with that round. “Would anyone else like some tea?” “No,” Steris said with a wave of her hand, looking through her document. “Yes, please,” Marasi said softly. Waxillium crossed the room to the tea stand. “Those are very nice bookshelves,” Wayne said. “Wish 1I had shelves like those. My, my, my. And … we’re in.” Waxillium turned. The three guests had glanced at the shelves, and as they turned away, Wayne had started burning bendalloy and thrown up a speed
bubble. The bubble was about five feet across, including only Wayne and Waxillium, and once Wayne had it up he couldn’t move it. Years of familiarity let Waxillium discern the boundary of the bubble, which was marked by a faint wavering of the air. For those inside the bubble, time would flow much more quickly than for those outside. “Well?” Waxillium asked. “Oh, I think the quiet one’s kinda cute,” Wayne said, his accent back in place. “The tall one is insane, though. Rust on my arms, but she is.” Waxillium poured himself some tea. Harms and the two women looked frozen as they sat on their couch, almost like statues. Wayne was flaring his metal, using as much strength as he could to create a few private moments. These bubbles could be very useful, though not in the way most people expected. You couldn’t shoot out of them—well, you could, but something about the barrier interfered with objects passing through it. If you fired a shot in a speed bubble, the bullet would slow as soon as it hit ordinary time and would be moved erratically off course. That made it nearly impossible to aim from within one. “She’s a very good match,” Waxillium said. “It’s an ideal situation for both of us.” “Look, mate. Just because Lessie—” “This is not about Lessie.” “Whoa, hey.” Wayne raised a hand. “No need to get angry.” “I’m not—” Waxillium took a deep breath, then continued more softly. “I’m not angry. But it’s not about Lessie. This is about my duties.” Damn you, Wayne. I’d almost gotten myself to stop thinking about her. What would Lessie say, if she saw what he was doing? Laugh, probably. Laugh at how ridiculous it was, laugh at his discomfort. She hadn’t been the jealous type, perhaps because she’d never had any reason to be. With a woman like her, why would Waxillium have wanted to look elsewhere? Nobody would ever live up to her, but fortunately it didn’t matter. Steris’s contract actually seemed a good thing, in that regard. It would help him divide himself. Maybe help with a little of the pain. “This is my duty now,” Waxillium repeated. “Your duties used to involve saving folks,” Wayne said, “not marrying ’em.” Waxillium crouched down beside the chair. “Wayne. I can’t go back to what I was. You sauntering in here, meddling in my life, isn’t going to change that. I’m a different person now.” “If you were going to become a different person, couldn’t you have chosen one without such an ugly face?” “Wayne, this is serious.” Wayne raised his hand, spinning the cartridge between his fingers and proffering it. “So is this.” “What is that?” “Bullet. You shoot folks with ’em. Hopefully bad ones—or at least ones what owes you a bar or two.” “Wayne—” “They’re turning back.” Wayne set the cartridge on the tea-serving tray. “But—” “Time to cough. Three. Two. One.” Waxillium cursed under his breath, but pocketed the round and stood back up. He started coughing loudly as the speed bubble collapsed,
restoring normal time. To the three visitors, only seconds had passed, and to their ears Waxillium and Wayne’s conversation would be sped up to the point that most of it would be inaudible. The coughing would cover anything else. None of the three visitors seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Waxillium poured the tea—it was a deep cherry color today, likely a sweet fruit tea—and brought a cup over to Marasi. She took it, and he sat down, holding his own cup in one hand, taking out and gripping the cartridge with the other. Both the casing and the medium-caliber bullet’s jacket looked like steel, but the entire thing seemed too light. He frowned, hefting it. Blood on her face. Blood on the brick wall. He shivered, fighting off those memories. Damn you, Wayne, he thought again. “The tea is delicious,” Marasi said softly. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome,” Waxillium said, forcing his mind back to the conversation. “Lady Steris, I will consider this contract. Thank you for producing it. But really, I was hoping this meeting might allow me to learn more about you.” “I have been working on an autobiography,” she said. “Perhaps I will send you a chapter or two of it by post.” “That’s … very unconventional of you,” Waxillium said. “Though it would be appreciated. But please, tell me of yourself. What are your interests?” “Normally, I like plays.” She grimaced. “At the Coolerim, actually.” “Am I missing something?” Waxillium asked. “The Coolerim Playhouse,” Wayne said, leaning forward. “Two nights ago, it was robbed in the middle of the performance.” “Haven’t you heard?” Lord Harms asked. “It was in all the broadsheets.” “Was anyone harmed?” “Not at the event itself,” Lord Harms said, “but they did take a hostage as they escaped.” “Such a horrid thing,” Steris said. “Nobody has heard from Armal yet.” She looked sick. “You knew her?” Wayne asked, his accent slipping faintly as he grew interested. “Cousin,” Steris said. “Same as…” Waxillium asked, nodding toward Marasi. The three regarded him with confused expressions for a moment, but then Lord Harms jumped in. “Ah, no. Different side of the family.” “Interesting,” Waxillium said, leaning back in his chair, tea sitting ignored in his hand. “And ambitious. Robbing an entire playhouse? How many of the robbers were there?” “Dozens,” Marasi said. “Maybe as many as thirty, so the reports say.” “Quite a band. That means as many as another eight just to drive them away. And vehicles for escaping. Impressive.” “It’s the Vanishers,” Marasi said. “The ones stealing from the railway also.” “That hasn’t been proven,” Wayne replied, pointing at her. “No. But one of the witnesses from a railway robbery described several men who were at the theater robbery.” “Wait,” Waxillium said. “There were witnesses to one of the railway robberies? I thought they happened in secret. Something about a ghostly railcar appearing on the tracks?” “Yes,” Wayne said. “The railway engineers stop to investigate and—probably—panic. But the phantom railcar vanishes before they can investigate it. They continue on, but when they reach the end
of the line, one of their train’s cars is empty. Still locked, no signs of forced entry. But the goods are all gone.” “So nobody sees the culprits,” Waxillium said. “The recent ones have been different,” Marasi said, growing animated. “They’ve started robbing passenger cars as well. When the train stops because of the phantom on the tracks, men jump into the cars and start going through, collecting jewelry and pocketbooks from the occupants. They take a woman hostage—threatening to kill her if anyone follows—and go. The freight car is still robbed as well.” “Curious,” Waxillium said. “Yes,” Marasi said. “I think—” “My dear,” Lord Harms cut in. “You are bothering Lord Ladrian.” Marasi blushed, then looked down. “It wasn’t a bother,” Waxillium said, tapping his teacup with his finger. “It—” “Is that a bullet in your fingers?” Steris asked, pointing. Waxillium looked down, realizing that he was rolling the cartridge between forefinger and thumb. He closed his fist around it before his memories could return. “It’s nothing.” He shot a glare at Wayne. The other man mouthed something. Push on it. “You are quite certain your unconventional past is behind you, Lord Ladrian?” Steris asked. “Oh, he’s certain,” Wayne said, grimacing. “You don’t have to worry about him being unconventional. Why, he’s downright boring! Unbelievably, comically, nonsensically boring. You could squeeze more excitement out of a beggar waiting in line at the soup kitchen on rat meat day. It—” “Thank you, Uncle,” Waxillium said dryly. “Yes, Steris, my past is just that. Past. I am committed to my duties as head of House Ladrian.” “Very well,” she said. “We will need a formal entrance into high society as a couple. A public event of some sort.” “How about the Yomen-Ostlin wedding dinner?” Waxillium said absently. Push on it. “I received an invitation just this morning.” “An excellent idea,” Lord Harms said. “We were invited as well.” Push on it. Waxillium reached into his left sleeve and covertly took a small pinch of steel shavings from the pouch he kept there. He dropped it into his tea and took a drink. That didn’t give him much of a reserve, but it was enough. He burned the steel, the familiar lines of b1lue springing up around him. They pointed to all nearby sources of metal. Except the one in his fingers. Aluminum, he realized. No wonder it’s light. Aluminum and a few of its alloys were Allomantically inert; you couldn’t Push or Pull on them. It was also very expensive. It cost more than even gold or platinum. The bullet was designed to kill Coinshots and Lurchers, men like Waxillium himself. That gave him a shiver, though he gripped the round more tightly. There were days when he’d have given his best gun for a few aluminum bullets, though he hadn’t heard of an alloy that would produce a bullet with sound ballistics. Where? he mouthed to Wayne. Where did you find it? Wayne just nodded to the guests, who were looking right at Waxillium. “Are you quite all right, Lord Ladrian?” Steris
asked. “I know a good zinc counselor if you have need of some emotional aid.” “Er … no. Thank you. I am quite all right, and I think this has been a very productive meeting. Wouldn’t you agree?” “That depends,” she said, rising, apparently taking that as an invitation to end the conversation. “The wedding party is on the morrow, I believe. I can count on you having reviewed the contract by then?” “You can,” Waxillium said, rising as well. “I think this meeting was wonderful,” Wayne said as he stood. “You’re just what my nephew needs, Lady Steris! A firm hand. None of this rabble-rousing he’s been used to.” “I agree!” Lord Harms said. “Lord Ladrian, perhaps your uncle can attend the dinner—” “No,” Waxillium said quickly before Wayne could say anything. “No, unfortunately, he has to return to his estates. Told me just earlier. He has a very important foaling to attend.” “Oh, well then,” Lord Harms said, helping Marasi to her feet. “We will send you word of confirmation once we have accepted the Yomen invitation.” “And I will do likewise,” Waxillium said, escorting them to the door of the room. “Farewell until then.” Tillaume bowed to them there, then escorted them out. Their departure felt rushed to Waxillium, but he was relieved to see them go. Considering Wayne’s sudden intrusion, that had actually gone pretty well. Nobody had ended up trying to shoot him. “Nice bunch,” Wayne said. “I now see what you’re doing. With a wife and in-laws like those, you’ll feel quite at home here—just like the jailhouse and its occupants back in Weathering!” “Very nice,” Waxillium said under his breath, waving one last time as the Harms family walked out the mansion doors. “Where did you get the bullet?” “It was dropped at the theater robbery. Traded the constables for it this morning.” Waxillium closed his eyes. Wayne had a very liberal interpretation of what “trading” entailed. “Oh, don’t get that way,” Wayne said. “I left them a nice cobblestone for it. I think Steris and her pop are convinced you’re a loon, by the way.” He grinned. “That’s nothing new. My association with you has been convincing people I’m insane fo1r years now.â/p> âœa! And here I thought youâ™ lost your sense of humor.âWayne walked back into the room. He slid his pencil out of his pocket as he passed a table, trading it for one of Waxilliumâ™ pens. âœy humor isnâ™ lost, Wayne,âWaxillium said, âœust strained. What I told you is true, and this bullet doesnâ™ change anything.â/p> âœaybe it doesnâ™,âWayne said, retrieving his hat, duster, and dueling canes. âœut Iâ™ still gonna see what I can find.â/p> âœtâ™ not your job.â/p> âœnd it wasnâ™ your job to start hunting down criminals out in the Roughs. Doesnâ™ change what needs to be done, mate.âWayne walked up to Waxillium, then handed him the hat. Once Waxillium took it, Wayne threw on his coat. âœayneâ¦€ âœeople are being taken, Wax,âhe said, taking back his hat and putting it on. âœour hostages so far. None returned.
Stealing jewelry is one thing. Taking food from Roughs towns is another. Kidnapping peopleÂâ¦well, thereâ™ something goinâ™on here. Iâ™ gonna find out what it is. With or without you.â/p> âœithout me.â/p> âœine.âHe hesitated. âœut I need something, Wax. A place to look. You always did the thinking.â/p> âœes, having a brain helps with that, surprisingly.â/p> Wayne narrowed his eyes at him. Then he raised his eyebrows, pleadingly. âœll right,âWaxillium said, sighing and fetching his teacup. âœow many robberies now?â/p> âœight. Seven railway cars and, most recently, the theater.â/p> âœour hostages?â/p> âœeah. Across three of the latest robberies. Two were taken from one of the trains, then one from the robbery at the theater. All four hostages are women.â/p> âœasier to overpower,âWaxillium said idly, tapping his cup, âœnd more likely to make the men worry about getting them killed if they try to give chase.â/p> âœo you need to know what was stolen?âWayne said, reaching into the pocket of his duster. âœ traded one of the constables for a list.â¦€ âœt doesnâ™ matter.âWaxillium took a drink from his cup. âœr, at least, most of it probably doesnâ™. Itâ™ not about the robberies.â/p> âœtâ™Ââ¦not?â/p> âœo. Large gang. Well fundedâ”oo well funded.âHe pulled out the round and looked it over. âœf they really wanted money, theyâ™ be robbing gold transports or banks. The robberies are probably a distraction. If you want a manâ™ horses, sometimes the best thing to do is let his hogs loose. While heâ™ chasing them down, you ride off. âœâ™ lay money on these Vanishers being after something else, something unlikely. Perhaps an item that is easy to overlook in all that has been taken. Or maybe itâ™ really about extortionâ”nd they plan to start asking for protection money from people in town. See if anyoneâ™ been contacted about that. I havenâ™, by the way. âœf that goes nowhere, look at the hostages. One of them might have been carrying something that was the real target of the robbery. I wouldnâ™ be surprised if this turned out to be about clandestine blackmail.â€ âœut they robbed a few trains before taking any hostages.â/p> âœes,âWaxillium said. âœnd they got away with it. There was no reason to expose themselves by robbing passengers if they could make off with cargo unseen and unstopped. Theyâ™e after something else, Wayne. Trust me.â/p> âœll right.âThe wiry man rubbed his face, then finally pulled off the fake mustache. He stuffed it into his pocket. âœut tell me. Donâ™ you even want to know? Doesnâ™ it itch at you?â/p> âœo.âThat wasnâ™ completely true. Wayne snorted. âœâ™ believe you if you could say that without your eye twitching, mate.âHe nodded toward the bullet. âœ notice you didnâ™ offer to give that back.â/p> âœ didnâ™.âWaxillium pocketed it. âœnd you still wear your metalminds,âWayne said, nodding to the bracers hidden mostly by the cuffs of Waxilliumâ™ sleeves. âœot to mention that youâ™e still keeping steel inside your sleeve. I noticed a gun catalogue over on the table, too.â/p> âœ man must have hobbies.â/p> âœf you say so,âWayne said, then stepped forward, tapping
Waxillium on the chest. âœut you know what I think? I think youâ™e looking for excuses to not let go. This thing, itâ™ who you are. And no mansion, no marriage, and no mere title is going to change that.âWayne tipped his hat. âœouâ™e meant to be helping people, mate. Itâ™ what you do.â/p> With that, Wayne left, his duster brushing against the doorframe as he walked out. Â 3 Eight hours later, Waxillium stood at an upper window of his mansion. He watched the last broken fragments of a dying day. They dimmed, then grew black. He waited, hoping. But no mist came. What does it matter? he thought to himself. Youâ™e not going to go outside anyway. Still, he wished the mists were out; he felt more at peace when they were out there, watching. The world became a different place, one he felt he better understood. He sighed and crossed his study to the wall. He turned the switch, and the electric lights came on. They were still a wonder to him. Even though he knew the Words of Founding had given hints regarding electricity, what men had achieved still seemed incredible. He crossed the room to his uncleâ™ desk. His desk. Back in Weathering, Waxillium had used a rough, flimsy table. Now he had a sturdy, smoothly polished desk of stained oak. He sat down and began leafing through ledgers of house finances. It wasnâ™ long, however, before his eyes started flicking toward the stack of broadsheets lying on his easy chair. Heâ™ asked Limmi to go gather a few of them for him. He usually ignored the broadsheets these days. Reports of crimes had a way of setting his mind running in circles and keeping him from focusing on his business. Of course, now that thoughts of the Vanishers had been planted in his mind, heâ™ have trouble letting go and doing anything productive, at least until he had scratched a few itches about what theyâ™ been doing. Perhaps just a little reading, he told himself. To catch up on current events. It wouldn’t hurt to be informed; in fact, it might be important to his ability to entertain discussions with others. Waxillium fetched the stack and returned to his desk. He easily found an account of the robberies in the day’s paper. Other broadsheets in the stack had even more information. He’d mentioned the Vanishers to Limmi, and so she’d gathered a few broadsheets that were intended for people who wanted a collection of all of the recent stories on them. These reprinted articles from weeks or even months ago, with the original dates of the stories’ publication. Those types of broadsheets were popular, he could tell, as he had three different ones from three different publishers. It seemed everyone wanted to stay up to date on items they’d missed. By the dates listed on the reprinted articles, the first robbery had happened much earlier than he’d assumed. Seven months ago, just before he’d arrived back in Elendel. There had been a lapse of four months
between the first railway cargo disappearance and the second. The name “Vanishers” hadn’t started being used until this second attack. The robberies were all similar, save for the one at the playhouse. A train was stopped because of a distraction on the tracks—early on, a fallen tree. Later, a ghostly phantom railcar that appeared from the mists, traveling directly at the train. The engineers stopped in a panic, but the phantom ahead vanished. The engineers would start their train again. When it reached its destination, one of their cars was found to have been emptied of all goods. People were ascribing all kinds of mystical powers to the robbers, who seemed to be able to pass through walls and locked cargo cars without trouble. But what goods were stolen? Waxillium thought, frowning. The reports of the first theft didn’t say, though it did mention the cargo had belonged to Augustin Tekiel. Tekiel was one of the richest houses in the city, based over in the Second Octant, though it was building its new skyscraper in the financial district of the Fourth Octant. Waxillium read the articles over again, then searched through the broadsheets, scanning them for any further mention of the first robbery before the second occurred. What’s this? he thought, holding up a broadsheet that included a reprint of a letter Augustin Tekiel had written for publication a few months back. The letter denounced the Elendel constables for failure to protect or recover Tekiel’s goods. The broadsheet had happily printed it, even made a headline of it: “Constables Incompetent, Tekiel Slams.” Three months. It had taken three months for Tekiel to say anything. Waxillium put aside these compilation broadsheets, then searched through the more recent broadsheets for other mentions. There was no shortage of them; the robberies were dramatic and mysterious, two things that sold a lot of papers. The second and third robberies had been of steel shipments. Odd, that. An impractically heavy substance to take, and not as valuable as simply robbing the passenger cars. The fourth robbery had been the one that caught Wayne’s attention: packaged foodstuffs from a train on its way to the northern Roughs. The fifth robbery had been the first to involve the passengers. The sixth and seventh had done so as well, the seventh being the only time the Vanishers had taken two hostages instead of one. All three of the later robberies had involved stealing from a freight car as well as from passengers. Metals in two cases, foodstuffs in another case—at least, that was all the newspape1r reported. With each case, the details had grown more interesting, as the cargo cars had been better secured. More sophisticated locks, guards riding along. The robberies happened incredibly quickly, considering the weight of goods taken. Did they use a speed bubble, like Wayne makes? Waxillium thought. But no. You couldn’t move in or out of a speed bubble once one was up, and it would be impossible to make one large enough to facilitate this kind of robbery. So far as he knew, at
least. Waxillium continued reading. There were a great many articles with theories, quotes, and eyewitness reports. Many suggested a speed bubble, but editorials cut those to shreds. Too much manpower would be needed, more than could fit in a speed bubble. They thought it more likely that a Feruchemist who could increase his strength was lifting the heavy materials out of the cars and carrying them off. But to where? And why? And how were they bypassing the locks and the guards? Waxillium cut out articles he found interesting. Few had any solid information. A soft knock at the door interrupted him in the middle of spreading the articles out on his desk. He looked up to see Tillaume in the doorway holding a tray of tea and a basket, the handle over his arm. “Tea, my lord?” “That would be wonderful.” Tillaume strode forward and set up a small stand beside the desk, getting a cup and a sharp white napkin. “Do you have a preference?” Tillaume could manufacture dozens of varieties of tea from the simplest of starting points, blending and making what he considered ideal. “Whatever.” “My lord. There is great importance to tea. It should never merely be ‘whatever.’ Tell me. Are you planning to sleep soon?” Waxillium looked over the array of cut-out reports. “Definitely not.” “Very well. Would you prefer something to help clear your mind?” “That might be nice.” “Sweet or not?” “Not.” “Minty or spicy?” “Minty.” “Strong or weak?” “Er … strong.” “Excellent,” Tillaume said, taking several jars and some silver spoons from his basket. He began mixing powders and bits of herbs into a cup. “My lord looks very intent.” Waxillium tapped the table. “My lord is annoyed. Broadsheets make for terrible research opportunities. I need to know what was in the first shipment.” “The first shipment, my lord?” “The first railcar that the thieves stole from.” “Miss Grimes would note that you seem to be slipping into old habits, my lord.” “Miss Grimes isn’t here, fortunately. Besides, Lord Harms and his daughter seemed aghast that I didn’t know about the robberies. I must keep abreast of events in the city.” “That’s a very excellent excuse, my lord.” “Thank you,” Waxillium said, taking the cup of tea. “I almost have myself completely persuaded.” He took a sip. “Preservation’s Wings, 1man! This is good.” “Thank you, my lord.” Tillaume took out the napkin and snapped it in his hands, then folded it down the middle and laid it across the arm of Waxillium’s chair. “And I believe that the first thing stolen was a shipment of wool. I heard it being discussed at the butcher’s earlier in the week.” “Wool. That makes no sense.” “None of these crimes make much sense, my lord.” “Yes,” Waxillium said. “Unfortunately, those are the most interesting kind of crimes.” He took another sip of the tea. The strong, minty scent seemed to clear his nose and mind. “I need paper.” “What—” “A large sheet,” Waxillium continued. “As big as you can find.” “I will see what is available,
my lord,” Tillaume said. Waxillium caught a faint sigh of exasperation from the man, though he left the room to do as asked. How long had it been since Waxillium had started his research? He glanced at the clock, and was surprised at the time. Well into the night already. Well, he was into it now. He’d never sleep until he’d worked it through. He rose and began to pace, holding his teacup and saucer before him. He stayed away from the windows. He was backlit, and would make an excellent target for a sniper outside. Not that he really thought there would be one, but … well, he felt more comfortable working this way. Wool, he thought. He walked over and opened a ledger, looking up some figures. He grew so absorbed that he didn’t notice the passing of time until Tillaume returned. “Will this do, my lord?” he asked, bringing in an artist’s easel with a large pad of paper clipped to it. “The old Lord Ladrian kept this for your sister. She did love to draw.” Waxillium looked at it, and felt his heart clench. He hadn’t thought of Telsin in ages. They had been so distant most of their lives. Not by intent, like his distance from his uncle; Waxillium and the previous Lord Ladrian had often been at odds. No, his distance from Telsin had been one born more of laziness. Twenty years apart, only seeing his sister occasionally, had let him slide along without much contact. And then she’d died, in the same accident as his uncle. He wished the news had been harder for him to hear. It should have been harder for him to hear. She’d been a stranger by then, though. “My lord?” the butler asked. “The paper is perfect,” Waxillium said, rising and fetching a pencil. “Thank you. I was worried we’d have to hang the paper on the wall.” “Hang it?” “Yes. I used to use some bits of tar.” That idea seemed to make Tillaume very uncomfortable. Waxillium ignored him, walking over and beginning to write on the pad. “This is nice paper.” “I’m pleased, my lord,” Tillaume said uncertainly. Waxillium drew a little train in the top left corner, putting in a track ahead of it. He wrote a date beneath it. “First robbery. Fourteenth of Vinuarch. Target: wool. Supposedly.” In like manner, he added more trains, tracks, dates, and details down the paper. Wayne had always1 mocked him when he’d sketched out crimes to help him think. But it worked, though he frequently had to put up with Wayne’s playful additions of little stick-figure bandits or mistwraiths rampaging across the otherwise neat and orderly sketchwork and notes. “Second robbery happened much later,” Waxillium continued. “Metals. For the first robbery, Lord Tekiel didn’t make any kind of fuss until months had passed.” He tapped the paper, then crossed out the word “wool.” “He didn’t lose a shipment of wool. It was early summer then, and wool prices would be too low to justify the freight charges. As I recall,
the rates were unusually high in Vinuarch because the eighteenth railway line was out of service. It would take a man with breadcrumbs for brains to pay a premium to ship out-of-season wares to people who didn’t want them.” “So…” Tillaume said. “Just a moment,” Waxillium said. He walked over and pulled a few ledgers off the shelf beside his desk. His uncle had some shipping manifests here.… Yes. The old Lord Ladrian had kept very good track of what his competitor houses had been shipping. Waxillium scanned the lists for oddities. It took him a little while, but he eventually came up with a theory. “Aluminum,” Waxillium said. “Tekiel was probably shipping aluminum, but avoiding taxes by claiming it as something else. In here, his stated aluminum shipments for the last two years are much smaller than they were for previous years. His smelters are still producing, however. I’d bet my best gun that Augustin Tekiel—with the help of some railway workers—has been running a nice, profitable little smuggling operation. That’s why he didn’t make a big commotion about the theft at first; he didn’t want to draw attention.” Waxillium walked over and wrote some notations on his paper. He lifted his cup of tea to his lips, nodding to himself. “That also explains the long wait between the first and second robberies. The bandits were making use of that aluminum. They probably sold some of it on the black market to fund their operation, then used the rest to make aluminum bullets. But why would they need aluminum bullets?” “For killing Allomancers?” Tillaume asked. He had been tidying the room while Waxillium read the ledgers. “Yes.” Waxillium drew in images of faces above three of the robberies, the ones where they’d taken hostages. “My lord?” Tillaume asked, stepping up beside him. “You think the captives are Allomancers?” “The names have all been released,” Waxillium said. “All four are women from wealthy families, but none of them openly have Allomantic powers.” Tillaume remained quiet. That didn’t mean everything. Many Allomancers among the upper crust were discreet about their powers. There were plenty of situations where that could be useful. For instance, if you were a Rioter or Soother—capable of influencing people’s emotions—you wouldn’t want people to suspect. In other cases, Allomancy was flaunted. A recent candidate for the orchard-growers seat on the Senate had run solely on the platform that he was a Coppercloud, and was therefore impossible to affect with zinc or brass. The candidate won by a landslide. People hated thinking that someone might secretly be pulling their leaders’ strings. Waxillium started noting his speculations around the margins of the paper. Motives, possible ways they were emptying the freight1 cars so quickly, similarities and differences among the heists. As he wrote he hesitated, then added a couple of stick-figure bandits at the top, drawn in Wayne’s sloppy style. Crazy though it was, he felt better having them there. “I’ll bet the captives were all Allomancers, secretly,” Waxillium said. “The thieves had aluminum bullets to deal with Coinshots, Lurchers, and
Thugs. And if we were able to catch any of the thieves, I’ll bet good money that we’d find them wearing aluminum linings in their hats to shield their emotions from being Pushed or Pulled on.” That wasn’t uncommon among the city’s elite as well, though the common men couldn’t afford such luxury. The robberies weren’t about money; they were about the captives. That was why no bounty had been demanded, and why the bodies of the captives hadn’t been discovered dumped somewhere. The robberies were meant to obscure the true motives for the kidnappings. The victims were not the spur-of-the-moment hostages they were meant to appear. The Vanishers were gathering Allomancers. And Allomantic metals—so far raw steel, pewter, iron, zinc, brass, tin, and even some bendalloy had been stolen. “This is dangerous,” Waxillium whispered. “Very dangerous.” “My lord…” Tillaume said. “Weren’t you going to go over the house account ledgers?” “Yes,” Waxillium said distractedly. “And the lease for the new offices in the Ironspine?” “I can still get to that tonight too.” “My lord. When?” Waxillium paused, then checked his pocket watch. Again, he was surprised to see how much time had passed. “My lord,” Tillaume said. “Did I ever tell you about your uncle’s horse-racing days?” “Uncle Edwarn was a gambler?” “Indeed he was. It was a great problem to the house, soon after his rise to high lord. He would spend most of his days at the tracks.” “No wonder we’re destitute.” “Actually, he was quite good at the gambling, my lord. He usually came out ahead. Far ahead.” “Oh.” “He stopped anyway,” Tillaume said, collecting his tray and Waxillium’s empty teacup. “Unfortunately, my lord, while he was winning a small fortune at the races, the house lost a large fortune in mismanaged business and financial dealings.” He walked toward the door, but turned. His normally somber face softened. “It is not my place to lecture, my lord. Once one becomes a man, he can and must make his own decisions. But I do offer warning. Even a good thing can become destructive if taken to excess. “Your house needs you. Thousands of families rely upon you. They need your leadership and your guidance. You did not ask for this, I understand. But the mark of a great man is one who knows when to set aside the important things in order to accomplish the vital ones.” The butler left, closing the door behind him. Waxillium stood alone beneath the uncannily steady glow of the electric lights, looking at his diagram. He tossed the pencil aside, suddenly feeling drained, and fished out his pocket watch. It was two fifteen. He should be getting some sleep. Normal people slept at these hours. He dimmed the lights to not be backlit, then walked to the window. He was still depressed not to see any mists, even though he hadn’t expected them. I never said daily prayers, he realized. Things have been too chaotic today. Well, it was better to arrive late than not at all. He reached into his pocket, fishing
out his earring. It was a simple thing, stamped on the head with the ten interlocking rings of the Path. He slipped it into his ear, which was pierced for the purpose, and leaned against the window to stare out at the darkened city. There was no specific prescribed posture for praying as a Pathian. Just fifteen minutes of meditation and pondering. Some liked to sit with legs crossed, eyes closed, but Waxillium had always found it harder to think in that posture. It made his back hurt and his spine tingle. What if someone sneaked around behind him and shot him in the back? So, he just stood. And pondered. How are things up there in the mists? he thought. He was never sure how to talk to Harmony. Life’s good, I assume? What with you being God, and all? In response, he felt a sense of … amusement. He could never tell if he created those sensations himself or not. Well, since I’m not God myself, Waxillium thought, perhaps you could use that omniscience of yours to drum up some answers for me. It feels like I’m in a bind. A discordant thought. This wasn’t like most of the binds he’d been in. He wasn’t tied up, about to be murdered. He wasn’t lost in the Roughs, without water or food, trying to find his way back to civilization. He was standing in a lavish mansion, and while his family was having financial troubles, it was nothing they couldn’t weather. He had a life of luxury and a seat on the city Senate. Why, then, did he feel like these last six months had been among the hardest he’d ever lived? An endless series of reports, ledgers, dinner parties, and business deals. The butler was right; many did rely on him. The Ladrian house had started as several thousand individuals following the Origin, and had grown large in three hundred years, adopting under its protection any who came to work on its properties or in its foundries. The deals Waxillium negotiated determined their wages, their privileges, their lifestyle. If his house collapsed, they’d find employment elsewhere, but would be considered lesser members of those houses for a generation or two until they obtained full rights. I’ve done hard things before, he thought. I can do this one. If it’s right. Is it right? Steris had called the Path a simple religion. Perhaps it was. There was only one basic tenet: Do more good than harm. There were other aspects—the belief that all truth was important, the requirement to give more than one took. There were over three hundred examples listed in the Words of Founding, religions that could have been. Might have been. In other times, in another world. The Path was to study them, learn from their moral codes. A few rules were central. Do not seek lust without commitment. See the strengths in all flaws. Pray and meditate fifteen minutes a day. And don’t waste time worshipping Harmony. Doing good was the worship. Waxillium had been converted to
the Path soon after leaving Elendel. He was still convinced that the woman he’d met on that train ride must have been one of the Faceless Immortals, the hands of Harmony. She’d given him his ear1ring; every Pathian wore one while praying. The problem was, it was hard for Waxillium to feel like he was doing anything useful. Luncheons and ledgers, contracts and negotiations. He knew, logically, that all of it was important. But those, even his vote on the Senate, were all abstractions. No match for seeing a murderer jailed or a kidnapped child rescued. In his youth, he’d lived in the City—the world’s center of culture, science, and progress—for two decades, but he hadn’t found himself until he’d left it and wandered the dusty, infertile lands out beyond the mountains. Use your talents, something seemed to whisper inside of him. You’ll figure it out. That made him smile ruefully. He couldn’t help wondering why, if Harmony really was listening, he didn’t give more specific answers. Often, all Waxillium got from prayer was a sense of encouragement. Keep going. It’s not as difficult as you feel it is. Don’t give up. He sighed, just closing his eyes, losing himself in thought. Other religions had their ceremonies and their meetings. Not the Pathians. In a way, its very simplicity made the Path much harder to follow. It left interpretation up to one’s own conscience. After meditating for a time, he couldn’t help feeling that Harmony wanted him to study the Vanishers and to be a good house lord. Were the two mutually exclusive? Tillaume thought they were. Waxillium glanced back at the stack of broadsheets and the easel with the drawing pad on it. He reached into his pocket, taking out the bullet Wayne had left. And against his will, he saw in his mind’s eye Lessie, head jerking back, blood spraying into the air. Blood covering her beautiful brown hair. Blood on the floor, on the walls, on the murderer who had been standing behind her. But that murderer hadn’t been the one to shoot her. Oh, Harmony, he thought, raising a hand to his head and slowly sitting down, back to the wall. It really is about her, isn’t it? I can’t do that again. Not again. He dropped the round, pulled off his earring. He stood, walked over, cleaned up the broadsheets, and closed the drawing pad. Nobody had been hurt by the Vanishers yet. They were robbing people, but they weren’t harming them. There wasn’t even proof that the hostages were in danger. Likely they’d be returned after ransom demands were met. Waxillium sat down to work on his house’s ledgers instead. He let them draw his attention well into the night. 4 “Harmony’s forearms,” Waxillium mumbled, stepping into the grand ballroom. “This is what passes for a modest wedding dinner these days? There are more people in here than live in entire towns in the Roughs.” Waxillium had visited the Yomen mansion once in his youth, but that time, the grand ballroom had been empty. Now it
was filled. Rows and rows of tables lined the hardwood floor of the cavernous chamber; there had to be over a hundred of them. Ladies, lords, elected officials, and the wealthy elite moved and chatted in a low hum, all dressed in their finest. Sparkling jewels. Crisp black suits with colorful cravats. Women with dresses after the modern fashion: deep colors, skirts that went down to the floor, thick outer layers w1ith lots of folds and lace. Most women wore tight, vestlike coats over the top, and the necklines were much lower now than he remembered them being in his childhood. Perhaps he was simply more likely to notice. âœhat was that, Waxillium?âSteris asked, turning to the side and letting him help off her overcoat. She wore a fine red dress that seemed calculatedly designed to be completely in fashion but not too daring. âœ was simply noting the size of this gathering, my dear,âWaxillium said, folding her coat and handing itâ”long with his bowler hatâ”o a waiting attendant. âœâ™e been to quite a number of functions since my return to the city, and none were this enormous. Practically half the city seems to have been invited.â/p> âœell, this is something special,âshe said. âœ wedding involving two very well-connected houses. They wouldnâ™ want to leave anyone out. Except, of course, the ones they left out on purpose.â/p> Steris held out her arm for him to take. Heâ™ received a detailed lecture during the carriage ride on how, precisely, he was to hold it. His arm above hers, taking her hand lightly, fingers wrapping down under her palm. It looked horribly unnatural, but she insisted that it would convey the exact meaning they intended. Indeed, as they stepped down onto the ballroom floor, they drew a number of interested looks. âœou imply,âWaxillium said, âœhat one purpose of this wedding dinner is not in who is invited, but who is not.â/p> âœrecisely,âshe said. âœnd, in order to fulfill that purpose, everybody else must be invited. The Yomens are powerful, even if they do believe in Sliverism. Horrid religion. Imagine, revering Ironeyes himself. Anyway, nobody will ignore an invitation to this celebration. And so, those to be slighted will not only find themselves without a party to attend, but unable to arrange their own diversions, as anyone they might have wanted to invite will be here. That leaves them to either associate with other uninvitedsâ”herefore reinforcing their outcast statusâ”r to sit alone at home, thinking about how they have been insulted.â/p> âœn my experience,âWaxillium said, âœhat sort of unhappy brooding leads to a high probability of people getting shot.â/p> She smiled, waving with calculated fondness to someone they passed. âœhis isnâ™ the Roughs, Waxillium. It is the City. We donâ™ do such things here.â/p> âœo, you donâ™. Shooting people would be too charitable for City folks.â/p> âœou havenâ™ even seen the worst of it,âshe noted, waving to someone else. âœou see that person turned away from us? The stocky man with the longer hair?â/p> âœes.â/p> âœord Shewrman. An infamously dreadful party guest. Heâ™ a complete
bore when not drunk and a complete buffoon when he is drunkâ”hich is most of the time, I might add. He is probably the least likable person in all of upper society. Most people here would rather spend an hour amputating one of their own toes than spend a few moments chatting with him.â/p> âœo why is he here?â/p> âœor the insult factor, Waxillium. Those who were snubbed will be even more aghast to learn that Shewrman was here. By including a few bad alloys like himâ”en and women who are utterly undesirable, but who donâ™ realize itâ”ouse Yomen is essentially saying, â˜eâ™ even prefer spending time with these people to spending it with you.â€ Very effective. Very nasty.â/p> Waxillium snorted. âœf you tried something that rude out in Weathering, it would end with you strung up by your heels from the rafters. If youâ™e lucky.â/p> âœum. Yes.âA servant stepped forward, gesturing for them to follow as she led them to a table. âœou understand,âSteris continued more softly, âœhat I am no longer responding to your â˜gnorant frontiersmanâ™act, Waxillium.â/p> âœct?â/p> âœes,âshe said distractedly. âœou are a man. The prospect of marriage makes men uncomfortable, and they clutch for freedom. Therefore, you have begun regressing, tossing out savage comments to provoke a reaction from me. This is your instinct for masculine independence; an exaggeration meant, unconsciously, to undermine the wedding.â/p> âœou assume itâ™ an exaggeration, Steris,âWaxillium said as they approached the table. âœaybe this is what I am.â/p> âœou are what you choose to be, Waxillium,âshe said. âœs for these people here, and choices made by House Yomen, I did not make these rules. Nor do I approve of them; many are inconvenient. But it is the society in which we live. Therefore, I make of myself something that can survive in this environment.â/p> Waxillium frowned as she released his arm and fondly kissed cheeks with a few women from a nearby tableâ”istant relatives, it seemed. He found himself clasping hands behind his back and nodding with a civil smile to those who came to greet Steris and him. Heâ™ made a good showing for himself these last months while moving among upper society, and people treated him far more amiably than they once had. He was even fond of some of those who approached. However, the nature of what he was doing with Steris still made him uncomfortable, and he found it difficult to enjoy much of the conversation. In addition, this many people in one place still made his back itch. Too much confusion, too difficult to watch the exits. He preferred the smaller parties, or at least the ones spread across a large number of rooms. The bride and groom arrived, and people rose to clap. Lord Joshin and Lady Miâ™helle; Waxillium didnâ™ know them, though he did wonder why they were speaking with a scruffy man who looked like a beggar, dressed all in black. Fortunately, it didnâ™ seem Steris intended to drag him over to wait with those intent upon congratulating the newlyweds at the earliest possible moment.
Soon, the first tables were served their meals. Silverware began to clatter. Steris sent for a servant to prepare their table; Waxillium passed the time by inspecting the room. There were two balconies, one at each shorter end of the rectangular ballroom. There appeared to be space for dining up there, though no tables had been set up. They were being used for musicians today, a group of harpists. Majestic chandeliers hung from the ceilingâ”ix enormous ones down the center, outfitted with thousands of sparkling pieces of crystal. Twelve smaller ones hung at their sides. Electric lights, he noted. Those chandeliers must have been a horrible pain to light before the conversion. The sheer cost of a party like this numbed his senses. He could have fed Weathering for a year on what was being spent for this single evening. His uncle had sold the Ladrian ballroom a few years backâ”t had been a separate building, in a different neighborhood from the mansion. That made Waxillium happy; from what he remembered, it had been as large as this one. If they’d still owned it, people might have expected him to throw lavish parties like this. “Well?” Steris asked, holding out her arm for him again as the servant returned to lead them to their table. He could see Lord Harms and Steris’s cousin Marasi sitting at the table already. “I’m remembering why I left the City,” Waxillium said honestly. “Life is so damn hard here.” “Many would say that of the Roughs.” “And few of them have lived in both,” Waxillium said. “Living here is a different kind of hard, but it’s still hard. Marasi is joining us again?” “Indeed.” “What is going on with her, Steris?” “She’s from the Outer Estates and badly wanted the chance to attend university here in the City. My father took pity on her, as her own parents haven’t the means to support her. He is allowing her to reside with us for the duration of her studies.” A valid explanation, though it seemed to roll out of Steris’s mouth far too quickly. Was it a practiced excuse, or was Waxillium assuming too much? Either way, further discussion was interrupted as Lord Harms rose to greet his daughter. Waxillium shook hands with Lord Harms, took Marasi’s hand and bowed, then sat. Steris began speaking with her father about the people she’d noted to be attending or absent, and Waxillium rested elbows on the table, listening with half an ear. Hard room to defend, he thought absently. Snipers on those balconies would work, but you’d need some on each one, watching to make sure nobody gets beneath the other. Anyone with a strong enough gun—or the right Allomantic powers—could take out snipers from below. The pillars below the balconies would also be good shelter, though. The more cover there was, the better the situation for the one who was outnumbered. Not that you ever wanted to be outnumbered, but he’d rarely been in any fight where he wasn’t. So he looked for cover. In the open, a
gunfight came down to who could field the most men with weapons. But once you could hide, skill and experience started to compensate. Maybe this room wouldn’t be too bad a place to fight after all. He— He hesitated. What was he doing? He’d made his decision. Did he have to keep remaking it every few days? “Marasi,” he said, forcing himself into conversation. “Your cousin tells me you’ve entered into university studies?” “I’m in my final year,” she said. He waited for a further reply, and didn’t get one. “And how go your studies?” “Well,” she said, and looked down, holding her napkin. That was productive, he thought with a sigh. Fortunately, it looked like a server was approaching. The lean man began pouring wine for them. “The soup will be along presently,” he explained with a faint Terris accent, lofty vowels, and a slightly nasal tone. The voice froze Waxillium stiff. “Today’s soup,” the server continued, “is a delightfully seasoned prawn bisque with a hint of pepper. You shall find it quite enjoyable, I think.” He glanced at Waxillium, eyes twinkling in amusement. Though he wore1 a false nose and a wig, those were Wayne’s eyes. Waxillium groaned softly. “My lord doesn’t like prawns?” Wayne asked with horror. “The bisque is quite good,” Lord Harms said. “I’ve had it at a Yomen party before.” “It’s not the soup,” Waxillium said. “I’ve just recalled something I forgot to do.” It involves strangling someone. “I shall return shortly with your soup, my lords and ladies,” Wayne promised. He even had a fake line of Terris earrings in his ears. Of course, Wayne was part Terris, as was Waxillium himself—as evidenced by their Feruchemical abilities. That was rare in the population; though nearly a fifth of the Originators had been Terris, they weren’t prone to marrying other ethnicities. “Does that server look familiar?” Marasi asked, turning and watching him go. “He must have served us last time we were here,” Lord Harms said. “But I wasn’t with you last—” “Lord Harms,” Waxillium jumped in, “has anything been heard of your relative? The one who was kidnapped by the Vanishers?” “No,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “Ruin those thieves. This kind of thing is absolutely unacceptable. They should confine such behavior to the Roughs!” “Yes,” Steris said, “it does somewhat undermine one’s respect for the constabulary when things like this occur. And the robbery inside the city! How terrible.” “What was it like?” Marasi suddenly asked. “Lord Ladrian? Living where there was no law?” She seemed genuinely curious, though her comment earned a glare from Lord Harms, likely for bringing up Waxillium’s past. “It was difficult sometimes,” Waxillium admitted. “Out there, some people just believe they can take what they want. It would actually surprise them when someone stood up to them. As if I were some spoiler, the only one who didn’t understand the game they were all playing.” “Game?” Lord Harms said, frowning. “A figure of speech, Lord Harms,” Waxillium said. “You see, they all seemed to think that
if you were skilled or well armed, you could take whatever you want. I was both, and yet instead of taking, I stopped them. They found it baffling.” “It was very brave of you,” Marasi said. He shrugged. “It wasn’t bravery, honestly. I just kind of fell into things.” “Even stopping the Surefires?” “They were a special case. I—” He froze. “How did you know about that?” “Reports trickle in,” Marasi said, blushing. “From the Roughs. Most of them get written up by someone. You can find them at the university or at the right bookshop.” “Oh.” Uncomfortable, he picked up his cup and drank some wine. As he did, something slipped into his mouth. He nearly spat out the entire mouthful in surprise. He contained himself. Barely. Wayne, I really am going to throttle you. He moved the object into his hand, covering the act with a cough. “Well,” Steris said, “hopefully the constables will soon deal with these ruffians and we can return to peace and law.” “Actually,” Marasi said, “I don’t think that’s likely.” “Child,” Lord Harms said sternly. “That’s quite enough.” “I’d like to hear what she has to say, my lord,” Waxillium said. “For the sake of conversation.” “Well … all right … I suppose.” “It’s simply a theory I had,” Marasi said, blushing. “Lord Ladrian, when you were lawkeeper in Weathering, what was the population of the city?” He fingered the item in his hand. A spent bullet casing that had been capped with a dab of wax. “Well, it started to grow rapidly in the last few years. But for most of the time, I’d say it was around fifteen hundred.” “And the surrounding area?” she asked. “All the places you’d patrol, but didn’t have their own lawkeepers?” “Maybe three thousand total,” Waxillium said. “Depending. There are a lot of transients out in the Roughs. People looking to find a mineral claim or to start up a farmstead. Workers moving from place to place.” “Let’s say three thousand,” Marasi said. “And how many of you were there? Those who helped you keep the law?” “Five or six, depending,” he said. “Wayne and I, and Barl most of the time. A few others on and off.” And Lessie, he thought. “Let’s say six per three thousand,” she said. “Gives us an easy number to work with. One lawman per five hundred people.” “What is the point of this?” Lord Harms asked sufferingly. “The population of our octant is around six hundred thousand,” she explained. “By the same ratio Lord Ladrian described, we should have roughly twelve hundred constables. But we don’t. It’s somewhere closer to six hundred, last I looked over the numbers. So, Lord Ladrian, your ‘savage’ wildlands actually had double the number of lawmen watching over it as we have here in the city.” “Huh,” he said. Odd information for a young woman of means to have. “I’m not trying to diminish your accomplishments,” she said quickly. “You more likely had a higher percentage of lawbreakers as well, since the reputation of the Roughs
draws that type. But I think it’s a matter of perception. As you said, out of the city, people expect to get away with their crimes. “Here, they are more circumspect—and many of the crimes are smaller in scope. Instead of the bank getting robbed, you get a dozen people being robbed on their way home at night. The nature of the urban environment makes it easier to hide if you keep your crimes below a certain level of visibility. But I wouldn’t say life is really safer in the city, despite what people think. “I’ll bet more people are murdered here, by percentage of the population, than out in the Roughs. There is so much more going on in the City, however, that people pay less attention to it. By contrast, when a man is murdered in a small town, it’s a very disruptive event—even if it’s the only murder that’s happened in years. “And all of this isn’t even counting the fact that much of the wealt1h in the world is concentrated in a few places inside the city. Wealth draws men looking for opportunity. There are a whole host of reasons why the City is more dangerous than the Roughs. It’s just that we pretend that it isn’t.” Waxillium folded his arms in front of him on the table. Curious. Once she started talking, she didn’t seem shy at all. “You see, my lord,” Harms said. “This is why I tried to still her.” “It would have been a shame if you had,” Waxillium said, “as I believe that’s the most interesting thing anyone has said to me since I returned to Elendel.” Marasi smiled, though Steris just rolled her eyes. Wayne returned with the soup. Unfortunately, the area right around them was crowded—Wayne wouldn’t be able to create a speed bubble around just Waxillium and himself. It would catch someone else, and anyone caught in it would have time sped up for them as well. Wayne couldn’t shape the bubble or choose whom it affected. While the others were distracted by the soup, Waxillium broke the wax off the sealed shell casing and found a small rolled-up piece of paper inside. He glanced at Wayne, then unrolled it. You were right, it read. “I usually am,” he muttered as Wayne placed a bowl in front of him. “What are you up to, Wayne?” “One seventy, thank you,” Wayne said under his breath. “I’ve been lifting weights and eating steak.” Waxillium gave him a flat stare, but got ignored as Wayne proceeded to explain—with his slight Terris accent—that he’d soon return with a bread basket and more wine for the group. “Lord Ladrian,” Steris said as they began eating, “I suggest that we begin compiling a list of conversational topics we can employ when in the company of others. The topics should not touch on politics or religion, yet should be memorable and give us opportunities to appear charming. Do you know any particularly witty sayings or stories that can be our starting point?” “I once shot the tail
off a dog by mistake,” Waxillium said idly. “It’s kind of a funny story.” “Shooting dogs is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” Steris said. “I know. Particularly since I was aiming for its balls.” Marasi just about spat her soup across the table. “Lord Ladrian!” Steris exclaimed, though her father seemed amused. “I thought you said I couldn’t shock you any longer,” he said to Steris. “I was merely testing your hypothesis, my dear.” “Honestly. You will eventually overcome this rural lack of decorum, won’t you?” He stirred his soup to make sure Wayne hadn’t hidden anything in it. I hope he at least washed that bullet casing. “I suspect that I will, indeed, eventually overcome it,” he said, raising the spoon to his lips. The soup was good, but too cold. “The amusing thing is that when I was in the Roughs, I was considered to be highly refined—so much so, in fact, that they thought me haughty.” “Calling a man ‘refined’ by Roughs standards,” Lord Harms said, raising a finger, “is like saying a brick is ‘soft’ by building-material standards—right before you smash it into a man’s face.”1 “Father!” Steris said. She glared at Waxillium, as if the comment were his fault. “It was a perfectly legitimate simile,” Lord Harms said. “We will have no further talk of hitting people with bricks or of shootings, regardless of the target!” “Very well, cousin,” Marasi said. “Lord Ladrian, I once heard that you threw a man’s own knife at him and hit him right through the eye. Is the story true?” “It was actually Wayne’s knife,” Waxillium said. He hesitated. “And the eye was an accident. I was aiming for the balls that time too.” “Lord Ladrian!” Steris said, nearly livid. “I know. That’s quite off target. I’ve got really bad aim with throwing knives.” Steris looked at them, growing red as she saw that her father was snickering, but trying to cover it up with his napkin. Marasi met her gaze with innocent equanimity. “No bricks,” Marasi said, “and no guns. I was making conversation as you requested.” Steris stood. “I’m going to see myself to the women’s washroom while you three compose yourselves.” She stalked away, and Waxillium felt a stab of guilt. Steris was stiff, but she seemed earnest and honest. She did not deserve mockery. It was very hard not to try provoking her, however. Lord Harms cleared his throat. “That was uncalled for, child,” he said to Marasi. “You must not make me regret my promise to start bringing you to these functions.” “Don’t blame her, my lord,” Waxillium said. “I was the primary offender. I’ll offer a suitable apology to Steris when she returns, and will guard my tongue for the rest of the evening. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to go so far.” Harms nodded, sighing. “I’ll admit, I’ve been tempted to such lengths myself a time or two. She’s much as her mother was.” He gave Waxillium a pitying look. “I see.” “This is our lot, son,” Lord Harms said, standing. “To be lord of
a house requires certain sacrifices. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see Lord Alernath over at the bar and I think I’ll grab a nip of something harder with him before the main course. If I don’t go before Steris gets back, she’ll bully me into staying. I shouldn’t be long.” He nodded to the two of them, then waddled toward a group of higher-built tables off to the side, next to an open bar. Waxillium watched him go, idly thinking and rolling Wayne’s note in his fingers. Previously, he’d assumed Lord Harms had driven Steris to be as she was, but it appeared he was more under her thumb than vice versa. Another curiosity, he thought. “Thank you for your defense of me, Lord Ladrian,” Marasi said. “It appears that you are as quick to come to a lady’s aid with words as you are with pistols.” “I was merely stating the truth as I saw it, my lady.” “Tell me. Did you really shoot off a dog’s tail when aiming for his … er…” “Yes,” Waxillium said, grimacing. “In my defense, the damn thing was attacking me. Belonged to a man I hunted down. The aggressiveness wasn’t the dog’s fault; the poor thing looked like it hadn’t been fed in days. I was 1trying to shoot it somewhere nonlethal, scare it off. That part about the man I hit in the eye was fabricated, though. I wasn’t actually aiming for any body part in particular—I was just hoping I’d hit.” She smiled. “Might I ask you something?” “Please.” “You looked crestfallen when I spoke of the statistics dealing with lawman ratios. I didn’t mean to offend or downplay your heroics.” “It’s all right,” he said. “But?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure if I can explain it. When I found my way out to the Roughs, when I started bringing in the warranted, I started to … Well, I thought I’d found a place where I was needed. I thought I’d found a way to do something that nobody else would do.” “But you did.” “And yet,” he said, stirring his soup, “it appears that all along, the place I left behind might have needed me even more. I’d never noticed.” “You did important work, Lord Ladrian. Vital work. Besides, I understand that before you arrived, nobody was upholding the law in that area.” “There was Arbitan,” he said, smiling, remembering the older man. “And, of course, the lawkeepers over in Far Dorest.” “A distant city and with a short reach,” she said, “which had a single capable lawman to serve a large population. Jon Deadfinger had his own problems. By the time you had built things up, Weathering was protected better than those in the City—but it did not start that way.” He nodded, though—again—he was curious about how much she knew. Were people really telling stories about him and Wayne all the way over here in the city? Why hadn’t he heard of them before now? Her statistics did bother him. He hadn’t thought of the City
as dangerous. It was the Roughs, wild and untamed, that needed rescuing. The City was the land of plenty that Harmony had created to shelter mankind. Here, trees grew fruit in abundance and cultivated lands had water without need for irrigation. The ground was always fertile, and somehow never got farmed out. This land was supposed to be different. Protected. He’d put away his guns in part because he’d convinced himself that the constables could do their jobs without help. But don’t the Vanishers prove that might not be the case? Wayne returned with the bread and a bottle of wine, then stopped, looking at the two empty seats. “Oh dear,” he said. “Did you grow so tired of waiting that you devoured your two companions?” Marasi glanced at him and smiled. She knows, Waxillium realized. She recognizes him. “If I may note something, my lady,” Waxillium said, drawing her attention back. “You are far less unassuming than you were at our first meeting.” She winced. “I’m not very good at being shy, am I?” “I wasn’t aware it was something that required practice.” “I try all the time,” Wayne said, sitting down at the table and taking the baguette out of his basket. He took a healthy bite. “Nobody gives me any credit for it. ’S because I’m misunderstood, I tell you.” His1 Terris accent had vanished. Marasi looked confused. “Should I pretend to be aghast at what he’s doing?” she asked Waxillium in a hushed tone. “He saw that you’d recognized him,” Waxillium said. “Now he’s going to sulk.” “Sulk?” Wayne started eating Steris’s soup. “That’s right unkind, Wax. Ugh. This stuff is far worse than I was telling you guys. Sorry ’bout that.” “It will reflect in my tip,” Waxillium said dryly. “Lady Marasi, I was serious in my inquiry. To be frank, it seems that you’ve been trying to act with exaggerated timidity.” “Always looking down after you speak,” Wayne agreed. “Raising the pitch of your tone a little too much with questions.” “Not the type to be studying at the university at her own request,” Waxillium noted. “Why the act?” “I’d rather not say.” “You’d rather not,” Waxillium said, “or Lord Harms and his daughter would rather you not?” She blushed. “The latter. But please. I would really prefer to leave the topic.” “Ever charming, Wax,” Wayne said, taking another bite from the loaf of bread. “See that? You’ve pushed the lady almost to tears.” “I’m not—” Marasi began. “Ignore him,” Waxillium said. “Trust me. He’s like a rash. The more you scratch him, the more irritating he gets.” “Ouch,” Wayne said, though he grinned. “Aren’t you worried?” Marasi asked softly of Wayne. “You’re wearing a waiter’s uniform. If they see you sitting at the table and eating…” “Oh, that’s a good point,” Wayne said, tipping his chair back. The person behind him had left, and with Lord Harms gone, Wayne had just enough room to— —and there it was. He leaned his chair forward again, clothing changed back to a duster with a loose button-down shirt
and thick Roughs trousers underneath. He spun his hat on his finger. The earrings were gone. Marasi jumped. “Speed bubble,” she whispered, sounding awed. “I thought I’d be able to see something from outside!” “You could, if you were watching closely,” Waxillium said. “A blur. If you look at the next table over, the sleeve of his waiter’s coat is sticking out from where he tossed it. His hat folds—though the sides are stiff, you can compress it between your hands. I’m still trying to figure out where he had the duster.” “Under your table,” Wayne said, sounding very self-satisfied. “Ah, of course,” Waxillium said. “He had to know beforehand which table would be ours so he could be assigned as our waiter.” I really should have looked under the table before we sat, Waxillium thought. Would that have seemed too paranoid? He didn’t feel paranoid; he didn’t lie awake at nights, worried that he’d be shot, or think that conspiracies were trying to destroy him. He just liked to be careful. Marasi was still looking at Wayne; she seemed bemused. “We aren’t what you expected,” Waxillium said. “From the reports you read?” “N1o,” she admitted. “The accounts usually omitted matters of personality.” “There are stories ’bout us?” Wayne asked. “Yes. Many.” “Damn.” He sounded impressed. “Do we get royalties for them or something? If we do, I want Wax’s share, seeing as to how I did all the stuff they say he did. Plus he’s already rich and all.” “They are news-style reports,” Marasi said. “Those don’t pay royalties to their subjects.” “Filthy cheats.” Wayne paused. “I wonder if any of the other fine ladies in this establishment have heard of my outrageously heroic and masculine exploits.…” “Lady Marasi is a student at the university,” Waxillium said. “I’m assuming she read reports that are collected there. Most of the public won’t be familiar with them.” “That is true,” she said. “Oh,” Wayne said, sounding disappointed. “Well, maybe Lady Marasi herself might be interested in hearing more of my outrageously—” “Wayne?” “Yes.” “Enough.” “Right.” “I do apologize for him,” Waxillium said, turning to Marasi. She still wore the bemused expression on her face. “He does that a lot,” Wayne said. “Apologizing. I think it’s one of his personal failings. I try to help him out by being damn near perfect, but so far, that hasn’t been enough.” “It’s quite all right,” she said. “I do wonder if I should write something for my professors describing how … unique it was to meet you two.” “What is it, exactly, that you are studying at the university?” Waxillium asked. She hesitated, then blushed deeply. “Ah, see!” Wayne said. “Now, that’s how to act shy. You’re getting much better! Bravo.” “It’s just that…” She raised a hand to shade her eyes and looked down in embarrassment. “It’s just … Oh, all right. I’m studying legal justice and criminal behavioristics.” “That’s something to be ashamed of?” Waxillium said, sharing a confused look with Wayne. “Well, I’ve been told it’s not very feminine,” she said. “But beyond
that … well, I’m sitting with you two … and … well, you know … you’re two of the most famous lawkeepers in the world, and all…” “Trust me,” Waxillium said. “We don’t know as much as you might think.” “Now, if you were studying buffoonery and idiotic behavior,” Wayne added, “that is something we’re experts on.” “That’s two things,” Waxillium said. “Don’t care.” Wayne continued eating the bread. “So where are the other two? I’m assuming you didn’t really devour them. Wax only eats people on the weekend.” “Both will likely be returning soon, Wayne,” Waxillium said. “So if you had a purpose to your visit, you may wish to be on with it. Unless this is just normal, run-of-the-mill tormenting.” “I told you what it was about,” Wayne said. “You didn’t accidentally eat my note, did you?” “No. It didn’t say much.” “It said enough,” Wayne said, leaning in. “Wax, you told me to look at the hostages. You were right.” “They’re all Allomancers,” Waxillium guessed. “More than that,” Wayne said. “They’re all relatives.” “It’s only been three hundred years since the Originators, Wayne. We’re all relatives.” “Does that mean you’ll take responsibility for me?” “No.” Wayne chuckled, pulling a folded piece of paper from his duster pocket. “It’s more than that, Wax. Look. Each of the women kidnapped was from a particular line. I did some researchin’. Real, serious stuff.” He paused. “Why do they call it research if I’ve only done it this one time?” “Because I’ll bet you had to look things up twice,” Waxillium said, taking the paper and studying it. It was written awkwardly, but was decipherable. It explained the basic lines of descent of each of the women kidnapped. Several things stood out. Each of them could trace back to the Lord Mistborn himself. Because of that, most of them also had a strong heritage of Allomancy in their past. They were all fairly closely related, third or fourth cousins, some first. Waxillium looked up, and noticed Marasi smiling broadly, regarding him and Wayne. “What?” Waxillium asked. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I knew you were in town to investigate the Vanishers. You showed up to become house lord only one month after the first robbery happened. You’re going to catch them, aren’t you?” “Is that why you insisted that Lord Harms bring you to meetings with me?” “Maybe.” “Marasi,” Waxillium said, sighing. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Do you think the deaths in my family, making me house lord, were fabrications?” “Well, no,” she said. “But I was surprised that you’d accepted the title until I realized that you probably saw it as a chance to find out what is going on with these robberies. You have to admit, they are unusual.” “So is Wayne,” Waxillium said. “But I wouldn’t uproot myself, change my entire lifestyle, and accept responsibility for an entire house just to study him.” “Look, Wax,” Wayne jumped in—ignoring the barb, which was unusual for him. “Please tell me you brought a gun with you.” “What? No, I didn’t.” Waxillium folded
up the paper and handed it back. “Why would you care?” “Because,” Wayne said, snatching the paper from his hand and leaning in. “Don’t you see? The thieves are looking for places they can rob where the wealthy upper class of Elendel can be found—because among those wealthy upper-class types, they find their targets. People with the right heritage. Those types, rich types, have stopped traveling on the railway.” Waxillium nodded. “Yes, if the women really are the true targets, the high-profile robberies wi1ll make potential future targets much less likely to travel. A valid connection. That must be why the thieves attacked the theater.” “And where else are there wealthy individuals with the right heritage?” Wayne asked. “A place where people wear their finest jewelry, which will let you rob them as a distraction? A place where you can find the right hostage to take as the real prize?” Waxillium’s mouth grew dry. “A large wedding reception.” The doors at both ends of the ballroom suddenly burst open. 5 The bandits didn’t look like the kind Waxillium was used to. They didn’t mask their faces with kerchiefs or wear dusters and wide-brimmed Roughs hats. Most of them wore vests and bowler-style city hats, dull trousers, and loose, buttoned shirts that were rolled to the elbows. They weren’t better dressed, really, just different. They were well armed. Rifles held at shoulders for many, pistols in the hands of others. People throughout the ballroom noticed immediately, silverware clanking and curses sounding. There were at least two dozen bandits, perhaps three. Waxillium noticed with dissatisfaction that some more were coming in from the right, through the doors to the kitchens. They would have left men behind to watch the staff and keep them from running for help. “Hell of a time to leave your guns,” Wayne said. He moved off his seat and crouched beside the table, slipping his twin hardwood dueling canes out from underneath. “Put those down,” Waxillium said softly, counting. Thirty-five men he could see. Most were congregated at the two ends of the rectangular ballroom, directly in front of and behind Waxillium. He was in almost the very center of the room. “What?” Wayne said sharply. “Put the canes down, Wayne.” “You can’t mean—” “Look at this room!” Waxillium hissed. “How many bystanders are there in here? Three hundred, four? What will happen if we provoke a firefight?” “You could protect them,” Wayne said. “Push them out of the way.” “Maybe,” Waxillium said. “It would be very risky. So far, none of these robberies have turned violent. I won’t have you turning this one into a bloodbath.” “I don’t have to listen to you,” Wayne said sullenly. “You’re not in charge of me anymore, Wax.” Waxillium met his eyes and held them as the room filled with cries of alarm and concern. Looking reluctant, Wayne slid back up into his seat. He didn’t put down the dueling canes, but he did keep his hands under the tablecloth, hiding them from view. Marasi had turned, watching the thieves begin to move
through the room, her eyes wide and her rose lips parted. “Oh my.” She spun around, digging out her pocketbook with trembling fingers. She whipped out a small notepad and a pencil. “What are you doing?” Waxillium asked. “Writing down descriptions,” she said, her hand shaking. “Did you know that, statistically, only one out of two witnesses can accurately descri1be a criminal who assaulted them? Worse, seven out of ten will pick the wrong man out of a lineup if a similar but more threatening man is presented. In the moment, you are far more likely to overestimate the height of an assailant, and you will often describe him as being similar to a villain from a story you’ve recently heard. It’s vital, if you are witnessing a crime, to pay special attention to the details of those involved. Oh, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” She looked terrified, but she started writing anyway, jotting down descriptions of every criminal. “We never needed to do stuff like that,” Wayne said, eyeing the thieves as they leveled guns at the partygoers, silencing them. “Seein’ as to how if we witness a crime, the guys doing it are usually dead by the end.” He shot Waxillium a glare. Several thieves began forcing cooks and servers out of the kitchens to join the guests. “If you please!” one of the robbers bellowed, shouldering a shotgun. “Sit down! Remain calm! And be quiet.” He had a faint Roughs accent and a solid—though not tall—build, with bulging forearms and a mottled, grayish complexion, almost as if his face were made of granite. Koloss blood, Waxillium thought. Dangerous. People quieted save for a few whimperings from the overtaxed. The bride’s mother appeared to have fainted, and the wedding party was hunkered down, the groom looking angry, with a protective arm over his new wife. A second Vanisher stepped forward. This one, in contrast to the others, wore a mask: a knit cloth covering his face, with a Roughs hat atop it. “That’s better,” he said in a firm, controlled voice. Something about that voice struck Waxillium. “If you’re sensible, we’ll be done with this in a matter of moments,” the masked Vanisher said calmingly, walking amid the tables as about a dozen of the bandits began to fan through the room, opening large sacks. “All we want is your jewelry. Nobody needs to get hurt. It would be a shame to spoil such a fine party as this with bloodshed. Your jewelry isn’t worth your life.” Waxillium glanced toward Lord Harms, who was still sitting by the bar. He’d begun patting his face with a handkerchief. The men with the sacks quickly fanned out through the room, stopping at each table and gathering necklaces, rings, earrings, pocketbooks, and watches. Sometimes the items were tossed in readily, sometimes reluctantly. “Wax…” Wayne said, voice strained. Marasi continued writing, pen and paper down in her lap. “We need to get through this alive,” Waxillium said softly. “Without anyone getting hurt. Then we can give our reports to the constables.” “But—” “I will not
be the cause of these people dying, Wayne,” Waxillium snapped, voice much louder than he’d intended. Blood on the bricks. A body in a leather coat, slumping to the ground. A grinning face, dying with a bullet in the forehead. Winning, even as he died. Not again. Never again. Waxillium squeezed his eyes closed. Never again. “How dare you!” a voice suddenly yelled. Waxillium glanced to the side. A man at a nearby table had stood up, shaking off the hand of the stout woman beside him. He had a 1thick, graying beard and wore a suit of an older cut, tails in the back reaching all the way down to his ankles. “I will not stay quiet, Marthin! I am a constable of the Eighth Guard!” This drew the attention of the bandit leader. The masked man strolled toward the outspoken man, shotgun resting easily on his shoulder. “Ah,” he said, “Lord Peterus, I believe it is.” He waved to a pair of bandits, and they rushed forward, weapons trained on Peterus. “Retired chief of the Eighth constabulary. We’ll be needing you to give up your weapon.” “How dare you commit a robbery here, at a wedding celebration,” Peterus said. “This is outrageous! You should be ashamed of yourself.” “Ashamed?” the bandit leader said as his minions patted down Peterus and pulled a pistol—Granger model 28, optional thick grip—out of his shoulder holster. “Ashamed? To rob these? After what you people have done to the Roughs all these years? This isn’t shameful. This here, this is payback.” There is something about that voice, Waxillium thought, tapping the table. Something familiar. Quiet down, Peterus. Don’t provoke them! “In the name of the law, I will see you hunted down and hanged for this!” Peterus cried. The outlaw leader smacked Peterus across the face, knocking him to the ground. “What know your sort of the law?” the bandit leader growled. “And be careful about warning people you’re going to see them executed. That gives them less reason to hold back. Rust and Ruin, you people sicken me.” He waved for his lackeys to resume gathering riches. The bride’s mother had recovered, and was sobbing as her family was shaken down for its cash, including even the bridal necklace. “The bandits really are interested in the money,” Waxillium said softly. “See? They make each person at the table speak, to find jewelry hidden in mouths. Notice how they make each one stand up and then do a quick check of their pockets and around their seats.” “Of course they’re interested in the money,” Marasi whispered back. “That’s the expected motive for robbery, after all.” “It’s the hostages too, though,” Waxillium said. “I’m sure of it.” Originally, he’d assumed the robberies were just a cover for the bandits’ real purpose. If that were the case, however, they wouldn’t be so thorough about the money. “Hand me your notebook.” She glanced at him. “Now,” he said, sprinkling steel dust into his wine, then reaching under the table. She hesitantly handed over the notebook as a bandit
walked toward their table. It was the gray-skinned one with the thick neck. “Wayne,” Waxillium said, “bat on the wall.” Wayne nodded curtly, sliding over his dueling canes. Waxillium drank his wine, and pressed the spiral-bound notebook and the dueling canes against his side of their square table. He slipped a small metal rod from his sleeve and pressed it against the canes, then burned steel. Lines sprang up around him. One pointed toward the rod, and another to the notebook’s wire coil. He lightly Pushed against them, then let go. The canes and the notebook remained pressed against the table’s side, obscured by the tablecloth, which draped down over them. He had to be careful not to Push too hard, lest he move the table. The bandit came to their table, proffering his sack. Marasi was forced to take off her small pearl necklace, the only jewelry she was wearing. With shaking hands, she searched in her pocketbook for any bills, but the bandit just snatched the entire thing and dumped it into his sack. “Please,” Waxillium said, making his voice shake. “Please, don’t hurt us!” He pulled out his pocket watch, then dumped it to the table, as if in haste. He yanked its chain free of his vest and threw it in the sack. Then he got out his pocketbook and tossed it in, conspicuously pulling out both of his pockets with shaking hands to show he had nothing else. He began patting his coat pockets. “That’ll do, mate,” the koloss-blooded man said, grinning. “Don’t hurt me!” “Sit back down, you rusting git,” the bandit said, looking back at Marasi. He leered, then patted her down, making her speak so he could check her mouth. She bore it with a deep blush, particularly when the patting down turned into a few solid gropes. Waxillium felt his eye begin to twitch. “Nothing else,” the bandit said with a grunt. “Why’d I get the poor tables? And you?” He glanced at Wayne. Behind them, another of the bandits found Wayne’s servant’s coat under the table, holding it up with a confused expression. “Do I look like I’ve got anything of value, mate?” Wayne asked, dressed in his duster and Roughs trousers. He’d turned up his Roughs accent. “I’m just ’ere by mistake. Was begging in the kitchen when I heard you blokes come in.” The bandit grunted, but patted Wayne’s pockets anyway. He found nothing, then checked under the table and made them all stand up. Finally he swore at them for being “too poor” and snatched Wayne’s hat off his head. He threw away his own hat—he was wearing a knit cap underneath, aluminum peeking through the holes—then walked off, sticking Wayne’s hat on his head over the cap. They sat back down. “He took my lucky hat, Wax,” Wayne growled. “Steady,” Waxillium said, handing Marasi back her notebook so she could return to taking covert notes. “Why didn’t you hide your pocketbook,” she whispered, “as you did the notebook?” “Some of the bills in it are marked,” Waxillium said
distractedly, watching the masked leader. He was consulting something in his hand. Looked like a couple of crinkled-up sheets of paper. “That’ll allow the constables to track where they get spent, if they do get spent.” “Marked!” Marasi said. “So you did know we’d be robbed!” “What? Of course I didn’t.” “But—” “Wax always carries some marked bills,” Wayne said, eyes narrowing as he noticed what the leader was doing. “Just in case.” “Oh. That’s … very unusual.” “Wax is his own special brand of paranoid, miss,” Wayne said. “Is that bloke doing what I think he’s doing?” “Yes,” Waxillium said. “What?” Marasi asked. “Comparing faces to drawings in his hand,” Waxilliu1m said. “He’s looking for the right person to take as a hostage. Look how he’s strolling through the tables, checking every woman’s face. He’s got a few others doing it too.” They fell silent as the leader strolled past them. He was accompanied by a fine-featured fellow with a scowl on his face. “I’m tellin’ you,” the second man said, “the boys are gettin’ jumpy. You can’t give ’em all this and never let ’em fire the bloody things.” The masked leader was silent, studying everyone at Wax’s table for a moment. He hesitated briefly, then moved on. “You’re gonna have to let the boys loose sooner or later, boss,” the second man said, his voice trailing off. “I think…” They were soon too far for Waxillium to make out what they were saying. Nearby, Peterus—the former constable—had gotten back up into his seat. His wife was holding a napkin to his bleeding head. This is the best way, Waxillium told himself firmly. I’ve seen their faces. I’ll be able to track down who they are when they spend my money. I’ll find them, and fight them on my own terms. I’ll … But he wouldn’t. He’d let the constables do that part, wouldn’t he? Wasn’t that what he kept telling himself? A sudden disturbance from the far side of the chamber drew his eyes. A few bandits led a couple of frazzled-looking women into the hall, one of them Steris. It looked like they’d finally thought to sweep the ladies’ room. The other bandits were making pretty good time gathering goods. There were enough of them that it didn’t take too long, even with this large crowd. “All right,” the boss called out. “Grab a hostage.” Too loud, Waxillium thought. “Who should we take?” one of the bandits yelled back. They’re making a show of it. “I don’t care,” the boss said. He wants us to think he’s picking one at random. “Any of them will do,” the boss continued. “Say … that one.” He waved at Steris. Steris. One of the previous abductees was her cousin. Of course. She was in the same line. Waxillium’s eye twitching grew worse. “Actually,” the boss said. “We’ll take two this time.” He sent his koloss-blooded lackey running back toward the tables of people. “Now, nobody follow, or they’ll get hurt. Remember, a few jewels aren’t worth your life. We’ll cut the
hostages loose once we’re sure we aren’t being followed.” Lies, Waxillium thought. What do you want with them? Why are you— The koloss-blooded man who had stolen Wayne’s hat stepped up to Wax’s table and grabbed Marasi by the shoulder. “You’ll do,” he said. “You’re coming for a ride with us, pretty.” She jumped as he touched her, dropping her notepad. “Here now,” another bandit said. “What’s this?” He picked it up, looking through it. “All it’s got is words, Tarson.” “Idiot,” the koloss-blooded man—Tarson—said. “You can’t read, can you?” He craned over. “Here, now. That’s a 1description of me, isn’t it?” “I…” Marasi said. “I just wanted to remember, for my journal, you see.…” “I’m sure,” Tarson said, tucking the notebook into a pocket. His hand came out with a pistol, which he lowered at her head. Marasi grew pale. Waxillium stood up, steel burning in his stomach. The other bandit’s pistol was trained at his head a second later. “Your lady will be just fine with us, old boy,” Tarson said with a smile on his grayish lips. “Up you go.” He pulled Marasi to her feet, then pushed her before him toward the northern exit. Waxillium stared down the barrel of the other bandit’s pistol. With a mental Push, he could send that gun with a snap back into its owner’s face, perhaps break his nose. The bandit looked like he wanted to pull the trigger. He looked eager, excited by the thrill of the robbery. Waxillium had seen men like that before. They were dangerous. The bandit hesitated, then glanced at his friends, and finally broke off, jogging toward the exit. Another was shoving Steris toward the door. “Wax!” Wayne hissed. How could a man of honor watch something like this? Every instinct of justice Waxillium had demanded he do something. Fight. “Wax,” Wayne said softly. “Mistakes happen. Lessie wasn’t your fault.” “I…” Wayne grabbed his dueling canes. “Well, I’m going to do something.” “It’s not worth the cost of lives, Wayne,” Waxillium said, shaking out of his stupor. “This isn’t just about me. It’s true, Wayne. We—” “How dare you!” a familiar voice bellowed. Lord Peterus, the former constable. The aging man removed the napkin from his head, stumbling to his feet. “Cowards! I will be your hostage, if you require one.” The bandits ignored him, most jogging toward the exits of the room, waving their guns about and enjoying making the dinnergoers cringe. “Cowards!” Peterus yelled. “You are dogs, each and every one of you. I’ll see you hanged! Take me instead of one of those girls, or it will happen. I swear it by the Survivor himself!” He stumbled after the retreating boss, passing lords, ladies, and the wealthy—most of whom had gotten down and were hiding under their tables. There goes the only man in this room with any courage, Waxillium thought, suddenly feeling a powerful shame. Him and Wayne. Steris was almost to the door. Marasi and her captor were catching up to the boss. I can’t let this happen. I— “COWARD!” The
masked bandit leader suddenly spun, hand snapping out, a gunshot cracking the air, echoing across the large ballroom. It was over in a heartbeat. The aged Peterus collapsed in a heap. Smoke curled in the air over the bandit boss’s pistol. “Oh…” Wayne said softly. “You just made a bad mistake, mate. A very bad mistake.” The boss turned away from the bod1y, holstering his gun. “Fine,” he yelled, walking toward the door. “You can have some fun, boys. Burn it out of your blood quickly and meet me outside. Let’s—” Everything froze. People stopped in place. The curling smoke hung motionless. Voices quieted. Whimpering halted. In a circle around Waxillium’s table, the air rippled just faintly. Wayne stood up, shouldering his dueling canes, inspecting the room. He was placing each and every one of the bandits, Waxillium knew. Judging distances, preparing himself. “As soon as I drop the bubble,” Wayne said, “this place is going to erupt like an ammunition store in a volcano.” Waxillium calmly reached into his jacket and slid a hidden pistol from beneath his arm. He set it on the table. His twitch had vanished. “Well?” Wayne asked. “That’s a terrible metaphor. How would an ammunition store get into a volcano?” “I don’t know. Look, are you going to fight or not?” “I’ve tried waiting,” Waxillium said. “I gave them a chance to leave. I tried giving this up.” “You gave it a good show, Wax.” He grimaced. “Too good a show.” Waxillium rested his hand on the pistol. Then he picked it up. “So be it.” With his other hand, he poured out his entire pouch of steel into his wine cup, then downed it. Wayne grinned. “You owe me a pint for lying to me, by the way.” “Lying?” “You said you hadn’t brought a gun.” “I didn’t bring a gun,” Waxillium said, reaching to the small of his back and sliding a second pistol out. “You know me better than that, Wayne. I never go anywhere with only one. How much bendalloy do you have?” “Not as much as I’d like. The stuff’s damn expensive here in town. I’ve got maybe enough for five minutes’ extra time. My metalminds are pretty much full, though. Spent a good two weeks sick in bed after you left.” That would give Wayne some healing power, should he get shot. Waxillium took a deep breath; the coldness inside him melted away and became a flame as he burned steel that pinpointed each and every source of metal in the room. If he froze again … I won’t, he told himself. I cannot. “I’ll get the girls. You keep the bandits on the south side off me. Our priority is to keep the bystanders alive.” “Gladly.” “Thirty-seven armed baddies, Wayne. In a room full of innocents. This is going to be tough. Stay focused. I’ll try to clear some space as we start. You can catch a ride, if you want.” “Perfect as Preserves,” Wayne said, turning and putting his back to Waxillium’s. “You wanna know why I really
came to find you?” “Why?” “I thought of you happy in a comfy bed, resting and relaxing, spending the rest of your life sipping tea and reading papers while people bring you food and maids rub your toes and stuff.” “And?” “And I just couldn’t leave y1ou to a fate like that.” Wayne shivered. “I’m too good a friend to let a mate of mine die in such a terrible situation.” “Comfortable?” “No,” Wayne said. “Boring.” He shivered again. Waxillium smiled, then raised thumbs to hammers and cocked his pistols. When he’d been young and sought the Roughs, he’d ended up going where he’d been needed. Well, maybe that had happened again. “Go!” he yelled, leveling his guns. 6 Wayne dropped the speed bubble. First step, Waxillium thought as he took aim, draw their attention. He began gently Pushing away from himself in the way that created a steel bubble of force to interfere with bullets. It wouldn’t protect him completely, but it would help. Unless they fired aluminum bullets. Best to be careful. And best to shoot first. The robbers were eagerly raising their weapons. He could see the lust for destruction in their eyes. They had been armed to the teeth, but so far, their robberies had occurred without a single shot being fired. Rather than kill a lot of people, most of them probably just wanted to shoot the place up a little, but such situations easily grew more violent than expected. If they weren’t stopped, the Vanishers would leave behind more than shattered windows and broken tables. Waxillium quickly chose a bandit with a shotgun and dropped him with a bullet to the head. A second followed. Those shotguns were least dangerous to Waxillium, but they’d be deadly to the cowering bystanders. His shots boomed in the cavernous chamber and the guests screamed. Some took the chance to run for the edges of the room. Most got down beside their tables. In the confusion, the bandits didn’t spot Waxillium at first. He dropped another man with a bullet to the shoulder. The smart thing to do from here would have been to crouch down beside a table and continue to fire. It would take the bandits precious moments to discover who was attacking them in a room so large and crowded. Unfortunately, the men behind him opened fire, whooping in delight. They hadn’t noticed what he was doing, though the men in front of him on the other side of the hall had seen their friends fall and were scattering for cover. In moments, the room would be a storm of lead and gunsmoke. Taking a deep breath, Waxillium flared his steel and tapped his iron metalmind. Filling it made him lighter, but tapping it made him heavier—much heavier. He increased his weight a hundredfold. There was a proportional increase in the strength of his body, or so he’d guessed, as he didn’t crush himself with his own weight. He raised his guns high over his head to keep them out of the radius, then Pushed outward from
himself in a ring. He started carefully, gradually increasing its strength. When you Pushed, it was your weight against that of the object—in this case, the metal screws and bolts in the tables and chairs. They were swept away from him. He became the epicenter of an expanding ring of force. Tables toppled, chairs scraped against the floor, and people screamed in surpris1e. Some were caught up in it, shoved away from him. Not so hard that they were hurt, he hoped, but it was better to suffer a few bruises than remain in the center of the room with what was coming. Just to the side, he saw Wayne—who had been moving carefully toward the back of the room—leap up onto an overturned table, holding to its rim and grinning as he rode it in a rush toward the bandits back there. Waxillium eased off on the Push. He stood alone in a large empty space at the center of the dining hall, surrounded by patches of spilled wine, food, and fallen dishes. Then the firing started in earnest, the bandits in front of him letting loose with a barrage. He met the onslaught of bullets with another strong Push. The bullets stopped in the air, rebuffed in a wave. Given their speed, he could stop bullets that way only if he was expecting them. He let the bullets fly back at their owners, but didn’t Push too hard, lest he strike an innocent partygoer. It was enough to send the bandits scrambling, however, and yelling that there was a Coinshot in the room. He was in real danger now. Quick as an eyeblink, Waxillium switched from tapping his metalmind to filling it, making himself far lighter. He pointed his revolver down and shot a bullet into the floor just behind himself and Pushed off it, launching into the air. Wind rushed in his ears as he threw himself over the barricade of furniture he’d made, where some of the guests still huddled. Luckily, many were realizing that the perimeters of the room would be much safer, and were scrambling that way. Waxillium dropped right in the middle of the bandits, who had started taking cover behind the pile of tables and chairs. Men cursed as he spread his arms, guns pointed in opposite directions, and started firing. He spun, dropping four men with a quick spray of bullets. Some bandits fired on him, but the bullets were off aim, and swerved away from his steel bubble. “Aluminum bullets!” one of the bandits was yelling. “Get out your bloody aluminum!” Wax spun and fired two shots into that man’s chest. Then he leaped to the side, rolling up next to a table that had been beyond his initial Push. A quick Push against the nails in the top overturned it, giving him cover as the bandits opened fire. He caught blue lines from some of the bullets, moving too quickly for him to Push out of the way. Other bandits were reloading their guns. He was in luck; it seemed from
the curses of the bandit leaders that the men were supposed to have aluminum bullets loaded already, at least in some of the chambers. Shooting aluminum was like shooting gold, however, and many of the bandits appeared to have kept the aluminum in their pockets rather than wanting to have it in the guns, where they might end up firing it by accident. A bandit ducked around the side of his table, aiming a pistol. Waxillium reacted by reflex, Pushing on the gun, slapping it back into his face. Waxillium dropped him with a bullet to the chest. Empty, he thought to himself, counting the bullets he’d shot. He had just two left in the other gun. He glanced over the edge of his shelter, noting the locations of two reloading bandits who had hidden behind overturned tables. He took aim quickly, increased his weight, then fired and Pushed with everything he had on the bullet leaving his gun. The bullet cracked in the air, driving forward into the table shelter and drilling right through it, hitting the bandit on the other side. Waxillium repeate1d, taking down the other bandit, who was stupefied to see the thick oak table penetrated by a simple revolver bullet. Then Waxillium threw himself over the top of his own table, getting to the other side just as the men behind him got around the wounded and started firing at him. Bullets snapped against his shelter, but it held. This time, none of them gave off blue lines. Aluminum. He breathed deeply, dropping his revolvers and pulling out the Terringul 27 he had strapped to the inside of his calf. Not the largest-caliber gun, but its long barrel made it precise. He spared a glance for Wayne, and counted four Vanishers down. His friend was gleefully leaping off a table toward a man with a shotgun. The two became a blur as Wayne activated a speed bubble. In an instant he was in a different place—bullets zipping through the area he’d left—hiding behind an overturned table, the bandit with the shotgun limp on the ground. Wayne’s favorite tactic was to get close, then catch one person in the speed bubble and fight them alone. He couldn’t move the speed bubble after putting it up, but he could move around inside of it. So when he released the bubble after fighting his chosen foe one-on-one, he’d be standing in a different place than expected. Foes found him incredibly difficult to track and aim at. But in a long fight, they’d eventually catch on and hold their fire until just after Wayne dropped a bubble. It took a couple of seconds between dropping one and putting up another, the time when Wayne was most vulnerable. Of course, even when the bubble was up, Wayne wasn’t completely safe. It could be nerve-racking to know that his friend was fighting alone, enclosed by a bubble of accelerated time. If Wayne got into trouble while inside, Waxillium couldn’t help. Wayne would be shot and bleeding before the bubble collapsed. Well, Waxillium had
his own troubles. With those aluminum bullets, his own protective bubble was useless. He let it drop. More bullets pelted his table and the floor around him, the pops of gunfire echoing in the grand hall. Fortunately, he could still see blue lines pointing to the ordinary steel of the bandits’ guns, including those of a group of men attempting to flank him. No time to deal with them, he thought. The bandit boss had sent Steris out with one of his men, but had paused by the door himself. He didn’t seem surprised by the resistance. Something about the way he stood there, imperious and in control … Something about the way his eyes—the only visible part of his masked face—found Wax, and locked on to him … Something about that voice … Miles? The thought was a shock. Screams. Marasi’s screams. Wax turned away from the bandit leader, feeling an unfamiliar sense of panic. Steris needed him, but Marasi did too, and she was closer. The koloss-blooded man named Tarson had her; he held her with one arm around the neck, towing her toward the door and cursing. His two companions looked about anxiously, as if expecting constables to come pouring in at any moment. Marasi had gone limp. Tarson was shouting, and he jammed his revolver in her ear, but she had her eyes squeezed shut and refused to respond. She knew she wasn’t some simple hostage; they wanted her specifically, and therefore wouldn’t shoot her. Good girl, Waxillium thought. It couldn’t be easy, hearing the Vanisher shout, feeling the barrel on her temple. A few guests hid nearby, a well-dressed woman and her husband holding their hands to their ears and whimpering. The gunfire was loud, chaotic, though he barely noticed 1these things any longer. He should have slipped his earplugs in, regardless. Too late now. Waxillium ducked to the side and fired two shots into the wooden floor to cause those flanking him to duck for cover. The Terringul was loaded with hollow-point bullets specifically designed to lodge in wood, giving him a good anchor when he needed one. They also happened to lodge in flesh, reducing the chances of a through-and-through shot that could injure bystanders, which suited him just fine. He dashed forward in a crouch and leaped onto a large serving platter. He pressed one foot against the lip of the platter, and Pushed on the bullets behind him. The maneuver threw him forward in a skid across the polished wooden floor. He broke out of the tables into open space just before the steps out of the room, then kicked the platter out from under him and increased his weight, hitting the ground and stopping. The platter flipped out in front of him, and the startled bandits began firing. Metal pinged against metal as some of the bullets hit the platter; Waxillium responded, dropping the men on either side of Tarson with two quick shots. Then he flared his steel and Pushed toward Tarson’s gun to try knocking it away from Marasi. Only
then did Waxillium realize there was no blue line pointing to the man’s gun. Tarson grinned, his ashy face topped by Wayne’s hat. Then he whipped around, placing himself behind Marasi, whom he gripped by the neck with one hand, holding the gun steady against her head with the other. No blue lines. Rust and Ruin … an entire gun made of aluminum? Waxillium and Tarson both fell still. The bandits behind hadn’t noticed Waxillium’s floor-level escape on the platter; they were closing on the area where he’d been hiding. The boss still stood in the doorway, looking toward Waxillium. Wax had to be wrong about who he was. People could look alike, sound alike. That didn’t mean … Marasi whimpered. And Waxillium found himself unable to move, unable to raise his hand to fire. The shot he’d made to save Lessie played again and again in his mind. I can make a shot like that, he thought to himself, angry. I’ve done it a dozen times. He’d only missed once. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He kept seeing her die again and again. Blood in the air, a smiling face. Tarson apparently realized that Waxillium wouldn’t fire. So he swung his gun away from Marasi’s head and toward Waxillium. Marasi went rigid. She locked her legs and slammed her head upward into the Vanisher’s chin. Tarson’s shot went wild and he stumbled backward, holding his mouth. With Marasi mostly out of the way, Waxillium’s mind cleared, and he found himself able to move again. He shot Tarson, though he couldn’t bring himself to aim for the chest, not with Marasi stumbling nearby. He settled on dropping Tarson with a shot to the arm. Marasi raised her hand to her mouth in horror, watching him fall. “He’s over there!” Voices from behind, the three bandits he’d been fighting among the tables. An aluminum bullet split the air just beside him. “Hold on,” Waxillium said to Marasi, leaping forward and grabbing her around the waist. He raised his gun and shot the last bullet in his gun toward the doorway, hitting the masked leader of the Vanishers in the head. The man collapsed in a heap. Well, there goes that theory, Waxillium thought. Miles wouldnâ™ have fallen to a mere bullet. He was a Twinborn of a particularly dangerous variety. Tarson was rolling over, holding his arm and groaning. No time. Guns empty. Waxillium dropped the gun and Pushed on it while holding tightly to Marasi. The Push hurled the two of them into the air; a hail of bullets sprayed through the space where theyâ™ been. Unfortunately, they missed Tarson, who was rolling on the floor. Marasi cried out, clinging to him as they flew up toward the brilliant chandeliers. Waxillium pushed off one of them, causing it to rock back and forth. That Push threw him and Marasi toward the nearby balcony, which was occupied by a group of cowering musicians. Waxillium landed hard on the balcony; he was off-balance from carrying Marasi, and hadnâ™ had time to judge the Push
precisely. They rolled in a bundle of red and white fabric. When they came to a rest, Marasi clung to him, shaking and gasping for breath. He sat up, and held her for a moment. âœhank you,âshe whispered. âœhank you.â/p> âœonâ™ mention it,âhe said. âœhat was very brave, stopping the bandit as you did.â/p> âœeven out of ten kidnappings can be foiled by appropriate resistance on the part of the target,âshe said, words tumbling out of her mouth. She squeezed her eyes closed again. âœorry. That was just very, very unsettling.â/p> âœâ”€ He froze. âœhat?âshe asked, opening her eyes. Waxillium didnâ™ respond. He rolled to the side, pulling loose from her grip as he noticed the blue lines moving to the left. Someone was coming up the steps to the balcony. Waxillium came up beside a large harp as the balcony door burst open to reveal two Vanishersâ”ne with a rifle, the other with a pair of pistols. Waxillium increased his weight by tapping his metalmind, then heaved with a desperate flare of steel, Pushing against the harpâ™ metal mountings, nails, and strings. The instrument crashed into the wooden doorway and smashed the men against the wall. They slumped down, dropping to the stairs under the broken harp. Waxillium ran to check their vitals. Convinced they wouldnâ™ be dangerous any time soon, he grabbed the handguns and dashed back to the edge of the balcony, scanning the room below. The furniture heâ™ Pushed out of the way made a strange perfectly circular open space on the ballroom floor. Partygoers were making for the kitchens in increasingly large numbers. He looked for Wayne, but saw only the broken bodies of fallen bandits where heâ™ been. âœteris?âMarasi asked, crawling up beside him. âœâ™l go after her right now,âWaxillium said. âœome men towed her outside, but they wonâ™ have had time toâ¦€ He trailed off as he noticed a blur beside the far door. It stopped, and suddenly Wayne was lying on the ground, blood pooling around him. A bandit stood above him looking quite pleased with himself, holding a smoking pistol. Damn! Waxillium thought, feeling a spike of fear. If Wayne had been hit in the headÂâ¦/p> Steris or Wayne? Sheâ™l be safe, he thought. They took her for a reason; they need her. âœh no!âMarasi said, pointing at Wayne. âœord Ladrian, is thatâ”€ âœeâ™l be all right if I can get to him,âWaxillium said, hastily shoving a pistol into Marasiâ™ hands. âœan you use one of these?â/p> âœâ”€ âœust start firing it if someone threatens you. Iâ™l come.âHe leaped up onto the balcony railing. His way was mostly blocked by the chandeliers; he couldnâ™ make a direct jump to Wayne. Heâ™ have to jump down, then up again, and bound toâ”/p> No time. Wayne was dying. Go! Waxillium threw himself off the balcony. As soon as his feet were free, he tapped his metalmind and drew forth as much weight as he could. That didnâ™ tow him to the ground; an object fell at the same speed, no matter its weight. Only air
resistance mattered. However, weight did matter a great deal when Pushingâ”hich Waxillium did, throwing everything he had against the chandeliers. They ripped apart in a line, the metal inside them twisting upon itself, crystal exploding outward in a shower. That gave him plenty of room along the upper portion of the room to jump in an arc toward Wayne. In a heartbeat, Waxillium stopped tapping his metalmind and started filling it instead, decreasing his weight to almost nothing. He Pushed on the broken harp behind, and a simultaneous quick Push against the nails in the floor kept him high. The result was that he soared across the room in a graceful arc, passing through the space the large chandeliers had occupied. The glittering smaller chandeliers continued to shine on either side of him while crystal showered beneath, each tiny piece splintering the light into a spray of colors. His suit coat flapped, and he lowered the single revolver in his hand as he fell, pointing it at the bandit standing over Wayne. Waxillium emptied six chambers at the thief. He couldnâ™ afford to take chances. The pistol was slick in Waxilliumâ™ hand as he hit the ground, Pushing on the floor nails to keep from breaking his legs. The thief slumped back against the wall, dead. Just as Waxillium reached Wayne, a speed bubble sprang up around them. Waxillium exhaled in relief as Wayne stirred; he knelt to turn his friend face upward. Wayneâ™ shirt was soaked with blood, a bullet hole visible in his belly. As Waxillium watched, it slowly closed up, healing itself. âœamn,âWayne said, groaning. âœut wounds hurt.â/p> Wayne couldnâ™ have kept the bubble up while the bandit was aliveâ”hat would have told him Wayne wasnâ™ dead. Outlaws and lawmen alike were accustomed to Metalborn; if the bubble had stayed up, the bandit would have quickly shot Wayne in the head. So Wayne had been forced to drop the bubble and play dead. Luckily, the bandit hadnâ™ turned him over to check his vitals and noticed that the wound was healing. Wayne was a Bloodmaker, a type of Feruchemist who could store health in the way that Waxillium stored weight. If Wayne spent some time being sickly and weakâ”is body healing itself much more slowly than normalâ”e could store up the health and healing ability in a metalmind. Then, when he tapped it, he healed at a greatly increased rate. âœow much do you have left in your metalmind?âWaxillium asked. âœhat was the second bullet wound of the night,âWayne said. âœ can maybe heal one more.” Wayne stood as Waxillium pulled him to his feet. “Took me a good two weeks in bed to store up that much. Hope that girl of yours is worth it.” “Girl of mine?” “Oh, c’mon, mate. Don’t think I didn’t see how you were looking at her during dinner. You always did like ’em smart.” He grinned. “Wayne,” Waxillium said. “Lessie hasn’t even been gone a year.” “You have to move on eventually.” “I’m done with this conversation,” Waxillium said, looking over the
nearby tables. Vanisher bodies lay strewn about, bones broken by Wayne’s dueling canes. Waxillium spotted a few living ones hiding behind tables for cover, as if they hadn’t realized yet that Wayne didn’t carry guns. “Five left?” Waxillium asked. “Six,” Wayne said, picking up and spinning his dueling canes. “There’s another in the shadows over there. I brought down seven. You?” “Sixteen, I think,” Wax said distractedly. “Haven’t been counting carefully.” “Sixteen? Damn, Wax. I was hoping you’d have rusted a bit, was thinkin’ maybe I’d be able to catch you this time.” Waxillium smiled. “It’s not a competition.” He hesitated. “Even if I am winning. Some men got out the door with Steris. I shot the guy who took your hat, though he lived. He’s probably gone by now.” “You didn’t grab the hat for me?” Wayne asked, sounding offended. “I was a little busy being shot at.” “Busy? Aw, mate. It doesn’t take any effort at all to get shot at. I think you’re just makin’ excuses on account of being jealous of my lucky hat.” “That’s it entirely,” Waxillium said, fishing in his pocket. “How much time you have left?” “Not much,” Wayne said. “Bendalloy’s almost gone. Maybe twenty seconds.” Waxillium took a deep breath. “I’m going for the three on the left. You go right. Get ready to jump.” “Got it.” “Go!” Wayne ran forward and leaped onto a table in front of them. He dropped the speed bubble right as he launched himself off, and Waxillium braced himself by increasing his weight, then Pushed on Wayne’s metalminds, sending the man soaring through the air in an arc toward the bandits. Once Wayne was airborne, Waxillium flipped from tapping his metalmind to filling it, then Pushed on some nails, launching himself into the air in a slightly different trajectory. Wayne hit first, probably landing so hard he had to heal himself as he rolled between a pair of hiding bandits. He came up to his feet and slammed his dueling canes down on one bandit’s arm. He then spun and smashed a cane into the second man’s neck. Waxillium tossed his gun as he fell, Pushing it hard into the face of a startled thief. He landed, then tossed the empty cartridge that Wayne had given him earlier—the one that had contained the message—at a second man. Pushing on it, he turned the casing into an improvised bullet, slamming it into the man’s forehead and piercing his skull. Waxillium shoved on the casing hard enough that it tossed1 him to the side. He plowed his shoulder into the chest of the man he’d thrown his gun at. The man stumbled back, and Waxillium slammed his forearm—and its metalmind bracer—into the man’s head, dropping him. One more, he thought. Behind me to the right. It was going to be close. Waxillium kicked the gun he’d dropped, intending to Push it toward the final bandit. A gunshot sounded. Waxillium froze, anticipating the pain of a bullet hitting him. Nothing happened. He spun to find the final bandit slumped over a
table, bleeding, a gun dropping from his fingers. What by the Survivor’s scars…? He looked up. Marasi knelt on the balcony where he’d left her. She’d fetched the rifle from the bandit he’d crushed, and she obviously knew how to use it. Even as he watched, she fired again, dropping the bandit in the shadows Wayne had mentioned. Wayne stood up from finishing off his two assailants. He looked confused until Waxillium pointed toward Marasi. “Wow,” Wayne said, stepping up to him. “I’m liking her more and more. Definitely the one of the two I’d pick if I were you.” The one of the two. Steris! Waxillium cursed and leaped forward, throwing himself in a Steelpush across the room toward the other exit. He hit the ground running, noting with concern that the boss’s body wasn’t where he’d dropped it. There was blood in the entryway. Had they dragged him away? Unless … Maybe his theory wasn’t wrong after all. But damn it, he couldn’t be facing Miles. Miles was a lawman. One of the best. Waxillium burst out into the night—this ballroom exit led directly to the street. Some horses stood here tied to a fence, and what looked like a group of grooms lay gagged and bound on the ground. Steris, and the bandits who had carried her out, were gone. He did find a large group of constables riding into the courtyard, however. “Great timing, chaps,” Waxillium said, sitting down on the steps, exhausted. * * * “I don’t care who you are or how much money you have,” Constable Brettin said. “This is a total mess you’ve created, sir.” Waxillium sat on his stool, listening with only half an ear as he rested with his back against the wall. He was going to ache in the morning. He hadn’t pushed his body so hard in months. He was lucky he hadn’t twisted anything or thrown out a muscle. “This isn’t the Roughs,” Brettin continued. “You think you can do anything you want? You think you can just pick up a gun and take the law into your own hands?” They sat in the kitchens of Yomen Manor, in a side area that the constables had partitioned off for interviews. It hadn’t been long since the end of the fight. Just long enough for the trouble to begin. Though his ears still rang from the noise of the gunfire, Waxillium could also hear moans and cries from the ballroom as the partygoers were seen to. Beyond that, he could hear the clopping of hooves and the racket of the occasional automobile out in the mansion courtyard as the city’s elite fled in groups as they were released. The constables wou1ld be speaking to each person, making certain they were well and checking their names off the guest list. “Well?” Brettin demanded. He was the constable-general, head of the constabulary in their octant. He was probably feeling very threatened by the robberies happening under his watch. Waxillium could imagine what it would be like in his position, getting thunder each
day from powers above him who were not pleased. “I’m sorry, constable,” Waxillium said calmly. “Old habits make for strong steel. I should have restrained myself, but would you have done any different? Would you have watched women being kidnapped and done nothing?” “I have a legal right and responsibility you do not.” “I have a moral right and responsibility, constable.” Brettin harrumphed, but the calm words mollified him somewhat. He glanced to the side as a brown-suited constable wearing one of their domelike hats entered and saluted. “Well?” Brettin asked. “What’s the news, Reddi?” “Twenty-five dead, Captain,” the man said. Brettin groaned. “You see what you’ve caused, Ladrian? If you’d just kept your head down like everyone else, then those poor folks would still be alive. Ruination! This is a mess. I could hang for this—” “Captain,” Reddi interrupted. He stepped in and spoke softly. “Excuse me, sir. But those were the bandit casualties. Twenty-five of them dead, sir. Six captured alive.” “Oh. And how many civilians killed?” “Just one, sir. Lord Peterus. He was shot before Lord Ladrian started fighting back. Sir.” Reddi was regarding Waxillium with a mixture of awe and respect. Brettin glanced at Waxillium, then grabbed his lieutenant by the arm and towed him a little farther off. Waxillium closed his eyes, breathed softly, and caught some of the conversation. “You mean … two men … thirty-one by themselves?” “Yes, sir.” “… else wounded…?” “… broken bones … not too serious … bruises and scrapes … going to open fire…” There was silence, and Waxillium opened his eyes to find the constable-general staring at him. Brettin waved Reddi away, then walked back. “Well?” Waxillium asked. “You appear to be a lucky man.” “My friend and I drew their attention,” Waxillium said. “And most of the partygoers already had their heads down when the shooting began.” “You still broke bones with your Allomantic stunt,” the constable-general said. “There will be bruised egos and angry lords. They’ll come to me when they complain.” Waxillium said nothing. Brettin crouched down before Waxillium, getting in close. “I know about you,” he said softly. “I knew eventually I’d be having this talk with you. So let me be clear. This is my city, and I have the authority here.” “Is that so?” Waxillium asked, feeling very tired. “It is.” “So where were you when the bandits started shooting people in the head?” Brettin’s face grew red, but Waxillium held his eyes. “I’m not threatened by you,” Brettin said. “Good. I haven’t said anything threatening yet.” Brettin hissed softly, then pointed at Waxillium, tapping a finger against his chest. “Keep your tongue civil. I’ve half a mind to toss you into jail for the night.” “Then do it. Maybe by morning you’ll have found the other half of your mind, and we’ll be able to have a reasonable conversation.” Brettin’s face grew even redder, but he knew—as Waxillium did—that he wouldn’t dare throw a house lord into jail without significant justification. Brettin finally broke away, waving a dismissive hand at Waxillium and stalking
out of the kitchen. Waxillium sighed, standing up and taking his bowler off the counter where he’d left it. Harmony protect us from small-minded men with too much power. He donned the hat and walked out into the ballroom. The room had been mostly cleared of guests, the wedding party itself taken in Lord Yomen’s carriage to a place where they could recover from the ordeal. The ballroom swarmed with an almost equal number of constables and physicians. The wounded were sitting on the raised wooden floor just before the exit; there looked to be about twenty or thirty people there. Waxillium noticed Lord Harms sitting at a table off to the side, staring down with a morose expression, Marasi trying to comfort him. Wayne was at the table too, looking bored. Waxillium walked over to them, removing his hat, and sat down. He found that he didn’t exactly know what to say to Lord Harms. “Hey,” Wayne whispered. “Here.” He handed Waxillium something under the table. A revolver. Waxillium looked at him, confused. It wasn’t his. “Figured you’d want one of these.” “Aluminum?” Wayne smiled, eyes twinkling. “Snatched it out of the collection the constables made. Apparently there were ten of these. Figured you could sell it. I spent a lot of bendalloy fighting these gits. Need some money to replace it. But don’t worry, I left a real nice drawing I did in the gun’s place when I took it. Here.” He handed over something else. A handful of bullets. “Grabbed these too.” “Wayne,” Waxillium said, fingering the long, narrow cartridges, “you realize these are rifle rounds?” “So?” “So they won’t fit a revolver.” “They won’t? Why not?” “Because.” “Kind of a dumb way to make bullets, innit?” He seemed baffled. Of course, most things about guns baffled Wayne, who was generally better off throwing a gun at someone than trying to fire it at them. Waxillium shook his head in amusement, but didn’t turn the gun down. He had wanted one. He slipped the revolver into one of his shoulder holsters and turned to Lord Harms. “My lord,” Waxillium said. “I have failed you.” Harms dabbed his face with his handkerchief, looking pale. “Why would they take her? They’ll let her go, won’t they? They said they would.” Waxillium fell silent. “They won’t,” Lord Harms said, looking up. “They haven’t let any of the others go, have they?” “No,” Waxillium said. “You have to get her back.” Harms took Waxillium’s hand. “I care nothing for the money or jewelry they took from me. It can be replaced, and most of it was insured anyway. But I’ll pay any price for Steris. Please. She is to be your fiancée! You have to find her!” Waxillium looked into the older man’s eyes, and saw fear there. Whatever bravado this man had shown in earlier meetings, it was an act. Funny, how quickly someone can stop calling you a miscreant and a rogue when they want your help, Waxillium thought. But if there was something he couldn’t ignore, it was a sincere
request for help. “I’ll find her,” Waxillium said. “I promise it, Lord Harms.” Harms nodded. Then, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Let me help you to the carriage, my lord,” Marasi said. “No,” Harms said, waving her down. “No. Just let me … just let me go and sit by myself. I won’t leave without you, but please give me some time alone.” He walked away, leaving Marasi standing with her hands clasped. She sat back down, looking sick. “He wishes it were she you had rescued and not me,” she said softly. “So, Wax,” Wayne butted in. “Where did you say that bloke was who had my hat?” “I told you that he got away after I shot him.” “I was hoping he’d dropped my hat, you know. Getting shot makes people drop stuff.” Waxillium sighed. “He still had it on when he left, I’m afraid.” Wayne started cursing. “Wayne,” Marasi said. “It’s only a hat.” “Only a hat?” he asked, aghast. “Wayne’s a little attached to that hat,” Waxillium said. “He thinks it’s lucky.” “It is lucky. I ain’t never died while wearing that hat.” Marasi frowned. “I … I’m not sure I know how to respond.” “That’s a common reaction to Wayne,” Waxillium said. “I did want to thank you for your timely intervention, by the way. Do you mind if I ask where you learned to shoot like that?” Marasi blushed. “Ladies’ target club at the university. We’re quite well ranked against other clubs in the city.” She grimaced. “I don’t suppose … either of those fellows I shot pulled through?” “Nah,” Wayne said. “You plugged them right good, you did. The one near me left brains all over the door!” “Oh dear.” Marasi grew pale. “I never expected…” “It’s what happens when you shoot someone,” Wayne pointed out. “At least, usually someone has the good sense to get dead when you go to all the trouble to shoot them. Unl1ess you miss anything vital. That bloke what took my hat?” “I hit him in the arm,” Waxillium said. “But it should have brought him down better than it did. He has koloss blood for sure. Might be a Pewterarm as well.” That quieted Wayne. He was probably thinking the same thing as Waxillium—a band like this, with these numbers and such nice weapons, was likely to have at least a couple of Allomancers or Feruchemists among them. “Marasi,” Waxillium said, as something occurred to him, “is Steris an Allomancer?” “What? No. She isn’t.” “You certain?” Waxillium asked. “She might have been hiding it.” “She’s not an Allomancer,” Marasi said. “Nor a Feruchemist. I can promise it.” “Well, there’s a theory rusted away,” Wayne said. “I need to think,” Waxillium said, tapping the table with his fingernail. “Too much about these Vanishers doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head. “But, for now, I should bid you a good evening. I’m exhausted, and if I may be bold enough to say it, you look the same.” “Yes, of course,” Marasi said. They stood, walking toward the exit.
The constables didn’t stop them, though some did shoot Waxillium hostile looks. Others seemed disbelieving. A few looked awed. This night, like the four previous, lacked any mists. Waxillium and Wayne walked Marasi to her uncle’s carriage. Lord Harms sat inside, staring straight ahead. As they arrived, Marasi took Waxillium’s arm. “You really should have gone for Steris first,” she said softly. “You were closer. Logic dictated I save you first.” “Well, whatever the reason,” she said, voice even more soft, “thank you for what you did. I just … Thank you.” She looked like she wanted to say more, staring up into his eyes, then went onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Before he could react, she turned away and climbed into the carriage. Wayne stepped up to him as the carriage moved off into the dark street, horses’ shoes clattering on the paving stones. “So,” Wayne said, “you’re going to marry her cousin?” “Such is the plan.” “Awkward.” “She is an impulsive young woman half my age,” Waxillium said. An apparently brilliant, beautiful, intriguing young woman who also happens to be an excellent shot. Once, that combination would have left him completely smitten. Now, he barely gave it a passing thought. He turned away from the carriage. “Where are you staying?” “Not sure yet,” Wayne said. “I found this house where the folks who lives there is away, but I think they might be back tonight. Left ’em some bread as a thanks.” Waxillium sighed. I should have guessed. “I’ll give you a room, assuming you promise not to steal too much.” “What? I never steal, mate. Stealing’s bad.” He ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “Might need to trade you for a hat to wear till I get my other one back, though. Do you need any bread?” Waxillium just shook his hea1d, waving for his carriage to drive them back to Ladrian Mansion. 7 The morning after the assault on the wedding dinner, Marasi stood before the imposing mansion at Sixteen Ladrian Place, holding her handbag before her in both hands. She always liked to grip something before herself when she was nervous, a bad habit. As Professor Modicarm said, “Obvious visual tells must be assiduously avoided by a practitioner of the law, lest he inadvertently give criminals an insight into his emotional state.” Thinking over quotes from her professors was another of her nervous habits. She continued to stand on the stone-paved sidewalk, indecisive. Would Lord Waxillium find it odd or invasive of her to come? Did he think her a silly girl with a silly hobby who foolishly assumed she could be of use to a seasoned lawman? She should probably just go up and knock. But didn’t she have a right to be nervous when confronting a man such as Waxillium Ladrian? A living legend, one of her personal heroes? A young gentleman passed on the sidewalk behind her, walking an eager dog. He tipped his hat to her, though he spared a brief distrustful glance for Ladrian Mansion. The
building didn’t seem to deserve such scrutiny; the venerable structure was built of stately, vine-bedecked stone, with large windows and an old iron gate. Three mature apple trees spread limbs over the front garden, and a member of the grounds staff was lazily sawing off a few dead branches. City law established by the Lord Mistborn himself required that even ornamental trees provide food. What would it be like to visit the Roughs, she thought idly, where the trees are scraggly and short? The Roughs must be a fascinating place. Plants here in the Elendel Basin grew bountifully with little need for care or cultivation. A final gift of the Survivor, his munificent touch upon the land. Stop fidgeting, she told herself. Be firm. Control your surroundings. That was something Professor Aramine had said just last week, and— Damn it! She strode forward, through the open gate, up the steps, and to the door. She slammed the knocker down on the door three times. A long-faced butler answered. He looked her up and down with dispassionate eyes. “Lady Colms.” “I was hoping I might see Lord Ladrian?” The butler raised an eyebrow, then swung the door open the rest of the way. He said nothing, but a lifetime growing up around servants such as him—servants trained after the ancient Terris ideal—had taught her to read his actions. He did not think she should be visiting Waxillium, and particularly not alone. “The sitting room is currently unoccupied, my lady,” the butler said, pointing a stiff hand—palm up—toward a side chamber. He began stalking toward the staircase, moving with a sense of … inevitability. Like an ancient tree swaying in the wind. She strolled into the room, forcing herself to hold her handbag at her side. Ladrian Mansion was decorated in a classical mode; the rugs had intricate patterns in dark shades, and the ornately carved picture frames were painted gold. Odd, that so many should favor frames that seemed to be trying to outdo the art they held. Did it seem there was less art hanging in the mansion than there should be? Several spots on the walls were conspicuously empty. In the sitting room, she looked up at a wide painting of a field of grain, clasping her hands behind her back. Good. She was containing her nervousness now. There was no reason for it at all. Yes, she had read report after report about Waxillium Ladrian. Yes, stories of his bravery had been part of what inspired her to study law. However, he was far more amiable than she’d imagined. She had always pictured him as gruff and stoic. Discovering that he spoke like a gentleman had been a surprise. And, of course, there was the relaxed—if acerbic—way he interacted with Wayne. Five minutes around the two of them had destroyed years’ worth of youthful illusions about the calm, quiet lawman and his intense, devoted deputy. Then the attack had come. The gunfire, the screaming. And Waxillium Ladrian, like a bolt of intense, bright lightning in the middle of a dark

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