The Bands of Mourning

1

Waxillium Ladrian hurried down the steps outside the bar-turned-hideout, passing constables in brown who bustled this way and that. The mists were already evaporating, dawn heralding the end of their vigil. He checked his arm, where a bullet had ripped a sizable hole through the cuff of his shirt and out the side of his jacket. He’d felt that one pass.

“Oi,” Wayne said, hustling up beside him. “A good plan that one was, eh?”

“It was the same plan you always have,” Wax said. “The one where I get to be the decoy.”

“Ain’t my fault people like to shoot at you, mate,” Wayne said as they reached the coach. “You should be happy; you’re usin’ your talents, like me granners always said a man should do.”

“I’d rather not have ‘shootability’ be my talent.”

“Well, you gotta use what you have,” Wayne said, leaning against the side of the carriage as Cob the coachman opened the door for Wax. “Same reason I always have bits of rat in my stew.”

Wax looked into the carriage, with its fine cushions and rich upholstery, but didn’t climb in.

“You gonna be all right?” Wayne asked.

“Of course I am,” Wax said. “This is my second marriage. I’m an old hand at the practice by now.”

Wayne grinned. “Oh, is that how it works? ’Cuz in my experience, marryin’ is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein’ alive.”

“Wayne, that was almost profound.”

“Damn. I was aimin’ for insightful.”

Wax stood still, looking into the carriage. The coachman cleared his throat, still standing and holding the door open for him.

“Right pretty noose, that is,” Wayne noted.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Wax said, leaning to climb in.

“Lord Ladrian!” a voice called from behind.

Wax glanced over his shoulder, noting a tall man in a dark brown suit and bow tie pushing between a pair of constables. “Lord Ladrian,” the man said, “could I have a moment, please?”

“Take them all,” Wax said. “But do it without me.”

“But–”

“I’ll meet you there,” Wax said, nodding to Wayne. He dropped a spent bullet shell, then Pushed himself into the air. Why waste time on a carriage?

Steel at a comfortable burn inside his stomach, he shoved on a nearby electric streetlight – still shining, though morning had arrived – and soared higher into the air. Elendel spread before him, a soot-stained marvel of a city, leaking smoke from a hundred thousand different homes and factories. Wax shoved off the steel frame of a half-finished building nearby, then sent himself in a series of leaping bounds across the Fourth Octant.

He passed over a field of carriages for hire, rows of vehicles waiting quietly in ranks, early morning workers looking up at him as he passed. One pointed; perhaps the mistcoat had drawn his attention. Coinshot couriers weren’t an uncommon sight in Elendel, and men soaring through the air were rarely a point of interest.

A few more leaps took him over a series of warehouses in huddled rows. Wax thrilled in each jump. It was amazing how this could still feel so wonderful to him. The breeze in his face, the little moment of weightlessness when he hung at the very top of an arc.

All too soon, however, both gravity and duty reasserted themselves. He left the industrial district and crossed finer roadways, paved with pitch and gravel to create a smoother surface than cobbles for all those blasted motorcars. He spotted the Survivorist church easily, with its large glass and steel dome. Back in Weathering a simple wooden chapel had been sufficient, but that wasn’t nearly grand enough for Elendel.

The design was to allow those who worshipped full view of the mists at night. Wax figured if they wanted to see the mists, they’d do better just stepping outside. But perhaps he was being cynical. After all, the dome – which was made of segments of glass between steel supports, making it look like the sections of an orange – was able to open inward and let the mist pour down for special occasions.

He landed on a rooftop water tower across from the church. Perhaps when it had been built, the church’s dome had been tall enough to overshadow the surrounding buildings. It would have provided a nice profile. Now, buildings were rising taller and taller, and the church was dwarfed by its surroundings. Wayne would find a metaphor in that. Probably a crude one.

He perched on the water tower, looming over the church. So he was here, finally. He felt his eye begin to twitch, and an ache rose within him.

I think I loved you even on that day. So ridiculous, but so earnest.…

Six months ago, he’d pulled the trigger. He could still hear the gunshot.

Standing up, he pulled himself together. He’d healed this wound once. He could do so again. And if that left his heart crusted with scar tissue, then perhaps that was what he needed. He leaped off the water tower, then slowed by dropping and Pushing on a shell casing.

He hit the street and strode past a long line of carriages. Guests were already in attendance – Survivorist tenets called for weddings either very early in the morning or late at night. Wax nodded to several people he passed, and couldn’t help slipping his shotgun out of its holster and resting it on his shoulder as he hopped up the steps and shoved the door open before him with a Steelpush.

Steris paced in the foyer, wearing a sleek white dress that had been chosen because the magazines said it was fashionable. With her hair braided and her makeup done by a professional for the occasion, she was actually quite pretty.

He smiled when he saw her. His stress, his nervousness, melted away a little.

Steris looked up as soon as he entered, then hurried to his side. “And?”

“I didn’t get killed,” he said, “so there’s that.”

She glanced at the clock. “You’re late,” she said, “but not very late.”

“I’m … sorry?” She’d insisted he go on the raid. She’d planned for it, in fact. Such was life with Steris.

“I’m sure you did your best,” Steris said, taking his arm. She was warm, and even trembling. Steris might be reserved, but unlike what some assumed, she wasn’t emotionless.

“The raid?” she asked.

“Went well. No casualties.” He walked with her to a side chamber, where Drewton – his valet – waited beside a table spread with Wax’s white wedding suit. “You realize that by going on a raid on the morning of my wedding, I’ll only reinforce this image that society has of me.”

“Which image?”

“That of a ruffian,” he said, taking off his mistcoat and handing it to Drewton. “A barely civilized lout from the Roughs who curses in church and goes to parties armed.”

She glanced at his shotgun, which he’d tossed onto the sofa. “You enjoy playing with people’s perceptions of you, don’t you? You seek to make them uncomfortable, so they’ll be off balance.”

“It’s one of the simple joys I have left, Steris.” He smiled as Drewton unbuttoned his waistcoat. Then he pulled off both that and his shirt, leaving him bare-chested.

“I see I’m included in those you try to make uncomfortable,” Steris said.

“I work with what I have,” Wax said.

“Which is why you always have bits of rat in your stew?”

Wax hesitated in handing his clothing to Drewton. “He said that to you too?”

“Yes. I’m increasingly convinced he tries the lines out on me.” She folded her arms. “The little mongrel.”

“Not going to leave as I change?” Wax asked, amused.

“We’re to be married in less than an hour, Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I think I can stand to see you bare-chested. As a side note, you’re the Pathian. Prudishness is part of your belief system, not mine. I’ve read of Kelsier. From what I’ve studied, I doubt he’d care if–”

Wax undid the wooden buttons on his trousers. Steris blushed, before turning around and finally putting her back to him. She continued speaking a moment later, sounding flustered. “Well, at least you agreed to a proper ceremony.”

Wax smiled, settling down in his undershorts and letting Drewton give his face a quick shave. Steris remained in place, listening. Finally, as Drewton was wiping the cream from Wax’s face, she asked, “You have the pendants?”

“Gave them to Wayne.”

“You … What?”

“I thought you wanted some disturbances at the wedding,” Wax said, standing and taking the new set of trousers from Drewton. He slipped them on. He hadn’t worn white much since returning from the Roughs. It was harder to keep clean out there, which had made it worth wearing. “I figured this would work.”

“I wanted planned disturbances, Lord Waxillium,” Steris snapped. “It’s not upsetting if it’s understood, prepared for, and controlled. Wayne is rather the opposite of those things, wouldn’t you say?”

Wax did up his buttons and Drewton took his shirt off the hanger nearby. Steris turned around immediately upon hearing the sound, arms still folded, and didn’t miss a beat – refusing to acknowledge that she’d been embarrassed. “I’m glad I had copies made.”

“You made copies of our wedding pendants?”

“Yes.” She chewed her lip a moment. “Six sets.”

“Six?”

“The other four didn’t arrive in time.”

Wax grinned, doing up the buttons on his shirt, then letting his valet handle the cuffs. “You’re one of a kind, Steris.”

“Technically, so is Wayne – and actually so was Ruin, for that matter. If you consider it, that’s not much of a compliment.”

Wax strapped on suspenders, then let Drewton fuss with his collar. “I don’t get it, Steris,” he said, standing stiffly as the valet worked. “You prepare so thoroughly for things to go wrong – like you know and expect that life is unpredictable.”

“Yes, and?”

“And life is unpredictable. So the only thing you do by preparing for disturbances is ensure that something else is going to go wrong.”

“That’s a rather fatalistic viewpoint.”

“Living in the Roughs does that to a fellow.” He eyed her, standing resplendent in her dress, arms crossed, tapping her left arm with her right index finger.

“I just … feel better when I try,” Steris finally said. “It’s like, if everything goes wrong, at least I tried. Does that make any sense?”

“As a matter of fact, I think it does.”

Drewton stepped back, satisfied. The suit came with a very nice black cravat and vest. Traditional, which Wax preferred. Bow ties were for salesmen. He slid on the jacket, tails brushing the backs of his legs. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he strapped on his gunbelt and slid Vindication into her holster. He’d worn a gun to his last wedding, so why not this one? Steris nodded in approval.

Shoes went last. A new pair. They’d be hideously uncomfortable. “Are we late enough yet?” he asked Steris.

She checked the clock in the corner. “I planned for us to go in two minutes from now.”

“Ah, delightful,” he said, taking her arm. “That means we can be spontaneous and arrive early. Well, late-early.”

She clung to his arm, letting him steer her down the side chamber toward the entrance to the dome, and the church proper. Drewton followed behind.

“Are you … certain you wish to proceed?” Steris asked, stopping him before they entered the walkway to the dome.

“Having second thoughts?”

“Absolutely not,” Steris said immediately. “This union is quite beneficial to my house and status.” She took Wax’s left hand in both of hers. “But Lord Waxillium,” she said softly, “I don’t want you to feel trapped, particularly after what happened to you earlier this year. If you wish to back out, I will accept it as your will.”

The way she clutched his hand as she said those words sent a very different message. But she didn’t seem to notice. Looking at her, Wax found himself wondering. When he’d first agreed to the marriage, he’d done so out of duty to his house.

Now, he felt his emotions shifting. The way she’d been there for him these last months as he’d grieved … The way she looked at him right now …

Rust and Ruin. He was actually fond of Steris. It wasn’t love, but he doubted he would love again. This would do.

“No, Steris,” he said. “I would not back out. That … wouldn’t be fair to your house, and the money you have spent.”

“The money doesn’t–”

“It’s all right,” Wax said, giving her hand a little squeeze. “I have recovered enough from my ordeal. I’m strong enough to do this.”

Steris opened her mouth to reply, but a knock at the door heralded Marasi sticking her head in to check on them. With dark hair and softer, rounder features than Steris, Marasi wore bright red lipstick and a progressive lady’s attire – a pleated skirt, with a tight buttoned jacket.

“Finally,” she said. “Crowd is getting fidgety. Wax, there’s a man here wanting to see you. I’ve been trying to send him away, but … well…”

She came into the room and held the door open, revealing the same slender man in the brown suit and bow tie from before, standing with the ash girls in the antechamber that led to the dome proper.

“You,” Wax said. “How did you get here before Wayne?”

“I don’t believe your friend is coming,” the man said. He stepped in beside Marasi and nodded to her, then closed the doors, shutting out the ash girls. He turned and tossed Wax a wadded-up ball of paper.

When Wax caught it, it clinked. Unfolding it revealed the two wedding pendants. Scrawled on the paper were the words:

“Such beautiful imagery,” Steris observed, taking Wax’s wedding pendant in a white-gloved hand as Marasi looked over his shoulder to read the note. “At least he didn’t forget these.”

“Thank you,” Wax said to the man in brown, “but as you can see, I’m quite busy getting married. Whatever you need from me can–”

The man’s face turned translucent, displaying the bones of his skull and spine beneath.

Steris stiffened. “Holy One,” she whispered.

“Holy pain,” Wax said. “Tell Harmony to get someone else this time. I’m busy.”

“Tell … Harmony…” Steris mumbled, her eyes wide.

“Unfortunately, this is part of the problem,” the man in brown said, his skin returning to normal. “Harmony has been distracted as of late.”

“How can God be distracted?” Marasi asked.

“We’re not sure, but it has us worried. I need you, Waxillium Ladrian. I have a job you’ll find of interest. I realize you’re off to the ceremony, but afterward, if I could have a moment of your time…”

“No,” Wax said.

“But–”

“No.”

Wax pulled Steris by the arm, shoving open the doors, striding past Marasi, leaving the kandra. It had been six months since those creatures had manipulated him, played him, and lied to him. The result? A dead woman in his arms.

Bastards.

“Was that really one of the Faceless Immortals?” Steris said, looking over her shoulder.

“Yes, and for obvious reasons I want nothing to do with them.”

“Peace,” she said, holding his arm. “Do you need a moment?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Wax stopped in place. She waited, and he breathed in and out, banishing from his mind that awful, awful scene when he’d knelt on a bridge alone, holding Lessie. A woman he realized he’d never actually known.

“I’m all right,” he said to Steris through clenched teeth. “But God should have known not to come for me. Particularly not today.”

“Your life is … decidedly odd, Lord Waxillium.”

“I know,” he said, moving again, stepping with her beside the last door before they entered the dome. “Ready?”

“Yes, thank you.” Was she … teary-eyed? It was an expression of emotion he’d never seen from her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Forgive me. It’s just … more wonderful than I’d imagined.”

They pushed open the doors, revealing the glistening dome, sunlight streaming through it and upon the waiting crowd. Acquaintances. Distant family members. Seamstresses and forgeworkers from his house. Wax sought out Wayne, and was surprised when he didn’t find the man, despite the note. He was the only real family Wax had.

The ash girls scampered out, sprinkling small handfuls of ash on the carpeted walkway that ringed the perimeter of the dome. Wax and Steris started forward in a stately walk, presenting themselves for those in attendance. There was no music at a Survivorist ceremony, but a few crackling braziers with green leaves on top let smoke trail upward to represent the mist.

Smoke ascends while ash falls, he thought, remembering the priest’s words from his youth, back when he’d attended Survivorist ceremonies. They walked all the way around the crowd. At least Steris’s family had made a decent showing, her father included – the red-faced man gave Waxillium an enthusiastic fist-raise as they passed.

Wax found himself smiling. This was what Lessie had wanted. They’d joked time and time again about their simple Pathian ceremony, finalized on horseback to escape a mob. She said that someday, she’d make him do it proper.

Sparkling crystal. A hushed crowd. Footsteps on scrunching carpet dappled with grey ash. His smile widened, and he looked to the side.

But of course, the wrong woman was there.

He almost stumbled. Idiot man, he thought. Focus. This day was important to Steris; the least he could do was not ruin it. Or rather, not ruin it in a way she hadn’t expected. Whatever that meant.

Unfortunately, as they walked the remaining distance around the rotunda, his discomfort increased. He felt nauseous. Sweaty. Sick, like the feeling he had gotten the few times he had been forced to run from a killer and leave innocents in danger.

It all forced him, finally, to acknowledge a difficult fact. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t Steris, it wasn’t the setting. He just wasn’t ready for this.

This marriage meant letting go of Lessie.

But he was trapped, and he had to be strong. He set his jaw and stepped with Steris onto the dais, where the priest stood between two stands topped with crystal vases of Marewill flowers. The ceremony was drawn from ancient Larsta beliefs, from Harmony’s Beliefs Reborn, a volume in the Words of Founding.

The priest spoke the words, but Wax couldn’t listen. All was numbness to him, teeth clenched, eyes straight ahead, muscles tense. They’d found a priest murdered in this very church. Killed by Lessie as she went mad. Couldn’t they have done something for her, instead of setting him on the hunt? Couldn’t they have told him?

Strength. He would not flee. He would not be a coward.

He held Steris’s hands, but couldn’t look at her. Instead, he turned his face upward to look out the glass dome toward the sky. Most of it was crowded out by the buildings. Skyscrapers on two sides, windows glistening in the morning sun. That water tower certainly did block the view, though as he watched, it shifted.…

Shifted?

Wax watched in horror as the legs under the enormous metal cylinder bent, as if to kneel, ponderously tipping their burden on its side. The top of the thing sheared off, spilling tons of water in a foaming wave.

He yanked Steris to him, arm firmly around her waist, then ripped off the second button down on his waistcoat and dropped it. He Pushed against this single metal button, launching himself and Steris away from the dais as the priest yelped in surprise.

Water crashed against the dome, which strained for the briefest of seconds before a section of it snapped open, hinges giving way inward to the water.

2

“Are you certain you’re all right, my lord?” Wax asked, helping Lord Drapen, constable-general of the Sixth Octant, down the steps toward his carriage. Water trickled beside them in little streams, joining a small river in the gutters.

“Ruined my best pistol, you realize,” Drapen said. “I’ll have to send the thing to be cleaned and oiled!”

“Bill me the expense, my lord,” Wax said, ignoring the fact that a good pistol would hardly be ruined by a little – or, well, a lot of – water. Wax turned the aging gentleman over to his coachman, sharing a resigned look, before turning and climbing back up the steps into the church. The carpet squished when he stepped on it. Or maybe that was his shoes.

He passed the priest bickering with the Erikell insurance assessor – come to do an initial report for when the church demanded payment on their policy – and entered the main dome. The one open section of glass still swung on its hinges up above, and the tipped water tower – its legs on the other side had kept it from crashing down completely – still blocked out much of the sky.

He passed overturned benches, discarded Marewill petals, and general refuse. Water dripped, the room’s only sound other than the echoing voice of the priest. Wax squished his way up to the dais. Steris sat on its edge, wet dress plastered to her body, strands of hair that had escaped from her wedding braids sticking to the sides of her face. She sat with arms crossed on her knees, staring at the floor.

Wax sat down next to her. “So, next time a flood is dumped on our heads, I’ll try to remember that jumping upward is a bad idea.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and squeezed it out.

“You tried to get us backward too. It merely wasn’t fast enough, Lord Waxillium.”

He grunted. “Looks like simple structural failure. If it was instead some kind of assassination attempt … well, it was an incompetent one. There wasn’t enough water in there to be truly dangerous. The worst injury was to Lord Steming, who fell and knocked his head when scrambling off his seat.”

“No more than an accident then,” Steris said. She flopped backward onto the dais, the carpet letting out a soft squish.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She sighed. “Do you ever wonder if perhaps the cosmere is out to overwhelm you, Lord Waxillium?”

“The cosmere? You mean Harmony?”

“No, not Him,” Steris said. “Just cosmic chance rolling the dice anytime I pass, and always hitting all ones. There seems to be a poetry to it all.” She closed her eyes. “Of course the wedding would fall apart. Several tons of water falling through the roof? Why wouldn’t I have seen that? It’s so utterly outlandish it had to happen. At least the priest didn’t get murdered this time.”

“Steris,” Wax said, resting a hand on her arm. “We’ll fix this. It will be all right.”

She opened her eyes, looking toward him. “Thank you, Lord Waxillium.”

“For what, exactly?” he asked.

“For being nice. For being willing to subject yourself to, well, me. I understand that it is not a pleasant concept.”

“Steris…”

“Do not think me self-deprecating, Lord Waxillium,” she said, sitting up and taking a deep breath, “and please do not assume I’m being morose. I am what I am, and I accept it. But I am under no illusions as to how my company is regarded. Thank you. For not making me feel as others have.”

He hesitated. How did one respond to something like that? “It’s not as you say, Steris. I think you’re delightful.”

“And the fact that you were gritting your teeth as the ceremony started, hands gripping as tightly as a man dangling for his life from the side of a bridge?”

“I…”

“Are you saddened at the fact that our wedding is delayed? Can you truly say it, and be honest as a lawman, Lord Waxillium?”

Damn. He floundered. He knew a few simple words could defuse or sidestep the question, but he couldn’t find them, despite searching for what was an awkwardly long time – until saying anything would have sounded condescending.

“Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “I’ll just have to try something to relax me next time we attempt this.”

“I doubt going to the ceremony drunk would be productive.”

“I didn’t say I’d drink. Perhaps some Terris meditation beforehand.”

She eyed him. “You’re still willing to move forward?”

“Of course.” As long as it didn’t have to be today. “I assume you have a backup dress?”

“Two,” she admitted, letting him help her to her feet. “And I did reserve another date for a wedding two months from now. Different church – in case this one exploded.”

He grunted. “You sound like Wayne.”

“Well, things do tend to explode around you, Lord Waxillium.” She looked up at the dome. “Considering that, getting drenched must be rather novel.”

Marasi trailed around the outside of the flooded church, hands clasped behind her back, notebook a familiar weight in her jacket pocket. A few constables – all corporals – stood about looking as if they were in charge. That sort of thing was important in a crisis; statistics showed that if a uniformed authority figure was nearby, people were less likely to panic.

Of course, there was also a smaller percentage who were more likely to panic if an authority figure was nearby. Because people were people, and if there was one thing you could count on, it was that some of them would be weird. Or rather that all of them would be weird when circumstances happened to align with their own individual brand of insanity.

That said, today she hunted a very special kind of insane. She’d tried the nearby pubs first, but that was too obvious. Next she checked the gutters, one soup kitchen, and – against her better judgment – a purveyor of “novelties.” No luck, though her backside did get three separate compliments, so there was that.

Finally, running out of ideas, she went to check if he’d decided to steal the forks from the wedding breakfast. There, in a dining hall across the street from the church, she found Wayne in the kitchens wearing a white jacket and a chef’s hat. He was scolding several assistant cooks as they furiously decorated tarts with fruit glaze.

Marasi leaned against the doorway and watched, tapping her notebook with her pencil. Wayne sounded utterly unlike himself, instead using a sharp, nasal voice with an accent she couldn’t quite place. Easterner, perhaps? Some of the outer cities there had thick accents.

The assistant cooks didn’t question him. They jumped at what he said, bearing his condemnation as he tasted a chilled soup and swore at their incompetence. If he noticed Marasi, he didn’t show it, instead wiping his hands on a cloth and demanding to see the produce the delivery boys had brought that morning.

Eventually, Marasi strolled into the kitchen, dodging a short assistant chef bearing a pot almost as big as she was, and stepped up to Wayne.

“I’ve seen crisper lettuce in the garbage heap!” he was saying to a cringing delivery boy. “And you call these grapes? These are so overripe, they’re practically fermenting! And – oh, ’ello, Marasi.” He said the last line in his normal, jovial voice.

The delivery boy scrambled away.

“What are you doing?” Marasi asked.

“Makin’ soup,” Wayne said, holding up a wooden spoon to show her. Nearby, several of the assistant cooks stopped in place, looking at him with shocked expressions.

“Out with you!” he said to them in the chef’s voice. “I must have time to prepare! Shoo, shoo, go!”

They scampered away, leaving him grinning.

“You do realize the wedding breakfast is canceled,” Marasi said, leaning back against a table.

“Sure do.”

“So why…”

She trailed off as he stuffed an entire tart in his mouth and grinned. “Hadda make sure they didn’t welch on their promif an’ not make anyfing to eat,” he said around chewing, crumbs cascading from his lips. “We paid for this stuff. Well, Wax did. ’Sides, wedding being canceled is no reason not to celebrate, right?”

“Depends on what you’re celebrating,” Marasi said, flipping open her notebook. “Bolts securing the water tower in place were definitely loosened. Road below was conspicuously empty, some ruffians – from another octant entirely, I might add – having stopped traffic by starting a fistfight in the middle of the rusting street.”

Wayne grunted, searching in a cupboard. “Hate that little notebook of yours sometimes.”

Marasi groaned, closing her eyes. “Someone could have been hurt, Wayne.”

“Now, that ain’t right at all. Someone was hurt. That fat fellow what has no hair.”

She massaged her temples. “You realize I’m a constable now, Wayne. I can’t turn a blind eye toward wanton property damage.”

“Ah, ’s not so bad,” Wayne said, still rummaging. “Wax’ll pay for it.”

“And if someone had been hurt? Seriously, I mean?”

Wayne kept searching. “The lads got a little carried away. ‘See that the church is flooded,’ I told them. Meant for the priest to open the place in the morning and find his plumbing had gotten a little case of the ‘being all busted up and leaking all over the rusting place.’ But the lads, they got a little excited is all.”

“The ‘lads’?”

“Just some friends.”

“Saboteurs.”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “You think they could pronounce that?”

“Wayne…”

“I slapped ’em around already, Marasi,” Wayne said. “Promise I did.”

“He’s going to figure it out,” Marasi said. “What will you do then?”

“Nah, you’re wrong,” Wayne said, finally coming out of the cupboard with a large glass jug. “Wax has a blind spot for things like this. In the back of his noggin, he’ll be relieved that I stopped the wedding. He’ll figure it was me, deep in his subcontinence, and will pay for the damages – no matter what the assessor says. And he won’t say anything, won’t even investigate. Watch.”

“I don’t know.…”

Wayne hopped up onto the kitchen counter, then patted the spot beside him. She regarded him for a moment, then sighed and settled onto the counter there.

He offered her the jug.

“That’s cooking sherry, Wayne.”

“Yeah,” he said, “pubs don’t serve anything this hour but beer. A fellow has to get creative.”

“I’m sure we could find some wine around–”

He took a swig.

“Never mind,” Marasi said.

He lowered the jug and pulled off his chef’s hat, tossing it onto the counter. “What’re you so uptight for today, anyway? I figured you’d be whooping for joy and runnin’ around the street pickin’ flowers and stuff. He’s not marrying her. Not yet, anyway. You still got a chance.”

“I don’t want a chance, Wayne. He’s made his decision.”

“Now, what kinda talk is that?” he demanded. “You’ve given up? Is that how the Ascendant Warrior was? Huh?”

“No, in fact,” Marasi said. “She walked up to the man she wanted, slapped the book out of his hand, and kissed him.”

“See, there’s how it is!”

“Though the Ascendant Warrior also went on and murdered the woman Elend was planning to marry.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah.”

“Gruesome,” Wayne said in an approving tone, then took another swig of sherry.

“That’s not the half of it,” Marasi said, leaning back on the counter, hands behind her. “You want gruesome? She also supposedly ripped out the Lord Ruler’s insides. I’ve seen it depicted in several illuminated manuscripts.”

“Kind of graphic for a religious-type story.”

“Actually, they’re all like that. I think they have to put in lots of exciting bits to make people read the rest.”

“Huh.” He seemed disbelieving.

“Wayne, haven’t you ever read any religious texts?”

“Sure I have.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, lots of the things I read have religious texts in them. ‘Damn.’ ‘Hell.’ ‘Flatulent, arse-licking git.’”

She gave him a flat stare.

“That last one is in the Testimony of Hammond. Promise. Least, all the letters are.” Another swig. Wayne could outdrink anyone she knew. Of course, that was mostly because he could tap his metalmind, heal himself, and burn away the alcohol’s effects in an eyeblink – then start over.

“Here now,” he continued, “that’s what you’ve gotta do. Be like the Lady Mistborn. Get your murderin’ on, see. Don’t back down. He should be yours, and you gotta let people know.”

“My … murderin’ on?”

“Sure.”

“Against my sister.”

“You could be polite about it,” Wayne said. “Like, give her the first stab or whatnot.”

“No, thank you.”

“It doesn’t have to be real murderin’, Marasi,” Wayne said, hopping off the counter. “It can be figurative and all. But you should fight. Don’t let him marry her.”

Marasi leaned her head back, looking up at the set of ladles swinging above the counter. “I’m not the Ascendant Warrior, Wayne,” she said. “And I don’t particularly care to be. I don’t want someone I have to convince, someone I have to rope into submission. That sort of thing is for the courtroom, not the bedroom.”

“Now, see, I think some people would say–”

“Careful.”

“–that’s a right enlightened way to think of things.” He took a swig of sherry.

“I’m not some tortured, abandoned creature, Wayne,” Marasi said, finding herself smiling at her distorted reflection in a ladle. “I’m not sitting around pining and dreaming for someone else to decide if I should be happy. There’s nothing there. Whether that’s due to actual lack of affection on his part, or more to stubbornness, I don’t care. I’ve moved on.”

She looked down, meeting Wayne’s eyes. He cocked his head. “Huh. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Damn right.”

“Moved on…” he said. “Rusted nuts! You can do that?”

“Certainly.”

“Huh. You think … I should … you know … Ranette…”

“Wayne, if ever someone should have taken a hint, it was you. Yes. Move on. Really.”

“Oh, I took the hint,” he said, taking a swig of sherry. “Just can’t remember which jacket I left it in.” He looked down at the jug. “You sure?”

“She has a girlfriend, Wayne.”

“’S only a phase,” he mumbled. “One what lasted fifteen years.…” He set the jug down, then sighed and reached into the cupboard from before, taking out a bottle of wine.

“Oh, for Preservation’s sake,” Marasi said. “That was in there all along?”

“Tastes better iffen you drink something what tastes like dishwater first,” Wayne said, then pulled the cork out with his teeth, which was kind of impressive, she had to admit. He poured her a cup, then one for himself. “To moving on?” he asked.

“Sure. To moving on.” She raised her cup, and saw reflected in the wine someone standing behind her.

She gasped, spinning, reaching for her purse. Wayne just raised his cup to the newcomer, who rounded the counter with a slow step. It was the man in the brown suit and bow tie. No, not the man. The kandra.

“If you’re here to persuade me to persuade him,” Wayne said, “you should know that he doesn’t ever listen to me unless he’s pretty drunk at the time.” He downed the wine. “’S probably why he’s lived so long.”

“Actually,” the kandra said, “I’m not here for you.” He turned to Marasi, then tipped his head. “My first choice for this endeavor has rejected my request. I hope you don’t take offense at being my second.”

Marasi found her heart thumping quickly. “What do you want?”

The kandra smiled broadly. “Tell me, Miss Colms. What do you know about the nature of Investiture and Identity?”

3

Wax, at least, had a change of clothing that wasn’t wet – the suit he had worn on the raid. So he was pleasantly dry as his carriage pulled up to Ladrian Mansion. Steris had returned to her father’s house to recover.

Wax put aside his broadsheet and waited for Cob, the new coachman, to hop down and yank open the carriage door. There was a frantic eagerness to the little man’s motions, as if he knew that Wax only used a coach for propriety’s sake. Leaping home on lines of steel would have been far faster, but just as a lord couldn’t walk everywhere, Steelpushing around town too much in the daytime when not chasing criminals made members of his house uncomfortable. It simply wasn’t what a house lord did.

Wax nodded to Cob and handed him the broadsheet. Cob grinned; he loved the things. “Take the rest of the day off,” Wax told him. “I know you were looking forward to the wedding festivities.”

Cob’s grin widened, then he bobbed his head and climbed back onto the coach to see it, and the horses, cared for before leaving. He’d likely spend the day at the races.

Wax sighed, climbing the steps to the mansion. It was one of the finest in the city – luxurious with carved stonework and deep hardwood, with tasteful marble accents. That didn’t stop it from being a prison. It was just a very nice one.

Wax didn’t enter. Instead, he stood on the steps for a while before turning around and sitting on them. Closing his eyes, he let it all settle on him.

He was good at hiding his scars. He’d been shot almost a dozen times now, a few of those wounds quite bad. Out in the Roughs, he’d learned to pick himself up and keep on going, no matter what happened.

At the same time, it felt like things back then had been simple. Not always easy, but simple. And some scars continued to ache. Seemed to get worse with time.

He rose with a groan, leg stiff, and continued up the steps. Nobody opened the door for him or took his coat as he entered. He maintained a small staff in the house, but only what he considered necessary. Too many servants, and they’d hover and worry when he did anything on his own. It was as if the idea of him being capable drove them into feeling vestigial.…

Wax frowned, then slipped Vindication from his hip holster and raised her beside his head. He couldn’t say, precisely, what had set him off. Footsteps up above, when he’d given the housekeepers the day off. A cup on a side table with a bit of wine in the bottom.

He flicked a little vial from his belt and downed the contents: steel flakes suspended in whiskey. The metal burned a familiar warmth inside of him, radiating from his stomach, and blue lines sprang into existence around him. They moved with him as he crept forward, as if he were tied with a thousand tiny threads.

He leaped and Pushed on the inlays in the marble floor, soaring up alongside the stairs to the second-story viewing balcony above the grand entryway. He slipped easily over the banister, landing with gun at the ready. The door to his study quivered, then opened.

Wax tiptoed forward.

“Just a moment, I–” The man in the light brown suit froze as he found Wax’s gun pressed against his temple.

“You,” Wax said.

“I’m quite fond of this skull,” the kandra remarked. “It’s sixth-century anteverdant, the head of a metal merchant from Urteau whose grave was shifted and protected as a side effect of Harmony’s rebuilding. An antique, if you will. If you make a hole in it, I’ll be rather put out.”

“I told you I wasn’t interested,” Wax growled.

“Yes. I took that to heart, Lord Ladrian.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I was invited,” the kandra said. He reached up and grasped the barrel of Wax’s gun between two fingers, then pushed it gently to the side. “We needed a place to converse. Your associate suggested it, as – I’m told – the servants are away.”

“My associate?” At that point, he heard laughter from ahead. “Wayne.” He eyed the kandra, then sighed and slipped his gun into its holster. “Which one are you? TenSoon, is that you?”

“Me?” the kandra asked, laughing. “TenSoon? What, do you hear me panting?” He chuckled, gesturing for Wax to enter his own study, as if he were doing Wax some grand courtesy. “I am VenDell, of the Sixth. Pleased to meet you, Lord Ladrian. If you must shoot me, please do it in the left leg, as I’ve no particular fondness for those bones.”

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Wax said, shoving past the kandra and entering the room. The blinds had been drawn and the thick curtains left to droop down, plunging the room into almost complete darkness, save for two small new electric lamps. Why the closed curtains? Was the kandra that concerned about being seen?

Wayne lounged in Wax’s easy chair, feet up on the cocktail table, helping himself to a bowl of walnuts. A woman stretched out in a similar posture in the companion chair, wearing tight trousers and a loose blouse, eyes closed as she leaned back in the chair, hands behind her head. She wore a different body from last time Wax had seen her, but the posture – and the height – gave him good clues that this was MeLaan.

Marasi was inspecting some odd equipment set up on a pedestal at the back of the room. It was a box with small lenses on the front. She stood up straight as soon as she saw him, and – being Marasi – blushed deeply.

“Sorry about this,” she said. “We were going to go to my flat to talk, but Wayne insisted.…”

“Needed some nuts,” Wayne said around a mouthful of walnuts. “When you invited me to stay here, you did say to make myself at home, mate.”

“I’m still unclear as to why you needed a place to talk,” Wax said. “I said I wasn’t going to help.”

“Quite so,” VenDell said from the doorway. “As you were unavailable, of necessity I turned to other options. Lady Colms has been so kind as to listen to my proposition.”

“Marasi?” Wax asked. “You went to Marasi?”

“What?” VenDell asked. “That’s surprising to you? She was instrumental in the defeat of Miles Hundredlives. Not to mention her help during the riots Paalm instigated.”

Wax looked at the kandra. “You’re trying to get to me through another route, aren’t you?”

“Look who’s full of himself,” MeLaan said from her chair.

“He’s always full of himself,” Wayne said, cracking a walnut. “Mostly on account of him eatin’ his own fingernails. I seen him do it.”

“Is it so ridiculous,” Marasi said, “that they’d actually want my help?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” Wax said, turning to her.

“Then what way did you mean it?”

Wax sighed. “I don’t know, Marasi. It’s been a long day. I got shot at, got a water tower dumped on my head, and had my wedding fall apart. Now Wayne is dropping broken walnut shells all over my chair. Honestly, I think I just need a drink.”

He walked toward the bar at the back of the room. Marasi eyed him, and as he passed, she muttered, “Will you get me one too? Because this is all making me go a little crazy.”

He smiled, digging out some single-malt whiskey, pouring for himself and for Marasi. VenDell disappeared out the door, but returned a few minutes later with some piece of equipment that he hooked to the strange device. He ran a wire from the device to one of the wall lamps, pulling out the bulb and screwing in the end of the wire instead.

Leaving would feel childish, so Wax leaned against the wall and sipped his whiskey, saying nothing as VenDell turned on his machine. An image appeared on the wall.

Wax froze. It was a picture, similar to an evanotype – only on the wall and quite large. It displayed the Field of Rebirth in the center of Elendel, where the tombs of Vin and Elend Venture were to be found. He’d never seen anything like that image. It seemed to have been created entirely by light.

Marasi gasped.

Wayne threw a walnut at it.

“What?” he said as the others glared at him. “Wanted to see if it was real.” He hesitated, then threw another walnut. The nut made a shadow on the image where it moved between the device and the wall. So it was light.

“Image projector,” VenDell said. “They call it an evanoscope. By next year these will be commonplace, I should think.” He paused. “Harmony implies that if we find this wondrous, it will really burn our metals when the images start moving.”

“Moving?” Wax said, stepping forward. “How would they do that?”

“We don’t know,” MeLaan said with a grimace. “He accidentally let it slip, but won’t say anything more.”

“How does God,” Marasi asked, still staring at the image, “accidentally let something slip?”

“As I said,” VenDell said, “He has been distracted lately. We’ve tried to tease out more regarding moving images, but so far no luck. He’s often like this – says it’s vital that we discover things on our own.”

“Like a chick breaking out of its shell,” MeLaan said. “He says that if we don’t struggle and learn on our own, we won’t be strong enough to survive what is coming.”

She left the words hanging in the room, and Wax shared a look with Marasi.

“Well…” Marasi said slowly, “that’s ominous. Has He said anything more about Trell?”

Wax folded his arms. Trell. It was a god from the old records, long before the Catacendre – indeed, long before the Lord Ruler. Harmony had memorized this religion, with many others, during his days as a mortal.

Marasi had an obsession with the god, and one that was not unwarranted. Wax wasn’t certain whether her claim was true or not that the worship of Trell was involved in what had happened to Lessie, but the spikes they’d discovered … they didn’t seem to have been made of any metal known to man.

The kandra had confiscated those. Wax had been so deep in his sorrows that by the time he’d started to recover, they’d already been taken.

“No,” VenDell said. “And I have no update on the spikes, if that’s what you’re wondering. But this task I have for you, Miss Colms, might provide insight. Suffice it to say, we’re worried about the possible intrusion of another god upon this domain.”

“Hey,” MeLaan said, “what’s a girl gotta do to get some of that whiskey?”

“Sister,” VenDell said, twisting something on his machine, making the image brighter, “you are a representative of Harmony and His enlightenment.”

“Yup,” MeLaan said, “and I’m a tragically sober one.”

Wax brought her a glass, and she grinned at him in thanks.

“Chivalry,” she said, raising it.

“Manipulation,” VenDell said. “Miss Colms, I spoke to you earlier of Investiture and Identity. I promised you an explanation. Here.” He flipped something on his machine, changing the image on the wall to a list of Feruchemical metals, their attributes, and their natures. It wasn’t the pretty, artistic rendition that Wax often saw in popular lore – it was far less fancy, but much more detailed.

“The basic physical abilities of Feruchemy are well understood,” VenDell said, walking forward and using a long reed to point at a section of the projected chart. “Terris tradition and heritage has explored them for at least fifteen hundred years. Harmony left detailed explanations in the Words of Founding.

“Likewise, the abilities in the so-called mental quadrant of the chart have been outlined and discussed, tested and defined. Our understanding doesn’t reach as far here – we don’t know why memories stored in a metalmind degrade the way they do when removed, or why tapping mental speed tends to make one hungry, of all things – but still, we have a great deal of experience in this area.”

He paused, and circled his pointer around a group of metals and abilities at the bottom: Fortune, Investiture, Identity, and Connection. Wax leaned forward. They’d spoken of these during his year living in the Village, but only as part of the catechisms of Feruchemy and Terris belief. None of those specified what the powers actually did. They were considered beyond understanding, like God, or time.

“Chromium,” VenDell said, “nicrosil, aluminum, duralumin. These aren’t metals that most ancients knew. Only in recent times have modern metallurgical processes allowed them to become commonplace.”

“Commonplace?” Wayne said. “With a single aluminum bullet, mate, I could buy you an outfit that don’t look so stupid and have money left over for a nice hat or two.”

“Be that as it may,” VenDell said, “compared to the amount of aluminum in the world before the Catacendre, the metal is now common. Bauxite refining, modern chemical processes, these have given us access to metals on a level that was never before possible. Why, the Last Obligator’s autobiography explains that early aluminum was harvested from the inside of the Ashmounts!”

Wax stepped forward along the cone of light emanating from the machine. “So what do they do?”

“Research is ongoing,” VenDell said. “Ferrings with these abilities are very, very rare – and it is only in the last few decades that we’ve had access to enough of these metals to begin experimenting. Rebuilding society has been a … wearisome process.”

“You were alive before,” Marasi said. “In the days of the Ascendant Warrior.”

VenDell turned, raising his eyebrows. “Indeed, though I never met her. Only TenSoon did.”

“What was life like?” Marasi asked.

“Hard,” VenDell said. “It was … hard.”

“There are holes in our memories,” MeLaan added softly. “From when our spikes were removed. It took a piece out of us. There are things we’ll never get back.”

Wax took a drink. There was a weight that came from speaking to the kandra, in realizing that most of them had already been alive for hundreds of years when the World of Ash had ended. These were ancient beings. Perhaps Wax should not be surprised by their presumption. To them, he – indeed, everyone else alive – was little more than a child.

“Identity,” VenDell said, slapping his reed against the wall, casting a shadow on the image. “Lord Ladrian, could another Feruchemist use your metalminds?”

“Of course not,” Wax said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Why?”

“Well … because. They’re mine.”

Feruchemy was simple, elegant. Fill your metalmind with an attribute for an hour – like Wax’s weight, or Wayne’s health and healing – and you could draw out an hour’s worth of that attribute later on. Alternatively, you could draw out a burst of power that was extremely intense but lasted only a moment.

“The raw power of both Allomancy and Feruchemy,” VenDell said, “is something we call Investiture. This is very important, as in Feruchemy, an individual’s Investiture is keyed specifically to them. To what we call Identity.”

“You’ve made me curious,” Wax said, looking at the wall as VenDell leisurely walked back to his machine. “How does it know? My metalminds … do they recognize me?”

“After a fashion,” VenDell said, changing the image to one of a Feruchemist tapping strength. The woman’s muscles had grown to several times their normal size as she lifted a horse above her head. “Each man or woman has a Spiritual aspect, a piece of themselves that exists in another Realm entirely. You might call it your soul. Your Investiture is keyed to your soul – indeed, it might be a part of your soul, much as your blood is a part of your body.”

“So if a person could store their Identity,” Marasi said, “as Waxillium does with his weight…”

“They’d be without it for a time,” VenDell said. “A blank slate, so to speak.”

“So they could use anyone’s metalmind?” Marasi asked.

“Possibly,” VenDell said. He cycled through pictures of several more Feruchemists using their abilities before coming to rest on an image of a set of bracers. Simple metal bands, like wide bracelets, meant to be worn on the upper arms beneath clothing. It was impossible to tell the type of metal without color, but they had ancient Terris markings engraved on them.

“Some have been experimenting with your idea,” VenDell said, “and early results are promising. However, having a Feruchemist who can use anyone’s metalminds is intriguing, but not particularly life-changing. Our society is strewn with individuals who have extraordinary abilities – this would simply be one more variety. No, what interests me is the opposite, Miss Colms. What if a Feruchemist were to divest himself of all Identity, then fill another metalmind with an attribute. Say, strength. What would it do?”

“Create an unkeyed metalmind?” Marasi asked. “One that another Feruchemist could access?”

“Possibly,” VenDell said. “Or is there another possibility? Most people living right now have at least some Feruchemist blood in them. Could it be that such a metalmind as I describe, one that is keyed to no single individual, might be usable by anyone?”

Understanding settled on Wax like a slowly burned metal. From the chair beside the image device, Wayne whistled slowly.

“Anyone could be a Feruchemist,” Wax said.

VenDell nodded. “Investiture – the innate ability to burn metals or tap metalminds – is also one of the things Feruchemy can store. Lord Waxillium … these are arts we are only beginning to comprehend. But the secrets they contain could change the world.

“In the ancient days, the Last Emperor discovered a metal that transformed him into a Mistborn. A metal anyone could burn, it is said. This whispers of a hidden possibility, something lesser, but still incredible. What if one could somehow manipulate Identity and Investiture to create a set of bracers which imparted Feruchemical or Allomantic ability upon the person wearing them? One could make any person a Mistborn, or a Feruchemist, or both at once.”

The room fell silent.

A walnut bounced off VenDell’s head.

He immediately turned to glare at Wayne.

“Sorry,” Wayne said. “Just had trouble believing someone could be so melodramatic, so I figured you might not be real. Hadda check, ya know?”

VenDell rubbed his forehead, breathing out sharply in annoyance.

“This is all fascinating,” Wax admitted. “But unfortunately, it’s also impossible.”

“And why is that?” VenDell asked.

“You don’t even know how, or if, this would work,” Wax said, waving toward the screen. “And even if you could figure it out, you’d need a Full Feruchemist. Someone with at least two Feruchemical powers, as they’d need to be able to store their Identity in a metalmind along with another Feruchemical attribute. Rusts! To do what you proposed a moment ago, and create Allomancers too, you’d basically need someone who was already both Mistborn and Full Feruchemist.”

“This is true,” VenDell said.

“And how long has it been since a Full Feruchemist was born?”

“A very, very long time,” VenDell said. “But, being born a Feruchemist isn’t the only way to make this happen.”

Wax hesitated, then shared a look with Marasi. She nodded, and he strode across the room to pull back the wooden panel hiding his wall safe. He did the combination and removed the book that Ironeyes had sent him. He turned, raising it. “Hemalurgy? Harmony hates it. I’ve read what the Lord Mistborn had to say on the topic.”

“Yes,” VenDell said. “Hemalurgy is … problematic.”

“In part because we wouldn’t exist without it,” MeLaan said. “That’s not a particularly fun thing to know – that people had to be murdered in order to bring you to sapience.”

“Creating new spikes is a horrid practice,” VenDell agreed. “We have no intentions of doing such a thing to experiment with Identity. Instead, we’re waiting. A Full Feruchemist is bound to be born among mankind eventually – particularly with the Terris elite working so hard to preserve and condense their bloodlines. Unfortunately, our … restraint will not be shared by everyone. There are those who are growing very close to understanding how all this works.”

My uncle, Wax thought, looking down at the book in his fingers. So far as he could tell, Edwarn – the man known as Mister Suit – was trying to breed Allomancers. What would he do with Hemalurgy, if he knew about it?

“We need to stay ahead of those who might use this for ill purposes,” VenDell said. “We need to experiment and determine how these Identity-free metalminds would work.”

“Doing so will be dangerous,” Wax said. “Mixing the powers is incredibly dangerous.”

“Says the Twinborn,” MeLaan said.

“I’m safe,” Wax said, glancing at her. “My powers don’t compound – they’re from different metals.”

“They may not compound,” VenDell said, “but they’re still fascinating, Lord Waxillium. Any mixing of Allomancy and Feruchemy has unanticipated effects.”

“What is it about you,” Wax said, “that makes me want to punch you, even when you’re saying something helpful?”

“None of us have been able to figure it out,” MeLaan said, waving for Wayne to toss her a walnut. “One of the cosmere’s great mysteries.”

“Now, now, Lord Ladrian,” VenDell said, holding up his hands. “Is that the way to speak to someone who bears your ancestor’s hands?”

“His … hands?” Wax said. “Are you speaking metaphorically?”

“Ah, no,” VenDell said. “Breeze did say I could have them after he died. Excellent metacarpals. I bring them out for special occasions.”

Wax stood still for a moment, holding the book in his hand, trying to digest what the kandra had just said. His ancestor, the first Lord Ladrian, Counselor of Gods … had given this creature his hands.

In a way, Wax had shaken hands with Breeze’s corpse. He stared at his glass, surprised to find it empty, and poured some more whiskey.

“This has been a very enlightening lesson,” Marasi said. “But pardon, Your Holiness, you still haven’t explained what you need from me.”

VenDell changed the picture to one of an illustration. A man with long dark hair and a bare chest, wearing a cloak that extended behind him into eternity. His arms, crossed before him, were wrapped with intricate bracers in a fanciful design. Wax recognized the iconography, if not the specific image. Rashek. The First Emperor.

The Lord Ruler.

“What do you know of the Bands of Mourning, Miss Colms?” VenDell asked.

“The Lord Ruler’s metalminds,” Marasi said with a shrug. “Relics from mythology, like the Lady Mistborn’s knives, or the Lance of the Fountains.”

“There are four individuals,” VenDell said, “who, to our knowledge, have held the power of Ascension. Rashek, the Survivor, the Ascendant Warrior, and Lord Harmony Himself. Harmony’s Ascension granted Him a precise and in-depth knowledge of the Metallic Arts. It stands to reason that the Lord Ruler gained the same information. He understood Identity as a Feruchemical ability, and knew the hidden metals. Indeed, he gave aluminum to his Inquisitors.”

VenDell flipped the image to a more detailed illustration of those arms wrapped in bands of metal. “Curiously, nobody knows exactly what happened to the Bands of Mourning. Back when the Lord Ruler fell, TenSoon had not yet joined the Ascendant Warrior, and though he swears he heard them mentioned, the holes in his memory prevent him from saying how or when.

“The mythology surrounding the Bands is quite extensive. You can find myths about them dating back to before the Catacendre, and you can find someone telling new ones in a pub around the corner, invented on the spot for your amusement. But a theme runs through them all – if you held the Lord Ruler’s bracers, you supposedly gained his powers.”

“That’s just fancy,” Wax said. “It’s a natural thing to wish for, to make stories about. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” VenDell asked. “Lore says the Bands have the very power that science has only now determined is plausible to assemble?”

“Coincidence,” Wax said. “And just because he might have created something doesn’t mean he did, and just because you think Identity works like you say, doesn’t mean you’re right. Besides, the Bands would have been destroyed when Harmony remade the world. And that’s not even considering that it would be foolish for the Lord Ruler to create weapons someone else could use against him.”

VenDell clicked his machine. The image changed to another evanotype, this one of a mural on a wall. It depicted a room with a central dais in the shape of a truncated pyramid. Set upon a pedestal on the dais was a pair of bracers made of delicate, curling metal, shaped in spirals.

Only a mural. But it did seem like it was depicting the Bands of Mourning.

“What is that?” Marasi asked.

“One of our brothers,” MeLaan said, sitting up in her chair, “a kandra named ReLuur, took this image.”

“The Bands of Mourning fascinated him,” VenDell said. “ReLuur spent the last two centuries chasing them. He recently returned to Elendel bearing an evanotype camera in his pack and these pictures.” VenDell clicked to the next image, a picture of a large metal plate set into a wall and inscribed with a strange script.

Wax narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that language.”

“Nobody does,” VenDell said. “It’s completely alien to us, unrelated to any Terris, Imperial, or other root. Even the old languages in Harmony’s records bear no resemblance to this script.”

Wax felt a chill as the images continued. Another shot of the strange language. A statue that resembled the Lord Ruler, bearing a long spear. This appeared to be covered in frost. Another shot of the mural, more detailed, which depicted bracers with many different metals twining together. Not bracers for a Ferring like Wax, but bracers for a Full Feruchemist.

Only a mural, yes. But it was compelling.

“ReLuur believed in the Bands,” VenDell said. “He claims to have seen them, though his camera bore no image of the actual relics. I’m inclined to trust his words.”

VenDell showed another image, of a different mural. It depicted a man standing atop a peak, hands raised above him and a glowing spear hovering there, just beyond his touch. A corpse slumped at his feet. Wax went forward, walking into the stream of light until he was standing right in front of the image, looking up at the portion he wasn’t blocking. The face of the man in the mosaic had eyes upturned and lips parted as if in awe at what he held.

He wore the bracers on his arms.

Wax turned around, but standing in the stream of light he couldn’t see anything in the room. “You mean to tell me your brother, this ReLuur, actually found the Bands of Mourning?”

“He found something,” VenDell said.

“Where?”

“He doesn’t know,” VenDell said softly.

Wax stepped out of the light, frowning. He looked from VenDell to MeLaan. “What?” he asked them.

“He’s missing a spike,” MeLaan said. “Best we could determine, he was accosted before he could return here from the mountains near the Southern Roughs.”

“We can’t get any straight answers out of him,” VenDell said. “A kandra with a missing spike … well, they aren’t quite sane any longer. As you well know.”

Wax shivered, a pit of emptiness shifting inside him. “Yes.”

“So, Miss Colms,” VenDell said, stepping away from his machine. “This is where you come in. ReLuur was … is … one of our finest. Of the Third Generation, he is an explorer, an expert at bodies, and a genius. Losing him would be a great blow to us.”

“We can’t reproduce,” MeLaan said. “Our numbers are set. The Thirds like ReLuur … they’re our parents, our exemplars. Our leaders. He is precious.”

“We would like you to recover his spike,” VenDell said. “From whoever took it. This will restore his sanity, and hopefully his memories.”

“The longer he goes without it, the bigger the holes will be,” MeLaan said.

“So perhaps you can understand our urgency,” VenDell said. “And why I found it prudent to interrupt Lord Ladrian, even on what was obviously an important day. When ReLuur returned to us, he was missing an entire arm and half his chest. Though he will not – or cannot – speak of where he got these pictures, he is able to recall being attacked in New Seran. We believe someone ambushed him there, on his return, and stole the artifacts he had discovered.”

“They have his spike,” MeLaan said, voice tense. “It’s still there. It has to be.”

“Wait, wait,” Marasi said. “Why not give him another spike? You’ve got enough of them lying around to make earrings, like the one you gave Waxillium.”

The two kandra looked at her as if she were mad, but Wax couldn’t see why. He thought the question was an excellent one.

“You are misunderstanding the nature of these spikes,” VenDell all but sputtered. “First, we do not have kandra Blessings ‘lying around.’ The earrings you mention are crafted from old Inquisitor spikes, and have barely any potency to them. One might have been good enough for Lord Waxillium’s little stunt six months ago, but they would hardly be enough to restore a kandra.”

“Yeah,” MeLaan said. “If that worked, we’d have already used all those spikes to make new children. We can’t; a kandra Blessing must be created very specifically.”

“We did try something akin to what you suggest,” VenDell admitted. “TenSoon … relinquished one of his own spikes to give our fallen brother a few moments of lucidity. It was very painful for TenSoon, and – unfortunately – accomplished nothing. ReLuur only screamed, begging for his spike. He spat out TenSoon’s a moment later. Trying to use someone else’s spikes when you don’t have your own already can provoke radical changes in personality, memory, and temperament.”

“Lessie,” Wax said, voice hoarse. “She … she changed spikes frequently.”

“And each was a spike created specifically for her,” VenDell said. “Not one that had been used by another kandra. And besides, would you call her particularly stable, Lord Waxillium? You must trust us on this; we have done what we can. Here, at least.

“MeLaan will be traveling to New Seran to investigate and retrieve ReLuur’s missing spike. Miss Colms, we would like you to join her and help recover our brother’s mind. We can intervene with your superiors in the constable precinct, and make certain you are assigned field duty working for the government in a clandestine fashion. If you can restore ReLuur’s spike, we will be able to find answers.”

VenDell eyed Wax. “This will not be a wild hunt for some impossible artifact. All we want is our friend back. Of course, any clues you can discover regarding where he went on his quest, and where he got these pictures, would be appreciated. There are some people of interest in New Seran, nobility that ReLuur is fixated upon for reasons we can’t get out of him.”

Wax studied the last image for a time longer. It was tempting. Mystical artifacts were all well and good, but someone attacking – and nearly killing – one of the Faceless Immortals? That was interesting.

“I’ll go,” Marasi said from behind him. “I’ll do it. But … I wouldn’t mind help. Waxillium?”

A part of him longed to go. Escape the parties and the dances, the political engagements and business meetings. The kandra would know that; Harmony would know that.

Anger simmered deep within him at the thought. He’d hunted Lessie, and they hadn’t told him.

“This sounds like the perfect challenge for your skills, Marasi,” he found himself saying. “I doubt you need me. You are perfectly capable, and I feel a fool for having implied otherwise, even accidentally. If you do want company, however, perhaps Wayne would be willing to provide some extra protection. I’m afraid that I, however, must–”

The image on the wall flickered to a shot of a city with grand waterfalls. New Seran? He’d never been there. The streets were overgrown with foliage, and people promenaded about in clothing of striped brown suits and soft white dresses.

“Ah, I forgot,” VenDell said. “There was one other image in ReLuur’s belongings. We discovered it last, as the others were packed carefully away to await development. We suspect this image was taken in New Seran, just before the attack.”

“And why should I care?” Wax said. “It…”

He trailed off, feeling an icy shock as he recognized someone in the picture. He stepped back into the stream of light, pressing his hand against the white wall, trying – fruitlessly – to feel the image. “Impossible.”

She stood between two men who held to her arms tightly, as if pulling her forward against her will. Keeping her prisoner even in broad daylight. She had glanced over her shoulder toward the camera as the evanotype was taken. It must be one of the new models he’d been hearing about, that didn’t require the subject to stand still for the image to set.

The woman was in her forties, lean but solid, with long dark hair framing a face that – despite their years apart – Wax knew very, very well.

Telsin. His sister.

4

Two hours after the strange meeting, Wayne puttered through Wax’s mansion, peeking behind pictures, lifting up vases. Where did he keep the good stuff?

“It is her, Steris,” Wax was saying in the ground-floor sitting room not far away. “And that man with his back turned, holding her by the arm, that could be my uncle. They’re involved in this. I have to go.”

It had always seemed funny to Wayne how rich folk got to decide what was valuable. He inspected a picture frame that was likely pure gold. Why did anyone care about this shiny stuff? Gold could do some fun things with Feruchemy, but it was pure rubbish when it came to Allomancy.

Well, rich folk liked it. So they paid a lot for it, and that made it valuable. No other reason.

How did they decide what was valuable? Did they all just gather together, sit around in their suits and gowns, and say, “Oi. Let’s start eatin’ fish eggs, and make the stuff real expensive. That’ll rust their brains, it will.” Then they’d have a nice round of rich folks’ laughter and throw some servants off the top of a building to see what kind of splats they’d make when they hit.

Wayne put the picture back. He refused to play by rich people’s rules. He’d decide for himself what something was worth. And that frame was ugly. Didn’t help none that Steris’s cousins, who were depicted in the evanotype it held, looked like fish.

“Then you should most certainly go, Lord Waxillium,” Steris said. “Why the concern? We can make arrangements to postpone other duties.”

“It’s infuriating, Steris!” Even from out in the hall, Wayne could hear the I’m pacing in his tone. “Not a word of apology, from them or Harmony regarding what they did to me. VenDell made offhanded comments – referring to me shooting Lessie as a ‘stunt.’ They used me. Lessie was only trying, in a broken way, to free me from them. Now they saunter back, no mention of what I lost, and expect me to just pick up and do their bidding again.”

Poor Wax. That had busted him up right good, it had. And Wayne could see why. Still, an apology? Did people what got killed in a flood expect an apology from God? God did as God wished. You simply hoped to not get on His worse side. Kinda like the bouncer at the club with the pretty sister.

Harmony wasn’t the only god, anyway. And that was what Wayne was about today.

After some silence, Wax continued, more softly. “I have to go. Even after what they did, if my uncle is really involved in this … if I can free Telsin … I have to go. Tomorrow night, there will be a gathering of the outer cities political elite in New Seran. Governor Aradel is rightly concerned, and was going to send a representative anyway. It gives me a plausible excuse to be in the city. Marasi can look for the lost spike; I can hunt down my uncle.”

“It is decided, then,” Steris said. “Will we be leaving immediately?”

Wax was silent for a moment. “We?”

“I assumed … I mean, if you are taking my sister, it would look very odd if I were not accompanying you.” Wayne felt like he could hear her blush. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. You may, of course, do as you wish, but–”

“No,” he said. “You’re right. It would look odd to go alone. The gathering will include a reception, after all. I don’t want to imply … I mean…”

“I can go, but stay out of your way.”

“It could be dangerous. I can’t ask it of you.”

“If this is what you feel you must do, then I will be happy to take the risk.”

“I…”

Rusts. Those two were as awkward as a man suddenly splitting his cheeks in church. Wayne shook his head, picking up one of the vases in the entryway. Good pottery, with a nice swirly-dirly pattern. Maybe that would do for his offering.

Someone knocked on the door, and Wayne put the vase back. It didn’t feel right. He took one of the flowers though, and traded it for an extra sock from his back pocket. Huh. He had a silverware set in his other pocket. From the wedding breakfast? Yeah, that was right. They’d put out a place setting for him, had his name and everything. That meant the silverware had been his.

He put the fork, knife, and spoon back in his pocket and tucked the flower behind his ear, then walked to the door, reaching it right before that butler did. He gave the man a glare – it was only a matter of time before he cracked and tried to kill them all – then pulled open the door.

That kandra bloke stood on the other side. His suit now was an even lighter shade of tan. “You,” Wayne said, pointing. “We just got ridda you!” It had only been … what, two hours since he left?

“Good afternoon, young lad,” the kandra said. “Are the adults home?”

Darriance quite politely pushed Wayne aside and gestured for VenDell to enter. “You are expected, sir.”

“He is?” Wayne said.

“Master Ladrian said to send you in,” the butler said, pointing toward the sitting room.

“Thank you,” VenDell said, striding toward the room.

Wayne caught up with him quickly.

“Nice flower,” the kandra said. “Can I have your skeleton when you’re dead?”

“My…” Wayne felt at his head.

“You’re a Bloodmaker, correct? Can heal yourself? Bloodmaker bones tend to be particularly interesting, as your time spent weak and sickly creates oddities in your joints and bones that can be quite distinctive. I’d love to have your skeleton. If you don’t mind.”

Taken aback by this request, Wayne stopped in place. Then he ran past him, pushing into the room where Wax and Steris were talking. “Wax,” he complained, pointing, “the immortal bloke is being creepy again.”

“Greetings, Lord Ladrian,” VenDell said, walking in and holding up a folder. “Your tickets, along with transcripts of everything we’ve been able to pry out of ReLuur. I warn you, most of it isn’t terribly lucid.”

Wayne glanced at Wax’s liquor cabinet. Maybe something in there would work for what he needed for his offering.

“I haven’t said that I’d go,” Wax told the immortal. “You’re roping me into this, sure as sheep in a pen.”

“Yes,” the immortal said. He held out the folder again. “In here is a list of people ReLuur mentions. You’ll find it interesting that he lists several, including the woman holding the party I’m sending you to, as having had interactions with your uncle.”

Wax sighed, then accepted it. He gestured to Steris, who had risen to curtsy. “My fiancée. We were debating whether she should accompany me or not.”

“We have made provisions for whatever you decide,” VenDell said. “Though it will look less suspicious if you go too, Lady Harms, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“It might be helpful if you accompanied us, VenDell,” Wax said. “We could use an extra Metalborn.”

VenDell’s eyes bulged, and he turned white, like he’d been told his baby had been born with two noses. “Go out into the field? Me? Lord Ladrian, I assure you, that’s not what you want.”

“Why not?” Wax asked, leaning back against the wall. “You’re practically impossible to kill, and you can change your rusting shape into anything you want.”

“Wait,” Wayne said, turning away from the liquor cabinet. “You can turn into anything? Like a bunny?”

“Very small animals are extremely difficult, as we need a certain mass to hold our cognitive functions and–”

“Bunny,” Wayne said. “Can you be a bunny.”

“If absolutely necessary.”

“So that’s what that damn book was about.”

VenDell sighed, looking toward Wax. “MeLaan can perform any transformations you might need. I honor the First Contract, Lord Ladrian. Besides, the outside doesn’t suit me. There’s too much…” He waved his hands in front of him.

“Too much what?” Wax asked, frowning.

“Everything,” VenDell said – though Wayne didn’t miss that the rusting bunny glanced at him when he said it.

Wayne shook his head, trying the liquor cabinet. It was locked, unfortunately. What a fine heap of trust Wax showed in him.

“My sister will meet you at the station,” VenDell said. “Track seventeen, in four hours.”

“Four hours?” Steris said. “I need to send for the maids! And the valet! And…” She raised a hand to her head, looking faint. “And I need to make a list.”

“We’ll be there, VenDell,” Wax said.

“Excellent,” the kandra fellow said, fishing in his pocket. Wayne got interested, until he came out with a dull old bent earring, simple, old-style. “I brought you one of these.”

“No thanks.”

“But, if you need to–”

“No thanks,” Wax said.

The look between the two of them grew real uncomfortable, like each was accusing the other of having made an unpersonable stench of some sort. “Good, good,” Wayne said, drifting toward the door. “Meet you all at the station.”

“Aren’t you going to pack?” Steris called after him.

“Sack’s in my room,” Wayne called back. “Under my bed. I’m always packed and ready to go, mate. Never can tell when a misunderstandin’ will crop up.” He turned away, popped his hat off the rack, flipped it onto his head, and ducked out the front door.

Leave them to their discussing and their arguing and their creepy immortal bunnies. He had things that needed to be done. Well, one thing at least.

Wayne had a quest.

He whistled as he danced down the steps. A simple tune, easy and familiar, with an accompanying beat playing in his mind. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick, energetic. He strolled down the street, but found himself less and less pleased with his flower. It was not the proper offering for the god with whom he must meet. Too obvious, too soft.

He spun it in his fingers, thoughtful, softly whistling his tune. No better ideas came to him. This area was too fancy, with mansions and gardens and men clipping hedges. The streets didn’t even stink of horse dung. It was hard to think in a place like this; everyone knew the best thinking happened in alleyways and slums. Places where the brain had to be alert, even panicked – where the bugger knew that if it didn’t perk up and get some geniusing done, you were likely to get yourself stabbed, and then where would it be?

Holding your brain hostage against your own stupidity – that was how to get stuff done. Wayne made his way to a nearby canal, and searched out a gondola man who looked bored.

“My good man,” Wayne said to himself. “My good man.” Yeah, that was it. Speak like you couldn’t breathe right – high First Octant accent, with a little Terris stirred in. Rich accent. Very rich.

“You, boatman!” Wayne called, waving. “Hey! Oh, do hurry. I haven’t the time!”

The boatman poled over.

“Quickly now, quickly, my good man!” Wayne shouted. “Tell me. How much for the day?”

“The day?” the boatman said.

“Yes, yes,” Wayne said, hopping into the boat. “I have need of your services for the entire day.” Wayne settled himself without waiting for a response. “Onward, now. Up the Fourth-Fifth Canal, turn right around the Hub, then east up the Irongate. First stop is in the Third Octant. She’s counting on me, you know.”

“The whole day,” the boatman said, eager. “Yes, sir, um … my lord.…”

“Ladrian,” Wayne said. “Waxillium Ladrian. We aren’t moving. Why aren’t we moving?”

The boatman began poling, so gleeful at the prospect of many hours of employment that he forgot to ask for any money up front.

“Fifty,” the man finally said.

“Hmm?”

“Fifty. For the whole day.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Wayne said. Dirty thief, he thought. Trying to cheat an upstanding citizen, and a house lord at that, merely because he acted a little distracted? What was this world coming to? When his grandfather Ladrian had been house lord, men had known how to be respectful. Why, a boatman in those days would have dunked himself in the canal before taking a wuzing more than he was due!

“If you don’t mind me asking, my lord,” the boatman said. “And I mean no offense … but your clothing.”

“Yes?” Wayne asked, straightening his Roughs coat.

“Is something wrong with it?”

“Wrong with it?” Wayne said, stuffing his accent so full of noble indignation it was practically bleeding. “Wrong with it? Man, do you not follow fashion?”

“I–”

“Thomton Delacour himself designed these clothes!” Wayne said. “Northern outlands inspiration. It’s the height, I tell you! The height. A Coinshot couldn’t get higher!”

“Sorry. Sorry, my lord. I said I didn’t want to offend!”

“You can’t just say ‘don’t be offended’ and then say something offensive, man! That’s not how it works.” Wayne settled back, arms folded.

The boatman, wisely, said nothing more to him. After about ten minutes of travel, the time had arrived.

“Now,” Wayne said, as if to himself, “we’ll need to stop at Glimmering Point docks. And then a skid along Stansel Belt.”

He let his accent shift, a little of the Knobs – a slum – slipping in. Dull accent, like a mouth filled with cotton. The folks there used the word “skid” for practically anything. Distinctive word, that. Skiiiid. Sounded like it should be something dirty.

“Um, my lord?”

“Hm?” Wayne said. “Oh, just going over my errands. My nephew is getting married – you might have heard of the wedding, it’s all the talk of the city. So many errands. Yes indeed, the day will be quite the skid.”

That was a ruffian’s accent, but just a hint, like the lemon in a good hot toddy. He slipped it in under the highborn accent.

The boatman started to get uncomfortable. “You said the Stansel Belt? Not a nice area, that.”

“Need to hire some workers,” Wayne said absently.

The boatman continued poling, but he was nervous now. Tapping his foot, moving the pole more quickly, ignoring calls from colleagues they passed. Something was wrong. Like the scent of a meat pie left under the sofa for a few days. A whole day’s hiring? An outrageous sum? It might instead be a setup. Pretend to be a lord, then lure him into the slums to be robbed.…

“My lord!” the man said. “I just realized. Gotta get back. Can’t be hired for the whole day. My mother, she’ll need me.”

“What nonsense is this?” Wayne demanded. “I haven’t the time for your prattle, man! And catching another boat will waste my precious time. I’ll double your fee.”

Now, the man was really anxious. “Sorry, my lord,” he said, poling to the side of the canal. “Very sorry. Can’t do it.”

“At least take me to Stansel–”

“No!” the man yelped. “Nope, can’t do it. Gotta go.”

“Well,” Wayne huffed, climbing out. “I’ve never been treated in such a manner! And we’re not even halfway down portway!”

“Sorry, my lord!” the man said, poling away as quickly as he could. “Sorry!”

Wayne cocked his hat, grinned, and checked the sign hanging from the streetlamp. Exactly where he’d wanted to go, and not a clip paid. He started whistling and strolled along the canal, keeping an eye out for a better offering. What would the god want?

Maybe that? he wondered, eyeing a line of people waiting at Old Dent’s roadside cart, wanting to buy some of his fried potatoes. Seemed a good bet.

Wayne wandered over. “Need some help, Dent?”

The old man looked up and wiped his brow. “Five clips a small pouch, eight for a large, Wayne. And don’t eat none of the stock, or I’ll fry your fingers.”

Wayne grinned, slipping behind the cart as the man turned back to his brazier and stirred a batch that was frying. Wayne took the customers’ money – and didn’t eat much of the stock – until the last man in line arrived, a fancy-looking fellow in a doorman’s jacket. Probably worked at one of the hotels down the lane. Good tips at those jobs.

“Three large,” the man said.

Wayne got his potatoes, took the man’s money, then hesitated. “Actually,” Wayne said, holding up a note, “do you have change? We got too many large bills.”

“I suppose,” the man said, digging in his nice eelskin wallet.

“Great, here’s a twenty.”

“I’ve got two fives and ten ones,” the man said, putting them down.

“Thanks.” Wayne took them, then hesitated. “Actually, I’ve got plenty of ones. Could I get that ten I saw in your wallet?”

“Fine.”

Wayne gave him a handful of coins and took the ten.

“Hey,” the man said, “there are only seven here.”

“Whoops!” Wayne said.

“What are you doing, Wayne?” Old Dent said. “There’s more change in the box under there.”

“Really?” Wayne glanced. “Rusts. Okay, how about you just give me my twenty back?” He counted the man back thirteen and poured the coins and bills into his hand.

The man sighed, and gave Wayne the twenty. “Can I just get some sauce for my chips?”

“Sure, sure,” Wayne said, squeezing some sauce onto the pouches, beside the potatoes. “That’s a nice wallet. Whaddaya want for it?”

The man hesitated, looking at his wallet.

“I’ll give you this,” Wayne said, plucking the flower off his ear and holding it out with a banknote worth ten.

The man shrugged and handed over the empty wallet, taking the bill and stuffing it in his pocket. He threw the flower away. “Idiot,” the man said, marching off with his potatoes.

Wayne tossed the wallet up and caught it again.

“Did you shortchange that man, Wayne?” Old Dent asked.

“What’s that?”

“You got him to give you fifty, and you gave him back forty.”

“What?” Wayne said, stuffing the wallet in his back pocket. “You know I can’t count that high, Dent. ’Sides, gave him ten extra at the end.”

“For his wallet.”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “The flower was for the wallet. The bill was ’cuz I somehow ended up with an extra ten completely on accident, very innocent-like.” He smiled, helped himself to a pouch of chips, and went wandering off.

That wallet was nice. His god would like that. Everyone needed wallets, right? He got it out and opened and closed it repeatedly, until he noticed that one side was worn.

Rusts. He’d been cheated! This wouldn’t work at all for an offering. He shook his head, walking along the canal promenade. A pair of urchins sat on one side, hands out for coins. The melancholy sound of a busker rose from a little farther down the path. Wayne was near the Breakouts, a nice slum, and he caught whiffs of their distinctive odor. Fortunately the aroma wafting from a nearby bakery overwhelmed most of it.

“Here’s the thing,” he said to one of the urchins, a girl not seven. He settled down on his haunches. “I ain’t travailed enough.”

“… Sir?” the girl asked.

“In the old stories of quests, you gotta travail. That’s like traveling, but with an ailment stapled on. Headaches and the like; maybe a sore backside too.”

“Can … can I have a coin, sir?”

“Ain’t got no coins,” Wayne said, thinking. “Damn. In the stories they always tip the urchins, don’t they? Lets ya know they’re the heroes and such. Hold here for a sec.”

He stood up and burst into the bakery, real heroic-like. A woman behind the counter was just pulling a rack of meat buns out of the oven. Wayne slammed his fork down onto the plain wooden countertop, leaving it flourished there like a rusting legendary sword.

“How many buns’ll you give me for this?” he asked.

The baker frowned, looking at him, then taking the fork. She turned it over in her fingers. “Mister,” she said, “this is silver.”

“So … how many?” Wayne asked.

“A bunch.”

“A bunch’ll do, fair merchant.”

A moment later he emerged from the bakery holding three large paper sacks filled with a dozen buns each. He dropped a handful of change the baker had insisted on giving him into the urchins’ hands, then held up a finger as their jaws dropped.

“You,” he said, “must earn this.”

“How, sir?”

“Take these,” he said, dropping the sacks. “Go give the stuff inside away.”

“To who?” the girl asked.

“Anyone who needs them,” Wayne said. “But see here, now. Don’t eat more than four yourselves, all right?”

“Four?” the girl said. “All for me?”

“Well, five, but you bargain hard. Little cheat.” He left them stunned and danced along the edge of the canal, passing the busker, who sat strumming an old guitar.

“Something lively, minstrel!” Wayne called, tossing the silver spoon into the man’s overturned hat, which awaited tips.

“Here now,” the man said. “What’s this?” He squinted. “A spoon?”

“Merchants are apparently desperate for the things!” Wayne called. “They’ll give you half a hunnerd meat buns for one, with change to boot. Now, give me ‘The Last Breath,’ minstrel!”

The man shrugged, and started plucking the song from Wayne’s mind. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick, energetic. Wayne rocked back and forth, eyes closed. The end of an era, he thought. A god to be appeased.

He heard the two urchins laughing, and opened his eyes to see them tossing meat buns at the people they passed. Wayne smiled, then kicked himself in a smooth skid along the edge of the canal, which was slippery with a coating of slime. He managed to go a good ten feet before losing his balance and slipping.

Which, of course, plunged him right into the canal.

Coughing, he pulled himself up onto the side. Well, maybe this would count as a travail. If not, it was probably poetry, considering what he’d done to Wax this morning.

He fished out his hat, then put his back to the canal. That was the way to go. Eyes forward, back turned toward the past. No sense getting your nose stuck in things that don’t matter anymore. He continued on his way, trailing water and spinning the last of the silverware – the knife – in his fingers. This was not the right offering for his quest. He was pretty sure of it. But what was?

He stopped at the next canal bridge, then stepped back. A short man in a uniform he didn’t recognize was walking down a nearby street with a little book in hand. Motorcars were parked here in various positions, most partly up onto the sidewalks. The man in the uniform stopped at each one, writing something down in his book.

Wayne followed after him. “Here now,” he asked the man. “What’re you doing?”

The little man in the uniform glanced at him, then back at his notebook. “New city ordinance about the parking of motorcars requires them to be left in an orderly manner, not up on the sidewalks like this.”

“So…”

“So I’m writing down the registry numbers of each one,” the man said. “And we’ll track down the owners and charge them a fine.”

Wayne whistled softly. “That’s evil.”

“Nonsense,” the man said. “It’s the law.”

“So you’re a conner?”

“Fine enforcement officer,” the man said. “Spent most of my time inspecting kitchens before last month. This is a lot more productive, I’ll tell you. It–”

“That’s great,” Wayne said. “Whaddaya want for the book?”

The man regarded him. “It’s not for trade.”

“I’ve got this here nice wallet,” Wayne said, holding it up, water dripping out the side. “Recently cleaned.”

“Move along, sir,” the man said. “I am not–”

“How ’bout this?” Wayne said, yanking out the knife.

The man jumped back in alarm, dropping his notebook. Wayne snatched it, dropping the knife.

“Great trade. Thanks. Bye.” He took off at a dash.

“Hey!” the man shouted, chasing after him. “Hey!”

“No tradebacks!” Wayne shouted, hand on his wet hat, running for all he was worth.

“Come back here!”

Wayne dashed out onto the main street along the canal, passing a couple of old men sitting on a tenement’s steps near the entrance to the slums.

“That’s Edip’s boy,” one of them said. “Always gettin’ himself into trouble, that one is.”

The man got hit in the face by a meat bun a second later.

Wayne ignored that, holding his hat to his head and running all-out. The conner was a determined one. Followed Wayne a good ten streets before slowing, then stopping, hands on his knees. Wayne grinned and ducked around one last corner before slamming his back against the bricks of a building, beside a window. He was pretty winded himself.

He’ll probably file a report, Wayne thought. Hope the fine they make Wax pay ain’t too large.

He ought to find something to bring back as an apology. Maybe Wax needed a wallet.

Wayne heard something beside him, and turned to see a woman with spectacles leaning out the window to look at him curiously. She was holding a pen, and just inside the window a half-finished letter lay on the desk in front of her. Perfect.

Wayne tipped his hat, snatching the pen from her hand. “Thanks,” he said, opening the notebook and scribbling some words. As she cried out, he tossed the pen back to her, then continued on his way.

The final destination, the god’s dwelling, was not far now. He veered down a street lined with trees and quaint smaller townhomes. He counted them off, then turned to the right and stood facing it. The god’s new temple. She’d moved here a few months ago.

He took a deep breath, banishing the music in his head. This had to be quiet. He crept carefully up the long walk to the front door. There, he quietly tucked the book into the spot between the doorknob and the door. He didn’t dare knock. Ranette was a jealous god, known for shooting people – for her, it was practically a governmental mandate. If the constables didn’t find a few corpses on her doorstep every week, they’d start to wonder if she wasn’t feeling well.

Wayne slipped away. He smiled, imagining Ranette’s reaction when she opened the door, and was so distracted that he almost ran right into Ranette herself walking up the path to her house.

Wayne stumbled back. Perfect brown hair, pulled back to expose a gorgeous face, weathered from her time in the Roughs. A fantastic figure, round in all the right places. Tall. Taller than Wayne. So he had something to look up to.

“Wayne! What were you doing at my door?”

“I–”

“Idiot,” she said, shoving past him. “You’d better not have broken in. Tell Wax I delivered those cords to him just now. He needn’t have sent someone to check on me.”

“Cords?” Wayne asked. What cords?

She ignored the question, muttering. “I swear, I am going to shoot you, you little maggot.”

He watched her go, smiled to himself, then turned and continued walking away.

“What’s this?” she said from behind him.

He kept walking.

“Wayne!” she shouted at him. “I’ll shoot you, right now. I swear I will. Tell me what you’ve done.”

He turned around. “It’s just a gift, Ranette.”

“A notebook?” she asked, flipping the pages.

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged. “Writin’ book,” he said. “You’re always writin’ stuff down, thinkin’ about things. Figured if there’s one thing you could always use more of, it’s a writin’ book. All those ideas you have must get pretty crowded up there. Makes sense you’d need places to store them.”

“Why’s it damp?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Forgot and stuck it in my pocket for a moment. But I got it right back out. I fought ten constables for that, I’ll have you know.”

She flipped through it, eyes narrowed in suspicion, until she reached the last page. “What’s this?” She held it up close and read the words he’d scrawled on the back page. “‘Thank you and goodbye’? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’s wrong,” Wayne said. “I just figured it was time.”

“You’re leaving?”

“For a little, but that’s not what the words mean. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Perhaps frequently and such. I’ll see you … but I won’t be seein’ you again. See?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then seemed to relax. “You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

“Finally.”

“Gotta grow up sometime, right? I’ve found that … well, a man wantin’ something don’t make it true, you know?”

Ranette smiled. Seemed an awful long time since he’d seen her do that. She walked to him, and he didn’t even flinch when she extended her hand. He was proud of that.

He took her hand, and she raised his, then kissed it on the back. “Thank you, Wayne.”

He smiled, let go, and turned to leave. One step into it, though, he hesitated, then shifted his weight to his other foot and leaned toward her again. “Marasi says you’re courtin’ another girl.”

“… I am.”

Wayne nodded. “Now, I don’t want to go wrong, seein’ as I’m being so gentlemanly and grown-up and the like. But you can’t blame a man for gettin’ ideas when hearing something such as that. So … I don’t suppose that there’s a chance for the three of us to–”

“Wayne.”

“I don’t mind none if she’s fat, Ranette. I likes a girl what has something to hold on to.”

“Wayne.”

He looked back at her, noting the storm in her expression. “Right,” he said. “Right. Okay. Yeah. I don’t suppose, when we’re lookin’ fondly on this conversationalizing and our memorable farewell, we could both just forget I said that last part?”

“I’ll do my best.”

He smiled, took off his hat, and gave her a deep bow he’d learned off a sixth-generation doorman greeter at Lady ZoBell’s ballroom in the Fourth Octant. Then he stood up straight, replaced his hat, and put his back toward her. He found himself whistling as he went on his way.

“What is that song?” she called after him. “I know it.”

“‘The Last Breath,’” he said without turning back. “The pianoforte was playin’ it when we first met.”

He turned the corner, and didn’t look back. Didn’t even check if she’d sighted on him with a rifle or something. Feeling a spring in his step, he made his way to the nearest busy intersection and tossed the empty wallet into the gutter. It wasn’t long before a carriage-for-hire pulled up, and its coachman glanced to the side, saw the wallet, and scrambled down to grab it.

Dashing out from an alley, Wayne beat the man to it, diving for the wallet and rolling on the ground. “It’s mine!” he said. “I seen it first!”

“Nonsense,” the coachman said, swatting Wayne with his horse reed. “I dropped it, you ruffian. It’s mine!”

“Oh, is that so?” Wayne said. “How much is innit?”

“I need not answer to you.”

Wayne grinned, holding up the wallet. “I tells you what. You can have it and everything that’s inside. But you take me to the Fourth Octant west train station.”

The coachman eyed him, then held out his hand.

Half an hour later, the coach rolled up to the rail station – a bleak-looking building with peaked towers and tiny windows, as if to taunt those trapped inside with a scant view of the sky. Wayne sat on the back footman’s stand, legs swinging over the side. Trains steamed nearby, rolling up to platforms to gorge themselves on a new round of passengers.

Wayne hopped down, tipped his hat to the grumbling coachman – who seemed well aware he’d been had – and strolled in through the open doors. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked about until he found Wax, Marasi, and Steris standing amid a small hill of suitcases, with servants waiting at the ready to carry them.

“Finally!” Wax snapped. “Wayne, our train is nearly boarding. Where have you been?”

“Makin’ an offering to a beautiful god,” Wayne said, looking up toward the building’s high ceiling. “Why do you suppose they made this place so big? Ain’t like the trains ever come in here, eh?”

“Wayne?” Steris asked, wrinkling her nose. “Are you drunk?”

He put a bit of a slur into his speech. “Course not. Why … why’d I be drunk at this hour?” He looked at her lazily.

“You’re insufferable,” she said, waving to her lady’s maid. “I can’t believe you risked being late for a little liquor.”

“Wasn’t a little,” Wayne said.

When the train arrived, he joined the others in climbing aboard – Steris and Wax had ordered an entire car set aside for the lot of them. Unfortunately, the last-minute hiring meant it had to be hitched all the way at the back, and Wayne had to share a room with Herve the footman. Bugger that. He knew for a fact the man snored. He’d find someplace else to sleep, or else just stay up. The train to New Seran wasn’t going to take that long. They’d arrive before sunrise.

In fact, as the thing finally started to chug into motion, he swung out his compartment’s window – much to Herve’s consternation – and climbed up onto the roof. He sat there whistling softly, watching Elendel pass for a time, wind ruffling his hair. A simple tune, easy and familiar, and the accompanying beat played on the tracks below. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick … energetic.

He lay down then, staring at the sky, the clouds, the sun.

Eyes forward, back turned toward the past.