The Bands of Mourning

17

Marasi had read a lot about life in the Roughs in her youth, and knew what to expect of a stagecoach trip: boredom, dust, and discomfort.

It was wonderful.

She had to forcibly keep herself from hanging out the window as Wayne occasionally did, watching the scenery pass. They weren’t in the Roughs, but this was close enough. The smell of the horses, the bumps in the road, the rickety creak of the wood and the springs … She had seen and done some remarkable things during her time with Waxillium, but this really felt as if she were living in an adventure.

Waxillium reclined across from her, feet up on the seat next to her, a wide-brimmed hat over his eyes, face bristly from a day without shaving. He’d removed his boots, which sat on the floor beside his shotgun.

It seemed surreal to remember she’d even considered a relationship with him, now that so long had passed with them working together. No, she was not interested, no longer. But she did admire the perfect image of him there – the gun, the boots, and the hat.

Of course, that image was distorted by the sight of Steris curled up on the seat beside him, snoring softly with her head on his shoulder. In what kind of bizarre world did Marasi’s punctilious half sister end up on the adventure? Steris belonged in a sitting room with a cup of tea and a dry book about horticulture, not riding cross-country in a stagecoach toward a potential army of Allomancers. Yet here she was, snuggled up against Dawnshot himself.

Marasi shook her head. She wasn’t envious of Steris, which was – frankly – remarkable, considering their upbringings. It was very hard to hate Steris. You could be bored by her, confused by her, or frustrated with her – but hate her? Impossible.

Marasi got out her notebook to continue her report to VenDell and Constable-General Reddi, which she hoped to be able to send before reaching Dulsing.

Waxillium shifted, then tipped his hat back, eyeing her. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’ll rest when we stop.”

“Stop?”

Marasi hesitated. They’d been going for half a day already, avoiding the main roads to evade potential pursuers from New Seran. They’d crossed several fields, and spent a full hour rattling along a stone ridge to bypass some farms below in a way that left little sign of their passage.

Their path lay almost directly northeast of New Seran, skirting the mountains to their right, staying to the foothills – which meant some ups and downs, but this was still good farmland. All of the Basin was, even here at the edges, where things were dryer than in the center.

“I thought that after stopping last night–” Marasi said. “Dear. You mean to go straight there?”

“‘Straight’ is an odd term,” Waxillium said, “considering how much MeLaan has us weaving to avoid getting caught. But yes. Shouldn’t be more than another four hours or so.”

A train could have had them there in a fraction of that time, delivered in comfort. Maybe the outer cities did have reason to gripe about the way things were set up.

“Waxillium?” Marasi said as he shifted again.

“Mmm?”

“Do you think they’re real? The Bands of Mourning?”

He tipped back his hat all the way. “Did I ever tell you why I went to the Roughs?”

“As a youth?” Marasi said. “It was because you hated the politics, the expectations. Polite society that was anything but polite.”

“That’s why I left Elendel,” Waxillium said. “But why the Roughs? I could have gone to one of the outer cities, could have found a plantation somewhere to read books and live a quiet life.”

“Well…” Marasi frowned. “I guess I thought you always wanted to be a lawman.”

Waxillium smiled. “I wish I’d spotted it that easily. Should have. I spent my childhood tattling on other children for every little thing they did.”

“Then what?”

He settled back, closing his eyes. “I was chasing a legend, Marasi. Tales of the Survivor’s gold, riches to be had, stories to be made.”

“You?” Marasi started. “You were a gentleman adventurer?”

Waxillium winced visibly at the term. “You make me sound like that fool in the broadsheets. I tell you, Marasi, those first months were hard. Every other town was full of the unemployed from the mines shutting down, and I couldn’t enter a saloon without finding some fool baby-face like myself, up from the Basin with a head full of glory and treasure.”

“So you started hunting bounties,” she said. “You told me this part. Something about boots.”

“Eventually, yes,” Waxillium said, smiling. “Struggled for a long time up there before turning to bounties. At first, though, I had my eyes full of riches and gold. Took time to shake that out of me, but even then, becoming a lawman was about the cash. Started hunting men for money. And, well, there’d always been this streak in me that didn’t like seeing people get pushed around. Ended up in Weathering. Just another forgotten, dried-out city in the Roughs with nobody to care about it. It was six years before someone gave me credentials and made it official.”

The stagecoach cabin swayed on its straps. Up above, Marasi could hear Wayne and MeLaan chatting. So long as they weren’t making out again while trying to drive.

“When VenDell told us about this, I didn’t want the Bands to be real,” Waxillium said, looking out the window. “I hated the thought of some foolish dream pulling me away again, after I’d finally found stability in Elendel. I didn’t want that lure of excitement, the reminder of a world I’d come to love out there in the dust.”

“So you think they are real.”

“Here’s the thing,” he said, leaning forward, causing Steris to shift in her sleep. “My uncle hasn’t had time to breed his Allomancers, as I suspect he’s been doing. The plans he and the Set have concocted, they’re long-term investments. But he promised something to Kelesina, and he really sounded like he thinks he can deliver. You have the device?”

Marasi pulled the small metal cube from her purse. Waxillium fished in his pocket and brought out his coin, the one some beggar had apparently given him. He held up the two next to each other, sunlight through the window gleaming off the cube and highlighting the otherworldly symbols on its sides.

“Something strange is going on, Marasi,” Waxillium said. “Something important enough to draw my uncle’s attention. I don’t have the answers. I need to find them.”

She found herself smiling at the intensity in his eyes. “It’s not the treasure hunter that made you decide to go to Dulsing. It’s the detective.”

He smiled. “You were listening to what MeLaan said to me last night?”

Marasi nodded.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” Waxillium said. He flipped the coin, caught it, then tossed the cube back to her. “Going to Aradel would have been the mature, prudent move, but I have to find the answers. And who knows? Maybe the Bands are real. If so, then getting them away from Suit is at least as important as informing the governor of what happened in New Seran.”

“You think your uncle is trying to make Allomancers with technology, rather than by birth.”

“A frightening power in the hands of a man like my uncle,” Waxillium said, leaning back into his seat. “Get some sleep. We’re probably going to infiltrate this building project in Dulsing during the night.”

He settled with his hat over his eyes again. Marasi felt she should do as he said, and so tried to doze off. Unfortunately, there were too many thoughts in her head for sleep.

After some time, she gave up and returned to her letter. In it, she explained what they’d done and discovered. She needed to send this soon. Perhaps she could find a telegraph station when they changed horses, and send the letter in time for it to make a difference.

Once done with the letter, she moved to her notes about the missing kandra spike. Kelesina, acting on behalf of the Set, had tried to kill ReLuur, and had assumed success. When Suit had demanded proof, she’d ordered the spike dug up and sent to him in Dulsing. But where would it be kept there? Someplace secure, presumably. How in the world was she going to find it?

She held up the little cube. Suit had asked after this. Could she use that somehow?

Marasi frowned, turning the cube. The sides had little grooves between them. She looked closer, and in the sunlight spotted something she hadn’t seen before. A tiny little knob hidden in one groove. It looked like … well, a switch. Nestled in, where it couldn’t be flipped accidentally.

She used a hairpin to reach in and flip the switch. It moved just as she’d expect it to.

A switch. It seemed so … mundane. This was either a mystical relic or some kind of secret technology. You didn’t use a switch on things like that; you held them up to starlight, or spoke the special command phrases, or did a dance on the last day of the month while eating a kumquat.

The switch didn’t seem to have done anything. So, Marasi swallowed and burned a pinch of cadmium.

The cube began to vibrate in her fingers.

Then the entire coach lurched, rocking as if it had been struck by something very hard. Marasi hit her head on the roof, then was slammed back down onto her seat.

The horses screamed, but MeLaan somehow kept them under control. Within moments, the coach had pulled to a stop.

“What the hell was that?” Waxillium said, hauling himself up off the floor, where he had ended up in a jumble with Steris.

Marasi groaned, sitting up and holding her head. “I did something stupid.”

“How stupid?” Waxillium asked.

“I was testing the device,” Marasi said, “and used Allomancy.”

Wayne’s head appeared at the door a moment later, hanging down from above. “Was that a speed bubble?”

“Yes,” Marasi said.

“That jolt damn near killed the horses,” Wayne said.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Waxillium helped Steris sit up. “What … what went wrong?” she asked, befuddled.

“Marasi used a speed bubble while we were moving,” Waxillium said. “We hit the threshold and towed her out of it, popping the thing and lurching us from one time frame to the next.”

“But, she used it on the train,” Steris said.

“Speed bubbles move with you if you’re on something massive enough,” Waxillium said. “Otherwise, the spinning of the planet would pop you out of every one you made. The train was heavy and fast. The stagecoach is small and just slow enough. So–”

“So I should have known better,” Marasi said, blushing. “I haven’t done that since I was a kid. But Waxillium, it buzzed.”

“What?”

“The cube, it–” Marasi started, realizing she’d dropped the cube in the confusion. She searched around frantically before finally locating it near his foot. She held it up triumphantly. “It had a switch.”

“A switch?”

She turned it to the side, showing them the little switch. “You have to slip something small in to move it,” she said. “But it works now.”

He looked at it, baffled, then showed it to Steris, who squinted. “What kind of eldritch device,” Steris said, “has an on switch?”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Waxillium said. “You don’t want your eldritch devices turning on accidentally.”

“Might end up almost killing your stagecoach drivers,” Wayne grumbled.

“It didn’t stop your Allomancy?” Waxillium asked Marasi, rubbing his chin.

She shook her head. She could still sense her metal reserves. “It didn’t seem to do anything.”

“Huh.” Waxillium held it up. “Could be dangerous.”

“So we’re testing it, then?” Wayne asked, hanging into the window.

“Of course we are,” Waxillium said. “But away from the coach.”

Wax held the vibrating cube in his hand. It did respond to his metal burning, but didn’t seem to do anything else.

They’d stopped near a stand of towering walnut trees, and Wayne was filling his pockets while Marasi watched Wax experiment from a safe distance. MeLaan watered the horses at a stream down the way. Nearby, a field of carrots grew with green sprouts, completely uncultivated. The air smelled fresh, of life untouched.

He held up the buzzing cube and let his metals die off. The cube stopped vibrating. He burned them again, and it responded – starting slowly, but picking up after about a second or two. But what did it do? Why didn’t it blank his Allomancy as it had on the train?

Maybe it doesn’t work on the person activating it, he thought. That would make some kind of sense, though he couldn’t fathom how it could tell. “Hey, Wayne,” he said.

“Yeah, mate?”

“Catch.”

Wax tossed the cube to him. Wayne caught it, then jumped as his belt – which held his metal vials and any coins on his person – ripped free from its breakaway straps and sprang away from him. He turned, watching it flop to the ground a good twenty feet down the hill, and when he approached it, it scooted away.

Wax ran toward him, and as he did, the shotgun in his leg holster pressed backward, as if being Pushed. The effect wore off a few seconds later, and by the time he reached Wayne, the cube had stopped buzzing.

Wayne held it up. “What was that?”

Wax plucked the device from his fingers as Marasi rushed over to join them. “It doesn’t steal Allomancy, Wayne. It never did.”

“But–”

“It takes the metal one is burning,” Wax said, “and somehow … extends it. You saw. It Pushed your metal away, as if a Coinshot were there near you. The cube used Allomancy.”

The three of them stood stunned, looking at the little device.

“We need to try it again,” Wax said. “Wayne, hold this and burn your bendalloy. Marasi, go stand over there. Wayne, once you’re ready, throw the cube to her.”

They did as directed. Wax stood back. When Wayne ignited his metals, he suddenly became a blur inside his speed bubble. The cube zipped out an eyeblink later and soared through the air toward Marasi, deflected somewhat but still moving in the right direction.

It engaged just before reaching her, and she became a blur, zipping over to pick up the cube, then zipping back. It took a count of ten before the cube stopped working, dropping her into ordinary time.

“Did you see that?” Marasi said, awed, holding the cube. “It created a speed bubble for me. It fed off Wayne’s Allomancy, and replicated it!”

“It’s what we’ve been lookin’ for, then?” Wayne asked, joining them, having dropped his own bubble.

“Not quite,” Wax replied, taking the cube and holding it up. “But it’s certainly encouraging. It looks like you have to be an Allomancer to use this – it doesn’t grant new powers, but it does extend the ones you have. It’s like … like an Allomantic grenade.”

Marasi nodded eagerly. “Which means that the man on the train, the one who used this on us, is a Leecher. He can remove Allomancy in others, and he gave that power to the cube, which he threw at you.”

“It engages a second or so after you throw it,” Wax said with a nod. “Useful.”

“And it’s proof that Suit has technology he’s been hiding,” Marasi said.

“We knew that from the communication device,” Wax said, “but yes, this is even more curious. I’m half tempted to think all this talk of the Bands of Mourning came from rumors about this technology the Set has been developing.”

“And the symbols?”

“No idea,” Wax said. “Some kind of cipher they developed?” He tapped the cube, then handed the thing to Marasi.

“Why me?” she asked.

“It’s yours. You found it; you figured out how to turn it on. Besides, I have a feeling it’s going to be the most effective in your hands.”

She held it a moment, then her eyes widened. Being a Pulser wasn’t very useful when you were catching yourself in a bubble where you moved slowly compared to everyone else. However, if you could trap someone else in that bubble …

Wayne whistled softly.

“I’ll try not to lose it,” Marasi said, tucking the device away. “We’ll need to study it later, find out how it works.”

I wonder … Wax thought, remembering something else. He played his hunch, reaching into his pocket and fishing out the golden bracelet that Kelesina had been wearing.

He tossed it to Wayne.

“What’s this?” Wayne asked, holding it up toward the sky. “Pretty hoop o’ gold, that is. Who’d you trade this off of? I could use this, mate. It would make a nice metalmind.”

“I think it’s already one,” Wax said, deflating. It had been a silly idea in the first place.

Wayne gasped.

“What?” Marasi said.

“It’s a metalmind,” Wayne said. “Damn me, but it is. And I can sense it. Wax, you got your knife?”

Wax nodded, yanking his knife from his gunbelt, and when Wayne proffered his hand, he sliced a small cut along the back. It resealed immediately.

“Maaaate,” Wayne whispered. “It’s someone else’s metalmind, but I can use it.”

“Like VenDell said,” Wax said, taking the bracelet from Wayne’s fingers. “A metalmind with no Identity. Rusts. I have to flare my metal to even get the faintest line pointing to it. This thing must be stuffed full of power.”

More than any metalmind he’d ever sensed, in fact. He could usually push on those without too much trouble. He’d barely be able to shift this one.

“Why didn’t I notice what it was immediately?” Wayne said. “I had to be told. And, oh, rusts! This is proof of the Bands of Mourning, ain’t it?”

“No,” Wax said. “I can’t sense a reserve in the bracelet – I can’t use this, as I’m not a Bloodmaker. It’s not a metalmind anybody can use, just one that anyone with the right powers already can use.”

“That’s still remarkable,” Marasi said.

“And disturbing,” Wax said, staring at that innocent-looking loop. The only way to have created this would involve using a Feruchemist with two powers. So either the Set had access to full-blooded Feruchemists, or his fears were coming true. They’d figured out how to use Hemalurgy.

Or it’s a relic, he thought. There’s that possibility. Perhaps this and the box were artifacts of another time.

He tossed the bracelet back to Wayne. “How much is in it?”

“A heap,” Wayne said. “But it’s not endless. The reservoir got smaller when I healed that cut.”

“Hang on to it, then,” Wax said, turning as he heard his name. MeLaan was at the edge of the glade, waving. Wax left Wayne and Marasi, striding over to the tall, slender kandra woman, still worried about what these discoveries meant. What did the bracelet indicate? Was there more to be discovered? Metalminds that granted anyone who touched them incredible powers? For the first time, he really started to wonder. What if the Bands were real? What would happen to society if Metalborn powers were simply something you could purchase?

He trudged up to MeLaan. “I think you’ll want to see this,” she said, waving for him to follow her up the side of a steep hill covered in foliage. At the top, they had a view of the land to the northeast. Some was cultivated in rows and rings, but much was like what they’d just left – wilderness blooming with random patches of fruits or vegetables. A cool breeze blew across him, barely enough to temper the heat of the sunlight above.

Seeing it all, feeling that perfect breeze, made Wax realize what annoyed him so much about the problems between Elendel and the outer cities. Did these people comprehend what life was like out in the Roughs, where planting was fraught with uncertainty, and the danger of starvation was real?

They think people are foolish for living in the Roughs, Wax thought, taking the old-fashioned spyglass that MeLaan handed him. They don’t understand what it’s like to get trapped out there for generations, too poor – or too stubborn – to return to the Basin.

Freedom in the Roughs came at a cost. Either way, the Basin was – literally – paradise, crafted for men by a God who wanted to compensate the world for a millennium of ashes and ruin. It seemed that even in paradise, men would find reasons to squabble and fight.

Wax raised the spyglass. “What am I looking for?”

“Check the road about a mile up,” MeLaan said. “By that creek with the bridge over it.”

He spotted a couple of men lounging in a field with axes. From the looks of it, they’d been cutting at the trunk of a dead tree. Another fallen tree crossed the roadway.

“What do you see?” MeLaan asked.

“A roadblock that doesn’t want to look like one,” Wax said. “That tree across the road is arranged to seem as if it just fell there, but the furrows on the ground indicate it was dragged there intentionally, and has been moved a time or two since being placed.”

“Good eye,” MeLaan said.

“You can’t have it,” he said, turning the spyglass and looking toward the farmsteads in the area. “Soldiers stationed in that farmhouse over there, I’d guess. And none of the other homes have smoke rising from them. Probably abandoned. You’re unlikely to find a farmstead this time of day without dinner in the oven.”

“They’re waiting for us?”

“No, this is too extensive for that,” Wax said. “This is a perimeter. They’re trying not to have it look like one, to prevent word from spreading, but they’ve cordoned off this entire area. What the hell is happening in there?”

MeLaan shook her head, looking baffled.

“Well, we can’t take the coach any farther,” Wax said, handing back the spyglass. “How are you at bareback?”

“Well, I haven’t thrown any riders off recently, but I don’t get occasion to be a horse very often, so I can’t say how I’ll feel today.”

Wax blinked.

“Oh, you meant riding,” MeLaan said. “Yeah, I’m fine. I doubt I’m the one you’ll have to worry about.” She nodded back toward Steris walking into the grove, trailed by Wayne, who had filled his hat with walnuts.

“Right,” Wax said.

Hopefully some of their horses would prove docile.

Twilight settled upon the land fitfully, like a tired eye struggling to stay open. It was the variety of the land down here in the south, Wax figured. One moment you could be riding through a wooded hollow, all in shadow, and the next you’d crest a hill into an open field and find that the sun hadn’t quite dropped below the horizon yet.

Still, darkness did eventually arrive, but with it came no mists. Wax realized he’d been longing to feel them envelop him again.

MeLaan led the sortie, keeping to forested areas when possible. She or Wayne would scout ahead, listening for patrols, but the Set was attempting to hold such a large area that they obviously couldn’t watch the whole wilderness. Marasi, of course, was an accomplished rider – and seemed pleased to have a reason to change into her new constable’s trousers and jacket.

Steris surprised him. She did just fine, even riding in a skirt. She’d packed one full enough that she could tuck it beneath her and ride bareback without exposing too much. She took to it without complaint, as she’d done with practically everything else on this trip.

The few farmsteads or hunter’s camps they passed on their ride were empty. Wax felt a mounting disquiet. Yes, this was a small, largely unpopulated region in the Basin’s backwaters – but it was still profoundly disturbing that the Set could dominate it so fully.

Once they reached the final patch of trees near the village, MeLaan scouted ahead, then came back and waved for him to follow. He crawled up with her to peer at the village from the tree line.

Bright electric floodlights lit the perimeter around an enormous structure in what obviously had once been the center of the village of Dulsing. Wooden, windowless, huge, it was still under construction, judging by the scaffolding at the sides and the unfinished roof at the top. The town’s buildings had mostly been torn down, leaving only a few at the perimeter untouched.

The roofless top of the building glowed with a warm light. Where were they getting so much electricity? MeLaan handed him the spyglass and he raised it, inspecting the perimeter. Those were definitely soldiers, wearing red uniforms with some mark on the breast that wasn’t distinguishable at this distance. They carried rifles at their shoulders, and the floodlights created a bright ring around the place. Focused outward, not toward the building, which left plenty of shadowed areas inside that ring. So they’d have cover once they got past the perimeter.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Is that some kind of bunker?”

“Doesn’t look like any fort I’ve seen,” MeLaan whispered. “With those flimsy walls? Looks more like a big warehouse.”

A warehouse as large as a small town. Wax shook his head in bafflement, then spotted something near the far side of the village. A waterfall? It was outside the lights, but he thought he could see mist rising from where it plunged down, and a small stream did run through the village.

“High ground that direction,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “The maps mention the waterfall over there. Small but pretty, supposedly.”

“Must have hooked a turbine up to it,” he said. “That’s where the power is coming from. Let’s get back to the others.”

They crawled through the underbrush again to where Wayne, Marasi, and Steris waited in the dim woods. “They’re here all right,” Wax whispered. “We have to find a way to get in. Tons of soldiers. Well-guarded perimeter.”

“Fly in,” Steris suggested.

“Not gonna work,” Wayne said. “They had a Seeker back at the party; you think they won’t have one here? The moment one of us burns a metal, we’ll draw a hundred of Suit’s goons to welcome us with a handshake and a friendly bit of murderin’.”

“What then?” Marasi asked.

“I need to see,” Wayne said.

“There’s a better vantage on the other side, we think,” Wax said. He pointed, and MeLaan led the way in the darkness, walking her horse between the towering hardwoods. Wax fell in with Steris at the tail of the group, and lagged a little to be able to speak with her privately.

“Steris,” he whispered, “I’ve been considering how to proceed once we decide how to infiltrate. I’ve thought about bringing you in with us, and I just don’t see that it’s feasible. I think it would be best if you stayed and watched the horses.”

“Very well.”

“No, really. Those are armed soldiers. I can’t even fathom how I’d feel if I brought you in there and something happened. You need to stay out here.”

“Very well.”

“It isn’t subject to–” Wax hesitated. “Wait. You’re all right with this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked. “I barely have any sense of where to point a gun, and have hardly any capacity for sneaking – that’s really quite a scandalous talent if you think about it, Lord Waxillium. While I do believe that people tend to be safest when near you, riding into an enemy compound is stretching the issue. I’ll stay here.”

Wax grinned in the darkness. “Steris, you’re a gem.”

“What? Because I have a moderately healthy sense of self-preservation?”

“Let’s just say that out in the Roughs, I was accustomed to people always wanting to try things beyond their capacity. And they always seemed determined to do it right when it was the most dangerous.”

“Well, I shall endeavor to stay out of sight,” Steris said, “and not get captured.”

“I doubt you need to worry about that all the way out here.”

“Oh, I agree,” she said. “But that is the sort of statistical anomaly that plagues my life, so I’ll plan for it nonetheless.”

With some difficulty, they navigated to the eastern edge of the town, where they left Steris and the horses. Wax dug some supplies off the pack animal. Metal vials, extra bullets, plenty of guns – including the aluminum one he’d stolen back at Kelesina’s place. And the last of Ranette’s ball-and-string devices, which he tucked into the pouch on his gunbelt.

After climbing up some switchbacks, they were able to settle onto a darkened ridge above the falls – which were nowhere near as impressive as he’d imagined – and study the town. Well, the remnants of it.

“I wish we could see into that building,” Marasi said, handing back the spyglass.

Wax grunted in agreement. They were almost high enough to see what was going on inside. Certainly, those flickering lights bespoke considerable activity: people moving down below, passing before the lights in the large chamber. But what were they doing, and why were they still at it well into the night?

“Gonna be hard to sneak in there,” Wayne said.

“You could kill one of the guards for me,” MeLaan said, settling onto a rock. “I’d eat him, take his shape, and slip us in that way.”

Wax blinked, then glanced at Marasi, who seemed sick.

“Really,” MeLaan said, “you all need to stop staring at me like that when I offer pragmatic suggestions.”

“It’s not pragmatic,” Marasi said. “It’s cannibalism.”

“Technically it’s not, as we’re different species. Honestly, if you look at our physiology, I share less in common with humans than you do with a cow – and nobody gasps when you eat one of those. You didn’t have trouble with it back in the mansion with Innate’s bodyguard.”

“She was already dead,” Wax said. “Thank you for the suggestion, MeLaan, but getting you a guard’s body is out of the question.”

“We don’t like killin’ folks,” Wayne said. “At least, unless they start shootin’ at us. They’re just chaps what are doing their job.” He looked to Marasi, as if for support.

“Don’t look at me,” Marasi said. “I’m reeling from watching you trying to take the moral high ground.”

“Focus, Wayne,” Wax said. “How are we going to get in? Shall we try a Fat Belt?”

“Nah,” Wayne said, “too loud. I think we should do Spoiled Tomato.”

“Dangerous,” Wax said, shaking his head. “I’d have to do the placement just right, between the lit perimeter and the shadowed part near the walls.”

“You can do it. You make shots like that all the time. Plus, we got this shiny new metalmind, full o’ health waitin’ to be slurped up.”

“A mistake could ruin the whole infiltration, healing power or no,” Wax said. “I think we should do Duck Under Clouds instead.”

“You kiddin’?” Wayne said. “Didn’t you get shot last time we tried that?”

“Kinda,” Wax admitted.

MeLaan stared at them, baffled. “Duck under Clouds?”

“They get like this,” Marasi said, patting her on the shoulder. “Best not to listen too closely.”

“Tube Run,” Wayne said.

“No glue.”

“Banefielder?”

“Too dark.”

“Blackwatch Doublestomp.”

Wax hesitated. “… The hell is that?”

“Just made it up,” Wayne said, grinning. “It’s a nifty code name though, eh?”

“Not bad,” Wax admitted. “And what type of plan is it?”

“Same as Spoiled Tomato,” Wayne said.

“I said that was too dangerous.”

“Nothin’ else will work,” Wayne said, standing. “Look, are we going to sit here arguing, or are we going to do this?”

Wax debated for a moment, eyeing the grounds, thinking. Could he get the placement right?

But then, did he have a better plan? That perimeter was very well guarded, but it was a dark night. If his life in the Roughs had taught him one thing, it was to trust his instincts. Unfortunately, at that moment they agreed with Wayne.

So, before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled his shotgun from its holster and tossed it to Wayne. The shorter man caught it with distaste – guns and Wayne didn’t agree. His arms immediately started shaking.

“Try to hold on tight,” Wax said. “Make an opening on the north side, if you can.”

He increased his weight, flared his metal, and Pushed on the gun, using it as an anchor to hurl Wayne out off the rocky outcropping and over the camp. The man soared from the Push before dropping through the darkness, some fifty feet toward the ground below.

Marasi gasped. “Spoiled Tomato?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Wax said. “Apparently it makes a mess sometimes when he lands.”

To rust with that Wax, Wayne thought as he plummeted toward the ground, his hat blowing off. Tossin’ a gun to a fellow without even warnin’ him. Why, that’s just–

He hit.

Now, there was a trick to falling to your death. Bodies hitting the ground were loud. Louder than anyone ever expected.

He mitigated this by hitting feet-first – his legs both snapped immediately – then twisted onto his side, breaking his shoulder, but dampening some of the sound by rolling with the impact. He tapped his fancy new metalmind right before his head smacked the ground, dazing him.

He ended up in a crumpled, broken heap beside a pile of rocks. Of course Wax would have sent him into a pile of rocks. As his vision cleared, he tried to glance at his legs, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything, actually, which was quite pleasant. It was always nice when you snapped the spine – helped with the pain.

Not that the pain went completely away, mind you. But he and pain were old friends what shared a handshake and a beer now and then. Didn’t much like one another, but they had a working relationship. Sensation – and agony – flooded back into him as his metalmind healed his spine, focusing on the worst wounds first. He drew in a deep breath. A snapped spine could suffocate a man. People didn’t know that. Or, well, the ones who did know had suffocated already.

As soon as he could move – even while his legs were healing – he twisted and used his good arm to position one of the large rocks in the pile. Looked like these stones were here intended for shoring up the sides of the stream, perhaps to make a pathway across. Wayne put them to good use, reaching up with his other hand as his shoulder healed. Wax had placed him well, right in the dark area between the perimeter watchposts and the building. But that didn’t mean he was safe.

Wayne stumbled to his feet, dragging Wax’s gun, his leg twisting about and bones reknitting. Damn fine metalmind, that gold bracelet was. An extensive healing like this would have cost him months of saving up, but this metalmind was still mostly full.

He stumbled away as quietly as he could, leaving a large rock balanced on the others as he sought a place deeper in the shadows, then hid the gun near the building so his damn hand would stop shaking.

He got away none too soon. A pair of soldiers were approaching from the perimeter.

“It was over here,” one said to the other. As they drew closer, one of the spotlights turned around and shone on the area, giving them light and quite nearly exposing Wayne. He froze in the shadows near a pile of work equipment, sweating as his toes popped softly, the bones grinding against one another as they knit back into their proper places.

The guards didn’t hear. They stepped up to where he’d fallen – no tomato splat of blood this time, fortunately – and looked around. One nudged the stone accidentally, and it fell off the peak where Wayne had placed it, rolling down the side of the small pile and clattering against the other rocks. The men looked at it, then nodded, doing a quick sweep but heading back to their post and returning the light to its scan of the nearby area. The noise they’d heard had merely been some rocks shifting. Nothing significant.

Wayne stood up straight in the darkness and stopped tapping the bracelet metalmind. He felt good. Renewed, like he always did after a big healing. Felt like he could do something impossible, run up a mountain, or eat the entire boar and chips plate at Findley’s all on his own.

He crept off through the shadows, about important business. Fortunately, he found his hat almost immediately, near another rock pile. That done, he moved on to less important matters, like making an opportunity to help the others sneak in.

Wax had said north side. Let’s see.… He kept close to the building, and even resisted the urge to go sneaking in on his own to find out what in Ruin’s name was in there.

Time to think like a guard. It was hard, as he didn’t have a guard’s hat. He settled into the shadows and listened as a pair of them passed on patrol, digesting their accents like a nice snack of pretzel sticks with mustard.

After about fifteen minutes of watching, he picked out a likely candidate and kept pace as the man did his rounds, though Wayne stayed in the shadow. The lanky fellow had a face like a rabbit, but was tall enough he could probably have picked all the walnuts he wanted without needing a stepladder.

Here I am, Wayne thought, in the middle of nowhere! Guarding a big old barn. This isn’t what I signed up for. I haven’t seen my daughter in eight months. Eight months! She’s probably talking by now. Rusts. This life.

The man turned to go back the other way on his rounds, and someone barked out at him from one of the stations with the floodlights, saying something Wayne couldn’t hear. The tone was unmistakable.

And my superiors, Wayne thought, turning and slinking along in the shadows, still keeping pace with the man. Oh, how they lean on me! Every little thing gets me a talking-to. Shouting. That’s all this life is. Being yelled at day in and day out.

Wayne smiled, then scuttled ahead of the man, looking for something he’d stepped over earlier. A set of black cords, each as thick as his finger, plugged into a big box near the building. As the guard came strolling past, not paying much attention, Wayne carefully lifted the cords.

The guard’s foot caught on them. In that moment, Wayne yanked them from the hub.

The floodlights nearest to him went out.

Men immediately started shouting. The guard panicked in the darkness. “I’m sorry!” he shouted. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t watching my feet!”

Wayne slipped away and found a nice quiet nook between two stacks of sandbags as the guards shouted and argued, and the poor man was chewed out. Some people came in to fix the cords, though Wayne had tossed them to the side, so it took some time searching in the dark to find the ends and get them connected.

The lights came back on. Wayne was taking a long swig from his leather canteen as Wax, Marasi, and MeLaan joined him in the shadows. “Nice,” Wax whispered.

“It wasn’t, actually,” Wayne whispered. “It was pretty mean. That poor guard ain’t done nothin’ wrong, and everybody keeps yellin’ at him.”

Wax took the lead at that point, prowling along the side of the big barnlike building. The roof wasn’t the only thing still unfinished – the entrances were open, not fitted with proper doors. They stopped beside one and Wayne pointed, whispering to Wax where his shotgun was.

Wax fetched it, then snuck through the doorway. They followed, Wayne last of all. The cavernous interior was lit by a few electric lanterns here and there, and they passed a long light lattice that was obviously going to be installed in the ceiling, once the roof was done. It was brighter than outside in here, but not by much, and there were stacks of boxes and supplies arranged in rows, which let them sneak through and stay hidden. Once they got to the front of the rows of boxes, Wax hesitated, and the two women peered around him. Nobody gave Wayne a good view, which was how it always went. First he got yelled at on the job, then this.

He wiggled between them, getting a good elbow into Marasi’s midriff – which earned him a glare, as if she didn’t know that proper crowd-wiggling protocol involved getting friendly with one another’s extremities. He managed to peek between Wax and MeLaan, finally getting a glimpse at what had stopped them.

It was a boat.

Of course, the common word “boat” didn’t do the thing justice. Wayne stared at the massive construction, searching for a better description. One that would capture the majesty, the incredible scale, of the thing he was seeing.

“That’s a damn big boat,” he finally whispered.

Much better.

Why would they be building a ship here, miles and miles from the ocean? The thing couldn’t be easy to move. It filled almost the entire building, with a curved bottom and a prow – unfinished on one side – that was easily three stories high. The thing had two long, armlike extensions at the sides. Pontoons? They were big, and one wasn’t finished yet, ending in a jagged line of construction.

Jagged? Wayne frowned. That didn’t look like the way you built something. In fact, now that he studied it, that prow looked more crumpled than unfinished.

“Someone broke it,” Wayne said, pointing. “They were trying to move it, and cracked off one pontoon.”

“It has to be a warship,” Marasi said. “They are preparing for a war.”

“I think Wayne is right,” Wax said. “Look at the gouges in the dirt, the damage to the hull. They were transporting this thing through here, and it rolled free and cracked. So the Set constructed this building to cut it off from the view of anyone outside while they repair it.”

“Engineers,” Wayne said, pointing at some people who were obviously smart types, walking along the outside of the ship and pointing, carrying clipboards and wearing dark brown suits and skirts. The type teachers at schools would wear, thinking they were the height of fashion.

“It’s not like any ship I’ve seen,” Marasi said, shouldering her purse and clutching her rifle.

“You brought your purse,” Wayne said, “on a darin’ infiltration?”

“Why not?” she said. “Purses are handy. Anyway, if the Set has technology like that speaking telegraph, what will they put on a ship like this? And why did they build it away from the sea in the first place?”

“Suit will have answers,” Wax said, eyes narrowing. “Marasi, I assume you’re still after the spike?”

“Yes,” she said, determined.

“I’m going to find my uncle. Who do you want? Wayne or MeLaan?”

“MeLaan this time,” Marasi said.

Wax nodded. “Stay hidden, but if Wayne and I get spotted, try to help. We’ll do the same for you. If you find that spike, return to this point and lie low. If all goes well, we’ll slip back out together.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?”

“Which it won’t,” Wayne added.

“Meet back where we left Steris and the horses,” Wax said, sliding a gun from the holster at his side. MeLaan did the same, only her holster was her leg. Like, the skin split and she reached in through a slit in her trousers and slipped the gun out – a sleek, long-barreled thing.

Wayne whistled softly. She grinned, then gave him a kiss. “Try not to get shot too many times.”

“You neither,” he said.

They split up.

18

Marasi snuck through the warehouse, her rifle’s strap an uncomfortable weight on her shoulder. She was glad for the trousers – they were quieter than rustling skirts – but she kept worrying that the scientists and workers in the room would notice the sound of her boots on the packed earth.

Probably not. The warehouse was hardly silent. Though it was night, and activity was muted, some people were still working. Along one side of the room, a few carpenters sawed lengths of wood, each stroke echoing back from the walls. The group of engineers made exclamations as they discussed aspects of the large vessel.

They seem surprised by it, Marasi thought. As if they’re not the ones who built it in the first place. Were they new to the project, then?

Guards dotted the warehouse, but there weren’t nearly as many as outside. She and MeLaan kept to the shadowed edge of the chamber, near the piles of boxes and supplies, but still had to pass uncomfortably close to a group of soldiers sitting at a small table playing cards.

The soldiers didn’t notice them. Eventually, MeLaan and Marasi managed to reach the south wall, which was one of the long sides of the rectangular building. Here, rooms had been built into the structure, and they were more finished than the rest, complete with doors and the occasional window.

“Living quarters?” Marasi whispered, pointing.

“Maybe,” MeLaan replied, crouching beside her. “So how are we going to find the spike?”

“I’d assume it’s inside a safe of some sort.”

“Maybe,” MeLaan said. “Or it could be in a desk drawer in one of those rooms, or packed away in a box … or hell, they may have just thrown it away. Suit only seemed to want it because he required proof that poor ReLuur had been dealt with.”

Marasi took a deep breath. “If that’s the case, we’ll have to interrogate Suit once Waxillium finds him. But I don’t think they threw it away. We know the Set is researching ways to make Allomancers, and we know they’re interested in Hemalurgy. They’d study the spike instead of tossing it.”

MeLaan nodded thoughtfully. “But it could still be practically anywhere.”

Not far away, the scientists – led by a man with a limp – walked up a plank ramp, peering into the open side of the boat. It’s him, Marasi thought. The same one from the train robbery. He was showing the newcomers around the project.

They stepped inside.

“I’ve got an idea,” Marasi said.

“How crazy is it?”

“Less crazy than tossing Wayne off a cliff.”

“Not a high bar, but all right. How do we start?”

Marasi pointed at the hole in the hull that the scientists had entered through. “We get in there.”

Wax moved along behind the supply pallets in the direction opposite Marasi’s, feeling as if he were stepping through the shadow of progress. He’d pondered the transformations that Elendel had undergone during his absence: motorcars and electric lights, skyscrapers and concrete roads. It was like he’d left one world and come back to another.

That seemed only the beginning. Enormous warships. Technology that enhanced Allomancy. Bracers that one Feruchemist could fill, and another could use. He couldn’t help but feel intimidated, as if this behemoth ship were a soldier from another time, come to stamp out all the dusty old relics like Wax.

He pulled up beside the last stack of planks in the line, Wayne joining him. The man yanked out his canteen, which was of sturdy, stiff leather, worked to the shape of a small bottle. He took a swig and offered it to Wax, who accepted it and downed a drink.

He coughed softly. “Apple juice?”

“Good for the body,” Wayne said, tucking the canteen away.

“I was not expecting that.”

“Gotta keep the stomach guessin’, mate,” Wayne said. “Or it’ll grow complacent and all. How’re we gonna find your uncle?”

“Perspective?” Wax asked, nodding toward the middle reaches of the warehouse, where a complex network of temporary construction catwalks ringed the inside of the building. They were unpopulated in the night. “We’d have a view of the entire area, but wouldn’t be too noticeable from below.”

“Sounds good,” Wayne said. “You up for it, though? You’re gonna have to climb up like a regular person. No Steelpushes.”

He didn’t have any metal inside of him – too easy to use reflexively. His vials sat unused on his belt.

“I’ll be fine,” Wax said dryly. He waited until nearby guards and workers had passed, then led the way in a low run along the shadows of the building. The lights were aimed on the ship, away from the walls. He had to hope that the few workers walking about weren’t focused on the dark reaches of the large chamber.

Two full-sized catwalks ran the length of the wall up high, and leading toward them were a series of ladders and shorter catwalks as landings, to hold supplies. He grabbed the bottom ladder and climbed up one level, then another. By the third one, his arms were aching. He made himself lighter, which helped, but he still had to stop and catch his breath on the fifth tier. Just as making his body heavier granted him the strength to move his oversized muscles, getting lighter always seemed to cost him some of his strength.

“Gettin’ old,” Wayne said with a grin, passing him and starting up the next ladder.

“Don’t be dense,” Wax said, grabbing the ladder below him and climbing. “I’m trying to pace myself. What if we reach the top and have to fight?”

“You can throw your wooden teeth at ’em,” Wayne said from above. “Do some cane waggin’ as well. I’m sure you’re cross about stayin’ up so late.”

Wax growled softly and climbed up onto the next tier, but in fact he was winded to the point that arguing was taxing. The younger man seemed to realize it, and had a wide grin on his face as they climbed up the final two tiers to the bottom catwalk.

“I should deck you right in your grin,” he grumbled as he joined the still-smiling Wayne on the catwalk. “But you’d just heal.”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “I’d fall over and groan. Considerin’ your age, it’s more important to make you feel you’ve accomplished somethin’ in a day.”

Wax shook his head, turning and stepping to the side along the catwalk. The board under his foot immediately cracked. His leg slipped through, and though he caught himself and yanked the foot out, for the first time in ages he felt a little of what others must feel at being up so high. That ground was far, far below, and he didn’t have any metals in him at the moment.

He growled and stepped around the hole. “That was not my fault. The board was weak.”

“Sure, sure,” Wayne said. “It’s okay, mate. Most folks put on a little weight as they hit their twilight years. ’S natural and all.”

“If I shot you,” Wax said, “nobody would blame me. They’d probably just say, ‘Wow. You lasted that long? I’d have shot him years ago.’ Then they’d buy me a pint.”

“Now, that hurts, it does,” Wayne said. “I–”

“Who are you?”

Wax froze, then both he and Wayne looked upward toward the person leaning out over the railing of the upper catwalk, staring down at them. An engineer, by the looks of it, in a white coat over vest and cravat. He frowned at them, then seemed to recognize Wax, his eyes widening.

“Rust,” Wax swore, raising his hands as Wayne moved immediately, jumping up. Wax gave him a boost, and he kicked off and grabbed the railing of the upper catwalk. The engineer started to cry out, but Wayne snatched the man’s ankle, toppling him with a thump.

Wayne swung up in a heartbeat, and another thump sounded. Wax waited, nervous. Moments passed.

“Wayne?” he hissed. “Are you up there?”

A moment later, the engineer’s unconscious face appeared over the side of the catwalk, eyes closed.

“Of course he’s up here,” Wayne said from up above, imitating the voice of the unfortunate engineer and wiggling the head like a puppet’s. “You just tossed that bloke up here, mate! You’ve forgotten already? Memory loss. You must be gettin’ real old.”

Technically, every person in the world was dying – they were merely doing it very slowly. Irich’s curse was not that he was dying. It was that he could feel it happening.

As he shuffled down the hallways of the enormous wooden ship, he had to keep close watch on the floor, because the slightest dip or cleft could cause him to trip. When he gestured toward the wall where they’d found the burned maps – explaining to the other scientists – his arm felt as if it were strapped with a ten-pound weight.

His left hand barely worked anymore; he could grip his cane, but he couldn’t stop his hand from trembling as he did so – and he practically had to drag his left leg with each step. The shortness of breath had begun. His physician said that one day, he simply wouldn’t have the strength to breathe.

On that day, Irich would suffocate alone, unable to move. And he could feel it coming. Step by excruciating step.

“And what is this, Professor Irich?” Stanoux asked, gesturing toward the ceiling. “Such a fascinating pattern!”

“We aren’t certain,” Irich said, leaning on his cane and looking upward – a task that was surprisingly difficult. Rusts. He hadn’t had trouble tipping his head back before, had he?

Step by step.

“It looks like a ship,” Stansi said, cocking her head.

Indeed, the golden pattern on the corridor ceiling did look something like a small ship. Why paint it here? He suspected it would take years to sort out this vessel’s many secrets. Once, Irich would have been content to spend his entire life picking through these oddities, writing about each and every one.

Today however, his “entire life” seemed far too short a period to be spent on such endeavors. Suit and Sequence wanted their weapons, and they could have them, for Irich desired only one thing.

A miracle.

“Please, continue with me,” Irich said, walking down the corridor with his latest gait. He had to develop a new one every few months, as more of his muscles grew too weak or refused to function. Step, cane, shuffle, breathe. Step, cane, shuffle, breathe.

“What marvelous woodwork!” Stanoux said, adjusting his spectacles. “Aunt, do you recognize what kind of wood this is?”

Stansi stepped up beside him, waving over the guard with the lantern so she could admire the strange hardwood. Irich had shown similar interest in the ship’s details at first, but each day his patience grew more strained.

“Please,” Irich said. “You shall have all the time you wish to study, prod, and theorize. But only after we have solved the primary problem.”

“Which is?” Stansi asked.

Irich gestured toward an arched doorway ahead, guarded by a soldier with another lantern. She saluted as Irich passed. Technically, he was an Array – a rank of some influence within the Set. Suit and his people had a high regard for scientific thought. The power and prestige, however, were meaningless to him. Neither could grant him additional breaths of life.

Past the doorway, he waved for his group of five scientists to gaze upon the grand machinery that filled the hold of the strange vessel. It was like nothing he had ever seen, without gears or wires. It looked more like a hearth, only constructed of a lightweight metal with lines of other metals running away from it along the walls. Like a spiderweb.

“This ship,” Irich said, “is filled with enigmas. You have noticed the odd patterns on the ceilings, but questions like those are barely the beginning. What is the purpose of the room hung with dozens of black hoods, like those worn by an executioner? We have found what appear to be musical instruments, but they seem incapable of making any sounds. The ship has an ingenious system of plumbing, and we have identified facilities for both men and women – but there is a third set of rooms with an indecipherable marking on the doors. For whom were these built? People of the lower class? Families? A third gender? So many questions.

“One question tops them all, and we feel that answering it will provide the very linchpin. It is why I have called for you, the most brilliant minds of the outer cities. If you can answer this, we will gain the technological might to secure our freedom from Elendel oppression once and for all.”

“And what question might that be?” Professor Javie asked.

Irich turned back to them. “Why, how this thing moves of course.”

“You don’t know?”

Irich shook his head. “It defies all scientific knowledge available to us. Some mechanisms were undoubtedly damaged in the crash, but as you can see, the vehicle is mostly intact. We should have been able to ascertain its method of propulsion, but so far it eludes us.”

“What of the navigators?” Stanoux asked. “The crew? Did none survive?”

“They have been uncooperative,” Irich said. And somewhat fragile. “Beyond that, the language barrier has so far proven insurmountable. That is why I invited you, Lord Stanoux, as one of the world’s foremost experts on ancient, anteverdant languages. Perhaps you can decipher the books found on this ship. Lady Stansi, you and Professor Javie will lead our engineers. Imagine the power we would have with a fleet of such ships. We would dominate the Basin!”

The scientists shared looks. “I don’t know that I want any group having access to such power, Professor,” Lady Stansi said.

Ah, right. These were not politicians. He should not employ the same rhetoric he had used when Suit sent him to gather funds from the wealthy. “Yes,” he admitted, “it will be a terrible burden. But surely you can see that this knowledge is better off in our hands, rather than in the hands of those at Elendel? And think of what we will learn, what we could know.”

They took that better, nodding in turn. He would have to speak with Suit – these people must not see themselves as serving a totalitarian army, but a benign freedom movement seeking knowledge and peace. That would be difficult, with all these rusted soldiers marching about and saluting everyone.

He prepared for an explanation of what they knew, intending to divert the scientists with promises of knowledge, when he heard a voice echo down the hallway. “Professor Irich?”

He sighed. What now? “Excuse me,” he said. “Lady Stansi, perhaps you will wish to inspect this fixture, which appears to provide some kind of power to the ship. It does not have electricity, so far as we can discern. I would value your unbiased opinions before I tell you what we have concluded. I must go deal with something.”

They seemed amenable to this – enthusiastic even. He left them and limped down the hallway. Too slow, too slow, he thought, both of his walk and the possibility of progress from the scientists. He couldn’t wait upon research, experimentation. He needed answers now. He had thought that on the train, they might find …

But no, of course not. An idle hope. He should never have left this project. Back in the hallway, he found no sign of the person who had called to him. Frustrated, he made it all the way back to the doorway before turning and searching down one of the side hallways. They should know better than to call for him! Could they not see the difficulty he had in traversing even a short distance?

He started back up the hallway, but hesitated as he noticed a small storage compartment that had popped open on the wall. There were hundreds of these scattered throughout the ship, containing ropes or weapons or other items. But this one had dropped something to the floor. A small, silvery cube.

His heart leaped in excitement. Another of the devices? Such luck! He had thought all these compartments searched by now. He struggled to pick it up, going down on his good knee and fishing for it, then lurched back to his feet.

A plan was already forming. He would tell Suit that it had been recovered by one of his spies in New Seran. His punishments would be lifted, and perhaps he would be allowed to move to the second site, perhaps join the expedition.

Excited, he sent a soldier to watch the scientists, then hobbled out of the ship, glad that something was finally going right for him.

Marasi cracked a closet door within the strange ship, then looked after the man called Irich, who limped through the gaping hole in the wall. MeLaan slipped out of a closet across the hallway from her and held up a warding hand to Marasi, then snuck to the opening to watch where Irich went.

Marasi waited, anxious. Though her duties as a constable usually related more to analysis and investigation, she’d gone on her share of raids in Elendel. She’d thought herself hardened, but Harmony, this mission was starting to rub her nerves raw. Too little sleep, and so much sneaking about, hiding, knowing that at any moment someone could turn a corner and find you there, looking guilty as sin.

MeLaan finally waved her forward, and she scrambled out of the closet and knelt beside the kandra at the entrance.

“He went into that room,” MeLaan said, pointing at a door along the wall. “Now what?”

“We wait just a bit longer,” Marasi said. “And see if he comes back out.”

Wax prowled along the wooden planks of the interior scaffolding. MeLaan’s spyglass let him get a good look at the ground floor, though he’d have much preferred binoculars. He scanned the whole area, noticing with interest as Marasi and MeLaan entered the ship.

That ship … something about it bothered him. He hadn’t been on many boats, but the decks atop the enormous thing seemed off to him. Where were the masts? He’d assumed them torn down, but from above, he could see no broken stumps. So, was this ship propelled through the water by a steam engine, perhaps? Gasoline?

After rounding the entire building on the catwalk, he saw no sign of his uncle.

“Still nothing?” Wayne asked as he lowered the spyglass a last time.

Wax shook his head. “There are some rooms built into the north side of the structure. He could be in there. He might also be inside the ship.”

“So what do we try next?”

Wax tapped the end of the spyglass against his palm. He’d been struggling with the same question. How did he find his prey without alerting the guards camped outside?

Wayne nudged him. Down below, the limping man came back out of the boat. Wax focused the spyglass on him, watching as he crossed to one of the nearby rooms.

“Did he look anxious about somethin’ to you?” Wayne asked.

“Yeah,” Wax said, lowering the spyglass. “What did those two women do in there?”

“Maybe they–”

“I don’t want to hear your guess,” Wax said. “Really.”

“Fair enough.”

“Come on,” Wax said, leading the way back around the shadowed catwalks toward the ladders.

“You have an idea?” Wayne asked.

“More of an impression,” Wax said. “Suit doesn’t like talking to minions. Everyone we’ve interviewed indicates the same thing – he chooses underlings with some power and repute and lets them handle things. Miles, the Marksman. My uncle loathes being bothered.”

“So…”

“That man with the limp,” Wax said, “probably has a similar role here. He’s an Allomancer, and I heard him referenced in Lady Kelesina’s mansion; he’s an important underling, though perhaps not in favor right now. Either way, he likely reports directly to my uncle.”

“So follow him long enough…” Wayne said.

“… and we should find Suit.”

“Sounds good,” Wayne said. “Unless he reports every afternoon at tea, which would have us waitin’ a long time.”

Wax paused by the ladder, noticing with surprise that the man with the limp had already left the rooms. Wax’s view was partially obscured by the massive ship, but he did catch sight of the man hobbling around the front of the vessel, again walking with a determined air.

Wax held up a hand to Wayne, then crouched down with the spyglass. The limping man crossed the warehouse to a solitary room, much like a guard chamber, built into the southwest corner. A soldier here stepped aside, letting the limping man enter. As the door swung open, Wax got a good glimpse of the room beyond.

His sister was inside.

He almost dropped the spyglass. The door swung shut, so he couldn’t get a second glimpse, but he had seen her. Sitting at a small table, loomed over by the large Coinshot brute Wax had fought on the train.

“Wax?” Wayne asked.

“It’s Telsin,” Wax whispered. “She’s being held inside that room.” He found himself rising and reaching for one of his metal vials.

“Whoa, whoa, mate,” Wayne said, grabbing his arm. “I’m all for charging in recklessly and whatnot, but don’t you think it would be best to talk this through? You know, before we get all ‘Let’s shoot this place up.’”

“She’s here, Wayne,” he said. “This is why I came.” He felt cold. “She’ll know things about our uncle. She’s the key. I’m going in after her.”

“All right, all right,” Wayne said. “But Wax, doesn’t it strike you as worryish that I’m havin’ to be the voice of reason here?”

Wax looked down at his friend. “It probably should.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. Look, I’ve got an idea.”

“How bad an idea is it?”

“Compared to burnin’ Allomancy, going in shooting, and inevitably drawing the attention of all those guards, not to mention the Set’s kill squads? I’d say compared to that, it’s a pretty damn good idea.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, see,” Wayne said, sticking his gum to one of the catwalk’s support beams, “we’ve got this very nice engineer’s outfit over there on the unconscious fellow, and ever since that party half a year back, I been workin’ on my smart-person talk.…”

19

Marasi waited inside the ship, forcing herself – with effort – to remain calm. How did Waxillium do it? He and Wayne could be so relaxed, it seemed like they could take a nap in the middle of a firefight.

Well, she stood her ground – or rather, knelt it – and was rewarded. Through the hole in the ship’s hull, she watched the wall of the warehouse where the rooms were. Irich soon hobbled out of one, then shuffled off and called toward some guards.

“What was that he said?” Marasi asked.

“He told them to ‘Send to Mister Suit,’” MeLaan said. “You think he really stashed that device in the same place as they’re keeping the spike?”

“That’s the hope,” Marasi said.

“Shall we?”

Marasi nodded, then prepared herself for another nerve-racking experience. MeLaan led, strolling down the planks and out into the open. Marasi followed, keeping her head high as MeLaan had told her. Look like you belong, the kandra had said. The first rule of impersonation is to belong.

She felt completely exposed, as if she were dancing naked in the middle of Elendel’s Hub. They reached the bottom of the gangway, walking with excruciating slowness, and crossed the floor of the warehouse to the door. Was Marasi walking too stiffly? She couldn’t check over her shoulder – MeLaan had warned her about that. But surely a quick glance wouldn’t hurt anything.…

Stay firm. MeLaan tried the door, and blessedly it opened. The two of them stepped through into an empty hallway, and Marasi shut the door. No shouts of alarm followed. She was positive one of the carpenters had glanced at them, but nobody had said a word.

“Nice work,” MeLaan said.

“I feel like I’m going to puke.”

“Must run in the family,” MeLaan said, leading her along the hallway. It had bare wooden walls and smelled of sawdust, and a solitary electric light hung from the ceiling. Melaan stopped at the simple door at the end, listened carefully, then tried the knob. This one was locked.

“You can open it?” Marasi said. “Like you did before?”

“Sure,” MeLaan said, kneeling by the doorknob. “No problem. I’ll try something more mundane first.” She cocked her hand, and a set of picks sprouted from the skin of her forearm. She plucked them free and started working on the door.

“Handy,” Marasi said.

“Pun intended?”

“That depends,” she said, checking over her shoulder. The hallway was still empty. Fool girl. “How many times have you heard that joke?”

MeLaan smiled, focused on her lockpicking. “I’ve been alive pushing seven hundred years now, kid. You’ll have trouble finding jokes I haven’t heard.”

“You know, I should really interview you sometime.”

MeLaan cocked an eyebrow in her direction.

“You kandra have a unique perspective on society,” Marasi explained softly. “You’ve seen trends, movements across large scales.”

“I suppose,” MeLaan said, twisting her lockpick. “What good does it do?”

“Statistics show that if we make subtle changes to our environment – the way we approach our legal system, or employment rates, maybe even our city layout – we can positively influence the people living in that environment. Your head may hold the key to what those changes should be! You’ve seen society evolve, move; you’ve watched the shifting of peoples like the tides on a beach.”

“My thigh,” MeLaan said, twisting the doorknob with a click, then pushing the door open a crack. She nodded, standing up straight.

“Your … what?” Marasi asked.

“You said my head might hold the key,” MeLaan said, striding into the chamber beyond – a small, surprisingly well-furnished room. “It’s actually my thigh, right now. A kandra stores its cognitive system through its entire body, but my memories right now are in a solid metal compartment in my thigh. Safer that way. People aim for the head.”

“So what’s in your head?”

“Eyes, sensory apparatus,” MeLaan said. “And an emergency canteen.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” MeLaan said, hands on hips, scanning the room. Another door on the left led farther into the system of rooms built along the side of the warehouse, but there were no windows out to the main chamber, which was good.

Though the room smelled of new sawdust, like the rest of the building, here that was mixed with a scent of wood polish and a faint odor of cigar smoke. Light from a small electric desk lamp revealed a tidy study, with rows of books in a bookcase, two plush chairs with a maroon and yellow pattern in front of the desk, and several decorative plants that probably had to be rotated outside each day to keep from wilting.

Marasi trailed through the room, noting its oddities. Every room had them – marks of individuality, clues to the life of the occupant. The desk drawers had wide, exaggerated handles on them. The stand lamp in the corner had been bolted to the wooden floor, as had the chairs, likely to keep them in place should Irich stumble into them. Marasi was not familiar with the man’s disease, but it appeared he liked his chambers to accommodate a little fumbling.

MeLaan went straight for the bookcase, then began pulling books off, toppling them to the ground. “It’s always behind the books,” she said. “People don’t like to read, they like to be seen as someone who reads. I–”

“MeLaan?” Marasi said, then pointed to the large safe in the corner.

“Ah,” MeLaan said, mid-ransack. She knocked the last few books off the shelf, perhaps for completeness’s sake, then strode to the safe. “Hmm … This is going to be a little tougher. Can’t crack something like this with a set of picks.”

“Can you manage it?” Marasi asked.

“Patience,” MeLaan said. “Bring over that lamp.”

Marasi took it from the desk, stretching out the cord to its fullest and directing its light for MeLaan.

“Hmmm…” MeLaan said, then pressed her hand against the safe, ignoring the dial. Her fingers and palm went translucent, and then her flesh began to wiggle, squeezing into the joints, leaving behind crystalline bones held together with the barest of sinew.

Marasi swallowed, mouth suddenly tasting bitter. She’d known MeLaan could do this, but watching it was something else. She busied herself propping the lamp on the arm of the desk chair to give MeLaan light, though the kandra now knelt with eyes closed, so who knew if she needed it any longer? Marasi then started rummaging through the desk drawers to see if she could find anything important.

Harmony send that Irich goes back to the scientists after this, Marasi thought, instead of returning here to catch up on paperwork.

“The world back then,” MeLaan said suddenly, “wasn’t all that different from the one now.”

Marasi hesitated. MeLaan still knelt with her eyes closed, her strange bones exposed. The flesh had gone translucent all the way up to her elbow.

“What do you mean?” Marasi asked.

“People talk about that time,” MeLaan said. “The time of the Lord Mistborn, right after the Catacendre. They speak of it in hushed tones as if it were some time of legends.”

“It was,” Marasi said. “The Counselor of Gods, Hammond, Allrianne Ladrian. They forged a new world.”

“Yeah, sure,” MeLaan said. “But they also squabbled like children, and each one had their own vision of what this ‘new world’ should be. Half the reason you’re having troubles now was because they didn’t care about settlements outside of Elendel. The Originators were big-city people, through and through. You want trends? Want to know what I’ve seen? People are people. Hell, even kandra act the same, in our own way. Life then was like life now, only you have better street food.”

Marasi pondered this, then turned back to the desk. She’d still want to interview some kandra – but perhaps ones who were a little more … reflective than MeLaan.

In the desk, she found a notebook with some of Irich’s observations and sketches about the ship, written in a shaky scrawl, along with a map of the area. The more she discovered, the more certain she was that the Set hadn’t built this vessel. They were studying it as much as repairing it.

Marasi tucked the book into her purse. See, handy, she thought. After that, she rose to check the other door out of the room. She wouldn’t want to have some random carpenter wander in. She cracked it open and peeked into a completely dark room, and was immediately hit with a pungent odor like that of the slums. Unwashed bodies, dirt and grime. Frowning, she opened the door wider.

The shaded illumination of the lamp – which faced the wrong way to give direct light – crept hesitantly into the room. Shadows stretched long from a few bare tables and a stack of boxes. And beyond them … were those cages? Yes. Perhaps four feet tall, with thick bars, the cages looked like the type you might use to contain a large animal.

They were empty. “MeLaan?” Marasi asked, glancing at the kandra – who did not respond. She looked utterly absorbed by her task.

Marasi inched into the room, wishing for another light. What did they keep in here? Guard dogs? She hadn’t seen any of those at the perimeter. She stopped near one of the three large cages, bending over to see if she could determine what kind of animal had been kept in it.

Something rustled in the next cage over. Marasi’s breath caught. What she’d mistaken for a lump of blankets or pillows was moving. She glanced toward the desk in the other room, where she’d set her rifle.

The thing lurched and slammed against the bars.

Marasi gasped, jumping away, her back crashing against the stack of nearby boxes. Inside the cage, dim light reflected from a too-flat face of red and black. Dark pits of eyes.

The pictures. Marasi had forgotten the pictures that ReLuur had left. Horrible faces of red and black, with those deep, dark eyes. Images as if from a nightmare, drawn in frantic, scribbled strokes.

The monsters were real. And there was one in the cage here, swathed in thick fur, face of polished red. It regarded her, silent, then reached out between the bars with a shockingly human hand and whispered a single word through lips that somehow didn’t move.

“Please.”

Wayne turned down his saunter and added a fair measure of scramble to his step instead. This engineer, he didn’t like being here, among all these soldiers. He’d spent his life building houses and working on skyscrapers, and now here he was, basically in the middle of a bivouac!

That ship was marvelous, but he had a distinct worry. It was secret. And secret projects were the kind where little men like himself disappeared when everything was finished.

No, something’s wrong, Wayne thought, halfway across the floor of the warehouse. He didn’t stop walking, but he turned his steps in a little circle, like he was pacing. Something was wrong, but what was it?

“Wayne?” Wax hissed from the shadows nearby, crouched beside a barrel of pitch.

Wayne ignored him, continuing his loop. He … he was a scientist. No, no, an engineer. He was a working man. Learned enough, but not some fancy professor who was paid to stand all day and talk. He built things, and he hated being in this place, with all its guns. He encouraged life, and the soldiers were the opposite of that. They, they …

No, he thought again, raising hands to the sides of his head. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Shape up, Wayne. This was your plan. You’ve gotta make it work.

What was wrong? He … He was a …

He stopped. Then reached into the pocket of his vest and took out a charcoal pencil. He held it up, inspecting it, before slipping it behind his ear. He let out a long sigh.

He was an engineer. A no-nonsense man who saw that things got done. He liked it here, as they had a military way about them – they said what they wanted, and were straight with him. Men were rewarded for hard work.

He didn’t like all those guns. And he certainly didn’t like the men in charge of this place. There was something off about them. But he held his tongue.

Relaxing, Wayne crossed the rest of the way to the door guard. False nose, mustache, a little extra air in the cheeks to fatten his face, and a perpetual squint in the right eye. Came from looking at plans all the time, he figured. But he didn’t need a monocle. Those things looked downright stupid.

He stepped up to the guard. “The lattice supports of the apricity are completely liminal!”

The man blinked at him.

“Don’t just stand there!” Wayne said, waving toward the walls of the warehouse. “Can’t you see that the forebode malefactors are starting to bow? We could have a full-blown bannock on our hands at any minute!”

“What…” the guard said. “What am I supposed to–”

“Please,” Wayne said, pushing him aside – the man let him – and pulling open the door.

The scene beyond was as Wax had described it. That was Telsin, all right. Dark hair, rugged body. Almost like a Roughs woman. He’d seen her evanotypes all over the mansion. Looked older now. Being a prisoner could do that to somebody.

Tweaked-leg and thick-neck stood beside her table, and both turned with annoyance toward him.

Now, Wayne thought, focusing on tweaked-leg, the real test.

“We’ve got a serious problem,” Wayne said. “I’ve been checking the integrity of the structure, and the caronals are completely nepheligenous out there! We are about to have a full-blown case of ximelolagnia if somebody doesn’t do something.”

The bespectacled man looked at Wayne, blinked once, then said, “Well, of course we will, you idiot. But what do we do about it?”

Wayne held back a smile, tucking it into his pocket for later use. It seemed to him that the smarter a man was, the more likely he was to pretend he knew more than he did. Like the way the drunkest fellow at the pub was always the one who was most sure he could handle another pint. Tweaked-leg would sooner sell his own grandmother as a footstool than admit he didn’t know what Wayne was talking about.

“Quickly,” Wayne said, gesturing. “We’ve got to hold it up while I ratchet the saprostomous underlays! You’ll need to supervise while I work!”

Tweaked-leg sighed, but walked out. Thankfully, his thick-necked companion followed. Within moments, Wayne had this guy pushing against the supports of the ship’s pontoon while tweaked-leg observed, a few guards joining in to help.

A soft thump from behind indicated that Wax had dealt with the guard at the door. Normally Wayne would feel left out, since he didn’t get to do any hitting. This time though, Wayne got to make a bunch of idiots stand with their hands pressed against some wood, thinking they were keeping the ship from tipping over.

So it evened out.

“Please.”

The creature spoke with a strange accent, but the voice was unmistakably human. Marasi breathed in and out in sharp breaths, regarding that hand reaching for her. A human hand.

Lips that didn’t move … polished skin … That wasn’t a face, but a mask. This wasn’t some horrible creature, but a person in a wooden mask, the eyeholes caught by the shadows. What Marasi had mistaken for fur was thick blankets clutched around the person’s shoulders.

“Marasi?” MeLaan asked. The kandra appeared in the doorway. “I got it open. What are you doing– What the hell is that?”

“It’s a person,” Marasi said. The masked one turned toward MeLaan, and the new angle lit the holes in its mask, illuminating human eyes with brown irises.

Marasi stepped forward. “Who are you?”

The person turned back to her and said something completely unintelligible. Then it paused, and said, “Please?” That was a man’s voice.

“We’ve got to go,” MeLaan said. “Safe is open.”

“Is the spike inside?” Marasi asked.

“See for yourself.”

Marasi hesitated, then hustled into the other room, passing MeLaan.

“Please!” the man cried, huddled against the bars, reaching out.

The safe gaped open in the corner of the room. The top shelf was cluttered with objects, including the little Allomantic grenade. Prominent among them was also a length of silvery metal. Kandra spikes, as proven in the Bleeder case, were smaller than Marasi might have once imagined – less than three inches long, and slender, not at all like the spikes in Death’s eyes.

She knelt beside the safe, taking it out.

“We have it,” Marasi said, turning toward MeLaan. “Do you want to carry it?”

MeLaan shook her head. “We don’t touch one another’s spikes.”

Marasi frowned, remembering the stories. “Didn’t the Guardian–”

“Yes.”

MeLaan’s face remained impassive, but her tone was stern. Marasi shrugged, tucking the spike into her purse, then searched in the safe. She left the banknotes – stupid, she knew, but it felt more like really robbing to take those – and took back the little cube that stored Allomantic charges.

Beside it were several other small relics – each was coinlike, with cloth bands attached to the sides. They too bore the strange inscriptions in an unknown language. Marasi picked one up, then looked over MeLaan’s shoulder into the other room, where the man in the mask slumped against his bars.

Marasi tucked the disc in her purse, then reached farther into the safe, taking out something she’d noticed earlier. A small set of keys. She stood up and strode through the room.

“Marasi?” MeLaan asked, sounding skeptical. “It might have some kind of disease.”

“He’s not an it,” Marasi said, stepping up to the cage.

The figure twisted to regard her.

Hand quivering only a little, she unlocked the cage, getting the right key on the second try. As soon as the lock clicked, the figure lunged for the cage door, throwing it open. Outside, he stumbled – he obviously hadn’t been allowed to stand up straight for some time.

Marasi backed away until she was beside MeLaan. The tall kandra woman watched with a skeptical expression, arms folded, as the masked figure staggered up against the boxes, holding to them. He panted, then lurched away from the boxes toward the back of the room. There was a door there that Marasi hadn’t noticed in the gloom, and the man frantically shoved it open, stepping into the next room. Lights flicked on as the man found a switch within.

“If he alerts the guards, I’m blaming you,” MeLaan said, joining Marasi as they walked after the man. “I would hate to have to tell Wax that…” MeLaan trailed off as they reached the next room over.

“By the Father and the First Contract,” MeLaan whispered.

The floor was stained red. Operating tables of sleek metal crowded one wall, gleaming garishly compared to the macabre floor. On the wall hung a dozen wooden masks like the one the man wore.

He had fallen to his knees before them, looking up. Dried blood stained the wall where it had dripped from a few of the masks.

Marasi raised her hand to her mouth, taking in the gruesome scene. There were no bodies, but the blood bespoke a massacre. The man she’d rescued lifted his mask with a trembling hand, tipping it back so it rested on the top of his head, exposing his face. A young face, much younger than she’d imagined. A youth not yet twenty, she guessed, with a short, wispy beard and mustache. He stared up at those masks, unblinking, hands spread to the sides in disbelief.

Marasi stepped forward, moving to lift the hem of her skirt so as not to brush that bloody ground – before remembering she had on trousers.

As she reached the youth, he turned to her.

“Please,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

Wax stepped into the room.

Telsin sat twirling a pencil in her hand. There was a speaking box before her on the table, but making no sound. She turned lazily to see who had entered, then froze in place, gaping.

He closed the door quietly, aluminum gun in his other hand. He started to speak, but Telsin leaped from her chair and threw herself into his arms. Head against his chest, she started weeping softly.

“Rusts,” he said, holding her, feeling awkward. “What did they do to you, Telsin?” He wasn’t certain what he’d expected from their reunion, but this hadn’t been it. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her cry. He certainly couldn’t remember it.

She shook her head, pulling back, sniffling and setting her jaw. She looked … old. Not that she was ancient, but he remembered her as a youth, not a middle-aged woman.

Stupid though it sounded, he hadn’t expected age to come for Telsin. She had always seemed invincible.

“No other ways out of this room?” Wax asked, glancing about.

“No,” she said. “Do you have another weapon?”

He pulled out one of his Sterrions and handed it to her. “Do you know how to use it?”

“I’m a fast learner,” she said, looking far more comfortable now that she had a gun in hand.

“Telsin,” Wax said. “Is he here? Our uncle?”

“No. I was just speaking with him through that device. He likes … he likes to check in on me. I have to tell him how wonderful I think my accommodations are. He pretends I’m his guest, even still.”

“Well, you’re not. Not anymore. Let’s go.” Hopefully Wayne’s distraction was still working.

Telsin, however, sat down in her chair again. She gripped that gun in both hands, held before her, but she stared unseeingly. “There’s so much to ask. Why did you come back? Rusts … why did you leave, Waxillium? You didn’t come when I sent to you, when I was engaged to Maurin, when our parents died–”

“There isn’t time,” Wax said, seizing her by the shoulder.

She looked up at him, dazed. “You were always the quiet one. The thoughtful one. How did you get here? I … Your face, Waxillium. You’re old.”

The door suddenly slammed open. The tall, thick-armed man that Wax had fought on the train stood there, looking stunned. He turned from Wax to Telsin, and opened his mouth.

Telsin shot him.

“We need to go,” MeLaan said.

“We’re bringing him,” Marasi said, pointing to the man.

“Why?”

“Haven’t you figured it out, MeLaan?” Marasi asked. “That ship out there wasn’t built by the Set. It’s from somewhere else, someplace distant and alien. It probably wrecked near our coast, and the Set brought it here to be studied.”

MeLaan cocked her head. “Harmony does say odd things sometimes, about other peoples, not from the Basin–” She blinked, focusing on the man kneeling on the bloody floor. “Wow. Wow.”

Marasi nodded. Proof that there was life past the Roughs, and the deserts beyond. She couldn’t let him stay here, particularly not with the Set.

“Bring him then,” MeLaan said, moving out of the room. “And let’s get back to the meeting point.”

Marasi gestured toward the way out, trying to usher the masked man along. He just knelt there on the bloody floor, looking up at those hollow masks on the wall.

Then, with a trembling finger, he reached up and slid his mask back down over his face. He stood and pulled his blankets tight, shambling after Marasi as she crossed the room with the cages and entered the study.

MeLaan was already out in the hallway beyond. Marasi fetched her rifle and moved to join the kandra. Rusts, what was Waxillium going to say when he found out she’d picked up a stray? She could almost hear his voice. You freed him, Marasi, but for all he knows you’re a member of the same group who apparently killed his friends. Be careful.

She stopped at the door and looked back, gripping her rifle more tightly. Waxillium could be a curmudgeon, but he was right more often than not. The masked man might be dangerous.

He had stopped inside the room with the safe, looking about, seeming dazed. How long had he been in that little cage, trapped in the darkness? Listening as his friends were taken, tortured, and killed.

Rust and Ruin …

His eyes found the safe, fixating upon it, and then he crossed the room in a shuffle. He reached inside, and for a moment she assumed he was going for the banknotes. But of course not – he pulled out one of the little discs with the straps.

He held it up, seeming awed, then shucked off the blankets he’d been wearing like a cloak. She’d expected him to be wearing a loincloth or something savage underneath, but instead he was dressed in trousers that went down to just below his knees, under which he wore tight white socks. His shirt was loose and white, and over it he wore a snug red vest – matching his mask in coloring – with a double row of buttons up the front.

She’d never seen clothing like it before, but it was hardly savage. The man yanked up one sleeve, exposing his arm, and strapped on the disc by its cloth ties. He let out a relieved sigh.

Looking toward her again, he seemed more confident now. He was a short man, even a few inches shorter than Wayne, but seemed to have grown a foot by standing up straight and discarding those thick blankets. But rusts, how were they going to sneak him out? He was hardly inconspicuous with that mask. Perhaps Marasi and MeLaan could openly move short distances in here without drawing attention, but this man certainly couldn’t.

A series of gunshots rang out in the warehouse.

Perhaps sneaking wouldn’t be an issue.

20

The corpse slumped into the room, one hand still on the doorknob, face frozen in an expression of shock. Telsin had fired four times and had only hit twice, but that was enough.

Wax cursed, grabbing his sister by the arm and towing her across the room. With his other hand, he found a vial of metal flakes on his belt.

“I’ll kill them all, Waxillium,” she whispered. “Each and every one of them. They held me.…”

Great. On one hand, he couldn’t blame her. On the other hand, this was going to be rusting inconvenient. He downed the metal vial, then peeked out of the doorway to see the engineers and carpenters scattering for cover as guards came running toward Wax’s position. A few were very near, the ones Wayne had led away, and one pointed at him and shouted.

The room’s flimsy walls seemed like they’d be about as effective against bullets as stern words were against the town drunk. As the first soldier took a shot at him – Wax shoved back with a Steelpush – he made a decision.

“Hang on to me,” he said, pulling Telsin to his side. He took one step out of the room, fired into the ground, and sent them on a Push up into the air. Soldiers pointed, leveling guns, but in a moment he was on the top of the large ship. As he’d seen earlier, it was wide and flat up here, though the planks were smoother than the deck of any ship he’d seen, and the gunwales were like the crenellated tops of a fort or old tower.

He dropped Telsin. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised, leaping over the side of the ship. The man who had shot at him earlier wasn’t giving up, and fired more rounds. Splinters popped off the sides of the ship as Wax fired Vindication and dropped the man. Wax landed, bounced off a stray nail, then skidded to a stop beside a stack of boxes where Wayne was hiding.

“What?” Wayne asked. “Get impatient?”

“My sister shot one of them.”

“Nice.”

Wax shook his head. Soldiers had started to pour into both ends of the large structure. “Not nice. There will be kill squads mixed among those soldiers, Wayne. Aluminum bullets. We need to get Marasi and MeLaan and go. Fast.”

Wayne nodded. Wax took another draught of steel flakes, in case he lost his gunbelt, then nodded. “Speed us to the other side.”

Wayne ran out, and Wax followed. Gunfire sounded, but Wayne popped up a speed bubble. It only covered about ten feet, but that was plenty to throw off aim. Wayne let Wax pass him, then they charged through the edge, side by side. The bubble collapsed, and bullets zipped through the air back where they’d been.

They ran on, but about the time the soldiers got another bead on them, Wayne created another bubble. This lurched them forward again, and shortly they were able to dive behind the broken section of the ship’s pontoon and take cover. Soldiers cried out, confused by the Allomancy – but if there were kill squads among them, trained hazekiller hit men, they wouldn’t be so easily fooled.

Wax led the way, darting along the front of the ship, in its shadow. As soon as someone started firing, Wayne tossed up another bubble, and the two of them repositioned. Wayne made to run out, but Wax stopped him, arm on shoulder.

“Wait.”

Safely inside this speed bubble, Wax looked back across the cavernous hall. They were close to the eastern side, and soldiers in slow motion set up a perimeter, clogging the doorway and kneeling in ranks. Captains at the rear yelled, pointing, and bullets flew toward the last spot where Wayne and Wax had been seen.

Uncomfortably, more shots streaked through the air where – if they’d been following their previous pattern – they would have exited the speed bubble.

“Damn,” Wayne said, eyeing the bullets. He tossed over his canteen. Wax took a drink, judging distances and feeling the surreal sensation of standing calmly in a maelstrom of gunfire, sipping apple juice.

“They’re goin’ all-out,” Wayne said.

“Our reputation precedes us. How much time have you got left?”

“Two minutes, maybe. I’ve got more bendalloy on the horse, in case. The kandra stocked me up before we left.”

Wax grunted. Two minutes could go very quickly. He pointed at the large hole in the ship’s side, where a plank ramp led to the thing’s insides. “I saw the ladies go in there.”

“Funny,” Wayne said, “’Cuz I see them peekin’ out over there.”

Wax followed his gesture, and indeed saw MeLaan’s face behind a barely opened door out of one of the rooms at the side of the warehouse. Wax took a deep breath. “All right. Those armies will cut us apart, Allomancy or no, if we don’t hide quickly. Those rooms will do. We can move through them toward the outer wall of the building, I can break through it, and we flee into the night that direction.”

“Right,” Wayne said. “And your sister?”

“She should be safe for the moment,” Wax said. “Once we break out, I’ll launch myself to the roof, then come back down through the open part and grab her.”

“Sounds good,” Wayne said, “’cept for one thing.”

Wax handed back the canteen. “Here.”

“Ha!” Wayne said, taking it. “But I was talkin’ about that.” He pointed toward the ship. A figure was climbing down one of the rope ladders that hung over the side of the ship. Telsin had not stayed put.

“Rust and Ruin,” Wax snapped.

“Under a minute left, mate.”

“Get her inside a bubble!” Wax shouted, gesturing. “I’ll join the other two. Go!”

They split, the speed bubble falling. A sudden storm of gunfire assaulted Wax’s ears as he dropped to the ground, feet forward, and Pushed against the metal supports in the ship behind him. He skidded across the packed dirt of the floor, bullets flying overhead, and reached the door that MeLaan flung open for him. His heels hit the threshold – the corridor had a wooden floor – and he popped up onto his feet, landing inside with a dusty thump.

“I’ll have you know,” Marasi said, “that we managed to do our job without alerting anyone.”

“I’ll send you a plaque,” Wax said, pointing toward a strange, short man standing behind her. “What the hell is that?”

The man pointed back.

“His people must have built the ship,” Marasi said. “They had him caged in there, Waxillium.”

“Damn,” MeLaan said from the doorway. “That army isn’t playing games.” It was hard to hear her over the gunfire.

“I found my sister,” Wax said. “Suit’s people must know how angry that will make him. We need to–”

“Wax!” MeLaan said, pointing.

He squeezed back up beside her. Wayne had almost reached his sister, who pressed herself against the ship’s side, eyes frantic. But Wayne had been hit. He lurched in place, holding his shoulder, as another bullet hit him right in the neck. He fell in a spray of blood.

Wayne could heal from that, with his new, strange metalmind. Unfortunately, the soldiers didn’t stop firing. Another bullet hit Wayne’s side as he dropped and played dead, then another. In an eyeblink he was healed and up, but then another round dropped him.

They were prepared. They knew. You want to kill a Bloodmaker? Knock him down and keep shooting.

Seeing his friend bleeding, facing some fifty men on his own, awakened something primal in Wax. He didn’t think; he didn’t shout orders. He tore from the hallway in a furious Push on the nails in the walls, soaring out into the warehouse proper a foot or so above the ground, pulling up dust in his wake.

The soldiers had been waiting for this. They had formed up on both sides of the warehouse, using boxes as cover, and they sent out twin waves of bullets – completely uncaring that they risked catching one another in the crossfire. Killing an Allomancer was worth the danger.

They could only wish to be so lucky.

To Wax’s eyes, the room became a frantic network of blue lines, a loom full of a mad weaver’s threads. He shouted, Pushing to both sides, shoving sprays of bullets in either direction and creating a ballooning hub of open space.

Several bullets continued to fly, though he noticed them only because one clipped him on the shoulder. Wax spun and yanked Vindication from her holster. A second volley came, and – his mind instantly matching blue lines with bullets fired – he shot once, dropping one of the men among the ranks who had fired an aluminum bullet.

More bullets came in a storm, but Wax swept them aside like dishes off a table. He was at the mercy of anyone firing aluminum, so he kept moving, dashing across the floor and leaping, Pushing behind himself and severely reducing his weight once he’d finished Pushing. The result was immediate; he sped up like an arrow, flying through the air with a roar of wind in his ears.

He landed before Wayne in a skid and Pushed bullets away from the healing man with a roar, then increased his weight and Pushed on the hull of the ship nearby. The wood crumpled, nails popping free of joints and planks tearing away before his fury, creating a second hole.

“Inside!” he shouted at his sister, prone on the ground nearby.

She nodded, scurrying in, and Wayne – still bleeding from a dozen different places – joined her in a crawl, throwing himself in through the opening.

Can’t let them stay there, Wax thought, Pushing himself away as another round of bullets pelted the area. One didn’t deflect when he Pushed it, but he couldn’t pick out the owner from among the dozens of firing men. Damn.

The ship was a death trap. Yes, it would provide cover, but if they took refuge there the troops would surround them. But Wayne needed a moment to heal. That meant keeping the soldiers–

Three men in jet-black suits launched in succession over the hunkered-down soldiers. The guns they bore had no Allomantic metal trails. Wax cursed, dropping Vindication and ripping the shotgun from its holster on his leg.

The first of the Allomancers to land Pushed on Wax. He felt it as a jolt on the shotgun as he leveled the thing – increasing his weight and setting it against his shoulder – to fire.

The Allomancer smiled, Pushing on the slug as it left the barrel. But the huge powder load of the gun – designed to bring down Thugs – sent the man sprawling backward from his own Push. Dazed, he was just able to glance up as the next slug hit him in the face.

Thanks, Ranette.

The other two Allomancers ducked down as they landed, expecting more fire, but the powerful shotgun held only two rounds. Wax dropped it into its holster as he knelt, grabbing Vindication.

Behind! If there was a kill squad from one direction, they’d likely send another for him the other way too. The regular soldiers were mostly a distraction.

He twisted, Pushing around himself and leveling Vindication to surprise a man and woman in suits sneaking up on him. He dropped the woman.

The male Allomancer opened fire. Too many shots. No metal lines. Wax–

The bullets froze in the air.

Wax blinked, and then noticed something that had fallen to the ground near the enemy Allomancer: a small metal cube. Marasi crouched inside the doorway where she’d been hiding, MeLaan standing over her and drawing fire – absorbing bullets with her flesh like it was no big deal.

Wax grinned, then stepped aside. The Allomantic grenade ran out a second later, and the man who had been trapped inside the bubble fired again, trying to kill a Wax who was no longer there.

Wax leveled his own gun and killed the fellow.

Marasi wished she knew where her earplugs had gotten to. Honestly, how did Waxillium survive without them? The man had to be half deaf by now.

A bullet popped up dust on the ground near her. MeLaan knelt beside Marasi, giving her cover from one direction and taking another series of hits. She grunted. “This doesn’t hurt,” she said. “But it’s not particularly pleasant either.”

Ahead, Waxillium dodged shots from two more members of the kill squad and scooped up the device. Marasi leveled her rifle, trying to concentrate. Everyone was moving so quickly, and the bullets. They zipped in the air all around her. She brought down several soldiers, trying to focus on the ones that were firing in her direction. Many had taken shelter behind boxes on either side, so they weren’t firing in coordinated volleys anymore. They seemed to know that their job was to make a lot of noise and try to distract Wax while others, better equipped and better trained, actually tried to take him down.

Still, it was remarkable he didn’t get hit. Waxillium dashed past, mistcoat tassels flying, and swept bullets from the air. Then he launched himself toward the catwalks above.

Two men in suits followed. Allomancers. Marasi took aim at one and fired, but her shot was deflected.

Speaking of which … Though gunfire still popped in the huge room, no bullets hit the ground near Marasi, and none seemed to be striking MeLaan.

But why? Then Marasi spotted the little cube nearby. Waxillium had charged and then dropped it in front of them as he ran by. Marasi grinned, fishing an aluminum round from her purse. She could feel the device Pushing on her gun, but it was far enough away that it didn’t matter.

A hand fell on her shoulder. She jumped, then found the small masked man behind her. Rusts! She’d almost forgotten about him. His other hand was frozen halfway toward his mask, and behind it his eyes were wide.

She followed his gaze, which was focused on Waxillium, who landed beyond them. He must have increased his weight manyfold, for he was able to Push a group of boxes by their nails and send them flying backward, along with many soldiers.

“Fotenstall,” he whispered in awe.

“Allomancer,” Marasi said with a nod.

“Hanner konge?”

“I have no idea what that means,” Marasi said. “But that cube thing will soon stop buzzing, so we need to move. MeLaan? Do we retreat back?”

“Please,” the masked man said, gesturing toward the ship. He pointed frantically. “Please!”

Marasi ignored him, scrambling across the ground – entering the warehouse proper – and grabbing the device. It had indeed stopped buzzing.

Waxillium landed nearby, sweeping a round of shots away from her, and Marasi charged the thing in her hand. It seemed like last time … yes, by burning just a tad of her cadmium she was able to get it buzzing, yet not slow herself down too much. She somehow poured the power into the device and tossed it at the people who landed nearby, chasing Waxillium.

It froze them in place.

“Nice work so far,” Waxillium said. “But we’re going to have to split up. Get back into those hallways. I’ll follow soon. You’re too exposed out here!”

The men lurched out of her speed bubble. Waxillium started firing at them, but they ducked, and one grabbed the little cube.

Marasi brought him down with the aluminum bullet she’d chambered.

Waxillium grinned. “Go!” he said, charging the other man, who yelped and leaped into the air, Pushing himself away. Waxillium scooped up the little cube as he passed, then he too launched into the air.

“Come on,” MeLaan said, grabbing Marasi by the shoulder. A bullet took the kandra in the face, ripping off a chunk of her cheek and exposing green crystalline bone underneath.

The masked man cried out in fear, pointing and mumbling in his language.

“You should see me in the mornings,” MeLaan said. She gestured back toward the hallways. Marasi moved to follow.

The masked man pulled on her arm, pointing more frantically at the ship. “Please, please, please.”

Marasi hesitated. A bad idea in the middle of a firefight. Fortunately, most everyone seemed to be concentrating on Waxillium.

Something bit her in the left side. She looked down to see what it was, and was surprised to see red blooming on her coat around a hole.

A bullet hole.

“I’ve been shot!” she said, more surprised than pained. Shouldn’t that hurt? She’d been shot!

She stared at the blood, her blood, until the masked man grabbed her by the shoulders and started towing her toward the ship. MeLaan cursed and helped him. Marasi realized she’d dropped her gun, and struggled against them, trying to reach for it, suddenly frantic that she not leave it behind.

That made almost no sense, and part of her acknowledged it, but rusts–

Shock, she thought. I’m going into shock.

Oh, hell.

Wax soared high above the floor of the warehouse, zipping past the catwalks, where several gunmen with rifles had set up. He flipped Ranette’s ball device outward – catching it around the railing of the catwalk – and hung on tight, pivoting sharply in the air. The gunmen started, trying to draw a bead on him as he landed behind them.

He stepped back and Pushed one gunman out at just the right moment, shoving him into the air as the last of the kill-squad Allomancers shot up past the catwalks, bearing a stunned expression at Wax’s sudden change of direction. He collided with the rifleman in midair, and Wax turned, Pushing the other rifleman away. The poor man screamed as he fell.

Farther down the catwalk, two more men had set up with crossbows and wooden shields. Lovely.

Wax increased his weight. The entire catwalk shattered as he crashed downward through the wood, destroying the supports. He Pushed himself off a falling bar, shooting back out into the air, spinning Ranette’s ball device on its cord. Above him, the suited man shook off the frantic gunman, dropping him and Pushing off to send himself into the air.

Wax flipped Ranette’s ball upward and let go of the cord, still falling backward. The confused Allomancer caught the device by the cord as it passed.

Wax shot him in the chest.

Shouldn’t drop your Allomantic shield, Wax thought, twisting in the air as he fell. Even to catch a neat toy.

As he approached the ground, Wax slowed himself on a spent bullet, then landed with a flare of mistcoat tassels. The dead Allomancer thumped to the ground beside him.

The ball dropped from his fingers and rolled toward Wax. “Thanks,” Wax said, scooping it up. Where was–

Marasi. Down and bleeding, being dragged into the ship. Damn! Wax growled, launching himself into the air again as more soldiers fired. This place was a mess. Too many soldiers, many of whom were advancing on the ship, hiding a group of men with modern crossbows behind them. As one got close to the ship, Wayne peeked out.

“Wayne!” Wax shouted, passing overhead. He pocketed Ranette’s ball and pulled out the Allomantic grenade – which was buzzing furiously – and dropped it.

Wayne looked up just in time to snatch the thing from the air, then looked down at it with surprise. When the first bullet curved away from him, Wayne grinned instead, then let out a whoop and flung it at the men in front of him. The thing rolled among them, tossing weapons aside with its power.

Wax sighed, landing on the top of the ship. Of course he’d throw it.

Wayne followed by jumping among the approaching soldiers, energetically laying about with his dueling canes. A bullet came startlingly close to Wax. More aluminum? As Wayne enthusiastically busted heads, Wax launched off the ship and landed among the advancing soldiers, increased his weight, and Pushed outward with a flare of strength. That tossed people away from him in a blast.

When the bodies fell, three men stood, stupefied, holding guns Wax couldn’t sense.

He brought them down with a Sterrion – his other guns were out of bullets – then turned as he heard something distant. Horns blaring, a command. He leaped to the side, enough men dead or dropped that he could get a clear view out one of the doors into the night.

Men were streaming out of the buildings in the village. Dozens. He had a sinking feeling of dread. How long until his metals gave out? How many could he fight until someone with a crossbow or an aluminum bullet got lucky and hit him? He roared, launching himself upward in a leap over the fallen men he’d Pushed. Many were climbing to their feet. He was one man, not an army. He needed to run.

“Back!” he shouted at Wayne, who already had a crossbow bolt sticking from his thigh. The shorter man joined him, running toward cover inside the wrecked ship.

Marasi squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. It had finally come, arriving with a vengeance. MeLaan had given her a painkiller to chew, but it hadn’t done anything yet.

“Dieten,” the masked man said, putting her hand on her wound, which he’d bound with a strip of cloth from his shirt. She cracked an eye and saw him nod encouragingly, though with the mask down over his face she could see only his eyes.

Well, she wasn’t dead. Even if rusts it hurt. And she thought she remembered reading somewhere that getting shot in the stomach – even on the side – wasn’t good.

Don’t think about that. What was going on? She gritted her teeth, shoved down her panic at being wounded, and tried to assess their situation. MeLaan watched the battlefield from beside the hole in the ship. Waxillium’s sister stood nearby, cradling a handgun, eyes intense. Outside, gunfire, grunts, and screams accompanied Waxillium and Wayne doing what they did best: creating havoc.

Apparently the havoc quota had been filled, for a few moments later Waxillium swooped in through the hole. He nodded to MeLaan, his face shining with sweat, breathing heavily. Wayne scrambled in a moment later. He had a crossbow bolt sticking from his leg.

“Well, that was fun,” Wayne said, plopping down and taking a deep breath. “Ain’t been whooped so bad since the last time I played cards with Ranette.”

“Marasi,” Waxillium said, walking over to her. He pushed the masked man aside. “Thank Harmony you’re alive. How bad is it?”

“I … don’t really have much to compare it to,” she said through clenched teeth.

Waxillium knelt beside her, lifting the bandage and grunting. “You’ll live, unless that nicked the intestines. That could be bad.”

“What kind of bad?”

“Painful bad.”

“I might be able to do something,” MeLaan said. “I’ll check it out once we’re safe. Speaking of which, how exactly are we going to get away?”

Waxillium didn’t respond immediately. He looked exhausted. He glanced up at his sister, who was still muttering and holding her pistol. Outside the ship, it had gone unnervingly quiet.

“Our best bet is still going out through one of the warehouse’s walls,” Waxillium said. “We’re going to have to push toward those rooms Marasi and MeLaan were in.”

“That’s gonna be dangerous, Wax,” Wayne said, stumbling to his feet, still ignoring the bolt in his thigh. “They’ll have formed up, knowing we’re going to try to make a break for it.”

“We can manage,” Waxillium said. “With me Pushing, we get to those rooms, find an outer wall, then break through.”

“And if they’re waiting on the other side?” MeLaan asked.

“Hopefully they won’t be. It–”

“Guys,” Wayne said. “I don’t think we have time to plan!”

Gunfire sounded outside again, and bullets started snapping against the hull. Wayne scrambled away from the opening. Marasi thought she could hear Irich out there, shouting for the soldiers not to damage the ship, but the firing continued. It seemed someone had overruled him.

“Please,” the masked man said, taking Marasi by the arm and pointing.

Marasi managed to get to her feet, though the pain made her eyes water. The masked man gestured, holding her by the arm.

She followed. Easier than trying to complain.

“We’re going to have to push through it,” Waxillium said from behind.

“I want to kill them,” Waxillium’s sister said. “I need more bullets.”

“Yeah, let’s have you focus on running, Telsin. Everyone get ready on my mark. Wayne, did you happen to grab that grenade?”

“Yup.”

“We’ll use it to make a speed bubble at the halfway point,” Waxillium said.

“No luck there,” Wayne said. “Completely outta bendalloy.”

“Damn,” Waxillium said. “Then we…” He trailed off. “Marasi? Where are you going?”

She continued limping along with the masked man. “He wants to show us something,” Marasi said.

“They’re coming!” Wayne shouted, peeking around the corner. “Fast!”

Marasi focused on moving down the corridor, one hand holding to her wound. She heard Waxillium curse, then gunfire sounded in the hallway. Waxillium was firing on men trying to pile in through the hole after them. Trapped in here, Marasi thought.

The masked man let go of her suddenly, then scrambled up the hallway ahead. “Don’t–” Marasi said, but he stopped, threw open a panel in the wall, then reached in and pulled something.

A section of the ceiling, painted with one of the strange golden patterns, fell open. A rope ladder dropped down, hanging only halfway to the floor. The masked man jumped up and grabbed it.

“There’s a hidden room here!” Marasi called.

“Better than nothing,” Waxillium called back. “Everyone up!”

Wayne went next, jumping up and catching the ladder and climbing it with a lithe step. MeLaan could touch it without needing to jump, and she hoisted herself next. Waxillium’s sister barely managed to grab the thing, but she climbed up with a hand from MeLaan.

Marasi stood looking with despair at the ladder, trying to imagine climbing it with her pain, until Waxillium seized her around the waist and Pushed them both up in a spinning leap. They landed inside the trapdoor, finding themselves in a narrow, low-ceilinged room fitted with a few chairs that were bolted to the floor. A single small window to the left looked out of the hull, letting in a sliver of light. The place looked like a railway compartment.

“Great,” Wayne said. “At least now we can die in relaxed positions.”

The masked man was fiddling with something near the wall. Some kind of trunk? He got it open and pulled out another one of those small, coinlike medallions with the straps on the sides. He pulled off the one he was wearing, and immediately gave a visible shiver, then slapped this one on instead.

“How’s that?” he asked, looking back at them.

Marasi blinked in shock. He’d said it in her language – strangely accented, true, but intelligible.

“No?” the man asked. “You’re looking at me confused, still. These things never work right. She swore that–”

“No, it works!” Marasi said. “At least, I can understand you.” She looked to the others, who nodded.

“Aha!” the man said. “Great, great. Put these on.” He tossed a medallion at each of them. “Touching the skin, please, maskless barbarians. Except you, Metallic One. You will not need one, yah?”

Marasi took hers and settled down on one of the seats, feeling dizzy. The painkiller seemed to finally be doing something, but she was still exhausted.

Below, shouts sounded in the hallway.

“Somebody better shut that door,” the masked man said, crawling down on the floor and fiddling with something underneath a counter.

Wayne obliged, pulling up the ladder, which was tied to the trapdoor. It clicked closed, leaving them in even greater gloom. A gunshot sounded below, then another. Marasi jumped as the bullets hammered against the floor of the room.

“Does this place have any other exits?” Waxillium asked.

The masked man yanked on something, and the room shook with a jolt. “Nope,” he said.

“Then why did you lead us here?” Waxillium demanded, grabbing him by the arm.

The masked man looked back at him. “Medallions on, yah?”

More bullets pelted the floor, but didn’t penetrate into the room, fortunately.

“What do they do?” MeLaan asked.

“Make you lighter,” the masked man said.

As soon as he said it – as soon as she knew what it did – something inside of Marasi understood. She was holding metal that, somehow, she could feel. It wanted something from her, and she poured it in, filling the metal … the metalmind.

She grew lighter, rising on her seat, the force of her body pushing less on her backside. Telsin gasped, obviously experiencing a similar sensation.

“Now that,” Wayne said, “that’s right strange.”

“Great Metallic One,” the masked man said, glancing at Waxillium, “I, of course, wouldn’t dare give orders to one of your stature, even if you wear your bare face out at all times. Who am I to judge? Even if you look equally crass as these others – even the cute one – I’m sure you’re not. But, if I may be so bold as to suggest–”

“What?” Waxillium asked.

“A little Push,” the masked man said, pointing downward. “On my mark.”

“If I Push downward,” Waxillium said, “I’ll just fly up and hit the ceiling.” He hesitated as the masked man pointed to a pair of straps connected to the floor, with wooden handholds at the ends. Waxillium looked at them, then looked at the masked man, who nodded eagerly.

Even in the darkness, Marasi could see the curiosity on Waxillium’s face. Despite the men shouting below, the muffled sound of gunshots, he was still the lawman – the detective. Questions teased him. He stepped over to the straps, picked them up, and held them firmly, bracing himself with his feet on the floor.

“Ready,” he said.

“A moment,” the masked man said, reaching for a lever. He yanked it hard, and the entire room shook, then slid sideways. Out of the hull, like a drawer in a dresser being opened. Marasi could see out of the front end now, which proved to have a large glass window that had been blocked by wood earlier.

“Go!” the man said.

Waxillium must have Pushed, for the room shook, then rose into the air. They weren’t in a room at all, but in a small boat that could detach from the main vessel.

have brought us closer to an answer.

(Continued on back.)

LOW WAGES

Stick it to the ’Del and Buy Local!

Soother’s Choice is the ONLY Choice

them stood the haunted man. When last we’d met, he’d worn a mistcloak, the hood of which had obscured his face, but now I could see him clearly.

Lightning flashed in his cold eyes and wind disarranged his sand-colored hair. In one hand, he held the rolled tapestry like a baton. With the other, he pointed an alien-looking pistol at me. No doubt the origin of the ghost he’d launched earlier.

The runes on the pistol’s side flared emerald, I burnt chromium and lunged forward into a Baz-Kor move meant to stop Coinshots before they fill you full of holes. Just as the green runes turned red, my hand touched the metal of the device.

When I drain a Misting of metal reserves, I feel something I can only describe as pulling power from the metal and returning this power to some external source. The metal remains, but the power is gone.

I imagined that same intent as I touched the pistol. I pulled power from the device and returned it… elsewhere.

The red glowing runes went out like candles in wind.

It worked! The haunted device was certainly something of another world – neither Feruchemical nor Allomantic – yet my chromium touch had affected it.

The haunted man glanced at the pistol and gritted his teeth. “What in helmore did you do?”

He touched a few of the runes on the side of his pistol-like device, and the symbols began to glow again. He pointed the gun at me, this time mere inches from my face. My chromium trick had not broken the pistol as I’d hoped. If I couldn’t permanently leech it’s power, I’d have to relieve the haunted man of it altogether.

My Baz-Kor training took over, and I executed a movement meant to knock a gun from an aggressor’s hands. One smooth maneuver took me behind my opponent and out of range of the pistol. Now the haunted man stood between me and the gondola’s rusted opening. My next move sent the alien pistol flying from the man’s grip and out into open air.

The haunted man spun to meet me, surprise registering in his eyes. I took the instant to seize the map.

Unfortunately, I was only able to grab one end, and it unrolled between me and the haunted man. Each of us held tight to the long ends of the map. I only needed to find the pouch on it with my father’s instructions sewn inside. After that, it did not matter to me whether this thief took the rest of the tapestry or not.

“Shadows, woman!” said the man. “Leave me alone!” He clutched his end of the map and jumped from the hole in the side of the car.

The sudden jolt on the tapestry pulled me to the ground and dragged me across the floor till my head and arms dangled out over the void, though I still managed to hang on with both hands to my edge of the map, the only thing keeping the haunted man from falling to his doom.

“Bloody helmore!” he yelled. “Would you just let go!”

“I will not!” I gripped the fabric tighter.

“It’s just a stupid map.” He studied the tapestry. Adjusting his grip a few inches to the side, he crumpled the linen between his fingers and began to climb.

“It's my inheritance!” I yelled back.

“I don’t care if it’s the Survivor’s bathrobe. Just give it to me!”

“You are entirely disagreeable!” I said.

“Then you’re starting to figure me out.”

I trust you will not judge me too harshly if the pleasant timbre of the comic stranger’s voice had me completely enchanted. His hair like gold, his eyes like blue ice. If you ever meet me in person, I will gladly give a more detailed description.

“Truthfully,” I said, “a little politeness on your part could have avoided this whole debacle, and you wouldn’t be hanging fifty feet above death from the threads of a poorly rendered map. Climb in. Let’s come to an agreement.”

He reached up as if to take my offer, but something in his hand flashed in the light of the stars. Instinctively, I burnt metal, releasing one hand to touch the device.

It was an everyday hunting knife.

“Politeness,” he said with a grumble. “That’s not how I work.”

He clutched his side of the tapestry and cut through the top of it with his knife. Between us, a V shape formed just before the map ripped completely in half.

I gasped as he fell backward into the mist, clutching his piece of the tapestry.

I pulled away from the edge, frantically searched my half of the map for the hidden pocket, and found it almost immediately. The lack of a knife, however, meant I would have to wait to open it until I returned to the mansion. Still, I was relieved that although the haunted man was gone and my father’s map ruined, I had the information I needed to continue my quest. I do admit, though, that if the haunted man still lives, he wound up with the better half of the map.

After disembarking the lift, I walked to the location where my foe would have hit the ground. I found no trace of him, and though no one witnessed his fall, a young white-haired man was there and offered to tell me a story. I declined.

It was not until I had returned home that I lit up the electric lamp and found Pinecone Allomouser the Third asleep with her kittens on my bed. Careful not to disturb them, I used a sewing knife to make quick work of the tapestry’s hidden pocket. Inside was a folded piece of vellum written on in my father’s flowing penmanship.

—Continued next week!!—

21

Wax stood in the center of the small vessel, Pushing against some kind of plate down below, designed – obviously – for this very purpose. It would be attached to the shelf the vessel had been on – not something that rose with it, but some kind of launchpad for an Allomancer to use as an anchor.

This vessel, though tiny, should still have been too heavy to lift. He should have broken those straps he held to, or been crushed by the force of his own Push. Yet he managed it. He held to those straps – essentially hitching himself to the ship – and lifted it, with all the people inside, off a ledge that had extended from the mother vessel.

It’s those medallions, he realized. They allow everyone to do as I do – to make themselves light, nearly as light as air. That meant he was really only lifting the ship itself, along with their equipment.

The vehicle was small – barely six feet wide, though it was maybe twice as long – and had wide openings like doorways on either side. Those had faced walls inside the pocketlike shelf they’d popped out of, but now they exposed the air.

All in all, the thing felt like the cab of a motorcar with the doors ripped off. As the craft rose, small pontoons on extended arms folded down and clicked into place. Wax had a brief view of surprised soldiers on the portion of the catwalk he hadn’t broken, and then they were out, rising through the opening in the warehouse roof.

The strange man in the red mask scrambled through the vehicle and leaned out one of the holes in the walls to look downward. He looked solemn as he saluted the ship below, then bowed his head, whispering something.

Finally, he turned to Wax. “You are doing great, O Divine One!”

“I’m not going to be able to Push it much higher,” Wax said with a grunt. “The anchor is too far away.”

“You shouldn’t need to,” the man said, scrambling past Marasi – he patted her on the shoulder – then fiddling with some controls at the front of the machine. “I’ll need the primer cube, please,” he said, holding out a hand to Wayne.

“Huh?” Wayne said, looking away from where he’d been hanging out the other door to look down. A few distant gunshots sounded as soldiers took potshots at the hovering vehicle. “Oh, this?” Wayne took out the Allomantic grenade.

“Yah,” the man said, snatching it. “Thanks!” He spun and pressed it against Wax’s arm until – as he was still burning steel to keep them afloat – it started buzzing.

The little man turned and snapped the cube into place under the shelf at the front of the ship. The machine shook, and then something started thumping underneath them. A fan? Yes, a very large one, blowing downward, powered by an unseen motor.

“You can let go, Great Being of Metals,” the man said, looking back at Wax. “If it suits your divine desires.”

Wax eased off on his Push. They immediately started to sink.

“Reduce your weight!” the man cried. “I mean, if it is aligned with your magnificent will, O Metabolic One.”

“Metabolic?” Wax asked, filling his metalmind and decreasing his weight. The ship stabilized in the air.

“Uh,” the masked man said, seating himself at the front, “well, we’re supposed to use a different title each time, yah? I’ve never been very good at this, Your Magnificence. Please don’t launch a coin directly into my skull. I’m not insolent, just stupid.” He pushed a lever forward, and smaller fans began whirring at the ends of the pontoons.

“They’re not boats,” MeLaan whispered. “Not this one, not the big one below. They’re flying ships.”

“Harmony’s Bands,” Marasi said. She was very pale, holding to her wounded stomach.

Flying ships that ran on some kind of Allomancy. Rust and Ruin. Wax felt the world seem to lurch around him. If electricity had changed life so dramatically, what would this do? Wax forced himself to shake out of his stupor and looked to the short masked man. “What’s your name?” Wax said.

“Allik Neverfar, Tall One,” the man said.

“Wait here a moment then, Allik.”

“Whatever you desire, O–”

Wax jumped out of the vehicle before he could be praised – or insulted, he couldn’t tell which these were – again. He got a better look at the small airship as he left. Yes, it looked more like a long motorcar cab than it did a boat, with that flat bottom. The large fan was separated from the ship by a short space, allowing air intake above. The doorways on the walls didn’t seem to close; it was fortunate the seats had straps.

Wax dropped through the sky, afraid to Push off the small airship, but was able to use anchors down below to slow and direct himself toward the forests north of the camp.

He wanted to be quick. That ship wasn’t up so high that it would be safe if they had access to cannons. He dropped into the forest and surprised Steris, who sat on her horse with the others in a line, all packed and ready to go.

“Lord Waxillium!” she cried. “I assumed you’d be coming, and prepared–”

“Great,” Wax said, walking to his horse. “Get down, and grab your pack and Marasi’s.”

She did so without objection or question, pulling off her small pack of essentials, then fetched that of Marasi. Wax did the same for MeLaan and Wayne.

“We’re leaving the horses?” Steris asked.

He released the horses, then grabbed Steris around the waist. “Turns out we’ve found something better.” He pulled out one of his older guns, then dropped it – he’d need a large chunk of metal to get them high enough – and Pushed, launching them from the forest and into the sky.

He’d worried about maneuvering – doing so up high wasn’t easy without skyscrapers to Push against. However, Allik steered the ship toward him, allowing him to get Steris one of the armbands, then set her into the vessel before climbing in himself. It managed to accept the new weight of the supplies, though Allik had to pull a lever to keep them from sinking.

“Seven people,” the masked man said. “And supplies. Above the weight Wilg is supposed to carry, but she should manage. Until our metal runs out. The question is, where do you want her to take us?”

“Elendel,” Wax said, walking toward the front of the little ship.

“Great,” Allik said. “And … where is that?”

“North,” Wax said, pointing. The little shelf at the front of the vehicle – like the dash of a motorcar – had a compass set into it. “If you head west first though, and find the river, we can–”

“No.” Telsin seized Wax by the arm. “We need to talk.”

Gunfire sounded below, followed by an echoing boom. Great. They did have a cannon.

“Just get us away from here,” Wax said to Allik as he let Telsin tow him toward the back of the small ship. He passed Wayne, still hanging halfway out of one of the two open doorways and gawking. Marasi was on the floor, with MeLaan checking her wound, while Steris had already started packing their bags into an efficient pile between two of the seats.

The fans whirred and the ship began to move – not quickly, but steadily – away from the enemy camp. Wax settled onto a bench at the back of the ship with his sister. Rusts … Telsin. Finally. It had been a year and a half since he’d promised to stop his uncle and free her. Now here she was, sitting beside him.

She looked like a modern woman, with her hair in curls, wearing a stylish dress of contemporary fashion – thin material, hem up right below the knees, a neckline to emphasize a long neck and delicate drooping chains. If you didn’t look at her eyes, you could have assumed she was a fine lady on her way to a ball.

If you did look into her eyes, all you found was coldness.

“Waxillium,” she said softly, “there’s a weapon of some sort to the south, hidden among the mountains separating the Basin from the Roughs. Uncle Edwarn has found it. He’s on his way there.”

“How much do you know?” Wax asked, taking her hand. “Telsin, do you know what he’s planning? Is it a revolution?”

“He doesn’t tell me much,” she said. Her voice was so calm, so cold, compared to how it had been before. Always full of passion, ever nudging him to do things he should not. It seemed like they’d leeched the life out of her, during her months of captivity. “We have dinner together most nights when he is here, but he grows angry if I ask about his work. He wanted me for one of his … his projects, originally, but my age makes that impossible. Now I am just a pawn. To use against you, I believe.”

“No longer,” Wax said, squeezing her hand. “No more, Telsin.”

“And if he finds this weapon?” she asked. “He seems convinced it is there, and that it will give his group the power to dominate the Basin. Waxillium, we can’t let him have it.” Some passion returned to her eyes, some of the Telsin he remembered. “If he seizes the Basin, then he will take me again. He will kill you, and he will take me.”

“We’ll get to Elendel, inform the governor, and then send an expedition.”

“And if that takes too long?” Telsin said. “Do you know what the weapon is? The thing he is searching for?”

Wax looked down at the medallion strapped to her arm. “Feruchemy and Allomancy anyone can use.”

“The Lord Ruler’s own power, Waxillium,” Telsin said, passionate. “The Bands of Mourning. We could find them, use them before he does. He has to travel by foot on a treacherous mountain trail. I heard them preparing for it. We, however…” She looked out the doorway, toward the passing landcape. This was a view few ever saw. A view once reserved only for Coinshots.

“Let me check on Marasi,” Wax said. “Then we’ll decide.”

Marasi soared above the world, looking at a land bathed in starlight. Trees like shrubs. Rivers like streams. Hills like little lumps. The land was Harmony’s garden. Was this how He saw it, with God’s perspective?

The Path taught he was all around, that his body was the mists – that he saw all and was all. The mists were pervasive, but visible only when he wanted them to be. She’d always liked this teaching, as it made her feel His nearness. Yet other aspects of the Path bothered her. There was no structure to it, and because of that everyone seemed to have their own idea of how it should be followed.

Survivorists, like Marasi herself, regarded Harmony differently. Yes, he was God, but to them he was more a force than a benevolent deity. He was there, but he was as likely to help a beetle as he was to help a man, for all were the same to him. If you really wanted to get something done, you prayed to the Survivor, who had – somehow – survived even death.

Marasi winced as MeLaan continued to work. “Hmm, yes,” MeLaan said. “Very interesting.”

Marasi lay on the floor of the vehicle, near the doorway, head on a pillow made from a wadded-up jacket. The wind wasn’t too bad, contrary to what Marasi would have expected, as they weren’t moving terribly fast – though the fans did make a fair amount of noise.

MeLaan had spread Marasi’s uniform aside in a very improper way, barely keeping the most important bits covered. Nobody seemed to care though, so Marasi didn’t make a fuss. Besides, that was far less disconcerting than what MeLaan was doing to her. The kandra woman knelt over Marasi, hand on her side, the flesh having liquefied and run down into the wound.

It was discomfortingly like what had happened when she’d picked the lock, as if Marasi were just another puzzle to be manipulated. Rusts, she could feel MeLaan poking around in there with bits of flesh that had become tentacles.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Marasi asked softly.

“Yes,” MeLaan said. Light from a small lantern from their packs illuminated her face. “Nothing I can do about that.”

Marasi squeezed her eyes shut. It served her right, running about like some lawman from the Roughs, scrambling through firefights and assuming she was invincible.

“How is it?” Waxillium’s voice asked. Marasi opened her eyes to see him leaning over, and she found herself blushing at her state of near-nudity. Of course. Her final emotion would be embarrassment because of damned Waxillium Ladrian.

“Hmm?” MeLaan asked, pulling her arm out, the flesh forming back over her crystalline bones. “Oh. I caught a hole in the intestines, as you’d guessed. Sewed that up tight, using some catgut I made from some spare intestines I had brewing. I patched it with some of my flesh, grafted on.”

“She’ll reject the flesh.”

“Nah. I took a bite and replicated her skin. Her body will think it’s hers.”

“You ate part of me?” Marasi said.

“Wow,” Waxillium said. “That’s … wow.”

“Yeah, well, I’m incredible,” MeLaan said. “Excuse me.” She reached her hand out the open side of the flying vehicle, then dropped a stream of something vile. “Had to slurp up things inside there to clean everything out. The safest way.” She eyed Marasi. “You owe me.”

“Is that the part of me you … um … ate?” Marasi asked.

“No, just what was leaking,” MeLaan said. “That grafted patch over the wound should hold until you heal on your own – I melded it to your veins and capillaries. It’s going to get itchy, but don’t scratch it, and let me know if it starts to go necrotic.”

Marasi hesitated, then prodded at her wound with exploratory fingers. She found only tight flesh, like that from a scar, patching the hole. It barely hurt, more a dull pain like a bruise. She sat up, amazed. “You said I was going to die!”

“Of course you’re going to die,” MeLaan said, cocking her head. “You’re mortal. Can’t turn you into a kandra by just– Oh, you thought today. Hell, girl. That shot barely clipped you.”

“You’re an awful person,” Marasi said. “You realize this.”

MeLaan grinned, nodding to Waxillium, who offered a hand to help Marasi up. She quickly straightened her uniform, though MeLaan had cut it in ways that made modesty difficult. She’d have to dig into her pack for something new, but how would she ever change in the vehicle’s crowded confines?

She sighed, taking Waxillium’s hand and letting him pull her to her feet. For now she kept one hand at her waist, preventing her trousers from falling off. He offered her his mistcoat and, after a moment’s hesitation, she put it on.

“Thanks,” she said, noting that underneath the coat he had been wearing a bandage of his own, upper left arm, right below the shoulder. Had he also been shot during the fighting? He hadn’t said anything, which made her feel even more foolish.

Waxillium nodded his head toward the front of the vehicle, where Allik sat with his feet up on the dash, leaning back. Due to the mask, it was impossible to read his expression, but she felt his posture was reflective.

“You feel up to talking with him?” Waxillium asked.

“I suppose,” Marasi said. “I’m a little light-headed and a lot humiliated. But other than that, I’m fine.”

Waxillium smiled, then took her arm. “You got ReLuur’s spike?”

“Yes,” Marasi said, though she fished in her purse to make sure, to have her fingers on it, just in case. She held it up.

“These degrade if they’re out of a body, don’t they?” Waxillium said, glancing at MeLaan, who had settled in a doorway with her legs dangling out, completely ignoring the perfectly good seats.

“How do you know about that?” she asked.

“The book Ironeyes gave me.”

“Oh, right,” MeLaan said, her expression darkening. “That. You know, the Lord Mistborn was wrong to create it.”

“I’ve read it, regardless.”

MeLaan sighed, looking out. “The longer it’s away from ReLuur, the more its Blessing will weaken. But they are powerful, and can last some time – besides, even if the Blessing degrades, the spike will still restore his mind anyway. With some … loss of memory.” Her voice caught on that last part, and she turned away.

“Well, we have it thanks to you,” Waxillium said, looking at Marasi. “And I have my sister. So we should turn back to Elendel and find out what Allik knows.”

“We should,” Marasi agreed. “But your uncle–”

“You heard my conversation with Telsin?”

“Enough of it.” When she hadn’t been distracted by the fear that she was dying. Stupid kandra.

“And what do you think?” Waxillium asked.

“I don’t know, Waxillium,” Marasi said. “Did we really come here for the spike, or even your sister?”

“No,” he said softly. “We came to stop Suit.”

Marasi nodded, then dug a little more in her purse, bringing out the notebook she’d stolen from Irich’s study. She flipped to the page with the map and held it so both she and Waxillium could see it.

It had a spot clearly labeled Second Site, some kind of base camp in the mountains. And beyond that, something high up among some other peaks, indicated as dangerously high. Notes from Irich said, Temple reported to be here.

“The weapon,” Waxillium said, brushing the map with his fingers. “The Bands of Mourning.”

“It’s real.”

“My uncle thinks it is.” Waxillium hesitated. “And I do too.”

“Can you imagine him as a Mistborn,” Marasi said, “and a Full Feruchemist? Immortal – like Miles, only far worse. Possessing the strength of all metals. Like the Lord Ruler come again.”

“My uncle said he was going to the second site,” Waxillium said, studying the map. “It’s possible that his expedition hasn’t gotten to the temple yet, though. They know where it is, from their interrogations, but they were still planning their expedition. With this machine, we could beat him there.”

Waxillium drew in a deep breath, then nodded toward Allik up in his seat. “Will you talk to him? Find out what he knows.”

“The man’s been through a lot, Waxillium,” Marasi said softly. “I think they must have tortured and murdered his friends. He doesn’t deserve an interrogation right now.”

“We don’t deserve a lot of things that happen to us, Marasi. Talk to him, please. I’d do it, but the way he treats me … well, I think you’ll get better answers.”

She sighed, but nodded and climbed past Wayne, who was – unsurprisingly – slumped in a seat and snoring away. Steris sat with hands in her lap, content, as if riding in a flying machine were an everyday occurrence. Telsin sat in the very back.

Marasi wobbled. Rusts, she was light-headed. Fortunately, the front of the vehicle had two seats, the one Allik used and a smaller stool next to him. Allik glanced at her, and she realized she’d been wrong about his posture. He wasn’t pensive, he was cold. He sat there with arms wrapped around himself, and even shivered a little.

She was surprised. It was colder up here than down below, true, but she wasn’t particularly cold herself. Then again, she was wearing Waxillium’s coat now.

Allik turned back toward the windshield as she settled down on the stool. “I had assumed,” he said, “that everyone up here in the land of the Sovereign was a barbarian. Nobody wears masks, and what your people did to my crewmates…”

He shivered again. This didn’t seem to be the cold.

“But then you let me out,” he continued. “And you had one of them with you, a grand Metalborn of the precious arts. So I’m left confused.”

“I don’t feel like a barbarian,” Marasi said. “But I doubt all but the most barbarous of people feel like one. I’m sorry about what happened to your friends. They had the misfortune of running across a group of very evil people.”

“There were fifteen masks on the wall,” Allik said. “But Brunstell’s crew was nearly a hundred, yah? I know that some died in the crash, but the rest … do you know where they might be?” He looked to her, and she could see pain in his eyes behind the mask.

“Maybe,” Marasi said, surprised to realize she might. She turned the notebook around, showing the map. “Do you know anything about this?”

Allik stared at it. “How did you get that?”

“I found it in the desk of one of your captors.”

“They couldn’t communicate with us,” Allik said, taking the notebook. “How did they get this from us?”

Marasi grimaced. While torture was a terribly ineffective method of interrogation, at least as far as legal cases were concerned, she suspected it was a powerful motivator for overcoming barriers.

“You think they’re here,” Allik said, pointing at the map. “You think the men who captured them, the evil men, brought my crewmates to find the Sovereign’s temple.”

“It sounds like something Suit would do,” Marasi said, glancing back at Waxillium, who had settled into a seat behind her and leaned forward to listen. “Bring guides, or experts, just in case. He’s on his way here, the leader of those who killed your friends.”

“Then that is where I must go,” Allik said, sitting up and changing the direction of the ship. “Wilg and I will drop you somewhere, if you demand it, for I’m not about to make that one angry.” He thumbed over his shoulder at Waxillium. “But I’ve got to find my crewmates.”

“Who is the Sovereign?” Waxillium asked from behind.

Allik winced. “Surely he was not as great as you, Remarkable One.”

Waxillium said nothing.

“He’s staring at me, isn’t he?” Allik asked softly of Marasi.

She nodded.

“Eyes like icicles,” Allik said, “drilling into me from behind.” He spoke more loudly. “The Sovereign was our king from three centuries ago. He told us he was your king first. And your god.”

“The Lord Ruler?” Waxillium said. “He died.”

“Yes,” Allik said. “He told us that too.”

“Three hundred years ago,” Waxillium said. “Exactly?”

“Three hundred and thirty, Persistent One.”

Waxillium shook his head. “That’s after Harmony Ascended. Are you sure about those dates?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Allik said. “But if you wish me to revise my beliefs in order to–”

“No,” Waxillium said. “Just speak the truth.”

Allik sighed, rolling his eyes, an odd expression to see from one in a mask. “Gods,” he whispered to her. “Very temperamental. Anyway, the Sovereign came about ten years after the Ice Death happened, yah? Silly name, but you’ve got to call it something. The land was beautiful and warm, and then it froze.”

Marasi glanced toward Waxillium, frowning. He shrugged. “Froze?” she said. “I don’t recall hearing of freezing.”

“It’s frozen right now!” Allik said, shivering. “You had it here too, you must have. Over three centuries ago, the Ice Death came.”

“The Catacendre?” Waxillium said. “Harmony remade the world. Saved it.”

“Froze it,” Allik said, shaking his head. “The land was soft and warm, and now it is harsh and broken and frozen.”

“Harmony…” Marasi whispered. “Allik’s from the South, Waxillium. Haven’t you read the old books? The people from the Final Empire never went in that direction. The oceans boiled, supposedly, if you got too close to the equator.”

“The people who lived down south adapted,” Waxillium said softly. “No Ashmounts to fill the sky with ash, to cool it…”

“So, the world nearly ended,” Allik continued. “And the Sovereign, he came and he saved us. Taught us this.” He gestured toward the armband he wore, with the medallion, then paused. “Well, not this one in particular. This one.” He reached into his desk and took out the other medallion he’d worn, the one he’d taken out of the safe back in the warehouse. He put it on, swapping it for the language one, and sighed in contentment.

Marasi watched him, then raised her hand as if to touch his, and he nodded, allowing it. His skin grew warmer even as she sat there. “Heat,” she said, glancing toward Waxillium. “This medallion stores heat. That’s a property of Feruchemy, right?”

Waxillium nodded. “The most archetypal. In the ancient days, my Terris ancestors dwelled in the highlands, often traveling through snow-filled mountain passes. The ability to store their heat, then draw upon it, allowed them to survive where nobody else could.”

Allik sat, basking in his warmth for a time, before – with obvious reluctance – pulling off his medallion and swapping it quickly for the one that somehow allowed him to speak to them.

“Without these,” he said, holding up the first medallion, “we’d be dead. Gone. All five peoples extinct, yah?”

Marasi nodded. “And he taught you this? The Sovereign?”

“Sure did. Saved us, bless him. Taught us that the Metalborn were pieces of God, each one of them, though we didn’t have any of those at first. He gave us devices, and started the Firemothers and Firefathers, who live to fill these medallions so the rest of us may leave our homes and survive in this too-cold world. After he left, we used his gifts to figure out the rest, like these that make us fly.”

“The Lord Ruler,” Marasi said, “seeking redemption for what he did up here by saving the people down there.”

“He was dead,” Waxillium said. “The records–”

“Have been wrong before,” Marasi said. “It had to be him, Waxillium. And that means the Bands…”

Waxillium moved up beside Allik, on the other side. The masked man eyed him, as if made very uncomfortable by his presence.

“These,” Waxillium said, plucking the heat-giving medallion off the dash. “You can create these, as you wish?”

“If we have the Metalborn to do so, and the Excisors, yes. The Excisors are the gifts the Sovereign made for us.”

“So with one of those devices, a Metalborn can create a medallion like this – one for any Allomantic or Feruchemical ability?”

“Holy words,” Allik said. “But if anyone can say them, it is you, O Blasphemous One. Yes. Any.”

“And did one of you create a medallion that grants all of the powers?” Waxillium asked.

Allik laughed.

Marasi frowned. “Why laugh?”

“You think us gods?” Allik said, shaking his head. “You see that? The one you hold? It is very complicated. It is stored with the ability to give yourself a sliver of holiness.”

“Investiture,” Waxillium said. “This inner ring is nicrosil. You tap it, and it grants you Investiture – turning you into a temporary Feruchemist who has the ability to fill a metalmind with weight.” He held up the medallion. “The iron on this is for convenience, right? You can fill it, but so long as you’re tapping the Investiture, you could touch any source of iron and turn it into a metalmind.”

“You know much about this, Mysterious One,” Allik said. “You are wise and–”

“I learn quickly,” Waxillium said, glancing at Marasi. She nodded for him to continue. This was fascinating … but the Metallic Arts was not one of her areas of expertise. Waxillium had a passion for it though. “What’s this other ring built into the medallion?”

“That grants the warmth,” Allik said. “It is a grand combination – two attributes, from separate rings. Took us long to make these work, yah? The one I wear now, also grants two. Weight and Connection. I’ve seen medallions with three. Twice in my life only. Every attempt at four has failed.”

“So wear multiple medallions,” Waxillium said. “Strap thirty-two to your body, and have all the abilities.”

“I’m sorry, great Wise One,” Allik said. “You are obviously very knowledgeable about this, and know things that none of us would ever think to try. How could we be so foolish as to not realize that we could simply–”

“Shut it,” Waxillium growled.

Allik flinched.

“Doesn’t work?” Waxillium asked.

Allik shook his head. “They interfere with each other.”

“So to create one with multiple powers…”

“You must be very skilled,” Allik said. “More skilled than any who has lived among us. Or…” He chuckled. “Or you’d have to have all the powers, rather than adding yours to the medallion, then passing it to another to have it added to! If that were the case, you’d be a great god indeed. As powerful as the Sovereign.”

“He did create one of these,” Waxillium said, rubbing the medallion with his thumb. “One with all of the abilities. A bracer, or a set of them, that granted all sixteen Allomantic abilities and all sixteen Feruchemical abilities.”

Allik wilted.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Allik?” Waxillium asked, looking into the man’s eyes.

Marasi leaned forward. Waxillium said he wasn’t good at reading people, but he was wrong. He was great at it – so long as reading them involved bullying them.

“Yes,” Allik whispered.

“You traveled from your lands to find the Bands of Mourning,” Waxillium said. “Why are they up here?”

“Hidden away,” Allik said. “When the Sovereign left us, he took them with him, along with his priests, his closest servants. Well, some of them eventually returned, yah? With stories to tell. He’d taken them on a great journey, and had them build a temple for him in a hidden range of mountains. He’d left the priests there, with the Bands, and told them to protect them until he returned for them. And, that was dumb, yah? Because we could really use those to fight the Deniers of Masks.”

“Deniers of masks? Like us?”

“No, no,” Allik said, laughing. “You’re just barbarians. The Deniers are really dangerous.”

“Hey,” Wayne called from behind them, hair whipping in the wind, hat held in his hands. When had he woken up? “We knocked your big ship outta the sky, didn’t we?”

“You?” Allik said, laughing. “No, no. You could not have so harmed Brunstell. He fell to a great storm. It is a danger of our ships – so light, so easily troubled by storms. We would have landed Brunstell, but we were in the mountains, searching. We were so close to the temple, but then … yah. Blown out of the mountains over your lands. Smashed into that poor village. The barbarians there were nice at first. Then the others came.”

He shrank down in his chair.

Waxillium patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Wonderful One,” Allik said. He heaved a sigh. “Well, ever since the Sovereign’s elite told us the stories, we’ve tried to find the bracers.”

“Find them?” Waxillium said. “You told us he’d left the Bands there for himself.”

“Well, yah, but everyone interprets it as a challenge. A test sent by the Sovereign? He was fond of those. Why would he let priests tell us about them, if he didn’t want us to come claim them?

“Only, after years of searching, everyone started thinking the temple was some fancy legend, lost in time. Everyone’s uncle had a map, yah? The type worth less than the paper it’s written on? But then, recently, some interesting stories started circulating. Talk of lands up here, and of mountains nobody had explored. We sent several scout vessels, and they returned with stories of your people, in this land.

“Well, five or six years back, the Hunters sent a big ship up with a quest to finally find the temple. And they succeeded, we think. One skimmer came back with a map of where they’d been. The rest froze to death; a blizzard in the mountains overwhelmed their medallions.”

Wind rocked the small ship as Allik fell silent.

“We’re going after that temple, right?” Marasi asked, looking at Waxillium.

“Damn right we are.”

22

Marasi had plenty of time to think as they traveled southward toward the mountains. Allik guessed the trip would take about two hours, which surprised her. She’d imagined an airship to be a fast-moving vehicle, but this was likely slower than a train. Still, being able to proceed there in a straight line instead of having to follow the landscape was a distinct advantage.

Even with the fans whirring in their casings, the airship seemed to spend much of its time gliding. Allik would increase their height or lower it, trying to find favorable winds – and he complained that he didn’t know the airstreams of this area. He did his navigation using devices she didn’t recognize along with some startlingly accurate maps of the lower Basin. How often had these people prowled through the skies up here, hidden in the darkness, observing and making their maps?

Most of the others slept, comfortably tapping warmth as Allik had taught them. When Marasi considered sleeping herself, she could not banish the image of falling from one of those doorways and awakening just as she hit the ground – even with the waist belts tying them all in.

Wayne gave her something else to help with the pain, though he wouldn’t say what it was. It felt good though, and she could mostly ignore her aching side. She settled into the seat beside Allik and chatted with him. She felt guilty, as that required him to wear the medallion that let him translate, but he seemed as eager to talk as she was. She could not say whether that was because he was starved for interaction following his incarceration, or if he wanted to be distracted from thinking about the friends he’d lost during his journey.

Over the next two hours, he told her more about the medallions they wore, and the legends of the Bands of Mourning. In Allik’s lore, the Lord Ruler had filled them with a great deal of every attribute – but had also crafted them to grant any person who used them the ability to draw those forth. A kind of challenge to mankind to find them, along with a warning not to. Allik didn’t seem to consider this a contradiction at all.

He also spent more time telling her about life where he was from – a place over the mountains, across the entire Southern Roughs and the wastelands beyond. A distant, wonderful place where everyone wore masks, though not everyone wore them in the same way.

Allik’s own people preferred to change masks according to their professions or moods. Not each day, certainly, but it wasn’t uncommon for them to change their mask as often as a lady in Elendel might change her hairstyle. There were other groups though. One gave a mask to each child, and those only changed once, when they reached adulthood. Allik claimed that these people – called Hunters – even grew into their masks somehow, though Marasi found that difficult to believe. Still other people, to whom he referred derisively, wore only plain, unpainted masks until they did something to earn a more ornate one.

“They are the Fallen,” he explained to her, wagging one hand before himself in a gesture she didn’t understand. “They were our kings, yah? Before the world froze. They offended the Jaggenmire, which is why everything went wrong, and–”

“Wait,” Marasi said, speaking softly so the others could sleep, “the … yayg–”

“Jaggenmire?” he asked. “It didn’t translate? You don’t have a word for it in your language, then. It’s like a god, only not.”

“Very descriptive.”

Surprisingly he lifted his mask, something she’d only seen him do that once, when he’d knelt before the masks of his friends. He didn’t seem to consider it an infraction of any sort, and kept talking. She liked being able to see his face, even if his wispy beard and mustache looked a little ridiculous – it made him look younger than he really was, unless he was lying about being twenty-two.

“It’s like…” he said, grimacing, “like a thing that runs the world, yah? When something grows, or dies, the Jaggenmire make that happen. There is Herr, and his sister Frue, who is also his wife. And she makes things stop, and he makes things go, but neither can–”

“–make life on their own,” Marasi said.

“Yah!” he said.

“Ruin and Preservation,” she said. “The old Terris gods. They’re one now. Harmony.”

“No, they were always one,” Allik said. “And always apart. Very odd, very complex. But anyway, we were talking about the Fallen, yah? They work doing anything they can to relieve their burden of failure. A compliment means a lot to them, but you have to be careful, because if you tell them they did well, they might take your compliment to heart and travel back to their people to tell everyone. Then you might be called in to testify about how good a job they did, so they can change their mask. And their language, that’s a real pain. I speak a smattering of it – always useful, so you don’t have to wear the medallion – and it makes my head spin as if I’d been flying too high for way too long.”

She smiled, listening to him go on, gesturing wildly as he spoke – which she figured was only natural, if everyone’s faces were covered all the time.

“Do you speak many languages?” she asked, as he took a breath, finally pausing his narrative.

“I don’t even speak my own that well,” he said with a grin. “But I’m trying. Seems like a good skill for a skimmer pilot to have, since it’s often my job to pilot Wilg and take people between ships or towers. And if I’m going to sit half the day in a class, I figure it should be something useful. Though mathematics has–”

“Class?” Marasi asked, frowning.

“Sure. What do you think we do all day on the ship?”

“I don’t know,” Marasi said. “Swab decks? Tie ropes. Um … trim … stuff. Deckhand types of things.”

He looked at her, eyes bulging, then slapped his mask down. “I’m going to pretend that you did not just compare me to a common lowshipman, Miss Marasi.”

“Ummm…”

“You have to be something more special than that, if you want to fly. We’re expected to be gentlemen and ladies. We’ve thrown people overboard for not knowing the proper dance moves.”

“What, really?”

“Yah, really.” He hesitated. “All right, so we tied a rope to his foot first.” He made a gesture she had started to realize was something like a smile or a laugh. “He dangled there below Brunstell for a good five minutes, cursing up a storm. He never got the cistern three-step wrong again, though! And Svel always said to him…”

Allik trailed off, growing silent.

“And?” Marasi prodded.

“Sorry. His mask … Svel, I mean. On the wall…”

Oh. The conversation died, Allik staring out the front of the ship, then making a few adjustments to their heading. Outside, the landscape was dark save for a few pinpricks of towns, now far to their left. Though they’d initially skirted the Seran Range, Allik had moved the skimmer into the mountains about a half hour back. Now they flew over the tops of the peaks, having ascended higher than they’d been when flying over the Basin.

“Allik,” Marasi said, resting her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond. And so, hesitantly – fully aware that she was probably doing something taboo – she reached out and lifted his mask. He didn’t stop her, and the motion revealed eyes staring sightlessly, a tear trickling down each cheek.

“I’m never going to see them again,” he said softly. “Brunstell is crashed; I’ll never serve on him again. Hell, I’m never going to see home again, am I?”

“Of course you will,” Marasi said. “You can fly there.”

“Wilg won’t last on the stone I’ve got,” he said, wiping the tears from first one cheek, then the other.

“The stone?”

“Fuel,” Allik said, glancing at her. “What, you think Wilg flies on clouds and dreams?”

“I thought it flew on Allomancy.”

“Allomancy Pushes the impellers,” Allik said. “But ettmetal is what supports it.”

“I don’t think that one translated either,” Marasi said, frowning.

“Here, see,” Allik said, kneeling down and opening the compartment where he’d put the little cube that Waxillium called an Allomantic grenade. It was attached to a metal shell, which glowed softly at the center. Allik pointed, and to the side she could see a greater light blazing with a pure whiteness. A stone, burning like a limelight.

Or like Allomancy itself, Marasi realized. “What kind of metal is it, though?”

“Ettmetal,” Allik said, shrugging. “There’s a little bit in the primer cube too, to make it work. A lot more to make a ship like Wilg go, and a lot, lot more to get Brunstell into the air. You don’t have this metal?”

“I don’t think so,” Marasi said.

“Well, what we have in Wilg, it’ll be enough to fly us a day or two. After that, we’d need an Allomancer Pushing full-time. So unless His Greatness the Drowsy One back there wants to fly with me all the way back, I’m stuck, yah?”

“You said there was more on Brunstell.”

“Yah, but they have it.” He grinned. “At first, the evil ones didn’t know how to care for it. Got some wet. That was a good day.”

“Wet?”

“Ettmetal explodes if it gets wet.”

“What kind of metal explodes if you put it in water?”

“This kind,” he said. “Anyway, your evil men, they got most of ours.”

“And we’re going to stop them,” Marasi said firmly. “We’ll get your crewmates back, stick you on your ship – or some of these skimmers, if the big one won’t fly anymore – and send you home.”

He settled back in his seat, closing the panel under the dash. “That’s what we’re going to do,” he agreed, nodding. Then he eyed her, his mask still up. “Of course, your people don’t have what we do. No airships at all. So they’ll simply let me and mine soar away, no information demanded, with this technology?”

Rusts. He was clever. “Maybe we can give the governor some technology,” she said, “like a few medallions. Then promise him trade between our two peoples, fueled by the goodwill of having helped you and yours get home. That will erase some of the shame of what Suit did.”

“There are those from my lands who might find your Basin up here … tempting, with no defenses against attack from above.”

“All the more important to have allies among your people.”

“Maybe,” he said, pulling his mask back down. “I appreciate your genuine nature. You have no mask to hide your emotions. So odd, but welcome in this case. Still, I have to wonder if this will be more complicated than you say. If we do find the relics, what you call the Bands of Mourning, who keeps those? They are ours, yet I cannot see your Metalborn lord letting them slip away from him.”

Another difficult question. “I … I honestly don’t know,” Marasi said. “But you could say we have as much a claim to them as you, since it was our ruler who created them.”

“A ruler you killed,” he pointed out. “But let us not argue about it, yah? We will find what we find, and then determine what to do.” He hesitated. “I must tell you something, Miss Marasi. It is possible we will find nothing at the temple but destruction.”

She frowned, settling on her seat, wishing he still had the mask up so she could read his face. “What do you mean?”

“I told you of the ones who came seeking the temple,” Allik said.

“The Hunters,” Marasi said.

He nodded. “They were warriors, in the time before the freezing. Now they hunt answers to what happened to us, and secrets to making it never happen again. Miss Marasi, I have known many, and they can be a good people – but very, very stern. They believe that the Bands of Mourning were left with us as a test – but opposite the one we all assume. They think the Sovereign intended to see if we would take the power when we should not. And so…”

“What?” Marasi asked.

“Their ship,” he said, looking toward her, “that came up here first. It carried bombs, great ones, made from the ettmetal. Intended to destroy the Bands. They did not succeed, it is said. But anything could have happened. The place of the temple is said to be frozen beyond anything else in this world. A dangerous place for my kind.” He shivered visibly, then looked longingly at the medallion set on the desk before him.

“Go ahead,” Marasi said, “put it on.”

He nodded. They’d had to do this several times during the flight so far, letting Allik warm himself with the Feruchemical device. Marasi wore one herself, comfortably warm – though up this high, the air was probably freezing.

Allik settled back, and Marasi – curious – picked up the Connection medallion that he had set down. She turned it over in her fingers, noting the sinuous lines down the center, dividing it into separate metals. Iron for weight, duralumin for Connection, and most importantly nicrosil, to give her the ability to tap metals in the first place.

She knew enough Metallic theory to identify the metals, but Connection … what did it actually do? And how did that make him speak a language of all things?

Suddenly feeling foolish, she smiled and took off her medallion. The ship immediately dipped due to her restored weight. She let out a squeal of alarm and immediately donned the weight/Connection one instead, then blushed – making herself light again – as Waxillium whipped his gun out and leaped to his feet. So he hadn’t been sleeping, but eavesdropping. He looked around to see what had caused the lurch.

None of the others stirred. Wayne kept snoring.

Marasi held up the disc to Allik, then tapped Connection. She waited for some reaction inside of her, but it didn’t seem to do anything.

“We’ve been foolish,” she said. “I could have been wearing this all along, and speaking your language. Then you could have been warm the entire time.”

Allik grinned at her, then said something completely unintelligible.

“What’s going on?” Waxillium said from behind her.

“Nothing,” Marasi said, blushing again. It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?

Allik gestured to her, and she switched back to her previous medallion – working very carefully this time to avoid causing a jolt, but mostly failing. How did he transition between them so smoothly?

He made a gesture, like a hand drawn across his face, that she thought indicated a smile. “Clever, but it won’t work on you.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re in your lands,” he said. “The visitor always has to wear the medallion. It’s filled with Connection, yah? Blank Connection, to no place. But Connection can’t just be connected to nothing, so when you tap it, it reaches out and connects you to the place where you are. Makes your soul think you were raised in this place instead, so your language changes.”

Marasi frowned, though Waxillium perked up, pulling up between their two seats. “Curious,” he said. “Very curious.”

“It is the way of the world,” Allik said with a shrug.

“Then why do you have an accent still?” Marasi asked. “If your brain thinks it was raised here?”

“Ah,” Allik said, raising his finger. “My soul thinks I was raised here, in your lands, but it knows that I am Malwish by descent, and that parents are from Wiestlow, so I cannot help but have an accent, yah? I got it from them. It is how the medallions always work.”

“Strange,” Marasi repeated.

“Yah,” Allik agreed. But Waxillium was nodding, as if it made perfect sense to him.

“Those mountains to the right,” Waxillium said, pointing. “Those are some taller peaks than the ones we’ve been passing.”

“Yah!” Allik said. “Good eye, O Observan–”

“Stop with the titles.”

“Yes, um, O Confusing … er…” Allik took a deep breath. “Those are the peaks we’re seeking. Getting close. We’ll have to climb Wilg up even higher. Cold temperatures, dangerous altitudes.”

He hesitated as Waxillium pointed at something ahead. Difficult to see, but distinct once Marasi noticed it. Light, hovering in the darkness – only a glimmer, but stark against the blackness.

“The Seran Range is uninhabited,” Waxillium said, “except in a few of the valleys. Too cold, too many storms.”

“So if there’s a light…” Marasi said.

“Suit has left on his expedition,” Waxillium said, standing up straight. “Time to wake the others.”

23

Wayne was awakened quite rough-like, in a manner unbefitting his grand dreams, in which he was king of the dogs. Had a crown shaped like a bowl and everything. He blinked his eyes, feeling nice and warm, and got hit with a blast of air. Drowsy, he remembered he was flying in some kind of rusting airship with a fellow what had no face. And that was almost as good as that dog thing.

“Can you bring us down closer?” Telsin asked.

“If I do,” the masked guy said, “they’ll hear us, even with Wilg’s fans on low speed. We need to pass over those people below, but I will keep us very high.”

Rusts! Wax’s sister hung half out of the machine’s open side, looking down, though Wayne could barely make her out with the light so low. He hadn’t figured that Telsin would be the adventurous type, what with Wax being all calm and careful most of the time. Yet there she was, doing her best imitation of a pub sign flapping in the wind. He nodded in appreciation, then untied his little belt thing, and got up to look at what she was seeing.

He stepped over their packs, which had toppled from the neat stack Steris had made, then leaned out next to Telsin. That let him look down at a long line of people – lit by lanterns – trudging through what appeared to be waist-high snow. Poor sods.

Wax stepped up to the other opening, looking down with his spyglass. Wayne couldn’t see much, himself. He held on with one hand and took out his box of gum, shaking it. Only one ball left. Damn. Well, at least it had plenty of powder on it. That would help perk him up, it would.

“Do you see him?” Telsin asked.

“I think so,” Wax said. “Wait. Yes, that’s him. I’ll bet they left on their expedition the moment they got word of what happened with us at the warehouse.” He reached into his holster and took out one of his guns. He gave the rusting things names, but Wayne could never keep them straight. It was one of the ones with the long tubey thing on the front what spat bits of metal at the bad guys.

“Let me do it,” Telsin said, voice passionate.

Wayne hesitated, ball of gum halfway to his mouth. That was quite the bloodthirst this woman had.

“You can’t make a shot like this,” Wax said. “Not sure if I can either.”

“Let me try,” Telsin begged. “I don’t care what it takes. I want him dead. Another will take his place, but I want him dead.”

Wax sighted for a long moment, and everyone in the ship seemed to hold their breath. Finally, Wax lowered his gun. “No,” he said. “Your testimony in court will do more against the Set than killing a man for no reason other than vengeance. And I’d rather have him to interrogate anyway.” He holstered the gun.

Wayne nodded. Reliable chap, that Wax. Steady. The same on a good day and a bad. Wayne moved to retreat into the ship’s interior, but as he scrambled over the seats, he somehow got tangled a little with Telsin and, in the process, kicked one of the packs out the opening.

Wayne stared down, aghast, as it fell and actually hit one of the men on the head.

“What did you do?” Telsin demanded.

Wayne winced.

“What did Wayne do now?” Marasi asked, a sense of resignation in her voice.

“He kicked that pack out right on top of them,” Telsin said.

“’S not my fault,” he said. “Wax woke me up too soon. Put me off balance.” He looked back at the ship’s other occupants. Wax sighed, moving up beside the pilot. Steris and MeLaan sat on the back bench, out of the way – MeLaan lounging in a rather attractive way, Steris bent over a large notebook. Taking notes? What was wrong with that woman?

Down below, the men in the snow held their lanterns high and scanned the sky, seeming confused.

“Move us away,” Wax said to the masked pilot, pointing. “Go the direction they’re hiking.”

“Yes, Decisive One,” the pilot fellow said, and the fans at the sides of the thing grew louder. “Hold on, everyone.”

The ship shifted. Not quickly, but it did start moving again. Neat trick that had been, staying in place while flying. Birds couldn’t do that, just Coinshots. Wayne moved forward, sidling past Marasi to get a good look out the front of the ship.

“Wind is picking up,” the pilot mentioned. “Might be a storm, as if things weren’t cold enough already.”

“There,” Wax said, pointing. “What was that?”

“I’ll bring us around,” the pilot fellow said, swinging the ship, which rocked precariously. Another gust of wind brought flakes of snow in through the openings in the ship’s walls.

“That’s it,” Wax said, peering through the curtain of snow. “Harmony’s Rings … it’s really here.”

“I don’t see anything,” Wayne said, squinting.

“Hold on to something,” the pilot fellow said. “Or make sure you’re strapped in. I’m going to land.”

So Wayne grabbed the man’s arm.

“Something else.”

Wayne grabbed the chair’s back, and good thing he did, since the ship pitched to the side as it came down. The landing wasn’t too bad, assuming you liked getting shaken about and then having your face smacked into the wall.

Wayne blinked, finding himself in blackness. A moment later MeLaan managed to relight her lantern and hold it up, showing that the ship had settled halfway on its side, one of the fan wings – which could fold up so the thing could fit in the larger ship – having bent up on its hinges, with a big heap of snow pushed in through the hole in the ship’s side.

“Is that how it usually goes?” Wax asked, standing up shakily on the sloping floor.

“Landing is difficult,” the pilot fellow admitted.

“Technically,” Marasi said from the back, “it’s not. It’s probably the easiest thing to do with a flying ship, assuming you’re not picky.”

Wayne snorted, climbing across the ship to the side that was pointed upward, and hopped out. The snow crunched when he dropped into it. He hadn’t expected that – the only snow he’d seen had been the occasional flurry up in the Roughs, and it never got anywhere near this deep. Why would it crunch? The stuff was made of water, not cereal flakes.

He stumbled out of the high pile of snow onto a windswept rocky portion of ground. Snow pelted him like grains of sand, but it didn’t seem to be coming from the sky, just getting blown in from the side. He shivered and tapped more warmth. The clouds happened to roll out of the way, releasing starlight like a bouncer stepping back and letting folks into the night’s most exclusive club.

That light cascaded down, white and calm, upon a rusting castle in the middle of the mountains. A bleak stone fortress, cut of the same stone as the field. It looked to be only one story, hunkered down against the wind, but it glowed in the starlight like the spirit of some ancient building from anteverdant days.

Wayne breathed out slowly, his breath making white mist before him. “Nice,” he said, nodding. “Nice.” The folks that built this, they had style.

Marasi clambered out of the ship, wearing Wax’s mistcoat for some reason, and almost fell face-first in the snow. She stood on top of the white fluff, a gust of wind almost knocking her over again, until suddenly she sank down into it farther with a crunch. She’d finally remembered to stop filling her weight metalmind. Easy mistake to make, if you weren’t accustomed to being a Feruchemist.

She pushed through the snow and joined Wayne, wiping melted snow from her brow. She looked to be doing well, considering that she’d been shot.

“Suit and his people aren’t far off,” she said. “And they know we’re here, now.”

“Then we find the Bands first,” Wax said from behind them. It was seriously unfair how he glided up out of the machine, then soared on a quick jump to land next to them, no stumbling in that snow. Seriously. Why had Harmony made the stuff? Didn’t seem to serve much of a purpose. “Everyone grab your things. Allik, remove the grenade from the ship, just in case.”

They all hurried to obey, Marasi climbing back in the machine, then joining Steris in handing the packs out. Allik emerged, wearing that mask of his still, and stood on the side of his ship, staring at the fortress and shaking his head. He then turned and patted his ship, like it was some kind of puppy, until Steris appeared and chased him away for some reason. A few moments later Marasi climbed out, wearing a dress instead of her uniform, but with trousers on underneath. She tossed Wax his mistcoat.

Figures. A woman would have to change outfits for this. Can’t infiltrate a remote, ancient temple without properly accessorizing. Wayne ran his hand through his hair, then had a moment of panic. His hat! He scrambled back toward the ship, looking around frantically, but then spotted it peeking from a snowdrift nearby, having fallen free as they landed. He picked it up with a sigh of relief.

“Everyone back,” Wax said, steadying himself with a stable footing, the wind blowing his mistcoat tassels back and whipping them about. The others moved away from the ship, and Wax grunted, Pushing. The ship skidded back softly into the snow, piling it up in a wave. Wax Pushed until the thing was completely buried.

“Nice,” Wayne said.

“Let’s hope one of their Coinshots or a Lurcher doesn’t spot it beneath the snow,” Wax said, turning toward the temple and shouldering his shotgun. “Come on, let’s get out of this wind.”

They picked up the packs and started across the stone field toward the fortress. Steris had found another lantern somewhere, and lit it. Wayne hurried his step and fell in beside that pilot fellow with the mask.

“You know,” Wayne said, “I’m an Allomancer too.”

The man said nothing.

“I figured you’d want to know,” Wayne said, “since it seems like this is your religion and all. In case you wanted someone else to worship.”

Again no reply.

“I’m a Slider,” Wayne said. “Speed bubbles, you know? Those fancy titles would work for me just fine, I think. Handsome One. Smart One. Um … Guy wif the Great Hat.”

The only sound was that of their footfalls and the gusting wind.

“Now, see,” Wayne said, “this is unfair. Wax doesn’t want you to worship him, right? But you gotta have someone to worship. It’s human nature. It’s ingratiated in us. So, I’m willin’ to be accommodatin’ and let you–”

“He can’t understand you, Wayne,” Marasi said, marching past. “He’s swapped metalminds to keep himself warm.”

Wayne stopped in place as they all hiked onward. “Well, when he gets his brain back, someone tell him I’m a god, all right?”

“Will do,” Wax called from up ahead.

Wayne sighed, moving to catch up, but then stopped. What was that off to the side? He shouldered his pack and hiked over, ignoring Marasi’s call that he turn back. There was something there, near the cliffs. A hulking shape bigger than a house, the exposed bits covered in frost.

Wax strode over, squinting against the wind, and grunted. “Another ship,” he said. “The one that the Hunters sent.”

“The who?”

“Group of people from Allik’s region,” Wax said. “They came here to destroy the place. Fortunately, it seems they didn’t succeed.” He turned to go, but Wayne nudged him, nodding toward a hand sticking from one of the snowbanks. Looking more closely, he was able to pick out a dozen corpses, perhaps more, lying there in this icy place, frozen for all time.

Wax nodded, then they hiked back toward the others. Marasi and Steris had waited, along with the masked man – who had crossed half the distance to the new ship, then stopped, staring at it. Telsin had strode on ahead, MeLaan tailing her. He quickly joined the rest of them as they followed after Telsin and MeLaan.

“Your sister,” Wayne said to Wax, “is kinda…”

“Severe?” Marasi said.

“I was gonna say bonkers,” Wayne admitted. “Though I’m not sure if it’s the good kinda bonkers or the bad kind, as of yet, as I haven’t had time to give it the proper evaluatin’.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Wax said, eyes ahead. “We’ll get her home and give her some physicians to talk to. She’ll mend.”

Wayne nodded. “Course, she won’t fit in wif us anymore if she does.”

They continued, and that fortress, rusts it was impressive. Made of broad stone blocks, the type that some poor fellow probably broke his back lugging about, it had steps out front leading up to an enormous statue. At first he was surprised, as all the way out here seemed an odd place for a sculpture – but then, the ones back in Elendel had been shat on by about a million birds, so perhaps this was the best place to keep your statue.

The group of them made their way up the steps, fighting the wind. The medallion meant the wind wasn’t cold enough to chill his nethers, but it was still annoying. At the top of the steps they had to walk around that statue, which was in the shape of a fellow in a long coat holding a spear to his side, its tip resting on the stones. Wayne scratched his face, stepping back and craning his neck.

“What’s wrong with his eye?” Wayne asked, pointing.

Marasi stepped up beside him, squinting in the darkness. “A spike,” she said softly. “Like on that coin of Waxillium’s.”

Yup, that was it. One spike, jutting through his right eye. Wayne rounded the statue, which had snow piled about its base.

“One spiked eye,” Wax said, thoughtful. “This place was built by the Lord Ruler. Why would he have them make a statue of him with one eye spiked through?”

“He carries a spear,” Marasi said. “For the one that he used to kill the Survivor?”

“A metal spear,” Wax noted. “But no lines. Aluminum. Looks like some on his belt too. Expensive.”

Marasi nodded. “The Lord Ruler was run through with three spears, by the Lord Mistborn’s testimony. ‘Once stabbed by a beggar, for the poverty he brought. Once stabbed by a worker, for the slavery he enforced. Last stabbed by a prince, for the lords he corrupted.’ The spears didn’t hurt him.”

“Come on,” Telsin called from inside the building, where she’d been joined by Steris.

Wax and the masked fellow moved off, but Wayne kept looking up at the statue.

“So I’ve been thinkin’,” Wayne said as MeLaan passed him.

“Yeah?” she asked, glancing at him.

Rusts. Wax might think it weird, considering she was like a billion years old or something, but it seemed like even longer since a woman had looked at him like that. It wasn’t a lusty look or anything like that, it was … what was the word …

Fond.

Yup, that would do.

“Wayne?” she asked.

“Oh, right. Um, well, this place is abandoned, right? So none of the stuff in it belongs to anyone.”

“Well, I’m sure a lot of people would claim it,” MeLaan said. “But ownership would be tough to prove.”

“So…”

“So I’d say don’t touch anything anyway,” MeLaan said.

“Oh. Right.”

She smiled at him, then continued on in through the open doorway behind the statue. It was big, gaping, like a fellow’s mouth after you kick ’im right in the canteen.

He looked back at the statue, then poked at the spearhead with his toe. Then he hit it with his heel. Then he hit with a rock. Finally, he twisted it a few times.

It fell right off, clanging to the stone beneath. It had been practically hanging free. And Wax was wrong, only the head was of metal – the oversized spear was wood. Aluminum, you say? Wayne thought with a smile.

Now, he didn’t care much for what rich folks said was worth money. Unless it was, by itself, worth more than a house. Little Sophi Tarcsel, the inventor, did need more funds.

He wrapped the big spearhead, which was as large as his palm, with a handkerchief to keep it from freezing his fingers off, and started whistling as he jogged after the others. As he passed, he noticed that there once had been gates on this doorway, big ones, but they lay in frozen splinters.

The others had gathered inside, where the temple had some kind of entryway. It had murals on either side, just like the ones that the strange kandra chap had shown back in Wax’s mansion. Wayne stepped up to one, beside Wax, who was inspecting it.

Yup. Same mural. One depicting a pair of bracers on a pedestal, the other – across the way – depicting the Lord Ruler wearing them.

“We’ve found the place for certain, then,” Wax said. “The statue was enough evidence, but this seals it. ReLuur was here.”

Together they left the entryway, stepping through its only door into a long, dark hallway. What were those lumps ahead? MeLaan and Steris held their lanterns higher, though nobody seemed to have any inclination to be the first one to proceed.

The masked fellow, though, he was muttering something in funny-talk. He seemed to be following something with his eyes. A metal pattern on the wall? He stepped to the side, and dug the little grenade from his pocket. He did something, opening its side, then used tweezers to extract what looked like a small nugget of metal. He shoved it into a cavity in the wall, then pulled down a lever.

Wayne heard what he thought was distant humming, then a series of small blue lights started glowing on the walls. As was appropriate to match the atmosphere of this rusting place, they were creepier than Steris in the morning. There were no bulbs or anything rational like that, just sections of the walls that seemed to be made of translucent glass that glowed in a downright gloomy way.

It was enough to light up the lumps on the floor. Bodies. A right disturbing number of them, lying in awkward positions. And those pools around them … frozen blood.

Wayne whistled softly. “They really went far to give this place a creepy look.”

“Those bodies weren’t here originally,” Wax said dryly. “I think they must be– Wayne, what the hell is that?”

“It fell right off,” Wayne said, clutching the spearhead, which was cold to the touch, even through the handkerchief. The tip was peeking out on one side. “I didn’t even look at it, Wax. Musta been loosened by the wind. See, it has a hole on the bottom for screwing off and–”

“Don’t touch anything,” Wax said, pointing at him. “Else.”

MeLaan gave him a look.

“You shut up,” Wayne said to her.

“Didn’t say a word, Wayne.”

“You implied one. That’s worse.”

Wax sighed, looking at the pilot fellow, who was inspecting some carvings on the wall. “Allik?” Wax said, then tapped the medallion he’d tied to his wrist.

The masked man sighed, but swapped out one of his medallions for the other. He immediately shivered. “I have now been to hell,” he said. “These mountains will rise all the way there for certain.”

“You think hell is in the sky?” Steris asked, standing close to Wax, practically clinging to him.

“Of course it is,” Allik said. “Dig down deep enough in the ground, and things get warm. Hell must be the other way. What did you want of me, Great Metallic Destroyer?”

Wax sighed. “Bodies,” he said, nodding down the hallway. “Traps?”

“Yes,” Allik said. “The ones who built this place were charged with protecting the Sovereign’s weapon. They knew others would eventually follow, and so the builders were bound to make it difficult, knowing that they could not remain to guard in person. Not in this place of ice and death. But…”

“What?” Wax said.

“Those masks,” Allik said.

“The masks of Hunters?” Wax asked.

Allik looked at him, shocked. “How did you recognize them?”

“I didn’t,” Wax said, walking forward carefully. Wayne joined him, as did MeLaan. Wax waved for Marasi, Steris, and Telsin to remain back, though he gestured for Allik to join them.

Together, the four of them walked to the first set of corpses. Wax knelt down beside the pool of frozen blood. The closest fellow had died miserably, with a spike through his chest. Wayne could see the trap now, the tip of it still jutting from the wall. The poor fellow’s mates must have tried to pull him free of the spike, but then had gotten caught in traps themselves.

The masks were different from Allik’s, that was for sure. Made of wood with bits of glass stuck to them, each in a different, odd pattern. And these ones showed the mouth, covering the top half the face, then running down the sides. The skin there, at the sides of the mask, seemed to have melded with the wood – though that might be because everything in here was as cold as a spinster’s bedroom.

Wax nudged the mask. “You said the Hunters came to destroy this place.”

“Yes,” Allik said.

“Well, I think they either lied to you, or changed their minds.” Wax nodded toward the busted doors, then down the hallway, littered with bodies. “The lure of the Bands was too powerful for these fellows. I’d guess the dead ones we found near the ship were the ones determined to go through with blowing up the whole place. Got betrayed, but then these betrayers in turn fell to the traps. The ones who returned home; what happened to them? Vanished?”

“Yes,” Allik said, cocking his head. He raised his mask, revealing a wonderfully silly mustache and beard, then regarded Wax with awed eyes. “They went back to the Hunters. Then … gone. Returned to their families, it was said.”

“Executed,” Wax said, rising. “It was discovered they helped murder the rest of their crew, then tried to steal the Bands. They turned back because of the traps killing too many of their fellows, took a skimmer because it was all they could man, and returned with a made-up story of a blizzard. They were going to gather another crew and try again. Their superiors caught them first.”

Allik seemed befuddled. “How … how did you figure that–”

“He does this all the time,” Wayne said. “Best not to encourage him.”

“Just a theory,” Wax said. “One supported by the evidence though. Steris, Telsin. I want you to stay behind while–”

“I’m going with you,” Telsin snapped. She walked forward, cold as the dead blokes on the floor. “I won’t be shoved aside, Waxillium. I won’t be left for our uncle to catch up to us and take me again.”

Wax sighed, looking toward Steris and Marasi.

“I’ll stay,” Steris said. “Someone needs to watch the entrance for Suit and his people.”

Wax nodded, glancing at Wayne. “You keep an eye on her.” Then he looked to Marasi. “You keep an eye on him. We’ll come get you if we find anything.”

Marasi nodded. Wayne sighed.

“You intend to go forward?” Allik said, standing up, eyes bulging. “O Great Impetuous One, far be it from me – a lowly pilot – to question your ridiculous intentions, but … seriously? Didn’t you see the corpses?”

“I saw them,” Wax said. “MeLaan?”

“On it,” she said, striding forward.

“Great One,” Allik said, “I cannot but think they have traps designed to kill your kind. If they thought of all this, they will have prepared for one such as you.”

“Yes,” Wax said. “That spike was all wood.”

Allik grew more frantic. “Then why would you–”

MeLaan stepped on a pressure plate, causing a spear to launch out of one of the many small holes in the wall. It moved jarringly fast, piercing right through MeLaan’s torso, coming out the other side.

She sighed, looking down. “This is going to absolutely ruin my wardrobe.”

Allik gawked, then lifted his hand as if to raise his mask, only it was already up. He fumbled, unable to take his eyes off MeLaan, who yanked the spear out with a casual gesture.

“Traps,” Wax said, “are somewhat less threatening when you have an immortal along.”

“Unless they have explosives,” MeLaan said. “If I lose a spike, you’d better be ready to stick it right back in. And I was serious – this is going to be awful for my clothing.”

“You could do it without,” Wayne said hopefully.

She thought for a moment, then shrugged, reaching to grab her top.

“I’ll buy you new clothing, MeLaan,” Wax said, interrupting her. “We don’t want to make poor Allik fall over dead.”

“Actually,” Allik said, “I don’t think I’d mind.”

“Good man,” Wayne said. “Knew I liked you.”

“Ignore them,” Wax said. “Wayne, help guard the door. Allik, I need you with me, in case something is written in your language.”

The man nodded, then put back down his mask. Made sense why he wore one now. Wayne couldn’t grow a proper beard either, but at least he had the sense to shave.

MeLaan strolled down the hallway. “Telsin, stay behind me,” Wax said, “and step exactly where I step. Same for you, Allik.”

They left Wayne and the two ladies behind. Ahead, a large spiked log swung out of a hidden compartment and crushed MeLaan against the wall. She shook it off like a champ, stumbling on down the hallway while her leg re-formed.

“You know,” Wayne said, looking toward Steris and Marasi, “she might be even better at the Blackwatch Doublestomp than I am.”

24

Marasi settled in beside Wayne and Steris, watching the approach to the temple. Distant lanternlight showed Suit’s group. But they were getting closer.

What would they do if the man got here? Fight? For how long? Eventually their medallions would run out of heat, and they had almost nothing in the way of supplies.

They’d simply have to count on Waxillium finding the Bands quickly; then they could escape on the skimmer and be away before Suit could do anything. The idea of that infuriating man stuck up here in the snows – having slogged miles and miles to find an empty temple – appealed to her.

At the very least, imagining his reaction distracted her from her own annoyance.

Sit here, Marasi. Stay out of trouble. Babysit Wayne. She knew that wasn’t what he meant, but it was still galling.

Rather than sit and simmer in her own petulance, Marasi dug in her purse, pulling out the little spike that belonged to ReLuur. Such a small thing, and so clean – a shining sliver of … pewter, was it? Staring at it in the light of Steris’s lantern, she wished she didn’t know its history. A person had been killed to make this, their soul ripped apart so a piece could be used to make a kandra.

Even though it had been done long ago, to someone who would have been centuries dead by now anyway, she felt as if there should be blood beneath her fingers, making the spike slippery. It should not be so clean.

Yet, she thought, where would mankind be without the kandra, acting as Harmony’s hands – guiding and protecting us? Such good to come of something so awful. Indeed, according to the Historica, without the work the kandra had done through the ages collecting atium, mankind would likely have been destroyed.

The Lord Ruler is the same, Marasi thought. He was a monster. He created this spike by killing someone. And yet he somehow managed to get to Allik’s people and save their entire civilization.

Waxillium sought justice. He had an open heart – he’d spared Wayne’s life all those years ago, after all – but in the end, he sought to uphold the law. That was shortsighted. Marasi wanted to create a world where law enforcement wouldn’t be needed. Was that why she was so annoyed with him lately?

“You bein’ careful with that?” Wayne asked, nodding toward the spike. “You don’t want to prick yourself and turn into a kandra.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Marasi said, tucking it back into her purse.

“Never can tell,” Wayne said. “I think I should carry it. Just in case.”

“You’d swap it for the first trinket we passed, Wayne.”

“No I wouldn’t.” He paused. “Why? You see somethin’ good back there?”

Marasi rose and walked to Steris, who had settled primly on a stone shelf along the wall of the temple’s vestibule. She sat in a ladylike posture, knees forward, back straight, writing carefully on a notebook by lanternlight.

“Steris?” Marasi asked.

The woman looked up and blinked. “Ah. Marasi. Perhaps you can help me with a topic. How useless am I?”

“Excuse me?”

“Useless,” Steris said, holding her notebook. Not her little pocket one; her larger one, full-sized, which she’d brought in her pack. She used it for brainstorming lists.

Today, she’d been writing on the back of it. “I’ve been trying to quantify it, for reference purposes,” Steris said. “I am under no illusions as to my position in this group. I am the baggage, the accident. The person who needs to be left with the horses, or sent to stay away from traps. If Lord Waxillium could have sequestered me somewhere safe along the way and left me, he certainly would have.”

Marasi sighed, slumping down on the shelf beside her sister. Was this actually something the two of them could relate on? “I know how you feel,” she said. “I spent the first year around him feeling unwelcome, as if Waxillium considered me some little puppy nipping at his heels. And now, when he finally does seem to have accepted me, he treats me as merely a tool to be used or put back on the shelf as required.”

Steris cocked her head at Marasi. “I think you mistake me.”

Of course I do, Marasi thought with resignation. “How?”

“I did not mean to say I minded being treated this way,” Steris said. “I was merely stating facts. I am quite useless on this expedition, and I think that is only fair, considering my personal life experience. However, if I wish to improve, I need to know how far I have to go. Here.”

She turned her notebook to show Marasi the back, where she’d been writing. Why use the back? Either way, she’d drawn a small graph with points plotted on it. Usefulness was listed on one axis, and it had names up the other. Rusts – she’d assigned a number to everyone’s level of worth on the mission. Waxillium was a hundred, as was MeLaan. Wayne was a seventy-five.

Marasi was an eighty-three. She hadn’t expected that.

“I would say that ten is the threshold below which one’s uselessness outweighs the little one does add to the project. I’m thinking I might be a seven, as there are instances where it is better to have me along, though they are few. What do you think?”

“Steris,” Marasi said, pushing the notebook aside. “Why do you care about being useful here in the first place?”

“Well, why do you?”

“Because this is who I am,” Marasi said. “Who I want to be. But not you – you’re perfectly happy sitting in a parlor digging through ledgers. Yet here you are, on the top of a mountain in a blizzard, waiting for a gunfight.”

Steris pursed her lips. “I assumed,” she eventually said, “that I would be of help to Lord Waxillium at the party, and I was. It was my original understanding that this would be primarily a political enterprise.”

Of course. So analytical in everything. Marasi settled back, glancing out the doorway at those approaching lights. Wayne, fortunately, was watching carefully. He acted the fool sometimes, but he took his duties seriously.

“And then,” Steris said softly, “perhaps I came along because of the way it feels.…”

Marasi looked sharply back at her sister.

“Like the whole world has been upended,” Steris said, looking toward the ceiling. “Like the laws of nature and man no longer hold sway. They’re suddenly flexible, like a string given slack. We’re the spheres.… I love the idea that I can break out of it all – the expectations, the way I’m regarded, the way I regard myself – and soar.

“I saw it in his eyes, first. That hunger, that fire. And then I found it in myself. He’s a flame, Waxillium is, and fire can be shared. When I’m out here, when I’m with him, I burn, Marasi. It’s wonderful.”

Marasi’s jaw dropped, and she gawked at her sister. Had those words left Steris’s mouth? Careful, monotonous, boring Steris? She glanced toward Marasi and blushed.

“You actually love him, don’t you?” Marasi asked.

“Well, love is a strong emotion, one that requires careful deliberation to–”

“Steris.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her notebook. “It’s foolish, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Marasi said. “Love is always a foolish emotion. That’s what makes it work.” She found herself reaching over and pulling Steris into a hug with one arm. “I’m happy for you, Steris.”

“And you?” Steris asked. “When will you find someone to make you happy?”

“It’s not about finding someone, Steris. Not for me.”

But what was it about? She gave Steris another hug and, distracted by her own jumble of thoughts, went to check on Wayne.

“What’cha thinkin’ about?” Wayne asked as she joined him beside the outer doorway.

“I just had my long-held assumptions about someone shattered in a brief moment. I’m wondering if every person I pass has similar depths, and if there’s any way to avoid the mistake of judging them so shallowly that I’m rocked when they show their true complexity. You?”

“I was lookin’ at you two,” Wayne said, contemplative as he regarded the snowy landscape outside rather than her, “and wondering. Do sisters ever really get sexy with one another for a fellow to watch, or does that only happen in pub songs?”

Marasi let out a long breath. “Thank you for restoring my ability to trust my judgment, Wayne.”

“Anytime.”

“Those lights are still distant,” Marasi said. “You think they got trapped in the snows?”

Wayne shook his head.

Marasi frowned, noting his posture – seeming relaxed, but he’d gotten out one of his dueling canes and rested it across his knees.

“What?” she asked.

“I figure,” Wayne said, “that if I knew I’d been spotted, the best way to sneak up would be to leave my lights behind and make it seem like I’m goin’ slowly.”

Marasi looked again. She ignored the lights this time, scanning a nearer darkness full of shifting snow. And there, almost to the windswept patch of rock before the temple, she caught movement. Shadows in the shadows.

“Time to call for Waxillium?” Marasi asked.

“I think…” He trailed off, and Marasi pulled her rifle up, nervous.

“What?” she asked.

Wayne pointed to an approaching shadow. It bore a little flag, crossed with an X. The symbol for parley.

Wax pulled on the rope, helping MeLaan climb from the pit. She crawled over the edge, then flopped down. She’d been right about her clothing – it was ragged, pierced in several dozen places, her left trouser leg ripped completely at the thigh.

She’d compacted her body, somehow. Most of her fatty curves had become taut muscles instead, and she’d taken off her hair, storing it in the pack Allik carried, leaving her bald.

Wax knelt beside her, glancing down the hallway with its spikes, pits, poison darts, and other strange mechanisms. The entire temple seemed to be one long passage, intended to be as hard to move through as possible.

Something about this is wrong, Wax thought. But what?

MeLaan stirred on the ground.

“Rest a moment,” Wax said, hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t know if we have a moment, Ladrian,” she said, sitting up and accepting a canteen of water from the nervous Allik. Telsin stood nearby with arms folded, obviously annoyed at how long this was taking. She kept glancing over her shoulder, as if at any moment she expected to find Suit there to take her again.

“How are your bones?” Wax asked MeLaan.

She held up her left arm – or tried to. It had snapped at the middle of the humerus, and the rest of her arm dangled.

Wax breathed out. “You’re sure that doesn’t hurt?”

“Turned off the nerves that cause pain,” she said. “A trick we’ve learned over the last centuries. And since my bones are crystal, they can’t feel.” She grimaced as the arm straightened, the break seeming to heal. But it hadn’t, Wax knew – she couldn’t make bone, or heal it. “Another patch?”

She nodded. She had stretched ligament along the sides of the break to hold it tight. She’d done that with many of her bones already.

MeLaan moved to rise.

“We can find another way,” Wax said, standing. “Break in through one of the walls up ahead, or the roof maybe.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Depends on how much we care about what’s inside.”

“And wouldn’t it be silly to come all this way, then ruin the Bands of Mourning because of our impatience?”

Wax looked down the hallway. They were most of the way through it, so he put off pushing her further. He could see a door ahead.

“You might not have to do much more anyway,” Wax said. “I think I have the pattern figured out.”

“What pattern?” MeLaan asked.

“Pressure plate under the second stone to your right,” Wax said. “Shoots darts.”

She glanced at him, then stepped forward and tapped it with her toe. Darts spat from the wall, passed before her, and bounced against the opposite wall.

“Next one is two stones ahead,” Wax said. “There’s a hint of a metal line leading underneath it. So far, those have been wall traps.”

Another toe press. A portion of the wall opened, dropping a very large spiked log.

“Nice,” MeLaan said.

“Last one should be a pit trap,” Wax said, joining her in walking around the fallen log. “Check your rope. The stones those are under are raised slightly.”

She tugged on it, using her right hand because the fingers of her left had been crushed. The crystal had broken beyond repair, and she now walked with the hand permanently shut, splinters of bones fused together by tendons.

“I hate the pit ones,” she said. “They just keep going down. Makes me afraid of what might be at the bottom.”

She stepped on the section of floor he indicated, and Wax held tightly to his side of the rope, which was tied about his waist. But instead of a pit trap, the ceiling opened, dropping a block of something. MeLaan jumped back, and the block of strangely colored ice banged to the stones beneath. It was wet, its surface oddly oily-looking.

“What in Harmony’s Rings–” MeLaan said, squatting to inspect the ice.

“Acid, maybe?” Wax said. “It looks like whatever they stored up there was a liquid, but it separated over time, and half froze.”

MeLaan stared at it a long time.

“What?” Wax asked.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “So that’s it?”

“Best as I can tell.” Together, they stepped up before the end of the hallway, at a door made of stone. But there was no handle. The rest of the wall was thick stone as well.

There were some markings carved into the door, if indeed that was what it was. Circles, with symbols in them, inlaid in silver. Wax looked to Allik.

“I don’t recognize any of those,” the pilot said after swapping his metalminds. “If they’re writing, it’s not a language I understand.”

“What do you want to do?” MeLaan asked.

“Let’s get the others,” Wax said, thoughtful. “More brains to solve this will be helpful, and Marasi might recognize those from ReLuur’s notes.”

They started back, letting MeLaan go first again – though Wax kept his eyes open for any indicators of traps. It was still slow going, as she wanted to be careful they’d caught everything.

Telsin fell in beside Wax, glancing once over her shoulder at the door, arms wrapped around herself, though with the medallion she couldn’t be cold. Allik trailed behind them, wearing his warming medallion.

“Do you ever wonder, Waxillium,” Telsin said softly, “how you got where you are?”

“Sometimes, I suppose,” he said. “Though I figure I can trace it. I don’t always like it, but it makes sense, if I stop and think it through.”

“I can’t do the same,” she said. “I remember being a child, and assuming the world belonged to me. That I’d be able to seize it when I grew older, accomplish my dreams, become something great. Yet as I’ve aged, I feel like less and less is under my control. I can’t help thinking it shouldn’t be that way. How could I have been so in control as a youth, yet often feel so helpless as an adult?”

“That’s our uncle’s fault,” Wax said. “For keeping you captive.”

“Yes, and no. Wax, I’m an adult – with greying hair and over half my life behind me. Shouldn’t I have a clue as to what this is all about?” She shook her head. “That’s not Edwarn’s fault. What have we done, Waxillium? We’re alone. Our parents are dead. We’re the adults now, yet where are our children? What’s our legacy? What have we accomplished? Don’t you ever feel like you never actually grew up? That everyone else did, but you’re secretly faking?”

No, he didn’t feel that way. But he grunted in agreement anyway – it was good to hear her show a side of herself other than feverish hatred of Suit and his people.

“Is that why you’re so keen to come here?” Wax asked. “You think that what we find in there will accomplish something?”

“At least it will help society,” Telsin said.

“Unless it destroys society.”

“Pushing society forward is no destruction. Even if, in doing so, it leaves us behind.”

She withdrew into herself again. He couldn’t blame her, after her ordeal. He wished there had been time to go back to Elendel, see her situated in someplace warm and safe, before flying back here.

They retraced their steps, passing the traps they’d already set off. Fallen blocks of stone from the ceiling, darts and spears from the walls, even a stone wall that had dropped to block them, though MeLaan had kept it from falling all the way by slamming a large rock underneath. Wax had been able to wiggle into the space and Push a few coins upward to lift it farther, then they propped it up with rocks in the tracks at the sides. They still had to stoop to go underneath.

They did find two more traps, which they set off as well. Wax found himself increasingly dissatisfied. So much work, he thought, noting again the wall section that had fallen in to release scythes that cut the air. That trap had gotten entangled on itself, and so hadn’t endangered them at all – but the ingenuity required to put it together was marvelous.

“Allik,” he said, prompting the short man to swap back to his Connection medallion. “Why would your people build such an obvious resting place for the Bands? Why make this temple, which proclaims that something precious is inside, then go to the effort of making all these traps? Why not just hide the Bands someplace unassuming, like a cave?”

“They are a challenge, like I said, Thoughtful One,” Allik said. “And it was not my people who did this, not specifically. The original priests who crafted this place were of no people currently living among us.”

“Yes,” Wax said, “and you told me the Sovereign left his weapon here with orders to protect it because he was going to return for it. Right?”

“That is the legend.”

“These traps don’t make sense, then,” Wax said, waving back down the hallway. “Wouldn’t they have been worried for your king’s safety?”

“Simple traps could not affect him, Unobservant Master,” Allik said with a laugh. A nervous laugh. He’d glanced at MeLaan again. “The traps are a declaration, and a challenge.”

They walked on, but still Wax felt unsatisfied. Allik’s explanations made a sort of sense – as much sense as building the temple up in the mountains. It was everything Wax would have expected from such a place, down to the smallest details.

Perhaps that was the problem.

“Wax!” Wayne’s head poked into the corridor before them. They were almost back to the front entryway. “Wax, there you are. Your uncle, mate. He’s here.”

“How close?” Wax asked, speeding up.

“Close, close,” Wayne said. “Like, on our doorstep and demandin’ rent money close.”

He’d hoped to have the Bands before that happened. “We’ll need to try to collapse the entryway,” Wax said as he reached Wayne. “Or maybe this hallway. Seal them out while we finish in here.”

“We could do that,” Wayne said. “Or…”

“Or what?” Wax asked, stopping in place.

“We’ve got him captured,” Wayne said, thumbing over his shoulder. “Marasi has a gun to his rusting head.”

Captured? “Impossible.”

“Yeah,” Wayne said, sounding troubled. “He walked right up to us, carrying a flag. Says he wants to talk. To you.”

25

Wax passed from the temple’s vestibule onto the landing outside. Edwarn Ladrian, his uncle, stood at the top of the steps, just beneath the statue of the Lord Ruler. Wax was accustomed to seeing this man in a sensible suit, surrounded by luxury – so it was somehow both strange and satisfying at the same time to find Edwarn in a thick coat, hood up, fur brushing cheeks red with the cold. His beard was stuck with snow, and he smiled at Wax, gloved hands resting atop an ivory walking stick.

Marasi knelt in the doorway, her rifle trained directly on him. Edwarn stood alone, though his people – at least a hundred, perhaps more – were setting up tents and dumping supplies in piles on the stone approach.

“Waxillium!” Edwarn said. “Speaking out here in the cold would prove unpleasant. Might I join you and yours inside?”

Wax studied the man. What trick was he planning? Edwarn would never place himself solely in Wax’s power, would he?

“You can put the gun down,” Wax said to Marasi. “Thank you.”

She rose, hesitant. Wax nodded to Edwarn, who cheerily walked through the doorway. Edwarn was a stout man, plump and round-faced. As Wax stepped into the doorway after him, Edwarn pulled off his gloves and put down his hood, revealing a head of hair that was more silver than black. He removed his parka; beneath it he wore stout trousers, suspenders, and a thick white shirt. However, as he folded the parka over his arm, his cheeks returned to a normal color and he stopped shivering.

“You do know what the medallions do,” Wax said.

“Certainly,” Edwarn said. “But their reserves of heat are not eternal, and we don’t know how to refill them. We had to reserve their use for those who were suffering greatly from the cold during our trip.” He glanced toward Allik, who had moved up beside Marasi, taking her arm in one hand and staring death at Edwarn.

Telsin, Wax thought, seeking the woman out. If she shot their uncle as she had that man in the warehouse …

She stood all the way across the vestibule, just outside of it, in the hallway with the traps. Wayne had wisely sauntered over and stood nearby, back to the doorway. He nodded lazily to Wax. He was watching her.

“I see you stole one of my savages,” Edwarn said, gesturing at Allik. “He taught you to use the medallions? Both heat and weightlessness?”

Wax pursed his lips and didn’t reply.

“No need to act stupid, Nephew,” Edwarn said. “We could judge their nature from the type of metals involved, of course. It is a pity we didn’t discover the smaller flying machines hidden in the large one. That would have made my trip so much easier.”

“Why did you come here, Uncle?” Wax demanded, stepping out of the doorway and casually putting his back to the wall, in case there was a sharpshooter outside. He noticed, impressed, that Marasi had done the same.

“Why did I come? For the same reason as you, Nephew. To find a weapon.”

“I meant,” Wax said, “why did you come in here, to be taken by me. You’re giving yourself up?”

“Giving myself– Nephew, I came to negotiate.”

“I have no need to negotiate,” Wax said. “I have you now. You’re under arrest for treason, murder, and kidnapping. Allik will stand witness against you.”

“The savage?” Edwarn said, amused.

“I also have–”

Edwarn rapped his cane on the stones. It was banded in metal. Foolish; Wax could use that against him.

“No need, no need,” Edwarn said. “I am not in your custody, Nephew. Stop entertaining this fantastical delusion that you can achieve anything by harassing me. Even if you were to somehow drag me back to Elendel and throw me in a cage, I’d be released in days.”

“We’ll see,” Wax said. He raised Vindication, pointing it right at Edwarn’s head. “Run. Give me an excuse, Uncle. I dare you.”

“So dramatic,” Edwarn said. “Did they teach you that in the Roughs, then?” He shook his head. “Have you looked outside? I have twenty Allomancers and Feruchemists here, son. All well trained, and all ready to kill. You’re in my custody, if anything.”

Wax cocked Vindication. “Lucky that I’ve got you, then.”

“I am not so important to the Set as all that,” Edwarn said with a smile. “Don’t think they wouldn’t shoot through me to get to you. But it won’t come to that. You won’t use me as a hostage. What would there be for you to gain? We’ve already dug out your little flying ship. You aren’t getting out of here alive. Not unless I order it.”

Wax clenched his jaw as Edwarn walked to the side of the entryway and settled down on a stone shelf there. He fished in his pocket and brought out a pipe, then nodded in greeting toward Steris, who had been seated on the shelf but immediately moved away.

“Could I borrow that lantern?” Edwarn asked.

Steris held out the lantern. He stuck a lighting stick into it, then used that in turn to light his pipe. He puffed at it a few times, then leaned back, smiling pleasantly. “So?”

“What do you want from me?” Wax said.

“To accompany you,” Edwarn said. He nodded toward the hallway beyond. “Our interrogation of the savages – now that we’ve been able to force them to speak properly – indicates that there is a hallway full of traps beyond here. And…” Edwarn hesitated. “Ahh, so you’ve been through the traps, have you? Then you know about the door?”

“How do you know this?” Allik said, stepping forward, fists clenched. Marasi put a warning hand on his shoulder, holding him back. “What have you done to my crewmates?”

“You’ve made yours talk too, I see,” Edwarn said. “A pity the Lord Ruler gave his fantastic knowledge to them, don’t you think? Barely men. They must hide their–”

“How do you know?” Allik continued, speaking more loudly. “About the hallway? About the door?”

“Your captain knew many things you did not, I believe,” Suit said. “Did she tell you about the group of Hunters she carried as subcaptain in her youth? How she got them drinking, and listened to their secrets? They were planning to return here, she said, for the prize.”

“My captain,” Allik said, voice strained. “She lives?”

Suit smiled, puffing on his pipe, then turned to Wax. “I can get you through the door. I have the key, passed from the lips of a dying priest, to a doomed Hunter, to an airship captain, and now at last to me.” He spread his hands, smoking pipe in one.

“You’re trying to trick me,” Wax said, narrowing his eyes.

“Of course I am,” Suit said. “The question is, can you best me? Without an accommodation, we are at an impasse. My men outside can’t get in here. It’s too fortified a position, and we can’t risk explosives lest we damage the prize. You, however, can’t get out. You can’t get the Bands without my help, but you can’t pass my army of Allomancers either. You’ll starve in here.”

Wax ground his teeth. Rusts, he hated this man. Edwarn … Suit … he was the infection that ate at the wounds of noble society. Spreading his disease. Bringing fever. He was the very definition of the games Wax hated.

“Waxillium,” Telsin said from the doorway. “Don’t trust him. He’ll trick you. He’ll win. He always wins.”

“We’ll try it your way, Uncle,” Wax said reluctantly. “I’ll let you open the door, but then you must return here.”

Edwarn sniffed. “I get to go inside, past the door, and see what is there. Otherwise, you will get no help from me.”

“You’ll be under guard. I’ll have a gun to your head.”

“I have no objection to this.” He puffed on his pipe, held the smoke in his mouth, then let it out between the teeth of his smile.

Wax gave his uncle a thorough frisk. He had no Allomantically reactive metal on his body save for that on his cane, but he didn’t have any aluminum either. At least not in a large enough concentration to be dangerous.

“You first,” Wax said, waving his gun toward the doorway. He ignored Telsin’s glare. Wayne stood up and held her to the side as Edwarn sauntered through, trailing pipe smoke. Marasi fell in beside Wax as he followed, gripping her rifle with white knuckles. Allik, Steris, and MeLaan came next. Wayne and Telsin took the rear, keeping Wax’s sister as far from Uncle Edwarn as possible.

“You sure about this?” Marasi asked as they passed rubble, strewn spears, and darts.

Wax didn’t answer. He thought furiously about what his uncle could be planning. What had Wax missed? He had several theories by the time they reached the door.

Edwarn stood before it, looking the symbols up and down. “Push on that one,” he said, pointing toward one of the engraved circles. “With Allomancy.”

Wax cleared everyone back save Wayne. The shorter man nodded, wearing the bracelet that would let him heal great amounts, speed bubble at the ready in case somehow Edwarn planned the activation of the door to be a trap.

Wax Pushed. Something clicked.

“Now there,” Edwarn said, pointing. “The one with the triangular shape.”

Click.

“Finally this one,” Edwarn said, tapping one with the back of his hand.

“That’s it?” Wax said.

“Get them wrong and the thing freezes shut, I’m told,” Edwarn said idly. “It has a clockwork timer. Won’t be ready again for ten years. You could spend a lifetime guessing, and still have only a small chance of opening it.” He looked at Wax and smiled. “Apparently these symbols spell out something the Lord Ruler would have understood.”

Wax glanced back at Allik, who shook his head, baffled. “They really make no sense to me.”

Wax turned around, held his breath, and Pushed on the final symbol. It clicked. Then, with a deep scrape of stone on metal, the entire thing slid to the side, opening a path. Edwarn stepped toward it, but Wax leveled his gun, causing the man to hesitate.

“I’ll have you know,” Edwarn said, “that I worked a very long time to find what was in this place. It seems unfitting that another should pass that door before me.”

“Tough,” Wax said, grabbing Telsin’s shoulder as she tried to slip by him and enter. “MeLaan?”

“Right,” the kandra said. Rusts, she limped as she passed through the door. One of her legs was longer than the other, because of the breaks. She said she didn’t feel pain, but if she chose to lie to him, he’d never know.

She stepped into the other room, which had a soft blue glow coming from it. More of those glass lights in the walls.

“Nothing hit me on the way in,” she said from within. “Want me to walk around a bit?”

“Just around the doorway area,” Wax called to her, gun still held on Edwarn. “Make sure it’s safe for us.”

They waited a tense few moments. No traps activated in the other room that he could hear.

“How can you wait?” Telsin asked. “Knowing what could be back there? A wonder beyond understanding.”

“It isn’t going anywhere.”

“You never want to know what’s beyond the door,” Telsin whispered. “You never did chase the horizon. Where is your curiosity?”

“It’s alive and well. The things I’m curious about are simply different from the ones you find exciting.”

“All clear,” MeLaan said from the other room.

Wax nodded for the others to go first, everyone but him and Edwarn. “Stay near the door,” he told them.

Once they were inside, he stepped closer to his uncle.

“Threatening,” Edwarn said, looking him up and down. “You separated us from the others, Waxillium. Planning a little intimidation?”

“I care for the people in that room,” Wax said softly. “I suspect more than a monster like you can ever know.”

“You think me emotionless?” Edwarn said, his voice stern. “I tried to spare your life, Waxillium. I argued before the Set on your behalf. There was a time when I loved you like a son.”

Wax raised Vindication again.

“When we’re done with this,” Wax said, “you’re going to give me names. The others in the Set. I’m going to drag you back to Elendel, and there you’ll talk.”

“And you’d brutalize me to get those names, no doubt,” Edwarn said.

“I follow the law.”

“Which can be changed – or bent – to suit your needs. You call me a monster; you hate me because I seek rule. And yet you serve those who do the very same things as I. Your senate? It strangles the life from children with its economic policies.” Edwarn stepped forward, a motion which put the barrel of Wax’s gun right at his temple. “The longer you live, Waxillium, the more you’ll know I am right. The difference between good and evil men is not found in the acts they are willing to commit – but merely in what name they are willing to commit them in.”

“Waxillium?” Marasi appeared at the stone doorway. “You’ll want to see this.”

Wax ground his teeth together and felt his eye twitching. He pulled the gun away from his uncle’s head and waved it toward the door.

Edwarn sauntered in, pipe trailing smoke. Wax followed, and entered the solitary room at the center of the fortresslike temple. The dais here was the one depicted in the mural at the temple’s entrance. It rose from the center of the room, gilded and slender, with steps leading up to it. On it was a small square pedestal topped with red velvet and a golden rack suitable for the display of a precious relic. A soft white light, not blue like those at the sides of the room, shone from above the dais and illuminated the whole thing.

The whole empty thing.

Shattered glass lay on the floor of the dais. Wax could pick out corners; it was the remains of a glass box that had once topped the pedestal, enshrouding what had lain there.

The room was quiet and still, frost on the floor in places, dust disturbed by the opening of the stone door floating in the air. There were no other doors or openings in the walls.

“Gone,” Wax whispered. “Someone beat us here.”

26

“Why’s everyone looking at me?” Wayne said.

“Natural reaction,” Marasi said. She held a gun on Edwarn, as did MeLaan.

Wax carefully picked his way across the floor. Looks like a throne room, he thought absently. The others started to follow, and he held them back with an upraised hand.

“Stay in this center row walking toward the dais,” he ordered them, not looking. “There’s a pit trap on either side, and that slightly depressed square over there? It’ll drop a sharpened blade from the ceiling.”

“How does he know that?” Steris asked. She clutched her notebook, within which she made lists.

“Wax has a natural affinity for things what kill people,” Wayne said. “You’re all still lookin’ at me. Rusts, you think I somehow got in here and lifted the rusting thing?”

“No,” Marasi admitted. “But someone did. ReLuur the kandra?”

“No,” Wax said, crouching and picking among the pieces of glass on the steps leading up to the pedestal. “These have been here a long time, judging by the dust.”

There was no way the kandra had gone down that corridor outside. Too many traps were left, and all the ones that had been sprung had bodies near them.

It was likely that the kandra had snapped his pictures and wisely returned home to gather more of his kind and mount a proper expedition. Kandra were immortal; he wouldn’t be hasty in trying to get in here. He’d have planned to take years studying the temple and extracting its secrets.

Who, then?

Telsin passed him, stepping to the dais. Glass crunched under her feet, and Wax glanced up to see her staring at the empty pedestal, aghast. “How?” she murmured.

MeLaan shook her head. “What would you do, if you’d secretly stolen the thing? Leave the place gaping open to let everyone know, or reset the traps and sneak away?”

No, Wax thought. Reset the traps? Unlikely. He glanced at his uncle, who stood with pipe in hand, staring at the dais with bristling anger. He was surprised by this.

Or was that an act? Was this all a setup, after taking the Bands, to throw Wax off? Wax brushed the dust from a piece of glass, then dropped it and selected a larger chunk, one of the corner pieces. Wax eyed it critically, then took another piece and set it alongside.

“This is a disappointment,” Edwarn said. He seemed genuinely troubled.

This wasn’t him, Wax thought, stretching out one of his mistcoat tassels and using it judge the length of the shard of glass. No, this goes back way further than that.…

He stood up, the arguments of the others becoming a distant buzz to him as he regarded the supposed resting place of the Bands of Mourning. A small velvet-topped pedestal, frozen in time.

“I guess that is that,” Edwarn said. “Time for this to end, then.”

Wax spun, whipping out his gun. He pointed it not at Edwarn, but at his sister.

She stared him down, hand at her pocket. Then she slowly removed a gun. Where had she gotten that? He couldn’t sense it. Aluminum.

“Telsin,” Wax said, voice hoarse.

Edwarn wouldn’t have come in here without a mole. She made the most sense. But rusts.

“I’m sorry, Waxillium,” she said.

“Don’t do this.” He hesitated. Too long. She raised the gun.

He fired. She did the same. His shot swerved away from her, Pushed by Allomancy. But her shot – aluminum – took him just below the neck.

Marasi moved before she had time to think. Her rifle already in position, she shot at Suit. Whatever was happening, having him dead couldn’t hurt.

Unfortunately, her bullet veered as well, missing Edwarn. Then her weapon flew backward from her hands. Suit smiled at her with infuriating unconcern.

At the pedestal, Waxillium stumbled back. He’d been hit right where the collarbone met his neck. He tried to remain on his feet, but Telsin shot him a second time, in the abdomen. Waxillium collapsed, rolled down the steps to the base of the dais, and groaned.

Edwarn was an Allomancer.

Telsin was in the Set.

Again, Marasi reacted before she knew what she was doing. Wayne leaped for Suit, but Suit took a hit from the dueling canes without flinching, then used his own cane – which was banded in metal – and Pushed it against Wayne.

Wayne was flung toward Marasi, canes clattering to the floor. He grunted, hitting the ground as Marasi tried to leap for Suit. Perhaps if she caught just him in a bubble with her, Wayne could–

Her metal reserves were gone. Wayne stumbled up behind her, looking similarly confused. Telsin had tossed something between the two of them.

A small metal cube. Another Allomantic grenade. She was an Allomancer too. She tossed a bag of something to Suit. Coins.

Wayne recovered from his surprise, leaping toward Edwarn again. But the man Pushed a handful of coins. Wayne cursed, flinching in midair as the coins ripped through his body. Marasi watched in horror, and nearby someone screamed.

Shock. No. She wouldn’t let herself be stunned. She hurled herself at Suit, though he casually shoved her aside. She briefly caught hold of his shirt as she fell, but then her fingers slipped. Her head knocked against the stones as she hit.

Dazed, she was able to see Waxillium stumble to his feet. He lurched, bleeding, as Telsin fired again. Then he charged: but not for the doorway, or for Suit. He scrambled toward the side of the room, away from everything. The only thing in that direction was a corner, surely trapping him–

The floor dropped, plunging Waxillium into the pit.

Nearby, Wayne climbed to his feet.

“Keep him down!” Suit shouted, launching coins at Wayne.

Telsin, atop the dais, fired on Wayne. She wasn’t a terribly good shot, but between her and Edwarn, they managed to hit several times.

That didn’t drop him, not with the gold metalmind. He made a rude gesture and ran out the door, healing from the wounds almost as soon as he was hit.

Suit growled as Telsin’s weapon clicked, out of bullets. Marasi tried to grab Suit by the legs and maybe trip him, but he kicked her in the chest. She grunted, breath knocked out of her, and Suit put his foot against her throat.

“Wayne!” Suit yelled. “Come back or I’ll kill the others!”

No reply. Wayne, it seemed, had taken the chance to escape down the hallway outside. Good. He wasn’t abandoning them; he had correctly realized that their chances were best if he escaped.

“I’ll do it!” Suit yelled. “I’ll kill her!”

“You think he cares about that?” Telsin asked.

“Honestly, I can’t tell with that one,” Suit said. He waited a moment to see if Wayne replied, then sighed, taking his foot off Marasi’s neck.

Dazed, still having trouble breathing, she took stock of the situation. MeLaan was writhing on the floor. When had that happened? Allik and Steris stood frozen with wide eyes. This had all taken place in a flash. A few years back, Marasi would have been like those two, stunned and confused. She was impressed, on one level, that she’d been able to react as quickly as she had.

Her growth hadn’t been enough. Edwarn picked up her rifle, sighting it on her. “Over you go,” he said, gesturing with the gun for Marasi to crawl to Steris and Allik so he could cover them all at once. She considered trying something, but what? Her metal reserves were gone, and the import of what had just transpired was settling upon her.

Waxillium was maybe bleeding to death at the bottom of that pit. Wayne had escaped, but had no bendalloy. MeLaan was down.

She might have to do something about this herself.

“Please,” Allik said, frantically grabbing Marasi by the arm as she joined the other two. “Please.”

He was panicked, but she couldn’t blame him. He’d seen Waxillium – the man he worshipped – fall, and was once again in Suit’s hands. Steris narrowed her eyes at Telsin.

Waxillium had seen the truth, but too slowly. He hadn’t searched her, and he’d hesitated instead of firing. For all his cleverness, Waxillium had a hole in his judgment regarding Suit and Telsin. He always had.

Not that you did any better, Marasi thought.

Telsin walked calmly down the steps, holding her handgun before herself. “That was bungled.”

“Bungled?” Edwarn said. “I thought it went well.”

“I let Waxillium escape.”

“You shot him thrice,” Edwarn said. “He’s as good as dead.”

“And you’re going to trust that?” Telsin asked.

Edwarn sighed. “No.”

Telsin nodded, her expression calm as she slid a knife from her pocket, then knelt and plunged it into MeLaan. Steris cried out, stepping toward them.

“What did you do to her?” Marasi asked.

They didn’t answer, but Marasi suspected the truth. There were liquids that, when injected into kandra, immobilized them and made them start to lose their shapes. It was temporary, but Marasi could only guess that while she had been focused on Suit, Telsin had somehow used one of those on MeLaan. With her arms twisted, her legs broken, the kandra’s skeleton hadn’t been in any shape for her to fight.

Telsin worked for a gruesome moment and came out with a spike. She tucked it into her pocket, then kept working. Suit walked over to Marasi, and through his ripped shirt Marasi caught a glint of metal peeking between two of his ribs. Not a large spike like the one Ironeyes had. Something more subtle.

They hadn’t just been experimenting with Hemalurgy – they’d used spikes to grant themselves powers.

Telsin finally got the second spike out of poor MeLaan and pocketed it. The kandra melted, a mess of greenish-brown flesh and muscles without anything to cling to – oozing out of her clothing, leaving her bones and her skull of green crystal to gaze vacantly at the ceiling.

Telsin pointed toward the pit Waxillium had fallen into. “Chase him down.”

“Me?” Suit said. “Surely we can wait for–”

“No waiting,” Telsin said. “You know him best. You hunt him down. He is still alive. I’ve met rocks less durable than my brother.”

Suit sighed again, but nodded this time, swapping guns with Telsin so he’d have the aluminum pistol, then reloading it. He walked toward the pit. Marasi glanced at Telsin, who watched MeLaan’s remains but held the rifle at the ready.

Should Marasi charge her? Suit obeyed her. She wasn’t simply a member of the Set; she outranked Waxillium’s uncle. And she was obviously an Allomancer; the way she’d used the Allomantic grenade proved that.

Suit climbed down, using a rope. Shortly after that, Marasi heard footsteps outside, and soon an array of soldiers in uniforms like those from the warehouse piled in.

“The short one,” Telsin said, urgent. “Wayne. Did you pass him?”

“Sir?” one of the soldiers asked. “No, we haven’t seen him.”

“Damn,” Telsin said. “Where did that rat get to? I need as many men as we can get scouring that hallway and the plain outside. He’s extremely dangerous, particularly if he has another vial of bendalloy.”

Marasi turned to Steris, who was still dazed, eyes wide, still looking at the hole where Waxillium had fallen. Allik held Marasi’s arm, his eyes visible behind his mask.

“I’ll get us out of this,” she whispered to them.

Somehow.

27

He’ll tell on us.… You know he will.

Wax rolled onto his back, staring upward. Darkness. The pit had twisted during the fall – he remembered ramming into one of its curves – and deposited him here.

Rusts … how could his vision swim when he couldn’t see anything? He fumbled at his gunbelt and came up with a vial, which he managed to down, replenishing his metal reserves.

You coming? Of course you’re not. You never want to risk trouble.

No. He could see something. A lone candle in a black room. He blinked his eyes, but it was gone. A vision of the past. A memory …

Light in a dark room. Set there to distract …

That was what the dais up above had been. The Bands had never been there. The people who had built the place left the broken glass, the empty rack, the dais and the pedestal – all as a ruse. But they’d made a mistake.

The glass box they’d broken had been too large to fit on the pedestal.

Candle in a dark room … Wax thought. That meant the Bands were somewhere else. He blinked, and thought – as his eyes adjusted – he actually could pick out light.

He wasn’t in a narrow pit. That hole had dumped him out somewhere. He heaved himself over in a twist, coming to his knees, and felt at his gut. Blood there. A bad hit, all the way through, judging by the wetness he felt trickling down the back of his thigh. He’d taken a shot to the leg too, but that didn’t matter. He’d broken that leg in his fall anyway.

The shot near his neck was the worst. He knew this without even touching it, knew it by the way his body worked – by the way pieces of him were growing numb, the way certain muscles didn’t respond right.

That light. A soft blue. Not a candle, but one of the built-in lights of the building. He crawled toward the light, dragging his broken leg, scraping on stone, sweat streaming down the sides of his face and mixing with the blood he spilled to the ground.

“Harmony,” he whispered. “Harmony.”

No reply. Now he prayed? What of his hatred?

For a time, that light was everything to him. An hour could have passed as he crawled, or perhaps it had been only a minute. As he neared, he saw sentries in the darkness. People sitting arrayed before the light, casting long shadows into the depths of the room. The ceiling was low, barely taller than a man could stand. That was why … why the people had to sit.…

Focus! he thought at himself, flaring his metal. The sentries had metal on them. And … yes, one other faint line, pointing toward a spot on the floor up ahead. Another trap.

The flared metal seemed to bring him clarity, helping him push back the muddled sensation. Blood loss. He was fading quickly. Still, a shade more alert, he saw those sentries for what they were. Corpses. Seated, somehow, draped in warm clothing. He passed the first row of them and looked in on frozen faces, shriveled with the passing of time but remarkably well preserved. Each held a mask in its lap. They sat in four concentric rings, looking at the light up ahead.

Here, the ones who had built this place had died. Then how … how had word of the key to the door been passed on.…

Wax crawled among the huddled dead, frozen despite their warm clothing. He could imagine them seated here, waiting for the end, as the heat in their metalminds dwindled. The cold, creeping in as night does after sunset, a final, consuming darkness.

And ahead, another pedestal. Smaller, carved of white rock. A simple light glowing on its top revealed a set of metal bracers. No fancy trimmings here, just the silent reverence of the dead.

Something sounded behind him, a scrape of boots on stone; then a light flooded the room from there.

“Waxillium?” Edwarn’s voice called.

Wax huddled down.

“I know you’re here, son,” Edwarn said. “That’s quite the trail of blood you’re leaving. This is over, as you must realize.”

He’s an Allomancer now, Wax thought, remembering what Edwarn had done to Marasi’s gun. The man carried a pistol, the aluminum one that Telsin had used.

Telsin … How long had she been working with them? He hated that he’d guessed, hated that his first instinct – even if he’d been right – had been to pull a gun on his only sibling. It just made too much sense. She’d caused Wayne to knock the backpack out the door. She’d killed the brute in the warehouse, when he’d been about to speak – potentially addressing her, outing her as a member of the Set.

Suit wouldn’t … wouldn’t have come into the temple with them unless he had the upper hand.…

He needed to stay focused. Edwarn was approaching. Wax was tempted to Push a bullet toward the man, but held himself back. Edwarn raised the light, illuminating the vast emptiness and looking slowly around himself. He didn’t seem to have spotted Wax, and the bodies all had some metal on them, so Edwarn’s steelsight wouldn’t reveal Wax. But the blood trail would soon betray him.

Still, Wax waited. He bowed himself, huddling down in the line of figures, imitating their stooped postures.

Have to get those bracers …

He’d get shot before he could reach them. If he could even make it that distance without passing out.

“I did try to protect you,” Suit said.

“What did you do to my sister?” Wax demanded, his voice echoing in the darkness.

Suit smiled, walking forward, scanning the bodies. If he could draw the man closer …

“I didn’t do anything to her,” Suit said. “Son, she recruited me.”

“Lies,” Wax hissed.

“The old world is dying, Waxillium!” Edwarn said. “I told you that a new one will soon be born, a world where men like you don’t belong.”

“I can find my place in a world of airships.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Suit said. “I’m talking about the secrets, Waxillium. The world where constables exist only to make people feel secure. It will be a world of shadows, of hidden government. The shift is already happening. Those who rule these days are not the men who smile at crowds and make speeches.”

Edwarn moved around a corpse, then followed Wax’s blood trail with his eyes. Only a few more steps.

“The day of kings has passed,” Edwarn said. “The day of mighty men to be worshiped has gone, and with its passing goes the right of Allomancers to power. No more will their gifts hinge on the whims of fate. Instead, the powers will come to those who deserve them. Who can use them.”

He raised his foot to step, then hesitated, looking down. He grinned, moving his foot backward and making Wax’s heart fall. “Trying to goad me into stepping onto the trap? Such a brash plan, Waxillium.” He glanced upward. “Looks like it’s rigged to drop this entire section of ceiling. You’d be caught in it too.”

Edwarn turned and looked right at where Wax was sitting, trying to hide among the corpses.

Wax raised his head. “It would have been worth the cost.” He still had his shotgun, but doubted he had the strength to use it. Instead, kneeling, he held out a single bloodied hand, clutching a bullet in it. “Shall we see how good you are, Uncle?”

A duel. Perhaps he could win a duel.

Edwarn regarded him, then shook his head. “I think not.”

He stepped on the pressure plate, triggering the trap.

Telsin marched Marasi and the others out of the temple. And, once they were outside, Telsin reached to Marasi’s arm and ripped free the medallion there.

Marasi gasped, clutching her purse as the cold descended upon her like a swarm of insects, nipping at every bit of exposed skin. Her dress suddenly seemed flimsy, useless. She might as well have been naked. Telsin repeated the process for Steris, then reached for Allik’s arm.

“Please,” Marasi said. “He–”

Telsin grabbed the medallion. Allik tried to pull away, but one of the guards cuffed him across the face, cracking his mask and sending him to the snowy ground. The guard reached down, ripping off the medallion.

Allik gasped loudly, huddling on the cold stone. Beyond them, the field was a flurry of activity. Tents flapped in the wind, and men scurried around the fallen Hunter airship. A group of people in masks were being marched across the field to a particularly large tent – so, Allik’s crewmates were still alive.

One man with a red uniform beneath his thick coat hiked up the steps. “Lady Sequence,” he said to Telsin as he reached the top. “We’ve located what we think must be the weapon.”

“The Bands?” Marasi asked.

Telsin looked at her drolly. “The Bands were a possibility. An engaging one, yes, and I will not deny my disappointment. Irich will be particularly displeased. But we didn’t come here for them.”

The airship, Marasi realized, looking toward it. Bearing a bomb intended to destroy the temple.

A bomb that had never been used. Men moved about the large airship, investigating it. This was what Suit and the others had come for.

Marasi stepped forward, but one of the guards grabbed her while another dug in her purse to check for anything dangerous. Another batted Steris’s notebook from her fingers, then began to frisk Steris none too gently.

“The ship is in good repair despite the elements, Sequence,” the soldier told Telsin as Marasi watched helplessly. “It didn’t crash as the other one did.”

“Excellent,” Telsin said. “Let’s see if that thing has any of the powering metal left in it.” She started down the steps, her warming medallion letting her ignore the freezing cold. She seemed like a spirit in her sleek, airy gown beside men in full winter gear. She hesitated, looking back at Marasi and the others.

“Search them thoroughly,” she informed the men. “I sensed faint metal from the older woman, but it’s gone now. Her notebook must have metal bindings. I don’t believe that they have any aluminum guns – besides the one that Waxillium had. Either way, keep watch on them. They’re insurance against the short one, who is still out here somewhere.”

The roof fell in on them.

Wax shouted, diving toward the pedestal and the two simple bracers. Suit took a different tack; he Pushed himself back away from the bracers, out of the path of the stones.

Rock hit Wax like a fist slamming him to the ground. Bones crunched inside of him. He gasped, but got a mouthful of dust.

He knew how bad it was when the pain faded. As the dust settled, he found he couldn’t move any part of his body. A weight rested on his back, pinning him with his head to the side. One of his hands hung within his view, the fingers mangled. He couldn’t feel them. Nothing. Just his face. Enough to feel the tears of pain and failure on his cheeks.

Steel. He tried burning it.

He felt a few wisps of it inside of him, a warmth that became the only thing he could sense.

Rubble shifted nearby, and rocks clattered. A second later Suit appeared, a cut in his arm resealing. He dusted himself off and glanced at Wax.

“The trouble with Hemalurgy is in its limitations,” he said. “If you kill a man and steal his Metallic abilities, the resulting gift to you is weakened. Did you know that? What’s more, if you spike yourself too much, you become subject to Harmony’s … interference. Indeed, by the stories, you might open yourself to the interference of any idiot Soother or Rioter with enough talent.” He shook his head. “I am limited to three boons, even if we have discovered how to make someone else be weak, while we gain the benefit.”

He glanced toward the bracers. “But if there is a way to gain more powers, and not be subject to Harmony … now that would be something. I see why Telsin was so eager.”

He left Wax, passing the frozen corpses of the dead masked ones, bits of them sticking from beneath fallen rocks. Crushed. Some even looked to have shattered.

Suit stepped up to the pedestal. “Behold me, Waxillium. Today, I become a god.”

Wax tried to cry out, but his lungs wouldn’t hold enough air. He tried to heave himself free, but his body no longer worked. He was dying. Though steel burned fitfully inside of him, he was dying.

No. He was already dead. His body just hadn’t quite realized it yet.

Suit held the Bands. Wax twisted his head as best he could, pinned as he was, to see it. The bearded man smiled broadly, waiting.

Nothing happened.

Suit strained, his face darkening. Then he turned the bracers around, looking them over. He put them on.

Still, nothing happened.

“Drained,” he said with disgust. “After all this, we find them empty of attributes. What a waste.” He sighed, then walked over to Wax, sliding the aluminum gun from his pocket. “I have no doubt that Irich’s scientists will be able to puzzle out how the Bands were made. Take that thought with you into the eternities, Waxillium. Be sure to shake Ironeyes’s hand for me. I intend to never meet him.”

He pressed the gun against Wax’s head.

And then something slammed into Suit. The man cried out, and a scuffle followed, along with the gun discharging. Suit cursing. Feet on stone.

A second later, Wayne scrambled into view. He knelt beside Wax and looked him over, seeming horrified.

“Wayne,” Wax croaked. “How…?”

“Ah, ’s nothing,” his partner said. “Slipped out and fell down another of those holes. That one ended in spikes, I’m afraid. But I was able to heal up and climb out, once the soldiers had passed, then slip into this pit. You picked a better hole to fall in than I did, for sure.”

“Suit…”

“He ran,” Wayne said. “Didn’t want to face me himself, not with me healing. Right cowardly, that one.…” He trailed off, looking down at Wax’s body, pinned by the rock. “I–”

“Find Steris and Marasi,” Wax croaked. “Help them escape.”

“Wax,” he said, shaking his head. “No. No. I can’t do this without you.”

“Yes you can. Fight.”

“Not that part,” Wayne said. “The rest of it. Livin’. We … we’ll get you out of this.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then looked at the stone on top of Wax, then down at the blood pooling beneath.

Then he sat back, running his hands through his hair, eyes wide, as if in shock. Wax tried to urge him on, but his lips wouldn’t move.

Not enough strength.

Marasi huddled on the cold ground with Steris and Allik, surrounded by armed men who searched their possessions. It was still night out here, but sunrise had to be close.

Waxillium would have found a way out of this.

Stop comparing yourself to him, she thought. Is it any wonder you stand in his shadow, when that’s all you can see yourself doing?

She needed to solve this. A dozen plans ran through her head, all stupid. The guard nearby still had her purse.

ReLuur’s spike, it might be in there. Since it was Hemalurgically Invested, it might not have registered to the eyes of an Allomancer looking for metals on her. The guard dumped the purse out, spilling the contents onto the cold stone.

No spike. Instead, among her notebooks and handkerchiefs tumbled a palm-sized wedge of metal. The aluminum spearhead from the statue?

Wayne, I’m going to … She gritted her teeth. When had he swapped her for the spike? That man!

“I searched that purse already,” another guard noted. “No weapons.”

“Well then, what’s this?” the first guard said, picking up the wedge-shaped piece of aluminum.

The second guard snorted. “You’re welcome to try to kill someone with that if you want. It’s dull.”

Marasi wilted, feeling stupid. Even if she had the spike, what would she do? She couldn’t overpower armed guards.

Then what could she do?

Someone fell through the sky and thumped to the ground nearby. She perked up, thinking it must be Waxillium. Instead it was Suit, clothing ripped and dusty, carrying a gun. The guards saluted, the one with her purse dropping it and the metal wedge. One of her glass makeup jars rolled away.

Poor Allik huddled beside Steris. He’d stopped shivering, and his skin was turning blue. Steris met her eyes, and looked resigned.

Suit strode past. He looked far more intimidating dropping through the air using Allomantic abilities than he had bundled up for the weather and standing on the steps of the temple.

“Is my brother dead?” Telsin demanded, turning from her group of engineers nearby.

“Yes,” Suit said. “Though I encountered the short one.”

“You killed him?”

“Left him distracted,” Suit said. “I thought you’d want to see what I found.” He held up something that gleamed in the powerful lights the crew had set up. Two silvery bracers, each as long as a forearm. “There was a hidden chamber down there, Sequence. And my, what a secret it contained.”

Telsin shoved between her scientists and scrambled up to Suit. She took the bracers, awed.

“They don’t work,” Suit noted.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re out of attributes, I think. Their reserves gone.”

“But they grant Allomancy too,” Telsin said, putting them on and waving toward one of the guards, who tossed her a vial of metals. She downed it, eager.

“Well?” Suit asked.

“Nothing.”

A decoy, Marasi thought. Like the glass case and the empty pedestal … yes, that had been one too. She could see now why Waxillium had been doing his measuring.

Waxillium. He couldn’t really be …

No. What could she do? Not fight. But think. These Bands were a decoy. A second layer of falsehood to confuse intruders.

So where were the real ones?

Candles in a dark room.

They’re another decoy, Wax thought, mind muddled. Those bracers were too perfect, just like the stories. They were left to fool us.

Like the symbols of Wax’s old adversary, painted on the door of a mansion. Meant to distract. Delay.

This place was made for the Lord Ruler, Wax thought. Those traps … those traps are stupid. What if one did catch him? The whole thing has to be a decoy.

So what? There was another temple out there? Maybe they had hidden it in a cave?

He could barely see anymore. Wayne held his hand, tears streaming down his face. Everything was fading. The cold … coming … like darkness …

No, Wax thought, it wouldn’t be somewhere else. He’d need to be able to find it. He’d recognize it.…

It was.

It was here!

Wax gasped, and tried to form the words, eyes wide. Wayne gripped his hand, knuckles white.

He couldn’t feel it.

The darkness arrived, and Wax died.

28

Wax stilled.

Wayne let the hand fall limp. He wanted to just sit here. Stare at nothing like those fellows in rows nearby, the ones that weren’t crushed. Sit and become nothing.

All his life, only one man had believed in him. Only one man had forgiven him, had encouraged him. The rest of this damned race could burn away and become ash, for all Wayne cared. He hated them all.

But … what would Wax say?

He left me, the bastard, Wayne thought, wiping his eyes. In that moment, he hated Wax too. But then, Wayne loved him more than the hatred. He growled, and stumbled to his feet. He had no weapons; he’d dropped his dueling canes above.

He stared at Wax’s body, then knelt and felt along the man’s leg. He got ahold of something and yanked it free. The shotgun.

Wayne’s hands immediately started shaking.

“You stop that,” he hissed at them. “We’re done with that.”

He cocked the shotgun, then went looking for a way out of this tomb.

The whole temple is a decoy, Marasi thought, trembling in the cold. So where are the actual Bands?

The place was built for the Lord Ruler, who would supposedly return to claim his weapon. Where would you put that weapon?

He’d know what it looked like, Marasi thought. He built it. We think it was in the shape of bracers, but it didn’t have to be. Could be anything.

That would be smart, if you were making a weapon. These metalminds, you had to know what they did before they worked. You could protect yourself, so only someone who knew what to look for could use your weapon.

And in that case, the people who built the temple could have left the weapon where the returning Lord Ruler would see it, but everyone else would pass right by, digging farther into the temple to encounter traps, pits, and decoys – all designed to either kill them or convince them that they’d successfully robbed the place.

Where did you put the weapon? On the doorstep, under the sign of the Sovereign himself, in his very own hand. Marasi turned, frantic, searching out the oversized spearhead.

It lay right beside her, where the guard had dropped it. Waxillium had called it aluminum because he couldn’t sense it, but he hadn’t looked closely enough.

If he had, he’d have seen it was made of different interwoven metals, wavy, like the folds forged into the blade of a sword. He couldn’t Push on it, not because it was aluminum.

But because it was a metalmind, stored with more power than any they’d ever seen.

Around Wax, everything became misty and indistinct. The cavern, the rocks, the ground itself – all just mist. He could stand on it somehow.

Harmony stepped up beside Wax in the misty darkness. They fell in beside one another, walking as was natural for men to do. God looked much as Wax had always imagined Him. Tall, peaceful, hands laced before Himself. Face like a long oval, serene and human, though He towed behind Him a cloak of timelessness. Wax could see it, trailing after. Storms and winds, clouds and rain, deserts and forests, all reflected somehow in this creature’s wake. His robe was the Terris V pattern, where each V was not a color, but an age. A strata of time, like those of a deep rock uncovered.

“They say,” Wax said softly, “that You come to all people when they die.”

“It is a duty I consider to be among my most sacred,” Harmony said. “Even with other pressing matters, I find time to take this walk.” He had a quiet voice, familiar to Wax. Like that of a forgotten friend.

“I’m dead then.”

“Yes,” Harmony said. “Your body, mind, and soul have separated. Soon one will return to the earth, another to the cosmere, and the third … Even I do not know.”

Wax continued walking. The shadowy cavern vanished, and Wax had a feeling of blurring. Mists became darkness, and all he could see was a distant light, like the sun below the horizon.

“If You can take time to walk with us,” Wax said, bitter, “why not come a little earlier? Why not stop the walk before it must begin?”

“Should I prevent all hardship, Waxillium?”

“I know where this is going,” Wax said. “I know what You’re going to say. You value choice. Everyone theorizes about it. But You can help. You’ve done it before, in placing me where I needed to go. You intervene. So why not intervene more? Prevent children from being killed. Make certain that constables arrive in time to stop deaths. You don’t have to take away choice, but You could do more. I know You could.”

He left the last part unsaid.

You could have saved her. Or at least told me what I was doing.

Harmony nodded. It felt bizarre to be demanding things, but rusts … if this was the end, Wax wanted a few answers.

“What is it to be God, Waxillium?” Harmony asked.

“I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.”

“It is not one I ever thought I’d have to answer either,” Harmony said. “But obviously, it has been forced upon me. You would have me intervene and stop the murders of innocents. I could do this. I have considered it. If I were to stop every one, what then? Do I stop maimings as well?”

“Of course,” Wax said.

“And where do I hold back, Waxillium? Do I prevent all wounds, or do I prevent only those caused by evil people? Do I stop a man from falling asleep so that he will not tip a candle and burn down his house? Do I stop all harm that could ever befall a person?”

“Maybe.”

“And once nobody is ever hurt,” Harmony said, “will people be satisfied? Will they not pray to me and ask for more? Will some people still curse and spit at the sound of my name because they are poor, while another is rich? Should I mitigate this, make everyone the same, Waxillium?”

“I won’t be caught in this trap,” Wax said. “You’re the God, not me. You can find a line where You prevent the worst. You can find a line where You’re stopping the worst that is reasonable, while still letting us live our lives.”

The light ahead suddenly rolled outward, and Wax found that they’d been rounding a planet. They stood high above it, and had stepped from darkness into sunlight, which let Wax see the world below, bathed in a calm, cool light.

Beyond that hung a haze of red. All around, pressing in upon the world. He could feel it choking him, a miasma of dread and destruction.

“Perhaps,” Harmony said softly, “I have already done just as you suggest. You do not see it, because the worst never reaches you.”

“What is it?” Wax asked, trying to take in that vast redness. It beat inward, but he could see something, a thin strip of light – like a bubble around the world – stopping it.

“A representation,” Harmony said. “A crude one, perhaps.” He looked to Wax and smiled, like a father at a wide-eyed child.

“We’re not done with our conversation,” Wax said. “You let her die. You let me kill her.”

“And how long,” Harmony asked softly, “must you hate yourself for that?”

Wax clenched his jaw, but couldn’t force down the trembling that took him. He lived it again, holding her as she died. Knowing he’d killed her.

That hatred seethed inside of him. Hatred for Harmony. Hatred for the world.

And yes. Hatred for himself.

“Why?” Wax asked.

“Because you demanded it of me.”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes. A part of you did. An eventuality I can see, one of many possible Waxilliums, all you – yet not set. Know yourself, Waxillium. Would you have had another kill her? Someone she didn’t know?”

“No,” he whispered.

“Would you have had her live on, a slave in her mind? Corrupted by that cursed spike that would forever leave her scarred, even if replaced?”

“No.” He was crying.

“And if you had known,” Harmony said, holding his eyes, “that you’d never have been able to pull that trigger unless your eyes were veiled? If you’d realized what knowledge of the truth would do to you – stilling your hand and trapping her in an endless prison of madness – what would you have asked of me?”

“Don’t tell me,” Wax whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

The silence seemed to stretch until eternity.

“I am sorry,” Harmony said with a gentle voice, “for your pain. I am sorry for what you did, what we had to do. But I am not sorry for making you do what had to be done.”

Wax opened his eyes.

“And when I hold back, staying my hand from protecting those below,” Harmony said, “I must do it out of trust in what people can do on their own.” He glanced toward the red haze. “And because I have other problems to occupy me.”

“You didn’t tell me what it was,” Wax said.

“That is because I do not know.”

“That … frightens me.”

Harmony looked to him. “It should.”

Down below, a tiny spark flickered on one of the landmasses. Wax blinked. He’d seen it, despite the incredible distance.

“What was that?” he asked.

Harmony smiled. “Trust.”

Marasi clutched the spearhead in two hands.

And tapped everything.

Power flooded into her, lighting her up like an inferno. Snow hung motionless in the air. She stood up and reached to the belt of one of her captors, removing one of his vials of metal. She took them all, several from each guard, and drank them. She was tapping a metalmind, letting her move at a speed so fast that when she lifted her hand, she could briefly see the pocket of vacuum left behind. She smiled.

Then she burned her metals. All of them.

In that one transcendent moment, she felt herself change, expand. She felt the Lord Ruler’s own power, stored in the Bands of Mourning – the spearhead clutched in her fingers – surge through her, and she felt she would burst. It was as if an ocean of light had suddenly been pumped into her arteries and veins.

Blue lines exploded from her, first pointing at metals, then multiplying, changing, transforming. She saw through it all, everything in blue. There were no people or objects, just energy coalesced. The metals shone brilliantly, as if they were holes into someplace different. Concentrated essence, providing a pathway to power.

She was using the reserves with startling quickness. She slowed her speed, and for some reason the people beside her jumped, holding their ears. She cocked her head, then PUSHED.

The Push flung the guards a good fifty feet. That left her facing Suit and Telsin, who regarded her with horrified expressions. They were glowing energy to her, but she recognized them. They had spikes inside of them.

Convenient. Those spikes resisted Pushes, but not enough to bother Marasi now. She lifted a hand and flung both of them away by the very metals they’d used to pierce themselves.

All around, guards grabbed guns and turned on her. She swept them backward, then lifted herself off the ground, Pushing on the trace minerals in the stone beneath her.

She hung there, and was surprised to see something spinning around her. Mist? Where was it coming from?

Me, she realized.

She hovered in the sky, flush with power. In that moment, she was the Ascendant Warrior. She held the fullness of what Waxillium had barely tasted his whole life. She could be him, eclipse him. She could bring justice to entire peoples. Holding it all within her, having it and measuring it, she finally admitted the truth to herself.

This isn’t what I want.

She would not let her childhood dreams hold sway over her any longer. She smiled, then threw herself through the air in a Push toward the temple.

Steris watched her sister fly away.

“Unexpected,” she said. And here she assumed she’d been prepared for anything. Marasi starting to glow, throwing people around with Allomancy as if they were dolls, then streaking away and leaving a trail of mist … well, that hadn’t been on the list. It hadn’t even made the appendix.

She looked down at poor Allik, so cold he’d stopped shivering. “I shall have to enlarge my projections of what is plausible during activities such as this, don’t you think?”

He mumbled something in his language. “Foralate men!” He waved his hand in a gesture. “Forsalvin!”

“Telling me to flee without you?” Steris said, walking over and retrieving her notebook. “Yes, running while they are all confused would be wise, but I don’t plan to leave yet.” She opened the notebook, which she’d hollowed out with Wax’s knife in the rear of the skimmer, while Marasi was talking with Allik up front and the others slept. “Did you know that when I evaluated everyone’s usefulness on this expedition, I gave myself a seven out of a hundred? Not very high, yes, but I couldn’t reasonably give myself the lowest mark possible. I do have my uses.”

She turned the large notebook, showing an extra medallion from the skimmer’s emergency store settled protectively into the gouged-out section she’d made.

She smiled at Allik, pulled it free, and pressed it into his hand. He let out a long, relieved sigh, and the blown snow that had stuck to his face melted away.

Nearby, soldiers were regaining their feet and shouting to one another.

“And now,” Steris said, “I think your earlier suggestion has merit.”

“Now what?” Wax asked Harmony. “I fade off into nothing?”

“I don’t believe it’s nothing,” God said. “There is something beyond. Though perhaps my belief is merely my own desire wishing it to be so.”

“You are not encouraging me. Aren’t You omnipotent?”

“Hardly,” Harmony said, smiling. “But I believe that parts of me could be.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It won’t until I make it do so,” Harmony said, extending His hands to either side. “In answer to your question, however, you don’t fade just yet. Though soon. Right now, you make a choice.”

Wax looked from one of the deity’s hands to the other. “Does everyone get this choice?”

“Their choices are different.” He proffered His hands to Wax, as if offering them for him to take.

“I don’t see the choice.”

“My right hand,” Harmony said, “is freedom. You can feel it, I think.”

And he could. Soaring, released from all bonds, riding upon lines of blue light. Adventure into the unknown, seeking only the fulfillment of his own curiosity. It was glorious. It was what he’d always wanted, and its lure thrummed through him.

Freedom.

Wax gasped. “What … what is the other one?”

Harmony held up His left hand, and Wax heard something. A voice?

“Wax?” it said.

Yes, a frantic voice. Feminine.

“Wax, you have to know what it does. It will heal you, Wax. Waxillium! Please…”

“That hand,” Wax said, looking at it. “That hand is duty, isn’t it?”

“No, Waxillium,” Harmony said gently. “Although that is how you’ve seen it. Duty or freedom. Burden or adventure. You were always the one who made the right choice, when others played. And so you resent it.”

“No I don’t,” Wax said.

Harmony smiled. The understanding in His face was infuriating.

“This hand,” Harmony said, “is not duty. It is but a different adventure.”

“Wax…” the voice said from below, choked with emotion. It belonged to Marasi. “You have to tap the metalmind.”

Wax reached toward the left hand, and Harmony – shockingly – pulled it away. “Are you certain?”

“I have to.”

“Do you?”

“I have to. It’s who I am.”

“Then perhaps,” Harmony said, “you should stop hating that, my son.” He extended the hand.

Wax hesitated. “Tell me one thing first.”

“If it is within my means.”

“Did she come here? When she passed?”

Harmony smiled. “She asked me to look after you.”

Wax seized the left hand with his own. He was immediately pulled toward something, like air being sucked through a hole. Warmth bathed him; then it became a fire. Pulling breath into his lungs, he screamed, heaving, throwing the boulder off. It clattered to the side, and he found himself in the low-roofed chamber beneath the temple.

Such strength! He hadn’t thrown that rock with muscles, but with steel. His body reknit even as he launched himself to his feet by Pushing on tiny traces of metal in the ground beneath him. He landed and looked down at his left hand. The one that had been dangling, broken, before his face as he died.

Clutched in it was an oversized spearhead crafted from sixteen different metals melded together. He looked up from it and toward Marasi, who regarded him with tearstained eyes, but a broad smile.

“You found it,” Wax said.

She nodded eagerly. “Just took a little old-fashioned detective work.”

“You saved me,” Wax said.

Rust and Ruin … such power. He felt as if he could level cities or build them up anew.

“Suit and your sister are outside,” Marasi said. “I left the others there. I don’t– Well, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I was thinking too much. Here.” She handed him a vial of metals.

Wax took it, then held up the Bands. “You could have done this yourself.”

“No,” Marasi said. “I couldn’t have.”

“But–”

“I couldn’t have,” Marasi said. “It just … isn’t me.” She shrugged. “Does that make sense?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He flexed his hand around the Bands.

“Go,” Marasi said. “Do what you do best, Waxillium Ladrian.”

“Which is what? Break things?”

“Break things,” Marasi said, “with style.”

He grinned, then downed the vial of metals.

29

“Waxillium’s followers have the Bands!” Suit whispered to himself as he crossed the dark, stony field. Snow had begun falling – a bitter, icy snow, nothing like the soft flakes he’d occasionally seen in the eastern Basin. “It is a crisis. They will be coming for us. We must move up our timetables!”

He chewed on the words, mulling them over as he pulled his coat tight. Warming device notwithstanding, that wind was annoying.

Would they buy his argument? No, not dire enough.

“Waxillium and his people have the Bands!” he whispered to himself. “This will undoubtedly let the kandra devise the means of creating metalminds anyone can use. We must move up our timetables and seize Elendel now, or we will find ourselves technologically outmatched!”

Yes. Yes, that was the idea. Even the most careful of the Series would be distressed by the prospect of being technologically outmaneuvered. This would convince them to give him the leeway he desired.

Anything could be an advantage. He’d wanted the Bands for himself, but in lieu of that, he’d find something else.

Suit always found the advantage.

He passed soldiers scurrying about and unloading weapons on the frozen plain of rock. They’d planned for a potential fight here, as he’d worried he might encounter more of the masked savages.

“Sir!” one of the men called. “Orders?”

He gestured toward the sky. “If anyone other than the Sequence drops from the air or approaches your position, shoot them. Then keep shooting, even after they are down.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier said, waving to a group of his men. He turned toward an empty rack, then paused. “My rifle? Who took my rifle!”

Suit continued on past, tossing the fake Bands of Mourning into the snow and leaving the troops to – hopefully – slow down Waxillium’s minions. He eagerly marched aboard the new airship. Now this device, this was an advantage. The Bands could serve one man, make a deity out of him. A fleet of ships like this could deify an entire army.

The wooden hallway inside had gaslights set into lamps with austere metal housings. It was all distinctly plainer than the ship that had crashed in Dulsing – the wood here was unornamented, unpolished. The other ship had felt decorated like a den. This one, a warehouse.

Probably cheaper to build this way, he thought, nodding his head in approval.

Footsteps clattered above as men charged through one of the corridors on another deck, and Suit brushed the snow from his arms as a technician ran up to him, bearing the red uniform of the Set’s Hidden Guard.

“My lord,” the man said, proffering one of the medallions. “You’ll need this.”

Suit took it and rolled up his sleeve to strap it to his upper arm. “Is this ship operational?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir! The machinery is operational, sheltered as it was from the weather. Sir … it’s amazing. You can feel the energy pulsing off that metal. We did have to send men out to unclog the fans – a few of the Coinshots helped – and we have them moving now. Fed is down below, priming the weight-changing machinery with her Feruchemy, to lighten the ship. That should be the last step!”

“Then lift us off,” Suit said, walking toward where he assumed the bridge would be found.

“My lord Suit?” the man called after him. “Aren’t we waiting for the Sequence?”

He hesitated only briefly. Where had she gotten to?

Another advantage? he thought. He could stand being Sequence.

“She will join us aloft if she can,” he said. “Our priority is to get this ship, and its secrets, to a secure location.”

As the technician saluted and ran to obey, Suit filled his medallion, becoming lighter. So much easier than getting his spikes had been. It was hard not to feel that their experiments in Hemalurgy had been a waste, a dead end.

The ship quivered, and the fans started up with a much louder sound than he had expected. Before he reached the bridge, the thing rocked, and he heard ice cracking above the sound of the fans. He leaned over to a porthole, looking out as the ground retreated.

It worked. Immediately, implications flooded his mind. Travel. Shipping. Warfare. New regions could be settled. New types of buildings and docks would be needed.

It would all flow through him.

He suppressed a smile – best to celebrate after he was safely away – but he could not stop the heady sensation. The Set had been planning for events a century or more away, putting careful plots into motion at his suggestion. He was proud of those, but truth be told, he’d rather they rule in his lifetime.

And with this, he could do so.

Jordis huddled in the tent, watching her crew die.

It had been long coming, this death. The last ember of the fire, refusing to give up its spark. During the terrible march through the dead rain, her people had been given tiny sips of warmth from a metalmind. Enough to barely keep them alive, like plants locked in a dark shed for most of the day.

But now, in this place, the cold was too pervasive – and the hardships of the march too devastating. She crawled among her crew and whispered encouragement, though she could no longer feel her fingers or toes. Most of the men and women of the ship couldn’t even nod. A few had started removing their clothing, complaining of heat. Chillfever had struck them.

Not long now. The maskless devils seemed to know this; they’d posted only a single guard at the tent. Her people could have snuck away out the back, perhaps. But what would they sneak toward? Death outside in the winds rather than death inside here?

How do the maskless survive it? she wondered. They must be devils indeed, born of the frost itself, to be so capable of withstanding the cold.

Jordis knelt beside Petrine, the enginemaster and eldest of her crew. How had the woman survived so long? She was by no means feeble, but she was past her sixth decade. Petrine lifted her hand and gripped Jordis’s arm – though her wrinkled eyes were shadowed by the mask, Jordis needed no gesture or expression to know Petrine’s emotions.

“Do we attack?” Petrine asked.

“For what purpose?”

“We could die by their weapons instead of the cold.”

Wise, those words. Perhaps they could–

A loud thump came from outside the tent. Jordis found her feet, surprisingly, though most of the others remained huddling where they lay. The front of the tent burst open and a man with a familiar – but broken – mask appeared there.

Impossible. Was the chillfever striking her too?

The man raised his mask and displayed a bearded, youthful face. “I am sorry to have come in unannounced,” Allik said. “But I bear gifts, as is traditional for visiting someone’s house unannounced, yes?”

He held up a gloved fist, which clutched a bundle of medallions by their cords.

Jordis looked from the medallions to young Allik, then back. For once she didn’t even care about how free he was with raising his mask. She stumbled to him, seizing one of them, unable to believe.

The wonderful warmth ran through her, like a sunrise within. She sighed in relief, her mind clearing. It was him. “How?” she whispered.

“I,” Allik proclaimed, “have made friends with some of the devils.” He gestured to the side and a female maskless one almost toppled in, wearing one of the long dresses that were popular here, carrying an armful of rifles.

She said something in her language, dropping the guns to the floor of the tent and dusting off her hands.

“I think she wants us to start shooting the other ones,” Allik said as Jordis quickly grabbed the other medallions and began distributing them to the most severely afflicted of her people. “I, for one, am more than happy to oblige.”

Petrine continued the distribution as Jordis armed herself with one of the guns. Though the warmth was wonderful, she still felt weak, and she didn’t want to look in her boots to see if her toes had frostbite. “I don’t know that we will put up much of a fight.”

“Better than no fight at all, yes, Captain?” Allik asked.

“This is true,” Jordis admitted, and made a sign of respect, touching her right shoulder with her left hand, then lowering her hand to touch her wrist. “You did well. Almost I forgive you for your terrible dancing.” She turned to Petrine. “Arm the men and women with these weapons. Let’s kill as many of the devils as we can.”

Wax ripped from the temple in a burst of might and Allomancy. He spun above the building, rocks flung by his explosive exit tumbling in the air around him, trailing mist. Below, a storm of gunfire broke out on the previously quiet mountainside, though they weren’t firing at him.

Above it, an airship lumbered through the sky, fans whirring powerfully on its two pontoons. It was awesome to behold, but the ship was obviously not spry. It moved with the ponderous motions of something very large, and very heavy – even with the weight reduction granted by the medallions.

Wax was tempted to crush the ship. Push the nails from their mountings, rip the thing apart in a storm of destruction, dumping Suit and his traitorous sister to the frozen ground below. He almost did it. But … rusts. He wasn’t an executioner. He was a lawman. He’d rather die than betray that.

Well, die again.

He dropped, then used the trace metals in the stonework of the temple as an anchor to send himself soaring across the ground in a swoop. A few of the soldiers below took halfhearted shots at him, but most seemed engrossed in a gunfight with a group of people in masks who had taken up a position behind a rocky shelf.

Steris, Allik, Wax thought, identifying them. Good.

He landed among the soldiers and flung them aside. He grabbed an aluminum pistol from one of their racks, loaded it, then waved to the masked people before hurling himself into the sky after the airship.

He was strong. Incredibly strong. The Bands, still clutched in his left hand, somehow gave him not just Allomancy, but ancient Allomancy. The potency of those who had lived long ago, during the time of the Lord Ruler. Perhaps even more. Was that possible?

What did you create? he wondered. And how long will it last?

His resources were diminishing. Not merely the metals inside of him, but the reserves stored inside the Bands. Stores that changed his level of Investiture.

He should have held back, he knew – reserved it for study, or for use in a future emergency – but rusts it was intoxicating. He reached the airship easily, despite only having a few shell casings to Push upon below. He soared up and landed on the ship’s nose, then smashed his hand through one of the windows to the bridge, any cuts healing immediately.

Inside, Suit sat alone. There was no sign of pilots, technicians, or servants. Just a wide, half-oval deck, not even carpeted, and Suit in a chair.

Wax climbed in and raised the aluminum pistol. His boots thumped on the wood. He did a quick scan. People in the hallway outside, he thought. And a bit of metal in Suit’s mouth. The old coin-in-the-mouth trick, a way to hide metal from an Allomancer. Anything inside the body was very hard to sense.

Unless you were bearing the very powers of creation, that is.

“And so,” Suit said, lighting his pipe, “our confrontation comes at long last.”

“Not much of a confrontation,” Wax said, still alight with power. “I could destroy you a hundred different ways right now, Uncle.”

“I don’t doubt that you could,” Suit said, shaking out his match, then puffing on the pipe. Trying to hide the coin. Talking around a pipe let him have a reason to sound odd. “And here I can only destroy you one way.”

Wax leveled his pistol.

Suit looked right at it and smiled. “Do you know why I’ve always beaten you, Nephew?”

“You haven’t beaten me,” Wax said. “You’ve refused to fight. That is an entirely different thing.”

“But sometimes the only way to win is to refuse to fight.”

Wax strode forward, wary of traps. He thought faster, moved faster than normal. The blue lines spread from him as a brilliant web, seeking sources of metal smaller – and farther away – than he could normally sense. At times this seemed to flicker, and for a moment he saw the radiance inside of each person and thing. It felt as if he might be able to move those too.

An awed voice in the back of his mind whispered, They’re all the same. Metal, minds, men, all the same substance.…

“What have you done, Uncle?” Wax asked softly.

“And here I must answer my own question,” Edwarn said, shaking his head and standing. “I beat you, Waxillium, not because of preparation – though it is extensive. I beat you not because of wit or strength of arm, but because of a unique ability of mine. Creativity.”

“You’re going to bludgeon me with paintings?”

“Always quick with a wry comment!” Suit said. “Bravo.”

“What have you done?”

“I armed the bomb,” Suit said. “It is set to explode in mere moments. Unless I stop it.”

“Let it explode,” Wax said, holding up the Bands – metallic strata weaving across the triangular chunk of metal. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive it.”

“And those below?” Suit asked. “Your friends? My captives? From the sounds of it, they’re fighting quite vigorously for their freedom. How sad it will be to see them vaporized by an explosion I’ve been told should be enough to destroy a large city all on its–”

Wax increased the speed of his thoughts, tapping zinc. He sorted through a dozen scenarios. Find the explosives and Push them away? How far could he get them? Would Suit detonate the bomb before he could arrive?

His speed of body was nearly tapped out – Marasi must have used that in getting to him – so yes, Suit would have time, though would he actually do it? Would he blow himself up, along with this ship, to defeat Wax?

If this were an ordinary criminal, Wax would have bet strongly against it. Unfortunately, Suit and the Set in general had demonstrated a level of fanaticism he had not expected. Like the way Miles had acted as he was executed. These people were not just thugs and thieves; they were political reformers, slaves to an ideal.

What else? What else could Wax do? He discarded scenario after scenario. Get Marasi and the others to safety: too slow. Shoot Suit now: the man could heal himself, and Wax might not have time to get to the bomb and remove it before the blast happened anyway. Push the ship upward? He wouldn’t be able to do that fast enough; unless he Pushed slowly, he’d rip the vessel apart.

“–own,” Suit said.

“What do you want?” Wax demanded. “I’m not going to let you go.”

“You don’t need to,” Suit said. “I have little doubt that you’d chase me across the world, Waxillium. I might be creative, but you … you are tenacious.”

“What, then?”

“You drop the Bands out the window,” Suit said. “I order the bomb disarmed. Then we face one another as men, without unnatural advantages.”

“You think I’d trust you?”

“You don’t need to,” Suit said. “Just give me your word you’ll do it.”

“Done,” Wax said.

“Disarm the device!” Suit shouted toward the door. He strolled to the front of the ship and spoke into a tube there. “Disarm it and stand down.”

Feet thumped away from the door. Wax could actually watch them go – not by their metals, but by the signature their souls made. In moments, he could see nobody there, or hiding anywhere around the bridge.

A voice soon echoed up through the tube. The tin Wax burned let him hear. “Done, my lord.” A pause. “Thank Trell for that.” The voice sounded relieved.

Suit turned to Wax. “There is a tradition in the Roughs, is there not? Two men, a dusty road, guns on their hips. Man against man. One lives. The other dies. A dispute settled.” He patted the sidearm at his hip. “I can’t give you a dusty road, but perhaps we can squint and pretend that the frost is playing that role.”

Wax drew his lips to a line. Edwarn looked entirely sincere. “Don’t make me do this, Uncle.”

“Why?” Suit said. “I know you’ve been itching for this exact opportunity! You have an aluminum gun, I see. The same as mine. No Steelpushing to interfere. Just two men and their sidearms.”

“Uncle…”

“You’ve dreamed of it, son. The chance to shoot me, no questions asked, and not be running afoul of the law. Besides, to the law I’m already dead! Your conscience can rest. I won’t give in, and I’m armed. The only way to stop me is to shoot me. Let’s do it.”

Wax fingered the Bands of Mourning, and felt himself smiling. “You don’t understand at all, do you?”

“Oh, I do. I’ve seen it in you! The hidden hunger of the lawman, wishing to be cut free so he can kill. It’s what defines you and your type.”

“No,” Wax said. He unhooked the holster from his leg, the one that had held his shotgun, and slipped the Bands into its leather pouch. His remaining bullets and metal vials followed, leaving him with no metals, save the aluminum gun.

“Perhaps I have felt hidden hunger,” Wax said. “But it isn’t what defines me.”

“Oh, and what does?”

Wax tossed the leather holding the Bands out the broken window, then slipped his gun into his side holster. “I’ll show you.”

Telsin scrambled in the snow, climbing through it, frantic.

Suit was an idiot. She’d always known this, but today made it manifest. Flying away in the ship? That was the first place they’d go to chase him. He was as good as dead.

Today was a disaster. An unparalleled disaster. Waxillium knew of her subterfuge. The Set was exposed. Their plans were crumbling.

Something had to be salvageable. She stumbled to a small clearing in the snow, near the temple entrance, where her people had deposited the skimmer that she and Waxillium had ridden in on. Still functional, hopefully. She knew how it worked – she’d watched carefully during their trip. All she needed to do was–

Something banged behind her.

She blinked at the sudden spray of redness on the snow all around her. Flakes of it.

Her blood.

“You killed one of my friends today,” a ragged voice said from behind. “I’m not going to let you take a second.”

She fell to her knees before the craft, then turned her head. Wayne stood behind her in the snow, his face haggard, holding a shotgun.

“You…” Telsin whispered. “You can’t … guns…”

“Yeah,” Wayne said, cocking the shotgun. “About that.”

He lowered the barrel to her face and fired.

Marasi climbed the previously hidden steps back into the room with the broken glass and the ornate pedestal. She didn’t know what had opened this hidden path, but she was glad for it. Ever blunt, Waxillium had simply ripped himself a hole out of the catacombs, going straight up through the stone – half this chamber had collapsed as a result – but following his route would have been an arduous climb.

The power was gone. She’d handed it over to Waxillium, but instead of feeling deflated, she felt … peaceful. Hers was the serenity of a woman who’d lain stretched out on a perfect summer day, feeling the sun as it slowly sank. Yes, the light was gone now, but oh what a joy it had been.

Poor MeLaan was still here, and her form had started to incorporate the bones, slowly assembling them in a strange configuration. With no spikes, she’d become a mistwraith. Marasi knelt beside her, but wasn’t certain what comfort she could offer. At the very least, MeLaan seemed to still be alive.

Marasi rose, then hurried down the hallway with the traps, reaching the entryway with the murals. Outside, a war was going on, hundreds of gunshots echoing in the cold, snow-filled night. She was surprised to see that the people in masks seemed to be winning. The soldiers had been pushed back to the edge of the stone field, their backs to a series of gulfs and cliffs. They had nowhere to retreat, and many of their number lay dead or wounded.

She thought she saw Waxillium’s influence in the way some of those bodies lay, as if tossed through the air to land crumpled. Marasi nodded in satisfaction. Let him do the job he came to do.

She still had one of her own to finish. She strode out of the temple, down the steps past the statue of the Lord Ruler holding what now, with the spearhead removed, appeared to be only a staff.

Now where would she find–

A loud gunshot from quite nearby. She swiveled her head, searching for the source. A second one sounded.

A moment later, Wayne emerged through the snowstorm, head down, expression shadowed. He carried a shotgun on his shoulder, and clutched not one, but three small metal spikes in his other hand.

Wax stood quietly on the bridge of the ship, waiting for his uncle to move.

This didn’t work the way it did in the stories. You didn’t outdraw a man; couldn’t happen, not without Feruchemical speed. If you waited for him to start moving, you would be too slow. He’d tried it with blanks on the fastest men he knew.

The man who drew first got the first shot. That was that.

Suit drew.

Wax Pushed on the metal window frame behind him. He crossed the distance between them in a blur, even as Suit fired. The bullet hit Wax in the shoulder, but Wax collided with the surprised Suit, knocking them both to the floor of the bridge.

Suit grabbed his arm. Wax’s metal reserves vanished.

“Aha!” Suit said. “I made myself a Leecher! I can drain the metals from anyone who touches me, Waxillium. You’re dead. No Bands. No Allomancy. I win.”

Wax grunted, clinging tight to Suit as they rolled. “You forget,” he said. “I’m not surprised. You’ve always hated it. I’m a Terrisman, Uncle.”

He increased his weight manyfold.

He tapped everything he had in his arm bracer, hundreds of hours spent being lighter than he should have been. He brought it all out in one moment of desperation.

The airship lurched. And then the floor shattered.

Wax clung to Suit as they fell, holding him tight, though one hand was weakening from the gunshot. They crashed through two levels of the ship – Suit’s body, which tapped healing, bearing the brunt of the damage – before smashing out the bottom, battered, bleeding, and thrashed by splintered wood.

Suit looked horrified. “You fool! You–”

Wax spun them in the air, pointing Suit downward as they plummeted. Snow-filled air was a roaring wind around them, flakes streaking past.

Suit screamed.

And then he Pushed.

Suit dropped the coin from his mouth and used his Allomancy to Push it downward in a straight shot. It hit the approaching ground and slowed the two of them with a lurch.

Wax decreased his weight just enough that Suit’s Push was sufficient to keep them alive. They crashed into the snow, some distance from the plateau with the temple.

Wax recovered first. He lurched to his feet and pulled Suit up by one hand, the two of them standing alone in a field of white. Suit looked up at him, dazed by the fall and the impact.

“The definition of a lawman, Uncle, is easy,” Wax said, feeling blood from a dozen cuts trickle down his face. He lifted Suit by the front of his clothing, bringing him close. “He’s the man who takes the bullet so nobody else has to.”

With that, Wax decked him across the face and dropped him to the snow, unconscious.

MeLaan swam in a sea of terror. Terror within her own mind; a piece of her knowing this was not right. This being ruled by instinct, this craven set of impulses.

But this was what she did. Food. She needed food.

No. First a place to hide. From the trembling sounds. Hide away, find a crack. She continued building a body that would let her walk. Flee.

So cold. She didn’t understand coldness. It wasn’t a thing that should be. And she couldn’t taste dirt, just stone. Stone everywhere.

Frozen stone.

She felt like screaming. Something was missing. Not food. Not a place to hide, but … something. Something was horribly, horribly, horribly wrong.

An object dropped on her. It was cold, but not stone. This wasn’t food. She enfolded it and intended to spit it away, but then something happened.

Something wonderful. She gobbled up the second one as it was dropped, and began to undulate, frantic. It came back. Memory. Knowledge. Rationality.

Self.

She exulted in it, ignoring the little holes that were now poked in her memory. She remembered most of the trip here, but something had happened in the room with the Bands.… No, the Bands hadn’t been there, and …

She formed eyes first, and she knew what she would see when she opened them. She’d already tasted him on the air, and knew his flavor.

“Welcome back,” Wayne said, grinning. “I think we won.”

30

Marasi accepted the canteen from Allik. It steamed from the top although it was only lukewarm to the touch. She sat on the steps up to the temple, swathed in about forty blankets. She’d surrendered her medallion to one of the Malwish people until more could be secured from the airship.

And its recovery was an interesting sight to say the least. Waxillium stood on the rocky section before the plateau, heaving with two hands and Pulling on nothing visible. Up ahead, the rogue airship slowly sank through the snow-filled sky, drawn toward Waxillium on an invisible tether.

“Will it break apart?” Allik asked.

She looked at him with surprise, then down at his language medallion.

“Warm choc and a blanket will do me for a minute,” he said, settling down and pulling his blanket around him. “Others are in greater need, yah? The ship. Will it break?”

Marasi looked up toward it. She could imagine Suit’s people aboard, trying desperately to make the engines work harder, the fans blow more powerfully. It sank anyway. Waxillium Ladrian – bearing the Bands of Mourning and supremely annoyed – was like a force of nature.

She smiled and sipped her drink.

“Rusts!” she said, looking at it. “What is this?” It was sweet, thick, warm, chocolaty, and wonderful.

“Choc,” he said. “Sometimes it is a man’s only succor in this frozen, lonely world, yah?”

“You drink chocolate?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

She never had. Plus, this was far sweeter than the chocolate she was used to. Not bitter at all. She took a long, soothing draught. “Allik, this is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced. And I just held the powers of creation themselves.”

He smiled.

“I don’t think your ship is in danger,” Marasi said. “He’s Pulling on it evenly, and slowly. He’s a careful man, Waxillium is.”

“Careful? It seems to me he is very proficient at breaking things. That doesn’t sound particularly careful, yah?”

“Well,” Marasi said, sipping her drink, “he does it with amazing precision.”

Indeed, it wasn’t long before the airship settled down onto the rocks, still in one piece. Waxillium held it in place, then raised the Bands of Mourning in one hand, winds, snows, and even traces of mist swirling around him.

The fans slowly powered down. A short time later, soldiers exited with hands up. Wayne and MeLaan scurried up to them, gathering weapons while Allik’s people boarded the ship to secure it and search for anyone lurking inside.

Marasi waited through it all, sipping her melted chocolate and thinking. ReLuur’s spike lay safely wrapped in a handkerchief, tucked into her pocket. In her mind’s eye, she saw Wayne again as he had been, trudging through the snow, gun to his shoulder, a pattern of frozen blood flaking his skin. Alongside this image was the glee with which Waxillium had launched into the sky to chase down his uncle.

There was a darkness to these men that the stories hadn’t conveyed. Marasi was glad for it, but she had stepped to that ledge, then turned back. Proud though she was of having fulfilled her mission for the kandra, she had decided that things would be different for her in the future. She was all right with that.

It was what she had chosen.

“Frosts,” Allik said after some time. “We’d better go do something, yah?”

She looked up from her now-empty canteen of chocolate to follow Allik’s gesture. The Malwish airship crew had returned from their inspection, and the enemy soldiers had been led away – to be safely locked in the ship’s brig, Marasi believed.

Suit was still where Waxillium had put him: tied to the top of the Lord Ruler’s spear, feet dangling. He’d been gagged, he’d had his metalminds removed, and Waxillium had used Allomancy to leech away his metals. And this still seemed like it might not be cautious enough. He still had his spikes, as they weren’t sure how to remove them without killing him. He shouldn’t be able to do anything without metals, but she couldn’t help being worried.

Steris had joined Waxillium on the field, and he’d put his arm around her shoulders. Marasi smiled. Now that was an image she’d never thought she’d find comforting. But they would do well together.

Unfortunately, trouble approached Waxillium and Steris in the form of Allik’s captain and some of her airmen. The two groups faced one another, MeLaan and Wayne falling in beside Waxillium – Wayne casually carrying that shotgun, MeLaan standing a good two inches taller than anyone else, arms folded, her posture unyielding.

Right. “Let’s go,” Marasi said to Allik.

Allik’s captain, Jordis, wore one of the translation medallions – and she didn’t flinch before the gust of wind that accompanied Marasi as she arrived.

“We thank you for your help,” Jordis was saying, her voice touched by the same accent Allik had. “But our appreciation does not allow us to ignore thievery. We expect that our property will be returned.”

“I don’t see any of your property here,” Waxillium replied coldly. “I see only an artifact we recovered. Well, that and my airship.”

“Your–” Jordis sputtered. She stepped forward. “Since crashing in your lands, my crew has been incarcerated, tortured, and murdered. You seem to be itching for a war, Allomancer.”

Drat. Marasi had been hoping she’d share Allik’s reverence for Waxillium. Indeed, much of the crew seemed nervous about him, but the captain obviously didn’t mean to back down.

“If there is to be war,” Waxillium said, “giving you a powerful weapon does not seem the method to save my people. I cannot help what Suit and his people did to you – they are outlaws, and what they did was deplorable. I will see them brought to justice.”

“And yet you steal from us.”

“Do you deny,” Waxillium asked, “that this temple was empty upon my arrival? Do you deny that this airship was from nation other than your own? I cannot steal what was not owned, Captain. By right of salvage, I claim this relic and that ship. You may–”

Marasi was about to step between them when, curiously, Steris spoke up, interrupting Wax.

“Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I think it prudent to let them take the ship.”

“What? Like hell I’m going to–”

“Waxillium,” Steris said softly. “They’re tired, miserable, and a long way from home. How do you suggest, otherwise, that they are to return to those they love? Is that justice?”

His lips tightened. “The Set has one of these ships to study, Steris.”

“Then,” Steris said, looking to Jordis, “we will beg – in return for the generosity of this gift – that the Malwish people open trade with us. I suspect we can purchase ships from them more quickly than the Set can build their own.”

Marasi nodded. Not bad, Steris.

“If they’ll sell,” Waxillium said.

“I think that they will,” Steris said, looking to Jordis. “Because the good captain will persuade them that access to our Allomancers is worth relinquishing a technological monopoly.”

“That’s true,” Marasi said, stepping up to the rest, Allik with her. “We’re rare among you, aren’t we?”

“We?” Allik asked as the captain looked to her.

“I’m an Allomancer too,” she said, amused. “You didn’t see me charging the cube device back in the warehouse?”

“I was … a little distracted.…” he said, sounding woozy. “Oh dear. Um. Great One.”

Marasi sighed, looking to Jordis.

“I can promise you nothing,” the captain said to Steris, sounding reluctant. “The Malwish are but one of many. Another nation among us may see you up here as weak and decide to strike.”

“Then,” Steris said, “you might want to inform them that the Bands of Mourning are here, ready to punish those who attack.”

Jordis hissed. Marasi couldn’t see her features behind the mask, but the hand swipe she made did not look pleased. “Impossible. You give me the lesser prize to distract me from the greater, yah? We will not give you the Sovereign’s weapon.”

“You’re not giving it to us,” Steris said. She looked to MeLaan, who watched with crossed arms. “Allik. Your people have stories of creatures like her, do you not?”

“Tell the others,” Marasi said to Allik. “Please.”

He removed his medallion and launched into a furious explanation in his language, waving his hands, then gesturing at MeLaan. She cocked an eyebrow, then made her skin translucent – displaying a skeleton that was so cracked and mangled, Marasi was left momentarily stunned. How was MeLaan still standing?

The captain took this in.

“We,” Steris said, “will give the Bands to the immortal kandra. They are wise and impartial, tasked with serving all people. They will promise not to let us use the Bands unless we are attacked by your kind.”

There was no way to tell what Captain Jordis thought, her expression hidden behind that mask. When she did speak, she made a few curt gestures – but those could be faked far more easily than facial expressions, Marasi figured. What did one make of a society where everyone hid their true feelings behind a mask, only letting out calculated reactions?

“This is an unpleasant accommodation,” Jordis said. “It means I will limp back to my people, half my crew dead and my ship exchanged for one decades out of date.”

“True,” Steris continued at Waxillium’s side – he merely stood there with arms folded, looming, as he was so good at doing. “But Captain, you will return with something more valuable than an old relic or even your fallen ship. You’ll have new trading partners in a land brimming with Metalborn. Has it been mentioned that my lord Waxillium holds an important seat in our government? That he has a dramatic influence over trade, tariffs, and taxation? Those among your people who secure favorable treaties with us could become very rich indeed.”

Jordis regarded them, then folded her arms, facing Waxillium directly. “It is still unpleasant.” Jordis was much shorter, but she managed to loom pretty well herself. In fact, Marasi got the distinct impression that the woman wanted to shout at them, attack in a rage, seek retribution for what had been done to her and hers. Anything but just simply trade.

Perhaps some emotions were too strong to be hidden even by a mask.

Jordis finally nodded. “Very well. Let it be done. But I will not leave without a draft agreement – a promise of intentions, if nothing else.”

Marasi breathed a sigh of relief, shooting Steris a nod of appreciation. Still, she did not miss the stiffness in Jordis’s posture as she and Waxillium shook hands. The Basin had not made a friend this day. Hopefully some last-minute scrambling had prevented them from making an enemy.

“I have one further request,” Waxillium said to her.

“What?” Jordis asked, suspicious.

“Nothing terrible or costly,” Waxillium said. “Honestly, I’d just like a ride.”

The Southerners agreed, fortunately. They didn’t particularly want to carry a brigful of enemy soldiers all the way south. Wax had to make it very clear they couldn’t keep Suit himself, and the captain relented with minimal argument. She seemed to realize that her best chance of seeing justice done to all of those who had brutalized her crew lay in letting Wax do some thorough interrogations.

He kept his relationship to the man quiet.

As the Malwish crew prepared the ship for travel, Wax stood before the statue of the Lord Ruler, with that single spike in his eye. He’d checked the belt, which was aluminum. No kind of charge. If there had ever been two bracers, he had to assume they’d been made into this one spearhead.

Marasi passed behind him. “I’m going to go check our skimmer for supplies we might have left behind.”

Wax nodded. I held your power, he thought toward the statue, if only a tiny bit of it. Rusts … I think I understand.

He’d given the Bands to MeLaan, and she had made them vanish into her flesh. He was glad to know that they were effectively out of his reach. Too much power.

He raised his finger in farewell to the Lord Ruler, then jogged off after Marasi.

“Aradel and the Senate won’t like this deal,” Wax noted as he reached her. “Particularly the part about us giving away the Bands.”

“I know,” Marasi said.

“As long as I can tell him it wasn’t my idea.”

She glanced at him. “You don’t seem too broken up about losing the Bands.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. “I was worried, honestly. The Bands are drained, mostly, but we could probably recharge them by compounding. The power they offer is something…”

“… Sublime and devastating at once?” Marasi asked. “Dangerous because of what it could do in the wrong hands, yet somehow more dangerous in your own?”

“Yes.”

They shared something in that moment, swept by winds. Something they’d touched, something – hopefully – only they would know.

They turned together without a word, seeking the skimmer. Jordis would want to load it on the ship, but first there was a corpse Wax needed to see. He didn’t blame Wayne for what he’d done to Telsin. Yes, taking her to Elendel for justice – and interrogation – would have been better. And yes, he found that he’d rather have pulled the trigger himself. Harmony was right about that.

But either way, Telsin was dealt with. That meant–

Blood on the snow.

No skimmer.

More importantly, no body.

Marasi froze in place as they drew near, but Wax approached the empty patch of ground. She had slipped away, again. He found he was not surprised, though he was impressed. She’d gotten the skimmer aloft and away during the fighting, escaping during the chaos.

Wayne should have known she might be able to heal herself, Wax thought, going down on one knee beside the eerie pattern of blood drops that seemed to outline a body.

“It’s not done, then,” Marasi said.

Wax brushed the drops of blood, frozen to the ground. He’d spent the last eighteen months trying to save this woman. And when he finally had, she’d killed him.

“It’s not done,” he said. “But in some ways, that’s better.”

“Because your sister isn’t dead?”

He turned toward Marasi. It seemed that despite hours in this frozen place, the cold had only just reached inside of him.

“No,” he said. “Because now I have someone to hunt.”

31

“Wax, you gotta see this!”

Wax tipped his head back, bleary-eyed. These bunks were not particularly pleasant, but at least the airship flew in a calm, smooth manner. That was nice, as the skimmer had always felt as if it were one gust of wind away from plowing nose-first into a hillside.

Wayne hung halfway out of the room’s large window.

“That window opens?” Wax asked, surprised.

“Any window opens,” Wayne said, “if you push hard enough. Look, you’ve gotta see this.”

Wax sighed, climbing up and leaning out of the window beside Wayne. Beneath them, Elendel spread out as a vast sea of lights.

“Like rivers of fire,” Wayne mumbled. “Look how it follows patterns. Rich areas more lit, roads all in lines. Beautiful.”

Wax grunted.

“That’s all you can say, mate?”

“Wayne, I see this basically every night.”

“Now, that there, that ain’t fair. You should feel guilty.”

“For being a Coinshot?”

“For cheatin’ at life, Wax.”

“How about I feel appreciative instead?”

“Suppose that’ll do.”

Wax settled down on his bunk, then pulled on his boots, doing the laces. He ached like a man beaten senseless. He wished he could blame the strain of the last few days, but he’d held the Bands of Mourning and had been healed completely.

That meant these aches came merely from sleeping a few hours on this bunk. Rusts. He was getting old. Upon considering that, however, he found that mortality didn’t frighten him as it once had.

“We should get up to the bridge,” he suggested, standing. It had been a full day since they’d left the mountains. They’d stopped at a town to telegraph ahead at Wax’s insistence, then waited until the next night to fly the rest of the way. He had had no intention of bringing a massive flying warship anywhere near the city without at least giving warning first.

Jordis had been amenable, once he’d promised her supplies for their trip home in repayment. Marasi worried about the captain, he knew, but he had looked into the woman’s eyes behind the mask. She was a soldier, a killer, despite her claims of hers being a simple trading vessel.

She knew. Wax had held the Bands. He could have swept the Malwish away and stolen their ship without a second thought. Instead, he’d given in to Steris’s compromise. Strong words notwithstanding, Jordis realized she’d gotten more out of this deal than she had any reason to expect.

Wayne joined him outside their room, and they stepped aside as a few wearied airmen passed. He couldn’t see their faces, but could read a world of emotions from their hunched backs and subdued speech.

“They’ve been broken,” Wayne whispered, looking over his shoulder as the airmen continued on. “Ain’t fair what happened to these folks, Wax.”

“Is life ever fair?”

“It has been to me,” Wayne said. “More than fair, I reckon. Considering what I deserve.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Wax asked.

“What?”

“You used a gun, Wayne.”

“Bah, that was a shotgun. Barely counts.”

Wax rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Wayne shrugged. “Guess my body figured, ‘What the hell?’”

“I thought it meant you’d forgiven yourself.”

“Nah,” Wayne said. “I was just real mad at your sister.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” Wax asked, frowning. “That she’d heal?”

“Well, I didn’t wanna kill someone in cold blood–”

“That’s good, I suppose.”

“–but there weren’t no fire around to light her with first.”

“Wayne…”

The shorter man sighed. “I saw the metalminds peekin’ outta her sleeves. Figured, if you’re gonna give yourself one power from a Feruchemist, you’d wanna be able to heal. I ain’t gonna kill your sister, mate. But I didn’t mind makin’ her jump a bit, and I needed MeLaan’s spikes.”

Wayne’s gaze grew distant. “Shoulda stayed there, I suppose. To stop her from runnin’, you know? But I wasn’t of sound mind, so to speak. I thought you were dead, mate. Really thought it. And I kept thinkin’ to myself, ‘Would Wax kill her for real? Or would he give her another chance, like he gave me?’ So I let her be. I stayed my hand, ’cuz it was the last thing I could do for you. Does that make sense?”

Wax squeezed Wayne’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re learning.”

It felt disingenuous to say that when inside, in truth, he wished Wayne had stripped off her metalminds and left her a frozen corpse.

Wayne grinned. Wax nodded in the direction the airmen had gone. “I’ll meet you up there.”

“Going to go fetch your woman?” Wayne said. “She’s gonna have a hard time adjustin’ to life back here, away from her native habitat of the frozen, icy, desolate wastes up–”

“Wayne,” Wax interrupted, soft but firm.

“Hum?”

“Enough.”

“I was just–”

“Enough.”

Wayne stopped with his mouth open, then licked his lips and nodded. “Right, then. See you up above in a few, mate?”

“We’ll be right along.”

Wayne scampered off toward the bridge. Wax trailed through the hallway, heading down several doors to the room Steris and Marasi had been sharing. He raised his hand to knock, but it was cracked, so he peeked in. Steris lay on a bunk, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping softly. There was no sign of Marasi; she’d mentioned wanting to watch the approach to the city from the bridge.

He hesitated at the door, watching her sleep. He almost left; she’d been through so much these last few days. She had to be exhausted. Once they reached Elendel, they’d still have to unload the prisoners and bring the supplies on board – it could be hours before the ship had to leave. She could sleep a little longer, couldn’t she?

The door creaked as he leaned against it, and Steris started awake. Her eyes found him immediately. Then she smiled, relaxing, and huddled up against her pillow. She was wearing a travel dress under the blanket.

Wax stepped into the room and took a seat on the bunk across from Steris; there was so little space in this room that his knees touched her bunk after he sat. And these were the rooms the airmen considered large. He leaned forward, taking Steris’s hand in his.

She squeezed it, eyes closed once more, and they sat there. Still. Everyone else could wait a few minutes.

“Thank you,” Wax said softly.

“For what?” she said.

“Coming with me.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You were extremely helpful at the party,” Wax said. “And your negotiations with the Malwish … Steris, that was incredible.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I still feel that I was basically luggage for most of the trip.”

He shrugged. “Steris, I think we’re all like that. Shuffled from place to place by duty, or society, or God Himself. It seems like we’re just along for the ride, even in our own lives. But once in a while, we do face a choice. A real one. We may not be able to choose what happens to us, or where we’ll stop, but we point ourselves in a direction.” He squeezed her hand. “You pointed yourself toward me.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “being near you is generally the safest place.…”

He cupped her face with his hand, all callused and rough. Another adventure.

Eventually, an airman came looking for them, and Wax reluctantly stood, helping Steris up. Then they walked – arm in arm – through the hallways of the ship and up to the bridge, where the others waited.

Here, Wax was able to appreciate what Wayne had seen. With the panoramic view from the bridge, the city really was gorgeous at night. Is this a sight that will become commonplace? Wax thought as Steris squeezed his arm, grinning at the sight. This airship technology was new, but not many years had passed since he’d seen his first motorcar on the road.

Marasi had been directing Captain Jordis through the city. Wax couldn’t read anything in the captain’s posture, or those of her crew. Were they impressed by the size of the city and the height of the skyscrapers? Or were these things commonplace in the South?

They approached Ahlstrom Tower, and Wax could only imagine the stories this would prompt in the broadsheets the next morning. Good. He hated subterfuge; let the people of Elendel know, to a man, that the world had just become a much larger place.

Ahlstrom Tower, in which Wax had an ownership interest, had a flat top. The captain had assured him that she could land her ship “on a nail, so long as the head is smooth enough.” True to her word, they set it down.

“You’re certain you don’t want to stay?” Marasi asked Jordis. “Visit our city, find out what we’re actually like?”

“No. Thank you.” The words sounded forced, to Wax. But who was to say, with the accent muddying things? “We will take your offer of supplies and be away tonight.”

Time to debark. Together – the others filing after – Wax and Steris made their way through the halls again.

“It almost feels,” Steris said softly, “like this entire experience was a dream. I need to write it all down quickly, lest it fade.”

Wax found himself nodding as he thought of his meeting with Harmony.

The hallway led to a junction where the wall had opened and a long docking bridge had been settled in place, leading down to the rooftop. Below, Wax picked out several figures craning their necks to look at the ship. Governor Aradel had come in person.

Allik stood at the door, and he lifted his mask as Wax approached. No bow or nod, just the mask lift. Among this people, perhaps that was the same thing – as behind him, the other airmen did the same.

“Mighty One,” Allik said to Wax. “May your next fire be known to you.”

“And you, Allik.”

“Oh, it is,” he said with a grin. “For my next fire is home, yah?” He looked to Marasi, and then reached up and removed his mask – the broken one, which he had glued. He held it out with two hands, which caused a few gasps behind him.

“Please,” Allik said. The word had more accent to it than the way he’d been speaking before.

The captain, who had not lifted her mask to Wax, grew stiff at the gesture. Marasi hesitated, then accepted the mask. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Marasi,” Allik said. “For life.” He took a flat, unornamented mask from his waist and pulled it on by the leather strap. It was really nothing more than a curved piece of wood with holes for the eyes. “I look forward to my homecoming, but my next fire after that may be here again. I plan to take you up on your offer to visit this city.”

“So long as you bring some more choc,” Marasi said, “you can visit any time you like.”

Wax smiled, and then the five of them relinquished their weight medallion metalminds to the captain, a formality they’d been instructed was customary. Jordis had already presented Wax with one of each, translation and heat-storing, as a gift for him to keep. Wayne had likely stolen another set, though Wax intended to wait until they were off the ship to ask.

Wax led them down the gangway, Steris on his arm.

“Seriously, Waxillium,” Marasi said, walking up beside them. “You need to import that chocolate of theirs. I don’t know what they put in it, but it’s amazing. You think the airships are going to be big? Wait until you taste this stuff.”

“Hey,” Wayne said, pulling up on his other side, but then twisting his neck to look at the people in the ship behind them. “Marasi, I think that pilot fellow fancies you.”

“Thank you,” Marasi said, “for lending us your brilliant powers of observation, Wayne.”

“That could be useful politically,” Steris noted.

“Please,” Marasi said. “He’s practically a child compared to me. And don’t you snicker.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Wax said, eyes ahead. He didn’t miss how reverently Marasi carried the mask, however.

Ahead, a group of the governor’s aides and guards clustered together in a protective bubble, as if they could stave off the weirdness before them – and what it represented – through collective body heat. Aradel himself stood apart, as if he’d pushed out of the group.

Wax strolled up to him, Steris on his arm, and waited.

“Damn,” Aradel finally said.

“I did warn you,” Wax replied.

Aradel shook his head in awe, eyes wide. “Well, maybe this will distract everyone from the disaster you all started in New Seran.”

“Bad?” Steris asked.

Aradel grunted. “Senate’s had my balls over the fire for two days straight, screaming about war and irresponsible leadership. As if I ever had any influence over you people.” He started, finally ripping his gaze from the airship, and coughed – as if realizing what he’d just said, and whom he’d said it to.

Wax smiled. Aradel was blunt, but usually displayed more tact than this. You couldn’t go far as a constable without some understanding of how to deal with people’s egos.

“Apologies, Lady Harms,” he said. “Ladrian, I need to hear what happened in New Seran. The honest truth of it, from your own mouth.”

“You’ll have it,” Wax promised. “Tomorrow.”

“But–”

“Governor,” Wax said. “I appreciate your position, but you have no idea what we’ve been through these last few days. My people need rest. Tomorrow. Please.”

Aradel grunted. “Fine.”

“Did you prepare the thing I requested?” Wax asked.

“It’s below,” Aradel said, turning back toward the airship. “In the penthouse.” The governor took a deep breath, looking at that enormous airship again. Constable-General Reddi had led a group of constables up to accept the transfer of prisoners.

Wax could now see that the ship had landed only half on the building. One fan spun lazily, keeping the ship in place. Likely done that way on purpose, he thought of the landing, as a message. The crew wants to remind us that while we might get this technology soon, we’ll still be many years behind them in its use.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Wax said to Aradel. “If the outer cities had thoughts about attacking us, I suspect this might stall them. Spread the knowledge that an airship flew through central Elendel and let me off – then left peaceably.”

“We have initial treaties in place, Your Honor,” Steris added. “Favorable to us for trade. That should give the hawks pause, and could buy us time to smooth things over.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Aradel said. “It’s going to be a tough metal for the Senate to swallow though, Ladrian. Not the airship itself, but the fact that I’m – apparently – just going to let it fly off.” He hesitated. “I haven’t told them what you said about the other item.”

“Bands of Mourning?” Wax said.

Aradel nodded, too politic to say what Wax was certain he was thinking. What have you gone and done to me this time, Ladrian?

“MeLaan?” Wax asked. “Would you mind taking over here?”

“Sure,” she said, striding toward them. She wore an outfit borrowed from the Southlanders, a man’s breeches and boots that went up to midcalf. She rested an arm on the governor’s shoulder.

“Holy One,” Aradel said, his voice strained but reverent. He eyed Wax. “You realize precisely how unfair it is to deal with you, when you can fall back on heavenly messengers to talk you out of trouble?”

“That’s nothing,” Wax said, guiding Steris toward the steps down. “Ask me sometime about the conversation I had with God the last time I died.”

“That was vicious,” Steris said as they reached the steps.

“Nonsense,” Wax said. “He’s a politician now. He needs practice being thrown off balance in conversations. Helps him prepare for debates and such.”

She eyed him.

“I’ll be better,” he promised, holding the door open for her. Marasi moved to join them, but Wayne caught her by the arm and shook his head.

“Better?” Steris asked from the stairwell. “So this means no more complaining about parties.”

“Of course I’ll gripe,” Wax said, following her into the stairwell, leaving the others behind. “It’s a defining character feature. But I’ll try and confine the worst of it to you and Wayne.”

“And I,” Steris said, “shall promise to be properly amazed by your exploits saving everyone from everything.” She smiled at him. “And to always carry a few vials of metal with me, just in case. By the way, where are we going?”

He grinned, guiding her down to the top floor of the skyscraper, a regal penthouse that – currently – was unoccupied, the tenants having moved to Elmsdel for an extended holiday. Seated in a chair in the hall outside the apartment proper was a tired-looking man in the garb of a Survivorist priest, his formal mistcloak – really more of a shawl – worn over robes adorned with stitching up the sleeves representing scars.

Steris looked to Wax, curious.

“I was wondering, Steris,” Wax said, “if you’d be willing to be my bride.”

“I’ve already agreed–”

“Yes, but last time I asked with an expectation of a contract,” Wax said. “It was the lord of a house asking a woman of means for a union. Well, that request stands, and thank you. But I’m asking again. It’s important to me.

“Will you be my bride? I want to be married to you. Right now, before the Survivor and that priest. Not because words on a paper say we have to, but because we want to.” He took her by the hand, and spoke more softly. “I’m painfully tired of being alone, Steris. It’s time I admitted that. And you … well, you’re incredible. You truly are.”

Steris started sniffling. She pulled her hand free of his and wiped her eyes.

“Is that … good crying or bad?” Wax asked. All these years dealing with women, and he still couldn’t tell the difference sometimes.

“Well, this wasn’t on any of my lists, you see.”

“Ah.” He felt his heart lurch.

“And,” she continued, “I can’t remember a time when I missed something for one of my lists, only to have it be so wonderful.” She nodded, red-nosed and sniffly. “And it is. Thank you, Lord Waxillium.” She paused. “But tonight! So soon? Don’t the others deserve to attend a wedding?”

“They did attend one,” Wax said. “It’s not our fault there wasn’t a marriage at the end. So … what do you think? I mean, if you’re tired from the trip, don’t let me pressure you. I just thought–”

In response, she kissed him.