The Lost Metal

MARASI

TEN HOURS AFTER DETONATION

Somehow, the sun was already rising again when Marasi stumbled off the train in Elendel. She might have expected the train to be empty, considering the disasters — both prevented and diminished — that had marked the night.

Yet the train was packed. Some traveling to aid those in the waterlogged and broken northwestern quarter of Elendel. Others coming to check on family. Others returning home from the evacuation to seek a place of comfort in this strange time.

She let them swarm around her as she stood on the train platform, feeling disjointed. Out of place. Part of that was fatigue. She’d had perhaps two hours’ sleep back in Bilming, after coordinating with Constable Blantach, who had finally accepted the evidence of Entrone’s malfeasance. The testimonies of the people who Marasi and the others had saved — especially the journalists and politicians who TwinSoul had escorted out — would prove vital.

It felt wrong to leave the lord mayor and his remaining accomplices in the hands of a constabulary department that had up until recently answered to him. But honestly, Marasi wasn’t certain what else she could do. An Elendel invasion of Bilming wasn’t feasible, considering the disasters and the political situation. She simply had to hope that the testimonies, the explosion, and the overwhelming physical evidence would be enough to force the Bilming constables to do their jobs.

At the least, it seemed that Wax and Wayne had left the Set’s organizational structure — and military forces — in shambles. They’d found Telsin dead on the top of the Shaw. Written, by her own fingernail, on the strangely grey skin of her arm had been the words:

The way her god had left her was eerily reminiscent of how the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor had been discovered at the end of the Catacendre. Strangely peaceful, and …

And rusts, Marasi was zoning out. Standing there as confused as a Roughs bumpkin her first time in the city. She forced herself to start walking, moving with the last straggling passengers to leave the train. She needed a bath. She needed something to eat. And she needed …

A frantic masked figure burst from the crowd ahead, having fought his way against the flow of traffic. She wasn’t certain how he’d talked his way through the ticket gate, but Marasi finally let herself feel a measure of comfort as Allik crashed into her with a powerful embrace.

This, she thought as he held her tight, was what it was for. This and a million other people. But to her … it had been for this most of all.

Allik pulled back and raised his mask. He’d been crying.

“It’s all right,” Marasi said, wiping his tears away. “Allik, I’m fine. I promise. I thought you were outside the city?”

“I returned early,” he said. “And these tears aren’t for you, love. We tried to get word to you, but … it was chaotic, and the lines were busy…”

Her world started to crack. “Who?” she whispered.

“Wayne,” he said.

No. It was impossible.

Wayne was practically immortal. He was like … like a rock. The kind you got in your shoe and couldn’t get rid of.

No … no, he was the kind you leaned against. When you needed something stable. He …

He was her partner.

She knew their job was dangerous. She knew they risked their lives each day. Still, she’d always assumed she would be the one who … who …

“Wax?” she choked out.

“Fine,” Allik said. “Well, all but one leg, yah? But he will heal up.” He winced. “He says … Wayne stayed behind. Detonated the bomb. To save the city…”

She grabbed him then, because that break in his voice matched the one she felt inside her, and she needed to hold to something. As they embraced, she felt grief welling up to destroy her.

She … she wouldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t believe he was gone. He’d … he’d survived worse than this. She would come home one day and he’d be sitting in her kitchen helping himself to the chocolate.

And if that never happened?

I can’t deal with that right now, she thought. Not on two hours of sleep.

She let the delusion linger. So it could erode, like a stone in the waves, over time.

Allik took her by the shoulders. “You,” he declared, “look like you are in need of copious amounts of baked goods. Delivered with an urgency rivaling that of a warleader in battle. Yah?”

“Yah,” she said, embracing him again. “A thousand times yah, Allik.”

* * *

An hour later — full of exotic cakes and biscuits — Marasi snuggled in the overstuffed chair of her small flat. She’d finally changed, but not into pajamas. Instead she wore her uniform. Long skirt, blouse, constable’s overcoat.

Allik had given that an odd glance before he’d slipped out — with characteristic apologies — to buy a bottle of wine. The thing was, as tired as Marasi had felt, another emotion dominated. A sense of displacement. An awareness that something was wrong.

She was struggling to deal with the idea that Wayne was dead. Most of her refused to believe, for her own sanity. That was part of it. There was another part though. A sense that something was unfinished, that a question hung in the balance. One she had to answer before she could truly rest.

So it was no great surprise that soon after Allik left, a knock sounded at the door. It was a young messenger girl, of the variety you could easily hire in town for a few clips. They knew the ins and outs of the many tenements, apartments, and winding streets of the octants better than most postmen.

The girl delivered a small envelope before scampering off. Inside was a card with the symbol of the interlocking triangles. The Ghostbloods. There was an address on the back.

Marasi checked her things. Credentials in her pocket. Handgun in the holster at her side. Insignia on her jacket. She didn’t bring a rifle. Today, she didn’t need to be armed so much as equipped.

She left a quick note for Allik, promising to return soon, then made her way out into the city. Her city.

She loved Elendel. The sheer variety of people. The way that the broadsheets were already selling the story of the detonation. Some called it a warning shot from the Outer Cities, others a deliberate attempt to cause a flood — as if blowing the city up wouldn’t have been a more effective choice. A surprising number actually had the right facts.

DAWNSHOT AND DEPUTY SAVE DAY.

DARING LAST-MINUTE RACE TO SAVE ELENDEL!

BILMING BOMB PREMATURELY DETONATED BY CONSTABLE COURAGE!

She wondered what they’d say when they got hold of her story. A hidden cavern full of kidnapped people being used to try to create Mistborn? Moving photos and Hemalurgic monsters? It was the sort of thing that would fuel broadsheet stories for decades.

She strolled toward her destination. Savoring the scents — good and bad, but always potent — the sounds, the feel of a city so alive that even a disaster couldn’t stop it.

The Ghostblood base in Elendel was more ostentatious than the one in Bilming. A grand old-school estate, with stained glass and manicured grounds. Marasi was ushered in without needing to knock, then led to a dimly lit room. She assumed she was to sit here and wait, until she noticed someone at the far side. Seated in a comfortable — but enveloping — chair, fine shoes catching the light, his face lost in shadows. But one feature was plain: a single spike pushed through his right eye.

The Survivor himself.

She’d met Death, chatted with kandra, heard Wax speak of Harmony. She was no newcomer to figures from lore stepping out of shadow and into her life. This was different somehow. This was the man who had started it all. The man who had survived his own murder. This was the man she’d been taught to worship and revere.

Here he was. And it was the most intimidating experience of her life. She tried to speak, and found her mouth dry.

The door opened and TwinSoul entered, stabilizing himself against the door handle. Though she’d known him only a short time, it still felt right to give him a hug, which he returned.

“It is good to see you well, my lady,” he said to her. “And to hear of your accomplishments.”

“Oh!” Marasi said. “TwinSoul. Moonlight, she—”

“We’ve heard reports,” TwinSoul said. “She was … forced to use her stamp?”

“Yes,” Marasi said.

“She will be difficult to recover,” Kelsier said from the shadows. “I may have permanently lost my best agent to this fiasco.”

Marasi’s first instinct was to rush to apologize. She stopped herself. “You’d rather we let the invasion happen?”

Kelsier leaned forward, and she thought she caught a hint of a smile on his lips. Perhaps the stories were true. That he might be a brutal man, but he wasn’t a stern one. But who knew? Could you really trust stories from hundreds of years ago? And if you could, surely a man changed after living — or, well, not staying dead — for four centuries.

“Go ahead, TwinSoul,” Kelsier said.

“Marasi Colms,” TwinSoul said, “I am proud to offer you membership in the Ghostbloods. If you accept, I would be honored to become your mentor, as is our tradition. You may join me on my next mission, to track Moonlight down and attempt to restore her natural personality.”

“This offer comes with access to everything the Ghostbloods know,” Kelsier said. “We don’t keep secrets from one another.”

“Even you, Survivor?” Marasi asked, curious. “Do you keep secrets?”

He didn’t respond to that. But he did smile again.

“There is lore and arcana we have access to,” TwinSoul said, “that will delight and awe you, my lady. Our duties lead us to fascinating places — all in the service of the very thing you want: protecting Scadrial.”

“It is not an invitation,” Kelsier added, “that we extend lightly.”

So here it was. The question. Did she accept? Lately, she’d wanted so badly to do something more. Every glimpse she got of the larger conflicts — the larger cosmere — made her want to see it in full. Like a woman peeking at a sunset through a slit in the wall.

And yet.

“How long,” she said, “did you know about the Set? How long did you know what they were trying to do? Who Trell was?”

Silence.

“We provide answers,” TwinSoul said, “after oaths, my lady. It is our way.”

“Did you share with Harmony?” Marasi asked.

“Saze,” Kelsier said, “is … erratic lately. There’s a problem brewing with him. One I fear is going to make even today’s events seem trivial by comparison. We must, unfortunately, work in secret. We are too small, too weak, as of yet. In the open, forces in the cosmere would crush us.”

She didn’t disagree, not entirely. Every lawwoman understood the need to work covertly at times.

And yet.

Marasi turned their card over in her fingers, then held it up and looked at the interlocking bloodred diamonds.

Was this really what she wanted? She’d been dissatisfied in her service on occasion. But was there any job you didn’t dislike now and then? As she turned the card over again, she remembered why she’d first become a constable. Not just to solve crimes. To solve problems. To make the world a better place, not merely protect it.

She couldn’t do that from the shadows, could she? Others might be able to, but Marasi? She’d have to lie to so many people. That violated the fundamental oaths she’d taken.

Have you appreciated it? Armal had asked. That question haunted Marasi.

“Once,” she said, “about seven years ago, I thought everything I’d ever wanted had fallen into my lap. I thought I’d figured out what I wanted. Then he walked away. That rejection was among the best things that ever happened to me.”

“My lady?” TwinSoul said.

“I guess,” Marasi continued, “it’s hard to know what you want. We never have all the information. We merely have to do what we can with what we have.” She met Kelsier’s shadowed gaze. “If I join, will you let me share what I discover with the constabulary?”

“What do you think?” Kelsier asked.

“I think,” she said, “that I am a servant of the people.” She moved to set the card on the table beside the door. “That any power or authority I have comes from them. They are not served by darkness and lies, no matter how well intentioned.”

“Be careful,” Kelsier said before she could put the card down. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

“No,” she said. “My job isn’t to be certain. My job is to do the best I can. Even with limited information.” She dropped the card.

She still needed to find something. An answer for herself. But this wasn’t it.

“I’m a servant of the government,” Marasi said, “and of the law. Things that you, I believe, have historically had a problem with, Survivor. I appreciate your help on this mission. I’d accept it again in the future.” She shook her head. “But I’m not a good match for your organization. I won’t keep secrets when the truth could save lives.”

She needed to know what was hidden here — but she was a detective. She’d find answers without selling her soul. Even if it was to the Survivor himself.

Kelsier did not seem like the type of man who appreciated being rejected. But he did eventually nod in acceptance. She shook hands with TwinSoul, offered to help him with Moonlight anyway, then let herself out.

Back into the city.

Back to the people of Elendel.

And as she walked among them — hearing their concerns, their fears, their uncertainty — she remembered things she’d lost to the doldrums of daily work. Plans for her life she’d followed for years, but had eventually grown beyond.

Had she grown back into them, then? Wiser, more understanding, more nuanced?

It was then, wrung out and exhausted, yet victorious, that she realized what she wanted.

All she needed was a plan.

* * *

Prasanva — TwinSoul — watched her go, then shook his head. Unfortunate. And also remarkable. He liked seeing people uphold their personal codes. The aethers, after all, had created all people to think differently from one another.

As the main hallway door shut outside — and Marasi Colms left — Dlavil eased from the shadows behind Kelsier’s seat. The short man bore an intricate and fearsome mask, wooden and painted — but when he spoke, his accent was not that of the Southern Scadrians. It was of Silverlight.

“We will need to deal with her,” Dlavil said softly.

“She is a woman of integrity,” TwinSoul said. “I will not permit harm to come to her.”

“She knows our secrets,” Dlavil said. “She knows this base. She saw what you and Moonlight can do. She glimpsed the maps, the powers, the knowledge. She is dangerous to us now.”

“We offered these things freely,” TwinSoul said, “and although she rejected us, she did not take from us. Master Kelsier, rein him in.”

“Enough, Dlavil,” Kelsier said, flicking on the light and leaning back in his seat. “TwinSoul is right. She knows nothing that couldn’t be learned from a cursory exploration of the cosmere. We might have to move bases, but that’s our own fault. Moonlight was so certain she’d join.”

Dlavil held his tongue, his eyes inscrutable behind that cursed mask. TwinSoul hated being unable to get a full read on the man’s expressions, but Dlavil — like his sister who ran amok on Roshar — wore a mask that he never removed; it was grown in to the point that it was practically part of his skin.

“I mean it, Dlavil,” Kelsier said. “You will not move against her, or anyone in this city, without my permission. You understand?”

“Yes, Lord Kelsier,” Dlavil said, and withdrew through the back door.

Kelsier sighed audibly, rising from his seat. He joined TwinSoul beside the window, where they looked out at the city.

“Good work yesterday,” Kelsier told him. “Very good work, old friend. We almost lost everything.”

TwinSoul bowed his head in acceptance of the praise. It felt good.

You are blessed, Silajana said in his mind. And worthy of commendation.

That felt even better.

“It should never have gotten this far,” Kelsier said. “Something is wrong with Sazed. It’s getting worse.”

“What do we do, my lord?” TwinSoul asked.

Kelsier narrowed his eye. “I,” he whispered softly, “am going to have a difficult conversation with ‘God.’”

STERIS

TWO DAYS AFTER DETONATION

On the second day of the city’s recovery, Steris finally got to bring Waxillium home from the hospital. They limped out of Hoid’s car, Wax on crutches, then looked up at the enormous skyscraper that held their suite. Wax stared at it, his eyes faintly haunted.

“Thinking of the Shaw?” Steris asked softly.

He nodded. “On that rooftop, Wayne made me get him a spike. If I hadn’t listened, he wouldn’t have been able to Push me away.”

“So you could have done what?” she said gently. “Stayed with him to die? He knew what he needed to do.”

Wax looked to her, and she saw the same pain in his eyes that she’d seen after Lessie’s second death. Tempered this time, but haunting nonetheless. She hated seeing him in pain. It happened far too often.

“I should have at least said goodbye,” Wax whispered. “He left the Roughs because of me…”

“And he lived because you gave him a second chance,” Steris said. As he was staring up at the roof, she covertly consulted her notes from the books on trauma she’d been reading. “This wasn’t your fault, Waxillium. You need to allow Wayne his agency, allow him to have made his own choice. You would have sacrificed yourself for the city; we both know it. So let him have the same decision.”

He was silent for a moment, and she tried — anxiously — to figure out what he was feeling. Was that scrunched-up face annoyance? Or was it pain? Ruin, had she made it worse?

“You’re right,” he said softly, then blinked tears from his eyes. “You’re right, Steris. I need to let him be the hero, don’t I? Harmony … he really is gone.”

She slipped her notebook into her pocket and held him close, ignoring the world around them. She dimmed everything else, like an old gas lantern with a dial. Turned it down until only the two of them remained. Only the two of them mattered.

He held to her, then took a long, deep breath. “Marasi still doesn’t believe he’s gone. She thinks he’s going to come sauntering back in a few months, wearing a straw hat and telling us how great the fruity drinks are in the Malwish Consortium. But she’s wrong. This time it’s over.”

“Yes,” Steris whispered. “He’s gone. But nothing is over, Wax. You said the same thing when Lessie died. It wasn’t true then. It’s not true now. It will take time for you to believe, but you can trust that it will happen.”

He squeezed her hand. “Again, you’re right. How did you get so good at this, Steris?”

“I learned from Wayne.”

“About … helping people deal with pain?”

“No,” she said, then slipped out her notebook. “About cheating.”

Waxillium smiled. The first genuine one she’d seen from him since the incident. Then he handed her his crutches and dropped a spent bullet casing to the ground.

“Oh!” she said. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“I might be getting old, but I’m not frail,” he said, then grabbed hold of her. “You ready?”

“Always,” she said, feeling an exquisite thrill from anticipating the flight. She leaned into him.

He propelled them upward, using the metal installations he’d had erected here to give him a series of appropriate anchors. A rushing, exhilarating ascent with wind in her hair, and the insignificant world became more tiny. Until it was only the two of them and the sky.

Wax landed them carefully on the platform outside their suite. As he took back his crutches, Steris fished for her notebook.

“I think…” Wax said. “I think I’m going to be all right.”

“Good,” she said, flipping a few pages. “I have a Wayne quote for the moment.”

“A what?”

“I figured,” she said, “it would be a way of remembering him. To keep a few appropriate lines handy. Is that … morbid? That’s morbid, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said. “I mean, it might be, but he’d approve.”

She grinned. “‘Oi,’” she said. “‘Here you carried a girl all that way, mate, and you didn’t grab ’er butt, even a little?’”

“You just made that one up.”

She proffered the notebook, showing the line written there.

“Well, I mean,” Wax said, “we’ve got to do as he says.”

“It’s the only proper way to honor the dead.”

He seized her then, pulled her into a kiss, her figure sculpting to his and pushing against him in all the right places. It felt amazing — like they were liquid, aligned, alive, alight.

And yes, a proper butt-grab was involved. It almost toppled them to the side, unbalancing Wax on his good leg. They broke the kiss before an accident could befall them, but stayed close.

“Thank you,” Wax whispered. “For being you.”

“It’s the only thing I am good at,” she said. “Other than throwing cows at people.”

Wax frowned.

“That is something Wayne said on occasion,” she said.

In response to that, he looked to the sky. “Thank you, Wayne. Wherever you are. For letting me have this. For making me live.”

She forced him inside then, so he could sit. He wasn’t supposed to put weight on that leg, cast or no cast. Even if he could cheat by making himself lighter.

Unfortunately, Kath had been a little quicker than she’d expected, and the kids were already back from the Harms estate down-Basin. So Wax, in flagrant disregard for medical instructions, knelt and scooped Max up in an embrace.

“Daddy!” Max said. “You did it! Kath says you did it!”

“Did it?” he asked.

“Stopped the bad guys! Saved the world!”

“I suppose,” Wax said, “I did a little of both. Wayne helped a lot though.”

“Jennid at school,” Max continued, “says that you’re also supposed to get the girl when you save the world. But that part is stupid. I don’t like girls.”

“What?” Wax said. “Not even Mommy?”

“Dad,” Max said, with an exaggerated sense of long-suffering — as if this were the most obvious thing a boy had ever had to describe. “Mommy’s not a girl, she’s a mom.”

Steris smiled, moving over by Kath as Wax took little Tindwyl and held her tight, letting her grab at his sideburns.

“This came for you,” Kath said softly, taking a letter from her handbag. “A short time ago. It looked important.”

“Thank you,” Steris said, taking the letter — which was addressed to her — and noting the governor’s seal on the front.

Her panic was immediate. She’d worried about this. She’d written down the possibility, but surely it wouldn’t … it couldn’t …

She ripped it open, her hands shaking with terror. He’d need a new vice governor, now that he’d formally fired Adawathwyn. Surely he wouldn’t …

Oh no. Oh no. Not that.

Disaster … Preparations Officer?

She blinked.

Why … that wasn’t terrifying at all.

That might actually be fun.

Wax gave Tindwyl to Kath, then hobbled over to Steris — nodding passively as Max explained at length about the new marbles game he’d been playing. Looking over her shoulder, Wax read the letter, then took her by the elbow.

“Steris,” he said, “that’s wonderful.”

“I don’t deserve it,” she said. “The tsunami wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared it would be.”

“Love,” Wax said, “you do deserve it.”

She turned to look him in the eyes.

“What if instead of quoting Wayne,” he said softly, “we honored him in a different way. What if we decided to make an effort to let ourselves be happy? What do you think of that, Lady Ladrian?”

“I think, Lord Ladrian, I should like that very, very much.”

And she could already imagine an entire list of plans to make certain it happened.

ALLRIANDRE

FIVE DAYS AFTER DETONATION

Allriandre climbed the steps one at a time. Feet like lead. Legs like slag. Back bowed, as if weighed by bars of steel. Her ashen clothing bore a few new marks from the forges, which threw sparks when she passed. Her job didn’t involve working those — she sorted bits of metal for melting down.

When she arrived at her small flat — on the seventh floor, in a building with no elevator — she could already hear Miss Coussaint yelling. Despite her exhaustion, Allriandre picked up her pace. She hurried to the door and threw it open, to where her daughter, Ruri — three years old and still small for her age — huddled in her blankets. Terrified again.

“Why would you think toothpaste was for drawing?” Miss Coussaint shouted. She was a woman with a hierarchy of chins, the last — most swollen — one lording over the others like a terrible regent. She glanced up as Allriandre entered, then held up the toothpaste jar. “Did you see what she did this time?”

“I’m sorry,” Allriandre said, exhausted, but she scooped up Ruri as she came running into her arms to escape. “Thank you for watching her.”

Coussaint looked her up and down, noting the dirty face, scraggly hair, burned clothing. “Rent?” she demanded. “It’s been three days.”

“He’s never been late with a payment before.” Wayne, the man who’d murdered her father. “I’m sure he’ll show up soon.”

“I need to do some renovations,” Coussaint said. “Maybe when he comes, you can—”

“Thank you, Miss Coussaint,” Allriandre said, stepping aside so the woman could leave. “For watching her. It is an enormous help.”

The woman huffed, but squeezed out of the room and went clomping down the steps. Allriandre pulled her daughter close, and thought for a moment about her choices. About how the best schooling in the city didn’t mean much when you were in debt to the wrong people. About how something you loved so much — like the girl she held to now — could also be a reminder of one of the greatest mistakes you’d ever made.

She was exhausted, but she plopped Ruri down, and together the two of them painted with toothpaste on the wall until the girl was laughing again. Until Ruri understood that mistakes could sometimes turn into amazing, wonderful, cherished things. With the right perspective.

A knock came at the door.

Allriandre froze, then quickly wiped her hands on a rag. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Rusts, she barely knew anyone. All of her university friends had gone on to marriages, office jobs, and nights spent socializing. Her family still lived out in the Roughs, and she’d made sure they didn’t know what had happened to her. Because they had their own problems.

She opened the door hesitantly and saw two men in suits outside — one tall, one short. Her stomach immediately dropped. Were these Bleaker’s new collection men? They usually showed up a week after she received her monthly payment.

“Miss Allriandre?” the shorter of the men asked. “I am Mister Call, and this is Mister Daring, of Call and Son and Daughters Accounting and Estate. Might we come in? We have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”

“I don’t have the money yet,” she said quickly. “I can’t pay you until I do. There’s nothing in here for you to take.”

The two shared a glance, then the shorter man gestured again. She reluctantly let them in.

“If you,” she whispered, “hurt my daughter…”

“We are not who you appear to think we are,” the taller man said with a cheerful air, looking at the toothpaste-covered wall, then the ragged furnishings. “We represent the estate of Master Wayne Terrisborn of 662 Inkling Lane.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling relieved. “Him. Wait. Did he finally get smart and decide to stop insisting that I meet him in person?”

“Indeed he did,” the taller man said, setting his bowler hat on the counter. She winced, noticing the mushed-up apple Ruri had dropped there. The little girl came and climbed into her arms. Strangers made her nervous.

“Why are you late?” Allriandre asked. “His payments always come on the first of the month.”

The taller one coughed. “You haven’t heard? You … don’t read the broadsheets?”

“Do I look like I have time for broadsheets?” she asked. “If you have my payment, that’s great. I could use it. But I really need some sleep. So…”

“Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “Master Wayne passed last week. It was quite spectacular — he was the one who detonated the bomb. Did you hear about that?”

She’d heard rumblings of it at the forges. Not his part in it. But the whole flood and, and the evacuations … and … Wait.

“He’s dead?” she asked.

They nodded.

Rusts. How did she feel about that? Happy? The man who had killed her father was finally dead. She should be overjoyed, shouldn’t she?

Instead she felt confused. A little angry still, yes. That would never leave her. A hint of relief. But mostly … sorry. Sorry for how it had all turned out. Sorry that wounds long dulled sent a pang through her now and then. Sorry for mistakes. Mistakes didn’t always turn into something better, not by a long mile. But she could understand now how they happened. Even the big ones.

The taller man set a large folder onto the room’s only table. “Shall we?” he asked.

“Shall we what?” she replied.

“Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “you are the primary beneficiary of Master Wayne’s estate.”

“What’s that amount to?” she asked. “Three balls of gum and an unpaid bar tab?”

“Currently,” the tall one said, “it’s twenty million boxings — liquid — along with majority stake ownerships in several important holdings, equating to at least another hundred.”

The room fell silent save for Ruri’s sniffling, which the girl solved by wiping her nose on Allriandre’s jumpsuit. Allriandre barely noticed.

“Did you say … a hundred and twenty million?” she whispered.

“Give or take, depending on the market,” the taller man said. “He invested wisely — in a brilliant way, actually, against most conventional wisdom — using a considerable amount of aluminum as collateral. Turns out electricity, fabrication, and power were the place to be six years ago.”

The shorter man pulled over a chair for her. “Please,” he said softly. “Sit down. We have some things to go over.”

“A hundred and twenty million,” she repeated, her eyes wide, barely able to think. Her debts — from her failed art studio — equated to barely ten thousand.

“Yes,” the taller man said, setting out some papers. “By my estimation, you have become the fourth-richest person in the city.” He looked up. “There are a few holdbacks, mind you. Accounts that Master Wayne set aside for other things. But that equates to less than five hundred thousand in total. Everything else … well, it’s yours.”

She sank down into the chair.

The short man pushed over a note. Handwritten, stained with something. “He wanted you to have this.”

It simply said, Sorry.

As if that could explain all of this. Overwhelmed, she took the note, then held it close to her chest. With money, she could bring her family to Elendel. Resolve their problems. Build the life for them all that she’d promised when they’d put everything into sending her to the city.

Ruri grabbed at the card, getting toothpaste on it.

“What are the holdbacks for?” Allriandre asked. “Not that I’m complaining. I’m merely curious.”

The two shared a look.

“Various things,” the shorter man said. “Each one of an … individual nature.”

KELSIER

THREE WEEKS AFTER DETONATION

Kelsier, the Survivor, liked high places. Fortunately, the city as it had become contained plenty of them.

He was one of the few who could remember a time when the grand keeps of Luthadel had been considered lofty, stretching up sixteens of feet into the air. Today they would be quaint compared to the city’s dominating skyscrapers. The monoliths of modernity.

Kelsier didn’t see quite as he once had. One eye saw as a mortal, the other as an immortal. His spiked eye not only pinned his soul to his bones, but gave him a constant overlay of blue, letting him see the world as a being like Sazed did. Outlining not only sources of metal, but all things. The very axi that made up matter had their own polarity, influenceable with Steelpushing under the right circumstances.

One eye of the gods. One eye of the common men. As he had always tried to see the world.

He had a spectacular view from the top of the skyscraper today. He could remember the joy, the freedom he’d felt all those years ago when he’d first crested the top of the mists and seen the stars. Now, those stars were naked and bare most nights. Even if the mists were out, it wasn’t too hard to find a building that reached up beyond them, presenting them to full view. Stars. Suns. Planets.

Each one a potential threat.

A figure walked along the edge of the skyscraper’s top toward Kelsier. Harmony wasn’t accompanied by his dark double, the shadowy version that sometimes appeared these days. A representation of his other self.

“Marsh is going to live,” Sazed said, settling down beside Kelsier. If you didn’t look directly at him, you could almost ignore the fact that his essence extended into eternity.

Sazed spoke like he always had, though he was literally a god now. Kelsier wasn’t certain if that was because Harmony presented a personality that was familiar to Kelsier, to put him at ease. Or if the man who had once been Kelsier’s friend was actually the same person somehow.

“Marsh will live,” Kelsier said, musing. “Does that mean we have atium again? Or did you find another way?”

“The kandra found atium dust in Waxillium’s destroyed laboratory,” Sazed said. “It appears that if you detonate harmonium against trellium — or, I suppose bavadinium would be its true name — it creates some small amount of atium as a by-product.”

“Lerasium?” Kelsier asked.

“I’m sorry. That is all annihilated in the explosion. We’ve tested it several times now.”

Damn. Another dead end.

“It wouldn’t work on you anyway,” Sazed said. “Not in your current state.”

“Doesn’t matter, Saze,” Kelsier said. “We need Allomancers — real Allomancers, like in the old days — to face what is coming. This problem with Trell never would have happened if we’d had proper Metalborn.”

“So you agree with the Set?” Sazed said. “And their monstrous undertakings in the name of creating Metalborn?”

Did he? It was difficult to say. Sometimes to make an omelet, you had to break a few skulls. He didn’t like what the Set had done to innocent people, and would never condone such actions. But if Hemalurgy was demanded, there was always someone around who was the strict opposite of innocent.

“You don’t know where the Set’s experiments could have led,” Sazed said. “Even the simple act of trying to breed Allomancers … it leads to darkness, Kell. Trying to create perfect people through forced breeding? You don’t have to be Terris to find that idea nauseating.”

“Perhaps Ruin and Preservation should have thought about that before giving genetically derived powers to only part of the population. My goal is to democratize this. Take the power away from the few, give it to the many.”

Lerasium would have been the easiest way, but it seemed he would have to keep hunting. That gave him hope for himself though. Lerasium wouldn’t have worked on him, and Hemalurgy had proven ineffective on what he’d become. It held his soul and body together, but no more.

There had to be another way. He had hope. Ever, he had hope. Hope he could control the metals again. Hope he would be able to soar again. Hope he’d be able to touch the metals he could see in the world all around him.

The two sat in silence for a time. They did that more and more, during their infrequent meetings. Perhaps because both knew it was better than arguing.

“I’m fond of heights,” Kelsier eventually said. “More so than when I was fully mortal. Perhaps a part of me holds a grudge against the ground, and what she did to me in those caves. Maybe I just try to get as far from her as possible.” He paused. “Explosions to make atium. I wonder if there will ever be a way to get it that isn’t traumatic.”

Sazed didn’t reply.

“How could you let it get this far, Saze?” Kelsier eventually asked. “This was almost the end.”

“I had it in hand.”

“Like hell you did. You’re lucky that lawman could function after what you put him through six years ago. Lucky that the other one was a Slider. I still can’t figure out how he managed that partial detonation in the ship’s hold.”

“Luck is a different thing for a god who can see futures, I think,” Sazed replied softly.

“Immaterial. This ran to the last minute. You should have stopped Trell years ago. But you didn’t. Why?”

Sazed stared out over the city. Beyond the city. To things Kelsier couldn’t see, even with the eye of a god.

“You can’t protect this world, Saze,” Kelsier said. “We have to face it. Something’s happening to you.”

“I have it in hand.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

Sazed remained there, seated, with his eyes closed. And damn, looking at him was disorienting. On the surface was his friend, the calm Terrisman. But he extended. Somehow he was the very stone they were sitting on. The city. The planet. And beyond.

And there was a darkness within him. A different face from the one he showed. The powers were in imbalance. Ruin had always been stronger.

“What would you have me do?” Sazed asked.

“There are potential allies out there,” Kelsier said. “Moonlight’s world, perhaps. Or the land of the aethers. Hell, maybe even Mythos. We need a way to reach them.”

“Shadesmar—”

“Is unreliable,” Kelsier said. “I know you’re barely able to get the kandra out into the wider cosmere; it’s untenable for large-scale travel. Besides, crossing it anymore is like walking into the hands of various gods who absolutely want us dead. There’s got to be a better way.”

“What are you proposing?” Sazed asked.

“Lead us into a new technological age,” Kelsier said. “Help us find ways to defend ourselves, and perhaps accomplish even more. Autonomy consistently shares with her people the things they can accomplish with electricity and industry. You don’t.”

“People should discover it on their own,” Sazed said. “If they do not, there are subtle consequences. We should let the decades play out, becoming centuries, and let humankind find their own path to the cosmere—”

“No,” Kelsier said. “We can’t wait centuries; we can barely wait decades. If you don’t do something, we will discover technology on our own — when enemy armies bearing it arrive to destroy us. Lead us to a revolution, Saze. Bring us into a new world.”

“The one we’ve arrived at isn’t progressing quickly enough?”

“What do you think?” Kelsier asked. “Another few weeks, and they’d have had that rocket working, wouldn’t they? They’d have delivered it straight into the heart of Elendel, and millions would have been vaporized — and we’d have never known it was possible. Well, none of us but you.”

Sazed looked down. “I will … consider.”

“Consider?” Kelsier said. “This is all going to get worse, unless we can stand against the outsiders. Yes, their army withdrew from Shadesmar — you’re welcome for my people’s help with that, by the way — but only because Autonomy is regrouping.

“They’re going to come back, and we need to be ready. With technology. More, with our most powerful resource. We need Allomancers and Feruchemists. Is there a way to expand our access to Metalborn? They have the seed inside them, don’t they? The heart of Preservation?”

“I don’t know,” Sazed whispered.

“Are you lying?”

“Have I ever lied to you, old friend?” Sazed opened his eyes and met his gaze, showing infinity within those depths.

“I,” Kelsier said, “am going to protect our people. Whatever it costs. Please tell me I won’t ever have to protect them from you.”

“That depends,” Sazed said, “entirely upon you, old friend.”

RANETTE

SIX MONTHS AFTER DETONATION

Ranette’s honeymoon had been dreadful. Full of relaxing and reading books and seeing sights in Malwish. Not a single gun. She’d barely been allowed to draw schematics and designs.

“You’d better appreciate this,” she grumbled to Jaxy as the car pulled up to their place in Elendel.

“You liked it,” Jaxy said, poking her in the side. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

“Having fun gets boring too quickly,” Ranette muttered.

“Just think how refreshed you are,” Jaxy replied. “How many ideas flowed when you didn’t have to worry about deadlines or delivery dates!”

“I like deadlines,” Ranette said.

Jaxy eyed her.

“Fine,” Ranette said. “It wasn’t awful. It was almost enjoyable. Even if that place is weird. I wish Wax hadn’t discovered it. Then maybe we’d have gone to the Roughs.”

“The Roughs,” Jaxy said. “For our honeymoon.”

Ranette shrugged. “You’re the one who likes that dumb restaurant.”

Jaxy rolled her eyes as the car — strangely — didn’t stop at their place. It kept driving.

“Wait,” Ranette said, turning and looking back.

“There’s something you need to see,” Jaxy said.

“This isn’t more ‘fun,’ is it? I’m so full of it by this point, I feel like barfing it all right back out.”

“You are so romantic,” Jaxy said, taking her arm.

Ranette huffed. Well, she’d been careful not to spoil the actual honeymoon with this kind of behavior. She’d been nice and enjoyable and perky.

Okay. Not perky. But not grouchy. Most of the time. And admittedly, the Southern Continent had been something special. Even if tensions were … well, growing tenser. There was constant talk of closing the borders to Northerners. It seemed that tourism was at an end.

Regardless, they were home now. This was supposed to be her time to gripe. That was how a relationship worked. Push and Pull. She’d given. Now she could take a little. Now she could …

“What the hell?” she asked as the car came to a stop outside her shop. A little place on a small plot of land — which had been expanded somehow to a very large place on a small plot of land.

“A wedding gift,” Jaxy said.

“How in the world did you afford this?” Ranette said, throwing the door open and stumbling out.

“I didn’t. It’s not from me.”

Ranette looked back.

“Some nice men showed up,” Jaxy explained, “with a sum from Wayne. After … you know. They said I was supposed to do something nice for you, but — the instructions said clearly — ‘Not in a skeevy way.’ He suggested a renovation to the shop.”

Ranette couldn’t help smiling at that. She had been surprised by how much she’d missed Wayne. Once he had learned — shockingly, people could learn — how to not be slime, they’d actually become friends.

Of course, he’d gone out in the most incredible explosion ever. So she hadn’t felt that bad. If you had to die, then hell, that was the way.

She was still trying to figure out how to get her hands on some of those explosives. The things she could build with something that packed that much of a punch …

“He left a note,” Jaxy said, handing it to her.

Hey, it said. In crayon. These two fellows in suits told me I gotta write this and make decisions about this stuff, just in case. Apparently they think my job is “high risk.” I told them that if they wanted their jobs to become high risk, they should try pushin’ me harder to do stupid stuff.

But … I guess, if you’re readin’ this, I’m done and gone. Buried. Maybe burned. Maybe I got eaten. I dunno. Whatever happened, I hope it’s Marasi’s fault, because she’s always tellin’ me I’m gonna get her into trouble and it would be nice if that hat were on her head instead.

Anyway … I want to say thanks. For not throwin’ the Wayne out with the Wayne, ya know? Enjoy the gift. Build something real awesome.

“Damn,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I really do miss that little miscreant.”

Jaxy smiled, leaning into her, holding to her arm. “Ranette. That was almost kind.”

“I mean it. I miss him.” She smiled. “Wasn’t ever a person I’ve known who was more fun to shoot.”

MELAAN

NINETEEN MONTHS AFTER DETONATION

The messenger flitted off across the dark ocean of Shadesmar, glowing faintly.

MeLaan sat in a boat kept afloat by some kind of glowing substance on the hull. The blackness beneath was like a liquid, more viscous than water. It was supposed to be perfectly transparent — if a person slipped into it and sank, you were said to be able to watch them fall, and fall, and fall.

“Do you know,” MeLaan said, “what those messengers even are?”

“An Invested entity,” her guide said, “which can read Connection to find anyone, anywhere.”

“That’s … kind of unnerving.”

Her guide — Jan Ven — shrugged. She was a creature with four arms, chalk-white skin, and large almost reptilian eyes. Her white hair was wide, like blades of grass. Sho Del were apparently rare out here, but made excellent guides. Something about having a direct line to their gods.

The envelope was stamped with the words SILVERLIGHT MERCANTILE. Inside she found a note from Harmony. Short, to the point, empathetic. Wayne had stopped the attack on the city. And had died in the process.

Her breath caught. She found herself trembling.

Rusts. She was supposed to be better than this. Immortal. Stoic. Why couldn’t she be like the others?

She’d known she wouldn’t see him again. But this? She’d wanted him to find someone else. For his own good. And if she was being honest, for her own good. Because he made her forget what she was. Because with him the world was too interesting, and that made her forget what was smart.

Dead? He …

It was supposed to have been a mere fling. She was just too damn awful at being immortal. She folded the letter, then placed it carefully into her jacket.

“Bad news?” Jan Ven asked, paddling them softly across the infinite black expanse.

“Yes,” MeLaan whispered.

“Do you want to put off the landing?”

MeLaan turned. There was land ahead. And lights that seemed too alive for the cold fire of this strange place. People crowded around, hundreds of them, with strange outfits, many with odd red hair. Lost.

This was her task. To save those people.

“No,” MeLaan said, standing. “I have a duty here.”

After all, she could remake, rebuild, and regenerate her heart. That was what her kind did.

WAXILLIUM

TWO YEARS AFTER DETONATION

The most difficult thing about commissioning Wayne’s statue had been deciding which hat it should be wearing. In the end, the answer had been obvious. They had to make it changeable.

So it was that Wax and Steris stood before a remarkably accurate bronze depiction of Wayne wearing a removable bronze version of his lucky hat. He was larger than life-size, smiling slyly, with an outstretched hand. Likely so that he could pick your pocket with the other, but most people would think he was offering help.

They figured they’d replace the hat once a year. Keep things fresh, interesting. It wasn’t the official unveiling yet, but the artist had let Wax and Steris come to see it. Fences kept others away as they promenaded along the Field of Rebirth at the very hub of Elendel. The knoll where people had first emerged after the remaking of the world.

The statues of the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor were just far enough away that if Wayne’s had been alive, he could have hit them on the backs of their heads with an occasional thrown pebble. That seemed appropriate.

Steris knelt down to read the inscription.

“‘You’re meant to be helping people,’” she read, then noticed a second, smaller inscription plaque at the bottom, near the base. Wax winced as she read this one too.

“‘Ain’t no fellow who regretted giving it one extra shake,’” she read, “‘but you can bet every guy has regretted giving one too few.’ I can’t believe you used that quote.”

“The lower plaque can be removed,” Wax said quickly. “We’ll change it up now and then too. But … well, that quote was something he explicitly asked for.”

She stood up and shook her head, but he could tell she was already thinking this would be a good place to put some of the more choice quotes she’d recorded.

Wax remained standing, looking up at the visage of his friend. The dull ache remained. Always would. But Wax had been living his life. He, Steris, and the kids were preparing for another tour of the Roughs. A political tour, to drum up support for their bid to become a province in the changing face of the Basin.

Two years of hard work had staved off civil war. Real progress had finally led to a national assembly for the cities of the Basin. The Roughs were next. Some there wanted to be their own country; he hoped to persuade them they’d be better united.

The gate to the fence slammed, and shortly Marasi stepped up to the statue, wearing Wayne’s actual lucky hat. Wayne had left it to her. A last-minute addition to the will, they’d been told. At first, Wax had thought he hadn’t been left anything specific. Then certain items had started … showing up.

He held up the latest one for Marasi to see.

“A desiccated frog?” Marasi asked.

“Taxidermied,” Wax said. “Was in my coat pocket this morning. Along with a note apologizing. Apparently the instructions had been for a live frog, but they hadn’t quite been able to bring themselves to do it.”

“You ever find out who he paid to do this?” Marasi asked, taking the frog by one leg.

“I assume it’s the men who handle his estate,” Wax said, “from how polite and apologetic the notes are. I haven’t had the heart to confront them about it.”

“You should just let it keep happening,” Steris said.

He frowned as she stepped up to him. “You don’t think it’s gross? Last time was half a sandwich.”

“It is obviously gross,” she said. “But … well, it shows remarkable planning on Wayne’s part. It’s the sort of thing we should encourage.”

“He’s dead,” Marasi pointed out.

“It’s the sort of thing we should respect, then,” Steris said.

Marasi eyed the frog. “They say that in gift-giving, it’s the thought that counts. So … um … how do we interpret this?”

Wax sighed. “I’m sure they’ll run out of items on his list soon enough.”

Both women stared at him.

“Did you know Wayne?” Marasi asked. “When in his life did he ever let a joke die?”

It was … a fair point. And from what they’d learned about Wayne’s remarkable finances, he’d had the money to keep this joke going for a long, long time. And, well, things like the frog were aggravating. And endearing. Both at once.

Just like Wayne had been.

“Are you ready for your trip, Marasi?” Steris asked.

Marasi grimaced. “Physically? Yes. We’re packed. But mentally? Emotionally?”

“You’ll do wonderfully,” Steris said. “You’re going to be the best rusting ambassador the damn Basin ever had!”

Marasi cocked her head.

“Using respectful language,” Steris explained, looking up at the statue of Wayne, “considering the location.”

“She’s right,” Wax said to Marasi. “You’re exactly what we need. A Basin woman with a Malwish partner. A distinguished public servant with a record for being fair but tough. The leaders of the Southern nations will listen to you.”

Marasi nodded, her expression firm.

“Have to be honest,” Wax said, broaching the topic, “I’m a little surprised to see you leaving the constabulary behind. A part of me thought you’d never walk away. It was your dream.”

“No,” she said. “My dream was to do more. Always has been.”

“I suppose you can do that as ambassador,” Wax said.

Marasi smiled, arms folded. He was happy to see how confident she’d been lately.

“You’re planning something,” Wax said, finding himself amused. “What is it, Marasi?”

“I realized a while ago that there was something I wanted to do, something I wanted to accomplish,” Marasi said. “But I needed experience I didn’t have yet. I think becoming ambassador will help.”

Wax frowned at that, trying to pick out what she meant. But before he could press further, Steris spoke.

“Hopefully you can calm the tensions,” she said. “If anyone can get them to start opening up trade with us again, it will be you.”

He agreed with the sentiment. Wax hadn’t been in the meeting where the Bands had been brought out and found drained, but it smelled of a setup to him. Unfortunately, since the events of the detonation, relations had grown increasingly tense. The Basin felt the Bands had been taken unjustly, and the Malwish claimed that the Basin had shown aggression by even considering using them.

But the Bands were merely a symbol. Part of a larger power play. A new faction in Malwish — the one in control of their unification — kept talking about how Northern disasters had caused them so much hardship over the centuries, and warned that the discovery of these bombs was only the next step. They saw the North as chaotic, unpredictable.

Listening to this group, the Malwish Consortium had forbidden things like tourism and even most forms of trade between continents. Most importantly, they’d forbidden any transfer of harmonium to Northern interests.

No harmonium meant no airships. And no Investiture bombs, though trellium was the rarer component of that particular device. Unfortunately, the Basin had enough of both metals squirreled away to be dangerous. And despite his arguments against it, the Basin had been looking into developing weapons using those remnants.

They’d entered a new age. War was one of the main disasters Steris had to spend her time preparing for. It wouldn’t come to that. Hopefully. If only he could figure out who had drained the Bands …

Don’t go down that path, he thought.

Yet if he didn’t ask those kinds of questions, who was he? Lawman? Father? Senator?

Questions were part of who he was. He just wished he knew for certain that the choice was his. Though, as he considered — his old instincts working on his behalf — he thought maybe he could piece together what Marasi was planning. Judging by the way she was glancing back at the line of political picket signs in the grass nearby. By the way she’d strategically chosen such a high-profile appointment.

She said she needed experience. Negotiating, perhaps. Soothing egos. Trying to get people to get along …

“Rusts,” he said, pointing at her. “You’re planning to run for governor.”

She jumped at the exclamation. Then blushed. Then she raised her chin and nodded.

Wax looked to Steris, who was smiling. “You knew?”

“She needed help planning,” Steris said. “But the secret wasn’t mine to share.”

“I had to really decide,” Marasi said. “Had to know for myself, Wax. I need experience. I need to see if I’m any good at this sort of work. But … yes.”

Huh.

“I found I couldn’t content myself with a constable’s job,” she said, “after what I’d seen and learned. I needed to be able to change things. Actually change things.” She glanced at him. “Do you think I’m foolish? For years, in my youth, I thought maybe I was being trained to enter politics. I ran away from that, but now…”

They locked eyes. And she seemed to realize, for the first time, what she was saying. Who she was saying it to. Yes, he understood that feeling. He nodded to her, then glanced again at the quote on Wayne’s plaque. Those words he’d said, years ago now. You’re meant to be helping people.

Another figure approached, this one wearing a long black coat and hat. He stepped up beside them, inspecting the statue through spiked eyes.

“It looks good,” Death said.

“How is it,” Steris said, “you walk around without drawing attention?”

“Emotional Allomancy,” he said absently.

“You seem better,” Marasi said. “The treatment is working.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “I prefer not to taste of my own offerings. It seems I won’t have to for some time.” He turned to Wax. “Greetings, Brother.”

Wax felt at his abdomen, where he bore his spike. Though he’d been assured being called “brother” by the likes of the kandra and Death didn’t mean he was immortal, it did make him uncomfortable. He’d joined the ranks of an extremely disturbing group. The spiked.

“I’ve considered removing it,” Wax said.

“I will help if you wish,” Death said. “But not all of them can be removed. I nearly lost one once that would have ended me. Still find it amazing that I survived.”

“Perhaps it’s in the blood,” Steris said.

“Perhaps it is at that.” He hesitated. “Harmony wants me to express his regards.”

God could have spoken into Wax’s head because of the spike. But he had — by Wax’s request — vowed never to do so, unless asked. He said he wouldn’t even watch.

The spike, though, continued to perpetuate a problem. Who was Wax? Father, lawman, senator? Or was he none of the three? A part of him still worried, after all these years, that he was something else entirely. A pawn.

“Ironeyes?” Marasi asked. “Is … is Wayne really gone? Like … are we absolutely certain?”

Death smiled. “I didn’t meet his soul, Marasi. I only do that some of the time, when Saze Invests me with the power. I think he likes the idea of me living up to the stories people decided to tell about me. It’s … his way.

“Regardless, I didn’t meet Wayne as he left. Harmony did that personally. Yes, your friend is gone.” He nodded to the statue. “Remarkable likeness … It took an intervention to get Vin’s right. But this is spot-on from the first try.”

He nodded to the group of them, then handed a small note to Wax. From there, Death withdrew. Wax didn’t buy his explanation of using emotional Allomancy to remain hidden. There was something more here.

He turned over the card that Death had given him. It was from Harmony.

Wax held that card for a long time. Then he tucked it into his pocket. He took Steris’s hand and looked up at the statue.

Who was he? He supposed … well, he was whoever he wanted to be. No decision had ever forced him to choose one role over others — and being one man did not prevent him from being the others as well. He kept making that mistake, but he vowed right then to stop. To listen to his wife, to his heart, and to Harmony himself.

Father, lawman, senator. He could be all three, and more.

So long as he was helping people.

THE END OF ERA TWO OF MISTBORN