“Lessie,” Wax said, voice hoarse. “She … she changed spikes frequently.”
“And each was a spike created specifically for her,” VenDell said. “Not one that had been used by another kandra. And besides, would you call her particularly stable, Lord Waxillium? You must trust us on this; we have done what we can. Here, at least.
“MeLaan will be traveling to New Seran to investigate and retrieve ReLuur’s missing spike. Miss Colms, we would like you to join her and help recover our brother’s mind. We can intervene with your superiors in the constable precinct, and make certain you are assigned field duty working for the government in a clandestine fashion. If you can restore ReLuur’s spike, we will be able to find answers.”
VenDell eyed Wax. “This will not be a wild hunt for some impossible artifact. All we want is our friend back. Of course, any clues you can discover regarding where he went on his quest, and where he got these pictures, would be appreciated. There are some people of interest in New Seran, nobility that ReLuur is fixated upon for reasons we can’t get out of him.”
Wax studied the last image for a time longer. It was tempting. Mystical artifacts were all well and good, but someone attacking—and nearly killing—one of the Faceless Immortals? That was interesting.
“I’ll go,” Marasi said from behind him. “I’ll do it. But … I wouldn’t mind help. Waxillium?”
A part of him longed to go. Escape the parties and the dances, the political engagements and business meetings. The kandra would know that; Harmony would know that.
Anger simmered deep within him at the thought. He’d hunted Lessie, and they hadn’t told him.
“This sounds like the perfect challenge for your skills, Marasi,” he found himself saying. “I doubt you need me. You are perfectly capable, and I feel a fool for having implied otherwise, even accidentally. If you do want company, however, perhaps Wayne would be willing to provide some extra protection. I’m afraid that I, however, must—”
The image on the wall flickered to a shot of a city with grand waterfalls. New Seran? He’d never been there. The streets were overgrown with foliage, and people promenaded about in clothing of striped brown suits and soft white dresses.
“Ah, I forgot,” VenDell said. “There was one other image in ReLuur’s belongings. We discovered it last, as the others were packed carefully away to await development. We suspect this image was taken in New Seran, just before the attack.”
“And why should I care?” Wax said. “It…”
He trailed off, feeling an icy shock as he recognized someone in the picture. He stepped back into the stream of light, pressing his hand against the white wall, trying—fruitlessly—to feel the image. “Impossible.”
She stood between two men who held to her arms tightly, as if pulling her forward against her will. Keeping her prisoner even in broad daylight. She had glanced over her shoulder toward the camera as the evanotype was taken. It must be one of the new models he’d been hearing about, that didn’t require the subject to stand still for the image to set.
The woman was in her forties, lean but solid, with long dark hair framing a face that—despite their years apart—Wax knew very, very well.
Telsin. His sister.
4
Two hours after the strange meeting, Wayne puttered through Wax’s mansion, peeking behind pictures, lifting up vases. Where did he keep the good stuff?
“It is her, Steris,” Wax was saying in the ground-floor sitting room not far away. “And that man with his back turned, holding her by the arm, that could be my uncle. They’re involved in this. I have to go.”
It had always seemed funny to Wayne how rich folk got to decide what was valuable. He inspected a picture frame that was likely pure gold. Why did anyone care about this shiny stuff? Gold could do some fun things with Feruchemy, but it was pure rubbish when it came to Allomancy.
Well, rich folk liked it. So they paid a lot for it, and that made it valuable. No other reason.
How did they decide what was valuable? Did they all just gather together, sit around in their suits and gowns, and say, “Oi. Let’s start eatin’ fish eggs, and make the stuff real expensive. That’ll rust their brains, it will.” Then they’d have a nice round of rich folks’ laughter and throw some servants off the top of a building to see what kind of splats they’d make when they hit.
Wayne put the picture back. He refused to play by rich people’s rules. He’d decide for himself what something was worth. And that frame was ugly. Didn’t help none that Steris’s cousins, who were depicted in the evanotype it held, looked like fish.
“Then you should most certainly go, Lord Waxillium,” Steris said. “Why the concern? We can make arrangements to postpone other duties.”
“It’s infuriating, Steris!” Even from out in the hall, Wayne could hear the I’m pacing in his tone. “Not a word of apology, from them or Harmony regarding what they did to me. VenDell made offhanded comments—referring to me shooting Lessie as a ‘stunt.’ They used me. Lessie was only trying, in a broken way, to free me from them. Now they saunter back, no mention of what I lost, and expect me to just pick up and do their bidding again.”
Poor Wax. That had busted him up right good, it had. And Wayne could see why. Still, an apology? Did people what got killed in a flood expect an apology from God? God did as God wished. You simply hoped to not get on His worse side. Kinda like the bouncer at the club with the pretty sister.
Harmony wasn’t the only god, anyway. And that was what Wayne was about today.
After some silence, Wax continued, more softly. “I have to go. Even after what they did, if my uncle is really involved in this … if I can free Telsin … I have to go. Tomorrow night, there will be a gathering of the outer cities political elite in New Seran. Governor Aradel is rightly concerned, and was going to send a representative anyway. It gives me a plausible excuse to be in the city. Marasi can look for the lost spike; I can hunt down my uncle.”
“It is decided, then,” Steris said. “Will we be leaving immediately?”
Wax was silent for a moment. “We?”
“I assumed … I mean, if you are taking my sister, it would look very odd if I were not accompanying you.” Wayne felt like he could hear her blush. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. You may, of course, do as you wish, but—”
“No,” he said. “You’re right. It would look odd to go alone. The gathering will include a reception, after all. I don’t want to imply … I mean…”
“I can go, but stay out of your way.”
“It could be dangerous. I can’t ask it of you.”
“If this is what you feel you must do, then I will be happy to take the risk.”
“I…”
Rusts. Those two were as awkward as a man suddenly splitting his cheeks in church. Wayne shook his head, picking up one of the vases in the entryway. Good pottery, with a nice swirly-dirly pattern. Maybe that would do for his offering.
Someone knocked on the door, and Wayne put the vase back. It didn’t feel right. He took one of the flowers though, and traded it for an extra sock from his back pocket. Huh. He had a silverware set in his other pocket. From the wedding breakfast? Yeah, that was right. They’d put out a place setting for him, had his name and everything. That meant the silverware had been his.
He put the fork, knife, and spoon back in his pocket and tucked the flower behind his ear, then walked to the door, reaching it right before that butler did. He gave the man a glare—it was only a matter of time before he cracked and tried to kill them all—then pulled open the door.
That kandra bloke stood on the other side. His suit now was an even lighter shade of tan. “You,” Wayne said, pointing. “We just got ridda you!” It had only been … what, two hours since he left?
“Good afternoon, young lad,” the kandra said. “Are the adults home?”
Darriance quite politely pushed Wayne aside and gestured for VenDell to enter. “You are expected, sir.”
“He is?
” Wayne said.
“Master Ladrian said to send you in,” the butler said, pointing toward the sitting room.
“Thank you,” VenDell said, striding toward the room.
Wayne caught up with him quickly.
“Nice flower,” the kandra said. “Can I have your skeleton when you’re dead?”
“My…” Wayne felt at his head.
“You’re a Bloodmaker, correct? Can heal yourself? Bloodmaker bones tend to be particularly interesting, as your time spent weak and sickly creates oddities in your joints and bones that can be quite distinctive. I’d love to have your skeleton. If you don’t mind.”
Taken aback by this request, Wayne stopped in place. Then he ran past him, pushing into the room where Wax and Steris were talking. “Wax,” he complained, pointing, “the immortal bloke is being creepy again.”
“Greetings, Lord Ladrian,” VenDell said, walking in and holding up a folder. “Your tickets, along with transcripts of everything we’ve been able to pry out of ReLuur. I warn you, most of it isn’t terribly lucid.”
Wayne glanced at Wax’s liquor cabinet. Maybe something in there would work for what he needed for his offering.
“I haven’t said that I’d go,” Wax told the immortal. “You’re roping me into this, sure as sheep in a pen.”
“Yes,” the immortal said. He held out the folder again. “In here is a list of people ReLuur mentions. You’ll find it interesting that he lists several, including the woman holding the party I’m sending you to, as having had interactions with your uncle.”
Wax sighed, then accepted it. He gestured to Steris, who had risen to curtsy. “My fiancée. We were debating whether she should accompany me or not.”
“We have made provisions for whatever you decide,” VenDell said. “Though it will look less suspicious if you go too, Lady Harms, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“It might be helpful if you accompanied us, VenDell,” Wax said. “We could use an extra Metalborn.”
VenDell’s eyes bulged, and he turned white, like he’d been told his baby had been born with two noses. “Go out into the field? Me? Lord Ladrian, I assure you, that’s not what you want.”
“Why not?” Wax asked, leaning back against the wall. “You’re practically impossible to kill, and you can change your rusting shape into anything you want.”
“Wait,” Wayne said, turning away from the liquor cabinet. “You can turn into anything? Like a bunny?”
“Very small animals are extremely difficult, as we need a certain mass to hold our cognitive functions and—”
“Bunny,” Wayne said. “Can you be a bunny.”
“If absolutely necessary.”
“So that’s what that damn book was about.”
VenDell sighed, looking toward Wax. “MeLaan can perform any transformations you might need. I honor the First Contract, Lord Ladrian. Besides, the outside doesn’t suit me. There’s too much…” He waved his hands in front of him.
“Too much what?” Wax asked, frowning.
“Everything,” VenDell said—though Wayne didn’t miss that the rusting bunny glanced at him when he said it.
Wayne shook his head, trying the liquor cabinet. It was locked, unfortunately. What a fine heap of trust Wax showed in him.
“My sister will meet you at the station,” VenDell said. “Track seventeen, in four hours.”
“Four hours?” Steris said. “I need to send for the maids! And the valet! And…” She raised a hand to her head, looking faint. “And I need to make a list.”
“We’ll be there, VenDell,” Wax said.
“Excellent,” the kandra fellow said, fishing in his pocket. Wayne got interested, until he came out with a dull old bent earring, simple, old-style. “I brought you one of these.”
“No thanks.”
“But, if you need to—”
“No thanks,” Wax said.
The look between the two of them grew real uncomfortable, like each was accusing the other of having made an unpersonable stench of some sort. “Good, good,” Wayne said, drifting toward the door. “Meet you all at the station.”
“Aren’t you going to pack?” Steris called after him.
“Sack’s in my room,” Wayne called back. “Under my bed. I’m always packed and ready to go, mate. Never can tell when a misunderstandin’ will crop up.” He turned away, popped his hat off the rack, flipped it onto his head, and ducked out the front door.
Leave them to their discussing and their arguing and their creepy immortal bunnies. He had things that needed to be done. Well, one thing at least.
Wayne had a quest.
He whistled as he danced down the steps. A simple tune, easy and familiar, with an accompanying beat playing in his mind. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick, energetic. He strolled down the street, but found himself less and less pleased with his flower. It was not the proper offering for the god with whom he must meet. Too obvious, too soft.
He spun it in his fingers, thoughtful, softly whistling his tune. No better ideas came to him. This area was too fancy, with mansions and gardens and men clipping hedges. The streets didn’t even stink of horse dung. It was hard to think in a place like this; everyone knew the best thinking happened in alleyways and slums. Places where the brain had to be alert, even panicked—where the bugger knew that if it didn’t perk up and get some geniusing done, you were likely to get yourself stabbed, and then where would it be?
Holding your brain hostage against your own stupidity—that was how to get stuff done. Wayne made his way to a nearby canal, and searched out a gondola man who looked bored.
“My good man,” Wayne said to himself. “My good man.” Yeah, that was it. Speak like you couldn’t breathe right—high First Octant accent, with a little Terris stirred in. Rich accent. Very rich.
“You, boatman!” Wayne called, waving. “Hey! Oh, do hurry. I haven’t the time!”
The boatman poled over.
“Quickly now, quickly, my good man!” Wayne shouted. “Tell me. How much for the day?”
“The day?” the boatman said.
“Yes, yes,” Wayne said, hopping into the boat. “I have need of your services for the entire day.” Wayne settled himself without waiting for a response. “Onward, now. Up the Fourth-Fifth Canal, turn right around the Hub, then east up the Irongate. First stop is in the Third Octant. She’s counting on me, you know.”
“The whole day,” the boatman said, eager. “Yes, sir, um … my lord.…”
“Ladrian,” Wayne said. “Waxillium Ladrian. We aren’t moving. Why aren’t we moving?”
The boatman began poling, so gleeful at the prospect of many hours of employment that he forgot to ask for any money up front.
“Fifty,” the man finally said.
“Hmm?”
“Fifty. For the whole day.”
“Yes, yes, fine,” Wayne said. Dirty thief, he thought. Trying to cheat an upstanding citizen, and a house lord at that, merely because he acted a little distracted? What was this world coming to? When his grandfather Ladrian had been house lord, men had known how to be respectful. Why, a boatman in those days would have dunked himself in the canal before taking a wuzing more than he was due!
“If you don’t mind me asking, my lord,” the boatman said. “And I mean no offense … but your clothing.”
“Yes?” Wayne asked, straightening his Roughs coat.
“Is something wrong with it?”
“Wrong with it?” Wayne said, stuffing his accent so full of noble indignation it was practically bleeding. “Wrong with it? Man, do you not follow fashion?”
“I—”
“Thomton Delacour himself designed these clothes!” Wayne said. “Northern outlands inspiration. It’s the height, I tell you! The height. A Coinshot couldn’t get higher!”
“Sorry. Sorry, my lord. I said I didn’t want to offend!”
“You can’t just say ‘don’t be offended’ and then say something offensive, man! That’s not how it works.�
� Wayne settled back, arms folded.
The boatman, wisely, said nothing more to him. After about ten minutes of travel, the time had arrived.
“Now,” Wayne said, as if to himself, “we’ll need to stop at Glimmering Point docks. And then a skid along Stansel Belt.”
He let his accent shift, a little of the Knobs—a slum—slipping in. Dull accent, like a mouth filled with cotton. The folks there used the word “skid” for practically anything. Distinctive word, that. Skiiiid. Sounded like it should be something dirty.
“Um, my lord?”
“Hm?” Wayne said. “Oh, just going over my errands. My nephew is getting married—you might have heard of the wedding, it’s all the talk of the city. So many errands. Yes indeed, the day will be quite the skid.”
That was a ruffian’s accent, but just a hint, like the lemon in a good hot toddy. He slipped it in under the highborn accent.
The boatman started to get uncomfortable. “You said the Stansel Belt? Not a nice area, that.”
“Need to hire some workers,” Wayne said absently.
The boatman continued poling, but he was nervous now. Tapping his foot, moving the pole more quickly, ignoring calls from colleagues they passed. Something was wrong. Like the scent of a meat pie left under the sofa for a few days. A whole day’s hiring? An outrageous sum? It might instead be a setup. Pretend to be a lord, then lure him into the slums to be robbed.…
“My lord!” the man said. “I just realized. Gotta get back. Can’t be hired for the whole day. My mother, she’ll need me.”
“What nonsense is this?” Wayne demanded. “I haven’t the time for your prattle, man! And catching another boat will waste my precious time. I’ll double your fee.”
Now, the man was really anxious. “Sorry, my lord,” he said, poling to the side of the canal. “Very sorry. Can’t do it.”
The Bands of Mourning Page 7