Wax had moved back in with his parents, of course. But it had been his uncle who had overseen his education, grooming him specifically as heir to the house. After that time in the Village, Wax’s life had grown to be less and less about his immediate family—he’d barely seen his parents during that year, despite living with them.
That was when his uncle’s grip had really started to strangle him. Wax tapped his fingers on the armrest of his carriage, remembering those parties. How much were his memories of them colored by his uncle’s presence?
The carriage eventually pulled up before a resplendent mansion with stained-glass windows and limelights burning outside. A classical style of lighting, though the interior had little in common with the ancient keeps of lore it was meant to evoke—as he well knew from the floor plans he’d memorized earlier today, while the others were sleeping.
This mansion was more sprawling than imposing, with a multipeaked roof design, like the profile of a mountain range. A line of carriages waited to pull through the coach portico and drop off their occupants.
“You’re nervous,” Steris said, laying her hand on his arm. She wore white lace gloves, and her dress—which she’d fretted over for at least an hour—was one of the filmy and gauzy ones that the most fashionable ladies in Elendel were wearing this year. The skirt was more full and cloudlike than the more traditional gowns Steris usually favored.
He’d been surprised when she’d chosen it. Most of her wardrobe, especially on this trip, was chosen for utility. Why wear this now?
“I’m not nervous,” Wax said, “I’m contemplative.”
“Shall we go over the plan?”
“What plan?” Wax said.
ReLuur, in his ravings, had directed them toward this party of Kelesina Shores, who was a lady of some prestige in New Seran—and who he implied was connected to all this. She was their best lead, though ReLuur’s notebook had also listed five other families he thought were of interest.
The problem was, none of those notes mentioned why they were of interest—or what it was ReLuur thought they knew. Why would a group of lords and ladies of the outer cities elite have anything to do with an ancient archaeological relic? True, some noblemen liked to consider themselves “gentlemen adventurers.” But those types mostly sat around smoking cigars and talking. At least that fop Jak actually left his rusting house.
Time wore on, as carriages moved up the drive with all the speed of a line of cows on a hot day. Finally, Wax kicked open his door. “Let’s walk.”
“Oh dear,” Steris said with a sigh. “Again?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t plan for this.”
“I did. But this line isn’t that long, Lord Waxillium. Don’t you think this time maybe we should wait?”
“I can see the rusting front doors,” Wax said, pointing. “We can walk to them in thirty seconds. Or we can sit here and wait as pompous people waddle out of their seats and fuss with their scarves.”
“I see the night is starting off on the right foot,” Steris said. Wax hopped down, ignoring the footman’s offered hand. He waved the man back, and helped Steris from the vehicle himself. “Go ahead and park,” he called to the coachman. “We’ll call for you when we’re done.” He hesitated. “If you hear gunshots, go back to the hotel. We’ll make our own way.”
The coachman started, but nodded. Wax held his arm out for Steris, and the two strolled along the path into the mansion grounds, passing carriages full of people who seemed to be trying to glare at them without actually looking in their direction.
“I’ve prepared a list for you,” Steris said.
“I’m so surprised.”
“Now, no complaining, Waxillium. It will help. I’ve put the list in this little book,” Steris said, producing a palm-sized notebook, “for ease of reference. Each page contains a conversation opener, indexed to the people it will likely work best upon. The numbers below list ways you could segue the conversation into useful areas and perhaps figure out what our targets are up to, and what their connection is to the Bands of Mourning.”
“I’m not socially incompetent, Steris,” Wax said. “I can make small talk.”
“I know that,” Steris said, “but I’d rather avoid an incident like the Cett party.…”
“Which Cett party?”
“The one where you head-butted someone.”
He cocked his head. “Oh, right. That smarmy little man with the ridiculous mustache.”
“Lord Westweather Cett,” Steris said. “Heir to the house fortune.”
“Right, right…” Wax said. “Stupid Cetts. In my defense, he did call me out. Demanding to duel a Coinshot. I probably saved his life.”
“By breaking his nose.” She held up her hand. “I am not requesting justifications or explanations, Lord Waxillium. I merely thought I’d do what I could to help.”
He grumbled, but took the book, flipping through it by lamplight as they walked across the grounds. At the back of the book were descriptions of the various people likely to be at the party. He’d memorized some descriptions VenDell had sent, but this list was far more extensive.
As usual, Steris had done her research. He smiled, tucking the book into his jacket pocket. Where had she found the time? They continued up the path, though Wax froze as he heard rustling in the shrubbery nearby. He burned steel instantly, noticing some moving points of metal, and his hand went to the pistol under his jacket.
A dirty face peered out and grinned. The eyes were milky white. “Clips for the poor, good sir,” the beggar said, stretching out a hand and exposing long, unkempt fingernails and a ragged shirt.
Wax kept his hand on his weapon, studying the man.
Steris cocked her head. “Are you wearing cologne, beggar?”
Wax nodded as he too smelled it, faintly.
The beggar started, as if surprised, then grinned. “It’s got a good kick to it, my lady.”
“You’ve been drinking cologne?” Steris asked. “Well, that can’t be healthy.”
“You should be away from here, beggar,” Wax said, eyeing the cluster of attendants and coachmen closer to the building’s entrance. “These are private grounds.”
“Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my good lord…” He pushed his hand forward farther, eyes staring sightlessly.
Wax dug in his pocket. “Here.” He tossed the man a banknote. “Get off the grounds and find yourself a proper drink.”
“A generous lord indeed!” the beggar said, dropping to his knees and fishing for the banknote. “But too much! Far too much!”
Wax took Steris’s arm again, walking her toward the imposing front doors.
“My lord!” the beggar screeched. “Your change!”
He saw the blue line moving and reacted immediately, spinning and catching the coin, which had been hurled with exacting accuracy at his head. So, not blind after all. Wax snorted, pocketing the coin as a passing groundsman saw the beggar and shouted, “Not you again!”
The beggar cackled and disappeared back into the shrubs.
“What was that about?” Steris asked.
“Damned if I know,” Wax said. “Shall we?”
They proceeded down the row of waiting carriages, and though the line had sped up during their stroll, they still reached the front doors before they otherwise would have. Wax tipped his head toward a large woman who barely fit through the door of her carriage, then strode up the steps with Steris on his arm.
He presented his card at the door, though they would know to watch for him. This was no simple reception; this was about politics. There would probably be only one official speech—that of the host to the attendees—but everyone knew why they were here. To mingle, share ideas, and likely be invited to donate to one of many causes reflecting outer cities interests.
Wax passed the doorkeeper, who cleared his throat and pointed toward an alcove in the side of the entryway. There,
servants were taking hats, coats, and shawls.
“We’ve nothing to check,” Wax said, “thank you.”
The man took Wax’s arm gently as he tried to proceed. “The lady of the house has asked that all attendees be unburdened of items of a vulgar nature, my lord. For the safety of all parties attending.”
Wax blinked, then finally got it. “We have to check weapons? You’re kidding.”
The tall man said nothing.
“I don’t think he’s the joking type,” Steris noted.
“You realize,” Wax said, “that I’m a Coinshot. I could kill a dozen people with your cufflinks.”
“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” the doorkeeper said. “If you please, Lord Ladrian, there are to be no exceptions. Do we need to call the house Lurcher to make certain you are being honest with us?”
“No,” Wax said, pulling his arm free. “But if something goes wrong tonight, you’re going to wish we’d never had this conversation.” He walked with Steris to the counter where white-gloved servants were taking hats in exchange for tickets. He reluctantly took Vindication from the holster under his arm and set her on the counter.
“Is that all, my lord?” the woman there asked.
He hesitated, then sighed and knelt, pulling his backup gun—a tiny two-shotter—from the holster on his calf. He dropped it onto the counter.
“Might we have a look in the lady’s purse?” the servant asked.
Steris submitted.
“You realize,” Wax said, “that I’m a deputized constable. If anyone should be armed, it’s me.”
The servants said nothing, though they seemed embarrassed as they handed back Steris’s purse and gave Wax a ticket for his weapons.
“Let’s go,” he said, pocketing the pasteboard and trying—unsuccessfully—to hide his annoyance. Together they approached the ballroom.
* * *
Wayne liked how banks worked. They had style. Many people, they’d keep their money out of sight, hidden under beds and some such. What was the fun of that? But a bank … a bank was a target. Building a place like this, then stuffing it full of cash, was like climbing atop a hill and daring anyone who approached to try to knock you off.
He figured that must be the point. The sport of it. Why else would they put so much valuable stuff together in one place? It was supposed to be a message, proof to the little people that some folks were so rich, they could use their money to build a house for their money and still have enough money left to fill that house.
Robbing such a place was suicide. So all that potential thieves could do was stand outside and salivate, thinking of the stuff inside. Really, a bank was like a giant sign erected to say “rust off” to everyone who passed by.
Which was magnificent.
He and Marasi stopped on the long flight of steps up to the front, which was set with stained-glass windows and banners, after the classical cantonesque style of architecture. Marasi wanted to come here before the graveyards. Something about the bank records leading them to the right location.
“All right, see,” Wayne said, “I’ve got it figured out. I’m gonna be a rich fellow. Made loads off of the sweat and blood o’ lesser men. Only I won’t say it like that, ’cuz I’ll be in character, you see.”
“Is that so?” Marasi said, starting up the steps.
“Yup,” Wayne said, joining her. “Even brought me fancy hat.” He held up a top hat and spun it on his finger.
“That hat belongs to Waxillium.”
“No it don’t,” Wayne said, putting it on. “I gave ’im a rat for it.”
“A … rat?”
“Minus the tail,” Wayne said. “On account of this hat bein’ kinda dusty when I took it. Anyway, I’ll be the rich fellow. You be my younger brother’s daughter.”
“I’m not young enough to be your niece,” Marasi said. “At least not one who…” She trailed off as Wayne scrunched his face up good, emphasizing wrinkles, and brought out his fake mustache. “… Right,” she added. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“Now, my dear,” Wayne said, “while I am distracting the employees of this fine establishment with a depository request, you shall steal into their records room and acquaint yourself with the requisite information. It shouldn’t test your skills, as I shall regale them with descriptions of my wealth and prestige, which should draw the attention of most who are still working at this late hour.”
“Wonderful,” Marasi said.
“As an aside, my dear,” Wayne added, “I am not fond at all of your dalliance with that farmhand upon our estate. He is far beneath you in stature, and your indiscretion will surely besmirch our good name.”
“Oh please.”
“Plus he has warts,” Wayne added as they reached the top of the steps. “And is prone to extreme bouts of flatulence. And—”
“Are you going to talk about this the entire time?”
“Of course! The bank’s employees need to know how I toil with the next generation and its woefully inadequate ability to make decisions my generation found simple and obvious.”
“Grand,” Marasi said, pushing through the bank’s broad glass doors.
A banker immediately rushed up to them. “I’m sorry. We’re very near closing.”
“My good man!” Wayne began. “I’m certain you can make time for the investment opportunity you will soon find present in—”
“We’re from the Elendel Constabulary,” Marasi interrupted, taking out her engraved credential plate and holding it up. “Captain Marasi Colms. I’d like to look over some of your deposit records. Shouldn’t take but a few minutes, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Wayne floundered, then gaped at her as the banker—a squat, swarthy man who had a gut like a cannonball and a head to match—took her certification and looked it over. That … that was cheating!
“What records do you need?” the banker asked guardedly.
“Do any of these people have accounts with you?” Marasi asked, proffering a paper.
“I suppose I can check…” the banker said. He sighed and walked farther into the building to where a clerk sat going over ledgers. He slid through a door behind the desk, and Wayne could hear him muttering to himself in the room beyond.
“Now I’ve gotta say,” Wayne said, pulling off the top hat, “that was the worst example of actin’ I’ve ever seen. Who would believe that the rich uncle has a constable for a niece, anyway?”
“There’s no need to lie when the truth will work just as well, Wayne.”
“No need … Of course there’s need! Why, what happens when we have to thump some people, then run off with their ledgers? They’re gonna know it was us, and Wax’ll have to pay a big heap of compensatory fines.”
“Fortunately, we’re not going to be thumping anyone.”
“But—”
“No thumping.”
Wayne sighed. Fat lot of fun this was going to be.
* * *
“I’ll have you know that we take the privacy of our patrons very seriously,” the banker explained, hand protectively on the ledgers he’d retrieved from the records room. They sat in his office now, and he had a little desk plaque that named him MR. ERIOLA. Neither of the others seemed to grasp why Wayne snickered when he read that.
“I understand,” Marasi said, “but I have a healthy suspicion one of these men is a criminal. Certainly you don’t want to abet their activities.”
“I don’t want to violate their trust in me either,” the banker said. “What makes you so certain these men are criminals? Do you have any proof?”
“The proof,” Marasi said, “will be in the numbers.” She leaned forward. “Do you know how many crimes can be proven by looking at statistics?”
“Considering the question, I’m going to assume it’s a nontrivial number,” the banker said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands on his ample belly.
“Er, yes,” Marasi said. “Most crimes can be traced to either passion or wealt
h. Where wealth is involved, numbers come into play—and where numbers come into play, forensic accounting gives us answers.”
The banker didn’t seem convinced—but then, in Wayne’s estimation, he didn’t seem completely human either. He was at least part dolphin. The man continued plying Marasi with questions, obviously stalling for some reason. That made Wayne uncomfortable. Usually when people stalled like that, it was so their mates could have time to arrive and administer a proper beating.
He bided his time playing with objects on the banker’s desk, trying to build a tower of them, but he kept his eyes on the door. If someone did arrive to attack them, he’d have to toss Marasi out the window to get away.
A moment later the door swung open. Wayne grabbed for Marasi, his other hand going for one of his dueling canes, but it was only the clerk from outside. She bustled over to the banker—so Wayne didn’t feel a bit guilty admiring her bustle, so to speak—and handed him a half sheet of paper.
“What’s that?” Marasi asked as the woman left.
“Telegram,” Wayne guessed, relaxing. “Checkin’ up on us, are you?”
The banker hesitated, then turned the paper around. It contained a description of Wayne and Marasi, followed by the words, They are indeed constables under my command. Please afford them every courtesy and liberty in your establishment—though do keep an eye on the short man, and check your till after he leaves.
“Here, now,” Wayne said. “That’s right unfair. Those things cost a clip every five words to send, they do. Old Reddi wasted good money libelin’ me.”
“Technically, it’s defamation,” Marasi said.
“Yup,” Wayne said, “manure, through and through.”
“Defamation, Wayne, not … Oh, never mind.” She met the eyes of the banker. “Are you satisfied?”
“I suppose,” he said, then slid the ledgers over to her.
“Numbers,” Marasi said, digging in her purse for a moment. She brought out a small book and tapped it with one finger. “This contains a list of the common wages for workers in the cemetery business, by the job they do.” She pulled open the ledgers. “Now, looking at the deposits by our men in question, we can find patterns. Who is putting more money in the bank than their payroll would reasonably account for?”
The Bands of Mourning Page 16