Bands of Mourning

by Brandon Sanderson

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

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

  “The ‘lads’?”

  “Just some friends.”

  “Saboteurs.”

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

  “Wayne…”

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

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

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

  “I don’t know.…”

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

  He offered her the jug.

  “That’s cooking sherry, Wayne.”

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

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

  He took a swig.

  “Never mind,” Marasi said.

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

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

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

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

  “See, there’s how it is!”

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

  “What, really?”

  “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

  “Huh.” He seemed disbelieving.

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

  “Sure I have.”

  “Really?”

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

  She gave him a flat stare.

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

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

  “My … murderin’ on?”

  “Sure.”

  “Against my sister.”

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

  “No, thank you.”

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

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

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

  “Careful.”

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

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

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

  “Damn right.”

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

  “Certainly.”

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

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

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

  “She has a girlfriend, Wayne.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Wax tiptoed forward.

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

  “You,” Wax said.

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

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

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

  “Then why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Then what way did you mean it?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Marasi gasped.

  Wayne threw a walnut at it.

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

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

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

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

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

  “As I said,” VenDell said, “He has been distracted lately. We’ve tried to tease out more regarding moving images, but so far no luck. He’s often like this—says it’s vital that we discover things on our own.”
>
  “Like a chick breaking out of its shell,” MeLaan said. “He says that if we don’t struggle and learn on our own, we won’t be strong enough to survive what is coming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Chivalry,” she said, raising it.

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

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