Tillaume walked alongside him, hands clasped behind his back. “My lord sounds as though he considers this day’s duty to be a chore.”
“Is it that obvious?” Waxillium grimaced. What did it say about him that he’d rather face down a nest of outlaws—outgunned and outmanned—than meet with Lord Harms and his daughter?
A plump, matronly woman waited at the end of the hallway, wearing a black dress and a white apron. “Oh, Lord Ladrian,” she said with fondness. “Your mother would be so pleased to see this day!”
“Nothing has been decided yet, Miss Grimes,” Waxillium said as the woman joined the two of them, walking along the balustrade of the second-floor gallery.
“She did so hope that you’d marry a fine lady someday,” Miss Grimes said. “You should have heard how she worried, all those years.”
Waxillium tried to ignore the way those words twisted at his heart. He hadn’t heard how his mother worried. He’d hardly ever taken time to write his parents or his sister, and had only visited that one time, just after the railway reached Weathering.
Well, he was making good on his obligations now. Six months of work, and he was finally getting his feet under him and pulling House Ladrian—along with its many forgeworkers and seamstresses—from the brink of financial collapse. The last step came today.
Waxillium reached the top of the staircase, then hesitated. “No,” he said, “I mustn’t rush in. Need to give them time to make themselves comfortable.”
“That is—” Tillaume began, but Waxillium cut him off by turning the other way and marching back along the balustrade.
“Miss Grimes,” Waxillium said, “are there other matters that will need my attention today?”
“You wish to hear of them now?” she asked, frowning as she bustled to keep up.
“Anything to keep my mind occupied, dear woman,” Waxillium said. Rust and Ruin … he was so nervous that he caught himself reaching inside his jacket to finger the grip of his Immerling 44-S.
It was a fine weapon; not as good as one of Ranette’s make, but a proper, and small, sidearm for a gentleman. He’d decided he would be a lord, and not a lawman, but that didn’t mean he was going to go about unarmed. That … well, that would just be plain insane.
“There is one matter,” Miss Grimes said, grimacing. She was the Ladrian house steward, and had been for the last twenty years. “We lost another shipment of steel last night.”
Waxillium froze on the walkway. “What? Again!”
“Unfortunately, my lord.”
“Damn it. I’m starting to think the thieves are targeting only us.”
“It’s only our second shipment,” she said. “House Tekiel has lost five shipments so far.”
“What are the details?” he asked. “The disappearance. Where did it happen?”
“Well—”
“No, don’t tell me,” he said, raising a hand. “I can’t afford to be distracted.”
Miss Grimes gave him a flat look, since that was probably why she’d avoided telling him about it before his meeting with Lord Harms. Waxillium rested a hand on the railing, and felt his left eye twitch. Someone was out there, running an organized, highly efficient operation stealing the contents of entire railcars. They were being called the Vanishers. Perhaps he could poke around a little and …
No, he told himself sternly. It is not my duty. Not anymore. He would go to the proper authorities, perhaps hire some guards or personal investigators. He would not go chasing bandits himself.
“I’m sure the constables will find those responsible and bring them to justice,” Waxillium said with some difficulty. “Do you think that’s long enough to make Lord Harms wait? I think that’s long enough. It hasn’t been too long, has it?” Waxillium turned and walked back the way he’d come. Tillaume rolled his eyes as he passed.
Waxillium reached the stairs. A young man in a green Ladrian vest and a white shirt was climbing them. “Lord Ladrian!” Kip said. “Post has arrived.”
“Any parcels?”
“No, my lord,” the boy said, handing over a signet-sealed letter as Waxillium passed. “Only this. Looked important.”
“An invitation to the Yomen-Ostlin wedding dinner,” Miss Grimes guessed. “Might be a good place to have your first public appearance with Miss Harms.”
“The details haven’t been decided!” Waxillium protested as they stopped at the bottom of the staircase. “I’ve barely broached the topic with Lord Harms, yet you practically have us married. It’s entirely possible that they will upend this entire matter, like what happened with Lady Entrone.”
“It will go well, young master,” Miss Grimes said. She reached up, adjusting the silk square in his pocket. “I’ve got a Soother’s sense for these matters.”
“You do realize I’m forty-two years old? ‘Young master’ doesn’t exactly fit any longer.”
She patted his cheek. Miss Grimes considered any unmarried man to be a child—which was terribly unfair, considering that she had never married. He refrained from speaking to her about Lessie; most of his family back in the city hadn’t known about her.
“Right, then,” Waxillium said, turning and striding toward the sitting room. “Into the maw of the beast I go.”
Limmi, head of the ground-floor staff, waited by the doorway. She raised her hand as Waxillium approached, as if to speak, but he slid the dinner-party invitation between two of her fingers.
“Have an affirmative response drafted to this, if you would, Limmi,” he said. “Indicate I’ll be dining with Miss Harms and her father, but hold the letter until I’m done with my conference here. I’ll let you know whether to send it or not.”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“It’s all right,” he said, pushing the door open. “I mustn’t keep the…”
Lord Harms and his daughter were not in the sitting room. Instead, Waxillium found a lanky man with a round, sharp-chinned face. He was about thirty years of age, and had a few days of stubble on the chin and cheeks. He wore a wide-brimmed Roughs-style hat, the sides curving up slightly, and had on a leather duster. He was playing with one of the palm-sized upright clocks on the mantel.
“’Ello Wax,” the man said brightly. He held up the clock. “Can I trade you for this?”
Waxillium swiftly pulled the door shut behind him. “Wayne? What are you doing here?”
“Looking at your stuff, mate,” Wayne said. He held up the clock appraisingly. “Worth what, three or four bars? I’ve got a bottle of good whiskey that might be worth the same.”
“You have to get out of here!” Waxillium said. “You’re supposed to be in Weathering. Who’s watching the place?”
“Barl.”
“Barl! He’s a miscreant.”
“So am I.”
“Yes, but you’re the miscreant I chose to do the job. You could have at least sent for Miles.”
“Miles?” Wayne said. “Mate, Miles is a right horrible human being. He’d rather shoot a man than bother actually finding out if the bloke was guilty or not.”
“Miles keeps his town clean,” Waxillium said. “And he’s saved my life a couple of times. This is beside the point. I told you to watch over Weathering.”
Wayne tipped his hat to Waxillium. “True, Wax, but you ain’t a lawkeeper no longer. And me, I’ve got important stuff to be about.” He looked at the clock, then pocketed it and set a small bottle of whiskey on the mantel in its place. “Now, sir, I’ll need to be asking you a few questions.” He pulled a small notepad and pencil from inside his duster. “Where were you last night at around midnight?”
“What does that—”
Waxillium was interrupted by chimes sounding at the door again. “Rust and Ruin! These are high-class people, Wayne. I’ve spent months persuading them that I’m not a ruffian. I need you out of here.” Waxillium walked forward, trying to usher his friend toward the far exit.
“Now, that’s right suspicious behavior, innit?” Wayne said, scrawling something on h
is notepad. “Dodging questions, acting all anxious. What are you hiding, sir?”
“Wayne,” Waxillium said, grabbing the other man’s arm. “Part of me is appreciative that you’d come all this way to aggravate me, and I am glad to see you. But now is not the time.”
Wayne grinned. “You assume I’m here for you. Don’t you think that’s a pinch arrogant?”
“What else would you be here for?”
“Shipment of foodstuffs,” Wayne said. “Railway car left Elendel four days ago and arrived in Weathering with the entire contents of a single car empty. Now, I hear that you recently lost two shipments of your own to these ‘Vanishers.’ I’ve come to question you. Right suspicious, as I said.”
“Suspicious … Wayne, I lost two shipments. I’m the one who got robbed! Why would that make me a suspect?”
“How am I to know how your devious, criminal genius mind works, mate?”
Footsteps sounded outside the room. Waxillium glanced at the door, then back at Wayne. “Right now, my criminal genius mind is wondering if I can stuff your corpse anywhere that wouldn’t be too obvious.”
Wayne grinned, stepping back.
The door opened.
Waxillium spun, looking as Limmi sheepishly held the door open. A corpulent man in a very fine suit stood there, holding a dark wooden cane. He had mustaches that drooped all the way down to his thick neck, and his waistcoat framed a deep red cravat.
“… saying it doesn’t matter whom he’s seeing!” Lord Harms said. “He’ll want to speak with me! We had an appointment, and…” Lord Harms paused, realizing the door was open. “Ah!” He strode into the room.
He was followed by a stern-looking woman with golden hair fixed into a tight bun—his daughter, Steris—and a younger woman who Waxillium didn’t recognize.
“Lord Ladrian,” Harms said, “I find it very unbefitting to be made to wait. And who is this that you’re meeting with in my stead?”
Waxillium sighed. “It’s my old—”
“Uncle!” Wayne said, stepping forward, voice altered to sound gruff and lose all of its rural accent. “I’m his uncle Maksil. Popped in unexpectedly this morning, my dear man.”
Waxillium raised an eyebrow as Wayne stepped forward. He’d removed his hat and duster, and had plastered his upper lip with a realistic-looking fake mustache with a bit of gray in it. He was scrunching his face up just slightly to produce a few extra wrinkles at the eyes. It was a good disguise, making him look like he might be a few years older than Waxillium, rather than ten years younger.
Waxillium glanced over his shoulder. The duster sat folded on the floor beside one of the couches, hat atop it, a pair of dueling canes lying crossed beside the pile. Waxillium hadn’t even noticed the swap—of course, Wayne had naturally done it while inside a speed bubble. Wayne was a Slider, a bendalloy Allomancer, capable of creating a bubble of compressed time around himself. He often used the power to change costumes.
He was also Twinborn, like Waxillium, though his Feruchemical ability—healing quickly from wounds—wasn’t so useful outside of combat. Still, the two made for a very potent combination.
“Uncle, you say?” Lord Harms asked, taking Wayne’s hand and shaking it.
“On the mother’s side!” Wayne said. “Not the Ladrian side, of course. Otherwise I’d be running this place, eh?” He sounded nothing like himself, but that was Wayne’s specialty. He said that three-quarters of a disguise was in the accent and voice. “I’ve wanted for a long time to come check up on the lad. He’s had something of a rough-and-tumble past, you know. He needs a firm hand to make certain he doesn’t return to such unpleasant ways.”
“I’ve often thought the very same thing!” Lord Harms said. “I assume we’re given leave to sit, Lord Ladrian?”
“Yes, of course,” Waxillium said, covertly glaring at Wayne. Really? that glare said. We’re doing this?
Wayne just shrugged. Then he turned and took Steris’s hand and bowed his head politely. “And who is this lovely creature?”
“My daughter, Steris.” Harms sat. “Lord Ladrian? You didn’t tell your uncle of our arrival?”
“I was so surprised by his appearance,” Waxillium said, “that I did not have an opportunity.” He took Steris’s hand and bowed his head to her as well.
She looked him up and down with a critical gaze, and then her eyes flicked toward the duster and hat in the corner. Her lips turned down. Doubtless she assumed they were his.
“This is my cousin Marasi,” Steris said, nodding to the woman behind her. Marasi was dark-haired and large-eyed, with bright red lips. She looked down demurely as soon as Waxillium turned to her. “She has spent most of her life in the Outer Estates and is rather timid, so please don’t upset her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Waxillium said. He waited until the women were seated beside Lord Harms, then sat on the smaller sofa facing them, and facing the doorway. There was another exit from the room, but he’d discovered that there was a squeaky floorboard leading to it, which was ideal. This way, someone couldn’t sneak up on him. Lawman or lord, he didn’t fancy getting shot in the back.
Wayne primly settled himself in a chair directly to Waxillium’s right. They all stared at one another for an extended moment. Wayne yawned.
“Well,” Waxillium said. “Perhaps I should begin by asking after your health.”
“Perhaps you should,” Steris replied.
“Er. Yes. How’s your health?”
“Suitable.”
“So is Waxillium,” Wayne added.
They all turned to him.
“You know,” he said. “He’s wearing a suit, and all. Suitable. Ahem. Is that mahogany?”
“This?” Lord Harms said, holding up his cane. “Indeed. It’s a family heirloom.”
“My lord Waxillium,” Steris cut in, voice stern. She did not seem to enjoy small talk. “Perhaps we can dispense with empty prattle. We all know the nature of this meeting.”
“We do?” Wayne asked.
“Yes,” Steris said, voice cool. “Lord Waxillium. You are in the position of having an unfortunate reputation. Your uncle, may he rest with the Hero, tarnished the Ladrian name with his social reclusiveness, occasional reckless forays into politics, and blatant adventurism. You have come from the Roughs, lending no small additional measure of poor reputation to the house, particularly considering your insulting actions to various houses during your first few weeks in town. Above all this, your house is nearly destitute.
“We, however, are in a desperate circumstance of our own. Our financial status is excellent, but our name is unknown in the highest of society. My father has no male heir upon which to bestow his family name, and so a union between our houses makes perfect sense.”
“How very logical of you, my dear,” Wayne said, the upper-class accent rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born with it.
“Indeed,” she said, still watching Waxillium. She reached into her satchel. “Your letters and conversations with my father have been enough to persuade us of your serious intent, and during these last few months in the city your public comportment has proven more promisingly sober than your initial boorishness. So I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement that I think will suit our needs.”
“An … agreement?” Waxillium asked.
“Oh, I’m so eager to see it,” Wayne added. He reached into his pocket absently and got out something that Waxillium couldn’t quite discern.
The “agreement” turned out to be a large document, at least twenty pages long. Steris handed one copy to Waxillium and one to her father, and retained another for herself.
Lord Harms coughed into his hand. “I suggested she write down her thoughts,” he said. “And … well, my daughter is a very thorough woman.”
“I can see that,” Waxillium said.
“I suggest that you never ask her to pass the milk,” Wayne added under his breath, so only Waxillium could hear. “As she seems likely to throw a cow at
you, just to be certain the job is done thoroughly.”
“The document is in several parts,” Steris said. “The first is an outline of our courtship phase, wherein we make obvious—but not too speedy—progress toward engagement. We take just long enough for society to begin associating us as a couple. The engagement mustn’t be so quick as to seem a scandal, but cannot come too slowly either. Eight months should, by my estimates, fulfill our purposes.”
“I see,” Waxillium said, flipping through the pages. Tillaume entered, bringing a tray of tea and cakes, and deposited it on a serving table beside Wayne.
Waxillium shook his head, closing the contract. “Doesn’t this seem a little … stiff to you?”
“Stiff?”
“I mean, shouldn’t there be room for romance?”
“There is,” Steris said. “Page thirteen. Upon marriage, there shall be no more than three conjugal encounters per week and no fewer than one until a suitable heir is provided. After that, the same numbers apply to a two-week span.”
“Ah, of course,” Waxillium said. “Page thirteen.” He glanced at Wayne. Was that a bullet the other man had taken from his pocket? Wayne was rolling it between his fingers.
“If that is not enough to satisfy your needs,” Steris added, “the next page details proper mistress protocols.”
“Wait,” Waxillium said, looking away from Wayne. “Your document allows mistresses?”
“Of course,” Steris said. “They are a simple fact of life, and so it’s better to account for them than to ignore them. In the document, you will find requirements for your potential mistresses along with the means by which discretion will be maintained.”
“I see,” Waxillium said.
“Of course,” Steris continued, “I will follow the same guidelines.”
“You plan to take a mistress, my lady?” Wayne asked, perking up.
“I would be allowed my own dalliances,” she said. “Usually the coachman is the object of choice. I would abstain until heirs were produced, of course. There mustn’t be any confusion about lineage.”
“Of course,” Waxillium said.
“It’s in the contract,” she said. “Page fifteen.”
The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel Page 4
