Bands of Mourning Read online

  Something bigger is coming, Elder. Something you’ll all regret.

  Suddenly Waxillium hated Forch. This place was perfect, serene. Beautiful. Darkness shouldn’t exist here. If Waxillium was a smudge on the white canvas, this man was a pit of pure blackness.

  Waxillium shouted, climbing to his feet and throwing himself through the back door and into the old building. He climbed two flights in a haze of stumbling pain before slamming open the door into the meeting room. Forch stood above the weeping child, a bloody knife in his hand. He turned his head slowly, showing Waxillium one eye, half of his face.

  Waxillium threw the single bullet up between them, its casing glittering in candlelight, then Pushed with everything he had. Forch turned and Pushed back.

  The reaction was immediate. The bullet stopped in midair, inches from Forch’s face. Both men were thrown backward, but Forch caught himself on a group of tables, staying steady. Waxillium was slammed against the wall beside the doorway.

  Forch smiled, and his muscles swelled, strength drawn from his metalmind. He pulled his bar from the table of knives and threw it at Waxillium, who cried out, Pushing against it to stop it from smashing him.

  He wasn’t strong enough. Forch continued to Push, and Waxillium had so little steel. The bar slipped forward in the air, pressing against Waxillium’s chest, pushing him against the wall.

  Time froze. One bullet hanging just before Forch, their main fight over the bar which—bit by bit—crushed Waxillium. His chest flared in pain, and a scream slipped from his lips.

  He was going to die here.

  I just want to do what is right. Why is that so hard?

  Forch stepped forward, grinning.

  Waxillium’s eyes fixed on that bullet, glittering golden. He couldn’t breathe. But that bullet …

  Metal is your life.

  A bullet. Three parts metal. The tip.

  Metal is your soul.

  The casing.

  You preserve us …

  And the knob at the back. The spot the hammer would hit.

  In that moment, to Waxillium’s eyes, they split into three lines, three parts. He took them all in at once. And then, as the bar crushed him, he let go of two bits.

  And shoved on that knob at the back.

  The bullet exploded. The casing flipped backward into the air, Pushed by Forch’s Allomancy, while the bullet itself zipped forward, untouched, before drilling into Forch’s skull.

  Waxillium dropped to the ground, the bar propelled away. He collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath, rainwater streaming from his face to the wooden floor.

  In a daze, he heard voices below. People finally responding to the shouts, then the sound of gunfire. He forced himself to his feet and limped through the room, ignoring the voices of Terrismen and women who climbed the steps. He reached the child and ripped off the bonds, freeing him. Instead of running in fear, however, the little boy grabbed Waxillium’s leg and held on tight, weeping.

  People poured into the room. Waxillium leaned down, picking up the bullet casing off the wet floor, then stood up straight and faced them. Tellingdwar. His grandmother. The elders. He registered their horror, and knew in that moment they would hate him because he had brought violence into their village.

  Hate him because he had been right.

  He stood beside Forch’s corpse and closed one hand around the bullet casing, resting his other on the head of the trembling child.

  “I will find my own way,” he whispered.

  TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER

  The hideout door slammed against the other wall, shedding a burst of dust. A wall of mist fell in around the man who had kicked it open, outlining his silhouette: a mistcoat, tassels flaring from motion, a combat shotgun held up to the side.

  “Fire!” Migs cried.

  The lads unloaded. Eight men, armed to their teeth, fired at the shadowy figure from behind their barricade inside the old pub. Bullets swarmed like insects, but parted around this man in the long coat. They pelted the wall, drilling holes in the door and splintering the doorframe. They cut trails through the encroaching mist, but the lawman, all black in the gloom, didn’t so much as flinch.

  Migs fired shot after shot, despairing. He emptied one pistol, then a second, then shouldered his rifle and fired as quickly as he could cock it. How had they gotten here? Rusts, how had this happened? It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this.

  “It’s useless!” one of the lads cried. “He’s gonna kill us all, Migs!”

  “Why’re you just standin’ there?” Migs shouted at the lawman. “Be at it already!” He fired twice more. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Maybe he’s distracting us,” one of the lads said, “so his pal can sneak up behind us.”

  “Hey, that’s…” Migs hesitated, looking toward the one who had spoken. Round face. Simple, round coachman’s hat, like a bowler, but flatter on top. Who was that man again? He counted his crew.

  Nine?

  The lad next to Migs smiled, tipped his hat, then decked him in the face.

  It was over blurringly quick. The fellow in the coachman’s cap laid out Slink and Guillian in an eyeblink. Then suddenly he was closer to the two on the far side, slapping them down with a pair of dueling canes. As Migs turned—fumbling for the gun he’d dropped—the lawman leaped over the barricade with tassels flying and kicked Drawers in the chin. The lawman spun, leveling his shotgun at the men on the other side.

  They dropped their guns. Migs knelt, sweating, beside an overturned table. He waited for the gunshots.

  They didn’t come.

  “Ready for you, Captain!” the lawman shouted. A pile of constables rushed through the doorway, disturbing the mists. Outside, morning light was starting to dispel those anyway. Rusts. Had they really holed up in here all night?

  The lawman swung his gun down toward Migs. “You might want to drop that gun, friend,” he said in a conversational tone.

  Migs hesitated. “Just shoot me, lawman. I’m in too deep.”

  “You shot two constables,” the man said, finger on the trigger. “But they’ll live, son. You won’t hang, if I have my way. Drop the gun.”

  They’d called those same words before, from outside. This time, Migs found himself believing them. “Why?” he asked. “You coulda killed us all without breaking a sweat. Why?”

  “Because,” the lawman said, “frankly, you’re not worth killing.” He smiled in a friendly-type way. “I’ve got enough on my conscience already. Drop the gun. We’ll get this sorted out.”

  Migs dropped the gun and stood, then waved down Drawers, who was climbing up with his gun in hand. The man reluctantly dropped his weapon too.

  The lawman turned, cresting the barricade with an Allomantic leap, and slammed his shortened shotgun into a holster on his leg. The younger man in the coachman’s hat joined him, whistling softly. He appeared to have swiped Guillian’s favorite knife; the ivory hilt was sticking out of his pocket.

  “They’re yours, Captain,” the lawman said.

  “Not staying for the booking, Wax?” the constable captain asked, turning.

  “Unfortunately, no,” the lawman said. “I have to get to a wedding.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine, I’m afraid.”

  “You came on a raid the morning of your wedding?” the captain asked.

  The lawman, Waxillium Ladrian, stopped in the doorway. “In my defense, it wasn’t my idea.” He nodded one more time to the assembled constables and gang members, then strode out into the mists.

  PART ONE

  1

  Waxillium Ladrian hurried down the steps outside the bar-turned-hideout, passing constables in brown who bustled this way and that. The mists were already evaporating, dawn heralding the end of their vigil. He checked his arm, where a bullet had ripped a sizable hole through the cuff of his shirt and out the side of his jacket. He’d felt that one pass.

  “Oi,” Wayne said, hustling up beside him. “A good plan th
at one was, eh?”

  “It was the same plan you always have,” Wax said. “The one where I get to be the decoy.”

  “Ain’t my fault people like to shoot at you, mate,” Wayne said as they reached the coach. “You should be happy; you’re usin’ your talents, like me granners always said a man should do.”

  “I’d rather not have ‘shootability’ be my talent.”

  “Well, you gotta use what you have,” Wayne said, leaning against the side of the carriage as Cob the coachman opened the door for Wax. “Same reason I always have bits of rat in my stew.”

  Wax looked into the carriage, with its fine cushions and rich upholstery, but didn’t climb in.

  “You gonna be all right?” Wayne asked.

  “Of course I am,” Wax said. “This is my second marriage. I’m an old hand at the practice by now.”

  Wayne grinned. “Oh, is that how it works? ’Cuz in my experience, marryin’ is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein’ alive.”

  “Wayne, that was almost profound.”

  “Damn. I was aimin’ for insightful.”

  Wax stood still, looking into the carriage. The coachman cleared his throat, still standing and holding the door open for him.

  “Right pretty noose, that is,” Wayne noted.

  “Don’t be melodramatic,” Wax said, leaning to climb in.

  “Lord Ladrian!” a voice called from behind.

  Wax glanced over his shoulder, noting a tall man in a dark brown suit and bow tie pushing between a pair of constables. “Lord Ladrian,” the man said, “could I have a moment, please?”

  “Take them all,” Wax said. “But do it without me.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Wax said, nodding to Wayne. He dropped a spent bullet shell, then Pushed himself into the air. Why waste time on a carriage?

  Steel at a comfortable burn inside his stomach, he shoved on a nearby electric streetlight—still shining, though morning had arrived—and soared higher into the air. Elendel spread before him, a soot-stained marvel of a city, leaking smoke from a hundred thousand different homes and factories. Wax shoved off the steel frame of a half-finished building nearby, then sent himself in a series of leaping bounds across the Fourth Octant.

  He passed over a field of carriages for hire, rows of vehicles waiting quietly in ranks, early morning workers looking up at him as he passed. One pointed; perhaps the mistcoat had drawn his attention. Coinshot couriers weren’t an uncommon sight in Elendel, and men soaring through the air were rarely a point of interest.

  A few more leaps took him over a series of warehouses in huddled rows. Wax thrilled in each jump. It was amazing how this could still feel so wonderful to him. The breeze in his face, the little moment of weightlessness when he hung at the very top of an arc.

  All too soon, however, both gravity and duty reasserted themselves. He left the industrial district and crossed finer roadways, paved with pitch and gravel to create a smoother surface than cobbles for all those blasted motorcars. He spotted the Survivorist church easily, with its large glass and steel dome. Back in Weathering a simple wooden chapel had been sufficient, but that wasn’t nearly grand enough for Elendel.

  The design was to allow those who worshipped full view of the mists at night. Wax figured if they wanted to see the mists, they’d do better just stepping outside. But perhaps he was being cynical. After all, the dome—which was made of segments of glass between steel supports, making it look like the sections of an orange—was able to open inward and let the mist pour down for special occasions.

  He landed on a rooftop water tower across from the church. Perhaps when it had been built, the church’s dome had been tall enough to overshadow the surrounding buildings. It would have provided a nice profile. Now, buildings were rising taller and taller, and the church was dwarfed by its surroundings. Wayne would find a metaphor in that. Probably a crude one.

  He perched on the water tower, looming over the church. So he was here, finally. He felt his eye begin to twitch, and an ache rose within him.

  I think I loved you even on that day. So ridiculous, but so earnest.…

  Six months ago, he’d pulled the trigger. He could still hear the gunshot.

  Standing up, he pulled himself together. He’d healed this wound once. He could do so again. And if that left his heart crusted with scar tissue, then perhaps that was what he needed. He leaped off the water tower, then slowed by dropping and Pushing on a shell casing.

  He hit the street and strode past a long line of carriages. Guests were already in attendance—Survivorist tenets called for weddings either very early in the morning or late at night. Wax nodded to several people he passed, and couldn’t help slipping his shotgun out of its holster and resting it on his shoulder as he hopped up the steps and shoved the door open before him with a Steelpush.

  Steris paced in the foyer, wearing a sleek white dress that had been chosen because the magazines said it was fashionable. With her hair braided and her makeup done by a professional for the occasion, she was actually quite pretty.

  He smiled when he saw her. His stress, his nervousness, melted away a little.

  Steris looked up as soon as he entered, then hurried to his side. “And?”

  “I didn’t get killed,” he said, “so there’s that.”

  She glanced at the clock. “You’re late,” she said, “but not very late.”

  “I’m … sorry?” She’d insisted he go on the raid. She’d planned for it, in fact. Such was life with Steris.

  “I’m sure you did your best,” Steris said, taking his arm. She was warm, and even trembling. Steris might be reserved, but unlike what some assumed, she wasn’t emotionless.

  “The raid?” she asked.

  “Went well. No casualties.” He walked with her to a side chamber, where Drewton—his valet—waited beside a table spread with Wax’s white wedding suit. “You realize that by going on a raid on the morning of my wedding, I’ll only reinforce this image that society has of me.”

  “Which image?”

  “That of a ruffian,” he said, taking off his mistcoat and handing it to Drewton. “A barely civilized lout from the Roughs who curses in church and goes to parties armed.”

  She glanced at his shotgun, which he’d tossed onto the sofa. “You enjoy playing with people’s perceptions of you, don’t you? You seek to make them uncomfortable, so they’ll be off balance.”

  “It’s one of the simple joys I have left, Steris.” He smiled as Drewton unbuttoned his waistcoat. Then he pulled off both that and his shirt, leaving him bare-chested.

  “I see I’m included in those you try to make uncomfortable,” Steris said.

  “I work with what I have,” Wax said.

  “Which is why you always have bits of rat in your stew?”

  Wax hesitated in handing his clothing to Drewton. “He said that to you too?”

  “Yes. I’m increasingly convinced he tries the lines out on me.” She folded her arms. “The little mongrel.”

  “Not going to leave as I change?” Wax asked, amused.

  “We’re to be married in less than an hour, Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I think I can stand to see you bare-chested. As a side note, you’re the Pathian. Prudishness is part of your belief system, not mine. I’ve read of Kelsier. From what I’ve studied, I doubt he’d care if—”

  Wax undid the wooden buttons on his trousers. Steris blushed, before turning around and finally putting her back to him. She continued speaking a moment later, sounding flustered. “Well, at least you agreed to a proper ceremony.”

  Wax smiled, settling down in his undershorts and letting Drewton give his face a quick shave. Steris remained in place, listening. Finally, as Drewton was wiping the cream from Wax’s face, she asked, “You have the pendants?”

  “Gave them to Wayne.”

  “You … What?”

  “I thought you wanted some disturbances at the wed
ding,” Wax said, standing and taking the new set of trousers from Drewton. He slipped them on. He hadn’t worn white much since returning from the Roughs. It was harder to keep clean out there, which had made it worth wearing. “I figured this would work.”

  “I wanted planned disturbances, Lord Waxillium,” Steris snapped. “It’s not upsetting if it’s understood, prepared for, and controlled. Wayne is rather the opposite of those things, wouldn’t you say?”

  Wax did up his buttons and Drewton took his shirt off the hanger nearby. Steris turned around immediately upon hearing the sound, arms still folded, and didn’t miss a beat—refusing to acknowledge that she’d been embarrassed. “I’m glad I had copies made.”

  “You made copies of our wedding pendants?”

  “Yes.” She chewed her lip a moment. “Six sets.”

  “Six?”

  “The other four didn’t arrive in time.”

  Wax grinned, doing up the buttons on his shirt, then letting his valet handle the cuffs. “You’re one of a kind, Steris.”

  “Technically, so is Wayne—and actually so was Ruin, for that matter. If you consider it, that’s not much of a compliment.”

  Wax strapped on suspenders, then let Drewton fuss with his collar. “I don’t get it, Steris,” he said, standing stiffly as the valet worked. “You prepare so thoroughly for things to go wrong—like you know and expect that life is unpredictable.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “And life is unpredictable. So the only thing you do by preparing for disturbances is ensure that something else is going to go wrong.”

  “That’s a rather fatalistic viewpoint.”

  “Living in the Roughs does that to a fellow.” He eyed her, standing resplendent in her dress, arms crossed, tapping her left arm with her right index finger.

  “I just … feel better when I try,” Steris finally said. “It’s like, if everything goes wrong, at least I tried. Does that make any sense?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think it does.”

  Drewton stepped back, satisfied. The suit came with a very nice black cravat and vest. Traditional, which Wax preferred. Bow ties were for salesmen. He slid on the jacket, tails brushing the backs of his legs. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he strapped on his gunbelt and slid Vindication into her holster. He’d worn a gun to his last wedding, so why not this one? Steris nodded in approval.