Shadows of Self Page 8

  No Roughs hats. Maybe Wayne was right about that; he never would shut up about the importance of a hat. Wax took a deep breath, then stepped into the Village.

  It had probably once been just an ordinary city street. A wide one, but still just a street. That was before the trees. They sprouted here, pushing cobblestones aside, creating a dense canopy that ran the length of the thoroughfare.

  It was a place that felt like it shouldn’t be. No mere park—this was a forest, uncultivated and unmanicured, fresh and primal. You couldn’t bring a carriage or motor into the Village; even without the trees, the ground would be too rough now, rolling and uneven. The buildings along the street had been engulfed and become the property of the Village. He couldn’t help wondering if this was what all of Elendel would be like without the hand of men. Harmony had made the Basin ferociously fecund; men didn’t farm here so much as fight to harvest quickly enough.

  Wax strode forward, arrayed as if for battle. Vindication and his Sterrion at his hips, short-barreled shotgun in its holster on his thigh, metal burning inside of him. He pulled the brim of his hat low, and entered another world.

  Children wearing simple white smocks played among the trees. Older youths wore the tinningdar, the Terris robe marked with a V pattern running down the front. These looked up from the steps of buildings to watch him pass. The air smelled soft here. Soft air. A stupid metaphor, and yet there it was. That smell reminded him of his mother.

  Whispers rose around Wax like spring shoots. He kept his eyes forward, trudging across the too-springy ground. There were no gates into or out of the Village, yet you couldn’t enter or leave without being identified. Indeed, moments after his entry, a young woman with streaming golden hair was sent running ahead of him to bear news of his arrival.

  They’ve found peace for themselves here, Wax thought. They’ve made peace for themselves. You shouldn’t resent them so.

  After a short walk, he emerged from a stand of trees to find three Terrismen waiting for him, arms folded, all wearing the robes of Brutes, Feruchemists who could increase their strength. Their features were varied enough that one wouldn’t have pegged them as relatives. Two had the height that was often the Terris heritage, and one had skin that was darker—some of the Originators from ancient Terris had been dark of skin; Wax’s own tan probably came from that lineage. None of the men here had the elongated features seen in the ancient paintings. That was a thing of mythology.

  “What is it you need, outsider?” one of the men said.

  “I want to speak with the Synod,” Wax said.

  “Are you a constable?” the man said, looking Wax up and down. Children peeked out from behind nearby trees, watching him.

  “Of a sort,” Wax said.

  “The Terris police themselves,” another of the men said. “We have an arrangement.”

  “I’m aware of the compact,” Wax said. “I just need to speak to the Synod, or at least Elder Vwafendal.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, lawman,” the lead Terrisman said. “I—”

  “It’s all right, Razal,” a tired voice said from the shadows of a nearby tree.

  The three Terrismen turned, then quickly bowed as an old Terriswoman approached. Stately and white-haired, she had darker skin than Wax, and walked with a cane she didn’t need. The woman, Vwafendal, studied Wax. He found himself sweating.

  Razal, still bowing, spoke with a stubborn tone. “We tried to send him away, Elder.”

  “He has a right to be here,” Vwafendal said. “He has as much Terris blood as you do; more than most.”

  The Terrisman Brute started, then rose from his bow, peering again at Wax. “You don’t mean…”

  “Yes,” Vwafendal said, looking very tired. “This is he. My grandson.”

  * * *

  Wayne tipped the rum bottle up and teased the last few drops out into his mouth. Then he tucked the bottle into his coat pocket. It was a good bottle. He should be able to trade it for something.

  He hopped off the canal boat, giving a wave to Red, the boatman. Nice chap. He would let Wayne bum rides in exchange for a story. Wayne spat a coin out of his mouth—he’d been keeping it in his cheek—and flipped it to Red.

  Red caught the coin. “Why is this wet? Were you sucking on it?”

  “Allomancers can’t Push on my coin if it’s in my mouth!” Wayne called.

  “You’re drunk, Wayne!” Red said with a laugh, shoving off from the dock with his pole.

  “Not nearly drunk enough,” Wayne called back. “That cheapskate Wax didn’t even have the decency to stock a full bottle!”

  Red turned the canal boat, poling it out into the waters, wind rippling his cloak. Wayne walked away from the post marking the canal-side mooring, and was faced with the most intimidating sight a fellow could see. The Elendel University.

  It was time for Wayne’s three tests.

  He reached for the rum, then remembered—a little foggily—that he’d finished it all. “Rust and Ruin,” he muttered. Perhaps he shouldn’t have downed the whole thing. Then again, it made his sniffles easy to ignore. When he was properly smashed, he could take a punch or two to the face and not even feel it. There was a kind of invincibility to that. A stupid kind, but Wayne wasn’t a picky man.

  He made his way up to the university gates, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. The etched letters over the top proclaimed, in High Imperial, WASING THE ALWAYS OF WANTING OF KNOWING. Deep words. He’d heard them interpreted as, “The eternal desire of a hungry soul is knowledge.” When Wayne’s soul was hungry he settled for scones, but this place was full of smart kids, and they were a strange sort.

  Two men in black coats leaned casually against the gates. Wayne hesitated. So they were watching for him out front this time, were they? The first of his three trials was upon him. Rusting wonderful.

  Well, after the nature of any great hero from the stories, he was going to do his best to avoid this particular trial. Wayne ducked to the side before the two men could spot him, then followed the wall. The university was surrounded by the thing, like it was some kind of bunker. Were they afraid all their knowledge would leak out, like water from a swimmer’s ears?

  Wayne craned his neck, looking for a way in. They’d bricked up the broken part he’d used last time. And the tree he’d climbed that other time had been cut down. Drat on them for that. He decided to follow another great tradition of heroes facing trials. He went looking for a way to cheat.

  He found Dims on a nearby corner. The young man wore a bowler hat and a bow tie, but a shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. He was head of one of the more important street gangs in the area, but never stabbed people too badly when he mugged them and was polite with the people he extorted. He was practically a model citizen.

  “Hello, Dims,” Wayne said.

  Dims eyed him. “You a conner today, Wayne?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah, good,” Dims said, settling down on the steps. He took something out of his pocket—a little metal container.

  “Here now,” Wayne said, wiping his nose. “What’s that?”

  “Gum.”

  “Gum?”

  “Yeah, you chew it.” Dims offered him a piece of the stuff. It was rolled into a ball, soft to the touch and powdered on the outside.

  Wayne eyed the lad, but decided to try it. He chewed for a moment.

  “Good flavor,” he said, then swallowed.

  Dims laughed. “You don’t swallow it, Wayne. You just chew!”

  “What’s the funna that?”

  “It just feels good.” He tossed Wayne another ball.

  Wayne popped it into his mouth. “How are things,” Wayne said, “with you and the Cobblers?”

  The Cobblers were the rival gang in the area. Dims and his fellows went about with their sleeves torn. The Cobblers wore no shoes. It apparently made perfect sense to youths of the street, many of whom were the children of the houseless. Wayne liked to keep an eye on them. They were good lads. He’d
been like them once.

  Then life had steered him wrong. Boys like this, they could use someone to point them in the right direction.

  “Oh, you know,” Dims said. “Some back, some forth.”

  “There won’t be trouble now, will there?” Wayne asked.

  “I thought you said you wasn’t no conner today!”

  “I ain’t,” Wayne said, slipping—by instinct—into a dialect more like that of Dims. “I’m askin’ as a friend, Dims.”

  Dims scowled, looking away, but his muttered response was genuine. “We ain’t stupid, Wayne. We’ll keep our heads. You know we will.”

  “Good.”

  Dims glanced back at him as Wayne settled down. “You bring that money you owe me?”

  “I owe you money?” Wayne asked.

  “From cards?” Dims said. “Two weeks back? Rusts, Wayne, are you drunk? It ain’t even noon yet!”

  “I ain’t drunk,” Wayne said, sniffling. “I’m investigatin’ alternative states of sobriety. How much do I owe you?”

  Dims paused. “Twenty.”

  “Now see,” Wayne said, digging in his pocket, “I distinctly remember borrowin’ five off you.” He held up a note. It was a fifty.

  Dims raised an eyebrow. “You want something from me, I’m guessing?”

  “I need into the university.”

  “The gates are open,” Dims said.

  “Can’t go through the front. They know me.”

  Dims nodded. That sort of thing was a common complaint in his world. “What do you need from me?”

  A short time later, a man wearing Wayne’s hat, coat, and dueling canes tried to pass through the front of the university. He saw the two men in black, then bolted as they chased after him.

  Wayne adjusted his spectacles, watching them go. He shook his head. Ruffians, trying to get into the university! Scandalous. He walked in through the gates, wearing a bow tie and carrying a load of books. Another of those men—who stood in a more hidden spot, watching his companions chase Dims—barely gave Wayne a glance.

  Spectacles. They were kind of like a hat for smart people. Wayne ditched the books inside the square, then walked past a fountain with a statue of a lady who wasn’t properly clothed—he idled only a short time—and made his way toward Pashadon Hall, the girls’ dormitory. The building looked an awful lot like a prison: three stories of small windows, stonework architecture, and iron grates that seemed to say “Stay away, boys, if you value your nether parts.”

  He pushed his way in the front doors, where he prepared himself for the second of his three tests: the Tyrant of Pashadon. She sat at her desk, a woman built like an ox with a face to match. Her hair even curled like horns. She was a fixture of the university, or so Wayne had been told. Perhaps she had come with the chandeliers and sofas.

  She looked up from her desk in the entryway, then threw herself to her feet in challenge. “You!”

  “Hello,” Wayne said.

  “How did you get past campus security!”

  “I tossed them a ball,” Wayne said, tucking the spectacles into his pocket. “Most hounds love having somethin’ to chase.”

  The tyrant rumbled around the side of her desk. It was like watching an ocean liner try to navigate city canals. She wore a tiny hat, in an attempt at fashion. She liked to consider herself a part of Elendel upper society, and she kind of was. In the same way that the blocks of granite that made up the steps to the governor’s mansion were a part of civic government.

  “You,” she said, spearing Wayne in the chest with a finger. “I thought I told you not to come back.”

  “I thought I ignored you.”

  “Are you drunk?” She sniffed at his breath.

  “No,” Wayne said. “If I were drunk, you wouldn’t look nearly so ugly.”

  She huffed, turning away. “I can’t believe your audacity.”

  “Really? Because I’m sure I’ve been this audacious before. Every month, in fact. So this seems a right believable thing for me to do.”

  “I’m not letting you in. Not this time. You are a scoundrel.”

  Wayne sighed. Heroes in stories never had to fight the same beast twice. Seemed unfair he had to face this one each month. “Look, I just want to check in on her.”

  “She is fine.”

  “I have money,” Wayne said. “To give her.”

  “You can leave it here. You distress the girl, miscreant.”

  Wayne stepped forward, taking the tyrant by the shoulder. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”

  She looked at him. And, to his surprise, she cracked her knuckles. Wow. He reached into his pocket quickly and pulled out a piece of pasteboard.

  “One ticket,” Wayne said quickly, “admitting two people to the governor’s spring dinner and policy speech, occurring during a party at Lady ZoBell’s penthouse tonight. This here ticket lists no specific names. Anyone who has it can get in.”

  Her eyes widened. “Who’d you steal that from?”

  “Please,” Wayne said. “It came delivered to my house.”

  Which was perfectly true. It was for Wax and Steris. But they were important enough folk that invitations sent to them had no names, so they could send an emissary if they wished. When it came to someone fancy like Wax, even getting their relative or friend to attend your party could be advantageous.

  The tyrant didn’t count as either. But Wayne figured that Wax would be happy to not have to go to the blasted party anyway. Besides, Wayne had left a real nice-looking leaf he’d found in exchange. Rusting beautiful, that leaf was.

  The tyrant hesitated, so Wayne waved the ticket in front of her.

  “I guess…” she said. “I could let you in one last time. I’m not supposed to allow unrelated men into the visiting room, however.”

  “I’m practically family,” he said. They made a big fuss about keeping the young women and young men separated around here, which Wayne found odd. With all of these smart people around, wouldn’t one of them have realized what boys and girls was supposed to do together?

  The tyrant let him pass into the visiting room, then sent one of the girls at the desk to run for Allriandre. Wayne sat down, but couldn’t keep his feet from tapping. He’d been stripped of weapons, bribes, and even his own hat. He was practically naked, but he’d made it to the final test.

  Allriandre entered a few moments later. She’d brought backup with her in the form of two other young ladies about her age—just shy of twenty. Smart girl, Wayne thought, proud. He rose.

  “Madam Penfor says you’re drunk,” Allriandre said, remaining in the doorway.

  Wayne tapped his metalmind, drawing forth healing. In a moment, his body burned away its impurities and healed its wounds. It thought alcohol was a poison, which showed that a fellow couldn’t always trust his own body, but today he didn’t complain. It also washed away his sniffles for the moment, though those would return. It was hard to heal from diseases with a metalmind for some reason.

  Either way, sobriety hit him like a brick to the chin. He inhaled deeply, feeling even more naked than before. “I just like to play with her,” Wayne said, all hint of slur gone from his voice, eyes focused.

  Allriandre studied him intently, then nodded. She did not enter the room.

  “I brought this month’s money,” Wayne said, taking an envelope out and setting it on the low, glass-topped table beside him. He stood up straight, then shuffled from one foot to the other.

  “Is that really him?” one of the girls asked Allriandre. “They say he rides with Dawnshot. Of the Roughs.”

  “It’s him,” Allriandre said, eyes still on Wayne. “I don’t want your money.”

  “Your mama told me to bring it to you,” Wayne said.

  “You don’t need to bring it in person.”

  “I do,” Wayne said quietly.

  They stood in silence, neither party moving. Wayne finally cleared his throat. “How’re your studies? Are you treated well here? Is there anythin’ you need?�
��

  Allriandre reached into her handbag and took out a large locket. She spread it open, displaying a strikingly distinct evanotype of a man with a wide mustache and a twinkle in his eyes. He had a long, friendly face, and his hair was thinning on top. Her father.

  She made Wayne look at it every time.

  “Tell me what you did,” she said. That voice. It could have been the voice of winter itself.

  “I don’t—”

  “Tell me.”

  The third trial.

  “I killed your daddy,” Wayne said softly, looking at the picture. “I mugged him in an alley for his pocketbook. I shot a better man than me, and because of that, I don’t deserve to be alive.”

  “You know you aren’t forgiven.”

  “I know.”

  “You will never be forgiven.”

  “I know.”

  “Then I’ll take your blood money,” Allriandre said. “If you care to know, my studies go well. I am thinking of taking up the law.”

  Someday, he hoped he might be able to look into the girl’s eyes and see emotion. Hatred, maybe. Something other than that emptiness.

  “Get out.”

  Wayne ducked his head and left.

  * * *

  There should not have been a thatched log hut in the middle of Elendel, and yet here it was. Wax stooped to enter, seeming to step backward in time hundreds of years. The air inside smelled of old leather and furs.

  The enormous firepit in the middle would never be needed in Elendel’s mild weather. Today, a smaller fire had been constructed at its very center, and over it simmered a small kettle of hot water for tea. However, charred stones indicated that the entire firepit was sometimes used. It, the furs, the ancient-style paintings on the wall—of winds, and frozen rain, and tiny figures painted with simple strokes on slopes—were all fragments of a myth.

  Old Terris. A legendary land of snow and ice, with white-furred beasts and spirits that haunted frozen storms. During the early days following the Catacendre, refugees from Terris had written down memories of their homeland, as no Keepers had remained.