The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,16
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.