The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,28
Wayne slammed his fork down onto the plain wooden countertop, leaving it flourished there like a rusting legendary sword.
“How many buns’ll you give me for this?” he asked.
The baker frowned, looking at him, then taking the fork. She turned it over in her fingers. “Mister,” she said, “this is silver.”
“So … how many?” Wayne asked.
“A bunch.”
“A bunch’ll do, fair merchant.”
A moment later he emerged from the bakery holding three large paper sacks filled with a dozen buns each. He dropped a handful of change the baker had insisted on giving him into the urchins’ hands, then held up a finger as their jaws dropped.
“You,” he said, “must earn this.”
“How, sir?”
“Take these,” he said, dropping the sacks. “Go give the stuff inside away.”
“To who?” the girl asked.
“Anyone who needs them,” Wayne said. “But see here, now. Don’t eat more than four yourselves, all right?”
“Four?” the girl said. “All for me?”
“Well, five, but you bargain hard. Little cheat.” He left them stunned and danced along the edge of the canal, passing the busker, who sat strumming an old guitar.
“Something lively, minstrel!” Wayne called, tossing the silver spoon into the man’s overturned hat, which awaited tips.
“Here now,” the man said. “What’s this?” He squinted. “A spoon?”
“Merchants are apparently desperate for the things!” Wayne called. “They’ll give you half a hunnerd meat buns for one, with change to boot. Now, give me ‘The Last Breath,’ minstrel!”
The man shrugged, and started plucking the song from Wayne’s mind. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick, energetic. Wayne rocked back and forth, eyes closed. The end of an era, he thought. A god to be appeased.
He heard the two urchins laughing, and opened his eyes to see them tossing meat buns at the people they passed. Wayne smiled, then kicked himself in a smooth skid along the edge of the canal, which was slippery with a coating of slime. He managed to go a good ten feet before losing his balance and slipping.
Which, of course, plunged him right into the canal.
Coughing, he pulled himself up onto the side. Well, maybe this would count as a travail. If not, it was probably poetry, considering what he’d done to Wax this morning.
He fished out his hat, then put his back to the canal. That was the way to go. Eyes forward, back turned toward the past. No sense getting your nose stuck in things that don’t matter anymore. He continued on his way, trailing water and spinning the last of the silverware—the knife—in his fingers. This was not the right offering for his quest. He was pretty sure of it. But what was?
He stopped at the next canal bridge, then stepped back. A short man in a uniform he didn’t recognize was walking down a nearby street with a little book in hand. Motorcars were parked here in various positions, most partly up onto the sidewalks. The man in the uniform stopped at each one, writing something down in his book.
Wayne followed after him. “Here now,” he asked the man. “What’re you doing?”
The little man in the uniform glanced at him, then back at his notebook. “New city ordinance about the parking of motorcars requires them to be left in an orderly manner, not up on the sidewalks like this.”
“So…”
“So I’m writing down the registry numbers of each one,” the man said. “And we’ll track down the owners and charge them a fine.”
Wayne whistled softly. “That’s evil.”
“Nonsense,” the man said. “It’s the law.”
“So you’re a conner?”
“Fine enforcement officer,” the man said. “Spent most of my time inspecting kitchens before last month. This is a lot more productive, I’ll tell you. It—”
“That’s great,” Wayne said. “Whaddaya want for the book?”
The man regarded him. “It’s not for trade.”
“I’ve got this here nice wallet,” Wayne said, holding it up, water dripping out the side. “Recently cleaned.”
“Move along, sir,” the man said. “I am not—”
“How ’bout this?” Wayne said, yanking out the knife.
The man jumped back in alarm, dropping his notebook. Wayne snatched it, dropping the knife.
“Great trade. Thanks. Bye.” He took off at a dash.
“Hey!” the man shouted, chasing after him. “Hey!”
“No tradebacks!” Wayne shouted, hand on his wet hat, running for all he was worth.
“Come back here!”
Wayne dashed out onto the main street along the canal, passing a couple of old men sitting on a tenement’s steps near the entrance to the slums.
“That’s Edip’s boy,” one of them said. “Always gettin’ himself into trouble, that one is.”
The man got hit in the face by a meat bun a second later.