The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,66
rusting, spineless rat.” He reached for his gun, which—fortunately—wasn’t there.
The other three young nobles looked to him, shocked. Gave grinned in a cocky way before adopting an expression of outrage. “Excuse me,” he said, turning his date by the arm and striding away. The others scuttled after.
Wax sighed, lowering his arm, still angry. “He did that deliberately,” he muttered. “Didn’t he? He wanted an excuse to leave the conversation, so he insulted me. When that didn’t work, he flung one at you, knowing I’d overreact.”
“Hmmm…” Steris said. “Yes, you have the right of it.” Steris nodded. Other people nearby made conversation, but they left an open space around Wax and Steris.
“I’m sorry,” Wax said. “I let him get to me.”
“That’s why we tried him first,” Steris said. “Good practice. And we did learn something. The archaeology comment prodded too close to something he didn’t want to discuss. He turned to veiled insults to distract us.”
Wax took a deep breath, shoving away his annoyance at this entire situation. “What now? Do we try another one?”
“No,” Steris said, thoughtful. “We don’t want our targets to know that we’re approaching them specifically. If you interact with unaffiliated people in between, our pattern will be more difficult to spot.”
“Right,” Wax said, looking through the busy hall as the harpist retreated and a full band, with brass—something you’d never see at a party in Elendel—began setting up instruments in her place.
He and Steris sipped drinks as the music started. Though it was slow enough to encourage dancing with a partner, there was a pep to it Wax hadn’t expected. He found he quite liked it. It seemed to be able to beat out his frustration, turn it to something more excited instead.
“Why don’t you go there next?” Steris said, nodding toward a distinguished older woman with her grey hair in a bun. “That’s Lady Felise Demoux, accompanied by her nephew. You’ve had business dealings with her; she’s exactly the sort of person you’d be expected to seek out. I’ll refill our drinks.”
“Get me a seltzer,” Wax said. “I’ll need my mind clear for this.”
Steris nodded, moving off through the crowd as people made way for dancing in the center of the room. Wax approached Lady Demoux and introduced himself with a card given to her nephew, then requested a dance, which was accepted.
Small talk. He could do small talk. What is wrong with you, Wax? he thought at himself as he accompanied Lady Demoux to the dance floor. You can interrogate a criminal without trouble. Why do you dread simple conversation?
Part of him wanted to dismiss it as mere laziness. But that was his response to everything he didn’t want to do—an excuse. What was it really? Why was he so reluctant?
It’s because these are their rules. If I play by them, I accept their games. It felt like he was accepting their collar.
He turned to raise his hand to the side for Lady Demoux to take. However, as he did, a different woman slid into place and grasped his hand, towing him into the dancing and away from the perimeter. He was so surprised that he let it happen.
“Excuse me?” Wax said.
“No excuses necessary,” the woman said, “I won’t take but a moment of your time.” She looked to be Terris, judging by her dark skin—though hers was darker than most he’d seen. Her hair was in tight braids, streaked with grey, and her face bore full, luscious lips. She took the lead in the dance, causing him to stumble.
“You realize,” she said, “that you are a very rare specimen. Crasher: a Coinshot and a Skimmer.”
“Neither are that rare,” Wax said, “in terms of Metalborn.”
“Ah, but any Twinborn combination is rare indeed. Mistings are one in a thousand; most Ferrings even more unusual, and their bloodlines constrained. To arrive at any specific combination of two is highly improbable. You are one of only three Crashers ever born, Lord Waxillium.”
“What, really?”
“I cannot, of course, be one hundred percent certain of that figure. Infant mortality on Scadrial is not as bad as some regions, but still shockingly high. Tell me, have you ever tried increasing your weight while in midair?”
“Who are you?” Wax said, stepping into the dance and seizing back control, twisting her to his right.
“Nobody important,” she said.
“Did my uncle send you?”
“I have little interest in your local politics, Lord Waxillium,” she replied. “If you would kindly answer my questions, I will let you be.”