The Alloy of Law (Mistborn, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

“I mean, shouldn’t there be room for romance?” “There is,” Steris said. “Page thirteen. Upon marriage, there shall be no more than three conjugal encounters per week and no fewer than one until a suitable heir is provided. After that, the same numbers apply to a two-week span.”

Wait,” Waxillium said, looking away from Wayne. “Your document allows mistresses?” “Certainly,” Steris said. “They are a simple fact of life, and so it’s better to account for them than to ignore them. In the document, you will find requirements for your potential mistresses along with the means by which discretion will be maintained.”

There was no specific posture recommended for praying as a Pathian. Just fifteen minutes of meditation and pondering. Some liked to sit with legs crossed and eyes closed, but Waxillium had always found it harder to think in that position. It made his back hurt and his spine tingle. What if someone sneaked around and shot him from behind? So, he simply stood. And pondered. How are things up there in the mists? he thought. He was never sure how to talk to Harmony. Life’s good, I assume? What with you being God, and all? In response, he felt a sense of … amusement. He could never tell if he created those sensations himself or not.

Steris had called the Path a simple religion. Perhaps it was. There was only one basic tenet: Do more good than harm. There were other aspects—the belief that all truth was important, the requirement to give more than one took.

“So, Wax,” Wayne butted in, “where did you say that bloke was who had my hat?” “I told you that he got away after I shot him.” “I was hoping he’d dropped my hat. Getting shot makes people drop stuff, you know.” Waxillium sighed. “He still had it on when he left, I’m afraid.” Wayne started cursing.

“Oh, Wax has always been solemn,” Wayne said, wiping his nose with his handkerchief. “But when he’s at his best, there’s a smirk underneath. C’mon.”

Marasi prodded at the wound. “University rules, set by Harmony himself, dictate a broad education.” “Yeah, I know they have to take girls,” Wayne said. Marasi’s eye twitched. “Er … not that meaning of broad, Wayne.”

“You are inexperienced. So was I once. So is everyone. The measure of a person is not how much they have lived. It is not how easily they jump at a noise or how quick they are to show emotion. It’s in how they make use of what life has shown them.”

Marasi dropped her bubble. The sunlight of full day streamed in from the distant pit, and filling the tunnel—right outside where the bubble had been—was a force of over a hundred constables in uniform. Wayne stood at their head, grinning, wearing a constable’s uniform and hat, a false mustache on his face. “Get ’im, boys!” he said, pointing.