More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“You’re as surprising as a donkey who can dance, Mister Cravat.” “It helps to have a thing,” Waxillium noted. “Yeah. You think I should get a thing?” “Getting a thing has been one of the most important choices I made in coming up to the Roughs.” Lessie nodded slowly. “I have no idea what we’re talking about, but it sounds kinda dirty.”
“Three shots, three different notes, not a single bandit down. That takes skill. Maybe you should spend a little less time with your thing and more with your gun.” “Now that sounded dirty.”
“Good. I hate being crass by accident.”
“Miss Colms,” Waxillium said softly, “what do your statistics tell you about this kind of violence?” Oh, so we’re using last names now, are we?
“One doesn’t change the world by avoiding the hard questions, sir.”
“Your grasp of the language is startling,” Wax said, “considering how you so frequently brutalize it.” “Ain’t nobody what knows the cow better than the butcher, Wax.”
You had to adapt. Move. Change. That was good, but it could also threaten identity, connection, and sense of purpose. The governor’s guards studied the crowd with hostility, muttering about miscreants, as if seeing the crowd as barely contained malefactors who were looking for any excuse to riot and loot. To the contrary, these people wanted something stable, something that would let them sustain their communities or forge new ones. Rioting was rarely caused by greed, but frequently by frustration and hopelessness.
He knew, Wax thought. Ironeyes knew something like this was going to come. The book had been written by the Lord Mistborn long ago to leave some record of the art known as Hemalurgy. Lestibournes’s book said he considered it a crime that the Words of Founding—Harmony’s own record—omitted references to the dark art.
“Never touch the stuff myself,” Wayne said. “Causes headaches. Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?” The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage. Wayne climbed up, and Wax stepped inside. This wouldn’t be ideal, but it would have to do. He pulled down the window shades, then settled back as the coach began rolling.
Very well. I am Harmony, the Hero of Ages, once called Sazed. At the end of one world, I took upon myself the powers of protection and destruction, and in so doing became the caretaker of the world to come. I am here, Waxillium, to tell you that you are not insane.
“Bloody Tan lives.” Not exactly. Wax frowned. There are … beings in this world who are neither human nor koloss. Something related to both. You call them the Faceless Immortals. “Kandra,” Wax said. “Like TenSoon, the Guardian. Or the person who gave me this earring.”
you should know better than to assume everyone dangerous to be a male.
“Being God is more complex than a mortal can comprehend?” Wax said. “What a surprise.” Harmony chuckled softly.
Yes, you did, Harmony said. It is well. Few act that way toward me, even among the kandra. It feels good to me. Like older times. Since Kelsier … well, I haven’t had much of that.
“if you do find the murderer, steer me in her direction. I shall endeavor to fascinate her with details of our house finances. With luck, she’ll fall asleep in her drink and drown, and I shall have my first kill.” “Steris! That was rather amusing.”
Waxillium had seen some odd things in his life. He’d visited koloss camps in the Roughs, even been invited to join their numbers. He’d met and spoken with God himself and had received a personal gift from Death. That did not prepare him for the sight of a pretty young woman’s chest turning nearly transparent, one of the breasts splitting and offering up the hilt of a small handgun. She grabbed it and pulled it out. “So convenient,” she noted. “You can store all sorts of things in those.” “Who are you?” “MeLaan,” she said,
“Don’t make trouble at the pub tonight, Wayne,” the man intoned in response. “My temper is really short.” “Temper?” Wayne said, passing him. “That’s a funny name for it, mate, but if the ladies like you givin’ silly names to your body parts, I ain’t gonna say nothin’.”
MeLaan finished her beer, then dramatically held up her hand. The palm split, forming lips, which then let out a soft belch. “Cheating,” Wayne said. “Just using what Father gave me,” MeLaan said. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t belch out of other body parts if you could.”
Getting older does not tend to make you more normal, let me tell you.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW a man, dig in his firepit. The phrase was from the Roughs, maybe koloss in origin. Basically, it meant that you could judge a lot about a man’s life by what he threw away—or by what he was willing to burn in order to stay warm.
“Could you, by any chance, put in a good word for me with Harmony?” “Thy deeds are thine own good words, human,” MeLaan said. “And thy God knows of them. Go and protect this city. Worry not for thyself, but instead for thy fellows.”
To believe in a God was to accept that He or She wasn’t going to deliver you from every problem. It wasn’t something Wax had ever dwelled on. Living in the Roughs, he’d accepted that sometimes you just had to weather things on your own. Help didn’t always come. That was life. You dealt with it.
The thing was, woman constables were also expected to be models of ladylike behavior. A holdover from the old days, reinforced by the speeches of Lady Allrianne Ladrian soon after the Catacendre. There was just this blunt expectation that you would strive to remain feminine at the same time as you did your job. A heavy double standard to bear. At times Marasi didn’t mind. She liked dresses, and nice hair, and solving problems with a careful word instead of a fist to the face. To her it was perfectly reasonable to be feminine and a constable. But did the men ever have to worry about being
...more
Well, maybe religion was good for something other than fancy clothes and weird hats.
Finally, he turned to the side, rested his head on her shoulder, and wept.
