The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

Sometimes it’s like I’m no more than an appendage.” “You’re not that at all, Marasi,” Wayne said. “You’re important. You help out a lot. Plus you smell nice, and not all bloody and stuff.” “Great. I have no idea what you just said.” “Appendages don’t smell nice,” Wayne said. “And they’re kinda gross. I cut one outta a fellow once.” “You mean an appendix?” “Sure.” He hesitated. “So . . .” “Not the same thing.” “Right. Thought you was makin’ a metaphor, since people don’t need one of those and all.”

MeLaan, who was wearing a fine lace gown and oversized hat. A normal woman would have needed quite the corset to pull off the outfit, but the kandra had probably just sculpted her body to fit. Which was horribly unfair.

“Tips.” “I looked in tips.” “One of the dockworkers turned the request in late,” Waxillium said, grabbing a sheet and spinning it toward Steris. “He tipped a dock boy four clips to run a message for him, and asked for reimbursement. Dockmaster gave it to him, and filed a note, but he wrote the four like a three and the accountants recorded it that way.” Steris looked it over with wide eyes. “You bastard,” she said, causing Marasi to blink. She’d never heard language like that from Steris.

By the starlight—which was bright tonight, with no clouds and the Red Rip low on the horizon—he

“Robbers?” Steris asked. “Really, Lord Waxillium, must you bring your hobbies with you everywhere we go?”

But something is wrong.” “Other than people trying to kill us?” Marasi asked. “No,” Steris said, “in my experience, that’s quite normal.”

“You don’t think the attack is a coincidence.” “If it is, I’ll eat Wayne’s hat.”

He stepped up to his room, then hesitated as a hand stuck out of the next room down, holding a small vial. “Steris?” he said, walking to her. She was still sitting on the plush train bench—though her face was paler than before. “Steel flakes in suspension,” she said, wiggling the vial. “Since when have you carried one of these?” Wax asked, taking it from her. “Since about six months ago. I put one into my purse in case you might need it.” She raised her other hand, displaying two more. “I carry the other two because I’m neurotic.” He grinned, taking all three.

“What the hell is in this?” “Other than steel?” Steris asked. “Cod-liver oil.” He looked at her, gaping. “Whiskey is bad for you, Lord Waxillium. A wife must look out for her husband’s health.”

They threw bottles through the windows. . . . And then the doors ripped off. Steel doors, Pushed into the room, twisted off their hinges like they were paper . . .” Wax felt a chill. So the bandits had Metalborn too.

A small metal cube. He jumped back, fearing an explosive, but nothing happened. What had that been? And then he realized with a deep, bone-chilling horror that he was no longer burning metal. There was nothing inside of him to burn. His steel reserves had—somehow—vanished.

bearing something large and seemingly heavy. What in the name of the lost metal was that?

She scrambled up and set herself, crouching on one knee, holding Ranette’s shotgun. Oh no. “Steris!” he shouted. The brute spun, noticing her as she set the gun at her shoulder, wide-eyed, dress rippling against her body in the wind. She pulled the trigger. Unsurprisingly, the shot went wild, but it did manage to clip the brute in the arm, spraying blood. The man grunted, releasing his Push on Wax. Unfortunately, the enormous kick of that gun—intended to be used to fight Allomancers—hurled Steris backward. And right off the side of the train.

Wax leaped off the side of the train and raised the vial to his mouth.

Cod-liver oil and metal flakes washed into his mouth. Swallowing took a precious moment. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Power. Wax shouted, flaring steel and Pushing on the tracks up above.

Steris breathed in short, frantic gasps. She clung to him, blinked, then looked down at the river. “What is wrong with that gun!” she said. “It’s meant for me to shoot,” Wax said, “when my weight is increased to counteract the kick.”

“What were you thinking? I told you to stay back in the other car.” “As a point of fact,” she said, “you did not. You told me to stay safe.” “So?” “So, it has been my experience that the safest place in a gunfight is near you, Lord Waxillium.”

He engaged the hooks, so that the Push from below, combined with the taut cord in his hand, swung him and Steris in an arc. He landed on the tracks, a soggy Steris in one arm, cord in the other. He could imagine Ranette’s grin as he told her how well the thing had worked.

Steris’s teeth chattered audibly, and he glanced at her as he finished winding, expecting to see her frightened and miserable. Instead, despite being dripping wet, she had a stupid grin on her face, eyes alight with excitement. Wax couldn’t help smiling himself

“Remember, you’re not supposed to find things like that fun, Steris. You’re supposed to be boring. I have it on good authority from this woman I know.” “A tone-deaf man,” Steris said, “can still enjoy a good choir—even if he could never participate.”

“Not buying the act, my dear,” Wax said. “Not any longer. You just climbed on top of a moving train car and shot a bandit, rescuing your fiancé.” “It behooves a woman,” she said, “to show an interest in her husband’s hobbies. Though I suppose I should be outraged, as this is the second dunking you’ve given me in a very short period of time, Lord Waxillium.”

“They have some device,” the engineer said, frantic, pointing. “They’re installing it between the coal tender and the first car. Shot my fireman when he tried to defend me, the bastards!”

a small metal cube with bizarre symbols on it.

The men didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Wax hopped across to the next car, then took a cork from his pocket—from one of his vials—and tossed it toward the men. It hit some invisible barrier and froze there, hanging in the air. Wax grinned, then dropped down between the cars and pushed into the one the men were standing on. There he found Marasi standing atop a bunch of suitcases, her shoulders pressed against the train’s ceiling just below the men so she could engage a speed bubble and freeze them all in place.

But there were ways to kill a Bloodmaker. A shot to the back of the head. Prolonged suffocation. Basically, anything that would have forced Wayne to keep healing until his Feruchemical storages ran out.

“And the man with the limp?” “My lord?” “He seemed to be in charge of them,” Wax said. “A man in a fine suit who walked with a cane. About six feet tall, with a narrow face and dark hair. Who is he?” “I don’t know that one, my lord. Donny is the leader.” “Big guy?” Wax asked. “Neck like a stump?” “No, my lord. Donny is little and feisty. Evilest rusting kig you’ve ever seen.” Kig. It was slang for a koloss-blooded person. Wax hadn’t seen anyone among the bandits with the proper skin color for that. “Thank you, Captain,” Wax said.

Steris watching him. She sat alone on a bench with a blanket around her shoulders, holding a cup of something that steamed. She seemed perfectly calm.

Wax entered and ripped open the luggage compartment in the floor. Wayne blinked up at him. The younger man had mussed hair, and his shirt was unbuttoned, but he wasn’t in any bonds that Wax could see. He didn’t seem to have been harmed at all. In fact . . . Wax crouched down, Marasi’s light revealing what had been hidden to him by the overhang of the luggage compartment. MeLaan, shirt completely off, was in the compartment too. She sat up, entirely unashamed of her nudity.

“I don’t like doin’ stuff halfway,” he said solemnly, hand over his heart. “It’s been a long time since I had me a good neckin’ on account of my diligent monogamous idealization of a beauteous but unavailable—”

Leechers who burned chromium could blank another Allomancer’s metals—but it required touch.

But MeLaan, there was some kind of device involved. A little metal cube.” “Wait,” a voice said. Marasi appeared in the doorway. “A cube?”

Marasi sighed. “Wayne, can’t you ever let a joke die?” “Hon, that joke started dead,” he said. “I’m just givin’ it a proper burial.”

“At least it was good snogging,” MeLaan added. Then, to Marasi’s glare, she added, “What? It was. Poor guy hadn’t had a proper snog in years. Had a lot of pent-up energy.”

“You’re not even human,” Marasi said. “You should be ashamed. Not to mention that you’re six hundred years old.” “I’m young at heart. Really—I copied this one off a sixteen-year-old that I ate a few months back.” The room grew very still. “Oh . . . was that gauche?” MeLaan said, wincing. “That was gauche, wasn’t it? She didn’t taste very good, if that’s anything to you. Hardly rotten at all. And . . . I should stop talking about this.

Wayne and MeLaan obeyed, walking out side by side. Maybe there was actually something there between them. If anything, Wayne didn’t seem the least bit put out by being reminded just how alien, and just how old, MeLaan was.

“You’re wrong,” she noted, sounding drowsy. “You do smile. Most often when you’re flying on lines of steel. It’s the only time I think . . . I think I see . . . pure joy in you. . . .”

It was fascinating to him that, if you looked at old maps, what were now slums had once been considered prime real estate.

He exulted in the moment, the freedom, the beauty of it. There was a majesty about soaring alongside a churning waterfall, with sparkling pools and lush gardens spreading out beneath.

“You read the accounts of my time in the Roughs,” Wax said. “It’s in there—that’s the symbol of Ape Manton, one of my old nemeses.” “Ape Manton!” Marasi said. “Didn’t he—” “Yes,” Wax said, remembering the nights of torture. “He hunts Allomancers.”

“Peanuts,” Wayne said, spitting out his gum and then popping a handful of nuts into his mouth. “I ain’t had nothin’ to eat since I swiped that fruit in Steris’s luggage.” “What are you babbling about?” Steris asked from the couch, where she was writing in her notebook. “I left you one of my shoes in trade,” Wayne said,

“Things do explode around you, mate,” Wayne said, munching peanuts. Nice bit of salt on these. “He’s right, unfortunately,” Steris said. “I’ve accounted for seventeen explosions involving you. That’s a huge statistical anomaly, even considering your profession.” “You’re kidding. Seventeen?” “Afraid so.”

The door to the adjoining suite slammed open. “Hello, humans,” MeLaan said, stepping into the doorway wearing nothing more than a tight pair of shorts and a cloth wrapped around her chest. “I need to put on something appropriate for tonight. What do you think? Large breasts? Small breasts? Extra-large breasts?”

Everyone looked at Wayne for some reason. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe he should have given his shoes to her. “You don’t mind?” Steris demanded of him. “It’s still her.”

You’re the detective; I’m just around for the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby.”

“To be fair,” Wayne said, “it’s usually a more shooty-shooty, whacky-whacky type.”

Why would a group of lords and ladies of the outer cities elite have anything to do with an ancient archaeological relic?

The beggar started, as if surprised, then grinned. “It’s got a good kick to it, my lady.” “You’ve been drinking cologne?” Steris asked. “Well, that can’t be healthy.” “You should be away from here, beggar,” Wax said, eyeing the cluster of attendants and coachmen closer to the building’s entrance. “These are private grounds.” “Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my good lord . . .” He pushed his hand forward farther, eyes staring sightlessly.

“My lord!” the beggar screeched. “Your change!” He saw the blue line moving and reacted immediately, spinning and catching the coin, which had been hurled with exacting accuracy at his head. So, not blind after all. Wax snorted, pocketing the coin as a passing groundsman saw the beggar and shouted, “Not you again!” The beggar cackled and disappeared back into the shrubs. “What was that about?” Steris asked. “Damned if I know,” Wax said.

“Are you going to talk about this the entire time?” “Of course! The bank’s employees need to know how I toil with the next generation and its woefully inadequate ability to make decisions my generation found simple and obvious.”

They sat in his office now, and he had a little desk plaque that named him MR. ERIOLA.