The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

The banker didn’t seem convinced—but then, in Wayne’s estimation, he didn’t seem completely human either. He was at least part dolphin.

Before I learned how much power over a situation you gain when you decide that you don’t care what others think of you.”

The symbols on that coin . . . Wax thought, stepping back to the bar. They’re the same ones as on the walls in the pictures ReLuur took.

Those were the same symbols, or very similar. And it had a face on the back, that of a man looking straight outward, one eye pierced by a spike. The large coin was made of two different metals, an outside ring and an inner one. The coin certainly didn’t seem old. Was it new, or merely well-preserved? Rust and Ruin . . . how had this gotten into his pocket? The beggar tossed it to me, Wax thought. But where had he gotten it? Were there more of these in circulation?

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 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.”

“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 eve...

“I’ve increased my weight while moving,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t do anything—all things fall at the same speed, regardless of how heavy they are.” “Yes, the uniformity of gravitation,”

What if you’re soaring through the air on a Steelpush and you suddenly make yourself heavier. What happens?” “I slow down—I’m so much heavier that it’s harder to Push myself forward.” “Ahh . . .” the woman said softly. “So it is true.” “What?” “Conservation of momentum,” she said. “Lord Waxillium, when you store weight, are you storing mass, or are you changing the planet’s ability to recognize you as something to attract? Is there a difference? Your answer gives me a clue. If you slow when you become heavier midflight, then that is not likely due to you having trouble Pushing, but due to the laws of physics.”

She produced a card and handed it toward him. “Please experiment with this further and send me word. Thank you. Now, if I can just figure out why there’s no redshift involved in speed bubbles . . .”

“Devlin Airs,” Steris said with a nod. “Informant. You’ll find his sort at any party. He’s either one of the least important people in the room or one of the most important, depending upon the secrets you’re interested in discovering. He was also on ReLuur’s list.”

statue of the Survivor, scarred arms spread wide and gripping the metalwork arch on either side. Marasi felt dwarfed by the statue’s looming intensity—brass cloak tassels spreading out in a radial flare behind him, his metallic face glaring down at those who entered. A spear through his back pierced the front of his chest, the polished tip emerging to hang a foot below the center of the arch.

She’d been raised Survivorist, so the gruesome imagery associated with the religion was familiar to her. It was just that every time she saw a depiction of the Survivor, his posture seemed so demanding. It was like he wanted people to recognize the contradiction in his religion. He commanded that people survive, yet the death imagery associated with him was a cruel reminder that they’d eventually fail in that task. Survivorism therefore was not about winning, but about lasting as long as you could before you lost.

The Survivor himself, of course, broke the rules. He always had. Doctrine explained he was not dead, but surviving—and planning to return in their time of greatest need. But if the end of the world hadn’t been enough to get him to return in his glory, then what could possibly do so?

He spun the knife in his hand, then reached for her chest. “Wayne!” she said. “Don’t be so stiff. You want this done right, right?” She sighed. “Don’t get too frisky.” “Sooner get frisky with a lion, Mara. That I would.” He cut the opaque lace window out of her bodice, leaving her with a plunging neckline. Her sleeves went next, shortened by a good foot to above the elbow. He took the lace there and tied it like a ribbon around her dress right beneath her breasts, then pulled the laces on the back of the dress more tightly. That lifted and thrust her upper chest outward in a decidedly scandalous way. From there, he made a few choice slits on the skirt before rubbing dirt on the bottom parts. He stepped back, tapping his cheek thoughtfully, and nodded. Marasi looked down, inspecting his handiwork, and was actually impressed. Beyond enhancing the bust, he’d cut along seams, pulling out threads, and the effect wasn’t so much ruined as used.

“Everyone looks at the chest first,” Wayne said, “even women, which is kinda strange, but that’s the way it is. Like this, nobody will care that the dirt looks too fresh and the rest of the dress ain’t aged properly.”

I’m shocked,” she said. “You’re an excellent seamstress.” “Clothes is fun to play with. Ain’t no reason that can’t be manly.” His eyes lingered on her chest. “Wayne.” “Sorry, sorry. Just gettin’ into character, you know.” He waved for her to follow, and they headed up the path. As they did, Marasi realized something. ...

“If that’s so, then why are you so keen for it?” “Sentimental value,” Wayne said. “It belonged to a friend, and it was really hard for him to part with it.” Marasi snorted in surprise at that one, drawing Dechamp’s attention. “Are you the friend?” “I don’t speak skaa,” she said in the ancient Terris language. “Could you perhaps talk in Terris, please?” Wayne winked at her. “No use, Dechamp. I can’t get her to speak proper, no matter how much I try. But she’s fine to look at, ain’t she?”

“You changed your accent,” Marasi whispered to Wayne as they followed a short distance behind. “Aged it back a tad,” Wayne explained softly. “Used the accent of a generation past.” “There’s a difference?” He looked shocked. “Of course there is, woman. Made me sound older, like his parents. More authority.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe she’d even asked.

The man was watching the nearby fish tank, which stood beneath a depiction of Tindwyl, Mother of Terris, perched on the walls during her last stand against the darkness.

“It’s the cage we’re all in, Lord Waxillium! This Basin that Harmony created for us. So perfect, so lush. Nobody leaves.” “I did.” “To the Roughs,” Devlin said, dismissive. “What’s beyond them, Waxillium? Beyond the deserts? Across the seas? Nobody cares.” “I’ve heard it asked before.” “And has anyone put up the money to find the answers?”

“People can ask questions,” Devlin said, “but where there is no money, there are no answers.”

“I know you, lawman,” Devlin said. “And I can tell you, the group you chase, you don’t need to worry about them. They won’t be a danger for decades, perhaps centuries. You’re ignoring the bigger threat.” “Which is?” Wax asked. “The rest of the people in this room,” Devlin said, “the ones not involved in your little conspiracy—the ones who care only about how their cities are being treated.”

Wax felt like he was being jerked around on the end of someone’s string.

A building project, Wax thought. Allomancers. Civil war.

“Syrup of ipecac and saltroot,” she said. “To induce vomiting.” He blinked in shock. “But why . . .” “I had assumed they might try to poison us,” Steris said. “Though I considered it only a small possibility, it’s best to be prepared.” She laughed uncomfortably. Then she downed the whole thing. Wax reached for her arm, but too late. He watched in horror as she stoppered the empty vial and tucked it into her purse. “You might want to get out of the splash radius, so to speak.” “But . . . Steris!” he said. “You’ll end up humiliating yourself.” She closed her eyes. “Dear Lord Waxillium. Earlier, you spoke of the power of not caring about what others thought of you. Do you remember?” “Yes.” “Well, you see,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling, “I’m trying to practice that skill.” She proceeded to vomit all over the table.

and was not surprised to find a feminine figure with short hair and a petite, heart-shaped face. The Ascendant Warrior was here, settled among the graves of the impoverished and the forgotten. Unlike Kelsier’s statue, which had loomed over those who passed beneath his gaze, this one seemed about to take flight, one leg raised, eyes toward the sky.

If Vin had been an ordinary person at any point, the stories and songs had forgotten. They proclaimed her the Ascendant Warrior, the woman who had slain the Lord Ruler. A Mistborn and a legend who had carried the world itself upon her arms while Harmony prepared for divinity. She’d been able to kill with a glare, tease out secrets nobody else knew, and fight off armies of enraged koloss all on her own.

Marasi gasped as Wayne slid into the shallow grave, flopping down square on top of her. It knocked the wind out of her again.

Beyond that, Wayne’s bendalloy burned extremely quickly. He’d have to drop the bubble before too long.

mist spun and swirled. Wax raised his fingers in greeting toward the distant mists, but stopped himself. Harmony watched through those mists. Harmony the impotent, Harmony the meaningless.

“Do you want something more substantial?” Steris asked. He glanced at her, then down at her purse. “They searched your purse.” “That they did,” she said, then took the hem of her skirt, lifting it up to the side and revealing a small handgun strapped to her thigh. “I worried they’d do something like that. So I made other plans.” Wax grinned. “I could get used to having you around, Steris.”

Next to an entry from a few days back was a note from the manager. If anyone comes looking to investigate this plot, send to me immediately.

Templeton turned slowly and faced the window. He opened his eyes. Death stood outside. Cloaked in black, Death’s face was hidden beneath the hood—but two metal spikes protruded from the cowl, catching the firelight on their heads.

“No,” Death whispered. “You can die when I say. Not before.” “Oh, Harmony.” “You are not His,” Death whispered, standing in the darkness outside. “You are mine.”

“You have something of mine, Templeton,” Death whispered. “A spike.” He raised his arms, letting the cloak shift back and expose white skin. A spike was stuck through one arm. The other arm was bare, save for a bloody hole.

“How was the accent?” he asked. “Worked well enough.” “I wasn’t sure how Death ’imself would sound, you know? I figured all important-like, like Wax when he’s tellin’ me to take my feet off the furniture. Mixed with some real old-soundin’ tones, like a grandfather’s grandfather. And grindy, like a man what is choking to death.”

And Uncle Edwarn . . . Uncle Edwarn wasn’t in the room. The only thing there was a boxy device on the table in front of Kelesina.

Why, killing you was an afterthought. Tell me, did you look into the casualties on the train? One passenger killed, I believe. Who was he?”

MeLaan casually grabbed her own left forearm in her right hand and ripped it off, revealing a long, thin metal blade attached to the arm at the stump.

“Harmony, I love this body,” MeLaan said, glancing toward Wax with a goofy grin on her face. “How did I ever consider wearing another?” “Is that whole thing aluminum?” Wax asked. “Yup!” “It must be worth a fortune,”

All three dropped. The fourth man groaned from the floor where Wax had Pushed him. “Damn,” MeLaan said. “Says the woman who just ripped half her arm off.” “It goes back on,” MeLaan said, picking up her forearm, which she slid back over the blade. Blood dribbled from where she’d broken the skin. “See? Good as new.”

The Terriswoman took this off Kelesina, Wax thought, turning it over in his fingers as he remembered the moment earlier, when the murderer had knelt beside Kelesina’s body. He burned steel, and his hunch proved correct. While he could sense the bracelet, the line was much thinner than it should have been. This was a metalmind, and one heavily Invested with healing power. “Was Kelesina Terris?”

Grab on.” Steris grabbed him with, he noted, no small amount of eagerness. She really did enjoy this part.

Out in the mists, he felt better almost immediately, and his hand—which had been smarting where the Terriswoman smacked his gun away—stopped throbbing.

“You did well tonight, Steris. Very well. Thank you.” “It was engaging,” she said as he dropped them onto a rooftop. Her smile, which she let out readily, warmed him. She was proof that, despite his dislike of the politics in the Basin, it had good people. Genuine people. Strikingly, he had been forced to realize something almost exactly like that about the Roughs after first moving there. She was gorgeous. Like an uncut emerald sitting in the middle of a pile of fakes cut to sparkle, but really just glass.

He had hoped that with the elevation of this highest terrace of the city— Yes. They burst from the mists into a realm seen by very few. The Ascendant’s Field, Coinshots called it: the top of the mists at night. White stretched in all directions, churning like an ocean’s surface, bathed in starlight.

“It’s only appropriate,” Steris said, “that you would make a smuggler out of me.” “Just as you try to make a gentleman out of me.” “You’re already a gentleman,”

He suddenly found something burning in him, like a metal. A protectiveness for this woman in his arms, so full of logic and yet so full of wonder at the same time. And a powerful affection. So he let himself kiss her. She was surprised by it, but melted into the embrace. They started to drift sideways and arc downward as he lost his balance on his anchors, but he held on to the kiss, letting them slip back down into the churning mists.

Something hit the window, causing Marasi to jump. Wayne turned to see Wax clinging to one of the windowsills, Steris tucked under one arm like a sack of potatoes—well, a sack of potatoes that had a very nice rack, anyway. Wax pulled open the window, set Steris inside, then swung in himself.