Return to the world of Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn as its second era, which began with The Alloy of Law, comes to its conclusion in The Lost Metal.
Tor.com is serializing The Lost Metal from now until its release on November 15. New chapters will go live every Monday at 12pm ET.
For years, frontier lawman turned big-city senator Waxillium Ladrian has hunted the shadowy organization the Set—with his late uncle and his sister among their leaders—since they started kidnapping people with the power of Allomancy in their bloodlines. When Detective Marasi Colms and her partner Wayne find stockpiled weapons bound for the Outer City of Bilming, this opens a new lead. Conflict between Elendel and the Outer Cities only favors the Set, and their tendrils now reach to the Elendel Senate—whose corruption Wax and Steris have sought to expose—and Bilming is even more entangled.
After Wax discovers a new type of explosive that can unleash unprecedented destruction and realizes that the Set must already have it, an immortal kandra serving Scadrial’s god, Harmony, reveals that Bilming has fallen under the influence of another god: Trell, worshipped by the Set. And Trell isn’t the only factor at play from the larger Cosmere—Marasi is recruited by offworlders with strange abilities who claim their goal is to protect Scadrial… at any cost.
Wax must choose whether to set aside his rocky relationship with God and once again become the Sword that Harmony has groomed him to be. If no one steps forward to be the hero Scadrial needs, the planet and its millions of people will come to a sudden and calamitous ruin.
Call and Son and Daughters Accounting and Estate might not have looked like a mortuary, but Wayne was absolutely certain it was one. Because you’d have to be dead to enjoy working in such a place.
Tall Boring Guy and Short Boring Guy sat him down and started embalming him right away. Not with the good stuff either. He’d have taken basically any kind of drink, but no, they had to use ink.
They dried his body out good first though.
“Your investments,” Tall Boring Guy said, “are too high-risk, Master Wayne. We recommend a more balanced portfolio.”
“How much money have I got?” he asked, sullen.
“Over twenty million at this point.”
Well, damn. “I told you,” he said, “to give it to people what don’t have any houses!”
“Yes, and your affordable housing project was wildly successful,” Short Boring Guy said, perking up and reaching for a ledger. “How you anticipated the impending subsidies is quite a stroke of—”
“And that girl?” Wayne said. “With the plugs in the walls?”
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The Lost Metal
Tall Boring Guy smiled. “The revolutionary electric devices developed by Miss Tarcsel are at the forefront of your financial empire, Master Wayne! Profits are astronomical.”
“Your real estate investments were wise,” Short Boring Guy said, “but we need to liquidate some of your ownership in Tarcsel Electric and invest in other, newer companies, to provide a buffer against competition— which is beginning to pop up now that the initial patents are lapsing.”
“You guys,” Wayne said, “really need to get girlfriends or somethin’.”
“Oh, we both are dating, Master Wayne,” Short Boring Guy said. “Garisel is quite popular, I must say. And you have no idea how wild lady accountants can be! Why, the other night—”
“Shut it,” Wayne grumbled. “Don’t rub it in.” Well, no use resisting. A man couldn’t run from his own funeral. Mostly because his legs don’t work when he’s dead. “Fine. Give me one of those damn hats.”
They looked at one another, but Wayne waved impatiently, so Tall Boring Guy finally took his bowler from the peg by the door and handed it over.
Wayne pulled it on, and his death was right and truly accomplished. Rust him all the way down to the bones. He eyed the ledgers, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of his chin. But that wasn’t enough, so he absently took Short Boring Guy’s spectacles from the man’s vest pocket, then tucked them into his own pocket.
Still not enough. “Kindly fetch me,” he said, “some honey tea with some lemon on the side and one tiny sprig of mint. Not too much, mind you, but enough to add some perk. You understand, don’t you, Garisel? Good man, good man.”
Soon he had it in hand while he surveyed the ledgers. They gave his last name as “Terrisborn,” since he had no proper family name. He kept reading.
Yes, yes. Numbers. That was plenty of numbers, all right. Of the high sort, which accountants like him liked to see. Hardly any red to the ledger. Yes, hmm. Not enough honey in this tea.
There was no denying what the ledgers said. Wayne was dead. And in his place lived a fellow who was fancy. No, who was downright opulent.
“You at least,” he said, “have my bendalloy?”
An aide fetched an enormous sack of it. Enough to buy two or three cars, if he’d wanted.
“Right, then,” Wayne said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You see this here?” He unfolded something from his inside pocket—a flyer recruiting boys for a local noseball league. “We shall give these chaps funding for equipment and will build for them a location in which to enjoy their engagements.”
“Sir?” Short Boring Guy asked. “Why?”
“We’ll include seating,” Wayne explained, “and allow everyone to watch. See, right now everyone wants someone to yell at. And we, my friends, shall provide it for them. We shall create a large-scale noseball league, with a team from each octant. I’ve thought, gentlemen, for some time that the city needs a way to become drunken in a proper and controlled manner.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Tall Boring Guy said.
“A bar exists for a reason,” Wayne said. “It is a controlled environment in which to drink. People are going to seek to partake in spirits, you see, and it is better for society that we plan for this.
“Currently, the octants are tense. The people are angry. The Outer Cities, why, they are riotous! We must allow rage to be experienced in a similar way to drunkenness—with a controlled outlet, with someone for everyone to dislike.”
They looked at him blankly.
“We’re gonna get a bunch of chaps to beat on one another,” Wayne said in a lower-class accent. “Playin’ for teams representin’ the octants, so everyone can pick their favorite and hate all the other teams. In a right proper way.”
“Ah!” Short Boring Guy said.
People these days, and their lowborn vernacular. Why, he suspected this pair didn’t even know how to properly burnish a golden toilet! For fear!
“Yes…” Tall Boring Guy said. “I see. So, like the local clubs, but on a citywide scale.”
“People love their local teams,” Wayne explained. “We can do something good with that.”
“Building arenas of the proper size will be expensive,” Short Boring Guy said. “Even for you.”
“We could charge people a bit to get in the door, then,” Wayne said. “Everyone enjoys something more when they have a monetary stake in it.”
“Yes…” Tall Boring Guy said. “Yes, this is interesting. Monetization of the rivalries—and the personal coding of interest—will be a seminal part of this activity…”
“That is my favorite part of most activities,” Wayne noted.
Tall Boring Guy nodded. “This is excellent. We shall put our best people on it.”
“Nah,” Wayne said, “put your worst ones on it. They’ll know more about loafing—the rapscallions—which shall serve me better in this particular situation. Now, let us discuss the beating of servants and how it’s not really so bad for them.”
Rusts, this hat. He pulled it off and wiped his brow. Stupid money and stupid rich hats. This one even had aluminum foil on the inside to protect from emotional Allomancy.
Well, surely this idea with the noseball would finally bankrupt him. It was, after all, his very worst idea—and he was an absolute idiot. He spun the hat on his finger and thought about it. What if Wax—or worse, Marasi—figured out he was rich? He’d never hear the rusting end of it.
Tall Boring Guy tugged at his collar. “Do you… actually want us to investigate using more corporal punishment on, um, some of your staff?”
“Nah,” Wayne said. “Bein’ in the army stinks.”
“Sir,” Short Boring Guy said, “what about the provisions in your trust? We’d like to talk about the more unusual ones you’ve made.”
“Nope. Next.”
“Your current housing situation—”
“Nope. Next.”
“Have you yet confirmed with Waxillium that he understands he signed away likeness rights to you in that deal—”
“Nope. Next.”
“Your fleet of cars?”
Those he liked. “What about them?”
“There’s a new Victori,” Short Boring Guy said, getting out a picture of it. It had no top. Like, so you could drive and spit into the wind, if you wanted.
“Damn, that’s nice,” Wayne said. “Get me one.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Short Boring Guy said. “How many shares in the company shall we buy?”
Wayne narrowed his eyes at him. “I see what you’re doing.”
They looked at him innocently.
“No more than a five percent stake,” Wayne said, “and once these guys what play noseball get famous, have them drive the cars around so they get more popular and whatnot. Oh, and let’s call it something other than noseball. Maybe change the long runner positions to let those two be Metalborn. Same with the goalie. That’ll make things more interesting.”
“As you wish, Master Wayne.”
He spun the hat on his finger. I’ve never met anyone who can get inside the heads of other people as well as Wayne can. He could even get inside the heads of accountants.
Could he get inside the head of a girl who hated him?
To start, he had to remember what he’d done. He deserved that hurt.
Did she? He closed his eyes, thinking what it must be like to see him come slinking in each month. That man. That horrible man. Couldn’t he just let her move on?
He’ll understand…
What if he didn’t want to?
Damn. Too late.
“Hey, Call,” he said, opening his eyes and looking to Short Boring Guy. “I need you to set up a delivery for me. Some money to be paid to a young woman and her family. Um, every month. She has her own kid now, and needs the cash on time. It’s a meeting I’m supposed to do in person, but I’m… getting so busy. Yes, too busy, you see…”
“Many of our clients have similar needs, Master Wayne,” Short Boring Guy said. “Give us the address and we’ll see it is handled with discretion.”
Why’d they say it that way? Well, regardless, Jaxy had been right. If he was going to be dead, he could at least be the polite kind what didn’t try to crawl out of the forest and eat you during thunderstorms.
Even corpses needed standards.
Steris had been doing a good job lately, she thought, of understanding other people. Once, she’d assumed they had the same worries she did, but hid their anxiety extremely well. As she’d grown older, she’d come to understand something more incredible. They just didn’t feel that anxiety.
They didn’t have a constant, hovering worry in the back of their brain, whispering they’d forgotten something important. They didn’t spend hours thinking about the mistakes they’d made, and how they could have planned better. They lived in a perpetual state between blessed contentment and frightening ignorance.
Then she’d grown even older. She’d married Waxillium. She’d made friends—real ones—and had come to see more clearly. Everyone saw the world differently, and the Survivor had made people to complement one another. Metal and alloy. A Push for every Pull.
The others responded to the explosion below with a strange excitement and eagerness, practically racing one another to the door. But what if the steps were destabilized? Steris had a whole list of protocols to follow if there was an explosion in the lab—she’d spent three nights developing it.
She loved them. And so she wanted to cry out a warning, hold them back safe, forbid them from risking themselves. She also knew how extreme she got sometimes. That was the biggest revelation of recent years—helped by discussions with the women of her book group. Some of her preparations went beyond helpful. Understanding that line was vital to understanding herself.
And she had to admit, today the others showed some wisdom. They let VenDell go first, at her suggestion, since a fall wouldn’t hurt him. Wax went next, since he could more or less fly if the steps collapsed. They hesitated at the bottom of the stairs—in case anything further was going to blow—before they opened the reinforced door.
“Wait!” Steris said, then dug in her handbag. “Masks.”
She distributed the cloth masks to everyone, even Allik, since a wooden one wouldn’t filter the air for him. They took the masks absently, or maybe even with a bit of an eye roll. All except Wax, who smiled at her as he put his on.
He liked her preparations. He found it endearing. But beyond that, he appreciated it. He thought she was useful, not persnickety.
“Anything on your watch list for explosions?” he asked.
She felt warm as she dug out her book of home emergencies. Yes, she knew she could be extreme. At the same time, making these was therapeutic. Her fears eased once she wrote them down. If she’d thought of something, catalogued it and considered it, then it stopped having power over her—she had power over it.
“Acids on the floor,” she noted. “Those could mix to produce poisonous fumes. Glass shards. Secondary explosions—particularly from exposed harmonium. Those are my big fears.”
He considered. “Marasi,” he said as she pushed open the door, “I was testing with hydrochloric and hypochlorous acids.”
“Which means?”
“Chlorine gas,” he said.
VenDell grabbed Marasi’s arm. Kandra had a thing about acids.
To Steris’s surprise, they listened to her. Since the powerful ventilators installed in the basement weren’t working, they let her fetch a room fan and set it up. Then they all returned up the steps and stood outside the mansion to allow the place to ventilate. When they went back down, everyone wore their masks without complaint and let her test the air with a kit. From there, they were careful where they stepped as they inspected the room.
The door to the safe box had taken a little jaunt across the room, and was now embedded deep into the thick concrete of the far wall. The steel of the box itself had been mangled beyond repair. And the rest of the room…
Well, it appeared that she’d have to put in an order for a new spectroscope. And a centrifuge. And some more flasks. And… um… new walls…
She resisted her urge to begin sweeping the glass to avert the hazard of stepping on it. Instead she stuck near to Waxillium. He might discover something interesting.
“Rusts,” he said, walking over to the remnants of the safe box. “This thing survived harmonium detonations of up to three ounces. I used less than a tenth of that in this experiment.”
He reached for the top of what remained of the box.
Steris wagged a glove in front of him.
“Right,” he said, slipping it on, then feeling around the top of the broken steel box. His hand came away dusted with some black shavings—a fine metal powder. VenDell walked up beside them. Marasi was inspecting the safe box’s door, while Allik had fetched a broom from above and was sweeping up the glass.
Steris had already liked him, of course, primarily because of how he treated her sister. But in that moment, her estimation of him went up another notch.
“We need to test these shavings,” Wax said. “But… I don’t think this is either atium or lerasium. It looks like remnants of iron from the equipment.”
Steris gathered them in some specimen pouches anyway. Waxillium leaned into the broken box on the wall, then used a small file from his pocket to harvest something smoldering inside.
“Harmonium,” he said as Steris dug out an extra vial of oil for him to put it into. “Plastered across the back of the box. I… think the experiment failed. It didn’t divide.”
“Actually,” VenDell said, “I think you managed something far, far more dangerous.” He took out a little notebook. “How much harmonium did you use in here? A few grams?”
“Around half a gram.”
“This explosive force…” VenDell said. “This level of destruction… from such a small sample. It’s possible, but only if…”
“What?” Wax said.
“This explosion was not caused by the division of the metals,” VenDell said. “This level of energy release could happen only if some of the Investiture or the matter itself was transformed into energy.”
He seemed to notice their confusion, so he continued. “I believe I’ve lectured you at length about the nature of Investiture. It is a particular study of mine. Along with my foremost expertise on skulls…”
“Not for sale,” Wax reminded him.
“Mine is,” Steris said.
Both looked at her.
“Why would I need it when I’m dead?” she asked. “Seems much better to have the money now.”
“As I always say,” VenDell replied. “Your impermanence is outlived by the beautiful internal shells you create—like sand medallions from the ocean, so are the bones of the human being. A lasting testimony of your presence on Scadrial. We shall discuss the terms of your sale at a later date, Lady Ladrian.
“For now, let me be brief. Everything in the cosmere is made up of one of three essences. The first is matter: the physical substances around you. Formed of axi, the smallest possible thing we know.”
“There are things that… aren’t matter?” Steris asked.
“Of course,” he said. “There’s energy.” He waved to the ceiling, where two of the room’s recessed and reinforced lights were still working. “Electricity, heat, light… Your kind has been harnessing it quite well lately. Good for you. Very modern.”
“And the third?” Wax asked.
“Investiture,” VenDell said. “The essence of the gods. Everything has an Invested component, normally inaccessible without certain abilities. When you burn metals, Lord Ladrian, you pull Investiture directly from the Spiritual Realm and use it to do work. Much like energy does work in those lights. But here is the key idea: Investiture, matter, and energy are all the same, fundamentally.”
“I… felt that, once,” Waxillium said, expression distant. “When I held the Bands. That all things were one substance.”
“Indeed!” VenDell replied. “And states can change from one to the other. Energy can become Investiture. This is the soul of Feruchemy. Investiture can become matter. That is where harmonium comes from. And matter can become energy.”
“And an example of that is…” Steris said.
VenDell nodded to the destroyed room. “We just witnessed it, I believe. There is an incredible amount of energy trapped inside matter. You managed to release some of it—only a small amount of what you put in that box, but still. If you found a way to release its full potential… Well, Harmony says the destructive power of it frightens him. Deeply.”
“It should,” Waxillium said. “Because this was easy to accomplish. Far too easy.”
“Well,” VenDell said, “it does require two very rare substances. And a great deal of energy, correct?”
“A great deal,” he admitted. “For so small a sample. It would take quite a bit of electricity to scale this up. But the destructive potential…”
“Agreed.” VenDell’s skin had gone… not just pale, but actually translucent. “I… should report this. If you don’t mind, I’ll be upstairs communing with Harmony. Excuse me.”
Waxillium shot Steris a look. “Worst case?” he asked.
She considered. What was the worst thing that could happen? It seemed obvious to her.
“What if the Set already knows about this?” she asked. “Marasi said the dying man mentioned returning ash to the Basin. Maybe they plan to use bombs?”
Wax nodded, grim. He’d considered the same thing.
“If the Set has discovered this interaction,” she said, “then it was likely by accident—or through an experiment like ours. There might be a record of it.”
“We could search for unexplained explosions in the Outer Cities,” Wax said. “Smart. Ashes… What if an explosive like this were placed in one of the old Ashmounts? Could they be restarted?”
“That sounds appropriately terrifying,” Steris said, feeling a deep nausea. How had she never considered that possibility? Looked like she had some planning to worry about. But first things first. “I’ll order broadsheets from the Outer Cities from the library and have them delivered to the penthouse. We can start there.”
Wax nodded. “With Marasi’s authority, you should be able to access the constabulary records too.”
It was an excellent suggestion. Steris walked to the back of the room, passing Allik—who had found some remnants of his biscuits splattered on the wall—and stepped up to Marasi. It had been… pleasant spending more time with her lately. Their childhood hadn’t always encouraged sisterly affection. Their father—who was now retired to a country estate—had been embarrassed by Marasi’s illegitimate status. Steris had always worried Marasi would see it as a flaw in herself rather than in their father.
Marasi seemed lost in thought, though what she found fascinating about the broken door was beyond Steris. However, she stayed quiet, not wishing to interrupt. Silence didn’t bother Steris. It was a purely neutral experience.
“The world is changing so fast,” Marasi finally whispered. “I’m barely accustomed to electric lights, let alone the airships. Then there’s this god… from another world. Now an explosive, a pinch of which can destroy a room…”
“I’m worried too,” Steris said. “I wish recent events had been possible to anticipate.”
“Makes me wonder,” Marasi said, “why I’m spending my time on murder cases and basic crimes. I realize they are important… but there are people out there, Steris, who know about it all. Who are making moves that change the fates of planets. They have no oversight, so far as I can tell. They’re probably happy to see us chasing down ordinary criminals and leaving them alone.”
“That’s why you hunt the Set,” Steris said, nodding. “Why you’ve devoted so much to them, when most in the precinct think you’re going a little overboard.”
Marasi chuckled. “Runs in the family, I guess.”
Steris smiled, then felt foolish, as Marasi wouldn’t be able to see it behind her face mask. Before Steris could say something, however, Waxillium blew himself up.
It was a much smaller detonation, fortunately, but it was forceful enough to throw him back and drop him to the ground. Steris ran over, worried—and found him dazed, but relatively unharmed. He took her arm as he sat up, shaking his head, his nice vest—a Versuli, no less— ripped and charred. The apron she’d provided had protected it somewhat.
He brushed himself off. Though he didn’t like to admit it, he was getting older. Being exploded when you were twenty was far different from being exploded when you were fifty.
“So,” he said to her, “you mentioned something about secondary explosions?”
“It was on my list,” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” he said, patting her hand. “I feel fine. I just did something stupid. I was gathering that harmonium plastered against the back of the safe box. It’s too valuable to leave, and it must have reacted to the air or some liquid left from an earlier experiment—”
He sneezed, then smiled at her reassuringly. His mask was nowhere to be seen; it must have blown free in the explosion.
She hid her worry for him. Upon marrying Waxillium Ladrian, there was one thing she had vowed to herself: She wouldn’t stop fretting about him, but she would not prevent him from being the person he wanted to be.
Each time he decided on an investigation, it terrified her. She did not let that control how she treated him. She would not be an obstacle. She loved him too much for that. Instead she did her best to be part of his world. It was far less frightening to be shot at than to sit at home wondering if he was being shot at.
It was to her eternal gratification that he, in turn, tried to be part of her world. Taking more interest in politics. Spending time with her doing the finances. They fit together, better than she’d ever dreamed they would. And she still felt warm every time they touched.
“Let’s get some tea,” Wax said, climbing to his feet with her help, “and talk this over.”
Marasi settled into the couch, her ears ringing from the second explosion. Allik sat beside her, mask down—he tended to lower it when he chewed gum, as he was doing now. Chewing visibly was a cultural taboo for him. Odd. If there was one thing it should be normal to lift a mask for, it was eating.
Still, she wrapped her arm around his and let him rest his head on her shoulder. Rusts, it was nice to have him around full-time these days. The early years of their relationship had been sixteen different varieties of frustrating.
While they waited for VenDell to finish his report to Harmony, Wax talked about meeting the airship—and the new ambassador. She felt Allik grow tense at the description.
“This is Daal the Primary,” he explained to the rest of them. “He… is very well respected by the Hosts.”
“I could tell he was important politically,” Wax said.
“No, Wax,” Marasi said. “Respected by the Hosts means he was successful in war.”
“So his arrival is a threat,” Steris said, nestled against Wax with her notebook out, shoes off, her stockinged feet up to the side in a posture that actually seemed relaxed.
She’s changed so much, Marasi thought. She could remember a time when Steris wouldn’t have dared take her shoes off in company. She’d have sat with perfect posture, trying to ensure she was holding her tea and saucer level.
Marasi had always loved her sister, even when resentment or forced distance had interfered, but she’d never considered Steris pleasant. Not until these recent years. Part of that had been Steris changing, but another part had been realizing that she and Steris had always felt the same burdens—that sense of entrapment.
“I wouldn’t say it’s a threat, Steris,” Allik said. “Not specifically. But if it is true, and the Consortium has finally been achieved—the five nations agreeing to put a common face northward—then this is… a symbol? They send you their best. They want you to know it.”
“Their best,” Wax said, “and most stern, I assume? He is certainly more unyielding than his predecessor.”
“Yes, Adjective Waxillium,” Allik said, nodding. “They want you to know that they will not be bullied.”
“He said,” Wax told them, “that one of his goals was to bring the Bands of Mourning back to his people. Is that still a sore issue?”
“You have no idea,” Allik said. “Us agreeing to leave the Bands here, it’s like… like we left you with the body of our dead father, yah? A body that is also a powerful weapon. Nobody liked that decision.
“Sending him here, having him say he’ll get the Bands back… this is a symbol, yah? A statement? They have been too lax with your people, and wish to indicate this laxness will end.” He shifted in place, then lifted his mask. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t choose this, Allik.”
“No,” he said. “But I didn’t not choose it.”
“Dear, yes you did.” Marasi squeezed his arm. “You don’t have to take responsibility for everything.”
He smiled at her, then put his mask down. Footsteps announced what she thought was VenDell returning, but then Wayne burst into the sitting room instead.
“Hey!” he said. “You all got blowed up, and you didn’t wait for me?”
“Waxillium got blowed up,” Steris said. “The rest of us merely witnessed it. I think he did it on purpose to annoy you.”
“I’m rusting sure,” Wayne said, narrowing his eyes at Wax. “You okay, mate?”
“My ears are ringing,” Wax said, “and I’ve been reminded—quite profoundly—that I’m at least two decades past prime exploding age. But I should be fine.”
“Glad you’re back, Wayne,” Marasi said, leaning forward. “Because we need to plan.”
“Yup, glad to be back,” he muttered. “Bein’ the fifth in a room is what every feller wants, yes indeed.” He stomped over to the small serving table and poured a cup of tea—then left the cup on the table and settled down in an easy chair with the entire teapot. “What?” he said to everyone’s stares. “It’s almost gone, an’ I like the spigot part. Fun to drink outta.”
He demonstrated, which made Steris put her hand to her face. Marasi sighed, but didn’t say anything. If he was sitting then he was less likely to steal something. She did check her pocketbook just in case.
“All right,” she said to the group. “I have the bones of a plan—imitating the Cycle to lead a local gang with a delivery scheduled to Bilming.”
Wax leaned forward. “Are we sure that interrogating the current captives won’t be enough?”
“They seemed like local flunkies,” Marasi said.
“Who will barely know anything,” Wax agreed. “So you’ll want some constables on your sting, ready to capture any Metalborn.”
“I keep telling Reddi we need a specialist team,” Marasi said. “A squad just for dealing with Metalborn. He keeps resisting. I think… he considers us that squad.”
As those words hung in the air, VenDell finally strode in, shaking his head. “I have,” he said, “been re-ordered to avail myself to you, with much urgency, in your current plans.”
“What did he say?” Marasi asked. “Does he know anything about the explosion?”
“Harmony is… worried.” VenDell paused. “Trellium has a repulsing effect on other forms of Investiture. Merely touching it to harmonium is dangerous—but doing as you did, heating and stretching the harmonium first, created what he called ‘an Invested matter-energy transference.’ That’s… very bad.”
“Did the news surprise him?” Wax asked. “Did Harmony seem shocked we were able to do this? Or did he expect it?”
“I couldn’t tell,” VenDell said. “He only said what I’ve relayed. More than that… well, Harmony can be difficult to read. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. Did he send you a note, Lord Waxillium?”
“Yes,” Wax said. “I think he implied that I should make an earring out of trellium.”
“Whatever for?” Marasi said, frowning.
“I don’t know,” Wax replied. “I think he’s trying to get me interested, since I’ve ignored his last couple of invitations to commune with him.”
“This time it’s different, Waxillium,” VenDell said softly. “This time… Harmony is frightened.”
The room fell silent, aside from Wayne slurping his tea through the nozzle of the teapot. Marasi thought she saw him adding something from his flask to it, and she tried not to let that make her nauseous. Who spiked tea?
He’s hurting, she thought. The breakup is final. Rusts, despite everything else going on, she decided to find time to take him out to that noodle place he loved. Bring along a few of the other constables that he liked; remind him he had friends.
“My sting needs to happen soon,” she said to the room. “The book says the next shipment to Bilming is to go out in three days, and I want to be ready.”
“It’s a good plan, Marasi,” Wax said. “Steris and I have something we can work on while you’re planning.”
“Talking to Harmony?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he said, seeming distant. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to respond to him yet.”
Curiously, he didn’t indicate he wanted to be part of her mission. She’d have let him in, but she couldn’t quite get a handle on Wax these days. The way he’d hung those Roughs coats in the entryway had an air of finality, like a shrine to his old life. That said, when his deputized status had come up for renewal last year, he’d asked Reddi to maintain his position.
Wax glanced at Steris, who was leaning against him as she scribbled notes. “We thought of something earlier,” he said to Marasi. “It’s vital that we know if the Set has discovered the explosive potential of mixing harmonium and trellium. We’re going to do research to see what we can find.”
“Sounds good,” Marasi said, nodding.
Well, that confirmed it. A few years ago, she might have been happy to hear he was staying out of her investigation, but she’d quashed that feeling. She was proud of not letting his shadow—long though it was—blot out her accomplishments. Besides, she’d had her chance to become the hero in Wax’s place—she’d held the Bands of Mourning herself before turning them over to Wax. That simply wasn’t who she was.
So today, she was sad to hear he wouldn’t join her. Even worried, as she realized she’d assumed he would be there on this one. If she actually had a chance at high-level members of the Set… well, this could finally break the case open. And lead to answers.
But… she couldn’t force him. Shouldn’t force him. If he wasn’t feeling as spry as he once had, then who was she to object?
“I’ll go do some more listenin’ to those fellows in prison,” Wayne said. “VenDell, you want to come with? Maybe I could give you tips on your accent?”
“Master Wayne,” he said, “I am an immortal kandra with hundreds of years’ experience doing impersonations.”
“And you always sound snide and upper class,” Wayne said, “in every body I’ve seen you use. So… want some tips or not, mate?”
“I…” He sighed. “Harmony did directly order me to be about this. Ugh. Field work is so distasteful. But I suppose I can’t say no.”
Marasi glanced at Wax, who had settled back on the couch, thoughtful. Holding the envelope that Harmony had sent him.
“All right then,” she said. “Let’s get to it.”
Excerpted from The Lost Metal, copyright © 2022 by Brandon Sanderson.
