The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(20)
“No wonder we’re destitute.”
“Actually, he was quite good at the gambling, my lord. He usually came out ahead. Far ahead.”
“Oh.”
“He stopped anyway,” Tillaume said, collecting his tray and Waxillium’s empty teacup. “Unfortunately, my lord, while he was winning a small fortune at the races, the house lost a large fortune in mismanaged business and financial dealings.” He walked toward the door, but turned. His normally somber face softened. “It is not my place to lecture, my lord. Once one becomes a man, he can and must make his own decisions. But I do offer warning. Even a good thing can become destructive if taken to excess.
“Your house needs you. Thousands of families rely upon you. They need your leadership and your guidance. You did not ask for this, I understand. But the mark of a great man is one who knows when to set aside the important things in order to accomplish the vital ones.”
The butler left, closing the door behind him.
Waxillium stood alone beneath the uncannily steady glow of the electric lights, looking at his diagram. He tossed the pencil aside, suddenly feeling drained, and fished out his pocket watch. It was two fifteen. He should be getting some sleep. Normal people slept at these hours.
He dimmed the lights to not be backlit, then walked to the window. He was still depressed not to see any mists, even though he hadn’t expected them. I never said daily prayers, he realized. Things have been too chaotic today.
Well, it was better to arrive late than not at all. He reached into his pocket, fishing out his earring. It was a simple thing, stamped on the head with the ten interlocking rings of the Path. He slipped it into his ear, which was pierced for the purpose, and leaned against the window to stare out at the darkened city.
There was no specific prescribed posture for praying as a Pathian. Just fifteen minutes of meditation and pondering. Some liked to sit with legs crossed, eyes closed, but Waxillium had always found it harder to think in that posture. It made his back hurt and his spine tingle. What if someone sneaked around behind him and shot him in the back?
So, he just 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.
Well, since I’m not God myself, Waxillium thought, perhaps you could use that omniscience of yours to drum up some answers for me. It feels like I’m in a bind.
A discordant thought. This wasn’t like most of the binds he’d been in. He wasn’t tied up, about to be murdered. He wasn’t lost in the Roughs, without water or food, trying to find his way back to civilization. He was standing in a lavish mansion, and while his family was having financial troubles, it was nothing they couldn’t weather. He had a life of luxury and a seat on the city Senate.
Why, then, did he feel like these last six months had been among the hardest he’d ever lived? An endless series of reports, ledgers, dinner parties, and business deals.
The butler was right; many did rely on him. The Ladrian house had started as several thousand individuals following the Origin, and had grown large in three hundred years, adopting under its protection any who came to work on its properties or in its foundries. The deals Waxillium negotiated determined their wages, their privileges, their lifestyle. If his house collapsed, they’d find employment elsewhere, but would be considered lesser members of those houses for a generation or two until they obtained full rights.
I’ve done hard things before, he thought. I can do this one. If it’s right. Is it right?
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. There were over three hundred examples listed in the Words of Founding, religions that could have been. Might have been. In other times, in another world.
The Path was to study them, learn from their moral codes. A few rules were central. Do not seek lust without commitment. See the strengths in all flaws. Pray and meditate fifteen minutes a day. And don’t waste time worshipping Harmony. Doing good was the worship.
Waxillium had been converted to the Path soon after leaving Elendel. He was still convinced that the woman he’d met on that train ride must have been one of the Faceless Immortals, the hands of Harmony. She’d given him his earring; every Pathian wore one while praying.
The problem was, it was hard for Waxillium to feel like he was doing anything useful. Luncheons and ledgers, contracts and negotiations. He knew, logically, that all of it was important. But those, even his vote on the Senate, were all abstractions. No match for seeing a murderer jailed or a kidnapped child rescued. In his youth, he’d lived in the City—the world’s center of culture, science, and progress—for two decades, but he hadn’t found himself until he’d left it and wandered the dusty, infertile lands out beyond the mountains.
Use your talents, something seemed to whisper inside of him. You’ll figure it out.
That made him smile ruefully. He couldn’t help wondering why, if Harmony really was listening, he didn’t give more specific answers. Often, all Waxillium got from prayer was a sense of encouragement. Keep going. It’s not as difficult as you feel it is. Don’t give up.