Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(52)

He found it unfortunate, though not surprising, how often noble birth aligned with economic and political power. The Lord Mistborn’s laws, based upon the Last Emperor’s ideal, were supposed to put power into the hands of common men. And yet the same groups just kept on ruling. Wax was one of them. How guilty should he feel?

Already I fear that I have made things too easy for men.…

Drim, the governor’s chief bodyguard and head of security, stepped up to Wax. “I suppose you’ll be next,” the thick-necked man growled. “My men at the doors let you keep your guns, I hear.”

“Let me tell you, Drim,” Wax said, “if the governor is in the slightest bit of danger, you want a gun in my hands.”

“I suppose. A gun doesn’t mean much to you anyway, does it? You could kill with the spare change in your pocket.”

“Or a pair of cuff links. Or the tacks holding the carpet to the floor.”

Drim grunted. “Too bad about your deputy.”

Wax snapped his attention on Drim. “Wayne. What about him?”

“He’s a security threat,” Drim said. “Had to turn him away down below.”

Wax relaxed. “Oh. All right, then.”

Drim smiled, obviously feeling he’d won something from the conversation. He backed up to take his place by the wall, watching those who came to speak with the governor.

“You’re not concerned about Wayne?” Steris asked softly.

“Not anymore. I worried he’d find the party so boring, he would wander off. Instead, the good man there kindly gave Wayne a challenge.”

“So … you’re saying he’ll sneak in?”

“If Wayne isn’t in here somewhere already,” Wax said, “I’ll eat your handbag and try to burn it for Allomantic power.”

They continued to wait. The governor’s current interlocutor, Lady Shayna, was a long-winded blowhard, but after the political and financial support she’d given him, even the governor couldn’t turn her away. Wax looked around, wondering where Wayne would be.

“Lord Waxillium Ladrian,” a feminine voice said. “I’ve heard about you. You’re more handsome than the stories say.”

He raised his eyebrows toward the speaker, a tall woman waiting to see the governor. Very tall—she had a few inches on him at least. With luscious lips and a large chest, she had creamy skin and hair the color of gunpowder, and she was wearing a red dress missing most of its top half.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Steris said, her voice cool.

“I’m called Milan,” the woman said. She didn’t bother to look at Steris, but inspected Wax up and down, then smiled in a mysterious way. “Lord Waxillium, you wear sidearms and a Roughs-style mistcoat to a cocktail party. Bold.”

“There is nothing bold about doing what one has always done,” Wax said. Flirting with a man while his fiancée stands beside him, however …

“You have an interesting reputation,” Milan continued. “Are the things they say about you true?”

“Yes.”

She pursed her lips, smiling, expecting more. Instead, he met her eyes and waited. She shuffled, moving her cup from one hand to another, then excused herself, walking off.

“Wow,” Steris said. “And they say I can make people uncomfortable.”

“You learn the stare early,” Wax said, returning his attention to the governor. In the back of his mind, he assessed the woman Milan and decided to keep an eye on her. Had that been Bleeder in disguise, trying to feel him out? Or had it been just another foolish partygoer with a bit too much wine in her and an inflated opinion of how men would respond to her?

Rusts, this is going to be tough.

*

Wayne sauntered about the party, his tiny dining plate stacked with food as high as he could get it. Why did they always use such tiny plates at fancy parties? To keep people from eating too much? Rusts. Rich folk didn’t make sense. They gave away the most expensive booze in the city, then worried about people eating all of the little sausages?

Wayne was a rebel. He refused to play by their rules, yes he did. He quickly laid out a battle plan. The ladies with the little sausages came out from behind the east bar, while the west bar was preparing the salmon crackers. Tiny sandwiches to the north, and desserts of various sorts to the south. If he made a round of the penthouse room in exactly thirteen minutes, he could hit each station just as the servants were entering with fresh platters.

They were starting to give him glares. A fellow knew he was doing his job right when he got those kinds of glares.

Marasi stayed nearby, playing the part of Professor Hanlanaze’s assistant. Wayne scratched at his beard. He didn’t like beards, but Marasi said the few evanotype pictures of Professor Hanlanaze showed him wearing one. Hanlanaze was far thicker at the waist than Wayne was too. That was great. You could hide all kinds of stuff in padding like that.

“I still can’t believe you had all of this in the carriage,” Marasi whispered, then she stole one of his sausages. Right off his plate. Outrageous!

“My dear woman,” Wayne said, scratching his head, where he wore a colorful Terris cap, a proud emblem of Hanlanaze’s lineage. “Being a qualified academic depends, before anything else, upon suitable preparation. I would no sooner leave my home without appropriate equipment for every eventuality than I would work in my lab without proper safety precautions!”