Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(70)

“Or, you know, advocate workers’ rights to bring down working hours, improve conditions, and meet a base minimum of pay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wayne said. “That too. But if I could get everybody drunk, think how much happier this city would be.”

“So long as you get me drunk first, I’d be fine with it.” She held out her cup to him. “Top a lady off, will you?”

Wayne frowned. “Now, this ain’t right. You’re some kinda demigod or something. Shouldn’t you be moralizin’ at me?”

“Lo, behold,” MeLaan said, wiggling her cup, “bring an offering to your deity in the form of one blue sunset, extra gin. And ye shall be blessed.”

“I think I can do that,” Wayne said. “Bloody hell, maybe I am religious after all.”

*

The immortal demigod took a throaty slurp of her beer, then slammed the mug down onto the table, grinning like a four-year-old who had been paid in cookies to rat out her sister. Wax studied her as she looked Wayne in the eyes and let out a belch that could have woken the dead. Beside Wax, Wayne nodded in appreciation, looking quite impressed. He then downed his own beer and belched back at MeLaan, easily twice as long and loud.

“How do you do that?” MeLaan asked.

“Years of trainin’ and practice,” Wayne said.

“I’ve been alive for well over half a millennium,” MeLaan said. “I am certain I have more practice than you.”

“You don’t have the will, though,” Wayne said, wagging his finger. “You gotta want it.” He downed the rest of his mug and let out a protracted belch.

Marasi, who sat next to Wax in their booth at the pub, looked horrified by the exchange. Wax had allowed her to drive them here, if only so he could rebind his wound and check it over. The painkillers were doing their job, though. He could barely feel the hit.

After the short ride, he and Marasi had walked in on these two in the middle of their belching … contest? Wax wasn’t certain if it was a contest, or more a matter of mutual appreciation, like two virtuosos playing their favorite songs.

MeLaan finished her beer, then dramatically held up her hand. The palm split, forming lips, which then let out a soft belch.

“Cheating,” Wayne said.

“Just using what Father gave me,” MeLaan said. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t belch out of other body parts if you could.”

“Well,” Wayne said, “now that you mention it, I can make a real interestin’ sound wif—”

Wax cleared his throat. “Not to defer a conversation about which parts of Wayne’s body can and can’t make noise, but I have to admit that you aren’t what I expected, Your Grace.”

“Bloody hell,” MeLaan said. “Please don’t call me that.”

“You’re a servant of Harmony,” Wax said.

“I’m from one of the later generations,” MeLaan said. “In kandra terms, I’m basically still a kid.”

“You lived through the Catacendre,” Wax said. “You knew the Originators.”

“I spent the Catacendre underground,” MeLaan said. “I was an adolescent, and didn’t know the land when it was covered in ash. You really don’t need to be intimidated by me.”

“You’re over six hundred years old,” Marasi said.

“So is dirt,” MeLaan said. She leaned forward. “Look, I’m just here to help. If you want someone to fawn over, I’ll send VenDell or one of the really ancient ones to you. They like it. I just want to see Paalm stopped, then helped.”

Wax leaned forward on the table. He could sense in the way MeLaan smiled at people passing by—the way she tapped her finger to the tavern song a group of drunk men sang in the corner—that she liked people. She liked being here, among them. She wasn’t aloof, as he’d expected, or withdrawn. Not even that alien, despite the fact that she’d just made a mouth in her hand. “You’re the one who brought me my earring,” he said, fingering his ear with its tiny spike. “All those years ago.”

MeLaan’s smile widened. “I was wearing the same body, but I’m still surprised you remember.”

“And whose body is it?” Marasi asked. “Where did you get those bones?”

“I made them,” MeLaan said, raising her chin. Her face went transparent, suddenly, revealing the skull underneath—one made of carved crystal of a vivid emerald color. “I prefer True Bodies, though if I need to I can take another form. I’ll warn you, as far as kandra go, I’m only so-so at impersonation.”

“And this one we’re huntin’?” Wayne asked. He’d started building a houselike tower using the thin wooden coasters strewn around the tavern table, balancing them on their ends.

“Paalm?” MeLaan said, turning her face back to normal. “She was one of our best. Of all the kandra I know, only TenSoon is better at it than she is.”

“But she’ll be erratic,” Wax said. “She’s gone mad. That should help us spot her, even in disguise, right?”

“Maybe,” MeLaan said, grimacing. She took a few of the coasters and started her own tower. “Paalm is good, and imitation … well, it’s kind of ingrained in us, particularly the older kandra who worked back in the days of the Final Empire. Some of them don’t feel like they have personalities of their own; they don’t know how to live unless they’re being someone else.”