Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(9)

“I’m going to go back up,” Flog said, “see what I can salvage. Find out who caused this.”

Winsting nodded and shut the door, locking it from the inside. He settled into a chair to wait, fretting. The small bunker of a room had wine and other amenities, but he couldn’t be bothered. He wrung his hands. What would his brother say? Rusts! What would the papers say? He’d have to keep this quiet somehow.

Eventually a knock came at the door, and Winsting glanced through the peephole to see Flog. Behind him, a small force of bodyguards watched the stairwell. It seemed the gunfire had stopped, though from down here it had sounded only like faint popping.

Winsting opened the door. “Well?”

“They’re all dead.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one,” Flog said, walking into the room.

Winsting sat heavily in his chair. “Maybe that’s good,” he said, searching for some glimmer of light in this dark disaster. “Nobody can implicate us. Maybe we can just slip away. Cover our tracks somehow?”

A daunting task. He owned this building. He’d be connected to these deaths. He’d need an alibi. Hell, he was going to have to go to his brother. This could cost him his seat, even if the general public never discovered what had happened. He slumped in his chair, frustrated. “Well?” he demanded. “What do you think?”

In response, a pair of hands grabbed Winsting by the hair, pulled his head back, and efficiently slit his exposed throat.





2



I figure I should write one of these things, the small book read. To tell my side. Not the side the historians will tell for me. I doubt they’ll get it right. I don’t know that I’d like them to anyhow.

Wax tapped the book with the end of his pencil, then scribbled down a note to himself on a loose sheet.

“I’m thinking of inviting the Boris brothers to the wedding,” Steris said from the couch opposite the one Wax sat upon.

He grunted, still reading.

I know Saze doesn’t approve of what I’ve done, the book continued. But what did he expect me to do? Knowing what I know …

“The Boris brothers,” Steris continued. “They’re acquaintances of yours, aren’t they?”

“I shot their father,” Wax said, not looking up. “Twice.”

I couldn’t let it die, the book read. It’s not right. Hemalurgy is good now, I figure. Saze is both sides now, right? Ruin isn’t around anymore.

“Are they likely to try to kill you?” Steris asked.

“Boris Junior swore to drink my blood,” Wax said. “Boris the Third—and yes, he’s the brother of Boris Junior; don’t ask—swore to … what was it? Eat my toes? He’s not a clever man.”

We can use it. We should. Shouldn’t we?

“I’ll just put them on the list, then,” Steris said.

Wax sighed, looking up from the book. “You’re going to invite my mortal enemies,” he said dryly, “to our wedding.”

“We have to invite someone,” Steris said. She sat with her blonde hair up in a bun, her stacks of papers for the wedding arrangements settled around her like subjects at court. Her blue flowered dress was fashionable without being the least bit daring, and her prim hat clung to her hair so tightly it might as well have been nailed in place.

“I’m certain there are better choices for invitations than people who want me dead,” Wax said. “I hear family members are traditional.”

“As a point of fact,” Steris said, “I believe your remaining family members actually do want you dead.”

She had him there. “Well, yours don’t. Not that I’ve heard anyway. If you need to fill out the wedding party, invite more of them.”

“I’ve invited all of my family as would be proper,” Steris said. “And all of my acquaintances that merit the regard.” She reached to the side, taking out a sheet of paper. “You, however, have given me only two names of people to invite. Wayne and a woman named Ranette—who, you noted, probably wouldn’t try to shoot you at your own wedding.”

“Very unlikely,” Wax agreed. “She hasn’t tried to kill me in years. Not seriously, at least.”

Steris sighed, setting down the sheet.

“Steris…” Wax said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be flippant. Ranette will be fine. We joke about her, but she’s a good friend. She won’t ruin the wedding. I promise.”

“Then who will?”

“Excuse me?”

“I have known you for an entire year now, Lord Waxillium,” Steris said. “I can accept you for who you are, but I am under no illusions. Something will happen at our wedding. A villain will burst in, guns firing. Or we’ll discover explosives in the altar. Or Father Bin will inexplicably turn out to be an old enemy and attempt to murder you instead of performing the ceremony. It will happen. I’m merely trying to prepare for it.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Wax asked, smiling. “You’re actually thinking of inviting one of my enemies so you can plan for a disruption.”

“I’ve sorted them by threat level and ease of access,” Steris said, shuffling through her papers.