Brandon SANDERSON - The Bands of Mourning

The captain, who had not lifted her mask to Wax, grew stiff at the gesture. Marasi hesitated, then accepted the mask. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Marasi,” Allik said. “For life.” He took a flat, unornamented mask from his waist and pulled it on by the leather strap. It was really nothing more than a curved piece of wood with holes for the eyes. “I look forward to my homecoming, but my next fire after that may be here again. I plan to take you up on your offer to visit this city.”

“So long as you bring some more choc,” Marasi said, “you can visit any time you like.”

Wax smiled, and then the five of them relinquished their weight medallion metalminds to the captain, a formality they’d been instructed was customary. Jordis had already presented Wax with one of each, translation and heat-storing, as a gift for him to keep. Wayne had likely stolen another set, though Wax intended to wait until they were off the ship to ask.

Wax led them down the gangway, Steris on his arm.

“Seriously, Waxillium,” Marasi said, walking up beside them. “You need to import that chocolate of theirs. I don’t know what they put in it, but it’s amazing. You think the airships are going to be big? Wait until you taste this stuff.”

“Hey,” Wayne said, pulling up on his other side, but then twisting his neck to look at the people in the ship behind them. “Marasi, I think that pilot fellow fancies you.”

“Thank you,” Marasi said, “for lending us your brilliant powers of observation, Wayne.”

“That could be useful politically,” Steris noted.

“Please,” Marasi said. “He’s practically a child compared to me. And don’t you snicker.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Wax said, eyes ahead. He didn’t miss how reverently Marasi carried the mask, however.

Ahead, a group of the governor’s aides and guards clustered together in a protective bubble, as if they could stave off the weirdness before them – and what it represented – through collective body heat. Aradel himself stood apart, as if he’d pushed out of the group.

Wax strolled up to him, Steris on his arm, and waited.

“Damn,” Aradel finally said.

“I did warn you,” Wax replied.

Aradel shook his head in awe, eyes wide. “Well, maybe this will distract everyone from the disaster you all started in New Seran.”

“Bad?” Steris asked.

Aradel grunted. “Senate’s had my balls over the fire for two days straight, screaming about war and irresponsible leadership. As if I ever had any influence over you people.” He started, finally ripping his gaze from the airship, and coughed – as if realizing what he’d just said, and whom he’d said it to.

Wax smiled. Aradel was blunt, but usually displayed more tact than this. You couldn’t go far as a constable without some understanding of how to deal with people’s egos.

“Apologies, Lady Harms,” he said. “Ladrian, I need to hear what happened in New Seran. The honest truth of it, from your own mouth.”

“You’ll have it,” Wax promised. “Tomorrow.”

“But–”

“Governor,” Wax said. “I appreciate your position, but you have no idea what we’ve been through these last few days. My people need rest. Tomorrow. Please.”

Aradel grunted. “Fine.”

“Did you prepare the thing I requested?” Wax asked.

“It’s below,” Aradel said, turning back toward the airship. “In the penthouse.” The governor took a deep breath, looking at that enormous airship again. Constable-General Reddi had led a group of constables up to accept the transfer of prisoners.

Wax could now see that the ship had landed only half on the building. One fan spun lazily, keeping the ship in place. Likely done that way on purpose, he thought of the landing, as a message. The crew wants to remind us that while we might get this technology soon, we’ll still be many years behind them in its use.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Wax said to Aradel. “If the outer cities had thoughts about attacking us, I suspect this might stall them. Spread the knowledge that an airship flew through central Elendel and let me off – then left peaceably.”

“We have initial treaties in place, Your Honor,” Steris added. “Favorable to us for trade. That should give the hawks pause, and could buy us time to smooth things over.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Aradel said. “It’s going to be a tough metal for the Senate to swallow though, Ladrian. Not the airship itself, but the fact that I’m – apparently – just going to let it fly off.” He hesitated. “I haven’t told them what you said about the other item.”

“Bands of Mourning?” Wax said.

Aradel nodded, too politic to say what Wax was certain he was thinking. What have you gone and done to me this time, Ladrian?

“MeLaan?” Wax asked. “Would you mind taking over here?”

“Sure,” she said, striding toward them. She wore an outfit borrowed from the Southlanders, a man’s breeches and boots that went up to midcalf. She rested an arm on the governor’s shoulder.

“Holy One,” Aradel said, his voice strained but reverent. He eyed Wax. “You realize precisely how unfair it is to deal with you, when you can fall back on heavenly messengers to talk you out of trouble?”

“That’s nothing,” Wax said, guiding Steris toward the steps down. “Ask me sometime about the conversation I had with God the last time I died.”

“That was vicious,” Steris said as they reached the steps.

“Nonsense,” Wax said. “He’s a politician now. He needs practice being thrown off balance in conversations. Helps him prepare for debates and such.”

She eyed him.

“I’ll be better,” he promised, holding the door open for her. Marasi moved to join them, but Wayne caught her by the arm and shook his head.

“Better?” Steris asked from the stairwell. “So this means no more complaining about parties.”

“Of course I’ll gripe,” Wax said, following her into the stairwell, leaving the others behind. “It’s a defining character feature. But I’ll try and confine the worst of it to you and Wayne.”

“And I,” Steris said, “shall promise to be properly amazed by your exploits saving everyone from everything.” She smiled at him. “And to always carry a few vials of metal with me, just in case. By the way, where are we going?”

He grinned, guiding her down to the top floor of the skyscraper, a regal penthouse that – currently – was unoccupied, the tenants having moved to Elmsdel for an extended holiday. Seated in a chair in the hall outside the apartment proper was a tired-looking man in the garb of a Survivorist priest, his formal mistcloak – really more of a shawl – worn over robes adorned with stitching up the sleeves representing scars.

Steris looked to Wax, curious.

“I was wondering, Steris,” Wax said, “if you’d be willing to be my bride.”

“I’ve already agreed–”

“Yes, but last time I asked with an expectation of a contract,” Wax said. “It was the lord of a house asking a woman of means for a union. Well, that request stands, and thank you. But I’m asking again. It’s important to me.

“Will you be my bride? I want to be married to you. Right now, before the Survivor and that priest. Not because words on a paper say we have to, but because we want to.” He took her by the hand, and spoke more softly. “I’m painfully tired of being alone, Steris. It’s time I admitted that. And you … well, you’re incredible. You truly are.”

Steris started sniffling. She pulled her hand free of his and wiped her eyes.

“Is that … good crying or bad?” Wax asked. All these years dealing with women, and he still couldn’t tell the difference sometimes.