Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law Read Online Free PDF Page B

disappointed. He didn’t say these things because he was, after all, a proper lord’s servant.
    Besides, he could say them all with a glance anyway.
    “Shall I draft a letter of apology to Lady Cett, my lord? I believe she will expect it, considering that you sent one to Lord Stanton.”
    “Yes, that would be well,” Wax said. He lowered his fingers to his belt, feeling the metal vials there, the revolver at each hip, the weight of the shotgun strapped inside his coat. What am I doing? I’m acting like a fool.
    He suddenly felt exceedingly childish. Leaving a party to go patrolling through the city, looking for trouble? What was wrong with him?
    He felt as if he’d been trying to recapture something. A part of the person he’d been before Lessie’s death. He had known, deep down, that he might have trouble shooting now and had wanted to prove otherwise.
    He’d failed that test.
    “My lord,” Tillaume said, stepping closer. “May I speak … boldly, for a moment?”
    “You may.”
    “The city has a large number of constables,” Tillaume said. “And they are quite capable in their jobs. Our house, however, has but one high lord. Thousands depend on you, sir.” Tillaume nodded his head in respect, then moved to begin lighting some candles in the bedroom.
    The butler’s words were true. House Ladrian was one of the most powerful in the city, at least historically. In the city’s government, Wax represented the interests of all of the people his house employed. True, they’d also have a representative based on votes in their guild, but it was Wax they depended on most.
    His house was nearly bankrupt—rich in potential, in holdings, and in workers, but poor in cash and connections because of his uncle’s foolishness. If Wax didn’t do something to change that, it could mean jobs lost, poverty, and collapse as other houses pounced on his holdings and seized them for debts not paid.
    Wax ran his thumbs along his Sterrions. The constables handled those street toughs just fine, he admitted to himself. They didn’t need me. This city doesn’t need me, not like Weathering did.
    He was trying to cling to what he had been. He wasn’t that person any longer. He couldn’t be. But people did need him for something else.
    “Tillaume,” Wax said.
    The butler looked back from the candles. The mansion didn’t have electric lights yet, though workmen were coming to install them soon. Something his uncle had paid for before dying, money Wax couldn’t recover now.
    “Yes, my lord?” Tillaume asked.
    Wax hesitated, then slowly pulled his shotgun from its place inside his coat and set it into the trunk beside his bed, placing it beside a companion he’d left there earlier. He took off his mistcoat, wrapping the thick material over his arm. He held the coat reverently for a moment, then placed it in the trunk. His Sterrion revolvers followed. They weren’t his only guns, but they represented his life in the Roughs.
    He closed the lid of the trunk on his old life. “Take this, Tillaume,” Wax said. “Put it somewhere.”
    “Yes, my lord,” Tillaume said. “I shall have it ready for you, should you need it again.”
    “I won’t be needing it,” Wax said. He had given himself one last night with the mists. A thrilling climb up the tower, an evening spent with the darkness. He chose to focus on that—rather than his failure with the toughs—as his night’s accomplishment.
    One final dance.
    “Take it, Tillaume,” Wax said, turning away from the trunk. “Put it somewhere safe, but put it away. For good.”
    “Yes, my lord,” the butler said softly. He sounded approving.
    And that, Wax thought, is that. He then walked into the washroom. Wax the lawkeeper was gone.
    It was time to be Lord Waxillium Ladrian, Sixteenth High Lord of House Ladrian, residing in the Fourth Octant of Elendel City.

2

    SIX MONTHS LATER

    “How’s my cravat?” Waxillium asked, studying himself in the mirror, turning to the side