The Bands of Mourning (21 page)

“Did she say
skulls
?” Aunt Gin said.

The door slammed.

“Aha!” Wax said, lowering his hand. “There it is.”

Marasi approached and wrapped her arm around the elderly lady’s shoulders, leading her away. “Don’t worry. It won’t be nearly as bad as they make it seem. Likely nothing will happen to you or your hotel.”

“Other than Wax rippin’ your windows apart,” Wayne noted.

“Other than that,” Marasi said, giving him a glare.

“Young lady,” Aunt Gin said under her breath, “you need to get away from these people.”

“They’re fine,” Marasi said, reaching the door. “We’ve just had a long night.”

Aunt Gin nodded hesitantly.

“Good,” Marasi said. “Now, when you get down below, would you please send someone to the trade bureau for me? Have them collect the names of each and every person who works at the local graveyards.”

“Graveyards?”

“It’s vitally important,” Marasi said, then pushed the woman out and shut the door.

“Graveyards?” MeLaan said, sticking her head into the room. She was now completely bald. “Reminds me. Would you order me something to eat? A nice hunk of aged meat.”

“Rotting, you mean,” Wax said.

“Nothing like the odor of a nice flank after a day in the sun,” MeLaan said, ducking back into her room as a knock came at the other door. “Ah! My bags. Excellent. What? No, of course there aren’t corpses in these. Why would I need bones with the flesh still on them? Thank you. Bye.”

Wayne popped the last of the peanuts into his mouth. “I dunno about you all, but
I’m
gonna find a place to snore for a few hours.”

“Sleeping arrangements, Waxillium?” Marasi asked.

“You and Steris in the suite across the hall,” Wax said, “Wayne and I in here. MeLaan gets her own room. She probably wants to, um…”

“Melt?” Marasi offered.

“… on her own.”

“I’m good, really,” MeLaan called from the next room. A second later she opened the door again. She wore the same bones and build, but this time she was completely bare-chested.

It wasn’t a woman’s chest.

“I solved the problem,” MeLaan said. “I’ll go as a fellow. That will probably be more covert anyway. Just have to choose the right bones.”

Wayne cocked his head. She’d sculpted her face too, giving herself masculine features. Steris’s eyes were bulging. At least that was worth seeing.

“You’re…” Steris said. “You’ll become a…”

“A man?” MeLaan asked. “Yeah. It’ll look better when I’ve decided on the right body. Need to settle on a voice, too.” She looked around the room. “Um, is this a problem?”

Everyone looked at Wayne for some reason. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe he should have given his shoes to
her
.

“You don’t
mind
?” Steris demanded of him.

“It’s still her.”

“But she looks like a man!”

“So does the lady what runs this house,” Wayne said, “but she has kids, so someone still decided to take her an—”

“It will do, MeLaan,” Wax said, resting a hand on Steris’s arm. “Assuming you can get into the party.”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, spinning around. “I will get in, and be ready to give you support. But this is your play, Ladrian, not mine. You’re the detective; I’m just around for the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby.”

She closed the door. Wayne shook his head.
Now that, that’s a situation a man don’t rightly encounter all that often.…
Well, he’d found occasion to be an old lady now and then, so it made sense to him. It was probably good for a woman to be a fellow once in a while, if only to offer some perspective. Easier to piss too. Couldn’t discount that.

“She assumes,” Wax said, “that our detective style isn’t
normally
the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby type.”

“To be fair,” Wayne said, “it’s usually a more shooty-shooty, whacky-whacky type.”

Marasi rubbed her forehead. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because we’re tired,” Wax said. “Get some sleep, everyone. Wayne, you’re going to go with Marasi tonight and dig up some graves.” He took a deep breath. “And I, unfortunately, am going to a party.”

11

Wearing a formal cravat and jacket reminded Wax of the year after he’d left the Village. A year when his uncle had gleefully wrapped him in the packaging of a young nobleman and presented him to the city’s elite, feeling he’d won some kind of war when Wax was expelled from Terris society.

Wax had moved back in with his parents, of course. But it had been his uncle who had overseen his education, grooming him specifically as heir to the house. After that time in the Village, Wax’s life had grown to be less and less about his immediate family—he’d barely seen his parents during that year, despite living with them.

That was when his uncle’s grip had really started to strangle him. Wax tapped his fingers on the armrest of his carriage, remembering those parties. How much were his memories of them colored by his uncle’s presence?

The carriage eventually pulled up before a resplendent mansion with stained-glass windows and limelights burning outside. A classical style of lighting, though the interior had little in common with the ancient keeps of lore it was meant to evoke—as he well knew from the floor plans he’d memorized earlier today, while the others were sleeping.

This mansion was more sprawling than imposing, with a multipeaked roof design, like the profile of a mountain range. A line of carriages waited to pull through the coach portico and drop off their occupants.

“You’re nervous,” Steris said, laying her hand on his arm. She wore white lace gloves, and her dress—which she’d fretted over for at least an hour—was one of the filmy and gauzy ones that the most fashionable ladies in Elendel were wearing this year. The skirt was more full and cloudlike than the more traditional gowns Steris usually favored.

He’d been surprised when she’d chosen it. Most of her wardrobe, especially on this trip, was chosen for utility. Why wear this now?

“I’m not nervous,” Wax said, “I’m contemplative.”

“Shall we go over the plan?”

“What plan?” Wax said.

ReLuur, in his ravings, had directed them toward this party of Kelesina Shores, who was a lady of some prestige in New Seran—and who he implied was connected to all this. She was their best lead, though ReLuur’s notebook had also listed five other families he thought were of interest.

The problem was, none of those notes mentioned
why
they were of interest—or what it was ReLuur thought they knew. Why would a group of lords and ladies of the outer cities elite have anything to do with an ancient archaeological relic? True, some noblemen liked to consider themselves “gentlemen adventurers.” But those types mostly sat around smoking cigars and talking. At least that fop Jak actually left his rusting house.

Time wore on, as carriages moved up the drive with all the speed of a line of cows on a hot day. Finally, Wax kicked open his door. “Let’s walk.”

“Oh dear,” Steris said with a sigh. “Again?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t plan for this.”

“I did. But this line isn’t that long, Lord Waxillium. Don’t you think this time maybe we should wait?”

“I can see the rusting front doors,” Wax said, pointing. “We can walk to them in thirty seconds. Or we can sit here and wait as pompous people waddle out of their seats and fuss with their scarves.”

“I see the night is starting off on the right foot,” Steris said. Wax hopped down, ignoring the footman’s offered hand. He waved the man back, and helped Steris from the vehicle himself. “Go ahead and park,” he called to the coachman. “We’ll call for you when we’re done.” He hesitated. “If you hear gunshots, go back to the hotel. We’ll make our own way.”

The coachman started, but nodded. Wax held his arm out for Steris, and the two strolled along the path into the mansion grounds, passing carriages full of people who seemed to be trying to glare at them without actually looking in their direction.

“I’ve prepared a list for you,” Steris said.

“I’m so surprised.”

“Now, no complaining, Waxillium. It will help. I’ve put the list in this little book,” Steris said, producing a palm-sized notebook, “for ease of reference. Each page contains a conversation opener, indexed to the people it will likely work best upon. The numbers below list ways you could segue the conversation into useful areas and perhaps figure out what our targets are up to, and what their connection is to the Bands of Mourning.”

“I’m not socially incompetent, Steris,” Wax said. “I can make small talk.”

“I know that,” Steris said, “but I’d rather avoid an incident like the Cett party.…”

“Which Cett party?”

“The one where you head-butted someone.”

He cocked his head. “Oh, right. That smarmy little man with the ridiculous mustache.”

“Lord Westweather Cett,” Steris said. “Heir to the house fortune.”

“Right, right…” Wax said. “Stupid Cetts. In my defense, he did call me out. Demanding to duel a Coinshot. I probably saved his life.”

“By breaking his nose.” She held up her hand. “I am not requesting justifications or explanations, Lord Waxillium. I merely thought I’d do what I could to help.”

He grumbled, but took the book, flipping through it by lamplight as they walked across the grounds. At the back of the book were descriptions of the various people likely to be at the party. He’d memorized some descriptions VenDell had sent, but this list was far more extensive.

As usual, Steris had done her research. He smiled, tucking the book into his jacket pocket. Where had she found the time? They continued up the path, though Wax froze as he heard rustling in the shrubbery nearby. He burned steel instantly, noticing some moving points of metal, and his hand went to the pistol under his jacket.

A dirty face peered out and grinned. The eyes were milky white. “Clips for the poor, good sir,” the beggar said, stretching out a hand and exposing long, unkempt fingernails and a ragged shirt.

Wax kept his hand on his weapon, studying the man.

Steris cocked her head. “Are you wearing cologne, beggar?”

Wax nodded as he too smelled it, faintly.

The beggar started, as if surprised, then grinned. “It’s got a good kick to it, my lady.”

“You’ve been
drinking
cologne?” Steris asked. “Well, that can’t be healthy.”

“You should be away from here, beggar,” Wax said, eyeing the cluster of attendants and coachmen closer to the building’s entrance. “These are private grounds.”

“Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my
good
lord…” He pushed his hand forward farther, eyes staring sightlessly.

Wax dug in his pocket. “Here.” He tossed the man a banknote. “Get off the grounds and find yourself a proper drink.”

“A generous lord indeed!” the beggar said, dropping to his knees and fishing for the banknote. “But too much! Far too much!”

Wax took Steris’s arm again, walking her toward the imposing front doors.

“My lord!” the beggar screeched. “Your change!”

He saw the blue line moving and reacted immediately, spinning and catching the coin, which had been hurled with exacting accuracy at his head. So, not blind after all. Wax snorted, pocketing the coin as a passing groundsman saw the beggar and shouted, “Not you again!”

The beggar cackled and disappeared back into the shrubs.

“What was
that
about?” Steris asked.

“Damned if I know,” Wax said. “Shall we?”

They proceeded down the row of waiting carriages, and though the line had sped up during their stroll, they still reached the front doors before they otherwise would have. Wax tipped his head toward a large woman who barely fit through the door of her carriage, then strode up the steps with Steris on his arm.

He presented his card at the door, though they would know to watch for him. This was no simple reception; this was about politics. There would probably be only one official speech—that of the host to the attendees—but everyone knew why they were here. To mingle, share ideas, and likely be invited to donate to one of many causes reflecting outer cities interests.

Wax passed the doorkeeper, who cleared his throat and pointed toward an alcove in the side of the entryway. There, servants were taking hats, coats, and shawls.

“We’ve nothing to check,” Wax said, “thank you.”

The man took Wax’s arm gently as he tried to proceed. “The lady of the house has asked that all attendees be unburdened of items of a vulgar nature, my lord. For the safety of all parties attending.”

Wax blinked, then finally got it. “We have to check weapons? You’re kidding.”

The tall man said nothing.

“I don’t think he’s the joking type,” Steris noted.

“You realize,” Wax said, “that I’m a Coinshot. I could kill a dozen people with your cufflinks.”

“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” the doorkeeper said. “If you please, Lord Ladrian, there are to be
no
exceptions. Do we need to call the house Lurcher to make certain you are being honest with us?”