“Thank you, Miss Coussaint,” Allriandre said, stepping aside so the woman could leave. “For watching her. It is an enormous help.”
The woman huffed, but squeezed out of the room and went clomping down the steps. Allriandre pulled her daughter close, and thought for a moment about her choices. About how the best schooling in the city didn’t mean much when you were in debt to the wrong people. About how something you loved so much — like the girl she held to now — could also be a reminder of one of the greatest mistakes you’d ever made.
She was exhausted, but she plopped Ruri down, and together the two of them painted with toothpaste on the wall until the girl was laughing again. Until Ruri understood that mistakes could sometimes turn into amazing, wonderful, cherished things. With the right perspective.
A knock came at the door.
Allriandre froze, then quickly wiped her hands on a rag. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Rusts, she barely knew anyone. All of her university friends had gone on to marriages, office jobs, and nights spent socializing. Her family still lived out in the Roughs, and she’d made sure they didn’t know what had happened to her. Because they had their own problems.
She opened the door hesitantly and saw two men in suits outside — one tall, one short. Her stomach immediately dropped. Were these Bleaker’s new collection men? They usually showed up a week after she received her monthly payment.
“Miss Allriandre?” the shorter of the men asked. “I am Mister Call, and this is Mister Daring, of Call and Son and Daughters Accounting and Estate. Might we come in? We have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”
“I don’t have the money yet,” she said quickly. “I can’t pay you until I do. There’s nothing in here for you to take.”
The two shared a glance, then the shorter man gestured again. She reluctantly let them in.
“If you,” she whispered, “hurt my daughter…”
“We are not who you appear to think we are,” the taller man said with a cheerful air, looking at the toothpaste-covered wall, then the ragged furnishings. “We represent the estate of Master Wayne Terrisborn of 662 Inkling Lane.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling relieved. “Him. Wait. Did he finally get smart and decide to stop insisting that I meet him in person?”
“Indeed he did,” the taller man said, setting his bowler hat on the counter. She winced, noticing the mushed-up apple Ruri had dropped there. The little girl came and climbed into her arms. Strangers made her nervous.
“Why are you late?” Allriandre asked. “His payments always come on the first of the month.”
The taller one coughed. “You haven’t heard? You … don’t read the broadsheets?”
“Do I look like I have time for broadsheets?” she asked. “If you have my payment, that’s great. I could use it. But I really need some sleep. So…”
“Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “Master Wayne passed last week. It was quite spectacular — he was the one who detonated the bomb. Did you hear about that?”
She’d heard rumblings of it at the forges. Not his part in it. But the whole flood and, and the evacuations … and … Wait.
“He’s dead?” she asked.
They nodded.
Rusts. How did she feel about that? Happy? The man who had killed her father was finally dead. She should be overjoyed, shouldn’t she?
Instead she felt confused. A little angry still, yes. That would never leave her. A hint of relief. But mostly … sorry. Sorry for how it had all turned out. Sorry that wounds long dulled sent a pang through her now and then. Sorry for mistakes. Mistakes didn’t always turn into something better, not by a long mile. But she could understand now how they happened. Even the big ones.
The taller man set a large folder onto the room’s only table. “Shall we?” he asked.
“Shall we what?” she replied.
“Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “you are the primary beneficiary of Master Wayne’s estate.”
“What’s that amount to?” she asked. “Three balls of gum and an unpaid bar tab?”
“Currently,” the tall one said, “it’s twenty million boxings — liquid — along with majority stake ownerships in several important holdings, equating to at least another hundred.”
The room fell silent save for Ruri’s sniffling, which the girl solved by wiping her nose on Allriandre’s jumpsuit. Allriandre barely noticed.
“Did you say … a hundred and twenty million?” she whispered.
“Give or take, depending on the market,” the taller man said. “He invested wisely — in a brilliant way, actually, against most conventional wisdom — using a considerable amount of aluminum as collateral. Turns out electricity, fabrication, and power were the place to be six years ago.”
The shorter man pulled over a chair for her. “Please,” he said softly. “Sit down. We have some things to go over.”
“A hundred and twenty million,” she repeated, her eyes wide, barely able to think. Her debts — from her failed art studio — equated to barely ten thousand.
“Yes,” the taller man said, setting out some papers. “By my estimation, you have become the fourth-richest person in the city.” He looked up. “There are a few holdbacks, mind you. Accounts that Master Wayne set aside for other things. But that equates to less than five hundred thousand in total. Everything else … well, it’s yours.”
She sank down into the chair.
The short man pushed over a note. Handwritten, stained with something. “He wanted you to have this.”
It simply said, Sorry.
As if that could explain all of this. Overwhelmed, she took the note, then held it close to her chest. With money, she could bring her family to Elendel. Resolve their problems. Build the life for them all that she’d promised when they’d put everything into sending her to the city.
Ruri grabbed at the card, getting toothpaste on it.
“What are the holdbacks for?” Allriandre asked. “Not that I’m complaining. I’m merely curious.”
The two shared a look.
“Various things,” the shorter man said. “Each one of an … individual nature.”
KELSIER
THREE WEEKS AFTER DETONATION
Kelsier, the Survivor, liked high places. Fortunately, the city as it had become contained plenty of them.
He was one of the few who could remember a time when the grand keeps of Luthadel had been considered lofty, stretching up sixteens of feet into the air. Today they would be quaint compared to the city’s dominating skyscrapers. The monoliths of modernity.
Kelsier didn’t see quite as he once had. One eye saw as a mortal, the other as an immortal. His spiked eye not only pinned his soul to his bones, but gave him a constant overlay of blue, letting him see the world as a being like Sazed did. Outlining not only sources of metal, but all things. The very axi that made up matter had their own polarity, influenceable with Steelpushing under the right circumstances.
One eye of the gods. One eye of the common men. As he had always tried to see the world.
He had a spectacular view from the top of the skyscraper today. He could remember the joy, the freedom he’d felt all those years ago when he’d first crested the top of the mists and seen the stars. Now, those stars were naked and bare most nights. Even if the mists were out, it wasn’t too hard to find a building that reached up beyond them, presenting them to full view. Stars. Suns. Planets.
Each one a potential threat.
A figure walked along the edge of the skyscraper’s top toward Kelsier. Harmony wasn’t accompanied by his dark double, the shadowy version that sometimes appeared these days. A representation of his other self.