POV: wax
Summary
Wax walks Lord Drapen, constable-general of the Sixth Octant, down the slick steps of the Survivorist Church toward his carriage, listening with as much patience as he can find to a complaint about a soaked pistol. The carpet inside squishes underfoot. The dome above gapes where one hinged segment gave way to the water; the tipped tower still blocks half the sky. He passes the priest arguing with the Erikell insurance assessor and finds Steris sitting on the edge of the dais, ruined dress plastered to her, wedding braids unraveling around her face.
He sits down beside her, squeezes out his handkerchief, and tries to be light about it. *Next time a flood is dumped on our heads, I'll try to remember that jumping upward is a bad idea.* He has already concluded the collapse was simple structural failure rather than incompetent assassination — not enough water in the tank to be properly dangerous, the worst injury a head bumped in scrambling away. Steris flops backward onto the wet carpet and wonders aloud, half-amused and half-broken, whether the cosmere is rolling its dice against her on purpose. She reveals that she had reserved a second church and a backup date two months out, *in case this church exploded*.
Then, quietly, she tells him she is under no illusion as to how her company is regarded, and thanks him for not making her feel as others have. He cannot find the line that would let him off the hook and so instead fumbles through *I think you're delightful*. She asks him plainly whether he can honestly, as a lawman, say he is *saddened* the wedding has been delayed. He floats a half-answer about Terris meditation before the next attempt, lets her help him to his feet, and they agree to try again.
Across the street, Marasi is hunting Wayne in concentric circles. She has tried pubs, gutters, a soup kitchen, and — *against her better judgement* — a purveyor of novelties before, running out of guesses, she crosses into the wedding-breakfast hall and finds him in the kitchens in chef's whites, a chef's hat, and a sharp Easterner accent, terrorising the assistant cooks over chilled soup and underripe fruit. The instant he sees her he switches to his own voice. *Hadda make sure they didn't welch on their promif an' not make anyfing to eat*, he says around a stolen tart. *We paid for this stuff.*
She lays out what she already knows: the bolts on the water tower had been deliberately loosened; the road below was cleared by ruffians starting a fistfight on cue. He concedes cheerfully that *the lads got a little excited*. She reminds him she is a constable now and cannot turn a blind eye to property damage. He swears Wax is, in his deep subconscious, relieved that the wedding was stopped, and will pay every assessor's bill without investigating.
They hop onto the counter together. He offers her the cooking sherry, and when she stares at it, fetches a bottle of wine instead. They talk past each other about the Lady Mistborn — who, Marasi reminds him, dealt with romantic competition by *murdering* Elend's previous fiancée — and then Marasi tells him plainly that she has stopped pining for Wax: she does not want a man she would have to convince. *That sort of thing is for the courtroom, not the bedroom.* The admission lands on Wayne like an unexpected door opening on Ranette. Maybe he should let her go, too.
They toast to *moving on*. As Marasi raises her cup she catches in the wine the reflection of someone standing behind her. She gasps and turns, reaching for her purse. Wayne does not. He just raises his glass to the newcomer — the same tall slender man in the brown bow tie from the church antechamber, walking around the counter. *I'm not here for him*, the kandra tells Marasi. *My first choice for this endeavour has rejected my request. I hope you don't take offence at being my second.* Then, softly: *Tell me, Miss Colms. What do you know about the nature of Investiture and Identity?*