“Your real estate investments were wise,” Short Boring Guy said, “but we need to liquidate some of your ownership in Tarcsel Electric and invest in other, newer companies, to provide a buffer against competition — which is beginning to pop up now that the initial patents are lapsing.”
“You guys,” Wayne said, “really need to get girlfriends or somethin’.”
“Oh, we both are dating, Master Wayne,” Short Boring Guy said. “Garisel is quite popular, I must say. And you have no idea how wild lady accountants can be! Why, the other night—”
“Shut it,” Wayne grumbled. “Don’t rub it in.” Well, no use resisting. A man couldn’t run from his own funeral. Mostly because his legs don’t work when he’s dead. “Fine. Give me one of those damn hats.”
They looked at one another, but Wayne waved impatiently, so Tall Boring Guy finally took his bowler from the peg by the door and handed it over.
Wayne pulled it on, and his death was right and truly accomplished. Rust him all the way down to the bones. He eyed the ledgers, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of his chin. But that wasn’t enough, so he absently took Short Boring Guy’s spectacles from the man’s vest pocket, then tucked them into his own pocket.
Still not enough. “Kindly fetch me,” he said, “some honey tea with some lemon on the side and one tiny sprig of mint. Not too much, mind you, but enough to add some perk. You understand, don’t you, Garisel? Good man, good man.”
Soon he had it in hand while he surveyed the ledgers. They gave his last name as “Terrisborn,” since he had no proper family name. He kept reading.
Yes, yes. Numbers. That was plenty of numbers, all right. Of the high sort, which accountants like him liked to see. Hardly any red to the ledger. Yes, hmm. Not enough honey in this tea.
There was no denying what the ledgers said. Wayne was dead. And in his place lived a fellow who was fancy. No, who was downright opulent.
“You at least,” he said, “have my bendalloy?”
An aide fetched an enormous sack of it. Enough to buy two or three cars, if he’d wanted.
“Right, then,” Wayne said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You see this here?” He unfolded something from his inside pocket — a flyer recruiting boys for a local noseball league. “We shall give these chaps funding for equipment and will build for them a location in which to enjoy their engagements.”
“Sir?” Short Boring Guy asked. “Why?”
“We’ll include seating,” Wayne explained, “and allow everyone to watch. See, right now everyone wants someone to yell at. And we, my friends, shall provide it for them. We shall create a large-scale noseball league, with a team from each octant. I’ve thought, gentlemen, for some time that the city needs a way to become drunken in a proper and controlled manner.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Tall Boring Guy said.
“A bar exists for a reason,” Wayne said. “It is a controlled environment in which to drink. People are going to seek to partake in spirits, you see, and it is better for society that we plan for this.
“Currently, the octants are tense. The people are angry. The Outer Cities, why, they are riotous! We must allow rage to be experienced in a similar way to drunkenness — with a controlled outlet, with someone for everyone to dislike.”
They looked at him blankly.
“We’re gonna get a bunch of chaps to beat on one another,” Wayne said in a lower-class accent. “Playin’ for teams representin’ the octants, so everyone can pick their favorite and hate all the other teams. In a right proper way.”
“Ah!” Short Boring Guy said.
People these days, and their lowborn vernacular. Why, he suspected this pair didn’t even know how to properly burnish a golden toilet! For fear!
“Yes…” Tall Boring Guy said. “I see. So, like the local clubs, but on a citywide scale.”
“People love their local teams,” Wayne explained. “We can do something good with that.”
“Building arenas of the proper size will be expensive,” Short Boring Guy said. “Even for you.”
“We could charge people a bit to get in the door, then,” Wayne said. “Everyone enjoys something more when they have a monetary stake in it.”
“Yes…” Tall Boring Guy said. “Yes, this is interesting. Monetization of the rivalries — and the personal coding of interest — will be a seminal part of this activity…”
“That is my favorite part of most activities,” Wayne noted.
Tall Boring Guy nodded. “This is excellent. We shall put our best people on it.”
“Nah,” Wayne said, “put your worst ones on it. They’ll know more about loafing — the rapscallions — which shall serve me better in this particular situation. Now, let us discuss the beating of servants and how it’s not really so bad for them.”
Rusts, this hat. He pulled it off and wiped his brow. Stupid money and stupid rich hats. This one even had aluminum foil on the inside to protect from emotional Allomancy.
Well, surely this idea with the noseball would finally bankrupt him. It was, after all, his very worst idea — and he was an absolute idiot. He spun the hat on his finger and thought about it. What if Wax — or worse, Marasi — figured out he was rich? He’d never hear the rusting end of it.
Tall Boring Guy tugged at his collar. “Do you … actually want us to investigate using more corporal punishment on, um, some of your staff?”
“Nah,” Wayne said. “Bein’ in the army stinks.”
“Sir,” Short Boring Guy said, “what about the provisions in your trust? We’d like to talk about the more unusual ones you’ve made.”
“Nope. Next.”
“Your current housing situation—”
“Nope. Next.”
“Have you yet confirmed with Waxillium that he understands he signed away likeness rights to you in that deal—”
“Nope. Next.”
“Your fleet of cars?”
Those he liked. “What about them?”
“There’s a new Victori,” Short Boring Guy said, getting out a picture of it. It had no top. Like, so you could drive and spit into the wind, if you wanted.
“Damn, that’s nice,” Wayne said. “Get me one.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Short Boring Guy said. “How many shares in the company shall we buy?”
Wayne narrowed his eyes at him. “I see what you’re doing.”
They looked at him innocently.
“No more than a five percent stake,” Wayne said, “and once these guys what play noseball get famous, have them drive the cars around so they get more popular and whatnot. Oh, and let’s call it something other than noseball. Maybe change the long runner positions to let those two be Metalborn. Same with the goalie. That’ll make things more interesting.”
“As you wish, Master Wayne.”
He spun the hat on his finger. I’ve never met anyone who can get inside the heads of other people as well as Wayne can. He could even get inside the heads of accountants.
Could he get inside the head of a girl who hated him?
To start, he had to remember what he’d done. He deserved that hurt.
Did she? He closed his eyes, thinking what it must be like to see him come slinking in each month. That man. That horrible man. Couldn’t he just let her move on?
He’ll understand …
What if he didn’t want to?
Damn. Too late.
“Hey, Call,” he said, opening his eyes and looking to Short Boring Guy. “I need you to set up a delivery for me. Some money to be paid to a young woman and her family. Um, every month. She has her own kid now, and needs the cash on time. It’s a meeting I’m supposed to do in person, but I’m … getting so busy. Yes, too busy, you see…”