It had probably once been just an ordinary city street. A wide one, but still just a street. That was before the trees. They sprouted here, pushing cobblestones aside, creating a dense canopy that ran the length of the thoroughfare.
It was a place that felt like it shouldn’t be. No mere park—this was a forest, uncultivated and unmanicured, fresh and primal. You couldn’t bring a carriage or motor into the Village; even without the trees, the ground would be too rough now, rolling and uneven. The buildings along the street had been engulfed and become the property of the Village. He couldn’t help wondering if this was what all of Elendel would be like without the hand of men. Harmony had made the Basin ferociously fecund; men didn’t farm here so much as fight to harvest quickly enough.
Wax strode forward, arrayed as if for battle. Vindication and his Sterrion at his hips, short-barreled shotgun in its holster on his thigh, metal burning inside of him. He pulled the brim of his hat low, and entered another world.
Children wearing simple white smocks played among the trees. Older youths wore the tinningdar, the Terris robe marked with a V pattern running down the front. These looked up from the steps of buildings to watch him pass. The air smelled soft here. Soft air. A stupid metaphor, and yet there it was. That smell reminded him of his mother.
Whispers rose around Wax like spring shoots. He kept his eyes forward, trudging across the too-springy ground. There were no gates into or out of the Village, yet you couldn’t enter or leave without being identified. Indeed, moments after his entry, a young woman with streaming golden hair was sent running ahead of him to bear news of his arrival.
They’ve found peace for themselves here, Wax thought. They’ve made peace for themselves. You shouldn’t resent them so.
After a short walk, he emerged from a stand of trees to find three Terrismen waiting for him, arms folded, all wearing the robes of Brutes, Feruchemists who could increase their strength. Their features were varied enough that one wouldn’t have pegged them as relatives. Two had the height that was often the Terris heritage, and one had skin that was darker—some of the Originators from ancient Terris had been dark of skin; Wax’s own tan probably came from that lineage. None of the men here had the elongated features seen in the ancient paintings. That was a thing of mythology.
“What is it you need, outsider?” one of the men said.
“I want to speak with the Synod,” Wax said.
“Are you a constable?” the man said, looking Wax up and down. Children peeked out from behind nearby trees, watching him.
“Of a sort,” Wax said.
“The Terris police themselves,” another of the men said. “We have an arrangement.”
“I’m aware of the compact,” Wax said. “I just need to speak to the Synod, or at least Elder Vwafendal.”
“You shouldn’t be here, lawman,” the lead Terrisman said. “I—”
“It’s all right, Razal,” a tired voice said from the shadows of a nearby tree.
The three Terrismen turned, then quickly bowed as an old Terriswoman approached. Stately and white-haired, she had darker skin than Wax, and walked with a cane she didn’t need. The woman, Vwafendal, studied Wax. He found himself sweating.
Razal, still bowing, spoke with a stubborn tone. “We tried to send him away, Elder.”
“He has a right to be here,” Vwafendal said. “He has as much Terris blood as you do; more than most.”
The Terrisman Brute started, then rose from his bow, peering again at Wax. “You don’t mean…”
“Yes,” Vwafendal said, looking very tired. “This is he. My grandson.”
Wayne tipped the rum bottle up and teased the last few drops out into his mouth. Then he tucked the bottle into his coat pocket. It was a good bottle. He should be able to trade it for something.
He hopped off the canal boat, giving a wave to Red, the boatman. Nice chap. He would let Wayne bum rides in exchange for a story. Wayne spat a coin out of his mouth—he’d been keeping it in his cheek—and flipped it to Red.
Red caught the coin. “Why is this wet? Were you sucking on it?”
“Allomancers can’t Push on my coin if it’s in my mouth!” Wayne called.
“You’re drunk, Wayne!” Red said with a laugh, shoving off from the dock with his pole.
“Not nearly drunk enough,” Wayne called back. “That cheapskate Wax didn’t even have the decency to stock a full bottle!”
Red turned the canal boat, poling it out into the waters, wind rippling his cloak. Wayne walked away from the post marking the canal-side mooring, and was faced with the most intimidating sight a fellow could see. The Elendel University.
It was time for Wayne’s three tests.
He reached for the rum, then remembered—a little foggily—that he’d finished it all. “Rust and Ruin,” he muttered. Perhaps he shouldn’t have downed the whole thing. Then again, it made his sniffles easy to ignore. When he was properly smashed, he could take a punch or two to the face and not even feel it. There was a kind of invincibility to that. A stupid kind, but Wayne wasn’t a picky man.
He made his way up to the university gates, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. The etched letters over the top proclaimed, in High Imperial, WASING THE ALWAYS OF WANTING OF KNOWING. Deep words. He’d heard them interpreted as, “The eternal desire of a hungry soul is knowledge.” When Wayne’s soul was hungry he settled for scones, but this place was full of smart kids, and they were a strange sort.
Two men in black coats leaned casually against the gates. Wayne hesitated. So they were watching for him out front this time, were they? The first of his three trials was upon him. Rusting wonderful.
Well, after the nature of any great hero from the stories, he was going to do his best to avoid this particular trial. Wayne ducked to the side before the two men could spot him, then followed the wall. The university was surrounded by the thing, like it was some kind of bunker. Were they afraid all their knowledge would leak out, like water from a swimmer’s ears?
Wayne craned his neck, looking for a way in. They’d bricked up the broken part he’d used last time. And the tree he’d climbed that other time had been cut down. Drat on them for that. He decided to follow another great tradition of heroes facing trials. He went looking for a way to cheat.
He found Dims on a nearby corner. The young man wore a bowler hat and a bow tie, but a shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. He was head of one of the more important street gangs in the area, but never stabbed people too badly when he mugged them and was polite with the people he extorted. He was practically a model citizen.
“Hello, Dims,” Wayne said.
Dims eyed him. “You a conner today, Wayne?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, good,” Dims said, settling down on the steps. He took something out of his pocket—a little metal container.
“Here now,” Wayne said, wiping his nose. “What’s that?”
“Gum.”
“Gum?”
“Yeah, you chew it.” Dims offered him a piece of the stuff. It was rolled into a ball, soft to the touch and powdered on the outside.
Wayne eyed the lad, but decided to try it. He chewed for a moment.
“Good flavor,” he said, then swallowed.
Dims laughed. “You don’t swallow it, Wayne. You just chew!”
“What’s the funna that?”