“What was that, Waxillium?” Steris asked, turning to the side and letting him help off her overcoat. She wore a fine red dress that seemed calculatedly designed to be completely in fashion but not too daring.

“I was simply noting the size of this gathering, my dear,” Waxillium said, folding her coat and handing it—along with his bowler hat—to a waiting attendant. “I’ve been to quite a number of functions since my return to the city, and none were this enormous. Practically half the city seems to have been invited.”

“Well, this is something special,” she said. “A wedding involving two very well-connected houses. They wouldn’t want to leave anyone out. Except, of course, the ones they left out on purpose.”

Steris held out her arm for him to take. He’d received a detailed lecture during the carriage ride on how, precisely, he was to hold it. His arm above hers, taking her hand lightly, fingers wrapping down under her palm. It looked horribly unnatural, but she insisted that it would convey the exact meaning they intended. Indeed, as they stepped down onto the ballroom floor, they drew a number of interested looks.

“You imply,” Waxillium said, “that one purpose of this wedding dinner is not in who is invited, but who is not.”

“Precisely,” she said. “And, in order to fulfill that purpose, everybody else must be invited. The Yomens are powerful, even if they do believe in Sliverism. Horrid religion. Imagine, revering Ironeyes himself. Anyway, nobody will ignore an invitation to this celebration. And so, those to be slighted will not only find themselves without a party to attend, but unable to arrange their own diversions, as anyone they might have wanted to invite will be here. That leaves them to either associate with other uninviteds—therefore reinforcing their outcast status—or to sit alone at home, thinking about how they have been insulted.”

“In my experience,” Waxillium said, “that sort of unhappy brooding leads to a high probability of people getting shot.”

She smiled, waving with calculated fondness to someone they passed. “This isn’t the Roughs, Waxillium. It is the City. We don’t do such things here.”

“No, you don’t. Shooting people would be too charitable for City folks.”

“You haven’t even seen the worst of it,” she noted, waving to someone else. “You see that person turned away from us? The stocky man with the longer hair?”

“Yes.”

“Lord Shewrman. An infamously dreadful party guest. He’s a complete bore when not drunk and a complete buffoon when he is drunk—which is most of the time, I might add. He is probably the least likable person in all of upper society. Most people here would rather spend an hour amputating one of their own toes than spend a few moments chatting with him.”

“So why is he here?”

“For the insult factor, Waxillium. Those who were snubbed will be even more aghast to learn that Shewrman was here. By including a few bad alloys like him—men and women who are utterly undesirable, but who don’t realize it—House Yomen is essentially saying, ‘We’d even prefer spending time with these people to spending it with you.’ Very effective. Very nasty.”

Waxillium snorted. “If you tried something that rude out in Weathering, it would end with you strung up by your heels from the rafters. If you’re lucky.”

“Hum. Yes.” A servant stepped forward, gesturing for them to follow as she led them to a table. “You understand,” Steris continued more softly, “that I am no longer responding to your ‘ignorant frontiersman’ act, Waxillium.”

“Act?”

“Yes,” she said distractedly. “You are a man. The prospect of marriage makes men uncomfortable, and they clutch for freedom. Therefore, you have begun regressing, tossing out savage comments to provoke a reaction from me. This is your instinct for masculine independence; an exaggeration meant, unconsciously, to undermine the wedding.”

“You assume it’s an exaggeration, Steris,” Waxillium said as they approached the table. “Maybe this is what I am.”

“You are what you choose to be, Waxillium,” she said. “As for these people here, and choices made by House Yomen, I did not make these rules. Nor do I approve of them; many are inconvenient. But it is the society in which we live. Therefore, I make of myself something that can survive in this environment.”

Waxillium frowned as she released his arm and fondly kissed cheeks with a few women from a nearby table—distant relatives, it seemed. He found himself clasping hands behind his back and nodding with a civil smile to those who came to greet Steris and him.

He’d made a good showing for himself these last months while moving among upper society, and people treated him far more amiably than they once had. He was even fond of some of those who approached. However, the nature of what he was doing with Steris still made him uncomfortable, and he found it difficult to enjoy much of the conversation.

In addition, this many people in one place still made his back itch. Too much confusion, too difficult to watch the exits. He preferred the smaller parties, or at least the ones spread across a large number of rooms.

The bride and groom arrived, and people rose to clap. Lord Joshin and Lady Mi’chelle; Waxillium didn’t know them, though he did wonder why they were speaking with a scruffy man who looked like a beggar, dressed all in black. Fortunately, it didn’t seem Steris intended to drag him over to wait with those intent upon congratulating the newlyweds at the earliest possible moment.

Soon, the first tables were served their meals. Silverware began to clatter. Steris sent for a servant to prepare their table; Waxillium passed the time by inspecting the room. There were two balconies, one at each shorter end of the rectangular ballroom. There appeared to be space for dining up there, though no tables had been set up. They were being used for musicians today, a group of harpists.

Majestic chandeliers hung from the ceiling—six enormous ones down the center, outfitted with thousands of sparkling pieces of crystal. Twelve smaller ones hung at their sides. Electric lights, he noted. Those chandeliers must have been a horrible pain to light before the conversion.

The sheer cost of a party like this numbed his senses. He could have fed Weathering for a year on what was being spent for this single evening. His uncle had sold the Ladrian ballroom a few years back—it had been a separate building, in a different neighborhood from the mansion. That made Waxillium happy; from what he remembered, it had been as large as this one. If they’d still owned it, people might have expected him to throw lavish parties like this.

“Well?” Steris asked, holding out her arm for him again as the servant returned to lead them to their table. He could see Lord Harms and Steris’s cousin Marasi sitting at the table already.

“I’m remembering why I left the City,” Waxillium said honestly. “Life is so damn hard here.”

“Many would say that of the Roughs.”

“And few of them have lived in both,” Waxillium said. “Living here is a different kind of hard, but it’s still hard. Marasi is joining us again?”

“Indeed.”

“What is going on with her, Steris?”

“She’s from the Outer Estates and badly wanted the chance to attend university here in the City. My father took pity on her, as her own parents haven’t the means to support her. He is allowing her to reside with us for the duration of her studies.”

A valid explanation, though it seemed to roll out of Steris’s mouth far too quickly. Was it a practiced excuse, or was Waxillium assuming too much? Either way, further discussion was interrupted as Lord Harms rose to greet his daughter.

Waxillium shook hands with Lord Harms, took Marasi’s hand and bowed, then sat. Steris began speaking with her father about the people she’d noted to be attending or absent, and Waxillium rested elbows on the table, listening with half an ear.

Hard room to defend, he thought absently. Snipers on those balconies would work, but you’d need some on each one, watching to make sure nobody gets beneath the other. Anyone with a strong enough gun—or the right Allomantic powers—could take out snipers from below. The pillars below the balconies would also be good shelter, though.

The more cover there was, the better the situation for the one who was outnumbered. Not that you ever wanted to be outnumbered, but he’d rarely been in any fight where he wasn’t. So he looked for cover. In the open, a gunfight came down to who could field the most men with weapons. But once you could hide, skill and experience started to compensate. Maybe this room wouldn’t be too bad a place to fight after all. He—

He hesitated. What was he doing? He’d made his decision. Did he have to keep remaking it every few days?

“Marasi,” he said, forcing himself into conversation. “Your cousin tells me you’ve entered into university studies?”

“I’m in my final year,” she said.

He waited for a further reply, and didn’t get one.

“And how go your studies?”

“Well,” she said, and looked down, holding her napkin.

That was productive, he thought with a sigh. Fortunately, it looked like a server was approaching. The lean man began pouring wine for them. “The soup will be along presently,” he explained with a faint Terris accent, lofty vowels, and a slightly nasal tone.

The voice froze Waxillium stiff.

“Today’s soup,” the server continued, “is a delightfully seasoned prawn bisque with a hint of pepper. You shall find it quite enjoyable, I think.” He glanced at Waxillium, eyes twinkling in amusement. Though he wore a false nose and a wig, those were Wayne’s eyes.

Waxillium groaned softly.

“My lord doesn’t like prawns?” Wayne asked with horror.

“The bisque is quite good,” Lord Harms said. “I’ve had it at a Yomen party before.”

“It’s not the soup,” Waxillium said. “I’ve just recalled something I forgot to do.” It involves strangling someone.

“I shall return shortly with your soup, my lords and ladies,” Wayne promised. He even had a fake line of Terris earrings in his ears. Of course, Wayne was part Terris, as was Waxillium himself—as evidenced by their Feruchemical abilities. That was rare in the population; though nearly a fifth of the Originators had been Terris, they weren’t prone to marrying other ethnicities.

“Does that server look familiar?” Marasi asked, turning and watching him go.

“He must have served us last time we were here,” Lord Harms said.

“But I wasn’t with you last—”

“Lord Harms,” Waxillium jumped in, “has anything been heard of your relative? The one who was kidnapped by the Vanishers?”

“No,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “Ruin those thieves. This kind of thing is absolutely unacceptable. They should confine such behavior to the Roughs!”

“Yes,” Steris said, “it does somewhat undermine one’s respect for the constabulary when things like this occur. And the robbery inside the city! How terrible.”