The Bands of Mourning by Brandon Sanderson Read Free Book Online Page A

it was that some of them would be weird. Or rather that all of them would be weird when circumstances happened to align with their own individual brand of insanity.
    That said, today she hunted a very special kind of insane. She’d tried the nearby pubs first, but that was too obvious. Next she checked the gutters, one soup kitchen, and—against her better judgment—a purveyor of “novelties.” No luck, though her backside did get three separate compliments, so there was that.
    Finally, running out of ideas, she went to check if he’d decided to steal the forks from the wedding breakfast. There, in a dining hall across the street from the church, she found Wayne in the kitchens wearing a white jacket and a chef’s hat. He was scolding several assistant cooks as they furiously decorated tarts with fruit glaze.
    Marasi leaned against the doorway and watched, tapping her notebook with her pencil. Wayne sounded utterly unlike himself, instead using a sharp, nasal voice with an accent she couldn’t quite place. Easterner, perhaps? Some of the outer cities there had thick accents.
    The assistant cooks didn’t question him. They jumped at what he said, bearing his condemnation as he tasted a chilled soup and swore at their incompetence. If he noticed Marasi, he didn’t show it, instead wiping his hands on a cloth and demanding to see the produce the delivery boys had brought that morning.
    Eventually, Marasi strolled into the kitchen, dodging a short assistant chef bearing a pot almost as big as she was, and stepped up to Wayne.
    “I’ve seen crisper lettuce in the garbage heap!” he was saying to a cringing delivery boy. “And you call these grapes? These are so overripe, they’re practically fermenting! And—oh, ’ello, Marasi.” He said the last line in his normal, jovial voice.
    The delivery boy scrambled away.
    “What are you doing?” Marasi asked.
    “Makin’ soup,” Wayne said, holding up a wooden spoon to show her. Nearby, several of the assistant cooks stopped in place, looking at him with shocked expressions.
    “Out with you!” he said to them in the chef’s voice. “I must have time to prepare! Shoo, shoo, go!”
    They scampered away, leaving him grinning.
    “You do realize the wedding breakfast is canceled,” Marasi said, leaning back against a table.
    “Sure do.”
    “So why…”
    She trailed off as he stuffed an entire tart in his mouth and grinned. “Hadda make sure they didn’t welch on their promif an’ not make anyfing to eat,” he said around chewing, crumbs cascading from his lips. “We paid for this stuff. Well, Wax did. ’Sides, wedding being canceled is no reason not to celebrate, right?”
    “Depends on what you’re celebrating,” Marasi said, flipping open her notebook. “Bolts securing the water tower in place were definitely loosened. Road below was conspicuously empty, some ruffians—from another octant entirely, I might add—having stopped traffic by starting a fistfight in the middle of the rusting street.”
    Wayne grunted, searching in a cupboard. “Hate that little notebook of yours sometimes.”
    Marasi groaned, closing her eyes. “Someone could have been hurt, Wayne.”
    “Now, that ain’t right at all. Someone was hurt. That fat fellow what has no hair.”
    She massaged her temples. “You realize I’m a constable now, Wayne. I can’t turn a blind eye toward wanton property damage.”
    “Ah, ’s not so bad,” Wayne said, still rummaging. “Wax’ll pay for it.”
    “And if someone had been hurt? Seriously, I mean?”
    Wayne kept searching. “The lads got a little carried away. ‘See that the church is flooded,’ I told them. Meant for the priest to open the place in the morning and find his plumbing had gotten a little case of the ‘being all busted up and leaking all over the rusting place.’ But the lads, they got a little excited is all.”
    “The ‘lads’?”
    “Just some friends.”
    “Saboteurs.”
    “Nah,” Wayne said. “You