Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

should have roughly twelve hundred constables. But we don’t. It’s somewhere closer to six hundred, last I looked over the numbers. So, Lord Ladrian, your ‘savage’ wildlands actually had double the number of lawmen watching over it as we have here in the city.”
    “Huh,” he said. Odd information for a young woman of means to have.
    “I’m not trying to diminish your accomplishments,” she said quickly. “You more likely had a higher percentage of lawbreakers as well, since the reputation of the Roughs draws that type. But I think it’s a matter of perception. As you said, out of the city, people expect to get away with their crimes.
    “Here, they are more circumspect—and many of the crimes are smaller in scope. Instead of the bank getting robbed, you get a dozen people being robbed on their way home at night. The nature of the urban environment makes it easier to hide if you keep your crimes below a certain level of visibility. But I wouldn’t say life is really safer in the city, despite what people think.
    “I’ll bet more people are murdered here, by percentage of the population, than out in the Roughs. There is so much more going on in the City, however, that people pay less attention to it. By contrast, when a man is murdered in a small town, it’s a very disruptive event—even if it’s the only murder that’s happened in years.
    “And all of this isn’t even counting the fact that much of the wealth in the world is concentrated in a few places inside the city. Wealth draws men looking for opportunity. There are a whole host of reasons why the City is more dangerous than the Roughs. It’s just that we pretend that it isn’t.”
    Waxillium folded his arms in front of him on the table. Curious. Once she started talking, she didn’t seem shy at all.
    “You see, my lord,” Harms said. “This is why I tried to still her.”
    “It would have been a shame if you had,” Waxillium said, “as I believe that’s the most interesting thing anyone has said to me since I returned to Elendel.”
    Marasi smiled, though Steris just rolled her eyes. Wayne returned with the soup. Unfortunately, the area right around them was crowded—Wayne wouldn’t be able to create a speed bubble around just Waxillium and himself. It would catch someone else, and anyone caught in it would have time sped up for them as well. Wayne couldn’t shape the bubble or choose whom it affected.
    While the others were distracted by the soup, Waxillium broke the wax off the sealed shell casing and found a small rolled-up piece of paper inside. He glanced at Wayne, then unrolled it.
    You were right, it read.
    “I usually am,” he muttered as Wayne placed a bowl in front of him. “What are you up to, Wayne?”
    “One seventy, thank you,” Wayne said under his breath. “I’ve been lifting weights and eating steak.”
    Waxillium gave him a flat stare, but got ignored as Wayne proceeded to explain—with his slight Terris accent—that he’d soon return with a bread basket and more wine for the group.
    “Lord Ladrian,” Steris said as they began eating, “I suggest that we begin compiling a list of conversational topics we can employ when in the company of others. The topics should not touch on politics or religion, yet should be memorable and give us opportunities to appear charming. Do you know any particularly witty sayings or stories that can be our starting point?”
    “I once shot the tail off a dog by mistake,” Waxillium said idly. “It’s kind of a funny story.”
    “Shooting dogs is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” Steris said.
    “I know. Particularly since I was aiming for its balls.”
    Marasi just about spat her soup across the table.
    “Lord Ladrian!” Steris exclaimed, though her father seemed amused.
    “I thought you said I couldn’t shock you any longer,” he said to Steris. “I was merely testing your hypothesis, my dear.”
    “Honestly. You will eventually overcome this rural lack of decorum, won’t you?”
    He stirred his soup to make sure Wayne hadn’t hidden anything in it. I hope he at least washed that bullet casing. “I suspect that I will, indeed, eventually overcome it,” he said, raising the spoon to his lips. The soup was good, but too cold. “The amusing thing is that when I was in the Roughs, I was considered to be highly refined—so much so, in fact, that they thought me haughty.”
    “Calling a man ‘refined’ by Roughs standards,” Lord Harms