Shadows of Self by Brandon Sanderson

investigatin’ alternative states of sobriety. How much do I owe you?”
    Dims paused. “Twenty.”
    “Now see,” Wayne said, digging in his pocket, “I distinctly remember borrowin’ five off you.” He held up a note. It was a fifty.
    Dims raised an eyebrow. “You want something from me, I’m guessing?”
    “I need into the university.”
    “The gates are open,” Dims said.
    “Can’t go through the front. They know me.”
    Dims nodded. That sort of thing was a common complaint in his world. “What do you need from me?”
    A short time later, a man wearing Wayne’s hat, coat, and dueling canes tried to pass through the front of the university. He saw the two men in black, then bolted as they chased after him.
    Wayne adjusted his spectacles, watching them go. He shook his head. Ruffians, trying to get into the university! Scandalous. He walked in through the gates, wearing a bow tie and carrying a load of books. Another of those men—who stood in a more hidden spot, watching his companions chase Dims—barely gave Wayne a glance.
    Spectacles. They were kind of like a hat for smart people. Wayne ditched the books inside the square, then walked past a fountain with a statue of a lady who wasn’t properly clothed—he idled only a short time—and made his way toward Pashadon Hall, the girls’ dormitory. The building looked an awful lot like a prison: three stories of small windows, stonework architecture, and iron grates that seemed to say “Stay away, boys, if you value your nether parts.”
    He pushed his way in the front doors, where he prepared himself for the second of his three tests: the Tyrant of Pashadon. She sat at her desk, a woman built like an ox with a face to match. Her hair even curled like horns. She was a fixture of the university, or so Wayne had been told. Perhaps she had come with the chandeliers and sofas.
    She looked up from her desk in the entryway, then threw herself to her feet in challenge. “You!”
    “Hello,” Wayne said.
    “How did you get past campus security!”
    “I tossed them a ball,” Wayne said, tucking the spectacles into his pocket. “Most hounds love having somethin’ to chase.”
    The tyrant rumbled around the side of her desk. It was like watching an ocean liner try to navigate city canals. She wore a tiny hat, in an attempt at fashion. She liked to consider herself a part of Elendel upper society, and she kind of was. In the same way that the blocks of granite that made up the steps to the governor’s mansion were a part of civic government.
    “You,” she said, spearing Wayne in the chest with a finger. “I thought I told you not to come back.”
    “I thought I ignored you.”
    “Are you drunk?” She sniffed at his breath.
    “No,” Wayne said. “If I were drunk, you wouldn’t look nearly so ugly.”
    She huffed, turning away. “I can’t believe your audacity.”
    “Really? Because I’m sure I’ve been this audacious before. Every month, in fact. So this seems a right believable thing for me to do.”
    “I’m not letting you in. Not this time. You are a scoundrel.”
    Wayne sighed. Heroes in stories never had to fight the same beast twice. Seemed unfair he had to face this one each month. “Look, I just want to check in on her.”
    “She is fine.”
    “I have money,” Wayne said. “To give her.”
    “You can leave it here. You distress the girl, miscreant.”
    Wayne stepped forward, taking the tyrant by the shoulder. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”
    She looked at him. And, to his surprise, she cracked her knuckles. Wow. He reached into his pocket quickly and pulled out a piece of pasteboard.
    “One ticket,” Wayne said quickly, “admitting two people to the governor’s spring dinner and policy speech, occurring during a party at Lady ZoBell’s penthouse tonight. This here ticket lists no specific names. Anyone who has it can get in.”
    Her eyes widened. “Who’d you steal that from?”
    “Please,” Wayne said. “It