Bands of Mourning

by Brandon Sanderson

  He landed on the tracks, a soggy Steris in one arm, cord in the other. He could imagine Ranette’s grin as he told her how well the thing had worked. He disengaged the hooks and yanked the device back into his hand, though he had to wind the cord manually.

  Steris’s teeth chattered audibly, and he glanced at her as he finished winding, expecting to see her frightened and miserable. Instead, despite being dripping wet, she had a stupid grin on her face, eyes alight with excitement.

  Wax couldn’t help smiling himself as he stowed Ranette’s sphere and tied on his gunbelt, then shoved his shotgun into the holster. “Remember, you’re not supposed to find things like that fun, Steris. You’re supposed to be boring. I have it on good authority from this woman I know.”

  “A tone-deaf man,” Steris said, “can still enjoy a good choir—even if he could never participate.”

  “Not buying the act, my dear,” Wax said. “Not any longer. You just climbed on top of a moving train car and shot a bandit, rescuing your fiancé.”

  “It behooves a woman,” she said, “to show an interest in her husband’s hobbies. Though I suppose I should be outraged, as this is the second dunking you’ve given me in a very short period of time, Lord Waxillium.”

  “I thought you said the first one wasn’t my fault.”

  “Yes, but this was twice as cold. So it evens out.”

  He smiled. “You want to wait here, or join me?”

  “Um … join you?”

  He nodded to the left. Far below, the train hit the end of its switchbacks down the hillside, leveling out to approach the final bend before heading southward. Her eyes opened wider, then she grabbed him in a tight grip.

  “When we land,” he said, “keep your head down and find a place to hide.”

  “Got it.”

  He took a deep breath, then launched them high in a powerful arc through the night air. They sailed across the river, coming down like a bird of prey toward the front of the train.

  Wax slowed himself and Steris with a careful Push on the engine, setting down atop the coal tender. Inside the cab right in front of them, a bandit held a gun to the engineer’s head. Wax let go of Steris, then spun around and pumped the shotgun—popping the expended shells into the air—and Pushed on the shells, sending them through the back of the engine cab and right into the bandit’s head. She dropped, falling on the engine controls.

  Wax was nearly thrown off as the train lurched, slowing down. He spun, grabbing Steris by the arm. To his right, the startled engineer grabbed the lever, smoothing out the deceleration. Holding Steris to him, Wax leaped with a short Push into the open rear of the engine, where they landed beside the engineer and the dead bandit.

  “What are they doing?” he asked, dropping Steris, then kneeling and taking the dead bandit’s pistol.

  “They have some device,” the engineer said, frantic, pointing. “They’re installing it between the coal tender and the first car. Shot my fireman when he tried to defend me, the bastards!”

  “Where’s the next town?”

  “Ironstand! We’re getting close. Few more minutes.”

  “Get us there as quickly as you can, and call for some surgeons and the local constables the moment we arrive.”

  The man nodded frantically. Wax closed his eyes and took a deep breath to orient himself.

  The final push. Here we go.

  * * *

  Halfway through the train, Marasi had reason to curse Waxillium Ladrian. Well, another reason. She added it to the list.

  Though she was supposed to be finding Steris, she spent most of her time being mobbed by worried passengers who needed soothing. Apparently the bandits had quickly worked their way through the second- and third-class cars, shaking people down for what little money they had. The people were terrified, upset, and looking for anyone with a hint of authority to comfort them.

  Marasi did her best, settling them onto benches, checking to see if any more people were seriously wounded. She helped bandage a young man who had stood up to a bandit, and now bore a shot in the side as a result. He might make it.

  Passengers had seen Steris come through here. Marasi tried to contain her worry and peeked into the next car in the line. It was deserted save for one passenger standing calmly at the far end, cane in hand, blocking the passage.

  Marasi checked the various rooms as she entered, rifle held at the ready, but spotted no bandits. This was the last car before the cargo cars—which, oddly, were at the front of this train. This car’s interior showed its share of bullet holes in the woodwork, suggesting Waxillium had been here.

  “Sir?” Marasi asked, hastening to the lone man. He was slender, and younger than she’d expected him to be from behind, considering how his posture slumped, and how he relied upon the cane to keep him upright. “Sir, it’s not safe for you here. You should move to the rear cars.”

  He turned toward her with raised eyebrows. “I am always inclined to obey the wishes of a pretty woman,” he said. She could see that he kept one hand stiff at his side, fingers closed as if clutching something. “But what of you, miss? Is there no danger to you?”

  “I can care for myself,” Marasi said, noting that the next car in line was crowded with corpses. She felt sick.

  “Indeed!” the man said. “You look quite capable. Quite capable indeed.” He leaned in. “Are you more than you appear, perhaps? A Metalborn?”

  Marasi frowned at the odd question. She’d taken a dose of cadmium, of course—for all the good it would do. Her Allomancy was generally something to laugh at; she could slow down time in a bubble around herself, which meant speeding it up for everyone else.

  A wonderful power if you were bored and waiting for the play to start. But it wasn’t of so much use in combat, where you’d be left frozen in place while your enemies could escape, or just set themselves up to shoot you when the bubble dropped. True, she could make the bubble fairly large, so she could catch others inside of it—but that would still leave her trapped, and likely with hostiles.

  The man smiled at her, then abruptly raised his hand, the one that appeared to be clutching something. Marasi started to react, bringing her rifle up. But at that moment, the train unexpectedly lurched, slowing as if someone had leaned on the brake. The man cursed, stumbling and slamming into the wall before falling to the floor. Marasi caught herself, but dropped the rifle.

  She looked at the man, who regarded her with wide eyes before maladroitly stumbling to his feet—one of his legs didn’t work right—and hastening out of the train car onto the platform, slamming the door behind him.

  Marasi stared after him, confused. She’d assumed he was pulling a gun on her, but that hadn’t been the case at all. The object had been far too small. She reached for her gun, and beside it on the floor she was surprised to find a small metal cube with bizarre symbols on it.

  Gunfire sounded ahead. Marasi tucked the curiosity away and shouldered her rifle, determined to find Waxillium and, hopefully, her stupid sister.

  * * *

  Eyes closed, Wax felt the metal burning. That fire, comfortable and familiar. Metal was his soul. Compared to it, the chill of the river was no more than a raindrop on a bonfire.

  He felt the gun in his fingers. A bandit’s gun, unfamiliar to him, yet he knew it—knew it by the lines pointing at its barrel, trigger, levers, the bullets inside. Five shots left. He could see them even with his eyes closed.

  Go.

  He opened his eyes and leaped out of the engine, Pushing himself forward in a rush. He passed over the coal tender, then burst into the first cargo car—laden with mail in heaping sacks—and passed through in a tempest. He skidded out onto its rear platform and Pushed to either side, launching two bandit guards upward and outward, one in each direction.

  The train ran up beside the river here. Trees blurred past on the left, water on the right. Wax launched himself upward, onto the top of the second cargo car, noting the bandits with their device here. Another, larger group had
gathered on top of the next car, the one they’d robbed.

  Wax fired with cold precision, killing the three bandits. He stepped up to the “device” the engineer had mentioned, which was nothing more than a large case of dynamite and a trigger linked to a clock. Wax ripped the detonator off, tossed it aside, then Pushed the entire box away to be sure. It plunged into the river.

  Something Pushed his gun out of his hand. He spun, finding the large bandit from before lumbering toward him across the roof. He’d left the larger group of bandits on the next rooftop over.

  You again, Wax thought with a growl, dropping his gunbelt, but resting his foot on it to keep it from blowing away. The man came running toward Wax. With the brute very close, Wax knelt and yanked out Ranette’s sphere device.

  The bandit Pushed on that, of course—causing the sphere to leap backward to the side. Wax kept a firm hold on the cord, wrapping it with a yank around the bandit’s leg.

  The bandit stared down in confusion.

  Wax Pushed, shoving the sphere into a batch of trees, engaging its hooks. “I believe this is your stop.”

  The large man suddenly flew off the train, yanked by the cord—which was now hooked to a tree. Wax picked up his gunbelt and advanced on the larger group of bandits, wind whipping around him on the rooftop.

  He was facing down at least a dozen of them—and he had no weapon. Fortunately, the group was busy throwing one of their members off the train.

  Wax blinked in surprise. But that was indeed what they were doing—they tossed one of the bandits overboard. It was the man with the cane, who hit the water beside the train with a splash. A group of the others started to follow suit, leaping into the river. One spotted Wax, pointing. Six remaining bandits leveled weapons.

  Then froze.

  Wax hesitated, the wind at his back. The men didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Wax hopped across to the next car, then took a cork from his pocket—from one of his vials—and tossed it toward the men.

  It hit some invisible barrier and froze there, hanging in the air. Wax grinned, then dropped down between the cars and pushed into the one the men were standing on. There he found Marasi standing atop a bunch of suitcases, her shoulders pressed against the train’s ceiling just below the men so she could engage a speed bubble and freeze them all in place.

  9

  Wax had never shot a doctor before, but he did like trying out new experiences. Perhaps today would be the day.

  “I’m fine,” he growled as the woman dabbed with cotton at the wound on his face, where the massive brute had punched him. His lip had split.

  “I’ll decide that,” she said.

  Nearby, the Ironstand constables marched four befuddled bandits along the train platform, which was flooded with light from a few tall arc lamps. Wax sat on a bench near where the other surgeons were attending to the wounded. Farther back, in the shadows of the night, a tarp covered the bodies they’d retrieved. There were far too many of those.

  “It looks worse than it is,” Wax said.

  “You had blood all over your face, my lord.”

  “I wiped my forehead with a bloody hand.” She had wrapped that hand with gauze already, but had agreed that the cuts were superficial.

  Finally she stepped back and sighed, nodding. Wax stood up, grabbing his damp suit coat and striding toward the train. He saw Marasi peering out of the front. She shook her head.

  No sign of Wayne or MeLaan.

  The lump inside Wax’s stomach grew two sizes. Wayne’ll be fine, he told himself. He can heal from practically anything. But there were ways to kill a Bloodmaker. A shot to the back of the head. Prolonged suffocation. Basically, anything that would have forced Wayne to keep healing until his Feruchemical storages ran out.

  And, of course, there was the other thing. The strange effect that had somehow stolen Wax’s Allomantic powers. If that worked on Feruchemy too …

  Wax strode onto the train, stepping past Marasi without saying a word, and started his own search. The train was dark, now that it had stopped—and the only lights came from the platform outside. There wasn’t much to see by.

  “Lord Waxillium?” Constable Matieu said, sticking his head in between two of the cars. The spindly man had a ready smile, which fell off his face as Wax bustled past.

  “Busy,” Wax said, entering the next car.

  Blue lines let him see sources of metal even in the darkness. Wayne would be carrying metal vials and his bracers. Look for faint sources of metal, hidden behind something. Perhaps … perhaps they’d just knocked him out and stuffed him somewhere.

  “Um…” the constable said from behind. “I was wondering if any of your other servants will be needing, um, emotional support.”

  Wax frowned, looking out the window to where Drewton was sitting, surrounded by no fewer than three nurses. He accepted a cup of tea from one while he complained about his ordeal. Wax could hear it even inside the train car.

  “No,” Wax said. “Thank you.”

  Matieu followed him through the train. He was the local captain, though from what Wax gathered, this town was small enough that his “big cases” usually were on the order of who had been stealing Mrs. Hutchen’s milk off her doorstep. He was glad to have found surgeons. Most of them probably worked half their time on cows, but it was better than nothing.

  Not a few younger officers stood on the platform. They’d put away their stupid autograph books, fortunately, though they seemed deflated that their captain wouldn’t let them pester Wax.

  Where? Wax thought, feeling more and more sick. Marasi arrived a moment later with an oil lamp, her light illuminating the train car for him as he poked through a cargo room full of mail bags.

  He won’t be in here, Wax thought. This was forward of the car that had been secretly carrying the payroll shipment. Wayne wouldn’t have been able to cross through that one; they’d have had it blocked off even before the bandits arrived. Still, he wanted to be careful. He searched this one, then waved to Marasi and picked his way through the wreckage of the car that had been robbed.

  Matieu tagged along. “I have to say, Lord Waxillium, that we’re very lucky you were aboard. The Nightstreet Gang has been growing bolder and bolder, but I never thought they’d try something like this!”

  “So this is an established gang?” Marasi said.

  “Oh, sure,” Matieu said. “Everyone in the area knows about the Nightstreets, though mostly they hit cities closer to the Roughs. We figure it’s slim pickings out past the mountains, so they have begun to venture inward. But this! A full-on train robbery? And stealing Erikell payroll? That’s daring. Those folks make weapons, you know.”

  “They had at least one Allomancer with them,” Wax said, leading the way through the empty courier car, which still smelled faintly of formaldehyde.

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Matieu said. “Even luckier you were along!”

  “I didn’t stop them from getting away, or from stealing the payroll.”

  “You killed or captured a good half of them, my lord. The ones we’ve got, they’ll give us a lead on the others.” He hesitated. “We’ll have to put together a posse, my lord. They’ll be making for the Roughs. Sure could use your help.”

  Wax swept this room, focusing on the blue lines. “And the man with the limp?”

  “My lord?”

  “He seemed to be in charge of them,” Wax said. “A man in a fine suit who walked with a cane. About six feet tall, with a narrow face and dark hair. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know that one, my lord. Donny is the leader.”

  “Big guy?” Wax asked. “Neck like a stump?”

  “No, my lord. Donny is little and feisty. Evilest rusting kig you’ve ever seen.”

  Kig. It was slang for a koloss-blooded person. Wax hadn’t seen anyone among the bandits with the proper skin color for that. “Thank you, Captain,” Wax said.

  The man seemed to recognize it as a dismissal, but he hesitated. “And can w
e count on your help, my lord? When we chase down Donny and his gang?”

  “I’ll … let you know.”

  Matieu saluted, which was completely inappropriate—Wax wasn’t part of this jurisdiction—and retreated. Wax continued searching, pulling open a luggage compartment beneath the first passenger car. The metal lines leading into it only pointed at a few pieces of baggage.

  “Waxillium,” Marasi said, “you can’t help with their hunt. We have a job already.”

  “Might be related.”

  “Might not be,” she said. “You heard him, Waxillium. These guys are a known criminal element.”

  “Who happened to rob the very train we were on.”

  “But at the same time seemed utterly shocked by the presence of an Allomancer gunman in the last car. Instead of tossing dynamite at us and riddling the coach with bullets, they sent a couple men to rob what they assumed would be easy pickings.”

  Wax chewed on that, then checked another luggage compartment, bracing himself as he did so. No bodies. He let out a breath.

  “I can’t think about this right now,” he said.

  She nodded in understanding. They checked the other compartments, and he didn’t see any suspicious lines, so they moved on. Crossing the space between cars, he spotted Steris watching him. She sat alone on a bench with a blanket around her shoulders, holding a cup of something that steamed. She seemed perfectly calm.

  He continued on. Losing friends was part of a lawman’s life; it had happened to him more times than he wanted to count. But after what had happened back in the city six months ago … well, he wasn’t sure what losing Wayne would do to him. He steeled himself, moved to the next car, and opened the first of its luggage compartments, then froze.

  Faint steel lines coming from another place in this train car. They were moving.