There was a thrill to this, the flight of a Coinshot. It was a freedom no other Allomancer could know. When the air became his, he felt the same exhilaration he had years ago, when he’d first sought his fortune in the Roughs. He wished that he were wearing his mistcoat and that the mists were around him. Everything always seemed to work better in the mists. They were said to protect the just.
He caught up to the train in moments, then threw himself in a powerful arc over it. A small figure was walking along the tops of the railcars, making his way toward Wayne and Marasi.
Wax Pushed downward to keep himself from hitting too hard, but increased his weight at the same time, slamming into the train’s roof and denting it into a crater around him. He stood up straight, then flipped his revolver open, as if to reload. The casings and unspent rounds flipped up into the air and he caught one.
Miles spun. Wax tossed the cartridge at him.
Looking startled, Miles snatched it out of the air.
“Goodbye,” Wax said, then slammed as powerful a Push as he could into that cartridge.
Miles’s eyes opened wide. His hand jerked backward into his chest, and then he was flung free of the train, the Push on the cartridge effectively transferred to him. The train rounded a bend as Miles soared through the air and crashed into the rocky ground beyond.
Wax sat down, then lay back, eyes toward the sky. He breathed in deeply, aching, and pressed his hand to the wound at his side. He rode all the way to the next stop before climbing down.
* * *
“We had orders, m’lord,” the railway engineer said. “Even when I heard there was gunfire back in the passenger cars. We ain’t to stop for anything. The Vanishers get you when you stop.”
“It is just as well,” Waxillium said, gladly taking a cup of water from a young man in an apprentice engineer’s vest. “If you had stopped, it likely would have meant my death.”
He sat in a small room at the station, which—by tradition—was owned and operated by a minor member of the house that owned the land nearby. The lord himself was out, but the steward had immediately sent for the local surgeon.
Waxillium had his coat, vest, and shirt off, and was holding a bandage to his side. He wasn’t certain he had time to wait for that surgeon. It would take Miles about an hour of running to reach this station. Fortunately, he wasn’t a steel Feruchemist, capable of increasing his speed.
An hour, likely, but it was best to plan for the worst. If Miles found a horse, he could arrive sooner. And Waxillium wasn’t certain exactly how Miles’s Compounding would affect his stamina. Perhaps he might be capable of running longer distances than he should be able to.
“We almost have your men out, m’lord,” another apprentice said, entering. “Those locks aren’t supposed to be this hard to open!”
Waxillium drank his water. Miles had planned his trap well. Wayne and Marasi had been confined in their car—along with all the others who happened to be there—by lengths of metal jammed into locking mechanisms on the outer doors. Miles had waited until Waxillium left his room, then had quietly trapped the others before hunting him.
There was some luck to that, at least. Miles hadn’t simply killed them. It made sense that he hadn’t, however. It would have been risky, going in to try to kill Wayne—who could heal himself—and risk drawing Waxillium back, then facing one on either side. Miles was too careful for that. Waxillium had been the real target. The others were better locked away until the primary goal was accomplished.
“You need to get your train going again,” Waxillium said to the engineer. He was a heavyset man with a dark brown beard and a flat-topped cap. “You are in danger from the Vanishers. We need to ride the train all the way into the heart of the City. We can’t delay.”
“But your wound, m’lord!”
“It will be fine,” Waxillium said. Out in the Roughs, he’d often had to go days or weeks with a wound before a surgeon could tend it.
“We—”
The door burst open and Marasi stumbled through. Her blue dress was still singed from the explosion at the mansion, but she wore it well, despite the folds of lace underneath the glistening outer layer. The blue vest that pulled closed around the bodice was missing a button on the bottom, probably ripped free in the fall. He hadn’t noticed that before.
She raised her hands to her mouth at the sight of the bloody bandage, then immediately turned beet red at seeing him with his shirt off. He did have a moment of pride in the fact that, though he had some gray in his hair, he still had the lean muscles of a much younger man.
“Oh, Harmony!” she said. “Are you all right? Is that your blood? And should I be in here? I can go. I should probably go, shouldn’t I? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“He’ll live,” Wayne said, peeking in behind her. “Wha’d you do, Wax? Trip on the way out of the washroom?”
“Miles found me,” Waxillium said, removing the bandage. It looked like the wound had mostly stopped bleeding. He took another bandage from one of the apprentices, then prepared to tie it in place.
“Is he dead?” Marasi asked.
“I killed him a few more times,” Waxillium said, “and it was about as effective as what everyone else has tried.”
“You need to get his metalminds off of ’im,” Wayne said. “It’s the only way.”
“He keeps thirty different ones,” Waxillium said, “all piercing his skin, all with enough healing to bring him back from practically any wound.” A Pewterarm, or even a lesser Bloodmaker like Wayne, could be killed with a direct shot to the head. Miles could heal so quickly even that wouldn’t kill him. He was said to keep the healing running constantly. From what Waxillium knew of Compounding, it could be very dangerous to stop once you’d started.
“Sounds like a challenge!” Wayne said.
Marasi lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, then apparently made a decision and rushed forward. “Let me see the wound,” she said, kneeling beside Waxillium’s bench.
He frowned, but stopped tying the bandage straps and let her peel back the cloth. She inspected the wound.
“You know something of surgery, m’lady?” the engineer said, shifting from foot to foot. He seemed a little anxious at her presence in the room.
“I go to university,” she said.
Ah, that’s right, Waxillium thought.
“So?” Wayne asked.
Marasi prodded at the wound. “University rules, set by Harmony himself, dictate a broad education.”
“Yeah, I know they have to take girls,” Wayne said.
Marasi paused. “Er … not that meaning of broad, Wayne.”
“Students have to be trained in a little of everything,” Waxillium said, “before they can choose a specialty.”
“That includes basic healing and some small amount of surgery,” Marasi said. “As well as complete anatomy courses.”
Wayne frowned. “Wait. Anatomy. Meaning, all parts of anatomy.”
Marasi blushed. “Yes.”
“So—”
“So it was very popular in class to watch my reactions, apparently,” she said, still blushing. “And I’d rather not dwell on that at the moment, Wayne, thank you. This needs stitches, Waxillium.”
“Can you do it?”
“Er … I’ve never worked on anyone alive before…”
“Eh,” Wayne said, “I spent months training with dueling canes on dummies before beating up my first real person. It’s pretty much the same thing.”
“I’ll be all right, Marasi,” Waxillium said.
“So many scars,” she said quietly, as if not noticing what he’d said. She was staring at his chest and sides, and seemed to be counting the old bullet wounds.
“There are seven,” he said softly in reply, replacing the bandage and tying it tight.
“You’ve been shot seven times?” she asked.
“A lot of gunshots aren’t lethal, if you know how to care for them,” Waxillium said. “They don’t really�
��”
“Oh,” she said, raising a hand to her lips. “I meant, we only have records of five. I really will need to hear about the other two sometime.”
“Right,” he said, grimacing and standing. He waved for his shirt.
“Oh, bother,” she said. “That didn’t come out very well, did it? I really am impressed that you have been shot so often. Really.”
“Getting hit’s not really that impressive,” Wayne noted. “It don’t take much skill to get shot. It’s avoiding the bullets that’s tough.”
Waxillium snorted, pulling his arm through a sleeve.
Marasi stood. “I’ll turn around so you can dress,” she said, beginning to spin.
“Turn around,” Waxillium said flatly.
“Um, yes.”
“So I can dress.”
“A little silly, I guess.”
“A little,” he said, smiling and pulling his other sleeve on. He began doing the buttons. Wayne looked so amused he was having trouble standing up.
“All right,” she said, raising her hands to the sides of her face. “I realize that I get a little flustered sometimes. I’m just not used to things exploding, people getting shot at, and finding my friends sitting and bleeding with their shirts off when I walk in! This is all very new to me.”
“It’s all right,” Waxillium said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “There are much worse things to be than genuine, Marasi. Besides, Wayne wasn’t much better when he was new to all of this. Why, he used to get so nervous that he would start—”
“Hey,” Wayne said, “no use bringin’ that up.”
“What?” Marasi asked, lowering her hands.
“NOTHING,” Wayne replied. “Come on. We should move, right? If Mister Miles Murderer is still alive, he’ll be wanting to shoot us, right? And as good as Wax is at getting shot—he’s had lots of practice, you see—I think we best be avoiding more of that sort today.”
“He’s right,” Waxillium said, pulling on his vest, then putting on his shoulder holsters. He winced.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marasi asked.
“He’s fine,” Wayne said, holding the door open for them. “I got quite near my entire rusted back blown off earlier, if you’ll kindly recall, and I didn’t hear nearly an ounce of the sympathy you’re showin’ him.”
“That’s different,” Marasi said, walking past him.
“What? Why? ’Cuz I can heal?”
“No,” she said, “because—even after knowing you only a short time—I’m fairly certain that on one level or another, you deserve to get blown up every now and again.”
“Oi,” Wayne said. “That’s harsh.”
“But untrue?” Waxillium said, pulling on his coat. It was looking quite ragged.
“Didn’t say that now, did I,” Wayne said, and sneezed. “Keep moving, slowboy. Rusts! A man gets shot, and he thinks he can take all afternoon. Let’s move!”
Waxillium walked past. He forced himself to smile, though he was starting to feel as ragged as his coat. There wasn’t much time. Miles had taken off his mask, but had obviously expected to kill Waxillium. He now knew that he’d been outed, and that would make him even more dangerous.
If Miles and his people were going to strike for more aluminum, they’d do it soon. Tonight, probably, assuming there was a shipment. Waxillium expected one soon; he’d read something in the broadsheets about House Tekiel boasting of their new armored freight cars.
“So what do we do when we get back?” Wayne asked softly as they walked toward the railway car. “We’re going to need someplace safe to plan, right?”
Waxillium sighed, knowing what Wayne was fishing for. “You’re probably right.”
Wayne smiled.
“You know,” Waxillium said, “I’m not sure I’d call any place near Ranette ‘safe.’ Particularly if you are there.”
“Better than being exploded,” Wayne said happily. “Mostly.”
14
Waxillium pounded on the door of the townhome. The area around them was a typical Elendel neighborhood. Vibrant, lush walnut trees lined either side of the cobbled street. Even after seven months back in the city, the trees still made him stare. Out in the Roughs, trees as large as these were rare. And here was an entire street full of them, mostly ignored by the inhabitants.
He, Wayne, and Marasi stood on the porch of the narrow, brick-faced home. Before Waxillium had a chance to lower his hand, the door swung open. A lean, long-legged woman stood inside. Her dark hair was pulled back into a shoulder-length tail, and she wore brown trousers and a Roughs-style long leather coat over a white, no-nonsense laced shirt. She took one look at Waxillium and Wayne, then slammed the door shut without saying a word.
Waxillium glanced at Wayne, and then they both took a step to the side. Marasi looked at them in confusion until Waxillium took her by the arm and pulled her over.
The door slammed back open, and the woman shoved a shotgun out. She glanced around the corner at the two of them, then narrowed her eyes.
“I’ll count to ten,” she said. “One.”
“Now, Ranette,” Waxillium began.
“Two three four five,” she said in quick succession.
“Do we really have to—”
“Six seven eight.” She raised the gun, taking aim at them.
“All right then…” Waxillium said, hustling down the steps, Wayne following, hand holding his carriage man’s cap in place.
“She wouldn’t really shoot us?” Marasi asked softly. “Would she?”
“Nine!”
They reached the sidewalk beneath the towering trees. The door slammed closed behind them.
Waxillium took a deep breath, turning around and looking at the house. Wayne leaned back against one of the tree trunks, smiling.
“So, that went well,” Waxillium said.
“Yup,” Wayne replied.
“Well?” Marasi demanded.
“Neither of us got shot,” Waxillium said. “You can’t always be sure, with Ranette. Particularly if Wayne is along.”
“Now, that’s right unfair,” Wayne said. “She’s only shot me three times.”
“You’re forgetting Callingfale.”
“That was in the foot,” Wayne said. “Barely counts.”
Marasi pursed her lips, studying the building. “You two have some curious friends.”
“Curious? Nah, she’s just angry.” Wayne smiled. “It’s how she shows affection.”
“By shooting people?”
“Ignore Wayne,” Waxillium said. “Ranette might be brusque, but she rarely shoots people other than him.”
Marasi nodded. “So … should we go?”
“Wait for a moment,” Waxillium said. To his side, Wayne started whistling, then checked his pocket watch.
The door was flung open again, Ranette holding her shotgun up on her shoulder. “You’re not leaving!” she called.
“I need your help,” Waxillium called back.
“I need you to stick your head in a bucket of water and slowly count to a thousand!”
“Lives are at stake, Ranette,” Waxillium yelled. “Innocent lives.”
Ranette raised her gun, taking aim.
“Don’t worry,” Wayne said to Marasi. “At this distance, birdshot probably won’t be lethal. Make sure your eyes are closed, though.”
“You’re not helping, Wayne,” Waxillium said calmly. He was sure Ranette wouldn’t shoot. Well, reasonably sure. Maybe.
“Oh, you actually want me to help?” Wayne said. “Right. You still have that aluminum gun I gave you?”
“Tucked in the small of my back,” Waxillium said. “Without any bullets.”
“Hey, Ranette!” Wayne called. “I’ve got a neat gun you can have!”
She hesitated.
“Wait,” Waxillium said, “I wanted that—”
“Don’t be a baby,” Wayne said to him. “Ranette, it’s a revolver made entirely of aluminum!”
She lowered her
shotgun. “Really?”
“Get it out,” Wayne whispered to Waxillium.
Waxillium sighed, reaching under his coat. He held up the revolver, drawing some looks from passersby on the street. Several of them spun about and hastened in the other direction.
Ranette stepped forward. She was a Lurcher, and could recognize most metals by simply burning iron. “Well then,” she called. “You should have mentioned that you’d brought a bribe. This might be enough to get me to forgive you!” She strolled down her front walk, shotgun slung up over her shoulder.
“You realize,” Waxillium said under his breath, “that this revolver is worth enough to buy an entire houseful of guns? I think I might shoot you, for this.”
“The ways of Wayne are mysterious and incomprehensible,” Wayne said. “What he giveth, he can draw back unto himself. And lo, let it be written and pondered.”
“You’ll ponder my fist, hitting your face.” Waxillium plastered a smile on his lips as Ranette stepped up to them; then he reluctantly handed over the revolver.
She looked it over with an expert eye. “Lightweight,” she said. “No maker’s mark stamped on the barrel or the grip. Where’d you get this?”
“The Vanishers,” Waxillium said.
“Who?”
Waxillium sighed. That’s right.
“How could you not know who the Vanishers are?” Marasi blurted. “They’ve been on every broadsheet in the city for the last two months. They’re all anyone is talking about.”
“People are stupid,” Ranette said, popping the revolver open, checking the chambers. “I find them annoying—and those are the ones I like. Did this have aluminum rounds too?”
Waxillium nodded. “We don’t have any of the pistol rounds. Just a few rifle rounds.”
“How did they work?” she asked. “Stronger than lead, but much lighter. Less immediate stopping power, obviously, but they’ll still tear themselves apart on hitting. Could be very deadly if they hit the right spot. And that’s assuming wind resistance doesn’t slow the bullets too much before they reach their target. The effective range would be way down. And they’d be highly abrasive to the barrel.”
The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel Page 21
