The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel

by Brandon Sanderson

  “That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,” Waxillium said. “Everyone knows I’m irreparably handsome.” He smiled to himself. That was one of Lessie’s phrases. Irreparably handsome. She’d always claimed he’d look better with a nice scar on his face, after good Roughs fashion.

  Marasi smiled too, though her eyes were on his notations and scribbling. “The phantom railcar?” she asked, pointing to his drawing of a ghostly train coming down the tracks, alongside a diagram of how it had probably been made.

  “Yes,” he said. “Most of the attacks happened on misty nights, apparently to make it much easier to hide the fact that the phantom ‘train’ is really just a false front with a large headlamp, attached to a moving rail platform.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Reasonably,” Waxillium said. “They’re using the canals to attack, and so they need some sort of diversion to keep eyes off what is sneaking up behind.”

  She pursed her lips, thoughtful.

  “Was Wayne out there?” Waxillium asked.

  “Yes, he’s bothering Ranette. I … honestly left the room because I worried she’d shoot him.”

  Waxillium smiled.

  “I picked up a broadsheet when I was out,” she said. “The constables have found the old hideout.”

  “Already?” Waxillium said. “Wayne said we had until dark.”

  “It’s dark already.”

  “It is? Hell.” Waxillium checked his watch. They had less time than he’d thought. “It still shouldn’t be in the papers yet. The police found the hideout early.”

  Marasi nodded toward his sketches. “This indicates that you know where the Vanishers will strike. I don’t want to pound a brittle metal, Lord Waxillium, but we really should tell the constables that fact.”

  “I think I know where the attack will happen. If we let the constables know, they’ll flood the area and scare off Miles.”

  “Wax,” she said, stepping closer. “I understand that independent spirit; it’s part of what makes you what you are. But we’re not in the Roughs. You don’t have to do this all by yourself.”

  “I don’t intend to. I’ll involve the constables, I promise. Miles, however, is not an ordinary criminal. He knows what the constables will try, and he will watch for them. This has to be done at the right time, in the right way.” Waxillium tapped his notations on the wall. “I know Miles. I know how he thinks. He’s like me.”

  Almost too much so.

  “That means he can anticipate you too.”

  “He undoubtedly will. I’ll anticipate him better.”

  The moment Waxillium had drawn his gun and fired back against the Vanishers, he’d started down this path. Once he got his teeth into something, he didn’t let go.

  “You are right about me,” he said.

  “Right? I don’t believe I said anything about you, Lord Waxillium.”

  “You’re thinking it,” he said. “That I’m arrogant for wanting to do this my way, for not handing this over to the constables. That I’m foolhardy to not look for help. You’re right.”

  “It’s not so bad as that,” she said.

  “It’s not bad at all,” he said. “I am arrogant and foolhardy. I am acting like I’m still in the Roughs. But I’m also right.” He reached up, drawing a small square on the paper, then an arrow from it toward the precinct building.

  “I’ve written a letter for Ranette to send to the constables,” he continued. “It details everything I’ve discovered, and my guesses on what Miles will do, should I fail to best him. I won’t make any move tonight until we’re well away from the railway and any passengers. The Vanishers won’t take a hostage tonight. They’ll try to be as quick and as silent as possible.

  “But it will still be dangerous. People might die, innocent ones. I’ll try my best to keep them from harm, and I firmly believe I have a better chance against Miles than the constables would. I realize that you are studying to be an attorney and a judge, and that your training mandates you should go to the authorities. Considering my plans, and my promises, will you refrain and help me instead?”

  “Yes.”

  Harmony, he thought. She trusts me. Too much, probably. He reached up, squaring off a box of notes. “This is your part.”

  “I won’t be in the train car with you?” She sounded worried.

  “No,” Waxillium said. “You and Wayne will watch from the hilltop.”

  “You’ll be alone.”

  “I will.”

  She fell silent. “You knew what I was thinking of you. What are you thinking of me, Lord Waxillium?”

  He smiled. “If the game is to work the same way, I can’t tell you my thoughts. You need to guess them.”

  “You are thinking about how young I am,” she said. “And you’re worried about having me involved, lest I be hurt.”

  “Hardly a difficult guess. So far, I’ve given you what … three opportunities to abandon this course and seek safety?”

  “You’re also thinking,” she said, “that you’re glad I insist on staying, because I will be useful. Life has taught you to use the resources you have.”

  “Better,” he said.

  “You think I’m clever, as you have stated. But you also worry that I get flustered too easily, and worry it will be used against you.”

  “Do those records you’ve read talk about Paclo the Dusty?”

  “Sure. He was one of your deputies before you met Wayne.”

  “He was a good friend,” Waxillium said. “And a solid lawman. But I’ve never met a man who was as easy to startle as Paclo. A softly closed door could make him yelp.”

  She frowned.

  “I assume the records didn’t talk about that,” Waxillium said.

  “They depict him as very brave.”

  “He was brave, Lady Marasi. You see, many people mistake startlement for cowardice. Yes, a gunshot would make Paclo jump. Then he’d run to see what had caused it. I once saw him stare down six men with guns trained on him, and he didn’t break a sweat.”

  He turned to her. “You are inexperienced. So was I, once. So is every man. The measure of a person is not how much they have lived. It is not how easily they jump at a noise or how quick they are to show emotion. It’s in how they make use of what life has shown them.”

  Her blush deepened. “I’m also thinking that you like to lecture.”

  “It comes with the lawman’s badge.”

  “You don’t … wear that anymore.”

  “A man can take it off, Lady Marasi. But he can never stop wearing it.”

  He met her gaze. She looked up with eyes that were deep, reflective, like the water of an unexpected spring in the Roughs. He steeled himself. He would be bad for her. Very bad. He’d thought the same of Lessie, and he had been right.

  “There’s another thing I’m thinking about you,” she said softly. “Can you guess it?”

  All too well.

  With reluctance, he broke her gaze and looked at the pad. “Yes. You are thinking that I should talk Ranette into lending you a rifle. I agree. While I do think that it would be wise of you to train with a revolver eventually, I’d rather you spend this particular encounter with a weapon you use well. Maybe we can find a rifle that will fit those aluminum rounds Wayne grabbed.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  Waxillium pretended not to notice her embarrassment.

  “I think,” Marasi said, “that I’ll go check on Wayne and Ranette.”

  “Good idea. Hopefully she hasn’t discovered that he took one of her guns to trade.”

  Marasi withdrew, walking to the door in haste.

  “Lady Marasi?” Waxillium called.

  She hesitated at the door, turning, hopeful.

  “You did a good job of reading me,” he said, nodding in respect. “Not many can do that. I’m not known to be free with my emotions.”

  “Advanced interrogation techniques class,” she said. “And … uh, I’ve read your psychological profile.”


  “I have a psychological profile?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid. Doctor Murnbru wrote it after his visit to Weathering.”

  “That little rat Murnbru was a psychologist?” Waxillium said, genuinely baffled. “I was sure he was a gambling cheat, passing through town looking for marks to swindle.”

  “Er, yes. That’s in the profile. You, uh, have a tendency to think anyone who wears too much red is a chronic gambler.”

  “I do?”

  She nodded.

  “Damn,” he said. I’m going to need to read that thing.

  She left and pulled the door closed. He turned back to his plan once again. He raised his hand and slipped his earring into his ear. He was supposed to wear it when praying, or when doing something of great import.

  He figured that tonight, he’d be doing a lot of both.

  16

  Wayne hobbled through the railway station, supporting himself on his brown cane, walking with a slow, intentionally frail step. There was quite a crowd pushing and shoving one another and gawking at the train up ahead. A group of them surged to the side, nearly toppling him.

  Everyone was standing up so tall. That gave Wayne—back bent with age—no hope of seeing what the fuss was about. “No thought for a poor elderly woman,” Wayne grumbled. A gravelly tone, nasal and higher-pitched than his normal voice, mixed with a nice Margothian District accent. The district no longer existed, at least not in the same way; it had been consumed by the industrial quarter of its octant, its residents moving away. A dying accent for a dying woman. “No respect at all. A travesty, I tell you. Plain and simple, that’s what it is.”

  A few youths in the crowd in front glanced back at him, taking in his ancient coat—it went down to his ankles—his face furrowed with age, his silvery hair beneath a felt cap. “Sorry, ma’am,” one of them finally said, making way for him.

  Now, there’s a nice boy, Wayne thought, patting his arm and hobbling forward. One by one, people made way for him. Sometimes it took a little fit of coughing that sounded like it might be contagious. Wayne was careful not to look like a beggar. That would draw the attention of constables, who might think he was looking for marks to pickpocket.

  No, he wasn’t a beggar. He was Abrigain, an old woman who had come to see what the fuss was about. Abrigain wasn’t rich, nor was she poor. Frugal, with a meticulously patched coat, a favored hat that had once been fashionable. Spectacles thick as a dockworker’s wits. A few very young boys let her by, and Abrigain gave them each a piece of candy, patting them on their heads. Nice boys. They reminded Abrigain of her grandchildren.

  Wayne eventually reached the front. There, the Breaknaught sat in all its glory. It was a train car built like a fortress, with thick steel armor, shiny rounded corners, and a massive door on the side. That door looked like the one to an enormous vault, with a rotating wheel lock on the outside.

  The door was open, and the chamber inside was mostly empty. A large steel cargo box had been welded to the floor at the center of the railcar. In fact, he could see through the door in the railcar that the cargo box itself looked as if it had been welded shut on all sides.

  “Oh, my!” Wayne said. “That is impressive.”

  A guard stood nearby, wearing the insignia of an officer in the private security force of House Tekiel. He smiled, puffing out his chest with pride. “It marks the dawn of a new era,” he said. “The end of banditry and railway robberies.”

  “Oh, it’s impressive, young man,” Wayne said. “But surely you exaggerate. I’ve seen railcars before—I even rode on one, curse that day. My grandson Charetel wanted me to come with him and meet his bride over in Covingtar, and it was the only way, though I thought riding in a horse cart had always worked well enough for me before. Progress, he’d called it. Progress is getting locked up in a box, I suppose, unable to see the sun overhead or enjoy the trip. Anyway, that train car was like this one. Only not so shiny.”

  “I assure you,” the guard said, “this is quite impregnable. It will change everything. You see that door?”

  “It locks,” Wayne said. “I can see that. But safes can be cracked, young man.”

  “Not this one,” he said. “Bandits won’t be able to open it because it can’t be opened—not by them, and not by us. Once that door is closed, it engages a mechanism tied to a ticking clock inside the doors. Those doors cannot be opened again for twelve hours, regardless of whether or not one knows the door code.”

  “Explosives,” Wayne said. “Bandits are always blowing things up. Everyone knows that.”

  “That steel is six inches thick,” the guard said. “The amount of dynamite it would take to blow it open would likely destroy the contents of the car.”

  “But surely an Allomancer could get in,” Wayne said.

  “How? They could Push on the metal all they wanted; it’s so heavy, it would toss them backward. And even if they somehow did get in, we will have eight guards riding inside the railcar.”

  “My,” Wayne said, letting his accent slip. “That’s impressive indeed. What will the guards be armed with?”

  “A full quartet of…” the man began, but then trailed off, looking more closely at Wayne. “Of…” His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Oh, I’m missing my tea!” Wayne exclaimed, then turned and began hobbling back through the crowd.

  “Stop that woman!” the guard said.

  Wayne stopped pretending and stood up straight, shoving his way through the crowd with more fervor. He glanced over his shoulder. The guardsman was forcing his way forward in pursuit. “Stop!” the guardsman yelled. “Stop, damn you!”

  Wayne raised his cane and pulled the trigger. His hand started wobbling as it always did when he tried to use a gun, but this one only had blanks in it, so it was all right. The pistol-like crack drove the crowd into a panic, people ducking down in a wave like wind blowing through a field of grain.

  Wayne darted through the prostrate figures, hopping over some of them, reaching the back of the crowd. The guard raised his gun; Wayne dashed around a corner of the station building. Then he stopped time.

  He threw off his coat, then pulled off the blouse underneath, revealing a gentleman’s suit: black coat, white shirt, red cravat. Wax had called it “purposefully unimaginative,” whatever that meant. He removed the items that, tied to the inside of the blouse, had formed the elderly woman’s bust: a small bag, a collapsible gentleman’s hat, and a wet rag. He unfolded the hat and stuffed the blouse into the extra space inside it before pulling off his wig and putting the hat on his head.

  He ripped the outer layer off his cane, turning it black instead. He tossed the wig aside, then dropped the bag by the wall. Finally, he wiped his face clean of makeup with the rag, discarded it, then collapsed his speed bubble.

  He stumbled out around the corner of the building, acting as if he’d been shoved. He cursed, straightening his hat and raising his black cane, shaking it in anger.

  The guard puffed up beside him. “Are you all right, m’lord?”

  “No!” Wayne snapped, filling his voice with every ounce of aristocratic condescension he could manage. Madion Ways accent, the richest area of the First Octant—where House Tekiel owned much of the land. “What kind of ruffian was that, Captain! The launch was supposed to be handled with poise and care!”

  The guard froze, and Wayne could see his mind working. He’d been expecting a random nobleman, but this person sounded like a member of House Tekiel—the guard’s employers.

  “Sorry, m’lord!” the guard said. “But I chased ’im off.”

  “Who was he?” Wayne said, walking over to the wig. “He threw this aside as he passed me.”

  “Was dressed up like an elderly woman,” the guard said, scratching his head. “Asking me questions about the Breaknaught.”

  “Damn it all, man. That must have been one of the Vanishers!”

  The guard paled.

  “Do you know how embarrassed our house will be if something happe
ns on this trip?” Wayne said, stepping in, shaking the cane. “Our reputation is on the line. Our heads are on the line, Captain. How many guards do you have?”

  “Three dozen, m’lord, and—”

  “Not enough! Not enough at all! Send for more.”

  “I—”

  “No!” Wayne said. “I’ll do it. I have several of my own guards here. I’ll send one to fetch another division. Your men are watching the area for more creatures such as that one?”

  “Well, I haven’t told them yet, m’lord. Thought I’d try to get ’im myself, you see, and—”

  “You left your post?” Wayne screamed, raising hands to the side of his head, cane dangling from his fingers. “You let him lure you away? Idiot! Get back, man! Go! Alert the others. Oh, Survivor above. If this goes wrong, we’re dead. Dead!”

  The guard captain scrambled back and ran for the train, where people were moving away in a panic. Wayne leaned back against the wall, checked his pocket watch, then waited for a good moment when he had enough space to put a speed bubble. He was reasonably sure nobody was looking.

  Off came the hat. He dropped the cane and reversed his jacket, turning it into a brown and yellow military coat, matching that of the guards. He pulled off his fake nose and took a triangular cloth cap out of the bag he’d dropped by the wall.

  He put this on his head instead of the gentleman’s hat. Always have the right hat. That was key. He strapped a handgun on over the coat after dropping his pants, revealing the soldier’s uniform beneath. Then he collapsed his bubble and jogged around the corner, making his way up to the tracks. He found the captain organizing his men, yelling orders. There were some angry noblemen arguing with one another nearby.

  The cargo wasn’t being unloaded. That was good. Wayne had figured they’d just give up on this run, with all the fuss, but Wax had disagreed. He said that the Tekiels had made such a big deal of the Breaknaught that a hiccup or two wouldn’t stop them.

  Fools, Wayne thought, shaking his head. Farnsward didn’t agree with the decision. He’d been in House Tekiel’s private guard for ten years now, though he’d mostly served on the Outer Estates with his lord, who was chronically ill. Farnsward had seen a lot in his time, and he’d learned that there were reasons to take risks. To save a life, to win a battle, to protect the house’s name. But to take a risk just because you’d said you would? Foolishness.