The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel (29 page)

“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.”

“I haven’t fired it,” Waxillium said. He eyed Wayne, who was grinning. “We’ve … er, been saving it for you. And I’m sure the rounds are of a much heavier alloy than the revolver itself, though I didn’t get a chance to test them yet. They’re lighter than lead rounds, but not even close to as light as nearly pure aluminum would be. The percentage is still high, but the alloy must solve most of those issues somehow.”

Ranette grunted. She waved the gun absently toward Marasi. “Who’s the ornament?”

“A friend,” Waxillium said. “Ranette, people are looking for us. Dangerous people. Can we come in?”

She tucked the revolver into her belt. “Fine. But if Wayne touches anything—
anything
—I’ll blow off the offending fingers.”

*   *   *

Marasi kept her tongue as they were led into the building. She wasn’t particularly fond of being referred to as an “ornament.” But she
was
fond of remaining unshot, and so silence seemed prudent.

She was good at silence. She had been trained to it over two decades of life.

Ranette closed the door behind them, then turned away. Shockingly, the locks on the door all
did themselves
, twisting in their mounts and clicking. There were nearly a dozen of them, and their sudden move caused Marasi to jump.
What in the Survivor’s Deadly Name?