The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel (41 page)

“I’m not the one who had to be beaten bloody.”

“Wounds heal,” Waxillium said, “even on an old horse like me. Watching him attack me and doing nothing … I’ll bet that was excruciating. I don’t think I could have stood it, if our places had been reversed.”

“You’d have done it. You’re like that. You’re every bit the man I thought you might be, yet somehow more
real
at the same time.” She looked at him, eyes wide, lips pursed. As if she wanted to say more. He could read her intent in those eyes.

“This isn’t going to work, Lady Marasi,” he said gently. “I’m thankful for your aid. Very thankful. But the thing you wish between us is not viable. I’m sorry.”

Not unexpectedly, she blushed. “Of course. I wasn’t implying such a thing.” She forced a laugh. “Why would you think—I mean, it’s silly!”

“I apologize, then,” he said. Though, of course, they both knew what the exchange had meant. He felt a deep regret.
If I were ten years younger …

It wasn’t the age per se. It was what those years had done to him. When you watched a woman you loved die by your own gunshot, when you saw an old colleague and respected lawkeeper turn bad, it did things to you. Ripped you up inside. And
those
wounds, they didn’t heal nearly as easily as the bodily ones.

This woman was young, full of life. She didn’t deserve someone who was basically all scars wrapped up in a thick skin of sun-dried leather.

Eventually, Constable-General Brettin walked over to them. He was as stiff-backed as before, constable’s hat carried under his arm. “Lord Waxillium,” he said in a monotone.

“Constable-General.”

“For your efforts today, I have requested that the Senate give you a citywide deputized forbearance.”

Waxillium blinked in surprise.

“If you are not aware,” Brettin continued, “this would give you powers of investigation and arrest, as if you were a member of the constabulary, sufficient to authorize actions such as those of last night.”

“That is … very considerate of you,” Waxillium said.

“It is one of the only ways to excuse your actions without drawing embarrassment down upon the precinct. I have backdated the request, and if we are in luck, nobody will realize you were working alone this past night. Also, I do not wish for you to feel that you
need
to work alone. This city could use your expertise.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Waxillium said, “that’s quite a change from your previous stance.”

“I have had occasion to change my mind,” Brettin said. “You should know that I will soon be retiring. A new constable-general will be appointed in my position, but he will be required to accept the Senate’s mandate regarding you, should this motion be accepted.”

“I…” Waxillium was uncertain how to reply. “Thank you.”

“It’s for the good of the City. Of course, note that if you abuse this privilege, it will undoubtedly be revoked.” Brettin nodded awkwardly and withdrew.

Waxillium scratched at his chin, watching the man. Something decidedly odd was going on there. He was almost like a different person. Wayne passed him, tipping his lucky hat—which was bloodied on one side—and grinning as he approached Waxillium and Marasi.

“Here,” Wayne said, covertly handing something wrapped in a handkerchief to Waxillium. It was unexpectedly heavy. “Got you another of those guns.”

Waxillium sighed.

“Don’t worry,” Wayne said, “I traded a real nice scarf for it.”

“And where did you get the scarf?”

“Off one of the dead blokes you shot,” Wayne said. “So it wasn’t stealin’. He ain’t gonna need it, after all.” He seemed quite proud of himself.

Waxillium tucked the gun into his empty holster. The other holster held Vindication. Marasi had searched through the hideout after Miles was taken and had recovered it for him. That was good. It would have been sad to survive this night, only to have Ranette kill him.

“So,” Marasi said, “you traded a dead man’s scarf for another dead man’s gun. But … the gun itself belonged to someone dead, so by the same logic—”

“Don’t try,” Waxillium said. “Logic doesn’t work on Wayne.”

“I bought a ward against it off a traveling fortune-teller,” Wayne explained. “It lets me add two ’n’ two and get a pickle.”

“I … have no response to that,” Marasi said.

“Technically that
was
a response,” Wayne said.

“Looks like they fished that gunsmith outta the canal for you, Wax, and he’s alive. Not real happy, but alive.”

“Has anyone found anything regarding the other women who were kidnapped?” Waxillium asked.

Wayne glanced at Marasi, who shook her head. “Nothing. Maybe Miles will know where they are.”

If he’ll talk,
Waxillium thought. Miles had stopped feeling pain long ago. Waxillium wasn’t certain how anyone would go about interrogating him.

Waxillium felt that by not rescuing the other women, he had failed in large measure. He’d vowed to get Steris back, and he had. But a greater evil had been done.

He sighed as the door to the captain’s office opened, and Steris stepped out. A pair of senior constables had taken her statement, after taking that of Waxillium and Wayne. The two constables waved for Marasi next, and she went, glancing over her shoulder at Waxillium. He’d told her to be frank and straightforward with them, and to not hide anything he or Wayne had done. Though, if she could, she was to obscure Ranette’s role.

Wayne wandered over to where some constables were eating morning sandwiches. They regarded him with suspicion, but—by experience—Waxillium knew that Wayne would soon have them laughing and asking him to join them.
Does he even understand what he does?
Waxillium wondered as Wayne launched into an explanation of the fight for the constables.
Or does he just do it all by instinct?

Waxillium watched for a moment before realizing that Steris had approached him. She sat down in the chair directly across from him, maintaining good posture. She had fixed her hair, and while her dress was rumpled from her day of captivity, she looked relatively composed.

“Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I find it necessary to offer you my thanks.”

“I hope the necessity isn’t too onerous,” Waxillium said with a grunt.

“Only in that it comes … is required … after an onerous captivity. You should know that I was not touched indecently by my captors. I remain pure.”

“Rust and
Ruin,
Steris! I’m glad, but I didn’t need to know that.”

“You did,” she said, face impassive. “Assuming you still wish to proceed with our nuptials.”

“It wouldn’t matter either way. Besides, I thought we weren’t to that point yet. We haven’t even announced that we are seeing one another.”

“Yes, though I believe we can now amend our previous timetable. You see, a dramatic rescue such as you have effected will be expected to create an outpouring of my emotions. What once might have been a scandal will instead be viewed as romantic. We could plausibly announce an engagement next week and have it be accepted in high society without concern or comment.”

“That’s good, I suppose.”

“Yes. Shall I proceed with our contract, then?”

“You don’t mind that I’ve returned to the miscreant ways of my past?”

“I rather think that I would soon be
dead
if you had not,” Steris said. “I am not in a position to complain.”

“I intend to continue,” Waxillium warned. “Not every day, patrolling a beat or anything like that. But I’ve received a forbearance—and an offer—to be involved in constabulary business in the city. I plan to take on the occasional problem that needs extra attention.”

“Every gentleman needs a hobby,” she said evenly. “And, considering the self-indulgences of some men I’ve known, this wouldn’t be problematic by comparison.” She leaned forward. “In short, my lord, I see you for what you are. The two of us, we are beyond the points in our lives where expecting the other to change would be realistic. I will accept this about you if you will accept me. I am not without my faults, as my previous three suitors chose to explain to me—at length—in written communication.”

“I hadn’t realized.”

“It is not an issue worthy of your attention, really,” she said. “Though I did think that you’d have realized I did not come to this potential union without—no offense—a measure of desperation.”

“I understand.”

Steris hesitated; then a bit of her coldness seemed to depart. Some of her control, her steely will, fell away. She looked tired, suddenly. Worn. Though behind that mask, he saw something that might have been affection for him. She clasped her hands before her. “I am not … good with people, Lord Waxillium. I realize it. I must stress, however, that you have my thanks for what you have done. I speak it from the depths of all that I am. Thank you.”

He met her eyes, and nodded.

“So,” she said, growing more businesslike. “We progress with our engagement?”

He hesitated. There was no reason not to, but a part of him found that he thought himself a coward. Of the two offers this day—one unspoken, the other blunt—
this
was the one he was contemplating?

He glanced toward the room where Marasi was giving the report of her involvement in this mess. She
was
entrancing. Beautiful, intelligent, motivated. By all logic and reason, he should have been completely infatuated with her.

In fact, she reminded him a lot of Lessie. Perhaps that was the problem.

“We move forward,” he said, turning back to Steris.

EPILOGUE

Marasi attended Miles’s execution.

Daius, the senior prosecutor, had counseled against it. He never attended executions.

She sat on the outer balcony, alone, watching Miles walk up the steps to the firing platform. Her position was above the execution site.

She narrowed her eyes, remembering Miles standing in that underground room of darkness and mist, pointing a gun at her hiding place. She’d had a gun to her head three times during that two-day span, but the only time she’d really believed that she would die had been when she had seen the look in Miles’s eyes. The heartless lack of emotion, the superiority.

She shivered. The time between the Vanisher attack at the wedding and Miles’s capture had been less than a day and a half. Yet she felt like during that time she’d aged two decades. It was like a form of temporal Allomancy, a speed bubble around her alone. The world was different now. She’d nearly been killed, she’d killed for the first time, she’d fallen in love and been rejected. Now she’d helped condemn to death a former hero of the Roughs.

Miles looked with contempt on the constables who tied him to the restraining pole. He’d shown that same expression through most of the trial—the first one she’d helped prosecute as an attorney, though Daius had been the lead on the case. The trial had gone quickly, despite its high-profile and high-stakes nature. Miles had not denied his crimes.

It seemed that he saw himself as immortal. Even standing up there—his metalminds removed, a dozen rifles cocked and pointed toward him—he didn’t seem to believe he would die. The human mind was very clever at tricking itself, at keeping the despair of inevitability at bay. She’d known that look in Miles’s eyes. Every man had it, when young. And every man eventually saw it as a lie.

The rifles went to shoulders. Perhaps now Miles would finally recognize that lie himself. As the guns fired, Marasi found that she was satisfied. And that disturbed her greatly.

*   *   *

Waxillium boarded the train at Dryport. His leg still ached, he walked with a cane, and he wore a bandage around his chest to help with the broken ribs. One week wasn’t nearly enough time to heal from what he’d been through. He probably shouldn’t have left his bed.

He limped down the corridor of the lavish first-class carriage, passing handsomely appointed private rooms. He counted off to the third compartment as the train labored into motion. He walked into the chamber, leaving the door open, and sat down in one of the well-stuffed chairs by the window. It was affixed to the floor, and sat before a small table with a long, single leg. It was curved and slender, like a woman’s neck.

A short time later, he heard footsteps in the corridor. They hesitated at the doorway.

Waxillium watched the scenery passing outside. “Hello, Uncle,” he said, turning to look at the man in the doorway.

Lord Edwarn Ladrian stepped into the room, walking with a whale-ivory cane and wearing fine clothing. “How did you find me?” he asked, sitting down in the other chair.

“A few of the Vanishers we interrogated,” Waxillium said. “They described a man that Miles called ‘Mister Suit.’ I don’t think anyone else recognized you in the description. From what I understand, you were hermitlike during the decade leading up to your ‘death.’ Save for your letters to the broadsheets about political matters, of course.”