“He was worth the most money.”
Marasi frowned.
“I looked at that board,” Waxillium said, “and I thought to myself, ‘Well, any of these blokes is right likely to kill me. So I might as well pick the one worth the most.’ I needed the money. I hadn’t had anything to eat in three days but jerky and a few beans. And then there was Taraco.”
“One of the great bandits of our era.”
“With him,” Waxillium said, “I figured I could get some new boots. He’d robbed a cobbler just a few days earlier, and I thought if I brought the man in, I might manage to get a new pair of boots out of it.”
“I thought you’d picked him because he’d shot a lawkeeper over in Faradana the week before.”
Waxillium shook his head. “I didn’t hear that until after I brought him in.”
“Oh.” Then, remarkably, she smiled in eagerness. “And Harrisel Hard?”
“A bet with Wayne,” Waxillium said. “You don’t look disappointed.”
“This just makes it more real, Lord Waxillium,” she said. Her eager eyes glittered in an almost predatory way. “I need to write these down.” She fished in her handbag, pulling out a pad and pencil.
“So that’s what motivated you?” Waxillium asked as she scribbled notes. “You study out of a desire to be a hero, like in the stories?”
“No, no,” she said. “I just wanted to learn about them.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “You could become a lawkeeper, go out to the Roughs, live these same stories. Don’t think that you can’t because you’re a woman; high society might lead you to believe that, but it doesn’t matter out beyond the mountains. Out there, you don’t have to wear lacy dresses or smell like flowers. You can belt on some revolvers and make your own rules. Don’t forget, the Ascendant Warrior herself was a woman.”
She leaned forward. “Can I admit something to you, Lord Waxillium?”
“Only if it’s salacious, personal, or embarrassing.”
She smiled. “I like the lacy dresses and smelling like flowers. I like living in the city, where I can demand modern conveniences. Do you realize I can send for Terris food at any hour of the night, and have it delivered?”
“Incredible.” It actually was. He hadn’t realized that was possible.
“As much as I like reading about the Roughs, and though I may like to visit, I don’t think I’d take well to living there. I don’t mix well with dirt, grime, and an overall lack of personal hygiene.” She leaned in. “And, to be perfectly honest, I have no problem at all letting men like you be the ones to belt on revolvers and shoot people. Does that make me a terrible traitor to my sex?”
“I don’t think so. You are pretty good at shooting things, though.”
“Well, shooting things is okay. But people?” She shivered. “I know the Ascendant Warrior is a model for self-actualized women. We have classes on it at the university, for Preservation’s sake, and her legacy is written into the law. But I don’t really want to put on trousers and be her. I feel like a coward for admitting it sometimes.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “You have to be yourself. But none of that explains why you are studying law.”
“Oh, I do want to change the city,” she said, growing eager. “Though I feel that tracking down every criminal and punching holes in them with pieces of metal moving at high speeds is a terribly inefficient way to do it.”
“Sure can be fun, though.”
“Let me show you something.” She dug in her handbag a little more, and came out with some folded-up sheets of paper. “I spoke of how people generally act in response to their surroundings. Remember our discussion about the Roughs, and how there are often more lawkeepers per person there than here? And yet, crime is more prevalent. That’s the result of environment. Look here.”
She handed over some of the pages. “This is a report,” she said. “I’m putting it together myself. It’s about the nature of crime as related to environment. See here, this discusses the major factors that have decreased crime in some sections of the city. Hiring more constables, hanging more criminals, that sort of thing. They are of medium efficacy.”
“What’s this at the bottom?” Waxillium asked.
“Renovation,” she said with a deep smile. “This case is where a wealthy man, Lord Joshin himself, purchased several parcels of land in one of the less reputable areas. He began renovating and cleaning up. Crime went way down. The people didn’t change, just their environment. Now that area is a safe and respectable section of the city.
“We call it the ‘broken windows’ theory. If a man sees a broken window in a building, he’s more likely to rob or commit other crimes, since he figures nobody cares. If all the windows are maintained, all the streets clean, all the buildings washed, then crime goes down. Just as a hot day can make a person irritable, it appears that a run-down area can make an ordinary man into a criminal.”
“Curious,” Waxillium said.
“Of course,” she said, “this isn’t the only answer. There will always be people who don’t respond to their surroundings. They fascinate me, as I’ve mentioned. Anyway, I’ve always been good with numbers and figures. I see patterns like this and wonder. Cleaning up a few streets can be cheaper than employing more constables—but can actually decrease crime to a greater degree.”
Waxillium looked over the reports, then back at Marasi. She had a flush of excitement in her cheeks. There was something captivating about her. How long had they been here? He hesitated, then pulled out his pocket watch.
“Oh,” she said, glancing at the watch. “We shouldn’t be chatting like this. Not with poor Steris in their hands.”
“We can’t do more until Wayne returns,” Waxillium said. “In fact, he should have been back by now.”
“He is,” Wayne’s voice said from the hallway outside.
Marasi jumped, letting out a faint yelp.
Waxillium sighed. “How long have you been out there?”
Wayne’s head poked around the corner, wearing a constable’s hat. “Oh, a little while. Seemed like you two were having some kind of ‘smart people’ moment. Didn’t want to interfere.”
“Wise of you. Your stupidity can be infectious.”
“Don’t use your fancy words ’round me, son.” Wayne strolled in. Though he wore the constable’s hat, he was otherwise normally dressed in his duster and trousers, dueling canes at his hips.
“Did you succeed?” Waxillium asked, standing up, then reaching down to help Marasi to her feet.
“Sure did—I got some scones.” Wayne grinned. “And the dirty conners even paid for them.”
“Wayne?”
“Yes?”
“We’re dirty conners.”
“Not no more,” he said proudly. “We’re independent citizens with a mind toward civic duty. And eating the scones of dirty conners.”
Marasi grimaced. “They don’t sound that appetizing when described that way.”
“Oh, they were good.” Wayne reached into the pocket of his duster. “Here, I brought you some. Got a little mushed up in my pocket, though.”
“No, really,” she said, paling.
Wayne, however, chuckled and brought out a paper that he waved at Waxillium. “Location of the Vanishers’ hideout in the city. Along with the name of their recruiter.”
“Really?” Marasi said eagerly, rushing over to take the paper. “How did you do this?”
“Whiskey and magic,” Wayne said.
“In other words,” Waxillium said, walking up and reading the paper over Marasi’s shoulder, “Wayne did a lot of fast talking. Nice work.”
“We need to get going!” Marasi said, urgent. “Go there, get Steris, and—”
“They won’t be there anymore,” Waxillium said, taking the paper. “Not after having several of their members captured. Wayne, did you manage to get this without the constables hearing?”
He looked offended. “What do you think?”
Waxillium nodded, rubbing his chin. “We should probably go soon. Get to the scene before it gets too cold.”
“But…” Marasi said. “The constables…”
“We’ll drop them an anonymous tip once I’ve seen the place,” Waxillium said.
“Won’t be needed,” Wayne added. “I set a fuse.”
“For when?”
“Nightfall.”
“Nice.”
“You can show your appreciation with a big fat nugget of a rare and expensive metal,” Wayne said.
“On the desk,” Waxillium said, folding the paper and sliding it into his vest pocket.
Wayne walked over, glancing at the apparatus set up on the desk. “I’m not sure if I want to touch any of this, mate. I’m rather fond of all of my fingers.”
“It’s not going to explode, Wayne,” he said dryly.
“You said that—”
“It happened once,” Waxillium said.
“Do you know how bloody annoying it is to regrow fingers, Wax?”
“If it’s on par with your complaining, then it’s likely appalling indeed.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Wayne said, scanning the desk until he found the bottle of bendalloy flakes. He snatched that, then backed away warily. “The most innocent-looking of things have a tendency to explode around you. A bloke has to be cautious.” He shook the bottle. “This isn’t much.”
“Don’t act spoiled,” Waxillium said. “That’s far more than I could have gotten you on short notice if we’d been out in the Roughs. Drop the hat. Let’s go look at this foundry your notes mention.”
“We can use my carriage, if you like,” Marasi said. To the side, Tillaume walked in, carrying a basket in one hand and a tray with tea in the other. He set the basket beside the door, then set the tray on the table and began pouring tea.
Waxillium eyed Marasi. “You want to come? I thought you said you wanted to leave the shooting to men like me.”
“You said they won’t be there,” she replied. “So there’s really no danger.”
“They still want you,” Wayne noted. “They tried to grab you at the dinner. It’ll be dangerous for you.”
“And they’d likely shoot either one of you without blinking,” she said. “So how will it be any less dangerous for you?”
“I suppose it ain’t,” Wayne admitted.
Tillaume walked over, bringing a cup of tea for Waxillium on a small tray. Wayne plucked it off with a grin, though Tillaume tried to pull the tray away.
“How convenient,” Wayne said, holding the teacup. “Wax, why didn’t you ever get me one of these chaps back in Weathering?” The butler shot him a scowl, then hurried back to the table to prepare another cup.
Waxillium considered Marasi. There was something he was missing, something important. Something about what Wayne had said …
“Why did they take you?” Waxillium asked Marasi. “There were better targets at that party. Women closer to the bloodlines they wanted.”
“You said she might have been a decoy to throw us off,” Wayne said, dumping some bendalloy into his teacup, then downing the entire thing in one draught.
“Yes,” Waxillium said, looking into her eyes and seeing a flash of something there. She turned away. “But if that were the case, they’d have wanted to take someone that wasn’t close to the same bloodline at all, not one who was a near cousin.” He pursed his lips, and then it clicked. “Ah. You’re illegitimate, then. Steris’s half sister, by Lord Harms, I assume.”
She blushed. “Yes.”
Wayne whistled. “Wonderful show, Wax. Usually I wait to call someone a bastard until the second date.” He eyed Marasi. “Third if she’s pretty.”
“I…” Waxillium felt a sudden burst of shame. “Of course. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s quite all right,” she said softly.
It made sense. Marasi and Lord Harms had grown so uncomfortable when Steris had spoken of mistresses. And then there was the specific clause about them in the contract; Steris was accustomed to infidelity on the part of a lord. That also explained why Harms was paying for the education and housing of Steris’s “cousin.”
“Lady Marasi,” Waxillium said, taking her hand. “Perhaps my years in the Roughs affected me more than I’d assumed. There was a time when I gave thought to my words before speaking them. Forgive me.”
“I am what I am, Lord Waxillium,” she said. “And I have grown comfortable with it.”
“It was still crude of me.”
“You needn’t apologize.”
“Huh,” Wayne said thoughtfully. “Tea’s poisoned.”
With that, he toppled to the ground.
Marasi gasped, immediately going to his side. Waxillium spun, looking at Tillaume just as the butler turned from his supposed tea preparations and leveled a pistol at Waxillium.
There was no time for thought. Waxillium burned steel—he kept it in him when he thought he might be in danger—and Pushed on the third button of his vest. He always wore one made of steel there, to use either for restoring his metal reserves or as a weapon.
It burst from his vest, streaking across the room and striking Tillaume in the chest just as he pulled the trigger. The shot went wild. Neither the bullet nor the gun registered as metal to Waxillium’s Allomantic senses. Aluminum, then.
Tillaume stumbled to the side and dropped the gun, pulling himself along the bookshelf in an attempt to flee. He left a line of blood on the floor before collapsing at the door.
Waxillium dropped to his knees beside Wayne. Marasi had jumped at the gunshot, and was staring at the gasping butler.
“Wayne?” Waxillium said, lifting his friend’s head.
Wayne’s eyes fluttered open. “Poison. I hate poison. Worse than losin’ a finger, I tell you.”
“Lord Waxillium!” Marasi said, alarmed.
“Wayne will be fine,” Waxillium said, relaxing back. “So long as he can talk and he has some Feruchemical reserves, he can pull through just about anything.”
“I’m not talking about him. The butler!”
Waxillium looked up with a start, realizing that the dying Tillaume was fiddling with the basket he’d brought in—the man reached a bloodied hand into it and pulled on something.
“Wayne!” Waxillium cried. “Bubble. Now!”
Tillaume fell back. The basket erupted in a blossoming ball of fire.
And then froze.
“Aw, hell,” Wayne said, rolling over to look at the explosion in progress. “I warned you. I said things are always blowing up around you.”
“I refuse to take responsibility for this one.”
“He’s your butler,” Wayne said, coughing and crawling to his knees. “Blarek! It wasn’t even good tea.”
“It’s getting bigger!” Marasi said, alarmed as she pointed at the explosion.
The fire blast had vaporized the basket before Wayne got his bubble up. The blast wave was slowly expanding outward, burning away the carpet, destroying the doorframe and the bookshelves. The butler himself had already been engulfed.
“Damn,” Wayne said. “That’s a big one.”
“Probably meant to look like an accident with my metallurgy equipment,” Waxillium said. “Burning our bodies, covering the murder.”
“Shall we go out the windows, then?”
“That blast is going to be hard to outrun,” Waxillium said thoughtfully.
“You could do it. Just gotta Push hard enough.”
“Against what, Wayne? I don’t see any good anchors in that direction. Besides, if I launch us backward that fast, going out the window is going to shred us and rip our bodies apart.”
“Gentlemen,” Marasi said, voice growing frantic, “it’s getting bigger.”
“Wayne can’t stop time,” Waxillium said. “Just slow it greatly. And he can’t move the bubble once he’s made it.”
“Look,” Wayne said. “Just blow the wall out. Push against the nails in the window frames and blast open the side of t
he building. Then you can shoot us out that direction without us running into anything.”
“Do you even listen to yourself when you say these things?” Waxillium asked, hands on hips as he regarded his friend. “That’s brick and stone. If I Push too hard, I’ll just throw myself backward into the explosion.”
“It’s getting really, really close!” Marasi said.
“So make yourself heavier,” Wayne said.
“Heavy enough so that I don’t move when an entire wall—a well-built, extremely heavy one—is ripped off a building?”
“Sure.”
“The floor would never be able to take it,” Waxillium said. “It would shatter, and…”
He trailed off.
Both of them looked down.
Snapping into motion, Waxillium grabbed Marasi, pulling her over with a yelp. He rolled onto his back, holding her tightly atop him.
The explosion was taking up most of their field of vision now, having consumed a large portion of the room. It swelled closer and closer, glowing with angry yellow light, like a bubbling, bursting pastry expanding in an enormous oven.
“What are we—” Marasi said.
“Hold on!” Waxillium said.
He amplified his weight.
Feruchemy didn’t work like Allomancy. The two categories of power were often lumped together, but in many ways, they were opposites. In Allomancy, the power came from the metal itself, and there was a limit to how much you could do at once. Wayne couldn’t compress time beyond a certain amount; Waxillium could Push only so hard on a piece of metal.
Feruchemy was powered by a sort of cannibalism, where you consumed part of yourself for later use. Make yourself weigh half as much for ten days, and you could make yourself one and a half times as heavy for a near-equal amount of time. Or you could make yourself twice as heavy for half that time. Or four times as heavy for a quarter of that time.
Or extremely heavy for a few brief moments.
Waxillium drew into himself weight he’d stored in his metalminds across days spent going around at three-quarters weight. He became heavy as a boulder, then as heavy as a building, then heavier. All this weight was focused on one small section of the floor.
The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel Page 15