“Waxillium?” Miles called from deep inside the tunnel. “If you’re done playing, perhaps you’d like to come settle things.”
Wax crept up to the tunnel mouth, then stepped inside. The mists had filled it, making it difficult to see—which would work equally against Miles. He made his way forward cautiously until he saw the light from the big workshop at the end, where fires still burned.
By that light, he could faintly make out the silhouette of a figure standing in the tunnel, holding a gun to the head of a slender woman. Marasi.
Waxillium froze, pulse accelerating. But no, this was part of the plan. It was perfect. Except …
“I know you’re in there,” Miles’s voice said. Another figure moved, tossing a few improvised torches into the darkness.
With a freezing sense of horror, Waxillium realized that Miles wasn’t the one holding Marasi. He stood too far back. The man holding Marasi was the one named Tarson, the koloss-blooded Pewterarm.
Her face illuminated by wavering torchlight, Marasi looked terrified. Waxillium’s fingers felt slick on the revolver’s grip. The Pewterarm was careful to keep Marasi between himself and Waxillium’s side of the tunnel, gun to the back of her head. He was squat and tough, but not very tall. He was only in his twenties—like all koloss-blooded, he’d continue growing taller throughout his life.
Either way, at the moment, Waxillium couldn’t get a bead on him. Oh, Harmony, he thought. It’s happening again.
Something rustled in the darkness nearby. He jumped and nearly shot it until he caught the outline of Wayne’s face.
“Sorry about this,” Wayne whispered. “When she got grabbed, I thought it was Miles. And so I—”
“It’s all right,” Waxillium said softly.
“What do we do?” Wayne asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You always know.”
Waxillium was silent.
“I can hear you whispering!” Miles called. He walked forward and tossed another torch.
Just a few steps more, Waxillium thought.
Miles stopped where he was, eyeing the creeping mists with what seemed like distrust. Marasi whimpered. Then she tried jerking, the way she had back at the wedding dinner.
“None of that,” Tarson said, holding her carefully. He fired a shot right in front of her face, then brought the gun back to her head. She froze.
Waxillium raised his revolver.
I can’t do this. I can’t watch another one die. Not by my hand.
“All right,” Miles called. “Fine. You want to test me, Wax? I’m counting to three. If I reach three, Tarson shoots, no other warnings. One.”
He’ll do it, Waxillium realized, feeling helpless, guilty, overwhelmed. He really will. Miles didn’t need a hostage. If threatening her wouldn’t bring Waxillium out, then he wouldn’t bother with her.
“Two.”
Blood on the bricks. A smiling face.
“Wax?” Wayne whispered, sounding urgent.
Oh, Harmony, if I’ve ever needed you …
Mist curled around his legs.
“Th—”
“Wayne!” Waxillium yelled, standing.
The speed bubble went up. Tarson would fire in mere moments. Miles behind him, pointing angrily. Torchfire frozen. It was like watching an explosion in slow motion again. Waxillium raised his Sterrion, and found his arm incredibly still.
It had been still on the day he’d shot Lessie, too.
He’d shot her with this very gun.
Sweating, trying to banish the images from his head, he tried to find a clear shot at Tarson. There wasn’t one. Oh, he could hit Tarson, but not anywhere that would drop him immediately. And if Waxillium didn’t hit just right, the man would shoot Marasi by reflex.
The head was the best way to drop a Pewterarm. Only, Waxillium couldn’t see the head. Could he shoot the gun? Marasi’s face was in the way. The knees? He might be able to hit a knee. No. A Pewterarm would ignore most hits—if the damage wasn’t immediately lethal, he’d stay up, and he’d shoot.
It had to be the head.
Waxillium held his breath. This is the most accurate gun I’ve ever fired, he thought. I can’t sit here, frozen. I have to act.
I have to do something.
Sweat dripped off his chin. He raised his hand with a quick motion in front of him, then pointed the Sterrion to the side, off center from Marasi or Tarson. Wax fired.
The bullet shot out of the bubble in an instant, then hit slower time. It deflected, as bullets always did when fired from within a speed bubble. He watched it go, judging its new trajectory. It moved forward sluggishly, spinning as it cut through the air.
Wax took careful aim, waited several excruciating moments. Then he readied his steel.
“Drop it on my mark,” he whispered.
Wayne nodded.
“Go.”
Wax fired and Pushed.
The speed bubble fell.
“—ee!” Miles called.
A small shower of sparks exploded in the air as Wax’s second bullet, propelled with incredible speed by his Steelpush, clipped the other one in midair and deflected it to the side: behind Marasi, into Tarson’s head.
The Pewterarm dropped immediately, gun slapping to the ground, eyes staring dully upward. Miles gaped. Marasi blinked, then turned about, raising her arms to her chest.
“Aw, biscuits,” Wayne said. “Did you have to hit him in the head? That was my lucky hat he was wearin’.”
Miles recovered his wits and raised his revolver toward Wax. Wax turned and fired first, hitting Miles’s hand, dropping his gun to the ground. Wax shot it, knocking it backward into the other room.
“Stop doing that!” Miles screamed. “You bast—”
Wax shot him in the mouth, driving him backward a step, throwing out chips of tooth. Miles still wore only the tattered remnants of his trousers.
“Somebody shoulda done that ages ago,” Wayne muttered.
“It won’t last,” Wax said, plugging Miles in the face again to try to keep him disoriented. “Time for you to be off, Wayne. Backup plan is still a go.”
“You sure you got them all, mate?”
“Tarson was the last.” And I’d better not be wrong.…
“Grab my hat if you get the chance,” Wayne said, scrambling away as Wax shot Miles in the face again. This hit barely bothered him, and the half-naked man lurched forward. Toward Marasi. Miles was unarmed, but there was murder in his eyes.
Wax dashed forward, throwing the empty gun at Miles, then fishing out a handful of bullets. He Pushed them toward the former lawman. One sliced him in the arm, one cut through his gut and came out the other side, but none lodged in a way that Wax could push them to shove Miles back.
Wax hit Miles just before he reached Marasi. The two went down in a heap on the dirty ground, under the mists rolling across the floor.
Wax grabbed Miles by the shoulder and started punching. Just … keep … him busy …
Miles showed a flash of amusement through the annoyance. He took a few of the punches, Wax’s fist growing sore in the process. Wax could punch until his knuckles broke and his hand was reduced to a bloody mess, and Miles would be no worse for the wear.
“I knew you’d go for the girl,” Wax said, holding Miles’s attention. “You talk grandly about justice, but in the end, you’re just a petty criminal.”
Miles snorted, then kicked Wax free. Pain flared in Wax’s chest as he was thrown back into a muddy portion of the tunnel, cold water splashing around him, soaking his mistcoat.
Miles stood up, wiping some blood off his lip where it had split, then healed. “You know the really sad thing, Wax? I understand you. I’ve felt like you, I’ve thought like you. But there was always that distant, rumbling dissatisfaction within. Like a storm on the horizon.”
Wax got to his feet and rammed a fist into Miles’s kidney. It didn’t even get a grunt. Miles grabbed him by the arm, twisting it, causing his shoulder to flare w
ith pain. Wax gasped, and Miles kicked the back of his knee, sending him to the ground again.
As Wax tried to roll over, Miles grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up, then laid into him with a fist to the face. Marasi gasped, though she had been told to stay back. She did her part.
The punch slammed Wax down to the ground, and he tasted blood. Rust and Ruin … he’d be lucky if his jaw wasn’t broken. He also felt like he’d ripped something in his shoulder.
His wounds suddenly seemed to crash down upon him. He didn’t know if it was the mists, some action of Harmony, or simple adrenaline that had helped him ignore them for a time. But he hadn’t been healed. His side screamed from where he’d been shot, and his leg and arm had been burned and scraped raw by the explosion. He’d been clipped by bullets in the thigh and the arm. And now, Miles’s beating.
It overwhelmed him, and he groaned, slumping down, struggling to merely remain conscious. Miles pulled him up again, and Wax managed to get in one thrashing swing that connected. And did nothing. It was very, very difficult to brawl with a man who didn’t flinch when you hit him.
Another punch sent Wax to the ground again, head ringing, eyes seeing stars and flashes of light.
Miles leaned down, speaking in his ear. “Thing is, Waxillium, I know you feel it too. A part of you knows that you’re being used, that nobody cares about the downtrodden. You’re just a puppet. People are murdered every day this city. At least one a day. Did you know that?”
“I…” Keep him talking. He rolled onto his back, aching, meeting Miles’s eyes.
“People murdered every day,” Miles repeated, “and what was it that brought you out of your ‘retirement’? When I shot an old, would-be aristocratic wolfhound in the head. Did you ever stop to think of all the other people being killed in the streets? The beggars, the whores, the orphans? Dead because of lack of food, or because they were in the wrong place, or because they tried something stupid.”
“You’re trying to invoke the Survivor’s mandate,” Wax whispered. “But it won’t work, Miles. This isn’t the Final Empire of legend. A rich man can’t kill a poor one just because he feels like it. We’ve gotten better than that.”
“Bah!” Miles said. “They pretend and lie to make a good show.”
“No,” Waxillium said. “They have good intentions, and make laws that prevent the worst of it—but those laws still fall short. It’s not the same thing.”
Miles kicked him in the side to keep him down. “I don’t care about the Survivor’s mandate. I’ve found something better. That doesn’t matter to you. You’re just a sword, a tool that goes where it’s pointed. It rips you apart that you can’t stop the things that you know you should. Doesn’t it?”
They met eyes. And, shockingly—despite the agony—Waxillium found himself nodding. Truthfully nodding. He did feel it. That was why what had happened to Miles terrified him.
“Well, someone has to do something about it,” Miles said.
Harmony, Waxillium thought. If Miles had been born back then, in the days before, he’d have been a hero. “I’ll start helping them, Miles,” Waxillium said. “I promise it to you.”
Miles shook his head. “You won’t live that long, Wax. Sorry.” He kicked again. And again. And again.
Waxillium curled around himself, hands over his face. He couldn’t fight. He just had to last. But the pain was mounting. It was terrible.
“Stop it!” Marasi’s voice. “Stop it, you monster!”
The kicks stopped falling. Waxillium felt her beside him, kneeling, hand on his shoulder.
Fool woman. Stay back. Unnoticed. That was the plan.
Miles cracked his knuckles audibly. “I suppose I should deliver you to Suit, girl. You’re on his list, and you can replace the one Waxillium set free. I’ll probably have to track her down.”
“Why is it,” Marasi said angrily, “that small-minded men must destroy that which they know is better, and greater, than they?”
“Better than me?” Miles said. “This? He isn’t great, child.”
“The greatest of men can be taken down by the simplest of things. A lowly bullet can end the life of the most powerful, most capable, most secure of men.”
“Not me,” Miles said. “Bullets are nothing to me.”
“No,” she replied. “You’ll be brought down by something even more lowly.”
“Which is?” he asked, amused, voice growing closer.
“Me,” Marasi replied.
Miles laughed. “I’d like to see…” He trailed off.
Waxillium cracked his eyes, looking down the length of the tunnel toward the broken ceiling where the building had stood. Light flooded that pit from above, growing brighter at a remarkable rate.
“Who have you brought?” Miles asked, sounding unimpressed. “They won’t arrive quickly enough.” He paused. Waxillium rolled his head to the side and saw the sudden horror in Miles’s face. He had seen it, finally: a shimmering border nearby, a slight difference in the air. Like the distortion caused by heat rising from a hot street.
A speed bubble.
Miles spun on Marasi. Then he ran for the bubble’s border, away from the light. Trying to escape.
The light at the other end of the tunnel became bright, and a group of blurs moved down it, so quickly it was impossible to distinguish what was causing them.
Marasi dropped her bubble. The sunlight of full day streamed in from the distant pit, and filling the tunnel—right outside where the bubble had been—was a force of over a hundred constables in uniform. Wayne stood at their head, grinning, wearing a constable’s uniform and hat, a false mustache on his face.
“Get ’im, boys!” he said, pointing.
They moved in with clubs, not bothering with guns. Miles screamed in denial, trying to dodge past the first few, then punching at the group that laid hands on him. He wasn’t fast enough, and there were far too many of them. In minutes, they had him held down against the ground and were wrapping ropes around his arms.
Waxillium sat up with care, one eye swelling closed, lip bleeding, side aching. Marasi knelt beside him, anxious.
“You shouldn’t have confronted him,” Waxillium said, tasting blood. “If he’d knocked you out, that would have been the end of it.”
“Oh, hush,” she said. “You aren’t the only one who can take risks.”
The backup plan had been straightforward, if difficult. It had begun with eliminating all of Miles’s lackeys. Even one of them, left alive, could have noticed what the speed bubble meant and shot Waxillium and Marasi from the outside. There wouldn’t have been anything they could have done to prevent it.
But if the lackeys were gone, and if Miles could be distracted long enough while the bubble was up, Wayne could go to gather a large force to surround Miles while he was helpless. He’d never have let it happen if he’d suspected. But within the speed bubble …
“No!” Miles screamed. “Unhand me. I defy your oppression!”
“You are a fool,” Waxillium said to him, then spat blood to the side. “You let yourself get isolated and distracted, Miles. You forgot the first rule of the Roughs.”
Miles screamed, one of the constables pulling a gag over his mouth as he was tied tightly.
“The more alone you are,” Waxillium said softly, “the more important it is to have someone you can rely upon.”
20
“The constable-general has decided not to charge your associate for impersonating an officer of the law,” Reddi said.
Waxillium dabbed at his lip with the handkerchief. He sat in the precinct office nearest the Vanisher lair. He felt like slag, with broken ribs and half his body wrapped in bandages. He’d have scars from this.
“The constable-general,” Marasi said, voice hard, “should be glad for Lord Waxillium’s aid—in fact, he should have begged for Lord Waxillium’s help all along.” She sat beside him on the bench, hovering protectively.
“He actually does seem glad,” Re
ddi said. Now that Waxillium paid closer attention, he noticed how the constable kept glancing through the precinct room toward Brettin, the constable-general. Reddi’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips turning down. He was baffled by his superior’s calm reaction to events.
Waxillium was too exhausted at the moment to bother with the anomaly. In fact, it was nice to hear of something happening in his favor.
Reddi was called over by one of the other constables, and he left. Marasi laid a hand on Waxillium’s good arm. He could practically feel her concern for him physically in the way she hesitated, the way her brow wrinkled.
“You did well,” Waxillium said. “Miles was your catch, Lady Marasi.”
“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.
The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel Page 29