The Alloy of Law (Mistborn 4)

“Is that a bullet in your fingers?” Steris asked, pointing.

Waxillium looked down, realizing that he was rolling the cartridge between forefinger and thumb. He closed his fist around it before his memories could return. “It’s nothing.” He shot a glare at Wayne.

The other man mouthed something. Push on it.

“You are quite certain your unconventional past is behind you, Lord Ladrian?” Steris asked.

“Oh, he’s certain,” Wayne said, grimacing. “You don’t have to worry about him being unconventional. Why, he’s downright boring! Unbelievably, comically, nonsensically boring. You could squeeze more excitement out of a beggar waiting in line at the soup kitchen on rat meat day. It—”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Waxillium said dryly. “Yes, Steris, my past is just that. Past. I am committed to my duties as head of House Ladrian.”

“Very well,” she said. “We will need a formal entrance into high society as a couple. A public event of some sort.”

“How about the Yomen-Ostlin wedding dinner?” Waxillium said absently. Push on it. “I received an invitation just this morning.”

“An excellent idea,” Lord Harms said. “We were invited as well.”

Push on it. Waxillium reached into his left sleeve and covertly took a small pinch of steel shavings from the pouch he kept there. He dropped it into his tea and took a drink. That didn’t give him much of a reserve, but it was enough.

He burned the steel, the familiar lines of blue springing up around him. They pointed to all nearby sources of metal.

Except the one in his fingers.

Aluminum, he realized. No wonder it’s light.

Aluminum and a few of its alloys were Allomantically inert; you couldn’t Push or Pull on them. It was also very expensive. It cost more than even gold or platinum.

The bullet was designed to kill Coinshots and Lurchers, men like Waxillium himself. That gave him a shiver, though he gripped the round more tightly. There were days when he’d have given his best gun for a few aluminum bullets, though he hadn’t heard of an alloy that would produce a bullet with sound ballistics.

Where? he mouthed to Wayne. Where did you find it?

Wayne just nodded to the guests, who were looking right at Waxillium.

“Are you quite all right, Lord Ladrian?” Steris asked. “I know a good zinc counselor if you have need of some emotional aid.”

“Er … no. Thank you. I am quite all right, and I think this has been a very productive meeting. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“That depends,” she said, rising, apparently taking that as an invitation to end the conversation. “The wedding party is on the morrow, I believe. I can count on you having reviewed the contract by then?”

“You can,” Waxillium said, rising as well.

“I think this meeting was wonderful,” Wayne said as he stood. “You’re just what my nephew needs, Lady Steris! A firm hand. None of this rabble-rousing he’s been used to.”

“I agree!” Lord Harms said. “Lord Ladrian, perhaps your uncle can attend the dinner—”

“No,” Waxillium said quickly before Wayne could say anything. “No, unfortunately, he has to return to his estates. Told me just earlier. He has a very important foaling to attend.”

“Oh, well then,” Lord Harms said, helping Marasi to her feet. “We will send you word of confirmation once we have accepted the Yomen invitation.”

“And I will do likewise,” Waxillium said, escorting them to the door of the room. “Farewell until then.” Tillaume bowed to them there, then escorted them out. Their departure felt rushed to Waxillium, but he was relieved to see them go. Considering Wayne’s sudden intrusion, that had actually gone pretty well. Nobody had ended up trying to shoot him.

“Nice bunch,” Wayne said. “I now see what you’re doing. With a wife and in-laws like those, you’ll feel quite at home here—just like the jailhouse and its occupants back in Weathering!”

“Very nice,” Waxillium said under his breath, waving one last time as the Harms family walked out the mansion doors. “Where did you get the bullet?”

“It was dropped at the theater robbery. Traded the constables for it this morning.”

Waxillium closed his eyes. Wayne had a very liberal interpretation of what “trading” entailed.

“Oh, don’t get that way,” Wayne said. “I left them a nice cobblestone for it. I think Steris and her pop are convinced you’re a loon, by the way.” He grinned.

“That’s nothing new. My association with you has been convincing people I’m insane for years now.”

“Ha! And here I thought you’d lost your sense of humor.” Wayne walked back into the room. He slid his pencil out of his pocket as he passed a table, trading it for one of Waxillium’s pens.

“My humor isn’t lost, Wayne,” Waxillium said, “just strained. What I told you is true, and this bullet doesn’t change anything.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” Wayne said, retrieving his hat, duster, and dueling canes. “But I’m still gonna see what I can find.”

“It’s not your job.”

“And it wasn’t your job to start hunting down criminals out in the Roughs. Doesn’t change what needs to be done, mate.” Wayne walked up to Waxillium, then handed him the hat. Once Waxillium took it, Wayne threw on his coat.

“Wayne…”

“People are being taken, Wax,” he said, taking back his hat and putting it on. “Four hostages so far. None returned. Stealing jewelry is one thing. Taking food from Roughs towns is another. Kidnapping people … well, there’s something goin’ on here. I’m gonna find out what it is. With or without you.”

“Without me.”

“Fine.” He hesitated. “But I need something, Wax. A place to look. You always did the thinking.”

“Yes, having a brain helps with that, surprisingly.”

Wayne narrowed his eyes at him. Then he raised his eyebrows, pleadingly.

“All right,” Waxillium said, sighing and fetching his teacup. “How many robberies now?”

“Eight. Seven railway cars and, most recently, the theater.”

“Four hostages?”

“Yeah. Across three of the latest robberies. Two were taken from one of the trains, then one from the robbery at the theater. All four hostages are women.”

“Easier to overpower,” Waxillium said idly, tapping his cup, “and more likely to make the men worry about getting them killed if they try to give chase.”

“Do you need to know what was stolen?” Wayne said, reaching into the pocket of his duster. “I traded one of the constables for a list.…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Waxillium took a drink from his cup. “Or, at least, most of it probably doesn’t. It’s not about the robberies.”

“It’s … not?”

“No. Large gang. Well funded—too well funded.” He pulled out the round and looked it over. “If they really wanted money, they’d be robbing gold transports or banks. The robberies are probably a distraction. If you want a man’s horses, sometimes the best thing to do is let his hogs loose. While he’s chasing them down, you ride off.

“I’d lay money on these Vanishers being after something else, something unlikely. Perhaps an item that is easy to overlook in all that has been taken. Or maybe it’s really about extortion—and they plan to start asking for protection money from people in town. See if anyone’s been contacted about that. I haven’t, by the way.

“If that goes nowhere, look at the hostages. One of them might have been carrying something that was the real target of the robbery. I wouldn’t be surprised if this turned out to be about clandestine blackmail.”

“But they robbed a few trains before taking any hostages.”

“Yes,” Waxillium said. “And they got away with it. There was no reason to expose themselves by robbing passengers if they could make off with cargo unseen and unstopped. They’re after something else, Wayne. Trust me.”

“All right.” The wiry man rubbed his face, then finally pulled off the fake mustache. He stuffed it into his pocket. “But tell me. Don’t you even want to know? Doesn’t it itch at you?”

“No.” That wasn’t completely true.

Wayne snorted. “I’d believe you if you could say that without your eye twitching, mate.” He nodded toward the bullet. “I notice you didn’t offer to give that back.”

“I didn’t.” Waxillium pocketed it.

“And you still wear your metalminds,” Wayne said, nodding to the bracers hidden mostly by the cuffs of Waxillium’s sleeves. “Not to mention that you’re still keeping steel inside your sleeve. I noticed a gun catalogue over on the table, too.”

“A man must have hobbies.”

“If you say so,” Wayne said, then stepped forward, tapping Waxillium on the chest. “But you know what I think? I think you’re looking for excuses to not let go. This thing, it’s who you are. And no mansion, no marriage, and no mere title is going to change that.” Wayne tipped his hat. “You’re meant to be helping people, mate. It’s what you do.”

With that, Wayne left, his duster brushing against the doorframe as he walked out.

3

Eight hours later, Waxillium stood at an upper window of his mansion. He watched the last broken fragments of a dying day. They dimmed, then grew black. He waited, hoping. But no mist came.

What does it matter? he thought to himself. You’re not going to go outside anyway. Still, he wished the mists were out; he felt more at peace when they were out there, watching. The world became a different place, one he felt he better understood.

He sighed and crossed his study to the wall. He turned the switch, and the electric lights came on. They were still a wonder to him. Even though he knew the Words of Founding had given hints regarding electricity, what men had achieved still seemed incredible.

He crossed the room to his uncle’s desk. His desk. Back in Weathering, Waxillium had used a rough, flimsy table. Now he had a sturdy, smoothly polished desk of stained oak. He sat down and began leafing through ledgers of house finances. It wasn’t long, however, before his eyes started flicking toward the stack of broadsheets lying on his easy chair. He’d asked Limmi to go gather a few of them for him.

He usually ignored the broadsheets these days. Reports of crimes had a way of setting his mind running in circles and keeping him from focusing on his business. Of course, now that thoughts of the Vanishers had been planted in his mind, he’d have trouble letting go and doing anything productive, at least until he had scratched a few itches about what they’d been doing.

Perhaps just a little reading, he told himself. To catch up on current events. It wouldn’t hurt to be informed; in fact, it might be important to his ability to entertain discussions with others.