The Alloy of Law (Mistborn 4)

Wayne raised his cane and pulled the trigger. His hand started wobbling as it always did when he tried to use a gun, but this one only had blanks in it, so it was all right. The pistol-like crack drove the crowd into a panic, people ducking down in a wave like wind blowing through a field of grain.

Wayne darted through the prostrate figures, hopping over some of them, reaching the back of the crowd. The guard raised his gun; Wayne dashed around a corner of the station building. Then he stopped time.

He threw off his coat, then pulled off the blouse underneath, revealing a gentleman’s suit: black coat, white shirt, red cravat. Wax had called it “purposefully unimaginative,” whatever that meant. He removed the items that, tied to the inside of the blouse, had formed the elderly woman’s bust: a small bag, a collapsible gentleman’s hat, and a wet rag. He unfolded the hat and stuffed the blouse into the extra space inside it before pulling off his wig and putting the hat on his head.

He ripped the outer layer off his cane, turning it black instead. He tossed the wig aside, then dropped the bag by the wall. Finally, he wiped his face clean of makeup with the rag, discarded it, then collapsed his speed bubble.

He stumbled out around the corner of the building, acting as if he’d been shoved. He cursed, straightening his hat and raising his black cane, shaking it in anger.

The guard puffed up beside him. “Are you all right, m’lord?”

“No!” Wayne snapped, filling his voice with every ounce of aristocratic condescension he could manage. Madion Ways accent, the richest area of the First Octant—where House Tekiel owned much of the land. “What kind of ruffian was that, Captain! The launch was supposed to be handled with poise and care!”

The guard froze, and Wayne could see his mind working. He’d been expecting a random nobleman, but this person sounded like a member of House Tekiel—the guard’s employers.

“Sorry, m’lord!” the guard said. “But I chased ’im off.”

“Who was he?” Wayne said, walking over to the wig. “He threw this aside as he passed me.”

“Was dressed up like an elderly woman,” the guard said, scratching his head. “Asking me questions about the Breaknaught.”

“Damn it all, man. That must have been one of the Vanishers!”

The guard paled.

“Do you know how embarrassed our house will be if something happens on this trip?” Wayne said, stepping in, shaking the cane. “Our reputation is on the line. Our heads are on the line, Captain. How many guards do you have?”

“Three dozen, m’lord, and—”

“Not enough! Not enough at all! Send for more.”

“I—”

“No!” Wayne said. “I’ll do it. I have several of my own guards here. I’ll send one to fetch another division. Your men are watching the area for more creatures such as that one?”

“Well, I haven’t told them yet, m’lord. Thought I’d try to get ’im myself, you see, and—”

“You left your post?” Wayne screamed, raising hands to the side of his head, cane dangling from his fingers. “You let him lure you away? Idiot! Get back, man! Go! Alert the others. Oh, Survivor above. If this goes wrong, we’re dead. Dead!”

The guard captain scrambled back and ran for the train, where people were moving away in a panic. Wayne leaned back against the wall, checked his pocket watch, then waited for a good moment when he had enough space to put a speed bubble. He was reasonably sure nobody was looking.

Off came the hat. He dropped the cane and reversed his jacket, turning it into a brown and yellow military coat, matching that of the guards. He pulled off his fake nose and took a triangular cloth cap out of the bag he’d dropped by the wall.

He put this on his head instead of the gentleman’s hat. Always have the right hat. That was key. He strapped a handgun on over the coat after dropping his pants, revealing the soldier’s uniform beneath. Then he collapsed his bubble and jogged around the corner, making his way up to the tracks. He found the captain organizing his men, yelling orders. There were some angry noblemen arguing with one another nearby.

The cargo wasn’t being unloaded. That was good. Wayne had figured they’d just give up on this run, with all the fuss, but Wax had disagreed. He said that the Tekiels had made such a big deal of the Breaknaught that a hiccup or two wouldn’t stop them.

Fools, Wayne thought, shaking his head. Farnsward didn’t agree with the decision. He’d been in House Tekiel’s private guard for ten years now, though he’d mostly served on the Outer Estates with his lord, who was chronically ill. Farnsward had seen a lot in his time, and he’d learned that there were reasons to take risks. To save a life, to win a battle, to protect the house’s name. But to take a risk just because you’d said you would? Foolishness.

He jogged up to the captain he’d talked to earlier and saluted. “Sir,” he said. “I’m Farnsward Dubs—Lord Evenstrom Tekiel said I should report to you.” An Outer Estates accent with a hint of aristocracy, picked up from so long associating with them.

The man was looking frazzled. “Very well. I guess we can use every man.”

“Sorry, sir,” Wayne said, leaning in. “Lord Evenstrom is excitable, sometimes. I know how it goes; this isn’t the first time he’s sent me to help someone who didn’t need it. Bren and I will stay out of your way.”

“Bren?”

“Oh, he was right behind me,” Wayne said, turning around, looking confused.

Wax ducked out of the station, wearing a uniform similar to Wayne’s. He also had a fake paunch of some size, hiding some specific materials he’d need for the night.

“There he is,” Wayne said. “He’s a dull-minded lout, sir. His father left him the position, but you could hit his steel against flint all night and not get a spark, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, stay here,” the captain said. “Guard this post. Don’t let anyone approach the train car, no matter what they look like.” He left, running over to the batch of noblemen.

“’Ello, Wax,” Wayne said, tipping his hat to the other man. “Ready to get swallowed?”

Waxillium glanced back toward the station building. Civilians were still scattering. The ground was littered with hats and handkerchiefs. “You need to make sure they still send the train, Wayne. No matter what, it must go forward.”

“I thought you said they’ll be too embarrassed not to launch it.”

“For the first part, yes. Not so sure about this next part. Make it happen, Wayne.”

“Sure thing, mate.” Wayne checked his watch. “She’s late—”

A sudden series of cracks split the air. Gunshots. Even though Wayne was expecting them, they still made him jump. The guards around them cried out, shouting, looking for the source of the shots. Waxillium fell, screaming, blood spraying from his shoulder. Wayne caught him as another guard spotted flashes coming from atop the building.

The guards opened fire as Wayne dragged Waxillium out of harm’s way. He looked about, then—acting frantic—shoved Waxillium into the open door of the railcar. Several of the guards looked at him, but nobody said a word. Waxillium’s eyes were staring dead into the air. The other guards had probably lost mates to bandits or house skirmishes, and they knew. In the heat of the fighting, you got the wounded to safety, and it didn’t bloody matter where.

The firing stopped from atop the building, but it started up again from a rooftop nearby. A few bullets sprayed sparks from the top of a nearby girder. A little close there, Marasi, Wayne thought with annoyance. Why did every woman he met try to shoot him? Just because he could heal from it. That was like drinking a man’s beer just because he could order more.

Wayne plastered a worried look on his face. “They’re comin’ for the cargo!” he yelled. Then he grabbed the door to the large cargo car, kicked the counterbalance lever to the side, and ran forward. He slammed the door on the Breaknaught shut—Wax inside the railcar, Wayne himself standing outside—before anyone thought to stop him.

The gunfire stopped. Nearby, the guards cowering behind cover looked at Wayne with horrified expressions. The door to the train clicked into place, settling in.

“Rust and Ruin, man!” one of the nearby soldiers said. “What have you done?”

“Locked up the cargo!” Wayne said. “Look, it made them stop.”

“There were supposed to be soldiers inside there!” the captain said, running up to him.

“They were trying to get in before we got it locked,” Wayne said. “You saw what they were doing.” He looked at the door. “They can’t get to the cargo now. We’ve won!”

The captain looked concerned. He glanced at the noblemen who were picking themselves off the ground. Wayne held his breath as they came storming over to the captain. The captain, however, repeated Wayne’s same words.

“But we stopped them,” the captain explained, knowing that he—and not Wayne—would bear the blame if it was decided that mistakes had been made. “They dropped their attack. We won!”

Wayne stepped back, relaxing against a pillar as guards were sent to try to find out who had been shooting. They came back with a large number of rifle bullet casings planted on the ground in various locations, though most of the “shots” had been blanks. Several beggar boys had been paid to fire blanks into the air, then plant stories of men getting into horse carriages and riding away in a hurry.

In under an hour, the train was on its way—with everyone at House Tekiel convinced they’d fought off a major Vanishers robbery. There was even talk of giving Wayne a commendation, though he deflected the glory to the captain and slipped away before anyone could begin asking just which lord retained him as a bodyguard.

17

Waxillium rode alone in the cold cargo railcar, shoulder wet with fake blood, listening to the wheels thump over the tracks beneath him. A swinging lamp hung where he’d placed it on a hook in the ceiling, near a corner. He’d also secured the webbing of nets on the ceiling, tucked up and held in place by special hooks affixed with industrial tape. It felt good to have all of that removed from wrapping around his legs, thighs, and fake paunch. His guard’s uniform, now much too large for him, lay in a heap in the corner, and he wore a utilitarian pair of suit pants and a light black jacket instead.

He sat on the floor, back to the side of the cargo container, legs stretched out. He held Vindication in his hand, absently spinning the cylinder and hitting the switch to lock it on to the special chambers. He had two of each type of hazekiller round in his pocket, and had loaded a Coinshot round and a Pewterarm round into the special chambers.

He still had his earring in.

You wanted me to do this, he thought toward Harmony. Did an accusation count as a prayer? Well, here I am. I’ll expect a little help, if that’s acceptable to your immortal plan, and all that.

The cargo box was beside him. He could see why House Tekiel was so proud of the job they’d done; the welded strongbox would be ridiculously difficult for thieves to steal. Getting it out of the car would require hours spent cutting it free with a gas torch or a large electric saw. That, plus the clever door and the supposed existence of guards, would make for a daunting—perhaps impossible—robbery.