The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(14)

Waxillium poured himself some tea. Harms and the two women looked frozen as they sat on their couch, almost like statues. Wayne was flaring his metal, using as much strength as he could to create a few private moments.

These bubbles could be very useful, though not in the way most people expected. You couldn’t shoot out of them—well, you could, but something about the barrier interfered with objects passing through it. If you fired a shot in a speed bubble, the bullet would slow as soon as it hit ordinary time and would be moved erratically off course. That made it nearly impossible to aim from within one.

“She’s a very good match,” Waxillium said. “It’s an ideal situation for both of us.”

“Look, mate. Just because Lessie—”

“This is not about Lessie.”

“Whoa, hey.” Wayne raised a hand. “No need to get angry.”

“I’m not—” Waxillium took a deep breath, then continued more softly. “I’m not angry. But it’s not about Lessie. This is about my duties.”

Damn you, Wayne. I’d almost gotten myself to stop thinking about her. What would Lessie say, if she saw what he was doing? Laugh, probably. Laugh at how ridiculous it was, laugh at his discomfort. She hadn’t been the jealous type, perhaps because she’d never had any reason to be. With a woman like her, why would Waxillium have wanted to look elsewhere?

Nobody would ever live up to her, but fortunately it didn’t matter. Steris’s contract actually seemed a good thing, in that regard. It would help him divide himself. Maybe help with a little of the pain.

“This is my duty now,” Waxillium repeated.

“Your duties used to involve saving folks,” Wayne said, “not marrying ’em.”

Waxillium crouched down beside the chair. “Wayne. I can’t go back to what I was. You sauntering in here, meddling in my life, isn’t going to change that. I’m a different person now.”

“If you were going to become a different person, couldn’t you have chosen one without such an ugly face?”

“Wayne, this is serious.”

Wayne raised his hand, spinning the cartridge between his fingers and proffering it. “So is this.”

“What is that?”

“Bullet. You shoot folks with ’em. Hopefully bad ones—or at least ones what owes you a bar or two.”

“Wayne—”

“They’re turning back.” Wayne set the cartridge on the tea-serving tray.

“But—”

“Time to cough. Three. Two. One.”

Waxillium cursed under his breath, but pocketed the round and stood back up. He started coughing loudly as the speed bubble collapsed, restoring normal time. To the three visitors, only seconds had passed, and to their ears Waxillium and Wayne’s conversation would be sped up to the point that most of it would be inaudible. The coughing would cover anything else.

None of the three visitors seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Waxillium poured the tea—it was a deep cherry color today, likely a sweet fruit tea—and brought a cup over to Marasi. She took it, and he sat down, holding his own cup in one hand, taking out and gripping the cartridge with the other. Both the casing and the medium-caliber bullet’s jacket looked like steel, but the entire thing seemed too light. He frowned, hefting it.

Blood on her face. Blood on the brick wall.

He shivered, fighting off those memories. Damn you, Wayne, he thought again.

“The tea is delicious,” Marasi said softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Waxillium said, forcing his mind back to the conversation. “Lady Steris, I will consider this contract. Thank you for producing it. But really, I was hoping this meeting might allow me to learn more about you.”

“I have been working on an autobiography,” she said. “Perhaps I will send you a chapter or two of it by post.”

“That’s … very unconventional of you,” Waxillium said. “Though it would be appreciated. But please, tell me of yourself. What are your interests?”

“Normally, I like plays.” She grimaced. “At the Coolerim, actually.”

“Am I missing something?” Waxillium asked.

“The Coolerim Playhouse,” Wayne said, leaning forward. “Two nights ago, it was robbed in the middle of the performance.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Lord Harms asked. “It was in all the broadsheets.”

“Was anyone harmed?”

“Not at the event itself,” Lord Harms said, “but they did take a hostage as they escaped.”

“Such a horrid thing,” Steris said. “Nobody has heard from Armal yet.” She looked sick.

“You knew her?” Wayne asked, his accent slipping faintly as he grew interested.

“Cousin,” Steris said.

“Same as…” Waxillium asked, nodding toward Marasi.

The three regarded him with confused expressions for a moment, but then Lord Harms jumped in. “Ah, no. Different side of the family.”

“Interesting,” Waxillium said, leaning back in his chair, tea sitting ignored in his hand. “And ambitious. Robbing an entire playhouse? How many of the robbers were there?”

“Dozens,” Marasi said. “Maybe as many as thirty, so the reports say.”