The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(52)

“Is it bad?” Wayne asked, eyes still closed.

“You’ll pull through.”

“I meant the duster.”

“Oh. Well … you’re gonna need a really big patch this time.”

Wayne snorted, then pushed himself up and moved into a sitting position. He winced several times during the process, then finally opened his eyes. Trails of tears were running down the side of his face. “I told you,” Wayne said. “Innocent things are always exploding around you, Wax.”

“You kept your fingers this time.”

“Great. I can still strangle you.”

Waxillium smiled, resting his hand on his friend’s arm. “Thanks.”

Wayne nodded. “I apologize for havin’ to fall on you two.”

“I’ll forgive you, under the circumstances.” Waxillium glanced at Marasi. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, hunched forward, face pale. She saw his scrutiny, then lowered her arms, as if forcing herself to be strong, and began to stand up.

“It’s all right,” Waxillium said. “You can take more time.”

“I’ll be well,” she said, though it was hard to make out the words, as his hearing was still dulled. “I just … I’m unaccustomed to people trying to kill me.”

“You don’t ever get accustomed to it,” Wayne said. “Trust me.” He took a deep breath, then pulled off the remnants of his duster and shirt. Then he turned his burned back to Waxillium. “You mind?”

“You may want to turn away, Marasi,” Waxillium said.



She frowned, but didn’t look away. So he grabbed the burned layer at Wayne’s shoulder and—with a jerk—ripped the skin off his back. It came free in almost a single complete sheet. Wayne grunted.

New skin had formed underneath, pink and fresh, but it couldn’t finish healing properly until the old, stiff, burned layer had been removed. Waxillium tossed it aside.

“Oh, Lord of Harmony,” Marasi said, raising a hand to her mouth. “I think I might be sick.”

“I warned you,” Waxillium said.

“I thought you were referring to his burns. I didn’t realize you were going to tear off his entire back.”

“It feels much better now.” Wayne rolled his arms in his shoulders, now shirtless. He was lean and muscled, and he wore a pair of gold metalmind bracers on his upper arms. His trousers had been singed, but were mostly intact. He reached down, pulling one of his dueling canes out of the wreckage. The other was still at his waist. “Now they owe me a hat and a duster. Where’s the rest of the house staff?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Waxillium said. “I’ll do a quick search and see if anyone’s hurt. You get Marasi out the back. Sneak through the grounds and out the garden gate; I’ll meet you there.”

“Sneak?” Marasi asked.

“Whoever hired that bloke to kill us,” Wayne said, “will be expecting that explosion to mean we’ve gone to meet Ironeyes.”

“Right,” Waxillium said. “We’ll have an hour or two while the house is searched and Tillaume is identified—if there’s enough left to identify. During that time, we’ll be thought dead.”

“It’ll give us a little time to think,” Wayne said. “Come on. We should move quick.”

He led Marasi down the back stairs toward the grounds. She still seemed dazed.

Waxillium’s ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. He suspected the three of them had been shouting their conversation. Wayne was right. You never got used to people trying to kill you.

Waxillium began a quick search of the house, and started refilling his metalminds as he did. He became much lighter, about half his normal weight. Any more than that and it became difficult to walk normally, even with clothing and guns weighing him down. He was practiced at it, though.

During his search, he found Limmi and Miss Grimes unconscious, but alive, in the pantry. A glance out the window showed the coachman, Krent, standing with his hands on his head and looking at the burning building with eyes wide. Of the other house staff—the maids, the errand boys, the cook—there was no sign.

They might have been close enough to the blast to be caught in it, but Waxillium didn’t think that likely. Probably, Tillaume—who had charge over household staff—had sent away everyone that he reasonably could, then had drugged the others and stuffed them someplace safe. It indicated a desire to ensure that nobody was hurt. Well, nobody but Waxillium and his guests.

In two quick trips, Waxillium carried the unconscious women out into the back garden—being careful not to be seen. Hopefully, they would soon be discovered by Krent or the constables. After that, Waxillium fetched a pair of revolvers from the closet on the main floor and got a shirt and jacket from the laundry for Wayne. He wished he could look for his old trunk, with his Sterrions, but there wasn’t time.

He slipped out the back door and crossed the garden on too-light feet. Each step of the way, he was increasingly bothered by what had happened. It was horrible for someone to try to kill you; it was worse when the attack came from someone you knew.

It seemed implausible that the bandits would have been able to contact and bribe Tillaume so quickly. How could they have even known that an aging butler would be amenable? The groom or gardener would have been a far safer choice. Something more was going on here. From Waxillium’s first day in the city, Tillaume had been trying to discourage him from getting involved in local lawkeeping. On the night before the ball, he’d pointedly tried to get Waxillium to drop the subject of the robberies.