The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(80)

“Advanced interrogation techniques class,” she said. “And … uh, I’ve read your psychological profile.”

“I have a psychological profile?”

“Yes, I’m afraid. Doctor Murnbru wrote it after his visit to Weathering.”

“That little rat Murnbru was a psychologist?” Waxillium said, genuinely baffled. “I was sure he was a gambling cheat, passing through town looking for marks to swindle.”

“Er, yes. That’s in the profile. You, uh, have a tendency to think anyone who wears too much red is a chronic gambler.”

“I do?”

She nodded.

“Damn,” he said. I’m going to need to read that thing.

She left and pulled the door closed. He turned back to his plan once again. He raised his hand and slipped his earring into his ear. He was supposed to wear it when praying, or when doing something of great import.

He figured that tonight, he’d be doing a lot of both.

16

Wayne hobbled through the railway station, supporting himself on his brown cane, walking with a slow, intentionally frail step. There was quite a crowd pushing and shoving one another and gawking at the train up ahead. A group of them surged to the side, nearly toppling him.

Everyone was standing up so tall. That gave Wayne—back bent with age—no hope of seeing what the fuss was about. “No thought for a poor elderly woman,” Wayne grumbled. A gravelly tone, nasal and higher-pitched than his normal voice, mixed with a nice Margothian District accent. The district no longer existed, at least not in the same way; it had been consumed by the industrial quarter of its octant, its residents moving away. A dying accent for a dying woman. “No respect at all. A travesty, I tell you. Plain and simple, that’s what it is.”

A few youths in the crowd in front glanced back at him, taking in his ancient coat—it went down to his ankles—his face furrowed with age, his silvery hair beneath a felt cap. “Sorry, ma’am,” one of them finally said, making way for him.

Now, there’s a nice boy, Wayne thought, patting his arm and hobbling forward. One by one, people made way for him. Sometimes it took a little fit of coughing that sounded like it might be contagious. Wayne was careful not to look like a beggar. That would draw the attention of constables, who might think he was looking for marks to pickpocket.

No, he wasn’t a beggar. He was Abrigain, an old woman who had come to see what the fuss was about. Abrigain wasn’t rich, nor was she poor. Frugal, with a meticulously patched coat, a favored hat that had once been fashionable. Spectacles thick as a dockworker’s wits. A few very young boys let her by, and Abrigain gave them each a piece of candy, patting them on their heads. Nice boys. They reminded Abrigain of her grandchildren.

Wayne eventually reached the front. There, the Breaknaught sat in all its glory. It was a train car built like a fortress, with thick steel armor, shiny rounded corners, and a massive door on the side. That door looked like the one to an enormous vault, with a rotating wheel lock on the outside.

The door was open, and the chamber inside was mostly empty. A large steel cargo box had been welded to the floor at the center of the railcar. In fact, he could see through the door in the railcar that the cargo box itself looked as if it had been welded shut on all sides.

“Oh, my!” Wayne said. “That is impressive.”

A guard stood nearby, wearing the insignia of an officer in the private security force of House Tekiel. He smiled, puffing out his chest with pride. “It marks the dawn of a new era,” he said. “The end of banditry and railway robberies.”

“Oh, it’s impressive, young man,” Wayne said. “But surely you exaggerate. I’ve seen railcars before—I even rode on one, curse that day. My grandson Charetel wanted me to come with him and meet his bride over in Covingtar, and it was the only way, though I thought riding in a horse cart had always worked well enough for me before. Progress, he’d called it. Progress is getting locked up in a box, I suppose, unable to see the sun overhead or enjoy the trip. Anyway, that train car was like this one. Only not so shiny.”

“I assure you,” the guard said, “this is quite impregnable. It will change everything. You see that door?”

“It locks,” Wayne said. “I can see that. But safes can be cracked, young man.”

“Not this one,” he said. “Bandits won’t be able to open it because it can’t be opened—not by them, and not by us. Once that door is closed, it engages a mechanism tied to a ticking clock inside the doors. Those doors cannot be opened again for twelve hours, regardless of whether or not one knows the door code.”

“Explosives,” Wayne said. “Bandits are always blowing things up. Everyone knows that.”

“That steel is six inches thick,” the guard said. “The amount of dynamite it would take to blow it open would likely destroy the contents of the car.”

“But surely an Allomancer could get in,” Wayne said.

“How? They could Push on the metal all they wanted; it’s so heavy, it would toss them backward. And even if they somehow did get in, we will have eight guards riding inside the railcar.”

“My,” Wayne said, letting his accent slip. “That’s impressive indeed. What will the guards be armed with?”

“A full quartet of…” the man began, but then trailed off, looking more closely at Wayne. “Of…” His eyes narrowed in suspicion.