The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(91)

The man had begun to charge toward Wayne, moving extremely slowly, yet noticeably faster than the other Vanishers. It was frustrating, but Wayne knew he had to stay away from the man. He’d never beaten a Pewterarm without a lot of health stored up. Better to keep jumping around, keeping the man confused until Marasi or Wax could shoot him a few times.

Wayne turned and scanned the area nearby, choosing where he should stand as he dropped the bubble. With so many bullets being fired, he didn’t want to …

Was that Wax?

Wayne gaped, only now noticing Waxillium’s bloodied form hurtling across the room, as if by a Steelpush. Wax was pointed toward a group of boxes on the northwestern side of the room, to Wayne’s left. His suit had been shredded and burned along one side. Another explosion? Wayne thought he’d heard something, but jumping in and out of speed bubbles could really play havoc with sounds.

Wax needed him. Time to end this fighting, then. Wayne dropped the bubble and dashed forward. He counted to two, then put up another bubble and dodged right. He dropped it and kept running, bullets streaking through the air where he had been. To the eyes of those trying to track him, he’d have blurred and appeared immediately to the right of where he’d just been. He did it again, dodging back in another direction, then dropped the bubble.

Almost there. Another bubble up, and—

Something hit Wayne in the arm. He felt the blood before the pain, strangely enough. He cursed, stumbling, and threw up a bubble immediately.

He grabbed his arm. Warm blood squirted between his fingers, and in a panic, he tapped the last smidgen of healing in his metalmind. It wasn’t enough to fix the gunshot wound; it barely slowed the bleeding. He turned, noticing another bullet about to hit his speed bubble. He jumped to the side just before it touched the perimeter, zipped through the air in a heartbeat, then hit the other side and slowed again, deflected erratically up toward the ceiling.

Damn, Wayne thought, tying an improvised bandage on his wounded arm. Someone has very good aim. He glanced about to find the black-suited Coinshot kneeling beside the wall, holding a familiar-looking rifle, sights on Wayne. The rifle was the one Ranette had given to Marasi. Well, this is going to hell faster than bendalloy burns.



He spent a moment of hesitation. Wax was down. But Marasi … what had happened to her? Wayne couldn’t spot her anywhere, though the Coinshot had cover beside some machinery, and he had her gun. That spoke loads.

Wax would want him to go help the girl.

Gritting his teeth, Wayne turned and dashed toward the Coinshot.

* * *

Waxillium groaned, stretching against the pain and pulling the small two-shooter from his ankle holster. He’d dropped Vindication in the blast—Ranette was going to kill him for that—and he’d left his other gun up above when grabbing Marasi. He was down to this.

He unsuccessfully tried to cock the tiny pistol with a shaking hand. He didn’t dare prod to feel the extent of his wounds. His leg and arm had been flayed.

Mist continued to flood down from the hole above. It had mostly enveloped this side of the room. With despair, Waxillium realized that his two-shooter had been damaged in the blast, and the hammer no longer cocked. Not that it would be of any use against Miles anyway.

He groaned again, leaning his head back against the floor. I thought I asked for a little help.

A voice returned to him, distinct and unexpected. And a little is what you received, I think.

Waxillium started. Well … could I have some more, then? Um, please?

I must be careful in playing favorites, the voice inside his mind replied. It upsets the balance.

You’re God. Isn’t playing favorites kind of the point?

No, the voice replied. The point is Harmony, creating a way for as many as possible to make their own choices.

Waxillium lay staring up at the swirling mists. The blast had dazed him worse than he’d thought.

Are you divine, the voice asked of him, as Miles claims that Allomancers are?

I … Waxillium thought. If I were, I doubt I’d be in this much pain.

Then what are you?

This is a very bizarre conversation, Waxillium thought back.

Yes.

How can you see things like what has been done by the Vanishers, Waxillium asked, and not do something to help?

I have done something to help. I sent you.

Waxillium breathed out, blowing the mists in front of him. What Miles had said bothered him: Is there any doubt we’ve been given this for a reason?

Waxillium gritted his teeth, then forced himself to stand. He felt better in the mists. The wounds didn’t seem so bad. The pain didn’t seem so sharp. But he was still unarmed. Still cornered. Still …

Suddenly he recognized the box right in front of him. It was his own trunk. The one he’d taken with him when first leaving for the Roughs, twenty years ago. The one—now battered and aged—he’d brought back with him to the City.

The one he’d filled with his guns on that night months ago. There was a tassel from a mistcoat hanging out of one side.

You’re welcome, the voice whispered.

* * *

Marasi hid in the shadows behind the broken train car, anxious, her heart pounding. The Coinshot had come hunting her after what she’d done to his friend. With his Allomancy, he’d have been able to see her wherever she ran, despite the darkness and the mist, so she’d tucked the rifle behind a few boxes and hid elsewhere.