Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(4)

“No you haven’t,” she said, looking away. “Let’s keep—”

“The Weeping Bull!” Waxillium said. “The dancing girl!”

“Oh, God Beyond,” she said, leading the way up the stairs. “You remember.”

“I knew you were faking. Even Rusko wouldn’t hire someone that uncoordinated, no matter how pretty her legs are.”

“Can we go jump out a window now, please?” she said, checking the top floor for signs of thugs.

“Why were you there? Chasing a bounty?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“And you really didn’t know they were going to make you—”

“This conversation is done.”

They stepped out onto the top floor, and Waxillium waited a moment until a shadow on the wall announced someone following them upstairs. He fired once at the thug who appeared there, missing again, but driving the man back. He heard cursing and arguing below. Granite Joe might own the men in this saloon, but they weren’t overly loyal. The first few up the steps would almost certainly get shot, and none would be eager to take the risk.

That would buy Waxillium some time. Lessie pushed into a room, passing an empty bed with a pair of boots beside it. She threw open the window, which was on the opposite side of the building from the sharpshooter.

The town of Weathering spread before them, a lonely collection of shops and homes, hunkered down as if waiting—in vain—for the day when the railroad would stretch its fingers this far. In the middle distance, beyond the humble buildings, a few giraffes browsed lazily, the only sign of animal life in the vast plain.

The drop out the window was straight down, no roof to climb onto. Lessie regarded the ground warily. Waxillium shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.

Nothing happened.

He whistled again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lessie demanded.

“Calling my horse,” Waxillium said, then whistled again. “We can hop down into the saddle and ride away.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“Sure I am. We’ve been practicing.”

A lone figure walked out onto the street below, the kid who had been following Waxillium. “Uh, Wax?” the kid called up. “Destroyer’s just standing there, drinking.”

“Hell,” Waxillium said.

Lessie looked at him. “You named your horse—”

“She’s a little too placid, all right?” Waxillium snapped, climbing up onto the windowsill. “I thought the name might inspire her.” He cupped his hand, calling to the boy below. “Wayne! Bring her out here. We’re going to jump!”

“Like hell we are,” Lessie said. “You think there’s something magical about a saddle that will keep us from breaking the horse’s back when we drop into it?”

Waxillium hesitated. “Well, I’ve read about people doing this.…”

“Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” Lessie said. “Next, why don’t you call out Granite Joe, and go stand out in the road and have a good old-fashioned showdown at noon.”

“You think that would work? I—”

“No, it won’t work,” she snapped. “Nobody does that. It’s stupid. Ruin! How did you kill Peret the Black?”

They stared at each other a moment.

“Well…” Waxillium started.

“Oh hell. You caught him on the crapper, didn’t you?”

Waxillium grinned at her. “Yeah.”

“Did you shoot him in the back too?”

“As bravely as any man ever shot another in the back.”

“Huh. There might be hope for you yet.”

He nodded toward the window. “Jump?”

“Sure. Why not break both my legs before getting shot? Might as well go all in, Mister Cravat.”

“I think we’ll be fine, Miss Pink Garter.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to identify me by my clothing choices,” he said, “then I figure I can do the same.”

“It shall never be mentioned again,” she said, then took a deep breath. “So?”

He nodded, flaring his metals, preparing to hold on to her and slow them as they fell—just enough to make it seem like they’d miraculously survived the jump. As he did, however, he noticed one of his blue lines moving—a faint but thick one, pointing across the street.

The window in the mill. Sunlight glinted off something inside.

Waxillium immediately grabbed Lessie and pulled her down. A fraction of a second later, a bullet streaked over their heads and hit the door on the other side of the room.

“Another sharpshooter,” she hissed.

“Your power of observation is—”

“Shut it,” she said. “Now what?”

Waxillium frowned, considering the question. He glanced at the bullet hole, gauging the trajectory. The sharpshooter had aimed too high; even if Waxillium hadn’t ducked, he’d likely have been all right.

Why aim high? The moving blue line to the gun had indicated the sharpshooter running to get into position before shooting. Was it just rushed targeting? Or was there a more sinister reason? To knock me out of the sky? When I flew out the window?