The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson [116]
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.
It felt cowardly, but it had worked. He’d shot a few times into the boxes, then walked around and picked up the gun, looking baffled. He’d obviously expected to find her bleeding and dead.
Instead, she was simply unarmed. She had to get to a weapon, had to do something. Wayne had been shot; he’d lured the Coinshot away, but he’d been dripping blood when she’d seen him.
The room was chaos, and it left her disoriented. Wayne had told her that the dynamite sticks they had were relatively small ones, but detonating them in close confines was still enormously, painfully loud. The gunshots were nearly so. The air smelled of smoke, and when gunshots weren’t sounding, she could faintly hear men groaning and cursing and dying.
Before the Vanishers had appeared at the wedding dinner, she’d never been in any kind of fight. Now she didn’t know what to do; she’d even lost track of which direction was which. The room was dark, lit only by flickering flames,