The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson [68]
“I’m sorry.”
“I am as well,” he said softly. “I hadn’t been to see any of them in years. I feel a strange guilt, as if I should be more crushed to lose them.”
“I think that story involves enough crushed people already,” Wayne murmured.
Waxillium gave him a glare, though Wayne didn’t see it, as his eyes were still closed, the cap resting on his face.
Marasi kicked him in the shin, causing him to yelp. Then she blushed. “Be respectful of the dead,” she said.
Wayne rubbed his leg. “Already she starts orderin’ me around. Women.” He put his cap back on his face and settled back.
“Lord Waxillium,” she said. “Did you ever wonder if…”
“If someone might have killed my uncle?” Waxillium asked. “I am a lawkeeper. I wonder, if just briefly, about every death I hear of. But the reports I received indicated nothing suspicious. One of the things I learned early in my career was that sometimes, accidents simply do happen. My uncle was a risk taker. His gambling youth led to a middle age where he sought thrills. I eventually dismissed the tragedy as an accident.”
“And now?”
“And now,” Waxillium said, “I wonder if the reports sent to me were a little too clean. In retrospect, everything might have been carefully crafted not to arouse my suspicions. Beyond that, Tillaume was there, though he remained behind at the manor house the day of the accident.”
“Why would they kill your uncle?” Marasi asked. “Shouldn’t they have been worried about bringing you, an experienced lawkeeper, back to town? Removing your uncle and accidentally putting Waxillium Dawnshot onto them…”
“Waxillium Dawnshot?” Wayne asked, cracking an eye. He sniffled softly and wiped his nose with his handkerchief.
She blushed. “Sorry. But it’s what the reports call him.”
“That’s what they should call me,” Wayne said. “I’m the one who likes a good shot of whiskey in the morning.”
“‘Morning’ to you is well past noon, Wayne,” Waxillium said. “I doubt you’ve ever seen the dawn.”
“That’s right unfair. See it all the time, when I stay up too late.…” He grinned underneath his hat. “Wax, when are we going to go see Ranette?”
“We’re not,” Waxillium said. “What makes you think we will?”
“Well, we’re in town. She’s in town too—moved here before you did, and all. Our house exploded. We could go see her, you know. Be all friendly, like.”
“No,” Waxillium said. “I wouldn’t even know where to find her. The City is a big place.”
“She lives over in the Third Octant,” Wayne said absently. “Redbrick house. Two stories.”
Waxillium gave Wayne a flat stare, which Marasi found curious. “Who is this person?”
“Nobody,” Waxillium said. “How are you with a pistol?”
“Not good,” she admitted. “The target club uses rifles.”
“Well, a rifle doesn’t fit in a handbag,” Waxillium said, taking a pistol out of his shoulder holster. It was small, with a slim barrel. The entire weapon was only about as long as her hand.
She took the gun hesitantly.
“The trick to shooting with a pistol is to be steady,” Waxillium said. “Use both hands, find low cover if you can and set your arms on it. Don’t shake, take your time, and be sure to sight. Pistols are much harder to hit with, but that’s partially because people tend to be wilder with them. The very nature of a rifle encourages you to take aim, while people’s first impulse with a pistol seems to be to just point vaguely and pull the trigger.”
“Yes,” she said, hefting the gun. It was deceptively heavy. “Eight of ten of constables firing a handgun at a criminal ten feet away miss.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
“Well,” Waxillium said, “I guess Wayne doesn’t need to feel so bad.”
“Hey!”
Waxillium eyed her. “I once saw him try to shoot someone three paces away. He ended up hitting the wall behind himself.”
“’S not my fault,” Wayne grumbled. “Bullets are devious buggers. They shouldn’t be allowed to bounce. Metal don’t bounce, and that’s true as titanium.”
She checked the small revolver to make sure the safety was on, then tucked it into her singed handbag.
The Vanishers’ hideout