The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson [78]
A merchant came down the train aisle, selling pretzels, and Wayne all but leaped out of his chair to get one. Waxillium settled back, looking out the window, thinking.
Miles. No, he couldn’t be sure it was him. When Waxillium had shot the Vanisher boss in the face and dropped him, he’d assumed that he’d mistaken the voice. Miles wouldn’t drop to a gunshot.
Unless he’d known that he had to feign a wound, lest Waxillium recognize him. Miles was crafty enough for something like that.
It is him, Waxillium thought. He’d known it from the first time the Vanisher boss had spoken. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it.
This complicated things immensely. And, oddly, Waxillium found himself feeling overwhelmed. Twenty years as a lawkeeper, and this situation was already messier than any he’d investigated. He’d assumed that the Roughs made him strong, but there’d also been a simplicity to life out there, a simplicity he’d gotten used to.
Now he came charging in, guns raised, assuming he could handle a problem built on Elendel’s scale. He assumed he could take down a team that was so well funded it could field men with guns made of something so expensive it might as well have been gold.
Maybe we should take it to the constables, Marasi had said. But could he?
He fingered the earring in his pocket. He’d felt that Harmony wanted him to do this, to investigate. But what was Harmony but an impression in Waxillium’s mind? Confirmation bias, they called it. He felt what he expected to. That was what his logical brain said.
I wish I could feel the mists, he thought. It’s been weeks since I’ve been able to go out in them. He always felt stronger in the mists. He felt like someone was watching, when he was out in them.
I have to continue with this, he told himself. He’d tried abstaining, and it had led to Lord Peterus being shot. Waxillium’s usual method was to just take command and do what needed to be done. It was the way a lawman learned to work, out in the Roughs. We aren’t so different, Miles and I, he thought. Perhaps that was what had always frightened him so much about the man.
The train slowed, pulling into their station.
12
Wayne stepped out of the carriage, following Waxillium and Marasi. He looked up to the carriage man, tossing him a coin. “We’ll need you to wait a spell, mate. I trust it won’t be a problem.”
The carriage man looked at the coin and raised an eyebrow. “No problem at all, mate.”
“That’s quite the hat,” Wayne said.
The carriage man wore a round cap of stiff felt, conical, but with a flat top and a feather on it. “We all wear ’em,” he said. “Mark of Gavil’s Carriages, you see.”
“Huh. Wanna trade?”
“What? Trade hats?”
“Sure,” Wayne said, tossing up his flimsy knit cap.
The man caught it. “I’m not sure…”
“I’ll throw in a pretzel,” Wayne said, fishing it out of his pocket.
“Er…” The man looked down at the coin in his hand, which was quite substantial. He pulled off his cap and tossed it down to Wayne. “No need. I guess … I’ll just buy another.”
“Mighty nice of you,” Wayne said, taking a bite from the pretzel as he sauntered after Waxillium. He put the cap on. It wasn’t a terribly good fit.
He hurried to catch up to the other two, who had stopped on a small hill. Wayne breathed in, smelling the humidity of the canal, the scents of wheat in the fields and flowers at their feet. Then he sneezed. He hated filling his metalmind when he was out doing stuff. He preferred to fill it in large chunks. That made him very sick, but he could sleep it off and drink a lot to pass the time.
This was worse. Filling his metalmind as much as he dared, storing up health as they went about, meant he got sick. Fast. He sneezed a lot more, his throat grew sore, and his eyes watered. He felt tired and groggy, too. But he’d need that health, so he did it.
He walked across the grass. The Outer Estates were an odd place. The Roughs were dry and dirty. The City was densely populated and—in places—grimy. Out here, things were just … nice.
A little too nice. Made his shoulders itch. This was the kind of place