فصل 11

11

Falling felt natural to a Coinshot. That sudden moment of acceleration, gut lurching but spirit leaping. The rush of wind. The chill of mist on the skin.

He opened his eyes to spinning white upon black, mist dancing about him, inviting, eager. All Allomancers shared a bond with the mists, but the other types never knew the thrill of jumping through them. Of nearly becoming one with them. During moments like this, Wax understood the Ascendant Warrior. Vin—they rarely called her by name. Her title, like those of the other Preservers, was used to show reverence.

The Historica, a section of the Words of Founding, said she had melded with the mists. She had taken them upon herself, becoming their guardian as they became her essence. As the Survivor watched over all who struggled, Vin watched over those in the night. Sometimes he felt he could see her form in their patterns: slight of frame, short hair splayed out as she moved, mistcloak fluttering behind her.

It was a fancy, wasn’t it?

Wax fired Vindication, slamming a bullet into the ground and Pushing on it to stop his descent. He hit the street in front of the building lobby, going down on one knee. Nearby, some hopefuls still waited to be allowed into the party.

“Where?” Wax demanded, looking at them. “Someone fell before me. Where did he go?” I haven’t even murdered your father yet.…

Rusts. Could she mean Steris’s father, his soon to be father-in-law?

“There … there was nobody,” said a man in a black suit. “Just that.” He pointed to a smashed chair.

In the distance, a motorcar roared to life. It tore away with a frantic sound.

Bleeder might be a Coinshot now, Wax thought, running toward the sound, hoping it was her. But she wouldn’t need a motorcar if that were the case. Maybe she’d chosen the Feruchemical power to change her weight, so she could drift down on the wind.

Wax launched himself upward, watching the steel lines for movement. In the mists ordinary vision was of limited use, but steelsight’s blue lines pierced the mists like arrows. He could easily make out the motorcar speeding away, but he didn’t know for certain Bleeder was in it. He took a moment to watch the movements of other vehicles nearby. A carriage pulled to a stop one street away. He could tell from the way the lines quivered—those would be the metal fittings on the horse’s harness. People on foot walked slowly along Tindwyl Promenade. Nothing suspicious.

Decision made, he Pushed against some streetlamps, sending himself after the speeding motorcar. He bounded from lamp to lamp, then launched himself over the top of a building as the motor turned a corner. Wax crested the building in a rush of swirling mists, passing only a few feet over the top. A group of young boys playing on the roof watched him pass with dropped jaws. Wax landed on the far edge of the rooftop, mistcoat tassels spraying forward around him, then leaped down as the motor passed below.

This, he thought, will not work out as well as you hoped, Bleeder.

Wax increased his weight, then Pushed on the motor from above.

He didn’t crush the person inside—he couldn’t be absolutely sure he had the right quarry. His carefully pressed weight did pop the wheels like tomatoes, then squashed the roof down just enough to bend the metal doors in their housings. Even if Bleeder had access to enhanced speed, she wouldn’t be getting out through those doors.

Wax landed beside the motorcar, Vindication out and pointed through the window at a confused man wearing a cabbie’s hat. Motorcar cabbies? When had that started happening?

“He got out!” the cabbie said. “Two streets back. Told me to keep driving; didn’t even let me stop as he jumped!” Wax kept perfectly still, gun right at the cabbie’s forehead. It could be Bleeder. She could change faces.

“P-please…” the cabbie said, crying. “I…”

Damn it! Wax didn’t know enough. Harmony. Is it him?

He was returned a vague sense of uncertainty. Harmony didn’t know.

Wax growled, but lifted his gun away from the frightened driver, trusting his gut. “Where did you let him off?” “Tage Street.”

“Go to the Fourth Octant precinct station,” Wax said. “Wait for me, or constables I send. We’ll likely have questions for you. Once I’m satisfied, we’ll buy you a new motor.” Wax Pushed himself into the air to the corner of Tage and Guillem, which put him at the edge of a maze of industrial alleyways linking warehouses with the docks where canal boats unloaded. Steelsight on and Pushing bubble up, he crept through the mists, but didn’t have much hope. He’d have a devil of a time finding one man alone here, in the dark.

All Bleeder had to do was pick one place and hide there. Many criminals didn’t make the wise choice in this situation, however. It was hard to remain perfectly still, not moving any metal, while an Allomancer prowled about looking for you.

Wax persisted, walking down a dark alleyway, checking the rope at his waist, making sure he could unwind it quickly in case Bleeder was a Coinshot or a Lurcher and he needed to dump his metals. Soon the mists filling in behind him made him feel as if he were in an endless corridor, vanishing into nothingness in both directions. Above as well, only dark, swirling mists. Wax stopped in an empty intersection, silent warehouses like leviathans slumbering in the deep on all four corners, only one of which held a streetlight. He looked about with steelsight, waiting, counting heartbeats.

Nothing.

Either the cabbie had been Bleeder in disguise, or Wax’s prey had slipped away. Wax sighed, lowering his gun.

One of the large warehouse doors fell outward with a crash, revealing a dozen men. Wax felt a sweeping wave of relief. He hadn’t lost his quarry—he’d simply been led into a trap!

Wait.

Damn, Wax thought, leveling Vindication and pulling his Sterrion from his hip. He Pushed on the men in the same movement, which flung him backward toward the cover of a half-finished building.

Unfortunately, the men opened fire before he arrived. Wax’s steel bubble deflected a number of the shots, bending them away to cut empty air. The bullets trailed streaks in the mist. One, however, clipped him on the arm.

Wax gasped as his Push slammed him against an incomplete wall. He fired a shot into the ground, then Pushed on it, backflipping himself over the brick wall and behind cover.

Bullets continued to pelt the bricks as Wax dropped a gun and pressed his left hand to the underside of his right upper arm with a flare of pain and blood. The men on the other side of the wall kept firing, and some of the bullets didn’t have blue lines. Aluminum bullets. Bleeder was far better funded than Wax had expected.

Why keep firing so rabidly? Were they trying to bring the wall down with the force of their shots? No. They’re trying to hold my attention so I can be flanked.

Wax grabbed Vindication, holding his bleeding arm as he raised it—it hurt—just as several shadows wearing no metal ducked into the other side of the building site. Wax plugged the first one in the head, then dropped the second with a shot to the neck. Three others knelt, raising crossbows.

Something pulled one of them into the shadows. Wax faintly heard an urk of pain just before he fired at the second. He turned his gun toward the third to find it slumping down, something stuck into its head. A knife?

“Wayne?” Wax asked, hurriedly reloading Vindication with bloody fingers.

“Not exactly,” a feminine voice said. A tall figure crawled through the mists, moving over a pile of bricks to reach him. As she drew closer, he could make out large eyes, jet hair, and a sleekly elegant gown—that was now missing the bottom half, below the knees. The woman from the party, the one who had tried flirting with him.

Wax flipped Vindication, reloaded, up in a smooth motion, pointing it at the woman’s head. The bullets outside stopped pounding the wall. The silence was far more ominous.

“Oh please,” the woman said, pulling up beside the wall with him. “Why would I save you if I were an enemy?” Because you could be Bleeder, Wax thought. Anyone could.

“Um … you’re hurt,” the woman said. “How bad is that? Because we should really start running right now. They’re going to come charging in here shortly.” Damn. Not much choice. Trust her and potentially die, or not trust her and almost certainly die.

“Come here,” Wax said, grabbing the woman and pulling her close. He pointed Vindication at the ground.

“They have snipers,” she said. “On five roofs, watching for you to Push into the mists. Aluminum bullets.” “How do you know?”

“Overheard those fellows with the bows whispering as they moved around to come get you.” Wax growled. “Who are you?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Does it matter right now?”

“No.”

“Can you run?”

“Yes. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Wax took off, the woman running at his side. The wound hurt like hell, but there was something about the mists.… He felt stronger in them. It shouldn’t be so—he was no Pewterarm—but there it was.

In truth, getting shot was bad, but not as bad as people often made it out to be. This shot had gone through the skin and muscle under his arm, making it difficult to raise, but he wouldn’t bleed out. Most bullets wouldn’t actually stop a man; psychologically, the panic of being shot did the most harm.

The two of them charged out the back side of the building, past the man with a knife in his head. Behind them shouts rose in the mist, and a few of the ambushers trying to get into the building took wild shots.

The woman ran well despite being in a gown. Yes, she’d ripped off the bottom half, but she still seemed to run too easily, without seeming to break a sweat or breathe deeply.

Blue lines. Ahead.

Wax grabbed Milan by the arm, yanking her to the side into an alleyway as a group of four men burst out of a cross street, leveling guns.

“Rusts!” Wax said, peeking around the corner. This short alleyway ended at a wall. The thugs had him surrounded.

“How many men does Bleeder have?” Wax muttered with another curse, under his breath.

“These can’t be Bleeder’s men,” Milan said. “How would she have recruited such an army? In the past she’s always worked on her own.” Wax looked at her sharply. How much did she know about all this?

“We’re going to have to fight,” Milan said as shouts sounded from behind them. She reached to her chest, where her gown exposed considerable cleavage.

Waxillium had seen some odd things in his life. He’d visited koloss camps in the Roughs, even been invited to join their numbers. He’d met and spoken with God himself and had received a personal gift from Death. That did not prepare him for the sight of a pretty young woman’s chest turning nearly transparent, one of the breasts splitting and offering up the hilt of a small handgun.

She grabbed it and pulled it out. “So convenient,” she noted. “You can store all sorts of things in those.” “Who are you?”

“MeLaan,” she said, rising and holding her gun in two hands. The pronunciation was slightly different this time when she said her name. “The Father promised you help. I’m it.” A Faceless Immortal. As soon as she stopped speaking, he heard a rustling in his mind. You can trust this one. Harmony’s voice, accompanied by a sense of endlessness, a vision like he’d seen before. It was as good a confirmation as he could get that this wasn’t Bleeder.

Wax narrowed his eyes at the woman anyway. “Wait. I think I know you.”

She grinned. “We’ve met once before tonight. I’m charmed you remember. You want the ones in the back or the front?” At least a dozen chasing them. Four ahead. He had to trust someone, sometime. “I’ll take the ones behind.” “Such a gentleman,” she said. “By the way, technically I’m not supposed to kill people. I … uh … think I already broke that rule tonight. If we happen to survive, please don’t tell TenSoon that I murdered a bunch of people again. It upsets him.” “Sure. I can do that.”

She grinned—whoever she was, this side of her was completely different from what she’d displayed previously. “Say when to go.” Wax peeked around the corner. Dark figures moved in the mist behind them, coming up on their position. If she was right, and this wasn’t Bleeder, then who … Aluminum bullets. Snipers to watch for his escape.

It was his uncle. Somehow Wax had been played. Oh, Harmony … If Bleeder and the Set were working together … He tossed a bullet casing to the side, against the wall to his right, and held it in place with a light Allomantic push. He flexed his wounded arm, then raised both guns. “Go.” Wax didn’t wait to see what MeLaan did. He Pushed against the casing, throwing himself out into the street, churning the mist. Men fired, and Wax increased his weight, then Pushed with a sweeping blast of Allomantic power. Some weapons were thrown backward, and some bullets stopped in the air. Men grunted as his Push sent them away.

Two men’s weapons weren’t affected by the Push. Wax shot them first. They fell, and he didn’t give the other men time to go for the aluminum guns. He decreased his weight greatly and Pushed against the men behind him, hoping that the shove helped MeLaan.

His Push sent him into the middle of the men he was fighting. He landed, kicking one of the aluminum guns away into the mists, then lowered Vindication and drilled a thug in the head, just at the ear. The cracks of his gunfire rang in the night.

Wax kept firing, dropping the men around him as he spun through the mists. Some came at him with dueling canes while others fell back with bows. No Allomancers that he’d spotted. In the night, he could finally prove the worth of the mistcoat. As he dodged between the thugs—kicking the other aluminum gun away—the tassels on his coat spun in the air, seeming to meld with the mists. Men attacked where he had been, the tassels confusing them as they churned the fog.

He twisted between two of the thugs and raised a gun to either side and fired, sending them to the ground. Then he turned and leveled both weapons at the man who had been sneaking up on him.

Both out, I believe. He pulled the triggers anyway. The weapons clicked.

The terrified man stumbled back, then paused. “He’s out! Move! He’s defenseless!” The man charged forward.

Wax dropped the guns.

Why, exactly, would they assume that I need guns to be dangerous?

He reached into his coat and undid the rope at his waist. He pulled it free, draping the rope from his fingers. Ranette’s hook clinked as it hit the ground.

The man in front of him hesitated at the sound, dueling cane held nervously.

“This,” Wax said, “is how it used to be done.”

He yanked the rope, whipping the metal end into the air, then Pushed the spike at the man’s chest, letting the rope move through his fingers to give it more slack. It hit, cracking ribs, and Wax yanked the rope back, holding it on a tight leash and spinning the hook through the air as he turned. He Pushed again, slamming the metal into the man raising a bow.

Wax twisted and knelt, whipping the rope around. It spun before him in a grand arc, stirring the mist as he gave the rope more slack, then Pushed it, slamming the spike-hook past one man and into another’s chest. Wax yanked the spike-hook back, catching the other man on the thigh, tripping him as he came forward with a dueling cane.

Wax caught the hook in one hand and turned, Pushing the hook forward into the shoulder of an ambusher. Wax ripped it free with a yank, then Pushed it directly back into the man’s face.

One more, he thought. Wax whirled, pulling the hook back into his hand, searching.

The last man scrambled for something on the ground. He looked up, raising one of the fallen aluminum guns. “The Set sends its regards, law—” He cut off as a shadow behind him rammed a knife into his back.

“Here’s a tip, kid,” MeLaan said. “Save the wisecracks until your foe is dead. Like this. See how easy it is?” She kicked the corpse in the face.

Wax looked around at the fallen and groaning men. He held the rope tightly. Those sharpshooters on the roofs might reposition soon and start firing. “We need to move fast. I think Bleeder is going after Lord Harms, my betrothed’s father.” “Damn,” MeLaan said. “You want to try to climb up and go after those sharpshooters?” “No time,” Wax whispered. He pointed down the street. “You go that way; I’ll go the other way. If you get out, head back to the Counselor’s Cup, a tavern over on Edden Way. I’ll meet you there after I go for Lord Harms. If I or someone I send talks to you, first say the words ‘all yellow pants.’” “Sure thing.”

“Good luck.”

“I’m not the one who needs help, lawman,” MeLaan said. “I’m basically bulletproof.” She gave him a kind of mock salute, then took off down the street, charging through the mists.

Wax recovered Vindication, but didn’t holster her. Instead, he grabbed one of the corpses nearby and lugged it up onto his shoulder, stuffing bullets into its pocket. Then he pulled off his gunbelt. He didn’t know if those sharpshooters might be Metalborn, set to watch for lines of metal in the mists.

Just in case, he heaved the corpse overhead and Pushed, lobbing it upward through the mists. Then he Pushed on his gunbelt, sending it flying ahead of him down the street.

Finally he ran, chasing after the gunbelt and using Allomancy to knock it up and forward again as it started to fall. A gunshot broke the night, but he couldn’t pinpoint its origin. He didn’t know if the sharpshooter was trying to hit the corpse, his gunbelt, or him. Another shot followed.

He burst out of the alley, snatched his gunbelt off the ground, then leaped, soaring over the walkway and coming down in the frigid blackness of the canal. Dark water surrounded him, the guns towing him down as his mistcoat billowed outward.

He kicked downward, seeking the floor of the canal. And then, still submerged, he Pushed on the mooring rings on either side of the canal behind him. Most people, even seasoned gunmen, underestimated the stopping power of a good foot of water. Wax surged through the canal like a fish swimming downstream, continuing to Push on new mooring rings as they passed, staying centered in the canal and remaining submerged. He scraped the bottom of a boat overhead, but kept Pushing, praying he wouldn’t ram himself into anything in the depths.

By the time his breath ran out, he must have traveled a number of blocks. He burst out of the water and, coughing, crawled to the side of the canal and heaved himself out onto the walkway. He stumbled to his feet. Nobody shot him, which was a good sign.

He paused just long enough to catch his breath and roughly bind his arm, then took to the skies, heading for the Harms mansion.