The bandit came to their table, proffering his sack. Marasi was forced to take off her small pearl necklace, the only jewelry she was wearing. With shaking hands, she searched in her pocketbook for any bills, but the bandit just snatched the entire thing and dumped it into his sack.
“Please,” Waxillium said, making his voice shake. “Please, don’t hurt us!” He pulled out his pocket watch, then dumped it to the table, as if in haste. He yanked its chain free of his vest and threw it in the sack. Then he got out his pocketbook and tossed it in, conspicuously pulling out both of his pockets with shaking hands to show he had nothing else. He began patting his coat pockets.
“That’ll do, mate,” the koloss-blooded man said, grinning.
“Don’t hurt me!”
“Sit back down, you rusting git,” the bandit said, looking back at Marasi. He leered, then patted her down, making her speak so he could check her mouth. She bore it with a deep blush, particularly when the patting down turned into a few solid gropes.
Waxillium felt his eye begin to twitch.
“Nothing else,” the bandit said with a grunt. “Why’d I get the poor tables? And you?” He glanced at Wayne. Behind them, another of the bandits found Wayne’s servant’s coat under the table, holding it up with a confused expression.
“Do I look like I’ve got anything of value, mate?” Wayne asked, dressed in his duster and Roughs trousers. He’d turned up his Roughs accent. “I’m just ’ere by mistake. Was begging in the kitchen when I heard you blokes come in.”
The bandit grunted, but patted Wayne’s pockets anyway. He found nothing, then checked under the table and made them all stand up. Finally he swore at them for being “too poor” and snatched Wayne’s hat off his head. He threw away his own hat—he was wearing a knit cap underneath, aluminum peeking through the holes—then walked off, sticking Wayne’s hat on his head over the cap.
They sat back down.
“He took my lucky hat, Wax,” Wayne growled.
“Steady,” Waxillium said, handing Marasi back her notebook so she could return to taking covert notes.
“Why didn’t you hide your pocketbook,” she whispered, “as you did the notebook?”
“Some of the bills in it are marked,” Waxillium said distractedly, watching the masked leader. He was consulting something in his hand. Looked like a couple of crinkled-up sheets of paper. “That’ll allow the constables to track where they get spent, if they do get spent.”
“Marked!” Marasi said. “So you did know we’d be robbed!”
“What? Of course I didn’t.”
“But—”
“Wax always carries some marked bills,” Wayne said, eyes narrowing as he noticed what the leader was doing. “Just in case.”
“Oh. That’s … very unusual.”
“Wax is his own special brand of paranoid, miss,” Wayne said. “Is that bloke doing what I think he’s doing?”
“Yes,” Waxillium said.
“What?” Marasi asked.
“Comparing faces to drawings in his hand,” Waxillium said. “He’s looking for the right person to take as a hostage. Look how he’s strolling through the tables, checking every woman’s face. He’s got a few others doing it too.”
They fell silent as the leader strolled past them. He was accompanied by a fine-featured fellow with a scowl on his face. “I’m tellin’ you,” the second man said, “the boys are gettin’ jumpy. You can’t give ’em all this and never let ’em fire the bloody things.”
The masked leader was silent, studying everyone at Wax’s table for a moment. He hesitated briefly, then moved on.
“You’re gonna have to let the boys loose sooner or later, boss,” the second man said, his voice trailing off. “I think…” They were soon too far for Waxillium to make out what they were saying.
Nearby, Peterus—the former constable—had gotten back up into his seat. His wife was holding a napkin to his bleeding head.
This is the best way, Waxillium told himself firmly. I’ve seen their faces. I’ll be able to track down who they are when they spend my money. I’ll find them, and fight them on my own terms. I’ll …
But he wouldn’t. He’d let the constables do that part, wouldn’t he? Wasn’t that what he kept telling himself?
A sudden disturbance from the far side of the chamber drew his eyes. A few bandits led a couple of frazzled-looking women into the hall, one of them Steris. It looked like they’d finally thought to sweep the ladies’ room. The other bandits were making pretty good time gathering goods. There were enough of them that it didn’t take too long, even with this large crowd.
“All right,” the boss called out. “Grab a hostage.”
Too loud, Waxillium thought.
“Who should we take?” one of the bandits yelled back.
They’re making a show of it.
“I don’t care,” the boss said.
He wants us to think he’s picking one at random.
“Any of them will do,” the boss continued. “Say … that one.” He waved at Steris.
Steris. One of the previous abductees was her cousin. Of course. She was in the same line.
Waxillium’s eye twitching grew worse.
“Actually,” the boss said. “We’ll take two this time.” He sent his koloss-blooded lackey running back toward the tables of people. “Now, nobody follow, or they’ll get hurt. Remember, a few jewels aren’t worth your life. We’ll cut the hostages loose once we’re sure we aren’t being followed.”
Lies, Waxillium thought. What do you want with them? Why are you—
The koloss-blooded man who had stolen Wayne’s hat stepped up to Wax’s table and grabbed Marasi by the shoulder. “You’ll do,” he said. “You’re coming for a ride with us, pretty.”
She jumped as he touched her, dropping her notepad.
“Here now,” another bandit said. “What’s this?” He picked it up, looking through it. “All it’s got is words, Tarson.”
“Idiot,” the koloss-blooded man—Tarson—said. “You can’t read, can you?” He craned over. “Here, now. That’s a description of me, isn’t it?”
“I…” Marasi said. “I just wanted to remember, for my journal, you see.…”
“I’m sure,” Tarson said, tucking the notebook into a pocket. His hand came out with a pistol, which he lowered at her head.
Marasi grew pale.
Waxillium stood up, steel burning in his stomach. The other bandit’s pistol was trained at his head a second later.
“Your lady will be just fine with us, old boy,” Tarson said with a smile on his grayish lips. “Up you go.” He pulled Marasi to her feet, then pushed her before him toward the northern exit.
Waxillium stared down the barrel of the other bandit’s pistol. With a mental Push, he could send that gun with a snap back into its owner’s face, perhaps break his nose.
The bandit looked like he wanted to pull the trigger. He looked eager, excited by the thrill of the robbery. Waxillium had seen men like that before. They were dangerous.
The bandit hesitated, then glanced at his friends, and finally broke off, jogging toward the exit. Another was shoving Steris toward the door.
“Wax!” Wayne hissed.
How could a man of honor watch something like this? Every instinct of justice Waxillium had demanded he do something. Fight.
“Wax,” Wayne said softly. “Mistakes happen. Lessie wasn’t your fault.”
“I…”
Wayne grabbed his dueling canes. “Well, I’m going to do something.”
“It’s not worth the cost of lives, Wayne,” Waxillium said, shaking out of his stupor. “This isn’t just about me. It’s true, Wayne. We—”
“How dare you!” a familiar voice bellowed. Lord Peterus, the former constable. The aging man removed the napkin from his head, stumbling to his feet. “Cowards! I will be your hostage, if you require one.”
The bandits ignored him, most jogging toward the exits of the room, waving their guns about and enjoying making the dinnergoers cringe.
“Cowards!” Peterus yelled. “You are dogs, each and every one of you. I’ll see you hanged! Take me instead of one of those girls, or it will happen. I swear it by the Survivor himself!” He stumbled after the retreating boss, passing lords, ladies, and the wealthy—most of whom had gotten down and were hiding under their tables.
There goes the only man in this room with any courage, Waxillium thought, suddenly feeling a powerful shame. Him and Wayne.
Steris was almost to the door. Marasi and her captor were catching up to the boss.
I can’t let this happen. I—
“COWARD!”
The masked bandit leader suddenly spun, hand snapping out, a gunshot cracking the air, echoing across the large ballroom. It was over in a heartbeat.
The aged Peterus collapsed in a heap. Smoke curled in the air over the bandit boss’s pistol.
“Oh…” Wayne said softly. “You just made a bad mistake, mate. A very bad mistake.”
The boss turned away from the body, holstering his gun. “Fine,” he yelled, walking toward the door. “You can have some fun, boys. Burn it out of your blood quickly and meet me outside. Let’s—”
Everything froze. People stopped in place. The curling smoke hung motionless. Voices quieted. Whimpering halted. In a circle around Waxillium’s table, the air rippled just faintly.
Wayne stood up, shouldering his dueling canes, inspecting the room. He was placing each and every one of the bandits, Waxillium knew. Judging distances, preparing himself.
“As soon as I drop the bubble,” Wayne said, “this place is going to erupt like an ammunition store in a volcano.”
Waxillium calmly reached into his jacket and slid a hidden pistol from beneath his arm. He set it on the table. His twitch had vanished.
“Well?” Wayne asked.
“That’s a terrible metaphor. How would an ammunition store get into a volcano?”
“I don’t know. Look, are you going to fight or not?”
“I’ve tried waiting,” Waxillium said. “I gave them a chance to leave. I tried giving this up.”
“You gave it a good show, Wax.” He grimaced. “Too good a show.”
Waxillium rested his hand on the pistol. Then he picked it up. “So be it.” With his other hand, he poured out his entire pouch of steel into his wine cup, then downed it.
Wayne grinned. “You owe me a pint for lying to me, by the way.”
“Lying?”
“You said you hadn’t brought a gun.”
“I didn’t bring a gun,” Waxillium said, reaching to the small of his back and sliding a second pistol out. “You know me better than that, Wayne. I never go anywhere with only one. How much bendalloy do you have?”