Waxillium shook his head.
“Makes my head hurt,” Wayne said.
“I can read it, kind of,” Marasi said, taking the square piece of metal. There were several characters scratched into the metal. “Wasing the where of needing,” she read, forming the unfamiliar words. The lofty tongue was used for old documents dating to the time of the Origin, and occasionally for government ceremony. “It’s a call for help.”
“Well, we know how Miles got his guns,” Waxillium said, taking the plate and looking it over.
“Wax,” Ranette said. “Miles always had a darkness in him, I know. But this? Are you sure?”
“Sure as I can be.” He raised Vindication up beside his head. “I saw him face-to-face, Ranette. He spouted some rhetoric about saving the city as he tried to kill me.”
“That’ll be useless against him,” Ranette said, nodding to Vindication. “I’ve been trying to figure out a gun to use against Bloodmakers. It’s only half finished.”
“This will be fine,” Waxillium said, voice even. “I’ll need every edge I can get.” His eyes were hard, like polished steel.
“I’d heard rumors you’d retired,” Ranette said.
“I had.”
“What changed?”
He slid Vindication into his shoulder holster. “I have a duty,” he said softly. “Miles was a lawkeeper. When one of your own goes bad, you put him down personally. You don’t rely on hired help. Wayne, I need shipping manifests. Can you borrow me some from the railway offices?”
“Sure. I can have them in an hour.”
“Good. You still have that dynamite?”
“Sure do. Here in my coat pocket.”
“You’re insane,” Waxillium said without missing a beat. “But you brought the pressure detonators?”
“Yup.”
“Try to avoid blowing anything up by accident,” Waxillium said. “But hold on to that dynamite. Marasi, I need you to buy some fishing nets. Strong ones.”
She nodded.
“Ranette,” Waxillium began, “I—”
“I’m not part of your little troop of deputies, Wax,” Ranette said. “Leave me out of this.”
“All I was going to do was ask to borrow a room in your house and some paper,” Waxillium said. “I need to sketch this out.”
“Fine,” she said. “So long as you’re quiet about it. But Wax … you really think you can take Miles? The man is immortal. You’d need a small army to stop him.”
“Good,” Waxillium said. “Because I intend to bring one.”
15
“Wax is slippery,” Miles said, walking alongside Mister Suit through the dark tunnel connecting the dorms to the forging hall of the new lair. “He has lived so long precisely by learning to avoid being killed by people who are stronger and craftier than he is.”
“You shouldn’t have revealed yourself,” Suit said sternly.
“I wasn’t about to shoot Wax without him seeing me, Suit,” Miles said. “He deserves more respect than that.” The words gnawed at him as he said them. He hadn’t mentioned the first shot he’d taken at Wax, the one while the man’s back had been turned. Nor had he mentioned the cloth of his mask, pushed back into his flesh by Wax’s bullet, making it hard to heal his eye. He’d needed to pull it free.
Suit snorted. “And it’s said that the Roughs are the place where honor goes to be murdered.”
“It’s the place honor goes to be strung up, flayed within an inch of its life, then cut down and left in a desert. If it survives something like that, it’ll be stronger than hell. Certainly stronger than anything you have at your Elendel dinner parties.”
“That from a man who so readily went to kill a friend?” Suit said. The tone was still suspicious. He thought Miles had intentionally let Wax escape.
He didn’t understand at all. This wasn’t about the robberies any longer. The paths chosen by Wax and Miles had crossed. The future could only continue down one or the other.
Either Wax would die or Miles would. That would settle the matter. Roughs justice. The Roughs weren’t a simple place, but they were a place of simple solutions.
“Wax is not a friend,” Miles said, and truthfully. “We were never friends—no more than two rival kings could ever be friends. We respect each other, we did similar jobs, and we worked together. It ends there. I’ll stop him, Suit.”
They stepped out into the forging room and climbed the stairs up to the balcony that ran along the north side of the large chamber. They walked to the end and stopped beside a doorway, beyond which was the lift. “You are quickly becoming a liability, lawkeeper,” Suit said. “The Set does not like you, though—as of yet—I have continued to vouch for your effectiveness. Do not make me regret that. Many of my colleagues are convinced that you will turn against us.”
Miles didn’t know if he would or not. He hadn’t decided. He basically only wanted one thing: vengeance. All of the best motives boiled down to a single, driving emotion.
Vengeance for fifteen years in the Roughs, achieving nothing. If this city burned, maybe—for once—the Roughs would see some justice. And maybe Miles could see a government set up here in Elendel that wasn’t corrupt. A part of him acknowledged, however, that seeing them—the lords who ruled, the constables who pandered, the senators who spoke so grandly but did nothing of use to real people—cast down would be the most satisfying part.
The Set was part of the establishment. But then, they wanted revolution too. Perhaps he wouldn’t turn against them. Perhaps.
“I don’t like being in this place, Suit,” Miles said, nodding to the chamber where the Vanishers had set up. “It’s too close to the center of things. My men will be seen coming and going.”
“We will move you soon,” Suit said. “The Set is in the process of acquiring a railway station. You are still committed to the job tonight?”
“I am. We need more resources.”
“My colleagues question that,” Suit said. “They wonder why we went to so much trouble to outfit your men with aluminum, if it was only to be lost in a single fight without so much as killing one of the Allomancers who faced you.”
It’s important, Miles thought, because I intended to use that aluminum to finance my own operations. Now he was practically destitute, right back where he’d begun. Damn you, Wax. Damn you straight to Ironeyes’ Tomb.
“Do your colleagues question what I’ve done for them?” Miles said, drawing himself up. “Five of the women they wanted are in your possession, all without a speck of suspicion attached to you and the Set. If you wish that to continue, my men will be properly outfitted. A single Rioter could turn the entire bunch against one another.”
Suit eyed him. The slender old man did not walk with a cane, and his back was straight. He was not weak, despite his age and obvious fondness for fine living. The door to the lift opened. Two young men wearing black suits and white shirts walked out of it.
“The Set has agreed to this job tonight,” Suit said. “After it, you are to go to ground for six months and focus on recruitment. We will prepare another list of targets for you to acquire for us. When you return to activity, we will discuss whether or not the flamboyance of being the ‘Vanishers’ is required.”
“The theatrics keep the constables from—”
“We will discuss it then. Will Wax try to interfere tonight?”
“I’m counting on it,” Miles said. “If we try to hide, he’ll dig us out eventually. But it won’t come to that—he’ll figure out where we’re going to hit, and he’ll be there trying to stop us.”
“You are to kill him tonight, then,” Suit said, pointing to the two men. “The woman you took yesterday will remain here; use her as bait, if it comes to that. We don’t want to move her while that one has her trail. As for these two, they are to aid you in making certain everything goes smoothly.”
Miles gritted his teeth. “I don’t need help to—”
“You will take them,” Suit said coldly. “You’ve proven unreliable with regard to Waxillium. It is not open for discussion.”
“Fine.”
Suit stepped closer, tapping Miles on the chest and speaking softly. “The Set is anxious, Miles. Our monetary resources are very limited at the moment. You may rob the train, but don’t bother with hostages. We will take half of the aluminum you steal tonight to fund several operations you need not know about. You can have the rest for weapons.”
“Have your two men there ever fought Allomancers?”
“They are among our finest,” Suit said. “I think you’ll find them more than capable.”
They both knew what this was. Yes, the two would fight Wax, but they would also keep an eye on Miles. Great. More interference.
“I’m leaving the city,” Suit said. “Wax is getting too close. If you survive the night, send someone to update me.” He said that last part with a hint of a smile.
Insufferable bastard, Miles thought as Suit walked over to the lift, where a quartet of bodyguards waited. He was leaving on his regular train; he’d probably come back on his regular one too. He probably didn’t realize Miles had been tracking those.
Suit departed, leaving Miles with the two black-coated men. Well, he’d find some use for them.
He returned to the main chamber, followed by his new babysitters. The Vanishers—the thirty or so of them that remained—were getting ready for the job tonight. The Machine had been brought into the chamber via the far platform, which moved up to ground level in a large industrial lift, a majestic electrical wonder.
The world is changing, Miles thought, leaning down on the railing. First railways, now electricity. How long before men take to the skies, as the Words of Founding say is possible? The day might come where every man knew the freedom that had once been reserved only to Coinshots.
Change didn’t scare Miles. Change was an opportunity, a chance to become something you were not. No Augur was bothered by change.
Augur. He usually ignored that side of himself. His Feruchemy was what kept him alive—and these days he hardly noticed even that, save for the faint sense of extra energy to every step he took. He never got headaches, never felt tired, never had sore muscles, never dealt with colds or pain.
On a whim, he took hold of the banister and swung over, dropping to the floor some twenty feet below. For a brief moment, he knew that sense of freedom. Then he hit. One of his legs tried to break—he recognized the slight pop. But the bone’s fractures reknit as quickly as they broke, and so it never fully snapped, cracks opening on one side but resealing on the other.
He rose from a crouch, whole. The black-coated babysitters dropped beside him, one dropping a bit of metal and slowing a moment before he hit. A Coinshot. Well, that would be useful. The other surprised him, landing softly, but not dropping any metal. The ceiling had metal crossbeams. This man would be a Lurcher; he’d Pulled upon those beams to slow himself.