Authors: Brandon Sanderson
“Hell!” she said, scrambling backward, dropping her cigar, raising her rifle.
Waxillium raised his own gun and prepared his Allomancy, wishing he’d found a way to protect himself from bullets. He could Push on metal, yes, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop gunfire, unless he Pushed on the gun before the trigger was pulled.
“Hey,” the woman said, looking through the rifle sights. “Aren’t you that guy? The one who killed Peret the Black?”
“Waxillium Ladrian,” he said. “Lawman for hire.”
“You’re kidding. That’s how you introduce yourself?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She didn’t answer, instead looking away from her rifle, studying him for a few moments. Finally she said, “A cravat? Really?”
“It’s kind of my thing,” Waxillium said. “The gentleman bounty hunter.”
“Why would a bounty hunter need a ‘thing’ in the first place?”
“It’s important to have a reputation,” Waxillium said, raising his chin. “The outlaws all have them; people have heard of men like Granite Joe from one side of the Roughs to the other. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”
“Because it paints a target on your head.”
“Worth the danger,” Waxillium said. “But speaking of targets…” He waved his gun, then nodded toward hers.
“You’re after the bounty on Joe,” she said.
“Sure am. You too?”
She nodded.
“Split it?” Waxillium said.
She sighed, but lowered her rifle. “Fine. The one who shoots him gets a double portion though.”
“I was planning to bring him in alive.…”
“Good. Gives me a better chance of killing him first.” She grinned at him, slipping over to the door. “The name’s Lessie. Granite
is
in here somewhere, then? Have you seen him?”
“No, I haven’t,” Waxillium said, joining her at the door. “I asked the barkeep, and he sent me in here.”
She turned on him. “You asked the barkeep.”
“Sure,” Waxillium said. “I’ve read the stories. Barkeeps know everything, and … You’re shaking your head.”
“
Everyone
in this saloon belongs to Joe, Mister Cravat,” Lessie said. “Hell, half the people in this town belong to him. You
asked the barkeep
?”
“I believe we’ve established that.”
“Rust!” She cracked the door and looked out. “How in Ruin’s name did
you
take down Peret the Black?”
“Surely it’s not that bad.
Everyone
in the bar can’t…”
He trailed off as he peeked out the door. The tall barkeep hadn’t run off to fetch anyone. No, he was out in the taproom of the saloon, gesturing toward the side room’s door and urging the assembled thugs and miscreants to stand up and arm themselves. They looked hesitant, and some were gesturing angrily, but more than a few had guns out.
“Damn,” Lessie whispered.
“Back out the way you came in?” Waxillium asked.
Her response was to slip the door closed with the utmost care, then shove him aside and scramble toward the window. She grabbed the windowsill to step out, but gunfire cracked nearby and wood chips exploded off the sill.
Lessie cursed and dropped to the floor. Waxillium dove down beside her.
“Sharpshooter!” he hissed.
“Are you always this observant, Mister Cravat?”
“No, only when I’m being shot at.” He peeked up over the lip of the windowsill, but there were a dozen places nearby where the shooter could be hiding. “This is a problem.”
“There’s that razor-sharp power of observation again.” Lessie crawled across the floor toward the door.
“I meant in more ways than one,” Waxillium said, crossing the floor in a crouch. “How did they have time to get a sharpshooter into position? They must have
known
that I was going to show up today. This whole place could be a trap.”
Lessie cursed softly as he reached the door and cracked it open again. The thugs were arguing quietly and gesturing toward the door.
“They’re taking me seriously,” Waxillium said. “Ha! The reputation is working. You see that? They’re frightened!”
“Congratulations,” she said. “Do you think they’ll give me a reward if I shoot you?”
“We need to get upstairs,” Waxillium said, eyeing a stairwell just outside their door.
“What good will that do?”
“Well, for one thing, all the armed people who want to kill us are down here. I’d rather be somewhere else, and those stairs will be easier to defend than this room. Besides, we might find a window on the other side of the building and escape.”
“Yeah, if you want to jump two stories.”
Jumping wasn’t a problem for a Coinshot; Waxillium could Push off a dropped piece of metal as they fell, slowing himself and landing safely. He was also a Feruchemist, and could use his metalminds to reduce his weight far more than he was doing now, shaving it down until he practically floated.
However, Waxillium’s abilities weren’t widely known, and he wanted to keep it that way. He’d heard the stories of his miraculous survivals, and liked the air of mystery around them. There was speculation that he was Metalborn, sure, but so long as people didn’t know exactly what he could do, he’d have an edge.
“Look, I’m going to run for the steps,” he said to the woman. “If you want to stay down here and fight your way out, great. You’ll provide an ideal distraction for me.”
She glanced at him, then grinned. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if we get shot, you owe me a drink.”
There
is
something familiar about her,
Waxillium thought. He nodded, counted softly to three, then burst out of the door and leveled his gun at the nearest thug. The man jumped back as Waxillium shot three times—and missed. His bullets hit the pianoforte instead, sounding a discordant note with each impact.
Lessie scrambled out behind him and went for the stairs. The motley collection of thugs leveled weapons with cries of surprise. Waxillium swung his gun back—out of the way of his Allomancy—and shoved lightly on the blue lines pointing from him toward the men in the room. They opened fire, but his Push had nudged their guns enough to spoil their aim.
Waxillium followed Lessie up the steps, fleeing the storm of gunfire.
“Holy hell,” Lessie said as they reached the first landing. “We’re alive.” She looked back at him, cheeks flushed.
Something clicked like a lock in Waxillium’s mind. “I
have
met you before,” he said.
“No you haven’t,” she said, looking away. “Let’s keep—”
“The Weeping Bull!” Waxillium said. “The dancing girl!”
“Oh, God Beyond,” she said, leading the way up the stairs. “You remember.”
“I
knew
you were faking. Even Rusko wouldn’t hire someone that uncoordinated, no matter how pretty her legs are.”
“Can we go jump out a window now, please?” she said, checking the top floor for signs of thugs.
“Why were you there? Chasing a bounty?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“And you really didn’t know they were going to make you—”
“This conversation is done.”
They stepped out onto the top floor, and Waxillium waited a moment until a shadow on the wall announced someone following them upstairs. He fired once at the thug who appeared there, missing again, but driving the man back. He heard cursing and arguing below. Granite Joe might own the men in this saloon, but they weren’t overly loyal. The first few up the steps would almost certainly get shot, and none would be eager to take the risk.
That would buy Waxillium some time. Lessie pushed into a room, passing an empty bed with a pair of boots beside it. She threw open the window, which was on the opposite side of the building from the sharpshooter.
The town of Weathering spread before them, a lonely collection of shops and homes, hunkered down as if waiting—in vain—for the day when the railroad would stretch its fingers this far. In the middle distance, beyond the humble buildings, a few giraffes browsed lazily, the only sign of animal life in the vast plain.
The drop out the window was straight down, no roof to climb onto. Lessie regarded the ground warily. Waxillium shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.
Nothing happened.
He whistled again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lessie demanded.
“Calling my horse,” Waxillium said, then whistled again. “We can hop down into the saddle and ride away.”
She stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“Sure I am. We’ve been practicing.”
A lone figure walked out onto the street below, the kid who had been following Waxillium. “Uh, Wax?” the kid called up. “Destroyer’s just standing there, drinking.”
“Hell,” Waxillium said.
Lessie looked at him. “You named your horse—”
“She’s a little too placid, all right?” Waxillium snapped, climbing up onto the windowsill. “I thought the name might inspire her.” He cupped his hand, calling to the boy below. “Wayne! Bring her out here. We’re going to jump!”
“Like hell we are,” Lessie said. “You think there’s something magical about a saddle that will keep us from breaking the horse’s back when we drop into it?”
Waxillium hesitated. “Well, I’ve read about people doing this.…”
“Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” Lessie said. “Next, why don’t you call out Granite Joe, and go stand out in the road and have a good old-fashioned showdown at noon.”
“You think that would work? I—”
“No, it won’t work,” she snapped. “Nobody does that. It’s stupid. Ruin! How
did
you kill Peret the Black?”
They stared at each other a moment.
“Well…” Waxillium started.
“Oh hell. You caught him on the crapper, didn’t you?”
Waxillium grinned at her. “Yeah.”
“Did you shoot him in the back too?”
“As bravely as any man ever shot another in the back.”
“Huh. There might be hope for you yet.”
He nodded toward the window. “Jump?”
“Sure. Why not break both my legs before getting shot? Might as well go all in, Mister Cravat.”
“I think we’ll be fine, Miss Pink Garter.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“If you’re going to identify me by my clothing choices,” he said, “then I figure I can do the same.”
“It shall never be mentioned again,” she said, then took a deep breath. “So?”
He nodded, flaring his metals, preparing to hold on to her and slow them as they fell—just enough to make it seem like they’d miraculously survived the jump. As he did, however, he noticed one of his blue lines moving—a faint but thick one, pointing across the street.
The window in the mill.
Sunlight glinted off something inside.
Waxillium immediately grabbed Lessie and pulled her down. A fraction of a second later, a bullet streaked over their heads and hit the door on the other side of the room.
“Another sharpshooter,” she hissed.
“Your power of observation is—”
“Shut it,” she said. “Now what?”
Waxillium frowned, considering the question. He glanced at the bullet hole, gauging the trajectory. The sharpshooter had aimed too high; even if Waxillium hadn’t ducked, he’d likely have been all right.
Why aim high? The moving blue line to the gun had indicated the sharpshooter running to get into position before shooting. Was it just rushed targeting? Or was there a more sinister reason?
To knock me out of the sky? When I flew out the window?
He heard footsteps on the stairs, but saw no blue lines. He cursed, scrambling over and peeking out. A group of men were creeping up the steps, and not the normal thugs from below. These men wore tight white shirts, had pencil mustaches, and were armed with crossbows. Not a speck of metal on them.
Rusts! They knew he was a Coinshot, and Granite Joe had a kill squad ready for him.
He ducked back into the room and grabbed Lessie by the arm. “Your informant said Granite Joe was in this building?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He most certainly is. He likes to be close when a gang is being gathered; he likes to keep an eye on his men.”
“This building has a basement.”
“… So?”
“So hang on.”
He grabbed her in both hands and rolled onto the ground, causing her to yelp, then curse. Holding her over him, he increased his weight.
He had a great deal of it stored in his metalmind by now, after weeks of siphoning it off. Now he drew it all out, magnifying his weight manyfold in an instant. The wooden floor cracked, then
burst
open beneath them.
Waxillium fell through, his fine clothing getting ripped, and dropped through the air, towing Lessie after him. Eyes squeezed closed, he Pushed the hundreds of blue lines behind him, those leading to the nails in the floor below. He blasted them downward to shatter the ground level’s floor and open the way into the basement.
They crashed through the ground floor in a shower of dust and splinters. Waxillium managed to slow their descent with a Steelpush, but they still came down hard, smashing into a table in a basement chamber.
Waxillium let out a puffing groan, but forced himself to twist around, shaking free of the broken wood. The basement, surprisingly, was paneled in fine hardwoods and lit by lamps shaped like curvaceous women. The table they had hit bore a rich white tablecloth, though it was now wadded in a bunch, the table legs shattered and the table itself at an angle.
A man sat at the table’s head. Waxillium managed to stand up in the wreckage and level a gun at the fellow, who had a blocky face and dark blue-grey skin—the mark of a man with koloss heritage. Granite Joe. Waxillium appeared to have interrupted his dinner, judging by the napkin tucked into his collar and the spilled soup on the broken table in front of him.
Lessie groaned, rolling over and brushing splinters off her clothing. Her rifle had apparently been left upstairs. Waxillium held his gun in a firm grip as he eyed the two duster-wearing bodyguards behind Granite Joe, a man and a woman—siblings, he’d heard, and crack shots. They’d been surprised by his fall, obviously, for though they’d rested hands on their weapons, they hadn’t drawn.
Waxillium had the upper hand, with the gun on Joe—but if he
did
shoot, the siblings would kill him in a heartbeat. Perhaps he hadn’t thought through this line of attack quite as well as he should have.