Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

dictate a broad education.”
    “Yeah, I know they have to take girls,” Wayne said.
    Marasi paused. “Er … not that meaning of broad, Wayne.”
    “Students have to be trained in a little of everything,” Waxillium said, “before they can choose a specialty.”
    “That includes basic healing and some small amount of surgery,” Marasi said. “As well as complete anatomy courses.”
    Wayne frowned. “Wait. Anatomy. Meaning, all parts of anatomy.”
    Marasi blushed. “Yes.”
    “So—”
    “So it was very popular in class to watch my reactions, apparently,” she said, still blushing. “And I’d rather not dwell on that at the moment, Wayne, thank you. This needs stitches, Waxillium.”
    “Can you do it?”
    “Er … I’ve never worked on anyone alive before…”
    “Eh,” Wayne said, “I spent months training with dueling canes on dummies before beating up my first real person. It’s pretty much the same thing.”
    “I’ll be all right, Marasi,” Waxillium said.
    “So many scars,” she said quietly, as if not noticing what he’d said. She was staring at his chest and sides, and seemed to be counting the old bullet wounds.
    “There are seven,” he said softly in reply, replacing the bandage and tying it tight.
    “You’ve been shot seven times?” she asked.
    “A lot of gunshots aren’t lethal, if you know how to care for them,” Waxillium said. “They don’t really—”
    “Oh,” she said, raising a hand to her lips. “I meant, we only have records of five. I really will need to hear about the other two sometime.”
    “Right,” he said, grimacing and standing. He waved for his shirt.
    “Oh, bother,” she said. “That didn’t come out very well, did it? I really am impressed that you have been shot so often. Really.”
    “Getting hit’s not really that impressive,” Wayne noted. “It don’t take much skill to get shot. It’s avoiding the bullets that’s tough.”
    Waxillium snorted, pulling his arm through a sleeve.
    Marasi stood. “I’ll turn around so you can dress,” she said, beginning to spin.
    “Turn around,” Waxillium said flatly.
    “Um, yes.”
    “So I can dress.”
    “A little silly, I guess.”
    “A little,” he said, smiling and pulling his other sleeve on. He began doing the buttons. Wayne looked so amused he was having trouble standing up.
    “All right,” she said, raising her hands to the sides of her face. “I realize that I get a little flustered sometimes. I’m just not used to things exploding, people getting shot at, and finding my friends sitting and bleeding with their shirts off when I walk in! This is all very new to me.”
    “It’s all right,” Waxillium said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “There are much worse things to be than genuine, Marasi. Besides, Wayne wasn’t much better when he was new to all of this. Why, he used to get so nervous that he would start—”
    “Hey,” Wayne said, “no use bringin’ that up.”
    “What?” Marasi asked, lowering her hands.
    “NOTHING,” Wayne replied. “Come on. We should move, right? If Mister Miles Murderer is still alive, he’ll be wanting to shoot us, right? And as good as Wax is at getting shot—he’s had lots of practice, you see—I think we best be avoiding more of that sort today.”
    “He’s right,” Waxillium said, pulling on his vest, then putting on his shoulder holsters. He winced.
    “Are you sure you’re all right?” Marasi asked.
    “He’s fine,” Wayne said, holding the door open for them. “ I got quite near my entire rusted back blown off earlier, if you’ll kindly recall, and I didn’t hear nearly an ounce of the sympathy you’re showin’ him.”
    “That’s different,” Marasi said, walking past him.
    “What? Why? ’Cuz I can heal?”
    “No,” she said, “because—even after knowing you only a short time—I’m fairly certain that on one level or another, you deserve to get blown up every now and again.”
    “Oi,” Wayne said. “That’s harsh.”
    “But untrue?” Waxillium said, pulling on his coat. It was looking quite ragged.
    “Didn’t say that now, did I,” Wayne said, and sneezed. “Keep moving, slowboy. Rusts! A man gets shot, and he thinks he can take all afternoon. Let’s move!”
    Waxillium walked past. He forced himself to smile, though he was starting to feel as ragged as his coat. There wasn’t much time. Miles had taken off his mask, but had obviously expected to kill Waxillium. He now knew that he’d