Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

how quick they are to show emotion. It’s in how they make use of what life has shown them.”
    Her blush deepened. “I’m also thinking that you like to lecture.”
    “It comes with the lawman’s badge.”
    “You don’t … wear that anymore.”
    “A man can take it off, Lady Marasi. But he can never stop wearing it.”
    He met her gaze. She looked up with eyes that were deep, reflective, like the water of an unexpected spring in the Roughs. He steeled himself. He would be bad for her. Very bad. He’d thought the same of Lessie, and he had been right.
    “There’s another thing I’m thinking about you,” she said softly. “Can you guess it?”
    All too well.
    With reluctance, he broke her gaze and looked at the pad. “Yes. You are thinking that I should talk Ranette into lending you a rifle. I agree. While I do think that it would be wise of you to train with a revolver eventually, I’d rather you spend this particular encounter with a weapon you use well. Maybe we can find a rifle that will fit those aluminum rounds Wayne grabbed.”
    “Oh. Of course.”
    Waxillium pretended not to notice her embarrassment.
    “I think,” Marasi said, “that I’ll go check on Wayne and Ranette.”
    “Good idea. Hopefully she hasn’t discovered that he took one of her guns to trade.”
    Marasi withdrew, walking to the door in haste.
    “Lady Marasi?” Waxillium called.
    She hesitated at the door, turning, hopeful.
    “You did a good job of reading me,” he said, nodding in respect. “Not many can do that. I’m not known to be free with my emotions.”
    “Advanced interrogation techniques class,” she said. “And … uh, I’ve read your psychological profile.”
    “I have a psychological profile?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid. Doctor Murnbru wrote it after his visit to Weathering.”
    “That little rat Murnbru was a psychologist ?” Waxillium said, genuinely baffled. “I was sure he was a gambling cheat, passing through town looking for marks to swindle.”
    “Er, yes. That’s in the profile. You, uh, have a tendency to think anyone who wears too much red is a chronic gambler.”
    “I do?”
    She nodded.
    “Damn,” he said. I’m going to need to read that thing.
    She left and pulled the door closed. He turned back to his plan once again. He raised his hand and slipped his earring into his ear. He was supposed to wear it when praying, or when doing something of great import.
    He figured that tonight, he’d be doing a lot of both.

16

    Wayne hobbled through the railway station, supporting himself on his brown cane, walking with a slow, intentionally frail step. There was quite a crowd pushing and shoving one another and gawking at the train up ahead. A group of them surged to the side, nearly toppling him.
    Everyone was standing up so tall. That gave Wayne—back bent with age—no hope of seeing what the fuss was about. “No thought for a poor elderly woman,” Wayne grumbled. A gravelly tone, nasal and higher-pitched than his normal voice, mixed with a nice Margothian District accent. The district no longer existed, at least not in the same way; it had been consumed by the industrial quarter of its octant, its residents moving away. A dying accent for a dying woman. “No respect at all. A travesty, I tell you. Plain and simple, that’s what it is.”
    A few youths in the crowd in front glanced back at him, taking in his ancient coat—it went down to his ankles—his face furrowed with age, his silvery hair beneath a felt cap. “Sorry, ma’am,” one of them finally said, making way for him.
    Now, there’s a nice boy, Wayne thought, patting his arm and hobbling forward. One by one, people made way for him. Sometimes it took a little fit of coughing that sounded like it might be contagious. Wayne was careful not to look like a beggar. That would draw the attention of constables, who might think he was looking for marks to pickpocket.
    No, he wasn’t a beggar. He was Abrigain, an old woman who had come to see what the fuss was about. Abrigain wasn’t rich, nor was she poor. Frugal, with a meticulously patched coat, a favored hat that had once been fashionable. Spectacles thick as a dockworker’s wits. A few very young boys let her by, and Abrigain gave them each a piece of candy, patting them on their heads. Nice boys. They reminded Abrigain of her grandchildren.
    Wayne eventually reached the front. There, the Breaknaught sat in all its glory. It was a train car built like a fortress, with