Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

the train car, no matter what they look like.” He left, running over to the batch of noblemen.
    “’Ello, Wax,” Wayne said, tipping his hat to the other man. “Ready to get swallowed?”
    Waxillium glanced back toward the station building. Civilians were still scattering. The ground was littered with hats and handkerchiefs. “You need to make sure they still send the train, Wayne. No matter what, it must go forward.”
    “I thought you said they’ll be too embarrassed not to launch it.”
    “For the first part, yes. Not so sure about this next part. Make it happen, Wayne.”
    “Sure thing, mate.” Wayne checked his watch. “She’s late—”
    A sudden series of cracks split the air. Gunshots. Even though Wayne was expecting them, they still made him jump. The guards around them cried out, shouting, looking for the source of the shots. Waxillium fell, screaming, blood spraying from his shoulder. Wayne caught him as another guard spotted flashes coming from atop the building.
    The guards opened fire as Wayne dragged Waxillium out of harm’s way. He looked about, then—acting frantic—shoved Waxillium into the open door of the railcar. Several of the guards looked at him, but nobody said a word. Waxillium’s eyes were staring dead into the air. The other guards had probably lost mates to bandits or house skirmishes, and they knew. In the heat of the fighting, you got the wounded to safety, and it didn’t bloody matter where.
    The firing stopped from atop the building, but it started up again from a rooftop nearby. A few bullets sprayed sparks from the top of a nearby girder. A little close there, Marasi, Wayne thought with annoyance. Why did every woman he met try to shoot him? Just because he could heal from it. That was like drinking a man’s beer just because he could order more.
    Wayne plastered a worried look on his face. “They’re comin’ for the cargo!” he yelled. Then he grabbed the door to the large cargo car, kicked the counterbalance lever to the side, and ran forward. He slammed the door on the Breaknaught shut—Wax inside the railcar, Wayne himself standing outside—before anyone thought to stop him.
    The gunfire stopped. Nearby, the guards cowering behind cover looked at Wayne with horrified expressions. The door to the train clicked into place, settling in.
    “Rust and Ruin, man!” one of the nearby soldiers said. “What have you done?”
    “Locked up the cargo!” Wayne said. “Look, it made them stop.”
    “There were supposed to be soldiers inside there!” the captain said, running up to him.
    “They were trying to get in before we got it locked,” Wayne said. “You saw what they were doing.” He looked at the door. “They can’t get to the cargo now. We’ve won!”
    The captain looked concerned. He glanced at the noblemen who were picking themselves off the ground. Wayne held his breath as they came storming over to the captain. The captain, however, repeated Wayne’s same words.
    “But we stopped them,” the captain explained, knowing that he—and not Wayne—would bear the blame if it was decided that mistakes had been made. “They dropped their attack. We won!”
    Wayne stepped back, relaxing against a pillar as guards were sent to try to find out who had been shooting. They came back with a large number of rifle bullet casings planted on the ground in various locations, though most of the “shots” had been blanks. Several beggar boys had been paid to fire blanks into the air, then plant stories of men getting into horse carriages and riding away in a hurry.
    In under an hour, the train was on its way—with everyone at House Tekiel convinced they’d fought off a major Vanishers robbery. There was even talk of giving Wayne a commendation, though he deflected the glory to the captain and slipped away before anyone could begin asking just which lord retained him as a bodyguard.

17

    Waxillium rode alone in the cold cargo railcar, shoulder wet with fake blood, listening to the wheels thump over the tracks beneath him. A swinging lamp hung where he’d placed it on a hook in the ceiling, near a corner. He’d also secured the webbing of nets on the ceiling, tucked up and held in place by special hooks affixed with industrial tape. It felt good to have all of that removed from wrapping around his legs, thighs, and fake paunch. His guard’s uniform, now much too large for him, lay in a heap in the corner, and he wore a utilitarian pair of suit pants