The Bands of Mourning by Brandon Sanderson
Marasi frowned. Why—
“Aha!” Waxillium proclaimed, standing up. “I found it!”
“What?” Steris said. “Where?”
“Tips.”
“I looked in tips.”
“One of the dockworkers turned the request in late,” Waxillium said, grabbing a sheet and spinning it toward Steris. “He tipped a dock boy four clips to run a message for him, and asked for reimbursement. Dockmaster gave it to him, and filed a note, but he wrote the four like a three and the accountants recorded it that way.”
Steris looked it over with wide eyes. “You bastard,” she said, causing Marasi to blink. She’d never heard language like that from Steris. “How did you figure this out?”
Waxillium grinned, folding his arms. “Wayne would say it’s because I’m brilliant.”
“Wayne has the mental capacity of a fruit fly,” Steris said. “In comparison to him, anyone is brilliant. I…” She trailed off, noticing Marasi for the first time. She blinked, and her expression became more reserved. “Marasi. Welcome. Would you like to sit?”
“On what?” Marasi asked. Every surface was covered in ledgers and pages. “The luggage rack? Are those house finances?”
“I found a lost clip,” Waxillium said. “The last one, I should add, which gives me two for the evening, while Steris found one.”
Marasi stared at Steris, who started clearing a place for her to sit. She looked to Waxillium, who stood beaming with the sheet in his hand, looking it over again as if it were some lost metal he’d rescued from a labyrinth.
“A lost clip,” Marasi said. “Great. Maybe you can find something in these.” She held up the pages VenDell had given her. “I’m heading to bed for a few hours.”
“Hmm?” Waxillium said. “Oh, sure. Thanks.” He set down the page with some reluctance, taking the folder.
“Be sure to look at the drawings of monsters,” Marasi said, yawning. “Oh, and this was in there.” She tossed him the pouch with the earring and walked back into the hallway.
She walked toward her room, feeling the train slow once more. Another town? Or were there sheep crossing the tracks again? They were supposed to be getting into the part of the route that was the prettiest. Too bad it would be so dark out.
She walked back to her door, first of those in their car, and glanced out the front window toward the rest of the train, which she was surprised to see moving off into the distance. She gaped for a moment, and then the door at the other end of the car burst open.
The man standing on the platform beyond leveled a gun down the corridor and fired.
7
“Well, I think you showed a real talent for this, Lord Waxillium, as I believe I suggested—”
Wax stopped listening to Steris.
Train slowing.
Chugging sounds retreating.
Door opening.
Wax burned steel.
Steris continued talking, and he nodded absently, part of him going through the motions as the rest of him came alert. He heard a click and Pushed to his left and held it, Pushing to the right against the frame of the train car to keep himself from moving.
As the bullet passed in the hallway outside, his Push—already in place—slammed it sideways into the wall.
Go. His Push had shoved open the door. He dropped the earring—damn that VenDell—and Pushed to the right, on the train car’s metal window frame. This launched him out to the left, streaking into the hallway. He rammed into the wall where he’d Pushed the bullet, Vindication in hand, and drilled the surprised man at the end of the hallway in the forehead.
Marasi clipped off a scream. Steris stuck her head out into the hallway, wide-eyed. Not the smartest move, but she’d rarely been in gunfights.
“Thanks,” Marasi said.
He nodded curtly. “Get your sister behind some cover.” He slipped past her and stepped out onto the small platform between train cars—only, their car had been unhooked and left to drift. A group of three shocked-looking men on horses rode alongside the slowing car.
Horses? Wax thought. Really?
By the starlight—which was bright tonight, with no clouds and the Red Rip low on the horizon—he could see they wore vests over their shirts and sturdy trousers. A larger crowd of them galloped alongside the train ahead. This wasn’t a specific attack on just his car, but a full-blown armed robbery.
That meant he had to be quick.
He shoved on the platform beneath him and decreased his weight. The three robbers nearby started firing, but Wax’s Push flung him into the air above their shots and his decreased weight meant that the wind resistance pushed him backward, onto the train car. He landed, increased his weight, and picked one man off his horse.
The remaining bandits took off forward, kicking their horses and chasing after the others, yelling, “Allomancer! Allomancer!”
Blast, Wax thought, dropping one of the men as the other dodged his horse into a stand of trees. He was out of pistol range in a moment, and would soon catch his fellows.
Wax dropped onto the platform and rushed down the hallway. The room he’d shared with Steris was empty, but he spotted quivering blue lines in the one next door. Marasi had wisely piled everyone into the servants’ compartment.
“Robbery,” Wax said as he threw open the door, startling the servants, Marasi, and Steris. Most of them sat on the floor, though Marasi was by the window, peeking out. And Steris was on the built-in seat, remarkably composed.
“Robbers?” Steris asked. “Really, Lord Waxillium, must you bring your hobbies with you everywhere we go?”
“They’re going after the rest of the train,” Wax said, pointing. “The first thieves must have recognized this car as a private one, probably lush with riches to plunder, and so they uncoupled it. But something is wrong.”
“Other than people trying to kill us?” Marasi asked.
“No,” Steris said, “in my experience, that’s quite normal.”
“What’s wrong,” Wax said, “is that they’re riding horses.”
The others stared at him.
“Horseback train robberies,” Wax said, “are something out of the story magazines. Nobody actually does that. What good does it do to board a moving train, risking your life, when you can just stop the vehicle like the Vanishers did?”
“So our bad guys…” Marasi said.
“New to this,” Wax said. “Or they’ve been reading too much cheap fiction. Either way, they’re still going to be dangerous. I can’t risk leaving you here, in case they come back for you. So keep your heads down and hang on.”
“Hang on?” Herve said. “Why—”
Wax ducked back out into the hallway and ran to the back end of the car. After checking out the doorway, he jumped onto the tracks behind the private car, which was finally rolling to a stop. Then he tapped his metalminds and increased his weight.
A lot.
The gravel sank under his feet as his body became increasingly heavy. He gritted his teeth, flared his metal, and Pushed.
The car lurched in place as if another train had crashed into it. His Push sent it rattling along the tracks, and Wax let out his breath. His muscles didn’t hurt, but he felt as if he’d slammed into a wall.
He released his metalmind, returning his weight to normal, and Pushed on the rails to pull himself out of the gravel. He almost lost a boot in the process.
He Pushed against the tracks once more, sending himself chasing after the moving car. Not nearly fast enough, he thought as he dropped to the ground and increased his weight again. The car rocked as he shoved it, then he hopped and followed, repeating the process three more times to get it up to speed. Then finally he Pushed himself all the way up to it, jamming his shoulder against the back wall and using Allomancy on the tracks behind to sustain and increase the momentum.
Ground passed behind in a blur, rows and rows of wooden ties, the steel rails with a continuous stream of metal lines that pointed toward Wax’s chest. He groaned,
They shot past a group of horses with a few youths guarding them—the bandits’ extra mounts. Wax raised Vindication and fired a few shots into the air, but the horses were too well trained to spook at the sound.
He redoubled his Push as he thought he heard gunfire ahead of him. A moment later, his car slammed into the train proper. Wax let go, dropping to the platform, his back aching. The couplers had engaged, however, and the car remained attached to the rest of the train.
He peeked into the car, then ducked in, passing the room where the others were hiding. In his own compartment, he dropped Vindication into her holster, then yanked his gun case off the top rack.
“Waxillium?” Marasi said, slipping into the room.
“You seen Wayne?” Wax asked.
“He was in the dining car a little bit ago.”
“He’ll be fighting already. If you see him, let him know I’m going to hit the front of the train, then sweep backward.” Wax snapped one Sterrion closed, now loaded, then reached for the second.
“Got it,” Marasi said. She hesitated. “You’re worried.”
“No masks.”
“No…”
“Robbers wear masks,” Wax said. He clicked the second Sterrion closed, then buckled on his gunbelt. Vindication, after a reload, went back into his shoulder holster.
“And men who don’t wear masks?”
“They don’t care if they’re seen.” He looked over and met her eyes. “They’re already outlaws, and don’t have anything to lose. Men like that kill easily. What’s more, it’s obvious to me that they’ve never tried a train robbery before. Either they are very, very desperate—or someone put them up to this.”
She paled. “You don’t think the attack is a coincidence.”
“If it is, I’ll eat Wayne’s hat.” He eyed the shotgun Ranette had given him, then tied on his thigh holster and slipped it in. Then he hung two of her cord-and-sphere contraptions from his gunbelt. Finally, he reached up and took a rifle bag off the top shelf and tossed it to Marasi.
“Watch Steris,” he said. “See if you can find Wayne; check on the next car or two, but don’t worry about advancing farther if you meet resistance. Just hold your ground and protect these people.”
“Right.”
He moved toward the hallway, but as soon as he stepped out a hail of gunfire drove him back again. He cursed. All it would take was one aluminum bullet—which he couldn’t Push on—and he’d be dead.
He took a deep breath, then glanced out quickly while Pushing, and counted four bandits on the rear platform of the next car forward.
They fired again. He ducked back and watched the blue lines of bullets as they flew, taking chunks of wood paneling off the wall and splintering his doorframe. It didn’t appear that any of the bullets were aluminum.
“Distraction?” Marasi asked.
“Yes, please,” Wax said, increasing his weight and Pushing on the window frame, launching it out of the side of the car and against a passing tree. “Fire a few times as I leave, then give me a count of twenty, followed by a distraction.”
“Will do.”
Wax threw himself out the window. Immediately he fired Vindication downward, burying a bullet in the ground and giving him something to Push on to launch himself upward. Marasi fired a few quick shots inside, and hopefully the robbers would assume his shot had been inside as well.
Soaring high, wind whipping at his hair and suit coat, he shot a second bullet into the ground, but farther out, and used it to nudge himself to the right—placing him above the train.
He didn’t let himself touch down, instead using a Push on the nails in the train roof to keep flying forward. He soared over his own car and the one the robbers were in, finally landing on the dining car, which was third from the back.
As he turned to face the rear, his mental count hit twenty. A second later, he heard a spray of gunfire coming from Marasi. That was his mark; Wax dropped between the dining car and the robbers’ car.
He fell practically on top of one of the robbers, who was backing out of the second car from the end—which he hadn’t expected. Wax leveled his gun, but the surprised man punched him in the gut.
Wax grunted, increasing his weight. The platform beneath him strained, but when he shoved the robber with his shoulder, it sent the man tumbling toward the tracks. The robber had kindly left the door open for him, and he had a clean shot at the backs of his fellows at the far end, who were focused on Marasi in the last train car beyond.
Wax didn’t shoot; he just Pushed on the metal they were carrying. The men flipped off the rear platform, dropping into the space between cars. One caught the railing. Wax shot him in the arm, then turned, leveling his gun toward the dining car.
People cringed inside, hiding under tables, whimpering. Rusts … Without bandanas or identifying marks to watch for, he’d have trouble spotting the bandits. He set up his steel bubble, a faint Push away from himself in all directions that excluded his own weapons. It was far from perfect—he’d been shot several times while using it—but it did help.
He turned and strode into the second car from the back, the one the robbers had been using, checking for hostiles at each door, his steel bubble rattling doorknobs. First-class passengers were hiding here, and none appeared hurt.
In Wax’s car, Marasi ducked out of the room, carrying one of Wax’s favorite hats. She shrugged apologetically at its numerous holes.
“If I find Wayne, I’ll send him to you,” he told her, reaching to his gunbelt for a metal vial. He came up with wet fingers, and his belt clinked with broken glass.
Damn. The robber who’d slugged him had broken his vials. He hurriedly hopped over the space between cars, entering their private car again. “I need metal,” he explained at Marasi’s inquisitive look.
He stepped up to his room, then hesitated as a hand stuck out of the next room down, holding a small vial.
“Steris?” he said, walking to her. She was still sitting on the plush train bench—though her face was paler than before. “Steel flakes in suspension,” she said, wiggling the vial.
“Since when have you carried one of these?” Wax asked, taking it from her.
“Since about six months ago. I put one into my purse in case you might need it.” She raised her other hand, displaying two more. “I carry the other two because I’m neurotic.”
He grinned, taking all three. He downed the first one, then nearly choked. “What the hell is in this?”
“Other than steel?” Steris asked. “Cod-liver oil.”
He looked at her, gaping.
“Whiskey is bad for you, Lord Waxillium. A wife must look out for her husband’s health.”
He sighed and drank one more, then tucked the last into his gunbelt. “Stay safe. I’m going to scout the train.” He left and threw himself out the end door, Pushing on the tracks and launching himself in a high arc upward.
The land spread before him, bathed in starlight. The southern end of the Basin, approaching the Seran mountain range, was far more varied in geography than the northern portion. Here, hills rolled across the land, which slowly increased in elevation.
The Seran River cut a strikingly straight path through the hills, often having carved out gorges and canyons. The train line stayed up higher, hugging the tops of hillsides, though its path required it to cut two or three times across the river on large latticework bridges.
The train consisted of eight passenger cars, several cargo cars, and a dining car. He let himself drop, focusing on a specific car near the front where gunshots sounded. As he landed just behind that car, someone stumbled out onto the platform, holding his face.
Armed bank guard, he thought, noting the man’s uniform. The train was bringing a payroll shipment inside a courier car disguised as if carrying a more mundane cargo. What was that scent i
Both fell a moment later to gunfire from inside the courier car. Wax dropped down onto the platform beside the fallen men, checking on them. One was still moving; Wax knelt and moved the man’s hand to cover the hole in his shoulder. “Press hard,” he said over the sounds of the thumping track. “I’ll be back for you.”
The man nodded weakly. Wax took a deep breath and stepped into the courier car, where his eyes immediately started burning. Men moved inside, wearing strange masks and working at a large safe in the center. Half a dozen dead guards lay strewn across the floor of the car.
Wax started shooting, flooring several of the robbers, then Pushed himself out again, then upward as the others took cover and started firing back. He landed on the car behind the courier car, holstered Vindication—who was out of bullets—and brought out a Sterrion.
He prepared to drop down to try picking off more robbers, but an explosion inside the courier car interrupted him. It was a small blast, as explosions went, but it still left Wax’s ears ringing. He winced and dropped to the platform, noticing figures moving in the smoke, stooping beside the safe, removing its contents. Others started firing at him.
He ducked to the side, then Pushed the door to the courier car closed, blocking the gunfire with the reinforced metal door. He grabbed the wounded guard under the arms and pulled him backward over the small gap between platforms and into the passenger car behind. This was another car with private compartments, though second-class, where those rooms had been filled with larger groups.
It was currently empty; the passengers, hearing the gunfire in the next car, had fled down the train. He checked each room anyway. Afterward, he propped the wounded man against the wall inside one of the rooms and tied a handkerchief around the wound, pulling it tight.
“The money…” the guard said.
“They’ve got the money,” Wax replied. “Stopping them isn’t worth risking any more lives.”