The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,43
off. Steel doors, Pushed into the room, twisted off their hinges like they were paper…”
Wax felt a chill. So the bandits had Metalborn too. Wax peeked around the wall back toward the courier car, and found the door he’d closed open again. A thin man stood on the platform, wearing a long coat and supporting himself on a cane. He gestured, speaking urgently and motioning for another bandit to lumber toward Wax’s car—a hulking brute who had to be almost seven feet tall.
Wonderful. “Get in here,” Wax said to the guard, pulling open the luggage compartment in the room’s floor. “Keep your head down.”
The guard crawled into the compartment, which was cramped and shallow, but large enough for a person, even with a few pieces of luggage in it. Wax pulled out both Sterrions, crouching in the doorway of the private room. The train continued to rock, going around a bend. The thing hadn’t stopped. Did the engineer not know about the attack, or was he hoping to get to the next town?
Rusts, the courier car changed all of Wax’s assessments. Maybe this wasn’t about him. But why not simply stop the train and raid it in the wilderness? Too many questions, and no time to answer them. He had a bandit to kill. He’d have to jump out and surprise the brute, bring him down quick. If he was the Metalborn, surprise would be—
Something bounced down the hallway and came to a rest on the floor beside Wax, just outside the doorway in which he crouched. A small metal cube. He jumped back, fearing an explosive, but nothing happened. What had that been?
And then he realized with a deep, bone-chilling horror that he was no longer burning metal. There was nothing inside of him to burn.
His steel reserves had—somehow—vanished.
* * *
Marasi fired three shots with the rifle, driving the bandits in the next car back under cover. Impressive, she thought, absently handing the weapon to Steris for reloading. She’d always used a target rifle before. You took one shot at a time with those, cocking between, but Waxillium’s rifle had a wheel full of cartridges that turned on its own, like a revolver.
Steris handed back the gun, and Marasi took aim again, waiting for any bandit bits to peek out. She hid just inside the door to the servants’ compartment, and the bandits hadn’t made any serious attempts at advancing on her position.
Someone said something beside her. Marasi glanced into the room, where Drewton was speaking. Marasi pulled out one of her wax earplugs.
“What?” she asked.
“Are those earplugs?” the valet asked.
“What do they look like?” she said, then sighted down the rifle and fired a shot.
Drewton shoved his hands over his ears. Indeed, in the small chamber, the shot was loud enough that she was annoyed he’d made her remove her earplug.
“You carry them with you?” Drewton asked.
“Steris does.” Apparently. Marasi had been a little surprised when Steris had pulled out a pair for herself, then—an unconcerned look on her face—handed a pair to Marasi.
“So you expected this to happen?”
“More or less,” Marasi said, watching for movement from the bandits.
He seemed aghast. “This sort of thing happens often?”
“Would you say it happens often, Steris?” Marasi asked.
“Hmm?” Steris said, removing an earplug. “What was that?”
Marasi fired a shot, then looked up. Think I winged that one. “The valet wants to know if this sort of thing happens often to us.”
“You more than me,” Steris said conversationally. “But when Lord Waxillium is around, things do tend to pop up.”
“Things?” Drewton said. “Pop up? This is a rusting train robbery!”
Steris regarded the valet with a cool expression. “Didn’t you inquire about your prospective master before entering Lord Waxillium’s employ?”
“Well, I mean, I knew he had an interest in the constabulary. Like some lords have an interest in the symphony, or in civic matters. It seemed odd, but not ungentlemanly. I mean, it’s not as if he was involved in the theater.”
They’ve gone quiet over there, Marasi thought, nervously tapping one finger against the rifle barrel. Were they going to try to cross over onto the top of her car again? One of the holes in the ceiling still dripped blood from the previous attempt.
To the side, Steris clicked her tongue disapprovingly at Drewton’s words. He hadn’t done his homework, which was a dreadful sin in Steris’s eyes. Little could be worse than entering a situation without being thorough.