The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,98
spike?”
“Yes,” she said, determined.
“I’m going to find my uncle. Who do you want? Wayne or MeLaan?”
“MeLaan this time,” Marasi said.
Wax nodded. “Stay hidden, but if Wayne and I get spotted, try to help. We’ll do the same for you. If you find that spike, return to this point and lie low. If all goes well, we’ll slip back out together.”
“And if all doesn’t go well?”
“Which it won’t,” Wayne added.
“Meet back where we left Steris and the horses,” Wax said, sliding a gun from the holster at his side. MeLaan did the same, only her holster was her leg. Like, the skin split and she reached in through a slit in her trousers and slipped the gun out—a sleek, long-barreled thing.
Wayne whistled softly. She grinned, then gave him a kiss. “Try not to get shot too many times.”
“You neither,” he said.
They split up.
18
Marasi snuck through the warehouse, her rifle’s strap an uncomfortable weight on her shoulder. She was glad for the trousers—they were quieter than rustling skirts—but she kept worrying that the scientists and workers in the room would notice the sound of her boots on the packed earth.
Probably not. The warehouse was hardly silent. Though it was night, and activity was muted, some people were still working. Along one side of the room, a few carpenters sawed lengths of wood, each stroke echoing back from the walls. The group of engineers made exclamations as they discussed aspects of the large vessel.
They seem surprised by it, Marasi thought. As if they’re not the ones who built it in the first place. Were they new to the project, then?
Guards dotted the warehouse, but there weren’t nearly as many as outside. She and MeLaan kept to the shadowed edge of the chamber, near the piles of boxes and supplies, but still had to pass uncomfortably close to a group of soldiers sitting at a small table playing cards.
The soldiers didn’t notice them. Eventually, MeLaan and Marasi managed to reach the south wall, which was one of the long sides of the rectangular building. Here, rooms had been built into the structure, and they were more finished than the rest, complete with doors and the occasional window.
“Living quarters?” Marasi whispered, pointing.
“Maybe,” MeLaan replied, crouching beside her. “So how are we going to find the spike?”
“I’d assume it’s inside a safe of some sort.”
“Maybe,” MeLaan said. “Or it could be in a desk drawer in one of those rooms, or packed away in a box … or hell, they may have just thrown it away. Suit only seemed to want it because he required proof that poor ReLuur had been dealt with.”
Marasi took a deep breath. “If that’s the case, we’ll have to interrogate Suit once Waxillium finds him. But I don’t think they threw it away. We know the Set is researching ways to make Allomancers, and we know they’re interested in Hemalurgy. They’d study the spike instead of tossing it.”
MeLaan nodded thoughtfully. “But it could still be practically anywhere.”
Not far away, the scientists—led by a man with a limp—walked up a plank ramp, peering into the open side of the boat. It’s him, Marasi thought. The same one from the train robbery. He was showing the newcomers around the project.
They stepped inside.
“I’ve got an idea,” Marasi said.
“How crazy is it?”
“Less crazy than tossing Wayne off a cliff.”
“Not a high bar, but all right. How do we start?”
Marasi pointed at the hole in the hull that the scientists had entered through. “We get in there.”
* * *
Wax moved along behind the supply pallets in the direction opposite Marasi’s, feeling as if he were stepping through the shadow of progress. He’d pondered the transformations that Elendel had undergone during his absence: motorcars and electric lights, skyscrapers and concrete roads. It was like he’d left one world and come back to another.
That seemed only the beginning. Enormous warships. Technology that enhanced Allomancy. Bracers that one Feruchemist could fill, and another could use. He couldn’t help but feel intimidated, as if this behemoth ship were a soldier from another time, come to stamp out all the dusty old relics like Wax.
He pulled up beside the last stack of planks in the line, Wayne joining him. The man yanked out his canteen, which was of sturdy, stiff leather, worked to the shape of a small bottle. He took a swig and offered it to Wax, who accepted it and downed a drink.
He coughed softly. “Apple juice?”
“Good for the body,” Wayne said, tucking the canteen away.