“Do we really have to—”
“Six seven eight.” She raised the gun, taking aim at them.
“All right then…” Waxillium said, hustling down the steps, Wayne following, hand holding his carriage man’s cap in place.
“She wouldn’t really shoot us?” Marasi asked softly. “Would she?”
“Nine!”
They reached the sidewalk beneath the towering trees. The door slammed closed behind them.
Waxillium took a deep breath, turning around and looking at the house. Wayne leaned back against one of the tree trunks, smiling.
“So, that went well,” Waxillium said.
“Yup,” Wayne replied.
“Well?” Marasi demanded.
“Neither of us got shot,” Waxillium said. “You can’t always be sure, with Ranette. Particularly if Wayne is along.”
“Now, that’s right unfair,” Wayne said. “She’s only shot me three times.”
“You’re forgetting Callingfale.”
“That was in the foot,” Wayne said. “Barely counts.”
Marasi pursed her lips, studying the building. “You two have some curious friends.”
“Curious? Nah, she’s just angry.” Wayne smiled. “It’s how she shows affection.”
“By shooting people?”
“Ignore Wayne,” Waxillium said. “Ranette might be brusque, but she rarely shoots people other than him.”
Marasi nodded. “So … should we go?”
“Wait for a moment,” Waxillium said. To his side, Wayne started whistling, then checked his pocket watch.
The door was flung open again, Ranette holding her shotgun up on her shoulder. “You’re not leaving!” she called.
“I need your help,” Waxillium called back.
“I need you to stick your head in a bucket of water and slowly count to a thousand!”
“Lives are at stake, Ranette,” Waxillium yelled. “Innocent lives.”
Ranette raised her gun, taking aim.
“Don’t worry,” Wayne said to Marasi. “At this distance, birdshot probably won’t be lethal. Make sure your eyes are closed, though.”
“You’re not helping, Wayne,” Waxillium said calmly. He was sure Ranette wouldn’t shoot. Well, reasonably sure. Maybe.
“Oh, you actually want me to help?” Wayne said. “Right. You still have that aluminum gun I gave you?”
“Tucked in the small of my back,” Waxillium said. “Without any bullets.”
“Hey, Ranette!” Wayne called. “I’ve got a neat gun you can have!”
She hesitated.
“Wait,” Waxillium said, “I wanted that—”
“Don’t be a baby,” Wayne said to him. “Ranette, it’s a revolver made entirely of aluminum!”
She lowered her shotgun. “Really?”
“Get it out,” Wayne whispered to Waxillium.
Waxillium sighed, reaching under his coat. He held up the revolver, drawing some looks from passersby on the street. Several of them spun about and hastened in the other direction.
Ranette stepped forward. She was a Lurcher, and could recognize most metals by simply burning iron. “Well then,” she called. “You should have mentioned that you’d brought a bribe. This might be enough to get me to forgive you!” She strolled down her front walk, shotgun slung up over her shoulder.
“You realize,” Waxillium said under his breath, “that this revolver is worth enough to buy an entire houseful of guns? I think I might shoot you, for this.”
“The ways of Wayne are mysterious and incomprehensible,” Wayne said. “What he giveth, he can draw back unto himself. And lo, let it be written and pondered.”
“You’ll ponder my fist, hitting your face.” Waxillium plastered a smile on his lips as Ranette stepped up to them; then he reluctantly handed over the revolver.
She looked it over with an expert eye. “Lightweight,” she said. “No maker’s mark stamped on the barrel or the grip. Where’d you get this?”
“The Vanishers,” Waxillium said.
“Who?”
Waxillium sighed. That’s right.
“How could you not know who the Vanishers are?” Marasi blurted. “They’ve been on every broadsheet in the city for the last two months. They’re all anyone is talking about.”
“People are stupid,” Ranette said, popping the revolver open, checking the chambers. “I find them annoying—and those are the ones I like. Did this have aluminum rounds too?”
Waxillium nodded. “We don’t have any of the pistol rounds. Just a few rifle rounds.”
“How did they work?” she asked. “Stronger than lead, but much lighter. Less immediate stopping power, obviously, but they’ll still tear themselves apart on hitting. Could be very deadly if they hit the right spot. And that’s assuming wind resistance doesn’t slow the bullets too much before they reach their target. The effective range would be way down. And they’d be highly abrasive to the barrel.”
“I haven’t fired it,” Waxillium said. He eyed Wayne, who was grinning. “We’ve … er, been saving it for you. And I’m sure the rounds are of a much heavier alloy than the revolver itself, though I didn’t get a chance to test them yet. They’re lighter than lead rounds, but not even close to as light as nearly pure aluminum would be. The percentage is still high, but the alloy must solve most of those issues somehow.”
Ranette grunted. She waved the gun absently toward Marasi. “Who’s the ornament?”
“A friend,” Waxillium said. “Ranette, people are looking for us. Dangerous people. Can we come in?”
She tucked the revolver into her belt. “Fine. But if Wayne touches anything—anything—I’ll blow off the offending fingers.”
Marasi kept her tongue as they were led into the building. She wasn’t particularly fond of being referred to as an “ornament.” But she was fond of remaining unshot, and so silence seemed prudent.
She was good at silence. She had been trained to it over two decades of life.
Ranette closed the door behind them, then turned away. Shockingly, the locks on the door all did themselves, twisting in their mounts and clicking. There were nearly a dozen of them, and their sudden move caused Marasi to jump. What in the Survivor’s Deadly Name?
Ranette set her shotgun in a basket beside the door—it appeared that she kept it there the way ordinary people kept umbrellas—then sidled past them in the narrow hallway. She waved a hand, and some kind of lever beside the interior door lurched. The door sprang open as she walked to it.
Ranette was an Allomancer. Of course. That was why she’d been able to recognize the aluminum. As they reached the door, Marasi studied the contraption that had opened it. There was a lever that could be pulled, which in turn moved a rope, pulley, and lever arrangement on the other side.
There’s one on each side, Marasi realized as they stepped through the doorway. She can open her doors from either direction without needing to lift a hand. It seemed an indulgence. But, then, who was Marasi to critique another person’s use of their Allomancy? This would certainly be useful if you often walked about with your hands full.
The living room beyond had been converted to a workshop. There were large worktables on all four sides, and nails had been pounded into the walls to hang an impressive variety of tools. Marasi didn’t recognize any of the machinery that cluttered those tables, but there were a lot of clamps and gears. A disturbing number of electrical cords snaked across the floor.
Marasi stepped very carefully. Electricity couldn’t be dangerous when it was in cords, could it? She’d heard stories of people getting burned, as if struck by lightning, from getting too close to electrical devices. And people spoke of using this power for everything—replacing horses with it, making mills that ground grain on their own, using it to power elevators. Disturbing. Well, she’d keep her distance.
The door slammed shut behind them in response to Ranette’s Allomancy. She had to Pull on a lever for it, so that meant she was a Lurcher, not a Coinshot like Waxillium. Wayne was already poking through things on the desks, completely ignoring her threat to his fingers.
Waxillium surveyed the room, with its wires, windows—covered by shutters—and tools. “I assume it’s living up to your expectations?”
“What?” Ranette asked. “The city? It’s a pit. I don’t feel half as safe here as I did out in the Roughs.”
“Still can’t believe you abandoned us,” Wayne said, sounding hurt.
“You didn’t have electricity,” Ranette said, sitting at her desk in a chair with wheels on the bottom. She waved an absent hand, and a long, thin tool flipped out of a cubby on the wall. It flew toward her and she snatched it, then brought it down and began prodding at the gun Waxillium had given her. From what Marasi understood, gestures weren’t needed for Pushing or Pulling, but many used them anyway.
Ranette completely ignored her visitors as she worked. She Pulled a few more tools without looking up, causing them to streak across the room to her. One nearly clipped Marasi on the shoulder.
It was unusual to see Allomancy used so casually, and Marasi wasn’t certain what to make of it. On one hand, it was fascinating. On the other, it was humbling. What would it be like, to have a power that was useful? Lord Harms had insisted that Marasi keep her ability—such as it was—quiet, calling it unseemly. She could see through him. He wasn’t so much embarrassed to have an Allomancer daughter as to have one that was illegitimate. He couldn’t have Marasi looking like a better catch than Steris.
Bitter thoughts, she told herself, intentionally pushing them away. Bitterness could consume a woman. Best to keep it at arm’s length.
“This gun is good work,” Ranette said, though she sounded grudging. She’d donned some spectacles with a magnifying lens on them, and was in the process of staring down the barrel of the revolver while shining a small electric light into it. “You want me to figure out who made this, I assume?”
Waxillium turned to study a line of half-finished guns on one of the tables. “Actually,” he said, “we came here because we needed someplace safe to think for a few hours.”
“Your mansion isn’t safe?”
“My butler failed to poison me, then tried to shoot me, then set off an explosive in my study.”
“Huh.” She cocked the pistol a few times. “You need to screen these people better, Wax.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” He picked up a pistol and sighted down its barrel. “I’m going to need a new Sterrion.”
“Like hell you will,” Ranette said. “What’s wrong with the ones you have?”
“Gave them to the aforementioned butler,” Waxillium said. “And he probably dumped them in the canals.”
“What of your Ambersairs? I made you one of those, didn’t I?”
