“So what are we going to do?” Tarson asked.

“Nothing,” Miles said. “Wax likely doesn’t realize I’ve guessed he’s there. That gives us an advantage.”

“But…”

“We can’t open the railcar here,” Miles said. “That’s the entire point of the thing. We’ll need the workshop.” He paused. “Though I suppose we could just dump the entire car into the canal. It’s deep enough here to sink entirely. I wonder if Wax has a plan to open the door if something like that happens.”

“I don’t think Mister Suit would much like us sinking the train car, boss,” Tarson said. “Not after what he must have spent to make that replica.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, the canal is only about fourteen feet deep. If we dumped the car, we’d never get it back out before another ship’s hull collided with it, revealing what we’ve done. Pity.”

Waxillium’s death would almost be worth the loss of the cargo. Mister Suit didn’t realize how dangerous the man was. Oh, he acted like he did. But if he had really appreciated how dangerous, how effective, Waxillium was … well, he’d never have allowed this robbery. He’d have stopped all operations and pulled out of the city. And Miles would have agreed with the move, save for one thing.

That would have meant no confrontation.

They floated into the City, carrying the train car, its cargo, and its occupant—almost as if Wax were a lord in his grand carriage. His was a nearly impregnable fortress that protected him from the dozen or so men on the barge who would happily have killed him.

Mister Suit’s two minders—who called themselves Push and Pull—joined Miles at the front of the barge, but he didn’t speak to them. Together, they drifted through Elendel. Streetlights were lines of fire in the mists, bright white, running along the canal. Other lights sparkled high in the sky, the windows of buildings that were shrouded in the mist.

Nearby, some of his men were muttering. The mists were considered bad luck by most, though at least two of the major religions accepted them as manifestations of the divine. Miles had never been certain how to think of them. They made Allomancy stronger, or so some claimed, but his abilities were already as strong as they could be.

The Church of the Survivor taught that the mists belonged to him, Kelsier, Lord of Mists. He appeared on nights when the mist was thick and gave his blessing to the independent. Whether they be thieves, scholars, anarchists, or a farmer who lived on his own land. Anyone who survived on his own—or who thought for himself—was someone who followed the Survivor, whether he knew it or not.

That’s another thing the current establishment makes a mockery of, Miles thought. Many of them claimed to belong to the Church of the Survivor, but discouraged their employees from thinking for themselves. Miles shook his head. Well, he no longer followed the Survivor. He’d found something better, something that felt more true.

They sailed down past the outer ring of the Fourth and Fifth Octants. Two massive buildings rose up opposite one another across the canal. The tops disappeared into the mists. Tekiel Tower was on one side, the Ironspine on the other.

The freight dock for the Ironspine was alongside its own branch from the canal. They steered the barge into it, gliding to a stop, then used the dock’s stationary crane to lift the hidden train car off the barge. It was supposed to be a big pile of rock, after all. They slowly swung it into the air, then over and gently down onto the platform.

Miles jumped off the barge and onto the ground and walked to the platform, joined by Push and Pull. The rest of his men filed in around him, looking very pleased. Some were joking with one another about the bonus they’d get for the heist.

Clamps looked very disturbed, and he scratched at the scars on his neck. He was a Survivorist, his scars a mark of devotion. Tarson just yawned a wide, gray-lipped yawn, then cracked his knuckles.

The entire platform shook, then began to move, descending one story into the foundry hall. Once they passed through, the doors closed above. The lift lurched slightly as it came to a stop. Miles looked to the side, down the long tunnel that Mister Suit claimed would someday provide train access under the city. It looked hollow, empty, lifeless.

“Hook up the chains,” Miles said, hopping off the platform. “Fix the train car in place.”

“Couldn’t we just wait?” Tarson asked, frowning. “It’ll open in twelve hours, right?”

“I plan to be gone in twelve hours,” Miles said. “Wax and his people are too close. We’re going to crack that car open, deal with whoever’s inside, then grab the aluminum and go. Get to work; let’s rip the door off.”

His men hastened to obey, tying the large train car to the wall with a large number of clamps and chains. Another set of chains was hooked to the Breaknaught’s door; these chains wrapped around the same powerful electric winching mechanism that raised and lowered the platform. The platform shook as it was disengaged, the motors instead engaging the chain wheels.

Miles walked to the gun rack, selecting two aluminum handguns identical to the ones in his holsters. He was disturbed to notice that there was only one other gun on the rack. They’d lost a fortune in weaponry. Well, he’d just have to see that Waxillium was duly repaid. Miles strode through the room, chains clinking on the floor and men grunting. The air smelled of coke from the inactive forges.

“Arm up!” Miles ordered. “Get ready to fire on the person inside the moment we open the thing.”

The Vanishers glanced at one another, confused, but then unslung or unholstered guns. He had about a dozen of them here, with some others in reserve. Just in case. Never put all your bullets in the same gun when Waxillium was around.

“But boss,” one of the Vanishers called, “the report said the train left without the guards inside!”

Miles cocked his gun. “If you find a building without rats, son, then you know that something more dangerous scared them away.”

“You think he’s in there?” Push said in a near monotone, stepping up beside him. Obviously, he hadn’t heard Miles’s conversation about Wax on the barge.

Miles nodded.

“And you brought him here.”

Miles nodded again.

Push’s face darkened. “You should have told us.”

“You were given to me to help deal with him,” Miles said. “I just wanted to see you boys get your chance.” He turned. “Start the motor!”

One of the men pulled the lever, and the chains grew taut. They groaned, pulling against the door. The train car rattled, but was kept in place by the other chains behind.

“Be ready!” Miles called. “When the door opens, fire at anything that so much as quivers inside that car. Arm yourselves only with aluminum, and don’t save ammunition. We can collect the bullets later and recast them.”

The train’s door buckled in its mountings, the metal groaning. Miles and his men moved out to the sides, away from the path of the chains. Three hastily went to set up the rotary gun, but Miles waved them down. They didn’t have aluminum bullets for that, so firing it could be a disaster against a prepared Coinshot.

Miles refocused his attention on the vault car. He stilled his breath and felt his body grow warm as he increased the power he was tapping from his metalmind. He didn’t need to breathe. His body renewed itself each moment. He’d stop his heartbeat if he could. A heartbeat was such an annoyance when trying to aim.

Even without breathing, he’d never been able to shoot as well as Wax. Of course, nobody could. The man seemed to have an inborn instinct for firearms. Miles had seen him make shots he’d have sworn were impossible. It almost seemed a shame to kill such a man. It would be like burning a one-of-a-kind painting, a masterpiece.

But it was what had to be done. Miles extended his arm, sighting with the revolver. The door continued to warp, and the links in several of the chains began to show strain. But there were enough of them, and the motor was strong enough, that the door’s bindings began to break. Scraps of metal sprang free, bolts snapping. One took Miles on the cheek, ripping skin. The cut regrew itself immediately. No pain. He only faintly remembered what pain felt like.

Then the door gave a final screech of death, ripping free and flying across the room. It hit the ground, spraying sparks and skidding as the man at the lever hastily stopped the engine. The door came to a rest between the Vanishers, who nervously trained their weapons on the dark interior of the car.

Come on, Wax, Miles thought. Play your hand. You’ve come to me. Into my den, into my lair. You’re mine now.

Poor fool. Wax never could stop himself if a woman was in danger.

That was when Miles noticed the string. Thin, almost invisible, it led from the fallen door to the inside of the railcar. It must have been tied to the door, then set inside in a loose pile with lots of slack. When they yanked the door off, the string didn’t snap, but was strung out along behind. What …

Miles glanced again at the fallen door. Tape. Dynamite.

Aw, hell.

Someone inside the train car—hiding behind the box of aluminum—pulled the string tight with a sudden jerk.

18

Outside, the entire room shook. Inside, the train car lurched—though it appeared someone had been kind enough to secure it in place, preventing Waxillium from being thrown about too much. He held on to the rope he’d tied around the strongbox, head down, Vindication up beside his ear.

As soon as the blast wave passed, he threw himself over the top of the box and ducked out into the room. Smoke churned in the air; bits of stone and steel were scattered across the floor. Most of the lights had been knocked out by the explosion, and those that remained were swinging wildly, painting the room with bewildering shadows.

Waxillium scanned the devastation and did a quick count. At least four men down. He probably could have hit more if he’d detonated the explosion earlier, but he’d worried about hurting innocents. He’d needed a moment to glance out and make sure that Steris or others weren’t near.

Waxillium Pushed up and backward off a scrap of metal, throwing himself into the air before any Vanishers could draw a bead on him. He aimed Vindication as he flew, shooting one man who was rising and shaking his head. Waxillium landed atop the train car and fired twice more with precision, killing two more Vanishers.

A ragged figure stood up on the side of the room, and Waxillium shot just before he recognized Miles. The left side of his suit coat and shirt had been shredded, but he’d already regrown his flesh, and now was lifting a gun of his own.

Damn, Waxillium thought, dropping down behind the wrecked train car. He’d been hoping to find himself in a more traditional hideout, with narrow hallways and hidden nooks. Not this open stone pen of a room. It was going to be hard not to get boxed in here.

He glanced around the side of the railcar, and was met with a hail of fire from four or five different places. He ducked back around, hastily reloading Vindication with ordinary rounds. He was pinned down already. This was not going well.

Another of the room’s lights flickered, then went out. Fires started by the explosion illuminated the room with a primal red glow. Waxillium crouched down, Vindication held ready. He didn’t bother with a steel bubble; they were all firing aluminum bullets.