“You did. I lost it fighting Miles Dagouter earlier today.”
This made Ranette stop. She lowered the aluminum gun, then turned her chair. “What?”
Waxillium drew his lips into a line. “He’s the one we’re hiding from.”
“Why,” Ranette said pointedly, “is Miles Hundredlives trying to kill you?”
Wayne strolled forward. “He’s trying to overthrow the city or something, dearie. For some reason, he thinks the best way to do that is by robbin’ folks and blowing up mansions.”
“Don’t call me dearie.”
“Sure thing, honey.”
Marasi watched in silence, curious. Wayne seemed to like taunting this woman. In fact, though he tried to act nonchalant, he kept glancing at her, and had been edging through the room closer and closer to her seat.
“Whatever,” Ranette said, turning back to her work. “Don’t really care. But you’re not getting a new Sterrion.”
“Nobody else’s guns shoot as straight as yours, Ranette.”
She didn’t reply. She did glare at Wayne, who had moved up to the point where he was leaning over her shoulder and looking at the gun.
Waxillium smiled, then turned back to the unfinished guns on the desk. Marasi joined him, uncertain what she should be doing. Hadn’t they come here to plan their next move? Neither Waxillium nor Wayne seemed eager to get on with things.
“Is there something between them?” Marasi whispered, nodding her head toward Wayne and Ranette. “She acts a little like a jilted lover.”
“Wayne could only wish,” Waxillium whispered back. “Ranette’s not interested in him like that. I’m not certain she’s interested in any man like that. Doesn’t stop him from trying, though.” He shook his head. “I’m half tempted to think that all of this—coming to Elendel to investigate the Vanishers, looking me up—was about eventually persuading me to come with him to Ranette’s. He knew she wouldn’t let him in unless he was with me and we were doing something important.”
“You’re a bizarre pair, you know.”
“We try.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“I’m trying to decide. For now, if we linger long enough, she might give me a new revolver.”
“Either that, or she’ll shoot you for annoying her.”
“Nah. She’s never shot anyone after letting them in the door that I can recall. Not even Wayne.” He hesitated. “She’ll probably let you stay here, if you want. It would be safe. I’ll bet there’s a paid Coppercloud rotation going on in one of the nearby buildings, shrouding the area. Ranette hates people sensing her Allomancy. I doubt there are half a dozen people in Elendel who know she lives here. Harmony only knows how Wayne tracked her down.”
“I’d rather not stay. Please, whatever you’re doing, I want to help.”
He picked something up off the desk; a small box of bullets. “I can’t figure you out, Marasi Colms.”
“You’ve solved some of the most troubling crimes the Roughs have ever known, Lord Waxillium. I doubt I’m nearly as mysterious.”
“Your father is very well off,” Waxillium said. “From what I know of him, I’m certain he would have provided you with a comfortable endowment for the rest of your life. Instead, you attend university—choosing one of the most difficult programs of study offered.”
“You left a position of considerable comfort yourself,” she said, “choosing to live away from convenience and modernity.”
“I did.”
She selected one of the bullets out of the box, holding it up, looking it over. She couldn’t see anything distinctive about it. “Have you ever felt you were useless, Lord Waxillium?”
“Yes.”
“It’s difficult to imagine that of someone as accomplished as yourself.”
“Sometimes,” he said, “accomplishment and perception can work independently.”
“True. Well, my lord, I have spent most of my life being politely told I was useless. Useless to my father because of my birth; useless as an Allomancer; useless to Steris, as I was an embarrassment. Sometimes, accomplishment can temper perception. Or so I hope.”
He nodded. “I have something for you to do. It will be dangerous.”
She dropped the bullet into the box. “To be of use in even a single burst of flame and sound is worth more than a lifetime of achieving nothing.”
He met her eyes, judging her sincerity.
“You have a plan?” she asked.
“There isn’t much time for a plan. This is more of a hunch with scaffolding.” He held up the box of bullets, speaking more loudly. “Ranette, what are these?”
“Hazekiller rounds.”
“Hazekiller?” Marasi asked.
“It’s an ancient term,” Waxillium said. “For an ordinary person trained to fight Allomancers.”
“I’m working on ammunition for use against each basic type of Allomancer,” Ranette said absently. She’d unscrewed the grip of the pistol and was pulling it apart. “Those are Coinshot rounds. Ceramic tips. When they Push on the bullet as it flies toward them, they’ll yank off the metal portion at the back, but the ceramic should keep flying straight and hit them. Could be better than aluminum rounds—those, the Allomancer can’t sense at all, so he knows to take cover rather than relying on Pushes. These they’ll sense and assume they can beat—right up until they’re on the floor bleeding.”
Wayne whistled softly.
“Ruin, Ranette!” Waxillium said. “I’ve never been so glad we’re on the same side.” He hesitated. “Or, at least, that you’re on your own special side that we don’t happen to run afoul of too often.”
“What are you going to do with them?” Marasi asked.
“Do?” Ranette asked.
“Are you going to sell them?” Marasi said. “Patent the idea and license them?”
“If I did that, then everybody would have them!” Ranette shook her head, looking sick. “Half the people in the city would be here, bothering me.”
“Lurcher rounds?” Waxillium asked, holding up another box.
“Similar,” Ranette said, “but with the ceramic on the sides. Not quite as effective, at least at long range. Most Lurchers protect themselves by Pulling bullets to hit an armored plate at their chest. Those bullets, they explode when Pulled on, and you get a little shrapnel blast of ceramics. Should work at ten feet or so, though it might not be lethal. I suggest aiming for the head. I’m trying to get the range up.”
“Tineye rounds?”
“Make extra noise when fired,” Ranette said. “And another noise when they hit. Fire a few shots around them, and their enhanced senses will have them cowering on the floor, holding their ears. Pretty good if you want to take one alive, though with a Tineye, you’re going to have trouble finding them in the first place.”
“And Pewterarm rounds,” Waxillium said, studying the final box.
“Not really much special there,” Ranette said. “Large bullets, extra powder, wide hollow tips, soft metal—meant to have a lot of stopping power. A Pewterarm can keep going long after being shot a few times, so you want to knock them down and keep them there long enough for their body to realize it should be dying rather than fighting. Of course, the best way to drop one is just hit him in the head the first time.”
A Pewterarm wouldn’t be like Miles, capable of healing immediately. They had great endurance, and could ignore wounds—but those wounds would still kill them, eventually.
“Huh,” Waxillium said, holding up one of the long bullets. “None of these are a standard caliber. You’d need quite the gun to fire them.”
Ranette didn’t respond.
“This is nice work, Ranette,” Waxillium said. “Even for you. I’m impressed.”
Marasi expected the gruff woman to brush off the compliment, but Ranette smiled—though she obviously tried to hide her satisfaction. She buried her head in her work, and didn’t even bother to glare Wayne away. “So who are the people you said are in danger?”
“Hostages,” Waxillium said. “Women, including Marasi’s cousin. Someone is going to try to use them to breed new Allomancers.”
“And Miles is involved in that?”
“Yes.” Waxillium’s voice was solemn. Worried.
Ranette hesitated, still bent over the disassembled revolver. “Third cubby up,” she finally said. “All the way at the back.”
Waxillium walked over and reached a hand into the depths. He withdrew a sleek, silvery revolver with a grip that blended onyx and ivory in wavy stripes, separated by silver bands. It had a long barrel, the silvery metal so highly polished that it practically glowed in the even electric lights.
“That’s not a Sterrion,” Ranette said. “It’s better.”
“Eight chambers,” Waxillium said, raising an eyebrow as he turned the revolver’s cylinder.
“That’s Invarian steel,” Ranette said. “Stronger, lighter. It let me shave the thickness between chambers, increase the number without making it too big. See the lever on the back, below the hammer?”
He nodded.
“Hold it down and spin the wheel.”
He did so. The wheel locked on a certain chamber.
“It skips that chamber and the one beside it if you fire it normally,” Ranette said. “You can only fire them if you flip the lever.”
“Hazekiller rounds,” Waxillium said.
“Yeah. Load six ordinary shots, two special ones. Fire them when you need them. You burning steel?”
“I am now.”
“Metal lines in the grip.”
“See them.”
“Push the one on the left.”
Something clicked inside the gun. Waxillium whistled softly.
“What?” Wayne asked.
“Allomancer-only safety,” Waxillium said. “You have to be a Coinshot or a Lurcher to turn it off or on.”
“The switch is embedded inside the grip,” Ranette said. “No exterior sign that it’s there. With that, you’ll never have to worry about someone firing your own gun at you.”
“Ranette,” Waxillium said, sounding awed. “That’s genius.”
“I call the gun Vindication,” she said. “After the Ascendant Warrior.” Then she hesitated. “You can borrow it. If you bring me a field-test report.”
Waxillium smiled.
“This is Nouxil’s work, by the way,” Ranette said, waving to her table.
“The aluminum gun?” Waxillium asked.
Ranette nodded. “I thought it might be so from the shape of the barrel, but the mechanics inside are distinctive.”
“Who is he?” Wayne asked, leaning down further.
Ranette pointedly put a hand to Wayne’s forehead and pushed him back. “Gunsmith. Disappeared about a year ago. We had a correspondence going. Nobody’s heard from him.” She held up a piece of metal from inside the gun grip. “Anyone here speak High Imperial?”
