She stalked off across the deck, leaving him alone with the cold mists and indifferent waters. He was supposed to patrol, but they hadn’t given him a specific route. So after listening to those waves, and feeling like he could hear the darkness watching him, he walked in the direction Gabria had gone. Logically he’d need to stick close to–
What was that?
That thump against the hull surely hadn’t just been his imagination. He was near the back of the ship — um, the aft of the ship, sir — and the sound had come from farther along. He inched forward, wielding his lantern in a shaking hand. Even shielded, it let out a tiny bit of light. Letting him better make out the ship’s back railing.
That noise was nothing, he told himself forcibly. You heard things in the mists. Everyone knew that. He shouldn’t say anything, because Gabria had–
A hand reached up from the darkness below and seized the top bar of the railing. A shape followed, pitch black, vaguely human, heaving itself onto the deck. It had tentacles waving behind it, a hundred of them curling like the mists. In that shadow, Wellid saw a misbegotten shape. A thing that wasn’t human, a thing that couldn’t be human. The mists seemed to know this, for while they played with the waving tentacles, they stayed away from the figure. It repelled the mist.
It was a mistwraith, Wellid knew. A terror from the deep, a relic of ancient times. A thing of stories and legend come to claim his soul.
He found his voice and screamed. With fumbling fingers, he threw open the shield on the lantern, bathing the deck in light. Revealing …
A man. Tall, with prominent sideburns, his vest and cravat peeking from underneath a thick duster — mistcoat tassels spraying out behind him in the wind.
Dawnshot was here. On the ship.
Gabria spun from farther down the walkway. “Wellid, why—” She cut off immediately, seeing Dawnshot there. She gaped long enough for a second man to climb up over the railing, land with a thump, then pull on a damp bowler hat.
“No!” Gabria finally said. “How?”
Dawnshot flung wide his mistcoat, revealing what had been obscured before: a large metal spike protruding from his lower chest, where it had been pounded right through his clothing to pierce him directly between two ribs.
* * *
Slowly, awareness returned to Telsin.
She found herself on the rooftop, near her failed decoy. Even before Wax’s arrival, she’d been worried. Autonomy’s deadline was today. Maybe she could have gotten more time — made the rocket work — except … except for him.
She growled softly and rolled over to find one of the engineers shaking her arm. What had happened? Her Investment from Autonomy should have prevented a blackout like that. She felt … wrung out. Her core cold, her arms sore from scraping the rooftop, her skin clammy. Rusts. She felt practically mortal again.
What is happening? she asked Autonomy.
You, the distant — too distant — voice said, are failing me.
No. The bomb is being delivered! I’m … I’m …
For the first time, she took in the wreckage around her. A broken rooftop. Bent steel girders. A smashed remnant of her missile-launching construction.
“What … what happened?” she hissed.
“They took spikes from the bodies,” the woman said, pointing. “Ordinary ones, not made of your metal. But one granted … duralumin.”
No.
Telsin heaved herself to her feet and stumbled to the edge of the building to stare out over the bay. The force of Wax’s Push had bent and crushed the very underlying girders of the skyscraper here, leaving the rooftop cracked and sloped.
Your failure begins, Autonomy said, voice increasingly distant. You are not worthy.
The fire inside Telsin died. The power that had for so many months warmed her was leeching away. Her skin began to turn grey.
No! she thought. No! The bomb cannot be stopped. If they interfere, they will destroy themselves and the city. Potentially both cities. Rusts.
We … shall see …
Telsin gasped and fell to her knees, trying to reassure herself. It was just Wax. He’d been an annoyance since childhood, but he’d never actually interrupted anything she’d set in motion. Honestly, he probably hadn’t even reached the ship. A jump like that was nearly impossible, and his aim wasn’t that good.
Was it?
* * *
Wax downed a vial of metals from his belt, replenishing his steel. That jump had been incredible, with Wayne on his back, a flash of rushing wind and power reminiscent of holding the Bands of Mourning. He had barely made it to the ship after slowing their final approach with Allomancy — eventually landing them near some portholes a few feet below the open deck. He expected to get an earful for making Wayne climb the rest of the way.
A sailor reached for her gun, and Wax for his own. But before either of them could draw, Wayne flung a handful of bullets into the air and Pushed them to streak through the air, dropping the woman.
“Ruuusts,” Wayne said. “Is that what it’s always been like for you? That was so easy!” Wayne eyed him. “Gotta be honest, almost ruins your reputation, mate. If people knew how easy bein’ a Coinshot was, they’d all stop talkin’ about how great you are.”
Wax shook his head, pointing Vindication at the second sailor — the trembling one holding up the lantern. Wayne had of course insisted on a spike for himself. Ruin. Wax hoped what they’d done hadn’t been too blasphemous.
No, Harmony’s voice said in his head, not blasphemous, Waxillium. More … a sense of industrious recycling.
“Good to know,” Wax muttered.
I cannot see where the bomb is, Harmony told him. I can see only what you do. I didn’t know the ship was the delivery mechanism — but I am afraid the device will have redundancies and dead man’s switches. Take care. We cannot afford to detonate it by accident. I fear that even at this range, it would be deadly to many innocent people.
Strange. He’d come all the way around to finding God’s voice in his head comforting again.
Wayne seized the fellow with the lantern by the arm, holding tight and staring him in the eyes — though the man didn’t seem to need any further intimidation.
“The bomb,” Wax said. “Where is it?”
“The … the payload?” the man stuttered, then pointed to a nearby door. “In the munitions hold. A-all the way down. Follow the red lines painted on … on the walls.”
Wax shared a glance with Wayne, then nodded.
“You can’t go inside!” the man said. “The weapon is fragile and might explode, so only the experts are allowed to touch it! You’ll blow up the entire ship!”
“Then mate,” Wayne said with a drawl, “I suggest you find a way to not be on the ship anymore. Real fast.”
Wayne let go. The nervous fellow glanced from Wax to Wayne, then — with a sense of panic — threw himself off the ship into the churning waters below, taking his lantern with him and leaving the two of them in darkness.
“Damn,” Wayne said. “I meant for him to find a lifeboat or somethin’.”
“The people on this ship are going to be zealots,” Wax said. “Considering they’re on a suicide mission.” Shouts from farther along the deck, including other lanterns being unshuttered, indicated that someone had noticed what was happening.