text
stringlengths 1.73k
3.83k
|
|---|
Why not?” She didn’t answer, instead looking away from her rifle, studying him for a few moments. Finally she said, “A cravat? Really?” “It’s kind of my thing,” Waxillium said. “The gentleman bounty hunter.” “Why would a bounty hunter need a ‘thing’ in the first place?” “It’s important to have a reputation,” Waxillium said, raising his chin. “The outlaws all have them; people have heard of men like Granite Joe from one side of the Roughs to the other. Why shouldn’t I do the same?” “Because it paints a target on your head.” “Worth the danger,” Waxillium said. “But speaking of targets…” He waved his gun, then nodded toward hers. “You’re after the bounty on Joe,” she said. “Sure am. You too?” She nodded. “Split it?” Waxillium said. She sighed, but lowered her rifle. “Fine. The one who shoots him gets a double portion though.” “I was planning to bring him in alive.…” “Good. Gives me a better chance of killing him first.” She grinned at him, slipping over to the door. “The name’s Lessie. Granite is in here somewhere, then? Have you seen him?” “No, I haven’t,” Waxillium said, joining her at the door. “I asked the barkeep, and he sent me in here.” She turned on him. “You asked the barkeep.” “Sure,” Waxillium said. “I’ve read the stories. Barkeeps know everything, and … You’re shaking your head.” “Everyone in this saloon belongs to Joe, Mister Cravat,” Lessie said. “Hell, half the people in this town belong to him. You asked the barkeep?” “I believe we’ve established that.” “Rust!” She cracked the door and looked out. “How in Ruin’s name did you take down Peret the Black?” “Surely it’s not that bad. Everyone in the bar can’t…” He trailed off as he peeked out the door. The tall barkeep hadn’t run off to fetch anyone. No, he was out in the taproom of the saloon, gesturing toward the side room’s door and urging the assembled thugs and miscreants to stand up and arm themselves. They looked hesitant, and some were gesturing angrily, but more than a few had guns out. “Damn,” Lessie whispered. “Back out the way you came in?” Waxillium asked. Her response was to slip the door closed with the utmost care, then shove him aside and scramble toward the window. She grabbed the windowsill to step out, but gunfire cracked nearby and wood chips exploded off the sill. Lessie cursed and dropped to the floor. Waxillium dove down beside her. “Sharpshooter!” he hissed. “Are you always this observant, Mister Cravat?” “No, only when I’m being shot at.” He peeked up over the lip of the windowsill, but there were a dozen places nearby where the shooter could be hiding. “This is a problem.” “There’s that razor-sharp power of observation again.” Lessie crawled across the floor toward the door. “I meant in more ways than one,” Waxillium said, crossing the floor in a crouch. “How did they have time to get a sharpshooter into position? They must have known that I was going to show up today. This whole
|
place could be a trap.” Lessie cursed softly as he reached the door and cracked it open again. The thugs were arguing quietly and gesturing toward the door. “They’re taking me seriously,” Waxillium said. “Ha! The reputation is working. You see that? They’re frightened!” “Congratulations,” she said. “Do you think they’ll give me a reward if I shoot you?” “We need to get upstairs,” Waxillium said, eyeing a stairwell just outside their door. “What good will that do?” “Well, for one thing, all the armed people who want to kill us are down here. I’d rather be somewhere else, and those stairs will be easier to defend than this room. Besides, we might find a window on the other side of the building and escape.” “Yeah, if you want to jump two stories.” Jumping wasn’t a problem for a Coinshot; Waxillium could Push off a dropped piece of metal as they fell, slowing himself and landing safely. He was also a Feruchemist, and could use his metalminds to reduce his weight far more than he was doing now, shaving it down until he practically floated. However, Waxillium’s abilities weren’t widely known, and he wanted to keep it that way. He’d heard the stories of his miraculous survivals, and liked the air of mystery around them. There was speculation that he was Metalborn, sure, but so long as people didn’t know exactly what he could do, he’d have an edge. “Look, I’m going to run for the steps,” he said to the woman. “If you want to stay down here and fight your way out, great. You’ll provide an ideal distraction for me.” She glanced at him, then grinned. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if we get shot, you owe me a drink.” There is something familiar about her, Waxillium thought. He nodded, counted softly to three, then burst out of the door and leveled his gun at the nearest thug. The man jumped back as Waxillium shot three times—and missed. His bullets hit the pianoforte instead, sounding a discordant note with each impact. Lessie scrambled out behind him and went for the stairs. The motley collection of thugs leveled weapons with cries of surprise. Waxillium swung his gun back—out of the way of his Allomancy—and shoved lightly on the blue lines pointing from him toward the men in the room. They opened fire, but his Push had nudged their guns enough to spoil their aim. Waxillium followed Lessie up the steps, fleeing the storm of gunfire. “Holy hell,” Lessie said as they reached the first landing. “We’re alive.” She looked back at him, cheeks flushed. Something clicked like a lock in Waxillium’s mind. “I have met you before,” he said. “No you haven’t,” she said, looking away. “Let’s keep—” “The Weeping Bull!” Waxillium said. “The dancing girl!” “Oh, God Beyond,” she said, leading the way up the stairs. “You remember.” “I knew you were faking. Even Rusko wouldn’t hire someone that uncoordinated, no matter how pretty her legs are.” “Can we go jump out a window now, please?” she said,
|
checking the top floor for signs of thugs. “Why were you there? Chasing a bounty?” “Yeah, kind of.” “And you really didn’t know they were going to make you—” “This conversation is done.” They stepped out onto the top floor, and Waxillium waited a moment until a shadow on the wall announced someone following them upstairs. He fired once at the thug who appeared there, missing again, but driving the man back. He heard cursing and arguing below. Granite Joe might own the men in this saloon, but they weren’t overly loyal. The first few up the steps would almost certainly get shot, and none would be eager to take the risk. That would buy Waxillium some time. Lessie pushed into a room, passing an empty bed with a pair of boots beside it. She threw open the window, which was on the opposite side of the building from the sharpshooter. The town of Weathering spread before them, a lonely collection of shops and homes, hunkered down as if waiting—in vain—for the day when the railroad would stretch its fingers this far. In the middle distance, beyond the humble buildings, a few giraffes browsed lazily, the only sign of animal life in the vast plain. The drop out the window was straight down, no roof to climb onto. Lessie regarded the ground warily. Waxillium shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Nothing happened. He whistled again. “What the hell are you doing?” Lessie demanded. “Calling my horse,” Waxillium said, then whistled again. “We can hop down into the saddle and ride away.” She stared at him. “You’re serious.” “Sure I am. We’ve been practicing.” A lone figure walked out onto the street below, the kid who had been following Waxillium. “Uh, Wax?” the kid called up. “Destroyer’s just standing there, drinking.” “Hell,” Waxillium said. Lessie looked at him. “You named your horse—” “She’s a little too placid, all right?” Waxillium snapped, climbing up onto the windowsill. “I thought the name might inspire her.” He cupped his hand, calling to the boy below. “Wayne! Bring her out here. We’re going to jump!” “Like hell we are,” Lessie said. “You think there’s something magical about a saddle that will keep us from breaking the horse’s back when we drop into it?” Waxillium hesitated. “Well, I’ve read about people doing this.…” “Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” Lessie said. “Next, why don’t you call out Granite Joe, and go stand out in the road and have a good old-fashioned showdown at noon.” “You think that would work? I—” “No, it won’t work,” she snapped. “Nobody does that. It’s stupid. Ruin! How did you kill Peret the Black?” They stared at each other a moment. “Well…” Waxillium started. “Oh hell. You caught him on the crapper, didn’t you?” Waxillium grinned at her. “Yeah.” “Did you shoot him in the back too?” “As bravely as any man ever shot another in the back.” “Huh. There might be hope for you yet.” He nodded toward the window. “Jump?” “Sure. Why not break both my legs before getting
|
shot? Might as well go all in, Mister Cravat.” “I think we’ll be fine, Miss Pink Garter.” She raised an eyebrow. “If you’re going to identify me by my clothing choices,” he said, “then I figure I can do the same.” “It shall never be mentioned again,” she said, then took a deep breath. “So?” He nodded, flaring his metals, preparing to hold on to her and slow them as they fell—just enough to make it seem like they’d miraculously survived the jump. As he did, however, he noticed one of his blue lines moving—a faint but thick one, pointing across the street. The window in the mill. Sunlight glinted off something inside. Waxillium immediately grabbed Lessie and pulled her down. A fraction of a second later, a bullet streaked over their heads and hit the door on the other side of the room. “Another sharpshooter,” she hissed. “Your power of observation is—” “Shut it,” she said. “Now what?” Waxillium frowned, considering the question. He glanced at the bullet hole, gauging the trajectory. The sharpshooter had aimed too high; even if Waxillium hadn’t ducked, he’d likely have been all right. Why aim high? The moving blue line to the gun had indicated the sharpshooter running to get into position before shooting. Was it just rushed targeting? Or was there a more sinister reason? To knock me out of the sky? When I flew out the window? He heard footsteps on the stairs, but saw no blue lines. He cursed, scrambling over and peeking out. A group of men were creeping up the steps, and not the normal thugs from below. These men wore tight white shirts, had pencil mustaches, and were armed with crossbows. Not a speck of metal on them. Rusts! They knew he was a Coinshot, and Granite Joe had a kill squad ready for him. He ducked back into the room and grabbed Lessie by the arm. “Your informant said Granite Joe was in this building?” “Yeah,” she said. “He most certainly is. He likes to be close when a gang is being gathered; he likes to keep an eye on his men.” “This building has a basement.” “… So?” “So hang on.” He grabbed her in both hands and rolled onto the ground, causing her to yelp, then curse. Holding her over him, he increased his weight. He had a great deal of it stored in his metalmind by now, after weeks of siphoning it off. Now he drew it all out, magnifying his weight manyfold in an instant. The wooden floor cracked, then burst open beneath them. Waxillium fell through, his fine clothing getting ripped, and dropped through the air, towing Lessie after him. Eyes squeezed closed, he Pushed the hundreds of blue lines behind him, those leading to the nails in the floor below. He blasted them downward to shatter the ground level’s floor and open the way into the basement. They crashed through the ground floor in a shower of dust and splinters. Waxillium managed to slow their descent with a Steelpush, but they still
|
came down hard, smashing into a table in a basement chamber. Waxillium let out a puffing groan, but forced himself to twist around, shaking free of the broken wood. The basement, surprisingly, was paneled in fine hardwoods and lit by lamps shaped like curvaceous women. The table they had hit bore a rich white tablecloth, though it was now wadded in a bunch, the table legs shattered and the table itself at an angle. A man sat at the table’s head. Waxillium managed to stand up in the wreckage and level a gun at the fellow, who had a blocky face and dark blue-grey skin—the mark of a man with koloss heritage. Granite Joe. Waxillium appeared to have interrupted his dinner, judging by the napkin tucked into his collar and the spilled soup on the broken table in front of him. Lessie groaned, rolling over and brushing splinters off her clothing. Her rifle had apparently been left upstairs. Waxillium held his gun in a firm grip as he eyed the two duster-wearing bodyguards behind Granite Joe, a man and a woman—siblings, he’d heard, and crack shots. They’d been surprised by his fall, obviously, for though they’d rested hands on their weapons, they hadn’t drawn. Waxillium had the upper hand, with the gun on Joe—but if he did shoot, the siblings would kill him in a heartbeat. Perhaps he hadn’t thought through this line of attack quite as well as he should have. Joe scraped at the remnants of his broken bowl, framed by splatters of red soup on the tablecloth. He managed to get some onto his spoon and lifted it to his lips. “You,” he said after sipping the soup, “should be dead.” “You might want to look at hiring a new group of thugs,” Waxillium said. “The ones upstairs aren’t worth much.” “I wasn’t referring to them,” Joe said. “How long have you been up here, in the Roughs, making trouble? Two years?” “One,” Waxillium said. He’d been up here longer, but he had only recently started “making trouble,” as Joe put it. Granite Joe clicked his tongue. “You think your type is new up here, son? Wide-eyed, with a low-slung gunbelt and bright new spurs? Come to reform us of our uncivilized ways. We see dozens like you every year. The others have the decency to either learn to be bribed, or to get dead before they ruin too much. But not you.” He’s stalling, Waxillium thought. Waiting for the men upstairs to run down. “Drop your weapons!” Waxillium said, holding his gun on Joe. “Drop them or I shoot!” The two guards didn’t move. No metal lines on the guard on the right, Waxillium thought. Or on Joe himself. The one on the left had a handgun, perhaps trusting the speed of his draw against a Coinshot. The other two had fancy hand-crossbows in their holsters, he bet. Single-shot, made of wood and ceramic. Built for killing Coinshots. Even with Allomancy, Waxillium would never be able to kill all three of them without getting shot himself. Sweat trickled
|
down his temple. He was tempted to just pull his trigger and shoot, but he’d be killed if he did that. And they knew it. It was a standoff, but they had reinforcements coming. “You don’t belong here,” Joe said, leaning forward, elbows on his broken table. “We came here to escape folks like you. Your rules. Your assumptions. We don’t want you.” “If that were true,” Waxillium said, surprised at how level his voice was, “then people wouldn’t come to me crying because you killed their sons. You might not need Elendel’s laws up here, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need any laws at all. And it doesn’t mean men like you should be able to do whatever you want.” Granite Joe shook his head, standing up, hand to his holster. “This isn’t your habitat, son. Everyone has a price up here. If they don’t, they don’t fit in. You’ll die, slow and painful, just like a lion would die in that city of yours. What I’m doing today, this is a mercy.” Joe drew. Waxillium reacted quickly, Pushing himself off the wall lamps to his right. They were firmly anchored, so his Allomantic shove Pushed him to the left. He twisted his gun and fired. Joe got his crossbow out and loosed a bolt, but the shot missed, zipping through the air where Waxillium had been. Waxillium’s own bullet flew true for once, hitting the female guard, who had pulled out her crossbow. She dropped, and as Waxillium crashed into the wall, he Pushed—knocking the gun out of the other guard’s hand as the man fired. Waxillium’s Push, unfortunately, also flung his own gun out of his hand—but sent it spinning toward the second bodyguard. His gun smacked the man right in the face, dropping him. Waxillium steadied himself, looking across the room at Joe, who seemed baffled that both his guards were down. No time to think. Waxillium scrambled toward the large, koloss-blooded man. If he could reach some metal to use as a weapon, maybe— A weapon clicked behind him. Waxillium stopped and looked over his shoulder at Lessie, who was pointing a small hand-crossbow right at him. “Everyone up here has a price,” Granite Joe said. Waxillium stared at the crossbow bolt, tipped with obsidian. Where had she been carrying that? He swallowed slowly. She put herself in danger, scrambling up the stairs with me! he thought. How could she have been … But Joe had known about his Allomancy. So had she. Lessie knew he could spoil the thugs’ aim, when she’d joined him in running up the steps. “Finally,” Joe said, “do you have an explanation of why you didn’t just shoot him in the saloon room, where the barkeep put him?” She didn’t respond, instead studying Waxillium. “I did warn you that everyone in the saloon was in Joe’s employ,” she noted. “I…” Waxillium swallowed. “I still think your legs are pretty.” She met his eyes. Then she sighed, turned the crossbow, and shot Granite Joe in the neck. Waxillium blinked as the
|
enormous man dropped to the floor, gurgling as he bled. “That?” Lessie said, glaring at Waxillium. “That’s all you could come up with to win me over? ‘You have nice legs’? Seriously? You are so doomed up here, Cravat.” Waxillium breathed out in relief. “Oh, Harmony. I thought you were going to shoot me for sure.” “Should have,” she grumbled. “I can’t believe—” She cut off as the stairs clattered, the troop of miscreants from above having finally gathered the nerve to rush down the stairwell. A good half dozen of them burst into the room with weapons drawn. Lessie dove for the fallen bodyguard’s gun. Waxillium thought quickly, then did what came most naturally. He struck a dramatic pose in the rubble, one foot up, Granite Joe dead beside him, both bodyguards felled. Dust from the broken ceiling still sprinkled down, illuminated in sunlight pouring through a window above. The thugs pulled to a stop. They looked down at the fallen corpse of their boss, then gaped toward Waxillium. Finally, looking like children who had been caught in the pantry trying to get at the cookies, they lowered their weapons. The ones at the front tried to push through the ones at the back to get away, and the whole clamorous mess of them swarmed back up the steps, leaving the forlorn barkeep, who fled last of all. Waxillium turned and offered his hand to Lessie, who let him pull her to her feet. She looked after the retreating group of bandits, whose boots thumped on wood in their haste to escape. In moments the building was silent. “Huh,” she said. “You’re as surprising as a donkey who can dance, Mister Cravat.” “It helps to have a thing,” Waxillium noted. “Yeah. You think I should get a thing?” “Getting a thing has been one of the most important choices I made in coming up to the Roughs.” Lessie nodded slowly. “I have no idea what we’re talking about, but it sounds kinda dirty.” She glanced past him toward Granite Joe’s corpse, which stared lifelessly, lying in a pool of his own blood. “Thanks,” Waxillium said. “For not murdering me.” “Eh. I was gonna kill him eventually anyway and turn him in for the bounty.” “Yes, well, I doubt you were planning to do it in front of his entire gang, while trapped in a basement with no escape.” “True. Right stupid of me, that was.” “So why do it?” She kept looking at the body. “I’ve done plenty of things in Joe’s name I wish I hadn’t, but as far as I know, I never shot a man who didn’t deserve it. Killing you … well, seems like it would have been killing what you stood for too. Ya know?” “I think I can grasp the concept.” She rubbed at a bleeding scratch on her neck, where she’d brushed broken wood during their fall. “Next time, though, I hope it won’t involve making quite so big a mess. I liked this saloon.” “I’ll do my best,” Waxillium said. “I intend to
|
change things out here. If not the whole Roughs, then at least this town.” “Well,” Lessie said, walking over to Granite Joe’s corpse, “I’m sure that if any evil pianos were thinking of attacking the city, they’ll have second thoughts now, considering your prowess with that pistol.” Waxillium winced. “You … saw that, did you?” “Rarely seen such a feat,” she said, kneeling and going through Joe’s pockets. “Three shots, three different notes, not a single bandit down. That takes skill. Maybe you should spend a little less time with your thing and more with your gun.” “Now that sounded dirty.” “Good. I hate being crass by accident.” She came out with Joe’s pocketbook and smiled, tossing it up and catching it. Above, in the hole Waxillium had made, an equine head poked out, followed by a smaller, teenage one in an oversized bowler hat. Where had he gotten that? Destroyer blustered in greeting. “Sure, now you come,” Waxillium said. “Stupid horse.” “Actually,” Lessie said, “seems to me like staying away from you during a gunfight makes her a pretty damn smart horse.” Waxillium smiled and held out his hand to Lessie. She took it, and he pulled her close. Then he lifted them out of the wreckage on a line of blue light. PART ONE 1 SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER Winsting smiled to himself as he watched the setting sun. It was an ideal evening to auction himself off. “We have my saferoom ready?” Winsting asked, lightly gripping the balcony banister. “Just in case?” “Yes, my lord.” Flog wore his silly Roughs hat along with a duster, though he’d never been outside of the Elendel Basin. The man was an excellent bodyguard, despite his terrible fashion sense, but Winsting made certain to Pull on the man’s emotions anyway, subtly enhancing Flog’s sense of loyalty. One could never be too careful. “My lord?” Flog asked, glancing toward the chamber behind them. “They’re all here, my lord. Are you ready?” Not turning away from the setting sun, Winsting raised a finger to hush the bodyguard. The balcony, in the Fourth Octant of Elendel, overlooked the canal and the Hub of the city—so he had a nice view of the Field of Rebirth. Long shadows stretched from the statues of the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor in the green park where, according to fanciful legend, their corpses had been discovered following the Great Catacendre and the Final Ascension. The air was muggy, slightly tempered by a cool breeze off Hammondar Bay a couple of miles to the west. Winsting tapped his fingers on the balcony railing, patiently sending out pulses of Allomantic power to shape the emotions of those in the room behind him. Or at least any foolish enough not to be wearing their aluminum-lined hats. Any moment now … Initially appearing as pinprick spots in the air, mist grew before him, spreading like frost across a window. Tendrils stretched and spun about one another, becoming streams—then rivers of motion, currents shifting and blanketing the city. Engulfing it. Consuming it. “A misty night,”
|
Flog said. “That’s bad luck, it is.” “Don’t be a fool,” Winsting said, adjusting his cravat. “He’s watching us,” Flog said. “The mists are His eyes, my lord. Sure as Ruin, that is.” “Superstitious nonsense.” Winsting turned and strode into the room. Behind him, Flog shut the doors before the mists could seep into the party. The two dozen people—along with the inevitable bodyguards—who mingled and chatted there were a select group. Not just important, but also very much at odds with one another, despite their deliberate smiles and meaningless small talk. He preferred to have rivals at events like this. Let them all see each other, and let each know the cost of losing the contest for his favor. Winsting stepped among them. Unfortunately many did wear hats, whose aluminum linings would protect them from emotional Allomancy—though he had personally assured each attendee that none of the others would have Soothers or Rioters with them. He’d said nothing of his own abilities, of course. So far as any of them knew, he wasn’t an Allomancer. He glanced across the room to where Blome tended bar. The man shook his head. Nobody else in the room was burning any metals. Excellent. Winsting stepped up to the bar, then turned and raised his hands to draw everyone’s attention. The gesture exposed the twinkling diamond cuff links he wore on his stiff white shirt. The settings were wooden, of course. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to our little auction. The bidding begins now, and it ends when I hear the offer I like most.” He said nothing more; too much talk would kill the drama. Winsting took the drink one of his servers offered and stepped out to mingle, then hesitated as he looked over the crowd. “Edwarn Ladrian is not here,” he said softly. He refused to call the man by his silly moniker, Mister Suit. “No,” Flog said. “I thought you said everyone had arrived!” “Everyone who said they were coming,” Flog said. He shuffled, uncomfortable. Winsting pursed his lips, but otherwise hid his disappointment. He’d been certain his offer had intrigued Edwarn. Perhaps the man had bought out one of the other crime lords in the room. Something to consider. Winsting made his way to the central table, which held the nominal centerpiece of the evening. It was a painting of a reclining woman; Winsting had painted it himself, and he was getting better. The painting was worthless, but the men and woman in this room would still offer him huge sums for it. The first one to approach him was Dowser, who ran most of the smuggling operations into the Fifth Octant. The three days of scrub on his cheeks was shadowed by a bowler that, conspicuously, he had not left in the cloakroom. A pretty woman on his arm and a sharp suit did little to clean up a man like Dowser. Winsting wrinkled his nose. Most everyone in the room was a despicable piece of trash, but the others had the decency not to look like it.
|
“It’s ugly as sin,” Dowser said, looking over the painting. “I can’t believe this is what you’re having us ‘bid’ on. A little cheeky, isn’t it?” “And you’d rather I was completely forthright, Mister Dowser?” Winsting said. “You’d have me proclaim it far and wide? ‘Pay me, and in exchange you get my vote in the Senate for the next year’?” Dowser glanced to the sides, as if expecting the constables to burst into the room at any moment. Winsting smiled. “You’ll notice the shades of grey on her cheeks. A representation of the ashen nature of life in a pre-Catacendric world, hmmm? My finest work yet. Do you have an offer? To get the bidding started?” Dowser said nothing. He would eventually make a bid. Each person in this room had spent weeks posturing before agreeing to this meeting. Half were crime lords like Dowser. The others were Winsting’s own counterparts, high lords and ladies from prominent noble houses, though no less corrupt than the crime lords. “Aren’t you frightened, Winsting?” asked the woman on Dowser’s arm. Winsting frowned. He didn’t recognize her. Slender, with short golden hair and a doe-eyed expression, she was uncommonly tall. “Frightened, my dear?” Winsting asked. “Of the people in this room?” “No,” she said. “That your brother will find out … what you do.” “I assure you,” Winsting said. “Replar knows exactly what I am.” “The governor’s own brother,” the woman said. “Asking for bribes.” “If that truly surprises you, my dear,” Winsting said, “then you have lived too sheltered a life. Far bigger fish than I have been sold on this market. When the next catch arrives, perhaps you will see.” That comment caught Dowser’s attention. Winsting smiled as he saw the gears clicking behind Dowser’s eyes. Yes, Winsting thought, I did just imply that my brother himself might be open to your bribery. Perhaps that would up the man’s offer. Winsting moved over to select some shrimp and quiche from a server’s tray. “The woman with Dowser is a spy,” Winsting said softly to Flog, who was always at his elbow. “Perhaps in constabulary employ.” Flog started. “My lord! We checked and double-checked each person attending.” “Well you missed one,” Winsting whispered. “I’d bet my fortune on it. Follow her after the meeting. If she splits from Dowser for any reason, see that she meets with an accident.” “Yes, my lord.” “And Flog,” Winsting said, “do be straightforward about it. I won’t have you trying to find a place where the mists won’t be watching. Understand?” “Yes, my lord.” “Excellent,” Winsting said, smiling broadly as he strolled over to Lord Hughes Entrone, cousin and confidant to the head of House Entrone. Winsting spent an hour mingling, and slowly the bids started to come in. Some of the attendees were reluctant. They would rather have met him one-on-one, making their covert offers, then slipping back into Elendel’s underbelly. Crime lords and nobles alike, these all preferred to dance around a topic, not discuss it openly. But they did bid, and bid well. By the
|
end of his first circuit of the room, Winsting had to forcibly contain his excitement. No longer would he have to limit his spending. If his brother could— The gunshot was so unexpected, he at first assumed that one of the servers had broken something. But no. That crack was so sharp, so earsplitting. He’d never heard a gun fired indoors before; he hadn’t known just how stunning it could be. He gaped, the drink tumbling from his fingers as he tried to find the source of the shot. Another followed, then another. It became a storm, various sides firing at one another in a cacophony of death. Before he could cry for help, Flog had him by the arm, towing him toward the stairs down to the saferoom. One of his other bodyguards stumbled against the doorway, looking with wide eyes at the blood on his shirt. Winsting stared for too long at the dying man before Flog was able to tear him away and shove him into the stairwell. “What’s happening?” Winsting finally demanded as a guard slammed the door behind them and locked it. The bodyguards hurried him down the dim stairway, which was weakly lit by periodic electric lights. “Who fired? What happened?” “No way of knowing,” Flog said. Gunfire still sounded above. “Happened too fast.” “Someone just started firing,” another guard said. “Might have been Dowser.” “No, it was Darm,” another said. “I heard the first shot from his group.” Either way, it was a disaster. Winsting saw his fortune dying a bloody death on the floor above them, and he felt sick as they finally reached the bottom of the stairs and a vaultlike door, which Flog pushed him through. “I’m going to go back up,” Flog said, “see what I can salvage. Find out who caused this.” Winsting nodded and shut the door, locking it from the inside. He settled into a chair to wait, fretting. The small bunker of a room had wine and other amenities, but he couldn’t be bothered. He wrung his hands. What would his brother say? Rusts! What would the papers say? He’d have to keep this quiet somehow. Eventually a knock came at the door, and Winsting glanced through the peephole to see Flog. Behind him, a small force of bodyguards watched the stairwell. It seemed the gunfire had stopped, though from down here it had sounded only like faint popping. Winsting opened the door. “Well?” “They’re all dead.” “All of them?” “Every last one,” Flog said, walking into the room. Winsting sat heavily in his chair. “Maybe that’s good,” he said, searching for some glimmer of light in this dark disaster. “Nobody can implicate us. Maybe we can just slip away. Cover our tracks somehow?” A daunting task. He owned this building. He’d be connected to these deaths. He’d need an alibi. Hell, he was going to have to go to his brother. This could cost him his seat, even if the general public never discovered what had happened. He slumped in his chair, frustrated. “Well?” he demanded.
|
“What do you think?” In response, a pair of hands grabbed Winsting by the hair, pulled his head back, and efficiently slit his exposed throat. 2 I figure I should write one of these things, the small book read. To tell my side. Not the side the historians will tell for me. I doubt they’ll get it right. I don’t know that I’d like them to anyhow. Wax tapped the book with the end of his pencil, then scribbled down a note to himself on a loose sheet. “I’m thinking of inviting the Boris brothers to the wedding,” Steris said from the couch opposite the one Wax sat upon. He grunted, still reading. I know Saze doesn’t approve of what I’ve done, the book continued. But what did he expect me to do? Knowing what I know … “The Boris brothers,” Steris continued. “They’re acquaintances of yours, aren’t they?” “I shot their father,” Wax said, not looking up. “Twice.” I couldn’t let it die, the book read. It’s not right. Hemalurgy is good now, I figure. Saze is both sides now, right? Ruin isn’t around anymore. “Are they likely to try to kill you?” Steris asked. “Boris Junior swore to drink my blood,” Wax said. “Boris the Third—and yes, he’s the brother of Boris Junior; don’t ask—swore to … what was it? Eat my toes? He’s not a clever man.” We can use it. We should. Shouldn’t we? “I’ll just put them on the list, then,” Steris said. Wax sighed, looking up from the book. “You’re going to invite my mortal enemies,” he said dryly, “to our wedding.” “We have to invite someone,” Steris said. She sat with her blonde hair up in a bun, her stacks of papers for the wedding arrangements settled around her like subjects at court. Her blue flowered dress was fashionable without being the least bit daring, and her prim hat clung to her hair so tightly it might as well have been nailed in place. “I’m certain there are better choices for invitations than people who want me dead,” Wax said. “I hear family members are traditional.” “As a point of fact,” Steris said, “I believe your remaining family members actually do want you dead.” She had him there. “Well, yours don’t. Not that I’ve heard anyway. If you need to fill out the wedding party, invite more of them.” “I’ve invited all of my family as would be proper,” Steris said. “And all of my acquaintances that merit the regard.” She reached to the side, taking out a sheet of paper. “You, however, have given me only two names of people to invite. Wayne and a woman named Ranette—who, you noted, probably wouldn’t try to shoot you at your own wedding.” “Very unlikely,” Wax agreed. “She hasn’t tried to kill me in years. Not seriously, at least.” Steris sighed, setting down the sheet. “Steris…” Wax said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be flippant. Ranette will be fine. We joke about her, but she’s a good friend. She won’t ruin the wedding. I promise.” “Then
|
who will?” “Excuse me?” “I have known you for an entire year now, Lord Waxillium,” Steris said. “I can accept you for who you are, but I am under no illusions. Something will happen at our wedding. A villain will burst in, guns firing. Or we’ll discover explosives in the altar. Or Father Bin will inexplicably turn out to be an old enemy and attempt to murder you instead of performing the ceremony. It will happen. I’m merely trying to prepare for it.” “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Wax asked, smiling. “You’re actually thinking of inviting one of my enemies so you can plan for a disruption.” “I’ve sorted them by threat level and ease of access,” Steris said, shuffling through her papers. “Wait,” Wax said, rising and walking over. He leaned down next to her, looking over her shoulder at her papers. Each sheet contained a detailed biography. “Ape Manton … The Dashir boys … Rusts! Rick Stranger. I’d forgotten about him. Where did you get these?” “Your exploits are a matter of public record,” Steris said. “One that is of increasing interest to society.” “How long did you spend on this?” Wax asked, flipping through the pages in the stack. “I wanted to be thorough. This sort of thing helps me think. Besides, I wanted to know what you had spent your life doing.” That was actually kind of sweet. In a bizarre, Steris sort of way. “Invite Douglas Venture,” he said. “He’s kind of a friend, but he can’t hold his liquor. You can count on him making a disturbance at the after-party.” “Excellent,” Steris said. “And the other thirty-seven seats in your section?” “Invite leaders among the seamstresses and forgeworkers of my house,” Wax said. “And the constables-general of the various octants. It will be a nice gesture.” “Very well.” “If you want me to help more with the wedding planning—” “No, the formal request to perform the ceremony that you sent to Father Bin was the only task required of you by protocol. Otherwise I can handle it; this is the perfect sort of thing to occupy me. That said, someday I would like to know what is in that little book you peruse so often.” “I—” The front door to the mansion slammed open down below, and booted feet thumped up the steps. A moment later, the door to the study burst open and Wayne all but tumbled in. Darriance—the house butler—stood apologetically just behind him. Wiry and of medium height, Wayne had a round clean-shaven face and—as usual—wore his old Roughs clothing, though Steris had pointedly supplied him with new clothing on at least three occasions. “Wayne, you could try the doorbell sometime,” Wax said. “Nah, that warns the butler,” Wayne said. “Which is kind of the point.” “Beady little buggers,” Wayne said, shutting the door on Darriance. “Can’t trust them. Look, Wax. We’ve got to go! The Marksman has made his move!” Finally! Wax thought. “Let me grab my coat.” Wayne glanced toward Steris. “’Ello, Crazy,” he said, nodding to her. “Hello, Idiot,” she said,
|
nodding back. Wax buckled on his gunbelt over his fine city suit, with vest and cravat, then threw on his mistcoat duster. “Let’s go,” he said, checking his ammunition. Wayne pushed his way out the door and barreled down the stairs. Wax paused by Steris’s couch. “I…” “A man must have his hobbies,” she said, raising another sheet of paper and inspecting it. “I accept yours, Lord Waxillium—but do try to avoid being shot in the face, as we have wedding portraits to sit for this evening.” “I’ll remember that.” “Keep an eye on my sister out there,” Steris said. “This is a dangerous chase,” Wax said, hastening to the door. “I doubt Marasi will be involved.” “If you think that, then your professional faculties are suspect. It’s a dangerous chase, so she’ll find a way to be involved.” Wax hesitated by the door. He glanced back at her, and she looked up, meeting his eyes. It felt as if there should be something more to their parting. A send-off of some sort. Fondness. Steris seemed to sense it too, but neither said anything. Wax tipped his head back, taking a shot of whiskey and metal flakes, then charged through the doorway and threw himself over the balcony railing. He slowed himself with a Push on the silver inlays in the marble floor of the entrance hall, hitting with a thump of boots on stone. Darriance opened the front door ahead of him as he raced out to join Wayne at the coach, for the ride to … He froze on the steps down to the street. “What the hell is that?” “Motorcar!” Wayne said from the back seat of the vehicle. Wax groaned, hastening down the steps and approaching the machine. Marasi sat behind the steering mechanism, wearing a fashionable dress of lavender and lace. She looked much younger than her half sister, Steris, though only five years separated them. She was a constable now, technically. An aide to the constable-general of this octant. She’d never fully explained to him why she would leave behind her career as a solicitor to join the constables, but at least she’d been hired on not as a beat constable, but as an analyst and executive assistant. She shouldn’t be subjected to danger in that role. Yet here she was. A glint of eagerness shone in her eyes as she turned to him. “Are you going to get in?” “What are you doing here?” Wax asked, opening the door with some reluctance. “Driving. You’d rather Wayne do it?” “I’d rather have a coach and a good team of horses.” Wax settled into one of the seats. “Stop being so old-fashioned,” Marasi said, moving her foot and making the devilish contraption lurch forward. “Marksman robbed the First Union, as you guessed.” Wax held on tightly. He’d guessed that Marksman would hit the bank three days ago. When it hadn’t happened, he’d thought the man had fled to the Roughs. “Captain Reddi thinks that Marksman will run for his hideout in the Seventh Octant,” Marasi noted, steering
|
around a horse carriage. “Reddi is wrong,” Wax said. “Head for the Breakouts.” She didn’t argue. The motorcar thumped and shook until they hit the new section of paving stones, where the street smoothed out and the vehicle picked up speed. This was one of the latest motorcars, the type the broadsheets had been spouting about, with rubber wheels and a gasoline engine. The entire city was transforming to accommodate them. A lot of trouble just so people can drive these contraptions, Wax thought sourly. Horses didn’t need ground this smooth—though he did have to admit that the motorcar turned remarkably well, as Marasi took a corner at speed. It was still a horrible lifeless heap of destruction. “You shouldn’t be here,” Wax said as Marasi took another corner. She kept her eyes forward. Behind them, Wayne leaned halfway out one of the windows, holding his hat to his head and grinning. “You trained as an attorney,” Wax said. “You belong in a courtroom, not chasing a killer.” “I’ve done well caring for myself in the past. You never complained then.” “Each time, it felt like an exception. Yet here you are again.” Marasi did something with the stick to her right, changing the motor’s gears. Wax never had been able to get the hang of that. She darted around several horses, causing one of the riders to shout after them. The swerving motion pushed Wax against the side of the motorcar, and he grunted. “What’s wrong with you lately?” Marasi demanded. “You complain about the motorcar, about me being here, about your tea being too hot in the morning. One would almost think you’d made some horrible life decision that you regret deep down. Wonder what it could be.” Wax kept his eyes forward. In the mirror, he saw Wayne lean back in and raise his eyebrows. “She might have a point, mate.” “You’re not helping.” “Wasn’t intending to,” Wayne said. “Fortunately, I know which horrible life decision she’s talkin’ about. You really should have bought that hat we looked at last week. It was lucky. I’ve got a fifth sense for these things.” “Fifth?” Marasi asked. “Yeah, can’t smell worth a heap of beans. I—” “There,” Wax said, leaning forward and looking through the windscreen. A figure bounded out of a side street soaring through the air, landed in the street, then launched himself down the thoroughfare ahead of them. “You were right,” Marasi said. “How did you know?” “Marks likes to be seen,” Wax said, slipping Vindication from her holster at his side. “Fancies himself a gentleman rogue. Keep this contraption moving steadily, if you can.” Marasi’s reply was cut off as Wax threw open the door and leaped out. He fired down and Pushed on the bullet, launching himself upward. A Push on a passing carriage sent it rocking and nudged Wax to the side, so that when he came down, he landed on the wooden roof of Marasi’s motorcar. He grabbed the roof’s front lip in one hand, gun up beside his head, wind blowing his mistcoat
|
out behind him. Ahead, Marks bounded down the thoroughfare in a series of Steelpushes. Deep within, Wax felt the comforting burn of his own metal. He propelled himself off the motorcar and out over the roadway. Marks always performed his robberies in daylight, always escaped along the busiest roadways he could find. He liked the notoriety. He probably felt invincible. Being an Allomancer could do that to a man. Wax sent himself into a series of leaps over motorcars and carriages, passing the tenements on either side. The rushing wind, the height and perspective, cleared his mind and calmed his emotions as surely as a Soother’s touch. His worries dissolved, and for the moment there was only the chase. The Marksman wore red, an old busker’s mask covering his face—black with white tusks, like a demon of the Deepness from old stories. And he was connected to the Set, according to the appointment book Wax had stolen from his uncle. After so many months the usefulness of that book was waning, but there were still a few gems to exploit. Marks Pushed toward the industrial district. Wax followed, bounding from motorcar to motorcar. Amazing how much more secure he felt while hurtling through the afternoon air, as opposed to being trapped in one of those horrible motorized boxes. Marks spun in midair and released a handful of something. Wax Pushed himself off a lamppost and jerked to the side, then shoved Marks’s coins as they passed, sending them out of the way of a random motorcar below. The motor swerved anyway, running toward the canal, the driver losing control. Rust and Ruin, Wax thought with annoyance, Pushing himself back toward the motorcar. He tapped his metalmind, increasing his weight twentyfold, and came down on the hood of the motorcar. Hard. The smash crushed the front of the motorcar into the ground, grinding it against the stones, slowing and then stopping its momentum before it could topple into the canal. He caught a glimpse of stunned people inside, then released his metalmind and launched himself in a Push after Marks. He almost lost the man, but fortunately the red clothing was distinctive. Wax spotted him as he bounded up off a low building, then Pushed himself high along the side of one of the city’s shorter skyscrapers. Wax followed, watching as the man Pushed himself in through a window on the top floor, some twelve or fourteen stories up. Wax shot up into the sky, windows passing him in a blur. The city of Elendel stretched out all around, smoke rising from coal plants, factories, and homes in countless spouts. He neared the top floor one window to the left of where Marks had entered, and as he landed lightly on the stonework ledge, he tossed a coin toward the window Marks had used. The coin bounced against the glass. Gunfire sprayed out of the window. At the same time, Wax increased his weight and smashed through his own window by leaning against it, entering the building. He skidded on glass, raising Vindication
|
toward the plaster wall separating him from Marks. Translucent blue lines spread around him, pointing in a thousand different directions, highlighting bits of metal. The nails in a desk behind him, where a frightened man in a suit cowered. The metal wires in the walls, leading to electric lamps. Most importantly, a few lines pointed through the wall into the next room. These were faint; obstructions weakened his Allomantic sense. One of those lines quivered as someone in there turned and raised a gun. Wax rolled Vindication’s cylinder and locked it into place. Hazekiller round. He fired, then Pushed, flaring his metal and drilling that bullet forward with as much force as he could. It tore through the wall as if it were paper. The metal in the next room dropped to the floor. Wax threw himself against the wall, increasing his weight, cracking the plaster. Another slam with his shoulder smashed through, and he broke into the next room, weapon raised, looking for his target. He found only a pool of blood soaking into the carpet and a discarded submachine gun. This room was some kind of clerk’s office. Several men and women pressed against the floor, trembling. One woman raised a finger, pointing out a door. Wax gave her a nod and crouched against the wall next to the doorway, then cautiously glanced out. With a painful grating sound, a filing cabinet slid down the hallway toward him. Wax ducked back out of the way as it passed, then leaped out and aimed. His gun immediately lurched backward. Wax grabbed it with both hands, holding tight, but a second Push launched his other pistol out of its holster. His feet started to skid, his gun hauling him backward, and he growled, but finally dropped Vindication. She tumbled all the way down the hall to fetch up beside the ruins of the filing cabinet, which had crashed into the wall there. He would have to come back for her once this was over. Marks stood at the other end of the hallway, lit by soft electric lights. He bled from a shoulder wound, his face hidden by the black-and-white mask. “There are a thousand criminals in this city far worse than I am,” a muffled voice said from behind the mask, “and yet you hunt me, lawman. Why? I’m a hero of the people.” “You stopped being a hero weeks ago,” Wax said, striding forward, mistcoat rustling. “When you killed a child.” “That wasn’t my fault.” “You fired the gun, Marks. You might not have been aiming for the girl, but you fired the gun.” The thief stepped back. The sack slung on his shoulder had been torn, either by Wax’s bullet or some shrapnel. It leaked banknotes. Marks glared at him through the mask, eyes barely visible in the electric light. Then he dashed to the side, holding his shoulder as he ran into another room. Wax Pushed off the filing cabinet and threw himself in a rush down the hallway. He skidded to a stop before the door Marks
|
had gone in, then Pushed off the light behind, bending it against the wall and entering the room. Open window. Wax grabbed a handful of pens from a desk before throwing himself out the window, a dozen stories up. Banknotes fluttered in the air, trailing behind Marks as he plummeted. Wax increased his weight, trying to fall faster, but he had nothing to Push against and the increased weight helped only slightly against air resistance. Marks still hit the ground before him, then Pushed away the coin he’d used to slow himself. A pair of dropped pens—with metal nibs—Pushed ahead of himself into the ground was enough, barely, to slow Wax. Marks leaped away, bounding out over some streetlamps. He bore no metal on his body that Wax could spot, but he moved a lot more slowly than he had earlier, and he trailed blood. Wax followed him. Marks would be making for the Breakouts, a slum where the people still covered for him. They didn’t care that his robberies had turned violent; they celebrated that he stole from those who deserved it. Can’t let him reach that safety, Wax thought, Pushing himself up over a lamppost, then shoving on it behind him to gain speed. He closed on his prey, who checked on Wax with a frantic glance over his shoulder. Wax raised one of the pens, gauging how risky it would be to try to hit Marks in the leg. He didn’t want a killing blow. This man knew something. The slums were just ahead. Next bound, Wax thought, gripping the pen. Bystanders stared up from the sidewalks, watching the Allomantic chase. He couldn’t risk hitting one of them. He had to— One of those faces was familiar. Wax lost control of his Push. Stunned by what he’d seen, he barely kept himself from breaking bones as he hit the street, rolling across cobbles. He came to a rest, mistcoat tassels twisted around his body. He drew himself up on hands and knees. No. Impossible. NO. He scrambled across the street, ignoring a stomping black destrier and its cursing rider. That face. That face. The last time he had seen that face, he had shot it in the forehead. Bloody Tan. The man who had killed Lessie. “A man was here!” Wax shouted, shoving through the crowd. “Long-fingered, thinning hair. A face almost like a bare skull. Did you see him? Did anyone see him?” People stared at him as if he were daft. Perhaps he was. Wax raised his hand to the side of his head. “Lord Waxillium?” He spun. Marasi had stopped her motorcar nearby, and both she and Wayne were climbing out. Had she actually been able to tail him during his chase? No … no, he’d told her where he thought Marks would go. “Wax, mate?” Wayne asked. “You all right? What did he do, knock you from the air?” “Something like that,” Wax mumbled, glancing about one last time. Rusts, he thought. The stress is digging into my mind. “So he got away,” Marasi said,
|
folding her arms, looking displeased. “Not yet he didn’t,” Wax said. “He’s bleeding and dropping money. He’ll leave a trail. Come on.” 3 “I need you to stay behind as we go into those slums,” Wayne said, determined to impress solemnity into his voice. “It’s not that I don’t want your help. I do. It’s just going to be too dangerous for you. You need to stay where I know you’re safe. No arguments. I’m sorry.” “Wayne,” Wax said, walking past. “Stop talking to your hat and get over here.” Wayne sighed, patting his hat and then forcing himself to put it down and leave it in the motorcar. Wax was a right good fellow, but there were a lot of things he didn’t understand. Women for one. Hats for another. Wayne jogged over to where Wax and Marasi peered into the Breakouts. It seemed a different world in there. The sky inside was strung with clotheslines, derelict bits of clothing dangling like hanged men. Wind blew out of the place, happy to escape, carrying with it uncertain scents. Food half cooked. Bodies half washed. Streets half cleaned. The tall, compact tenements cast deep shadows even in the afternoon. As if this were the place dusk came for a drink and a chat before sauntering out for its evening duty. “The Lord Mistborn didn’t want there to be slums in the city, you know,” Marasi said as the three of them entered. “He tried hard to prevent them from growing up. Built nice buildings for the poor, tried to make them last…” Wax nodded, absently moving a coin across his knuckles as he walked. He seemed to have lost his guns somewhere. Had he bummed some coins off Marasi? It never was fair. When Wayne borrowed coins off folks, he got yelled at. He did forget to ask sometimes, but he always offered a good trade. As they penetrated deeper into the Breakouts, Wayne lagged behind the other two. Need a good hat … he thought. The hat was important. So he listened for some coughing. Ah … He found the chap nestled up beside a doorway, a ratty blanket draped over his knees. You could always find his type in a slum. Old, clinging to life like a man on a ledge, his lungs half full with various unsavory fluids. The old man hacked into a glove-wrapped hand as Wayne settled down on the steps beside him. “What, now,” the man said. “Who are you?” “What, now,” Wayne repeated. “Who are you?” “I’m nobody,” the man said, then spat to the side. “Dirty outer. I ain’t done nothing.” “I’m nobody,” Wayne repeated, taking his flask from the pocket of his duster. “Dirty outer. I ain’t done nothing.” Good accent, that was. Real mumbly, a classic vintage, wrapped in a blanket of history. Closing his eyes and listening, Wayne thought he could imagine what people sounded like years ago. He held out the flask of whiskey. “You trying to poison me?” the man asked. He clipped off words, left out half the
|
sounds. “You trying to poison me?” Wayne repeated, working his jaw as if his mouth were full of bits of rock he kept trying to chew. Some northern fields mix in this one, for sure. He opened his eyes and tipped the whiskey at the man, who smelled it, then took a sip. Then a swig. Then a gulp. “So,” the man asked, “you an idiot? I’ve a son that’s an idiot. The real kind, that was born that way. Well, you seem all right anyway.” “Well, you seem all right anyway,” Wayne said, standing up. He reached over to take the man’s old cotton cap off his head, then gestured toward the whiskey flask. “In trade?” the man asked. “Boy, you are an idiot.” Wayne pulled on the cap. “Could you say another word that starts with ‘h’ for me?” “Huh?” “Rusting wonderful,” Wayne said. He hopped back down the steps onto the street and ditched his duster in a cranny—and along with it his dueling canes, unfortunately. He kept his wooden knucklebones though. The clothing underneath his duster was Roughs stock, not so different from what they wore in these slums. Buttoned shirt, trousers, suspenders. He rolled up the sleeves as he walked. The clothing was worn, patched in a few places. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. Took years to get clothing that looked right. Used, lived-in. Be slow to trust a man with clothing that was too new. You didn’t get to wear new, clean clothing by doing honest work. Wax and Marasi had paused up ahead, speaking to some old women with scarves on their heads and bundles in their arms. Wayne could almost hear what they were saying. We don’t know nothing. He came running past here mere moments ago, Wax would say. Surely you— We don’t know nothing. We didn’t see nothing. Wayne wandered over to where a group of men sat under a dirty cloth awning while eating bruised fruit. “Who’re those outers?” Wayne asked as he sat down, using the accent he’d just picked up from the old man. They didn’t even question him. A slum like this had a lot of people—too many to know everyone—but you could easily tell if someone belonged or not. And Wayne belonged. “Conners for sure,” one of the men said. He had a head like an overturned bowl, hairless and too flat. “They want someone,” another man said. Rust and Ruin, the chap’s face was so pointy, you could have used it to plow a field. “Conners only come here if they want to arrest someone. They’ve never cared about us, and never will.” “If they did care,” bowl-head said, “they’d do something about all those factories and power plants, dumping ash on us. We ain’t supposed to live in ash anymore. Harmony said it, he did.” Wayne nodded. Good point, that. These building walls, they were ashen. Did people care about that, on the outside? No. Not as long as they didn’t have to live in here. He didn’t miss the glares Wax and
|
Marasi drew, pointed at them by people who passed behind, or who pulled windows closed up above. This is worse, Wayne thought. Worse than normal. He’d have to talk to Wax about it. But for now there was a job to do. “They are looking for something.” “Stay out of it,” bowl-head said. Wayne grunted. “Maybe there’s money in it.” “You’d turn in one of our own?” bowl-head said with a scowl. “I recognize you. Edip’s son, aren’t you?” Wayne glanced away, noncommittal. “You listen here, son,” bowl-head said, wagging his finger. “Don’t trust a conner, and don’t be a rat.” “I ain’t a rat,” Wayne said, testily. He wasn’t. But sometimes, a man just needed cash. “They’re after Marks. I overheard them. There’s a thousand notes on his head, there is.” “He grew up here,” plow-face said. “He’s one of us.” “He killed that girl,” Wayne said. “That’s a lie,” bowl-head said. “Don’t you go talking to conners, son. I mean it.” “Fine, fine,” Wayne said, moving to rise. “I’ll just go—” “You’ll sit back down,” bowl-head said. “Or I’ll rap you something good on your head, I will.” Wayne sighed, sitting back down. “You olders always talk about us, and don’t know how it is these days. Working in one of the factories.” “We know more than you think,” bowl-head said, handing Wayne a bruised apple. “Eat this, stay out of trouble, and don’t go where I can’t see you.” Wayne grumbled, but sat back and bit into the apple. It didn’t taste half bad. He ate the whole thing, then helped himself to a couple more. It happened soon enough. The men of the fruit-eating group broke apart, leaving Wayne with a basket full of cores. They split with a few amicable gibes at one another, each of the four men claiming he had some important task to be about. Wayne stuffed another apple in each pocket, then stood up and sauntered off after bowl-head. He tailed the fellow fairly easily, nodding occasionally at people, who nodded back as if they knew him. It was the hat. Put on a man’s hat, surround your mind with his way of thinking, and it changed you. A man in dockworker’s clothing passed by, shoulders slumped, whistling a sad tune. Wayne picked up the melody. Rough life that was, working the docks. You had to commute each day on the canal boats—either that or find a bed out near the waterfront of the bay, where you were about as likely to get stabbed as have breakfast. He’d lived that life as a youth. Had the scars to prove it, he did. But as a chap grew, he wanted more to his days than a fight on every corner and women who couldn’t remember his name one day to the next. Bowl-head ducked into an alley. Well, every rusting street in here felt like an alley. Bowl-head entered an alley’s alley. Wayne stepped up to the side of the tiny roadway, then burned bendalloy. Allomancy was a useful trick, that it was. Burning
|
the metal set up a nice little bubble of sped-up time around him. He strolled around the corner, staying inside the bubble—it didn’t move when he did, but he could move within it. Yup. There he was, bowl-head himself, crouching beside a rubbish pile, waiting to see if anyone followed him. Wayne had almost made the bubble too big and caught the man in it. Sloppy, sloppy, Wayne thought. A mistake like that on the docks could cost a man his life. He fished a ratty blanket out of the part of the rubbish pile that was inside his bubble, then wandered back around the corner and dropped the bubble. Inside the speed bubble, he’d have been moving so quickly bowl-head wouldn’t have seen more than a blur—if that. He wouldn’t think anything of it, Wayne was certain. If he were wrong, he’d eat his hat. Well, one of Wax’s hats at least. Wayne found a set of steps and settled down. He pulled his cap down half over his eyes, sidled up to the wall in a comfortable position, and spread the blanket around himself. Just another homeless drunk. Bowl-head was a careful one. He waited inside the alley a whole five minutes before creeping out, looking back and forth, then hastening to a building across the street. He knocked, whispered something, and was let in. Wayne yawned, stretched, and tossed aside the blanket. He crossed the street to the building that bowl-head had entered, then started checking the shuttered windows. The ancient shutters were so old, a good sneeze might have knocked them off. He had to be careful to avoid getting splinters in his cheeks as he listened at each window in turn. The men of the slums had an odd sense of morality to them. They wouldn’t turn in one of their own to the constables. Not even for a reward. But then again, a chap needed to eat. Wouldn’t a man like Marks want to hear just how loyal his friends were? “… was a pair of conners for sure,” Wayne heard at a window. “A thousand notes is a lot, Marks. A whole lot. Now, I’m not saying you can’t trust the lads; there’s not a bad alloy in the bunch. I can say that a little encouragement will help them feel better about their loyalty.” Ratting out a friend: completely off-limits. Extorting a friend: well, that was just good business sense. And if Marks didn’t act grateful, then maybe he hadn’t been a friend after all. Wayne grinned, slipping his sets of wooden knucklebones over his fingers. He stepped back, then charged the building. He hit the shutters with one shoulder, crashing through, then tossed up a speed bubble the moment he hit the floor. He rolled and came up on his feet in front of Marks—who was inside the speed bubble. The man still wore his red trousers, though he’d removed his mask, and was bandaging his shoulder. He snapped his head up, displaying a surprised face with bushy eyebrows and large lips. Rusts.
|
No wonder the fellow normally wore a mask. Wayne swung at his chin, laying him out with one punch. Then he spun, fists up, but the other half-dozen occupants of the room, including bowl-head, stood frozen just outside the edge of his speed bubble. Now that was right lucky. Wayne grinned, heaving Marks up onto his shoulder. He took his knuckles off, slipping them into his pocket, and got out an apple. He took a juicy bite, waved farewell to bowl-head—who looked forward with glassy eyes, frozen—then tossed Marks out the window and followed after. Once he passed beyond the edge of his speed bubble, it automatically collapsed. “What the hell was that!” bowl-head yelled inside. Wayne heaved the unconscious Marks up onto his shoulder again, then wandered back down the road, chewing on his apple. * * * “Let me talk to the next ones,” Marasi said. “Maybe I can get them to say something.” She felt Waxillium’s eyes on her. He thought she was trying to prove herself to him. Once he’d have been right. Now she was a constable—fully credentialed and in the city’s employ. This was her job. Waxillium didn’t agree with her decision, but her actions were not subject to his approval. Together they walked up to a group of young outcasts sitting on the steps of the slums. The three boys watched them with suspicion, their skin dirty, their too-big clothing tied at the waists and ankles. That was the style, apparently, for youths of the streets. They smelled of the incense they’d been smoking in their pipes. Marasi stepped up to them. “We’re looking for a man.” “If you need a man,” one of the boys said, looking her up and down, “I’m right here.” “Oh please,” Marasi said. “You’re … what, nine?” “Hey, she knows how long it is!” the boy said, laughing and grabbing his crotch. “Have you been peeking at me, lady?” Well, that’s a blush, Marasi thought. Not terribly professional. Fortunately, she’d spent time around Wayne and his occasional colorful metaphors. Blushes would happen. She pressed onward. “He came shooting through here less than an hour ago. Wounded, trailing blood, wearing red. I’m sure you know who I’m speaking of.” “Yeah, the man of hours!” one of the boys said, laughing and referencing a figure from old nursemaid tales. “I know him!” Treat them like a belligerent witness, she thought. At a trial. Keep them talking. She needed to learn how to deal with people like these boys in the real world, not just in sterile practice rooms. “Yes, the man of hours,” Marasi said. “Where did he go?” “To the edge of dusk,” the boy said. “Haven’t you heard the stories?” “I’m fond of stories,” Marasi said, slipping a few coins from her pocketbook. She held them up. Bribery felt like cheating, but … well, she wasn’t in court. The three boys eyed the coins, a sudden hunger flashing in their eyes. They covered it quickly, but perhaps showing off money in this place wasn’t terribly wise. “Let’s hear a
|
story,” Marasi said. “About where this … man of hours might be staying. The location of dusk, if you will. Here in these tenements.” “We might know that,” one of the boys said. “Though, you know, stories cost a lot. More than that.” Behind her, something clinked. Waxillium had gotten out a few coins too. The boys glanced at those, eager, until Waxillium flipped one up into the air and Pushed until it was lost. The boys grew quiet immediately. “Talk to the lady,” Waxillium said softly, with an edge to his voice. “Stop wasting our time.” Marasi turned to him, and behind her the boys made their decision. They scattered, obviously not wanting to deal with an Allomancer. “That was very helpful,” Marasi said, folding her arms. “Thank you so much.” “They were going to lie to you,” Waxillium said, glancing over his shoulder. “And we were drawing the wrong kind of attention.” “I realize they were going to lie,” Marasi said. “I was going to catch them in it. Attacking someone’s false story is often one of the best methods of interrogation.” “Actually,” Waxillium said, “the best method of interrogation involves a drawer and someone’s fingers.” “Actually,” Marasi said, “it does not. Studies show that forced interrogation results in bad information almost all the time. Anyway, what is wrong with you today, Waxillium? I realize you’ve been flaunting your ‘tough Roughs lawman’ persona lately—” “I have not.” “You have,” she said. “And I can see why. Out in the Roughs, you acted the gentleman lawman. You yourself told me you clung to civilization, to bring it with you. Well, here you’re around lords all the time. You’re practically drowning in civilization. So instead, you lean on being the Roughs lawman—to bring a little old-fashioned justice to the city.” “You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said, turned away from her, scanning the street. Rust and Ruin. He thought she was infatuated with him. Arrogant, brutish … idiot! She puffed out and stalked away. She was not infatuated. He had made it clear there would be nothing between them, and he was engaged to her sister. That was that. Couldn’t the two of them have a professional relationship now? Wayne lounged on the steps leading up to a nearby building, watching them and sloppily taking bites out of an apple. “And where have you been?” Marasi asked, walking up to him. “Apple?” Wayne said, handing another one toward her. “’s not too bruised.” “No thank you. Some of us have been trying to find a killer, not a meal.” “Oh, that.” Wayne kicked at something beside him on the ground, hidden in the shadow of the steps. “Yeah, took care of that for you.” “You took … Wayne, that’s a person at your feet! Rusts! He’s bleeding!” “Sure is,” Wayne said. “Not my fault at all, that. I did knock ’im upside the head though.” Marasi raised a hand to her mouth. It was him. “Wayne, where … How…” Waxillium gently pushed her aside; she hadn’t seen him approach. He knelt
|
down, checking Marks’s wound. Waxillium then looked up at Wayne and nodded, the two sharing an expression they often exchanged. The closest Marasi had been able to figure, it meant something between “Nice work” and “You’re a total git; I wanted to do that.” “Let’s get him to the constabulary offices,” Waxillium said, lifting the unconscious Marks. “Yes, fine,” Marasi said. “But aren’t you going to ask how he did this? Where he’s been?” “Wayne has his methods,” Waxillium said. “In a place like this, they’re far better than my own.” “You knew,” she said, leveling a finger at Waxillium. “You knew we weren’t going to get anywhere asking questions!” “I suspected,” Waxillium said. “But Wayne needs space to try his methods—” “—onnacount of my being so incredible,” Wayne added. “—so I did my best to find Marks on my own—” “—onnacount of him being unable to accept that I’m better at this sorta thing than he is—” “—in case Wayne failed.” “Which never happens.” Wayne grinned and took a bite of his apple, hopping off his steps to walk beside Waxillium. “Except that one time. And that other one time. But those don’t matter, onnacount of my getting hit to the head enough times that I can’t remember them.” Marasi sighed inwardly, falling into step with the two. They had so much history that they moved in concert subconsciously, like two dancers who had performed together countless times. That made life particularly difficult for the newcomer who tried to perform with them. “Well,” Marasi said to Wayne, “you could at least tell me what you did. Perhaps I could learn from your methods.” “Nah,” Wayne said. “Won’t work for you. You’re too pretty. In an unpretty sort of way to me, mind you. Let’s not go around that tree again.” “Wayne, sometimes you completely baffle me.” “Only sometimes?” Waxillium asked. “I can’t give her all I got, mate,” Wayne said, thumbs behind his suspenders. “Gotta save some for everyone else. I dole it out with no respect for privilege, class, sex, or mental capacity. I’m a rusting saint, I am.” “But how,” Marasi said. “How did you find him? Did you make some of these people talk?” “Nah,” Wayne said. “I made them not talk. They’re better at that. Comes from practice, I suspect.” “You should take lessons,” Waxillium added. Marasi sighed as they approached the entrance to the Breakouts. The human flotsam who earlier had cluttered the stairwells and alleyways in here had melted away, perhaps finding the attention of several lawmen too discomforting. It— Waxillium stiffened. Wayne did as well. “What—?” Marasi began, right as Waxillium dropped Marks and reached for his mistcoat pocket. Wayne shoved his shoulder into Marasi, pushing her away as something zipped down out of the air and clacked against the paving stones where they’d been standing. More projectiles followed, though she wasn’t really looking. She instead let Wayne tow her to relative cover beside a building, then both of them began craning to search the skyline for the sniper. Waxillium took to the air
|
with a dropped coin, a dark rush of twisting mistcoat tassels. At times like this he looked more primal, like one of the ancient Mistborn from the legends. Not a creature of law, but a sliver of the night itself come to collect its due. “Aw, hell,” Wayne said, nodding toward Marks. The body slumped in the middle of the road, and now had a prominent wooden shaft sticking out of it. “Arrow?” Marasi asked. “Crossbow bolt,” Wayne said. “Haven’t seen one of those in years. You really only want them for fighting Allomancers.” He looked up. Above, Waxillium gave chase, soaring toward the top of one of the buildings. “Stay here,” Wayne said, then dashed off down an alleyway. “Wait—” Marasi said, raising a hand. But he was gone. Those two, she thought in annoyance. Well, obviously someone didn’t want Marks to be captured and spill what he knew. Perhaps she could learn something from the crossbow bolt or the corpse itself. She knelt down beside the body, checking first to make certain he was dead—hoping perhaps that the crossbow bolt had not finished the job. He was dead, unfortunately. The bolt was firmly lodged in the head. Who knew that a crossbow could penetrate a skull like that? Marasi shook her head, reaching into her handbag to get her notepad and do a write-up of the position the body had fallen in. You know, she thought. The assassin is lucky. They were gone so fast, they couldn’t have known that they dealt a killing blow. If I were looking to make sure Marks was finished off, I’d certainly … She heard something click behind her. … double back and check. Marasi turned slowly to find a ragged-looking man leaving an alleyway, holding a crossbow. He inspected her with dark eyes. The next part happened quickly. Before Marasi had time to take a step, the man rushed her. He fired the crossbow over his shoulder—causing a Wayne-like yelp to come out of the alleyway—then grabbed Marasi by the shoulder as she tried to run. He whipped her about, raising something cold to her neck. A glass dagger. Waxillium dropped to the ground in front of them, mistcoat unfurling around him. The two stared at one another, a coin in Waxillium’s right hand. He rubbed it with his thumb. Remember your hostage training, woman! Marasi thought. Most men take a hostage out of desperation. Could she use her Allomancy? She could slow time around her, speeding it up for everyone outside her speed bubble. The opposite of what Wayne could do. But she hadn’t swallowed any cadmium. Stupid! A mistake the other two would never make. She needed to stop being embarrassed with her powers, weak though they were. She’d used them effectively on more than one occasion. The man breathed in and out raggedly, his head right next to hers. She could feel the stubble of his chin and cheek against her skin. Men who take hostages don’t want to kill, she thought. This isn’t part of the plan. You can
|
talk him down, speak comforting words, seek common ground and build upon it. She didn’t do any of that. Instead, she whipped her hand out of her handbag, gripping the small, single-shot pistol she kept inside. Before even considering what she was doing, she pressed the barrel against the man’s chin, pulled the trigger … And blew the bottom of his head up out of the top. 4 Wax lowered his hand, looking at the new corpse beside Marasi. Her shot had taken off a big chunk of the face. Identifying the man would be near impossible. It would have been anyway. Suit’s minions were notoriously difficult to trace. Don’t worry about that right now, he thought, taking out a handkerchief. He walked over and held it up to Marasi, who stood with wide eyes, blood and bits of flesh sprayed across her face. She stared straight ahead and did not look down. She’d dropped the pistol. “That was…” she said, eyes ahead. “That was…” She took a deep breath. “That was unexpected of me, wasn’t it?” “You did well,” Wax said. “People assume a captive to be in their power. Often the best way to escape is by fighting back.” “What?” Marasi said, finally taking the handkerchief. “You discharged a pistol right beside your head,” Wax said. “You are going to have trouble hearing. Rusts … you’ve probably done some permanent damage to your ear. Hopefully it won’t be too bad.” “What?” Wax gestured toward her face, and she looked at the handkerchief, as if seeing it for the first time. She blinked, then glanced down. She looked away from the corpse immediately and began wiping at her face. Wayne, grumbling, staggered out of the alleyway, a new hole in his clothing at the shoulder and a crossbow bolt in his hand. “So much for interrogating him,” Marasi said with a grimace. “It’s all right,” Wax said. “Living was more important.” “… What?” He smiled at her reassuringly as Wayne waved to some other constables, who had finally arrived on the scene and were making their way into the slums. “Why does this keep happening to me?” Marasi asked. “Yes, I know I won’t be able to hear your reply. But this is … what, the third time someone has tried to use me as a hostage? Do I exude indefensibility or something?” Yes, you do, Wax thought, though he didn’t say it. That’s a good thing. It makes them underestimate you. Marasi was a strong person. She thought clearly in times of stress; she did what needed to be done, even if it was unpleasant. However, she was also very keen on dressing nicely and making herself up. Lessie would have had none of that. The only times Wax had seen her in a dress were when they’d made the occasional trip to Covingtar to visit the Pathian gardens there. He smiled, remembering a time she’d actually worn trousers under the dress. “Lord Ladrian!” Constable Reddi trotted over, wearing the uniform of a captain in the constabulary. The lean man
|
had a neatly clipped, drooping mustache. “Reddi,” Wax said, nodding to him. “Is Aradel here?” “The constable-general is engaged in another investigation, my lord,” Reddi said with a crisp tone. Why did Wax always want to smack this man after talking to him? He was never insulting, always impeccably proper. Maybe that was reason enough. Wax pointed toward the buildings. “Well, if you’d kindly have your men secure the area; we should probably question those nearby and see if, by some miracle, we can discover the identity of the man Lady Colms just killed.” Reddi saluted, though it wasn’t technically necessary. Wax had a special deputized forbearance in the constabulary, allowing him to do things like … well, jump through the city armed and firing. But he wasn’t in their command structure. The other constables moved to do as he requested anyway. As he glanced at the Marksman, Wax forcibly kept his anger in check. At this rate, he would never track down his uncle Edwarn. Wax had only the slightest hint of what the man was trying to accomplish. It can make anyone into an Allomancer, you see.… If we don’t use it, someone else will. Words from the book Ironeyes had given him. “Excellent work, my lord,” Reddi said in a calm voice, nodding to the fallen Marksman. The clothing was distinctive. “Another miscreant dealt with, and with your customary efficiency.” Wax said nothing. Today’s “excellent work” was just another dead end. “Hey, look!” Wayne said nearby. “I think I found one of that fellow’s teeth! That’s good luck, ain’t it?” Marasi looked woozy, settling down on a nearby set of steps. Wax was tempted to go comfort her, but would she interpret it the wrong way? He didn’t want to lead her on. “My lord, could we talk?” Reddi said as more constables flooded the area. “I mentioned the constable-general and another case. I was actually already on my way to find you when we heard of your chase here.” Wax turned to him, immediately alert. “What has happened?” Reddi grimaced, showing uncharacteristic emotion. “It’s bad, my lord,” he said more softly. “Politics is involved.” Then Suit might be involved as well. “Tell me more.” “It, well, it’s connected to the governor, my lord. His brother, you see, was hosting an auction last night. And, well, you should see for yourself.…” * * * Marasi didn’t miss Waxillium grabbing Wayne by the shoulder and pointing toward a waiting constabulary carriage. He didn’t come for her. How long would it be before that damnable man was willing to accept her as, if not an equal, a colleague? Frustrated, she made toward the carriage. Unfortunately, she ran into Captain Reddi on the way. He spoke, and she had to strain her ringing ears—and guess a little—to figure out what he was saying. “Constable Colms. You are out of uniform.” “Yes, sir,” she said. “It is my day off, sir.” “Yet here you are,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “How is it that you find your way, consistently, into situations
|
like this, despite explicitly being told that it is not your assignment, as you are not a field constable?” “Pure happenstance I’m sure, sir,” Marasi said. He gave her a sneer at that. Funny. He usually saved those for Waxillium, when the man wasn’t looking. He said something she couldn’t make out, then nodded toward the motorcar she’d brought—which was technically constabulary property; she’d been told to become proficient in driving motorcars and report on their effectiveness to the constable-general. He wanted to test them as replacements for horse-drawn carriages. “Sir?” she said. “You’ve obviously been through a great deal this day, constable,” Reddi said, more loudly. “Don’t argue with me on this. Head home, clean up, and report for duty tomorrow.” “Sir,” Marasi said. “I’d like to brief Captain Aradel on my pursuit of the Marksman, and his subsequent demise, before the details become fuzzy. He will be interested, as he’s followed this case personally.” She stared Reddi in the eyes. He outranked her, yes, but he wasn’t her boss. Aradel was that to both of them. “The constable-general,” Reddi said with some obvious reluctance, “is away from the offices at the moment.” “Well then, I’ll report to him and let him dismiss me, sir,” Marasi said. “If that is his wish.” Reddi ground his teeth and started to say something, but a call from one of the other constables diverted him. He waved toward the motorcar, and Marasi took it as dismissal to do as she’d said. So, when the carriage with Waxillium pulled away, she followed in the motor. By the time the trip had ended, at a fashionable mansion overlooking the city’s Hub, she had started to recover. She was still feeling shaken, though she hoped she didn’t show it, and she could hear with her left ear, if not on the other side, where she’d fired the gun. As she climbed out of the motorcar, she found herself wiping her cheek again with her handkerchief, though she had long since cleaned off the blood. Her dress had been thoroughly ruined. She grabbed her constable’s coat from the back of the motorcar and threw it over the top to hide the stains, then rushed over to join Waxillium and the others as they descended from the carriage. Only one other constabulary carriage, she noted, inspecting the drive. Whatever had happened here, Aradel didn’t want to make a big show of it. As Waxillium walked up toward the front, he glanced about and found her, then waved her over to him. “Do you know what this might be about?” he asked her quietly as Reddi and several other constables conferred near the carriage. “No,” Marasi said. “They didn’t brief you?” Waxillium shook his head. He glanced down at her bloodied dress, which peeked out underneath the sturdy brown jacket. He made no comment however, instead striding up the steps, tailed by Wayne. Two constables, a man and a woman, guarded the door into the mansion. They saluted as Reddi caught up to Waxillium—pointedly ignoring Marasi—and led the way in
|
through the doors. “We’ve tried to keep this very tightly controlled,” Reddi said. “But word will get out, with Lord Winsting involved. Rusts, this is going to be a nightmare.” “The governor’s brother?” Marasi asked. “What happened here?” Reddi pointed up a set of steps. “We should find Constable-General Aradel in the grand ballroom. I warn you, this is not a sight for delicate stomachs.” He glanced at Marasi. She raised an eyebrow. “Not an hour ago, I had a man’s head literally explode all over me, Captain. I believe I will be fine.” Reddi said nothing further, leading the way up the steps. She noticed Wayne pocketing a small, decorative cigar box they passed—Citizen Magistrates brand—replacing it with a bruised apple. She’d have to see that he swapped the cigar box back at some point. The ballroom upstairs was littered with bodies. Marasi and Waxillium stopped in the doorway, looking in at the chaos. The dead men and women wore fine clothes, sleek ball gowns or tight black suits. Hats lay tumbled from heads, the fine tan carpet stained red in wide patches around the fallen. It was as if someone had tossed a basket of eggs into the air and let them fall, their insides seeping out all over the floor. Claude Aradel, constable-general of the Fourth Octant, picked through the scene. In many ways, he didn’t look like a constable should. His rectangular face had a few days’ worth of red stubble on it; he shaved when the mood struck him. His leathery skin, furrowed with wrinkles, attested to days spent in the field, not behind a desk. He was probably pushing sixty at this point, though he wouldn’t divulge his true age, and even the octant records had a question mark next to his birth date. What was certain was that Aradel didn’t have a drop of noble blood in him. He’d left the constabulary about ten years ago, giving no official reason for his departure. Rumor was he’d hit the silent ceiling on promotions a man could get without being noble. A lot could change in ten years though, and when Brettin had retired—soon after the execution of Miles Hundredlives almost a year ago—the hunt for a new constable-general had landed on Aradel. He’d come out of retirement to accept the position. “Ladrian,” he said, looking up from a corpse. “Good. You’re here.” He crossed the room and gave a glance to Marasi, who saluted. He didn’t dismiss her. “Aw,” Wayne said, peeking in, “the fun is already over.” Waxillium stepped into the room, taking Aradel’s proffered hand. “That’s Chip Erikell, isn’t it?” Waxillium asked, nodding to the nearest corpse. “Thought to run smuggling in the Third Octant?” “Yes,” Aradel said. “And Isabaline Frellia,” Marasi said. “Rusts! We have a file on her as tall as Wayne, but the prosecutors have never been able to charge her.” “Seven of these bodies belong to people of equivalent notoriety,” Aradel said, pointing to several corpses among the fallen. “Most from crime syndicates, though a few were members of noble
|
houses with … dubious reputations. The rest were high-ranking representatives from other important factions. We have near thirty notable stiffs, along with a handful of guards each.” “That’s half of the city’s criminal elite,” Waxillium said softly, crouching down beside a body. “At least.” “All people we’ve never been able to touch,” Aradel said. “Not for lack of trying, mind you.” “So why is everyone so grim?” Wayne asked. “We should be throwing a bloomin’ party, shouldn’t we? Someone went and did our work for us! We can take the month off.” Marasi shook her head. “A violent change in power in the underworld can be dangerous, Wayne. This was a hit of huge ambition, someone eliminating rivals wholesale.” Aradel glanced at her, then nodded in agreement. She felt a surge of satisfaction. The constable-general was the one who had hired her, picking her application out of a dozen others. Every other person in the pile had had years of constable experience. Instead, he’d chosen a recently graduated law student. He saw something promising in her, obviously, and she intended to prove him right. “I can’t fathom someone doing this,” Waxillium said. “Toppling so many of the city’s underworld powers at once won’t favor the perpetrators; that’s a myth from penny novels. Murders on this scale will just draw attention and unify opposition from every other surviving gang and faction as soon as word gets out.” “Unless it was done by an outsider,” Marasi said. “An uncertain element from the start, someone who stands to gain if the entire system crumbles.” Aradel grunted, and Waxillium nodded in agreement. “But how,” Waxillium whispered. “How did someone achieve this? Surely their security must have rivaled any in the city.” He began moving about, pacing off distances, looking at certain bodies, then at others, whispering to himself as he periodically knelt down. “Reddi said that the governor’s brother was involved, sir?” Marasi asked Aradel. “Lord Winsting Innate.” Lord Winsting, head of House Innate. He had a vote in the Elendel Senate, a position he gained once his brother was elevated to governor. He had been corrupt. Marasi and the rest of the constables knew it. In retrospect, she wasn’t surprised to find him in the middle of something like this. The thing was, Winsting had always seemed a small catch to Marasi. The governor, however … well, perhaps that hidden file on her desk—full of hints, guesses, and clues—would finally be relevant. “Winsting,” she asked Aradel. “Is he…?” “Dead?” Aradel asked. “Yes, Constable Colms. From the invitations we found, he initiated this meeting, under the guise of an auction. We located his corpse in a saferoom in the basement.” This drew Waxillium’s attention. He stood up, looking directly at them, then muttered something to himself and paced off another body. What was he searching for? Wayne wandered over to Marasi and Aradel. He took a swig from a silver flask engraved with someone else’s initials. Marasi pointedly did not ask him which of the dead he’d taken it from. “So,” he said, “our little house
|
leader was friendly with criminals, was he?” “We’ve long suspected he was crooked,” Aradel said. “The people love his family though, and his brother went to great lengths to keep Winsting’s previous lapses out of the limelight.” “You’re right, Aradel,” Waxillium said from across the room. “This will be bad.” “I dunno,” Wayne said. “Maybe he didn’t know these folks were all trouble.” “Doubtful,” Marasi said. “And even if it were true, it wouldn’t matter. Once the broadsheets get ahold of this … The governor’s sibling, dead in a house full of known criminals under very suspicious circumstances?” “What I’m hearing,” Wayne said, taking another swig, “is that I was wrong. The fun isn’t over.” “Many of these people shot one another,” Waxillium said. They all turned to him. He knelt beside another body, inspecting the way it had fallen, then looked up toward some bullet holes in the wall. Being a lawman, particularly out in the Roughs, had required Waxillium to teach himself a wide variety of skills. He was part detective, part enforcer, part leader, part scientist. Marasi had read a dozen different profiles of him by various scholars, all investigating the mindset of a man who was becoming a living legend. “What do you mean, Lord Ladrian?” Aradel asked. “The fight here involved multiple parties,” Waxillium said, pointing. “If this was an unexpected hit by someone external—and Lady Colms is right, that would have made the most sense—one would expect the victims to have died from a barrage fired by the enemy who burst in. The corpses don’t tell that story. This was a melee. Chaos. Random people firing one at another. I think it began when someone started shooting from the middle of the group outward.” “So it was one of the attendees who began it,” Aradel said. “Maybe,” Waxillium said. “One can only tell so much from the fall of the bodies, the sprays of blood. But something is odd here, very odd.… Were they all shot?” “No, strangely. A few of the attendees were killed by a knife in the back.” “Have you identified everyone in the room?” Waxillium asked. “Most of them,” Aradel said. “We wanted to avoid moving them too much.” “Let me see Lord Winsting,” Waxillium said, standing, his mistcoat rustling. Aradel nodded to a young constable, and she led them out of the ballroom, through a doorway. Some kind of secret passage? The musty stairwell beyond was narrow enough to force them to walk single file, the constable at the front carrying a lamp. “Miss Colms,” Waxillium said softly, “what do your statistics tell you about this kind of violence?” Oh, so we’re using last names now, are we? “Very little. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times something like this has happened. The first place I’d look is for connections between the people killed. Were they all in smuggling, Captain Aradel?” “No,” he said from behind. “Some smugglers, some extortionists, some gambling tycoons.” “So it’s not a specific attempt to consolidate power in a certain
|
type of criminal activity,” Marasi said, her voice echoing in the damp stone stairwell. “We need to find the connection, what made these specific people targets. The one most likely behind it is dead.” “Lord Winsting,” Waxillium said. “You’re saying he lured them here, planned an execution, and it went wrong?” “It’s one theory.” “He ain’t that kind of slime,” Wayne said from near the end of the line. “You know of Winsting?” Marasi asked, looking over her shoulder. “Not specifically, no,” Wayne said. “But he was a politician. Politician slime is different from regular slime.” “I find myself agreeing,” Captain Aradel said. “Though I wouldn’t put it so colorfully. We knew that Winsting was crooked, but in the past he kept mostly to small-time schemes. Selling cargo space to smugglers when it suited him, some shady real-estate deals here and there. Cash in exchange for political favors, mostly. “Recently, rumors started that he was going to put his Senate vote up for sale. We were investigating, with no evidence so far. Either way, killing those willing to pay him would be like blasting your silver mine with dynamite to try finding gold.” They reached the bottom of the stairwell, where they found four more corpses. The guards, apparently, all killed with bullets to the head. Waxillium knelt. “Shot from behind, from the direction of the saferoom,” he whispered. “All four, in rapid succession.” “Executed?” Marasi asked. “How did the killer get them to stand there and take it?” “He didn’t,” Waxillium said. “He moved too quickly for them to respond.” “Feruchemist,” Wayne said softly. “Damn.” They were called Steelrunners, Feruchemists who could store up speed. They’d have to move slowly for a time, then could draw upon that reserve later. Waxillium looked up. Marasi saw something in his eyes, a hunger. He thought his uncle was involved. That was what he thought every time a Metalborn committed crimes. Waxillium saw Suit’s shadow over his shoulder each way he turned, the specter of a man whom Waxillium hadn’t been able to stop. Suit still had Waxillium’s sister, best as they could tell. Marasi didn’t know much of it. Waxillium wouldn’t talk about the details. He stood up, expression grim, and strode to the door behind the fallen men. He threw it open and entered, Marasi and Wayne close behind, to find a single corpse slumped in an easy chair at the center of the room. His throat had been slit; the blood on the front of his clothing was thick, dried like paint. “Killed with some sort of long knife or small sword,” Aradel said. “Even more strange, his tongue was cut out. We’ve sent for a surgeon to try to tell us more of the wound. Don’t know why the killer didn’t use a gun.” “Because the guards were still alive then,” Waxillium said softly. “What?” “They let the killer pass,” Waxillium said, looking at the door. “It was someone they trusted, perhaps one of their number. They let the murderer into the saferoom.” “Maybe he was just moving very quickly
|
to get past them,” Marasi said. “Maybe,” Waxillium agreed. “But that door has to be unlocked from the inside, and it hasn’t been forced. There’s a peephole. Winsting let the murderer in, and he wouldn’t have done that if the guards had been killed. He’s sitting calmly in that chair—no struggle, just a quick slice from behind. Either he didn’t know someone else was in here, or he trusted them. Judging by the way the guards fell outside, they were still focused on the steps, waiting for danger to come. They were still guarding this place. My gut says it was one of their own, someone they let pass, who killed Winsting.” “Rusts,” Aradel said softly. “But … a Feruchemist? Are you sure?” “Yeah,” Wayne said, from the doorway. “This wasn’t a speed bubble. Can’t shoot out of one of those, mate. These fellows were killed before one could turn about. Wax is right. Either this is a Feruchemist, or somebody figured out how to fire out of speed bubbles—which is somethin’ we’d really like to know how to do.” “Someone moving with Feruchemical speed explains the knife deaths up above,” Waxillium said, standing. “A few swift executions in the chaos, while everyone else was shooting. Quick and surgical, but the killer would be safe despite the firefight. Captain Aradel, I suggest you gather the names of Winsting’s companions and staff. See if any corpses that should be here, aren’t. I’ll look into the Metalborn side—Steelrunners aren’t common, even as Feruchemists go.” “And the press?” Marasi asked. Waxillium looked to Aradel, who shrugged. “I can’t keep a lid on this, Lord Ladrian,” Aradel said. “Not with so many people involved. It’s going to get out.” “Let it,” Waxillium said with a sigh. “But I can’t help feeling that’s the point of all this.” “Excuse me?” Wayne said. “I thought the point was killing folks.” “Lots of folks, Wayne,” Waxillium said. “A shift in power in the city. Were those upstairs the main target? Or was this an attack on the governor himself, a sideways strike upon his house, a message of some sort? Sent to tell Governor Innate that even he is not beyond their reach.…” He tipped Winsting’s head back, looking at the gouged-out mouth. Marasi looked away. “They removed the tongue,” Waxillium whispered. “Why? What are you up to, Uncle?” “Excuse me?” Aradel asked. “Nothing,” Waxillium said, dropping the head back to its slumped position. “I have to go sit for a portrait. I assume you’ll be willing to send me a report once you’ve detailed all of this?” “I can do that,” Aradel said. “Good,” Waxillium said, walking toward the door. “Oh, and Captain?” “Yes, Lord Ladrian?” “Prepare for a storm. This wasn’t done quietly; it was done to be noticed. This was a challenge. Whoever did this isn’t likely to stop here.” PART TWO 5 Wayne tugged on his lucky hat. It was a coachman’s hat—something like a wide-brimmed bowler, only one that didn’t have three ounces of fancy shoved up its backside. He nodded to himself in
|
his mirror, then wiped his nose. Sniffles. He’d started storing up health the day before, just after finding all those corpses. He already had a nice cushion of healing he could draw upon, tucked away in his metalmind bracers. He hadn’t needed much lately, and always spent days when he had a hangover as sickly as he could manage, since he was going to have an awful time of it anyway. But the way things smelled, with all those important folk dead, warned him. He’d soon need some healing. Best to expand that cushion as he could. He went light at it today, though. Because it was today, a day when he was going to need some luck. He was tempted to call it the worst day of his life, but that would certainly be an exaggeration. The worst day of his life would be the one when he died. Might die today though, he thought, looping on his belt and slipping his dueling canes into their straps, then wiping his nose again. Can’t be certain yet. Every man had to die. He’d always found it odd that so many died when they were old, as logic said that was the point in their lives when they’d had the most practice not dying. He wandered out of his room in Wax’s mansion, idly noticing the scent of morning bread coming from the kitchens. He appreciated the room, though he really only stayed because of the free food. Well, that and because of Wax. The man needed company to keep him from going more strange. Wayne wandered down a carpeted corridor that smelled of polished wood and servants who had too much time. The mansion was nice, but really, a man shouldn’t live in a place that was so big; it just reminded him how small he was. Give Wayne nice, cramped quarters, and he’d be happier. That way he’d feel like a king, with so much stuff it crowded him. He hesitated outside the door to Wax’s study. What was that sitting on the stand beside the doorway? A new candelabra, pure gold, with a white lace doily underneath. Exactly what Wayne needed. He fished in his pocket. Rich people didn’t make sense at all. That candelabra was probably worth a fortune, and Wax just left it lying around. Wayne fished in his other pocket, looking for something good to trade, and came out with a pocket watch. Ah, that, he thought, shaking it and hearing the pieces rattle inside. How long since this thing actually told time? He picked up the candelabra, pocketed the doily underneath, then put the candelabra back in place with the pocket watch hanging from it. Seemed like a fair trade. Been needing a new handkerchief, he thought, blowing his nose into it, then pushed open the door and wandered in. Wax stood before an easel, looking at the large artist’s sketch pad he had filled with intricate plans. “Up all night, were you?” Wayne asked with a yawn. “Rusts, man, you make it hard to loaf
|
about properly.” “I don’t see what my insomnia has to do with your laziness, Wayne.” “Makes me look bad, ’sall,” Wayne said, looking over Wax’s shoulder. “Proper loafing requires company. One man lying about is being idle; two men lying about is a lunch break.” Wax shook his head, walking over to look at some broadsheets. Wayne leaned in, inspecting Wax’s paper. It held long lists of ideas, some connected by arrows, with a sketch of the way the bodies had fallen in both the ballroom and the saferoom. “What’s all this, then?” Wayne asked, picking up a pencil and drawing a little stick figure with a gun shooting at all the dead bodies. His hand trembled as he drew the stick gun, but otherwise it was a right good stick figure. “Proof to me that a Steelrunner is involved,” Wax said. “Look at the pattern of deaths in the ballroom. Four of the most powerful people in the room were killed with the same gun, and they were the only ones up there killed by that weapon—but it’s the same one that killed the guards outside the saferoom. I’d bet those four above were shot first, dead in an eyeblink, so fast that it sounded like a single long shot. Thing is, judging by the wounds, each shot came from a different location.” Wayne didn’t know a lot about guns, seeing as how he couldn’t try to use one without his arm doing an impersonation of a carriage on a bumpy road, but Wax was probably right. Wayne moved down to start sketching some stick figures of topless women in the center of the picture, but Wax stepped over and plucked the pencil from his fingers. “What’s that?” Wayne asked, tapping the center of the sketch pad, where Wax had drawn a bunch of straight lines. “The pattern the killer used baffles me,” Wax said. “The four people in the party he shot, they all fell while in random conversations—look how they were lying. Everyone else who died was part of the larger shoot-out, but these four, they died while the party was still going on. But why did he shoot them from different directions? See, best I can guess, he fired first here, killing Lady Lentin. Her dropped drink was stomped on many times over the next few minutes. But then the killer used his speed to move quickly over here and fire in another direction. Then he moved again, and again. Why four shots from different places?” “Who was standing where he shot?” “The people he killed, obviously.” “No, I mean, who was standing near him when he fired his gun. Not who did he shoot, but who was he near when he shot?” “Ahh…” Wax said. “Yep. Looks to me like he was trying to set them all off,” Wayne said, sniffling. “Get everyone in the room shootin’ at each other. See? It’s like how, to start a bar fight, you throw a bottle at some fellow and then turn to the person next to you and cry
|
out, ‘Hey, why’d you throw that bottle at that nice fellow? Rusts, he looks big. And now he’s comin’ for you, and—’” “I understand the concept,” Wax said dryly. He tapped the drawing pad. “You might have something.” “It’s not catching.” Wax smiled, writing some notes on the side of the pad. “So the killer wanted to sow chaos.… He started a firefight by bouncing around the room, making it look like various parties were attacking one another. They would already have been tense, suspicious of one another.…” “Yup. I’m a genius.” “You just recognized this because the killer was making others do his work for him, which is an expertise of yours.” “As I said. Genius. So how are you going to find him?” “Well, I was thinking of sending you to the Village to—” “Not today,” Wayne said. Wax turned to him, raising his eyebrows. “It’s the first of the month,” Wayne said. “Ah. I had forgotten. You don’t need to go every month.” “I do.” Wax studied him, as if waiting for a further comment or wisecrack. Wayne said nothing. This was actually serious. Slowly, Wax nodded. “I see. Then why haven’t you left yet?” “Well, you know,” Wayne said. “It’s like I often say…” “Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won’t know what you’re planning to do to it?” “No, not that one.” “Until you know it ain’t true, treat every woman like she has an older brother what is stronger than you are?” “No, not … Wait, I said that?” “Yes,” Wax said, turning back to his notes. “It was a very chivalrous moment for you.” “Rusts. I should really write these things down.” “I believe that is another thing you often say.” Wax made a notation. “Unfortunately, you’d first have to learn how to write.” “Now, that’s unfair,” Wayne said, walking over to Wax’s desk and poking around in its drawers. “I can write—I know four whole letters, and one’s not even in my name!” Wax smiled. “Are you going to tell me what you always say?” Wayne found a bottle in the bottom drawer and lifted it up, dropping in the lace he’d taken from outside as a replacement. “If you’re going to have to do something awful, stop by Wax’s room and trade for some of his rum first.” “I don’t believe you’ve ever said that.” “I just did.” Wayne took a gulp of the rum. “I…” Wax frowned. “I have no response to that.” He sighed, setting down his pencil. “However, since you’re going to be indisposed, then I suppose I will have to go visit the Village.” “Sorry. I know you hate that place.” “I will survive,” Wax said, grimacing. “Wanna piece of advice?” “From you? Probably not. But please feel free.” “You should stop by Wax’s room before you go,” Wayne said, trailing out toward the door, “and pinch some of his rum.” “The rum you just pocketed?” Wayne hesitated, then took the rum out of his pocket. “Ah, mate. Sorry. Tough for you.” He shook his head.
|
Poor fellow. He pulled the door closed behind him, took a pull on the rum, and continued on his way down the stairs and out of the mansion. * * * Marasi tugged at the collar of her jacket, glad for the seaborne wind that blew across her. It could get warm in her uniform—a proper one today, with a buttoned white blouse and brown skirt to match the brown coat. Next to her, the newsman wasn’t so thankful for the wind. He cursed, throwing a heavy chunk of iron—it looked like a piece of an old axle—onto his stack of broadsheets. On the street, the traffic slowed in a moment of congestion. Motorcar drivers and coachmen yelled at one another. “Ruin break that Tim Vashin,” the newsman grumbled, looking at the traffic. “And his machines.” “It’s hardly his fault,” Marasi said, digging in her pocketbook. “It is,” the newsman said. “Motors were fine, nothing wrong with them for driving in the country or on a summer afternoon. But they’re cheap enough now, everyone has to have one of the rusting things! A man can’t take his horse two blocks without being run down half a dozen times.” Marasi exchanged coins for a broadsheet. The yelling subsided as the traffic clot loosened, horses and machines once again flowing across the cobbles. She raised the broadsheet, scanning above the fold for stories. “Say,” the newsman said. “Weren’t you just here?” “I needed the afternoon edition,” Marasi said absently, walking away. “Cry of Outrage in the Streets!” the headline read. Marasi reached into her handbag and took out the morning edition of the same paper. “Mystery at Lord Winsting’s Mansion!” the headline read. Every other story in the paper was the same in both editions, save for one report on the floods in the east, which had an extra line updating casualty estimates. The Winsting story had nudged two others off the page, in part because of the size of its headline. The Elendel Daily was hardly the most reputable news source in the Basin, but it did know its market. News stories that people agreed with, or were scared by, sold the most copies. Marasi hesitated on the steps of the Fourth Octant Precinct of the Constabulary. People flowed on the sidewalks, bustling, anxious, heads down. Others loitered nearby, men in the dark jackets of teamsters, hands shoved in pockets, eyes shaded by peaked hats. Out of work, Marasi thought. Too many idle men out of work. Motorcars and electric lights were changing life in Elendel so quickly it seemed that the common man had no hope of keeping up. Men whose families had worked for three generations in the same job suddenly found themselves unemployed. And with the labor disputes at the steel mills … The governor had recently given political speeches to these men, making promises. More coach lines to compete with rail lines, going places the railroad could not. Higher tariffs on imports from Bilming. Empty promises, mostly, but men losing hope clung to such promises. Winsting’s death could dash
|
those promises. How would people react if they began to wonder if the governor, Replar Innate, was as corrupt as his brother? A fire is kindling in the city, Marasi thought. She could almost feel the heat coming off the page of the broadsheet in her hands. She turned and entered the constabulary offices, worrying that Lord Winsting might actually do more harm to Elendel dead than he had alive—which was saying something. * * * Wax climbed out of the carriage, nodding to his coachman and indicating that the man should continue on home rather than wait for his master. Wax pulled on his aluminum-lined hat—broad-brimmed, Roughs style, matching his duster, though he wore a fine shirt and cravat underneath. The hat and mistcoat made him stand out like a man who had brought a shotgun to a knife fight. Workers passed in suspenders and caps, bankers in vests and monocles, constables in helms or bowlers and militaristic coats. No Roughs hats. Maybe Wayne was right about that; he never would shut up about the importance of a hat. Wax took a deep breath, then stepped into the Village. It had probably once been just an ordinary city street. A wide one, but still just a street. That was before the trees. They sprouted here, pushing cobblestones aside, creating a dense canopy that ran the length of the thoroughfare. It was a place that felt like it shouldn’t be. No mere park—this was a forest, uncultivated and unmanicured, fresh and primal. You couldn’t bring a carriage or motor into the Village; even without the trees, the ground would be too rough now, rolling and uneven. The buildings along the street had been engulfed and become the property of the Village. He couldn’t help wondering if this was what all of Elendel would be like without the hand of men. Harmony had made the Basin ferociously fecund; men didn’t farm here so much as fight to harvest quickly enough. Wax strode forward, arrayed as if for battle. Vindication and his Sterrion at his hips, short-barreled shotgun in its holster on his thigh, metal burning inside of him. He pulled the brim of his hat low, and entered another world. Children wearing simple white smocks played among the trees. Older youths wore the tinningdar, the Terris robe marked with a V pattern running down the front. These looked up from the steps of buildings to watch him pass. The air smelled soft here. Soft air. A stupid metaphor, and yet there it was. That smell reminded him of his mother. Whispers rose around Wax like spring shoots. He kept his eyes forward, trudging across the too-springy ground. There were no gates into or out of the Village, yet you couldn’t enter or leave without being identified. Indeed, moments after his entry, a young woman with streaming golden hair was sent running ahead of him to bear news of his arrival. They’ve found peace for themselves here, Wax thought. They’ve made peace for themselves. You shouldn’t resent them so. After a short walk, he
|
emerged from a stand of trees to find three Terrismen waiting for him, arms folded, all wearing the robes of Brutes, Feruchemists who could increase their strength. Their features were varied enough that one wouldn’t have pegged them as relatives. Two had the height that was often the Terris heritage, and one had skin that was darker—some of the Originators from ancient Terris had been dark of skin; Wax’s own tan probably came from that lineage. None of the men here had the elongated features seen in the ancient paintings. That was a thing of mythology. “What is it you need, outsider?” one of the men said. “I want to speak with the Synod,” Wax said. “Are you a constable?” the man said, looking Wax up and down. Children peeked out from behind nearby trees, watching him. “Of a sort,” Wax said. “The Terris police themselves,” another of the men said. “We have an arrangement.” “I’m aware of the compact,” Wax said. “I just need to speak to the Synod, or at least Elder Vwafendal.” “You shouldn’t be here, lawman,” the lead Terrisman said. “I—” “It’s all right, Razal,” a tired voice said from the shadows of a nearby tree. The three Terrismen turned, then quickly bowed as an old Terriswoman approached. Stately and white-haired, she had darker skin than Wax, and walked with a cane she didn’t need. The woman, Vwafendal, studied Wax. He found himself sweating. Razal, still bowing, spoke with a stubborn tone. “We tried to send him away, Elder.” “He has a right to be here,” Vwafendal said. “He has as much Terris blood as you do; more than most.” The Terrisman Brute started, then rose from his bow, peering again at Wax. “You don’t mean…” “Yes,” Vwafendal said, looking very tired. “This is he. My grandson.” * * * Wayne tipped the rum bottle up and teased the last few drops out into his mouth. Then he tucked the bottle into his coat pocket. It was a good bottle. He should be able to trade it for something. He hopped off the canal boat, giving a wave to Red, the boatman. Nice chap. He would let Wayne bum rides in exchange for a story. Wayne spat a coin out of his mouth—he’d been keeping it in his cheek—and flipped it to Red. Red caught the coin. “Why is this wet? Were you sucking on it?” “Allomancers can’t Push on my coin if it’s in my mouth!” Wayne called. “You’re drunk, Wayne!” Red said with a laugh, shoving off from the dock with his pole. “Not nearly drunk enough,” Wayne called back. “That cheapskate Wax didn’t even have the decency to stock a full bottle!” Red turned the canal boat, poling it out into the waters, wind rippling his cloak. Wayne walked away from the post marking the canal-side mooring, and was faced with the most intimidating sight a fellow could see. The Elendel University. It was time for Wayne’s three tests. He reached for the rum, then remembered—a little foggily—that he’d finished it all. “Rust and Ruin,”
|
he muttered. Perhaps he shouldn’t have downed the whole thing. Then again, it made his sniffles easy to ignore. When he was properly smashed, he could take a punch or two to the face and not even feel it. There was a kind of invincibility to that. A stupid kind, but Wayne wasn’t a picky man. He made his way up to the university gates, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. The etched letters over the top proclaimed, in High Imperial, WASING THE ALWAYS OF WANTING OF KNOWING. Deep words. He’d heard them interpreted as, “The eternal desire of a hungry soul is knowledge.” When Wayne’s soul was hungry he settled for scones, but this place was full of smart kids, and they were a strange sort. Two men in black coats leaned casually against the gates. Wayne hesitated. So they were watching for him out front this time, were they? The first of his three trials was upon him. Rusting wonderful. Well, after the nature of any great hero from the stories, he was going to do his best to avoid this particular trial. Wayne ducked to the side before the two men could spot him, then followed the wall. The university was surrounded by the thing, like it was some kind of bunker. Were they afraid all their knowledge would leak out, like water from a swimmer’s ears? Wayne craned his neck, looking for a way in. They’d bricked up the broken part he’d used last time. And the tree he’d climbed that other time had been cut down. Drat on them for that. He decided to follow another great tradition of heroes facing trials. He went looking for a way to cheat. He found Dims on a nearby corner. The young man wore a bowler hat and a bow tie, but a shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. He was head of one of the more important street gangs in the area, but never stabbed people too badly when he mugged them and was polite with the people he extorted. He was practically a model citizen. “Hello, Dims,” Wayne said. Dims eyed him. “You a conner today, Wayne?” “Nope.” “Ah, good,” Dims said, settling down on the steps. He took something out of his pocket—a little metal container. “Here now,” Wayne said, wiping his nose. “What’s that?” “Gum.” “Gum?” “Yeah, you chew it.” Dims offered him a piece of the stuff. It was rolled into a ball, soft to the touch and powdered on the outside. Wayne eyed the lad, but decided to try it. He chewed for a moment. “Good flavor,” he said, then swallowed. Dims laughed. “You don’t swallow it, Wayne. You just chew!” “What’s the funna that?” “It just feels good.” He tossed Wayne another ball. Wayne popped it into his mouth. “How are things,” Wayne said, “with you and the Cobblers?” The Cobblers were the rival gang in the area. Dims and his fellows went about with their sleeves torn. The Cobblers wore no shoes. It apparently made perfect sense to youths of the
|
street, many of whom were the children of the houseless. Wayne liked to keep an eye on them. They were good lads. He’d been like them once. Then life had steered him wrong. Boys like this, they could use someone to point them in the right direction. “Oh, you know,” Dims said. “Some back, some forth.” “There won’t be trouble now, will there?” Wayne asked. “I thought you said you wasn’t no conner today!” “I ain’t,” Wayne said, slipping—by instinct—into a dialect more like that of Dims. “I’m askin’ as a friend, Dims.” Dims scowled, looking away, but his muttered response was genuine. “We ain’t stupid, Wayne. We’ll keep our heads. You know we will.” “Good.” Dims glanced back at him as Wayne settled down. “You bring that money you owe me?” “I owe you money?” Wayne asked. “From cards?” Dims said. “Two weeks back? Rusts, Wayne, are you drunk? It ain’t even noon yet!” “I ain’t drunk,” Wayne said, sniffling. “I’m investigatin’ alternative states of sobriety. How much do I owe you?” Dims paused. “Twenty.” “Now see,” Wayne said, digging in his pocket, “I distinctly remember borrowin’ five off you.” He held up a note. It was a fifty. Dims raised an eyebrow. “You want something from me, I’m guessing?” “I need into the university.” “The gates are open,” Dims said. “Can’t go through the front. They know me.” Dims nodded. That sort of thing was a common complaint in his world. “What do you need from me?” A short time later, a man wearing Wayne’s hat, coat, and dueling canes tried to pass through the front of the university. He saw the two men in black, then bolted as they chased after him. Wayne adjusted his spectacles, watching them go. He shook his head. Ruffians, trying to get into the university! Scandalous. He walked in through the gates, wearing a bow tie and carrying a load of books. Another of those men—who stood in a more hidden spot, watching his companions chase Dims—barely gave Wayne a glance. Spectacles. They were kind of like a hat for smart people. Wayne ditched the books inside the square, then walked past a fountain with a statue of a lady who wasn’t properly clothed—he idled only a short time—and made his way toward Pashadon Hall, the girls’ dormitory. The building looked an awful lot like a prison: three stories of small windows, stonework architecture, and iron grates that seemed to say “Stay away, boys, if you value your nether parts.” He pushed his way in the front doors, where he prepared himself for the second of his three tests: the Tyrant of Pashadon. She sat at her desk, a woman built like an ox with a face to match. Her hair even curled like horns. She was a fixture of the university, or so Wayne had been told. Perhaps she had come with the chandeliers and sofas. She looked up from her desk in the entryway, then threw herself to her feet in challenge. “You!” “Hello,” Wayne said. “How did you get past campus
|
security!” “I tossed them a ball,” Wayne said, tucking the spectacles into his pocket. “Most hounds love having somethin’ to chase.” The tyrant rumbled around the side of her desk. It was like watching an ocean liner try to navigate city canals. She wore a tiny hat, in an attempt at fashion. She liked to consider herself a part of Elendel upper society, and she kind of was. In the same way that the blocks of granite that made up the steps to the governor’s mansion were a part of civic government. “You,” she said, spearing Wayne in the chest with a finger. “I thought I told you not to come back.” “I thought I ignored you.” “Are you drunk?” She sniffed at his breath. “No,” Wayne said. “If I were drunk, you wouldn’t look nearly so ugly.” She huffed, turning away. “I can’t believe your audacity.” “Really? Because I’m sure I’ve been this audacious before. Every month, in fact. So this seems a right believable thing for me to do.” “I’m not letting you in. Not this time. You are a scoundrel.” Wayne sighed. Heroes in stories never had to fight the same beast twice. Seemed unfair he had to face this one each month. “Look, I just want to check in on her.” “She is fine.” “I have money,” Wayne said. “To give her.” “You can leave it here. You distress the girl, miscreant.” Wayne stepped forward, taking the tyrant by the shoulder. “I didn’t want to have to do this.” She looked at him. And, to his surprise, she cracked her knuckles. Wow. He reached into his pocket quickly and pulled out a piece of pasteboard. “One ticket,” Wayne said quickly, “admitting two people to the governor’s spring dinner and policy speech, occurring during a party at Lady ZoBell’s penthouse tonight. This here ticket lists no specific names. Anyone who has it can get in.” Her eyes widened. “Who’d you steal that from?” “Please,” Wayne said. “It came delivered to my house.” Which was perfectly true. It was for Wax and Steris. But they were important enough folk that invitations sent to them had no names, so they could send an emissary if they wished. When it came to someone fancy like Wax, even getting their relative or friend to attend your party could be advantageous. The tyrant didn’t count as either. But Wayne figured that Wax would be happy to not have to go to the blasted party anyway. Besides, Wayne had left a real nice-looking leaf he’d found in exchange. Rusting beautiful, that leaf was. The tyrant hesitated, so Wayne waved the ticket in front of her. “I guess…” she said. “I could let you in one last time. I’m not supposed to allow unrelated men into the visiting room, however.” “I’m practically family,” he said. They made a big fuss about keeping the young women and young men separated around here, which Wayne found odd. With all of these smart people around, wouldn’t one of them have realized what boys and girls was supposed to do
|
together? The tyrant let him pass into the visiting room, then sent one of the girls at the desk to run for Allriandre. Wayne sat down, but couldn’t keep his feet from tapping. He’d been stripped of weapons, bribes, and even his own hat. He was practically naked, but he’d made it to the final test. Allriandre entered a few moments later. She’d brought backup with her in the form of two other young ladies about her age—just shy of twenty. Smart girl, Wayne thought, proud. He rose. “Madam Penfor says you’re drunk,” Allriandre said, remaining in the doorway. Wayne tapped his metalmind, drawing forth healing. In a moment, his body burned away its impurities and healed its wounds. It thought alcohol was a poison, which showed that a fellow couldn’t always trust his own body, but today he didn’t complain. It also washed away his sniffles for the moment, though those would return. It was hard to heal from diseases with a metalmind for some reason. Either way, sobriety hit him like a brick to the chin. He inhaled deeply, feeling even more naked than before. “I just like to play with her,” Wayne said, all hint of slur gone from his voice, eyes focused. Allriandre studied him intently, then nodded. She did not enter the room. “I brought this month’s money,” Wayne said, taking an envelope out and setting it on the low, glass-topped table beside him. He stood up straight, then shuffled from one foot to the other. “Is that really him?” one of the girls asked Allriandre. “They say he rides with Dawnshot. Of the Roughs.” “It’s him,” Allriandre said, eyes still on Wayne. “I don’t want your money.” “Your mama told me to bring it to you,” Wayne said. “You don’t need to bring it in person.” “I do,” Wayne said quietly. They stood in silence, neither party moving. Wayne finally cleared his throat. “How’re your studies? Are you treated well here? Is there anythin’ you need?” Allriandre reached into her handbag and took out a large locket. She spread it open, displaying a strikingly distinct evanotype of a man with a wide mustache and a twinkle in his eyes. He had a long, friendly face, and his hair was thinning on top. Her father. She made Wayne look at it every time. “Tell me what you did,” she said. That voice. It could have been the voice of winter itself. “I don’t—” “Tell me.” The third trial. “I killed your daddy,” Wayne said softly, looking at the picture. “I mugged him in an alley for his pocketbook. I shot a better man than me, and because of that, I don’t deserve to be alive.” “You know you aren’t forgiven.” “I know.” “You will never be forgiven.” “I know.” “Then I’ll take your blood money,” Allriandre said. “If you care to know, my studies go well. I am thinking of taking up the law.” Someday, he hoped he might be able to look into the girl’s eyes and see emotion. Hatred, maybe. Something other than that emptiness.
|
“Get out.” Wayne ducked his head and left. * * * There should not have been a thatched log hut in the middle of Elendel, and yet here it was. Wax stooped to enter, seeming to step backward in time hundreds of years. The air inside smelled of old leather and furs. The enormous firepit in the middle would never be needed in Elendel’s mild weather. Today, a smaller fire had been constructed at its very center, and over it simmered a small kettle of hot water for tea. However, charred stones indicated that the entire firepit was sometimes used. It, the furs, the ancient-style paintings on the wall—of winds, and frozen rain, and tiny figures painted with simple strokes on slopes—were all fragments of a myth. Old Terris. A legendary land of snow and ice, with white-furred beasts and spirits that haunted frozen storms. During the early days following the Catacendre, refugees from Terris had written down memories of their homeland, as no Keepers had remained. Wax settled down beside his grandmother’s firepit. Some said that Old Terris waited for this people, hidden somewhere in this new world of Harmony’s design. To the faithful, it might as well have been paradise; a frozen, hostile paradise. Living in a land naturally lush with bounteous fruit, where little cultivation was required, could warp one’s vision. Grandmother V settled down opposite him, but did not start the fire. “Did you remove your guns before entering the Village this time?” “I did not.” She snorted. “So insolent. During your long absence, I often wondered if the Roughs might temper you.” “They made me more stubborn, is all.” “A land of heat and death,” Grandmother V said. She crinkled a handful of herbs, flakes dropping into a tea strainer above her cup. She poured steaming water over them, then placed the lid with a gnarled hand. “Everything about you stinks of death, Asinthew.” “That isn’t what my father named me.” “Your father didn’t have the right. I would demand you remove the weapons, but it would be meaningless. You could kill with a coin, or with a button, or with this pot.” “Allomancy is not so evil as you make it out to be, Grandmother.” “Neither power is evil,” she said. “It is mixing those powers that is dangerous. Your nature is not your fault, but I cannot help but see it as a sign. Another tyrant in our future, too powerful. It leads to death.” Sitting in this hut … the scent of Grandmother’s tea … Memories grabbed Wax by his collar and shoved him face-first up against his past. A young man who had never been able to decide what he was. Allomancer or Feruchemist, city lord or humble Terrisman? His father and uncle pushing him one way, his grandmother another. “A Feruchemist slaughtered people in the Fourth Octant last night, Grandmother,” Wax said. “He was a Steelrunner. I know you track everyone in the city with Feruchemical blood. I need a list of names.” Grandmother V swished around her tea. “You’ve visited the
|
Village on … what, a mere three occasions since your return to the city? Nearly two years, and you’ve made time for your grandmother only twice before today.” “Can you blame me, considering how these meetings usually go? To be blunt, Grandmother, I know how you feel about me. So why torture either of us?” “You cling to your images of me from two decades ago, child. People change. Even one such as I.” She sipped her tea, then added more herbs to the strainer and lowered it back into the water. She would not drink until it was right. “Not one such as you, it appears.” “Trying to bait me, Grandmother?” “No. I am better at insults than that. You haven’t changed. You still don’t know who you are.” An old argument. She’d said it to him both times they’d met during the last two years. “I am not going to start wearing Terris robes, speaking softly, quoting proverbs at people.” “You will shoot them instead.” Wax took a deep breath. A mixture of scents lingered in the air. From the tea? Scents like that of freshly cut grass. His father’s estates, sitting on the lawn, listening to his father and grandmother argue. Wax had lived here in the Village for only a single year. It had been all his father had agreed to give. Even that had been surprising; Uncle Edwarn had wanted Wax and his sister to both stay away from the place. Before his official heir, the late Hinston Ladrian, had been born when Wax was eighteen, Edwarn had basically appropriated his brother’s children and tried to raise them. Even still, it was hard to separate Wax’s parents’ will in his head from that of Edwarn. One year among these trees. Wax had been forbidden Allomancy during his days in the Village, but had learned something far greater. That criminals existed, even among the idyllic Terris. “The only times I’ve truly known who I am,” Wax said, looking up at his grandmother, meeting her eyes, “are when I’ve put on the mistcoat, strapped guns to my waist, and hunted down men gone rabid.” “You should not be defined by what you do, but by what you are.” “A man is what he does.” “You came looking for a Feruchemist killer? You need only look in the mirror, child. If a man is what he does … think of what you’ve done.” “I’ve never killed a man who didn’t deserve it.” “Can you be absolutely certain of that?” “Reasonably. If I’ve made mistakes, I’ll pay for them someday. You won’t distract me, Grandmother. To fight is not against the Terris way. Harmony killed.” “He slew beasts and monsters only. Never our own.” Wax breathed out. This again? Rusts. I should have forced Wayne to come here instead of me. He says she actually likes him. A new scent struck him. Crushed blossoms. In the darkness of that chamber, he imagined himself again, standing among the trees of the Terris Village. Looking up at a broken window, and feeling the
|
bullet in his hand. And he smiled. Once that memory had brought him pain—the pain of isolation. Now he saw only a budding lawman, remembered the sense of purpose he’d felt. Wax stood up, grabbing his hat, mistcoat rustling. He almost wanted to believe that the scents to the room, the memories, were his grandmother’s doing. Who knew what she put into that tea? “I’m going to hunt down a murderer,” Wax said. “If I do it without your help, and he kills again before I can stop him, you will be partially to blame. See how well you sleep at night then, Grandmother.” “Will you kill him?” she asked. “Will you shoot for the chest when you could aim for the leg? People die around you. Do not deny it.” “I don’t,” he said. “A man should never pull a trigger unless he’s willing to kill. And if the other fellow is armed, I’m going to aim for the chest. That way, when people do die around me, it’s the right ones.” Grandmother V stared at her teapot. “The one you’re looking for is named Idashwy. And she is not a man.” “Steelrunner?” “Yes. She is not a killer.” “But—” “She is the only Steelrunner I know of who could possibly be involved in something like this. She vanished about a month ago after acting … very erratically. Claimed that she was being visited by the spirit of her dead brother.” “Idashwy,” he said. It was pronounced in the Terris manner, eye-dash-wee. The syllables felt thick in his mouth, another reminder of his days in the Village. The Terris language had been dead once, but Harmony’s records included it, and many Terris now learned to speak it in their youths. “I swear I know that name.” “You did know her, long ago,” Grandmother V said. “You were with her that night, actually, before…” Ah yes. Slender, golden hair, shy and didn’t speak much. I didn’t know she was a Feruchemist. “You don’t even have the decency to look ashamed,” Grandmother V said. “I’m not,” Wax said. “Hate me if you must, Grandmother, but coming to live with you changed my life, just as you always promised it would. I’m not going to be ashamed that the transformation wasn’t the one you expected.” “Just … try to bring her back, Asinthew. She’s not a killer. She’s confused.” “They all are,” Wax said, stepping out of the hut. The three men from before stood outside, glaring at him with displeasure. Wax tipped his hat to them, dropped a coin, then launched himself into the air between two trees, passing their canopies and seeking the sky. * * * Each time Marasi entered the precinct offices, she got a little thrill. It was the thrill of bucked expectations, of a future denied. Even though this room didn’t look like she’d imagined—as the clerical and organizational center for the octant’s constables, it felt more like a business office than anything else—the mere fact that she was here excited her. This wasn’t supposed to have been
|
her life. She’d grown up reading stories of the Roughs, of lawmen and villains. She’d dreamed of six-guns and stagecoaches. She’d even taken up horseback riding and rifle shooting. And then, real life had intervened. She’d been born into privilege. Yes, she was illegitimate, but the generous stipend from her father had set her and her mother up in a fine home. Money for an education had been guaranteed for her. With that kind of promise—and with her mother’s determination that Marasi should enter society and prove herself to her father—one did not choose a profession so lowly as that of a constable. Yet here she was. It was wonderful. She passed through the room full of people at desks. Though a jail was attached to the building, it had its own entrance, and she rarely visited it. Many of the constables she passed on her way through the main chamber were the type who spent most of their days at a desk. Her own spot was a comfortable nook near Captain Aradel’s office. His room felt like a closet inside, and Aradel rarely spent time there. Instead, he stalked through the main chamber like a prowling lion, always in motion. Marasi set her handbag on her desk next to a stack of last year’s crime reports—in her spare time, she was trying to judge to what extent petty crimes in a region foretold greater ones. Better that than reading the politely angry letters from her mother, which lay underneath. She peeked into the captain’s office and found his waistcoat thrown across his desk, right beside the pile of expense reports he was supposed to be initialing. She smiled and shook her head, dug his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, then went hunting. The offices were busy, but they didn’t have the bustle of the prosecutor’s offices. During her internship there beneath Daius, everyone had always seemed so frantic. People worked all hours, and when a new case was posted, every junior solicitor in the room rushed over in a flurry of papers, coats, and skirts, craning to see who had posted the case and how many assistants they would be taking. The opportunities for prestige, and even wealth, had been bountiful. And yet she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that nobody was actually doing anything. Cases that could make a difference languished because they weren’t high-profile enough, while anything under the patronage of a prominent lord or lady was seen to immediately. The rush had been less about fixing the city’s problems, and more about making certain the senior solicitors saw how much more eager you were than your colleagues. She’d probably still be there, if she hadn’t met Waxillium. She’d have done as her mother wanted, seeking validation through her child. Proof, perhaps, that she could have married Lord Harms, if it had been in the cards, despite her low birth. Marasi shook her head. She loved her mother, but the woman simply had too much time on her hands. The constables’ offices were so different from
|
the solicitors’. Here, there was a true sense of purpose, but it was measured, even thoughtful. Constables leaned back in chairs and described evidence to other officers, looking for help on a case. Junior corporals moved through the room, delivering cups of tea, fetching files, or running some other errand. The competition she’d felt among the solicitors barely existed here. Perhaps that was because there was little prestige, and even less wealth, to go around. She found Aradel with sleeves rolled up, one foot on a chair, bothering Lieutenant Caberel. “No, no,” Aradel said. “I’m telling you, we need more men on the streets. Near the pubs, at nights, where the foundry workers congregate after the strike line breaks up. Don’t bother guarding them during the day.” Caberel nodded placidly, though she gave Marasi a roll of the eyes as she walked up. Aradel did tend to micromanage, but at least he was earnest. In Marasi’s experience, they were almost all fond of him, eyerolls notwithstanding. She plucked a cup of tea off the plate of a passing corporal, who was delivering them to the desks. He quickly moved on, eyes forward, but she could almost feel him glaring at her. Well, it wasn’t her fault she’d landed this position, and the rank of lieutenant, without ever having to deliver tea. All right, she admitted to herself, sipping the tea and stepping up beside Aradel. Maybe there is a bit of competition around here. “You’ll see this done, then?” Aradel asked. “Of course, sir,” Caberel said. She was one of the few in the place who treated Marasi with any measure of respect. Perhaps it was because they were both women. There were fewer women in the constabulary than among the solicitors. One might have guessed that the reason for this was that ladies weren’t interested in the violence—but having done both jobs, Marasi felt she knew which profession was bloodier. And it wasn’t the one where people carried guns. “Good, good,” Aradel said. “I have a debriefing with Captain Reddi in…” He patted at his pocket. Marasi held out his watch, which he grabbed and checked for the time. “… fifteen minutes. Huh. More time than I expected. Where’d you get that tea, Colms?” “Want me to have someone fetch you some?” she asked. “No, no. I can do it.” He bustled off, and Marasi nodded to Caberel, then hurried after him. “Sir,” she said, “have you seen the afternoon broadsheets?” He held out his hand, which she filled with paper. He held up the stack of broadsheets, and almost ran over three different constables on his way to the stove and the tea. “Bad,” he muttered. “I’d hoped they’d spin this against us.” “Us, sir?” Marasi asked, surprised. “Sure,” he said. “Nobleman dead, constables not giving the press details. This reads like they started to pin the death on the constables, but then changed their minds. By the end, the tone is far more outraged against Winsting than us.” “And that’s worse than outrage at us for a cover-up?” “Far
|
worse, Lieutenant,” he said with a grimace, reaching for a cup. “People are used to hating conners. We’re a magnet for it, a lightning rod. Better us than the governor.” “Unless the governor deserves it, sir.” “Dangerous words, Lieutenant,” Aradel said, filling his cup with steaming tea from the large urn kept warm atop the coal stove. “And likely inappropriate.” “You know there are rumors that he’s corrupt,” Marasi said softly. “What I know is that we are civil servants,” Aradel said. “There are enough people out there with the mindset and the moral position to monitor the government. Our job is to keep the peace.” Marasi frowned, but said nothing. Governor Innate was corrupt, she was almost sure of it. There were too many coincidences, too many small oddities in his policy decisions. It wasn’t by any means obvious, but trends were Marasi’s specialty, and her passion. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to discover that the leader of Elendel was trading favors with the city’s elite, but once she’d spotted the signs, she’d felt compelled to dig in. On her desk, carefully hidden under a stack of ordinary reports, was a ledger in which she’d assembled all the information. Nothing concrete, but the picture it drew was clear to her—even though she understood that it would look innocent to anyone else. Aradel studied her. “You disagree with my opinion, Lieutenant?” “One doesn’t change the world by avoiding the hard questions, sir.” “Feel free to ask them, then. In your head, Lieutenant, and not out loud—particularly not to people outside the precinct. We can’t have the men we work for thinking we are trying to undermine them.” “Funny, sir,” Marasi said. “I thought we worked for the people of the city, not their leaders.” Aradel stopped, cup of steaming tea halfway to his lips. “Suppose I deserved that,” he said, then took a gulp, shaking his head. He didn’t flinch at the heat. People in the office figured he’d seared his taste buds off years ago. “Let’s go.” They wove through the room toward Aradel’s office, passing Captain Reddi at his desk. The lanky man rose, but Aradel waved him down, pulling out his watch. “I still have … five minutes until I have to deal with you, Reddi.” Marasi shot the captain an apologetic smile. She got a scowl in return. “Someday,” she noted, “I’m going to figure out why that man hates me.” “Hmmm?” Aradel said. “Oh, you stole his job.” Marasi missed a step, stumbling into Lieutenant Ahlstrom’s desk. “What?” she demanded, hurrying after Aradel. “Sir?” “Reddi was going to be my assistant,” Aradel said as they reached his office. “Had a damn fine bid for the job; I was all but priced into hiring him, until I got your application.” Marasi blushed deeply. “Why would Reddi want to be your assistant, sir? He’s a field constable, a senior detective.” “Everyone has this idea that in order to move up, you need to spend more time in the office and less on the street,” Aradel said. “Stupid tradition,
|
even if the other octants follow it. I don’t want my best men and women turning into desk slugs. I want the assistant position to be for nurturing someone fresh who shows promise, rather than letting some practiced constable gather moss.” The realization made a lot of things lock into place for Marasi. The hostility she felt from many of the others wasn’t just because she’d skipped the lower ranks—many with noble titles did that. It was because they’d solidified behind Reddi, their friend who’d been slighted. “So…” Marasi said, taking a deep breath and grasping for something to keep her from a panic. “You think I show promise then?” “Of course I do. Why would I have hired you otherwise?” Corporal Maindew walked by, saluting, and Aradel threw the wadded broadsheets into his face. “No saluting indoors, Maindew. You’ll knock yourself unconscious slapping your forehead every time I walk past.” He glanced back at Marasi as Maindew mumbled an apology and rushed off. “There’s something in you, Colms,” Aradel told her. “Not the gloss and glint of the application. I don’t care about your grades, or what those zinctongues in the solicitors’ office thought of you. The words you wrote about changing the city, those made sense. They impressed me.” “I … Thank you for the praise, sir.” “I’m not flattering you, Colms. It’s just a fact.” He pointed toward the door. “That broadsheet said the governor was going to address the city later this afternoon. I’ll bet the Second Octant constables ask us for help managing the crowds; they always do. So I’m going to send a street detail. Go with them and listen, then report back to me what Governor Innate says, and pay attention to how the crowd reacts.” “Yes, sir,” Marasi said, stopping herself from saluting as she snatched her handbag and ran to follow the orders. “GENTLEMAN JAK IN THE CITY OF FOUNTAINS” Part Six “The Sinister Soiree!” I need not remind my astute readers of the precarious situation in which I was left at the end of last week’s column, but for those of you whose heightened tastes have just now led them from the gutters of disgraceful journalism to the noble pages of The House Record, let me present a short recapitulation. Through the efforts alone of my silver tongue and tin-quick mind, I gained access to Lady Lavont’s private party in New Seran wherein she planned to auction the only remaining buttons from the Lord Mistborn’s favorite smoking jacket. Handerwym, my faithful Terrisman steward, had prised the information that the leader of the Cobblesguilders planned to steal the buttons by swapping them with impeccable forgeries at some point during the night. As Handerwym watched the tin buttons from the hors d’oeuvres table, I rubbed elbows with Lady Lavont, and her inner circle, who found me completely enchanting. That was when the man in the striped white suit pointed a gun at me. (Continued Below!) ALL Children Love SOONIE PUPS You can move its legs! Real Fur! Your child’s new best friend! Only 75
|
clips, or one-Boxing-fifty for two. ELENDEL FEELS EFFECTS OF CORBEAU FLOODING Higher commodities prices to impact market performance As one of the Basin’s key grain-producing regions struggles to rebuild following the breaking of the dam near Corbeau, unanswered questions still threaten the comfort of those at the heart of the Basin. The Argien-Ohr Financial Circle, Elendel’s largest and most prestigious committee of bankers and other financial leaders, has called an emergency meeting to discuss sending aid to the flood-ravaged area. The biggest question haunting the Circle is if the investment of boxings and resources will be enough to affect the commodities markets, which are just now beginning to founder under the predictions of grain harvests half as large as last year’s. “There are enough supplies in reserve to meet most demands over the next four months,” says Lord Chapmot Heviers, a Circle member with strong ties to Corbeau. “But after that, most grain will start going to the highest bidder. If you own bakeries, you will think twice about selling loaves at five clips each when you could be selling whiskey at forty clips a bottle.” Vif Sparkle Tonic! CURES FATIGUE! Doctors Fronks & Selvest Vif have the remedy for drowsiness and irritability caused by animalcules, ulcers, and poor nutrition. Remeber What the Doctors Say! Drink Vif Sparkle Tonic Every Day! PECTIN-ADE THE BASIN’S FAVORITE SNACK Try all eight flavors! Only 10 clips a box. You’ll be glad you stayed for PECTIN-ADE! 6 Wax soared through the air above Elendel, hat held by its strings to his neck, mistcoat waving behind him like a banner. Below, the city bustled and moved, people swarming through its roadway arteries. Some glanced at him, but most ignored him. Allomancers were not the rarity here they had been in the Roughs. All these people, Wax thought, Pushing off a fountain shaped like mists condensing into Harmony with arms upraised, bracers glittering golden on the otherwise green copper statue. Women sat on its stone edge; children played in its waters. Motorcars and horse carriages broke around it, sweeping to the sides and charging down other roads, going about the ever-important business of city life. So many people—and here, in the Fourth Octant, a frightening percentage of them were his responsibility. To begin with he paid their wages, or oversaw those who did; on the solvency of his house rested the financial stability of thousands upon thousands. But that was only part of it; because through his seat in the Senate, he represented any who worked for him, or who lived on properties he owned. Two divisions within the Senate. One side, the representatives of the professions, was elected and came and went as people’s needs changed. The other side, the seats of the noble houses, was stable and immutable—not subject to the whims of voters. The governor, elected by the seats, presided over them all. A good enough system, except it meant that Wax was supposed to look after tens of thousands of individuals he could never know. His eye twitched, and he turned, Pushing off some
|
rebar sloppily left sticking from a tenement wall. Towns were better in the Roughs, where you could know everyone. That way you could care for them, and really feel you were doing something. Marasi would argue that statistically, leading his house here was more effective in creating general human happiness, but he wasn’t a man of numbers; he was a man who trusted his gut. His gut missed knowing the people he served. Wax landed on a large water tower near a glass dome covering his octant’s largest Church of the Survivor. People were worshipping inside, though a greater number would come at dusk to await the mists. The Church revered the mists, and yet with that glass dome they still separated themselves from it. Wax shook his head, then Pushed off along the nearby canal. He’s probably finished by now, Wax thought. He’ll be on one of the nearby docks, listening to the lapping water.… He continued along the canal, which was cluttered with boats. Tindwyl Promenade, which ran along this canal, was crowded—even more so than usual. Dense with life. It was difficult not to feel subsumed by the great city, engulfed, overwhelmed, insignificant. Out in the Roughs Wax hadn’t just enforced the law; he had interpreted it, revised it when needed. He had been the law. Here he had to dance around egos and secrets. As Wax searched for the right dock, he was surprised to eventually find the reason for the traffic on the promenade. It was all bunched up, trying to get through a large clot of men with signs. Wax passed overhead, and was shocked to see a small cluster of constables from the local octant amid the picketers—they were being pressed on all sides by the shouting men, waving signs in an uncomfortably violent manner. Wax dropped through the air and Pushed lightly on the nails in the promenade boards here, slowing his descent. He landed in a crouch in an opening nearby, mistcoat flaring, guns clinking. The picketers regarded him for a long moment, then broke apart, taking off in different directions. He didn’t even have to say a word. In moments the beleaguered constables emerged, like stones on the plain as the soil washed away in a sudden rain. “Thanks, sir,” said their captain, an older woman whose blonde hair poked down straight about an inch on all sides around her constable’s hat. “They’re getting violent?” Wax asked, watching the last of the picketers vanish. “Didn’t like us trying to move them off the promenade, Dawnshot,” the woman said. She shivered. “Didn’t expect it to go so bad, so fast.…” “Can’t say I blame them much,” one of the other constables said, a fellow with a neck like a long-barreled pistol. His fellows turned to him, and he hunched down. “Look, you can’t say you don’t have mates among them. You can’t say you haven’t heard them grumble. Something needs to change in this city. That’s all I’m saying.” “They don’t have the right to block a main thoroughfare,” Wax said, “no matter
|
their grievances. Report back to your precinct, and make sure you bring more men next time.” They nodded, hiking off. The promenade’s knot of pedestrians slowly unwound itself, and Wax shook his head, worried. The men running the strikes did have a grievance. He’d found some of the same problematic conditions among the few factories he owned—long hours, dangerous environments—and had been forced to fire a few overseers because of it. He’d replaced them with overseers who instead would hire more men, for shorter shifts, as there was no shortage of laborers in the city who were out of work these days. But then he’d needed to up wages, so that the men could live on the shorter-shift income—making his goods more costly. Difficult times. And he didn’t have the answers, not to those problems. He hiked along the promenade a short distance, drawing more than a few stares from people he passed. But he soon found what he’d been looking for. Wayne sat on a narrow dock nearby. He had his shoes and socks off, feet in the water, and was staring off down the canal. “Hello, Wax,” he said without looking as Wax stepped up. “It went poorly?” Wax asked. “Same as always. It’s strange. Most days I don’t mind being me. Today I do.” Wax crouched down, resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Do you ever wonder if you shoulda just shot me?” Wayne asked. “Back when you and Jon first found me?” “I’m not in the habit of shooting people who can’t shoot back,” Wax said. “I coulda been faking.” “No. You couldn’t have been.” Wayne had been a youth of sixteen when Wax and Jon Deadfinger—a lawman who had been mentoring Wax—had found him curled up in the crawl space under a house, hands over his ears, cloaked in dirt and whimpers. Wayne had thrown his guns and ammunition down a well. Even as Deadfinger had dragged him out, Wayne had been complaining of the gunfire. Shots only he could hear, echoing from that well.… “Any number of the boys we run across and take down,” Wayne said. “Any of them could be like me. Why did I get a second chance, but none of them do?” “Luck.” Wayne turned to meet his eyes. “I’d give those lads second chances if I could,” Wax said. “Maybe they’ve had their moments of doubt, regret. But the ones we shoot, we don’t find them unarmed, hiding, willing to be brought in. We find them killing. And if I’d found you in the process of armed robbery all those years ago, I’d have shot you too.” “You’re not lying, are you?” “Of course not. I’d have shot you right in the head, Wayne.” “You’re a good friend,” Wayne said. “Thanks, Wax.” “You’re the only person I know that I can cheer up by promising to kill him.” “You didn’t promise to kill me,” Wayne said, pulling on his socks. “You promised to have killed me. That there be the present perfect tense.” “Your grasp of the language is
|
startling,” Wax said, “considering how you so frequently brutalize it.” “Ain’t nobody what knows the cow better than the butcher, Wax.” “I suppose…” Wax said, standing up. “Have you ever met a woman named Idashwy? A Feruchemist.” “Steelrunner?” Wax nodded. “Never met her,” Wayne said. “They keep kicking me out of the Village when I visit. Right unneighborly.” So far as Wax knew, that wasn’t true. Wayne would occasionally toss on some Terris robes, mimic their accents, then sneak in to live among them for a few days. He’d eventually get into trouble for saying something crude to one of the young women, but he wouldn’t get thrown out. He’d baffle them, as he did most people, until he got bored and wandered away. “Let’s see what we can find,” Wax said, waving down a canal gondola. * * * “Five notes, for one basket of apples! That’s robbery!” Marasi hesitated on the street. She’d driven the motorcar up to the Hub for the governor’s speech, then parked it with the coachmen who took pay to watch and refuel motors, intending to walk the rest of the way on foot. The Hub could be a busy place. That led her here, near this small street market with people selling fruit. With disbelief, she saw that one vendor was—indeed—selling apples at five notes a basket. Those shouldn’t cost more than half a boxing per basket, at most. She’d seen them for a handful of clips. “I could get these at Elend’s stand for a fraction of the price!” the customer said. “Well, why don’t you go see if he has any left?” the cart owner said, nonplussed. The customer stormed off, leaving the cart owner with her sign proudly proclaiming the ridiculous price. Marasi frowned, then glanced down the row of stands, barrels, and carts. Suspiciously low quantities, all ’round. She walked up to the cart owner with the high prices; the woman stood up stiffly, braids shaking, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her apron. “Officer,” she said. “Five is on the high side, wouldn’t you say?” Marasi asked, picking up an apple. “Unless these are infused with atium.” “Am I doing anything wrong?” the woman asked. “You have the right to set your prices,” Marasi said. “One simply wonders what you seem to know that nobody else does.” The woman didn’t respond. “Shipment coming late?” Marasi asked. “Apple harvest gone bad?” The woman sighed. “Not apples, officer. Grain shipments out of the east. Simply not coming. Floods did them in.” “A little early to be speculating on food prices, don’t you think?” “Pardon, officer, but do you know how much food this city eats? We’re one shipment away from starvation, we are.” Marasi glanced down the row again. Food was moving quickly, most of it—from what she could see—being sold to the same group of people. Speculators grabbing up the fruits and sacks of grain. The city wasn’t as close to starvation as the cart owner claimed—there were storages that could be released—but bad news moved faster than calm
|
winds. And there was a good chance this woman was right, that she’d be able to sell her apples at a premium until things calmed down in a few days. Marasi shook her head, setting down the apple and continuing toward the Hub. There was always a press here, people on the promenade, vehicles on the streets trying to force their way into the ring around the Hub. More people today, crowds drawn by the speech causing traffic clots in the regular bustle. Marasi could barely make out the giant statues of the Ascendant Warrior and her husband in the Field of Rebirth peeking out over the throng. Marasi walked up to join another group of constables who had just arrived, on Aradel’s orders, their carriages lagging behind her motorcar. Together they wended their way through the streets on foot toward the executive mansion. The governor preferred to address people from its steps, a few streets up into the Second Octant from the Hub. They soon reached the large square before the mansion. Moving here was more difficult, but fortunately the constables from this octant were already in attendance—and they had roped off various areas near the front and sides of the square. In one, dignitaries and noblemen sat on bleachers to hear the address. In another, the Second Octant constables clustered and watched the crowd for pickpockets from the steps up into the National Archives. Other constables moved through the crowd, officers readily identifiable by the blue plumes on their hats. Marasi and Lieutenant Javies, who had command of the field team, made their way toward the National Archives, where their colleagues from the Second Octant let them pass. A mustachioed older constable was directing things here, his helm—under his arm—bearing the double plume of a captain. When he saw Marasi, Javies, and the team, the man lit up. “Ah, so Aradel sent me reinforcements after all,” he exclaimed. “Rusting wonderful. You chaps go watch the east side of the square, down Longard Street. Foundry workers are gathering there, and they don’t look too pleasant. This isn’t the place for their picket lines, I dare say. Maybe an eyeful of constable uniforms will keep them in check.” “Sir,” Javies said, saluting. “Those masses are pushing up against the steps to the mansion! With respect, sir, don’t you want us up there?” “Governor’s guards have jurisdiction, Lieutenant,” the old captain said. “They brush us back if we try to do anything on the actual mansion grounds. Damn pewternecked bulls. They barely give us warning anytime the governor wants to have a say to the people, then expect us to do the hard work of policing this mess.” Javies saluted, and his team ran off. “Sir,” Marasi said, remaining behind. “Constable-General Aradel wanted me to bring him a direct report on the speech. Do you think I could get a spot on those bleachers to watch?” “No luck there,” the captain said. “Every niece and nanny of a house lord has demanded a spot; they’ll gut me if I send someone else over.”
|
“Thank you anyway, sir. I’ll see if I can work my way to the front of the crowd.” Marasi moved off. “Wait, constable,” the old man said. “Don’t I know you?” She looked back, blushing. “I’m—” “Lord Harms’s girl!” the old captain said. “The bastard. That’s it! Now, don’t get red-faced. That’s not meant as an insult, child. Just what you are, and that’s it, simple as day. I like your father. He was bad enough at cards to be fun to play against, but he was careful not to bet so much that I felt bad winning.” “Sir.” News of her nature, once kept discreet, had moved through all of high society. Hanging around Waxillium, who created such stirs, did have its drawbacks. And her mother did have something of a reason for her angry letters. Marasi was quite accepting of what she was. That didn’t mean she liked having it thrown at her. Old nobleman officers like this, though … well, they came from a time when they felt they could say whatever they wanted, particularly about their subordinates. “There’s space with the reporters, Little Harms,” he said, pointing. “Up near the north side. Not great for watching, as you’ll have steps in your way, but a great place for listening. Tell Constable Wells at the rope I said you could pass, and give my best to your father.” She saluted, still wrestling with a mixture of shame and indignation. He didn’t mean anything by his comments. But Rust and Ruin, she had worked most of her life swept under the rug with a few coins in hand, her father refusing to openly acknowledge her. Among the constables at least, couldn’t she be known for her professional accomplishments, not the nature of her birth? Still, she wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for a better spot, so she began to work her way around the square toward the section he’d specified. * * * What was that? Wax thought. He spun to look away from the group of beggars he’d been questioning. “Wax?” Wayne called, turning away from another group of people. “What—” Wax ignored him, shoving through a crowd on the street toward the thing he’d seen. A face. It can’t be. His frantic actions drew annoyed shouts from some people, but only dark glares from others. The days when a nobleman, even an Allomancer, could quell with a look were passing. Wax eventually stumbled into a pocket of open ground and spun about. Where? Wild, every sense straining, he dropped a bullet casing and Pushed, instantly popping up about ten feet. Scanning, he whirled, the motion flaring his mistcoat tassels. The heavy flow of people on Tindwyl Promenade continued toward the Hub, near which the governor would apparently be making a speech. That’s a dangerous crowd, a piece of him noticed. There were too many men wearing battered coats and bearing battered expressions. The labor issue was becoming a bigger and bigger problem. Half the city was underpaid and overworked. The other half was simply out of work. A
|
strange dichotomy. He kept seeing men loitering on corners. Now they flowed together in streams. That would create dangerous rapids, as when a real river met rocks. Wax landed, heart thrumming like the drum of a march. He’d been sure of it, this time. He had seen Bloody Tan in that crowd of men. A brief glimpse of a familiar face, the mortician killer, the last man Wax had hunted in the Roughs before coming to Elendel. The man who had caused Lessie’s death. “Wax?” Wayne hurried up. “Wax, you all right? You look like you ate an egg you found in the gutter.” “It’s nothing,” Wax said. “Ah,” Wayne said. “Then that look I saw … you were just contemplatin’ your impendin’ marriage to Steris, I guess?” Wax sighed, turning away from the crowds. I imagined it. I must have imagined it. “I wish you’d leave Steris alone. She’s not nearly so bad as you make her sound.” “That’s the same thing you said about that horse you bought—you remember, the one who only bit me?” “Roseweather had good taste. Did you find anything?” Wayne nodded, leading them out of the press of traffic. “Miss Steelrunner settled down nearby, all right,” he said. “She got a job doing bookkeeping for a jeweler down the road. She hasn’t come in to work in over a week though. The jeweler sent someone to her flat, but nobody answered the door.” “You got the address?” Wax asked. “Of course I did.” Wayne looked offended, shoving his hands in the pockets of his duster. “Got me a new pocket watch too.” He held up one made of pure gold, with opaline workings on the face. Wax sighed. After a short trip back to the jeweler to return the watch—Wayne claimed he figured it had been for trade, since it had been sitting out on the counter with naught but a little box of glass around it—they made their way up the road to the Bournton District. This was a high-quality neighborhood, which also meant it had less character. No laundry airing in front of buildings, no people sitting on the steps. Instead the street was lined by white townhouses and rows of apartment buildings with spiky iron decorations around their upper windows. They checked the address with one of the local newsboys, and eventually found themselves in front of the apartment building in question. “Someday I’d like to live in a fancy place like this,” Wayne said wistfully. “Wayne, you live in a mansion.” “It ain’t fancy. It’s opulent. Big difference.” “Which is?” “Mostly it involves which kinds of glasses you drink out of and what kind of art you hang.” Wayne looked offended. “You need to know these things now, Wax, being filthy rich and all.” “Wayne, you’re practically rich yourself, after the reward from the Vanishers case.” Wayne shrugged. He hadn’t touched his share of that, which had been paid out mostly in aluminum recovered from Miles and his gang. Wax led the way up the steps running along the outside of the
|
building. Idashwy’s place was at the top, a small apartment on the rear, with a view only of the back of other buildings. Wax slipped Vindication out of her holster, then knocked, standing to the side of the door in case someone shot through it. No response. “Nice door,” Wayne said softly. “Good wood.” He kicked it open. Wax leveled his gun and Wayne ducked inside, sliding up against the wall to avoid being backlit. He found a switch a moment later, turning on the room’s electric lights. Wax raised the gun beside his head, pointing at the ceiling, and swept in. The apartment wasn’t much to look at. The pile of folded blankets in the corner probably served as a bed. With steelsight, Wax saw no moving bits of metal. Everything was still and calm. Wax peeked into the bathroom while Wayne moved over to the only other room in the apartment, a kitchen. Indoor plumbing for the bathroom, electric lights. This was a fancy place. Most Terris claimed to prefer simple lives. What had led her to pay for something like this? “Aw, hell,” Wayne said from the kitchen. “That ain’t no fun.” Wax moved over, gun out, and glanced around the corner into the kitchen. It was just large enough for one person to lie down in. He knew this because of the bloody corpse stretched out on the floor, her chest bearing a large hole in the center, eyes staring sightlessly into the air. “Looks like we’re going to need a new prime suspect, Wax,” Wayne said. “This one downright refuses to not be dead already.” * * * Marasi’s position at the speech turned out to be exactly as advertised: nestled into a narrow gap in the crowd formed by the side steps of the mansion’s forecourt. Around her, the members of the press clutched pencils and pads, ready to jot down bite-sized quotes from the governor’s speech that might make good headlines. Marasi was the only constable among them, and her lieutenant’s bars didn’t earn her much consideration from the reporters. Their view was obstructed not only by the position of the wide stone steps, but also by the governor’s guard—a row of men and women in dark suits and hats, standing with hands clasped behind their backs along the steps. Only a pair of sketch artists, who stood at one corner of the knot of reporters, had anything resembling a good view of the governor’s platform, which had been erected on the steps. That was fine with Marasi. She didn’t need to see much of Innate to digest and relate his words. Besides, this position gave her an excellent view of the gathering crowd, which she found more interesting. Dirty men stained with soot from work in the factories. Tired women who—because of the advent of electricity—could now be forced to work much longer hours, well into the night, with the threat of dismissal to keep them at the loom. Yet there was hope in those eyes. Hope that the governor would have encouragement to
|
offer, a promised end to the city’s growing strain. Mirabell’s Rules, Marasi thought, nodding to herself. Mirabell had been a statistician and psychologist in the third century who had studied why some people worked harder than others. Turned out a man or woman was much more likely to do good work if they were invested—if they felt ownership of what they did and could see that it mattered. Her personal studies proved that crime went down when people had a sense of identity with and ownership of their community. That was the problem, because modern society was eroding those concepts. Life seemed more transient now, with people commonly relocating and changing jobs during their lifetime—things that had almost never happened a century ago. Progress had forced it upon them. These days, Elendel just didn’t need as many carriage drivers as it did automobile repairmen. You had to adapt. Move. Change. That was good, but it could also threaten identity, connection, and sense of purpose. The governor’s guards studied the crowd with hostility, muttering about miscreants, as if seeing the crowd as barely contained malefactors who were looking for any excuse to riot and loot. To the contrary, these people wanted something stable, something that would let them sustain their communities or forge new ones. Rioting was rarely caused by greed, but frequently by frustration and hopelessness. The governor finally made his appearance, stepping from the mansion. Marasi caught a few fragmentary glimpses of him between the legs of the guards. Innate was a tall, handsome man, unlike his brother, who had always seemed dumpy to Marasi. Clean-shaven, with a wave in his salt-and-pepper hair and a trendy set of spectacles, Innate was the first governor to pose for his official portrait wearing spectacles. Would he know? Would he understand how to calm these people? He was corrupt, but it was a quiet kind of corruption—little favors done to enrich himself or his friends. It was quite possible he did care for the people of his city, even while enriching himself. He stepped up to his platform, where a diminutive woman in a green dress skittered around, adjusting devices that looked like big cones with their wide openings facing the crowd. Marasi felt she should recognize the young woman—who was barely more than a girl, with long blonde hair and a lean face. Where had Marasi seen her before? She thought for a moment, then sidled up to one of the reporters to read over her shoulder. “Breezy day” … blah blah … “air of violent suspense,” whatever that means … There! “Attended by the curious ministrations of Miss Sophi Tarcsel, the inventor’s daughter.” Sophi Tarcsel. She’d been making an uproar, writing opinion pieces in the broadsheets about her father, who had supposedly been a great inventor—though Marasi had never heard or read his name before those articles. “People of Elendel,” Governor Innate said, and Marasi was surprised by how his voice echoed across the square, loud and clear. Something to do with those devices, apparently. “The papers would have you believe that
|
this evening we stand on the brink of a crisis, but I assure you, no such problem exists. My brother was not the criminal they are condemning him to have been.” Oh, Innate, Marasi thought, sighing to herself as she wrote. That’s not why they’re here. Nobody had come to hear more about Winsting. What about the city’s real problems? “I will not suffer this defamation of my dear brother’s character,” Innate continued. “He was a good man, a statesman and philanthropist. You might have forgotten the Hub beautification project that he spearheaded just three years ago, but I have not.…” He continued in that vein. Marasi dutifully took notes for Captain Aradel, but she shook her head. Innate’s goal was understandable. He hoped to preserve his family’s reputation in the eyes of important investors and noblemen, and perhaps deflate some of the public anger. It wouldn’t work. The people didn’t actually care about Winsting. It was the deeper corruption, the feeling of powerlessness, that was destroying this city. As the speech progressed, laboring with explanations of how good a man Winsting had been, Marasi edged to the side in an attempt to get a better view. How was Innate responding to the crowd? He was charismatic; she could hear that even from the way he spoke. Maybe he was doing some good with his oratory alone, even if the speech lacked substance. “A full investigation of the constables will be ordered,” Innate continued. “I am not convinced my brother was killed as they say. My sources posit this might all be the result of a bungled raid, using my brother as willing bait to catch criminals. If that is true, and they put my brother in harm’s way and are now covering it up, the responsible parties will answer for it.” Marasi moved to the side, but her view was obstructed by one of the guards, who stepped in front of her. Annoyed, Marasi moved again, and again the guardsman moved. She’d have considered it deliberate if his back hadn’t been to her. “As for the floods in the east, we are sending relief. Your friends and relatives there shall be succored. We stand with them in the face of this disaster.” Not good, she noted. The people don’t want to hear about aid going outside the city, no matter how necessary, not while things are growing worse and worse here.… Marasi moved again. Aradel wanted her to judge the public’s reaction, but she needed a better view. Her shuffling earned a curse of annoyance from one of the reporters, and she finally got a sight of Innate on his podium. He moved into a longer rant against the press. Perhaps that was why the reporter had been so testy. She certainly would be.… Marasi frowned. That guardsman who had been moving and shuffling and blocking her view had turned, and she could see a very odd expression on his face, like a grimace of pain. And he was whispering—at least his mouth was moving. Nobody else seemed to notice him,
|
as they were focused on the speech. So Marasi was the first one to scream as the guardsman pulled a revolver from underneath his coat and leveled it at the governor. * * * Wayne prowled around the dead woman’s room. It was too clean. A room where people lived should have a healthy amount of clutter. Miss Steelrunner hadn’t spent much time here. In the other room, Wax inspected the body. Wayne left him to that; he had no interest in poking at a corpse’s insides, even if Wax claimed it was important. Wayne, instead, went looking for more interesting bits of life. His first discovery was a small cache of bottles in the cabinet under the bathroom washbasin. Various forms of alcohol, the harder stuff, each a little gone. All save one, which was empty. Wayne gave it a sniff. Port. Not surprising, he thought. He took the whiskey and gave it a good swig. Bleh. Too much bite, and far too warm. He took another swig as he spun about in the main room. These fancy neighborhoods were too quiet. People should be shouting outside. That was right for the city. He checked the trunk beside her sleeping pallet and found it contained three outfits, each clean and carefully folded. The Terris robes were on the bottom. Creases had set; these weren’t worn often. The other two were modern designs, the one on top more daring than the one below. He took another swig of whiskey and wandered back into the room with the corpse. Wax had removed his hat and coat, and knelt beside the body in his vest and slacks. “You found the alcohol, I see,” Wax said. “How uncharacteristic.” Wayne grinned, offering the bottle to Wax, who took a small swig. “Ugh,” he noted, handing it back. “This murder is troubling, Wayne.” “I’m sure she felt so.” “Too many questions. Why did she leave the Village, and why choose to live here? It doesn’t feel very Terris.” “Oh, I can tell you why she was here,” Wayne said. “Well?” “Think of yourself as a sheltered Terriswoman in her forties,” Wayne said. “Old enough to have missed the chance to be a wild youth, and starting to wish you’d done something more daring.” “The Terris don’t long for wildness,” Wax said, taking notes in a little book as he inspected the woman’s wound. “They aren’t daring. They’re a reserved people.” “Ain’t we Terris?” “We’re exceptions.” “Everyone’s an exception to something, Wax. This girl, she left the Village and found a whole world out here. She must have had an adventurous side.” Whiskey. “She did,” Wax admitted. “I didn’t know her well, but she’d sneak out of the Village as a youth. That was long ago.” “And she left again,” Wayne said, “on account of the Village being so dull as to bore the sense out of a scribe. Hell, even Steris would hate that place.” “Wayne…” “Our miss,” Wayne said, waving the bottle toward the dead woman, “she tried to remain conservative at first, so she got
|
a job as a clerk, a good Terris occupation. She convinced herself that a nice apartment—where she was safe from the supposed horrors of lesser neighborhoods—was worth the expense. Simple stuff. “But then some workers at the jeweler took her out, and she let herself drink. She liked that. Awakened memories of sneaked drinks as a youth. She wanted more, so she bought a whole mess of different kinds of spirits to try them all out. She liked port best, by the way.” “Makes sense,” Wax said. “Now we find her with increasingly liberal dresses, showing more skin, spending most evenings out. Give her a few more months, and she’d have turned into a right proper girl to have a good time with.” Whiskey. “She didn’t get a few more months,” Wax said softly. He took something from his own pocket and handed it out to Wayne. A book, bound in leather, pocket-sized. “Have a look through this.” Wayne took it, flipping through some pages. “What is it?” “The book that Death gave me.” * * * Marasi’s shout was lost in the roar as the governor ended his speech. Polite applause from the nobility, shouts and curses from most of the workers. The noise swallowed her shout like a single splash in a breaking tide. She fumbled for her handbag as the guard in the dark coat sighted with his gun at the governor. No. There wasn’t time for her gun. She had to do something else. She jumped for the man and slowed time. She had metal in her this time—she’d made sure, after being embarrassed this morning. Her Allomancy created a bubble of greatly slowed-down time, enveloping herself, the would-be assassin, and a few bystanders. She grabbed the man around the legs, but her speed bubble did the real work, trapping him inside—as everyone outside became a blur. The man squeezed his gun’s trigger, and the crack of a gunshot rang amid the strange warping of sounds that she heard inside a bubble from those outside. One of his fellow guards, also caught in her bubble, shouted in alarm. The fired bullet hit the perimeter of the speed bubble and was deflected. It shot out over the blur of the crowd, the governor’s figure vanishing as—she assumed—he was rushed away. Marasi’s lunge wasn’t enough to topple the would-be assassin, and so she lay there half on the steps, holding on to his legs and feeling foolish, until one of his companions hit him harder, knocking him down. She dropped the speed bubble and jumped back, the sudden roar of the crowd washing over her. The captured man struggled, shouting, as other guards piled onto him. * * * “So basically, with this … Hemalurgy,” Wax said, “you can make someone Metalborn.” Wayne sniffled as he flipped through the book, and his cheeks were breaking out in some kind of rash. Storing health, Wax thought. Wayne often ended up with odd rashes when he did that. They sat in the main room of Idashwy’s apartment, away from the corpse, which
|
they’d draped with a sheet. They’d paused briefly in their inspection to send the newsboy for the local constables. Wax ground his teeth. Idashwy’s wound … it was just like those described in the book. Somebody had killed this woman with a spike through the chest, stealing her Feruchemical talent. The book described the process as “tearing off a chunk of someone’s soul.” Using the spike, one could effectively attach that piece of soul to one’s own, granting the powers of the deceased. In the old days, Inquisitors had driven the spike right through the body of the one to be killed into the body of the person to gain the powers. That prevented any power from being lost. Apparently, coating the newly made spike in blood could achieve a similar effect. He knew, Wax thought. Ironeyes knew something like this was going to come. The book had been written by the Lord Mistborn long ago to leave some record of the art known as Hemalurgy. Lestibournes’s book said he considered it a crime that the Words of Founding—Harmony’s own record—omitted references to the dark art. “So our killer knows this Hemalurgy stuff?” Wayne said. “Yes,” Wax said. “The killer used a spike to steal Idashwy’s Feruchemical talent, then employed that ability to kill Lord Winsting and his guests. We have to assume that our killer could also have numerous other powers at their disposal: any combination of Allomantic or Feruchemical abilities. Or all of them.” Wayne whistled softly. “Did you discover anything else in your search of the room?” Wax asked. “Not much.” “I understand the motive here,” Wax said, glancing back toward the kitchen with the body. “But I don’t yet have one for Winsting’s murder. Or … well, I know of too many possibilities. I don’t have the right motive.” “What did you find in the stiff’s pockets?” Wax hesitated. “You didn’t rifle through the pockets?” Wayne asked, aghast. “Wax, you’re a terrible grave robber!” “I was distracted by the manner of death,” Wax said, rising. “I’d have gotten to it.” The word “distracted” didn’t really do justice to his emotions—to the profound shock, the numbness. For months that book had been only an object of study, but now its contents had abruptly ceased being mere words on a page and had become a motive for murder. We’re out of our depth, Wax thought, returning to the kitchen. We’ve crept into the realm of the gods. Harmony, Ironeyes, the Lord Mistborn … Wayne pulled back the sheet, exposing that gaping hole in the woman’s chest—right at the sternum. Who would know how to do something like this? Who would Harmony let know how to do something like this? “Here,” Wayne said, fishing in the woman’s skirt pockets. He came out with a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it, then grunted. “Huh. It’s for you.” Wax’s stomach plummeted. Wayne slowly turned the paper around. It was a sheet ripped from a ledger, filled with numbers and sums. Scrawled across it in a different hand was a single sentence—a familiar
|
sentence. The very words Bloody Tan had said before jerking Lessie right into the path of Wax’s bullet, making him kill the woman he loved. Someone else moves us, lawman. 7 “Look, Wax,” Wayne said as the two of them entered Ladrian Mansion, “I saw Tan’s body. You shot him square in the head. That bloke was deader than a stuffed lion in a hunting lodge. It ain’t him.” “What if he was secretly Metalborn?” Wax asked. “Miles could have survived a shot to the head.” “Doesn’t work that way, mate,” Wayne said, shutting the door and tossing his coat at Darriance. It hit the butler in the face. “If you’re a Bloodmaker, you’ve got to heal a head wound right as it’s happening. Once a bloke is actually dead, no power—Allomantic or Feruchemical—is bringin’ ’im back.” “I saw him, Wayne. Twice.” Once while chasing the Marksman, and then just earlier today. “Master,” Darriance said, folding Wayne’s coat. “New equipment has arrived for you from Miss Ranette. She asked if you’d be willing to test it.” “Aw, Ruin!” Wayne said. “I missed her? What did she leave for me?” “She … said I was to slap you,” Darriance admitted. “Aw. She does care. See that, Wax, she cares!” Wax nodded absently as Wayne tried to force Darriance to slap him across the rear—which he doubted was what Ranette had intended. “Sir,” Darriance said, turning away from Wayne’s proffered posterior. “In addition to the package, Lady Harms awaits you in the sitting room.” Wax hesitated, impatient to go upstairs. He needed time to think—preferably with his earring in—and to go through Ranette’s package. They were always very interesting. But he couldn’t simply ignore Steris. “Thank you, Darriance,” Wax said. “Send a note to my grandmother at the Village that says we found the missing Terriswoman, but someone had gotten to her—and regretfully killed her—before we arrived. Say the constables will explain the rest, and may have questions for her.” “Very well, my lord.” Wax pushed his way into the sitting room. Steris rose to greet him, and Wax kissed her hand. “I don’t have a lot of time, Steris.” “You’ve sunk your teeth in, then,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “I suppose this could be useful. If you catch the murderer of the governor’s brother, it will be politically favorable.” “Unless I drag some corpses out into the light.” “Well, perhaps we can prepare for that,” she said. “Lady ZoBell’s party. You are still planning to attend with me?” Rusts. He’d forgotten all about it. “Our invitation has gone missing—I suspect Wayne is to blame—but it doesn’t matter. You’re lord of a Great House. They won’t turn us away.” “Steris. I don’t know if I have the time…” “The governor is attending,” Steris said. “You could speak with him about his brother.” More meaningless conversation, Wax thought. More dances and political games. He needed to be working, hunting. Bloody Tan. His eye twitched. “There was some talk of the governor not attending,” Steris said, “considering what happened today. However, I have
|
it on the best authority that he will come. He doesn’t want to appear to have anything to hide in these parlous times.” Wax frowned. “Wait. What happened today?” “Assassination attempt on the governor,” Steris said. “You really don’t know?” “I’ve been busy. Rusts! Someone tried to kill him? Who?” “Some deranged man,” Steris said. “Not in his right mind. They caught him, I’m told.” “I’ll need to talk to the suspect,” Wax said, walking for the door. “It might be connected.” “He wasn’t a credible threat,” Steris said. “By all reports, the man’s aim was terrible. He didn’t come close to hitting his intended victim. Waxillium?” “Wayne!” Wax said, shoving open the door. “We’ve got—” “On it already,” Wayne said, holding up a broadsheet from the table. Evening edition; Wax had a subscription. The top line read, “Bold Attack on the Governor in Daylight!” Wayne tossed Wax his hat off the rack, then snapped his fingers toward the butler—who was in the process of hanging Wayne’s duster in the coat closet. Darriance sighed, getting it back out and carrying it over. “I’ll try to make the party,” Wax said to Steris, pulling his hat on. “If I’m not back, feel free to go without me.” Steris folded her arms. “Oh? I suppose I should take the butler instead, then?” “If you like.” “Be careful about that, Steris,” Wayne added. “Wax’s butlers have a tendency to explode.” Wax gave him a glare, and the two of them charged out the door toward the coach. “You still need private time for that thinkin’ of yours?” Wayne asked. “Yes.” “Never touch the stuff myself,” Wayne said. “Causes headaches. Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?” The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage. Wayne climbed up, and Wax stepped inside. This wouldn’t be ideal, but it would have to do. He pulled down the window shades, then settled back as the coach began rolling. He took his earring out of his pocket—the earring of the Pathian religion. His was special. He’d been hand-delivered it under mysterious circumstances. Lately, though, he had avoided wearing it, as the book made clear what it must be. Long ago, a small spike of metal like this had allowed people to communicate with Ruin and Preservation, gods of the ancient world. It was Hemalurgy. Had this earring, then, been made by killing someone? Hesitantly, he slipped it in. Unfortunately, a voice said in his mind, your fears about the earring are correct. It is a Hemalurgic spike. Wax jumped, throwing open the carriage door with Allomancy—preparing his escape—while pulling out Vindication. Rusts! He’d heard that voice as if someone were sitting beside him. Firing that gun would not have the effect you want, I think, the voice said. Even if you could see me, shooting at me would merely ruin the furnishings of your coach, costing precisely eighty-four boxings to repair when Miss Grimes takes it to the shop next week. You’d be left with a new wood panel on
|
the coach body just behind me which would never quite match those around it. Wax breathed in and out. “Harmony.” Yes? the voice said. “You’re here, in my coach.” Technically, I am everywhere. Wax trembled, mouth going dry. He forced himself to close the door and sit back down. Tell me, the voice said in his head, what were you expecting to happen when you put in the earring, if not this? “I…” Wax slid Vindication back into her holster. “I wasn’t expecting an answer so … promptly. And my reflexes tend to be on the jumpy side lately. Um, Your Deificness.” You may call me Harmony, or “Lord” if you must. The voice sounded amused. Now. About what do you wish to speak? “You know.” Better to hear you say it. “Better for You to hear me say it,” Wax said, “or for me to hear myself say it?” Both. “Am I insane?” Wax asked. If you were, speaking to a figment of your delusion would certainly not diagnose that fact. “You’re not helping much.” Then ask better questions, Waxillium. Wax leaned forward. “I…” He clasped his hands before him. “You’re real.” You’ve heard my voice; you’ve followed my Path. “A few whispered words when I was in a moment of great stress, when I was gravely wounded,” Wax said. “Words I’ve doubted ever since. This is different. This is … more real.” You need to hear it then, do you? the voice said. It sounded as clear and ordinary as if someone normal, someone visible, sat there talking to him. Very well. I am Harmony, the Hero of Ages, once called Sazed. At the end of one world, I took upon myself the powers of protection and destruction, and in so doing became the caretaker of the world to come. I am here, Waxillium, to tell you that you are not insane. “Bloody Tan lives.” Not exactly. Wax frowned. There are … beings in this world who are neither human nor koloss. Something related to both. You call them the Faceless Immortals. “Kandra,” Wax said. “Like TenSoon, the Guardian. Or the person who gave me this earring.” They can take the corpses of the dead and use their bones to mimic a person who has died—they wear bodies like you wear clothing, changing back and forth as they wish. They were created by the Lord Ruler using Hemalurgy. “Your Holy Books give few details about their organization,” Wax said. “But everyone knows that the Faceless Immortals are your servants. Not murderers.” Any being has choice, Harmony said. Even koloss have the power to choose. This one … the being who wears Bloody Tan’s body … has not made very good choices. “Who is he?” She is a member of the Third Generation, and you should know better than to assume everyone dangerous to be a male. Paalm was what we called her, but she has chosen the name Bleeder for herself. Waxillium, Bleeder is ancient, older than the destruction of the world—almost as old as the Final Empire. Indeed, she
|
is even older than I am, though not older than my powers. She is crafty, careful, and brilliant. And I’m afraid that she might have gone mad. The carriage turned a corner. “One of Your ancient servants,” Wax said, “has gone mad and is killing people.” Yes. “So stop her!” It is not so simple. “Free will?” Wax said, annoyed. No, not in this case. I can directly control a being who has pierced herself with too much Hemalurgy. In this case I would act, for Bleeder has disobeyed her Contract with me and opened herself up for my intervention. Something is wrong, unfortunately. “What?” Wax asked. God was silent for a time. I don’t know yet. Wax felt cold. “Is that possible?” It appears so. Somehow, Bleeder has figured out how to hide from me. At times I can spot her, but only when she takes direct and obvious action. Unfortunately, she has removed one of her Blessings—one of the two spikes that kandra must keep inside themselves to retain their cognition. I would forcibly control her if I could, but one spike does not pierce the soul sufficiently for me to get in. “Cognition,” Wax said. “Two spikes are required for the kandra to be able to think. But she is going around with only one. Which means…?” Insanity, Harmony said, His voice softer in Wax’s ear. But something is wrong beyond that. She can hide from me, and while I can speak to her, she doesn’t have to listen—and I can’t keep track of where she is. “Didn’t you say you were everywhere?” My essence is, Harmony said. But this thing that I am … it is more complex than you might expect. “Being God is more complex than a mortal can comprehend?” Wax said. “What a surprise.” Harmony chuckled softly. Wait, Wax thought. Did I just get sarcastic with God Himself? Yes, you did, Harmony said. It is well. Few act that way toward me, even among the kandra. It feels good to me. Like older times. Since Kelsier … well, I haven’t had much of that. “You can hear my thoughts?” Wax asked. When you have the earring in, yes. I gain the ability to hear you from Preservation, and the ability to speak to you from Ruin. Each had only one half. I always found it puzzling. Regardless, I know you have been reading young Lestibournes’s book. I am not pleased that he made it, but I could not forbid him. I will trust that Marsh was wise in giving it to you. Bleeder can use Hemalurgy, but in a way she should not be able to. Kandra do not have Allomantic or Feruchemical powers. She has learned to take these, and to use them to maintain her kandra form. Fortunately, she is limited. She can only use one spike at a time, otherwise she will open herself to my control. If she trades spikes, she must do it by ripping out her single one and then falling onto another, digesting it and returning her to
|
sapience. I do not know her game with this city, but I’m alarmed by it. She has spent centuries studying human behavior. She is planning something. “I’ll have to stop her, then.” I will send you help. “I assume, considering the source, it will be spectacular.” Harmony sighed softly. In Wax’s mind’s eye, he had a sudden image of a being standing with hands clasped behind Him, eternity extending into darkness before Him. Tall, robed, back to Wax, almost visible and distinct yet somehow completely unknowable at the same time. Waxillium, Harmony said, I have tried to explain this to you, but I did not do a good job, I think. My hands are tied, and I am bounded. “Who ties God’s hands?” I tied them myself. Wax frowned. I hold both Ruin and Preservation, Harmony said. The danger in carrying these opposed powers is that I can see both sides—the need for life, the need for death. I am balance. And, to an extent, I am neutrality. “But Bleeder used to be one of Your own, and now she’s acting against You.” She used to be of Preservation. She has moved to being of Ruin. Both are needed. “Murderers are needed,” Wax said flatly. Yes. No. The potential for murderers is needed. Waxillium, I—the personality you speak to—agree with your indignation. But the powers that I am, the essence of my self, cannot allow me to take sides. Already I fear that I have made things too easy for men. This city, the perfect climate, the ground that renews … You were to have had the radio a century ago, but you didn’t need it, so you didn’t strive for it. You ignore aviation, and cannot tame the wilds because you don’t care to study proper irrigation or fertilization. “The … radio? What is that?” You don’t explore, Harmony continued, ignoring Wax’s confusion. Why would you? You have everything you want here. You’ve barely progressed technologically from what I gave you in the books. Yet others, who were nearly destroyed … I made a mistake with you, I now see. I still make many. Does that ruin your faith, Waxillium? Does it worry you that your God is fallible? “You never claimed to be infallible, so far as I remember.” No. I did not. Wax felt a warmth, a fire, as if the inside of the carriage were heating to incredible temperatures. I loathe suffering, Waxillium. I hate that people like Bleeder must be allowed to do what they do. I cannot stop them. You can. I beg you to do so. “I will try.” Good. Oh, and Waxillium? “Yes, Lord?” Do be less harsh with Marasi Colms. You aren’t my only agent in the affairs of men; I worked quite hard to maneuver Marasi into a position where she could do good in this city. It is taxing to have you continue to dismiss her because her admiration makes you uncomfortable. Wax swallowed. “Yes, Lord.” I will send you help. The voice vanished. The temperature returned to normal. Wax leaned
|
back, sweating, feeling drained. A rapping came at his window. Hesitant, Wax pulled aside the shade. Wayne’s face hung there, upside down, his hand holding his hat onto his head. “You done talking to yourself, Wax?” he asked. “I … Yes, I am.” “I heard voices in my head once too, you know.” “You did?” “Sure. Gave me a fright. I banged my head against the wall until I went unconscious. Never heard them again! Ha. Showed ’em good, I did. If rats move in, best thing to do is to burn the nest and send ’em packing.” “And the nest … was your head.” “Yup.” The sad thing was, Wayne probably wasn’t lying. Being unkillable, so long as one had some healing power stored up, could do strange things to a person’s sense of self-preservation. Of course, Wayne had probably been drunk at the time. That also tended to do strange things to a person’s sense of self-preservation. “Well, anyway,” Wayne said. “We’re almost to the precinct headquarters. Time to go back to being dirty conners. At least they’ll probably have scones inside.” * * * Marasi stood in the precinct station with arms folded, partially to hide the fact that her hands were still trembling. That was unfair. She’d been in firefights numerous times now. She should be accustomed to this … but still, after the jolt of it all wore off—the moment of thrill and action—she occasionally found herself feeling drained. Surely she’d get past it eventually. “He was wearing these, sir,” Reddi said, placing a pair of bracers onto the table with a thump. “No other metal on his body save for the gun and a pocketful of rounds. We’ve called in the First Octant precinct’s Leecher to make sure he doesn’t have any metal swallowed, but we can’t be certain until she arrives.” Aradel picked up one of the bracers, turning it over in his hands. The dim room was a kind of balcony, overlooking the interrogation chamber below, where the assassin Marasi had stopped sat slumped in a chair. His name was Rian; no house, though they’d located his family. He was tied with ropes to a large stone behind his chair. No metal in the room, to make it safe to stow Coinshots or Lurchers. Stone floor, walls made of thick wood joined with wooden pegs. Almost primitive in feel. The balcony had glass walls, letting them look down upon him without being heard. “So he’s Metalborn,” said Lieutenant Caberel, the only other person in the room. The stout woman picked up the other bracer. “Why didn’t he use his abilities in the assassination? If he killed Winsting with Feruchemical speed, like old Waxillium Dawnshot says, he should have done the same today.” “Maybe he didn’t kill Winsting,” Aradel said. “The attacks could be unrelated.” “He fits the profile though, sir,” Reddi said. “Winsting’s bodyguards probably would have trusted a member of the governor’s personal guard. He could have talked his way past them and done the deed.” “Hard to imagine Winsting’s guards letting even
|
someone like that in alone with their charge, Captain,” Aradel said. “After a firefight where others were being killed? They’d be tense. Suspicious.” Down below, the suspect began rocking back and forth on his seat. The vents that would allow them to listen in on him were closed, but she had a sense that he was muttering to himself again. “So, we just ask him,” Caberel said. “Again?” Reddi said. “You heard before. All he does is mumble.” “Then encourage him,” Caberel said. “You’re pretty good at that, Reddi.” “I suppose his face could use a few new bruises,” Reddi said. “You know you can’t do that,” Marasi said from beside the window. Reddi looked at her. “Don’t quote statistics at me, Colms. I’ve found I can make a man speak the truth, no matter what you claim.” “It isn’t statistics this time,” Marasi said. “If you actively torture that man, you’ll ruin him for prosecution. His attorneys will get him off for sure.” Reddi gave her a scowl. “So send for his daughter,” Caberel said, glancing over the fact sheet they had on the man. “We threaten her in front of him, but don’t do anything to harm her. He’ll talk.” Marasi rubbed her forehead. “That’s specifically illegal, Caberel. Do you people know nothing about Article Eighty-Nine? He has rights.” “He’s a criminal,” Reddi said. “He’s a suspected criminal.” Marasi sighed. “You can’t continue to act as you have in the past, Reddi. New laws are in place. They’re only going to get stricter, and the defense attorneys are increasingly clever.” “The solicitors have sold out to the other side,” Caberel said with a nod. “She’s right.” Marasi remained silent on that score. Of course it wasn’t really a matter of selling out at all—but she’d settle for the constables learning to follow the rules, regardless of the reasoning. “I think,” Reddi said, “that it’s unfortunate we’ve got someone among us who seems to be more on the solicitors’ side than on the side of justice. She knows more about their ways than ours.” “Perhaps she does,” Aradel said in a soft, stern voice. “And one might consider that to be exactly why I brought her in among us, Captain Reddi. Colms knows contemporary legal codes. If you paid more attention to the very laws you are sworn to uphold, perhaps Daughnin wouldn’t have gotten back on the street last month.” Reddi blushed, bowing his head. Aradel stepped up beside Marasi, looking down at the captive. “How are you at interrogating hostile witnesses, Lieutenant?” “Less practiced than I’d like to be,” she replied with a grimace. “I’m willing to give it a try, but we might as well wait for a few more minutes.” “Why?” Distantly, a door slammed. “That’s why,” Marasi said. A moment later, the door into their observation chamber was flung open, Pushed by Waxillium as he approached. Couldn’t the man be bothered to lift a hand from time to time? He strode in, tailed by Wayne, who was for some reason wearing Constable Terri’s hat. Waxillium looked
|
down at the captive. He narrowed his eyes, then glanced at the bracers on the table nearby. One jumped, then fell off the table, Pushed by his unseen Allomantic ability. He grunted. “Those aren’t metalminds,” he said. “This man is a decoy. You’ve been duped.” He turned as if to leave. Wayne slouched down in one of the chairs and put his feet up beside the bracers, then promptly started snoring. “Wait, that’s it?” Reddi said, glancing at Waxillium. “You aren’t even going to interrogate him?” “I’ll talk to him,” Waxillium said. “He might give us clues that will help find Winsting’s killer. But it wasn’t that man.” “How can you be so sure, Waxillium?” Marasi said. “It takes more effort to Push on real metalminds,” Waxillium said, pointing. “And that man is too obvious. Whoever did this has predicted our conjecture that one of Innate’s guards was behind the murder, and wants us to jump on this man as a suspect. They want us to assume we have the killer in custody. Why, though? Are they planning something tonight…?” Distracted, he walked toward the door. “I’m going to go talk to the prisoner. Marasi, I wouldn’t mind another set of ears.” She started. He was asking her for help? That was a change from making her feel guilty every time she showed up at a crime scene. She glanced at Aradel, who gave her leave, and she hurried after Waxillium. In the stairwell down, Waxillium stopped and turned toward her. He was wearing his Roughs hat. He only did that when he was in full-on “tough lawman” mode. “I hear you brought this guy in.” “I did.” “Nice work.” That should not have given her the thrill that it did. She didn’t need his approval. It was nice nonetheless. He continued to study her, as if on the verge of saying something more. “What?” Marasi asked. “I spoke to God on the way over here.” “All right…” Marasi said. “I’m glad you’re devout enough to say a prayer now and then.” “Yes. Thing is, He spoke back.” She cocked her head, trying to judge the meaning of that. But Waxillium Ladrian was nothing if not earnest. Rusts, often he was too blunt. “All right,” she said. “What did he tell you?” “Our killer is a Faceless Immortal,” Waxillium said, starting down the steps again. “A creature who calls herself Bleeder. She can change shapes by taking the bones of the dead, and she’s been driven mad. Even Harmony doesn’t know her purposes.” Marasi followed him down, trying to swallow that. Mistwraiths and kandra … those were things out of the Historica, not real life. Then again, once she would have said that men like Miles Hundredlives and Waxillium Dawnshot were men out of stories. They’d lived up to the legends to a surprising degree. “So that could be her,” Marasi said, gesturing toward the wall separating them from the prisoner. “She could have any shape, any face! Why are you so sure this isn’t the killer?” “Because the governor is still
|
alive,” Waxillium said softly. “The creature who’s behind this casually murdered Winsting in a saferoom, behind a wall of guards, after intentionally starting a firefight in the room above. She wouldn’t be caught like this. It’s a taunt.” He looked to Marasi. “But I can’t be certain, not a hundred percent. So I need you to know what we’re up against.” She nodded to him and he nodded back, then he led the way out of the stairwell and around the corner toward the interrogation room. Marasi took a bit of satisfaction in the fact that the corporal there looked to her for authorization before opening the door for Waxillium. The poor captive inside sat with his arms tied tight, staring at the table in front of him. He muttered softly. Waxillium walked straight up to the table and took the other seat, settling down and putting his hat on the table. Marasi lingered back, where—in case they were wrong about the prisoner—she’d be out of reach but able to offer aid. Waxillium tapped the table with his index finger, as if trying to decide what to say. The prisoner, Rian, finally looked up. “She said you’d come talk to me,” Rian said softly. “She?” Waxillium said. “God.” “Harmony?” “No. She said I had to kill the governor. Had to attack him. I tried not to listen.…” Waxillium narrowed his eyes. “You met her? What did she look like? What face was she wearing?” “You can’t save him,” Rian whispered. “She’s going to kill him. She promised me freedom, but here I am, bound. Oh, Ruin.” He took a deep breath. “There is something for you. In my arm.” “In your…” Waxillium actually seemed disturbed. Marasi took an unconscious step forward, noticing for the first time a small bulge in the prisoner’s forearm. Before she could quote the legal problems with doing so, Waxillium stood up and took that arm, making a quick slice in the skin. He pulled something out, bloody. A coin? Marasi stepped forward again as the prisoner reached to his head with his bleeding arm and started humming to himself. Waxillium wiped off the coin with his handkerchief. He inspected it, then turned it over. Then he grew very still, paling. He stood up suddenly. “Where did you get this?” he demanded. Rian only continued humming. “Where?” Waxillium demanded, grabbing the man by the front of the shirt. “Waxillium,” Marasi said, running up, hand on his arm. “Stop.” He looked to her, then dropped Rian. “What is that coin?” Marasi asked. “A message,” Waxillium said, shoving the coin in his pocket. “This man won’t know anything of use. Bleeder knew we might capture him. Do you have plans for tonight?” She frowned. “What … why are you asking?” “Governor’s attending a party. Steris says he won’t cancel despite what has happened, and this is the sort of thing she’s always right about. He’ll want to put up a strong front, and won’t want his political enemies to think he has anything to either hide or fear. We need
|
to be at that party. Because I guarantee Bleeder will be.” 8 Young Waxillium, age twelve, looked from one coin to the other. Both bore a picture of the Lord Mistborn on the front, standing with his left arm outspread toward the Elendel Basin. On the back, each displayed a picture of the First Central Bank, in which his family owned a large stake. “Well?” Edwarn asked. He had a stern face and perfect hair. He wore his suit like he’d been born in it—and to him it was a uniform of war. “I…” The youthful Waxillium looked from one to the other. “It is understandable you can’t spot the difference,” Edwarn said. “It takes an expert, which is why so few of these have been discovered. More may actually be in circulation; we can’t know how many. One of those is an ordinary coin; the other has a very special defect.” The carriage continued rattling through the streets as Waxillium studied the coins. Then he unfocused his eyes. It was a trick he’d been taught by a friend at a party recently, used for making two drawings spring to life by overlapping them. Eyes unfocused, coins before him, he crossed his eyes intentionally and let the images of the two coins overlap one another. When they locked into place, the element of the picture that wasn’t the same—one of the pillars on the bank building—fuzzed as his eyes were unable to focus on that point. “The mistake happened,” Uncle Edwarn continued, “because a defective coin striker was used. One worker at the mint brought home a pocketful of these curiosities, which were never supposed to enter circulation. You won’t be able to see it, but the error—” “It’s the pillars,” Waxillium said. “On the right side of the bank picture. They are spaced too closely.” “Yes. How did you know that? Who told you?” “I saw it,” Waxillium said, handing the coins back. “Nonsense,” Uncle Edwarn said. “Your lie is not a believable one, but I can respect your attempt at hiding your source.” He held up one of the coins. “This is the most valuable defective coin in Elendel history. It’s worth as much as a small house. Studying it taught me something important.” “That rich people are foolish? They’ll pay more money for a coin than it’s worth?” “All people are foolish, just in different ways,” Uncle Edwarn said offhandedly. “That lesson I learned elsewhere. No, this coin showed me a harsh but invaluable truth. Money is meaningless.” Waxillium perked up. “What?” “Only expectation has value as currency, Waxillium,” Uncle Edwarn said. “This coin is worth more than the others because people think it is. They expect it to be. The most important things in the world are worth only what people will pay for them. If you can raise someone’s expectation … if you can make them need something … that is the source of wealth. Owning things of value is secondary to creating things of value where none once existed.” The carriage stopped. Outside, an intimidating flight
|
of stone steps led up to the very bank pictured on the coin. Uncle Edwarn waited for the coachman to open his door, but Waxillium hopped down on his own. Uncle Edwarn met him on the steps. “Your father,” Uncle said, “is hopeless with economics. I have worked on him for years, but he cannot—or will not—learn. I have great expectations of you, Waxillium. Banking is not your only option for serving your house. However, after today I suspect you will recognize it as the best one.” “I’m not going to be a banker,” Waxillium said, climbing the steps. “Oh? You have your eye on administering the teamsters after all?” “No,” Waxillium said. “I’m going to be a hero.” His uncle chose not to reply immediately as they approached the top of the steps. Finally, he said softly, “You are twelve years old, and you still speak of this? I expect such foolishness from your sister, but your father should have beaten it out of you by now.” Waxillium turned defiant eyes up at his uncle. “The day of heroes has passed,” Uncle Edwarn said. “The stories of people breaking out of history belong to another world. We have reached an era of modernism, both louder and more silent at the same time. You watch. Where once kings and warriors shaped the world, now quiet men in offices will do the same—and do it far, far more effectively.” They entered the bank lobby, which had a low ceiling and a wall of cagelike bars with hunched-over people inside who received or disbursed cash from or to those who waited in lines. Waxillium’s uncle led him around to the back. The dark wood furnishings and mold-colored rug made it feel like dusk in the room, even with windows open and gas lamps burning. “There are two appointments today I wanted you to observe,” Uncle Edwarn said as they entered a long, unadorned room. The chairs faced the wall; this was a viewing room, a place to spy upon meetings in the bank. His uncle gestured for him to sit, then pulled aside a panel in the wall, revealing a glass slit that let them see the two people in the next room. One was a male banker in a vest and slacks. He sat at an imposing desk, speaking with a middle-aged man in dusty clothing, holding a felt cap in his fingers. “The loan will help us move up,” the dirty man said. “Get a place out of the slums. I have three sons. We’ll work hard, I promise you we will.” The banker looked down his nose at the man, then riffled through papers. Uncle Edwarn closed the slit, surprising Waxillium with the abrupt motion. His uncle rose and Waxillium followed, moving to another set of chairs along the same wall. A second spy slit let them look in on another room similar to the first. A female banker in vest and skirt sat behind a similarly intimidating desk. The patron, however, was tall, clean, and relaxed. “Are you certain you
|
need another boat, Lord Nikolin?” the banker asked. “Of course I’m certain. Would I bother coming here if I weren’t serious? Honestly. You people should allow my steward to make these arrangements. That’s what stewards are for, after all.” Uncle Edwarn closed the slit with a quiet snap, then turned to Waxillium. “You are watching a revolution.” “A revolution?” Waxillium asked. He’d studied banking—well, he’d been forced to study it by his tutors. “This sounds like what happens every day at a bank.” “Ah,” Uncle Edwarn said. “You know all this already. And to which of these men will we give a loan?” “The rich one,” Waxillium said. “Assuming he’s not lying or acting somehow.” “No, Nikolin is legitimately wealthy,” Uncle Edwarn said. “He has banked with us numerous times in the past, and he never misses his payments.” “So you’ll loan money to him and not the other.” “Wrong,” Uncle Edwarn said. “We’ll lend to both.” “You’ll use the good credit of the rich man to underwrite the risk of helping the poor man?” Uncle Edwarn seemed surprised. “Your tutors have been diligent.” Waxillium shrugged, but inwardly he found himself growing interested. Perhaps this was a way to become a hero. Maybe Uncle Edwarn was right and the frontier was shrinking, the need for men of action vanishing. Maybe this new world wasn’t at all like the one that the Ascendant Warrior and the Survivor had lived in. Waxillium could carefully balance risks, and give money to those who needed it. If men in suits would someday run the world, couldn’t they also make it a better place? “Your assessment is correct on one hand,” Uncle Edwarn said, oblivious to the direction Waxillium had been thinking, “but flawed on the other. Yes, we will lend to the poor man—but we will not accept risk to do so.” “But—” “The papers our banker is now presenting will tie the laborer in debt that is impossible to escape. If he fails to meet payments, his signature on that paper will allow us to go directly to his employer and take a percentage of his wages. If that isn’t enough, we can do the same for his sons. The rich man has banked with us many times, and his house negotiated favorable terms. We will earn barely three percent on what we lend him. But the laborer is desperate, and no other bank will consider him. He’ll pay us twelve percent.” Uncle Edwarn leaned in. “The other banks don’t see it yet. They lend safely, and safely only. They have not changed as the world has. Workers earn more now than they ever did, and they’re hungry to pay for things once outside their reach. In the last six months we have pushed aggressively to lend to the common people of the city. They flock to us, and will soon make us very, very wealthy.” “You’ll make slaves of them,” Waxillium said, horrified. His uncle took out the error coin and set it on the counter beside Waxillium. “This coin is a mistake. An
|
embarrassment. Now it is worth more than thousands of its companions combined. Value created where none once existed. I will take the poor of this city and make of them the same thing. As I said, a revolution.” Waxillium felt sick. “The coin is for you,” Uncle Edwarn said, standing. “I wish it to be a reminder. The gift that will—” Waxillium snatched the coin off the counter, then bolted out the door. “Waxillium!” his uncle called. The bank was a labyrinth, but Waxillium found his way. He burst into the small room where the poor man sat in consultation with the loan officer. The laborer looked up from the stack of papers; he’d be barely literate. He wouldn’t even know what he was signing. Waxillium set the coin down on the desk before him. “This is a misprinted coin, something that collectors covet. Take it, sell it at a curiosities shop—don’t take less than two thousand for it—and use the money to move your family out of the slum. Don’t sign those documents. They’ll be like a chain around your neck.” * * * Wax paused in his story. He held the coin in front of him, studying it as he and Steris rode toward the party. “Well?” Steris asked, sitting across from him in the carriage. “What did your uncle do?” “He was livid, of course,” Wax said. “The laborer signed the papers; he couldn’t believe that I’d actually give him something so valuable. My uncle came in, wove lies in the air like pretty puffs of colored smoke, and got his documents.” Wax turned the coin over, looking at the image of the Lord Mistborn pressed into the front. “The laborer—his name was Jendel—killed himself by jumping off a bridge eight years later. His sons are still in debt to the bank, though House Ladrian no longer owns an interest in the First Central Bank; my uncle sold it off for capital before gutting the house and faking his death.” “I’m sorry,” Steris said softly. “It’s part of what drove me away,” Wax said. “Events like that—and what happened in the Village, of course. I told myself I was setting out to find adventure; I never intended to be a lawman. I think I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t change anything in Elendel. It was too big, the men in suits too crafty. Out in the Roughs, one man with a gun meant something. Here, it’s hard to see him as anything other than a relic.” Steris pursed her lips, and obviously didn’t know what to say. Wax didn’t blame her. He’d thought often of the events in that bank, and he still didn’t know what—if anything—he could have done differently. He flipped the coin over in his fingers. Scratched onto the back, in tiny letters, were the words Why did you leave, Wax? “How did Bleeder get the coin?” Steris asked. “I can’t fathom,” Wax said. “I sold it before going to the Roughs. My father had cut me off by then, and I needed money to
|
outfit myself for the trip.” “And those words?” “I don’t know,” Wax said, pocketing the coin. “Thing is, remembering that story bothers me. I told myself at the time that I was trying to help the man, but I don’t think that was true. Looking back, I was just trying to anger my uncle. “I’m still like that, Steris. Why did I leave for the Roughs? I wanted to be a hero—I wanted to be seen and known. I could have done a great deal of good by taking a position in my house here in Elendel, but I’d have had to do it quietly. Leaving, then eventually trying to make a name for myself as a lawman, was ultimately selfish. Even joining the constables here sometimes seems like an act of insufferable hubris to me.” “I doubt that you care,” Steris said, leaning in, “but I consider your motives to be irrelevant. You save lives. You … saved my life. My gratitude is not influenced by what was running through your head as you did so.” Wax met her eyes. Steris was prone to this—startling moments of pure honesty, where she stripped everything away and laid herself bare. The carriage slowed, and Steris’s eyes flicked toward the window. “We have arrived, but it will take us time to get in. There are many carriages in front of us.” Wax frowned, opening his window and leaning his head out. Indeed, a line of carriages and even a few motors clogged the way into the coach portico of ZoBell Tower. The skyscraper towered some twenty stories up into the night sky, its top disappearing in the dark mists. Wax pulled back into the carriage, mist tumbling in through the now-open window beside him. Steris glanced at it, but did not ask him to close the shade. “I guess we’ll be late,” Wax said. Unless, of course, he improvised. “This is the first party in the space atop the tower,” Steris said, taking a small planning notebook out of her handbag, “and the coach attendants aren’t accustomed to this heavy traffic.” Wax smiled. “You accounted for this delay, did you?” Steris stopped on a page in her notebook, then turned it around. There, in her neat handwriting, was a detailed agenda for their evening at the party. The third entry read, 8:17. Way into the building likely blocked by traffic. Lord Waxillium carries us up to the top floor by Allomancy, which is completely inappropriate and at the same time breathtaking. He raised an eyebrow, checking his pocket watch, which he carried in his gunbelt—not his vest—to be easily dropped with his other metals. “It’s 8:13. You’re slipping.” “Traffic on the promenade was lighter than I expected.” “You really want to do this the hard way?” “I believe this will actually be the easy way,” Steris said. “Completely inappropriate though.” “Completely.” “Fortunately, you have a reputation for that sort of thing, and I can’t be expected to keep you reined in. I did wear dark undergarments, though, so they won’t be as visible from
|
below while we are flying.” Wax smiled, then reached under his seat, getting out the package that Ranette had sent him. He tucked that under his arm, then pushed open the door. “People underestimate you, Steris.” “No,” she said, stepping out onto the misty sidewalk. He saw she wore shoes that fastened securely. Good. “They simply presume to know me when they do not. Understanding social conventions is not the same as condoning them. Now, how is it that we are to—Oh!” She said the last part as Wax gathered her to him in a close embrace, then unholstered Vindication and shot a bullet into the ground—between three cobblestones—at their feet. He grinned as heads popped out of carriages all down the line. He’d have to leave Wayne and Marasi to fend for themselves this way, but that was likely better. Might keep eyes off those two. Wax decreased his weight, oriented himself and Steris at the correct angle to the bullet, and Pushed. They shot into the air at a slant, soaring over the coaches in a line. He landed them on one of the skyscraper’s decorative outcroppings a few stories up. Steris clung to him with the grip of a cat hanging above an ocean, her eyes wide. Then, cautiously, she released him and stepped up to the edge of the stonework, leaned out, and peered through the misty depths. Lights bobbed below: coaches, streetlamps, lanterns held high by footmen. In the mist, most were just bubbles and shadows. “I feel like I’m afloat in a sea of smoke and fog,” she said. The mists twisted and churned as if alive. Eddies and swirls seemed to move against the currents of air, always in motion. Wax opened Ranette’s package, getting out the length of tightly twined rope inside. He looked upward. Ranette’s note said she wanted him to experiment with using a tether as he jumped with Allomancy, then provide her with feedback. “You were eager to come tonight,” Steris said. “It’s more than wanting to meet the governor. You’re working. I can see it in you.” Wax hefted the rope—which was weighted at one end with a hooked steel spike—getting a feel for what throwing it would be like. “I can tell, you see,” she said, “because you are fully awake. You are a predator, Waxillium Ladrian.” “I hunt predators.” “You are one too.” She looked at him through the translucent mists dancing between them. Her eyes were alight, reflecting the glow from the sea of fog below. “You are like a lion. Most days you’re only partially present, with me. Lounging, half asleep. You do what you must, you fulfill the needs of the house, but you don’t thrive. Then the prey appears. You wake. The burst of speed, the fury and power; the pounding, pulsing, rush of the hunt. This is the real you, Waxillium Ladrian.” “If what you say is true, then all lawmen are predators.” “True lawmen, perhaps. I don’t know that I’ve met another.” She followed his gaze as he looked upward. “So, my
|
question. What do you hunt tonight?” “Bleeder will be here.” “The murderer? How do you know?” “She is going to try to kill the governor again,” Wax said. “She’ll want to test me, to see if she can get close, judge how I’ll react.” “You act as if it’s personal, between the two of you.” “I wish it were.” Someone else moves us. “I wish I knew Bleeder well enough for it to be personal, as that would give me an edge. But she certainly is interested in me, and that means I can’t skip this party. Otherwise she might take it as a sign that she should strike.” Wax finished coiling the rope in one hand, then held it with the spiked end dangling free. He held out his hand, and Steris readily stepped up to him. He searched out a metal line that pointed toward one of the steel girders in the stone under his feet. With so much rock separating them, it wouldn’t be as strong an anchor as otherwise—but it was large and solid, so it would work for his purposes. Holding Steris, he Pushed off it into the night air. Skyscrapers like this one presented a problem for him, since they tapered as they grew taller. In addition, many of the footholds he used were narrow ledges, which made it hard to get a Push directly upward—those Pushes often sent him slightly outward, away from the building at an angle. Either way, the higher he went, the farther from the wall he got. Usually, he could counter this with his shotgun and his ability to make himself lighter. That wouldn’t work while carrying Steris. Ranette’s rope and spike might. He reached a height where he started to slow, his anchor getting too far to give him further lift. As usual, he’d drifted out some ten feet from the building. So, as he slowed, he flipped the spiked end toward a balcony and Pushed on it, shooting the tether toward the balcony frame. The hooked spike shot between the metal bars of the balcony, but then pulled free. He drifted to a stop, precarious, in danger of falling sideways away from the building. He cursed and tried again, and this time got the hook to lock in place. He pulled them inward, like a fish reeling itself in. That got them to the balcony. He set Steris down and coiled the rope again, looking upward. “That was well performed.” “Too slow,” Wax said absently. “Oh dear.” He smiled, gathered her again, and Pushed them upward off the balcony. This time, as he drew near the halfway point to the party, he launched his hook toward a passing balcony at speed, hooking in place. He continued Pushing himself, moving up past the balcony on his right. Then a sharp pull on the rope made him pivot in the air as he flew, and he swung toward the building. Wax hit the side of the building boots first, rope in one hand, the other arm wrapped around Steris. He then
|
dropped them the few feet to the balcony. Better, better. The great liability of a Coinshot like himself was that he could only Push away from things, never Pull toward them. A tether could be useful indeed. He wiggled the hook free. This was awkward. What if he needed to unhook it while flying, or fighting? Could Ranette make that hook able to unhitch on command somehow? He Pushed on the balcony, sending them upward again. Steris dug her fingers into his shoulders. Mists streamed lazily about them. A Coinshot grew very comfortable with heights—no matter how far he fell, dropping a single piece of metal and Pushing carefully let him land unharmed. “I forget how disorienting this can be,” Wax said, slowing their ascent. “Close your eyes.” “No,” Steris said. She seemed breathless. “This is … this is wonderful.” I don’t think I’m ever going to understand that woman, he thought. He could have sworn she was terrified. The next few leaps went well as he got used to the tether. The rope is way too bulky, he thought. Lugging this around would be a serious pain. And the hook could easily get tangled. If he were using this in a fight, he’d probably have to leave the rope tether behind after the first leap. Tonight it worked well enough though, and a moment later he swung them onto the top-floor balcony in a flurry of skirts and mistcoat tassels. A small group of partygoers stood here, and Wax’s arrival caused surprised exclamations and one dropped glass. Wax straightened, letting Steris down. Despite what she’d been through, she quickly composed herself, settling her skirts and pulling back her hair to smooth straggling locks. “I believe,” she said softly, “that was an entrance befitting your station.” “Alerted the guards, at least,” Wax said, nodding to the men who stood at the sides of the balcony, watching them. The men were doing their job, which was good to see. A Coinshot couldn’t enter this party unnoticed. They didn’t stop him, however. He was too important to bother. Wax wound up the rope and spike, tying it at his waist within his coat, which made Steris roll her eyes. Then she rested her hand on his arm. Before leaving Ladrian Mansion, she’d coached him with precision on how to walk and stand—her sixth such coaching during their time together. Perhaps that was because he never did it as he was supposed to. Indeed, tonight he took her by the arm in a more familiar way than she’d explained. They were betrothed. Rusts, he could hold her by the arm. Steris eyed him, but said nothing as Wax Pushed open the balcony doors with an Allomantic shove and they entered the party. 9 Standing at the foot of ZoBell Tower, Wayne watched Wax and Steris disappear into the mists. He shook his head, then took a ball of gum from the tin in his pocket. He’d gotten himself some of the stuff. It was actually fun to chew. He popped it into his mouth and
|
thought about what a rusted fool his friend was. Obviously, Wax persisted with this whole engagement-to-Steris mess because he missed Lessie so much. So Wax had chosen a marriage that demanded no emotional investment. That was easy to see as the bottom of your own glass at a pub with watered-down ale, that was. Wayne held out his hand to help Marasi down from their coach. “You look nice,” she told him. “I’m surprised you agreed to wear that.” Wayne glanced down at his sharply tailored suit, chewing absently. Marasi acted amazed that he had a suit, matched by a fancy bowler on his head and a dark green cravat. Why wouldn’t he have a costume like this? He had beggar costumes, constable costumes, and old lady costumes. A fellow needed to be able to blend with his surroundings. In the Roughs, that meant having some pale brown cowhand’s costume. In the city, that meant having a fancy twit costume. The stupid line was so long that aluminum could have rusted in the time it took them to reach the halfway point. Rusting Wax and his cheating ways, Wayne thought. The man could have at least taken Wayne instead of Steris. Up ahead, oddly, a couple was turned away, forced to trudge back toward their carriage despite all the waiting. What’s going on up there? Fancy people like this didn’t get turned away from parties, did they? Everyone had an invitation, even if his was forged. It was just like the one he’d given to the old tyrant at the school though. Well, no telling until they arrived. And this line was still moving sloooooooowwwww. “That fellow you caught ever say anything useful?” he asked Marasi. “No,” Marasi said. “He isn’t all there, mentally. We did find what seems to be a Hemalurgic spike in him though.” “Rusts. You know ’bout that too?” “I got to read the book,” Marasi said absently. “Death did give it to me first, and Waxillium let me make a copy. Our captive had a piercing on some skin in his chest. After we removed that, he calmed. But he still won’t talk.” Eventually, after seven crop rotations or so, they reached the front of the line. Marasi presented their invitation. The bouncer here looked it over, his face grim. “I’m afraid that we’ve been ordered to deny any nameless invitations not in the possession of the people they were sent to. With the attempt on the governor’s life, only guests named on our list can be allowed in.” “But—” Marasi said. “Here now,” Wayne cut in. “We’re important people. Don’t you see how fancy my cravat is?” Near the door, men in black coats stepped forward, threatening. Rusting government security. Constables, they were real people—oh, they might bust a man’s neck now and then, but they came from the streets same as anyone. These spooks though … they barely had any soul to them. “I saved the governor’s life today,” Marasi said. “Surely you won’t turn me away.” “There’s nothing I can do, I’m afraid,” the
|
bouncer said, his stern face completely expressionless. Yeah, something was going on here. Wayne grabbed Marasi’s arm, towing her aside. “Let’s go. Rusting fools.” “But—” Wayne glanced over his shoulder and, just at the right moment, tossed up a speed bubble. “Alrighty, then,” he said. “New plan!” “You sound excited,” she said, glancing at the borders of the speed bubble. It was more distinct than usual, as the mist inside the bubble continued to shift and move while that outside hung frozen in the air like gauze. “I’m an excitable type,” Wayne said, hurrying back to the lectern where the bouncer stood. Wayne had managed to catch the lectern in his speed bubble, but not the bouncer. Right fine precision on his part. That little pedestal had a name manifest on it. “I think you gave up too easily on getting in the ordinary way,” Marasi said, folding her arms. “Our names are on here,” Wayne said, careful to keep moving as he read it over. “In a column of people specifically to be kept out. Wouldn’t have mattered how well you argued.” “What?” she demanded, shoving up beside him. “Damn. I saved his life, the bastard.” “Marasi!” Wayne said, grinning. “You’re startin’ to talk normal-like.” “Because of you,” she said, then paused. “Bastard.” He grinned, chewing his gum loudly. “You saved the governor’s life, yeah, but it’s probably his security who want to keep you out, not him. They’ve got mud on their faces because one of their own went rotten, and you embarrassed them by noticing first.” “But that’s petty! They’re playing with the governor’s life!” “Men are petty.” He danced to the side. “Why are you moving like that?” “If I stay too long in one place, they have a chance of seeing me, even with how fast we’re moving inside this bubble. If we keep moving we’ll be a blur, and out in the mists that should be unnoticeable.” She reluctantly started moving. Wayne glanced over the lists again, recognizing a name. “Here now. That one will work.” “Wayne, you’re going to get us into trouble, aren’t you?” “Only if we get caught!” He pointed. “They have two lists—people they’re to turn away no matter what, and people they’re to allow. See the notes? Fourth name down? Says he sent word he might not come, and they’re to make certain nobody else uses his invitation.” “Wayne,” Marasi said, “that’s Professor Hanlanaze. He’s a brilliant mathematician.” “Hm,” Wayne said, rubbing his chin. “From the university.” “No, from New Seran. He’s been behind some of the discoveries in combustion technology.” Wayne perked up. “From outside the city. So people might not know him.” “They will by reputation.” “But personally?” “He’s somewhat reclusive,” Marasi said. “He often gets invited to things like this, but rarely comes. Wayne, I see that look in your eye. You can’t imitate him.” “What’s the worst that could come of it?” “We get caught,” she said, still walking with him around the speed bubble. “We get thrown in prison, prosecuted for conspiracy, embarrass Waxillium.” “Now that,”
|
Wayne said, striding back to where he’d been standing when he’d sped up time, “is the best damn argument for trying this that anyone could make. Come back so I can drop this speed bubble. After that we’re gonna need to find us some weapons.” Marasi paled, joining him. “If you are thinking of sneaking guns in—” “Not guns,” Wayne said with a grin. “A different kind of weapon. Math.” * * * “So that kandra is in here,” Steris said softly from her place on Wax’s arm as she scanned the party room. “Somewhere.” The penthouse of ZoBell Tower encompassed its entire top floor, with windows ringing the outside. Light from a dozen dim chandeliers played off wineglasses, diamond jewelry, sequins on sleek dresses. The dress style was new. Was he so oblivious to fashion that he had missed such a dramatic shift? Steris wore more traditional attire—a kind of gauzy, draping white dress with a very small bustle and a distinct waist. However, it had sequins lining the collar and cuffs, and was more filmy—lighter than what she normally wore, and actually quite pretty on her. With the sequins, it shared something with these modern gowns. The party attendees moved around several bars and numerous small displays set up on the red-carpeted floor. Wax and Steris passed one, a stand with a glass box enclosing a raw copper nugget as big as a man’s head. Light glimmered on its surface. Allomantic metals, Wax thought as they passed another display. Dozens of specimens, with plaques talking about where the nugget or vein had been mined. They provoked conversations around the room, clusters of people chatting as light played off the colorful drinks in their fingers. “You’re drawing attention,” Steris noted. “I’m not certain wearing the coat was a wise move.” “The mistcoat is a symbol,” Wax said. “It is a reminder.” She’d talked him out of the hat, but not this. “It makes you look like a ruffian.” “It’s supposed to. Maybe they’ll think twice about lying to me; I don’t want to be part of their games.” “You are already part of their games, Lord Waxillium.” “Which is why I don’t like coming to the parties.” He held up his hand, cutting her off. “I know. It’s important that we be here. Let’s go chat with the partygoers you’ve planned for us to approach.” She always had a list, carefully prepared. Steris was the only person he’d ever heard of who brought an agenda to a cocktail party. “No,” she said. “No?” “That is what we commonly do,” Steris said, giving a specific smile—she practiced different ones—to Lady Mulgrave as they passed. “Tonight’s purpose is yours. Let us be about it and find that killer.” “Are you certain?” “Yes,” she said, waving to another couple. “It behooves a wife to be interested in, if not involved in, the passions of her spouse.” “You don’t need to do that, Steris. I—” “Please,” she said softly. “I do.” Wax let the argument drop. Truth was, he was pleased. With the possibility that
|
Bleeder was here somewhere, Wax wouldn’t be able to relax anyway. So how to find the creature? More importantly, how would he beat someone who could move in a blur? Unlike Allomancy—which burned at a few standard rates—Feruchemical powers could be used up all at once. Bleeder could drain her metalminds in a single burst of speed—and could probably take down dozens of people in an eyeblink. Maybe even hundreds. And Wax wouldn’t be able to do a thing. But perhaps she wouldn’t have enough left for that. She couldn’t just pop more metal in, like an Allomancer, and refill her reserves. She’d have to rely on what speed she had been able to store up, and she’d only stolen her spike recently. Killing the people at Winsting’s party would have expended a large amount of what she’d theoretically been able to save up over the last few weeks. So he had two options. Kill her before she moved, or somehow get her to waste her Feruchemical reserve without hurting anyone. He stepped up to the bar, ordering drinks, then turned to scan the crowd. It had been two decades since he’d been a part of high society, and his two years back in Elendel hadn’t yet polished off all the rust. Everyone here had the same counterfeit way about them—they chatted with a studied air of merriment while secretly pursuing their own agendas. There was no better place for a murderer to blend in than this. Drinks in hand, Wax stepped down from the bar and turned on his steel bubble. It wasn’t something he’d always been able to do, and he wasn’t entirely certain how he did it. Oh, the basic mechanics were obvious: he burned steel, then Pushed lightly outward from himself in all directions at once. But how had he learned to exempt metal he himself carried? He still didn’t know. It was just something that had happened, over time. With the bubble on, his Allomantic instincts searched out any bits of metal moving quickly toward him, and would Push on those with increasing force as they drew closer. He was getting better and better at that. Standing and letting Darriance shoot at his chest while wearing about twelve inches of padding and armor had helped. He couldn’t dodge bullets, but the bubble helped. “What did you just do?” Steris asked as he reached her. “My bracelet wants to leap off my arm.” “Remove it,” Wax said. “If there’s an Allomantic fight, I don’t want you wearing any metals.” Steris raised an eyebrow, but took off the bracelet and dropped it in her handbag. Wax mentally added an exception for it. “I don’t know that it will matter,” Steris said. “This place is positively teeming with metal. What are you doing with your drink?” Wax looked up. He’d just finished covertly dumping a bit of brown powder into his cup. “I got water,” he said. “The powder will make it look like I’m drinking brandy. If I can feign drunkenness later, it might give me an edge.” “Fascinating,”
|
Steris said. She seemed genuinely impressed. They moved through the room, passing under a chandelier. The separate bits of crystal—which had wires suspending them—moved subtly away from Wax, like the needle of a compass confronted by a magnet’s matching pole. He accidentally knocked a nugget off a pedestal as they passed. Rusts. Against his better judgment, he dampened his steel bubble. “Let’s find the governor,” Steris said. Wax nodded. He couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter which way he turned, someone had a gun pointed at his back. Someone else moves us, lawman. Red on the bricks. Lessie in his arms, already dead. His hands stained with her blood.… No. He’d moved past that. He’d grieved. He wouldn’t be sucked down into that spiral again. As they continued through the party, a pair of lesser nobles wearing dark colors moved to intercept them, but Wax gave them a glare, which was enough to get them to back off. “Lord Waxillium…” Steris said. “What?” Wax asked. “You said we were going to the governor.” “That doesn’t mean you can growl at everyone else.” “I didn’t growl.” Did he? “Let me handle it next time,” Steris said, guiding them around a pedestal displaying—oddly—nothing at all. The plaque read: ATIUM, THE LOST METAL. As they neared the governor—who stood holding court near the windows on the north side—a man in a bright yellow bow tie noticed Wax. Great. Lord Stenet. He would want to talk about textile tariffs again. But of course he wouldn’t say that, not at first. People never said what they meant around here. “Lord Waxillium!” Stenet said. “I was just thinking about you! How are your wedding arrangements proceeding? Should I look forward to an invitation soon?” “Not too soon,” Steris said. “We’ve only just settled on a priest. What of you? Your engagement is the talk of the city!” His face fell. “Oh. Now, about that…” He cleared his throat. Steris prodded, but in a moment Stenet had found an excuse, changed the topic, then politely retreated. “What was that about?” Wax said. “He’s been cheating on her,” Steris said absently. “Naturally, the topic makes him uncomfortable.” “Nice work,” Wax said. “You’re very good at this.” “I’m proficient at it.” “I believe that’s what I said.” “There is a distinction,” Steris said with a shake of her head. “In this room there are true masters of social interaction. I am not one of them. I studied social norms, researched them, and now I execute them. Another woman might have sailed through that conversation and left him happy, but distracted. I had to use blunt force, so to speak.” “You are a bizarre woman, Steris.” “Says the only man in the room with guns on his hips,” she replied, “a man who is unconsciously trying to Push the earrings out of the ears of every woman we pass. You didn’t notice Lady Remin losing her ring into her drink, did you?” “Missed that.” “Pity. It was entertaining. Here, step this way; we don’t want to get into a conversation with
|
Lord Bookers. He is dreadfully boring.” Wax followed her down three steps, passing a display shining with nuggets of tin that rattled at his passing, alongside pictures of famous Tineyes, including several sketches of the Lord Mistborn—who had been a Tineye before the Catacendre. Funny, that Steris would remark on someone being boring.… “You’re thinking,” Steris said, “that it is ironic that I would note that someone is a bore—as I myself have a reputation for the same personality flaw.” “I would not have phrased it like that.” “It’s all right,” Steris said. “As I have said many times before, I am aware of my reputation. I must embrace my nature. I recognize another bore as you might recognize a master Allomancer—as a colleague whose arts I don’t particularly wish to sample.” Wax found himself smiling. “As a side note,” Steris said softly as she steered them toward where the governor was speaking with the lord of House Erikell, “if you do find the murderer, steer me in her direction. I shall endeavor to fascinate her with details of our house finances. With luck, she’ll fall asleep in her drink and drown, and I shall have my first kill.” “Steris! That was actually amusing.” She blushed. Then she got a conspiratorial look on her face. “I cheated, if you must know.” “… Cheated?” “I know you enjoy witty conversation,” she said, “so I prepared earlier, writing myself a list of things I could say that you would find engaging.” Wax laughed. “You have plans for everything, don’t you?” “I like to be thorough,” she said. “Though admittedly, sometimes I can be so thorough that I end up needing to plan how to best make my plans. My life ends up feeling like a beautiful ship in dry dock, built with eighteen rudders pointing in different directions to be extra certain that a steering mechanism is in place.” She hesitated, then blushed again. “Yes. That quip was on my list.” Wax laughed anyway. “Steris, I think this is the most genuine I’ve ever seen you.” “But I’m being fake. I prepared the lines ahead of time. I’m not actually being diverting.” “You’d be surprised at how many people do the same thing,” Wax said. “Besides, this is you. So it’s genuine.” “Then I’m always genuine.” “I guess so. I just didn’t realize it before.” They stepped toward Innate, putting them close enough that the governor would notice them waiting. Nearby, other couples and groups shot them covert looks. As the lord of a major house, Wax outranked almost everyone in the room. Old noble titles were coming to matter less and less, but with Steris’s money backing him, he’d been able to dig himself out of many of his debts. That in turn had allowed him to avoid foreclosures, and he’d been able to hold out until other investments came through. House Ladrian was again one of the wealthiest in the city. Increasingly, that was more important than a noble pedigree. He found it unfortunate, though not surprising, how often noble birth aligned
|
with economic and political power. The Lord Mistborn’s laws, based upon the Last Emperor’s ideal, were supposed to put power into the hands of common men. And yet the same groups just kept on ruling. Wax was one of them. How guilty should he feel? Already I fear that I have made things too easy for men.… Drim, the governor’s chief bodyguard and head of security, stepped up to Wax. “I suppose you’ll be next,” the thick-necked man growled. “My men at the doors let you keep your guns, I hear.” “Let me tell you, Drim,” Wax said, “if the governor is in the slightest bit of danger, you want a gun in my hands.” “I suppose. A gun doesn’t mean much to you anyway, does it? You could kill with the spare change in your pocket.” “Or a pair of cuff links. Or the tacks holding the carpet to the floor.” Drim grunted. “Too bad about your deputy.” Wax snapped his attention on Drim. “Wayne. What about him?” “He’s a security threat,” Drim said. “Had to turn him away down below.” Wax relaxed. “Oh. All right, then.” Drim smiled, obviously feeling he’d won something from the conversation. He backed up to take his place by the wall, watching those who came to speak with the governor. “You’re not concerned about Wayne?” Steris asked softly. “Not anymore. I worried he’d find the party so boring, he would wander off. Instead, the good man there kindly gave Wayne a challenge.” “So … you’re saying he’ll sneak in?” “If Wayne isn’t in here somewhere already,” Wax said, “I’ll eat your handbag and try to burn it for Allomantic power.” They continued to wait. The governor’s current interlocutor, Lady Shayna, was a long-winded blowhard, but after the political and financial support she’d given him, even the governor couldn’t turn her away. Wax looked around, wondering where Wayne would be. “Lord Waxillium Ladrian,” a feminine voice said. “I’ve heard about you. You’re more handsome than the stories say.” He raised his eyebrows toward the speaker, a tall woman waiting to see the governor. Very tall—she had a few inches on him at least. With luscious lips and a large chest, she had creamy skin and hair the color of gunpowder, and she was wearing a red dress missing most of its top half. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Steris said, her voice cool. “I’m called Milan,” the woman said. She didn’t bother to look at Steris, but inspected Wax up and down, then smiled in a mysterious way. “Lord Waxillium, you wear sidearms and a Roughs-style mistcoat to a cocktail party. Bold.” “There is nothing bold about doing what one has always done,” Wax said. Flirting with a man while his fiancée stands beside him, however … “You have an interesting reputation,” Milan continued. “Are the things they say about you true?” “Yes.” She pursed her lips, smiling, expecting more. Instead, he met her eyes and waited. She shuffled, moving her cup from one hand to another, then excused herself, walking off. “Wow,” Steris said. “And
|
they say I can make people uncomfortable.” “You learn the stare early,” Wax said, returning his attention to the governor. In the back of his mind, he assessed the woman Milan and decided to keep an eye on her. Had that been Bleeder in disguise, trying to feel him out? Or had it been just another foolish partygoer with a bit too much wine in her and an inflated opinion of how men would respond to her? Rusts, this is going to be tough. * * * Wayne sauntered about the party, his tiny dining plate stacked with food as high as he could get it. Why did they always use such tiny plates at fancy parties? To keep people from eating too much? Rusts. Rich folk didn’t make sense. They gave away the most expensive booze in the city, then worried about people eating all of the little sausages? Wayne was a rebel. He refused to play by their rules, yes he did. He quickly laid out a battle plan. The ladies with the little sausages came out from behind the east bar, while the west bar was preparing the salmon crackers. Tiny sandwiches to the north, and desserts of various sorts to the south. If he made a round of the penthouse room in exactly thirteen minutes, he could hit each station just as the servants were entering with fresh platters. They were starting to give him glares. A fellow knew he was doing his job right when he got those kinds of glares. Marasi stayed nearby, playing the part of Professor Hanlanaze’s assistant. Wayne scratched at his beard. He didn’t like beards, but Marasi said the few evanotype pictures of Professor Hanlanaze showed him wearing one. Hanlanaze was far thicker at the waist than Wayne was too. That was great. You could hide all kinds of stuff in padding like that. “I still can’t believe you had all of this in the carriage,” Marasi whispered, then she stole one of his sausages. Right off his plate. Outrageous! “My dear woman,” Wayne said, scratching his head, where he wore a colorful Terris cap, a proud emblem of Hanlanaze’s lineage. “Being a qualified academic depends, before anything else, upon suitable preparation. I would no sooner leave my home without appropriate equipment for every eventuality than I would work in my lab without proper safety precautions!” “It’s the voice that truly makes the disguise, you know,” Marasi said. “How do you do it?” “Our accents are clothing for our thoughts, my dear,” Wayne said. “Without them, everything we say would be stripped bare, and we might as well be screaming at one another. Oh look. The dessert lady has chocolate pastries again! I do find those irresistible.” He stepped toward them, but a comment cut him off. “Professor Hanlanaze?” Wayne froze. “Why, it is you!” the voice said. “I didn’t believe you’d actually come.” A tall man approached, wearing so much plaid that you could have strung him up on a pole and made a war banner out of him. On one
|
hand Wayne was pleased. He’d only had Marasi’s description of Hanlanaze to go on in creating his disguise, so the fact that he fooled someone who had obviously seen the professor’s picture was impressive. On the other hand … damn. Wayne handed Marasi his plate, giving her a stern glare that said “Don’t eat these.” Then he took the newcomer’s hand. That suit’s fabric really was something. The mill that made it must have used up an entire year’s quota of stripes. “And you are?” Wayne asked, pinching his voice. He’d found that big men like Professor Hanlanaze often had voices that sounded smaller than the person was. He was glad he’d been studying southern accents. Of course he also injected some of a university accent into it, and set both on a base of Thermolian “v” sounds, from the outer village where the professor had grown up. Getting a good accent was like mixing a paint to match one already on a wall. If you didn’t blend just right, the flaws could look much worse than if you’d chosen a different color entirely. “I’m Rame Maldor,” the man said, shaking Wayne’s hand. “You know … the paper on the Higgens effect?” “Ah yes,” Wayne said, releasing the hand and stepping back. He gave a good impression of being nervous around so many people, and it sold better than two-penny drinks the day after Truefast. Indeed, Maldor was perfectly willing to give the supposed recluse plenty of space. That let Wayne speed up time around him and Marasi only. “What in Harmony’s wrists is he talking about?” Wayne hissed. From her bag, Marasi retrieved the book that she’d purchased at a nearby shop while Wayne was getting into his costume. She soon found the page she wanted. “The Higgens effect. Has to do with the way a spectral field is influenced by magnets.” She flipped a few pages. “Here, try this.…” She rattled off some gibberish to Wayne, who nodded and dropped the speed bubble. “The Higgens effect is old news!” Wayne said. “I’m much more interested in the way that a static electric field produces similar results. Why, you should see the work we are near to completing!” Rame got pale in the face. “But … But … I was going to study that effect myself!” “Then you’re behind by at least three years!” “Why didn’t you mention this in our letters?” “And reveal my next discovery?” Wayne said. Rame stumbled away, then dashed for the lift. Wayne had never seen a scientist move so quickly. You’d have thought someone was handing out free lab coats in the lobby. “Oh dear,” Marasi said. “You realize the chaos this might cause in their field?” “Yup,” Wayne said, taking his plate of food back. “It will be good for them. It’ll stop them from sittin’ around and thinkin’ so much.” “Wayne, they’re scientists. Isn’t that their job?” “Hell if I know,” Wayne said, stuffing a little sausage in his mouth. “But rusts, if it is, that would explain so much.” * * *
|
Governor Innate finished his conversation and turned toward Wax. Drim, the bodyguard, waved them forward. He didn’t like Wax, but from what Wax knew of the man, Drim was solid, loyal and dependable. He understood that Wax wasn’t a threat. Unfortunately, Drim didn’t know the threat they were facing. A kandra … it could be anyone. Wax wouldn’t have been so trusting. Wouldn’t I? he thought, shaking the governor’s hand. What if the kandra is Drim? Have I considered that? That was how Bleeder had gotten in to kill Lord Winsting, after all. She had been wearing the face of someone Winsting’s men trusted. Rusting iron on a hillside, Wax thought. This is going to be very, very hard. “Lord Waxillium?” Innate asked. “Are you well?” “I’m sorry, my lord,” Wax said. “My thoughts were called away for a moment. How is Lady Innate?” “She had a moment of passing nausea,” the governor said, kissing Steris’s hand. “And went home to lie down. I will tell her you asked after her. Lady Harms, you look lovely this evening.” “And you are ever a gentleman,” Steris replied, giving him a genuine smile. Steris liked the governor, though politically they were opposites—Steris calculatedly progressive, as she figured would be expected of new money looking to advance, while Innate was conservative. But that sort of thing didn’t bother Steris. She liked people whose motives made sense, and she felt Innate’s political record was orderly. “I hope Lady Allri will recover soon.” “It is an ailment of nerves more than anything else,” Innate said. “She did not react well to what happened today.” “You seem to be doing remarkably,” Wax said. “All things considered.” “The would-be assassin was one of our newer guards, and was mentally unhinged. He had terrible aim, and likely didn’t even actually intend to kill me.” The governor chuckled. “Would that the Survivor would always send such enemies to me, and often around election season.” Wax cracked a forced smile, then glanced to the side. That woman from before, the pretty one with the large eyes, stood nearby. Who else was suspiciously near? Bleeder won’t be someone I can spot easily, Wax thought. The Faceless Immortals have centuries of practice blending into human society. “What is your take on it, Lord Waxillium?” Innate asked. “What were the man’s motives?” “He was provoked to the attack,” Wax said. “It was a distraction. Someone else killed your brother; they will try again for you.” Nearby, Drim stood up straight, glancing at him. “Curious,” Innate said. “But you’re known for jumping at shadows, are you not?” “Every lawman follows a bum lead on occasion.” “I believe you’ll find Lord Waxillium to be right far more often than he is wrong, my lord,” Steris said. “If he warns of danger, I would listen.” “I will,” Innate said. “I want to meet with you,” Wax said, “so we can discuss important matters. Tomorrow at the latest. You need to hear what we’re dealing with.” “I will schedule it.” From Innate, that was a promise. Wax would have
|
his meeting. “Lady Harms, might I ask after your cousin? I’ve yet to thank her for what she did today, even if the man’s aim was off, and I would have been safe anyway.” “Marasi is well,” Steris said. “She should be coming up here tonight to—” Look at them. The thought forced its way into Wax’s head. Steris and the governor continued to speak, but he froze. They dress in painted sequins. They drink wine. They laugh, and smile, and play, and dance, and eat, and quietly kill. All part of Harmony’s plan. All actors on a stage. That’s what you are too, Waxillium Ladrian. It’s what all men are. A chill moved over Wax, like ants running across his skin. The thoughts in his head were a voice, like Harmony’s, but rasping and crude. Brutal. A terrible whisper. Wax was still wearing his earring. Bleeder had found out how to communicate with someone wearing a Hemalurgic spike. The murderer was in his head. 10 Wayne turned as the sausage lady passed. He intended to reach for another handful. Instead he got slapped. He blinked, at first assuming that the servers had finally gotten tired of him outthinking them. But the slapper hadn’t been one of them. It was a child. He fixed his stare on the young girl as Marasi hurried back to his side. Why, this child couldn’t be more than fifteen. And she’d slapped him! “You,” the girl said, “are a monster.” “I—” “Remmingtel Tarcsel!” the girl said. “Do you think anyone in this party has heard that name before?” “Well—” “No, they haven’t. I’ve asked. They all stand here using my father’s incandescent lights—which he toiled for years to create—and nobody knows his name. Do you know why, Mister Hanlanaze?” “I suspect I don’t—” “Because you stole his designs, and with them his life. My father died clipless, destitute and depressed, because of men like you. You aren’t a scientist, Mister Hanlanaze, whatever you claim. You’re not an inventor. You’re a thief.” “That part’s right. I—” “I’ll have the better of you,” the girl hissed, stepping up to him and poking him right in the gut, almost where he’d hidden his dueling canes. “I have plans. And unlike my father, I know that this world isn’t just about who has the best ideas. It’s about the people who can market those ideas. I’m going to find investors and change this city. And when you’re crying, destitute and discredited, you remember my father’s name and what you did.” She spun on her heel—long, straight blonde hair slapping him in the face—and stalked away. “What the hell was that?” Wayne whispered. “The price of wearing someone else’s likeness, I guess,” Marasi said. Rusting woman sounded amused! “Her daddy,” Wayne said. “She said … I killed her daddy…” “Yeah. Sounds like Hanlanaze has some dirt in his past.” Hanlanaze. Right. Hanlanaze. The professor. “I’ve read broadsheet columns by that girl,” Marasi said. “It’s a real shame, if it’s true those inventions were stolen.” “Yeah,” Wayne said, rubbing his cheek. “Shame.”
|
He eyed the plate of little sausages as it passed, but couldn’t find the will to chase it down. The fun was gone, for some reason. Instead he went looking for Wax. * * * “Excuse me,” Wax said to the governor and Steris. Both turned astonished eyes on him as he walked away. A rude move. He didn’t let himself care. He stepped into the center of the room, instincts screaming at him. Guns out! Firefight coming! Find cover! Run. He did none of those things, but he couldn’t keep his eye from twitching. With his steel burning, a spray of small, translucent blue lines connected him to nearby sources of metal. He was in the habit of ignoring those. Now he watched them. Quivering, shifting, the rhythm and pulse of a hundred people in a room. Trays for food, jewelry, spectacles. Metal parts in the tables and chairs. So much metal that made the framework for the lives of men and women. They were the flesh of civilization, and steel was now its skeleton. So, you realize what I am, the voice said in his mind. Feminine, but rasping. No, what are you? Wax sent back. A test. Harmony spoke to you. I know that he did. You’re a koloss, Wax said, using the wrong word on purpose. You dance for Harmony, the voice replied. You bend and move at his direction. You don’t care how poor an excuse for a god he is. Wax wasn’t certain—there was no way to be certain—but it seemed that Bleeder couldn’t read his mind. The kandra could only send out thoughts. What was it Harmony had said? That hearing thoughts had come from Preservation, but inserting them from Ruin? Wax turned slowly about the room, watching those lines. Bleeder wouldn’t have any metal on her. People who were metallically aware were more careful about things like that. The governor’s guards, for example. Half of them carried guns, but the other half only dueling canes. How do you stand it, Wax? Bleeder asked. Dwelling among them. Like living up to your knees in sewage. “Why did you kill Winsting?” Wax asked out loud. I killed him because he had to die. I killed him because nobody else would. “So you’re a hero,” Wax said, turning about. She’s close by, he thought. Watching me. Who? Which one? And if he thought he’d figured it out … did he dare fire first? The strike of lightning is not a hero, Bleeder said. The earthquake is not a hero. These things simply exist. Wax started walking through the room. Perhaps Bleeder would try to move along with him. He kept his hands to the sides, a coin in each fist. No guns yet. That would provoke a panic. “Why the governor?” Wax asked. “He is a good man.” There are no good men, Bleeder said. Choice is an illusion, lawman. There are those created to be selfish and there are those created to be selfless. This does not make them good or evil, any more than the
|
ravaging lion is evil when compared to the placid rabbit. “You called them sewage.” Sewage is not evil. That does not make it desirable. Bleeder’s voice in his mind seemed to take on more personality as she spoke. Soft, haunting, morose. Like Bloody Tan had been. Someone else moves us.… “And you?” Wax asked. “Which are you? Wolf or rabbit?” I am the surgeon. The woman, the beauty in red, followed him. She tried to be surreptitious about it, walking over to a group to meet them and chat—but she moved parallel to Wax. There was another person following too. A short man in a server’s outfit carrying a tray of food. He made his rounds, but the other servers moved clockwise. Wax was going counterclockwise. Were they close enough to hear him speaking? Not with natural ears. Perhaps Bleeder could burn tin. If that was the power she’d chosen for the evening. You are a surgeon too, Bleeder said. They call you lord, they smile at you, but you aren’t one of them. If only you could be truly free. If only … “I follow the law,” Wax whispered. “What do you follow?” Bleeder gave no reply to that. The whisper, perhaps, had kept her from hearing. The governor is corrupt, Bleeder said. He spent years covering for his brother, but in truth he would have done better covering for himself. Wax looked to the side. He’d circled the room at this point, almost back to where he’d started. That server had followed all the way. I have much work to do, Bleeder said. I need to free everyone in this city. Harmony crushes his palm against society, smothering it. He claims to not interfere, but then moves us like pieces on a board. “So you’ll kill the governor?” Wax said. “That will somehow free the city?” Yes, it will, Bleeder said. But of course I can’t kill him yet, Wax. I haven’t even murdered your father yet. Wax felt suddenly cold. But his father was already dead. He spun, hand on his gun, and met the eyes of the server. The man froze, his eyes wide. Then he ran. Wax cursed, dashing after and flipping a coin out in front of himself. It spun in the air, but the waiter ducked behind a group of people. Wax gritted his teeth and let the coin drop without Pushing on it, instead unslinging Vindication. This prompted cries of worry from those in the party. The waiter ducked behind groups of people, ready to dodge Wax. Fortunately, he—or she, or whatever—wasn’t ready for Wayne, who surged out between two plump women with cups of wine and flung himself at the waiter. Both went down in a heap. Wax slowed, raising his gun, taking aim. He couldn’t give Bleeder a chance to use Allomancy or Feruchemy, particularly if he was wrong about her using tin right now. A shot to the head wouldn’t kill a kandra, he guessed, but it should slow her down. Wax just had to be certain not to hit Wayne
|
in the wrong— The governor’s guards piled on top of Wayne and Bleeder. Wax cursed, dashing forward, Vindication up beside his head and mistcoat flapping behind him. He leaped over cowering partygoers—Pushing off tacks in the floor to get some height—and came down near the group of struggling guards. Wayne, wearing a false beard and swearing like a canal worker with a headache, flailed about as five security guards held him. “Let him go!” Wax said. “That’s my deputy. Where’s the other one?” The guards stumbled about, all but one, who lay on the floor. Bleeding from the gut. Wax snapped his head up, spotting a man in a waiter’s outfit pushing his way toward the room’s outer wall nearby. Wax leveled Vindication and took aim. You should know, Bleeder said, that I was sad about your lover’s death. I hated that it was necessary. Wax’s hand froze. Lessie. Dead. Damn it, I’m past that! Wax squeezed the trigger anyway, but Bleeder ducked, skidding to the ground. The bullet punched a hole in the window above the man’s head. Bleeder threw a chair at the weakened window, shattering it. Then, as Wax fired again, he leaped through. Twenty-plus stories in the air. Wax bellowed, charging toward the window. Wayne joined him, grabbing Wax by the arm. “I’ll hold on tightly, mate. Let’s go.” “Stay,” Wax said, forcing himself to think through his turmoil of emotions. “Watch the governor. This might be a distraction, like the attempt earlier.” Wax didn’t give Wayne a chance to complain. He shook out of the man’s grip, then threw himself into the mists. Aluminum Doorknobs & Locks. Don’t leave yourself vulnerable to Allomantic ruffians. We install within the week! 42 Adamus St. Can you tell a story? Calour Publications is looking for novels in the alloy of Dechane’s The Horribles and Ausdenec’s Fear & Ferociousness. Apply with samples at Calour & D. & S. 211 Morise, The Hub, 6th Octant. Investors Wanted. Investing in electrics will grow your wealth. Contact S.T., 15 Stranat Place. Reckless Roughian Apprehends, Kills Marksman A year has passed since the Fourth Octant Constabulary’s unpopular Decision to deputize the controversial former Roughs lawman Lord Waxillium Ladrian, and the Octant continues to run from a long List of Embarrassments the man has caused. Foremost are Waxillium “Wax” Ladrian’s reckless Efforts to apprehend the notorious Marksman, who stole from institutions essential to the Commerce of our Grand City and took the life of an Innocent Child. “Wax’s” latest caper, though successful, also ended in the death of the accused (as well as an unidentified Bystander), robbing the City of the chance to see Justice done with a proper Trial. In the process Ladrian destroyed the motorcar of Lady Dorise Chevalle who was enjoying a leisurely Drive, and shot up the accounting offices of Linville & Lyons, doing over 400 Boxings of damage. Both have retained solicitors. DISTURBANCE At Lord Winsting Innate’s cottage—See Back, Column 8. CADMIUM MISTING slows time to “pulse” through stodgy board meeting—See Back, Column 4. FAMOUS BAKER decorates exquisite pastries with flakes
|
of atium—See Back, Column 5. “Street Racing” Threatens Grand Old Sport What do you hear the closer one gets to the Hub and the hour gets later? Motorcar engines growling like Roughs beasts and the yell of tires ripping up the roads. It has been half a decade at least since one could hear the nighttime clip-clop of horseshoes on cobble and the chirping of crickets. In the last six months, young ladies and lordlings—some of them the very children of our readers!—have taken to racing each other through some of our best-known streets. The betting and exchange of boxings began not long after, and the youths began paying gangs of street urchins to deliberately lead the constables away from these so-called street races at predetermined times. Hardest hit is the 3rd Octant with its slurry of parallel roads and long straightaways, and in a little under a month young Lady Carmine Feltry will be opening a motor-cars only circuit at the old fairgrounds abutting the Irongate River. (Continued on Back.) 11 Falling felt natural to a Coinshot. That sudden moment of acceleration, gut lurching but spirit leaping. The rush of wind. The chill of mist on the skin. He opened his eyes to spinning white upon black, mist dancing about him, inviting, eager. All Allomancers shared a bond with the mists, but the other types never knew the thrill of jumping through them. Of nearly becoming one with them. During moments like this, Wax understood the Ascendant Warrior. Vin—they rarely called her by name. Her title, like those of the other Preservers, was used to show reverence. The Historica, a section of the Words of Founding, said she had melded with the mists. She had taken them upon herself, becoming their guardian as they became her essence. As the Survivor watched over all who struggled, Vin watched over those in the night. Sometimes he felt he could see her form in their patterns: slight of frame, short hair splayed out as she moved, mistcloak fluttering behind her. It was a fancy, wasn’t it? Wax fired Vindication, slamming a bullet into the ground and Pushing on it to stop his descent. He hit the street in front of the building lobby, going down on one knee. Nearby, some hopefuls still waited to be allowed into the party. “Where?” Wax demanded, looking at them. “Someone fell before me. Where did he go?” I haven’t even murdered your father yet.… Rusts. Could she mean Steris’s father, his soon to be father-in-law? “There … there was nobody,” said a man in a black suit. “Just that.” He pointed to a smashed chair. In the distance, a motorcar roared to life. It tore away with a frantic sound. Bleeder might be a Coinshot now, Wax thought, running toward the sound, hoping it was her. But she wouldn’t need a motorcar if that were the case. Maybe she’d chosen the Feruchemical power to change her weight, so she could drift down on the wind. Wax launched himself upward, watching the steel lines for movement. In the mists
|
ordinary vision was of limited use, but steelsight’s blue lines pierced the mists like arrows. He could easily make out the motorcar speeding away, but he didn’t know for certain Bleeder was in it. He took a moment to watch the movements of other vehicles nearby. A carriage pulled to a stop one street away. He could tell from the way the lines quivered—those would be the metal fittings on the horse’s harness. People on foot walked slowly along Tindwyl Promenade. Nothing suspicious. Decision made, he Pushed against some streetlamps, sending himself after the speeding motorcar. He bounded from lamp to lamp, then launched himself over the top of a building as the motor turned a corner. Wax crested the building in a rush of swirling mists, passing only a few feet over the top. A group of young boys playing on the roof watched him pass with dropped jaws. Wax landed on the far edge of the rooftop, mistcoat tassels spraying forward around him, then leaped down as the motor passed below. This, he thought, will not work out as well as you hoped, Bleeder. Wax increased his weight, then Pushed on the motor from above. He didn’t crush the person inside—he couldn’t be absolutely sure he had the right quarry. His carefully pressed weight did pop the wheels like tomatoes, then squashed the roof down just enough to bend the metal doors in their housings. Even if Bleeder had access to enhanced speed, she wouldn’t be getting out through those doors. Wax landed beside the motorcar, Vindication out and pointed through the window at a confused man wearing a cabbie’s hat. Motorcar cabbies? When had that started happening? “He got out!” the cabbie said. “Two streets back. Told me to keep driving; didn’t even let me stop as he jumped!” Wax kept perfectly still, gun right at the cabbie’s forehead. It could be Bleeder. She could change faces. “P-please…” the cabbie said, crying. “I…” Damn it! Wax didn’t know enough. Harmony. Is it him? He was returned a vague sense of uncertainty. Harmony didn’t know. Wax growled, but lifted his gun away from the frightened driver, trusting his gut. “Where did you let him off?” “Tage Street.” “Go to the Fourth Octant precinct station,” Wax said. “Wait for me, or constables I send. We’ll likely have questions for you. Once I’m satisfied, we’ll buy you a new motor.” Wax Pushed himself into the air to the corner of Tage and Guillem, which put him at the edge of a maze of industrial alleyways linking warehouses with the docks where canal boats unloaded. Steelsight on and Pushing bubble up, he crept through the mists, but didn’t have much hope. He’d have a devil of a time finding one man alone here, in the dark. All Bleeder had to do was pick one place and hide there. Many criminals didn’t make the wise choice in this situation, however. It was hard to remain perfectly still, not moving any metal, while an Allomancer prowled about looking for you. Wax persisted, walking down a
|
dark alleyway, checking the rope at his waist, making sure he could unwind it quickly in case Bleeder was a Coinshot or a Lurcher and he needed to dump his metals. Soon the mists filling in behind him made him feel as if he were in an endless corridor, vanishing into nothingness in both directions. Above as well, only dark, swirling mists. Wax stopped in an empty intersection, silent warehouses like leviathans slumbering in the deep on all four corners, only one of which held a streetlight. He looked about with steelsight, waiting, counting heartbeats. Nothing. Either the cabbie had been Bleeder in disguise, or Wax’s prey had slipped away. Wax sighed, lowering his gun. One of the large warehouse doors fell outward with a crash, revealing a dozen men. Wax felt a sweeping wave of relief. He hadn’t lost his quarry—he’d simply been led into a trap! Wait. Damn, Wax thought, leveling Vindication and pulling his Sterrion from his hip. He Pushed on the men in the same movement, which flung him backward toward the cover of a half-finished building. Unfortunately, the men opened fire before he arrived. Wax’s steel bubble deflected a number of the shots, bending them away to cut empty air. The bullets trailed streaks in the mist. One, however, clipped him on the arm. Wax gasped as his Push slammed him against an incomplete wall. He fired a shot into the ground, then Pushed on it, backflipping himself over the brick wall and behind cover. Bullets continued to pelt the bricks as Wax dropped a gun and pressed his left hand to the underside of his right upper arm with a flare of pain and blood. The men on the other side of the wall kept firing, and some of the bullets didn’t have blue lines. Aluminum bullets. Bleeder was far better funded than Wax had expected. Why keep firing so rabidly? Were they trying to bring the wall down with the force of their shots? No. They’re trying to hold my attention so I can be flanked. Wax grabbed Vindication, holding his bleeding arm as he raised it—it hurt—just as several shadows wearing no metal ducked into the other side of the building site. Wax plugged the first one in the head, then dropped the second with a shot to the neck. Three others knelt, raising crossbows. Something pulled one of them into the shadows. Wax faintly heard an urk of pain just before he fired at the second. He turned his gun toward the third to find it slumping down, something stuck into its head. A knife? “Wayne?” Wax asked, hurriedly reloading Vindication with bloody fingers. “Not exactly,” a feminine voice said. A tall figure crawled through the mists, moving over a pile of bricks to reach him. As she drew closer, he could make out large eyes, jet hair, and a sleekly elegant gown—that was now missing the bottom half, below the knees. The woman from the party, the one who had tried flirting with him. Wax flipped Vindication, reloaded, up in a smooth
|
motion, pointing it at the woman’s head. The bullets outside stopped pounding the wall. The silence was far more ominous. “Oh please,” the woman said, pulling up beside the wall with him. “Why would I save you if I were an enemy?” Because you could be Bleeder, Wax thought. Anyone could. “Um … you’re hurt,” the woman said. “How bad is that? Because we should really start running right now. They’re going to come charging in here shortly.” Damn. Not much choice. Trust her and potentially die, or not trust her and almost certainly die. “Come here,” Wax said, grabbing the woman and pulling her close. He pointed Vindication at the ground. “They have snipers,” she said. “On five roofs, watching for you to Push into the mists. Aluminum bullets.” “How do you know?” “Overheard those fellows with the bows whispering as they moved around to come get you.” Wax growled. “Who are you?” he said through gritted teeth. “Does it matter right now?” “No.” “Can you run?” “Yes. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Wax took off, the woman running at his side. The wound hurt like hell, but there was something about the mists.… He felt stronger in them. It shouldn’t be so—he was no Pewterarm—but there it was. In truth, getting shot was bad, but not as bad as people often made it out to be. This shot had gone through the skin and muscle under his arm, making it difficult to raise, but he wouldn’t bleed out. Most bullets wouldn’t actually stop a man; psychologically, the panic of being shot did the most harm. The two of them charged out the back side of the building, past the man with a knife in his head. Behind them shouts rose in the mist, and a few of the ambushers trying to get into the building took wild shots. The woman ran well despite being in a gown. Yes, she’d ripped off the bottom half, but she still seemed to run too easily, without seeming to break a sweat or breathe deeply. Blue lines. Ahead. Wax grabbed Milan by the arm, yanking her to the side into an alleyway as a group of four men burst out of a cross street, leveling guns. “Rusts!” Wax said, peeking around the corner. This short alleyway ended at a wall. The thugs had him surrounded. “How many men does Bleeder have?” Wax muttered with another curse, under his breath. “These can’t be Bleeder’s men,” Milan said. “How would she have recruited such an army? In the past she’s always worked on her own.” Wax looked at her sharply. How much did she know about all this? “We’re going to have to fight,” Milan said as shouts sounded from behind them. She reached to her chest, where her gown exposed considerable cleavage. Waxillium had seen some odd things in his life. He’d visited koloss camps in the Roughs, even been invited to join their numbers. He’d met and spoken with God himself and had received a personal gift from Death. That did not
|
prepare him for the sight of a pretty young woman’s chest turning nearly transparent, one of the breasts splitting and offering up the hilt of a small handgun. She grabbed it and pulled it out. “So convenient,” she noted. “You can store all sorts of things in those.” “Who are you?” “MeLaan,” she said, rising and holding her gun in two hands. The pronunciation was slightly different this time when she said her name. “The Father promised you help. I’m it.” A Faceless Immortal. As soon as she stopped speaking, he heard a rustling in his mind. You can trust this one. Harmony’s voice, accompanied by a sense of endlessness, a vision like he’d seen before. It was as good a confirmation as he could get that this wasn’t Bleeder. Wax narrowed his eyes at the woman anyway. “Wait. I think I know you.” She grinned. “We’ve met once before tonight. I’m charmed you remember. You want the ones in the back or the front?” At least a dozen chasing them. Four ahead. He had to trust someone, sometime. “I’ll take the ones behind.” “Such a gentleman,” she said. “By the way, technically I’m not supposed to kill people. I … uh … think I already broke that rule tonight. If we happen to survive, please don’t tell TenSoon that I murdered a bunch of people again. It upsets him.” “Sure. I can do that.” She grinned—whoever she was, this side of her was completely different from what she’d displayed previously. “Say when to go.” Wax peeked around the corner. Dark figures moved in the mist behind them, coming up on their position. If she was right, and this wasn’t Bleeder, then who … Aluminum bullets. Snipers to watch for his escape. It was his uncle. Somehow Wax had been played. Oh, Harmony … If Bleeder and the Set were working together … He tossed a bullet casing to the side, against the wall to his right, and held it in place with a light Allomantic push. He flexed his wounded arm, then raised both guns. “Go.” Wax didn’t wait to see what MeLaan did. He Pushed against the casing, throwing himself out into the street, churning the mist. Men fired, and Wax increased his weight, then Pushed with a sweeping blast of Allomantic power. Some weapons were thrown backward, and some bullets stopped in the air. Men grunted as his Push sent them away. Two men’s weapons weren’t affected by the Push. Wax shot them first. They fell, and he didn’t give the other men time to go for the aluminum guns. He decreased his weight greatly and Pushed against the men behind him, hoping that the shove helped MeLaan. His Push sent him into the middle of the men he was fighting. He landed, kicking one of the aluminum guns away into the mists, then lowered Vindication and drilled a thug in the head, just at the ear. The cracks of his gunfire rang in the night. Wax kept firing, dropping the men around him as he spun through the
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.