“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.)
br />
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?”
Be
cause 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.