Shadows of Self

  “We have people hunting for him,” Marasi said, and rested her hand on the shoulder of one of the children; the little girl whimpered and clamped on to her arm. “And I promise you, we’ll catch and punish the one who did this. But every detail you can remember will help us put him away.”

  The matron and the underpriest glanced at each other. But it was one of the others—a lanky altarman in his twenties—who spoke. “Larskpur said,” the man whispered, “that the Survivor was a false god. That Kelsier had tried, and failed, to help humankind. That his death hadn’t been about protecting us or Ascending, but about stupidity and bravado.”

  “It’s what they’ve always thought,” the matron said, “but don’t say. Those Pathians … they claim to accept everyone, but if you push you can see the truth. They mock the Survivor.”

  “They want chaos,” the underpriest repeated. “They hate that so many people look to the Survivor. They hate that we have standards. They have no meetings, no churches, no commandments.… The Path isn’t a religion, it’s a platitude.”

  “It stunned us, I’ll tell you that,” the matron said. “I thought at first that Father Bin must have invited Larskpur to speak. Why else would he be so bold as to step up to the pulpit? I was so horrified by what he said that I didn’t notice the blood at first.”

  “I did,” the underpriest said. “I thought he was wearing gloves. I stared at those fingers, waving, bright red. And then I noticed the drops that he was flicking across the floor and the pulpit as he gestured.”

  They all were quiet for a moment. “There isn’t anything more to say,” the matron finally said. “Larskpur gestured one last time, and the back draping fell down. There he was, our blessed father, nailed there in a terrible parody of the Survivor’s Statemark. Poor Father Bin had been … hanging the whole time. Might have been still alive, bleeding and dying while we all listened to that blasphemy.”

  Marasi doubted that. Though the priest had obviously struggled at first, the spikes would have ended that quickly. “Thank you,” she said to the distraught group. “You’ve been very helpful.” She carefully pried the little girl’s hands from her arm and passed her to the matron.

  Marasi stood, walking to Aradel and Reddi, who stood on the other side of the room.

  “What do you think?” Marasi asked softly.

  “About the information,” Reddi said, “or your interrogation techniques?”

  “Either.”

  “That wasn’t how I’d have done it,” the short constable said. “But I suppose that you did put them at ease.”

  “They didn’t offer much,” Aradel said, rubbing at his chin.

  “What did you expect?” Marasi asked. “Captain, this had to be the same person who killed Winsting.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Aradel said. “What would be the motive?”

  “Can you explain this any other way?” Marasi said, gesturing toward the room with the dead priest. “A Pathian? Murdering? Sir, their priests are some of least aggressive people on the planet. I’ve seen toddlers more dangerous.”

  Aradel continued rubbing his chin. “Reddi,” he said, “go get those conventicalists something to drink. They could use a warm mug right now, I’d suspect.”

  “Sir?” Reddi said, taken aback.

  “You been spending so much time at the gun range you’ve gone deaf?” Aradel said. “Be about it, Captain. I need to talk to Constable Colms.”

  Reddi’s glare at Marasi could have boiled water, but he moved off to do as ordered.

  “Sir,” Marasi said, watching him go, “I can’t help noticing that you’re determined to see the rest of the constables hate me.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Just giving the boy a nudge. He’s useless when he isn’t trying to show off for me—those weeks when he thought he had the assistant’s position sewn up were miserable. He’s a better officer when he has somebody to compete with.” He took Marasi by the shoulder and steered her away from the seated conventicalists. A junior corporal had just shown up with blankets and mugs of warm tea. Hopefully Reddi wouldn’t be too put out at having that job stolen from him too.

  “I,” Aradel said, drawing her attention back to him, “can’t fight mistwraiths and spirits in the night. I’m a watchman, not an exorcist.”

  “I understand that, sir,” Marasi said. On their ride over here, she’d told him what Waxillium had said about Bleeder. She wasn’t about to keep information like that from her superior. “But if the criminal is supernatural, what option do we have?”

  “I don’t know,” Aradel said, “and that frustrates me to no end. I’ve got a city dry as a pile of autumn leaves, Lieutenant, and it’s about to go up in flames. I don’t have the manpower to hunt down a fallen immortal; I need to have constables on the streets trying to keep this city from consuming itself.”

  “Sir, what if the two are related?”

  “The two murders?”

  “The murders and the unrest, sir.” She closed her eyes, remembering the chapel with its dome and pews, and tried to imagine it as it had been earlier. Larskpur standing in front and waving his hands, horrified parishioners fleeing and bearing the story that the Pathian leader had murdered a Survivorist priest …

  “Bleeder, or whoever is behind this, has distracted the government with a scandal,” Marasi said opening her eyes. “Now she strikes at one church leader in the guise of another? Sir, whatever her real motives are, she’s obviously trying to strain Elendel. She wants this city to break.”

  “You might be ascribing too much to one person, Lieutenant.”

  “Not just a person,” Marasi said. “A demigod. Sir, what started the worker strikes?”

  “Hell if I know,” Aradel said, patting at his pocket and taking out his cigar case. He opened it and found only a little folded note. He grimaced and showed it to her. There’s a banana in your drawer. “Damn woman will be the death of me. Anyway, I suspect the strikes have been building for a while. Harmony knows I sympathize with the poor fools. Get paid like dirt while the house lords live in mansions and penthouses.”

  “But why now?” Marasi asked. “It’s the food, right? Suddenly spiked prices, worry that even when the strikes end, there won’t be food to be bought?”

  “That certainly hasn’t helped,” Aradel agreed. “Those floods are going to be a strain.”

  “A broken dam. Did we investigate that properly?”

  Aradel paused, little paper half folded to return to his pocket. “You think that could have been sabotage?”

  “Could be worth checking,” Marasi said.

  “Could be indeed,” Aradel said. “I’ll see if I can spare some men. But if you’re right, what’s this creature’s endgame?”

  “General mayhem?” Marasi asked.

  Aradel shook his head. “Maybe it’s different for mistwraiths, but men who do things like this, they do it to prove something. They want to show how clever they are, or they want to stop an injustice. Maybe she wants to bring someone down. Isn’t the governor a Pathian?”

  “I think so.”

  “So this murder tonight could be an attempt to discredit his religion.” Aradel nodded. “Kill his brother, expose a scandal, undermine his faith, cause riots during his tenure … Rusts, this could be about making sure that Innate doesn’t just die, he gets stomped to the ground.”

  Marasi nodded slowly. “Sir. I … might have proof that the governor is corrupt.”

  “What? What kind of proof?”

  “Nothing definitive,” she said, blushing. “It has to do with his policies, and when he’s changed his mind on bills, when he’s voted irregularly following visits with certain key individuals. Sir, you said you hired me in part because of my ability to read statistics. I’ll show you what I have once it’s all arranged, but the story the governor’s record tells is of a man who is offering himself up for sale.”

  Aradel ran a hand through his hair, red flecked with grey. “Harmony. Keep this quiet, Lieutenant. We’ll worry
about it another time. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. And I agree.”

  “But good work,” he noted, then jogged over to take crime scene reports. Marasi couldn’t help feeling a thrill that he’d listened to what she said, even when all she could offer was half explanations. At the same time, however, a disturbing thought struck her. What if Aradel was secretly the kandra, somehow? How much damage could Bleeder do if she had an entire octant’s constables under her thumb?

  No. Aradel had been around people when the priest was murdered. Rusts … the creature would have Marasi jumping at shadows, wondering if everyone she met was a kandra. She went to get herself a cup of that tea, hoping it would help her banish the image in her head of poor Father Bin hung from the wall. She wasn’t halfway to the table with the flasks before the doors to the foyer slammed open and Waxillium strode in.

  He trailed tassels like the curling mists, his powerful stride prompting lesser constables to scuttle out of his way. How was it that he could so fully encapsulate everything the constables should be, but weren’t? Noble without being pandering, thoughtful yet proactive, unyielding yet inquisitive.

  Marasi smiled, then hurried after him. It wasn’t until they reached the chapel, with its large glass dome and the dead priest hanging on the far side, that she realized she’d forgotten entirely about getting tea. A headache still thumped inside her skull.

  Aradel stood inside the nave, accompanied by two young constables. “Lord Ladrian,” he said, turning toward Waxillium. “We’ll have a report on the body ready for you in—”

  “I’ll see for myself, constable,” Waxillium said. “Thank you.” He dropped a bullet casing and rose into the air, soaring over rows of pews beneath the dome to land on the dais.

  Aradel sighed and muttered a curse under his breath, then turned to one of the corporals. “See that His Lordship gets whatever he needs. Maybe he can make something of this damn mess—assuming he doesn’t just shoot the place up instead.”

  The young constable nodded, then ran to join Waxillium, who was saying something to Wayne, who had stepped up to join him. Whatever Waxillium said sent the shorter man scuttling out the doors on some errand.

  The constable-general shook his head, a sour grimace on his lips.

  “Sir?” Marasi said. “You’re upset with Lord Waxillium?”

  Aradel started, as if he hadn’t seen—or hadn’t registered—her standing there. “Pay no heed, Lieutenant. His Lordship is a great resource to this department.”

  “Sir, that has the sound of a practiced answer to it.”

  “Good,” Aradel said, “because it took me a long time to learn to say it without cursing.”

  “Could I have the non-practiced version?”

  Aradel looked her over. “Let’s just say that it must be damn nice, Lieutenant, to have other people to clean up your messes for you.” He nodded to her, then stalked from the room.

  Rusts. Was that how Aradel saw Waxillium? A rogue nobleman accustomed to getting what he wanted, blunt in ways that Aradel could never be? The constable-general wasn’t a nobleman, and had to worry about funding, politics, the future of his men. Waxillium could just butt in and do what he liked, shooting and letting his status—both as an Allomancer and a house lord—get him out of it.

  That perspective was eye-opening. Waxillium was a trouble. A worthwhile trouble, as he did get things done, but almost as bad as the problems he solved. But for that brief moment he seemed less an ally and more a storm that you had to prepare for and clean up after.

  Disturbed, she walked up through the room to join him beside the body.

  “Those spikes give off strong lines,” Waxillium noted to her, pointing at Father Bin’s ruined face. “To my Allomantic senses, I mean. From what I’ve read, I think that means they’re not Hemalurgic spikes. Those are supposed to be tough to see and Push on, like metalminds.”

  “What would spiking him accomplish?” Marasi asked.

  “No idea,” Waxillium said. “Still, when you get that body down, send me a sample of metal from each spike. I want to run some tests on their composition.”

  “All right,” Marasi said.

  “We should have seen it. She’s trying to drive a wedge between the Pathians and the Survivorists.”

  “The governor is Pathian,” Marasi said. “We think Bleeder is trying to get at him.”

  “You’re right,” Waxillium said, narrowing his eyes. “But that’s not her true goal. She wants to overthrow the city. Perhaps the governor’s murder will be the capstone. But what does this have to do with me?”

  “Everything doesn’t have to be about you, you know.”

  “Not everything,” Waxillium agreed. “Just this.”

  Annoyingly, he was probably right. Why else would Bleeder be parading around the city wearing the body of the man who had killed Waxillium’s wife? Waxillium left the corpse, pushing out of the building though the rear exit. There a narrow alleyway led out to the street. Marasi followed, joining Waxillium in the darkness and mists.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You don’t plan a dramatic murder like this one without preparing an escape route,” Waxillium said. “From the discarded handkerchiefs and handbags left behind, I’d guess the room was full when she revealed the body. The worshippers ran out the main doors, and the murderer would have expected this. She would have come out the back, getting away while everyone was either fleeing or stunned.”

  “Okay…”

  “Narrow alley,” Waxillium said, kneeling to inspect the wall. “Look at this.”

  Marasi squinted. The bricks along the wall here had been scraped, leaving behind something that had rubbed off on them. “Looks metallic. Silvery.”

  “Paint, I’d guess,” Waxillium said. “Where it came from is a small question, unfortunately, compared to the larger ones. Why would she kill this priest in the first place? She warned me she was going to. I thought she meant your father. Not Father Bin.”

  “Waxillium,” Marasi said. “We need more information. About what this creature can do, and what its motives might be.”

  “Agreed,” Waxillium said. He rose and stared down the alleyway. “I’d like to ask God a few hard questions. I doubt He’s going to make Himself available, however, so we’ll have to settle for someone else.”

  “Who?” Marasi asked.

  “I had some help tonight,” Waxillium said. “From an unexpected source. I have a feeling that an interview with her will be illuminating. Want to come?”

  “Of course I do,” Marasi said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well,” Waxillium said, “I’m worried that interacting with her might prove … theologically difficult.”

  13

  Wayne didn’t consider himself to be a particularly religious man. He figured that Harmony didn’t pay much attention to fellows like him, for the same reason a master painter didn’t often wonder what his mom had done with the pictures he’d given her as a toddler.

  That said, Wayne did like to visit the temple of the common man now and then. It made him feel better and forget his problems for a spell. So he knew the place when Wax sent him on ahead to check it over.

  The temple huddled on the corner of an intersection, a stately old building, squat and stubborn. Newer tenements perched on either side, some six stories tall, but the temple had the air of an old gaffer in his chair who hadn’t the inclination to look higher than a fellow’s knees. As Wayne had expected, the door was open and friendly, still spilling out light, though it was starting to get late. He strolled down the lane and nodded to the temple guard, who wore a cap and overalls for his uniform and bore a ceremonial stick what seemed to have bits of hair sticking out of the end, likely from clubbing men upside the head for being too rowdy.

  Wayne tipped his hat to the man and chanted the proper invocation to gain admittance. “Hello, Blue. How watery’s the beer today?”

  “Don’t make trouble at the pub tonight, Wayne,” the man inton
ed in response. “My temper is really short.”

  “Temper?” Wayne said, passing him. “That’s a funny name for it, mate, but if the ladies like you givin’ silly names to your body parts, I ain’t gonna say nothin’.”

  Ritual introductions finished, Wayne stepped into the temple proper. Inside, men and women bowed at their places, heads drooping as they considered the deep complexities of the cosmere. Their prayers were made in mumbled exchanges to friends, and their incense in the burning of pipes. A picture of Old Ladrian himself hung over the altar, a man with a ripe paunch and a cup thrust forward, as if to demand attention.

  Wayne stood in the doorway, head bowed in respect, and dabbed his fingers into a trail of beer dripping from a nearby table, then anointed himself on the forehead and navel, the mark of the spear.

  The scent marked him as a pilgrim upon this holy ground, and he passed among the penitent seeking forgiveness on his way to the altar. The air of the place was odd tonight. Solemn. Yes, the temple was a place of contemplation, but it should also be a place of joy. Where were the hymns, sung in a holy slur? Where was the laughter, the joyful noise of celebration?

  Not good, he thought as he settled onto one of the pews—in this case a rough, circular table with scriptures carved into it, like Mic is a total git and The sausages is rubbish. He’d always liked that one. It brought up real theological implications, it did. If the food they ate was trash, were they ultimately trash? Were they all nothing in the end? Or should one instead see even trash as something to be elevated, as it had been created by the God Beyond like everything else?

  Wayne settled back in his seat and drew a few looks from nearby tables. As a lovely young conventicalist in a plunging top passed by carrying mugs, he took her arm. “I’ll haaave…” he blinked. “Ahll have some whiskey.” He had the accent and tone of a man who had been very, very pious already this night.

  The maid shook her head and continued on her way. Those nearby ignored him. Wayne closed his eyes and listened to their prayers.