Shadows of Self

  “A person’s species shouldn’t matter,” Wax snapped. “I don’t care if there are three hundred of you left or just three; when one of you starts nailing people to walls in my city, I’m going to—”

  “Wax,” Wayne interrupted, balancing his sixth story of beer-mat coasters. “Check your pulse, mate.”

  Wax took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he said.

  “What was that,” Marasi said, wagging her pencil from Wayne to Wax. “Pulse?”

  “Sometimes,” Wayne said, “Wax forgets he’s a person and starts thinkin’ he’s a rock instead.”

  “It’s Wayne speak,” Wax said, grabbing some coasters and starting another tower. “For times when he thinks I should be a little more empathetic.”

  “You can be single-minded, mate.”

  “Says the man who once collected eighty different kinds of beer bottles.”

  “Yeah,” Wayne said, smiling fondly. “Did that mostly to annoy you, I did.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. “Started to hate all those rusting bottles, but each morning you’d curse when you tripped over a new box o’ them, and it was just so melodious…”

  “You know,” MeLaan said, taking a pull on her drink, “you two aren’t anything like I was led to believe.”

  “Tell me about it,” Marasi said.

  “For one thing,” MeLaan added, “I had no idea that Kid Wayne was so talented with beer-mat sculptures.”

  “He cheated,” Wax said. “He stuck some of the coasters on his lower level together with that gum stuff he’s been chewing.”

  Marasi and MeLaan turned to Wayne, who grinned. He picked up his sculpture, knocking down the top levels, but revealing that the bottom three had—indeed—been stuck together.

  “Wayne,” Marasi said, aghast. “Are you that concerned with impressing us?”

  “It wasn’t about impressing anyone,” Wax said. “The contest wasn’t about how high the towers got—it was about if I’d spot what he did. He always cheats somehow. Back to the matter at hand, MeLaan. Your rogue kandra friend is planning something. If her plot gains momentum, it will roll over us and crush this city.”

  “I agree,” MeLaan said. “So what do we do?”

  “We outthink her,” Wax said. “I need to know her motive. Why is she doing this? What drove her to pull out her spike in the first place?”

  “I wish I knew,” MeLaan said. “We’ve been trying to figure out the same thing.”

  “Tell me about her, then,” Wax said, tapping at his empty shot glass. “What is she like? What are her passions?”

  “Paalm was the ultimate blank slate,” MeLaan said. “Old-style kandra. Like I said, she spent so much time out on missions that she barely had a personality of her own. She had real trouble with that at the dawn of a new world. Some of the older generations, they liked to spend time in the Homeland, only left for a mission when forced to. Not Paalm. She was the Father’s own, the kandra reserved specifically to do missions for the Lord Ruler.” She hesitated. “She might know things from him. Things the rest of us weren’t told. I think he may even have had her imitate Inquisitors at times, act as a mole among them.

  “Anyway, she wouldn’t have been able to impersonate an Inquisitor without a good grasp of Allomancy and Feruchemy. So maybe that’s where she got the knowledge. She was loyal to the Lord Ruler, and then when he was gone, she became loyal to Harmony. Fanatical about it. Insisted on being given mission after mission, and never spent time with the rest of us. Kept to herself. She was almost always in character. Until…”

  “Murderous rampage,” Wayne said softly. “It’s always the quiet ones. Well, and the psychopathic ones. That too.”

  So what does that tell me? Wax thought, leaving his little tower at three stories. How would I approach this if it were any other criminal?

  MeLaan leaned back for a moment, as if lost in thought, then flipped a coaster at Wax’s tower to knock it down. She grunted.

  “What?” Wax said.

  “I was just curious to see if you were cheating too.”

  “Wax never cheats,” Wayne said, face halfway in his mug. Wax had never figured out how he could talk and drink at the same time without choking.

  “That’s incorrect,” Wax said. “I cheat infrequently. That way nobody’s expecting it.” He stood up. “Can you think of a reason Bleeder would target the governor in particular?”

  MeLaan shook her head.

  “Do any of the other kandra know her better than you do?”

  “Maybe one of the older ones,” MeLaan said. “I’ll see if I can get one of them to come talk to you.”

  “Good,” Wax said. “But first I want you three watching the governor.”

  “I’ve got to report in to the precinct offices first,” Marasi said. “I want to follow up on something there.”

  “Fine,” Wax said. “Wayne, you head to the governor’s mansion first.”

  “He ditched me last time.”

  “He won’t again,” Wax said. “I’ve persuaded him to listen, though we’ll need him to meet MeLaan soon.”

  “Sure, all right,” Wayne said. “It wasn’t like I was planning to, you know, sleep tonight or anythin’.”

  “Sleep might be in short supply going forward,” Wax said.

  “You want me to go with him, Dawnshot?” MeLaan asked.

  “Depends. Marasi, would you like some backup?”

  “Yes please,” she said.

  “Watch her,” Wax said, nodding toward Marasi. “And maybe give Aradel a glimpse of your nature. It’s probably time to inform him what we’re up against.”

  “Already done,” Marasi said. “Though I’m sure he’d like proof.”

  Wax grunted. He hadn’t ordered her to do that. “Be quick about your errand,” Wax told her. “And get to the governor. I want more than one set of eyes on him. And before we split, I want each pair of us to exchange codes, individual and unknown to the others, so we each have a way to authenticate ourselves to one another. I’ve done the same with the governor and his top staff.” Harmony, this was going to be a nightmare.

  “Watching the governor isn’t going to be enough, Wax,” Marasi said, standing up from the table. “You yourself said it. Too reactive. So what else are we going to do?”

  “I’ll come up with something.”

  The others stood, and Wax towed Wayne by the arm to check to see that they were square with the pub manager. Surprisingly, Wayne had indeed paid for everything he should have. On their way toward the door, Wax explained to his friend a little idea he had for protecting the governor.

  They stepped into the entryway of the pub, where MeLaan was waiting while Marasi fired up her beast of a motorcar. Wayne hiked off to catch a carriage to take him to the governor’s mansion, and Wax took MeLaan by the arm.

  “I hate this,” he noted, soft enough to keep the bouncer outside from hearing. “Not being able to trust people I should always be able to. Second-guessing myself.”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “But you’ll handle it. There’s a reason He came to you for this.” She stepped in closer. Rusts, she was attractive—but then, it would be odd if she weren’t, all things considered. “You and I aren’t the only ones hunting Paalm, lawman—every kandra in the city is searching for her. Thing is, I don’t think many of my brothers and sisters will be of use. They’re timid about hurting others, particularly after what TenSoon was forced to do during the Remarked Duplicity. And beyond that, they can be an … inconsistent group.”

  “They’re God’s servants,” Wax said.

  “Yes,” MeLaan replied, “and they’ve had centuries upon centuries to refine their eccentricities. Getting older does not tend to make you more normal, let me tell you. We don’t think like killers. We’ve been too closely in contact with Harmony. What Paalm is doing, it baffles us. It goes against everything we’ve believed and lived for centuries. I don’t think we’ll be able to find her, not in time. But you … you can.”
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  “Because I think like a killer.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “It’s all right,” Wax said, releasing her arm. “I am what I am.” He took his mistcoat from the peg by the door and shrugged it on before stepping out into the night. “Thanks, by the way,” he said.

  “For?”

  He tapped his ear, and the earring he wore in it. “This.”

  “I was just the delivery girl.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It was what I needed. When I needed it.” He dropped a bullet casing, then stilled it with his foot. “I’ll meet you all at the governor’s mansion.”

  14

  If you want to know a man, dig in his firepit.

  The phrase was from the Roughs, maybe koloss in origin. Basically, it meant that you could judge a lot about a man’s life by what he threw away—or by what he was willing to burn in order to stay warm.

  A loud church clock rang eleven as Wax moved through the mists on Allomantic jumps. The sound echoed in the night, the bell tower hidden in the darkness. Eleven was not late these days, particularly not in the heart of the city, but it should have marked a time when most men and women had begun to seek their beds. Labor started early in the morning.

  Only, a sizable portion of the laborers in the city didn’t have a job to get up for right now. That was reflected in the busy streets and busier pubs, not to mention the Soothing parlors he passed, still open well into the night. Those were places where the downhearted could seek a different kind of relief, in the form of an Allomancer who—for a small fee—would wipe away their emotions for a time and leave them numb.

  Rioting parlors were a different beast. There, you could choose the emotion you wanted and have it stoked within you. Those might be even more popular, judging by the line he saw outside one.

  Wax delayed on a rooftop, listening, then headed for the sound of men shouting. He ran along the peaked roof and Pushed off the nails in the shingles, launching himself over a set of apartments in a quiet flutter, coming down and landing on a street beyond.

  Here, he found a small Pathian sanctuary. Not the church with the bell he’d heard earlier; Pathian structures were too small for that. Built to resemble old Terris huts, they were often empty save for two chairs. One for you. One, ostensibly, for Harmony. The religion forbade worship, in a formal way. But talking to God was encouraged.

  Tonight, the little sanctuary was under siege.

  They shouted and threw rocks: a group of shadows in the mist, probably drunk. He could make them out well enough; a misty night was never too dark in the city, not with all the ambient light reflecting off the vapors.

  Wax yanked Vindication from her holster and stalked forward, mistcoat flaring behind him. His profile was enough. The first man who spotted him emerging from the mists yelled a warning and the men scattered, leaving the detritus of their tiny riot. Fallen stones. A few bottles. Wax watched their metal lines to make sure none of them rounded back on him. One stopped nearby, but kept his distance.

  He shook his head, stepping up to the sanctuary. He found the missionary cowering inside, a Terriswoman in intricate braids. Pathian clergy was a strange thing. On one hand, the religion emphasized man’s personal connection to Harmony—doing good, without formality. On the other hand, people needed direction. Someone to explain all of this. Pathian missionaries—called priests by outsiders, though they rarely used the term for themselves—set up in places like this, explaining the Path to all who came. A clergy, yes, but not in the formal way of the Survivorists.

  He’d always found it curious that the small Pathian sanctuaries—with large doorways on eight sides—let in the mists, while Survivorist churches observed the mists from behind domes of glass, comfortable in their ornate rooms full of golden statues and fine wood pews. The woman looked up at him as he knelt, smelling oil. Her lantern lay broken nearby.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I … Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Her eyes flicked toward the gun. On principle, Wax didn’t holster the thing. “It would be best if you retired for the night,” Wax said.

  “But I live in the loft upstairs.”

  “Go to the Village then,” Wax said. “In fact, gather any of your colleagues you can in a short time and take them as well. A Survivorist priest has been brutally murdered by someone posing as a Pathian missionary.”

  “Sweet Harmonies,” the woman whispered.

  Wax left her to gather her things and, hopefully, do as he told her. He struck out into the night, following a few lines of metal toward where the man he’d scared off earlier had hidden. Wax studied the darkened alleyway in the mists, then dropped a shell casing and launched himself into the air. A careful Push let him drop straight into the alleyway, where he landed and leveled a gun at the head of the person hiding there.

  Who immediately soiled himself, judging from the stench and the liquid pooling at the young man’s feet. Wax sighed and lifted Vindication. The young man scrambled backward, stumbling over a box of trash, adding to his humiliation.

  “You’re going to leave that missionary alone,” Wax said. “She had nothing to do with the murder.”

  The youth nodded. Wax dropped a shell casing and prepared to launch himself back into the night.

  “M-murder?” the youth asked.

  “Of the…” Wax hesitated. “Wait. Why were you here, attacking that sanctuary?”

  The boy whimpered. “They came into the pub, two of them in those Pathian robes, and cursed out the Survivor an’ us.”

  “Two?” Wax said, advancing on the boy, making him cringe. “There was more than one?”

  He nodded, then—crying—scrambled away and ran into the night. Wax let him go.

  I should have guessed, he thought, launching himself into the air. The news of the murder couldn’t have traveled this quickly. There was more to the plot than the one killing. Rusts. Were other priests in danger?

  Two people. Bleeder and someone else? Or two helpers? MeLaan had seemed confident that Bleeder would be working alone, but this offered evidence to the contrary. And the attempt to kill Wax earlier, the ploy involving the server at ZoBell Tower, matched too well with his fears of an assassin to be coincidence. Bleeder had help, likely from Wax’s uncle. He’d look into that later. For now, however, there was a different lead he wanted to chase.

  He eventually reached the location he’d set out to find: Ashweather Carriage and Coach, a large open yard at the northern edge of the octant where a fleet of carriages of various styles was stored. Rich-looking landaus with retractable tops. Conventional buggies, with less lavish upholstery and wood, to attract a modest clientele. A few surrey-style, with frilled tops.

  By far the most common in the carriage park was the standard road coach: the four-wheeled vehicle with a completely enclosed passenger compartment, and room at the top front for a driver. They called them Barringtons in the city, after Lord Barrington, and though the paint jobs could vary wildly, the style was pretty much standardized. Wax’s own coaches were Barringtons.

  He counted seven in a line here, all lit by electric lamps atop towering stanchions high enough to light the whole yard and adjacent large, low buildings. Those were stables, of course, as his nose confirmed. All of the Ashweather Company’s carriages were painted a shiny black, common for vehicles used as cabs in the city, and they had a round shield on the side proclaiming the Cett family heritage.

  A shield painted silver. The color that had scraped onto the bricks in the alleyway outside the church. Bleeder had likely fled in a coach just like one of these, one that had been told to wait while Bleeder killed the priest.

  Wax inspected each vehicle in turn, running his fingers over the silver-painted shields on the sides. No scrapes.

  “Can I help you?” a curt voice demanded. Steelsight indicated a person walking up the row of vehicles. No weapon held, but metal buttons on his coat, a ring on each hand, some change in the pocket, and a watch in his waistcoat.
A few pins in the collar of his shirt—very small lines—gave Wax an idea of how tall the man was.

  Wax turned toward the voice. The man turned out to be a pudgy fellow in a distinctive formal suit with long tails, identifying him as the establishment’s proprietor. Wax had known more than a few Cetts in his time. He’d never gotten along with any of them. Lean or fat, rich or scrawny, they all got the same calculating look on their faces as they tried to estimate how much money Wax would be willing to part with.

  This Cett’s eyes flicked toward Wax’s suit, which was rumpled, swum-in, and missing the cravat. With the duster on, he likely didn’t look very distinguished—and the man’s expression hardened. Then he saw the tassels on the duster.

  His entire demeanor changed immediately. His posture went from “Stay away from my coaches” to “You look like the type who will pay extra for velvet pillows.” “My lord,” he added, nodding his head. “Would you like to hire a coach for the evening?”

  “You know me?” Wax said.

  “Waxillium Ladrian, I believe.”

  “Good,” Wax said, digging into his pocket and removing a small steel sheet, engraved on one side. His credentials, proof that he was a constable. “I’m on constabulary business. How many of these coaches do you have?” Wax nodded toward the line.

  Cett’s expression fell as he realized Wax wasn’t likely to be paying him for anything tonight. “Twenty-three,” the man finally said.

  “Lots of coaches still in service for the night,” Wax said. “Considering the hour.”

  “We work as long as people are out, constable,” Cett said. “And tonight, people are out.”

  Wax nodded. “I need a list of the drivers who are still working, their routes, and any prearranged clients they picked up today.”

  “Of course.” Cett seemed more relaxed as he led Wax toward a small building in the center of the carriage yard. As they walked, a coach arrived—no scraped sides—drawn by a pair of sweaty horses with drooping heads and a bit of froth at the mouths. Long hours for the beasts too, it seemed.