Shadows of Self

  Wax dove for cover as they started firing. He didn’t catch much of what happened next, as he put his back to the side of a thick chair. Bleeder moved among the men, firing. They tried to fire back, doing more damage to their friends than they did to her.

  It was over by the time the report from the first gunshot had faded in Wax’s ears. Men lay groaning and bleeding on the floor, and Bleeder was through the hole and heading down the steps. Wax set his jaw and Pushed himself across the room. He landed, skidding on blood, and leaped into the stairwell. Another Push sent him soaring down the steps.

  Gunshots resounded in the narrow confines of the stairwell, coming from just ahead. Wax slowed himself with a shot forward into the ground, landing beside a final handful of guards who lay bleeding on the floor.

  The kandra stood alone before the door to the saferoom. She looked at Wax, smiled, and became a blur.

  But her speed only lasted a fraction of a second. Soon after she’d begun tapping her metalmind, she slowed back down.

  Wax caught sight of her just as she unlocked the door to the governor’s saferoom, using a key she shouldn’t have. She pulled the door open with a flourish, then glanced back at Wax, shaking her head. She obviously thought she was still a blur moving with incredible speed. And she was.

  Wax had simply joined her.

  One of the fallen bodies stirred, and Wayne pushed back his hat, showing a grin. Wax raised his hands, a gun in each, and was rewarded by an expression of utter shock on Bleeder’s face. She’d regrown her eye, though blood still streamed down the front of her mask. As he had chased her, talked to her, she’d always seemed fully in control.

  Until this moment.

  Wax blasted away with both guns. That wasn’t usually a good idea, at least if you wanted to hit anything, but they were barely ten feet apart—and besides, he was inside a speed bubble. His bullets would refract when leaving sped-up time, and so aiming was of questionable value anyway.

  At a time like this, you didn’t want to be precise. You wanted to be thorough. Steris would be proud.

  He fired in a cacophony, empting both weapons. He took advantage of Bleeder’s shock, dropping his guns and pulling his other Sterrion out of its under-arm holster and unloading it. His short-barreled shotgun, from the holster on his thigh, followed, belching slugs and thunder as Wax strode to the edge of the speed bubble.

  After reaching the rim, the bullets deflected out into normal time, moving painfully slowly. But less than a foot separated Bleeder and the edge of Wayne’s bubble. Wax dropped the shotgun and pulled out one of the syringes again, and shoved it toward her, Pushing on the metal, hoping against hope that—stunned from the gunfire—she wouldn’t notice it coming.

  As the kandra turned to run, the first bullet hit. Others followed in a storm. Half missed, but Wax had fired almost two dozen shots. Many punched into Bleeder, who dropped her Feruchemical speed as they caught her. She moved lethargically, trying to escape the hail of bullets, sprays of blood bursting silently into the air, like the seeds blown from a dandelion.

  She stumbled against the doorframe, and one of the shotgun slugs hit the back of her head, ripping a hole through her face and breaking off the mask. She sagged, gripping the doorframe, draped in her red cloak.

  The needle flew from Wax’s Push, spinning in the air, but it—like the bullets—had been deflected by the edge of the speed bubble. It impaled itself into the wood of the doorframe just inches from Bleeder.

  She righted herself a second later, and sped up again, wounds vanishing. She didn’t look at him as her back straightened and she strode through the door. She did flip the needle off the frame, sending it toppling in slow motion toward the ground.

  Wax dug a handful of rounds from the pouch on his belt, then leaped out of the speed bubble. He felt an immediate lurch—as if the world had been upended—and heard a faint popping sound. The nausea hit him like a punch to the face, but he was ready for it. He’d ducked out of speed bubbles before.

  A single gunshot sounded from the saferoom.

  He crossed the distance to the door in a rush, throwing the cartridges in front of himself, ready to Push on the ones that he might need to hit Bleeder. Once inside, however, he let the rounds drop to the ground. Bleeder wasn’t in the room; an open door at the back led out, presumably through a tunnel to the grounds above.

  The plush saferoom—round and rimmed with bookshelves—had a wet bar on one end and was lit by comfortable reading lamps. The governor knelt on the floor, holding a bleeding Drim, frantically trying to stanch the blood coming from the bodyguard’s neck.

  Wax dashed across the room, stopping at the door into the escape tunnel.

  “Lawman!” Innate cried. “Help. Please … oh, Harmony. Help!”

  Wax hesitated, peering into that empty, dark tunnel. He was reminded of another one like it, dusty and shored up by beams at the sides. Both a tomb and a stage …

  Behind, Wayne stumbled into the room, then scrambled to help Innate. Wax remained by the door into the tunnel, rolling a few rounds between his fingers.

  “He saved me,” Innate said, weeping. By this point, he was drenched in Drim’s blood. He’d pulled off his shirt, trying to use it to stanch the blood. “He leaped into the way right as the assassin shot,” Innate said. “Tell me you can … Please…”

  “He’s gone, mate,” Wayne said, settling back.

  “Other casualties upstairs, Wayne,” Wax said, pointing. With reluctance, he shut the door to the escape tunnel. He couldn’t give chase, not and leave the governor alone here.

  Wayne rushed out of the room to check on the men who had been shot upstairs. Wax walked over to the governor, who knelt before his bodyguard’s corpse. He’d never seen Innate look so human as he did at that moment, shoulders slumped, head bowed. Exhausted, wrung-out. Could anyone fake that?

  He checked anyway. “Leavening on sand,” Wax said.

  Innate looked up at him, eyes unfocused. Wax’s heart skipped a beat, but then the governor sighed. “Bones without soup.”

  He knew the passphrase. This was really Innate.

  Wax knelt beside the governor, looking over Drim’s corpse. Annoying though the man had been at times, he had not deserved this. “I’m sorry.”

  “She stopped moving at a blur,” Innate said, his voice strained. “She appeared inside, gun out, but seemed angry about something. Drim leaped for me right before she shot. She was gone a second later. Surely she could have paused to finish me off, rather than running.”

  “She obtained Feruchemical powers only two weeks ago,” Wax said. “That time frame greatly limits how much speed she can have stored up, and moving as fast as she has been must have drained her metalmind quickly. She needed to escape before it ran out.”

  Of course, there could be another reason. She might have just wanted to frighten them, and the governor. To prod him to do something. But what? She said she intended to kill him, but not until the time was right.

  Why? What was the plan?

  “So she’s flawed,” Innate said. “She can be beaten.”

  “Of course she can,” Wax said. He looked down at the corpse, and the floor stained red. But at what cost? He took a deep breath. “I want you to leave the city.”

  “No.”

  “That’s stupidity,” Wax snapped. “She will be back.”

  “Have you looked out there, lawman?” Innate said, waving a bloody hand in a vaguely upward direction. “Have you seen what’s happening in this city?”

  “You can’t do anything about that tonight.”

  “I most certainly can.” Innate stood. “I’m the leader of this city; I’m not going to run away. If anything, I need to be seen—need to meet with the chief instigators of this movement, if any can be found. I need to address the crowds, prepare a speech—I need to gather my cabinet, and with them make sure that there’s still a city here in the morning.” He pointed at Wax. “You stop this creature, Ladrian. I don’t have a bodyguard any longer. I
’m in your hands.”

  He strode out then. Whatever else he thought of the man, Wax had to respect Innate’s grit.

  You stop this creature.…

  Wax glanced at the syringe, still lying on the floor near the doorframe. So close. If it had hit, he might have been able to depress the metal plunger and send the liquid into her veins. Feeling powerless, he fetched that syringe and brought it back to Drim’s corpse, dead with a bullet right in the neck. Wax plunged the syringe into the corpse’s arm and emptied it into the flesh.

  Nothing happened. He hadn’t expected it to—it seemed very implausible that Bleeder would have managed to get Drim’s face on and fool the governor this way. But it still made Wax feel more comfortable.

  He stumbled to his feet. Rusts, he was tired. Why hadn’t she killed the governor? There was more to this.

  Wayne peeked in. “Two guards might make it. We have a surgeon helpin’ them now.”

  “Good,” Wax said. “Wait for me upstairs.”

  Wayne nodded, ducking back out. Wax instead walked to the escape route and pulled open the door. He lit a candle and stepped up the slope, cautious, hand on his gun. What did undermining the governor, inciting a riot against the Pathians, and Wax’s own “freedom” have to do with one another? What was he missing?

  He didn’t find Bleeder in the tunnel, though halfway up it he found her red cloak. She’d tossed it, bloodied, to the side. There, scrawled on the wall, was a crude picture shaped like a man, drawn with a fingernail into the wood.

  Dabs of dried blood marked the figure’s eyes, and another marked its mouth. The words scrawled beneath in blood gave Wax a chill.

  I rip out his tongue to stop the lies.

  I stab out his eyes to hide from his gaze.

  You will be free.

  17

  About a half hour after Bleeder’s attack, Wayne walked into the governor’s fancy washroom. Only in his head it wasn’t the washroom. He just knew to call it that here.

  You see, Wayne had figured out the code.

  Rich folks, they had this code. All of them knew it, and they used it like a new language to weed out everyone who didn’t belong.

  Regular folk, they called something after what it was.

  You’d say, “What’s that, Kell?”

  And they’d say, “That? That there’s the crapper.”

  And you’d reply, “What do you do with it?”

  And they’d say, “Well, Wayne, that’s where you put your crap.”

  It made sense. But rich folk, they had a different word for the crapper. They’d call it a “commode” or a “washroom.” That way, when someone asked for the crapper, they knew it was a person they needed to oppress.

  Wayne did his business and spat his gum into the bowl before flushing. It felt good to be wearing his own hat again, dueling canes at his waist. He’d spent a good hour or two wearing the clothing and false face of a guard for Innate. Horribly uncomfortable, that.

  He wiped his sniffly nose and washed his hands, drying them on towels embroidered with Innate’s name. He was that worried people would run off with his towels? Well, the joke was on him. Wayne was perfectly happy to wipe up dirt with the governor’s name. He tucked the towel into his pocket, and left in trade a few mints he’d taken from the bar.

  He wandered out from there, peeking into the room where the governor was holding a meeting with all kinds of important folks, the type who called the crapper “the facilities.”

  You know, he thought, maybe I have it wrong. Maybe it’s not code. Maybe they’re just so familiar with what comes out of their arses, normal words aren’t specific enough. Like how the Terris language had seven different words for iron.

  He nodded to himself. A new theory. Wax was gonna love this one. Wayne passed into the room with the couches, where the guards had been gunned down. Wax stood inside with an envelope, into which he dropped something small and metallic. He sealed it, then handed it to a young messenger from the governor’s staff.

  “Deliver it quickly,” Wax said. “Pound on the door. Wake her up if you have to—and don’t get scared off if she cusses at you or threatens to shoot you. She won’t actually hurt you.”

  The young man nodded, though he’d gone pale.

  “Tell her it’s urgent,” Wax said, holding up his finger. “Don’t let her toss it aside and read it in the morning. You stay there until she’s read what I wrote, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good lad. Off with you.”

  The youth ran out. Wayne strolled over to Wax, passing the open door down to the saferoom. The bodies around it had been removed, though the blood remained.

  “Ranette?” Wayne asked hopefully.

  Wax nodded. “I thought of something that might help.”

  “I coulda delivered that, you know.…”

  “You, she would shoot,” Wax said.

  “Only ’cuz she likes me,” Wayne said, smiling. He’d have welcomed an excuse to go see Ranette. This night was getting darker and darker, it seemed.

  “Wayne…” Wax said. “You know she doesn’t actually like you.”

  “You always say that, but you’re just not seein’ the truth, Wax.”

  “She tries to kill you.”

  “To keep me alive,” Wayne said. “She knows I live a dangerous life. So, keepin’ me on my toes is the best way to make sure I stick around. Anyway, was that Marasi I saw in there with the governor and his important folk?”

  Wax nodded. “She and MeLaan arrived a short time back. Aradel wants to declare martial law.”

  “And you don’t?” Wayne asked, taking a seat on one of the nice couches that didn’t have much blood splattered on it. Important people were meeting nearby. He suspected he knew what would come next, and he intended to wait around for it.

  Wax stood for a moment, then shook his head. “Bleeder set this all up, Wayne. She’s been pushing us toward this. ‘I rip out his tongue … I stab out his eyes…’”

  “Now, I’m as for dismemberment as the next fellow,” Wayne said, “but that’s a mite violent for this time of day.”

  “Bleeder wrote it on the wall down below. A poem of some sort. It doesn’t feel finished to me.”

  “She nailed that priest through the eyes,” Wayne noted.

  “And ripped out Winsting’s tongue,” Wax said. He fished in his pocket and brought something out, tossing it to Wayne.

  “What’s this?” Wayne asked, turning it over in his fingers. It was a piece of painted wood.

  “Remains of the Marksman’s mask. Bleeder was wearing it.”

  “You think she was him all along?” Wayne asked.

  “Maybe,” Wax said. “It would have served her purpose, riling up the people of the slums, reminding them how rich the houses are. By bringing him down, I put myself at odds with the common people.”

  “I hate to say it, mate,” Wayne said, “but you ain’t exactly beloved of them anyway.”

  “I’m a hero from the Roughs,” Wax said.

  “You’re a conner,” Wayne said. “And a house lord, mate. Not to mention the fact that you can, yunno, fly. You can’t treat this like Weathering. You can’t convince a fellow you’re on his side by slapping him in jail overnight, then playing cards with him until he sees you as a regular chap.”

  Wax sighed. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Usually am.”

  “Except that time on Lessie’s birthday.”

  “You always have to bring that up, don’t you?” Wayne leaned back, tipping his hat down over his eyes. “Honest mistake.”

  “You put dynamite in the oven, Wayne.”

  “Gotta hide a gift where nobody’ll look for it.”

  “I need to piece this together,” Wax said, starting to pace. “Sketch it out. Write it down. We’re missing something very important.”

  Wayne nodded, but was hardly listening. Wax would figure it out. Wayne just needed to get some shuteye, while the getting was still good enoug
h for …

  He heard a door click open. He threw back his hat and was on his feet a second later, scrambling for the door. Wax cursed, pulling out one of his guns, following as Wayne dashed into the hallway and intercepted the servant with a plate full of little party foods.

  “Aha!” Wayne said. “Thought you could slip by me, didja!”

  The kitchen maid looked horrified as Wayne gathered up three of each of the treats. Wax stopped in the doorway, then lowered his gun. “Oh, for Harmony’s sake.”

  “Harmony can get his own,” Wayne said, popping a little cake in his mouth. As he turned back to Wax, the maid scuttled away, heading for the meeting.

  It was exactly what Wayne had been waiting for. Important folk meeting together always meant snacks. Or canapés, if you knew the code. Wayne popped one in his mouth—candied bacon wrapped around a walnut.

  “How is it?” Wax asked.

  “Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.”

  “I did not need to hear that,” Wax said, slipping his gun back into its holster. “I’m going to need to go back out there, see if I can figure out Bleeder’s plan. That leaves you here to protect the governor again.”

  Wayne nodded. “I’ll do what I can, but that’s a tall order, mate.”

  “I’ve arranged for some help,” Wax said, leading the way over to the ladies’ crapper. He knocked on the door.

  “Still changing!” MeLaan’s voice came from inside.

  “How long?” Wax said.

  The door cracked, and a woman’s face peeked out that looked completely unlike MeLaan’s. “Not long,” she said in MeLaan’s voice. “This lady’s hair was a real pain.” She shut the door.

  “I recognize that face,” Wayne said, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

  “One of the guards,” Wax said. “That got shot a little earlier.”

  “Oh right.” Wayne had a sinking feeling. “Wasn’t she one of the ones I tried to save?”