Shadows of Self

  “You’re not Lessie.”

  She grimaced. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. I was never Lessie. Always Paalm the kandra. But I wanted to be Lessie. Does that count for anything?”

  Rusts … she had Lessie’s mannerisms down exactly. MeLaan had said she was good, but this was so real, so believable. He found himself lowering his gun, wishing. Wishing …

  Harmony? he begged.

  But he didn’t have his earring in.

  * * *

  Marasi and Reddi wrapped around, moving over a block before coming back in behind the suspicious carriage. They hadn’t been able to gather as large a force as she’d wanted—not only did they worry about the Soother noticing the motion, Reddi was concerned about leaving too few people watching the crowd.

  MeLaan’s voice carried through the voice projectors, audible even as Marasi and her team of eleven men set up near the far end of the alleyway containing the carriage. How long before the Set noticed they’d been had? Probably not long. Marasi had left in some of the beginning part of the speech, in order to not sound too different from Innate, but the speech would take a turn very soon.

  Reddi pulled off his constable’s helmet—Marasi’s own pressed against her hair, an uncomfortable weight—then nodded to the rest of them in the darkness. With his aluminum-lined helmet off, he could feel the Soother’s touch more powerfully here than he had out in the crowd. That carriage really was the source of it.

  He put the helmet back on. The precinct owned only a dozen of these, all donated by Waxillium. Reddi had just enough clout to requisition the task force that had them. He secured his helmet, then reached to his side, taking out a thick dueling cane like a long baton with a knob on the end. The others did the same. There would be no gunplay this close to a crowd of civilians.

  “We go in quickly and quietly,” Reddi whispered to the team. “Hope to Harmony they don’t have a Coinshot with them. Keep your helmets on. I don’t want that Soother taking control of any of you.”

  Marasi cocked an eyebrow. Soothers couldn’t control people, though many mistook that. It didn’t help that the Words of Founding spoke vaguely of kandra and koloss being controlled by Allomancy, but Marasi now knew that was only possible for someone who bore Hemalurgic spikes.

  “Colms,” Reddi said, still speaking in a low voice, “stay at the back. You’re not a field agent. I don’t want you getting hurt or, worse, messing this up.”

  “As you wish,” she said.

  Reddi counted softly. On ten, the group of them surged into the misted alleyway. Marasi hung near the back, walking with hands clasped behind her. Almost immediately after entering the alleyway, the constables pulled to a stop. A force of men in dark clothing piled out of a doorway inside the alley, blocking off access to the little carriage.

  Marasi’s heart pounded as the two groups regarded one another. At least this proved she’d been right about the carriage. A few of the newcomers carried guns, but a barked word from one of the dark-clothed men made them tuck those away.

  They don’t want to draw the crowd’s attention from the speech, Marasi thought. They still think what the governor is saying plays into their plans.

  Keeping this fight quiet would serve both sides. The two groups stood waiting, tense, before Reddi waved his dueling cane.

  The two forces crashed into one another.

  * * *

  Bleeder stepped closer to Wax in the mists. Atop this high platform, this tower on the bridge, nothing else seemed to exist. It was as if they stood on a tiny steel island rising from the sea. Grey all around, darkness extending into vastness above.

  “Maybe I should have come to you,” Lessie’s voice said. “And had you help me with my plan. But he was watching. He’s always watching. I’m glad you took the earring out. At least my words meant something to you.”

  “Stop,” Wax whispered. “Please.”

  “Stop what?” Lessie asked, mere inches from him. “Stop walking? Stop talking? Stop loving you? My life would have been a lot easier if I’d been able to do that.”

  Wax seized her with his open hand, grabbing her by the neck, thumb along her jaw. She met his eyes, and he saw pity in them.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “the reason I didn’t come to you had no connection to Harmony at all. I knew this would hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  No, Wax thought.

  “I’m going to have to do something about you,” she said. “Keep you safe, somehow, but out of the way. Might have to hurt you, Wax. For your own good.”

  No, this isn’t real.

  “Still don’t know what to do about Wayne,” she said. “Couldn’t bring myself to kill him, poor fool. He followed you here, to help you in the city. For that I love him. But he’s still Harmony’s, and so he’s probably better dead than the way he is now.”

  NO!

  Wax shoved her back, lifting Vindication again. The gun, however, leaped from his fingers—Pushed by Bleeder. It tumbled into the mists.

  Wax growled, ramming his shoulder into Bleeder, trying to toss her off the tower. She seized him as he hit, throwing them both off balance.

  As they fell together, she raised her aluminum gun and shot him in the leg.

  He cried out as they fell from the tower, dropping through the mists. A frantic Push on the bridge below slowed Wax, but when he hit, his leg gave out and he screamed, dropping to one knee.

  Gun. Find the gun.

  It had fallen this way. Rusts. Would it even work after dropping so far? He hadn’t heard it hit. Did that mean it had plunged into the waters?

  Bleeder landed hard nearby. She spun on him, lit now by the garish electric lights that lined the roadway of the bridge. It was empty of carriages and motorcars, and behind her, a greater light hovered over the city. Red, violent light, seeming to burn the mists.

  Looking out of the city, he saw darkness and peace. But inward, Elendel burned.

  * * *

  Marasi edged along the outside of a battlefield.

  It was a very small battlefield, true, but the ferocity of the conflict stunned her. She felt she could—for the first time—imagine what it had been like to live during the War of Ash, so long ago.

  But surely wars back then had been more thought-out, more deliberate. Not this mixed jumble of figures beating on one another, breaking bones, cursing, stepping on the fallen. Watching it made her sick, anxious. Those men were her colleagues, struggling frantically to push through the Set’s thugs. All night they’d been forced to stand and watch the city decompose around them, the situation growing worse and worse as they felt helpless.

  This was something they could fight, so fight they did, cracking heads, shoving down enemies, grunting in the dirty, dark alleyway in an effort to reach the carriage. Thankfully, the Set troops here didn’t appear to include any Coinshots or Pewterarms.

  Her men were still outnumbered, and for all their determination they weren’t making much headway. Outside the alleyway, the crowd was growing restless. The kandra’s speech turned toward the words Marasi had written for her, words promising social reform, legislation to cut down work hours and improve conditions in the factories. What Marasi was able to hear of the echoing voice, unfortunately, had a sense of desperation to it. It sounded fake, inauthentic.

  That wasn’t MeLaan’s fault. She had said she didn’t have time to prepare this imitation properly, and it wasn’t her specialty in the first place. Rusts. The crowd started to shout, cursing the governor’s lies. MeLaan’s voice faltered. Was this the Rioter, whipping the crowd into a frenzy? Or were the people so angry, they were overcoming the Allomancy?

  Either way, Marasi couldn’t help feeling desperate as her men struggled and fell, the crowd building toward a full-on riot. She made her way along the side of the alley, hoping that if she got to that carriage she could make a difference. Unfortunately, the alley’s confines were too narrow, and combatants filled the entire thing. Already half her men were down. Those who fought looked like wraiths, shifting an
d undulating in the mists. Shadows trying to consume shadows.

  Nobody on either side seemed to pay her much attention. That was common. For most of her life, her father had wished that she would vanish. Those in high society were very good at pretending she didn’t exist. Even Waxillium seemed to forget she was along sometimes.

  Well, so be it. She took a deep breath, and strode directly into the fight. As she neared two struggling men, she dodged in, as if trying to do something to help—then flung herself to the side as if she’d been hit. It was a fair impression, in her opinion.

  She heard Reddi curse her name from somewhere in the alleyway, but nobody came to her rescue. They kept trying very assiduously to kill one another, and so Marasi crept along the ground, crawling in the shadows until she neared the carriage.

  Two guards stood here. Drat. She needed to get past them. How?

  She glanced back toward the fight. It had moved farther up the alley, the constables being forced to retreat before superior numbers. They were probably far enough away that Marasi could try something truly desperate.

  She used her Allomancy.

  For a brief moment, she engaged a speed bubble that caught herself and just the two guards. She extinguished her metal immediately. Only seconds had passed outside.

  It was still jarring. The mists seemed to zip with sudden speed around them, and the combatants lurched in their motions. The two guards jumped in surprise, looking around. Marasi did her best impression of a corpse.

  Then she flicked on the Allomancy again.

  “Ruin!” one of the guards said. “You see that?”

  “There’s Metalborn among them,” the other said. They both sounded very nervous.

  Marasi gave them another jolt of distorted time. The two guards held a hushed, frantic argument; then they knocked on the door of the carriage and spoke through the window. Marasi waited, sweating, her nerves taut. Her men didn’t have much time.…

  The two guards ran down the alleyway, leaving the carriage and carrying orders to the other combatants to be wary of Metalborn. Marasi got to her feet and slipped around to the other side of the carriage, which had no driver, then pulled open the door and slipped inside, seating herself.

  A pudgy woman sat on the bench within, wearing a lavish gown of three silken layers. A man beside her sat with a hand on her wrist, his eyes closed, his suit very stylish and modern. The handgun Marasi leveled at them was, on the other hand, quite traditional. And quite functional.

  The woman blinked, breaking her concentration to regard Marasi with a look of horror. She nudged the man, who opened his eyes, startled. One Soother and one Rioter, Marasi would guess.

  “I have a theory,” Marasi said to them, “that a gentlewoman should never need to resort to something so barbarous as violence to achieve her goals. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The two quickly nodded.

  “Yes indeed,” Marasi said. “A true gentlewoman uses the threat of violence instead. So much more civilized.” She cocked the gun. “Stop those pewterheads in the alley from beating up my friends. Then we’ll talk about what to do with this crowd.…”

  * * *

  “Stop it, Wax!” Bleeder screamed. “Stop obeying him!”

  There. Vindication! He spotted the gun near Bleeder, peeking out of a gutter alongside the roadway.

  Wax leaped for it, rolling painfully on his wounded arm, using a Push to skid forward. Bleeder leveled her gun at him, but didn’t fire. Perhaps, deep down, a part of the creature had adopted the feelings of the body it wore. Perhaps it no longer could tell the difference between its mind and its face.

  Wax snatched up Vindication.

  “Please,” Bleeder whispered. “Listen.”

  “You’re wrong about me,” Wax said, spinning the chamber, feeling the trigger, hoping the gun still worked. He looked up at Bleeder and leveled the weapon.

  Looking down those sights, he saw Lessie. His stomach turned again.

  “How am I wrong?” Bleeder asked.

  Rusts, she was crying.

  “I’m not Harmony’s hands,” Wax whispered. “I’m His sword.”

  Then he fired.

  Bleeder didn’t dodge. Why would she? Guns barely inconvenienced her. This shot took her right in the forehead. Though her head flinched at the impact, she didn’t fall, barely even moved.

  She stared at him, a little dribble of blood running down beside the bridge of her nose, onto her lips. Then her eyes widened.

  Her gun dropped from trembling fingers.

  We’re weaker than other Hemalurgic creatures, MeLaan had said. Wax struggled to his feet, holding on to the bridge’s side wall for support. Only two spikes, and we can be taken.

  “No!” Bleeder screeched, falling to her knees. “No!”

  One spike allowed her to be sapient. And a second—delivered into her skull in the form of a bullet forged from Wax’s earring—let Harmony seize control of her again.

  26

  Marasi towed the female Soother after her, holding the woman’s collar with one hand, her gun in the other. They were accompanied by a battered Reddi, who regarded the surging crowd with displeasure. They’d left the other captives with the rest of the constables, and she prayed to Harmony that wasn’t tempting fate.

  “Stop them,” Marasi hissed at the woman as they reached the edge of the crowd, which was throwing things at the stage. Poor MeLaan soldiered onward with the speech, growing more and more testy that they weren’t listening.

  “I’m trying!” the Soother complained. “It might be easier if you weren’t choking me!”

  “Just Soothe!” Reddi said, raising his dueling cane.

  “I can’t control their minds, silly man!” the Soother said. “And beating on me won’t accomplish anything. When do I get to speak to my solicitor? I’ve broken no laws. I was simply watching the proceedings with interest.”

  Marasi ignored Reddi’s angry response, instead focusing on the crowd. MeLaan stood before them, lit by electric lights from behind, but by bonfires from the front. The rage of the crowd, an ancient fire, against the cold sterility of the new world.

  “You should be grateful!” MeLaan shouted at the crowd. “I’ve come to talk to you myself!”

  Wrong words, Marasi thought. Her annoyance was leading her to deviate from the script.

  “I’m listening!” MeLaan yelled over the crowd. “But you have to listen back, you miscreants!”

  She sounds just like him. Too much, perhaps? MeLaan was playing a part. She was the governor, the role Marasi had given her. It seemed that the kandra had let the form dictate her reactions. Rusts … it wasn’t that she was doing a bad job. She was doing a good job—of being Innate. Unfortunately, Innate had always had trouble connecting with the crowds.

  “Fine,” MeLaan said, waving a hand. “Burn the city! See how you feel in the morning without homes to live in.”

  Marasi closed her eyes and groaned. Rusts, she was tired. How late was it, now?

  The crowd was growing violent. Time to grab MeLaan and Wayne and leave. Their gambit had failed. It had been a long shot in the first place, perhaps impossible. This crowd had come for blood. And …

  The crowd shouted a new set of jeers. Marasi frowned, opening her eyes. She stood at the south edge of the crowd, near one of the bonfires, and was close enough to the front to make out Constable-General Aradel, who had stepped up beside MeLaan. Likely, he was going to get “the governor” to safety.

  Instead Aradel took out his pistol and pointed it at the governor.

  Marasi gaped for a moment. Then she spun on the Soother. “Soothe them!” she said. “Now. With everything you have. Do it, and I give you immunity for what you did tonight.”

  The woman eyed Marasi, displaying a craftiness that belied her earlier whining. She seemed to be weighing the offer.

  “I promise it,” Marasi said, “by the Survivor’s spear.”

  The woman nodded, and a wave went through the crowd—a sudden hush. It didn’t qui
et them completely, but when Aradel spoke, his voice carried.

  “Replar Innate,” Aradel said. “In the name of the people of this city, and by the authority of my station as lord high constable, I arrest you for gross corruption, personal exploitation of this city’s resources, and perjury of your oaths as a civil servant.”

  The crowd finally stilled completely.

  “What idiocy—” MeLaan began.

  “Men, turn around,” Aradel said. He looked down at his constables. “Turn around.”

  The feeble line of soldiers reluctantly turned to face him, putting their backs to the crowd.

  “What is he doing?” Reddi demanded.

  “Something brilliant,” Marasi said.

  Aradel looked over the crowd, still holding a gun to the governor. “Tonight, the governor himself declared this city to be in a state of martial law. That puts the constables in charge, with him at the head. Unfortunately, it turns out the governor is a lying bastard.”

  Some of the people began hesitant shouts of agreement.

  “He’s no longer in control,” Aradel said. “Best I can figure, you’re in control. So if you’re willing, tonight, the constables stand with you.

  “Now, you all came here to start a riot. Listen! Stop your shouts. I won’t stand for rioting or looting. You start burning this city, and I’ll fight you up to my last breath. You hear me? We aren’t a mob.”

  “Then what are we?” a call went up, along with a handful of others.

  “We’re the people of Elendel, and we’re tired of being led by a pack of rats,” Aradel yelled. “I have proof of at least seven house lords who are corrupt. I mean to see them arrested. Tonight.” Aradel hesitated, then spoke louder, voice carrying and amplified by the cones set up before the stage. “I could use an army to help me, if you’re willing.”

  As the crowd roared its agreement, Aradel shoved MeLaan into the hands of a pair of corporals waiting nearby. They seemed utterly stunned. In truth, Aradel himself seemed a little overwhelmed by what he’d just done.