فصل 12

12

“That’s good,” Wayne said, notepad out. “You’re sure that fellow wasn’t acting strange, then? Nothing odd?” The serving woman shook her head, sitting with her arms wrapped around herself. They’d finally managed to get down from the top floor, following the panicked exodus by the rich types. The governor was surrounded by a bubble of guards over to Wayne’s left, and a set of strong electric lanterns illuminated the misty night.

The green in front of the skyscraper felt right empty, now that so many people had left. He figured that would soon change, when Marasi returned with some more constables. She’d run off to fetch them, and give a report. That meant Wayne was the sole officer of lawkeepin’ in the vicinity. A frightening thought.

“I’ve got one more question for you,” Wayne said to the woman.

“Yes, officer?” she asked.

“Where’d you get those shoes?”

The woman blinked, then looked down. “Um … My shoes?”

“Yeah, your shoes,” Wayne said. “Look plenty comfortable, they do. Can never have too many pairs of black pumps. They go with rusting everything.” She looked back at him. “You’re a man.”

“Sure am,” Wayne said. “Checked last time I pissed. The shoes?”

“Rousseau’s,” she said. “Third Octant, on Yomen Street.” She paused. “They were on sale last week.” “Damn!” Wayne said. “That’s beautiful. Thanks. You’re free to go.”

She gave him that look that people seemed to give only to Wayne, the one he hadn’t quite figured. Ah well. He wrote down the name of the shop. If he had to wear those awful pumps from his disguise box one more time, he’d probably go insane.

He popped a ball of gum into his mouth and wandered over toward the pile of guards, going over his notes. That server up above, he thought, tapping his pad with his pencil, was not the kandra. Wayne had talked to a dozen of the staff. All knew the fellow and said he hadn’t been acting strange at all. But none of them liked him. He was a screwup, and none were surprised that he’d turned out to be rotten.

An amateur might think that picking the new guy made for a good disguise, but this Bleeder, she could be anyone. Why would she pick the low man on the list, someone who had only joined the staff a few weeks back? Sure, being new would give you an excuse to not know people’s names, but by reports, this fellow hadn’t forgotten anyone’s name tonight. And picking a habitual klutz with a bad reputation would just lead to everyone watching over your shoulder. A terrible choice for an imitator.

That guy had been some other kind of mole. He shook his head.

“Where’s Drim?” he asked the guards. “I wanna show him what I’ve got.” The guard leaned over, looking at Wayne’s notepad. “All that’s on there is a bunch of scribbles.” “It’s for show,” Wayne said. “Makes people talk more if they think you’re writin’ stuff down. Dunno why. I sure wouldn’t want anyone rememberin’ the slag I say.…” He hesitated, then shoved aside the guard, looking into the middle of the pile. Drim wasn’t there, and neither was the governor.

“What’d you do with him!” Wayne said, turning on the others. A smug group of bastards, they were.

“It was best everyone thought he was still here,” the guard said. “In truth, he and Drim headed to a secure location ages ago. If we fooled you, then hopefully we fooled the assassin.” “Fooled … I’m supposed to be protectin’ the guy!”

“Well, you’re doing a rusting good job of that, mate, ain’tcha,” the guard said, then smirked.

So Wayne did the only reasonable thing. He spat out his gum, then decked the fellow.

Wax rarely appreciated the city as much as he did when he needed to get somewhere quickly.

To the eyes of a man burning steel, Elendel was alight and full of motion, even while shadowed by darkness and mist. Metal. In some ways, that was the true mark of mankind. Man tamed the stones, the bones of the earth below. Man tamed the fire, that ephemeral, consuming soul of life. And combining the two, he drew forth the marrow of the rocks themselves, then made molten tools.

Wax passed among the skyscrapers like a whisper, the motion drying his clothing. He became just another current in the mists, and moving with him in radial spokes was a majestic network of blue lines—like a million outstretched fingers pointing the way to anchors he could use along his path. When even a galloping horse was too slow, Wax had steel. It burned in him, returning to the fire that gave it shape.

From it he drew power. Sometimes that wasn’t enough.

But this night, he exploded through the lit upper windows of the Harms dwelling, rolling and coming up with guns leveled. Lord Harms swiveled in the chair of his writing desk, knocking over his pot of ink. The red-faced older man had a comfortable paunch, an easy manner, and a pair of mustaches that were in competition with his jowls to see which could droop farthest toward the floor. Upon seeing Wax, he started, then scrambled to reach into his desk drawer.

Wax scanned the room. Nobody else there. No enemies in the corners, no moving bits of metal in closets or the bedroom. He’d arrived in time. Wax let out a sigh of relief, standing up as Lord Harms finally got his desk drawer open. The man whipped out a pistol, one of the modern semiautos that were popular with the constables. Harms leaped to his feet and rushed over to Wax, holding his gun in two hands.

“Where are they!” Harms exclaimed. “We can take them, eh, old boy?” “You have a gun,” Wax said.

“Yes indeed, yes indeed. After what happened last year, I realized that a man has to be armed. What’s the emergency? I’ll have your back!” Wax carefully tipped the point of Lord Harms’s gun downward, just in case a bullet was chambered—because, fortunately, the man hadn’t locked a magazine into the pistol. Wax glanced behind at the windows. He’d flung them open with a Push as he approached, but they were meant to open outward, not inward. He’d ripped both right off their hinges, toppling one while the other hung by its corner. It finally gave way, crashing to the floor, cracking the glass inside the wooden frame.

Mist poured in through the opening, flooding the floor. Where was Bleeder? In the house somewhere? Impersonating a maid? A neighbor? A constable passing on the street?

Standing in the room with him?

“Jackstom,” Wax said, looking to Lord Harms, “do you remember when you first met me, and Wayne was pretending to be my butler?” Harms frowned. “You mean your uncle?”

Good, Wax thought. An impostor wouldn’t know that, would she? Rusts … He’d have to suspect everyone.

“You’re in danger,” Wax said, sliding his guns into their hip holsters. His suit was basically ruined from the swim in the canal, and he’d tossed aside his cravat, but the sturdy mistcoat had seen far worse than this. “I’m getting you out of here.” “But…” Lord Harms trailed off, face blanching. “My daughter?”

As if he had only one.

“Steris is fine,” Wax said. “Wayne is watching her. Let’s go.”

The problem was, go where? Wax had a hundred places he could take Harms, but Bleeder could be lurking at any of them. The odds were certainly in Wax’s favor, and yet … Bleeder is ancient, Harmony had said. Older than the destruction of the world. She is crafty, careful, and brilliant.… She spent centuries studying human behavior.

Any option Wax chose could be the very one Bleeder had predicted he would choose. How did you outthink something so old, so knowledgeable?

The solution seemed easy. You didn’t try.

Steris left ZoBell Tower to find Wayne sitting across the street from a huddle of bruised and obviously angry men. Wayne was eating a sandwich.

“Oh, Wayne,” she said, looking from the hostile, wounded men and back to him. “Those are the governor’s guards. He’s going to need them tonight.” “’s not my fault,” Wayne said. “They was bein’ unaccommodating.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

She sighed, settling down beside him and looking up through the mists toward the tower. She could make out the lights on various floors glowing like phantoms above, leading all the way up to the very top.

“This is how it’s going to be, with him, isn’t it?” she asked. “Always being left behind in the middle of something? Always half feeling as if I’m part of his life?” Wayne shrugged. “You could do the noble thing, Steris. Give up on the whole marriage. Let him loose to find someone he actually likes.” “And my family’s investment in him and his house?”

“Well, I know this here is revolutionary words, Steris, but you can loan a chap money without him havin’ to jump you in appreciation, if you know my meanin’.” Good Harmony he could be shockingly unmannered. He wasn’t like this to others. Oh, he was crass and whimsical, but rarely blatantly rude. He saved that for her. Was he expecting her to fight back, prove herself somehow? She’d never been able to figure this man out. Preparing what to say to him only seemed to make him more vulgar.

“Did he say where he was going?” she said, trying to remain polite.

“Nah,” Wayne said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “He’s chasin’ Bleeder down. Means he could have gone anywhere, and so tryin’ to find him is useless. He’ll come back for me when he can. If I leave, I’ll just end up missing him.” “I see.” She settled back, crossing her feet on the curb and staring up at those lights. “Do you hate me because of what I represent, Wayne? The responsibilities that called him back?” “I don’t hate you,” Wayne said. “I find you repulsive. That there is an important distinction, it is.” “But—”

Wayne stood up. He shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

Then he walked over to the guards that were glaring at him and sat down. The implication was obvious.

I’d rather be here.

Steris closed her eyes, squeezing them shut, and tried to pretend she was someone other than herself for a time. Eventually, sounding bells announced the arrival of constable carriages. She stood up and composed herself, relieved when Marasi exited one of them and hurried over.

“Waxillium?” she asked.

Steris shook her head.

“Get in,” Marasi said, pointing to one of the carriages. “I’m sending you someplace safe.” “I think the danger has passed here,” Steris said. “Unless Wayne is picking fights again.” “No,” Marasi said. “The danger has only just started.”

Something in the younger woman’s tone gave Steris pause. Other constables weren’t piling out of the carriages. In fact, they seemed to be waiting for Marasi. They weren’t coming here to investigate the man Waxillium had chased off.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Steris asked.

“Yeah,” Marasi said. “Wayne, get over here! We’ve got work to do.”

Wax stashed Lord Harms at the very top of Feder Tower. He’d chosen its location on the city map by picking random numbers; hopefully Bleeder wouldn’t be able to outthink a plan with no thought involved. Harms had instructions to lie low, hide in the darkness and stay quiet. Even if Bleeder could Steelpush and search in the night, the chance of her happening upon Harms was ridiculously low verging on impossible. That didn’t stop Wax from worrying. Steris’s father was a silly man, but good-natured and amiable.

It was the best Wax could do, as he needed to locate the governor. That hunt took Wax longer than he’d have assumed, which was actually a good thing. It meant that Drim, despite his dislike of Wax, was doing his job properly. Best Wax could determine, they had sent at least three unmarked carriages away from ZoBell Tower: two decoys, and one with the governor inside. He spotted one on Stanton Way, and dismissed it. Too obvious, with the guards riding on top. Guessing that another had gone east, he found it driving around in a circle in the Third Octant, also trying to draw attention. It was moving too slowly.

Besides, the governor wouldn’t go that way. Innate was a fighter. He wouldn’t want to be seen hiding. So it was that Wax found himself perched on the top of a building near Hammond Promenade, a few streets from Innate’s own mansion. He’d return here, eschewing safehouses in the city. He’d want to be in his center of power and authority.

The mists seemed to glow here in the city, lit by a thousand lights—an increasing number of them electric. It took long enough for the carriage to arrive that Wax was starting to second-guess himself. But arrive it did: a tall-topped enclosed coach with red curtains. Yes, it was quite nondescript. The horses, however, were from the governor’s prized breeding stock. Just like the two decoys.

Wax shook his head as he jumped and Pushed his way to the top of the stone archway outside the First Insurance Bank. The coach moved at a fair clip and held no obvious guards. They must have taken a very roundabout way to take so long to reach here. Wax leaped off the bank’s facade and Pushed on a streetlight, hurling himself after the governor’s coach. He landed on its top and nodded to the surprised coachman, then swung down alongside the vehicle and knocked on the coach’s door, hanging by one arm above the blur of cobblestones beneath. They were certainly running the animals hard.

After a few moments the window shade opened, revealing Drim’s surprised face. “Ladrian?” he said. “What the hell are you doing?” “Being polite,” Wax said. “May I come in?”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then I stop being polite.”

Drim sneered, but glanced to the side, where the governor rode with his hat in his lap. The man nodded, and Drim sighed and turned back to the door.

They didn’t stop the carriage. So Wax had to let go, drop a bullet casing, and Push back to the carriage as Drim opened the door. He grabbed it by the handle, Pushing off a passing light, and ducked into the vehicle, ending up seated opposite Drim and the governor.

Drim would be a perfect person to imitate. As would the carriage driver, as would basically anyone with access to the governor, including his wife and family.

“Lord Ladrian,” Innate said with a sigh. “Breaking up the party wasn’t enough for you? You have to harass me on the way home from it as well?” Wax shrugged, then moved to climb back out of the carriage. He had the door half open before Innate, sputtering, snapped, “What are you doing now, you fool?” “Leaving,” Wax said. “There are thousands of places I could be right now, most of them more pleasant.” He hesitated, then pulled out one of his Sterrions and flipped it in his hand, holding it grip-first to the governor. “Here.” The governor’s eyes bulged. “Why would I need a gun? I have bodyguards.” “So did your brother,” Wax said. “Take it. I’ll feel guilty when you get shot, if I haven’t done something.” “… Shot?” Innate blanched. “My brother was killed because of his flirtations with the underbelly of Elendel. They wouldn’t dare touch me.” “I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Wax said, leaning out the door, then hesitated again and looked back in. “You know how to spot a kandra, right, Drim?” “A what?” the thick-necked bodyguard said.

“Those are myths,” Lord Innate said.

“Are they?” Wax said. “Then the one I met tonight must have been lying. Not sure how she made her skin transparent though. Oh well. Guess you have it in hand.” “You mean to tell me,” Innate said, stopping Wax with a touch before he could move out the door again, “that one of the Faceless Immortals was at my party tonight?” “Two, actually,” Wax said. “One came to help. I would introduce you, have her prove her nature to you, but it does seem that your mind is made up. The other one at the party was the person who killed your brother. You sure you don’t want a gun? No? All right, I’ll just be—” “You’ve made your point, Lord Waxillium,” Innate said, sour-faced. He settled back beside the carriage’s lantern, which burned gas with a proper light.

“My lord,” Drim said, looking to Innate. “This is stupid. The Faceless Immortals? Every second person claims to have met one, just to get their stories in the broadsheets! You’re not really considering these claims, are you?” Innate studied Wax.

“He is,” Wax said. “Because he knows something strange happened to his brother. Killed in his saferoom, guards murdered from behind by someone they trusted—and Winsting Innate took his security very seriously. More seriously than you do, I’d suspect, Mister Governor.” “You can introduce me to one of the creatures?” Innate asked. “Offer me proof of their existence?” “Yes.”

“But why,” Drim said, “would one of Harmony’s own servants kill Lord Winsting?” “The kandra has gone insane,” Wax said softly. “We don’t know her motives yet, but she does seem to want you dead, Mister Governor. So my job is to keep you alive.” “What do we do?” Innate asked. “How do we prepare?”

“Well,” Wax said, “first I take over your security.”

“Like hell you do!” Drim said.

“You taking over is impossible,” Innate agreed. “Drim has served me well for years. He … Where are you going?” Wax turned back from the door. “There’s a play I wanted to see tonight,” he said, gesturing. “Figured I’d go catch the tail end while you two discuss this.” “And if this creature comes for me while you’re gone?” Innate demanded.

“I’m sure your head of security can deal with it,” Wax said. “He knew the kandra were at the party tonight, didn’t he? And he most certainly didn’t miss Wayne slipping in wearing a disguise. And—” “You may review my security protocols,” Innate said with a sigh. “And offer advice.” “Fine,” Wax said, pulling the door closed as the carriage turned a corner and approached the governor’s mansion. “But you have to agree to one thing right now. I’m going to give you both a passphrase, and I want you both to vow not to share it with anyone. Not even each other or Lady Innate. You’ll also give me a passphrase. When we meet, we’ll exchange them in a whisper, which will prove that none of us have been replaced.” “You honestly think I wouldn’t know my own wife?” Innate asked tiredly.

“I’m sure you would,” Wax said, softening his tone. “But this is a requirement of my aid, and you must humor me. It will put my mind at ease.” The family was most dangerous. Bleeder had sounded so confident, as if she had the governor in hand, which made Wax think the creature had already gotten to one of the family. Lady Innate hadn’t been at the party, but Harmony had said Bleeder could swap bodies whenever she wished. Rust and Ruin, what an awful spot to be in. Bleeder could have killed a niece or nephew, a toddler even, and be planning to imitate one of them to get to the governor. In the Historica, kandra imitated animals. The house pets could secretly be assassins.

Wax glanced at the governor, who looked profoundly disturbed, his hands clasped, eyes staring as if to see a thousand miles. The implications of it were sinking in. Innate wasn’t an idiot. Just an egotist and possibly a crook.

The carriage pulled up to the mansion and Drim climbed out. As Wax followed, the governor took him by the arm. “I will want to see this proof of yours, Roughian.” “I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

Wax nodded.

“If this is true,” the governor said, still holding his arm, “what do we do? I’ve read the Words of Founding. I know what the Immortals were capable of. Ruin … this creature could be anyone. Passphrases won’t be enough. Not nearly.” “They won’t,” Wax admitted. “Sir, the thing has access to the Metallic Arts too. At any time, she could be anything from a Pulser to an Archivist. Though she can only carry one at a time without risking loss of control, she can swap the powers out at will.” “Great Harmony,” the governor whispered. “How do you stop something like that?” “Frankly, I don’t know. You should probably already be dead.”

“Why am I not?” the governor asked, waving back Drim, who had peeked in to check on them. “This creature could have killed me as easily as she did my brother.” “She seems to have some kind of agenda. Bigger than you. She might not want to bring you down until doing so topples the city government entirely.” Wax hesitated, then leaned closer. “Sir, you might want to leave Elendel.” “Leave?” Innate said. “Have you seen what is going on in the city?” Wax nodded. “I—”

“Labor strikes,” Innate continued as if he hadn’t heard Wax. “Food prices skyrocketing. Too many men from one job out of work, too many from another demanding to be treated better. Rusts, there are practically riots in the streets, man! And the scandal. I can’t leave. My career would be over.” “Better than your life being over.”

The governor glanced at him. He didn’t seem to see it that way. “Leaving is impossible,” Innate reiterated. “It would look like I’m abandoning the people—they’d think the scandal drove me into hiding. I’d be perceived as a coward. No. Impossible. I will send Lady Innate to safety, as well as the children. I must stay and you must deal with this thing, whatever it is. Stop it before it can go any further.” “I’ll try,” Wax said, leaning in. “Give me a passphrase to authenticate myself. Something memorable, but nonsensical.” “’Leavening on sand.’”

“Good. Mine for you is ‘bones without soup.’ You have a saferoom?”

“Yes,” Innate said. “In the bottom of the mansion, beneath the sitting room.” “Set up in there,” Wax said, climbing out of the carriage, “and if you lock the door, don’t let anyone in until I arrive, and can give you the passphrase.” Soon after stepping down, Wax found himself pulling out Vindication.

He’d leveled the gun before he registered what had set him off. Cries of alarm, but not pain. A servant hastened out of the governor’s mansion, passing pillars on the front lit stark white, like a line of femurs.

“My lord governor!” the woman cried. “We’ve had a telenote through the wire; something has happened. You’re going to need to prepare a response!” “What is it?” Wax demanded as the governor climbed from the carriage.

The servant hesitated, eyes widening at Wax’s gun. She wore a sharp black suit, skirt to the ankles, red scarf at the neck. A steward, or perhaps one of the governor’s advisors.

“I’m a constable,” Wax said. “What is the emergency?”

“A murder,” she said.

Harmony, no … “Not Lord Harms. Please tell me!” Had he left the man to be killed, in his haste to get to the governor?

“Lord who?” the woman asked. “It wasn’t a nobleman at all, constable.” She glanced at Drim, who nodded—Wax could be trusted. She looked back to Wax. “It was Father Bin. The priest.” * * *

Marasi stared up at the corpse, which had been nailed to the wall like an old drapery. One spike through each eye. Blood painted the man’s cheeks and had soaked into the white ceremonial robes, forming a crimson vest. Almost like a Terris V. Blood stained the wall on either side of the corpse as well, smeared there by thrashing arms and fingers. Marasi shivered. The priest had been alive as this happened.

Though constables poked and prodded at the large nave of the church, Marasi felt alone, standing before that corpse and its steel eyes. Just her and the body, a disturbingly reverent scene. It reminded her of something out of the Historica, though she couldn’t remember what.

Captain Aradel stepped up beside her. “I’ve had word of your sister,” he said. “We’ve got her in one of our most secure safehouses.” “Thank you, sir.”

“What do you make of it?” he asked, nodding toward the body.

“It’s ghastly, sir. What exactly happened?”

“The conventicalists aren’t being very helpful,” he said. “I’m not sure if they’re in shock, or if they see our intrusion here as offensive.” He gestured for her to go before him and they passed Wayne, who sat in one of the pews chewing gum and looking up at the body. Marasi and Aradel exited the domed nave and entered a small foyer where a row of ashen-faced people sat on some benches. They were conventicalists—those who worked in a Survivorist church aside from the priest.

A grey-haired woman sat at their head, wearing the formal dress of a church matron. She wiped her eyes, and several youths huddled against her, eyes down. Constable Reddi stood nearby; the lean man tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted Aradel. Normally, this wasn’t the sort of thing a constable-general would be involved in, but Aradel had been a detective for many years.

“Will you be handling the interrogation yourself, sir?” Reddi asked. The conventicalists stiffened visibly at the word “interrogation.” Marasi could have smacked him for his tone.

“No,” Aradel.

“Very good, sir,” Reddi said, pulling his bow tie tight and taking out his clipboard. He stepped up to the conventicalists.

“Actually,” Aradel said, “I was thinking we’d let Lieutenant Colms try.” Marasi felt a sharp spike of panic, which she smothered immediately. She wasn’t afraid of a simple interrogation, particularly with amiable witnesses. But the way Aradel said it, so seriously, made her suddenly feel as if it were some type of test. Wonderful.

She took a deep breath and pushed past Reddi, who had lowered his clipboard and was eyeing her. The assembled group of eight people sat with slumped shoulders. How to best approach them? They’d described to a sketch artist what had happened, but details could separate Ruin from Preservation.

Marasi settled down on the bench between two of them. “My condolences on your loss,” she said softly. “My apologies too. The constabulary has failed you this day.” “It’s not your fault,” the matron said, pulling one of the children tight. “Who could have anticipated … Holy Survivor, I knew those Pathians were a miscreant bunch. I always knew it. No rules? No precepts to guide their lives?” “Chaos,” a shaven-headed man said from the bench behind. “They want nothing but chaos.” “What happened?” Marasi said. “I’ve read the report, of course, but … rusts … I can’t imagine…” “We were waiting for evening celebration,” the matron said. “The mists had put in quite the appearance! Must have been almost a thousand people in the dome for worship. And then he just sauntered up to the dais, that Pathian mongrel.” “Did you recognize him?”

“Course I did,” the matron said. “It was that Larskpur; we see him at community functions all the time. People feel they have to invite a Pathian priest, as if to not show favoritism, though nobody wants them around.” Behind her, the underpriest nodded. “Little wretch of a man, barely fit his robes,” he said. “Nothing ornate. Really just a smock. They don’t even dress up to worship.” “He started talking to the crowd,” the matron continued. “Like he was going to give the mistdawn sermon! Only it was vile stuff he spouted.” “Such as what?” Marasi asked.

“Blasphemy,” the matron said. “But it shouldn’t matter. Look here, constable. Why are you even talking to us? A thousand people saw him. Why are you treating us like we did something wrong? You should be off arresting that monster.” “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.”