فصل 7

7

The morning after the assault on the wedding dinner, Marasi stood before the imposing mansion at Sixteen Ladrian Place, holding her handbag before her in both hands. She always liked to grip something before herself when she was nervous, a bad habit. As Professor Modicarm said, “Obvious visual tells must be assiduously avoided by a practitioner of the law, lest he inadvertently give criminals an insight into his emotional state.” Thinking over quotes from her professors was another of her nervous habits. She continued to stand on the stone-paved sidewalk, indecisive. Would Lord Waxillium find it odd or invasive of her to come? Did he think her a silly girl with a silly hobby who foolishly assumed she could be of use to a seasoned lawman?

She should probably just go up and knock. But didn’t she have a right to be nervous when confronting a man such as Waxillium Ladrian? A living legend, one of her personal heroes?

A young gentleman passed on the sidewalk behind her, walking an eager dog. He tipped his hat to her, though he spared a brief distrustful glance for Ladrian Mansion.

The building didn’t seem to deserve such scrutiny; the venerable structure was built of stately, vine-bedecked stone, with large windows and an old iron gate. Three mature apple trees spread limbs over the front garden, and a member of the grounds staff was lazily sawing off a few dead branches. City law established by the Lord Mistborn himself required that even ornamental trees provide food.

What would it be like to visit the Roughs, she thought idly, where the trees are scraggly and short? The Roughs must be a fascinating place. Plants here in the Elendel Basin grew bountifully with little need for care or cultivation. A final gift of the Survivor, his munificent touch upon the land.

Stop fidgeting, she told herself. Be firm. Control your surroundings. That was something Professor Aramine had said just last week, and— Damn it! She strode forward, through the open gate, up the steps, and to the door. She slammed the knocker down on the door three times.

A long-faced butler answered. He looked her up and down with dispassionate eyes. “Lady Colms.” “I was hoping I might see Lord Ladrian?”

The butler raised an eyebrow, then swung the door open the rest of the way. He said nothing, but a lifetime growing up around servants such as him—servants trained after the ancient Terris ideal—had taught her to read his actions. He did not think she should be visiting Waxillium, and particularly not alone.

“The sitting room is currently unoccupied, my lady,” the butler said, pointing a stiff hand—palm up—toward a side chamber. He began stalking toward the staircase, moving with a sense of … inevitability. Like an ancient tree swaying in the wind.

She strolled into the room, forcing herself to hold her handbag at her side. Ladrian Mansion was decorated in a classical mode; the rugs had intricate patterns in dark shades, and the ornately carved picture frames were painted gold. Odd, that so many should favor frames that seemed to be trying to outdo the art they held.

Did it seem there was less art hanging in the mansion than there should be? Several spots on the walls were conspicuously empty. In the sitting room, she looked up at a wide painting of a field of grain, clasping her hands behind her back.

Good. She was containing her nervousness now. There was no reason for it at all. Yes, she had read report after report about Waxillium Ladrian. Yes, stories of his bravery had been part of what inspired her to study law.

However, he was far more amiable than she’d imagined. She had always pictured him as gruff and stoic. Discovering that he spoke like a gentleman had been a surprise. And, of course, there was the relaxed—if acerbic—way he interacted with Wayne. Five minutes around the two of them had destroyed years’ worth of youthful illusions about the calm, quiet lawman and his intense, devoted deputy.

Then the attack had come. The gunfire, the screaming. And Waxillium Ladrian, like a bolt of intense, bright lightning in the middle of a dark and chaotic tempest. He had saved her. How many days during her youth had she fondly dreamed of something like that happening?

“Lady Colms?” the butler said, stepping up to the doorway of the room. “I apologize, but the master says that he cannot spare the time to come down and converse with you.” “Oh,” she said, feeling an immediate sinking in her stomach. So she’d made a fool of herself after all.

“Indeed, my lady,” the butler said, lips turning down even farther. “You are to accompany me to his study so he can converse with you there.” Oh. Well, she hadn’t expected that.

“This way please,” the butler said. He turned around and lurched up the stairs, and she followed. At the top floor, they twisted through a few hallways—passing some serving and cleaning staff, who bobbed in respect to her—until they reached a room that dominated the far western side of the mansion.

The butler gestured for her to enter. The room beyond was much more cluttered than she’d anticipated. The shutters were closed and the shades drawn, and the large desk that dominated the far wall had been set up with tubes, burners, and other scientific-looking apparatus.

Waxillium stood to the side, holding something up with a pair of tongs and studying it intently. He wore a pair of black goggles, and had on a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His suit coat lay draped over a chair at the side of the room, bowler hat topping it, leaving him in a diagonally checkered vest of black and gray. The room smelled of smoke and, oddly, sulfur.

“My lord?” the butler said.

Waxillium turned, goggles still on. “Ah! My lady Marasi. Come in, come in. Tillaume, you may leave us.” “Yes, my lord,” the butler said with a suffering tone.

Marasi stepped into the room, glancing to the side where a large sheet of paper lay on the floor, folded upon itself and covered with cramped writing. Waxillium twisted a dial, and a small metal tube on the desk shot out a thin tongue of intense flame. He briefly held his tongs in the fire, then pulled them back out and dropped their contents into a small ceramic cup. He eyed it, then grabbed a glass tube from a rack on the desk and shook it.

“Here,” he said, holding it up for her to study. There was a clear liquid in it. “Does this look blue to you?” “Er … no? Should it?”

“Apparently not,” he said. He shook the tube again. “Huh.” He set the tube aside.

She stood silently. It was so hard not to recall the sight of him breaking through the line of tables, gun in hand as he expertly felled two of the men trying to haul her out into the night. Or the sight of him soaring through the air—gunshots exploding up from beneath, the chandeliers shattering and crystal spraying light around him—as he shot a man from midair and dropped to rescue his friend.

She was talking to a legend. And he was wearing a pair of very silly goggles.

Waxillium raised them to his forehead. “I’m trying to figure out what alloy they used in those guns.” “The aluminum ones?” she asked, curious.

“Yes, but they’re not pure aluminum. They’re something stronger, and the grain is wrong. I’ve never seen this alloy before. And the bullets must be yet another new alloy; I’ll need to test those next. As a side note, I’m not certain if you appreciate the advantages you possess living in the City.” “Oh, I’d say I’m aware of many of them.”

He grinned. Oddly, he looked younger today than he had on their previous meetings. “I suppose that perhaps you do. I was referring specifically to the ease of shopping you enjoy here.” “Shopping?”

“Yes, shopping! Marvelous convenience. Out in Weathering, if I wanted a gas burner that could reach the high temperatures required for testing alloys, I had to special-order it and wait for the right railway cars to come. Then I had to hope the equipment arrived without being damaged or broken.

“Here, however, I merely needed to send a few lads out with a list. In hours, I could set up an entire lab.” He shook his head. “I feel so spoiled. And you seem hesitant about something. Is it the sulfur? I needed to test the gunpowder in the bullets, you see … and, well, I suppose I should open a window.” I will not be nervous around him. “It’s not that, my lord Ladrian.”

“Please, feel free to call me ‘Wax’ or ‘Waxillium,’” he said, walking over to a window. She noticed that he stood to the side as he opened it, never standing directly in the line of sight of anyone outside. The cautious behavior was natural to him, and he didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing. “There’s no need to be formal with me. I have a rule—saving my life entitles you to use my given name.” “You saved mine first, I believe.”

“Yes. But I was already in your debt, you see.”

“Because?”

“Because you gave me an excellent excuse to shoot things,” he replied, sitting down at his desk and making a few notations on a pad there. “That seems to be something I’d been needing for quite some time.” He looked up and smiled at her. “The hesitance?” “Should we be alone in the room, Lord Waxillium?”

“Why not?” he said, sounding genuinely confused. “Is there a mass murderer hiding in the wardrobe that I somehow missed?” “I was actually referring to propriety, my lord.”

He sat for a moment, then smacked his forehead. “I apologize. You’ll have to forgive me for being a buffoon. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to … Never mind. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll go call Tillaume back.” He rose, striding past her.

“Lord Waxillium!” she said. “I’m not uncomfortable. I assure you. I simply didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.” “Awkward?”

“Yes.” Now she felt like a right fool. “Please. I didn’t mean to make a fuss.” “Very well, then,” he said. “To be honest, I really had forgotten about things like this. It’s basically nonsense, you realize.” “Propriety is nonsense?”

“Too much in high society is built around the idea of making certain you don’t need to trust anyone,” Waxillium said. “Contracts, detailed operating reports, not being seen alone with an eligible member of the opposite gender. If you remove the foundation of trust from a relationship, then what is the point of that relationship?” This from someone who is marrying Steris for the express purpose of exploiting her wealth? She felt bad for the thought. It was very difficult not to feel bitter sometimes.

She moved on quickly. “So … the alloy?”

“Yes, the alloy,” he said. “Likely a tangent I shouldn’t be indulging in. An excuse to dig up an old hobby. But since I know where the aluminum itself came from—the first theft—I wondered if, perhaps, they might be using an alloy that includes components I could trace.” He walked back over to his desk, where he picked up the revolver Wayne had given him the night before. She could see that he’d shaved some of the metal off the outside of the grip.

“Do you know much of metallurgy, Lady Marasi?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I probably should.”

“Oh, don’t feel that way. As I said, this is an indulgence of mine. There are many metallurgists in the city; I could probably have sent these shavings to one of them and gotten a report more quickly, and more accurately.” He sighed, sitting back down in his chair. “I’m just accustomed to doing things myself, you see.” “Out in the Roughs, you often didn’t have another choice.”

“True enough.” He tapped the gun against the table. “Alloys are remarkable things, Lady Marasi. Did you realize you can make an alloy with a metal that reacts to magnetism, but end up with one that doesn’t? Mix it with an equal part of something else, and you don’t get something that’s half as magnetically reactive—you get something that’s not reactive at all. When you make an alloy, you don’t just mix two metals. You make a new one.

“That’s a fundamental of Allomancy, you see. Steel is just iron with a pinch of carbon in it, but that makes all the difference. This aluminum has something else in it too—less than one percent. I think it might be ekaboron, but that’s really just a hunch. A little pinch. It works for men too, oddly. A tiny change can result in creating an entirely new person. How like metals we are.…” He shook his head, then waved for her to take a seat in a chair against the wall. “But you didn’t come to hear me blather. Come, tell me, what can I do for you?” “It’s actually what I can do for you,” she said, sitting. “I’ve spoken to Lord Harms. I thought that because of your … Well, because House Ladrian is currently lacking in liquid assets, you see, I thought that you may not have the tools you need to seek Lady Steris. Lord Harms has agreed to bankroll you for whatever you need as you pursue her rescue.” Waxillium seemed surprised. “That’s wonderful. Thank you.” He paused, then looked at his desk. “Do you think he’d mind paying for this…?” “Not at all,” she said quickly.

“Well, that’s a relief. Tillaume nearly fainted when he saw what I’d spent. I think the old man’s afraid we’ll run out of tea if I keep this up. It’s so incredible that I can be the source of employment for some twenty thousand people, own two to three percent of the land in the city, and yet still be so poor in ready cash. What an odd world business is.” Waxillium leaned forward, clasping his hands, looking thoughtful. In the light of the open window, she could now see that he had bags under his eyes.

“My lord?” she asked. “Have you slept at all since the kidnapping?”

He didn’t reply.

“Lord Waxillium,” she said sternly. “You mustn’t neglect your own well-being. Running yourself to rust will do no good for anyone.” “Lady Steris was taken on my watch, Marasi,” he said softly. “I didn’t lift a finger. I had to be goaded into it.” He shook his head, as if to drive away bad thoughts. “But you needn’t worry about me. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway, so I might as well be productive.” “Have you come to any conclusions?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Too many,” he said. “Often, the problem is not coming up with solutions—it’s deciding which of them actually happened and which are pure fancy. Those men, for instance. They weren’t professionals.” He paused. “I’m sorry, that probably doesn’t make any sense.” “No, it does,” she said. “The way they kept itching to shoot the building up, they way their boss let himself be goaded into shooting Peterus…” “Exactly,” he said. “They had experience as thieves, certainly. But they weren’t refined at it.” “A simple way to determine the type of criminal is by whom they kill and when,” Marasi said, quoting a line from one of her textbooks. “Murders end with a hanging; thievery alone can mean escaping death. Those men, if they’d really known what they were doing, would have left quickly, glad they hadn’t needed to do any shooting.” “So they’re street toughs,” Waxillium said. “Common criminals.”

“With very expensive weapons,” Marasi said, frowning. “Which implies an outside backer, doesn’t it?” “Yes,” Waxillium said, growing eager and leaning in. “At first, I was very confused. I was convinced this was all about the kidnappings, the thievery just a front to disguise that. Then the men last night were genuinely interested in what they were taking. It baffled me. Judging by the price of aluminum, and how much they had to spend forging those guns, they’ve spent a fortune to make a lesser amount from last night’s robbery. It didn’t make sense.” “Unless we’re dealing with two groups working together,” Marasi said, understanding. “Someone has given funds to the bandits, allowing them to pull off these robberies. The backing group, however, demands that they kidnap certain people, making it seem like the result of random hostage-takings.” “Yes! He—whoever the backer is—wants the kidnapped women. And the Vanishers, they get to keep whatever they steal, or perhaps a percentage of it. It is all meant to use the robberies as a cover-up, but it’s possible the bandits themselves don’t understand how they’re being used.” Marasi frowned, biting her lip. “But that means…”

“What?”

“Well, I’d hoped that this was mostly over with,” she explained. “Your initial count of the thieves was just under forty, and you and Wayne killed or incapacitated thirty or so of them.” “Thirty-one,” he said absently.

“I had assumed those remaining might cut their losses and flee. Killing three-quarters of a group should be enough to disband them, one would think.” “It would, in my experience.”

“But this is different,” she said. “The bandit boss has an outside backer offering wealth and weaponry.” She frowned. “The boss spoke of ‘payback,’ as I recall. Could he be both the boss and the backer?” “Perhaps,” Waxillium said. “But I doubt it. Part of the point of all this would be to have someone else doing the dangerous work for you.” “Agreed,” she said. “But the boss does seem to have his own ideology. Perhaps he was chosen because of it. Criminals often use basic rationalization skills to justify what they are doing, and a man who could capitalize on that—along with promising riches and lots of fun shooting things—would be ideal as a ‘middle manager,’ so to speak.” Waxillium smiled broadly.

“What?” she asked.

“You realize I spent all night coming to those conclusions? You just reached them in all of … what? Ten minutes?” She sniffed. “I had some modest help from you.”

“It might be said that I had modest help from myself, technically.”

“The voices whispering to you as a result of sleep deprivation do not count, my lord.” His smile grew, and then he stood. “Come. Tell me what you make of this.”

Curious, she followed him to the front of the room, where she’d noticed the heap of paper. He pulled it straight, revealing a long—perhaps five-foot—piece of paper that was several feet wide. Waxillium knelt on the ground, but she had a harder time, being in skirts. So she just bent down, looking over his shoulder.

“Genealogies?” she asked, surprised. It appeared that he’d traced each of the kidnapped women back to the Origin, starting with their names at the left of the long sheet, then working backward. It didn’t list every relative, but it included the direct ancestors and a few notable names in each generation for each hostage.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’m beginning to suspect that you are an odd man, my lord,” she said. “You spent all night doing this?” “It did take a great deal of my time, though Wayne’s paper gave me a good head start. Fortunately, my uncle’s library had extensive genealogical resources. It was a hobby of his. But what do you think?” “That it is a good thing you’re soon to be engaged, for a good wife would have seen that you got your rest, rather than writing all night by candlelight. That’s bad for your eyes, you know.” “We have electricity,” he said, waving upward. “Besides, I doubt Steris will care about my sleeping habits. It’s not in the contract, you see.” There was a touch of bitterness in his tone—faint, but recognizable.

She’d said most of that to stall him for a few moments so she could read more of the names. “Allomancers,” she said. “You analyzed the family lines for Allomantic powers in their heritage. They all converge on the Lord Mistborn. Didn’t Wayne speak of this?” “Yes,” he said. “I believe that the one behind all this is looking for Allomancers. He’s building an army. He picks the people he does because he suspects that they’re secretly Allomancers. The fact that they aren’t open about it makes it harder to recognize what he’s doing.” “But Steris isn’t an Allomancer. I promise it.”

“That worried me for a time,” he said. “But it’s not a large issue. See, he’s picking people he thinks are probably Allomancers, but he’s bound to get it wrong a few times.” Waxillium tapped the paper. “That does make me worry for her. Once the backer discovers that she’s not what he thought she was, she’ll be in greater danger.” Hence why you stayed up all night, she realized. You think there isn’t time.

All of this, for a woman he obviously didn’t love. It was difficult not to be jealous.

What? she thought. You’d have had yourself be taken? Foolish girl.

She did note that her own name was one of those listed. “You have my genealogy?” she said, surprised.

“Had to send out for it,” he said. “Made some clerks quite angry in the middle of the night, I’m afraid. You’re very odd.” “Excuse me?”

“Oh. Um, I mean on the list. You see here? You’re second cousins with Steris.” “And?”

“And, that means you’re … well, this is awkward to explain. You’re, essentially, a sixth cousin to the main bloodline here. All of the others, including Steris, were much better connected—you have bloodlines on your father’s side that dilute your connections. That makes you an odd target, compared to the others. I’m wondering if they picked you because they wanted to take someone random to break up their pattern and keep us guessing.” “Possible,” she said carefully. “They didn’t know Steris had been sitting with us, after all.” “Very true. But … here’s where it gets speculative. You see? I can come up with plenty of reasons why Steris was targeted. The history of Allomancers isn’t the only connection—because of the propinquity of high society, there are many other connections.

“In fact, as I look at it, the Allomancy factor is tenuous. If you’re going to train fighters, why take only women? Why bother with Allomancers in the first place, when you have the funds and means to steal all of this aluminum? They could have stopped there and been rich. And I can’t find anything to indicate, with certitude, that the other women taken were indeed Allomancers.” They’re taking just women, Marasi thought, looking at the long lists, tying back to the Lord Mistborn. The most powerful Allomancer who ever lived. A nearly mythological figure, someone who had all sixteen Allomantic powers in one body. How powerful would he have been?

And suddenly, it made sense. “Rust and Ruin,” she whispered.

Waxillium looked up at her. He’d probably have seen it, if he hadn’t pushed himself so long through the night.

“Allomancy is genetic,” she said.

“Yes. Which is why it shows up so much in these lines.”

“Genetic. Taking all women. Waxillium, don’t you see? They’re not intending to build an army of Allomancers. They’re intending to breed one. They’re taking the women with the most direct Allomantic lines back to the Mistborn.” Waxillium stared at his large paper, then blinked. “By the Survivor’s spear…” he whispered. “Well, at least this means Steris isn’t in immediate danger. She’s valuable to him even without being an Allomancer.” “Yes,” Marasi said, feeling sick. “But if I’m right, then she’ll be in a different kind of danger.” “Indeed,” Waxillium said, subdued. “I should have seen this. Wayne will never let me live it down, once he finds out.” “Wayne,” she said, realizing she hadn’t asked after him. “Where is he?”

Waxillium checked his pocket watch. “He should be back soon. I sent him out to cause a little mischief.” image