Shadows of Self (13 page)

“Reddi was going to be my assistant,” Aradel said as they reached his office. “Had a damn fine bid for the job; I was all but priced into hiring him, until I got your application.”

Marasi blushed deeply. “Why would
Reddi
want to be your assistant, sir? He’s a field constable, a senior detective.”

“Everyone has this idea that in order to move up, you need to spend more time in the office and less on the street,” Aradel said. “Stupid tradition, even if the other octants follow it. I don’t want my best men and women turning into desk slugs. I want the assistant position to be for nurturing someone fresh who shows promise, rather than letting some practiced constable gather moss.”

The realization made a lot of things lock into place for Marasi. The hostility she felt from many of the others wasn’t just because she’d skipped the lower ranks—many with noble titles did that. It was because they’d solidified behind Reddi, their friend who’d been slighted.

“So…” Marasi said, taking a deep breath and grasping for something to keep her from a panic. “You think I show promise then?”

“Of course I do. Why would I have hired you otherwise?” Corporal Maindew walked by, saluting, and Aradel threw the wadded broadsheets into his face. “No saluting indoors, Maindew. You’ll knock yourself unconscious slapping your forehead every time I walk past.” He glanced back at Marasi as Maindew mumbled an apology and rushed off.

“There’s something in
you,
Colms,” Aradel told her. “Not the gloss and glint of the application. I don’t care about your grades, or what those zinctongues in the solicitors’ office thought of you. The words you wrote about changing the city, those made sense. They impressed me.”

“I … Thank you for the praise, sir.”

“I’m not flattering you, Colms. It’s just a fact.” He pointed toward the door. “That broadsheet said the governor was going to address the city later this afternoon. I’ll bet the Second Octant constables ask us for help managing the crowds; they always do. So I’m going to send a street detail. Go with them and listen, then report back to me what Governor Innate says, and pay attention to how the crowd reacts.”

“Yes, sir,” Marasi said, stopping herself from saluting as she snatched her handbag and ran to follow the orders.

“GENTLEMAN JAK IN THE CITY OF FOUNTAINS”

Part Six

“The Sinister Soiree!”

I need not remind my astute readers of the precarious situation in which I was left at the end of last week’s column, but for those of you whose heightened tastes have just now led them from the gutters of disgraceful journalism to the noble pages of The House Record, let me present a short recapitulation.

Through the efforts alone of my silver tongue and tin-quick mind, I gained access to Lady Lavont’s private party in New Seran wherein she planned to auction the only remaining buttons from the Lord Mistborn’s favorite smoking jacket. Handerwym, my faithful Terrisman steward, had prised the information that the leader of the Cobblesguilders planned to steal the buttons by swapping them with impeccable forgeries at some point during the night.

As Handerwym watched the tin buttons from the hors d’oeuvres table, I rubbed elbows with Lady Lavont, and her inner circle, who found me completely enchanting. That was when the man in the striped white suit pointed a gun at me.
(Continued Below!)

ALL Children Love SOONIE PUPS

You can move its legs!

Real Fur!

Your child’s new best friend!

Only 75 clips, or one-Boxing-fifty for two.

ELENDEL FEELS EFFECTS OF CORBEAU FLOODING

Higher commodities prices to impact market performance

As one of the Basin’s key grain-producing regions struggles to rebuild following the breaking of the dam near Corbeau, unanswered questions still threaten the comfort of those at the heart of the Basin. The Argien-Ohr Financial Circle, Elendel’s largest and most prestigious committee of bankers and other financial leaders, has called an emergency meeting to discuss sending aid to the flood-ravaged area. The biggest question haunting the Circle is if the investment of boxings and resources will be enough to affect the commodities markets, which are just now beginning to founder under the predictions of grain harvests half as large as last year’s.

“There are enough supplies in reserve to meet most demands over the next four months,” says Lord Chapmot Heviers, a Circle member with strong ties to Corbeau. “But after that, most grain will start going to the highest bidder. If you own bakeries, you will think twice about selling loaves at five clips each when you could be selling whiskey at forty clips a bottle.”

Vif Sparkle Tonic!

CURES FATIGUE!

Doctors Fronks & Selvest Vif have the remedy for drowsiness and irritability caused by animalcules, ulcers, and poor nutrition.

Remeber What the Doctors Say!

Drink Vif Sparkle Tonic

Every Day!

PECTIN-ADE

THE BASIN’S FAVORITE SNACK

Try all eight flavors! Only 10 clips a box. You’ll be glad you stayed for PECTIN-ADE!

6

Wax soared through the air above Elendel, hat held by its strings to his neck, mistcoat waving behind him like a banner. Below, the city bustled and moved, people swarming through its roadway arteries. Some glanced at him, but most ignored him. Allomancers were not the rarity here they had been in the Roughs.

All these people,
Wax thought, Pushing off a fountain shaped like mists condensing into Harmony with arms upraised, bracers glittering golden on the otherwise green copper statue. Women sat on its stone edge; children played in its waters. Motorcars and horse carriages broke around it, sweeping to the sides and charging down other roads, going about the ever-important business of city life.

So many people—and here, in the Fourth Octant, a frightening percentage of them were his responsibility. To begin with he paid their wages, or oversaw those who did; on the solvency of his house rested the financial stability of thousands upon thousands. But that was only part of it; because through his seat in the Senate, he represented any who worked for him, or who lived on properties he owned.

Two divisions within the Senate. One side, the representatives of the professions, was elected and came and went as people’s needs changed. The other side, the seats of the noble houses, was stable and immutable—not subject to the whims of voters. The governor, elected by the seats, presided over them all.

A good enough system, except it meant that Wax was supposed to look after tens of thousands of individuals he could never know. His eye twitched, and he turned, Pushing off some rebar sloppily left sticking from a tenement wall.

Towns were better in the Roughs, where you could know everyone. That way you could care for them, and really
feel
you were doing something. Marasi would argue that statistically, leading his house here was more effective in creating general human happiness, but he wasn’t a man of numbers; he was a man who trusted his gut. His gut missed knowing the people he served.

Wax landed on a large water tower near a glass dome covering his octant’s largest Church of the Survivor. People were worshipping inside, though a greater number would come at dusk to await the mists. The Church revered the mists, and yet with that glass dome they still separated themselves from it. Wax shook his head, then Pushed off along the nearby canal.

He’s probably finished by now,
Wax thought.
He’ll be on one of the nearby docks, listening to the lapping water.…

He continued along the canal, which was cluttered with boats. Tindwyl Promenade, which ran along this canal, was crowded—even more so than usual. Dense with life. It was difficult not to feel subsumed by the great city, engulfed, overwhelmed, insignificant. Out in the Roughs Wax hadn’t just enforced the law; he had interpreted it, revised it when needed. He had
been
the law.

Here he had to dance around egos and secrets.

As Wax searched for the right dock, he was surprised to eventually find the reason for the traffic on the promenade. It was all bunched up, trying to get through a large clot of men with signs. Wax passed overhead, and was shocked to see a small cluster of constables from the local octant amid the picketers—they were being pressed on all sides by the shouting men, waving signs in an uncomfortably violent manner.

Wax dropped through the air and Pushed lightly on the nails in the promenade boards here, slowing his descent. He landed in a crouch in an opening nearby, mistcoat flaring, guns clinking.

The picketers regarded him for a long moment, then broke apart, taking off in different directions. He didn’t even have to say a word. In moments the beleaguered constables emerged, like stones on the plain as the soil washed away in a sudden rain.

“Thanks, sir,” said their captain, an older woman whose blonde hair poked down straight about an inch on all sides around her constable’s hat.

“They’re getting violent?” Wax asked, watching the last of the picketers vanish.

“Didn’t like us trying to move them off the promenade, Dawnshot,” the woman said. She shivered. “Didn’t expect it to go so bad, so fast.…”

“Can’t say I blame them much,” one of the other constables said, a fellow with a neck like a long-barreled pistol. His fellows turned to him, and he hunched down. “Look, you can’t say you don’t have mates among them. You can’t say you haven’t heard them grumble. Something needs to change in this city. That’s all I’m saying.”

“They don’t have the right to block a main thoroughfare,” Wax said, “no matter their grievances. Report back to your precinct, and make sure you bring more men next time.”

They nodded, hiking off. The promenade’s knot of pedestrians slowly unwound itself, and Wax shook his head, worried. The men running the strikes
did
have a grievance. He’d found some of the same problematic conditions among the few factories he owned—long hours, dangerous environments—and had been forced to fire a few overseers because of it. He’d replaced them with overseers who instead would hire more men, for shorter shifts, as there was no shortage of laborers in the city who were out of work these days. But then he’d needed to up wages, so that the men could live on the shorter-shift income—making his goods more costly. Difficult times. And he didn’t have the answers, not to those problems.

He hiked along the promenade a short distance, drawing more than a few stares from people he passed. But he soon found what he’d been looking for. Wayne sat on a narrow dock nearby. He had his shoes and socks off, feet in the water, and was staring off down the canal. “Hello, Wax,” he said without looking as Wax stepped up.