Shadows of Self (49 page)

Once standing he hesitated, then leaned down. “It’ll pass, mate,” he said. “My pa once said to me, ‘Son, keep a stiff upper lip.’ So if things get bad, you bash your face against a wall till your lip bleeds, and you’ll feel better. Works for me. Least I think it does. Can’t right remember, on account of too many head wounds.”

He grinned. Wax kept staring into the flames. Wayne’s face fell.

“She’d have wanted you to stop her, you know,” Wayne said softly. “If she’d been able to talk to you, been able to think straight, she’d have demanded you kill her. Just like I’d have wanted it. Just like you’d want the same, if you’d lost your copper. You did what you hadda do, mate. And you did it well.”

He made a fist at Wax and nodded, then hobbled off, approaching a short young woman with long golden hair. A teenage girl? Wax didn’t recognize her.

“I know you, don’t I?” Wayne said. “Daughter of Remmingtel Tarcsel? The guy what invented the incandescent lightbulb?”

The girl’s jaw dropped. “You know him?” She seized Wayne by the arms. “You know about my father?”

“Sure do!” Wayne said. “He was robbed, I gotta say. Genius. Word is, you’re just as smart. That device you whipped up for making speeches sure is nice.”

She regarded Wayne, then leaned in. “That’s only the start. They’ve brought it into their houses. Don’t you see? It’s all around.”

“What?” Wayne said.

“Electricity,” the girl said. “And I’m going to be the first to use it.”

“Huh,” Wayne said. “Need some money?”

“Do I…” She towed Wayne away through the party, aglow, speaking so quickly Wax couldn’t pick out the words.

He didn’t care to. He just stared at the fire.

The guests were polite enough not to imply that he was ruining the party by his indifference. Clotide passed by, swapping his cold cup of tea out for a warm one. For all Wax cared, this comfortable chair could have been a hard bench. He didn’t feel it, or the warmth of the fire, or the joy of the victory.

How could you hear a bee buzzing in the middle of a thunderstorm?

The guests eventually found excuses to leave, their sedate revels accomplished. Some bade farewell to him. Others did not. About halfway through the protracted death of the party, Marasi settled down on his footstool. She wore her constable’s uniform. Odd thing to do at a party, though as he thought about it, the men in the constabulary did it all the time.

Marasi took his tea and sipped it, then placed something else onto the table where the cup had been. Wax’s eyes flicked toward it. A small spike, long as a finger, made of some silvery metal with dark red spots, like rusted bits.

“That’s one of the spikes she was using, Waxillium,” Marasi said softly. “MeLaan wanted me to show it to you.”

Wax closed his eyes. They thought he wanted to
see
something like that?

“Waxillium,” Marasi said. “We can’t identify the metal. It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before. It certainly wasn’t one of the spikes she started with. That means she removed both, and stuck one like this in instead. Where did she get them? Who gave them to her?”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, opening his eyes.

Marasi grew quiet. “Wax…”

“He sent her to me, Marasi. He sent a
kandra
to
seduce
me.”

“No,” Marasi said, firm. “He sent a bodyguard to watch over you in the Roughs. I spoke to TenSoon. The seduction was her idea. And yours, presumably.”

“Harmony knew,” Wax said hoarsely. “He saw what would happen.”

“Maybe He didn’t.”

“Then what kind of God is He? What
good
is a God like Him, Marasi? Tell me that.”

Marasi fidgeted, then she sighed and took the strange spike back. She dropped something else onto the table as she rose. A small earring, just a stud with the back bent over. “They sent this for you.”

Wax didn’t look at it. He left that earring right where it was, as Marasi made her farewells and stepped out of the party. Others came to him, offered bland encouragement, of the type you might write on a card.

He nodded, but didn’t listen.

*   *   *

Marasi stopped by the precinct offices on her way home from the party at Ladrian Mansion, intent on retrieving her copy of the Lord Mistborn’s Hemalurgy book, which she’d locked in her drawer. The offices were dark and quiet—a direct contrast to the chaos of a few nights back. Though some constables were out on patrol, most had been given time off. Only those with jail watch would be on duty.

So it surprised her when she found lights on at the back of the main chamber. She walked up and leaned against the doorframe, looking in at Aradel, who had a stack of papers out and was working on them by candlelight.

“I find it hard to believe,” Marasi noted, “that there’s nothing better for the governor to do on his first day in office than equipment-depreciation reports. Not that I mind. You’ve been ignoring those for … how long?”

Aradel’s expression soured. “I’m not governor,” he said. “Not really.”

“The title ‘Interim Governor’ has the word ‘Governor’ in it, sir.”

“They’ll vote someone else into office next month at the proper hearing.”

“Frankly, sir, I doubt that.”

He slapped one page down on the stack, signed and sealed, then sat there staring at it. Finally he ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, Preservation. What have I done? And why the hell didn’t any of you stop me?”

Marasi smiled. “You didn’t exactly give us a chance, sir.”

“I’ll run away,” he said. “I’ll refuse the appointment. I’ll…” He looked up at her, and then sighed. “I can’t be happy in this position, Colms.”

“The ones who are happy in the role, sir, seem to have had their chance. I’m excited to see where it goes from here. You just changed the world.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marasi said, glancing to the side as someone else moved through the darkened chamber, approaching. Another constable coming in to catch up on work? “Oh no.”

Governor Innate stepped up to the door, holding a belt. “Either of you know how to tie one of these?” the former governor said in MeLaan’s voice.

“You don’t tie a belt, kandra,” Aradel said. “You buckle it.”

“No, no,” MeLaan said, pulling it tight. “I mean, in making a noose. People always talk about guys hanging themselves in their cells, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. Hung there for a good ten minutes, and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have killed even the most frail mortal. I’ve got it wrong somehow.”

She looked up at the two of them, then frowned at their appalled expressions. “What?”

“
Hang
yourself?” Marasi sputtered, finally finding her voice. “You’re our linchpin witness!”

“You really think,” MeLaan said dryly, “that Harmony would let me sit at trial and testify falsely against people I don’t even know? It would make a mockery of justice, kids.”

“No,” Marasi said. “We have the letters. We know the truth.”

“Do you?” MeLaan asked, pulling the belt tight again. “You know for certain Paalm didn’t forge those letters, or that Innate himself didn’t do it before she took him? You know that those lords and ladies went through with the plans, rather than backing out? You know they weren’t just talking about possibilities?”

“We’ve got good cases, holy immortal,” Aradel said. “Lieutenant Colms has done her research. We’re pretty sure this is all correct.”

“Then convince the judge and jury,” MeLaan said with a shrug. “We don’t do things like this. People have to be able to trust the law; I’m a lot of things, but I’m
not
going to be the one who sets the precedent that the kandra can lie in order to get someone convicted, even if you’re ‘pretty sure’ you’ve got the right evidence.”

Marasi folded her arms, grinding her teeth. Aradel glanced at her, questioning.

“Without her, they’ll wiggle out of it,” Marasi said. “We won’t be able to keep them in jail. They’ll be loose upon the city again.” She sighed. “But … Blast. She’s probably right, sir. I’d have hit on it if I’d thought about it long enough. We can’t falsify evidence, however right our cause.”

He nodded. “We weren’t going to keep them in prison anyway, Colms. They have too much power, even now. They’d find a way to escape conviction, pinning the charges on subordinates.” He sat back in his chair. “They’ll have the governor’s seat again, unless someone does something about it. Damn it. I really have to do this, don’t I?”

“Sorry, sir,” Marasi said.

“Well, at least I can get my desk clear of paperwork first,” he said, leaning forward in determination. “Suggestions for my replacement as constable-general?”

“Reddi,” Marasi said.

“He hates you.”

“Doesn’t make him a bad conner, sir,” Marasi said. “So long as someone keeps an eye on him, as you put it. I can do that. I think he’ll rise to the challenge.”

Aradel nodded, then held up a hand to MeLaan. She tossed him the belt, and he tied it in a loop.

“This part around your neck, holy one,” he said. “Make your skin bruise so it looks right, a V shape. You know how to make someone look like they died of strangling?”

“Yeah,” MeLaan said. “Unfortunately.”

“I’ll come cut you down in fifteen minutes,” Aradel said. “You’ll need to fool the coroner.”

“No problem,” MeLaan said. “I can breathe through a tracheal system instead of lungs. Arrange to have the body cremated, give me a window, and I’ll slip out and leave the bones, which you can burn. Nice and neat.”

“Fine,” Aradel said, looking sick.

MeLaan bade him farewell, wandering back toward the cells. Marasi joined her after giving Aradel a salute he didn’t see.

“How did you get out, anyway?” Marasi asked, catching up to MeLaan.

“Stuck my finger in the lock,” MeLaan said, “and melted my skin, shoving a bit in. It’s amazing what you can do when you aren’t constrained to normal body shapes.”

They walked together to the entrance of the jail part of the building. Marasi wasn’t going to ask how MeLaan had avoided the guards. Hopefully the two hadn’t been hurt.

“Harmony knows, right?” Marasi asked as MeLaan lingered at the door. “If these people are guilty or not?”

“He does.”

“So you could simply ask Him if it’s just to imprison them. If He says yes, we could go through with it. I’d accept God’s word on the matter to satisfy my conscience.”

“Still breaks our rules,” MeLaan said. “And Harmony probably wouldn’t talk.”

“Why not?” Marasi said. “You realize what all this has done to Waxillium, right?”

“He’ll weather it.”

“He shouldn’t have to.”

“And what would you have Harmony do,
woman
? Give us all the answers? Lead us by the noses, like Paalm swore that He did? Turn us all into pieces on a board for His amusement?”

Marasi stepped back. She’d never heard such a tone from MeLaan.

“Or maybe you want it the other way?” MeLaan snapped. “Leave us alone completely? Not intervene at all?”

“No, I—”

“Can you imagine what it must be like? Knowing that any action you take is going to help some, but hurt others? Save a man’s life now, let him spread a disease that kills a child later in his life. Harmony does the best He can—the best
possible,
by the very definition. Yes, He hurt Wax. He hurt him badly. But He put the pain where He knew it could be borne.”

Marasi blushed, then—annoyed at herself—dug in her purse and brought out the strange spike. “And this?”

“It’s not a metal we know.”

“That’s what TenSoon said. But Harmony—”

“It’s not a metal
Harmony
knows,” MeLaan said.

Marasi felt a chill. “Then … it’s not His? Not from His form, like the old stories of atium and lerasium?”

“No,” MeLaan said. “It’s from somewhere else. She used these strange spikes to steal attributes, instead of the ones we’re familiar with. Maybe that’s why she could use stolen Allomancy and Feruchemy, when other kandra can’t. Either way, didn’t you wonder why Harmony couldn’t see Bleeder? Couldn’t track her, couldn’t predict her? What could stop a god, Marasi Colms? Any guesses?”

“Another god,” Marasi whispered.

“Congratulations,” MeLaan said, pulling open the door. “You’ve found proof of something that terrifies us. Think on that for a while, before you go around accusing Harmony—or the kandra—of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go try to hang myself properly.”

She slipped away, closing the door behind her.

Another god,
Marasi thought, standing in the darkness. Not Harmony, not Ruin, not Preservation.

She looked down at the small spike in her hands, and heard a name from a year ago, spoken by Miles Hundredlives as he died. The name of a god from the old days. Marasi had researched the name halfheartedly, far more distracted by her interaction with Ironeyes.

Now, however, she determined to dig back into the records and find the answers.

Who, or what, was
Trell?

*   *   *

The room had probably grown silent long before Wax noticed he was alone. The fire was dying. He should do something about that.

He didn’t.

Steris stepped over and set a new log on, then stirred the embers. So he hadn’t been alone. She set the poker beside the fireplace, then regarded him. He awaited her words.

None came. Instead, she scooted the footstool around until it was beside his chair. She sat down, legs crossed neatly, hands in her lap.

The two of them remained there, not saying a word, though she did eventually rest her hand on top of his. The fire had felt cold to him, the air frozen, but that hand was warm.

Finally, he turned to the side, rested his head on her shoulder, and wept.

ARS ARCANUM

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