Shadows of Self

22

Mist seemed to burn in the night, like clouds before the sun. Wax dropped through it, slamming to the steps of the governor’s mansion, surprising the guards there. Constables, by the uniforms, rather than the normal guards. Good. They’d been running low on the latter.

Wax stood up straight, turning and regarding the crowd gathering in front of the mansion. Constables with rifles made an uneasy barrier between them and the building. Nearby, workers erected a small stage on the steps. Aradel supervised, though judging from his sour expression, he was rather displeased with the governor’s plan.

Wax agreed. Addressing the crowd would be playing right into Bleeder’s hands. He grabbed one of the constables. “I assume there hasn’t been another attempt on the governor’s life?”

“No, sir,” the constable said. “He’s in his study, sir.”

Wax nodded and barged into the mansion, trailing wisps of mist behind him. He stalked toward the back, and in the hallway Marasi intercepted him, taking him by the arm. “Kolossblood,” she said, giving him the password he’d given her, proving she wasn’t a kandra.

“Nighttime Summer,” Wax said back, authenticating himself. “You need to do something about that crowd, Marasi. They’re going to rip this city down.”

“We’re working on it. Have you seen Wayne?”

“No. Why?”

“MeLaan says he went out to inspect the protesters. That was over half an hour ago. Nobody has seen him since.”

“He’ll turn up,” Wax said. “I need to talk to the governor.”

Marasi nodded, but held on to his arm as he tried to walk toward the study. “Wax,” she said softly, “he’s corrupt. Really corrupt. I’ve found proof.”

Wax drew in a deep breath. “Let’s survive this night. Then we’ll do something about that.”

“My thoughts are similar,” Marasi said, “but I think Bleeder wants to put us in a difficult position—perhaps she wants to force us to let the governor die.”

“Not going to happen,” Wax said. “We’ll hand him over to the courts, but not a mob. Have you checked on your sister?”

“No,” Marasi said. “But I’ve been intending to.”

“Do so,” Wax said. “I’ll look in on your father after talking to the governor. I don’t want either showing up as an unexpected hostage.”

“As long as it isn’t me, for a change,” Marasi said with a grimace. “MeLaan is wearing the body of the guard with the sling. She’s furious the governor won’t let her or the others in. I’m going to go see if I can track down Wayne; wouldn’t be surprised to find him on the front row of the mob.”

She let go of his arm and headed toward the exit.

“Marasi,” Wax said after her.

“Hm?”

“The uniform,” he said. “It suits you. Don’t know if I’ve had a chance to mention that.”

She blushed—she was Marasi after all—before continuing. Wax turned and strode down the hallway toward the door to the governor’s study. MeLaan lounged there with a group of three other guards.

“Nobody is to enter, lawman,” one of them said with an annoyed tone. “He’s been in there composing a speech for the last hour. He won’t—”

Wax walked past them and tried the door, which was locked. He could hear Innate’s voice inside, going over a speech. Wax increased his weight and flung the door open with Allomancy, splintering the doorframe. Innate stood inside, holding a pad of paper and pacing as he talked. He froze midstride and spun on Wax, then relaxed visibly.

“You could have knocked,” the governor said.

“And you could have ignored a knock,” Wax said, walking in and swinging the door shut behind him. It didn’t latch, of course, after what Wax had done. “What do you think you’re doing, Innate? You could have been killed in here, quietly, alone without anyone to help.”

“And what would they have done?” Innate demanded, tossing his pad onto his desk. He walked up, then spoke more softly: “Wind’s whisper.”

“Drunken steam,” Wax said back, latest passphrases exchanged. Innate was authentic. “Locking your guards out was foolhardy. They would have fought for you, protected you. We chased her off one time before.”

“You chased her off,” Innate said, walking back to his desk and picking up his pad. “The rest were useless. Even poor Drim.” He went back to his pacing, speaking the lines of his speech to himself and practicing emphasis.

Wax fumed, feeling dismissed. This was the man they struggled to protect? Wax made his way to the window. It was open, surprisingly, letting in wisps of mist. They didn’t travel far. He’d heard legends of the mists filling rooms, but that rarely happened.

He leaned against the window, looking out at the darkness, listening with half an ear to Innate’s speech. It was inflammatory and dismissive. He claimed to feel the problems the people had, but called them peasants.

This would just make things worse. She wants that, Wax thought. She wants to free the city from Harmony by making it angry.

She knew what Innate was going to say. Of course she knew. She’d been leading them around this entire time. Every clue Wax had found so far had been carefully planted for him. So what did he do? Stop Innate’s speech? What if that was what she wanted?

He tapped his finger on the windowsill. Tap. Tap.

Squish.

He looked down, then blinked. A wad of chewed gum had been stuck here. Wax lifted his finger, and—as he contemplated it—something started to fall into place. Something he’d been missing. Bleeder had set this all up from the start.

Wax’s suspicions had begun because she’d deliberately alerted him by wearing Bloody Tan’s face. That had been a conscious ploy on her part, a way to start the festivities. Everything was moving on her timetable.

Bleeder had had everything already in place when this night arrived. She’d been planning this for a long time. Far longer than he’d assumed.

So where was the best place to hide?

Rusts.

Wax reached for his gun and spun.

He found himself facing down Governor Innate, who had taken out a sidearm and leveled it. “Damn it, Wax,” the governor said. “Just a few minutes more and I’d have had this. You see too far. You can always see a little too far.”

Wax froze there, hand on his gun. He met the governor’s eyes, and hissed out slowly. “You knew the passphrase,” Wax whispered, “but of course you did. I gave it to you. When did you kill him? How long has the city been ruled by an impostor?”

“Long enough.”

“The governor wasn’t your target. You think bigger than that—I should have seen. But Drim … He was in the saferoom when you entered below. Is that why you killed him? No. He’d have known you were gone.”

“He knew all along,” Bleeder said. “He was mine. But tonight, I killed him because of you, Wax. You’d shot me up…”

“You had on the governor’s clothing underneath the cloak,” Wax said. “Rusts! I’d bloodied you. So you needed an excuse for why the governor was covered in blood, an excuse to pull off your shirt and stanch a wound.”

She held the gun on him, immobile. The weapon didn’t register to his Allomancy. Aluminum. She was prepared, of course. But she seemed torn. She didn’t want to kill him. She’d never wanted to kill him, for some reason.

So Wax yelled for help.

It was risky, but nothing ever ended well when you obeyed the person with the gun on you. As he’d suspected, Bleeder didn’t shoot at him as the door burst open. Wax pulled out his gun and fired at Bleeder, to distract her as he dug in his gunbelt for the last needle that MeLaan had given him.

The guards turned their guns toward Wax and started firing.

Idiot, he thought, throwing himself toward the governor’s desk for cover. Of course they’d do that. “Wait!” he said. “The governor has been taken. Don’t—”

Bleeder gunned down the guards. Wax rolled behind the desk, but still heard it as they cried out in shock, their own governor—so far as they knew—shooting them down. Wax winced, cursing. Those deaths were upon him.

“I guess the rest of the constables will be upon us soon,” Bleeder said. “They’re not free yet. Neither are you, despite how I’ve tried.…”

Wax peeked up over the desk, then ducked down again as she swung the gun toward him. The governor’s face was twisted in a mask of anger and frustration.

“Why couldn’t you have given me a little longer?” she demanded. “So close. Now I have to kill you, claim you were the kandra, and blame you for shooting my guards. That way I can still talk to the crowd, free them.…”

Yet she didn’t come for him. She still seemed upset. Best to take advantage of that.

“MeLaan, go!” Wax shouted, then Pushed on the nails in the floor, flinging himself up into the air.

One of the corpses at Bleeder’s feet grabbed her around the legs.

Wax Pushed off the wall, leaping toward Bleeder. She growled, then slapped his hand as he landed, knocking the needle free. Rusts, she was strong. She kicked MeLaan off as Wax dove for the fallen needle.

She became a blur. As he tried to grab the needle, Bleeder snatched it and spun around, slamming it down into MeLaan’s shoulder. It was done in an eyeblink.

Then she lurched to a stop. She seemed jarred by the motion. Her metalmind storage, at long last, had run dry.

Wax pulled out his gun and fired, lying with his back on the floor. The bullets ripped her skin, but did nothing else. Nearby, MeLaan’s shape distorted—face drooping and the skin going transparent.

Wax lay on the ground, his emptied gun pointed at Bleeder, whose skin re-formed from the wounds. They stared at one another for an extended moment before boots in the hallway outside made Bleeder curse, then dash for the window. Wax grabbed his other gun, following, then threw himself down as shots sounded outside.

He waited a moment, then glanced up, but didn’t spot her in the swirling mists. Wax cursed, rolling his arm in its socket. Rusts. That bullet hole he’d taken earlier in the night was bleeding again, and the pain was returning. He thought he’d chewed enough painkiller to keep it away.

“You all right?” he asked MeLaan, who had managed to sit up.

“Yeah,” she said, though the word was mangled by her melted face. “I made them do this to me once to test it out. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

“Thanks for the save,” Wax said, anxiously scanning the room for hidden compartments with his steelsight. Quivering lines in the closet. Could he be so lucky? He rushed over and yanked it open.

Wayne—tied securely and gagged—tumbled out and hit the floor with a thump. He was alive, thank Harmony. Wax knelt down, sighed in relief, and loosened the gag. Wayne looked like he’d been stabbed in the leg, and his metalminds had been stripped away so he couldn’t heal, but he was alive.

“Wax!” Wayne said. “It’s the governor. Bugger’s got the same ‘a’ as MeLaan!”

“I know,” Wax said. “You’re lucky. She probably wanted to harvest your Metalborn abilities with spikes, otherwise she’d have killed you right off. Why didn’t you warn anyone?”

“Was going to, but I needed to check first. Got too close to the window, and she rusting came right out for me. Had knocked me upside the head, stripped off my metalminds, and had me over her shoulder all in an eyeblink. Drug me up here after, real quiet-like. You get her?”

“No,” Wax said, working on Wayne’s bonds. “She ran off.”

Gunshots sounded outside.

“And you ain’t chasin’ her down?”

“Had to check on you first.”

“I’m fine,” Wayne said. “Stop untying me and look in my pocket.”

Wax felt at Wayne’s pocket, pulling out a small pouch.

“From Ranette,” Wayne said.

Wax removed a single bullet cartridge. He held it up as a tense set of constables, led by Marasi, piled into the room.

The newcomers called for an explanation. Wax left them to interrogate Wayne, instead seeking the mists once more.

23

Wax was a bullet in the night, rushing through the mists and disturbing them with his passing. He had become the hunter rather than the game, though the transition might have taken too long. He soared upward first to get a view of the area. An ever-growing crowd surrounded the governor’s mansion. Roaring. Calling for change, or perhaps just blood.

Would he bring down Bleeder only to find her victorious in a city destroyed?

He couldn’t worry about that at the moment. Instead he sought signs, clues, a story. Nobody passed, even at night, without leaving a trail. Perhaps it would be too faint for him to locate, but it would exist.

There. A group of people pulling away from the mansion, instead of crowding toward it. Wax landed in a storm, mistcoat flaring. This was the mansion’s garden, near a large workers’ shed. Wax studied the pattern of people moving away.

The gunfire just a moment ago, he thought. It wasn’t to shoot someone, but to clear the crowd. She was out of Feruchemical speed and fleeing frantically, and had opened fire into the air to clear this pocket of people. As he listened he picked out cries of confusion, some people claiming the constables had opened fire on the crowd. Others claimed they’d seen the governor himself running, trying to escape the mansion.

Wax loaded Vindication with the single bullet Ranette had sent, placing it in one of the special chambers he could quickly spin to at will. Then he inched open the door to the shed, crouching beside the doorway so as to not present a profile. The mists were bright with torchlight this night, but that light didn’t penetrate to the dark shed. Wax searched through the shadows, until he saw something.

A bone? Yes, and draped over it cloth. He picked out a fallen cravat, a white buttoning shirt … the governor’s clothing. Bleeder had stashed another body in here, and had fled to swap into it. How fast was she? MeLaan had said that Bleeder could change faster than she could, but that nobody was as quick as TenSoon.

That didn’t tell him much. MeLaan had taken minutes, TenSoon seconds. Wax held Vindication beside his head and slipped through the doorway. If he could find Bleeder in midtransformation …

“I can still free you,” a voice whispered from the darkness inside. “Perhaps I have lost the city, but I didn’t come here for them. Not at first. I came for you.”

“Why me?” Wax asked, searching furiously through the darkness, palm sweating as he held Vindication. “Damn it, creature, why me?”

“I have deafened him,” Bleeder whispered. “I have cut out his tongue, pierced his eyes, but still he can act. You are his hands, Waxillium Ladrian. He may be deaf, blind, and mute … but still, with you, he can move his pawns.”

“I’m my own man, Bleeder,” Wax said, finally spotting what he thought was her silhouette, crouched at the back of the dusty chamber, beside a rack of shovels. “Perhaps I serve Harmony, but I do so because I wish it.”

“Ah,” she whispered. “Do you know, Wax, how long he cultivated you? How long he teased you, led you by the nose? How he sent you to be hardened by the Roughs, so he could draw you back in once you had aged properly, like leather being cured.…”

Wax raised Vindication, but the side of the building burst outward, showering pieces of wood across the lawn. Wax tried to draw a bead on her, but didn’t fire, and Bleeder ducked out. He had to be very careful with this shot. Ranette had sent but one bullet, and only it would matter in this fight.

Bleeder fled into the night and launched into the air. The breaking wall had been an indication, but this was confirmation. Her metalmind, drained of the speed she’d stored up, was now useless. She’d left it on the ground beside the governor’s bones, and had become a Coinshot instead.

Wax followed, Pushing on the same nails, sending himself into the sky. He could see why she’d chosen to become a Coinshot; Steelpushing lent great maneuverability and speed, and logically gave her the best chance of escaping.

There was a problem with that, of course.

Steel was his domain.

The pile of bones on the floor of the little shack proved that at least one person was having a worse night than Wayne was. He nudged the pile with his toe, then grimaced at his wounded leg. Rusting inconvenient, that was. He had to grab the wall for support.

He looked toward Marasi. “I can’t decide,” he said, “if the governor already bein’ dead means we did a really terrible job, or a really good one.”

“How,” Marasi replied, kneeling beside the corpse, “could you see this as anything other than terrible?”

“Well, see, we weren’t the ones what was in charge of keepin’ him alive when he died.” Wayne shrugged. “Guess anytime I find a corpse and it ain’t my fault they’re dead, I feel a little relieved.”

MeLaan strolled into the cottage, still wearing the body of the guardswoman—though she had moved back to speaking with her own voice now. “It’s getting rough out there. We’ll want to get back into the mansion soon.”

Marasi continued to kneel by the bones, which were lit by Wayne’s lantern. His wrists still chafed from his confinement, and his leg smarted something fierce. Rusting kandra. She’d known just how to take him out: a quick burst of speed, tie his legs together, gag him, steal his metalminds—even though it didn’t matter none how quickly he could heal if he was tied up.

Course, she should have checked his hands for gum as she towed him into the room.

“The governor is dead,” Marasi whispered.

“Yeah,” Wayne said, “havin’ your skeleton removed tends to do that to a guy.”

“What does it mean?” Marasi said, looking out the side of the shack, in the direction they’d seen Wax escape.

“Well, it means he won’t be makin’ it to his tap-dancing lessons this—”

“Wayne?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Marasi closed her eyes, and Wayne leaned back against the wall, looking out at that crowd. Angry, waiting for the governor to give them his speech. The speech that was supposed to stop all this.

“Bleeder was planning to outrage them,” MeLaan said. “I heard some of his speech. Maybe we can make them disperse?”

“No,” Marasi said, standing. “We can do better than that.” She turned to MeLaan, then nudged the governor’s skull with her foot. “How long will it take you to imitate him?”

“I didn’t digest his corpse—and don’t wince like that, it’s not my fault you people happen to be edible. If it helps, you taste terrible, even if you’re properly aged. Anyway, it will be tough. TenSoon’s pretty good at re-creating a face from a skull, but I’m way less practiced.”

Wayne didn’t say anything. He could shut it. Damn right he could shut it, when he needed to. Even if there was jokes that practically begged to be said.

“You have us to help you get it right,” Marasi said to MeLaan. “Plus, it will be dark. You won’t need to fool Innate’s mother, just a crowd of angry citizens, most of whom haven’t seen him up close.”

MeLaan folded her arms, inspecting the remains. “Fine. If you think you can come up with something for me to say that will placate that crowd, I’ll do it.”

Wayne stood still, jaw clenched. No jokes about … well, the obvious things. Besides, he’d just learned something far worse. Something that was no cause for laughter.

Marasi looked at him, then frowned. “Wayne, what’s wrong?”

He sat down, shaking his head.

“Wayne?” Marasi said, rising, sounding genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that—”

“I don’t mind what you said,” Wayne said.

“Then what?”

“Well,” he said, looking at MeLaan, “I’d just always assumed … you know … that humans tasted wonderful.”

“Nope,” MeLaan said.

“You’re really woundin’ my self-esteem,” Wayne said. “Maybe I’m different. Wanna gnaw on my arm a bit? It’ll grow right back, least once we find out what that monster did with my metalminds.…”

Marasi sighed loudly. “MeLaan, work on those bones. I need to rewrite your speech.…”

24

Bleeder had obviously practiced with steel. She knew how to Push on passing latches or lampposts to adjust her course. She knew how to drop low before shoving on a parked motorcar to give herself lateral speed, rather than just Pushing herself higher. She was capable.

Wax was more than capable. He followed as a shadow, never more than a half leap behind her. He sensed an increasingly frantic quality to her motions, flared steel trying to Push herself out of his reach.

He let her, at first, trying to run her out of steel. They bounced through the city, two currents in the mist, leaping over roadways clogged with angry rioters, past middle-class neighborhoods full of closed shutters and extinguished lights, over the grounds of the rich—whose security forces stood tensely by gates, waiting for this hellish night to end.

Wax confirmed to himself as they flew that Bleeder had not been the Marksman. She’d worn one of his masks earlier—and seemed to be doing so again, from the quick glance he got as she passed a burning building in the night—but she did so to consternate and confuse him. Marks had sought the insides of rooms as he ran, trying to set up an ambush. She kept to the open spaces, as if frightened of the indoors. No running toward skyscrapers, no seeking the cramped confines of the slums. Instead, she headed directly east from the governor’s mansion, toward the freedom of the outer city.

There wouldn’t be nearly so much metal out there, making it difficult for her to flee—but also removing some of his advantage. He couldn’t let that happen.

As they chased past a late train, Wax redoubled his efforts. He anticipated her turn as she cut away from the train toward an industrial quarter, and he cut sideways, earning a few seconds. As she leaped over a squat, burning building—passing protesters who threw rocks at her from below—Wax skimmed between it and the building beside it, coming around the other side in a precise turn. He passed through boiling smoke and emerged, gun out, as she came down from a more graceful arc.

That earned a curse from her as she saw him. She flung herself down a street, using each passing light as another source to Push off, increasing her speed. It was done with deftness, but Wax had an advantage. He decreased his weight, filling his metalmind. As always, though the change was sometimes subtle, this increased his velocity. If he decreased his weight while in motion, he got a little burst of speed. He didn’t know why.

In a chase such as this, shoving off each light that passed, little advantages like that added up. Each cut corner, each careful judge of an arc, each use of the speed boost in flight after landing for a moment, sent him closer to her. To the point that as they neared the edge of the city, she glanced backward and found him about to grab her heels.

She cried out, a feminine exclamation of surprise. She shoved herself to the side, passing out over the river, and managed to land on the roadway portion of the Eastbridge, holding on to one of the support wires.

Wax landed gracefully before her, gun out. “You can’t run from me, Bleeder. Let me remove your spike and take you prisoner. Perhaps the others can find a way, someday, to heal your madness.”

“And become a slave again,” she whispered behind the red and white mask. “Would you clasp the manacles willingly on your own hands?”

“If I had done the horrible things that you have, then yes. I would demand to be taken in.”

“And what of the god you serve? When will Harmony accept his punishments? The people he lets die. The people he makes die.”

Wax raised his gun, but Bleeder launched herself upward.

Wax trailed her with his weapon, but she bounced back and forth between massive bridge support beams, and he did not fire. Instead he lifted himself with a Push, soaring up—coat flapping—until he reached the top of one of the bridge’s suspension towers. Bleeder waited here, atop the pinnacle, dressed in her red shirt and trousers, a loose cape blowing around her.

Wax landed and leveled the gun.

Bleeder dropped the mask.

She wore Lessie’s face.

Marasi didn’t tell the other constables, even Aradel, the truth about Innate. What would she have said? “Sorry, but the man we’ve been protecting was actually the killer”? “Oh, and the city has been run by an insane kandra for who knows how long”? She’d make a report soon, once she knew how to explain it, but for now she didn’t have time. She needed to save the city.

She still felt a stab of guilt as she stood near the flimsy stage at the front of the steps, where she watched Captain Aradel pass her. The lord high constable looked visibly sick as he paced. The predicament she’d placed him in, with regards to thinking the governor was a crook, troubled him deeply.

Nearby, MeLaan stepped up onto the stage to address the crowd. Though she critiqued her own shortcomings, in Marasi’s estimation her imitation of the governor was excellent.

The crowd grew quiet. Marasi frowned. Had Aradel’s men prompted that somehow? No … the constables stood in a tight line between the crowd and the mansion, but weren’t doing anything to quell the crowd.

How odd. Though there were a few jeers, for the most part everyone fell silent—watching through the mists, which seemed thinner than they had before, now that lights had been set up all around the square in front of the mansion. The former rioters genuinely wanted to hear what the governor had to say. Well, why shouldn’t they?

Marasi felt their mood, one of hostile curiosity. She felt a calmness too. MeLaan’s speech would work. Everything was fine. Why had she been so worried earlier? It …

Rusts. She was being Soothed.

She snapped alert, suddenly tense. She knew crowds. She’d studied mob dynamics. It was her specialty—and she could tell, easily, that something was wrong here. But who was Soothing? Why? How?

Suit, she thought. Waxillium had said the Set was involved. His uncle had access to Allomancers, and an inclination to see that Bleeder’s plans came to fruition. It didn’t matter what Marasi had written for MeLaan to say; when Suit’s men discovered that “the governor” was deviating from the script, they’d drive the crowd to a frenzy.

Suddenly frantic, Marasi didn’t listen to the beginning of MeLaan’s speech. Could she get to Aradel? No, he was standing on the rusting stage, near MeLaan. Wayne, putting on a brave face despite his wound, hovered near the two of them, ready to help if something went wrong.

Marasi had to move quickly, and quietly, not alerting the Set. She spotted Reddi standing near the base of the steps, watching the crowd with arms folded. Marasi scrambled over to him and seized his arm.

“Reddi,” she said. “There’s a Soother in this crowd somewhere.”

“What?” he asked absently, glancing at her. “Hmm?”

“A Soother,” Marasi said. “Dampening our emotions. Probably a Rioter waiting too, to drive the crowd into a frenzy once they hear the speech.”

“Don’t be silly,” Reddi said with a yawn. “Everything is fine, Lieutenant.”

“Reddi,” she said, tightening her grip. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not annoyed at me?” she said. “Not angry that I hold the position you should? Not jealous at all?”

He glared at her, then cocked his head. Then he hissed out softly. “Damn it, you’re right. I usually hate you, but all I feel is a mild dislike. Someone’s playing with my emotions.” He hesitated. “No offense.”

“Can’t feel offense,” Marasi said. “I’m having trouble feeling any strong emotion or urgency. But Reddi, we have to stop them.”

“I’ll get a squad,” he said. “How will we find them though? They could be anywhere.”

“No,” Marasi said, scanning the crowd. Her eyes found a carriage parked discreetly in a small alleyway across from the governor’s square. “Not anywhere. They won’t want to mix with the masses that they’re planning to turn into a murderous mob. Too dangerous. Come on.”

25

Upon seeing Lessie’s face, Wax growled in a guttural, primal sound. The sound of a man getting hit straight in the stomach with a well-driven punch. He held the gun on Bleeder, but his hand wavered, and his vision shook.

It’s not her. It’s not her.

“Again with the guns,” Bleeder said softly. Rusts! It was Lessie’s voice. “You lean on them too much, Wax. You’re a Coinshot. How often do I have to point that out?”

“You dug up her corpse?” Wax asked in a pleading voice. He was having trouble seeing straight. “You monster. You dug up her corpse?”

“I wish I hadn’t been forced to do this,” Les—Bleeder said. “But strong emotion frees us from him, Wax. It’s the only way.”

She stared down that gun. Of course she would. She was a kandra. He had to remind himself of that forcibly. The gun meant nothing to her.

Lessie … How often had he dreamed of hearing that voice again? He’d wept for the wish to tell her one last time of his love. To explain the hole, gaping like the wound from a shotgun blast, left in him by her death.

To apologize.

Harmony. I can’t shoot her again.

Bleeder had outthought him after all.

“I worried about using Tan’s body,” Lessie said, stepping toward him. “Worried it would make you figure out who I really was.”

“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 and 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 quiet 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.

“Pure Preservation,” Reddi cursed softly, looking over the excited crowd. “They’re going to turn into a lynch mob.”

“No,” Marasi said. “They won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because a river is easier to channel than to stop, Reddi,” Marasi said.

This could work. She didn’t have much hope for holding the house lords and ladies Aradel wanted to arrest, but the governor himself … With those letters and MeLaan playing the role … Yes, this could really work.

She released the Soother. “You’re free; get out of here. And tell Suit he might want to take an extended vacation during what is coming.”

Wax crossed the bridge limping. Life had taught him never to underestimate an enemy you thought you’d downed. One hand on his bleeding leg, he kept his gun trained on the writhing figure until he could sweep her gun away. Then he went down on his good knee and rolled her over, making certain she wasn’t covering up another weapon.

He found tears streaming from her eyes, mixing with the trickling blood from the bullet wound. “He’s in my head again, Wax,” she whispered, trembling. “Oh, Ruin, he’s in my head. He’s taking me. I won’t go back to him.”

“Hush,” Wax said, pulling a second gun from her side and tossing it away. “It’s all right.”

“No,” she cried, grabbing his arm. “No, it’s not. I won’t be his again! I will be me, at the end!”

Bleeder’s trembling increased, her body bucking, as she held to his arm. He frowned as she kept her head thrust forward, meeting his eyes, weeping and shuddering. Thrashing.

“What are you doing?” Wax demanded.

“Dying. We decided it! We won’t fall again. We found a way out.” She could no longer meet his eyes, and she fell backward, spasming. Eyes dilating quickly, skin trembling against the bone.

Wax watched, horrified. He seized her arm. No pulse. She was dying. Killing herself.

Could he stop it?

Why would he care to? She was a murderer many times over. This was a fitting end. In truth, he empathized with her. Let her take this route, rather than suffering under Harmony’s control. Hesitant, but feeling there was little else he could do for this poor creature, he picked her up and held her close. Let her die in someone’s arms. It revolted him to do so, after what she had done. But damn it, it was right.

Bleeder turned her head toward him, and her expression softened as she shook, smiling through bloodied lips. “You’re … you’re as surprising as a … dancing donkey, Mister Cravat.”

Wax grew cold. “Where did you hear that? How did you know those words?”

“I think I loved you even on that day,” she said. “Lawman for hire. So ridiculous, but so … earnest. You didn’t try to shelter me, but seemed so eager to impress.… A lord with a purpose.”

“Who told you of that day, Bleeder?” Wax demanded. “Who…”

“Ask Harmony,” she said, the trembling growing more violent. “Ask him, Wax! Ask why he sent a kandra to watch over you, all those years ago. Ask him if he knew I would come to love you!”

“No…”

“He moved us, even then!” she whispered. “I refused. I wouldn’t manipulate you into returning to Elendel! You loved it out there. I wouldn’t bring you back, to become his pawn.…”

“Lessie?” Harmony, it was her.

It was her.

“Ask him … Wax,” she said. “Ask him … why … if he knows everything … he’d let you kill me.…” She grew still.

“Lessie?” Wax said. “Lessie!”

She was gone. There in his lap, he stared at her body. It kept its shape. Her shape. He clutched her, and let out a low-pitched howl, from deep within, a raw shout that echoed into the night.

It seemed to drive the mists back.

He still knelt there, holding the body, an hour later when a figure loped out of the mists and approached on four legs. TenSoon the kandra, Guardian of the Ascendant Warrior, approached with a reverent step, wolfhound’s head bowed.

Wax stared out into those shifting mists, holding a corpse, hoping irrationally that his heat would keep it warm.

“Tell me,” Wax said, voice cracking and rough from his shouting. “Tell me, kandra.”

“She was sent to you long ago,” TenSoon said, sitting back on his haunches. “The woman you knew as Lessie was always one of us.”

No …

“Harmony worried about you in the Roughs, lawman,” TenSoon said. “He wanted you to have a bodyguard. Paalm had exhibited a willingness to break prohibitions the rest of us held sacred. He hoped that you two would be good for one another.”

“You didn’t tell me?” Wax spat, his grip tight. Hatred. He didn’t think he had ever felt hatred so intense as he did at that moment.

“I was forbidden,” TenSoon said. “MeLaan didn’t know; I was only informed a few days ago. Harmony foresaw a disaster if you were told whom you hunted.”

“And this isn’t a disaster, kandra?”

TenSoon turned away. They sat there on that empty bridge, electric lights making pockets in the mist, a dead woman in Wax’s lap.

“I killed her,” Wax whispered, squeezing his eyes closed. “I killed her again.”