Wayne blew out his mustache. “Well, you could have sent someone over to inform us,” he said lamely.
“Next time, perhaps,” Brettin said, sounding satisfied for having won the argument and disarmed an angry rival. “We are rather busy with those prisoners.”
“Well and good,” Wayne said. “When are you sending them to us?”
“What?” Brettin said.
“We have prior claim! You have jurisdiction for the initial inquest, but we have prosecution rights. First robbery happened in our octant.” Wax had written that out for him. Bloke could be right useful, on occasion.
“You have to give us a written request for that!”
“We sent a missive,” Wayne said.
Brettin hesitated.
“Earlier today,” Wayne said. “You didn’t get it?”
“Er … We get a lot of missives…”
“Thought you said you hired someone to read them.”
“Sent him out for scones earlier, you see…”
“Ah. Well then.” Wayne hesitated. “Can I have one?”
“Of the scones or the prisoners?”
Wayne leaned in. “Look, Brettin, let’s melt this down and forge it. We both know you can stall for months with those prisoners while we complete proper transfer paperwork. That is basically worthless to both of us. You get a lot of hassle, and we lose any chance we had of catching the rest of these fellows. We need to move quick.”
“And?” Brettin asked, suspicious.
“I want to question a few of the prisoners,” Wayne said. “Chief sent me specifically. You let me in, give me a few minutes, and we’ll stop all transfer requests. You can prosecute, but we get to keep hunting for their boss.”
The two locked gazes. According to Wax, prosecuting the Vanishers would be good for careers—very good. But the real prize, the boss of the gang, was still at large. Getting him would mean glory, promotions, and maybe an invitation to join the upper crust. The late Lord Peterus himself had done it, when he’d captured the Copper Strangler.
Letting a rival constable interview the prisoners would be risky. Potentially losing the prisoners completely—as Brettin chanced doing—was even more so.
“How long?” Brettin said.
“Fifteen minutes each,” Wayne said.
Brettin’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Ten minutes with two of the prisoners.”
“Fine,” Wayne said. “Let’s do it.”
It took longer to set things up than it should have. Constables tended to take their time about anything unless it involved burning buildings or murders in the streets—and they ran for those two only if someone rich was involved. Eventually, they had a room set up for him and pulled one of the bandits in.
Wayne recognized him. The fellow had tried to shoot him, so Wayne had broken his arm with a dueling cane. Downright rude, trying to shoot like that. When a fellow pulls out a dueling cane, you should respond with one of your own—or at least a knife. Trying to shoot Wayne was like bringing dice to a card game. What was the world coming to?
“Has he said anything so far?” Wayne asked Brettin and several of his minions, standing outside the door and looking in at the tubby, scraggly-haired bandit. He had his arm in a dirty sling.
“Not much,” Brettin said. “Actually, none of them have given us much of anything. They seem…”
“Afraid,” one of the other constables said. “They’re afraid of something—or, at least, more afraid of talking than they are of us.”
“Bah,” Wayne said. “You just need to be firm with them! No coddling.”
“We haven’t been—” the constable began, but Brettin raised a hand to quiet him. “Your time is slipping away, Captain.”
Wayne sniffed, then sauntered into the room. It was small, practically a closet, with only the one door. Brettin and the others left it open. The bandit sat in a chair, manacled hands linked by chains to his feet and both locked to the floor. There was a table between them.
The bandit watched him resentfully. He didn’t seem to recognize Wayne. It was probably the hat.
“So, son,” Wayne said. “You’re in a heap of trouble.”
The bandit didn’t reply.
“I can get you off easy. No hangman’s noose for you, if you are willing to be smart.”
The bandit spat at him.
Wayne leaned in, hands on the table. “Here now,” he said very softly, changing his speech to the natural, fluid accent that the bandits had been using. A cup of canal worker for authenticity, a healthy dose of bartender for trust, and the rest Sixth Octant, north side, where most had sounded like they’d come from. “Is that the way to speak to the bloke who killed a conner and took his uniform, all to get you outta here, mate?”
The bandit’s eyes opened wide.
“Don’t do that, now,” Wayne said softly. “You’re looking too eager. That’ll make ’em suspicious. Damn it all. You’re gonna have to spit on me again.”
The man hesitated.
“Do it!”
He spat.
“Ruination!” Wayne bellowed, swapping back to the constable accent. He pounded the table. “I’ll tear your ears off, boy, if you do that again.”
The bandit looked at him. “Er … should I?”
Ah, good. Got the right neighborhood. “Like hell,” Wayne hissed. “I really will rip yer ears off if you do.” He leaned in, speaking in the street-tough accent, low enough so those outside couldn’t hear. “The conners say you haven’t talked. Good job on that. The boss’ll be pleased.”
“You’re gonna get me out?”
“What do you think? Can’t leave you to sing. It’s either get you out or see you shaking hands with Ironeyes.”
“I won’t talk,” the man said urgently. “No need to kill me. I won’t talk.”
“And the others?”
The man hesitated. “I don’t think they will either. Except maybe Sindren. He’s new, and all.”
Good, Wayne thought. “Sindren. Blond fellow, with the scar?”
“No. He’s the short guy. Big ears.” The robber squinted at Wayne. “Why don’t I recognize you?”
“Why do you think?” Wayne said, standing back and resuming his constable voice. “Now, no more griping! Where is your base of operations? Where are you men working from? I want answers!” He leaned in again. “You don’t recognize me because I’m too valuable to be seen by the common men. They might give me away. I work with your boss. Tarson.”
“Tarson? He’s not boss of anything. He just hits stuff.”
Also good. “I meant his boss.”
The bandit frowned. He was growing more suspicious.
“Your attitude is going to get you hanged, mate,” Wayne said softly. “Who recruited you? I want to … speak with him.”
“Who … Clamps does all the recruitment. You should know that.” His eyes grew hostile.
Excellent, Wayne thought. “Done!” he said, turning around. “This one won’t talk. Closed-mouthed git.” He walked out of the room to join Brettin and the others.
“Why were you whispering so much?” Brettin demanded. “You said we could listen.”
“I said you could listen,” Wayne said, “but not that I’d say anything you could hear. You’ve got to speak low and threateningly with these types. Have any of the men given you names, yet?”
“Aliases,” Brettin said, dissatisfied.
“Any of them give the name Sindren?”
Brettin looked at his men. They shook their heads.
Excellent. “I want to see the other men. I’m going to pick which one to interview next.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Brettin said.
“And I can still march on home and start up paperwork for a transfer…”
Brettin stewed for a moment, then led Wayne to the cells. Sindren was easy to pick out. The large-eared man looked young; he was wide-eyed as he watched the conners look into his cell.
“Him,” Wayne said. “Let’s go.�
��
They grabbed him and brought him to an interrogation room. Once Sindren was chained down, Brettin and his men waited in the room.
“A little space to breathe, please,” Wayne said, glaring at them.
“Fine,” Brettin said. “But no more whispering. I want to hear what you have to ask him. He is still our prisoner.”
Wayne glared at them, and they shuffled out, but left the door open. Brettin stood outside with his arms folded, looking at Wayne expectantly.
All right then, Wayne thought. He turned to the captive and leaned in. “Hello, Sindren.”
The boy actually jumped. “How do you—”
“Clamps sent me,” Wayne said softly in a street-tough accent. “I’m working on a way to get you out. I need you to remain perfectly still.”
“But—”
“Still. Don’t move.”
“No whispering!” Brettin called in. “If you say—”
Wayne put up a speed bubble. It wasn’t going to last long; he hadn’t been able to scrounge up much bendalloy. He’d have to make it work.
“I’m an Allomancer,” Wayne said, holding perfectly still. “I’ve sped up time for us. If you move, they’ll notice the blur and know what happened. Do you understand? Don’t nod yes. Just say so.”
“Um … yes.”
“Good,” Wayne said. “As I said, Clamps sent me, and I’m here to get you out. Seems the boss worries you fellows will talk.”
“I won’t!” the youth said, voice nearly a squeak as he obviously worked hard to keep himself from moving.
“I’m sure you won’t,” Wayne said, moving his accent subtly to match the area this youth was from, Inner Seventh. He tossed in a sprinkle of millworker, which he caught in this lad’s dialect. Probably from his father. “If you did, Tarson would have to break some of your bones. You know how he likes that, eh?”
The boy started to nod, but caught himself. “I know.”
“But we’ll get you out,” Wayne said. “Don’t worry. I don’t recognize you. You new?”
“Yes.”
“Clamps recruited you?”
“Just two weeks back.”
“Which base were you working out of?”
“Which one?” the lad said, frowning.
“We have several stations of operation,” Wayne said. “But of course you don’t know that, do you? The boss only shows one to new kids, in case they get caught. Wouldn’t want you to accidentally lead people to us, eh?”
“That would be awful,” Sindren agreed. He eyed the door, but kept himself still. “He put me in the old foundry over in Longard. I thought we were the only ones!”
“That’s the idea,” Wayne said. “We can’t let a simple mistake stop us from getting payback.”
“Er, yes.”
“You don’t believe in all that, do you?” Wayne said. “It’s okay. I think the boss gets a little crazy with that stuff too.”
“Yeah,” the youth said. “I mean, most of us just want the money, you know? Payback’s nice. But…”
“… money’s better.”
“Yeah. Boss is always talking about how things will be better when he’s in charge, and how the city betrayed him, and stuff. But the city betrays everyone. That’s how life is.” The youth glanced again at the constables outside the door.
“Don’t worry,” Wayne said. “They think I’m one of them.”
“How’d you do it?” the boy asked softly.
“Just gotta talk their language, son. Surprising how many people never figure that out. You’re sure they never told you about any of the other bases? I need to know which ones are in danger.”
“No,” the youth said. “I only ever went to the foundry. Stayed there pretty much all the time, except when we went out on runs.”
“Can I give you some advice, son?” Wayne asked.
“Please.”
“Get out of this business of robbing folks. You aren’t meant for it. If you ever do get free, go back to the mills.”
The boy frowned.
“Takes a special type to be a proper criminal,” Wayne explained. “You ain’t that type. You see, in this conversation, I tricked you into confirming the name of the guy who recruited you and giving the location of your base.”
The youth grew pale. “But…”
“Don’t worry,” Wayne said. “I’m on your side, remember? You’re just lucky that I am.”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” Wayne said, lowering his voice, remaining still. “I don’t know if I can get you out by force. Face it, kid, you’re not worth it. But I can help you. I want you to talk to the constables.”
“What?”
“Give me until evening,” Wayne said. “I’ll go back to the base and clear the place out. Once that’s done, you can sing to the conners, tell them everything you know. Don’t worry, you weren’t told enough to get us into real trouble. Our contingency plans will protect us. I’ll tell the boss I told you to do it, and so you’ll be all right.
“But don’t talk to them until they promise to let you go free in return. Get a solicitor into the room; ask for one by the name of Arintol. He’s supposed to be honest.” At least, that was what people on the streets had told Wayne. “Get the conners to promise you freedom with Arintol in the room. Then, tell them everything you know.
“Once you’re out, get away from the City. Some of the gang may not believe that I told you to talk, so it could be dangerous for you. Go to the Roughs and become a millworker. Nobody will care, there. Either way, kid, stay out of crime. You’ll just end up getting someone killed. Maybe you.”
“I…” The youth looked relieved. “Thank you.”
Wayne winked. “Now, resist everything I ask you from here out.” He started coughing and dropped the speed bubble.
“—that I can’t hear,” Brettin said, “I’m stopping this right here.”
“Fine!” Wayne yelled. “Boy, tell me who you work for.”
“I ain’t giving you anything, conner!”
“You’ll talk, or I’ll have your toes!” Wayne yelled back.
The kid got into it, and Wayne gave the constables a good five minutes of arguing before throwing up his hands and storming out.
“I told you,” Brettin said.
“Yeah,” Wayne said, trying to sound dejected. “Guess you’ll just have to keep working on them.”
“It won’t work,” Brettin said. “I’ll be dead and buried before these men talk.”
“We could only be so lucky,” Wayne said.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Wayne said, sniffing the air. “I believe that the scones have arrived. Excellent! At least this trip won’t be a complete waste.”
9
“So we aren’t sure yet what happened,” Waxillium said, sitting on the floor beside the long sheet of paper covered with his genealogical results. “The Words of Founding included a reference to two more metals and their alloys. But the ancients believed in sixteen metals, and the Law of Sixteen holds so strongly in nature that it can’t be disregarded. Either Harmony changed the way that Allomancy itself works, or we never really understood it.”
“Hmmm,” Marasi said, sitting on the floor with her knees to the side. “I would not have expected that from you, Lord Waxillium. Lawman I had anticipated. Metallurgist, perhaps. But philosopher?”
“There is a link between being a lawman and a philosopher,” Waxillium said, smiling idly. “Lawkeeping and philosophy are both about questions. I was drawn to law by a need to find the answers nobody else could, to capture the men everyone considered uncatchable. Philosophy is similar. Questions, secrets, puzzles. The human mind and the nature of the universe—the two great riddles of time.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“What was it for you?” Waxillium asked. “One does not often meet a young woman of means studying law.”
“My means are not so … meaningful as they may seem at first,” she said. “I would be nothi
ng without my uncle’s patronage.”
“Still.”
“Stories,” she said, smiling wistfully. “Stories of the good and the evil. Most people you meet, they aren’t quite either one.”
Waxillium frowned. “I’d disagree. Most people seem basically good.”
“Well, perhaps by one definition. But it seems that either one—good or evil—has to be pursued for it to be significant. People today … it seems they are good, or sometimes evil, mostly by inertia, not by choice. They act as their surroundings prepare them to act.
“It’s like … well, think of a world where everything is lit with the same modest light. All places, outside or inside, lit by a uniform light that cannot be changed. If, in this world of common light, someone suddenly produced a light that was significantly brighter, it would be remarkable. By the same token, if someone managed to create a room that was dim, it would be remarkable. In a way, it doesn’t matter how strong the initial illumination was. The story works regardless.”
“The fact that most people are decent does not make their decency any less valuable to society.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, blushing. “And I’m not saying I wish that everyone were less decent. But … those bright lights and those dim places fascinate me, Lord Waxillium—particularly when they’re dramatically out of order. Why is it that in one instance, a man raised in a basically good family—surrounded by basically good friends, with good employment and satisfactory means—starts strangling women with copper wires and sinking their bodies in the canals?
“And conversely, consider that most men who go to the Roughs adapt to the general climate of lax sensibilities there. But some others—a few remarkable individuals—determine to bring civilization with them. A hundred men, convinced by society that ‘everybody does it this way,’ will go along with the most crude and despicable of acts. But one man says no.”
“It’s really not as heroic as all that,” Waxillium said.
“I’m certain it doesn’t look that way to you.”
“Have you ever heard the story of the first man I brought in?”
She blushed. “I … yes. Yes, let’s just say that I’ve heard it. Peret the Black. A rapist and an Allomancer—Pewterarm, I believe. You walked into the lawkeeper station, looked at the board, ripped his picture off and took it with you. Came back three days later with him over the saddle of your horse. Of all the men on the board, you picked the most difficult, most dangerous criminal of the bunch.”
The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel Page 14