“I see.” She settled back, crossing her feet on the curb and staring up at those lights. “Do you hate me because of what I represent, Wayne? The responsibilities that called him back?”
“I don’t hate you,” Wayne said. “I find you repulsive. That there is an important distinction, it is.”
“But—”
Wayne stood up. He shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.
Then he walked over to the guards that were glaring at him and sat down. The implication was obvious.
I’d rather be here.
Steris closed her eyes, squeezing them shut, and tried to pretend she was someone other than herself for a time. Eventually, sounding bells announced the arrival of constable carriages. She stood up and composed herself, relieved when Marasi exited one of them and hurried over.
“Waxillium?” she asked.
Steris shook her head.
“Get in,” Marasi said, pointing to one of the carriages. “I’m sending you someplace safe.”
“I think the danger has passed here,” Steris said. “Unless Wayne is picking fights again.”
“No,” Marasi said. “The danger has only just started.”
Something in the younger woman’s tone gave Steris pause. Other constables weren’t piling out of the carriages. In fact, they seemed to be waiting for Marasi. They weren’t coming here to investigate the man Waxillium had chased off.
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Steris asked.
“Yeah,” Marasi said. “Wayne, get over here! We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Wax stashed Lord Harms at the very top of Feder Tower. He’d chosen its location on the city map by picking random numbers; hopefully Bleeder wouldn’t be able to outthink a plan with no thought involved. Harms had instructions to lie low, hide in the darkness and stay quiet. Even if Bleeder could Steelpush and search in the night, the chance of her happening upon Harms was ridiculously low verging on impossible. That didn’t stop Wax from worrying. Steris’s father was a silly man, but good-natured and amiable.
It was the best Wax could do, as he needed to locate the governor. That hunt took Wax longer than he’d have assumed, which was actually a good thing. It meant that Drim, despite his dislike of Wax, was doing his job properly. Best Wax could determine, they had sent at least three unmarked carriages away from ZoBell Tower: two decoys, and one with the governor inside. He spotted one on Stanton Way, and dismissed it. Too obvious, with the guards riding on top. Guessing that another had gone east, he found it driving around in a circle in the Third Octant, also trying to draw attention. It was moving too slowly.
Besides, the governor wouldn’t go that way. Innate was a fighter. He wouldn’t want to be seen hiding. So it was that Wax found himself perched on the top of a building near Hammond Promenade, a few streets from Innate’s own mansion. He’d return here, eschewing safehouses in the city. He’d want to be in his center of power and authority.
The mists seemed to glow here in the city, lit by a thousand lights—an increasing number of them electric. It took long enough for the carriage to arrive that Wax was starting to second-guess himself. But arrive it did: a tall-topped enclosed coach with red curtains. Yes, it was quite nondescript. The horses, however, were from the governor’s prized breeding stock. Just like the two decoys.
Wax shook his head as he jumped and Pushed his way to the top of the stone archway outside the First Insurance Bank. The coach moved at a fair clip and held no obvious guards. They must have taken a very roundabout way to take so long to reach here. Wax leaped off the bank’s facade and Pushed on a streetlight, hurling himself after the governor’s coach. He landed on its top and nodded to the surprised coachman, then swung down alongside the vehicle and knocked on the coach’s door, hanging by one arm above the blur of cobblestones beneath. They were certainly running the animals hard.
After a few moments the window shade opened, revealing Drim’s surprised face. “Ladrian?” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Being polite,” Wax said. “May I come in?”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I stop being polite.”
Drim sneered, but glanced to the side, where the governor rode with his hat in his lap. The man nodded, and Drim sighed and turned back to the door.
They didn’t stop the carriage. So Wax had to let go, drop a bullet casing, and Push back to the carriage as Drim opened the door. He grabbed it by the handle, Pushing off a passing light, and ducked into the vehicle, ending up seated opposite Drim and the governor.
Drim would be a perfect person to imitate. As would the carriage driver, as would basically anyone with access to the governor, including his wife and family.
“Lord Ladrian,” Innate said with a sigh. “Breaking up the party wasn’t enough for you? You have to harass me on the way home from it as well?”
Wax shrugged, then moved to climb back out of the carriage. He had the door half open before Innate, sputtering, snapped, “What are you doing now, you fool?”
“Leaving,” Wax said. “There are thousands of places I could be right now, most of them more pleasant.” He hesitated, then pulled out one of his Sterrions and flipped it in his hand, holding it grip-first to the governor. “Here.”
The governor’s eyes bulged. “Why would I need a gun? I have bodyguards.”
“So did your brother,” Wax said. “Take it. I’ll feel guilty when you get shot, if I haven’t done something.”
“… Shot?” Innate blanched. “My brother was killed because of his flirtations with the underbelly of Elendel. They wouldn’t dare touch me.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Wax said, leaning out the door, then hesitated again and looked back in. “You know how to spot a kandra, right, Drim?”
“A what?” the thick-necked bodyguard said.
“Those are myths,” Lord Innate said.
“Are they?” Wax said. “Then the one I met tonight must have been lying. Not sure how she made her skin transparent though. Oh well. Guess you have it in hand.”
“You mean to tell me,” Innate said, stopping Wax with a touch before he could move out the door again, “that one of the Faceless Immortals was at my party tonight?”
“Two, actually,” Wax said. “One came to help. I would introduce you, have her prove her nature to you, but it does seem that your mind is made up. The other one at the party was the person who killed your brother. You sure you don’t want a gun? No? All right, I’ll just be—”
“You’ve made your point, Lord Waxillium,” Innate said, sour-faced. He settled back beside the carriage’s lantern, which burned gas with a proper light.
“My lord,” Drim said, looking to Innate. “This is stupid. The Faceless Immortals? Every second person claims to have met one, just to get their stories in the broadsheets! You’re not really considering these claims, are you?”
Innate studied Wax.
“He is,” Wax said. “Because he knows something strange happened to his brother. Killed in his saferoom, guards murdered from behind by someone they trusted—and Winsting Innate took his security very seriously. More seriously than you do, I’d suspect, Mister Governor.”
“You can introduce me to one of the creatures?” Innate asked. “Offer me proof of their existence?”
“Yes.”
“But why,” Drim said, “would one of Harmony’s own servants kill Lord Winsting?”
“The kandra has gone insane,” Wax said softly. “We don’t know her motives yet, but she does seem to want you dead, Mister Governor. So my job is to keep you alive.”
“What do we do?” Innate asked. “How do we prepare?”
“Well,” Wax said, “first I take over your security.”
“Like hell you do!” Drim said.
“You taking over is impossible,” Innate agreed. “Drim has served me well for years. He … Where are you going?”
Wax turned back from the door. “There’s a play I wanted to se
e tonight,” he said, gesturing. “Figured I’d go catch the tail end while you two discuss this.”
“And if this creature comes for me while you’re gone?” Innate demanded.
“I’m sure your head of security can deal with it,” Wax said. “He knew the kandra were at the party tonight, didn’t he? And he most certainly didn’t miss Wayne slipping in wearing a disguise. And—”
“You may review my security protocols,” Innate said with a sigh. “And offer advice.”
“Fine,” Wax said, pulling the door closed as the carriage turned a corner and approached the governor’s mansion. “But you have to agree to one thing right now. I’m going to give you both a passphrase, and I want you both to vow not to share it with anyone. Not even each other or Lady Innate. You’ll also give me a passphrase. When we meet, we’ll exchange them in a whisper, which will prove that none of us have been replaced.”
“You honestly think I wouldn’t know my own wife?” Innate asked tiredly.
“I’m sure you would,” Wax said, softening his tone. “But this is a requirement of my aid, and you must humor me. It will put my mind at ease.”
The family was most dangerous. Bleeder had sounded so confident, as if she had the governor in hand, which made Wax think the creature had already gotten to one of the family. Lady Innate hadn’t been at the party, but Harmony had said Bleeder could swap bodies whenever she wished. Rust and Ruin, what an awful spot to be in. Bleeder could have killed a niece or nephew, a toddler even, and be planning to imitate one of them to get to the governor. In the Historica, kandra imitated animals. The house pets could secretly be assassins.
Wax glanced at the governor, who looked profoundly disturbed, his hands clasped, eyes staring as if to see a thousand miles. The implications of it were sinking in. Innate wasn’t an idiot. Just an egotist and possibly a crook.
The carriage pulled up to the mansion and Drim climbed out. As Wax followed, the governor took him by the arm. “I will want to see this proof of yours, Roughian.”
“I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
Wax nodded.
“If this is true,” the governor said, still holding his arm, “what do we do? I’ve read the Words of Founding. I know what the Immortals were capable of. Ruin … this creature could be anyone. Passphrases won’t be enough. Not nearly.”
“They won’t,” Wax admitted. “Sir, the thing has access to the Metallic Arts too. At any time, she could be anything from a Pulser to an Archivist. Though she can only carry one at a time without risking loss of control, she can swap the powers out at will.”
“Great Harmony,” the governor whispered. “How do you stop something like that?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. You should probably already be dead.”
“Why am I not?” the governor asked, waving back Drim, who had peeked in to check on them. “This creature could have killed me as easily as she did my brother.”
“She seems to have some kind of agenda. Bigger than you. She might not want to bring you down until doing so topples the city government entirely.” Wax hesitated, then leaned closer. “Sir, you might want to leave Elendel.”
“Leave?” Innate said. “Have you seen what is going on in the city?”
Wax nodded. “I—”
“Labor strikes,” Innate continued as if he hadn’t heard Wax. “Food prices skyrocketing. Too many men from one job out of work, too many from another demanding to be treated better. Rusts, there are practically riots in the streets, man! And the scandal. I can’t leave. My career would be over.”
“Better than your life being over.”
The governor glanced at him. He didn’t seem to see it that way. “Leaving is impossible,” Innate reiterated. “It would look like I’m abandoning the people—they’d think the scandal drove me into hiding. I’d be perceived as a coward. No. Impossible. I will send Lady Innate to safety, as well as the children. I must stay and you must deal with this thing, whatever it is. Stop it before it can go any further.”
“I’ll try,” Wax said, leaning in. “Give me a passphrase to authenticate myself. Something memorable, but nonsensical.”
“‘Leavening on sand.’”
“Good. Mine for you is ‘bones without soup.’ You have a saferoom?”
“Yes,” Innate said. “In the bottom of the mansion, beneath the sitting room.”
“Set up in there,” Wax said, climbing out of the carriage, “and if you lock the door, don’t let anyone in until I arrive, and can give you the passphrase.”
Soon after stepping down, Wax found himself pulling out Vindication.
He’d leveled the gun before he registered what had set him off. Cries of alarm, but not pain. A servant hastened out of the governor’s mansion, passing pillars on the front lit stark white, like a line of femurs.
“My lord governor!” the woman cried. “We’ve had a telenote through the wire; something has happened. You’re going to need to prepare a response!”
“What is it?” Wax demanded as the governor climbed from the carriage.
The servant hesitated, eyes widening at Wax’s gun. She wore a sharp black suit, skirt to the ankles, red scarf at the neck. A steward, or perhaps one of the governor’s advisors.
“I’m a constable,” Wax said. “What is the emergency?”
“A murder,” she said.
Harmony, no … “Not Lord Harms. Please tell me!” Had he left the man to be killed, in his haste to get to the governor?
“Lord who?” the woman asked. “It wasn’t a nobleman at all, constable.” She glanced at Drim, who nodded—Wax could be trusted. She looked back to Wax. “It was Father Bin. The priest.”
* * *
Marasi stared up at the corpse, which had been nailed to the wall like an old drapery. One spike through each eye. Blood painted the man’s cheeks and had soaked into the white ceremonial robes, forming a crimson vest. Almost like a Terris V. Blood stained the wall on either side of the corpse as well, smeared there by thrashing arms and fingers. Marasi shivered. The priest had been alive as this happened.
Though constables poked and prodded at the large nave of the church, Marasi felt alone, standing before that corpse and its steel eyes. Just her and the body, a disturbingly reverent scene. It reminded her of something out of the Historica, though she couldn’t remember what.
Captain Aradel stepped up beside her. “I’ve had word of your sister,” he said. “We’ve got her in one of our most secure safehouses.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What do you make of it?” he asked, nodding toward the body.
“It’s ghastly, sir. What exactly happened?”
“The conventicalists aren’t being very helpful,” he said. “I’m not sure if they’re in shock, or if they see our intrusion here as offensive.”
He gestured for her to go before him and they passed Wayne, who sat in one of the pews chewing gum and looking up at the body. Marasi and Aradel exited the domed nave and entered a small foyer where a row of ashen-faced people sat on some benches. They were conventicalists—those who worked in a Survivorist church aside from the priest.
A grey-haired woman sat at their head, wearing the formal dress of a church matron. She wiped her eyes, and several youths huddled against her, eyes down. Constable Reddi stood nearby; the lean man tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted Aradel. Normally, this wasn’t the sort of thing a constable-general would be involved in, but Aradel had been a detective for many years.
“Will you be handling the interrogation yourself, sir?” Reddi asked. The conventicalists stiffened visibly at the word “interrogation.” Marasi could have smacked him for his tone.
“No,” Aradel.
“Very good, sir,” Reddi said, pulling his bow tie tight and taking out his clipboard. He stepped up to the conventicalists.
“Actually,” Aradel said, “I was thinking we’d let Lieutenant Colms try.”
Marasi felt a sharp spike o
f panic, which she smothered immediately. She wasn’t afraid of a simple interrogation, particularly with amiable witnesses. But the way Aradel said it, so seriously, made her suddenly feel as if it were some type of test. Wonderful.
She took a deep breath and pushed past Reddi, who had lowered his clipboard and was eyeing her. The assembled group of eight people sat with slumped shoulders. How to best approach them? They’d described to a sketch artist what had happened, but details could separate Ruin from Preservation.
Marasi settled down on the bench between two of them. “My condolences on your loss,” she said softly. “My apologies too. The constabulary has failed you this day.”
“It’s not your fault,” the matron said, pulling one of the children tight. “Who could have anticipated … Holy Survivor, I knew those Pathians were a miscreant bunch. I always knew it. No rules? No precepts to guide their lives?”
“Chaos,” a shaven-headed man said from the bench behind. “They want nothing but chaos.”
“What happened?” Marasi said. “I’ve read the report, of course, but … rusts … I can’t imagine…”
“We were waiting for evening celebration,” the matron said. “The mists had put in quite the appearance! Must have been almost a thousand people in the dome for worship. And then he just sauntered up to the dais, that Pathian mongrel.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Course I did,” the matron said. “It was that Larskpur; we see him at community functions all the time. People feel they have to invite a Pathian priest, as if to not show favoritism, though nobody wants them around.”
Behind her, the underpriest nodded. “Little wretch of a man, barely fit his robes,” he said. “Nothing ornate. Really just a smock. They don’t even dress up to worship.”
“He started talking to the crowd,” the matron continued. “Like he was going to give the mistdawn sermon! Only it was vile stuff he spouted.”
“Such as what?” Marasi asked.
“Blasphemy,” the matron said. “But it shouldn’t matter. Look here, constable. Why are you even talking to us? A thousand people saw him. Why are you treating us like we did something wrong? You should be off arresting that monster.”
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