“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.”
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