“How many men does Bleeder have?” Wax muttered with another curse, under his breath.
“These can’t be Bleeder’s men,” Milan said. “How would she have recruited such an army? In the past she’s always worked on her own.”
Wax looked at her sharply. How much did she know about all this?
“We’re going to have to fight,” Milan said as shouts sounded from behind them. She reached to her chest, where her gown exposed considerable cleavage.
Waxillium had seen some odd things in his life. He’d visited koloss camps in the Roughs, even been invited to join their numbers. He’d met and spoken with God himself and had received a personal gift from Death. That did not prepare him for the sight of a pretty young woman’s chest turning nearly transparent, one of the breasts splitting and offering up the hilt of a small handgun.
She grabbed it and pulled it out. “So convenient,” she noted. “You can store all sorts of things in those.”
“Who are you?”
“MeLaan,” she said, rising and holding her gun in two hands. The pronunciation was slightly different this time when she said her name. “The Father promised you help. I’m it.”
A Faceless Immortal. As soon as she stopped speaking, he heard a rustling in his mind. You can trust this one. Harmony’s voice, accompanied by a sense of endlessness, a vision like he’d seen before. It was as good a confirmation as he could get that this wasn’t Bleeder.
Wax narrowed his eyes at the woman anyway. “Wait. I think I know you.”
She grinned. “We’ve met once before tonight. I’m charmed you remember. You want the ones in the back or the front?”
At least a dozen chasing them. Four ahead. He had to trust someone, sometime. “I’ll take the ones behind.”
“Such a gentleman,” she said. “By the way, technically I’m not supposed to kill people. I … uh … think I already broke that rule tonight. If we happen to survive, please don’t tell TenSoon that I murdered a bunch of people again. It upsets him.”
“Sure. I can do that.”
She grinned—whoever she was, this side of her was completely different from what she’d displayed previously. “Say when to go.”
Wax peeked around the corner. Dark figures moved in the mist behind them, coming up on their position. If she was right, and this wasn’t Bleeder, then who …
Aluminum bullets. Snipers to watch for his escape.
It was his uncle. Somehow Wax had been played. Oh, Harmony … If Bleeder and the Set were working together …
He tossed a bullet casing to the side, against the wall to his right, and held it in place with a light Allomantic push. He flexed his wounded arm, then raised both guns. “Go.”
Wax didn’t wait to see what MeLaan did. He Pushed against the casing, throwing himself out into the street, churning the mist. Men fired, and Wax increased his weight, then Pushed with a sweeping blast of Allomantic power. Some weapons were thrown backward, and some bullets stopped in the air. Men grunted as his Push sent them away.
Two men’s weapons weren’t affected by the Push. Wax shot them first. They fell, and he didn’t give the other men time to go for the aluminum guns. He decreased his weight greatly and Pushed against the men behind him, hoping that the shove helped MeLaan.
His Push sent him into the middle of the men he was fighting. He landed, kicking one of the aluminum guns away into the mists, then lowered Vindication and drilled a thug in the head, just at the ear. The cracks of his gunfire rang in the night.
Wax kept firing, dropping the men around him as he spun through the mists. Some came at him with dueling canes while others fell back with bows. No Allomancers that he’d spotted. In the night, he could finally prove the worth of the mistcoat. As he dodged between the thugs—kicking the other aluminum gun away—the tassels on his coat spun in the air, seeming to meld with the mists. Men attacked where he had been, the tassels confusing them as they churned the fog.
He twisted between two of the thugs and raised a gun to either side and fired, sending them to the ground. Then he turned and leveled both weapons at the man who had been sneaking up on him.
Both out, I believe. He pulled the triggers anyway. The weapons clicked.
The terrified man stumbled back, then paused. “He’s out! Move! He’s defenseless!” The man charged forward.
Wax dropped the guns.
Why, exactly, would they assume that I need guns to be dangerous?
He reached into his coat and undid the rope at his waist. He pulled it free, draping the rope from his fingers. Ranette’s hook clinked as it hit the ground.
The man in front of him hesitated at the sound, dueling cane held nervously.
“This,” Wax said, “is how it used to be done.”
He yanked the rope, whipping the metal end into the air, then Pushed the spike at the man’s chest, letting the rope move through his fingers to give it more slack. It hit, cracking ribs, and Wax yanked the rope back, holding it on a tight leash and spinning the hook through the air as he turned. He Pushed again, slamming the metal into the man raising a bow.
Wax twisted and knelt, whipping the rope around. It spun before him in a grand arc, stirring the mist as he gave the rope more slack, then Pushed it, slamming the spike-hook past one man and into another’s chest. Wax yanked the spike-hook back, catching the other man on the thigh, tripping him as he came forward with a dueling cane.
Wax caught the hook in one hand and turned, Pushing the hook forward into the shoulder of an ambusher. Wax ripped it free with a yank, then Pushed it directly back into the man’s face.
One more, he thought. Wax whirled, pulling the hook back into his hand, searching.
The last man scrambled for something on the ground. He looked up, raising one of the fallen aluminum guns. “The Set sends its regards, law—”
He cut off as a shadow behind him rammed a knife into his back.
“Here’s a tip, kid,” MeLaan said. “Save the wisecracks until your foe is dead. Like this. See how easy it is?” She kicked the corpse in the face.
Wax looked around at the fallen and groaning men. He held the rope tightly. Those sharpshooters on the roofs might reposition soon and start firing. “We need to move fast. I think Bleeder is going after Lord Harms, my betrothed’s father.”
“Damn,” MeLaan said. “You want to try to climb up and go after those sharpshooters?”
“No time,” Wax whispered. He pointed down the street. “You go that way; I’ll go the other way. If you get out, head back to the Counselor’s Cup, a tavern over on Edden Way. I’ll meet you there after I go for Lord Harms. If I or someone I send talks to you, first say the words ‘all yellow pants.’”
“Sure thing.”
“Good luck.”
“I’m not the one who needs help, lawman,” MeLaan said. “I’m basically bulletproof.” She gave him a kind of mock salute, then took off down the street, charging through the mists.
Wax recovered Vindication, but didn’t holster her. Instead, he grabbed one of the corpses nearby and lugged it up onto his shoulder, stuffing bullets into its pocket. Then he pulled off his gunbelt. He didn’t know if those sharpshooters might be Metalborn, set to watch for lines of metal in the mists.
Just in case, he heaved the corpse overhead and Pushed, lobbing it upward through the mists. Then he Pushed on his gunbelt, sending it flying ahead of him down the street.
Finally he ran, chasing after the gunbelt and using Allomancy to knock it up and forward again as it started to fall. A gunshot broke the night, but he couldn’t pinpoint its origin. He didn’t know if the sharpshooter was trying to hit the corpse, his gunbelt, or him. Another shot followed.
He burst out of the alley, snatched his gunbelt off the ground, then leaped, soaring over the walkway and coming down in the frigid blackness of the canal. Dark water surrounded him, the guns towing him down as his mistcoat billowed outward.
He kicked downward, seeking the floor of the canal. And then, still subm
erged, he Pushed on the mooring rings on either side of the canal behind him. Most people, even seasoned gunmen, underestimated the stopping power of a good foot of water. Wax surged through the canal like a fish swimming downstream, continuing to Push on new mooring rings as they passed, staying centered in the canal and remaining submerged. He scraped the bottom of a boat overhead, but kept Pushing, praying he wouldn’t ram himself into anything in the depths.
By the time his breath ran out, he must have traveled a number of blocks. He burst out of the water and, coughing, crawled to the side of the canal and heaved himself out onto the walkway. He stumbled to his feet. Nobody shot him, which was a good sign.
He paused just long enough to catch his breath and roughly bind his arm, then took to the skies, heading for the Harms mansion.
12
“That’s good,” Wayne said, notepad out. “You’re sure that fellow wasn’t acting strange, then? Nothing odd?”
The serving woman shook her head, sitting with her arms wrapped around herself. They’d finally managed to get down from the top floor, following the panicked exodus by the rich types. The governor was surrounded by a bubble of guards over to Wayne’s left, and a set of strong electric lanterns illuminated the misty night.
The green in front of the skyscraper felt right empty, now that so many people had left. He figured that would soon change, when Marasi returned with some more constables. She’d run off to fetch them, and give a report. That meant Wayne was the sole officer of lawkeepin’ in the vicinity. A frightening thought.
“I’ve got one more question for you,” Wayne said to the woman.
“Yes, officer?” she asked.
“Where’d you get those shoes?”
The woman blinked, then looked down. “Um … My shoes?”
“Yeah, your shoes,” Wayne said. “Look plenty comfortable, they do. Can never have too many pairs of black pumps. They go with rusting everything.”
She looked back at him. “You’re a man.”
“Sure am,” Wayne said. “Checked last time I pissed. The shoes?”
“Rousseau’s,” she said. “Third Octant, on Yomen Street.” She paused. “They were on sale last week.”
“Damn!” Wayne said. “That’s beautiful. Thanks. You’re free to go.”
She gave him that look that people seemed to give only to Wayne, the one he hadn’t quite figured. Ah well. He wrote down the name of the shop. If he had to wear those awful pumps from his disguise box one more time, he’d probably go insane.
He popped a ball of gum into his mouth and wandered over toward the pile of guards, going over his notes. That server up above, he thought, tapping his pad with his pencil, was not the kandra. Wayne had talked to a dozen of the staff. All knew the fellow and said he hadn’t been acting strange at all. But none of them liked him. He was a screwup, and none were surprised that he’d turned out to be rotten.
An amateur might think that picking the new guy made for a good disguise, but this Bleeder, she could be anyone. Why would she pick the low man on the list, someone who had only joined the staff a few weeks back? Sure, being new would give you an excuse to not know people’s names, but by reports, this fellow hadn’t forgotten anyone’s name tonight. And picking a habitual klutz with a bad reputation would just lead to everyone watching over your shoulder. A terrible choice for an imitator.
That guy had been some other kind of mole. He shook his head.
“Where’s Drim?” he asked the guards. “I wanna show him what I’ve got.”
The guard leaned over, looking at Wayne’s notepad. “All that’s on there is a bunch of scribbles.”
“It’s for show,” Wayne said. “Makes people talk more if they think you’re writin’ stuff down. Dunno why. I sure wouldn’t want anyone rememberin’ the slag I say.…” He hesitated, then shoved aside the guard, looking into the middle of the pile. Drim wasn’t there, and neither was the governor.
“What’d you do with him!” Wayne said, turning on the others. A smug group of bastards, they were.
“It was best everyone thought he was still here,” the guard said. “In truth, he and Drim headed to a secure location ages ago. If we fooled you, then hopefully we fooled the assassin.”
“Fooled … I’m supposed to be protectin’ the guy!”
“Well, you’re doing a rusting good job of that, mate, ain’tcha,” the guard said, then smirked.
So Wayne did the only reasonable thing. He spat out his gum, then decked the fellow.
* * *
Wax rarely appreciated the city as much as he did when he needed to get somewhere quickly.
To the eyes of a man burning steel, Elendel was alight and full of motion, even while shadowed by darkness and mist. Metal. In some ways, that was the true mark of mankind. Man tamed the stones, the bones of the earth below. Man tamed the fire, that ephemeral, consuming soul of life. And combining the two, he drew forth the marrow of the rocks themselves, then made molten tools.
Wax passed among the skyscrapers like a whisper, the motion drying his clothing. He became just another current in the mists, and moving with him in radial spokes was a majestic network of blue lines—like a million outstretched fingers pointing the way to anchors he could use along his path. When even a galloping horse was too slow, Wax had steel. It burned in him, returning to the fire that gave it shape.
From it he drew power. Sometimes that wasn’t enough.
But this night, he exploded through the lit upper windows of the Harms dwelling, rolling and coming up with guns leveled. Lord Harms swiveled in the chair of his writing desk, knocking over his pot of ink. The red-faced older man had a comfortable paunch, an easy manner, and a pair of mustaches that were in competition with his jowls to see which could droop farthest toward the floor. Upon seeing Wax, he started, then scrambled to reach into his desk drawer.
Wax scanned the room. Nobody else there. No enemies in the corners, no moving bits of metal in closets or the bedroom. He’d arrived in time. Wax let out a sigh of relief, standing up as Lord Harms finally got his desk drawer open. The man whipped out a pistol, one of the modern semiautos that were popular with the constables. Harms leaped to his feet and rushed over to Wax, holding his gun in two hands.
“Where are they!” Harms exclaimed. “We can take them, eh, old boy?”
“You have a gun,” Wax said.
“Yes indeed, yes indeed. After what happened last year, I realized that a man has to be armed. What’s the emergency? I’ll have your back!”
Wax carefully tipped the point of Lord Harms’s gun downward, just in case a bullet was chambered—because, fortunately, the man hadn’t locked a magazine into the pistol. Wax glanced behind at the windows. He’d flung them open with a Push as he approached, but they were meant to open outward, not inward. He’d ripped both right off their hinges, toppling one while the other hung by its corner. It finally gave way, crashing to the floor, cracking the glass inside the wooden frame.
Mist poured in through the opening, flooding the floor. Where was Bleeder? In the house somewhere? Impersonating a maid? A neighbor? A constable passing on the street?
Standing in the room with him?
“Jackstom,” Wax said, looking to Lord Harms, “do you remember when you first met me, and Wayne was pretending to be my butler?”
Harms frowned. “You mean your uncle?”
Good, Wax thought. An impostor wouldn’t know that, would she? Rusts … He’d have to suspect everyone.
“You’re in danger,” Wax said, sliding his guns into their hip holsters. His suit was basically ruined from the swim in the canal, and he’d tossed aside his cravat, but the sturdy mistcoat had seen far worse than this. “I’m getting you out of here.”
“But…” Lord Harms trailed off, face blanching. “My daughter?”
As if he had only one.
“Steris is fine,” Wax said. “Wayne is watching her. Let’s go.”
The problem was, go where? Wax had a hundred places he could t
ake Harms, but Bleeder could be lurking at any of them. The odds were certainly in Wax’s favor, and yet …
Bleeder is ancient, Harmony had said. Older than the destruction of the world. She is crafty, careful, and brilliant.… She spent centuries studying human behavior.
Any option Wax chose could be the very one Bleeder had predicted he would choose. How did you outthink something so old, so knowledgeable?
The solution seemed easy. You didn’t try.
* * *
Steris left ZoBell Tower to find Wayne sitting across the street from a huddle of bruised and obviously angry men. Wayne was eating a sandwich.
“Oh, Wayne,” she said, looking from the hostile, wounded men and back to him. “Those are the governor’s guards. He’s going to need them tonight.”
“’s not my fault,” Wayne said. “They was bein’ unaccommodating.” He took a bite of his sandwich.
She sighed, settling down beside him and looking up through the mists toward the tower. She could make out the lights on various floors glowing like phantoms above, leading all the way up to the very top.
“This is how it’s going to be, with him, isn’t it?” she asked. “Always being left behind in the middle of something? Always half feeling as if I’m part of his life?”
Wayne shrugged. “You could do the noble thing, Steris. Give up on the whole marriage. Let him loose to find someone he actually likes.”
“And my family’s investment in him and his house?”
“Well, I know this here is revolutionary words, Steris, but you can loan a chap money without him havin’ to jump you in appreciation, if you know my meanin’.”
Good Harmony he could be shockingly unmannered. He wasn’t like this to others. Oh, he was crass and whimsical, but rarely blatantly rude. He saved that for her. Was he expecting her to fight back, prove herself somehow? She’d never been able to figure this man out. Preparing what to say to him only seemed to make him more vulgar.
“Did he say where he was going?” she said, trying to remain polite.
“Nah,” Wayne said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “He’s chasin’ Bleeder down. Means he could have gone anywhere, and so tryin’ to find him is useless. He’ll come back for me when he can. If I leave, I’ll just end up missing him.”
Shadows of Self Page 18
