Shadows of Self (24 page)

“Oh please,” the woman said, pulling up beside the wall with him. “Why would I save you if I were an enemy?”

Because you could be Bleeder,
Wax thought. Anyone could.

“Um … you’re hurt,” the woman said. “How bad is that? Because we should
really
start running right now. They’re going to come charging in here shortly.”

Damn. Not much choice.
Trust her and potentially die, or not trust her and almost certainly die.

“Come here,” Wax said, grabbing the woman and pulling her close. He pointed Vindication at the ground.

“They have snipers,” she said. “On five roofs, watching for you to Push into the mists. Aluminum bullets.”

“How do you know?”

“Overheard those fellows with the bows whispering as they moved around to come get you.”

Wax growled. “Who are you?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Does it matter right now?”

“No.”

“Can you run?”

“Yes. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Wax took off, the woman running at his side. The wound hurt like hell, but there was something about the mists.… He felt stronger in them. It shouldn’t be so—he was no Pewterarm—but there it was.

In truth, getting shot was bad, but not as bad as people often made it out to be. This shot had gone through the skin and muscle under his arm, making it difficult to raise, but he wouldn’t bleed out. Most bullets wouldn’t actually stop a man; psychologically, the panic of being shot did the most harm.

The two of them charged out the back side of the building, past the man with a knife in his head. Behind them shouts rose in the mist, and a few of the ambushers trying to get into the building took wild shots.

The woman ran well despite being in a gown. Yes, she’d ripped off the bottom half, but she still seemed to run too easily, without seeming to break a sweat or breathe deeply.

Blue lines. Ahead.

Wax grabbed Milan by the arm, yanking her to the side into an alleyway as a group of four men burst out of a cross street, leveling guns.

“Rusts!” Wax said, peeking around the corner. This short alleyway ended at a wall. The thugs had him surrounded.

“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 submerged, 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.