Shadows of Self (26 page)

“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 see 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 of 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.”

“We have people hunting for him,” Marasi said, and rested her hand on the shoulder of one of the children; the little girl whimpered and clamped on to her arm. “And I promise you, we’ll catch and punish the one who did this. But every detail you can remember will help us put him away.”

The matron and the underpriest glanced at each other. But it was one of the others—a lanky altarman in his twenties—who spoke. “Larskpur said,” the man whispered, “that the Survivor was a false god. That Kelsier had tried, and failed, to help humankind. That his death hadn’t been about protecting us or Ascending, but about stupidity and bravado.”

“It’s what they’ve always thought,” the matron said, “but don’t say. Those Pathians … they claim to accept everyone, but if you push you can see the truth. They mock the Survivor.”

“They want chaos,” the underpriest repeated. “They hate that so many people look to the Survivor. They hate that we have standards. They have no meetings, no churches, no commandments.… The Path isn’t a religion, it’s a
platitude
.”

“It stunned us, I’ll tell you that,” the matron said. “I thought at first that Father Bin
must
have invited Larskpur to speak. Why else would he be so bold as to step up to the pulpit? I was so horrified by what he said that I didn’t notice the blood at first.”

“I did,” the underpriest said. “I thought he was wearing gloves. I stared at those fingers, waving, bright red. And then I noticed the drops that he was flicking across the floor and the pulpit as he gestured.”

They all were quiet for a moment. “There isn’t anything more to say,” the matron finally said. “Larskpur gestured one last time, and the back draping fell down. There he was, our blessed father, nailed there in a terrible parody of the Survivor’s Statemark. Poor Father Bin had been … hanging the whole time. Might have been still alive, bleeding and dying while we all listened to that blasphemy.”

Marasi doubted that. Though the priest had obviously struggled at first, the spikes would have ended that quickly. “Thank you,” she said to the distraught group. “You’ve been very helpful.” She carefully pried the little girl’s hands from her arm and passed her to the matron.

Marasi stood, walking to Aradel and Reddi, who stood on the other side of the room.

“What do you think?” Marasi asked softly.

“About the information,” Reddi said, “or your interrogation techniques?”

“Either.”

“That wasn’t how I’d have done it,” the short constable said. “But I suppose that you did put them at ease.”

“They didn’t offer much,” Aradel said, rubbing at his chin.

“What did you expect?” Marasi asked. “Captain, this had to be the same person who killed Winsting.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Aradel said. “What would be the motive?”

“Can you explain this any other way?” Marasi said, gesturing toward the room with the dead priest. “A Pathian? Murdering? Sir, their priests are some of least aggressive people on the planet. I’ve seen toddlers more dangerous.”

Aradel continued rubbing his chin. “Reddi,” he said, “go get those conventicalists something to drink. They could use a warm mug right now, I’d suspect.”

“Sir?” Reddi said, taken aback.

“You been spending so much time at the gun range you’ve gone deaf?” Aradel said. “Be about it, Captain. I need to talk to Constable Colms.”

Reddi’s glare at Marasi could have boiled water, but he moved off to do as ordered.