Shadows of Self (37 page)

“Run along now,” Edwarn said. “Go be the toy soldier and pretend you wouldn’t have murdered the Survivor’s entire crew, if you’d lived under the Lord Ruler. Try to pretend you went out into the Roughs to find justice, and not because you realized life in this city was just too damn
hard
for you.”

They sat in the quiet, immobile coach. Wax held himself steady, though Edwarn’s eyes flicked toward Wax’s shoulder holster, as if he was expecting Wax to draw. He could. He could shoot this man right here and now—he’d broken promises before, and to far better men than his uncle.

Kill me, and your sister is as good as dead.…

Wax kicked the door open. “I’m going to go deal with this kandra, but know that I won’t forget you, Uncle. One day you’re going to find me standing behind you with a gun to your head, and you’ll have the sudden, horrible realization that there’s nothing left that can protect you.”

“I look forward to it!” Edwarn said. “If that day doesn’t come before next summer, you should join me for Mareweather dinner. We’ll have stuffed pig in your honor.”

Wax growled softly, but stepped from the coach and slammed the door.

18

Marasi had spent a great portion of her adult life preparing to be an attorney, and her mother had wished her to someday find her way to politics. Marasi had abandoned aspirations toward politics in her youth, and had recently abandoned the solicitors as well. The thing was, those professions had one important flaw: They were populated entirely with attorneys and politicians.

Despite her best efforts she now found herself in a room full of them. Governor Innate stood by the hearth here, in his private study, one arm resting on the mantel. Arrayed before him were the men and women of his executive staff, a hearty bunch who didn’t seem nearly as groggy as the constables and guards who had been called up in the middle of the night.

In fact, the group displayed a distinct energy as they discussed the crisis. Their words tumbled over one another in their eagerness to express their opinions, like children vying for parental approval. Marasi stood beside the window—where the governor had put her, saying he’d get to her later. So she waited, listened, and circumspectly took notes on her pad. If the kandra happened to be hiding among them, she doubted a verbal slip would enable her to recognize Bleeder, but it seemed the best use of her time as long as she was required to stay put.

“It will all blow over,” repeated the city sanitation director. He was an attorney who had been through the same program she’d completed, albeit many years ago. Marasi wasn’t sure why he needed a law degree to run city sanitation. “Rep, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“I am taking an attempt on my
life
too seriously?” Innate asked. “An attack that left one of my lifelong friends dead?”

That brought a stillness to the room, and the sanitation director settled back down, red-faced. Innate had changed his shirt from the one stained red with blood, but Marasi knew they all had seen him before he’d done so. She rather thought he’d delayed changing until they had.

“I wasn’t talking about the assassination attempt,” the sanitation director said. “I meant the ruckus outside. It will blow over.”

“They’re already looting,” the minister of trade noted, a bespectacled woman who had brought two aides to take notes for her. She hadn’t offered them seats.

“There will
always
be looting,” the sanitation director said. “It happens. We hunker down, let burn what needs to burn. Contain, rather than try to stamp out.”

“Foolishness,” said the secretary of education, a corpulent woman who sat with her feet up by the crackling fire. “This is a time for decisiveness, my lord governor. You need to show your rivals that you are not easily cowed. You know the Lekals have been getting traction lately, and your brother’s scandal will only fuel their ambition. Mark my words, they will present a strong candidate to rival you at the next election, and he will lean on this night’s events to discredit you.”

“Yes,” said the minister of public affairs. “Could they be behind the assassination attempt, perhaps?”

The governor glanced toward Marasi—the first time he’d acknowledged her since the meeting had begun. He knew about MeLaan now; she’d shown her true nature to him just before the meeting started. He believed, and had begun by explaining to the executive staff about the rogue kandra. The others obviously considered it foolishness and, after the way of their kind, were simply ignoring what he’d told them.

Marasi met his gaze calmly. Once upon a time she had dreamed of being a participant in meetings like this one. Gatherings where important decisions were made, where laws were drafted and political strategies adopted. Now, she found herself frustrated by all the talk. Waxillium was rubbing off on her, and perhaps not in ways she should appreciate.

“No, no,” the sanitation director said. “The Lekals aren’t behind this. An assassin? Are you mad, Donton? They would never be caught engaging in something so potentially damaging.”

“Agreed,” said the secretary of education. “This was someone far more desperate. I repeat, my lord governor. Decisiveness. Leadership. You asked about martial law? Well, that is the
minimum
you must do, I say. Send the constables out in force. Crush the looters, scatter the rioters, be seen protecting the city.”

Others voiced their opinions on this, and the governor quieted them. “I’ll consider. I’ll
consider
.” His tone was sharp, sharper than Marasi had heard from him before. “Out with you all. I need to think.”

In that moment he looked haggard. The counselors quieted, then made their way out. Marasi moved to join them, reluctantly.

“Miss Colms,” the governor said, walking to his desk, “a moment.”

Marasi obeyed, stepping up before the desk as he settled down. He reached to the floor, pushing back the rug and exposing the top of a small safe, which he absently unlocked with a key from his desk. He reached inside, taking out his seal of office, then settled down to begin writing.

“Tell Constable-General Aradel that he has his writ of martial law,” the governor said tiredly. “He’s the only constable-general to contact me so far, which I find disturbing. I am appointing him with executive authority as lord high constable, director of all law-enforcement offices in the city until this crisis is over. The other octants’ constables-general will need to report to him.”

Marasi didn’t reply. The others weren’t going to like that. The rivalry among the octant precincts was officially characterized as friendly, but in reality had far too much bite to it for her taste. “And your instructions regarding the people of the city?” Marasi asked softly as he wrote. “Should the constables do as your education secretary suggests?”

Innate finished writing. He looked up at her, and seemed to weigh her with his eyes. “You’re new to the constabulary, I believe? The … cousin of Lord Ladrian’s betrothed?”

“I wasn’t aware I’d attracted your attention,” Marasi said.

“You haven’t.
He
has. Damnable man.”

Marasi remained silent, feeling awkward before his judgmental gaze.

“Those mobs will end up here sooner or later, you know,” the governor said, tapping his pen on the table. “They’ll come demanding answers. I must speak to them, turn this tide.”

Speak to them?
Marasi thought.
As you did earlier?
That speech hadn’t shown any particular sense of empathy.

Rusts, had that only been this afternoon? Checking the governor’s ornate desk clock, she found it was almost two—so the governor’s speech had technically been yesterday. She probably shouldn’t have looked at the time; seeing exactly how late it was merely reminded her of her own exhaustion. It was like an angry creditor pounding on her door; she’d be able to ignore it for only so long.

“Tell Aradel,” the governor mused, “not to stop the people from converging here at the mansion, but he is to beat down any looters in other parts of the city. Put the fear of the sword into them. I’ll need a force of constables here, of course, to keep the masses who come to me in check, but I do want to speak to them. This will be a night for
history
to be made.”

“Sir,” Marasi said. “I know a thing or two about the mentality of crowds, if you wish—”

Someone outside called for Innate, and he stood in the middle of Marasi’s sentence. He shoved the writ toward her, sealed with his stamp, then marched out to deal with the questions.

Marasi watched him go with a sigh. Hopefully Wayne and that kandra woman would be able to assure his safety. She’d happily see Innate incarcerated someday, but she didn’t wish him dead. His assassination would be, among other things, terrible for city morale.

She stored the writ beside her pistol in her purse, then walked from the room and slipped through the hallway, where many of the cabinet members were giving orders to aides and accepting cups of steaming black tea from household staff. Wayne lounged in a corner, feet up on an end table and spinning an expensive gold-and-mahogany pen between his fingers. Harmony knew where he’d stolen
that
.

Unfortunately, her motor needed a refueling, so she’d have to use more mundane methods to run the writ to Aradel. She found the footman and ordered a carriage.

The haggard footman, however, shook his head. “It will be a few minutes, miss, before I can dredge up a coach. The executive staff have half the cabs in the city running notes for them, and on a night like this one no less…” He glanced meaningfully toward the open door. Outside, the porch lights barely penetrated the mists. They curled and danced, almost timid. Tiny wisps would creep into the entry hall, then vanish almost immediately like steam over a stove.

“I will wait,” Marasi said. “Thank you.”

He seemed pleased by her response; perhaps others had been less understanding. As he was called away, Marasi idled in the doorway, staring into the mists. That orange haze over the city wasn’t normal. Fires were burning out there. If they were lucky, those flames would only be massed lanterns and torches, not buildings.

Standing there strongly reminded her of something that she couldn’t put her finger on. She shook her head and walked back into the mansion with half a mind to find Wayne and see what he thought of recent events. In the large sitting room beyond the entryway, she passed a weary serving man scrubbing the wooden floor. The bloodstains were stubborn, it appeared. The man had already discreetly rolled the rug up against the wall for disposal.

Marasi passed him and, changing her mind about finding Wayne, instead walked down the stairs toward the hidden chamber.
A city close to breaking,
she thought as she reached the bottom.
This has happened before.

In the confined space, the air still smelled of the soap that had been used to clean up the blood. The empty saferoom had a quiet, scholastic feel about it, with all those books on the walls. There was no overhead lighting, just the lamps, shaded a soft red-orange. She walked around the room, noting the many volumes of the full Words of Founding when she passed it on the wall. The leather-bound books seemed pristine, and on a whim, she pulled the first one out and checked it. The pages were uncut, as sometimes happened in new books. This volume had obviously never been read.

Long ago the Survivor had pushed a city to the brink of destruction, then channeled that fury into a rebellion that had overthrown a millennium-long dictatorship. Every student learned of those days, but Marasi had read the detailed accounts, including of the night when it had all come to a head. She could imagine it had been a night very much like this one.

Only instead of the Survivor, this time it had been induced by a psychotic murderer.

She has to be doing it on purpose,
Marasi thought, walking through the room.
Trying to echo that night when the Lord Ruler fell. A people on the brink of insurrection. Noble houses at each other’s throats. And now …

Now a speech. The governor would have his moment before the crowd, and they would sense the resonance even if they couldn’t put their finger on it. They’d been taught about that night since childhood. They would listen to him, and expect him to be like the Last Emperor, who had spoken long ago on the night of the Lord Ruler’s death. The Last Emperor had come to power because of his heartfelt words that night.

But Governor Innate was
not
Elend Venture. Far from it.

Marasi suddenly stopped and backed up a few steps. She’d been walking beside the built-in bookcases, paying little conscious attention to them, but just enough to have noticed something off. Here, on this long shelf of pristine books, were three in a row with spines scuffed at the bottom. What distinguished these books? They were part of a seven-volume collection of dry political treatises written long ago by the Counselor of Gods.

She took one and flipped through it, finding nothing of interest. Perhaps Innate had been studying lately. But … why were only the third, fourth, and fifth volumes scuffed? She picked up another and opened it—and here she found the reason. Cut into the center of the pages was a hole containing a key. Innate hadn’t been reading Breeze’s old essays. He had simply forgotten which volume had the key in it.