Shadows of Self (30 page)

If you want to know a man, dig in his firepit.

The phrase was from the Roughs, maybe koloss in origin. Basically, it meant that you could judge a lot about a man’s life by what he threw away—or by what he was willing to burn in order to stay warm.

A loud church clock rang eleven as Wax moved through the mists on Allomantic jumps. The sound echoed in the night, the bell tower hidden in the darkness. Eleven was not late these days, particularly not in the heart of the city, but it
should
have marked a time when most men and women had begun to seek their beds. Labor started early in the morning.

Only, a sizable portion of the laborers in the city didn’t have a job to get up for right now. That was reflected in the busy streets and busier pubs, not to mention the Soothing parlors he passed, still open well into the night. Those were places where the downhearted could seek a different kind of relief, in the form of an Allomancer who—for a small fee—would wipe away their emotions for a time and leave them numb.

Rioting parlors were a different beast. There, you could choose the emotion you wanted and have it stoked within you. Those might be even more popular, judging by the line he saw outside one.

Wax delayed on a rooftop, listening, then headed for the sound of men shouting. He ran along the peaked roof and Pushed off the nails in the shingles, launching himself over a set of apartments in a quiet flutter, coming down and landing on a street beyond.

Here, he found a small Pathian sanctuary. Not the church with the bell he’d heard earlier; Pathian structures were too small for that. Built to resemble old Terris huts, they were often empty save for two chairs. One for you. One, ostensibly, for Harmony. The religion forbade worship, in a formal way. But talking to God was encouraged.

Tonight, the little sanctuary was under siege.

They shouted and threw rocks: a group of shadows in the mist, probably drunk. He could make them out well enough; a misty night was never too dark in the city, not with all the ambient light reflecting off the vapors.

Wax yanked Vindication from her holster and stalked forward, mistcoat flaring behind him. His profile was enough. The first man who spotted him emerging from the mists yelled a warning and the men scattered, leaving the detritus of their tiny riot. Fallen stones. A few bottles. Wax watched their metal lines to make sure none of them rounded back on him. One stopped nearby, but kept his distance.

He shook his head, stepping up to the sanctuary. He found the missionary cowering inside, a Terriswoman in intricate braids. Pathian clergy was a strange thing. On one hand, the religion emphasized man’s personal connection to Harmony—doing good, without formality. On the other hand, people needed direction. Someone to explain all of this. Pathian missionaries—called priests by outsiders, though they rarely used the term for themselves—set up in places like this, explaining the Path to all who came. A clergy, yes, but not in the formal way of the Survivorists.

He’d always found it curious that the small Pathian sanctuaries—with large doorways on eight sides—let in the mists, while Survivorist churches observed the mists from behind domes of glass, comfortable in their ornate rooms full of golden statues and fine wood pews. The woman looked up at him as he knelt, smelling oil. Her lantern lay broken nearby.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I … Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

Her eyes flicked toward the gun. On principle, Wax didn’t holster the thing. “It would be best if you retired for the night,” Wax said.

“But I live in the loft upstairs.”

“Go to the Village then,” Wax said. “In fact, gather any of your colleagues you can in a short time and take them as well. A Survivorist priest has been brutally murdered by someone posing as a Pathian missionary.”

“Sweet Harmonies,” the woman whispered.

Wax left her to gather her things and, hopefully, do as he told her. He struck out into the night, following a few lines of metal toward where the man he’d scared off earlier had hidden. Wax studied the darkened alleyway in the mists, then dropped a shell casing and launched himself into the air. A careful Push let him drop straight into the alleyway, where he landed and leveled a gun at the head of the person hiding there.

Who immediately soiled himself, judging from the stench and the liquid pooling at the young man’s feet. Wax sighed and lifted Vindication. The young man scrambled backward, stumbling over a box of trash, adding to his humiliation.

“You’re going to leave that missionary alone,” Wax said. “She had nothing to do with the murder.”

The youth nodded. Wax dropped a shell casing and prepared to launch himself back into the night.

“M-murder?” the youth asked.

“Of the…” Wax hesitated. “Wait. Why were you here, attacking that sanctuary?”

The boy whimpered. “They came into the pub, two of them in those Pathian robes, and cursed out the Survivor an’ us.”

“
Two?
” Wax said, advancing on the boy, making him cringe. “There was more than one?”

He nodded, then—crying—scrambled away and ran into the night. Wax let him go.

I should have guessed,
he thought, launching himself into the air.
The news of the murder couldn’t have traveled this quickly.
There was more to the plot than the one killing. Rusts. Were other priests in danger?

Two people. Bleeder and someone else? Or two helpers? MeLaan had seemed confident that Bleeder would be working alone, but this offered evidence to the contrary. And the attempt to kill Wax earlier, the ploy involving the server at ZoBell Tower, matched too well with his fears of an assassin to be coincidence. Bleeder had help, likely from Wax’s uncle. He’d look into that later. For now, however, there was a different lead he wanted to chase.

He eventually reached the location he’d set out to find: Ashweather Carriage and Coach, a large open yard at the northern edge of the octant where a fleet of carriages of various styles was stored. Rich-looking landaus with retractable tops. Conventional buggies, with less lavish upholstery and wood, to attract a modest clientele. A few surrey-style, with frilled tops.

By far the most common in the carriage park was the standard road coach: the four-wheeled vehicle with a completely enclosed passenger compartment, and room at the top front for a driver. They called them Barringtons in the city, after Lord Barrington, and though the paint jobs could vary wildly, the style was pretty much standardized. Wax’s own coaches were Barringtons.

He counted seven in a line here, all lit by electric lamps atop towering stanchions high enough to light the whole yard and adjacent large, low buildings. Those were stables, of course, as his nose confirmed. All of the Ashweather Company’s carriages were painted a shiny black, common for vehicles used as cabs in the city, and they had a round shield on the side proclaiming the Cett family heritage.

A shield painted silver. The color that had scraped onto the bricks in the alleyway outside the church. Bleeder had likely fled in a coach just like one of these, one that had been told to wait while Bleeder killed the priest.

Wax inspected each vehicle in turn, running his fingers over the silver-painted shields on the sides. No scrapes.

“Can I help you?” a curt voice demanded. Steelsight indicated a person walking up the row of vehicles. No weapon held, but metal buttons on his coat, a ring on each hand, some change in the pocket, and a watch in his waistcoat. A few pins in the collar of his shirt—very small lines—gave Wax an idea of how tall the man was.

Wax turned toward the voice. The man turned out to be a pudgy fellow in a distinctive formal suit with long tails, identifying him as the establishment’s proprietor. Wax had known more than a few Cetts in his time. He’d never gotten along with any of them. Lean or fat, rich or scrawny, they all got the same calculating look on their faces as they tried to estimate how much money Wax would be willing to part with.

This Cett’s eyes flicked toward Wax’s suit, which was rumpled, swum-in, and missing the cravat. With the duster on, he likely didn’t look very distinguished—and the man’s expression hardened. Then he saw the tassels on the duster.

His entire demeanor changed immediately. His posture went from “Stay away from my coaches” to “You look like the type who will pay extra for velvet pillows.” “My lord,” he added, nodding his head. “Would you like to hire a coach for the evening?”

“You know me?” Wax said.

“Waxillium Ladrian, I believe.”

“Good,” Wax said, digging into his pocket and removing a small steel sheet, engraved on one side. His credentials, proof that he was a constable. “I’m on constabulary business. How many of these coaches do you have?” Wax nodded toward the line.

Cett’s expression fell as he realized Wax wasn’t likely to be paying him for anything tonight. “Twenty-three,” the man finally said.

“Lots of coaches still in service for the night,” Wax said. “Considering the hour.”

“We work as long as people are out, constable,” Cett said. “And tonight, people are out.”

Wax nodded. “I need a list of the drivers who are still working, their routes, and any prearranged clients they picked up today.”

“Of course.” Cett seemed more relaxed as he led Wax toward a small building in the center of the carriage yard. As they walked, a coach arrived—no scraped sides—drawn by a pair of sweaty horses with drooping heads and a bit of froth at the mouths. Long hours for the beasts too, it seemed.

Inside the building, Cett fetched some records from a desk.
Too eager,
Wax thought as the man hurried over and offered them. Whenever someone worked with the authorities too easily, it made Wax’s eye twitch. So he took his time browsing through the lists Cett proffered and kept an eye on the man as he did so. “What percentage of your pickups are impromptu, and what percentage are arranged ahead of time?”

“Half and half, for the black coaches,” Cett said. “The open carriages are more spur-of-the-moment.” He had a good game face, but something
was
bothering him. What was he hiding?

You think everyone is hiding something,
Wax told himself, flipping through the pages.
Stay on the task at hand.

Wax dug into the list, hoping Bleeder had decided to hire a coach for a pickup to be certain she had her escape planned, rather than just grabbing a cab on the street. Finding the one who had driven her would be useful either way. He looked over the records for the drivers still out for the night. Each had a few prearranged pickups over the course of the day, but only three had been scheduled around the time of the murder. And two of those were repeat customers with a long list of pickups in the past.

That left one. A person to be picked up in the Fourth Octant, and to be driven “at liberty,” meaning they were to be driven as long as the client wished. Shanwan was the name listed. A Terris name. The word meant “secret.”

“I need to find this driver,” Wax said, holding up the list and pointing.
If they’re still alive.

“Coach sixteen,” Cett said, rubbing his chin. “That’s Chapaou’s. No telling when he’ll be back; you probably don’t want to wait. I can send you a message when he returns.”

“Maybe,” Wax said, but dallied.

The door slammed open and a young woman in trousers and suspenders burst in. “Boss,” she said, “late-night play getting out on Bonnweather. They’re going to want rides.”

“We sent coaches there already.”

“Not enough,” the young woman said. “Boss, there are
lots
of men on the streets. Common men, the type that will make the rich folk nervous. Playgoers will want carriages.”

Cett nodded. “Wake Jone and Forgeron. Send them and anyone else you can rouse. Anything more?”

“We could have more wheels out for certain, particularly near the pubs.”

“Coinshot,” Wax guessed, noticing the bag of metal bits—probably pieces of scrap—the young woman carried. “You’ve been using Allomancer runners to scout for busy areas to send drivers.”

“Is that surprising?” Cett asked.

“It’s expensive.”

“You have to spend money to make money, constable,” Cett said. “And as you can see, I’m having a very busy night. Perhaps you could leave me to it, if I promise to—”

“Coinshot,” Wax said to the girl. “You see coach number sixteen out there? I assume your boss has you checking in on the drivers, make sure they’re doing their jobs?”

“How—” she began.

“You don’t hire an Allomancer just for traffic reports,” Wax said. “Coach sixteen?”

She glanced at Cett, who nodded. So whatever Cett was hiding, it probably didn’t have to do with this driver. In fact, it probably didn’t have anything to do with Bleeder. Just your average, run-of-the-mill lawbreaking.

At least one Allomancer on staff,
Wax thought.

“I didn’t see sixteen on the streets,” the young Allomancer said, turning to Wax. “But that’s because Chapaou is at a Soothing parlor over on Decan Street. His coach is around the corner.”

“At a
Soothing parlor
?” Cett demanded. “He’s on the clock!”

“I know,” the Allomancer said. “I thought you’d want to hear.”

“Hm, yes,” Wax said. “And what of the Rioter you have on staff. Are they there too?”

“Nah,” the Allomancer said. “He’s on—” She cut off, and grew pale. The entire room fell still.

“Using emotional Allomancy,” Wax said, “to drum up customers. Riot passing people, make them feel tired or urgent, and more willing to take the coach conveniently parked right across the street.”

Cett looked sick. Yes, that was it. Flagrant use of a Rioter to drum up business, a violation of the Allomantic Agreement of ’94. There were entire departments in the government that watched for this sort of thing. Fortunately, while it was a dangerous crime, it wasn’t one that worried Wax at the moment.

“You don’t have any proof…” Cett said, then thought better of it. “I’ll be speaking with my attorney. I’ll have you know that my people are off-limits for interrogation without a judicial order to—”