Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(115)

Wax landed gracefully before her, gun out. “You can’t run from me, Bleeder. Let me remove your spike and take you prisoner. Perhaps the others can find a way, someday, to heal your madness.”

“And become a slave again,” she whispered behind the red and white mask. “Would you clasp the manacles willingly on your own hands?”

“If I had done the horrible things that you have, then yes. I would demand to be taken in.”

“And what of the god you serve? When will Harmony accept his punishments? The people he lets die. The people he makes die.”

Wax raised his gun, but Bleeder launched herself upward.

Wax trailed her with his weapon, but she bounced back and forth between massive bridge support beams, and he did not fire. Instead he lifted himself with a Push, soaring up—coat flapping—until he reached the top of one of the bridge’s suspension towers. Bleeder waited here, atop the pinnacle, dressed in her red shirt and trousers, a loose cape blowing around her.

Wax landed and leveled the gun.

Bleeder dropped the mask.

She wore Lessie’s face.

*

Marasi didn’t tell the other constables, even Aradel, the truth about Innate. What would she have said? “Sorry, but the man we’ve been protecting was actually the killer”? “Oh, and the city has been run by an insane kandra for who knows how long”? She’d make a report soon, once she knew how to explain it, but for now she didn’t have time. She needed to save the city.

She still felt a stab of guilt as she stood near the flimsy stage at the front of the steps, where she watched Captain Aradel pass her. The lord high constable looked visibly sick as he paced. The predicament she’d placed him in, with regards to thinking the governor was a crook, troubled him deeply.

Nearby, MeLaan stepped up onto the stage to address the crowd. Though she critiqued her own shortcomings, in Marasi’s estimation her imitation of the governor was excellent.

The crowd grew quiet. Marasi frowned. Had Aradel’s men prompted that somehow? No … the constables stood in a tight line between the crowd and the mansion, but weren’t doing anything to quell the crowd.

How odd. Though there were a few jeers, for the most part everyone fell silent—watching through the mists, which seemed thinner than they had before, now that lights had been set up all around the square in front of the mansion. The former rioters genuinely wanted to hear what the governor had to say. Well, why shouldn’t they?

Marasi felt their mood, one of hostile curiosity. She felt a calmness too. MeLaan’s speech would work. Everything was fine. Why had she been so worried earlier? It …

Rusts. She was being Soothed.

She snapped alert, suddenly tense. She knew crowds. She’d studied mob dynamics. It was her specialty—and she could tell, easily, that something was wrong here. But who was Soothing? Why? How?

Suit, she thought. Waxillium had said the Set was involved. His uncle had access to Allomancers, and an inclination to see that Bleeder’s plans came to fruition. It didn’t matter what Marasi had written for MeLaan to say; when Suit’s men discovered that “the governor” was deviating from the script, they’d drive the crowd to a frenzy.

Suddenly frantic, Marasi didn’t listen to the beginning of MeLaan’s speech. Could she get to Aradel? No, he was standing on the rusting stage, near MeLaan. Wayne, putting on a brave face despite his wound, hovered near the two of them, ready to help if something went wrong.

Marasi had to move quickly, and quietly, not alerting the Set. She spotted Reddi standing near the base of the steps, watching the crowd with arms folded. Marasi scrambled over to him and seized his arm.

“Reddi,” she said. “There’s a Soother in this crowd somewhere.”

“What?” he asked absently, glancing at her. “Hmm?”

“A Soother,” Marasi said. “Dampening our emotions. Probably a Rioter waiting too, to drive the crowd into a frenzy once they hear the speech.”

“Don’t be silly,” Reddi said with a yawn. “Everything is fine, Lieutenant.”

“Reddi,” she said, tightening her grip. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not annoyed at me?” she said. “Not angry that I hold the position you should? Not jealous at all?”

He glared at her, then cocked his head. Then he hissed out softly. “Damn it, you’re right. I usually hate you, but all I feel is a mild dislike. Someone’s playing with my emotions.” He hesitated. “No offense.”

“Can’t feel offense,” Marasi said. “I’m having trouble feeling any strong emotion or urgency. But Reddi, we have to stop them.”

“I’ll get a squad,” he said. “How will we find them though? They could be anywhere.”

“No,” Marasi said, scanning the crowd. Her eyes found a carriage parked discreetly in a small alleyway across from the governor’s square. “Not anywhere. They won’t want to mix with the masses that they’re planning to turn into a murderous mob. Too dangerous. Come on.”





25



Upon seeing Lessie’s face, Wax growled in a guttural, primal sound. The sound of a man getting hit straight in the stomach with a well-driven punch. He held the gun on Bleeder, but his hand wavered, and his vision shook.