Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(18)

Wayne, grumbling, staggered out of the alleyway, a new hole in his clothing at the shoulder and a crossbow bolt in his hand.

“So much for interrogating him,” Marasi said with a grimace.

“It’s all right,” Wax said. “Living was more important.”

“… What?”

He smiled at her reassuringly as Wayne waved to some other constables, who had finally arrived on the scene and were making their way into the slums.

“Why does this keep happening to me?” Marasi asked. “Yes, I know I won’t be able to hear your reply. But this is … what, the third time someone has tried to use me as a hostage? Do I exude indefensibility or something?”

Yes, you do, Wax thought, though he didn’t say it. That’s a good thing. It makes them underestimate you. Marasi was a strong person. She thought clearly in times of stress; she did what needed to be done, even if it was unpleasant. However, she was also very keen on dressing nicely and making herself up.

Lessie would have had none of that. The only times Wax had seen her in a dress were when they’d made the occasional trip to Covingtar to visit the Pathian gardens there. He smiled, remembering a time she’d actually worn trousers under the dress.

“Lord Ladrian!” Constable Reddi trotted over, wearing the uniform of a captain in the constabulary. The lean man had a neatly clipped, drooping mustache.

“Reddi,” Wax said, nodding to him. “Is Aradel here?”

“The constable-general is engaged in another investigation, my lord,” Reddi said with a crisp tone. Why did Wax always want to smack this man after talking to him? He was never insulting, always impeccably proper. Maybe that was reason enough.

Wax pointed toward the buildings. “Well, if you’d kindly have your men secure the area; we should probably question those nearby and see if, by some miracle, we can discover the identity of the man Lady Colms just killed.”

Reddi saluted, though it wasn’t technically necessary. Wax had a special deputized forbearance in the constabulary, allowing him to do things like … well, jump through the city armed and firing. But he wasn’t in their command structure.

The other constables moved to do as he requested anyway. As he glanced at the Marksman, Wax forcibly kept his anger in check. At this rate, he would never track down his uncle Edwarn. Wax had only the slightest hint of what the man was trying to accomplish.

It can make anyone into an Allomancer, you see.… If we don’t use it, someone else will.

Words from the book Ironeyes had given him.

“Excellent work, my lord,” Reddi said in a calm voice, nodding to the fallen Marksman. The clothing was distinctive. “Another miscreant dealt with, and with your customary efficiency.”

Wax said nothing. Today’s “excellent work” was just another dead end.

“Hey, look!” Wayne said nearby. “I think I found one of that fellow’s teeth! That’s good luck, ain’t it?”

Marasi looked woozy, settling down on a nearby set of steps. Wax was tempted to go comfort her, but would she interpret it the wrong way? He didn’t want to lead her on.

“My lord, could we talk?” Reddi said as more constables flooded the area. “I mentioned the constable-general and another case. I was actually already on my way to find you when we heard of your chase here.”

Wax turned to him, immediately alert. “What has happened?”

Reddi grimaced, showing uncharacteristic emotion. “It’s bad, my lord,” he said more softly. “Politics is involved.”

Then Suit might be involved as well. “Tell me more.”

“It, well, it’s connected to the governor, my lord. His brother, you see, was hosting an auction last night. And, well, you should see for yourself.…”

*

Marasi didn’t miss Waxillium grabbing Wayne by the shoulder and pointing toward a waiting constabulary carriage. He didn’t come for her. How long would it be before that damnable man was willing to accept her as, if not an equal, a colleague?

Frustrated, she made toward the carriage. Unfortunately, she ran into Captain Reddi on the way. He spoke, and she had to strain her ringing ears—and guess a little—to figure out what he was saying.

“Constable Colms. You are out of uniform.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “It is my day off, sir.”

“Yet here you are,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “How is it that you find your way, consistently, into situations like this, despite explicitly being told that it is not your assignment, as you are not a field constable?”

“Pure happenstance I’m sure, sir,” Marasi said.

He gave her a sneer at that. Funny. He usually saved those for Waxillium, when the man wasn’t looking. He said something she couldn’t make out, then nodded toward the motorcar she’d brought—which was technically constabulary property; she’d been told to become proficient in driving motorcars and report on their effectiveness to the constable-general. He wanted to test them as replacements for horse-drawn carriages.

“Sir?” she said.

“You’ve obviously been through a great deal this day, constable,” Reddi said, more loudly. “Don’t argue with me on this. Head home, clean up, and report for duty tomorrow.”

“Sir,” Marasi said. “I’d like to brief Captain Aradel on my pursuit of the Marksman, and his subsequent demise, before the details become fuzzy. He will be interested, as he’s followed this case personally.”