Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(19)

She stared Reddi in the eyes. He outranked her, yes, but he wasn’t her boss. Aradel was that to both of them.

“The constable-general,” Reddi said with some obvious reluctance, “is away from the offices at the moment.”

“Well then, I’ll report to him and let him dismiss me, sir,” Marasi said. “If that is his wish.”

Reddi ground his teeth and started to say something, but a call from one of the other constables diverted him. He waved toward the motorcar, and Marasi took it as dismissal to do as she’d said. So, when the carriage with Waxillium pulled away, she followed in the motor.

By the time the trip had ended, at a fashionable mansion overlooking the city’s Hub, she had started to recover. She was still feeling shaken, though she hoped she didn’t show it, and she could hear with her left ear, if not on the other side, where she’d fired the gun.

As she climbed out of the motorcar, she found herself wiping her cheek again with her handkerchief, though she had long since cleaned off the blood. Her dress had been thoroughly ruined. She grabbed her constable’s coat from the back of the motorcar and threw it over the top to hide the stains, then rushed over to join Waxillium and the others as they descended from the carriage.

Only one other constabulary carriage, she noted, inspecting the drive. Whatever had happened here, Aradel didn’t want to make a big show of it. As Waxillium walked up toward the front, he glanced about and found her, then waved her over to him.

“Do you know what this might be about?” he asked her quietly as Reddi and several other constables conferred near the carriage.

“No,” Marasi said. “They didn’t brief you?”

Waxillium shook his head. He glanced down at her bloodied dress, which peeked out underneath the sturdy brown jacket. He made no comment however, instead striding up the steps, tailed by Wayne.

Two constables, a man and a woman, guarded the door into the mansion. They saluted as Reddi caught up to Waxillium—pointedly ignoring Marasi—and led the way in through the doors. “We’ve tried to keep this very tightly controlled,” Reddi said. “But word will get out, with Lord Winsting involved. Rusts, this is going to be a nightmare.”

“The governor’s brother?” Marasi asked. “What happened here?”

Reddi pointed up a set of steps. “We should find Constable-General Aradel in the grand ballroom. I warn you, this is not a sight for delicate stomachs.” He glanced at Marasi.

She raised an eyebrow. “Not an hour ago, I had a man’s head literally explode all over me, Captain. I believe I will be fine.”

Reddi said nothing further, leading the way up the steps. She noticed Wayne pocketing a small, decorative cigar box they passed—Citizen Magistrates brand—replacing it with a bruised apple. She’d have to see that he swapped the cigar box back at some point.

The ballroom upstairs was littered with bodies. Marasi and Waxillium stopped in the doorway, looking in at the chaos. The dead men and women wore fine clothes, sleek ball gowns or tight black suits. Hats lay tumbled from heads, the fine tan carpet stained red in wide patches around the fallen. It was as if someone had tossed a basket of eggs into the air and let them fall, their insides seeping out all over the floor.

Claude Aradel, constable-general of the Fourth Octant, picked through the scene. In many ways, he didn’t look like a constable should. His rectangular face had a few days’ worth of red stubble on it; he shaved when the mood struck him. His leathery skin, furrowed with wrinkles, attested to days spent in the field, not behind a desk. He was probably pushing sixty at this point, though he wouldn’t divulge his true age, and even the octant records had a question mark next to his birth date. What was certain was that Aradel didn’t have a drop of noble blood in him.

He’d left the constabulary about ten years ago, giving no official reason for his departure. Rumor was he’d hit the silent ceiling on promotions a man could get without being noble. A lot could change in ten years though, and when Brettin had retired—soon after the execution of Miles Hundredlives almost a year ago—the hunt for a new constable-general had landed on Aradel. He’d come out of retirement to accept the position.

“Ladrian,” he said, looking up from a corpse. “Good. You’re here.” He crossed the room and gave a glance to Marasi, who saluted. He didn’t dismiss her.

“Aw,” Wayne said, peeking in, “the fun is already over.”

Waxillium stepped into the room, taking Aradel’s proffered hand. “That’s Chip Erikell, isn’t it?” Waxillium asked, nodding to the nearest corpse. “Thought to run smuggling in the Third Octant?”

“Yes,” Aradel said.

“And Isabaline Frellia,” Marasi said. “Rusts! We have a file on her as tall as Wayne, but the prosecutors have never been able to charge her.”

“Seven of these bodies belong to people of equivalent notoriety,” Aradel said, pointing to several corpses among the fallen. “Most from crime syndicates, though a few were members of noble houses with … dubious reputations. The rest were high-ranking representatives from other important factions. We have near thirty notable stiffs, along with a handful of guards each.”

“That’s half of the city’s criminal elite,” Waxillium said softly, crouching down beside a body. “At least.”