Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(21)

Aradel nodded to a young constable, and she led them out of the ballroom, through a doorway. Some kind of secret passage? The musty stairwell beyond was narrow enough to force them to walk single file, the constable at the front carrying a lamp.

“Miss Colms,” Waxillium said softly, “what do your statistics tell you about this kind of violence?”

Oh, so we’re using last names now, are we? “Very little. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times something like this has happened. The first place I’d look is for connections between the people killed. Were they all in smuggling, Captain Aradel?”

“No,” he said from behind. “Some smugglers, some extortionists, some gambling tycoons.”

“So it’s not a specific attempt to consolidate power in a certain type of criminal activity,” Marasi said, her voice echoing in the damp stone stairwell. “We need to find the connection, what made these specific people targets. The one most likely behind it is dead.”

“Lord Winsting,” Waxillium said. “You’re saying he lured them here, planned an execution, and it went wrong?”

“It’s one theory.”

“He ain’t that kind of slime,” Wayne said from near the end of the line.

“You know of Winsting?” Marasi asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Not specifically, no,” Wayne said. “But he was a politician. Politician slime is different from regular slime.”

“I find myself agreeing,” Captain Aradel said. “Though I wouldn’t put it so colorfully. We knew that Winsting was crooked, but in the past he kept mostly to small-time schemes. Selling cargo space to smugglers when it suited him, some shady real-estate deals here and there. Cash in exchange for political favors, mostly.

“Recently, rumors started that he was going to put his Senate vote up for sale. We were investigating, with no evidence so far. Either way, killing those willing to pay him would be like blasting your silver mine with dynamite to try finding gold.”

They reached the bottom of the stairwell, where they found four more corpses. The guards, apparently, all killed with bullets to the head.

Waxillium knelt. “Shot from behind, from the direction of the saferoom,” he whispered. “All four, in rapid succession.”

“Executed?” Marasi asked. “How did the killer get them to stand there and take it?”

“He didn’t,” Waxillium said. “He moved too quickly for them to respond.”

“Feruchemist,” Wayne said softly. “Damn.”

They were called Steelrunners, Feruchemists who could store up speed. They’d have to move slowly for a time, then could draw upon that reserve later. Waxillium looked up. Marasi saw something in his eyes, a hunger. He thought his uncle was involved. That was what he thought every time a Metalborn committed crimes. Waxillium saw Suit’s shadow over his shoulder each way he turned, the specter of a man whom Waxillium hadn’t been able to stop.

Suit still had Waxillium’s sister, best as they could tell. Marasi didn’t know much of it. Waxillium wouldn’t talk about the details.

He stood up, expression grim, and strode to the door behind the fallen men. He threw it open and entered, Marasi and Wayne close behind, to find a single corpse slumped in an easy chair at the center of the room. His throat had been slit; the blood on the front of his clothing was thick, dried like paint.

“Killed with some sort of long knife or small sword,” Aradel said. “Even more strange, his tongue was cut out. We’ve sent for a surgeon to try to tell us more of the wound. Don’t know why the killer didn’t use a gun.”

“Because the guards were still alive then,” Waxillium said softly.

“What?”

“They let the killer pass,” Waxillium said, looking at the door. “It was someone they trusted, perhaps one of their number. They let the murderer into the saferoom.”

“Maybe he was just moving very quickly to get past them,” Marasi said.

“Maybe,” Waxillium agreed. “But that door has to be unlocked from the inside, and it hasn’t been forced. There’s a peephole. Winsting let the murderer in, and he wouldn’t have done that if the guards had been killed. He’s sitting calmly in that chair—no struggle, just a quick slice from behind. Either he didn’t know someone else was in here, or he trusted them. Judging by the way the guards fell outside, they were still focused on the steps, waiting for danger to come. They were still guarding this place. My gut says it was one of their own, someone they let pass, who killed Winsting.”

“Rusts,” Aradel said softly. “But … a Feruchemist? Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Wayne said, from the doorway. “This wasn’t a speed bubble. Can’t shoot out of one of those, mate. These fellows were killed before one could turn about. Wax is right. Either this is a Feruchemist, or somebody figured out how to fire out of speed bubbles—which is somethin’ we’d really like to know how to do.”

“Someone moving with Feruchemical speed explains the knife deaths up above,” Waxillium said, standing. “A few swift executions in the chaos, while everyone else was shooting. Quick and surgical, but the killer would be safe despite the firefight. Captain Aradel, I suggest you gather the names of Winsting’s companions and staff. See if any corpses that should be here, aren’t. I’ll look into the Metalborn side—Steelrunners aren’t common, even as Feruchemists go.”