Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(30)

The offices were busy, but they didn’t have the bustle of the prosecutor’s offices. During her internship there beneath Daius, everyone had always seemed so frantic. People worked all hours, and when a new case was posted, every junior solicitor in the room rushed over in a flurry of papers, coats, and skirts, craning to see who had posted the case and how many assistants they would be taking.

The opportunities for prestige, and even wealth, had been bountiful. And yet she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that nobody was actually doing anything. Cases that could make a difference languished because they weren’t high-profile enough, while anything under the patronage of a prominent lord or lady was seen to immediately. The rush had been less about fixing the city’s problems, and more about making certain the senior solicitors saw how much more eager you were than your colleagues.

She’d probably still be there, if she hadn’t met Waxillium. She’d have done as her mother wanted, seeking validation through her child. Proof, perhaps, that she could have married Lord Harms, if it had been in the cards, despite her low birth. Marasi shook her head. She loved her mother, but the woman simply had too much time on her hands.

The constables’ offices were so different from the solicitors’. Here, there was a true sense of purpose, but it was measured, even thoughtful. Constables leaned back in chairs and described evidence to other officers, looking for help on a case. Junior corporals moved through the room, delivering cups of tea, fetching files, or running some other errand. The competition she’d felt among the solicitors barely existed here. Perhaps that was because there was little prestige, and even less wealth, to go around.

She found Aradel with sleeves rolled up, one foot on a chair, bothering Lieutenant Caberel. “No, no,” Aradel said. “I’m telling you, we need more men on the streets. Near the pubs, at nights, where the foundry workers congregate after the strike line breaks up. Don’t bother guarding them during the day.”

Caberel nodded placidly, though she gave Marasi a roll of the eyes as she walked up. Aradel did tend to micromanage, but at least he was earnest. In Marasi’s experience, they were almost all fond of him, eyerolls notwithstanding.

She plucked a cup of tea off the plate of a passing corporal, who was delivering them to the desks. He quickly moved on, eyes forward, but she could almost feel him glaring at her. Well, it wasn’t her fault she’d landed this position, and the rank of lieutenant, without ever having to deliver tea.

All right, she admitted to herself, sipping the tea and stepping up beside Aradel. Maybe there is a bit of competition around here.

“You’ll see this done, then?” Aradel asked.

“Of course, sir,” Caberel said. She was one of the few in the place who treated Marasi with any measure of respect. Perhaps it was because they were both women.

There were fewer women in the constabulary than among the solicitors. One might have guessed that the reason for this was that ladies weren’t interested in the violence—but having done both jobs, Marasi felt she knew which profession was bloodier. And it wasn’t the one where people carried guns.

“Good, good,” Aradel said. “I have a debriefing with Captain Reddi in…” He patted at his pocket.

Marasi held out his watch, which he grabbed and checked for the time.

“… fifteen minutes. Huh. More time than I expected. Where’d you get that tea, Colms?”

“Want me to have someone fetch you some?” she asked.

“No, no. I can do it.” He bustled off, and Marasi nodded to Caberel, then hurried after him.

“Sir,” she said, “have you seen the afternoon broadsheets?”

He held out his hand, which she filled with paper. He held up the stack of broadsheets, and almost ran over three different constables on his way to the stove and the tea. “Bad,” he muttered. “I’d hoped they’d spin this against us.”

“Us, sir?” Marasi asked, surprised.

“Sure,” he said. “Nobleman dead, constables not giving the press details. This reads like they started to pin the death on the constables, but then changed their minds. By the end, the tone is far more outraged against Winsting than us.”

“And that’s worse than outrage at us for a cover-up?”

“Far worse, Lieutenant,” he said with a grimace, reaching for a cup. “People are used to hating conners. We’re a magnet for it, a lightning rod. Better us than the governor.”

“Unless the governor deserves it, sir.”

“Dangerous words, Lieutenant,” Aradel said, filling his cup with steaming tea from the large urn kept warm atop the coal stove. “And likely inappropriate.”

“You know there are rumors that he’s corrupt,” Marasi said softly.

“What I know is that we are civil servants,” Aradel said. “There are enough people out there with the mindset and the moral position to monitor the government. Our job is to keep the peace.”

Marasi frowned, but said nothing. Governor Innate was corrupt, she was almost sure of it. There were too many coincidences, too many small oddities in his policy decisions. It wasn’t by any means obvious, but trends were Marasi’s specialty, and her passion.

It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to discover that the leader of Elendel was trading favors with the city’s elite, but once she’d spotted the signs, she’d felt compelled to dig in. On her desk, carefully hidden under a stack of ordinary reports, was a ledger in which she’d assembled all the information. Nothing concrete, but the picture it drew was clear to her—even though she understood that it would look innocent to anyone else.