Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(38)

“Now we find her with increasingly liberal dresses, showing more skin, spending most evenings out. Give her a few more months, and she’d have turned into a right proper girl to have a good time with.”

Whiskey.

“She didn’t get a few more months,” Wax said softly. He took something from his own pocket and handed it out to Wayne. A book, bound in leather, pocket-sized. “Have a look through this.”

Wayne took it, flipping through some pages. “What is it?”

“The book that Death gave me.”

*

Marasi’s shout was lost in the roar as the governor ended his speech. Polite applause from the nobility, shouts and curses from most of the workers. The noise swallowed her shout like a single splash in a breaking tide.

She fumbled for her handbag as the guard in the dark coat sighted with his gun at the governor. No. There wasn’t time for her gun. She had to do something else.

She jumped for the man and slowed time.

She had metal in her this time—she’d made sure, after being embarrassed this morning. Her Allomancy created a bubble of greatly slowed-down time, enveloping herself, the would-be assassin, and a few bystanders.

She grabbed the man around the legs, but her speed bubble did the real work, trapping him inside—as everyone outside became a blur. The man squeezed his gun’s trigger, and the crack of a gunshot rang amid the strange warping of sounds that she heard inside a bubble from those outside. One of his fellow guards, also caught in her bubble, shouted in alarm.

The fired bullet hit the perimeter of the speed bubble and was deflected. It shot out over the blur of the crowd, the governor’s figure vanishing as—she assumed—he was rushed away. Marasi’s lunge wasn’t enough to topple the would-be assassin, and so she lay there half on the steps, holding on to his legs and feeling foolish, until one of his companions hit him harder, knocking him down.

She dropped the speed bubble and jumped back, the sudden roar of the crowd washing over her. The captured man struggled, shouting, as other guards piled onto him.

*

“So basically, with this … Hemalurgy,” Wax said, “you can make someone Metalborn.”

Wayne sniffled as he flipped through the book, and his cheeks were breaking out in some kind of rash. Storing health, Wax thought. Wayne often ended up with odd rashes when he did that. They sat in the main room of Idashwy’s apartment, away from the corpse, which they’d draped with a sheet. They’d paused briefly in their inspection to send the newsboy for the local constables.

Wax ground his teeth. Idashwy’s wound … it was just like those described in the book. Somebody had killed this woman with a spike through the chest, stealing her Feruchemical talent. The book described the process as “tearing off a chunk of someone’s soul.” Using the spike, one could effectively attach that piece of soul to one’s own, granting the powers of the deceased.

In the old days, Inquisitors had driven the spike right through the body of the one to be killed into the body of the person to gain the powers. That prevented any power from being lost. Apparently, coating the newly made spike in blood could achieve a similar effect.

He knew, Wax thought. Ironeyes knew something like this was going to come. The book had been written by the Lord Mistborn long ago to leave some record of the art known as Hemalurgy. Lestibournes’s book said he considered it a crime that the Words of Founding—Harmony’s own record—omitted references to the dark art.

“So our killer knows this Hemalurgy stuff?” Wayne said.

“Yes,” Wax said. “The killer used a spike to steal Idashwy’s Feruchemical talent, then employed that ability to kill Lord Winsting and his guests. We have to assume that our killer could also have numerous other powers at their disposal: any combination of Allomantic or Feruchemical abilities. Or all of them.”

Wayne whistled softly.

“Did you discover anything else in your search of the room?” Wax asked.

“Not much.”

“I understand the motive here,” Wax said, glancing back toward the kitchen with the body. “But I don’t yet have one for Winsting’s murder. Or … well, I know of too many possibilities. I don’t have the right motive.”

“What did you find in the stiff’s pockets?”

Wax hesitated.

“You didn’t rifle through the pockets?” Wayne asked, aghast. “Wax, you’re a terrible grave robber!”

“I was distracted by the manner of death,” Wax said, rising. “I’d have gotten to it.”

The word “distracted” didn’t really do justice to his emotions—to the profound shock, the numbness. For months that book had been only an object of study, but now its contents had abruptly ceased being mere words on a page and had become a motive for murder.

We’re out of our depth, Wax thought, returning to the kitchen. We’ve crept into the realm of the gods. Harmony, Ironeyes, the Lord Mistborn …

Wayne pulled back the sheet, exposing that gaping hole in the woman’s chest—right at the sternum. Who would know how to do something like this? Who would Harmony let know how to do something like this?

“Here,” Wayne said, fishing in the woman’s skirt pockets. He came out with a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it, then grunted. “Huh. It’s for you.”