Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(43)

Reddi blushed, bowing his head. Aradel stepped up beside Marasi, looking down at the captive. “How are you at interrogating hostile witnesses, Lieutenant?”

“Less practiced than I’d like to be,” she replied with a grimace. “I’m willing to give it a try, but we might as well wait for a few more minutes.”

“Why?”

Distantly, a door slammed. “That’s why,” Marasi said.

A moment later, the door into their observation chamber was flung open, Pushed by Waxillium as he approached. Couldn’t the man be bothered to lift a hand from time to time? He strode in, tailed by Wayne, who was for some reason wearing Constable Terri’s hat.

Waxillium looked down at the captive. He narrowed his eyes, then glanced at the bracers on the table nearby. One jumped, then fell off the table, Pushed by his unseen Allomantic ability.

He grunted. “Those aren’t metalminds,” he said. “This man is a decoy. You’ve been duped.” He turned as if to leave. Wayne slouched down in one of the chairs and put his feet up beside the bracers, then promptly started snoring.

“Wait, that’s it?” Reddi said, glancing at Waxillium. “You aren’t even going to interrogate him?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Waxillium said. “He might give us clues that will help find Winsting’s killer. But it wasn’t that man.”

“How can you be so sure, Waxillium?” Marasi said.

“It takes more effort to Push on real metalminds,” Waxillium said, pointing. “And that man is too obvious. Whoever did this has predicted our conjecture that one of Innate’s guards was behind the murder, and wants us to jump on this man as a suspect. They want us to assume we have the killer in custody. Why, though? Are they planning something tonight…?” Distracted, he walked toward the door. “I’m going to go talk to the prisoner. Marasi, I wouldn’t mind another set of ears.”

She started. He was asking her for help? That was a change from making her feel guilty every time she showed up at a crime scene. She glanced at Aradel, who gave her leave, and she hurried after Waxillium.

In the stairwell down, Waxillium stopped and turned toward her. He was wearing his Roughs hat. He only did that when he was in full-on “tough lawman” mode. “I hear you brought this guy in.”

“I did.”

“Nice work.”

That should not have given her the thrill that it did. She didn’t need his approval.

It was nice nonetheless.

He continued to study her, as if on the verge of saying something more.

“What?” Marasi asked.

“I spoke to God on the way over here.”

“All right…” Marasi said. “I’m glad you’re devout enough to say a prayer now and then.”

“Yes. Thing is, He spoke back.”

She cocked her head, trying to judge the meaning of that. But Waxillium Ladrian was nothing if not earnest. Rusts, often he was too blunt.

“All right,” she said. “What did he tell you?”

“Our killer is a Faceless Immortal,” Waxillium said, starting down the steps again. “A creature who calls herself Bleeder. She can change shapes by taking the bones of the dead, and she’s been driven mad. Even Harmony doesn’t know her purposes.”

Marasi followed him down, trying to swallow that. Mistwraiths and kandra … those were things out of the Historica, not real life. Then again, once she would have said that men like Miles Hundredlives and Waxillium Dawnshot were men out of stories. They’d lived up to the legends to a surprising degree.

“So that could be her,” Marasi said, gesturing toward the wall separating them from the prisoner. “She could have any shape, any face! Why are you so sure this isn’t the killer?”

“Because the governor is still alive,” Waxillium said softly. “The creature who’s behind this casually murdered Winsting in a saferoom, behind a wall of guards, after intentionally starting a firefight in the room above. She wouldn’t be caught like this. It’s a taunt.” He looked to Marasi. “But I can’t be certain, not a hundred percent. So I need you to know what we’re up against.”

She nodded to him and he nodded back, then he led the way out of the stairwell and around the corner toward the interrogation room. Marasi took a bit of satisfaction in the fact that the corporal there looked to her for authorization before opening the door for Waxillium.

The poor captive inside sat with his arms tied tight, staring at the table in front of him. He muttered softly. Waxillium walked straight up to the table and took the other seat, settling down and putting his hat on the table. Marasi lingered back, where—in case they were wrong about the prisoner—she’d be out of reach but able to offer aid.

Waxillium tapped the table with his index finger, as if trying to decide what to say. The prisoner, Rian, finally looked up.

“She said you’d come talk to me,” Rian said softly.

“She?” Waxillium said.

“God.”

“Harmony?”

“No. She said I had to kill the governor. Had to attack him. I tried not to listen.…”

Waxillium narrowed his eyes. “You met her? What did she look like? What face was she wearing?”

“You can’t save him,” Rian whispered. “She’s going to kill him. She promised me freedom, but here I am, bound. Oh, Ruin.” He took a deep breath. “There is something for you. In my arm.”