Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(61)

To the eyes of a man burning steel, Elendel was alight and full of motion, even while shadowed by darkness and mist. Metal. In some ways, that was the true mark of mankind. Man tamed the stones, the bones of the earth below. Man tamed the fire, that ephemeral, consuming soul of life. And combining the two, he drew forth the marrow of the rocks themselves, then made molten tools.

Wax passed among the skyscrapers like a whisper, the motion drying his clothing. He became just another current in the mists, and moving with him in radial spokes was a majestic network of blue lines—like a million outstretched fingers pointing the way to anchors he could use along his path. When even a galloping horse was too slow, Wax had steel. It burned in him, returning to the fire that gave it shape.

From it he drew power. Sometimes that wasn’t enough.

But this night, he exploded through the lit upper windows of the Harms dwelling, rolling and coming up with guns leveled. Lord Harms swiveled in the chair of his writing desk, knocking over his pot of ink. The red-faced older man had a comfortable paunch, an easy manner, and a pair of mustaches that were in competition with his jowls to see which could droop farthest toward the floor. Upon seeing Wax, he started, then scrambled to reach into his desk drawer.

Wax scanned the room. Nobody else there. No enemies in the corners, no moving bits of metal in closets or the bedroom. He’d arrived in time. Wax let out a sigh of relief, standing up as Lord Harms finally got his desk drawer open. The man whipped out a pistol, one of the modern semiautos that were popular with the constables. Harms leaped to his feet and rushed over to Wax, holding his gun in two hands.

“Where are they!” Harms exclaimed. “We can take them, eh, old boy?”

“You have a gun,” Wax said.

“Yes indeed, yes indeed. After what happened last year, I realized that a man has to be armed. What’s the emergency? I’ll have your back!”

Wax carefully tipped the point of Lord Harms’s gun downward, just in case a bullet was chambered—because, fortunately, the man hadn’t locked a magazine into the pistol. Wax glanced behind at the windows. He’d flung them open with a Push as he approached, but they were meant to open outward, not inward. He’d ripped both right off their hinges, toppling one while the other hung by its corner. It finally gave way, crashing to the floor, cracking the glass inside the wooden frame.

Mist poured in through the opening, flooding the floor. Where was Bleeder? In the house somewhere? Impersonating a maid? A neighbor? A constable passing on the street?

Standing in the room with him?

“Jackstom,” Wax said, looking to Lord Harms, “do you remember when you first met me, and Wayne was pretending to be my butler?”

Harms frowned. “You mean your uncle?”

Good, Wax thought. An impostor wouldn’t know that, would she? Rusts … He’d have to suspect everyone.

“You’re in danger,” Wax said, sliding his guns into their hip holsters. His suit was basically ruined from the swim in the canal, and he’d tossed aside his cravat, but the sturdy mistcoat had seen far worse than this. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“But…” Lord Harms trailed off, face blanching. “My daughter?”

As if he had only one.

“Steris is fine,” Wax said. “Wayne is watching her. Let’s go.”

The problem was, go where? Wax had a hundred places he could take Harms, but Bleeder could be lurking at any of them. The odds were certainly in Wax’s favor, and yet …

Bleeder is ancient, Harmony had said. Older than the destruction of the world. She is crafty, careful, and brilliant.… She spent centuries studying human behavior.

Any option Wax chose could be the very one Bleeder had predicted he would choose. How did you outthink something so old, so knowledgeable?

The solution seemed easy. You didn’t try.

*

Steris left ZoBell Tower to find Wayne sitting across the street from a huddle of bruised and obviously angry men. Wayne was eating a sandwich.

“Oh, Wayne,” she said, looking from the hostile, wounded men and back to him. “Those are the governor’s guards. He’s going to need them tonight.”

“’s not my fault,” Wayne said. “They was bein’ unaccommodating.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

She sighed, settling down beside him and looking up through the mists toward the tower. She could make out the lights on various floors glowing like phantoms above, leading all the way up to the very top.

“This is how it’s going to be, with him, isn’t it?” she asked. “Always being left behind in the middle of something? Always half feeling as if I’m part of his life?”

Wayne shrugged. “You could do the noble thing, Steris. Give up on the whole marriage. Let him loose to find someone he actually likes.”

“And my family’s investment in him and his house?”

“Well, I know this here is revolutionary words, Steris, but you can loan a chap money without him havin’ to jump you in appreciation, if you know my meanin’.”

Good Harmony he could be shockingly unmannered. He wasn’t like this to others. Oh, he was crass and whimsical, but rarely blatantly rude. He saved that for her. Was he expecting her to fight back, prove herself somehow? She’d never been able to figure this man out. Preparing what to say to him only seemed to make him more vulgar.