Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(65)

“Will you be handling the interrogation yourself, sir?” Reddi asked. The conventicalists stiffened visibly at the word “interrogation.” Marasi could have smacked him for his tone.

“No,” Aradel.

“Very good, sir,” Reddi said, pulling his bow tie tight and taking out his clipboard. He stepped up to the conventicalists.

“Actually,” Aradel said, “I was thinking we’d let Lieutenant Colms try.”

Marasi felt a sharp spike of panic, which she smothered immediately. She wasn’t afraid of a simple interrogation, particularly with amiable witnesses. But the way Aradel said it, so seriously, made her suddenly feel as if it were some type of test. Wonderful.

She took a deep breath and pushed past Reddi, who had lowered his clipboard and was eyeing her. The assembled group of eight people sat with slumped shoulders. How to best approach them? They’d described to a sketch artist what had happened, but details could separate Ruin from Preservation.

Marasi settled down on the bench between two of them. “My condolences on your loss,” she said softly. “My apologies too. The constabulary has failed you this day.”

“It’s not your fault,” the matron said, pulling one of the children tight. “Who could have anticipated … Holy Survivor, I knew those Pathians were a miscreant bunch. I always knew it. No rules? No precepts to guide their lives?”

“Chaos,” a shaven-headed man said from the bench behind. “They want nothing but chaos.”

“What happened?” Marasi said. “I’ve read the report, of course, but … rusts … I can’t imagine…”

“We were waiting for evening celebration,” the matron said. “The mists had put in quite the appearance! Must have been almost a thousand people in the dome for worship. And then he just sauntered up to the dais, that Pathian mongrel.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Course I did,” the matron said. “It was that Larskpur; we see him at community functions all the time. People feel they have to invite a Pathian priest, as if to not show favoritism, though nobody wants them around.”

Behind her, the underpriest nodded. “Little wretch of a man, barely fit his robes,” he said. “Nothing ornate. Really just a smock. They don’t even dress up to worship.”

“He started talking to the crowd,” the matron continued. “Like he was going to give the mistdawn sermon! Only it was vile stuff he spouted.”

“Such as what?” Marasi asked.

“Blasphemy,” the matron said. “But it shouldn’t matter. Look here, constable. Why are you even talking to us? A thousand people saw him. Why are you treating us like we did something wrong? You should be off arresting that monster.”

“We have people hunting for him,” Marasi said, and rested her hand on the shoulder of one of the children; the little girl whimpered and clamped on to her arm. “And I promise you, we’ll catch and punish the one who did this. But every detail you can remember will help us put him away.”

The matron and the underpriest glanced at each other. But it was one of the others—a lanky altarman in his twenties—who spoke. “Larskpur said,” the man whispered, “that the Survivor was a false god. That Kelsier had tried, and failed, to help humankind. That his death hadn’t been about protecting us or Ascending, but about stupidity and bravado.”

“It’s what they’ve always thought,” the matron said, “but don’t say. Those Pathians … they claim to accept everyone, but if you push you can see the truth. They mock the Survivor.”

“They want chaos,” the underpriest repeated. “They hate that so many people look to the Survivor. They hate that we have standards. They have no meetings, no churches, no commandments.… The Path isn’t a religion, it’s a platitude.”

“It stunned us, I’ll tell you that,” the matron said. “I thought at first that Father Bin must have invited Larskpur to speak. Why else would he be so bold as to step up to the pulpit? I was so horrified by what he said that I didn’t notice the blood at first.”

“I did,” the underpriest said. “I thought he was wearing gloves. I stared at those fingers, waving, bright red. And then I noticed the drops that he was flicking across the floor and the pulpit as he gestured.”

They all were quiet for a moment. “There isn’t anything more to say,” the matron finally said. “Larskpur gestured one last time, and the back draping fell down. There he was, our blessed father, nailed there in a terrible parody of the Survivor’s Statemark. Poor Father Bin had been … hanging the whole time. Might have been still alive, bleeding and dying while we all listened to that blasphemy.”

Marasi doubted that. Though the priest had obviously struggled at first, the spikes would have ended that quickly. “Thank you,” she said to the distraught group. “You’ve been very helpful.” She carefully pried the little girl’s hands from her arm and passed her to the matron.

Marasi stood, walking to Aradel and Reddi, who stood on the other side of the room.

“What do you think?” Marasi asked softly.

“About the information,” Reddi said, “or your interrogation techniques?”

“Either.”