Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(75)

He eventually reached the location he’d set out to find: Ashweather Carriage and Coach, a large open yard at the northern edge of the octant where a fleet of carriages of various styles was stored. Rich-looking landaus with retractable tops. Conventional buggies, with less lavish upholstery and wood, to attract a modest clientele. A few surrey-style, with frilled tops.

By far the most common in the carriage park was the standard road coach: the four-wheeled vehicle with a completely enclosed passenger compartment, and room at the top front for a driver. They called them Barringtons in the city, after Lord Barrington, and though the paint jobs could vary wildly, the style was pretty much standardized. Wax’s own coaches were Barringtons.

He counted seven in a line here, all lit by electric lamps atop towering stanchions high enough to light the whole yard and adjacent large, low buildings. Those were stables, of course, as his nose confirmed. All of the Ashweather Company’s carriages were painted a shiny black, common for vehicles used as cabs in the city, and they had a round shield on the side proclaiming the Cett family heritage.

A shield painted silver. The color that had scraped onto the bricks in the alleyway outside the church. Bleeder had likely fled in a coach just like one of these, one that had been told to wait while Bleeder killed the priest.

Wax inspected each vehicle in turn, running his fingers over the silver-painted shields on the sides. No scrapes.

“Can I help you?” a curt voice demanded. Steelsight indicated a person walking up the row of vehicles. No weapon held, but metal buttons on his coat, a ring on each hand, some change in the pocket, and a watch in his waistcoat. A few pins in the collar of his shirt—very small lines—gave Wax an idea of how tall the man was.

Wax turned toward the voice. The man turned out to be a pudgy fellow in a distinctive formal suit with long tails, identifying him as the establishment’s proprietor. Wax had known more than a few Cetts in his time. He’d never gotten along with any of them. Lean or fat, rich or scrawny, they all got the same calculating look on their faces as they tried to estimate how much money Wax would be willing to part with.

This Cett’s eyes flicked toward Wax’s suit, which was rumpled, swum-in, and missing the cravat. With the duster on, he likely didn’t look very distinguished—and the man’s expression hardened. Then he saw the tassels on the duster.

His entire demeanor changed immediately. His posture went from “Stay away from my coaches” to “You look like the type who will pay extra for velvet pillows.” “My lord,” he added, nodding his head. “Would you like to hire a coach for the evening?”

“You know me?” Wax said.

“Waxillium Ladrian, I believe.”

“Good,” Wax said, digging into his pocket and removing a small steel sheet, engraved on one side. His credentials, proof that he was a constable. “I’m on constabulary business. How many of these coaches do you have?” Wax nodded toward the line.

Cett’s expression fell as he realized Wax wasn’t likely to be paying him for anything tonight. “Twenty-three,” the man finally said.

“Lots of coaches still in service for the night,” Wax said. “Considering the hour.”

“We work as long as people are out, constable,” Cett said. “And tonight, people are out.”

Wax nodded. “I need a list of the drivers who are still working, their routes, and any prearranged clients they picked up today.”

“Of course.” Cett seemed more relaxed as he led Wax toward a small building in the center of the carriage yard. As they walked, a coach arrived—no scraped sides—drawn by a pair of sweaty horses with drooping heads and a bit of froth at the mouths. Long hours for the beasts too, it seemed.

Inside the building, Cett fetched some records from a desk. Too eager, Wax thought as the man hurried over and offered them. Whenever someone worked with the authorities too easily, it made Wax’s eye twitch. So he took his time browsing through the lists Cett proffered and kept an eye on the man as he did so. “What percentage of your pickups are impromptu, and what percentage are arranged ahead of time?”

“Half and half, for the black coaches,” Cett said. “The open carriages are more spur-of-the-moment.” He had a good game face, but something was bothering him. What was he hiding?

You think everyone is hiding something, Wax told himself, flipping through the pages. Stay on the task at hand.

Wax dug into the list, hoping Bleeder had decided to hire a coach for a pickup to be certain she had her escape planned, rather than just grabbing a cab on the street. Finding the one who had driven her would be useful either way. He looked over the records for the drivers still out for the night. Each had a few prearranged pickups over the course of the day, but only three had been scheduled around the time of the murder. And two of those were repeat customers with a long list of pickups in the past.

That left one. A person to be picked up in the Fourth Octant, and to be driven “at liberty,” meaning they were to be driven as long as the client wished. Shanwan was the name listed. A Terris name. The word meant “secret.”

“I need to find this driver,” Wax said, holding up the list and pointing. If they’re still alive.

“Coach sixteen,” Cett said, rubbing his chin. “That’s Chapaou’s. No telling when he’ll be back; you probably don’t want to wait. I can send you a message when he returns.”