Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(76)

“Maybe,” Wax said, but dallied.

The door slammed open and a young woman in trousers and suspenders burst in. “Boss,” she said, “late-night play getting out on Bonnweather. They’re going to want rides.”

“We sent coaches there already.”

“Not enough,” the young woman said. “Boss, there are lots of men on the streets. Common men, the type that will make the rich folk nervous. Playgoers will want carriages.”

Cett nodded. “Wake Jone and Forgeron. Send them and anyone else you can rouse. Anything more?”

“We could have more wheels out for certain, particularly near the pubs.”

“Coinshot,” Wax guessed, noticing the bag of metal bits—probably pieces of scrap—the young woman carried. “You’ve been using Allomancer runners to scout for busy areas to send drivers.”

“Is that surprising?” Cett asked.

“It’s expensive.”

“You have to spend money to make money, constable,” Cett said. “And as you can see, I’m having a very busy night. Perhaps you could leave me to it, if I promise to—”

“Coinshot,” Wax said to the girl. “You see coach number sixteen out there? I assume your boss has you checking in on the drivers, make sure they’re doing their jobs?”

“How—” she began.

“You don’t hire an Allomancer just for traffic reports,” Wax said. “Coach sixteen?”

She glanced at Cett, who nodded. So whatever Cett was hiding, it probably didn’t have to do with this driver. In fact, it probably didn’t have anything to do with Bleeder. Just your average, run-of-the-mill lawbreaking.

At least one Allomancer on staff, Wax thought.

“I didn’t see sixteen on the streets,” the young Allomancer said, turning to Wax. “But that’s because Chapaou is at a Soothing parlor over on Decan Street. His coach is around the corner.”

“At a Soothing parlor?” Cett demanded. “He’s on the clock!”

“I know,” the Allomancer said. “I thought you’d want to hear.”

“Hm, yes,” Wax said. “And what of the Rioter you have on staff. Are they there too?”

“Nah,” the Allomancer said. “He’s on—” She cut off, and grew pale. The entire room fell still.

“Using emotional Allomancy,” Wax said, “to drum up customers. Riot passing people, make them feel tired or urgent, and more willing to take the coach conveniently parked right across the street.”

Cett looked sick. Yes, that was it. Flagrant use of a Rioter to drum up business, a violation of the Allomantic Agreement of ’94. There were entire departments in the government that watched for this sort of thing. Fortunately, while it was a dangerous crime, it wasn’t one that worried Wax at the moment.

“You don’t have any proof…” Cett said, then thought better of it. “I’ll be speaking with my attorney. I’ll have you know that my people are off-limits for interrogation without a judicial order to—”

“Take it up with the constable-general,” Wax said. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon. For now, I need a description of this carriage driver of yours, along with the names of any pets he owns.”

*

Marasi walked along a counter topped with a row of rifles, each accompanied by a domed steel helmet, a folded heavy jacket, and a box of ammunition. Rusts! She hadn’t realized the constabulary had access to these kinds of weapons.

“Well,” she said, looking back at MeLaan, “we’re ready if a koloss warlord decides to invade again.”

A pair of corporals, both men, were looking over each weapon to confirm it was in good repair. Though she spotted more than one pair of bleary eyes, the place was alive with activity. More and more constables were arriving, called in for extra duty. As they entered through the main doors they tended to stop as Marasi had, looking at the row of weapons. Perhaps that was why Aradel had ordered them set out like this. A quick visual reminder of how dangerous things were growing in the city.

Marasi rounded the front counter and entered the offices behind. A young woman corporal passed by, handing Marasi a warm cup of dark tea. It smelled strong, cooked down to increase the concentration of caffeine. She tried a sip.

Yup. Awful. She drank another sip anyway. She wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking for honey when everyone else was chugging the stuff like it was some kind of contest. MeLaan trailed after her, looking around the room with interest. The voluptuous kandra drew glances. And, well, stares. It wasn’t often that a gorgeous, six-and-a-half-foot-tall woman strode into the constabulary offices clad in trousers and a tight shirt. She seemed to like the attention, judging by the way she smiled at the men they passed.

Of course she likes the attention, Marasi thought. Otherwise she wouldn’t have chosen a body so exquisitely proportioned. It seemed blatant to Marasi. After all, technically MeLaan wasn’t even human.

“I didn’t expect to find women in uniform here,” MeLaan noted. “I’d assumed you to be an oddity.”

“The constabulary is very egalitarian,” Marasi said. “The Ascendant Warrior serves as a model for all women. You won’t find as many of us here as in, say, the solicitors’ offices, but it’s hardly considered an unfeminine profession.”