Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(77)

“Sure, sure,” MeLaan said, smiling at a young lieutenant as the two of them made their way to the back rooms, where the records office was. “But I’ve always found humans to be rather sexist. A natural result of your sexual dimorphism, VenDell says.”

“And kandra aren’t sexist?” Marasi said, blushing.

“Hmm? Well, considering that a male kandra you’re talking to today might decide to be a woman tomorrow, I’d say we have a different perspective on all that.”

Marasi blushed further. “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

“Not really. Wow, you blush easily, don’t you? I’d have thought you’d find this natural, considering that your God is basically a hermaphrodite at this point. Both good and evil, Ruin and Preservation, light and dark, male and female. Et cetera et cetera.”

They reached the doors to the records office and Marasi turned away to hide her blush. She really wished she’d just find a way to get over her embarrassment. “Harmony’s not my god. I’m a Survivorist.”

“Oh, yeah,” MeLaan said, “because that makes sense. Worship the guy who died, rather than the one who saved the world.”

“The Survivor transcended death,” Marasi said, looking back, hand on the door, but not entering. “He survived even being killed, adopting the mantle of the Ascendant during the time between Preservation’s death and Vin’s Ascension.”

Rust … was she arguing theology with a demigod?

MeLaan, however, just cocked her head. “What, really?”

“Um … yes. Harmony wrote of it himself in the Words of Founding, MeLaan.”

“Huh. I really ought to read that thing one of these days.”

“You haven’t…” Marasi blinked, trying to fathom a world where one of the Faceless Immortals didn’t know doctrine.

“I keep meaning to,” MeLaan said, shrugging. “Never can find the time.”

“You’re over six hundred years old.”

“That’s the thing about having an eternity, kid,” MeLaan said. “It gets really easy to procrastinate. Are we going in that room or not?”

Marasi sighed, pushing into a room filled with filing cabinets and tables piled high with ledgers and broadsheets. This was Aradel’s doing; he liked to keep his thumb on what people were saying and writing in the city. So far, he didn’t do much with the collection besides watch for reports of crimes his men had missed, but Marasi had plans.

Unfortunately, Constable Miklin—who ran the records office—was one of Reddi’s closest friends. As Marasi entered, Miklin and the other two people working there looked up, then immediately turned back to their files.

“Who’s the civilian?” Miklin asked from his desk in the corner. How did he get his hair to stand up straight like that? Almost like a patch of grass growing from a pot.

“Special investigator from another jurisdiction,” Marasi said. “Lord Ladrian sent her.”

Miklin sniffed. “I’m led to believe this wisp hunt is your doing? I barely got to the offices tonight before I was sent back here to dig up information on that dam breaking.”

“What did you find?” Marasi said eagerly, slipping between two large filing cabinets—he had them arranged like sentries—and stepping up to his desk.

“Nothing,” Miklin said. “Dead end. Waste of my time.”

“I’d like to see what you found anyway,” Marasi said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Miklin rested his hands on the table. He spoke softly. “Why are you here, Colms?”

“I thought Aradel told you,” Marasi said. “The dam breakage might—”

“Not that. Here. In the constabulary. You had an offer to join the octant’s senior prosecutor on a permanent basis, with a letter of commendation on your internship with him. I looked into it. And now … what? You suddenly want to chase criminals? Strap on some six-guns like you’re from the rusting Roughs? That’s not what police work is like.”

“I’m well aware,” Marasi said dryly. “But thank you for the information. What did you find?”

He sighed, then tapped a folder with the back of his hand. “Rusting waste of my time,” he muttered.

Marasi took the folder and retreated between the filing cabinets. She wished it were only Miklin she had to deal with, but the two other constables made their opinions known with quiet sniffs of disdain. Marasi felt them glaring at her as she led MeLaan out of the room, clutching her folder.

“Why do they treat you like that?” MeLaan asked as they slipped out.

“It’s complicated.”

“People tend to be. Why do you let them treat you like that?”

“I’m working on it.”

“You want me to do something?” MeLaan said. “I could scare the cynicism right out of those people, show them you’ve got friends that—”

“No!” Marasi said. “No, please. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

MeLaan followed her as she scurried to her desk outside of Aradel’s office. A lanky female constable stood there, one foot on Marasi’s chair, chatting with the man one desk over and sipping her tea. Marasi cleared her throat twice before the woman—Taudr was her name, wasn’t it?—finally looked at her, rolled her eyes, and moved out of the way.