Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(87)

“She obtained Feruchemical powers only two weeks ago,” Wax said. “That time frame greatly limits how much speed she can have stored up, and moving as fast as she has been must have drained her metalmind quickly. She needed to escape before it ran out.”

Of course, there could be another reason. She might have just wanted to frighten them, and the governor. To prod him to do something. But what? She said she intended to kill him, but not until the time was right.

Why? What was the plan?

“So she’s flawed,” Innate said. “She can be beaten.”

“Of course she can,” Wax said. He looked down at the corpse, and the floor stained red. But at what cost? He took a deep breath. “I want you to leave the city.”

“No.”

“That’s stupidity,” Wax snapped. “She will be back.”

“Have you looked out there, lawman?” Innate said, waving a bloody hand in a vaguely upward direction. “Have you seen what’s happening in this city?”

“You can’t do anything about that tonight.”

“I most certainly can.” Innate stood. “I’m the leader of this city; I’m not going to run away. If anything, I need to be seen—need to meet with the chief instigators of this movement, if any can be found. I need to address the crowds, prepare a speech—I need to gather my cabinet, and with them make sure that there’s still a city here in the morning.” He pointed at Wax. “You stop this creature, Ladrian. I don’t have a bodyguard any longer. I’m in your hands.”

He strode out then. Whatever else he thought of the man, Wax had to respect Innate’s grit.

You stop this creature.…

Wax glanced at the syringe, still lying on the floor near the doorframe. So close. If it had hit, he might have been able to depress the metal plunger and send the liquid into her veins. Feeling powerless, he fetched that syringe and brought it back to Drim’s corpse, dead with a bullet right in the neck. Wax plunged the syringe into the corpse’s arm and emptied it into the flesh.

Nothing happened. He hadn’t expected it to—it seemed very implausible that Bleeder would have managed to get Drim’s face on and fool the governor this way. But it still made Wax feel more comfortable.

He stumbled to his feet. Rusts, he was tired. Why hadn’t she killed the governor? There was more to this.

Wayne peeked in. “Two guards might make it. We have a surgeon helpin’ them now.”

“Good,” Wax said. “Wait for me upstairs.”

Wayne nodded, ducking back out. Wax instead walked to the escape route and pulled open the door. He lit a candle and stepped up the slope, cautious, hand on his gun. What did undermining the governor, inciting a riot against the Pathians, and Wax’s own “freedom” have to do with one another? What was he missing?

He didn’t find Bleeder in the tunnel, though halfway up it he found her red cloak. She’d tossed it, bloodied, to the side. There, scrawled on the wall, was a crude picture shaped like a man, drawn with a fingernail into the wood.

Dabs of dried blood marked the figure’s eyes, and another marked its mouth. The words scrawled beneath in blood gave Wax a chill.

I rip out his tongue to stop the lies.

I stab out his eyes to hide from his gaze.

You will be free.





17



About a half hour after Bleeder’s attack, Wayne walked into the governor’s fancy washroom. Only in his head it wasn’t the washroom. He just knew to call it that here.

You see, Wayne had figured out the code.

Rich folks, they had this code. All of them knew it, and they used it like a new language to weed out everyone who didn’t belong.

Regular folk, they called something after what it was.

You’d say, “What’s that, Kell?”

And they’d say, “That? That there’s the crapper.”

And you’d reply, “What do you do with it?”

And they’d say, “Well, Wayne, that’s where you put your crap.”

It made sense. But rich folk, they had a different word for the crapper. They’d call it a “commode” or a “washroom.” That way, when someone asked for the crapper, they knew it was a person they needed to oppress.

Wayne did his business and spat his gum into the bowl before flushing. It felt good to be wearing his own hat again, dueling canes at his waist. He’d spent a good hour or two wearing the clothing and false face of a guard for Innate. Horribly uncomfortable, that.

He wiped his sniffly nose and washed his hands, drying them on towels embroidered with Innate’s name. He was that worried people would run off with his towels? Well, the joke was on him. Wayne was perfectly happy to wipe up dirt with the governor’s name. He tucked the towel into his pocket, and left in trade a few mints he’d taken from the bar.

He wandered out from there, peeking into the room where the governor was holding a meeting with all kinds of important folks, the type who called the crapper “the facilities.”

You know, he thought, maybe I have it wrong. Maybe it’s not code. Maybe they’re just so familiar with what comes out of their arses, normal words aren’t specific enough. Like how the Terris language had seven different words for iron.

He nodded to himself. A new theory. Wax was gonna love this one. Wayne passed into the room with the couches, where the guards had been gunned down. Wax stood inside with an envelope, into which he dropped something small and metallic. He sealed it, then handed it to a young messenger from the governor’s staff.