Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(90)

“Bottom of Bleeder’s robes,” Wax said. “The ones she was wearing to imitate a priest.”

“This is perchwither,” MeLaan said. “It’s a bioluminescent fungus. It grows in only one place.”

“Where?” Wax asked.

“The kandra Homeland.”

Wax looked deflated. “Oh. So that’s where we’d expect her to be going, right?”

“No,” MeLaan said. “The kandra are no longer trapped there. We move in society—we have homes, lives. If we want to meet up with others of our kind, we catch them at the pub. The Homeland is a monument. A holy site. A place of relics. The fact that she’s been there recently, wearing the body of someone she killed…” MeLaan shivered visibly, letting go of Wax. “It’s nauseating.”

“I should check it out,” Wax said. “She might be staying down there.”

MeLaan folded her arms, looking him over. “Harmony says it’s okay,” she said. “You can get in through the tombs; look for the sign of atium and use your other eyes. We don’t use that entrance very often, but it’s probably easiest for you. Just don’t break anything, lawman.”

“I’ll do my best,” Wax said, turning as a footman peeked in from the hallway, then approached with a small silver tray bearing a card.

“Lord Ladrian?” said the footman, holding out the tray. “Your coach has arrived.”

“Coach?” Wayne asked. On a hunt, Wax was usually in full-on “fly through the city like a rusting vulture” mode. Why would he need a coach?

Wax picked up the card on the tray, then nodded and took a deep breath. “Thank you.” He turned to Wayne and MeLaan. “Keep the governor alive. I’ll send word if I discover anything.”

“So what’s in the coach?” Wayne asked.

“I sent a note soon after I got here to the mansion,” Wax said. “There’s one person in this city who might have an inkling of what Bleeder is up to.” Wax’s face took on a grim cast.

Ah, of course, Wayne thought. He patted Wax on the shoulder. This wouldn’t be a pleasant meeting.

“Who?” MeLaan asked, looking from Wayne back to Wax. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you ever heard,” Wax said, “of a group called the Set?”

*

Wax found his uncle waiting comfortably inside the coach. No bodyguards. The coachman didn’t even ask for Wax’s weapons as he stopped at the door. Contacting his uncle had been easy; the appointment book had listed a few of Edwarn’s safe-deposit boxes, kept under false names. After posting watch on one for a few weeks, Wax had found a letter inside, suggesting he try something else.

He’d left his own letter. After that, one had appeared for him. They never said anything useful, and Wax had driven himself crazy trying to find out how they were being placed. But Edwarn seemed to know the moment a new one from Wax arrived.

Wax took a deep breath, then climbed into the coach. Edwarn was a stocky man distinguished by a short, precisely trimmed beard, a beautifully tailored suit, and a cravat so narrow and thin, it lay flat like a bowtie loosened at the end of a long night. Edwarn’s hands rested easily on the ornate head of a cane, and his face bore a wide smile.

“Nephew!” he said as Wax settled into his seat. “You can’t imagine my joy upon receiving your note, and with a promise that you wouldn’t try to arrest me. So quaint! I came immediately; I feel like we’ve been too distant lately.”

“Distant? You tried to have me killed.”

“And you’ve tried to return the favor!” Edwarn said, knocking with his cane on the roof to get the coach moving. “Yet here we sit, both alive and well. I see no reason why we can’t be amiable. We are rivals, yes, but also still family.”

“You’re a criminal, Uncle,” Wax said. “Considering the things you’ve done, I don’t feel much familial empathy.”

Edwarn sighed, slipping his pipe from his pocket. “Can’t you at least try to be pleasant?”

“I’ll try.” Truth was, Wax wanted information from this man. Antagonizing him would not be smart.

They rolled on silently for a while as Edwarn lit the pipe, and Wax tried to organize his thoughts. How to approach this?

“Dangerous night,” Edwarn noted, nodding out the window as they passed a group of men and women holding aloft lanterns and torches while listening to a woman standing on a stack of boxes. She shouted into the mists angry words that Wax couldn’t quite make out. Rusts, that group was close to the governor’s mansion. He hoped that Innate and the constables could get this under control.

“I wonder,” Edwarn said, puffing on his pipe, “if that night long ago felt the same as this one—the night when the Survivor’s Gambit played out. The fall of a regime. The start of a new world.”

“You can’t possibly think this is equivalent,” Wax said. “The Lord Ruler’s reign was one of terror and oppression. These people are upset, yes, but it’s a far different world now.”

“Different?” Edwarn said, letting smoke roll from his mouth as he spoke. “Perhaps. But human emotions are the same. It seems that no matter how nice the box is, put a man inside it and he will buck. Fight. Rail.”