Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(94)

Only instead of the Survivor, this time it had been induced by a psychotic murderer.

She has to be doing it on purpose, Marasi thought, walking through the room. Trying to echo that night when the Lord Ruler fell. A people on the brink of insurrection. Noble houses at each other’s throats. And now …

Now a speech. The governor would have his moment before the crowd, and they would sense the resonance even if they couldn’t put their finger on it. They’d been taught about that night since childhood. They would listen to him, and expect him to be like the Last Emperor, who had spoken long ago on the night of the Lord Ruler’s death. The Last Emperor had come to power because of his heartfelt words that night.

But Governor Innate was not Elend Venture. Far from it.

Marasi suddenly stopped and backed up a few steps. She’d been walking beside the built-in bookcases, paying little conscious attention to them, but just enough to have noticed something off. Here, on this long shelf of pristine books, were three in a row with spines scuffed at the bottom. What distinguished these books? They were part of a seven-volume collection of dry political treatises written long ago by the Counselor of Gods.

She took one and flipped through it, finding nothing of interest. Perhaps Innate had been studying lately. But … why were only the third, fourth, and fifth volumes scuffed? She picked up another and opened it—and here she found the reason. Cut into the center of the pages was a hole containing a key. Innate hadn’t been reading Breeze’s old essays. He had simply forgotten which volume had the key in it.

Marasi held up the key, then glanced at the room’s solitary desk. Dared she?

Of course I dare, she thought, crossing the room with a swish of skirts. Her constable credentials, plus Aradel’s concern about the governor, would give her legal grounds for doing a quick search. She knew the law as well as anyone.

She also knew that the law was subject to interpretation by the city’s judges, most of whom had noble blood and would not take kindly to someone spying on the governor. That was why her fingers were trembling as she quickly tried the key in the desk drawer. It didn’t fit. She paused, then tried a spot on the floor like the one up above, where the governor had gotten out his seal.

Sure enough, there was a hidden safe under the rug. She turned the key in it, and earned a satisfying click. She pulled the safe open and quickly scanned the contents.

A pistol.

Cigars. She didn’t recognize the brand.

A bundle of banknotes tied with string. Enough to buy a house. Marasi’s eyes bulged a little, but she kept searching.

A stack of letters. These she took over to the desk, expecting to find details of an illicit romantic relationship or the like. She skimmed them, then read more deeply, then sank down into the desk’s chair, raising her fingers to her lips.

The letters did detail a relationship—or, rather, many of them. These were private communications with house leaders throughout the city. Although couched in euphemism and circumlocution, to her they clearly spoke of corruption.

Marasi grew cold as she flipped through them, letter by letter. The actual writing was opaque. We agree that certain courtesies will be extended or These are acceptable terms as per our previous arrangement. But they were dated, and her mind quickly related each of them to her notes back at the precinct. This was proof. She flipped through more. Yes, they aligned with her own statistical analysis. These were Innate’s promises of political favors in exchange for bribes.

With the obfuscatory language, it might not be a smoking gun—but it was at least a very warm one. Better, Innate had added notations to most of the letters to remind himself of important points. Here was one probably trading a promise by Innate to push for higher tariffs on refined steel from outside the city in exchange for a favorable deal on a land purchase by one of his family. Another more recent one was about a judge’s seat, when Innate had appointed a Hammondess scion to a recent opening.

She’d suspected corruption, but this was jarring—seeing it discussed like this in black and white. She sifted through the stack. No letters to the Lekals, his primary rivals. None to Waxillium either, Marasi saw with relief—nor any older ones to Edwarn Ladrian, Waxillium’s uncle.

Under the letters was a ledger, which she expected would show what Innate thought he was still owed, and would also record the state of his private accounts. Flipping through quickly didn’t tell her enough to be certain, but it did seem reasonable.

Marasi sat holding it all, feeling overwhelmed. Rusts. The people are right to be in revolt. Was this the crux of Bleeder’s plan? Shove Innate into the limelight, then undermine him by exposing his corruption—indeed, the corrupt nature of virtually every noble family in the city? In revealing these letters, Marasi could be playing into the creature’s hands. That made her sick. If he was this corrupt, didn’t he need to be exposed and removed?

She hurriedly tucked the letters into her purse. Captain Aradel needed to see this. Marasi quickly shut and locked the safe, put back the key, and then started up the steps. She didn’t want to be in the basement when the footman came looking for her to announce her carriage.

Innate will claim they were planted by Bleeder, Marasi thought as she reached ground level. He’ll have an easy out. Beyond that, if he noticed they were gone, he’d have a pretty good idea of who took them. That same servant was still cleaning up, and he’d seen Marasi go down and return.