Shadows of Self (16 page)

Wax ground his teeth. Idashwy’s wound … it was just like those described in the book. Somebody had killed this woman with a spike through the chest, stealing her Feruchemical talent. The book described the process as “tearing off a chunk of someone’s soul.” Using the spike, one could effectively
attach
that piece of soul to one’s own, granting the powers of the deceased.

In the old days, Inquisitors had driven the spike right through the body of the one to be killed into the body of the person to gain the powers. That prevented any power from being lost. Apparently, coating the newly made spike in blood could achieve a similar effect.

He knew,
Wax thought.
Ironeyes knew something like this was going to come.
The book had been written by the Lord Mistborn long ago to leave some record of the art known as Hemalurgy. Lestibournes’s book said he considered it a crime that the Words of Founding—Harmony’s own record—omitted references to the dark art.

“So our killer knows this Hemalurgy stuff?” Wayne said.

“Yes,” Wax said. “The killer used a spike to steal Idashwy’s Feruchemical talent, then employed that ability to kill Lord Winsting and his guests. We have to assume that our killer could also have numerous other powers at their disposal: any combination of Allomantic or Feruchemical abilities. Or all of them.”

Wayne whistled softly.

“Did you discover anything else in your search of the room?” Wax asked.

“Not much.”

“I understand the motive here,” Wax said, glancing back toward the kitchen with the body. “But I don’t yet have one for Winsting’s murder. Or … well, I know of too
many
possibilities. I don’t have the right motive.”

“What did you find in the stiff’s pockets?”

Wax hesitated.

“You didn’t rifle through the pockets?” Wayne asked, aghast. “Wax, you’re a
terrible
grave robber!”

“I was distracted by the manner of death,” Wax said, rising. “I’d have gotten to it.”

The word “distracted” didn’t really do justice to his emotions—to the profound shock, the numbness. For months that book had been only an object of study, but now its contents had abruptly ceased being mere words on a page and had become a motive for murder.

We’re out of our depth,
Wax thought, returning to the kitchen.
We’ve crept into the realm of the gods. Harmony, Ironeyes, the Lord Mistborn …

Wayne pulled back the sheet, exposing that gaping hole in the woman’s chest—right at the sternum. Who would know how to do something like this? Who would Harmony
let
know how to do something like this?

“Here,” Wayne said, fishing in the woman’s skirt pockets. He came out with a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it, then grunted. “Huh. It’s for you.”

Wax’s stomach plummeted. Wayne slowly turned the paper around. It was a sheet ripped from a ledger, filled with numbers and sums. Scrawled across it in a different hand was a single sentence—a familiar sentence. The very words Bloody Tan had said before jerking Lessie right into the path of Wax’s bullet, making him kill the woman he loved.

Someone else moves us, lawman.

7

“Look, Wax,” Wayne said as the two of them entered Ladrian Mansion, “I saw Tan’s body. You shot him square in the head. That bloke was deader than a stuffed lion in a hunting lodge. It ain’t him.”

“What if he was secretly Metalborn?” Wax asked. “Miles could have survived a shot to the head.”

“Doesn’t work that way, mate,” Wayne said, shutting the door and tossing his coat at Darriance. It hit the butler in the face. “If you’re a Bloodmaker, you’ve got to heal a head wound
right as
it’s happening. Once a bloke is actually dead, no power—Allomantic or Feruchemical—is bringin’ ’im back.”

“I
saw
him, Wayne. Twice.”
Once while chasing the Marksman, and then just earlier today.

“Master,” Darriance said, folding Wayne’s coat. “New equipment has arrived for you from Miss Ranette. She asked if you’d be willing to test it.”

“Aw, Ruin!” Wayne said. “I missed her? What did she leave for me?”

“She … said I was to slap you,” Darriance admitted.

“Aw. She does care. See that, Wax, she cares!”

Wax nodded absently as Wayne tried to force Darriance to slap him across the rear—which he doubted was what Ranette had intended.

“Sir,” Darriance said, turning away from Wayne’s proffered posterior. “In addition to the package, Lady Harms awaits you in the sitting room.”

Wax hesitated, impatient to go upstairs. He needed time to think—preferably with his earring in—and to go through Ranette’s package. They were always very interesting.

But he couldn’t simply ignore Steris. “Thank you, Darriance,” Wax said. “Send a note to my grandmother at the Village that says we found the missing Terriswoman, but someone had gotten to her—and regretfully killed her—before we arrived. Say the constables will explain the rest, and may have questions for her.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Wax pushed his way into the sitting room. Steris rose to greet him, and Wax kissed her hand. “I don’t have a lot of time, Steris.”

“You’ve sunk your teeth in, then,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “I suppose this could be useful. If you catch the murderer of the governor’s brother, it will be politically favorable.”

“Unless I drag some corpses out into the light.”

“Well, perhaps we can prepare for that,” she said. “Lady ZoBell’s party. You are still planning to attend with me?”

Rusts. He’d forgotten all about it.

“Our invitation has gone missing—I suspect Wayne is to blame—but it doesn’t matter. You’re lord of a Great House. They won’t turn us away.”

“Steris. I don’t know if I have the time…”

“The governor is attending,” Steris said. “You could speak with him about his brother.”

More meaningless conversation,
Wax thought.
More dances and political games.
He needed to be working, hunting.

Bloody Tan. His eye twitched.

“There was some talk of the governor not attending,” Steris said, “considering what happened today. However, I have it on the best authority that he
will
come. He doesn’t want to appear to have anything to hide in these parlous times.”

Wax frowned. “Wait. What happened today?”

“Assassination attempt on the governor,” Steris said. “You really don’t know?”

“I’ve been busy. Rusts! Someone tried to kill him? Who?”

“Some deranged man,” Steris said. “Not in his right mind. They caught him, I’m told.”

“I’ll need to talk to the suspect,” Wax said, walking for the door. “It might be connected.”

“He wasn’t a credible threat,” Steris said. “By all reports, the man’s aim was terrible. He didn’t come close to hitting his intended victim. Waxillium?”

“Wayne!” Wax said, shoving open the door. “We’ve got—”

“On it already,” Wayne said, holding up a broadsheet from the table. Evening edition; Wax had a subscription. The top line read, “Bold Attack on the Governor in Daylight!” Wayne tossed Wax his hat off the rack, then snapped his fingers toward the butler—who was in the process of hanging Wayne’s duster in the coat closet. Darriance sighed, getting it back out and carrying it over.

“I’ll try to make the party,” Wax said to Steris, pulling his hat on. “If I’m not back, feel free to go without me.”

Steris folded her arms. “Oh? I suppose I should take the butler instead, then?”

“If you like.”

“Be careful about that, Steris,” Wayne added. “Wax’s butlers have a tendency to explode.”

Wax gave him a glare, and the two of them charged out the door toward the coach.

“You still need private time for that thinkin’ of yours?” Wayne asked.

“Yes.”

“Never touch the stuff myself,” Wayne said. “Causes headaches. Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?”

The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage. Wayne climbed up, and Wax stepped inside. This wouldn’t be ideal, but it would have to do. He pulled down the window shades, then settled back as the coach began rolling.

He took his earring out of his pocket—the earring of the Pathian religion. His was special. He’d been hand-delivered it under mysterious circumstances. Lately, though, he had avoided wearing it, as the book made clear what it must be. Long ago, a small spike of metal like this had allowed people to communicate with Ruin and Preservation, gods of the ancient world. It was Hemalurgy.

Had this earring, then, been made by killing someone?

Hesitantly, he slipped it in.

Unfortunately,
a voice said in his mind,
your fears about the earring are correct. It is a Hemalurgic spike.

Wax jumped, throwing open the carriage door with Allomancy—preparing his escape—while pulling out Vindication. Rusts! He’d heard that voice as if someone were sitting beside him.

Firing that gun would not have the effect you want, I think,
the voice said.
Even if you could see me, shooting at me would merely ruin the furnishings of your coach, costing precisely eighty-four boxings to repair when Miss Grimes takes it to the shop next week. You’d be left with a new wood panel on the coach body just behind me which would never quite match those around it.

Wax breathed in and out. “Harmony.”

Yes?
the voice said.

“You’re here, in my coach.”

Technically, I am everywhere.

Wax trembled, mouth going dry. He forced himself to close the door and sit back down.

Tell me,
the voice said in his head,
what were you expecting to happen when you put in the earring, if not this?

“I…” Wax slid Vindication back into her holster. “I wasn’t expecting an answer so … promptly. And my reflexes tend to be on the jumpy side lately. Um, Your Deificness.”

You may call me Harmony, or “Lord” if you must.
The voice sounded amused.
Now. About what do you wish to speak?

“You know.”

Better to hear you say it.

“Better for You to hear me say it,” Wax said, “or for me to hear myself say it?”

Both.

“Am I insane?” Wax asked.

If you were, speaking to a figment of your delusion would certainly not diagnose that fact.

“You’re not helping much.”

Then ask better questions, Waxillium.

Wax leaned forward. “I…” He clasped his hands before him. “You’re real.”

You’ve heard my voice; you’ve followed my Path.

“A few whispered words when I was in a moment of great stress, when I was gravely wounded,” Wax said. “Words I’ve doubted ever since. This is different. This is … more real.”

You need to hear it then, do you?
the voice said. It sounded as clear and ordinary as if someone normal, someone
visible,
sat there talking to him.
Very well. I am Harmony, the Hero of Ages, once called Sazed. At the end of one world, I took upon myself the powers of protection and destruction, and in so doing became the caretaker of the world to come. I am here, Waxillium, to tell you that you are
not
insane.

“Bloody Tan lives.”

Not exactly.

Wax frowned.

There are … beings in this world who are neither human nor koloss. Something related to both. You call them the Faceless Immortals.

“Kandra,” Wax said. “Like TenSoon, the Guardian. Or the person who gave me this earring.”

They can take the corpses of the dead and use their bones to mimic a person who has died—they wear bodies like you wear clothing, changing back and forth as they wish. They were created by the Lord Ruler using Hemalurgy.

“Your Holy Books give few details about their organization,” Wax said. “But everyone knows that the Faceless Immortals are
your
servants. Not murderers.”

Any being has choice,
Harmony said.
Even koloss have the power to choose. This one … the being who wears Bloody Tan’s body … has not made very good choices.

“Who is he?”

She is a member of the Third Generation, and you should know better than to assume everyone dangerous to be a male. Paalm was what we called her, but she has chosen the name Bleeder for herself. Waxillium, Bleeder is ancient, older than the destruction of the world—almost as old as the Final Empire. Indeed, she is even older than I am, though not older than my powers. She is crafty, careful, and brilliant. And I’m afraid that she might have gone mad.

The carriage turned a corner.

“One of Your ancient servants,” Wax said, “has gone mad and is killing people.”

Yes.

“So stop her!”

It is not so simple.

“Free will?” Wax said, annoyed.

No, not in this case. I can directly control a being who has pierced herself with too much Hemalurgy. In this case I would act, for Bleeder has disobeyed her Contract with me and opened herself up for my intervention. Something is wrong, unfortunately.