Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Yes, you do,
Wax thought, though he didn’t say it.
That’s a good thing. It makes them underestimate you.
Marasi was a strong person. She thought clearly in times of stress; she did what needed to be done, even if it was unpleasant. However, she was also very keen on dressing nicely and making herself up.
Lessie would have had none of that. The only times Wax had seen her in a dress were when they’d made the occasional trip to Covingtar to visit the Pathian gardens there. He smiled, remembering a time she’d actually worn trousers
under
the dress.
“Lord Ladrian!” Constable Reddi trotted over, wearing the uniform of a captain in the constabulary. The lean man had a neatly clipped, drooping mustache.
“Reddi,” Wax said, nodding to him. “Is Aradel here?”
“The constable-general is engaged in another investigation, my lord,” Reddi said with a crisp tone. Why did Wax always want to smack this man after talking to him? He was never insulting, always impeccably proper. Maybe that was reason enough.
Wax pointed toward the buildings. “Well, if you’d kindly have your men secure the area; we should probably question those nearby and see if, by some miracle, we can discover the identity of the man Lady Colms just killed.”
Reddi saluted, though it wasn’t technically necessary. Wax had a special deputized forbearance in the constabulary, allowing him to do things like … well, jump through the city armed and firing. But he wasn’t in their command structure.
The other constables moved to do as he requested anyway. As he glanced at the Marksman, Wax forcibly kept his anger in check. At this rate, he would
never
track down his uncle Edwarn. Wax had only the slightest hint of what the man was trying to accomplish.
It can make anyone into an Allomancer, you see.… If we don’t use it, someone else will.
Words from the book Ironeyes had given him.
“Excellent work, my lord,” Reddi said in a calm voice, nodding to the fallen Marksman. The clothing was distinctive. “Another miscreant dealt with, and with your customary efficiency.”
Wax said nothing. Today’s “excellent work” was just another dead end.
“Hey, look!” Wayne said nearby. “I think I found one of that fellow’s teeth! That’s good luck, ain’t it?”
Marasi looked woozy, settling down on a nearby set of steps. Wax was tempted to go comfort her, but would she interpret it the wrong way? He didn’t want to lead her on.
“My lord, could we talk?” Reddi said as more constables flooded the area. “I mentioned the constable-general and another case. I was actually already on my way to find you when we heard of your chase here.”
Wax turned to him, immediately alert. “What has happened?”
Reddi grimaced, showing uncharacteristic emotion. “It’s bad, my lord,” he said more softly. “
Politics
is involved.”
Then Suit might be involved as well. “Tell me more.”
“It, well, it’s connected to the governor, my lord. His brother, you see, was hosting an auction last night. And, well, you should see for yourself.…”
* * *
Marasi didn’t miss Waxillium grabbing Wayne by the shoulder and pointing toward a waiting constabulary carriage. He didn’t come for her. How long would it be before that damnable man was willing to accept her as, if not an equal, a colleague?
Frustrated, she made toward the carriage. Unfortunately, she ran into Captain Reddi on the way. He spoke, and she had to strain her ringing ears—and guess a little—to figure out what he was saying.
“Constable Colms. You are out of uniform.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “It is my day off, sir.”
“Yet here you are,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “How is it that you find your way, consistently, into situations like this, despite
explicitly
being told that it is not your assignment, as you are not a field constable?”
“Pure happenstance I’m sure, sir,” Marasi said.
He gave her a sneer at that. Funny. He usually saved those for Waxillium, when the man wasn’t looking. He said something she couldn’t make out, then nodded toward the motorcar she’d brought—which was technically constabulary property; she’d been told to become proficient in driving motorcars and report on their effectiveness to the constable-general. He wanted to test them as replacements for horse-drawn carriages.
“Sir?” she said.
“You’ve obviously been through a great deal this day, constable,” Reddi said, more loudly. “Don’t argue with me on this. Head home, clean up, and report for duty tomorrow.”
“Sir,” Marasi said. “I’d like to brief Captain Aradel on my pursuit of the Marksman, and his subsequent demise, before the details become fuzzy. He will be interested, as he’s followed this case personally.”
She stared Reddi in the eyes. He outranked her, yes, but he wasn’t her boss. Aradel was that to both of them.
“The constable-general,” Reddi said with some obvious reluctance, “is away from the offices at the moment.”
“Well then, I’ll report to him and let him dismiss me, sir,” Marasi said. “If that is his wish.”
Reddi ground his teeth and started to say something, but a call from one of the other constables diverted him. He waved toward the motorcar, and Marasi took it as dismissal to do as she’d said. So, when the carriage with Waxillium pulled away, she followed in the motor.
By the time the trip had ended, at a fashionable mansion overlooking the city’s Hub, she had started to recover. She was still feeling shaken, though she hoped she didn’t show it, and she could hear with her left ear, if not on the other side, where she’d fired the gun.
As she climbed out of the motorcar, she found herself wiping her cheek again with her handkerchief, though she had long since cleaned off the blood. Her dress had been thoroughly ruined. She grabbed her constable’s coat from the back of the motorcar and threw it over the top to hide the stains, then rushed over to join Waxillium and the others as they descended from the carriage.
Only one other constabulary carriage,
she noted, inspecting the drive. Whatever had happened here, Aradel didn’t want to make a big show of it. As Waxillium walked up toward the front, he glanced about and found her, then waved her over to him.
“Do you know what this might be about?” he asked her quietly as Reddi and several other constables conferred near the carriage.
“No,” Marasi said. “They didn’t brief you?”
Waxillium shook his head. He glanced down at her bloodied dress, which peeked out underneath the sturdy brown jacket. He made no comment however, instead striding up the steps, tailed by Wayne.
Two constables, a man and a woman, guarded the door into the mansion. They saluted as Reddi caught up to Waxillium—pointedly ignoring Marasi—and led the way in through the doors. “We’ve tried to keep this very tightly controlled,” Reddi said. “But word will get out, with Lord Winsting involved. Rusts, this is going to be a nightmare.”
“The
governor’s brother
?” Marasi asked. “What happened here?”
Reddi pointed up a set of steps. “We should find Constable-General Aradel in the grand ballroom. I warn you, this is not a sight for delicate stomachs.” He glanced at Marasi.
She raised an eyebrow. “Not an hour ago, I had a man’s head
literally
explode all over me, Captain. I believe I will be fine.”
Reddi said nothing further, leading the way up the steps. She noticed Wayne pocketing a small, decorative cigar box they passed—Citizen Magistrates brand—replacing it with a bruised apple. She’d have to see that he swapped the cigar box back at some point.
The ballroom upstairs was littered with bodies. Marasi and Waxillium stopped in the doorway, looking in at the chaos. The dead men and women wore fine clothes, sleek ball gowns or tight black suits. Hats lay tumbled from heads, the fine tan carpet stained red in wide patches around the fallen. It was as if someone had tossed a basket of eggs into the air and let them fall, their insides seeping out all over the floor.
Claude Aradel, constable-general of the Fourth Octant, picked through the scene. In many ways, he didn’t look like a constable should. His rectangular face had a few days’ worth of red stubble on it; he shaved when the mood struck him. His leathery skin, furrowed with wrinkles, attested to days spent in the field, not behind a desk. He was probably pushing sixty at this point, though he wouldn’t divulge his true age, and even the octant records had a question mark next to his birth date. What was certain was that Aradel didn’t have a drop of noble blood in him.
He’d left the constabulary about ten years ago, giving no official reason for his departure. Rumor was he’d hit the silent ceiling on promotions a man could get without being noble. A lot could change in ten years though, and when Brettin had retired—soon after the execution of Miles Hundredlives almost a year ago—the hunt for a new constable-general had landed on Aradel. He’d come out of retirement to accept the position.
“Ladrian,” he said, looking up from a corpse. “Good. You’re here.” He crossed the room and gave a glance to Marasi, who saluted. He didn’t dismiss her.
“Aw,” Wayne said, peeking in, “the fun is already over.”
Waxillium stepped into the room, taking Aradel’s proffered hand. “That’s Chip Erikell, isn’t it?” Waxillium asked, nodding to the nearest corpse. “Thought to run smuggling in the Third Octant?”
“Yes,” Aradel said.
“And Isabaline Frellia,” Marasi said. “Rusts! We have a file on her as tall as Wayne, but the prosecutors have never been able to charge her.”
“Seven of these bodies belong to people of equivalent notoriety,” Aradel said, pointing to several corpses among the fallen. “Most from crime syndicates, though a few were members of noble houses with … dubious reputations. The rest were high-ranking representatives from other important factions. We have near thirty notable stiffs, along with a handful of guards each.”
“That’s half of the city’s criminal elite,” Waxillium said softly, crouching down beside a body. “At least.”
“All people we’ve never been able to touch,” Aradel said. “Not for lack of trying, mind you.”
“So why is everyone so grim?” Wayne asked. “We should be throwing a bloomin’ party, shouldn’t we? Someone went and did our work for us! We can take the month off.”
Marasi shook her head. “A violent change in power in the underworld can be dangerous, Wayne. This was a hit of huge ambition, someone eliminating rivals wholesale.”
Aradel glanced at her, then nodded in agreement. She felt a surge of satisfaction. The constable-general was the one who had hired her, picking her application out of a dozen others. Every other person in the pile had had years of constable experience. Instead, he’d chosen a recently graduated law student. He saw something promising in her, obviously, and she intended to prove him right.
“I can’t fathom someone doing this,” Waxillium said. “Toppling so many of the city’s underworld powers at once won’t favor the perpetrators; that’s a myth from penny novels. Murders on this scale will just draw attention and unify opposition from every other surviving gang and faction as soon as word gets out.”
“Unless it was done by an outsider,” Marasi said. “An uncertain element from the start, someone who stands to gain if the entire system crumbles.”
Aradel grunted, and Waxillium nodded in agreement.
“But how,” Waxillium whispered. “How did someone achieve this? Surely their security must have rivaled any in the city.” He began moving about, pacing off distances, looking at certain bodies, then at others, whispering to himself as he periodically knelt down.
“Reddi said that the governor’s brother was involved, sir?” Marasi asked Aradel.
“Lord Winsting Innate.”
Lord Winsting, head of House Innate. He had a vote in the Elendel Senate, a position he gained once his brother was elevated to governor. He had been corrupt. Marasi and the rest of the constables knew it. In retrospect, she wasn’t surprised to find him in the middle of something like this. The thing was, Winsting had always seemed a small catch to Marasi.
The governor, however … well, perhaps that hidden file on her desk—full of hints, guesses, and clues—would finally be relevant.
“Winsting,” she asked Aradel. “Is he…?”
“Dead?” Aradel asked. “Yes, Constable Colms. From the invitations we found, he initiated this meeting, under the guise of an auction. We located his corpse in a saferoom in the basement.”
This drew Waxillium’s attention. He stood up, looking directly at them, then muttered something to himself and paced off another body. What was he searching for?
Wayne wandered over to Marasi and Aradel. He took a swig from a silver flask engraved with someone else’s initials. Marasi pointedly did not ask him which of the dead he’d taken it from. “So,” he said, “our little house leader was friendly with criminals, was he?”
“We’ve long suspected he was crooked,” Aradel said. “The people love his family though, and his brother went to great lengths to keep Winsting’s previous lapses out of the limelight.”
“You’re right, Aradel,” Waxillium said from across the room. “This will be bad.”
“I dunno,” Wayne said. “Maybe he didn’t know these folks were all trouble.”
“Doubtful,” Marasi said. “And even if it were true, it wouldn’t matter. Once the broadsheets get ahold of this … The governor’s sibling, dead in a house full of known criminals under very suspicious circumstances?”
“What I’m hearing,” Wayne said, taking another swig, “is that I was wrong. The fun
isn’t
over.”
“Many of these people shot one another,” Waxillium said.
They all turned to him. He knelt beside another body, inspecting the way it had fallen, then looked up toward some bullet holes in the wall.
Being a lawman, particularly out in the Roughs, had required Waxillium to teach himself a wide variety of skills. He was part detective, part enforcer, part leader, part scientist. Marasi had read a dozen different profiles of him by various scholars, all investigating the mindset of a man who was becoming a living legend.
“What do you mean, Lord Ladrian?” Aradel asked.