Brandon Sanderson - Shadows of Self

Marasi exchanged coins for a broadsheet. The yelling subsided as the traffic clot loosened, horses and machines once again flowing across the cobbles. She raised the broadsheet, scanning above the fold for stories.

“Say,” the newsman said. “Weren’t you just here?”

“I needed the afternoon edition,” Marasi said absently, walking away.

“Cry of Outrage in the Streets!” the headline read.

A cry like that of twisting metal sounds through Elendel as people take to the streets, outraged by government corruption. One week after the governor’s veto of bill 775, the so-called workers’-rights manifesto, his brother Winsting Innate has been found dead after an apparent dealing with known criminals.

Winsting was killed in his mansion, perhaps a casualty of constable action against these criminal elements. Among the fallen is the notorious Dowser Maline, long suspected of running ore-smuggling operations into the city, undercutting the work of honest men. The constables admit no culpability for the deaths, but suspicions about the mysterious circumstances have led to a general outcry.

Marasi reached into her handbag and took out the morning edition of the same paper. “Mystery at Lord Winsting’s Mansion!” the headline read.

Constables have disclosed that Lord Winsting, brother of the governor, was found dead in his mansion home last night. Little is known of the mysterious circumstances of the death, though several members of high society are rumored to have been present.

Every other story in the paper was the same in both editions, save for one report on the floods in the east, which had an extra line updating casualty estimates. The Winsting story had nudged two others off the page, in part because of the size of its headline. The Elendel Daily was hardly the most reputable news source in the Basin, but it did know its market. News stories that people agreed with, or were scared by, sold the most copies.

Marasi hesitated on the steps of the Fourth Octant Precinct of the Constabulary. People flowed on the sidewalks, bustling, anxious, heads down. Others loitered nearby, men in the dark jackets of teamsters, hands shoved in pockets, eyes shaded by peaked hats.

Out of work, Marasi thought. Too many idle men out of work. Motorcars and electric lights were changing life in Elendel so quickly it seemed that the common man had no hope of keeping up. Men whose families had worked for three generations in the same job suddenly found themselves unemployed. And with the labor disputes at the steel mills …

The governor had recently given political speeches to these men, making promises. More coach lines to compete with rail lines, going places the railroad could not. Higher tariffs on imports from Bilming. Empty promises, mostly, but men losing hope clung to such promises. Winsting’s death could dash those promises. How would people react if they began to wonder if the governor, Replar Innate, was as corrupt as his brother?

A fire is kindling in the city, Marasi thought. She could almost feel the heat coming off the page of the broadsheet in her hands.

She turned and entered the constabulary offices, worrying that Lord Winsting might actually do more harm to Elendel dead than he had alive—which was saying something.

Wax climbed out of the carriage, nodding to his coachman and indicating that the man should continue on home rather than wait for his master.

Wax pulled on his aluminum-lined hat—broad-brimmed, Roughs style, matching his duster, though he wore a fine shirt and cravat underneath. The hat and mistcoat made him stand out like a man who had brought a shotgun to a knife fight. Workers passed in suspenders and caps, bankers in vests and monocles, constables in helms or bowlers and militaristic coats.

No Roughs hats. Maybe Wayne was right about that; he never would shut up about the importance of a hat. Wax took a deep breath, then stepped into the Village.

It had probably once been just an ordinary city street. A wide one, but still just a street. That was before the trees. They sprouted here, pushing cobblestones aside, creating a dense canopy that ran the length of the thoroughfare.

It was a place that felt like it shouldn’t be. No mere park—this was a forest, uncultivated and unmanicured, fresh and primal. You couldn’t bring a carriage or motor into the Village; even without the trees, the ground would be too rough now, rolling and uneven. The buildings along the street had been engulfed and become the property of the Village. He couldn’t help wondering if this was what all of Elendel would be like without the hand of men. Harmony had made the Basin ferociously fecund; men didn’t farm here so much as fight to harvest quickly enough.

Wax strode forward, arrayed as if for battle. Vindication and his Sterrion at his hips, short-barreled shotgun in its holster on his thigh, metal burning inside of him. He pulled the brim of his hat low, and entered another world.

Children wearing simple white smocks played among the trees. Older youths wore the tinningdar, the Terris robe marked with a V pattern running down the front. These looked up from the steps of buildings to watch him pass. The air smelled soft here. Soft air. A stupid metaphor, and yet there it was. That smell reminded him of his mother.

Whispers rose around Wax like spring shoots. He kept his eyes forward, trudging across the too-springy ground. There were no gates into or out of the Village, yet you couldn’t enter or leave without being identified. Indeed, moments after his entry, a young woman with streaming golden hair was sent running ahead of him to bear news of his arrival.

They’ve found peace for themselves here, Wax thought. They’ve made peace for themselves. You shouldn’t resent them so.

After a short walk, he emerged from a stand of trees to find three Terrismen waiting for him, arms folded, all wearing the robes of Brutes, Feruchemists who could increase their strength. Their features were varied enough that one wouldn’t have pegged them as relatives. Two had the height that was often the Terris heritage, and one had skin that was darker—some of the Originators from ancient Terris had been dark of skin; Wax’s own tan probably came from that lineage. None of the men here had the elongated features seen in the ancient paintings. That was a thing of mythology.

“What is it you need, outsider?” one of the men said.

“I want to speak with the Synod,” Wax said.

“Are you a constable?” the man said, looking Wax up and down. Children peeked out from behind nearby trees, watching him.

“Of a sort,” Wax said.

“The Terris police themselves,” another of the men said. “We have an arrangement.”

“I’m aware of the compact,” Wax said. “I just need to speak to the Synod, or at least Elder Vwafendal.”

“You shouldn’t be here, lawman,” the lead Terrisman said. “I—”

“It’s all right, Razal,” a tired voice said from the shadows of a nearby tree.

The three Terrismen turned, then quickly bowed as an old Terriswoman approached. Stately and white-haired, she had darker skin than Wax, and walked with a cane she didn’t need. The woman, Vwafendal, studied Wax. He found himself sweating.

Razal, still bowing, spoke with a stubborn tone. “We tried to send him away, Elder.”

“He has a right to be here,” Vwafendal said. “He has as much Terris blood as you do; more than most.”

The Terrisman Brute started, then rose from his bow, peering again at Wax. “You don’t mean…”

“Yes,” Vwafendal said, looking very tired. “This is he. My grandson.”

Wayne tipped the rum bottle up and teased the last few drops out into his mouth. Then he tucked the bottle into his coat pocket. It was a good bottle. He should be able to trade it for something.