What do you hear the closer one gets to the Hub and the hour gets later? Motorcar engines growling like Roughs beasts and the yell of tires ripping up the roads. It has been half a decade at least since one could hear the nighttime clip-clop of horseshoes on cobble and the chirping of crickets. In the last six months, young ladies and lordlings—some of them the very children of our readers!—have taken to racing each other through some of our best-known streets. The betting and exchange of boxings began not long after, and the youths began paying gangs of street urchins to deliberately lead the constables away from these so-called street races at predetermined times.
Hardest hit is the 3rd Octant with its slurry of parallel roads and long straightaways, and in a little under a month young Lady Carmine Feltry will be opening a motorcars only circuit at the old fairgrounds abutting the Irongate River.
(Continued on Back.)
11
Falling felt natural to a Coinshot. That sudden moment of acceleration, gut lurching but spirit leaping. The rush of wind. The chill of mist on the skin.
He opened his eyes to spinning white upon black, mist dancing about him, inviting, eager. All Allomancers shared a bond with the mists, but the other types never knew the thrill of jumping through them. Of nearly becoming one with them. During moments like this, Wax understood the Ascendant Warrior. Vin—they rarely called her by name. Her title, like those of the other Preservers, was used to show reverence.
The Historica, a section of the Words of Founding, said she had melded with the mists. She had taken them upon herself, becoming their guardian as they became her essence. As the Survivor watched over all who struggled, Vin watched over those in the night. Sometimes he felt he could see her form in their patterns: slight of frame, short hair splayed out as she moved, mistcloak fluttering behind her.
It was a fancy, wasn’t it?
Wax fired Vindication, slamming a bullet into the ground and Pushing on it to stop his descent. He hit the street in front of the building lobby, going down on one knee. Nearby, some hopefuls still waited to be allowed into the party.
“Where?” Wax demanded, looking at them. “Someone fell before me. Where did he go?”
I haven’t even murdered your father yet.…
Rusts. Could she mean Steris’s father, his soon to be father-in-law?
“There … there was nobody,” said a man in a black suit. “Just that.” He pointed to a smashed chair.
In the distance, a motorcar roared to life. It tore away with a frantic sound.
Bleeder might be a Coinshot now, Wax thought, running toward the sound, hoping it was her. But she wouldn’t need a motorcar if that were the case. Maybe she’d chosen the Feruchemical power to change her weight, so she could drift down on the wind.
Wax launched himself upward, watching the steel lines for movement. In the mists ordinary vision was of limited use, but steelsight’s blue lines pierced the mists like arrows. He could easily make out the motorcar speeding away, but he didn’t know for certain Bleeder was in it. He took a moment to watch the movements of other vehicles nearby. A carriage pulled to a stop one street away. He could tell from the way the lines quivered—those would be the metal fittings on the horse’s harness. People on foot walked slowly along Tindwyl Promenade. Nothing suspicious.
Decision made, he Pushed against some streetlamps, sending himself after the speeding motorcar. He bounded from lamp to lamp, then launched himself over the top of a building as the motor turned a corner. Wax crested the building in a rush of swirling mists, passing only a few feet over the top. A group of young boys playing on the roof watched him pass with dropped jaws. Wax landed on the far edge of the rooftop, mistcoat tassels spraying forward around him, then leaped down as the motor passed below.
This, he thought, will not work out as well as you hoped, Bleeder.
Wax increased his weight, then Pushed on the motor from above.
He didn’t crush the person inside—he couldn’t be absolutely sure he had the right quarry. His carefully pressed weight did pop the wheels like tomatoes, then squashed the roof down just enough to bend the metal doors in their housings. Even if Bleeder had access to enhanced speed, she wouldn’t be getting out through those doors.
Wax landed beside the motorcar, Vindication out and pointed through the window at a confused man wearing a cabbie’s hat. Motorcar cabbies? When had that started happening?
“He got out!” the cabbie said. “Two streets back. Told me to keep driving; didn’t even let me stop as he jumped!”
Wax kept perfectly still, gun right at the cabbie’s forehead. It could be Bleeder. She could change faces.
“P-please…” the cabbie said, crying. “I…”
Damn it! Wax didn’t know enough. Harmony. Is it him?
He was returned a vague sense of uncertainty. Harmony didn’t know.
Wax growled, but lifted his gun away from the frightened driver, trusting his gut. “Where did you let him off?”
“Tage Street.”
“Go to the Fourth Octant precinct station,” Wax said. “Wait for me, or constables I send. We’ll likely have questions for you. Once I’m satisfied, we’ll buy you a new motor.”