You think everyone is hiding something, Wax told himself, flipping through the pages. Stay on the task at hand.
Wax dug into the list, hoping Bleeder had decided to hire a coach for a pickup to be certain she had her escape planned, rather than just grabbing a cab on the street. Finding the one who had driven her would be useful either way. He looked over the records for the drivers still out for the night. Each had a few prearranged pickups over the course of the day, but only three had been scheduled around the time of the murder. And two of those were repeat customers with a long list of pickups in the past.
That left one. A person to be picked up in the Fourth Octant, and to be driven “at liberty,” meaning they were to be driven as long as the client wished. Shanwan was the name listed. A Terris name. The word meant “secret.”
“I need to find this driver,” Wax said, holding up the list and pointing. If they’re still alive.
“Coach sixteen,” Cett said, rubbing his chin. “That’s Chapaou’s. No telling when he’ll be back; you probably don’t want to wait. I can send you a message when he returns.”
“Maybe,” Wax said, but dallied.
The door slammed open and a young woman in trousers and suspenders burst in. “Boss,” she said, “late-night play getting out on Bonnweather. They’re going to want rides.”
“We sent coaches there already.”
“Not enough,” the young woman said. “Boss, there are lots of men on the streets. Common men, the type that will make the rich folk nervous. Playgoers will want carriages.”
Cett nodded. “Wake Jone and Forgeron. Send them and anyone else you can rouse. Anything more?”
“We could have more wheels out for certain, particularly near the pubs.”
“Coinshot,” Wax guessed, noticing the bag of metal bits—probably pieces of scrap—the young woman carried. “You’ve been using Allomancer runners to scout for busy areas to send drivers.”
“Is that surprising?” Cett asked.
“It’s expensive.”
“You have to spend money to make money, constable,” Cett said. “And as you can see, I’m having a very busy night. Perhaps you could leave me to it, if I promise to—”
“Coinshot,” Wax said to the girl. “You see coach number sixteen out there? I assume your boss has you checking in on the drivers, make sure they’re doing their jobs?”
“How—” she began.
“You don’t hire an Allomancer just for traffic reports,” Wax said. “Coach sixteen?”
She glanced at Cett, who nodded. So whatever Cett was hiding, it probably didn’t have to do with this driver. In fact, it probably didn’t have anything to do with Bleeder. Just your average, run-of-the-mill lawbreaking.
At least one Allomancer on staff, Wax thought.
“I didn’t see sixteen on the streets,” the young Allomancer said, turning to Wax. “But that’s because Chapaou is at a Soothing parlor over on Decan Street. His coach is around the corner.”
“At a Soothing parlor?” Cett demanded. “He’s on the clock!”
“I know,” the Allomancer said. “I thought you’d want to hear.”
“Hm, yes,” Wax said. “And what of the Rioter you have on staff. Are they there too?”
“Nah,” the Allomancer said. “He’s on—” She cut off, and grew pale. The entire room fell still.
“Using emotional Allomancy,” Wax said, “to drum up customers. Riot passing people, make them feel tired or urgent, and more willing to take the coach conveniently parked right across the street.”
Cett looked sick. Yes, that was it. Flagrant use of a Rioter to drum up business, a violation of the Allomantic Agreement of ’94. There were entire departments in the government that watched for this sort of thing. Fortunately, while it was a dangerous crime, it wasn’t one that worried Wax at the moment.
“You don’t have any proof…” Cett said, then thought better of it. “I’ll be speaking with my attorney. I’ll have you know that my people are off-limits for interrogation without a judicial order to—”
“Take it up with the constable-general,” Wax said. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon. For now, I need a description of this carriage driver of yours, along with the names of any pets he owns.”
*
Marasi walked along a counter topped with a row of rifles, each accompanied by a domed steel helmet, a folded heavy jacket, and a box of ammunition. Rusts! She hadn’t realized the constabulary had access to these kinds of weapons.
“Well,” she said, looking back at MeLaan, “we’re ready if a koloss warlord decides to invade again.”