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Most importantly, there was a transcript of the recent trial and execution of the farmer who had caused the flood. He claimed he’d wanted to ruin his neighbor’s harvest in an “accident.” But the saboteur had packed too much dynamite, and had blown a hole in the dam large enough to cause the entire thing to fail. Dozens dead, and crops destroyed throughout the region, causing grain shortages.

The defense had called witnesses who claimed that the saboteur, a man named Johnst, had been acting erratically. They claimed he was obviously mad. And the more she read, the more Marasi was convinced he was mad—if only because Bleeder was.

“Look at this,” Marasi said, handing a sheet to MeLaan.

The kandra took it and read, then grunted. “He couldn’t remember the names of his children at the trial?”

“Seems like good evidence that Johnst had been replaced, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes and no,” MeLaan said. “The old guard, they are really good at interrogating people and doing research before taking a new form. We don’t have to do that so much anymore—most of the forms we take are personas we’ve made up ourselves. If this was Bleeder, she must have been pressed for time.” MeLaan pointed at a section farther down the page. “This is much better proof, if you ask me.”

Marasi scooted over, looking at the paragraphs indicated.

Report of the execution. Prisoner was hanged until dead. Rejected a final meal, and demanded it be “over with quickly.” Grave desecrated two nights later; suspected to be the work of those who lost family in the flood.

“Wow,” Marasi said, taking the paper back. She hadn’t reached that section yet. “Yeah. Escaping the grave, eh? She actually let them bury her?”

“Undoubtedly,” MeLaan said. “Paalm is nothing if not dedicated to her craft.”

“Then why forget the names of the children?”

MeLaan shook her head. “No idea.”

Either way, this seemed to be enough to take to Aradel. “Come on,” she said.

15

One thing that Wax’s life in the Roughs had taught him was that men would monetize anything. The first time he’d seen someone selling water, he’d been surprised. Who sold something that literally fell from the sky?

Now, more than twenty years later, he was surprised nobody in Elendel had found a way to charge a tax on collecting rainwater. If someone wanted it, you could charge for it. That went double for Allomancy, though there were some conservatives who decried the increasing commercialization of the Metallic Arts. Feruchemists for hire were much scarcer than Allomancers, perhaps because Terris traditions viewed their powers with such reverence.

Wax walked up the steps toward the building, which stood alone on the street in a fairly nice neighborhood of town, even if this was the darker end of the lane, so to speak. The place was two stories tall, and had the window shades drawn, though light inside gave them a warm glow. A black coach—with a silver crest, scraped across its face—was parked in the drive to the right.

The Soothing washed over him right as he reached the door. A calm, gentle feeling—like emotional anesthetic. Like someone had pressed a pillow against his emotions in an attempt to lovingly smother them.

Sloppy, he thought. Should have brought my hat. It had an aluminum lining, and Bleeder could have access to a spike letting her Soothe or Riot. Well, he’d have to fetch it later. He pushed into the building, entering a room dimly lit with lamps in red shades. A scattering of men and women lounged on cushions inside, smoking cigars or incense pipes, staring at the ceiling, which was painted like a stained-glass window in a pretty, abstract pattern.

Most businesses would be closed by this hour, but not the Soothing parlors. Visiting one was more expensive than a night at the pub, but had none of the side effects. Or to be more precise, it had different side effects. A woman in a matronly gown—and a hat, likely aluminum-lined—approached Wax, probably to take payment, but Wax flashed his credentials.

“If you think credentials will get you in free,” the proprietor said, “then you must be new to the force.”

Wax gave her a dry smile, tucking away the metal plate. She ran a low-grade Soothing parlor. While what she did wasn’t illegal—amusingly, it was fine to manipulate people’s emotions so long as they were paying for it—she’d be used to the constables checking up on her. Not only did these sorts of places tend to attract people who were hiding from something, it was very possible for a disreputable Soothing parlor to take advantage of its clients.

None of the people here matched Chapaou’s description, but Soothing parlors often had more than one room. “Short man,” Wax said, “balding. Known as Chapaou, but may not have given that name.”