The Alloy of Law (Mistborn 4)

“I … oh, of course,” Brettin said. “Yes. Trenchant, I recognize you now. It has been a while.”

“Never mind that,” Wayne blustered. “What’s this about you having prisoners from the Vanishers Gang? Good steel, man! We had to learn about it from the broadsheets!”

“We have jurisdiction here, as the event—” Brettin hesitated, looking at the room full of intrigued constables studiously pretending not to be listening. “Step inside.”

Wayne eyed the watching men. Not a one of them had questioned him. Act like you were important, act like you were angry, and people just wanted to get out of your way. Basic psychology, that was. “Very well,” he said.

Brettin closed the door, speaking quickly and authoritatively. “They were captured in our octant and the crime they were committing was here. We have jurisdiction flat-out. I did send you all a missive.”

“A missive? Rust and Ruin, man! You know how many of those we get a day?”

“Well perhaps you should hire someone to sort through them,” Brettin said testily. “That’s what I eventually did.”

Wayne blew out his mustache. “Well, you could have sent someone over to inform us,” he said lamely.

“Next time, perhaps,” Brettin said, sounding satisfied for having won the argument and disarmed an angry rival. “We are rather busy with those prisoners.”

“Well and good,” Wayne said. “When are you sending them to us?”

“What?” Brettin said.

“We have prior claim! You have jurisdiction for the initial inquest, but we have prosecution rights. First robbery happened in our octant.” Wax had written that out for him. Bloke could be right useful, on occasion.

“You have to give us a written request for that!”

“We sent a missive,” Wayne said.

Brettin hesitated.

“Earlier today,” Wayne said. “You didn’t get it?”

“Er … We get a lot of missives…”

“Thought you said you hired someone to read them.”

“Sent him out for scones earlier, you see…”

“Ah. Well then.” Wayne hesitated. “Can I have one?”

“Of the scones or the prisoners?”

Wayne leaned in. “Look, Brettin, let’s melt this down and forge it. We both know you can stall for months with those prisoners while we complete proper transfer paperwork. That is basically worthless to both of us. You get a lot of hassle, and we lose any chance we had of catching the rest of these fellows. We need to move quick.”

“And?” Brettin asked, suspicious.

“I want to question a few of the prisoners,” Wayne said. “Chief sent me specifically. You let me in, give me a few minutes, and we’ll stop all transfer requests. You can prosecute, but we get to keep hunting for their boss.”

The two locked gazes. According to Wax, prosecuting the Vanishers would be good for careers—very good. But the real prize, the boss of the gang, was still at large. Getting him would mean glory, promotions, and maybe an invitation to join the upper crust. The late Lord Peterus himself had done it, when he’d captured the Copper Strangler.

Letting a rival constable interview the prisoners would be risky. Potentially losing the prisoners completely—as Brettin chanced doing—was even more so.

“How long?” Brettin said.

“Fifteen minutes each,” Wayne said.

Brettin’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Ten minutes with two of the prisoners.”

“Fine,” Wayne said. “Let’s do it.”

It took longer to set things up than it should have. Constables tended to take their time about anything unless it involved burning buildings or murders in the streets—and they ran for those two only if someone rich was involved. Eventually, they had a room set up for him and pulled one of the bandits in.

Wayne recognized him. The fellow had tried to shoot him, so Wayne had broken his arm with a dueling cane. Downright rude, trying to shoot like that. When a fellow pulls out a dueling cane, you should respond with one of your own—or at least a knife. Trying to shoot Wayne was like bringing dice to a card game. What was the world coming to?

“Has he said anything so far?” Wayne asked Brettin and several of his minions, standing outside the door and looking in at the tubby, scraggly-haired bandit. He had his arm in a dirty sling.

“Not much,” Brettin said. “Actually, none of them have given us much of anything. They seem…”

“Afraid,” one of the other constables said. “They’re afraid of something—or, at least, more afraid of talking than they are of us.”

“Bah,” Wayne said. “You just need to be firm with them! No coddling.”

“We haven’t been—” the constable began, but Brettin raised a hand to quiet him. “Your time is slipping away, Captain.”

Wayne sniffed, then sauntered into the room. It was small, practically a closet, with only the one door. Brettin and the others left it open. The bandit sat in a chair, manacled hands linked by chains to his feet and both locked to the floor. There was a table between them.

The bandit watched him resentfully. He didn’t seem to recognize Wayne. It was probably the hat.

“So, son,” Wayne said. “You’re in a heap of trouble.”

The bandit didn’t reply.

“I can get you off easy. No hangman’s noose for you, if you are willing to be smart.”

The bandit spat at him.

Wayne leaned in, hands on the table. “Here now,” he said very softly, changing his speech to the natural, fluid accent that the bandits had been using. A cup of canal worker for authenticity, a healthy dose of bartender for trust, and the rest Sixth Octant, north side, where most had sounded like they’d come from. “Is that the way to speak to the bloke who killed a conner and took his uniform, all to get you outta here, mate?”

The bandit’s eyes opened wide.

“Don’t do that, now,” Wayne said softly. “You’re looking too eager. That’ll make ’em suspicious. Damn it all. You’re gonna have to spit on me again.”

The man hesitated.

“Do it!”

He spat.

“Ruination!” Wayne bellowed, swapping back to the constable accent. He pounded the table. “I’ll tear your ears off, boy, if you do that again.”

The bandit looked at him. “Er … should I?”

Ah, good. Got the right neighborhood. “Like hell,” Wayne hissed. “I really will rip yer ears off if you do.” He leaned in, speaking in the street-tough accent, low enough so those outside couldn’t hear. “The conners say you haven’t talked. Good job on that. The boss’ll be pleased.”

“You’re gonna get me out?”

“What do you think? Can’t leave you to sing. It’s either get you out or see you shaking hands with Ironeyes.”

“I won’t talk,” the man said urgently. “No need to kill me. I won’t talk.”

“And the others?”

The man hesitated. “I don’t think they will either. Except maybe Sindren. He’s new, and all.”

Good, Wayne thought. “Sindren. Blond fellow, with the scar?”

“No. He’s the short guy. Big ears.” The robber squinted at Wayne. “Why don’t I recognize you?”

“Why do you think?” Wayne said, standing back and resuming his constable voice. “Now, no more griping! Where is your base of operations? Where are you men working from? I want answers!” He leaned in again. “You don’t recognize me because I’m too valuable to be seen by the common men. They might give me away. I work with your boss. Tarson.”

“Tarson? He’s not boss of anything. He just hits stuff.”

Also good. “I meant his boss.”

The bandit frowned. He was growing more suspicious.

“Your attitude is going to get you hanged, mate,” Wayne said softly. “Who recruited you? I want to … speak with him.”

“Who … Clamps does all the recruitment. You should know that.” His eyes grew hostile.

Excellent, Wayne thought. “Done!” he said, turning around. “This one won’t talk. Closed-mouthed git.” He walked out of the room to join Brettin and the others.

“Why were you whispering so much?” Brettin demanded. “You said we could listen.”

“I said you could listen,” Wayne said, “but not that I’d say anything you could hear. You’ve got to speak low and threateningly with these types. Have any of the men given you names, yet?”

“Aliases,” Brettin said, dissatisfied.

“Any of them give the name Sindren?”

Brettin looked at his men. They shook their heads.

Excellent. “I want to see the other men. I’m going to pick which one to interview next.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Brettin said.

“And I can still march on home and start up paperwork for a transfer…”

Brettin stewed for a moment, then led Wayne to the cells. Sindren was easy to pick out. The large-eared man looked young; he was wide-eyed as he watched the conners look into his cell.

“Him,” Wayne said. “Let’s go.”

They grabbed him and brought him to an interrogation room. Once Sindren was chained down, Brettin and his men waited in the room.

“A little space to breathe, please,” Wayne said, glaring at them.

“Fine,” Brettin said. “But no more whispering. I want to hear what you have to ask him. He is still our prisoner.”

Wayne glared at them, and they shuffled out, but left the door open. Brettin stood outside with his arms folded, looking at Wayne expectantly.

All right then, Wayne thought. He turned to the captive and leaned in. “Hello, Sindren.”

The boy actually jumped. “How do you—”

“Clamps sent me,” Wayne said softly in a street-tough accent. “I’m working on a way to get you out. I need you to remain perfectly still.”

“But—”

“Still. Don’t move.”

“No whispering!” Brettin called in. “If you say—”

Wayne put up a speed bubble. It wasn’t going to last long; he hadn’t been able to scrounge up much bendalloy. He’d have to make it work.

“I’m an Allomancer,” Wayne said, holding perfectly still. “I’ve sped up time for us. If you move, they’ll notice the blur and know what happened. Do you understand? Don’t nod yes. Just say so.”

“Um … yes.”

“Good,” Wayne said. “As I said, Clamps sent me, and I’m here to get you out. Seems the boss worries you fellows will talk.”

“I won’t!” the youth said, voice nearly a squeak as he obviously worked hard to keep himself from moving.

“I’m sure you won’t,” Wayne said, moving his accent subtly to match the area this youth was from, Inner Seventh. He tossed in a sprinkle of millworker, which he caught in this lad’s dialect. Probably from his father. “If you did, Tarson would have to break some of your bones. You know how he likes that, eh?”