coaches” to “You look like the type who will pay extra for velvet pillows.” “My lord,” he added, nodding his head. “Would you like to hire a coach for the evening?”
“You know me?” Wax said.
“Waxillium Ladrian, I believe.”
“Good,” Wax said, digging into his pocket and removing a small steel sheet, engraved on one side. His credentials, proof that he was a constable. “I’m on constabulary business. How many of these coaches do you have?” Wax nodded toward the line.
Cett’s expression fell as he realized Wax wasn’t likely to be paying him for anything tonight. “Twenty-three,” the man finally said.
“Lots of coaches still in service for the night,” Wax said. “Considering the hour.”
“We work as long as people are out, constable,” Cett said. “And tonight, people are out.”
Wax nodded. “I need a list of the drivers who are still working, their routes, and any prearranged clients they picked up today.”
“Of course.” Cett seemed more relaxed as he led Wax toward a small building in the center of the carriage yard. As they walked, a coach arrived—no scraped sides—drawn by a pair of sweaty horses with drooping heads and a bit of froth at the mouths. Long hours for the beasts too, it seemed.
Inside the building, Cett fetched some records from a desk. Too eager, Wax thought as the man hurried over and offered them. Whenever someone worked with the authorities too easily, it made Wax’s eye twitch. So he took his time browsing through the lists Cett proffered and kept an eye on the man as he did so. “What percentage of your pickups are impromptu, and what percentage are arranged ahead of time?”
“Half and half, for the black coaches,” Cett said. “The open carriages are more spur-of-the-moment.” He had a good game face, but something was bothering him. What was he hiding?
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.