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.”
The proprietor nodded and gestured for Wax to follow as she crossed the room, weaving between the people lounging on the floor. The dim, smoky building should have left Wax jumpy—this was just the sort of place where accidents or ambushes happened—but the Soothing was difficult to pierce. It tore away the top layers of his concern, exposing those beneath—his worry for Wayne and Marasi. Beneath that, a surprising frustration—even anger—at God. Then those emotions too became as fluttering wings, leaving him hollow. Not calm, just empty.
He wanted to settle into one of the chairs, close his eyes, and let out a sigh of relaxation. Bleeder would wait. Surely she wouldn’t try to kill again tonight. Why worry if she did? He probably couldn’t stop her anyway.
He found he hated that sensation. These emotions were his; they were a core of his self. Taking them away didn’t make him happy or help him forget. It just made him feel sick.
He picked up his pace, trying to urge the proprietor faster as they left the room with the cushions and stepped into a long hallway. Here, they