“We take it very seriously, Marasi,” Moonlight said. “And the way you act — your attitude as part of a team — is one of the main reasons we came to you.”
And not, she implied, to Wax. They went on, Marasi chewing on those tenets. She swallowed the last one easily. Not moving against one another? Not undermining the mission or goals of another member of the group? That sounded wonderful. More than once, she’d collided with another constable’s ambition, preventing her from getting things done.
The other tenet though … Not sharing information with those outside? That sat in her gut like a stone. She was a constable for the city of Elendel. Joining the Ghostbloods would be like … like swearing allegiance to another country.
But the secrets they knew … the things they were doing … She doubted that if she joined the Ghostbloods, she’d ever have to waste her time dealing with small-time criminals again.
She put it all out of her mind for the time being as they reached an intersection. The rightmost turn was particularly well-lit. There, two long, narrow structures had been built out along the tunnel, one on each side. The path continued between them, as if they were shops on a street.
Peeking around the corner into this tunnel, Marasi could see that one of the two buildings was guarded by thick-armed men. The lord mayor’s bodyguards. The two men were distracted though, talking to someone inside. Which gave Marasi an opportunity.
She led the way, crouching low around the corner, and crossed the short distance to the rightmost building. She was joined by the other two as the bodyguards finished their conversation and closed the door, settling into guard postures.
A window on this short end of the building, where Marasi and the others hid, gave her a chance to steal a look. And there he was, right inside. The lord mayor himself, in formal dining wear, hair slicked back with something greasy, sitting at a table. Aside from him, there were two additional guards settling in by the door. Four people in white lab coats huddled near Gave’s table, one handing him something to drink.
Marasi frowned, noticing Gave’s slumped-over posture. He looked … worn. Far less commanding or smug than he was at the police station.
He shook his head. “What odds do you give her,” he asked, his voice muffled from inside, but audible, “of getting that bomb to fly. Of actually salvaging this?”
“That’s … not my department, sir,” one of the scientists said. “I’m not an engineer.”
“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Gave said, his voice softening. “I didn’t think … when I agreed … Are they here?”
“Nearly,” another scientist said.
“How many?” Gave asked.
“A lot,” the woman replied. “An army of soldiers with golden skin and glowing red eyes. Sir, is it true? Are they…”
Gave pounded the table. “I’m supposed to be in control! She’s supposed to fail, and I’m supposed to take her place.”
“You will, sir,” one of the scientists said. “If she doesn’t get the bomb working, Autonomy will kill her.”
“And invade the whole rusting Basin,” Gave said, hands to his face. “Maybe the world. Damn. It wasn’t supposed to be like this…” He downed his shot and hauled himself to his feet.
Marasi shared a glance with the others. They’d known Autonomy was planning some sort of decisive attack if Telsin failed to prove she could control the Basin. It seemed that maybe Gave had been assigned to facilitate that?
It would be convenient for him, she thought, to have these caverns as a bunker in case a destructive war breaks out above. That would explain the food, too.
And some kind of invading army? She remembered how awed Miles Hundredlives had been, speaking of the “men of gold and red” as he died. Rusts.
“How many soldiers of our own do we have left in the bunker?” Entrone asked.
“Two contingents,” said a scientist who seemed to be in charge — a thick-bodied woman in a white lab coat.
“And Metalblessed?” Entrone asked.
“None,” the woman said.
“That woman,” Entrone said, “is deliberately trying to leave me short-manned.” He started pacing. “While I’m forced to support her, lest the worst option play out. I can’t believe I let it get this far. We need some kind of military presence to corral those alien soldiers.”
“Can we do that?” the scientist asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I don’t want to rule ashes. Rusts, Edwarn’s plans were always superior. We should have been pushing for those, instead of Telsin’s idiotic bomb.”
“Yes, my lord mayor,” Labcoat said. “Speaking of Edwarn’s plans, did you … want to proceed with the test?”
He waved for her to do so, and Labcoat sent her two assistants to the far side of the room, the stone wall of the tunnel. Marasi had missed a thick door set into the rock — made of strong wood, with sturdy locks on the outside.
The assistants undid these, opening the door to reveal a group of some twenty people huddled in the darkness. They wore an assortment of different kinds of clothing — some expensive, others just common work clothes. All were grungy and rumpled. With pistols drawn, the assistants picked out a lean woman in a torn evening dress, her face streaked with makeup. She barely resisted, looking too exhausted for anything more than a token protest.
The door was locked again, and the assistants strapped her facedown to a table. Then one took out a silvery spike, long and thin. Marasi felt a chill, then nausea. Was this …
Oh, Ruin. Were they making an Allomancer? She’d read about the process in the book Death had given her, but she’d never wanted to see it in person.
Labcoat took out a notebook. “We believe that we’ve isolated the technique Edwarn was on to,” she said. “Indeed, we’ve refined it. The process involves a very thin spike, my lord mayor, and, oddly, the right mindset.”
“Mindset?” he asked.
“You need to know what you’re doing and why,” the woman explained. “It helps to whisper a Command as you work, though we find it isn’t strictly necessary. Trauma on the part of the subject is helpful as well.”
At a nod from her, the assistants threaded the long spike through the skin of the woman’s upper back. Almost like they were sewing with a six-inch needle. The poor woman made a pained whimper, and the assistant doing the procedure mumbled something to himself, then pushed the needle slowly back through her skin, as if making two holes for some kind of piercing. The woman screamed louder as the process finished.
As soon as the spike left her skin, the holes started bleeding. The woman fell silent, and the assistant washed off the bloodied spike and handed it to Labcoat, who promptly placed it in a solution attached to a device and examined it.
“Roughly five percent Invested,” she reported to Entrone. “And as you can see, the subject is still alive. We’ve essentially excised a piece of the soul and stored it in the metal.”
Wait.
They’d made a spike without killing the woman?
That was supposed to be impossible. Granted, Marasi hadn’t studied Death’s book in as much detail as Wax had, but she was fairly sure Hemalurgy always killed its subject.
“So?” Entrone said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t particularly care if these people live or die. Creating spikes without killing them is pointless. We need Metalborn in huge numbers. That will impress Autonomy. That will make her realize this planet is a resource, not something to be burned.”