Mistborn Trilogy

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Spook smiled. “Elend is a forgetful scholar—twice as bad as Sazed ever was. He gets lost in his books and forgets about meetings he himself called. He only dresses with any sense of fashion because a Terriswoman bought him a new wardrobe. War has changed him some, but on the inside, I think he’s still just a dreamer caught in a world with too much violence.

  “And Vin . . . well, she really is different. I’ve never been sure what to make of her. Sometimes, she seems as frail as a child. And then she kills an Inquisitor. She can be fascinating and frightening at the same time. I tried to court her once.”

  “Really?” Beldre said, perking up.

  Spook smiled. “I gave her a handkerchief. I heard that’s how you do it in noble society.”

  “Only if you’re a romantic,” Beldre said, smiling wistfully.

  “Well, I gave her one,” Spook said. “But I don’t think she knew what I meant by it. And, of course, once she did figure it out, she turned me down. I’m not sure what I was thinking, trying to court her. I mean, I’m just Spook. Quiet, incomprehensible, forgettable Spook.”

  He closed his eyes. What am I saying? Women didn’t want to hear men talk about how insignificant they were. He’d heard that much. I shouldn’t have come to talk to her. I should have just gone about, giving orders. Looking like I was in charge.

  The damage had been done, however. She knew the truth about him. He sighed, opening his eyes.

  “I don’t think you’re forgettable,” Beldre said. “Of course, I’d be more likely to think fondly of you if you were to let me go.”

  Spook smiled. “Eventually. I promise.”

  “Are you going to use me against him?” Beldre asked. “Threaten to kill me if he doesn’t give in?”

  “Threats like that are hollow if you know you’ll never do what you say,” Spook said. “Honestly, Beldre, I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I’ve got a feeling you’ll be safer here than back in your brother’s palace.”

  “Please don’t kill him, Spook,” Beldre said. “Maybe . . . maybe you can help him somehow, help him see that he’s being too extreme.”

  Spook nodded. “I’ll . . . try.”

  “Do you promise?” she said.

  “All right,” Spook said. “I promise to at least try to save your brother. If I can.”

  “And the city too.”

  “And the city,” Spook said. “Trust me. We’ve done this before—the transition will go smoothly.”

  Beldre nodded, and she actually seemed to believe him. What kind of woman is still able to trust people after everything she’s been through? If she’d been Vin, she would have stabbed him in the back at the first opportunity, and that would have probably been the right thing to do. Yet, this girl just continued to trust. It was like finding a beautiful plant growing alone in a field of burnt ash.

  “Once we’re done, maybe you could introduce me to the emperor and empress,” Beldre said. “They sound like interesting people.”

  “I’ll never argue with that statement,” Spook said. “Elend and Vin . . . well, they’re certainly interesting. Interesting people with heavy burdens. Sometimes, I wish I were powerful enough to do important works like them.”

  Beldre laid a hand on his arm, and he glanced down, a bit surprised. What?

  “Power can be a terrible thing, Spook,” she said quietly. “I’m . . . not pleased with what it’s done to my brother. Don’t wish so hard for it.”

  Spook met her eyes, then nodded and rose. “If you need anything, ask Sazed. He’ll see to your comforts.”

  She looked up. “Where are you going?”

  “To be seen.”

  “I want primary trade contracts on all the canals,” Durn said. “And a title from the emperor.”

  “You?” Spook said. “A title? You think a ‘lord’ in front of your name is going to make that face any less ugly?”

  Durn raised an eyebrow.

  Spook just chuckled. “Both are yours. I cleared it with Sazed and Breeze—they’ll even draft you a contract, if you want.”

  Durn nodded appreciatively. “I do. Lords pay attention to things like that.” They sat in one of his many backroom chambers—not in his private home, but in a place attached to a particular inn. An old set of drums hung on the wall.

  Spook had had little trouble sneaking out past Quellion’s soldiers standing watch at the front of the Ministry building. Even before he’d gained enhanced abilities with tin, and long before he’d been able to burn pewter, he’d learned to sneak about in the night and spy. A group of soldiers had barely posed an obstacle for him. He couldn’t remain cooped up in the cavern like the others. He had too much work to do.

  “I want the Harrows dammed off,” Spook said. “We’ll flood the canals during the evening, when the markets are empty. Nobody lives in the streetslots except for those of you here in the slums. If you want to keep this place from flooding, you’ll need a good watertight blockade in place.”

  “Already taken care of,” Durn said. “When the Harrows were new, we pulled off the lock system from its mouth, but I know where it is. It’ll fit back in place well enough to keep the water out, assuming we can install it correctly.”

  “You’d better,” Spook said. “I don’t want the deaths of half the city’s beggar population on my conscience. I’ll warn you the day we intend to pull this off. See if you can get some of the goods out of the market, as well as keep people out of the streetslots. That, plus what you’re doing for my reputation, will guarantee you the title you want.”

  Durn nodded, rising. “Well, let’s go work on that reputation, then.” He led the way out of the back room, bringing Spook out into the commons of the bar. As always, Spook wore his burned cloak—it had become something of a symbol for him. He’d never worn a mistcloak, but somehow, this felt even better.

  The people rose when he entered. He smiled, motioning for Durn’s men to bring out wineskins—stolen from the storage cavern and carried by Spook as he snuck out several nights in a row. “Tonight,” he said, “you don’t have to pay for Quellion’s stolen liquor. That’s his way of keeping you happy and content.”

  And that was the only speech he gave. He wasn’t Kelsier, able to impress people with his words. Instead—at Breeze’s suggestion—he stayed mostly quiet. He visited tables, trying to not be aloof, but also speaking little. He looked thoughtful, and asked the people about their problems. He listened to stories of loss and hardship, and drank with them to the memory of those Quellion had murdered. And, with his pewter, he never got drunk. He already had a reputation for that—the people regarded it mystically, as they did his ability to survive fire.

  After that bar, they visited another, and another after that, Durn careful to keep him to the safest—and yet most populated—of the locations. Some were in the Harrows, others were above. Through it all, Spook felt an amazing thing: his confidence growing. He really was a little like Kelsier. Vin might have been the one trained by the Survivor, but Spook was the one who was doing just what he’d done—encouraging the people, leading them to rise up for their own sakes.

  As the evening passed, the various bars became a blur. Spook breathed curses against Quellion, speaking of the murders and of the Allomancers the Citizen retained. Spook didn’t spread the rumors that Quellion was himself an Allomancer—he let Breeze do that more carefully. That way, it wouldn’t look like Spook was too eager to set the man up.

  “To the Survivor!”

  Spook looked up, holding his mug of wine, smiling as the bar patrons cheered.

  “To the Survivor!” another said, pointing at Spook. “Survivor of the Flames!”

  “To the death of the Citizen!” Durn said, raising his own mug—though he rarely drank from it. “Down with the man who said he’d let us rule, then took it all for himself!”

  Spook smiled, taking a drink. He hadn’t realized how exhausting it could be to simply sit around and speak to people. His flared pewter kept his body’s weariness at bay, but it couldn
’t prevent the mental fatigue.

  I wonder what Beldre would think if she saw this, he thought. The men cheering me. She’d be impressed, wouldn’t she? She’d forget about how I droned on about how useless I was.

  Perhaps the visits to the bars had been fatiguing simply because he had something else he wished he could be doing. It was silly—she was his captive. He’d betrayed her trust. She was obviously just warming up to him in an effort to get him to let her go. Yet, he couldn’t help thinking back to their conversation, going over it again and again in his mind. Despite the stupid things he’d said, she’d laid her hand on his arm. That meant something, didn’t it?

  “You all right?” Durn asked, leaning in. “That’s your tenth mug tonight.”

  “I’m fine,” Spook said.

  “You were looking a little distant there.”

  “I have a lot on my mind,” Spook said.

  Durn leaned back, frowning, but didn’t say anything more.

  Some things about his conversation with Beldre bothered Spook, even more than his own stupid comments. She seemed to really be worried by the things that her brother had done. When Spook himself was in power, would she see him as she did Quellion? Would that be a bad thing, or a good thing? She already said they were similar.

  Power can be a terrible thing. . . .

  He looked up, glancing at the people of the bar as they cheered him again, just as the men had in the other bars. Kelsier had been able to handle adulation like this. If Spook wanted to be like Kelsier, then he’d have to deal with it as well, right?

  Wasn’t it a good thing to be liked? To have people willing to follow him? He could finally break away from the old Spook. He could stop being that boy, the one so insignificant and easily forgotten. He could leave that child behind, and become a man who was respected. And why shouldn’t he be respected? He wasn’t that boy anymore. He wore his bandages across his eyes, heightening his mystical reputation as a man who did not need light to see. Some even said that anywhere that fire burned, Spook could see.

  “They love you,” Kelsier whispered. “You deserve it.”

  Spook smiled. That was all the confirmation he needed. He stood, raising his arms before the crowd. They cheered in response.

  It had been a long time coming. And it felt all the sweeter for the wait.

  Preservation’s desire to create sentient life was what eventually broke the stalemate. In order to give mankind awareness and independent thought, Preservation knew that he would have to give up part of himself—his own soul—to dwell within mankind. This would leave him just a tiny bit weaker than his opposite, Ruin.

  That tiny bit seemed inconsequential, compared with their total vast sums of power. However, over aeons, this tiny flaw would allow Ruin to overcome Preservation, thereby bringing an end to the world.

  This, then, was their bargain. Preservation got mankind, the only creations that had more Preservation than Ruin in them, rather than a balance. Independent life that could think and feel. In exchange, Ruin was given a promise—and proof—that he could bring an end to all they had created together. It was the pact.

  And Preservation eventually broke it.

  54

  WHEN VIN AWOKE, she was not surprised to find herself bound. She was surprised to feel that she was wearing metal manacles.

  The first thing she did—even before she opened her eyes—was reach inside for her metals. With steel and iron, perhaps she could use the manacles as weapons. With pewter . . .

  Her metals were gone.

  She kept her eyes closed, trying not to display the panic she felt, thinking through what had happened. She’d been in the cavern, trapped with Ruin. Elend’s friend had come in, given her the wine, and she’d taken it. Gambled.

  How long had it been since she’d fallen unconscious?

  “Your breathing has changed,” a voice reported. “You are obviously awake.”

  Vin cursed herself quietly. There was a very easy way to take away an Allomancer’s powers—easier, even, than making them burn aluminum. You just had to keep them drugged long enough for them to pass the metals through their body. As she thought about it, her mind shrugging off the effects of extended sleep, she realized this was what must have happened to her.

  The silence continued. Finally, Vin opened her eyes. She expected to see cell bars. Instead, she saw a sparsely furnished, utilitarian room. She lay on a bench, head cushioned by a hard pillow. Her manacles were connected to a chain several feet long, which was in turn locked to the base of the bench. She tugged on the chain carefully, and determined that it was very well affixed.

  The motion drew the attention of a pair of guards who stood beside the bench. They jumped slightly, raising staffs and eyeing her warily. Vin smiled to herself; part of her was proud that she could evoke such a response even when chained and metalless.

  “You, Lady Venture, present something of a problem.” The voice came from the side. Vin raised herself up on one arm, looking over the bench’s armrest. On the other side of the room—perhaps fifteen feet away—a bald figure in robes stood with his back to her. He stared out a large window, facing west, and the setting sun was a violent crimson blaze around his silhouette.

  “What do I do?” Yomen asked, still not turning toward her. “A single flake of steel, and you could slaughter my guards with their own buttons. A taste of pewter, and you could lift that bench and smash your way out of the room. The logical thing to do would be to gag you, keep you drugged at all times, or kill you.”

  Vin opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was a cough. She immediately tried to burn pewter to strengthen her body. The lack of metal was like missing a limb. As she sat up, coughing further and growing dizzy, she found herself craving the metal more than she’d imagined that she ever would. Allomancy wasn’t supposed to be addictive, not like certain herbs or poisons. However, at that moment, she could have sworn that all the scientists and philosophers were flat-out wrong.

  Yomen made a sharp gesture with one arm, still not turning from the sunset. A servant approached, bearing a cup for Vin. She eyed it uncertainly.

  “If I wanted to poison you, Lady Venture,” Yomen said without turning, “I could do it without guile.”

  Good point, Vin thought wryly, accepting the cup and drinking the water it contained.

  “Water,” Yomen said. “Collected from rain, then strained and purified. You will find no trace metals in it to burn. I specifically ordered it kept in wooden containers only.”

  Clever, Vin thought. Years before she’d become consciously aware of her Allomantic powers, she’d been burning the tiny bits of metal she haphazardly got from groundwater or dining utensils.

  The water quenched her thirst and stilled her cough. “So,” she finally said, “if you’re so worried about me eating metals, why leave me ungagged?”

  Yomen stood quietly for a moment. Finally, he turned, and she could see the tattoos across his eyes and face, his skin reflecting the deep colors of the falling sun outside. On his forehead, he wore his single, silvery bead of atium.

  “Various reasons,” said the obligator king.

  Vin studied him, then raised the cup to take another drink. The motion jangled her manacles, which she eyed in annoyance as they again restricted her movement.

  “They’re made of silver,” Yomen said. “A particularly frustrating metal for Mistborn, or so I am told.”

  Silver. Useless, unburnable silver. Like lead, it was one of the metals that provided no Allomantic powers at all.

  “An unpopular metal indeed . . .” Yomen said, nodding to the side. A servant approached Vin, bearing something on a small platter. Her mother’s earring. It was a dull thing, Allomantically, made of bronze with some silver plating. Much of the silver had worn off years ago, and the brownish bronze showed through, making the earring look to be the cheap bauble it was.

  “Which is why,” Yomen continued, “I am so curious as to why you would bother with an ornament such as thi
s. I have had it tested. Silver on the outside, bronze on the inside. Why those metals? One useless to Allomancers, the other granting what is considered the weakest of Allomantic powers. Would not an earring of steel or of pewter make more sense?”

  Vin eyed the earring. Her fingers itched to grab it, if only to feel metal between her fingers. If she’d had steel, she could have Pushed on the earring, using it as a weapon. Kelsier had once told her to keep wearing it for that simple reason. Yet, it had been given to her by her mother. A woman Vin had never known. A woman who had tried to kill her.

  Vin snatched the earring. Yomen watched curiously as she stuck it in her ear. He seemed . . . wary. As if waiting for something.

  If I really did have some trick planned, she thought, he’d be dead in an instant. How can he stand there so calmly? Why give me my earring? Even if it isn’t made of useful metals, I might find a way to use it against him.

  Her instincts told her he was trying an old street ploy—kind of like throwing your enemy a dagger to make him attack. Yomen wanted to spring any traps she was planning. It seemed a silly move. How could he possibly hope to best a Mistborn?

  Unless he himself is a Mistborn, Vin thought. He feels he can beat me.

  He has atium, and is ready to burn it when I try something.

  Vin did nothing; made no attack. She wasn’t certain if her instincts about Yomen were right, but that didn’t really matter. She couldn’t attack, for the earring had no hidden secret. The truth was, she simply wanted it back because it felt comfortable in her ear. She was accustomed to wearing it.

  “Interesting,” Yomen said. “Regardless, you are about to discover one of the reasons I have left you without a gag . . .” With that, he raised a hand toward the door. He clasped his hands behind his back as a servant opened the door, showing in an unarmed soldier in the white and brown of Elend’s livery.

  You should kill him, Ruin whispered in her mind. All of them.

  “Lady Venture,” Yomen said without looking at her. “I must ask you not to speak to this man except when I indicate, and answer only as I request. Otherwise, he will have to be executed, and a fresh messenger sent for from your army.”