Inside, an entire group of the creatures sat in discussion. Kelsier pressed up against the slit of a window, peeking in, clinging precariously to the wall some fifty feet in the air. The beings all had that same silvery skin, though two were a shade darker than the rest. It was difficult to distinguish individuals among them; they were all so old, the men completely bald, the women nearly so. Each wore the same distinctive robe—white, with hoods that could be pulled up and silver embroidery around the cuffs.
Curiously, the light from the walls was dimmer in the room. The effect was particularly noticeable near where one of the creatures was sitting or standing. It was like . . . they themselves were drawing in the light.
He was at least able to pick out the woman from before, with her wizened lips and long fingers. Her robe had a thicker band of silver. “We must move up our timetable,” she was saying to the others. “I do not believe this sighting was a coincidence.”
“Bah,” said a seated man who held a cup of glowing liquid. “You always jump at stories, Alonoe. Not every coincidence is a sign of someone drawing upon Fortune.”
“And do you disagree that it is best to be careful?” Alonoe demanded. “We have come too far, worked too hard, to let the prize slip away now.”
“Preservation’s Vessel has nearly expired,” another woman said. “Our window to strike is approaching.”
“An entire Shard,” Alonoe said. “Ours.”
“And if that was an agent of Ruin the guards spotted?” asked the seated man. “If our plans have been discovered? The Vessel of Ruin could have his eyes upon us at this very moment.”
Alonoe seemed disturbed by this, and she glanced upward as if to search the sky for the watching eyes of the Shard. She recovered, speaking firmly. “I will take the chance.”
“We will draw his anger either way,” another of the beings noted. “If one of us Ascends to Preservation, we will be safe. Only then.”
Kelsier chewed on this as the creatures fell silent. So someone else can take up the Shard. Fuzz is almost dead, but if someone were to seize his power as he died . . .
But hadn’t Preservation told Kelsier that such a thing was impossible? You wouldn’t be able to hold my power anyway, Preservation had said. You’re not Connected enough to me.
He’d seen that now firsthand, in the space between moments. Were these creatures somehow Connected enough to Preservation to take the power? Kelsier doubted it. So what was their plan?
“We move forward,” the seated man said, looking to the others. One at a time, they nodded. “Devotion protect us. We move forward.”
“You won’t need Devotion, Elrao,” Alonoe said. “You will have me.”
Over my dead body, Kelsier thought. Or . . . well, something like that.
“The timetable is accelerated then,” said Elrao, the man with the cup. He drank the glowing liquid, then stood. “To the vault?”
The others nodded. Together they left the room.
Kelsier waited until they were gone, then tried pushing himself through the window. It was too small for a person, but he wasn’t completely a person any longer. He could meld a few inches with the stone, and with effort he was able to contort his shape and squeeze through the wide slit.
He finally tumbled into the room, shoulders popping into their previous shape. The experience left him with a splitting headache. He sat up, back to the wall, and waited for the pain to fade before standing to give this room a thorough ransacking.
He didn’t come up with much. A few bottles of wine, a handful of gemstones left casually in one of the drawers. Both were real, not souls pulled through to this Realm.
The room had a door leading into the inner parts of the fortress, and so—after peeking through—he slipped in. This next room looked more promising. It was a bedroom. He rifled through the drawers, discovering several robes like the wizened people had been wearing. And then, in the small table by the hearth, the jackpot. A book of sketches filled with strange symbols like the one he had visualized. Symbols that he felt, vaguely, he could understand.
Yes . . . These were writing, though most of the pages were filled with terms he couldn’t begin to comprehend, even once he began to be able to read the symbols themselves. Terms like Adonalsium, Connection, Realmatic Theory.
The end pages, however, described the culmination of the notes and sketches. A kind of arcane device in the shape of a sphere. You could break it and absorb the power within, which would briefly Connect you to Preservation—like the lines he’d seen in the place between moments.
That was their plan. Travel to the place of Preservation’s death, prime themselves with this device, and absorb his power—Ascending to take his place.
Bold. Exactly the kind of plan Kelsier admired. And now, he finally knew what he was going to steal from them.
3
Thievery was the most authentic form of flattery.
What could be more satisfying than knowing the things you possessed were intriguing, captivating, or valuable enough to provoke another man to risk everything to obtain them? This was Kelsier’s purpose in life, to remind people of the value of the things they loved. By taking them away.
These days, he didn’t care for the little thieveries. Yes, he’d pocketed the gemstones he’d found up above, but that was more out of pragmatism than anything else. Ever since the Pits of Hathsin, he hadn’t been interested in stealing common possessions.
No, these days he stole something far greater. Kelsier stole dreams.
He crouched outside the fortress, hidden between two spires of twisting black rock. He now understood the purpose of creating such a powerful building, here at the reaches of Preservation and Ruin’s dominion. That fortress protected a vault, and inside that vault lay an incredible opportunity. The seed that would make a person, under the right circumstances, into a god.
Getting to it would be nearly impossible. They’d have guards, locks, traps, and arcane devices he couldn’t plan for or expect. Sneaking in and robbing that vault would test his skills to their utmost, and even then he was likely to fail.
He decided not to try.
That was the thing about big, defended vaults. You couldn’t realistically leave most possessions in them forever. Eventually you had to use what you guarded—and that provided men such as Kelsier with an opportunity. And so he waited, prepared, and planned.
It took a week or so—counting days by judging the schedules of the guards—but at long last an expedition sallied forth from the keep. The grand procession of twenty people rode on horseback, holding aloft lanterns.
Horses, Kelsier thought, slipping through the darkness to keep pace with the procession. Hadn’t expected that.
Well, they weren’t moving terribly quickly even with the mounts. He was able to keep up with them easily, particularly since he didn’t tire as he had when alive.
He counted five of the wizened ancients and a force of fifteen soldiers. Curiously, each of the ancients was dressed almost exactly the same, in their similar robes with hoods up and leather satchels over their shoulders, the same style of saddlebags on each horse.
Decoys, Kelsier decided. If someone attacks, they can split up. Their enemy might not know which of them to follow.
Kelsier could use that, particularly since he was relatively certain who carried the Connection device. Alonoe, the imperious woman who seemed to be in charge, wasn’t the type to let power slip through her spindly fingertips. She intended to become Preservation; letting one of her colleagues carry the device would be too risky. What if they got ideas? What if they used it themselves?
No, she’d have the weapon on her somewhere. The only question was how to get it from her.
Kelsier gave it some time. Days of travel through the darkened landscape, keeping pace with the caravan while he planned.
There were three basic types of thievery. The first involved a knife to the throat and a whispered threat. The second involved pilfering in the night. And the third . . . we
ll, that was Kelsier’s favorite. It involved a tongue coated with zinc. Instead of a knife it used confusion, and instead of prowling it worked in the open.
The best kind of thievery left your target uncertain if anything had happened at all. Getting away with the prize was all well and good, but it didn’t mean much if the city guard came pounding on your door the next day. He’d rather escape with half as many boxings, but the confidence that his trickery wouldn’t be discovered for weeks to come.
And the real trophy was to pull off a heist so clever, the target didn’t ever discover you’d taken something from them.
Each “night” the caravan made camp in an anxious little cluster of bedrolls around a campfire, much like the one in Kelsier’s pack. The ancients got out jars of light, drinking and restoring the luminance to their skin. They didn’t chat much; these people seemed less like friends and more like a group of noblemen who considered one another allies by necessity.
Soon after their meal each night, the ancients retired to their bedrolls. They set guards, but didn’t sleep in tents. Why would you need a tent out here? There was no rain to keep off, and practically no wind to block. Just darkness, rustling plants, and a dead man.
Unfortunately, Kelsier couldn’t figure out a way to get to the weapon. Alonoe slept with her satchel in her hands, watched over by two guards. Each morning she checked to make sure the weapon was still there. Kelsier managed to get a glimpse of it one morning, and saw the glowing light inside, making him reasonably certain her satchel wasn’t a decoy.
Well, that would come. His first step was to sow a little misdirection. He waited for an appropriate night, then pushed himself down into the ground, sinking his essence beneath the surface. Then he pulled himself through the rock. It was like swimming through very thick liquid dirt.
He came up near where Alonoe had just settled down to sleep, and stuck only his lips out of the ground. Dox would have had a fit of laughter seeing this, Kelsier thought. Well, Kelsier was far too arrogant to worry about his pride.
“So,” he whispered to Alonoe in her own language, “you presume to hold Preservation’s power. You think you’ll fare better than he did at resisting me?”
He then pulled himself down under the ground. It was black as night under there, but he could hear the thumping of feet and the cries of shock from what he’d said. He swam out a distance, then lifted an ear from the ground.
“It was Ruin!” Alonoe was saying. “I swear, it must have been his Vessel. Speaking to me.”
“So he does know,” said another of the ancient ones. Kelsier thought it was Elrao, the man who had challenged her back in the fortress.
“Your wards were supposed to prevent this!” Alonoe said. “You told me they’d stop him from sensing the device!”
“There are ways for him to know of us without having sensed the orb, Alonoe,” another female said. “My art is exacting.”
“How he found us is not the problem,” Elrao said. “The question is why he hasn’t destroyed us.”
“Preservation’s Vessel still lives,” the other woman said, musing. “That might be preventing Ruin’s direct interference.”
“I don’t like it,” Elrao said. “I think we should turn back.”
“We have committed,” Alonoe replied. “We press forward. No quarreling.”
The stir in the camp eventually quieted down and the ancient ones turned back to their bedrolls, though more of the guards stayed awake than usual. Kelsier smiled, then pushed himself over beside Alonoe’s head again.
“How would you like to die, Alonoe?” he whispered to her, then ducked beneath the earth.
This time they didn’t go back to sleep. The next day it was a bleary-eyed party that set off across the dark landscape. That night, Kelsier prodded them again. And again. He made the next week a hell for the group, whispering to different members, promising them terrible things. He was quite proud of the various ways he came up with to distract, frighten, and unnerve them. He didn’t get a chance to grab Alonoe’s satchel—if anything, they were more careful with it than they had been. He did manage to snatch one of the other ones while they were breaking down camp one morning. It was empty save for a fake glass orb.
Kelsier continued his campaign of discord, and by the time the group reached the jungle of strange trees their patience had unraveled. They snapped at one another and spent less time each morning or night resting. Half the party was convinced they should turn back, though Alonoe insisted that the fact that “Ruin” only spoke to them was proof he couldn’t stop them. She pressed the increasingly divided group forward, into the trees.
Which was exactly where Kelsier wanted them. Staying ahead of the horses would be easy in this snarl of a jungle, where he could pass through foliage as if it weren’t there. He slipped on ahead and set up a little surprise for the group, then came back to find them bickering again. Perfect.
He pushed himself into the center of one of the trees, keeping only his hand outside, tucked at the back, holding the knife that Nazh had given him. As the line of horses passed, he reached out and swiped one of the animals on the flank.
The creature let out a scream of pain, and chaos broke out in the line. The people near the front—their nerves taut from a week spent being tormented by Kelsier’s whispers—gave their horses their heads. Soldiers shouted, warning they were under attack. Ancient ones urged their beasts in different directions, some collapsing as the animals tripped in the underbrush.
Kelsier darted through the jungle, catching up to those in the front. Alonoe had kept her horse mostly under control, but it was even darker in these trees than outside, and the lanterns jostled wildly as the animals moved. Kelsier dashed past Alonoe to a point ahead where he’d strung his cloak between two trees and lashed it in place with vines.
He climbed a tree and reached into the cloak as the front of the line—haggard and reduced in numbers—arrived. He’d lashed his fire inside the cloak, and he brought it alive as they neared. The result was a burning, cloaked figure, appearing suddenly in the air above the already frazzled group.
They screamed, calling that Ruin had found them, and split apart, running their horses in a chaotic jumble—some one direction, some another.
Kelsier dropped to the ground and slipped through the darkness, staying parallel to Alonoe and the guard who managed to remain with her. The woman soon caught her horse in a snarl of undergrowth. Perfect. Kelsier ducked away and recovered his stash of supplies, then threw on one of the robes he’d found in the fortress. He scrambled through the brush, the robe catching on things, until he was just close enough for Alonoe to see.
Then he stepped out where she could see him and called to her, waving his hand. Thinking she’d found a larger group of her people, she and her lone guard trotted their horses toward him. That, however, only served to draw them away from the rest of the group. Kelsier led her farther from the others, then ducked away into the darkness, losing her and leaving her and her guard isolated.
From there he scrambled through the dark underbrush toward the rest of the group, his phantom heart pounding.
This. He’d missed this.
The con. The excitement of playing people like flutes, twisting them about themselves, tying their minds in knots. He hurried through the forest, listening to the shouts of fright, the calls of soldiers to one another, the snorts and cries of the horses. The patch of dense vegetation had become demonic disharmony.
Nearby, one of the wizened men was gathering soldiers and his colleagues, calling for them to keep their heads, and started leading them back in the direction they’d come, perhaps to regroup with those that had been lost when the line first scattered.
Kelsier—still wearing the robe and holding his stolen satchel over his shoulder—lay down on the ground in their path, and waited until someone spotted him.
“There!” a guard said. “It’s—”
Kelsier sank himself down into the ground, leaving the robe and satchel behind.
The guard screamed at the sight of one of the ancients apparently melting to nothing.
Kelsier crept up out of the ground a short distance away as the group gathered around his robe and satchel. “She disintegrated, ancient one!” the guard said. “I watched it with my own eyes.”
“That’s one of Alonoe’s robes,” a woman whispered, hand pulled to her breast in shock.
Another of the ancients looked in the satchel. “Empty,” he said. “Merciful Domi . . . What were we thinking?”
“Back,” Elrao said. “Back! Everyone get your horses! We’re leaving. Curse Alonoe and this idea of hers!”
They were gone in moments. Kelsier strolled through the forest, stepping up beside the discarded robe—which they’d left—listening to the main bulk of the expedition crash through the jungle in their haste to escape him.
He shook his head, then took a short walk through the underbrush to where Alonoe and her lone guard were now trying to follow the sounds of the main body. They were doing a pretty good job of it, all things considered.
When the ancient one wasn’t looking, Kelsier grabbed the guard around the neck and hauled him into the darkness. The man thrashed, but Kelsier got him in a quick lock and hold, knocking the man out without too much trouble. He pulled the body back quietly, then returned to find the solitary ancient one standing with lantern in hand beside her horse, turning frantically.
The jungle had become eerily still. “Hello?” she called. “Elrao? Riina?”
Kelsier waited in shadow as the calls became more and more frantic. Eventually the woman’s voice gave out. She slumped down in the forest, exhausted.
“Leave it,” Kelsier whispered.
She looked up, red-eyed, frightened. Ancient or not, she could obviously still feel fear. Her eyes darted to one side, then the other, but he was too well hidden for her to spot him.
“Leave it,” Kelsier repeated.
Mistborn: Secret History Page 10
