Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere Collection

by Brandon Sanderson

  “You’re wrong. So wrong…”

  “The Voidbringers have not returned,” Darkness said firmly. “Ishar has promised it, and he will not lie. We must do our duty. You are questioning, Szeth-son-Neturo. This is not good; this is weakness. To question is to accept a descent into inactivity. The only path to sanity and action is to choose a code and to follow it. This is why I came to you in the first place.”

  Darkness turned, striding past the others. “The minds of men are fragile, their emotions mutable and often unpredictable. The only path to Honor is to stick to your chosen code. This was the way of the Knights Radiant, and is the way of the Skybreakers.”

  The man and woman standing nearby both saluted. The assassin just bowed his head again, closing his eyes, holding to that strange silver-sheathed Shardblade.

  “You said that there is a second Surgebinder in the city,” the woman said. “We can find—”

  “She is mine,” Darkness said evenly. “You will continue your mission. Find the one who has been hiding here since we arrived.” He narrowed his eyes. “If we don’t stop one, others will congregate. They clump together. I have often found them making contact with one another, these last five years, if I leave them alone. They must be drawn to each other.”

  He turned toward his two initiates; he seemed to ignore the assassin except when spoken to. “Your quarry will make mistakes—they will break the law. The other orders always did consider themselves beyond the reach of the law. Only the Skybreakers ever understood the importance of boundaries. Of picking something external to yourself and using it as a guide. Your minds cannot be trusted. Even my mind—especially my mind—cannot be trusted.

  “I have given you enough help. You have my blessing and you have our commission granting us authority to act in this city. You will find the Surgebinder, you will discover their sins, and you will bring them judgment. In the name of all Roshar.”

  The two saluted again, and the room suddenly darkened. The woman began glowing with a phantom light, and she blushed, looking sheepishly toward Darkness. “I’ll find them, sir! I have an investigation in progress.”

  “I have a lead too,” the man said. “I’ll have the information by tonight for certain.”

  “Work together,” Darkness said. “This is not a competition. It is a test to measure competence. I’m giving you until sunset, but after that I can wait no longer. Now that others have begun arriving, the risk is too great. At sunset, I will deal with the issue myself.”

  “Bollocks,” Lift whispered. She shook her head, then scuttled back along the hallway, away from the group of people.

  “Wait,” Wyndle said, following. “Bollocks? I thought you claimed you didn’t say words like—”

  “They’ve all got ’em,” Lift said. “’Cept the girl, though with that face I can’t be certain. Anyway, what I said wasn’t crass, ’cuz it was just an observation.” She hit the intersection of corridors, and peeked to the left. The old man on watch was dozing. That let Lift slip across, into the room where she’d first entered. She climbed out into the tree, then closed the shutters.

  In seconds she’d run around a corner into an alleyway, where she let herself slide down until she was sitting with her back against the stone, her heart pounding. Farther into the alleyway here, a family ate pancakes in a somewhat nice shanty. It had two whole walls.

  “Mistress?” Wyndle said.

  “I’m hungry,” she complained.

  “You just ate!”

  “That was catching me up for spending so much getting into that starvin’ building.” She squeezed her eyes closed, containing her worry.

  Darkness’s voice was so cold.

  But they’re like me. They glow like me. They’re … awesome, like I am? What in Damnation is going on?

  And the Assassin in White. Was he going to go off and kill Gawx?

  “Mistress?” Wyndle coiled around her leg. “Oh, mistress. Did you hear what they called him? Nin? That’s a name of Nalan, the Herald! That can’t be true. They went away, didn’t they? Even we have legends about that. If that creature is truly one of them … oh, Lift. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know. Storms … why am I even here?”

  “I believe I’ve been asking that since—”

  “Shut it, Voidbringer,” she said, forcing herself to roll over and get to her knees. Deeper into the cramped alley, the father of the family reached for a cudgel while the wife tugged the curtain closed on the front of their hovel.

  Lift sighed, then went wandering back toward the immigrant quarter.

  10

  WHEN she arrived at the orphanage, Lift finally figured out why it had been set up next to this open space at the mouth of the alleyway. The orphanage caretaker—the Stump, as she’d been called—had opened the doors and let the children out. They played here, in the most boring playground ever. A set of amphitheater steps and some open floor.

  The children seemed to love it. They ran up and down the steps, laughing and giggling. Others sat in circles on the ground, playing games with painted pebbles. Laughterspren—like little silver fish that zipped through the air, this way and that—danced in the air some ten feet up, a whole school of the starvin’ things.

  There were lots of children, younger on average than Lift had assumed. Most, as she had been able to guess, were the kind that were different in the head, or they were missin’ an arm or leg. Things like that.

  Lift idled near the wide alleyway mouth, near where two blind girls played a game. One would drop rocks of a variety of sizes and shapes, and the other would try to guess which was which, based on how they sounded when they hit the ground. The group of old men and women in shiquas from the day before had again gathered at the back of the half-moon amphitheater seats, chatting and watching the children play.

  “I thought you said orphanages were miserable,” Wyndle said, coating the wall beside her.

  “Everyone gets happy for a little while when you let them go outside,” Lift said, watching the Stump. The wizened old lady was scowling as she pulled a cart through the doors toward the amphitheater. More clemabread rolls. Delightful. Those were only slightly better than gruel, which was only slightly better than cold socks.

  Still, Lift joined the others who got in line to accept their roll. When her turn came, the Stump pointed to a spot beside the cart and didn’t speak a word to her. Lift stepped aside, lacking the energy to argue.

  The Stump made sure every child got a roll, then studied Lift before handing her one of the last two. “Your second meal of three.”

  “Second!” Lift snapped. “I ain’t—”

  “You got one last night.”

  “I didn’t ask for it!”

  “You ate it.” The Stump pushed the cart away, eating the last of the rolls herself.

  “Storming witch,” Lift muttered, then found a spot on the stone seats. She sat apart from the regular orphans; she didn’t want to be talked at.

  “Mistress,” Wyndle said, climbing the steps to join her. “I don’t believe you when you say you left Azir because they were trying to dress you in fancy clothing and teach you to read.”

  “Is that so,” she said, chewing on her roll.

  “You liked the clothing, for one thing. And when they tried to give you lessons, you seemed to enjoy the game of always being gone when they came looking. They weren’t forcing you into anything; they were merely offering opportunities. The palace was not the stifling experience you imply.”

  “Maybe not for me,” she admitted.

  It was for Gawx. They expected all kinds of things of the new emperor. Lessons, displays. People came to watch him eat every meal. They even got to watch him sleeping. In Azir, the emperor was owned by the people, like a friendly stray axehound that seven different houses fed, all claiming her as their own.

  “Maybe,” Lift said, “I just didn’t want people expecting so much from me. If you get to know people too long, they
’ll start depending on you.”

  “Oh, and you can’t bear responsibility?”

  “Course I can’t. I’m a starvin’ street urchin.”

  “One who came here chasing down what appears to be one of the Heralds themselves, gone mad and accompanied by an assassin who has murdered multiple world monarchs. Yes, I believe that you must be avoiding responsibility.”

  “You giving me lip, Voidbringer?”

  “I think so? Honestly, I don’t know what that term means, but judging by your tone, I’d say that I’m probably giving you lip. And you probably deserve it.”

  She grunted in response, chewing on her food. It tasted terrible, as if it had been left out all night.

  “Mama always told me to travel,” Lift said. “And go places. While I’m young.”

  “And that’s why you left the palace.”

  “Dunno. Maybe.”

  “Utter nonsense. Mistress, what is it really? Lift, what do you want?”

  She looked down at the half-eaten roll in her hand.

  “Everything is changing,” she said softly. “That’s okay. Stuff changes. It’s just that, I’m not supposed to. I asked not to. She’s supposed to give you what you ask.”

  “The Nightwatcher?” Wyndle asked.

  Lift nodded, feeling small, cold. Children played and laughed all around, and for some reason that only made her feel worse. It was obvious to her, though she’d tried ignoring it for years, that she was taller than she’d been when she’d first sought out the Old Magic three years ago.

  She looked beyond the kids, toward the street passing out front. A group of women bustled past, carrying baskets of yarn. A prim Alethi man strode in the other direction, with straight black hair and an imperious attitude. He was at least a foot taller than anyone else on the street. Workers moved along, cleaning the street, picking up trash.

  In the alleyway mouth, the Stump had deposited her cart and was disciplining a child who had started hitting others. At the back of the amphitheater seats, the old men and women laughed together, one pouring cups of tea to pass around.

  They all seemed to just … know what to do. Cremlings knew to scuttle, plants knew to grow. Everything had its place.

  “The only thing I’ve ever known how to do was hunt food,” Lift whispered.

  “What’s that, mistress?”

  It had been hard, at first. Feeding herself. Over time, she’d figured out the tricks. She’d gotten good at it.

  But once you weren’t hungry all the time, what did you do? How did you know?

  Someone poked at her arm, and she turned to see that a kid had scooted up beside her—a lean boy with his head shaved. He pointed at her half-eaten roll and grunted.

  She sighed and gave it to him. He ate eagerly.

  “I know you,” she said, cocking her head. “You’re the one whose mother dropped him off last night.”

  “Mother,” he said, then looked at her. “Mother … come back when?”

  “Huh. So you can talk,” Lift said. “Didn’t think you could, after all that staring around dumbly last night.”

  “I…” The boy blinked, then looked at her. No drooling. Must be a good day for him. A grand accomplishment. “Mother … come back?”

  “Probably not,” Lift said. “Sorry, kid. They don’t come back. What’s your name?”

  “Mik,” the boy said. He looked at her, confused, as if searching—and failing—to figure out who she was. “We … friends?”

  “Nope,” Lift said. “You don’t wanna be my friend. My friends end up as emperors.” She shivered, then leaned in. “People pick his nose for him.”

  Mik looked at her blankly.

  “Yeah. I’m serious. They pick his nose. Like, he’s got this woman who does his hair, and I peeked in, and I saw her sticking something up his nose. Like little tweezers she used to grab his boogies or something.” Lift shivered. “Being an emperor is real strange.”

  The Stump dragged over one of the kids who’d been fighting and plopped him on the stone. Then, oddly, she gave him some earmuffs—like it was cold or something. He put them on and closed his eyes.

  The Stump paused, looking toward Lift and Mik. “Making plans on how to rob me?”

  “What?” Lift said. “No!”

  “One more meal,” the woman said, holding up a finger. Then she stabbed it toward Mik. “And when you go, take that one. I know he’s faking.”

  “Faking?” Lift turned toward Mik, who blinked, dazed, as if trying to follow the conversation. “You’re not serious.”

  “I can see through it when urchins are feigning illness in order to get food,” the Stump snapped. “That one’s no idiot. He’s pretending.” She stomped away.

  Mik wilted, looking down at his feet. “I miss Mother.”

  “Yeah,” Lift said. “Nice, eh?”

  Mik looked at her, frowning.

  “We get to remember ours,” Lift said, standing. “That’s more than most like us get.” She patted him on the shoulder.

  A short time later, the Stump called that playtime was over. She herded the kids into the orphanage for naps, though many were too old for that. The Stump gave Mik a displeased eye as he entered, but let him in.

  Lift remained in her seat on the stone, then smacked her hand at a cremling that had been inching across the step nearby. Starvin’ thing dodged, then clicked its chitin legs as if laughing. They sure did have strange cremlings here. Not like the ones she was used to at all. Weird how you could forget you were in a different country until you saw the cremlings.

  “Mistress,” Wyndle said, “have you decided what we’re going to do?”

  Decide. Why did she have to decide? She usually just did things. She’d taken challenges as they’d arisen, gone places for no reason other than that she hadn’t seen them before.

  The old people who had been watching the children slowly rose, like ancient trees releasing their branches after a storm. One by one they trailed off until only one remained, wearing a black shiqua with the wrap pulled down to expose a face with a grey mustache.

  “Ey,” Lift called to him. “You still creepy, old man?”

  “I am the man I was made to be,” he said back.

  Lift grunted, climbing from her spot and strolling over to him. Some of the kids from before had left their pebbles, with painted colors that were rubbing off. A poor kid’s imitation of glass marbles. Lift kicked at them.

  “How do you know what to do?” she asked the man, her hands shoved in her pockets.

  “About what, little one?”

  “About everything,” Lift said. “Who tells you how to decide what to do with your time? Was it your parents who showed you? What’s the secret?”

  “The secret to what?”

  “To being human,” Lift said softly.

  “That,” the man said, chuckling, “I don’t think I know. At least not better than you do.”

  Lift looked at the sky, up along slotlike walls, scraped clean of vegetation but painted a dark green, as if in imitation of it.

  “It is strange,” the man said. “People get such a small amount of time. So many I’ve known say it—as soon as you feel you’re getting a handle on things, the day is done, the night falls, and the light goes out.”

  Lift looked at him. Yup. Still creepy. “I guess when you’re old and stuff, you get to thinkin’ about being dead. Kind of like when a fellow’s got to piss, he starts thinkin’ about finding a convenient alleyway.”

  The man chuckled. “Your life may pass, but the organism that is the city will continue on. Little nose.”

  “I’m not a nose,” Lift said. “I was being cheeky.”

  “Nose, cheek. Both are on the face.”

  Lift rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant either.”

  “What are you then? An ear, perhaps?”

  “Dunno. Maybe.”

  “No. Not yet. But close.”

  “Riiight,” Lift said. “And what are you?”

  “I ch
ange, moment by moment. One moment I am the eyes that inspect so many people in this city. Another moment I am the mouth, to speak the words of philosophy. They spread like a disease—and so at times I am the disease. Most diseases live. Did you know that?”

  “You’re … not really talking about what you’re talking about, are you?” Lift said.

  “I believe that I am.”

  “Great.” Of all the people she’d chosen to ask about how to be a responsible adult, she’d picked the one with vegetable soup in place of brains. She turned to go.

  “What will you make for this city, child?” the man asked. “That is part of my question. Do you choose, or are you simply molded by the greater good? And are you, as a city, a district of grand palaces? Or are you a slum, unto yourself?”

  “If you could see inside me,” Lift said, turning and walking backward so she faced the old man on the steps, “you wouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Because?”

  “Because. At least slums know what they was built for.” She turned and joined the flow of people on the street.

  11

  “I don’t think you understand how this is supposed to work,” Wyndle said, curling along the wall beside her. “Mistress, you … don’t seem interested in evolving our relationship.”

  She shrugged.

  “There are Words,” Wyndle said. “That’s what we call them, at least. They’re more … ideas. Living ideas, with power. You have to let them into your soul. Let me into your soul. You heard those Skybreakers, right? They’re looking to take the next step in their training. That’s when … you know … they get a Shardblade.…”

  He smiled at her, the expression appearing in successive patterns of his growing vines along the wall as they chased her. Each image of the smile was slightly different, grown one after another beside her, like a hundred paintings. They made a smile, and yet none of them was the smile. It was, somehow, all of them together. Or perhaps the smile existed in the spaces between the images in the succession.