Mistborn Trilogy

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Ruthlessness is the very most practical of emotions, Reen’s voice whispered. She ignored it. “You’ve been listening to Cett too much.”

  “Perhaps,” Elend said. “Yet, his is a logic I find difficult to ignore. I grew up as an idealist, Vin—we both know that’s true. Cett provides a kind of balance. The things he says are much like what Tindwyl used to say.”

  He paused, shaking his head. “Just a short time ago, I was talking with Cett about Allomantic Snapping. Do you know what the noble houses did to ensure that they found the Allomancers among their children?”

  “They had them beaten,” Vin whispered. A person’s Allomantic powers were always latent until something traumatic brought them out. A person had to be brought to the brink of death and survive—only then would their powers be awakened. It was called Snapping.

  Elend nodded. “It was one of the great, dirty secrets of so-called noble life. Families often lost children to the beatings—those beatings had to be brutal for them to evoke Allomantic abilities. Each house was different, but they generally specified an age before adolescence. When a boy or girl hit that age, they were taken and beaten near to death.”

  Vin shivered slightly.

  “I vividly remember mine,” Elend said. “Father didn’t beat me himself, but he did watch. The saddest thing about the beatings was that most of them were pointless. Only a handful of children, even noble children, became Allomancers. I didn’t. I was beaten for nothing.”

  “You stopped those beatings, Elend,” Vin said softly. He had drafted a bill soon after becoming king. A person could choose to undergo a supervised beating when they came of age, but Elend had stopped it from happening to children.

  “And I was wrong,” Elend said softly.

  Vin looked up.

  “Allomancers are our most powerful resource, Vin,” Elend said, looking out over the marching soldiers. “Cett lost his kingdom, nearly his life, because he couldn’t marshal enough Allomancers to protect him. And I made it illegal to search out Allomancers in my population.”

  “Elend, you stopped the beating of children.”

  “And if those beatings could save lives?” Elend asked. “Like exposing my soldiers could save lives? What about Kelsier? He only gained his powers as a Mistborn after he was trapped in the Pits of Hathsin. What would have happened if he’d been beaten properly as a child? He would always have been Mistborn. He could have saved his wife.”

  “And then wouldn’t have had the courage or motivation to overthrow the Final Empire.”

  “And is what we have any better?” Elend asked. “The longer I’ve held this throne, Vin, the more I’ve come to realize that some of the things the Lord Ruler did weren’t evil, but simply effective. Right or wrong, he maintained order in his kingdom.”

  Vin looked up, catching his eyes, forcing him to look down at her. “I don’t like this hardness in you, Elend.”

  He looked out over the blackened canal waters. “It doesn’t control me, Vin. I don’t agree with most of the things the Lord Ruler did. I’m just coming to understand him—and that understanding worries me.” She saw questions in his eyes, but also strengths. He looked down and met her eyes. “I can hold this throne only because I know that at one point, I was willing to give it up in the name of what was right. If I ever lose that, Vin, you need to tell me. All right?”

  Vin nodded.

  Elend looked back at the horizon again. What is it he hopes to see? Vin thought.

  “There has to be a balance, Vin,” he said. “Somehow, we’ll find it. The balance between who we wish to be and who we need to be.” He sighed. “But for now,” he said, nodding to the side, “we simply have to be satisfied with who we are.”

  Vin glanced to the side as a small courier skiff from one of the other narrowboats pulled up alongside theirs. A man in simple brown robes stood upon it. He wore large spectacles, as if attempting to obscure the intricate Ministry tattoos around his eyes, and he was smiling happily.

  Vin smiled herself. Once, she had thought that a happy obligator was always a bad sign. That was before she’d known Noorden. Even during the days of the Lord Ruler, the contented scholar had probably lived most of his life in his own little world. He provided a strange proof that even in the confines of what had once been—in her opinion—the most evil organization in the empire, one could find good men.

  “Your Excellency,” Noorden said, stepping off of the skiff and bowing. A couple of assistant scribes joined him on the deck, lugging books and ledgers.

  “Noorden,” Elend said, joining the man on the foredeck. Vin followed. “You have done the counts I asked?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Noorden said as an aide opened up a ledger on a pile of boxes. “I must say, this was a difficult task, what with the army moving about and the like.”

  “I’m certain you were thorough as always, Noorden,” Elend said. He glanced at the ledger, which seemed to make sense to him, though all Vin saw was a bunch of random numbers.

  “What’s it say?” she asked.

  “It lists the number of sick and dead,” Elend said. “Of our thirty-eight thousand, nearly six thousand were taken by the sickness. We lost a bit over five hundred and fifty.”

  “Including one of my own scribes,” Noorden said, shaking his head.

  Vin frowned. Not at the death, at something else, something itching at her mind . . .

  “Fewer dead than expected,” Elend said, pulling thoughtfully at his beard.

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Noorden said. “I guess these soldier types are more rugged than the average skaa population. The sickness, whatever it is, didn’t strike them as hard.”

  “How do you know?” Vin asked, looking up. “How do you know how many should have died?”

  “Previous experience, my lady,” Noorden said in his chatty way. “We’ve been tracking these deaths with some interest. Since the disease is new, we’re trying to determine exactly what causes it. Perhaps that will lead us to a way to treat it. I’ve had my scribes reading what we can, trying to find clues of other diseases like this. It seems a little like the shakewelts, though that’s usually brought on by—”

  “Noorden,” Vin said, frowning. “You have figures then? Exact numbers?”

  “That’s what His Excellency asked for, my lady.”

  “How many fell sick to the disease?” Vin asked. “Exactly?”

  “Well, let me see . . .” Noorden said, shooing his scribe away and checking the ledger. “Five thousand two hundred and forty-three.”

  “What percentage of the soldiers is that?” Vin asked.

  Noorden paused, then waved over a scribe and did some calculations. “About thirteen and a half percent, my lady,” he finally said, adjusting his spectacles.

  Vin frowned. “Did you include the men who died in your calculations?”

  “Actually, no,” Noorden said.

  “And which total did you use?” Vin asked. “The total number of men in the army, or the total number who hadn’t been in the mists before?”

  “The first.”

  “Do you have a count for the second number?” Vin asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” Noorden said. “The emperor wanted an accurate count of which soldiers would be affected.”

  “Use that number instead,” Vin said, glancing at Elend. He seemed interested.

  “What is this about, Vin?” he asked as Noorden and his men worked.

  “I’m . . . not sure,” Vin said.

  “Numbers are important for generalizations,” Elend said. “But I don’t see how . . .” He trailed off as Noorden looked up from his calculations, then cocked his head, saying something softly to himself.

  “What?” Vin asked.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” Noorden said. “I was just a bit surprised. The calculation came out to be exact—precisely sixteen percent of the soldiers fell sick. To the man.”

  “A coincidence, Noorden,” Elend said. “It isn’t that remarkable for calculations t
o come out exact.”

  Ash blew across the deck. “No,” Noorden said, “no, you are right, Your Excellency. A simple coincidence.”

  “Check your ledgers,” Vin said. “Find percentages based on other groups of people who have caught this disease.”

  “Vin,” Elend said, “I’m no statistician, but I have worked with numbers in my research. Sometimes, natural phenomena produce seemingly odd results, but the chaos of statistics actually results in normalization. It might appear strange that our numbers broke down to an exact percentage, but that’s just the way that statistics work.”

  “Sixteen,” Noorden said. He looked up. “Another exact percentage.”

  Elend frowned, stepping over to the ledger.

  “This third one here isn’t exact,” Noorden said, “but that’s only because the base number isn’t a multiple of twenty-five. A fraction of a person can’t really become sick, after all. Yet, the sickness in this population here is within a single person of being exactly sixteen percent.”

  Elend knelt down, heedless of the ash that had dusted the deck since it had last been swept. Vin looked over his shoulder, scanning the numbers.

  “It doesn’t matter how old the average member of the population is,” Noorden said, scribbling. “Nor does it matter where they live. Each one shows the exact same percentage of people falling sick.”

  “How could we have not noticed this before?” Elend asked.

  “Well, we did, after a fashion,” Noorden said. “We knew that about four in twenty-five caught the sickness. However, I hadn’t realized how exact the numbers were. This is indeed odd, Your Excellency. I know of no other disease that works this way. Look, here’s an entry where a hundred scouts were sent into the mists, and precisely sixteen of them fell sick!”

  Elend looked troubled.

  “What?” Vin asked.

  “This is wrong, Vin,” Elend said. “Very wrong.”

  “It’s like the chaos of normal random statistics has broken down,” Noorden said. “A population should never react this precisely—there should be a curve of probability, with smaller populations reflecting the expected percentages least accurately.”

  “At the very least,” Elend said, “the sickness should affect the elderly in different ratios from the healthy.”

  “In a way, it does,” Noorden said as one of his assistants handed him a paper with further calculations. “The deaths respond that way, as we would expect. But, the total number who fall sick is always sixteen percent! We’ve been paying so much attention to how many died, we didn’t notice how unnatural the percentages of those stricken were.”

  Elend stood. “Check on this, Noorden,” he said, gesturing toward the ledger. “Do interviews, make certain the data hasn’t been changed by Ruin, and find out if this trend holds. We can’t jump to conclusions with only four or five examples. It could all just be a large coincidence.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Noorden said, looking a bit shaken. “But . . . what if it’s not a coincidence? What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Elend said.

  It means consequence, Vin thought. It means that there are laws, even if we don’t understand them.

  Sixteen. Why sixteen percent?

  The beads of metal found at the Well—beads that made men into Mistborn—were the reason why Allomancers used to be more powerful. Those first Mistborn were as Elend Venture became—possessing a primal power, which was then passed down through the lines of the nobility, weakening a bit with each generation.

  The Lord Ruler was one of these ancient Allomancers, his power pure and unadulterated by time and breeding. That is part of why he was so mighty compared to other Mistborn—though, admittedly, his ability to mix Feruchemy and Allomancy was what produced many of his most spectacular abilities. Still, it is interesting to me that one of his “divine” powers—his essential Allomantic strength—was something every one of the original nine Allomancers possessed.

  22

  SAZED SAT IN ONE OF THE NICER BUILDINGS at the Pits of Hathsin—a former guardhouse—holding a mug of hot tea. The Terris elders sat in chairs before him, a small stove providing warmth. On the next day, Sazed would have to leave to catch up with Goradel and Breeze, who would be well on their way to Urteau by now.

  The sunlight was dimming. The mists had already come, and they hung just outside the glass window. Sazed could just barely make out depressions in the dark ground outside—cracks, in the earth. There were dozens of the cracks; the Terris people had built fences to mark them. Only a few years ago, before Kelsier had destroyed the atium crystals, men had been forced to crawl down into those cracks, seeking small geodes which had beads of atium at their centers.

  Each slave who hadn’t been able to find at least one geode a week had been executed. There were likely still hundreds, perhaps thousands, of corpses pinned beneath the ground, lost in deep caverns, dead without anyone knowing or caring.

  What a terrible place this was, Sazed thought, turning away from the window as a young Terriswoman closed the shutters. Before him on the table were several ledgers which showed the resources, expenditures, and needs of the Terris people.

  “I believe I suggested keeping these figures in metal,” Sazed said.

  “Yes, Master Keeper,” said one of the elderly stewards. “We copy the important figures into a sheet of metal each evening, then check them weekly against the ledgers to make certain nothing has changed.”

  “That is well,” Sazed said, picking through one of the ledgers, sitting in his lap. “And sanitation? Have you addressed those issues since my last visit?”

  “Yes, Master Keeper,” said another man. “We have prepared many more latrines, as you commanded—though we do not need them.”

  “There may be refugees,” Sazed said. “I wish for you to be able to care for a larger population, should it become necessary. But, please. These are only suggestions, not commands. I claim no authority over you.”

  The group of stewards shared glances. Sazed had been busy during his time with them, which had kept him from dwelling on his melancholy thoughts. He’d made sure they had enough supplies, that they kept a good communication with Penrod in Luthadel, and that they had a system in place for settling disputes among themselves.

  “Master Keeper,” one of the elders finally said. “How long will you be staying?”

  “I must leave in the morning, I fear,” Sazed said. “I came simply to check on your needs. This is a difficult time to live in, and you could be easily forgotten by those in Luthadel, I think.”

  “We are well, Master Keeper,” said one of the others. He was the youngest of the elders, and he was only a few years younger than Sazed. Most of the men here were far older—and far wiser—than he. That they should look to him seemed wrong.

  “Will you not reconsider your place with us, Master Keeper?” asked another. “We want not for food or for land. Yet, what we do lack is a leader.”

  “The Terris people were oppressed long enough, I think,” Sazed said. “You have no need for another tyrant king.”

  “Not a tyrant,” one said. “One of our own.”

  “The Lord Ruler was one of our own,” Sazed said quietly,

  The group of men looked down. That the Lord Ruler had proven to be Terris was a shame to all of their people.

  “We need someone to guide us,” one of the men said. “Even during the days of the Lord Ruler, he was not our leader. We looked to the Keeper Synod.”

  The Keeper Synod—the clandestine leaders of Sazed’s sect. They had led the Terris people for centuries, secretly working to make certain that Feruchemy continued, despite the Lord Ruler’s attempts to breed the power out of the people.

  “Master Keeper,” said Master Vedlew, senior of the elders.

  “Yes, Master Vedlew?”

  “You do not wear your copperminds.”

  Sazed looked down. He hadn’t realized it was noticeable that, beneath his robes, he wasn’t wearing the metal
bracers. “They are in my pack.”

  “It seems odd, to me,” Vedlew said, “that you should work so hard during the Lord Ruler’s time, always wearing your metalminds in secret, despite the danger. Yet, now that you are free to do as you wish, you carry them in your pack.”

  Sazed shook his head. “I cannot be the man you wish me to be. Not right now.”

  “You are a Keeper.”

  “I was the lowest of them,” Sazed said. “A rebel and a reject. They cast me from their presence. The last time I left Tathingdwen, I did so in disgrace. The common people cursed me in the quiet of their homes.”

  “Now they bless you, Master Sazed,” said one of the men.

  “I do not deserve those blessings.”

  “Deserve them or not, you are all we have left.”

  “Then we are a sorrier people than we may appear.”

  The room fell silent.

  “There was another reason why I came here, Master Vedlew,” Sazed said, looking up. “Tell me, have any of your people died recently in . . . odd circumstances?”

  “Of what do you speak?” the aged Terrisman asked.

  “Mist deaths,” Sazed said. “Men who are killed by simply going out into the mists during the day.”

  “That is a tale of the skaa,” one of the other men scoffed. “The mists are not dangerous.”

  “Indeed,” Sazed said carefully. “Do you send your people out to work in them during the daylight hours, when the mists have not yet retreated for the day?”

  “Of course we do,” said the younger Terrisman. “Why, it would be foolish to let those hours of work pass.”

  Sazed found it difficult not to let his curiosity work on that fact. Terrismen weren’t killed by the daymists.

  What was the connection?

  He tried to summon the mental energy to think on the issue, but he felt traitorously apathetic. He just wanted to hide somewhere where nobody would expect anything of him. Where he wouldn’t have to solve the problems of the world, or even deal with his own religious crisis.