Mistborn Trilogy

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “They rely on it too much,” Elend said. “If they survive our siege, they’ll need to ship in supplies. Assuming any can be had.”

  Ham fell silent. Finally, he turned, looking back up the dark canal behind them. “El,” he said. “I don’t think that much more will be traveling this canal. The boats barely made it this far—there’s too much ash clogging it. If we go home, we’ll do so on foot.”

  “ ‘If’ we go home?”

  Ham shrugged. Despite the colder western weather, he still wore only a vest. Now that Elend was an Allomancer, he could finally understand the habit. While burning pewter, Elend barely felt the chill, though several of the soldiers had complained about it in the mornings.

  “I don’t know, El,” Ham finally said. “It just seems portentous to me. Our canal closing behind us as we travel. Kind of like fate is trying to strand us here.”

  “Ham,” Elend said, “everything seems portentous to you. We’ll be fine.”

  Ham shrugged.

  “Organize our forces,” Elend said, pointing. “Dock us in that inlet over there, and set up camp on the mesa.”

  Ham nodded. He was still looking backward, however. Toward Luthadel, which they had left behind.

  They don’t fear the mists, Elend thought, staring up through the darkness at the rocky formations that marked the entrance into Fadrex City. Bonfires blazed up there, lighting the night. Often, such lights were futile—signifying man’s fear of the mists. These fires were different, somehow. They seemed a warning; a bold declaration of confidence. They burned brightly, high, as if floating in the sky.

  Elend turned, walking into his illuminated commander’s tent, where a small group of people sat waiting for him. Ham, Cett, and Vin. Demoux was absent, still recovering from mistsickness.

  We’re spread thin, Elend thought. Spook and Breeze in the North, Penrod back at Luthadel, Felt watching the storage cache in the East . . .

  “All right,” Elend said, letting the tent flaps close behind him. “Looks like they’re holed up in there pretty well.”

  “Initial scout reports are in, El,” Ham said. “We’re guessing about twenty-five thousand defenders.”

  “Not as many as I expected,” Elend said.

  “That bastard Yomen has to keep control of the rest of my kingdom,” Cett said. “If he pulled all of his troops into the capital, the other cities would overthrow him.”

  “What?” Vin asked, sounding amused. “You think they’d rebel and switch back to your side?”

  “No,” Cett said, “they’d rebel and try to take over the kingdom themselves! That’s the way this works. Now that the Lord Ruler is gone, every little lord or petty obligator with half a taste of power thinks he can run a kingdom. Hell, I tried it—so did you.”

  “We were successful,” Ham pointed out.

  “And so was Lord Yomen,” Elend said, folding his arms. “He’s held this kingdom since Cett marched on Luthadel.”

  “He all but forced me out,” Cett admitted. “He had half the nobility turned against me before I even struck toward Luthadel. I said I was leaving him in charge, but we both knew the truth. He’s a clever one—clever enough to know he can hold that city against a larger force, letting him spread his troops out to maintain the kingdom, and to endure a longer siege without running out of supplies.”

  “Unfortunately, Cett’s probably right,” Ham said. “Our initial reports placed Yomen’s forces at somewhere around eighty thousand men. He’d be a fool to not have a few units within striking distance of our camp. We’ll have to be wary of raids.”

  “Double the guards and triple scout patrols,” Elend said, “particularly during the early morning hours, when the daymist is out to obscure, but the sun is up to provide light.”

  Ham nodded.

  “Also,” Elend said thoughtfully, “order the men to stay in their tents during the mists—but tell them to be ready for a raid. If Yomen thinks that we’re afraid to come out, perhaps we can bait one of his ‘surprise’ attacks against us.”

  “Clever,” Ham said.

  “That won’t get us past those natural walls, though,” Elend said, folding his arms. “Cett, what do you say?”

  “Hold the canal,” Cett said. “Post sentries up around those upper rock formations to make certain that Yomen doesn’t resupply the city via secret means. Then, move on.”

  “What?” Ham asked with surprise.

  Elend eyed Cett, trying to decide what the man meant. “Attack surrounding cities? Leave a force here that’s large enough to stymie a siege-break, then capture other parts of his territory?”

  Cett nodded. “Most of the cities around here aren’t fortified at all. They’d cave in without a fight.”

  “A good suggestion,” Elend said. “But we won’t do it.”

  “Why not?” Cett asked.

  “This isn’t just about conquering your homeland back, Cett,” Elend said. “Our primary reason for coming here is to secure that storage cache—and I hope to do that without resorting to pillaging the countryside.”

  Cett snorted. “What do you expect to find in there? Some magical way to stop the ash? Even atium wouldn’t do that.”

  “Something’s in there,” Elend said. “It’s the only hope we have.”

  Cett shook his head. “You’ve been chasing a puzzle left by the Lord Ruler for the better part of a year, Elend. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that the man was a sadist? There’s no secret. No magical way out of this. If we’re going to survive the next few years, we’re going to have to do it on our own—and that means securing the Western Dominance. The plateaus in this area represent some of the most elevated farmland in the empire—and higher altitude means closer to the sun. If you’re going to find plants that survive despite the daymists, you’ll have to grow them here.”

  They were good arguments. But I can’t give up, Elend thought. Not yet. Elend had read the reports of supplies back in Luthadel, and had seen the projections. Ash was killing crops as much or more than the mists were. More land wouldn’t save his people—they needed something else. Something that, he hoped, the Lord Ruler left for them.

  The Lord Ruler didn’t hate his people, and he wouldn’t want them to die out, even if he were defeated. He left food, water, supplies. And, if he knew secrets, he would have hidden them in the caches. There will be something here.

  There has to be.

  “The cache remains our primary target,” Elend said. To the side, he could see Vin smiling.

  “Fine,” Cett said, sighing. “Then you know what we have to do. This siege could take a while.”

  Elend nodded. “Ham, send our engineers in under cover of mist. See if they can find a way for our troops to cross those troughs. Have the scouts search out streams that might run into the city—Cett, presumably you can help us locate some of these. And, once we get spies into the city, have them search out food stores that we can ruin.”

  “A good start,” Cett said. “Of course, there’s one easy way to sow chaos in that city, to perhaps make them surrender without a fight . . .”

  “We’re not going to assassinate King Yomen,” Elend said.

  “Why not?” Cett demanded. “We’ve got two Mistborn. We’ll have no difficulty killing off the Fadrex leadership.”

  “We don’t work that way,” Ham said, face growing dark.

  “Oh?” Cett asked. “That didn’t stop Vin from tearing a hole through my army and attacking me back before we teamed up.”

  “That was different,” Ham said.

  “No,” Elend said, interrupting. “It wasn’t. The reason we’re not going to assassinate Yomen, Cett, is because I want to try diplomacy first.”

  “Diplomacy?” Cett asked. “Didn’t we just march an army of forty thousand soldiers on his city? That’s not a diplomatic move.”

  “True,” Elend said, nodding. “But we haven’t attacked, not yet. Now that I’m here in person, I might as well try talking before sending out knives in the night. We might be
able to persuade Lord Yomen that an alliance will benefit him more than a war.”

  “If we make an alliance,” Cett said, leaning forward in his chair, “I don’t get my city back.”

  “I know,” Elend said.

  Cett frowned.

  “You seem to be forgetting yourself, Cett,” Elend said. “You did not ‘team up’ with me. You knelt before me, offering up oaths of service in exchange for not getting executed. Now, I appreciate your allegiance, and I will see you rewarded with a kingdom to rule under me. However, you don’t get to choose where that kingdom is, nor when I will grant it.”

  Cett paused, sitting in his chair, one arm resting on his useless, paralyzed legs. Finally, he smiled. “Damn, boy. You’ve changed a lot in the year I’ve known you.”

  “So everyone is fond of telling me,” Elend said. “Vin. You think you can get into the city?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I hope that was meant to be rhetorical.”

  “It was meant to be polite,” Elend said. “I need you to do some scouting. We know next to nothing about what’s been going on in this dominance lately—we’ve focused all of our efforts on Urteau and the South.”

  Vin shrugged. “I can go poke around a bit. I don’t know what you expect me to find.”

  “Cett,” Elend said, turning, “I need names. Informants, or perhaps some noblemen that might still be loyal to you.”

  “Noblemen?” Cett asked, amused. “Loyal?”

  Elend rolled his eyes. “How about some that could be bribed to pass on a little information.”

  “Sure,” Cett said. “I’ll write up some names and locations. Assuming they still live in the city. Hell, assuming they’re even still alive. Can’t count on much these days.”

  Elend nodded. “We won’t take any further action until we have more information. Ham, make certain the soldiers dig in well—use the field fortifications that Demoux taught them. Cett, see that those guard patrols get set up, and make certain our Tineyes remain alert and on watch. Vin will scout and see if she can sneak into the cache like she did in Urteau. If we know what’s in there, then we can better judge whether to gamble on trying to conquer the city or not.”

  The various members of the group nodded, understanding that the meeting was over. As they left, Elend stepped back out into the mists, looking up at the distant bonfires burning on the rocky heights.

  Quiet as a sigh, Vin stepped up to his side, following his gaze. She stood for a few moments. Then she glanced to the side, where a pair of soldiers were entering the tent to carry Cett away. Her eyes narrowed in displeasure.

  “I know,�� Elend said quietly. He could tell that she was thinking of Cett again and his influence over Elend.

  “You didn’t deny that you might turn to assassination,” Vin said softly.

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  “And if it does?”

  “Then I’ll make the decision that is best for the empire.”

  Vin was silent for a moment. Then, she glanced at the fires up above.

  “I could come with you,” Elend offered.

  She smiled, then kissed him. “Sorry,” she said. “But you’re noisy.”

  “Come now. I’m not that bad.”

  “Yes you are,” Vin said. “Plus, you smell.”

  “Oh?” he asked, amused. “What do I smell like?”

  “An emperor. A Tineye would pick you out in seconds.”

  Elend raised his eyebrows. “I see. And, don’t you possess an imperial scent as well?”

  “Of course I do,” Vin said, wrinkling her nose. “But I know how to get rid of it. Either way, you’re not good enough to go with me, Elend. I’m sorry.”

  Elend smiled. Dear, blunt Vin.

  Behind him, the soldiers left the tent, carrying Cett. An aide walked up, delivering to Elend a short list of informants and noblemen who might be willing to talk. Elend passed it to Vin. “Have fun,” he said.

  She dropped a coin between them, kissed him again, then shot up into the night.

  I am only just beginning to understand the brilliance of the Lord Ruler’s cultural synthesis. One of the benefits afforded him by being both immortal and—for all relevant purposes—omnipotent was a direct and effective influence on the evolution of the Final Empire.

  He was able to take elements from a dozen different cultures and apply them to his new, “perfect” society. For instance, the architectural brilliance of the Khlenni builders is manifest in the keeps that the high nobility construct. Khlenni fashion sense—suits for gentlemen, gowns for ladies—is another thing the Lord Ruler decided to appropriate.

  I suspect that despite his hatred of the Khlenni people—of whom Alendi was one—Rashek had a deep-seated envy of them as well. The Terris of the time were pastoral herdsmen, the Khlenni cultured cosmopolitans. However ironic, it is logical that Rashek’s new empire would mimic the high culture of the people he hated.

  26

  SPOOK STOOD IN HIS LITTLE ONE-ROOM LAIR, a room that was—of course—illegal. The Citizen forbade such places, places where a man could live unaccounted, unwatched. Fortunately, forbidding such places didn’t eliminate them.

  It only made them more expensive.

  Spook was lucky. He barely remembered leaping from the burning building, clutching six Allomantic vials, coughing and bleeding. He didn’t at all remember making it back to his lair. He should probably be dead. Even surviving the fires, he should have been sold out—if the proprietor of his little illegal inn had realized who Spook was and what he’d escaped, the promise of reward would undoubtedly have been irresistible.

  But, Spook had survived. Perhaps the other thieves in the lair thought he had been on the wrong side of a robbery. Or, perhaps they simply didn’t care. Either way, he was able to stand in front of the room’s small mirror, shirt off, looking in wonder at his wound.

  I’m alive, he thought. And . . . I feel pretty good.

  He stretched, rolling his arm in its socket. The wound hurt far less than it should have. In the very dim light, he was able to see the cut, scabbed over and healing. Pewter burned in his stomach—a beautiful complement to the familiar flame of tin.

  He was something that shouldn’t exist. In Allomancy, people either had just one of the eight basic powers, or they had all fourteen powers. One or all. Never two. Yet, Spook had tried to burn other metals without success. Somehow, he had been given pewter alone to complement his tin. Amazing as that was, it was overshadowed by a greater wonder.

  He had seen Kelsier’s spirit. The Survivor had returned and had shown himself to Spook.

  Spook had no idea how to react to that event. He wasn’t particularly religious, but . . . well, a dead man—one some called a god—had appeared to him and saved his life. He worried that it had been a hallucination. But, if that were so, how had he gained the power of pewter?

  He shook his head, reaching for his bandages, but paused as something twinkled in the mirror’s reflection. He stepped closer, relying—as always—upon starlight from outside to provide illumination. With his extreme tin senses, it was easy to see the bit of metal sticking from the skin in his shoulder, even though it only protruded a tiny fraction of an inch.

  The tip of that man’s sword, Spook realized, the one that stabbed me. It broke—the end must have gotten embedded in my skin. He gritted his teeth, reaching to pull it free.

  “No,” Kelsier said. “Leave it. It, like the wound you bear, is a sign of your survival.”

  Spook started. He glanced about, but there was no apparition this time. Just the voice. Yet, he was certain he’d heard it.

  “Kelsier?” he hesitantly asked.

  There was no response.

  Am I going mad? Spook wondered. Or . . . is it like the Church of the Survivor teaches? Could it be that Kelsier had become something greater, something that watched over his followers? And, if so, did Kelsier always watch him? That felt a little bit . . . unsettling. However, if it brought him the power of pewter
, then who was he to complain?

  Spook turned and put his shirt on, stretching his arm again. He needed more information. How long had he been delirious? What was Quellion doing? Had the others from the crew arrived yet?

  Taking his mind off of his strange visions for the moment, he slipped out of his room and onto the dark street. As lairs went, his wasn’t all that impressive—a room behind the hidden door in a slum alleyway wall. Still, it was better than living in one of the crowded shanties he passed as he made his way through the dark, mist-covered city.

  The Citizen liked to pretend that everything was perfect in his little utopia, but Spook had not been surprised to find that it had slums, just like every other city he’d ever visited. There were many people in Urteau who, for one reason or another, weren’t fond of living in the parts of town where the Citizen could keep watch on them. These had aggregated in a place known as the Harrows, a particularly cramped canal far from the main trenches.

  The Harrows was clogged with a disorderly mash of wood and cloth and bodies. Shacks leaned against shacks, buildings leaned precariously against earth and rock, and the entire mess piled on top of itself, creeping up the canal walls toward the dark sky above. Here and there, people slept under only a dirty sheet stretched between two bits of urban flotsam—their millennium-old fear of the mists giving way before simple necessity.

  Spook shuffled down the crowded canal. Some of the piles of half-buildings reached so high and wide that the sky narrowed to a mere crack far above, shining down its midnight light, too dim to be of use to any eyes but Spook’s.

  Perhaps the chaos was why the Citizen chose not to visit the Harrows. Or, perhaps he was simply waiting to clean them out until he had a better grip on his kingdom. Either way, his strict society, mixed with the poverty it was creating, made for a curiously open nighttime culture. The Lord Ruler had patrolled the streets. The Citizen, however, preached that the mists were of Kelsier—and so could hardly forbid people to go out in them. Urteau was the first place in Spook’s experience where a person could walk down a street at midnight and find a small tavern open and serving drinks. He moved inside, cloak pulled tight. There was no proper bar, just a group of dirty men sitting around a dug-out firepit in the ground. Others sat on stools or boxes in the corners. Spook found an empty box, and sat down.