Mistborn Trilogy

by Sanderson, Brandon

  He heard her sniffle quietly behind him. He left her standing there, then walked toward the gathering group of soldiers. One man brought Spook his dueling canes and singed cloak. Goradel stood at the front of his soldiers, looking proud. “We’re ready, my lord.”

  Breeze walked up beside him, shaking his head, dueling cane tapping the ground. He sighed. “Well, here we go again. . . .”

  The evening’s occasion was a speech Quellion had been publicizing for some time. He had stopped executions recently, as if finally realizing that the deaths were contributing to the instability of his rule. He apparently intended to swing back toward benevolence, holding rallies, emphasizing the wonderful things he was doing for the city.

  Spook walked alone, a little ahead of Breeze, Allrianne, and Sazed, who chatted behind. Some of Goradel’s soldiers followed as well, wearing common Urteau garb. Spook had split their force, sending it by different paths. It wasn’t dark yet—to Spook the falling sun was bright, forcing him to wear his blindfold and spectacles. Quellion liked to hold his speeches in the evening, so that the mists arrived during them. He liked the implied connection to the Survivor.

  A figure hobbled out of a side streetslot next to Spook. Durn walked with a stooped posture, a cloak obscuring his figure. Spook respected the twisted man’s insistence on leaving the security of the Harrows, going out to run jobs himself. Perhaps that was why he’d ended up as leader of the city’s underground.

  “People are gathering, as expected,” Durn said, coughing quietly. “Some of your soldiers are already there.”

  Spook nodded.

  “Things are . . . unsettled in the city,” Durn said. “It worries me. Segments I can’t control have already started looting some of the prohibited noble mansions. My men are all busy trying to get people out of the streetslots.”

  “It will be all right,” Spook said. “Most of the populace will be at the speech.”

  Durn was silent for a moment. “Word is that Quellion is going to use his speech to denounce you, then finally order an attack on the Ministry building where you’re staying.”

  “It’s a good thing we won’t be there, then,” Spook said. “He shouldn’t have withdrawn his soldiers, even if he did need them to keep order in the city.”

  Durn nodded.

  “What?” Spook said.

  “I just hope you can handle this, lad. Once this night is through, the city will be yours. Treat it better than Quellion did.”

  “I will,” Spook said.

  “My men will create a disturbance for you at the meeting. Farewell.” Durn took the next left, disappearing down another streetslot alleyway.

  Ahead, the crowds were already gathering. Spook put up the hood of his cloak, keeping his eyes obscured as he wove his way through the crowd. He quickly left Sazed and the others behind, pushing his way up a ramp to the old city square—the place Quellion had chosen for his speech. His men had erected a wooden stage, from which the Citizen could face the crowd. The speech was already in progress. Spook stopped just a short distance away from a guard patrol. Many of Quellion’s soldiers surrounded the stage, eyeing the crowd.

  Minutes passed, and Spook spent them listening to Quellion’s voice ring, yet paying no attention to the words. Ash fell around him, dusting the crowd. Mists began to twist in the air.

  He listened, listened with ears no other man had. He used Allomancy’s strange ability to filter and ignore—hearing through the chatter and whispers and shuffles and coughs, just as he could somehow see through the obscuring mists. He heard the city. Yells in the distance.

  It was beginning.

  “Too fast!” a voice whispered, a beggar moving up to Spook’s side. “Durn sends word. Riots in the streets, ones he didn’t start! Durn cannot control them. My lord, the city is beginning to burn!”

  “It was a night not unlike this one,” another voice whispered. Kelsier’s voice. “A glorious night. When I took the city of Luthadel, and made it mine.”

  A disturbance began at the back of the crowd; Durn’s men were causing their distraction. Some of Quellion’s guards pulled away to quell this nearby riot. The Citizen continued to shout his accusations. Spook heard his own name in Quellion’s words, but the context was simply noise.

  Spook tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. Ash fell toward him, as if he were sailing through it into the air. Like a Mistborn.

  His hood fell back. Men around him whispered in surprise.

  A clock rang in the distance. Goradel’s soldiers rushed the stage. Around him, Spook could feel a glow rising. The fires of rebellion, burning in the city. Just like the night he had overthrown the Lord Ruler. The torches of revolution. Then the people had put Elend on the throne.

  This time, it would be Spook they elevated.

  Weak no more, he thought. Never weak again!

  The last of Quellion’s soldiers rushed away from the stage, moving into combat with Goradel’s men. The crowd shied away from the battle, but nobody ran. They had been prepared well for the night’s events. Many would be waiting, watching for the signs Spook and Durn had promised—signs revealed just a few hours before, to minimize the risk of Quellion’s spies learning Spook’s plan. A miracle in the canals, and proof that Quellion was an Allomancer.

  If the Citizen—or even any of his guards on the stage—shot coins or used Allomancy to leap into the air, the people would see. They would know that they had been deceived. And that would be the end. The crowd surged away from the cursing soldiers, and their withdrawal left Spook standing alone. Quellion’s voice finally trailed off. Some of his soldiers were rushing up to get him off the stage.

  Quellion’s eyes found Spook. Only then did they show fear.

  Spook leaped. He couldn’t Steelpush himself, but his legs were fueled by the power of flared pewter. He soared up, easily cresting the lip of the stage, landing in a crouch. He pulled free a dueling cane, then rushed the Citizen.

  Behind him, people began to cry out. Spook heard his name, Survivor of the Flames. Survivor. He wouldn’t just kill Quellion, but destroy him. Undermining his rule, just as Breeze had suggested. At that moment, the Soother and Allrianne would be manipulating the crowd, keeping them from running away in a panic. Holding them there.

  So they could watch the show Spook was about to give.

  The guards at Quellion’s side saw Spook too late. He dropped the first one easily, crushing the man’s skull inside his helmet. Quellion screamed for more help.

  Spook swung at another man, but his target moved out of the way, supernaturally quick. Spook pulled to the side just in time to dodge a blow, the weapon grazing the side of his cheek. The man was an Allomancer—a pewter burner. The large brute carried no sword, but instead an obsidian-edged cudgel.

  Pewter isn’t spectacular enough, Spook thought. The people won’t know how to tell if a man is swinging too quickly or enduring too much. I have to make Quellion shoot coins.

  The Thug backed away, obviously noting Spook’s own increased speed. He kept his weapon raised warily, but did not attack. He just had to stall, letting his companion pull Quellion away. The Thug would be no easy fight—he would be more skilled than Spook, and even stronger.

  “Your family is free,” Spook lied quietly. “We saved them earlier. Help us capture Quellion—he no longer has a hold on you.”

  The Thug paused, lowering his weapon.

  “Kill him!” Kelsier snapped.

  That hadn’t been Spook’s plan, but he responded to the prompting. He dodged inside the Thug’s reach. The man turned in shock, and as he did, Spook delivered a backhanded blow to the skull. Spook’s dueling cane shattered. The Thug stumbled to the ground, and Spook snatched up the man’s fallen weapon, the obsidian-lined cudgel.

  Quellion was at the edge of the stage. Spook jumped, sailing across the wooden platform. It was all right for him to use Allomancy; he hadn’t preached against it. Only Quellion the hypocrite needed to fear using his powers.

  Spook cut down
the remaining guard as he landed—the jagged shards of obsidian ripping through flesh. The soldier fell, and Quellion spun.

  “I don’t fear you!” Quellion said, voice shaking. “I’m protected!”

  “Kill him,” Kelsier ordered, appearing visibly on the stage a short distance away. Usually, the Survivor only spoke in his mind; he hadn’t actually appeared since that day in the burning building. It meant important things were happening.

  Spook grabbed the Citizen by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. Spook raised the length of wood, blood dripping from the obsidian shards onto the side of his hand.

  “No!”

  Spook froze at that voice, then glanced to the side. She was there, shoving her way through the crowd, approaching the open space before the stage.

  “Beldre?” Spook asked. “How did you get out of the cavern?”

  But, of course, she couldn’t hear him. Only Spook’s supernatural hearing had allowed him to pick her voice out of the sounds of fear and battle. He met her eyes across the distance, and saw her whispered words more than he heard them.

  Please. You promised.

  “Kill him!”

  Quellion chose that moment to try and pull away. Spook turned, yanking back again—harder this time, nearly ripping Quellion’s shirt free as he threw the man down to the wooden platform. Quellion cried out in pain, and Spook raised his brutal weapon with both hands.

  Something sparked in the firelight. Spook barely felt the impact, though it shook him. He stumbled, looking down, seeing blood on his side. Something had pierced the flesh of his left arm and shoulder. Not an arrow, though it had moved like one. His arm drooped, and though he couldn’t feel the pain, it seemed that his muscles weren’t working properly.

  Something hit me. A . . . coin.

  He turned. Beldre stood at the front of the crowd, crying, her hand raised toward him.

  She was there that day I was captured, Spook thought numbly, at her brother’s side. He always keeps her near. To protect her, we thought.

  Or the other way around?

  Spook stood up straighter, Quellion whimpering in front of him. Spook’s arm dripped a trail of blood from where Beldre’s coin had hit, but he ignored it, staring at her.

  “You were always the Allomancer,” he whispered. “Not your brother.”

  And then, the crowd began to scream—likely prompted by Breeze. “The Citizen’s sister is an Allomancer!”

  “Hypocrite!”

  “Liar!”

  “He killed my uncle, yet left his own sister alive!”

  Beldre cried out as the people, carefully prepared and planted, saw the proof that Spook had promised them. It didn’t have the target he had intended, but the machine he had set in motion could not be halted now. The people gathered around Beldre, yelling in anger, shoving her among themselves.

  Spook stepped toward her, raising his wounded arm. Then a shadow fell on him.

  “She was always planning to betray you, Spook,” Kelsier said.

  Spook turned, looking at the Survivor. He stood tall and proud, like the day when he’d faced the Lord Ruler.

  “You kept waiting for an assassin,” Kelsier said. “You didn’t realize that Quellion had already sent one. His sister. Didn’t it strike you as strange that he’d let her get away from him and enter the enemy’s own base? She was sent there to kill you. You, Sazed, and Breeze. The problem is, she was raised a pampered rich girl. She’s not used to killing. She never was. You were never really in danger from her.”

  The crowd surged, and Spook spun, worried about Beldre. However, he calmed a bit as he realized that the people were simply pulling her toward the stage. “Survivor!” people were chanting. “Survivor of the Flames!”

  “King!”

  They cast Beldre before him, pushing her up onto the platform. Her scarlet clothing was ripped, her figure battered, her auburn hair a mess. To the side, Quellion groaned. Spook appeared to have broken his arm without realizing it.

  Spook moved to help Beldre. She was bleeding from several small cuts, but she was alive. And she was crying.

  “She was his bodyguard,” Kelsier said, stepping over to Beldre. “That’s why she was always with him. Quellion isn’t an Allomancer. He never was.”

  Spook knelt beside the girl, cringing at her bruised form.

  “Now, you must kill her,” Kelsier said.

  Spook looked up, blood seeping from the cut on the side of his face, where the Thug had grazed him. Blood dripped from his chin. “What?”

  “You want power, Spook?” Kelsier said, stepping forward. “You want to be a better Allomancer? Well, power must come from somewhere. It is never free. This woman is a Coinshot. Kill her, and you can have her ability. I will give it to you.”

  Spook looked down at the weeping woman. He felt surreal, as if he were not quite there. His breathing was labored, each breath coming as a gasp, his body shaking despite his pewter. People chanted his name. Quellion was mumbling something. Beldre continued to cry.

  Spook reached up with his bloodied hand, ripping off his blindfold, spectacles tumbling free. He stumbled to his feet, looking out over the city.

  And saw it burning.

  The sounds of rioting echoed through the streets. Flames burned in a dozen different spots, lighting the mists, casting a hellish haze over the city. Not the fires of rebellion at all. The fires of destruction.

  “This is wrong . . .” Spook whispered.

  “You will take the city, Spook,” Kelsier said. “You will have what you always wanted! You’ll be like Elend, and like Vin. Better than either! You’ll have Elend’s titles and Vin’s power! You’ll be like a god!”

  Spook turned away from the burning city as something caught his attention. Quellion was reaching out with his good arm, reaching toward . . .

  Toward Kelsier.

  “Please,” Quellion whispered. It seemed as if he could see the Survivor, though nobody else around them could. “My lord Kelsier, why have you forsaken me?”

  “I gave you pewter, Spook,” Kelsier said angrily, not looking at Quellion. “Will you deny me now? You must pull free one of the steel spikes that support this stage. Then, you must take the girl, and press her to your chest. Kill her with the spike, and drive it into your own body. That is the only way!”

  Kill her with the spike . . . Spook thought, feeling numb. This all began that day when I nearly died. I was fighting a Thug in the market; I used him as a shield. But . . . the other soldier struck anyway, stabbing through his friend and into me.

  Spook stumbled away from Beldre, kneeling beside Quellion. The man cried out as Spook forced him down against the wooden planks.

  “That’s right,” Kelsier said. “Kill him first.”

  But Spook wasn’t listening. He ripped Quellion’s shirt, looking at the shoulder and chest. There was nothing odd about either. The Citizen’s upper arm, however, had a length of metal piercing it. It appeared to be bronze. Hand shaking, Spook pulled the metal free. Quellion screamed.

  But so did Kelsier.

  Spook turned, bloodied bronze spike in his hand. Kelsier was enraged, hands like claws, stepping forward.

  “What are you?” Spook asked.

  The thing screamed, but Spook ignored it, looking down at his own chest. He ripped open his shirt, exposing the mostly healed wound in his shoulder. A glimmer of metal still shone there, the tip of the sword. The sword that had passed through an Allomancer—killing the man—and then entered Spook’s own body. Kelsier had told him to leave the broken shard there. As a symbol of what Spook had gone through.

  The point of the shard protruded from Spook’s skin. How had he forgotten about it? How had he ignored such a relatively large piece of metal inside of his body? Spook reached for it.

  “No!” Kelsier said. “Spook, do you want to go back to being normal? Do you want to be useless again? You’ll lose your pewter, and go back to being weak, like you were when you let your uncle die!”

  Spook
wavered.

  No, Spook thought. Something is wrong. I was supposed to expose Quellion, get him to use his Allomancy, but I just attacked instead. I wanted to kill. I forgot about plans and preparation. I brought destruction to this city.

  This is not right!

  He pulled the glass dagger from his boot. Kelsier screamed terribly in his ears, but Spook reached up anyway, slicing the flesh of his chest. He reached in with pewter-enhanced fingers and grabbed the steel shard that was embedded inside.

  Then, he ripped the bit of metal free, casting it across the stage, crying out at the shock of pain. Kelsier vanished immediately. And so did Spook’s ability to burn pewter.

  It hit him all at once—the fatigue of pushing himself so hard during his time in Urteau. The wounds he’d been ignoring. The sudden explosion of light, sound, smell, and sensation that pewter had let him resist. It overcame him like a physical force, crushing him down. He collapsed to the platform.

  He groaned, unable to think anymore. He could simply let the blackness take him. . . .

  Her city is burning.

  Blackness . . .

  Thousands will die in the flames.

  The mists tickled his cheeks. In the cacophony, Spook had let his tin dim, relieving him of sensation, leaving him feeling blissfully numb. It was better that way.

  You want to be like Kelsier? Really like Kelsier? Then fight when you are beaten!

  “Lord Spook!” The voice was faint.

  Survive!

  With a scream of pain, Spook flared tin. As the metal always did, it brought a wave of sensations—thousands of them, shocking him at once. Pain. Feeling. Hearing. Sounds, smells, lights.

  And lucidity.

  Spook forced himself to his knees, coughing. Blood still streamed down his arm. He looked up. Sazed was running toward the platform.

  “Lord Spook!” Sazed said, puffing as he arrived. “Lord Breeze is trying to damp down riots, but we pushed this city too far, I think! The people will destroy it in their rage.”