The Mistborn Trilogy (193 page)

Spook hadn’t been that boy for some ten years. In a way, he was aware that he was delusional—that the fever of his wounds was causing him to come in and out of consciousness, dreams of the past filling his mind. He let them run. Staying focused required too much energy.

And so, he remembered what it felt like as he hit the ground. A large man—all men were large compared with Spook—stood over him, skin dirtied with the dust and grime of a miner. The man spat on the dirty floor beside Spook, then turned to the other skaa in the room. There were many. One was crying, the tears leaving lines of cleanliness on her cheeks, washing away the dust.

“All right,” the large man said. “We have him. Now what?”

The people glanced at each other. One quietly closed the shack’s door, shutting out the red sunlight.

“There’s only one thing to be done,” another man said. “We turn him in.”

Spook looked up. He met the eyes of the crying woman. She looked away. “Wasing the where of what?” Spook demanded.

The large man spat again, setting a boot against Spook’s neck, pushing him back down against the rough wood. “You shouldn’t have let him run around with those street gangs, Margel. Damn boy is barely coherent now.”

“What happens if we give him up?” asked one of the other men. “I mean, what if they decide that we’re like him? They could have
us
executed! I’ve seen it before. You turn someone in, and those . . . things come searching for everyone that knew him.”

“Problems like his run in the family, they do,” another man said.

The room grew quiet. They all knew about Spook’s family.

“They’ll kill us,” said the frightened man. “You know they will! I’ve seen them, seen them with those spikes in their eyes. Spirits of death, they are.”

“We can’t just let him run about,” another man said. “They’ll discover what he is.”

“There’s only one thing to be done,” the large man said, pressing down on Spook’s neck even harder.

The room’s occupants—the ones Spook could see—nodded solemnly. They couldn’t turn him in. They couldn’t let him go. But, nobody would miss a skaa urchin. No Inquisitor or obligator would ask twice about a dead child found in the streets. Skaa died all the time.

That was the way of the Final Empire.

“Father,” Spook whispered.

The heel came down harder. “You’re not my son! My son went into the mists and never came out. You must be a mistwraith.”

Spook tried to object, but his chest was pressed down too tight. He couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. The room started to grow black. And yet, his ears—supernaturally sensitive, enhanced by powers he barely understood—heard something.

Coins.

The pressure on his neck grew weaker. He was able to gasp for breath, his vision returning. And there, spilled on the ground before him, was a scattering of beautiful copper coins. Skaa weren’t paid for their work—the miners were given goods instead, barely enough to survive on. Yet, Spook had seen coins occasionally passing between noble hands. He’d once known a boy who had found a coin, lost in the dusty grime of the street.

A larger boy had killed him for it. Then, a nobleman had killed that boy when he’d tried to spend it. It seemed to Spook that no skaa would want coins—they were far too valuable, and far too dangerous. And yet, every eye in the room stared at that spilled bag of wealth.

“The bag in exchange for the boy,” a voice said. Bodies parted to where a man sat at a table at the back of the room. He wasn’t looking at Spook. He just sat, quietly spooning gruel into his mouth. His face was gnarled and twisted, like leather that had been sitting in the sun for far too long. “Well?” the gnarled man said between bites.

“Where did you get money like this?” Spook’s father demanded.

“None of your business.”

“We can’t let the boy go,” one of the skaa said. “He’ll betray us! Once they catch him, he’ll tell them that we knew!”

“They won’t catch him,” the gnarled man said, taking another bite of food. “He’ll be with me, in Luthadel. Besides, if you
don’t
let him go, I’ll just go ahead and tell the obligators about you all.” He paused, lowering his spoon, glancing at the crowd with a crusty look. “Unless you’re going to kill me too.”

Spook’s father finally took his heel off Spook’s neck as he stepped toward the gnarled stranger. However, Spook’s mother grabbed her husband’s arm. “Don’t, Jedal,” she said softly—but not too softly for Spook’s enhanced ears. “He’ll kill you.”

“He’s a traitor,” Spook’s father spat. “Servant in the Lord Ruler’s army.”

“He brought us coins. Surely taking his money is better than simply killing the boy.”

Spook’s father looked down at the woman. “
You
did this! You sent for your brother. You knew he’d want to take the boy!”

Spook’s mother turned away.

The gnarled man finally set down his spoon, then stood. People backed away from his chair in apprehension. He walked with a pronounced limp as he crossed the room.

“Come on, boy,” he said, not looking at Spook as he opened the door.

Spook rose slowly, tentatively. He glanced at his mother and father as he backed away. Jedal stooped down, finally gathering up the coins. Margel met Spook’s eyes, then turned away.
This is all I can give you
, her posture seemed to say.

Spook turned, rubbing his neck, and rushed into the hot red sunlight after the stranger. The older man hobbled along, walking with a cane. He glanced at Spook as he walked.

“You have a name, boy?”

Spook opened his mouth, then stopped. His old name didn’t seem like it would do any more. “Lestibournes,” he finally said.

The old man didn’t bat an eye. Later, Kelsier would decide that Lestibournes was too difficult to say, and name him “Spook” instead. Spook never did figure out whether or not Clubs knew how to speak Eastern street slang. Even if he did, Spook doubted that he’d understand the reference.

Lestibournes. Lefting I’m born.

Street slang for “I’ve been abandoned.”

I now believe that Kelsier’s stories, legends, and prophecies about the “Eleventh Metal” were fabricated by Ruin. Kelsier was looking for a way to kill the Lord Ruler, and Ruin—ever subtle—provided a way
.

That secret was indeed crucial. Kelsier’s Eleventh Metal provided the very clue we needed to defeat the Lord Ruler. However, even in this, we were manipulated. The Lord Ruler knew Ruin’s goals, and would never have released him from the Well of Ascension. So, Ruin needed other pawns—and for that to happen, the Lord Ruler needed to die. Even our greatest victory was shaped by Ruin’s subtle fingers
.

DAYS LATER, MELAAN’S WORDS
still pricked TenSoon’s conscience.

You come, proclaim dread news, then leave us to solve the problems on our own?
During his year of imprisonment, it had seemed simple. He would make his accusations, deliver his information, then accept the punishment he deserved.

But now, strangely, an eternity of imprisonment seemed like the easy way out. If he let himself be taken in such a manner, how was he better than the First Generation? He would be avoiding the issues, content to be locked away, knowing that the outside world was no longer his problem.

Fool
, he thought.
You’ll be imprisoned for eternity
—
or, at least, until the kandra themselves are destroyed, and you die of starvation. That’s not the easy way out! By accepting your punishment, you’re doing the honorable, orderly thing
.

And by so doing, he would leave MeLaan and the others to be destroyed as their leaders refused to take action. What’s more, he would leave Vin without the information she needed. Even from within the Homeland, he could feel the occasional rumbles in the rock. The earthquakes were still remote, and the others likely ignored them. But TenSoon worried.

The end could be nearing. If it was, then Vin needed to know the truths about the kandra. Their origins, their beliefs. Perhaps she could use the Trust itself. Yet, if he told Vin anything more, it would mean an even greater betrayal of his people. Perhaps a human would have found it ridiculous that he would hesitate now.
However, so far, his true sins had been impulsive, and he’d only later rationalized what he’d done. If he fought his way free of prison, it would be different. Willful and deliberate.

He closed his eyes, feeling the chill of his cage, which still sat alone in the large cavern—the place was mostly abandoned during the sleeping hours. What was the point? Even with the Blessing of Presence—which let TenSoon focus, despite his uncomfortable confines—he could think of no way to escape the meshed cage and its Fifth Generation guards, who all bore the Blessing of Potency. Even if he did get out of the cage, TenSoon would have to pass through dozens of small caverns. With his body mass as low as it was, he didn’t have the muscles to fight, and he couldn’t outrun kandra who had the Blessing of Potency. He was trapped.

In a way, this was comforting. Escape was not something he preferred to contemplate—it simply wasn’t the kandra way. He had broken Contract, and deserved punishment. There was honor in facing the consequences of one’s actions.

Wasn’t there?

He shifted positions in his cell. Unlike that of a real human, the skin of his naked body did not become sore or chapped from the extended exposure, for he could re-form his flesh to remove wounds. However, there was little to do about the cramped feeling he got from being forced to sit in the small cage for so long.

Motion caught his attention. TenSoon turned, surprised to see VarSell and several other large Fifths approaching his cage, their quartzite stone True Bodies ominous in size and coloring.

Time already?
TenSoon thought. With the Blessing of Presence, he was able to mentally recount the days of his imprisonment. It was nowhere near time. He frowned, noting that one of the Fifths carried a large sack. For a moment, TenSoon had a flash of panic as he pictured them towing him away inside the sack.

It looked filled already, however.

Dared he hope? Days had passed since his conversation with MeLaan, and while she had returned several times to look at him, they had not spoken. He’d almost forgotten his words to her, said in the hope that they would be overheard by the minions of the Second Generation. VarSell opened the cage and tossed the sack in. It clinked with a familiar sound. Bones.

“You are to wear those to the trial,” VarSell said, leaning down and putting a translucent face up next to TenSoon’s bars. “Orders of the Second Generation.”

“What is wrong with the bones I now wear?” TenSoon asked carefully, pulling over the sack, uncertain whether to be excited or ashamed.

“They intend to break your bones as part of your punishment,” VarSell said, smiling. “Something like a public execution—but where the prisoner lives through the process. It’s a simple thing, I know—but the display ought to leave . . . an impression on some of the younger generations.”

TenSoon’s stomach twisted. Kandra could re-form their bodies, true, but they felt pain just as acutely as any human. It would take quite a severe beating to break his bones, and with the Blessing of Presence, there would be no release of unconsciousness for him.

“I still don’t see the need for another body,” TenSoon said, pulling out one of the bones.

“No need to waste a perfectly good set of human bones, Third,” VarSell said, slamming the cage door closed. “I’ll be back for your current bones in a few hours.”

The leg bone he pulled out was not that of a human, but a dog. A large wolfhound. It was the very body TenSoon had been wearing when he’d returned to the Homeland over a year before. He closed his eyes, holding the smooth bone in his fingers.

A week ago, he’d spoken of how much he despised these bones, hoping that the Second Generation’s spies would carry the news back to their masters. The Second Generation was far more traditional than MeLaan, and even she had found the thought of wearing a dog’s body distasteful. To the Seconds, forcing TenSoon to wear an animal’s body would be supremely degrading.

That was exactly what TenSoon had been counting on.

“You’ll look good, wearing that,” VarSell said, standing to leave. “When your punishment comes, everyone will be able to see you for what you really are. No
kandra
would break his Contract.”