The Mistborn Trilogy (83 page)

“Oh, right.” Ham smiled wanly, standing and moving to go. “I should get back to Mardra anyway.”

Elend nodded, rubbing his forehead and picking up his pen yet again. “Make sure you gather the crew for a meeting. We need to organize our allies, Ham. If we don’t come up with something incredibly clever, this kingdom may be doomed.”

Ham turned back, still smiling. “You make it sound so desperate, El.”

Elend looked over at him. “The Assembly is a mess, a half-dozen warlords with superior armies are breathing down my neck, barely a month passes without someone sending assassins to kill me, and the woman I love is slowly driving me insane.”

Vin snorted at this last part.

“Oh, is that all?” Ham said. “See? It’s not so bad after all. I mean, we
could
be facing an immortal god and his all-powerful priests instead.”

Elend paused, then chuckled despite himself. “Good night, Ham,” he said, turning back to his proposal.

“Good night, Your Majesty.”

The body showed no overt wounds. It still lay where it had fallen—the other villagers had been afraid to move it. Its arms and legs were twisted in awkward positions, the dirt around it scuffed from predeath thrashings.

Sazed reached out, running his fingers along one of the marks. Though the soil here in the Eastern Dominance held far more clay than soil did in the north, it was still more black than it was brown. Ashfalls came even this far south. Ashless soil, washed clean and fertilized, was a luxury used only for the ornamental plants of noble gardens. The rest of the world had to do what it could with untreated soil.

“You say that he was alone when he died?” Sazed asked, turning to the small cluster of villagers standing behind him.

A leather-skinned man nodded. “Like I said, Master Terrisman. He was just standing there, no one else about. He paused, then he fell and wiggled on the ground for a bit. After that, he just…stopped moving.”

Sazed turned back to the corpse, studying the twisted muscles, the face locked in a mask of pain. Sazed had brought his medical coppermind—the metal armband wrapped around his upper right arm—and he reached into it with his mind, pulling out some of the memorized books he had stored therein. Yes, there were some diseases that killed with shakes and spasms. They rarely took a man so suddenly, but it sometimes happened. If it hadn’t been for other circumstances, Sazed would have paid the death little heed.

“Please, repeat to me again what you saw,” Sazed asked.

The leather-skinned man at the front of the group, Teur, paled slightly. He was in an odd position—his natural desire for notoriety would make him want to gossip about his experience. However, doing so could earn the distrust of his superstitious fellows.

“I was just passing by, Master Terrisman,” Teur said. “On the path twenty yards yon. I seen old Jed working his field—a hard worker, he was. Some of us took a break when the lords left, but old Jed just kept on. Guess he knew we’d be needing food for the winter, lords or no lords.”

Teur paused, then glanced to the side. “I know what people say, Master Terrisman, but I seen what I seen. It was day when I passed, but there was
mist
in the valley here. It stopped me, because I’ve never been out in the mist—my wife’ll vouch me that. I was going to turn back, and then I seen old Jed. He was just working away, as if he hadn’t seen the mist.

“I was going to call out to him, but before I could, he just…well, like I told you. I seen him standing there, then he froze. The mist swirled about him a bit, then he began to jerk and twist, like something really strong was holding him and shaking him. He fell. Didn’t get up after that.”

Still kneeling, Sazed looked back at the corpse. Teur apparently had a reputation for tall tales. Yet, the body was a chilling corroboration—not to mention Sazed’s own experience several weeks before.

Mist during the day.

Sazed stood, turning toward the villagers. “Please fetch for me a shovel.”

Nobody helped him dig the grave. It was slow, muggy work in the southern heat, which was strong despite the advent of autumn. The clay earth was difficult to move—but, fortunately, Sazed had a bit of extra stored-up strength inside a pewtermind, and he tapped it for help.

He needed it, for he wasn’t what one would call an athletic man. Tall and long-limbed, he had the build of a scholar, and still wore the colorful robes of a Terris steward. He also still kept his head shaved, after the manner of the station he had served in for the first forty-some years of his life. He didn’t wear much of his jewelry now—he didn’t want to tempt highway bandits—but his earlobes were stretched out and pierced with numerous holes for earrings.

Tapping strength from his pewtermind enlarged his muscles slightly, giving him the build of a stronger man. Even with the extra strength, however, his steward’s robes were stained with sweat and dirt by the time he finished digging. He rolled the body into the grave, and stood quietly for a moment. The man had been a dedicated farmer.

Sazed searched through his religions coppermind for an appropriate theology. He started with an index—one of the many that he had created. When he had located an appropriate religion, he pulled free detailed memories about its practices. The writings entered his mind as fresh as when he had just finished memorizing them. They would fade, with time, like all memories—however, he intended to place them back in the coppermind long before that happened. It was the way of the Keeper, the method by which his people retained enormous wealths of information.

This day, the memories he selected were of HaDah, a southern religion with an agricultural deity. Like most religions—which had been oppressed during the time of the Lord Ruler—the HaDah faith was a thousand years extinct.

Following the dictates of the HaDah funeral ceremony, Sazed walked over to a nearby tree—or, at least, one of the shrublike plants that passed for trees in this area. He broke off a long branch—the peasants watching him curiously—and carried it back to the grave. He stooped down and drove it into the dirt at the bottom of the hole, just beside the corpse’s head. Then he stood and began to shovel dirt back into the grave.

The peasants watched him with dull eyes.
So depressed,
Sazed thought. The Eastern Dominance was the most chaotic and unsettled of the five Inner Dominances. The only men in this crowd were well past their prime. The press gangs had done their work efficiently; the husbands and fathers of this village were likely dead on some battlefield that no longer mattered.

It was hard to believe that anything could actually be worse than the Lord Ruler’s oppression. Sazed told himself that these people’s pain would pass, that they would someday know prosperity because of what he and the others had done. Yet, he had seen farmers forced to slaughter each other, had seen children starve because some despot had “requisitioned” a village’s entire food supply. He had seen thieves kill freely because the Lord Ruler’s troops no longer patrolled the canals. He had seen chaos, death, hatred, and disorder. And he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was partially to blame.

He continued to refill the hole. He had been trained as a scholar and a domestic attendant; he was a Terrisman steward, the most useful, most expensive, and most prestigious of servants in the Final Empire. That meant almost nothing now. He’d never dug a grave, but he did his best, trying to be reverent as he piled dirt on the corpse. Surprisingly, about halfway through the process, the peasants began to help him, pushing dirt from the pile into the hole.

Perhaps there is hope for these yet,
Sazed thought, thankfully letting one of the others take his shovel and finish the work. When they were done, the very tip of the HaDah branch breached the dirt at the head of the grave.

“Why’d you do that?” Teur asked, nodding to the branch.

Sazed smiled. “It is a religious ceremony, Goodman Teur. If you please, there is a prayer that should accompany it.”

“A prayer? Something from the Steel Ministry?”

Sazed shook his head. “No, my friend. It is a prayer from a previous time, a time before the Lord Ruler.”

The peasants eyed each other, frowning. Teur just rubbed his wrinkled chin. They all remained quiet, however, as Sazed said a short HaDah prayer. When he finished, he turned toward the peasants. “It was known as the religion of HaDah. Some of your ancestors might have followed it, I think. If any of you wish, I can teach you of its precepts.”

The assembled crowd stood quietly. There weren’t many of them—two dozen or so, mostly middle-aged women and a few older men. There was a single young man with a club leg; Sazed was surprised that he’d lived so long on a plantation. Most lords killed invalids to keep them from draining resources.

“When is the Lord Ruler coming back?” asked a woman.

“I do not believe that he will,” Sazed said.

“Why did he abandon us?”

“It is a time of change,” Sazed said. “Perhaps it is also time to learn of other truths, other ways.”

The group of people shuffled quietly. Sazed sighed quietly; these people associated faith with the Steel Ministry and its obligators. Religion wasn’t something that skaa worried about—save, perhaps, to avoid it when possible.

The Keepers spent a thousand years gathering and memorizing the dying religions of the world,
Sazed thought.
Who would have thought that now—with the Lord Ruler gone—people wouldn’t care enough to want what they’d lost?

Yet, he found it hard to think ill of these people. They were struggling to survive, their already harsh world suddenly made unpredictable. They were tired. Was it any wonder that talk of beliefs long forgotten failed to interest them?

“Come,” Sazed said, turning toward the village. “There are other things—more practical things—that I can teach you.”

Vin could see signs of anxiety reflected in the city. Workers milled anxiously and markets bustled with an edge of concern—showing that same apprehension that one might see in a cornered rodent. Frightened, but not sure what to do. Doomed with nowhere to run.

Many had left the city during the last year—noblemen fleeing, merchants seeking some other place of business. Yet, at the same time, the city had swelled with an influx of skaa. They had somehow heard of Elend’s proclamation of freedom, and had come with optimism—or, at least, as much optimism as an overworked, underfed, repeatedly beaten populace could manage.

And so, despite predictions that Luthadel would soon fall, despite whispers that its army was small and weak, the people had stayed. Worked. Lived. Just as they always had. The life of a skaa had never been very certain.

It was still strange for Vin to see the market so busy. She walked down Kenton Street, wearing her customary trousers and buttoned shirt, thinking about the time when she’d visited the street during the days before the Collapse. It had been the quiet home of some exclusive tailoring shops.

When Elend had abolished the restrictions on skaa merchants, Kenton Street had changed. The thoroughfare had blossomed into a wild bazaar of shops, pushcarts, and tents. In order to target the newly empowered—and newly waged—skaa workers, the shop owners had altered their selling methods. Where once they had coaxed with rich window displays, they now called and demanded, using criers, salesmen, and even jugglers to try to attract trade.

The street was so busy that Vin usually avoided it, and this day was even worse than most. The arrival of the army had sparked a last-minute flurry of buying and selling, the people trying to get ready for whatever was to come. There was a grim tone to the atmosphere. Fewer street performers, more yelling. Elend had ordered all eight city gates barred, so flight was no longer an option. Vin wondered how many of the people regretted their decision to stay.

She walked down the street with a businesslike step, hands clasped to keep the nervousness out of her posture. Even as a child—an urchin on the streets of a dozen different cities—she hadn’t liked crowds. It was hard to keep track of so many people, hard to focus with so much going on. As a child, she’d stayed near the edges of crowds, hiding, venturing out to snatch the occasional fallen coin or ignored bit of food.

She was different now. She forced herself to walk with a straight back, and kept her eyes from glancing down or looking for places to hide. She was getting so much better—but seeing the crowds reminded her of what she had once been. What she would always—at least in part—still be.

As if in response to her thoughts, a pair of street urchins scampered through the throng, a large man in a baker’s apron screaming at them. There were still urchins in Elend’s new world. In fact, as she considered it, paying the skaa population probably made for a far better street life for urchins. There were more pockets to pick, more people to distract the shop owners, more scraps to go around, and more hands to feed beggars.

It was difficult to reconcile her childhood with such a life. To her, a child on the street was someone who learned to be quiet and hide, someone who went out at night to search through garbage. Only the most brave of urchins had dared cut purses; skaa lives had been worthless to many noblemen. During her childhood, Vin had known several urchins who been killed or maimed by passing noblemen who found them offensive.

Elend’s laws might not have eliminated the poor, something he so much wanted to do, but he had improved the lives of even the street urchins. For that—among other things—she loved him.

There were still some noblemen in the crowd, men who had been persuaded by Elend or circumstances that their fortunes would be safer in the city than without. They were desperate, weak, or adventuresome. Vin watched one man pass, surrounded by a group of guards. He didn’t give her a second glance; to him, her simple clothing was reason enough to ignore her. No noblewoman would dress as she did.

Is that what I am?
she wondered, pausing beside a shop window, looking over the books inside—the sale of which had always been a small, but profitable, market for the idle imperial nobility. She also used the glass reflection to make certain no one snuck up behind her.
Am I a noblewoman?

It could be argued that she was noble simply by association. The king himself loved her—had asked her to marry him—and she had been trained by the Survivor of Hathsin. Indeed, her father had been noble, even if her mother had been skaa. Vin reached up, fingering the simple bronze earring that was the only thing she had as a memento of Mother.

It wasn’t much. But, then, Vin wasn’t sure she wanted to think about her mother all that much. The woman had, after all, tried to kill Vin. In fact, she
had
killed Vin’s full sister. Only the actions of Reen, Vin’s half brother, had saved her. He had pulled Vin, bloody, from the arms of a woman who had shoved the earring into Vin’s ear just moments before.

And still Vin kept it. As a reminder, of sorts. The truth was, she didn’t feel like a noblewoman. At times, she thought she had more in common with her insane mother than she did with the aristocracy of Elend’s world. The balls and parties she had attended before the Collapse—they had been a charade. A dreamlike memory. They had no place in this world of collapsing governments and nightly assassinations. Plus, Vin’s part in the balls—pretending to be the girl Valette Renoux—had always been a sham.

She pretended still. Pretended not to be the girl who had grown up starving on the streets, a girl who had been beaten far more often than she had been befriended. Vin sighed, turning from the window. The next shop, however, drew her attention despite herself.

It contained ball gowns.

The shop was empty of patrons; few thought of gowns on the eve of an invasion. Vin paused before the open doorway, held almost as if she were metal being Pulled. Inside, dressing dummies stood posed in majestic gowns. Vin looked up at the garments, with their tight waists and tapering, bell-like skirts. She could almost imagine she was at a ball, soft music in the background, tables draped in perfect white, Elend standing up on his balcony, leafing through a book….

She almost went in. But why bother? The city was about to be attacked. Besides, the garments were expensive. It had been different when she’d spent Kelsier’s money. Now she spent Elend’s money—and Elend’s money was the kingdom’s money.

She turned from the gowns and walked back out onto the street.
Those aren’t me anymore. Valette is useless to Elend—he needs a Mistborn, not an uncomfortable girl in a gown that she doesn’t quite fill.
Her wounds from the night before, now firm bruises, were a reminder of her place. They were healing well—she’d been burning pewter heavily all day—but she’d be stiff for a while yet.

Vin quickened her pace, heading for the livestock pens. As she walked, however, she caught sight of someone tailing her.

Well, perhaps “tailing” was too generous a word—the man certainly wasn’t doing a very good job of going unnoticed. He was balding on top, but wore the sides of his hair long. He wore a simple skaa’s smock: a single-piece tan garment that was stained dark with ash.

Great,
Vin thought. There was another reason she avoided the market—or any place where crowds of skaa gathered.

She sped up again, but the man hurried as well. Soon, his awkward movements gained attention—but, instead of cursing him, most people paused reverently. Soon others joined him, and Vin had a small crowd trailing her.

A part of her wanted to just slap down a coin and shoot away.
Yes,
Vin thought to herself wryly,
use Allomancy in the daylight. That’ll make you inconspicuous.

So, sighing, she turned to confront the group. None of them looked particularly threatening. The men wore trousers and dull shirts; the women wore one-piece, utilitarian dresses. Several more men wore single-piece, ash-covered smocks.

Priests of the Survivor.

“Lady Heir,” one of them said, approaching and falling to his knees.

“Don’t call me that,” Vin said quietly.

The priest looked up at her. “Please. We need direction. We have cast off the Lord Ruler. What do we do now?”

Vin took a step backward. Had Kelsier understood what he was doing? He had built up the skaa’s faith in him, then had died a martyr to turn them in rage against the Final Empire. What had he thought would happen after that? Could he have foreseen the Church of the Survivor—had he known that they would replace the Lord Ruler with Kelsier himself as God?

The problem was, Kelsier had left his followers with no doctrine. His only goal had been to defeat the Lord Ruler; partially to get his revenge, partially to seal his legacy, and partially—Vin hoped—because he had wanted to free the skaa.

But now what? These people must feel as she did. Set adrift, with no light to guide them.

Vin could not be that light. “I’m not Kelsier,” she said quietly, taking another step backward.

“We know,” one of the men said. “You’re his heir—he passed on, and this time
you
Survived.”

“Please,” a woman said, stepping forward, holding a young child in her arms. “Lady Heir. If the hand that struck down the Lord Ruler could touch my child…”

Vin tried to back away farther, but realized she was up against another crowd of people. The woman stepped closer, and Vin finally raised an uncertain hand to the baby’s forehead.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“You’ll protect us, won’t you, Lady Heir?” asked a young man—no older than Elend—with a dirty face but honest eyes. “The priests say that you’ll stop that army out there, that its soldiers won’t be able to enter the city while you’re here.”

That was too much for her. Vin mumbled a halfhearted response, but turned and pushed her way through the crowd. The group of believers didn’t follow her, fortunately.

She was breathing deeply, though not from exertion, by the time she slowed. She moved into an alley between two shops, standing in the shade, wrapping her arms around herself. She had spent her life learning to remain unnoticed, to be quiet and unimportant. Now she could be none of those things.

What did the people expect of her? Did they really think that she could stop an army by herself? That was one lesson she’d learned very early into her training: Mistborn weren’t invincible. One man, she could kill. Ten men could give her trouble. An army…

Vin held herself and took a few calming breaths. Eventually, she moved back out onto the busy street. She was near her destination now—a small, open-sided tent surrounded by four pens. The merchant lounged by it, a scruffy man who had hair on only half of his head—the right half. Vin stood for a moment, trying to decide if the odd hairstyle was due to disease, injury, or preference.

The man perked up when he saw her standing at the edge of his pens. He brushed himself off, throwing up a small amount of dust. Then he sauntered up to her, smiling with what teeth he still had, acting as if he hadn’t heard—or didn’t care—that there was an army just outside.

“Ah, young lady,” he said. “Lookin’ for a pup? I’ve got some wee scamps that any girl is sure to love. Here, let me grab one. You’ll agree it’s the cutest thing you ever seen.”

Vin folded her arms as the man reached down to grab a puppy from one of the pens. “Actually,” she said, “I was looking for a wolfhound.”

The merchant looked up. “Wolfhound, miss? ’Tis no pet for a girl like yourself. Mean brutes, those. Let me find you a nice bobbie. Nice dogs, those—smart, too.”

“No,” Vin said, drawing him up short. “You will bring me a wolfhound.”

The man paused again, looking at her, scratching himself in several undignified places. “Well, I guess I can see…”

He wandered toward the pen farthest from the street. Vin waited quietly, nose downturned at the smell as the merchant yelled at a few of his animals, selecting an appropriate one. Eventually, he pulled a leashed dog up to Vin. It was a wolfhound, if a small one—but it had sweet, docile eyes, and an obviously pleasant temperament.

“The runt of the litter,” the merchant said. “A good animal for a young girl, I’d say. Will probably make an excellent hunter, too. These wolfhounds, they can smell better than any beast you seen.”

Vin reached for her coin purse, but paused, looking down at the dog’s panting face. It almost seemed to be smiling at her.

“Oh, for the Lord Ruler’s sake,” she snapped, pushing past the dog and master, stalking toward the back pens.

“Young lady?” the merchant asked, following uncertainly.

Vin scanned the wolfhounds. Near the back, she spotted a massive black and gray beast. It was chained to a post, and it regarded her defiantly, a low growl rising in its throat.

Vin pointed. “How much for that one in the back?”

“That?”
the merchant asked. “Good lady, that’s a watchbeast. It’s meant to be set loose on a lord’s grounds to attack anyone who enters! It’s the one of the meanest things you’ll ever see!”

“Perfect,” Vin said, pulling out some coins.

“Good lady, I couldn’t possibly sell you that beast. Not possibly at all. Why, I’ll bet it weighs half again as much as you do.”

Vin nodded, then pulled open the pen gate and strode in. The merchant cried out, but Vin walked right up to the wolfhound. He began to bark wildly at her, frothing.

Sorry about this,
Vin thought. Then, burning pewter, she ducked in and slammed her fist into the animal’s head.

The animal froze, wobbled, then fell unconscious in the dirt. The merchant stopped up short beside her, mouth open.

“Leash,” Vin ordered.

He gave her one. She used it to tie the wolfhound’s feet together, and then—with a flare of pewter—she threw the animal over her shoulders. She cringed only slightly at the pain in her side.