mist1234

MISTBORN

Sometimes, I worry that I'm not the hero everyone thinks I am.

The philosophers assure me that this is the time, that the signs have been met. But I still

wonder if they have the wrong man. So many people depend on me. They say I will hold the

future of the entire world on my arms.

What would they think if they knew that their champion—the Hero of Ages, their savior—

doubted himself? Perhaps they wouldn't be shocked at all. In a way, this is what worries me

most. Maybe, in their hearts, they wonder—just as I do.

When they see me, do they see a liar?

PROLOGUE

ASH FELL FROM THE SKY.

Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy midday sky as his

servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his

distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren't that uncommon in the Final Empire, but

Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and

red vest, which had just arrived via canal boat from Luthadel itself.

Fortunately, there wasn't much wind; the parasol would likely be effective.

Tresting stood with his guest on a small hilltop patio that overlooked the

fields. Hundreds of people in brown smocks worked in the falling ash, caring

for the crops. There was a sluggishness to their efforts—but, of course, that

was the way of the skaa. The peasants were an indolent, unproductive lot.

They didn't complain, of course; they knew better than that. Instead, they

simply worked with bowed heads, moving about their work with quiet

apathy. The passing whip of a taskmaster would force them into dedicated

motion for a few moments, but as soon as the taskmaster passed, they would

return to their languor.

Tresting turned to the man standing beside him on the hill. "One would

think," Tresting noted, "that a thousand years of working in fields would

have bred them to be a little more effective at it."

The obligator turned, raising an eyebrow—the motion done as if to

highlight his most distinctive feature, the intricate tattoos that laced the skin

around his eyes. The tattoos were enormous, reaching all the way across his

brow and up the sides of his nose. This was a full prelan—a very important

obligator indeed. Tresting had his own, personal obligators back at the

manor, but they were only minor functionaries, with barely a few marks

around their eyes. This man had arrived from Luthadel with the same canal

boat that had brought Tresting's new suit.

"You should see city skaa, Tresting," the obligator said, turning back to

watch the skaa workers. "These are actually quite diligent compared to those

inside Luthadel. You have more . . . direct control over your skaa here. How

many would you say you lose a month?"

"Oh, a half dozen or so," Tresting said. "Some to beatings, some to

exhaustion."

"Runaways?"

"Never!" Tresting said. "When I first inherited this land from my father, I

had a few runaways—but I executed their families. The rest quickly lost

heart. I've never understood men who have trouble with their skaa—I find

the creatures easy to control, if you show a properly firm hand."

The obligator nodded, standing quietly in his gray robes. He seemed

pleased—which was a good thing. The skaa weren't actually Tresting's

property. Like all skaa, they belonged to the Lord Ruler; Tresting only leased

the workers from his God, much in the same way he paid for the services of

His obligators.

The obligator looked down, checking his pocket watch, then glanced up at

the sun. Despite the ashfall, the sun was bright this day, shining a brilliant

crimson red behind the smoky blackness of the upper sky. Tresting removed

a handkerchief and wiped his brow, thankful for the parasol's shade against

the midday heat.

"Very well, Tresting," the obligator said. "I will carry your proposal to

Lord Venture, as requested. He will have a favorable report from me on your

operations here."

Tresting held in a sigh of relief. An obligator was required to witness any

contract or business deal between noblemen. True, even a lowly obligator

like the ones Tresting employed could serve as such a witness—but it meant

so much more to impress Straff Venture's own obligator.

The obligator turned toward him. "I will leave back down the canal this

afternoon."

"So soon?" Tresting asked. "Wouldn't you care to stay for supper?"

"No," the obligator replied. "Though there is another matter I wish to

discuss with you. I came not only at the behest of Lord Venture, but to . . .

look in on some matters for the Canton of Inquisition. Rumors say that you

like to dally with your skaa women."

Tresting felt a chill.

The obligator smiled; he likely meant it to be disarming, but Tresting only

found it eerie. "Don't worry yourself, Tresting," the obligator said. "If there

had been any real worries about your actions, a Steel Inquisitor would have

been sent here in my place."

Tresting nodded slowly. Inquisitor. He'd never seen one of the inhuman

creatures, but he had heard . . . stories.

"I have been satisfied regarding your actions with the skaa women," the

obligator said, looking back over the fields. "What I've seen and heard here

indicate that you always clean up your messes. A man such as yourself—

efficient, productive—could go far in Luthadel. A few more years of work,

some inspired mercantile deals, and who knows?"

The obligator turned away, and Tresting found himself smiling. It wasn't a

promise, or even an endorsement—for the most part, obligators were more

bureaucrats and witnesses than they were priests—but to hear such praise

from one of the Lord Ruler's own servants . . . Tresting knew that some

nobility considered the obligators to be unsettling—some men even

considered them a bother—but at that moment, Testing could have kissed his

distinguished guest.

Tresting turned back toward the skaa, who worked quietly beneath the

bloody sun and the lazy flakes of ash. Tresting had always been a country

nobleman, living on his plantation, dreaming of perhaps moving into

Luthadel itself. He had heard of the balls and the parties, the glamour and the

intrigue, and it excited him to no end.

I'll have to celebrate tonight, he thought. There was that young girl in the

fourteenth hovel that he'd been watching for some time. . . .

He smiled again. A few more years of work, the obligator had said. But

could Tresting perhaps speed that up, if he worked a little harder? His skaa

population had been growing lately. Perhaps if he pushed them a bit more, he

could bring in an extra harvest this summer and fulfill his contract with Lord

Venture in extra measure.

Tresting nodded as he watched the crowd of lazy skaa, some working with

their hoes, others on hands and knees, pushing the ash away from the

fledgling crops. They didn't complain. They didn't hope. They barely dared

think. That was the way it should be, for they were skaa. They were—

Tresting froze as one of the skaa looked up. The man met Tresting's eyes,

a spark—no, a fire—of defiance showing in his expression. Tresting had

never seen anything like it, not in the face of a skaa. Tresting stepped

backward reflexively, a chill running through him as the strange, straight-

backed skaa held his eyes.

And smiled.

Tresting looked away. "Kurdon!" he snapped.

The burly taskmaster rushed up the incline. "Yes, my lord?"

Tresting turned, pointing at . . .

He frowned. Where had that skaa been standing? Working with their heads

bowed, bodies stained by soot and sweat, they were so hard to tell apart.

Tresting paused, searching. He thought he knew the place . . . an empty spot,

where nobody now stood.

But, no. That couldn't be it. The man couldn't have disappeared from the

group so quickly. Where would he have gone? He must be in there,

somewhere, working with his head now properly bowed. Still, his moment of

apparent defiance was inexcusable.

"My lord?" Kurdon asked again.

The obligator stood at the side, watching curiously. It would not be wise to

let the man know that one of the skaa had acted so brazenly.

"Work the skaa in that southern section a little harder," Tresting ordered,

pointing. "I see them being sluggish, even for skaa. Beat a few of them."

Kurdon shrugged, but nodded. It wasn't much of a reason for a beating—

but, then, he didn't need much of a reason to give the workers a beating.

They were, after all, only skaa.

Kelsier had heard stories.

He had heard whispers of times when once, long ago, the sun had not been

red. Times when the sky hadn't been clogged by smoke and ash, when plants

hadn't struggled to grow, and when skaa hadn't been slaves. Times before the

Lord Ruler. Those days, however, were nearly forgotten. Even the legends

were growing vague.

Kelsier watched the sun, his eyes following the giant red disk as it crept

toward the western horizon. He stood quietly for a long moment, alone in the

empty fields. The day's work was done; the skaa had been herded back to

their hovels. Soon the mists would come.

Eventually, Kelsier sighed, then turned to pick his way across the furrows

and pathways, weaving between large heaps of ash. He avoided stepping on

the plants—though he wasn't sure why he bothered. The crops hardly seemed

worth the effort. Wan, with wilted brown leaves, the plants seemed as

depressed as the people who tended them.

The skaa hovels loomed in the waning light. Already, Kelsier could see the

mists beginning to form, clouding the air, and giving the moundlike buildings

a surreal, intangible look. The hovels stood unguarded; there was no need for

watchers, for no skaa would venture outside once night arrived. Their fear of

the mists was far too strong.

I'll have to cure them of that someday, Kelsier thought as he approached

one of the larger buildings. But, all things in their own time. He pulled open

the door and slipped inside.

Conversation stopped immediately. Kelsier closed the door, then turned

with a smile to confront the room of about thirty skaa. A firepit burned

weakly at the center, and the large cauldron beside it was filled with

vegetable-dappled water—the beginnings of an evening meal. The soup

would be bland, of course. Still, the smell was enticing.

"Good evening, everyone," Kelsier said with a smile, resting his pack

beside his feet and leaning against the door. "How was your day?"

His words broke the silence, and the women returned to their dinner

preparations. A group of men sitting at a crude table, however, continued to

regard Kelsier with dissatisfied expressions.

"Our day was filled with work, traveler," said Tepper, one of the skaa

elders. "Something you managed to avoid."

"Fieldwork hasn't ever really suited me," Kelsier said. "It's far too hard on

my delicate skin." He smiled, holding up hands and arms that were lined with

layers and layers of thin scars. They covered his skin, running lengthwise, as

if some beast had repeatedly raked its claws up and down his arms.

Tepper snorted. He was young to be an elder, probably barely into his

forties—at most, he might be five years Kelsier's senior. However, the

scrawny man held himself with the air of one who liked to be in charge.

"This is no time for levity," Tepper said sternly. "When we harbor a

traveler, we expect him to behave himself and avoid suspicion. When you

ducked away from the fields this morning, you could have earned a whipping

for the men around you."

"True," Kelsier said. "But those men could also have been whipped for

standing in the wrong place, for pausing too long, or for coughing when a

taskmaster walked by. I once saw a man beaten because his master claimed

that he had 'blinked inappropriately.' "

Tepper sat with narrow eyes and a stiff posture, his arm resting on the

table. His expression was unyielding.

Kelsier sighed, rolling his eyes. "Fine. If you want me to go, I'll be off

then." He slung his pack up on his shoulder and nonchalantly pulled open the

door.

Thick mist immediately began to pour through the portal, drifting lazily

across Kelsier's body, pooling on the floor and creeping across the dirt like a

hesitant animal. Several people gasped in horror, though most of them were

too stunned to make a sound. Kelsier stood for a moment, staring out into the

dark mists, their shifting currents lit feebly by the cooking pit's coals.

"Close the door." Tepper's words were a plea, not a command.

Kelsier did as requested, pushing the door closed and stemming the flood

of white mist. "The mist is not what you think. You fear it far too much."

"Men who venture into the mist lose their souls," a woman whispered. Her

words raised a question. Had Kelsier walked in the mists? What, then, had

happened to his soul?

If you only knew, Kelsier thought. "Well, I guess this means I'm staying."

He waved for a boy to bring him a stool. "It's a good thing, too—it would

have been a shame for me to leave before I shared my news."

More than one person perked up at the comment. This was the real reason

they tolerated him—the reason even the timid peasants would harbor a man

such as Kelsier, a skaa who defied the Lord Ruler's will by traveling from

plantation to plantation. A renegade he might be—a danger to the entire

community—but he brought news from the outside world.

"I come from the north," Kelsier said. "From lands where the Lord Ruler's

touch is less noticeable." He spoke in a clear voice, and people leaned

unconsciously toward him as they worked. On the next day, Kelsier's words

would be repeated to the several hundred people who lived in other hovels.

The skaa might be subservient, but they were incurable gossips.

"Local lords rule in the West," Kelsier said, "and they are far from the iron

grip of the Lord Ruler and his obligators. Some of these distant noblemen are

finding that happy skaa make better workers than mistreated skaa. One man,

Lord Renoux, has even ordered his taskmasters to stop unauthorized beatings.

There are whispers that he's considering paying wages to his plantation skaa,

like city craftsmen might earn."

"Nonsense," Tepper said.

"My apologies," Kelsier said. "I didn't realize that Goodman Tepper had

been to Lord Renoux's estates recently. When you dined with him last, did he

tell you something that he did not tell me?"

Tepper blushed: Skaa did not travel, and they certainly didn't dine with

lords. "You think me a fool, traveler," Tepper said, "but I know what you're

doing. You're the one they call the Survivor; those scars on your arms give

you away. You're a troublemaker—you travel the plantations, stirring up

discontent. You eat our food, telling your grand stories and your lies, then

you disappear and leave people like me to deal with the false hopes you give

our children."

Kelsier raised an eyebrow. "Now, now, Goodman Tepper," he said. "Your

worries are completely unfounded. Why, I have no intention of eating your

food. I brought my own." With that, Kelsier reached over and tossed his pack

onto the earth before Tepper's table. The loose bag slumped to the side,

dumping an array of foods to the ground. Fine breads, fruits, and even a few

thick, cured sausages bounced free.

A summerfruit rolled across the packed earthen floor and bumped lightly

against Tepper's foot. The middle-aged skaa regarded the fruit with stunned

eyes. "That's nobleman's food!"

Kelsier snorted. "Barely. You know, for a man of renowned prestige and

rank, your Lord Tresting has remarkably poor taste. His pantry is an

embarrassment to his noble station."

Tepper paled even further. "That's where you went this afternoon," he

whispered. "You went to the manor. You . . . stole from the master!"

"Indeed," Kelsier said. "And, might I add that while your lord's taste in

food is deplorable, his eye for soldiers is far more impressive. Sneaking into

his manor during the day was quite a challenge."

Tepper was still staring at the bag of food. "If the taskmasters find this here

. . ."

"Well, I suggest you make it disappear then," Kelsier said. "I'd be willing

to bet that it tastes a fair bit better than watered-down farlet soup."

Two dozen sets of hungry eyes studied the food. If Tepper intended further

arguments, he didn't make them quickly enough, for his silent pause was

taken as agreement. Within a few minutes, the bag's contents had been

inspected and distributed, and the pot of soup sat bubbling and ignored as the

skaa feasted on a meal far more exotic.

Kelsier settled back, leaning against the hovel's wooden wall and watching

the people devour their food. He had spoken correctly: The pantry's offerings

had been depressingly mundane. However, this was a people who had been

fed on nothing but soup and gruel since they were children. To them, breads

and fruits were rare delicacies—usually eaten only as aging discards brought

down by the house servants.

"Your storytelling was cut short, young man," an elderly skaa noted,

hobbling over to sit on a stool beside Kelsier.

"Oh, I suspect there will be time for more later," Kelsier said. "Once all

evidence of my thievery has been properly devoured. Don't you want any of

it?"

"No need," the old man said. "The last time I tried lords' food, I had

stomach pains for three days. New tastes are like new ideas, young man—the

older you get, the more difficult they are for you to stomach."

Kelsier paused. The old man was hardly an imposing sight. His leathered

skin and bald scalp made him look more frail than they did wise. Yet, he had

to be stronger than he looked; few plantation skaa lived to such ages. Many

lords didn't allow the elderly to remain home from daily work, and the

frequent beatings that made up a skaa's life took a terrible toll on the elderly.

"What was your name again?" Kelsier asked.

"Mennis."

Kelsier glanced back at Tepper. "So, Goodman Mennis, tell me something.

Why do you let him lead?"

Mennis shrugged. "When you get to be my age, you have to be very

careful where you waste your energy. Some battles just aren't worth

fighting." There was an implication in Mennis's eyes; he was referring to

things greater than his own struggle with Tepper.

"You're satisfied with this, then?" Kelsier asked, nodding toward the hovel

and its half-starved, overworked occupants. "You're content with a life full of

beatings and endless drudgery?"

"At least it's a life," Mennis said. "I know what wages malcontent and

rebellion bring. The eye of the Lord Ruler, and the ire of the Steel Ministry,

can be far more terrible than a few whippings. Men like you preach change,

but I wonder. Is this a battle we can really fight?"

"You're fighting it already, Goodman Mennis. You're just losing

horribly." Kelsier shrugged. "But, what do I know? I'm just a traveling

miscreant, here to eat your food and impress your youths."

Mennis shook his head. "You jest, but Tepper might have been right. I fear

your visit will bring us grief."

Kelsier smiled. "That's why I didn't contradict him—at least, not on the

troublemaker point." He paused, then smiled more deeply. "In fact, I'd say

calling me a troublemaker is probably the only accurate thing Tepper has said

since I got here."

"How do you do that?" Mennis asked, frowning.

"What?"

"Smile so much."

"Oh, I'm just a happy person."

Mennis glanced down at Kelsier's hands. "You know, I've only seen scars

like those on one other person—and he was dead. His body was returned to

Lord Tresting as proof that his punishment had been carried out." Mennis

looked up at Kelsier. "He'd been caught speaking of rebellion. Tresting sent

him to the Pits of Hathsin, where he had worked until he died. The lad lasted

less than a month."

Kelsier glanced down at his hands and forearms. They still burned

sometimes, though he was certain the pain was only in his mind. He looked

up at Mennis and smiled. "You ask why I smile, Goodman Mennis? Well, the

Lord Ruler thinks he has claimed laughter and joy for himself. I'm

disinclined to let him do so. This is one battle that doesn't take very much

effort to fight."

Mennis stared at Kelsier, and for a moment Kelsier thought the old man

might smile in return. However, Mennis eventually just shook his head. "I

don't know. I just don't—"

The scream cut him off. It came from outside, perhaps to the north, though

the mists distorted sounds. The people in the hovel fell silent, listening to the

faint, high-pitched yells. Despite the distance and the mist, Kelsier could hear

the pain contained in those screams.

Kelsier burned tin.

It was simple for him now, after years of practice. The tin sat with other

Allomantic metals within his stomach, swallowed earlier, waiting for him to

draw upon them. He reached inside with his mind and touched the tin,

tapping powers he still barely understood. The tin flared to life within him,

burning his stomach like the sensation of a hot drink swallowed too quickly.

Allomantic power surged through his body, enhancing his senses. The

room around him became crisp, the dull firepit flaring to near blinding

brightness. He could feel the grain in the wood of the stool beneath him. He

could still taste the remnants of the loaf of bread he'd snacked on earlier.

Most importantly, he could hear the screams with supernatural ears. Two

separate people were yelling. One was an older woman, the other a younger

woman—perhaps a child. The younger screams were getting farther and

farther away.

"Poor Jess," a nearby woman said, her voice booming in Kelsier's

enhanced ears. "That child of hers was a curse. It's better for skaa not to have

pretty daughters."

Tepper nodded. "Lord Tresting was sure to send for the girl sooner or later.

We all knew it. Jess knew it."

"Still a shame, though," another man said.

The screams continued in the distance. Burning tin, Kelsier was able to

judge the direction accurately. Her voice was moving toward the lord's

manor. The sounds set something off within him, and he felt his face flush

with anger.

Kelsier turned. "Does Lord Tresting ever return the girls after he's finished

with them?"

Old Mennis shook his head. "Lord Tresting is a law-abiding nobleman—he

has the girls killed after a few weeks. He doesn't want to catch the eye of the

Inquisitors."

That was the Lord Ruler's command. He couldn't afford to have half-breed

children running around—children who might possess powers that skaa

weren't even supposed to know existed. . . .

The screams waned, but Kelsier's anger only built. The yells reminded him

of other screams. A woman's screams from the past. He stood abruptly, stool

toppling to the ground behind him.

"Careful, lad," Mennis said apprehensively. "Remember what I said about

wasting energy. You'll never raise that rebellion of yours if you get yourself

killed tonight."

Kelsier glanced toward the old man. Then, through the screams and the

pain, he forced himself to smile. "I'm not here to lead a rebellion among you,

Goodman Mennis. I just want to stir up a little trouble."

"What good could that do?"

Kelsier's smile deepened. "New days are coming. Survive a little longer,

and you just might see great happenings in the Final Empire. I bid you all

thanks for your hospitality."

With that, he pulled open the door and strode out into the mist.

Mennis lay awake in the early hours of morning. It seemed that the older he

became, the more difficult it was for him to sleep. This was particularly true

when he was troubled about something, such as the traveler's failure to return

to the hovel.

Mennis hoped that Kelsier had come to his senses and decided to move on.

However, that prospect seemed unlikely; Mennis had seen the fire in

Kelsier's eyes. It seemed such a shame that a man who had survived the Pits

would instead find death here, on a random plantation, trying to protect a girl

everyone else had given up for dead.

How would Lord Tresting react? He was said to be particularly harsh with

anyone who interrupted his nighttime enjoyments. If Kelsier had managed to

disturb the master's pleasures, Tresting might easily decide to punish the rest

of his skaa by association.

Eventually, the other skaa began to awake. Mennis lay on the hard earth—

bones aching, back complaining, muscles exhausted—trying to decide if it

was worth rising. Each day, he nearly gave up. Each day, it was a little

harder. One day, he would just stay in the hovel, waiting until the taskmasters

came to kill those who were too sick or too elderly to work.

But not today. He could see too much fear in the eyes of the skaa—they

knew that Kelsier's nighttime activities would bring trouble. They needed

Mennis; they looked to him. He needed to get up.

And so he did. Once he started moving, the pains of age decreased slightly,

and he was able to shuffle out of the hovel toward the fields, leaning on a

younger man for support.

It was then that he caught a scent in the air. "What's that?" he asked. "Do

you smell smoke?"

Shum—the lad upon whom Mennis leaned—paused. The last remnants of

the night's mist had burned away, and the red sun was rising behind the sky's

usual haze of blackish clouds.

"I always smell smoke, lately," Shum said. "The Ashmounts are violent

this year."

"No," Mennis said, feeling increasingly apprehensive. "This is different."

He turned to the north, toward where a group of skaa were gathering. He let

go of Shum, shuffling toward the group, feet kicking up dust and ash as he

moved.

At the center of the group of people, he found Jess. Her daughter, the one

they all assumed had been taken by Lord Tresting, stood beside her. The

young girl's eyes were red from lack of sleep, but she appeared unharmed.

"She came back not long after they took her," the woman was explaining.

"She came and pounded on the door, crying in the mist. Flen was sure it was

just a mistwraith impersonating her, but I had to let her in! I don't care what

he says, I'm not giving her up. I brought her out in the sunlight, and she

didn't disappear. That proves she's not a mistwraith!"

Mennis stumbled back from the growing crowd. Did none of them see it?

No taskmasters came to break up the group. No soldiers came to make the

morning population counts. Something was very wrong. Mennis continued to

the north, moving frantically toward the manor house.

By the time he arrived, others had noticed the twisting line of smoke that

was just barely visible in the morning light. Mennis wasn't the first to arrive

at the edge of the short hilltop plateau, but the group made way for him when

he did.

The manor house was gone. Only a blackened, smoldering scar remained.

"By the Lord Ruler!" Mennis whispered. "What happened here?"

"He killed them all."

Mennis turned. The speaker was Jess's girl. She stood looking down at the

fallen house, a satisfied expression on her youthful face.

"They were dead when he brought me out," she said. "All of them—the

soldiers, the taskmasters, the lords . . . dead. Even Lord Tresting and his

obligators. The master had left me, going to investigate when the noises

began. On the way out, I saw him lying in his own blood, stab wounds in his

chest. The man who saved me threw a torch in the building as we left."

"This man," Mennis said. "He had scars on his hands and arms, reaching

past the elbows?"

The girl nodded silently.

"What kind of demon was that man?" one of the skaa muttered

uncomfortably.

"Mistwraith," another whispered, apparently forgetting that Kelsier had

gone out during the day.

But he did go out into the mist, Mennis thought. And, how did he

accomplish a feat like this . . .? Lord Tresting kept over two dozen soldiers!

Did Kelsier have a hidden band of rebels, perhaps?

Kelsier's words from the night before sounded in his ears. New days are

coming. . . .

"But, what of us?" Tepper asked, terrified. "What will happen when the

Lord Ruler hears this? He'll think that we did it! He'll send us to the Pits, or

maybe just send his koloss to slaughter us outright! Why would that

troublemaker do something like this? Doesn't he understand the damage he's

done?"

"He understands," Mennis said. "He warned us, Tepper. He came to stir up

trouble."

"But, why?"

"Because he knew we'd never rebel on our own, so he gave us no choice."

Tepper paled.

Lord Ruler, Mennis thought. I can't do this. I can barely get up in the

mornings—I can't save this people.

But what other choice was there?

Mennis turned. "Gather the people, Tepper. We must flee before word of

this disaster reaches the Lord Ruler."

"Where will we go?"

"The caves to the east," Mennis said. "Travelers say there are rebel skaa

hiding in them. Perhaps they'll take us in."

Tepper paled further. "But . . . we'd have to travel for days. Spend nights

in the mist."

"We can do that," Mennis said, "or we can stay here and die."

Tepper stood frozen for a moment, and Mennis thought the shock of it all

might have overwhelmed him. Eventually, however, the younger man

scurried off to gather the others, as commanded.

Mennis sighed, looking up toward the trailing line of smoke, cursing the

man Kelsier quietly in his mind.

New days indeed.

PART ONE

THE SURVIVOR

OF HATHSIN

I consider myself to be a man of principle. But, what man does not? Even the cutthroat, I have

noticed, considers his actions "moral" after a fashion.

Perhaps another person, reading of my life, would name me a religious tyrant. He could call

me arrogant. What is to make that man's opinion any less valid than my own?

I guess it all comes down to one fact: In the end, I'm the one with the armies.

1

ASH FELL FROM THE SKY.

Vin watched the downy flakes drift through the air. Leisurely. Careless.

Free. The puffs of soot fell like black snowflakes, descending upon the dark

city of Luthadel. They drifted in corners, blowing in the breeze and curling in

tiny whirlwinds over the cobblestones. They seemed so uncaring. What

would that be like?

Vin sat quietly in one of the crew's watch-holes—a hidden alcove built

into the bricks on the side of the safe house. From within it, a crewmember

could watch the street for signs of danger. Vin wasn't on duty; the watch-hole

was simply one of the few places where she could find solitude.

And Vin liked solitude. When you're alone, no one can betray you. Reen's

words. Her brother had taught her so many things, then had reinforced them

by doing what he'd always promised he would—by betraying her himself.

It's the only way you'll learn. Anyone will betray you, Vin. Anyone.

The ash continued to fall. Sometimes, Vin imagined she was like the ash,

or the wind, or the mist itself. A thing without thought, capable of simply

being, not thinking, caring, or hurting. Then she could be . . . free.

She heard shuffling a short distance away, then the trapdoor at the back of

the small chamber snapped open.

"Vin!" Ulef said, sticking his head into the room. "There you are! Camon's

been searching for you for a half hour."

That's kind of why I hid in the first place.

"You should get going," Ulef said. "The job's almost ready to begin."

Ulef was a gangly boy. Nice, after his own fashion—naive, if one who had

grown up in the underworld could ever really be called "naive." Of course,

that didn't mean he wouldn't betray her. Betrayal had nothing to do with

friendship; it was a simple fact of survival. Life was harsh on the streets, and

if a skaa thief wanted to keep from being caught and executed, he had to be

practical.

And ruthlessness was the very most practical of emotions. Another of

Reen's sayings.

"Well?" Ulef asked. "You should go. Camon's mad."

When is he not? However, Vin nodded, scrambling out of the cramped—

yet comforting—confines of the watch-hole. She brushed past Ulef and

hopped out of the trapdoor, moving into a hallway, then a run-down pantry.

The room was one of many at the back of the store that served as a front for

the safe house. The crew's lair itself was hidden in a tunneled stone cavern

beneath the building.

She left the building through a back door, Ulef trailing behind her. The job

would happen a few blocks away, in a richer section of town. It was an

intricate job—one of the most complex Vin had ever seen. Assuming Camon

wasn't caught, the payoff would be great indeed. If he was caught . . . Well,

scamming noblemen and obligators was a very dangerous profession—but it

certainly beat working in the forges or the textile mills.

Vin exited the alleyway, moving out onto a dark, tenement-lined street in

one of the city's many skaa slums. Skaa too sick to work lay huddled in

corners and gutters, ash drifting around them. Vin kept her head down and

pulled up her cloak's hood against the still falling flakes.

Free. No, I'll never be free. Reen made certain of that when he left.

"There you are!" Camon lifted a squat, fat finger and jabbed it toward her

face. "Where were you?"

Vin didn't let hatred or rebellion show in her eyes. She simply looked

down, giving Camon what he expected to see. There were other ways to be

strong. That lesson she had learned on her own.

Camon growled slightly, then raised his hand and backhanded her across

the face. The force of the blow threw Vin back against the wall, and her

cheek blazed with pain. She slumped against the wood, but bore the

punishment silently. Just another bruise. She was strong enough to deal with

it. She'd done so before.

"Listen," Camon hissed. "This is an important job. It's worth thousands of

boxings—worth more than you a hundred times over. I won't have you

fouling it up. Understand?"

Vin nodded.

Camon studied her for a moment, his pudgy face red with anger. Finally,

he looked away, muttering to himself.

He was annoyed about something—something more than just Vin. Perhaps

he had heard about the skaa rebellion several days to the north. One of the

provincial lords, Themos Tresting, had apparently been murdered, his manor

burned to the ground. Such disturbances were bad for business; they made the

aristocracy more alert, and less gullible. That, in turn, could cut seriously into

Camon's profits.

He's looking for someone to punish, Vin thought. He always gets nervous

before a job. She looked up at Camon, tasting blood on her lip. She must

have let some of her confidence show, because he glanced at her out of the

corner of his eye, and his expression darkened. He raised his hand, as if to

strike her again.

Vin used up a bit of her Luck.

She expended just a smidgen; she'd need the rest for the job. She directed

the Luck at Camon, calming his nervousness. The crewleader paused—

oblivious of Vin's touch, yet feeling its effects nonetheless. He stood for a

moment; then he sighed, turning away and lowering his hand.

Vin wiped her lip as Camon waddled away. The thiefmaster looked very

convincing in his nobleman's suit. It was as rich a costume as Vin had ever

seen—it had a white shirt overlaid by a deep green vest with engraved gold

buttons. The black suit coat was long, after the current fashion, and he wore a

matching black hat. His fingers sparkled with rings, and he even carried a

fine dueling cane. Indeed, Camon did an excellent job of imitating a

nobleman; when it came to playing a role, there were few thieves more

competent than Camon. Assuming he could keep his temper under control.

The room itself was less impressive. Vin pulled herself to her feet as

Camon began to snap at some of the other crewmembers. They had rented

one of the suites at the top of a local hotel. Not too lavish—but that was the

idea. Camon was going to be playing the part of "Lord Jedue," a country

nobleman who had hit upon hard financial times and come to Luthadel to get

some final, desperate contracts.

The main room had been transformed into a sort of audience chamber, set

with a large desk for Camon to sit behind, the walls decorated with cheap

pieces of art. Two men stood beside the desk, dressed in formal stewards'

clothing; they would play the part of Camon's manservants.

"What is this ruckus?" a man asked, entering the room. He was tall,

dressed in a simple gray shirt and a pair of slacks, with a thin sword tied at

his waist. Theron was the other crewleader—this particular scam was actually

his. He'd brought in Camon as a partner; he'd needed someone to play Lord

Jedue, and everyone knew that Camon was one of the best.

Camon looked up. "Hum? Ruckus? Oh, that was just a minor discipline

problem. Don't bother yourself, Theron." Camon punctuated his remark with

a dismissive wave of the hand—there was a reason he played such a good

aristocrat. He was arrogant enough that he could have been from one of the

Great Houses.

Theron's eyes narrowed. Vin knew what the man was probably thinking:

He was deciding how risky it would be to put a knife in Camon's fat back

once the scam was over. Eventually, the taller crewleader looked away from

Camon, glancing at Vin. "Who's this?" he asked.

"Just a member of my crew," Camon said.

"I thought we didn't need anyone else."

"Well, we need her," Camon said. "Ignore her. My end of the operation is

none of your concern."

Theron eyed Vin, obviously noting her bloodied lip. She glanced away.

Theron's eyes lingered on her, however, running down the length of her

body. She wore a simple white buttoned shirt and a pair of overalls. Indeed,

she was hardly enticing; scrawny with a youthful face, she supposedly didn't

even look her sixteen years. Some men preferred such women, however.

She considered using a bit of Luck on him, but eventually he turned away.

"The obligator is nearly here," Theron said. "Are you ready?"

Camon rolled his eyes, settling his bulk down into the chair behind the

desk. "Everything is perfect. Leave me be, Theron! Go back to your room

and wait."

Theron frowned, then spun and walked from the room, muttering to

himself.

Vin scanned the room, studying the decor, the servants, the atmosphere.

Finally, she made her way to Camon's desk. The crewleader sat riffling

through a stack of papers, apparently trying to decide which ones to put out

on the desktop.

"Camon," Vin said quietly, "the servants are too fine."

Camon frowned, looking up. "What is that you're babbling?"

"The servants," Vin repeated, still speaking in a soft whisper. "Lord Jedue

is supposed to be desperate. He'd have rich clothing left over from before,

but he wouldn't be able to afford such rich servants. He'd use skaa."

Camon glared at her, but he paused. Physically, there was little difference

between noblemen and skaa. The servants Camon had appointed, however,

were dressed as minor noblemen—they were allowed to wear colorful vests,

and they stood a little more confidently.

"The obligator has to think that you're nearly impoverished," Vin said.

"Pack the room with a lot of skaa servants instead."

"What do you know?" Camon said, scowling at her.

"Enough." She immediately regretted the word; it sounded too rebellious.

Camon raised a bejeweled hand, and Vin braced herself for another slap. She

couldn't afford to use up any more Luck. She had precious little remaining

anyway.

However, Camon didn't hit her. Instead, he sighed and rested a pudgy hand

on her shoulder. "Why do you insist on provoking me, Vin? You know the

debts your brother left when he ran away. Do you realize that a less merciful

man than myself would have sold you to the whoremasters long ago? How

would you like that, serving in some nobleman's bed until he grew tired of

you and had you executed?"

Vin looked down at her feet.

Camon's grip grew tight, his fingers pinching her skin where neck met

shoulder, and she gasped in pain despite herself. He grinned at the reaction.

"Honestly, I don't know why I keep you, Vin," he said, increasing the

pressure of his grip. "I should have gotten rid of you months ago, when your

brother betrayed me. I suppose I just have too kindly a heart."

He finally released her, then pointed for her to stand over by the side of the

room, next to a tall indoor plant. She did as ordered, orienting herself so she

had a good view of the entire room. As soon as Camon looked away, she

rubbed her shoulder. Just another pain. I can deal with pain.

Camon sat for a few moments. Then, as expected, he waved to the two

"servants" at his side.

"You two!" he said. "You're dressed too richly. Go put on something that

makes you look like skaa servants instead—and bring back six more men

with you when you come."

Soon, the room was filled as Vin had suggested. The obligator arrived a

short time later.

Vin watched Prelan Laird step haughtily into the room. Shaved bald like

all obligators, he wore a set of dark gray robes. The Ministry tattoos around

his eyes identified him as a prelan, a senior bureaucrat in the Ministry's

Canton of Finance. A set of lesser obligators trailed behind him, their eye

tattoos far less intricate.

Camon rose as the prelan entered, a sign of respect—something even the

highest of Great House noblemen would show to an obligator of Laird's rank.

Laird gave no bow or acknowledgment of his own, instead striding forward

and taking the seat in front of Camon's desk. One of the crewmen

impersonating a servant rushed forward, bringing chilled wine and fruit for

the obligator.

Laird picked at the fruit, letting the servant stand obediently, holding the

platter of food as if he were a piece of furniture. "Lord Jedue," Laird finally

said. "I am glad we finally have the opportunity to meet."

"As am I, Your Grace," Camon said.

"Why is it, again, that you were unable to come to the Canton building,

instead requiring that I visit you here?"

"My knees, Your Grace," Camon said. "My physicians recommend that I

travel as little as possible."

And you were rightly apprehensive about being drawn into a Ministry

stronghold, Vin thought.

"I see," Laird said. "Bad knees. An unfortunate attribute in a man who

deals in transportation."

"I don't have to go on the trips, Your Grace," Camon said, bowing his

head. "Just organize them."

Good, Vin thought. Make sure you remain subservient, Camon. You need

to seem desperate.

Vin needed this scam to succeed. Camon threatened her and he beat her—

but he considered her a good-luck charm. She wasn't sure if he knew why his

plans went better when she was in the room, but he had apparently made the

connection. That made her valuable—and Reen had always said that the

surest way to stay alive in the underworld was to make yourself

indispensable.

"I see," Laird said again. "Well, I fear that our meeting has come too late

for your purposes. The Canton of Finance has already voted on your

proposal."

"So soon?" Camon asked with genuine surprise.

"Yes," Laird replied, taking a sip of his wine, still not dismissing the

servant. "We have decided not to accept your contract."

Camon sat for a moment, stunned. "I'm sorry to hear that, Your Grace."

Laird came to meet you, Vin thought. That means he's still in a position to

negotiate.

"Indeed," Camon continued, seeing what Vin had. "That is especially

unfortunate, as I was ready to make the Ministry an even better offer."

Laird raised a tattooed eyebrow. "I doubt it will matter. There is an

element of the Council who feels that the Canton would receive better service

if we found a more stable house to transport our people."

"That would be a grave mistake," Camon said smoothly. "Let us be frank,

Your Grace. We both know that this contract is House Jedue's last chance.

Now that we've lost the Farwan deal, we cannot afford to run our canal boats

to Luthadel anymore. Without the Ministry's patronage, my house is

financially doomed."

"This is doing very little to persuade me, Your Lordship," the obligator

said.

"Isn't it?" Camon asked. "Ask yourself this, Your Grace—who will serve

you better? Will it be the house that has dozens of contracts to divide its

attention, or the house that views your contract as its last hope? The Canton

of Finance will not find a more accommodating partner than a desperate one.

Let my boats be the ones that bring your acolytes down from the north—let

my soldiers escort them—and you will not be disappointed."

Good, Vin thought.

"I . . . see," the obligator said, now troubled.

"I would be willing to give you an extended contract, locked in at the price

of fifty boxings a head per trip, Your Grace. Your acolytes would be able to

travel our boats at their leisure, and would always have the escorts they

need."

The obligator raised an eyebrow. "That's half the former fee."

"I told you," Camon said. "We're desperate. My house needs to keep its

boats running. Fifty boxings will not make us a profit, but that doesn't matter.

Once we have the Ministry contract to bring us stability, we can find other

contracts to fill our coffers."

Laird looked thoughtful. It was a fabulous deal—one that might ordinarily

have been suspicious. However, Camon's presentation created the image of a

house on the brink of financial collapse. The other crewleader, Theron, had

spent five years building, scamming, and finagling to create this moment.

The Ministry would be remiss not to consider the opportunity.

Laird was realizing just that. The Steel Ministry was not just the force of

bureaucracy and legal authority in the Final Empire—it was like a noble

house unto itself. The more wealth it had, the better its own mercantile

contracts, the more leverage the various Ministry Cantons had with each

other—and with the noble houses.

Laird was still obviously hesitant, however. Vin could see the look in his

eyes, the suspicion she knew well. He was not going to take the contract.

Now, Vin thought, It's my turn.

Vin used her Luck on Laird. She reached out tentatively—not even really

sure what she was doing, or why she could even do it. Yet her touch was

instinctive, trained through years of subtle practice. She'd been ten years old

before she'd realized that other people couldn't do what she could.

She pressed against Laird's emotions, dampening them. He became less

suspicious, less afraid. Docile. His worries melted away, and Vin could see a