Mathew Babaoye's Blog: Pure Impure, page 7

Progress Report

Making progress on the final editing pass of the fantasy/fae/myth story, and am contracted with a cover artist to finish artwork within the week. Release is set for the end of November. Otherwise: I am still writing the beginning to another fantasy story. It’s going well so far, and I’m excited to continue exploring this story’s wider world.

Favorite Passages in Literature…

The Phoenix Guard, by Steven Brust

This book is set in a witty, classic science fiction realm. In a world where Dragaerans (7 foot tall nearly immortal haughty elves with magic) rule the Empire, and Easterns (humans) live on the outskirts, and in the wild, 4 young (in other words, being under age 100) Dragaerans, all chance met on the road, at the start of a new imperial era, ruled by the new nearly immortal Empeor (as dictated by millenia long House Cycles) travel by foot to the capital to join the Imperial Phoenix Guard and join his reign. For fame, adventure, and glory.  

But they are all extremely accomplished fighters, and magic users. So much so that on their first patrol of the city, they each run into seperate misfortunes, as each was assigned a more experience Phoenix Guard to train them. The main character, Khaavren, gets into a scrape, is challenged by his partner, and forced to kill him in a duel. After, each of the 4 friends, returning from their assignments, has an appointment with the Captain, one after the other. Here is how these first day reports start.

…

(pg. 345)

THEY WALKED BACK to the Dragon Gate, and into the sub-wing of the Imperial Guards, where Khaavren paid each of the four two orbs from the same purse. They left the body in Captain G’aereth’s antechamber, and told the attendant that he wished to see the Captain. This worthy looked at the body and went to give the message. He returned at once, and signed that Khaavren should enter at once.

“Well, my good Tiassa,” said the Captain, motioning Khaavren to a chair. “It seems that something has happened. I am anxious to hear the details.”

“My lord,” said Khaavren, “I will tell you of the entire affair.”

“That is precisely what I wish to hear,” said the Captain.

“That is well. Here it is, then.” And he explained exactly what had occurred, with the precision of detail only a Tiassa is capable of. As he spoke, G’aereth’s eyes became hard. When he had finished, the Captain opened his mouth to speak, but they were interrupted by the attendant, who said that the Cavalier Pel wished to be admitted.

The Captain shrugged, and signed to Khaavren that he should be patient. “Very well,” G’aereth said to the attendant. “Send him in.”

Pel bowed to the pair of them.

“Well?” said the Captain.

“There has been a small misadventure, my lord,” said Pel.

“A misadventure?”

“Precisely.”

“Of what kind?”

“On the part of my partner.”

“Your partner?”

“Yes.”

“She is hurt?”

“Ah! You say, hurt.”

“That is to say, injured.”

“It seems likely.”

“But not badly?” asked G’aereth hopefully.

“On the contrary, my lord.”

“On the contrary?”

“Yes. It is very bad.”

“But, she still lives, does she not?”

“Oh, as to that…”

“Well?”

“I regret to inform your lordship—”

“Lords of Judgement! She is dead, then?”

“It is my sorrowful duty to say it, my Captain.”

“But how did it happen?”

“Oh, it was a strange thing.”

“Well?”

“Well, as we walked along the perimeters of Castlegate, where the revelries of the season were just beginning, my partner and I were discoursing on some subject—”

“On what subject?”

“That is to say… on the subject of…”

“Of dalliance, Cavalier?”

“Oh, certainly not, my Captain!”

As he said this, Khaavren noticed a flush on the pale features of the Yendi, and wondered if the Captain had seen it, too. Pel continued, “It was on the subject of sorcery, my lord.”

“Of sorcery?”

“Yes, She pretended that no one who was not an accomplished sorcerer could have a place in the Imperial Guard.”

“Well, and?”

“I had the honor to inform her that the reign of the Athyra had ended fifteen days ago.”

“Ah.”

“I feel she took my words amiss, for she raised her hands, as if she would cast a spell upon me.”

“Ah! And you?”

“Well, your lordship must understand that I could hardly permit a spell of an unknown sort to take effect on my person. It could have harmful effects. I had no choice but to draw my sword.”

“Oh, but you stopped with drawing it, I hope.”

“Most certainly, my Captain. I recovered myself, and I pleaded with her, as eloquently as I could, not to set out on this hasty course, from which no good could possibly occur.”

“And she? Was she convinced?”

“Entirely.”

“Well?”

“Well, upon seeing the wisdom of my words, she rushed to embrace me, and, in doing so, spitted herself upon my sword.”

“My good Pel!”

“It is as I have the honor to inform you, my Captain.”

“And yet—”

“We were observed by many, my Captain. There should be no difficulty in confirming what I have said.”

“You may assure yourself that I will investigate her death as thoroughly as I investigate the death of Frai.”

“Frai?”

“Khaavren’s partner, whom you doubtless observed in the ante-chamber.”

Pel gave Khaavren a glance full of meaning. “Has your partner also had an accident then?”

“Not at all,” said Khaavren. “We had occasion to fight.”

“Yes,” said G’aereth. “In fact, I was about to say—”

“Hold a moment,” said Pel. “I believe your attendant is calling.”

In fact, at that moment, the door-warden approached to announce the arrival of Aerich.

“Send him in, then,” said the Captain.

Aerich entered, and bowed gracefully to the room at large and to each man present.

“Well,” said G’aereth. “What have you to report?”

“My Lord Captain, it is with sorry that I must report the death of my partner.”

“Her death?”

Aerich bowed.

“But how did she die?”

“I killed her,” said Aerich coolly.

“What?” cried the Captain. “This is infamous!”

Aerich shrugged. Pel and Khaavren exchanged glances.

“How did it happen, then,” said G’aereth. “Did you quarrel?”

“Oh, as to that,” said Aerich. “It took place on the Street of the Cold Fires, at the Circle of the Fountain of the Darr. It was not, you perceive, in a private place, so no doubt you can discover any details that interest you.”

“But I, sir,” said the Captain. “I wish to hear of it from you.”

“Very well,” said the Lyorn, losing none of his coolness. “We did quarrel.”

“Ah! And what did you quarrel about?”

“Diamond mines.”

“Diamond mines?”

Aerich bowed his assent.

Beads of sweat broke out on the Captain’s brow. “How did you quarrel about diamond mines?”

“Your lordship is aware, perhaps, that there have been diamonds discovered in County Sandyhome?”

“I am indeed aware of it, sir, but I am anxious to learn how you became a party to this knowledge.”

“I was told of it.”

“By whom, then, were you told?”

“By my partner.”

“Ah! Well, she told you that diamonds have been discovered. Then what?”

“Your lordship is, no doubt, aware that County Sandyhome, once in the possession of the Empire, is now in the possession of the Easterners.”

“Yes, yes, in fact, it was a Dzur who led the expedition which discovered the diamonds.”

“Furthermore, my lord, you may be aware that there are so many Easterners there that it would be a major campaign for the Imperial army to remove them?”

“I know that indeed, sir.”

“My partner, then, said that the Emperor wished to do exactly that—to mount such a campaign to take this area which has no military value—”

“Oh, as to that…”

“Yes?”

“It has immense economic value.”

Aerich shrugged to signify that he had no opinion of his own on this subject.

“Go on, then,” said the Captain.

“My partner felt that this would be a useless waste of the Imperial armies, when our real project ought to be—you understand, Captain, that these are her words—ought to be the defense of the Pepperfields, which are necessary to the security of the Empire.”

“She is entitled to think whatever she wishes,” said G’aereth.

“That was my opinion, my Lord Captain. I am delighted to find that it coincides with yours.”

“Well, go on, then.”

“It was then, Captain, that my partner made certain statements slandering the character of the Emperor.”

“Ah!”

“We were, as I have had the honor to inform you, in the Circle of the Fountain of the Darr, that is, in a public place, and a place, moreover, filled with Teckla of all sorts. I therefore hastened to inform her, in a quiet voice, that it was the duty of all gentlemen to support and defend the Emperor, and that for those who had the honor to carry a sword in his name, this was twice as true.”

“And she said what to this?” asked the Captain, on whose brow beads of sweat could still be seen.

“She said that her opinion was that of the lady Lytra, the Warlord of the Empire, and that it was not my place to dispute her.”

“And then you said…?”

“I replied that the lady Lytra had not said anything of the kind in my presence, and I doubted that she had said so in a public place, nor would she approve of saying so.”

“And your partner?” asked the Captain, whose breath was now coming in gasps.

“She asked if I pretended to teach her manners.”

“And you?”

“I assured her frankly and sincerely that I was only acting as any gentleman ought to act.”

“By the Orb, sir! She drew her blade, then?”

“Excuse me, Captain, but her blade had been out since I questioned her first statement.”

“Ah! Had you drawn, as well?”

“Not at all,” said Aerich.

“Well, did you then draw it?”

“My partner became adamant on the subject; I felt it rude to refuse.”

“Then she attacked you?”

“Oh, she attacked me, yes.”

“Well?”

“She was very fast, my lord. I was forced to pierce her heart. I called for a healer at once, but, you perceive, it was already too late. I paid a pair of Teckla to keep watch upon her body so it may be brought to Deathgate Falls, should her House deem her worthy of it.”

“But then, among the three of you—”

“Excuse me, Captain,” said Pel, mildly. “The four of us.”

“What is that?”

“I believe I hear the attendant announcing the lady Tazendra.”

G’aereth shook his head. “Send her in, then. I hope she, at least, has a different tale for us.”

Aerich shrugged. Tazendra entered, then, her eyes flashing with the cold anger of a Dzurlord. “My Captain,” she said.

“Yes?”

“It give me great pain, but I must make a complaint.”

“What? A complaint?”

“Yes. Against the individual with whom I was partnered.”

“The Cavalier Fanuial?”

“Yes, that is his name.”

“Well? And your complaint?”

Tazendra drew herself up and flung her long hair over her shoulders, and thrust forward her fine jaw as she said, “He is no gentleman, my lord.”

“How is this?” asked the Captain, astonished.

“My lord, I will tell you the entire history.”

“I ask nothing better.”

“Well, it fell out in this manner. We began our patrol in the hills of the Brambletown district. We arrived, and had hardly set foot upon the Street of Ringing Bells when I saw a young gentleman walking toward us, who seemed to be looking at me quite fixedly.”

“In what way?” asked the Captain.

“Oh, as to that, I am too modest to say.”

The Captain’s eyes traveled from Tazendra’s thick black hair to her finely shaped legs, stopping at all points of interest in between. “Yes, I understand, madam. Go on.”

“I stopped to speak with this young gentleman, who appeared to be a count—” she glanced quickly at the others, cleared her throat and amended, “or perhaps a duke. Yes, undoubtedly a duke, of the House of the Hawk.”

“Well?”

“Well, my partner made remarks about this young noble of—of a particularly rude and personal nature.”

“I see. And what was your response to this?”

“Well, I was tempted to fight, Captain.”

“But you didn’t, I hope?”

“I could not, Captain. You understand, do you not? I am a Dzurlord, he only a Dragon. It would have been dishonorable to attack him.”

“I quite agree,” murmured the Captain. “What did you do, then?”

“Do? Why, naturally I suggested that he find four or five friends, and that, if they would do me the honor to all attack me at once, I would engage to defend this young Hawklord of whom he had spoken so disrespectfully.”

The Captain buried his face in his hands. Out of respect for him, no one spoke.

After a moment, the Captain lifted up his head and said, in a tone noticeably lacking in hope, “He attacked you then?”

“Attacked me? I almost think he did. He drew his sword, which was of tolerably good length, my lord, and rushed me as if it were the Battle of Twelve Pines.”

“And you?”

“Well, not having time to draw my own sword, you understand—”

“Yes, yes, I understand that.”

“Well, I was forced to use a flash-stone.”

“And?”

“I think the charge tore his throat out.”

“Oh,” groaned the Captain.

“And part of his chest.”

“Oh.”

“And penetrated his lungs.”

“Will you have done?”

Tazendra looked mildly startled. “That is all, my lord.”

“I should hope so, for the love of the Emperor.”

Tazendra bowed.

The Captain stood up, and looked at the four of them. “If this is a conspiracy, on the part of Lanmarea or anyone else, I promise you that all of your heads will adorn my wall.”

At the word “conspiracy,” Aerich’s brows contracted. Khaavren managed with some difficulty not to look at the wall to see if there were heads adorning it already.

But the Captain said, “I fear, however, that after interrogating what witnesses I can, I will discover that you have all told the truth. And then, my friends, then what am I to do?”

They didn’t answer. He looked from one to the other. “If that is the case,” he said at last, “it seems plain that, whatever you do, you are so valuable that I must either have you with me or have you dead.”

He chewed his thumb. “It is also plain,” he said, “that I cannot have you on duty with my other Guardsmen—we can’t afford it. In the future you must patrol and team only with each other.”

Pel bowed low at this and looked in the Captain’s eyes. He said in his mild voice,

“Captain my lord G’aereth.”

“Well?”

“We ask nothing better.”

…

Currently Reading…

The Goblin Emperor, by Katherine Addison.

The premise: in the Elflands, the Emperor and his three sons die in a tragic airship crash, leaving the only heir his reviled, half-blood son, Maia. Dubbed the Goblin Emperor, he must navigate the labrynthine politics of his new seat of power, the Imperial Court. Who can he trust? Who must he plot against? And who was behind the airship crash, which is eventually deemed foul play?

Just a great story so far. Maia is a wonderful, sensitive character, and the court really comes alive. You will want to root for the half-blood to succeed.

Hi Reddit!

Yes, I just posted an AMA this morning, 10/5/15. Yes, the account name Mbabaoye is me. AMA :)

Favorite Passages in Literature…

The Quantum Thief, by Hannu Rajaniemi

This book is set in a far future time, where humanity has branched out biologically, and digitally, while spreading throughout the stars. Different enclaves, factions, and powers maintain an inter-connected balance. But on the fringes, as always, remain the criminals.  And the most legendary criminal of his time is locked up behind bars in one of the most advanced, and infuriating, prisons ever built.

Not for long, though. This is how Jean Le Flambuer’s story begins.

…

(pg. 1)

As always, before the warmind and I shoot each other, I try to make small talk.

‘Prisons are always the same, don’t you think?’

I don’t even know if it can hear me. It has no visible auditory organs, just eyes, human eyes, hundreds of them, in the ends of stalks that radiate from its body like some exotic fruit. It hovers on the other side of the glowing line that separates our cells. The huge silver Colt would look ridiculous in the grip of its twiglike manipulator limbs if it hadn’t already shot me with it fourteen thousand times.

‘Prisons are like airports used to be on Earth. No one wants to be here. No one really lives here. We’re just passing through.’

Today, the Prison’s walls are glass. There is a sun far above, almost like the real one but not quite right, paler. Millions of glass-walled, glass-floored cells stretch to infinity around me. The light filters through the transparent surfaces and makes rainbow colours on the floor. Apart from them, my cell is bare, and so am I: birth-naked, except for the gun. Sometimes, when you win, they let you change the little things. The warmind has been successful. It has zero-g flowers floating in its cell, red and purple and green bulbs growing out of bubbles of water, like cartoon versions of itself. Narcissistic bastard.

‘If we had toilets, the doors would open inwards. Nothing ever changes.’

All right, so I am starting to run out of material.

The warmind raises its weapon slowly. A ripple passes through its eyestalks. I wish it had a face: the stare of its moist forest of orbs is unnerving. Never mind. It’s going to work this time. I tilt the gun upwards slightly, my body language and wrist movement suggesting the motion I would make if I was going to put up my gun. My every muscle screams cooperation. Come on. Fall for it. Honest. This time, we are going to be friends—

A fiery wink: the black pupil of its gun, flashing. My trigger finger jerks. There are two thunderclaps. And a bullet in my head.

You never get used to the feeling of hot metal, entering your skull and exiting through the back of your head. It’s simulated in glorious detail. A burning train through your forehead, a warm spray of blood and brain on your shoulders and back, the sudden chill – and finally, the black, when things stop. The Archons of the Dilemma Prison want you to feel it. It’s educational.

The Prison is all about education. And game theory: the mathematics of rational decision-making. When you are an immortal mind like the Archons, you have time to be obsessed with such things. And it is just like the Sobornost – the upload collective that rules the Inner Solar System – to put them in charge of their prisons.

We play the same game over and over again, in different forms. An archetypal game beloved by economists and mathematicians. Sometimes it’s chicken: we are racers on an endless highway, driving at each other at high speeds, deciding whether or not to turn away at the last minute. Sometimes we are soldiers trapped in trench warfare, facing each other across no-man’s-land. And sometimes they go back to basics and make us prisoners – old-fashioned prisoners, questioned by hard-eyed men – who have to choose between betrayal and the code of silence. Guns are the flavour of today. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.

I snap back to life like a rubber band, blinking. There is a discontinuity in my mind, a rough edge. The Archons change your neural makeup a little bit every time you come back. They claim that eventually Darwin’s whetstone will hone any prisoner into a rehabilitated cooperator.

If they shoot and I don’t, I’m screwed. If we both shoot, it hurts a little. If we cooperate, it’s Christmas for both of us. Except that there is always an incentive to pull the trigger. The theory is that as we meet again and again, cooperative behaviour will emerge.

A few million rounds more and I’ll be a Boy Scout.

Right.

My score after the last game is an ache in my bones. The warmind and I both defected. Two games to go, in this round. Not enough. Damn it.

You capture territory by playing against your neighbours. If, at the end of each round, your score is higher than that of your neighbours, you win, and are rewarded with duplicates of yourself that replace – and erase – the losers around you. I’m not doing very well today – two double defections so far, both with the warmind – and if I don’t turn this around, it’s oblivion for real.

I weigh my options. Two of the squares around mine – left and back – contain copies of the warmind. The one on the right has a woman in it: when I turn to face it, the wall between us vanishes, replaced by the blue line of death.

Her cell is as bare as mine. She is sitting in the middle, hugging her knees, wrapped in a black toga-like garment. I look at her curiously: I haven’t seen her before. She has a deeply tanned skin that makes me think of Oort, an almond Asian face and a compact, powerful body. I smile at her and wave. She ignores me. Apparently, the Prison thinks that counts as mutual cooperation: I feel my point score go up a little, warm like a shot of whisky. The glass wall is back between us. Well, that was easy. But still not enough against the warmind.

‘Hey, loser,’ someone says. ‘She’s not interested. Better options around.’

There is another me in the remaining cell. He is wearing a white tennis shirt, shorts and oversized mirrorshades, lounging in a deck chair by a swimming pool. He has a book in his lap: Le Bouchon de cristal. One of my favorites, too.

‘It got you again,’ he says, not bothering to look up. ‘Again. What is that, three times in a row now? You should know by now that it always goes for tit-for-tat.’

‘I almost got it this time.’

‘That whole false memory of cooperation thing is a good idea,’ he says. ‘Except, you know, it will never work. The warminds have non-standard occipital lobes, non-sequential dorsal stream. You can’t fool it with visual illusions. Too bad the Archons don’t give points for effort.’

I blink.

‘Wait a minute. How do you know that, but I don’t?’

‘Did you think you are the only le Flambeur in here? I’ve been around. Anyway, you need ten more points to beat it, so get over here and let me help you out.’

‘Rub it in, smartass.’ I walk to the blue line, taking my first relieved breath of this round. He gets up as well, pulling his sleek automatic from beneath the book.

I point a forefinger at him. ‘Boom boom,’ I say. ‘I cooperate.’

‘Very funny,’ he says and raises his gun, grinning.

My double reflection in his shades looks small and naked.

‘Hey. Hey. We’re in this together, right?’ And this is me thinking I had a sense of humor.

‘Gamblers and high rollers, isn’t that who we are?’

Something clicks. Compelling smile, elaborate cell, putting me at ease, reminding me of myself but somehow not quite right—

‘Oh fuck.’

Every prison has its rumours and monsters and this place is no different. I heard this one from a zoku renegade I cooperated with for a while: the legend of the anomaly. The All-Defector. The thing that never cooperates and gets away with it. It found a glitch in the system so that it always appears as you. And if you can’t trust yourself, who can you trust?

‘Oh yes,’ says the All-Defector, and pulls the trigger.

At least it’s not the warmind, I think when the bright thunder comes.

And then things stop making sense.

…

More coming…

Following the release, there will be a number of related items, and articles. Stay tuned.

Released.

Done.

Currently Reading…

Cuckoo Song, by Frances Hardinge.

The premise: Triss wakes up not feeling like herself. Her parents assure her that she is just ill, and had fallen in the “grimmer”, but will be all right. Yet the little girl cannot remember important details of her life, and is ravenously hungry all the time, causing her to eat and eat and eat to exhaustion, while never gaining any weight. And her sister claims she isn’t Triss, but a monster tricking them all…

Fascinating book. Gripped me from the start, and sets a claustrophic, paranoid mood. Really great stuff so far.

Excerpt 1

Added an excerpt from Übermensch. It is the entire first chapter, and a perfect introduction to that far future, dystopian, hard science fiction story.

Favorite Passages in Literature…

Mistborn: The Final Empire, by Brandon Sanderson

This book is set in an apocolyptic fantasy world, where ash rains from the sky on lands nearly barren. An immortal tyrant, the Lord Ruler, has controlled the Final Empire for a thousand years, crushing any and all dissent. But when a famous thief, Kelsier, escapes a death sentence by escaping the dread prison known as the Pits of Hathsin, and returns bearing the full magical abilities of a Mistborn (rare figures which can increase their strength, speed, senses, and control metals, all through the ingestion of multiple rare metals in a vial of liquid. Mistings only have the ability to do one of those things), and recruits another young Mistborn, the gutterborn Vin, to his aide, a plot is hatched to finally bring the Final Empire down.

As part of their efforts, Vin is tasked with insinuating herself into the nobility, to help bring them down from the inside out. But when she finds out that Elend, a nobleman she has come to love, is threatened with assasination at the nobleman’s ball they are both attending, Vin rushes through the mansion to find him, before it is too late.

…

(pg. 345)

You . . . must . . . give! she thought angrily, flaring her steel. Chips of stone fell around the window.

Then, with a crack of sound, the rose window burst free from the stone wall. It fell backward into the dark night, and Vin shot out behind it.

Cool mist enveloped her. She Pulled slightly against the door inside the room, keeping herself from going out too far, then Pushed mightily against the falling window. The enormous dark-glassed window tumbled beneath her, churning the mists as Vin shot away from it. Straight up, toward the roof.

The window crashed to the ground just as Vin flew up over the edge of the rooftop, her dress fluttering madly in the wind. She landed on the bronze-plated roof with a thump, falling to a crouch. The metal was cool beneath her toes and fingers.

Tin flared, illuminating the night. She could see nothing out of the ordinary.

She burned bronze, using it as Marsh had taught her, searching for signs of Allomancy. There weren’t any—the assassins had a Smoker with them.

I can’t search the entire building! Vin thought, desperately, flaring her bronze. Where are they?

Then, oddly, she thought she sensed something. An Allomantic pulse in the night. Faint. Hidden. But enough.

Vin rose to dash across the rooftop, trusting her instincts. As she ran, she flared pewter and grabbed her dress near the neck, then ripped the garment down the front with a single yank. She pulled her coin pouch and metal vials from a hidden pocket, and then—still running—she ripped the dress, petticoats, and attached leggings free, tossing it all aside. Her corset and gloves went next. Underneath, she wore a thin, sleeveless white shift and a pair of white shorts.

She dashed frantically. I can’t be too late, she thought. Please. I can’t.

Figures resolved in the mists ahead. They stood beside an angled rooftop skylight; Vin had passed several similar ones as she ran. One of the figures pointed toward the skylight, a weapon glittering in its hand.

Vin cried out, Pushing herself off the bronze roof in an arcing jump. She landed in the very center of the surprised group of people, then thrust her coin pouch upward, ripping it in two.

Coins sprayed into the air, reflecting light from the window below. As the glistening shower of metal fell around Vin, she Pushed. Coins zipped away from her like a swarm of insects, each one leaving a trail in the mist. Figures cried out as coins hit flesh, and several of the dark forms dropped.

Several did not. Some of the coins snapped away, Pushed aside by invisible Allomantic hands. Four people remained standing: Two of them wore mistcloaks; one of them was familiar.

Shan Elariel. Vin didn’t need to see the cloak to understand; there was only one reason a woman as important as Shan would come on an assassination like this. She was a Mistborn.

“You?” Shan asked in shock. She wore a black outfit of trousers and shirt, her dark hair pulled back, her mistcloak worn almost stylishly.

Two Mistborn, Vin thought. Not good. She scrambled away, ducking as one of the assassins swung a dueling cane at her.

Vin slid across the rooftop, then Pulled herself to a brief halt, spinning with one hand resting against the cold bronze. She reached out and Pulled against the few coins that hadn’t escaped out into the night, yanking them back into her hand.

“Kill her!” Shan snapped. The two men Vin had felled lay groaning on the rooftop. They weren’t dead; in fact, one was climbing unsteadily to his feet.

Thugs, Vin thought. The other two are probably Coinshots.

As if to prove her right, one of the men tried to Push away Vin’s vial of metals. Fortunately, there weren’t enough metals in the vial to give him a very good anchor, and she kept hold of it easily.

Shan turned her attention back to the skylight.

No you don’t! Vin thought, dashing forward again.

The Coinshot cried out as she approached. Vin flipped a coin and shot it at him. He, of course, Pushed back—but Vin anchored herself against the bronze roof and flared Steel, Pushing with a firm effort.

The man’s own Steelpush—transmitted from the coin, to Vin, to the roof—launched him out into the air. He cried out, shooting off into the darkness. He was only a Misting, and couldn’t Pull himself back to the rooftop.

The other Coinshot tried to spray Vin with coins, but she deflected them with ease. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as foolish as his companion, and he released the coins soon after Pushing them. However, it was obvious that he couldn’t hit her. Why did he keep—

The other Mistborn! Vin thought, ducking to a roll as a figure leaped from the dark mists, glass knives flashing in the air.

Vin just barely got out of the way, flaring pewter to give herself balance. She came to her feet beside the wounded Thug, who stood on obviously weak legs. With another flare of pewter, Vin slammed her shoulder into the man’s chest, shoving him to the side.

The man stumbled maladroitly, still holding his bleeding side. Then he tripped and fell right into the skylight. The fine, tinted glass shattered as he fell, and Vin’s tin-enhanced ears could hear cries of surprise from below, followed by a crash as the Thug hit the ground.

Vin looked up, smiling evilly at the stunned Shan. Behind her, the second Mistborn—a man—swore quietly.

“You . . . You . . .” Shan sputtered, her eyes flaring dangerously with anger in the night.

Take the warning, Elend, Vin thought, and escape. It’s time for me to go.

She couldn’t face two Mistborn at once—she couldn’t even beat Kelsier most nights. Flaring Steel, Vin launched herself backward. Shan took a step forward and—looking determined—Pushed herself after Vin. The second Mistborn joined her.

Bloody hell! Vin thought, spinning in the air and Pulling herself to the rooftop’s edge near where she had broken the rose window. Below, figures scrambled about, lanterns brightening the mists. Lord Venture probably thought that the fuss meant his son was dead. He was in for a surprise.

Vin launched herself into the air again, jumping out into the misty void. She could hear the two Mistborn land behind her, then push off as well.

This isn’t good, Vin thought with trepidation as she hurled through the misty air currents. She didn’t have any coins left, nor did she have daggers—and she faced two trained Mistborn.

She burned iron, searching frantically for an anchor in the night. A line of blue, moving slowly, appeared beneath her to the right.

Vin yanked on the line, changing her trajectory. She shot downward, the Venture grounds wall appearing as a dark shadow beneath her. Her anchor was the breastplate of an unfortunate guard, who lay atop the wall, holding frantically to a tooth in the battlements to keep himself from being pulled up toward Vin.

Vin slammed feet-first into the man, then spun in the misty air, flipping to land on the cool stone. The guard collapsed to the stone, then cried out, desperately grabbing his stone anchor as another Allomantic force Pulled against him.

Sorry, friend, Vin thought, kicking the man’s hand free from the battlement tooth. He immediately snapped upward, yanked into the air as if pulled by a powerful tether.

The sound of bodies colliding sounded from the darkness above, and Vin saw a pair of forms drop limply to the Venture courtyard. Vin smiled, dashing along the wall. I sure hope that was Shan.

Vin jumped up, landing atop the gatehouse. Near the keep, people were scattering, climbing in carriages to flee.

And so the house war starts, Vin thought. Didn’t think I’d be the one to officially begin it.

A figure plummeted toward her from the mists above. Vin cried out, flaring pewter and jumping to the side. Shan landed dexterously—mistcloak tassels billowing—atop the gatehouse. She had both daggers out, and her eyes burned with anger.

Vin jumped to the side, rolling off the gatehouse and landing on the walltop below. A pair of guards jumped back in alarm, surprised to see a half-naked girl fall into their midst. Shan dropped to the wall behind them, then Pushed, throwing one of the guards in Vin’s direction.

The man cried out as Vin Pushed against his breastplate as well—but he was far heavier than she, and she was thrown backward. She Pulled on the guard to slow herself, and the man crashed down to the walltop. Vin landed lithely beside him, then grabbed his staff as it rolled free from his hand.

Shan attacked in a flash of spinning daggers, and Vin was forced to jump backward again. She’s so good! Vin thought with anxiety. Vin herself had barely trained with daggers; now she wished she’d asked Kelsier for a little more practice. She swung the staff, but she’d never used one of the weapons before, and her attack was laughable.

Shan slashed, and Vin felt a flare of pain in her cheek as she dodged. She dropped the staff in shock, reaching up to her face and feeling blood. She stumbled back, seeing the smile on Shan’s face.

And then Vin remembered the vial. The one she still carried—the one Kelsier had given her.

Atium.

She didn’t bother to grab it from the place she had tucked it at her waist. She burned steel, Pushing it out into the air in front of her. Then, she immediately burned iron and yanked on the bead of atium. The vial shattered, the bead heading back toward Vin. She caught it in her mouth, swallowing the lump and forcing it down.

Shan paused. Then, before Vin could do anything, she downed a vial of her own.

Of course she has atium!

But, how much did she have? Kelsier hadn’t given Vin much—only enough for about thirty seconds. Shan jumped forward, smiling, her long black hair flaring in the air. Vin gritted her teeth. She didn’t have much choice.

She burned atium. Immediately, Shan’s form shot forth dozens of phantom atium shadows. It was a Mistborn standoff: The first one who ran out of atium would be vulnerable. You couldn’t escape an opponent who knew exactly what you were going to do.

Vin scrambled backward, keeping an eye on Shan. The noblewoman stalked forward, her phantoms forming an insane bubble of translucent motion around her. She seemed calm. Secure.

She has plenty of atium, Vin thought, feeling her own storage burn away. I need to get away.

A shadowy length of wood suddenly shot through Vin’s chest. She ducked to the side just as the real arrow—apparently made with no arrowhead—passed through the air where she had been standing. She glanced toward the gate-house, where several soldiers were raising bows.

She cursed, glancing to the side, into the mists. As she did so, she caught a smile from Shan.

She’s just waiting for my atium to burn out. She wants me to run—she knows she can chase me down.

There was only one other option: attack.

Shan frowned in surprise as Vin dashed forward, phantom arrows snapping against the stones just before their real counterparts arrived. Vin dodged between two arrows—her atium enhanced mind knowing exactly how to move—passing so close that she could feel the missiles in the air to either side of her.

Shan swung her daggers, and Vin twisted to the side, dodging one slice and blocking the other with her forearm, earning a deep gash. Her own blood flew in the air as she spun—each droplet tossing out a translucent atium image—and flared pewter, punching Shan square in the stomach.

Shan grunted in pain, bending slightly, but she didn’t fall.

Atium’s almost gone, Vin thought desperately. Only a few seconds left.

So, she extinguished her atium early, exposing herself.

Shan smiled wickedly, coming up from her crouch, right-hand dagger swinging confidently. She assumed that Vin had run out of atium—and therefore assumed that she was exposed. Vulnerable.

At that moment, Vin burned her last bit of atium. Shan paused just briefly in confusion, giving Vin an opening as a phantom arrow streaked through the mists overhead.

Vin caught the real arrow as it followed—the grainy wood burning her fingers—then rammed it down into Shan’s chest. The shaft snapped in Vin’s hand, leaving about an inch protruding from Shan’s body. The woman stumbled backward, staying on her feet.

Damn pewter, Vin thought, ripping a sword from a sheath beside the unconscious soldier at her feet. She jumped forward, gritting her teeth in determination, and Shan—still dazed—raised a hand to Push against the sword.

Vin let the weapon go—it was just a distraction—as she slammed the second half of the broken arrow into Shan’s chest just beside its counterpart.

This time, Shan dropped. She tried to rise, but one of the shafts must have done some serious damage to her heart, for her face paled. She struggled for a moment, then fell lifeless to the stones.

Vin stood, breathing deeply as she wiped the blood from her cheek—only to realize that her bloody arm was just making her face worse. Behind her, the soldiers called out, nocking more arrows.

Vin glanced back toward the keep, bidding farewell to Elend, then Pushed herself out into the night.

…