The Alloy of Law (Mistborn, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

One could never tell which nights would bring out the mists; they didn’t conform to normal weather patterns.

Wayne was a Slider, a bendalloy Allomancer, capable of creating a bubble of compressed time around himself. He often used the power to change costumes. He was also Twinborn, like Waxillium, though his Feruchemical ability—healing quickly from wounds—wasn’t so useful outside of combat.

Did they use a speed bubble, like Wayne makes? Waxillium thought. But no. You couldn’t move in or out of a speed bubble once one was up, and it would be impossible to make one large enough to facilitate this kind of robbery. So far as he knew, at least.

He looked up to see Tillaume in the doorway holding a tray of tea and a basket, the handle over his arm. “Tea, my lord?” “That would be wonderful.”

I need a Tillaume in my life.

Do not seek lust without commitment. See the strengths in all flaws. Pray and meditate fifteen minutes a day. And don’t waste time worshipping Harmony. Doing good was the worship.

“It’s only been three hundred years since the Originators, Wayne. We’re all relatives.”

Each of them could trace back to the Lord Mistborn himself.

descriptions,” she said, her hand shaking. “Did you know that, statistically, only one out of two witnesses can accurately describe a criminal who assaulted them? Worse, seven out of ten will pick the wrong man out of a lineup if a similar but more threatening man is presented. In the moment, you are far more likely to overestimate the height of an assailant, and you will often describe him as being similar to a villain from a story you’ve recently heard.

I swear it by the Survivor himself!”

“I thought of you happy in a comfy bed, resting and relaxing, spending the rest of your life sipping tea and reading papers while people bring you food and maids rub your toes and stuff.” “And?” “And I just couldn’t leave you to a fate like that.” Wayne shivered. “I’m too good a friend to let a mate of mine die in such a terrible situation.” “Comfortable?” “No,” Wayne said. “Boring.” He shivered again.

Wayne was a Bloodmaker, a type of Feruchemist who could store health in the way that Waxillium stored weight. If Wayne spent some time being sickly and weak—his body healing itself much more slowly than normal—he could store up the health and healing ability in a metalmind. Then, when he tapped it, he healed at a greatly increased rate.

City law established by the Lord Mistborn himself required that even ornamental trees provide food.

“Genetic. Taking all women. Waxillium, don’t you see? They’re not intending to build an army of Allomancers. They’re intending to breed one. They’re taking the women with the most direct Allomantic lines back to the Mistborn.”

:''''''(

Don’t forget, the Ascendant Warrior herself was a woman.”

“We call it the ‘broken windows’ theory.

“Huh,” Wayne said thoughtfully. “Tea’s poisoned.”

“Two in three sufferers of great trauma are unable to correctly identify their own injuries as a result of stress or the body’s own natural coping mechanisms covering the pain.”

But Tarson was a Pewterarm and koloss-blooded. He’d heal quickly.

Tarson said. He was still wearing Wayne’s hat.

“Miles Dagouter is Twinborn,” Waxillium said, leaning forward in their train car. “A particularly dangerous variety of Twinborn.” “Double gold,” Wayne said with a nod, reclining on the cushioned bench opposite Waxillium. Outside, the outer suburbs of Elendel passed in a blur. Marasi sat on the bench near Wayne. “Gold Allomancers aren’t particularly dangerous, from what I’ve read.” “No,” Waxillium said. “They aren’t. But it’s the Compounding that makes Miles so powerful. If your Allomancy and Feruchemy share a metal, you can access its power tenfold. It’s complicated. You store an attribute inside the metal, then burn it to release the power. It’s called Compounding. By the legends, it’s the way the Sliver gained immortality.” Marasi frowned. “I’d assumed stories of Miles’s extraordinary healing abilities to be exaggerations. I assumed he was just a Bloodmaker, like Wayne.” “Oh, he’s a Bloodmaker all right,” Wayne said, spinning a dueling cane around his wrist and catching it again. “Except he doesn’t ever run out of health.”

“Normally a Feruchemist has to be sparing. It can take months to store up health or weight. I’ve been walking around at half weight since breaking us through the floor, trying to recover some of what I expended. I’ve barely filled my metalmind to a fraction of what I lost. It’s even harder for Wayne.” Wayne wiped his nose. “I’ll have to spend a few weeks in bed after this, feeling wretched. Otherwise, I’ll be unable to heal myself. Hell, I’m already storing as much as I can and still move about normally. By the end of the day, I’ll barely have enough to heal a scratch.” “But Miles …” Marasi said. “Near-infinite healing ability,” Waxillium said. “The man’s virtually immortal. I heard he once took a shotgun blast to the face point-blank and walked away from it.

“Odd,” Wayne said, “I usually find the safest places in life are everywhere but near Wax. Have I mentioned the likelihood of explosions?”

“And I could really use some food,” Wayne added. “Fat is fat.”

“Don’t call me dearie.” “Sure thing, honey.”

I’m not certain she’s interested in any man like that.

Most Lurchers protect themselves by Pulling bullets to hit an armored plate at their chest. Those bullets, they explode when Pulled on, and you get a little shrapnel blast of ceramics.

“I call the gun Vindication,” she said. “After the Ascendant Warrior.”

The future could only continue down one or the other. Either Wax would die or Miles would.

There was really nothing sacred about the law. It was arbitrary, created by powerful men to help them hold power.

Except for the founder xD

There had been considerable speculation about what a gold Misting really saw when burning his metal. A past version of himself, certainly. Was it the person he had actually been? Or was it a person he might have become, if he’d chosen another branching path of his life?

“You are inexperienced. So was I, once. So is every man. The measure of a person is not how much they have lived. It is not how easily they jump at a noise or how quick they are to show emotion. It’s in how they make use of what life has shown them.”

“Good idea. Hopefully she hasn’t discovered that he took one of her guns to trade.”

“It’s what I do wif my brain. Somma the time, at least.” “And the rest of the time?” “The rest of the time, I don’t do so much thinkin’. ’Cuz if I did, I’d go runnin’ back to where things is simple. You see?”

Roughs honor. When one of your own went bad, it was your job to see the mess cleaned up.