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They’d found Telsin dead on the top of the Shaw. Written, by her own fingernail, on the strangely grey skin of her arm had been the words: You have proven yourselves. For now. The way her god had left her was eerily reminiscent of how the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor had been discovered at the end of the Catacendre. Strangely peaceful, and …
Allik took her by the shoulders. “You,” he declared, “look like you are in need of copious amounts of baked goods. Delivered with an urgency rivaling that of a warleader in battle. Yah?” “Yah,” she said, embracing him again. “A thousand times yah, Allik.”
The Ghostblood base in Elendel was more ostentatious than the one in Bilming. A grand old-school estate, with stained glass and manicured grounds.
Seated in a comfortable—but enveloping—chair, fine shoes catching the light, his face lost in shadows. But one feature was plain: a single spike pushed through his right eye. The Survivor himself.
But who knew? Could you really trust stories from hundreds of years ago? And if you could, surely a man changed after living—or, well, not staying dead—for four centuries.
“Marasi Colms,” TwinSoul said, “I am proud to offer you membership in the Ghostbloods. If you accept, I would be honored to become your mentor, as is our tradition. You may join me on my next mission, to track Moonlight down and attempt to restore her natural personality.” “This offer comes with access to everything the Ghostbloods know,” Kelsier said. “We don’t keep secrets from one another.”
“Saze,” Kelsier said, “is … erratic lately. There’s a problem brewing with him. One I fear is going to make even today’s events seem trivial by comparison. We must, unfortunately, work in secret. We are too small, too weak, as of yet. In the open, forces in the cosmere would crush us.”
“I’m a servant of the government,” Marasi said, “and of the law. Things that you, I believe, have historically had a problem with, Survivor. I appreciate your help on this mission. I’d accept it again in the future.” She shook her head. “But I’m not a good match for your organization. I won’t keep secrets when the truth could save lives.” She needed to know what was hidden here—but she was a detective. She’d find answers without selling her soul. Even if it was to the Survivor himself.
As the main hallway door shut outside—and Marasi Colms left—Dlavil eased from the shadows behind Kelsier’s seat. The short man bore an intricate and fearsome mask, wooden and painted—but when he spoke, his accent was not that of the Southern Scadrians. It was of Silverlight.
Dlavil held his tongue, his eyes inscrutable behind that cursed mask. TwinSoul hated being unable to get a full read on the man’s expressions, but Dlavil—like his sister who ran amok on Roshar—wore a mask that he never removed; it was grown in to the point that it was practically part of his skin.
“I mean it, Dlavil,” Kelsier said. “You will not move against her, or anyone in this city, without my permission. You understand?” “Yes, Lord Kelsier,” Dlavil said, and withdrew through the back door.
You are blessed, Silajana said in his mind. And worthy of commendation.
Kelsier narrowed his eye. “I,” he whispered softly, “am going to have to have a difficult conversation with ‘God.’ ”
She grinned. “ ‘Oi,’ ” she said. “ ‘Here you carried a girl all that way, mate, and you didn’t grab ’er butt, even a little?’ ” “You just made that one up.” She proffered the notebook, showing the line written there. “Well, I mean,” Wax said, “we’ve got to do as he says.” “It’s the only proper way to honor the dead.” He seized her then, pulled her into a kiss, her figure sculpting to his and pushing against him in all the right places. It felt amazing—like they were liquid, aligned, alive, alight. And yes, a proper butt-grab was involved.
“Rent?” she demanded. “It’s been three days.” “He’s never been late with a payment before.” Wayne, the man who’d murdered her father. “I’m sure he’ll show up soon.”
“Miss Allriandre,” the shorter man said, “you are the primary beneficiary of Master Wayne’s estate.” “What’s that amount to?” she asked. “Three balls of gum and an unpaid bar tab?” “Currently,” the tall one said, “it’s twenty million boxings—liquid—along with majority stake ownerships in several important holdings, equating to at least another hundred.”
“He wanted you to have this.” It simply said, Sorry. As if that could explain all of this. Overwhelmed, she took the note, then held it close to her chest.
Kelsier didn’t see quite as he once had. One eye saw as a mortal, the other as an immortal. His spiked eye not only pinned his soul to his bones, but gave him a constant overlay of blue, letting him see the world as a being like Sazed did. Outlining not only sources of metal, but all things. The very axi that made up matter had their own polarity, influenceable with Steelpushing under the right circumstances. One eye of the gods. One eye of the common men. As he had always tried to see the world.
Stars. Suns. Planets. Each one a potential threat.
“The kandra found atium dust in Waxillium’s destroyed laboratory,” Sazed said. “It appears that if you detonate harmonium against trellium—or, I suppose bavadinium would be its true name—it creates some small amount of atium as a by-product.”
My goal is to democratize this. Take the power away from the few, give it to the many.”
And there was a darkness within him. A different face from the one he showed. The powers were in imbalance. Ruin had always been stronger.
“I,” Kelsier said, “am going to protect our people. Whatever it costs. Please tell me I won’t ever have to protect them from you.” “That depends,” Sazed said, “entirely upon you, old friend.”
SILVERLIGHT MERCANTILE.
Dead? He … It was supposed to have been a mere fling. She was just too damn awful at being immortal. She folded the letter, then placed it carefully into her jacket.
And lights that seemed too alive for the cold fire of this strange place. People crowded around, hundreds of them, with strange outfits, many with odd red hair. Lost. This was her task. To save those people.
The most difficult thing about commissioning Wayne’s statue had been deciding which hat it should be wearing. In the end, the answer had been obvious. They had to make it changeable.
Marasi stepped up to the statue, wearing Wayne’s actual lucky hat. Wayne had left it to her. A last-minute addition to the will,
I’ve heard distressing things, Waxillium Ladrian, that you’ve been worrying about. I would like to promise you something. With all the essence and axi of my being, I declare this. No one else moves you. Your life is yours. And you have my deepest apologies that I had a hand in teaching you otherwise.
