Marsh had found the servants.
They had been dead long enough that Sazed hadn’t noticed the scent until he had come close. Perhaps that was what Marsh had been following; the senses of a man burning tin could be quite acute.
The Inquisitors had done their work thoroughly. These were the remnants of a slaughter. The room was large, but had only one exit, and the bodies were piled high near the back, killed by what looked like harsh sword or axe strokes. The servants had huddled up against the back wall as they died.
Sazed turned away.
Marsh, however, remained in the doorway. “There is a bad air about this place,” he finally said.
“You have only just noticed that?” Sazed asked.
Marsh turned, glancing at him, demanding his gaze. “We should not spend much time here. There are stairs at the end of the hallway behind us. I will go up—that is where the Inquisitors’ quarters will be. If the information I seek is here, I will find it there. You may stay, or you may descend. However, do not follow me.”
Sazed frowned. “Why?”
“I must be alone here. I cannot explain it. I do not care if you witness Inquisitor atrocities. I just … do not wish to be with you when you do.”
Sazed lowered his lamp, turning its light away from the horrific scene. “Very well.”
Marsh turned, brushing past Sazed and disappearing into the dark hallway. And Sazed was alone.
He tried not to think about that very much. He returned to the main hallway, describing the slaughter to his coppermind before giving a more detailed explanation of the architecture and the art—if, indeed, that was what the different patterns on the wall plates could be called.
As he worked—his voice echoing quietly against the rigid architecture, his lamp a weak drop of light reflected in steel—his eyes were drawn toward the back of the hallway. There was a pool of darkness there. A stairwell, leading down.
Even as he turned back to his description of one of the wall mounts, he knew that he would eventually find himself walking toward that darkness. It was the same as ever—the curiosity, the need to understand the unknown. This sense had driven him as a Keeper, had led him to Kelsier’s company. His search for truths could never be completed, but neither could it be ignored. So, he eventually turned and approached the stairwell, his own whispering voice his only companion.
“The stairs are akin to what I saw in the hallway. They are broad and expansive, like the steps leading up to a temple or palace. Except, these go down, into darkness. They are large, likely cut from stone and then lined with steel. They are tall, meant for a determined stride.
“As I walk, I wonder what secrets the Inquisitors deemed worthy of hiding below the earth, in the basement of their stronghold. This entire building is a secret. What did they do here, in these massive hallways and open, empty rooms?
“The stairwell ends in another large, square room. I’ve noticed something—there are no doors in the doorways here. Each room is open, visible to those outside. As I walk, peeking into the rooms beneath the earth, I find cavernous chambers with few furnishings. No libraries, no lounges. Several contain large metal blocks that could be altars.
“There is … something different here in this last room, at the back of the main landing. I’m not certain what to make of it. A torture chamber, perhaps? There are tables—metal tables—set into the floor. They are bloody, though there are no corpses. Blood flakes and powders at my feet—a lot of men have died in this room, I think. There don’t appear to be torture implements beyond …
“Spikes. Like the ones in Inquisitor eyes. Massive, heavy things—like the spikes one might pound into the ground with a very large mallet. Some are tipped with blood, though I don’t think I’ll handle those. These other ones … yes, they look indistinguishable from the ones in Marsh’s eyes. Yet, some are of different metals.”
Sazed set the spike down on a table, metal clinking against metal. He shivered, scanning the room again. A place to make new Inquisitors, perhaps? He had a sudden horrific vision of the creatures—once only several dozen in number—having swelled their ranks during their months sequestered in the Conventical.
But that didn’t seem right. They were a secretive, exclusive bunch. Where would they have found enough men worthy of joining their ranks? Why not make Inquisitors from the servants above, rather than just killing them?
Sazed had always suspected that a man had to be an Allomancer to be changed into an Inquisitor. Marsh’s own experience substantiated that premise: Marsh had been a Seeker, a man who could burn bronze, before his transformation. Sazed looked again at the blood, the spikes, and the tables, and decided he wasn’t certain that he wanted to know how one made a new Inquisitor.
Sazed was about to leave the room when his lamp revealed something at the back. Another doorway.
He moved forward, trying to ignore the dried blood at his feet, and entered a chamber that didn’t seem to match the rest of the Conventical’s daunting architecture. It was cut directly into the stone, and it twisted down into a very small stairwell. Curious, Sazed walked down the set of worn stone steps. For the first time since entering the building, he felt cramped, and he had to stoop as he reached the bottom of the stairwell and entered a small chamber. He stood up straight, and held up his lamp to reveal …
A wall. The room ended abruptly, and his light sparkled off the wall. It held a steel plate, like those above. This one was a good five feet across, and nearly as tall. And it bore writing. Suddenly interested, Sazed set down his pack and stepped forward, raising his lamp to read the top words on the wall.
The text was in Terris.
It was an old dialect, certainly, but one that Sazed could make out even without his language coppermind. His hand trembled as he read the words.
I write these words in steel, for anything not set in metal cannot be trusted.
I have begun to wonder if I am the only sane man remaining. Can the others not see? They have been waiting so long for their hero to come—the one spoken of in Terris prophecies—that they quickly jump between conclusions, presuming that each story and legend applies to this one man.
My brethren ignore the other facts. They cannot connect the other strange things that are happening. They are deaf to my objections and blind to my discoveries.
Perhaps they are right. Perhaps I am mad, or jealous, or simply daft. My name is Kwaan. Philosopher, scholar, traitor. I am the one who discovered Alendi, and I am the one who first proclaimed him to be the Hero of Ages. I am the one who started this all.
And I am the one who betrayed him, for I now know that he must never be allowed to complete his quest.
“Sazed.”
Sazed jumped, nearly dropping the lamp. Marsh stood in the doorway behind him. Imperious, discomforting, and so dark. He fit this place, with its lines and hardness.
“The upstairs quarters are empty,” Marsh said. “This trip has been a waste—my brethren took anything of use with them.”
“Not a waste, Marsh,” Sazed said, turning back to the plate of text. He hadn’t read all of it; he hadn’t even gotten close. The script was written in a tight, cramped hand, its etchings coating the wall. The steel had preserved the words despite their obvious age. Sazed’s heart beat a little faster.