I would have liked to have known him, Zane thought as he moved quietly across the courtyard. He was a man who understood the power of being Mistborn. A man who didn’t let others control him.
A man who did what had to be done, no matter how ruthless it seemed. Or so the rumors said.
Zane paused beside the outer keep wall, below a buttress. He stooped, removing a cobblestone, and found the message left there by his spy inside Elend’s palace. Zane retrieved it, replaced the cobblestone, then dropped a coin and launched himself out into the night.
Zane did not slink. Nor did he creep, skulk, or cower. In fact, he didn’t even like to hide.
So, he approached the Venture army camp with a determined stride. It seemed to him that Mistborn spent too much of their existence hiding. True, anonymity offered some limited freedom. However, his experience had been that it bound them more than it freed them. It let them be controlled, and it let society pretend that they didn’t exist.
Zane strode toward a guard post, where two soldiers sat beside a large fire. He shook his head; they were virtually useless, blinded by the firelight. Normal men feared the mists, and that made them less valuable. That wasn’t arrogance; it was a simple fact. Allomancers were more useful, and therefore more valuable, than normal men. That was why Zane had Tineyes watching in the darkness as well. These regular soldiers were more a formality than anything else.
“Kill them,” God commanded as Zane walked up to the guard post. Zane ignored the voice, though it was growing more and more difficult to do so.
“Halt!” one of the guards said, lowering a spear. “Who is that?”
Zane Pushed the spear offhandedly, flipping up the tip. “Who else would it be?” he snapped, walking into the firelight.
“Lord Zane!” the other soldier said.
“Summon the king,” Zane said, passing the guard post. “Tell him to meet me in the command tent.”
“But, my lord,” the guard said. “The hour is late. His Majesty is probably …”
Zane turned, giving the guard a flat stare. The mists swirled between them. Zane didn’t even have to use emotional Allomancy on the soldier; the man simply saluted, then rushed off into the night to do as commanded.
Zane strode through the camp. He wore no uniform or mistcloak, but soldiers stopped and saluted as he passed. This was the way it should be. They knew him, knew what he was, knew to respect him.
And yet, a part of him acknowledged that if Straff hadn’t kept his bastard son hidden, Zane might not be the powerful weapon that he was today. That secrecy had forced Zane to live a life of near squalor while his half brother, Elend, had been privileged. But it also meant that Straff had been able to keep Zane hidden for most of his life. Even still, while rumors were growing about the existence of Straff’s Mistborn, few realized that Zane was Straff’s son.
Plus, living a harsh life had taught Zane to survive on his own. He had become hard, and powerful. Things he suspected Elend would never understand. Unfortunately, one side effect of his childhood was that it had apparently driven him mad.
“Kill him,” God whispered as Zane passed another guard. The voice spoke every time he saw a person—it was Zane’s quiet, constant companion. He understood that he was insane. It hadn’t really been all that hard to determine, all things considered. Normal people did not hear voices. Zane did.
He found insanity no excuse, however, for irrational behavior. Some men were blind, others had poor tempers. Still others heard voices. It was all the same, in the end. A man was defined not by his flaws, but by how he overcame them.
And so, Zane ignored the voice. He killed when he wanted to, not when it commanded. In his estimation, he was actually quite lucky. Other madmen saw visions, or couldn’t distinguish their delusions from reality. Zane, at least, could control himself.
For the most part.
He Pushed on the metal clasps on the flaps of the command tent. The flaps flipped backward, opening for him as the soldiers to either side saluted. Zane ducked inside.
“My lord!” said the nightwatch officer of command.
“Kill him,” God said. “He’s really not that important.”
“Paper,” Zane ordered, walking to the room’s large table. The officer scrambled to comply, grabbing a stack of sheets. Zane Pulled on the nib of a pen, flipping it across the room to his waiting hand. The officer brought the ink.
“These are troop concentrations and night patrols,” Zane said, scribbling down some numbers and diagrams on the paper. “I observed them tonight, while I was in Luthadel.”
“Very good, my lord,” the soldier said. “We appreciate your help.”
Zane paused. Then he slowly continued to write. “Soldier, you are not my superior. You aren’t even my equal. I am not ‘helping’ you. I am seeing to the needs of my army. Do you understand?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Good,” Zane said, finishing his notes and handing the paper to the soldier. “Now, leave—or I’ll do as a friend has suggested and ram this pen through your throat.”
The soldier accepted the paper, then quickly withdrew. Zane waited impatiently. Straff did not arrive. Finally, Zane cursed quietly and Pushed open the tent flaps and strode out. Straff’s tent was a blazing red beacon in the night, well lit by numerous lanterns. Zane passed the guards, who knew better than to bother him, and entered the king’s tent.
Straff was having a late dinner. He was a tall man, brown of hair like both his sons—the two important ones, at least. He had fine nobleman’s hands, which he used to eat with finesse. He didn’t react as Zane entered.
“You’re late,” Straff said.
“Kill him,” God said.
Zane clinched his fists. This command from the voice was the hardest to ignore. “Yes,” he said. “I’m late.”
“What happened tonight?” Straff asked.
Zane glanced at the servants. “We should do this in the command tent.”
Straff continued to sip his soup, staying where he was, implying that Zane had no power to order him about. It was frustrating, but not unexpected. Zane had used virtually the same tactic on the nightwatch officer just moments before. He had learned from the best.
Finally, Zane sighed, taking a seat. He rested his arms on the table, idly spinning a dinner knife as he watched his father eat. A servant approached to ask Zane if he wanted a meal, but he waved the man away.
“Kill Straff,” God commanded. “You should be in his place. You are stronger than he is. You are more competent.”
But I’m not as sane, Zane thought.
“Well?” Straff asked. “Do they have the Lord Ruler’s atium or not?”
“I’m not sure,” Zane said.
“Does the girl trust you?” Straff asked.
“She’s beginning to,” Zane said. “I did see her use atium, that once, fighting Cett’s assassins.”
Straff nodded thoughtfully. He really was competent; because of him, the Northern Dominance had avoided the chaos that prevailed in the rest of the Final Empire. Straff’s skaa remained under control, his noblemen quelled. True, he had been forced to execute a number of people to prove that he was in charge. But, he did what needed to be done. That was one attribute in a man that Zane respected above all others.