“Couldn’t have bothered him too much,” Elend said. “Since he was dead at the time. We found the storage cavern as well.”
“Praise the Survivor!” Demoux said.
Vin frowned. At his neck, hanging outside his clothing, Demoux wore a necklace that bore a small silver spear: the increasingly popular symbol of the Church of the Survivor. It seemed odd to her that the weapon that had killed Kelsier would become the symbol of his followers.
Of course, she didn’t like to think about the other possibility—that the spear might not represent the one that had killed Kelsier. It might very well represent the one that she herself had used to kill the Lord Ruler. She’d never asked Demoux which it was. Despite three years of growing Church power, Vin had never become comfortable with her own part in its doctrine.
“Praise the Survivor indeed,” Elend said, looking over the army’s supply barges. “How did your project go?”
“Dredging the southern bend?” Demoux asked. “It went well—there was blessed little else to do while we waited. You should be able to get barges through there now.”
“Good,” Elend said. “Form two task forces of five hundred men. Send one with barges back to Vetitan for the supplies we had to leave down in that cavern. They will transfer the supplies to the barges and send them up to Luthadel.”
“Yes, my lord,” Demoux said.
“Send the second group of soldiers north to Luthadel with these refugees,” Elend said, nodding to Fatren. “This is Lord Fatren. He’s in command of the townspeople. Have your men respect his wishes, as long as they are reasonable, and introduce him to Lord Penrod.”
Once—not long ago—Fatren would probably have complained about being handed off. However, his time with Elend had transformed him surprisingly quickly. The dirty leader nodded gratefully at the escort. “You … aren’t coming with us then, my lord?”
Elend shook his head. “I have other work to do, and your people need to get to Luthadel, where they can begin farming. Though, if any of your men wish to join my army, they are welcome. I’m always in need of good troops, and against the odds, you succeeded in training a useful force.”
“My lord … why not just compel them? Pardon me, but that’s what you’ve done so far.”
“I compelled your people to safety, Fatren,” Elend said. “Sometimes even a drowning man will fight the one who tries to save him and must be compelled. My army is a different matter. Men who don’t want to fight are men you can’t depend on in battle, and I won’t have any of those in my army. You yourself need to go to Luthadel—your people need you—but please let your soldiers know that I will gladly welcome any of them into our ranks.”
Fatren nodded. “All right. And … thank you, my lord.”
“You are welcome. Now, General Demoux, are Sazed and Breeze back yet?”
“They should arrive sometime this evening, my lord,” Demoux said. “One of their men rode ahead to let us know.”
“Good,” Elend said. “I assume my tent is ready?”
“Yes, my lord,” Demoux said.
Elend nodded, suddenly looking very tired to Vin.
“My lord?” Demoux asked eagerly. “Did you find the … other item? The location of the final cache?”
Elend nodded. “It’s in Fadrex.”
“Cett’s city?” Demoux asked, laughing. “Well, he’ll be happy to hear that. He’s been complaining for over a year that we haven’t ever gotten around to conquering it back for him.”
Elend smiled wanly. “I’ve been half convinced that if we did, Cett would decide that he—and his soldiers—didn’t need us anymore.”
“He’ll stay, my lord,” Demoux said. “After the scare Lady Vin gave him last year …”
Demoux glanced at Vin, trying to smile, but she saw it in his eyes. Respect, far too much of it. He didn’t joke with her the way he did with Elend. She still couldn’t believe that Elend had joined that silly religion of theirs. Elend’s intentions had been political—by joining the skaa faith, Elend had forged a link between himself and the common people. Even so, the move made her uncomfortable.
A year of marriage had taught her, however, that there were some things one just had to ignore. She could love Elend for his desire to do the right thing, even when she thought he’d done the opposite.
“Call a meeting this evening, Demoux,” Elend said. “We have much to discuss—and let me know when Sazed arrives.”
“Should I inform Lord Hammond and the others of the meeting’s agenda, my lord?”
Elend paused, glancing toward the ashen sky. “Conquering the world, Demoux,” he finally said. “Or, at least, what’s left of it.”
Allomancy was, indeed, born with the mists. Or, at least, Allomancy began at the same time as the mists’ first appearances. When Rashek took the power at the Well of Ascension, he became aware of certain things. Some were whispered to him by Ruin; others were granted to him as an instinctive part of the power.
One of these was an understanding of the Three Metallic Arts. He knew, for instance, that the nuggets of metal in the Chamber of Ascension would make those who ingested them into Mistborn. These were, after all, fractions of the very power in the Well itself.
9
TENSOON HAD VISITED THE TRUSTWARREN before; he was of the Third Generation. He had been born seven centuries ago, when the kandra were still new—though by that time, the First Generation had already given over the raising of new kandra to the Second Generation.
The Seconds hadn’t done very well with TenSoon’s generation—or, at least, that was how the Seconds felt. They’d wanted to form a society of individuals who followed strict rules of respect and seniority. A “perfect” people who lived to serve their Contracts—and, of course, the members of the Second Generation.
Up until his return, TenSoon had generally been considered one of the least troublesome of the Thirds. He’d been known as a kandra who cared little for Homeland politics; one who served out his Contracts, content to keep himself as far away from the Seconds and their machinations as possible. It was ironic indeed that TenSoon would end up on trial for the most heinous of kandra crimes.
His guards marched him right into the center of the Trustwarren—onto the platform itself. TenSoon wasn’t certain whether to be honored or ashamed. Even as a member of the Third Generation, he hadn’t often been allowed so near the Trust.
The room was large and circular, with metal walls. The platform was a massive steel disk set into the rock floor. It wasn’t very high—perhaps a foot tall—but it was ten feet in diameter. TenSoon’s feet felt cold hitting its slick surface, and he was reminded again of his nudity. They didn’t bind his hands; that would have been too much of an insult even for him. Kandra obeyed the Contract, even those of the Third Generation. He would not run, and he would not strike down one of his own. He was better than that.
The room was lit by lamps, rather than glowstone, though each lamp was enclosed in blue glass. Oil was difficult to get—the Second Generation, for good reason, didn’t want to rely on supplies from the world of men. The people above, even most of the Father’s servants, didn’t know there was a centralized kandra government. It was much better that way.