Mistborn: secret history

3

Thievery was the most authentic form of flattery.

What could be more satisfying than knowing the things you possessed were intriguing, captivating, or

valuable enough to provoke another man to risk everything to obtain them? This was Kelsier’s purpose in

life, to remind people of the value of the things they loved. By taking them away.

These days, he didn’t care for the little thieveries. Yes, he’d pocketed the gemstones he’d found up above,

but that was more out of pragmatism than anything else. Ever since the Pits of Hathsin, he hadn’t been

interested in stealing common possessions.

No, these days he stole something far greater. Kelsier stole dreams.

He crouched outside the fortress, hidden between two spires of twisting black rock. He now understood

the purpose of creating such a powerful building, here at the reaches of Preservation and Ruin’s

dominion. That fortress protected a vault, and inside that vault lay an incredible opportunity. The seed

that would make a person, under the right circumstances, into a god.

Getting to it would be nearly impossible. They’d have guards, locks, traps, and arcane devices he couldn’t

plan for or expect. Sneaking in and robbing that vault would test his skills to their utmost, and even then

he was likely to fail.

He decided not to try.

That was the thing about big, defended vaults. You couldn’t realistically leave most possessions in them

forever. Eventually you had to use what you guarded – and that provided men such as Kelsier with an

opportunity. And so he waited, prepared, and planned.

It took a week or so – counting days by judging the schedules of the guards – but at long last an

expedition sallied forth from the keep. The grand procession of twenty people rode on horseback, holding

aloft lanterns.

Horses, Kelsier thought, slipping through the darkness to keep pace with the procession. Hadn’t expected

that.

Well, they weren’t moving terribly quickly even with the mounts. He was able to keep up with them easily,

particularly since he didn’t tire as he had when alive.

He counted five of the wizened ancients and a force of fifteen soldiers. Curiously, each of the ancients was

dressed almost exactly the same, in their similar robes with hoods up and leather satchels over their

shoulders, the same style of saddlebags on each horse.

Decoys, Kelsier decided. If someone attacks, they can split up. Their enemy might not know which of

them to follow.

Kelsier could use that, particularly since he was relatively certain who carried the Connection device.

Alonoe, the imperious woman who seemed to be in charge, wasn’t the type to let power slip through her

spindly fingertips. She intended to become Preservation; letting one of her colleagues carry the device

would be too risky. What if they got ideas? What if they used it themselves?

No, she’d have the weapon on her somewhere. The only question was how to get it from her.

Kelsier gave it some time. Days of travel through the darkened landscape, keeping pace with the caravan

while he planned.

There were three basic types of thievery. The first involved a knife to the throat and a whispered threat.

The second involved pilfering in the night. And the third… well, that was Kelsier’s favorite. It involved a

tongue coated with zinc. Instead of a knife it used confusion, and instead of prowling it worked in the

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open.

The best kind of thievery left your target uncertain if anything had happened at all. Getting away with the

prize was all well and good, but it didn’t mean much if the city guard came pounding on your door the

next day. He’d rather escape with half as many boxings, but the confidence that his trickery wouldn’t be

discovered for weeks to come.

And the real trophy was to pull off a heist so clever, the target didn’t ever discover you’d taken something

from them.

Each “night” the caravan made camp in an anxious little cluster of bedrolls around a campfire, much like

the one in Kelsier’s pack. The ancients got out jars of light, drinking and restoring the luminance to their

skin. They didn’t chat much; these people seemed less like friends and more like a group of noblemen

who considered one another allies by necessity.

Soon after their meal each night, the ancients retired to their bedrolls. They set guards, but didn’t sleep

in tents. Why would you need a tent out here? There was no rain to keep off, and practically no wind to

block. Just darkness, rustling plants, and a dead man.

Unfortunately, Kelsier couldn’t figure out a way to get to the weapon. Alonoe slept with her satchel in her

hands, watched over by two guards. Each morning she checked to make sure the weapon was still there.

Kelsier managed to get a glimpse of it one morning, and saw the glowing light inside, making him

reasonably certain her satchel wasn’t a decoy.

Well, that would come. His first step was to sow a little misdirection. He waited for an appropriate night,

then pushed himself down into the ground, sinking his essence beneath the surface. Then he pulled

himself through the rock. It was like swimming through very thick liquid dirt.

He came up near where Alonoe had just settled down to sleep, and stuck only his lips out of the ground.