The Mistborn Trilogy (162 page)

He took the paper he’d been given, raised the pen, and began his report and, in a sense, his confession.

Three weeks out, Eustin broke.

The sea surrounded them, empty and immense as the sky. So far south, the water was clear and the air warm even with the slowly failing days. The birds that had followed them from Parrinshall had vanished. The only animal was a three-legged dog the ship’s crew had taken on as a mascot. Nor were there women on board. Only the rank, common smell of men and the sea.

The rigging creaked and groaned, unnerving no one but Balasar. He had never loved traveling by water. Campaigning on land was no more comfortable, but at least when the day ended he was able to see that this village was not the one he’d been in the night before, the tree under which he slept looked out over some different hillside. Here, in the vast nothingness of water, they might almost have been standing still. Only the long white plume of their wake gave him a sense of movement, the visible promise that one day the journey would end. He would often sit at the stern, watch that constant trail, and take what solace he could from it. Sometimes he carved blocks of wax with a small, thin knife while his mind wandered and softened in the boredom of inaction.

It should not have surprised him that the isolation had proved corrosive for Eustin and Coal. And yet when one of the sailors rushed up to him that night, pale eyes bulging from his head, Balasar had not guessed the trouble. His man, the one called Eustin, was belowdecks with a knife, the sailor said. He was threatening to kill himself or else the crippled mascot dog, no one was sure which. Normally, they’d all have clubbed him senseless and thrown him over the side, but as he was a paying passage, the General might perhaps want to take a hand. Balasar put down the wax block half-carved into the shape of a fish, tucked his knife in his belt, and nodded as if the request were perfectly common.

The scene in the belly of the ship was calmer than he’d expected. Eustin sat on a bench. He had the dog by a rope looped around the thing’s chest and a field dagger in his other hand. Ten sailors were standing in silence either in the room or just outside it, armed with blades and cudgels. Balasar ignored them, taking a low stool and setting it squarely in front of Eustin before he sat.

“General,” Eustin said. His voice was low and flat, like a man half-dead from a wound.

“I hear there’s some issue with the animal.”

“He ate my soup.”

One of the sailors coughed meaningfully, and Eustin’s eyes narrowed and flickered toward the sound. Balasar spoke again quickly.

“I’ve seen Coal sneak half a bottle of wine away from you. It hardly seems a killing offense.”

“He didn’t steal my soup, General. I gave it to him.”

“You gave it to him?”

“Yessir.”

The room seemed close as a coffin, and hot. If only there weren’t so many men around, if the bodies were not so thick, the air not so heavy with their breath, Balasar thought he might have been able to think clearly. He sucked his teeth, struggling to find something wise or useful to say, some way to disarm the situation and bring Eustin back from his madness. In the end, his silence was enough.

“He deserves better, General,” Eustin said. “He’s broken. He’s a sick, broken thing. He shouldn’t have to live like that. There ought to be some dignity at least. If there’s nothing else, there should at least be some dignity.”

The dog whined and craned its neck toward Eustin. Balasar could see distress in the animal’s eyes, but not fear. The dog could hear the pain in Eustin’s voice, even if the sailors couldn’t. The bodies around him were wound tight, ready for violence, all of them except for Eustin. He held the knife weakly. The tension in his body wasn’t the hot, loose energy of battle; he was knotted, like a boy tensed against a blow; like a man facing the gallows.

“Leave us alone. All of you,” Balasar said.

“Not without Tripod!” one of the sailors said.

Balasar met Eustin’s eyes. With a small shock he realized it was the first time he’d truly looked at the man since they’d emerged from the desert. Perhaps he’d been ashamed of what he might see reflected there. And perhaps his shame had some part in this. Eustin was
his
man, and so the pain he bore was Balasar’s responsibility. He’d been weak and stupid to shy away from that. And weakness and stupidity always carried a price.

“Let the dog go. There’s no call to involve him, or these men,” Balasar said. “Sit with me awhile, and if you still need killing, I’ll be the one to do it.”

Eustin’s gaze flickered over his face, searching for something. To see whether it was a ruse, to see whether Balasar would actually kill his own man. When he saw the answer, Eustin’s wide shoulders eased. He dropped the rope, freeing the animal. It hopped in a circle, uncertain and confused.

“You have the dog,” Balasar said to the sailors without looking at them. “Now go.”

They filed out, none of them taking their eyes from Eustin and the knife still in his hand. Balasar waited until they had all left, the low door pulled shut behind them. Distant voices shouted over the creaking timbers, the oil lamp swung gently on its chain. This time, Balasar used the silence intentionally, waiting. At first, Eustin looked at him, anticipation in his eyes. And then his gaze passed into the distance, seeing something beyond the room, beyond them both. And then silently, Eustin wept. Balasar shifted his stool nearer and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I keep seeing them, sir.”

“I know.”

“I’ve seen a thousand men die one way or the other. But…but that was on a field. That was in a fight.”

“It isn’t the same,” Balasar said. “Is that why you wanted those men to throw you in the sea?”

Eustin turned the blade slowly, catching the light. He was still weeping, his face now slack and empty. Balasar wondered which of them he was seeing now, which of their number haunted him in that moment, and he felt the eyes of the dead upon him. They were in the room, invisibly crowding it as the sailors had.

“Can you tell me they died with honor?” Eustin breathed.

“I’m not sure what honor is,” Balasar said. “We did what we did because it was needed, and we were the men to do it. The price was too high for us to bear, you and I and Coal. But we aren’t finished, so we have to carry it a bit farther. That’s all.”

“It wasn’t needed, General. I’m sorry, but it
wasn’t
. We take a few more cities, we gain a few more slaves. Yes, they’re the richest cities in the world. I know it. Sacking even one of the cities of the Khaiem would put more gold in the High Council’s coffers than a season in the Westlands. But how much do they need to buy Little Ott back from hell?” Eustin asked. “And why shouldn’t I go there and get him myself, sir?”

“It’s not about gold. I have enough gold of my own to live well and die old. Gold’s a tool we use—a tool
I
use—to make men do what must be done.”

“And honor?”

“And glory. Tools, all of them. We’re men, Eustin. We’ve no reason to lie to each other.”

He had the man’s attention now. Eustin was looking only at him, and there was confusion in his eyes—confusion and pain—but the ghosts weren’t inside him now.

“Why then, sir? Why are we doing this?”

Balasar sat back. He hadn’t said these words before, he had never explained himself to anyone. Pride again. He was haunted by his pride. The pride that had made him take this on as his task, the work he owed to the world because no one else had the stomach for it.

“The ruins of the Empire were made,” he said. “God didn’t write it that the world should have something like that in it. Men
created
it. Men with little gods in their sleeves. And men like that still live. The cities of the Khaiem each have one, and they look on them like plow horses. Tools to feed their power and their arrogance. If it suited them, they could turn their andat loose on us. Hold our crops in permanent winter or sink our lands into the sea or whatever else they could devise. They could turn the world itself against us the way you or I might hold a knife. And do you know why they haven’t?”

Eustin blinked, unnerved, Balasar thought, by the anger in his voice.

“No, sir.”

“Because they haven’t yet chosen to. That’s all. They might. Or they might turn against each other. They could make everything into wastelands just like those. Acton, Kirinton, Marsh. Every city, every town. It hasn’t happened yet because we’ve been lucky. But someday, one of them
will
grow ambitious or mad. And then all the rest of us are ants on a battlefield, trampled into the mud. That’s what I mean when I say this is needed. You and I are seeing that it never happens,” he said, and his words made his own blood hot. He was no longer uncertain or touched by shame. Balasar grinned wide and wolfish. If it was pride, then let him be proud. No man could do what he intended without it. “When I’ve finished, the god-ghosts of the Khaiem will be a story women tell their babes to scare them at night, and nothing more than that.
That’s
what Little Ott died for. Not for money or conquest or glory.

“I’m saving the world,” Balasar said. “So, now. Say you’d rather drown than help me.”

First off, as always, my excellent agent, Joshua Bilmes, and editor, Moshe Feder, deserve high praise for their efforts. This book in particular required some thoughtful drafting, and they were up to the task. They have my thanks, as do their assistants, Steve Mancino (an excellent agent in his own right) and Denis Wong.

There are some other fine folks at Tor who deserve my thanks. Larry Yoder (the best sales rep in the nation) did a wonderful job selling the book. Seth Lerner, Tor’s mass-market art director, is a genius at matching books to artists. And, speaking of artists, I think the amazing Christian McGrath did a brilliant job with this cover. More can be seen at
jonfoster.com
. Isaac Stewart, a good friend of mine and a fellow writer, did all of the map work and the symbols for the chapter headings. Find him at
nethermore.com
. Shawn Boyles is the official Mistborn Llama artist, and a great guy to boot. Check my Web site for more information. Finally, I’d like to thank the Tor publicity department—specifically Dot Lin—which has been wonderful in promoting my books and taking care of me. Thank you so much, all of you!

Another round of thanks needs to go out to my alpha readers. These tireless folks provide feedback on my novels in the early stages, dealing with all of the problems, typos, and inconsistencies before I get them worked out. In no particular order, these people are:

Ben Olson, Krista Olsen, Nathan Goodrich, Ethan Skarstedt, Eric J. Ehlers, Jillena O’Brien, C. Lee Player, Kimball Larsen, Bryce Cundick, Janci Patterson, Heather Kirby, Sally Taylor, The Almighty Pronoun, Bradley Reneer, Holly Venable, Jimmy, Alan Layton, Janette Layton, Kaylynn ZoBell, Rick Stranger, Nate Hatfield, Daniel A. Wells, Stacy Whitman, Sarah Bylund, and Benjamin R. Olsen.

A special thanks goes to the people at the Provo Waldenbooks for their support. Sterling, Robin, Ashley, and the terrible duo of Steve “Bookstore Guy” Diamond and Ryan McBride (who were also alpha readers). Also, I must acknowledge my brother, Jordan, for his work on my Web site (along with Jeff Creer). Jordo also is the official “keep Brandon’s head on straight” guy, with his solemn duty being to make fun of me and my books.

My mother, father, and sisters are always a wonderful help as well. If I forgot any alpha readers, I’m sorry! I’ll put you in twice next time. Note, Peter Ahlstrom, I didn’t forget you—I just decided to stick you in late to make you sweat a bit.

Finally, my thanks go out to my wonderful wife, whom I married during the editing process of this book. Emily, I love you!