Mistborn: Secret History (Mistborn, #3.5)

“I have a very delicate constitution, you see,” Kelsier said. “And death seemed like it would be rather bad for the digestion. So I decided not to participate.”

“One doesn’t merely decide to become a shadow!” the man exclaimed. He had a faintly strange accent, one Kelsier couldn’t place. “It’s an important rite! With requirements and traditions. This . . . this is . . .” He threw his hands into the air. “This is a bother.”

Kelsier smiled, meeting the gaze of the woman, who reached for a cup of something warm on the ground beside her. With her other hand she tucked her weapon away, as if it had never been there. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties.

“The Survivor of Hathsin,” she said, musing.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Kelsier said. “One problem with notoriety, unfortunately.”

“I should assume there are many disadvantages to fame, for a thief. One doesn’t particularly wish to be recognized while trying to lift pocketbooks.”

“Considering how he’s regarded by the people of this domain,” the man said, still watching Kelsier with a wary eye, “I’d expect them to be delighted to discover him robbing them.”

“Yes,” Kelsier said dryly, “they practically lined up for the privilege. Must I repeat myself?”

She considered. “My name is Khriss, of Taldain.” She nodded toward the other man, and he reluctantly replaced his knife. “That is Nazh, a man in my employ.”

“Excellent,” Kelsier said. “Any idea why Preservation would tell me to come talk to you?”

“Preservation?” Nazh said, stepping up and seizing Kelsier’s arm. So, as with the Drifter, they could indeed touch Kelsier. “You’ve spoken directly with one of the Shards?”

“Sure,” Kelsier said. “Fuzz and I go way back.” He pulled his arm free of Nazh’s grip and grabbed the other folding stool from beside the fire—two simple pieces of wood that folded together, a piece of cloth between them to sit on.

He settled it across from Khriss and sat down.

“I don’t like this, Khriss,” Nazh said. “He’s dangerous.”

“Fortunately,” she replied, “so are we. The Shard Preservation, Survivor. How does he look?”

“Is that a test to see if I’ve actually spoken with him,” Kelsier said, “or a sincere question as to the creature’s status?”

“Both.”

“He’s dying,” Kelsier said, spinning Nazh’s knife in his fingers. He’d palmed it during their altercation a moment ago, and was curious to find that though it was made of metal, it didn’t glow. “He’s a short man with black hair—or he used to be. He’s been . . . well, unraveling.”

“Hey,” Nazh said, eyes narrowing at the knife. He looked at his belt, and the empty sheath. “Hey!”

“Unraveling,” Khriss said. “So a slow death. Ati doesn’t know how to Splinter another Shard? Or he hasn’t the strength? Hmm . . .”

“Ati?” Kelsier asked. “Preservation mentioned that name too.”

Khriss pointed at the sky with one finger while she sipped at her drink. “That’s him. What he’s become, at least.”

“And . . . what is a Shard?” Kelsier asked.

“Are you a scholar, Mr. Survivor?”

“No,” he said. “But I’ve killed a few.”

“Cute. Well, you’ve stumbled into something far, far bigger than you, your politics, or your little planet.”

“Bigger than you can handle, Survivor,” Nazh said, swiping back his knife as Kelsier balanced it on his finger. “You should just bow out now.”

“Nazh does have a point,” Khriss said. “Your questions are dangerous. Once you step behind the curtain and see the actors as the people they are, it becomes harder to pretend the play is real.”

“I . . .” Kelsier leaned forward, clasping his hands before him. Hell . . . that fire was warm, but it didn’t seem to be burning anything. He stared at the flames and swallowed. “I woke up from death after having, deep down, expected there to be no afterlife. I found that God was real, but that he was dying. I need answers. Please.”

“Curious,” she said.

He looked up, frowning.

“I have heard many stories of you, Survivor,” she said. “They often laud your many admirable qualities. Sincerity is never one of those.”

“I can steal something else from your manservant,” Kelsier said, “if it will make you feel more comfortable that I am what you expected.”

“You can try,” Nazh said, walking around the fire, folding his arms and obviously trying to look intimidating.

“The Shards,” Khriss said, drawing Kelsier’s attention, “are not God, but they are pieces of God. Ruin, Preservation, Autonomy, Cultivation, Devotion . . . There are sixteen of them.”

“Sixteen,” Kelsier breathed. “There are fourteen more of these things running around?”

“The rest are on other planets.”

“Other . . .” Kelsier blinked. “Other planets.”

“Ah, see,” Nazh said. “You’ve broken him already, Khriss.”