Mistborn: The Final Empire (Mistborn, #1)

Vin walked along a street in the Cracks—one of Luthadel’s many skaa slums—with her hood up. For some reason, she found the muffled heat of a hood preferable to the oppressive red sunlight.

She walked with a slouch, eyes down, sticking near to the side of the street. The skaa she passed had similar airs of dejection. No one looked up; no one walked with a straight back or an optimistic smile. In the slums, those things would make one look suspicious.

She’d almost forgotten how oppressive Luthadel could be. Her weeks in Fellise had accustomed her to trees and washed stone. Here, there was nothing white—no creeping aspens, no whitewashed granite. All was black.

Buildings were stained by countless, repetitive ashfalls. Air curled with smoke from the infamous Luthadel smithies and a thousand separate noble kitchens. Cobblestones, doorways, and corners were clogged with soot—the slums were rarely swept clean.

It’s like . . . things are actually brighter at night than they are during the day, Vin thought, pulling her patched skaa cloak close, turning a corner. She passed beggars, huddled on corners, hands outstretched and hoping for an offering, their pleadings falling vainly on the ears of people who were themselves starving. She passed workers, walking with heads and shoulders bowed, caps or hoods pulled down to keep ash out of their eyes. Occasionally, she passed squads of Garrison town guards, walking with full armor—breastplate, cap, and black cloak—trying to look as intimidating as possible.

This last group moved through the slums, acting as the Lord Ruler’s hands in an area most obligators found too distasteful to visit. The Garrisoners kicked at beggars to make certain they were truly invalids, stopped wandering workers to harass them about being on the streets instead of working, and made a general nuisance of themselves. Vin ducked down as a group passed, pulling her hood close. She was old enough that she should have been either bearing children or working in a mill, but her size often made her look younger in profile.

Either the ruse worked, or this particular squad wasn’t interested in looking for ditchers, for they let her pass with barely a glance. She ducked around a corner, walking down an ash-drifted alley, and approached the soup kitchen at the end of the small street.

Like most of its kind, the kitchen was dingy and poorly maintained. In an economy where workers were rarely, if ever, given direct pay, kitchens had to be supported by the nobility. Some local lords—probably the owners of the mills and forges in the area—paid the kitchen owner to provide food for the local skaa. The workers would be given meal tokens for their time, and would be allowed a short break at midday to go eat. The central kitchen would allow the smaller businesses to avoid the costs of providing on-site meals.

Of course, since the kitchen owner was paid directly, he could pocket whatever he could save on ingredients. In Vin’s experience, kitchen food was about as tasty as ashwater.

Fortunately, she hadn’t come to eat. She joined the line at the door, waiting quietly as workers presented their meal chips. When her turn came, she pulled out a small wooden disk and passed it to the skaa man at the door. He accepted the chip with a smooth motion, nodding almost imperceptibly to his right.

Vin walked in the indicated direction, passing through a filthy dining room, floor scattered with tracked-in ash. As she approached the far wall, she could see a splintery wooden door set in the room’s corner. A man seated by the door caught her eyes, nodded slightly, and pushed the door open. Vin passed quickly into the small room beyond.

“Vin, my dear!” Breeze said, lounging at a table near the center of the room. “Welcome! How was Fellise?”

Vin shrugged, taking a seat at the table.

“Ah,” Breeze said. “I’d almost forgotten what a fascinating conversationalist you are. Wine?”

Vin shook her head.

“Well, I would certainly like some.” Breeze wore one of his extravagant suits, dueling cane resting across his lap. The chamber was only lit by a single lantern, but it was far cleaner than the room outside. Of the four other men in the room, Vin recognized only one—an apprentice from Clubs’s shop. The two by the door were obviously guards. The last man appeared to be a regular skaa worker—complete with blackened jacket and ashen face. His self-confident air, however, proved that he was a member of the underground. Probably one of Yeden’s rebels.

Breeze held up his cup, tapping its side with his fingernail. The rebel regarded it darkly.

“Right now,” Breeze said, “you’re wondering if I’m using Allomancy on you. Perhaps I am, perhaps I am not. Does it matter? I’m here by your leader’s invitation, and he ordered you to see that I was made comfortable. And, I assure you, a cup of wine in my hand is absolutely necessary for my comfort.”

The skaa man waited for a moment, then snatched the cup and stalked away, grumbling under his breath about foolish costs and wasted resources.

Breeze raised an eyebrow, turning to Vin. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

“So, did you Push him?” she asked.

Breeze shook his head. “Waste of brass. Did Kelsier tell you why he asked you to come here today?”

“He told me to watch you,” Vin said, a bit annoyed at being handed off to Breeze. “He said he didn’t have time to train me in all the metals.”

“Well,” Breeze said, “let us begin, then. First, you must understand that Soothing is about more than just Allomancy. It’s about the delicate and noble art of manipulation.”

“Noble indeed,” Vin said.

“Ah, you sound like one of them,” Breeze said.

“Them who?”

“Them everyone else,” Breeze said. “You saw how that skaa gentleman treated me? People don’t like us, my dear. The idea of someone who can play with their emotions, who can ‘mystically’ get them to do certain things, makes them uncomfortable. What they do not realize—and what you must realize—is that manipulating others is something that all people do. In fact, manipulation is at the core of our social interaction.”

He settled back, raising his dueling cane and gesturing with it slightly as he spoke. “Think about it. What is a man doing when he seeks the affection of a young lady? Why, he is trying to manipulate her to regard him favorably. What happens when old two friends sit down for a drink? They tell stories, trying to impress each other. Life as a human being is about posturing and influence. This isn’t a bad thing—in fact, we depend upon it. These interactions teach us how to respond to others.”

He paused, pointing at Vin with the cane. “The difference between Soothers and regular people is that we are aware of what we’re doing. We also have a slight . . . advantage. But, is it really that much more ‘powerful’ than having a charismatic personality or a fine set of teeth? I think not.”

Vin paused.

“Besides,” Breeze added, “as I mentioned, a good Soother must be skilled far beyond his ability to use Allomancy. Allomancy can’t let you read minds or even emotions—in a way, you’re as blind as anyone else. You fire off pulses of emotions, targeted at a single person or in an area, and your subjects will have their emotions altered—hopefully producing the effect that you wished. However, great Soothers are those who can successfully use their eyes and instincts to know how a person is feeling before they get Soothed.”

“What does it matter how they’re feeling?” Vin said, trying to cover her annoyance. “You’re just going to Soothe them anyway, right? So, when you’re done, they’ll feel how you want them to.”

Breeze sighed, shaking his head. “What would you say if you knew I’d Soothed you on three separate occasions during our conversation?”