Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [467]
And he seemed to be enjoying it.
Cett smiled as the room waited in silence, Assemblymen and audience alike too shocked to speak. Finally, Cett waved to a few of his disguised soldiers, and the men picked up Cett’s chair and carried it to the stage. Assemblymen whispered and commented, turning to aides or companions, seeking confirmation of Cett’s identity. Most of the noblemen sat quietly—which should have been enough of a confirmation, in Vin’s mind.
“He’s not what I expected,” Vin whispered to Breeze as the soldiers climbed up on the dais.
“Nobody told you he was crippled?” Breeze asked.
“Not just that,” Vin said. “He’s not wearing a suit.” He had on a pair of trousers and a shirt, but instead of a nobleman’s suit coat, he was wearing a worn black jacket. “Plus, that beard. He couldn’t have grown a beast like that in one year—he must have had it before the Collapse.”
“You only knew noblemen in Luthadel, Vin,” Ham said. “The Final Empire was a big place, with a lot of different societies. Not everybody dresses like they do here.”
Breeze nodded. “Cett was the most powerful nobleman in his area, so he needn’t worry about tradition and propriety. He did what he wished, and the local nobility pandered. There were a hundred different courts with a hundred different little ‘Lord Rulers’ in the empire, each region having its own political dynamic.”
Vin turned back to the stage front. Cett sat in his chair, having yet to speak. Finally, Lord Penrod stood. “This is most unexpected, Lord Cett.”
“Good!” Cett said. “That was, after all, the point!”
“Do you wish to address the Assembly?”
“I thought I already was.”
Penrod cleared his throat, and Vin’s tin-enhanced ears heard a disparaging mutter from the noblemen’s section regarding “Western noblemen.”
“You have ten minutes, Lord Cett,” Penrod said, sitting.
“Good,” Cett said. “Because—unlike the boy over there—I intend to tell you exactly why you should make me king.”
“And that is?” one of the merchant Assemblymen asked.
“Because I’ve got an army on your damn doorstep!” Cett said with a laugh.
The Assembly looked taken aback.
“A threat, Cett?” Elend asked calmly.
“No, Venture,” Cett replied. “Just honesty—something you Central noblemen seem to avoid at all cost. A threat is only a promise turned around. What was it you told these people? That your mistress had her knife at Straff’s throat? So, were you implying that if you weren’t elected, you’d have your Mistborn withdraw, and let the city be destroyed?”
Elend flushed. “Of course not.”
“Of course not,” Cett repeated. He had a loud voice—unapologetic, forceful. “Well, I don’t pretend, and I don’t hide. My army is here, and my intention is to take this city. However, I’d much rather that you just give it to me.”
“You, sir, are a tyrant,” Penrod said flatly.
“So?” Cett asked. “I’m a tyrant with forty thousand soldiers. That’s twice what you’ve got guarding these walls.”
“What’s to stop us from simply taking you hostage?” asked one of the other noblemen. “You seem to have delivered yourself to us quite neatly.”
Cett bellowed a laugh. “If I don’t return to my camp this evening, my army has orders to attack and raze the city immediately—no matter what! They’ll probably get destroyed by Venture afterward—but it won’t matter to me, or to you, at that point! We’ll all be dead.”
The room fell silent.
“See, Venture?” Cett asked. “Threats work wonderfully.”
“You honestly expect us to make you our king?” Elend asked.
“Actually, I do,” Cett said. “Look, with your twenty thousand added to my forty, we could easily hold these walls against Straff—we could even stop that army of koloss.”
Whispers began immediately, and Cett raised a bushy eyebrow, turning to Elend. “You didn’t tell them about the koloss, did you?”
Elend didn’t respond.
“Well, they’ll know soon enough,” Cett said. “Regardless, I don’t see that you have any other