Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [512]
Straff frowned. “Could this woman of yours slip the Mistborn something?”
Penrod paled slightly. “I…don’t think that would be wise, my lord. Besides, you know Mistborn constitutions.”
Perhaps she really is incapacitated, Straff thought. If we moved in… The chill of her touch on his emotions returned. Numbness. Nothingness.
“You needn’t fear her so, my lord,” Penrod said.
Straff raised an eyebrow. “I’m not afraid, I’m wary. I will not move into that city until my safety is assured—and until I move in, your city is in danger from Cett. Or, worse. What would happen if those koloss decide to attack the city, Ferson? I’m in negotiations with their leader, and he seems to be able to control them. For now. Have you ever seen the aftermath of a koloss slaughter?”
He probably hadn’t; Straff hadn’t until just recently. Penrod just shook his head. “Vin won’t attack you. Not if the Assembly votes to put you in command of the city. The transfer will be perfectly legal.”
“I doubt she cares about legality.”
“Perhaps,” Penrod said. “But Elend does. And, where he commands, the girl follows.”
Unless he has as little control over her as I have over Zane, Straff thought, shivering. No matter what Penrod said, Straff wasn’t going to take the city until that horrible creature was dealt with. In this, he could rely only on Zane.
And that thought frightened him almost as much as Vin did.
Without further discussion, Straff waved to Penrod, dismissing him. Penrod turned and retreated into the mists with his entourage. Even with his tin, Straff barely heard Zane land on the ground beside him. Straff turned, looking at the Mistborn.
“You really think he’d turn the atium over to you if he found it?” Zane asked quietly.
“Perhaps,” Straff said. “He has to know that he’d never be able to hold on to it—he doesn’t have the military might to protect a treasure like that. And, if he doesn’t give it to me…well, it would probably be easier to take the atium from him than it would be to find it on my own.”
Zane seemed to find the answer satisfactory. He waited for a few moments, staring into the mists. Then he looked at Straff, a curious expression on his face. “What time is it?”
Straff checked his pocket watch, something no Mistborn would carry. Too much metal. “Eleven seventeen,” he said.
Zane nodded, turning back to look at the city. “It should have taken effect by now.”
Straff frowned. Then he began to sweat. He flared tin, clamping his eyes shut. There! he thought, noticing a weakness inside of him. “More poison?” he asked, keeping the fear from his voice, forcing himself to be calm.
“How do you do it, Father?” Zane asked. “I thought for certain you’d missed this one. Yet, here you are, just fine.”
Straff was beginning to feel weak. “One doesn’t need to be Mistborn to be capable, Zane,” he snapped.
Zane shrugged, smiling in the haunting way only he could—keenly intelligent, yet eerily unstable. Then he just shook his head. “You win again,” he said, then shot upward into the sky, churning mists with his passing.
Straff immediately turned his horse, trying to maintain his decorum as he urged it back toward the camp. He could feel the poison. Feel it stealing his life. Feel it threatening him, overcoming him….
He went, perhaps, too quickly. It was difficult to maintain an air of strength when you were dying. Finally, he broke into a gallop. He left his startled guards behind, and they called in surprise, breaking into a jog to try and keep up.
Straff ignored their complaints. He kicked the horse faster. Could he feel the poison slowing his reactions? Which one had Zane used? Gurwraith? No, it required injection. Tompher, perhaps? Or…perhaps he had found one that Straff didn’t even know about.
He could only hope that wasn’t the case. For, if Straff didn’t know of the poison, then Amaranta probably wouldn’t know of it either, and wouldn’t be able to put the antidote into her catch-all healing potion.
The lights of camp illuminated the mists. Soldiers