Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [709]
He moved down the silent street. Even with Kelsier’s now-famous proclamations that the skaa need not fear the mists, few people went out at night. For, at night, the mists came. Deep and mysterious, dark and omnipresent, the mists were one of the great constants of the Final Empire. They came every night. Thicker than a simple fog, they swirled in definite patterns—almost as if the different banks, streams, and fronts of mist were living things. Almost playful, yet enigmatic.
To Spook, however, they were barely an obstruction anymore. He’d always been told not to flare his tin too much; he’d been warned not to become dependent upon it. It would do dangerous things to his body, people said. And, the truth was, they were right. He had flared his tin nonstop for a year straight—never letting up, keeping his body in a constant state of super-heightened senses—and it had changed him. He worried that the changes would, indeed, be dangerous.
But he needed them, for the people of Urteau needed him.
Stars blazed in the sky above him like a million tiny suns. They shone through the mists, which had—during the last year—become diaphanous and weak. At first, Spook had thought the world itself was changing. Then he had realized that it was just his perception. Somehow, by flaring tin for so long, he had permanently enhanced his senses to a point far beyond what other Allomancers could attain.
He’d almost stopped. The flared tin had begun as a reaction to Clubs’s death. He still felt terrible about the way he’d escaped Luthadel, leaving his uncle to die. During those first few weeks, Spook had flared his metals as almost a penance—he’d wanted to feel everything around him, take it all in, even though it was painful. Perhaps because it was painful.
But then he’d started to change, and that had worried him. But, the crew always talked about how hard Vin pushed herself. She rarely slept, using pewter to keep herself awake and alert. Spook didn’t know how that worked—he was no Mistborn, and could only burn one metal—but he figured that if burning his one metal could give him an advantage, he’d better take it. Because they were going to need every advantage they could get.
The starlight was like daylight to him. During the actual day, he had to wear a cloth tied across his eyes to protect them, and even then going outside was sometimes blinding. His skin had become so sensitive that each pebble in the ground—each crack, each flake of stone—felt like a knife jabbing him through the soles of his shoes. The chill spring air seemed freezing, and he wore a thick cloak.
However, he had concluded that these nuisances were small prices to pay for the opportunity to become . . . whatever it was he had become. As he moved down the street, he could hear people shuffling and turning in their beds, even through their walls. He could sense a footstep from yards away. He could see on a dark night as no other human ever had.
Perhaps he’d find a way to become useful to the others. Always before, he’d been the least important member of the crew. The dismissible boy who ran errands or kept watch while the others made plans. He didn’t resent them for that—they’d been right to give him such simple duties. Because of his street dialect, he’d been difficult to understand, and while all the other members of the crew had been handpicked by Kelsier, Spook had joined by default since he was Clubs’s nephew.
Spook sighed, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets as he walked down the too-bright street. He could feel each and every thread in the fabric.
Dangerous things were happening, he knew that: the way the mists lingered during the day, the way the ground shook as if it were a sleeping man, periodically suffering a terrible dream. Spook worried he wouldn’t be of much help in the critical days to come. A little over a year before, his uncle had died after Spook fled the city. Spook had run out of fear, but also out of a knowledge of