Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [796]
He sighed, climbing from his horse and handing the beast off to an aide, then followed Cett into the command tent. The servants sat Cett in a chair, then retreated, leaving the two of them alone. Cett glanced up at Elend, looking troubled. “Did that fool Ham tell you about the news from Luthadel?”
“Or the lack of it?” Elend asked, sighing. “Yes.” Not a peep had come from the capital city, let alone the supplies Elend had ordered brought down the canal.
“We don’t have that much time, Elend,” Cett said quietly. “A few months, at most. Time enough to weaken Yomen’s resolve, perhaps make his people get so thirsty that they begin to look forward to invasion. But, if we don’t get resupplied, there’s no way we’ll be able to maintain this siege.”
Elend glanced at the older man. Cett sat in his chair with an arrogant expression, looking back at Elend, meeting his eyes. So much about what the crippled man did was about posturing—Cett had lost the use of his legs to disease long ago, and he couldn’t intimidate people physically. So, he had to find other ways to make himself threatening.
Cett knew how to hit where it hurt. He could pick at the very faults that bothered people and exploit their virtues in ways that Elend had rarely seen even accomplished Soothers manage. And he did all this while covering up a heart that Elend suspected was far softer than Cett would ever admit.
He seemed particularly on edge this day. As if worried about something. Something important to him—something he’d been forced to leave behind, perhaps?
“She’ll be all right, Cett,” Elend said. “Nothing will happen to Allrianne while she’s with Sazed and Breeze.”
Cett snorted, waving an indifferent hand—though he did look away. “I’m better off without the damn fool of a girl around. Let that Soother have her, I say! Anyway, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you and this siege!”
“Your points have been noted, Cett,” Elend said. “We will attack if I deem it necessary.” As he spoke, the tent flaps parted, and Ham sauntered in, accompanied by a figure Elend hadn’t seen in several weeks—at least not out of bed.
“Demoux!” Elend said, approaching the general. “You’re up and about!”
“Barely, Your Majesty,” Demoux said. He did still look pale. “However, I have recovered enough strength to move around a bit.”
“The others?” Elend asked.
Ham nodded. “Mostly up and about as well. Demoux is among the last batch. A few more days, and the army will be back to full strength.”
Minus those who died, Elend thought.
Cett eyed Demoux. “Most of the men recovered weeks ago. A bit weaker in the constitution than one might expect, eh, Demoux? That’s what I’ve been hearing, at least.”
Demoux blushed.
Elend frowned at this. “What?”
“It is nothing, Your Majesty,” Demoux said.
“It’s never ‘nothing’ in my camp, Demoux,” Elend said. “What am I missing?”
Ham sighed, pulling over a chair. He sat on it backward, resting his muscular arms across its back. “It’s just a rumor moving through the camp, El.”
“Soldiers,” Cett said. “They’re all the same—superstitious as housewives.”
Ham nodded. “Some of them have gotten it into their heads that the men who got sick from the mists were being punished.”
“Punished?” Elend asked. “For what?”
“Lack of faith, Your Majesty,” Demoux said.
“Nonsense,” Elend said. “We all know that the mists struck randomly.”
The others shared looks, and Elend had to pause and reconsider. No. The strikes weren’t random—at least, the statistics surrounding them weren’t. “Regardless,” he said, deciding to change the subject, “what are your daily reports?”
The three men took turns talking about their various duties in the bivouac. Ham saw to morale and training, Demoux to supplies and camp duties, Cett to tactics and patrols. Elend stood with hands clasped behind his back, listening to the reports, but only