Mistborn #03 The Hero of Ages

public place, then get the man to use his powers in a way that was obvious to those watching.
    I can't let him just Push on a distant metal, then , he thought, scratching a note to himself on the charcoal board. I'll need him to shoot into the air, or perhaps blast some coins. Something visible, something we can tell everyone to watch for .
    That would be tough, but Spook was confident. He had several ideas scratched up on the board, ranging from attacking Quellion at a rally to tricking him into using his powers when he thought nobody was looking. Slowly, the thoughts were jelling into a cohesive plan.
    I really can do this , Spook thought, smiling. I always felt such awe for Kelsier's leadership abilities. But, it's not as hard as I thought .
    Or, at least, that was what he told himself. He tried not to think about the consequences of a failure. Tried not to think about the fact that he still held Beldre hostage. Tried not to worry about the fact that when he awoke some mornings—his tin having burned away during the night—his body felt completely numb, unable to feel anything until he got more metal as fuel. Tried not to focus on the riots and incidents his appearances, speeches, and work among the people were causing.
    Kelsier kept telling him not to worry. That should be enough for him. Shouldn't it?
    After a few minutes, he heard someone approaching, footsteps quiet—but not too quiet for him—on the stone. The rustle of a dress, yet without perfume, let him know exactly who it was.
    "Spook?"
    He lowered the charcoal and turned. Beldre stood at the far side of his "room." He'd made himself an alcove between several of the storage shelves, partitioned off with sheets—his own personal office. The Citizen's sister wore a beautiful noble gown of green and white.
    Spook smiled. "You like the dresses?"
    She looked down, flushing slightly. "I . . . haven't worn anything like this in years."
    "Nobody in this city has," Spook said, setting down the charcoal and wiping his fingers on a rag. "But, then, that makes it pretty easy to get them, if you know which buildings to loot. It looks like I matched your size pretty well, eh?"
    "Yes," she said quietly, drifting forward. The gown really did look good on her, and Spook found it a little difficult to focus as she drew closer. She eyed his charcoal board, then frowned. "Is . . . that supposed to make any sense?"
    Spook shook himself free of his trance. The charcoal board was a mess of scratches and notations. That, in itself, would have made it difficult enough to read. There was, however, something else that made it even more incomprehensible.
    "It's mostly written in Eastern street slang," Spook said.
    "The language you grew up speaking?" she said, fingering the board's edge, careful not to touch the writing itself, lest she smudge it.
    Spook nodded.
    "Even the words are different," she said. "Wasing?"
    "It kind of means 'was doing,' " Spook explained. "You start sentences with it. 'Wasing the run of there' would mean 'I was running to that place.' "
    "Wasing the where of how of the finds," Beldre said, smiling slightly to herself as she read from the board. "It sounds like gibberish!"
    "Wasing the how of wanting the doing," Spook said, smiling, falling into a full accent. Then he flushed, turning away.
    "What?" she asked.
    Why do I always act so foolish around her? he thought. The others always made fun of my slang—even Kelsier thought it was silly. Now I start speaking it before her?
    He'd been feeling confident and sure as he studied his plans before she arrived. Why was it that the girl could always make him fall out of his leadership role and go back to being the old Spook? The Spook who had never been important.
    "You shouldn't be ashamed of the accent," Beldre said. "I think it's kind of charming."
    "You just said it was gibberish," Spook said, turning back to her.
    "But that's the best part!" Beldre said. "It's gibberish on purpose , right?"
    Spook remembered with fondness how his parents had responded to his adoption of the slang. It had been a kind of power, being able to say things that only his friends could understand. Of course, he'd started speaking in it so much that it had been hard to switch back.
    "So," Beldre said, eyeing the board. "What does it say?"
    Spook hesitated. "Just random thoughts," he said. She was his enemy—he had to remember that.
    "Oh," she said. Something unreadable crossed her face, then she turned away from the board.
    Her