Mistborn #03 The Hero of Ages

Vin said. "Plus, you smell."
    "Oh?" he asked, amused. "What do I smell like?"
    "An emperor. A Tineye would pick you out in seconds."
    Elend raised his eyebrows. "I see. And, don't you possess an imperial scent as well?"
    "Of course I do," Vin said, wrinkling her nose. "But I know how to get rid of it. Either way, you're not good enough to go with me, Elend. I'm sorry."
    Elend smiled. Dear, blunt Vin.
    Behind him, the soldiers left the tent, carrying Cett. An aide walked up, delivering to Elend a short list of informants and noblemen who might be willing to talk. Elend passed it to Vin. "Have fun," he said.
    She dropped a coin between them, kissed him again, then shot up into the night.

I am only just beginning to understand the brilliance of the Lord Ruler's cultural synthesis. One of the benefits afforded him by being both immortal and — for all relevant purposes — omnipotent was a direct and effective influence on the evolution of the Final Empire.
    He was able to take elements from a dozen different cultures and apply them to his new, "perfect" society. For instance, the architectural brilliance of the Khlenni builders is manifest in the keeps that the high nobility construct. Khlenni fashion sense — suits for gentlemen, gowns for ladies — is another thing the Lord Ruler decided to appropriate.
    I suspect that despite his hatred of the Khlenni people — of whom Alendi was one — Rashek had a deep-seated envy of them as well. The Terris of the time were pastoral herdsmen, the Khlenni cultured cosmopolitans. However ironic, it is logical that Rashek's new empire would mimic the high culture of the people he hated.
    26
    SPOOK STOOD IN HIS LITTLE ONE-ROOM LAIR, a room that was—of course—illegal. The Citizen forbade such places, places where a man could live unaccounted, unwatched. Fortunately, forbidding such places didn't eliminate them.
    It only made them more expensive.
    Spook was lucky. He barely remembered leaping from the burning building, clutching six Allomantic vials, coughing and bleeding. He didn't at all remember making it back to his lair. He should probably be dead. Even surviving the fires, he should have been sold out—if the proprietor of his little illegal inn had realized who Spook was and what he'd escaped, the promise of reward would undoubtedly have been irresistible.
    But, Spook had survived. Perhaps the other thieves in the lair thought he had been on the wrong side of a robbery. Or, perhaps they simply didn't care. Either way, he was able to stand in front of the room's small mirror, shirt off, looking in wonder at his wound.
    I'm alive, he thought. And . . . I feel pretty good.
    He stretched, rolling his arm in its socket. The wound hurt far less than it should have. In the very dim light, he was able to see the cut, scabbed over and healing. Pewter burned in his stomach—a beautiful complement to the familiar flame of tin.
    He was something that shouldn't exist. In Allomancy, people either had just one of the eight basic powers, or they had all fourteen powers. One or all. Never two. Yet, Spook had tried to burn other metals without success. Somehow, he had been given pewter alone to complement his tin. Amazing as that was, it was overshadowed by a greater wonder.
    He had seen Kelsier's spirit. The Survivor had returned and had shown himself to Spook.
    Spook had no idea how to react to that event. He wasn't particularly religious, but . . . well, a dead man—one some called a god—had appeared to him and saved his life. He worried that it had been an hallucination. But, if that were so, how had he gained the power of pewter?
    He shook his head, reaching for his bandages, but paused as something twinkled in the mirror's reflection. He stepped closer, relying—as always—upon starlight from outside to provide illumination. With his extreme tin senses, it was easy to see the bit of metal sticking from the skin in his shoulder, even though it only protruded a tiny fraction of an inch.
    The tip of that man's sword, Spook realized, the one that stabbed me. It broke — the end must have gotten embedded in my skin. He gritted his teeth, reaching to pull it free.
    "No," Kelsier said. "Leave it. It, like the wound you bear, is a sign of your survival."
    Spook started. He glanced about, but there was no apparition this time. Just the voice. Yet, he was certain he'd heard it.
    "Kelsier?" he hesitantly asked.
    There was no response.
    Am I going mad? Spook wondered. Or . . . is it