Warbreaker Part 85

How... anticlimactic. She frowned, leaning back in her chair. Out of curiosity, she felt at her Luck.

And felt her eyes widen in shock.

It was there, like a ma.s.sive golden h.o.a.rd. A storage of power so incredible that it stretched her understanding. Always before, she had needed to be a scrimp with her Luck, holding it in reserve, using up morsels sparingly. Now she felt like a starving woman invited to a high n.o.bleman's feast. She sat, stunned, regarding the enormous wealth within her.

"So," Kelsier said with a prodding voice. "Try it. Soothe me."

Vin reached out, tentatively touching her newfound ma.s.s of Luck. She took a bit, and directed it at Kelsier.

"Good." Kelsier leaned forward eagerly. "But we already knew you could do that. Now the real test, Vin. Can you go the other way? You can dampen my emotions, but can you enflame them too?"

Vin frowned. She'd never used her Luck in such a way-she hadn't even realized that she could. Why was he so eager?

Suspicious, Vin reached for her source of Luck. As she did so, she noticed something interesting. What she had first interpreted as one ma.s.sive source of power was actually two different sources of power. There were different types of Luck.

Eight. He'd said there were eight of them. But... what do the others do?

Kelsier was still waiting. Vin reached to the second, unfamiliar source of Luck, doing as she'd done before and directing it at him.

Kelsier's smile deepened, and he sat back, glancing at Dockson. "That's it then. She did it."

Dockson shook his head. "To be honest, Kell, I'm not sure what to think. Having one of you around was unsettling enough. Two, though..."

Vin regarded them with narrowed, dubious eyes. "Two what?"

"Even among the n.o.bility, Vin, Allomancy is modestly rare," Kelsier said. "True, it's a hereditary skill, with most of its powerful lines among the high n.o.bility. However, breeding alone doesn't guarantee Allomantic strength.

"Many high n.o.blemen only have access to a single Allomantic skill. People like that-those who can only perform Allomancy in one of its eight basic aspects-are called Mistings. Sometimes these abilities appear in skaa-but only if that Skaa has n.o.ble blood in his or her near ancestry. You can usually find one Misting in... oh, about ten thousand mixed-breed skaa. The better, and closer, the n.o.ble ancestry, the more likely the skaa is to be a Misting."

"Who were your parents, Vin?" Dockson asked. "Do you remember them?"

"I was raised by my half-brother, Reen," Vin said quietly, uncomfortable. These were not things she discussed with others.

"Did he speak of your mother and father?" Dockson asked.

"Occasionally," she admitted. "Reen said that our mother was a wh.o.r.e. Not out of choice, but the underworld..." She trailed off. Her mother had tried to kill her, once, when she was very young. She vaguely remembered the event. Reen had saved her.

"What about your father, Vin?" Dockson asked.

Vin looked up. "He is a High Prelan in the Steel Ministry."

Kelsier whistled softly. "Now that's a slightly ironic breach of duty."

Vin looked down at the table. Finally, she reached over and took a healthy pull on her mug of ale.

Kelsier smiled. "Most ranking obligators in the Ministry are high n.o.blemen. Your father gave you a rare gift in that blood of yours."

"So... I'm one of these Mistings you mentioned?"

Kelsier shook his head. "Actually, no. You see, this is what made you so interesting to us, Vin. Mistings only have access to one Allomantic skill. You just proved you have two. And, if you have access to at least two of the eight, then you have access to the rest as well. That's the way it works-if you're an Allomancer, you either get one skill or you get them all."

Kelsier leaned forward. "You, Vin, are what is generally called a Mistborn. Even amongst the n.o.bility, they're incredibly rare. Amongst skaa... well, let's just say I've only met one other skaa Mistborn in my entire life."

Somehow, the room seemed to grow more quiet. More still. Vin stared at her mug with distracted, uncomfortable eyes. Mistborn. She'd heard the stories, of course. The legends.

Kelsier and Dockson sat quietly, letting her think. Eventually, she spoke. "So... what does this all mean?"

Kelsier smiled. "It means that you, Vin, are a very special person. You have a power that most high n.o.blemen envy. It is a power that, had you been born an aristocrat, would have made you one of the most deadly and influential people in all of the Final Empire."

Kelsier leaned forward again. "But, you weren't born an aristocrat. You're not n.o.ble, Vin. You don't have to play by their rules-and that makes you even more powerful."

Sample Chapters of Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians (This is my middle grade fantasy series, the first book of which was published by Scholastic Press in October 2007. I've sold four books in the series, and the second will be out October 2008.) Link to: Amazon Page http://www.amazon.com/Alcatraz-Versus-Librarians-Brandon-Sanderson/dp/0439925509/ref=sr11/103-4212574-7236658?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1178745464&sr=1-1 Author's Foreword I am not a good person.

Oh, I know what the stories say about me. They call me Oculator Dramatus, Hero, Savior of the Twelve Kingdoms... Those, however, are just rumors. Some are exaggerations; many are outright lies. The truth is far less impressive.

When Mr. Bagsworth first came to me, suggesting that I write my autobiography, I was hesitant. However, I soon realized that this was the perfect opportunity to explain myself to the public.

As I understand it, this book will be published simultaneously in the Free Kingdoms and Inner Libraria. This presents something of a problem for me, since I will have to make the story understandable to people from both areas. Those in the Free Kingdoms, for instance, might be unfamiliar with things like bazookas, briefcases, and guns. However, those in Libraria-or, the Hushlands, as they are often called-will likely be unfamiliar with things like Oculators, Crystin, and the depth of the Librarian conspiracy.

To those of you in the Free Kingdoms, I suggest that you find a reference book-there are many that would do-that can explain unfamiliar terms to you. After all, this book will be published as a biography in your lands, and so it is not my purpose to teach you about the strange machines and archaic weaponry of Libraria. My purpose is to show you the truth about me, and to prove that I am not the hero that everyone says I am.

In the Hushlands-those Librarian-controlled nations such as the United States, Canada, and England-this book will be published as a work of fantasy. Do not be fooled! This is no work of fiction, nor is my name really "Brandon Sanderson". Both are guises to hide the book from Librarian agents. Unfortunately, even with these precautions, I suspect that the Librarians will discover the book and ban it. In that case, our Free Kingdom agents will have to sneak into libraries and bookstores to put it on shelves. Count yourself lucky if you've found one of these secret copies.

For you Hushlanders, I know the events of my life may seem wondrous and mysterious. I will do my best to explain them, but please remember that my purpose is not to entertain you. My purpose it to open your eyes to the truth.

I know that in writing this I shall make few friends in either world. People are never pleased when you reveal that their beliefs are wrong.

But, that is what I must do. This is my story-the story of a selfish, contemptible fool.

The story of a coward.

Chapter One.

So, there I was, tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, about to get sacrificed to the dark powers by a cult of evil Librarians.

As you might imagine, that sort of situation can be quite disturbing. It does funny things to the brain to be in such danger-in fact, it often makes a person pause and reflect upon his life. If you've never faced such a situation, then you'll simply have to take my word. If, on the other hand, you have faced such a situation, then you are probably dead, and aren't likely to be reading this.

In my case, the moment of impending death made me think about my parents. It was an odd thought, since I hadn't grown up with my parents. In fact, up until my thirteenth birthday, I really only knew one thing about my parents: that they had a twisted sense of humor.

Why do I say this, you ask? Well, you see, my parents named me 'Al.' In most cases, this would be short for 'Albert', which is a fine name. In fact, you have probably known an Albert or two in your lifetime, and chances are that they were decent fellows. If they weren't, then it certainly wasn't the name's fault.

My name isn't Albert.

'Al' also could be short for 'Alexander.' I wouldn't have minded this either, since Alexander is a great name. It sounds kind of regal.

My name isn't Alexander.

I'm certain that you can think of other names 'Al' might be short for. Alfonso has a pleasant ring to it. Alan would also be acceptable, as would have been Alfred-though I really don't have an inclination toward butlery.

My name is not Alfonso, Alan, or Alfred. Nor is it Alejandro, Alton, Aldris, or Alonzo.

My name is Alcatraz. Alcatraz Smedry. Now, some of you Free Kingdomers might be impressed by my name. That's wonderful for you, but I grew up in the Hushlands-in the United States itself. I didn't know about Oculators or the like, though I did know about prisons.

And that was why I figured that my parents must have had a twisted sense of humor. Why else would they name their child after the most infamous prison in U.S. history?

On my thirteenth birthday, I received a second confirmation that my parents were-indeed-cruel people. That was the day when I unexpectedly received in the mail the only inheritance that they had left me.

It was a simple bag of sand.

I stood at the door, looking down at the unwrapped package in my hands, frowning as the postman drove away. The package looked old-its string ties were frayed, and its brown paper packaging was worn and faded. Inside of the package, I found a box containing a simple note.

Alcatraz, it read. Happy thirteenth birthday! Here is your inheritance, as promised.

Love, Mom and Dad.

Underneath the note, I found the bag of sand. It was small, perhaps the size of a fist, and was filled with ordinary brown beach sand.

Now, my first inclination was to think that the package was a joke. You would probably have thought the same. One thing, however, made me pause. I set the box down, then smoothed out its wrinkled packaging paper.

One edge of the paper was covered with wild scribbles-a little like those made by a person trying to get the ink in a pen to flow. On the front there was writing. It looked old and faded-almost illegible in places-and yet it accurately spelled out my address. An address I'd only been living at for eight months.

Impossible, I thought.

Then I went inside my house and set the kitchen on fire.

Now, I warned you that I wasn't a good person. Those who knew me when I was young would never have believed that one day I would be known as a hero. 'Heroic' just didn't apply to me. Nor did people use words like 'nice', or even 'friendly' to describe me. They might have used the word 'clever', though I suspect that 'devious' may have been more correct. 'Destructive' was another common one that I heard, though I didn't care for it. (It wasn't actually all that accurate.) No, people never said good things about me. Good people don't burn down kitchens.

Still holding the strange package, I strode into my foster parents' house and wandered toward the kitchen, lost in thought. It was a very nice kitchen, modern looking with white wallpaper and lots of shiny chrome appliances. Anyone entering it would immediately notice that this was the kitchen of a person who took pride in their cooking skills.

I set my package on the table, then moved over to the kitchen stove. If you're a Hushlander, you would have thought I looked like a fairly normal American boy, dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt. I've been told I was a handsome kid-and some even said that I had an 'innocent face'. I was not too tall, had dark brown hair, and was quite skilled at breaking things.

Quite skilled.

When I was very young, kids called me a klutz. I was always breaking things-plates, cameras, chickens. It seemed inevitable that whatever I picked up, I would end up dropping, cracking, or otherwise mixing up. Not exactly the most inspiring talent a young man ever had, I know. However, I generally tried to do my best despite it.

Just like I did this day. Still thinking about the strange package, I filled a pot with water. Next, I got out a few packs of instant ramen noodles. I set them down, looking at the stove. It was a fancy, gas one with real flames. Joan wouldn't settle for electric.

Sometimes it was daunting, knowing how easily I could break things. This one, simple curse seemed to dominate my entire life. Perhaps I shouldn't have gone down to fix dinner. Perhaps I should simply have remained in my room. But, what was I to do? Stay there all the time? Never go out because I was worried about the things I might break? Of course not.

I reached out and turned on the gas burner.

And, of course, the flames immediately flared up around the sides of the pan, reaching far higher than should have been possible. I quickly reached to turn off the flames, but the k.n.o.b broke off in my hand. I tried to grab the pot and take it off of the stove. But, of course, the handle broke off, leaving the pot itself on the burner. I stared at the broken handle for a moment, then looked up at the flames. They flickered, starting the drapes on fire. The fire gleefully began to devour the cloth.

Well, so much for that, I thought with a sigh, tossing the broken handle over my shoulder. I left the fire burning-once again, I feel I must remind you that I'm not a very nice person-and picked up my strange package as I walked out into the den.

There, I pulled out the brown wrapper from my 'inheritance' box, flattening it against the table with one hand and looking the stamps. One had a picture of a woman wearing flight goggles, with an old-fashioned airplane in the background behind her. All of the stamps looked old-perhaps as old as I was. I turned on the computer and checked a database of stamp publication dates, and found that I was right. From the pictures on them, I could tell that they had been printed thirteen years ago.

Someone had taken quite a bit of effort to make it seem like my present had been packaged, addressed, and stamped over a decade earlier. That, however, was ridiculous. How would they have known where I'd be living? During the last thirteen years, I'd gone through dozens of sets of foster parents. Besides, my experience has been that the number of stamps it takes to send a package increases without warning or pattern. (The postage people are, I'm convinced, quite s.a.d.i.s.tic in that regard.) There was no way someone could have known, thirteen years ago, how much postage it would cost to send a package in my day.

I shook my head, standing up and tossing the 'M' key from the computer keyboard into the trash. I'd stopped trying to stick the keys back on-they always fell off again anyway. I got the fire extinguisher from the hall closet, then walked back into the kitchen, which was now quite thoroughly billowing with smoke. I put the box and extinguisher on the table, then picked up a broom, holding my breath as I calmly knocked the tattered remnants of the drapes into the sink. I turned on the water, then finally used the extinguisher to blast the burning wallpaper and cabinets, also putting out the stove.

The smoke alarm didn't go off, of course. You see, I'd broken that previously. All I'd needed to do was rest my hand against its case for a second, and it had fallen apart.

I didn't open a window, but did have the peace of mind to get a pair of pliers and twist the stove's gas gage off. Then, I glanced at the curtains, smoldering as an ashen lump in the sink.

Well, that's it, I thought, a bit frustrated. Joan and Roy will never continue to put up with me after this.

Perhaps you think I should have felt ashamed. But, what was I supposed to do? Like I said-I couldn't simply just hide in my room all the time. Was I to avoid living just because life for me was a little different than it was for regular people? No. I had learned to deal with my strange curse. I figured that others would simply have to do so as well.

I heard a car in the driveway. Finally realizing that the kitchen was still rank with smoke, I opened the window and began using a towel to fan it out. My foster mother-Joan-rushed into the kitchen a moment later. She stood, horrified, looking at the fire damage.

I tossed aside the towel and left without a word, going up to my room.

"That boy is a disaster!"

Joan's voice drifted up through the open window into my room. My foster parents were in the study down on the first floor, their favorite place for 'quiet' conferences about me. Fortunately, one of the first things that I'd broken in the house had been the study's window rollers, locking the windows themselves permanently open so that I could listen in.

"Now, Joan," said a consoling voice. That one belonged to Roy, my current foster father.

"I can't take it!" Joan sputtered. "He destroys everything he touches!"

There was that word again. "Destroy." I felt my hair bristle in annoyance. I don't destroy things, I thought. I break them. They're still there when I'm finished, they just don't work right anymore.

"He means well," Roy said. "He's a kind-hearted boy."

"First the washing machine," Joan sputtered. "Then the lawn mower. Then the upstairs bath. Now the kitchen. All in less than a year!"

"He's had a hard life," Roy said. "He just tries too hard-how would you feel, being pa.s.sed from family to family, never having a home... ?"

"Well, can you blame people for getting rid of him?" Joan said. "I-"

She was interrupted by a knock on the front door. There was a moment of silence, and I imagined what was going on between my foster parents. Joan was giving Roy "The Look." Usually, it was the husband who gave "The Look," insisting that I be sent away. Roy had always been the soft one here, however. I heard his footsteps as he went to answer the door.

"Come in," Roy said, his voice faint, since he now stood in the entryway. I remained lying in my bed. It was still early evening-the sun hadn't even set yet.

"Mrs. Sheldon," a new voice said from below, acknowledging Joan. "I came as soon as I heard about the accident." It was a woman's voice, familiar to me. Businesslike, curt, and more than a little condescending. I figured those were all good reasons why Miss Fletcher wasn't married.

"Miss Fletcher," Joan said, faltering now that the time had come. They usually did. "I'm... sorry to..."

"No," Miss Fletcher said. "You did well to last this long. I can arrange for the boy to be taken tomorrow."

I closed my eyes, sighing quietly. Joan and Roy had lasted quite long-longer, certainly, than any of my other recent sets of foster parents. Eight months was a valiant effort when taking care of me was concerned. I felt a little twist in my stomach.

"Where is the boy now?" Miss Fletcher asked.