“Yah,” she said, embracing him again. “A thousand times yah, Allik.”
* * *
An hour later — full of exotic cakes and biscuits — Marasi snuggled in the overstuffed chair of her small flat. She’d finally changed, but not into pajamas. Instead she wore her uniform. Long skirt, blouse, constable’s overcoat.
Allik had given that an odd glance before he’d slipped out — with characteristic apologies — to buy a bottle of wine. The thing was, as tired as Marasi had felt, another emotion dominated. A sense of displacement. An awareness that something was wrong.
She was struggling to deal with the idea that Wayne was dead. Most of her refused to believe, for her own sanity. That was part of it. There was another part though. A sense that something was unfinished, that a question hung in the balance. One she had to answer before she could truly rest.
So it was no great surprise that soon after Allik left, a knock sounded at the door. It was a young messenger girl, of the variety you could easily hire in town for a few clips. They knew the ins and outs of the many tenements, apartments, and winding streets of the octants better than most postmen.
The girl delivered a small envelope before scampering off. Inside was a card with the symbol of the interlocking triangles. The Ghostbloods. There was an address on the back.
Marasi checked her things. Credentials in her pocket. Handgun in the holster at her side. Insignia on her jacket. She didn’t bring a rifle. Today, she didn’t need to be armed so much as equipped.
She left a quick note for Allik, promising to return soon, then made her way out into the city. Her city.
She loved Elendel. The sheer variety of people. The way that the broadsheets were already selling the story of the detonation. Some called it a warning shot from the Outer Cities, others a deliberate attempt to cause a flood — as if blowing the city up wouldn’t have been a more effective choice. A surprising number actually had the right facts.
DAWNSHOT AND DEPUTY SAVE DAY.
DARING LAST-MINUTE RACE TO SAVE ELENDEL!
BILMING BOMB PREMATURELY DETONATED BY CONSTABLE COURAGE!
She wondered what they’d say when they got hold of her story. A hidden cavern full of kidnapped people being used to try to create Mistborn? Moving photos and Hemalurgic monsters? It was the sort of thing that would fuel broadsheet stories for decades.
She strolled toward her destination. Savoring the scents — good and bad, but always potent — the sounds, the feel of a city so alive that even a disaster couldn’t stop it.
The Ghostblood base in Elendel was more ostentatious than the one in Bilming. A grand old-school estate, with stained glass and manicured grounds. Marasi was ushered in without needing to knock, then led to a dimly lit room. She assumed she was to sit here and wait, until she noticed someone at the far side. Seated in a comfortable — but enveloping — chair, fine shoes catching the light, his face lost in shadows. But one feature was plain: a single spike pushed through his right eye.
The Survivor himself.
She’d met Death, chatted with kandra, heard Wax speak of Harmony. She was no newcomer to figures from lore stepping out of shadow and into her life. This was different somehow. This was the man who had started it all. The man who had survived his own murder. This was the man she’d been taught to worship and revere.
Here he was. And it was the most intimidating experience of her life. She tried to speak, and found her mouth dry.
The door opened and TwinSoul entered, stabilizing himself against the door handle. Though she’d known him only a short time, it still felt right to give him a hug, which he returned.
“It is good to see you well, my lady,” he said to her. “And to hear of your accomplishments.”
“Oh!” Marasi said. “TwinSoul. Moonlight, she—”
“We’ve heard reports,” TwinSoul said. “She was … forced to use her stamp?”
“Yes,” Marasi said.
“She will be difficult to recover,” Kelsier said from the shadows. “I may have permanently lost my best agent to this fiasco.”
Marasi’s first instinct was to rush to apologize. She stopped herself. “You’d rather we let the invasion happen?”
Kelsier leaned forward, and she thought she caught a hint of a smile on his lips. Perhaps the stories were true. That he might be a brutal man, but he wasn’t a stern one. But who knew? Could you really trust stories from hundreds of years ago? And if you could, surely a man changed after living — or, well, not staying dead — for four centuries.
“Go ahead, TwinSoul,” Kelsier said.
“Marasi Colms,” TwinSoul said, “I am proud to offer you membership in the Ghostbloods. If you accept, I would be honored to become your mentor, as is our tradition. You may join me on my next mission, to track Moonlight down and attempt to restore her natural personality.”
“This offer comes with access to everything the Ghostbloods know,” Kelsier said. “We don’t keep secrets from one another.”
“Even you, Survivor?” Marasi asked, curious. “Do you keep secrets?”
He didn’t respond to that. But he did smile again.
“There is lore and arcana we have access to,” TwinSoul said, “that will delight and awe you, my lady. Our duties lead us to fascinating places — all in the service of the very thing you want: protecting Scadrial.”
“It is not an invitation,” Kelsier added, “that we extend lightly.”
So here it was. The question. Did she accept? Lately, she’d wanted so badly to do something more. Every glimpse she got of the larger conflicts — the larger cosmere — made her want to see it in full. Like a woman peeking at a sunset through a slit in the wall.
And yet.
“How long,” she said, “did you know about the Set? How long did you know what they were trying to do? Who Trell was?”
Silence.
“We provide answers,” TwinSoul said, “after oaths, my lady. It is our way.”
“Did you share with Harmony?” Marasi asked.
“Saze,” Kelsier said, “is … erratic lately. There’s a problem brewing with him. One I fear is going to make even today’s events seem trivial by comparison. We must, unfortunately, work in secret. We are too small, too weak, as of yet. In the open, forces in the cosmere would crush us.”
She didn’t disagree, not entirely. Every lawwoman understood the need to work covertly at times.
And yet.
Marasi turned their card over in her fingers, then held it up and looked at the interlocking bloodred diamonds.
Was this really what she wanted? She’d been dissatisfied in her service on occasion. But was there any job you didn’t dislike now and then? As she turned the card over again, she remembered why she’d first become a constable. Not just to solve crimes. To solve problems. To make the world a better place, not merely protect it.
She couldn’t do that from the shadows, could she? Others might be able to, but Marasi? She’d have to lie to so many people. That violated the fundamental oaths she’d taken.
Have you appreciated it? Armal had asked. That question haunted Marasi.
“Once,” she said, “about seven years ago, I thought everything I’d ever wanted had fallen into my lap. I thought I’d figured out what I wanted. Then he walked away. That rejection was among the best things that ever happened to me.”
“My lady?” TwinSoul said.