calm sense of control begin to assert itself in his eyes.
Yet, Laird still seemed slightly uncertain. Vin pushed harder. He cocked
his head, looking thoughtful. He opened his mouth to speak, but she pushed
against him again, desperately using up her last pinch of Luck.
He paused again. "Very well," he finally said. "I will take this new
proposal to the Council. Perhaps an agreement can still be reached."
If men read these words, let them know that power is a heavy burden. Seek not to be bound by its
chains. The Terris prophecies say that I will have the power to save the world.
They hint, however, that I will have the power to destroy it as well.
2
IN KELSIER'S OPINION, THE CITY of Luthadel—seat of the Lord Ruler—was a
gloomy sight. Most of the buildings had been built from stone blocks, with
tile roofs for the wealthy, and simple, peaked wooden roofs for the rest. The
structures were packed closely together, making them seem squat despite the
fact that they were generally three stories high.
The tenements and shops were uniform in appearance; this was not a place
to draw attention to oneself. Unless, of course, you were a member of the
high nobility.
Interspersed throughout the city were a dozen or so monolithic keeps.
Intricate, with rows of spearlike spires or deep archways, these were the
homes of the high nobility. In fact, they were the mark of a high noble
family: Any family who could afford to build a keep and maintain a high-
profile presence in Luthadel was considered to be a Great House.
Most of the open ground in the city was around these keeps. The patches of
space amid the tenements were like clearings in a forest, the keeps
themselves like solitary mounts rising above the rest of the landscape. Black
mountains. Like the rest of the city, the keeps were stained by countless years
of ashfalls.
Every structure in Luthadel—virtually every structure Kelsier had ever
seen—had been blackened to some degree. Even the city wall, upon which
Kelsier now stood, was blackened by a patina of soot. Structures were
generally darkest at the top, where the ash gathered, but rainwaters and
evening condensations had carried the stains over ledges and down walls.
Like paint running down a canvas, the darkness seemed to creep down the
sides of buildings in an uneven gradient.
The streets, of course, were completely black. Kelsier stood waiting,
scanning the city as a group of skaa workers worked in the street below,
clearing away the latest mounds of ash. They'd take it to the River Channerel,
which ran through the center of the city, sending the piles of ash to be washed
away, lest it pile up and eventually bury the city. Sometimes, Kelsier
wondered why the entire empire wasn't just one big mound of ash. He
supposed the ash must break down into soil eventually. Yet, it took a
ridiculous amount of effort to keep cities and fields clear enough to be used.
Fortunately, there were always enough skaa to do the work. The workers
below him wore simple coats and trousers, ash-stained and worn. Like the
plantation workers he had left behind several weeks before, they worked with
beaten-down, despondent motions. Other groups of skaa passed the workers,
responding to the bells in the distance, chiming the hour and calling them to
their morning's work at the forges or mills. Luthadel's main export was
metal; the city was home to hundreds of forges and refineries. However, the
surgings of the river provided excellent locations for mills, both to grind
grains and make textiles.
The skaa continued to work. Kelsier turned away from them, looking up
into the distance, toward the city center, where the Lord Ruler's palace
loomed like some kind of massive, multi-spined insect. Kredik Shaw, the Hill
of a Thousand Spires. The palace was several times the size of any
nobleman's keep, and was by far the largest building in the city.
Another ashfall began as Kelsier stood contemplating the city, the flakes
falling lightly down upon the streets and buildings. A lot of ashfalls, lately, he
thought, glad for the excuse to pull up the hood on his cloak. The Ashmounts
must be active.
It was unlikely that anyone in Luthadel would recognize him—it had been
three years since his capture. Still, the hood was reassuring. If all went well,
there would come a time when Kelsier would want to be seen and
recognized. For now, anonymity was probably better.
Eventually, a figure approached along the wall. The man, Dockson, was
shorter than Kelsier, and he had a squarish face that seemed well suited to his
moderately stocky build. A nondescript brown hooded cloak covered his
black hair, and he wore the same short half beard that he'd sported since his
face had first put forth whiskers some twenty years before.
He, like Kelsier, wore a nobleman's suit: colored vest, dark coat and
trousers, and a thin cloak to keep off the ash. The clothing wasn't rich, but it
was aristocratic—indicative of the Luthadel middle class. Most men of noble
birth weren't wealthy enough to be considered part of a Great House—yet, in
the Final Empire, nobility wasn't just about money. It was about lineage and
history; the Lord Ruler was immortal, and he apparently still remembered the
men who had supported him during the early years of his reign. The
descendants of those men, no matter how poor they became, would always be
favored.
The clothing would keep passing guard patrols from asking too many
questions. In the cases of Kelsier and Dockson, of course, that clothing was a
lie. Neither was actually noble—though, technically, Kelsier was a half-
blood. In many ways, however, that was worse than being just a normal skaa.
Dockson strolled up next to Kelsier, then leaned against the battlement,
resting a pair of stout arms on the stone. "You're a few days late, Kell."
"I decided to make a few extra stops in the plantations to the north."
"Ah," Dockson said. "So you did have something to do with Lord
Tresting's death."
Kelsier smiled. "You could say that."
"His murder caused quite a stir among the local nobility."
"That was kind of the intention," Kelsier said. "Though, to be honest, I
wasn't planning anything quite so dramatic. It was almost more of an
accident than anything else."
Dockson raised an eyebrow. "How do you 'accidentally' kill a nobleman
in his own mansion?"
"With a knife in the chest," Kelsier said lightly. "Or, rather, a pair of
knives in the chest—it always pays to be careful."
Dockson rolled his eyes.
"His death isn't exactly a loss, Dox," Kelsier said. "Even among the
nobility, Tresting had a reputation for cruelty."
"I don't care about Tresting," Dockson said. "I'm just considering the state
of insanity that led me to plan another job with you. Attacking a provincial
lord in his manor house, surrounded by guards . . . Honestly, Kell, I'd nearly
forgotten how foolhardy you can be."
"Foolhardy?" Kelsier asked with a laugh. "That wasn't foolhardy—that
was just a small diversion. You should see some of the things I'm planning to
do!"
Dockson stood for a moment, then he laughed too. "By the Lord Ruler, it's
good to have you back, Kell! I'm afraid I've grown rather boring during the
last few years."
"We'll fix that," Kelsier promised. He took a deep breath, ash falling
lightly around him. Skaa cleaning crews were already back at work on the
streets below, brushing up the dark ash. Behind, a guard patrol passed,
nodding to Kelsier and Dockson. They waited in silence for the men to pass.
"It's good to be back," Kelsier finally said. "There's something homey
about Luthadel—even if it is a depressing, stark pit of a city. You have the
meeting organized?"
Dockson nodded. "We can't start until this evening, though. How'd you
get in, anyway? I had men watching the gates."
"Hmm? Oh, I snuck in last night."
"But how—" Dockson paused. "Oh, right. That's going to take some
getting used to."
Kelsier shrugged. "I don't see why. You always work with Mistings."
"Yes, but this is different," Dockson said. He held up a hand to forestall
further argument. "No need, Kell. I'm not hedging—I just said it would take
some getting used to."
"Fine. Who's coming tonight?"
"Well, Breeze and Ham will be there, of course. They're very curious
about this mystery job of ours—not to mention rather annoyed that I won't
tell him what you've been up to these last few years."
"Good," Kelsier said with a smile. "Let them wonder. How about Trap?"
Dockson shook his head. "Trap's dead. The Ministry finally caught up
with him a couple months ago. Didn't even bother sending him to the Pits—
they beheaded him on the spot."
Kelsier closed his eyes, exhaling softly. It seemed that the Steel Ministry
caught up with everyone eventually. Sometimes, Kelsier felt that a skaa
Misting's life wasn't so much about surviving as it was about picking the
right time to die.
"This leaves us without a Smoker," Kelsier finally said, opening his eyes.
"You have any suggestions?"
"Ruddy," Dockson said.
Kelsier shook his head. "No. He's a good Smoker, but he's not a good
enough man."
Dockson smiled. "Not a good enough man to be on a thieving crew . . .
Kell, I have missed working with you. All right, who then?"
Kelsier thought for a moment. "Is Clubs still running that shop of his?"
"As far as I know," Dockson said slowly.
"He's supposed to be one of the best Smokers in the city."
"I suppose," Dockson said. "But . . . isn't he supposed to be kind of hard to
work with?"
"He's not so bad," Kelsier said. "Not once you get used to him. Besides, I
think he might be . . . amenable to this particular job."
"All right," Dockson said, shrugging. "I'll invite him. I think one of his
relatives is a Tineye. Do you want me to invite him too?"
"Sounds good," Kelsier said.
"All right," Dockson said. "Well, beyond that, there's just Yeden.
Assuming he's still interested . . ."
"He'll be there," Kelsier said.
"He'd better be," Dockson said. "He'll be the one paying us, after all."
Kelsier nodded, then frowned. "You didn't mention Marsh."
Dockson shrugged. "I warned you. Your brother never did approve of our
methods, and now . . . well, you know Marsh. He won't even have anything
to do with Yeden and the rebellion anymore, let alone with a bunch of
criminals like us. I think we'll have to find someone else to infiltrate the
obligators."
"No," Kelsier said. "He'll do it. I'll just have to stop by to persuade him."
"If you say so." Dockson fell silent then, and the two stood for a moment,
leaning against the railing and looking out over the ash-stained city.
Dockson finally shook his head. "This is insane, eh?"
Kelsier smiled. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
Dockson nodded. "Fantastic."
"It will be a job like no other," Kelsier said, looking north—across the city
and toward the twisted building at its center.
Dockson stepped away from the wall. "We have a few hours before the
meeting. There's something I want to show you. I think there's still time—if
we hurry."
Kelsier turned with curious eyes. "Well, I was going to go and chastise my
prude of a brother. But . . ."
"This will be worth your time," Dockson promised.
Vin sat in the corner of the safe house's main lair. She kept to the shadows,
as usual; the more she stayed out of sight, the more the others would ignore
her. She couldn't afford to expend Luck keeping the men's hands off of her.
She'd barely had time to regenerate what she'd used a few days before,
during the meeting with the obligator.
The usual rabble lounged at tables in the room, playing at dice or
discussing minor jobs. Smoke from a dozen different pipes pooled at the top
of the chamber, and the walls were stained dark from countless years of
similar treatment. The floor was darkened with patches of ash. Like most
thieving crews, Camon's group wasn't known for its tidiness.
There was a door at the back of the room, and beyond it lay a twisting
stone stairway that led up to a false rain grate in an alleyway. This room, like
so many others hidden in the imperial capital of Luthadel, wasn't supposed to
exist.
Rough laughter came from the front of the chamber, where Camon sat with
a half-dozen cronies enjoying a typical afternoon of ale and crass jokes.
Camon's table sat beside the bar, where the overpriced drinks were simply
another way Camon exploited those who worked for him. The Luthadel
criminal element had learned quite well from the lessons taught by the
nobility.
Vin tried her best to remain invisible. Six months before, she wouldn't
have believed that her life could actually get worse without Reen. Yet,
despite her brother's abusive anger, he had kept the other crewmembers from
having their way with Vin. There were relatively few women on thieving
crews; generally, those women who got involved with the underworld ended
up as whores. Reen had always told her that a girl needed to be tough—
tougher, even, than a man—if she wanted to survive.
You think some crewleader is going to want a liability like you on his
team? he had said. I don't even want to have to work with you, and I'm your
brother.
Her back still throbbed; Camon had whipped her the day before. The blood
would ruin her shirt, and she wouldn't be able to afford another one. Camon
was already retaining her wages to pay the debts Reen had left behind.
But, I am strong, she thought.
That was the irony. The beatings almost didn't hurt anymore, for Reen's
frequent abuses had left Vin resilient, while at the same time teaching her
how to look pathetic and broken. In a way, the beatings were self-defeating.
Bruises and welts mended, but each new lashing left Vin more hardened.
Stronger.
Camon stood up. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his golden
pocket watch. He nodded to one of his companions, then he scanned the
room, searching for . . . her.
His eyes locked on Vin. "It's time."
Vin frowned. Time for what?
The Ministry's Canton of Finance was an imposing structure—but, then,
everything about the Steel Ministry tended to be imposing.
Tall and blocky, the building had a massive rose window in the front,
though the glass was dark from the outside. Two large banners hung down
beside the window, the soot-stained red cloth proclaiming praises to the Lord
Ruler.
Camon studied the building with a critical eye. Vin could sense his
apprehension. The Canton of Finance was hardly the most threatening of
Ministry offices—the Canton of Inquisition, or even the Canton of
Orthodoxy, had a far more ominous reputation. However, voluntarily
entering any Ministry office . . . putting yourself in the power of the
obligators . . . well, it was a thing to do only after serious consideration.
Camon took a deep breath, then strode forward, his dueling cane tapping
against the stones as he walked. He wore his rich nobleman's suit, and he was
accompanied by a half-dozen crewmembers—including Vin—to act as his
"servants."
Vin followed Camon up the steps, then waited as one of the crewmembers
jumped forward to pull the door open for his "master." Of the six attendants,
only Vin seemed to have been told nothing of Camon's plan. Suspiciously,
Theron—Camon's supposed partner in the Ministry scam—was nowhere to
be seen.
Vin entered the Canton building. Vibrant red light, sparkled with lines of
blue, fell from the rose window. A single obligator, with midlevel tattoos
around his eyes, sat behind a desk at the end of the extended entryway.
Camon approached, his cane thumping against the carpet as he walked. "I
am Lord Jedue," he said.
What are you doing, Camon? Vin thought. You insisted to Theron that you
wouldn't meet with Prelan Laird in his Canton office. Yet, now you're here.
The obligator nodded, making a notation in his ledger. He waved to the
side. "You may take one attendant with you into the waiting chamber. The
rest must remain here."
Camon's huff of disdain indicated what he thought of that prohibition. The
obligator, however, didn't look up from his ledger. Camon stood for a
moment, and Vin couldn't tell if he was genuinely angry or just playing the
part of an arrogant nobleman. Finally, he jabbed a finger at Vin.
"Come," he said, turning and waddling toward the indicated door.
The room beyond was lavish and plush, and several noblemen lounged in
various postures of waiting. Camon chose a chair and settled into it, then
pointed toward a table set with wine and red-frosted cakes. Vin obediently
fetched him a glass of wine and a plate of food, ignoring her own hunger.
Camon began to pick hungrily at the cakes, smacking quietly as he ate.
He's nervous. More nervous, even, than before.
"Once we get in, you will say nothing," Camon grumbled between bites.
"You're betraying Theron," Vin whispered.
Camon nodded.
"But, how? Why?" Theron's plan was complex in execution, but simple in
concept. Every year, the Ministry transferred its new acolyte obligators from
a northern training facility south to Luthadel for final instruction. Theron had
discovered, however, that those acolytes and their overseers brought down
with them large amounts of Ministry funds—disguised as baggage—to be
strongholded in Luthadel.
Banditry was very difficult in the Final Empire, what with the constant
patrols along canal routes. However, if one were running the very canal boats
that the acolytes were sailing upon, a robbery could become possible.
Arranged at just the right time . . . the guards turning on their passengers . . .
a man could make quite a profit, then blame it all on banditry.
"Theron's crew is weak," Camon said quietly. "He expended too many
resources on this job."
"But, the return he'll make—" Vin said.
"Will never happen if I take what I can now, then run," Camon said,
smiling. "I'll talk the obligators into a down payment to get my caravan boats
afloat, then disappear and leave Theron to deal with the disaster when the
Ministry realizes that it's been scammed."
Vin stood back, slightly shocked. Setting up a scam like this would have
cost Theron thousands upon thousands of boxings—if the deal fell through
now, he would be ruined. And, with the Ministry hunting him, he wouldn't
even have time to seek revenge. Camon would make a quick profit, as well as
rid himself of one of his more powerful rivals.
Theron was a fool to bring Camon into this, she thought. But, then, the
amount Theron had promised to pay Camon was great; he probably assumed
that Camon's greed would keep him honest until Theron himself could pull a
double cross. Camon had simply worked faster than anyone, even Vin, had
expected. How could Theron have known that Camon would undermine the
job itself, rather than wait and try and steal the entire haul from the caravan
boats?
Vin's stomach twisted. It's just another betrayal, she thought sickly. Why
does it still bother me so? Everyone betrays everyone else. That's the way life
is. . . .
She wanted to find a corner—someplace cramped and secluded—and hide.
Alone.
Anyone will betray you. Anyone.
But there was no place to go. Eventually, a minor obligator entered and
called for Lord Jedue. Vin followed Camon as they were ushered into an
audience chamber.
The man who waited inside, sitting behind the audience desk, was not
Prelan Laird.
Camon paused in the doorway. The room was austere, bearing only the
desk and simple gray carpeting. The stone walls were unadorned, the only
window barely a handspan wide. The obligator who waited for them had
some of the most intricate tattoos around his eyes that Vin had ever seen. She
wasn't even certain what rank they implied, but they extended all the way
back to the obligator's ears and up over his forehead.
"Lord Jedue," the strange obligator said. Like Laird, he wore gray robes,
but he was very different from the stern, bureaucratic men Camon had dealt
with before. This man was lean in a muscular way, and his clean-shaven,
triangular head gave him an almost predatory look.
"I was under the impression that I would be meeting with Prelan Laird,"
Camon said, still not moving into the room.
"Prelan Laird has been called away on other business. I am High Prelan
Arriev—head of the board that was reviewing your proposal. You have a rare
opportunity to address me directly. I normally don't hear cases in person, but
Laird's absence has made it necessary for me to share in some of his work."
Vin's instincts made her tense. We should go. Now.
Camon stood for a long moment, and Vin could see him considering. Run
now? Or, take a risk for the greater prize? Vin didn't care about prizes; she
just wanted to live. Camon, however, had not become crewleader without the
occasional gamble. He slowly moved into the room, eyes cautious as he took
the seat opposite the obligator.
"Well, High Prelan Arriev," Camon said with a careful voice. "I assume
that since I have been called back for another appointment, the board is
considering my offer?"
"Indeed we are," the obligator said. "Though I must admit, there are some
Council members who are apprehensive about dealing with a family that is so
near to economic disaster. The Ministry generally prefers to be conservative
in its financial operations."
"I see."
"But," Arriev said, "there are others on the board who are quite eager to
take advantage of the savings you offered us."
"And with which group do you identify, Your Grace?"
"I, as of yet, have not made my decision." The obligator leaned forward.
"Which is why I noted that you have a rare opportunity. Convince me, Lord
Jedue, and you will have your contract."
"Surely Prelan Laird outlined the details of our offer," Camon said.
"Yes, but I would like to hear the arguments from you personally. Humor
me."
Vin frowned. She remained near the back of the room, standing near the
door, still half convinced she should run.
"Well?" Arriev asked.
"We need this contract, Your Grace," Camon said. "Without it we won't
be able to continue our canal shipping operations. Your contract would give
us a much needed period of stability—a chance to maintain our caravan boats
for a time while we search for other contracts."
Arriev studied Camon for a moment. "Surely you can do better than that,
Lord Jedue. Laird said that you were very persuasive—let me hear you prove
that you deserve our patronage."
Vin prepared her Luck. She could make Arriev more inclined to believe . .
. but something restrained her. The situation felt wrong.
"We are your best choice, Your Grace," Camon said. "You fear that my
house will suffer economic failure? Well, if it does, what have you lost? At
worst, my narrowboats would stop running, and you would have to find other
merchants to deal with. Yet, if your patronage is enough to maintain my
house, then you have found yourself an enviable long-term contract."
"I see," Arriev said lightly. "And why the Ministry? Why not make your
deal with someone else? Surely there are other options for your boats—other
groups who would jump at such rates."
Camon frowned. "This isn't about money, Your Grace, it is about the
victory—the showing of confidence—that we would gain by having a
Ministry contract. If you trust us, others will too. I need your support."
Camon was sweating now. He was probably beginning to regret this gamble.
Had he been betrayed? Was Theron behind the odd meeting?
The obligator waited quietly. He could destroy them, Vin knew. If he even
suspected that they were scamming him, he could give them over to the
Canton of Inquisition. More than one nobleman had entered a Canton
building and never returned.
Gritting her teeth, Vin reached out and used her Luck on the obligator,
making him less suspicious.
Arriev smiled. "Well, you have convinced me," he suddenly declared.
Camon sighed in relief.
Arriev continued, "Your most recent letter suggested that you need three
thousand boxings as an advance to refurbish your equipment and resume
shipping operations. See the scribe in the main hallway to finish the
paperwork so that you may requisition the necessary funds."
The obligator pulled a sheet of thick bureaucratic paper from a stack, then
stamped a seal at the bottom. He proffered it to Camon. "Your contract."
Camon smiled deeply. "I knew coming to the Ministry was the wise
choice," he said, accepting the contract. He stood, nodding respectfully to the
obligator, then motioned for Vin to open the door for him.
She did so. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. She paused as
Camon left, looking back at the obligator. He was still smiling.
A happy obligator was always a bad sign.
Yet, no one stopped them as they passed through the waiting room with its
noble occupants. Camon sealed and delivered the contract to the appropriate
scribe, and no soldiers appeared to arrest them. The scribe pulled out a small
chest filled with coins, and then handed it to Camon with an indifferent hand.
Then, they simply left the Canton building, Camon gathering his other
attendants with obvious relief. No cries of alarm. No tromping of soldiers.
They were free. Camon had successfully scammed both the Ministry and
another crew-leader.
Apparently.
Kelsier stuffed another one of the little red-frosted cakes into his mouth,
chewing with satisfaction. The fat thief and his scrawny attendant passed
through the waiting room, entering the entryway beyond. The obligator who
had interviewed the two thieves remained in his office, apparently awaiting
his next appointment
"Well?" Dockson asked. "What do you think?"
Kelsier glanced at the cakes. "They're quite good," he said, taking another
one. "The Ministry has always had excellent taste—it makes sense that they
would provide superior snacks."
Dockson rolled his eyes. "About the girl, Kell."
Kelsier smiled as he piled four of the cakes in his hand, then nodded
toward the doorway. The Canton waiting room was growing too busy for the
discussion of delicate matters. On the way out, he paused and told the
obligator secretary in the corner that they needed to reschedule.
Then the two crossed through the entry chamber—passing the overweight
crewleader, who stood speaking with a scribe. Kelsier stepped out onto the
street, pulled his hood up against the still falling ash, then led the way across
the street. He paused beside an alleyway, standing where he and Dockson
could watch the Canton building's doors.
Kelsier munched contentedly on his cakes. "How'd you find out about
her?" he asked between bites.
"Your brother," Dockson replied. "Camon tried to swindle Marsh a few
months ago, and he brought the girl with him then, too. Actually, Camon's
little good-luck charm is becoming moderately famous in the right circles.
I'm still not sure if he knows what she is or not. You know how superstitious
thieves can get."
Kelsier nodded, dusting off his hands. "How'd you know she'd be here
today?"
Dockson shrugged. "A few bribes in the right place. I've been keeping an
eye on the girl ever since Marsh pointed her out to me. I wanted to give you
an opportunity to see her work for yourself."
Across the street, the Canton building's door finally opened, and Camon
made his way down the steps surrounded by a group of "servants." The small,
short-haired girl was with him. The sight of her made Kelsier frown. She had
a nervous anxiety to her step, and she jumped slightly whenever someone
made a quick move. The right side of her face was still slightly discolored
from a partially healed bruise.
Kelsier eyed the self-important Camon. I'll have to come up with
something particularly suitable to do to that man.
"Poor thing," Dockson muttered.
Kelsier nodded. "She'll be free of him soon enough. It's a wonder no one
discovered her before this."
"Your brother was right then?"
Kelsier nodded. "She's at least a Misting, and if Marsh says she's more,
I'm inclined to believe him. I'm a bit surprised to see her using Allomancy on
a member of the Ministry, especially inside a Canton building. I'd guess that
she doesn't know that she's even using her abilities."
"Is that possible?" Dockson asked.
Kelsier nodded. "Trace minerals in the water can be burned, if just for a
tiny bit of power. That's one of the reasons the Lord Ruler built his city here
—lots of metals in the ground. I'd say that . . ."
Kelsier trailed off, frowning slightly. Something was wrong. He glanced
toward Camon and his crew. They were still visible in the near distance,
crossing the street and heading south.
A figure appeared in the Canton building's doorway. Lean with a confident
air, he bore the tattoos of a high prelan of the Canton of Finance around his
eyes. Probably the very man Camon had met with shortly before. The
obligator stepped out of the building, and a second man exited behind him.
Beside Kelsier, Dockson suddenly grew stiff.
The second man was tall with a strong build. As he turned, Kelsier was
able to see that a thick metal spike had been pounded tip-first through each of
the man's eyes. With shafts as wide as an eye socket, the nail-like spikes
were long enough that their sharp points jutted out about an inch from the
back of the man's clean-shaven skull. The flat spike ends shone like two
silvery disks, sticking out of the sockets in the front, where the eyes should
have been.
A Steel Inquisitor.
"What's that doing here?" Dockson asked.
"Stay calm," Kelsier said, trying to force himself to do the same. The
Inquisitor looked toward them, spiked eyes regarding Kelsier, before turning
in the direction that Camon and the girl had gone. Like all Inquisitors, he
wore intricate eye tattoos—mostly black, with one stark red line—that
marked him as a high-ranking member of the Canton of Inquisition.
"He's not here for us," Kelsier said. "I'm not burning anything—he'll
think that we're just ordinary noblemen."
"The girl," Dockson said.
Kelsier nodded. "You say Camon's been running this scam on the Ministry
for a while. Well, the girl must have been detected by one of the obligators.
They're trained to recognize when an Allomancer tampers with their
emotions."
Dockson frowned thoughtfully. Across the street, the Inquisitor conferred
with the other obligator, then the two of them turned to walk in the direction
that Camon had gone. There was no urgency to their pace.
"They must have sent a tail to follow them," Dockson said.
"This is the Ministry," Kelsier said. "There'll be two tails, at least."
Dockson nodded. "Camon will lead them directly back to his safe house.
Dozens of men will die. They're not all the most admirable people, but . . ."
"They fight the Final Empire, in their own way," Kelsier said. "Besides,
I'm not about to let a possible Mistborn slip away from us—I want to talk to
that girl. Can you deal with those tails?"
"I said I'd become boring, Kell," Dockson said. "Not sloppy. I can handle
a couple of Ministry flunkies."
"Good," Kelsier said, reaching into his cloak pocket and pulling out a
small vial. A collection of metal flakes floated in an alcohol solution within.
Iron, steel, tin, pewter, copper, bronze, zinc, and brass—the eight basic
Allomantic metals. Kelsier pulled off the stopper and downed the contents in
a single swift gulp.
He pocketed the now empty vial, wiping his mouth. "I'll handle that
Inquisitor."
Dockson looked apprehensive. "You're going to try and take him?"
Kelsier shook his head. "Too dangerous. I'll just divert him. Now, get
going—we don't want those tails finding the safe house."
Dockson nodded. "Meet back at the fifteenth crossroad," he said before
taking off down the alley and disappearing around a corner.
Kelsier gave his friend a count of ten before reaching within himself and
burning his metals. His body came awash with strength, clarity, and power.
Kelsier smiled; then—burning zinc—he reached out and yanked firmly on
the Inquisitor's emotions. The creature froze in place, then spun, looking
back toward the Canton building.
Let's have a chase now, you and I, Kelsier thought.
We arrived in Terris earlier this week, and, I have to say, I find the countryside beautiful. The
great mountains to the north—with their bald snowcaps and forested mantles—stand like
watchful gods over this land of green fertility. My own lands to the south are mostly flat; I think
that they might look less dreary if there were a few mountains to vary the terrain.
The people here are mostly herdsmen—though timber harvesters and farmers are not
uncommon. It is a pastoral land, certainly. It seems odd that a place so remarkably agrarian
could have produced the prophecies and theologies upon which the entire world now relies.
3
CAMON COUNTED HIS COINS, DROPPING THE golden boxings one by one into the
small chest on his table. He still looked a bit stunned, as well he should have.
Three thousand boxings was a fabulous amount of money—far more than
Camon would earn in even a very good year. His closest cronies sat at the
table with him, ale—and laughter—flowing freely.
Vin sat in her corner, trying to understand her feelings of dread. Three
thousand boxings. The Ministry should never have let such a sum go so
quickly. Prelan Arriev had seemed too cunning to be fooled with ease.
Camon dropped another coin into the chest. Vin couldn't decide if he was
being foolish or clever by making such a display of wealth. Underworld
crews worked under a strict agreement: Everyone received a cut of earnings
in proportion to their status in the group. While it was sometimes tempting to
kill the crewleader and take his money for yourself, a successful leader
created more wealth for everyone. Kill him prematurely, and you would cut
off future earnings—not to mention earn the wrath of the other
crewmembers.
Still, three thousand boxings . . . that would be enough to tempt even the
most logical thief. It was all wrong.
I have to get out of here, Vin decided. Get away from Camon, and the lair,
in case something happens.
And yet . . . leave? By herself? She'd never been alone before; she'd
always had Reen. He'd been the one to lead her from city to city, joining
different thieving crews. She loved solitude. But the thought of being by
herself, out in the city, horrified her. That was why she'd never run away
from Reen; that was why she'd stayed with Camon.
She couldn't go. But she had to. She looked up from her corner, scanning
the room. There weren't many people in the crew for whom she felt any sort
of attachment. Yet, there were a couple that she would be sorry to see hurt,
should the obligators actually move against the crew. A few men who hadn't
tried to abuse her, or—in very rare cases—who had actually shown her some
measure of kindness.
Ulef was at the top of that list. He wasn't a friend, but he was the closest
thing she had now that Reen was gone. If he would go with her, then at least
she wouldn't be alone. Cautiously, Vin stood and moved along the side of the
room to where Ulef sat drinking with some of the other younger
crewmembers.
She tugged on Ulef's sleeve. He turned toward her, only slightly drunk.
"Vin?"
"Ulef," she whispered. "We need to go."
He frowned. "Go? Go where?"
"Away," Vin whispered. "Out of here."
"Now?"
Vin nodded urgently.
Ulef glanced back at his friends, who were chuckling among themselves,
shooting suggestive looks at Vin and Ulef.
Ulef flushed. "You want to go somewhere, just you and I?"
"Not like that," Vin said. "Just . . . I need to leave the lair. And I don't
want to be alone."
Ulef frowned. He leaned closer, a slight stink of ale on his breath. "What is
this about, Vin?" he asked quietly.
Vin paused. "I . . . think something might happen, Ulef," she whispered.
"Something with the obligators. I just don't want to be in the lair right now."
Ulef sat quietly for a moment. "All right," he finally said. "How long will
this take?"
"I don't know," Vin said. "Until evening, at least. But we have to go.
Now."
He nodded slowly.
"Wait here for a moment," Vin whispered, turning. She shot a glance at
Camon, who was laughing at one of his own jokes. Then she quietly moved
through the ash-stained, smoky chamber into the lair's back room.
The crew's general sleeping quarters consisted of a simple, elongated
corridor lined with bedrolls. It was crowded and uncomfortable, but it was far
better than the cold alleyways she'd slept in during her years traveling with
Reen.
Alleyways that I might have to get used to again, she thought. She had
survived them before. She could do so again.
She moved to her pallet, the muffled sounds of men laughing and drinking
sounding from the other room. Vin knelt down, regarding her few
possessions. If something did happen to the crew, she wouldn't be able to
come back to the lair. Ever. But, she couldn't take the bedroll with her now—
it was far too obvious. That left only the small box that contained her
personal effects: a pebble from each city she'd visited, the earring Reen said
Vin's mother had given her, and a bit of obsidian the size of a large coin. It
was chipped into an irregular pattern—Reen had carried it as some kind of
good luck charm. It was the only thing he'd left behind when he'd snuck
away from the crew half a year before. Abandoning her.
Just like he always said he would, Vin told herself sternly. I never thought
he'd actually go—and that's exactly why he had to leave.
She gripped the bit of obsidian in her hand and pocketed the pebbles. The
earring she put in her ear—it was a very simple thing. Little more than a stud,
not even worth stealing, which was why she didn't fear leaving it in the back
room. Still, Vin had rarely worn it, for fear that the ornamentation would
make her look more feminine.
She had no money, but Reen had taught her how to scavenge and beg.
Both were difficult in the Final Empire, especially in Luthadel, but she would
find a way, if she had to.
Vin left her box and bedroll, slipping back out into the common room.
Maybe she was overreacting; perhaps nothing would happen to the crew. But,
if it did . . . well, if there was one thing Reen had taught her, it was how to
protect her neck. Bringing Ulef was a good idea. He had contacts in Luthadel.
If something happened to Camon's crew, Ulef could probably get her and
him jobs on—
Vin froze just inside the main room. Ulef wasn't at the table where she had
left him. Instead, he stood furtively near the front of the room. Near the bar.
Near . . . Camon.
"What is this!" Camon stood, his face red as sunlight. He pushed his stool
out of the way, then lurched toward her, half drunk. "Running away? Off to
betray me to the Ministry, are you!"
Vin dashed toward the stairwell door, desperately scrambling around tables
and past crewmembers.
Camon's hurled wooden stool hit her square in the back, throwing her to
the ground. Pain flared between her shoulders; several crewmembers cried
out as the stool bounced off of her and thumped against the floorboards
nearby.
Vin lay in a daze. Then . . . something within her—something she knew of
but didn't understand—gave her strength. Her head stopped swimming, her
pain becoming a focus. She climbed awkwardly to her feet.
Camon was there. He backhanded her even as she stood. Her head snapped
to the side from the blow, twisting her neck so painfully that she barely felt
herself hit the floor again.
Camon bent over, grabbing her by the front of her shirt and pulling her up,
raising his fist. Vin didn't pause to think or to speak; there was only one thing
to do. She used up all of her Luck in a single furious effort, pushing against
Camon, calming his fury.
Camon teetered. For a moment, his eyes softened. He lowered her slightly.
Then the anger returned to his eyes. Hard. Terrifying.
"Damn wench," Camon muttered, grabbing her by the shoulders and
shaking her. "That backstabbing brother of yours never respected me, and
you're the same. I was too easy on you both. Should have . . ."
Vin tried to twist free, but Camon's grip was firm. She searched
desperately for aid from the other crewmembers—however, she knew what
she would find. Indifference. They turned away, their faces embarrassed but
not concerned. Ulef still stood near Camon's table, looking down guiltily.
In her mind, she thought she heard a voice whispering to her. Reen's voice.
Fool! Ruthlessness—it's the most logical of emotions. You don't have any
friends in the underworld. You'll never have any friends in the underworld!
She renewed her struggles, but Camon hit her again, knocking her to the
ground. The blow stunned her, and she gasped, breath knocked from her
lungs.
Just endure, she thought, mind muddled. He won't kill me. He needs me.
Yet, as she turned weakly, she saw Camon looming above her in the
caliginous room, drunken fury showing in his face. She knew this time would
be different; it would be no simple beating. He thought that she intended to
betray him to the Ministry. He wasn't in control.
There was murder in his eyes.
Please! Vin thought with desperation, reaching for her Luck, trying to
make it work. There was no response. Luck, such as it was, had failed her.
Camon bent down, muttering to himself as he grabbed her by the shoulder.
He raised an arm—his meaty hand forming another fist, his muscles tensing,
an angry bead of sweat slipping off his chin and hitting her on the cheek.
A few feet away, the stairwell door shook, then burst open. Camon paused,
arm upraised as he glared toward the door and whatever unfortunate
crewmember had chosen such an inopportune moment to return to the lair.
Vin seized the distraction. Ignoring the newcomer, she tried to shake
herself free from Camon's grip, but she was too weak. Her face blazed from
where he'd hit her, and she tasted blood on her lip. Her shoulder had been
twisted awkwardly, and her side ached from where she'd fallen. She clawed
at Camon's hand, but she suddenly felt weak, her inner strength failing her
just as her Luck had. Her pains suddenly seemed greater, more daunting,
more . . . demanding.
She turned toward the door desperately. She was close—painfully close.
She had nearly escaped. Just a little farther . . .
Then she saw the man standing quietly in the stairwell doorway. He was
unfamiliar to her. Tall and hawk-faced, he had light blond hair and wore a
relaxed nobleman's suit, his cloak hanging free. He was, perhaps, in his mid-
thirties. He wore no hat, nor did he carry a dueling cane.
And he looked very, very angry.
"What is this?" Camon demanded. "Who are you?"
How did he get by the scouts . . .? Vin thought, struggling to get her wits
back. Pain. She could deal with pain. The obligators . . . did they send him?
The newcomer looked down at Vin, and his expression softened slightly.
Then he looked up at Camon and his eyes grew dark.
Camon's angry demands were cut off as he was thrown backward as if had
been punched by a powerful force. His arm was ripped free from Vin's
shoulder, and he toppled to the ground, causing the floorboards to shake.
The room fell quiet.
Have to get away, Vin thought, forcing herself up to her knees. Camon
groaned in pain from a few feet away, and Vin crawled away from him,
slipping beneath an unoccupied table. The lair had a hidden exit, a trapdoor
beside the far back wall. If she could crawl to it—
Suddenly, Vin felt an overwhelming peace. The emotion slammed into her
like a sudden weight, her emotions squished silent, as if crushed by a forceful
hand. Her fear puffed out like an extinguished candle, and even her pain
seemed unimportant.
She slowed, wondering why she had been so worried. She stood up,
pausing as she faced the trapdoor. She breathed heavily, still a little dazed.
Camon just tried to kill me! the logical part of her mind warned. And
someone else is attacking the lair. I have to get away! However, her emotions
didn't match the logic. She felt . . . serene. Unworried. And more than a little
bit curious.
Someone had just used Luck on her.
She recognized it somehow, even though she'd never felt it upon her
before. She paused beside the table, one hand on the wood, then slowly
turned around. The newcomer still stood in the stairwell doorway. He studied
her with a critical eye, then smiled in a disarming sort of way.
What is going on?
The newcomer finally stepped into the room. The rest of Camon's crew
remained sitting at their tables. They looked surprised, but oddly unworried.
He's using Luck on them all. But . . . how can he do it to so many at once?
Vin had never been able to store up enough Luck to do more than give the
occasional, brief push.
As the newcomer entered the room, Vin could finally see that a second
person stood in the stairwell behind him. This second man was less imposing.
He was shorter, with a dark half beard and close-cropped straight hair. He
also wore a nobleman's suit, though his was less sharply tailored.
On the other side of the room, Camon groaned and sat up, holding his
head. He glanced at the newcomers. "Master Dockson! Why, uh, well, this is
a surprise!"
"Indeed," said the shorter man—Dockson. Vin frowned, realizing she
sensed a slight familiarity to these men. She recognized them from
somewhere.
The Canton of Finance. They were sitting in the waiting room when
Camon and I left.
Camon climbed to his feet, studying the blond newcomer. Camon looked
down at the man's hands, both of which were lined with strange, overlapping
scars. "By the Lord Ruler . . ." Camon whispered. "The Survivor of Hathsin!"
Vin frowned. The title was unfamiliar to her. Should she know this man?
Her wounds still throbbed despite the peace she felt, and her head was dizzy.
She leaned on the table for support, but did not sit.
Whoever this newcomer was, Camon obviously thought him important.
"Why, Master Kelsier!" Camon sputtered. "This is a rare honor!"
The newcomer—Kelsier—shook his head. "You know, I'm not really
interested in listening to you."
Camon let out an "urk" of pain as he was thrown backward again. Kelsier
made no obvious gesture to perform the feat. Yet, Camon collapsed to the
ground, as if shoved by some unseen force.
Camon fell quiet, and Kelsier scanned the room. "The rest of you know
who I am?"
Many of the crewmembers nodded.
"Good. I've come to your lair because you, my friends, owe me a great
debt."
The room was silent save for Camon's groans. Finally, one of the crewmen
spoke. "We . . . do, Master Kelsier?"
"Indeed you do. You see, Master Dockson and I just saved your lives.
Your rather incompetent crewleader left the Ministry's Canton of Finance
about an hour ago, returning directly to this safe house. He was followed by
two Ministry scouts, one high-ranking prelan . . . and a single Steel
Inquisitor."
No one spoke.
Oh, Lord . . . Vin thought. She'd been right—she just hadn't been fast
enough. If there was an Inquisitor—
"I dealt with the Inquisitor," Kelsier said. He paused, letting the
implication hang in the air. What kind of person could so lightly claim to
have "dealt" with an Inquisitor? Rumors said the creatures were immortal,
that they could see a man's soul, and that they were unmatched warriors.
"I require payment for services rendered," Kelsier said.
Camon didn't get up this time; he had fallen hard, and he was obviously
disoriented. The room remained still. Finally, Milev—the dark-skinned man
who was Camon's second—scooped up the coffer of Ministry boxings and
dashed forward with it. He proffered it to Kelsier.
"The money Camon got from the Ministry," Milev explained. "Three
thousand boxings."
Milev is so eager to please him, Vin thought. This is more than just Luck—
either that, or it's some sort of Luck I've never been able to use.
Kelsier paused, then accepted the coin chest. "And you are?"
"Milev, Master Kelsier."
"Well, Crewleader Milev, I will consider this payment satisfactory—
assuming you do one other thing for me."
Milev paused. "What would that be?"
Kelsier nodded toward the near-unconscious Camon. "Deal with him."
"Of course," Milev said.
"I want him to live, Milev," Kelsier said, holding up a finger. "But I don't
want him to enjoy it."
Milev nodded. "We'll make him a beggar. The Lord Ruler disapproves of
the profession—Camon won't have an easy time of it here in Luthadel."
And Milev will dispose of him anyway as soon as he thinks this Kelsier
isn't paying attention.
"Good," Kelsier said. Then he opened the coin chest and began counting
out some golden boxings. "You're a resourceful man, Milev. Quick on your
feet, and not as easily intimidated as the others."
"I've had dealings with Mistings before, Master Kelsier," Milev said.
Kelsier nodded. "Dox," he said, addressing his companion, "where were
we going to have our meeting tonight?"
"I was thinking that we should use Clubs's shop," said the second man.
"Hardly a neutral location," Kelsier said. "Especially if he decides not to
join us."
"True."
Kelsier looked to Milev. "I'm planning a job in this area. It would be
useful to have the support of some locals." He held out a pile of what looked
like a hundred boxings. "We'll require use of your safe house for the evening.
This can be arranged?"
"Of course," Milev said, taking the coins eagerly.
"Good," Kelsier said. "Now, get out."
"Out?" Milev asked hesitantly.
"Yes," Kelsier said. "Take your men—including your former leader—and
leave. I want to have a private conversation with Mistress Vin."
The room grew silent again, and Vin knew she wasn't the only one
wondering how Kelsier knew her name.
"Well, you heard him!" Milev snapped. He waved for a group of thugs to
go grab Camon, then he shooed the rest of the crewmembers up the stairs.
Vin watched them go, growing apprehensive. This Kelsier was a powerful
man, and instinct told her that powerful men were dangerous. Did he know of
her Luck? Obviously; what other reason would he have for singling her out?
How is this Kelsier going to try and use me? she thought, rubbing her arm
where she'd hit the floor.
"By the way, Milev," Kelsier said idly. "When I say 'private,' I mean that I
don't want to be spied on by the four men watching us through peek-holes
behind the far wall. Kindly take them up into the alley with you."
Milev paled. "Of course, Master Kelsier."
"Good. And, in the alleyway you'll find the two dead Ministry spies.
Kindly dispose of the corpses for us."
Milev nodded, turning.
"And Milev," Kelsier added.
Milev turned back again.
"See that none of your men betray us," Kelsier said quietly. And Vin felt it
again—a renewed pressure on her emotions. "This crew already has the eye
of the Steel Ministry—do not make an enemy of me as well."
Milev nodded sharply, then disappeared into the stairwell, pulling the door
closed behind him. A few moments later, Vin heard footsteps from the peek
room; then all was still. She was alone with a man who was—for some
reason—so singularly impressive that he could intimidate an entire room full
of cutthroats and thieves.
She eyed the bolt door. Kelsier was watching her. What would he do if she
ran?
He claims to have killed an Inquisitor, Vin thought. And . . . he used Luck.
I have to stay, if just long enough to find out what he knows.
Kelsier's smile deepened, then finally he laughed. "That was far too much
fun, Dox."
The other man, the one Camon had called Dockson, snorted and walked
toward the front of the room. Vin tensed, but he didn't move toward her,
instead strolled to the bar.
"You were insufferable enough before, Kell," Dockson said. "I don't know
how I'm going to handle this new reputation of yours. At least, I'm not sure
how I'm going to handle it and maintain a straight face."
"You're jealous."
"Yes, that's it," Dockson said. "I'm terribly jealous of your ability to
intimidate petty criminals. If it's of any note to you, I think you were too
harsh on Camon."
Kelsier walked over and took a seat at one of the room's tables. His mirth
darkened slightly as he spoke. "You saw what he was doing to the girl."
"Actually, I didn't," Dockson said dryly, rummaging through the bar's
stores. "Someone was blocking the doorway."
Kelsier shrugged. "Look at her, Dox. The poor thing's been beaten nearly
senseless. I don't feel any sympathy for the man."
Vin remained where she was, keeping watch on both men. As the tension
of the moment grew weaker, her wounds began to throb again. The blow
between her shoulder blades—that would be a large bruise—and the slap to
her face burned as well. She was still a little dizzy.
Kelsier was watching her. Vin clinched her teeth. Pain. She could deal with
pain.
"You need anything, child?" Dockson asked. "A wet handkerchief for that
face, perhaps?"
She didn't respond, instead remaining focused on Kelsier. Come on. Tell
me what you want with me. Make your play.
Dockson finally shrugged, then ducked beneath the bar for a moment. He
eventually came up with a couple of bottles.
"Anything good?" Kelsier asked, turning.
"What do you think?" Dockson asked. "Even among thieves, Camon isn't
exactly known for his refinement. I have socks worth more than this wine."
Kelsier sighed. "Give me a cup anyway." Then he glanced back at Vin.
"You want anything?"
Vin didn't respond.
Kelsier smiled. "Don't worry—we're far less frightening than your friends
think."
"I don't think they were her friends, Kell," Dockson said from behind the
bar.
"Good point," Kelsier said. "Regardless, child, you don't have anything to
fear from us. Other than Dox's breath."
Dockson rolled his eyes. "Or Kell's jokes."
Vin stood quietly. She could act weak, the way she had with Camon, but
instincts told her that these men wouldn't respond well to that tactic. So, she
remained where she was, assessing the situation.
The calmness fell upon her again. It encouraged her to be at ease, to be
trusting, to simply do as the men were suggesting. . . .
No! She stayed where she was.
Kelsier raised an eyebrow. "That's unexpected."
"What?" Dockson asked as he poured a cup of wine.
"Nothing," Kelsier said, studying Vin.
"You want a drink or not, lass?" Dockson asked.
Vin said nothing. All her life, as long as she could remember, she'd had
her Luck. It made her strong, and it gave her an edge over other thieves. It
was probably why she was still alive. Yet, all that time, she'd never really
known what it was or why she could use it. Logic and instinct now told her
the same thing—that she needed to find out what this man knew.
However he intended to use her, whatever his plans were, she needed to
endure them. She had to find out how he'd grown so powerful.
"Ale," she finally said.
"Ale?" Kelsier asked. "That's it?"
Vin nodded, watching him carefully. "I like it."
Kelsier rubbed his chin. "We'll have to work on that," he said. "Anyway,
have a seat."
Hesitant, Vin walked over and sat down opposite Kelsier at the small table.
Her wounds throbbed, but she couldn't afford to show weakness. Weakness
killed. She had to pretend to ignore the pain. At least, sitting as she was, her
head cleared.
Dockson joined them a moment later, giving Kelsier a glass of wine and
Vin her mug of ale. She didn't take a drink.
"Who are you?" she asked in a quiet voice.
Kelsier raised an eyebrow. "You're a blunt one, eh?"
Vin didn't reply.
Kelsier sighed. "So much for my intriguing air of mystery."
Dockson snorted quietly.
Kelsier smiled. "My name is Kelsier. I'm what you might call a crewleader
—but I run a crew that isn't like any you've probably known. Men like
Camon, along with his crew, like to think of themselves as predators, feeding
off of the nobility and the various organizations of the Ministry."
Vin shook her head. "Not predators. Scavengers." One would have
thought, perhaps, that so close to the Lord Ruler, such things as thieving
crews would not be able to exist. Yet, Reen had shown her that the opposite
was true: Powerful, rich nobility congregated around the Lord Ruler. And,
where power and riches existed, so did corruption—especially since the Lord
Ruler tended to police his nobility far less than he did the skaa. It had to do,
apparently, with his fondness for their ancestors.
Either way, thieving crews like Camon's were the rats who fed on the
city's corruption. And, like rats, they were impossible to entirely exterminate
—especially in a city with the population of Luthadel.
"Scavengers," Kelsier said, smiling; apparently he did that a lot. "That's an
appropriate description, Vin. Well, Dox and I, we're scavengers too . . . we're
just a higher quality of scavenger. We're more well-bred, you might say—or
perhaps just more ambitious."
She frowned. "You're noblemen?"
"Lord, no," Dockson said.
"Or, at least," Kelsier said, "not full-blooded ones."
"Half-breeds aren't supposed to exist," Vin said carefully. "The Ministry
hunts them."
Kelsier raised an eyebrow. "Half-breeds like you?"
Vin felt a shock. How . . .?
"Even the Steel Ministry isn't infallible, Vin," Kelsier said. "If they can
miss you, then they can miss others."
Vin paused thoughtfully. "Milev. He called you Mistings. Those are some
kind of Allomancer, right?"
Dockson glanced at Kelsier. "She's observant," the shorter man said with
an appreciative nod.
"Indeed," Kelsier agreed. "The man did call us Mistings, Vin—though the
appellation was a bit hasty, since neither Dox nor I are technically Mistings.
We do, however, associate with them quite a bit."
Vin sat quietly for a moment, sitting beneath the scrutiny of the two men.
Allomancy. The mystical power held by the nobility, granted to them by the