The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel (24 page)

That wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. She sat back, hands around her legs. “You were a criminal?”

“Not a very capable one,” Wayne said from inside the cupboard. “I’ve always had a problem not taking things. I just grab stuff, you know? And then it’s there, in my fingers. Anyway, I was getting good at it, and I had some friends … they convinced me that I should go a little farther. Really take hold of my destiny, they said. Start going for coin, get into robbing with guns and the like. So I tried it out. Left a man dead. Father of three.”

He pulled out of the broken cupboard, then held something up. It looked like cards of some sort.

“Clues?” she asked eagerly.

“Nudes,” he said, flipping through them. “Old ones. Probably from before our bandits bought this place.” He flipped through a few more, then tossed them back into the hole. “At least it will give the conners something fun to find.” He looked back at her, seeming … haunted, his eyes lying in shadow, face lit on one side by the open window.

“So what happened?” she asked softly. “With you, I mean. Unless you don’t want to tell.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I panicked. I think maybe I wanted to be caught. Never wanted to shoot that bloke. Just wanted his purse, you know? Old Deadfinger caught me easy. He didn’t even have to beat a confession out of me.” Wayne was quiet for a moment. “I cried the whole time. I was sixteen. Just a kid.”

“Did you know you were an Allomancer?” she asked.

“Sure. That was kinda why I was in the Roughs in the first place, but that’s another story. Anyway, bendalloy is hard to make. Bismuth and cadmium aren’t the kinds of metals you find in your corner store. Didn’t know much about Feruchemy yet, though my father was a Feruchemist, so I had an idea. But storing health, it takes gold.”

He walked over, sitting down on the floor beside her. “Still don’t know why Wax saved me. I shoulda hanged, you know. Killed a good man. He wasn’t even rich. He was a bookkeeper. Did charity work for anyone who needed it—wills drawn up, letters read. Every week, he transcribed letters for the mine workers who couldn’t write, so they could send them home to their families in the city. Found out a lot about him in the trial, you see. Got to see his kids crying. And his wife…”

Wayne reached into his pocket, then unfolded something. A sheet of paper. “Got a letter from them a few months back.”

“They write you
letters
?” Marasi said.

“Sure. I send them half of what I make. Keeps the kids fed, you know. Figure it makes sense, seein’ as to how I killed their daddy. One went to university.” He hesitated. “They still hate me. Write me the letters to let me know they haven’t forgiven me, that no money will bring back their daddy. They’re right. But they do take the money, so that’s something.”

“Wayne…” Marasi said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too. Some mistakes, though, you can’t fix by being sorry. Can’t fix them, no matter what you do. Guns and me, we haven’t gotten along ever since. My hand starts shaking when I hold one, wobbling about like a damn fish dumped on the docks. Ain’t that the funniest thing? Like my hand thinks by itself.”

The sound of footsteps came from the stairwell and a few moments later Waxillium walked in. He raised an eyebrow at the two of them sitting there on the floor.

“See now,” Wayne said. “We’re having a heart-to-heart, here. Don’t go stomping in and making a mess of things.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Waxillium said. “I spoke with the local beggars. The Vanishers
have
been moving something large in and out of the building and onto a canal boat. They did it on several occasions, always at night. It seems to have been bigger than just cargo; some kind of machinery, I suspect.”

“Huh,” Wayne said.

“Huh indeed,” Waxillium said. “You?”

“Found a box,” Wayne said, holding out the cigar box. “Oh, and some more dynamite. In case you want to blast out a new canal or something.”

“Bring it,” Waxillium said. “Might be useful.” He took the cigar box.

“There’s some nudie pictures too,” Wayne noted, pointing at the cupboard. “They’re so faded you can barely make out the good parts, though.” He hesitated. “The ladies ain’t wearing any guns, so you probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.”

Waxillium snorted.

“The cigar box is of an expensive variety,” Marasi said, standing up. “Unlikely to be from one of the common thieves, unless they took it from someone. But look. Someone wrote some numbers on the inside.”

“Indeed,” Waxillium said. He narrowed his eyes, then looked at Wayne, who nodded.

“What?” she said. “You know something?”

Waxillium tossed the box back to Wayne, who tucked it away inside the pocket of his coat. It was large enough that it hung out. “Have you ever heard the name Miles Dagouter?”

“Sure,” she said. “Miles Hundredlives. He’s a lawkeeper, out in the Roughs.”

“Yes,” Waxillium said somberly. “Come on. I think it’s time for us to take a trip. While we go, I’ll tell you a few stories.”

11

Miles stood by the railing and lit his cigar. He puffed on it a few times to get it going, then slowly released a stream of pungent smoke from between his lips.

“They’ve been spotted, boss,” Tarson said as he walked up. Tarson’s arm was in a sling; most men would still be in bed after taking a shot like he had. But Tarson was a Pewterarm and koloss-blooded. He’d heal quickly.

“Where?” Miles asked, looking down and surveying the setup of the new hideout. Besides Tarson, the only one up here with him was Clamps, third-in-command.

“They’re at the old foundry,” Tarson said. He was still wearing Wayne’s hat. “Were talking to the beggars there.”

“Should have dumped the lot of them in the canal,” Clamps grumbled, scratching at the scar on his neck.

“I’m not going to start killing beggars, Clamps,” Miles said softly. He wore a pair of aluminum revolvers; they gleamed in the electric lights of the large chamber. “You’d be surprised at how quickly something like that can backfire; turn the city’s underclass against us, and all
kinds
of inconvenient information will find its way to the constables.”

“Yeah, sure,” Clamps said. “Of course. But, I mean, those beggars … they saw things, boss.”

“Wax would have figured it out regardless,” Miles said. “He is like a rat. Wherever you least wish him to be, there you will find him. In a way, that makes him predictable. I assume your explosive traps—foolproof though you promised they would be—were ineffective?”

Clamps coughed into his hand.

“Pity,” Miles said. He took his silver lighter, still in his hand from lighting the cigar, and put it back in his pocket. It bore the seal of the lawkeepers of True Madil. It made the other men uncomfortable to see that. Miles kept it anyway.

The space before them was completely windowless. Big, glaring electric lights hung from the ceiling, and men were setting up forging and casting equipment. Miles was skeptical. A foundry below the ground? But Mister Suit promised that his ducts and electric fans would pull the smoke away and circulate the air. It helped that there was a lot less smoke with the electric furnaces they’d be using down here.

This room was very curious. A large tunnel led off into darkness on the left side of the chamber, and railway tracks were set into it. The beginnings, Mister Suit said, of an
underground
railway line in the city. How would it cut through the canals? It would have to run under them, he guessed. A strange image.

As of now, that tunnel was only a test. It led a short distance to a large wooden building, where Miles could quarter the rest of his men. He had another thirty or so. At the moment, they were bringing in boxes of supplies and what was left of their aluminum. There wasn’t much. In one blow, Wax had all but upended the Vanishers.

Miles puffed on his cigar, thoughtful. As always, he was drawing upon his goldmind, invigorating himself, refreshing his body. He never felt sick, never lacked energy. He still had to sleep, and he still grew old, but other than that, he was practically immortal. So long as he had enough gold.

That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Smoke curled in front of him, twisting upon itself like the mists.

“Boss?” Clamps asked. “Mister Suit is waiting. Aren’t you going to go meet with him?”

Miles blew out smoke. “In a moment.” Suit did
not
own him. “How is recruitment, Clamps?”

“It’s … I’ll need more time. One day ain’t enough, ’specially following half of us getting slaughtered.”

“Watch your tone,” Miles said.

“Sorry.”

“Wax was bound to enter the game eventually,” Miles said softly. “He changes the rules, and it is true that we lost far more men than I would have liked. We are fortunate at the same time, however. Now that Waxillium has entered, we can anticipate him.”

“Boss,” Tarson said, leaning in, “there’s talk among the men. That you and Wax … that you two set us all up.” He cringed back, as if expecting a violent reaction.

Miles puffed on his cigar, and managed to contain his initial burst of anger. He was getting better at that. A little. “Why would they say that?”

“You were once a lawkeeper, and all…”

“I still am,” Miles said. “What we do, it is not outside the law. Not the
true
law. Oh, the rich will make their own codes, will force us to live by them. But our law is the law of humanity itself.

“Men who work for me, they are given the dispensation of reform. Their work here washes away their previous … infractions. Tell them I am proud of them, Clamps. I realize we’ve been through something traumatic, but we did survive. We will face tomorrow with greater strength.”

“I’ll tell ’em, boss,” Clamps said.

Miles covered a grimace. He couldn’t decide if the words were the right ones or not; he wasn’t meant for preaching. But the men needed conviction from him, so conviction he would display. “Fifteen years,” he said softly.

“Boss?”

“Fifteen years I spent out in the Roughs, trying to protect the weak. And you know what? It never got better. All that effort, it meant nothing. Children still died, women were still abused. One man wasn’t enough to change things, not with the corruption here at the heart of civilization.” He took a puff on his cigar. “If we’re going to change things, we need to change them here, first.”

And Trell help me if I’m wrong.
Why had Trell made men like him, if not to see wrongs righted? The Words of Founding had even included a lengthy explanation of Trellism and its teachings, which proved men like Miles were special.

He turned and moved along the walkway. It hung like a balcony on the north side of the large chamber. Tarson and Clamps stayed behind; they knew he liked to be alone when he faced Mister Suit.

Miles pulled open the door at the end of the walk, and entered Mister Suit’s office. Why he needed an office here, Miles didn’t know; perhaps he’d be keeping a closer eye on operations at this new base. Mister Suit had wanted them here from the beginning. It annoyed Miles that he’d finally had to accept the offer—it put him more closely under his backer’s thumb.

Enough good robberies, and we won’t need him any longer,
Miles told himself.
Then we can move somewhere else.

Mister Suit was a round-faced man with a full gray-streaked beard. He sat at his desk sipping a cup of tea and wearing an extremely stylish and expensive suit of black silk with a turquoise vest. As Miles entered, he was studying a broadsheet.

“You know I don’t like the smell of those,” Mister Suit said without looking up.

Miles puffed his cigar anyway.

Mister Suit smiled. “Did I hear that your old friend has
already
located your previous base of operations?”

“Men were captured,” Miles said simply. “It was only a matter of time.”

“They aren’t very loyal to your cause.”

Miles had no response to that. They both knew that most of his men worked for the money, and not for any greater purpose.

“Do you know why I like you, Miles?” Mister Suit asked.

I don’t particularly care if you do or not,
Miles thought, but held his tongue.

“You’re careful,” Mister Suit continued. “You have a goal, you believe in it, but you don’t let it cloud your vision. In fact, your cause is not so different from that of my associates and me. I think it is a worthy goal, and you a worthy leader.” Mister Suit turned over his broadsheet. “The shootings at the last robbery threaten to undermine my confidence in that assessment.”

“I…”

“You lost your temper,” Mister Suit said, voice growing cold, “and you therefore lost control of your men.
That
is why this disaster occurred. There was no other reason.”

“Yes there was. Waxillium Ladrian.”

“You should have been ready for him.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there.”