Mistborn #01 The Final Empire

I can deal with pain.
    Camon sat for a few moments. Then, as expected, he waved to the two “servants” at his side.
    “You two!” he said. “You’re dressed too richly. Go put on something that makes you look like skaa servants instead—and bring back six more men with you when you come.”
    Soon, the room was filled as Vin had suggested. The obligator arrived a short time later.
    Vin watched Prelan Laird step haughtily into the room. Shaved bald like all obligators, he wore a set of dark gray robes. The Ministry tattoos around his eyes identified him as a prelan, a senior bureaucrat in the Ministry’s Canton of Finance. A set of lesser obligators trailed behind him, their eye tattoos far less intricate.
    Camon rose as the prelan entered, a sign of respect—something even the highest of Great House noblemen would show to an obligator of Laird’s rank. Laird gave no bow or acknowledgment of his own, instead striding forward and taking the seat in front of Camon’s desk. One of the crewmen impersonating a servant rushed forward, bringing chilled wine and fruit for the obligator.
    Laird picked at the fruit, letting the servant stand obediently, holding the platter of food as if he were a piece of furniture. “Lord Jedue,” Laird finally said. “I am glad we finally have the opportunity to meet.”
    “As am I, Your Grace,” Camon said.
    “Why is it, again, that you were unable to come to the Canton building, instead requiring that I visit you here?”
    “My knees, Your Grace,” Camon said. “My physicians recommend that I travel as little as possible.”
    And you were rightly apprehensive about being drawn into a Ministry stronghold, Vin thought.
    “I see,” Laird said. “Bad knees. An unfortunate attribute in a man who deals in transportation.”
    “I don’t have to go on the trips, Your Grace,” Camon said, bowing his head. “Just organize them.”
    Good, Vin thought. Make sure you remain subservient, Camon. You need to seem desperate.
    Vin needed this scam to succeed. Camon threatened her and he beat her—but he considered her a good-luck charm. She wasn’t sure if he knew why his plans went better when she was in the room, but he had apparently made the connection. That made her valuable—and Reen had always said that the surest way to stay alive in the underworld was to make yourself indispensable.
    “I see,” Laird said again. “Well, I fear that our meeting has come too late for your purposes. The Canton of Finance has already voted on your proposal.”
    “So soon?” Camon asked with genuine surprise.
    “Yes,” Laird replied, taking a sip of his wine, still not dismissing the servant. “We have decided not to accept your contract.”
    Camon sat for a moment, stunned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace.”
    Laird came to meet you, Vin thought. That means he’s still in a position to negotiate.
    “Indeed,” Camon continued, seeing what Vin had. “That is especially unfortunate, as I was ready to make the Ministry an even better offer.”
    Laird raised a tattooed eyebrow. “I doubt it will matter. There is an element of the Council who feels that the Canton would receive better service if we found a more stable house to transport our people.”
    “That would be a grave mistake,” Camon said smoothly. “Let us be frank, Your Grace. We both know that this contract is House Jedue’s last chance. Now that we’ve lost the Farwan deal, we cannot afford to run our canal boats to Luthadel anymore. Without the Ministry’s patronage, my house is financially doomed.”
    “This is doing very little to persuade me, Your Lordship,” the obligator said.
    “Isn’t it?” Camon asked. “Ask yourself this, Your Grace—who will serve you better? Will it be the house that has dozens of contracts to divide its attention, or the house that views your contract as its last hope? The Canton of Finance will not find a more accommodating partner than a desperate one. Let my boats be the ones that bring your acolytes down from the north—let my soldiers escort them—and you will not be disappointed.”
    Good, Vin thought.
    “I . . . see,” the obligator said, now troubled.
    “I would be willing to give you an extended contract, locked in at the price of fifty boxings a head per trip, Your Grace. Your acolytes would be able to travel our boats at their leisure, and would always have the escorts they need.”
    The obligator raised an eyebrow. “That’s half the former